We had spoken for several weeks, first on the app and then onto WhatsApp. The digital progress of any courtship when one lives in Cardiff and the other in London.
So he came and met me outside the gym in Covent Garden and we went for dinner at Bodeans. We were going to go visit a club in Vauxhall, and I needed to put on fresh clothes, given that London is currently suffering under the auspices of a heatwave.
Naturally within a few minutes our tops were off and we were giving each other a massage. I straddled him as he lay on his back upon my bed and looked down upon his body. His arms were enormous, great bulging biceps complimented by huge shoulders. His face was rugged, with a trimmed beard complimenting wickedly sparking blue eyes and a smile which was entirely roguish.
As a GP, he gave me one of the most incredible massages I’ve ever had, murmuring the medical terms for the areas of my back where I was holding tension and knots. It’s was pretty damn sexy, I can tell you.
With the hint of a medic Welsh accent thrown in, I was utterly seduced and I made it my goal to be going home with him by the end of the evening.
As we made our way through the evening, I came to there was far more to him than just the shirtless selfies and cheeky Instagram pictures. He was also selfish and rude; indifferent and shallow.
And yet…I was unbelievably attracted to him. His body and his persona. I knew him to be all wrong and everything Charlie isn’t, and I don’t know what made me want him so. It was the thrill of raw, untapped lust which boiled up inside me and made me want him.
Made me want him right up until we got to his AirBnB and, as I walked back into the bedroom from the bathroom to see him lying on the bed in his t-shirt and boxers, he uttered the words “I just cut on in here, you might want to give it a minute.”
Not exactly a line guaranteed to dial up the romance.
As I lay in his arms, both of us too tired for sex, I could smell the laced scent of man-sweat and other anatomical unpleasantries. Somehow my raw lust overruled it all; he had cast a spell upon me and I wanted to stay wrapped in his over-gymed, muscular body.
The following morning we cuddled (his way, I might add) until we were awake enough for more. He came all down my neck and chest, adorning me with his dripping pearls in a garland across my throat. When it was my time to cum, I had the red, burning rash of shame across my chest, standing out so bright he noticed it. As he used his tongue between my legs, I looked down at his huge shoulders and arms and felt the arousal in me reach its peak; he was a devil and I was on a trip of lust to the gates of hell.
He was everything Charlie wasn’t — sweet, attentive, protective, unconcerned with the shallow. I knew it, even as I saw the lines of his fake tan around his feed or the obvious places where the hair was growing back in after being waxed off. It was all a bit tragic be honest.
And yet, lust for his body was burned deep into my thighs. As he held me, I looked up into his beautiful eyes and nuzzled into his beard, enjoying his moans and sighs of satisfaction. I revelled in the torrent of desire which he elicited in me, letting his selfish gestures and obvious vanity fall by the wayside.
After a few more minutes of lying in the sweat-and—semen-soaked bed of shame, I got up to leave, as I was already running late to meet Karly at the gym. To my great surprise, he got up too and we went for coffee at the Cafe Nero by London Bridge station, where we began talking of the usual things, TV shows we found funny, music and our careers. It was rather pleasant, and when I looked at him across the table in his vest top, showing his rippling arms, I still felt a fountain of desire well up, even as satisfied as I already was.
He enquired, to my even greater surprise, what we would do about meeting again, seeing as we did that we live in two different cities. I said that I was not averse to having him come to London or me doing a trip to Cardiff, while privately questioning what on earth I could expect to come out of a relationship like this besides a lot of fantastic times between the sheets. If nothing else, putting aside his selfishness and vanity, I don’t think I could share a man with the rest of Instagram.
I went home to get changed for the gym, thinking of how fun the evening (and morning) had been; how he had seduced me and how I had been willing. How I shouldn’t have let my lust get the better of me but it had just been so very refreshing to be thrown around the bedroom again, by a man as strong and charming as the devil that I privately named him.
The awful truth is, I could see myself running to him again and, although it shames me, I know I would do it out of simple physical desire. He is my demon lover and, secretly, I loved dancing to his sinful song.