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.
Proposed Bestiality, Inadvertent Indecent Exposure, Pee & Other Pitfalls From A One Night Stand (That Became My Fiancé)
It’s not to say he’s not romantic – that I don’t adore every part of him, that I don’t cherish him and that I’m in any way unsatisfied in bed….but I don’t think I’ve ever been there with him where I’ve not inwardly shrivelled in embarrassment or mortification at something he’s said or done.
Examples??? Here you go.
- Ours began as an internet relationship, as so many do these days. Our first ever meeting involved my travelling 2 hours North to his cottage and arriving at 5pm. We had a cuddle on the couch, sashayed upstairs to share a spiritual lecture and by 6.30pm he boldly asked me to take my clothes off. Being body shy and less than verbally communicative or assertive in bed, I ignored the request. Eventually he said ‘Are you going to take your clothes off or not, I’m tired of asking’. Worried I was going to miss my chance I said I was going to the bathroom to change. He perked up. ‘Great could you do me a favour while you’re in there? Grab a wet flannel, because my cock needs to be cleaned and if you’re having a wee can you bring back the tissue paper you use and just shove it in my mouth?’ I couldn’t help but feel he was being a little over-familiar on a first date with someone he’d met in the flesh only 90 minutes before. The shock of it aside I think part of my mortification – in being a first timer to those sorts of requests – was because I was so turned on by him and, frankly the idea itself – I was concerned the tissue would be a little too…creamy. So I wrapped it in another one and bought it to him, reluctantly inserting it into in his mouth. ‘Did you even use it – it just tastes dry and of paper?’ he barked at me. Ooops
- From that somewhat uncomfortable start we managed to engage in more everyday sex – me on top. It was good; it was nice, pleasurable and very natural-feeling until he opened his mouth. What would you utter mid-act the first time you’re ‘doing it’ with someone you claim to care about and who claims to care about you? ‘Sorell, it’s just a shag,’ he said, quite matter of factly. I flounced off him, hurt and insulted. He desperately tried to explain what he meant was this was ‘just sex’ and the two of us were so much more than just that to each other. He turned out to be right, but still, this was after all out first date.
- He once had a work colleague staying around his place. I’m the first to admit, between ourselves, we’d be considered quite ‘adventurous – perverted even – by some and at times very dirty though we both have our boundaries and scruples and values, even if personal only to ourselves. He let the neighbour’s dog in. The dog was excited and running around. I was wearing a low cut top, exposing a lot of my bosom. In front of his work colleague he loudly and excitedly suggested ‘Ooooh Sorell, let the dog lick your tits.’ I froze mortified. I could feel his colleague’s shock. He didn’t miss a beat and continued fooling round with the dog as if nothing untoward or inappropriate had been mentioned. The colleague and I didn’t make eye contact or reference to it, but there was a stony silence between the two of us for the remainder of his stay. Even though I was desperate to blurt out –‘he’s mucking around, he didn’t mean that and I’d never do it’. But then I worried the colleague might think I protested too much.
- Another time he’d organised for his next door neighbour to come around and fix his boiler. He’d arranged for the visit between 5pm and 6pm. The day had got away on us and I hold my hands up here and admit we’d been fooling around all day as lovers are wont to do. But I’m a good catholic girl and modest to boot. I was in my pyjamas, which are in fact a t-shirt and shorts. He was running around like some debauched naked Eros and surprised at the neighbour’s appearance went down to talk to him, throwing a dressing gown on as he went. He claims he said ‘I’ve got the girl upstairs.’ I thought I heard ‘I’ve got a girl upstairs’. The neighbour, who was doing him a favour in any case, apologized and said he’d come back. But he insisted it was ok. ‘Sorell,’ he yelled up the stairs ‘have you got your clothes on?’ As if I ever flaunt myself. It was all a bit late though. I’d been painted as a scarlet woman spending all day in bed like a naked Venus in some rural brothel. The questionable nature alluded to ensured once again the neighbour never made eye contact nor spoke directly to me again.
- Having once used his lips and tongue on me for what I admit was a very a good session, he rose from between my legs. I looked down to see his enthusiastic face appear from my thighs as he piped: ‘I’m not sure if it’s down to your moon cycle or if you have an infection but you taste very yeasty.’
