On Sunday I drive for what seems like an eternity to get to Cambridge to see The Artist. I arrive after lunch and I get to meet her friends whom I instantly like. We get in my car which she makes approving sounds about while I’m struck by how natural it feels to be with her. It doesn’t take long for the chemistry between us to be almost touchable. I’m pretty sure that we like the look of each other, but there’s a definite meeting of minds as well.
The Artist has her hair down today and she looks lovely. I even tell her so and my words seem to lift her up. I find us parking in a multi-story car park in the centre of Cambridge and there is little drama involved. I can’t help but think how with my Exgf this mundane activity could lead to an argument. Outside we instantly hold hands and it feels good to me. I think she’s a instinctive hand-holder too.
Walking and talking with The Artist feels perfect. We feed off each other’s input and the last time I had this happen was with Baltic Babe. Through the confused streets of the academic district of Cambridge we walk, but I don’t think either of us notice a thing really; we only have eyes and ears for each other. We could be anywhere, it didn’t matter, we are engrossed in each other, lost in each other.
After a while I have a strange feeling inside me, like I’m in free-fall, but I know I’m not, it’s just a strange sensation that feels good. We can’t stop holding hands and I’m pleased that it feels like a totally natural fit the way our hands and fingers entwine. I can’t help but stop occasionally and kiss her. Each time it feels like it is our first ever kiss, it’s that good and exciting for me. Her smile tells me that she likes it too.
We wander aimlessly, just enjoying doing this together. This is what I want, this is what I have been missing, this is what I’ve been waiting for.
We stop in at a museum that The Artist visits regularly as part of her work. She needs to use the ladies and upon her return says to me the words I was hoping to hear. “Come, I want to show you my favourite things.” It tells me that she wants to share her world with me and is not afraid of rejection. It could also be her testing me, but I don’t think that that is her style of doing things.
It doesn’t take long before we’re standing in front of an exhibit and I watch in awe as The Artist comes into her own before me. She starts telling me about the technique of producing what we’re looking at, explains the variations and the history of these derivations. I listen politely as she speaks, not daring to interrupt her, but marvelling at her obvious passion for what she is talking about. It’s a beautiful moment that I will treasure forever more.
After a while we move along, making our way to the exit when I spot something that presents an opportunity to show her my cultural side, to display my knowledge of history which I think gives her some kind of brain-erection. She seems suitably impressed and interested in what I have to tell her too. We are definitely an intellectual match; that’s worth a lot in any relationship.
Dusk approaches and we become hungry, so we walk back to a pub that The Artist liked the look of. Sitting comfortably at a table for two, it’s a perfect romantic setting. Conversation is still flowing like a river of sweet nectar and we can’t get enough of each other. As the meal progresses it becomes dark outside, the restaurant dims the lights and staff put candles on the tables. She even looks beautiful by candlelight.
We hold hands across the table and I decide it’s the perfect time to find out conclusively just how compatible we are. I walk her through the Magical Forest scene and at the waterfall scene she jumps straight in. Perfect; same as me. With the wolf she stood her ground, while the house she first went in then ate what she wanted. That again is very similar to me in that she doesn’t run away from her problems (I attack) and she has a zest for life, just like me. I realize that her answers are the most similar to mine that anyone has ever given me in the almost thirty years I’ve asked these questions. Inwardly I go ice-cold while my heart goes warm; could she be The One? It looks and feels like it.
I want to tell her something nice, feeling cute, I beckon to her to come closer. She thinks I want to kiss her and she smiles. The Artist innocently leans across the table towards me. I smile to myself.
Her hair catches alight!
There’s a football-sized yellow fireball on one side of her head and it’s about to spread to her face!
The strands from one side of her tresses has fallen onto the candle in the middle of the table. She must have used hairspray on herself for our date. Before she realizes it I’m swatting her hair with my hands as the fire is slowly spreading. Luckily I’m quick about it and douse it just as she realizes from my actions, the sound and pungent smell what is happening to her.
The Artist jumps up and runs off to the ladies. I look around the restaurant to see everyone there looking at us. The waiting staff are all rooted to their spots next to the tables they’re attending to, their jaws hanging open. The patrons all have eyes like golf balls. There’s not a sound to be heard. I think bubbles in champagne flutes stopped moving too. I look away and sounds of normal life return as voices murmur, cutlery clinks and bubbles flow again.
I think that this date will end here when The Artist returns to the table. She’ll probably ask me to take her to the train station. The embarrassment might be too much for her and I might never see her again. Damn.
When I set off this morning to fetch her, I had thought of this being a hot date; this is not what I had in mind.
The Artist returns and gives me the sweetest smile. Her hair seems fine, amazingly no trace of damage. There’s just an awful smell in the air, like that of grilled excrement but we try to ignore it as we resume our conversation. To my surprise she has regained her composure and continues like nothing has happened.
I was expecting the worst, but she is obviously intent on still being with me. I know for sure now that she wants me. Any other woman would have wanted to go home, but not The Artist, no she wants to keep going. My sense of relief is followed by a sense of comforting satisfaction. I think I’ve finally found The One.
After another hour of easy conversation I ask her opinion about Californication and she hasn’t even heard of it. I wonder what she’ll make of it? I have so many questions that I crave the answer to and I suspect that she does too.
The meal ends, but we don’t want the night to end. A moonlit stroll around the deserted historied streets of Cambridge seems a good idea – it might rid us of that awful smell from her hair – but after a while it becomes too chilly for her. I need a plan and quickly too otherwise this date will peter out and before I know it we’ll be at the nearby train station. Think, dammit, think!
“I don’t suppose I can tempt you with the first few episodes of Californication back at my place?”
The Saffa sends me WhatsApp messages on the Monday night, but I ignore these as I’m being pleasantly distracted by The Cockaholic’s oral fixation. Over the course of the week The Saffa and I speak only once a day, either in the morning or the night, not three times a day like we used to. It’s all very civil, tinged with a sense of nervousness; where that comes from I don’t know. Is it from my sense of guilt? No, it’s her demeanour. Does she suspect something? I don’t think so.
She’s right, the romance is over, which is a shame because I love the romance. It might be fair to say I live for the romance. I hadn’t got enough of it with her and now it feels like the hard, steady grind of loveless, pointless relationship is all that awaits. The wheels have spun off and this cart is on its rickety chassis, sliding down a stony hill.
The Cockaholic has gone off to Spain with her mother for a week, I know in that time I must end things with The Saffa. I want a cleaner conscience as matters progress with The Cockaholic. On the Sunday morning I meet The Saffa at my station for what I expect will be he last time I’ll see her. After everything we’ve been through I think I owe it to her to let her down in person.
It’s dreary Autumn morning, rain is imminent, which adds to her sombre mood. We kiss hello, but its feckless. We end up back at my place, intent on going to visit another nearby town, but we don’t. After less than an hour of preparing a curry for lunch, her sipping wine and two episodes of Californication, she’s frisky. Her period is due in the coming week and I’m learning that, like most women, the week before her period is when she is horniest.
