My Exgf seems to be in a highly sexualised state nowadays. I’ve never seen her like this before, not even in the early days of our relationship. Her being celibate for a year might have put her sex-drive in hibernation and now I’ve switched it on and nothing is going to stop this runaway locomotive except for when it runs out of steam on its own accord. I have to take advantage of this while it’s on offer.
It’s Sunday and it’s my birthday. Musician Gal is in New York until Tuesday and Career Girl is in Italy until tomorrow. I can see myself having a relationship with either of them. I know that I have to choose at some point, but at the moment I can’t say who it will be. A few more dates with each is required before I can decide. To take the sexual imperative out of that impending moment, I’m going to fuck the shit out of my ex-girlfriend.
It’s noon as my doorbell sounds the arrival of easy sex; just my kind of birthday present. I open the door and my Exgf is standing there, scantily clad in a see-through black chiffon blouse, matching black panties and bra underneath. The trashy high-heeled fuck-me shoes make her taller than normal, but it’s her beaming smile that catches my attention. It looks like she’s up for pleasing me.
During the week we had swapped text messages about what I wanted for my birthday. I had a naughty idea and I told her exactly what I wanted her to do for me. Google was kind enough to provide me with a link to a video of what I wanted to see her doing, which I emailed her. I was pushing the limits but knew I had got my way when her final text message read,”Ok. But I want Lanson.”
It has been a few days of silence since that exchange, but I knew that letting an idea simmer in her little brain would have a profound effect. The way she was dressed told me that she was ready to grant me my wish. My cock starts hardening at the thought of what she was going to do. We smile coyly as I gesture for her to come inside. She kisses me on the lips and she seems a little bit nervous. After our five years together I know when she’s nervous.
My plan calls for us to have lunch in a restaurant in my town, but it started raining as she arrived so I change the plan and throw pizzas in my oven. I couldn’t care less about food in this moment; all I want is my birthday present from her. I know that I have to wait a little bit longer and the anticipation leads to an electric atmosphere between us. Looking at her breasts I can see that her nipples are hard, but I don’t think it’s from the cold in my apartment. I put on a Canadian soft-core porn movie called ‘Young People Fucking’ to get her in the mood, just in case my assessment is wrong and need to get her in the mood or keep her in the mood should I say something to fuck it all up.
I pull the large bottle of Lanson champagne out of my fridge and give her a sly look. She smiles and unthinkingly licks her lips. The bubbles sizzle in the flutes as we toast my birthday. We sit making small-talk about the movie as I let the alcohol calm her down and loosen her inhibitions. It’s like having my very own call-girl arrive eager to do as I say. It’s not just the power thing that is turning me on, no, it’s more the prospect of seeing her willingly degrade herself…while I film it.
The pizzas go down easy, easier than her going down on some random stranger’s cock that she had just met. Her sitting in almost nothing, slowly getting tipsy was probably how it played out with almost all the dozens and dozens of cocks that have fucked her or the scores more that she sucked off. After a while the food has been digested and the bottle of champagne is empty, with her having drunk most of it. She always did like champers.
“Right. I think it’s time for my birthday present,” I say with a naughty smile. My smile is false; I’m trying to make this fun for her, but inside I’m icy cold. It’s time for you to show me just how much of a worthless slut you can be.
My Exgf stands up and starts taking off the little that she’s wearing. I go sit on a chair away from her and reach for my freshly-charged camera, switching it on and positioning it perfectly to take in what is about to happen. I’m sitting fully clothed about three yards from her; my heart is pumping.
She throws her clothing onto the sofa and steps out of her shoes. Picking up the champagne bottle she turns away from me, spreads her feet apart and then puts a knee on the large footstool in front of the sofa. Bottle in hand she leans forward slightly and gives me a half-smile over her shoulder as she slides the bottle between her legs. The mouth of the bottle is pointed to me as she rubs the body of the bottle against her clitoris. She makes no sound.
After a couple of seconds of this she slowly pushes the mouth of the bottle up into her pussy. She straightens her head upwards as it slides in before leaning forward even more, giving me a glimpse of her juicy breasts dangling free. A few long, deep thrusts up into herself and she looks back over her shoulder at me. Looking away she leans forward almost horizontally, putting a hand on the footstool. She’s giving me a clear view of the bottle sliding in and out of her pussy, which is an amazing sight. Seeing a woman pleasuring herself with an inanimate object does things for me.
I sit in silence, watching as she leans so far forward that her butt-cheeks spread to reveal her arsehole. Will she do anything with that hole? I’m not going to suggest anything; I want to see what she’s thought of. I’m just amazed to be seeing what I am. She speeds up sliding the champagne bottle in and out of her pussy; she must be very wet given how easily it’s moving. How long is this going to go on for? Is she about to stop?
She varies her technique by giving several short thrusts upward followed by one deep thrust that raises her hips. She did always like having my cock deep in her pussy; doggy style always pleased her.
“How does that feel?” I ask, blurting out my curiosity, instantly cursing myself for perhaps breaking the spell that she’s under.
“Cold,” is all she says.
She gives several more deep thrusts and then suddenly pulls the bottle out of herself and stands up. I guess that’s it then; that’s my birthday show over. It was nice while it lasted.
My Exgf turns around, sits down on the footstool, bottle in one hand and gives me a strange look. She spreads her legs, leans back on the footstool then puts her one leg on the arm of the sofa. Her other leg she dangles in the air as she slides the bottle into her pussy once more, giving it slow, short thrusts. I’m amazed that she’s continuing and I can’t help smile, to which she smiles in return. We don’t speak and the only sound is the dialogue from the movie in which couples have started fucking. Excellent timing; it must be helping keeping her turned on.
She grips the bottle with both hands which has the effect of squashing her breasts together. Her areola are large and her nipples are hard; she’s enjoying this. So am I, but for an entirely different reason. I’ve managed to get her to show her true sexual self to me, the side of her that she kept hidden for the duration of our tempestuous relationship. For the first time I feel that I have all the power between us and I’m abusing it, not feeling an iota of guilt about it. I’ve paid for this whore several times over; I deserve this.
After half a minute her dangling leg tires, so she lets go of the bottle with one hand and uses the free hand to hold the tired leg almost vertically in the air, all the while sliding the bottle in and out of her fanny. She smiles broadly as she does this and I smile too, but because I know that I’m going to be enjoying this video for years to come. In case you’re wondering, I’m watching the video now as I’m describing it to you. I’m organised like that.
A minute of her pleasuring herself passes then she sits upright, taking the bottle out of her cunt. Is the show over now? No. She repositions herself on the sofa, her lower body resting on the footstool. People are fucking on the television screen and she wants to watch this as she uses the bottle on herself.
It’s widely understood that women aren’t as visual as men. I think it’s true, but that doesn’t mean women are a-visual. On the contrary, I’m learning that women can be turned on by what they see, it just requires their brains to be in a certain state.
“This is for you. Happy birthday,” she says looking at me as she rhythmically slides the top half of the bottle in and out of her vagina.
“Thank you. You’re allowed to enjoy yourself as well,” I answer, subtly encouraging her to keep going. It works.
My Exgf grips the bottle with both hands and starts more vigorously moving it about in herself. Her eyes dart between the television and me. I think she’s getting very turned on. My words may have given her the permission that was lacking.
After another minute of pleasuring herself she says, “Can you come play with my clit please?”
I wasn’t expecting to be in the video, but neither was I expecting the show to last this long. It’s in my interest to give her what she wants because that’ll prolong the scene. I get up and walk over to her; she spreads her legs further apart, putting her feet on the edges of the footstool. The camera lens captures the phenomenal sight of her lying naked on my sofa, her breasts wobbling, her legs wide apart and ramming a bottle into her vagina.
