Category Archives: A Little Bit Of Everything
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(A drug fuelled, group sex erotica novella)
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WARNING: This 5000 word+ XXX story is intended for ADULT readers 18 years of age” or older. It contains explicit language and graphic sexual content. It includes group sex, anal sex, lesbian sex, gay sex, drug references and much more.
The first theatre I worked in closed. Actually it went bankrupt. My gang felt somewhat bad regarding the umpteen free drinks we helped ourselves to on consecutive nights. When we found the locks on the theatre door changed with a notice up explaining the poor financial situation of the venue we wondered if we were to blame. Sitting down and doing the maths (overestimating the free drinks we consumed), we realised we could only account for a maximum 3% of the debt – it eased our consciences. Sadly it also meant the ‘gang’ disbanded suddenly; with everyone out of a job and owed money.
There were some people I never saw again (no, not even on Facebook) and those whom I tied to forever more. Turns out blood is thicker than water – well certainly shared experiences in an underground world can bind you to another, no matter what the time or distance is between catch ups.
At this point in my life I was knocking around with my best mate and his wife. We were as thick as thieves. People assumed we were a manage-a-trois.I can honestly confirm, here and now, that we really were going back to the couple’s flat, drinking loads and listening to or watching ‘Erasure’.
My friend, who was an actor, decided as his career was a little stagnate (non-existent would be a more accurate description) that he would dabble in stand-up comedy. Fair play – he’s very dry, perspicacious and witty so it seemed a good career move (he once made me laugh so hard at his ‘pooper-man’ story that I farted in hilarity). So as he did the rounds of all the open mike comedy nights in London to start acquiring some experience, hone his act and catch the name of the right promoters, me and his wife played as devoted unofficial groupies.
This is going to sound arrogant, but if you were going to have a competition on funniness between me and my friend, I’d be in with a bloody good chance of stealing his comedy crown. As he accumulated regular and paying gigs, my presence and talent became recognised by his new ‘work’ colleagues. Thus my company was welcome as we’d frequent late night drinking holes catering to performers in London’s West End.
I’d had one near run in with a comedian, but truthfully having told me he wanted me to fuck him with a strap-on, refused to have a coffee at Starbucks for political and ethical reasons, presented me with a book on Milwall fans (he used to be a yob), was considered an old hack (someone who steals other people’s jokes) on the comedy circuit and wasn’t the prettiest man in the playground – the sex part was never really on the cards (despite me having led him to believe the possibility existed).
Seriously, I’m open minded but the ‘strap-on’ request really could have waited till we were at least actively participating in a sexual relationship. I’m all for being honest and up front, but sometimes revealing too much too soon is a major turn off. The mere mental image of my twenty-five year old body wearing a giant strap on and fucking a significantly overweight, pasty faced, greasy mousy blonde man in his late forties quite turned my stomach. By divulging that particular secret, no matter how many of my personal favourite jokes he included in his set and directed at me, I just couldn’t bring myself to even amble to first base with him.
I digress. That was the comedian I didn’t fuck and the reason behind it is mildly amusing. This post is about the comedian I did fuck and why it wasn’t funny.
A small group of us were crowded round a table in a members bar. There was a cute comedian present, who was significantly more attractive than his predecessor (old, fat, strap-on comedian). Yet again, I cannot remember his name, but I clearly remember what he looked like. He was about five foot nine, medium build, a buzz cut, brown hair, twinkling brown eyes, casual clothes (jeans and t-shirt) and was genuinely a real cutie.
What was particularly appealing was his lack of confidence. Rather than just ‘claiming’ me, which he could easily have done after every pint by stamping a kiss on my lips, he spent the time in the bar getting gradually drunker and building up his confidence to a point where he was able to be openly tactile with me.
I thought the process very sweet. That is until he was telling my best friend that we were well suited because we had matching moles on our faces. He then persisted in rubbing his brown mole against mine. I’ve always thought my moles to be interesting and a feature that accentuates my beauty, a la Cindy Crawford. Hearing I should be paired off because (and I quote) of our ‘witchy hairy moles’ was actually offensive.
For a start my moles aren’t hairy – I carry a pair or tweezers on me at all time in case a big black hair sprouts. Secondly, that he drew attention to it made me think, for the first time, that when people meet me they must immediately notice the mark on my face. There are probably those who are repulsed by it or, even worse, make comments about it behind my back. I was riddled with insecurity. If/When people do impressions of me; do they draw a large exaggerated mole on their left cheek???
I was pleased I was on a promise, but the alleged reason behind the comment bordered on insulting. It was like I was getting a shag off a fellow ‘mole’ who knew what it was like to be ostracized because of a facial disfigurement. Only I’d never seen it as a disfigurement. What I thought was a beauty spot was viewed in the eyes of others as a wart. D for depressing and D for distressing.
He would redeem himself by insisting on acquiring a kebab for each of us (and paying for them both – last of the big spenders!) to eat as he walked me home. As I was in need to a new notch on my bed post, obviously the night didn’t end with him kissing my cheek (the one with a mole) and bidding me farewell. It continued with me sneaking him past the security guards of the YWCA and up to my room for a quick sex session.
Only his nerves and romantic nature resulted in it not being a ‘quickie’. As we devoured our grimy fast food, he flipped through my 500+ CD collection and picked out tracks for me to play. What sticks in my mind is us both half-propped up on pillows on my single mattress and the ‘Ash’ song ‘Girl From Mars’ playing. He said it reminded him of his misspent youth (didn’t we all feel so old thinking about being seventeen as our mid-twenties threatened to move into our late-twenties) and said there’s a beautiful line coming up. Then he turned to me and sang in a husky voice ‘I know that you are almost in love with me, I can see it in your eyes’.
He loved music.
So did I.
He loved kebabs.
So did I.
He loved late nights drinking with friends.
So did I.
He had a mole on his left cheek.
So did I.
We were, of course, perfectly suited. My heart was lost to him in that instant.
We had sex like teenagers. I struggled to remove his sweater and t-shirt from him. He wrestled my jeans off me in a fashion not dissimilar to the late great Steve Irwin taking down a crocodile. The lights stayed on and he pulled the bed covers over us to protect our modesty and not expose his less than toned frame.
He wasn’t sexy, but he was adorable. I liked the smattering of hair across his broad chest. I liked that he didn’t have a washboard stomach (it made me less insecurity about my ‘fuller’ figure). There was an innocence attached to the act, as my hand sort his cock under the dark of the covers. Landing on it, I attempted to work it as best I could without any night vision goggles. I was to learn from my vigorous attempts that a little lube doesn’t go astray and that saliva is fine to use.
His fingers were tentative and exploratory. He spent his time running them between my slippery lips. The fact he was motioning and circling his index and middle finger on a spot about an inch away from my actual clit demonstrated not only his inexperience, but a willingness on his part to please me in bed. It might have been frustrating, but he eventually found a way into my slit and used his fingers to fuck me – which was absolutely sensational.
Too wet to build up a friction, there was only one direction to take and that was actual sex. Tossing, turning and twisting in the bed linen, he managed to mount me. Despite my wide spread legs, laying on me missionary style, his cock seemed unable to locate the place his fingers had. I adjusted my position, raised and tilted my hips to offer silence guidance, but it was all in vain. In the end I reached down and just pulled his dick directly to the entrance and let the head burst through.
I have to say, I was pleased with the girth. Average in length, the stretch on my slit was delightful. Finally embedded, his peachy smooth buttocks rose and fell slowly as he inserted his length in and out of me. He lifted himself on his arms to gaze at me as we fucked leisurely.
It seemed poor timing on his part to ask after he was in me if I took birth control pills. Shooting out a quick negative response, he leapt off me like I’d said I was HIV positive. Pale and naked, he scooted under the duvet to retrieve his jeans, fish out a condom then struggle to put it on his penis which had diminished in size since initiating the ‘safe sex’ issue.
He was determined though, because even though he was more flaccid than erect, he physically worked his dick back into me. Once my slit sucked him in and my cunt tightened round the stubby shaft, I could physically feel his prick expanding inside. It was hot; feeling the shaft grow and touch the various nerve endings secreted in my pussy. Confident he wouldn’t slip out or disappoint, he returned to pumping me. The connection had been broken and he laid on me jerking sporadically, face buried in my neck, mouth delivering sloppy kisses until he came. He obviously hadn’t had any sex for sometime because I could feel the condom fill up with his semen.
As he removed himself, the condom separated from his cock and the spunk ran down the crevice of my cunt to my rear entrance. In years to come I’d suggest some dirty antics to follow up, but there and then I just relished the foreign and divine sensation of the thick white liquid spreading on such sensitive and delicate areas of my person.
I assumed, because of the lack of intimacy, that the spell the band ‘Ash’ had cast on us earlier was broken. I was wrong. Although he needed to get home for work the next morning, he was insistent on taking my number.
The trouble with ‘almost in love’ is that it isn’t actually ‘in love’. That word ‘almost’ is perhaps one of the most powerful in the dictionary – especially when used in relation to love. ‘Almost’, I suspect, was the reason not to give me that follow up call. I like to think had he been in love with me he’d have rung. If he was only ‘almost’ in love with me he had an excuse as to why he wasn’t obligated to fulfil the promise he made me on the doorstep as I kissed him goodbye.
Comedy gold? I wasn’t doubled over laughing so hard it hurt my belly as I waited for him to call in the following three weeks.
(I’d like to say the comment on my mole was a one off and up until this year it was. Sadly my six year old step son went to give me a kiss the other month and said, ‘not that cheek, it’s got a yucky mole on it. Let me kiss the other side!’)
