Soundtrack: Give Me Novocaine by Green Day.
As is probably expected I didn’t breakup with The Lapdog “tomorrow,” as I said in my previous blog post. In fact, we hung out a few more times after that – a McDonalds date, a stoner date by the river, and dinner at his parents’ house. I held it together pretty well for the first two, not kissing him, keeping my hands to myself, not fucking two men at the same time… but then his family made me feel so welcome, so invited, so wanted that I had no choice but to fuck him. And I mean that in a my-clitoris-was-entirely-in-control kinda way.
The Dinner
I’d done a terrible job of hiding text messages, then where-are-you? calls from Grey… because of course he picked the exact nights that I was with The Lapdog to start getting possessive. Lapdog saw at least two of them, asking me who it was. I lied, because I was a terrible human being who didn’t really give a crap about anyone. “Just a friend with relationship problems,” I told him. Technically, it wasn’t really a lie. Grey wasn’t more than a ‘friend’ yet, and we were having relationship problems. It was long-distance, but I didn’t want it to be. It was undefined, but I didn’t want it to be. I had to make a decision between the two men, but I didn’t want to. See: problems everywhere.
I don’t think Lapdog believed me, so, in true man-style, he upped his game and suddenly became the perfect boyfriend.
“Come to mine for Sunday dinner,” he’d said to me on the phone. “I want you to meet my parents properly.”
I hadn’t realised that we were at a meeting-the-parents point, but who was I to turn down a free Sunday dinner from a woman whose leftovers I’d already enjoyed at least twice? So, off we went. He picked me up from my house, then we made out at the corner of his road for twenty minutes, then we went to his parents’ house for dinner. It was delightful. His parents loved me, as did their dogs, and I loved them right back. It went better than any of us could’ve anticipated.
After dinner, things turned very Titanic-esque, very quickly.
The Dinner
“I want to draw you,” Lapdog said, once we were both relaxing on his bed.
“Draw me?” I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You know I do art, right?”
“Yeah?”
“I want to draw you, like a portrait.”
I laughed. “Like that Titanic moment?”
“Yes,” he said, laughing along with me. “But with more clothes on…. unless you want to take them off, obviously.”
“Fuck off,” I said, faux-glaring at him. I pondered his idea for a moment, asking questions about poses and clothing, and stealing kisses. I wasn’t much of a model, but if he wanted to draw me, he could draw me. “I have final say over what happens to the picture, though.”
Lapdog agreed. The deal was done. Twenty minutes after that, I was down to a spaghetti-strapped black vest and my jeans, with my hair flowing free around my ankles. Covering one eye as he suggested, of course.
I had to work really hard not to laugh as he moved my arm, then moved it again, before doing the same with my hair, a cushion, then back to my arm again. Truth be told, I felt a bit daft. What was I meant to do with my face? My eyes? My breath? He told me to keep breathing and look at him, but looking into his eyes just made me blush. I picked a spot on the wall to the left of his head and hoped for the best.
He scratched pencils across the page, glancing over at me, then back to the page, then over at me again. It was mortifying. But it was also hot in a weird, vulnerable, nerve-wracking way. He was studying my face, my torso, my hair, my arms…
What if he were to study so hard that he found something, he didn’t like?
I suppose the opposite could happen, too; he might look into my eyes for so long that he falls into them and in love with me.
Which would it be?
I could tell when he was working on my chest because he’d shift uncomfortably in his chair. He’d move further up the page for a moment, then come back down to my chest again, shuffling, then moving away, then coming back. Was that the stirrings of an erection in his jeans? Oh, I sure hoped so. That must mean that he likes what he sees during his study session… right?
I have no idea how long the drawing took. Half an hour, perhaps? Forty-five minutes? Something like that. By the time he said the word, “Finished,” I was finished, also. Finished waiting, sitting patiently, studying his face in the same way that he’d studied mine.
“Come here,” I said, tapping the bed.
“Don’t you want to see the drawing?” he asked, an almost hurt look on his face.
“In a minute,” I said. “Come. Here.”
This time, he did, with his hand already flicking his seatbelt-style skater belt undone. I slid out of my jeans quicker than he could, and we didn’t bother taking off anything else. He pushed down his boxer shorts just enough for his already erect dick to spring free, and I pulled my thong to the side just enough for him to slide right in.
“You’re wet already,” he said, running his dick along my cunt as if to prove the point.
“That’s because I want you,” I said, grabbing it and pushing it inside me. “Fuck me.”
And that’s just what he did, spooning me from behind, one hand around my hair and the other gripping my hip, for about seven-and-a-half minutes. Afterwards, he used his fingers to make me come, using his cum as extra lubricant, in roughly the same amount of time. Oh, he’d never admit it to anyone, but he licked both of us from his fingers afterwards.
Hot.
In case you wondered: the drawing wasn’t great, but I loved it anyway. It still lives in my memory box.
The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: Rope.
Thanks so much for reading my blog today! 🖤
Want to read all about The Lapdog’s story, right from the very beginning? You’ll find that right here.
You can also read all about my disastrous dating history, right from the beginning, right here: Table of Dating Contents.
Alternatively, why not have a little peek around here:
