There is nothing that puts a dampener on one’s sex life then when you both agree you want children but don’t set a date AND practise unsafe sex – that is my husband and I don’t use contraception. As a thirty-something woman the biological clock is ticking away, as someone nearing fifty with an ex-wife and two kids and a brand spanking new wife I suspect the conception of new children isn’t quite as high on his list of priorities as it is mine.
Now we both love a bit of porn and filthy sex but with real life imposing greatly on our once vivid and active imaginations which provided some seriously steamy and depraved sex, I haven’t been getting my five-a-day of late…not even five-a-week – in fact I’m lucky if I get sex once a week (I do normally get a minimum of five orgasms in the weekly session though so if you go for the quality not quantity argument…).
Anyway this discussion on children has made his ejaculation something of a delicate subject when the moment is about to present itself. When he breathlessly asks where I want him to cum as my head is bouncing up and down on his penis I almost stop myself on the spot considering the answer. I don’t though, at his age he remains rock hard and can go for hours without climaxing and sometimes I get lock-jaw so daren’t break the rhythm for fear of having to prepare myself for the onset of a sore jaw and repetitive strain injury in my wrist. The thing is I quite like him cumming inside me. I like the squirt of his semen filling me up and hitting the back wall, I like feeling him pull and wipe his cum soaked cock on my thigh and I LOVE that moment when I stand up and feel his sperm swim out of my wet cunt and down into my panties at some point later that day. Only in light of recent conversations on the progression of our relationship I feel if I ask him to release inside me he’ll assume I want a baby like…yesterday and be scared off. I’m already starved of cock on a once a week diet so if the sex dries up any more I suspect my hymen may grow over and I’ll be re-virginalised.
Last week – aware that his balls were full up of seven days of milky-white tadpoles – when he popped the question I decided to play it safe and go for one of his visually stimulating favourites and said I wanted him to cum on my face. When he asked if I wanted him to kneel over me so I could bring myself off one last time while vibing my clit, him manually finishing himself off as I licked his balls so he could see himself over my tongue and face, I nodded (as I continued my mouth working his cock). Trouble was as it had been such a while since we’d had sex (for us any way) he came before he had time to reposition himself. My peripheral vision caught site of a thick white stream flying past my head in a moan of his ecstasy, akin to someone stomping violently on a pot of yoghurt. I moved my face in a bid to catch the airborne sperm on my tongue and ended up taking the majority of it on my face. However a droplet had hit the corner of my unfortunate open eye.
It stung like fuck and no amount of eye baths took away the pain. Having been accosted briefly by his 90 year old father (asking all sorts of probing questions about this week’s online Sainsbury’s order whilst I cradled my eye and felt my skin tightening as the spunk dried on my face) I eventually returned to be to discuss the distress of my right eyeball. My partner’s was empathetic (as a youngster he was once wanking and spurted with such a force and at such an angle he came in his own eye) towards my bad case of squid eye and I discovered the existence of a very sadist sexual practise which involves a guy coming into a shot glass (or with accurate and effective aim) then forcing a woman’s eye open and dumping the load in there. Severe stinging sensation! I speak from experience. Not from this minor bedroom mishap but a larger one some years ago.
Back in the day when I was a pretty(ier) young(er) thing I made quite the impression on a young man visiting London from Bradford. He was of Indian descent (I do like my brown boys) and a PE teacher to boot (who doesn’t like a six pack and toned body???.) I must’ve quite liked him because I didn’t sleep with him the night I met him – I obviously held off hoping he may like me enough to want to consider me as potential girl friend material. Not succumbing paid off, although he was travelling overseas for six months, he literally called me from the airport when his plane returned to home soil (clearly he hadn’t scored a lot of foreign pussy on his travels).
I was flattered to be his first call and we quickly organised an evening for him to trek to London and ‘see’ me. Sadly I was very young at this point and still couldn’t quite comprehend why such a fittie was interested in me. In addition to this I was inexperienced with the whole dating scenario. I got as far as meeting him in the pub after work for a drink but was unsure what to do from there. Did I suggest dinner? More drinks? A movie? Clubbing? No after two alcopops I found myself inviting him back to my place.
As we walked up there (bare in mind I was living at the Young Women’s Christian Association which didn’t allow overnight male visitors, nor even visitors after 9pm) I knew I had a limited window of opportunity to legitimately get him into my room. Once signed in there was every chance after 9 o’clock the guards would come a-knocking to boot him out.
On the way back my phone started bleeping with texts from a new beau I was sure I was in love with – now not only did I need to fuck this guy before curfew but also I needed to speed things along in order to allow me to return the call of my current obsession. Gorgeous Asian PE Teacher asked if it was my other boyfriend on the phone and I nervously laughed off his all too accurate laughing accusation. Still he was so tactile and affectionate, and I was so besotted by his muscular frame that by the time I got him into my small single bedroom I was tearing off his tight grey shirt and running my hand all over his hard body. The slim waist and rippled torso had my hands undoing his belt and working down the button fly on his jeans. I could see his hard on pressed against his pristine white briefs. The bulging of his pants and thighs (built up undoubtedly from punishing fat kids mercilessly during PE lessons at school) distracted me from contemplating whether this underwear was acceptable or not – it looked like maybe mum still bought it. He was pushing me onto the bed whilst my hands were grabbing desperately at his cock.
He removed my top off and I was wriggling out of my jeans while sucking hard on him. He was groaning so loudly the girl next door thumped on the wall. Fully aware of the time restraints and the possibility of angry neighbour calling security; once free of my jeans I extended my toe towards the CD player (yes this was pre-iPod era) to hit play. Sadly I had left on Backstreet Boys but my handling of his cock was enough to make him stay hard while he sat bolt upright and said ‘Backstreet Boys? Seriously What are you 13?’ (I was 22.) To avoid answering the question I quickly leapt on his cock and rode him like I was a prizewinning rodeo jillaroo – I only lasted the 7 seconds because he was soon begging for a blowjob. I pushed my mouth on his cock and went in for some intense deep throat action. He pulled my head to shallow his thrusting in my mouth, withdrew completely and said ‘I haven’t done this in so long.’ Then he promptly ejaculated all over me. It’s one thing having seven days of spunk flying at you but seven months worth was like a tsunami – unavoidable. It went everywhere but mostly it went in my eye.
Being a tough Australian and keen to keep my options open (there was no guarantee my new text relationship would become realised) I tried to ride it out and be sexy. I rubbed his cum into my plump breasts and my stomach, massaging it down to between my thighs while he watched. As I moved my hands erotically round my voluptuous figure I tried to flick my hair seductively but it was matted from man-milk. What I could feel was the vision in my left eye diminishing. I was rubbing some cum into my face, smiling as if I knew I was going to look ten years younger from having done so when I realised my eye was on fire. It was swelling up so that I couldn’t see out of it all. I wanted to run round the room screaming ‘It burns, it BURNS!’ or fill the little sink up with water and dunk my entire head in it but those actions were decidedly unsexy…but so was a big red swollen eyelid.
The phone began ringing again. My one remaining good eye caught my new love’s name flash up very visibly on the phone’s screen. I suddenly had gone from Australian sex goddess to smelly, slutty girl masquerading as Popeye in drag. There was no sexy way out of the situation other than to literally push him out my bedroom door and say ‘Call me next time your in town!’ As the door slammed shut on his confused face I didn’t hear his foot steps petering away because I had the cold water tap on full blast filling up the sink; my face was pressed to the plug hole waiting for some relief.
There was little respite to be found. Blindly my hand grabbed a flannel and the other my phone so after soaking the flannel I could let it rest on my eye while I hit redial. The voice at the other end of the line asked if I hadn’t answered his calls because I’d been with my other boyfriend. Once again I nervously laughed off the all too accurate gentle accusation. I tried to maintain a conversation being witty and sexy while I nursed my eye. After my appalling dismissal of the body beautiful asian it was evident he was one option no longer available to my heart or vagina – my poor conduct ensured he never did call back. Sadly my eye, now resembling a puffer fish, was affecting my phone manner. My text love decided his suspicions were warranted or that I wasn’t 100% committed to the call and hung up quickly because of my evident inattention. A five minute phone conversation didn’t satisfy my emotional needs any more than a fifteen minute blow job satisfied my cunt which continued aching to be stuffed by a cock. Neither were satisfied that night – this story, akin to my night, was without a resolution.
Even a cynical, seasoned professional purveyor of penis can get caught off-guard by someone saying the right things at the right time. Drunk with a desperate heart; hearing the right words at the right time can trick your mind into thinking the man saying them can only be Mr Right. One’s expectations are raised, hope begins to bloom and you relax thinking after years of searching he’s finally turned up.
At times I wonder whether I clocked up so much cock on account of my relatively appealing good looks or if it was due to the fact that my pheromones and general behaviour just screamed slut to any passer by-er. A little of column A, a little of column B perhaps
Once you reach the phase where random fu*cking is your fix; like a proper junkie you’re more concerned about getting your fix. The whys and hows of how you get the fix become irrelevant. But if you have a decent dealer the relationship is as valuable as the drug itself.
As mentioned oodles of times previous, Great Yarmouth was a fertile playing field for me in terms of easy guaranteed cock, but low self esteem ensured I was never brimming with confidence. Hence when a tall, dark stranger appeared to be checking me out one night my natural instinct was to quickly survey the dance-floor to see which lucky bitch was the object of his blatant admiration. A few sharp neck swivels (in time to the music of course) and I realised it was me his eyes were lingering on. And I was flattered. Whilst I tended to go for a more mature man there was no getting away from the fact that he was very good looking. At least 6’2 (which given my size – especially in heels could only be a blessing), broad, dark hair carefully and deliberately moulded into porcupine spines all over his head, hazel eyes and an open, symmetrical, good-natured face. Coupled with a casual dress shirt left hanging out over smart trousers and shoes as he lent against the wall leading to the toilets (giving him full view of the antics of the entire venue) he certainly stood out from the usual clientèle at the run down Pier Bar with it’s stonking cheesy pop tunes from decades ago.
