Category Archives: Anal Sex
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.
Following on from last time’s post about the great divide of persons between I’m inclined to continue with a focus on sex related to Christmas and New Year’s. Whilst my previous post addressed life as a singleton finding sex at these particular holidays I feel this week I’ll focus on whether there are any significant changes in sex at these particular times when in a permanent solid relation ship.
In short – there’s not. Being single and slutty or wife-ish and whorish has absolutely no impact on the kind of sex available and on offer on these dates. Somewhere deep in the subconscious the preferred date is seared not only on the brain but the loins and one responds accordingly.
Me? I like sex all the time and having never been in a proper relationship until my 30’s one thing I was determined to do was make the most of having sex on tap and available to me. No longer would I have to go out on the prowl to ensure a festive fucks.
Christmas is a time of giving and sex is readily available. But it is still a family holiday and when you have one foot Australia and the other in the UK it tends to mean you and your family are joined at the hip – at least in terms of accommodation at this time of the year. If in Australia I’d be staying with my folks and was not in a position to insist on Christmas clubbing and then bringing a random dick back to finally christen my virgin bed (which still remains so and I’m now 35!). If my family were over from the UK we’d be staying at a rather posh Downton Abbey-esque hotel by the sea in Norfolk which limited the amount of dicks available considerably– normally nil because it was a ‘family’ hotel of the English genteel so finding a single man willing to shag a horny common slutty Australian was difficult to say the least.
After I found a man I assumed all this would change.
Not necessarily so. Because Christmas and New Year’s fall in close proximity the same problems plaguing my Christmas cock endeavours also impinged on my New Year’s nobbing.
For the first New Year’s I had my boyfriend rather romantically we had been separated – me with my parents, brother and wife and niece and nephew in a restored barn in Lincoln; my fellow with his newly wedded father in London. Irrespective of the emotional blackmail his father burdened upon him (‘This could be my last Christmas,’ he wailed. ‘And I could go under a bus tomorrow,’ quipped my boyfriend.) He spontaneously caught a train to Lincoln to join me for New Year’s Eve. This wasn’t just to impress my parents, nor was it a grand gesture on his part confirming our shared devotion. It was a lusty journey because he hadn’t had a New Year’s fuck in over 10 years. Thus he felt it worth the effort and I was excited because not being a ‘New Year’s’ person I had never had a shag to welcome in the New Year.
Sadly it was all a little disappointing. My boyfriend was a recovering alcoholic and having recently packed in the booze was low on energy and physically recovering from excessive alcohol abuse for 3 years on his 45 year old body. The valium may have eased his need for the drink but it did render performance problems. I had never really had sex before with my parents in the next bedroom so couldn’t really let loose and ride in the New Year with any vigour or vocalisation. It ended up being a very vanilla style session. We adopted a very last session laying side by side, my leg raised for his entry and then a slow, deep, constant penetration to ensure the bed wasn’t rocking audibly and the headboard wasn’t banging rhythmically to alert my parents to what activity their little girl was indulging in. My orgasm muffled by a pillow and his tampered by his inhibited English manners. His inhibition was so great he was reluctant to even cum for fear of him staining the bed. It was a short celebratory session. Both of us smiling in the dark that we’d finally broken the New Year’s sex drought (mine at 31 years significantly longer tan his ten year abstinence) but also realistic at the subdued nature of the act of love.
What made it so disappointing was that only a week earlier we’d been be staying at a rather posh Downton Abbey-esque hotel by the sea in Norfolk and I’d been riding him and screaming down the house for three nights and mornings on the trot.
Even earlier in the Christmas season his lust had been so frenzied that when I’d been drunk and returned home from my work Christmas party in a cab because I couldn’t stand up straight let alone string a sentence together with any coherence and had vomit down my chin, he opened the front door where I was being deposited with the greeting, ‘Wow you look like a movie star!’ (Really??? In that state???).
It was true, it was the first time he’d seen me fully made up and in a dress but 6 hours of non-stop binge drinking really should’ve taken the shine off me. Instead he looked at me like I was a mesmerising Christmas tree in Times Square and began pushing me up the stairs.
I got up stairs and collapsed on our bed, only to wake an hour later with his hard cock pushing at my buttocks. The minute I groaned, authorising my state of wakefulness he wasted no time in pulling at my control knickers and tights. I could feel his hard cock placing itself between my plump bum cheeks and as he continued to thrust he reached around my front to see how wet I was. And even drunk I was wet and wanting. His hand could feel how moist I was and his fingers slipped in easily. After finger-blasting my vagina, spreading it and bringing my to my first orgasm, my responsive moans had him demanding a little more action from me.
He insisted I get on all fours for a doggy style ramming. My head was in the bed already pounding with tomorrow morning’s hangover. We agreed later, given my state, it was borderline date rape, but kinda sexy cause it was safe. I was begging him no more but he wasn’t having it. If anything he was making me look in the mirror to acknowledge how allegedly beautiful I was and then thrusting his cock into my mouth.
Knowing I was unable to physically prevent him from having his wicked way he then started telling me he wanted to ‘fuck my arse’. I love anal – as does he – but am normally hygienic about it and like to feel comfortable. Because I was drunk and worried about muscle control (or rather the lack of) I pleaded with him not too. I said I was worried about a mess and knew I had to go to the toilet so felt uncomfortable about it. All this was mumbled and he shook his head and said we’d done far filthier and had far bigger messes take place in the bed. When I expressed my concern about the passage not being clean he was not deterred by my concern and confession of a few stumbling, brown obstacles that may hinder the process of an anal pounding.
STOP READING HERE IF YOU ARE OF A NERVOUS DISPOSITION
In a festive fucking frenzy whilst using his fingers and some baby oil to prime my arse and widen the entrance for his overly thick cock he reached up inside and pulled three malteaser size balls of poo from my bottom. I realise this sounds gross but for him to do that and not lose his erection I can only assume I must’ve looked fucking gorgeous that night. To my shame I was so inebriated I was fascinated that he’d done it and while he forced his cock into my ring piece I watched with an almost childish joy as I saw the three little balls roll down the mattress. I was about to grab them, marvelling at how perfectly symmetrical, smooth and round they were but was prevented from doing so as my boyfriend slapped my arse hard, pulled my hair and thrust deep and then came, making me cry out and forget the poo and focus on the pain and pleasure.
That was certainly a Christmas cracker and a great start to the festive season in 2009. It’s just a shame the sexual start to the New Year of 2010 involved a rather bland, conservative and restrained speedy almost teenage pump. So being single or involved will not influence your sexual takings for these festive holidays. I’m now married and I have to say Christmas remains a bonanza spectacular style attitude to festive fucking (thankfully there is no more forceful faeces extraction required) but New Year’s we don’t even bother with – better to have no sex than bad sex. Who wants to start the New Year with a lousy fuck???
A transcript between me and my husband – three months into marriage. He’d just had a shower and graced our bedroom with his beautiful naked body.
S: Ooooh hello you look good.
S: Seriously you’re lush. How can someone your age have the body of a twenty something.
E: I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere.
S: Oh come on you’re 48 and you’re skin is like perfect, there’s not a hair anywhere. Well actually you could do with a trim. It’s a wonder that snake can find his way out of that forest.
S: I’m just playing. It’s just we only shaved you once over the summer. I only like the voluminous curls in the winter months. Nice to run my hands through something warm on those cold nights.
E: Sounds like you’re more worried about flossing with my pubes.
S: Well it’s bad enough that my own hair gets in the way. A little trim would help. It’s weird when I find myself extracting my hair from your foreskin mid job. It’s even more weird when I find myself having to lick the duvet cover to remove the stringy pubes off my tongue.
E: Well I’ve never prevented you taking a razor to me.
S: True, true. Awww come here for a cuddle. I just can’t resist all those boyish good looks…
E: You look pretty too baby.
S: Don’t say that.
E: You do!
S: No like, just say something nice to me because I’ve said something nice to you.
E: But I mean it.
S: Well it’d mean more if it was a little more spontaneous.
E: Oh well I’m sorry I’m not more romantic.
S: Can you stop that?
S: This admiring yourself in the mirror. Seriously how big headed can you be?
E: I’m not admiring myself. I’m looking at my gut. It’s huge.
S: Oh My God – what the hell. You’ll never be fat – you don’t have the build.
E: I’ve never been this big.
S: Yeah but you were underweight when we met. Now you’re just normal weight. Anyway we look better like this. It’s weird me being morbidly obese and you ano.
E: You’re not obese…and I’m not fucking ano. I just – this stomach.
S: Baby it’s sexy.
E: You’re saying that to make me feel better.
S: I’m not. Listen there’s something really nice about the little soft curve of your tummy. Anyway if you want the truth it really turns me on when I’m licking your balls and I look up and see your tummy. That thatch of hair running to your belly button. It’s hot. Makes me feel pervy.
E: Yeah you like that?
S: I prefer it.
E: Been a while since we’ve had a big session.
S: I know.
E: And I really need one. I wake up feeling so fucking horny at the moment but cause you don’t sleep….
S: What! We’ve not had sex in ages. I’d be happy to have it whatever the time of day.
E: No you reject me.
S: I don’t.
E: You tell me to get off.
S: I do not.
E: You did the other morning.
S: I didn’t I just moaned and the next thing I know your cock was bouncing off my bum cheeks. I hadn’t even opened my eyes. I didn’t say get off, I just said I was sleepy.
E: Yeah but I’m dying for an all nighter. I just don’t know why you’re off sex at the moment.
S: I’m not off sex. I just don’t like myself at the moment…so I can’t figure why anyone would want to have sex with me. But I fancy you…
E: Yeah and I fancy you.
S: But you aren’t going without. I gave you a blow job two days ago.
E: Yes and you do give the best known blow jobs in the universe –
S: And you’ve always said you consider a blow job to constitute having sex. I’ve always said in my view it’s not sex so at the moment you’re having sex and I’m not.
E: Do you know how weird that sounds.
S: I thought you liked blow jobs.
E: I do and I’m happy to have you suck my cock forever but I … wellI wanna be inside you. A girl needs to be fucked senseless once in a while.
S: And I want you to fuck me, I really do. I’m just…I can’t get into a sexy vibe.
E: You liked it last week. (pause) You did like it didn’t you.
