First kiss

'Great necklace', the guy says and stares at my tits. "What does it say?"

"It's my nickname", I say coldly.

"How do you pronounce that?", he gets closer.

The Boy sweeps in with our drinks, assesses the situation and drapes his arm around me protectively. I smile, I say my nickname to the guy, who scowls at The Boy and skulks off.

"I can't leave you for five minutes! You get a lot of attention", he laughs.

"I do. But then so do you", I say and I mean it. He gets looked at quite a bit because he is beautiful, no two ways about it. His hair is freshly washed, swept to one side, he's wearing his jeans inside his boots with a red and black lumberjack shirt. He looks like a cowboy gypsy. The girls, fresh faced and gorgeous, in their early twenties in cut off denim shorts, torn tights, long messy hair and heavy eye make up eye him up, and then move to assess me. I am in my full woman regalia. Skin-tight striped jersey dress, swept back platinum blonde hair, minimal make up with red lips and dark brows. I stand out from the rock chick crowd. I know they resent me and admire me at the same time. I don't care and they know that too.

As he holds me, his hand leisurely slides down and is now planted in my most erogenous zone. The small of my back. His palms barely skirt the curve of my buttocks and yet I arch in a Pavlov's dog reaction.

'Are you okay?', he checks suddenly, noticing my tenseness.

'Yes, I am. And I like when you do that. Do that a bit more. I want your hand there. It gives me pleasure', only when I say it I realise I literally narrated my thoughts out loud.

"You do?", he stares at me with his wolfish grey eyes. Can't read his expression because I am too startled by what I just said.

Fuck it. I hear my voice again, it's just my thoughts, pouring out with no consideration for propriety, playing the game, being cool or whatever the fuck I usually do when I make a play for someone.

"I love the way you hold me. I love feeling your hands on me and I love your body against mine. And I really want you. Even now, right now, I can imagine how you would feel between my legs",

There, I've fucking said it. I am sober, present and clear. And yet, I've said it.

For a split moment I think I overdid it and feel like a fucking shy teenager, grateful for the dimmed lights as my face is burning.

He simply turns me towards him, slowly takes me in his arms and holds me very tight. I hide my face in his chest, my mind racing.

Fuck fuck fuck! I feel like I am sixteen again.

Then his hand travels to my neck, I let my head fall into it comfortably, his lips lightly brush mine and we kiss. His tongue flicks over my lips, skirting my teeth. We stand there, glued to each other, for a moment I feel like a happy statue, immobile and fixed in a place where it feels right. Our tongues play lightly, with no rush, I tease his with mine gently, withdrawing it in little feline licks, brushing the edge of his mouth on the way out. He pulls me closer, his right hand in the small of my back, his left snaking up and around my neck, sliding into my hair. My hands wander to the favourite part of him. His back has a deep muscular ridge running down it, right to his buttocks. As I melt into him, I feel it. His cock. It's hard, pressed against my belly. It delights me so much that I gasp, right into his mouth and feel the unmistakable pang of desire between my legs, so intense it's almost painful. I know that with it comes the slithery wetness and I squeeze my thighs together, swaying my hips towards him again just to feel the hardness of his cock again. Then, I open my eyes. His lips still on mine, his eyes open too and he smiles. I know because his eyes are smiling and I sense his lips curving on mine.

'Wow', he says.

'I know', I say.

Tenderness

The Boy has beautiful eyes. That's a fact. Deep, wolfish grey, with flickers of green, like mine, framed by long eyelashes. He has a beautiful face too. Small nose, round lips showing small even teeth and gorgeous cheekbones. There is an ambiguous tinge of femininity in his look and there is something androgynously enticing about it, because he is playful, charming and wily. Just like me.

But today his face isn't right. It's ashen and shrunken, his eyelashes fall in soft fringes on his cheeks.

The hubub of A&E around us, nurses shouting out names, tannoy announcements and the drunken man stubbornly arguing with a vending machine only vaguely register in my mind. My focus is fully on him.

He's sitting down, I am crouched between his knees, holding my hands over his, smoothing them down,  trying to ease them into mine, straightening his fingers gently one by one on the fabric of his jeans.

'Can you hold your hands down darling? It will calm your breath', I ask, injecting as much calm as I possibly can into my voice.

He catches a sharp breath. The pain is back.

'Breathe into it darling. Just breathe into it. It will pass...'

He stretches his hands on his knees, but he hunches forward trying to stop the pain. I know that he hunching will exacerbate it so I get up, stand right between his knees and let him rest his head on my stomach to keep him straight.

I take his head into my hands and I stroke his soft hair gently, methodically running my fingers through the silky strands, trying to absorb his pain into me because every time he twitches and moves, it's like a tiny shard of glass sticking deeper into my heart.

He lifts his head and looks at me. His eyes are hazy, the translucent grey irises glowing with vulnerability.

'Shhhhhh', I say and let his head fall into me again.

I want to take him home. I want him in my bed, pain-free, resting at last. I imagine him there, sleeping peacefully in the light of my bedside lamp.

Tenderness. Doesn't come to me easily. Yet with him, I am awake, aware and full of love.

Reality check

I am gallivanting in my private members club with an old lover of mine, Mr PR, who is treating me to lunch with a view of fucking me later.

Mr PR is fantastic. He is smart, extremely funny, successful and and a dominating fucker. It's cats and dogs with sex thrown in when we get together. Plus he has a big cock which he loves almost as much as he loves himself. Which is a lot.

