Delicate Flower and the not again

How am I going to seduce her? That’s what’s going through my mind as I rush around my apartment. Nobody cleans a home quicker than a man expecting a woman, especially when the previous woman only left an hour earlier! I do the best I can before showering, the latter being equally important because apparently women can smell another woman on a man. I call it ‘that just shagged aroma’ and I like it, but today it might cause trouble.

As I walk passed the same four taxi drivers at my train station who had seen me an hour earlier with Teacher Gal, they give me a quizzical look. Delicate Flower’s train arrives and she spots me as she gets off. God, she’s small; I might break her. I stoop down and kiss her hello on her cheeks which makes her smile. She’s wearing a white dress with floral motifs and she’s showing off her perfectly sculpted, smoothly-shaven legs. She’s very attractive; I wonder what her pussy tastes like.

One of the taxi drivers gives me an approving nod plus smile while the three others stare with big eyes as we walk passed them. I smile to myself. Is this really my life? Two hours earlier another woman was gratefully swallowing my load and now I have this little beauty by my side? Maybe there is a god after all.

Back at my place all that Delicate Flower says of it is, “It’s such a bachelor’s pad,” to which we both laugh. Good, she’s not taken aback or horrified, but not that I really care because I don’t have any long-term hopes with her, just some fun and see how long it lasts or what it leads to.

I get to work making a risotto with her leaning against the kitchen door, her hands behind her back, her pert little breasts pointing out at me. We talk and I pour wine. That’s step one of my seduction plan; get some alcohol in her to lower her inhibitions.

After a little more cooking, at an opportune moment I step over to her and give her one of my slow, soft kisses that seem to befuddle women. She closes her eyes as we kiss and I pull away first, teasing her, making her want more. Only our lips touched. She bats her eyelids furiously, trying to regain her composure, almost slouching against the door. That’s step two; introduce a physical idea in her head, get her wanting something more from me.

Risotto takes time to simmer so I suggest that I introduce her to Californication. We sit side by side on my sofa and I coax her to sit against me, claiming that the picture is better from that angle. Our shoulders and thighs touch as we sit watching the first two episodes. That’s step three; getting her used to touching me.

She laughs at the right times and especially at the naughty bits. Good, this is helping to introduce a subtle sexual dynamic to what she’s experiencing. At the end of the second episode I lean over and kiss her. She turns to face me, putting a hand on my chest and we kiss for several minutes. I can sense that she’s getting turned on; her sounds are becoming more audible and her kisses more urgent. That’s step four; get her turned on a little, leave her wanting more.

The timer in the kitchen goes off and I say, “I guess I was saved by the bell,” to which she gives a naughty smile. My research on the internet tells me that reversing the age-old man chasing woman idea has the effect on a woman of arousing her. As we eat lunch we chat happily and she starts telling me more about her childhood.

“My parents are Mormons and so are all my sisters and brothers, even today. It was a suffocating upbringing in that I wasn’t allowed all the things other children had. It was so hard to go off to school with normal children and then go home to my parent’s way of life. We didn’t have television or a telephone. I hated my childhood so I rebelled the first chance I got,” she says.

I understand her so much better now, but it still didn’t change the fact that I can’t have a loving relationship with her. One of her rebellious acts is unacceptable to me so I can never love her because I don’t respect her. I’m intent on seeing through my plan of finding out if we could be friends with benefits.

We end up back on my sofa watching more Californication which she absolutely loves. Periodically I kiss her, keeping the sexual engine in her running, slowly working her up into a lustful state. She complains of back pain so seeing my opportunity I say, “Is now a good time to tell you that I’ve done a course in massage? Would you like a massage?”

The critical moment has arrived. Have I done enough to make her comfortable being partly undressed around me? Is she turned on enough to want to fuck?

“I’d love that,” she says without hesitation.

Game on!

“Okay, turn facing away from me,” I say to which she complies. I unzip the back of her dress and push the bit around her shoulders forward and down, exposing her back. Delicate Flower turns her head to one side, one blue eye looking at me. I’m not sure if she’s surprised because she was expecting me to massage her through her clothes or if she is wanting to say something.

Then I see it.

The biggest tattoo I’ve ever seen covering the lower half of her back. It’s a massive sunflower in blue ink, very ornately done. I don’t like tattoos, I wasn’t expecting this and it shocks me. I think tattoos are a desecration of the human body. (I didn’t know about the high correlation between tattoos and mental illness.) Putting my palms together and fanning my fingers out would just about meet the width of her tattoo and I have big hands and she is petite. If I fuck her doggy style I’ll have to keep my eyes closed.

It dawns on me that Delicate Flower has her own flower imprinted on her skin.

“Wow! What a surprise. It’s very well done,” is the best that I can blurt out. She smiles.

I unclasp her bra and push the straps down her shoulders, my fingers caressing her skin as I do so. In response she tilts her head upwards. She enjoyed that. Is her pussy getting wet?

I take my time in giving her a back massage. There’s no rush and I’m treating it as part of our foreplay. I can’t see them, but I can just imagine her nipples being very hard and erect.

Running my hands over the tattoo was not pleasant for me. It felt unnatural and slightly disgusting to me. I didn’t spend much time on her lower back, so a disproportionate effort went into her neck and shoulders because I know that that will relax her.

It’s time to make my move. If there is resistance then we wouldn’t be going any further. If she likes it, then we’re going all the way.

I lean forward and kiss the back of her neck. She lets off a sound of profound satisfaction as she exhales. My cock is as good as in her pussy; just a matter of time now.

Kissing her neck and shoulders yields more sounds of pleasure that she can’t hold back. She’s keeping her eyes closed and I can see that she is in the throes of bliss. I move her head from one side to the other as I slowly land soft kisses all over her neck and shoulders. I can do whatever I want to now.

I stand up, kneel in front of the footstool, take her by her ankles and point them towards me. Delicate Flower opens her eyes, no doubt startled by my man-handling her, but says nothing. I pull her dress and knickers off, casually tossing them to one side while maintaining eye-contact with her. Neither of us say a word.

To be continued…

Nobody isfaster

Teacher Gal and twice awkward

I’ve screwed myself. I’m seeing Teacher Gal on Saturday followed by Delicate Flower on Sunday, but I’ve just realised that Teacher Gal is likely to sleep over at my place on the Saturday night. Sunday is going to be awkward. I meet Teacher Gal at King’s Cross on Saturday at noon and she’s wearing an over-sized hideous flower again. Now I’m no snappy dresser, but I don’t go around looking like a clown. I think every man needs to find his woman suitably attired. Struggling to find tactful words I say nothing and lead her to our destination, Stables Market at Camden Town. Yes, the same place I had been with Delicate Flower the previous weekend; it’s familiar and I didn’t see that much because my focus was more on my date.