It isn’t lost on me that this is just like when I wanted to break up with Busty Czech in that sex got in the way. One last fuck, why not? Yes, I’m doing it again, caving in at the merest whiff of pussy. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m a satyr.
The Saffa complains of a trapped nerve in her right shoulder, so I get my massage oil…and the tube of KY jelly that she had left behind previously. My mind conjures up a naughty idea.
I give her a decent back massage and minutes later she’s sucking on my cock. We strip off in my lounge, try a bit of conventional sex, but I’ve got anal on my mind. She seemed up for it in the past and I never know when I might get another chance to do it properly, so I start talking dirty about it.
“Do you like sucking on my cock?” I begin.
“I love it,” she replies.
“Imagine feeling it in your pussy,” I continue, warming her brain up.
“Mmm,” she mumbles with my cock in her mouth.
“Now imagine feeling my cock in your arse,” I say, planting the idea in her head.
She doesn’t say anything, but just looks at me with her baby-blue eyes and smiles whilst maintaining suction. The Saffa ‘s almost as good a cock-sucker as The Cockaholic, but the latter still has the edge.
“Imagine feeling my cock pumping and squirting cum in your arse,” I say, going for the kill.
“Oh, fuck…” she utters.
“Imagine feeling my hot, sticky cum in your bum,” I say, hoping that this closes it.
“Oh, ja, let’s do it!” she says, dropping my erection out of her mouth and standing up.
Ah, she’s up for it, so I get the KY jelly and lubricate her arse with one finger. I smear some over my cock and we try doggy-style. I slide my cock into her anus slowly and and give a few gentle thrusts before she complains of the pain. She suggests missionary position which is weird to me, but we’re so close so we try it.
It works. After about thirty seconds of gentle ass-fucking, she’s relaxed and enjoying it. After about another minute she’s quite happy to parrot, “please fuck me in the arse” repeatedly, exactly as I tell her to.
“Please choke me while you fuck me in the arse,” she blurts out, throwing her arms up next to her head.
I oblige and The Saffa closes her eyes in utter satisfaction.
The Saffa’s arse feels like the tightest pussy I’ve ever penetrated, yet so smooth from the lube, thus giving me an exquisite sensation. My hips speed up and I can feel the lubricant wearing thin. I let myself cum, exploding ejaculate into her rectum, while still choking her. It’s difficult not to tighten my grip at a moment like this, so I let go for her own safety.
After a few seconds my orgasm subsides and I want to pull out, slowly edging my cock out of her arse.
“No, don’t. Stay. I want to feel it some more,” she says, snapping out of her own world and looking me in the eyes again.
For half a minute I press my fists into the sofa either side of her head as she savours whatever she’s feeling. She starts stroking my arms and chest, gripping various muscles, just like Krazy Girl used to. It’s nice to feel appreciated.
We takes turns going to the bathroom and end up watching more Californication with the slightest hint of excrement and ammonia in the air.
It’s getting time for her to go back, I start making noises about this, but true to form, The Saffa starts sucking on my cock. I don’t care if she gets into trouble at work; she doesn’t, so why should I?
She diligently sucks me off while I look down at her, thinking to myself about my cock having been in her arse a couple of hours ago.
Her train departs my station when she should have been reporting for work.
On the Tuesday night she phones me and within minutes we’re embroiled in a pointless argument about her work. Again she is rubbing her employers up the wrong way over a new issue and it shows her callous disregard for other people. Her psychopathic lack of empathy reminds me of my Exgf far too much. It’s especially the “fuck them” attitude that bothers me. It hints at what she’s like in a relationship – it really is all about her options.
The conversation gets heated, she keeps talking over me and The Saffa yet again abruptly hangs up on me. I decide that it’s for the last time, so in the morning I send her this email:
Sorry, but we clash far too much for my liking.
For several weeks now our relationship has felt like a clash of wills and not a romance.
I want the latter and convinced myself to give “us” time.
I’m going through a bit of a rough patch in my life at the moment and a roller-coaster relationship is the last thing I need right now.
I need to be with someone who lifts my spirits and is easy company – sadly, to me, you are neither of those things. I want a harmonious relationship – for you that would be boring because it seems to me that you court drama.
I’m having to put this in writing because, as last night proved, you won’t let me say my piece. I have to tell you that you have an annoying habit of talking over people. You have not learnt that there are times when keeping quiet is the best thing to do. You won’t do this because you like the drama – I hate drama.
If I were to try to have this conversation with you in person or over the phone, quite frankly, it would be impossible. It would only end badly.
So, despite the best of intentions and purest of hopes, it has become clear to me that we are just not right together.
We don’t bring out the best in each other. Outside of the bedroom we lack magic. At times it has felt like we are two draught horses pulling in opposite directions. That’s not how it should be.
We can’t even make pancakes together.
All you had to do was be nice to me. Instead, at times, you’ve treated me like the enemy.
I then realized that you’re just not going to open up your heart to me.
I just don’t have time and energy for a relationship like what we’ve had. It’s not what I want or deserve.
The time has come for us to go our separate ways.
I wish you all the best for the future.
After sending it I sit there with a heavy heart and I realize something. My transformation into Hank Moody from Californication is now complete because this scene springs to mind:
I find it interesting that The Saffa was on her best behaviour and most keen when she was trying to win me away from Busty Czech. As soon as she felt a sense of commitment or security from me her behaviour changed for the worse and her true colours came out. In the beginning she was compliant and agreeable to everything, but that quickly morphed into a battle of wills. I started to wonder if she was getting off on mind games, the silly, nasty power games that turbulent relationships are characterised by.
The Saffa wasn’t The One, despite my having some hope that she was. Our dalliance lasted little more than a month. I have learned some lessons from it, hopefully they stick in my psyche.
The Cockaholic hasn’t proven herself either way so I need to give it time with her, despite her being somewhat enigmatic. It’s a few days after saying goodbye to The Saffa and I’ve just developed doubts about who The Cockaholic really is with in Spain which is causing my Trust Demon to be stomping around.
Again it’s beginning to fade to grey, all so fucking grey.
Lessons learned:1) Women are more competitive than men, especially in the romance stakes. Some women like a challenge by way of wooing a man away from another woman. I guess it partially explains why some women are attracted to married men: it makes them feel more of a woman if they can get a man off another woman. 2) Most woman like to have a sense of power in relationship. If they can bend a man to their will, then it makes them feel powerful. However, it’s a poisoned chalice because after a while her respect for him will erode and with that any sense of love. 3) Drama queens like the excitement that comes with drama, not caring how destructive to a relationship it might be. If there isn’t drama, they’ll create it. A passionate fight is better than being bored. 4) A sense of security for some women gives them the idea that they can treat a man badly because he will always be there. A little bit of insecurity certainly keeps bad behaviour at bay. 5) The way to deal with drama queens, megalomaniacs and challenge-seekers is to treat them badly. They respect a man then, they fear his strength and that excites them. It’s fucked up, but it works.
