Category Archives: Barely Legal / Cougar Sex
Playing With Young Gay Love – What Cougar can turn down a beautiful teen whatever his alleged sexuality?
Posted by onewoman
There comes a time in every single woman’s life when she has the thought on a mad night out ‘I’m too old for this.’
It happened to me not long before my thirtieth birthday. After a troublesome few years, I’d scuttled home to Australia to rest, recuperate, mend a broken heart and lose nine stone. I looked (and this is arrogant) hot when I returned. Dropping from a size 28 to a size 12 was hard work, but I must’ve looked good because when I scored a job in a music company I was pretty much the talk of the room. The loud brash exceptionally good-looking Australian. I’m not sure how true that last sentence was but in my mind, I like to think that’s how I was perceived. If anything I had the confidence to think that way and maybe that rubbed off.
Anyway the music company I worked for (at that time) was very hip and cool. It’s a tough industry to crack, even a shitty administration job like I had. Our floor was pretty much full of school leavers on their first jobs, or dreamers like me that worked their for shit money but a great company culture as we planned on how we’d get our big break in music/writing/acting/performing/dancing etc.
Because about ten of us joined at the same time, we were sent on all the training courses together. Enter D (I can’t mention this individual by name because he’s a model and I’m not sure how relevant his sexuality is to his career or if this confession would impact on it in any way and come back to bite me in the arse so to speak). D was truly beautiful. He was Irish and had only just turned 18. He’d done a modelling campaign for ‘Next’ I think and also a massive exclusive photo shoot for a big magazine like GQ or the likes for a designer label along the lines of Armani of Dolce and Gabanna. Talent spotted for both jobs, he’d headed to London on the premise that his modelling career would go from strength to strength and he’d become a professional. He wasn’t a classic catwalk model, because he didn’t have the height. He was five foot nine which immediately restricted his career. He was striking to look at. Not traditionally handsome, he was pale and slim, but had perfect symmetrical bone structure in a very lean, chiselled way. He had thick dark brown hair reached the collar of is short and his styled fringe was perfect to droop in his eyes so he could flick it out flirtatiously when required. All that combines with the eyes greener than the foliage of a tree, you couldn’t take your eyes off him. Eye-catching he was. I could see why he was spotted by agents, but there would be those that would refer to him as ‘ugly-beautiful’ so unusual was his appearance.
Apart from the modelling opportunities, I suspect being in one of the cities the embraced homosexuality (especially as out office was in Soho) held additional appeal. Even the younger women in the office weren’t overly familiar with how to conduct a friendship with a young gay male. Mostly your first gay friendships end up with you having a crush on him. After the first one is out-of-the-way you realize nothing can come of it sexually and instead of instinctively viewing them as ‘potential father’s’ An experienced fag hag from way back, I was more than happy to take him under my wing. Having been out of the entertainment industry for nearly two years, to re-enter the gay scene was a blessing for me. I was happy, funny, confident and loving being back with a very young, very new gay best friend. He was relived to have someone who knew their way around the scene and was willing to accompany him on all kinds of outings. I also acted as a chaperone taking him to open castings. Perhaps the most important time my presence was required when we went to one ‘modelling’ agency that was trying to talk him into working in gay-porn. Not on my watch!
Crushingly as I told my oldest and closest gay friend of D (who he chose to refer to as my ‘new gay puppy’) his reckoning was that D was attracted to my maternal side. Huffily I refused to accept this. I was still hip and down with the kids.
D was living with an American guy he’d met online. Turned out cyber-space didn’t translate to the real world. The American insisted D come and live with him but after a month was retracting the offer. With no money to pay rent, D refused to budge and somehow they managed through tearing each others heart-strings as they went.
In 2007, when McFly were at their peak, they were playing a gig at the old G-A-Y by Tottenham Court Road. There was quite a débâcle at the time because Jeremy Joseph was being an out and out prick, refusing to let young groups of girls attend the concert. I don’t agree with ostracising anyone on any grounds, but in fairness to the repulsive Mr Joseph, screaming teenagers did kill the ambience of G-A-Y considerably. It wasn’t their enthusiasm that was the problem, rather their reaction to being in an ‘Oh My God’ gay club. Looking at the men (and myself who perhaps appeared lesbionic wit stereotypical short hair) they were gaping like they’d discovered aliens. That did piss me of because it does kill the vibe, when straight girls are looking at regular patrons like they’ve gone safari with the wild willy lovers.
Anyway, D decided that he, his flat mate and a visiting friend should go see the concert with me. How could I refuse his irresistible green eyes? I agreed and meeting them high I was as mellow as they come. Having bought our tickets thanks to D’s age we were checked. D bought his passport to confirm he was eighteen and we skipped passed the hordes of screaming girls begging to be let in.
All was going well in my knee-high boots and extraordinarily short dress. Until some old man was trying the moves on me. He was clearly gay but as he was facing a dry night I think he adopted the mentality that every hole is a goal. Bumping and grinding against me, I pushed him away gently. The second time a little more forcefully but with a smile. The third time I snapped and told him to get away from me. He then proceeded to throw a pint on me. The pint drenched me from head to toe, I could feel my make up sticky and probably likely to be running down my face and my dressed reeked of beer. It was only midnight and we were due to be out till 6am, so I was less than impressed with his actions. Fortunately so to was the Australian gay guy behind me who caught a few splashed himself. He and his boyfriend turned on the guy, to chastise him for his behaviour towards a woman and fellow county.
I did my best to calm everyone down and try to drop it (after all I was the one who’d be suffering all night) but D’s flatmate decided to find him and fill him in on the event that had taken over. Leaping down from the stage where he’d been dancing, he stormed up to the repugnant man in his late 60s early seventies and was shouting why he’d done it. I grabbed D to draw him back and tell him not to worry and let it spoil out evening, but he was furious demanding to know what the guys problem was. In an instance, the seventy year old gay guy landed a quick jab and caught D on the cheek.
It was my turn to rage. D was reeling but still upright. Seeing only red I grabbed the guy by the shirt cussing and swearing and telling him I was going to fucking kill him for hitting a kid like that. The old man pushed me off, the Australian gay guy saw it. His partner steadied me on my four-inch heels and the Australian then started rough-housing. Amongst all this action was a significant proportion of screaming young teens looking shocked at the aggression and violence taking place on the dance floor. Don’t blame the boys, girls – I was equally up for a fight.
Security entered to split everyone up. The Australian was defending our part but D, myself and the old codger were ejected from the main club. Discussing the issue with management, I could hear McFly preparing to come on stage and realized we were going to miss the highlight and purpose of our evening. D obviously thought the same because he put on a spectacular scene about me being his chaperone for a massive photo-shoot with Versace and now he’d most likely lose the job because of the bruise. He demanded to know what they’d do about and was insisting he wanted names to pass on to his employer and that kind of empty but potentially dangerous threats. I have to say, is efforts were so strong I was inclined to suggest acting if the modelling didn’t work out. The next thing I know security have their arms on us dragging us through the absolutely jammed club to get us to the front of the stage to watch McFly. Yes seeing McFly up close and personal was a great experience, no having an entire club HATE you for a public display of favouritism when many had queued for their positions wasn’t fun.
With thousands of evil eyes glaring at me, my liquid foundation running and exuding an aroma of beer, there and ten instead of seeing it as fun or an adventure I thought ‘I’m too old for this!’ – I was.
That was my last night out with D and his friends. My socializing and love of drama was diminishing the closer I got to thirty. We still spent whatever time we could at work and remained close.
One morning I get a call from his asking if I’ll come round and help him put his tanning lotion on. It was a Sunday and I had no inclination leave the bed or my TV, but our night out hadn’t been his fault so being seen to punish him was unfair.
Accommodating himself in the nearly redeveloped area of Canary Wharf the flat, within which he was staying rent free until the American online ex could boot him out, was out of this world in terms of size, layout, the quality and modern sleek urban look of the place. I could fully understand why he didn’t leave. The view, the facilities on offer and high tech gadgets made it a playground for anyone who loved luxury and opulence.
I chatted to his mates who had been out the previous night and were debating on whether or not to head out again. D declined the offer of drugs, as did I, because he was a clean living guy that loved life not alcohol and drugs.
Entering his bedroom, he stripped off the his shirt. Even though I’d lost weight he remained rake thin. Squeezing the lotion in my hand and then rubbing his torso had me flummoxed. He was a friend. This was a normal thing to do. But no one can deny a physical appreciation of another human being whatever their sex life is like behind private doors.
It was hard not to be turned on when I was running my hands all over his him. Shoulder blades protruding, his back was lengthy with a straight spine and no hair whatsoever. Tackling the front of him was worse because we had to make eye contact and conversation. Aimless chit chatter, all the while I’m caressing this chest and washboard stomach that was an eight pack as opposed to a six pack.
Having finished, he removed his jeans for me to do his legs as well. Running my hands up and down the length of his chicken-like legs, was too intimate and strange given the length (five months) and nature (platonic) of our relationship. He obviously thought the same because when I dared to raise my eyes to the white tight legged boxers I could see he was erect. I could also see he had a proper porno cock. My head was telling me one thing, my hormones another.
Whether I was drooling, I’m not sure, but seeing my unsubtle examination of the package with one hand he pulled down the front of is boxers slowly. Bare chested and pubescent in appearance, he looked like a little boy. The thatch of hair from naval to crotch was non-existent. He was teasing me deliberately, moving his hand down his stomach, exposing the flesh leading to his pubic region slowly. The bush may have been untamed, but it wasn’t like he needed to trim the area to make him look ‘bigger’ (as some men chose to. Releasing a seven and a half-inch wonder, my eyes watered and I got was soaking wet in an instant, I could feel it on my knickers.
‘You can suck me off if you want,’ he said simply.
I wanted to, my god how I wanted to. Licking from the base of his cock to the head I’d run out of saliva. I couldn’t just use my tongue to lube him for my mouth, I’d have to spit in my hand to work the shaft. I already knew due to the thickness of his bratwurst-shaped penis, I’d struggle to swallow much of him. He was young enough not to exercise any caution or consider the repercussions on our friendship if this was to go ahead.
Standing up he decided to remind me he had fucked women before and had a girlfriend in Ireland who he slept with regularly before outing himself on arrival in London.
I always swore never to sleep with friends, but was he a friend or just a work college I clicked with.
‘Fuck it,’ I thought and undid my jeans and dropped my drawers. D closed and locked the door to his bedroom. Without further ado he bent me over the bed. He was so slight I wasn’t sure where his strength emanated from. As I felt my feet involuntarily moving to adopt a stance to allow him to penetrate me, I did think it prudent I raise the issue of protection. Unfazed by the request, I was taken aback he had such a supply of them in his bedside drawer. Breaking the first one in his urgency to get laid, he retrieved another within seconds. Arms resting on the bed, pussy dripping I was ready to go.
No warning, just a sharp thrust to penetrate me. The shock of the size of the fat cock had me panting, gripping the bed and riding the length down to bump on his pubic region. When I felt my pussy lips springing off from his pubic hair I knew I was imbibing his full length.
It was hard, fast, rough and ready. I liked it. There was no affection or caressing of areas that differentiated the two of us physically in accordance to our gender. My clit and breasts were neglected. This wasn’t a major problem for me, because with my head planted firmly on the mattress I could use one hand to reach my climax anyway.
Rubbing my bud, it was easy to bring myself to the brink and go with the flow. D on the other hand wasn’t as fluid in movements as myself. He happily pumped and pounded my cunt, relishing in delight at my grunts as he shoved deep in me. Slamming into me with such force that the bed was moving round the room with me, I guess the pneumatic drill approach may well be best if you’re having sex with someone you wouldn’t normally. I support this statement with the fact that he came, because he came very speedily. Groaning loudly, I was in no doubt his collection of friends knew exactly what was going on.
