Category Archives: Extreme / Fetish Sex
Following on from last time’s post about the great divide of persons between I’m inclined to continue with a focus on sex related to Christmas and New Year’s. Whilst my previous post addressed life as a singleton finding sex at these particular holidays I feel this week I’ll focus on whether there are any significant changes in sex at these particular times when in a permanent solid relation ship.
In short – there’s not. Being single and slutty or wife-ish and whorish has absolutely no impact on the kind of sex available and on offer on these dates. Somewhere deep in the subconscious the preferred date is seared not only on the brain but the loins and one responds accordingly.
Me? I like sex all the time and having never been in a proper relationship until my 30’s one thing I was determined to do was make the most of having sex on tap and available to me. No longer would I have to go out on the prowl to ensure a festive fucks.
Christmas is a time of giving and sex is readily available. But it is still a family holiday and when you have one foot Australia and the other in the UK it tends to mean you and your family are joined at the hip – at least in terms of accommodation at this time of the year. If in Australia I’d be staying with my folks and was not in a position to insist on Christmas clubbing and then bringing a random dick back to finally christen my virgin bed (which still remains so and I’m now 35!). If my family were over from the UK we’d be staying at a rather posh Downton Abbey-esque hotel by the sea in Norfolk which limited the amount of dicks available considerably– normally nil because it was a ‘family’ hotel of the English genteel so finding a single man willing to shag a horny common slutty Australian was difficult to say the least.
After I found a man I assumed all this would change.
Not necessarily so. Because Christmas and New Year’s fall in close proximity the same problems plaguing my Christmas cock endeavours also impinged on my New Year’s nobbing.
For the first New Year’s I had my boyfriend rather romantically we had been separated – me with my parents, brother and wife and niece and nephew in a restored barn in Lincoln; my fellow with his newly wedded father in London. Irrespective of the emotional blackmail his father burdened upon him (‘This could be my last Christmas,’ he wailed. ‘And I could go under a bus tomorrow,’ quipped my boyfriend.) He spontaneously caught a train to Lincoln to join me for New Year’s Eve. This wasn’t just to impress my parents, nor was it a grand gesture on his part confirming our shared devotion. It was a lusty journey because he hadn’t had a New Year’s fuck in over 10 years. Thus he felt it worth the effort and I was excited because not being a ‘New Year’s’ person I had never had a shag to welcome in the New Year.
Sadly it was all a little disappointing. My boyfriend was a recovering alcoholic and having recently packed in the booze was low on energy and physically recovering from excessive alcohol abuse for 3 years on his 45 year old body. The valium may have eased his need for the drink but it did render performance problems. I had never really had sex before with my parents in the next bedroom so couldn’t really let loose and ride in the New Year with any vigour or vocalisation. It ended up being a very vanilla style session. We adopted a very last session laying side by side, my leg raised for his entry and then a slow, deep, constant penetration to ensure the bed wasn’t rocking audibly and the headboard wasn’t banging rhythmically to alert my parents to what activity their little girl was indulging in. My orgasm muffled by a pillow and his tampered by his inhibited English manners. His inhibition was so great he was reluctant to even cum for fear of him staining the bed. It was a short celebratory session. Both of us smiling in the dark that we’d finally broken the New Year’s sex drought (mine at 31 years significantly longer tan his ten year abstinence) but also realistic at the subdued nature of the act of love.
What made it so disappointing was that only a week earlier we’d been be staying at a rather posh Downton Abbey-esque hotel by the sea in Norfolk and I’d been riding him and screaming down the house for three nights and mornings on the trot.
Even earlier in the Christmas season his lust had been so frenzied that when I’d been drunk and returned home from my work Christmas party in a cab because I couldn’t stand up straight let alone string a sentence together with any coherence and had vomit down my chin, he opened the front door where I was being deposited with the greeting, ‘Wow you look like a movie star!’ (Really??? In that state???).
It was true, it was the first time he’d seen me fully made up and in a dress but 6 hours of non-stop binge drinking really should’ve taken the shine off me. Instead he looked at me like I was a mesmerising Christmas tree in Times Square and began pushing me up the stairs.
I got up stairs and collapsed on our bed, only to wake an hour later with his hard cock pushing at my buttocks. The minute I groaned, authorising my state of wakefulness he wasted no time in pulling at my control knickers and tights. I could feel his hard cock placing itself between my plump bum cheeks and as he continued to thrust he reached around my front to see how wet I was. And even drunk I was wet and wanting. His hand could feel how moist I was and his fingers slipped in easily. After finger-blasting my vagina, spreading it and bringing my to my first orgasm, my responsive moans had him demanding a little more action from me.
He insisted I get on all fours for a doggy style ramming. My head was in the bed already pounding with tomorrow morning’s hangover. We agreed later, given my state, it was borderline date rape, but kinda sexy cause it was safe. I was begging him no more but he wasn’t having it. If anything he was making me look in the mirror to acknowledge how allegedly beautiful I was and then thrusting his cock into my mouth.
Knowing I was unable to physically prevent him from having his wicked way he then started telling me he wanted to ‘fuck my arse’. I love anal – as does he – but am normally hygienic about it and like to feel comfortable. Because I was drunk and worried about muscle control (or rather the lack of) I pleaded with him not too. I said I was worried about a mess and knew I had to go to the toilet so felt uncomfortable about it. All this was mumbled and he shook his head and said we’d done far filthier and had far bigger messes take place in the bed. When I expressed my concern about the passage not being clean he was not deterred by my concern and confession of a few stumbling, brown obstacles that may hinder the process of an anal pounding.
STOP READING HERE IF YOU ARE OF A NERVOUS DISPOSITION
In a festive fucking frenzy whilst using his fingers and some baby oil to prime my arse and widen the entrance for his overly thick cock he reached up inside and pulled three malteaser size balls of poo from my bottom. I realise this sounds gross but for him to do that and not lose his erection I can only assume I must’ve looked fucking gorgeous that night. To my shame I was so inebriated I was fascinated that he’d done it and while he forced his cock into my ring piece I watched with an almost childish joy as I saw the three little balls roll down the mattress. I was about to grab them, marvelling at how perfectly symmetrical, smooth and round they were but was prevented from doing so as my boyfriend slapped my arse hard, pulled my hair and thrust deep and then came, making me cry out and forget the poo and focus on the pain and pleasure.
That was certainly a Christmas cracker and a great start to the festive season in 2009. It’s just a shame the sexual start to the New Year of 2010 involved a rather bland, conservative and restrained speedy almost teenage pump. So being single or involved will not influence your sexual takings for these festive holidays. I’m now married and I have to say Christmas remains a bonanza spectacular style attitude to festive fucking (thankfully there is no more forceful faeces extraction required) but New Year’s we don’t even bother with – better to have no sex than bad sex. Who wants to start the New Year with a lousy fuck???
A transcript between me and my husband – three months into marriage. He’d just had a shower and graced our bedroom with his beautiful naked body.
S: Ooooh hello you look good.
S: Seriously you’re lush. How can someone your age have the body of a twenty something.
E: I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere.
S: Oh come on you’re 48 and you’re skin is like perfect, there’s not a hair anywhere. Well actually you could do with a trim. It’s a wonder that snake can find his way out of that forest.
S: I’m just playing. It’s just we only shaved you once over the summer. I only like the voluminous curls in the winter months. Nice to run my hands through something warm on those cold nights.
E: Sounds like you’re more worried about flossing with my pubes.
S: Well it’s bad enough that my own hair gets in the way. A little trim would help. It’s weird when I find myself extracting my hair from your foreskin mid job. It’s even more weird when I find myself having to lick the duvet cover to remove the stringy pubes off my tongue.
E: Well I’ve never prevented you taking a razor to me.
S: True, true. Awww come here for a cuddle. I just can’t resist all those boyish good looks…
E: You look pretty too baby.
S: Don’t say that.
E: You do!
S: No like, just say something nice to me because I’ve said something nice to you.
E: But I mean it.
S: Well it’d mean more if it was a little more spontaneous.
E: Oh well I’m sorry I’m not more romantic.
S: Can you stop that?
S: This admiring yourself in the mirror. Seriously how big headed can you be?
E: I’m not admiring myself. I’m looking at my gut. It’s huge.
S: Oh My God – what the hell. You’ll never be fat – you don’t have the build.
E: I’ve never been this big.
S: Yeah but you were underweight when we met. Now you’re just normal weight. Anyway we look better like this. It’s weird me being morbidly obese and you ano.
E: You’re not obese…and I’m not fucking ano. I just – this stomach.
S: Baby it’s sexy.
E: You’re saying that to make me feel better.
S: I’m not. Listen there’s something really nice about the little soft curve of your tummy. Anyway if you want the truth it really turns me on when I’m licking your balls and I look up and see your tummy. That thatch of hair running to your belly button. It’s hot. Makes me feel pervy.
E: Yeah you like that?
S: I prefer it.
E: Been a while since we’ve had a big session.
S: I know.
E: And I really need one. I wake up feeling so fucking horny at the moment but cause you don’t sleep….
