Category Archives: Foreign & Interracial Sex

The Antipodean Affair (Sampling New Zealand Nookie)

Apologies for the radio silence for the past three months – what can I say? Deadlines for paid novels, family visiting from Australia, Christmas, jet setting to Lapland – all the things a poorly paid writer shouldn’t be able to afford.

I thought I left 2013 on a hard note but it was more sour so the first post for 2014 will be a little cheekier.

If I haven’t mentioned it in a previous post, but as a precursor I should alert you to the revelation that I haven’t had sex with an Australian. I left Australia a virgin and can say, hand on heart, apart from the odd kiss (or ‘pash’ as we used to call it back in the day) First base is as far as I’ve gone with an Aussie ‘bloke’.

It’s actually a fact I’m quite proud of. Sure I can see the rest of the world’s attraction to these bronzed, brawny, brutish, beef heads but give me a sallow looking, finely chiselled, pale, complicated Brit any day of the week.

Having lost some weight, become addicted to casual sex via the internet, acquired unlimited access to broadband and scored an acceptable semi-studio flat in Stockwell (a rough but cheap and very central London location) my sexual adventures became infinitely easier to execute.

Raising a hand, despite the fact that London runs through the blood in my veins, I miss the brazen, bold, open, honest, frankness devoid of malice that Australians possess. Thus when a message appeared from ‘Illicit Encounters’ (a website specifically targeting those unhappy unfortunates people unable or unwilling to divorce or separate from their partners) from a married New Zealander living in London, I didn’t immediately delete the message.

Yes, I wrinkled my nose at the fact he was a kiwi. It’s a culture thing. I have relations from New Zealand. I love them. But there Kiwis – we’re Aussies and never the twain shall meet….at least not whilst located in the southern hemisphere. Hurl us into the Northern hemisphere and suddenly that shared Union Jack on our respective flags, our distinct but different twangs and the small geographical distances from our homes are what bond us.

His email was refreshingly friendly. Not a simple message indicating ‘like’ or ‘kiss’. Not a long sad message about being misunderstood and the confines of a loveless marriage destroying his soul. Not a seedy, sordid, saucy message looking for someone less prudish than his wife to carry out depraved sexual acts on (or with).

Whilst disinclined to act on the message in any physical way, I found myself engaging in conversation via email, which quickly led to text.

A problem had arisen. Having put on three stone I really should have updated the pictures on my online profile. My appearance at any date was widening the eyes of my future beaus (not widening as in their optical senses were tested to the max as their huge expansion was required to fit me fuller figure within the parameters of their vision, but just the marked variation between me and my photo). Fully aware of this and with dreadfully low self esteem, whilst I enjoyed the banter via email and the flirty by text, I had no set plan to actually meet the man. He was a Kiwi after all. Is there that much difference between Australian and New Zealand c*ck?

I lived at 106 Stockwell Road. Through our cyber conversations I learnt that he lived at number 86 on the same road. You’ve heard the saying about sh!tting on your own doorstep? I don’t think it’s good to drop a load ten doors away either. London was a big city. He had an important job (well he must’ve to pay the fees male members of ‘Illicit Encounters’ had to fork out without heir wives finding out) and a wife. London has over 8 million people living in it. Given the hours he worked, the constraints on his personal time and the population statistics, the chances of ever running into him were highly unlikely.

I’d made one rookie mistake.

I worked in a rewarding but low paying job in the music industry. Stockwell Road was long enough and had the demand to warrant two ‘Morley Chicken’ (cheap chain of KFC-esque takeaways [complete with bullet proof, closed in counters]) shops on the street. They had a deal where you got 2 mini southern fried chicken burgers and a portion of chips for £2.00. At such a bargain I was a regular there. I let it slip in conversation that although my residence was placed equidistant between the two shops, my preference was for the first shop closest to Stockwell tube station…closest to my house…closest to his house. I note the second shop has since closed – reinforcing my preference at the time.

I sauntered in after work one evening and as I skipped out with my burger and chips, I bumped into an extremely tall, broad, bronzed, brawny, brutish looking guy that actually didn’t look like a beef head. He looked normal….professional…..intelligent…..attractive.

‘I thought I recognised you. It’s Brooke isn’t it. I caught sight of you leaving the station, thought I’d follow you and say hi before we meet properly.’

Suddenly in my casual jeans and funky original Camden off the shoulder black jumper with the Bee Gees logo screaming across the front didn’t seem quite so cool. The ‘Morley’s Chicken’ plastic bag holding my dinner was a poor accessory to the outfit.

Again, his name escapes me. Whatever it was, I stuttered and stammered it out as I held his hand to shake it. It wasn’t an unfriendly greeting, but it lacked in sensuality whatsoever. In fairness his semi-stalkerish behaviour threw me, as did the fact that his home was visible from where I was standing outside the entrance of Morley’s.

He offered to walk me home. I was in such a state of shock, I found myself nodding dumbly and strolling alongside him. That he held my hand naturally, knowing the other half was metres away was daring but endearing. Irrespective of my lack of savoir-faire, he brusquely kissed my cheek with a whispered goodnight before departing to his chic new built apartment block.

My phone beeped notifying me of an incoming text and I saw it was from him. Closing my eyes and preparing for the most awkward rejection ever, clicking on it, I read ‘I’m relieved you’re as gorgeous in real life as you are in your pics’.

I had completely forgotten, this tall, handsome man was a New Zealander. He wasn’t accustomed to the pear-shaped English Rose appearance of women. He was familiar with the rangier, broader, fuller figure of the Antipodeans – robust to deal with the harsher climate (that is an actual evolutionary FACT…I read it on the internet!).

The spontaneous introduction did throw a spanner in the works. Having met face to face, short of saying I didn’t fancy him (I kinda did) I couldn’t really postpone the date on any valid grounds such as location, timing, work etc.

By the time I got into work the next morning, he was texting saying he was working in the West End that day and was I free for lunch. Softened somewhat by the previous night’s text, whilst I could produce a valid excuse for demands on work time, I decided I’d better face the music.

God I liked him. There was no going overboard and taking me to secret, tucked away, restaurant with French cuisine and extraordinarily expensive wine I’d be expected to taste and praise knowledgeably and appreciatively. He asked me where I wanted to go. We went to an upmarket pub, stayed away from Fosters, had a nice pub lunch and a few beers. It was relaxed and fun and the company of the man was the best I’d had in years.

carnaby-street-londonI remember walking through 60s swinging Carnaby Street, still filled with fashionable youths but also the flurry of office workers on their lunch break. Right by the sign of Carnaby Street, he kissed me goodbye – properly. When my lips accepted his approach, I parted them and his warm tongue slid into my mouth increasing the intimacy of the moment. Finished he looked to the clear sunny sky, a rarity in sunny Blighty, even though it was summer. He was at least 8 inches taller than me, slim, but broad and muscular, his dark hair curled to the collar of his suit, his hazel eyes were squinting into the sunlight and the high cheek bones and Roman nose gave me the opportunity to confess to myself how strikingly handsome he was.

Glancing down I realised I was holding his hand. It was massive. I wondered if it gave an indication to other parts of his anatomy and not just his towering six foot two frame. I dropped it suddenly.

I’m Australian. We’re renown for our racism. It was our final meeting. Prejudice clouded my judgement. He was from New Zealand. New Zealand was close to Australia – too close. I vowed never to have an Aussie c*ck and my antipodean cousin’s c*ck was too close for comfort for me to be breaking my few sexual barriers. It was out last meeting and that was that. He didn’t realise, but I did. Thus I drank in his unusual beauty for a few seconds genuinely having to hurry back to my office.

My responses to his texts and emails the two following days were sparse and sporadic to say the least. Texting on Thursday night he informed me he was in a shared personal garage situated in the far more upper-class area of Clapham, working on his motorbike – alone. Aware something was wrong, it seemed, for him, an opportune time to call and discuss. It wasn’t that I felt guilty about his newly-wed British wife sitting only doors away pondering the growing emotional chasm and eroding connection they’d once shared that bothered me. Nor was it the possibility that she’d somehow track my address and throw acid in my face (okay the acid in the face would be bad given it compliments how I make a living) – psycho bitches I can deal (and on the very odd occasion have dealt) with. It was solely down to his birthplace.

I think because I had such a difficult time growing up in Australia I wanted to distance myself from the country…and its country men and even people within a perimeter of the country. Perhaps subconsciously I associated spending time with him as running the risk of enduring the troubled encounters I’d had in my misspent youth.

This is a sex blog not a psychological blog. The thought of those toned thighs clad in leather, sweat, grease and a motorbike were an instant aphrodisiac. Having spent a brief time in Clapham kipping on someone’s floor for a few months, I was familiar with the area and found myself back at Stockwell tube station heading to the address he gave me.

It may have been a small garage under the rail tracks but the rent must’ve been exorbitant. He wasn’t in leathers, standing with his bike upright and a spare helmet to whizz me round London town. He was in torn jeans, an open flannel shirt and dirty trainers. His smile curled half a lip as he opened the door to my knocking. I had come for to bid farewell and inform him this wasn’t an affair I could embark on, but the grease on his jeans and the few buttons open at the top of his shirt revealing a gym honed bare muscular chest had me looping an arm round his neck to kiss him.

I’d love to say there was a car present that he fu*ked me on, but it was a motor bike garage only. The length of him hardening as we kissed more feverishly, had my trembling fingers fumbling with the buttons of his jeans to free the beast.

To me there was only one potential place for the sex to place. It was on one of the two worn out bean bags shoved in the corner of the garage. I manoeuvred him over as we kissed. Choosing to wear jeans was a faux pas on my part. They were stretch jeans I had squeezed into, I’d worn boots, which meant I had socks on (bare legs and socks is not an attractive look). Self-conscious and not wanting to kill the moment I stripped as quickly and graciously as a Jesse the Elephant can out of my jeans, underwear, shoes and sock in one almost seamless movement.

Collapsing on the bean bag I pulled him on me, his pleasingly long prick pulsating in my hand. I don’t know how many bums had been on those polystyrene balls, but it offered little support. It did provide a barrier, albeit one of mere centimetres, between me and the cement floor. I was hoping for just a fu*k, he was clearly a breast man and wanted a little more visual simulation. The slipping and sliding of the bean bag, and the beast dominating me was a challenge I couldn’t contend with, whilst also guiding his hard-on between my dripping lips.