We spend the afternoon walking around and Teacher Gal loves the place for its artistic flair above all else. I love it for the variety of food; you name it and that cuisine is there. We snack on small dishes that we buy from stalls and I notice that Teacher Gal doesn’t like her food as spicy as me. (In the fullness of time I will learn the significance of this.)

It was also time for the ‘best friend test’.

Teacher Gal had arranged for us to meet her best friend and husband at a concert by a South African pop group called ‘Freshly Ground’. We meet the friends at a pavement café and I’m immediately struck by how attractive her best friend is; very pretty, golden blonde hair and just enough cushion for the pushin’ – just my type. In truth I find the friend more attractive than Teacher Gal. Something in my psyche stirs and tells me that Teacher Gal is not as attractive as I would like, that I’m selling myself short and I feel conflicted and guilty about all this.

The husband is ten years younger than the best friend and he almost immediately becomes defensive. Because of my size and looks men generally tend to be defensive around me, so I think nothing of it. (Men are like dogs: there’s an implicit pecking order in the pack with the biggest dog being the top dog.) We sit and make small talk over coffee and pastries before joining the queue at the venue across the street. The two women chatter away, but the husband and I barely make eye contact. Then I realize that he is the shortest of the four of us and the youngest.

Inside the venue we share a private booth with a table on a balcony overlooking the lively masses below. Teacher Gal is by my side and the married couple sit opposite us. The music starts and conversation becomes difficult, but the best friend makes a determined effort to talk to me throughout the concert. I notice that the husband has become a deaf mute. At one point Teacher Gal makes a disapproving face when her friend talks to me an umpteenth time.

This is getting awkward. The husband is unimpressed by his wife’s interest in me and now Teacher Gal is getting irritated too. I think the friend is just being friendly, but a younger, immature man’s insecurities have been riled. I’m not sure if Teacher Gal is jealous, protective or feeling bad for the husband. It’s none of my making. I try to defuse the situation by making small talk with the now-grumpy hubby, but he’s not interested. What can I do? I buy us a round of drinks; it makes no difference.

The lead singer of Freshly Ground is a five foot tall Xhosa woman who has the voice of an angel. One of their songs, “I’d like”, has words that I find topical. The words are how I want to feel about somebody, but sadly neither of the women I’m seeing this weekend invoke this kind of feeling in me. Deep down I know that this is the case, but ever the foolish optimist I’m hoping, hoping that somehow, somewhere something would happen to make it so.

After the concert we need to catch the same train home, but while waiting for it, the two ladies go to the toilets. I look at grumpy hubby and smile, to which he wanders off to go stand further down the platform. If he wants to play games with me, he’ll lose. I remain on my spot until the ladies return. Teacher Gal immediately comes up to me and holds my hand. The friend spots her husband and seems unsure about what to do. I can see the confusion in her eyes about what to do. She decides to go stand with her husband.

Teacher Gal leans against me and I wrap my arms around her. The train arrives and we end up sitting in a booth with four seats. We are all tired and conversation is minimal. I whisper into Teacher Gal’s ear, “Would you like to spend the night with me?” to which she makes an approving sound. Now my brain starts racing, calculating the likelihood of us successfully making the beast with two backs.

We cuddle up in my bed and we agree that we’re both too tired for whoopee. We lie facing each other, our legs and arms entwined with me trying to keep her warm. We talk softly about the events of the day and evening.

“Your best friend is very friendly,” I say.

“Perhaps too much so. I’d forgotten that she has a thing for tall, dark, South African men. Her previous relationship lasted ten years with a guy who looks similar to you. He was even from the same city as you. She thought he was The One,” Teacher Gal says.

It all made sense now. Grumpy hubby must have been going through hell all night. Poor little ginger boy.

The next morning I wake up and Teacher Gal is already awake and staring at me with her beautiful sky-blue eyes. Without much talking we proceed to make love. Well, we tried.

No amount of orgasms and simultaneous g-spot clit-licking was going to make her pussy big enough for my cock. I had made her cum twice when I begin to realize that we are woefully sexually incompatible. Sure she was having fun, but I wasn’t. My cock couldn’t get into her pussy, she gives a rubbish blowjob and even though anal isn’t my thing, I won’t even ask her about that. Out of desperation I did try stinky-pinky on her earlier but she baulked, so I know what the answer will be. This is getting awkward.

It’s getting late and I must get Teacher Gal out of my place. I need to clean it to remove all traces of another woman before Delicate Flower arrives. I get up to get dressed and look back at Teacher Gal in my bed. She looks so sweet and alluring lying there, the duvet covering her lower half, her nipples still erect, showing me that she’s still turned on.

I’m frustrated again, but want some satisfaction off her. I stride to her side of the bed, my shins against the mattress, my cock dangling down over her. Will she take my hint and suck it?

Teacher Gal gathers the pillows under her head, then in a bizarre fashion, curls herself up into the foetus position, knees raised, arms over her breasts, closes her eyes and takes my cock in her mouth. The foetal position thing puzzles me but I focus on the sight of her doing her goldfish sucking a cigar routine. That’s never going to do anything for me, so I let my mind wander and I latch onto the idea, the wonderful notion of what it might be like to have sex with her best-friend.

I start fantasizing about what I would like to do with her friend, what I would like to have her friend do to me…and all the while have her husband watch us. Hell, in my fantasy he’s videoing it all, occasionally suggesting things for us to do. They can watch the video together whenever one of them is frisky for however long their doomed marriage will last.

After a couple of minutes of this fantasy I sense that I’m close to cumming. Teacher Gal has never said whether she likes to feel a cock cumming in her mouth nor whether she swallows. I think it’s only fair and decent to give her a warning.

“I’m getting closer to cumming. Do you want me to cum in your mouth?” I ask, expecting a negative reaction.

Instead she says nothing but continues her repetitive motion without breaking rhythm. I take that as a ‘yes’.

“Do you like to swallow cum? I want you to swallow mine,” I say, expecting some kind of reaction but instead get nothing. Again I take that as a ‘yes’. The surprise of this turns me on more, driving me to the edge. I close my eyes and imagine it’s her friend sucking me off while her husband watches.

Seconds later several days worth of cum explodes out of my cock into Teacher Gal’s mouth. Momentarily she chokes as she swallows my load but dutifully returns to sucking the rest of my man milk out of me. It feels good despite her looking odd in the foetus position.

