Derby Dan's Dick - Sex Stories

Derby Dan's Dick

I shivered, pushing my hands deeper into the front pocket of the black hoody that hid my skinny frame and mentally cursing my decision not to bring a coat. Jeans and a jumper just weren’t enough for nine o’clock on a mid-October morning in the Midlands.

At least Derby train station was busy on a weekday, unlike the isolated rural platform where I’d last stood waiting for a man I’d never met. That had been the previous summer, and while a year studying abroad had matured me in other ways, it had not cured my nerves around trysts with strangers from the Internet. Neither had skipping breakfast to avoid my housemates in the kitchen, nor fantasising during the hour-long journey from Birmingham.

Impatiently, I checked my Nokia for the umpteenth time since stepping off the train. Nothing. Maybe he was a no-show and all those explicit texts had just been posturing. The knot in my stomach couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing, so I found a quiet corner to chew my lip and check train times for the return trip, when my pocket buzzed. My hand trembling slightly, I pulled out my phone.

I’m outside. Silver Clio.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped outside before my legs could betray me and take me home. Yep, a small silver car waited directly opposite in the queue to enter the carpark. When I hurried over and looked through the front passenger window, a friendly grin greeted me as the driver reached over to open the door. I slipped inside as quickly as my awkwardness ...

... would allow just as the car in front moved.

“Good timing,” he said while I fastened my seatbelt. He glanced over at my continued silence. “First time?”

“Not quite,” I replied with a nervous laugh. “But it’s been a while.”

“Daniel,” he said, squeezing my rather limp hand in a firm grip. “Or Dan, if you prefer.”

“Robin. Just Robin — ‘Rob’ never feels right.” A little shiver of excitement ran down my back at the realisation that he hadn’t even known my name before I’d got in his car. In my twenty-one-year-old’s naivety, I didn’t even consider that someone with the dating handle of “DerbyDan” might notreally be called Daniel.

“Nice to meet you, finally. It’s been what, about a month we've been planning this?”

“About that, I think.”

“Well, relax. This will be fun.” His smile was genuine, so, in spite of myself, I started to do just that. “How was the trip up?”

“Good. Not too crowded. I slept a bit.”

I checked him out as he navigated the morning traffic. In the warmth of the car, he wore no jumper, the blue cotton of his t-shirt hugging the contours of his firm pecs and drawing my eyes down to the bulge in his tight designer jeans — the photos he’d sent had not lied. He exuded confidence, as if he knew he was good-looking but not in an intimidating, Viggo Mortensen kind of way. Catching me checking him out, he grinned again, but said nothing, so I hoped that meant my frayed jeans and scuffed skate shoes weren’t too scruffy for his tastes. Maybe being nine ...