I had seen that photo somewhere before. She was wearing a black tophat, her chin lifted and in profile with an imperious look in her eye. Natural long blonde hair draped her neck and shoulders. It was the end of August and I had come across a dating site that was “skinned” for a famous newspaper. This means it was a single database of profiles with various websites using it, but with a “skin” that was in keeping with each website.
Her narrative spoke of a happy person who had done adventurous things in her life. She claimed to have old-fashioned values and hinted at wanting to be a home-maker. Travel was important to her. The five photos included were all clear and tasteful too. I liked the look of her; she was pretty and, of course, blonde. There wasn’t anything in her profile that I did not like, so I wrote to her at lunchtime, not really expecting a response.
Later that night she wrote back. It was an open and honest reply, far longer and serious than a regular first message from a woman. She said that she hoped to be married and living in the countryside one day. This took me aback a little and made me think about my own position on marriage. She also wanted to see more than one photo of me as my profile only had one. She boldly stated “I love a fit man…no exceptions!”
She knew exactly what she was about and wanted. Nor was she afraid to ask for what she wanted – I liked that. The next morning I uploaded more pictures of me on to my profile and wrote a short message to her. I replied in a non-committal way to her assertion about marriage with: “For the record, I have no objection to marriage. It’s a fine institution. Some of my friends might say I’m just about ready for an institution.”
The next morning, a Saturday, a very lengthy reply was waiting for me. She told me of her passion for travel, her love of food and her yearning to live in the countryside. She told me of her job, her hobbies and sporting interests. She detailed her exercise habits and said that she was going to have an operation on her left knee in October. It all sounded like she was a wonderful match for me. I had been in this position before and knew not to get my hopes up. People in person are almost always very different from their profile and email persona. I did very much want to meet her.
The next day, the Sunday, I wrote a reciprocal response and over the course of the day we exchanged several open and honest messages. She told me that she was a trombone player and practised with a band every week. I decided to call her “Musician Gal” in my mind. We described our perfect days, which were remarkably similar, involving walks in the country, great lunches, bathing and then falling asleep together. We were getting along well via email, so I suggested that we meet and gave her my mobile number.
There was no response and the conversation died. It seemed to me that she was just another woman looking for attention via the safety of a computer screen. At the merest mention of actually meeting in person they baulk and run away, scared like little girls being summoned behind the bike sheds by an older boy. I knew enough not to pursue her, otherwise I would come across as desperate. In nature, if you run at a wild animal, it will run away. So it is with women too. I knew also that the best course of action was inaction tempered with patience. These two concepts do not come naturally to me. A part of me also did not expect to hear from her again.
A few days went by and then on a cool Wednesday night my phone rang. It was Musician Gal, walking over Westminster Bridge after work, seemingly in the mood for a chat and, to my mind, a screening phone call. Her voice was deeper and more strident than what I expected. She oozed confidence and I could tell that she was a high-energy person, but all that might be bravado and nervousness. We chatted about nothing in particular and were like two heavy-weight boxers in a ring, manoeuvring around each other, careful not to show a moment of weakness, but keen to make an impact when the opportunity presented itself.
The small talk was going well and I thought it the right time to suggest that we get together. I had not come across as a weirdo or prat and before I inadvertently did, no matter how subtly, I just had to make my move. She thought about it for a split second and said “How about tomorrow night?” I like a decisive woman. Dithering and agonising over getting together is such a turn-off. The point of internet dating is the “dating” bit, is it not?
Could she be The One?
Thursday 5th September and I’m standing outside my regular spot outside Tower Hill Tube station. I swear that some of the tourists looked familiar, I’ve been there that often in the past year. It was a pleasant evening with a light breeze clearing the air. Summer was leaving us and I knew this night might be one of the last for al fresco dining. I had my mind set on the Dickens Inn yet again. Why not? It’s familiar ground and a great setting. All the other girls were impressed by it. It certainly was a safe bet.
Several women who looked like Musician Gal had arrived, loitered, fiddled with their phones, checked their look and then met up with someone. There were a couple of women who looked like older versions of her and I so hoped that they weren’t her. I just don’t have a poker face and the disappointment on my face would be noticeable if my date’s appearance was not to my liking.
You know that feeling? That strange inexplicable feeling that someone was looking at you? I looked instinctively to my left and locked eyes with Musician Gal. My inner dialogue couldn’t help but blurt out “Oh, YES!”. She was lovelier than I imagined. Her pictures didn’t do her justice. Musician Gal WAS pretty and obviously a natural blonde, there were no hints of dark roots. Her profile did state that she was 5 foot 4 inches tall, but I was surprised by the difference in our height as she was shorter than I had imagined. Her body was neither slim nor over-weight and there was a hint of boobage. She was elegantly dressed in a cream-coloured ladies suit with a small handbag draped over one shoulder and was carrying what looked like a laptop bag in one hand.
She was coming out of the Tube station and was leaning on a hand railing with her free hand in an attempt to help herself up the few stairs before her. Our eyes unlocked and she looked down at the stairs in front of her. I could see obvious discomfort flash momentarily across her face as she pulled herself up. Her knee condition was pretty serious.
I traipsed down the few stairs in front of me to meet her. My heart was pounding and I was excited in the right way. Could she finally be The One? She certainly looked the part. I think we all carry a vague impression in our minds eye of what kind of person we find physically attractive. Almost all of us have a “type” that we are irresistibly drawn to. Musician Gal was my “type”. I could quite easily imagine how she felt under me, as I splayed her legs open with my thighs and rested my weight on my elbows, kissing passionately as I slid my penis in to her moist pussy. Physical attraction is not a choice, it’s a reaction that we can’t control. Either it’s there or it isn’t. For the first time in a long time, since Krazy Gal in March in fact, it was there – it was before me.
We met on the landing and I uttered something before kissing her on each cheek. She was smiling. It was a genuine happy smile. I took that to mean that she liked the look of me too. Presumptuous perhaps, but I’ve been on a enough dates to know. I looked at the long steps below us that lead to St Katharines Dock and suggested that we follow the road that lead to Tower Bridge as that had a gentle decline. Before I could offer to do the gentlemanly thing by way of offering her my arm, she grabbed it and leaned gently on it. This was out of necessity as it was obvious to me that her knee was causing her pain.
Arm in arm we hobbled past the numerous sets of traffic lights when it was safe to cross the road. To my relief, light and pleasant conversation came easily to us, but she seemed more nervous than me. We arrived at a set of stairs on the approach to Tower Bridge that lead down to the restaurants on the outskirts of St Katharine Docks. Musician Gal seemed apprehensive, so I offered to carry her down. Naturally she guffawed and declined my offer, but I was dead serious. Instead she suggested that I walk in front of her and one step down so that she could lean on my shoulder. Like that we hobbled down about 20 stairs.
I mentioned to Musician Gal that I had the Dickens Inn in mind as where we would eat. Her neck stiffened and her face showed disapproval. I couldn’t help think that her reaction was borne out of some past experience there. A really bad date or a favourite haunt of an ex-boyfriend perhaps? I wasn’t going to ask. A French-themed restaurant chain had a branch to the right of where we were standing. She suggested that we stopped off there for pre-dinner drinks. I got the impression that she didn’t want to walk further than was necessary.
The greeter at the front of the restaurant took us to a table outside and away from the noisy crowds that were starting to form in the area. There were several other eateries with outside space occupied by people standing drinking or sitting and eating. A quiet space was at a premium and I would have preferred the much quieter Dickens Inn. Nevertheless, I wasn’t going to make a fuss and decided that when the noise level became a problem that we would move on for food elsewhere.