Teacher Gal stops her version of a blowie and drops her knees, straightens her body out and gives me a yearning look that I don’t understand. Right now all I want is to get her on the road because I need to get my place ready for my next visitor who might be ending up in my bed too.

“Sorry, sweetie, but I have plans to meet some friends today in a couple of hours. Can I make you a coffee and toast before you go?” I ask, lying through my teeth, hoping that she isn’t offended nor suspects anything. It works.

Less than an hour later I’m walking her to my train station. The only other people around are four chatting taxi drivers who give us an accusative look. I wait with her for her train, making small-talk and give her a kiss goodbye just before she boards it.

I turn on my heels and start running back to my place, passing the bemused taxi drivers.

What am I going to do about you? That’s what I ask myself as I run but realize that I have to think about that another time.

In less than an hour Delicate Flower is arriving…

Freshly Ground – I’d like

I’d like to call you sometime
I’d like you to need me one time.

What would you do if you knew the truth?
What would you do if I told you the story of my life?
Would you find me overly familiar towards you?
Would you call me crude, fling me aside to the birds?

What do I do with all these feelings warming me up inside?
What do I do with all these precious hours dreaming of you at night?
Would you recognise it’s a need I’ve been fighting for so long?
Would you recognise it’s a hunger only you can fill?

Because I’d like to call you sometime.
Oh, I would like to call you.

I’d like to call you sometime
I’d like you to need me one time.

Delicate Flower shocks me

In my mind I’m still battling with the disastrous sexcapade with Teacher Gal of a few hours earlier as I’m standing outside Camden Town Tube station waiting for Delicate Flower. I tell myself to snap out of it, I can think about it on the train home and now need to focus on Delicate Flower. Where do I want take things with her? What are the possible outcomes with her?

As much as I fancy her and she appeals to my protective instincts, her having committed my sexual foible makes it impossible for me to fully respect her. There is no way that I can love her; it’s just not going to happen. I know this about me; we all have our non-negotiables.

When I read in my Exgf’s diaries of her having committed my foible, I should have known then. I decided to persevere, to see if I could get over it. I struggled and eventually sought help in the form of a psychologist. She told me that fifteen years of cognitive behaviour therapy might work, but it isn’t guaranteed. Her simple suggestion was to rather find and be with someone who hasn’t done what I find so unacceptable. She gave me a crutch that I shall have to lean on for the rest of my life.

( )

Before I have a chance to make sense of my thoughts and emotions, Delicate Flower is standing in front of me. I’m so deeply lost in my own little world that I don’t see her walking up to me. She’s wearing black leather boots, dark jeans and a black leather jacket with loads of silver paraphernalia. Where have I seen this Goth biker-chick look before?

I bend down and give her a kiss on each cheek which makes her smile, almost to the point of blushing. Today her heels are shorter and she barely comes up to my shoulder in height. Doesn’t she find this odd, or does she like it?

It’s a beautiful Spring day and the sun is warming us all; it feels good on my back. We make our way through the crowds of tourists that have come to load up on tacky souvenirs that they’ll hide away when back home. Delicate Flower’s bouncy demeanour and ready smile dilute my troubled memories of the previous twenty four hours.

I lead us to Stables Market where the best of the world’s ethnic handicrafts have made their way to London. Disused stables once housing draught horses that pulled barges along canals have been tastefully converted into shops selling what seems like everything that can be made from fabric or leather. Delicate Flower is in her element and the retail therapy-seeker in her comes out. I saunter along, watching her in action, learning what I can about what appeals to her, how she makes decisions, seeing how she interacts with the shopkeepers. She’s picky, thorough and courteous; just like me.

What she doesn’t know is that I have made a booking with a restaurant, with a Groupon voucher in my pocket. When it was time for lunch, I said, “Come with me. I have a surprise for you,” which made her eyes light up. I led her to a swanky South African restaurant that had spent a million Pounds on the décor of Zulu-inspired statues, friezes, seating and lighting. Almost all the food is authentic South African cuisine of various wildlife. I had checked her profile during the week to see if she was vegetarian and thankfully she isn’t.

Shaka Zulu

Shaka Zulu

It was while we enjoying our main courses of ostrich and zebra steaks that our easy banter became interesting and somewhat serious.

“So, I’m curious about something. What was it about my profile that made you write to me?” I ask, expecting her to mention a clever line or reveal a liking for one of my carefully-chosen and tested photos.

“I haven’t read your profile,” she answers.

“Sorry, what?!” I exclaim.

“You dated my best friend last month and she suggested that I get in touch with you,” she says.

“Who is your best friend?” I ask, with my brain racing.

Delicate Flower mentions a name and I realize that it’s the Lost One she’s referring to.

( )

I’m getting referrals now?! Is this a good or bad thing? Nevertheless, this surprise takes me aback and my face must show it because Delicate Flower laughs at my reaction and looks pleased with herself.

Oh, so you like to play games, huh? Okay, let’s play. An idea comes to me.

We finish our lunch and I hand over the Groupon voucher to the waiter in front of Delicate Flower, checking for a reaction, trying to see if she’s bothered by this – she’s not. So, she’s not about the money.

Walking around the rest of the market could have taken up the rest of the day, but a downpour made us take shelter in a coffee shop. I use this as an opportunity to put my idea into action.

“So, in an ideal world, what would your perfect man look like?” I ask after we’re well into our coffees and pastries.

“Well, he’s tall, dark and handsome. Isn’t that what all girls want? Isn’t it obvious?” she answers with a naughty twinkle in her eye.

“What does he do for a job?” I ask, ignoring her slight compliment.

“He doesn’t sit in an office. He works with his hands. Something like being a baker. There’s something sexy about a man who uses his hands all day long,” she says.

“What kind of hobbies does he have?” I ask, confident in my belief that she’s thinking that my questions are about our compatibility.

“He’s into his sports and is quite active. I think he cycles. Those tight shorts do it for me,” she says with a little laugh.

I ask a few more inane questions like this and once I feel that I have what I need, I change the topic of conversation and she forgets about it. We talk about all sorts of other things and at one point we’re talking about Lost One. Delicate Flower goes too far in discussing her friend, slipping into malicious gossip (I might have helped steer matters in that direction) and tells me that Lost One has also committed my sexual foible. My stomach turns, but I give myself an invisible pat on the back for having not sensed any potential with her.

It’s getting dark and I realize that I’ve left it too late to engineer my going home with her on this date. I guess it’s the price I pay for not being better prepared, but the previous night with Teacher Gal has really thrown me. I would love to go home with Delicate Flower to have sex with her; my instincts tell me it will be good. However, flirting was minimal today and there was no sexual banter. We haven’t even kissed today.