S: What! We’ve not had sex in ages. I’d be happy to have it whatever the time of day.
E: No you reject me.
S: I don’t.
E: You tell me to get off.
S: I do not.
E: You did the other morning.
S: I didn’t I just moaned and the next thing I know your cock was bouncing off my bum cheeks. I hadn’t even opened my eyes. I didn’t say get off, I just said I was sleepy.
E: Yeah but I’m dying for an all nighter. I just don’t know why you’re off sex at the moment.
S: I’m not off sex. I just don’t like myself at the moment…so I can’t figure why anyone would want to have sex with me. But I fancy you…
E: Yeah and I fancy you.
S: But you aren’t going without. I gave you a blow job two days ago.
E: Yes and you do give the best known blow jobs in the universe –
S: And you’ve always said you consider a blow job to constitute having sex. I’ve always said in my view it’s not sex so at the moment you’re having sex and I’m not.
E: Do you know how weird that sounds.
S: I thought you liked blow jobs.
E: I do and I’m happy to have you suck my cock forever but I … wellI wanna be inside you. A girl needs to be fucked senseless once in a while.
S: And I want you to fuck me, I really do. I’m just…I can’t get into a sexy vibe.
E: You liked it last week. (pause) You did like it didn’t you.
S: Yeah I loved it. It was great.
E: And I only used spit to fuck your arse.
S: Which should tell you how much I loved it if you got it in there lube free.
E: It didn’t hurt.
S: No using the vibe in my arse to relax the muscles worked a treat. I have wanted you to fuck my arse so badly but cause we haven’t done it in ages I had serious concerns.
E: That you didn’t want me to do it.
S: No that I’d be so tight you wouldn’t be able to do it.
E: Hun your arse was so relaxed it was like a cunt. Felt amazing.
S: It did and you went for ages. Oh oh and I loved when you put the vibe in my arse to relax it that you were fucking me doggy style at the same time.
E: Felt like you came so hard when I was doing that. You’re kegel muscles were clamping and massaging my cock and that was even before I switched.
S: It was full on. My legs were trembling afterwards. My whole body was tingling. I’m guessing that must be what it’s like to be doubly penetrated. And cause I was on all fours every time you thrusted you pushed the pink vibe in my arse as well. Fucking amazing.
E: Hmmm you sound like you wanna have sex again.
S: Well I paid for it the next day. Seriously this not having sex regularly. The next day I felt like I was giving birth to Mick Jagger. This massive pair of lips protruding from my vagina. They were so swollen it hurt to sit down and to be honest it’s not right that I should be sitting in a cinema with a 4 year old watching ‘Hotel Transylvania’ and thinking about my vagina.
E: You couldn’t shit right for a month.
S: I couldn’t shit right, I couldn’t sit right.
E: If we had more sex you’d get used to being stretched again.
S: Yeah but it’s all about timing isn’t it. You like sex in the morning, but I’m always sleepy.
E: You wan to fuck at night but I’m always sleepy after my evening meal and, you know, we settle down for telly.
S: So we should have afternoon sex. We could do it while your Dad watches the soaps. But you have to let me make you come:
E: No. You know it’s like a tranquilizer. I’ll crash out and not make dinner and then….
S: Yeah but then if I have to wait till after dinner to give you a blow job.
E: I thought you liked my cock.
S: I do but if I have to finish you off after we’ve eaten. Well it’s like, you know I like to do as much washing up as I can before we eat so I can sit down and enjoy tea, cause if I see a mountain of washing up it’s just a chore that spoils my enjoyment of the meal?
S: Well if we do all that fucking and you keep tabs of my multiple orgasms.
E: Your excessive multiple orgasms.
S: Well whatever. Anyway it’s like then I have to make you come and sometimes it takes ages cause you’re a little older, your mind wanders, your Dad interrupts or moves around and kills the mood with the threat of coming upstairs.
E: Well I don’t want it to be a chore or a mercy blow job.
S: You don’t give a fuck about my intention. In fact you once said you get off on having sex with me when I’m not well because you like the idea of me performing under duress.
E: I do. I love it when you’re moaning more because you ache rather than ecstasy. That’s as close to being a sadist as I get.
S: Yeah well if I have to wait till after dinner to give you a blow job…it’s like the washing up. It’s kinda – a little less spontaneous, a little less in the moment, a little more like a job. And then there’s the whole….well you’re thick and I gag and having just eaten there’s the whole reflux thing. I’ve got pureed chicken and chips being upchucked.
E: I like the feel of that.
S: What you like the head of your cock being washed in a regurgitated meal?
E: It’s cool that you choke on my cock. I like feeling the wall of food hit my cock and you struggling to swallow the food down, your eyes streaming.
S: Well it’s not so pleasant for me.
E: But you’ve made me horny and I wasn’t feeling so great before.
S: How comes?
E: Cause I was in the shower and, you know, it’s a little cold. I’m not ashamed to say I’m a grower not a show-er and I looked down and my ball sack is significantly lower than my cock.
S: But it was cold. When it warms up and stuff…your cock’s fine.
E: It’s not though. I’ve got like a droopy ball sack.
S: Oh don’t be stupid. It’s fine. It looks okay. I can’t see a problem. I told you I love licking your balls, putting ‘em in my mouth and stuff.
E: Yeah but it’s a known fact that the older you get the lower your balls hang.
S: So it it’s normal. What’s the problem? I think it looks aesthetically pleasing. It’s not like you’ve got an acorn and your balls are down round your knees.
E: Give it 5 years.
S: Oh come on.
E: I’m being serious. I mean look at it. Look at all this excess skin.
S: Have you ever seen ‘Puppetry of the Penis’ cause the way you’re pulling that looks like a turkey gobbler of something. I think maybe you could do some of the tricks and stuff they do on stage.
E: I’ve not seen it and I don’t wanna fucking be in it. LOOK AT THIS SKIN. That’s not right. I think like I need a scrotum tuck.
S: Are you being serious?
E: Well yes I am.
S: You want a scrotum tuck?
E: Yeah I do. If we get some money together….What would you have a problem with that?
S: Ummm look I gotta be honest. I just don’t see the problem.
E: Yeah but I’m the only man you’ve ever been longer than a night. You don’t have any oter male genitalia that you’re familiar with as a point of reference.
S: That should be a good thing cause if it really is … hanging low … I’m not gonna know any way to complain or make an issue of it. You’re good, you’re in the clear. It can hang exactly where it want. Just hang there. Like your balls are a pendulum on a clock. Hanging in there and I’m just taking it in without passing judgment. In fact if I position myself right sometimes when you’re fucking me from behind your balls actually rub against my clit. Feels fucking amazing. Guaranteed orgasm the minute I feel them swinging in to hit the clit.
E: Sounds like you have an opinion. Seems to me like you’re now saying you think they hang low. Do you think it hangs low?
S: No we’ve just said I couldn’t possible comment. All I can say is, for me, personally I think your balls look great. You know why do you think when I get you to the point where you’re ready to come I like you to kneel over me and finish yourself off. It’s not to be porno and have you cum in my mouth or over my tits – it’s so I can lick and suck your balls. I love ‘em.
E: But if I wanted a scrotum tuck?
S: If you really want one and we get the money then….you know I think it’s fine, I fancy you but if it’s gonna make you feel better I’ll support you.
E: You’ll back me getting a scrotum tuck?
S: Sure yeah of course. I don’t think you need one, but you were there when I got the gastric band and supported me even though you didn’t agree so – go for it baby.
E: Oh my god I can’t believe you think I should get a scrotum tuck.
E: You’d let me go through with it. For fuck’s sake S who’s gonna see my balls. Just you and maybe a doctor. Two people are gonna see my balls and you’d let me go ahead and have a scrotum tuck. I can’t believe you wouldn’t dissuade me. You haven’t even attempted to talk me out of it.
S: I thought you wanted one.
E: I was just testing you. Seeing how you’d react. I don’t want a scrotum tuck. Who the fuck is gonna see my balls to care, but you’d let me have that surgery?
S: I didn’t know what to say. I was trying to be supportive. You know if it was gonna make you happy and all – give you some confidence – who am I to say no? Course you’re right. Only me and a medical professional will see your bits.
E: And that S is my point.
E: I fancy you and I’m the only one you fuck so if I find you sexy what do you care what other people think? Do they actually matter in respect of your weight? Are we braking our entire sex life because of what you think other people, that don’t even fuck you and never will, might think about your looks?
S: Errr so are you sorting your ball sack out or what?
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.
Is it not always the way that when we have sex on tap the desire can at times wane…well not wane so much but as the well isn’t going dry any time soon you don’t rush to fill your bucket up at every opportunity – so to speak. However when there’s a hint of the well drying up or access being restricted for a time the thirst begins.
And so to the 21st Century family of broken homes and fighting for access to children. In our particular case we get access to my new husband’s eldest son on school holidays – this meant for August we had the joy of having him for a full ten nights.
