I swallowed and steadied myself. “L-Let me eat you. That message.” Even saying it in a whisper was enough to churn more sticky juices from my pussy.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well?” Responding to the question with a question surely indicates my predicament – I want some action.
“Do you have to be home early?”
I shook my head. At that moment, as the wine pleasantly soothed doubt, I had no curfew. I had told Paul about a work related farewell function. He had no interest in my work let alone my work relationships.
“I’m a little old for curfews,” I swallowed more wine and licked my lips.
“It’s good to hear.” He gulped the contents of his glass. “So you’re not up for dessert?”
“I’m not referring to the calorific variety on the menu,” he winked, signaling the waiter for the bill.
“It wasn’t the kind I had in mind.”
My boldness had no relation to the little alcohol I had. Despite the small amount, my knees practically buckled as I walked out of the restaurant with Tom. Although my pulse increased, my throat dried a little as did my lips. I mentally recited the contents of my bag. Yes, I did pack condoms. I hadn’t forgotten my perfume. I had also packed a toothbrush.
Outside, the air fanned my cheeks, heightening the contrast between my warmed flesh and the night. I followed Tom to his car, expecting his traditional approach. A short distance away from his car, he unlocked the doors at the press of a button and I stepped toward the passenger side to be sandwiched between his rather solid body and the car. His hand snaked around my waist and he pulled me close. I had no time to protest, nor did I desire to flinch and act out a virginal role. After all, I had signaled my sexual interest but surprise kisses tended to catch me off guard.
Tom pressed himself against me and I automatically opened my lips. I felt the bulge in his pants and held on to the lapels of his tailored jacket. It felt good to be wanted. His urgent kiss extracted my very breath and his tongue elicited my moans.
The distant sound of heels against the pavement pulled me out of the delicious moment.
“W-We had better get in the car,” I said and stepped to the side.
“Sure,” he held out the door and gestured for me to sit.
Seated, I watched him walk to the other side. His face didn’t betray his arousal or need. He opened his door, sat and briefly rested his hands over the steering wheel before he turned his head. I noted the rise and fall of his chest. He took deep breaths as he raised the hem of my dress.
“Slide down and spread your legs.”
With my breath lodged in my throat, I complied and relished the sensation of his three fingers rubbing my damp mound over my panties.
“It feels good. You like it.”
I nodded, feeling his finger slide beneath my panties and straight into my vagina. “W-Wha…”
“Shh,” he whispered and continued moving his hand as he fingered me.
I could only watch his hand as it moved between my legs. Knowing that he had already breached my inner zone, I dropped my bag and leaned my head against the headrest. The deeper he fingered, the more I clenched my pelvic floor muscles. The car wasn’t my perfect spot for sexual fun but no sooner had the thought dawned that Tom finished, raised his finger to his lips and licked it clean.
“Let’s get out of here and go somewhere where I can fulfill my promise and lick your pussy.”
(2 B Cont’d)
She knuckled down, her fingers stabbing at each key with caffeine-injected vigor. The screen greeted her eyes, and a hoarse grunt escaped her lips. The deadline loomed. Cartec, a major account, needed its monthly account summary and she almost forgot her afternoon appointment. She could always reschedule her first appointment at the new salon, and wait until the next opening. It could stretch to three months, and it wouldn’t do.
“How’s it going Kath?”
She looked up to see Julie, her vivacious colleague slide her arse onto her desk.
Julie’s emerald eyes scanned the monitor. Kathy’s mind rewound. Cats sometimes ate their offspring. She’d been ten, and hiked through the shrubs of her local park only to catch a glimpse of the local feral cat. Its blank green eyes focused on its offspring, and it was too horrific to recall but Julie’s eyes took her to the moment she heard the soft moist crunch…
“I’m nearly done. How can I help you?”
“Heard you’re using the gift voucher.”
Kathy nodded. She received the plastic fantastic birthday present three months prior. The girls pitched in and come half three, they all gathered round her desk for her birthday presentation.
“I’m going this afternoon,” three months passed, far too long for her liking. She’d always adhered to monthly maintenance but the new account placed more demands thanks to a corporate takeover and a sadistic General Manager who called her each day to be updated on the transition.
“Well they’ve added a couple of new items on the list,” Julie smiled, “you should check out 23, 45 and 54.”
“What am I going to do with a 54?”
“I tried 54 two months ago, and I returned a month later.”
Anything to show off, Kathy thought. Julie frequently reminded them of her regular schedule. Where others struggled to book appointments, Julie waltzed in with few problems. Her eyes quickly scanned her showy colleague. Kathy inwardly gaped at Julie’s radiant, near flawless, peachy skin. The whites of her eyes glowed, and she muffled her urge to sigh but venom seeped out instead.
“The 54 would be more suitable to a woman of your…maturity?”
The afternoon, and each laborious task, almost ground up her brain. Kathy wondered if her head ached or whether her brain cells groaned. The wall clock had to be wrong. A half hour remained until her appointment, and her feet needed to pound five concrete paved blocks.
“That’s it. You’re out of here.”
