The next day, Thursday, I wake up and within seconds I feel breathless. I want her, I want The Artist. I want to be with her, look into her eyes, hear her laugh, see her smile. I want to hold her hand in mine as we walk. I want to stop, cup her face with one hand and kiss her gently. Just thinking about those things makes me tremble inside; I’ve forgotten what that feels like. In truth, I’m a little scared because it feels like I’ve lost control. This is the effect she’s had on me. A rational, logical person would say that it’s only been one date and that I shouldn’t get carried away. My instincts tell me that she’s worth getting carried away for. I wonder how she feels?
I send her a text message at 7.05am bidding her a good morning. I offer a few words of support for something she’s not looking forward to doing at work. I make fun of the fact that we’re not strangers any more so it’s okay for us to talk on the phone, suggesting that we chat later in the evening. 22 minutes later she answers with a very long message, so she must have started texting me back straight away. She thanks me for my words of encouragement and says that ‘something’ will be distracting her today. Then she says that she would ‘love to chat’ and asks if she should let me know when she’s home.
Her last sentence makes me smile; women love a man to pursue them. I don’t want to do what other men do, so I respond by suggesting that she call me when she’s comfortable once back at home. I let her know that I have an idea for our next get-together. I deliberately don’t use the word ‘date’ because it is laced with pressure in so many women’s minds. I tap into a woman’s innate desire to tie up loose ends, satisfy their curiosity, that is why I’m deliberately vague and enticing about having ‘a plan’. It works.
Nine minutes later her response arrives, again much longer than mine and it ends with “Looking forward to talking to you and hearing your plan! X”
My heart swells to bursting point. She really likes me.
I struggle to function properly the rest of the day. All I can think about is her. My thoughts and feelings of when I was with her on our date had a very limited sexual dynamic to it. Yes, I felt physically attracted to her, but my focus was solely on her as a person. Now, the next day, my thoughts regularly turn to wondering what making love to her would be like. I think it would be gentle and tender. The way she kisses tells me she is about love and not lust. She didn’t once use her tongue, even though I teased a little once at the end of the evening by sending forward a probing tongue on her lips.
So far the greatest physical negative is her being on the chubby side, but I can live with that. Having seen that she can out-eat me, perhaps I can be a helpful influence in that regard, but only if she wants to lose weight.
More than anything, I want to find out what her romantic fairytale idea is and then make it come true for her.
Later that night we chat and The Artist tells me that she is visiting friends in Cambridge for a party on Saturday and staying over. My plan involving the cablecar across the Thames, a visit to the Millennium Dome followed by a meal at a South African steak restaurant will have to wait for another day. Every ounce of my being tells me that that day is going to happen.
“I don’t suppose you fancy coming to Cambridge on Sunday?” she asks.
Teams of muscular wild horses being stung by wasps couldn’t keep me away! That’s what I say to myself.
“I’ll think about it,” is what I say to The Artist.
I call her at 8pm on Friday night on the pretence of wanting to chat with her, but deep down I know I want to find out if she’s on a date. My Trust Demon is tut-tutting at my enthusiasm and he demands that I take a moment to play safe. She answers my call but is on a bus home, so I ask her to phone me when she gets home and is okay to talk. “It’ll be about half an hour til I’m home,” she says. “That’s fine,” I say. I don’t know whether it was because she was on a bus or is having second thoughts about me, but she didn’t sound too pleased to hear from me. I assume it’s the bus.
Exactly half an hour later she calls me. I appreciate someone who does what they say they will do. She’s just arrived home and immediately phones me. I take that to show serious intent on her part. We make small talk and she sounds a bit upset or grumpy to me. I coax a little bit and she opens up. “I don’t want to bore you with this, but I’ve been having a bad time at work this week,” she starts, then launches into detail about her problems at work. I just listen and it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. I guess that she has nobody to talk to this about, so I just let her vent. I’ve learned to not be the solution to whatever a woman is moaning about when it comes to her work.
Saturday 28th February 2015 I send her a text message at 8pm telling her that I hope she enjoys her party and takes embarrassing photos. I don’t expect to hear from her, the party should be well under way. Less than half an hour later she sends me a very lengthy text message that she must have started composing as soon as she read my message. She provides me with a postcode for me to find her friend’s house and suggest one-ish as a meeting time. That’s far earlier than I expected and I’m surprised and pleased.
Something I’ve learned to do is to pay attention to the length of woman’s a written response versus what I send her. If I send a lengthy message, whether it be an email or text message, and the response is short, it is an indicator that she’s not feeling particularly positively inclined towards me. If she matches the number of lines I write, then we’re in sync. If she answers with a much longer message it means she is feeling excited about me. The Artist’s very lengthy responses make me feel good. I get the impression that she’s very keen on me and struggling to hide it.
It’s a bitterly cold Wednesday noon at the end of February 2015. I get to Tower Hill almost an hour earlier than our date, so I scout out the area and find a coffee shop near the Dickens Inn that I’ve never been to. I don’t want to spoil The Artist on the first date despite my wanting to make a good first impression. With time to kill I go to another coffee shop close to where we are to meet and I sit thinking about her and how this date could turn out. I’m really nervous and I don’t know why, but I suspect because I sense real potential with her despite the odds being against me. I know that in her country of origin – somewhere in central Europe – people are incredibly class and status conscious and if she’s of that mindset then we’re both wasting our time. Nothing ventured, nothing gained; it’s time to go find out.
As I sit nursing my over-priced coffee, I realize that this is the best I have felt about myself in several months. Something I’ve been wondering about is did my state of depression come about because I come off a high induced by copious amounts of exciting sex with glorified strangers? There was certainly a pervasive adrenaline rush that I was operating under for several years; I think of it as a prolonged sexualized state. I stopped the sex and the cold turkey stage was my depression?
I can’t think about that now, it’s finally time to meet The Artist. I make my way over to the exit to Tower Hill Tube station where I find a good spot to see and be seen. Thumbing my phone, I’m standing sending her a text message saying that “your knight in dented and tarnished armour is at his spot” when a crowd of people come through the turnstiles. I send my message and look up, wondering if she’s a new arrival. Out of the corner of my eye I fleetingly spot someone who might be her, but I don’t stare. It is her and she comes up to me.