Being 14, the boy is an abundance of testosterone and mood swings. For the most part he’s a complete delight but in the last twelve months he’s gone from being a little brother to an inquisitive teen that spends the majority of his time trying to grab hold of my tits, looking for a cuddle on the bed which tends to end up with his head nuzzling my bosoms (perhaps because his stick thin, hard nosed mother barely has bee stings). He has also cottoned onto the fact that his father, with a girlfriend must be having constant sex and I’m bombarded with all kinds of questions from how often we do it, to the types of positions , to ‘hasn’t grandfather every walked in at an inopportune moment (we live with my father-in-law-, to ‘isn’t it weird looking at pictures of me on the wall when you and Dad are having sex?’ My husband has always told me to answer any questions with an honest response but it’s a delicate balance.
One thing his ever thoughtful son is keen to offer us is ‘sexy time’ (as he calls it). Whenever me and the fellow start bickering his son will pipe up with ‘is it because you haven’t had sex in four days?’ Whilst this immediately diffuses the situation I sometimes think there is a grain of truth in it. We do however decline the offer for sexy time – which might be mean because perhaps he’s hoping for a wank in the shower while we get our end away.
Being scared of his grandfather’s house we all share a room together, which is sweet and certainly fulfils my desire of being a family unit but does obstruct a couple with a seriously high sex drive. In fact the enforced abstinence tends to further fuel our sex drive.
Before everything kicked off with the horrid ex-wife last year we used to see his son one weekend a month. Clearly my rapport with his son and the time, energy and love I invest in the two of them together is a huge turn on. The first holiday we went on together, even with separate bedrooms, my then boyfriend was reluctant to have sex on the three week holiday in Australia – and this was with us having separate bedrooms – for fear of psychologically scarring his child if he found out. Fast forward a year later and we’re in a tiny cottage at the foot of the peaks all sharing the one bedroom and in a complete state of lust he demands sex the minute his son is in the shower – a shower I might with a door that doesn’t even close because the 300 year old cottage’s structure is moving. THEN suddenly it’s okay to be rammed mercilessly and quickly while an innocent is metres away having a quick wash.
For a lot of people a dry spell with sex may mean months, for us it’s more like 7 days. In fact if we got seven days without sex we pretty much book ourselves in for a family therapy session. So the truth is of late, with one stress or another we consider our sex life to be on a downward spiral having sec onl once a week. The one way we boost this is to ensure we have at least one drug fuelled sex marathon a month – this consists of at least a sixteen hour sex session including all sorts of depravity which keeps the sex resentment at bay.
But when you have a ten day sex ban as a result of circumstances it’s a different kettle of fish. It is inappropriate to as a guardian or parent to prioritise sex over spending time with your child. But then we aren’t the most appropriate guardian and parent in the world. I suspect we broke a few boundaries when his son found our ‘slut’ paddle, which when spanked correctly will leave the word slut emblazoned upon your buttock. Then there was there was the time the top cupboard door flew open to reveal an open top box with a rather large protruding glass dildo exposed to the naked eye. These few ‘findings’ obviously got the cogs in the teenager’s head rotating and connecting the fact that these devices meant dad is having regular sex.
To top it all off, on his most recent visit he was intent on trying to throw unwanted celebration chocolates (who doesn’t like snickers? – what a waste) from the bedroom window into a flower pot in the back yard and in his peripheral vision caught sight of an 8inch slim pink object hidden behind some books. He whisked it out and asked if it was a dildo. I had no choice but to explain it was a vibrator. Bizarrely enough he refused to believe me. He then stumbled on a 5 inch very slim ‘wand’ – which I explained was also a vibrator. He still refused to believe me until I actually turned them on to prove what the devices were. Things took a turn for the worse when his father explained to him how best to test the quality of the vibrator by putting it against the tip of your nose to feel how strong the vibrations actually were. The child insisted on doing this.
Generally speaking our toy box is always cleaned at the end of a night with soap and water and TCP, but because the vibrators are used so regularly and only by us they do not get cleaned, so seeing a 14 year old man handle these instruments was a bit perturbing. More so later when he discussed with me their usage claiming I inserted them. I was then left with the rather unenviable task of explaining I use the vibrator for clitoral stimulation – I decided not to divulge the fact that his father’s preference for the ‘wand’ was to have it on the under shaft near the head of the penis while being massaged. I then had to give a very quick sex lesson on the clitoris and what positions using the vibrator would aid.
After a formal interrogation as to whether I give blow jobs and the quality of them he lost interest in them, which alleviated a lot of discomfort and certainly the teens pending sexual tension.
We on the other hand had another three sexless nights upon us and I knew my partner was beginning to grow restless as each evening his hand found mine and firmly guided it to his rock hard cock. With his son gently snoring I would hold it firmly and occasionally move my hand up and down it until my hubby’s loud snoring was in tandem with his son’s, but one particular night hubby did not fall asleep or start snoring – rather his hand reached behind him trying to find entry into my pyjama bottoms and groping to rub my clit. I thought this was going to lead to a mutual masturbation session. We’d done this a couple of times before as it was easy to perform unnoticed as his son was a heavy sleeper, but a wank was not going to satisfy his appetite that evening. After a few minutes he was whispering for me to go downstairs.
It’s been a while since we’ve done it in a forbidden are at a forbidden time but there was something quite sexy about grabbing the pink vibrator and purple wand and heading downstairs in the dark. Sneaking silently into the front room, turning the light on and looking round to see my husband’s hard cock protruding from his black Calvin boxers. I dropped to my knees to suck it, but he was already frantically pushing me off and insisting I get on all fours – as I did he was pulling down my pyjama bottoms and without warning plunging into my c*nt. Because it had been a while his forced entrance made me feel stretched and a little pained as it was driving into an area not completely lubed. It wasn’t long before I became juicy and scrambled for the vibrator so that I could come on his cock as he thrust into me. Normal vanilla sex would be him fucking me till I come and then me sucking him and using the vibrating wand until he came. As I began the dirty talk asking for permission to cum, could I cum on his cock and where he was going to ejaculate on me he was already going deeper. So deep, he was simulating my g-spot and the pleasure and pain of taking such a monstrous cock made it difficult for me to even get the words out. It made no difference because without much warning he began jerking inside me and I could feel almost two weeks of sperm pumping into me. So much so it was literally squirting out of me as he finished himself off. He stayed inside me as my c*nt began to grip his cock as I came and then it was literally a ‘come on, we need to get upstairs before anyone notices.’
Everyone was going to notice I had cum all over my thighs and that I reeked of sex and sperm. It was leaking out of me and onto my pyjama bottoms, the whiff of that by morning would quickly give the game away so I had no choice but to have a quick shower and throw my clothes in the wash and dig out fresh pyjamas. At least I had some security in the knowledge that 14 year old boys do not pay attention to what women wear. In fact I had a theory that at that age they were pretty self absorbed so you could get away with a fair amount of behaviour without them noticing or questioning it.
That is until the next day when the inevitable onslaught of sex talk began and we were teasing him about us having sex the previous night and he couldn’t quite determine whether we were serious or not, he confessed he knew we performed sex antics while he was in the room as he woke one night to me giving his father a blow job…or hand job. I can honestly say the blow job is not true, but the hand job…well there was definitely that time in Australia when we all shared a room and since then…
We need to rethink the ‘slight of hand antics’ for the forthcoming year or two me thinks.
Following on from last fortnights post I take you back to a drug fuelled very sordid, very filthy sex marathon. As things were left having started with vanilla style sex, we progressed into a light cross dressing and some dominatrix role play, some very intense water sports completed with me rogering my man with my glorious giant purple strapless strap on. Now it was collar off for him and collar on for me.
This brings a somewhat rather different dynamic to the evening. When he wears the whore collar, he’s submissive and under my command. When he has me wearing the whore collar the idea is for me to demonstrate how much of a whore I can be. Normally this starts with me having to clean his cock up. Often he will leave it unwashed for a few days to ensure I’m tasting something that’s a cross between Gorgonzola cheese and an old sock. There’s something so repulsive of having to undertake this act that it turns me on doing it.
That having been done I have to make myself look glamorous so I’m ordered to ‘make’ myself up. The set up of the room and the dark lighting means I need to be near the dress mirror but always open to any advances whatsoever. Thus my legs must remain parted and to ensure the make up is immaculate I have to do my best to ignore him kneeling between my legs and flicking his tongue over my clit as his fingers push deeper and deeper into my cunt.
No sooner am I finished than he informs me he wants proof of just how much of a whore I really am. Implied duress and I find myself asking him to piss on my face. I hate this. I always have. It seems so disrespectful but its part of the game. And it’s the one part of the evening where I couldn’t feel any more like a whore – participating in a sexual act that I loathe and detest and yet that I trust him and want to please him and allow him to do it demonstrates great love and that in itself gets my cunt went.
I’m soaked through. He’s deliberately chosen to piss in my newly washed hair and I’m showered in it. He insists I rub it all in. Surprisingly enough as I rub it in, I find my cunt is wet with my own juice as well as his piss and he’s pleased when I bring myself to orgasm.