S: Yeah I loved it. It was great.
E: And I only used spit to fuck your arse.
S: Which should tell you how much I loved it if you got it in there lube free.
E: It didn’t hurt.
S: No using the vibe in my arse to relax the muscles worked a treat. I have wanted you to fuck my arse so badly but cause we haven’t done it in ages I had serious concerns.
E: That you didn’t want me to do it.
S: No that I’d be so tight you wouldn’t be able to do it.
E: Hun your arse was so relaxed it was like a cunt. Felt amazing.
S: It did and you went for ages. Oh oh and I loved when you put the vibe in my arse to relax it that you were fucking me doggy style at the same time.
E: Felt like you came so hard when I was doing that. You’re kegel muscles were clamping and massaging my cock and that was even before I switched.
S: It was full on. My legs were trembling afterwards. My whole body was tingling. I’m guessing that must be what it’s like to be doubly penetrated. And cause I was on all fours every time you thrusted you pushed the pink vibe in my arse as well. Fucking amazing.
E: Hmmm you sound like you wanna have sex again.
S: Well I paid for it the next day. Seriously this not having sex regularly. The next day I felt like I was giving birth to Mick Jagger. This massive pair of lips protruding from my vagina. They were so swollen it hurt to sit down and to be honest it’s not right that I should be sitting in a cinema with a 4 year old watching ‘Hotel Transylvania’ and thinking about my vagina.
E: You couldn’t shit right for a month.
S: I couldn’t shit right, I couldn’t sit right.
E: If we had more sex you’d get used to being stretched again.
S: Yeah but it’s all about timing isn’t it. You like sex in the morning, but I’m always sleepy.
E: You wan to fuck at night but I’m always sleepy after my evening meal and, you know, we settle down for telly.
S: So we should have afternoon sex. We could do it while your Dad watches the soaps. But you have to let me make you come:
E: No. You know it’s like a tranquilizer. I’ll crash out and not make dinner and then….
S: Yeah but then if I have to wait till after dinner to give you a blow job.
E: I thought you liked my cock.
S: I do but if I have to finish you off after we’ve eaten. Well it’s like, you know I like to do as much washing up as I can before we eat so I can sit down and enjoy tea, cause if I see a mountain of washing up it’s just a chore that spoils my enjoyment of the meal?
S: Well if we do all that fucking and you keep tabs of my multiple orgasms.
E: Your excessive multiple orgasms.
S: Well whatever. Anyway it’s like then I have to make you come and sometimes it takes ages cause you’re a little older, your mind wanders, your Dad interrupts or moves around and kills the mood with the threat of coming upstairs.
E: Well I don’t want it to be a chore or a mercy blow job.
S: You don’t give a fuck about my intention. In fact you once said you get off on having sex with me when I’m not well because you like the idea of me performing under duress.
E: I do. I love it when you’re moaning more because you ache rather than ecstasy. That’s as close to being a sadist as I get.
S: Yeah well if I have to wait till after dinner to give you a blow job…it’s like the washing up. It’s kinda – a little less spontaneous, a little less in the moment, a little more like a job. And then there’s the whole….well you’re thick and I gag and having just eaten there’s the whole reflux thing. I’ve got pureed chicken and chips being upchucked.
E: I like the feel of that.
S: What you like the head of your cock being washed in a regurgitated meal?
E: It’s cool that you choke on my cock. I like feeling the wall of food hit my cock and you struggling to swallow the food down, your eyes streaming.
S: Well it’s not so pleasant for me.
E: But you’ve made me horny and I wasn’t feeling so great before.
S: How comes?
E: Cause I was in the shower and, you know, it’s a little cold. I’m not ashamed to say I’m a grower not a show-er and I looked down and my ball sack is significantly lower than my cock.
S: But it was cold. When it warms up and stuff…your cock’s fine.
E: It’s not though. I’ve got like a droopy ball sack.
S: Oh don’t be stupid. It’s fine. It looks okay. I can’t see a problem. I told you I love licking your balls, putting ‘em in my mouth and stuff.
E: Yeah but it’s a known fact that the older you get the lower your balls hang.
S: So it it’s normal. What’s the problem? I think it looks aesthetically pleasing. It’s not like you’ve got an acorn and your balls are down round your knees.
E: Give it 5 years.
S: Oh come on.
E: I’m being serious. I mean look at it. Look at all this excess skin.
S: Have you ever seen ‘Puppetry of the Penis’ cause the way you’re pulling that looks like a turkey gobbler of something. I think maybe you could do some of the tricks and stuff they do on stage.
E: I’ve not seen it and I don’t wanna fucking be in it. LOOK AT THIS SKIN. That’s not right. I think like I need a scrotum tuck.
S: Are you being serious?
E: Well yes I am.
S: You want a scrotum tuck?
E: Yeah I do. If we get some money together….What would you have a problem with that?
S: Ummm look I gotta be honest. I just don’t see the problem.
E: Yeah but I’m the only man you’ve ever been longer than a night. You don’t have any oter male genitalia that you’re familiar with as a point of reference.
S: That should be a good thing cause if it really is … hanging low … I’m not gonna know any way to complain or make an issue of it. You’re good, you’re in the clear. It can hang exactly where it want. Just hang there. Like your balls are a pendulum on a clock. Hanging in there and I’m just taking it in without passing judgment. In fact if I position myself right sometimes when you’re fucking me from behind your balls actually rub against my clit. Feels fucking amazing. Guaranteed orgasm the minute I feel them swinging in to hit the clit.
E: Sounds like you have an opinion. Seems to me like you’re now saying you think they hang low. Do you think it hangs low?
S: No we’ve just said I couldn’t possible comment. All I can say is, for me, personally I think your balls look great. You know why do you think when I get you to the point where you’re ready to come I like you to kneel over me and finish yourself off. It’s not to be porno and have you cum in my mouth or over my tits – it’s so I can lick and suck your balls. I love ‘em.
E: But if I wanted a scrotum tuck?
S: If you really want one and we get the money then….you know I think it’s fine, I fancy you but if it’s gonna make you feel better I’ll support you.
E: You’ll back me getting a scrotum tuck?
S: Sure yeah of course. I don’t think you need one, but you were there when I got the gastric band and supported me even though you didn’t agree so – go for it baby.
E: Oh my god I can’t believe you think I should get a scrotum tuck.
E: You’d let me go through with it. For fuck’s sake S who’s gonna see my balls. Just you and maybe a doctor. Two people are gonna see my balls and you’d let me go ahead and have a scrotum tuck. I can’t believe you wouldn’t dissuade me. You haven’t even attempted to talk me out of it.
S: I thought you wanted one.
E: I was just testing you. Seeing how you’d react. I don’t want a scrotum tuck. Who the fuck is gonna see my balls to care, but you’d let me have that surgery?
S: I didn’t know what to say. I was trying to be supportive. You know if it was gonna make you happy and all – give you some confidence – who am I to say no? Course you’re right. Only me and a medical professional will see your bits.
E: And that S is my point.
E: I fancy you and I’m the only one you fuck so if I find you sexy what do you care what other people think? Do they actually matter in respect of your weight? Are we braking our entire sex life because of what you think other people, that don’t even fuck you and never will, might think about your looks?
S: Errr so are you sorting your ball sack out or what?
When you meet a guy named ‘Fox’ three thoughts enter your head:
- He was named by hippies
- He’s of Native American descent
- He works in porn.
If his surname could also be a Christian name – something like….. ‘Tucker’ it’s more than likely he works in porn. Don’t be swept up in the uniqueness or impressiveness of such a name as it will more or less be covering for a flaw in the man’s character. And when you’re on a throbbing dance floor and are dazzled with a good looking, charming man buying you free drinks it’s easy to think ‘Wow I’m gonna marry a man called Fox Tucker and people will be like – shall we have S and Fox round for dinner?’. It’ll sound so cool in your head you won’t bother to question the man’s motives and 24 hours later you’ll really wish you spent more time being cynical and less time fantasizing merrily in a drunken horny state.
It turns out this particular evening would be the beginning of the end of a beautiful relationship…of L&B’s great partnership in Great Yarmouth. I was telephonic-ally, textually and cybernetic-ally on the verge of meeting my soul mate in the flesh, L was about to meet her future husband.
My mind is slightly vague in relation to earlier events in the evening – perhaps because later events became so prominent they overshadowed anything that happened previous. I know for a fact L and I used to limit ourselves to the Pier Tavern (a cheesy more mature ‘nightclub’ at the start of Yarmouth’s main pier. However on the night in question L and the general punter was considered old if they were over 21….so being 30 didn’t have every man in the venue turning their heads, revealing come-to-bed eyes and rushing us on the dance-floor for a little bump and grind.
In fact because we smacked of having a ‘3’ in our age we were relegated to swaying slowly whilst sipping our snakebite and blacks on the outskirts of the dance floor and dangerously close to the exist.
And then they appeared.
Two nice looking guys who were definitely mid-30s and veering dangerously close to being observed as in their early 40s…..undeniable prime beef to a woman of any age. Turns out they were best friends. L and I gave each other a sidelong excited glance at what might potentially result from this seemingly random interaction bestowed on us by the gods. The first ripple that fate had thrown us a positive lifeline was that both seemed actively interested in us. L’s guy wasn’t the tallest guy, but being with L he didn’t have to be. He was built like a brick shit house, broad and solid but had the face of something you’d expect to see on a boy-bander. She’d like that. He’d make her feel small and safe. And he had the chat and charm to go with it. His razor sharp wit would please her and engage her. Looks alone wouldn’t sit well but the fact that he had a good job, and good banter would see him in good stead. The pretty people…..
Which I used to think I belonged to until the man introduced as ‘Fox’ had cordoned himself off with me said ‘Don’t you ever get sick of playing Wingman for your friend?’ The words had the effect of a 1inch blade on a Swiss army knife catching me in the side. I had enough flesh to ensure the blade did no damage but it was a shock and it stung like fu*k. Especially as I knew L was not into One Night Stands and spent the majority of the time playing wingman for her slutty friend – ME. I also suddenly felt horribly unattractive and had an insight into a male’s perspective thinking of the two of us I was clearly unfavourable and seem as a chore. I mustered what courage I could to say I didn’t really see myself that way and it wasn’t how L and I operated.
