Chris: I think I need a fuck. But there are two things you need to know first…

My 14:30 meeting with Mark left me needing more. Like when one line of coke just won’t do. ‘Chris’, I thought. Chris and I met on Tinder a couple of months ago, but it had never quite got off the ground. Good to have a couple on the back-burner. I knew we were on the same page from the word go. Some racy content was exchanged; waking up at 6am one morning and firing off a video of me and my vibrator to him. Just to get my kicks. I do so love an audience.

Both of us have two online searches. One very much involving a lot of sex with people who we have no desire to form romantic relationships with, and the other (in my case) involving a lot of dull dates with marriage material but who I have no desire to fuck. He likes his older women, and his younger women. I like my older men, and my younger men.

I drop him a note on Whatsapp:

“I think I need a fuck.”

“Is that right?” he replies.

“But there are two things you need to know…” I say.

“I have something written at the top of my inner left thigh, which I had to do at the request of a man. And my flat’s a bit untidy.”

“Ha! What does it say?”

“Mark’s Property.”

“Did you fuck Mark?”

“No. I just gave him head in a meeting room at work.”

We arrange to meet at 6:15pm outside a station on one of the blue Underground Lines. It’s near my flat. We try the dingy live music place for a drink. It’s closed. Of course it is. Oh the nights in there when I first lived here six years ago; a lifetime ago. Dancing to The Killers with strangers in front of my boyfriend at 2am, off my face on whisky and soda. I tell Chris this as we walk round the corner to one of the most run-down pubs within a two-mile radius. But they serve gin — albeit Gordon’s — so it’ll do.

The pub is full of men, and just one other woman behind the bar. Irish. I know all eyes are on us. Chris in his black cashmere single-breasted coat and immaculate suit; me in leather skirt and hold-ups. Freshly applied eyeliner and dark lipstick. Dark hair still holding its wave from the morning despite being clenched in a fist for a good five minutes this afternoon.

He goes to the bar. I sit at a small round table towards the side of the room. I look at the adverts for Irish whisky on the walls. He returns with a pint and a gin and tonic. He’s tactile, flirtatious, tells me he wants to look up my skirt. He is beautiful — like an unshaven 25 year-old cherub. Cupid’s Bow lips, dark wavy hair, intense eyes. He’s bolshy, overconfident, mocking my liaison with Mark. He has no issue with what I’ve got up to today, but he won’t be outdone. He’s as alpha as Mark, just 15 years his junior is all. And pumped full of testosterone.

I walk to the bar to get our second drink. The men propping it up, nursing their pints of bitter, edge awkwardly out of the way. “50p charge for card payments.” the barmaid states. “Fine”. This time he has a G&T, too. I walk slowly and deliberately back to our seats — lapping up the attention.

He tries some amateur psychology on me, he talks over me, I let him. I always have to remind myself to treat the young ones like ‘men’. Let them be men. Let them think they’re right, let them think they’re smarter. Then they’ll just fuck you harder later.

We leave. I compliment his coat. We cross the road, and down the main drag on which I live. Gourmet pizza place with bespoke oven, pound shops, Sainsbury’s Local, estate agents. Up the stairs to the second floor. He pins me against the wall on the landing. His kiss is full of sex — one which says ‘I am going to be inside you in 20 minutes. You just wait.’

We get through the door. The heating’s been on all day. I draw the curtains. I sit in my brown leather armchair and spread my legs. He tells me to hitch my legs over the arms, and I oblige. He sits on my sofa and gets his dick out. Fuck this; I didn’t get him over here to watch him wank. I move over to the sofa and start to lick his balls. He asks, “How does it feel to suck your second dick of the day, you dirty little bitch?”. “I fucking love it.” I reply.

He’s big. And when he’s inside me, it hurts. I tell him to be gentle. “Are you being a little pussy?”. “Yes.” I say. There is no way I will come if he keeps driving it so far in. I try and keep him back. Jesus fucking Christ. I ask if I can go on top — that way I can make sure his cock hits where I need it to, and not where it naturally finds itself when he’s in charge. I use the index finger on my right hand to rub my clit. I can feel it building, I look down at his exquisite face. I tell him I’m close; I’m coming. I shut my eyes tightly, I grab his chest, I plunge my hips down, and I feel my pussy contracting around him. I’ve soaked him.

I rise up on my feet, and gently rock on him. He smiles and bites his bottom lip. I go until my thigh muscles burn. He shoves me off, and fucks me from behind. Again I have to stop him going too deep, and this time I’m sensitive. Pleasure, pain, discomfort, pleasure. He starts to come, and I can feel myself going again. Man. Fuck. He rests his mouth on the back of my neck.

He knows I don’t want him to stay over. And he takes his cue to leave, as I get up and start to make smalltalk. Take a left as you go out of the building, hit the main road, you can’t miss the station.