I’m going to fuck her on our first date then I’ll never see her again! That’s what I’m thinking, that’s what this experience with The Saffa has made me feel entitled to do. Women just use men as playthings, outlets for their issues, solutions for their problems, items on their agenda. They abuse men, not caring for the consequences of their actions, not stopping for an instant to think of the damage they might be doing. That can work both ways.
My date for tonight, a match off Tinder, initiated our text conversation with “Your profile really caught my attention! :)”. It’s always a good sign when a woman initiates communication because it’s a giveaway that she is keen, almost desperate to meet. Of course she might be saying that to all the boys.
Her profile has no words and four pictures, one of them used twice. In one of her pictures there is a hint of decent breastage. Her hair is a light brown and not the typical blonde that I go for; I thought it time for some variety. She’s adequately pretty and in one of her photos she’s the tallest of a group of women. I’ve never fucked a tall chick; it’s been on my Fuckit List for a while.
I responded courteously and asked where she was. To my great relief she was in the next town over; nice and convenient if anything were to come of us. I suggested that we meet up and she quickly replied accepting this and offering to come over to my town. I suggested a good pub and cheekily offered to let her park at my apartment complex; the latter touch being a practical convenience for me as it would be easier to lure her back to my shag-pad.
She made a comment about being nervous, which I allayed. My experience tells me that she’s recently out of a long-term relationship, still a little cut up about it, has decided to go dating driven by her friends nagging her to “get out there”. No doubt someone said to her, “the best way to get over someone is to get onto someone else”. My gut tells me that she’s this type. I’m expecting her to be skittish in the beginning, therefore I must play it cool and let her warm to me.
First we’ll go to the pub, I’ll ply her with alcohol then I’ll get her back to my place on the pretext of watching Californication. After the second episode I’ll make my move and kiss her…then see what happens.
I have no real idea what to expect her to be like as her profile is blank. She could be everything that I don’t want. However, I feel that if she is attractive enough to me, I’ll try to fuck her tonight. She’s taken up my offer of parking out in front of my apartment block which also makes things so much easier seeing her off in the morning. For all I know she’s just out to get laid. Given her eager interactions so far I’m expecting this might be the case.
She reminds me of Wild Child of last year: lots of energy, chasing her tail in her own little bubble, but not relationship material. When it gets down to being physical is when she is likely to withdraw. Another woman she reminds me of so far is Krazy Girl – very keen to meet me. If she’s more like the latter then we’ll fuck on the first date, which would be new territory for me.
All that from just a few text messages? I’m probably wrong, but we’ll see.
She arrives on time just as it’s getting dark and I meet her in my car park, approaching her from the side. Her luxury German sports car looks out of place here. She doesn’t spot me approaching as I eye her up and down. Not as attractive as I would like, but good enough to fuck. I startle her with my “hello” and she backs away from me, but a few laughs later and we are smiling at each other. She is tall with the top of her head being in line with my chin, but she is wearing high heels.
From the speed and tone of her speech it’s clear that she is nervous, so I decide to calm her down by doing the talking initially. As we walk I get a good, positive vibe off her and we maintain eye contact for very healthy amounts of time. In the past, when dates have been uninterested in me they have usually avoided eye contact.
We walk into the pub where I had lunch with my Exgf yesterday. (More about that another time.) I lead her to a comfy leather sofa in a quiet corner away from the noisy crowd who are jostling for attention, like peacocks fluffing out their feathers hoping to attract a mate. I’ve got mine for the night, now it’s just a matter of slowly seducing her.
I lean back on my side of the sofa, our knees are almost touching. My adopting the passive-disinterested attitude from the outset leads to her sitting erect in her seat, paying rapt attention to my every word. She smiles continuously and I start to think of her as ‘The Smiler’. She laughs heartily at my weakest of jokes and I’m not sure whether this is out of nervousness or genuine appreciation. I don’t think it really matters because we have, after all, matched on Tinder where physical attraction is everything.
“So what exactly about my profile caught your attention?” I ask, doing a bit of research and also reminding her what she likes about me, ramping up the sexual tension.
“Your height. I like tall men,” she answers, her hands laced over each other, resting in her lap on new blue jeans.
Yes, she looks quite submissive. I can just imagine her naked in my lounge, squatting with her hands like that over her bare knees, her nipples erect, her eyes pleading as she opens her mouth and I feed her my cock.
“What else do you like about tall men?” I ask, flirting dangerously.
“Oh, you know,” she replies with a naughty smile and twinkle in her eye.
“No, I don’t . How about you tell me,” I coax, knowing full-well the effect of my words.
“I can’t do that here,” she answers, feigning indignation, her eyes darting towards the crowd.
“Where do you want to tell me?” I tease.
In her head I can just hear her brain saying “somewhere private”. I want her thinking about being private with me. First seed planted.
She’s silent and blinking at me while smiling. Good, she isn’t offended. I think her nipples must be hardening.
“Would you like a drink?” I offer.
“Yes, a cider is my favourite” she says.
“Mine too,” I say and I go get us our drinks.
The Smiler must be thirsty because she finishes half of her pint in two quick gulps. I’ve just had a sip, but it’s deliberate. As part of my plan for tonight I’ll get her slightly drunk which will lower her barriers and increase the likelihood of her spreading her legs for me.
We talk some more, I direct the topics making sure that they’re positive ones so as to set her at ease. By the time she’s finished her pint she’s also sitting back in her seat more relaxed, so much so that she has let her knees come forward and they’re resting against the side of my thigh. I don’t know if it’s deliberate or inadvertent but that all-important physical barrier has been breached. Getting a woman to be touch me first is a massive step towards the bedroom or lounge floor or back seat of a car.
Like so many of my dates she is a high-powered business professional. What I’ve learned is that such women use sex as a release from the stresses of their working life. Making decisions all day, every day leads to them wanting a man to take charge, to tell them what to do and they will gratefully, willingly comply. What’s a woman like her who can afford the most expensive of dating sites, a proper match-making service even, doing on Tinder? It just has to be for the sex. This date gets better by the minute.
Smiler is now becoming quite chatty and tells me that this is her first foray into dating in over two years. In my hands she is like a lamb to the slaughter. Inside my head I laugh to myself because this is almost too easy while at the same time I squirm out of guilt because of my intent. The bonus is likely to be that she is ravenous for cock. To quote one of my favourite comedians, “Her pussy is so disused it might be haunted.”
Back then I would never countenance doing what I am planning to tonight. Have I grown or degraded through online dating? Right now I think it’s the latter, but I don’t care. Love seems like a fool’s errand and the best that is on offer for me is the slippery, warm comfort of a new lover’s body under me.
