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The Barely Legal Cock That Made Me Celibate
Posted by onewoman
For those familiar with this blog or from reading the title alone, it may come as a shock to discover I was celibate for two years. Now obviously my definition of celibate may vary from the next persons. For me blow jobs and anal sex were fine, but vaginal penetration was a big no no! So I claim to have been celibate for two years, but (having revealed my personal understanding and application of the term) some might just say I didn’t have ‘traditional’ or ‘formal’ sex for 730 days.
What, you may ask, causes someone to embark on a two year period of self-imposed celibacy? Sadly, like much of this blog, I don’t remember his name. But I do remember him and the night very clearly.
My brother’s best friend was visiting London from Amsterdam at the time. Having known him since I was four, it was only natural we hang out. He was going through his homosexual phase at the time (he’s married now with three kids) so we ended up in Soho at some hip and happening gay club. If memory serves correctly, we were joined by a few friends from my workplace – also gay (you do tend to find a lot of very pretty gay boys working front of house in theatres as they pay for dance and fashion college – a gross generalization but, hand on heart, that was my experience).
I started by scouting the place for somewhere we could sit and deciding which room had the best music. On reflection, it’s lucky my work buddies were there because I didn’t feel wholly responsible for entertaining my childhood friend. With the Dutch branch of his international accounting firm paying out for a swish hotel in Central London, he was on the prowl to take home a visitor– thus was independent in action anyway.
We had the same objective really. We both wanted a man for the night. My brother’s bezzie didn’t achieve said objective and I’m told he went home alone. I didn’t fare much better. I wanted a man for the night, but I got a boy.
His name was on the tip of my tongue there as I was typing, but still it eludes me.
In England, there’s this jokey, crass chat-up line people tend to use ironically (if they used it seriously they would be asking for a drink to be thrown over them).
Having done my first walkabout of the club, a group of young, dishy, Irish boys entered. I have to say they reeked of the scent of clueless, drunken, hormonal, straight, male tourists – probably on a bachelor’s weekend. They’d paid the entrance fee and the cloakroom attendant, then spun around to see a distinct absence (certainly an exceptionally low ratio in relation to the male gender) of women.
The tiniest guy cut his losses quick when he saw me and uttered that chat up line – ‘Grab your coat love, you’ve pulled.’
He was undeniably cute and very much my type; twinkling Irish blue eyes and the spiked black hair (as was the fashion back then). Truth was if I was hankering for a good seeing to that night (which I was) it was better to take what was offered to me on a plate earlier on if satisfactory, than spending the night hunting down the odd straight man or cajoling a sexually confused youth back to the heterosexual team for a few hours in the vain hope they’d be hotter than my earlier proposition.
‘Sure,’ I replied, handing the attendant my ticket and retrieving my faux leather biker jacket.
His eyes were like saucers in astonishment at my obedient response to his request.
‘Ummm. Do you live near here?’ he asked, suddenly concerned.
He definitely was a tourist. I could see the panic in his face at the fear of his poor geography dramatically separating him from the party of boys and resulting in a missed flight home on Sunday.
‘I’m literally a ten minute walk down the road,’ I assured.
It was true. I was fortunate enough to live at the YWCA opposite the British Museum, just off London’s notorious Oxford Street.
He was already in the process of retrieving his coat, so his dick had clearly dictated and committed to a decision. It was merely logic and common sense reducing the speed at which he moved. Now in slow motion, a friend (who seemed thrilled his mate had scored) informed me of the name of the hotel they were staying at with. Without a word of a lie it was actually on my street. Fate appeared to want us together that night.
Awash with maternal instincts and generally being a good girl at heart, I promised to walk him back to the hotel. His friends departed quickly to assess what was going to be a very disappointing nightclub for them, leaving me with the gorgeous leprechaun. My brazen, bold, Australian, overly sexual attitude made him cautious.
‘Should we be doing this?’ he enquired. ‘I mean we haven’t even kissed.’
‘So kiss me. If you like it, escort me home. If you don’t, return to your friends.’
Of course the minute our lips touched, the burning desire between us melded our mouths and our tongues were diving down each other’s throat. We were thrilled a sexual chemistry existed and excited we were both going to get laid.
He was probably one of the sweetest boys I’ve ever encountered. When we got back to mine (which required me sneaking him past security as men weren’t allowed in after 11pm – that’s what being part of the Young Women’s Christian association is all about) we didn’t tear each other’s clothes off, fuck hastily and bid each other farewell.
The approach was slow and relaxed. I actually felt safe with him. His bashfulness and tender touch was comforting. As we know I didn’t lose my virginity till I was 21 and my sex life kind of snowballed out of control from there on. I’d missed out on teenage love. Kissing for hours. Tentative hands sliding under my top, hoping to touch the soft, pale flesh of my breasts. Turning the lights off to undress in the dark.
In some ways, irrespective of the numbers I’d clocked up in (and out) of the bedroom, I was the inexperienced one, although I was at least seven years his senior. I was assertive – pushy perhaps?- and initiated the hand on his cock. THAT is where it all fell apart.
The next thing I know, the lad was in tears, I was scrabbling to turn a lamp on and ascertain what mammoth social faux pas I’d just made. It all tumbled out. He was barely eighteen, he’d got a girl pregnant and now had to marry her – he was a Catholic, I was a Catholic…so I understood the score on that one.
I have to say when someone blurts that out and your naked with a dripping pussy, it’s very difficult to search your mind for any witty comeback; let alone an authentic platitude. All I could do was hug him and kiss away his tears.
It was a bachelor’s party and he was the groom to be. Being so immersed in his religion this was his last night of freedom and he’d committed himself to being faithful to his wife and … and he didn’t want to be. (Thankfully the priests at my Dad’s school were all bastards and the nuns at my Mum’s school were all bitches so as a family of Catholics they steered cleared of the church. Apart from Christmas Eve, when Mum decided she was a Catholic keen to pay tribute to the birth of our saviour and my merry Dad decided he wanted a good old sing song at midnight mass – hence while I sympathised with, I didn’t really empathise with him.) He was a teenager. He hadn’t lived. He hadn’t loved. All he’d done was fuck a girl and get her pregnant – from here on end his life was all mapped out. As far as he could perceive, there no free will – no more chances or choices in respect of his dreams and aspirations that otherwise may had presented themselves to him had he not just signed his life away to a loveless marriage and early fatherhood.
I think it was the sincerity that pinched my heart. It was probably the first time (outside of my parents) that I’d met a decent guy committed to his wife – unhappily admittedly (unlike my parents), but taking the responsibility on his boyish shoulders with good grace and an admirable dogged determination to be a proper husband and excellent father.
I wanted him. At least I wanted someone with those qualities. I didn’t want any more random one night stands; where it was all too evident before the fucking began that by the end of the night’s proceedings I was to be cast aside as nothing more than a arbitrary shag in someone else’s life story. In that moment, I realized the only way I was going to get a guy like the one in front of me, was to stop being a slut and treating myself disrespectfully. I didn’t respect myself, why would any of the numerous men I fucked respect me or see me as girlfriend or possible wife material?
No, in that instant, I knew. I became enlightened. There would be no more sex (vaginal penetration to reiterate) until I found my Mr Right.
So what happened after my epiphany?
What do you think?
He was a hormonal, eighteen year old sitting opposite a voluptuous Botticelli.
I think his exact words were ‘if you can get it hard, I’d love to fuck you.’
Hey, there’s nothing I like more than a challenge and he’d thrown the gauntlet down. My husband will attest to the wonders of my mouth in respect of performing a blow job. I knew I’d be getting fucked that Saturday night.
Average in length, his girth was somewhat disappointing. Thicker than a chopstick but slimmer than a Double A battery, it was like wanking and sucking on a pen. But my magic hands adeptly worked his flaccid shaft to an impressive rod. For the first time in a long time I indulged in vanilla style sex.
Spreading my legs, he climbed between and slipped his pencil dick in my slit. Okay I wasn’t thinking ‘give it to me baby and pound me till I scream’ (he hadn’t the tools for that). But the rhythmic sensation of his cock gliding effortlessly in and out of my pussy was, in its own way, beautiful. As he entered me repeatedly, he maintained eye contact. He dipped his head to kiss me with closed eyes. Hands underneath my armpits, I could see the youthful sinewy muscles in his leanness and the six-pack on display was to die for.
In an intimate gesture – most unlike me – not only did I remain silent throughout sex, but my arms went round his back to his shoulder blades to pull him closer to me. I loved the feel of his sweat, sticking his bare chest to my breasts and tummy.
My hand snaked to his neck to intensify the kiss, and I could literally feel his heartbeat quicken. Indicating a role reversal, he read the body language and rolled on his back. It might have been thin, but it was rock hard and standing to attention as only a young man’s cock can. Straddling him was easy, sinking onto the cock even easier. I probably should’ve rode him like a young stallion needing to be broken in, but I rocked slowly on his prick, making sure I didn’t ruin the spell by breaking eye contact in some lustful, dirty desire. As I lowered to kiss him, his hands went straight to my breasts. He was squeezing them as if they were stress balls and he was a Wall Street investment Banker. At that particular time I wasn’t too keen on men lavishing attention on my breasts. I found it slightly disturbing that he was imbibing as much as he could of one breast into his mouth to suckle, as I continued bobbing up and down on his dick.
There was an ethereal atmosphere in the room that threatened to freeze the moment forever, which I don’t think either of us would’ve been dissatisfied with – but I knew he wasn’t the one for me. I couldn’t afford to let time stand still, because he was a boy that would mature into a good man and fulfil the obligations his current predicament imposed.
I had to break the spell. I chose to do it by faking an orgasm. I rationalised that if he actually didn’t ever sleep with another woman again, he’d recall his last sexual encounter with a stranger as one where he turned in an A star performance resulting in the older woman squealing in ecstasy like a porn star. Plus, by acting like Jenna Jameson, my panting and moaning bought him to the brink – where I swiftly bounded off before he discovered himself fathering a second child.
He left. I didn’t even have to walk him to his hotel. He could actually see the sign from my front steps. There was an awful awkwardness. The kind of silence when you know you’ve met someone special, but they started leaving you the minute you were introduced. All we could do was kiss, hold each other and accept there was no redemption for us – no opportunity to explore our connection further (certainly not in this lifetime).
I felt bad for him when he’d gone. I felt good for myself. I’d been blessed with some insight as to how good sex would be if I was in a relationship. For the first time in a long time, I was ready to go steady. I didn’t want to be a slag. I didn’t want to be a good time girl. I wanted to swallow my fear. I wanted to put myself out there. It was essential I uncover if I possessed the qualities that made me attractive to the opposite sex. It was critical I discover if, in all my fucked-up-ness, ample character and substance existed in my soul for someone to take a chance on me as potential relationship material.
