Exgf & the finger lickin’ date

I have deliciously naughty plans in mind for my slutty Exgf tonight. She arrives looking like an innocent little girl, wearing a skirt for once. I wonder if she’s wearing knickers; I told her not to. Her green eyes are sparkling at me and she looks quite pretty, but still not the kind of woman I’ve been enjoying fucking in the past year. This is revenge we’re talking about, so looks is irrelevant; ice-cold, slow, strangling revenge.

She’s surprised by my red sports car and I know it does things for her, perhaps even makes her juicy. Once at the Chinese restaurant on the outskirts of my town we get a table and indulge in small talk. I’m easily Passive Disinterested because I know that there is no romantic possibility between us. As with other women who like this demeanour she leans forward, inadvertently but perhaps deliberately exposing her ample cleavage. She catches me glancing, smiles, looks around the room and then shakes her breasts with a quick wiggle of her shoulders. Good, this slut is in a frisky frame of mind.

I pay for the meal just like I used to, but back then it was me being me, but tonight the vengeful me was paying. I was paying for my whore’s meal, making her in my mind a bought and paid-for receptacle for my lust. In the past I had fed her in so many ways, never suspecting that I was also feeding her twisted ego, the ego that got off on manipulating me, leading and misleading me. The sense of satisfaction I felt from being in the driving seat made the meal taste even sweeter. When she brought the chopsticks up to her mouth I could just imagine feeding her my phallus. Patience, all in good time.

It is a perfect Summer’s evening and there’s a party atmosphere in the establishment. The bustling beer garden outside beckons and I order us a bottle of chenin blanc. We find seats in an empty gazebo on an embankment that overlooks all the people about twenty yards from us. We side by side on a two-seater that swings. It’s dark and about fifty people are collected in small groups below us, they’re all engrossed in their conversations, glasses of wine and beer in hand. A floodlight is providing light on the group, their shadows fall towards us, we’re partially illuminated.

About halfway through the bottle of wine, my Exgf tells me about her latest trip to Thailand, somewhere we’ve been together and I can see her remembering this as she tells me of places we discovered in happier times. She went with her mother this trip but her eyes tell me she wishes it was with me; I know her that well. She’s in an emotionally vulnerable state, her practised defences are down, she’ll be receptive to anything I do from now on. The alcohol is helping.

I put a hand on her thigh and she puts a hand over mine. I lean over halfway towards her and she quickly comes forward to make our lips meet. Within seconds her tongue is in my mouth and she lets off a muffled sigh. Time to escalate.

Still kissing I slide my hand down her thigh and find the hem of her skirt. I’m going to do something naughty and she’ll slap me down, but I know it’ll turn her on. I slide my hand under her skirt and slowly make my way to her crotch. I can feel that she’s wearing underwear.

“I told you to not wear knickers. Naughty girl. You deserve to be punished,” I utter in a slow, low tone. She always liked my deep voice and I’ve never spoken to her like this before, so the uncharacteristic words are bound to have an effect, perhaps even an arousing one.

“Open your legs more,” I instruct and she complies. I push her panties aside and slide a finger into her pussy.

Anybody looking in our direction would see her with her legs apart, her skirt pulled up onto her thighs and my hand between her legs, fingering her. Should I be crazy and unbutton the front of her dress, tug on her bra-cups, letting her breasts fall out for the world to see? Surely somebody must be watching us?

“Come, let’s go,” I say, pulling my finger out of her wet pussy. I lead her to my car; we don’t speak. I’ve parked in the middle of the car park, it’s next to the beer garden. People are coming and going from their cars, the area is well lit.

Like an old-fashioned gentleman I open her door for her and close it once she’s sitting comfortably. What I’m going to do next is anything but old-fashioned. I get in on my side of the car and she’s turned slightly towards me and hasn’t put her seatbelt on. She’s looking at me, her eyes are big; she’s still turned on.

Without a word I lean over, quickly push her skirt up and put a hand between her legs, feeling the meatiness of her thighs. She lets out a heavy breath and opens her legs. My fingers push her knickers aside and my index finger slides up into her pussy. We keep eye contact and her mouth opens in surprise, but I know she’s enjoying this.

My Exgf is gushing wet; she did always like to be fingered. I slide my middle finger in too and she spreads her legs even more. I start playing with her g-spot, to which she lets out a “Oh my gawd!” She puts her hands down on her skirt, holding it up and she starts breathing faster. If I keep going like this she’s going to cum, then that’ll be it for the night. Very rarely was she multi-orgasmic during our time together, despite my best efforts. Once she came, that was it, game over. I’m not going to let her cum any time soon, I’m going to make her work for it.

I pull my fingers out and say to her, “Come over here and suck my cock,” all in a manner that I’ve never used with anyone before. Is this how a John talks to his whore for the evening? I know that my Exgf ‘s never had sex in a car.

She leans over to my crotch while I quickly unzip my trousers and pull my now rock-hard cock out for her to suck on. In less than a second she latches onto the top half of my cock with her mouth and she frenetically moves her head up and down on it. She would never have done this while we were together, so it feels good to be able to get her to do it now and with such enthusiasm. After a couple of seconds she starts making approving sounds that remind me of a little girl eating ice-cream on a scorching Summer’s day.

We didn’t get to oral sex on Sunday; it was all too fast and intense. This looks and feels good. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her suck my cock with such gusto before. I decide to test her honesty, to see if her story is consistent.

“When last did you suck a cock?” I ask.

She stops for a second to answer with, “I haven’t. This one was my last one.”

“Okay, stop talking, keep sucking,” I say with my new-fond brutishness. She lets off a little snigger and does as she’s told. Good slut.

I become concerned that people might be watching us and also I sense I’m getting closer to cumming myself. No, the evening has just started; I have other ideas that need seeing to.

“Right , that’s enough for now,” I say, guiding her shoulder up with a hand and putting my cock away with my other hand. She straightens her dress and checks her look in the mirror.

“Did you enjoy doing that?” I ask.

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you want to do that some more? Do you want me to finger you some more?”

“Uh-huh.”

Without another word I start my sports car and it roars into life. I remember reading in her sex diaries that she once let a guy fuck her on their second date because she got to drive in his sports car and she liked it. She must be enjoying this, it must be so exciting for her, especially after a year-long abstinence from sex. I drive us back to my apartment complex and park in the public car park that is also well-lit. I switch the car off, press the buttons that releases our seat belts, unzip my trousers and pull my semi-erect cock out.