The first impression of The Artist is not a good one. I had been wondering if she might be overweight, but the size of her shocks me. Then I realize that she’s wearing a poncho and her arms are by her side and that makes her look bigger than what she is. Her face is pleasant enough but not nearly as pretty as in all the photos I’d seen on the internet.
I kiss her hello on both cheeks out of habit, despite reading up the previous night that in her culture that that is not the done thing, but she seems happy enough about it. I’m wearing my regular first date outfit of blue jeans, white shirt and smart blazer. Without saying a word she slips a lapel of my jacket between her fingers and I think that she tries to say that I look very smart but I suggest that we get out of the way of the crowds.
“Are we going to St Katharine Docks?” she asks.
Fuck it. I was so hoping that it would be a wonderful surprise for her. So few Londoners even know it exists because it’s right next to Tower Bridge, an area heaving in tourists all year round so locals avoid it.
“Yes,” I say, with a scowl on my face.
“I’m sorry, have I ruined your surprise?” she asks.
“You’re no fun,” I retort and we laugh.
Her laugh is nothing special, but at least she has a sense of humour. People from her country are not famous for their sense of humour. I really can’t be bothered to conjure up an alternative plan on the spot so I decide to soldier ahead with my plan. I really want to see her in surroundings familiar to me, that will make it easier to see her in context.
“How do you know about St Katharine Docks?” I ask.
“My parents brought me here on holiday when I was a teenager and we stayed in the hotel there,” she replies.
“Oh, by the way, how do you pronounce your name?” I ask, not sure if it’s the French or German pronunciation. She tells me and it’s the German version.
“Do you know how to pronounce my name,” I ask, curious as to whether she knows how because native English-speakers struggle to get it right. She says it correctly and I’m impressed. She probably asked someone at work.
As we walk to St Katharine Docks the banter between us is relaxed with a healthy tinge of nervousness at times on both our parts. She’s very smiley and chatty, but I’m still nagged by a feeling of disappointment because it looks as if she made no effort to get dressed up for this date at all. I find that a little disrespectful. In the moment I realize that it’s perhaps not an entirely bad thing because if she was drop-dead stunning I would be so intimidated that my dating behaviour might be thrown off kilter.
We settle into our seats at a table in the coffee shop that I had scouted out earlier. Banter is incessant and comfortable, consisting largely of me asking questions and her doing the talking. She does like to talk. We order coffee and a tiramisu each. Most women on a date are very reluctant to eat anything, preferring usually something neutral to drink that they can nurse for a while. As they become more comfortable in my company they relent and order something, usually because hunger has caught up with them. Not so with The Artist, oh no, she keeps talking and still manages to finish her tiramisu before me. I don’t think anybody has managed to do that before.
As we talk it becomes evident to me that we are an intellectual match for each other. We both have an interest and ability to observe people’s behaviour. We both love history and travel, both have lived in several countries and speak several languages to varying degrees of fluency.
We have many other significant things in common in that we both come from unhappy childhood homes. Her mother died when she was 22 and my father died when I was thirteen. She is also an only child; I think we might be able to understand each other in a way few others can.
I find myself talking about the same old things that I have with the dozens of other dates that I’ve been on in recent years, but today it feels different; today it feels like it really matters. Swapping our life histories feels like the natural thing to do and I find hers mildly interesting. I’m paying attention because I know already that I want to see her again. From my side I feel some chemistry, but of course I have no way of knowing what she’s feeling.
As she speaks I become more taken with her appearance. I can see the good pictures of her on her profile, so if she makes the effort she can scrub up nicely. She has pleasant green eyes that seem soft and loving. Her skin is on the milky-white side but still touched by the sun, yet there are few blemishes. I don’t think that she’s the 38 years old that she states on her profile, she looks younger, but I’m not going to say anything, but will instead see how long it takes for her to come clean with me. Her golden-blonde hair up tight in a confused bun probably adds a few years. I bet she’s beautiful with her hair hanging down, just like in her profile photo that I’ve stared at so much.
So far I’ve come across with active interest and remember to go passive disinterested on her, so I deliberately turn sideways and lean back against the window behind me. She almost instantly leans forward, keeping the distance between us the same, which tells me that she’s very comfortable with me and wants to maintain the vibe.
I can feel the sun on my back and she gets some sun on the front of her, nevertheless I realize that is on the chilly side in this coffee shop, probably from the refrigeration equipment. It surprises me then to see The Artist every few minutes taking another layer of clothing off until she is only wearing a thin vest-like top. I make a concerted effort to not let her catch me checking out her breasts; I know it comes across as lame and immature to a woman notices a man doing that. I also know from female friends and Busty Blonde that their breasts are something they are particularly cautious about.
So it surprises me further when The Artist sits back in her seat, puts her arms around the back of her seat and essentially sticks her breasts out at me. I deliberately don’t look, struggling manfully to fight Nature and keep looking her in the eye. Only when she looks away a few times do I stare at what I consider an amazing rack; I would love to fondle and kiss them. How does she not fall over when she walks? Patience; she’s either subconsciously trying to attract me or is deliberately doing this for whatever reason. I would prefer it if it was the former because that makes it more sincere and powerful.
Conversation between us twists and turns easily and naturally. It becomes evident to me that we have a very similar way of looking at matters and interpreting them. I sense that she has a gentle nature, but more importantly I come to the conclusion that she is a Good Girl and a Giver. I can trust her and I already know from her life story that I can respect her. I’m starting to sense serious relationship material here.
Its been a couple of hours now and I don’t want this quick coffee date to end any time soon, but it’s getting cold in here and these seats are uncomfortable. I didn’t want to do this on our first date for fear of spoiling her if I thought that there would be a second date, but walking over to the Dickens Inn is the obvious thing to do. Will she want to do this? It’s a big assumption to think that she’s as interested in me as I am in her, but ‘he who fears rejection never knows love’.
“I’m getting hungry. How about we go share a pizza and a drink over there?” I suggest, nodding toward the Inn, holding my breath as I await her answer.
“Yes, I am too. Sounds like a good idea,” she says without any hesitation.
Oh yes, I think she’s feeling what I’m feeling too. Her smile and eyes hint at this. I also get the feeling that she wants to touch me; I don’t know why I think this, but I do. She goes off to the ladies and I guard her belongings that she has left at the table. I sit there in a mild stupor, contemplating the hereto unimaginable in that I might have finally found The One. Stop it, I’m being stupid, it’s only been a few hours…but I can’t help feeling this way.