I assumed it was a general glance from him so when I was forced to walk past him to go to the loo I was pleasantly surprised when I felt him intentionally yet casually brush up against me as I passed him. Things were starting to look positive so on my return I purposely, yet accidentally touched my entire body to his. It was then he grabbed my hand and when I looked up at him I almost melted in his eyes – they were so kind and friendly…and genuine.
His warm hand prevented me from returning to the dance-floor and I allowed him to gently drag me past the toilets and out onto the pier. The air was cool. Whatever time of the year in the wee hours of the morning by the sea the air is always fresh on the skin. It seemed there was little time for words and yet I’m sure we talked. Perhaps it was just that the immediate connection allowing for a comfortable silence because before long I was pressed against the wall of the closed arcade lost in his lips and feverish kisses. What few words were spoken were enough. Pinned to the wall, his hands eventually found mine and I felt him directing them towards his cock which was trying to burst out of his trousers. But I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be just some holiday slut for a night. Funnily enough when I told him this he was completely fine. He didn’t accuse me of being a prick tease, become abusive in the face of potential sexual rejection or shrug his shoulders and find some other easy lay. We stood together again and spoke and after a time he took my hand and returned me to the club and my beloved side-kick, L. So it was a nice moment and one I had the sinking feeling I was going to have to write-off as just that. A nice boy on a nice night.
But it wasn’t. Allegedly he had just moved to Great Yarmouth and was beginning work as a barman in the venue (our favourite and most frequented no less). He asked how often I came to Great Yarmouth and after a quick conference with L and the potential this new encounter promised, I confirmed I’d be back in 4 weeks time. We didn’t exchange numbers but he said he’d wait for me and left it at that.
I was kind of seeing a married man at the time (quite a significant ‘relationship’ at that) and was emotionally committed to him but I couldn’t push away this young man – whose name I now can’t even remember – from my mind. Working in an open planned office, I discussed both the guy and my married man at great length and the general consensus from the girls (ranging in age from 18 to 48) was the Yarmouth bloke sounded like a sweetheart and it was definitely worth following up on. Four weeks later we travelled up to Great Yarmouth again, myself with Great Expectations.
A little to keen and over eager we took up residence in the Pier Bar early afternoon and keenly watched the going ons as staff clocked in and out for the evening shift. Bizarrely enough true to his word he turned up, gave a friendly smile and began to work. Like a little school girl and keen to avoid any form of rejection I sent L up to the bar. He chatted with her and spent a lot of his time serving with an eye constantly on me. At one point I was given a drink by a random stranger who said it was a gift from the man behind the bar who also sent him with the message that I was easily the most beautiful girl in the bar that night. At this stage even L swooned at his authenticity. Sometimes small gestures and simple words are the most effective way to pierce a heart. I was smitten and refrained from my normal motto of ‘keep your options open!’ I declined any invitation for a dance and was happy to hang outside on the pier when he had his ten minute breaks. By 4am L was being walked home by an ‘old friend’ which left me with my man.
There is always something romantic about sunrises and empty beaches and walking hand in hand with a man that makes your heart sing for joy.
It’s not so romantic trying to have sex while standing underneath a pier. Romance was high but a pounding need to consummate this blossoming relationship was also present. Lips pressed together, probing tongues and lusty hands groping, feeling and undoing meant there was only one direction this was going. Strangely enough despite some minor protestations I was happy to oblige because he seemed so wanting and firm and…true.
However fab my new outfit was I was regretting wearing jeans. The fitted top accentuating my curves and high heels may have made a killer look but in terms of outdoors sex it just was not good. Frankly speaking rolling down tights and pushing up a dress is easier to access, more graceful and just that little bit safer for being busted for indecent exposure than tight black jeans. In all honesty the guy only needs to unzip for his member to do the job, for me it was trying to wriggle out of my jeans as elegantly as possible to allow the sex to take place. But I was keen enough so ended up kicking my jeans off. As luck would have it my top was long enough to cover my modesty should any early morning wanderer find their way under Great Yarmouth’s main pier.
Whilst I can’t recall his name, I can recall the sex. Pleasingly his cock was in proportion to his 6’2 broad frame. There was a length and girth to it that could only be rewarding for a willing recipient. I remember in my hand his cock was not only hard but it was hot and literally I could feel the blood pulsating through it as he moaned. His main concern was coming too quickly because he hadn’t had sex in some months after a break (well that was his story). Still there was no chance of premature ejaculation because the logistics required for sex meant a lot of stop starting and position changing – which didn’t kill the ambience thank God. I didn’t feel comfortable fu*king standing in heels so removed them, which immediately had me 8 inches shorter than him. Additionally being on the big side, however ripped and fit he was, it wasn’t like he could just lift me up to enter me for a good shagging,
He ended up turning me round to face a pylon – I guess if it could support a pier, it wouldn’t crumble with my weight resting against it. At this point he ran his hand down my buttocks and pushed his hand between my legs, forcing me to open them wider for his eagerly anticipated entry. His groaning in my ear increased as he felt how wet I was for him, his fingers slipped in and out of my dripping c*nt and I could feel my own juices on his fingers as his body pressed firmly against mine and the length of him slowly penetrated me. It was as if time stood still, or slowed right down as I felt my kegal muscles involuntarily clamp round his cock and I moaned in tandem with him – vocalising how full my vagina felt. The sex remained slow, his cock rhythmically reaching the back wall and internally stimulating all the right places. The weight and warmth of him against me only made me feel safer, protected and sensual.
He refused to speed up, determined to take his time as if I was some present to slowly be unwrapped. Eventually though all good things must come to an end. As he whispered into my ear, ‘I can’t wait much longer’ he withdrew and asked if I’d finish him off. It was a reasonably new request and while I was keen to have him in my mouth I wasn’t so sure about my juices being all over it. Still I didn’t want to kill the atmosphere so dropped to my knees, as he gently held my head and guided himself into my mouth.
I have to say – I tasted pretty good. There’s a lot to be said about diet dictating the taste sensation of someone’s excretions. Given my penchant for sweet food it turned out to be a delicious dick. There was far more than a mouthful there so I did my best to relax my reflux which allowed him a little deep oral. Fortunately when I did, unsurprisingly, gag on his cock those muscles rejecting his size seemed to tip him over the edge as he pulled out and allowed himself to cum over my chest – his cum dripping down the deep v-nect cut of my top all the way to my milky white breasts which were all but overflowing from the garment.
I stood up and we kissed (which I felt okay about cause clearly he was now tasting his cum too). I went to grab my jeans, realising the sun was taking away what little cover there was left under the pier when he dropped to his knees. Realising what he was going to do I pulled his head back and insisted that he really didn’t have to but he was adamant he wanted to. I spread my legs at his soft command so that his tongue could work it’s way around me. Clearly he approved of my diet of chocolate and ice cream because not only did his tongue skim over my clit but he seemed desperate to get his tongue where his cock had been ploughing only minutes before. Because of my sizeable thighs to allow him to do this I had to assume an almost yogic position raising a leg and attempting to balance on the one remaining grounded leg. He may have been wanting to bring me to orgasm but this acrobatic feat had put that idea to bed, so I faked it in order to finish up.
His demeanour didn’t change as he gallantly kept look out whilst I got dressed and we took a slow walk home. He lived and looked after his mother in a flat above a shop in one of the main streets in Yarmouth. In the flush of first love, our goodbye at the door took another hour and I promised to meet him that evening.
I got home, slept, woke up, filled L in on the details, showered, changed and headed back to the Pier Bar to continue my perfect weekend. Only he wasn’t working in the Pier Bar, he’s been sent to the opposite end of Britannia Pier to work in Long John’s nightclub for his shift. This venue had thumping music and was filled with all the beautiful, young, pretty things. When we headed up there I felt fat, frumpy, old and out of place. Whilst he did his best to catch the odd conversation with me there was no time for him to take breaks, send over free drinks or sweet messages. In fact he was so busy and seeing endless girls flirt outrageously with him I opted out and headed home. We said goodbye but I felt pretty flat about things. Could it all have been a lie to get a free fuck (please let that bit about him not having sex in months be true because if I was one of a long line of holiday fucks it was even more meaningless to him)???
Back at work Tuesday, after the Bank Holiday and the girls at work were as taken as L and I had been with his behaviour and treatment of me. In fact my mother figure, M, convinced me to drop the married guy and go for it with this new fellow. It had been busy in the club that night and I had stomped out so I guess it hadn’t been entirely practical to exchange numbers. On M’s advice I rang his workplace and left a message with my phone number. Later that evening he returned my call, said he was surprised and a little hurt at my departure but was happy I’d contacted him. He took my mobile number and gave me his, making sure I called his whilst on the land-line to ensure I had the number correct.
Turns out soon after divulging his contact details Mr Right promptly ceased even being Mr Right Now – he was Mr not so Right…or just plain Mr Wrong, Not a response to a text did I ever get back. Not an answer to me calling him ever took place. Just enough missed calls and unanswered texts for me to get the hint. Four weeks later when we returned to Yarmouth he’d disappeared from working at the Pier (sacked or moved on I’ll never know). With a cock like his I have to say it was a good servicing on his part but very poor after care and follow up support – still I hadn’t dumped the married guy so at least I’d kept my options open.
When you meet a guy named ‘Fox’ three thoughts enter your head:
- He was named by hippies
- He’s of Native American descent
- He works in porn.
If his surname could also be a Christian name – something like….. ‘Tucker’ it’s more than likely he works in porn. Don’t be swept up in the uniqueness or impressiveness of such a name as it will more or less be covering for a flaw in the man’s character. And when you’re on a throbbing dance floor and are dazzled with a good looking, charming man buying you free drinks it’s easy to think ‘Wow I’m gonna marry a man called Fox Tucker and people will be like – shall we have S and Fox round for dinner?’. It’ll sound so cool in your head you won’t bother to question the man’s motives and 24 hours later you’ll really wish you spent more time being cynical and less time fantasizing merrily in a drunken horny state.