“Come over here and suck my cock some more,” I say. I would never have dared say or do anything like this in the past with her. How will she react?

Without any hesitation she leans over and eagerly sucks away on my cock. I’m stunned, but I like this. I don’t know whether it’s this brazenness that I like, or the public naughtiness, or the instant compliance on her part, perhaps all of it, but this feels good. She was always a good cock-sucker, but this is taking us where we’ve never been before.

She starts making those involuntary noises again, like a wild boar sniffing for truffles. She’s enjoying this, being my whore. Of course she doesn’t know that I’m thinking of her in those terms. I didn’t know that she had this degree of exhibitionism in her, just one of the things that she kept so well hidden from me.

“Okay, enough of that now. Sit back in your seat,” I say, sensing that I’m getting close to cumming. She complies and looks at me, waiting for my next instruction.

“Pull your skirt up,” I tell her.

She smiles and pulls her skirt up onto her thighs.

“No, pull it all the way up,” I command.

She pulls it up as far as she can.

“Now spread your legs open and pull your panties to one side,” I instruct.

She does so and looks at me with big eyes. Anybody in the complex looking out of their window now could see us. My Exgf doesn’t seem to care and neither do I. Taking a few seconds to commit this sight to my memory bank, I slowly lean closer to her, keeping eye-contact and put a hand on her thigh. She lets out a nervous breath filled with anticipation. I slide my hand up her silky smooth thigh and slide two fingers into her pussy.

“Ugh” she says, arching her back a bit and closing her eyes.

“Is this what you want?” I ask as I find her g-spot.

“Uh-huh,” she gasps.

To be continued…

Lusty Lass & the surprise date

Do I want to fuck her? Not really. In the shit-storm that is my life, I had forgotten to give Lusty Lass the brush-off after our first date. Now she’s in my town and wanting to have a drink with me. I’m learning that when a woman suggests drinks it might mean that she’s frisky. I’m still smarting from Krazy Girl’s rejection of a few hours earlier, so a drink with another woman will distract me.

I walk a few minutes and find Lusty Lass sitting by herself in a secluded part of a nearby hotel bar. After pleasantries she tells me that she was in my town for a funeral of an elderly friend. The funeral had ended an hour ago and she seemed a little sullen. She’s also about to finish what I assume is her first glass of wine. I commiserate with her and I realise that a real player would take advantage of her in this vulnerable state. How do I want this to turn out? I’m really not sure.

One of our similarities is that we like chenin blanc, so I join her with one of my own. We start talking about my town and how she has known it since as a teenager when she came to visit the friend. At one stage the friend took her in because Lusty Lass had become too much for her parents to handle. Highly intelligent kids are easily bored and become mischievous, so it was with her too. The friend straightened her out, well, to a certain degree only. Underneath this bookish, innocent, sweet exterior was a submissive little slut who liked to be physically used. It’s such a pity that I don’t fancy her, otherwise we’d know good times together.

A couple of hours go by as Lusty Lass talks herself out; jeez, she can talk. As usual she’s talking about her shitty divorce of five years ago. Boredom has me by the throat when an idea comes to me. I look at her footwear and she’s wearing Jimmy Choo pumps, not conducive to a stroll in the countryside.

“Do you fancy getting some fresh air by going for a walk, or would you like to go back to my place and I’ll introduce you to Californication?” I ask.

“Hmm, these heels are killing me. Let’s go back to yours. Is it far?” she answers instantly.

Within a blink of an eye Lusty Lass is perched on my sofa, another glass of wine in hand. She kicks her shoes off and casually raises her legs to rest her heels on the large footstool – or fuckstool as I think of it. I catch a hint of red panties. I can just see her on her hands and knees, naked on my fuckstool, her curly black hair flowing down over a nibbled shoulder, her large breasts dangling free, a mirror propped against the wall so that she can watch my face as my cock slides into her arse. That is, after all, what she likes. Is that why she’s here? Is that how she escapes her troubles, albeit briefly, by way of intense, emotionally-liberating sex? Does being used make her feel valued, make her feel something, instead of a silent, empty nothingness that waits at home for her every night after a day of telling others what to do?

The first two episodes are Californication have their usual effect of turning a woman on. I don’t have any desire to fuck Lusty Lass, but I am going to fuck with her mind. My improvised plan calls for me to engage in verbal masturbation; we both like it, our track record of naughty emails tells me so.

“So what do you think of Californication?” I ask.

“It’s very naughty. I like it,” she replies with a twinkle in her eye and some rubbing together of her knees.

“You like naughty, don’t you?” I tease. I wonder what her pussy tastes like. Stop it!

“Yes, I like naughty,” she says with a straight face, taking a deep breath that swells her breasts.

“What cup size are you?” I ask, wondering how she’ll react to such a brazen question.

“I’m a thirty six double d. I’m a big girl,” she answers with a smile.

“I’ll decide if you’re a big girl,” I say with a dead-pan face and commanding tone. The pupils of her brown eyes widen momentarily.

I’m learning that women with high-powered jobs are submissive in bed. Days of being in charge, constantly making decisions results in such women wanting a man to take charge, a man to lead them to the promised land of multi-orgasmic bliss. They long for reckless moments that someone else takes the blame for and nobody ever knows about; such is the lot of the London Girl. It all starts with verbal foreplay that gradually increments in naughtiness until they are so turned on that the man can say or do anything. Switch her brain on first and the body follows.

Lusty Lass is breathing heavier and her eyes are on fire. She wants to fuck. How far can I push her boundaries before she baulks? I wonder just how naughty she can be. I wonder what dirty talk does for her. I wonder what she will tell me.

“Have you ever sucked a cock that’s just come out of your arse?” I ask, looking her straight in the eye, latching onto something she told me in our explicit email exchanges. Is this when she decides to leave?

“Yes, I have,” she replies with a smile.

“Did you enjoy doing that?”

“Yes. It was incredibly naughty and it happened in the heat of the moment,” she says, looking upwards as she remembers.

“Would you do it again?” No woman has sucked my cock after it’s just come out of her arse. I wonder what that would feel like?

