Date #49 – The Cockaholic – final part

I can hear her pussy juices brewing as we watch Californication. If she really hasn’t been on a date in over two years then she must be turned on by now as we approach the end of episode two. I’ve come to the conclusion she knows the score here, so when I brazenly lean over to start kissing her there is no resistance. Instead it feels like there is eager anticipation as our lips meet.

In a matter of seconds I’ve dragged her lower body down onto the footstool, have undressed the bottom half of her and am licking her clit while fingering her g-spot. This is my idea of T.L.C., i.e. Tender Licking of Clit.

“Oh my god, what are you doing to me?” she exclaims, half approvingly and half suspiciously.

“I’m pleasuring your g-spot. Do you like it?” I ask with a smirk.

“Fuck, please don’t stop. Keep doing whatever you want with me,” she exhorts.

Hmm…do whatever you want with me…I fully intend to.

I love such a moment when a woman is so turned on that she will tell me anything that I want to hear for fear of whatever she’s feeling coming to a stop. It’s easier to get a woman into bed than to keep her coming back, so from what she’s just said she’s told me that she’ll come back if I want her to…and I’ve only just begun.

In the daily matters of humans I’ve learned that we generally have to give before we receive. We first give our time to gain qualifications, we first give of our best to get paid at the end of the month, we first pay into the tax system before we get anything in return and so it is with other dealings with humans, especially when it comes to sex. Giving a lover pleasure first will almost always result in them reciprocating and usually with more in return.

I’ll give Smiler pleasure first and then see how much she gives in return. Is she going to be another disappointing flop or does she have skills? From the three hours we’ve spent together I can’t tell because she didn’t have a chance to eat anything spicy. I’ll have to wait and see.

Her hips start to wriggle and she grabs a cushion and smothers herself, letting off an almighty scream that might have rivalled anything I heard Busty Czech do. What’s with the vocal women of late? I digress…

I keep licking out the alphabet over her clit and fingering her g-spot even after she has cum. Normally I would stop and let my lover recover, but tonight I’m in a devilish mood, so I keep going, expecting her to ask me to stop.

She doesn’t and within half a minute she has another orgasm, again screaming into a cushion that must by now have bite-marks on it. This sofa must also be getting dirty from all the pussy juices she’s letting off; she’s like a fountain. Maybe she is telling the truth about how dry her love-life has been of late. For the last two years I’ve been fucking everything that moves while she’s been watching box-sets on cable-TV.

“Stop, stop! I can’t take it any more,” she says as I still continue with TLC.

Without a word I get comfortable next to her on the sofa. She’s huffing and puffing as I cradle her in my arms.

“Wow! I’ve never felt anything like that before,” she whispers.

Somebody else said that to me recently and I try to remember who it was. Before the dark corridors of my brain yield an answer Smiler is on the move.

She’s tugging at my clothing and strips me totally naked. This is the most aggressive thing she has said or done all night. Has she been holding back or have I awakened something?

Her bra and blouse go flying but before I get to see her boobs she’s positioned herself between my legs and is sitting on the floor. What, no kisses around the face and neck? No nibbling my ear and whispering a naughty fantasy in my ear?

“I suppose I should say hello to him. It would be rude not to,” she says taking my semi-flacid cock in her hand.

Even in porn movies the porn-tartlet will first lick the stud’s cock a few times before she takes it in her mouth. It’s very rare for a woman to just latch onto a penis without doing some taste-testing or lubricating first.

Smiler expertly, gently pulls my foreskin back then latches onto the head of my penis with her mouth…and sends me straight to heaven.

I thought that Pretty Teacher and The Saffa gave great head, but the woman sucking on me now is in a league of her own. Yes, there is dedication, skill, consideration and tenderness in abudance, but what impresses me most is her seemingly being in a state of rapture.

Her eyes are closed and she working my cock like it’s her favourite ice-cream on the hottest day of the year.

As my manhood grows in her mouth I notice the time on a clock. I wonder how long she can keep doing this to me? I lie back and enjoy her enjoying me, waiting to see how long it is before she stops. Just how long will she happily suck my cock for?

An hour.

She diligently and effortlessly sucked away on me non-stop for an hour as if it is the greatest pleasure she has ever known. For a few moments it looks like she is getting drunk from going down on me.

She does things with her mouth and hands to my cock and balls that no other woman has ever done. Several times I fight off cumming in her mouth because I’m curious to see how long this could last. To cool my ardour I remember my saddest moment from childhood, that of my characterful pet dog, Rusty, dying from cancer when I was eight. Rusty dies several times in this hour of fellatio.

I now think of Smiler as ‘The Cockaholic’.

“Imagine taking my cock in your pussy,” I say, trying to turn her on even more, knowing full well the thought has crossed her mind, but articulating it enhances the emotion, the desire involved.

“Mmmm,” she murmurs, keeping her eyes closed, taking as much of my cock in her mouth as she can. The murmur I take to mean agreement, approval and desire, all rolled into one. Of course it could mean anything else, but I’m not interested in that.

“Imagine taking that cock in your arse,” I say, pushing my luck, but wanting to check her reaction.

“Surely not on the first date?” she says slyly, hiding a little laugh.

I was impressed by her comeback, but slightly perturbed because a girl who isn’t into anal would have shaken her head with my cock in her mouth or voiced disapproval somehow. This response said, not now, but perhaps another time. I have another little sexual vixen on my hands it seems. Perhaps another Krazy Girl?

My balls are aching from all the teasing and pleasing my cock has received. I stand up and fumble for a condom while The Cockaholic gets comfortable on the sofa. By the time I’ve got the body-bag for my cock on my appendage has lost interest.

She pulls the condom off my dick, kisses my mouth for a few seconds then gets down on her knees and sucks my cock until it is hard again. I want to fuck her doggy-style so badly, but these bloody condoms really kill the mood for me. I had only found these condoms in the last months of being with my Exgf because no other has ever fitted, nevertheless, it’s destroys the sexual experience for me and often for my lover too.

“When last were you tested?” I ask.

“Four weeks ago,” she says after a few seconds of contemplation.

“I was tested six weeks ago,” I say, omitting the fact that I had fucked two women bareback since then. What was she omitting I wondered?

Neither of us say what the results of the tests were. It’s a bit like those television adverts for women’s cosmetics, shampoos and laundry detergent that say “clinically tested” – and the results were what exactly? Guaranteed to age you prematurely, guaranteed to give you alopecia or guaranteed to make your genitals itchy?

“Get on that” I say, pointing a finger to my trusty foot stool in front of my sofa that I have fucked so many women on that I’ve lost count. It’s cover has barely dried from the previous weekend’s shenanigans with The Saffa.

The Cockaholic quickly jumps onto it and assumes the position, ready to receive me. Yes, she’s compliant and I’m thinking submissive by nature, keen to please.

I push my chubby into her pussy and start rocking my hips. I still find it curious that such a motion has the effect of spurring my cock back to life. The human body’s programming is amazing.