Upon her return I say “My turn,” but I don’t go to the ablutions and instead go settle the bill for our coffees and cakes. I steal a glance her way and she’s sitting staring out at the marina, smiling to herself. She looks happy.
I return to our table and help her get her layers back on. She seems quite at ease with me doing so, unlike some of the other women I’ve dated who didn’t have a clue what was going on or didn’t like it. The Artist is as classy as I was expecting. Good, she might appreciate some of my old-fashioned touches and in the next few hours together I’ll know for sure, not just about that, but a host of other things too.
“We need to pay,” she says.
“I’ve already taken care of it,” I respond with a wry smile.
“Oh, well then thank you,” she retorts.
“You’re welcome,” is all I say. Hmm, she has manners too; that’s good. So many of my dates haven’t had the common decency to say ‘thank you’ for anything.
We get seated in the Dickens Inn at a quiet table away from the hubbub and my regular waiter gives me a knowing wink. He’s not done that before. Does he know something I don’t?
Pizza and wine is ordered quickly, something I pay attention to wondering if she’s a ditherer. To my delight she’s decisive and orders the spiciest pizza on the menu and asks the waiter for a bottle of tabasco sauce. She likes her food spicy, which pleases me because I know it’s a sign of her being an enthusiastic lover.
We make pleasant small-talk about our travels and I ask where she wants to go to next. It’s a ploy I’ve used in the past with other dates, getting them to project forward about something positive as this makes for a pleasant date. Today my question isn’t about mind games, it’s genuine interest. The Artist rattles off a series of places that I’ve already been to, but I say nothing, pleased again that she shares an interest in similar places. I can see myself going back to these places with her, especially China, Japan and Turkey.
We lose ourselves in conversation and an idea comes to me as we finish dessert. I do my old dating trick of presenting her my spoon laden with dessert to see if she’ll play along. She has the same dessert on her plate but to my delight leans forward and with a naughty tinkle in her eye takes my spoon in her mouth.
My heart thunders as I smile.
Another idea comes to me, all my moves are coming out tonight.
“What colour are your eyes?” I ask.
“Light green,” she says.
“I can’t see. Come closer,” I respond.
She leans forward again, leaning her breasts on the table.
“I still can’t see. Closer,” I say.
The Artist smiles, I think she’s rumbled my plan, but nevertheless leans over as far as she can.
I lean forward, my lips stopping just short of hers. I look her in the eye.
She almost stands up out of her seat, her elbows on the table propping her up and our lips meet.
Her lips feel like fine strands of silk.
She has no hesitation in kissing me, that’s good. As first kisses go it’s not bad, but not as good as I would like. Maybe I’ve been spoiled in the past?
The Artist smiles and sits back in her seat, there’s a hint of a blush.
“Did you write to me hoping that I would answer?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, with a coy smile.
The restaurant staff noisily start closing for the night and we realize that we’re the last patrons. I settle the bill while The Artist goes to the ladies. She makes a point of thanking me for paying when she returns to the table and realizes what I’ve done.
Walking back to the Tube station I stop her twice and under a clear moon above we embrace in increasingly passionate kisses. I don’t want this night to end. I want to talk more, get to know more about her, make plans for the future and walk around holding her hand. I resist the urge to extend the evening and risk spoiling it somehow. I’ve learned it’s best to end a date on a good note, leaving the woman wanting more. We say our goodbye at the Tube station, agreeing to be in touch again.
She is one of the prettiest women I have met for a date. I struggle to think of a woman I’ve met with bigger breasts than her. She is definitely my intellectual equal and we both love history. I think that she’s very sweet and has made her fair share of mistakes in relationships.
I’m disappointed by her poor dress sense for a first date; a shawl, a gilet and a poncho is not very elegant. In the grand scheme of things that’s trivial.
Can I live with her imperfections? Yes, at the moment they seem petty. Do I realistically think that I can do better than her? Possibly, but it will take a long time. Do I think I can fall in love with her? I’m inclined to say ‘yes’, but it’s only been one date.
I consider it quite an achievement to have gone on a date with her. I’ve felt a bit on the defensive the whole time since I first saw her profile because she seems a social class above me, now having met her I still feel that way. However, I want to see where things lead with her. There are two milestones in the future, the first is getting her to sleep with me and the second is to have a relationship with her. I’m pretty confident that I can bed her, but it’s too soon to say if we can have a relationship.
I am so taken with The Artist that on my train home I send a text message to someone whom I’m supposed to meet on the weekend saying that I’ve met someone else and that her and I won’t be meeting any time soon.
The Artist feels good and right, perfect even, but I’ve been here before.
As I sit contemplating suicide it occurs to me that my greatest successes in life were preceded by intense struggle and total uncertainty. Each time when I had got to a point where anyone else would have given up, I made more of an effort and I broke through to the other side known as success. Perhaps I was now at such a point in my life, that now was the time to try one more time, to keep going when there seems no point.
I remember two people’s stories who have inspired me over the years: Abraham Lincoln and U.S. Grant. It’s not their presidencies that impressed me, but more the story of their lives before they were famous. Lincoln had lost every election he stood for before becoming president. Grant was an alcoholic failure who drifted around until he saw his time and opportunity.
Was it a case of their having true grit or just no alternative? I think it’s the latter. Courtesy of my depressed state I can clearly see that they too must have arrived at a point whereby it seems that all is lost, so there is nothing to lose by keeping on trying. If that’s the case, I can do it too!
Thus I resolve to take a deep breath, put the boxes of ibuprofen away and think things through, trying to find clarity that somewhere along the way got lost amidst an unblinking computer screen and copious amounts of sex. I switch off all my dating profiles and stay away from dating sites for days on end until I have things straightened out in my head and, more importantly, in my heart.
Over the course of a week’s focussed, intense contemplation I make a series of realizations.
Firstly, everything I have done in my adult life has been for love. All aspects of my life are layers to a pyramid that has love as its pinnacle. That might not be the best approach to life and I think it’s driven in part by my Avoidant Personality Disorder. However, I am too old to change. There just isn’t time for cognitive behaviour therapy that lasts years. Much better to just proceed as normal and hope for the best, hope for The One.
