Suzanne Portnoy

‘Are you back?’ I texted.

No answer.

Then I rang and the phone went straight to voicemail. ‘Hello, this is the O2 messaging service. The person you are trying to reach is unavailable. Blah Blah Blah.’

The following day I sent him a text wondering if he was still around. No reply.

It all seemed very odd. Normally I’m pretty good at knowing what stage of a relationship I’m at at any given time, but the Glaswegian was worrying me.

We’d met in a hotel room where I’d decided to fulfill one of my ultimate fantasies, meeting a complete stranger blindfolded. I knew I was taking an enormous risk but we’d spoken on the phone and my instincts told me he wasn’t a serial killer. I was sitting on the bed dressed in a leopard print D&G camisole, a black bra underneath and black hold ups and high heels when I heard him walk through the door. He had walked into the boutique hotel room and I’d heard his clothes drop to the floor, a belt buckle hit the back of a chair and then his footsteps approaching me.

‘Give me your hand,’ he had said in a thick, Glaswegian accent and I reached up to find his hand. Soon my fingers were around his hard, thick cock followed quickly by my mouth. I pushed my mouth to the base of his cock, slobbering saliva down his thick shaft. I pulled my mouth off him and stroked his wet cock with my hand.

‘I have to eat your pussy,’ he said and grabbed my legs suddenly. I felt his tongue on my clit.

‘Mmmmm,’ he said. ‘I love eating pussy.’

The voice was a disconnect. I don’t mind talking dirty but his voice was bordering on comedy. Imagine Billy Connolly saying, ‘Suck my hard, big cock’ and you’ll get some idea. Part of me was enjoying the sensations down below, while another side of me wanted to laugh. Then he pulled away. I heard him rip open a condom packet before climbing back on the bed.

‘Get on top of me,’ he said.

I turned around and reached across to find his body, felt his hard cock now covered with a condom and climbed on. He filled me up and I was so wet by now that he slid in easily.

‘Grind on my hard cock,’ he said. Now this was sounding funny. Really funny.  I was torn between wanting to laugh out loud and wanting to come.

‘Shhhhh,’ I said. ‘I’m going to come. You must stop talking’

‘Come on my big, fat cock,’ he repeated, sounding more and more like Billy Connelly by the minute. ‘Go on. Come on my big, fat cock. Come on my BIG… FAT… COCK.

‘You’re going to make me laugh,’ I said. ‘And I’m going to come. You really must stop talking. I mean it.’

I continued to grind down, feeling the pressure building up inside me. The need to come was now greater than the need to laugh. I came loudly, while pulling off the blindfold.

I looked down and he was smiling at me. A big, hairy guy covered in tattoos and not too dissimilar to Bob Hoskins. I laughed. ‘You really must stop talking,’ I said.

‘Turn around,’ he said. Then he was fucking me hard from behind, then on top, until finally he pulled off the condom and shot his thick spunk all over my body. It was a good, horny session and I liked him.

We carried on for another 30 minutes or so before going down to the hotel bar for a drink. He was good company and quick witted. He made me laugh with his stories about the couples he had met on the swinging scene. There was the woman who was as big as a house and wanted her husband to watch him fucking her. Another woman just wanted rough sex and even his fist was not enough to satisfy her. There was a couple with whom he had a horny session but then dressed quickly and wanted him to leave once he had come. After a couple of drinks we left the bar, running into one of my former lovers and now a friend. We stayed and chatted for another 30 minutes or so in front of the hotel entrance before I kissed him goodbye outside the tube station. It was a good first date.

After that, he said he was off to Italy to see his kids who lived there with his ex and wouldn’t be back for about a month. I figured that was the end of that but then every day I would find an email from him in my inbox or a text on my phone. He seemed keen on another meet and I was enjoying the attention. What woman wouldn’t? He seemed a decent guy, a good fuck and he was funny and charming. Tick, tick, tick. Then, a week ago, out of the blue, all communication stopped. I had asked him if he would bring back my favourite Sardinian wine called Vermentino. He wrote back, ‘Of course.’ I responded with ‘Thanks!’ and since then I’ve not heard another word. Not an email or a text or a phone call.

It all seems very odd, so odd that I wonder if perhaps he’s in some Sardinian jail. Or perhaps he’s not in Sardinia at all and just was having a bit of fun with me. Either way, I like closure and this feels like a cliffhanger. Most odd indeed.