“Oh god, yes,” she utters, snapping me back to reality as I fuck her.

Her pussy feels good and I lean my head slightly over to have a look at her tits. They’re not big, c-cup at best, but they’re rocking nicely in time with my thrusts. As my cock nears full erection I can feel that her pussy is tightening, not because of what she is doing with her muscles but because I’m now stretching her and she’s liking it given the sounds she’s making.

I love the sounds a woman makes when I fuck her. There’s an honesty that makes me feel good. Of course, it becomes too good and I have to cum.

“Where do you want my cum?” I ask, giving her the choice and not wanting to do as Nature designed me for. Every woman has her preferred place to feel a man’s ejaculate.

“I want to feel your cum in me,” she replies.

Really? I was expecting her to want to swallow my load because she clearly has an oral fixation going on.

“Is it safe to do so?” I ask in rare moment of prudence for me.

“I’m on contraceptives,” she wheezes as my cock touches what must be her cervix.

I’m not sure what that means but a steam train is not pulling my hips out of her right now.

Like a jack-hammer I pump cum into her and she makes approving sounds. After the long build-up it doesn’t surprise me as to how good my orgasm feels and how much sperm I must have shot into her.

Eventually I slow down and I realize that I’ve lifted her hips off the footstool and she’s been partially dangling in the air while having her hands on the sofa. It was that kind of climax for me.

I slump down next to her to catch my breath.

“That was amazing,” she says, her eyes wide and sparkling.

I say nothing.

For a few moments we lie there, not speaking, just smiling as my warm cum drips down the inside of her thighs. Starting to feel the cold which she must have too, I stand up, collect her in my arms and carry her off to my bedroom.

We lie in bed talking until four in the morning. We talk about the usual stuff of past relationships, family, travel, work and life in general. To my surprise I learn that we have many things in common and share a similar twisted, cynical view of the world around us. If I wasn’t meeting another date at lunchtime, I would have been happy to talk, cuddle and fool around until she needed to leave.

On the Saturday morning, mere hours later, I’m awoken by the sensation of The Cockaholic sucking on my morning glory. I have no idea how long she had been doing that for, but I appreciate the attention and novelty of it.

She looks up and notices me waking up, my looking at her. She seems quite intense.

“Please fuck me sideways,” she asks.

I’m always happy to oblige a horny woman, especially if she utters such words first thing in the morning.

As I was fucking her sideways, she raises her hands above her head, gripping a pillow and I watch her tits wobble – not bounce – around. Their movement seems unnatural but I’m not going to embarrass us both by asking if her tits are real.

When she is in the throes of it, I suck on a thumb and slowly, slide it deep up her arse. She doesn’t flinch and seems to enjoy it. As she approaches her climax she covers her head with a pillow and screams into it…which is nice. I really enjoy making a woman scream like that. There’s an element of trust to it that appeals to me. She trusts me not to hurt her and I take that as a compliment.

She seems quite at ease having my thumb up her arse while I fuck her. Is this something new to her or is she used to this? I can see that she’s thinking about something, ah, here it comes…is she about to voice disapproval?

“You have a fantastic body,” she says, her body half-turned towards me. She’s admiring my arms and chest, stroking them with her finger-tips as I thump my cock into her pussy.

Huh? Where does that come from? Okay, it’s nice to hear but it’s not quite in keeping with the mood. Whatever, my new batch of swimmers want to breathe.

“Where do you want my cum this time?” I ask, kind of counting on a different answer.

“I want to swallow,” she says, looking me straight in my eye.

I like her directness. Now I’ll give her some directness of my own.

Jumping up onto the bed, I step towards her face as she raises her torso. She makes a point of looking me in the eye, as she opens her mouth and sticks her tongue out. What a good little slut; very submissive.

I tug on the end of my cock and a slightly liquid barrage of spunk jumps out into her mouth. The Cockaholic keeps her mouth open, determined to take as much as I can give her, all the while maintaining strong eye contact.

A few more tugs, some cum lands on her face, but that’s all there is after less than six hours since my last orgasm. She must know this too because she pulls her lubricated tongue back into her mouth and swallows, smiling as she does so.

I collapse into bed again while she goes to the bathroom. I hear her having a pee and realize that this is the first time she’s been to the toilet since we met more than twelve hours ago. No woman I’ve ever known has managed more than six hours. Some guys might consider The Cockaholic a keeper on the basis of this alone.

I make her breakfast and while we eat I hint at my meeting a friend in London at lunchtime, a cue that she needs to leave. I feel bad for seeming slightly blunt, but hey, this is what happens on one-night stands, right?

Not long afterwards she’s dressed and I’m walking the Cockaholic to her car. As usual I can feel my neighbour’s prying, judgemental eyes on my back.

“How about we get together next weekend?” I say, not entirely sure I mean it.

“I can’t wait that long,” she says, losing any pretence of English reserve.

I just smile and close her car door. She smiles back and then speeds off to wherever it is that came from, somewhere connected to cyberspace and her phone.

I have never fucked a woman within hours of meeting her. What does that say about her and I? Me, well it was premeditated. I wanted to see if I could do it. Her? Well, that’s a different story. Has she done this before? It was all so easy for me. The only time I noted some hesitation was outside in the car park when I invited her into my place. After that I could do whatever I wanted…and I liked it.

It played out almost exactly as I had expected, except that there’s problem.

I like her; we seem to get along and she’s fun. She has a dirty laugh that makes me laugh.

This wasn’t supposed to happen, I wasn’t supposed to like her. Shit.

There’s a song of the moment called “Get Lucky”. I wonder if we both did?

As for The Saffa, I think her luck has run out.

Oh, yes, there is the little matter of having another date lined up for lunchtime; my second Tinderella. Will I get “lucky” a second time? Does luck have anything to do with it?

Daft Punk – Get Lucky

Date #49 – The Cockaholic

I’m going to fuck her on our first date then I’ll never see her again! That’s what I’m thinking, that’s what this experience with The Saffa has made me feel entitled to do. Women just use men as playthings, outlets for their issues, solutions for their problems, items on their agenda. They abuse men, not caring for the consequences of their actions, not stopping for an instant to think of the damage they might be doing. That can work both ways.

My date for tonight, a match off Tinder, initiated our text conversation with “Your profile really caught my attention! :)”. It’s always a good sign when a woman initiates communication because it’s a giveaway that she is keen, almost desperate to meet. Of course she might be saying that to all the boys.

Her profile has no words and four pictures, one of them used twice. In one of her pictures there is a hint of decent breastage. Her hair is a light brown and not the typical blonde that I go for; I thought it time for some variety. She’s adequately pretty and in one of her photos she’s the tallest of a group of women. I’ve never fucked a tall chick; it’s been on my Fuckit List for a while.

I responded courteously and asked where she was. To my great relief she was in the next town over; nice and convenient if anything were to come of us. I suggested that we meet up and she quickly replied accepting this and offering to come over to my town. I suggested a good pub and cheekily offered to let her park at my apartment complex; the latter touch being a practical convenience for me as it would be easier to lure her back to my shag-pad.