I noticed that the greeter had a South African accent, so I started a quick conversation in Afrikaans with her. She was astounded to have a random punter suddenly speaking her native tongue. Musician Gal was smiling and bemused. I did this deliberately not because it is polite to engage in conversation with a fellow ex-South African, but I wanted to see how my date dealt with the situation. Would she be put out that I was talking to another woman in a language that she did not understand? Would she deal with it in good grace? It was the latter.
Musician Gal selected an Australian voignier and her knowledge of wine impressed me. In fact, everything about her had so far impressed me. She was attractive, well groomed, positive, lively, confident, well mannered and easy to talk to. She seemed very interested in me, which I deduced from how she spoke to me, how she looked at me and what she asked about. Just her asking questions in itself was a very good sign. We were off to a good start.
The conversation flowed easily and involved the usual first date topics of conversation. Safe topics such as work history, travel experiences, favourite films and books, memorable pop concerts and living in London all showed a lot of common ground and indicated no obvious or serious issues that could be deal-breakers. Drinking chilled wine during sunset was going down well and we became a little tactile, with little touches on forearms to emphasize a point, or her playfully slapping me on the shoulder if I said something cheeky. The intensity of this first date was increasing at a sure and steady pace; it was all heading in the right direction. We obviously fancied each other and were getting along well.
Stars in the skies were coming on and the bottle of wine had evaporated. It was only when a gregarious waiter came along did we realise we needed some food. After briefly agreeing to stay where we were for dinner, we quickly scanned the menu and ordered what we felt like. A noticeable breeze had picked up and we were exposed to it, so we moved around a corner to a wind-sheltered area that was more secluded, quieter and private. By now I found myself wondering what it would be like to kiss her.
She was talkative and lively and was one of the most confident women I had ever met. I liked all that. I find it hard work to always be the one to make conversation and to decide things. I wanted an equal partner who wasn’t afraid to make decisions, nor reluctant to say what she wanted.
The conversation started to turn serious when she told me that she had ADHD. My godson has the condition so I knew a little about it. It explained her high-energy, upbeat demeanour. She told me how her brain worked differently to other people’s. She told me about her learning difficulties and her hyperactive nature. I did pause for a moment to consider whether I could live with a hyperactive person. I’m inclined to say “not”, but I didn’t say that to her. I had meant it when I wrote on my profile that “I’m not perfect, nor do I expect my other half to be perfect. What I do expect is that when we’re together, it all feels perfect.” However, was this something I could put up with in a relationship? I would have to think about it…more information required.
Our starters arrived and we were both hungrier than we realized. Conversation died down as we ate, but we did maintain eye contact. ADHD or not, I knew that I wanted to kiss her that night. We took turns feeding each other morsels from our respective plates. We had both chosen well, the food was good. Uncharacteristically I ordered another bottle of the same wine that we had just finished. I say it’s uncharacteristic for me because I normally don’t drink so much on a date, but that night felt different. It felt like we could spend the entire night there, talking, laughing, occasionally touching, just enjoying each other’s company.
After a few more minutes of banter, our main courses arrived. Like a couple who had seen many Summers together, we shared what we had on our plates. We were that comfortable with each other within hours of first meeting. What happens when two grounded, confident people meet? I was finding out.
Once we had finished our dinner under the stars, the conversation became more subdued, vulnerable even. I judged her demeanour to be calm, relaxed and her natural defences for a first date were down. I couldn’t resist the urge and leaned over, cupped her head with my left hand and gently pulled her towards me. There was a moment’s resistance and hesitation on her part, surprise largely I would guess, but she came forward and our lips locked. Hers were soft, moist…and surprisingly muscular. She was a trombone player after all and it showed.
I love that moment when I have a first kiss with a woman. Everything around me disappears. Even sound seems to stand still. It’s as if the entire planet has frozen, awaiting the outcome. An instant hush takes hold and time stands still, just for us.
I had read somewhere to not be the first to use the tongue when kissing, but instead wait for the woman to do so. I ignored this advice and gave a gentle prod with my tongue against her bottom teeth, a little teaser. The response was instantaneous and powerful. Her tongue came to life in the forefront of my mouth and it was strong…that trombone again. It brought back memories of the time my mouth was raped by the Baltic Babe.
We parted and she was smiling, half pleased, half surprised. I think she liked my act of confidence. We sipped our wine and made some small talk, not referring to what had just happened. Then I had a naughty idea. I took a mouthful of wine, but didn’t swallow. I leaned over to her again, no hand involved this time and she came forward willingly, oblivious as to what I was about to do. Again our lips locked, but after a few seconds I slowly widened my mouth and let a little wine slip out into her mouth. She was surprised, making a muffled sound, but didn’t disengage. I slowly released the rest of the wine in my mouth in to hers and she seemed to accept it eagerly. I could feel her body rising in response to what was happening to her. Was I turning her on?
We sat back, both smiling. I think she was feeling a gamut of emotions. I’m sure that she was having fun; I was. The South African greeter arrived to see if we wanted dessert. I looked around to see that the hordes of people had struck their bargains for the night and had left. The wind might have blown some of them away, but a few die-hard couples were stilling resolutely chatting away, scattered in the exposed open areas. Musician Gal decided to excuse herself and visit the ladies room. I chatted with my compatriot until my date returned who also joined in the conversation, which switched into English. I was paying attention to how she spoke to the greeter. I had learned to observe how a date treats someone who is powerless before them. It’s an indicator as to how they will behave towards you in a relationship. Musician Gal was polite, respectful and affable.
We declined dessert and the greeter left us. It was getting late and the wine needed finishing. We imbibed and she leaned over to me. I suspected what was coming and went along with it. We kissed and she poured wine in to my mouth. The sincerest form of flattery is imitation, is it not?
Sitting back, laughing, I asked a waiter for the bill. I knew it was time to bring the evening to an end. The night could have lasted forever as far as I was concerned, but I knew then already that there would be other nights such as this with my Musician Gal. Perhaps even many.
I walked her to the Docklands Light Railway station at Tower Gateway. We stood at the foot of the escalators, kissing freely, without inhibition and passionately. She had a thing about being hugged. She wanted to fit snugly in a man’s chest as he held her. It was time for her acid test. I wrapped my arms around her back and held her close against me. She fitted me well. It all felt good and natural.
Not wanting the evening to end there, like that, I escorted her to her train that was waiting. I stood on the platform and she inside the doorway of the carriage. I don’t remember how it came to be, but I found myself pulling her blouse towards me with my index finger and peering down in to her cleavage. I think having had a bottle of wine each was starting to have an effect. The train started making a beeping noise, so we kissed one last time and said good night.
I walked to trusty Tower Hill Tube station in a wonderful frame of mind accompanied by a fuzzy feeling all over my body. No, it wasn’t the alcohol, it was the cumulative effect of the entire night. It was one of my best dates ever and I really liked Musician Gal. I could see the potential of a relationship with her. It was a scary and exciting notion, all in one. Had I finally found what I had been looking for for so long?
The next day she sent me a text message which simply read:
“I did think we could talk for hours which was a really good sign! 🙂 X”
I responded elaborately with:
“Agreed. Apparently I’m a 98% match for you. 🙂 What a dreary day. If we were many months in to a relationship and it was a weekend…I’d put Top Gun on my big telly, we’d snuggle under a blankie and feed each other popcorn, occasionally sipping fine wine…my bodyheat warming you. Decadent, huh?”
“Many months?! Weeks! X”
The coming weekend Musician Gal was going to New York and only returning on Tuesday but suggested that we meet that night. Career Girl was returning on Monday and she has asked if we could go out together that night. There was also someone new who I would be meeting on Tuesday. Before all that happened the Sunday was my birthday and I had lustful plans of revenge for my Exgf.