Before I can come up with a way forward Delicate Flower says, “It’s been fun again, but I need to catch a bus home now.”

I walk her to a nearby bus terminus and wait with her until her bus arrives. As it pulls up, I say to her, “would you like to come visit me next weekend and I’ll cook for you?” expecting her to decline, citing being busy or something like that because this date was pretty uneventful to me.

“I’d love that,” she says with a smile before standing on tippy toes and giving me a kiss on a cheek, then climbing into the bus.

On my train home I decide that I want to find out what she’s like in bed. When she comes to my place next weekend I’m going to try to seduce her. Before that happens, I’m going to have my other fun with her.

I set up a fake OKCupid profile and via Google images I find a suitable picture of her ideal man. I write the profile up to include all the information that she gave me while we spent hours sitting in the coffee shop. I pretend to be a cycling-mad baker. I know what her answers are to OKCupid’s questions from my real profile, so it isn’t difficult for my fake persona to become one of her highest matches. Then I send her a message introducing myself. It takes only a couple of hours before she writes back.

When I next see her I’ll tell her about this; let’s see if she laughs. As we sit swapping messages, I get cocky. I phone her while messaging her on the website. She answers and we have one conversation on the phone, while we have another conversation via email, but she doesn’t know that she’s actually writing to me.

“So what are you doing right now?” I ask a little ways into the conversation, hearing her keyboard in action.

“Oh, I’m just watching television,” she replies as I read her latest message to me.

My fake persona messages her suggesting that “we” get together for a date this coming Sunday. She types back that she has “plans for Sunday”, which pleases me.

We talk on the phone about the practicalities of her getting to my place, all the while swapping emails that I am now steering in a distinctly sexual direction, seeing how she would handle this. She bites and offers to send the fake me photos of sketches that her sister did of her posing nude. I provide an email address and she sends a couple of tasteful images that turn me on. It didn’t take her long to send those; she must keep them handy.

I now decide to end the phonecall, but continue the now naughty chat via the website. I push matters too far when I ask her for real photos of her nude as at that point she stops responding.

Her indulging a total stranger, a fake one that happened to be me, to that extent reinforces my belief that she is a Good-Time Girl. My Good Girl would never do something like that.

She’s dishonest, deceitful and sexually loose. Any qualms I had about just using her for sex are now gone. I feel it’s okay for me to do as I wish with her.

Alan Parsons Project – Games people play

Teacher Gal, the cats and bumping uglies – Final part

I gently slide an index finger into her pussy; it’s a tight fit. Shit, if my finger is struggling to get in there, my cock certainly won’t. Oh no, not another Baltic Babe situation?! I don’t want to hurt her. I’m going to have to really take my time turning her on so badly that she wants my cock and any pain won’t matter.

Still sucking her clit, I slowly move my finger around inside her tight pussy. Teacher Gal’s very wet, but her pussy is so neglected that it might be haunted.

Doesn’t she have a vibrator like any other woman? I have to know. We might be needing it.

“Do you have a vibrator?” I ask as casually as I know how.

“No, I don’t like those things. Please don’t stop,” she replies.

With her clit protruding into my mouth, I turn my finger around and find her g-spot, which is big and round. This might be what’s taking up all the space in there! I start sliding my finger around this bulbous, uncharacteristically smooth g-spot (all others have felt like the rough spot behind your teeth in your upper palette) which makes her body tense up.

“What the hell is that you’re doing?” she asks, raising her head.

“That? Oh, that’s your g-spot. Do you like how that feels?” I say haughtily.

“Dunno, it feels strange. Nobody’s ever done that before,” she says.

“Well, if you relax, you’ll enjoy it. I won’t hurt you” I reply.

Teacher Gal drops her head back onto her pillow and I resume sucking on her clit and fingering her g-spot while she makes strange sounds. You think you’ve got problems, lady? I don’t think that my cock is going to fit into your tiny little pussy!

I’m mindlessly doing my thing, pondering anatomy and physics when I realize that she’s about to to cum. Her hips are twitching, she’s noisier and her breathing is fast.


I look up to see her head shoot up and shudder as she climaxes, letting out a strangled scream, an anguished look on her face. Her clit pops out of my mouth and I notice that my hand is covered in her glucose-rich pussy juices that have seeped out.

Teacher Gal is panting like a dog with heat-stroke and I lie next to her, half covering her, almost cuddling her. I say almost because of my soaked hand; I didn’t know what to do with it. I rested it on her impressively flat stomach; I don’t think she noticed or if she did, she didn’t care. Hell, it’s her juices.

After a few minutes she swallows hard and speaks.

“I’ve never felt anything like that before,” she says, catching her breath again.

I say nothing and just smile to myself. I’m still focussed on how tight her pussy is. More foreplay will be required before she can accommodate me, I decide.

We lie entwined, engaging in pillow talk. I love the afterglow. I don’t have to cum to enjoy the cuddling and feeling after making my lover cum. Most people either enjoy the foreplay, or the sex or the afterglow. I enjoy it all.

After about half an hour or letting her rest and recharge, I do it again. This time I start off by kissing her all over, starting with her face, nuzzling her neck which makes her squeal like a little girl, then spend a little time kissing, licking and sucking her breasts. Teacher Gal loves to have her breasts sucked. I work my way down to her pussy and repeat what I had done previously, as if I had never done it before and she reacted as if she had never felt it all before. I don’t think she’ll tire of my sucking her clit while rubbing her giant g-spot.


It was de ja cum all over again. I had seen this orgasm somewhere before.

After more afterglow cuddling, she says to me, “What would you like me to do to you?”

Her reciprocal nature and willingness to please warms my heart…and my cock a little bit.

“I would absolutely love it if you were to kiss me all over,” I respond, curious to see what she does.

Teacher Gal starts kissing my forehead, then my face and working her way down. She takes her time, is unhurried, which pleases me because someone going through the motions is a passion-killer. Eventually she arrives at the main event: my cock.

She kisses around it, takes it in her hand and looks at it for a second. Then she pulls the foreskin back, holds it erect, lower her mouth down on it, covers the head with her mouth…and sucks on it like a goldfish blowing bubbles.

That’s it. That’s all she did.

No going down on it as deep as possible, no twisting and turning her head and/or moving her head up and down on it while doing so. No head movement whatsoever. No, none of that. Just latches onto a spot and makes like she is smoking a giant cigar.

Maybe if I was patient the rest of her technique would kick in. After several minutes of the worst blowie I’ve ever experienced, I had less of a clue about what to say than she knew how to give head.