Suffice to say my departure was imminent. I left with a wave and have a nice night. Within a couple of weeks I’m pleased to say the American managed to boot D out. With no savings, he was forced to return to Ireland, ensuring his only option was to skive off his parents. I don’t mean it in a horrible way, BUT as fun as it is to hold your hand up and say I’m twenty-nine and I fucked a teenage gay model the aftermath and awkwardness did mean losing a friend. The nature of the friendship changed irrevocably. We’d gone down a path we shouldn’t have. It affirmed my belief that you shouldn’t sleep with friends. It affirmed me that as a highly sexed woman, I still had it even with the most difficult erotic scenarios.
In fact, D’s departure from London had occurred before the rub on tanning lotion finally came off. A heavily tanned arse (brown bum) conflicting with my pale and porcelain skin was a major passion killer. I won’t lie to you. There a significant price to pay for carrying out a little taboo barely legal gay sex. I couldn’t risk sexual rejection, thus was obligated to put my sex life on hold while the tanning lotion faded. For the one woman wanting the one hundred dicks it was a daunting process.
A Taste Of Barely Legal India
Posted by onewoman
Discovering Cougar Town (young guys wanting older women, not the Courtney Cox comedy) after I hit thirty was a bit like Lucy discovering Narnia in ‘The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe’. Everyone I told didn’t believe that I was for real. They thought I was fabricating the truth to account for my single status as a thirty something. Fortunately for me technology had moved on significantly since I’d first lost my virginity.
Nowadays there are profiles on the internet laden with numerous photos and even better body proud young men happy to send photos via text or BBM to tease you with their gym sculpted bodies. Even better than that, there are the real exhibitionists willing to send over pictures of their youthful erections – trust me a there is nothing better than a big, fat, hard teenage cock. That sounds crass, but it is in fact super sexy and legal!!!
Hence, while I regaled the open plan office where I worked, with tales of my conquests ranging of men between ten to twelve years younger than me, if ever I saw a couple of doubtful faces or heard whispers that I was exaggerating my experiences, I needed only to whip out my phone to produce pictures and texts pertaining to the boy in question.
I have always liked my ‘brown boys’ with a particular penchant from those with origins in India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka. It seems fitting with England competing against India tomorrow in the cricket that the sexual exploit that first springs to mind was a teenage gym bunny I met over Face-party (a more sexual precursor to Facebook) was of Indian descent.
Call me racist or stereotypical but in regard to my social and sexual encounters with Indian men they have always been hugely appreciative of my plumper figure; their eyes widening lustily with all that soft, white, ample flesh against their own dark naked bodies.
I remember his six pack, I remember his prick, but I’m very sorry to say I don’t remember his name.
I had been somewhat precarious about arranging to see him because he was so body conscious. I thought my figure would repulse him. He’d seen pictures of me online but to my shame I had taken a few liberties with my profile photographs which were not only taken from a flattering angle but were a few years old and portrayed me as slightly slimmer version to what I actually was.
Greeting him at Stockwell tube station I had the knot in my stomach of him being either completely insensitive and calling me on the faux photo scam that I myself had been caught out with over my online dating experience or even worse be polite by visiting my house but evade all my sexual overtures.
He had a big smile for me which was slightly reassuring. He was whippet thin. At 5’10, I doubted he weighed more than 9 stone – say 57 kilograms for those using the metric system. I had a couple of stone on him easily and made a mental note not to even attempt going on top of the lad for fear of crushing him. I knew he worked out daily but he appeared to be more of a cardiovascular guy rather than a weights man.
His teenage libido took over the second I opened the door to my bedsit and let him in. He pushed me straight on the bed and started kissing me hungrily. It was quite nice but I had a nasty next door neighbour and didn’t want him peering in or pushing open the door to see what the ruckus was about. As the lithe lad clambered up me like a horny puppy I was trying to wriggle down the bed to kick the door shut with my foot.
He was so light it wasn’t actually that difficult and after hearing the familiar click of the lock, I allowed myself the pleasure of whipping off his shirt to see if his photos were for real.
I am happy to report all was present and correct. His washboard stomach was almost as rock hard as the cock that was pressing into my tummy as he smothered me in kisses. He was going a little overboard and almost licking my face which I wasn’t overly keen on.
Hands were trying to squeeze in the waistband of my already too tight jeans.
In the end I had to tell him to calm down for a bit. His big brown eyes and attempt at designer stubble made him look younger than his nineteen years. Part of me is always flummoxed why these gorgeous, fit boys were scouring the internet to get laid and not making the most of their hedonistic university lifestyle. Whether girls sharing classes with them were too close to see their appeal I don’t know, but I know that in that particular moment I was glad he’d been driven by rejection or alack of pussy to Faceparty and fate had him stumble across my profile.
Looking like a chastised child I took the time to run my hands over his body and it was perfect; fit, firm and fuckable. I slowed the pace by undressing him and was thrilled to see an erection, snug in his black tight legged boxers – undoubtedly with Calvin Klein imprinted on the waist-band. Fashion and image were everything to this guy so why he was hard for me was far beyond my comprehension, but I didn’t draw his attention to the obvious difference in our appearances.
When I removed my top and freed my breasts of the push up bra, he ran his hands over my feminine untoned tummy and suckled my nipples like a baby. It was sweet that his hand was desperate to make contact with what was under my knickers but those jeans weren’t budging for him to slip his fingertips under.
I released the button of the jeans and knew I was spilling out. It possibly would have been prudent to wear control knickers but the tight elastic would only have furthered hindered his endeavour to get between my lips.
When his fingers delved into my wetness he released my breasts from his mouth and groaned. He could tell from the warm slipperiness of my minge that I was ready and willing to take him. Thus he rolled my knickers down and I spread my legs for him to enter.
I have to be brutally honest and say he wasn’t the biggest I had – if I was to be really accurate I’d say he was below average, but it wasn’t size that rendered the session difficult to bear; it was his abundance of energy. The guy was like a Duracell Bunny. At first I’d loved feeling his young cock penetrate me. I loved that he (thought) he was slamming it into me. I loved that his hands were under my shoulders in an attempt to plough deeper. I loved seeing his brown skin glued to mine with sweat from the effort of his exertions. I didn’t love that he continued in missionary for at least a good twenty minutes with nothing else going on – no kissing, no nipple squeezing, no nothing. I could see my remote control on my bedside cabinet and had to refrain from turning on the television to catch up on the news while he made the most of my vagina.
Trying to spice things up, I shifted into doggy-style to hopefully end the spontaneous work-out he was inflicting on me. I had the utmost respect for his dedication to the gym and I appreciated the results but I wasn’t the sporty type (nor will I ever be!). Constant sex in the same position was tedious, unimaginative and unsexy.
The trouble with doggy-style was that there was a lot of white ass he had to plough through to get to my slit. His dick just didn’t have the length to give the position justice, no sooner was he inside me thrusting furiously then he’d slide back out. It was frustrating for me but I was prepared to write the event off. Rather than tell him he’d dislodged I let him continue thrusting between my thighs. He was grunting and moaning so I figured he was enjoying the sensation. In fact I even had time to open the graphic novel I’d had on my pillow to read while he exercised his cardiovascular system. I’m pretty sure he was too heavily into the rutting to notice what I was up to. Once I’d finished reading the adventures of ‘Invincible’ I discreetly closed the comic and put my hands between my legs; clearly the only person bringing me any satisfaction that evening was going to be me.
Having cottoned onto what was happening he went strong for the home run. I obviously was clenching my thighs when I reached my own peak because the next thing I knew his cum was spurting between my clamped thighs. I suddenly realised, because of the stream of semen running down my thighs, he was going to cotton on to the fact that he’d basically been wanking himself between my thighs rather than fucking a youngish cougar for all she was worth.
To avoid any awkwardness afterwards, I was inclined to dress quickly and make up a pathetic excuse about having to meet a friend for a late dinner. I know I came across as rude and dismissive and I hate that I did, but I was prepared to shoulder that condemnation, rather than have him look downcast when he realised his invested energies had done nothing to sexually fulfil me. You take the good with the bad – that’s what happens sometimes in sex. Anyway the lovely boy at the Maharani more than made up for events earlier that evening by giving me complimentary samosas with my take-away curry, but I’ll go into the details of that another time.
Saucy Outdoor Sex With South London’s Sweetest Drug Dealer
Posted by onewoman
People may condemn me for what I am about to commit to paper so to avoid excessive offence let me preface the fact that the following statement is based solely on my own personal experience.
‘It’s far easier for a woman to get sex than it is for a man’
The reason behind this gross generalization is the cold hearted truth is women are more discerning choosing their sexual partners as opposed to the majority of hot blooded heterosexual men who place greater emphasis on burying their cocks in something wet, warm which will allow them to achieve an orgasm. They place more value on the act of sex than women do. Brainwashed with romantic comedy after romantic comedy, growing young adults believe the men they select should resemble these hugely fictionalized, romantically extravagant and emotionally mature matinee idols whom grace the silver screen to steal a woman’s heart.
It’s a crushing disappoint in one’s sexual journey to discover most of these romantic heroes are merely portrayed and created to appeal to the emotional nature of women. The other strange factoid here is that the writers of such works are usually men. These authors know what women want and need but I’d love to know if they behave at home in a similar manner to the heroes they create when drafting a script.
The upshot of it all this is women are constantly seeking out unrealistic men and swatting away any man that doesn’t measure up. Women will refuse sex if, whether drunk or sober, they decide a guy can never compare to their ‘dream man’. They’ll skip the sex and remain on the lookout for Mr Right…at least until someone they really fancy buys them a drink and gets them feeling wet and wanton – in which case they may accept the proposition of sex.
Men aren’t as particular. As long as they can manage to avoid any features of a woman that may diminish their erections (that’s why doggy style gained such popularity), they’ll take whoever is available, capable, consensual and willing to allow them to unleash an orgasm and pound them until their cocks are satisfied.
Fortunately for me I cottoned onto this imbalance of the sexual scales between genders early on. If I wanted to get sex I could and very easily…as long as I was willing to adjust my standards. I tried never to lower them too much otherwise the experience, quite possibly, would’ve been crap. In which case I’d wake the next day with low self esteem and spend too much time dwelling on my inability to sleep with an attractive man. The new found knowledge on the lower standards men have did give me the injection of sexual confidence required to score the kinds of men I wanted to be having sex with.
Again I revert to Great Yarmouth and our annual trips throughout the summer, with a lot of time frequenting Vauxhall caravan site.
Recollection is a little vague but I believe L and I were visiting Yarmouth for a bank holiday. We allowed L’s younger sister ‘A’ and the sister’s best friend to join us for the weekend. We took up residence in a B&B for the night. L’s sister couldn’t have been any more than sixteen. Regretfully as a demonstration of our own immaturity, inability to effectively manage and care for the two girls we ended up buying them drinks and getting them drunk.
Both L and I were drunk, but I was seeking a shag and L a kebab. We split with L taking the girls to the kebab shop and me choosing something a little sweeter as opposed to the savoury delights L was in dire need of.
Now Vauxhall caravan park, and I assume most caravan parks in general, tend to be very family friendly so it’s unusual to find singletons or small groups of young people holidaying there. It was our choice of preferred partying venue because L’s parents had chosen it as their regular holiday destination many years previous, plus L was the first person in England to befriend the mad Australian, thus our friendship had developed and grown stronger at that very location so our presence there was a celebration of our friendship.
The real reason responsible for us becoming permanent fixtures at the caravan park was because we paid a lot of attention to the security guards who managed the site. It was mandatory for people requiring access to the grounds to present their keys to the main entrance security man as proof that they were staying in the park and could make use of all its facilities. All we had to present was a very short skirt and a little harmless flirting and we had entry without having to fork out for accommodation.
Although it forever remains an alcoholic haze I undoubtedly collected a young man named Carl at some point in the evening and had either verbally or as a result of body language confirmed he was on a promise. However with two tired teens, one horny twenty-something and one hungry twenty-something we had to divide and split up in order that everyone’s individual needs and wants were achieved.