The day after Career Girl’s bombshell I decide to create options for myself while deciding what to do about her. A national newspaper has a dating section on their website, so I set up my usual well-tested profile which allows me to trawl through their database of eager, innocent faces. It proves to be a treasure trove of new women whom I’ve not seen on any of the other dating sites that I’ve used in the past year. There are more than a dozen women whom I’d like to meet, but I need to be a subscriber to make contact. I decide to see who contacts me first because it might be a stale database; you only see when last someone was active if you are a subscriber.
The next morning I see that I had 1200 views and 42 emails overnight! Holy shit, I’ve hit a gold mine! I don’t know where to start. A quick review of who has written to me reveals that the usual majority of messages are from chain-smoking single mothers who are recently separated, dependent on state benefits and who live nowhere near me. I have better things to do with my time than to answer their messages; if I answer one it’s only fair that I answer all, so I answer none.
I’m seeing that there’s a Rule of Fours at play when it comes to online dating. One in four emails that I send off get a response. One in four of responses leads to a date. One in four dates leads to sex. So far none have lead to love. Maybe I’ve been using the wrong dating sites and now I’ve stumbled into a Nirvana of smooth pussies and golden hearts? I subscribe so quickly that my credit card feels dizzy.
An almost 6 foot tall blonde New Zealander stands out because of her looks and words. Her witty narrative is one of a cultured, well-travelled woman who knows what she wants and has to offer. I like decisiveness in a woman; it’s a remnant of my ex-wife’s inability to decide over the smallest of things. The Kiwi’s three photos are all of an enigmatic toothless smile, but there is a mischievous sparkle to her eyes.
The only thing that grates a little is that The Kiwi is three years older than me, but that’s not a deal-breaker for me. As I’ve grown older the notion of being with a woman slightly older than me has become less of an issue. As a younger man I steadfastly believed that ‘my woman’ just has to be younger than me. It seemed the natural order, but my Exgf was a year older and the age gap – a perception more than a reality – was never a problem of any kind. What I’m not sure of is at what point does an age-gap become a problem?
The Kiwi and I quickly engage in positive email ping-pong and agree to meet up on the coming Saturday. I’ve spent too many nights swapping emails with women who never really want to meet up. If a woman wants to meet me, she’ll agree to this sooner rather than later. Any hesitation or excuses and I move on. I’m learning that there are women who enjoy the attention of men, like to feel pursued, want to feel like the centre of the dating world, but ultimately are not ready for a relationship. Well, at least not the kind of relationship that I want, i.e. long-term, loving, caring, sharing, supportive…and the best sex I’ve ever had.
Could The Kiwi be the One?
It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m making my way into London to meet The Kiwi. My blood feels electric because of all that has happened in the last few days. On Tuesday I had a pleasant date with Career Girl until she hit me with her bombshell, so I’m still not sure what to do about her. To gain a sense of perspective joining another dating site has led to a deluge of potential matches for me. I’ve been swapping messages with several women and the first date from all this is about to happen.
I get to King’s Cross Station to find that the Northern Line is closed all weekend for repairs so I have to jump in a cab to get me to Highgate where The Kiwi has suggested we meet. I hate being late and a bus would have taken forever; I don’t want to start the date badly. My eyes grow bigger as I watch the meter in the taxi rocket out of control. To make matters worse I discover that I have almost no cash on me. I pay the cabbie with a credit card and reflect on the fact that this date has not started well for me. It was about to get worse.
I’m a few minutes late as I stroll around the beer garden of a famous pub, looking for The Kiwi. It’s a beautiful sunny day, perfect for an al fresco date; I’m looking forward to this. By process of elimination I figure out that a woman sitting under an awning by herself reading a paperback must be her.
Oh fuck! Not again! Just how old were those photos?! Why do women insist on doing this?!
Her facial features and frame are her, but The Kiwi looks a lot older than her photos let on. Her wrinkles are pronounced and her salt-n-pepper hair colour – not the lustrous blonde of her pictures – is perhaps a lame attempt to camouflage her grey hairs. She is dressed smartly in new blue jeans, a silky white blouse and dark blue cardigan, so she’s made an effort there. Nevertheless I once again feel deflated because her deceit is a sour note to begin things on before a word has even been spoken.
I take a deep breath and walk up to her, secretly hoping that it isn’t her and that the woman I was expecting to meet is about to appear out of nowhere. Saying her name leads to her looking up and her eyes go wide for a split second. It is the Kiwi and at least she likes what she’s seeing. She stands and I kiss her politely on each cheek as we make the customary polite noises. Suddenly this afternoon feels like it’s going to be a long one.
“Can I get you a drink?” I ask.
“Oh, yes please. Could I have a gin and tonic please,” she answers with a smile.
I go off to the bar, letting out a deep breath that I realise I’ve been holding in all day. Even nowadays, after so many dates, a little bit of nerves creeps in. Perhaps it’s a necessary part of the dating experience? After all, I know that one day I shall meet The One and I will need to be on top form. Today is not that day; I know that already. I’m also overcome by a sense of shame and guilt because I feel that I’m cheating on Career Girl, even though we’ve only had two dates and not promised each other anything. How would I feel if I knew that she was on a date with another guy? I wouldn’t be impressed, that’s for sure.
The Kiwi is playing safe with a gin and tonic, giving me the impression that she’s a seasoned dater, but at least she’s keeping her wits about her and controlling her alcohol intake; I respect her self-control. Returning to her I take a seat in the sun opposite her while she sits in the shade; sitting next her would seem inappropriate. Is she trying to protect her skin from the sun? It’s a bit late for that.
We engage in the usual opening small-talk about our jobs. She tells me of her days working for an advertising agency, but secretly harbouring a desire to be a housewife, but without the hassle of children to look after. I start to wonder if she’s a Taker.
“So what would you do every day if you were a housewife?” I ask, fishing for incriminating evidence.
“Whatever I feel like doing that day. If it’s Summer I’d do a spot of gardening. If it’s Winter I’d read a good book all day. I can easily do that. Perhaps meet up with my girl friends once a week for a bit of gossip,” she says with a smile.
“If you don’t mind me asking, whereabouts in London do you work at the moment?” I ask, sensing a lack of the London vibe in her, that focussed attitude tinged with stress.
“I’m a lady of leisure at the moment. I’m on gardening leave having just been made redundant by my agency,” she says with a smile that tells me not to ask any more questions about her working life.
“As it happens, I’m on gardening leave too,” I tell her, partly wanting to make her feel better if hers is more negative than she’s letting on and partly because I want to check her reaction.
“Oh, well then, you know what it’s like. This is the fourth time I’ve been made redundant. I love the gardening leave,” she says cheerily with a little snigger.
I’ve never heard of anyone being made redundant so many times. Hmm, is there an attitude problem in the workplace or is she as lazy as she’s starting to appear? She must be a masterful resume writer.
“How come you chose this pub? Does it have some kind of significance for you?” I ask, trying to sound innocent, knowing full-well it’s reputation for celebrity-spotting.
“I live down the road, over there,” she says, pointing to a row of terraced houses.
How convenient for you, I think to myself. How much did it cost me to get here? I don’t want to think about it.
“Have you lived here long?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation going. I’m getting bored of her now. She’s not The One.
“I only moved here three months ago when my boyfriend and I split up. Then I got the news at work. Change all round for me at the moment,” she answers trying to sound as positive as she can.
Oh great, she’s even on the rebound. A real prize catch. Do I fancy her? No. Do I want to have sex with her? No. Do we share any kind of chemistry? No. I make a mental note to analyse on the train home what I could have done to have averted this date. What should I have asked or thought of before suggesting that we meet?