I succumbed and hurled off my jumper, revealing the juicy pale breasts clad in a silver wonder-bra he appeared so desperate to get to. The trouble was as he sucked and nuzzled my boobs, the penetration was shallow and he kept slipping out. He was adept and experience to reposition himself without direction, but he was as frustrated by the uncompromising beanbag as I was.

I’d have struggled on, but he clearly didn’t want to. And he had no intention of giving up on the uncomfortable fu*k. The next think I knew, his wide hands were on my hips dragging me off the beanbag and onto the floor. There was at least enough beanbag to pillow my head, but my back was on the cold greasy cement, my bum and legs had found their way to a tarpaulin of sorts. The faux velvet material of the beanbag, the rough garage floor, and sticky, heavy plastic fibre tarpaulin had my sense of touch in overdrive trying to balance them in a bid to remove the pain.

I heard him growling he wasn’t able get in deep enough. Once he had me on the floor it was no longer a complaint of him. His dick, which was in direct proportion with his height, hands and shoe size, charged straight in making me cry out. He was so long (not memorably thick but it was a satisfying member to have visiting my vagina) that every thrust warranted a grunt. I tried to bit back but without even trying he was hitting the back of my uterus. Each groan encouraged him. I tried to wrap my legs around him a) to shallow the penetration and b) to lift my legs and buttocks from the tarpaulin which they were sticking to and making unfetching ‘fart like’ noises when his shafts moved my whole body. This minor alteration to the missionary position only invigorated proceedings. Enlivened the constant, deep delving continued but at double the speed. To keep up with his stamina (with that six pack and defined pecs I was pretty sure he was a regular gym user – any excuse to avoid the wife) I found my thighs gripping tighter round his waist and my hands clutching his shoulders and my shirt nails clawing his back to keep up. The strain on my muscles to ensure my head didn’t hit the cement and that my body avoided being slammed down with the gusto of his pumping resulted in other internal muscles tightening and convulsing – for this I was grateful.

Assuming he’d stimulated me to orgasm (he hadn’t), he finally freed himself to climax (not before me telling him I wasn’t on the pill to avoid any bastard births) on the garage floor.

I can’t lie and say it wasn’t good sex. It left its marks (gravel rash is a bitch) but it was hot in an awkward way.

I can’t lie and say I wasn’t surprised that afterwards, he remained in an upright position as if partaking of push-ups, gazing into my eyes wordlessly and kissing me for a length of time.

I can’t lie and say I didn’t feel greatly relieved when he offered to drive me home to save me the time, money and care warranted for late night public transport in London (especially south London).

I can’t lie and say I felt guilty jumping out of the car and knowing he was driving five seconds up to the road and would be greeting his wife with the scent of another woman smothered on him.

I can’t lie and say I ever replied to any of his texts or emails again, however sweet or whatever limited promising for happiness may have been present.

I can’t lie and say I’m overly proud of my behaviour in the past – especially when it comes to my sex life.

Romeo, Romance and Reality (Reasons Not To Shag Your Staff)

There are three things you need to know about me before I enlighten and possibly enrage you with the truth about love as it see it.

  1. I’m married;

  2. My husband’s name is David;

  3. The most romantic moment of my life is linked with a boy named Romeo.

It’s possible you may conject on the significance of you the above or why I’m telling you this. That my heart was broken by Romeo and I ‘settled’ for David? That Romeo died and again I ‘settled’ for David? That fate tore me away from Romeo and – guess what? – I ‘settled’ for David.

Please let me put your mind at rest. I’ve never ‘settled’ for anyone, least of all my husband. David is the love of my life. I knew the minute I laid eyes on him he’d be the man with whom I’d spend the rest of my life.

He is romantic and completely devoted to me. But that hat doesn’t alter the fact the most romantic, the most powerful moment of my life was shared with Romeo. If when I die life flashes before me, I swear my most vivid memory will be that of Romeo, or, rather, Romeo and me.

I’m no different to the majority women my age, which is mid-thirties. I was, like most others raised on a diet of trashy romantic novels handed down by my mother and culturally saturated in filmic rom-coms where the Grand Gesture comes – as it inevitably does – when the heroine gets Mr. Right.

TV shows like ‘Sex and the City’ have a lot to answer for. If you yourself a woman in her mid-thirties and continue to hold that dream close to your heart, I hate bursting your bubble but you could be waiting another thirty years; you could be waiting your whole life for something that will never come. The promise we’ve been fed is a lie. If you set your standards up there with Bridget Jones or Carrie Bradshaw be prepared for heartache and devastation – although I truly hope your knight in shining armour rushes in to save you and keep you safe, secure and happy for the rest of your living years.

Brand me a cynic. I prefer the term realist. When you’ve fucked over one hundred men, one tends to acquire a degree of experience from which to draw in matters of heart and boudoir.

I’m not sure what people think the instant they hear the word ‘London’. It obviously depends on your age, location and direct experience of the city. Some may remember the glory days of Brit Pop in the mid 90s, others the current British invasion of manufactured bands like One Direction and The Wanted. Then again people may thing of the ‘Swinging Sixties’ and Carnaby Street. Others, more removed from the Capital, may imagine The Queen, St Paul’s or a red double decker bus. Maybe the Queen on a bus going past the cathedral, I really don’t know particularly care.

Having spent fifteen years in the place, let me recount a darker side to few will ever encounter. The majority – including for a while time myself – endure that awful grind of nine-to-five, spending what free time they have enjoying the delights of London’s vibrant nightlife. It is those working to create the vibrant and diverse scene of London at night who inhabit a completely different world to those ordinary people living ordinary lives.

I left a routine office job to immerse myself in Theatre-land, becoming duty manager of the small but (to us) perfectly formed Players’ Theatre underneath the Arches at Charing Cross. Sadly it went bust, but that’s story alone in itself. Visit it now and you’ll still find the premises buried in the dim, cobbled backwater of Villiers Street which forms the Station’s foundation..

Nowadays though, having been renamed, re-branded and renovated it has become a dull, lifeless place, unimaginatively named ‘The Charing Cross Theatre’. When I managed it, it had gone sixty-five years without the smallest refurbishment. The box office literally seated one person; you couldn’t swing a cat (and we actually had a theatre cat who on occasion helped himself to fish in the kitchen prior to restaurant staff started their shift and if caught was punished by the head chef who somehow did find enough space to swing him).

The carpets and walls were a dark plush red. The upstairs reception was furnished with couches with fraying covers and rickety wooden chairs and tables begging for someone fat to break them so a personal injury claim could be made on the venue’s insurance. The small bar was awkward to navigate in because of the massive supporting pole standing bang in the centre of this tiny space. The two hundred-seat auditorium retained its original red and gold decore with similarly-coloured and incredibly cheap-looking tables and seats. The basement toilets were permanently blocked threatening to flood with a single wrong flush.

The theatre itself was sweet. And diminutive to say the least, it included a minuscule balcony and two dinky boxes. A bar at the rear and the little wooden tables between seats allowed patrons to eat and drink as they watched the show.

The walls were scattered with ancient paintings of Queen Victoria and black and white pictures of bygone stars of Victorian Music Hall. It was unique in its own dingy way holding (as most theatres do) years of secrets, and was run by an eight-five year old man who continued taking the stage for the full six nights a week we were open. He had white hair, a white goatee, moustache and no concept of Employment Law (I kind of liked this because it meant if I didn’t like a staff member or their performance was poor we’d instantly sack them without warning or the slightest official procedure).

There’s a rule of thumb in theatre: never run a performance if there are more actors on stage than audience in seats. Sadly this rule resulted in a lot of cancelled performances for us at the Player’s. Where did it all go wrong? Turns out as the theatre entered the 21st century, people no longer wanted Victorian Music Hall. The owner did his best to keep that most traditional of genres afloat but it was futile.

What went right? Mainly one thing – a bright spark working there had the idea of getting a late night licence and opening membership to all and any employees within Theatre-land, thus offering an intimate and in its way quite exclusive watering hole for when they themselves finished work. The location was perfect for the crowd of heavy drinkers toiling in heart of London’s West End. After the negligible audience trickled out of the Players’ 10.30pm, by eleven a throng of parched musicians, actors, dancers, sound and light technicians flooded in. That late night bar was the cash cow keeping that kept the theatre afloat.

I beheld many in time there and experienced much, but none so important as my genuine sexual awakening. I didn’t lose my virginity till I was twenty-one, by then I was that cock-hungry I was basically (and literally) sex-mad. Taking charge of a venue that stank of pheromones and was so charged with oestrogen and testosterone when I was twenty-three was the equivalent putting starved a kid in a candy shop and leaving her with no supervision. With the monstrous libido like mine, even I had my fill at the Player’s.

The hours were mental; 4pm to 4am six days a week. The upshot of these hostile and unimaginably exhausting hours was that both customers and work colleagues became my social circle de facto family. It was inevitable I’d eventually seek a semblance of romantic involvement – something maybe even permanent – with someone or another found there.

Enter Romeo.

Trying to find staff to work those kinds of hours for less than the minimal wage was difficult. Of the five interviews arranged, Romeo was the only candidate who showed up so was therefore employed on the spot. He was from Albania with a strong grasp of English and previous bar experience so I figured he’d survive. On his advice I recruited his younger brother (a self-confessed rapist with poor English) and his cousin (an out and out racist who verbally abused our Polish restaurant staff). Sadly those particulars weren’t on their CVs when they signed their terms of employment.

My routine at the time was work, drinking and or fucking till 8am, home and bed till 3pm before starting over again. Because Romeo was one of the few full-time staff crew, we spent at least sixty hours a week together. You can’t fail to form a bond or mutual understanding working so closely for that length of time.

We were liberal with ‘after-work’ drinks. One night Romeo decided he’d invent new cocktails from the array of spirits behind the bar. By 7am our numbers had diminished to three; me, Romeo and my Gay Best Friend. As a youngster you know fewer (if any) limits. Actually you do, but you ignore them confident in your ability to recover.

Tequila was my undoing. One minute I was the life and soul of the party, the next I was by the disabled toilet heaving my guts up. Romeo and I were kissing, crumpled by the toilet door, lips locked, groping to remove each other’s clothes.

Gay Best Friend subtly announced his departure. For some reason which shall forever remain a mystery, he insisted I not walk him out and even forgot his usual goodnight hug and kiss.

Romeo was not as hygienic as my friend. Despite the unlocked theatre door immediately opposite the heaving and infamous gay nightclub ‘Heaven’, he pushed my skirt up, tearing away my tights went.