Smiler finishes another cider while I’m still nursing mine which is now room temperature, almost as warm as the pub. The air is clammy with restrained excitement, testosterone and oestrogen as around us lonely, horny people find their target for the night and subtly makes their desire known. I watch as people with wedding rings make their illicit bargains with strangers and then leave. There are going to be several cars left overnight in the car park. The devil in me wants to come back in the morning and let the air out their tyres, but I reckon I’ll be pre-occupied then.
It’s time to close my own deal.
“What colour are your eyes?” I ask, remembering this ruse from my first date with Career Girl.
“They’re blue,” she says, as if I hadn’t noticed.
“I can’t see. Come closer,” I respond.
Smiler sits upright and leans slightly forward. I can see clearly, like I have been able to all night.
“I still can’t see, come closer,” I say, not moving in my seat.
She comes closer and our noses are almost touching, she’s struggling to keep her balance without falling onto me.
“Closer…” I whisper.
She smiles just before our lips touch. We kiss lightly, then tenderly, then more firmly. Yes, it’s good kiss, so she’s going to be a good lay. Second seed planted and it’s time to escalate.
I pull my head back and, as I expect, she has her eyes closed. They flicker to life, telling me that she wants more. Oh, I’ll give you more, more than you’re perhaps expecting. She smiles, leans slightly back and looks satisfied with herself. I wonder who’s playing who here? No, I’m in charge. This is my one-night stand.
“It’s getting late. How about we call it a night?” I say, spotting a look of confusion on her face as her latest smile disappears.
“Oh, okay,” is all she says as she gropes the sofa for her handbag, keeping her eyes on me.
My seemingly abruptly ending the encounter I know catches her by surprise. It’s deliberate because I want to knock her out any sense of safety that she is now feeling with me. I want her to feel suddenly off-balance and unsure as to what is going on, then I’ll lead her along the path I want her to follow. Third seed in place.
“Do you like chicken?” I ask as we leave the pub and get hit by cool, fresh air.
“Yes, why?” she counters.
“Better take a wing then,” I say, offering her my arm.
Smiler first guffaws, then bends over slightly as she laughs, laughing like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard before coupling up with me.
So easy, it’s all so easy.
Now for the acid-test moment, that instant when it’s make-or-break for my plan. It’s time to harvest the seeds.
As we approach the car park outside my apartment complex, I stop, we uncouple arms, she stops and turns to me.
“You know that show, Californication, I was telling you about earlier? Fancy watching the first two episodes with me?” I ask and swallow hard, biting my lower lip.
Smiler thinks about it, she’s no fool, she knows what can happen. She looks at her car.
“Your car will be okay,” I say and then take a step away from her towards my home, my sofa, my footstool that is waiting for her.
She hesitates, smiles impishly and then steps towards me.
I’m meeting The Saffa and it’s a sunny, tranquil Sunday morning. It’s the end of September and unseasonably warm. I’m not sure how today will play out after the petty arguments of earlier in the week. We kiss hello outside the Royal Exchange at Bank and she’s immediately her chatty self. My concerns appear misplaced; it seems as if nothing bad has ever happened between us.
We make our way down to the Docklands Light Railway where we get a front-row seat on the train so that she could experience what a train driver sees. We alight at Canary Wharf to walk around the Cathedrals of Capitalism; she has never seen anything like it. Then we get back on the DLR and travel under the Thames into Greenwich. We walk around the village area, feeling the history then wander around the Old Royal Naval College where she is captivated by the chapel which has an impressive Baroque interior.
The Maritime Museum is next and she wants to stop and look at every exhibit which is natural, but we could spend the entire day here while I have plans to show her much more. By now we are getting hungry and I lead us to a nearby indoor market where we buy and share all sorts of foreign nibbles and delicacies. The Saffa smelt somebody’s chips doused in vinegar and salt, so she craves that. We find a traditional English fish and chips shop where she gets her craving satisfied. We stroll off to Greenwich Park where we lie on the grass eating our motley lunch. When we finish eating she asks me to lie on top of her; it was a feeling that she just had to have. I oblige despite feeling very self-conscious with hundreds of people around us. She really lives without boundaries.
Next I take her up the hillock that is presided over by the Royal Greenwich Observatory, the place where time is measured from. Unknown to her it is also where I asked my ex-wife to marry me. It’s closed, so we stand outside at the vantage point taking photos of the surrounding London skyline and Canary Wharf. We walk back down the hill and along the way we are passed by an absolutely stunning Eastern European girl dressed in all white to match her hair. The Saffa spots her and remarks, “Did you see the heels she was wearing?” I pretend to not have seen her. In my head I was remarking to myself how attractive that girl was, but how I could never ever have the kind of connection with her that I have with The Saffa. There’s a lot to be said for cultural similarity. My days of being attracted to Slavic women are over.
It’s dusk and we end up at a Jamie’s Restaurant where we find a comfy sofa and share coffee with pastries. Conversation never once runs dry between us, but that would never be a problem because the Saffa is something of a chatterbox, so much so that she is prone to talking over people. It’s rare for me to finish a sentence, which I’m starting to find annoying.
The only blight on the day was that she was regularly venting about her work situation. She’s now in a dispute with her employers about her Wednesday afternoons off. From what I could see The Saffa was taking liberties with her time off and her employers were laying down the law, but she didn’t see it that way. No amount of trying to apply reason would change her outlook. Fearing becoming embroiled in yet another silly argument I have to change the topic several times before she lets go of it.
It’s getting late so we head for the trains, catching the DLR back to Canary Wharf where we change to the Jubilee Line. I have to change en route to get my train home, so I have to say goodbye to her on the train. Not the best kind of good night kiss, it’s always too rushed.
I have enjoyed the day. Is she ‘The One’? In my heart I don’t think so. There’s something about her that is bothering me and I can’t identify it. It’s stopping things from blossoming. Do I enjoy spending time with her? Very much so, but it feels more like friendship and not love. What am I going to do? I’ll give it time.
Late on Monday she tells me that some old high-school friends were wanting to meet up later that night. She loves spontaneity, so I think nothing of it, other than wondering about her employer’s opinion given the current impasse about her taking time off. The next day on Facebook she posts several pictures of her with three guys in a pub. I see no problem.
On Wednesday The Saffa comes up to my place. I make her a strong massaman curry which she loves. The spicier they like the food, the better the lover; I’m convinced of it. We watch some Californication which she is becoming addicted to. Almost predictably we started making out then fucking on my sofa.
Krazy Girl contacting me the other day made me realize that I regret not filming her and I having sex. It’s a strangely satisfying thing to see yourself in action and it helps to improve technique. Whether or not things work out between me and The Saffa, I want some memories of us together, pleasuring each other. I had recharged my camera battery the day before, so in a premeditated fashion I began filming us fucking.
We’re both naked and The Saffa is sitting on the footstool, looking at the television. I switch the camera on, position it perfectly on a table and point it towards her.
“No, what are you doing?!” she exclaims as I stride over to her.