“I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry,” The Kiwi suddenly says.
We order lunch and I end up paying. She makes no offer to pay for even her half and it seems that she is expecting me to pay. I don’t mind paying, but her presumptuousness rankles. She’s a Taker, a greedy, self-centred person. A primadonna.
As we sit and indulge in more mindless small-talk, after an hour it occurs to me that not once has she asked a question about me. I take that as a sign that she’s not interested in me, which actually suits me fine. I can’t help wonder if she actually looked like her photos that my behaviour and the nature of the date would be entirely different. I inclined to say so.
After lunch she suggests going for a walk and that surprises me. I think that the date is a disaster but perhaps she’s enjoying herself? I don’t care, but agree to the stroll because I don’t know the area that well and it might be useful for a future date…with someone else.
We wonder around lush Highgate Cemetery, making fun of lost tourists who are trying to find Karl Marx’s grave. As we walk and talk the conversation turns to past relationships. She’s had more than her fair share and in passing she mentions committing my sexual foible. I say nothing and my demeanour doesn’t change, but inwardly I’m seething. I’ve spent all this time and money on someone totally unsuitable. I decide to end the encounter.
“Well, it’s been nice meeting you, but I need to get going now,” I say politely. Yeah, I need to go change my belly-button fluff; that’s more fun than being with you.
The Kiwi stands with me waiting for a bus to take me back to King’s Cross. The bus can’t come soon enough for my liking. I start telling her about my idea for writing a blog about my dating experiences; she seems uncomfortable with the idea and conversation dies. The bus is slow in coming and eventually The Kiwi runs out of patience and makes her excuses and leaves. I’m relieved.
Later in the evening she sends me a text message that reads, “Thank you for a lovely lunch. Sorry, I should have waited with you at the bus stop. Hope the journey home wasn’t too arduous. X”
The next day I respond with my standard polite brush-off text message. The Kiwi responds with a flimsy message that I instantly forget.
This date left me with a bitter taste in my mouth, but it doesn’t matter because by Sunday lunchtime I almost have another date lined up for the coming week; this time it’s with a musician…who plays a wind instrument! She has oral skills.
I still need to clarify my thoughts and feelings about Career Girl though. My Exgf is making noises about wanting to get together for my birthday.
LESSONS LEARNED: 1) Perhaps as woman age they are more inclined to lie about their age and photos. 2) I should be more prescriptive about where to meet 3) I should be more choosy about how much I spend on a date.
The next morning Career Girl sends me a text message asking if we can meet that night. We only met yesterday and I haven’t even had a chance to think about where to meet for our second date nor send her another text message of any kind. She is very keen, which I’m somewhat suspicious of, but it feels novel to be pursued by a woman, so I don’t dwell on it. I want to meet her again because I’m learning that first dates can be deceptive, it’s the subsequent dates that matter. Career Girl suggests meeting at an Indian restaurant in her town straight after work.
At 7pm I’m standing outside her preferred Indian restaurant, having just arrived, looking back at my red sports car to check that it’s parked safely when a taxi pulls up next to me. Career Girl gets out and she’s still in her office attire; she looks the archetypical high-powered female boss that people would be scared of at work. I’m not fazed because I know what hides behind the public mask. I like the navy blue suit that she’s wearing; it’s my favourite colour. Is it another sign of some sorts?
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long?” she asks while straightening her skirt.
I kiss her hello on a cheek, rather than going for her soft lips, then I say, “No, I’ve just got here. You look lovely.”
Career Girl almost blushes as I hold the restaurant door open for her. I was being sincere in my compliment; her beautiful blonde hair, milky white skin and that colour of suit is striking. Often the first time you meet a person what they are wearing then is etched in your memory of them, but for me with Career Girl it’s what she’s wearing tonight that is the lasting memory.
We sit down to the best Indian meal I’ve ever had, of which I’ve had quite a few. Conversation between us is positive and easy, we expand on some topics of the previous day and share a few laughs. I enjoy her company very much as there’s an easiness between us, a lack of insecure barriers. Most importantly she’s someone I can trust. Nevertheless she seems more serious than yesterday, distracted even and I put it down to her having had a day in the office. Over dessert she hits me with it.
“There’s something I need to tell you about,” she says in a way that makes me freeze.
“I’m listening,” is all I can say.
“I have a brain aneurysm. I can drop dead any minute. The doctors say that I might live to an old age or today could be my last,” she says bluntly.
I go icy cold inside. I feel sorry for her but can’t help feel disappointed for me. I feel ashamed of my selfishness but try not to let it show.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” is the best I can do.
Career Girl looks at me, her beautiful eyes are searching for more from me, but for a guy with usually a lot of words I’m at a loss in this instant. I’m crap at saying the right things when it comes to the shit side of life. I tend to say something inappropriate because I’m still coming to terms with what I’ve been told and under pressure have been known to say something stupid. I’ve learned to rather keep quiet and offend slightly in that way, rather than blurt something out and hurt someone’s feelings.
I latch onto something safe.
“How did this all come about?” I ask, breaking the awkward silence.
“I was getting bad headaches regularly last year so I went to the doctor’s and before I knew it I was in hospital. They found the aneurysm and they can’t operate. I just have to manage it and hope for the best. I can never have alcohol or coffee again,” she says with an emotionless face.
“How do you feel nowadays?” I ask.
“I take all sorts of meds, so I feel fine. It’s kind of given me a focus to my life that was lacking before,” she says.
“Is that why you’ve gone internet dating?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
“Well, kinda. My boyfriend of five years left me shortly after I was diagnosed. He couldn’t handle the situation,” she says softly, making an odd movement with her mouth at the end of her sentence.
My little brain hadn’t yet got around to thinking about the implications that this medical issue has on a relationship. It must be a strain to be with your significant other knowing that each time you part might be your last. However, isn’t that true for all of us though? Don’t we all just assume that the other person will always be there? When we go off to work in the mornings we do so in a rush, driven by higher priorities, relegating the person it’s all for to a mere afterthought. Shouldn’t we take a moment, look each other in the eye, appreciate each other, kiss gently and say something that matters? No we don’t, we mindlessly assume our roles as slaves to the system. Perhaps having someone with a medical condition shocks us out of that sleep-walking life. I need to think about this.
Career Girl’s apparent keenness about me is now revealed to be something altogether different than an attraction. That in itself might still be part of what she is feeling but I realise that her primary focus now is that of getting her cards on the table. Her looking at me with searching eyes across the immaculate cotton tablecloth adorned with sparkling silverware surrounded by exotic aromas is her looking for a negative reaction, her wanting an answer of some kind; of what exactly I’m not sure.
I need time to think about this, so I decide to say nothing. I resume our conversation on a more positive topic and try to make like nothing has happened. I know that I like how I feel when I’m with her, I know that we have the same morals and aspire to the same things from the future, but we now have a hurdle that I have to overcome. I don’t want to be rash and dismiss her out of hand; I’m not that cruel. I don’t want to say that I see no problem because it is a factor, but I need to think it over.
Dessert ends and I settle the bill.
“Did you come by car?” Career Girl asks.
“Yes, I did. Would you like a lift?” I answer, happy to spend more time with her.
“Yes, please,” she responds with a sincere smile; her eyes smile too.
She seems surprised by my red sports car as I pull off with a roar down the long road that she says she lives on. Her home is in a very smart apartment complex and I pull into a visitors parking bay in the leafy grounds. We sit in my car and kiss softly, gently for a few minutes. I restrain myself and don’t let my hands wander. I’m not expecting to be invited in so it doesn’t surprise me with how the evening ends.
