Waves Of Pleasure

When I started fucking my Master and Princess, I thought I was pretty sexual experienced. And I knew what orgasms felt like. What more was there to learn?

Well, self awareness for starters. I was fairly good at fucking before I met them both but I was an intermediate at best on orgasms. I’d had a few that knocked me off my feet and they still surprised occasionally (like the time I found my own G spot by accident) but actually orgasms weren’t the biggest part of of sexual activity for me.

I’d never had a multiple orgasm. I rarely got ones that reached past my immediate cunt. The idea that I’d have to lie down unable to speak after an orgasm because it left me so dazed and delighted. I never came from oral sex. I had never squirted or ejaculated. I had no idea nipple orgasms were a thing. I clearly had a lot to learn and my Master and Princess have taught me in abundance.

I’m spoiled bloody rotten these days. Multiple orgasms have become something I am very familiar with but not blasé about. I always come twice when Princess licks my cunt. I can come extravagantly with my Master’s cock inside me. I assumed I was pretty advanced level with orgasms now. And then I learned something completely new and unexpected in the shape of a cervical orgasm and have had to re-write my mental map of orgasms all over again.

The cervix is an interesting thing. Usually only thought about in time of gynaecological things such as smear tests or inducing pregnancy, it crops up in terms of sex usually when women complain their partner’s cock hits at an odd angle in a painful way. It varies in size, shape and depth depending on your menstrual cycle and I never ever think about mine normally unless a nurse is pointing it out.

But my Master had other Monday night plans this week. Clearly whatever he’s doing at work at the moment leaves him very energised at the start of the week because he had it in mind that Princess and I should fist each other while he watched. I began with her letting my fist slide and inch into her cunt as it stretched and welcomed me inside and she clearly enjoyed the orgasm given my clenched fist and her Doxy.

As is fair we switched places and while Sir played with my piercings alternating between nipples and clit, Princess let my cunt just swallow her whole hand up with ease. It felt incredible because I do love a fist in my cunt after all. But then I don’t quite know what happened and her hand found my cervix which she described as small and hard and I had an orgasm quite unlike anything else.

I have no idea if she was stroking or rubbing my cervix but it produced an orgasm that simultaneously felt like I was floating outside my body while so utterly deeply present in it. I was aware of Sir playing with my clit and pressing against me but this orgasm rolled down my arms in waves through my whole body and made me come for what felt like minutes of pure unadulterated pleasure.

Usually an orgasm of that intensity would thanks to my weird body leave me like a limp rag unable to move but this one left me almost giddy like I was slightly tipsy and euphoric. It was incredible and completely unexpected.

When Sir fucked my open gaping cunt straight afterwards, I could still feel a huge amount of sensation in my cervix that felt like just the delicious edge of pleasure/pain and savouring every thrust. No wonder when he came into me it felt like my cunt was absolutely ruined, dripping come, lube and ejaculate all over Princess when he pulled out.

I’m going to want to be fisted even more often than I usually do now I’ve discovered this. Somehow I think Princess and my Master might oblige me if even I don’t beg nicely…

Waves Of Pleasure

Making Up The Numbers

I am a woman of my word. So when I promise myself that I’ll fuck a different man every day for three months or that I’ll tell you how I managed to meet my challenge at the last minute, I always mean it.

Unsurprisingly fucking different people every single day for three months is tiring (a month is probably more manageable FYI) and to a certain extent the men and the sex started to blur together a bit.

A few stood out but I mainly remember how I met them not what happened when we fucked. So I was slowing down a little bit by the last day but at the same time determined not to have got that far to fall at the last hurdle. I wanted to literally go out with a bang.

Back in those days I was quite the club kid and London was full of small obscure nights usually under railway arches or in industrial estates at the end of bus routes. I came of age in the Nineties and eschewed glamour on nights. Give me a room above a pub or a sticky floored dive bar or a club where the sweat drips off the roof. The drinks were cheaper, the music was better and the men tended to be the rough and ready kind I like.

So after a long Saturday at work daydreaming of dick and also a day to myself after this was all over, I waited til my flatmates had gone out and went home to get ready. I had a particular club in mind in the dim and distant arches beyond London Bridge and I wanted to go alone and without attention from anyone I knew.

The fashions of the Nineties had blended seamlessly into the wide leg low slung trousers of the Noughties and in those days hipster referred more to how low you could hang them on your hips than anything else. I had a particular pair of dark denim jeans that sat just low enough to stay up without a belt but while making people wonder about underwear.

