Category Archives: Extreme / Fetish Sex

Getting Wet At The Seaside (not quite what I had in mind)

Often in youthful exuberance one’s sexual (mis)adventures occur more by mistake than good management.  While some of us carefully plan out and detail the perfect execution of our first introduction to something that strays (even if only mildly) from the path of playing it safe and straight, others – including myself, usually in a drunken and slovenly state – find ourselves inadvertently playing out some particular kink or fetish we (or perhaps nature itself) never intended.

This was certainly the case with the boy, Raymond.

The new millennium was the start of a good two year run for me, but by the time Raymond appeared I was nursing my first heartbreak – and as any woman knows first loves are the worst to recover from (if ever we truly do). Certainly for me the wound was still very raw. L and I decided (whether in a bid to mend my broken heart or just get ourselves a change of scenery) to head to Great Yarmouth for a week.

Great Yarmouth, you’ll find, is writ large in this saga – indeed each and every summer as Ra took flight we were beckoned for end-of-week forays to that most traditional of seaside towns. It was L’s routine and regular holiday destination as a child, a world to which I was then introduced, at first dubiously but later fully embraced.   So after T broke the news he was back on with his alleged ex-fiancé, a girls’ holiday was swiftly arranged.

It was arranged (and funded) by questionable means with L and I taking advantage of our position in the Company for which we worked, under the guise of my having won a holiday to Ireland.  Earlier I’d genuinely won one to Sweden but in order that we could both get the same week off, we’d concocted another prize-winning break, so dates were set and we had both to be off work the same time. I must’ve seemed the canniest person at the company just then. That is until my mother called reception and was told I was on holiday, to which she responded ‘Oh I forgot the girls are camping inYarmouth.’   Even though we’d gone to the bother of buying fake Irish souvenirs I suspect our cover had been well and truly been blown by our return to work.

Nonetheless, L and duly I booked onto the Vauxhall Caravan Site for the town’s ‘Gala Week’, the glamorous last seven days of the holiday season. The site was fully booked and we had no option but to take a small pitch and buy ourselves a tent. There’s a whole other story about that week – one deserving of a book in itself – so I’ll leave this for another time.

Anyway, with the tatters of my heart in tow (it was somewhat ironic and possibly telling I burst into tears by the Vaseline shelf at Superdrug onYarmouth High Street) we made our way onto Vauxhall bringing more than tantrums and tiaras that year.

In my misguided and desperate state I decided to opt for the philosophy of ‘the quickest way to get over someone is to get under another’ and went on the prowl. At that time we were young enough to do so – later we were ill-placed on a site catering to ‘families’ as opposed to single girls. But at twenty two there were enough young men to keep us interested so while L focussed her attentions on a security guard (dare I say guards Mrs J?) I played for patrons as opposed to the staff.

And there among them he was – the boy Raymond. 6’2”, carrying just a little puppy fat, chubby but cute, like he’d lose both in time to come.  He was 18 and I was secretly pleased he’d chosen me, despite his father trying to persuade him to consider a few other options available that year. Although Dad was British, Raymond was fromHollandand English was by no means his forte. I managed to gather he’d slept with four women. I’d slept with six men so it seemed an even enough match. I liked his boyish looks and was hugely flattered by the attention. That is until he kissed me, grabbed my quadruple Baileys, threw it away, then pushed a chewing gum into my mouth and told me I was reeking of booze.  His English did not let him down at that moment.

L went ballistic at the four shots of Baileys rocketing across the car park (I wasn’t best pleased myself, but cock always came before alcohol even then, so I gritted my teeth and smiled sweetly through the comet of creamy beige). L initiated an all-out war of words til he promised to replace all drinks the next night.

Thus, given the circumstances – he Dutch and eighteen, me twenty two, drunk and a bit of a mess but both full of a youthful sexual zeal – I can’t quite remember exactly what night I had my first foray into to watersports.

I suspect though it wasn’t that first night (Raymond, his father and two workmates were staying in the chalets).  Raymond and I got as far as the campsite male toilets before surrendering to a bout of frenetic, foolhardy sex. It was all locked chipboard doors, hitching up of skirts, knickers down, him trying to undress himself enough to penetrate me in the restrictive space of the gentleman’s cubicle kind of thing. I really had no idea if this could be classed as good or bad sex. But it was fun, the location was (then anyway) unusual, and it had an element of danger because we knew the grounds were patrolled.

But our age, the fact we were with there with companions and the barrier of language did complicate matters somewhat. We knew we had to get home and the site was large and difficult to navigate especially when drunk or needing to guide someone who was. And the fumblings, however short and inadequate, had us still hungry for each other. We were at that delightful time when kissing for ages is as physically pleasurable as the act of intercourse itself. We mooched around the site, all longing snogs and yearning hands groping for what had been unclothed only moments earlier. Until eventually we found our respective trails back to habitation.