My second insight is that I’ve been looking for love in the wrong places. The type of women I have met through dating sites is not the typical woman. The typical woman I have encountered is emotionally messed up and not capable of a relationship. Very few of them have love in their hearts. These are lesser women; it’s why they’re on these sites and are there for so long. No man will put up with their craziness, bitchiness and/or selfishness.
I am now thoroughly disenchanted with online dating. It seems to be the domain of deranged, emotionally unhealthy women. It has so negatively affected my view of women that I find myself wondering if any good women exist, instead of all these self-seeking charlatans.
I review and analyze my history of dates on my dating spreadsheet that I primarily created to help me with my writing. It becomes obvious that my best dates came off the national newspaper’s dating site with my Happy Humping Ground site second-best. I realize that Plenty of Fish in particular is where the most undesirable women end up. That and other free sites is where the bulk of my bad dating experiences have come from. It has distorted my view of women.
Thirdly, reflecting on my own behaviour towards women, I feel ashamed. I am used to being better than I have been. However, some lessons have been learned. Only a man who doesn’t respect women and will therefore treat them badly, will be with a woman that he doesn’t respect. A man who respects woman will only be with a woman he respects. I can not attach value to a woman who does not value herself, a woman who cheapens herself by doing anything with any guy. I am worth a lot, I have a lot to offer and only to someone deserving, because otherwise they will only squander what I have to give them.
Fourthly, I have greater insights about women that should better prepare me for the future. I’ve learned that when a woman says that she is “fussy”, it means that she’s not seriously looking for a relationship and more than anything else is on a big ego-trip. All those men running after her and getting them to do things to please her. Wow, that must be wonderful for the ego!
From young women are told that they are the weaker sex and that they’re not as strong as men. That sets off a life-long desire for power over men in many a young mind. It’s inherent in human nature that anything gained easily is not valued. So, any man who easily gives a woman her sense of power, he is quickly discarded. Play hard to get with a woman and she wants you. I’m starting think that for a relationship to work, the woman must want the man more than he wants her.
Some women seem to think that to get a husband all they need to do is open their legs. What they don’t know is that, the sort of man who falls for that, will divorce her if she opens her mouth. To find a prince, a woman needs to kiss a few frogs, but not fuck the whole pond!
In this current younger generation of liberal democracies, girls have been told that they are the same as men and men have been told to be nice to women. So men come across as grovelling weaklings and women despise them for it. There is thus a bigger disconnect between the genders than ever before. Men are confused about their exact identity in society and women are told that they can have it all.
I watched ‘The Counselor’ the other day and Javier Bardem’s character says something profound:
“Men are attracted to flawed women too of course, but their illusion is that they can fix them. Women don’t want to fix anything. They just want to be entertained. The truth about women is you can do anything to them except bore them.” ― Cormac McCarthy, The Counselor: A Screenplay
Lastly, from my own shameful experiences, as soon as a man thinks he’s being played, he takes it as permission to become a player. “Take me seriously and treat me respectfully, or I will look for someone who does and I shall treat you like a piece of meat in prison until then” is the resulting attitude. A gender difference related to this I’ve noted is that women have affairs to get back at their men, while men have affairs to get away from their women.
I’m left with a few questions bugging me. First, I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever love someone else again. Second, just how many women’s lives do I want to fuck up? I suppose these questions will only be answered with time.
How am I to be from now on?
I’ve resigned myself to singledom for the foreseeable future. I’ve realized that I’m just not going to fall in love with anyone while I feel so shit about myself. I’ve based this on the understanding that I’m far more primitive than I had previously realized; I am a caveman. I only feel good about myself when my financial position is strong. The more money I have the better I feel about myself. It’s easy to dismiss this outlook as narcissistic, but the reality is far more complex. I can only feel that I am at my best, a real man, if my bank account is a source of pleasure. On the back of that I feel I shall have the confidence to be the best me I can. It’s hard to fall in love with someone else if you’re not in love with yourself first. It’s also hard to do the things in a relationship that require money when you’re worried about making the rent.
I’m so stressed about my financial situation that I have very little interest in sex right now. No desire, no urge, not a nothing. I’ve never been like this before. It’s a strange sensation. Is this what eunuchs or lesser men feel? Despite that, all this random sex with virtual strangers has got to end because it’s doing me no good. It’s been messing with my brain. I’m not going to have sex with another woman until my feelings for her are clear. Yes, the next woman I’m going to sleep with is going to be The One.
That’s it. I’m not running from myself any more. If I lose myself then it’s all been for nothing.
I need to fix my working life, get over my Avoidant Personality Disorder, look for love in the right places, not get sexual so quickly and somehow believe in a better future.
I’ve got nothing to lose, because I’ve pretty much lost everything already.
I phone The Cockaholic late in the morning and she sounds upbeat. Although her flight only got in at 1am, she is keen to see me. I need to get to the bottom of whether or not she was with her mother on her trip, or with some other guy or an ex-boyfriend. I’ve decided I’m also going to have fun with my phone. I’m going to film her as she sucks on me and I’m going to indulge in dirty talk. Then I’ll start asking her questions about her sexual history and see what ensues. Yes, I have a voyeuristic streak and having video mementos of lovers in action is something to be experienced to be fully appreciated. Of course nobody else will ever see my growing collection.
Going round to The Cockaholic’s is easy, taking less than ten minutes to drive there. I’ve never had anybody as quick to get to before. It might be a blessing and a curse; the latter because it will be tempting to visit each other. She is pleased to see me and I notice that her one eye is larger than the other; it must be what happens when she’s excited. I have seen that before when she was sucking my cock, just like with The Brazilian.
We eat and chat and the hours fly by. We have chemistry, that’s for sure. There’s that rare energy between us and we key off each other. I don’t feel bored like I did with Busty Blonde or exasperated like I did at times with The Saffa. I am aware that it’s still very early days and time will tell how compatible we are. I must say that it is very pleasant interacting with somebody as positive as her…and she does love sucking my cock for hours on end, literally.
After lunch we go for a walk and end up going through her town’s centre. She has never been into a pound-shop before, so I take her into a few. She marvels at the low prices, but disses the clientele. I detect a bit of a snob in her, which I find ironic considering her humble origins; her father was in the army and was stationed around Europe, so she grew up in army housing. So many of us are trying to get away from our childhood.