Without saying a word I point my cock towards her face and all resistance is broken. She comes forward and latches her mouth onto my penis like a starving baby getting its bottle. The footage ends with her being on all fours on my sofa, her d-cup breasts flopping about. I’m fucking her from behind, pulling her silky blonde hair back with one hand and I’ve got a thumb up her bum.
“Ja, fuck me. Ooh, fuck me harder,” she shouts out just before she cums with that little squeal of hers.
Still on The Hook she slumps forward onto the sofa while I continue to do my thing. It isn’t long before my cock is pumping and squirting hot, sticky cum into her tight little pussy that has a slight curvature in just the right place. I pull out and she spins around and sucks my cock dry.
We cuddle up on the sofa under a throw for a while, but eventually the time nears for her to have to go back to work in London. I don’t want her situation with her employers getting any worse because of me.
“Sweetie, isn’t it time to catch a train?” I ask.
“No, I want some more of your cock,” she says, leaning over to my groin, pushing the throw away.
“Hey, you don’t want to get into trouble at work,” I counter.
“Agh, fuck them,” she says as she latches onto my cock and starts sucking away on it.
I look down at her in disbelief and she does what she does best. What is her problem? Does she have some kind of death-wish going on? I try to figure it out while she expertly brings my orgasm to fruition and savours the proceeds.
Not long afterwards we’re scampering towards my train station as her train is arriving. A hurried kiss sees her off. It’s just turned eleven o’clock, the time when she’s supposed to report back to her charge, but the trains will take another hour to get her there. I turn and saunter back home, my head full of questions about her self-destructive behaviour.
On Friday morning The Saffa tells me that she had used up all her nights off for the week. Then later in the day tells me that she’s meeting her old school friends again that night.
Hmm, my trust demon awakes and rattles his cage, yearning to break free. I haven’t felt him for a while, thinking him in an icy hibernation, his black little heart frozen. I’m wrong. He’s alive and well and trying to protect me.
I go onto The Saffa’s Facebook page and do some reconnaissance. I notice that in preceding weeks, when she was supposed to be “working”, that she was out partying with friends. She told me that she only gets Wednesday afternoons and Saturday afternoon until Sunday evening off. The date and time-stamp of photos that she and other people have posted of her tell me otherwise. My analytical eye sees that one of the guys has appeared in photos thrice in the past two weeks.
She’s lied to me, there’s a mystery man on the scene and she is deliberately courting danger with her employers.
It’s Saturday afternoon as I meet The Brazilian at my town’s station. I’m uncertain about how today will turn out. We kiss politely, I shoulder her bag and then we walk to my local supermarket to get ingredients for our dinner. She barely looks at my town; she just has eyes for me and is very talkative. It feels good to be with her again and everyone else seemed to disappear from my sight, so I guess I only have eyes for her too. I’m filled with a sense of relief by her positivity.
Back at my place I get to work making us a Thai massaman curry. That dish takes almost two hours to simmer so I introduce her to Californication which she absolutely loves and can’t get enough of. An episode ends and we start kissing. It was like we had never kissed before and it felt like I had my own private little fireworks display going off above my head.
It isn’t long before we are both naked on my sofa and in missionary position. She grabs the back of my neck, looks deep into my eyes and with clenched teeth says, “I want you to fuck me!”
I duly oblige.
It’s spontaneous sex on my sofa, the best kind of sex, the type that gets sweat, cum and pussy juices all over the covers. It is glorious.
“Hey, the balcony door is still open! The neighbours can hear us,” I say, uncomfortable with what I had just noticed.
“So what. Let them listen. Now fuck me,” she says.
It’s a hot July day and I’m starting to sweat as I heave into her slippery little pussy. The Brazilian is holding on tight, her fingernails are starting to sink into my skin. I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my neck, down my throat, stopping momentarily, then it falls onto her forehead. She feels it land and closes her eyes, opening her mouth in appreciation and letting out a breath of air through her nostrils. She liked that drop. She likes everything we’re doing right now. More droplets of sweat periodically gather and fall onto her face, each time landing somewhere new. Some women like that, some don’t.
Suddenly she starts wriggling under me and I sense that she wants to change position. Maybe she didn’t like my sweat hitting her in the face after all. Without a word I withdraw from her and she scrambles up. Almost instinctively we assume cowgirl position. The Brazilian is lithe and she expertly balances herself on me, straddling me, with just her vagina the only part of her touching me. She bounces rhythmically on my cock, her hands on her knees, a self-satisfied look on her face.
It’s quite a sight seeing a woman doing this. Very few have the physical ability to do this position. Only my Exgf ever did this to me. Krazy Girl tried it but had one foot on the ground which, by comparison, is a bit of cheating. I didn’t complain then and I certainly have no reason to now either.
I watch as The Brazilian closes her eyes and enjoys herself on me. My eyes can’t help but wander to her breasts. She’s at least a D-cup, which is unusual for such a petite frame and thus they look bigger than they actually feel in my hands.
“Aai, paapie,” is let off a few times as she enjoys herself on me. Some women indulge in a shift of power during sex, either giving it by submitting or seizing it. Right now The Brazilian is experiencing the latter. She certainly is quite fit and I think she makes herself cum; it’s the change in tempo, the anguished face and staccato breathing at one point that makes me think so. I guess she doesn’t want my neighbours to hear her cumming. Despite this she keeps going.
It isn’t long before I cum too. I can count on one hand how many times a woman has made me orgasm like this. I stifle my roar and The Brazilian looks down at me, a smug look on her face. She settles down on my groin and grinds herself on me. My sperm must be everywhere in her pussy now. Shit, I hope I don’t get her pregnant. She might not be telling the truth about being on the pill. Ah, there’s my suspicious mind again.
I suggest that we go for a walk because it’s too hot inside, so still in the afterglow we quickly find ourselves in a nearby park. Conversation is driven by the Brazilian who is still chatty. I had decided not to broach the issue of her whereabouts on Wednesday night, but she says something that piques my interest and I have to ask about it. Again it involves her being honest or dishonest.
“So you were born in 1977, weren’t you?” I tapped into what I suspected was unfinished business. I was right.
“Erm…uhm…no. I was born in 76. I lied about my age on my Facebook profile because it’s nobody’s business how old I am,” she says with a touch of defiance mixed with concern.
I look at her and just smile. I heard almost those exact words from the Irish Cougar. It didn’t matter to me how old she was. She could have been much older than me and it wouldn’t have changed how I felt about her. Before I get a chance to say anything, which I didn’t really see the need to, she says, “I suppose you want to leave me now?”
Where the hell does that come from? Is there some insecurity that I’ve touched on? Does she have a suspicious mind?
I stop walking and she does too. I face her, take her hands in mine and say, “No, your age is not an issue. I’m only interested in what you have in there,” gently putting an index finger on her heart. Then moving the finger to her head I say, “What’s in there has been taught and can be changed, but what’s in your heart will always stay the same.”