There was a period in 2006 when internet dating was becoming more of a job than a hobby. I was literally fitting my employment around my sex life. Organising my diary was reaching a point whereby I’d need a skilled professional to juggle all the sexual engagements; so I knew where I was going, who I was meeting and what I was expected to do.
Young lads (legal teens) were easy. They tended to have the emotional capacity of a tea spoon and really just wanted to get laid. Whilst there was minimal emotional labour involved, these dates were physically draining. When presented with the opportunity of no-strings fu*king for one night only, sex starved, horny young boys liked to make the most of the time they had. Bought up on a culture of internet porn, not only was I competing with a high level of fitness and stamina, but I was expected to recreate and execute acrobatic pornographic feats ‘just like on the web’. A good pounding was always welcome but nearing thirty I couldn’t maintain the pace or endurance required to satiate these beautiful young men on a regular basis. Thus my schedule offered a degree of sexual freedom as I accepted ‘dates’ from men my own age or older.
My preferences in these situations were to accompany older gentlemen. Men my own age were far more critical in regard of appearance (and I had piled on the pounds), plus they were very ‘modern’ and ‘pc’ – treating women as equals in the one situation where you’d rather not be considered an equivalent. I’d offer to split the bill. They’d accept my invitation. I hope I don’t come across as a bitch here, but I think if a man asks you out, it’s his job to pay on the first date. Might be harsh and feminists round the world may castigate me, but if a man accepted my money to pay for half the check there would be no sex and certainly no second date.
These kinds of incidence were rare with the previous generation. Nearly thirty, if a man in his fifties of sixties was taking me out, I knew I’d be treated like a lady (and guaranteed my credit card balance was kept to a minimum). Plus (again a cruel observation) these wealthier, well educated, middle-aged men appreciated the beauty in youth.
Writing this at thirty-six, let me assure you, only this week I was sitting on a train observing a nineteen year old university student. He was probably a virgin. I doubt he had a girlfriend. I suspect he was shy and inexperienced with women. I imagine girls barely notice him, let alone fancy him enough to take time to get to know him. But he was beautiful. He radiated youth. Spectacles, spots and slimness were irrelevant; it was his youthfulness enticing me to the degree that I found myself staring intensely at him (possibly considered freaky on public transport).
On reflection, many of the more mature men I dated didn’t see a fucked up, fat, twenty-something; instead they saw someone twenty or thirty years their junior still in possession of the ever elusive quality of youth.
Hence I sacrificed a right old ramming for a taste of expensive wine and fine dining.
Enter Mike (shocked I remembered his name, right?).
Mike was in his early sixties. He was head teacher at a prestigious bordering school. Mike had the banter. He wasn’t your average, pompous, stick up the arse Brit; looking down on the lower classes (especially those originating from a colony of convicts). Having adhered to a reasonable ‘just ensuring you aren’t a psycho’ timeframe, participating in successful textual intercourse and engaging online conversation, we agreed it was time to step it up and press the flesh.
I vividly remember this one night for various reasons.
Firstly he was driving his own car to come and collect me from my home. Bonus – private transport and no paying for public transport.
Secondly he was happy to dine in my local area. Bonus – close to home and a short journey whether things went good or bad.
Thirdly he invited me to choose a restaurant. Bonus – there was only my favourite tapas bar La Rueda up the road that my budget didn’t stretch to and I’d spent months dying for a fix of Spanish cuisine.
Waiting outside on the stairs, leading to the terrace house which had been converted into studios and bedsits, I must’ve appeared quite swish because I was complimented by various locals – all offering to keep me company or wanting to exchange numbers. I politely declined because I was going on – a – date!
Unfortunately his car was black and it was winter. Seemed like every car driving up Stockwell Road was dark and I found myself dashing into traffic waving people down only to discover none of them was Mike. In one case, a driver happily wound down the window and opened the door to take me for a ride, but I retreated hastily – Stockwell and Brixton do not possess unblemished reviews in respect of activities and the residents.
Eventually a four-wheel drive pulled up. The door was flung open for me to observe Mike’s arrival. I’m told it was a 4×4 Range Rover an expensive automobile. Struggling to haul myself in, I was less than impressed with the car irrespective of its price tag.
Not unexpectedly, Mike raved about my looks – a spell we now know which was conjured by the thirty plus age gap as opposed to me genuinely being blessed as extremely attractive (oh my false modesty!). It Thursday night and Clapham was bustling and busy. By the time we found a parking spot, I could’ve walked from home. We then had to contend with a packed restaurant, but the time passed speedily as we enjoyed umpteen sangrias.
He’d never married nor had children, preferring a bachelor lifestyle – which allowed him a very nice residence in his very posh school.
Each Christmas he held an exclusive party, which he couldn’t wait for me to join him as his date this year, whereby he would supply the most delicious food (including a pig on a spit) and a wealth of delectable and tantalizing alcoholic beverages. BUT, it was a Christmas party and people were expected to bring gifts.
Turns out Mike was a connoisseur of wine, with (yawn) an extensive and pricey cellar stocked with the stuff. Although unspoken, it was implied attending guests would present Mike with a suitable and appropriate vintage. The party amounted to almost £100 a head per person, so Mike felt this wasn’t an unreasonable expectation.
Two years previous, a new member of staff was invited to the party and bought with him a £5 bottle of Sainsbury’s Own red wine. Suffice to say the following morning, Mike returned the bottle to the teacher’s pigeonhole with a post-it saying ‘Keep it. Your palette will enjoy it far more than mine’. I need not wrap up this tale with the inevitable conclusion enlightening you as to which of the teaching staff never received a return invitation to the annual party.
Whilst I was discovering these insights into Mike, we wolfed out way through at least ten plates of tapas and two bottles of red wine.
Settling on a third bottle of wine for dessert (I actually would’ve preferred the mudcake with fresh strawberries if you’re reading this Mike), Mike disclosed he was a rugby fan (no surprise to the middle and upper classes) and played a lot in his youth. In fact, he carried on coaching the school team throughout his prolonged career. However all that impact on his joints had taken a toll. He proceeded to drop the bombshell that he’d recently had a hip replacement.
I suddenly became aware of how dark and soft the candle lit restaurant was. The lighting prevented me from examining his looks with a degree of scrutiny. He sounded bright and funny and charming, but hip replacement smacks of ‘granddad’.
I was thrilled when we left the hazy, fuzzy ambience of La Rueda. Not solely because it permitted me the opportunity to study Mike properly, but because the rich food and wine was having a funny effect on my tummy.
I advised Mike to hail a cab, but he was confident he could drive. The car was a monster so in all likelihood if there was an accident we’d be safe. However as a civic minded person and having lost people to drink driving, the trip was an endless white-knuckle rollercoaster. My eyes clenched shut as I prayed to a God. In a bid to ensure everyone returned safely, I barely uttered a word for fear of distracting the driver
Obtaining a parking spot near my house was infinitely easier than in popular Clapham. I can’t deny (for his age) Mike was handsome. He did have a rugby players build. He was very personable. I certainly wasn’t deterred from having sex with him.
Neither was he.
As soon as we were through the door, he was lifting my black dress up and hooking his fingers into my one-size-too-small control knickers to drag them off. Lust can bring out the beast in anyone. The aged sixty-something yanked my knickers down, tearing my tights in the process.
That he was bedazzled by my pussy, I let myself follow his lead. He was desperate to bury his face in there and who was I to deprive him? I was irresponsible. Dress hitched up, I sat on the edge of the bed, spreading my legs wide to reveal the shaven haven. Bare, soft plump lips he was frantic to part and taste. Too keen in hindsight. To let his tongue wander he needed to get on his knees. His firm hands were gripping and spreading my thighs further apart, but he was kneeling and rocking noisily as he performed oral sex on me.
I should’ve laid back and enjoyed the sensations, but I was inclined to watch the commotion between my thighs. One of Mike’s legs was sticking out crookedly. As he smothered his face in my juices and tried to tongue fu*k my slit, he was rotating left and right like a remote control robot without full functionality. The odd angle of the leg where his hip had been replaced had me transfixed.
I think mentally he wanted sex, but physically his body was putting up resistance. Like a feral dog with a twisted, bent, broken leg and no veterinary service, the attention to my pussy became ineffective and chorish, as he squirmed to position himself to taste a woman (for the first time in a long time I suspect).
The picture was totally wrong. He was in a suit – bold and brawny. Whilst his top half remained solid and sturdy from his rugby playing days, his lower half was withered and warped as he dragged himself on the floor like a peg-legged pirate.
I didn’t want to emasculate him by audibly suggesting changing positions. The suggestion might be classed as bad mannered, but something had to be done as the oral sex had become a trial to me.
Wriggling back on the bed, I stretched out to encourage him to join me. In my head I had real concerns me on top would shatter the newly replaced hip. As he awkwardly hoisted himself to stand, his face was beet red from the effort and shiny from my lubrication.
‘Would you mind bending over the bed so I can take you that way – it’ll be easier on my hip?’
I was grateful for the instruction. In that moment there was no giggle to suppress but looking back, my relief there was an end to the evening in sight had me as overjoyed as the girl that escaped the house of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
Squatting slightly, bending over the bed and supporting my weight with my arms stretched outright on the mattress, his lifting if my dress and caressing of my buttocks was in fact quite sensual. Stroking my thighs, I parted my legs to let his pleasingly hard cock slide into me.
The sensuousness of the moment passed as he reverted from teacher to school boy, fumbling to find the right hole. Repositioning myself, I reached under to guide him in. He groaned so loudly at the initial penetration I was worried the neighbours would complain. Firmly embedded in my slit he began pounding me hard – much harder than any of the other elderly men I bedded. His hands were on my hips so he could slam himself into me (at a comfortable angle given the restrictions of his surgery).