In fairness L did draw the short straw. Okay she got to have her kebab but she was also left as guardian to the girls because I needed cock. I think L had taken on the role of ‘mother’ that evening and informed me once she had her sister and friend settled, she would be back to collect me so anything I needed done I should hurry up with. L could be controlling at the best of times but this was only because she couldn’t bare the thought of losing any one of her nearest and dearest loves and as her best friend I suspect that’s why she was being so head misstressy responsible.
Once the girls had disappeared it was time for me to finally get what I’d been waiting for all night.
Carl wasn’t stunning or particularly good looking but he wasn’t unattractive be any means. He was about 5’10 which gave him an inch over me in my 4 inch heels. The fact he was so slim gave him an almost gaunt looking face, but he had soft features facially. His jet black hair had grown out of its original buzz-cut and needed to be styled. His eyes were a golden brown and his lips were in perfect proportion to his face. When he did his half smile I almost melted.
It wasn’t his looks that reeled me in. What drew me to him was there was a strong element of edginess and danger surrounding him, which I associated to him being from a particularly rough area of South East London. At that time whether 23 or 16 we were all kids. I remember he was three months shy of 18. He skinny as rake – too thin. When naked I noticed his rib cage visible, I’m ashamed to say as someone who carries a few extra pounds I was jealous rather than concerned about his dietary and nutritional habits.. As we walked the caravan site where silence had descended as holiday makers slept for the evening, he took my hand affectionately and walked us through row upon row of identical caravans trying to find the one he was staying in.
Weirdly what sticks in my mind was at that age it wasn’t all about one night stands so there was time to talk and get to know each other in the most innocent of manners. Somehow worked cropped up and he told me he was thinking of joining the armed forces. I was curious as to why and he explained he’d been a bit of a bad boy and felt the army may discipline him and give him a career path. I asked what he did currently and he laughed and I said he was a bit naughty but trying to change. I laughed aloud wondering how he could shock me with his line of work and blurted out, ‘You’re not a drug dealer are you?’
He didn’t deny it but shrugged and said,
‘It’s not hard stuff I sell but at least now you know why I’m thinking about joining the army when I’m old enough. It’s kind of the only way to get away from what I do.’
It was confusing hearing he was a drug dealer as he simultaneously held my hand in an open display of affection. It’s something men can struggle with at the best of times and even then it can take years to coax them that it’s okay to be tactile in public. This 21 year old drug dealer was so sweet.
‘This is it,’ he said at the front door.
We both stood observing it hesitantly. Someone needed to break the silence as to why we were still outside rather than inside and eventually Carl spoke.
‘My Dad and Uncle and two brothers are in there. I don’t know if they’re sleeping in the bedrooms or if one of ’em has crashed on the sofa bed thing in the lounge.’
I didn’t want to pass up the sex and I think he was trying to ascertain whether I was willing to consider alternative arrangements. The only sensible solution, in the dark night with the camp site all asleep was to fuck on the grass by the caravan. It was soft and being drunk neither of us thought about any possible ramifications.
He was wearing all black and when I lifted his shirt to see a six pack exposed I noted how pale he was. The black clothes made him quite striking to admire in the moonlight. He pulled his shirt down, implying he did not want to get naked. On reflection I suspect he was all too aware that his Dad or Uncle could wake any moment to see what was going on and he wanted to maintain some modesty if discovered.
That kind of stuff is easy for the guy but far more difficult for women. If I wanted his cock so bad I had no option but to undress significantly to give him full access to me.
Thank god he was young and thank the lord we were both drunk because it may have been easy enough to push my short skirt up but trying to get me out of tights and control knickers was nightmarish. Carl was attempting to be both seductive and of assistance in wrenching off everything. It was not a good look and sober would’ve been a major turn off. In a young hormonal state it was completely overlooked.
The grass was wet as it was well after 2am and in between my legs was just as wet. My lower half was fully exposed but all Carl wanted to do was unbutton his fly and drop his jeans enough to get inside as speedily as possible.
Aware his father was in the caravan right next to where we were having sex and knowing security patrolled the grounds and any other holiday-maker might stumble across us only added to the sexual charge.
He was incredibly lean and I was surprised at how strong he was. After much fumbling in the dark with exuberant French kissing and a thorough finger fucking, he finally managed to insert his cock in me after managing to get a condom on.
Not every cock is a porno cock and that’s fine. I loved having him shaft and thrust inside me. At that point in time I had little experience in sex so was satisfied just that I was being fucked. Technique meant little to me. However the location offered all sorts of sexually tempting goodies for me to delight in. The wet grass against my buttocks was an alien sensation. Reaching into his boxers to claw on his perfect bottom to draw him further into me, only to hear his audible moaning was tantalizing. The knowledge we could be caught at any moment was thrilling. All these external factors impacted directly on the sex. To force the deepest penetration in missionary position he grabbed my wrists with each of his hands and pinned them above my head preventing me from resisting or in any way controlling the rhythmic screwing of me. In his leanness I could see the muscles in his upper arms, defined and prominent holding me down with sheer brute strength. To be wholly dominated, not in a kinky or brutal way, was hugely sensual.
As a big girl, sometimes that’s all men see. Their initial assessments about my bedroom antics is that I’m some kind of dominatrix, but those assumptions couldn’t be further from the truth. To have a man exert his strength, keeping me trapped under him even when I did put up some resistance had me wetter and wanting more vanilla style fucking. It reminded me whatever additional weight I carried, ultimately men are stronger than women. This reinforced my perhaps naïve belief that there were men around that could make me feel my most feminine without me ever having to sacrifice my voluptuous figure.
Realising I couldn’t squirm away from this Duracell bunny combined with the fact I was almost powerless to control the depth or rhythm of his grinding and thrusting into me I decided to lose myself in the action.
I splayed my legs wider for him. When he rammed into me I rocked vigorously with each thrust. I wrapped my legs around his waist allowing him the deepest penetration possible and he kept his head down and continued battering me with his youthfully exuberant sex.
As I wound my thighs around his waist, I felt him try to wriggle out. With every effort I kept them locked tight and squeezed restraining him. His shirt rode up and I could feel him sweating. He panted and his breath was warm on my face. The more I clenched my thighs the deeper he ploughed. The restriction I introduced resulted in him only capable of continuous thrusts; small but violent as he bore into me desperate to orgasm. There was no time for changing positions and trapped between my thighs Carl was unable to withdraw his cock completely to change the motion of this childlike fuck we both were relishing. Eventually he released his cum and to stop himself screaming he kissed me hard on the mouth.
I saw him stand up, remove the condom and throw it under a caravan adjacent to his own. We had a laugh and exchanged mobile numbers. I felt for the first time in a long time this could well be the man to actually return a call or want to see me again.
By now it was getting on for 3am and as luck would have it the security van veered in our direction. George, a rather jolly but formidable Scottish man who was the head of security reached out of the window and opened the slide door on the van. I gave Carl a kiss and said I hoped I’d see him again at some point. Given he was a South London boy and my permanent residence was located in the same city, it was actually feasible this could develop beyond a one night stand.
When I got in the van there were two other security guards. Kenny who was trying his best to romance and form a long distance relationship with L and another random. I can’t say for sure but they recall Head of Security, George giving me a right telling off because L had returned to the camp-site and couldn’t find me any where to give me a lift to the B&B, thus the boys had been combing the camp-site in the van for ages trying to find me. That particular chastising I do remember.
They then allege I stood up in the van and my control knickers and tights dropped from under my skirt. Apparently I looked down, picked the under garments up and shrugged it off as a normal occurrence. Carefully stepping out of my knickers and tights and declaring I’d take them home by hand. More than ten years on and they continue to recall this incident with much mirth.
However given the van arrived, literally as we were getting up off the ground I can’t envisage how this could practically have eventuated. When did I have time between Carl withdrawing his cock from me and the security vehicle arriving to redress in tights and control knickers? It was a two man job necessitating enormous effort to remove them, so how did I get them untangled and redress myself in the brief time-line between the end of copulation and arrival of security. The other huge plot flaw is if I had managed to get them on, the control knickers were a size to small for me (squeezes you in just a little bit more girls) and given how tight and inflexible the control knickers material is in order to perform the wonders of shaping one’s body how could that style of underwear be lose enough to just ‘fall down’ to my ankles.
I have no doubt, being intoxicated I didn’t put my underwear on and chose to carry it on the van. As an open Australia I would have had no hesitation flashing them round to show everyone whilst bragging about my latest conquest. However the Vauxhall caravan legend this story became has been grossly exaggerated and embellished. I’d love to brand it a lie but I can never be 100% certain it didn’t happen. Ten years on I shoulder the teasing and continual references to this incident because after ten years of hearing about an event you participated in but can’t fully recall you start believing the gossip yourself – even if the evidence and facts don’t support the story.
My night, and indeed my sex life for that night did not finish there and then with me being taken back to the B&B, but I shall return to this night in a fortnight to complete what happened only thirty minutes later.
As an epilogue I was surprised and extremely flattered six months later after receiving a text from Carl informing me he’d been accepted into the army and because I ‘blew his mind’, he was wondering if I fancied hooking up to be his last shag before he started training. As I write this I do hope now this it wasn’t a ‘mass marketing’ standard text sent to every girl on his contact list. Anyway I had to refuse. At the time I was a committed North London resident and crossing the Thames to South London only ever happened out of absolute necessity or under enormous duress.
Public Teen Sex On A Staircase
Posted by onewoman
As a woman by the time you hit 30, if you’re still single, generally speaking society will still impress its traditional values on you that you have in fact been ‘left on the shelf’; are a spinster; will soon be buying kittens to fill the gap in your heart/life. It’s not said out loud but it is implied.
We thirty-something singletons cling to ‘Sex and the City’ like some sort of new age bible. A guide through the wilderness of being society’s silent spinsterish outcasts. You feel it though. The ring finger on your left hand is all to obviously naked to the eyes of other women. The continual ‘plus one’ or do we even need to include a ‘plus one’ on invitations to you (they can save the money on at least one head with permanently single friends) at large functions….normally weddings.
So how does one combat this unspoken discrimination and disdain from the women that somehow managed to nab a man in their twenties? We brag about being ‘good time’ girls and loving our ‘independence’ as well as embracing out first foray into cougar town. In order to do this though, one must at least hold up the pretence of these qualities in public. I did for a good 18 months – it’s hard work though.
My friend, L, who was always destined to be successful in her professional life and was wanted by many a man was actually discerning enough not just to settle in a rush before hitting 30. What she had done was not only secured a high flying position within an international company before 30 – financial director no less. This afforded us a couple of things:
- A taste for champagne thanks to easy access to the company credit card
- A rather swish new build one bedroom flat above Romford Market Square – kitted out for two ladies on the prowl. A comfy bachelorette pas as it were in a good location.
From the financially secure and rather lush surroundings we had those familiar with Essex, or more particularly Romford you may be surprised to hear it wasn’t Liquid & Envy or the Buddha Lounge we would glam ourselves up for to demonstrate the wonderfulness of being single and 30 (the closest we came to a trendy drinking hole was the Yates’ and it wasn’t all that trendy). Our preferred choice of location that had a romping good old 80s/90s/00s discos in a pub with a sticky dance floor and punters that were either locals, those strapped for cash or a more elderly clientèle was the Lamb.
We were there for a guaranteed good time but it was slim pickings on the male front. However at some stage throughout the proceeding you could guarantee that some hapless youths (maybe those that couldn’t face the queues of Liquid & Envy) would stumble into the Lamb and L and I would zone in quickly before any other potential femme fatale competitor could edge their way into the frame.