A shrill ring burst through to her brain, via her ear. It took a moment for her to realise her desk phone came alive. She gently picked up the handset, cursing her forgetfulness.
“Hello?” the masculine voice on the other end sprang forth. It could only be one person.
“You’ve reached Kathy Williams. Unfortunately, I’m unable to take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone,” she said, with a perky squeak.
She thought she’d pass out as the asshole baritone on the other side left a long, terse message, and she couldn’t believe her inner child. She sucked in her breath, and relaxed her lips. Did she dare pretend to be an answering service? Her fingers quickly entered her four-digit pin, activating the real deal and she shut down her computer.
23 seemed to be the right choice. She couldn’t help but smile. Sergei, the Salon manager, commended her on her choice.
“Totally new. Fresh off the rack. Completely trained to satisfy,” his gleeful grey eyes met hers, and she blushed. They both turned their heads toward her selection.
“Anything, Madam. You only have to request. No, demand.”
She needed it straight up, without a twist or fancy arsed umbrella. Her eyes appraised the masked specimen. Once upon a time she would have thought 23 too young for her thirty odd years. She faced 23, a well built man, and appraised his downcast eyes for a few seconds before taking in the rest of him. Smooth tanned skin, visible musculature; he could pin her down at any time with the strength his muscles boasted. Bulging deltoids, cut triceps, she almost swooned as he lowered himself to his knees and waited like a trained canine.
Heat unfolded, like a coil, and occupied her pelvis. She watched the interplay of his Gluteus Maximus and hamstrings as he crawled along the cold marble floor. He stopped in front of a black painted door and leaned toward the brass door handle. A half moment passed, his mouth latched onto the metal and the door opened.
Well within the scarlet and black furnished vestibule, she stripped off her suit and stood, parting her legs.
His exemplary obedience further moistened her anxious cunt. She needed him close by, standing a couple of inches away from her, and his fingers wedged deep inside her. He silently took his place, her eyes closed and she deeply inhaled his salty scent.
“Does it turn you on?”
The menace in her tone, so unlike her, briefly alarmed her. The song in her chipper sweet voice morphed into a cocktail of metallic spiked lust. She pictured his face underneath the black shiny mask, and her eyes opened to peer down south, detecting a stirring erection within his leather pouch. How long before the tip of his cock slid out to nudge her belly?
Kathy grasped his collar, and firmly yanked it. Her ass nudged the edge of heavy, ornate mahogany bench. She didn’t feel the need to strap him onto the table, even though each heavy leather strap beseeched her. God, how she wanted to laugh. Did he sigh with relief beneath the mask? She detected his eyelids, slowly blinking, and perched herself on the edge of the bench, spreading her thighs apart.
“You know what do,” she said, and gave him a brief introduction. Her fingertips skated over the wet groove, pushing her labia aside. Her three fingers merged, and she firmly rubbed herself up and down. His obscured face minimized his needs, and his psyche. 23 became a vessel, or toy, she focused on his middle and forefinger.
She panted as his fingers steadily ploughed into her creamy hole. A hole or slit, was how she saw it, in addition to it being a cunt or a pathway to her pleasurable climax. Her hands trailed over her torso, appreciating every microscopic river of blood that warmed her skin and inflamed her nipples to firm rosy peaks. She gripped his forearm, and held it firmly in place so she could grind against his knuckle deep fingers. A spasmodic pair of butterfly wings tickled her chest before rising to her throat, almost knocking the wind out of her.
She let go, ordered him to strip down, and redirected her attention to his cock, firmly stroking it without any wet love from her lips.
“Does it hurt?” Not that she cared. He was hard, and ready to fuck her.
She caught sight of his bulging Adam’s apple.
She decided to push the envelope, and take a risk.
“Take it off now,” she nodded, signaling his mask, “oh, you’re pretty,” and he was in a matter of symmetry. Flawless skin stretched over his high cheekbones, and firm jaw. For a moment, she couldn’t believe her luck and saw his fleeting glance, how his eyes glimmered within their sockets.
She quickly guided his cock inside her, a firm stab and he began his dance, pummeling into her. She told him to fuck her.
She looked at his shiny cock exiting before re-entry, coated with her need, lust and he then moaned, thinking he could take the lead because of his face.
She slapped his face on re-entry, her energy briefly adjoining with his to then reverberate through to her limbs. A train of soft moans danced along her neck as his hips repeatedly met hers. Each wild thrust sparked further thoughts. Her left palm met his cheek, but he continued fucking her. An orb of electricity coalesced at the base of her spine.
So this is Kundalini?
The orb emanated outward, and she squeezed her eyelids shut, appreciating the prickling heat within her. Her Yoga teacher certainly avoided the Kundalini reptile within everyone.
Kathy rode it for a short while, and abandoned her initial mission. She pushed him away, stood and crouched.
She licked up the muted scent of her arousal off his cock, and swallowed it all, snatching it away from him. His eyes widened when she instructed him to fuck her mouth.
It was funny, she thought. She entered the room with a sense of authority, and now his hips became the lever, pushing his cock deeper into her mouth.