In situ I decide not to confront her about who her companion was last week. I might be getting paranoid after all my bad dating experiences and accusing her, even slightly, might derail things between us. This knight decides that silence is the best path to the truth. She might come clean if there is a reason to do so, or she might let more clues or details slip. I’ll bite my tongue while she bites my cock.
Back at her place we chatter away and before we know it darkness has descended on the world. At about 7pm she starts pulling my trousers off.
“I didn’t think we’d make it until 2 o’clock before I did this,” she says laughingly. She totally fancies me and it feels good.
Again she does the licking of my arse thing, but this time for much longer and making approving sounds. She does like licking arses it seems. We end up in her bedroom where she happily sucks away at my cock for hours. She’s insatiable. I end up giving her the biggest orgasm yet. She’s a shivering, sweaty heap when I finish her off and lie half on top of her.
She goes down on me again and this time I get my phone out and start videoing everything, being sure to indulge in copious amounts of dirty talk that she participates in. She’s fully aware of what I’m doing.
“You like sucking cock, don’t you?” I say.
“I love sucking your cock,” she answers, looking at the camera.
“How old were you when you sucked your first cock?” I ask.
She thinks about it for a few seconds, drops my cock out of her mouth, says “Twenty three” and resumes sucking.
“Did you make him cum?” I ask.
She shakes her head, keeping my cock in her mouth.
“Do you like making a cock cum in your mouth?” I ask.
She replies with a satisfied “Mmm” sound.
“Do you like the feeling of cum in your mouth?” I continue, curious as to how she’ll answer.
“I love having your cum in my mouth,” she says.
“Do you like swallowing cum?”
“I love swallowing your cum,” she replies, looking at the camera, then resumes sucking away on my cock with renewed gusto.
After a few seconds of her slurping and gurgling on me I decide to see if I can get on camera something naughty.
“Do you want to lick my arse?” I ask her.
“Definitely!” she answers,
I raise my knees and she lowers her head. Somehow I’m able to lower and hold my phone down next to her head, capturing her first sucking then licking my arse.
“That’s it, lick my arse,” I exclaim.
The Cockaholic rhythmically and slowly licks away at my anus, as if she’s licking an ice-cream on a hot day.
“That’s what you like doing. Do you like licking my arse?” I ask.
“I do,” she purrs.
“Stick your tongue in my arse,” I instruct and she instantly complies.
After a couple of seconds she repositions herself onto her side and gets comfortable; she’s intent on doing this for a while. I feel her lips suctioning onto the perimeter of my anus, then her tongue starts pushing into it.
“That’s it, stick your tongue into my arsehole,” I say for some unknown reason. People say the silliest, weirdest stuff during sex.
For about a minute she keeps doing this, then detaches her lips and starts licking my butthole like a puppy licks a jam-coated finger. She’s in her own private Nirvana, a place only she understands, a place she enjoys more than anything else.
“You love licking my arse, don’t you? You love sticking your tongue in my arse, don’t you?” I say to her.
A lustful, deep-throated “Mmm,” is her response.
After just over a minute of this tongue-in-arse routine, she pulls away and starts licking and kissing my balls. The thought of faecal bacteria on my manhood makes me shiver inside, but what’s going on outside me is more enticing.
“Do you want to be my cock-sucking slut?” I ask in a moment of oxytocin-driven rudeness.
“Oh, yes!” she answers and latches onto my cock..
“That’s it, suck my cock. Make it bigger, then I’ll fuck you with it,” I say.
“Mmm,” is all she says as she eagerly sucks on my penis.
“I’ll fuck you doggy-style,” I murmur.
“Mmm,” she utters.
“Do you want me to fuck you doggy-style?” I ask, not sure how she’ll respond. She might be turned off by all this and react negatively, so I have to proceed cautiously with my naughty talk.
“Yeah, now,” she implores.
I take a moment to think about how I want this encounter to end.
“Do I have to beg you?” she asks.
Huh? Where did that come from? What’s that about? I don’t know what to make of it, I’m so taken by surprise. I move on, passing on the opportunity to find out more about her psyche.
“Do you want me to put a thumb in your arse while I fuck you doggy-style?”
“Mmm,” The Cockaholic moans.
“Or do you want me to put my cock in your arse?” I ask, pushing my luck here, wondering how she’ll react to that idea. So much of sex involves the brain, getting the other person mentally turned on too, getting them to imagine things they ordinarily might not, or even better, suggesting a secret desire or fantasy of theirs.
“Let’s save that for next time,” she replies, catching me by surprise again.
“I think you want it,” I say, recovering quickly.
“Not when I’ve just had such a big orgasm,” she counters, continuing to suck my cock.
Huh? I thought she hasn’t done anal before? How would she know what’s right or wrong after an orgasm? She just became more intriguing.
“I think you’re looking forward to feeling my cock in your arse,” I say, continuing to push my luck.
“You want to feel my cock cumming in your arse, don’t you?” I continue.
“Ooh, mmm,” she moans some more, indicating approval.
“Say please fuck me in the arse,” I instruct.
“Please fuck me,” she answers.
“No. Say please fuck me in the arse,” I repeat.
“Mmm,” is all she says.
“Do you want to feel me cum in your arse?”
“Yeah,” she murmurs.
“Do you want to feel my cock pumping cum in your arse?”
“Do you want to feel my cum, hot and sticky, in your arse?”
“You’re going to have to put it in me now,” she says.
I spin The Cockaholic into doggy-style position as it’s her favourite. She’s so turned on from going down on me and perhaps from the dirty talk that it takes less than a minute for her to cum again. Earlier she mentioned that she’s never had a facial, so I straddle her face as she sucks my cock and I finger her pussy and arse. She’s quite okay with my fingering her arse, claiming never to have had that done before me but enjoys it nevertheless.
After a while I cum all over her face and The Cockaholic laughs about it. She goes to the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror. It’s several days’ worth and her face is messy. After she washes it off we cuddle up in bed and I switch my phone off, noticing that its 2.49am.