I swoon in and he's waiting for me already. I sashay purposefully while he's taking in the view. It's a game we play.

We lunch, he's getting pissed on expensive wine while I am sipping my favourite cranberry juice and watch him. He likes sparring with me in preparation for later. Every smart arse response, anything that he perceives as an intellectual defeat on his part will be repaid to me in full, with spanking interest, when we will be alone.

I continue the the game and I am ever so good at it. I am bold, head held high, in my tight dress and sky-high heels. I cross my legs, I curve my body on the chaise-longue I decided to perch on for dessert. I am in my full feline mode seduction mode. He is recently single and there is an additional layer to his usual banter. He tells me how much he missed me when I was off the market, all loved up with The Lover. I don't respond in kind. He likes me strong and unavailable because that makes the chase more exciting. And makes him feel like he really scored, because somehow he conquers me every time, even if the arrangement is painfully clear from the start.

We decide to leave with the tacit agreement of checking into a nearest hotel and proceeding to a fucking session. I am laughing at some insider gossip he tells me, (media darling!)and push the heavy oak door open.

Still laughing uproariously, I walk straight into The Boy.

"Hey... what are you doing here?", he says and takes me in his arms. Instinctively my body just gives in, I inhale his scent and then remember. Mr PR is right behind me. He's standing there in a wary pose, pointedly waiting. I babble nervously and introduce them to each other. The Boy sweeps his hair and says 'Hey man' while Mr PR extends his arm for firm handshake.

All of the sudden, my dress, the heels, the laugh, the whole fucking 'look at me' persona of mine seems ludicrous. When I see The Boy, I am not a sex kitten. I am usually dressed in shorts and Converse, fresh-faced from hurtling around on my bike or with the puppy in tow who's chewing on my laces while we chat leisurely. 

Worlds colliding doesn't even begin to describe this. And it's not just their worlds that are just smashing into each other. It's mine. It's the old me and the new me. 

My babbling awkwardness is odd. After all, The Boy and I are not an item. I haven't even kissed him properly, let alone fucked him. 

'Hey, we were just having a meeting', I keep on wittering while The Boy looks at me searchingly. We say goodbyes and leave.

"So... how do you know him?', he asks Mr PR as casually as we walk out.

'Oh, I've known him for ages, he used to work here'

Mr PR is quiet for a moment. 

"Oh well', he says smugly. "He might have a wet dream about you tonight but it's me who's fucking you this afternoon'

I have a feeling of deja vu. This has happened before. Exactly the same situation, the same conversation in exactly the same place, with The Boy, two months ago, although back then The Boy wasn't yet The Boy, he was just the friendly face in my private members club, and the man in a suit next to me was The Lover. 

And I realise I am no longer looking at Mr PR, I am looking at The Lover. The same suit, the same dark hair, the same air of cocky superiority, the same fucking 'you are my trophy' status-anxiety ridden attitude, perfectly in sync with my act. I am no longer me. I am a fucking platinum blonde accessory. I am the 'fuck you' to the other guy.

I thought I moved on but I haven't. Here I am with a fucking hologram of what I always went for in the past and the hologram of me that used to enjoy that shit. And like with holograms, none of it is real.

I turn around. Mr PR is looking at me with a smirk, buttoning up his jacket, ready and revved up.

"Shall we?'

I decide that I may have just arrived at the same station I left from but it's time to hop on a different train. 

"Sorry, I am actually really tired so I am going to have to call it a day'

"What the fuck?", he explodes. It's a fair question.

"No, I am not tired. You know, it just doesn't feel right. And it's me, not you..", I trail off as I realise I just walked into an elephant size cliche trap.

"Oh for fuck's sake...', he starts but something in my face is telling him it's not worth it.

"You are weird, you know', he sputters. Hell hath no fury like a man with a semi-erection scorned.

"What is it with you..?", he starts again and then I notice that face on him that all public schoolboys get when they don't get their way and default the ra-ra act hasn't worked. A desolate little boy on the train platform clutching a teddy bear and saying goodbye to the Nanny. He never finishes the sentence and walks off slightly unsteady on his feet, all that expensive Merlot, and the Amaretto he downed for dessert clearly taking its toll.

I walk back in.

The Boy is there, loitering behind the bar, bantering with the grizzly yet twinkly-eyed Spanish manager.

"You're back", he beams.

"Welcome back beautiful", grins the Spaniard.

'Yes I am. The meeting is over'

The Boy smiles 'Cranberry juice, no ice, right?'

'Yes please', I plonk myself on the bench and take my heels off. And suddenly I feel like me again.

Different angle

I meet Teacher for a lunch and walk. We are no longer lovers. The man who discovered and freed the natural slut in me, is now a friend.


I watch his hands (and beautiful hands they are, large with long thick, confident fingers) as he takes me through the minutiae of the workings of my camera. They are no longer fingers that left angry red marks on my bottom or pinched my nipples as I stood in front of him, dressed like a schoolgirl, with my shirt open, ready to be used. They push the camera buttons expertly, slide small latches and push little wheels, like they used to push me outside of my comfort zone, guiding me to the unexplored parts of me.

His focus and single-mindedness that I used to find unnerving and exhilarating in equal measure, are now are calming lotion for my impatient questioning.

His voice, once seeping darkest fantasies into my ear, now feels comforting as he kneels behind me, talking me through aperture settings and exposure.

I sit on the stairs in the beautiful Georgian building we are exploring together, taking picture of myself in the large Victorian mirror, my image distorted by the old looking-glass. 

