|My first lay report: a pijama, four guys, and her
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|Author:||K527 [ Wed Oct 05, 2016 6:22 pm ]|
|Post subject:||My first lay report: a pijama, four guys, and her|
If I have to be true, I was skeptical about this PUA world I've recently discovered, until "A. and the unexpected conquer". But hey, if you want some details on me, check the presentetion here:
introduce-yourself/new-young-italian-me ... 99457.html
Now, let's talk about yesterday...
Prey: A., an blonde Austrian with ice blue eyes, a soft but nicely shaped body, and a lovely lavanda perfume.
Location: late night dorm room party
In a baggy grey pijama (with light-grey toy rockets), messy hair and broken glasses, I was searching for a nice and cozy apartment, with the help of my roomate. I would havve done anything in order to run away from the microscopic, dark, cold, sviet-style dorm romm from where I'm writing to you you right now. Rising the eyes from the laptop monitor I noticed A. passing by the corridor, an elegant young woman in her early twenties taking a look inside, in a casual but somehow elegeant black dress. She asked if we had a spare knife. Oh, of course we had one, and we would gladly give it to her...if she helped us searching for an apartment, and maybe bring along something to drink in the meantime. She came back a few minutes later with our knife, her phone, and a bag of Austrian candies. No drinking for us tonigh, damn it... well, until my Bielorussian friend came in, with his Polish roomate and a bottle of homemade vodka. I belive that was a sign from God, or at least the from The Lucky Saint Protector of Drunkards.
Being the only woman among four young men, she new that she had our complete attention. So I decided to play it by the book, and I continued searching on the web for my true salvation, that damn apartment. After a while, I almost felt her disappointed eyes staring at me and my grey pijama, while my friend were drooling looking at her ample breasts, almost flowing out of her dress; that was the right time to take my mug and put it under the nose of the Bielorussian, who happily filled it with vodka and orange juice. Damn, that was strong, but it was worth it: now she knew that despite the silly pijama, the three young students saw me as a father-like figure. Luckily, they didn't mention why: the day before I helped another Bielorussian pick up a Polish.
Two hours fast forward. The first bottle of vodka was lying on the floor like a cold corpse on a crime scene, and the second one was not that far. Now we were all close, and everybody were listening my story abut my first trip to London, alone against the City, and slowly I started lowering my voice: if they wanted to hear the end of the story, they had to come closer, expecially A. Also, being Italian, I move y hand a lot while talking; they were polite enough not to make me notice it, and I clever nough to use it at my advantage, when casually my left had landed softly but firmly on her right thigh. She noticed, looked me in the eyes, and left my hand right where it landed. In a matter of minutes, our hans were touching softly, sensually, without almost even noticing it. She tried to look me inn the eyes, sure that I would look her back...but I didn't. I didn't even stop talking to my friends, who were polite enough (or drunk enough) to ignore our flirt. Or maybe, just maybe, they were really interested in my story. By the way, they were all hanging on my words, waiting for the next story. A guy in a pijama, messed hair, and a mug with a red knight on it, I was more important and interesting than her beuty, her female power, her blue eyes, her elegant and expensive and tight black dress, almost more that her ample white bosom. Then the spark ignited the powder, and in a middle of the story she kissed me.
A long, passionate, kiss.
The guys stared in awe; we couldn't care less.
My attention was all on her, and she knew it.
And she wanted something more.
There was a fantastic shared sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning, just the two of us. And that, I think, was the handle - that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of decency and good manners, two young people undressing in the middle of a bunch of wasted guys in a small room of a remote dormitory on the Baltic coast. Exactly one hundred years ago our gradfathers were killing each other on the bloody hills of the Podgora; now we were ripping our clothes under the amazed eyes of our young firends. Love won, at last.
And lasted quite a while.
|Author:||curtisvq4 [ Sat Aug 11, 2018 6:50 pm ]|
|Post subject:||My up to date web project|
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