Nottingham I

 This is the first thing I wrote on a random piece of paper while on the train to London. I wrote it quickly, a stream of consciousness type of thing. I wasn't sure I'd post it here. It's relatively intense for me even now to re-read it. I cried on the train back after writing this, they weren't tears of sadness completely either, it was a mix of feelings I think. Then I fell asleep and almost missed my stop. I sent this to Rob yesterday and I added a little changed a little, and I'll be reviewing it again now. But it's essentially the first impressions...Rob liked it, so I'm posting it. There will be more I'm sure, as things come I'll post them.

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I feel so overwhelmed that I can't really express myself.
I'm sitting on the train to London from Nottingham writing this and there's this guy on the phone in front of me talking, babbling and it's distracting. All I want to do is remember everything, not let go. Scenes of him keep flashing through my mind. scenes of him inside me, in so deep that everything I had imagined was real, splitting me in half, not just physically either. The smiling, staring, laughing, fucking. My guilt, not for what what we'd done, but for the guilt he was feeling. The feeling makes me want to cry.

All that's left is a few bruises and sore muscles, I wish I could have taken something a little more permanent. A mark, a sign, a stigmata to remind me. Something I could just look at, touch even, remember. Flashes of conversations in dingy bars with drunks, castles and castle food, sharing dishes never shared, and the sex... how could I have possibly thought that I could keep my feelings separate? Certain sensations I've never felt. The ease, so easy... relaxed, not awkward, just the goodbye was awkward.... that's all. He kept trying to keep his distance. But it wasn't working, was it?
Laying on the bed I'll never forget the look in his eyes, sad, worried, not regretful, but sad. He said he'd have a tough few days, hoping not to make himself sick with guilt. Would it be easier to let him hate me than to see that look on his face again... yeah...it would.

From behind, face planted on the bed, shoulders too. Him gripping my hands and my hips, pounding me. Collapsing on the bed. The look on his face, caressing my back, up and down.

Mirrors, reflections of us, me looking at him, him looking at me but from different angles different perspectives.

The sensation of the tip of his cock, so smooth, so perfect sliding past my lips, grazing my teeth, so hot, salty. I will never forget that sensation. The memory of him holding my head next to his waist, holding my mouth open for him to cum in. The memory of him nodding, smiling when he knew he was getting me close. The memory of him making me writhe without moving a muscle, the strength of his cock inside me pulsing, pressing what I imagine has to be my gspot, a spot I never found on my own.

Being forced down, onto his cock, only barely coming up for air to be pushed back down again. I wonder, I wonder if he would take control more given the chance. It was our first encounter, he didn't know my limits... I didn't know my limits.

I almost ripped the tendon in his leg out. Wat was he doing? It felt so good. I wanted him, as much of him inside me as possible.
It was a perfect mix. Soft, gentle, rough, forcing, restraining. I couldn't have invented it better in my mind.

There would have been so much more I think. We've only broken the surface of what was there. We've only revealed ourselves partially, but getting any deeper might have hurt too much.