Monday morning she and I wake at what seems like the same time, probably the sound of an ambulance’s wail disturbing us both. It’s 7.14am. She almost immediately rolls down to my crotch and starts giving me a blowjob that naturally leads to my cumming in her mouth and her gratefully swallowing my load. Not a typical start to my Mondays.
Minutes later she makes me a coffee and a flask of juice for my day ahead that I watch her prepare. The Cockaholic is a very giving person, so unlike the vast majority of women whom I’ve dated more than twice. I could get used to this, but I’m aware that as with The Saffa, with the passing of time her random acts of affection might diminish and be replaced by something less likeable.
Until then, if that were to happen, I like being with her. It feels good, but I’m aware that I’ve been in this position before. There’s another feeling, a hollow one, that I know all too well and it’s growing.
There’s something missing: love.
Yes, we’re having fun, yes, I like her, but there’s no sign of love on the horizon. I think it’s because there’s a trust issue that I need to resolve. Is it just in my head or is there something going on that I don’t know about?
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.
Choking during sex
Anal on the brain
How not to suggest anal
Anal prep is important
Anal lube is vital
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.
It’s an October Monday morning and I text message The Cockaholic, suggesting that she come over for a spicy risotto and Californication in the evening. She jumps at it. I think she’s a bit of an adrenaline junkie and loves the rush of excitement, something I think I can provide in spades. I’m looking forward to seeing her.
I find myself wondering if I’m addicted to the spike of adrenaline of first dates, of the getting-to-know-you phase. I’m inclined to say ‘no’ because I spent six months with Busty Blonde and it was such an easy relationship with her. I kind of miss that now after not even two months of The Saffa who is increasingly becoming hard work. I’m starting to think of her as a Drama Queen; she just has to have drama in her life.
The Cockaholic arrives early, which I take as a good sign: she’s keen. We have the spicy risotto I made, then sit side-by-side on my sofa to watch another two episodes of Californication which, I suspect, has the effect of making her frisky. Little more than two hours after arriving she is sucking on my cock and loving it. I have never seen such a happy, enthusiastic cock-sucker before.
I ask her, “have you been looking forward to doing this?”
“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” she says, momentarily taking my cock out of her mouth, but then adds, “I’ve been thinking about something else all day too.”
“Oh, what other people call fantasies you call plans?”
The Cockaholic bursts into laughter, keeping my cock in her mouth as she does so. It’s a strangely pleasant sensation having a woman laughing onto and all around my cock.
“So do you want to tell me what it is you want, or do you just want to show me?” I coax.
She stops fellatio and gets up to straddle me cowgirl style. It feels good to me; she’s not overweight and thus crushing my cock, so my erection can last forever. Within minutes she has made herself cum by riding my cock. I enjoy watching her face convulse in pleasure.
I give it a few minutes, then I start kissing her all over, ending up between her legs, softly licking her clit. After a couple of minutes of this she’s totally relaxed, so I slide an index finger into her pussy, first pulling down, then turning it upward to stroke her g-spot. After a few more minutes I slide my middle finger in too and both fingers are rubbing her g-spot as she moans in pleasure. She keeps her hands above her head on my sofa cushions and it seems as if she is in ecstasy as I lick her clit and finger her g-spot. My tongue tires and I sit upright to rub her clit with my other hand’s thumb. Her pussy starts squelching and occasionally squirting juices into my hand. Not since Krazy Girl a year ago have I felt a woman do that. Eventually she cums, arching her back while hiding her face into a cushion as she screams.
I find it amazing to have such an experience with a woman. The sights, sounds and smells overpower me. The naked honesty of the moment entrances me.
She lies panting, I let go of her bits and climb on top of her to cuddle and warm her. I can feel her body shaking under me. Eventually she speaks.
“I think I just had an all-over body orgasm,” she says, swallowing hard.
After a few minutes of blissful silence conversation turns at my behest to the unpleasantly practical issue of contraception. Something has been niggling at the back of my brain.
The Cockaholic now tells me that she’s on the injection contraceptive, the one where she has no periods and needs a recharge every three months. I also remember her telling me on Friday night that she hasn’t had sex in two years, but had herself tested at a STD clinic four weeks earlier. Why would someone who hasn’t had sex in 2 years be on the injection and have herself tested? Hmmm…I smell bullshit. My ever-alert Trust Demon opens an eye and raises a suspicious eyebrow. He snorts in contempt at her story.
Is my initial supposition correct in that she was on Tinder intending to go on a sexual rampage, part of exorcising her own demons, making her feel like a powerful, desirable woman? I see this as part of my attraction to her, this trying to decipher her motives, learning more about womankind through her.
Without me saying a word The Cockaholic starts kissing me all over. She’s obviously an unselfish lover, a Giver even and this pleases me.
Her kisses feel like a butterfly landing on my skin as she works her way down my body. I’ve been looking forward to experiencing her sucking my cock, hoping it’s as good as I remember.
The Cockaholic’s tongue slides up and down the shaft of my penis, then she glides it down onto my balls, using the smooth underside of her tongue to elicit pleasure in them. Jeezus, she really knows what she’s doing!
She keeps her tongue moving and down to my perineum she goes, twirling and swirling her tongue over it. No woman has done that before. Where did she learn these moves? Cosmo, porn movies or a really instructive ex-lover? Or is she a natural? Just how many ice-creams has she practised on?
I look down at her and see that she’s in a trance-like state. Anything can happen now.
Her tongue is flailing about like that of a possessed demonic goat.
Gotta lick it!
Suddenly her tongue drops lower and she starts drawing circles around my anus. Only my Exgf has given me a rim-job before and that was long ago, so it feels good. The circles become smaller…
Hang on, she’s not going to do what I think she’s going to do?…
She’s licking my arse!
Holy shit! That’s so unhygienic!
Yet it feels so good…
Oh my god!
She’s just stuck the tip of her tongue into my arse!
Emotionally I’m horrified, but physically not so much. In fact, I like it, so I relax.
The Cockaholic pushes her tongue deeper into my arse and she starts making snorting sounds of satisfaction, akin to a pig.
Wow! Should I rename her The Ass-licker?
She continues pushing and pulling her tongue in and out of my arse for about a minute. I think she’s enjoys doing it more than I enjoy receiving it. I lie in stunned fascination, my brain is racing.
Is this some kind of emotional release coming to the surface in her? A high-pressured job demands an extreme release of energy for her to unwind?
