A woman has an erotic experience at a Speed Dating event

An abridged version was published on the Little Raven website (http://littleravenpublishing.com/2013/06/09/speed-dating/).

Speed Dating

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. Date fifteen gorgeous guys in two hours the ad said but now that the reality is in front of me I am feeling a bit ripped off. Clearly the ‘gorgeous guys’ had the night off and in their place were a bunch of pretty ordinary looking middle aged blokes. We are standing in small groups chatting while waiting for the event to start. The complementary champagne is a blessing as I listen to one of the blokes drone on about property prices. I wonder if it is too late to leave?

A laugh catches my attention and I look past the property bore to see a man with a group of ladies. He is not much to look at, only slightly taller than myself, reasonably built but no Adonis. However he has a certain confident manner to him that has the ladies enthralled. I keep half an eye on his group while the bore drones on.

My man seems quite charming. Every so often a new lady joins his group and comes under his spell. Blokes join the group as well, but don’t stay long as they clearly can not compete. He catches me looking; I quickly look away. Looking back, he catches my eye again, giving me the slightest of smiles. It is a knowing smile. A look that says only one thing – It’s on.

The host rings a bell and explains the evenings event. The ladies are to each take one of the seats situated around the room and the blokes are to move around and talk to us in turn, each ‘date’ lasting about six minutes, with a fifteen minute break in the middle. I take a seat and my man gives me a cheeky glance as he sits with a lady further long. Oh, I am so looking forward to soon meeting him. But wait – they are moving counter-clockwise – I won’t be meeting him until near the end of the evening. My disappointment is interrupted by my first date sitting in front of me.

He is nothing to look at. His questions – What do I do? Where do I live? Do I come to these events often? – are more like a job interview than a date. The host rings the bell to move on and he is instantly forgotten.

The next date is no better. The bell rings again.

Date number three looks like the football he claims to love so much. A little rotund man with pink skin and a balding head. I tell him the game does nothing for me.

“But it is such a beautiful sport. The skill, the excitement. You just haven’t been with the right crowd. Let me take you and show you what you are missing.”

Ewwwwww. In his dreams.

The bell rings some more only bringing more job interviews. I wonder what the Position Description for the vacancy would be like?

My man has finally moved around the room to be on the side opposite. Even though he has his back to me we exchange sly glances as he moves around. I roll my eyes and he gives me a cheeky grin. I like this game.

My view is blocked by my next date. A fifty year old mummy’s boy. He barely looks at me spending most of the time staring at his feet. I use this to look past him at my man. His date is laughing and smiling coquettishly. Lucky her. When the bell rings it is a relief as the mummy’s boy scurries away.

The host announces a fifteen minute break. I need to freshen up. Getting up, I head for the ladies. My man is in front of me. Our eyes lock. In a spur of the moment act of madness I tilt my head signalling him to follow. In reply he gives the slightest of nods.

Oh no! What have I done? My heart pounds as I head towards the loos. The sound of footsteps follow the clack of my heels on the tiles. I hope it’s him.

I stop at the door and look back. I gasp; It’s my man. He reaches me. I push open the door to the Disabled Toilet and step through. He follows.

We embrace with an urgent need. Reaching up to meet his lips, we kiss; our tongues trying to tie a knot; he tastes of stale red wine. Pinning me against a wall, my skirt is hoisted to my waist; a hand thrusts into my nickers. I feel the slickness of my moisture on his fingers. The other hand is in my blouse, cupping a breast. He smells fresh, like a thunderstorm – very sexy. There is no time to waste.
I pull him closer with one hand while the other undoes his fly to release his cock. I stroke it while he fingers my clit. This won’t take long.

The finger on my clit seems to be somewhere deep inside of me, like it is rubbing my very soul. I push my pelvis hard against him. His cock is hard in my hand. My breathing quickens; and so does his pace. My entire being is in the tip of my clit and all I feel is his finger. I live for his finger. I must have it! Have it now! Now! Oh! Oh! Oh, yes! Yes! Ahhhhhhhh.

He gently holds me while I get my breath back, but his cock is impatient with it’s own need. Kneeling, I look into his eyes and lick from his balls to the tip of his cock. The tip of my tongue traces an outline around the head. I would have liked to linger but time, and my knees on the cold tiles, have other plans. I take his cock in my mouth; sucking while my tongue plays with it’s head; my hand pumps the shaft. He moans. His salty seed fills my mouth. I release his cock and show him; then swallow it all.

I stand. He holds me in a tight embrace and our mouths meet in a passionate kiss. It ends too soon. Arranging his clothes, he is gone.

Alone, I clean myself up. The woman in the mirror looks shattered; it is not me; I feel wanton, wicked, licentious. I taste and smell of him.

The bell rings to start the second half of the evening. I am late. My next date stares at me, annoyed that I have kept him waiting. I hardly notice, my only thoughts are of my man.

The bell rings some more. I don’t care – the blokes and their conversations are interchangeable. I am lost in my thoughts.

The property bore breaks my introspection with a sales pitch for his house. It is obvious that he is looking for a sale rather than a date. I ask him if the toilets in his property are big enough to fuck in? That shuts him up.

The bell rings. My man sits. We introduce ourselves.


All people, places and events depicted are real, just not in this universe.
© Paul Shipley


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