What It’s Like To Sleep With A Sex Addict

You thought hooking up at a wedding was just a cliché, until you did. You met a cute bridesmaid at one, years back. When the two of you shook hands, she said, “Ooooooh, you have some soft skin, you must not do ANY work!” Intrigued, you bit. “You don’t know WHAT I do.” Sensing her opening, she followed, “I bet your lips are soft too.” Still stunned, you watched as she got right in your face and told you earnestly, “I’ve been watching you all night.”

You made some small talk, and by this point (like most men) you were calculating exactly what line of bullshit you needed to run to get her to have drinks with you. Stopping you midstream, she bent down to slip off her fuchsia heels. “Damn, my feet hurt…you wanna rub them for me?” Your dick got harder than a wrought iron fencepost, and a feeling that every (straight) man understands washed over you: the euphoria of knowing you’re going to fuck a fine woman for the first time.

Much to your dismay, it didn’t happen that night. In fact you didn’t hear from her until a year or so later, when you got a text. “Do you remember me?” You hate the guessing game, so she broke the silence with “It’s Ashley!!!” She’d moved into town so it didn’t take much cajoling to link up that night, and the two of you picked up right where you left off at the wedding. Dinner consisted of a little sushi and a lot of cocktails – and her tracing the outline of your crotch with her foot under the table. After seeing her play with one too many maraschino cherries you knew damn well where she’d be putting that tongue later, so on the ride home you made your move. You told her you wanted to “show her some pictures” at your place, and she readily agreed.

As soon as you walked in, she strode confidently into the bedroom like she’d been there before. Perched on the edge of the bed, she told you in her sexiest voice, “It’s been a while for me.” You couldn’t even respond before she was tugging at your belt with expert hands, freeing your dick and gorging on it in one motion. Sex with her was the fulfillment of a deviant wish – to fuck like they do in porno movies. No matter the position, she matched your rhythm with an intensity that had you thinking of everything other THAN the sex so you wouldn’t cum too quickly. Having had her fill, she rolled the condom off and blew you with what felt like a thousand tongues. What happened next threw you: snaking that magnificent tongue downward, she reamed your asshole out like it was a sugar cone. Your stomach wrenched in a way most delightful, and seconds later you unloaded, right in her jib.

She giggled like a schoolgirl on the way to her house, recounting the night’s escapades before finally asking, “Did my pussy stink?” Coupled with the fact that you’d just fucked her with practically zero effort, that non-sequitir sent your antenna way up. Your occasional conversations after that were equally random. She had a penchant for peppering you with details of her sexual history every chance she got, and the moral of the story was always the same: she’d casually meet a guy and quickly sleep with him. This went for virtually EVERY guy she met, under any circumstance. It was then that the gong in your head went off – “this girl’s a nympho…”

You conducted an experiment the next time you two met: you purposely left a camcorder on the nightstand so she’d see it as soon as she walked in, betting that she’d get off on being recorded. True to form, the first words out of her mouth were, “I want you to tape us fucking.” You hit the button and she quickly dropped down to the floor, licking your feet like a lapdog. After some enthusiastic head, you stripped and blindfolded her. She felt her way back to your dick, and you deflected a long while before she begged you to top her off. Her disorientation coupled with the thrill of being on camera caused the sex to be twice as intense as the first time. While writhing on her back, she crossed her legs behind your waist and let loose a torrent of her juices before you pulled out to coat her greedy lips.

Now mind you, when you weren’t having sex, interacting with this girl was like trying to wrestle a pig. You tried to plan an actual “date” with her on a couple of occasions, and invariably she’d be M.I.A. when it was time to go out. You eventually resigned yourself to the fact that you’d never be more than fuck buddies, and even those meetings became few and far between. The last time you saw her, she rang you out of the blue to say it was her birthday. You figured she was bummed not to have plans, so you offered to take her to dinner. You picked a nice lounge – the Italian fare was robust, the live jazz sublime.

Upon arriving back at her place, you’d never know she’d stood you up the last two times. You followed her inside, plopping down on her spacious sectional. She disappeared into the kitchen briefly, returning with glasses of wine. All it took was you undoing the top button of your slacks and she did the rest. Kneeling before you with geisha grace, she nibbled at, tongued and gobbled your manhood with fervor to put Bobbi Bliss to shame. Though sex with other women was more than adequate, nothing could match the primal instinct this firecracker brought out in you. Yanking her skirt up, you threw a fuck into that prime snatch that could have awoken the neighbors. She asked you to go raw and squirt in her – so she could “know what it feels like” – but your better judgment won out.

Spent, you finished your wine and slumped into the sofa. She asked you to stay the night, but you mentioned having an early appointment. Taking stock of your time together, you figured it’d reached a market high, and any further time spent would invite diminishing returns. You laced up your loafers and threw on your overcoat, stealing a glance at her lying contentedly before disappearing into the night.

Despite the occasional email, that was the last you saw of Ashley. You had a hilarious exchange recently with a good friend (who’s married), wherein he told you of his promiscuous co-worker. When he described the co-worker’s overtures (including her signature line, “Will you marry me?”), you knew her identity before he even got her name out. Your stern advice to him was “Caveat emptor,” but he was never dumb enough to risk his job. He later told you Ashley had been let go for some impropriety, and you didn’t bother to ask the details. In your heart of hearts you wished her well.