Turns out I did.
Posted in Teenage / Young Sex
Tags: barely legal, dating, erotic literature, real sex, relationships, sex stories, young guy older woman
Playing With Young Gay Love – What Cougar can turn down a beautiful teen whatever his alleged sexuality?
Posted by onewoman
There comes a time in every single woman’s life when she has the thought on a mad night out ‘I’m too old for this.’
It happened to me not long before my thirtieth birthday. After a troublesome few years, I’d scuttled home to Australia to rest, recuperate, mend a broken heart and lose nine stone. I looked (and this is arrogant) hot when I returned. Dropping from a size 28 to a size 12 was hard work, but I must’ve looked good because when I scored a job in a music company I was pretty much the talk of the room. The loud brash exceptionally good-looking Australian. I’m not sure how true that last sentence was but in my mind, I like to think that’s how I was perceived. If anything I had the confidence to think that way and maybe that rubbed off.
Anyway the music company I worked for (at that time) was very hip and cool. It’s a tough industry to crack, even a shitty administration job like I had. Our floor was pretty much full of school leavers on their first jobs, or dreamers like me that worked their for shit money but a great company culture as we planned on how we’d get our big break in music/writing/acting/performing/dancing etc.
Because about ten of us joined at the same time, we were sent on all the training courses together. Enter D (I can’t mention this individual by name because he’s a model and I’m not sure how relevant his sexuality is to his career or if this confession would impact on it in any way and come back to bite me in the arse so to speak). D was truly beautiful. He was Irish and had only just turned 18. He’d done a modelling campaign for ‘Next’ I think and also a massive exclusive photo shoot for a big magazine like GQ or the likes for a designer label along the lines of Armani of Dolce and Gabanna. Talent spotted for both jobs, he’d headed to London on the premise that his modelling career would go from strength to strength and he’d become a professional. He wasn’t a classic catwalk model, because he didn’t have the height. He was five foot nine which immediately restricted his career. He was striking to look at. Not traditionally handsome, he was pale and slim, but had perfect symmetrical bone structure in a very lean, chiselled way. He had thick dark brown hair reached the collar of is short and his styled fringe was perfect to droop in his eyes so he could flick it out flirtatiously when required. All that combines with the eyes greener than the foliage of a tree, you couldn’t take your eyes off him. Eye-catching he was. I could see why he was spotted by agents, but there would be those that would refer to him as ‘ugly-beautiful’ so unusual was his appearance.
Apart from the modelling opportunities, I suspect being in one of the cities the embraced homosexuality (especially as out office was in Soho) held additional appeal. Even the younger women in the office weren’t overly familiar with how to conduct a friendship with a young gay male. Mostly your first gay friendships end up with you having a crush on him. After the first one is out-of-the-way you realize nothing can come of it sexually and instead of instinctively viewing them as ‘potential father’s’ An experienced fag hag from way back, I was more than happy to take him under my wing. Having been out of the entertainment industry for nearly two years, to re-enter the gay scene was a blessing for me. I was happy, funny, confident and loving being back with a very young, very new gay best friend. He was relived to have someone who knew their way around the scene and was willing to accompany him on all kinds of outings. I also acted as a chaperone taking him to open castings. Perhaps the most important time my presence was required when we went to one ‘modelling’ agency that was trying to talk him into working in gay-porn. Not on my watch!
Crushingly as I told my oldest and closest gay friend of D (who he chose to refer to as my ‘new gay puppy’) his reckoning was that D was attracted to my maternal side. Huffily I refused to accept this. I was still hip and down with the kids.
D was living with an American guy he’d met online. Turned out cyber-space didn’t translate to the real world. The American insisted D come and live with him but after a month was retracting the offer. With no money to pay rent, D refused to budge and somehow they managed through tearing each others heart-strings as they went.
In 2007, when McFly were at their peak, they were playing a gig at the old G-A-Y by Tottenham Court Road. There was quite a débâcle at the time because Jeremy Joseph was being an out and out prick, refusing to let young groups of girls attend the concert. I don’t agree with ostracising anyone on any grounds, but in fairness to the repulsive Mr Joseph, screaming teenagers did kill the ambience of G-A-Y considerably. It wasn’t their enthusiasm that was the problem, rather their reaction to being in an ‘Oh My God’ gay club. Looking at the men (and myself who perhaps appeared lesbionic wit stereotypical short hair) they were gaping like they’d discovered aliens. That did piss me of because it does kill the vibe, when straight girls are looking at regular patrons like they’ve gone safari with the wild willy lovers.
Anyway, D decided that he, his flat mate and a visiting friend should go see the concert with me. How could I refuse his irresistible green eyes? I agreed and meeting them high I was as mellow as they come. Having bought our tickets thanks to D’s age we were checked. D bought his passport to confirm he was eighteen and we skipped passed the hordes of screaming girls begging to be let in.
All was going well in my knee-high boots and extraordinarily short dress. Until some old man was trying the moves on me. He was clearly gay but as he was facing a dry night I think he adopted the mentality that every hole is a goal. Bumping and grinding against me, I pushed him away gently. The second time a little more forcefully but with a smile. The third time I snapped and told him to get away from me. He then proceeded to throw a pint on me. The pint drenched me from head to toe, I could feel my make up sticky and probably likely to be running down my face and my dressed reeked of beer. It was only midnight and we were due to be out till 6am, so I was less than impressed with his actions. Fortunately so to was the Australian gay guy behind me who caught a few splashed himself. He and his boyfriend turned on the guy, to chastise him for his behaviour towards a woman and fellow county.
I did my best to calm everyone down and try to drop it (after all I was the one who’d be suffering all night) but D’s flatmate decided to find him and fill him in on the event that had taken over. Leaping down from the stage where he’d been dancing, he stormed up to the repugnant man in his late 60s early seventies and was shouting why he’d done it. I grabbed D to draw him back and tell him not to worry and let it spoil out evening, but he was furious demanding to know what the guys problem was. In an instance, the seventy year old gay guy landed a quick jab and caught D on the cheek.
It was my turn to rage. D was reeling but still upright. Seeing only red I grabbed the guy by the shirt cussing and swearing and telling him I was going to fucking kill him for hitting a kid like that. The old man pushed me off, the Australian gay guy saw it. His partner steadied me on my four-inch heels and the Australian then started rough-housing. Amongst all this action was a significant proportion of screaming young teens looking shocked at the aggression and violence taking place on the dance floor. Don’t blame the boys, girls – I was equally up for a fight.
Security entered to split everyone up. The Australian was defending our part but D, myself and the old codger were ejected from the main club. Discussing the issue with management, I could hear McFly preparing to come on stage and realized we were going to miss the highlight and purpose of our evening. D obviously thought the same because he put on a spectacular scene about me being his chaperone for a massive photo-shoot with Versace and now he’d most likely lose the job because of the bruise. He demanded to know what they’d do about and was insisting he wanted names to pass on to his employer and that kind of empty but potentially dangerous threats. I have to say, is efforts were so strong I was inclined to suggest acting if the modelling didn’t work out. The next thing I know security have their arms on us dragging us through the absolutely jammed club to get us to the front of the stage to watch McFly. Yes seeing McFly up close and personal was a great experience, no having an entire club HATE you for a public display of favouritism when many had queued for their positions wasn’t fun.
With thousands of evil eyes glaring at me, my liquid foundation running and exuding an aroma of beer, there and ten instead of seeing it as fun or an adventure I thought ‘I’m too old for this!’ – I was.
That was my last night out with D and his friends. My socializing and love of drama was diminishing the closer I got to thirty. We still spent whatever time we could at work and remained close.
One morning I get a call from his asking if I’ll come round and help him put his tanning lotion on. It was a Sunday and I had no inclination leave the bed or my TV, but our night out hadn’t been his fault so being seen to punish him was unfair.
Accommodating himself in the nearly redeveloped area of Canary Wharf the flat, within which he was staying rent free until the American online ex could boot him out, was out of this world in terms of size, layout, the quality and modern sleek urban look of the place. I could fully understand why he didn’t leave. The view, the facilities on offer and high tech gadgets made it a playground for anyone who loved luxury and opulence.
I chatted to his mates who had been out the previous night and were debating on whether or not to head out again. D declined the offer of drugs, as did I, because he was a clean living guy that loved life not alcohol and drugs.
Entering his bedroom, he stripped off the his shirt. Even though I’d lost weight he remained rake thin. Squeezing the lotion in my hand and then rubbing his torso had me flummoxed. He was a friend. This was a normal thing to do. But no one can deny a physical appreciation of another human being whatever their sex life is like behind private doors.
It was hard not to be turned on when I was running my hands all over his him. Shoulder blades protruding, his back was lengthy with a straight spine and no hair whatsoever. Tackling the front of him was worse because we had to make eye contact and conversation. Aimless chit chatter, all the while I’m caressing this chest and washboard stomach that was an eight pack as opposed to a six pack.
Having finished, he removed his jeans for me to do his legs as well. Running my hands up and down the length of his chicken-like legs, was too intimate and strange given the length (five months) and nature (platonic) of our relationship. He obviously thought the same because when I dared to raise my eyes to the white tight legged boxers I could see he was erect. I could also see he had a proper porno cock. My head was telling me one thing, my hormones another.
Whether I was drooling, I’m not sure, but seeing my unsubtle examination of the package with one hand he pulled down the front of is boxers slowly. Bare chested and pubescent in appearance, he looked like a little boy. The thatch of hair from naval to crotch was non-existent. He was teasing me deliberately, moving his hand down his stomach, exposing the flesh leading to his pubic region slowly. The bush may have been untamed, but it wasn’t like he needed to trim the area to make him look ‘bigger’ (as some men chose to. Releasing a seven and a half-inch wonder, my eyes watered and I got was soaking wet in an instant, I could feel it on my knickers.
‘You can suck me off if you want,’ he said simply.
I wanted to, my god how I wanted to. Licking from the base of his cock to the head I’d run out of saliva. I couldn’t just use my tongue to lube him for my mouth, I’d have to spit in my hand to work the shaft. I already knew due to the thickness of his bratwurst-shaped penis, I’d struggle to swallow much of him. He was young enough not to exercise any caution or consider the repercussions on our friendship if this was to go ahead.
Standing up he decided to remind me he had fucked women before and had a girlfriend in Ireland who he slept with regularly before outing himself on arrival in London.
I always swore never to sleep with friends, but was he a friend or just a work college I clicked with.