When I look at the picture at home, I notice him behind me. He's kneeling, with his camera, taking picture of me. I am the Hitchcockian peroxide blonde, with big vulnerable eyes, he is a ghostly presence behind me, face obscured by the camera, ever watchful. I like him there. It feels safe. And in one epiphany moment I realise that I always felt safe with him the way I probably never felt with anyone else. And knowing that feels good.

Puppy love

There is a word that describes the way I feel about him. I struggle to find it.

I walk straight in and clock him. He is sitting on a bar stool, fully focussed on his laptop. The two pretty waitresses smile at me invitingly at me. I beam at them happily but I don't waste time.

I walk up straight to him and without saying much I fall straight into his arms. I relax fully, quietly, my face on his shoulder. He rocks me in his arms first then starts dancing with me, his hips gently pushing mine into the beat of the music. I sway with him, inhale his scent, melt into his body and then let go first. I look up and realise that I can't see him properly. My eyes are hazy and my head is spinning. We both take a step back, the magnetic pull between us easing comfortably, yet, for some reason we are left holding hands like a pair of kids.

We chat animatedly about the party I want him to organise for me, I am fully focused on him. I no longer care about who's looking, who I am due to impress. I am looking into his greyish blue eyes and that's what I care about right at this moment. Just being with him. I tell him why it matters that things go well. 

"Don't worry. You just relax. I'll take care of everything". And I believe him.

When I leave, I say 'Let's catch up, me and you because I adore you, you know?' Before I start feeling remotely self-conscious, he grabs me, pulls me closer and kisses me gently on the lips.

I walk away and then realise that I am a little bit in love with him. I haven't fucked him. We haven't even had a date. And none of it matters. No, bollocks. I am in love with him, like I have never been before. I realise I have nothing to prove. I am no longer the sex kitten, not the cool cat, not the sulky princess, the feisty sub that likes a good fight, not even the standard issue charmer that I like to morph into to prove a point. I am just me. And that is something I will have to think about a bit more.

The Discreet Charm of Perversity

I was walking along the Millenium bridge today enjoying the sights.

Tate in front of me, The Eye on the left and Shard on the right.

And the teenage beauty right in front of me, tootling along with her Dad and two sulky brothers.

I am not into girls but I am fascinated by them.

She was 14, 15 at the most. Tall, beautiful face, with full lips, twisted in a petulant pout, big blue eyes and that unmistakable plumpness in her face, not quite yet out of the puppy fat phase.

It wasn't her face that got my attention. It was her legs and bottom. She was wearing a tightest, skimpiest pair of shorts, the ones that barely cover the cheeks, cut into the crevice of her arse and most certainly feel a bit tight in the crotch. 

I slowed down and followed, taking in the view. She had that slightly out of proportion shape with the legs being too long for her body, her breasts, not yet fully mature with a cotton bra promising a soft fullness in a year or two. She walked with that foalish awkwardness which made her bum cheeks move with the fabric of the shorts skirting around that gorgeous peachiness of her arse.

And forgive me but I just imagined her being fucked. I imagined a hard cock, sliding between these thighs, teasing the crevice between her buttocks, glistening with readiness. I imagined that cock sliding into her tight cunt, the gasps, the surprise, these plump petulant lips being bitten with her white teeth at the delight of first penetration. I imagined her being taken from behind, man's hands, large hands, holding her just around that tiny waist and slamming his hard cock into her, in and out of her cunt, drenched in her fresh juice. The stifled little noises she would make. The same hands, fondling her pert little tits, pulling her closer, penetrating her deeper.

I stopped to hold that image in my head, watching her walk away, that tight little bottom, with the gorgeous creases under the cheeks slowly sashaying away.

I am a pervert like that.

Colours

I am lost in thought, having my coffee and writing.

Then I feel his hands snake around me, he brushes my breasts lightly and wraps his long arms around my midriff. I lean back to feel him closer, his head resting on my shoulder. 

'Hello you", he smiles and sits with his long legs across the bench next to me.

I look at his bright greyish blue eyes, the same colour like mine, still feeling his arms around me and smile. Because quite simply he has that effect on me. It's not lust, wanting to fuck, the frenetic need that has driven me in the past. 

It's just his face, the warmth, the ease, the touch, the scent that make me want to be close to him. 

There is something quite beautiful about him, something I cant quite put my finger on, something that eludes me.

"I really want to show you this. What do you think?", he plonks a ream of printed paper versions of the design we discussed a couple of days ago in red and cream.

"Looks great", I say. "The colour isn't right though. Maroon and taupe - that's what you need here. Taupe is like brownish grey, and maroon is less aggressive than red. It's less shouty, more subtle"

His face lights up.

"You are right. Where were you yesterday when I was choosing the paper? Taupe? Write it down for me. You know my spelling is terrible"

Involuntary reaction. I reach out and stroke his hair. I feel like pulling him towards me and kissing him. But I don't. 

"I need to dash. Already late", I say instead and write down the 'maroon' and 'taupe' while he's watching me intently.

I get up, he hugs me and rocks me in his arms. I feel his body neatly folding into mine, and yes, I can feel his cock pressed against my belly. And that sends a shiver down me, as people are milling around us. In that split second, I want rip his clothes off, have him push me onto the table, lift my skirt and fuck me. I want his head on my neck, his breath burning my cheek, my legs wrapped around him helping his cock penetrate me to the core. Right in front of everyone. That moment passes and I free myself from his arms and then I walk away. Who am I kidding? I do want to fuck him. But not yet.