She made a comment about being nervous, which I allayed. My experience tells me that she’s recently out of a long-term relationship, still a little cut up about it, has decided to go dating driven by her friends nagging her to “get out there”. No doubt someone said to her, “the best way to get over someone is to get onto someone else”. My gut tells me that she’s this type. I’m expecting her to be skittish in the beginning, therefore I must play it cool and let her warm to me.

First we’ll go to the pub, I’ll ply her with alcohol then I’ll get her back to my place on the pretext of watching Californication. After the second episode I’ll make my move and kiss her…then see what happens.

I have no real idea what to expect her to be like as her profile is blank. She could be everything that I don’t want. However, I feel that if she is attractive enough to me, I’ll try to fuck her tonight. She’s taken up my offer of parking out in front of my apartment block which also makes things so much easier seeing her off in the morning. For all I know she’s just out to get laid. Given her eager interactions so far I’m expecting this might be the case.

She reminds me of Wild Child of last year: lots of energy, chasing her tail in her own little bubble, but not relationship material. When it gets down to being physical is when she is likely to withdraw. Another woman she reminds me of so far is Krazy Girl – very keen to meet me. If she’s more like the latter then we’ll fuck on the first date, which would be new territory for me.

All that from just a few text messages? I’m probably wrong, but we’ll see.

She arrives on time just as it’s getting dark and I meet her in my car park, approaching her from the side. Her luxury German sports car looks out of place here. She doesn’t spot me approaching as I eye her up and down. Not as attractive as I would like, but good enough to fuck. I startle her with my “hello” and she backs away from me, but a few laughs later and we are smiling at each other. She is tall with the top of her head being in line with my chin, but she is wearing high heels.

From the speed and tone of her speech it’s clear that she is nervous, so I decide to calm her down by doing the talking initially. As we walk I get a good, positive vibe off her and we maintain eye contact for very healthy amounts of time. In the past, when dates have been uninterested in me they have usually avoided eye contact.

We walk into the pub where I had lunch with my Exgf yesterday. (More about that another time.) I lead her to a comfy leather sofa in a quiet corner away from the noisy crowd who are jostling for attention, like peacocks fluffing out their feathers hoping to attract a mate. I’ve got mine for the night, now it’s just a matter of slowly seducing her.

I lean back on my side of the sofa, our knees are almost touching. My adopting the passive-disinterested attitude from the outset leads to her sitting erect in her seat, paying rapt attention to my every word. She smiles continuously and I start to think of her as ‘The Smiler’. She laughs heartily at my weakest of jokes and I’m not sure whether this is out of nervousness or genuine appreciation. I don’t think it really matters because we have, after all, matched on Tinder where physical attraction is everything.

“So what exactly about my profile caught your attention?” I ask, doing a bit of research and also reminding her what she likes about me, ramping up the sexual tension.

“Your height. I like tall men,” she answers, her hands laced over each other, resting in her lap on new blue jeans.

Yes, she looks quite submissive. I can just imagine her naked in my lounge, squatting with her hands like that over her bare knees, her nipples erect, her eyes pleading as she opens her mouth and I feed her my cock.

“What else do you like about tall men?” I ask, flirting dangerously.

“Oh, you know,” she replies with a naughty smile and twinkle in her eye.

“No, I don’t . How about you tell me,” I coax, knowing full-well the effect of my words.

“I can’t do that here,” she answers, feigning indignation, her eyes darting towards the crowd.

“Where do you want to tell me?” I tease.

In her head I can just hear her brain saying “somewhere private”. I want her thinking about being private with me. First seed planted.

She’s silent and blinking at me while smiling. Good, she isn’t offended. I think her nipples must be hardening.

“Would you like a drink?” I offer.

“Yes, a cider is my favourite” she says.

“Mine too,” I say and I go get us our drinks.

The Smiler must be thirsty because she finishes half of her pint in two quick gulps. I’ve just had a sip, but it’s deliberate. As part of my plan for tonight I’ll get her slightly drunk which will lower her barriers and increase the likelihood of her spreading her legs for me.

We talk some more, I direct the topics making sure that they’re positive ones so as to set her at ease. By the time she’s finished her pint she’s also sitting back in her seat more relaxed, so much so that she has let her knees come forward and they’re resting against the side of my thigh. I don’t know if it’s deliberate or inadvertent but that all-important physical barrier has been breached. Getting a woman to be touch me first is a massive step towards the bedroom or lounge floor or back seat of a car.

Like so many of my dates she is a high-powered business professional. What I’ve learned is that such women use sex as a release from the stresses of their working life. Making decisions all day, every day leads to them wanting a man to take charge, to tell them what to do and they will gratefully, willingly comply. What’s a woman like her who can afford the most expensive of dating sites, a proper match-making service even, doing on Tinder? It just has to be for the sex. This date gets better by the minute.

Smiler is now becoming quite chatty and tells me that this is her first foray into dating in over two years. In my hands she is like a lamb to the slaughter. Inside my head I laugh to myself because this is almost too easy while at the same time I squirm out of guilt because of my intent. The bonus is likely to be that she is ravenous for cock. To quote one of my favourite comedians, “Her pussy is so disused it might be haunted.”

As time slips away and her laughter becomes more dirty and it dawns on me that I am now the smooth operator that I spied on a date more than a year ago with The Matron.

Back then I would never countenance doing what I am planning to tonight. Have I grown or degraded through online dating? Right now I think it’s the latter, but I don’t care. Love seems like a fool’s errand and the best that is on offer for me is the slippery, warm comfort of a new lover’s body under me.

Smiler finishes another cider while I’m still nursing mine which is now room temperature, almost as warm as the pub. The air is clammy with restrained excitement, testosterone and oestrogen as around us lonely, horny people find their target for the night and subtly makes their desire known. I watch as people with wedding rings make their illicit bargains with strangers and then leave. There are going to be several cars left overnight in the car park. The devil in me wants to come back in the morning and let the air out their tyres, but I reckon I’ll be pre-occupied then.

It’s time to close my own deal.

“What colour are your eyes?” I ask, remembering this ruse from my first date with Career Girl.

“They’re blue,” she says, as if I hadn’t noticed.

“I can’t see. Come closer,” I respond.

Smiler sits upright and leans slightly forward. I can see clearly, like I have been able to all night.

“I still can’t see, come closer,” I say, not moving in my seat.

She comes closer and our noses are almost touching, she’s struggling to keep her balance without falling onto me.

“Closer…” I whisper.

She smiles just before our lips touch. We kiss lightly, then tenderly, then more firmly. Yes, it’s good kiss, so she’s going to be a good lay. Second seed planted and it’s time to escalate.

I pull my head back and, as I expect, she has her eyes closed. They flicker to life, telling me that she wants more. Oh, I’ll give you more, more than you’re perhaps expecting. She smiles, leans slightly back and looks satisfied with herself. I wonder who’s playing who here? No, I’m in charge. This is my one-night stand.