“Maybe.”

This is decision time now. All this naughty talk has surely got her dripping wet. If I was able to get her gushing via email, what is she feeling looking at me, watching me talking dirty to her? She’s responding without any reservation or sign of discomfort. If I say “Shall we find out?” I reckon she’ll have my cock in her arse within an hour. Do I want this?

Actually, no I don’t. I don’t find her attractive enough to want to fuck her. She might have an okay body and be sexually uninhibited and I reckon it’ll be fun, but sex always comes with some kind of price. With her it would be an unavoidable emotional connection, regular phonecalls, daily emails, things I’m not interested in with her. She’ll think we’ve started a relationship and I know that it just isn’t going to happen between us. Things will get messy for far longer than her arse would be.

This type of woman I call “A Misery”. Life for her is always a succession of miserable, unfortunate incidents that constantly throw her into an emotional tailspin. Usually it is of her own making, involving an ill-advised, hair-brained course of action driven by a desperate emotion that, when it inevitably backfires, the fallout is long-lasting. Finding yourself interacting with such a woman when she is in her fallout mode is misery. They whine and complain, are impossible to please and guys just fuck them until they can’t take the Misery any more or somebody better comes along. The Misery is left to moan about the nature of men, usually chanting their favourite refrain of “all men are the same”, never realising that they are the common denominator in these short-lived ‘relationships’.

My overriding emotion towards Lusty Lass is one of sympathy. I feel sorry for her more than everything else put together. She is a sweet, innocent, harmless, good-natured person who does not need another guy taking advantage of her, even if she does want her arse drilled. The last thing she needs right now is a man messing with her heart while she’s still putting it together after her failed marriage. I don’t want to be that guy.

Truthfully though, if I felt that I had no other women on my dating horizon or didn’t have the early promise of a fuckbuddy outlet with my Exgf, then I might see things differently. Bum-love is not something I crave and after the anal incident with Krazy Girl, I am wary of it. However, if that is what a woman expects and seemingly increasingly more women do these days, then I’ll indulge her request in rubbery safety, just not with Lusty Lass though.

Lusty Lass is looking at me with come-hither eyes, but I’m just not interested. If I ask her to leave now then she’ll feel hurt and into another tailspin she’ll go; she doesn’t deserve that. However, I don’t want her spending the night either because I know that it’s highly likely that something will happen between us then. We have shared a bottle of wine over the evening and we had another glass each in the hotel bar. She shouldn’t be driving, but she can’t be staying either. I need to sober her up, cool her loins and then get her on the road.

I do exactly that over the course of the next hour. First I make her a coffee, start talking about non-sexual, boring things and then start talking to her about her job. Nothing kills a woman’s mood quicker than talking about her work. My strategy is a success and when I ask her for the time, she glances at her watch.

“It’s ten o’clock,” she says, looking quizzically at me. She wants me to either make a move on her or kick her out. I can see it in her eyes.

“How long will it take you to drive home?” I ask.

“It’s about an hour,” she answers, biting her bottom lip. She doesn’t want to go. Is she still hoping to sleep with me? How do I get rid of her without being rude? Then it comes to me.

“You wouldn’t want to go to work dressed in those clothes again, would you?”

“I suppose not,” she says and her shoulders sag. Her high-powered career demands that she is impeccably dressed and turned out at all times, hence all the make-up that I loathe. I can’t imagine what she looks like without the make-up.

Some women without make-up can surprise.

Some women without make-up can surprise.

I stand up and she gets the hint that nothing is going to happen between us. Her car is parked a few blocks away and I escort her to it. A quick peck on the cheek and she drives off, in the wrong direction. A casual observer would say that I was a shit for toying with her, but I’m proud of myself for not letting things get out of control and lead to a situation in which she felt more hurt when I inevitably had to reject her.

A lot of guys would shake their heads in disbelief at my turning down guaranteed sex, even butt-secks at that. I’ve never been the type to do something just because other people are doing it. I do what I believe to be right. Taking advantage of this woman would not be right.

I get back to my place to find a text message on my phone. It’s from my Exgf and says, “Are you free on Friday? That new Chinese restaurant is having an opening party. You wanna?

Yeah, I wanna. I wanna fuck you some more. I wanna make you do disgusting things for me.

Taking advantage of this woman is right.

I respond with, “That sounds lovely. Be at mine at 7pm. Don’t wear knickers.

Sixto Rodriguez – I Wonder

Krazy Girl and the indecent proposal

Late at night, when my heart is weak, it whispers Baltic Babe’s name. In the mornings when I wake up with a raging hardon, my body shouts Krazy Girl’s name. I close my eyes and fantasize about feeling her riding me cowgirl style, watching her hands push her hair up and seeing her perfect breasts swaying as she grinds into me. I can feel her smooth skin under my fingertips, I can feel the weight of her tits in my hands, I can hear the sound Krazy Girl makes just before she cums…

I’ve just walked out of a job that many would kill to have, but the job was killing me. I badly need a holiday and can think of nothing better than spending a week on a sunny island with a busty, lusty nymphomaniac. Sun, sea and sex will restore me to my best. For some reason Krazy Girl comes to mind…as well as the idea behind MissTravel – a free holiday in exchange for sex. Can I twist her nipple and convince her to indulge in my idea? There might even be a slim hope that we reconcile.

On Tuesday morning I send her a neutral email to open the conversation. We haven’t been in contact for a while and she might want nothing to do with me. If we talk on the phone I might come away with the wrong idea, but the silence of an unanswered email is clear. If she answers and promptly, then I’m in with a chance.

Krazy Girl answers my email within a couple of hours; I’m excited. Polite banter ensues in which she tells me that she’s still unemployed, on government benefits, had to rent out her home in London and has moved in with her parents. I smile to myself; my luck might be in here because it sounds like she could do with a holiday too. I put my idea to her, hoping that she goes for it.

Me: “Just toying with an idea here. Any chance you could tear yourself away and would like to go somewhere in Europe, a sunny beach on holiday for a little while? I know you can’t afford it, so I’m paying…

Krazy Girl: “I would love to go on a sailing holiday in the Med. What do you think?

Me: “I’ll look into it and get back to you.

Krazy Girl: “So would we be going as friends???

Me: “What would you like to go as?