“I’ve got an early start tomorrow, so I shan’t be inviting you in this time,” she says with an apologetic look which makes me think she’s telling the truth and it isn’t just an excuse to brush me off.
“It’s not a problem,” I say.
“By the way, I’m going away to Italy this Saturday for a week. I’d like to keep in touch while I’m away,” she says, catching me by surprise.
“I’d like that,” I say. An enforced absence is not a bad thing as it will give me chance to think things over.
We kiss once more and then she gets out of my car, disappearing into her building. As I watch her walk away, I’m feeling conflicted within myself and also wondering what she’s feeling. There’s an undeniable magic between us, but the brain aneurysm is something I wasn’t expecting. I appreciate her being so honest with me. As I drive home I wonder about her agenda, but realise that it’s a simple one.
Like anyone else, all she wants is somebody…same as me.
I’m stringing my Exgf along for the sex and a need for revenge, but true love is what I’m looking for. I sign up for MatchAffinity one more time as they are offering a one-month special again. The market has refreshed and there is a lot more new faces and profiles, some of which warrant making contact with. One in particular stands out because she is (apparently) living only 6 miles from me.
I write to the half dozen profiles that interest me and the gal down the road writes back within hours, which is always a good sign. She’s in her late thirties and has beautiful blonde hair. We swap a few emails over the course of a week and then agree to meet on the afternoon of the last public holiday in August.
Her email messages indicate that she is a straightforward person and wears her heart on her sleeve. Her only photo shows a face that I find pretty enough, but not excited about. She responds very quickly to all of my messages and seems very keen to meet me, almost too keen. She tells me about her high-flying, high-powered, undoubtedly high-paying job for a major company. I think most guys would be intimidated by her status in the workplace, but not me. I think of her as Career Girl. Despite my slight discomfort about her keenness and probably being a ‘London Girl’, I’m curious about her as we seem to aspire to the same things. I have nothing to lose except a little time and a little money, but the payoff could be big; this is what a gambler would call a ‘good proposition bet’.
Could she be The One?
We meet in her town on the Monday Bank Holiday and it is a glorious Summer’s day. Clear blue skies, a pleasant temperature and the sun warming the skin with the slightest of breezes keeping everyone cool; a perfect day for a date outdoors. She’s sitting on a low stone wall alongside the clock-tower where we have agreed to meet. I am always early as I don’t like to keep anyone waiting, but she is even earlier. She’s looking down, thumbing away at her phone, oblivious to me and the world around her. She has cropped beautiful fine blonde hair and a milky white skin. Her three-quarter length khaki trousers complement her white blouse-like top and white court shoes. Dark brown sunglasses hide her eyes, but nevertheless I like what I see.
I disturb her from her texting, she stands up and comes under my nose in height. I kiss her hello on her left cheek and she turns the other cheek asking to be kissed there too, a la French style, which I find cute. She doesn’t smile as we say hello and it feels that she is a little uncomfortable as we make small talk and walk towards a nearby famous pub. I put that down to her being nervous, but I know she’ll relax when she feels safe with me. I quickly launch into a trusted topic – travel. This causes her to relax, open up and become chatty. It doesn’t take too long before I feel that I couldn’t speak for fear of interrupting her.
At the pub we’re confronted by a seething mass of people, families in particular, with screaming misbehaving kids; it’s noisy. I join the queue at the bar while Career Girl goes to find a table in the beer garden, hopefully in a quiet corner away from the annoying masses. Eventually I join her with our preferred drinks which happens to be identical ciders, which pleases me. Is it a sign of some kind?
I take my sunglasses off and she does the same. Career Girl has intriguing grey-green eyes, which I like. She isn’t the prettiest girl I’ve dated, nor the ugliest but everything else is acceptable or better. She dresses well, behaves well, speaks well; she’s a lady. It’s a good start.
We toast our drinks and conversation continues to flow easily and naturally. She tells me about her career and how it has been her number one priority in life until recently. She has had two long-term relationships that have spanned her adult life. I resist the urge to ask why they ended; it doesn’t really matter. Besides, the ultimate answer for all of us and our failed relationships is the same: we weren’t right for each other.
After an hour of fun banter, a table with an umbrella becomes available. We move over and I notice that her arms are glowing. I use this as an excuse to touch her, all in a deliberate effort to connect on a whole new level with her, i.e. physically. I like the feeling I have while being with her and it feels natural to move things up a notch. I touch the back of her biceps, which is a pretty neutral area to touch a woman, feigning concern over her being burnt by the sun. She doesn’t flinch. Her skin feels soft, smooth and cool. Our eyes connect and we share an intense moment.
Career Girl goes to buy a second round of drinks for us. I’m still not used to a woman paying for anything on a date with me. I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable with that. I am though beginning to appreciate the novelty though of being with a woman who does have her own money. It means she won’t be interested in mine, not that I have much.
After two more hours of chit-chat with the sun on my back and two ciders in my system, I’ve come to the conclusion that she’s a Good Girl and a Giver. I like how I feel being with her. I like her. I feel like kissing her.
“What colour are your eyes” I ask, wanting to make sure that my colour-blindness isn’t too far off.
“They’re a grey-green,” she says. I was right, but just then an idea comes to me.
“Really? Come closer, I want to check,” I say, not mentioning my handicap.
She leans forward and I momentarily get a view of her cleavage. She’s an a-cup, but I don’t care, I like her.
“I still can’t see, the sun’s bright. Come closer,” I coax.
Career Girl comes even closer and our noses are almost touching. She’s leaning on the table and smiling. I just need to go a forward slightly and I can kiss her. I do something else instead.
“Closer,” is all I say.
She leans into me, closes her eyes and we kiss. I didn’t move a muscle to make this happen. She’s kissing me and it feels good.
Her lips are soft and fine. Because of the cider she tastes sweet. Neither of us use our tongues and instead just slowly massage our lips into each other. After about 10 seconds she pulls a couple of inches away from me, looks deep into my eyes, smiles then sits back in her seat and lets off a breath of exhausted satisfaction.
I got a woman to kiss me; I’ve never done that before and it worked a treat. My head is swimming, I can feel chemicals racing around, it feels good. As first kisses go that was exceptional. Kissing on the lips has never been a big deal to me, but with her it feels exquisite. More please.
We continue talking as if nothing had happened. After few minutes a beautiful silence falls between us and we look at each other with hungry eyes.
“Come back here,” I say and she leans forward, but this time stops halfway across the table. A defiant act of asserting herself, this thoroughly modern professional working woman who probably has men at her work scared of her. She’s testing me and setting some boundaries; I can respect that.
I lean forward and cup her head with a hand, our lips slowly meet, she closes her eyes. Her almost platinum blonde hair feels like strands of silk in my fingers. She opens her mouth a little and we kiss for even longer than out first kiss. She lets off a little sound of satisfaction as her shoulders narrow. I always keep my eyes open when kissing a girl the first few times because I want to see what’s working and what’s not. I tease her by touching her bottom lip with my tongue, just a little prod to see how she reacts. She instantly responds by sliding her sweet tongue into my mouth and letting off a breath through her nose. I can feel my cock hardening as blood warms up in my body. I pull away and she smiles with her eyes closed.
We talk for another hour and every passing minute feels better than the one before. There is a definite meeting of minds between us. She’s a smart cookie and can keep up with me in that department. I have made her laugh a few times, but not as much as I would like; our senses of humour are not quite the same. That’s an issuette to me because I think a matching sense of humour is important. It’s also now obvious to me that she fancies me somewhat more than I fancy her, but I think there will always be an imbalance between a couple in terms of who fancies who more. Do I want to have sex with her? Definitely. I sense it’ll be good, tender and sensual, but first things first. She has something on her mind too.