Dark

I wanted to fuck in the dark for several reasons.

1. No faces, no memories. Not right now.

2. No interaction based on on what I think he's thinking or I am thinking or doing or experiencing.

3. Body to body combat because he matches me on propensity to fight and the darkness adds complexity and challenge.

That's what I wanted.

And that's what I got.

We fucked for hours, sweat, cum, smeared all over our bodies, heavy whispers, hands, fingers forced into me, teeth and lips and tongues. He wrestled me, I kicked.  He restrained me, I snarled and fought. He fucked me into submission, then when he was on his back, I jumped on him and rode his cock so hard that in holding to him for purchase, I left the imprint of my palms on his collarbone. It was all very good. No complaints.

Except when he switched on the lights. It was a wrong face on a wrong man. 

When the lights are on it gets that simple. 

"I thought you would never see me again after that time", he mused smugly.

"So did I', I replied wearily.

And after all that, I left the room with the face I did not want to see this evening still imprinted on my mind.

Rain

She is a friend of mine. Better than that actually. My Jungian shadow, albeit a a light one to my natural dark expression of me.

We met last weekend to catch up and to film me for a video portrait. She's an artist.

We hang out first. I love hanging out with her for a simple reason that our combined juxstaposed looks and personalities attract people and the world seems such an open place with her there.

She's all woman, with a shock of curly dark hair, dreamy brown eyes and pillowy lips, set in a pale face. Her body is soft and curvaceous, with her gorgeously heavy breasts accentuating her nipped in waist, melting beautifully into the curve of her buttocks. A see through wrap on her shoulders, draped over her strappy top, barely covers her cleavage. Imagined naked she looks like a nude from an erotic Edwardian postcard.

I am athletic, tanned, strong and wily with piercing blue eyes, short platinum blonde hair and high cheekbones. I am wearing a black backless body suit with a pair of tight white shorts, like a well-groomed suburban housewife with a head full of perverse scenarios, about to start a class with her tennis coach who is also her lover.

We banter with strangers, do an impromptu session with a new trendy cafe owner on how to best market his new joint, we laugh and luxuriate in each others' company. We are a dream team.

We finally head to mine for the shoot when the monsoon rain hits. We run through the deluge laughing maniacally and get drenched within seconds. When we stop under a tree for a moment, giddy and out of breath, she looks at me and says in her exacting yet soft German accent:

"Look at your nipples! I can see your body all the way through. If I were a man, I'd drag you to this garden and fuck you right now"
 

I look at her hair, with droplets of rain caught in the curl, the shawl clinging to her white skin and I feel like I want to kiss her.
Instead I take her hand and we run out into the rain again.

Embrace

I love the way he holds me.

And he holds me a lot. 

When I'm in his arms and I feel at ease. It's a strange feeling. I don't want to struggle or bolt. I just want to be there, in the strong, soft and comforting space, feeling his hard muscular body against mine. There is not an inch of spare flesh on him - just long, graceful lines of his body, with his broad chest and beautifully shaped snakey hips pressed into me.

We fleet around each other, his closeness being constant when I am around. I reach out for him quite comfortably, without fear of rejection or inappropriateness of my gesture. And so does he. We dance together, jumping around to some mad electro swing, touching briefly and then losing ourselves again.

He takes me into his arms when we say goodbye and I place my hand, flatly and squarely on his chest. And it is not a gesture of defence but one of affection. I want to feel his heart for a moment.

He strokes the back of my neck in return. 

'Sorry, I am sweaty from all that dancing', I say looking up, not really being sorry.

'It doesn't matter'

And I know it doesn't. I have a feeling he may like my sweat. In the same way he likes holding me.

We haven't even kissed yet. I am looking forward to it.

The awakening. Again.

I wake up. In a hazy no man's land of my mind, I am not yet awake, but not asleep. I turn sleepily on my back and, for the first time in weeks, I feel the need.

I stretch, arch, and let my legs fall open.

As my hand delves in between the lips of my pussy, I let my fingers test myself carefully. I'm wet, ready, slippery, fresh and warm.

I am thinking of nothing or nobody in particular; faces, bodies floating through my mind. The Lover's face appears for a moment then fades away. Then The Teacher's heavy whisper burning my cheek slowly retreating. And Boy's beautiful hands, as I see them, caressing my nipples. My lovers, past and future, in a parade of pictures, sounds and possibilities.

Then just nothing again. Just me and the sensation as I  stroke myself very leisurely, my fingertips teasing a slow beautifully sating long orgasm from the swollen fleshiness of my clit.

Then I open my eyes.

I am awake again at last. All alone and strangely happy.

The small of my back

Him and me are casual acquaintances. We've known each other a year or so and bump into each other every now and again. More often now that he's local. He always invites me out to one party or another. I always decline. 

He's tall, with long graceful limbs, and elongated muscles. With his slender, languid charm, he reminds me of a greyhound, but rather than being nervy, he's warm and easy.

When we meet we always hug. He holds me quite tight this time and for a bit longer than usual, rocking me in his arms. I notice the change but it feels good and natural so I let him do it.

As he slowly lets go of me, his hand slides into the small of my back. Taken by surprise, I respond immediately, almost involuntarily by arching for just a split second. It's like he just pressed my internal button.

We then chat leisurely, him bent over the counter, me on the other side, leaning forward. His hair is messy and thrown all to one side as he tries to sweep it from his eyes, and it touches mine. I am oddly relaxed and notice how I am not even being flirtatious, like I don't see the need to switch on my famous charm. I am just being... natural.