Krazy Girl: “I don’t know at the mo, I am confused with my life.

Me: “I don’t want you doing anything you’re not comfortable with. Total honesty here: I’m curious to see if anything could develop between us. Not counting on it, just curious. Maybe we should meet before agreeing on going away together?

Krazy Girl: “That sounds sensible. I have to sort my work and family stuff out before I get involved with anyone as my head is full!

We make arrangements to meet the next day. She hasn’t said ‘no’ but is open to discussion. I was being honest in telling her that I was curious about there being any prospect of an ‘us’. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but she hasn’t dismissed it out of hand. I’m also assuming from her response that she is single.

It’s a perfect sunny weekday in August as I park near Krazy Girl’s parent’s home. I’m not sure what to expect from this but it feels exciting to be here again. It’s a hellavu lot better than being chained to a desk surrounded by squawking turkeys. I walk a few blocks to draw cash from a cash machine and walking back to my car I see Krazy Girl standing next to it.

I almost come to standstill when I see her; she’s beautiful. Like any man with a heart I can go weak in the presence of beauty. As we make eye contact she smiles and my blood warms. I have to resist the urge to kiss her passionately on the mouth and force myself to peck her hello once on a cheek.

Her golden blonde hair’s shorter and hanging loose, shining in the sun. She’s wearing a one-piece boob-tube Summer dress that hints at her breasts underneath. Her shoulders and arms are exposed, but it’s her throat and neck that I want to kiss. She’s even prettier than I remember; maybe I’ve been on too many dates with less attractive women.

We make small-talk as we walk to a nearby recreation ground; it feels like we’ve never stopped talking. She’s doing most of the talking and I’m doing all the gawking. God, I want her so much; I want to take her by the hand and run wild with her, doing whatever our hearts desire. Am I going to be able to keep it together?

After walking and talking for a while we get coffees and pastries, find a bench in the shade and sit almost facing each other. God, she’s beautiful, but somehow I don’t let her see what I’m feeling. At an opportune moment I raise the subject of us going away on a beach holiday together. Krazy Girl listens politely but is non-committal. I escalate to what I know focusses her mind.

“Imagine this, you and me making love whenever we feel like it. Having nothing better to do than to just enjoy each other’s bodies.”

Krazy Girl looks down at my crotch; she remembers what’s in there. Time stands still as she thinks.

I was made for loving her, she was made for loving me. She’s tempted, I can see it, but she says nothing and just bites her bottom lip in that sexy way that makes me want to jump her. Her boob-tube dress hints at her ample breastage, I’ve been distracted by the occasional wobble and I so badly want to pull that top bit down to expose her perfect breasts, fondle them, lick them, suck them into my mouth as much as possible. (I wasn’t breast-fed as a baby. Can you tell?)

I want to kiss her, like the very first time we kissed. I want to hear her catch her breath and sense her body stiffen. I know that I mustn’t, but I so badly want to. How can Life be cruel? We obviously fancy the pants off of each other, but that connection between our hearts just isn’t happening. Her heart is in turmoil.

Life isn’t being fair to her because I know that I am everything she needs and could ever want (okay, with the exception of children) and she’s missing out. If only her emotional state was more sound she might be able to see that? Eventually Krazy Girl speaks.

“Oh, my jobseeker’s allowance requires me to make twenty job applications each day and to prove that I’ve done so. I’d love to go away with you, I know we’d have fun, but I just can’t at the moment.”

It’s her use of the word “oh” that tells me that she’s lying. That’s her ‘tell’ I’ve learned. I’ve heard Krazy Girl lie to her father on the phone and she started her lies like that. Her story about job applications is a load of bullshit from a silly girl. Her loss.

In truth her rejection hurts, but I’m not too surprised. I had nothing to lose by trying. I don’t show my disappointment and keep the conversation flowing, this time to more neutral matters. I accept her answer gracefully and keep being a gentleman, largely because I want to keep things as positive with her as possible because you never know what the future holds.

After chatting happily for a while longer Krazy Girl says she needs to get back to making job applications. I smile to myself and walk her back to her parent’s home. I kiss her goodbye on a cheek and I go back to my car to find a parking fine slapped on the windscreen. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, birthday cakes…and now parking fines.

I go home and lie on my bed, contemplating what just happened, how it felt to see Krazy Girl again when my phone vibrates to life. Its a text message from Lusty Lass that reads, “Hi. I’m in your town right now. I don’t suppose you’re about? If you are, fancy meeting up for a drink?

My response?

Yes.”

Kiss – I was made for lovin’ you

Breaking free

I hate my job! I detest it, it’s the bane of my existence. It pays bloody well. Nevertheless my working days are a bitter disappointment to me, they’re soul-destroying. I would liken my job to a roll of toilet paper in that I’m constantly taking shit from some arsehole. If that’s not happening, when its quieter and I’m on my own and nobody can hear or see, then it feels like I’m slowly choking on someone else’s vomit. When I sit in meetings I imagine rubbing their faces in their own bullshit, making these erect egos drink piss from each other’s mouths, making them stab a pen in each other’s eyes when they tell a lie. An eye for an eye might make the world blind, but it would be fun to watch it happen. Yes, you guessed it, I work in IT (Intelligent Twats), but I’m not a programmer.

Finding myself constantly at odds with ego-maniacal eggheads, educated fools and clever idiots is not how I want to spend my days. My role involves facts and figures, but I’m more of a words and ideas person. I’m much happier debating where a comma should go in a sentence rather then where it should go in a line of computer code.

I know exactly how this guy feels.

Like any young person I was in a hurry to grow up, but this shit is not what I was expecting. I expected that as I got older that life would get easier because I knew more; I was wrong. I fell into my line of work by accident, initially enticed then enslaved by the money. Twenty years of trying to break free has not gone well. Always the optimist I have gone off to work with the best of intentions, then cretins happen. Sucking hard on my bank account has compensated for my career’s lack of using lubricant.

I was recruited by my current employers with the plan of getting me trained up and then deployed to America as their part of a joint venture. A few months into my training the deal fell through and my superiors didn’t know what to do with me. A stream of endless helping-out assignments ensues and I start to feel like a bag of weed at a frat party during a police raid.

Eventually I’m given a team to lead during a pointless make-work exercise that keeps a bunch of misfits, oddballs and delinquents busy so that they didn’t impact on people doing useful work. I was told that my personality was ideal to keep them in check. Charming.