The snag was the force of his fu*king had turned my stomach into a washing machine. As I bounded and rebounded off the bed and he banged hard and deep into me, my dinner became dreadfully unsettled. Unsettled to the point where I thought I was in danger of encountering an accident of the brown variety.
This could not be allowed to happen. The longer and harder he went, the more delicate and unreliable my digestive track became.
I needed to end it fast, so literally crawled onto the bed, spat in my hand and worked that cock quickly and rhythmically till he came.
Pleased at his climax I thought he’d leave (it was a school night after all), but he was attempting to kneel again for some Australian bush.
I’d no real option but to eject him kindly with a sorry, pathetic excuse of an early start at work in the morning. The second he was out the door I had tapas escaping both ends when my arse hit the toilet bowl. It was regurgitated red wine in the bathroom sink, and garlic prawns, chorizo, and patatas bravas in the toilet bowl. It got to the point where was I was forced to leave reading material in the bathroom I shared with three others, my visits were so regular.
Subsequently, Mike was always arranging dates and cancelling them for one reason or another (well he did twice: one was for a school trip the other was to do with…his hip replacement). In the end, despite his promise of an invite to the big Christmas party (to which I’d assumed as his date I wouldn’t be bound to adhere to the ‘bottle of wine’ rule) when he finally secured a time and place, I chose to cancel. Sure the pig on a spit was alluring, as was that cellar full of expensive wine, but the memory of an old man literally grovelling and crawling on his knees for pussy did kill any passion or romance the relationship may have potentially had.
PS – Yes I know it was bad manners on my part not to reciprocate the enthusiastic oral sex I’d received.
Real sex stories fall in a variety of categories. Some will be sexy. Some will be pure filth. Some will be romantic. Some will be funny. And some will be downright depressing.
Now, back before social networking took off in a major way the ‘sex’ contact website for younger people was Face-party. I had more than my fair share from it. In fact in terms of getting laid it proved infinitely more successful for me than My Space, Face-book or Twitter ever has.
I was almost addicted to the sight. At the time I was taking a ‘break’ from full time employment and spent three hours a day working in a pub and the remainder of my time was spent on Face-party finding suitable men to fuck. They weren’t always nice men. I was happy to instantly message anyone BUT that didn’t mean I was automatically going to sleep with them.
Still grasping the remainder of my innocence, I was a good lay but not as smutty as I am today. When one man opened with an introduction of how much he wanted to ‘fist’ me, I said I wasn’t really into that so maybe we should terminate the conversation. He was clearly affronted because he told me to ‘Fuck Off’ and that he ‘didn’t care’ because I was ‘overweight’. It wasn’t a nice thing to read but it made me laugh out loud. I was overweight but that word does not have the emotional and psychologically traumatic impact that ‘fat’ does. Had he said ‘I don’t care cause you’re fat anyway’, I genuinely would be in tears. Instead I was quite chuffed because it was an honest observation. I couldn’t take offence. It was a bit like someone saying ‘I don’t care because you’ve got black hair anyway.’ Fine, no problem. ‘I don’t care because your hair is like a Halloween witches wig’ would have more of a bite to it.
I digress. Men are at times so desperate for a shag they’ll sleep with anything – including me! Thus on my online journey I had encountered men that were substantially out of my league that were more than willing and wanting to do the deed with me. When a guy made contact with a picture of him topless with a rippled torso, I wasn’t unconcerned. Warning bells didn’t sound in my head that the picture mightn’t be accurate. Common-sense did not incline me to check if the picture existed elsewhere in cyberspace thus proving it a fake. No, fully inflated ego I assumed someone of his calibre would happily select me out of the thousands of girls online.
It didn’t take long to arrange to meet. Given his looks I wasn’t in a position to play hard to get. I was so addicted to sex at the time (my friends observations not mine) that I actually took time off work (baring in mind I only worked fifteen hours a week) to fuck the guy.
The night before he was due to come he asked how I’d feel about a three-some. Sexually charged, I threw caution to the wind and decided it was time to expand my sexual repertoire and stories to tell over dinner. I asked if his friend was as handsome and well-built as himself. With a ‘smiley face’ on screen he assured me he as attractive but not as hot as he was. Exchanging phone numbers, I spent the evening preparing for my big three-some.
An hour before I was due to meet them at Holborn station, I had a text from my hunk saying he couldn’t come. Crushed (and pissed off because I’d taken a shift off work) he said he’d told his friend to go along any way so that I didn’t miss out completely. The text asked if I was okay with this. Truthfully it wasn’t ideal, but if he was anywhere close in looks to his friends it wouldn’t be the worst encounter in the world. Given I had time to kill as I wasn’t working and my sexual appetite had yet to be abated, I agreed and said I’d meet the guy at the station.
Stepping out from the ticket barriers at Holborn he seemed unsure of himself and nervous, which made it easier for me to identify him. He was tall like his friend, had a solid broad frame, but he wasn’t ever going to be talent spotted by a modelling agent. At 23 he was six foot two, had sandy hair cut short back and sides but with length on top, blue eyes, symmetrical features but he was lacking something. Spark or energy – personality. He was devoid of personalty. Fortunately we were meeting for fucking not discussing current affairs.
We walked in silence for the ten minutes home. I took him up the six flights of steps and ladder into my loft bedroom in the top flat above a cafe. Living rather bohemian my double bed was on the futon on the floor. Rather than encourage any painful attempts at conversation, I kissed him. He may have been nice-looking but no one wants a droopy, wet tongue flopping in their mouth like a fish out of water. Warm and wet, his tongue was lifeless in my mouth and did nothing to excite or encourage me.
I stripped his t-shirt off. There was no sign that he’d ever visited a gym. Medium build, whilst not overweight he was un-toned. Very English, very pale, very gangly it just wasn’t a turn on. I struggled to find anything physically attractive about it. I knew he wasn’t bad looking but the idea of sex with him was becoming an inevitable chore rather than a cheeky mid-week shag.
Sitting on the futon, I patted a spot next to me as if signalling for an animal to jump up. He sat obediently. I don’t mind playing the dominatrix, but to know someone is only ever going to be submissive (particularly a tall butch man) is a drag in the bedroom department.
I pulled open the button fly on his Levi’s to reveal tight white legged boxers. His bulge was satisfactory. Average length and width. The minute I put my palm on it, I could feel it growing. That was mildly rewarding – at least I was doing something right. When I slipped my hand into his boxers to wrap my warm hand round his thickening dick he was panting like a dog. That was more off-putting. It was more like a hound dog than a horny wolf. I could feel the blood pumping through his erection as it stood proudly to attention, but his face was contorting in pain. Wondering if I was squeezing too hard or working the shaft too vigorously, I slowed down. I realized this guy was trying to refrain from climaxing. He hadn’t had sex in so long he was going to cum merely from the touch of a foreign woman.
Wasting no time, I pushed him flat on the bed and grabbed a condom. Tearing it open with my teeth it was a race to get him inside me before he off-loaded.
I won. Just.
I rolled it down roughly, as he was moaning and grabbing the sheets in an attempt to slow his pace. I could see his balls tightening. I got one leg out of my jeans to give me the freedom to straddle him, bunched my panties to one side and squatted on his cock. As I plumped myself down his full length he squealed in a feminine way and shot his loads.
Whether it was embarrassment or the fact that he didn’t really fancy me in the flesh, his words were (as his dick diminished inside me, shrivelling in the sheer rubber sheath) ‘I better get going now. I’ve got an assignment to do tomorrow.’
It was the worst parting words I think ever uttered in my sexual history. I was stupefied. Gobsmacked. Normally I’d walk someone back to the train station if they weren’t familiar with the area. With my knickers on and one leg still in my jeans it would literally have taken less than a minute to return to a fully dressed state. Given his poor etiquette (and regular readers will know I’m a stickler for exercising excellent bedroom etiquette) I decided to abandon my good manners and show him where the ladder was. Yeah that’s right. I didn’t even bother taking him to the front door.
As he walked off nonplussed, pleased he’d got hit his climax I rang the number of his friend to lambaste him for setting me up with such a lousy shag. Sadly I heard the phone ringing by the front door of my flat. I terminated the call, realizing the threesome was never going to occur in the first place. My hunk never existed, some bored college kid decided to use a fake pic to get laid (if you can call the single act of penetrating a slit without fucking sex).
Reflecting on this event, I can’t honestly say that making him climb down a ladder, walk out the front door and navigate his way through the complicated streets from my place to Holborn station was a fitting punishment for his dastardly deed.
I’d like to say it was a lesson learned, but I got caught a few times like that. That’s sex online though I guess.
Playing With Young Gay Love – What Cougar can turn down a beautiful teen whatever his alleged sexuality?
There comes a time in every single woman’s life when she has the thought on a mad night out ‘I’m too old for this.’
It happened to me not long before my thirtieth birthday. After a troublesome few years, I’d scuttled home to Australia to rest, recuperate, mend a broken heart and lose nine stone. I looked (and this is arrogant) hot when I returned. Dropping from a size 28 to a size 12 was hard work, but I must’ve looked good because when I scored a job in a music company I was pretty much the talk of the room. The loud brash exceptionally good-looking Australian. I’m not sure how true that last sentence was but in my mind, I like to think that’s how I was perceived. If anything I had the confidence to think that way and maybe that rubbed off.
Anyway the music company I worked for (at that time) was very hip and cool. It’s a tough industry to crack, even a shitty administration job like I had. Our floor was pretty much full of school leavers on their first jobs, or dreamers like me that worked their for shit money but a great company culture as we planned on how we’d get our big break in music/writing/acting/performing/dancing etc.