He wasn’t traditionally good looking but he had something. At five foot ten, he was incredibly lean with short cropped brown hair and the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever stared into. Being slim his stomach was rock hard and each muscle of his six-pack was prominent. His chest was solid, not bulky and the bone structure of his face was chiselled and masculine.

At 21, I thought of him as a baby, being two years younger than me, though I wasn’t body confident. Not that I was bad looking, with brown hair and brown eyes, set against a peaches and cream complexion. An ample bosom, and a perfect hour-glass figure, had I been six stone lighter people might have described me as stunning.

Having this lithe young man urgently removing items to access my cunt was extremely flattering. I liked him. I knew him and he knew me. I think that’s possibly what made him overlook the fact that I was never going to be the trophy girlfriend he desperately sought.

If you’d asked me back then, I’d have said the sex was ‘lust-driven’. Ask my friends who saw the bruises and bite marks I was often left with, they would have said ‘violent’. Romeo and I were impulsive, resolute to unite sexually physically to reflect our emotional and mental connection.

Having torn off my tights, pushed up the regulation black skirt from my ‘office’ suit and yanked my knickers aside, his hands gripped my knees spreading them wide. His fingers kneaded the soft white flesh of my womanly thighs as he worked up. I’d raised myself into a half sitting position to undo the belt of his uniform trousers.

He was keen on image and labels hence the tight-legged Calvin Klein boxers were unsurprising. He pushed hard on my shoulders forcing me down to the carpet. If I turned my head I could see – too close for comfort – the puddle of own vomit though I far too far gone to be bothered by merely by that. He shifted to shove his cock in me.

It wasn’t the best I’ve had as cocks go (or perhaps more accurately, come) – average in length but with no girth whatsoever. Having a tampon shoved up would have been more satisfying than his pencil-like dick. Sex though isn’t always about adjuncts and anatomy. Having someone thrust furiously inside you, with gritted teeth and a determined look in their eyes can be reward enough in itself.

He pounded hard. I loved the feel of him crashing his full length into me, his balls slamming against my splayed thighs. It wasn’t imaginative or original. It was animalistic, carnal in nature.

I loved that he was young and fit and hard and could power on for ages. The constant shafting of my slit rubbed the lips raw. It was as if he wanted to consume me. He lifted my ankles over his shoulders, then heaved me down onto his needy prick. He couldn’t get enough of himself into me. The penetration was as deep as it was going to get. He stopped grunting to study my face. It was if he was aware the leanness of him was expressed by the size of his dick and he wanted to grow a few inches longer and wider but couldn’t. It was rutting rather than love making but desire existed on both our parts.

Romeo went to get my sheer black top off. I could handle the ripped tights but I couldn’t afford to replace a torn blouse, thus removed it myself. I’m a C cup, which isn’t massive but pleases most men. I chose to wear black bras so the pale flesh of my breasts would spill over the cup. Romeo went to my breasts, took them in his mouth and suckled as if he was expecting milk. I started to squirm when he pinched my nipples between his teeth, then graduated to gulping my breasts in his mouth – biting hard. I found little pleasure in that.

It was about then Barbara the cleaner entered the building. We scarpered like two naughty kids from the theatre’s reception, fleeing to the back offices, frenziedly punching in the access code.

Once locked in safely, Romeo asked me to get to my knees and suck his cock. There was something in the demand that didn’t sit well with me. I somehow had a feeling he’d get off on the idea of reporting back to his family that ‘the boss’ had got to her knees to drink him dry.

To remind him I actually was boss, I pushed him into my private office to sit him on the edge of my desk. I kissed slowly and tenderly as I took his erection in hand to manoeuvre his skin and asked him to spit in my palm so I could lube him with his own saliva. Now it was a gentler scene. When I felt he’d calmed, I sat on my black leather office chair and spread his legs. It was only then I took him in my mouth. I refused to let him have the upper hand but I happy please him, though I noted didn’t reciprocate.

It wasn’t a demanding blow job, which given my lack of sobriety and sheer exhaustion from his unstoppable pounding, was a shame. It’s nice to gag on a cock. I have a serious oral fixation. To have something in my mouth akin to a straw as opposed to a bratwurst is boring. However fat girls do it better because they like having things in their mouths; we relish and respect food. I worked that cock like a chocolate finger easily working the entire thing in my mouth. I switched between hands and mouth and ended up inching him down till my face was buried in his pubic hair. The smell was sexy – like sweat and aftershave. I swallowed so the muscles in my throat massaged his prick. I released to breathe and appreciate the full view of him when he stood from the desk.

Completely naked Romeo was beautiful in way that only youth offers. His long legs were firm and sinewy, his stomach flat with prominent hip bones prominent. There wasn’t a hair on his chest, merely a small trail running to his tame pubic region. His buttocks were flawless and pert, the muscles visible as he pressed his pelvis forward for more work on his cock. I took him back in my lips, determined to let my mouth and tongue demonstrate how much I wanted him. I sucked hard, using my tongue in swirling circles. Occasionally I’d pull the foreskin back over the head then push my tongue underneath which had him groaning. My free hand cupped his balls, exerting a slight pressure before tugging them.

When he was close he withdrew his cock, put his hands on my small waist and spun me round to seat me on the desk. He reached under my knees, pulling me to the edge of the table. Reaching behind me, he pulled my hair hard, tipping my neck back and forcing me to hold back a scream. When he slid his rod in one last time he fucked hard, wrenching my hair so brutally my head hit a shelf. I threw him off and stood, only for him to grab my hair and drag me until I turned to face the desk once again. I knew exactly what he wanted and I wanted it too. To be dominated by someone earning less money than me, younger than me and someone who wasn’t my superior was the disciplinary fuck I so needed. Lowering my head to the desk by gripping my neck, I spread my legs waiting for his entry.

Entering me from behind, finally gave him the penetration we both craved. He forced my arse cheeks apart to get in as far as he could, rocking his hips fast and furiously. He pulled out to come purposely over my arse. I was highly irritated because he insisted on watching me wipe myself dry before dressing. The passion remained as we kissed deeply and angrily, resentfully acknowledging ‘we’ could never be and frustrated by the inevitability of it all.

We had sex a couple more times before calling it quits. He’d met some girl. To preserve our close friendship I accepted the state of affairs and returned to fucking regular bar punters.

On the eve of my twenty-fourth birthday Romeo and his brother Jimmy stayed back to drink and see in my birthday. Jimmy felt the need to divulge Romeo had strong feelings for me, which stung given his earlier, gentle rejection of any potential relationship. As always when the sun rose our secret world disappeared. The boys headed off to catch a train, I walked to the cab rank. As I waited, watching the stark orange skies of London dawn, I heard my name called. Romeo was sprinting towards me.

‘I’m glad you haven’t left. Thought I might’ve missed you,’ he said panting.

‘Why, what’s up?’

‘Sorell, I really like you. I think it could be much more than that. It’s only that I want to be with you. I had to tell you.’

After months of intimacy and what I wrote off as meaningless sex I felt my heart beat. He showed me the screen of his phone.

‘See here, that girl’s phone number?’

I nodded as he selected the delete option.

‘I’m deleting it. I wanted you to see me delete it because I want you to know I’m serious about us, about being with you and only you.’

I heard his brother call.

‘You better go.’

Without warning he put cupped my face in his hands and kissed me. As the kiss lengthened he pulled me closer as our tongues could entwine. I experienced only deep affection and possibility in his warm, moist lips.

‘Happy Birthday, Sorell.’

‘It is now.’

He kissed me again. I realised for the first time in twenty-four years I finally had a boyfriend. I was no longer a one-night-stand-slut unable to find a man or hold down a relationship. What sweeter moment can there be in the catalogue of anyone’s of love life than to have someone choose you over another on the morning of your birthday in the empty streets of London one cold December morning. Talk about grand gestures and romantic endings.

Two weeks later, I answered the phone from my office as I completed the payroll.

‘Player’s Theatre, how can I help?’

‘Can I speak to Romeo?’

‘May I ask who’s calling please?’

‘His girlfriend.’

The ten step walk from my office to the bar was the longest I’ve trekked. The standing in front of my staff and saying in a cold lifeless voice – ‘you girlfriend’s on the phone’ still pains me now.

I could scream at him in the privacy of my office. I could take him off the bar and force him to work on the door (sitting on a stool signing members in for five hours straight). I couldn’t however force him to love me or like me or want me as his girlfriend. That morning of my birthday was unforgettable. The most romantic moment of my life eternally tarnished.

Eventually I was forced to sack Romeo. He was running a scam at the bar stealing in excess of ten thousand pounds with his brother and cousin (hence the theatre bankrupting). As I fired him, I asked why. Why did he do it? I employed him. Why steal from somewhere and someone who’d always been good to him? Why steal when I’d have given him the money if he asked? He shook his head shamefully. We kissed one last time. We both cried. I never saw him again.

You won’t see this story on TV or at the movies any time soon – but don’t think it never happens.

A Taste Of Barely Legal India

Discovering Cougar Town (young guys wanting older women, not the Courtney Cox comedy) after I hit thirty was a bit like Lucy discovering Narnia in ‘The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe’. Everyone I told didn’t believe that I was for real. They thought I was fabricating the truth to account for my single status as a thirty something. Fortunately for me technology had moved on significantly since I’d first lost my virginity.

Nowadays there are profiles on the internet laden with numerous photos and even better body proud young men happy to send photos via text or BBM to tease you with their gym sculpted bodies. Even better than that, there are the real exhibitionists willing to send over pictures of their youthful erections – trust me a there is nothing better than a big, fat, hard teenage cock. That sounds crass, but it is in fact super sexy and legal!!!

Hence, while I regaled the open plan office where I worked, with tales of my conquests ranging of men between ten to twelve years younger than me, if ever I saw a couple of doubtful faces or heard whispers that I was exaggerating my experiences, I needed only to whip out my phone to produce pictures and texts pertaining to the boy in question.

I have always liked my ‘brown boys’ with a particular penchant from those with origins in India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka. It seems fitting with England competing against India tomorrow in the cricket that the sexual exploit that first springs to mind was a teenage gym bunny I met over Face-party (a more sexual precursor to Facebook) was of Indian descent.

Call me racist or stereotypical but in regard to my social and sexual encounters with Indian men they have always been hugely appreciative of my plumper figure; their eyes widening lustily with all that soft, white, ample flesh against their own dark naked bodies.

I remember his six pack, I remember his prick, but I’m very sorry to say I don’t remember his name.