She slurped, and dribbled along the way.
What a messy bitch…
Her fingernails dug into his buttocks at the right moment of his cataclysm, and she eagerly absorbed each pearly jet only to stand, wipe her lips with her fingers and smile before stepping into her clothes.
She arrived home. Overcome by the scent of sautéed mushrooms in, what she correctly detected, red wine.
“You look energized. Gym?” her husband Terry smiled as he oversaw he oversaw his sauce.
“Went to the Salon.”
“How’d it go or how much did it set us back this time?”
Kathy fished through her handbag and retrieved the receipt.
Terry eyed it and whistled.
“Care to share?”
“It’s tax deductible…”
He rolled his eyes. “Go on. I’d like to hear. Was he good?”
“That’s something I’ll discuss after dinner…in the bedroom, or anywhere else that takes your fancy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can’t keep me in suspense,” he sipped more wine, licking his lips to savour the taste.
The red wine ignited the thread, dissolving my resolve. “It can be quite awkward. Especially if, let’s say, one is prematurely…” I lowered my voice, “entered.”
Tom’s eyes widened. He winked and grinned. “That terrible? It’s not a subject that receives much discussion. But the ideal of the hot thick shlong, now that’s a frequent ideal that appears in films…it’s what every sex toy is about, but strangely enough, I don’t feel threatened by sex toys.” He winked, “They don’t keep a woman warm at night, can’t talk and are quite challenged in respect to intimacy.”
I closed my mouth and nodded. Whether the wine or the topic of conversation, I felt rising dampness infiltrate my upper inner thigh area.
I shook my head.
“Oh go one. It’s half a glass at the most.”
The wine tipped me over the edge; I needed to eat more, so ordered dessert straight after I polished off a rather small portion of spaghetti marinara. Trendy restaurants are mindful of appearance and, it seems, rental costs.
When my chocolate soufflé arrived, I half expected Tom to comment on my choice. Instead, we entered the familiar zone, one that I barely remembered with Paul.
“Here, let me try some.”
“Only if you let me try your Tiramisu,” I said, hardly expecting him to agree. Tom cut a sizeable chunk and offered it to me, which I accepted, without any oral innuendo. “Nice.”
His eyes gazed at my lips. I noticed his Adam’s apple bob a couple of times. I shifted in my seat and not from any repulsion. His salient response primed my arousal. I decided to take the conversation to the next allotted stop.
“How do you find using the adult web service? Do you find it daunting?”
“I don’t know. Are you…daunted right now?” he smiled.
I measured my words. “A little. I don’t know if I’m a little scared or unnerved, but I am a little frazzled.”
“That’s an interesting word, commonly used in relation to work and stress.”
“A good frazzled. Is there any other?”
Tom frowned. Even I hadn’t anticipated my delayed reaction. To save any more embarrassment, I loosened my mental hold on the conversation, throwing all caution to the farthest reaches of my conscious mind.
“I’m fine. It’s not the wine, I’m just a little nervous.” I signaled for him to come closer as our waiter hovered. When Tom came within whispering distance, I took in his exotic cologne. “I’m a little…turned on. Right now.”
His eyes met mine and I could tell that he felt a little uncertain himself. Was I having him on or was I mental? It couldn’t be that easy. So many thoughts danced behind his eyes.
“I’m not mucking about,” I said. If we weren’t seated at a round table for two, I would have taken his free hand and placed it beneath the skirt of my dress, up close to my damp crotch for him to feel the proof.
“What brought that on?” he huskily asked.
“I’m wondering what you’re capable of. I can’t stop thinking about your online message to me.”
I swallowed and steadied myself. “L-Let me eat you. That message.” Even saying it in a whisper was enough to churn more sticky juices from my pussy.
(2 B Cont’d)
They never resemble their photographs. ‘Sexyman’ Tom’s voice suckered me in. Like warmed honey over fresh waffles, the thought entered my head through my ear but felt like it took a detour, sliding down my throat and on to my nether regions. Smooth, viscous and overwhelmingly tempting, it rooted me to the spot.
I imagined Tom eating me, exploring the various scenarios. How would he begin? Would he gently pry my pussy apart with his fingers, hopefully large and powerful fingers, or dive straight in with his mouth? My lips tingled slightly.
On the telephone, he came across as a confident man. They all do. Their voices take on a can-do tone.
“I’d like to see you as soon as possible. It’s around two now. How about six?”
I swallowed, my hand trembling slightly. “S-Sure…I mean, can I call you back? I’d like to double check my schedule. You see, I’m still at work,” I said with a slightly lowered tone.
“Oh sure, darl.” His gregarious voice overrode my inner logic. Paul would have to make do with a microwaveable dinner or, what he preferred, dining out at the pub with his friends. Life couldn’t be easier.
“Look. Why not? Where would you like to meet?” I coolly asked. “It’s best to get over the nerves and anticipation. No?” I sounded as though I’d done this numerous times. Well, I did it once. Fucking strangers speaks of verve and impulsiveness with a slash of silliness, but I didn’t care.