“It’s getting late. How about we call it a night?” I say, spotting a look of confusion on her face as her latest smile disappears.

“Oh, okay,” is all she says as she gropes the sofa for her handbag, keeping her eyes on me.

My seemingly abruptly ending the encounter I know catches her by surprise. It’s deliberate because I want to knock her out any sense of safety that she is now feeling with me. I want her to feel suddenly off-balance and unsure as to what is going on, then I’ll lead her along the path I want her to follow. Third seed in place.

“Do you like chicken?” I ask as we leave the pub and get hit by cool, fresh air.

“Yes, why?” she counters.

“Better take a wing then,” I say, offering her my arm.

Smiler first guffaws, then bends over slightly as she laughs, laughing like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard before coupling up with me.

So easy, it’s all so easy.

Now for the acid-test moment, that instant when it’s make-or-break for my plan. It’s time to harvest the seeds.

As we approach the car park outside my apartment complex, I stop, we uncouple arms, she stops and turns to me.

“You know that show, Californication, I was telling you about earlier? Fancy watching the first two episodes with me?” I ask and swallow hard, biting my lower lip.

Smiler thinks about it, she’s no fool, she knows what can happen. She looks at her car.

“Your car will be okay,” I say and then take a step away from her towards my home, my sofa, my footstool that is waiting for her.

She hesitates, smiles impishly and then steps towards me.

To be continued…

WTF?! Hello tainted Tinder

I haven’t decided what to do about The Saffa. There might be another guy on the scene but that’s not what’s bothering me about her; her reckless behaviour makes me feel unsafe about her. She’s starting to get on my nerves with her petulant negativity towards her employers. Her way of dealing with her work situation reminds me just too much of how my Exgf went about things that almost always resulted in a lot of bad feeling all round. Her obstinacy rivals my mother’s. I’ll try to help The Saffa and perhaps she’ll respond well to new tricks?

As the week unfolds I help steer her away from the rocks of where she would have lost her job and probably moved in with me for a while. Her employers have started handing her written letters that seem to have been crafted by a lawyer. I temper her response but it’s hard work. Her handling of the situation is piss-poor and I’ve lost a bit of respect for her.

On her afternoon off she comes to visit me. As usual we get down to conventional sex in my bedroom. I eventually came with her on The Hook, she’s shouting “please fuck me in the arse”. It’s just naughty talk but it always makes me cum. It has been four days since my last release and I’m sore and leaden, but feel so good after my orgasm; it’s one of the best of my life.

She brought the tube of KY Jelly and I raised an eyebrow. We’d always joked about trying anal sex because of the size of my cock. She confessed to having done it twice before with other guys but was intimidated by my cock. It’s not something I crave but she keeps bringing it up.

It was time for her to go home but she started kissing me all over again. She knows how I like that but she was again going to be late for work. We ended up trying anal sex, but only the tip of my cock slid in – quite nicely too – but she couldn’t take it and sprang away from me. We laughed about it, even as her train departed at exactly when she should have been reporting for work.

Unsurprisingly the next night she phones me and tells me of the drama that ensued because she got back to work more than an hour late the previous night. I try to calm her then try to talk sense into her, but she’s not wanting to listen to anything I say. The Saffa deliberately talks over me each time I try to say something. I fall silent, then she falls silent. I start to talk and she talks over me, several times and intentionally. She is now seriously pissing me off.

“Dammit! Will you listen to me?!” I bark.


She put the phone down on me.

Whaaat the fuck?! I don’t deserve this from her. I’m trying to help her. Ungrateful bitch.

I believe that all it takes for a relationship to break down is for one person’s behaviour to become unacceptable to the other person. I’ve been on this roller-coaster with other women and I’m not getting on it again. That’s it, our increasingly tainted love is over! She’s history.

Fuck it! I hurt Busty Czech for her. I gave up an expensive holiday that I badly need so as to have The Saffa in my life. This is the thanks I get?! I’m angry, angrier than any woman has made since I left my Exgf. I also feel foolish for putting my eggs in one basket.

Driven by a rage that permeates my body more comprehensively than Mexican tap water, I go onto Tinder. I spot the awesome-looking woman that I think of as The Artist, someone whose profile brought me to a standstill the first time I saw her earlier in the year on my Happy Humping Ground dating site. Excitedly I swipe right, but we don’t match. Disappointed I move on and click on a dozen pretty blonde faces.

Overnight I get two matches and start swapping messages. In a matter of hours I’ve set up a date for tonight, Friday night and another for Saturday lunchtime. What nobody knows is that I’m not looking for love with these two women. I’ve been reading unsavoury reviews of what Tinder is about and it seems to have degenerated into a hook-up app. Yet another woman, this time The Saffa, has made me exasperated towards women in general. Very few are interested in love, most just want sex. Fine, maybe I’ve been a blind fool, so if this is the real game in town I’d better start playing by the correct set of rules!

I’ve never had a one-night stand, maybe it’s time to broaden my boundaries. If all that women on Tinder want is sex then their honesty frees me from any emotions resembling love. I’ll just fuck them and dump them; they know the score. For the hell of it I’ll rattle The Saffa’s cage, put her through the wringer for a while before I dump her too.

On Friday I tell The Saffa via a text message that I was meeting a male friend that night. I smile as all sorts of questions start coming in via Whatsapp about details of where I was going, what I was wearing. She was suspicious and you know what, I didn’t feel too guilty about it. I felt anger towards her and going on another date with someone new and intending to bed her at the end of the night felt devoid of moral bankruptcy. I felt entitled to do what I wanted after the past week of her bad behaviour.

I’ll fuck one horny slut on Friday night then another Tinderella on Saturday.

I couldn’t know that I was about to meet the woman I shall refer to as ‘The Cockaholic’.

Tainted Love – Marilyn Manson

Of Mothers and Fathers

There is something important that I have learned in my dating adventures. If you want an instant insight as to a woman’s relationship history and how a relationship with her will be going forward, you only need to ask her, “How would you describe your relationship with your father?” Whatever she answers will tell you everything you need to know.

The nature of my working life has revolved around my ability to quickly spot trends and patterns. I can’t help but do this when listening to people telling me about themselves. It’s a professional hazard, but one I enjoy. It feeds my analytical side, the part of me that helps make sense of the world around me. Other people might not like it, but it serves me well. Don’t worry, I carefully hide it when on dates.

After sitting across the table from almost fifty women in two years, this is what I have seen. Nature’s Grand Conspiracy has dictated that daughters are more influenced by their fathers and boys by their mothers. This cross-bonding sets that little person up for life when it comes to dealing with their love-life.

It has amazed me how common and accurate my observation has been. I feel that I have helped some women I’ve met when, only after deciding that I won’t be seeing them again, I use their words in response to my question and ask if it applies to their relationship history, that they then have their own epiphany. It’s as if a light-bulb has literally gone off above their heads.