I had been somewhat precarious about arranging to see him because he was so body conscious. I thought my figure would repulse him. He’d seen pictures of me online but to my shame I had taken a few liberties with my profile photographs which were not only taken from a flattering angle but were a few years old and portrayed me as slightly slimmer version to what I actually was.

Greeting him at Stockwell tube station I had the knot in my stomach of him being either completely insensitive and calling me on the faux photo scam that I myself had been caught out with over my online dating experience or even worse be polite by visiting my house but evade all my sexual overtures.

He had a big smile for me which was slightly reassuring. He was whippet thin. At 5’10, I doubted he weighed more than 9 stone – say 57 kilograms for those using the metric system. I had a couple of stone on him easily and made a mental note not to even attempt going on top of the lad for fear of crushing him. I knew he worked out daily but he appeared to be more of a cardiovascular guy rather than a weights man.

His teenage libido took over the second I opened the door to my bedsit and let him in. He pushed me straight on the bed and started kissing me hungrily. It was quite nice but I had a nasty next door neighbour and didn’t want him peering in or pushing open the door to see what the ruckus was about. As the lithe lad clambered up me like a horny puppy I was trying to wriggle down the bed to kick the door shut with my foot.

He was so light it wasn’t actually that difficult and after hearing the familiar click of the lock, I allowed myself the pleasure of whipping off his shirt to see if his photos were for real.

I am happy to report all was present and correct. His washboard stomach was almost as rock hard as the cock that was pressing into my tummy as he smothered me in kisses. He was going a little overboard and almost licking my face which I wasn’t overly keen on.

Hands were trying to squeeze in the waistband of my already too tight jeans.

In the end I had to tell him to calm down for a bit. His big brown eyes and attempt at designer stubble made him look younger than his nineteen years. Part of me is always flummoxed why these gorgeous, fit boys were scouring the internet to get laid and not making the most of their hedonistic university lifestyle. Whether girls sharing classes with them were too close to see their appeal I don’t know, but I know that in that particular moment I was glad he’d been driven by rejection or alack of pussy to Faceparty and fate had him stumble across my profile.

Looking like a chastised child I took the time to run my hands over his body and it was perfect; fit, firm and fuckable. I slowed the pace by undressing him and was thrilled to see an erection, snug in his black tight legged boxers – undoubtedly with Calvin Klein imprinted on the waist-band. Fashion and image were everything to this guy so why he was hard for me was far beyond my comprehension, but I didn’t draw his attention to the obvious difference in our appearances.

When I removed my top and freed my breasts of the push up bra, he ran his hands over my feminine untoned tummy and suckled my nipples like a baby. It was sweet that his hand was desperate to make contact with what was under my knickers but those jeans weren’t budging for him to slip his fingertips under.

I released the button of the jeans and knew I was spilling out. It possibly would have been prudent to wear control knickers but the tight elastic would only have furthered hindered his endeavour to get between my lips.

When his fingers delved into my wetness he released my breasts from his mouth and groaned. He could tell from the warm slipperiness of my minge that I was ready and willing to take him. Thus he rolled my knickers down and I spread my legs for him to enter.

I have to be brutally honest and say he wasn’t the biggest I had – if I was to be really accurate I’d say he was below average, but it wasn’t size that rendered the session difficult to bear; it was his abundance of energy. The guy was like a Duracell Bunny. At first I’d loved feeling his young cock penetrate me. I loved that he (thought) he was slamming it into me. I loved that his hands were under my shoulders in an attempt to plough deeper. I loved seeing his brown skin glued to mine with sweat from the effort of his exertions. I didn’t love that he continued in missionary for at least a good twenty minutes with nothing else going on – no kissing, no nipple squeezing, no nothing. I could see my remote control on my bedside cabinet and had to refrain from turning on the television to catch up on the news while he made the most of my vagina.

Trying to spice things up, I shifted into doggy-style to hopefully end the spontaneous work-out he was inflicting on me. I had the utmost respect for his dedication to the gym and I appreciated the results but I wasn’t the sporty type (nor will I ever be!). Constant sex in the same position was tedious, unimaginative and unsexy.

The trouble with doggy-style was that there was a lot of white ass he had to plough through to get to my slit. His dick just didn’t have the length to give the position justice, no sooner was he inside me thrusting furiously then he’d slide back out. It was frustrating for me but I was prepared to write the event off. Rather than tell him he’d dislodged I let him continue thrusting between my thighs. He was grunting and moaning so I figured he was enjoying the sensation. In fact I even had time to open the graphic novel I’d had on my pillow to read while he exercised his cardiovascular system. I’m pretty sure he was too heavily into the rutting to notice what I was up to. Once I’d finished reading the adventures of ‘Invincible’ I discreetly closed the comic and put my hands between my legs; clearly the only person bringing me any satisfaction that evening was going to be me.

Having cottoned onto what was happening he went strong for the home run. I obviously was clenching my thighs when I reached my own peak because the next thing I knew his cum was spurting between my clamped thighs. I suddenly realised, because of the stream of semen running down my thighs, he was going to cotton on to the fact that he’d basically been wanking himself between my thighs rather than fucking a youngish cougar for all she was worth.

To avoid any awkwardness afterwards, I was inclined to dress quickly and make up a pathetic excuse about having to meet a friend for a late dinner. I know I came across as rude and dismissive and I hate that I did, but I was prepared to shoulder that condemnation, rather than have him look downcast when he realised his invested energies had done nothing to sexually fulfil me. You take the good with the bad – that’s what happens sometimes in sex. Anyway the lovely boy at the Maharani more than made up for events earlier that evening by giving me complimentary samosas with my take-away curry, but I’ll go into the details of that another time.

The Language Of Lust (Real Sex In Amsterdam)

I’m not sure how the Dutch see themselves from an international perspective, but aside from the fact you can smoke dope legally (although I hear they have cracked down on tourists visiting the country for that specific purpose), I believe the majority of people associate the country with sex. Maybe not the entire country, but when you here the word Amsterdam you tend to think of prostitutes in windows and live sex shows…and smoking dope!

I was fortunate for a time because my brother’s best friend from primary school (who I grew up with) was half Dutch and spent a good few years working in Amsterdam, which meant I always had free accommodation in a rather luxurious gay bachelor pad when I was inclined to pop over and taste the delights on offer. Since then he has decided he isn’t gay and was straight after all (bet his ex-girlfriend was pissed when he rejoined the hetero team). Now he’s married with babies and living in a far more ‘family friendly’ area of the country.

Anyway on my first visit, being my temporary GBFF (Gay Best Friend Forever – well for the duration of the long weekend) he was attentive and showed me all the wonders of the city. Because his father was Dutch he had family further away from Amsterdam and suggested we visit because they had their annual beer festival on – it could make for a good day. Who was I to refuse my host?

I have to confess it was an inspirational idea on his part in respect of immersing me in the culture of the people. I learned to love chips with mayonnaise and that 1 Euro for a pint of beer is not only cheap but will have you wasted in a very short space of time.

My mother had this theory that the Dutch aren’t keen on fat people (my host’s father had never been particularly kind to her) and I have to say my subsequent experience has made me realise her assumption wasn’t too far from the truth.

There I was, drinking and enjoying the atmosphere when a lovely young boy came and spoke to me. He looked about 16, but was perhaps a little older. I was in my mid twenties at the time but it was all harmless fun. He couldn’t speak a word of English and I couldn’t speak a word of Dutch, but when it comes to casual sex, conversation isn’t a necessity for the event to take place. Alcohol, body language and physical attraction is all that’s required. As we drank and became tactile, enjoying the crowds and music we got a little hands on.

He implied to me that he was going to visit the bathroom and signaled for me to mind his drink. I smiled and nodded and off he went. No sooner had he gone than his father, who’d be standing at the table next to us strode over; a man on a mission. Unfortunately for me he could speak English.

‘Stay away and leave my son alone when he returns back.’

I was somewhat taken aback and said I really felt the decision was up to his son. As I voiced this thought his son reappeared and spoke in Dutch to his father. He was irritated by the exchange and stood firm by my side, drinking his beer. His father, physically tried to drag him away and I was obliged to enquire as to what exactly the problem with him having a drink with me was.

‘You’re too fat. You’re grotesque. My son can do much better than you. Stay away, I will find him someone else.’

Sadly back then I wasn’t as good at disguising my emotions publicly as I am now. Outraged, embarrassed, full of self disgust and loathing and more than anything hurt, I retreated immediately, telling me host I needed the toilet. As luck would have it he had missed the entire scene, so I was spared the mortification of him hearing me referred to as ‘fat’ and ‘grotesque’. His 50% Dutch DNA may have had him applauding the man or joining in with the verbal insults about my weight, instead of defending me!

I left the alfresco drinking area and made my way into the heaving bar and headed straight for the ladies cubicle. I can’t deny I needed to break the seal after drinking an extraordinary amount of beer, but in truth I figured by the time I’d had a good old cry over the humiliating fat attack, father and son may have moved on to find someone skinny.

Allowing myself ample recovery time, I decided to venture back out to find my friend. The difficulty was the bar was massive and when I walked out, I couldn’t see my host for love nor money. Without a mobile phone and any concept of the national language, I had no other option other than circling and scrutinizing every patron in the bar in the vain hope that I’d spot him ordering drinks or coming up from the toilets himself. I was at the point of getting panicking when a brutish drunk asked if I wanted a drink.

What I actually wanted was to scream, cry, wail, drop to my knees and beat my breast with both hands but a drink with a hunk from Holland didn’t seem a bad substitute.

Whether it was because he towered over me at 6’4 and was built like a brick shit-house or he preferred a fuller figure I didn’t get an anti-‘fat’ vibe from the man. What I did get was a pint of beer and a rather nice kiss.

There’s something rather sexy about linking your arms around a stranger’s neck and forgetting yourself in the crowd of public onlookers as the kiss gradually develops into a more feverish and intense experience. A foreign tongue in your mouth in a foreign land.

Having been rejected, it was a relief to have it counteracted with lusty intent from another individual. Feeling his erection against my stomach took the sting out of my earlier encounter.

His English was very broken but when coming up for air he asked if I wanted to take a walk along the pier. I didn’t even know there was a pier. My first thoughts were related to the predicament of having lost my brother’s best friend and in that respect my guide; wandering away from where we’d last been together was unlikely to improve my chances of finding him (if anything disappearing would seriously hinder my tracking him down to return me home safely). That said, I knew he wasn’t going anywhere because we were waiting for the appearance of a few of his cousins. As we’d already been separate for over half an hour, I figured a tiny stroll couldn’t hurt.