“I’m sorry, but I wasn’t expecting to spend so much time with you. I’m meeting friends in a little while.”
“Okay, no problem. This afternoon has been a pleasant surprise for me too.”
“I don’t suppose you’re free sometime this week?” Career Girl asks.
“I am actually. Why, what are you thinking?” Wow, she’s keen. It’s not an issue though. It’s a nice change to be with a woman who actually wants to be with me and makes that clear.
“How about dinner one night?” she says with a hopeful smile.
“I’d like that,” I say, trying to give her a reassuring smile.
I walk her back to the clock tower and we kiss some more. She wraps her arms around me in a sweet embrace and I take her body in my hands. She’s quite slender as I slowly move my hands over her back. I can just imagine being on top of her and feeling her legs wrapped around me as we make the writhing beast with two backs. She feels good in my arms and is making sounds of satisfaction as we kiss. Again I make the effort to pull away first; I want to leave her wanting more.
Career Girl smiles coyly and without another word she walks off, still smiling to herself. I stand and watch her walk down a street, a warm fuzzy feeling is covering my body. Our embrace felt damn good; I think we were both getting a little turned on.
Is there something real between us? Or was it all just the sun mixing with the alcohol in my bloodstream?
I watch in stunned curious fascination as she slowly pushes the small vibrator up her arse. Her anus stretches wider as she pushes the thicker part of the vibe deeper up her butt. She’s still breathing deeply and is keeping her eyes fixed on me. Fuck, this is hot!
During our relationship if I as much as accidentally touched her arsehole with my cock or finger, she would freak out. It was only during our last year together did I learn of her regularly taking herself off for a colonic irrigation, self-administered she hastened to add. She now knows that I’m aware of her having done anal sex with another guy. All the pretence on her part of disapproving of anything anal-related has evaporated. In her desire to win me back she must be thinking that doing novel sexual things with me will show me what I’m missing and I’ll turn into a rampant sex-crazed zombie who will mindlessly fall into her clutches…or pussy. Those immortal words of “women use sex to get what they want,” rings in my heads – the upper and lower one.
The vibe is halfway gone up her bum when she says to me, “You hold that in place for me while I use the other one.”
I don’t need retelling and I grip the base of the vibe in her arse with my index finger and thumb, wondering when I can turn it on. My Exgf takes the larger vibrator, one we had chosen together for a giggle in a sex shop in central London just before our last happy Christmas together, sucks on it and slides it up her pussy. She uses it as a regular dildo for a minute, rhythmically sliding it in and out of her slippery pussy, then switches it on with all the flashing lights, angry growling sound and increasing heat that it can muster.
She throws her head back and drifts off to her private universe populated by only what she can imagine and remember. Despite the awesome sight before me, I feel superfluous to requirements here but marvel at the fact that we never did anything like this when we were together. Seeing as she’s in a giving mindset nowadays, let’s see how far I can push things…literally.
I start applying a little pressure to the base of the small vibrator stuck up her arse and it slowly starts to move deeper, but she doesn’t object or perhaps even notice. After her explosive clitoral orgasm I guess that having these things in her are just heightening the sensation in her body.
It doesn’t take long before I have pushed the small vibe so deep in her butt that only enough of the base is sticking out for me to be able to retract it. The sight of this is mind-blowing to me while my Exgf is somewhere far away from me. In a moment of naughtiness I turn the dial on that is the bottom of the base and it instantly results in my Exgf starting to move her hips, that sign that she is getting closer to cumming.
I can only guess that it is the combined effect of a the vibrator in her arse being close to the much bigger vibrator in her pussy that leads to her cumming again, this time it’s a vaginal orgasm or might even be an assgasm, perhaps even both at the same time. Her hips are pumping up and down in the air just before she cums and I wonder if she’s going to shit the small vibe straight out her arse.
“Fuck, take it out my arse,” she gasps and I immediately comply. I don’t want to hurt her and I’m in unfamiliar territory now.
Sitting back on my haunches in front of her I watch as she yanks the bigger vibe out of her pussy, catches her breath and calms herself. She still has her legs spread and her pussy towards my face.
“Take that Mars bar out of its wrapper and put it halfway in my pussy,?” she says.
What?! Okay, but what the hell now?
The Mars bar slides easily into her and I slowly move it backwards and forwards in her, thinking that this is what she wanted. No, she has other ideas.
“I want to watch you sucking on the half sticking out before eating it,” she says.
Er, but what the fuck?!
This is no time to squabble, I say to myself and I do as she says. I’ll give her this for now, as long as I get more of what I want.
Sucking on the chocolate bar is not the worst thing I’ve done; I’m not sure what that might be, but I’m not going to think of it. This obvious phallic act must be a turn-on for her, perhaps some long-cherished fantasy that no other lover entertained. It’s this thought of other men with her that makes me stop licking and sucking the Mars bar and start eating it, piece by piece until only enough is sticking out for me to grip it. An idea comes to me and I carefully the chocolate bar out of her pussy…and feed it to her, which she does with a naughty twinkle in her eye.
Once it’s gone, she says, “Okay, now you can fuck me.”
I slide my cock into her chocolate-lined pussy and it feels different. It is a wonderful mix of her pussy juices and a gritty substance that adds a bit of friction. I guess she could feel it too and I think we both liked how it felt. We fucked in missionary position on the leather sofa that we had chosen together and struggled to get into the lounge. The sofa was a tight fit as was my cock ramming rhythmically into her. She felt good and it dawned on me that we had rarely fucked on this sofa. Her OCD would kick in and she’d complain about having to wipe it clean. As I fucked her I wondered what she would say if she saw the mess left of my fabric sofa after all the other women that I had lubricated on it.
The thought of her watching me as I fucked other women in front of her was a turn-on for me in that moment, too much of a turn-on. I think the emotions of uncertainty that I felt before seeing her plus the novelty of the naughtiness we had just perpetrated together mixed with the sensation of her chocolate cunt to conspire to make me want to cum far sooner than what I would have liked. I pulled my cock out knowing that some pre-cum must have shot into her, but that couldn’t be helped. I quickly raise my hips towards her face and she grips my cock as it nears her chin. She starts wanking me off, I look down and see her hands around my shaft which is a strange colour from the chocolate that has mixed with her pussy juices and stuck to it. She opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue, wanting to catch some of my baby batter in her mouth, but I’m too far away and cum starts spurting out onto her wobbling tits.
I’m more interested in this sight under me than my orgasm. The latter can take care of itself, I’m more fascinated with the sight of her lustfully trying to taste my cum which is dripping out of my cock and on her breasts which she could reach with her tongue. Squirting abates and I sit upright on the sofa, facing her, looking at my deposit on her chest. With a finger she scoops some of it and puts the finger in her mouth, making a show of enjoying it. I slide a finger in her pussy, collect some of the sticky, gritty substance that is the chocolate in her and bring that to her mouth, stopping short of feeding her. She crooks her neck more and sucks on my sticky finger. Damn, that’s hot!
I don’t know why, but in that moment it dawns on me that not once did she apologize for her being dishonest with me over the course of our relationship. Not once did she say ‘sorry’ for spying on me for almost the entirety that we were together. In her world ‘sorry’ is indeed the hardest word.
Am I going to feel sorry for what I am doing to her now? I don’t think so. There is a side to me that few people seem to understand. If someone deceives, mistreats or shows me gross disrespect, I take that as a declaration of war between us. Outright war in which the gloves come off and there will only be one victor, almost always it has been me, because I am willing and able to go one step further than the next person to achieve dominance.