We all have a relationship style, an unthinking way of how we expect things to be at the outset and over the course of a relationship. We get this from our parents. Sometimes we strive for the opposite of what our parents inadvertently teach us; I am of that mold but more about me later.

The beginning of any relationship is the exciting fun part, we all know that, but it’s the bit afterwards that we all struggle with. Some of us never get to the afterwards because of ideas we hold in our heads, feelings that we expect and cling to, so the change to a stable, predictable, almost boring relationship is too much to take on and we withdraw. I’ve seen that several times with the women I’ve dated. They just don’t know how to let things be and they cling to the romance phase. Some baulk at the first sign of change because with that comes the unknown, something us humans are pre-programmed to fear.

I’ve also seen in my own dating experience that the less interested in a girl I was, the more interested in me she was. If my internal attitude was one of, “Hmm, yes, I suppose you’re okay.” then a woman would do all the running and I would be in the driving seat in the relationship.

If I was very taken with a woman, then I couldn’t help but let it show. She then had all the power in the relationship, I did all the running. It became hard work and usually didn’t last very long. Baltic Babe and Krazy Girl taught me this.

So if I can contain my interest when I meet somebody I want, play it cool, then it’s more likely to work out in my favour, i.e. lead to a relationship.

I now find myself wondering if the feeling that this approach gives off to a woman reminds her of her father’s attitude to her. Always there, never dominating, letting her be and being there for her, physically and emotionally. So, are women looking for a man who makes them feel like their father’s did?

I’m inclined to say “yes”. However, it’s a qualified one because there are few other factors that influence proceedings, primarily ‘power’ in a relationship. That is something I’ll be sharing my thoughts on at another time. For the time being I’ll say my behaviour provides a feeling that gets their attention, while later seizing the power in the interaction keeps their attention.

About two-thirds of the women I have met through dating have admitted to having bad or terrible relationships with their fathers. Some don’t even know who their fathers are. Of course that’s not their fault but it has left them somewhat compromised in the relationship stakes. Baltic Babe had only recently started communicating with her father. Musician Gal told me never to even mention her father the first and only time I asked about him. My Exgf’s parents divorced when she was one and she didn’t have a male role-model in her life until she was seven.

For a while I thought my “aloof but interested” approach was causing a problem but then I realized that no approach would work with some of these women. They are just too messed up permanently or temporarily confused by a past traumatic relationship experience. Lusty Lass, Cat Lady and Krazy Girl were of the latter.

Something else I have learned is that if a woman has “daddy issues” then aside from a turbulent history with men, the sex is good if not crazy. If her relationship with her father is normal and healthy then, apart from relatively few relationships, the sex is average to bland.

These women with daddy issues seem destined to ride a Carousel of Cock, an endless stream of strangers that they use sex to attract but then become fearful of or lose interest in. The attention they garner makes them feel good about themselves for a short while, but then they need another fix from another guy. With so much sexual experience they pick up skills and fetishes that make playtime phenomenal fun, but they just can’t sustain a loving relationship. They drift from lover to lover, perpetuating the same sabotaged relationship style over and over. Krazy Girl and my Exgf are classic examples of this. They don’t know how many times they’ve been had nor do they know who’ll be next. I wonder how it ends for them. A song from Rodriguez comes to mind.

So how does any of this apply to me and my situation? A lot of what I’ve discovered applies to men too. I’ll use myself as an example.

First, I know that my own relationship style is a consequence of my upbringing. My relationship with my mother was terrible and has only in recent years progressed to bad. In the endless war between my parents my mother used me as a pawn against my father. I can count on my hands and have fingers left over the number of times my mother allowed me to be alone with my father. There was no real reason for this other her conceit and spite. I resented her for this.

When I was with my father I saw a side to him that very few people did. He was gentle, thoughtful and attentive to me. When he was with other people he was proud, imposing and loud. I didn’t like who he was then and have only come to terms with that side of him in recent years. He grew up during the Great Depression and it scarred his psyche because his was a poor upbringing. He once told me of eating pumpkin every night and his trousers his mother had made from torn Hessian bags that the pumpkins came in. Children at his school made fun of him for it. All his life he craved social respectability, status and acceptance, the things he never got in his formative years.

My mother is a poorly educated, unintelligent and stubborn person. In her twenties and thirties she was a perfect ten in appearance, but Nature’s Grand Conspiracy decrees that what it gives in abundance in one area it takes from another area. So many of the nines and tens that I’ve dated and bedded were great to look at but unpleasant to be around. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of your parents, but I’m just stating the facts. I’ll illustrate by way of an example.

I’m a little boy, about eight years old and we’re out for a Sunday drive on a baking highway near our city. Suddenly smoke starts spewing out of the front of the car and my father pulls us over to the side of the road. It’s lunchtime and we haven’t seen a car for some time and none are to be seen in the distance where the unforgiving African sun is melting everything into a silvery shimmer. I sit in the back seat of our Mercedes as my father gets out and opens the bonnet. Steam covers him and my mother gets out to investigate too. My father owns a garage and a car dealership while my mother can’t park her car.

“Do you think it’s the battery?” she asks him as the steam from the broken radiator pipe abates.

“Why don’t you use your head?” he retorts.

“What?! I must use my head against the battery?! Don’t be so bloody stupid,” she snaps back. An argument commences.

That’s an humorous moment from a private war that saw nightly fights, upturned dinner tables, thrown objects, kicks, tears, bouts of drunkenness on his part and the occasional not coming home for several nights. I’d go hide in my bedroom, finding sanctuary with toy soldiers or comics. I remember many Summer nights lying on the grass in the backyard, using my dog as a pillow and staring up at the stars waiting an uneasy truce to break out. Neither of them ever came to look for me.

And so it was between the two of them, day in and day out, year after year until the stress of it all caused my father to have a fatal heart-attack a few years after that incident by the roadside.

My mother never once said or did anything that made matters better, only worse and that applies to everyone she interacts with. She couldn’t care less what anyone else feels and never for an instant stops to consider the consequences of her words. She has a serious attitude problem but will never change. I got through my teenage years not because of my mother’s efforts but despite them.

It doesn’t surprise me that I want the opposite of what they had. I want a loving relationship characterized by harmony, respect and co-operation. Those last three elements, I can see, are becoming increasingly central in my quest for love. I know now that my marriage was based on my need for this. I felt emotionally safe with my ex-wife. That is my relationship style.

My childhood has also played a role in my decision not to have children because I feel unequipped having never had good role models. Maintaining a loving relationship is hard enough, what are the odds of success by complicating it with a child or two?

Sadly The Saffa is starting to remind me of my mother. She is as stubborn and unwilling or unable to say or do anything to make things better. Hints of it came my way during the squabbles over lunch and pancakes. I can see it clearly in her handling of the dispute with her employers. I fear that she’ll soon be out of work and homeless and looking to me to help out. I don’t need or deserve that responsibility. I have money problems of my own, I have no room for charity. Besides it is also a dreadful way of coming to live with someone you’re seeing, especially someone new.

