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.
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!