The second night, I suspect was the night ‘it’ happened. The scene was exactly as it had been the night before. L and I would primp and preen ourselves before descending on the Regency Room (this was the location for ‘family entertainment’) to flirt outrageously with everyone we took a fancy to. I made sure I secured Raymond’s attention early on (just so we were both clear sex was on for later) and enjoyed the rest of the evening.

Once again by the end of the night, we were drunk and slovenly. L, who if you know her, is not suited to the harsher side of life so a little high maintenance for the tent, headed back to the apartment of her beau-to-be. I don’t recall her spending even one night in that tent for which we had both shared costs – not that I can blame her after I’d sullied it mind you, but Raymond was not quite as fussed.

The difficulty with camping, and not having one of the mobile homes or even a flashy caravan is the whole lavatory debacle. If you need the loo it’s a trek to the site’s showerblock (which invariably has bugs flying round it and is rarely as clean as you’d wish). Once more I’d been drinking all evening. A fountain of alocopops and sweet milky baileys (true to his word he’d replaced my quadruple shots from the night before) and the seal had already been burst at the club. Now though, back in private with this boyish hulk, sex – rather than the relief of my bladder – was at my mind’s forefront.  Bad mistake. We tumbled into the tent, rolling around on two double air mattresses, undressing each other, stroking, playing, examining and exploring. That wonderful sensation of new hands examining the softness of one’s body as your own delight in the firmness of his was exquisite. Only I was desperate for a wee.

In all honesty I could’ve just said I’d needed the loo and been up there and back in five minutes but somehow I thought I might be able to hold it. Yeah right. Ten orange Bacardi Breezers and eight shots of Baileys, that’d be easy.

In the darkness and drunkenness as he forced himself (perhaps not as forcefully as he might have had he not been battling with numerous pints of beer) into me I could feel pressure mounting. By the time he’d entered me and built up a degree of confidence his member was firmly in its intended warm, wet opening he decided to increase the pace a little changing from entering me splayed sideways to the more traditional missionary position. This manoeuvre was no friend to my bladder. The weight of him was exerting huge strain. Being drunk, slovenly and lost in the act I really just couldn’t exert the restraint required and began to wet myself freely, thus the next thing I knew as we were at it like rabbits I was inadvertently at the same time giving what is in polite circles referred as a ‘golden shower’. He didn’t seem to mind (then again his English wasn’t great so perhaps he didn’t have the words, or was merely being gracious). It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation for me at all. If anything it was a great relief, although I don’t remember it feeling particularly sexy. There were in any case two thick duvets to soak up everything. At first when it started sprouting out of me I thought perhaps I was having a female ejaculation but as it went on and the size of my bladder subsided I realised what was happening.

Looking back I wonder if it was a turn on for him. He certainly didn’t stop, anyway – in fact, if memory serves, he removed himself from missionary, spread my legs, tilted me sideways and took me that way again. My exceptionally lubricated cunt was more than willing. On reflection, the fact that he could keep going, despite an initial brewers droop must have been a positive.

I don’t remember much more. I’m ashamed to say to I fell asleep while on the job.

It wasn’t the last occasion Raymond spent in the tent though. He came the following night. This time his Dad insisted on accompanying him with his friends to see where this ‘young lady’ was entertaining his son. I wonder now what the odour must have been like.

Sadly, and in total fuckedupness on my part, I was heartbroken for an older guy and somewhat desperate for a father figure. Thus when Raymond’s Dad excused himself to go to the gents (as opposed to just pissing himself there and then in the tent as I had the previous night) I offered to walk him to there. Once inside I found myself attempting to do with his father what I’d done with Raymond the first night we met. He made no effort to stop me, but I stopped myself from anything more than a kiss….and a grope…and a….no that was it – HONEST!

That night was Raymond’s last in the tent staying over and I must confess there was a repeat golden shower. I kind of figured if he’d coped the night before, he could cope again and perhaps that was my mistake. The second time it was more overtly sexual; something about his accelerated breathing when he felt me do it, the way he deliberately rubbed his cock in the fluid before thrusting it into me.

But as I have said, this aside it was his last night. I don’t know whether Dad had said something or the fact I’d promised to meet him the following night at a proposed time and ended up arriving a few hours later to find him dancing with another girl which sent me into a lunatic rage.  But screaming at someone who doesn’t speak great English did not satisfy the psycho in me and his behaviour sent me straight back into the arms of his father for one final last dance. I did not, in any case, ever sleep with Raymond again (although I do recall his father popping round for a visit to the tent without his entourage that night).

As for the duvets, they belonged to L’s mother. I’m told when she returned home and her mum began to assist her unpacking the car boot, she took one look and smell of the bedding and said ‘I don’t think we need to keep those anymore, they can go straight in the bin.’ Sorry Mrs B, even if belatedly.