The Saffa’s parents divorced when she was little and her father moved to another country. She only saw him a few times a year when she was shipped off to him. Her mother didn’t remarry until later in her life. The Saffa has what can be best described as a turbulent relationship history. I doubt that there will be harmony with her while co-operation will be difficult to achieve at times. Each petty argument will be like an addition to death by a thousand paper cuts, eventually respect will die.

I’m also starting to suspect that she is bit of a drama queen. If there isn’t some kind of drama happening somewhere in her life, she’ll create it.

I have heard it said that a weak woman will drag a man under and a hard woman will drag a man around. I’ll add to that truism by saying that a stubborn woman or drama queen will drive a man crazy, perhaps even to an early grave.

I don’t feel emotionally safe with The Saffa. That’s what has been bothering me.

Rodriguez – I wonder

My troublesome Trust Demon awakes

I’m meeting The Saffa and it’s a sunny, tranquil Sunday morning. It’s the end of September and unseasonably warm. I’m not sure how today will play out after the petty arguments of earlier in the week. We kiss hello outside the Royal Exchange at Bank and she’s immediately her chatty self. My concerns appear misplaced; it seems as if nothing bad has ever happened between us.

We make our way down to the Docklands Light Railway where we get a front-row seat on the train so that she could experience what a train driver sees. We alight at Canary Wharf to walk around the Cathedrals of Capitalism; she has never seen anything like it. Then we get back on the DLR and travel under the Thames into Greenwich. We walk around the village area, feeling the history then wander around the Old Royal Naval College where she is captivated by the chapel which has an impressive Baroque interior.

The Maritime Museum is next and she wants to stop and look at every exhibit which is natural, but we could spend the entire day here while I have plans to show her much more. By now we are getting hungry and I lead us to a nearby indoor market where we buy and share all sorts of foreign nibbles and delicacies. The Saffa smelt somebody’s chips doused in vinegar and salt, so she craves that. We find a traditional English fish and chips shop where she gets her craving satisfied. We stroll off to Greenwich Park where we lie on the grass eating our motley lunch. When we finish eating she asks me to lie on top of her; it was a feeling that she just had to have. I oblige despite feeling very self-conscious with hundreds of people around us. She really lives without boundaries.

Next I take her up the hillock that is presided over by the Royal Greenwich Observatory, the place where time is measured from. Unknown to her it is also where I asked my ex-wife to marry me. It’s closed, so we stand outside at the vantage point taking photos of the surrounding London skyline and Canary Wharf. We walk back down the hill and along the way we are passed by an absolutely stunning Eastern European girl dressed in all white to match her hair. The Saffa spots her and remarks, “Did you see the heels she was wearing?” I pretend to not have seen her. In my head I was remarking to myself how attractive that girl was, but how I could never ever have the kind of connection with her that I have with The Saffa. There’s a lot to be said for cultural similarity. My days of being attracted to Slavic women are over.

It’s dusk and we end up at a Jamie’s Restaurant where we find a comfy sofa and share coffee with pastries. Conversation never once runs dry between us, but that would never be a problem because the Saffa is something of a chatterbox, so much so that she is prone to talking over people. It’s rare for me to finish a sentence, which I’m starting to find annoying.

The only blight on the day was that she was regularly venting about her work situation. She’s now in a dispute with her employers about her Wednesday afternoons off. From what I could see The Saffa was taking liberties with her time off and her employers were laying down the law, but she didn’t see it that way. No amount of trying to apply reason would change her outlook. Fearing becoming embroiled in yet another silly argument I have to change the topic several times before she lets go of it.

It’s getting late so we head for the trains, catching the DLR back to Canary Wharf where we change to the Jubilee Line. I have to change en route to get my train home, so I have to say goodbye to her on the train. Not the best kind of good night kiss, it’s always too rushed.

I have enjoyed the day. Is she ‘The One’? In my heart I don’t think so. There’s something about her that is bothering me and I can’t identify it. It’s stopping things from blossoming. Do I enjoy spending time with her? Very much so, but it feels more like friendship and not love. What am I going to do? I’ll give it time.

Late on Monday she tells me that some old high-school friends were wanting to meet up later that night. She loves spontaneity, so I think nothing of it, other than wondering about her employer’s opinion given the current impasse about her taking time off. The next day on Facebook she posts several pictures of her with three guys in a pub. I see no problem.

On Wednesday The Saffa comes up to my place. I make her a strong massaman curry which she loves. The spicier they like the food, the better the lover; I’m convinced of it. We watch some Californication which she is becoming addicted to. Almost predictably we started making out then fucking on my sofa.

Krazy Girl contacting me the other day made me realize that I regret not filming her and I having sex. It’s a strangely satisfying thing to see yourself in action and it helps to improve technique. Whether or not things work out between me and The Saffa, I want some memories of us together, pleasuring each other. I had recharged my camera battery the day before, so in a premeditated fashion I began filming us fucking.

We’re both naked and The Saffa is sitting on the footstool, looking at the television. I switch the camera on, position it perfectly on a table and point it towards her.

“No, what are you doing?!” she exclaims as I stride over to her.

Without saying a word I point my cock towards her face and all resistance is broken. She comes forward and latches her mouth onto my penis like a starving baby getting its bottle. The footage ends with her being on all fours on my sofa, her d-cup breasts flopping about. I’m fucking her from behind, pulling her silky blonde hair back with one hand and I’ve got a thumb up her bum.

“Ja, fuck me. Ooh, fuck me harder,” she shouts out just before she cums with that little squeal of hers.

Still on The Hook she slumps forward onto the sofa while I continue to do my thing. It isn’t long before my cock is pumping and squirting hot, sticky cum into her tight little pussy that has a slight curvature in just the right place. I pull out and she spins around and sucks my cock dry.

We cuddle up on the sofa under a throw for a while, but eventually the time nears for her to have to go back to work in London. I don’t want her situation with her employers getting any worse because of me.

“Sweetie, isn’t it time to catch a train?” I ask.

“No, I want some more of your cock,” she says, leaning over to my groin, pushing the throw away.

“Hey, you don’t want to get into trouble at work,” I counter.

“Agh, fuck them,” she says as she latches onto my cock and starts sucking away on it.

I look down at her in disbelief and she does what she does best. What is her problem? Does she have some kind of death-wish going on? I try to figure it out while she expertly brings my orgasm to fruition and savours the proceeds.

Not long afterwards we’re scampering towards my train station as her train is arriving. A hurried kiss sees her off. It’s just turned eleven o’clock, the time when she’s supposed to report back to her charge, but the trains will take another hour to get her there. I turn and saunter back home, my head full of questions about her self-destructive behaviour.

On Friday morning The Saffa tells me that she had used up all her nights off for the week. Then later in the day tells me that she’s meeting her old school friends again that night.