L loved that flat. I guess it was her home, she owned it and it was safe. Mostly if we got a slow dance and a snog we’d be happy for the night. We’d have kept up the façade of single 30 something good time gals. But me? I had an insatiable libido. And an insecurity that only having a cock inside me could possibly alleviate for a time and those Friday nights in Romford threw me that occasional lifelines.
One particular night stays vivid in my mind on the grounds that I managed to hook a young lad that was eager enough to pursue me beyond the obligatory slow dance and snog and was, in my opinion and to my tastes worth allowing a successful sexual pursuit. At 18 to my pending 31st birthday, the 12 year age gap was an attractive enough attribute. The fact that his fashion was neither ‘chavvie’ nor reflective of his work appealed – a simple paid of faded denim jeans, plain white t-shirt, skate shoes and hoodie ensured he wasn’t a fashion faux pas or an intimidating fashion statement to be compared with on the journey home by passer byers – the five minute walk from the pub to L’s plush pad still required us crossing a good deal of pedestrian traffic whose drunken shout outs and cruel comments could scupper the deal for me and my one night stand. What really sealed the deal the messed up brown hair that looked like it ought to have been cut and styled months earlier that hung in his huge caramel puppy dog eyes on his cherubic face, set off with plump lips that turned into an almost diagonal smile when he did take his mouth off mine long enough to ensure he’d secured a shag for the night.
But L was not a woman of compromise. Actually that’s not fair she was. She wouldn’t leave me to have sex in the street (not that I hadn’t previously on countless occasions) but she wasn’t willing to invite a stranger into her pristine flat to infect the house with boy sex germs either. This left me and my teen with the staircase.
At this point in our sexual careers both L and I had ditched glam for comfort. Jeans and a sexy blouse was as effective, given the rather low brow standing of our frequented venue, as a glitzy dress or short skirt. It did however mean urgent access for a quickie was out of the question. Trousers are no real problem for a guy – it’s a mere unzipping and perhaps a slight shift and the erection is out and ready to power in. For me, clad in jeans, the only way that erection was going to gain entry to the (not so) forbidden fruits was complete removal of the jeans (and the high heeled boots!).
For me I had alfresco sex numerous times and I wasn’t a permanent resident of the flats so any shame associated being discovered mid-act was minimal to me. Fortunately because the teen had joined us in downing numerous shots over the duration of the evening so any inhibitions he had or concern about his reputation (being a local and all) seemed almost non existent. Weighing up the pros and cons as a new build not all the flats had been sold or rented so the chances of being caught were low.
Getting the jeans off and being bare arsed was risky to say the least but I concede there’s an awful lot of scope for steps to be incorporated into sexual activity. In the initial neediness and desperation we felt to connect physically I could easily bend over and rest my hands on the fifth or sixth step up which allowed him to penetrate me quickly from behind. The stairs offered me the support I needed as he pounded me furiously – somewhat aware of the time and location.
Once the first burst of lust had been satisfied and we were secure that the lights had automatically timed out in the staircase leaving us lit only by the moon and the street lights of Romford market we had more time to play.
Young and eager to please he had me sit on the third step and parted my thighs so he could perform orally on me. At the end of the day in those circumstances experience is irrelevant. Any man wanting to put his tongue into your wet pussy and laps at it like a dog is a massive turn on – more so because this young thing was kneeling before me to perform the act. And the more he licked the more I moaned. I got a feel for the body beneath the skater boy looked when he came out from between my legs and hooked my legs over his shoulders and began fucking me on the stair. Pushing and trying to plough as deep as he could. The deeper he got, the more I whimpered caught in the pain pleasure scenario and the deeper he tried to go. When he started being vocal about the timing of his potential climax, I pushed hard at his hips to prevent him from doing so given there was no protection involved.
I stood up and looked down at him kneeling. His youthful, bewildered expression looking up at me barely registered as his cock that looked fit to burst and dominated the picture I was gazing down upon. I raised my leg up to the third step and gently pulled his head to my wet cunt to let him lap a little more and lick my clit until I felt the orgasmic moment he so desired had been delayed.
I told him to sit on the steps and he obeyed without question knowing what I was attempting to do. When he was lent back and could support himself (and me) I sat slowly on his cock and bobbed up and down on it. My thighs were not in for a full workout so I eventually settled on his cock; rocking slowly and feeling his muscular chest against my back. Supporting most of my weight, I guided one of his hands to my breasts as I reached down and massaged his ball as I continued to gently move on his cock. When the panting in my ear graduated from a whisper to a more audible level and his balls tightened in my hands I jumped up quickly and before I had time to kneel between him to suck him to the moment of ejaculation he’d already released.
It was all over him, not me. This made getting dressed all the more easy for me. The goodbye was awkward. I would love to have invited him to stay the night, or even have a nightcap or to call a cab but it wasn’t my premise to offer out. Fortunately L had already made it very clear he wasn’t welcome in the flat so he headed down a flight of stairs and I headed up the stairs to the entrance to L’s place.
Simple, satisfying, sex. Two people. One staircase. No strings.
The Almost Threesome
Posted by onewoman
I’m not sure why it is I’ve never pulled off a successful threesome despite many opportunities arising (and that includes combos of female/female/male and male/male/female). Because my leanings tend to be more heterosexual in nature (I played the lesbian thing in the minors but never went pro) the majority of situations opening themselves to a little three-way action have included myself and two guys. For some reason though I’ve always pulled out (as it were) at the last moment. I’m not sure if this is due to a psychological reason, some sort of catholic guilt, being frightened of not being able to be in complete control of the situation or just overwhelmed at the realisation of a sexual fantasy.
There was one night though I committed to a threesome. My friend at the time was dating a barman and so we sauntered down to his place of work to keep him company and abuse the privilege of free drinks for the evening. After about 8 hours of solid drinking home was beckoning (actually it wasn’t but the bar was closing up and we had no option but to change environments).
I had for my part of the evening played the dutiful friend, keeping my mate entertained (not so much singing for my supper as dancing for my drinks) while knocking back cocktails and keeping the seats warm when she went out to join the new fella for his intermittent cigarette breaks.
But it was Friday night and as any good singleton knows when finishing work and going for end of week drinks it is not so much Friday night but Fuck Night and by 3am I still retained that goal. Many may think I wasted my evening by being a companionable third wheel but any club on a Friday night is filled with men and women mirroring my intention. Thus the 8 hours hadn’t gone to waste, all that it meant was when the lights went up and people began pouring out into the London streets I had to work a little harder, linger a little longer and find a suitable partner to complete my night.
And with relatively little effort I did. I was coming on for 30 (only a month or two short), he said he was 21 but looked significantly younger. I’d have placed him at 17, he was extremely fresh faced but there was a distinct edge or attitude to him that gave him a maturity to what I suspect was his teen years. He was tall at 6’2 and very lean with Aryan good looks – short cropped blonde hair, almost frozen blue eyes on flawless skin. When he opened his mouth I was unsurprised to catch his east European accent – he was Polish. He was confident but not arrogant – boldly asking who I was with, where I lived and whether or not I wanted to carry on the party. He was demanding but not overbearing – draping an arm over my shoulder and assuring me he could guarantee a decent party if we carried on. I can’t say at that point I had any intention of not carrying on…until he waved his friend over.
Forgive me but I can remember neither name of the boys – not because they were both foreign but just because when you’ve clocked up 100 dicks it’s more 83 and 84 as opposed to Bazyli and Dritan. To flex my creative muscles instead of referring to them as numbers it’s easier to settle for Polish boy and Albanian boy.
So Polish boy’s friend was introduced to me. He was Albanian and whereas Polish boy had the sort of looks a Nazi would’ve gone crazy for, Mr Albania was dark and swarthy looking. Shorter than his friends he was barely 5’8 which meant in heels I matched his height. He was broader and more masculine (that’s code for hairy) and had intense brown eyes and a cute smile that spread wide over his face. Unlike his barely legal companion, the Albanian was easily in his mid 20s. Of the two he appeared to be the brawn, his Polish friend the brains – or perhaps his English wasn’t as strong so the Polish boy took the lead in terms of conversation and making plans. I saw him quite obviously eyeing me up approvingly and was suddenly unsure if I was not about to palmed off from the Polish boy to his friend as some sort of sexual leftover or cast off.
I was left in further confusion as to who I would be fucking when after a brief introduction to his Albanian friend, my Polish boy began pinning me against a wall, kissing me deeply and grinding his hard cock against my stomach. He dragged me away from my friend and her boyfriend. As luck would have it my mate’s boyfriend (called Zippy…or was it Zibby…of all things) was Polish and between themselves he somehow assured Zippy/Zibby that he would escort me home and guaranteed I was in safe hands.
The three of us began walking and I quickly went over in my head the potential outcome of the evening. In my mind I decided to commit to the threesome. After all I was coming up to thirty and I needed to tick it off my sex list. Tonight was the night. Both were suitably good-looking and I couldn’t see how I would regret spreading my legs. Until we arrived at the rather bright orange used gangsta-esque car and a third member of the gang. A three-some I was up for; a gang bang I wasn’t so sure of. He was Albanian as well – not as good-looking as his cousin whom he was chauffeuring around that evening. He was also significantly older. He looked in his early 40s. Short, dark, furry and generally physically revolting. I began to waiver and wonder what was the best way to avoid having to deal with all three cocks.
I dragged my Polish boy to one side. His lips were all over me and when he stooped low enough for me to whisper in his ear I managed to bleat, ‘I don’t want to sleep with your friends. Is that okay?’
He pulled back suddenly and put his hands on my shoulder. It suddenly felt weird looking to someone who wasn’t old enough to drink for sexual reassurance. ‘You’re not going to sleep with them. I’m not into that and I don’t want someone that’s been used like that.’
We squeezed into the not-so-roadworthy car and headed from the West End of London to my pad in Stockwell. Parking the car was a nightmare. I was a public transport user (who wouldn’t be living so centrally) and had no knowledge of where one could or should park near my gaff. The guys managed to sort it out. I let them into the house and we traipsed up the stairs to my semi-studio.
Unfortunately living alone in central London and on a tight budget due to minimal wage, my studio didn’t have a personal bathroom and the front door opened straight into my double bed. There was a second room (with no door) to the kitchen. But the main room or living area was the double bed and I couldn’t quite see how I was going to have the privacy to get laid.
With so many people squeezed into the small living space I was unsure how exactly the party would continue. I had no food, no drinks, no space and a rather uncool music collection. But the Polish boy was ever resourceful and asked where the nearest corner shop was. In the wee hours of Saturday morning I assured him that we wouldn’t be sold alcohol because they weren’t licensed. He smiled knowingly at me and assured me he’d be back with some vodka and orange juice. He nodded at the Albanian chauffeur who was edging closer and closer to me on the bed and told him to accompany him to the shop, thus leaving me in the care of his more reliable and better looking Albanian friend. The minute the door closed and we heard the outer front door shut Mr Albania laid back on the bed and stretched out. I saw his shirt rise up and noticed the dark hair trailing from his flat stomach down to the button fly on his jeans. I have a feeling even though he looked as if he were dozing he could feel my eyes drinking in his dark beauty. He rolled over on the bed and faced me saying nothing. I could taste his pleasant scented but heavy aftershave. I could actually feel how badly he wanted me and my lips found his. He let my fingers unbutton his jeans. Despite the dark unruly mass of pubic hair a thick uncut penis protruded from his cotton boxers. My hand gripped it and I moaned at the thought of how it might feel filling me up. It felt so good I began to straddle him.
He pushed my skirt up and pulled my knickers to one side. I ground down on his cock and he felt how wet I was for him. We mimicked sex without penetration our hands beginning to reach under garments. Had he moved his cock, had I repositioned myself we could’ve gone all the way. What little English he did possess in his vocabulary he knew enough to be wary of actually fucking me properly – his Polish friend was obviously not a boy to be crossed. He murmured that he really shouldn’t be doing this but he began pulling me by the hips more forcefully and his cock began rubbing further at the slippery entrance to my vagina.