‘Fuck it,’ I thought and undid my jeans and dropped my drawers. D closed and locked the door to his bedroom. Without further ado he bent me over the bed. He was so slight I wasn’t sure where his strength emanated from. As I felt my feet involuntarily moving to adopt a stance to allow him to penetrate me, I did think it prudent I raise the issue of protection. Unfazed by the request, I was taken aback he had such a supply of them in his bedside drawer. Breaking the first one in his urgency to get laid, he retrieved another within seconds. Arms resting on the bed, pussy dripping I was ready to go.
No warning, just a sharp thrust to penetrate me. The shock of the size of the fat cock had me panting, gripping the bed and riding the length down to bump on his pubic region. When I felt my pussy lips springing off from his pubic hair I knew I was imbibing his full length.
It was hard, fast, rough and ready. I liked it. There was no affection or caressing of areas that differentiated the two of us physically in accordance to our gender. My clit and breasts were neglected. This wasn’t a major problem for me, because with my head planted firmly on the mattress I could use one hand to reach my climax anyway.
Rubbing my bud, it was easy to bring myself to the brink and go with the flow. D on the other hand wasn’t as fluid in movements as myself. He happily pumped and pounded my cunt, relishing in delight at my grunts as he shoved deep in me. Slamming into me with such force that the bed was moving round the room with me, I guess the pneumatic drill approach may well be best if you’re having sex with someone you wouldn’t normally. I support this statement with the fact that he came, because he came very speedily. Groaning loudly, I was in no doubt his collection of friends knew exactly what was going on.
Suffice to say my departure was imminent. I left with a wave and have a nice night. Within a couple of weeks I’m pleased to say the American managed to boot D out. With no savings, he was forced to return to Ireland, ensuring his only option was to skive off his parents. I don’t mean it in a horrible way, BUT as fun as it is to hold your hand up and say I’m twenty-nine and I fucked a teenage gay model the aftermath and awkwardness did mean losing a friend. The nature of the friendship changed irrevocably. We’d gone down a path we shouldn’t have. It affirmed my belief that you shouldn’t sleep with friends. It affirmed me that as a highly sexed woman, I still had it even with the most difficult erotic scenarios.
In fact, D’s departure from London had occurred before the rub on tanning lotion finally came off. A heavily tanned arse (brown bum) conflicting with my pale and porcelain skin was a major passion killer. I won’t lie to you. There a significant price to pay for carrying out a little taboo barely legal gay sex. I couldn’t risk sexual rejection, thus was obligated to put my sex life on hold while the tanning lotion faded. For the one woman wanting the one hundred dicks it was a daunting process.
A Taste Of Barely Legal India
Posted by onewoman
Discovering Cougar Town (young guys wanting older women, not the Courtney Cox comedy) after I hit thirty was a bit like Lucy discovering Narnia in ‘The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe’. Everyone I told didn’t believe that I was for real. They thought I was fabricating the truth to account for my single status as a thirty something. Fortunately for me technology had moved on significantly since I’d first lost my virginity.
Nowadays there are profiles on the internet laden with numerous photos and even better body proud young men happy to send photos via text or BBM to tease you with their gym sculpted bodies. Even better than that, there are the real exhibitionists willing to send over pictures of their youthful erections – trust me a there is nothing better than a big, fat, hard teenage cock. That sounds crass, but it is in fact super sexy and legal!!!
Hence, while I regaled the open plan office where I worked, with tales of my conquests ranging of men between ten to twelve years younger than me, if ever I saw a couple of doubtful faces or heard whispers that I was exaggerating my experiences, I needed only to whip out my phone to produce pictures and texts pertaining to the boy in question.
I have always liked my ‘brown boys’ with a particular penchant from those with origins in India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka. It seems fitting with England competing against India tomorrow in the cricket that the sexual exploit that first springs to mind was a teenage gym bunny I met over Face-party (a more sexual precursor to Facebook) was of Indian descent.
Call me racist or stereotypical but in regard to my social and sexual encounters with Indian men they have always been hugely appreciative of my plumper figure; their eyes widening lustily with all that soft, white, ample flesh against their own dark naked bodies.
I remember his six pack, I remember his prick, but I’m very sorry to say I don’t remember his name.
I had been somewhat precarious about arranging to see him because he was so body conscious. I thought my figure would repulse him. He’d seen pictures of me online but to my shame I had taken a few liberties with my profile photographs which were not only taken from a flattering angle but were a few years old and portrayed me as slightly slimmer version to what I actually was.
Greeting him at Stockwell tube station I had the knot in my stomach of him being either completely insensitive and calling me on the faux photo scam that I myself had been caught out with over my online dating experience or even worse be polite by visiting my house but evade all my sexual overtures.
He had a big smile for me which was slightly reassuring. He was whippet thin. At 5’10, I doubted he weighed more than 9 stone – say 57 kilograms for those using the metric system. I had a couple of stone on him easily and made a mental note not to even attempt going on top of the lad for fear of crushing him. I knew he worked out daily but he appeared to be more of a cardiovascular guy rather than a weights man.
His teenage libido took over the second I opened the door to my bedsit and let him in. He pushed me straight on the bed and started kissing me hungrily. It was quite nice but I had a nasty next door neighbour and didn’t want him peering in or pushing open the door to see what the ruckus was about. As the lithe lad clambered up me like a horny puppy I was trying to wriggle down the bed to kick the door shut with my foot.
He was so light it wasn’t actually that difficult and after hearing the familiar click of the lock, I allowed myself the pleasure of whipping off his shirt to see if his photos were for real.
I am happy to report all was present and correct. His washboard stomach was almost as rock hard as the cock that was pressing into my tummy as he smothered me in kisses. He was going a little overboard and almost licking my face which I wasn’t overly keen on.
Hands were trying to squeeze in the waistband of my already too tight jeans.
In the end I had to tell him to calm down for a bit. His big brown eyes and attempt at designer stubble made him look younger than his nineteen years. Part of me is always flummoxed why these gorgeous, fit boys were scouring the internet to get laid and not making the most of their hedonistic university lifestyle. Whether girls sharing classes with them were too close to see their appeal I don’t know, but I know that in that particular moment I was glad he’d been driven by rejection or alack of pussy to Faceparty and fate had him stumble across my profile.
Looking like a chastised child I took the time to run my hands over his body and it was perfect; fit, firm and fuckable. I slowed the pace by undressing him and was thrilled to see an erection, snug in his black tight legged boxers – undoubtedly with Calvin Klein imprinted on the waist-band. Fashion and image were everything to this guy so why he was hard for me was far beyond my comprehension, but I didn’t draw his attention to the obvious difference in our appearances.
When I removed my top and freed my breasts of the push up bra, he ran his hands over my feminine untoned tummy and suckled my nipples like a baby. It was sweet that his hand was desperate to make contact with what was under my knickers but those jeans weren’t budging for him to slip his fingertips under.
I released the button of the jeans and knew I was spilling out. It possibly would have been prudent to wear control knickers but the tight elastic would only have furthered hindered his endeavour to get between my lips.
When his fingers delved into my wetness he released my breasts from his mouth and groaned. He could tell from the warm slipperiness of my minge that I was ready and willing to take him. Thus he rolled my knickers down and I spread my legs for him to enter.
I have to be brutally honest and say he wasn’t the biggest I had – if I was to be really accurate I’d say he was below average, but it wasn’t size that rendered the session difficult to bear; it was his abundance of energy. The guy was like a Duracell Bunny. At first I’d loved feeling his young cock penetrate me. I loved that he (thought) he was slamming it into me. I loved that his hands were under my shoulders in an attempt to plough deeper. I loved seeing his brown skin glued to mine with sweat from the effort of his exertions. I didn’t love that he continued in missionary for at least a good twenty minutes with nothing else going on – no kissing, no nipple squeezing, no nothing. I could see my remote control on my bedside cabinet and had to refrain from turning on the television to catch up on the news while he made the most of my vagina.
Trying to spice things up, I shifted into doggy-style to hopefully end the spontaneous work-out he was inflicting on me. I had the utmost respect for his dedication to the gym and I appreciated the results but I wasn’t the sporty type (nor will I ever be!). Constant sex in the same position was tedious, unimaginative and unsexy.
The trouble with doggy-style was that there was a lot of white ass he had to plough through to get to my slit. His dick just didn’t have the length to give the position justice, no sooner was he inside me thrusting furiously then he’d slide back out. It was frustrating for me but I was prepared to write the event off. Rather than tell him he’d dislodged I let him continue thrusting between my thighs. He was grunting and moaning so I figured he was enjoying the sensation. In fact I even had time to open the graphic novel I’d had on my pillow to read while he exercised his cardiovascular system. I’m pretty sure he was too heavily into the rutting to notice what I was up to. Once I’d finished reading the adventures of ‘Invincible’ I discreetly closed the comic and put my hands between my legs; clearly the only person bringing me any satisfaction that evening was going to be me.
Having cottoned onto what was happening he went strong for the home run. I obviously was clenching my thighs when I reached my own peak because the next thing I knew his cum was spurting between my clamped thighs. I suddenly realised, because of the stream of semen running down my thighs, he was going to cotton on to the fact that he’d basically been wanking himself between my thighs rather than fucking a youngish cougar for all she was worth.
To avoid any awkwardness afterwards, I was inclined to dress quickly and make up a pathetic excuse about having to meet a friend for a late dinner. I know I came across as rude and dismissive and I hate that I did, but I was prepared to shoulder that condemnation, rather than have him look downcast when he realised his invested energies had done nothing to sexually fulfil me. You take the good with the bad – that’s what happens sometimes in sex. Anyway the lovely boy at the Maharani more than made up for events earlier that evening by giving me complimentary samosas with my take-away curry, but I’ll go into the details of that another time.
Public Teen Sex On A Staircase
Posted by onewoman
As a woman by the time you hit 30, if you’re still single, generally speaking society will still impress its traditional values on you that you have in fact been ‘left on the shelf’; are a spinster; will soon be buying kittens to fill the gap in your heart/life. It’s not said out loud but it is implied.
We thirty-something singletons cling to ‘Sex and the City’ like some sort of new age bible. A guide through the wilderness of being society’s silent spinsterish outcasts. You feel it though. The ring finger on your left hand is all to obviously naked to the eyes of other women. The continual ‘plus one’ or do we even need to include a ‘plus one’ on invitations to you (they can save the money on at least one head with permanently single friends) at large functions….normally weddings.