Soon enough I am on the bed on all fours in a possession of a 9 inch pink vibrator. I am using it to stretch my bottom and the vibrations in my arse are amazing. With a huge whiff of poppers my head becomes floaty and I’m trapped in only the physical sensations. Now my partner is using a glass decorative object (a rather nice 9inch glass dildo with balls increasing in size towards the base) into my arse. He encourages me to sit on it for it to go deeper but my rectum is not ready for this kind of invasion. My flinching must imply this to him as he stops quickly. I ask that he lube his fingers and insert them in me and spread them. At one time he used to be able to get 8 fingers in and when fucking my arse once relaxed he said it was like a second cunt. He seems pleased with how quickly my arse has reverted back to the size and stretch of its former glory. So much so he spreads my cheeks widely and plunges his tongue in. So stretched and so relaxed it triggers an anal orgasm – for most women this is unusual and difficult to achieve but with practise you have my word that the quality of orgasm puts it on a scale of its own. After much play he places a large butt plug my arse.
With that he asks me to get him hard, which takes seconds. His cock is beautiful and I’m desperate for his cum and tell him. We decide he will cum on my clit and I’m to rub it in for my last orgasm of the evening and then lick my fingers clean. Knowing this awaits the end of the sex marathon is something to look forward to rather than dread.
Pushed over onto the edge of the bed, my legs dangle over the edge and I’m instructed to raise my legs and spread them wide and instructed to pull my cunt as wide open as possible. I stretch it and am rewarded with licks and flicks and a tongue fuck. Such attention to my clit begins a multiple orgasm. The first comes but his tongue and fingers are relentless. No sooner has the first finished than a second starts. No sooner has the second finished then with a firm thumb placed over my clit and a third starts. From there on the orgasms continue as fast and with ever growing intensity till I can barely breathe, I beg him to stop – not because of the effort and attention he’s lavishing on me but the intensity and physical exertion of having a prolonged orgasm for more than 15 minutes is physically exhausting. I sit up, sucking his cock to distract him from spending more time on my genitals. Cock half hard he places it in me. I notice he has moved a bowl next to the bed, under where my legs are spread, my cunt cuddling his half erection. I feel his cock strain and then my uterus fills. There’s a warmth feeling and then a pressure, a pressure that touches every nerve sell in my uterus. He pulls out and a wave of his piss floods out between my thighs. The rush of it has my rubbing myself. He aims his cock and pisses directly onto my clit brining on an unexpected orgasm.
My fatigue is apparent and he relents momentarily from the endless orgasms but insists I get onth e bed doggy style. His cock pounds me and he taps the butt plug. I’m handed a pink vibrator and before long my entire body is convulsing. And he continues, his own fingers reach round to touch with my clit. His hands move up and down my body, pinching my nipples, spreading my buttocks to tap the butt plug and I begin to orgasm- clitoral, vaginal and anal. The sex is now straddling something between a religious experience and cruel torture. He eventually releases me.
Cuddles are brief and arbitrary before he gentle takes me down off the bed and onto the floor. I find myself kneeling on the carpet with towels placed around me and I know what’s coming. The anticipation excites me and my cunt gets wet. So wet there’s no need for the tubing attached to the funnel to be lubed. With a stretch arsed the tubing slides in easily. I allow it to go as far up as possible so that a little pressure on it brings small waves of orgasm throughout my being. The sound of him pissing in the funnel is almost as intoxicating as feeling his piss seep into me. His stream of piss is so strong there’s a splash back and little sprinkles of his warm piss shower onto me. I had an urge to finger or vibe my clit as he did it but with him working the tube in and out of my arse at varying speeds and depths yet another orgasm was inevitable. When it came the jolts through my body meant some of the piss spurted back up the tube only to have to be worked back into my colon. After that the decorative glass object is pushed into my arse, only this time its the full length of it. I’m proud I managed more than him. Apart from being a good bedroom achievement, I love the feel of my arse clamping round it.
But the night had to finish and there were final duties to be performed.
At this hour I can take my mind. It’s never just a simple blow job. It’s about shifting consciousness and submitting to the suggestion and sensations experienced. His beautiful cock is perfect in colour, shape, size and girth – it is one dildos should be modelled on. But the beast is proud and he wants to fuck my mouth and I want it to – knowing I’ll suffer tomorrow with the exertion and technique required. Once he’s hard, we inhale poppers and I’m told to feel each thrust in my mouth as if it were being delivered to my cunt. I hungrily take his cock in my mouth and do my best to slacken my throat to stop any reflux but the size of him hits my throat. He can read me,he knows I need to be fucked so as I take him deep and desperately his hand goes over my head and holds it there. He fucks me slow and deep, all the while whispering for me to feel it in my cunt. With closed eyes and an ability to move me consciousness and attention to other parts of my body I can feel his cock in my cunt, even though I hold it in my mouth. As he holds my head tight and I struggle, he lets me until my body wracks with an orgasm originating from my vagina. Only when I achieve climax does he release my head so I can get my breath back.
Then it’s time for me to finish him off. I work with a vibrator, my mouth, with my tongue, with my musician hands and with my piss. Forget lube or spit, my piss is what has his prick leaking thick clear pre-cum. After 8 hours he needs a break- we talk for an hour and begin again and soon enough he’s knelt between my spread legs and I see a huge wad of cum eject from the head of his cock and onto my clit. While he watches I rub the creamy cum into my clit to finish the evening with my final orgasm. I lick my fingers while he watches and we lay down in each others arms hoping that the drugs won’t keep us awake. As whenever he comes, the ejaculation is like a tranquillizer and he sleeps immediately. I can feel remnant of his sperm seeping down to the entrance of my vagina and feel all horny again with nothing to do but count down the hours till he wakes.
My soon to be husband said to me very early on in our relationship that the the great thing about monogamous sex was that it could really improve over time as you got to know how each others bodies responded to certain stimuli and also, knowing how each other’s minds operated meant you could improve your sex life with creativity and imagination. Foolishly I pooh poohed him on that, under the misapprehension sex could only ever stagnate and become vanilla.
Four years on and I have seriously had to review my initial opinion.
There comes a time when one must reconcile one’s self with age and physical capability. A sex marathon should never be passed on but it needs to be prepared for and in our case it needs to be drug fuelled. With age and a decreasing level of fitness non-stop excessively athletic sex needs a little help and if you can get your hands on a gram of go-gaine you’ll be set for a good 8 to 12 hour session. And after a little sex drought that’s what we decided to do in a bid to kick start things and get our sex life back on track.
That little buzz it gives once snorted immediately relaxes and clears the mind. For us cuddles naturally progress to some very slow warm up sex; both lying on our sides with him raising my left leg slightly and sliding in. In that position our bodies are pressed against each other, we can maintain eye contact and the movement of his cock in me is slow and intense. It also allows time for a little dirty talk to discuss what activities can be undertaken on the night ahead.
What was great for me here was that leading up to this night I had been having sever hormone treatment which had all but stolen my orgasm so had to prepare him that I might have difficulty being my most orgasmic self but to not worry. How wrong I was. Even with slow intimate sex and a little filthy suggestion I began cumming on his cock. The ultimate vaginal orgasm. I don’t know if he was placed in such a way he could rub my g-spot but three times I came on his cock and then it was time to ramp it up.
It was decided he should wear the ‘whore’ colour first. This allowed me to put make up on him and after pissing myself in my pink frilly knickers making him wear them: thus he really was bitch.
There is one thing that brings me to instant orgasm and that’s seeing my man wanks his arse with an object. Our chosen one is a 8 or 9 inch glass decorative object. It stars with a small glass ball and towards the base of the object they get thicker and thicker. Normally I would instruct him in detail as how I like him to use it but on this particular occasion I requested that he wank his arse as he would if he was by himself but warned if unhappy with his performance I’d instruct him and he would oblige. But he was being a good little whore and knew what I liked. Taking to all fours, facing the end of the bed end and raising his arse for my viewing pleasure; he slowly slid the glass dildo into is arse hole and began to work it in there – ball by ball. Given how out of practise we both were I was super impressed at the depth he achieved so quickly. Every so often he would raise on his haunches and begin to siit on the dildo to allow it to go further in. He managed to imbibe all but the last huge ball of the dildo. Then he resumed on all fours and begin rapidly moving the dildo in and out of his hole. With the thicker balls he would stop and rotate the dildo in a bid to stretch his arse hole. He knew I liked this. Done effectively and stretched properly it meant when he worked the item out as the smaller balls cam into view I could see a space in his arse where he’d stretched it to accommodate the bigger balls. This gap, the space, knowing I could slide a finger in there alongside the object at the same time drove me crazy. Sitting spread legged at the head of the bed with a pink vibe working my clit, as expected, my orgasm was phenomenally intense. The shudders of my body reverberated into him where my foot lay rested under his leg. I had promised if he did a good job with wanking his bum that I would not only rim but probe as deeply as possible with my tongue as a reward. Unfortunately after he heard me cum he immediately removed the object and turned round and asked if he could lick my cunt. I acknowledged the gesture but reminded him who was in charge. I spanked him twice with the leather paddle that leaves the imprint of the word ‘slut’ when struck on bare skin, but given the generosity of his univited offer I did spread his bum cheeks and tongue him. I would’ve allowed him to sit on my face had he been completely obedient but it’s all a learning curve.