I soon find out that trying to understand my staff is like trying to smell the colour five. At times I feel like a kindergarten teacher while my managers weren’t managing, they were barely coping. These men of straw were all playing the ‘LinkedIn Game’ whereby decisions were made on the basis of how it would look on their resumes and LinkedIn profiles, not on the basis of commercial sense or a business case. My respect for them hit rock bottom and started digging it’s way to China when my line-manager starts asking for and acting on my advice for his problems at work.

One of my other bosses and I have lunch in the corporate canteen every Friday. As we’ve gotten to know each other he has become increasingly interested in hearing about my dating adventures. We’ve got to the point now where he doesn’t want to discuss work and just presses me for details of my shenanigans. He married his teenage sweetheart when they were at university together; it’s been over twenty years. I’m pretty sure that after talking to me he goes and has a wank in the toilets next to the chief executive’s office.

I want more from life than getting up, surviving, going back to bed and living for the weekend. Many a time sitting in gridlock traffic I look around, look at all of us in our shiny cars and wonder if there’s a better way to live. When I leave for work in the mornings I see Little Birds parking their cars outside my apartment complex before they spend an hour on a train. The Little Birds give up life in exchange for the money to pay for his car that sits outside my home for longer than outside his own home and to pay for the train fare. The Little Bird spends more time at his desk than being awake in the dwelling that is in effect just a personalised hotel suite. If he’s been a good obedient rule-abiding Little Bird he can borrow money to buy his nest that will become his shortly before he dies. Born free and swamped in debt is not for me.

If Charles Dickens were to see a modern office setting, he would recognize his dark satanic mills, except that there is now better lighting and everyone is a typist. My worth is so much more than just knowing in what sequence to press a button on a keyboard.

work

In Biblical times slaves were used to construct ancient wonders. Nowadays share-holding, bonus-incentivised, politically enfranchised employees who can find themselves unemployed at short notice are used to build modern wonders. What’s really changed? Our perception of ourselves in that we think we’re free and have power. We’re not and we don’t. We have the illusion of freedom and the responsibility of power, but not the authority.

I’m becoming increasingly uneasy living in this so-called ‘modern society’. I don’t watch the news because every story is either a crisis or a shock. Television series have as their lead character the sort of person our parents warned us about. The rich pay no tax and if they fuck up, taxpayers bail them out in exchange for being told that sacrifices need to be made…by the taxpayer! Sacrifices? Okay, let’s burn the rich as offerings instead of our tax money. Watch how quickly things improve then. I don’t see how throwing a bucket of ice-water over my head is going to make things better.

In the iconic movie The Matrix, there’s a scene in which Neo is presented with a choice between swallowing a red pill and seeing the world as it really is, or swallowing a blue pill and remaining blissfully ignorant. Somewhere along the line in the shit-storm that is my life I inadvertently swallowed the red pill. I see things as they are, for what they are and I don’t always like what I see. I understand things in a way that few others do, but am at a loss to suggest or enact a better option. The emperor has no clothes and I can’t stop staring despite not wanting to.

The Matrix – Blue Pill or Red Pill scene

The recent weeks of bad dates along with my finding familiar faces on SugarDaddy and MissTravel has lowered my opinion of women. I’m now seeing women in a very negative way to the extent that I doubt that The One exists. This almost insane need to want to share my life with someone who loves me as much as I love her is starting to feel like a fool’s errand. All my life I’ve played the game, tried my hardest to live up to my ex-wife’s expectations, put my Exgf’s needs as my highest priority, been the guy to rely on at work, always assumed the best of every woman I met on a date…and where has it got me?

Fucking nowhere.

My working life has become a burden and now a health hazard. I’m waking up before the dreaded alarm goes off and what distracts me from thinking about something shit I know I have to do that day is an icy tingling feeling in my left arm. What the hell for? I’m sorry, but I have no burning desire to make already rich people even richer. I’ve never been the type of person to buy things I don’t need, at prices I can’t afford, to impress people I can’t stand. I don’t need a badge or a label to feel better about myself. All I really need is the love of a good woman.

That’s all I need…and I only want one thing.

I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I am at my happiest when I’m recording what is in my mind but life has always got in the way. That and other people’s expectations plus my wanderlust. I feel it’s time for me to be true to myself and do what I love. I have experiences and insights that I believe others will enjoy reading. Will people read my story about trying to find The One, about modern dating, about my lessons learned? I feel an overwhelming need to sit down and write, day in and day out, writing to remember and writing to forget. I want to write not because I might like it or because I want to, but because I need to.

It’s Monday morning after the weekend date with The Bitch, angry sex with my Exgf and the disappointing phonecall with Baltic Babe. I’m now fed up with women, sick and tired of being sick and tired about my job, becoming increasingly disillusioned with “society”. So much of the office politics of late has been clashing with my trust issues; I now don’t trust anybody I work with.

I’m at a stand-up meeting with everybody on the project. My staff start acting up and my superiors kowtow to them over an issue that badly effects my position on “the team” but I say nothing. I’m not going into the detail, but it was enough for me to walk over to my desk, quietly pack up my stuff and walk out without saying a word to anybody.

This is not the life I want or deserve.

I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m going to do, but I’m breaking free…

Ultra Naté – Free

Baltic Babe baits? Trouble awaits.

I phone Baltic Babe because the previous day’s date with The Bitch has left me with a bad taste in my mouth, and the angry sex with my Exgf of a few hours ago has angered my soul. I feel the need to experience some goodness and decency from a woman. I have also been wondering whether the times that my memories had wandered over to the side of my brain reserved for Baltic Babe, were a true account of how she was. I also want to remind myself of how good her laugh sounds.

Baltic Babe might not be home and also might not want to or be able to talk, or if she did, it would be a blunt, disinterested attitude. I have nothing to lose. To my surprise I get a very friendly response, almost to the point of her seeming glad to hear from me. I had steeled myself for her still being with her boring Frenchman, but her attitude from the offset makes me wonder if he is still on the scene. Is there hope for an “us”?