Hmm, my trust demon awakes and rattles his cage, yearning to break free. I haven’t felt him for a while, thinking him in an icy hibernation, his black little heart frozen. I’m wrong. He’s alive and well and trying to protect me.

I go onto The Saffa’s Facebook page and do some reconnaissance. I notice that in preceding weeks, when she was supposed to be “working”, that she was out partying with friends. She told me that she only gets Wednesday afternoons and Saturday afternoon until Sunday evening off. The date and time-stamp of photos that she and other people have posted of her tell me otherwise. My analytical eye sees that one of the guys has appeared in photos thrice in the past two weeks.

She’s lied to me, there’s a mystery man on the scene and she is deliberately courting danger with her employers.

I see trouble ahead…

Lindsey Buckingham – Trouble

Fiery lunch and angry pancakes

Monday starts with The Saffa initiating intense sex and she cums twice on The Hook with her squealing piggy sound; ever so cute. We go to The Stables Market in Camden Town to sample exotic foods and textiles where we spend the day.

At lunchtime we stand looking at all the options around us. And we stand and stand while she can’t make her mind up. This takes me back to our earliest dates where I noticed her indecision over trivial matters and rash reckless decisiveness over important matters.

Noticing lengthening queues , without a word I step over to a Chinese takeaway vendor and order what I want, thinking she could catch up. For several dates now she was expressing her discomfort at my paying for everything, so I thought here’s a chance for her to pay for herself.

By the time she had decided what she wanted – the same food as me – I was halfway through mine. I noticed a change in her body language and frequency of eye-contact. We sat and ate in silence until I coaxed it out of her what was bugging her.

“Want to tell me what’s the matter?” I ask, like many a fool before me.

“You couldn’t be bothered to buy me lunch,” she snaps back.

Oh, the drama. She was upset that I didn’t buy her lunch? A heated exchange follows until an uneasy truce breaks out. I hope that this behaviour is short-lived because I have no time for a drama queen. A little damage has been done as I don’t appreciate petulance and mixed messages.

I calm the waters and distract her with silver jewellery, her favourite trinket. She hasn’t been sleeping well at her place of work/home, so that night we decamp to my home in the countryside. It felt quite sweet to be walking through the door with her into my home. I really wasn’t comfortable with her living arrangements; not private enough.

The next morning, a Tuesday, I get up leaving her slumbering in bed and go to make us pancakes. I have a recipe that has worked just fine for many years. The mix was made and first pancake is under way when The Saffa joins me in the kitchen.

In less than minute she is telling me how to make pancakes and quizzing me on how I made the pancake mix from scratch. I told her my method and it wasn’t to her liking. She keeps going on about how I’m doing it all wrong and it won’t be edible. I ignore her and keep doing what I know works, but she keeps going on and on about how I should be doing it her way. A silly argument ensues and in a moment of utter frustration I shout out, “Why can’t you just let me do what I want?!”

The Saffa storms off into the lounge and throws herself down on the sofa, folding her arms and legs, tapping a foot against a coffee table.

Oh, good grief. What a shit way to start the day. I was wanting to surprise her with breakfast in bed but she wouldn’t let this happen for some reason.

I know that in the affairs of humans there is a process that all new relationships have to go through, irrespective of whether it’s in the workplace, sports team, military unit, friendship or romance. 1) Forming. The participants come together and commence interacting. 2) Storming. Boundaries of acceptable behaviour are established via argument and confrontation. 3) Norming. Roles are accepted and a hierarchy is clear. 4) Performing. The group gets on with the task.

In a romantic relationship the ‘Storming’ stage is where a couple find out – consciously or unconsciously – who is the senior partner. The couple hopefully learn how to deal with their inevitable differences. If they’re lucky they find out how to argue constructively. The relationship will not progress until the ‘Storming’ or ‘Shouting’ stage is completed. Many a budding relationship has wrecked itself at this stage. The sad truth is that very few of us know or are taught how to argue constructively. I certainly don’t.

Swallowing hard, I take a deep breath and go into the lounge to make peace. The tapping foot slows down as somehow I find words that soothe. The pancakes are presented and they get eaten with long teeth on her part. The day crawls by with polite platitudes and a noticeable absence of anything sexual. Eventually I see her off at the train station in the early evening with a feckless kiss.

After the blow-up over pancakes and the un-bought lunch things just aren’t the same. The magic is gone and the chemistry between us is flat. My outburst may just have lost me a good woman. My lack of self-control comes with price, just like it does with other people.

The Saffa phones me when she gets back to London and mentions that she has bought a pregnancy test kit; her period is several days overdue. That came out of nowhere, but mercifully it proves to be a false alarm, or so she tells me the next day. I really must be more careful otherwise I could find myself raising a kid with someone unsuited to me.

My mind keeps asking if she’s The One? The doubts are growing and the arguments haven’t helped. I’m starting to think that she’s not ready to put her heart in my hands and perhaps for good reason as I might just be a monster. However, is her behaviour a fucked-up defence mechanism to test my resolve and protect herself? I don’t know. I know very little about her inner workings. As voluble and volatile as she is, her true feelings are kept hidden from me. Was some of her attitude driven by the thought of being pregnant by me? Or was it good ol’ pre-menstrual syndrome? Why doesn’t she just talk to me?

Borne out of a sense of frustration I find myself thinking of swapping naughty texts with Exgf, but I decide not to. To my great surprise Krazy Girl sends me a text message, so my mind wonders over to fond memories of her and the kinky things we never got to do. Again I invoke some self-control and ignore her because I’ve been down that road and vagina enough times to know where it leads to.

The Saffa and I swap cheery, positive messages and pictures via WhatsApp for the rest of the week and she phones me at night time after work. Superficially everything is hunky dory, but to me the magic is obviously gone and not likely to return. I feel like I have fucked this up with my outburst over pancakes.

We’re stuck in the ‘Shouting’ stage. How am I going to get us out of it?

Once again what was clear, shiny black and white has become an amorphous, opaque grey.

Joan Armatrading – The Shouting Stage

Great Balls on Fire

I go into London to have my hair cut in Covent Garden at a pretentious chop-shop in preparation for what should be a memorable weekend. The Saffa’s client is going away for a long weekend and she’s invited me to spend the weekend with her, which I gleefully accept. Busty Czech is now history and I can hopefully forge forward towards love.

I arrive mid-afternoon at The Saffa’s place in a swanky part of London and we share drinks in the sunshine on the patio. The alcohol goes down easy and we take photos of each other, fully clothed, but striking suggestive poses. It isn’t long before we are on her bed fucking.

Something my quest for love has taught me is that if a woman has gone without sex for six months or more, when she has it on tap, she’s ravenous for it. It becomes a central part of her daily thoughts which in itself exaggerates her need for it. Once that switch has been flipped and a woman has sex on the brain nothing else will suffice, which is nice for her man if he has a normal appetite for sex.

We’re going at it missionary style, she has her arms and legs wrapped tight around me; I love that sensation of being one. The Saffa uncouples her arms and pushes up against my chest, forcing me to look at her.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, stopping my gyrations, fearing that I’m hurting her. Then I realize that it might be because we might not be alone again.