His mobile phone rang. He swore (in English), answered the phone, then hung up quickly and jumped up even more quickly adjusting his clothes saying he was going to let the boys back in.
Sombre as ever the striking looking Polack entered saying he was only able to obtain Russian vodka and was disappointed there was no vodka from his country of origin available. From the kitchen as I poured the drinks and listened to how effective the threat of a teen Polish mafia type and his Albanian heavy with a ten pound tip for the trouble of serving out of licensing hours was, I realised they were rather a motley crew and quite menacing. I was quite interested in how they actually made their money (or what they did to supplement their wages to afford the clothes and the upper class West End clubs they frequented). Dangerous sorts and all locked in my bedroom; on the whole I was pretty defenceless.
But the baby faced man with a plan obviously had an idea of how to make the night work and set about it. For his two friends he poured very large vodkas with barely a drop of juice and handed them their glasses as they sat cross legged on the bed. My more modest drink was left for me in the kitchen. The beautiful, tall, considered youth rested against the doorframe between rooms chatting to his friends and occasionally throwing a look and smile my way. His intention was to ensure his friends dropped off and the quadruple vodka meant they were soon snoring gently on the bed. His plump lips curved into a smile at the sight of the two rugged manly men asleep almost in each others arms.
He strolled back into the kitchen and took my glass from my hand and put it on the sink as he began to kiss me. I knew what had to be done but not sure exactly how. There wasn’t a door to close so we were forced to softly move to the back of the kitchen where the partitioning between the rooms blocked out any observers from the bed. There was no blanket or anything for the lino but he seemed unmoved by the less than comfortable environment. He had already removed his jeans and was wearing tight legged pristine white Calvins. His prick was lengthy, moderate in its girth but against his tightie whities it looked like a porno cock and I licked my lips at the thought. I had dropped to my knees and tugged at the shorts and he let me suck him for a while. The lack of pubic hair made me wonder just how long it had actually been since he hit puberty, but his cock was not that of a boy. He pulled himself out of my mouth and got to his knees, his hands were powerful and literally tore my knickers off. Part of me was slightly perturbed because they were quite costly but I kind of like the idea of being ravished by a hungry, young foreigner.
My skirt was pushed up and he removed the remainder of his heavily labelled clothes. Because of his age his cock was standing to attention and was so long the head of the cock almost touched his belly button. He pushed me straight down on the lino and climbed on top ramming himself straight in me. I cried out in surprise and he put his hand over my mouth and began to fuck me fast and furiously. It felt great. He was young and full of energy. His icy exterior remained in tact as did his strong sense of Catholicism and decency as he ensured we were unlikely to be interrupted. I began trying to pull away from his cock. It was long like an ice lolly and was beginning to hurt. The minute I pressed against his hips to shallow his thrusting he withdrew and gently tugged my hair and put a firm hand on my hip inclining me to get on all fours.
It felt weird someone so young being so demanding and so sexually and physically potent in his prowess. He entered me roughly again and as he ploughed into me he pulled my hair as a warning not to cry out. So he fucked me hard like a dog on heat, getting deeper and deeper, only when I started to buck and struggle against the hand that held my hair did he very quickly pull out and cum over my bottom. He smeared it in and gave my rump a quick slap. Then dressed himself quickly and assisted in making sure my clothes looked decent.
‘I’m going to have to go soon. I have school tomorrow (21? Yeah right!) and I need these two to wake up to drive me home. It’s been nice though – you were good. Sweet girl (Girl! I’m turning thirty in less than sixty days!).’
‘And are you a sweet boy?’ I asked.
‘Yeah I think not and I think you know that. I’ve got your phone number from the club. I’ll pass it to my friend. He wants to fuck you, but…tonight you’re mine. Another time if you want you can have him. If you have him, you’ll not have me again.’ (His friend did harass me via the phone for some time and with great persistence but he looked better alongside his friend as a package deal, he didn’t warrant my attention in terms of a one on one night.)
‘But I may not ever get you again anyway.’
‘Perhaps not. But I like how you move and I like how you feel. I love how you fuck little Australia.’
‘I’m not sure you could call me little.’
He shrugged, not complimenting me but refusing to participate in my self deprecation.
‘What is it you do anyway?’ I couldn’t help but want to solve this enigmatic babe to some extent. How could someone so young possess such confidence and magnetism, and assert so much authority with such ease over all those he interacted with.
He looked at me icily and smiled taking the chill out of his inevitable departure as he called to his friends to get up and move. They headed out the door sleepily and he went to follow. Leaning down he kissed me affectionately on the lips and for the first time he looked like the little boy I suspected he actually was. He pointed at my washing machine.
‘I saw this while we were fucking. Your spin cycle only goes to 1000. That’s actually considered really slow so I think your machine is very old. With a slow spin cycle you don’t get all the water out. You don’t have a drier so in the winter your clothes will smell of damp. I know these things. My father managed a shop that sold these types of electrical household things, I learned a lot. Talk to your landlord about installing a new washing machine, it’s out of date.’
That parting advice was the most disappointing and anti-climatic moment I’ve ever encountered on a one night stand. Here was I thinking he was rampantly ramming me because my sexual prowess had forced him into a lusty trance, when in fact he had been slamming his shaft deeper hoping to fuck me across the lino to get a closer look at the washing machine which was infinitely more appealing than me. I’m crushed to confess he then left without a goodbye or thank you. They were his final words and I never saw him again. I suppose in his mind the expert assessment and advice on my kitchen was the equivalent of a goodbye – better even because it had real value that could improve the quality of my life. I wish the fucker had said nothing. Sometimes the allure of mystery surpasses the honesty of reality.
Love ’em & Leave ’em ‘gagging’ for more – The Smooth Operator
Posted by onewoman
Even a cynical, seasoned professional purveyor of penis can get caught off-guard by someone saying the right things at the right time. Drunk with a desperate heart; hearing the right words at the right time can trick your mind into thinking the man saying them can only be Mr Right. One’s expectations are raised, hope begins to bloom and you relax thinking after years of searching he’s finally turned up.
At times I wonder whether I clocked up so much cock on account of my relatively appealing good looks or if it was due to the fact that my pheromones and general behaviour just screamed slut to any passer by-er. A little of column A, a little of column B perhaps
Once you reach the phase where random fu*cking is your fix; like a proper junkie you’re more concerned about getting your fix. The whys and hows of how you get the fix become irrelevant. But if you have a decent dealer the relationship is as valuable as the drug itself.
As mentioned oodles of times previous, Great Yarmouth was a fertile playing field for me in terms of easy guaranteed cock, but low self esteem ensured I was never brimming with confidence. Hence when a tall, dark stranger appeared to be checking me out one night my natural instinct was to quickly survey the dance-floor to see which lucky bitch was the object of his blatant admiration. A few sharp neck swivels (in time to the music of course) and I realised it was me his eyes were lingering on. And I was flattered. Whilst I tended to go for a more mature man there was no getting away from the fact that he was very good looking. At least 6’2 (which given my size – especially in heels could only be a blessing), broad, dark hair carefully and deliberately moulded into porcupine spines all over his head, hazel eyes and an open, symmetrical, good-natured face. Coupled with a casual dress shirt left hanging out over smart trousers and shoes as he lent against the wall leading to the toilets (giving him full view of the antics of the entire venue) he certainly stood out from the usual clientèle at the run down Pier Bar with it’s stonking cheesy pop tunes from decades ago.
I assumed it was a general glance from him so when I was forced to walk past him to go to the loo I was pleasantly surprised when I felt him intentionally yet casually brush up against me as I passed him. Things were starting to look positive so on my return I purposely, yet accidentally touched my entire body to his. It was then he grabbed my hand and when I looked up at him I almost melted in his eyes – they were so kind and friendly…and genuine.
His warm hand prevented me from returning to the dance-floor and I allowed him to gently drag me past the toilets and out onto the pier. The air was cool. Whatever time of the year in the wee hours of the morning by the sea the air is always fresh on the skin. It seemed there was little time for words and yet I’m sure we talked. Perhaps it was just that the immediate connection allowing for a comfortable silence because before long I was pressed against the wall of the closed arcade lost in his lips and feverish kisses. What few words were spoken were enough. Pinned to the wall, his hands eventually found mine and I felt him directing them towards his cock which was trying to burst out of his trousers. But I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be just some holiday slut for a night. Funnily enough when I told him this he was completely fine. He didn’t accuse me of being a prick tease, become abusive in the face of potential sexual rejection or shrug his shoulders and find some other easy lay. We stood together again and spoke and after a time he took my hand and returned me to the club and my beloved side-kick, L. So it was a nice moment and one I had the sinking feeling I was going to have to write-off as just that. A nice boy on a nice night.
But it wasn’t. Allegedly he had just moved to Great Yarmouth and was beginning work as a barman in the venue (our favourite and most frequented no less). He asked how often I came to Great Yarmouth and after a quick conference with L and the potential this new encounter promised, I confirmed I’d be back in 4 weeks time. We didn’t exchange numbers but he said he’d wait for me and left it at that.
I was kind of seeing a married man at the time (quite a significant ‘relationship’ at that) and was emotionally committed to him but I couldn’t push away this young man – whose name I now can’t even remember – from my mind. Working in an open planned office, I discussed both the guy and my married man at great length and the general consensus from the girls (ranging in age from 18 to 48) was the Yarmouth bloke sounded like a sweetheart and it was definitely worth following up on. Four weeks later we travelled up to Great Yarmouth again, myself with Great Expectations.
A little to keen and over eager we took up residence in the Pier Bar early afternoon and keenly watched the going ons as staff clocked in and out for the evening shift. Bizarrely enough true to his word he turned up, gave a friendly smile and began to work. Like a little school girl and keen to avoid any form of rejection I sent L up to the bar. He chatted with her and spent a lot of his time serving with an eye constantly on me. At one point I was given a drink by a random stranger who said it was a gift from the man behind the bar who also sent him with the message that I was easily the most beautiful girl in the bar that night. At this stage even L swooned at his authenticity. Sometimes small gestures and simple words are the most effective way to pierce a heart. I was smitten and refrained from my normal motto of ‘keep your options open!’ I declined any invitation for a dance and was happy to hang outside on the pier when he had his ten minute breaks. By 4am L was being walked home by an ‘old friend’ which left me with my man.
There is always something romantic about sunrises and empty beaches and walking hand in hand with a man that makes your heart sing for joy.
It’s not so romantic trying to have sex while standing underneath a pier. Romance was high but a pounding need to consummate this blossoming relationship was also present. Lips pressed together, probing tongues and lusty hands groping, feeling and undoing meant there was only one direction this was going. Strangely enough despite some minor protestations I was happy to oblige because he seemed so wanting and firm and…true.
However fab my new outfit was I was regretting wearing jeans. The fitted top accentuating my curves and high heels may have made a killer look but in terms of outdoors sex it just was not good. Frankly speaking rolling down tights and pushing up a dress is easier to access, more graceful and just that little bit safer for being busted for indecent exposure than tight black jeans. In all honesty the guy only needs to unzip for his member to do the job, for me it was trying to wriggle out of my jeans as elegantly as possible to allow the sex to take place. But I was keen enough so ended up kicking my jeans off. As luck would have it my top was long enough to cover my modesty should any early morning wanderer find their way under Great Yarmouth’s main pier.