Her eyes widen and I take that as a sign that she likes what I just said.
Before she feels the need to say anything I turn and continue our walk, leading her. Without looking at her I reach out and hold her hand. She squeezes mine.
An older couple approach us, they are coming down the incline, but they didn’t seem to notice us because they are engrossed in their own conversation which involves some light laughter. After they pass us the Brazilian speaks.
“That couple have such as easy-going relationship,” she says, not realizing that she had just given me the keys to her queendom.
“You know all those other men you’ve been involved with? I’m not them,” I say with a serious look in my eye and smile on my face.
The Brazilian smiles back at me.
Silence breaks out for a few moments before I feel the need to share something with her.
“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you this weekend,” I say.
“You nearly didn’t,” she replies with a steely look in her eyes. I notice her shoulders stiffen.
“Why?” I have to ask. Here’s a chance to see what’s going on in her head.
“Thursday and Friday I was scared,” she replies.
“And now you see that there was nothing to be scared of,” I say with a smile. Her shoulders relax.
Got you. You know I caught you out lying, that’s why you were scared. Just having her know that I know she’s lied to me is good enough for now. I won’t say any more of it because that might come across as an attack, to which she’ll literally run away from me. No, discretion is part of my valour still, so I’ll leave it be. This knight has learned to stay his sword and only unsheathe it for the battles that matter. She can take this as a warning that I’m not stupid and she shouldn’t try it again.
We go back to my place where we enjoy my Thai curry and spend the night watching Californication. The Brazilian is addicted to that show, which pleases me. As a raunchy episode ends we look at each other in that knowing way. Words aren’t necessary.
I pick her up and carried her to my bedroom. She doesn’t weigh much so it’s easy for me and she’s petite so I don’t bang her elbows or feet on doors or walls. She wraps an arm around my neck and doesn’t seemed concerned that I could drop her, so I guess she has faith in my strength. I notice as I carry her that she is giving me a peculiar look with a wry smile; I would say it is one of admiration and definitely approval.
I lower her gently onto my bed and undress her before reaching for a bottle of massage oil. Her body and skin feel good under my hands and she seems to like my touch.
“He cooks and he massages. What more could a girl want?” I ask jokingly.
“Yes, I know,” she murmurs as I push my hands up her back, alongside her spine, forcing the stress and negative energy out of her body. I give her the best massage I know how.
With the massage over she is totally relaxed and I say, “There’s something I’ve been looking forward to,” as I gently turned her over onto her back. She looks at me with puppy-dog eyes and I can see that I can do whatever I want with her in that moment.
I stand up, get undressed and half lie down on the foot of the bed. I carefully prise her legs open and begin kissing the inside of one thigh and delicately work my way up to her groin before stopping and then starting all over again at her other knee. This time when I get to her pussy I just run my tongue up the centre of her pussy, feeling her lips parting either side of the rough side of my tongue and I feel her clit which is quite fleshy.
Frenetic intense, passionate sex ensues. It felt like we hadn’t fucked for weeks although it was less than eight hours ago. She came twice again, silently as usual but I’m getting to recognize the judders and shudders that her body gives off when she climaxes. This time I was more careful and hosed her down, pouring my more watery sperm onto her chest which she proceeded to rub into herself. It’s quite a sight seeing a woman doing that.
We lay awake until 2 in the morning, just talking to each other. It felt great to look at someone I desired and to hang on her every word. This is what I want, this is what was missing with Busty Blonde.
I awake sporting my usual massive morning glory and I just have to have her one more time. She was dozing in a half-awake state. I rolled her onto her back, being careful to balance most of my weight on my arms, and started to rub my cock between her legs, which as luck or nature would have it, fitted perfectly between her legs and rubbed between her lips and over her clit. She never said a word nor resisted and it didn’t take long before she was turned on and thrusting her hips up towards me, inviting me to put my cock in her. I rolled her over and slid my cock into her slightly moist pussy and started fucking her doggy style which, as I knew from our first night together the previous week, was her favourite position. Most women can’t handle doggy style with me because they find it uncomfortable, but The Brazilian loves it.
She became fully awake and pushed herself up to assume the full position and I just loved watching her hands grip the bedsheets as I forced myself deeper into her and increased my tempo. I gripped her buttcheeks with my hands and forced them apart to take a good look at her cute, pink little arsehole. Did she really want to take my cock in that little hole? My cock is more than four times the thickness of my thumb and my thumb barely squeezes into her arse. The thought of that acts as naughty inspiration. I suck on a thumb and slide it up her bum.
“Aai, paapie, yes, do it,” she exclaims, wriggling her arse as my thumb slides in.
The Brazilian keeps jiggling her butt, seemingly enjoying having something in it. Maybe it’s time to give her what she wants?
I take a moment in mid-fuck to look down and take in the sight before me. Here was a sexy little woman, natural blonde hair, milky white skin with few blemishes, her back to me, her head down, her breasts flopping about, giving off sounds of pleasure as my cock rammed deep into her pussy. THIS is what I wanted. THIS was perfection. In that moment I felt happier than I had in a very long time.
The power of those powerful thoughts and feelings leads to me having my orgasm, somewhat prematurely in my opinion. The brain is indeed the most powerful sexual organ. I can’t pull out in time and end up squirting my load into her pussy. She stops wriggling as she feels me cumming.
“Aai, yes,” is all she says as my warm, sticky cum floods her tight little pussy.
While she showered I did the washing up from the previous day. When she came out of the shower and was ready for the day she came into the kitchen intent on doing the dishes. I cannot describe to you how that simple, everyday act of washing dishes and having a woman offer to do so in my home makes my stomach turn to mush. I take it to not just be an act of respect and appreciation, but a small act of love. Perhaps I’m reading too much into it, but a woman offering to do that floors me every time. Of all the women who have been in my home, only three have actually done the dishes: Tech Titan, Krazy Girl and Busty Blonde.
We went for an alfresco breakfast at a breakfast bar on my town’s high street. The Brazilian wasn’t quite her normal chatty self and she preferred to bury her nose in a Sunday newspaper that someone had left at our table. I tried to make small-talk but she wasn’t interested. It felt as if a wall had gone up between us; a strong, silent, impenetrable wall. It’s as if she had made up her mind about something or was trying to. This felt horribly familiar to me. I’ve felt it before on the last date with The Model, Country Girl and Musician Gal.
I hate this feeling, this atmosphere. I hope that this doesn’t turn out the same way. I really like this one. Got to hope for the best, keep calm, play it cool.
We eat our full English breakfasts in near silence. I give her space and time, but our normally lively banter doesn’t return. I sit racking my brain about what could have happened to cause this change in attitude. I find the silence almost unbearable. Was it something I said or did? Or was it something I didn’t say or do? Why do some women do this to men?
Mercifully breakfast ends which The Brazilian insists on paying for. Then she announces that she has to go home. At the station we share a polite kiss that is an anti-climax to how the last day has been. Her train departs at midday and I’m left standing on the platform, feeling somewhat confused.