I wore them everywhere and on this occasion I I knew I didn’t need knickers, teaming them with only a bikini top and a light zip up Adidas top to keep me decent until I was in the club. The club played achingly cool British hip hop that suggests more than just the cut of my jeans was hipster after all and not many girls went there willingly, mainly accompanying their boyfriends in a slightly territorial fashion.

I knew that from the look of the guy on the door I’d have no difficulty going in or out if I said I needed some fresh air. In fact he was my back up plan, but it didn’t take long to attract the same attention at the bar being clearly by myself and barely wearing any clothes. I ordered a drink and a guy immediately squeezed in beside me to pay for it.

I thanked him by agreeing to drink it with him and just as we got chatting his two friends joined us from the dance floor. Being in a mood to flirt I was immediately intrigued to play them off against each other and make them compete for my attention. I love how often men are much more comfortable with ‘pulling’ in groups and will embrace it so that at least one of them gets laid.

And these three clearly fancied themselves some kind of Muskateers because they definitely accepted the attention I gave them and worked as a team in return, encouraging each other. I can’t remember which of them suggested the Ecstasy but I’m sure it was the tallest, cockiest one who’d bought me the drink. It worked quicker than I expected taking casual flirting into dancing close up, touching each other more and that sexual intimacy that says fucking is a certainty.

A few hours in and I was glad I’d worn so few clothes. The place was so hot and sweaty I really did need to step outside to stop myself overheating. I excused myself to the tallest guy and walked away. He followed me at a few paces and asked if I was alright going outside alone. I told him to follow me out but only once he’d told his friends where we’d be.

Railway arches provide all kinds of shadows to lean into especially in those darkened laneways and I’d barely stepped into the shade of one when the tallest guy brushed up beside me. I leaned into him and we kissed before he pushed me back against the wall and brushed his hand down my exposed stomach toward my low slung waistband until my cunt clenched in pleasure as he unbuttoned my jeans.

By the time his slightly giggling, clearly horny friends found us after searching the archways, I was bent forward against the wall, ass in the air with him inside me while his hands pinched my nipples. I don’t know if it was the drugs or flirting from earlier but there was none of the awkwardness women would have if they saw a friend fucking.

Men are also more comfortable being overtly sexual in front of each other and if there’s anything I love more than watching a man masturbate, it’s watching men masturbate together. With my back to the other two I couldn’t see it but I could hear it. The buzz of a zip, those tiny throaty noises, the sound of skin on skin and the subtle change in pace until all three were in unison with each other as one fucked me and the other two watched him.

These were the only sounds until the tallest one spoke to ask if I wanted more. I wasn’t sure if he meant fucking me harder but when I said yes, he told the stockier darker guy to step forward and for me to ask him to fuck me. I didn’t just ask but I gave him the condoms I’d come prepared with too.

He was much heavier and bent me over less, fucking me in a rhythmic shallow way that slapped his hips against my bare ass as he reached round and smacked my clit until I came. All the while I was completely aware of the audience behind me and it was so ridiculously filthy it made me as euphoric as the Ecstasy itself.

I asked for more, knowing that the third guy would step up. Skinny and sandy haired, he looked like a naughty schoolboy except for the impressively hard cock he had in his hand. Again we exchanged condoms before he fucked me, pulling me back against his slender cock and pressing my ass against his balls as his friends watched.

It’s hard to keep track when you’re getting the sights, sounds and feels of three cocks but it was only when the skinny guy pulled out of my soaking wet cunt and bent me further forward with his hand on the back of my neck that I realised none of the three men had come.

They needed no reminder, stepping forward and leaning over me cocks in hand, condoms long gone and all three of them came over my lower back. I had no idea whose orgasm was whose, but each sound varied from a closed mouthed gasp to almost a bark as he slapped my ass and long silent groan of breath.

Their come seemed to start together but carry on in variation so I had no idea who was doing what. I was still bent forward, a hand on the back of my neck in that place that makes me ripple with pleasure and my own hand on my clit bringing myself to orgasm as three men’s come dripped down my back, ass and the top of my thighs.

I felt them step back and the moment was over. I pulled my jeans back up aware that without my jacket the come on my back was a visible brand of my sluttery. Each of them kissed me in that oddly platonic way way polite boys do when they want to thank someone for having them and urged me to come back and dance with them and see where else the night went.