- His parents, given their age, had been reasonably lenient in allowing us to have ‘sleepovers’ on the surreal condition that ‘we don actually’t have sex’. Scratch that, so they couldn’t hear us. His father knocked at the door, the first morning I was there getting changed in the corner of the room. Aware I was getting dressed, he invited his father in as I stood, bare breasted, at the end of the bed, struggling into some jeans. I’m pleased to report I have now moved into his parents home and his father has caught sight of more than just my bare breasts – given he has interrupted extremely sordid and lewd acts of love this story now seems very tame in respect of what the old boy has been exposed to.
- He requested one night, as a treat for him, I get undressed and wait naked for him in bed to return to when he got back from his errand. I wanted to please him so reluctantly complied with instructions. I lay in bed, naked, shoulders bared, hair flowing down, smouldering brown eyes to seduce him upon his return. Without so much as a knock, his 80 year old mother flung open the door and asked if he’d left yet. I sat like a rabbit in headlights, going over in my mind quickly how to rectify the situation. If I brazened it out it might be okay, if I went to cover myself it may draw attention to my nudity. I calmly discussed her complaint that he’d left the study window open and the curtain had blown out and that she couldn’t reach it. Clearly she wasn’t willing to wait the five minutes for his return and since I was young, fit and able, I knew perfectly well what she was angling at. But I could hardly bound out of bed. I flashed a big, beaming, sun-shiney Australian and offered to do it myself. She looked pleased but expectant. ‘Just give us two minutes,’ I mumbled. I’m pleased to report his mother is now dead – I don’t mean that horribly, he hated her and I got to move in.
- He came round to my flat one night, specifically for the purpose of the sex. We both knew it, we’re both adults. Fine. But that doesn’t mean it has to be completely devoid of any ….romance, foreplay or insinuation. We were kissing and I was rubbing his crotch. Rather than reaching to assist in my undressing or physically prompting me to remove my garments, he said ‘you’d better get your kecks off if we’re going to do this.’
- Another few hours of illicit fooling at my flat, he took me to the bedroom and told me to drop my trousers and lie down in the bed. I’m not comfortable with my figure at the best of times. I’d spent the entire day at work so was self conscious I wasn’t my freshest and I hadn’t really been intending on what was likely to happen. In true girly fashion I’d been wearing comfort clothes – old comfy knickers and an oversized rugby top. He pushed open my legs and with all the sensitivity of a an autistic prison-guard announced ‘wow how old are these, the gusset’s nearly gone in them.’ I felt like closing my legs on the spot, mortified and embarrassed about the state of my underwear, but then had to stay in that position and endure a powerful orgasm.
- One of his favourite tricks is to wake me during the early hours and drag my hand so I can feel how hard he is. Now, it may not always be a welcome hour or great wake up call, but it naturally leaves me excited. Until that is, as soon as I grip it and gently massage he falls back to sleep. Apparently, as frustrating as it is for me, and as much as he moans and responds to my touch, he says he does it to help fall back to sleep. He insists on repeating the act with no intention other than as a natural method of assisting him back to his slumbers and knowingly leaving me wanting.
- Lying top to toe, limbs entwined he’s more than happy to not exercise any sphincter control and fart on me without apology. Worse still, when he was still drinking, he was known to nuzzle and suck my breasts releasing beer burps upon them then smile up at me as if for approval. I referred to him as my beautiful smelly balloon; I could die from the poisonous potency of his flatulence and could actually get drunk from the high percentage of alcohol contained in that belching. I’m pleased to report this alcoholic is now recovered.
- Both engaged in an episode of the bodice-ripping Henry the 8th drama, the Tudors, a scene that appealed to our respective loins involved Anne Boleyn being dominated in bed by King Henry. She slapped his face smartly and jumped on top of him to take control. I laughingly suggested I may have to try that myself at some point. His response was ‘Sweetheart, as much as I love you and have no desire for you to change, you’re never going to be able to do that. You’re too big to move that fast in bed, you’re just not physically capable.’ Outraged and determined to prove my point I felt inclined to slap his face and jump on to show him what ninja like stealth and speed I really do have. A flicker of doubt had been cast in my mind and I worried his observation might be correct – that I wouldn’t indeed execute the move as quickly as hoped, or worse, given we were on a dodgy sofa bed, concerned the sudden weight shifting would result in the entire bed upending, thus further proving his point.