He's putting my number into his phone arranging an outing, and we are giggling stupidly over the cool features.

'Yeah I know... fell of my bike" he says out of the blue.

"Sorry?"

"You are looking at my hands...", he flexes his bruised knuckle.

Then I realise I am looking at his hands. Staring at them and taking them in. And that's always a sign that I want someone.

As I leave, I turn around. He's still looking at me.

I walk away and then I get hit with the full realisation that I do want him and I stop to think. The small of my back, my little barometer of desire, never lies.

A conversation one day

Teacher used to tease out the most well-though out pieces of me. Like this one.

Well, I was thinking being at a garden party with lots of adults, and just running around, in plimsolls, short skirt and cotton panties, as you do and then being cornered by my Dad's friend somewhere quiet. 

I can totally feel the tension but I don't yet quite know what it means so I am bit scared and shy at the same time. I sort of know that being touched and stroked till I gasp is not quite what I should expect to happen from an older man but I am getting wet and shaky and the novelty and excitement of it is just to hard to resist especially as you clearly know what you are doing gently stroking me through my knickers which by now are very wet although I am still keeping my legs together like Mum told me girls should do. I can still hear the party in the background and I am thinking that someone may come and find us but all I am thinking about is that I want this to continue. 

My nipples are so hard underneath my little cotton bra that it's almost painful and as you starts pinching them in a languid, reassured way I am ready to be fucked senseless. As I observe your tongue tease the dark flesh of the nipple I don't even know that exactly means.. But then you just push my hand on your cock and as I get my hand around it, all warm and smooth and hard I suddenly I get it and open my legs.

Enough of that... I...

Daydreaming

Planes. Strange creations. The humming engines, the closeness of others.

I, for one, am exhausted.

I fall asleep, curling into a comfortable ball in my cashmere blankie which always (I mean always you mean customs man who made me pay extra for it!) travels with me.

I drift off to sleep. The dreams that come are those of his cock. Not sure why but his cock always held power over me. One sighting of its smooth, olive skinned, girthy, comfortable length had my mouth salivate in a desperate bid to please. I had it in my mouth, in my pussy, forced, trained, calmly talked into taking it all down the throat.

He used to wank over my face too. Let me touch myself at permission. Then suddenly force the gorgeousness of it in my mouth and fuck it leisurely in long strokes, talking to me slowly, seeping his dirty fantasies into my sodden face. I never minded the saliva, the snot, the choking. I loved that cock in my mouth and by Jove, I'd make him squirt over my lips, dripping with cum.

For a bit I was obsessed with it.  Once, I went for it so much with licking, sucking, dripping sloppy need that he was in my will for once. I massaged his balls with a hand sodden wet with my saliva, gorging, gagging feasting on his cock, sucking at the shaft, running my tongue down, with my lips just clasping the girth. I felt him come from  miles away. That beautiful smooth column, trapped in my mouth. He came shuddering, in strokes. I drank him like a nectar. Careful not to miss a drop of the salty musky cum, sucking it out of him hungrily.

He stroked me over my hair.

"That was quite intense"

I said nothing. I knew it was.

Unhapiness

I remember unhappiness.

The problem with unhappiness is that feels like happiness if you you're trapped in it at the time.

You think that 'throatchokingawfulhotpotatoinmythroat" feeling is okay. That's how you think it's meant to be.

I remember the perfectness of it all. The Islington flat, the sheer unbridled gorgeousness of my husband, the Farmer's Market we used to go every Sunday, the anxiety over the Scandinavian designer sofa they should deliver that week. My £40K salary and his £70K one. We were the mortgage man's dream.

He was a greyhoundish beautiful man with chocolate hair, freckles and weak eyes and I was his pretty skinny high cheek-boned blonde wife with big blue eyes full of life, smart, kicking out all the time.

We were so lovely we were unreal. But, because we were and none of it was real, nobody asked any questions.

When the chips were down, it was me, swaying my hand imperiously around the designer flat and saying simply: "But what about all this?" Because it was not about him, or love. It was the concept I built up in my head and good Lord, nobody, even him, was to take it from me.

All I wanted was the deception of it to tell me that I was 'happy' and all he parameters of happiness were there.

*It all ended in tears. He had a tawdry affair with my best friend's  neighbour. When we met for the last time I said "I always thought my marriage will be something out of E.M. Forster and it was Eastenders"

"Life is always a bit Eastenders, I suppose", he said, his beautiful face gathering up a look of regret.

Wet. Again.

It happens again today.

He's browsing movies on LoveFilm. We are going to watch something. 

I have other plans. His closeness brings out my kittenish demanding me.

Slowly, I start kissing him, my entire body arched towards his, willing.

"Oh', he says, puts away his laptop and pulls me closer.

Yes. That's what kitten wants.

And what kitten wants, kitten gets.

He kisses me briefly, and then I get hard, hot erect cock between my legs. Needless to say I am ready dripping wet just wanting, open and ready.

As he fucks me, I beg. 

"Please, please, please"

I breached 'no talking policy'

'Oh dear...'

As I get his fingers filling my mouth I come spasming and quietly let go.

He comes all over me. Literally. His spunk hitting my belly is one of the most beautiful things ever. I smear it all over myself with a satisfied smug smile.

Bored

I am having a morning off. Nice. Time to myself.

I browse pornhub.com and slutload.com for to help me pass time.