How do you say to a woman, “Er, is that it? That’s your idea of a blowjob?” or “Please stop, my cock’s getting bored,” or “Looks like somebody needs loads more practise”.

I could get all sarcastic with “Gee, where did you learn to do that?” or “I don’t know how much more of this I can take”, but it would be wasted humour.

Then the thought crossed my mind: If I gave her an orgasm, would she spit it back at me?

I realize that I am in danger of going soft, such was the effect of her efforts. Now or never, I have to see if her little pussy can handle my cock. This is relationship-breaker stuff.

Without a word I pull away, stand up and find my jeans where my wallet is. I find the condom that I have learned to carry and turn my back towards her as having someone watch me fiddle with a condom is unhelpful. Surely by now humanity would have invented a better condom and wrapper?

I turn around and Teacher Gal is lying on her back, legs scissored open wide and wrists next to her head. She is a stunning sexual sight. I position myself on top of her and do a quick safety check: I feel her pussy with my fingers. She is still dripping wet, so no lack of lubrication there. I edge forward and position my cock at the entrance to her pussy and slowly push my cock forward…where it meets a ring of steel.

My cock is not going into that pussy, no matter what. We are badly mismatched in terms of size, worse than I suspected. We both try to make light-hearted fun of it, in an attempt to spare each other’s blushes and maybe even to help her relax. Several attempts only yields the top half of my cock going into her, then getting stuck there, unable to go any deeper. A couple of times she flinches and wriggles; I’m hurting her. I’m getting frustrated and she’s getting embarrassed.

Then I get the feeling that we’re not alone and that we’re being watched.

I look up and on the pillow next to us is her two cats, sitting shoulder to shoulder, looking down at us, staring intently, serious looks on their faces. They seem like judges at the finals of the gymnastics at the Olympic Games. All that is missing is little white score cards at their paws that say: Composition 0, Technique 0, Originality 0 and Overall 0.

I roll off Teacher Gal in utter frustration, the cats scatter as I rest my head on their pillow.

“I can’t believe the cats were watching us,” I say, not wanting to mention the obvious problem.

“I can’t believe you’re letting two cats throw you like that,” she retorts.

“Do you normally let them on the bed?” I ask, thinking about the health issues involved.

“Yes. That’s where they sleep next to me every night,” she replies.

Great. Now my hair is full of cat hair and who knows what else.

As first times go, this was memorable stuff, but sadly for all the wrong reasons though.

I’m now no longer in the mood and she’s a little deflated too. We lie together, my arm around her, cradling her to me and we talk for ages. As usual, conversation is driven by me; she’s not really one to initiate anything. Obvious sexual incompatibility aside, I do wonder if she’s too timid for me. It feels like I’m all the energy in the relationship.

We fall asleep and I’m woken a few times during the night by a cat trying to press its bum against my face. In the morning I wake first and a cat is sleeping on my pillow. Teacher Gal is still asleep next to me, her bare shoulder exposed to me, so I lean over to kiss it, which wakes her and startles the cat which runs away.

Teacher Gal and I engage in mild pillow talk about cats, but all I have on my mind is our unfruitful sexual efforts of the previous night. I have a raging erection and a desire to complete unfinished business. I take her hand and put it on my cock, to which she smiles and strokes it for a minute or so.

She pushes the duvet off us and positions herself between my legs, crouching on her knees in an upright foetal position before taking my cock in her mouth. She doesn’t pull my foreskin back, just latches onto it and starts her goldfish smoking a cigar routine.

This sight and sensation puzzles me. Not only can I not feel much, but it looks odd, unnatural even. I realize that she probably doesn’t enjoy doing this and is probably just humouring me, which, if it is the case, I find sweet. However, the fact remains, this is the worst blowjob ever.

It might have served as a bit of foreplay to get her wet, but when I reach between her legs, causing her to topple over, I feel just how small her pussy is with a finger. Nope, my cock is not going in that hole any time soon. Teacher Gal is lying on her side and my hips are facing her. She’s still in that foetus position which is a sign of something, but I don’t know what. She’s still puffing away on my cock. That’s never going to do anything for me.

I remember that I have to get my arse into London to meet Delicate Flower and I have no idea what time it is. This encounter has to end soon, so I decide that cum I must, but pussy fucking and a blowie weren’t going to get it done. All that was left was a handjob. A handy is the lowest form of orgasm in my book, but if that’s the best on offer…

“Why don’t you take my cock in your hand and tug it?” I ask, hoping that she won’t be offended.

Teacher Gal sits upright and I roll flat onto my back. She takes hold of my cock at the shaft and starts moving her hand up and down, not realizing that I was never going to cum like this either. I let her do this for a while, hoping that she will vary her technique, hoping that she’s the queen of handies, but no, this was it. If I started giving her instructions then this could get embarrassing for both of us. I decide to cut my losses.

“Sweetie, it’s just not going to happen for me today,” I say as sheepishly as I can muster.

She lets go and lies down next to me, giving me a fake smile. We make some small talk and I try to make her laugh, with mixed results. Teacher Gal goes off to shower while I lie in bed pondering the situation and trying to figure out the best way forward.

This was all so very disappointing to me. Sexual compatibility is a must-have in a relationship for me; sorry no exceptions. I’m not willing to sign up to years of sub-standard, mediocre sex. I know that I can take the time to teach her, but how long would that take and the results are uncertain.

Houston, we are a problem.

Garfunkel & Oates – Handjob, Bland Job, I Don’t Understand Job (You might need to click on the YouTube logo on the bottom right of the video.)

Teacher Gal, the cats and bumping uglies

I phone Teacher Gal during the week and we have a polite conversation, at the end of which, in an attempt to get clarity, I ask if we are getting together again. “How about this Saturday?” she responds, which surprises me, but I naturally agree to. I guess the heavy petting incident didn’t put her off me. The next night I get a text message from Delicate Flower that reads, “Are you free on Sunday?” I feel a little uneasy about this situation, but tell myself that thus far I’m just exploring possibilities with both these women. One might be a romantic prospect – the thing I want most – and the other is just a potential fuckbuddy for me. Nothing is certain with either of these women, so I agree to meet Delicate Flower on Sunday.

It’s Saturday morning and I drive my red sports car to Teacher Gal’s town to collect her. We both have an interest in history and I take her to Milton Keynes where there is a new museum dedicated to how Britain deciphered Nazi Germany’s secret communications using the first computers. It’s a vast complex of huts, bunkers and buildings that all have fascinating displays in them, but involve a lot of walking around. It becomes a drizzly day and we huddle under my umbrella.