He stumbled, embarrassed over his words, explaining what he meant were that people like L and his best mate M were all about the ‘game’, whereas folks like us (god did that immediately put us into the unattractive or worse just plain ordinary category….this face of mine has graced the pages of Cosmo magazine!) weren’t all about notching up conquests. It eased the pain a little and my ruffled feathers felt smoother. We talked some more and he looked at the two to them flirting outrageously together. Their body language textbook to that for any psychology or social science class. He nodded at them and turned to me. ‘They won’t last. They aren’t the type to. They’re both the same – players’. All I was trying to say was I really like you and if things don’t work with them, I’d hate for it to impact on any relationship we might have. Your lovely and a very cool girl. I’d like to think we might be able to go the distance but if they fall out or whatever PLEASE don’t allow it to prevent us from being together.’
Words I’d spent years longing to hear. And then his friend was coming over with vodka jellies, an alco-pops. The guys treated us – not like princesses, but like queens. It had been a very long time since I had someone mount up a bill of over £200 in a couple of hours being hospitable with us.
By the time Land I had conflabbed in the toilets I knew the night could only be going good places.
And it did.
It took us back to the generous Fox’s pad that he shared with his friend M. The house was magnificent. Tucked in the countryside, a hidden large cosy country house, where we found ourselves having a few nightcap in a large and well designed, thought very masculine in taste, living room. As would be inevitable eventually the talk would dissipate and L and I would allow ourselves to be invited upstairs to our respective beau’s bedrooms.
What L did…well she spent the night verbally bonding with M and he respected that, enjoyed a kiss and a cuddle and cunningly L left him fully aware that we was going to need a suitable investment (both emotional, financially and time wise) if he wanted the full goods.
I on the other hand was high on life and very merry and exceedingly flattered with the man. L was right – that new blue shirt cum dress that snugly fitted did look awesome on me. Almost as awesome as Fox Tucker would look when he pushed my dress up and began fucking me. Even though he had a porn star name (and over pillow talked it transpired he DID work in porn…he did the IT and maintenance of some websites for porn companies based in Canada) there was no mirrored walls or ceiling, or cannily installed web-cams I felt sure we looked pretty hot fucking – it a little bit old skool.
We certainly weren’t love’s young dream. There had been many moments on my lips of late that had cunningly migrated south to take up permanent residence on my hips. He was trim, but late 30s, early 40s. Manly. A proper man. Dark hair, nice, eyes, strong jaw, defined symmetrical features on his face, taller than me, broad, big hairy chest, fine fat cocked springing out from a voluminous bush of untamed pubic hair. He could only have looked hot fucking me. I mean the transition from charming and courteous to ‘get on all fours and spread your cheeks so I can fu*k that arse properly’ was rather winsome. After a rigorous pumping, missionary, me on top, standing bent over the bed and doggy style I felt obliged to comply with his final request. It had been a while since my bottom had been exposed to a beastly boner determined to bash my back doors in, but the force and enthusiasm it was delivered with had me gasping for pleasure rather than wincing and whining say ‘stop it hurts’ or crying and screaming ‘put some lube on that monster’.
No he was dripping with sweat and flushed when he pulled , asked for em to suck him until came all over my tits – I couldn’t have wanted a better introduction to sex with my future husband Fox Tucker – Ahhhh if only.
But wait. The morning after he didn’t throw us out, he woke up with his arms wrapped round me, reinforcing how great my performance had been (twas like music to my ears…worth risking that painful first poo after such action). He even gave me his mobile number telling me he’d meant everything he’d said last night. In fact I remember when L appeared, he departed laughingly, leaving the two of us giggling and discussing our antics. Mine gave L severe hysteria and hers were of a far more romantic nature which made my heart sing. Could it actually go somewhere?
Yes it could. Tired of the mirth and suspected lesbian antics that may be occurring the boys invited us to go for a carvery to recover from the previous night. The two of them and the two of us. L and I gave a look of ‘can this really be happening’.
We’d finally found them after years of searching like loons. They drove us to our caravan and patiently waited in the car while we showered, selected suitable casual but sexy Sunday afternoon attire and (taking less care with my image and more keen with eating) I sat on the sofa texting Fox in the car with him replying with all sorts of lovely and promising sentiments as L glammed up.
The meals itself was a delight. The boys were happy to join us for ‘hair of the dog’ – a little prohibited being in possession of a car but by no means restrictive of judgemental on L and I’s alcoholic intake. Gentlemanly as ever they collected the tab and there was tiniest hope that there was a hint of suggestion that this would be the first of many.
Things got awkward when it was time to leave. Both guys had children from previous marriages and had agreed when kids were at the house girlfriends weren’t allowed. Both had their children coming over that day. It was L and mine’s last night in Yarmouth. L’s man M said he thought he’d be able to change things with his kid and see us in the evening. Suddenly Fox became non-committal saying he’d keep in touch via text but was seeing his kid so couldn’t make any promises. When they got out I got a kiss goodbye but I could already feel a chasm of despondency growing. While M was eagerly asking L where we’d be drinking that night and what time, Fox made no interest and avoided the suggestion. I felt silly asking to text. I respected the kid thing, but the coolness emanating from his attitude began to deflate my heart and my dreams. I said good bye and tried to remain bright for L’s sake. After all perhaps he took parenting seriously – that was a good quality not one to knock or begrudge.
We sat in a pub discussing our plans, our marriage to the two, the double wedding, how we couldn’t believe this was happy. But as the afternoon dragged on, whilst L stayed in contact with M, my texts to Fox went unanswered. Gradually rather than continue texting to try an initiate conversation, I took the hint and stopped. L did her best to get M to bring him or convince him to join us but by late evening when M turned up having spent time with his kid there was no sign of Fox Tucker. He’d either disappeared into a fox hole, was obsessed with internet porn and getting his fix or somewhere in the Sunday sun had thought me Coyote Ugly and scampered away while he still could. M was lovely, L was moving on ever so gently from a relationship recently gone soured and I sat there forever a third wheel. Both of them trying to include me and me fully aware they had no idea that I just wanted to disappear into a place where rejection wasn’t staring me in the face. That empty fourth chair at the table was mocking me, but as a good wingman I couldn’t leave L no matter how hurt I was. I played a good friend, I was a good friend. She’d done the same for me and that’s what makes best friends. Even the alcohol couldn’t strip the pain from me.
It was kinda ironic when I heard L & M were getting married. Don’t feel bad for me, I was engaged and with the man of my dreams – it just that my soul mate wasn’t Fox Tucker. What was ironic was I was immediately back at the pier where Fox nodded over at them and pointed saying ‘see those two, there that type, there players, they aren’t in it for the long haul, not after a relationship, not like you and me.’ How on earth did I buy into that bullshit. Did a vodka jelly and flash name render me so emotionally vulnerable?
He fucked like an animal: masculine, hard, fast, demanding, brutish, methodically, physically, without warmth. He fucked like a porn-star: scripted, unfeeling, wordless but for grunts and instructions, hands not caressing but manipulating the various porn style positions he wanted, moving me not out of lust for me but to ensure maximum satisfaction for himself. At the time it felt sexy. It was hot sex. I was satisfied. It was nice for a night but that’s what his heart was like. The words were just a trap and I walked in there wondrous and left broken.
Still I had the laugh last, quite literally when giving my best ‘bridemaids’ speech at L and M’s wedding. As I recounted the harsh, unfeeling judgement passed by porn expert Fox Tucker on how unlikely the relationship was and the fact he’d stamped them with an expiry date when he they were declaring there eternal love for one another I was forced to admit my best friend L had got it right that fateful night which is probably why it wasn’t a double wedding – no one wants to buy the cow if you’re giving the milk away for free.
Under-age sex is never right – mainly because you can get done by the police, thrown into jail, be called a ‘nonce’ and have a particularly unpleasant sentence if you actually survive your time there. So stay away from jail-bait…even those that are knowingly on the prowl. I’ve had a close call but managed to steer myself into quite a different position. More on this in a while.
Whether people like to accept it or not this generation are much more highly sexed than the last and exposed to sexual imagery and an abundance of porn that used to be almost a pilgrimage trial to acquire some ‘tits & ass’ mags – let alone the ever elusive ‘Women’s Own’ (Australian) magazine that used to have a nice centrefold with a gloriously long schlong on display.
I read in the Metro last year a teacher had allowed five 15 year old students to fu*k her behind a rail line. Unbeknownst to her all the passing trains saw exactly what was going on and reported her. Now I can’t remember if she was jailed or not but was does stick in my memory was the judge at least admitting the experience had been in no way psychologically traumatizing or upsetting for any of the minors involved – indeed for them it had been a welcome opportunity.
Why I remember one evening L & I launched ourselves onto Vauxhall Caravan park for the final gala week looking like sex bombs and at 30 we convinced two fathers to allow us to take their respective sons 15 and 17 into town for some clubbing. You’d think it a dream come true for the kids but it really identified we were women and they were boys. The 17 year old spent the night dancing, suctioned on my face to the point where I was debating on whether to say ‘calm down, you’ve pulled I’ll fuck you tonight but gimme some air so I can throw some funky shapes on the dance floor’. L spent ages with the 15yr old moaning about his older brother’s (or were they friends) antics being over the top in a public place. At best she wrangled a light unpractised peck out of him before he complained about being tired. It wasn’t even 1am and we had every intention of pushing on till 7am so called a cab for them (so no I didn’t get to fuck the 17 year old…that night!)
Respect the law but be realistic. Frankly kids don’t do it for me, nor will they ever (even writing this makes me a little queezy – and that’s not because the story involved kissing a man from the kebab shop) but there are boys that develop quickly and can throw out a number which you wouldn’t question.
Back in the early noughties L & I were still frequenting the high-brow night club of Norbury Heights – ‘The Norbury’. By this time it was all about the cock for me. Freed from my virginity and I wanted was cock and plenty of it. As is the mating game two guys, clocked us two girls. They were both significantly younger than L and I who were early 20s, these guys had to be late teens. L’s looked significantly younger, I wasn’t even sure he should be in the club. My guy was 19. He was a builder, had a skin head, broad shoulders and stocky build but there was a teen youthfulness to him.