Visual stimulation isn’t always associated with women, it’s considered more of a male trait on he sexual side of things. Whether a result of me being a gay man trapped in a woman’s body or the fact that I watch too much porn there are certain ‘pictures’ I like during a sex marathon. A favourite is porno cock – that is a nice hard large cock clearly visible through the underpants. With piss stained translucent lacy French knickers I wanted porno cock. I asked him to play with himself and he put his hands in his pants and began to wank. But the wait time was annoying. In the end I took over and moments after my hand clamped round his dick I felt it firm up. Now standing to attention I placed it back in the knickers so I could see his big cock straining to break free.
But I was in charge and he was wearing the collar so really I shouldn’t have had to wank him. For that there was punishment. Loving and gentle but disciplinary. I grabbed the leather paddle an the word ‘slut’ was soon emblazoned on his left buttock as a reminder that it was not my job to get him hard; he needed to do that himself.
The thing with go-gaine is that you get very dehydrated and drink – A LOT. Soon enough you need to go to the toilet. I instructed my partner to get on the floor on all fours. He obliged me and I grabbed a deep plastic bowl and put it under his head. Quickly but not cruelly I grabbed his head and said if he wanted to lick my cunt now would be the time. He pushed his face there and I held his hair firmly preventing him from withdrawing and pissed on his face. He had his tongue out wanting more so I picked up the bowl and allowed him to drink the piss from the bowl.
I was careful not to completely empty my bladder because I knew what came next. From our box of goodies I retrieved a 3ft length of tubing and a large funnel. I attached the tubing to the funnel and then lubed up the open end of the tube, as well as my man’s arse. Very slowly I began to insert the tube into is bottom and then slide the length in. Here I allowed him to tell me when it was in as far as he was comfortable with. I have him some poppers to help him relax and then took the funnel and squatted over it. I pissed into the funnel and began to watch my piss be absorbed into his body. It was intimate and filthy and wonderful watching his arse consume literally a litre of my piss. This action while incredibly pleasurable to receive does evoke an almost immediate desire to use the toilet. But wearing the ‘whore’ collar I felt he needed to be tested a bit. So as quickly as I pulled the tube out of his arse I replaced it with a small black but plug. I went round to the front, grabbed his hair and thrust his face in my cunt and pissed a little into his mouth. I straddled him and just pissed on his back – like his body was a urinal and then massaged my warm urine into his skin as he moaned. Not to let him off lightly I removed the plug and straight away began easing back in the tubing. Before he had time to complain he was being filled with my piss again and moaning in delight and despair at having to keep it all in.
Once done I put the but plug in and squatting over his arse let the final drops drip from my cunt so the piss fell down on his balls. He very quietly asked if he might be excused to the toilet to remove the butt plug as he felt he may have an accident and wasn’t coping with the excess of liquid inside him. Pleased at his efforts I allowed him to go to the toilet and even gave him a cigarette to have.
When he returned I cuddled him and fondled his cock. It was half way to an erection, I pissed a little on it and he whimpered as I sat on it. That spongy feeling of him pushing it in me felt good. I could move around on him and rub my clit against his pelvic bone. It bought me to orgasm and the contractions on his cock meant I felt him firm up completely while inside me. I sprung off – this time of the night was about my pleasure not his. His would come later.
Aware that as a result of our recent lack of sexual inactivity his posterior I had to be a little gentle. The idea was an attempt to recondition it, not abuse it to the point where it would be out of action. But I am a gay man in a woman’s body and it wasn’t long before the strapless strap on was out. I had him on his side and soon enough, after some rearranging and pliable body parts my 8 inch purple cock slid into his arse. I held him close in my embrace as his bottom became accustomed to the girth of my faux member, but soon enough he was begging for me to fuck him so I began sliding it in and out. In order to go deeper I knelt up and forced my cock in his ask while he remained on his side.
I rolled him on his back to admire how pretty he was. Decided he’d be much prettier if I shaved his pubic region. With a warm bowl of water, electric shaver, shaving cream and a razor I delicately shaved his pubic hair. He had a pre pubescent look and with the make up looked like a youthful gay boy made someone’s prag in a prison. Truth is I often fantasized about showing him off to gay men knowing how desperate they’d be to have a slice of his arse. Teasing and taunting them, showing them what he could do, how beautiful and flexible he is and knowing that his arse is all mine. The straight woman’s.
I requested he suck my cock, stroke it and mind the sensitive head. The drugs and being that high on intimacy I actually managed to orgasm from him sucking my cock. There was a definite physical reaction with my body shuddering and convulsing in delight. It was amazing that plastic strap-on didn’t spurt semen cause it felt like it should’ve.
So turned on I had his arms over my shoulder and had my cock in him. Rather than going for slow and seductive I let my lust dominate me and fucked him furiously and deeply. He never complained once. Moaned and groaned and tried to shallow the depthness but he didn’t say no or stop, until I made the executive decision to. But there was no rest for the wicked. I raised hi arse with two pillows and reached for the tubing and funnel. The tube was inserted into his arse and I stood on the bed so he had full vision of me pissing into the funnel. Better still for him he could see my piss moving down the clear tube and into his arse. Once he’s taken it all I removed the funnel and removed the collar.
‘You’re turn next,’ he said.
What makes a guy attractive? And what makes a man physically irresistible.
I like to think the majority of men I’ve slept with have ranked pretty high in terms of their looks. Graded most women would place them at 7 or up on a scale of 10. It used to be phenomenally important to me to sleep with men extraordinarily good looking and far superior in their physical attractiveness in comparison with me in order to affirm what little self confidence I had and to ensure my conquests were boasts to be proud of.
But there were one or two that slipped through the net in terms of physical beauty and I question why I allowed it. The person in mind was not great beauty in fact he barely even made the grade as average or ‘plain looking’. In truth he was ugly.
It’s a harsh judgement to make; subjective and dependant on taste but had the man in mind and my liaison with him ever gone public I would have been ashamed. Yes that sounds shallow and horrid on my part and back then I suppose some aspects of me were but at 5’2 with a greasy blonde mullet, pock marked skin, buck teeth and a limp no reasonable person could have dragged him into any other category looks-wise other than …. unattractive.
Yet I was besotted with the man. For an evening or two – just till I’d bedded him…well fucked him in the downstairs toilets of the theatre I worked at.
And so what lure did this goblin like creature have for me, particularly as I was stone cold sober and drug free? He had a confidence to him and he had ‘the chat’. He was conversationally engaging. The words dropping from his tongue seemed to give him some kind of aura that made me want him. His sheer dismissiveness of me when I was or should have been the toast of the theatre as its manager, calling the shots with music, free drinks and lock ins had me annoyed and sexually hungry.
I was furious with myself for wanting him, knowing I could do better and with great ease. Perhaps it was the challenge or just to prove to myself that he was all chat and no little repugnant hobbit could really resist my charm.
I was on charm offensive. It took three nights hard work. I bore 36 hours of back handed compliments and physical brush offs, but by Friday night I had exercised my tongue (not on his cock but in competition with his sharp wit) so that he took me seriously enough to linger with a last drink…as I let the normal punters head home at closing and invited my naughty gnome to stay for another pint.
His height was problematic. Fortunately the bar stools were quite high so sitting on the stool and me standing behind the bar we were roughly about the same height so I could go in for the kiss. His bugs bunny teeth banging against my own perfect pearly whites. My hands twirling the ends of his mullet and wondering if I could wipe the grease from his hair into the oil vat out the back of the restaurants to cooks the following nights chips in.
I gravitated from the behind the bar to between his legs, testing the cock and to my surprise finding it wasn’t as stumpy as his shorter leg.
I admit it I was drunk. It was Friday night and Friday night was FUBAR night (that’s a drink abbreviated for Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition consisting of two shots of vodka, two shot of gin, two shots of bacardi and a bacardi breezer all poured into a pint glass) and I had indulged. I must have because I cannot for the life of me recall how we somehow made our way from the bar downstairs to the toilets by the entrance to the stalls of the theatre.
But I do recall sitting on the row of sinks, skirt hitched up, with a pugly pygmy’s face buried between my spread legs. And I remember loving it. I mean it was ugly sex but maybe that was the appeal or turn on for me.
Clearly there was no way (unless he stood on a beer crate or slipped into some mammoth platforms from the 70s) he was going to be able to fuck me on the sink so I did an unforgivable (in terms of hygiene) and allowed myself to be fucked on a toilet floor.
You have to remember the west-end (fringe) theatre I was managing at the time had a late night bar and the clientèle were musicians, actors and dancers from surrounding theatre-land. These were not restrained or orderly in their social habits. So the floor had already been subject to at least 8 hours of spilt alcohol, god knows what may have been on the soles of the toilet users shoes, possible pee from having to drip dry (my fault for not ensuring the toilet rolls were kept full and fresh in each cubicle), possible other mishaps from bowel or uterus and most definitely spunk from other Friday night filthy encounters patrons had been engaging in.