Teacher Gal seems quite affectionate today, occasionally put her head against my shoulder and coming to hold hands with me when I’m looking at a display. Her behaviour is much more tactile and she’s smiling at me a lot . It’s almost as if she’s made some kind of decision about me.

We could have spent the entire day at Bletchley Park, but Teacher Gal tells me that we need to get back to her place by 6pm because she needs to feed her cats. She has cats? I didn’t know. It’s no big deal because I wasn’t really expecting to even spend as much time together as we have so far. I’ll take her home and say my goodbyes; I really am not counting on much more than that.

“Would you like to come in for a coffee?” she asks as we near the gates of her complex.

“I’d love a coffee,” I say, seizing the opportunity to progress our relationship.

I meet her cats and they are disinterested in me. I guess that’s cats for you. I grew up with dogs as a kid and even today don’t know anyone with cats. I don’t know much about them, don’t have anything against them and see this as a new experience – knowing someone with cats. Then I remember: Krazy Girl had a cat. Hmmm.

Teacher Gal feeds her cats as I look around. Her place is spacious, light and airy, just the way I like it. Her furnishings are basic and her decorative touches are colourful African ornaments and paintings. The place feels calm, but slightly cold, lacking that soulful feeling that a home should have. Nevertheless, I feel comfortable.

It isn’t long before we’re sitting kissing on a sofa while the cats take up position on other seats and stare at us. The kisses are turning Teacher Gal on and she starts making primal sounds and liberally using her tongue. Suddenly she gets up and disappears into the depths of her apartment. I hear her closing windows and curtains. Well, it is getting dark, maybe this is her sign that it’s time for me to go?

As I contemplate leaving she returns to the lounge and closes the windows and curtains. Then she comes over to me and before I can say a word, she straddles me. She recommences kissing me passionately and I go along with it, not really sure where this is leading. She’s a ‘Good Girl’, right?

Teacher Gal straightens her back, takes her jumper and blouse off, tossing them carelessly onto a seat that startles a watching cat. She unclasps her bra and throws that over her shoulder without looking. It lands near the other cat who gives it a dirty look, but he doesn’t move and returns his gaze to us.

Teacher Gal leans forward and positions a breast at my mouth. Like a good little starving baby I take the breast in my mouth, swallowing it all, which leads to her letting off a sigh of satisfaction. I gently suckle on it, slowly twirling my tongue around her giant areola. Just how far are we going to go this time? This is no time for discussion, the time for talking is over.

I release her breast and take the other other one in my mouth. She lets off an “Ughh” sound. I wonder just how wet her pussy is getting. Is her pussy big and flappy or small and tight? Is it neatly trimmed and odour-free or is it a smelly, hippy-bush with crabs doing bungy jumps with leftover tampon cords?

Releasing that breast, “Do you like this” I ask sarcastically.

“I love having my breasts sucked like that,” she says, keeping her eyes closed.

“More than having your clit licked?”

“No, I like that just as much,” she replies with a little laugh.

“Would you like me to lick your clit?”

Teacher Gal instantly pushes off me and stands up. Have I really gone too far this time? The twinkle in her eye and naughty smile tell me otherwise. Without a word she walks off to her bedroom. I guess I have to follow. Quite happy to actually, to get away from these voyeuristic, pervy cats. I’m not used to being watched while getting amorous, there’s something just not right about it. Who needs an audience while sucking boobies?

In the gloom of her bedroom I undress Teacher Gal, pretty sure that we’re going all the way tonight. This surprises me, but if I were to back out now, it would only cause problems. As unexpected as this is, I’ll make love to her and then figure it all out tomorrow. An awkward morning is infinitely better than a night of lonesome wanking.

“Lie down on the bed and spread your legs,” I say to her.

She looks at little surprised at my directness but does as she’s told. I undress myself in front of the bed so that she can watch me doing so. I climb onto the bed, knees first but keep strong eye contact with her. She’s biting her bottom lip, with one arm behind her head, the other on the duvet. Teacher Gal looks so sexy. The uncertainty and anticipation in her eyes is a turn-on for me.

I break eye-contact and kiss the inside of one knee and she sucks in air through her teeth. Slowly I kiss up the inside of her thigh, arriving at her groin. Her pussy is small and tight, no flapping labia lips and it’s neatly trimmed into almost a Brazilian. I ignore it for now, knowing that she’s expecting me to kiss or lick her pussy, wanting it even, but I’m going to make her wait.

Moving down to the other knee I notice her stomach muscles release; she was expecting me to go down on her. I kiss the inside of the knee and slowly kiss and lick my way back up to her crotch. She’s breathing faster now.

I lick inside her groin and do the same on the other side; her breathing picks up speed. Positioning the top of my tongue on her slit leads to her making a “Hnnn,” sound. Then I slowly push down with my tongue and pull my head slowly up, gently parting her pussy lips, letting the rough of my tongue make as much contact with her wet fleshy bits. As my tongue slides over her clit, I can sense her butt-cheeks clenching and she makes that approving “Hnnn” sound again. Reaching the top of her hairline, I pull my tongue down, this time letting the smooth underside slide over her clit and down between her lips.

“Oh my god!” Teacher Gal exclaims.

“Has it been a while?” I ask. Yes, it’s none of my business, but I’m curious to know.

“It’s been over two years. Please don’t stop what you’re doing,” she implores.

I resume sliding the top and bottom of my tongue over her lady garden. The mixed sensation of rough and smooth is doing things for her and she’s becoming increasingly wet. I try to push my tongue into her vagina, but it’s just too small and tight. No matter, she’s not totally turned on yet, I tell myself. I can change that.

Teacher Gal’s got quite a big clit for such a small tight pussy. I slowly run my tongue around it a few times before sucking it into my mouth. I feel her legs shift next to my biceps as this happens and she makes that sound gain. I think it’s very easy to be a good lover – all you need to do is pay attention to your partner’s reactions. I’m learning that every woman is slightly different, but they all love having their clit licked and sucked.

To be continued…

Date #18 – Delicate Flower – Final part

I’ve never bedded a woman on the day of meeting her, nor have I had a one-night stand. I’ve been all moral and conservative. Fuck that shit! It was time for a change. What would it be like to go home with someone I’ve just met and indulge in passionate, intense sex, only to never see her again? How would it all feel? I want to know. I’m learning my lessons and know that I’m packing rubber.

“Do you like Thai food?” I ask.

“Yes, it’s one of my favourites,” Delicate Flower says with a smile.

“Good. Let’s go get some,” I say, intent on drawing out our time together, not giving her an excuse to flit off somewhere else, like a pub where she could be picked up. I wanted to have a one-night stand with her and knew it would take more time for this to happen.