In this dangerous game between my Exgf and I, our victory conditions are quite different. My objective is to have as much debauched sex with her, making her submit to my every whim, be my reluctant sex slave. I’ll feel better about ‘us’ once I have humiliated her. I aim to achieve that with as little effort and cost as possible. Her objective is to win me back, for us to try and be the couple we once were. For once her intent is more noble than mine; ironic isn’t it? Fortunately I know that there is absolutely no hope of me developing positive feelings for her. My only challenge is to have this adventure end as positively as possible without her doing any damage to me. I’m not 100% sure how I’m going to do that. I reckon she’ll eventually realise that there is never going to be an ‘us’ again, or one of us meet someone new. Time will tell.
Until then I’m also not sure who’s fooling who here. We’re both pretending, but which one is the bigger pretender?
My Exgf and I had come to an understanding that we would see each other until one of us decided otherwise, but we were free to go on dates with other people. Another proviso was that if we slept with anyone else the other had to be told. I suggested these terms expecting her to reject them, but to my surprise she agreed. My fragmenting sense of honour dictated that I tell her of The Wanderer now that it is over. My brief dalliance with my Exgf could now end quicker than it started.
I’m horny as all hell and my heart is filled with dark, dangerous desires towards my Exgf. I’m learning that foreplay is largely turning a woman’s brain on, so I have peppered my Exgf with risque text messages over the course of the week. By the time I get to her place on Friday night (which is still half my place because of the money I have tied up in it) her answering the door in trashy high-heels, a black leather mini-skirt and a cut-off white t-shirt that hinted at her braless breasts underneath told me that she was ready to fuck.
After a bit of polite banter I feel compelled to break my news about The Wanderer, not because I want to hurt her feelings but I still feel obliged to live up to my words. My Exgf is surprised, visibly shaken but thanks me for my honesty. I think she’s a little angry too, but she isn’t saying much. I don’t know whether I should leave now but decide to take the initiative, reasoning that she was probably quite horny by the time I got here, so if I can invoke that feeling again then all might be forgiven. I’ve got nothing to lose.
I slowly walk up to her as she sits on a high stool in the kitchen. Maintaining eye contact I place a hand on her thigh and her back gives a little jolt at my touch. She’s either going to tell me to fuck off or slap me in the face. Still looking me in the eye she opens her legs slightly. Trying not to show my surprise I grip her thigh gently, release the flesh and glide my flat hand up her thigh, my hand slips under her skirt and she opens her legs more. We don’t speak as I do the same with my other hand. She opens her legs as much as she can.
Without a word between us being necessary I know exactly what she wants, what she likes. I slide a hand between her legs to feel a freshly clean-shaven vagina. She only shaves when she wants a good licking because she can feel more then. The thought of me eating her out is perhaps stronger than whatever she felt about my news of another woman. I run my middle finger down her slit and she’s dripping wet. Has the thought of another woman sucking my cock turned her on? Does the thought of me fucking another woman turn her on? In her imagination can she hear me roar as I pump cum into another woman’s pussy?
My Exgf leans back against the wall and her breathing accelerates as I stroke her clitoris. Her mouth opens slightly and her green eyes are on fire. I slide a finger into her pussy and she gasps, but keeps her back against the wall. Her pussy is a pond of feminine lust and I know that she loves being fingered. I have a theory that she enjoys it because it was her first sexual experience. As a nine year-old girl a strange old man briefly put his hand in her knickers. It was obviously a shocking and traumatic event in her life but I suspect that its legacy is that that moment is her strongest sexual feeling, her sexual anchor that in a fucked -up way turns her on. All those convoluted, conflicted feelings in her when a guy puts his hand between her legs does something for her. I can only but imagine that feeling like a helpless innocent little girl again turns her on.
With my free hand I push her flimsy t-shirt up over her breasts and take one of them in my mouth, which makes her gasp again and close her eyes. She keeps a hand on the worktop for balance as I finger her and suck on her breasts. I realise that we’re in a well-lit kitchen and it’s dark outside. If the neighbours are in their kitchen and standing in a particular spot that they can see us. (She was to tell me later that exactly that had happened.)
“Um, let’s go to the bedroom. People might see us here,” I suggest.
“No, let’s go to the lounge. I have something waiting,” she says, opening her eyes and giving me a naughty smile.
Whatever has she got in mind? Well, at least I’m correct in knowing how to read her. She never could resist a bit of fingering, but what has she got in mind? Who’s playing who here?
“Wait. Sit on the stairs there,” I say, pointing to the stairs that leads to the bedrooms and bathroom above us.
She complies, seating herself on the plush carpeting that I paid for shortly before discovering her deceptions.
“Open your legs for me. Show me your pussy,” I instruct.
She complies, opening her legs as wide as she can, her knees touching the walls to either side.
“Push your top up and lean back,” I say.
She obeys, rests her elbows on the stairs next to her shoulders and smiles at me. She makes for quite a sexy sight, sitting there like that, wearing trashy fuck-me shoes, her legs wide apart, her shaved pussy on display, her large breasts hanging free, their brownish nipples large and semi-erect. When we were together she would never have indulged me like this, despite my occasionally coaxing. Now she’s willing to do anything I tell her to, but for how much longer?
I step closer to her and slide two fingers up her pussy. She lets off her usual “Ugh!” sound and throws her head back. Within seconds I’m stroking her g-spot, making that come-hither motion with my fingers and I feel that spot swelling. After about a minute I’m vigorously rubbing two fingers in her pussy against that curious fleshy spot. I’m going so fast that I’m making her tits wobble; I do love that sight. It’s too soon to make her cum though.
“Right, enough of that. Show me what you have in mind,” I say, trying to conceal any trepidation I feel, as I withdraw my sticky fingers out of her.
She pulls the pointless t-shirt over her head and leaves it on the stairs as she leads me to the lounge. On a side-table next to the massive leather sofa that dominates the room is two vibrators, one of them small and a Mars bar.
“I want to you to go down on me,” she says, slouching back on the sofa, spreading her legs, presenting her pussy to me.
“Then what?” I ask, realizing that I’m not in control of this situation any more.
“You’ll see,” is all she says as she kicks her shoes off and now decides to take her skirt off, wriggling out of it.
This kind of works for me. I like being fully clothed and having a naked woman in front of me. There’s a naughtiness to it that I like, but at the same time there’s a sweet innocence about it, even a touch of honesty.
I get down on my knees and begin my praying at the altar that is her vagina. It makes me uncomfortable to think of how many other mouths and tongues have been where mine are now. After a five year relationship, if I was to have caught anything off her I would have by now. I continue my lips service knowing, expecting that there will be some kind of pay-off for me. Having spelled out the alphabet with my tongue once I do what I know works; I slide two fingers into her pussy and play with her g-spot while licking her clit, spelling out the alphabet for a second time. I get to ‘p’ when she finally cums, arching her back, her hips shuddering followed by the almost predictable “Oh my gawd!”
She was always a slow cummer and I can count on my one hand the number of times that I made her cum vaginally with my cock. I think she had such a mental block against falling pregnant that she never allowed herself to relax enough to let that happen. I know that the majority of women only cum via the clit, but if a woman can cum from fingering (like my Exgf) then vaginal is obviously possible. So much of the sexual experience is in a woman’s head, but I never got to unlock my Exgf’s brain.
I push myself back and watch her panting, eventually she takes a big gulp of air and rejoins my reality. I think I know what’s going to happen next. During the week one of the suggestive text messages I sent her said that I wanted to see her using two vibrators on herself. Was she about to do that for me?
Without a word she spreads her legs wide open, raises her hips, takes the smaller vibrator, sucks on it and then places it at her butthole. She’s not going to do what I think she’s going to do, is she? My provocative suggestion in my mind involved her using one vibe in her pussy and the other on her clit.