We make polite small-talk about our work situations. She was made redundant by her firm at the end of March, but instead of being in a state of mild panic like I expected her to be in, she seems quite sanguine about it. Baltic Babe tells me that she’s taken the opportunity for some time out for herself, has been gardening (memories of her precious dahlias come to mind), has tied up loose ends, slept late, met friends and family and done some travelling. She mentions doing trips around the UK, as well as going to Greece and France. It’s the mention of the latter that alerts me to the very real possibility that the Frenchman is still on the scene. I resist the urge to directly ask about him. I wasn’t really hoping that he was history, but if he wasn’t around, that might have presented me with a dilemma.

I skirt the issue and tell her that I was phoning because on the coming weekend it is the Bristol Hot Air Balloon Festival. It has been a year since my last abortive attempt to take her to this spectacle. I ask whether she is interested and available, fully expecting her to say that she isn’t for some reason, which I would have been fine with. In a tactful way she answers “I would like to, but my weekends are not my own.” How characteristically enigmatic and beguiling of her. I know exactly what she means. I can almost hear her smiling on the other end of the line.

Feeling devilish I played dumb and ask “So what does that mean?” with a little laugh. We are now both smiling at each other over the copper wires, I have no doubt. “My French boyfriend takes up my time on weekends” is her response. Undaunted, I tease, “Well, he can come along, but he’s not allowed to speak.” I hear the laugh that I want to hear. That deep, unconstrained, uninhibited sound of pleasure that comes from deep within her. Her laugh is better than I remember. God, how I miss her laugh. I struggle to remember another woman’s laugh.

I move the conversation along to firmer ground, what exactly I don’t remember. I’m a little shocked by the fact that Baltic Babe is still seeing someone that she blatantly finds boring. Somehow the conversation returns to him and she makes a comment about going away on holiday being a great way to get to know somebody very quickly. She elaborates that there are very real problems in their relationship. I comment that “It’s how you deal with them that matters,” to which she agrees.

“So are there weddings bells in the future?” I ask out of curiosity.

She falls silent, I can hear her thinking, but about what I can’t be sure. I’m sure that she has thought of this on their very first date, so she’s formulating a response for my benefit. Eventually she speaks.

“We’re going to France to meet his parents,” is all she says.

That sounds very serious to me, but I’m strangely neutral at the prospect of her marrying this guy. She continues with “His parents are in Brittany for the Summer because they live in the south of France most of the year, but find that region too hot in the Summer.”

I take her telling me this to mean that they have money if they can afford to live like that. Yes, it seemed Baltic Babe was being like so many of her compatriots and finds a man more attractive if he has money. Is that such a bad thing? I’m still undecided on my stance on this issue, but I know it makes me uncomfortable.

Again I move the conversation on to something more impersonal, but again Baltic Babe brings it back to her relationship with her beau. She starts explaining that at this stage of life, a woman in her shoes thinks of suitors in a different way if she wants children. She is more concerned with traits involving fatherhood and financial security. I’m not unfamiliar with this line of thinking. I find it flawed because I believe that love will see you through all the challenges that Life will inevitably throw your way. Children don’t need to be involved for this to be true. Baltic Babe disagrees and continues expounding her belief that personality traits necessary for parenting are more important than anything else. I am aghast and disappointed. I could be wrong, but this sounds like a recipe for disaster.

We debate this topic for a little while and to be honest, I find my ears closing to her “reasoning”. It was starting to feel like Baltic Babe was trying to convince me about what she was doing. I wonder if she was also trying to convince herself. She is suppressing all emotion and emphasizing logical points. I’m currently of the opinion that, if you are thinking straight, that you should follow your heart. I’m painfully aware that she had not once ever said a good word about this guy; Baltic Babe only ever spoke of him in negative terms. I have no doubt that she was on the verge of a big mistake in her life.

Baltic Babe wasn’t done there though. I ask her she would prefer to be married or pregnant if she had to choose. Before she could answer I chided her “I know the answer to that one” knowing full well that it would be the latter. Her response is, “Well if I don’t have a child with him, then I’ll have a child by myself.” This brought to mind a conversation that we had had a year earlier in a pub at Blackfriars in which I asked her whether she was willing to be a single mother. On that day it seemed that this was a novel thought to her and seemingly it had stuck.

“The need to breed is strong with this one” I can’t help but blurt out.

This sets off a mini-tirade of indignation. I have again succeeded in provoking the little Tasmanian devil that lurks within her, the one that comes out snarling and snapping. This time I’m not taking it to heart and just ignore what she says and move the conversation along. It is starting to feel like it was time to say goodbye.

Baltic Babe says that her mobile phone has been acting up and that she wanted to check a few details with me. She verifies my email address and phone numbers, then she asks me my date of birth. I know I can look forward to a text message from her in a month’s time. She obviously appreciates my gesture of sending her messages on notable dates.

I said that I have to go. Baltic Babe says okay, but raises another topic of conversation. This cycle repeats itself a few times. I get the impression that she doesn’t want me to go. Is it her separation anxiety kicking in? Or is she getting the mental stimulation that Frenchy isn’t giving her? We finally say goodbye after an hour of conversation. It’s approaching midnight and the start of another awful week at work.

Talking to Baltic Babe was as good as it always felt. I don’t think I’ll have that kind of connection with anybody ever again. We just turn each other on mentally; our souls tease each other. I know we did physically too, albeit briefly. For all her shortcomings and annoyances, I was willing to overlook them because the other good things mattered more. However, she wasn’t mine and doesn’t seem destined to be. There is a very lucky Frenchman in the world.

A few minutes after saying goodbye on the phone, I send her an email with a website link to the hot air balloon festival. Baltic Babe responds within minutes. I answer her and she responds within minutes again. Is she challenging me to come and rescue her from this dullard? No, that must be my White Knight Syndrome talking. I leave it there and go to sleep. I’ve had enough of teasing, pleasing and taunting myself with The One That Got Away.

I can’t keep doing this to myself, but I still don’t know for sure what to do. Should I just forget about her, never contact her again and move on with my life? If I do that I need to come up with a mechanism whereby I stop comparing every woman I meet to her. Much easier said than done. After our first hour-long coffee date, every bone in my body knew that I would be seeing a lot more of Baltic Babe. Right now I would be quite happy to spend the rest of my life with her. Yes, it would be tempestuous; yes, there would times when I would just walk away; yes there would be times when she would drive me crazy…yes, she would be worth it.

