Nerd from high school ate me out

The desert air of Dubai still clung to my skin, a fine, shimmering dust of heat and opulence, as I pushed open the heavy door of the speakeasy-style bar. It was my sanctuary after a long-haul flight, a place where the lighting was low enough to soften the edges of the world and the gin was always cold. I was smoothing the silk of my skirt, my mind already halfway to a bath and bed, when a voice, softer than the ambient jazz, cut through my fatigue.

“Kika? Kika Grey?”

I turned, my professional smile already in place, ready to politely dismiss a passenger who might recognize me. The man standing before me was not from first class. He was familiar in a way that felt unearthed from deep storage. His frame was taller than I remembered, but the slight slouch was the same. The glasses were still present, though now they were a stylish, dark frame that suited his sharper jawline. It was Leo. Leo from my advanced physics study group in Buenos Aires. The boy who could derive complex equations with a flick of his wrist but would blush if I so much as asked him for a pencil.

“Leo? Dios mío,” I said, my smile transforming into one of genuine astonishment. “What are you doing in the Emirates?”

“Software architecture. A contract with a firm here,” he said, his voice deeper, steadier than the hesitant boy I knew. Yet, the kindness in his eyes was precisely the same. We fell into easy conversation, a surprising comfort in the familiar cadence of our Porteño Spanish amidst the multilingual hum of the bar. He spoke of his work with a quiet passion that was intensely focused, not a trace of the former nerdy awkwardness, but a man who had grown into his own intellect. I found myself intrigued, my usual attraction to overt power and dominance momentarily paused by this quiet confidence.

A week later, the memory of that conversation was a persistent itch beneath my skin. My usual pursuits—the confident pilots, the brash entrepreneurs—suddenly seemed crass. I found myself scrolling to his number, my thumb hovering before typing a message with a directness that was pure Kika. My week was interminable. I require a distraction. Tell me you’re free.

His reply was swift. My place. 8 PM. I’ll provide the distraction.

The promise in those words was a low thrum in my blood. I dressed with deliberate intent: a simple black skirt that hugged my hips, a cashmere sweater, and heels that sharpened my posture into something elegant and expectant.

His apartment was a reflection of him: minimalist, orderly, and filled with cutting-edge technology that hummed with silent potential. He took my coat, his fingers brushing my shoulder, and the contact was electric. “I’ve been thinking about this all week,” he stated, his gaze not leaving mine. It wasn’t a boast; it was a fact, delivered with the same precision he’d once used to explain quantum theory.

He led me to the living room, where a large window framed the glittering spine of the Sheikh Zayed Road. Without a word, he dimmed the lights until the only illumination was the cool blue and gold glow of the city below us. The atmosphere shifted, becoming intimate, charged. My heart began a steady, heavy rhythm against my ribs.

Then, he sank to his knees.

The movement was so assured, so devoid of hesitation, that it stole the air from my lungs. He was looking up at me, and in the dim light, I saw not a trace of the nervous boy from high school. I saw a man who knew exactly what he wanted. He placed his hands on my knees, his touch warm and firm through the fine wool of my skirt. He kissed each knee, his lips a soft, reverent pressure that made my breath catch. Slowly, with an agonizing deliberation that spoke of immense control, he pushed my knees apart.

I was exposed to him, seated on the edge of his couch. Out of sheer, ingrained habit, my hand fluttered down to cover myself, a last vestige of modesty. He caught my wrist with gentle but unyielding authority. “No,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration that I felt deep in my core. “Let me see you.”

Pushing my skirt up around my hips, he revealed the simple black lace of my panties. He didn’t tear them off. He leaned in and kissed me through the fabric, a slow, wet, deliberate press of his mouth against my heat. I gasped, my head falling back as a jolt of pure need shot through me. His tongue, hot and seeking, laved at me through the lace, and I felt the immediate, embarrassing proof of my arousal seep through, a damp patch blooming under his mouth. A soft, shuddering moan escaped me.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my panties and drew them down my legs with a slowness that was its own form of torture. The cool air hit my wetness, and I trembled. He didn’t dive in immediately. He held my gaze, his own dark with intent, and then pressed a single, soft, closed-mouth kiss directly onto my bare skin. It was so tender, so at odds with the vulgar hunger coiling inside me, that I almost came undone from that alone.

Then he dipped his tongue inside me.

It was not a tentative exploration. It was a precise, knowing plunge. A sound ripped from my throat, part gasp, part sob, as his tongue delved into my depths, licking into me with a rhythm that was both scientific and utterly profane. He was studying me, learning the architecture of my pleasure with the same intense focus he applied to his code. His tongue mapped my inner walls, seeking out every sensitive spot, every hidden nerve ending, and exploiting them with devastating accuracy.

I writhed on the couch, my hips lifting off the cushion, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of his brilliant, wicked mouth. My fingers tangled in his hair, not to guide him, but to anchor myself as the world dissolved into a vortex of sensation. He held my hips firm, pinning me in place so he could continue his work, his tongue a relentless, wet instrument of my undoing.

Just as I was teetering on the edge, he shifted his focus. His tongue slid upwards, and he wrapped it around my clit. The sensation was exquisite, unbearable. He lapped at it, circled it, flicked it with a rapid precision that shattered my coherency. I was babbling, a stream of broken Spanish and English, pleas and curses falling from my lips. My body was taut, every muscle straining, shaking under his command.

“Oh my god, Leo… I’m gonna cum,” I gasped, the words torn from me. My back was arched, my entire being concentrated on the point where his mouth met my flesh.

He paused for a fraction of a second, looking up at me from between my thighs, his lips glistening with my essence. “Good,” he said, his voice a dark promise. And then he plunged his tongue back inside me, deep and claiming, and that was all it took.

The orgasm detonated through me, a silent, seismic shock that wiped my mind clean. It was a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure, so intense it was almost painful, shaking my limbs and stealing the air from my lungs. I cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound, as I ground myself against his face, riding out the convulsions that seemed to go on forever.

He didn’t stop. He gentled his tongue, lapping at me softly, drawing out every last shuddering aftershock until I was a boneless, trembling wreck on his couch, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold through my tear-filled eyes. He had not just eaten me out. He had deconstructed me, mastered me, and put me back together again, all without leaving his knees. And as I lay there, utterly ravished and amazed, I understood with terrifying clarity that the quiet nerd from high school had just become the most dangerous and addictive man I had ever known.