It turns out this particular evening would be the beginning of the end of a beautiful relationship…of L&B’s great partnership in Great Yarmouth. I was telephonic-ally, textually and cybernetic-ally on the verge of meeting my soul mate in the flesh, L was about to meet her future husband.
My mind is slightly vague in relation to earlier events in the evening – perhaps because later events became so prominent they overshadowed anything that happened previous. I know for a fact L and I used to limit ourselves to the Pier Tavern (a cheesy more mature ‘nightclub’ at the start of Yarmouth’s main pier. However on the night in question L and the general punter was considered old if they were over 21….so being 30 didn’t have every man in the venue turning their heads, revealing come-to-bed eyes and rushing us on the dance-floor for a little bump and grind.
In fact because we smacked of having a ‘3’ in our age we were relegated to swaying slowly whilst sipping our snakebite and blacks on the outskirts of the dance floor and dangerously close to the exist.
And then they appeared.
Two nice looking guys who were definitely mid-30s and veering dangerously close to being observed as in their early 40s…..undeniable prime beef to a woman of any age. Turns out they were best friends. L and I gave each other a sidelong excited glance at what might potentially result from this seemingly random interaction bestowed on us by the gods. The first ripple that fate had thrown us a positive lifeline was that both seemed actively interested in us. L’s guy wasn’t the tallest guy, but being with L he didn’t have to be. He was built like a brick shit house, broad and solid but had the face of something you’d expect to see on a boy-bander. She’d like that. He’d make her feel small and safe. And he had the chat and charm to go with it. His razor sharp wit would please her and engage her. Looks alone wouldn’t sit well but the fact that he had a good job, and good banter would see him in good stead. The pretty people…..
Which I used to think I belonged to until the man introduced as ‘Fox’ had cordoned himself off with me said ‘Don’t you ever get sick of playing Wingman for your friend?’ The words had the effect of a 1inch blade on a Swiss army knife catching me in the side. I had enough flesh to ensure the blade did no damage but it was a shock and it stung like fu*k. Especially as I knew L was not into One Night Stands and spent the majority of the time playing wingman for her slutty friend – ME. I also suddenly felt horribly unattractive and had an insight into a male’s perspective thinking of the two of us I was clearly unfavourable and seem as a chore. I mustered what courage I could to say I didn’t really see myself that way and it wasn’t how L and I operated.
He stumbled, embarrassed over his words, explaining what he meant were that people like L and his best mate M were all about the ‘game’, whereas folks like us (god did that immediately put us into the unattractive or worse just plain ordinary category….this face of mine has graced the pages of Cosmo magazine!) weren’t all about notching up conquests. It eased the pain a little and my ruffled feathers felt smoother. We talked some more and he looked at the two to them flirting outrageously together. Their body language textbook to that for any psychology or social science class. He nodded at them and turned to me. ‘They won’t last. They aren’t the type to. They’re both the same – players’. All I was trying to say was I really like you and if things don’t work with them, I’d hate for it to impact on any relationship we might have. Your lovely and a very cool girl. I’d like to think we might be able to go the distance but if they fall out or whatever PLEASE don’t allow it to prevent us from being together.’
Words I’d spent years longing to hear. And then his friend was coming over with vodka jellies, an alco-pops. The guys treated us – not like princesses, but like queens. It had been a very long time since I had someone mount up a bill of over £200 in a couple of hours being hospitable with us.
By the time Land I had conflabbed in the toilets I knew the night could only be going good places.
And it did.
It took us back to the generous Fox’s pad that he shared with his friend M. The house was magnificent. Tucked in the countryside, a hidden large cosy country house, where we found ourselves having a few nightcap in a large and well designed, thought very masculine in taste, living room. As would be inevitable eventually the talk would dissipate and L and I would allow ourselves to be invited upstairs to our respective beau’s bedrooms.
What L did…well she spent the night verbally bonding with M and he respected that, enjoyed a kiss and a cuddle and cunningly L left him fully aware that we was going to need a suitable investment (both emotional, financially and time wise) if he wanted the full goods.
I on the other hand was high on life and very merry and exceedingly flattered with the man. L was right – that new blue shirt cum dress that snugly fitted did look awesome on me. Almost as awesome as Fox Tucker would look when he pushed my dress up and began fucking me. Even though he had a porn star name (and over pillow talked it transpired he DID work in porn…he did the IT and maintenance of some websites for porn companies based in Canada) there was no mirrored walls or ceiling, or cannily installed web-cams I felt sure we looked pretty hot fucking – it a little bit old skool.
We certainly weren’t love’s young dream. There had been many moments on my lips of late that had cunningly migrated south to take up permanent residence on my hips. He was trim, but late 30s, early 40s. Manly. A proper man. Dark hair, nice, eyes, strong jaw, defined symmetrical features on his face, taller than me, broad, big hairy chest, fine fat cocked springing out from a voluminous bush of untamed pubic hair. He could only have looked hot fucking me. I mean the transition from charming and courteous to ‘get on all fours and spread your cheeks so I can fu*k that arse properly’ was rather winsome. After a rigorous pumping, missionary, me on top, standing bent over the bed and doggy style I felt obliged to comply with his final request. It had been a while since my bottom had been exposed to a beastly boner determined to bash my back doors in, but the force and enthusiasm it was delivered with had me gasping for pleasure rather than wincing and whining say ‘stop it hurts’ or crying and screaming ‘put some lube on that monster’.
No he was dripping with sweat and flushed when he pulled , asked for em to suck him until came all over my tits – I couldn’t have wanted a better introduction to sex with my future husband Fox Tucker – Ahhhh if only.
But wait. The morning after he didn’t throw us out, he woke up with his arms wrapped round me, reinforcing how great my performance had been (twas like music to my ears…worth risking that painful first poo after such action). He even gave me his mobile number telling me he’d meant everything he’d said last night. In fact I remember when L appeared, he departed laughingly, leaving the two of us giggling and discussing our antics. Mine gave L severe hysteria and hers were of a far more romantic nature which made my heart sing. Could it actually go somewhere?
Yes it could. Tired of the mirth and suspected lesbian antics that may be occurring the boys invited us to go for a carvery to recover from the previous night. The two of them and the two of us. L and I gave a look of ‘can this really be happening’.
We’d finally found them after years of searching like loons. They drove us to our caravan and patiently waited in the car while we showered, selected suitable casual but sexy Sunday afternoon attire and (taking less care with my image and more keen with eating) I sat on the sofa texting Fox in the car with him replying with all sorts of lovely and promising sentiments as L glammed up.
The meals itself was a delight. The boys were happy to join us for ‘hair of the dog’ – a little prohibited being in possession of a car but by no means restrictive of judgemental on L and I’s alcoholic intake. Gentlemanly as ever they collected the tab and there was tiniest hope that there was a hint of suggestion that this would be the first of many.
Things got awkward when it was time to leave. Both guys had children from previous marriages and had agreed when kids were at the house girlfriends weren’t allowed. Both had their children coming over that day. It was L and mine’s last night in Yarmouth. L’s man M said he thought he’d be able to change things with his kid and see us in the evening. Suddenly Fox became non-committal saying he’d keep in touch via text but was seeing his kid so couldn’t make any promises. When they got out I got a kiss goodbye but I could already feel a chasm of despondency growing. While M was eagerly asking L where we’d be drinking that night and what time, Fox made no interest and avoided the suggestion. I felt silly asking to text. I respected the kid thing, but the coolness emanating from his attitude began to deflate my heart and my dreams. I said good bye and tried to remain bright for L’s sake. After all perhaps he took parenting seriously – that was a good quality not one to knock or begrudge.
We sat in a pub discussing our plans, our marriage to the two, the double wedding, how we couldn’t believe this was happy. But as the afternoon dragged on, whilst L stayed in contact with M, my texts to Fox went unanswered. Gradually rather than continue texting to try an initiate conversation, I took the hint and stopped. L did her best to get M to bring him or convince him to join us but by late evening when M turned up having spent time with his kid there was no sign of Fox Tucker. He’d either disappeared into a fox hole, was obsessed with internet porn and getting his fix or somewhere in the Sunday sun had thought me Coyote Ugly and scampered away while he still could. M was lovely, L was moving on ever so gently from a relationship recently gone soured and I sat there forever a third wheel. Both of them trying to include me and me fully aware they had no idea that I just wanted to disappear into a place where rejection wasn’t staring me in the face. That empty fourth chair at the table was mocking me, but as a good wingman I couldn’t leave L no matter how hurt I was. I played a good friend, I was a good friend. She’d done the same for me and that’s what makes best friends. Even the alcohol couldn’t strip the pain from me.
It was kinda ironic when I heard L & M were getting married. Don’t feel bad for me, I was engaged and with the man of my dreams – it just that my soul mate wasn’t Fox Tucker. What was ironic was I was immediately back at the pier where Fox nodded over at them and pointed saying ‘see those two, there that type, there players, they aren’t in it for the long haul, not after a relationship, not like you and me.’ How on earth did I buy into that bullshit. Did a vodka jelly and flash name render me so emotionally vulnerable?
He fucked like an animal: masculine, hard, fast, demanding, brutish, methodically, physically, without warmth. He fucked like a porn-star: scripted, unfeeling, wordless but for grunts and instructions, hands not caressing but manipulating the various porn style positions he wanted, moving me not out of lust for me but to ensure maximum satisfaction for himself. At the time it felt sexy. It was hot sex. I was satisfied. It was nice for a night but that’s what his heart was like. The words were just a trap and I walked in there wondrous and left broken.
Still I had the laugh last, quite literally when giving my best ‘bridemaids’ speech at L and M’s wedding. As I recounted the harsh, unfeeling judgement passed by porn expert Fox Tucker on how unlikely the relationship was and the fact he’d stamped them with an expiry date when he they were declaring there eternal love for one another I was forced to admit my best friend L had got it right that fateful night which is probably why it wasn’t a double wedding – no one wants to buy the cow if you’re giving the milk away for free.
By rite of passage most women at some point encounter their first gay-best-friend. This normally results in developing an irrational crush on an unavailable an impossible dream. That said depending on what age or even what stage you both are at sexually that doesn’t mean the gay-best-friend is without sexual benefit.