We arranged to meet at a suburban restaurant. Its fancy name rang in my mind and as I waited at the table, feeling somewhat awkward refolding the red napkin before me, I avoided the waiter’s glance. Ten minutes skated by and as I rechecked my watch, I gave up on Tom arriving. I’d been had. Stood up. Thoughts collided: humiliation brandished my cheeks with waves of prickly heat while my bold inner half brazenly stood on the mole hill of denial. Then the door opened and the man entering glanced at me with a knowing glance.
My first thought was ‘woah!’ A web moniker tends to exaggerate. Tom’s income definitely reflected his dress sense, right down to his custom designed shoes. Crocodile. As for the rest of him. He could have taken a central role in an Ian McEwan novel; average in face, expression and demeanour, his soft physique confirmed his aversion to gyms. He turned toward me and grinned. His smile lacked star quality, failing to illuminate his face and balance his crooked nose, small close set eyes and protruding lips.
We were meant to ‘meet for adult fun’ and as I sat, eyes relatively stunned, I focused on the moment and the extravagant menu before me.
The waiter took Tom’s cashmere coat and returned to escort him toward my table. It was too late to mumble a garbled excuse and dash. There I sat, adventure girl. My smile froze in place and Tom’s eyes focused on my lips. He seemed to be pleased after his minute inspection. Men of his aesthetic limitations can be like that and tend to gravitate toward features they themselves will never have.
“I’m happy to meet you. Tom.” He extended his chubby hand toward mine.
“Same,” I said. “You’re a little late.”
Tom shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s part and parcel of the job, darlin’.
A macho man, I thought. Acknowledgment with no apology. How striking. Others would call it refreshing, but I loathed the liberal sprinkling of the word. These days, everything takes on the qualities of a zingy soft drink. It’s ‘refreshing this’ and ‘refreshing that’.
I decided to match his verve. “You’re not like your profile.” But he did have a fuckable voice, even though voices cannot be fucked. I could close my eyes. I’ve never stopped to consider or count the attractiveness of all the men I’ve slept with, but Tom sat at the top of the average pile. Never one to utilise the word ugly to describe people, I had to concede this time. If Tom’s features had to be summarised on the basis of their asymmetry, and his demeanour was factored in, complete with his burps and ungraceful tooth picking, then the word would have to suffice.
He ordered his steak rare and relished his selection of red wine. I couldn’t deny the appeal of his food choices. Paul was so goddamn picky about everything. In restaurants, sauces had to be served separately. Tom didn’t care for hoity-toity niceties.
“Here, have some,” he raised his fork.
I gazed at the thick chunk of bloody meat and evaluated it as an offering. Semi raw, I felt as though I was seated in the presence of a hunter. Accepting his meaty offering was symbolic of so much more. From our conversation – Tom raved more about work – I gathered that he had lived for work, that his stature provided him with a daily sense of pride and confidence but such things didn’t necessarily translate to much in the dating game.
“I didn’t marry. No offense, but women want a lot. It’s not enough that I earn a significant amount, they want more and more…and a twelve inch cock!”
I smiled. “That’d be a little uncomfortable.”
“Not that I’m revealing anything from experience,” I added, clumsily bumping my dessert cutlery.
He stabbed the air with his knife. “Uh-Uh, you can’t run from that. Go on, tell me about your preferred cock size. We’re friends. Besides, we don’t have to see each other again so it’s less embarrassing.”
Bolstered by the wine and the tasty morsels before me, I nodded and gathered the details of my sexual wanderings.
(2 B Cont’d)
The next day, I wonder if we’ll ever have a repeat performance. And it, and Paul’s dick, does arise at some point over the weekend. When the following day arrives, I don’t even feel like I’ve had sex. My muscles may as well be numb. There is no passion and, trust me, I’ve tried. But it’s work; the bills, mortgage…this, that…meetings, conferences, stress, frustration, job dissatisfaction. Like me, Paul finds similar excuses. I’ve sometimes wondered about his excuses and whether he’s been faithful; he doesn’t have the energy for regular pursuits, like…walking to the shops. He’ll drive to the liquor shop, which is five minutes on foot. It’s the way of the world, I guess. As things are, he hardly gets time to drive his new Saab. What is a two minute drive to keep the engine humming. This is the thing: people prefer to keep their car engines humming and ignore their core needs or, like me, take incredible or incredibly stupid risk to satisfy their primal instincts.
From Sexyman 431
“Let me eat you…”
It’s when I’m at my mother’s Tupperware party that my heart pounds with anticipation. Despite the dullness of eight hardcore housefraus vying for new kitchen containers, that mum ensures are ‘new and improved,’ I sit and eagerly wait for the party to reach its conclusion.
At some point, probably when mum’s friend Janice discussed meat containers, I remembered the mobile phone in my handbag. Its internet capability flashed in my head. I excused myself and visited the bathroom. After firmly planting my ass on the covered toilet seat, I fished out my phone to check my profile messages.