So how does one combat this unspoken discrimination and disdain from the women that somehow managed to nab a man in their twenties? We brag about being ‘good time’ girls and loving our ‘independence’ as well as embracing out first foray into cougar town. In order to do this though, one must at least hold up the pretence of these qualities in public. I did for a good 18 months – it’s hard work though.
My friend, L, who was always destined to be successful in her professional life and was wanted by many a man was actually discerning enough not just to settle in a rush before hitting 30. What she had done was not only secured a high flying position within an international company before 30 – financial director no less. This afforded us a couple of things:
- A taste for champagne thanks to easy access to the company credit card
- A rather swish new build one bedroom flat above Romford Market Square – kitted out for two ladies on the prowl. A comfy bachelorette pas as it were in a good location.
From the financially secure and rather lush surroundings we had those familiar with Essex, or more particularly Romford you may be surprised to hear it wasn’t Liquid & Envy or the Buddha Lounge we would glam ourselves up for to demonstrate the wonderfulness of being single and 30 (the closest we came to a trendy drinking hole was the Yates’ and it wasn’t all that trendy). Our preferred choice of location that had a romping good old 80s/90s/00s discos in a pub with a sticky dance floor and punters that were either locals, those strapped for cash or a more elderly clientèle was the Lamb.
We were there for a guaranteed good time but it was slim pickings on the male front. However at some stage throughout the proceeding you could guarantee that some hapless youths (maybe those that couldn’t face the queues of Liquid & Envy) would stumble into the Lamb and L and I would zone in quickly before any other potential femme fatale competitor could edge their way into the frame.
L loved that flat. I guess it was her home, she owned it and it was safe. Mostly if we got a slow dance and a snog we’d be happy for the night. We’d have kept up the façade of single 30 something good time gals. But me? I had an insatiable libido. And an insecurity that only having a cock inside me could possibly alleviate for a time and those Friday nights in Romford threw me that occasional lifelines.
One particular night stays vivid in my mind on the grounds that I managed to hook a young lad that was eager enough to pursue me beyond the obligatory slow dance and snog and was, in my opinion and to my tastes worth allowing a successful sexual pursuit. At 18 to my pending 31st birthday, the 12 year age gap was an attractive enough attribute. The fact that his fashion was neither ‘chavvie’ nor reflective of his work appealed – a simple paid of faded denim jeans, plain white t-shirt, skate shoes and hoodie ensured he wasn’t a fashion faux pas or an intimidating fashion statement to be compared with on the journey home by passer byers – the five minute walk from the pub to L’s plush pad still required us crossing a good deal of pedestrian traffic whose drunken shout outs and cruel comments could scupper the deal for me and my one night stand. What really sealed the deal the messed up brown hair that looked like it ought to have been cut and styled months earlier that hung in his huge caramel puppy dog eyes on his cherubic face, set off with plump lips that turned into an almost diagonal smile when he did take his mouth off mine long enough to ensure he’d secured a shag for the night.
But L was not a woman of compromise. Actually that’s not fair she was. She wouldn’t leave me to have sex in the street (not that I hadn’t previously on countless occasions) but she wasn’t willing to invite a stranger into her pristine flat to infect the house with boy sex germs either. This left me and my teen with the staircase.
At this point in our sexual careers both L and I had ditched glam for comfort. Jeans and a sexy blouse was as effective, given the rather low brow standing of our frequented venue, as a glitzy dress or short skirt. It did however mean urgent access for a quickie was out of the question. Trousers are no real problem for a guy – it’s a mere unzipping and perhaps a slight shift and the erection is out and ready to power in. For me, clad in jeans, the only way that erection was going to gain entry to the (not so) forbidden fruits was complete removal of the jeans (and the high heeled boots!).
For me I had alfresco sex numerous times and I wasn’t a permanent resident of the flats so any shame associated being discovered mid-act was minimal to me. Fortunately because the teen had joined us in downing numerous shots over the duration of the evening so any inhibitions he had or concern about his reputation (being a local and all) seemed almost non existent. Weighing up the pros and cons as a new build not all the flats had been sold or rented so the chances of being caught were low.
Getting the jeans off and being bare arsed was risky to say the least but I concede there’s an awful lot of scope for steps to be incorporated into sexual activity. In the initial neediness and desperation we felt to connect physically I could easily bend over and rest my hands on the fifth or sixth step up which allowed him to penetrate me quickly from behind. The stairs offered me the support I needed as he pounded me furiously – somewhat aware of the time and location.
Once the first burst of lust had been satisfied and we were secure that the lights had automatically timed out in the staircase leaving us lit only by the moon and the street lights of Romford market we had more time to play.
Young and eager to please he had me sit on the third step and parted my thighs so he could perform orally on me. At the end of the day in those circumstances experience is irrelevant. Any man wanting to put his tongue into your wet pussy and laps at it like a dog is a massive turn on – more so because this young thing was kneeling before me to perform the act. And the more he licked the more I moaned. I got a feel for the body beneath the skater boy looked when he came out from between my legs and hooked my legs over his shoulders and began fucking me on the stair. Pushing and trying to plough as deep as he could. The deeper he got, the more I whimpered caught in the pain pleasure scenario and the deeper he tried to go. When he started being vocal about the timing of his potential climax, I pushed hard at his hips to prevent him from doing so given there was no protection involved.
I stood up and looked down at him kneeling. His youthful, bewildered expression looking up at me barely registered as his cock that looked fit to burst and dominated the picture I was gazing down upon. I raised my leg up to the third step and gently pulled his head to my wet cunt to let him lap a little more and lick my clit until I felt the orgasmic moment he so desired had been delayed.
I told him to sit on the steps and he obeyed without question knowing what I was attempting to do. When he was lent back and could support himself (and me) I sat slowly on his cock and bobbed up and down on it. My thighs were not in for a full workout so I eventually settled on his cock; rocking slowly and feeling his muscular chest against my back. Supporting most of my weight, I guided one of his hands to my breasts as I reached down and massaged his ball as I continued to gently move on his cock. When the panting in my ear graduated from a whisper to a more audible level and his balls tightened in my hands I jumped up quickly and before I had time to kneel between him to suck him to the moment of ejaculation he’d already released.
It was all over him, not me. This made getting dressed all the more easy for me. The goodbye was awkward. I would love to have invited him to stay the night, or even have a nightcap or to call a cab but it wasn’t my premise to offer out. Fortunately L had already made it very clear he wasn’t welcome in the flat so he headed down a flight of stairs and I headed up the stairs to the entrance to L’s place.
Simple, satisfying, sex. Two people. One staircase. No strings.
The Almost Threesome
Posted by onewoman
I’m not sure why it is I’ve never pulled off a successful threesome despite many opportunities arising (and that includes combos of female/female/male and male/male/female). Because my leanings tend to be more heterosexual in nature (I played the lesbian thing in the minors but never went pro) the majority of situations opening themselves to a little three-way action have included myself and two guys. For some reason though I’ve always pulled out (as it were) at the last moment. I’m not sure if this is due to a psychological reason, some sort of catholic guilt, being frightened of not being able to be in complete control of the situation or just overwhelmed at the realisation of a sexual fantasy.
There was one night though I committed to a threesome. My friend at the time was dating a barman and so we sauntered down to his place of work to keep him company and abuse the privilege of free drinks for the evening. After about 8 hours of solid drinking home was beckoning (actually it wasn’t but the bar was closing up and we had no option but to change environments).
I had for my part of the evening played the dutiful friend, keeping my mate entertained (not so much singing for my supper as dancing for my drinks) while knocking back cocktails and keeping the seats warm when she went out to join the new fella for his intermittent cigarette breaks.
But it was Friday night and as any good singleton knows when finishing work and going for end of week drinks it is not so much Friday night but Fuck Night and by 3am I still retained that goal. Many may think I wasted my evening by being a companionable third wheel but any club on a Friday night is filled with men and women mirroring my intention. Thus the 8 hours hadn’t gone to waste, all that it meant was when the lights went up and people began pouring out into the London streets I had to work a little harder, linger a little longer and find a suitable partner to complete my night.
And with relatively little effort I did. I was coming on for 30 (only a month or two short), he said he was 21 but looked significantly younger. I’d have placed him at 17, he was extremely fresh faced but there was a distinct edge or attitude to him that gave him a maturity to what I suspect was his teen years. He was tall at 6’2 and very lean with Aryan good looks – short cropped blonde hair, almost frozen blue eyes on flawless skin. When he opened his mouth I was unsurprised to catch his east European accent – he was Polish. He was confident but not arrogant – boldly asking who I was with, where I lived and whether or not I wanted to carry on the party. He was demanding but not overbearing – draping an arm over my shoulder and assuring me he could guarantee a decent party if we carried on. I can’t say at that point I had any intention of not carrying on…until he waved his friend over.
Forgive me but I can remember neither name of the boys – not because they were both foreign but just because when you’ve clocked up 100 dicks it’s more 83 and 84 as opposed to Bazyli and Dritan. To flex my creative muscles instead of referring to them as numbers it’s easier to settle for Polish boy and Albanian boy.
So Polish boy’s friend was introduced to me. He was Albanian and whereas Polish boy had the sort of looks a Nazi would’ve gone crazy for, Mr Albania was dark and swarthy looking. Shorter than his friends he was barely 5’8 which meant in heels I matched his height. He was broader and more masculine (that’s code for hairy) and had intense brown eyes and a cute smile that spread wide over his face. Unlike his barely legal companion, the Albanian was easily in his mid 20s. Of the two he appeared to be the brawn, his Polish friend the brains – or perhaps his English wasn’t as strong so the Polish boy took the lead in terms of conversation and making plans. I saw him quite obviously eyeing me up approvingly and was suddenly unsure if I was not about to palmed off from the Polish boy to his friend as some sort of sexual leftover or cast off.
I was left in further confusion as to who I would be fucking when after a brief introduction to his Albanian friend, my Polish boy began pinning me against a wall, kissing me deeply and grinding his hard cock against my stomach. He dragged me away from my friend and her boyfriend. As luck would have it my mate’s boyfriend (called Zippy…or was it Zibby…of all things) was Polish and between themselves he somehow assured Zippy/Zibby that he would escort me home and guaranteed I was in safe hands.
The three of us began walking and I quickly went over in my head the potential outcome of the evening. In my mind I decided to commit to the threesome. After all I was coming up to thirty and I needed to tick it off my sex list. Tonight was the night. Both were suitably good-looking and I couldn’t see how I would regret spreading my legs. Until we arrived at the rather bright orange used gangsta-esque car and a third member of the gang. A three-some I was up for; a gang bang I wasn’t so sure of. He was Albanian as well – not as good-looking as his cousin whom he was chauffeuring around that evening. He was also significantly older. He looked in his early 40s. Short, dark, furry and generally physically revolting. I began to waiver and wonder what was the best way to avoid having to deal with all three cocks.