“Do you like doing that?” I ask, knowing it’s a stupid and obvious question, but it’s the answer that matters.
“Uh-huh. I love it,” she answers, momentarily leave my arse alone before resuming her pig-finding-a-truffle-in-my-arse routine.
My, my, my, what a kinky little thing you are. I wonder what delicious naughtiness we can get up to together? I wish I had filmed this; I could watch it repeatedly.
Without any hint of a change to come The Cockaholic pulls away from my anus and almost instantly latches on my cock which is losing its erection because of the shock of what she has been doing. Most of the blood in there has rushed to my brain and botty.
Ugh, her mouth must be coated in faecal bacteria and now she’s spreading it on my precious manhood!
This cannot be! I don’t want to spend my nights in the shower scrubbing my phallus raw like I did after the anal sex episodes with Krazy Girl and Tech Titan. This Grey Knight must arise and put matters right by mounting this damsel with the dirty mouth!
I get up off the sofa, leaving her on all fours on the trusty footstool. She doesn’t move, I think she knows what I’m about to do. She knows to stay in position for doggy-style. Such a well-trained ass-licking cock-sucker.
My semi-flaccid cock easily slides into her slippery pussy. Some women in their early forties start experiencing lubrication problems, but not this one. After several mighty thrusts of my lance blood floods its chambers and turgidity returns.
“Oh, yes, that’s it, fuck me!” she mutters.
I love it when women tell me things like that, but it’s starting to amuse and puzzle me that they generally say the same things, like she did right now. Ho-hum, mustn’t tarry or quibble, there’s fucking to be done.
Earlier I had turned the lights down low as we got comfy on my sofa. Soft lighting usually leads to hard fucking. I knew this even back when there was that close call with Baltic Babe, that time when she turned the lights down low. A dormant sense of anger is evoked by the memories of her and my hips speed up. I’ll be cumming soon.
“Where do you want my cum?” I ask. It’s only polite to ask.
“In my pussy,” she wheezes back.
I reckon it’s safe to do so, I believe her contraception claims, but a little impetus to get me over the line is needed.
My thumb finds its way to my mouth and I suck on it for a few seconds. How will she react to being on The Hook this time? Will she rear up and lurch away like Busty Czech did? Or will she enjoy it like every other woman has?
Slowly and smoothly my thumb slides up her bum. She doesn’t make a sound nor does she move as my hips keep ramming my fat cock into her. Yes, she likes this. I’m now thinking that she has an anal fetish thing going on given what she did to my arse with her tongue.
Oh yes, the bum bacteria that she slobbered onto my cock is now coating her vagina. This high-flying, yuppie career woman with the expensive sports car likes it dirty!
I lean my head over to one side, hoping to catch a glimpse of her tits bouncing around as I fuck her, but they’re barely moving, just the slight shake of a mound of jelly. Now I’m sure her boobies are fake. Right now that doesn’t matter because my balls have just tightened.
With a back-arching spasm I blast a day’s worth of sperm into her, but the build-up has been so good that it feels like several day’s worth. I wonder if a woman can tell from the sensation of the cum in her pussy just how many days worth the load is? Answers in an email please…
My hips keep rocking and The Cockaholic is making ‘mmm’ sounds that indicate approval. Most women seem to like the feeling of sperm in them, but some don’t. I wonder if it’s an emotional thing more than anything else?
Never mind that, this was a good orgasm.
Sex with The Saffa has degenerated into angry sex, which is not my favourite kind, but doing it with The Cockaholic feels sweet, it feels right.
She spends the night and I’m in heaven. We talk for ages again and again I enjoy talking to her. She finds me funny and we laugh a lot. We both feel good. I’m looking forward to seeing her again.
In my Triangle of Temptation (personality, face or breasts) she has personality. I don’t find her face off-putting, it’s just that I’m not enthralled. I can’t just stare at her face and derive pleasure from that, not like I could with The Model and Krazy Girl. I’m now convinced her breasts are fake, but that isn’t a problem to me, which surprises me. How I feel when I’m with her counts for more. Of course her ability to suck a golf ball through a hosepipe matters too.
The Cockaholic having a kinky streak I find interesting. How did it come about? Will she share some of her sexual history with me? I’m really curious, but it’s a rare woman who’ll share that kind of information. I’d love to know what she’s feeling when she’s having sex or how it feels to her being on The Hook or licking my arse. What are her other fantasies? What is she looking for?
I guess the Eurythmics were right: some of them want to get used and some want to be abused. Yes, everybody is looking for something. We’re all pursuing a sweet dream or two.
The Saffa complies without any hesitation. All that she is wearing now is the mask. I’m still sitting back in my chair and the camera is capturing everything, including the sound of Darth Vader finally cumming in the Princess’s mouth.
“Sit down,” I say, pointing to the footstool.
She sits down on the edge, facing me. Her nipples are hard. She smiles at me from under the mask.
“Lie back,” I say.
The Saffa lies back and drops her head down over the edge of the footstool.
“Spread your legs as wide as you can,” I command.
She obeys, moving her feet far apart and revealing a freshly shaven pussy. Hmm, she came here wanting to be fucked.
I get up and go over to her, getting down on my knees between her beckoning thighs. I’m not sure she can hear my movements because of the sounds of satisfaction emanating from the screen near her head. It turns out Princess Leia loves to swallow; who knew?
The Saffa lets off a loud moan of pleasure as my tongue slides up her slit and makes contact with her nubby clit. Unsurprisingly her pussy is dripping wet. For someone who claims to have a dryness problem hence the KY jelly, I seem to have no problem getting and keeping her wet.
A copious amount of T.L.C. leads me to developing a mild case of lockjaw, so I pull away. The Saffa’s motor is running full speed now. With her head still dangling over the end of the footstool and surely a mild headache brewing from the rush of blood to her head, she nevertheless reaches towards her pussy with one hand and starts rubbing her clit.
I hold her legs open so that the camera can see this furious finger action, but it also has the effect of heightening what she’s feeling because restricted movement feeds her need for being dominated. Suddenly she stops playing with herself. I take the opportunity to slide a finger into her vagina, play with her g-spot for a few seconds, then slide another finger in. She’s moaning constantly, so I slide a third finger in.