Are there more? An endless list: from affectionately referring to me as a ‘silly slut’ and being miffed at my offence while being wrapped post coital in each others arms; to allowing me to roll around in chewing gum he accidentally left on the sheets; to laughing ‘it looks like a lamb has been slaughtered’ after an untimely monthly accident in bed; to telling me the room appeared like we’d had an orgy with a fire extinguisher in a sweet shop after I’d attempted a bit of pleasurable experimentation involving a cold tin of Coke and his masculine parts. No doubt I’ll add to these as other recollections occur. Stating the obvious and giving practical direction, with no regard to any embarrassment, shame or inexperience I might be feeling is a side dish with every bedroom encounter.
In some ways his less than perfect bedroom etiquette actually speaks volumes about the intimacy, honesty and openness we have in the relationship. To be able to behave in such a fashion, be so completely one’s self and exchange whatever thoughts, needs and desires are experienced kind of suggests we’ve created a very loving environment between ourselves – if an ‘acquired taste’. Yes there’s a constant anxiety as to what brutally honest observation or guidance he’ll impart next – me recoiling in a weird sort of delicious humiliation. It likens our bedchamber exploits those of an unpredictable fairground excursion, a rollercoaster of a thing. But it keeps them from getting boring so should I really be moaning here?
He thinks we’re well suited, well matched. The time I had to explain I‘d involuntary heaved with him buried deep in my throat leaving behind a small triangle of Dorito chip on the head of his shaft, I kind of saw what he was getting at.
Often in youthful exuberance one’s sexual (mis)adventures occur more by mistake than good management. While some of us carefully plan out and detail the perfect execution of our first introduction to something that strays (even if only mildly) from the path of playing it safe and straight, others – including myself, usually in a drunken and slovenly state – find ourselves inadvertently playing out some particular kink or fetish we (or perhaps nature itself) never intended.
This was certainly the case with the boy, Raymond.
The new millennium was the start of a good two year run for me, but by the time Raymond appeared I was nursing my first heartbreak – and as any woman knows first loves are the worst to recover from (if ever we truly do). Certainly for me the wound was still very raw. L and I decided (whether in a bid to mend my broken heart or just get ourselves a change of scenery) to head to Great Yarmouth for a week.
Great Yarmouth, you’ll find, is writ large in this saga – indeed each and every summer as Ra took flight we were beckoned for end-of-week forays to that most traditional of seaside towns. It was L’s routine and regular holiday destination as a child, a world to which I was then introduced, at first dubiously but later fully embraced. So after T broke the news he was back on with his alleged ex-fiancé, a girls’ holiday was swiftly arranged.
It was arranged (and funded) by questionable means with L and I taking advantage of our position in the Company for which we worked, under the guise of my having won a holiday to Ireland. Earlier I’d genuinely won one to Sweden but in order that we could both get the same week off, we’d concocted another prize-winning break, so dates were set and we had both to be off work the same time. I must’ve seemed the canniest person at the company just then. That is until my mother called reception and was told I was on holiday, to which she responded ‘Oh I forgot the girls are camping inYarmouth.’ Even though we’d gone to the bother of buying fake Irish souvenirs I suspect our cover had been well and truly been blown by our return to work.
Nonetheless, L and duly I booked onto the Vauxhall Caravan Site for the town’s ‘Gala Week’, the glamorous last seven days of the holiday season. The site was fully booked and we had no option but to take a small pitch and buy ourselves a tent. There’s a whole other story about that week – one deserving of a book in itself – so I’ll leave this for another time.
Anyway, with the tatters of my heart in tow (it was somewhat ironic and possibly telling I burst into tears by the Vaseline shelf at Superdrug onYarmouth High Street) we made our way onto Vauxhall bringing more than tantrums and tiaras that year.