I dragged my Polish boy to one side. His lips were all over me and when he stooped low enough for me to whisper in his ear I managed to bleat, ‘I don’t want to sleep with your friends. Is that okay?’
He pulled back suddenly and put his hands on my shoulder. It suddenly felt weird looking to someone who wasn’t old enough to drink for sexual reassurance. ‘You’re not going to sleep with them. I’m not into that and I don’t want someone that’s been used like that.’
We squeezed into the not-so-roadworthy car and headed from the West End of London to my pad in Stockwell. Parking the car was a nightmare. I was a public transport user (who wouldn’t be living so centrally) and had no knowledge of where one could or should park near my gaff. The guys managed to sort it out. I let them into the house and we traipsed up the stairs to my semi-studio.
Unfortunately living alone in central London and on a tight budget due to minimal wage, my studio didn’t have a personal bathroom and the front door opened straight into my double bed. There was a second room (with no door) to the kitchen. But the main room or living area was the double bed and I couldn’t quite see how I was going to have the privacy to get laid.
With so many people squeezed into the small living space I was unsure how exactly the party would continue. I had no food, no drinks, no space and a rather uncool music collection. But the Polish boy was ever resourceful and asked where the nearest corner shop was. In the wee hours of Saturday morning I assured him that we wouldn’t be sold alcohol because they weren’t licensed. He smiled knowingly at me and assured me he’d be back with some vodka and orange juice. He nodded at the Albanian chauffeur who was edging closer and closer to me on the bed and told him to accompany him to the shop, thus leaving me in the care of his more reliable and better looking Albanian friend. The minute the door closed and we heard the outer front door shut Mr Albania laid back on the bed and stretched out. I saw his shirt rise up and noticed the dark hair trailing from his flat stomach down to the button fly on his jeans. I have a feeling even though he looked as if he were dozing he could feel my eyes drinking in his dark beauty. He rolled over on the bed and faced me saying nothing. I could taste his pleasant scented but heavy aftershave. I could actually feel how badly he wanted me and my lips found his. He let my fingers unbutton his jeans. Despite the dark unruly mass of pubic hair a thick uncut penis protruded from his cotton boxers. My hand gripped it and I moaned at the thought of how it might feel filling me up. It felt so good I began to straddle him.
He pushed my skirt up and pulled my knickers to one side. I ground down on his cock and he felt how wet I was for him. We mimicked sex without penetration our hands beginning to reach under garments. Had he moved his cock, had I repositioned myself we could’ve gone all the way. What little English he did possess in his vocabulary he knew enough to be wary of actually fucking me properly – his Polish friend was obviously not a boy to be crossed. He murmured that he really shouldn’t be doing this but he began pulling me by the hips more forcefully and his cock began rubbing further at the slippery entrance to my vagina.
His mobile phone rang. He swore (in English), answered the phone, then hung up quickly and jumped up even more quickly adjusting his clothes saying he was going to let the boys back in.
Sombre as ever the striking looking Polack entered saying he was only able to obtain Russian vodka and was disappointed there was no vodka from his country of origin available. From the kitchen as I poured the drinks and listened to how effective the threat of a teen Polish mafia type and his Albanian heavy with a ten pound tip for the trouble of serving out of licensing hours was, I realised they were rather a motley crew and quite menacing. I was quite interested in how they actually made their money (or what they did to supplement their wages to afford the clothes and the upper class West End clubs they frequented). Dangerous sorts and all locked in my bedroom; on the whole I was pretty defenceless.
But the baby faced man with a plan obviously had an idea of how to make the night work and set about it. For his two friends he poured very large vodkas with barely a drop of juice and handed them their glasses as they sat cross legged on the bed. My more modest drink was left for me in the kitchen. The beautiful, tall, considered youth rested against the doorframe between rooms chatting to his friends and occasionally throwing a look and smile my way. His intention was to ensure his friends dropped off and the quadruple vodka meant they were soon snoring gently on the bed. His plump lips curved into a smile at the sight of the two rugged manly men asleep almost in each others arms.
He strolled back into the kitchen and took my glass from my hand and put it on the sink as he began to kiss me. I knew what had to be done but not sure exactly how. There wasn’t a door to close so we were forced to softly move to the back of the kitchen where the partitioning between the rooms blocked out any observers from the bed. There was no blanket or anything for the lino but he seemed unmoved by the less than comfortable environment. He had already removed his jeans and was wearing tight legged pristine white Calvins. His prick was lengthy, moderate in its girth but against his tightie whities it looked like a porno cock and I licked my lips at the thought. I had dropped to my knees and tugged at the shorts and he let me suck him for a while. The lack of pubic hair made me wonder just how long it had actually been since he hit puberty, but his cock was not that of a boy. He pulled himself out of my mouth and got to his knees, his hands were powerful and literally tore my knickers off. Part of me was slightly perturbed because they were quite costly but I kind of like the idea of being ravished by a hungry, young foreigner.
My skirt was pushed up and he removed the remainder of his heavily labelled clothes. Because of his age his cock was standing to attention and was so long the head of the cock almost touched his belly button. He pushed me straight down on the lino and climbed on top ramming himself straight in me. I cried out in surprise and he put his hand over my mouth and began to fuck me fast and furiously. It felt great. He was young and full of energy. His icy exterior remained in tact as did his strong sense of Catholicism and decency as he ensured we were unlikely to be interrupted. I began trying to pull away from his cock. It was long like an ice lolly and was beginning to hurt. The minute I pressed against his hips to shallow his thrusting he withdrew and gently tugged my hair and put a firm hand on my hip inclining me to get on all fours.
It felt weird someone so young being so demanding and so sexually and physically potent in his prowess. He entered me roughly again and as he ploughed into me he pulled my hair as a warning not to cry out. So he fucked me hard like a dog on heat, getting deeper and deeper, only when I started to buck and struggle against the hand that held my hair did he very quickly pull out and cum over my bottom. He smeared it in and gave my rump a quick slap. Then dressed himself quickly and assisted in making sure my clothes looked decent.
‘I’m going to have to go soon. I have school tomorrow (21? Yeah right!) and I need these two to wake up to drive me home. It’s been nice though – you were good. Sweet girl (Girl! I’m turning thirty in less than sixty days!).’
‘And are you a sweet boy?’ I asked.
‘Yeah I think not and I think you know that. I’ve got your phone number from the club. I’ll pass it to my friend. He wants to fuck you, but…tonight you’re mine. Another time if you want you can have him. If you have him, you’ll not have me again.’ (His friend did harass me via the phone for some time and with great persistence but he looked better alongside his friend as a package deal, he didn’t warrant my attention in terms of a one on one night.)
‘But I may not ever get you again anyway.’
‘Perhaps not. But I like how you move and I like how you feel. I love how you fuck little Australia.’
‘I’m not sure you could call me little.’
He shrugged, not complimenting me but refusing to participate in my self deprecation.
‘What is it you do anyway?’ I couldn’t help but want to solve this enigmatic babe to some extent. How could someone so young possess such confidence and magnetism, and assert so much authority with such ease over all those he interacted with.
He looked at me icily and smiled taking the chill out of his inevitable departure as he called to his friends to get up and move. They headed out the door sleepily and he went to follow. Leaning down he kissed me affectionately on the lips and for the first time he looked like the little boy I suspected he actually was. He pointed at my washing machine.
‘I saw this while we were fucking. Your spin cycle only goes to 1000. That’s actually considered really slow so I think your machine is very old. With a slow spin cycle you don’t get all the water out. You don’t have a drier so in the winter your clothes will smell of damp. I know these things. My father managed a shop that sold these types of electrical household things, I learned a lot. Talk to your landlord about installing a new washing machine, it’s out of date.’
That parting advice was the most disappointing and anti-climatic moment I’ve ever encountered on a one night stand. Here was I thinking he was rampantly ramming me because my sexual prowess had forced him into a lusty trance, when in fact he had been slamming his shaft deeper hoping to fuck me across the lino to get a closer look at the washing machine which was infinitely more appealing than me. I’m crushed to confess he then left without a goodbye or thank you. They were his final words and I never saw him again. I suppose in his mind the expert assessment and advice on my kitchen was the equivalent of a goodbye – better even because it had real value that could improve the quality of my life. I wish the fucker had said nothing. Sometimes the allure of mystery surpasses the honesty of reality.
Avoiding jailbait (a very sexy close call)
Posted by onewoman
Under-age sex is never right – mainly because you can get done by the police, thrown into jail, be called a ‘nonce’ and have a particularly unpleasant sentence if you actually survive your time there. So stay away from jail-bait…even those that are knowingly on the prowl. I’ve had a close call but managed to steer myself into quite a different position. More on this in a while.
Whether people like to accept it or not this generation are much more highly sexed than the last and exposed to sexual imagery and an abundance of porn that used to be almost a pilgrimage trial to acquire some ‘tits & ass’ mags – let alone the ever elusive ‘Women’s Own’ (Australian) magazine that used to have a nice centrefold with a gloriously long schlong on display.
I read in the Metro last year a teacher had allowed five 15 year old students to fu*k her behind a rail line. Unbeknownst to her all the passing trains saw exactly what was going on and reported her. Now I can’t remember if she was jailed or not but was does stick in my memory was the judge at least admitting the experience had been in no way psychologically traumatizing or upsetting for any of the minors involved – indeed for them it had been a welcome opportunity.
Why I remember one evening L & I launched ourselves onto Vauxhall Caravan park for the final gala week looking like sex bombs and at 30 we convinced two fathers to allow us to take their respective sons 15 and 17 into town for some clubbing. You’d think it a dream come true for the kids but it really identified we were women and they were boys. The 17 year old spent the night dancing, suctioned on my face to the point where I was debating on whether to say ‘calm down, you’ve pulled I’ll fuck you tonight but gimme some air so I can throw some funky shapes on the dance floor’. L spent ages with the 15yr old moaning about his older brother’s (or were they friends) antics being over the top in a public place. At best she wrangled a light unpractised peck out of him before he complained about being tired. It wasn’t even 1am and we had every intention of pushing on till 7am so called a cab for them (so no I didn’t get to fuck the 17 year old…that night!)
Respect the law but be realistic. Frankly kids don’t do it for me, nor will they ever (even writing this makes me a little queezy – and that’s not because the story involved kissing a man from the kebab shop) but there are boys that develop quickly and can throw out a number which you wouldn’t question.