The direct message reaches into me. My stomach flips and my pulse immediately quickens. Sexyman 431’s message leads me by my pussy. I think about cunnilingus. How can I not think about it when faced with a direct statement? I also consider my dying sex life at home. When was the last time Paul offered oral sex? Even during the last throes of sex, he’d prefer direct penetration, a few customary thrusts and a climax. Mind, he expected to be orally pleasured as foreplay, often using the pathetic argument about men and their different biological needs. Such needs required direct foreplay techniques, whereas penetration was sufficient for women. This was Paul’s view of it all.
I don’t wait. I urgently type out my cheeky message:
“As long as you don’t mind my southern baldness. When can we meet?”
Corny –but effective. Sexyman 431 must be glued to his Blackberry or laptop. A response hits my phone within ten minutes and shortly after reading his reply, I begin to feel the first ripples of excitement; my skin prickles and the light sheen of perspiration coats my cleavage. His response:
“More room for me to lick, kiss and suck. Tomorrow. I need to speak to you first.”
Instead of asking ‘Why doesn’t Paul talk this way?’ I wondered how fast I could get out of my mother’s house.
“Call me now,” I typed.
As clichéd as it may seem, the wait felt like forever. Imagine being cloistered in one’s mother’s bathroom, holding one’s breath for fear of having one’s thoughts read.
Two minutes on and I sat staring at the phone.
I returned to the living room and too my position among the housewives as they marveled at newly designed containers and colors. It was then that the phone rang. The women glared at me. I feebly made my excuse.
I raced out to the porch and breathed into the phone. At least regular fucking would improve my fitness, I thought.
“Hello?” I said in my put-on quasi porno voice.
“Guess who I am.”
“I don’t think I have to guess now, do I?” I said.
“My name is Tom.”
“Nice to meet you Tom.”
“Care to reveal your name?”
My mother raised her penciled brow. “Your husband? Doesn’t he know where you are?”
I nodded. “He does now.”
At the back of my mind, a voice told me not to push my luck. Using my husband as an excuse to leave would only drag me further into the awkward urn of lies. One lie would lead to the next; a silken web would form and engulf me.
Whether I killed time at my mother’s or waited at home, the hours could only crawl by until my much awaited meeting with Tom.
(2 B Cont’d)
The next day, Paul was nowhere to be found. Perhaps it’s an early meeting. Either way, my horniness is like a second skin, patting me up and down. It may as well reach into my skull and slap my brain, rouse lurid thoughts and incite some action. I have to be sick to grab my laptop, walk toward the kitchen and open the damned thing before I switch on the electric kettle.
As the water adjusts to its assault, I wait for the laptop to load and once everything is on track, I open the familiar dating site and type a message to Waterboy:
“Why don’t we get things on track? I’d love to meet up for a coffee. We can take things from there.”
I press send and feel 100 percent confident that he’ll agree. I’m basing this confidence on factors beyond my libido. Some would agree, say that modern technology reduces the angst behind dating and casual get togethers. As recent as five years ago, internet dating was considered strange. Go back another decade, and many thought it weird, crazy and desperate. Now, it’s all about convenience and personal screening. Why attend many dates when personal requirements can be discussed prior to the first date? That’s if people even have first dates. Even the definition of date is shifting.
Many claim to have met online and they meet as they’re drinking coffee or eating a snack or a microwave dinner. It could very well be an alternative date. People no longer have to meet at parties, bars or wretched blind dates set up by friends or relatives. They can, and do, meet online. Twenty years from now and it won’t be a weird thing. What will be weird? Meeting face to face will be stranger than, let’s say having that first date at a restaurant. I don’t know, but if I’m in a fancy restaurant with heavenly food, I’m more interested in the food than Date 101 small talk. The internet has turned everything on its head, altered preconceptions, rules and relationship standards.
After I make my coffee, I return to the laptop to check for any new messages or a response from Waterboy. Satisfied that I have received five more messages and no response from my next hopeful conquest, I consider breakfasting at a nearby café that has free wireless internet coverage. No matter where I try to take my thoughts, my libido doesn’t allow me to ignore it. Reading the newspaper online, arriving at yet another aggregate study discussing another difference between the genders, I remember the story about the couple that had sex every day for a year. The female partner decided to give her husband a present: sex. He didn’t express any disappointment. Who’d be disappointed with that? He couldn’t complain, as most couples do after years of marital existence. This thought changes. I keep the sex within the thought. I also keep the everyday frequency. Interesting, I think. I just can’t imagine having sex with my husband each day for a year. 365 days. 365 blowjobs.
I’m no Vogue model, but I do make the effort to maintain my physical fitness. Paul cannot say the same about his physical routine. It’s not that I don’t find him attractive. It’s just that I see his slight paunch. It’s hardly noticeable after he puts on his business shirt, but I know it’s there. For women, midriff flab is referred to as a muffin top. Men don’t have a term for them. They’re either paunchy, even this doesn’t sound terrible, or they’re chubby. They don’t have muffin tops. I’m raving a little, but facts are facts. Paul hasn’t performed a push up for years. He hasn’t done a stomach crunch and I doubt he can carry ten grocery bags without mentioning something about arm strain. The thing that began putting me off fucking Paul: his biceps or the lack of biceps. I don’t know how or why, but the day I noticed the lack of definition in his torso was the day that I started making excuses about sex.
