Even a cynical, seasoned professional purveyor of penis can get caught off-guard by someone saying the right things at the right time. Drunk with a desperate heart; hearing the right words at the right time can trick your mind into thinking the man saying them can only be Mr Right. One’s expectations are raised, hope begins to bloom and you relax thinking after years of searching he’s finally turned up.

At times I wonder whether I clocked up so much cock on account of my relatively appealing good looks or if it was due to the fact that my pheromones and general behaviour just screamed slut to any passer by-er. A little of column A, a little of column B perhaps

Once you reach the phase where random fu*cking is your fix; like a proper junkie you’re more concerned about getting your fix. The whys and hows of how you get the fix become irrelevant. But if you have  a decent dealer the relationship is as valuable as the drug itself.

As mentioned oodles of times previous, Great Yarmouth was a fertile playing field for me in terms of easy guaranteed cock, but low self esteem ensured I was never brimming with confidence. Hence when a tall, dark stranger appeared to be checking me out one night my natural instinct was to quickly survey the dance-floor to see which lucky bitch was the object of his blatant admiration. A few sharp neck swivels (in time to the music of course) and I realised it was me his eyes were lingering on. And I was flattered. Whilst I tended to go for a more mature man there was no getting away from the fact that he was very good looking.  At least 6’2 (which given my size – especially in heels could only be a blessing), broad, dark hair carefully and deliberately moulded into porcupine spines all over his head, hazel eyes and an open, symmetrical, good-natured face. Coupled with a casual dress shirt left hanging out over smart trousers and shoes as he lent against the wall leading to the toilets (giving him full view of the antics of the entire venue) he certainly stood out from the usual clientèle at the run down Pier Bar with it’s stonking cheesy pop tunes from decades ago.

I assumed it was a general glance from him so when I was forced to walk past him to go to the loo I was pleasantly surprised when I felt him intentionally yet casually brush up against me as I passed him. Things were starting to look positive so on my return I purposely, yet accidentally touched my entire body to his. It was then he grabbed my hand and when I looked up at him I almost melted in his eyes – they were so kind and friendly…and genuine.

His warm hand prevented me from returning to the dance-floor and I allowed him to gently drag me past the toilets and out onto the pier. The air was cool. Whatever time of the year in the wee hours of the morning by the sea the air is always fresh on the skin. It seemed there was little time for words and yet I’m sure we talked. Perhaps it was just that the immediate connection allowing for a comfortable silence because before long I was pressed against the wall of the closed arcade lost in his lips and feverish kisses. What few words were spoken were enough. Pinned to the wall, his hands eventually found mine and I felt him directing them towards his cock which was trying to burst out of his trousers. But I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be just some holiday slut for a night. Funnily enough when I told him this he was completely fine. He didn’t accuse me of being a prick tease, become abusive in the face of potential sexual rejection or shrug his shoulders and find some other easy lay. We stood together again and spoke and after a time he took my hand and returned me to the club and my beloved side-kick, L. So it was a nice moment and one I had the sinking feeling I was going to have to write-off as just that. A nice boy on a nice night.

But it wasn’t. Allegedly he had just moved to Great Yarmouth and was beginning work as a barman in the venue (our favourite and most frequented no less). He asked how often I came to Great Yarmouth and after a quick conference with L and the potential this new encounter promised, I confirmed I’d be back in 4 weeks time. We didn’t exchange numbers but he said he’d wait for me and left it at that.

I was kind of seeing a married man at the time (quite a significant ‘relationship’ at that) and was emotionally committed to him but I couldn’t push away this young man – whose name I now can’t even remember – from my mind. Working in an open planned office, I discussed both the guy and my married man at great length and the general consensus from the girls (ranging in age from 18 to 48) was the Yarmouth bloke sounded like a sweetheart and it was definitely worth following up on. Four weeks later we travelled up to Great Yarmouth again, myself with Great Expectations.

A little to keen and over eager we took up residence in the Pier Bar early afternoon and keenly watched the going ons as staff clocked in and out for the evening shift. Bizarrely enough true to his word he turned up, gave a friendly smile and began to work. Like a little school girl and keen to avoid any form of rejection I sent L up to the bar. He chatted with her and spent a lot of his time serving with an eye constantly on me. At one point I was given a drink by a random stranger who said it was a gift from the man behind the bar who also sent him with the message that I was easily the most beautiful girl in the bar that night. At this stage even L swooned at his authenticity. Sometimes small gestures and simple words are the most effective way to pierce a heart. I was smitten and refrained from my normal motto of ‘keep your options open!’ I declined any invitation for a dance and was happy to hang outside on the pier when he had his ten minute breaks. By 4am L was being walked home by an ‘old friend’ which left me with my man.

There is always something romantic about sunrises and empty beaches and walking hand in hand with a man that makes your heart sing for joy.

It’s not so romantic trying to have sex while standing underneath a pier. Romance was high but a pounding need to consummate this blossoming relationship was also present. Lips pressed together, probing tongues and lusty hands groping, feeling and undoing meant there was only one direction this was going. Strangely enough despite some minor protestations I was happy to oblige because he seemed so wanting and firm and…true.

However fab my new outfit was I was regretting wearing jeans. The fitted top accentuating my curves and high heels may have made a killer look but in terms of outdoors sex it just was not good. Frankly speaking rolling down tights and pushing up a dress is easier to access, more graceful and just that little bit safer for being busted for indecent exposure than tight black jeans. In all honesty the guy only needs to unzip for his member to do the job, for me it was trying to wriggle out of my jeans as elegantly as possible to allow the sex to take place. But I was keen enough so ended up kicking my jeans off. As luck would have it my top was long enough to cover my modesty should any early morning wanderer find their way under Great Yarmouth’s main pier.