Back in the early noughties L & I were still frequenting the high-brow night club of Norbury Heights – ‘The Norbury’. By this time it was all about the cock for me. Freed from my virginity and I wanted was cock and plenty of it. As is the mating game two guys, clocked us two girls. They were both significantly younger than L and I who were early 20s, these guys had to be late teens. L’s looked significantly younger, I wasn’t even sure he should be in the club. My guy was 19. He was a builder, had a skin head, broad shoulders and stocky build but there was a teen youthfulness to him.
The Norbury wasn’t so high brow – in fact it was rather sleazy. We’d managed to climb our way sticky panelled dance floor and acquire a few tables and couches low lit with blue and green lights. When I say I was cock mad I really was. Not an ounce of dignity to be spared. I ‘dropped’ my ear ring and while L was lip locked with her guy I had unzipped and wrapped my mouth round the youthful builders cock. I worked on it, until we saw security checking us out and I miraculously discovered my earring on that black drink stained carpet. I sat back to sup my Metz and L’s guy leaned over and said ‘This is awesome. My cousin is having the night of his life – he’s 15 and you’ve just made his year!.’
I didn’t laugh. In fact I felt quite scared. I felt quite sick.
‘I can’t do this,’ I said and solemnly walked to the bar. L laughed and told me not to take it seriously but I did. Because that wasn’t my style – it’s not just a law thing sexual activity with children (however old they look or close to consent age they are isn’t a turn on for me – it only presses no buttons for me).
I decided to go cock hunting and hit the dance floor. Even with shoes bogged down by spilt alcopops and red bull and vodka I had just enough strength in my 4 inch heels to boogie on down while my tight black skirt rode up with wear. Soon enough someone was ‘body-shaking’ next to me and we were edging towards the plinths on the corners of the dance floor. The plinths were till enough and dark enough for his hand to delve up my skirt and wriggle his fingers through my tights and knickers into the warmth, wetness of my wanting cunt and I could r against his hard cock that was pressing against his trousers. My hands fumbled with the zipper so I could undo him and wrap my hand round his pulsating warm flesh.
I looked over to the couched area for L and spotted her easily enough but what pulled at my gut was the confused, hurt face of the builder boy. As the final song finished and the lights rose. I quickly readjusted myself and went to the cloakroom to pick up our bits for the long walk home.
Builder Boy was there.
‘It’s not true ya know.’
‘What?’ I asked, knowing exact what he was referring to.
‘I am 19, he was just fooling round. Winding us up. Don’t just go with some him. I like you, like properly. You’re funny and pretty and stuff. I can walk you home or something.’
And it was in that sentence I knew he wasn’t 19. Because if he was 19 he’d have started a fight, verbally abused me or insisted we find somewhere to fuck as quickly as possible.
I looked at him, told him he was lovely and that he needed a girl his own age. Feeling tears prick my eyes I scarped over to the Kebab Shop. If L and I ever got separated it was our own private meeting point.
I was absolutely drunk and now I felt a loneliness supported by the fact that I was horrible and hateful and pretty hungry. I thought I could stoop no lower. Until I heard the bell ring on the Kebab Shop door and heard L saying ‘S what are you doing?’. I realised I was clutching a cold half pack of chips and kissing some 40 plus Turkish man who had a wife and kids at home waiting for him. To make things worse L hadn’t ditched the two guys. So now the baby builder boy bore witness to just what pathetic things women will do when they have low esteem.
What made the situation even more difficult, was that having seen such shoddy behaviour didn’t deter him.
He chased after me as I staggered round to the back of the nightclub to get in on any final action to wash away the sting of his authentic innocence.
‘Okay so maybe I’m not 19 but does it really make such a big difference? I mean if we like each other. I’m not a kid. I work. I have an income. I have plans. I’m not in school any more. Is it that you don’t like me? Please just tell me what to do to make you take me seriously’.
I didn’t answer. It was just one night wasn’t it? Isn’t that how we all learn how old and cruel the opposite sex can be.
I went round to the back of the club and asked L to hold my purse. She took it wordlessly as I reunited with my last dance of the evening. I found myself pushed against a white van. My head roughly pushed against the side of the van. I felt his hands carelessly pulling up my skirt and furiously pulling down my knickers and tights. He spat on his hand and rubbed it round my anus. Without warning he mightily pressed his cock into my arse. I’m not sure if I even cried out in pain. I think part of me liked it. Well I liked the sense of connectedness. I liked the feeling of being full of cock. I subscribed to the whole pain pleasure theory so even though each rough thrust tore something about the sensation pleased me. But it was all in slow motion. A sad amateur porn display in a car park in Norbury with a minimal audience. When he finished fucking my arse, as he turned me round he prodded his fingers in my cunt – as if he only just remembered foreplay should be included in sex or perhaps he thought a ‘finger blasting’ (as Keith Lemon would say) an equivalent of a post coital cuddle. With a kiss and a thanks, not even an exchange of numbers I walked passed L, took my purse and suggested we go home.
The baby builder and his cousin accompanied us to the taxi station and waited till our cab came.
Sex With A Sweet Sixteen Boy
Posted by onewoman
When you start clocking up so many shags you forget not only names but exact numbers it takes its toll on you. Not physically so much, but mentally. Somehow the dream of one of these random fucks turning out to be ‘the one’ becomes less and less likely. You realise you are no longer addicted to the dream of finding Mr Right, rather you are addicted to the sex – the ‘high’ of scoring the cock you demand inside in you; another ‘notch on the bedpost’; a funny fabulous story to recount down the pub; a boudoir conquest; an escape from the loneliness – just a couple of hours in the arms of another, even if the comfort and attention is all just pretend.
And it started to hurty by the time I was thirty. Constant disappointment as I left one bedroom without wanting a return invite (if one was even extended). With the crushing realisation my wonderful twenties were behind me and facing the inevitable reality that I was just a slag who’d spend their life alone I thought I’d at least diminish the prospect of allowing myself to be a doormat to beautiful men.
There’s a great line in a Blur song (before they completely creatively disappeared up their own arses) – ‘and the mind gets dirty, as you get closer to thirty’.
Mine did. It has ever since if I’m honest.
I’ve always said there are three things I don’t do:
1) Bestiality (it’s okay to have a sneaky watch on zootube)
2) Poo (accidents are sometimes unavoidable)
3) Paedophilia (it’s always wrong and makes me ill thinking about it, let alone writing about it)
But Cougar Town was approaching. A stream of married men, experienced men had an emotional edge on me, upsetting the balance of power. The only alternative was to stop chasing older guys and start seducing younger men. The rationale behind it was that if they were older they’d be less experienced with women which would allow me to feel more in control and chances were less complicated emotionally (I don’t mean that in a derogatory way I’m not sure how complicated emotionally men ever are – and I’m not a staunch feminist man hater). I could have saucy sex without any sticky heavy emotional ties. Young guys wanna fuck – not get married and have babies.
I have to say for the most part this new plan worked – there’s a few other stories tucked away in that catalogue that I’ll return to at another time. Young might be fun but it can be…..messy in an inexpert way.
I wish I could remember his name. He was a scouser and I met him on faceparty – just as they eradicated all the ‘oldies’ from the site. I was lucky to get a code to reboot my profile and access this young person’s domain.
There is an escapable beauty in youth. Youth aside though he would remain beautiful even as he aged. In a few more years he could easily have gone Goth, but when I met him he was ‘geeky’. A little scouser that was a good catholic boy, and spent his time painting famous scenes from cult movies and selling them on eBay. A comic book collector. I’d have loved him when I was 13, but I was 30 now and I had the ability to not have to lust from afar. I could use my feminine wiles to draw him to London. And I did.
There was an innocence to him. Despite my reservations that my size would put him off he assured me it didn’t in the slightest. He thought I was ‘interesting’ and ‘sensitive’. I don’t think he realised I was just emotionally retarded. At 16 I suppose to him I was interesting. When he asked about seedy Soho and how sexually adventurous I was I’m guessing given my sexual history and overactive imagination a teenage girl couldn’t really complete. Perhaps I was the embodiment of maternal sexuality – I wonder if it was that I was non-threatening but highly available? Whatever he clearly thought I was worth the risk so he told his mum (he was from a single parent family) that he was headed to London for a comic book convention one weekend.
Picking him up from Victoria coach station I did feel a bit mumsy. I was vamped up appearance wise but I was shocked at how boyish he was. I wasn’t even sure he’d have pubes and I hoped to god he hadn’t lied about his age. It’s gotta be legal!
He was so skinny and wearing all black. He had jet black hair and deep green eyes – like a cat that had transformed into a boy. All leanness – I remember him telling me he had something like 2% body fat. His arms were like twigs and I had a feeling I wasn’t sure he’d be able to execute my favourite sexual position of me on my back with my legs wrapped round his neck…but I was willing to give it a try.
I just hadn’t thought through how overwhelming it may have been for him. He’d been to London once before with his Dad who had warned him off Soho, which clearly piqued his curiosity so I felt it was the best place to start.
Regardless of him being underage I didn’t incur any problems in getting him into pubs in Soho. And I definitely needed a drink to take the edge off as I felt like a naughty nanny. He was awfully shy and confessed that he never ate in public with cutlery (McDonald’s for dinner then – I kid you not!). But after a few drinks he relaxed enough to let go of his backpack and sidle closer to me on the couch at the trendy Soho pub.
All the texts and instant online messaging began to creep into the conversation. Did I mean the things I said online? Did I like him in the flesh and still want to do the things I had promised? Was I really happy to go shopping for sex toys with him to use later? Hello Mr Cutey Cute – YES!
I had my first kiss at 15 and never had another until I was 21. I didn’t have sex until I was 21. I sat in that bar, looking at the evening crowd tottering in for a night on the West End and should’ve felt out of place but as he eventually mustered up the courage to kiss me oh so gently, so tentatively I melted into the seat. It was a kiss I should’ve had 14 years earlier, but it was worth the wait. My cynicism and pain of rejection forgotten in that moment. To kiss like a teenager, to just explore, to be excited at the prospect of sex – it felt so innocent and exactly what I needed. There was no need to analyse, think it out, contemplate the art of seduction – the attraction was there and that motored things on.
Me moving my hand up his thigh, him moving his kisses to my throat, ears, panting like a puppy as his hands gently brushed over my exposed cleavage. I could feel myself dripping wet and decided to make a move.
I avoided Ann Summers – it’s way too mainstream and inoffensive. I opted for Harmony – decent stuff but not intimidating.
It wasn’t crazy or extreme toys we bought. We held hands and selected some handcuffs and a blindfold. Ever the gent he insisted on paying…..with his pocket money no doubt.