In my case I managed to avoid falling for some pretty boy that would woo me with attention, use my looks, status and wit as a public accessory and then eventually become so immersed in Gaysville I’d end up being yesterday’s news. No as I was being wooed and wheeled out to his posse of gay friends, I found another guy that was infinitely funnier who I thought was gay (he wasn’t) and focussed my attentions on him. Thus I never experienced any jealousy or feelings of being an attentive plaything or my presence required merely as a means to prop up an ego.
That doesn’t mean I escaped sleeping with a gay man (or two or three). The first though in question was at the bi-curious stage. But for me the old adage Bi-Now, Gay Later holds a lot of weight.
My heavy immersion into gay culture was helped by the fact that I worked in the theatrical industry which has (thank god) a high percentage of lovely gay men – because there is nothing better than being surrounded by pretty, creative men – does wonders for the ego (and image).
The place I found my gay liaison was in the old G-A-Y by Tottenham Court Road, on a night when me and my theatre’s gang had decided to see Erasure playing live there. You couldn’t have had a gayer evening, with Andy Bell dancing round stage with his feather boa and artificial hip.
Still they were only doing a short set so our evening was filled with a lot of alcohol, a lot of gossip, a lot of dancing to old skool cheesy pop tunes and much flirting and making friends regardless of sexuality.
As the minute and hour hand moved precariously round to the time the concert was due to start the auditorium filled up and the throng dancing on the stage began to climb down and push back the die-hard fans that had been dancing by the stage all night to reserve a pole front row position.
I myself was a die-hard fan so stood ground as the young boys climbed down and realised they were being sent by a tidal wave of bopping bodies to the back of the club. Our group were huddled close and I was feeling exceptionally excited about Andy and Vince taking the stage. I was also enjoying the friendly ambience of the venue (Erasure didn’t really warrant screaming teen girls so there was no heterophobic vibes emanating from Jeremy Joseph’s crew as is the case when McFly or One Direction play such gigs).
Sitting on the stage, looking rather wasted was a guy who was not a pretty, young, thing. He wasn’t unpretty and he wasn’t old, but he wasn’t ‘a type’. In fact I guess the term ‘straight acting’ could be applied. He was mid 20s, with a pleasant tanned mannish face and mousy blonde hair in curtains that had grown out and hung appealingly in his eyes. His thighs filled out his jeans and the bulge looked promising. He was wearing a loose t-shirt and in fairness is was not an outfit designed to peacock his gym acquired frame.
As the crowd heaved forward I took the opportunity to press myself between his thighs; him sitting on the stage, me standing between his legs. With more movement and bustle I steadied myself by gripping his upper things. This tactile and intimate physical contact mustered him out of his alcoholic daze.
I asked his name and he told me (I won’t pretend for a second I can remember it). He asked mine and given his drunkenness, the roar of a full nightclub my Australia accent and the announcer drumming up the ever enthusiastic crowd after about 50 repeats I got him to understand it.
From there the game began. Tact was never a strength when it came to me quickly assorting potential fucks in such a sparse sexual heterosexual hunting ground. So I just blarted out the question if he was gay. He slowly shook his head and shrugged that he was there with his mates. When I asked where his mates were, he didn’t know. When I asked their names, he couldn’t remember. Being open and honest I said I didn’t think he’d come with mates.
By now he appreciated there was sex up for grabs (maybe not in the package he’d been hoping for but every hole’s a goal as they say) so began to come round and add a little coherency to the conversation if the invitation was not to be be retracted. He amended his story saying his friends had told him Erasure were a really good band so on their advice he thought he’d come see them – it just so happened to be at a gay venue. I pressed on as to why he hadn’t seen them at the Albert Hall (or some such major venue) earlier in the evening with his friends rather than going solo to a 1am gig at G-A-Y.
Eventually he caved; mumbling about sleeping with women but…kind of liking men…trying it out. I’m not one to usually go down that path – it doesn’t do a lot for me – the sexually confused thing. Basically I’d done it myself some years earlier and been not so kind to some lesbians because I decided I was curious. I suspect in hindsight feelings may have been hurt whilst I wanted to try some new things out, selfishly considering my own feelings and emotions on the matter.
But as I smiled and went to walk away, Erasure landed on stage, he slid off the stage and had me in a clinch and I was unable to resist his lips pressing down on mine. It was like the merest hint of sex had sobered him and he was pulling me to him, kissing me feverishly and placing my hand on that ever expanding bulge of denim by his crutch. Coupled with Erasure belting out a more mellow number my resolve weakened. I began to feel wave of heterophobia growing as a seemingly ‘straight’ couple made a very public display of affection in front of a notoriously gay crowd, in a gay venue with a very gay band.
He grabbed my wrist to pull me a way, but I was with my friends. I shook my head and said he was here to try new things and doubtless in an hour or two he could walk out with the goods he intended rather than a substitute. As ‘Give A Little Respect’ came on, my friends enticed me back for a dance and the boy became lost in the crowd.
A few hours later though, whilst the club was emptying and I was waiting for my friends to return with their coats he appeared staggering up the staircase from the men’s toilets – alone.
‘I knew I’d get to fuck you tonight,’ was all he said. And he did.
Resigned myself I took him back to my single room at the YWCA. The security guards, either because they got off on the idea of illicit sex happening in a Christian residence, too tired to argue or just easygoingness let him through with me; without me having to sign him in or explain his nocturnal visit.
For a guy that was preparing to change teams, I have to admit, to his credit, he’d obviously served well and done a decent tour of duty with the heteros. I mean doggedly (though not in style) determined to rut he took his time undressing me. I was by no means dressed for play in tasselled cargos and singlet with netted top over it. But his masculinity was impressive as he dis-robed me item by item. The top was easy to get off. He reached round the back to unhook my bra only to find I was wearing a sports bra. Not to let that dampen the affair he at first just forced the bra down so both my boobs spring out and he nuzzled them for a good time – breathing in the scent of me. Almost delighting in the femininity of me. After spending what I was beginning to think an inordinate amount of attention on my breasts he pulled the sports bra back up and over my head and arms so I could slip out.
Still standing he dropped to his knees and pressed his face against my tummy. I felt the hands creep up to massage my boobs again. I’ve never been too keen on breast play (until recently) so whilst he honked them like some 4 year old in one of those 50p stable car rides you find in supermarkets with steering wheels and horns, I kinda felt it was getting a little Oedipus-like in nature.
Impressively whilst groping my breasts he managed to undo the button and zip on my trousers. The button ok, it was quite loose but I worried about his teeth pulling down the zipper – surely metal can do damage to teeth and the zipper was quite stiff? Once again he was nuzzling my snatch, breathing in from where all my woman hood stemmed. He peeled how my knickers and flicked his tongue round my clit. Without further ado he pushed me to the bed to continue his servicing of me.
The trousers were restrictive, making for an awkward leg spread. I was left rather ungraciously and certainly with allure was kicking at least one leg out of the trousers to allow for a wide spread and better access to my clit. I think maybe in his drunken stupor he didn’t have the faculties to see how unsexy the action being carried out was. He was so intent on not only attempting to give me a clitoral orgasm but taste all of me I had time to remove the trousers hanging onto my right calf and pull off the thick woollen socks that were a favourite of mine at that most wonderful time of the year.
After the correct amount of moans to provide him with the notion he’d bought me to orgasm (he didn’t) he pushed his face as deep in my slit as possible. Smearing his face in juices. Pushing 3 fingers from both hands in as deep as they could go, twisting them pleasurably and then licking them on exit.
He stood up and unbuckled his jeans, unleashing a hard average cock. I was grateful I avoided blow job duties as he rubbed it round my entrance. With the bi-curious thing in mind and my sexual background I insisted on a condom. As silent as he’d been since leaving the club he reached in his wallet produced one and slid it on and then slid straight into me. He remained in missionary the entire time, fucking; my hands gripping his buttocks. The biggest change was me raising my legs over his shoulders. This seemed to please him as he could get deeper and once in deep he went slower a lot harder. In fact the slower he went, the deeper he went the more I moaned in pain the more it seemed to pleasure him. It was almost as if when he went as deep as I could take it, so that my own hands were on his hips trying to prevent him hurting me by going deeper that he came to a complete standstill and came.
He shuddered and lay still on me. Face again in my tits. Suckling them like a giant baby which freaked me. It all seemed more maternal and a celebration of ‘woman’ rather than one night stand sex. He was clearly experienced with women but something was amiss and perhaps that’s why he was moving (or at least temporarily visiting) pastures new. A penis might provide the answers that that a cunt can’t. I moved to reposition myself and that was all it took.
He stood up, removed the condom, wiped his cock with his hand, smeared his hand with the remaining cum on my face as he tossed the condom in the waste-paper basket and did up his jeans.
I was a little lost for words if I’m honest. The breast suckling, then having my face used as a cum flannel was all a bit bizarre.
He sniffed, shook his head, opened the door (me exposed and naked on the bed for the other 300 residents to see), said ‘I knew I’d get to fuck you tonight’ and left. He was right.
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.
Is it not always the way that when we have sex on tap the desire can at times wane…well not wane so much but as the well isn’t going dry any time soon you don’t rush to fill your bucket up at every opportunity – so to speak. However when there’s a hint of the well drying up or access being restricted for a time the thirst begins.
And so to the 21st Century family of broken homes and fighting for access to children. In our particular case we get access to my new husband’s eldest son on school holidays – this meant for August we had the joy of having him for a full ten nights.
Being 14, the boy is an abundance of testosterone and mood swings. For the most part he’s a complete delight but in the last twelve months he’s gone from being a little brother to an inquisitive teen that spends the majority of his time trying to grab hold of my tits, looking for a cuddle on the bed which tends to end up with his head nuzzling my bosoms (perhaps because his stick thin, hard nosed mother barely has bee stings). He has also cottoned onto the fact that his father, with a girlfriend must be having constant sex and I’m bombarded with all kinds of questions from how often we do it, to the types of positions , to ‘hasn’t grandfather every walked in at an inopportune moment (we live with my father-in-law-, to ‘isn’t it weird looking at pictures of me on the wall when you and Dad are having sex?’ My husband has always told me to answer any questions with an honest response but it’s a delicate balance.