Tell you what.... Gangbang porn, MMF, double penetration and all my usual favourites fail to get me excited. I browse and browse and... nothing.

In the end I lie back, start touching myself and think about this

And that gets me off in no time. Twice.

I think I am in love with The Lover.

The great outdoors

The day is gorgeous. The surroundings even more so. A castle, a waterfall, thick wood surrounding us, people milling around, music from the stage pounding in the background. The light is shimmering through the branches with that unmistakable afternoon gentleness.

"I want you to fuck me now", I say boldly. "But let's get a drink first"

As we stand at the bar, I order the drinks and I try to look dignified as his fingers sneak up my dress. I have no knickers on. I lost these swimming in the waterfall few minutes ago. My body is recovering from having been plunged into freezing water in that delightful 'goosebumps just easing' way. My nipples are still erect. But the sensation I care about is that between my legs. My pussy is feeling slippery and fresh, I can feel every move I make as more juice is slowly dripping out onto my thighs.

We sneak off, voices of kids shrieking with delight in a nearby adventure garden and fellow festival goers falling away as we walk through the woods, humming with crickets.

We don't go that far because there is no need to. As in there is need and that one overrides any sensibilities.

We kiss briefly. This is not about taking time. I want to be fucked. Now.

He pushes me onto my knees. The undergrowth feels gorgeously soft and I am so comfortable that when his cock, rock hard, takes my mouth, I close my lips greedily around it, licking, sucking, my mouth salivating. I take my time to play with the deliciousness of it.

He has other plans.

He lifts me up, pushes me forward, bends me over a fallen tree and hikes my dress up. I part my legs wide because I want him now and I want him deep. He peruses my arse just for a moment, adjusts my hips to his liking, pushes my down and as his cock stars parting the swollen drenched lips of my pussy, I feel myself closing around his girth inch by inch in a hot wet needy clasp. 

The sun is penetrating through my closed eyes. He fucks me hard.
I am moving with his cock and by now, I am whining, whingeing, begging, my arms holding onto the mossy trunk.

"Yes, please, take me like tha.."

He reaches over and puts his hand on my mouth to keep me quiet and I come so quickly it surprises me. As my head is spinning, I feel his spunk hit me. Deep inside.

The crickets are singing. It's country side after all.

Supportive

Privately Absurd is going through some tough times. Work bullshit. Apart from having rampant sex, I also have to pay my bills and in my line of work, emotions run high and drama is ample.

So, recently, I have been a little down and a little out of sorts.

Lover is being lover. Understanding and supportive.

He ponders for a bit and says:

"We need to get your confidence back. Whatever it takes. You can fuck me on top if you like?"

Touching.

Line of beauty

He's sleeping. Looking peaceful.

My Lover is a beautiful man, you see. Classically so. Hence the word beautiful, rather than just handsome. With wide, bold forehead, his soft chocolate brown hair casually framing it, piercingly blue eyes framed by long dark eyelashes, straight gorgeous nose, and a square jaw he looks sort of Cary Grant-ish. Or like a man photographed by Bruce Webber.  A pure gorgeous Americana.

I study him for a while.

Then, when I can't resist it no longer, I sneak up and softly drape myself over him. I say 'softly drape', as this is exactly what I am doing. Not being overwhelmingly needy or pushing onto him. Just brushing him lightly with tips of my breasts, my nipples fleetingly meeting his skin, my lips hovering over his, my breath slowly waking him up with butterfly-like gentleness.

He smiles without opening his eyes and moves his hand on my neck to pull me closer. We kiss. From soft, shy, teasing, puppy-like licks we move to more urgent, needy, tongues buried deeply in each other mouths hungrily kissing.

He slides me down and I can feel his cock, gorgeously hard, slipping into me easily. It always amazes me how easily he enters me. No need for hands, lube or anything else. His cock just naturally belongs inside me, and I bubble up with wetness at his mere touch.


I start riding him, without letting go of his lips. We are moving together, in perfect synergy, by now drooling and dripping into each others' mouths.

After this flood of tenderness, he flips me over. I know the drill. I stretch and extend as as much as I can. I know he likes the display of my willingness to be apparent. He loves my back and he loves my arse. Preferably as arched, tense and willing as it gets.  I feel his hands take hold of my hips. HE fucks me this time, and good Lord, I do know my place and I know I am the one being fucked. 

And everything about it falls into the line of beauty.

Trace

I look at my holiday tan. It looks good. Observing the tan lines on my breasts, I notice a bruise.

Teeth marks to be exact. Around my left nipple.

I reach for the baby oil, which I customarily use to keep my skin as smooth as it is, and leisurely apply the protective layer over the delicate aureola, savouring every moment of the tingling sensation and the memory it brings.

His lips closing around my nipples hungrily, me: capriciously dipping tips of my breasts into his mouth while riding his cock.

Wet

It amazes me. It really does.

Sometimes we fuck with virtually no foreplay. He just reaches out for me, slides his cock inside me and fucks me into a breathless, gasping mess.

I sometimes wonder why it's so easy.

And then I realise that the mere proximity of him, his hand casually brushing my thigh, my catching his scent, a fleeting kiss make me wet and ready to fuck.

When with him, I just walk around being instantly fuckable. 

Nice.

Conversation

Him: What have you been imaging lately? Anything you want me to do?

Me: Well, fuck fantasies.  Just fuck me very hard, let me suck your cock till I gag, be very rough with me and have me on my knees for most of the time - that makes me very happy.

Him: Sunday?

Me: Yes.

Sometimes one has to cut to the chase.