The Norbury wasn’t so high brow – in fact it was rather sleazy. We’d managed to climb our way sticky panelled dance floor and acquire a few tables and couches low lit with blue and green lights. When I say I was cock mad I really was. Not an ounce of dignity to be spared. I ‘dropped’ my ear ring and while L was lip locked with her guy I had unzipped and wrapped my mouth round the youthful builders cock. I worked on it, until we saw security checking us out and I miraculously discovered my earring on that black drink stained carpet. I sat back to sup my Metz and L’s guy leaned over and said ‘This is awesome. My cousin is having the night of his life – he’s 15 and you’ve just made his year!.’
I didn’t laugh. In fact I felt quite scared. I felt quite sick.
‘I can’t do this,’ I said and solemnly walked to the bar. L laughed and told me not to take it seriously but I did. Because that wasn’t my style – it’s not just a law thing sexual activity with children (however old they look or close to consent age they are isn’t a turn on for me – it only presses no buttons for me).
I decided to go cock hunting and hit the dance floor. Even with shoes bogged down by spilt alcopops and red bull and vodka I had just enough strength in my 4 inch heels to boogie on down while my tight black skirt rode up with wear. Soon enough someone was ‘body-shaking’ next to me and we were edging towards the plinths on the corners of the dance floor. The plinths were till enough and dark enough for his hand to delve up my skirt and wriggle his fingers through my tights and knickers into the warmth, wetness of my wanting cunt and I could r against his hard cock that was pressing against his trousers. My hands fumbled with the zipper so I could undo him and wrap my hand round his pulsating warm flesh.
I looked over to the couched area for L and spotted her easily enough but what pulled at my gut was the confused, hurt face of the builder boy. As the final song finished and the lights rose. I quickly readjusted myself and went to the cloakroom to pick up our bits for the long walk home.
Builder Boy was there.
‘It’s not true ya know.’
‘What?’ I asked, knowing exact what he was referring to.
‘I am 19, he was just fooling round. Winding us up. Don’t just go with some him. I like you, like properly. You’re funny and pretty and stuff. I can walk you home or something.’
And it was in that sentence I knew he wasn’t 19. Because if he was 19 he’d have started a fight, verbally abused me or insisted we find somewhere to fuck as quickly as possible.
I looked at him, told him he was lovely and that he needed a girl his own age. Feeling tears prick my eyes I scarped over to the Kebab Shop. If L and I ever got separated it was our own private meeting point.
I was absolutely drunk and now I felt a loneliness supported by the fact that I was horrible and hateful and pretty hungry. I thought I could stoop no lower. Until I heard the bell ring on the Kebab Shop door and heard L saying ‘S what are you doing?’. I realised I was clutching a cold half pack of chips and kissing some 40 plus Turkish man who had a wife and kids at home waiting for him. To make things worse L hadn’t ditched the two guys. So now the baby builder boy bore witness to just what pathetic things women will do when they have low esteem.
What made the situation even more difficult, was that having seen such shoddy behaviour didn’t deter him.
He chased after me as I staggered round to the back of the nightclub to get in on any final action to wash away the sting of his authentic innocence.
‘Okay so maybe I’m not 19 but does it really make such a big difference? I mean if we like each other. I’m not a kid. I work. I have an income. I have plans. I’m not in school any more. Is it that you don’t like me? Please just tell me what to do to make you take me seriously’.
I didn’t answer. It was just one night wasn’t it? Isn’t that how we all learn how old and cruel the opposite sex can be.
I went round to the back of the club and asked L to hold my purse. She took it wordlessly as I reunited with my last dance of the evening. I found myself pushed against a white van. My head roughly pushed against the side of the van. I felt his hands carelessly pulling up my skirt and furiously pulling down my knickers and tights. He spat on his hand and rubbed it round my anus. Without warning he mightily pressed his cock into my arse. I’m not sure if I even cried out in pain. I think part of me liked it. Well I liked the sense of connectedness. I liked the feeling of being full of cock. I subscribed to the whole pain pleasure theory so even though each rough thrust tore something about the sensation pleased me. But it was all in slow motion. A sad amateur porn display in a car park in Norbury with a minimal audience. When he finished fucking my arse, as he turned me round he prodded his fingers in my cunt – as if he only just remembered foreplay should be included in sex or perhaps he thought a ‘finger blasting’ (as Keith Lemon would say) an equivalent of a post coital cuddle. With a kiss and a thanks, not even an exchange of numbers I walked passed L, took my purse and suggested we go home.
The baby builder and his cousin accompanied us to the taxi station and waited till our cab came.
Following on from last fortnights post I take you back to a drug fuelled very sordid, very filthy sex marathon. As things were left having started with vanilla style sex, we progressed into a light cross dressing and some dominatrix role play, some very intense water sports completed with me rogering my man with my glorious giant purple strapless strap on. Now it was collar off for him and collar on for me.
This brings a somewhat rather different dynamic to the evening. When he wears the whore collar, he’s submissive and under my command. When he has me wearing the whore collar the idea is for me to demonstrate how much of a whore I can be. Normally this starts with me having to clean his cock up. Often he will leave it unwashed for a few days to ensure I’m tasting something that’s a cross between Gorgonzola cheese and an old sock. There’s something so repulsive of having to undertake this act that it turns me on doing it.
That having been done I have to make myself look glamorous so I’m ordered to ‘make’ myself up. The set up of the room and the dark lighting means I need to be near the dress mirror but always open to any advances whatsoever. Thus my legs must remain parted and to ensure the make up is immaculate I have to do my best to ignore him kneeling between my legs and flicking his tongue over my clit as his fingers push deeper and deeper into my cunt.
No sooner am I finished than he informs me he wants proof of just how much of a whore I really am. Implied duress and I find myself asking him to piss on my face. I hate this. I always have. It seems so disrespectful but its part of the game. And it’s the one part of the evening where I couldn’t feel any more like a whore – participating in a sexual act that I loathe and detest and yet that I trust him and want to please him and allow him to do it demonstrates great love and that in itself gets my cunt went.
I’m soaked through. He’s deliberately chosen to piss in my newly washed hair and I’m showered in it. He insists I rub it all in. Surprisingly enough as I rub it in, I find my cunt is wet with my own juice as well as his piss and he’s pleased when I bring myself to orgasm.
Soon enough I am on the bed on all fours in a possession of a 9 inch pink vibrator. I am using it to stretch my bottom and the vibrations in my arse are amazing. With a huge whiff of poppers my head becomes floaty and I’m trapped in only the physical sensations. Now my partner is using a glass decorative object (a rather nice 9inch glass dildo with balls increasing in size towards the base) into my arse. He encourages me to sit on it for it to go deeper but my rectum is not ready for this kind of invasion. My flinching must imply this to him as he stops quickly. I ask that he lube his fingers and insert them in me and spread them. At one time he used to be able to get 8 fingers in and when fucking my arse once relaxed he said it was like a second cunt. He seems pleased with how quickly my arse has reverted back to the size and stretch of its former glory. So much so he spreads my cheeks widely and plunges his tongue in. So stretched and so relaxed it triggers an anal orgasm – for most women this is unusual and difficult to achieve but with practise you have my word that the quality of orgasm puts it on a scale of its own. After much play he places a large butt plug my arse.
With that he asks me to get him hard, which takes seconds. His cock is beautiful and I’m desperate for his cum and tell him. We decide he will cum on my clit and I’m to rub it in for my last orgasm of the evening and then lick my fingers clean. Knowing this awaits the end of the sex marathon is something to look forward to rather than dread.
Pushed over onto the edge of the bed, my legs dangle over the edge and I’m instructed to raise my legs and spread them wide and instructed to pull my cunt as wide open as possible. I stretch it and am rewarded with licks and flicks and a tongue fuck. Such attention to my clit begins a multiple orgasm. The first comes but his tongue and fingers are relentless. No sooner has the first finished than a second starts. No sooner has the second finished then with a firm thumb placed over my clit and a third starts. From there on the orgasms continue as fast and with ever growing intensity till I can barely breathe, I beg him to stop – not because of the effort and attention he’s lavishing on me but the intensity and physical exertion of having a prolonged orgasm for more than 15 minutes is physically exhausting. I sit up, sucking his cock to distract him from spending more time on my genitals. Cock half hard he places it in me. I notice he has moved a bowl next to the bed, under where my legs are spread, my cunt cuddling his half erection. I feel his cock strain and then my uterus fills. There’s a warmth feeling and then a pressure, a pressure that touches every nerve sell in my uterus. He pulls out and a wave of his piss floods out between my thighs. The rush of it has my rubbing myself. He aims his cock and pisses directly onto my clit brining on an unexpected orgasm.
My fatigue is apparent and he relents momentarily from the endless orgasms but insists I get onth e bed doggy style. His cock pounds me and he taps the butt plug. I’m handed a pink vibrator and before long my entire body is convulsing. And he continues, his own fingers reach round to touch with my clit. His hands move up and down my body, pinching my nipples, spreading my buttocks to tap the butt plug and I begin to orgasm- clitoral, vaginal and anal. The sex is now straddling something between a religious experience and cruel torture. He eventually releases me.
Cuddles are brief and arbitrary before he gentle takes me down off the bed and onto the floor. I find myself kneeling on the carpet with towels placed around me and I know what’s coming. The anticipation excites me and my cunt gets wet. So wet there’s no need for the tubing attached to the funnel to be lubed. With a stretch arsed the tubing slides in easily. I allow it to go as far up as possible so that a little pressure on it brings small waves of orgasm throughout my being. The sound of him pissing in the funnel is almost as intoxicating as feeling his piss seep into me. His stream of piss is so strong there’s a splash back and little sprinkles of his warm piss shower onto me. I had an urge to finger or vibe my clit as he did it but with him working the tube in and out of my arse at varying speeds and depths yet another orgasm was inevitable. When it came the jolts through my body meant some of the piss spurted back up the tube only to have to be worked back into my colon. After that the decorative glass object is pushed into my arse, only this time its the full length of it. I’m proud I managed more than him. Apart from being a good bedroom achievement, I love the feel of my arse clamping round it.
But the night had to finish and there were final duties to be performed.