One thing his ever thoughtful son is keen to offer us is ‘sexy time’ (as he calls it). Whenever me and the fellow start bickering his son will pipe up with ‘is it because you haven’t had sex in four days?’ Whilst this immediately diffuses the situation I sometimes think there is a grain of truth in it. We do however decline the offer for sexy time – which might be mean because perhaps he’s hoping for a wank in the shower while we get our end away.
Being scared of his grandfather’s house we all share a room together, which is sweet and certainly fulfils my desire of being a family unit but does obstruct a couple with a seriously high sex drive. In fact the enforced abstinence tends to further fuel our sex drive.
Before everything kicked off with the horrid ex-wife last year we used to see his son one weekend a month. Clearly my rapport with his son and the time, energy and love I invest in the two of them together is a huge turn on. The first holiday we went on together, even with separate bedrooms, my then boyfriend was reluctant to have sex on the three week holiday in Australia – and this was with us having separate bedrooms – for fear of psychologically scarring his child if he found out. Fast forward a year later and we’re in a tiny cottage at the foot of the peaks all sharing the one bedroom and in a complete state of lust he demands sex the minute his son is in the shower – a shower I might with a door that doesn’t even close because the 300 year old cottage’s structure is moving. THEN suddenly it’s okay to be rammed mercilessly and quickly while an innocent is metres away having a quick wash.
For a lot of people a dry spell with sex may mean months, for us it’s more like 7 days. In fact if we got seven days without sex we pretty much book ourselves in for a family therapy session. So the truth is of late, with one stress or another we consider our sex life to be on a downward spiral having sec onl once a week. The one way we boost this is to ensure we have at least one drug fuelled sex marathon a month – this consists of at least a sixteen hour sex session including all sorts of depravity which keeps the sex resentment at bay.
But when you have a ten day sex ban as a result of circumstances it’s a different kettle of fish. It is inappropriate to as a guardian or parent to prioritise sex over spending time with your child. But then we aren’t the most appropriate guardian and parent in the world. I suspect we broke a few boundaries when his son found our ‘slut’ paddle, which when spanked correctly will leave the word slut emblazoned upon your buttock. Then there was there was the time the top cupboard door flew open to reveal an open top box with a rather large protruding glass dildo exposed to the naked eye. These few ‘findings’ obviously got the cogs in the teenager’s head rotating and connecting the fact that these devices meant dad is having regular sex.
To top it all off, on his most recent visit he was intent on trying to throw unwanted celebration chocolates (who doesn’t like snickers? – what a waste) from the bedroom window into a flower pot in the back yard and in his peripheral vision caught sight of an 8inch slim pink object hidden behind some books. He whisked it out and asked if it was a dildo. I had no choice but to explain it was a vibrator. Bizarrely enough he refused to believe me. He then stumbled on a 5 inch very slim ‘wand’ – which I explained was also a vibrator. He still refused to believe me until I actually turned them on to prove what the devices were. Things took a turn for the worse when his father explained to him how best to test the quality of the vibrator by putting it against the tip of your nose to feel how strong the vibrations actually were. The child insisted on doing this.
Generally speaking our toy box is always cleaned at the end of a night with soap and water and TCP, but because the vibrators are used so regularly and only by us they do not get cleaned, so seeing a 14 year old man handle these instruments was a bit perturbing. More so later when he discussed with me their usage claiming I inserted them. I was then left with the rather unenviable task of explaining I use the vibrator for clitoral stimulation – I decided not to divulge the fact that his father’s preference for the ‘wand’ was to have it on the under shaft near the head of the penis while being massaged. I then had to give a very quick sex lesson on the clitoris and what positions using the vibrator would aid.
After a formal interrogation as to whether I give blow jobs and the quality of them he lost interest in them, which alleviated a lot of discomfort and certainly the teens pending sexual tension.
We on the other hand had another three sexless nights upon us and I knew my partner was beginning to grow restless as each evening his hand found mine and firmly guided it to his rock hard cock. With his son gently snoring I would hold it firmly and occasionally move my hand up and down it until my hubby’s loud snoring was in tandem with his son’s, but one particular night hubby did not fall asleep or start snoring – rather his hand reached behind him trying to find entry into my pyjama bottoms and groping to rub my clit. I thought this was going to lead to a mutual masturbation session. We’d done this a couple of times before as it was easy to perform unnoticed as his son was a heavy sleeper, but a wank was not going to satisfy his appetite that evening. After a few minutes he was whispering for me to go downstairs.
It’s been a while since we’ve done it in a forbidden are at a forbidden time but there was something quite sexy about grabbing the pink vibrator and purple wand and heading downstairs in the dark. Sneaking silently into the front room, turning the light on and looking round to see my husband’s hard cock protruding from his black Calvin boxers. I dropped to my knees to suck it, but he was already frantically pushing me off and insisting I get on all fours – as I did he was pulling down my pyjama bottoms and without warning plunging into my c*nt. Because it had been a while his forced entrance made me feel stretched and a little pained as it was driving into an area not completely lubed. It wasn’t long before I became juicy and scrambled for the vibrator so that I could come on his cock as he thrust into me. Normal vanilla sex would be him fucking me till I come and then me sucking him and using the vibrating wand until he came. As I began the dirty talk asking for permission to cum, could I cum on his cock and where he was going to ejaculate on me he was already going deeper. So deep, he was simulating my g-spot and the pleasure and pain of taking such a monstrous cock made it difficult for me to even get the words out. It made no difference because without much warning he began jerking inside me and I could feel almost two weeks of sperm pumping into me. So much so it was literally squirting out of me as he finished himself off. He stayed inside me as my c*nt began to grip his cock as I came and then it was literally a ‘come on, we need to get upstairs before anyone notices.’
Everyone was going to notice I had cum all over my thighs and that I reeked of sex and sperm. It was leaking out of me and onto my pyjama bottoms, the whiff of that by morning would quickly give the game away so I had no choice but to have a quick shower and throw my clothes in the wash and dig out fresh pyjamas. At least I had some security in the knowledge that 14 year old boys do not pay attention to what women wear. In fact I had a theory that at that age they were pretty self absorbed so you could get away with a fair amount of behaviour without them noticing or questioning it.
That is until the next day when the inevitable onslaught of sex talk began and we were teasing him about us having sex the previous night and he couldn’t quite determine whether we were serious or not, he confessed he knew we performed sex antics while he was in the room as he woke one night to me giving his father a blow job…or hand job. I can honestly say the blow job is not true, but the hand job…well there was definitely that time in Australia when we all shared a room and since then…
We need to rethink the ‘slight of hand antics’ for the forthcoming year or two me thinks.
Since the birth of the internet sex has become much more available to even the most physically unattractive and socially inept persons. Apart from the numerous sites for relationships (E-harmony, Dating Direct and who can forget ‘The girl on the platform smiled…’ ), there are underground sites for people in relationships that aren’t getting sex and have to search elsewhere (Illicit Encounters), to those catering to all variation of fetish (Informed Consent). The internet opened up a whole new sexual playground for the desperate and horny; so if you wanna get laid now all you need is a computer with broadband (or even dial up if you’re still in the stone ages).
But if you’re of a shallow persuasion beware of online frauds. We’ve all heard and seen numerous accounts of the fake online photo but having been caught out myself, I can tell you first-hand it’s a shock to the system – especially if you’re the one accommodating the liaison; the situation becomes all the more stickier.
Way, way back before Facebook there was Face Party. At that time it was mainly frequented by younger internet users, but there was a place for mature frequenters searching for some no strings sex. My understanding of late is that Face Party has become ageist and you need a a special password from another Face Party member to create a profile – it prevents anyone over the age of 15 getting in…although I’m sure Face Party would argue it’s keeping paedophiles out.
I digress. In 2006 Face Party was my main source for young cock (that’s young not under-age!) and many a dalliance was fun and easy, but I too come with a story of being conned by the flattering photo scheme.
There was one gent on there in his very early twenties that caught my eye. He had a chiselled bone structure akin to that of a cat-walk model, was wearing a blue beanie to complement his ever so blue eyes and generally looking hot.
I personally can’t see the point in lying or faking photos. I mean if you’re going to meet at some stage the truth will out. Why risk being rejected in the flesh by lying to get them to meet you? ‘YOU’RE UGLY’ is a lot less hurtful to read on MSN messenger than it is to hear and experience in the flesh. Although clearly my potential beau had yet to be enlightened on this fact.
I always went with a kind picture of myself but was honest stating my body shape was voluptuous and continued on a self deprecating angle in online conversations stressing my size and that no one could possibly want to meet me, let alone have sex with me. This reverse psychology worked well for the most part; though I sometimes wonder if I was a fetish shag because many a man just wanted to ‘fuck a fat bird’ on the premise they tend to be grateful and great cocksuckers – there mouths used to relishing food when presented…and a cock is like a big sausage (or chipolata depending on the man).
Anyway Mr Model Photo fell hook, line and sinker and agreed to meet me. My flatmate agreed to go round to his boyfriend’s place for the night so I had the flat to myself.
Having beautified myself to the best of my ability I eagerly waited for the doorbell to ring and eventually it did. Only when I opened the door the man framed by the doorway was like the hulk; except he wasn’t green. His strong jawline buried among his many jowls, the sharp cheekbones lost in a mound of chub. The beanie was missing which was a shame because I was also visually taking in a large balding bonce accentuated by the fact he hadn’t kept up with shaving his scalp, so there were random wisps of hair growing back on a severely receding widow’s peak hairline. I knew exactly what the baggy skater-boy clothes were hiding; there was no defined muscles under the layers of t-shirts and jumpers or muscular thighs swimming in the excess denim.