Women make excuses not to have sex for various reasons. The fact that we find the thought of revealing the horrible truths painful is the reason why we create excuses in the first place. To say that you’re finding your partner less attractive is like amputating them at the knee. But what makes it even more dreadful is the prospect of being on the receiving end of a similar sentiment. But Paul couldn’t point out an extra Goodyear tyre around my middle or butt and hips.
There have been many times I’ve pondered sex with Paul. We turn off the lights. I don’t look at him. He tries to coax me to consider a brightly lit sex scene, but I act like I’m immersed in the passionate throes of sex to bother with the bedside lamp. We kiss and grope. Then we fuck in missionary position for a few minutes. He climaxes. It’s done.
(2 B cont’d)
None of my attached or married friends discussed their sex lives in detail. Despite television shows indicating the opposite, marriage remained a rosy positive destination. Bad things happened, but humiliating spousal sex episodes weren’t part of the conversational package over morning espresso.
I’d read about sexual mismatches, how the libido changes over time. Paul was happy with monthly sex, and if that. Lately, I’d felt as though I began the slow ascent to the dirty thirty zone. At 28, I could only imagine what my 30’s would become. If I fuck a complete stranger in a handicapped toilet, what else remains open – apart from my legs?
So there it is. The dismal three year itch. Added to the four years Paul and I dated, it makes seven years and I itched all over.
In my prickly hot state, the decision to divide my life dawned. More notable people than I live double lives. They weren’t any more special or different. Ultimately, we all had one thing in common: we all had urges that couldn’t be satisfied by the conventional people in our lives.
WOW, what can one say, the pic on your profile is nothing short of sensational, would love to feel your lips on the end of my tongue.
The simple message says the most. I select, read and click Waterguy’s profile to familiarise myself with the basics: he is six foot one, claims to have an uncut eight inch cock and lists (giving and receiving) oral sex, spanking and giving anal as a few of his favourite sexual turn ons. There are no profile images. He rates himself as reasonably good looking.
For some oddball reason, I reread his short message. The end bit gets me. I try to picture my lips on the end of someone’s tongue. It’s not something that I’ve consciously fantasised about, but on closer mental inspection or, should I say, visualisation, I can see the appeal.
In my response to Waterguy, I state the obvious, trying not to seem desperate:
Thank you for your message. It’s refreshing to receive your short, but effective, message. I’ve read your profile and feel that your interests and mine can merge.
I provided him with my new email address and made a personal note to myself to buy a prepaid mobile phone. After I clicked send, I considered my gesture. I provided my details first. Why did I submit my email so easily? Actually, it could be the social, cultural and economic factors.
Socioculturoeconomic…How about that for a word? I don’t want to analyze it that much. There were other heavy duty intellectual feminists who tried to alter the course of female objectification. By objectification, I mean the subtle expectation. There are countless magazines telling women what to wear. There are so many clothing manufacturers out there, but only a handful of fashion labels are mentioned in a standard magazine and if a fashion house has the right amount of money, they appear in the opening pages of the glossy publication. We aren’t told. We’re instructed to be feminine or as feminine as designers and manufacturers permit.
Of course, this train of thought chugged along in the hope that it would speed up by some freak act of God and overtake my brain. It wasn’t so simple. Sex pestered my mind. My psyche coveted another sweaty clandestine fuck session. Yes, sweaty. Sex is messy, sweaty and, on close inspection, hardly elegant. I’ve read numerous quotes about sex. Even Leonardo da Vinci had something to say about the ‘act of procreation.’ He wasn’t heterosexual, but even he could understand the sobering image of up close and personal genitalia. It takes time, operant conditioning and experience to appreciate the sight of engorged genitals going at it.
I lay back on my bed, thinking lewd thoughts. My muscles still ache from the spontaneous sexual outburst in the handicapped toilet. I need to sleep on the intriguing message from Waterguy.
(2 B cont’d)
“I’ve been waiting,” I said, sitting up in bed.
He raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you cold?”
“Why don’t we…” I became mute.
“Now?” He looks at his wrist watch.
“I’m up for it,” I say, a little breathless considering I’ve spent much time toying my pussy.
“What’s that sound?” he asked, stepping inside the room.
“I needed a little extra,” I said, hoping he’d raise the sheet or have an instant hard on for me.
“Playing huh? With that sex toy.”
I despised that tone. That sex toy? I kicked off the bedclothes, bent my legs at the knee and push that sex toy deeper into my cunt. “You mean this sex toy? The one in my pussy?”
Paul’s face reddened, “Do you have to? Like that?”
“Are you humiliated?”
“I’m uncomfortable. It’s a little blunt.”
“It feels so fucking good,” I said. “I’d prefer it to be your hot cock.”
“Please…don’t,” he said, stepping back.