I miss her, but Baltic Babe doesn’t want me though.

John Waite – Missing you

Shag the ex – Final Part

“Oh, my God! I’ve forgotten what your big, fat cock feels like. Jeezus!” she gasps as I start slamming into her pussy as her breasts flop about.

Her pussy feels tight; it has been a while since a cock has been in there. I’ve forgotten how nice her breasts are, but I’m distracted by the fact that I’ve got about three days worth of cum in my balls. I don’t want to get any of that on my fabric sofa; I find it such a chore stripping and washing it. I stop fucking her and stand up. She has a look of terror on her face.

“What’s going on?” she asks with a tone of concern and fear.

“Let’s go to the bedroom. Much more comfortable,” I tell her. A look of relief spreads on her face.

I lead her by the hand to my bed, turn her back to it and then brutishly push her onto the bed. She bounces on it with a look of surprise on her face. I’ve never done anything like that to her before; I was always gentle. I get onto the bed, push her legs apart and slide my cock into her pussy.

I rest my elbows under her shoulders while she holds onto my back, her fingers sinking into my muscles, not because she wants to but because she needs to. I deliberately keep my head next to hers, I don’t want to look at her. I just want to hear the sounds she makes because in the past she wasn’t overly noisy, but today I’m going to make her noisy.

The frustration that has been building up in me from months of disappointing dating experiencing fuses with my sense of outrage that I feel about her. It comes out through my body, I become a fucking machine, an unthinking, unfeeling machine that just fucks. Every ounce of negativity in me is channelled through my cock into her body.

My inner dialogue kicks off.

You took something from me, something good and I miss it. I know I’ll never have it back, that innocence, that childish belief, a natural ignorance that made the world feel a better place for me. You took it, abused it then threw aside, like it was worthless garbage. You had no use for it but it was precious to me. You’re a selfish, ungrateful monster. I despise you for what you did to me.

I’m going to fuck you to pieces!

I pound her pussy as hard and as fast as I can, not caring if I could be hurting her. The truth is, if she made sounds of discomfort, I would have enjoyed it more and just kept going. I ram my cock as deep into her cunt as I can go. Again and again, like a man possessed by a malfunctioning cattle prod up his bum. She always liked a bit of deep dicking, she likes feeling my dick touching her cervix. How many other cocks were long enough to do that to her? The thought of that makes me angrier and I grind my cock around inside her.

She makes sounds of satisfaction. Yes, you like having cocks doing that to you, don’t you? How many cocks have been in your pussy? Do you even know? Do you even care? How many cocks have you sucked off without them making it into your cunt? You’ve probably sucked on more cocks than have been in your hole. Did you always swallow their cum, or did you let them spray their sperm over your face? Or did you prefer to watch them dump their load on your tits and then rub it into yourself?

You’re just a free whore and for this next little while you’re my whore. I’m going to do whatever I want with you and I don’t care what you think or feel about it.

Take it…take it…this is all you’re good for…you lying fucking bitch…take it…

She keeps saying, “Oh my gawd…oh my gawd,” but I say nothing, my body’s doing the talking.

I make sure I get my money’s worth out of my free whore before the inevitable happens. My cock can only take so much of her very used fleshiness before my balls have to unburden themselves. I get to that point after about an hour.

“Where do you want me to cum?” I ask, moments away from cumming.

“I don’t care. Wherever you want,” she wheezes as I slam my cock deep into her one last time.

I don’t want to get this good-for-nothing slut pregnant, so I pull out of her with a second to spare and hoist myself up towards her face. As my hand touches my shaft to direct it, my hot, sticky cum starts squirting out. Most of it shoots onto her face while a few lesser drops plop onto her tits. She keeps her eyes closed and opens her mouth as clumps of sperm spatter across her face. She even keeps her mouth open as a few small drops go in there. She doesn’t swallow, but moves her tongue around a bit. Her one eyelid is buried under a mound of cum, while other streaks decorate her face.

I give a few tugs up my shaft with my hand and less-propelled spunk oozes out. She still has her eyes closed as I dangle the fresh baby-batter over her mouth. Enough of it collects and gravity forces it to drop into her gaping mouth. It lands squarely on her tongue, which she pulls back into her mouth, finally closing it now and swallowing without making a sound, just like a good whore should.

I flick a few more drops of my cum onto her tits and my cock is dry. I get off her chest and lie down next to her. Her face is an ugly mess, just like her heart. How many other guys have done this to her? Does she enjoy it? I don’t care.

She brings her hands up to her face and starts smearing the smelly mess down her chin and throat, down over her breasts where she rubs my cum into them. I find her handling her breasts like that arousing, but I know that I’m done for the day. After a while she catches her breath and speaks.

“Wow! You’ve never been like that before. You have learned some new skills in the last year,” she says with surprise in her voice.

I say nothing, I’m still breathing heavily while a silent storm inside me blows itself out.

I have never fucked a woman so ferociously before. She’s going to be walking funny for days. I’m amazed that I lasted so long. I wish I had videoed the encounter. This must be what is called ‘angry sex’.

This worthless bitch did not appreciate me when I loved her, but now she sees me differently? In that case Machiavelli is right: it IS better to be feared than loved. The more she fears me, the more she complies. I granted her free will out of a naïve sense of partnership, but she abused that and has proven herself unworthy of the best of me.

The pendulum has now swung the other way, from an extreme point where I gave her the freedom to show me the best of herself, but she showed her true nature and we’re now at the other end…and I think it only fitting that she has given me the right to exorcise the worst that I can be. After all, she planted it there.

She truly deserves to see the worst of me, but this will only come about when she realizes I’ve outsmarted her…used her, like she used me. Until then I’m going to enjoy myself.

We lie on my bed like we used to in better days, with her body against mine for the bodyheat. We don’t talk much. I think she’s in shock at what just happened. I’m in shock too…shocked that it went so well and so easily. I have indeed learned some things about women in the past year, useful things.

Eventually she goes to shower and says that she has to leave. I say nothing and promise nothing. I want to keep her guessing, keep her wondering, keep her focussed on me. I walk my Exgf to her car and give her a polite kiss on the cheek which puzzles her. She leaves and I go sit on my sofa, thinking about what just happened.

