I had a busy weekend. Not only was I at Pride with my Master and Princess, I managed to have drinks with another friend. She happened to be the person who introduced us but remains unaware that we are more than occasional drinking buddies which always amuses me.
Events meant that our original choice of venue was closed and she called me to meet her elsewhere. I didn’t know the name of the pub and was shocked to walk round the corner and discover it was the re-named version of one of my favourite haunts when I first moved to London.
Ostensibly I frequented it because it stocked obscure Irish items behind the bar that sated my homesickness, but the fact it was incredibly popular with bike couriers in tight shorts and muscles you only saw at certain angles kept me returning.
I don’t know if it’s something about being straddled across a bike saddle all day but bike couriers are both incredibly horny and utterly filthy. They also managed to combine being direct with being respectful in a way that meant they seemed to gauge whether you wanted to drink quietly while eyeing up their arse or be propositioned for all kinds.
My mind kept wandering during the grown up thirtysomething conversations of last night to my twentysomething evenings there. Despite there being no biked toned men at the bar last night I had more than one or two images of the men I remember from there fifteen years ago.
There was the most flexible man I’ve ever met who lived in a nearby warehouse with one of those beds on a platform that always made fucking seem more like living on the edge than I’d like but also allowed him to perform his party trick of flipping his legs over his head and sucking the tip of his own cock before fucking me senseless.
Or the guy who would fuck me slowly and intensely while speaking Russian to me in a way that went straight to my cunt every time. It always sounded like him giving me the kind of stern order you wouldn’t dare ignore, especially when he was holding my arms down at the same time. When something sounds that hot you can ignore that he might actually be reciting his bike route to you believe me.
But my favourite memory of nights in that pub came to mind when I nipped to the toilets which unlike the rest of the pub hadn’t changed a bit. There was the slight quirk with them that one cubicle in the women’s toilets was separate to the rest and very easy to sneak into with someone.
I fucked a few guys in there over a variety of Friday nights but there was one American guy I particularly remember. I used to kneel down and suck his cock while he would run his thumbs along the back of my neck making me purr with pleasure while pulling me deeper onto his cock.
He’d arch his back the hornier he got round my mouth and up onto his tiptoes so the tight lean muscles in his calves would look even more defined as he did and they’d quiver under the effort of holding him up and the feel of my hands on them as I’d pull him close as he came in my mouth.
He’d always pitch forward back onto the balls of his feet just as he came so his hands would go out against the toilet door to hold him and his cock would slide down the back of my throat so that swallowing him was like it was meant to be. I’d feel him deep in me with my forehead pressed against his stomach feeling the muscles contract as he tried to make no noise beyond a gasp.
We never fucked and he never touched me because he had a girlfriend back home and only oral sex was some kind of loophole for him not to think he was cheating on her. I never really cared. His calves and cock did amazing things to my cunt and I’d always go back to the bar soaking wet and so turned on I had no trouble catching someone else’s eye to fuck them later knowing he’d be watching me all night and thinking about the orgasm he just had.
I hadn’t thought about him for years but the memory came back to me so clearly standing there that fifteen years later I still went back out to the bar soaking wet and unable to concentrate on the conversation for pure unadulterated slutty nostalgia…