In my misguided and desperate state I decided to opt for the philosophy of ‘the quickest way to get over someone is to get under another’ and went on the prowl. At that time we were young enough to do so – later we were ill-placed on a site catering to ‘families’ as opposed to single girls. But at twenty two there were enough young men to keep us interested so while L focussed her attentions on a security guard (dare I say guards Mrs J?) I played for patrons as opposed to the staff.
And there among them he was – the boy Raymond. 6’2”, carrying just a little puppy fat, chubby but cute, like he’d lose both in time to come. He was 18 and I was secretly pleased he’d chosen me, despite his father trying to persuade him to consider a few other options available that year. Although Dad was British, Raymond was fromHollandand English was by no means his forte. I managed to gather he’d slept with four women. I’d slept with six men so it seemed an even enough match. I liked his boyish looks and was hugely flattered by the attention. That is until he kissed me, grabbed my quadruple Baileys, threw it away, then pushed a chewing gum into my mouth and told me I was reeking of booze. His English did not let him down at that moment.
L went ballistic at the four shots of Baileys rocketing across the car park (I wasn’t best pleased myself, but cock always came before alcohol even then, so I gritted my teeth and smiled sweetly through the comet of creamy beige). L initiated an all-out war of words til he promised to replace all drinks the next night.
Thus, given the circumstances – he Dutch and eighteen, me twenty two, drunk and a bit of a mess but both full of a youthful sexual zeal – I can’t quite remember exactly what night I had my first foray into to watersports.
I suspect though it wasn’t that first night (Raymond, his father and two workmates were staying in the chalets). Raymond and I got as far as the campsite male toilets before surrendering to a bout of frenetic, foolhardy sex. It was all locked chipboard doors, hitching up of skirts, knickers down, him trying to undress himself enough to penetrate me in the restrictive space of the gentleman’s cubicle kind of thing. I really had no idea if this could be classed as good or bad sex. But it was fun, the location was (then anyway) unusual, and it had an element of danger because we knew the grounds were patrolled.
But our age, the fact we were with there with companions and the barrier of language did complicate matters somewhat. We knew we had to get home and the site was large and difficult to navigate especially when drunk or needing to guide someone who was. And the fumblings, however short and inadequate, had us still hungry for each other. We were at that delightful time when kissing for ages is as physically pleasurable as the act of intercourse itself. We mooched around the site, all longing snogs and yearning hands groping for what had been unclothed only moments earlier. Until eventually we found our respective trails back to habitation.
The second night, I suspect was the night ‘it’ happened. The scene was exactly as it had been the night before. L and I would primp and preen ourselves before descending on the Regency Room (this was the location for ‘family entertainment’) to flirt outrageously with everyone we took a fancy to. I made sure I secured Raymond’s attention early on (just so we were both clear sex was on for later) and enjoyed the rest of the evening.
Once again by the end of the night, we were drunk and slovenly. L, who if you know her, is not suited to the harsher side of life so a little high maintenance for the tent, headed back to the apartment of her beau-to-be. I don’t recall her spending even one night in that tent for which we had both shared costs – not that I can blame her after I’d sullied it mind you, but Raymond was not quite as fussed.
The difficulty with camping, and not having one of the mobile homes or even a flashy caravan is the whole lavatory debacle. If you need the loo it’s a trek to the site’s showerblock (which invariably has bugs flying round it and is rarely as clean as you’d wish). Once more I’d been drinking all evening. A fountain of alocopops and sweet milky baileys (true to his word he’d replaced my quadruple shots from the night before) and the seal had already been burst at the club. Now though, back in private with this boyish hulk, sex – rather than the relief of my bladder – was at my mind’s forefront. Bad mistake. We tumbled into the tent, rolling around on two double air mattresses, undressing each other, stroking, playing, examining and exploring. That wonderful sensation of new hands examining the softness of one’s body as your own delight in the firmness of his was exquisite. Only I was desperate for a wee.
In all honesty I could’ve just said I’d needed the loo and been up there and back in five minutes but somehow I thought I might be able to hold it. Yeah right. Ten orange Bacardi Breezers and eight shots of Baileys, that’d be easy.