The throng of an entire town being drunk had been a little overwhelming so I found it a relief that the pier was completely empty. It was only tiny, with few boats but it was pretty with the sun setting. An idyllic location to finish off what we’d started in the bar.

The soft lighting flattered his looks.; it was as if he’d stepped out of a Hollister or Jack Wills advertisement. He was tall and broad and as we resumed kissing I reached under his shirt to find the mass of the man was muscles. The toned frame combined with piercing blue eyes, buzz-cut length brown hair, even lips and a noticeable tan had me forgetting the boy and his fatist father.

Nothing’ beats a proper kissing section. Like when your teenagers and on the brink of embracing your sexuality. Too shy to go straight to sex, but keen to explore so starting at first base with kisses. That’s what his mouth felt like on mine. In my head it was a picture-esque image of a real man kissing me with the water behind and hazy orange skies.

He wasn’t, however, a teenager on the brink of embracing his sexuality. He was a man and I was a woman and as soon as my hands went from under his shirt to trying to edge down into his jeans it was game on.

I kicked myself for having dressed down that day. Had I worn a skirt or dress it would’ve made the sex easier, but I hadn’t. I had to kick off my trainers and lose my cargo pants within close proximity and cross my fingers there’d be no passer-byers to see us and no gusts of wind to sweep my clothes out to sea.

For the first and only time in my life, he actually lifted me onto the top of the rail of the pier which wasn’t to high and without a word smoothly slid in his cock. I have to say, his penis was in perfect portion with his build. Plentiful in length and girth my moaning aloud was a result of instant gratification. As he worked his massive shaft inside me, he refused to kiss but insisted on maintaining eye contact for the duration. His expression was one of determination. Upon each moan released in accordance with his ploughing, he would glide in deeper each time to elicit a more audible groan.

When the ramming became too powerful and I thought he might bang me into the sea, I was obliged to steady myself by wrapping my legs tightly round his waist and my arms round his neck. At this gesture he seemed please with his performance and broke into a smile. It was only then he kissed me. I could feel his hips wanting to jerk harder, but my vice-like thighs were restricting him. Before I knew it he had lifted my off the rail and was fucking me as he stood. It did give him deeper penetration, as well as a thorough work both aerobically and anaerobically. I was concerned his thighs might give way and he wouldn’t have the stamina to keep up the speed while supporting my weight. Full marks – he didn’t.

Bouncing up and down on his boner and his breath warm and panting in my ear had me, literally, dripping and wet for him. My self-consciousness prevented me from responding too ferociously to his vigorous pounding. Truth be told, while I enjoyed the stretch workout he was giving my vagina and the mental image of the stallion mating with me in public view, it was his fucking me without any aid of a bed, rail, wall or toilet that delighted me. Even then, I resisted revealing how much more of his cock I needed in me. I was wanton and wanting, but when you have issues around weight they can impinge on all aspects of your life – including sex.

I was actually relieved when he came. Disappointed because I was loved the rawness and roughness of his technique, but happy that I could clear my mind of the potential guilt I’d have if he gave himself a hernia by choosing that position.

He may not have had much grasp of English, he did fully understand the concept of chivalry and helped collect my clothes and shoes, then kept watch as I dressed. He escorted me back to the pub, bought me a drink and assisted me in circling the venue in search of my friend. Transpires the pub was two premises linked together. I’d gone to the toilets in premise one but exited the toilets into premise two and hadn’t noticed the difference. The alfresco area I’d been scouring wasn’t the section we had been drinking in. As soon as I was in the original alfresco area I saw my host and he waved me over (I was grateful the man that originally ruined my confidence had departed, with his son in tow, seeking a skinnier venue).

‘I take it you were having a poo and not a wee,’ said my friend.

Anal Sex Adventures Gone Wrong

In my online dating years and when I was pretty determined to sleep with someone from every country I decided I had to sleep with a South African. There’s actually a very healthy rivalry between South Africa and Australia so it had never been too high on my list of priorities, but it was a box that needed to be checked.

I scoured the internet for ages finding the right one. Now I was in mid-twenties. Younger boys held no appeal for me, my preference was for older men, but I was also happy to fuck someone in my own age bracket.

I wish I could remember his name because he’s sent me a thousand friend requests on Facebook (all of which I declined – what a bitch I am sometimes!) so I should be familiar with it. But I’m not. He’s just another face without a name in my sexual history.

Aside from being South African (I’ve been told I need to clarify here he was white Caucasian) he wasn’t a bad looking boy. He actually possessed more of an American look and was reminiscent of Tom Cruise, which is no bad thing if that’s your type. He was short, maybe 5’5 with shoes on, had blonde hair, perfect shiny white teeth and the body of someone who spent a lot of time at the gym but didn’t have the physique for it to be overly impressive or noticeable.

We’d chatted online briefly and I organised the hook up just as quickly. As with any cyber sex sessions, discussions of likes and dislikes had come into conversation and I do believe mentioning I was quite up for anal sex. In all honesty I wasn’t that up for it, but some men see it as quite slutty and sexy so I felt it would increase my chances of getting laid.

The only thing about dating younger guys, or at that time men in their mid twenties is their lack of confidence. Despite me giving him my address he asked if I might meet him a the tube station and walk him back to mine. It kind of seemed a role reversal in terms of traditional male/female roles but because I was pretty independent and desperate for cock I agreed.

Meeting him at the station I could see not only was I going to have sex with a South African but also a man that would’ve been classified as a dwarf if he’d been born an inch or two shorter -not great for a 5’7 Amazonian-esque Australian like me.

I had an inkling I would want it over and done with asap. Bit of a workout for my vagina, send him home and then a bit of fast food and crap late night TV.

The bedsit I was living in at the time was in fact in the loft of a top floor flat and I had to climb up a ladder to get in there. There was a single bed, which I used as a couch and a double futon which I slept in.

The sex was almost perfunctory. By the time we got up the ladder, there wasn’t really all that much to discuss. He was a trainee accountant at a law firm, which is probably why he could afford to buy the best brand of lube in the market, which he presented to me like a wedding ring, but his profession wasn’t riveting enough to warrant feigned interest and questioning about his job.

It was kind of a kiss and clothes off affair.

In hindsight I found the height difference a little off putting. I could lay on the single bed, my bottom perched on the edge, legs spread, wet and waiting giving him easy access but as he began fucking me I realised he didn’t even have to bend his knees to get into my cunt. Nor did he need to prop my bottom up with pillows so that he wasn’t squatting while he was thrusting. If anything I suspect he would’ve been happy if he’d had a few pillows or a small cardboard box to stand on while pumping away.

His inexperience and lack of technique was all too obvious. I liked his enthusiasm and the velocity. His thick cock going in and out of me was pleasing. But the man handling of my breasts, squeezing them, pinching them was all good until he suckled them. He didn’t suck quickly, or suck and nibble. He suckled them as one would imagine a baby would. Making slurping noises. Ths short South African had a fat stubby cock inside me while he suckled my breasts. Taking turns on each one. Resting on my chest and just sucking and pumping. Thank fuck he didn’t call me mum.

I was wondering how long I’d have to endure the child like sexual behaviour when he boldly said, ‘Your arse. Let me fuck your arse.’

‘Yeah sure.’ I agreed quickly enough thinking the sooner the experience was over the better.

‘Do it like in the movies please.’

Wordlessly I moved from the single bed onto my double futon on the floor on my hand and knees. I could hear him squirting the lube and telling me how much he wanted this. I was going to ask if he wanted it more than me putting him in a nappy and giving him a rusk but thought it may further delay this mortifying experience.

Things went from bad to worse. His pork sword may have been ready to invade but my anus was having none of it. It was as if my arsehole had been super-glued shut. This should have demonstrated how tense and unrelaxed I was in this encounter but the South African wasn’t taking no for an answer. He just put more and more lube on his cock and more and more lube around my bottom.

He pounded and grinded trying to force the slightest opening so he could then force his cock in. It was lucky he’d been working out cause he needed the strength and stamina for this nearly impossible feat.

I mentally applauded him because he did manage it. But the sheer power required had meant while I’d started on all fours with each thrust my hands slipped forward and I began to move downwards. I could see my hands pushing the duvet towards the wall and my face getting closer and closer to the mattress. Soon enough I was lying on my stomach. Pancaked on the bed. I’d have preferred to be a little more picturesque and described myself as more of a ‘crepe’ demolished on the bed, but my rather rolling soft curves meant I was more a fluffy, filling pancake. It wasn’t until I was plastered to the bed that he got in. I was face down on my bed as his cock stabbed into me. In an effort of my own, and I wasn’t  a regular gym goer, I resisted the intensity of his thrusting just enough to raise myself and my arse up so he could penetrate a little deeper. Where I mustered the energy I know not where – at that time I did wonder if there wasn’t something in all this religious malarkey – but in returning to half doggy style position it gave him enough room to be thrilled enough by the anal sex to cum.

I disposed of his presence as quickly as I did the condom. To be honest I probably would’ve enjoyed visiting South Africa more via Google Earth rather than have someone bum me quite so viciously and vigorously. I don’t think I dismissed him in a nasty or harsh way because he very kindly offered me the exclusive expensive bottle of lube so we could have anal sex again next time he came round. He never came round again…but the lube was used up for more anal sex.

The Almost Threesome

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.

Squid Eye (sexual mishaps discovered in youthful sex)

There is nothing that puts a dampener on one’s sex life then when you both agree you want children but don’t set a date AND practise unsafe sex – that is my husband and I don’t use contraception. As a thirty-something woman the biological clock is ticking away, as someone nearing fifty with an ex-wife and two kids and a brand spanking new wife I suspect the conception of new children isn’t quite as high on his list of priorities as it is mine.

Now we both love a bit of porn and filthy sex but with real life imposing greatly on our once vivid and active imaginations which provided some seriously steamy and depraved sex, I haven’t been getting my five-a-day of late…not even five-a-week – in fact I’m lucky if I get sex once a week (I do normally get a minimum of five orgasms in the weekly session though so if you go for the quality not quantity argument…).