I walk as slowly as I can, knowing that Delicate Flower’s little legs and those stilts would struggle to match my strides. When we get to cobbled bits of pavement I offer her my arm which she graciously clings onto until she feels steadier.

Through Covent Garden and the theatre district I lead her and not once does she ask where we were going. She is happy to just be with me it seems, what we are doing doesn’t really seem to matter to her. Past bustling Chinatown we make our way into Soho, to the Thai restaurant where I had taken The Model. The food was good, the service non-intrusive and it was quiet, the perfect place for sophisticated dining, romantic even, especially as I was hoping to see her pretty face sucking away at my cock in a few hours time.

Delicate Flower is suitably impressed by my choice of venue and barely notices my ordering another bottle of Chenin Blanc. One for the talking, two for the fucking; such is my thinking. The laid-back atmosphere and unhurried service allows us to savour our food and wine, making for just the right mellow, sensual mood.

Naturally we get around to talking about our past relationships and she is taken aback at my only having had two. She, however, has had many more than me. The elixir of wine continues to work its magic for me when she innocently tells me of her having committed my sexual foible – the one thing that I can’t accept a woman doing.

Somewhere deep in the cauldron of my psyche, my trust demon stirs in a dark corner of his cold, rusted cage. He steps forward into the gloom, his slitted eyes straining, searching for his prey, the being that he can store no faith in. His sooty hands latch onto the flimsy bars of his prison, causing flakes of rust to fall into the silent abyss below. Gnarled, hairy fingers slowly pull at the metal. His intent is to break free and rage at her seated before him…then defile her.

I swallow hard and fight off the desire to make a judgemental comment. Why say anything? Her latest revelation confirms that she isn’t ‘The One’. She might dress, smell and talk like a lady, but she isn’t one. She truly is becoming just a piece of fuckmeat to me. I wonder what sound she’ll make when my cock slides into her pussy?

Dinner over and I hatch a plan to string the date out more. The vibe between us just isn’t right for her to take me home with her. I need more time to get her in the mood for sex. I need to work her up a bit more, tease her more. Hell, I haven’t even kissed her yet.

I pay for the over-priced meal and note that Delicate Flower makes no offer to contribute, although as we are leaving she does thank me and say how much she enjoyed that. So, she’s used to being wined and dined…and then fucked. Does she prefer being on top or does she prefer being dominated?

I used the excuse of there being no dessert on the menu to my liking to suggest that we go to a nearby Italian coffee and confectionery outlet that the Fitness Freak introduced me to. Once there I watch Delicate Flower struggle onto her high chair. I couldn’t help but smile to myself. I had to resist the urge to pick her up and seat her.

I get her a glass of pinot grigio and myself a coffee – I might be needing the caffeine for later. After a mouthful of tiramisu (my favourite dessert) I realize that my mouth is now sweeter than when it had Thai curry flavouring it. Perfect time for our first kiss.

She was in mid-sentence when I lean over to her face, but stop short of her lips. She doesn’t move, blinks once, looks at my mouth and then leans forward to kiss me. Our lips meeting is like fireworks going off, but in miniature.

Her lips are soft and small, even smaller than I was expecting. She keeps her eyes closed as we kiss, while I always keep my eyes open because I want to take everything in, for storage in my personal video bank of images – all part of my ‘Fucket List’.

I pull away, deliberately, wanting her to be breathless and keen for more. I sit upright while she remains frozen in space and time with her eyes now closed and still leaning slightly forward. She opens her eyes again, bats her eyelids a few times, focusses and looks at me and says, “Wow! I’ve never been kissed like that before.”

She regains her composure and sips her wine. My plan is working. She’s becoming more inebriated, her defences must be weakening, her lust must be aching and my kiss has just floored her. First base secured.

We make some more light-hearted small-talk and, again while she’s saying something, I kiss her. Surprise is her initial reaction, but she didn’t pull away. Instead she started using her little tongue and breathing heavily. She was getting turned on. Once again I pull away before she decides to.

I calmly return to my tiramisu and coffee as if nothing has happened. I notice that her body is turned squarely towards me – I have her total attention. My inexperience in this makes me a little nervous, but fuck it, I’ve got nothing to lose, so I go for it.

“Would you like me to go home with you tonight?” I ask with as naughty a smile as I can muster.

Delicate Flower’s eyes bore into mine; she’s thinking hard. She looks away, takes a sip of her wine, I say nothing. She looks back at me and I make a concerted effort not to flinch. I’m aware that this is a critical moment and my saying another word is likely to be counter-productive. The silence seems to last an eternity before Delicate Flower finally speaks.

“Maybe not tonight,” she says with a facial expression that gives nothing away.

“No problem,” I counter, trying to sound as suave as possible. In the art of English understatement, her words meant “not tonight, but another time”, which is fine by me.

We chat for about an hour more and kiss a few times again. It’s now after 10pm on a Monday night. The fact that she hasn’t made an excuse to leave immediately after my proposition I take as a positive sign. We agree that it’s getting late and decide to call it a night. I escort her to a nearby bus stop and wait with her until her bus arrives. We constantly engage in polite, mindless small-talk. I really can’t tell what she’s thinking and feeling.

As her bus approaches, she turns to me and presents her face, obviously wanting a goodnight kiss. It might also be a goodbye kiss. In a Clarke Gable moment from Gone With The Wind, I stoop down and kiss her the softest, gentlest kiss that I have learned to give from all the other dates I’ve been practising on. I let this one linger until she starts using her tongue. I let her play until I decide the moment is right to pull away, leaving her gasping for more.

Delicate Flower has a stunned look on her face and we don’t say another word as she boards her bus. She gives me a meaningless look from her seat as I give her a smile and a brief wave. The bus pulls off.

I don’t expect to ever see her again.

Just propositioning a woman on the day I meet her is a massive step outside of my comfort zone. The fortress that was my morals is crumbling down around me, brick by mossy brick…and it doesn’t feel so bad.

LESSON LEARNED: If a woman is the first to make a sexual remark, it means she is interested in sex with me.

John Mellencamp – Crumblin’ Down

Date #18 – Delicate Flower

I’m a little pissed off at having to spend a long weekend by myself. Teacher Gal is away on a school trip and although we spoke a few times during the week, it still isn’t clear to me where I stand with her after our heavy petting session. She seems a little distant now. The loss of my two fuckbuddies still rankles. I was starting to think it’s a good setup having a lover while trying to find my soulmate, having my physical needs taken care of while pursuing my emotional need, the former reducing the pressure on the latter.