There was no awkwardness or judgement of me for fucking them all but I was suddenly exhausted and all I wanted was my bed, completely alone and not touching anyone. I declined their invitation to keep dancing and they took the opportunity to leave with me and look for food instead.

We walked back to London Bridge, telling me their names and chatting like old friends do. I was acutely aware that my silence looked like I was regretting the whole thing but I was just fucked out in ways they couldn’t imagine. I kissed them all again and hailed a black cab before they suggest anything more.

I couldn’t utter more words than my address to the cab driver and crawled straight into bed, falling asleep covered in sweat and come only to dream that all the men I’d fucked over those months were stroking their cocks for me. My subconscious is an even bigger slut than the rest of me clearly….

Making Up The Numbers

Odds On

In my spare time I have a slightly odd hobby in that I absolutely love advice columns. I subscribe to some straight to my inbox, catch some up weekly and have others I like to binge read when I’m ill in bed. I equally enjoy giving advice and reading other people’s especially on subjects I know nothing about. It’s like people watching while I’m housebound and keeps my all girls school mentality of gossip in check.

But sometimes it also reminds me just how unconventional I really am. Each time for example I read about women being upset their husbands ever masturbate, I am reminded that making my Master his own curated porn clips with his wife for his birthday is unusual. Seeing people fume and fizz with jealousy because their partner has a close opposite sex friend baffles me because I don’t understand jealousy.

And I am constantly wide eye emoji look as to how many people can’t cope with finding out their partner has a sexual past of any kind. Grown adults devastated that they aren’t the first person to touch their boyfriend’s dick or that their girlfriend once had sex with someone she hadn’t been on six dates and decided on their future dog’s name with. They genuinely seem aghast and upset that their current squeeze isn’t box fresh for them.

I’ve worked bloody hard to create a bubble where people don’t judge my sexual past anymore that I’ve forgotten just how shockable a lot of people are by anything that deviates from the norm to them. But I used to be surrounded by this day to day and it made me miserable. It was clearly designed to shame me out of my slutty ways and make me behave better. And it did not work.

It simply made me create a different kind of bubble where I had two lives. Nice respectable me who discussed the merits of different online dating sites as if hunting for someone to eventually move in with and utterly slutty me who once decided to set myself a challenge to see if I could fuck a different man every day for three months. No particular point to prove, just the opposite of abstaining from something for a set period of time. Slutty Season rather than Sober October I guess?

Luckily I was young and living and working in Central London and was quite the party girl with time to spare so a challenge like that made it feel like the world was at my feet more than fishing in a small pond. The trick was not being too obvious about it so that my friends and flatmates wouldn’t spot it.

It made me bolder in many ways. I went to pubs on my own and scanned the bar to see who I felt like fucking. I discovered that men are so unused to women buying them a drink that you can have all kinds of fun with them after that. Yet I also played up to all kinds of sexual stereotypes shamefully too and asked men in supermarkets to help me with things on high shelves as a good way to offer to thank them with a drink.

I had a friend who ran gallery events filled with hot young men who couldn’t decide if they were networking or peacocking and for cash in hand and the kind of cheap white wine you get at openings I offered to help run the cloakroom or man the meet and greet and hand out guides. Both were the perfect excuse to flirt and make eyes and then slip my number into their coat pocket or programme for them to discover later.

I left business cards with waiters as I tipped or I ‘forgot’ my coat on several occasions when with friends to go back into cafes and give out my number. I became much more tolerant of those charity muggers outside Tube stations, letting them give me their spiel about blind homeless donkeys in order to proposition them in return. I got round to doing small odd jobs and shopping trips that involved builders merchants and other predominantly male stores.

I took up a friend’s husband’s offer to teach me to play pool in a working men’s club in Pimlico and took full advantage of being the only woman there. I hung out in bookshops asking questions about things I’d studied at university as a way to strike up conversation with hipster booksellers who thought they’d finally found a woman who really wanted to read Murakami.

I dragged myself out to to promotional events in Shoreditch dive bars and befriended bouncers and barmen as well as allowing men to tell me all about their ‘big idea’. I used Guardian Soulmates which is those days was in print in the Saturday Guide and involved having to phone voicemail as a precursor to online dating. I talked to men on the Tube and in the street and queues. And I carried on with my normal day to day life in my local pub and encountering men at work and through people I knew.