At this hour I can take my mind. It’s never just a simple blow job. It’s about shifting consciousness and submitting to the suggestion and sensations experienced. His beautiful cock is perfect in colour, shape, size and girth – it is one dildos should be modelled on. But the beast is proud and he wants to fuck my mouth and I want it to – knowing I’ll suffer tomorrow with the exertion and technique required. Once he’s hard, we inhale poppers and I’m told to feel each thrust in my mouth as if it were being delivered to my cunt. I hungrily take his cock in my mouth and do my best to slacken my throat to stop any reflux but the size of him hits my throat. He can read me,he knows I need to be fucked so as I take him deep and desperately his hand goes over my head and holds it there. He fucks me slow and deep, all the while whispering for me to feel it in my cunt. With closed eyes and an ability to move me consciousness and attention to other parts of my body I can feel his cock in my cunt, even though I hold it in my mouth. As he holds my head tight and I struggle, he lets me until my body wracks with an orgasm originating from my vagina. Only when I achieve climax does he release my head so I can get my breath back.
Then it’s time for me to finish him off. I work with a vibrator, my mouth, with my tongue, with my musician hands and with my piss. Forget lube or spit, my piss is what has his prick leaking thick clear pre-cum. After 8 hours he needs a break- we talk for an hour and begin again and soon enough he’s knelt between my spread legs and I see a huge wad of cum eject from the head of his cock and onto my clit. While he watches I rub the creamy cum into my clit to finish the evening with my final orgasm. I lick my fingers while he watches and we lay down in each others arms hoping that the drugs won’t keep us awake. As whenever he comes, the ejaculation is like a tranquillizer and he sleeps immediately. I can feel remnant of his sperm seeping down to the entrance of my vagina and feel all horny again with nothing to do but count down the hours till he wakes.
My soon to be husband said to me very early on in our relationship that the the great thing about monogamous sex was that it could really improve over time as you got to know how each others bodies responded to certain stimuli and also, knowing how each other’s minds operated meant you could improve your sex life with creativity and imagination. Foolishly I pooh poohed him on that, under the misapprehension sex could only ever stagnate and become vanilla.
Four years on and I have seriously had to review my initial opinion.
There comes a time when one must reconcile one’s self with age and physical capability. A sex marathon should never be passed on but it needs to be prepared for and in our case it needs to be drug fuelled. With age and a decreasing level of fitness non-stop excessively athletic sex needs a little help and if you can get your hands on a gram of go-gaine you’ll be set for a good 8 to 12 hour session. And after a little sex drought that’s what we decided to do in a bid to kick start things and get our sex life back on track.
That little buzz it gives once snorted immediately relaxes and clears the mind. For us cuddles naturally progress to some very slow warm up sex; both lying on our sides with him raising my left leg slightly and sliding in. In that position our bodies are pressed against each other, we can maintain eye contact and the movement of his cock in me is slow and intense. It also allows time for a little dirty talk to discuss what activities can be undertaken on the night ahead.
What was great for me here was that leading up to this night I had been having sever hormone treatment which had all but stolen my orgasm so had to prepare him that I might have difficulty being my most orgasmic self but to not worry. How wrong I was. Even with slow intimate sex and a little filthy suggestion I began cumming on his cock. The ultimate vaginal orgasm. I don’t know if he was placed in such a way he could rub my g-spot but three times I came on his cock and then it was time to ramp it up.
It was decided he should wear the ‘whore’ colour first. This allowed me to put make up on him and after pissing myself in my pink frilly knickers making him wear them: thus he really was bitch.
There is one thing that brings me to instant orgasm and that’s seeing my man wanks his arse with an object. Our chosen one is a 8 or 9 inch glass decorative object. It stars with a small glass ball and towards the base of the object they get thicker and thicker. Normally I would instruct him in detail as how I like him to use it but on this particular occasion I requested that he wank his arse as he would if he was by himself but warned if unhappy with his performance I’d instruct him and he would oblige. But he was being a good little whore and knew what I liked. Taking to all fours, facing the end of the bed end and raising his arse for my viewing pleasure; he slowly slid the glass dildo into is arse hole and began to work it in there – ball by ball. Given how out of practise we both were I was super impressed at the depth he achieved so quickly. Every so often he would raise on his haunches and begin to siit on the dildo to allow it to go further in. He managed to imbibe all but the last huge ball of the dildo. Then he resumed on all fours and begin rapidly moving the dildo in and out of his hole. With the thicker balls he would stop and rotate the dildo in a bid to stretch his arse hole. He knew I liked this. Done effectively and stretched properly it meant when he worked the item out as the smaller balls cam into view I could see a space in his arse where he’d stretched it to accommodate the bigger balls. This gap, the space, knowing I could slide a finger in there alongside the object at the same time drove me crazy. Sitting spread legged at the head of the bed with a pink vibe working my clit, as expected, my orgasm was phenomenally intense. The shudders of my body reverberated into him where my foot lay rested under his leg. I had promised if he did a good job with wanking his bum that I would not only rim but probe as deeply as possible with my tongue as a reward. Unfortunately after he heard me cum he immediately removed the object and turned round and asked if he could lick my cunt. I acknowledged the gesture but reminded him who was in charge. I spanked him twice with the leather paddle that leaves the imprint of the word ‘slut’ when struck on bare skin, but given the generosity of his univited offer I did spread his bum cheeks and tongue him. I would’ve allowed him to sit on my face had he been completely obedient but it’s all a learning curve.
Visual stimulation isn’t always associated with women, it’s considered more of a male trait on he sexual side of things. Whether a result of me being a gay man trapped in a woman’s body or the fact that I watch too much porn there are certain ‘pictures’ I like during a sex marathon. A favourite is porno cock – that is a nice hard large cock clearly visible through the underpants. With piss stained translucent lacy French knickers I wanted porno cock. I asked him to play with himself and he put his hands in his pants and began to wank. But the wait time was annoying. In the end I took over and moments after my hand clamped round his dick I felt it firm up. Now standing to attention I placed it back in the knickers so I could see his big cock straining to break free.
But I was in charge and he was wearing the collar so really I shouldn’t have had to wank him. For that there was punishment. Loving and gentle but disciplinary. I grabbed the leather paddle an the word ‘slut’ was soon emblazoned on his left buttock as a reminder that it was not my job to get him hard; he needed to do that himself.
The thing with go-gaine is that you get very dehydrated and drink – A LOT. Soon enough you need to go to the toilet. I instructed my partner to get on the floor on all fours. He obliged me and I grabbed a deep plastic bowl and put it under his head. Quickly but not cruelly I grabbed his head and said if he wanted to lick my cunt now would be the time. He pushed his face there and I held his hair firmly preventing him from withdrawing and pissed on his face. He had his tongue out wanting more so I picked up the bowl and allowed him to drink the piss from the bowl.
I was careful not to completely empty my bladder because I knew what came next. From our box of goodies I retrieved a 3ft length of tubing and a large funnel. I attached the tubing to the funnel and then lubed up the open end of the tube, as well as my man’s arse. Very slowly I began to insert the tube into is bottom and then slide the length in. Here I allowed him to tell me when it was in as far as he was comfortable with. I have him some poppers to help him relax and then took the funnel and squatted over it. I pissed into the funnel and began to watch my piss be absorbed into his body. It was intimate and filthy and wonderful watching his arse consume literally a litre of my piss. This action while incredibly pleasurable to receive does evoke an almost immediate desire to use the toilet. But wearing the ‘whore’ collar I felt he needed to be tested a bit. So as quickly as I pulled the tube out of his arse I replaced it with a small black but plug. I went round to the front, grabbed his hair and thrust his face in my cunt and pissed a little into his mouth. I straddled him and just pissed on his back – like his body was a urinal and then massaged my warm urine into his skin as he moaned. Not to let him off lightly I removed the plug and straight away began easing back in the tubing. Before he had time to complain he was being filled with my piss again and moaning in delight and despair at having to keep it all in.
Once done I put the but plug in and squatting over his arse let the final drops drip from my cunt so the piss fell down on his balls. He very quietly asked if he might be excused to the toilet to remove the butt plug as he felt he may have an accident and wasn’t coping with the excess of liquid inside him. Pleased at his efforts I allowed him to go to the toilet and even gave him a cigarette to have.
When he returned I cuddled him and fondled his cock. It was half way to an erection, I pissed a little on it and he whimpered as I sat on it. That spongy feeling of him pushing it in me felt good. I could move around on him and rub my clit against his pelvic bone. It bought me to orgasm and the contractions on his cock meant I felt him firm up completely while inside me. I sprung off – this time of the night was about my pleasure not his. His would come later.
Aware that as a result of our recent lack of sexual inactivity his posterior I had to be a little gentle. The idea was an attempt to recondition it, not abuse it to the point where it would be out of action. But I am a gay man in a woman’s body and it wasn’t long before the strapless strap on was out. I had him on his side and soon enough, after some rearranging and pliable body parts my 8 inch purple cock slid into his arse. I held him close in my embrace as his bottom became accustomed to the girth of my faux member, but soon enough he was begging for me to fuck him so I began sliding it in and out. In order to go deeper I knelt up and forced my cock in his ask while he remained on his side.
I rolled him on his back to admire how pretty he was. Decided he’d be much prettier if I shaved his pubic region. With a warm bowl of water, electric shaver, shaving cream and a razor I delicately shaved his pubic hair. He had a pre pubescent look and with the make up looked like a youthful gay boy made someone’s prag in a prison. Truth is I often fantasized about showing him off to gay men knowing how desperate they’d be to have a slice of his arse. Teasing and taunting them, showing them what he could do, how beautiful and flexible he is and knowing that his arse is all mine. The straight woman’s.
I requested he suck my cock, stroke it and mind the sensitive head. The drugs and being that high on intimacy I actually managed to orgasm from him sucking my cock. There was a definite physical reaction with my body shuddering and convulsing in delight. It was amazing that plastic strap-on didn’t spurt semen cause it felt like it should’ve.
So turned on I had his arms over my shoulder and had my cock in him. Rather than going for slow and seductive I let my lust dominate me and fucked him furiously and deeply. He never complained once. Moaned and groaned and tried to shallow the depthness but he didn’t say no or stop, until I made the executive decision to. But there was no rest for the wicked. I raised hi arse with two pillows and reached for the tubing and funnel. The tube was inserted into his arse and I stood on the bed so he had full vision of me pissing into the funnel. Better still for him he could see my piss moving down the clear tube and into his arse. Once he’s taken it all I removed the funnel and removed the collar.