After a Maccas we headed back to mine. At the time I was living in the very hip Lambs conduit Street in Holborn – above a Café, with the landlord’s and café owner’s mother and a mysterious flatmate I never saw. The difficulty was that my room was a refurbished loft. You literally opened the front door of the flat to see a ladder. One had to climb the ladder to get to my bedroom. The ceilings were low but the room was massive – it’s just that it was directly overhead the town other bedrooms in the house so all movements and noises can be heard.
There was a single bed in the room, but I tended to use that as my couch and had a double futon on the floor. It was only when I was finally getting to strip that tight t-shire off to reveal a taunt skeletal pale white torso I heard the words I dreaded.
‘I lied about something’
‘What?’
‘I ummmm I never slept with another girl. I haven’t done this so. I might not get it right.’
Ding, ding, ding – JACKPOT!!!
I promised it’d be okay. And for just one night I didn’t feel used. I felt treasured, admired. To have someone desperate to explore your body. To try things they’ve only ever seen in porn movies and magazines. Someone without any need to be cruel. I had an urge to sing with angels – ‘I was beat, incomplete, I’d been had, I’d been sad and blue but you made me feel, yeah you made me feel shiny and new’.
For him everything was exciting. And knowing that my warm, wet minny was the first his mouse would visit was very flattering I must confess.
It wasn’t dirty sex, it was pure sex. Like the best vanilla ice cream ever that makes you think – ‘why do I always opt for chocolate and strawberry – this ice cream flavour is bliss’
That’s not to say the toys were neglected. I got him up on the single bed where I could cuff him to the bed posts and blindfold him. Suck him until he was begging for mercy. Demented with pleasure. I straddled him then – knowing I’d be the first woman to ever mount that lovely proud flawless cock – and rocked. I removed his blindfold and the sight of it was all too much. He was begging to suck my breasts and who I was I to deprive him.
Notwithstanding his impressive stamina it had taken its toll. He began begging me to get off. I was a bit miffed. I normally try and bare my full weight on my thighs in that position so as not to squash the man underneath. But he seemed distressed so I leapt off only to find as I did cum came out of his penis like a fire hose had been turned on and was unmanned – his cock whirling round, cum flying out like a sprinkler. It was a blast that jettisoned over us both. I reached down and rubbed the cum on his stomach down and massaged his balls with it while he moaned. Still handcuffed I let him watch as wiped his cum between my legs. He begged me to uncuff him and no sooner had I then he got quite forceful and pushed me down on the bed cuffing my wrists.
He put the blindfold on and I felt his fingers probing inside me, deeper and deeper. My body responded and he intuitively twisted them inside me making me moan. He spent a long time orally investigating the new shaven pleasure garden before getting hard and putting himself inside me again. With him in control it was a lot more frantic and frenzied – but who doesn’t like a good rogering now and again. Technique can be forgiven as long as lust and enthusiasm are present.
He was quick to withdraw again before ejaculation. He stood by the single bed, his eyes closed tight and his mouth fixed in a firm line, willing his cock not explode again. I got him to uncuff me and told him to kneel down as I positioned myself into a sitting position on the bed edge, legs dangling to the floor. He obliged and spreading my legs wide, then lips I gave a few clear concise instructions as to exactly where the clitoris was. Inexperience is sweet but lapping a cunt like a dog is only fun for so long – eventually you need to hit the right spot. It would only be fair to the next lady he laid with.
It was an exercise he seemed to enjoy as it wasn’t long before he was back inside me, my ankles in gripped in his hands as he pushed my legs over my head to go as deep as possible before withdrawing and cumming all over the backs of my thighs.
There’s always that awkward moment when you feel sticky and … well I’m an Aussie and OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) – we like to shower once a day and I just can’t sleep if I feel dirty. So it was down the ladder for a shower but by the time I climbed stark naked up the ladder – which given my size cannot have been a good look. His green eyes were beaming and he was asking if he could do me doggy style. It seemed rude to say no, but I have to say by this time, age was taking its toll on me. I was thirty after all and not only needed my beauty sleep but wasn’t used to pulling an all-nighter – even if I could have a lie in tomorrow. This last session not only involved me on my knees on a hard loft floor with threadbare carpet, gritted teeth as I endured the pounding but was accompanied to a soundtrack of my elderly Portuguese flat mate (landlady’s mother) yelling in broken English that she didn’t deserve this noise at 3am.
I know longer felt like a porn star, I just felt tired. Eventually he collapsed and slept and I was grateful.
And like two teens aware that it was an infatuation there was the awkwardness the following morning of getting him back to Victoria Coach Station so he’d get home for school on Monday, finding a place to have breakfast that didn’t involve cutlery and him awash in catholic guilt saying if I was pregnant he’d stand by me.
He headed back to Liverpool and took my teenage dreams with him.
A Very Tame Beginning – woof!
Posted by onewoman
I’ve thought long about where to start and it has to be the beginning. But please don’t think the unfolding of my Odyssey will follow chronologically; with the cock-numbers I’ve clocked up I really can’t remember it that way. Sometimes, on a tube or in the middle of a street, I’ll get a really vivid sexual flashback to some encounter – one I’d long forgotten. Thus for the purposes of this recounting I’ll write as I remember. It certainly couldn’t be done on an alpha-names-basis because I honestly can’t recall every one.
In fact, I’d quite convinced myself every guy I slept with whose name I couldn’t immediately remember was called ‘James’. Then I realised, statistically, it looked like I’d slept with an inordinate number of Jameses so I decided to ‘fess up to myself and admit at times I maybe hadn’t even bothered finding out. As per the title of this blog though, all but a tiny few of these ‘Jameses’ were complete and utter dicks.
But I digress.
First I’m going to tell you about my flowering (vomit inducing – but what phrase to use?). Fear not, for those of you with teak-like sensitivities when it comes to pure filth. I’ll get round to that, but just not here and now.
This tale is tame in comparison to what I get up to slightly later in life, but a girl has got to start somewhere – and like quite a few I did so hymen intacto, albeit later than most. I was 21 when I finally ‘did it’.
Losing your virginity will always be memorable. I think. Certainly for a lot of women, definitely for me.
I’m not a hair racist, I promise (though we have some floating round my family so the propensity is there. They’re called ‘rangas’ in Australia after the Great orange-coloured Ape. I apologise on their behalf.). But I nearly got fucked by a ginger. And not the best looking one at that. He would have been my first. He wasn’t unattractive, but had that kind of sallow, underfed, English look that weirdly appeals to me. I liked him. But this was back in the day when mobile phones were something you had glued to your hand permanently as status symbol and only a tiny few had discovered text.
Having met him the week before, I arranged to see him the following week at the same club. One we were routine regulars at in Norbury, South London, of which more shortly. Had it not been for my best friend and clubbing companion ‘L’s’ poor time-keeping and inability to value or prioritise the needs of others, the first cock that entered me would therefore have been attached to a bush of ginger pubes.
Still, ‘L’ was just…’L’ and, it’s important to note, that particular Friday she was ‘very ill’ but ‘forced’ herself to go to the place anyway ‘for my sake’ (and her own to some extent). But by the time we got there I was running well over an hour late for the pre-proposed rendezvous which had been arranged the week before and with no contact since. ‘L’, I (and my date) were such regulars there, that on waiting to be let in, the Bouncer himself delivered a rather short and infuriated message from my Ginger-(bread)-Man. He’d fucked off. So it was over before it even began.
‘L’ was indifferent. Her current fellow wasn’t present that night so she was happy enough to have me to herself – more so because Gingerbread had spilt two pints of beer over her the previous week (one of which we’d purchased).
But there that night was Gavin.
This was back in the late nineties, when boy-bands, particularly Irish ones, were all the rage. The nightclub we were at in Norbury (imaginatively called ‘The Norbury’) was at the back of an Irish pub so had quite a few Irish punters.
Gavin was every schoolgirl’s dream. I was a late starter at 21 so still possessed a teen girl’s heart and was immediately filled with a longing to just…just have a kiss actually. I wanted him as my boyfriend.
He wasn’t tall, maybe 5’7, very slim and had the hair style of boy bands at that time – curtains and beautiful blue eyes. Apart from the height issue (which is more to do with me being Australian and considered tall in comparison with my British counterparts – especially in 4 inch heels) he was undoubtedly my type.
But I knew from the rather meagre female pickings looks-wise in the club that night there were a lot of girls there thinking he was their type too, so competition was high. I was a big girl then, but not morbidly obese. With a great looking face and youth on my side, getting guys wasn’t difficult, but I was just on the cusp of discovering this.
My esteem and experience was low, but ever the determined dreamer and with wild youthful optimism, I thought I’d at least give it a crack. I felt very much aware of what I then thought were my physical failings so convinced myself I couldn’t rely just looks alone. The thumping music was hardly amenable to my dazzling him with personality, wit and intellect. I was left then with only one choice. It was this. For me to demonstrate – the dance.
I must’ve busted some serious moves on the floor. A fair criticism of my antics is that while I can execute some complicated moves and have great rhythm, I suspect if ever marked on grace I wouldn’t be standing with a gold medal round my neck. Others may differ. I AM good at this stuff so maybe I’m being hard on myself – because it did do the trick I wanted that night.
He boogied his way over to me. Then it was a dance off between me and some cougar-type who must’ve been in her odd-40s (which for me at 21 seemed ancient) but I shimmied her clean off the floor. One swing of my child bearing hips had her staggering back to the bar as I funked it up with my Gavin to the point where he said ‘It’s okay – you’ve got me now you don’t have to try so hard.’
I was completely mortified I’d been quite so obvious and more so at the thought of what my dancing must’ve looked like to have warranted such a comment.
But….
It got to the end of the night and though I hadn’t had a kiss from him publicly – allegedly as a result of the presence of friends – he waited for me after as I collected my stuff from the cloakroom. Outside my best friend’s squeeze was waiting for her but I leapt at the invitation to go for a ‘walk’ with my prince.
He crossed the road heading us down some residential side street. I felt slightly worried here. My best friend and her boyfriend ware providing my lift home and I, completely unfamiliar with the territory was unsure how I’d navigate my way back to their car. But hormones and an abundance of intoxicants overpowered rationale. We’re not talking date-rape here, we’re talking lack of inhibition.
