Tag Archives: betrayal

Grenade

“I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but I’m horny as hell,” my Exgf says to me on the phone. Was it because I had put her “on the hook”? I know that this call is about a booty call and that is exactly how it turns out. The following night, a Friday, she’s at my front door. We go to a local pub for a quick drink and a light snack…which she pays for. I can count on my one hand the times that she paid for something during our five years together. Now that she wants me back she’s going out of her way to do anything and everything she can for me.

As I sit listening to her moaning about her work situation it occurs to me that she is just as selfish as a some of the women that I have lately had the dis-pleasure of dealing with: Country Girl, Musician Gal and The Irish Cougar. It seems that we all have a type that we are attracted to and often they are the type that is wrong for us. If I came across my Exgf’s dating profile today I wouldn’t even click on it, but if we were to meet for a date, I probably wouldn’t think much of her. I’m thinking that a stronger selection criteria will keep me away from someone like her who took me for granted and didn’t appreciate what I did for her. Funny how things change; there was a time I’d have caught a grenade for her.

I have two regrets in my life. The first is that my father and I quarrelled the night before he died. I stormed off in a huff (I was a week away from turning fourteen) and the next time I saw him I had to hold the drip-bags as the paramedics tried to revive him from his heart attack, but they couldn’t. I had to watch my father die at my feet. I can still hear his death rattle. Because of that I don’t go to bed angry with anyone who matters to me. What was our big argument about? He was trying to get me to believe that the more you do for people, the less they appreciate it. My naivety caused me to dismiss his assertion as bitter and cynical. If I could have just one minute with him again, just one minute, the first thing I would tell him is that he was right.

Should I tell her about The Irish Cougar? No. She’d freak out and our play-dates would be over. I was lucky to get away with telling her about the Wanderer, better not push my luck. Besides, the scene with the cougar is history now anyway. Even though we had promised to tell each other if we were shagging someone else, I’m going to explore unfamiliar territory and just keep quiet. My Exgf’s all about deceit, so she can have a dose of it.

“I need to have a shower first,” my Exgf says as we get back to my place. She heads off to the bathroom as if she lives here.

I’ve realized something about her: she likes to be the centre of attention. So often in a social setting she embarrassed herself and me because she wanted the spotlight on her. So often she would do things in other settings that made no sense to me, but I know now that she was doing it to get attention. A spin-off from that need is that she likes to be watched. She’s a bit of an exhibitionist on top of that. I know that in the Summer she liked to go somewhere semi-public, like our back garden, then strip off and masturbate under the sun. She didn’t really care too much if someone could be watching; I suspect the danger of that made it the more naughty and exciting for her. It’s what allowed her to make those sex tapes with me. It’s what made her go off to a dogging site with me. My education of late has helped me to understand that side of her.

My Exgf is behind the shower curtain and she’s nearing the end of her shower. In a scene out of ‘Psycho’ I yank the curtain aside.

“For fuck’s sake! You’ve scared me!” she chides, her breasts wobbling from her little jump.

Good, I think to myself, that’ll get your adrenaline flowing. That’s all part of sex. This is just a different way to get you turned on.

“I want you to put on a little show for me. I want you to show me how you play with yourself in the shower,” I instruct, keeping a dead-pan facial expression.

She looks at me for a couple of seconds, smiles and then starts fiddling with the shower-fitting removing the head. Water is spurting out of the end of the lead which is essentially a hosepipe. My Exgf lowers the torrent of water down between her legs and directs it upwards onto her clit. She takes a deep breath that makes her breasts swell as the water-pressure finds the spot. I’m standing a couple of paces away, watching her. Her eyes are trained on mine, but I’m taking in this scene. It’s quite a turn-on for me, but it’s not just the spectacle before me, but it’s also being able to get a woman to do this and especially this one who has always been so deceitful to me.