For the first time ever rather than leap on my prey and drag it to my bedroom lustily I became a very civilized Australian and asked if he wanted a tea. Anything to distract me from the situation and buy some time to find a reasonable excuse as to why I couldn’t fuck him. And the truth is I’ve never fucked a fat man. It’s never been a fetish of mine. As far as I’m concerned there is only room in any relationship – however brief (often only a night) – for one fat person; and that’s always gonna be me.
But being fat myself I knew if I voiced this shallow view it would be absolutely crushing; it would destroy what little ego he had and it’s always difficult when you’ve been svelte and chubbed up to an unimaginable size. I drew on the age old excuse every girl has in their armoury – ‘I can’t do this – I’m not over my ex.’
He wasn’t unkind. While sympathetic, he encouraged me to consider that perhaps I needed to get under someone to get over someone else. It’s not a philosophy I oppose but in this case…actually in this case he was so polite and I empathized with him so much I thought I should give it a go. Coming close to fucking 100 men surely a slut like me needed a ‘fat fuck’ in her array of sex tales. So I undressed and jumped in bed, all the time convincing myself this shag was for research purposes only.
Mr Model Photo went down on me like a man possessed. It seemed fat people really do know how to use their tongues and bestow adoration and stimulation on whatever pleases their sense of taste. I let him burrow round me like my cunt was a jam doughnut. Then he looked up. And like that scene out of Sex and the City when Miranda dates someone from Weight Watchers and sees ‘herself’ all over his face, I too was now privy to such a sight. Only it wasn’t my juices all over his face that put me off (I quite like the taste of myself as it goes – all that sugar I consume makes me a very sweet delight!) it was the size of his face. Like a giant egg with a face painted on it beaming up at me through my own sizeable thighs; eager to climb up and enter having done a lot of groundwork (foreplay he might call it) to qualify for the main event.
I just couldn’t. Because while I felt for him and didn’t want to reject him, I knew if I slept with him I’d hate myself. I’d have dropped my standards to sleep with him. I’d be saying because I’m fat I can’t be choosy. Whilst I was concerned for his confidence; I had my own self esteem issues to deal with. I slept with good looking men to affirm my own attractiveness. If I compromised on that to spare someone else’s feelings then in essence I was sleeping around because I was a slut and the truth was I didn’t enjoy one night stands. I loved sex and I loved being fucked by beautiful men but deep in my heart I always held hope that they might be ‘the one’ and I knew instinctively this guy wasn’t. A sympathy shag might have him feeling better about himself but it would leave me deflated and feeling worthless; like a slut, skank, whore or whatever word is bestowed on women that sleep around – regardless of the reason behind their behaviour.
I had no choice but to turn on the tears and revert to ‘I can’t do this; I’m not over my ex.’
His first utterance was ‘Is it me? Is it because I’m fat?’ I should’ve said ‘Yes it’s you, yes you’re fat, and I won’t sleep with you because I don’t do fat.’ But I was branded with the same label and in that case honesty wouldn’t have benefited either of us.
Hysterical crying is always a good one to have men running. Only because this guy was so overweight and out of condition he wasn’t capable of running. No he was a public transport man and the tube was a good fifteen minute walk from the flat. He tried to cajole me to try again but I got swept up in my performance and he became impatient realising it wasn’t going to happen.
His departure was not so gentlemanly as his entrance. Let me recap. He led me on with a fake photograph, or more pertinently one that was some years old and far removed from the man he had, quite literally, grown into. I allowed him through the door despite this. Now I hold my hands up and say it possibly wasn’t appropriate for me to allow him to go down on me and not reciprocate – very poor bedroom etiquette on my part – but in my defence I was trying to allow myself to at least give him the opportunity to turn me on to wanting to fuck him. It’s not my fault that he couldn’t.
When ready to leave (not that he had even got round to removing all of his clothes) he asked me to reimburse him for the tube fare – a zone 6 travel card totalling all of £7 in 2006 – because he’d spent so much money on travelling to see me only to not ‘receive the goods.’ Unfortunately my purse was empty so, stunned by the brazenness of the request, I had to go rummaging round my flatmate’s room to see if he had enough change lying round so as I could repay the travel-card. Fortunately my scramblings didn’t uncover any hidden change drawer or piggy bank. I returned to the reception area without the money and with a balance of dignity and genuine effort to be seen to have ‘done the right thing’ to politely send him on his way. He could have a think on the long journey home on his Zone 6 travel-card as to whether or not his Face Party profile pic needed changing. I on the other hand could get my credit card out of my purse and pop over to Nando’s for a takeaway to complete my evening.
Following on from last fortnights post I take you back to a drug fuelled very sordid, very filthy sex marathon. As things were left having started with vanilla style sex, we progressed into a light cross dressing and some dominatrix role play, some very intense water sports completed with me rogering my man with my glorious giant purple strapless strap on. Now it was collar off for him and collar on for me.
This brings a somewhat rather different dynamic to the evening. When he wears the whore collar, he’s submissive and under my command. When he has me wearing the whore collar the idea is for me to demonstrate how much of a whore I can be. Normally this starts with me having to clean his cock up. Often he will leave it unwashed for a few days to ensure I’m tasting something that’s a cross between Gorgonzola cheese and an old sock. There’s something so repulsive of having to undertake this act that it turns me on doing it.
That having been done I have to make myself look glamorous so I’m ordered to ‘make’ myself up. The set up of the room and the dark lighting means I need to be near the dress mirror but always open to any advances whatsoever. Thus my legs must remain parted and to ensure the make up is immaculate I have to do my best to ignore him kneeling between my legs and flicking his tongue over my clit as his fingers push deeper and deeper into my cunt.
No sooner am I finished than he informs me he wants proof of just how much of a whore I really am. Implied duress and I find myself asking him to piss on my face. I hate this. I always have. It seems so disrespectful but its part of the game. And it’s the one part of the evening where I couldn’t feel any more like a whore – participating in a sexual act that I loathe and detest and yet that I trust him and want to please him and allow him to do it demonstrates great love and that in itself gets my cunt went.
I’m soaked through. He’s deliberately chosen to piss in my newly washed hair and I’m showered in it. He insists I rub it all in. Surprisingly enough as I rub it in, I find my cunt is wet with my own juice as well as his piss and he’s pleased when I bring myself to orgasm.
Soon enough I am on the bed on all fours in a possession of a 9 inch pink vibrator. I am using it to stretch my bottom and the vibrations in my arse are amazing. With a huge whiff of poppers my head becomes floaty and I’m trapped in only the physical sensations. Now my partner is using a glass decorative object (a rather nice 9inch glass dildo with balls increasing in size towards the base) into my arse. He encourages me to sit on it for it to go deeper but my rectum is not ready for this kind of invasion. My flinching must imply this to him as he stops quickly. I ask that he lube his fingers and insert them in me and spread them. At one time he used to be able to get 8 fingers in and when fucking my arse once relaxed he said it was like a second cunt. He seems pleased with how quickly my arse has reverted back to the size and stretch of its former glory. So much so he spreads my cheeks widely and plunges his tongue in. So stretched and so relaxed it triggers an anal orgasm – for most women this is unusual and difficult to achieve but with practise you have my word that the quality of orgasm puts it on a scale of its own. After much play he places a large butt plug my arse.
With that he asks me to get him hard, which takes seconds. His cock is beautiful and I’m desperate for his cum and tell him. We decide he will cum on my clit and I’m to rub it in for my last orgasm of the evening and then lick my fingers clean. Knowing this awaits the end of the sex marathon is something to look forward to rather than dread.
Pushed over onto the edge of the bed, my legs dangle over the edge and I’m instructed to raise my legs and spread them wide and instructed to pull my cunt as wide open as possible. I stretch it and am rewarded with licks and flicks and a tongue fuck. Such attention to my clit begins a multiple orgasm. The first comes but his tongue and fingers are relentless. No sooner has the first finished than a second starts. No sooner has the second finished then with a firm thumb placed over my clit and a third starts. From there on the orgasms continue as fast and with ever growing intensity till I can barely breathe, I beg him to stop – not because of the effort and attention he’s lavishing on me but the intensity and physical exertion of having a prolonged orgasm for more than 15 minutes is physically exhausting. I sit up, sucking his cock to distract him from spending more time on my genitals. Cock half hard he places it in me. I notice he has moved a bowl next to the bed, under where my legs are spread, my cunt cuddling his half erection. I feel his cock strain and then my uterus fills. There’s a warmth feeling and then a pressure, a pressure that touches every nerve sell in my uterus. He pulls out and a wave of his piss floods out between my thighs. The rush of it has my rubbing myself. He aims his cock and pisses directly onto my clit brining on an unexpected orgasm.
My fatigue is apparent and he relents momentarily from the endless orgasms but insists I get onth e bed doggy style. His cock pounds me and he taps the butt plug. I’m handed a pink vibrator and before long my entire body is convulsing. And he continues, his own fingers reach round to touch with my clit. His hands move up and down my body, pinching my nipples, spreading my buttocks to tap the butt plug and I begin to orgasm- clitoral, vaginal and anal. The sex is now straddling something between a religious experience and cruel torture. He eventually releases me.
Cuddles are brief and arbitrary before he gentle takes me down off the bed and onto the floor. I find myself kneeling on the carpet with towels placed around me and I know what’s coming. The anticipation excites me and my cunt gets wet. So wet there’s no need for the tubing attached to the funnel to be lubed. With a stretch arsed the tubing slides in easily. I allow it to go as far up as possible so that a little pressure on it brings small waves of orgasm throughout my being. The sound of him pissing in the funnel is almost as intoxicating as feeling his piss seep into me. His stream of piss is so strong there’s a splash back and little sprinkles of his warm piss shower onto me. I had an urge to finger or vibe my clit as he did it but with him working the tube in and out of my arse at varying speeds and depths yet another orgasm was inevitable. When it came the jolts through my body meant some of the piss spurted back up the tube only to have to be worked back into my colon. After that the decorative glass object is pushed into my arse, only this time its the full length of it. I’m proud I managed more than him. Apart from being a good bedroom achievement, I love the feel of my arse clamping round it.
But the night had to finish and there were final duties to be performed.