 

Missing

I am disgruntled. I am not used to this. To want someone and nobody else. I lie in my bed, at night, thinking that I want him in that very simple way.

The way he talks, the way he smells, the way he looks. The way his thick gorgeous hair stubbornly falls on the wrong side and I impatiently smooth it back from 'posh boy' to a 'matinee idol' look.

I miss his presence. His clipped foppish tones when he talks to me leisurely between the drags of a cigarette. 

His lazy ways when he drops clothes just where he stands. Which really does not bother my usually fastidious self because when he's naked, I can feel him all over my body so little details of his clothes dumped everywhere do not bother me.

I even miss him getting annoyed with me because I am a fidgety, breathy, noisy insomniac, I am all nervy and anxious with my mind racing at 2.00 a.m and when I bolt the bed in a haughty way, he pulls me back under the protective armour of his arms and legs, wrapping me in a safe cocoon.

I miss his messy ways of cooking a dinner when my tiny kitchen looks like Al Quaida has blown up Sainsbury's veg isle.

But most of all I miss it when he walks in, holds me, kisses me, and then, as a result of our drooling needy sensation, me usually wearing something inconsequentially accessible, he bends me over something that's near, table, chair, bed, kitchen top, not checking how wet I am because there is no need to, drives his cock inside me and fucks me so hard, he has to keep the little madame quiet with his hand in my mouth and spunk all over me as I come, arch and feverishly lick and bite his fingers like a wily little kitten.

Come home.

Quick

"Wait here", I order the cab driver.

 I walk in and the porter is waiting.

"I understand you have my wallet?", I say in an imperious way.

I left my wallet in a cab coming back home last night and he found it.

"Yes madam"

I pick it up and walk out.

And then I turn back and walk back in.

The porter is watching me.

I get into the lift, press 9 and go up.

He is not expecting me at all but I don't care.

He opens the door, really surprised.

"What are you doing here?"

I stare at him, say nothing, drop to my knees, looking up.  

He knows what I want. He unzips his trousers and  feeds me. Right to the back of my throat. He fucks my face so feverishly I am surprised at the intensity of it.

When he finishes, his sperm trickling down my mouth, I simply get up, wipe my lips and leave. He's there, spent, with his trousers around his ankles, vulnerable. But I have to go.

"Goodbye", the porter is being polite.

"Goodbye", I say, smugly.

I get into the cab.

"Back home please"

Beautiful girl. Again. 1 of 2

We meet up at last. It's awkward at first. After all, we don't know each other at all. We just met at a silly party few weeks ago and all I did was to listen and restyle her hair.

We head to mine, tipsy and heady.

We sit on the sofa chatting. 

I touch her thigh casually. She does not move. Just stares at me, trusting. 

I know I have won her over. I feel a little callous because what I am about to do is not in any way unknowing or misguided. 

Her thigh quivers under my touch.

She closes her eyes. I look at her for a moment. She doesn't know what it is that she wants but she'll let me have her. Because I am that nice, thoughtful person, right?

Wrong.

I want her.

I stop being shy. I slide my hand between her legs. She's wearing thighs and yet, I can tell how wet she is already.

She takes my hand and urges it down, beyond the elastic. My fingers slide in ease. Dripping.

I know what I want now. I rip her tights off her. She's helping me. 

'Keep your heels on", I order. 

She does. And I like how she listens to me.

As I am confronted with the wet evidence of her desire between her legs, I am just looking at her pussy. Wet, dripping, tight, clit just protruding from the lips. I lick it casually and I get a shivering response.

So, I start teasing her with my tongue. She tastes sour, desperate and utterly delicious. Then I move up, my heavy breasts between her legs, my. One of my nipples gets coated in her pussy juice.

"Lick it", I order. She does, in little flicks of the tongue like a shy puppy. Eyes still closed.

All the while, I get this out of body feeling. I am fucking a woman.

She's back now and wants me. She grabs my hands and starts begging. I move quickly, spreading her arms with my hands. Open.

"Please, please go down on me"

I like the greed. And I do.

I open her for me. Like a toy.

Lesson

It starts gently.

His hand snakes deftly around my neck. 

I bolt, my arms pushing him away, my hands rolled in fists, small and punchy.  Leisurely, with a languid smile and closed eyes, he locks my arms behind my back with one well-thought out move.

I am now fully immobile, with my back arched.

His cock enters me from behind. I gasp and cry a little in exasperation of having been defeated so quickly.

He knows it and fucks me slowly, driving the point home.

"Stop struggling"

As if on cue, I try to bolt again, all mieowling, scratchy, resisting mess.

And all he needs to do is to tweak my arms so that I have no room for movement.

That simple.

Clearly, I am a slow learner. I hiss insults and turn my head in a defiant angle.

'Fuck you"

Then he lifts me up, gets my hips exactly how he likes them, pushes me against the wall, my entire body squashed against it, my hard nipples pressed in, his cock penetrating me so deeply that I gasp and protest loudly right until he sticks his hand in my mouth to stifle the noise and fucks me even harder in long measured strokes.

I stop resisting.

To be fair, he holds my forehead so I don't bang my head against the wall. Nice gesture.

Apart from that, lesson learned.

Zips

I stand proud and tall in his bedroom. He's behind me not touching me.

I feel his breath on neck.

"Any zips?", he asks in a curt, strictly fact-finding way.

"No"

He takes my dress slowly off me like it never belonged to me in the first place. He never rushes, you see, always taking his time.

I am waiting patiently for once.