In the process I got to really know London in a way that made it feel like home for me that most imports to the city never manage and is probably why I still live here fifteen years later. I have no idea how many phone numbers I accumulated in those three months but it was literally hundreds. I feel like I filled my Nokia 3310 address book to bursting point but that might be nostalgic hyperbole.

I soon found that for roughly every five men I engaged with I got one fuck. I had to make a special trip to go to Boots for a Meal Deal for lunch from work at least once a week to buy condoms by the twelve pack. I turned men down who wanted to date and I set more geographical limitations than sexual ones. I fucked in lot of pub toilets, alleyways and stockrooms.

And despite all that work, I almost didn’t make my target. A couple of flaky dates, a few guys who seemed like bad news and a couple of occasions I couldn’t shake friends or work off to be free to fuck left me three men short on my last day. I debated giving my Lenten exemption of Sundays not counting to extend the deadline, but that felt like cheating.

My bubble of pure London sluttery never got burst in those three months by friends or flatmates and years later I never brought that past in the present and told people that I once fucked nearly a hundred people in three months just to see if I could. I knew I’d never live that number down.

But next Thursday I will tell you how I hit my target like the over achiever I am…

 

Odds On

The Beast With Two Backs

I had fun writing about how sex and laughter go together and it felt like the perfect opportunity to describe one of the funniest sexual experiences I’ve ever had for this week’s Thursday nostalgia post.

There’s a trope with online dating that all men lie about their height and say they are 6 foot. Despite being a fairly early adopter of online dating, I’d never had it happen to me and so secretly wondered if it was really true.

I am fairly ambivalent about men’s heights and I rarely looked too much at them in the descriptions on online profiles so didn’t really notice that the guy I’d arranged to meet for drinks was exactly 6 foot tall. Plus I was distracted by the fact I was running late for our date because I was stuck behind Hare Krishnas on Oxford Street on a day that was unexpectedly too warm for the boots I was wearing.

I arrived fifteen minutes late, incredibly flustered and slightly sweaty to find him sitting as cool as cucumber in the dark basement bar I’d picked out and he stood up from the stool and I realised I’d met my first fake six footer in the flesh. Except this guy just kept going as he stood up. He’d lied to make himself seem smaller than his full 6 foot 6 inches.

Turns out women can be a bit Goldilocks when it comes to height and like their men not too small, not too tall but just right. I on the other hand just like them funny and quite filthy so we hit it off immediately and spent the rest of the afternoon getting quite drunk before deciding to go back to mine to fuck.

We tumbled tipsily through my front door in broad daylight and started getting frisky on the sofa quite quickly. I’d just had a glimpse of his well muscled and heavily tattooed lower legs and felt his very well sized erection against my thigh when we realised we had no condoms.  He very chivalrously put his jeans back on and went out to the shop to buy some.

While he was doing so I realised I was less co ordinated through booze than I’d thought and having difficulty getting my boots off. Not wanting to end up flustered and sweaty in front of him for the second time that day, I used the doorstep to pull them off and slipped out of my skinny jeans too so that when he arrived back he only had to pull my knickers down and put the condom on so we could fuck.

I might not be a height queen per se but I do love the weight of a man on top of me. Something about it makes me want to sink into the bed, wrap my legs round his back to pull him deeper inside me to maximise the weight and make sure he fucks me all the harder.

And with a guy this tall and well built, I was in my element. That delicious weight going straight to my cunt. I had my legs almost round his neck and my eyes closed enjoying that filled up being fucked senseless feeling when something felt odd enough to make me open my eyes. And just as I did I saw a fairly well sized slug drop from my curled in pleasure toes onto his bare back.

I tried to manoeuvre my foot down a little bit as if changing position to see if I could brush the slug off onto the bed but it turns out slugs are less malleable than you might think for a strip of muscle. My cover up attempt just managed to push the slug onto his arse cheeks.

I don’t know if he felt it on him or because the thought of it all began to give me the giggles in that way that makes it hard to breathe without laughing more, but he opened his eyes too at this point and saw my foot still trying to flick the slug away and asked if everything was ok.

It’s hard not to be compulsively honest with someone when you’re quite drunk and they’ve got their dick inside you and between sobs of laughter I managed to tell him there was a rogue slug on his bare arse. I think I even managed to explain that it must have come from the doorstep when I had taken my boots off.