Whilst I can’t recall his name, I can recall the sex. Pleasingly his cock was in proportion to his 6’2 broad frame. There was a length and girth to it that could only be rewarding for a willing recipient. I remember in my hand his cock was not only hard but it was hot and literally I could feel the blood pulsating through it as he moaned. His main concern was coming too quickly because he hadn’t had sex in some months after a break (well that was his story). Still there was no chance of premature ejaculation because the logistics required for sex meant a lot of stop starting and position changing – which didn’t kill the ambience thank God. I didn’t feel comfortable fu*king standing in heels so removed them, which immediately had me 8 inches shorter than him. Additionally being on the big side, however ripped and fit he was, it wasn’t like he could just lift me up to enter me for a good shagging,
He ended up turning me round to face a pylon – I guess if it could support a pier, it wouldn’t crumble with my weight resting against it. At this point he ran his hand down my buttocks and pushed his hand between my legs, forcing me to open them wider for his eagerly anticipated entry. His groaning in my ear increased as he felt how wet I was for him, his fingers slipped in and out of my dripping c*nt and I could feel my own juices on his fingers as his body pressed firmly against mine and the length of him slowly penetrated me. It was as if time stood still, or slowed right down as I felt my kegal muscles involuntarily clamp round his cock and I moaned in tandem with him – vocalising how full my vagina felt. The sex remained slow, his cock rhythmically reaching the back wall and internally stimulating all the right places. The weight and warmth of him against me only made me feel safer, protected and sensual.
He refused to speed up, determined to take his time as if I was some present to slowly be unwrapped. Eventually though all good things must come to an end. As he whispered into my ear, ‘I can’t wait much longer’ he withdrew and asked if I’d finish him off. It was a reasonably new request and while I was keen to have him in my mouth I wasn’t so sure about my juices being all over it. Still I didn’t want to kill the atmosphere so dropped to my knees, as he gently held my head and guided himself into my mouth.
I have to say – I tasted pretty good. There’s a lot to be said about diet dictating the taste sensation of someone’s excretions. Given my penchant for sweet food it turned out to be a delicious dick. There was far more than a mouthful there so I did my best to relax my reflux which allowed him a little deep oral. Fortunately when I did, unsurprisingly, gag on his cock those muscles rejecting his size seemed to tip him over the edge as he pulled out and allowed himself to cum over my chest – his cum dripping down the deep v-nect cut of my top all the way to my milky white breasts which were all but overflowing from the garment.
I stood up and we kissed (which I felt okay about cause clearly he was now tasting his cum too). I went to grab my jeans, realising the sun was taking away what little cover there was left under the pier when he dropped to his knees. Realising what he was going to do I pulled his head back and insisted that he really didn’t have to but he was adamant he wanted to. I spread my legs at his soft command so that his tongue could work it’s way around me. Clearly he approved of my diet of chocolate and ice cream because not only did his tongue skim over my clit but he seemed desperate to get his tongue where his cock had been ploughing only minutes before. Because of my sizeable thighs to allow him to do this I had to assume an almost yogic position raising a leg and attempting to balance on the one remaining grounded leg. He may have been wanting to bring me to orgasm but this acrobatic feat had put that idea to bed, so I faked it in order to finish up.
His demeanour didn’t change as he gallantly kept look out whilst I got dressed and we took a slow walk home. He lived and looked after his mother in a flat above a shop in one of the main streets in Yarmouth. In the flush of first love, our goodbye at the door took another hour and I promised to meet him that evening.
I got home, slept, woke up, filled L in on the details, showered, changed and headed back to the Pier Bar to continue my perfect weekend. Only he wasn’t working in the Pier Bar, he’s been sent to the opposite end of Britannia Pier to work in Long John’s nightclub for his shift. This venue had thumping music and was filled with all the beautiful, young, pretty things. When we headed up there I felt fat, frumpy, old and out of place. Whilst he did his best to catch the odd conversation with me there was no time for him to take breaks, send over free drinks or sweet messages. In fact he was so busy and seeing endless girls flirt outrageously with him I opted out and headed home. We said goodbye but I felt pretty flat about things. Could it all have been a lie to get a free fuck (please let that bit about him not having sex in months be true because if I was one of a long line of holiday fucks it was even more meaningless to him)???
Back at work Tuesday, after the Bank Holiday and the girls at work were as taken as L and I had been with his behaviour and treatment of me. In fact my mother figure, M, convinced me to drop the married guy and go for it with this new fellow. It had been busy in the club that night and I had stomped out so I guess it hadn’t been entirely practical to exchange numbers. On M’s advice I rang his workplace and left a message with my phone number. Later that evening he returned my call, said he was surprised and a little hurt at my departure but was happy I’d contacted him. He took my mobile number and gave me his, making sure I called his whilst on the land-line to ensure I had the number correct.
Turns out soon after divulging his contact details Mr Right promptly ceased even being Mr Right Now – he was Mr not so Right…or just plain Mr Wrong, Not a response to a text did I ever get back. Not an answer to me calling him ever took place. Just enough missed calls and unanswered texts for me to get the hint. Four weeks later when we returned to Yarmouth he’d disappeared from working at the Pier (sacked or moved on I’ll never know). With a cock like his I have to say it was a good servicing on his part but very poor after care and follow up support – still I hadn’t dumped the married guy so at least I’d kept my options open.
Avoiding jailbait (a very sexy close call)
Posted by onewoman
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.
Oriental Sex with a 6th Form Boy
Posted by onewoman
Very short post this week because unfortunately I have spent most of the past week in hospital – I’d love to say it was because of a sexually sustained injury but given my sex life seems to have been sucked into some chastity vortex that would be a lie.
So it’s a quick tale this week.
And due to the popularity of the older woman younger guy scenario I thought I’d introduce you to a young Mr Ho.
As I was closing into thirty and exploring younger flesh I was also branching out and decided I’d like to fuck (or in the very least kiss) my way around the world.
In Australian we refer to the good folk of China, Japan, Malaysia, Taiwan, Singapore and Hong Kong as Asian. I realise in the UK it extends to India, Sri Lanka, Pakistan and so on.
Thus my newest conquest is best described of being of oriental descent. Definitely mixed race because (without being a stereotypical Australian racist) he was well over 6ft. He was awfully posh and came from Oxford but was at 6th form college; not the university. He was also a rugby player so for someone not on the petite side was physically a good match. Because of his age and athleticism he was also presumably full of stamina.
Once again the teen had to travel to visit me. We’d been communicating online and he seemed confident enough to see me one weekend. Only the Friday night beforehand I started getting my period. Having sex on my period doesn’t bother me, if anything it’s a bit of a turn on and a lot of men feel the same. However someone with minimal experience could find the thought of pumping a bloody vage quite off putting; psychologically traumatizing even.
I texted to let him know the situation; suggesting a reschedule saying I completely understood having never had sex with a bleeding cunt before he may want to take a rain check. He assured me it would be no problem and he’d be there Saturday afternoon. On reflection I think he didn’t want his bus ticket to go to waste- he probably had to work really long hours at McDonald’s to save up for those babies. No menstruating cougar was gonna put his dick off his game…..or so he thought.
He actually managed to make his way to my flat (my flatmate having cleared off to his boyfriends for the evening) saving me having to meet him at the station and play nanny for the duration of the trip.
I’ve always been into slighter men, but the sheer height of him and the broadness was overwhelming. Coupled with the tones of his skin colour, hairless body and completely defined chest and ripped torso I could barely believe my lust…errr luck. He was like a giant Manga cartoon with brains and an awfully posh accent. There was just one downside with this giant man-boy. He had a very tiny todger. Perhaps had he not been so tall it wouldn’t have been noticeable but it was. It was like a little chipolata. I wanted to wrap it up in bacon and serve it at a dinner party.
Perhaps I should’ve removed the tampon first, perhaps I should’ve trusted my guy instinct and talked him out of attempting sex, but as he pulled my knickers down and I (discretely I thought) removed a tampon his face became very pale. When two fingers slipped into something more than watery warmth, he removed them. Clearly that particular cherry pie was not to his taste. When he looked at his his bloodied fingers I didn’t think he was imagining himself on some massive rock stage with an air guitar singing ‘Sweet Cherry Pie!’
All his good Oxford manners went out the door – he was anything but an English gent.
It was simply a case of his dick going limp and hearing him suddenly overcoming his previous youthful shyness and boldly stating, ‘I’m sorry I can’t do this. I thought I could but I can’t.’
it was pretty brutal on the old ears. I must say and talk about a pink (or rather red) elephant in the room. Although unspoken, the word ‘awkward’ reverberated all around. Unashamedly he clearly had no intention of finding alternate accommodation. Worse still he felt given he’d at least shown willing I could recompense him in some way for his monies and menstruation massacre. So I took the the chipolata and let it flop round my mouth and in all honesty within less than 2 minutes he’d come. He was verbally very grateful – by then he’d found Mr Manners and informed me I gave the best blow job ever. Ever? But that poor excuse for a stout infant-fish had barely had my lips round it before it was spewing man milk in my mouth. The best ever? He mustn’t have had a lot cause I hadn’t even got started – still at that point I needed an ego booster so it wasn’t an unwelcome compliment. Turned out Mr Manners was a passing visitor and he fell asleep immediately so I sneaked into my flatmates covers to feel safe and reel from the indignation and humiliation flung at me by some college teen.
Ever the hospitable host I woke at 6am and put myself back into his bed, all showered and fresh. When he woke to find me there, I confess there was an absence of regret or sensitivity in how he broached the monthly issues of what is considered normal for mature women. Perhaps that was the problem. You go to bed as a mature woman with an immature man you are likely to experience these inwardly excruciatingly undignified moments.
Not Mr Ho though. His first words were, as he put an arm round me and pushed my head to his groin was, ‘That was an amazing blow job last night, the best – do it again for me please before I have to catch my bus.’
I really should have mustered a little courage and backbone and told him to fuck off and learn a little bedroom etiquette or man up and remember not every rugby game was played on a dry pitch – sometimes it rains and gets muddy but you still gotta play the game.
I didn’t though. I had two minutes spare so finished him off. I’m guessing my ‘oh-so-amazing’ micro blow jobs were enough to counteract the mental scarification of seeing his index and middle fingers covered in dark red cervical mucus, vaginal secretions, and endometrial tissue.
A year or so later he was doing an intern-ship at Price Cooper Waterhouse and got in touch (he really must have liked that blow job). He asked if he could visit and knowing there was not a clot of blood in sight and remembering that huge hunky body my resolve weakened and I told him to come round.
And he was a specimen of perfect physical beauty, even his titchy penis was beautiful. His cock hadn’t matured so I could only hope his attitude and technique had.
How wrong I was. It got hard and managed to slip into the entrance of my vagina but it slipped out after cumming within all of two minutes.
‘I seem to have a problem with this,’ was the best he could offer.
I did the thoughtful girly thing and said it was normal and natural and encouraged him that the next time he would last longer and it’s be better and all those platitutdes. Once recovered though he plopped it back inside me and the duration was even shorter than the original encounter.
Did he apologise, offer to take me to dinner, offer to perform oral pleasure on me or offer any physical comfort or stimulus? No – I got a ‘I better drive home now before my aunt and uncle miss the car and wonder where I’ve been.’
With the launch of facebook and having graduated university Mr Ho got in touch with me. By now the boy had become a man. I had a message on facebook saying: ‘I really fucked it up didn’t I? You were so pretty and lovely and kind and I treated you awfully. I’m so sorry. I see your single at the moment and would love to catch up with you. Be my friend?’
Nice boy, but friendship request rejected. Sorry Mr Ho, I’m busy painting the town red!
Sex With A Sweet Sixteen Boy
Posted by onewoman
When you start clocking up so many shags you forget not only names but exact numbers it takes its toll on you. Not physically so much, but mentally. Somehow the dream of one of these random fucks turning out to be ‘the one’ becomes less and less likely. You realise you are no longer addicted to the dream of finding Mr Right, rather you are addicted to the sex – the ‘high’ of scoring the cock you demand inside in you; another ‘notch on the bedpost’; a funny fabulous story to recount down the pub; a boudoir conquest; an escape from the loneliness – just a couple of hours in the arms of another, even if the comfort and attention is all just pretend.