Because about ten of us joined at the same time, we were sent on all the training courses together. Enter D (I can’t mention this individual by name because he’s a model and I’m not sure how relevant his sexuality is to his career or if this confession would impact on it in any way and come back to bite me in the arse so to speak). D was truly beautiful. He was Irish and had only just turned 18. He’d done a modelling campaign for ‘Next’ I think and also a massive exclusive photo shoot for a big magazine like GQ or the likes for a designer label along the lines of Armani of Dolce and Gabanna. Talent spotted for both jobs, he’d headed to London on the premise that his modelling career would go from strength to strength and he’d become a professional. He wasn’t a classic catwalk model, because he didn’t have the height. He was five foot nine which immediately restricted his career. He was striking to look at. Not traditionally handsome, he was pale and slim, but had perfect symmetrical bone structure in a very lean, chiselled way. He had thick dark brown hair reached the collar of is short and his styled fringe was perfect to droop in his eyes so he could flick it out flirtatiously when required. All that combines with the eyes greener than the foliage of a tree, you couldn’t take your eyes off him. Eye-catching he was. I could see why he was spotted by agents, but there would be those that would refer to him as ‘ugly-beautiful’ so unusual was his appearance.
Apart from the modelling opportunities, I suspect being in one of the cities the embraced homosexuality (especially as out office was in Soho) held additional appeal. Even the younger women in the office weren’t overly familiar with how to conduct a friendship with a young gay male. Mostly your first gay friendships end up with you having a crush on him. After the first one is out-of-the-way you realize nothing can come of it sexually and instead of instinctively viewing them as ‘potential father’s’ An experienced fag hag from way back, I was more than happy to take him under my wing. Having been out of the entertainment industry for nearly two years, to re-enter the gay scene was a blessing for me. I was happy, funny, confident and loving being back with a very young, very new gay best friend. He was relived to have someone who knew their way around the scene and was willing to accompany him on all kinds of outings. I also acted as a chaperone taking him to open castings. Perhaps the most important time my presence was required when we went to one ‘modelling’ agency that was trying to talk him into working in gay-porn. Not on my watch!
Crushingly as I told my oldest and closest gay friend of D (who he chose to refer to as my ‘new gay puppy’) his reckoning was that D was attracted to my maternal side. Huffily I refused to accept this. I was still hip and down with the kids.
D was living with an American guy he’d met online. Turned out cyber-space didn’t translate to the real world. The American insisted D come and live with him but after a month was retracting the offer. With no money to pay rent, D refused to budge and somehow they managed through tearing each others heart-strings as they went.
In 2007, when McFly were at their peak, they were playing a gig at the old G-A-Y by Tottenham Court Road. There was quite a débâcle at the time because Jeremy Joseph was being an out and out prick, refusing to let young groups of girls attend the concert. I don’t agree with ostracising anyone on any grounds, but in fairness to the repulsive Mr Joseph, screaming teenagers did kill the ambience of G-A-Y considerably. It wasn’t their enthusiasm that was the problem, rather their reaction to being in an ‘Oh My God’ gay club. Looking at the men (and myself who perhaps appeared lesbionic wit stereotypical short hair) they were gaping like they’d discovered aliens. That did piss me of because it does kill the vibe, when straight girls are looking at regular patrons like they’ve gone safari with the wild willy lovers.
Anyway, D decided that he, his flat mate and a visiting friend should go see the concert with me. How could I refuse his irresistible green eyes? I agreed and meeting them high I was as mellow as they come. Having bought our tickets thanks to D’s age we were checked. D bought his passport to confirm he was eighteen and we skipped passed the hordes of screaming girls begging to be let in.
All was going well in my knee-high boots and extraordinarily short dress. Until some old man was trying the moves on me. He was clearly gay but as he was facing a dry night I think he adopted the mentality that every hole is a goal. Bumping and grinding against me, I pushed him away gently. The second time a little more forcefully but with a smile. The third time I snapped and told him to get away from me. He then proceeded to throw a pint on me. The pint drenched me from head to toe, I could feel my make up sticky and probably likely to be running down my face and my dressed reeked of beer. It was only midnight and we were due to be out till 6am, so I was less than impressed with his actions. Fortunately so to was the Australian gay guy behind me who caught a few splashed himself. He and his boyfriend turned on the guy, to chastise him for his behaviour towards a woman and fellow county.
I did my best to calm everyone down and try to drop it (after all I was the one who’d be suffering all night) but D’s flatmate decided to find him and fill him in on the event that had taken over. Leaping down from the stage where he’d been dancing, he stormed up to the repugnant man in his late 60s early seventies and was shouting why he’d done it. I grabbed D to draw him back and tell him not to worry and let it spoil out evening, but he was furious demanding to know what the guys problem was. In an instance, the seventy year old gay guy landed a quick jab and caught D on the cheek.
It was my turn to rage. D was reeling but still upright. Seeing only red I grabbed the guy by the shirt cussing and swearing and telling him I was going to fucking kill him for hitting a kid like that. The old man pushed me off, the Australian gay guy saw it. His partner steadied me on my four-inch heels and the Australian then started rough-housing. Amongst all this action was a significant proportion of screaming young teens looking shocked at the aggression and violence taking place on the dance floor. Don’t blame the boys, girls – I was equally up for a fight.
Security entered to split everyone up. The Australian was defending our part but D, myself and the old codger were ejected from the main club. Discussing the issue with management, I could hear McFly preparing to come on stage and realized we were going to miss the highlight and purpose of our evening. D obviously thought the same because he put on a spectacular scene about me being his chaperone for a massive photo-shoot with Versace and now he’d most likely lose the job because of the bruise. He demanded to know what they’d do about and was insisting he wanted names to pass on to his employer and that kind of empty but potentially dangerous threats. I have to say, is efforts were so strong I was inclined to suggest acting if the modelling didn’t work out. The next thing I know security have their arms on us dragging us through the absolutely jammed club to get us to the front of the stage to watch McFly. Yes seeing McFly up close and personal was a great experience, no having an entire club HATE you for a public display of favouritism when many had queued for their positions wasn’t fun.
With thousands of evil eyes glaring at me, my liquid foundation running and exuding an aroma of beer, there and ten instead of seeing it as fun or an adventure I thought ‘I’m too old for this!’ – I was.
That was my last night out with D and his friends. My socializing and love of drama was diminishing the closer I got to thirty. We still spent whatever time we could at work and remained close.
One morning I get a call from his asking if I’ll come round and help him put his tanning lotion on. It was a Sunday and I had no inclination leave the bed or my TV, but our night out hadn’t been his fault so being seen to punish him was unfair.
Accommodating himself in the nearly redeveloped area of Canary Wharf the flat, within which he was staying rent free until the American online ex could boot him out, was out of this world in terms of size, layout, the quality and modern sleek urban look of the place. I could fully understand why he didn’t leave. The view, the facilities on offer and high tech gadgets made it a playground for anyone who loved luxury and opulence.
I chatted to his mates who had been out the previous night and were debating on whether or not to head out again. D declined the offer of drugs, as did I, because he was a clean living guy that loved life not alcohol and drugs.
Entering his bedroom, he stripped off the his shirt. Even though I’d lost weight he remained rake thin. Squeezing the lotion in my hand and then rubbing his torso had me flummoxed. He was a friend. This was a normal thing to do. But no one can deny a physical appreciation of another human being whatever their sex life is like behind private doors.
It was hard not to be turned on when I was running my hands all over his him. Shoulder blades protruding, his back was lengthy with a straight spine and no hair whatsoever. Tackling the front of him was worse because we had to make eye contact and conversation. Aimless chit chatter, all the while I’m caressing this chest and washboard stomach that was an eight pack as opposed to a six pack.
Having finished, he removed his jeans for me to do his legs as well. Running my hands up and down the length of his chicken-like legs, was too intimate and strange given the length (five months) and nature (platonic) of our relationship. He obviously thought the same because when I dared to raise my eyes to the white tight legged boxers I could see he was erect. I could also see he had a proper porno cock. My head was telling me one thing, my hormones another.
Whether I was drooling, I’m not sure, but seeing my unsubtle examination of the package with one hand he pulled down the front of is boxers slowly. Bare chested and pubescent in appearance, he looked like a little boy. The thatch of hair from naval to crotch was non-existent. He was teasing me deliberately, moving his hand down his stomach, exposing the flesh leading to his pubic region slowly. The bush may have been untamed, but it wasn’t like he needed to trim the area to make him look ‘bigger’ (as some men chose to. Releasing a seven and a half-inch wonder, my eyes watered and I got was soaking wet in an instant, I could feel it on my knickers.
‘You can suck me off if you want,’ he said simply.
I wanted to, my god how I wanted to. Licking from the base of his cock to the head I’d run out of saliva. I couldn’t just use my tongue to lube him for my mouth, I’d have to spit in my hand to work the shaft. I already knew due to the thickness of his bratwurst-shaped penis, I’d struggle to swallow much of him. He was young enough not to exercise any caution or consider the repercussions on our friendship if this was to go ahead.
Standing up he decided to remind me he had fucked women before and had a girlfriend in Ireland who he slept with regularly before outing himself on arrival in London.
I always swore never to sleep with friends, but was he a friend or just a work college I clicked with.
‘Fuck it,’ I thought and undid my jeans and dropped my drawers. D closed and locked the door to his bedroom. Without further ado he bent me over the bed. He was so slight I wasn’t sure where his strength emanated from. As I felt my feet involuntarily moving to adopt a stance to allow him to penetrate me, I did think it prudent I raise the issue of protection. Unfazed by the request, I was taken aback he had such a supply of them in his bedside drawer. Breaking the first one in his urgency to get laid, he retrieved another within seconds. Arms resting on the bed, pussy dripping I was ready to go.