I remember walking to a front door. He reached in his pocket and drew out a ring of keys asking me which one to try. For some reason it hadn’t quite clicked this might be his house. There was a rush of adrenaline at the thought he may in fact be breaking and entering someplace. I got the keys wrong twice so the third time he chose and let us in to a very dark, modest and quiet dwelling. Period; typical suburban three up three down at a guess. He told me he lived there with his brother. Naively I believed him. Looking back, this might not have been a total lie but if it had been the case why wouldn’t he have taken me to his bedroom and why the necessity to ensure the lights were off and noise kept to a minimum? So I found myself in the kitchen, located at the back of the house.
So, as for that first kiss….
OK. I’d only ever really been kissed by three or four boys previously plus a girl (and I liked it). But he looked so bloody gorgeous. Even my friend ‘L’ was shocked that I’d ‘pulled’ him (bit of a backhanded compliment there) but then…
Then smell of his breath. It was like he’d eaten a four cheese pizza made with the strongest blue cheeses going, rancid meat and hadn’t brushed his teeth for a week. I tried to push my disgust to the back of my mind but the smell is always the first association I have with this memory.
He began undressing and I watched, in an unbelieving way, realising, actually, tonight I was entering (I thought at the time) another world – the world of the fully initiated. I felt excited, ‘grown up’. And the knowing I’d made the decision to do this with someone completely random rather than waiting for a relationship made it doubly true. It felt like an empowering choice (which in hindsight it was) and one that would lay the foundations of the following ten years of my sexual life.
His build was slight and boyish and I inhaled sharply at the definition of his torso. The sinewy muscles in his arms, the hairless chest and the six pack stomach chiselled out of the leanness of him. I felt my desire for him increase and there was part of me wanting to thrust my fist in the air and shout ‘yesss!’ at the joy of having scored such physical perfection and overall prettiness. The foul, the previous liplock I could forgive in exchange for the sight of that young, hard body. He took my hands down to his jeans but my fumbling at undoing his belt frustrated him to the point where he finished stripping himself.
I was almost too scared to look and face the reality of ‘cock’ but he was eager enough for me to do it and grabbed my hand, forcing it down there. I gripped it and it felt firm and smooth and warm and huge. Intimidating in a way. I wondered if they were all so big (in time I would discover he was a rare find and while the term ‘hung like a donkey’ might have been applied to him this is not the general rule as most women will have found). Somewhere in the duration of his undressing I mumbled I was a virgin and he told me it would be okay.
He stood there naked in the moonlight, shining through the kitchen windows. I was dumbstruck, holding his penis and not sure what I was supposed to do.
‘You’re going to have to take your clothes off, or do you want me to do it?’
I assured him it was fine. But the thought of being totally naked in front of him frightened me. I had awful body image issues. I kept having to remind myself if he didn’t fancy me he wouldn’t be there, certainly he wouldn’t be standing to attention so aggressively.
As nice as I looked (and believe me as a woman there can be massive effort involved) to have to strip down and reveal the accessories and garments used to achieve this is a daunting prospect. It was all about where to begin.
I knew the large waist-high natural control knickers had to be removed pronto and the tights would have to go too. I imagined those items were the most likely to make that…thing I was holding decline rapidly into a state of floppy uninterest.
At the time I’d always insisted on wearing said knickers one size too small, really to ensure they held my tummy in in public. So I rolled them down and felt my tummy rolling out, toned-like appearance gone but the roundness of my stomach hidden by the kind cut of my simple black dress.
Then I realised I hadn’t factored my shoes into the equation. I looked down at the straps and tried to undo them. But it’s quite a feat (or perhaps feet) to remove strappy shoes while standing, kissing someone, massaging their cock and thinking about what a penetrated hymen is going to feel like.I got one shoe off, which then had me force one bare foot in tip-toe position so I wasn’t looking lopsided during the ongoing kissing thing.
The second shoe wouldn’t budge. The strap was so tight, it just wouldn’t slip through the link and because of its tightness I couldn’t just kick or rip the shoe off my foot. I was wrestling with it. It was now an enemy to the outfit, an enemy to my dignity and of the entire night. I saw my chances of sex slipping away.
Eventually I crouched down to do it. Not glamorous or seductive. The incident was traumatic, leaving deep psychological scars forever to echo through my life – sexual or otherwise.
But having flung the last shoe off and now able to kick off the tights and knickers I was left standing in my black dress. This I could slip off easily enough and the bra to follow, releasing my plump breasts in what I thought a downward swing.
Then I was standing – naked in the moonlight too. Nowhere near as pretty or toned as him I thought but the hard-on didn’t wither with his scrutiny of me. I could feel his blue eyes take me all in. Standing and being judged, purely on appearance.
‘Get down and suck my cock.’
I knelt down, self conscious of my nudity and all my wobbling bits. I gave it a try, a hesitant lick and put a bit in my mouth but it seemed…too much to take. My approach was unprofessional, amateurish. I licked it like a lollipop until he forced it in my mouth. I knew you weren’t supposed to graze it with your teeth so I was mindful of that but did one blow (as in the title of the job in question) or suck? He either took pity of my inexperience or was frustrated by it. He pushed me on my back and told me to spread my legs – wide. With no experience I could really only follow his direction.
The kitchen floor was hard and uncomfortable. It was summer and I could feel myself sticking to the lino but my curiosity meant the feel of the surface could be overlooked. Legs spread and my vagina exposed for inspection by someone other than myself had me quivering in the balmy summer night.
A lot of women I’ve spoken to discuss the pain involved with losing one’s virginity, especially if one’s hymen is intact – which, as I’ve said, mine was. But I’ve heard a lot say they suffered in silence.
Not me. I was very vocal about it all. He spread my legs even further, pulled at the sockets then gripped my wrists above my head and tried to slide his formidable cock into me.
Every time he tried to enter, he would be greeted with an ‘Ow!’ or ‘Ooh no that really hurts.’
I must’ve been talking ten to the dozen from nerves as well as the pain as he tried to insert himself. In the end he shushed me and told me to stop talking and put his hand on my mouth.
He forced his cock inside me. And yes it fucking hurt. Every thrust, the length of him going all the way in and then almost pulling himself out completely, repeatedly stretching me and causing pain.
But their was a pleasure to it too.. Eventually my muscles relaxed and began to accept, rather than reject this alien invasion of me. There was something soothing about the weight of him on top of me, sweat enabled him to slide his body up and down on mine, our skins as close as you can get which bought me to a state where I could more readily enjoy this new experience.
With that said, because I was quite a good girl and rarely stayed out late or went out more than once a week, the toll of our recent burst of socialising had taken its effect.. Once my cunt got used to the sensation of him moving in and out I began to feel my eyelids grow heavy at the rhythmic insertion and rocking. He must’ve noticed because then he told me to grip my thighs around his waist. I obeyed without question. He instructed me to do it tighter; as tight as I could. There really was a degree of fitness required to this new hobby, and I wasn’t the most energetic or gym-friendly of girls but I was still slightly worried about crushing him between my very ample thighs. Perhaps though, the warm, soft, silky pale flesh felt good because as I really gripped him he began to increase pace. His new vigour was sharp – painful again – but rather than risk a telling off or being physically restrained from verbalising any discomfort I bit my lip and endured it.
At this point, whether through noise, scent or both, a dog from outside made itself known but very unloved by barking, jumping and scratching at the kitchen’s back door. It immediately snapped me out of what at worst could have eventuated in an embarrassing slumber mid-intercourse or at best silent endurance of a consensual hard pounding. Gavin could see I was shaken by this and definitely put off my stride from our four legged friend announcing its presence at the door not three feet away.
‘Don’t worry about the dog; it’s okay.’
But by now though it had started to dawn on me that, given he was the same age as me, he probably lived with his parents and there was a chance they could walk in on us. By the time that thought popped into my head the reality of the situation really hit home. I was in a strange house, with a strange guy, in an area of London I wasn’t familiar with and no way of getting back to my bedsit.
I checked my watch – I’d really only been gone for a little over half an hour but if I missed that lift home I’d arranged on leaving the club I’d be lost. I endured more pumping but whilst he had his head down (in the work sense of the word) moving in deeper and more roughly I felt my attention drift to watching the minute hand move along on the watch face of my wrist.
‘I have to go,’ I whispered.
‘No you’re fine, just let me come.’
Great, I hadn’t even used a condom – one more thing to worry about.
‘No, I really have to. I’ll miss my lift.’
I began raising myself on my elbows muttering I needed to find my friend and put my clothes on. Possibly not in that order because I was getting quite hysterical and loud. As a result he withdrew his cock and let me stand and dress quickly.
I apologised profusely and walked to the front door. As I tried to open it, I found it forced shut. His hand was pressed on the frame, preventing any exit.
‘I want to finish fucking you.’ He was naked and his erection looked as angry as he did.
‘I want that too but…please I need to go home.’
I had the sinking realisation that irrespective of the difference in our weight he was infinitely stronger than me and could cause real problems if he wanted to.
‘I didn’t come. I want you to finish me off. It’ll be nice – for us both.’
I tried to push his arm away but it remained cemented. Whether he was fooling around, or he thought his parents may make an appearance or the tears welling up in my eyes hit a nerve, he moved, unlocked the door, and let me go.
A brusque kiss before I shot out, like a mouse released from a humane trap.
I found my friend’s car but no sign of her. Relief flooded me that I’d still get my ride. She turned up after five minutes, furious at me as she’ been walking the streets with her boyfriend (to be) in an attempt to locate me. Apparently I sat on the bonnet of her car swinging my legs like a pixie. I was shoeless. In the rush to leave the house I hadn’t bothered with retrieving my footwear. Getting them off took long enough, I couldn’t risk any more time in getting them back on.
So. What happened with Gavin?
The week after that incident I saw him at the nightclub, but was too shy to say anything. Eventually he came and found me at the bar and asked if I was going to avoid him all night. I was lost for words but thrilled that he found me and wanted to talk.. He told me he wanted to see me again, to fuck me again but couldn’t tonight because his girlfriend from Ireland was over visiting.
Then a sinking realisation in fact, this man, beautiful as he was, was never going to be my boyfriend. Chances were I would never sleep with him again. I swallowed the lump in my throat, and took drinks to my friend to update her. She did her best to protect me that night, ensure I kept my head held high and behaved in dignified fashion. And I did. But as we left the club on the last song (unlike us – we were usually to the last ones out) I broke free from her, ran back to his table where he was seated alone. I could see ‘L’s’ head shaking knowing what was going to happen.
‘Why?’ I asked, ‘I really liked you.’
‘I like you too but she’s…’
He shrugged and I knew where I stood in the scheme of things. It seemed somewhat fitting the last song of the evening was Ronan Keating’s ‘You say it best when you say nothing at all.‘
‘L’ was right – I shouldn’t have said anything.
One Woman One Hundred Dicks 