In the darkness and drunkenness as he forced himself (perhaps not as forcefully as he might have had he not been battling with numerous pints of beer) into me I could feel pressure mounting. By the time he’d entered me and built up a degree of confidence his member was firmly in its intended warm, wet opening he decided to increase the pace a little changing from entering me splayed sideways to the more traditional missionary position. This manoeuvre was no friend to my bladder. The weight of him was exerting huge strain. Being drunk, slovenly and lost in the act I really just couldn’t exert the restraint required and began to wet myself freely, thus the next thing I knew as we were at it like rabbits I was inadvertently at the same time giving what is in polite circles referred as a ‘golden shower’. He didn’t seem to mind (then again his English wasn’t great so perhaps he didn’t have the words, or was merely being gracious). It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation for me at all. If anything it was a great relief, although I don’t remember it feeling particularly sexy. There were in any case two thick duvets to soak up everything. At first when it started sprouting out of me I thought perhaps I was having a female ejaculation but as it went on and the size of my bladder subsided I realised what was happening.
Looking back I wonder if it was a turn on for him. He certainly didn’t stop, anyway – in fact, if memory serves, he removed himself from missionary, spread my legs, tilted me sideways and took me that way again. My exceptionally lubricated cunt was more than willing. On reflection, the fact that he could keep going, despite an initial brewers droop must have been a positive.
I don’t remember much more. I’m ashamed to say to I fell asleep while on the job.
It wasn’t the last occasion Raymond spent in the tent though. He came the following night. This time his Dad insisted on accompanying him with his friends to see where this ‘young lady’ was entertaining his son. I wonder now what the odour must have been like.
Sadly, and in total fuckedupness on my part, I was heartbroken for an older guy and somewhat desperate for a father figure. Thus when Raymond’s Dad excused himself to go to the gents (as opposed to just pissing himself there and then in the tent as I had the previous night) I offered to walk him to there. Once inside I found myself attempting to do with his father what I’d done with Raymond the first night we met. He made no effort to stop me, but I stopped myself from anything more than a kiss….and a grope…and a….no that was it – HONEST!
That night was Raymond’s last in the tent staying over and I must confess there was a repeat golden shower. I kind of figured if he’d coped the night before, he could cope again and perhaps that was my mistake. The second time it was more overtly sexual; something about his accelerated breathing when he felt me do it, the way he deliberately rubbed his cock in the fluid before thrusting it into me.
But as I have said, this aside it was his last night. I don’t know whether Dad had said something or the fact I’d promised to meet him the following night at a proposed time and ended up arriving a few hours later to find him dancing with another girl which sent me into a lunatic rage. But screaming at someone who doesn’t speak great English did not satisfy the psycho in me and his behaviour sent me straight back into the arms of his father for one final last dance. I did not, in any case, ever sleep with Raymond again (although I do recall his father popping round for a visit to the tent without his entourage that night).
As for the duvets, they belonged to L’s mother. I’m told when she returned home and her mum began to assist her unpacking the car boot, she took one look and smell of the bedding and said ‘I don’t think we need to keep those anymore, they can go straight in the bin.’ Sorry Mrs B, even if belatedly.
I need to fast forward a bit. Not just because there’s no way I can manage this chronologically (oh, the first four or five are always memorable, then afterwards….just a series of – for the post part – indistinct penises and faces whose stories are triggered, usually at inopportune times, with the most tenuous links) but because I found myself with an online acquaintance discussing ‘the Slutty Value System’. It’s kind of where the ‘one hundred dicks thing’ comes in.
However much we want to slip into our Union Jack dresses, do peace signs and screech ‘girl power’ at the top of our lungs (sorry, is that just me?) or bang the new feminist drum, we do live in a patriarchal society where women like myself are labelled by small minded (or threatened) men and prudish women in a negative way. Thus I was forced to establish the aforementioned ‘Slutty Value System’ in an attempt to keep numbers down to acceptable levels within some social circles.