No warning, just a sharp thrust to penetrate me. The shock of the size of the fat cock had me panting, gripping the bed and riding the length down to bump on his pubic region. When I felt my pussy lips springing off from his pubic hair I knew I was imbibing his full length.
It was hard, fast, rough and ready. I liked it. There was no affection or caressing of areas that differentiated the two of us physically in accordance to our gender. My clit and breasts were neglected. This wasn’t a major problem for me, because with my head planted firmly on the mattress I could use one hand to reach my climax anyway.
Rubbing my bud, it was easy to bring myself to the brink and go with the flow. D on the other hand wasn’t as fluid in movements as myself. He happily pumped and pounded my cunt, relishing in delight at my grunts as he shoved deep in me. Slamming into me with such force that the bed was moving round the room with me, I guess the pneumatic drill approach may well be best if you’re having sex with someone you wouldn’t normally. I support this statement with the fact that he came, because he came very speedily. Groaning loudly, I was in no doubt his collection of friends knew exactly what was going on.
Suffice to say my departure was imminent. I left with a wave and have a nice night. Within a couple of weeks I’m pleased to say the American managed to boot D out. With no savings, he was forced to return to Ireland, ensuring his only option was to skive off his parents. I don’t mean it in a horrible way, BUT as fun as it is to hold your hand up and say I’m twenty-nine and I fucked a teenage gay model the aftermath and awkwardness did mean losing a friend. The nature of the friendship changed irrevocably. We’d gone down a path we shouldn’t have. It affirmed my belief that you shouldn’t sleep with friends. It affirmed me that as a highly sexed woman, I still had it even with the most difficult erotic scenarios.
In fact, D’s departure from London had occurred before the rub on tanning lotion finally came off. A heavily tanned arse (brown bum) conflicting with my pale and porcelain skin was a major passion killer. I won’t lie to you. There a significant price to pay for carrying out a little taboo barely legal gay sex. I couldn’t risk sexual rejection, thus was obligated to put my sex life on hold while the tanning lotion faded. For the one woman wanting the one hundred dicks it was a daunting process.
There are three things you need to know about me before I enlighten and possibly enrage you with the truth about love as it see it.
My husband’s name is David;
The most romantic moment of my life is linked with a boy named Romeo.
It’s possible you may conject on the significance of you the above or why I’m telling you this. That my heart was broken by Romeo and I ‘settled’ for David? That Romeo died and again I ‘settled’ for David? That fate tore me away from Romeo and – guess what? – I ‘settled’ for David.
Please let me put your mind at rest. I’ve never ‘settled’ for anyone, least of all my husband. David is the love of my life. I knew the minute I laid eyes on him he’d be the man with whom I’d spend the rest of my life.
He is romantic and completely devoted to me. But that hat doesn’t alter the fact the most romantic, the most powerful moment of my life was shared with Romeo. If when I die life flashes before me, I swear my most vivid memory will be that of Romeo, or, rather, Romeo and me.
I’m no different to the majority women my age, which is mid-thirties. I was, like most others raised on a diet of trashy romantic novels handed down by my mother and culturally saturated in filmic rom-coms where the Grand Gesture comes – as it inevitably does – when the heroine gets Mr. Right.
TV shows like ‘Sex and the City’ have a lot to answer for. If you yourself a woman in her mid-thirties and continue to hold that dream close to your heart, I hate bursting your bubble but you could be waiting another thirty years; you could be waiting your whole life for something that will never come. The promise we’ve been fed is a lie. If you set your standards up there with Bridget Jones or Carrie Bradshaw be prepared for heartache and devastation – although I truly hope your knight in shining armour rushes in to save you and keep you safe, secure and happy for the rest of your living years.
Brand me a cynic. I prefer the term realist. When you’ve fucked over one hundred men, one tends to acquire a degree of experience from which to draw in matters of heart and boudoir.
I’m not sure what people think the instant they hear the word ‘London’. It obviously depends on your age, location and direct experience of the city. Some may remember the glory days of Brit Pop in the mid 90s, others the current British invasion of manufactured bands like One Direction and The Wanted. Then again people may thing of the ‘Swinging Sixties’ and Carnaby Street. Others, more removed from the Capital, may imagine The Queen, St Paul’s or a red double decker bus. Maybe the Queen on a bus going past the cathedral, I really don’t know particularly care.
Having spent fifteen years in the place, let me recount a darker side to few will ever encounter. The majority – including for a while time myself – endure that awful grind of nine-to-five, spending what free time they have enjoying the delights of London’s vibrant nightlife. It is those working to create the vibrant and diverse scene of London at night who inhabit a completely different world to those ordinary people living ordinary lives.
I left a routine office job to immerse myself in Theatre-land, becoming duty manager of the small but (to us) perfectly formed Players’ Theatre underneath the Arches at Charing Cross. Sadly it went bust, but that’s story alone in itself. Visit it now and you’ll still find the premises buried in the dim, cobbled backwater of Villiers Street which forms the Station’s foundation..
Nowadays though, having been renamed, re-branded and renovated it has become a dull, lifeless place, unimaginatively named ‘The Charing Cross Theatre’. When I managed it, it had gone sixty-five years without the smallest refurbishment. The box office literally seated one person; you couldn’t swing a cat (and we actually had a theatre cat who on occasion helped himself to fish in the kitchen prior to restaurant staff started their shift and if caught was punished by the head chef who somehow did find enough space to swing him).
The carpets and walls were a dark plush red. The upstairs reception was furnished with couches with fraying covers and rickety wooden chairs and tables begging for someone fat to break them so a personal injury claim could be made on the venue’s insurance. The small bar was awkward to navigate in because of the massive supporting pole standing bang in the centre of this tiny space. The two hundred-seat auditorium retained its original red and gold decore with similarly-coloured and incredibly cheap-looking tables and seats. The basement toilets were permanently blocked threatening to flood with a single wrong flush.
The theatre itself was sweet. And diminutive to say the least, it included a minuscule balcony and two dinky boxes. A bar at the rear and the little wooden tables between seats allowed patrons to eat and drink as they watched the show.
The walls were scattered with ancient paintings of Queen Victoria and black and white pictures of bygone stars of Victorian Music Hall. It was unique in its own dingy way holding (as most theatres do) years of secrets, and was run by an eight-five year old man who continued taking the stage for the full six nights a week we were open. He had white hair, a white goatee, moustache and no concept of Employment Law (I kind of liked this because it meant if I didn’t like a staff member or their performance was poor we’d instantly sack them without warning or the slightest official procedure).
There’s a rule of thumb in theatre: never run a performance if there are more actors on stage than audience in seats. Sadly this rule resulted in a lot of cancelled performances for us at the Player’s. Where did it all go wrong? Turns out as the theatre entered the 21st century, people no longer wanted Victorian Music Hall. The owner did his best to keep that most traditional of genres afloat but it was futile.
What went right? Mainly one thing – a bright spark working there had the idea of getting a late night licence and opening membership to all and any employees within Theatre-land, thus offering an intimate and in its way quite exclusive watering hole for when they themselves finished work. The location was perfect for the crowd of heavy drinkers toiling in heart of London’s West End. After the negligible audience trickled out of the Players’ 10.30pm, by eleven a throng of parched musicians, actors, dancers, sound and light technicians flooded in. That late night bar was the cash cow keeping that kept the theatre afloat.
I beheld many in time there and experienced much, but none so important as my genuine sexual awakening. I didn’t lose my virginity till I was twenty-one, by then I was that cock-hungry I was basically (and literally) sex-mad. Taking charge of a venue that stank of pheromones and was so charged with oestrogen and testosterone when I was twenty-three was the equivalent putting starved a kid in a candy shop and leaving her with no supervision. With the monstrous libido like mine, even I had my fill at the Player’s.
The hours were mental; 4pm to 4am six days a week. The upshot of these hostile and unimaginably exhausting hours was that both customers and work colleagues became my social circle de facto family. It was inevitable I’d eventually seek a semblance of romantic involvement – something maybe even permanent – with someone or another found there.
Trying to find staff to work those kinds of hours for less than the minimal wage was difficult. Of the five interviews arranged, Romeo was the only candidate who showed up so was therefore employed on the spot. He was from Albania with a strong grasp of English and previous bar experience so I figured he’d survive. On his advice I recruited his younger brother (a self-confessed rapist with poor English) and his cousin (an out and out racist who verbally abused our Polish restaurant staff). Sadly those particulars weren’t on their CVs when they signed their terms of employment.
My routine at the time was work, drinking and or fucking till 8am, home and bed till 3pm before starting over again. Because Romeo was one of the few full-time staff crew, we spent at least sixty hours a week together. You can’t fail to form a bond or mutual understanding working so closely for that length of time.
We were liberal with ‘after-work’ drinks. One night Romeo decided he’d invent new cocktails from the array of spirits behind the bar. By 7am our numbers had diminished to three; me, Romeo and my Gay Best Friend. As a youngster you know fewer (if any) limits. Actually you do, but you ignore them confident in your ability to recover.
Tequila was my undoing. One minute I was the life and soul of the party, the next I was by the disabled toilet heaving my guts up. Romeo and I were kissing, crumpled by the toilet door, lips locked, groping to remove each other’s clothes.
Gay Best Friend subtly announced his departure. For some reason which shall forever remain a mystery, he insisted I not walk him out and even forgot his usual goodnight hug and kiss.