And there I was, in the mess, knickers and tights down round my ankle having ugly sex on an ugly and smelly floor.
That sex has stayed with me. Because it was hot. Because it was wrong. Because I should never have allowed it to happen. I used to wear all black and by the time I’d been shafted severely by a midget with the sex style of a pneumatic drill my attire did not in any way disguise my antics.
There’d been something about having something so little and ugly working its way round and relishing all of me that had made me wetter than ever. I still find it repulsive as I write and yet can still get wet at the sheer disgust he evoked in me combined with the pleasure he actively bestowed on me. I’m not sure what it was…seeing my juices all round his plump lips with those protruding teeth; those tiny little hands with sausage fingers – one resting on the mound of my vagina a thumb pressing against my clit while the other hand slipped two deliciously short fingers furiously inside me; that grimy unwashed body sweating over me as he fucked away – the grubby droplets being massaged into me as he clambered over me to get his dick in as far as it could go. Whatever it was it worked. It was sexy and unforgettable.
By the time I arranged myself and watched the minuscule excuse for a man dress with morbid fascination that I had just had very intimate and exciting relations with I was holding his hand and walking up the stairs of the theatre and passed the box office to find the Saturday Box Office morning shift were starting – which meant it was 9am and I had been caught hand in hand with someone very ugly and very obviously another shag from the numerous punters I was clocking up from that particular venue.
She was disapproving – not of my choice (she was no stunner herself), more that I was her boss and was clearly conducting myself in a manner she felt not befitting a manager.
She was probably right.
There was no more ugly sex with him. Or ever again. Which is a shame really because looking back it was definitely worth a revisit. My only opportunity though was when our paths crossed at another theatre. The theatre and my position was far more civilized and orderly….and the sinks were way too high for the initial foreplay.
Given a lot of my life is spent being recorded, I thought for a change I might transcribe some conversations between myself and my boyfriend for a teasing insight into my present sex life and a hint of the more extreme stories and bedroom adventures that have come into being since committing to the one dick.
S: Fucking hell my vagina hurts.
E: What in a good way?
S: I think you were erring to the right yesterday. That particular lip seems to be sore when I’m sitting.
E: That’s a fucking good opening line for a play.
S: Better than ‘How’s your vage?’
E: As good as! Tell you what you could do, you could do your next blog post as dialogue.
S: That’s not a bad idea. Kinda like a script – a record of us chatting shit.
E: How’s your arse-hole by the way?
S: Very good all things considered.
E: There’s your next line.
S: I have to say, on reflection, in the words of Sun Tzu you picked the right strategy to get in there.
E: But how does it feel?
S: At the moment I’m desperate for a poo. It’s been three days and normally I’d welcome a bowel evacuation but given the charge you led last night I just know it’s gonna hurt so it’s clenched buttocks for me for the time being. Doing my best to delay the inevitable. Oh don’t look glum, at the time it felt good. You had the element of surprise so I didn’t have time to think about it which means I couldn’t freeze or squeeze as it were.
E: An astute general will strike thunder and lightning so that neither the ears nor eyes of his foe can be closed to them.
S: I really wish I knew what that actually meant.
E: It means…..well I was forceful enough so that your bumhole couldn’t keep me out.
S: In any case it worked. It’s been like, what, at least three months since we had anal sex.
E: Not for the want of trying.
S: Oh come on, that’s not my fault. I’m the one facing permanent sexual rejection.
E: Oh please, I never reject you. That’s so untrue.
S: Tis true. I still find you really attractive, I still get horny for you but you…
E: That’s not fair. I think you’re beautiful but this…situation isn’t great.
S: No it’s not. Anyway I better get on. Nothing like being on your hands and knees cleaning piss off the bathroom floor. It’s as close to a golden shower as I’m gonna get.
E: Stay while I finish my fag.
S: Nah no other idiot is going to clean this pig-sty before your son gets here.
E: I’m cooking Sunday dinner.
S: Yeah well cooking or having your hand down a toilet – you’ve not exactly drawn the short straw.
E: Why are you being mean?
S: I’m not being fucking mean. I have work to do.
E:You’re snapping at me.
S: What like a snapping turtle?
E: Exactly and you know how I feel about snapping turtles. I’ve told you what vicious creatures they are and the fucking damage they can do. If they got a hold of your finger…
S: YES I know you’ve told me all this before. Anyway if you hate snapping turtles so much why are you gonna marry one?
E: There’s no date set.
S: Fuck off. That’s a really shit thing to say. Why do you have to be so horrible?
E: I’m joking. Come on, you’re fucked off with Chris the cleaner not me.
S: Well it’s not funny.
S: Anyway how do you know it’s Chris that I’m cross about, it might be my sore right lip – and it does fucking hurt.
E: I’m sorry. What can I do to make it better?
S: (Laughs) Kiss it better!
E: I would.
S: I know.
E: What can I do about it?
S: There’s nothing you can do about it.
E: What can you do about it?
S: There’s nothing I can do about it – it’s inflamed.
E: Maybe it needs something cool on it to reduce the inflammation.
S: Noooo I wonder if that isn’t what caused the problem. You were really rough with the Rowntree Fruit Pastille ice lolly thing.
E: Was I?
S: Yes! And it’s quite a chunky ice lolly. It has a fair girth on it.
E: You liked it.
S: Not really.
S: Well I like the whole pain pleasure thing but to be honest I was raped by Rowntree. It wasn’t like you were sliding it in slowly and for a brief time. You were pushing it in there – pounding it in me. And don’t forget I was blindfolded so it was a surprise – I wasn’t ready for it and it’s not like you only did it the once.
E: I forgot about that. I’m a master of improvisation. Tying your sports bra round your eyes was inspirational on my part.
S: Or you coulda just got the proper blindfold .
E: I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t even find the toy box.
S: It was in the bottom of the cupboard.
E: I thought you kept it in the top of the cupboard.
S: No after our drug fuelled sex marathon when we made all kinds of promises about fucking filthily once a week and having more sex in general I thought it’d be easier if I moved the box down from the top cupboard. Presuming we’d be having LOADS of sex.
E: Only the cupboard doors are broken so I would literally have to have ripped them out to get into the cupboard and then dug it out from under the shoes and clothes. Yeah that’s conducive to spontaneous sex.
S: Given the state of our sex life it was all a bit premature on my part. I was a fool to believe your words in the Gogaine haze.
E: Oh right so blindfolding you, shoving an ice lolly in your cunt and fucking your arse without warning while I made you vibe yourself doesn’t constitute filth in your books?
S: Put like that…
E: AND there were no drugs involved.
S: Yeah it was good old fashioned sex.
E: I’m sorry it was so vanilla for you.
S: It was anything but vanilla. It was one of the most enjoyable blow jobs I’ve ever given. I loved that you rubbed the ice lolly over the head of your cock. It tasted well nice. I didn’t even have to worry about whether your cock was clean or cheesy – the sugar rush sent me into sensory overdrive.
E: Did my cum taste as nice?
S: Ahhhh your cum always tastes nice. Except for that one time when I had an allergic reaction.
E: Oh yeah in the cottage – you said you had to go to the kitchen at 4 in the morning and get some custard to ease your throat.
S: Anything to ease the stinging sensation. That was horrible. Fuck knows what you’d been eating that night…except you weren’t really eating at that point were you? Some stiff spirit squirting down the back of my throat.
E: I’m sure the sperm diluted it for you. It didn’t stop you coming back for more.
S: Well you were starving me out at the time. You were bed ridden so you never fed me. I was desperate for the protein.
E: You’re not short of a meal now and you seem to still drink it was gusto.
S: The things we do for love.
E: Oh come on I don’t force you to do anything.
S: What?!?! Oh my god your art of seduction involves pushing my head down to your crotch when I try and give you a cuddle. It certainly ain’t subtle and resistance is most definitely futile.
E: You love it when I throat fuck you.
S: Yeah but not when I can’t breathe.
E: Oh you love it. You beg for it. Literally. One sniff of the poppers up each nostril then it’s all ‘deeper and deeper’.
S: Shut up.
E: You said it turns you on when you’re choking on my cock. You actually fucking orgasm when I thrust into your mouth. Properly orgasm. What woman can do that? You’re like a real life version of ‘Deep Throat’.
S: Okay, okay. Yes I like it when you throat fuck me but not all the time. Not when I’m on the verge of vomiting on your cock. Like literally when lunch pops back up.
E: Oh that I definitely like.
S: So my basically my bariatric surgery gone wrong has been a positive in the bedroom department. The fact that I now have gastroesophageal reflux disease and a gastric band that doesn’t work and I spew after almost every meal is a good thing.
E: Yeah I like you refluxing away while I hold your head and pull your hair.
S: And my arms flail and I feel I’m about to die and start worrying about what you’ll tell my mum and dad.
E: It’s not that bad.