‘You’re turn next,’ he said.
Given a lot of my life is spent being recorded, I thought for a change I might transcribe some conversations between myself and my boyfriend for a teasing insight into my present sex life and a hint of the more extreme stories and bedroom adventures that have come into being since committing to the one dick.
S: Fucking hell my vagina hurts.
E: What in a good way?
S: I think you were erring to the right yesterday. That particular lip seems to be sore when I’m sitting.
E: That’s a fucking good opening line for a play.
S: Better than ‘How’s your vage?’
E: As good as! Tell you what you could do, you could do your next blog post as dialogue.
S: That’s not a bad idea. Kinda like a script – a record of us chatting shit.
E: How’s your arse-hole by the way?
S: Very good all things considered.
E: There’s your next line.
S: I have to say, on reflection, in the words of Sun Tzu you picked the right strategy to get in there.
E: But how does it feel?
S: At the moment I’m desperate for a poo. It’s been three days and normally I’d welcome a bowel evacuation but given the charge you led last night I just know it’s gonna hurt so it’s clenched buttocks for me for the time being. Doing my best to delay the inevitable. Oh don’t look glum, at the time it felt good. You had the element of surprise so I didn’t have time to think about it which means I couldn’t freeze or squeeze as it were.
E: An astute general will strike thunder and lightning so that neither the ears nor eyes of his foe can be closed to them.
S: I really wish I knew what that actually meant.
E: It means…..well I was forceful enough so that your bumhole couldn’t keep me out.
S: In any case it worked. It’s been like, what, at least three months since we had anal sex.
E: Not for the want of trying.
S: Oh come on, that’s not my fault. I’m the one facing permanent sexual rejection.
E: Oh please, I never reject you. That’s so untrue.
S: Tis true. I still find you really attractive, I still get horny for you but you…
E: That’s not fair. I think you’re beautiful but this…situation isn’t great.
S: No it’s not. Anyway I better get on. Nothing like being on your hands and knees cleaning piss off the bathroom floor. It’s as close to a golden shower as I’m gonna get.
E: Stay while I finish my fag.
S: Nah no other idiot is going to clean this pig-sty before your son gets here.
E: I’m cooking Sunday dinner.
S: Yeah well cooking or having your hand down a toilet – you’ve not exactly drawn the short straw.
E: Why are you being mean?
S: I’m not being fucking mean. I have work to do.
E:You’re snapping at me.
S: What like a snapping turtle?
E: Exactly and you know how I feel about snapping turtles. I’ve told you what vicious creatures they are and the fucking damage they can do. If they got a hold of your finger…
S: YES I know you’ve told me all this before. Anyway if you hate snapping turtles so much why are you gonna marry one?
E: There’s no date set.
S: Fuck off. That’s a really shit thing to say. Why do you have to be so horrible?
E: I’m joking. Come on, you’re fucked off with Chris the cleaner not me.
S: Well it’s not funny.
S: Anyway how do you know it’s Chris that I’m cross about, it might be my sore right lip – and it does fucking hurt.
E: I’m sorry. What can I do to make it better?
S: (Laughs) Kiss it better!
E: I would.
S: I know.
E: What can I do about it?
S: There’s nothing you can do about it.
E: What can you do about it?
S: There’s nothing I can do about it – it’s inflamed.
E: Maybe it needs something cool on it to reduce the inflammation.
S: Noooo I wonder if that isn’t what caused the problem. You were really rough with the Rowntree Fruit Pastille ice lolly thing.
E: Was I?
S: Yes! And it’s quite a chunky ice lolly. It has a fair girth on it.
E: You liked it.
S: Not really.
S: Well I like the whole pain pleasure thing but to be honest I was raped by Rowntree. It wasn’t like you were sliding it in slowly and for a brief time. You were pushing it in there – pounding it in me. And don’t forget I was blindfolded so it was a surprise – I wasn’t ready for it and it’s not like you only did it the once.
E: I forgot about that. I’m a master of improvisation. Tying your sports bra round your eyes was inspirational on my part.
S: Or you coulda just got the proper blindfold .
E: I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t even find the toy box.
S: It was in the bottom of the cupboard.
E: I thought you kept it in the top of the cupboard.
S: No after our drug fuelled sex marathon when we made all kinds of promises about fucking filthily once a week and having more sex in general I thought it’d be easier if I moved the box down from the top cupboard. Presuming we’d be having LOADS of sex.
E: Only the cupboard doors are broken so I would literally have to have ripped them out to get into the cupboard and then dug it out from under the shoes and clothes. Yeah that’s conducive to spontaneous sex.
S: Given the state of our sex life it was all a bit premature on my part. I was a fool to believe your words in the Gogaine haze.
E: Oh right so blindfolding you, shoving an ice lolly in your cunt and fucking your arse without warning while I made you vibe yourself doesn’t constitute filth in your books?
S: Put like that…
E: AND there were no drugs involved.
S: Yeah it was good old fashioned sex.
E: I’m sorry it was so vanilla for you.
S: It was anything but vanilla. It was one of the most enjoyable blow jobs I’ve ever given. I loved that you rubbed the ice lolly over the head of your cock. It tasted well nice. I didn’t even have to worry about whether your cock was clean or cheesy – the sugar rush sent me into sensory overdrive.
E: Did my cum taste as nice?
S: Ahhhh your cum always tastes nice. Except for that one time when I had an allergic reaction.
E: Oh yeah in the cottage – you said you had to go to the kitchen at 4 in the morning and get some custard to ease your throat.
S: Anything to ease the stinging sensation. That was horrible. Fuck knows what you’d been eating that night…except you weren’t really eating at that point were you? Some stiff spirit squirting down the back of my throat.
E: I’m sure the sperm diluted it for you. It didn’t stop you coming back for more.
S: Well you were starving me out at the time. You were bed ridden so you never fed me. I was desperate for the protein.
E: You’re not short of a meal now and you seem to still drink it was gusto.
S: The things we do for love.
E: Oh come on I don’t force you to do anything.
S: What?!?! Oh my god your art of seduction involves pushing my head down to your crotch when I try and give you a cuddle. It certainly ain’t subtle and resistance is most definitely futile.
E: You love it when I throat fuck you.
S: Yeah but not when I can’t breathe.
E: Oh you love it. You beg for it. Literally. One sniff of the poppers up each nostril then it’s all ‘deeper and deeper’.
S: Shut up.
E: You said it turns you on when you’re choking on my cock. You actually fucking orgasm when I thrust into your mouth. Properly orgasm. What woman can do that? You’re like a real life version of ‘Deep Throat’.
S: Okay, okay. Yes I like it when you throat fuck me but not all the time. Not when I’m on the verge of vomiting on your cock. Like literally when lunch pops back up.
E: Oh that I definitely like.
S: So my basically my bariatric surgery gone wrong has been a positive in the bedroom department. The fact that I now have gastroesophageal reflux disease and a gastric band that doesn’t work and I spew after almost every meal is a good thing.
E: Yeah I like you refluxing away while I hold your head and pull your hair.
S: And my arms flail and I feel I’m about to die and start worrying about what you’ll tell my mum and dad.
E: It’s not that bad.
S: I’m just glad that £6000 is considered money well spent.
E: That £6000 means I get a little warm chunky vegetable soup-like hug on my cock when you blow me.
S: In fairness you do time it right. You exert just the right amount of pressure and deprive me of just enough oxygen to panic me but not kill me. It’s actually very sexy. But I don’t think spewing is glamorous. That can be tiresome and it happens loads. Your cock is bigger than you credit it.
E: What this little thing?
S: Seriously when I washed it with that tar soap the other night, because you were prodding round my throat straight away I could taste soap at the back of my throat all night. It was dry in the morning. I thought I was gonna need to tuck into your ‘Lockets’.
S: Whatever. It was like an adult version of punishing me for being a potty mouth. And I’m not talking about my excessive swearing.
E: Fucking cunt bitch! You’re not going to bring that up again are you. The greatest sexual miscommunication of all time.
S: There’s a reason why ‘Mudshute’ is my favourite stop on Docklands Light railway.
E: I thought it was what you wanted me to do!
S: When have I ever given the slightest inclination that I’m into that. I ain’t no Scatman.
E: Look I genuinely thought it was what you wanted. You know my feelings about this. I did think it a weird request but I don’t like to decline an invitation, let alone have you thinking I’m rejecting you when you’re are your most vulnerable or be accused of not being sexually adventurous. I was actually really uncomfortable doing it.
S: So was I when I had a brown fountain falling on my face. I mean you served up a substantial meal that night but it was a hell of a lot more unappetising that your poison drunk cum. That sex dinner was psychologically traumatising. Is it any wonder I’m at the fucking therapist’s once a fortnight. That said I do feel I dealt with that particular mishap in a gracious way.
E: Yes S, your bedroom manners were unsurpassed I’ll grant you that. You are truly an elegant slut.
I feel uninspired at the moment, so have been advised to write this entry naked in bed on my laptop.
It was somewhat ironic that I was for a period of two years celibate (my definition of celibacy being an absence of vaginal penetration – blow jobs and anal sex were allowed) and when I finally broke the drought I immediately fell pregnant. There is little humour for me to ebb out of that particular dick but one I will examine at a more appropriate time.
That incident aside, what I can say for myself is despite skipping from partner to partner I never fell prey to any genital or sexual pitfalls the majority of women in an exclusive committed relationship (or those with an unlucky one night stand) will inevitably encounter at some point.
That is until I found myself in an exclusive committed relationship.
People think being partnered an alcoholic is all bad – it’s actually not. Don’t get me wrong it is rather horrendous, but those with an alcohol dependency are pretty much restricted to bed. So no they may not be able to hold down a job or even accompany you out for social gatherings but being bed bound means the one activity they can participate in is sex (that is those that escape the curse of brewers droop – which my guy did). Thus for the first year we were together it was a non stop sex fest, kinda normal for the honeymoon phase. For me the biggest treat was sex on tap. Okay I might have fucked 100 men over the course of ten years but given they were almost all one night stands that actually means I was only having sex once every 5 weeks – which is pretty pitiful. Thus to be able to fuck all-day everyday was heavenly to me.