Romeo was not as hygienic as my friend. Despite the unlocked theatre door immediately opposite the heaving and infamous gay nightclub ‘Heaven’, he pushed my skirt up, tearing away my tights went.
He wasn’t traditionally good looking but he had something. At five foot ten, he was incredibly lean with short cropped brown hair and the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever stared into. Being slim his stomach was rock hard and each muscle of his six-pack was prominent. His chest was solid, not bulky and the bone structure of his face was chiselled and masculine.
At 21, I thought of him as a baby, being two years younger than me, though I wasn’t body confident. Not that I was bad looking, with brown hair and brown eyes, set against a peaches and cream complexion. An ample bosom, and a perfect hour-glass figure, had I been six stone lighter people might have described me as stunning.
Having this lithe young man urgently removing items to access my cunt was extremely flattering. I liked him. I knew him and he knew me. I think that’s possibly what made him overlook the fact that I was never going to be the trophy girlfriend he desperately sought.
If you’d asked me back then, I’d have said the sex was ‘lust-driven’. Ask my friends who saw the bruises and bite marks I was often left with, they would have said ‘violent’. Romeo and I were impulsive, resolute to unite sexually physically to reflect our emotional and mental connection.
Having torn off my tights, pushed up the regulation black skirt from my ‘office’ suit and yanked my knickers aside, his hands gripped my knees spreading them wide. His fingers kneaded the soft white flesh of my womanly thighs as he worked up. I’d raised myself into a half sitting position to undo the belt of his uniform trousers.
He was keen on image and labels hence the tight-legged Calvin Klein boxers were unsurprising. He pushed hard on my shoulders forcing me down to the carpet. If I turned my head I could see – too close for comfort – the puddle of own vomit though I far too far gone to be bothered by merely by that. He shifted to shove his cock in me.
It wasn’t the best I’ve had as cocks go (or perhaps more accurately, come) – average in length but with no girth whatsoever. Having a tampon shoved up would have been more satisfying than his pencil-like dick. Sex though isn’t always about adjuncts and anatomy. Having someone thrust furiously inside you, with gritted teeth and a determined look in their eyes can be reward enough in itself.
He pounded hard. I loved the feel of him crashing his full length into me, his balls slamming against my splayed thighs. It wasn’t imaginative or original. It was animalistic, carnal in nature.
I loved that he was young and fit and hard and could power on for ages. The constant shafting of my slit rubbed the lips raw. It was as if he wanted to consume me. He lifted my ankles over his shoulders, then heaved me down onto his needy prick. He couldn’t get enough of himself into me. The penetration was as deep as it was going to get. He stopped grunting to study my face. It was if he was aware the leanness of him was expressed by the size of his dick and he wanted to grow a few inches longer and wider but couldn’t. It was rutting rather than love making but desire existed on both our parts.
Romeo went to get my sheer black top off. I could handle the ripped tights but I couldn’t afford to replace a torn blouse, thus removed it myself. I’m a C cup, which isn’t massive but pleases most men. I chose to wear black bras so the pale flesh of my breasts would spill over the cup. Romeo went to my breasts, took them in his mouth and suckled as if he was expecting milk. I started to squirm when he pinched my nipples between his teeth, then graduated to gulping my breasts in his mouth – biting hard. I found little pleasure in that.
It was about then Barbara the cleaner entered the building. We scarpered like two naughty kids from the theatre’s reception, fleeing to the back offices, frenziedly punching in the access code.
Once locked in safely, Romeo asked me to get to my knees and suck his cock. There was something in the demand that didn’t sit well with me. I somehow had a feeling he’d get off on the idea of reporting back to his family that ‘the boss’ had got to her knees to drink him dry.
To remind him I actually was boss, I pushed him into my private office to sit him on the edge of my desk. I kissed slowly and tenderly as I took his erection in hand to manoeuvre his skin and asked him to spit in my palm so I could lube him with his own saliva. Now it was a gentler scene. When I felt he’d calmed, I sat on my black leather office chair and spread his legs. It was only then I took him in my mouth. I refused to let him have the upper hand but I happy please him, though I noted didn’t reciprocate.
It wasn’t a demanding blow job, which given my lack of sobriety and sheer exhaustion from his unstoppable pounding, was a shame. It’s nice to gag on a cock. I have a serious oral fixation. To have something in my mouth akin to a straw as opposed to a bratwurst is boring. However fat girls do it better because they like having things in their mouths; we relish and respect food. I worked that cock like a chocolate finger easily working the entire thing in my mouth. I switched between hands and mouth and ended up inching him down till my face was buried in his pubic hair. The smell was sexy – like sweat and aftershave. I swallowed so the muscles in my throat massaged his prick. I released to breathe and appreciate the full view of him when he stood from the desk.
Completely naked Romeo was beautiful in way that only youth offers. His long legs were firm and sinewy, his stomach flat with prominent hip bones prominent. There wasn’t a hair on his chest, merely a small trail running to his tame pubic region. His buttocks were flawless and pert, the muscles visible as he pressed his pelvis forward for more work on his cock. I took him back in my lips, determined to let my mouth and tongue demonstrate how much I wanted him. I sucked hard, using my tongue in swirling circles. Occasionally I’d pull the foreskin back over the head then push my tongue underneath which had him groaning. My free hand cupped his balls, exerting a slight pressure before tugging them.
When he was close he withdrew his cock, put his hands on my small waist and spun me round to seat me on the desk. He reached under my knees, pulling me to the edge of the table. Reaching behind me, he pulled my hair hard, tipping my neck back and forcing me to hold back a scream. When he slid his rod in one last time he fucked hard, wrenching my hair so brutally my head hit a shelf. I threw him off and stood, only for him to grab my hair and drag me until I turned to face the desk once again. I knew exactly what he wanted and I wanted it too. To be dominated by someone earning less money than me, younger than me and someone who wasn’t my superior was the disciplinary fuck I so needed. Lowering my head to the desk by gripping my neck, I spread my legs waiting for his entry.
Entering me from behind, finally gave him the penetration we both craved. He forced my arse cheeks apart to get in as far as he could, rocking his hips fast and furiously. He pulled out to come purposely over my arse. I was highly irritated because he insisted on watching me wipe myself dry before dressing. The passion remained as we kissed deeply and angrily, resentfully acknowledging ‘we’ could never be and frustrated by the inevitability of it all.
We had sex a couple more times before calling it quits. He’d met some girl. To preserve our close friendship I accepted the state of affairs and returned to fucking regular bar punters.
On the eve of my twenty-fourth birthday Romeo and his brother Jimmy stayed back to drink and see in my birthday. Jimmy felt the need to divulge Romeo had strong feelings for me, which stung given his earlier, gentle rejection of any potential relationship. As always when the sun rose our secret world disappeared. The boys headed off to catch a train, I walked to the cab rank. As I waited, watching the stark orange skies of London dawn, I heard my name called. Romeo was sprinting towards me.
‘I’m glad you haven’t left. Thought I might’ve missed you,’ he said panting.
‘Why, what’s up?’
‘Sorell, I really like you. I think it could be much more than that. It’s only that I want to be with you. I had to tell you.’
After months of intimacy and what I wrote off as meaningless sex I felt my heart beat. He showed me the screen of his phone.
‘See here, that girl’s phone number?’
I nodded as he selected the delete option.
‘I’m deleting it. I wanted you to see me delete it because I want you to know I’m serious about us, about being with you and only you.’
I heard his brother call.
‘You better go.’
Without warning he put cupped my face in his hands and kissed me. As the kiss lengthened he pulled me closer as our tongues could entwine. I experienced only deep affection and possibility in his warm, moist lips.
‘Happy Birthday, Sorell.’
‘It is now.’
He kissed me again. I realised for the first time in twenty-four years I finally had a boyfriend. I was no longer a one-night-stand-slut unable to find a man or hold down a relationship. What sweeter moment can there be in the catalogue of anyone’s of love life than to have someone choose you over another on the morning of your birthday in the empty streets of London one cold December morning. Talk about grand gestures and romantic endings.
Two weeks later, I answered the phone from my office as I completed the payroll.
‘Player’s Theatre, how can I help?’
‘Can I speak to Romeo?’
‘May I ask who’s calling please?’
The ten step walk from my office to the bar was the longest I’ve trekked. The standing in front of my staff and saying in a cold lifeless voice – ‘you girlfriend’s on the phone’ still pains me now.
I could scream at him in the privacy of my office. I could take him off the bar and force him to work on the door (sitting on a stool signing members in for five hours straight). I couldn’t however force him to love me or like me or want me as his girlfriend. That morning of my birthday was unforgettable. The most romantic moment of my life eternally tarnished.
Eventually I was forced to sack Romeo. He was running a scam at the bar stealing in excess of ten thousand pounds with his brother and cousin (hence the theatre bankrupting). As I fired him, I asked why. Why did he do it? I employed him. Why steal from somewhere and someone who’d always been good to him? Why steal when I’d have given him the money if he asked? He shook his head shamefully. We kissed one last time. We both cried. I never saw him again.
You won’t see this story on TV or at the movies any time soon – but don’t think it never happens.
Discovering Cougar Town (young guys wanting older women, not the Courtney Cox comedy) after I hit thirty was a bit like Lucy discovering Narnia in ‘The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe’. Everyone I told didn’t believe that I was for real. They thought I was fabricating the truth to account for my single status as a thirty something. Fortunately for me technology had moved on significantly since I’d first lost my virginity.
Nowadays there are profiles on the internet laden with numerous photos and even better body proud young men happy to send photos via text or BBM to tease you with their gym sculpted bodies. Even better than that, there are the real exhibitionists willing to send over pictures of their youthful erections – trust me a there is nothing better than a big, fat, hard teenage cock. That sounds crass, but it is in fact super sexy and legal!!!