At this hour I can take my mind. It’s never just a simple blow job. It’s about shifting consciousness and submitting to the suggestion and sensations experienced. His beautiful cock is perfect in colour, shape, size and girth – it is one dildos should be modelled on. But the beast is proud and he wants to fuck my mouth and I want it to – knowing I’ll suffer tomorrow with the exertion and technique required. Once he’s hard, we inhale poppers and I’m told to feel each thrust in my mouth as if it were being delivered to my cunt. I hungrily take his cock in my mouth and do my best to slacken my throat to stop any reflux but the size of him hits my throat. He can read me,he knows I need to be fucked so as I take him deep and desperately his hand goes over my head and holds it there. He fucks me slow and deep, all the while whispering for me to feel it in my cunt. With closed eyes and an ability to move me consciousness and attention to other parts of my body I can feel his cock in my cunt, even though I hold it in my mouth. As he holds my head tight and I struggle, he lets me until my body wracks with an orgasm originating from my vagina. Only when I achieve climax does he release my head so I can get my breath back.
Then it’s time for me to finish him off. I work with a vibrator, my mouth, with my tongue, with my musician hands and with my piss. Forget lube or spit, my piss is what has his prick leaking thick clear pre-cum. After 8 hours he needs a break- we talk for an hour and begin again and soon enough he’s knelt between my spread legs and I see a huge wad of cum eject from the head of his cock and onto my clit. While he watches I rub the creamy cum into my clit to finish the evening with my final orgasm. I lick my fingers while he watches and we lay down in each others arms hoping that the drugs won’t keep us awake. As whenever he comes, the ejaculation is like a tranquillizer and he sleeps immediately. I can feel remnant of his sperm seeping down to the entrance of my vagina and feel all horny again with nothing to do but count down the hours till he wakes.
My soon to be husband said to me very early on in our relationship that the the great thing about monogamous sex was that it could really improve over time as you got to know how each others bodies responded to certain stimuli and also, knowing how each other’s minds operated meant you could improve your sex life with creativity and imagination. Foolishly I pooh poohed him on that, under the misapprehension sex could only ever stagnate and become vanilla.
Four years on and I have seriously had to review my initial opinion.
There comes a time when one must reconcile one’s self with age and physical capability. A sex marathon should never be passed on but it needs to be prepared for and in our case it needs to be drug fuelled. With age and a decreasing level of fitness non-stop excessively athletic sex needs a little help and if you can get your hands on a gram of go-gaine you’ll be set for a good 8 to 12 hour session. And after a little sex drought that’s what we decided to do in a bid to kick start things and get our sex life back on track.
That little buzz it gives once snorted immediately relaxes and clears the mind. For us cuddles naturally progress to some very slow warm up sex; both lying on our sides with him raising my left leg slightly and sliding in. In that position our bodies are pressed against each other, we can maintain eye contact and the movement of his cock in me is slow and intense. It also allows time for a little dirty talk to discuss what activities can be undertaken on the night ahead.
What was great for me here was that leading up to this night I had been having sever hormone treatment which had all but stolen my orgasm so had to prepare him that I might have difficulty being my most orgasmic self but to not worry. How wrong I was. Even with slow intimate sex and a little filthy suggestion I began cumming on his cock. The ultimate vaginal orgasm. I don’t know if he was placed in such a way he could rub my g-spot but three times I came on his cock and then it was time to ramp it up.
It was decided he should wear the ‘whore’ colour first. This allowed me to put make up on him and after pissing myself in my pink frilly knickers making him wear them: thus he really was bitch.
There is one thing that brings me to instant orgasm and that’s seeing my man wanks his arse with an object. Our chosen one is a 8 or 9 inch glass decorative object. It stars with a small glass ball and towards the base of the object they get thicker and thicker. Normally I would instruct him in detail as how I like him to use it but on this particular occasion I requested that he wank his arse as he would if he was by himself but warned if unhappy with his performance I’d instruct him and he would oblige. But he was being a good little whore and knew what I liked. Taking to all fours, facing the end of the bed end and raising his arse for my viewing pleasure; he slowly slid the glass dildo into is arse hole and began to work it in there – ball by ball. Given how out of practise we both were I was super impressed at the depth he achieved so quickly. Every so often he would raise on his haunches and begin to siit on the dildo to allow it to go further in. He managed to imbibe all but the last huge ball of the dildo. Then he resumed on all fours and begin rapidly moving the dildo in and out of his hole. With the thicker balls he would stop and rotate the dildo in a bid to stretch his arse hole. He knew I liked this. Done effectively and stretched properly it meant when he worked the item out as the smaller balls cam into view I could see a space in his arse where he’d stretched it to accommodate the bigger balls. This gap, the space, knowing I could slide a finger in there alongside the object at the same time drove me crazy. Sitting spread legged at the head of the bed with a pink vibe working my clit, as expected, my orgasm was phenomenally intense. The shudders of my body reverberated into him where my foot lay rested under his leg. I had promised if he did a good job with wanking his bum that I would not only rim but probe as deeply as possible with my tongue as a reward. Unfortunately after he heard me cum he immediately removed the object and turned round and asked if he could lick my cunt. I acknowledged the gesture but reminded him who was in charge. I spanked him twice with the leather paddle that leaves the imprint of the word ‘slut’ when struck on bare skin, but given the generosity of his univited offer I did spread his bum cheeks and tongue him. I would’ve allowed him to sit on my face had he been completely obedient but it’s all a learning curve.
Visual stimulation isn’t always associated with women, it’s considered more of a male trait on he sexual side of things. Whether a result of me being a gay man trapped in a woman’s body or the fact that I watch too much porn there are certain ‘pictures’ I like during a sex marathon. A favourite is porno cock – that is a nice hard large cock clearly visible through the underpants. With piss stained translucent lacy French knickers I wanted porno cock. I asked him to play with himself and he put his hands in his pants and began to wank. But the wait time was annoying. In the end I took over and moments after my hand clamped round his dick I felt it firm up. Now standing to attention I placed it back in the knickers so I could see his big cock straining to break free.
But I was in charge and he was wearing the collar so really I shouldn’t have had to wank him. For that there was punishment. Loving and gentle but disciplinary. I grabbed the leather paddle an the word ‘slut’ was soon emblazoned on his left buttock as a reminder that it was not my job to get him hard; he needed to do that himself.
The thing with go-gaine is that you get very dehydrated and drink – A LOT. Soon enough you need to go to the toilet. I instructed my partner to get on the floor on all fours. He obliged me and I grabbed a deep plastic bowl and put it under his head. Quickly but not cruelly I grabbed his head and said if he wanted to lick my cunt now would be the time. He pushed his face there and I held his hair firmly preventing him from withdrawing and pissed on his face. He had his tongue out wanting more so I picked up the bowl and allowed him to drink the piss from the bowl.
I was careful not to completely empty my bladder because I knew what came next. From our box of goodies I retrieved a 3ft length of tubing and a large funnel. I attached the tubing to the funnel and then lubed up the open end of the tube, as well as my man’s arse. Very slowly I began to insert the tube into is bottom and then slide the length in. Here I allowed him to tell me when it was in as far as he was comfortable with. I have him some poppers to help him relax and then took the funnel and squatted over it. I pissed into the funnel and began to watch my piss be absorbed into his body. It was intimate and filthy and wonderful watching his arse consume literally a litre of my piss. This action while incredibly pleasurable to receive does evoke an almost immediate desire to use the toilet. But wearing the ‘whore’ collar I felt he needed to be tested a bit. So as quickly as I pulled the tube out of his arse I replaced it with a small black but plug. I went round to the front, grabbed his hair and thrust his face in my cunt and pissed a little into his mouth. I straddled him and just pissed on his back – like his body was a urinal and then massaged my warm urine into his skin as he moaned. Not to let him off lightly I removed the plug and straight away began easing back in the tubing. Before he had time to complain he was being filled with my piss again and moaning in delight and despair at having to keep it all in.
Once done I put the but plug in and squatting over his arse let the final drops drip from my cunt so the piss fell down on his balls. He very quietly asked if he might be excused to the toilet to remove the butt plug as he felt he may have an accident and wasn’t coping with the excess of liquid inside him. Pleased at his efforts I allowed him to go to the toilet and even gave him a cigarette to have.
When he returned I cuddled him and fondled his cock. It was half way to an erection, I pissed a little on it and he whimpered as I sat on it. That spongy feeling of him pushing it in me felt good. I could move around on him and rub my clit against his pelvic bone. It bought me to orgasm and the contractions on his cock meant I felt him firm up completely while inside me. I sprung off – this time of the night was about my pleasure not his. His would come later.
Aware that as a result of our recent lack of sexual inactivity his posterior I had to be a little gentle. The idea was an attempt to recondition it, not abuse it to the point where it would be out of action. But I am a gay man in a woman’s body and it wasn’t long before the strapless strap on was out. I had him on his side and soon enough, after some rearranging and pliable body parts my 8 inch purple cock slid into his arse. I held him close in my embrace as his bottom became accustomed to the girth of my faux member, but soon enough he was begging for me to fuck him so I began sliding it in and out. In order to go deeper I knelt up and forced my cock in his ask while he remained on his side.
I rolled him on his back to admire how pretty he was. Decided he’d be much prettier if I shaved his pubic region. With a warm bowl of water, electric shaver, shaving cream and a razor I delicately shaved his pubic hair. He had a pre pubescent look and with the make up looked like a youthful gay boy made someone’s prag in a prison. Truth is I often fantasized about showing him off to gay men knowing how desperate they’d be to have a slice of his arse. Teasing and taunting them, showing them what he could do, how beautiful and flexible he is and knowing that his arse is all mine. The straight woman’s.
I requested he suck my cock, stroke it and mind the sensitive head. The drugs and being that high on intimacy I actually managed to orgasm from him sucking my cock. There was a definite physical reaction with my body shuddering and convulsing in delight. It was amazing that plastic strap-on didn’t spurt semen cause it felt like it should’ve.