Anyway this discussion on children has made his ejaculation something of a delicate subject when the moment is about to present itself. When he breathlessly asks where I want him to cum as my head is bouncing up and down on his penis I almost stop myself on the spot considering the answer. I don’t though, at his age he remains rock hard and can go for hours without climaxing and sometimes I get lock-jaw so daren’t break the rhythm for fear of having to prepare myself for the onset of a sore jaw and repetitive strain injury in my wrist. The  thing is I quite like him cumming inside me. I like the squirt of his semen filling me up and hitting the back wall, I like feeling him pull and wipe his cum soaked cock on my thigh and I LOVE that moment when I stand up and feel his sperm swim out of my wet cunt and down into my panties at some point later that day. Only in light of recent conversations on the progression of our relationship I feel if I ask him to release inside me he’ll assume I want a baby like…yesterday and be scared off. I’m already starved of cock on a once a week diet so if the sex dries up any more I suspect my hymen may grow over and I’ll be re-virginalised.

Last week – aware that his balls were full up of seven days of milky-white tadpoles – when he popped the question I decided to play it safe and go for one of his visually stimulating favourites and said I wanted him to cum on my face. When he asked if I wanted him to kneel over me so I could bring myself off one last time while vibing my clit, him manually finishing himself off as I licked his balls so he could see himself over my tongue and face, I nodded (as I continued my mouth working his cock). Trouble was as it had been such a while since we’d had sex (for us any way) he came before he had time to reposition himself. My peripheral vision caught site of a thick white stream flying past my head in a moan of his ecstasy, akin to someone stomping violently on a pot of yoghurt. I moved my face in a bid to catch the airborne sperm on my tongue and ended up taking the majority of it on my face. However a droplet had hit the corner of my unfortunate open eye.

It stung like fuck and no amount of eye baths took away the pain. Having been accosted briefly by his 90 year old father (asking all sorts of probing questions about this week’s online Sainsbury’s order whilst I cradled my eye and felt my skin tightening as the spunk dried on my face) I eventually returned to be to discuss the distress of my right eyeball. My partner’s was empathetic (as a youngster he was once wanking and spurted with such a force and at such an angle he came in his own eye) towards my bad case of squid eye and I discovered the existence of a very sadist  sexual practise which involves a guy coming into a shot glass (or with accurate and effective aim) then forcing  a woman’s eye open and dumping the load in there. Severe stinging sensation! I speak from experience. Not from this minor bedroom mishap but a larger one some years ago.

Back in the day when I was a pretty(ier) young(er) thing I made quite the impression on a young man visiting London from Bradford. He was of Indian descent (I do like my brown boys) and a PE teacher to boot (who doesn’t like a six pack and toned body???.) I must’ve quite liked him because I didn’t sleep with him the night I met him – I obviously held off hoping he may like me enough to want to consider me as potential girl friend material. Not succumbing paid off, although he was travelling overseas for six months, he literally called me from the airport when his plane returned to home soil (clearly he hadn’t scored a lot of foreign pussy on his travels).

I was flattered to be his first call and we quickly organised an evening for him to trek to London and ‘see’ me. Sadly I was very young at this point and still couldn’t quite comprehend why such a fittie was interested in me. In addition to this I was inexperienced with the whole dating scenario. I got as far as meeting him in the pub after work for a drink but was unsure what to do from there. Did I suggest dinner? More drinks? A movie? Clubbing? No after two alcopops I found myself inviting him back to my place.

As we walked up there (bare in mind I was living at the Young Women’s Christian Association which didn’t allow overnight male visitors, nor even visitors after 9pm) I knew I had a limited window of opportunity to legitimately get him into my room. Once signed in there was every chance after 9 o’clock the guards would come a-knocking to boot him out.

On the way back my phone started bleeping with texts from a new beau I was sure I was in love with – now not only did I need to fuck this guy before curfew but also I needed to speed things along in order to allow me to return the call of my current obsession. Gorgeous Asian PE Teacher asked if it was my other boyfriend on the phone and I nervously laughed off his all too accurate laughing accusation. Still he was so tactile and affectionate, and I was so besotted by his muscular frame that by the time I got him into my small single bedroom I was tearing off his tight grey shirt and running my hand all over his hard body. The slim waist and rippled torso had my hands undoing his belt and working down the button fly on his jeans. I could see his hard on pressed against his pristine white briefs. The bulging of his pants and thighs (built up undoubtedly from punishing fat kids mercilessly during PE lessons at school) distracted me from contemplating whether this underwear was acceptable or not – it looked like maybe mum still bought it. He was pushing me onto the bed whilst my hands were grabbing desperately at his cock.

He removed my top off and I was wriggling out of my jeans while sucking hard on him. He was groaning so loudly the girl next door thumped on the wall. Fully aware of the time restraints and the possibility of angry neighbour calling security; once free of my jeans I extended my toe towards the CD player (yes this was pre-iPod era) to hit play. Sadly I had left on Backstreet Boys but my handling of his cock was enough to make him stay hard while he sat bolt upright and said ‘Backstreet Boys? Seriously What are you 13?’ (I was 22.) To avoid answering the question I quickly leapt on his cock and rode him like I was a prizewinning rodeo jillaroo – I only lasted the 7 seconds because he was soon begging for a blowjob. I pushed my mouth on his cock and went in for some intense deep throat action. He pulled my head to shallow his thrusting in my mouth, withdrew completely and said ‘I haven’t done this in so long.’ Then he promptly ejaculated all over me. It’s one thing having seven days of spunk flying at you but seven months worth was like a tsunami – unavoidable. It went everywhere but mostly it went in my eye.

Being a tough Australian and keen to keep my options open (there was no guarantee my new text relationship would become realised) I tried to ride it out and be sexy. I rubbed his cum into my plump breasts and my stomach, massaging it down to between my thighs while he watched. As I moved my hands erotically round my voluptuous figure I tried to flick my hair seductively but it was matted from man-milk. What I could feel was the vision in my left eye diminishing. I was rubbing some cum into my face, smiling as if I knew I was going to look ten years younger from having done so when I realised my eye was on fire. It was swelling up so that I couldn’t see out of it all. I wanted to run round the room screaming ‘It burns, it BURNS!’ or fill the little sink up with water and dunk my entire head in it but those actions were decidedly unsexy…but so was a big red swollen eyelid.

The phone began ringing again. My one remaining good eye caught my new love’s name flash up very visibly on the phone’s screen. I suddenly had gone from Australian sex goddess to smelly, slutty girl masquerading as Popeye in drag. There was no sexy way out of the situation other than to literally push him out my bedroom door and say ‘Call me next time your in town!’ As the door slammed shut on his confused face I didn’t hear his foot steps petering away because I had the cold water tap on full blast filling up the sink; my face was pressed to the plug hole waiting for some relief.

There was little respite to be found. Blindly my hand grabbed a flannel and the other my phone so after soaking the flannel I could let it rest on my eye while I hit redial. The voice at the other end of the line asked if I hadn’t answered his calls because I’d been with my other boyfriend. Once again I nervously laughed off the all too accurate gentle accusation. I tried to maintain a conversation being witty and sexy while I nursed my eye. After my appalling dismissal of the body beautiful asian it was evident he was one option no longer available to my heart or vagina – my poor conduct ensured he never did call back. Sadly my eye, now resembling a puffer fish, was affecting my phone manner. My text love decided his suspicions were warranted or that I wasn’t 100% committed to the call and hung up quickly because of my evident inattention. A five minute phone conversation didn’t satisfy my emotional needs any more than a fifteen minute blow job satisfied my cunt which continued aching to be stuffed by a cock. Neither were satisfied that night – this story, akin to my night, was without a resolution.

Swedish Sex (hard core porn style sex or just a myth?)

I have no idea why when I think of Sweden I think of porn. Is it a porn nation or are the associations with pornography now very dated? Perhaps it’s just that the Swedes are such a beautiful race they could all be porn stars, or over-whelmed by their physical attractiveness they instigate pornographic thoughts on an unsuspecting public.

I won a trip to Sweden back in 1999 when I had barely lost my virginity. I was a virgin twice removed. It was the year the musical Mamma Mia opened and as an Australian worshipping at the house of Abba naturally I entered every competition going to score tickets to see it. The particular competition I won resulted in flying first class to Sweden for a weekend at the first class section of a Radisson hotel. I have to say I was somewhat dismayed that it didn’t include tickets to see the musical itself. No that was second prize and the one I felt more coveted. Still never one to knock a freebie L and I decided to trip over there in September 1999.

Be in doubt Stockholm is like one big fashion cat walk. Beautiful boys everywhere.

Although there had been a small débâcle on the flight over (the stewardesses clearly felt our attire didn’t match that of first class passengers and decided to check our tickets and make a little scene when we joined the fast lane – L & I got them back by pocketing a dozen miniature bottles of Baileys from the drinks trolley when the air hostess’s back was turned) everything was luxury from the minute we arrived that Friday afternoon.

That we were put in a first class room and greeted with a bottle of champagne was positively thrilling for two innocents like us. But innocents we were not to be for long because you see First Class rooms at the Radisson come with free porn channels.

Apart from watching a few of my brother’s will hidden soft porn videos when I had an empty house to myself as a teen I hadn’t really experienced any hard core porn – on screen or in my own burgeoning sex life.

But we watched the porn with relish. At that point it was so hardcore some of it made me quite ill. Baring in mind I had only had one cock in my mouth, it hadn’t ejaculated and my treatment of it was like a vomit flavoured ice lolly; watching endless men spunk over tits, faces and even in a pair of shoes made me quite nauseous. L did her best to assure me I’d get used to it and it wasn’t gross at all (she was right) but I found it visually strong and uncomfortable viewing.

After a few hours of that, both of us squirming on our beds with oestrogen clouding the room we decided to hit the town. I’d done my research and discovered a club that had a retro room with 70s, 80s and 90s cheesy pop. The club was huge and L and I were clearly the tourists. Though neither of us could ever be described as unattractive we were missing the ‘Swedish porn vibe’. In fact it was all going horribly wrong because the club seemed to be all dance music. We sat there, two little cute tubbies, lost in a mass of towering long legged svelte blonde women. We must’ve had faces like slapped arses because eventually a beefcake came over and asked what was wrong. Rather curtly L said, ‘we were told this place played old pop music.’ The lovely man pointed and said ‘maybe try over there in the pop room.’ We were so used to the Norbury nightclub with its one floor, L and I had no concept of night clubs having different rooms with different music in them. Joyfully we bounced in there and as ‘Love Really Hurts Without You’ came on got lost in the dance and the drink.

We did attract some guys. The first two men to approach weren’t so traditionally Swedish in our idealised eyes. One was phenomenally good looking but short – shorter than L so I’m thinking 5’2 – maybe taller as she’d have had heels on but still short. The other was pleasant looking but I wondered if maybe he was visiting from Norway because I wasn’t getting a massive wetness in my knickers.