S: I’m just glad that £6000 is considered money well spent.
E: That £6000 means I get a little warm chunky vegetable soup-like hug on my cock when you blow me.
S: In fairness you do time it right. You exert just the right amount of pressure and deprive me of just enough oxygen to panic me but not kill me. It’s actually very sexy. But I don’t think spewing is glamorous. That can be tiresome and it happens loads. Your cock is bigger than you credit it.
E: What this little thing?
S: Seriously when I washed it with that tar soap the other night, because you were prodding round my throat straight away I could taste soap at the back of my throat all night. It was dry in the morning. I thought I was gonna need to tuck into your ‘Lockets’.
S: Whatever. It was like an adult version of punishing me for being a potty mouth. And I’m not talking about my excessive swearing.
E: Fucking cunt bitch! You’re not going to bring that up again are you. The greatest sexual miscommunication of all time.
S: There’s a reason why ‘Mudshute’ is my favourite stop on Docklands Light railway.
E: I thought it was what you wanted me to do!
S: When have I ever given the slightest inclination that I’m into that. I ain’t no Scatman.
E: Look I genuinely thought it was what you wanted. You know my feelings about this. I did think it a weird request but I don’t like to decline an invitation, let alone have you thinking I’m rejecting you when you’re are your most vulnerable or be accused of not being sexually adventurous. I was actually really uncomfortable doing it.
S: So was I when I had a brown fountain falling on my face. I mean you served up a substantial meal that night but it was a hell of a lot more unappetising that your poison drunk cum. That sex dinner was psychologically traumatising. Is it any wonder I’m at the fucking therapist’s once a fortnight. That said I do feel I dealt with that particular mishap in a gracious way.
E: Yes S, your bedroom manners were unsurpassed I’ll grant you that. You are truly an elegant slut.
Proposed Bestiality, Inadvertent Indecent Exposure, Pee & Other Pitfalls From A One Night Stand (That Became My Fiancé)
It’s not to say he’s not romantic – that I don’t adore every part of him, that I don’t cherish him and that I’m in any way unsatisfied in bed….but I don’t think I’ve ever been there with him where I’ve not inwardly shrivelled in embarrassment or mortification at something he’s said or done.
Examples??? Here you go.
- Ours began as an internet relationship, as so many do these days. Our first ever meeting involved my travelling 2 hours North to his cottage and arriving at 5pm. We had a cuddle on the couch, sashayed upstairs to share a spiritual lecture and by 6.30pm he boldly asked me to take my clothes off. Being body shy and less than verbally communicative or assertive in bed, I ignored the request. Eventually he said ‘Are you going to take your clothes off or not, I’m tired of asking’. Worried I was going to miss my chance I said I was going to the bathroom to change. He perked up. ‘Great could you do me a favour while you’re in there? Grab a wet flannel, because my cock needs to be cleaned and if you’re having a wee can you bring back the tissue paper you use and just shove it in my mouth?’ I couldn’t help but feel he was being a little over-familiar on a first date with someone he’d met in the flesh only 90 minutes before. The shock of it aside I think part of my mortification – in being a first timer to those sorts of requests – was because I was so turned on by him and, frankly the idea itself – I was concerned the tissue would be a little too…creamy. So I wrapped it in another one and bought it to him, reluctantly inserting it into in his mouth. ‘Did you even use it – it just tastes dry and of paper?’ he barked at me. Ooops
- From that somewhat uncomfortable start we managed to engage in more everyday sex – me on top. It was good; it was nice, pleasurable and very natural-feeling until he opened his mouth. What would you utter mid-act the first time you’re ‘doing it’ with someone you claim to care about and who claims to care about you? ‘Sorell, it’s just a shag,’ he said, quite matter of factly. I flounced off him, hurt and insulted. He desperately tried to explain what he meant was this was ‘just sex’ and the two of us were so much more than just that to each other. He turned out to be right, but still, this was after all out first date.
- He once had a work colleague staying around his place. I’m the first to admit, between ourselves, we’d be considered quite ‘adventurous – perverted even – by some and at times very dirty though we both have our boundaries and scruples and values, even if personal only to ourselves. He let the neighbour’s dog in. The dog was excited and running around. I was wearing a low cut top, exposing a lot of my bosom. In front of his work colleague he loudly and excitedly suggested ‘Ooooh Sorell, let the dog lick your tits.’ I froze mortified. I could feel his colleague’s shock. He didn’t miss a beat and continued fooling round with the dog as if nothing untoward or inappropriate had been mentioned. The colleague and I didn’t make eye contact or reference to it, but there was a stony silence between the two of us for the remainder of his stay. Even though I was desperate to blurt out –‘he’s mucking around, he didn’t mean that and I’d never do it’. But then I worried the colleague might think I protested too much.
- Another time he’d organised for his next door neighbour to come around and fix his boiler. He’d arranged for the visit between 5pm and 6pm. The day had got away on us and I hold my hands up here and admit we’d been fooling around all day as lovers are wont to do. But I’m a good catholic girl and modest to boot. I was in my pyjamas, which are in fact a t-shirt and shorts. He was running around like some debauched naked Eros and surprised at the neighbour’s appearance went down to talk to him, throwing a dressing gown on as he went. He claims he said ‘I’ve got the girl upstairs.’ I thought I heard ‘I’ve got a girl upstairs’. The neighbour, who was doing him a favour in any case, apologized and said he’d come back. But he insisted it was ok. ‘Sorell,’ he yelled up the stairs ‘have you got your clothes on?’ As if I ever flaunt myself. It was all a bit late though. I’d been painted as a scarlet woman spending all day in bed like a naked Venus in some rural brothel. The questionable nature alluded to ensured once again the neighbour never made eye contact nor spoke directly to me again.
- Having once used his lips and tongue on me for what I admit was a very a good session, he rose from between my legs. I looked down to see his enthusiastic face appear from my thighs as he piped: ‘I’m not sure if it’s down to your moon cycle or if you have an infection but you taste very yeasty.’
- His parents, given their age, had been reasonably lenient in allowing us to have ‘sleepovers’ on the surreal condition that ‘we don actually’t have sex’. Scratch that, so they couldn’t hear us. His father knocked at the door, the first morning I was there getting changed in the corner of the room. Aware I was getting dressed, he invited his father in as I stood, bare breasted, at the end of the bed, struggling into some jeans. I’m pleased to report I have now moved into his parents home and his father has caught sight of more than just my bare breasts – given he has interrupted extremely sordid and lewd acts of love this story now seems very tame in respect of what the old boy has been exposed to.
- He requested one night, as a treat for him, I get undressed and wait naked for him in bed to return to when he got back from his errand. I wanted to please him so reluctantly complied with instructions. I lay in bed, naked, shoulders bared, hair flowing down, smouldering brown eyes to seduce him upon his return. Without so much as a knock, his 80 year old mother flung open the door and asked if he’d left yet. I sat like a rabbit in headlights, going over in my mind quickly how to rectify the situation. If I brazened it out it might be okay, if I went to cover myself it may draw attention to my nudity. I calmly discussed her complaint that he’d left the study window open and the curtain had blown out and that she couldn’t reach it. Clearly she wasn’t willing to wait the five minutes for his return and since I was young, fit and able, I knew perfectly well what she was angling at. But I could hardly bound out of bed. I flashed a big, beaming, sun-shiney Australian and offered to do it myself. She looked pleased but expectant. ‘Just give us two minutes,’ I mumbled. I’m pleased to report his mother is now dead – I don’t mean that horribly, he hated her and I got to move in.
- He came round to my flat one night, specifically for the purpose of the sex. We both knew it, we’re both adults. Fine. But that doesn’t mean it has to be completely devoid of any ….romance, foreplay or insinuation. We were kissing and I was rubbing his crotch. Rather than reaching to assist in my undressing or physically prompting me to remove my garments, he said ‘you’d better get your kecks off if we’re going to do this.’
- Another few hours of illicit fooling at my flat, he took me to the bedroom and told me to drop my trousers and lie down in the bed. I’m not comfortable with my figure at the best of times. I’d spent the entire day at work so was self conscious I wasn’t my freshest and I hadn’t really been intending on what was likely to happen. In true girly fashion I’d been wearing comfort clothes – old comfy knickers and an oversized rugby top. He pushed open my legs and with all the sensitivity of a an autistic prison-guard announced ‘wow how old are these, the gusset’s nearly gone in them.’ I felt like closing my legs on the spot, mortified and embarrassed about the state of my underwear, but then had to stay in that position and endure a powerful orgasm.
- One of his favourite tricks is to wake me during the early hours and drag my hand so I can feel how hard he is. Now, it may not always be a welcome hour or great wake up call, but it naturally leaves me excited. Until that is, as soon as I grip it and gently massage he falls back to sleep. Apparently, as frustrating as it is for me, and as much as he moans and responds to my touch, he says he does it to help fall back to sleep. He insists on repeating the act with no intention other than as a natural method of assisting him back to his slumbers and knowingly leaving me wanting.