I catch my reflection in the full length wardrobe mirror. So does he. My nipples pierce the lace bra I am wearing. You can see the goosebumps on me.

He runs his fingers along my stockinged thighs. Then he takes in the curve of my bottom. He stops in the small of my back.

He strokes my back with a single finger, from the small of my back   right up to my neck. I gasp helplessly and shiver.

"Turn around"

"No", I say, disliking the effect he has on me. My legs tremble.

The finger in the small of my back turns into a hand which unceremoniously pushes me down, face down on the bed as his hand delves between my legs, his fingers wet within seconds of opening me up.

"Legs apart"

"No", I say again, knowing full well the refusal will come with consequences.

I get severely punished for my insolence as his large hands leave angry imprints on my bottom with every stroke.

The pain is exquisite and very well deserved. As is his hard cock in my mouth, his hand grabbing my hair, long strokes deep into my throat, choking me into a tearful snotty mess, to ensure that I got the message.

Morning

We wake up. I catch his scent immediately. It's the 'I want you to fuck' smell. 

I leisurely rub against him. His cock responds to me instantly.  I arch helpfully. He likes me in a mieowling, cat-like 'please fuck me' position pretty promptly so I snake, wriggle and wrap myself around him with my legs wide open. Natural slut.

Scent

I am in bed. Knackered.

As I slowly drift into sleep, a snuggle up to the pillow and catch his scent on it. I inhale it, savouring every bit of the warm sensation.

My hand leisurely travels between my legs and I slowly start teasing myself. It doesn't take long.

I am just thinking about that time he fucked me and gagged me with his tie to stop me screaming, right on this very bed. 

I come in a shivering and satisfying mess, curl up and sleep.

Playing young

I like playing young. Nothing ever freaked out my debauched mates as my admission that every now and again madame enjoyed a bit of Daddy play. Well, stone the fucking crows.

It came so natural to me that I was unaware that this sort of thing may really spook some people. Yet, on a pragmatic level, I am a consenting adult, indulging in a bit of fantasy play. Freud once said that the father will always be a blueprint for all male relationships a woman will have, conversely, so will the mother in man's life. 

My father, a brilliant man, an intellectual, a real force of nature and ultimately flawed character, was always an immense influence in my life. He brought me up to be a mouthy, confident and utterly convinced of my brilliance, with a heartfelt conviction that I can do whatever I want to do and that a strong sense of self will get me places. In the great scheme of things, where your parents knock you and try to mould you into improved avatars of themselves, it was not bad going. Granted, he was a massive arsehole at times and treated my mother badly. But that was their relationship. I am my own person.

That said, my childhood was happy and the part of me that likes playing young, in a persverse way, wants to connect to that time, with the added layer of sexual satisfaction.

An important lover of mine unlocked it in me, instantly. After he dominated me the first time he tested me. 

"What would you like to call me?", he whispered, his breath hot and burning my cheek.

'NFI', my first response. Not fucking idea. The whole fetish universe may as well have been a Martian invasion. Totally unfamiliar.

"Master?"

"Ewww", I thought. 'I am  not in a fucking circus.'

"Daddy?"

Silence from me that spoke volumes.

"Say it"

As the word fell from my lips, the world lit up.

As he fucked me, heavy and relentless, I was calling him Daddy and loved every minute. And for the record, not once I thought about my actual Dad. I was just lost in sensation of being young, curious, sexually just on the cusp and experiencing something quite extraordinary.

As I said, nowt wrong with playing young. 

Boundaries

We wake up. I am warm and comfortable. He cuddles me and I respond by pushing into him sleepily like a kitten.

"I want to watch porn with you. Show me what you've been watching", he says.

I stiffen. No pun intended.

Watching porn is my thing. It's my private pursuit and I don't want to share. It's just something I like to be mine.

"No. It's my thing", I say and push my face into his chest shyly.

He doesn't get it. He pushes me.

"It's my thing", I repat childishly and refuse to budge.

And in the end, he takes his laptop, and starts watching it. Without me.

I am laying there, my face on his belly.

"What is it?", I ask.

"None of your business. You didn't want to watch it, did you?", he says curtly and pushes my head down.

As he fucks my face, I can hear the soundtrack to it in the background, the sordid moaning and strangers being fucked. I am totally detached. I have left my mind and oscillating somewhere on the ceiling, watching myself.

When we are done, I jump out of the bed without looking at him. I have a shower and come back to bed.

He says nothing but clearly senses that something isn't right.

In a surprisingly gentle gesture for him, he reaches out and strokes my arm. It's a quiet intimate move, unlike him.

"You haven't fucked me today yet", I say coldly in a business-like manner. I am getting my control back one way or another.

He smiles at my insatiable insolence, and flips me over, as always, ready. And he does fuck me. Narrating the porn he has just seen. Two men, one woman. My favourite. He tells me how he will take me to a sex club and watch me being used by people.

I listen to his heavy whisper, but I don't come, I keep my my eyes closed.

Then I go and have another shower. Alone in his bathroom, something happens. I start crying. Bit fat tears roll down my face. I am sobbing, my face drenched. I never cry, you see. This takes me by surprise. I am not sure why I am crying. It just comes out of me in droves, the emotion, the feeling, the heavy heart. I am quiet and exhausted by the end of it.

I come back and he asks

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, totally. Need to go."

Then I leave. It's a warm rainy day. I walk down the road and cry again, in an involuntary bout of soppiness. And then it hits me. He pushed a boundary. My secret self.