Eventually another two came up. One was Mr Personality – again pleasant looking and good company but not the highest standard looks-wise. His friend however. Oh my lord it was like he’d stepped off the cover of GQ magazine. He wasn’t blonde but he was tall, slim, broad, dark curtained hair, chiselled features and he took my breath away. I was envious knowing L would score with him. I’d get the character but she would get the looks – that’s how it always seemed to work in my eyes.

When Mr Personality asked for a dance I nodded enthusiastically. I went to him, arms ready to wrap round my neck and rather embarrassingly he stepped back quickly and said ‘no – with my friend.’ He literally shoved me into his male model friend and it was a moment I will never forget. What an achievement. The downside was he was probably the only Swede that didn’t speak perfect English. He barely knew English but I was in heaven for the duration of the dance. L later commented how sweet it was that I had been looking up at him all gooey eyed and sung Take That’s ‘Back For Good’ at him. The club closed and they invited us on but the spell was broken.

If I’m honest and I may be off base, I felt L was a little reluctant to allow herself to be courted by Mr Personality for the evening and perhaps put out that it was the male model that had squeezed me so tight on the dance floor. Thus the evening reached a natural conclusion and we went home in the early hours of Saturday morning.

I had been in contact with Abba’s Benny and Bjorn’s studio and had a very nice email giving me details as to where it was. Not one to waste a tourist opportunity I had booked L and I on a sightseeing tour of Stockholm, planning to jump off at the studio on the off chance my heroes may be there. It didn’t work out so well. L and I got on the bus, next to the window, decided to put our heads on the table for a little rest and were woken up four hours later by some angry fellow passengers saying the tour had ended and tutting that we would waste the window seats everyone seemed to want.

Handily McDonald’s was across from our hotel so we grabbed a few meals for lunch and headed back to our room for an afternoon of porn. It was compulsive, even though the movies were on rotation we stayed glued to the screen. So compelling was it that when we realised it was dinner time we rang McDonald’s across the road and ordered room service so we could continue our porn marathon. As evening turned into late night and our hormones were in overdrive we both decided we wanted sex that night and needed to go out.

We got dressed and after taking a few saucy photos of each other (one I really need a copy of because I myself look like a plus-size porn model) went back to the one club we knew in Stockholm.

There had been significant discussion regarding sex in a room with twin beds. At one point we thought of dragging a mattress into the bathroom so we could have privacy but felt so much preparation may jinx our intention of getting laid so decided to play it by ear.

Our beaus from the previous night weren’t there but the initial two (Short & beautiful and Norwegian pleasant) were. At this point it was pretty much an equal match. L’s had the looks but being vertical challenge did impact on his appeal, mine was nice looking and normal but nothing to write home about. So we spent the evening with them. For the first time ever when the club closed we begged them to take us onwards. I wanted to go to a thump-thump-thump dance club. The kind you see in Ibiza movies with laser lights, podiums and a mad throng of people dancing. Polite and happy to play tour guides the boys took us to one of those very clubs. I hated the music but I loved that we were in a club open till 9am for the very first time.

But sex was on our minds and the music wasn’t to our taste so we invited the boys back to our hotel to drink the ‘champagne’.

I would’ve thought an invite back to a hotel room was evident of what we were after but seemingly not. As we crashed into our hotel room it didn’t become an orgy but a very civilized affair. The champagne was supped and merry as we all were conversation flowed but not in any sexual way. L and I were desperate and thought we’d ‘put the TV on’ to help the atmosphere. Thus we ‘accidentally’ found ourselves on the porn channel. The boys remained clueless; as if it hadn’t been a deliberate mistake. Perhaps we were better actresses than we thought or perhaps they were masters at playing hard to get. We exchanged glances as to what other options were available to get things moving but were unable to telepathically come up with anything creative.

By now the boys, having told us they were in National Service together, were fooling around and rough housing on the twin beds that had been pushed together. The fell between the crevice, laughing and grappling. It was all a bit homo-erotic; like they were having a sex party in our room and we weren’t invited.

The only solution that came to mind was just to say we were tired and going to bed and they could join us if they wanted.

And they did want.

This immediately posed the privacy problem – I knew we should’ve put that mattress in the bathroom.

Lights off was easy enough but made for guaranteed fumbling. We tried to find a music channel on the TV to at least muffle whispering but the music was highly inappropriate – it seems at 6am Swedish folk and skiffle music is the choice of radio broadcasters which isn’t conducive to cocks being invited to enter vagina’s.

The first difficulty were the beds were too close. Within the beds it went L’s man, L, me and my man. L and I were so close our flesh was brushing and we were getting a fit of the giggles. When my man was groping in the dark his hand was grabbing L’s thigh, which sparked a squeal from her and an embarrassed retraction from him.

The second difficulty was both the guys had consumed excess alcohol and I suspect weren’t physically in a position to deliver the shafting we were both so desperate for. L wasn’t quite as sluttish as I. Drunk and up for a good time she doesn’t include her Mr Sweden in her official numbers because it slipped in and then slipped out. According to her ‘Slutty Value System’ one thrust and / or an entry of less 5 seconds doesn’t constitute a sexual encounter.

I on the other hand was as persistent as ever. My insecurities got the better of me and I was concerned he just wasn’t that into me. Any kind of sexual or physical rejection is too much for me so I worked his cock as best I could but it was like an air mattress with a leak. As soon as I got it hard and I let go to position myself for entry, all too soon it would deflate, slip out and I’d have to go through the entire process again. Whether he did it out of sympathy, obligation or a genuine desire to try and sexually pleasure me he began fingering me. If I’m honest this kind of sexual activity I find pleasing. It’s just that he was lazily using one finger – which is like a slim line tampon. I’m all about the girth so found myself instructing him on what to do to please me. The first instruction being ‘two fingers’. So there was foreplay and eventually some barely conscious pumping and then sleep for both us; him sliding out as our eyelids closed.

They left a few hours later. Civil, polite, friendly but without any real warmth nor indication whether their night in our hotel would be one they told friends about, one they had as pleasant memory of sex and youth or one they never wanted to repeat.

It was disappointing for me on the grounds that I’d spent so much time researching ejaculation and what to do with cum when it….comes….to not have had the climax to conclude our weekend in Sweden seemed a little unfair.

The only person who walked away better informed on my sex life and how to pleasure me was L who found it necessary, after being seated at the breakfast buffet, to utter  just five words to mortify and embarrass me for life – ‘Two fingers is best then?’

Oriental Sex with a 6th Form Boy

Very short post this week because unfortunately I have spent most of the past week in hospital – I’d love to say it was because of a  sexually sustained injury but given my sex life seems to have been sucked into some chastity vortex that would be a lie.

So it’s a quick tale this week.

And due to the popularity of the older woman younger guy scenario I thought I’d introduce you to a young Mr Ho.

As I was closing into thirty and exploring younger flesh I was also branching out and decided I’d like to fuck (or in the very least kiss) my way around the world.

In Australian we refer to the good folk of China, Japan, Malaysia, Taiwan, Singapore and Hong Kong as Asian. I realise in the UK it extends to India, Sri Lanka, Pakistan and so on.

Thus my newest conquest is best described of being of oriental descent. Definitely mixed race because (without being a stereotypical Australian racist) he was well over 6ft. He was awfully posh and came from Oxford but was at 6th form college; not the university. He was also a rugby player so for someone not on the petite side was physically a good match. Because of his age and athleticism he was also presumably full of stamina.

Once again the teen had to travel to visit me. We’d been communicating online and he seemed confident enough to see me one weekend. Only the Friday night beforehand I started getting my period. Having sex on my period doesn’t bother me, if anything it’s a bit of a turn on and a lot of men feel the same. However someone with minimal experience could find the thought of pumping a bloody vage quite off putting; psychologically traumatizing even.

I texted to let him know the situation; suggesting a reschedule saying I completely understood having never had sex with  a bleeding cunt before he may want to take a rain check. He assured me it would be no problem and he’d be there Saturday afternoon. On reflection I think he didn’t want his bus ticket to go to waste- he probably had to work really long hours at McDonald’s to save up for those babies. No menstruating cougar was gonna put his dick off his game…..or so he thought.

He actually managed to make his way to my flat (my flatmate having cleared off to his boyfriends for the evening) saving me having to meet him at the station and play nanny for the duration of the trip.

I’ve always been into slighter men, but the sheer height of him and the broadness was overwhelming. Coupled with the tones of his skin colour, hairless body and completely defined chest and ripped torso I could barely believe my lust…errr luck. He was like a giant Manga cartoon with brains and an awfully posh accent. There was just one downside with this giant man-boy. He had a very tiny todger. Perhaps had he not been so tall it wouldn’t have been noticeable but it was. It was like a little chipolata. I wanted to wrap it up in bacon and serve it at a dinner party.

Perhaps I should’ve removed the tampon first, perhaps I should’ve trusted my guy instinct and talked him out of attempting sex, but as he pulled my knickers down and I (discretely I thought) removed a tampon his face became very pale. When two fingers slipped into something more than watery warmth, he removed them. Clearly that particular cherry pie was not to his taste. When he looked at his his bloodied fingers I didn’t think he was imagining himself on some massive rock stage with an air guitar singing ‘Sweet Cherry Pie!’

All his good Oxford manners went out the door – he was anything but an English gent.

It was simply a case of his dick going limp and hearing him suddenly overcoming his previous youthful shyness and boldly stating, ‘I’m sorry I can’t do this. I thought I could but I can’t.’

it was pretty brutal on the old ears. I must say and talk about a pink (or rather red) elephant in the room. Although unspoken, the word ‘awkward’ reverberated all around. Unashamedly he clearly had no intention of finding alternate accommodation. Worse still he felt given he’d at least shown willing I could recompense him in some way for his monies and menstruation massacre. So I took the the chipolata and let it flop round my mouth and in all honesty within less than 2 minutes he’d come. He was verbally very grateful – by then he’d found Mr Manners and informed me I gave the best blow job ever. Ever? But that poor excuse for a stout infant-fish had barely had my lips round it before it was spewing man milk in my mouth. The best ever? He mustn’t have had a lot cause I hadn’t even got started – still at that point I needed an ego booster so it wasn’t an unwelcome compliment. Turned out Mr Manners was a passing visitor and he fell asleep immediately so I sneaked into my flatmates covers to feel safe and reel from the indignation and humiliation flung at me by some college teen.