And it started to hurty by the time I was thirty. Constant disappointment as I left one bedroom without wanting a return invite (if one was even extended). With the crushing realisation my wonderful twenties were behind me and facing the inevitable reality that I was just a slag who’d spend their life alone I thought I’d at least diminish the prospect of allowing myself to be a doormat to beautiful men.
There’s a great line in a Blur song (before they completely creatively disappeared up their own arses) – ‘and the mind gets dirty, as you get closer to thirty’.
Mine did. It has ever since if I’m honest.
I’ve always said there are three things I don’t do:
1) Bestiality (it’s okay to have a sneaky watch on zootube)
2) Poo (accidents are sometimes unavoidable)
3) Paedophilia (it’s always wrong and makes me ill thinking about it, let alone writing about it)
But Cougar Town was approaching. A stream of married men, experienced men had an emotional edge on me, upsetting the balance of power. The only alternative was to stop chasing older guys and start seducing younger men. The rationale behind it was that if they were older they’d be less experienced with women which would allow me to feel more in control and chances were less complicated emotionally (I don’t mean that in a derogatory way I’m not sure how complicated emotionally men ever are – and I’m not a staunch feminist man hater). I could have saucy sex without any sticky heavy emotional ties. Young guys wanna fuck – not get married and have babies.
I have to say for the most part this new plan worked – there’s a few other stories tucked away in that catalogue that I’ll return to at another time. Young might be fun but it can be…..messy in an inexpert way.
I wish I could remember his name. He was a scouser and I met him on faceparty – just as they eradicated all the ‘oldies’ from the site. I was lucky to get a code to reboot my profile and access this young person’s domain.
There is an escapable beauty in youth. Youth aside though he would remain beautiful even as he aged. In a few more years he could easily have gone Goth, but when I met him he was ‘geeky’. A little scouser that was a good catholic boy, and spent his time painting famous scenes from cult movies and selling them on eBay. A comic book collector. I’d have loved him when I was 13, but I was 30 now and I had the ability to not have to lust from afar. I could use my feminine wiles to draw him to London. And I did.
There was an innocence to him. Despite my reservations that my size would put him off he assured me it didn’t in the slightest. He thought I was ‘interesting’ and ‘sensitive’. I don’t think he realised I was just emotionally retarded. At 16 I suppose to him I was interesting. When he asked about seedy Soho and how sexually adventurous I was I’m guessing given my sexual history and overactive imagination a teenage girl couldn’t really complete. Perhaps I was the embodiment of maternal sexuality – I wonder if it was that I was non-threatening but highly available? Whatever he clearly thought I was worth the risk so he told his mum (he was from a single parent family) that he was headed to London for a comic book convention one weekend.
Picking him up from Victoria coach station I did feel a bit mumsy. I was vamped up appearance wise but I was shocked at how boyish he was. I wasn’t even sure he’d have pubes and I hoped to god he hadn’t lied about his age. It’s gotta be legal!
He was so skinny and wearing all black. He had jet black hair and deep green eyes – like a cat that had transformed into a boy. All leanness – I remember him telling me he had something like 2% body fat. His arms were like twigs and I had a feeling I wasn’t sure he’d be able to execute my favourite sexual position of me on my back with my legs wrapped round his neck…but I was willing to give it a try.
I just hadn’t thought through how overwhelming it may have been for him. He’d been to London once before with his Dad who had warned him off Soho, which clearly piqued his curiosity so I felt it was the best place to start.
Regardless of him being underage I didn’t incur any problems in getting him into pubs in Soho. And I definitely needed a drink to take the edge off as I felt like a naughty nanny. He was awfully shy and confessed that he never ate in public with cutlery (McDonald’s for dinner then – I kid you not!). But after a few drinks he relaxed enough to let go of his backpack and sidle closer to me on the couch at the trendy Soho pub.
All the texts and instant online messaging began to creep into the conversation. Did I mean the things I said online? Did I like him in the flesh and still want to do the things I had promised? Was I really happy to go shopping for sex toys with him to use later? Hello Mr Cutey Cute – YES!
I had my first kiss at 15 and never had another until I was 21. I didn’t have sex until I was 21. I sat in that bar, looking at the evening crowd tottering in for a night on the West End and should’ve felt out of place but as he eventually mustered up the courage to kiss me oh so gently, so tentatively I melted into the seat. It was a kiss I should’ve had 14 years earlier, but it was worth the wait. My cynicism and pain of rejection forgotten in that moment. To kiss like a teenager, to just explore, to be excited at the prospect of sex – it felt so innocent and exactly what I needed. There was no need to analyse, think it out, contemplate the art of seduction – the attraction was there and that motored things on.
Me moving my hand up his thigh, him moving his kisses to my throat, ears, panting like a puppy as his hands gently brushed over my exposed cleavage. I could feel myself dripping wet and decided to make a move.
I avoided Ann Summers – it’s way too mainstream and inoffensive. I opted for Harmony – decent stuff but not intimidating.
It wasn’t crazy or extreme toys we bought. We held hands and selected some handcuffs and a blindfold. Ever the gent he insisted on paying…..with his pocket money no doubt.
After a Maccas we headed back to mine. At the time I was living in the very hip Lambs conduit Street in Holborn – above a Café, with the landlord’s and café owner’s mother and a mysterious flatmate I never saw. The difficulty was that my room was a refurbished loft. You literally opened the front door of the flat to see a ladder. One had to climb the ladder to get to my bedroom. The ceilings were low but the room was massive – it’s just that it was directly overhead the town other bedrooms in the house so all movements and noises can be heard.
There was a single bed in the room, but I tended to use that as my couch and had a double futon on the floor. It was only when I was finally getting to strip that tight t-shire off to reveal a taunt skeletal pale white torso I heard the words I dreaded.
‘I lied about something’
‘What?’
‘I ummmm I never slept with another girl. I haven’t done this so. I might not get it right.’
Ding, ding, ding – JACKPOT!!!
I promised it’d be okay. And for just one night I didn’t feel used. I felt treasured, admired. To have someone desperate to explore your body. To try things they’ve only ever seen in porn movies and magazines. Someone without any need to be cruel. I had an urge to sing with angels – ‘I was beat, incomplete, I’d been had, I’d been sad and blue but you made me feel, yeah you made me feel shiny and new’.
For him everything was exciting. And knowing that my warm, wet minny was the first his mouse would visit was very flattering I must confess.
It wasn’t dirty sex, it was pure sex. Like the best vanilla ice cream ever that makes you think – ‘why do I always opt for chocolate and strawberry – this ice cream flavour is bliss’
That’s not to say the toys were neglected. I got him up on the single bed where I could cuff him to the bed posts and blindfold him. Suck him until he was begging for mercy. Demented with pleasure. I straddled him then – knowing I’d be the first woman to ever mount that lovely proud flawless cock – and rocked. I removed his blindfold and the sight of it was all too much. He was begging to suck my breasts and who I was I to deprive him.
Notwithstanding his impressive stamina it had taken its toll. He began begging me to get off. I was a bit miffed. I normally try and bare my full weight on my thighs in that position so as not to squash the man underneath. But he seemed distressed so I leapt off only to find as I did cum came out of his penis like a fire hose had been turned on and was unmanned – his cock whirling round, cum flying out like a sprinkler. It was a blast that jettisoned over us both. I reached down and rubbed the cum on his stomach down and massaged his balls with it while he moaned. Still handcuffed I let him watch as wiped his cum between my legs. He begged me to uncuff him and no sooner had I then he got quite forceful and pushed me down on the bed cuffing my wrists.
He put the blindfold on and I felt his fingers probing inside me, deeper and deeper. My body responded and he intuitively twisted them inside me making me moan. He spent a long time orally investigating the new shaven pleasure garden before getting hard and putting himself inside me again. With him in control it was a lot more frantic and frenzied – but who doesn’t like a good rogering now and again. Technique can be forgiven as long as lust and enthusiasm are present.
He was quick to withdraw again before ejaculation. He stood by the single bed, his eyes closed tight and his mouth fixed in a firm line, willing his cock not explode again. I got him to uncuff me and told him to kneel down as I positioned myself into a sitting position on the bed edge, legs dangling to the floor. He obliged and spreading my legs wide, then lips I gave a few clear concise instructions as to exactly where the clitoris was. Inexperience is sweet but lapping a cunt like a dog is only fun for so long – eventually you need to hit the right spot. It would only be fair to the next lady he laid with.
It was an exercise he seemed to enjoy as it wasn’t long before he was back inside me, my ankles in gripped in his hands as he pushed my legs over my head to go as deep as possible before withdrawing and cumming all over the backs of my thighs.
There’s always that awkward moment when you feel sticky and … well I’m an Aussie and OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) – we like to shower once a day and I just can’t sleep if I feel dirty. So it was down the ladder for a shower but by the time I climbed stark naked up the ladder – which given my size cannot have been a good look. His green eyes were beaming and he was asking if he could do me doggy style. It seemed rude to say no, but I have to say by this time, age was taking its toll on me. I was thirty after all and not only needed my beauty sleep but wasn’t used to pulling an all-nighter – even if I could have a lie in tomorrow. This last session not only involved me on my knees on a hard loft floor with threadbare carpet, gritted teeth as I endured the pounding but was accompanied to a soundtrack of my elderly Portuguese flat mate (landlady’s mother) yelling in broken English that she didn’t deserve this noise at 3am.
I know longer felt like a porn star, I just felt tired. Eventually he collapsed and slept and I was grateful.
And like two teens aware that it was an infatuation there was the awkwardness the following morning of getting him back to Victoria Coach Station so he’d get home for school on Monday, finding a place to have breakfast that didn’t involve cutlery and him awash in catholic guilt saying if I was pregnant he’d stand by me.
He headed back to Liverpool and took my teenage dreams with him.
Easter Erotica (3 men, 3 nights & a sexual kidnapping)
Posted by onewoman
Easter is upon us and like ‘Festive Fucking’ it got me thinking as to whether I had any sexual association with this religious holiday. In all honesty Easter has never featured to highly on my sex calendar. I put this down to my parents shoddy attempts at playing Easter Bunny when I was in Grade 7 and still a believer. Seriously mum, you buy duck shaped meringues in front of me during the weekly shop and didn’t think I’d put two and two together when they turned up in my Easter Bunny stash Sunday morning? What I did love was the fact that I disgustedly called Mum up on the ‘Easter Bunny isn’t real’ revelation but continued along nicely for another 6 months steadfastly and stolidly believing in Santa Claus (why I shed so many tears over St Nic, given my previous enlightenment on Easter Bunny will forever remain a mystery).
But I digress. Rather like Christmas sex there is only one story that I can attribute to this Christian celebration – unsurprisingly it took place in Great Yarmouth where L had invited me to spend the weekend in a caravan with her parents.
This is a more a slutty story than an amusing one, but it had its moments.
Having been the recipient of a uneventful but teasing ‘booty call’ on Thursday evening (I had signed up for no strings sex but desperately wanted to be the subject’s girlfriend – the invitation had not been forthcoming) I found myself feeling lonely, used, a little soulless and somewhat depressed at the prospect of four days without human contact or social intercourse – unless you count the cashiers at McDonald’s down the road (which I didn’t).
L, of course, came to the rescue and told me to jump on the train and she’d pick me up from Great Yarmouth station. And I did.
It all started well enough, fresh home-made sandwiches, walnut whips and endless cups of tea provided by L’s hospitable and the mumsiest of mums. A dabble on the camp site’s bingo hall accompanied by a few orange Bacardi Breezer’s and then it was time to head into town to find some less family more femme fatale friendly action.
We found ourselves in the Pier Bar – Yarmouth’s nightclub for the more mature demographic of the population. Good music (if you like cheesy 80s and 90s pop) not so good talent. However being young and gorgeous at the time I at least had my pick of the …(I hesitate to say boys because with an average age of 45 they were anything but) men in the club.