- Lying top to toe, limbs entwined he’s more than happy to not exercise any sphincter control and fart on me without apology. Worse still, when he was still drinking, he was known to nuzzle and suck my breasts releasing beer burps upon them then smile up at me as if for approval. I referred to him as my beautiful smelly balloon; I could die from the poisonous potency of his flatulence and could actually get drunk from the high percentage of alcohol contained in that belching. I’m pleased to report this alcoholic is now recovered.
- Both engaged in an episode of the bodice-ripping Henry the 8th drama, the Tudors, a scene that appealed to our respective loins involved Anne Boleyn being dominated in bed by King Henry. She slapped his face smartly and jumped on top of him to take control. I laughingly suggested I may have to try that myself at some point. His response was ‘Sweetheart, as much as I love you and have no desire for you to change, you’re never going to be able to do that. You’re too big to move that fast in bed, you’re just not physically capable.’ Outraged and determined to prove my point I felt inclined to slap his face and jump on to show him what ninja like stealth and speed I really do have. A flicker of doubt had been cast in my mind and I worried his observation might be correct – that I wouldn’t indeed execute the move as quickly as hoped, or worse, given we were on a dodgy sofa bed, concerned the sudden weight shifting would result in the entire bed upending, thus further proving his point.
Are there more? An endless list: from affectionately referring to me as a ‘silly slut’ and being miffed at my offence while being wrapped post coital in each others arms; to allowing me to roll around in chewing gum he accidentally left on the sheets; to laughing ‘it looks like a lamb has been slaughtered’ after an untimely monthly accident in bed; to telling me the room appeared like we’d had an orgy with a fire extinguisher in a sweet shop after I’d attempted a bit of pleasurable experimentation involving a cold tin of Coke and his masculine parts. No doubt I’ll add to these as other recollections occur. Stating the obvious and giving practical direction, with no regard to any embarrassment, shame or inexperience I might be feeling is a side dish with every bedroom encounter.
In some ways his less than perfect bedroom etiquette actually speaks volumes about the intimacy, honesty and openness we have in the relationship. To be able to behave in such a fashion, be so completely one’s self and exchange whatever thoughts, needs and desires are experienced kind of suggests we’ve created a very loving environment between ourselves – if an ‘acquired taste’. Yes there’s a constant anxiety as to what brutally honest observation or guidance he’ll impart next – me recoiling in a weird sort of delicious humiliation. It likens our bedchamber exploits those of an unpredictable fairground excursion, a rollercoaster of a thing. But it keeps them from getting boring so should I really be moaning here?
He thinks we’re well suited, well matched. The time I had to explain I‘d involuntary heaved with him buried deep in my throat leaving behind a small triangle of Dorito chip on the head of his shaft, I kind of saw what he was getting at.
I feel uninspired at the moment, so have been advised to write this entry naked in bed on my laptop.
It was somewhat ironic that I was for a period of two years celibate (my definition of celibacy being an absence of vaginal penetration – blow jobs and anal sex were allowed) and when I finally broke the drought I immediately fell pregnant. There is little humour for me to ebb out of that particular dick but one I will examine at a more appropriate time.
That incident aside, what I can say for myself is despite skipping from partner to partner I never fell prey to any genital or sexual pitfalls the majority of women in an exclusive committed relationship (or those with an unlucky one night stand) will inevitably encounter at some point.
That is until I found myself in an exclusive committed relationship.
People think being partnered an alcoholic is all bad – it’s actually not. Don’t get me wrong it is rather horrendous, but those with an alcohol dependency are pretty much restricted to bed. So no they may not be able to hold down a job or even accompany you out for social gatherings but being bed bound means the one activity they can participate in is sex (that is those that escape the curse of brewers droop – which my guy did). Thus for the first year we were together it was a non stop sex fest, kinda normal for the honeymoon phase. For me the biggest treat was sex on tap. Okay I might have fucked 100 men over the course of ten years but given they were almost all one night stands that actually means I was only having sex once every 5 weeks – which is pretty pitiful. Thus to be able to fuck all-day everyday was heavenly to me.
Until I learnt about thrush. The irritation started and he, being all the more experienced with relationships, diagnosed it early and recommended exercising abstinence in a bid to prevent it worsening. Theoretically it all sounded good, but alcoholics are addicts and addicts are not great at exercising self control, hence their predicament. Coupling that with my own addictive personality and insatiable sexual appetite the abstinence cure lasted all of maybe 12 hours. Then his chaffed cock decided to visit my yeasty haven. As a result my vagina, clearly unhappy with my callous treatment, declared war in my knickers.
I have never known an itch like. Yes thank god for Canestan (why does that dog look so decidedly smug in the advert – is there more than just friendship going on there?) but it still takes a while to kick in. My parents generously bought us tickets to go and see The Jersey Boys. It was a brilliant show and I’d like to say my memory of that theatrical experience was the wonder and joy of the music of Frankie Valli and the Four Season, but in fact whenever I hear ‘Oh What a Night’ all I can remember is squirming in my chair in a bid for the crotch seam of my jeans to scratch my fiery cunt.
But how quickly one woman can go from a hundred dicks to one dick to no dick.
There’s nothing like a series of ongoing challenges pervading all aspects of your life to dampen one’s desire for each other’s. Endless months of constant stress, tension and pressure is the equivalent of castration for both genders. Occasionally things would subside or we’d feel we’d has some small win, some psychological advantage and we’d fuck to celebrate, remember how wonderful sex is (and it’s free!) and make sincere promises from ‘let’s make sure we have a minimum of sex three times a week’ to ‘let’s make sure we have some form of sexual contact for at least ten minutes everyday’. Then fate would deal a cruel blow, our foundation shaken, our position threatened again and the sex would be sapped clean out of us. Our entire house a vacuum free of any sexual energy.
Hence it’s been a rather hit and miss year. You would of course, not fully appreciate the degree of this unless you’d been fucking me seven months ago and fucking me today. The visible effect of the absence of sex is most demonstrable by my entrances being somewhat unwelcoming of my partners attempt to rekindle his once familiar and frequent relationship with them.
He once proudly boasted he could put eight fingers into my arse and stretch it to rival any hardcore porn stars. My arse could hungrily hoover up large 10 inch ribbed glass dildo’s that would make any woman’s eyes water. This is something of a turn on for him, I’m not sure if men generally find this an attractive feature. I have felt obliged to continue my courtship with him not just on the grounds of unconditional love but because I’m not confident another man would be happy with such a pliable ring-piece. Alas the last time we attempted anal intercourse all I could think about was Bum-cleaver’ from the Marquis de Sade’s 120 days of Sodom. Who is ‘Bum-cleaver’? – ‘The head of his prick resembled the heart of an ox, it was eight and three-eights inches around; behind it, the shaft measured only eight, but was crooked and had such a curve it neatly tore the anus when penetrating it.’ With this thought in mind my bottom was so tense and frightened he was lucky to pry one finger in, let alone his proud perfect penis (aka PPP).
It wasn’t just my rectum that was wary of the return of the PPP, but even my cunt greeted him like a small child presented with an absent father of many years who expected immediate affection and a jolly rapport despite abandonment of said child. Oh I was desperate to feel him fill me up but afterwards I felt akin to an athlete returning to competition after a season off with injury.
His first ploughing resulted in me feeling satisfied but violated. In the words of the Kings of Leon my sex was on fire. Given the lack of horizontal play I knew it wasn’t thrush but my lips were throbbing and my clit was stinging. I like to think it was out of concern for my well being but I suspect it was more in a bid to rectify any problems so as he could re-enter sooner rather than later. Hence when I raised an objection to sex on the grounds of a sore vagina he promptly had me spread eagled on the bed with a splayed vagina. After a detailed and probing inspection it transpired my cunt was so unused to the PPP he had stretched and inflamed it with one brief vanilla style session. He merely plastered it with antiseptic cream, told me it was something like nappy rash and that I’d be fine before the day was out.
And so while my gender may nod knowingly at tales of thrush, carpet burn, cystitis, stretched ham strings, pulled groin muscles, red raw knee caps and other such happy complaints from excessive sex, they must also beware of the pitfalls of the effects on the body if work takes priority over sex.
Vaginas are made for babies to pop out of, if you’ve left things so long your hymen’s regrown and you’ve become re-virginalised you need to gird your loins and commit to the fact that those orifices need regular exercise to – and getting into shape is hard work and will hurt. Ain’t no baby gonna be popping out of you if you can’t pop a prick in you. There’s no way you’ll be recapturing those heady honeymoon rewards if you don’t have the stretch or stamina for even the most basic and simple sex tasks. Take it from me sex is not just a game or pastime, it’s a passion, it’s a sport. It requires dedication, commitment, an investment of time, imagination, creativity and pure unadulterated unfathomable filth.
On that note, fully aware I am paying the physical price for thoughtlessly neglecting my minge and arse, I am now doing some jaw stretching exercises for the other orifice that will encounter severe gag reflex and relearning the useful skill of breathing and sucking at the same time a little later this evening. Time to remaster the blow job.
I’m back in the game.