Whilst I can’t recall his name, I can recall the sex. Pleasingly his cock was in proportion to his 6’2 broad frame. There was a length and girth to it that could only be rewarding for a willing recipient. I remember in my hand his cock was not only hard but it was hot and literally I could feel the blood pulsating through it as he moaned. His main concern was coming too quickly because he hadn’t had sex in some months after a break (well that was his story). Still there was no chance of premature ejaculation because the logistics required for sex meant a lot of stop starting and position changing – which didn’t kill the ambience thank God. I didn’t feel comfortable fu*king standing in heels so  removed them, which immediately had me 8 inches shorter than him. Additionally being on the big side, however ripped and fit he was, it wasn’t like he could just lift me up to enter me for a good shagging,

He ended up turning me round to face a pylon – I guess if it could support a pier, it wouldn’t crumble with my weight resting against it. At this point he ran his hand down my buttocks and pushed his hand between my legs, forcing me to open them wider for his eagerly anticipated entry. His groaning in my ear increased as he felt how wet I was for him, his fingers slipped in and out of my dripping c*nt and I could feel my own juices on his fingers as his body pressed firmly against mine and the length of him slowly penetrated me. It was as if time stood still, or slowed right down as I felt my kegal muscles involuntarily clamp round his cock and I moaned in tandem with him – vocalising how full my vagina felt. The sex remained slow, his cock rhythmically reaching the back wall and internally stimulating all the right places. The weight and warmth of him against me only made me feel safer, protected and sensual.

He refused to speed up, determined to take his time as if I was some present to slowly be unwrapped. Eventually though all good things must come to an end. As he whispered into my ear, ‘I can’t wait much longer’ he withdrew and asked if I’d finish him off. It was a reasonably new request and while I was keen to have him in my mouth I wasn’t so sure about my juices being all over it. Still I didn’t want to kill the atmosphere so dropped to my knees, as he gently held my head and guided himself into my mouth.

I have to say – I tasted pretty good. There’s a lot to be said about diet dictating the taste sensation of someone’s excretions. Given my penchant for sweet food it turned out to be a delicious dick. There was far more than a mouthful there so I did my best to relax my reflux which allowed him a little deep oral. Fortunately when I did, unsurprisingly, gag on his cock those muscles rejecting his size seemed to tip him over the edge as he pulled out and allowed himself to cum over my chest – his cum dripping down the deep v-nect cut of my top all the way to my milky white breasts which were all but overflowing from the garment.

I stood up and we kissed (which I felt okay about cause clearly he was now tasting his cum too). I went to grab my jeans, realising the sun was taking away what little cover there was left under the pier when he dropped to his knees. Realising what he was going to do I pulled his head back and insisted that he really didn’t have to but he was adamant he wanted to. I spread my legs at his soft command so that his tongue could work it’s way around me. Clearly he approved of my diet of chocolate and ice cream because not only did his tongue skim over my clit but he seemed desperate to get his tongue where his cock had been ploughing only minutes before. Because of my sizeable thighs to allow him to do this I had to assume an almost yogic position raising a leg and attempting to balance on the one remaining grounded leg. He may have been wanting to bring me to orgasm but this acrobatic feat had put that idea to bed, so I faked it in order to finish up.

His demeanour didn’t change as he gallantly kept look out whilst I got dressed and we took a slow walk home. He lived and looked after his mother in a flat above a shop in one of the main streets in Yarmouth. In the flush of first love, our goodbye at the door took another hour and I promised to meet him that evening.

I got home, slept, woke up, filled L in on the details, showered, changed and headed back to the Pier Bar to continue my perfect weekend. Only he wasn’t working in the Pier Bar, he’s been sent to the opposite end of Britannia Pier to work in Long John’s nightclub for his shift. This venue had thumping music and was filled with all the beautiful, young, pretty things. When we headed up there I felt fat, frumpy, old and out of place. Whilst he did his best to catch the odd conversation with me there was no time for him to take breaks, send over free drinks or sweet messages. In fact he was so busy and seeing endless girls flirt outrageously with him I opted out and headed home. We said goodbye but I felt pretty flat about things. Could it all have been a lie to get a free fuck (please let that bit about him not having sex in months be true because if I was one of a long line of holiday fucks it was even more meaningless to him)???

Back at work Tuesday, after the Bank Holiday and the girls at work were as taken as L and I had been with his behaviour and treatment of me. In fact my mother figure, M, convinced me to drop the married guy and go for it with this new fellow. It had been busy in the club that night and I had stomped out so I guess it hadn’t been entirely practical to exchange numbers. On M’s advice I rang his workplace and left a message with my phone number. Later that evening he returned my call, said he was surprised and a little hurt at my departure but was happy I’d contacted him. He took my mobile number and gave me his, making sure I called his whilst on the land-line to ensure I had the number correct.

Turns out soon after divulging his contact details Mr Right promptly ceased even being Mr Right Now – he was Mr not so Right…or just plain Mr Wrong, Not a response to a text did I ever get back. Not an answer to me calling him ever took place. Just enough missed calls and unanswered texts for me to get the hint. Four weeks later when we returned to Yarmouth he’d disappeared from working at the Pier (sacked or moved on I’ll never know). With a cock like his I have to say it was a good servicing on his part but very poor after care and follow up support – still I hadn’t dumped the married guy so at least I’d kept my options open.