There’s something about a woman being dripping wet with water that is quite alluring. I think it’s subliminal in that it hints at hot, sweaty sex. I watch as drops of water slide down her smooth, hairless body. The pressure of the water on her clit is having its expected effect and I can hear that she’s getting closer to cumming. I know her well enough to know when she’s faking; if it’s real her eyebrows meet and she has an anguished frown. Those things happen as she cums now, her body shakes and droplets of water fly in all directions; her tits wobble beautifully.

We don’t say a word as she climbs out the shower and dries herself off. There’s an electricity in the air and words will destroy it. She never was one for cumming six times in a night, despite my best efforts. Once she’s cum, that’s her done for the day usually. It’s now implicit between us that it’s my turn to cum and it’s up to me to make the move to let that happen.

She walks naked into the lounge with me following her like a good little puppy. This time the puppy has ideas of his own. She’s walking next to the back of the sofa. I slap a hand on her shoulder which brings her to a stop; she keeps her back toward me. I walk up behind her, bumping my chest between her shoulder blades, then turn her to her right. Sliding my other hand around her stomach, I pull in with that hand and push down with the hand on her shoulder. She folds over and rests her hands on the back of the sofa in front of her.

“Stay like that,” I command.

I unzip my jeans fly and pull my cock out of my underwear. She can’t see this, but I know she knows what’s going to happen; she’s done this enough times with other guys. I wonder if she finds this boring or exciting? Is it possible to have had too many sexual partners before sex becomes boring? I hope that I never find out.

I take her from behind, sliding my cock up her pussy and it feels a curious mixture of warm wetness from her pussy juices and cold water from the shower. I put both my hands on her shoulders and her skin feels clammy. For a minute I fuck her like that. She doesn’t say a word and the only sounds she makes are the involuntary ones a woman makes when she’s getting fucked.

“Get on that stool,” I instruct, pointing over her shoulder towards the stool in front of the sofa.

I pull out of her and we walk over to what I know will be our final position for the night. She obediently positions herself on the stool, kneeling for doggy-style, carefully spreading her weight out. She’s naked and I’m fully clothed; I like this. I don’t think that a paid-for whore would be this compliant. I’m enjoying having all the power in this relationship. I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts because I know it isn’t going to last much longer; she’ll eventually run out of patience and wise up.

My cock slides easily into her wet pussy. She lets off her customary “ugh” sounds as I slam into her. Hardly ever did I touch her hair during sex because I know how fussy she is about it, but tonight I just don’t care. Did the random strangers she let fuck her care about her hair during her countless one-night stands? I think not. I bunch her hair up into a tight little knot and gently pull back on it, expecting some verbal resistance but none is forthcoming.

I suck on the thumb of my free hand and drop it down between her butt-cheeks. I find her butt-hole and push onto but not into it. She doesn’t flinch or say a word. The whole time my hips are in motion and my cock is repetitively ramming into her pussy. Can she feel what my hands are doing? If so, is she enjoying it? I don’t care, I’m going to do what I want with her.

Slowly I push my thumb up her bum and she doesn’t make a sound. In the final hours of our relationship I found out that she had secretly been having colonic irrigation sessions several times a year. Having something in her arse is nothing new to her, despite her saying otherwise.

The naughtiness of all this is too much for my brain and it seduces my cock into cumming sooner than I would like. As I feel my man-milk starting to make its move for the exit, I say to my Exgf, “Quick, lie on your back” and she rolls over surprisingly quickly. I rush forward like a fireman with a hose and try to direct my cock at her face, but baby-batter is starting to shoot out already.

Giving a woman a facial is not something I’ve felt the need to do or even thought of doing because I’ve always been more interested in making love, not just having sex. The first time I saw it done in a porn movie I thought it disgusting and it is obviously demeaning and degrading. However, given how I feel about my Exgf, how she demeaned and degraded me emotionally during our relationship, I feel that she deserves the same in return.

