This is a true story.  

But I cannot post as a review.

 
There'd been this redhead. We'd danced, chatted. I must have spent at least an hour on her. We were sizing each other up. It was obvious that she wasn't utterly bowled over by me, but I flatter myself that I was reeling her in, slow and careful. She'd had opportunities to scrape me off, and hadn't taken them, so I guess she figured I'd do for the night. On the short walk back to my place, she slid her hand into the back of my jeans, grabbing a fistful of cheek, and grooving one finger along the crack of my butt. You may think that this was a little forward but, to a woman, it's the equivalent of a chaste squeeze of the bicep.  

 
I fell in with the prevalent mood, and wormed my hand into the back of her jeans. Her ass was firm and round, but kinda cold - which is good, because my hand must have felt real hot to her, as my restricted fingers rippled across the swell of her backside. By the time we made it to my front door, we were both pretty worked up. There's a steep, narrow flight of stairs leading up to my apartment, and as she went up ahead of me, I leaned forward and nipped her swaying  
ass with my teeth. She yelped and turned, her tits at my eye level.  

She grabbed my head and pulled me towards her, so that my head was buried in the soft billows of her linen shirt. I put my arms around her waist and pulled her tightly against me. She was panting - a hell of a turn-on. I felt her hands fumbling in front of my face, and suddenly the buttons of her blouse were undone, and she pulled the front of it open so that my nose was now deep in her cleavage. I brought my hand up and yanked her bra down on one side, freeing the nipple and closing my mouth over it.  

It was hard. I pressed it against my palate with my tongue and brought my teeth together around it, gently. At the same time I brought my other arm down her back, over her butt, and slid my hand between her legs from behind, sawing it sideways along the seam of her jeans. For good measure, I grabbed her other tit with my free hand and squeezed it roughly. I musta done something right, 'cos she went off like a rocket on acid. Her nails raked down my back and her breathing became a rapid series of ah-ah-ahs, like a stutterer trying to order artichoke in a hurry. Suddenly her hands were all over me. It was hard to believe she only had the standard issue two. They were in my hair, up my shirt, scrabbling at the fly of my jeans.  

She pulled my c**k out ("About bloody time," it gasped.) and - literally - yanked me up the stairs by it. I'm glad I'd left the apartment door unlocked because she wasn't about to wait around while I hunted for keys. She'd've kicked the door down and marched straight over it. Next thing I know, the air's full of flying clothes - mine and hers, though I swear I never so much as popped a button. My vision of the room cleared as the laundry fluttered to the floor, and there she was, bent over the back of the sofa, her spread legs summoning me in a way that I have always prayed to be summoned.  

Such things don't happen to a guy more than once in a lifetime and so, with extraordinary presence of mind, I paused a moment to take in the view. I wanted it fixed in my mind, photographically. Reading from the polished wood floor up: her feet were a good meter apart, braced against the onslaught she momentarily expected; her legs, slim and white, were straight and locked, angled towards each other so that the eye was led up and up along the smooth curving thighs to their apex; and there was her c**t, spread and opened, pink and gleaming, moistening the trim crinkles of its surrounding light brown hair; above that, the a**hole, nestled between the impossibly perfect geometries of  
her buttocks, which were thrust out by the arch of her spine.  

Her hands were resting on the back of the sofa, and she was looking over her shoulder in the direction of my throbbing erection. "Come on," she urged. "Stick your pri**K up me." Well - she had a better grasp of English than I'd imagined. But if a pr*cK stuck up her was what she wanted, then up her a pr**k would unarguably be stuck. And I didn't mean eventually. I had the goods right there to hand. I took a purposeful stride forward and stepped on a discarded shirt. It shot out from under me across the polished wood floor, taking my leading foot with it.  

I did the splits, and hit the deck balls-first, my stiff, nodding c**k slapping down on the pine-tiling with a sickening 'thwack!' as I toppled forward onto my chest. The pain was unbelievable. I curled up in a ball and howled. You're disappointed, aren't you? Well, imagine how I f**king felt. she dressed with the same alacrity she'd shown undressing, and was out of the door before I'd fully got to my feet.  

 
The tears were streaming down my face and my d** k was looking bruised and angry. In fact, it was livid. I tried to give it a stroke - to ease the pain; to calm it down.

 
 "Keep your hands to yourself!" it yelled. "That's it! I quit!"

 
 Three days later, it's still not talking to me.  

 
RED DRAGO