Until I learnt about thrush. The irritation started and he, being all the more experienced with relationships, diagnosed it early and recommended exercising abstinence in a bid to prevent it worsening. Theoretically it all sounded good, but alcoholics are addicts and addicts are not great at exercising self control, hence their predicament. Coupling that with my own addictive personality and insatiable sexual appetite the abstinence cure lasted all of maybe 12 hours. Then his chaffed cock decided to visit my yeasty haven. As a result my vagina, clearly unhappy with my callous treatment, declared war in my knickers.
I have never known an itch like. Yes thank god for Canestan (why does that dog look so decidedly smug in the advert – is there more than just friendship going on there?) but it still takes a while to kick in. My parents generously bought us tickets to go and see The Jersey Boys. It was a brilliant show and I’d like to say my memory of that theatrical experience was the wonder and joy of the music of Frankie Valli and the Four Season, but in fact whenever I hear ‘Oh What a Night’ all I can remember is squirming in my chair in a bid for the crotch seam of my jeans to scratch my fiery cunt.
But how quickly one woman can go from a hundred dicks to one dick to no dick.
There’s nothing like a series of ongoing challenges pervading all aspects of your life to dampen one’s desire for each other’s. Endless months of constant stress, tension and pressure is the equivalent of castration for both genders. Occasionally things would subside or we’d feel we’d has some small win, some psychological advantage and we’d fuck to celebrate, remember how wonderful sex is (and it’s free!) and make sincere promises from ‘let’s make sure we have a minimum of sex three times a week’ to ‘let’s make sure we have some form of sexual contact for at least ten minutes everyday’. Then fate would deal a cruel blow, our foundation shaken, our position threatened again and the sex would be sapped clean out of us. Our entire house a vacuum free of any sexual energy.
Hence it’s been a rather hit and miss year. You would of course, not fully appreciate the degree of this unless you’d been fucking me seven months ago and fucking me today. The visible effect of the absence of sex is most demonstrable by my entrances being somewhat unwelcoming of my partners attempt to rekindle his once familiar and frequent relationship with them.
He once proudly boasted he could put eight fingers into my arse and stretch it to rival any hardcore porn stars. My arse could hungrily hoover up large 10 inch ribbed glass dildo’s that would make any woman’s eyes water. This is something of a turn on for him, I’m not sure if men generally find this an attractive feature. I have felt obliged to continue my courtship with him not just on the grounds of unconditional love but because I’m not confident another man would be happy with such a pliable ring-piece. Alas the last time we attempted anal intercourse all I could think about was Bum-cleaver’ from the Marquis de Sade’s 120 days of Sodom. Who is ‘Bum-cleaver’? – ‘The head of his prick resembled the heart of an ox, it was eight and three-eights inches around; behind it, the shaft measured only eight, but was crooked and had such a curve it neatly tore the anus when penetrating it.’ With this thought in mind my bottom was so tense and frightened he was lucky to pry one finger in, let alone his proud perfect penis (aka PPP).
It wasn’t just my rectum that was wary of the return of the PPP, but even my cunt greeted him like a small child presented with an absent father of many years who expected immediate affection and a jolly rapport despite abandonment of said child. Oh I was desperate to feel him fill me up but afterwards I felt akin to an athlete returning to competition after a season off with injury.
His first ploughing resulted in me feeling satisfied but violated. In the words of the Kings of Leon my sex was on fire. Given the lack of horizontal play I knew it wasn’t thrush but my lips were throbbing and my clit was stinging. I like to think it was out of concern for my well being but I suspect it was more in a bid to rectify any problems so as he could re-enter sooner rather than later. Hence when I raised an objection to sex on the grounds of a sore vagina he promptly had me spread eagled on the bed with a splayed vagina. After a detailed and probing inspection it transpired my cunt was so unused to the PPP he had stretched and inflamed it with one brief vanilla style session. He merely plastered it with antiseptic cream, told me it was something like nappy rash and that I’d be fine before the day was out.
And so while my gender may nod knowingly at tales of thrush, carpet burn, cystitis, stretched ham strings, pulled groin muscles, red raw knee caps and other such happy complaints from excessive sex, they must also beware of the pitfalls of the effects on the body if work takes priority over sex.
Vaginas are made for babies to pop out of, if you’ve left things so long your hymen’s regrown and you’ve become re-virginalised you need to gird your loins and commit to the fact that those orifices need regular exercise to – and getting into shape is hard work and will hurt. Ain’t no baby gonna be popping out of you if you can’t pop a prick in you. There’s no way you’ll be recapturing those heady honeymoon rewards if you don’t have the stretch or stamina for even the most basic and simple sex tasks. Take it from me sex is not just a game or pastime, it’s a passion, it’s a sport. It requires dedication, commitment, an investment of time, imagination, creativity and pure unadulterated unfathomable filth.
On that note, fully aware I am paying the physical price for thoughtlessly neglecting my minge and arse, I am now doing some jaw stretching exercises for the other orifice that will encounter severe gag reflex and relearning the useful skill of breathing and sucking at the same time a little later this evening. Time to remaster the blow job.
I’m back in the game.
Once upon a time there were two DJs called ‘Pete Mac’ and ‘Dave the Rave’. Actually, I can’t say for sure whether Dave was a real DJ at all, but Pete Mac certainly was. He did Friday nights at that infamous cattle market described in my previous post – the legendary ‘Norbury’ which you’ll find, if you feel like you must, not far from…er…Norbury Station.
One night ‘Dave the Rave’ (as Pete called him) arrived in tow with Pete who was in fact so keen on my friend ‘L’, had driven from another gig to see her that night.
Looking back, I realise Dave was actually Pete’s wingman; God was I viewed as a ‘Grenade’ as Mike ‘The Situation’ would call the uglier of two girls in a Jersey Shore episode (cultural reference from trash TV – yes I do whore myself intellectually every now and then).
But going back. Maybe I had been a grenade that night. A pretty big one at that, although one with a pretty face and hopefully one that wasn’t a chore
So, to my best mate L.
L used to be let us say…pleasingly plump. I, on the other hand, was very voluptuous (my now boyfriend might call it Titian-esque – that’s Titian the artist, not Titan as the big ship) so the attention of two DJs (albeit one alleged) was, both to L and myself more than welcome at the time.
In the heady days of 1999 in fact it gave us real kudos. As any clubber knows, irrespective of the nature of the club itself, being ‘in’ with the DJ bestows on one great status. What was a huge bonus that night for me was to find that, as it turned out, of the two boys concerned, it was Pete Mac who was the actual ‘grenade’ (of the two boys), thus leaving me with the deliciously handsome intended-to-have-been-shotgun rider, Dave.
Don’t get me wrong, Pete was far from unattractive looks-wise, but the fact he had his own place and drove an Audi something-or–another meant little to me but much to those in need of a trophy boyfriend. What I can say for sure though is Pete the (real) DJ was definitely, infinitely further down the looks-scale than Dave The (perhaps, might be DJ) Rave.
I thus by chance inherited the looker of the two (Pete’s heat-seeking missile programmed to target the inside of L’s knickers). Allegedly Dave was ‘staying on the couch’ at Pete’s because he was ‘having problems with his girlfriend’. So there we were, the four of us.
How naïve I was then.
To this day, and with a now world-weary cunt (as well as brain) I wonder still whether Dave’s ‘staying on the couch’ was a bait to lure ‘L’ back to the flat; Pete had thoughtfully ensured her bezzie mate – that is I – would not be neglected so L would be more receptive to the lure of his bedroom.
So now here’s where some confessions are confessed. Over the past ten years it’s been believed I lost my anal virginity that night.
I don’t exactly know how that rumour came about either.
Except I kinda do.
Basically L was in Pete Macs room and they were indulging and he aimed for a hole which L prissily but innocently informed him, as if his navigation had gone a little awry – ‘Ooops, wrong hole’ (unsure whether this was squealed, murmured, or assertively announced).
I’m told his response was ‘No that was the one I was after’. I can neither confirm nor deny whether L let him do it; if accurate recollection doesn’t elude me my belief remains, she did not.
Later when L was regaling me with her antics, I exchanged what had happened with me – and herein lies the confession. Perhaps being a novice (you’ll recall I’d only had real sex once at his point) I wanted to look impressive and in all probability lied. I’m sure I didn’t mean to – that it was inadvertent; I genuinely believe there was miscommunication going on, but unfortunately it grew legendary, even disproportionate (between the two of us) as I didn’t feel I could ever correct the ‘mistake’ – until now.
Here’s actually what happened Mrs J as you are today, in case you’re reading this.
You and Pete Mac departed to his boudoir leaving me on the couch with Dave the Rave. Remember, I’m then at a time in my life when I was totally unaware of any physical appeal I may have had to any member of the opposite sex – or even mine, come to that,
Dave was the type of man I suppose I should have been ‘seen’ or coupled with in public. He was tall. Easily 6ft-more and broad. He had model-esque looks but on the traditional, bland, mannequin-type side. There wasn’t anything especially unique in his appearance. Attractive, absolutely; but not unusual. Brown hair, dark brown eyes, evenly proportioned face, wide shoulders, thick, hairy forearms – very masculine looking – a man’s man. I remember his build as medium, not overly toned but solid. Something in the physicality of him made me, overweight and tall for a girl, feel feminine while in his presence.
Just sharing a sofa with him seemed treat enough that night – any night in my youthful excitement. I wonder now did he see my chest heaving rapidly in anticipation. When his hand brushed mine as we reached for a drink on the coffee table, did he feel the same electricity as I, or was I merely a ‘favour to a friend’?
It was all so clichéd on reflection. To break the uneasy, randomly pleasant conversation he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. And what appeared on-screen?
Porn – and not awfully good porn at that.
Oh how very predictable.
I wasn’t shocked – mildly embarrassed and a bit uncomfortable perhaps, but not shocked.
Nevertheless, the whole scenario was foreign to me (including the language of the ‘actors’ on the TV).
My first encounter with this kind of thing had only come only a couple of months earlier when L and I went to Sweden and found our ‘first class’ room furnished with free filth on demand. We spent eight marvellous hours, squirming hornily on our separate beds watching this hardcore new planet unfold. ‘White Angel’ remains a memorable title, if only by title alone.