To be continued…

Fucking Irish Cougar

An Autumnal drizzle is trying to douse the embers of anger in my being as I arrive at The Irish Cougar’s friend’s home. I’m helping The Irish Cougar move today to her rich friend’s pad in central London. I’ve driven in motorway traffic during rush-hour for well over an hour. I’ve pre-paid the London Congestion Charge of £11, a toll-charge for driving through the centre of London on a weekday; she better not change her mind or not have the keys for her new place.

Again her friend greets me at the door and as I enter I see boxes crowding the hallway. Good, today’s move seems to be happening. Again the friend ushers me into the kitchen and makes me a coffee. After a few minutes of banter The Irish Cougar joins us and we kiss each other hello on the lips, which makes the friend smile.

Within minutes I’m carrying boxes out to my car in the rain while The Irish Cougar finishes up a few loose ends. Not once does she come out in the rain as I single-handedly pack my car to the gills. I’m a little disappointed in her lack of offering to help me. This serves to feed the seething sensation I have inside me.

We say goodbye to the friend and I squeeze The Irish Cougar into my heavily-laden car. She’s overly chatty and I guess it must be because she’s moving onto a place more private. After almost two hours of dealing with London traffic on a rainy day we arrive at the millionaire’s apartment overlooking Hyde Park. We eventually find a parking spot near the property and I begin unloading the car while The Irish Cougar goes to check the property out, to make sure it is as she expected and that no unwelcome surprises await us.

All is in order and I load as many boxes and whatnot into the lift, unloading again when we get to the upper floor where the three-bedroom apartment is. The Irish Cougar starts unpacking in the apartment while I go off to make another trip with the lift. I really am starting to feel like a hired hand being used for my body. My seething becomes simmering.

Parking in the area is by resident’s permit only so I drive a few miles to go park at a friend’s place. I’m counting on my car being there overnight, because tonight I intend to fuck this woman. Her deceit and selfishness typifies what I feel I have been enduring at the hands of women for years now. I feel justified in exacting a revenge that might just appease my overwhelming sense of outrage that I am beginning to feel towards women.

I catch a bus back to the apartment and that journey takes an hour, so by the time I see The Irish Cougar again she has pretty much finished unpacking. She gives me a tour of this apartment that is easily worth more than a million Pounds, possibly twice that. The lounge alone is bigger than my apartment and it has a raised ceiling, so there’s an impressive feeling of space. The furnishings are new, tasteful contemporary and obviously expensive. The centrepiece is the biggest television I’ve ever seen mounted into a wall and an enormous, plush tan sofa faces it. The adjoining open-plan kitchen is filled with expensive integrated mod-cons that I can only dream of having. Everything is shiny, new and white. The two large bathrooms are floor to ceiling Italian marble, each having a bath big enough for two adults as well as a large shower cubicle. A third smaller bathroom leads off from the main bedroom. The two “smaller” bedrooms are bigger than my bedroom; each has a kingsize bed with built-in wardrobes and ample space for two people to get dressed and not be able to touch each other. The main bedroom has a super-kingsize bed and enough space around it to play a game of badminton. That’s not the game that I have in mind for later though.

“I’m starving. Let’s go have an early dinner,” Irish Cougar squeaks.

Only then do I realize that it’s mid-afternoon; we’ve both been on the go all day. Must keep my energy level up for later I tell myself. The Irish Cougar and I walk along a street that runs parallel with bustling Oxford Street so as to avoid the mindless crowds. As we wait to cross a street I feel that someone is looking at me and my eyes meet a pretty face that I recognize. The woman staring at me is someone I’ve swapped messages with on a dating site but she couldn’t bring herself to actually meet face-to-face. Maybe when I’m done with The Irish Cougar I’ll contact her again. We cross the street and give each other knowing looks and suppressed smiles.

The Irish Cougar wants Italian food so we end up in a little-known side-street littered with quaint eateries and pricey clothing boutiques. It’s after the lunchtime rush and before the evening stampede, so we have the place to ourselves. As she starts telling me more about her friends who have loaned her this amazing property free of charge, it dawns on me that not once today has she said thank you for anything that I’ve done for her.