I’m wrong.

“I want you to choke me,” she says.


I’ve heard of this and it’s naughtier cousin auto-asphyxiation, but it’s not something that has appealed to me. Never has a lover asked for this. I’m not too sure how to do this, but if it’s what she wants then I’ll try it while being careful.

“Are you serious?” I counter, just to check before proceeding.

“Ja man, just do it. If it’s too tight I’ll let you know,” she answers.

So like that, for the first time in my life, I gently strangle a woman while fucking her. I think it’s a bit weird as my hand grips her fragile throat and her eyes go big. Apparently all’s fair in love and war, but I’m inclined to add ‘sex’ to that saying.

I start squeezing tighter and tighter while fucking her harder and faster. The Saffa cums with an almighty blast of air spat into my face and a series of break-dance-like moves with her body then squealing like a little pig. If I hadn’t recently had the displeasure of Busty Czech’s full-throated screams then I might have thought badly of The Saffa’s sounds, but now I just think they’re cute.

Without stopping I keep going vigorously as she deals with the aftershocks of what must have been an above-average orgasm for her. My balls clench tight and it’s time for my baby-batter to breathe. She’s further along in her menstrual cycle and I don’t want to get her pregnant.

“Where do you want my cum?” I ask. There’s no predicting her answer I’m learning.

“I want it all over my face. I love it,” she wheezes.

That works for me and within seconds I’m straddling her chest. The Saffa has closed her eyes, opened her mouth, is sticking her little pink tongue out while she’s holding her hair back with a free hand. Women hate having cum in their hair, no matter how much they like man-milk.

I haven’t climaxed since Busty Czech jerked me off last Saturday night so I’m eager to unburden myself as my balls have been aching for two days now. I usually become uncomfortable after three days so this is a recent record of some kind for me. Today I was having headaches and feeling ready to explode. I can’t cum soon enough!

A few sharp tugs of my penis leads to a sweet eruption of sperm flying out of it. Dollops of it land on the bridge of The Saffa’s nose and then gravity forces it to separate into two smaller splots that slowly slide down and around her face. It just keeps coming, there’s so much of it and it’s thicker than yogurt. I’ve never covered a woman’s face with so much sperm before.

“Agh, ja, yes,” she says, keeping her eyes closed before running her tongue around the edge of her mouth, collecting sperm on the tip of her tongue as she goes, then curling her tongue and retracting it, swallowing my cum.

In my earlier question of whether she’s kinky or perverted, I’m inclined to say the latter.

Saturday we have sex again first thing which she initiates. She cums while being on The Hook and asks me to cum on her breasts which she smears in with a devilish smile. Afterwards we go to Spitalfields Market where she is happy to give respect to every stall selling anything from around the world. After that we make a brief visit to Brick Lane just before closing time because she wanted to buy a trinket she saw the last time we were there.

Saturday night ends with us having sex in her bedroom again. At least she hasn’t asked that we baptise every room in the little old lady’s home, but it’s early days. It’s getting late and the lights are out because they were never switched on. We’ve been at it for quite a while.

“I’m getting a little dry. I need some lube,” The Saffa says.

She had told me that she’s always had a bit of a lubrication problem in the past and this is the first time that she’s reached for some jelly. No other woman that I’ve been with has had this problem, even the older ones, so I decide to let her lead proceedings because I don’t really know what works for her. I’ve never ever even seen a container of lubricant.

“I need to smear it on your cock,” she tells me after fiddling with a small bottle in her bedside drawer.

The Saffa starts applying this strange smelling stuff to my erect penis, balls and scrotum. It feels quite cool. I like it. I wonder how that will feel like to her?

“Oh shit! My hands are going warm!” she exclaims.

“What’s going on?” I ask while enjoying the cool sensation on my genitals.

“Oh no,” she whines as she switches the bedside light on and reaches into the drawer. Two hexagonal-shaped little bottles are held up to my face. The one label mentions ‘lubricant’ in its name and the other says “Tiger Balm”. The latter is a menthol heat rub used in Asia for all sorts of muscular ailments. It starts off cool, heats up and then warms the muscles with a fiery effect.

“Quick! We have to get it off,” she says running out the room to the bathroom.

At this point the cooling sensation starts to subside and is becoming noticeably warmer. The Saffa comes scampering back with a wet facecloth but, alas for my genitals, she’s too late and it’s too little. Her efforts to wipe the ointment off fails and she’s really just smearing it deeper in.

A warm glowing sensation quickly intensifies into a burning feeling all over my cock. Within seconds my penis’ head is ablaze, my shaft is an inferno, my balls are jiggling about like they’re in a cauldron and my scrotum is shrivelling up like paper in a fire.


My heart-rate must be close to heart-attack territory and I’m hyperventilating. I don’t know what to do. Does water make it better or worse? Can anything make it better?

The Saffa is reading out the information on the little bottle of Tiger Balm, but I can’t hear her because of my internal screams. Dante’s Inferno has nothing on this.

Fuck! The conflagration is spreading to the skin around my groin and everywhere else is getting more intense, even worse! I get out of bed and feel like jumping up and down from the pain. The hottest chilli on earth being stuffed down my urethra would be less painful.

I can just hear it now: “Do you remember the time we got to go to the hospital with a sex-injury?”

After the longest minute of my life this hell starts to abate to a mere simmering barbecue of my penis and testicles.

“I’m so sorry,” The Saffa keeps saying but then she breaks out into a laugh.

I see the funny side of this and laugh along.

Eventually an acceptable numbness becomes a welcome respite that I can live with.

This passion-killer interlude leads to us lying in each other’s arms, laughing some more before falling asleep.

Sunday morning starts with sex again, which she initiates. Thankfully I don’t seem to have any nasty leftover side-effects from the Tiger Balm. I was very concerned about the future of my privates. Luckily I have no desire to father children.

This time she asks me to cum on her back. Easily done as we’re doggy-style and she’s on The Hook. The Saffa doesn’t mind at all being on The Hook. In fact, I suspect that she likes it because she cums hard like that.

After breakfast we make our way over to Portobello Road market. We catch a bus and sit upstairs taking in the sights of London. I don’t know it got there, but some Tiger Balm must have landed on my clothes because my lower back is on fire. I sit squirming on the bus to such an extent that a curious Japanese tourist took a photo of me. I can imagine her commentary back home: “Look, some crazy people on buses in London. Use Tube, safer.”

Yes, Tube safe, lube not so safe.

We spend the afternoon walking around Portobello Road, enjoying the sights of real crazy people selling weird things to people who must be crazy to buy any of it. It’s a perfectly sunny day, too sunny. Perspiration is mixing with the Tiger Balm on my back and it’s driving me crazy. The Saffa can’t stop laughing about it.

I made her tits bleed, she set fire to my balls. All square now?

What’s next with her?

Jerry Lee Lewis – Great Balls of Fire

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

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