Hang on, I’ve never been able to get three fingers in before. Has she been recently fucked by another cock?
Now is not the time for my trust issues.
I stand up and back away. This big-breasted blonde with her legs wide open makes for a magnificent sight. I should make the most of this; we’re perhaps not going to be together like this again. I want a memento.
My hands slide under her calves as I lift her toward me, then swivel her forty-five degrees so that she is almost vertical toward the camera, getting her head on an even surface on the sofa for her own well-being. I part her legs as wide as they can go.
“Play with yourself,” I instruct as I back away out of shot.
Instantly she reaches for her crotch and starts rubbing herself in a sideways motion which causes her to close her legs. That’s a shame, I was hoping for footage of her doing that, but now I’m busy getting undressed.
The Saffa keeps rubbing her clit and she brazenly open her legs as wide as she can. She knows the camera is filming her; she’s enjoying this now. Like all the other women I’ve filmed, she too starts off reluctantly but then gets into it, playing up to the camera, enjoying being an exhibitionist.
For half a minute I let her play with herself then I step over to the sofa, straddle her face and let my penis fill her vision. She sees it bobbing and pulls it down towards her mouth, commencing sucking on it. With one hand playing with her clit and the other gripping my cock The Saffa pleasures us both like that for several minutes.
I don’t want to cum too soon and I want different footage of her in action; I want to capture as many of her skills as possible. Without a word I get up and stand where I think it’s best for what I have in mind.
The Saffa stops playing with herself and she’s looking at me with uncertainty, her eyes begging for direction. I reckon she wants my cock in her now, but she’s just going to have to wait.
“Come over her and get on your knees,” I say.
She quickly wriggles up and off the sofa, throws the mask onto the floor, lands on her knees before me, my erect penis inches from her face.
“Suck,” is all I say and she eagerly complies.
After a second I take step back so that she has to lean forward, causing her breasts to dangle perfectly and sway as she gobbles my cock. After a minute of this it’s time to mix it up a little, so I grab the camera and hold it above her head, pointing it down towards her face. She has her eyes closed and doesn’t notice this. After another minute of expert cock-sucking she opens her eyes, notices the camera watching her, smiles a little then closes her eyes and resumes doing what she does best.
“Suck it like its Darth Vader’s cock,” I say, to which she laughs, keeping my cock in her mouth. Having a sound reverberate around the chambers of my cock is wonderful. I love it when women do that.
“Show me how you’d suck Darth Vader’s cock,” I say, just for the hell of it. Again she guffaws.
The Saffa now grips my shaft with both her hands and speeds up her head motion, keeping her lips locked around the head of my penis and the rest of the shaft that her hands can’t cover. No doubt her mouth tiring she opens her eyes, looks squarely into the camera and, just like Busty Czech did, she starts slapping her face on either side with my cock, smiling as she does so.
Now she starts flicking her tongue at and around my bell-end and shaft. She certainly knows what she’s doing. How many cocks has she sucked on, I wonder? Stop the negativity, just enjoy it!
She swallows as much of my cock as her mouth can handle and, impressively, she doesn’t choke. Most women who’ve done that invoked a gag-reflex. Now she’s looking up at me with pleading eyes. I think I know what she wants now.
“Do you want that cock in your arse?” I tease, knowing it will shock her.
“No, I want it in my pussy,” she answers.
“Do you want me to stretch your pussy?” I ask.
“Mmm…” is her reply.
“Get over there,” I bark, pointing to the footstool.
Instantly she jumps up and assumes doggy-style position on this over-used piece of furniture.
My cock slides into her pussy like it’s on rails. The Saffa lets off sounds of approval and I realize that she’s quite close to cumming. The foreplay has been hours for her.
I suck on a thumb and it glides into her arse. She let’s off sounds of pleasure as she feels the full force of being on The Hook. Less than twenty seconds later she’s squealing like a piglet as she cums, her body shuddering, her back arching and her pussy clamping tight onto my cock.
After ten seconds of this she relaxes, managing to stay in position. I’m close to cumming too but there’s an important order of business that needs addressing.
“Where do you want my cum?” I ask, checking for naughtiness and safety at the same time. I’m not entirely sure where she is in her cycle, so it’s best to ask. She’s not the type to trap a man, but accidents do happen. That’s why I’m here, as my mother often told me.
“My period starts next week. Just cum on my back,” she answers, huffing and puffing as she does so.
My left thumb is still deep in her bum as my cock stiffens totally and my balls spring to attention, propelling a blast of baby-batter up the chamber. Just in time I pull out and watch as a salvo of creamy sperm flies out the tip of my penis and arcs through the air and lands on her back.
With the other hand that was on her hips I tug on my shaft a few times and lazier dollops of cum jump out and plop onto her back. She’s still on The Hook and doesn’t seem to mind, but makes “aah” sounds as she feels the warmth of my ejaculate sliding across her back as gravity does its thing, pulling smelly trickles down towards her ribs.
I let go of her once I get my breath back. Without looking at me she gets up and goes to the bathroom while I switch the camera off.
Once cleaned up she returns and we try to cuddle on the sofa, but my heart isn’t in it. I want her to leave, I need to process everything that has happened today. After all, hours ago I wanted to break up with her but good sex got in the way.
At the end of the encounter, as we are getting ready to return to the train station, she says, “It feels like all the romance is gone between us.”
In my heart I couldn’t agree more. I feign surprise and disappointment at her words, but I know she is right. Is she now starting to make noises indicating that she wants to end it? I too feel like the best days are already behind us; the bloom is off the blossom. We simply clash too much, it’s not a harmonious relationship, there’s far too much drama in it.
I’m not going to dump her just yet. I don’t know where things might be headed with The Cockaholic, matters with The Saffa might improve and if they don’t I’ll just use her for sex. I suspect she’s doing the same with me.
Later in the evening I phone The Cockaholic. She seems pleased to hear from me and we have a pleasant, laughter-filled chat. She doesn’t ask too many questions about my day, but those that she did got little lies in reply. She doesn’t press for more; it looks like I got away with it.
It is so much more pleasant dealing with her than with the Saffa who, by comparison, is such hard work and slightly negative. The Cockaholic’s attitude reminds me of Busty Blonde in that nothing is too much and is very eager to please me.
I like that.
Again I’m having it both ways with two women; I like that too.