It’s the Monday morning of the public holiday in May of 2013 and I notice a new message on OKCupid which reads:

“Your pictures seem to indicate that you would share my love of travelling to interesting, historical places. What are you looking for on here? I’ve had enough of being single, I want someone to come home to, someone to share my life with…”

The profile of the writer floors me. Not only is she a pretty blonde, but it’s one of the best-written profiles I’ve ever read. It speaks of an intelligent, sophisticated and cultured lady; I’m intrigued. I have to meet her even though OKCupid’s algorithm only gives us a 73% match. She’s English, 35 and five foot four inches tall.

I send off a polite response and minutes later she writes back. Her emails are as articulate as her profile, so she’s genuine and hasn’t copied a profile from somewhere on the internet. I respond again, hinting at us meeting one day. She asks if I’m free later today, I say that I am and give her my phone number.

Could she be ‘The One’?

A whirlwind takes hold and a few hours later I’m standing outside Somerset House in central London, surrounded by tourists intent on seeing what this building has to offer inside. It finally feels like the first day of Spring and people are wearing sunglasses and girl’s skirts seem shorter. I’m wearing black jeans and a navy-blue shirt; no jacket required today.

After a few minutes I get that familiar feeling that someone is looking at me. I turn to my right and a vision is approaching me. One of the cutest petite blondes I’ve ever seen is looking at me with big eyes and then breaks into a smile as she nears me. It’s my date and she’s even prettier than her pictures…and very short.

On her profile she said that she was five foot four; well the four was the height of the heels she was wearing. Without her heels she might even be under five foot. I’m over six foot, so we are in serious danger of becoming the little and large show. Whenever I’ve seen guys as big as me with women as small as her, I’ve always thought it looked odd…and that she goes on top, cow-girly style. Hell, if she was supple enough I might make a propeller out of her; spread her legs, position her on my cock and spin her around. What other people call fantasies, I call plans! Once, just once…

I greet her with a polite kiss on each cheek and we both can’t stop smiling. It’s not just nervous first-date smiles, I think we like the look of each other. She’s dressed in a very cute navy-blue skirted outfit with carefully thought-out white stripes and motifs in just the right places, reminiscent of a little sailor’s uniform. The skirt stops just above the knee. She smells as good as she looks, just the right amount of something I can’t recognise but nevertheless like. (Can any man name more than five ladies’ perfumes?)

She is as sweet and delicate as a newly-bloomed flower. In my mind I dub her ‘Delicate Flower’.

We are at this venue because she wants to see a photographic exhibition. I think it’s a great way of meeting somebody and not being in a pressurised situation of having to make small-talk. We pretend to look at photos, but I can’t tell you a thing about them because I’m not really looking. I’m marvelling at the good fortune I’ve just had by way of her contacting me out of the blue. That profile of mine is working wonders, I tell myself.

I notice that Delicate Flower is constantly grinning or smiling. I am too, I think neither of us can help it. I just want to scoop her up in my arms, let her feet dangle free and kiss her like she’s never been kissed before. Patience, dammit!

Eventually we run out of photographs for us to pretend to look at. It’s a beautiful day and it’s now just after lunchtime. I notice a terrace wine bar overlooking the Thames and suggest that we have a drink. She politely accepts and we find a high table with two high chairs. Delicate Flower stops and looks at the chairs and I realize that she might have a problem getting onto the chair.

We both look around and see that this is the only free table. Do I offer to pick her up and put her on the chair? Oh, the indignity. Do we leave and find somewhere else? It’s lunchtime on a sunny public holiday, everywhere will be full.

I decide that discretion is the better part of valour and say, “I’ll go get us a bottle of wine and some glasses. How about you hold the table for us?”

Delicate Flower smiles and nods as I leave. She now has the chance to get on the chair without embarrassing herself in front of me. The devil in me wants to turn around and watch her clamber up on the chair, but I decide it isn’t worth it.

I introduce her to South African Chenin Blanc and she likes it. All the women I’ve dated do. It’s as if they can taste the sunshine, but to me it’s an elixir of truth. Enough of this wine in a woman and she’ll pretty much tell me anything I want to know.

We have a view over the Thames with a clear blue Spring sky above us. Pleasure boats are plying the river, tourist buses clog the roads as awe-struck tourists throng the streets below. It’s the perfect temperature, no hint of a breeze and I can feel the sun on my back. In front of me I have one of the prettiest women I’ve ever spoken to and she can’t stop smiling at me. For a few moments life feels perfect.

I snap out of it, catching myself before sleep-walking into another mis-matched relationship like I recently had with Krazy Girl. It was time to get down to business, to find out the salient facts about this woman, to discern if she is relationship material, to see if we want the same things from the future, to find out why she’s single. Let the games begin!

Delicate Flower tells me that she is a manager of a department in a private hospital.

“Do you enjoy it?” I ask, knowing that few people in management roles enjoy their jobs, myself included.

“Oh yes, very much. I get a kick out of making sure that patients get the best possible care in my area,” she says.

“Come off it, you get your kicks out of bossing people around,” I tease.

“Actually, no, I don’t,” she says with a frown. “I like helping people and if the best way for me to do that is by being a good manager, then so be it,” she says.

“That’s very noble of you,” I say with a smile, warding off a potential conflict situation. So, she’s a caring, giving person. Looking good.

We chat away, the bottle nears empty and eventually the alcohol and sunshine combine to heighten the feeling between us. Delicate Flower suddenly makes a surprise reference to something sexual, with a naughty grin to boot. This tells me that she’s thought about having sex with me. Game on.

“Has it been a while for you?” I ask brazenly.

“It’s been more than six months. It’s been a long, cold, lonely Winter,” she says with a sparkle in her eye.

Hmm, she’s just hinted that she’s horny and wouldn’t mind being fucked because it’s been a long time.

“What do you normally do when you get horny?” I ask, expecting to hear a reference to fingers, a favourite vibrator or the occasional shower head.

“Oh, I just go into a pub and sit and wait,” he says nonchalantly.

I was surprised. Was she teasing? Was she joking? The look in her eye told me that she was being serious.

“Have you done that often?” I ask.

“If I’m not in a relationship, then a couple of times a year,” she says honestly.

That Chenin Blanc is good shit.

Delicate Flower instantly went from being a possible ‘Good Girl’ to a definite ‘Good Time Girl’. A Good Girl would never go sit in a pub by herself with the intent of going home with a stranger and getting fucked.

Some people have a ‘Bucket List’ – a list of things they want to experience in life before they kick the bucket. I have recently come up with a ‘Fucket List’ – a list of sexual experiences that I want before my time is up.

Delicate Flower was now the perfect candidate for an item on my Fucket List.

To be continued…

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