Hence, while I regaled the open plan office where I worked, with tales of my conquests ranging of men between ten to twelve years younger than me, if ever I saw a couple of doubtful faces or heard whispers that I was exaggerating my experiences, I needed only to whip out my phone to produce pictures and texts pertaining to the boy in question.
I have always liked my ‘brown boys’ with a particular penchant from those with origins in India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka. It seems fitting with England competing against India tomorrow in the cricket that the sexual exploit that first springs to mind was a teenage gym bunny I met over Face-party (a more sexual precursor to Facebook) was of Indian descent.
Call me racist or stereotypical but in regard to my social and sexual encounters with Indian men they have always been hugely appreciative of my plumper figure; their eyes widening lustily with all that soft, white, ample flesh against their own dark naked bodies.
I remember his six pack, I remember his prick, but I’m very sorry to say I don’t remember his name.
I had been somewhat precarious about arranging to see him because he was so body conscious. I thought my figure would repulse him. He’d seen pictures of me online but to my shame I had taken a few liberties with my profile photographs which were not only taken from a flattering angle but were a few years old and portrayed me as slightly slimmer version to what I actually was.
Greeting him at Stockwell tube station I had the knot in my stomach of him being either completely insensitive and calling me on the faux photo scam that I myself had been caught out with over my online dating experience or even worse be polite by visiting my house but evade all my sexual overtures.
He had a big smile for me which was slightly reassuring. He was whippet thin. At 5’10, I doubted he weighed more than 9 stone – say 57 kilograms for those using the metric system. I had a couple of stone on him easily and made a mental note not to even attempt going on top of the lad for fear of crushing him. I knew he worked out daily but he appeared to be more of a cardiovascular guy rather than a weights man.
His teenage libido took over the second I opened the door to my bedsit and let him in. He pushed me straight on the bed and started kissing me hungrily. It was quite nice but I had a nasty next door neighbour and didn’t want him peering in or pushing open the door to see what the ruckus was about. As the lithe lad clambered up me like a horny puppy I was trying to wriggle down the bed to kick the door shut with my foot.
He was so light it wasn’t actually that difficult and after hearing the familiar click of the lock, I allowed myself the pleasure of whipping off his shirt to see if his photos were for real.
I am happy to report all was present and correct. His washboard stomach was almost as rock hard as the cock that was pressing into my tummy as he smothered me in kisses. He was going a little overboard and almost licking my face which I wasn’t overly keen on.
Hands were trying to squeeze in the waistband of my already too tight jeans.
In the end I had to tell him to calm down for a bit. His big brown eyes and attempt at designer stubble made him look younger than his nineteen years. Part of me is always flummoxed why these gorgeous, fit boys were scouring the internet to get laid and not making the most of their hedonistic university lifestyle. Whether girls sharing classes with them were too close to see their appeal I don’t know, but I know that in that particular moment I was glad he’d been driven by rejection or alack of pussy to Faceparty and fate had him stumble across my profile.
Looking like a chastised child I took the time to run my hands over his body and it was perfect; fit, firm and fuckable. I slowed the pace by undressing him and was thrilled to see an erection, snug in his black tight legged boxers – undoubtedly with Calvin Klein imprinted on the waist-band. Fashion and image were everything to this guy so why he was hard for me was far beyond my comprehension, but I didn’t draw his attention to the obvious difference in our appearances.
When I removed my top and freed my breasts of the push up bra, he ran his hands over my feminine untoned tummy and suckled my nipples like a baby. It was sweet that his hand was desperate to make contact with what was under my knickers but those jeans weren’t budging for him to slip his fingertips under.
I released the button of the jeans and knew I was spilling out. It possibly would have been prudent to wear control knickers but the tight elastic would only have furthered hindered his endeavour to get between my lips.
When his fingers delved into my wetness he released my breasts from his mouth and groaned. He could tell from the warm slipperiness of my minge that I was ready and willing to take him. Thus he rolled my knickers down and I spread my legs for him to enter.
I have to be brutally honest and say he wasn’t the biggest I had – if I was to be really accurate I’d say he was below average, but it wasn’t size that rendered the session difficult to bear; it was his abundance of energy. The guy was like a Duracell Bunny. At first I’d loved feeling his young cock penetrate me. I loved that he (thought) he was slamming it into me. I loved that his hands were under my shoulders in an attempt to plough deeper. I loved seeing his brown skin glued to mine with sweat from the effort of his exertions. I didn’t love that he continued in missionary for at least a good twenty minutes with nothing else going on – no kissing, no nipple squeezing, no nothing. I could see my remote control on my bedside cabinet and had to refrain from turning on the television to catch up on the news while he made the most of my vagina.
Trying to spice things up, I shifted into doggy-style to hopefully end the spontaneous work-out he was inflicting on me. I had the utmost respect for his dedication to the gym and I appreciated the results but I wasn’t the sporty type (nor will I ever be!). Constant sex in the same position was tedious, unimaginative and unsexy.
The trouble with doggy-style was that there was a lot of white ass he had to plough through to get to my slit. His dick just didn’t have the length to give the position justice, no sooner was he inside me thrusting furiously then he’d slide back out. It was frustrating for me but I was prepared to write the event off. Rather than tell him he’d dislodged I let him continue thrusting between my thighs. He was grunting and moaning so I figured he was enjoying the sensation. In fact I even had time to open the graphic novel I’d had on my pillow to read while he exercised his cardiovascular system. I’m pretty sure he was too heavily into the rutting to notice what I was up to. Once I’d finished reading the adventures of ‘Invincible’ I discreetly closed the comic and put my hands between my legs; clearly the only person bringing me any satisfaction that evening was going to be me.
Having cottoned onto what was happening he went strong for the home run. I obviously was clenching my thighs when I reached my own peak because the next thing I knew his cum was spurting between my clamped thighs. I suddenly realised, because of the stream of semen running down my thighs, he was going to cotton on to the fact that he’d basically been wanking himself between my thighs rather than fucking a youngish cougar for all she was worth.
To avoid any awkwardness afterwards, I was inclined to dress quickly and make up a pathetic excuse about having to meet a friend for a late dinner. I know I came across as rude and dismissive and I hate that I did, but I was prepared to shoulder that condemnation, rather than have him look downcast when he realised his invested energies had done nothing to sexually fulfil me. You take the good with the bad – that’s what happens sometimes in sex. Anyway the lovely boy at the Maharani more than made up for events earlier that evening by giving me complimentary samosas with my take-away curry, but I’ll go into the details of that another time.
In my online dating years and when I was pretty determined to sleep with someone from every country I decided I had to sleep with a South African. There’s actually a very healthy rivalry between South Africa and Australia so it had never been too high on my list of priorities, but it was a box that needed to be checked.
I scoured the internet for ages finding the right one. Now I was in mid-twenties. Younger boys held no appeal for me, my preference was for older men, but I was also happy to fuck someone in my own age bracket.
I wish I could remember his name because he’s sent me a thousand friend requests on Facebook (all of which I declined – what a bitch I am sometimes!) so I should be familiar with it. But I’m not. He’s just another face without a name in my sexual history.
Aside from being South African (I’ve been told I need to clarify here he was white Caucasian) he wasn’t a bad looking boy. He actually possessed more of an American look and was reminiscent of Tom Cruise, which is no bad thing if that’s your type. He was short, maybe 5’5 with shoes on, had blonde hair, perfect shiny white teeth and the body of someone who spent a lot of time at the gym but didn’t have the physique for it to be overly impressive or noticeable.
We’d chatted online briefly and I organised the hook up just as quickly. As with any cyber sex sessions, discussions of likes and dislikes had come into conversation and I do believe mentioning I was quite up for anal sex. In all honesty I wasn’t that up for it, but some men see it as quite slutty and sexy so I felt it would increase my chances of getting laid.
The only thing about dating younger guys, or at that time men in their mid twenties is their lack of confidence. Despite me giving him my address he asked if I might meet him a the tube station and walk him back to mine. It kind of seemed a role reversal in terms of traditional male/female roles but because I was pretty independent and desperate for cock I agreed.
Meeting him at the station I could see not only was I going to have sex with a South African but also a man that would’ve been classified as a dwarf if he’d been born an inch or two shorter -not great for a 5’7 Amazonian-esque Australian like me.
I had an inkling I would want it over and done with asap. Bit of a workout for my vagina, send him home and then a bit of fast food and crap late night TV.
The bedsit I was living in at the time was in fact in the loft of a top floor flat and I had to climb up a ladder to get in there. There was a single bed, which I used as a couch and a double futon which I slept in.
The sex was almost perfunctory. By the time we got up the ladder, there wasn’t really all that much to discuss. He was a trainee accountant at a law firm, which is probably why he could afford to buy the best brand of lube in the market, which he presented to me like a wedding ring, but his profession wasn’t riveting enough to warrant feigned interest and questioning about his job.
It was kind of a kiss and clothes off affair.
In hindsight I found the height difference a little off putting. I could lay on the single bed, my bottom perched on the edge, legs spread, wet and waiting giving him easy access but as he began fucking me I realised he didn’t even have to bend his knees to get into my cunt. Nor did he need to prop my bottom up with pillows so that he wasn’t squatting while he was thrusting. If anything I suspect he would’ve been happy if he’d had a few pillows or a small cardboard box to stand on while pumping away.
His inexperience and lack of technique was all too obvious. I liked his enthusiasm and the velocity. His thick cock going in and out of me was pleasing. But the man handling of my breasts, squeezing them, pinching them was all good until he suckled them. He didn’t suck quickly, or suck and nibble. He suckled them as one would imagine a baby would. Making slurping noises. Ths short South African had a fat stubby cock inside me while he suckled my breasts. Taking turns on each one. Resting on my chest and just sucking and pumping. Thank fuck he didn’t call me mum.