As aroused as I was, I plummeted into a torrent of uncertainty and self-loathing. If Paul’s face was red, my face had to be a deep blood-red crimson. Rage, frustration, humiliation? I couldn’t separate the emotions that raged within me. I pulled out the toy and gazed at my husband.
“You’re a bastard of a man. A low bastard.”
“Don’t be like that,” Paul said, practically cowering at the doorway.
“Most men would appreciate a horny wife.”
“Most. I’m not most.”
“So you prefer a frigid woman? An asexual woman, perhaps?”
He shook his head.
“Then what?” I yelled. I was tempted to throw the vibrator at him.
“It’s not the right time. Not now. It’s late and I don’t like sharing my bed with a…a vibrator,” he said, determined to get his point across about the vibrator. “Besides, you cheapened the moment with your gutter talk.”
“Fine. Go. Eff off.”
He flailed his arms. “This is what I mean. This isn’t communication. It’s abuse.”
“What you mean? When? Did we discuss our intimate life of late?”
“You know what I mean. Come on, I’ve got to get to an early meeting in the morning.”
I nodded.“That’s fine. I’ll take the guest room.”
Much to his surprise, I retrieved my laptop and left the room knowing that I’ll return for a dressing gown. At the back of my thoughts, I think about Paul and his Poker buddies. The afternoon tryst bolstered my ego. I couldn’t be that terrible for a complete stranger to be up to fucking. Nate had all of five minutes to bail out. As did I. No. Something had to be up for Paul to prefer five hours of cards with his buddies than an hour of sex with me.
As I left the room, Paul called me back.
“Why do you need the laptop.”
In my best nonchalant expression, I frown and sigh, “To do some online job hunting. I can’t sleep now.” Ignoring his body, I step back into the room and retrieve a dressing gown from the wardrobe. Paul didn’t have anything to add and I beat a hasty exit. I’d make do with the double bed and hoped the horniness would subside so I could get some sleep. Matrimonial routine reduces the likelihood of embarrassment, or embarrassment is redirected as frustration and anger. Suddenly, the newscaster and her irritating pitchy voice annoyed me. It’s the most trivial thing, a militant animal rights group ranting about swatted flies and the bad example the act of swatting represents.
I crawl under the duvet and retrieved my laptop. After I opened the dating page and logged in to my account, I noticed the abundance of messages. I almost exceeded two hundred. This didn’t mean that I suddenly morphed into Miss Universe or Jenna Jameson. When my online status was revealed for all to see, they became hopeful and started bombarding with winks and messages, many of which were standard sex templates the male members wrote to introduce themselves. Adult sex dating is like fishing. Cast the bait and wait for the fish to bite.
My sexual encounter with Nate felt like a blessing. After Paul’s reaction, I saw it as a bad omen. It opened up a sticky abyss. A deliciously risqué abyss. I scroll through messages and stop at a few. What to do?
(Previous installments can be read here)
Back at home, I sat cross legged on my bed and stared at the laptop screen. There is a towel between my skin and the bed, and after much deliberation, I untuck the towel, let it fall and reveal my tits and waist to the web cam. I tap the mouse pad twice. I repeat the process three times, after which I sort and upload the images to my adult dating profile.
A few minutes after the upload, the first avalanche arrived. All wanted more from me:
“Let’s chat on IM to get to know each other.”
“Let me eat you sweetheart. I’m fantastic.”
“Those nipples look tasty.”
From some place inside my brain, I tumbled forth and pinched my left nipple. Legs spread, right hand tentatively resting against my pussy, I watched my chest rise and fall and my nipples harden. I wanted to chat, but the need to play with myself overrode conversation.
I click one of my chat notifications and activate my web camera. On the screen, I typed:
“I need a little action.”
The man on the other side typed. “Wow…nice!”
With my ass in the air, I reached for my top bedside drawer and fumbled around until my hand rested on the familiar shaft of my vibrator. I returned, careful to keep my head out of the shot, and sit in front of the camera. Careful to position myself correctly, I opened my legs and pointedly caressed the area around my clit.
My chat buddy typed. “I want to reach out and suck your clit.”
I moaned and dipped the tip of the vibrator into my pussy. His script – and virtual desire – scrolled on the screen….
“Fuck that pussy…put it in deeper…harder…”
I stopped and quickly typed. “That…can…be your cock.”
The desire to make this stranger explode in his pants fuelled my hand. With a tightened grip, I rammed the vibrator harder, twisted and turned and slide out, to repeat the gesture. My hips flowed with the motion. I briefly stopped, with the vibrator deep within.
“It’s all the way inside,” I typed, feeling dirtier than ever. “I’d like to have two cocks…one in my pussy and the other in my ass.” There went my secret fantasy. Even Paul didn’t know about that one.
“Fuck…I’ve already come. I couldn’t wait,” my virtual fuck said.
Nice, I think and clicked him off. Fuck that…Instead, I focused on my experience, pulled the shaft out and pressed the whirring cock against my engorged clit. The orgasm instantly exploded within me. An electric surge blasted my pleasure centres and my groin buzzed from the extra blood flow.