I had resolved to make no mention of The Brazilian’s lie I had found out about. This decision was vital because it set me free to enjoy the weekend and it was the right decision. If I had allowed myself to dwell on that issue I would have come across as pre-occupied and unfriendly even, constantly casting a suspicious eye on her words. She would have picked up on this and she would naturally have turned defensive in her thoughts and deeds. It would have been a dead-end weekend and would have strangled our relationship in its infancy. Instead we had a wonderful weekend and I’m better for it in many ways. It’s just a pity that it ended on the flat note like it did.
Later The Brazilian texts me that the train broke down and it ended up taking her 3 hours to get home.
I’m not going to try to get inside her heart. That won’t work. Instead I’ll patiently wait for her heart to wrap itself around mine.
It takes less than thirty seconds for Travel Gal to be lying on my sofa, her jeans and panties thrown to one side and I’m licking her clit. Her jumper I tossed aside and it landed near the dog which made him open his eyes and wriggle his eyebrows before resuming his slumber. Her blouse is unbuttoned and open, her bra is pushed up under chin. Travel Gal’s breasts are surprisingly large, as are her brown nipples. She’s put her hands behind her head, as if she’s about to do some sit-ups while her eyes are closed. Her minge is neatly trimmed in a Brazilian style so it’s easy for me to get to her clit with my tongue. Her pussy is moist as I slide a finger in there.
Good gracious, her pussy is cavernous. I can easily fit two fingers in. Has she been fucked recently? Did she have some fun on her business trip? Is she seeing someone else? Is she safe to fuck without a condom? These are the thoughts that race through my head as I slide a second finger into her vagina. I can easily cross these fingers inside this pussy, it’s that spacious.
With my fingers crossed as in the hoping for luck gesture I swivel them around in her while I lick and suck her clit. Her g-spot swells and with a bit of help from my fingers there she cums with an almighty squeal which makes the dog almost bump his head on the underneath of the table. Her wonderful breasts wobble like mounds of jelly as she shudders from the climax which lasts for almost ten seconds. Hmm, maybe she hasn’t been fucked lately. That orgasm has been stored up for quite some time.
I let go of everything and cuddle up beside her. Women’s clits become too sensitive to touch after an orgasm and many women feel a bit vulnerable so they feel the need for a cuddle. I’ve never been sure about what to say in this moment so I always just keep quiet and let the woman enjoy the moment.
“Wow, that was incredible. Where did you learn to do that? Wait, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know,” she finally says.
While her motor is still running is the time to get a woman to do what I want; that’s something else I’ve learned. I stand up in front of her, an unspoken invitation for her to undress me. She gets me hint and sits up on the sofa to start stripping me. As she does so I take the opportunity to grab hold of one of her breasts which feels perfect to the touch. They rival Krazy Girl’s boobs in the perfection stakes and I’m mindful of the fact that Travel Gal is almost fifteen years older. Age does not prohibit sexiness.
“You’ve kept these well hidden,” I say.
“I’ve learned to. I don’t like people staring at them. Some women can be very jealous,” she replies as she unbuckles my belt and drops my jeans to the ground.
Now I’m standing in just my underpants and socks. I’m expecting her to tell me to take my socks off before she drops my jocks and starts playing with my cock. I’m sporting a massive erection now and the tip of my penis is sticking out of the top of my undies. Surely she can see how big it is and now wants to see it and play with it? How will she look with my cock in her mouth? Does she know how to give a decent blowjob? I bet she does.
Travel Gal runs her hands up and down my body, feeling my muscles, slowly working her way down to my waist. Ah, she’s taking her time about it; she likes to build the anticipation. Oh, here we go, she’s just put her hands on my underpants. My cock is going to spring free. What will her reaction be? Will she stop for a second to have a good look at it, like so many other women have? Will she pull the foreskin back and lick the tip first, like most women have done? Or will she just close her eyes and take it in her mouth, first sucking slowly before building to a frenzy?
“No, he can stay right there,” she says, patting my hips before pushing herself back onto the sofa.
What the fuck?! What the hell’s going on here? No woman has refused to pull my cock out before. I don’t understand what’s happening, but I’m not going to say anything. Maybe she’s now feeling guilty and remorseful about what has just happened between us and is trying to reclaim some dignity. If that’s the case then I need to slow things down before speeding them up again. I’m turned on and want to cum too. Maybe she needs more coaxing of the orgasmic kind?
I reach down and grip her heels, pull her legs up towards me and splay her legs open on the footstool in front of the sofa. Again I get down to give her some finger-licking that a fast food chain didn’t think of when they came up with their slogan. Again it doesn’t take too long before she has a squealing orgasm. I was expecting it to take much longer, but as my first time with Tech Titan and some other women has taught me, if a woman hasn’t had it in a while then when it can cum out, it does so in a flood.
I am intrigued by her sit-ups-ready pose, as if she’s also trying to hide her face. Is she one of those people who finds sex shameful, a by-product of an overly-religious upbringing? She keeps her eyes closed the whole time, as if she’s in denial. I find myself wondering if I have another Teacher Gal on my hands (literally) who has issues about sex?
Once again I cuddle with her before standing up in front of her, now almost demanding my own satisfaction. I’m getting a little frustrated and impatient. My balls are on fire. My baby-batter wants to breathe.
“Don’t you want to play with him?” I ask, pointing to my penis, thinking she needs a little help getting over the line.
“No, not today,” she answers.
In less than a second my rock-hard erection goes limp and flaccid. What…The…Fuck?!
Okay, this is new. I decide to relax. I can’t force her to do something that she doesn’t want to do. I lie down next to her, trying my hardest to hide my displeasure. What kind of woman lets a man get all turned on and then spurns him?
Just then I notice that her dog is looking as us; his face serious. Her last climax must have woken him. His eyes dart from me to her. Is he annoyed about being woken up? Does he think I’m attacking her and her needs to defend her? Does he want to join in?
“Have you ever let him lick your pussy?” I ask her.
To this day I do not know where that question came from.
“No. I’ve never even done it in front of him,” she says.
Her tone of voice must soothe him as the dog drops his jaw to the floor, puffs his cheeks once and goes back to sleep. I notice that he’s been shedding a lot of his black hair on my cream carpet. That’s going to take some time to clean up.
Travel Gal and I lie wrapped up under a throw, watching more Californication. The worlds’ greatest marital aid prevents me from saying something I might regret. I sit there trying to figure out what her issue is. I don’t want to seem clingy and insecure, so I decide not to ask. There’s no rush after all. I wasn’t wanting things to be like this today anyway, but here we are. Just have to make the best of it.
A couple of hours go by before even I think it’s time she head back to her part of the country. It’s no surprise to me when she says, “I have to work tomorrow, so I need to get going, I’m afraid.”
“No problem. I understand,” is the best I can say. I wasn’t expecting her to spend the night.