I opted for my normal type. Dark, broody, good looking and a bit of a loner. Anyone who reads this blog will know I love Norfolk (it forged a pivotal part of my sexual career) but the accents… I’m Australian and I annoy myself with the whining sound of mine so I’m not really in a position to point any fingers, but there’s something about the Norfolk accent that smacks of simpleton. I know there’s a lot of bright, talented people from Norfolk (for fucks sake don’t ask me to name any I’m just trying not to offend here) but when they open there mouths you just think – wait I haven’t said thick…uncomplicated and without any intellectual complexities (so yeah simple). My choice for the night fitted my preferred criteria but when he opened his gob to tell me he was visiting from Norwich for some motorcycle fair I knew I wasn’t in for an evening of scintillating conversation. In fairness though that wasn’t what I was after.
Clearly feeling so stung that my ‘booty call’ from the previous night (he hadn’t professed his undying love for me, he hadn’t even declared that despite the good sex I warranted the label of girlfriend) I opted for finding some comfort in the arms of a stranger. It made for a pleasant change being invited back to someone else’s Bed & Breakfast, rather than me having to worry about how to sneak someone in and then out again. There was something refreshing retro about creeping round the house and shagging silently in a single bed – recapturing my ever eluding youth. I had been caught out with erectile dysfunction. Having hardened the damn thing I was resigned to straddling him and bouncing up and down until the point of ejaculation, which given his alcohol related numbness took some time. As his hands reached up to juggle my breasts and stroke me from my neck, down to my stomach around to my behind, all I could do was try in my mind to distract myself and escape the pain my thighs were feelings at hefting my weight rhythmically up and down on his cock. I wished I had been more adventurous or assertive enough to request doing the reverse cowgirl. Had I done so, I may have been able to pick up a magazine and lazily leaf through it, avoiding hurting his feelings as I methodically went through the motions. Still maintaining the position and with impeccable timing I reached my goal which was not give him an orgasm but rather give me a window of opportunity to head back to the caravan.
Yarmouth is small and I had ample time to saunter from the seafront B&B to caravan site without fear of attack or coming in looking like I’d just been having some drunken fuck.
Saturday shone bright and once again I was faced with a day of cosying on the couch with L and I nursing our respective hangovers and eating for England. I was grateful for the abundance of comfort food…until Saturday evening. As I slipped into a new little black dress I purchased earlier that day (from George @ ASDA I have no shame in you knowing) a button round my tummy shot off, pinging off the caravan wall. L and I were not classical housewives and in this instance it was L’s father who was left with the task of sewing the button back on for me. Knowing how fragile the outfit now was I realised instead of being a ‘slutty no-knickers’ night it would be an ‘uncomfortable unsexy control knickers’ night.
L and I had structure and routine to our nights in Yarmouth – particularly where Vauxhall Caravan Park was involved – more Bingo, more Bacardi Breezers, more cheesy nightclubs on Britannia Pier.
We headed further north up the pier in search of a younger clientèle. I felt out of my depth. Unfamiliar with the music I was painfully aware we were the eldest in the club so my potent sexual advances were a little more contained and restrained. In fact I did the almost desperate male thing and waited til the end of the evening to select from the dregs – assured someone would be desperate enough for a shag. At least they would be young and there is an inescapable beauty in youth however the face is painted.
My guy was a shy guy. He was 23, short (my height 5’6), slim but taut, blond hair and a lean, sharp face with a smattering of freckles across his nose. He was cute but his obvious nervousness made him a sweet choice. He appeared flattered that he was the object of my attention and blatant sexual advances which further endeared him to me. Transpired it was his birthday. Somewhere from under his long eyelashes as he studied the floor I deciphered his mumblings and retrieved an invite back to his house. 3 in 3 nights – it seemed a little foolish to interrupt my run so I agreed. L headed home and I said I’d catch up in good time.
I have to say I was more than impressed when he hailed a cab to take us home. Until I realised he didn’t live in Great Yarmouth. He resided in Waxham which was 15 miles north of Great Yarmouth. I suddenly felt a little uneasy: a) I wasn’t sure I had cash for a cab home (let alone enough to split the cost on arrival) and b) I had no idea where I was or any familiarity with the town. This was now an encounter that could not afford to go wrong.
The residence was a sizeable cottage. This was not a mummy’s boy living at home. In fact he worked in a mountain rescue team which explained his lithe, ripped body – and a strength you wouldn’t expect on someone so slight. On the tour I saw two large bedrooms upstairs, with polished wooden floors and minimalistic male décor, a bathroom that would have been glorious if it hadn’t been inhabited by two boys who has never been introduced to Toilet Duck or Spray & Wipe, a farmhouse kitchen and large cosy living room.
You know how you have the odd one (or hundred in my case) night stand and the other person says ‘I don’t usually do this’ and you inwardly roll your eyes thinking ‘I’m not judging your moral stance on sex so cut the bullshit’? This guy didn’t say it but I knew it was true. It was all so gentle and unpractised and tentative. Immature approaches like turning on the huge flat screen TV, flicking through the channels and ‘stumbling’ across some already paid for porn channels. The porn may have got him in the mood but it was his inexperience that turned me on. It wasn’t long before he was clambering on top of me on the couch pressing his erection against me. I took the the lead and suggested we go upstairs.
Then something strange happened. He received a text and then phone calls. A string of them completely interrupting the mood and he seemed determined to ignore them. Soon enough the phone was ringing and at the same time the caller was beating on the door. Fortunately the door of the cottage had withstood some hundred years of knockers so this caller wasn’t going to get in but he wasn’t to be deterred. I was told it was his flatmate, who was drunk and had forgotten his keys, but there was no explanation as to why he wasn’t letting the flatmate in. I can only speculate: 1) he didn’t want the flatmate cramping his style; 2) the flatmate was a relation or landlord disapproving of this type of activity or; 3) I was too much of an eyesore to be presented as a sexual conquest to his friend. Either way after much ringing and beating of the door (‘I know you’re in there I can hear your phone ringing, please let me in’) the unwelcome resident had no option but to retreat. God knows where he spent the night but I bet he hasn’t lost his keys in a drunken Easter stupor since then.
Back to bed, fully clothed, embracing, grinding against each other, kissing and me desperate for cock. Once again I was left to take the initiative but there was something sexy about having to undress him, releasing his huge erection. His cock was nowhere near as slender or slim as his build but despite its size and strength he was not using it like a power tool. Very gently and traditionally he climbed on and began to fuck me missionary style. It was good sex. Delectable to have something thick and throbbing inside but its insertion so tender. His entire body defined and hard but pressing intimately against my own out of condition soft body. I found the whole unfrenzied approach had me frantic for more of him. So I blurted out ‘did you want to change position?’. His shy, appreciative demeanour in tact he nodded gratefully saying ‘yeah if you want to that’d be really good’.
I sprung onto all fours, only to feel his slow deliberate hands gripping my hips and him sliding into me as thoughtfully as ever. But in this position I regained some control and could at least experience him at the depth and speed I wanted. Having put myself into a more dominate position seemed to appeal to him as he got vocal about his enjoyment of the situation. It wasn’t long till he was wildly thrusting and I was screaming out ‘I’m not on the pill’ so he confusedly ejaculated – outside of me. I suspect that particular orgasmic confessional utterance from me may have dampened his orgasm somewhat.
And then, like having been shot with a tranquilliser he crashed. Straight asleep. Lucky he’d been so romantic in the sex or the lack of pillow talk would’ve hurt. But with cum dripping between my thighs, a mobile phone flashing a time that was later than I thought and the realisation that I had no idea where I was or how to get home…I knew it was prudent to depart promptly. L’s parents were early risers and a missing girl would paint an accurate picture as to my absence from the caravan.
He was sweet and the sex was good so he deserved a goodbye. Only he didn’t want one – at least not then. I tried to wake him but he was just moaning and telling me he wanted to sleep. In fairness he tried to grab me for a hug but I was on a tight schedule and there was no time for ‘the morning after the night before’ pleasantries.
I hoped my quick brusque kiss and thank you pervaded his lucid dreaming. I went downstairs and the door was locked – double locked. I could release the bolts but the door was locked from the inside and I had no way out. I searched the house for another exit but nothing. No door, no window for me to escape from. I suppose had there been an alternate way in his flatmate would have used it earlier on. The minutes were speeding by every time I looked at my phone.
I rushed back upstairs and tried to wake him but the powerful orgasm had rendered him useless. I heard my voice raise an octave in pitch and becoming a lot louder. Trying to be assertive and nice. Begging for the keys. He was clearly annoyed at my attempts to wake him and murmured to just let myself out. I tried to explain I couldn’t because the door was double locked and before collapsing into a deep sleep he said the keys were downstairs.
My heels clattered all the way down the stairs again and I searched the kitchen high and low for the keys. Literally. I could feel myself getting hysterical. I was a prisoner in this house. The house of good, gentle sex but still a prisoner. I was literally on my hands and knees again (without cock or orgasm) looking for the keys. Checking the sugar pot and fruit bowls. I even ventured into the living room and was hurling the cushions from the sofa and checking down its sides. There were no keys.
By now I was in tears. I was shoulder charging the door but realised it opened inwards not outwards so that was not going to work. I dragged myself upstairs. And tried talking to him, but the sandman had taken him far from me. I was so desperate I thought my only option was to physically carry him downstairs to open the door. I began to lift him but he was a dead weight. How could an elfin like creature weigh so much? As I lifted him into my arms he slipped out and slouched on the bed. I felt myself getting rougher, hoisting him up under his arm pits, realising I just didn’t have the strength to do this. I had no option but to shout as I did my best to manipulate his body into a position so uncomfortable he would have to conform to my efforts and come down to help me. I grabbed his legs and dragged him from laying vertically in the bed to horizontally, his legs now dangling out of the bed. I climbed round the other side of the bed and dug my hands under his back to push him into an upright sitting position. Each time he tried to slump to the side I positioned him straight again. Eventually I was behind him, my legs spread round him in a sitting position so his torso rested against mine. I bumped him as far forward to the bed edge as possible and began to try and stand myself up and, with my arms secured round his waist, dragging him with me.
My plan wasn’t executed how I hoped but my efforts were rewarded with him groaning, extracting himself from me and standing, unaided, to head down the stairs. He went to the door and tried to open it.
‘See!’
‘Oh you were right. I have double locked the door, sorry.’
‘It’s fine, can you let me out though.’
‘Mmmmm dunno where the keys are.’ His eyelids were getting heavy again and he seemed to be eyeing up the couch.
‘Please. I begged I have to go.’
He headed up the stairs and I saw him sitting back down on the bed. I wanted to drop to my knees, look to the heavens and scream ‘Noooooooooooooooooo,’ but he had picked up his jeans and I heard a jangle. I grabbed the jeans from him as he fell back on the bed. The keys were in his pocket. I raced down the stairs with renewed vigour and after a few tries found the key to unlock the door.
Praise be. I raced out to feel the early morning sun hitting my face. I breathed in the country air, or was it sea air – where the fuck was I?
Back inside the house I rifled round the kitchen until I found letters addressed to the house. 118118 may cost a fortune and be crap but they did get a cab winging its way to the address on the letters, which as I astutely guessed was my hidden location. The driver, possibly glad to have a customer that had been sobered up by a bout of unintentional kidnapping and wasn’t abusive, happily stopped at a cashpoint so he could be paid.
I got back in the caravan at 6.15am and quarter of an hour later L’s mother was making tea and saying she had stayed in her room for as long as possible so’s not to wake me sleeping in the lounge. Whether my entrance had been obvious or not was irrelevant. I’d been in the van when they came out so my character and morals couldn’t be called into question – well at least not directly.
Later that afternoon I headed back to London to give L some quality family time and me a much needed break from Yarmouth, its dramas and my own insatiable libido. On the train ride back a text bleeped out in the carriage from my ‘booty call boy’ asking if I was going to be in that night…
One Woman One Hundred Dicks 