At that time, babe-in-the-woods that I was, watching a woman swallow, or even have, semen in her mouth, disgusted me. It turned my stomach (oh god how times have now changed!). The material Sweden supplied was very different to the offerings I’d rooted from my older brother’s bedroom as a curious (some would say invasive) teen. Certainly though after the ‘Swedish Experience’ I was far more at ease with the kind of stuff Dave had flicked on than I would otherwise have been.
And then suddenly it was as if the porn somehow gravitated from the small screen into the very lounge room itself.
Dave looked at me and said: ‘You know what happens now, right? What would happen in this type of movie?’
His heavy arm snaked round my shoulders and he pulled me in for that first exquisite kiss. Back then I was still really romantic. I could get lost in a kiss for hours; well……lengthy durations at least. I still couldn’t get my head round the fact I‘d scored the looker, let alone that he seemed attracted to me.
His hands moved down and I allowed them to explore my upper thighs.
Scenes of losing my virginity flashed back, and I speedily removed my shoes; one less obstacle to worry about.
His hands became demanding. In my experience men prefer stockings and suspenders as opposed to tights. But as many a girl knows, tights are more practical and affordable for anyone prone to ladders like me. Anyway, I knew they needed to go and I was all too aware of the control knickers – those reliable friends both holding them up and tucking my tummy in.
Somehow in the time it took me to get off my shoes he managed to use his size and weight to have me lying on the couch, him on top, I had just enough freedom at my hips to wriggle out of the tights and knickers. It felt strange to feel my bare flesh on the couch. Another totally new experience.
I liked the experience of feeling a little crushed by him, I liked the physical dominance, the fact that he was totally in control. My senses were in overdrive, my dress riding up, my naked flesh feeling the material of the couch and his hands just stroking. The strokes were firm but there was something kind of forgiving in them. Forgiving of my inexperience I suspect.
Hunky as Dave was there was a boundary crossed that night though – the hairy back!
This is so not a turn on – speaking at least for myself.
Running my hands through the fur on his chest felt great; the knowledge of being with a man, not a boy, feeling safe and cradled – if only fleetingly.. But my hands, running over his shoulders and into a veritable forest of hair at the back – yuk! It’s still a no-no for me but that night I merely accepted his gorgeousness, finished at the top of his neck and restarted again, this time safely below the buttocks. This all happened just as Beckham was ruling the world, so being a Metrosexual wasn’t unheard of but for Dave, clearly waxing was not part of his Friday grooming ritual.
We somehow twisted to be lying side by side and I remember his fingers lightly stroking my bum. Normally I’m quite conscience of the size of my behind (these days I accept and embrace its roundness and bounciness) but in that moment I remember how intimate it felt. Ticklish. I had to bite my lip, unsure whether to laugh girlishly or purr like a kitten at the pure pleasure of having someone explore my body so delicately for the very first time.
Reality always bites back though, however young and idealistic you are.
He pushed the coffee table away with his leg.
‘Get on all fours,’ he instructed.
Obligingly I did as requested and felt my black dress bunch up round my waist. His hands gripped my breasts and massaged them. I was never keen on this. It felt weird having them pulled from a bra and I was self conscious they weren’t sexy.
On all fours and totally inhibited one becomes acutely aware of the concept (and power) of gravity -the underwire of the bra was markedly uncomfortable.
But pleasure can easily distract from the rational mind. I felt his cock rubbing against the wetness of my entrance. I didn’t grind against it, or apply any pressure myself. I put myself completely in his charge.
Pleasant as it was, feeling the length of him externally, sliding playfully, darting quickly in and out, teasing my cunt, what I was not expecting was the sudden force of him pushing against, what my darling of today refers to as my ‘chocolate starfish’ (I’ve yet to join the Hollywood elite for a good, old-fashioned anus bleach). My body didn’t have to resist much because my evidently iron-strong sphincter muscles weren’t having any of it. I suspect though the jolt from my entire self didn’t warrant me verbalising his intent was not only highly unpredicted but a nigh-on physical impossibility – certainly not without some severe and thorough prior attention.
Perhaps he was as embarrassed as I because I found us both gravitating back towards the couch, sitting now as two teenagers who fancied each other but couldn’t act on the urge – first cousins perhaps. I felt a little impolite. I was grateful for the attention after all. I instinctively knew I wasn’t going to have sex with him now and the disappointment was crushing. I wanted to rescue the moment or at least have a tale to tell.
I opted for a hand job. This too was a newie for me. I once touched an oriental man’s cock in the toilets of a cruise ship when I was 15, but ran away after he slipped his fingers into my knickers.
As his trousers were down I didn’t have to worry about looking unprofessional in releasing the beast – that bit was done. What was concerned me was the thing which that had been thrusting at my….’rusty sheriff’s badge’ (as my current boyfriend also calls it) seemed to have retreated, diminished – shied away in embarrassment like our words and previous actions had. The porn, still playing on TV, now seemed distant, contributing nothing positive to what ambience was left. Not even its blurred moans and Teutonic entreaties filled the space we so desperately needed to recover the place that we’d been.
Thank the lord I was a musician. I have a firm grip from the instruments I play and great rhythm – and with those talents I figured I couldn’t go too far wrong. What though – and I have no other word – frightened me was the sleeve of skin I found, all wrinkled and thick, like a fleshy nozzle that seemed to be overgrowing his cock. I’d never seen one. Most men in Australia are circumcised and the few I had encountered…well, let’s just say I’d never seen in that state. I was thus completely ignorant as to how best (or at all!) to deal with it.
The porn on the TV gave no clue or direction in respect of the matter, so I could only give it a guess by sliding my hand up and down. I noticed the head poking out depending on how low I handled this rumpled, alien entity called ‘Foreskin’ (which to this day still sounds to me like a nasty character from some sordid tale courtesy of Brothers Grimm, or maybe an adult Shrek).
But doing so made him moan. This was encouraging, as was the flesh firming up in my hand. Pretty soon that sleeve seemed to have disappeared and looked more like the penises I was more familiar with.
I was able then to get into my stride.
After the debacle of ‘my first’ not having cum (I refer once again to Dick # 1) and being significantly upset about it, I felt it of substantial importance I allow Dave the Rave to deliver his goods this good night. And he was keen enough. So keen in fact he was demanding I get back on all fours again, down on the floor. Whether the clenching of my buttocks, the knowledge there wasn’t a condom in sight, or my own mental image of how unflattering a position I felt myself likely to be in, I just pretended not to hear and pumped till the spout was nearly upon us.
Then though, what are you supposed to do with it? Where do you aim? God, it was someone else’s couch – that’s just bad manners at best right? Vandalism at worst. My head flooded with Swedish porn nightmares (not to say what was on the TV) so it seemed the only option was to direct the stuff back on him.
And there it was. A pool of cum – the first I’d ever seen; sitting (and I do mean sitting, like a person in a council-flat room wearing nothing but Y-fronts) there, on his hair-covered tummy.
What inspired me to do it I have no idea, but it seemed then and there a sexy thing to just rub it all in. Maybe I wanted to rub it out of sight. After my reaction to the Swedish porn cum-gargling thing it certainly wasn’t going anywhere remotely near to my tongue.
I suspect this lathering (because as everyone knows, it does whip up like shampoo) wasn’t what Dave wanted. He held me politely me for all of thirty seconds then nipped to the toilet to wash off his belly.
I will say it ended sweetly enough. L finished whatever she did or didn’t do that night with the DJ and I slept in Dave’s arms. Later I picked up my shoes, knickers, tights and then left.
But it’s here, I suspect, the miscommunication between L, I and the anal sex came in. Seeing my shoes off, (knowing the trouble they proved when I lost my virginity) L assumed I had had sex with Dave. Her reference to the ‘wrong hole’ and my mentioning Dave’s initial preference for the backdoor entrance somehow got confused. In my best friend’s mind I’d lost my anal virginity to Dave the Rave.
When as you now know I did not.
And, as per much of my life, sadly, all this it was a short lived love affair-cum-scene.
Excited by the two DJs and the potential for where it could lead, L and I were foolish enough the following week to pack overnight bags. If I were writing a ‘Hitchhikers’’ Guide to the Galaxy for Innocent but Sexually Adventurous Girl’ I’d have as Rule Two ‘Don’t bring overnight bag after first fuck.’ But we brought matching, satin, baby-doll nighties, clean clothes for the next day and considered hiring a limousine for our arrival. When we got to The Norbury, there was no Dave to be seen and Pete Mac was doing shout-outs and dedicating songs to someone called PAMELA!
Depending on your stance, age, gender or personal-political persuasion about the pros or cons of this, feeling outraged L and I nevertheless underwent a rite of passage most young women would admit to having experienced at some point themselves. We did a little stalking. Or, actually, in hindsight, by some standards, quite a lot, but we all know everything is relative. I suppose though over a period of several weeks we did it about five or six times in total
It was a simple series of sorties, and something that kind of became a night out in itself. We’d drive first to Pete Mac’s flat, I’d climb in the garden to see if ‘Pamela’ (or whoever) had gone there and sometimes we’d put chewing gum in the key-holes of his car. Innocent enough I think….or psycho? We girls know, don’t we, but never say. Neither Pete nor Dave had a clue.
But….times moved on (they do so more slowly the younger you are) and I remember getting an invite back at some later date and Pete being very surprised L ‘remembered the route’ while I innocently handed round chewing gum during the ride for all of us to feast on, one way or another.
But ‘Dave the Rave’ was for me one of the ones that got away. In a cock sense I mean.
Some years later, I found myself in that Club again with L and this time her younger sister. He came over to chat and bought me a drink which I took. We were babysitting L’s little sister, introducing her to clubbing and the whole clubbing scene. As we staggered out, siblings leading the way, Dave pulled up in a red sports convertible – top down, one arm on the wheel the other hanging out of the door.
‘So are you coming back with me or not – last chance?’
It came out of nowhere this invite, and after such a long time. Perhaps I exuded more sexual confidence than previously, or my slutty reputation in the club had by now grown out of proportion.
It was my last chance and I knew it.
I declined the offer though – for the sake of sisterhood.