“Thank you for everything. Next weekend at mine?” she proffers.
“Yes, it’s a plan,” I instantly say, without thinking.
Travel Gal gets dressed, wakes the dog and I help her put the leather coat on. I walk her to her car and we enjoy a sweet, lingering kiss before she and her faithful companion disappear into the dark of the world.
Why did that just happen? I’ve heard it said that Xmas and New Year’s makes people do things that they ordinarily wouldn’t. I don’t think that that’s the case here. I’m in a particular frame of mind that some might call confused and others desperate. I call it ‘transition’. Maybe she is too? Whatever she’s thinking and feeling I want to find out.
We kissed wonderfully for a few minutes outside her apartment before saying goodnight. It had been a marathon first date, almost half a day and I wasn’t expecting to be invited into her home. I think we both knew the potential for danger if that happened. Then an idea came to me, a desperate one in a critical light, a romantic one in another.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to come to my place tomorrow? There’s a farmer’s market on and we can buy stuff, then I’ll cook for you,” I ask.
I know it’s only our first date, but I had a good time and I have a good feeling about her. Every other woman I’ve suggested cooking for has jumped at the offer. If she’s not into me then she’ll make an excuse, but if she does…
“I’d love that!” she gushes.
It’s now approaching eleven o’clock in the morning and Pretty Teacher is about to arrive at my apartment complex. I’m excited like a little boy on Christmas Eve. Could this be who I’ve been waiting for?
I hear a car screech to a stop outside and from her driving yesterday, I just know that it’s Pretty Teacher. I go down to meet her and we kiss each other hello politely. Her eyes are blazing at me and I take a moment to take in the sight that is her; she’s gorgeous. I usher her towards the town centre where a street has been cordoned off and all sorts of fresh fruit, vegetables and meats are being sold by genuine farmers. It’s a convivial spectacle that can please even the most moribund of heart. I’ve learned that a positive, lively setting for a date sets a good tone for the date to progress from.
We walk around the market, taking in the sights, sounds and smells before buying fresh vegetables and meats that I cook once we get back to my place. While I’m in the kitchen I hear her phone burp and I sneak a peek of her in action, playing online scrabble with friends, no doubt. Even while we eat lunch she just has to grab her phone and with a slight tilt of my head I can see that it’s scrabble she’s playing. At some point I’m going to have to have a word with her about this because it’s just gone from a nuisance to disrespectful.
Pretty Teacher’s demeanour towards me hasn’t changed since she first saw my home, so I guess unlike some women she is not adversely affected by it. That’s a major test passed, so she must be interested in me. Then again, I haven’t seen her place yet.
I introduce her to Californication which she is enthralled by. She definitely has a naughty side to her. I’ve now lost count of the number of women who have sit by my side and watched this with me, those same first few episodes which often led to some fucking on the sofa. I have no intention of seducing Pretty Teacher today; I want us to take our time about it and for our first time to be magical.
The afternoon fades into evening while we chortle at outrageous scenes in Californication. I make us an impromptu dinner and I muse to myself that it feels like this is another marathon date. It feels like she doesn’t want to go home. After dinner we lie slouched on the sofa, her with phone in hand, playing scrabble again. I’m now a little annoyed by this behaviour, her phone addiction, but try to make it known in a nice way.
“Any chance I can see what tears you away from me so frequently?” I ask with a smile. You can get away with a lot if you smile.
Pretty Teacher doesn’t flinch, seemingly oblivious to my hint and instead just shows me her phone. I see what’s going on on the screen and I spot something, a word I can suggest from the tiles she has available, but it’s a naughty one. Should I? What the hell.
“Naked,” I blurt out.
Pretty Teacher looks at the screen, nods, then smiles at me.
“Would you like to get naked?” I ask playfully, not being serious.
The look in her eye tells me that she’s taking me seriously. Her mischievous smile tells me she’d like that.
Shit, I wasn’t expecting this. Should we? I think it’s too soon. Now I’ve opened a Pandora’s Box with this stupid suggestion. If I don’t try to seduce her now she’ll think all sorts of negative things, such as I don’t fancy her or I’m not man enough for her. I have to follow through now. The time for words is over.
I’ll give her something to be ad-dick-ted to…
I gently take the phone out of her hand and place it on a side-table. Her eyes go wide, but she isn’t alarmed. I think she wants this, that’s why she hasn’t shown any sign of wanting to leave. We start kissing, slowly and I realize that this is the first time we have kissed since last night. I take my time kissing her because I’ve learned that doing so certainly gets a woman’s sexual motor running. There’s something about kissing that turns women on, but for me it does very little. All that it does is buy me time to think about what to do next.
Piece by piece I undress her while sporadically kissing her. It isn’t long before she’s naked on my sofa while I’m still fully clothed; just the way I like it. She has a perfect skin, very little body fat, but her breasts are a little small for my liking: distinctly a-cups. You can’t have it all and it’s not a show-stopper.
I kiss around her neck and throat which causes her to let off sounds of approval. Yes, she wants this. I wonder how long it’s been since she last fucked? Is she safe to fuck or do I have to use a condom? I hate those body-bags for my cock. I have some time to decide yet.
My lips work their way down her body, arriving at her legs. Pretty Teacher’s eyes are following my every move while her mouth hangs slightly open, letting off occasional breaths of air as my lips touch somewhere sensitive. I take my time as I kiss the inside of one leg and I can hear her breathing speeding up. She’s hoping I eat her out, no doubt. I’ll make her wait; that builds anticipation.
I have definitely caught Pretty Teacher by surprise with us doing this now. She hasn’t had a chance to go to the bathroom to ‘freshen up’ , that moment in a movie that I wasn’t always sure what a woman was doing but now know involved making her genitals smell and taste clean. Pretty Teacher has the hairiest bush that I’ve seen in a long time. Most women keep their lady garden better trimmed than her. Her minge is a very light brown…and it reeks of urine. I look at it momentarily, unsure about what to do because of the bad smell, then Pretty Teacher spreads her legs as wide as she can, inviting me to go down on her.
I swallow hard and do what is required, all in the interests of fairness and wanting to avoid an unnecessary altercation. After a couple of seconds my saliva has diluted the taste of urine that coats her fur, but the smell just won’t go away. No amount of licking and spitting made that smell vanish.
In an act of optimism I start fingering her tight pussy in the hope that her own juices would lend a new aroma to proceedings. After a couple of minutes of furious fingering her lubricant is starting to overwhelm the smell of piss. I find her g-spot and that opens a little floodgate somewhere because she becomes very juicy.
I look up at her to see that she has her hands raised next to her head, wrists pointed at me, her body limp except for the waist region. Her perfect blue eyes stare at me in astonishment. It’s a look I’m becoming familiar with and it’s when a woman has her g-spot stimulated for the first time. I don’t even need to ask any more, I just know. If I make her cum with her g-spot then she’s going to be addicted to me.