A small fire of anger sparks in me and it glows while she talks. I’m now not much in the mood for talking. She’s very talkative so she doesn’t notice that I’ve gone quiet. Anybody who truly knows me will tell you that if I go quiet, well, something’s going to happen.

Dessert ends and she asks for the bill. Ah, this must be how she’s going to say thank you, by buying me a meal. It’s the least she can do, right? After all, I laid on a vehicle, petrol, paid the congestion charge, did all the carrying, drove elsewhere to park my car for the night and caught a bus back. I could have spent my day doing other things.

The bill lay on the table, like a piece of shit that nobody wanted to acknowledge. It felt like a showdown between us as to who would blink first, like in a stand-off scene out of a spaghetti Western. The Irish Cougar’s green eyes occasionally peek at the bill from under her dusty sombrero. I chew on a piece of invisible straw, trying to keep my hand away from my wallet that is my side-arm. Shoppers scurry away and a tense silence descends. A plastic bag rolls by like a tumble-weed. A waiter raises his eyes from behind a counter to see if a card has been presented, then slowly lowers his head.

Like that we sit for several minutes, not speaking, barely making eye contact. Nothing and nobody around us is moving. The forlorn bill must feel as welcome as a fart in a space-suit.

Taker!

She’s a fucking Taker!

Why did I not spot this sooner? How did I miss this? My mind races and I realize that all along I’ve been paying for almost everything. Even if someone might have money problems, it’s just a common courtesy to at least say “thank you”.

I decide to end the stand-off, to move the day along, so I pull my wallet out and pay with a credit card. As the waiter leaves The Irish Cougar becomes chatty again. Bitch. That’s what resonates in my mind. Bitch. Shall I say something? Before I get a chance she speaks.

“Can we quickly pop into a Marks and Spencer’s to get some groceries?” she asks.

“There’s also a Tesco nearby,” I respond, testing for any budgetary issue. Tesco is almost half-price by comparison.

“Oh no. I don’t shop at places like that,” she says as we stand and leave.

Places like that? What the hell does that mean? That you’re a snob to boot?

We find the local Marks and Spencer’s and I carry the basket for her. As we go around the store not once does The Irish Cougar ask me if there is anything that I would like. It is my understanding that I’ll be spending the night, so a little breakfast might be called for? Nope, she’s only shopping for herself. As I carry the three little carrier bags that came to seventy Pounds, it occurs to me this is more than the meal I just paid for. The meal I paid for? Hang on, she didn’t say thank you for that either!

Selfish fucking bitch.

It dawns on me that I have felt exactly this way before. It was with Country Girl. I wined and dined her, took her to a concert and she didn’t say thank you either. I should have taken Country Girl back to my place and fucked her. At least then I would have got something for my efforts and money.

Hmm, I’m learning. Fucking an ungrateful bitch is exactly what I’m going to do now. The Irish Cougar has shown me scant respect, consideration and appreciation. I’m going to give her the same. I’m going to do exactly what I want with her. She deserves it.

We pack her groceries away and I start to wonder if The Irish Cougar’s now going to show me the door. After all, she’s done with me now; my purpose for today is served. It has been implied that I’d be spending the night but now I’m not so sure given that I know for certain that she’s a Taker.

“How about we have a bath together?” she says with a naughty look in her eyes.

Game on! It’s playtime!

The Irish Cougar starts running a bath but the water isn’t hot because, as I discover, the hot water cylinder had been switched off. It was going to be a while before the water heated. It’s already dark outside and nightlife in London has started. I’m tired of wasting time, it’s time for action.

I’m standing behind her in the bathroom and pull her towards me, resting her back against my stomach. I start slowly running my hands up and down her body as she tilts her head back and rests it against a shoulder. An earlobe is in easy reach so I kiss it, then lightly suck it, but I resist the urge to give it a little nibble; too early for that, she needs to be more turned on.

TO BE CONTINUED…