He took it better than I expected, alternately reaching his hand behind him and trying to seek out the slug and leaning his weight back on it so he could keep fucking me. It was quite something watching such a big burly man battle his horniness and his disgust. But despite twisting and turning and slug hunting, he kept fucking me in a deep steady rhythm that actually managed to make me less hysterical and make me come.

A combination of calming me down and feeling me come round his cock made him come hard and collapse on top of me rather than hold himself up anymore. For a few moments I wasn’t sure if he was still coming or laughing and then I realised when he flapped his hand behind him again that he was in fact laughing almost as hard as I had been earlier.

This set me off again and we lay like this for several minutes before he managed to pick himself up and we found the offending slug cosied up in the duvet. I brought a tissue for the condom and one for the slug and both went in the bin while he showered any snail trails off him.

I expected him to shower and make his excuses to get away from crazy slug lady but not only did he come back to bed we met up again four or five times again as fuck buddies. He never let me live it down though making me go on top and keep my feet where he could see them next time…

The Beast With Two Backs

Near Miss

I’ve been enjoying re-living the men I’ve fucked in the past for the last few weeks here as a little Thursday nostalgia trip but this week I thought I’d shake things up a little bit with a man I didn’t consider I’d fucked at the time.

Back in my 100% straight days I had the heterosexual special view of sex that with men and women it had to be penis in vagina to count for me. Some of this attitude was social conditioning (see how society views the concept of virginity for example) and some was an arbitrary rule to keep my already socially very unacceptable number that little bit lower.

Surely oral didn’t count? Or not actually having an orgasm? Maybe not being completely naked? Had we been formally introduced? Did he pay me? I wasn’t ashamed per se but slightly overwhelmed I think. So if his dick hadn’t penetrated my cunt, it didn’t count in those days. My mileage has changed somewhat since.

I wasn’t really debating the finer points of sexual politics though when I met him. I was on a work night out with all my colleagues and hating every single second of it. It was how I imagine hen dos are without the aggressive penis branding. All Saturday night shrieking and I went to hide at the bar instead of joining the table service shots.

I got chatting to a tall broad shouldered handsome man with a voice like velvet and hands like paws. He was Norwegian and a carpenter and a million times more interesting and soothing than Flaming Sambuccas. And as luck would have it free the next night for drinks. I escaped back to my co workers without them spotting him and arranged to meet him in my favourite hipster Shoreditch bar.

I was a bit nervous when I went to meet him. I was worried he’d seemed much more handsome and alluring because I had been in such a bad mood the night before. Maybe he’d be dull and my standards had been low. Perhaps he was blonder and more wholesome than I recalled?

I needed have worried. His hair and conversation were just the right shade of dirty and the evening flew by in a haze of strong cocktails and intense flirting. I ended up sitting on his lap on a sofa in the bar and even if it hadn’t been closing time on a Sunday night, that was the cue to go home together.

He lived nearby in a beautiful flat unsurprisingly full of  wood and stylish furniture he’d made himself. He led me round by the hand giving me a full tour and somehow setting the pace for the rest of the night it seemed. He guided me into the kitchen, pressing me against the wooden worktops as he opened the fridge and handed me a bottle of very expensive champagne to open.

I was literally twisting the bottle and edging the cork out when he said ‘by the way, you should probably know now that I’m impotent’. There was the merest breath of a pause as his words filled the kitchen and the cork fizzed off the bottle over my hand with the most inappropriately judgemental sound I’d ever heard and a timing you simply couldn’t fake.

Still holding the champagne and suddenly sober I reached up and kissed him, half horny, half desperate not to make things awkward. It was the right thing to do. I felt him imperceptibly relax and kiss me back. What could have been a cold shower suddenly got very hot

Next thing I knew he was lifting me up onto the kitchen counter and pulling my underwear down and his face was pressed into my soaking wet cunt. I was still holding the bottle of champagne and being drunk on both nerves and booze, leaned back with my legs wide open and pussy pressed up into his face and let him lick me to an orgasm while I drank champagne straight out of the bottle.

Champagne and cunt taste excellent together when you kiss someone straight from yourself and we continued kissing and him making me come repeatedlly with his tongue and fingers on the sofa til the bottle was empty as we took turns to swig from it before we eventually fell asleep like that.

I woke up a few hours later on the sofa alone and realised he’d gone to bed without trying to move me or even cover me up and sensed that he wanted me and my knowledge of his body gone. I hunted in the semi darkness of the kitchen for my underwear and left without it when there was no sign.