So turned on I had his arms over my shoulder and had my cock in him. Rather than going for slow and seductive I let my lust dominate me and fucked him furiously and deeply. He never complained once. Moaned and groaned and tried to shallow the depthness but he didn’t say no or stop, until I made the executive decision to. But there was no rest for the wicked. I raised hi arse with two pillows and reached for the tubing and funnel. The tube was inserted into his arse and I stood on the bed so he had full vision of me pissing into the funnel. Better still for him he could see my piss moving down the clear tube and into his arse. Once he’s taken it all I removed the funnel and removed the collar.
‘You’re turn next,’ he said.
I have no idea why when I think of Sweden I think of porn. Is it a porn nation or are the associations with pornography now very dated? Perhaps it’s just that the Swedes are such a beautiful race they could all be porn stars, or over-whelmed by their physical attractiveness they instigate pornographic thoughts on an unsuspecting public.
I won a trip to Sweden back in 1999 when I had barely lost my virginity. I was a virgin twice removed. It was the year the musical Mamma Mia opened and as an Australian worshipping at the house of Abba naturally I entered every competition going to score tickets to see it. The particular competition I won resulted in flying first class to Sweden for a weekend at the first class section of a Radisson hotel. I have to say I was somewhat dismayed that it didn’t include tickets to see the musical itself. No that was second prize and the one I felt more coveted. Still never one to knock a freebie L and I decided to trip over there in September 1999.
Be in doubt Stockholm is like one big fashion cat walk. Beautiful boys everywhere.
Although there had been a small débâcle on the flight over (the stewardesses clearly felt our attire didn’t match that of first class passengers and decided to check our tickets and make a little scene when we joined the fast lane – L & I got them back by pocketing a dozen miniature bottles of Baileys from the drinks trolley when the air hostess’s back was turned) everything was luxury from the minute we arrived that Friday afternoon.
That we were put in a first class room and greeted with a bottle of champagne was positively thrilling for two innocents like us. But innocents we were not to be for long because you see First Class rooms at the Radisson come with free porn channels.
Apart from watching a few of my brother’s will hidden soft porn videos when I had an empty house to myself as a teen I hadn’t really experienced any hard core porn – on screen or in my own burgeoning sex life.
But we watched the porn with relish. At that point it was so hardcore some of it made me quite ill. Baring in mind I had only had one cock in my mouth, it hadn’t ejaculated and my treatment of it was like a vomit flavoured ice lolly; watching endless men spunk over tits, faces and even in a pair of shoes made me quite nauseous. L did her best to assure me I’d get used to it and it wasn’t gross at all (she was right) but I found it visually strong and uncomfortable viewing.
After a few hours of that, both of us squirming on our beds with oestrogen clouding the room we decided to hit the town. I’d done my research and discovered a club that had a retro room with 70s, 80s and 90s cheesy pop. The club was huge and L and I were clearly the tourists. Though neither of us could ever be described as unattractive we were missing the ‘Swedish porn vibe’. In fact it was all going horribly wrong because the club seemed to be all dance music. We sat there, two little cute tubbies, lost in a mass of towering long legged svelte blonde women. We must’ve had faces like slapped arses because eventually a beefcake came over and asked what was wrong. Rather curtly L said, ‘we were told this place played old pop music.’ The lovely man pointed and said ‘maybe try over there in the pop room.’ We were so used to the Norbury nightclub with its one floor, L and I had no concept of night clubs having different rooms with different music in them. Joyfully we bounced in there and as ‘Love Really Hurts Without You’ came on got lost in the dance and the drink.
We did attract some guys. The first two men to approach weren’t so traditionally Swedish in our idealised eyes. One was phenomenally good looking but short – shorter than L so I’m thinking 5’2 – maybe taller as she’d have had heels on but still short. The other was pleasant looking but I wondered if maybe he was visiting from Norway because I wasn’t getting a massive wetness in my knickers.
Eventually another two came up. One was Mr Personality – again pleasant looking and good company but not the highest standard looks-wise. His friend however. Oh my lord it was like he’d stepped off the cover of GQ magazine. He wasn’t blonde but he was tall, slim, broad, dark curtained hair, chiselled features and he took my breath away. I was envious knowing L would score with him. I’d get the character but she would get the looks – that’s how it always seemed to work in my eyes.
When Mr Personality asked for a dance I nodded enthusiastically. I went to him, arms ready to wrap round my neck and rather embarrassingly he stepped back quickly and said ‘no – with my friend.’ He literally shoved me into his male model friend and it was a moment I will never forget. What an achievement. The downside was he was probably the only Swede that didn’t speak perfect English. He barely knew English but I was in heaven for the duration of the dance. L later commented how sweet it was that I had been looking up at him all gooey eyed and sung Take That’s ‘Back For Good’ at him. The club closed and they invited us on but the spell was broken.
If I’m honest and I may be off base, I felt L was a little reluctant to allow herself to be courted by Mr Personality for the evening and perhaps put out that it was the male model that had squeezed me so tight on the dance floor. Thus the evening reached a natural conclusion and we went home in the early hours of Saturday morning.
I had been in contact with Abba’s Benny and Bjorn’s studio and had a very nice email giving me details as to where it was. Not one to waste a tourist opportunity I had booked L and I on a sightseeing tour of Stockholm, planning to jump off at the studio on the off chance my heroes may be there. It didn’t work out so well. L and I got on the bus, next to the window, decided to put our heads on the table for a little rest and were woken up four hours later by some angry fellow passengers saying the tour had ended and tutting that we would waste the window seats everyone seemed to want.
Handily McDonald’s was across from our hotel so we grabbed a few meals for lunch and headed back to our room for an afternoon of porn. It was compulsive, even though the movies were on rotation we stayed glued to the screen. So compelling was it that when we realised it was dinner time we rang McDonald’s across the road and ordered room service so we could continue our porn marathon. As evening turned into late night and our hormones were in overdrive we both decided we wanted sex that night and needed to go out.
We got dressed and after taking a few saucy photos of each other (one I really need a copy of because I myself look like a plus-size porn model) went back to the one club we knew in Stockholm.
There had been significant discussion regarding sex in a room with twin beds. At one point we thought of dragging a mattress into the bathroom so we could have privacy but felt so much preparation may jinx our intention of getting laid so decided to play it by ear.
Our beaus from the previous night weren’t there but the initial two (Short & beautiful and Norwegian pleasant) were. At this point it was pretty much an equal match. L’s had the looks but being vertical challenge did impact on his appeal, mine was nice looking and normal but nothing to write home about. So we spent the evening with them. For the first time ever when the club closed we begged them to take us onwards. I wanted to go to a thump-thump-thump dance club. The kind you see in Ibiza movies with laser lights, podiums and a mad throng of people dancing. Polite and happy to play tour guides the boys took us to one of those very clubs. I hated the music but I loved that we were in a club open till 9am for the very first time.
But sex was on our minds and the music wasn’t to our taste so we invited the boys back to our hotel to drink the ‘champagne’.
I would’ve thought an invite back to a hotel room was evident of what we were after but seemingly not. As we crashed into our hotel room it didn’t become an orgy but a very civilized affair. The champagne was supped and merry as we all were conversation flowed but not in any sexual way. L and I were desperate and thought we’d ‘put the TV on’ to help the atmosphere. Thus we ‘accidentally’ found ourselves on the porn channel. The boys remained clueless; as if it hadn’t been a deliberate mistake. Perhaps we were better actresses than we thought or perhaps they were masters at playing hard to get. We exchanged glances as to what other options were available to get things moving but were unable to telepathically come up with anything creative.
By now the boys, having told us they were in National Service together, were fooling around and rough housing on the twin beds that had been pushed together. The fell between the crevice, laughing and grappling. It was all a bit homo-erotic; like they were having a sex party in our room and we weren’t invited.
The only solution that came to mind was just to say we were tired and going to bed and they could join us if they wanted.
And they did want.
This immediately posed the privacy problem – I knew we should’ve put that mattress in the bathroom.
Lights off was easy enough but made for guaranteed fumbling. We tried to find a music channel on the TV to at least muffle whispering but the music was highly inappropriate – it seems at 6am Swedish folk and skiffle music is the choice of radio broadcasters which isn’t conducive to cocks being invited to enter vagina’s.
The first difficulty were the beds were too close. Within the beds it went L’s man, L, me and my man. L and I were so close our flesh was brushing and we were getting a fit of the giggles. When my man was groping in the dark his hand was grabbing L’s thigh, which sparked a squeal from her and an embarrassed retraction from him.
The second difficulty was both the guys had consumed excess alcohol and I suspect weren’t physically in a position to deliver the shafting we were both so desperate for. L wasn’t quite as sluttish as I. Drunk and up for a good time she doesn’t include her Mr Sweden in her official numbers because it slipped in and then slipped out. According to her ‘Slutty Value System’ one thrust and / or an entry of less 5 seconds doesn’t constitute a sexual encounter.
I on the other hand was as persistent as ever. My insecurities got the better of me and I was concerned he just wasn’t that into me. Any kind of sexual or physical rejection is too much for me so I worked his cock as best I could but it was like an air mattress with a leak. As soon as I got it hard and I let go to position myself for entry, all too soon it would deflate, slip out and I’d have to go through the entire process again. Whether he did it out of sympathy, obligation or a genuine desire to try and sexually pleasure me he began fingering me. If I’m honest this kind of sexual activity I find pleasing. It’s just that he was lazily using one finger – which is like a slim line tampon. I’m all about the girth so found myself instructing him on what to do to please me. The first instruction being ‘two fingers’. So there was foreplay and eventually some barely conscious pumping and then sleep for both us; him sliding out as our eyelids closed.
They left a few hours later. Civil, polite, friendly but without any real warmth nor indication whether their night in our hotel would be one they told friends about, one they had as pleasant memory of sex and youth or one they never wanted to repeat.
It was disappointing for me on the grounds that I’d spent so much time researching ejaculation and what to do with cum when it….comes….to not have had the climax to conclude our weekend in Sweden seemed a little unfair.
The only person who walked away better informed on my sex life and how to pleasure me was L who found it necessary, after being seated at the breakfast buffet, to utter just five words to mortify and embarrass me for life – ‘Two fingers is best then?’