I repeatedly talked to myself as I came, “Yes…fuck it…fuck it hard…”
Then I swallowed and gazed at the flickering screen, thinking that I needed to make something happen, take myself over an edge and challenge myself sexually.
I’d heard the saying, ‘things come in threes.’ I’d already had my second stranger-fuck, albeit online. Now I needed more.
My husband Paul had been the third man. The two men before him were polite and hardworking, but there was no romantic spark. Paul arrived and changed all that. A mutual friend introduced us during a group outing in the West End to see Hair – The Musical. Perhaps the theme of the swinging Sixties, the nudity and the sad ending clinched the deal. Paul and I began dating. Sex flowered in our second month, and I counted my blessings. Three years later, we married. Now, I wonder why we waited three years. We’d done all we could in three years. This ‘until death’ thing didn’t have any aphrodisiac qualities.
To test the theory, I slid the laptop under the bed and waited for Paul. With the vibrator nearby, I waited until the door clicked shut after 1 AM and called him into the room.
(2 B cont’d)
My mother is the type of woman who sacrificed much of her younger years working to buy her own home and furnish it anew. After my dad left her, she sucked up whatever resolve she had, and switched off. The fast and loose Seventies were blocked out. The alimony never came, dad emigrated to Australia and mum was left with few alternatives. Her own parents struggled as contract cleaners, and after numerous after school visits to their work, she took up the only thing she knew.
Mum now owns her own cleaning company and managed to meet a nice man. I call her the Coco Chanel of cleaning; mum’s new husband financed her cleaning business in the same way Gabrielle ‘Coco’ Chanel’s lover helped her open her flagship boutique at Rue Cambon.
My stepdad Malcolm passed me the mash. “Where’s Paul? I hoped to watch the football with him.”
“Poker game with the boys,” I said, dumping two ladle loads of mash onto my plate.
“Gravy?” I looked up.
“Here it is,” said mum, entering from the kitchen.
Malcolm sits at the head of the table with mum to his left. I sit opposite mum. Under the table, the balls of my feet bobbed up and down. The human body is filled with renewable energy. Breathing deeply, I smiled and toyed with the broad bean salad.
“You look happy. Did you find work?” asks mum. She’d given up offering me jobs. I wasn’t a snob, but sucked at cleaning. Either my brain gave out halfway or I’d miss obvious spots.
“Maybe. I’ve sent in a couple of applications,” I said, the lie manifest in the upturned corners of my mouth. “I don’t know yet.”
“One Italian eatery in the West End.”
“Which one? I may know it.”
She liked probing for more information. Parents may not believe they do it, but they constantly second guess and doubt their children. Some, like my mother, were justified. If a parent doesn’t know their child, then who does?
“I applied through a web site. It didn’t say. I think they’re using a recruitment agency,” I said.
Mum quietly nods, “Dig in. I didn’t cook for it all to sit there like a cook book photo.”
As much as she tried, her successful relationship with Malcolm aside, mum couldn’t attain the impossible perfection of a friendly dining table. Malcolm’s three sons didn’t take to the idea of their father remarrying so soon –three years – after the death of his wife. Mum’s side of the family warmed to Malcolm. The heavily discounted cars from his dealership also buttered my uncles up.
“How’s the business?” I asked.
“Forget the business. I wanted to ask if you were available this week. I need to buy a dress for Jeremy’s wedding.”
Jeremy was Michael’s middle son.
“Jeremy’s getting married?”
Malcolm offered a half smile. “He’s invited us at the last moment. I’m not too happy about it.”
“He’s busy,” Mum interjected.
“Stop making excuses for him.”
“When?” I asked.
“A fortnight,” they replied in unison.
The conversation revolves around family, weddings and future holidays. Nothing overly taxing. I helped clear the plates, load the dishwasher and reject the offer of a cheese platter with red wine with my regular excuse: I’m driving.
Truthfully, I needed to escape, to be on my own to devour the memory of the afternoon fuck in the handicapped toilet. Surreal, insane, hot and sultry. It ticked all my fantasy boxes. I didn’t care how many times Nate pulled strange women, if he used the same café or web site.
Thinking about Nate, his cock and his glowering face flicked on an inner switch. Standing at the kitchen counter, I swooned a little.
“You look like you’ve met the love of your life,” Mum said. “You haven’t met someone else have you?”
Shaking my head, I glare at her, “Mum!”
“It’s become a fashion trend now. I don’t want to say it loudly, but I think I’m lucky. Malcolm is a good man.”
Mum blushed. “I’m your mother. I don’t talk about stuff like that with you. Well…I have, about sex education. My personal life is off limits. You know that. But between you and me, he’s an attentive man.”
Attentive. I like that word. To me, it means someone who is willing to go down and stay there slurping pussy for hours if necessary. Mum may reveal that much to me, but the chances of me revealing that much about Paul were minimal.
No mum, I didn’t meet the love of my life, but did bump heads with a net geek. We scrambled to the nearest shopping mall, where he fingered and fucked me senseless in the handicapped lavatory.
I didn’t think I’d ever think it, but I needed to play some more. I needed a bit of everything. Colour outside the lines.