The ‘Slutty Value System’ Or ‘A Slut’s Tangent’

I need to fast forward a bit. Not just because there’s no way I can manage this chronologically (oh, the first four or five are always memorable, then afterwards….just a series of – for the post part – indistinct penises and faces whose stories are triggered, usually at inopportune times, with the most tenuous links) but because I found myself with an online acquaintance discussing ‘the Slutty Value System’. It’s kind of where the ‘one hundred dicks thing’ comes in.

However much we want to slip into our Union Jack dresses, do peace signs and screech ‘girl power’ at the top of our lungs (sorry, is that just me?) or bang the new feminist drum, we do live in a patriarchal society where women like myself are labelled by small minded (or threatened) men and prudish women in a negative way. Thus I was forced to establish the aforementioned ‘Slutty Value System’ in an attempt to keep numbers down to acceptable levels within some social circles.

I’m from the Clinton camp. If there no vaginal penetration taking place, you’re not in my numbers. Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Anal Sex only – you are hereby disincluded from the official count. My friend K, a homosexual, posited this system could imply a gay man that has never had sex with a woman would forever therefore remain a virgin. Well I’m sorry K, but that’s how it is with my slutty values. I need to keep my numbers down, for my own personal sake. Frankly speaking ‘One Woman, Three Hundred and Twenty Seven Cocks’ just isn’t a catchy blog name.

With my Slutty Value System thus established I had to consider the trajectory of my sex life in general. I somehow went from being an inexperienced virginal 21-year old to slut, to experienced slut, to deviant, .filthy personal whore to my soul mate; and that’s not the end point – I am after all just reaching my amatory peak.  There must have been significant events (well dicks) plotted on the graph of this sexual trajectory signposting and directing me towards he dark course of my current place of degeneracy.

Sometimes its best to work backwards – I need to gauge where  I am now to further establish the prominent ‘dicks’ that got me to where I am now.

And where might that be?

I remember my current beau once suggesting it would be quite a turn on for him if I were to display how desperate for an orgasm I was by grinding myself against the door frame. At the time – perhaps six months into our relationship – I obliged….reluctantly. There was something still very inhibited about me. I loved the slut part, the sheer filth and I knew I really was that desperate to come, but with one hand gripping a hook in the bedroom ceiling of that 300 year-old cottage (and yes, it has many alternate uses) to lever myself against the frame – I felt hugely self conscious. I didn’t feel sexy at all. If anything, I was concerned about my ‘bingo wings’ flapping around, my arms hurt from holding the majority of my body weight and I couldn’t quite position myself so my clit was actually being rubbed. It was like a cheap soft porn film where they stimulate sex but don’t actually do it.

Yet only a year down the line when I have on my leather collar – the word ‘WHORE’ proudly displayed – and am told to demonstrate how desperate I am, I think nothing of getting on the floor, spreading my legs and moving my hips up and down as my slippery girl-bits grind against the edge of a bookcase. I can bring myself to orgasm in seconds just from that. Forget what’s wobbling and what’s a good angle; the sheer pleasure of feeling the sensations tingle and burn until the wood’s nearly dripping and I’m gripping and thrusting and moaning – lost in a thunderous climax…and if it turns him too on all the better.

I mean, the guy comes up with the idea of a funnel and tubing (what follows is not the funnel story, just one) and using these to piss into one another’s arses. I thus find myself, only months later, in a frenzy of filth taking the initiative, and pushing said tube deep into my anus (one hand holding it) and moving the funnel under my cunt and pissing directly into myself. The experience, for my partner’s viewing pleasure then is not just me pissing but watching it sporadically flow and gurgle its way deep inside me. What came next?  Well, then I kinda thought it might be fun to remove the funnel and put the other end of the tube into him so we could swap my piss back and forth before it all eventually dribbled on the heap of towels ever present in sex marathons such as these. Extreme watersports some might consider it. It could be an Olympic sport, akin to synchronised swimming.

But even these anecdotes don’t quite fully encapsulate the lengths of my dirty insatiable desire. The big question without answer now is whether the desire is for sex or for him.  Are these barriers and limits being constantly pushed to test me sexually or to impress him, gain bedroom approval, join some club where he won’t wanna sleep with another, or is it something as simple as sharing a journey together and exploring all the elements within a relationship?  Maybe I can’t be Jenna Jameson every night…although I frequently find my mind is.

The braid of ultra-intimacy and sex….that’s where I am now.

Take a look at this pic.

Did this burn happen because Peachy was being a bad boy?

Or was I attempting the medieval skill of ‘cupping’ and my first attempt heated the glass almost to melting point as opposed to creating a vacuum to help suck the pus from a bum-boil?

Looking at the entire portrait of my sex life from a distance and which I’ll fully piece together in over time, I see this particular endeavour as a kind of post-Post Modern feminists ‘Rake’s Progress’ in words, which had, I not titled ‘One Woman One Hundred Dicks’ I could have called ‘A Slut’s Tangent’. I went with the existing title because most of my encounters were with Dicks both of a literal and metaphorical nature.

More on those dicks and which ones teased me into an at-first gentle learning curve of sensuality which didn’t take too long in becoming tick shaped.

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