Beguilingly and bewilderingly polite. This was my first impression.
A soft-spoken and courteous person by nature, his initial enquiries about me were very cordial, and carefully structured. In addition to the fact that English was not his mother tongue, which i could tell was restricting him slightly in how he expressed himself, he was obviously also uncomfortable in expressing his desires verbally. And, apparently, unused to dirty talk or profanity.
Or so I thought.
Maybe it's a xenophobic trait within me that should be stamped out like a burning scrap of paper. But the northern European accent that colored his English so prettily invoked a very polite and well-mannered attitude and impression... which was hard to gel with the disgracefully depraved way in which I like to cavort.
Suffice it to say that I presume way too much.
For this particular blind date, pictures had been exchanged. By the handful. We'd recognized each other immediately from aforementioned photos, through the steam of a Saquella espresso machine in the corner of a seductively warm cafe on a blustery cold and wintry evening. The lights outside along the sea front danced brightly, giving a false impression of cheeriness, but there was nothing cheery about the biting wind outside. We had, however, done our best to banish any last vestige of cold by both ordering wine -- red for him, mulled with a stick of fresh cinnamon for me. We looked at each other, and smiled... and I was wondering how to broach a subject somewhat less conventional than the severity of the weather, when he took my hand and placed it on his thigh.
No words really necessary after all. Especially not when i ran my finger deliberately slowly over the growing bulge on his inner thigh.
(I'm wet just at the thought of it, as I write.)
He leaned into me and whispered politely "I need to fuck you, the sooner, the better. Can we go?"
The next few minutes were a blur of giggles, and bill-paying, and urgency, and hands clasped tightly, and half-walking, half-running to his place, only a short block away from the cafe. Formalities that had seemed to worryingly important had all but been dispensed with as we collapsed through the door, and into each other.
At first, we hugged and held each other very close, our hands roaming, and divesting each other of our accumulated layer of clothing. Once we were suitably scantily attired, he paused, and took my chin in his hand, lifting my face to kiss him.
Dear god, but he could kiss. My knees nearly buckled.
The passion intensified, and not breaking from the kiss, he managed to remove my remaining articles of clothing. Lacy panties in a puddle on the floor, where they had fallen after he'd given them a sharp, commanding tug. Matching lacy bra strewn halfway across the room, where I'd find it much, much later, decorating a very good reproduction of Guernica. All i wore were knee high socks, and tall, black, leather cowboy boots, which despite their heel, brought me not very close to his height at all (he had to bend to kiss me, but he didn't seem to mind).
So i was naked but for the boots, which put me in mind of another occasion, and he was barefoot, in jeans, with a button fly with which I'd been struggling until he began kissing me. Once he'd started the kiss, it distracted me enough that I'd kind of concentrated just on that.
His giant-like gentleness was short-lived. He finally broke from my lips, and somehow twirled me in a circle until i was held tight with his arm, but bent over it, with my side against his muscular but softly fuzzy stomach. He almost lifted me in order to get me into position, nudging my arms up and onto the desk, where i rested, facing down, leaning on my forearms and elbows. He slowly stroked my back with his hands; long, relaxing strokes that discombobulated me so much that when he landed me a massive blow to the buttocks, i jumped.
"Stay still," he commanded, still very polite, but unarguably firm.