Ever the hospitable host I woke at 6am and put myself back into his bed, all showered and fresh. When he woke to find me there, I confess there was an absence of regret or sensitivity in how he broached the monthly issues of what is considered normal for mature women. Perhaps that was the problem. You go to bed as a mature woman with an immature man you are likely to experience these inwardly excruciatingly undignified moments.

Not Mr Ho though. His first words were, as he put an arm round me and pushed my head to his groin was, ‘That was an amazing blow job last night, the best – do it again for me please before I have to catch my bus.’

I really should have mustered a little courage and backbone and told him to fuck off and learn a little bedroom etiquette or man up and remember not every rugby game was played on a dry pitch – sometimes it rains and gets muddy but you still gotta play the game.

I didn’t though. I had two minutes spare so finished him off. I’m guessing my ‘oh-so-amazing’ micro blow jobs were enough to counteract the mental scarification of seeing his index and middle fingers covered in dark red cervical mucus, vaginal secretions, and endometrial tissue.

A year or so later he was doing an intern-ship at Price Cooper Waterhouse and got in touch (he really must have liked that blow job). He asked if he could visit and knowing there was not a clot of blood in sight and remembering that huge hunky body my resolve weakened and I told him to come round.

And he was a specimen of perfect physical beauty, even his titchy penis was beautiful. His cock hadn’t matured so I could only hope his attitude and technique had.

How wrong I was. It got hard and managed to slip into the entrance of my vagina but it slipped out after cumming within all of two minutes.

‘I seem to have a problem with this,’ was the best he could offer.

I did the thoughtful girly thing and said it was normal and natural and encouraged him that the next time he would last longer and it’s be better and all those platitutdes. Once recovered though he plopped it back inside me and the duration was even shorter than the original encounter.

Did he apologise, offer to take me to dinner, offer to perform oral pleasure on me or offer any physical comfort or stimulus? No – I got a ‘I better drive home now before my aunt and uncle miss the car and wonder where I’ve been.’

With the launch of facebook and having graduated university Mr Ho got in touch with me. By now the boy had become a man. I had a message on facebook saying: ‘I really fucked it up didn’t I? You were so pretty and lovely and kind and I treated you awfully. I’m so sorry. I see your single at the moment and would love to catch up with you. Be my friend?’

Nice boy, but friendship request rejected. Sorry Mr Ho, I’m busy painting the town red!

Paying The Price Of Lust (a story of abstinence & theft)

I have mentioned before, it wasn’t all about devouring 100 dicks but more a journey to find ‘The One’ (yes even sluts dream this dream). Thus it may come as some surprise that I abstained from sex for a period of two years. Sex of course for me being defined by vaginal penetration – anal and oral sex were fine. The reason I decided on this course of abstinence I shall divulge another time, but what’s important is that I was going through a ‘no sex’ phase until I deemed a dick worthy of being my boyfriend (or potentially ‘the one’).

With all the good will in the world though, my iron will did not mean my sex drive in any way diminished but I could at least control it. Continuing low self esteem though meant any attention showered on me I continually lapped up.

At this period of my life I lived at the Young Women’s Christian Association, which is conveniently located opposite the British Museum, a five minute walk from Tottenham Court Road station. Being the YWCA the rooms were very cheap, clean and the location was great, so scoring a room (under the guise that I was living in a bedsit with a violent drug seller and needed safer accommodation) was no mean feat. At that point they did in-still strong Christian values. Residents couldn’t have visitors after 10pm and if you wanted a guest to stay the night you had to pay for the privilege and notify the manager 2 days in advance. If, like me, you are a girl whose sex life is comprised of endless one night stands, these particular guidelines did not suit the lifestyle.

However the night reception staff were all male, paid a pittance and with the right amount of fluttering of eyelashes could be counted on to turn a blind eye on some occasions.

Now there’s obviously something in my demeanour that screams cheap slut because very often when walking through the West End after work (I worked nights in a theatre) I would have random strangers come and approach me asking if I wanted to have sex – not in a paid prostitute way, more as in taking their chances. It could just have been that in the West End after 11pm most men in Soho are drunk, horny, beer goggled up and willing to try it on with anything with a pulse.

As I began to saunter up to Centre Point, wearing (it has to be said) some funky but very casual cargo pants and a green converse top with a massive star on it a giant of a man stopped me in my tracks and asked if I wanted to go for a drink. Even though I felt under-dressed for Bar 101, his approach was so brazen and forthright I was impressed and found myself agreeing to go for a drink. He was paying after all and turned out to be a Canadian tourist so I wanted to be a good ambassador for London.

I can’t say the conversation was sparkling – after all he asked if I was a sportswoman given my attire (I still don’t know if he was genuine with that posited question). Given how overweight I was I couldn’t fathom what on earth made him ask it but seemingly a  Converse t-shirt says Olympic athlete…perhaps he though I was a hammer thrower or in the shot putt….maybe though because he was 6’4 and almost excessively broad and muscular, I looked tiny in his eyes and he thought I was a figure ice skater. Maybe….

After the ‘What sports was I involved in’ and  Olympic reference I knew he wasn’t ‘The One’ and sex was out of the question. I thought I’d cut my losses and go (there was a kebab with my name written on it on the walk home) until he asked if I fancied sharing a spliff.

If I’m not having sex, I’m substituting it for something else – food, alcohol, drugs. The offer of a free fat dooby pushed the kebab to the back of my mind. I found myself telling him I lived down the road and we could go back to mine for a puff.

Fate smiled at me that night and the night receptionist smiled and nodded as I pointed at my Canadian gargantuan and mouthed a silent ‘can I bring him in?’. We went up to my room and I played the good host.

Blown away by my CD collection – extending to about 500 at that time – he leafed through endless mammoth travel cases of my CDs picking out his favourites. I found favour with him by having Canadian artist Amanda Marshall in my collection. He plucked out her most recent album, an obscure expensive purchase it had taken me ages to locate in London (and this was when Virgin Mega-store and Tower Records still reigned supreme).

As he rolled the joint, I began playing his respective CD choices from the small stack of my CDs he’d piled up. In a haze of marijuana I relaxed a little and lay on the bed chatting. I like to think I was being eloquent, witty and knowledgeable but I was probably talking shit. Inevitably things were to take a sexual turn. How could they not with Madonna warbling Justify My Love?

It was a little difficult dropping the bombshell that I was refraining from sex, but both being gently stoned it wasn’t greeted with anger or disappointment. Rather he enquired as to whether or not I’d be up for some mutual masturbation. It seemed a reasonable offer so I didn’t decline it – after all it wouldn’t involve any vaginal penetration.

With Madonna on repeat, I re-enacted the Like a Virgin bed masturbation scene from her Blond Ambition World Tour on my single bed, as he arranged the armchair opposite the bed for a better view and began to undo his jeans.

What flopped out of his baggy boxers had my abstinence pact with myself in serious question.

One has to understand the average cock size is between 5 ½ to 6 ¼ inches. Now put the average penis onto someone who is significantly above average in height and even though it’s a perfectly nice penis it looks like a tiddler. Put the same average sized penis on someone more vertically challenged and it looks like they are carrying the tackle of a beast from the equine family. Mr Canada however had a penis in-proportion with his 6’4 frame and I was indeed looking excitedly as if I’d somehow been transported to a stable and was in a scene from Equus.

Watching his hand slowly move up and down his thick fleshy pole and seeing it grow longer and wider had me transfixed. Could I really pass up a cock that big? Did I really want to miss the experience of playing Mountie to that stallion?

Turns out I could…up to a point. My will began to crumble and when he politely requested permission to come closer and get on the bed to finish himself off, I head my voice eagerly inviting him on the bed. Worse still I found myself responding to his huge hands manipulating me onto all fours – his hands reaching between my legs and moving expertly from my wet cunt and stroking my soft belly, as if in fact I was the mare being tamed. My body began to give way as his donkey cock slid between my vulva and began pressing at the entrance to that warm tight hole, but somewhere in the recesses of my mind the reason for my celibacy marched to its forefront and I slid forward on the bed (rather like a cat stretching when it wakes) to avoid any accidental penetration. I mumbled that I really couldn’t have sex with him.

As forthright as his initial invitation to got for a drink he asked if I’d mind him cumming over my buttocks. Seeing he’d been so good natured about my conflicting words and behaviour I told him to go ahead and from his massive cock a small pot of yoghurt ejaculated all over my peachy bottom.

I was faced with an immediate conundrum, being a good host and ambassador for London it seemed only right that I walk  the intrepid traveller back to the tube station so he could get his bearings and find his way home. Being a good catholic girl and very hygienic it didn’t really seem appropriate that I go out in public with dried spunk on my dairy air. I grabbed my favourite large blue towel and said I’d pop into the shower quickly then take him to the station. As I opened the door to head to the communal showers my eyes caught the light reflecting off the shiny stack of CDs he’d chosen as the soundtrack for the night. I opened my mouth to say ‘Don’t pinch any of my CD’s’ but worried it would sound rude and accusatory, casting some dispersion over his character. My brain filtered the thought so this half hearted warning was never voiced. He’d been perfectly polite, generous with his goods so there was no reason to make the throwaway comment. It may be misinterpreted and given his stature I didn’t want to risk the wrath of his anger.

After a quick jump in the shower and towel down, I flung on my clothes, nodded to the night receptionist appreciatively and, taking him by the hand, walked him to Tottenham Court Road tube station. We had a peck on the cheek and with his holiday visa status there seemed no obligation to go through any façade of exchanging numbers or making promises to hook up again. Cordiality and civility were the order of the farewell and we left on good terms.

On a high (from the sexual play and the spliff) and with a serious case of the munchies I decided to pick up the kebab I’d foregone in the frenzy of public flattery. When I got home and opened up the doner, splashed some lea & perrins over the chips I could finally relax. Almost. I still had to put the CDs back into their books – I was a little OCD in relation to this and my music collection was my pride and joy. As Madonna and various artists were assigned there place in a plastic sleeve with their respective CD booklet I noticed one particular artist was glaringly absent from the book.

Amanda Marshall – Canadian singer/songwriter – unknown to most British people

She was nowhere to be seen. I checked to see if she was still in the CD player, got on my hands and knees to see if the CD had fallen to the floor (or under the bed or behind a shelf), retraced the inserts to see if I’d inadvertently put 2 CDs into the one sleeve but there was no sign of her. The £23 CD that had taken me three years to purchase was gone. I don’t like to point any fingers but I suspect she was in a discman waiting to be played on the long return flight from Heathrow to Ontario. 

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