In the brighter light of the street it really couldn’t have been more obvious that I was doing a Monday morning walk of shame. My bare legs and bare cunt felt like bare faced embarrassment at the bus stop especially when I had to stand in the crush and sway of the lower deck at rush hour because I’d have committed public indecency if I’d tried to walk up the stairs.

All I could tell myself was that it would have been more awkward to have stayed and exchanged small talk with him over the empty champagne bottle on the living floor. My justification to my flatmate that I hadn’t fucked him was how I attempted to save face…

Near Miss

Home Sweet Home

These days the housing crisis in London is such that landlords can abuse it by putting adverts for a free room and board if you fuck them and some women are so desperate for somewhere to live that they feel they have no choice. These men are predators and I hope the women involved at least sew prawns into the curtains when they leave.

They also make me feel a tiny bit guilty about the time I fucked my landlady’s husband when I was first living in London. Not because I was under any pressure about housing but because he was actually quite attractive and I could basically which formed a lot of my sexual decision making when I was 24.

His wife had been given our rented house as an ‘investment portfolio’ by her mum who owned a lot of property in the area and she wasn’t especially overjoyed to discover the work that came with being a landlady so while she stayed out in the suburbs being a stay at home mum, she sent her husband who worked in the city round to deal with us.

It started innocently enough that he’ call round to collect a rent cheque or look at a problem and join all of us in the house for a glass of wine before catching his train home. Then one night around Christmas he crashed on our sofa too pissed after the works do to go home and we sort of didn’t mind him occasionally using the place as a crash pad as it got our rent cashed quicker.

I tended to be round the house more as I worked much more irregular hours than my flatmates and I was the one who could deal with practical stuff like boilers and taps so we talked more. And then the talking expanded on his part into the classic ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’ stuff. How he hated commuting, didn’t know his kids, felt his wife was only interested in his salary.

I forgot I wasn’t his friend nor was I still actually a sex worker and that I didn’t have to listen to this stuff for free but I liked him and I could see he had genuine worries that a friendly ear would help with. We ended up having dinner a couple of times and then I think he panicked that it looked like an affair and kept his distance for a few months.

Then one night he was there when I came home on the invitation of another one of my flatmates. I happened to know that everyone else in my house was out for the night because I’d just left them in the pub after just enough early evening wine to make me impulsive.

I poured him a glass of wine while he fixed the kitchen tap or whatever he had come to do and we chatted slightly awkwardly. Our kitchen was tiny and you could barely stand without touching anyway and the proximity and wine and discussing why he’d been avoiding me all came together and the next thing I knew he was lifting me up and kissing me while carrying me toward the kitchen table.

He laid me down on the table and was on top of me kissing me and it was hot. He was one of those men in his early forties who was ageing well and worked the silver fox look and I could feel a surprisingly good body from him being on top of me. I wanted to fuck him. He wanted to fuck me.

But first I wanted to suck his cock because if there’s one thing married men whose wives don’t understand them always want, it’s their cock sucked. I started pulling his trousers off and was delighted to see that he had a beautiful cock. Long, just the right side of thick and incredibly hard, it was just the kind of cock I wanted in my mouth.

I wriggled round on the kitchen table so my head was hanging over the edge slightly and looking up at him on my back so he could stand and dip his cock into my mouth. This is a good way to take someone’s cock for deep throat but I didn’t take him in that far. Firstly I’m not a fan and secondly, I think if I had he’d have come instantly.

Instead I opened my mouth wide and licked his cock lazily before sucking on his balls to tug at them before slipping his cock in and out of my my mouth so that I could really tighten my lips up and down him to make him moan and gasp. He was so close to coming and each time he seemed to lose control I’d loosen my mouth and flick my tongue round and lick him lazily again.

I hadn’t decided if I’d fuck him or let him come in my mouth this way since I was in my kitchen with no condoms to hand and was mentally running through my head where the closest ones were before I decided. Then I remembered I had some in my bag lying in the hall outside the kitchen.

I pushed myself off the table by taking his cock as deep as I could and then using my tongue to push him out of my mouth so he stepped backwards and jumped off the table explaining why. When I turned back round into the room holding the condoms, he had his cock in his hand and seeing him horny, hard and clearly making bad decisions went to my cunt so much.

He pushed me back on the table as I pulled my jeans off as he rolled the condom on and slid straight into my soaking wet cunt like he hadn’t fucked in a lifetime. The table was the perfect height for one of my my favourite ways to fuck so I had my legs wrapped round his neck pushing him deeper into me and fucking me so hard the table was banging off the wall.