The feeling from the bitter date with The Bitch of yesterday still lingers at the back of my soul and the angry sex with the Exgf has not made me feel any better about anything. Instead it has made me angrier because all the memories of the pain from her lies have come flooding back.

I need to believe that there is some goodness in the world. I need to feel that there is a decent woman out there somewhere. I need to feel good about women again.

I reach for my phone and dial Baltic Babe’s number…

Chris Isaak – Wicked Game

Shag the ex

During the week I came across my Exgf’s profile on OKCupid and Plenty of Fish. Reading her answers was interesting; she even tells a few lies on her profile. I know her better than anybody – I was her longest relationship – and about 10 % of her profile is lies. She even tries to make fun of her cleaning obsession. During our time together I put up with her OCD, but nowadays to me it means ‘Obviously Confused & Damaged’.

It’s Sunday morning and I still have the bitter taste of yesterday’s date with The Bitch in my mouth. My phone rings and I see it’s my Exgf. I look at that phone like a spider would at a fly trapped in its web. We agree to meet and a few hours later we’re buying a few things for an impromptu picnic before sitting under a tree in the largest park of my town where a festival is under way. As we talk I take a good look at her. There is no way that I would even click on her profile today if I saw it on a dating site. She’s a brunette and carrying quite a few unnecessary pounds. In looks I’d rate her a 6, but she has amazing green eyes and big breasts. We indulge in pointless small-talk until she feels comfortable enough to get serious.

“I’ve never missed anyone so much as I’ve missed you this past year.”

“That’s nice,” is my response with a smug grin. You can dish it out, but can you take it? Have some of the pain I knew. Silence ensues.

“I’ve never felt about anybody how I’ve felt about you,” she says.

“I see,” is all I say without making eye contact. Her words are ambiguous, but where’s this going? What is she buttering me up for?

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you would consider giving us another chance?”

I take a deep breath, pretend to think about it, inwardly smiling to myself. “I don’t know,” I say as neutrally as possible.

There it is, that’s what she wants. Her small, dark heart is looking for a home. I have been wondering if she is after this. She’s always after something, always clawing her way through life by clawing into people. There is no hope in hell us of getting back together, but I’m not going to tell her that.

Courtesy of all my shit experiences at the hands of women of late, I’ve decided that it’s time to stop fighting my inner demons and for us to team up and be on the same side for once. It’s scary, but the possibilities are endless and exciting.

Her betrayal hurt me the most, because I loved her the most. Will I ever allow myself to feel that way about someone again?

Never mind that. The balance of power – who needs who more – is entirely in my favour. I have always treated her as my partner, my equal, never for a moment suspecting that she didn’t see it that way. I was her brainless puppet on the end of a poisoned string, obediently dancing to her every wish, blinded by the idea of love. For some women the greatest feat they can ever achieve is to convince a man that he is in love with her.

She has no power over me; no more. The blinkers of love are removed and I see her clearly now. Gone is the notion that she will treat me with the same consideration and goodness as I have always treated her. Gone is the belief that she has my best interests at heart. Dead is the idea that she loved me.

I see this creature squirming before me, bereft of influence over me, feeling powerless and now yearning to have it back. There is a psalm in the Bible that says “it is a double pleasure to deceive a deceiver.” I know that the cruellest hoax one can perpetrate is to pretend you want to love someone when you don’t.

I’m going to turn this bitch into my fuckbuddy.

The noise from the festival is now so loud that hearing each other is a problem. It has caused us to sit closer than we otherwise would, so an invisible physical barrier has been broken. That helps me. It’s the perfect time to move matters to the next level in my plan.

“It’s gotten too noisy. Would you like to see my place?” I ask, knowing full well that she would love to. She’s always had an inquisitive streak; time to turn it to my advantage.

“Yes, please,” she instantly shoots back.

Here fishy, fishy…

Back at my apartment she’s suitably unimpressed, but it just confirms what I believe other women have thought of it. I don’t care what she thinks of my place. What I do know is that, from reading her sex diaries, she is most likely to let a guy fuck her if it is in his place and she’s had some wine. Without asking her I open a bottle of white wine and pour her a glass, which she gratefully accepts. Since I left her I suppose she hasn’t had much money for wine. She hasn’t noticed that I’m abstaining. I wonder if she’s been fucked since me? I’ll wait a while to let the first glass of wine loosen her upper lips, then the second will loosen her lower lips. Without asking her I switch my television on and start playing Californication from where I know she had last watched up until. That show always made her a little frisky; it’s time to get her juicy.

After couple of episodes we’re sitting side by side on my sofa, just like we used to in happier/ignorant times. Her body language is relaxed and a second glass of wine is having the desired effect. After the end of a naughty episode I feel the need to check something.

“So have you had any action since me in the last year?”

“No, you are my last,” she says in a tone that I know is her being honest. I’m surprised, but pleased. Pleased because her abstinence works in my favour.

“You must be gagging for it,” I tease, sensing the opportunity to turn things between us sexual.

“A little bit, yes,” she replies, then asks, “How about you? Had any fun?”

“I’ve had a lot of fun, yes,” I say nonchalantly.

Something I’ve learned is that women are more competitive than men. Women don’t dress to impress men; they dress to irritate other women. If a man is getting attention from women, then other women want his attention. If a man is getting no attention from women, then that state persists. I’m deliberately letting her know that other women want me too; it’ll heighten whatever she’s feeling for me.

I give it a few seconds then I decide to go for it. I’ve sown all the seeds of her having to give into me: there’s her wanting to try again, my feigning uncertainty and now letting her know that other women want me too, so she’s a bit jealous. Have I timed this perfectly? Is she going to walk out? Only one way to find out.

I lean over towards her, indicating I want to kiss her, but stopping just short of her lips. Will she pull away? No, she comes forward instantly and we kiss like it’s our first kiss. I think my kissing technique has improved with practise in the last year because I can sense her getting turned on. The thought of doing whatever I want to her thickens the blood flooding the chambers in my cock more than her kisses ever could.

The time for my revenge has arrived. Let the fucking begin.

It doesn’t take long before our clothes go flying around my lounge, within seconds we’re both naked, without speaking she quickly lies back on the sofa, spreads her legs open for me and I plunge my cock into her.

To be continued…

Online dating, dates, internet dating, romance, love, sex, relationships

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