I was wondering how long I’d have to endure the child like sexual behaviour when he boldly said, ‘Your arse. Let me fuck your arse.’
‘Yeah sure.’ I agreed quickly enough thinking the sooner the experience was over the better.
‘Do it like in the movies please.’
Wordlessly I moved from the single bed onto my double futon on the floor on my hand and knees. I could hear him squirting the lube and telling me how much he wanted this. I was going to ask if he wanted it more than me putting him in a nappy and giving him a rusk but thought it may further delay this mortifying experience.
Things went from bad to worse. His pork sword may have been ready to invade but my anus was having none of it. It was as if my arsehole had been super-glued shut. This should have demonstrated how tense and unrelaxed I was in this encounter but the South African wasn’t taking no for an answer. He just put more and more lube on his cock and more and more lube around my bottom.
He pounded and grinded trying to force the slightest opening so he could then force his cock in. It was lucky he’d been working out cause he needed the strength and stamina for this nearly impossible feat.
I mentally applauded him because he did manage it. But the sheer power required had meant while I’d started on all fours with each thrust my hands slipped forward and I began to move downwards. I could see my hands pushing the duvet towards the wall and my face getting closer and closer to the mattress. Soon enough I was lying on my stomach. Pancaked on the bed. I’d have preferred to be a little more picturesque and described myself as more of a ‘crepe’ demolished on the bed, but my rather rolling soft curves meant I was more a fluffy, filling pancake. It wasn’t until I was plastered to the bed that he got in. I was face down on my bed as his cock stabbed into me. In an effort of my own, and I wasn’t a regular gym goer, I resisted the intensity of his thrusting just enough to raise myself and my arse up so he could penetrate a little deeper. Where I mustered the energy I know not where – at that time I did wonder if there wasn’t something in all this religious malarkey – but in returning to half doggy style position it gave him enough room to be thrilled enough by the anal sex to cum.
I disposed of his presence as quickly as I did the condom. To be honest I probably would’ve enjoyed visiting South Africa more via Google Earth rather than have someone bum me quite so viciously and vigorously. I don’t think I dismissed him in a nasty or harsh way because he very kindly offered me the exclusive expensive bottle of lube so we could have anal sex again next time he came round. He never came round again…but the lube was used up for more anal sex.
As a woman by the time you hit 30, if you’re still single, generally speaking society will still impress its traditional values on you that you have in fact been ‘left on the shelf’; are a spinster; will soon be buying kittens to fill the gap in your heart/life. It’s not said out loud but it is implied.
We thirty-something singletons cling to ‘Sex and the City’ like some sort of new age bible. A guide through the wilderness of being society’s silent spinsterish outcasts. You feel it though. The ring finger on your left hand is all to obviously naked to the eyes of other women. The continual ‘plus one’ or do we even need to include a ‘plus one’ on invitations to you (they can save the money on at least one head with permanently single friends) at large functions….normally weddings.
So how does one combat this unspoken discrimination and disdain from the women that somehow managed to nab a man in their twenties? We brag about being ‘good time’ girls and loving our ‘independence’ as well as embracing out first foray into cougar town. In order to do this though, one must at least hold up the pretence of these qualities in public. I did for a good 18 months – it’s hard work though.
My friend, L, who was always destined to be successful in her professional life and was wanted by many a man was actually discerning enough not just to settle in a rush before hitting 30. What she had done was not only secured a high flying position within an international company before 30 – financial director no less. This afforded us a couple of things:
- A taste for champagne thanks to easy access to the company credit card
- A rather swish new build one bedroom flat above Romford Market Square – kitted out for two ladies on the prowl. A comfy bachelorette pas as it were in a good location.
From the financially secure and rather lush surroundings we had those familiar with Essex, or more particularly Romford you may be surprised to hear it wasn’t Liquid & Envy or the Buddha Lounge we would glam ourselves up for to demonstrate the wonderfulness of being single and 30 (the closest we came to a trendy drinking hole was the Yates’ and it wasn’t all that trendy). Our preferred choice of location that had a romping good old 80s/90s/00s discos in a pub with a sticky dance floor and punters that were either locals, those strapped for cash or a more elderly clientèle was the Lamb.
We were there for a guaranteed good time but it was slim pickings on the male front. However at some stage throughout the proceeding you could guarantee that some hapless youths (maybe those that couldn’t face the queues of Liquid & Envy) would stumble into the Lamb and L and I would zone in quickly before any other potential femme fatale competitor could edge their way into the frame.
L loved that flat. I guess it was her home, she owned it and it was safe. Mostly if we got a slow dance and a snog we’d be happy for the night. We’d have kept up the façade of single 30 something good time gals. But me? I had an insatiable libido. And an insecurity that only having a cock inside me could possibly alleviate for a time and those Friday nights in Romford threw me that occasional lifelines.
One particular night stays vivid in my mind on the grounds that I managed to hook a young lad that was eager enough to pursue me beyond the obligatory slow dance and snog and was, in my opinion and to my tastes worth allowing a successful sexual pursuit. At 18 to my pending 31st birthday, the 12 year age gap was an attractive enough attribute. The fact that his fashion was neither ‘chavvie’ nor reflective of his work appealed – a simple paid of faded denim jeans, plain white t-shirt, skate shoes and hoodie ensured he wasn’t a fashion faux pas or an intimidating fashion statement to be compared with on the journey home by passer byers – the five minute walk from the pub to L’s plush pad still required us crossing a good deal of pedestrian traffic whose drunken shout outs and cruel comments could scupper the deal for me and my one night stand. What really sealed the deal the messed up brown hair that looked like it ought to have been cut and styled months earlier that hung in his huge caramel puppy dog eyes on his cherubic face, set off with plump lips that turned into an almost diagonal smile when he did take his mouth off mine long enough to ensure he’d secured a shag for the night.
But L was not a woman of compromise. Actually that’s not fair she was. She wouldn’t leave me to have sex in the street (not that I hadn’t previously on countless occasions) but she wasn’t willing to invite a stranger into her pristine flat to infect the house with boy sex germs either. This left me and my teen with the staircase.
At this point in our sexual careers both L and I had ditched glam for comfort. Jeans and a sexy blouse was as effective, given the rather low brow standing of our frequented venue, as a glitzy dress or short skirt. It did however mean urgent access for a quickie was out of the question. Trousers are no real problem for a guy – it’s a mere unzipping and perhaps a slight shift and the erection is out and ready to power in. For me, clad in jeans, the only way that erection was going to gain entry to the (not so) forbidden fruits was complete removal of the jeans (and the high heeled boots!).
For me I had alfresco sex numerous times and I wasn’t a permanent resident of the flats so any shame associated being discovered mid-act was minimal to me. Fortunately because the teen had joined us in downing numerous shots over the duration of the evening so any inhibitions he had or concern about his reputation (being a local and all) seemed almost non existent. Weighing up the pros and cons as a new build not all the flats had been sold or rented so the chances of being caught were low.
Getting the jeans off and being bare arsed was risky to say the least but I concede there’s an awful lot of scope for steps to be incorporated into sexual activity. In the initial neediness and desperation we felt to connect physically I could easily bend over and rest my hands on the fifth or sixth step up which allowed him to penetrate me quickly from behind. The stairs offered me the support I needed as he pounded me furiously – somewhat aware of the time and location.
Once the first burst of lust had been satisfied and we were secure that the lights had automatically timed out in the staircase leaving us lit only by the moon and the street lights of Romford market we had more time to play.
Young and eager to please he had me sit on the third step and parted my thighs so he could perform orally on me. At the end of the day in those circumstances experience is irrelevant. Any man wanting to put his tongue into your wet pussy and laps at it like a dog is a massive turn on – more so because this young thing was kneeling before me to perform the act. And the more he licked the more I moaned. I got a feel for the body beneath the skater boy looked when he came out from between my legs and hooked my legs over his shoulders and began fucking me on the stair. Pushing and trying to plough as deep as he could. The deeper he got, the more I whimpered caught in the pain pleasure scenario and the deeper he tried to go. When he started being vocal about the timing of his potential climax, I pushed hard at his hips to prevent him from doing so given there was no protection involved.
I stood up and looked down at him kneeling. His youthful, bewildered expression looking up at me barely registered as his cock that looked fit to burst and dominated the picture I was gazing down upon. I raised my leg up to the third step and gently pulled his head to my wet cunt to let him lap a little more and lick my clit until I felt the orgasmic moment he so desired had been delayed.
I told him to sit on the steps and he obeyed without question knowing what I was attempting to do. When he was lent back and could support himself (and me) I sat slowly on his cock and bobbed up and down on it. My thighs were not in for a full workout so I eventually settled on his cock; rocking slowly and feeling his muscular chest against my back. Supporting most of my weight, I guided one of his hands to my breasts as I reached down and massaged his ball as I continued to gently move on his cock. When the panting in my ear graduated from a whisper to a more audible level and his balls tightened in my hands I jumped up quickly and before I had time to kneel between him to suck him to the moment of ejaculation he’d already released.
It was all over him, not me. This made getting dressed all the more easy for me. The goodbye was awkward. I would love to have invited him to stay the night, or even have a nightcap or to call a cab but it wasn’t my premise to offer out. Fortunately L had already made it very clear he wasn’t welcome in the flat so he headed down a flight of stairs and I headed up the stairs to the entrance to L’s place.
Simple, satisfying, sex. Two people. One staircase. No strings.