I’m from the Clinton camp. If there no vaginal penetration taking place, you’re not in my numbers. Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Anal Sex only – you are hereby disincluded from the official count. My friend K, a homosexual, posited this system could imply a gay man that has never had sex with a woman would forever therefore remain a virgin. Well I’m sorry K, but that’s how it is with my slutty values. I need to keep my numbers down, for my own personal sake. Frankly speaking ‘One Woman, Three Hundred and Twenty Seven Cocks’ just isn’t a catchy blog name.
With my Slutty Value System thus established I had to consider the trajectory of my sex life in general. I somehow went from being an inexperienced virginal 21-year old to slut, to experienced slut, to deviant, .filthy personal whore to my soul mate; and that’s not the end point – I am after all just reaching my amatory peak. There must have been significant events (well dicks) plotted on the graph of this sexual trajectory signposting and directing me towards he dark course of my current place of degeneracy.
Sometimes its best to work backwards – I need to gauge where I am now to further establish the prominent ‘dicks’ that got me to where I am now.
And where might that be?
I remember my current beau once suggesting it would be quite a turn on for him if I were to display how desperate for an orgasm I was by grinding myself against the door frame. At the time – perhaps six months into our relationship – I obliged….reluctantly. There was something still very inhibited about me. I loved the slut part, the sheer filth and I knew I really was that desperate to come, but with one hand gripping a hook in the bedroom ceiling of that 300 year-old cottage (and yes, it has many alternate uses) to lever myself against the frame – I felt hugely self conscious. I didn’t feel sexy at all. If anything, I was concerned about my ‘bingo wings’ flapping around, my arms hurt from holding the majority of my body weight and I couldn’t quite position myself so my clit was actually being rubbed. It was like a cheap soft porn film where they stimulate sex but don’t actually do it.
Yet only a year down the line when I have on my leather collar – the word ‘WHORE’ proudly displayed – and am told to demonstrate how desperate I am, I think nothing of getting on the floor, spreading my legs and moving my hips up and down as my slippery girl-bits grind against the edge of a bookcase. I can bring myself to orgasm in seconds just from that. Forget what’s wobbling and what’s a good angle; the sheer pleasure of feeling the sensations tingle and burn until the wood’s nearly dripping and I’m gripping and thrusting and moaning – lost in a thunderous climax…and if it turns him too on all the better.
I mean, the guy comes up with the idea of a funnel and tubing (what follows is not the funnel story, just one) and using these to piss into one another’s arses. I thus find myself, only months later, in a frenzy of filth taking the initiative, and pushing said tube deep into my anus (one hand holding it) and moving the funnel under my cunt and pissing directly into myself. The experience, for my partner’s viewing pleasure then is not just me pissing but watching it sporadically flow and gurgle its way deep inside me. What came next? Well, then I kinda thought it might be fun to remove the funnel and put the other end of the tube into him so we could swap my piss back and forth before it all eventually dribbled on the heap of towels ever present in sex marathons such as these. Extreme watersports some might consider it. It could be an Olympic sport, akin to synchronised swimming.
But even these anecdotes don’t quite fully encapsulate the lengths of my dirty insatiable desire. The big question without answer now is whether the desire is for sex or for him. Are these barriers and limits being constantly pushed to test me sexually or to impress him, gain bedroom approval, join some club where he won’t wanna sleep with another, or is it something as simple as sharing a journey together and exploring all the elements within a relationship? Maybe I can’t be Jenna Jameson every night…although I frequently find my mind is.
The braid of ultra-intimacy and sex….that’s where I am now.
Take a look at this pic.
Did this burn happen because Peachy was being a bad boy?
Or was I attempting the medieval skill of ‘cupping’ and my first attempt heated the glass almost to melting point as opposed to creating a vacuum to help suck the pus from a bum-boil?
Looking at the entire portrait of my sex life from a distance and which I’ll fully piece together in over time, I see this particular endeavour as a kind of post-Post Modern feminists ‘Rake’s Progress’ in words, which had, I not titled ‘One Woman One Hundred Dicks’ I could have called ‘A Slut’s Tangent’. I went with the existing title because most of my encounters were with Dicks both of a literal and metaphorical nature.
More on those dicks and which ones teased me into an at-first gentle learning curve of sensuality which didn’t take too long in becoming tick shaped.