I was surprised that he lasted as long as he did considering how ridiculously horny we both were and how close to coming in my mouth he had been. He came into me so hard the table lurched and he literally howled as he orgasmed. The only thing better for me that being fucked that hard is the feeling of a man coming into me and it always tips me into coming too.

He could hardly move himself off me as we lay there enjoying the afterglow of our orgasms until we realised that the table as at an odd angle. Turned out we’d broken one of the legs while we were fucking. That made us move before we crashed to the floor and really had something to explain.

Luckily my flatmates came home wasted later that night after he’d left and assumed they broke the table. I was smart enough not own up but horny enough to allow my landlady’s husband to come round a few weeks later to measure up for a new one. This time we fucked on the sofa though to be safe…

Home Sweet Home

Start As You Mean To Go On

I had the kind of childhood you forget huge chunks of to get through. I don’t say this for sympathy but to explain why the oddest things stick in my mind from my formative years but others people might expect don’t.

Princess and I were talking recently about early sexual experiences and while she can remember exactly the first time she masturbated or had an orgasm, I couldn’t. Not that there’s any explicit trauma around those things for me but in blocking out the bad bits, you also shut out the good bits.

It got me thinking about the things that shaped my sexuality generally and because I have the most incredibly relaxed therapist I’ve been discussing it in sessions recently and seeing what was lurking in my brain after the time I’d forgotten I’d had my first three person relationship at the age of sixteen. And I got quite a shock with what I recalled.

Because depending what you consider your first sexual experience, mine was with a girl I went to primary school with. We didn’t fuck or even touch each other but it was the first time I ever got naked for pleasure with someone else which is a pretty notable sexual experience in itself.

We were friends at school because we were the dysfunctional ones in a school of privileged kids. My parents showed no real interest in me and her parents were divorcing at a time when such things were still incredibly rare in Ireland. And to add to our bonding, our issues were with our mothers in a society that exalts motherhood to the point of sainthood.

Her mother in fact had recently run off with a much younger man who rode a motorbike in full leathers and left her and her sister with their dad while she was clearly having some kind of mid life sexual awakening that fascinated us as we’d never really thought about parents being sexual until then.

We spent a lot of the summer between leaving primary school and starting secondary school at her house taking advantage of neither of her parents being around much but trying to make up for it by paying for MTV in the days when that had social cache. Occasionally we had to look after her younger sister and occasionally I had to skip her house to be looked after by my brother and he was the more useful of the two siblings.

Being as he was at the time a teenage boy, he and his friends spent a lot of time seeking out porn. In those days that came in the shape of magazines that had to be hidden more carefully from prying parental eyes than an internet search history does now. Unfortunately for them they weren’t smart enough to hide it from a curious little sister and I took them to my friend’s house where we thought it might enlighten us to what was making her mum act like she was.

We started out fascinated by it all, flicking through the pages seeing seemingly normal looking women get more and more scantily clad and turned on. Each page stripped off the bikinis or underwear we were used to seeing women posing in national newspapers or beer cans and we remained quite blasé until we discovered that these women’s cunts looked different to ours behind the scenes.

Both of us were at that stage of puberty where our bodies were changing but still not fully developed. I was slightly envious of her in the changing rooms because she was ready to wear a bra and I was still in camisoles but like most girls of that age getting changed for swimming or games meant not letting any part of your body below the neck be seen by anyone else for fear of social shaming.

So I’d never thought about hers or anyone else’s cunt and I’m not sure we’d ever been given the euphemistic advice to ‘get to know yourself’ with a hand mirror by then as we didn’t get the period talk until secondary school. We were goggle eyed when the pages got to the point of the women pulling their labia apart to reveal this whole new landscape behind the familiar vulva we knew we both had.

Like any kids learning about their bodies we found it hard to believe we could be like that too and I’m not sure if it was a practical decision or suggestion that we look at our own to compare with these blissed out looking women in Penthouse or Fiesta. I don’t remember if we undressed together or what stages it took but at some point we were both completely naked in her bedroom with the magazines between us.

There was definitely a childishness to this show and tell to begin with but as both of us lay against the bed with our legs apart, pulling our cunt lips open and staring at what we found on ourselves and each other, I remember the atmosphere changing. I’m not sure who turned the pages until we found the inspiration that we could slip our fingers inside these fascinating folds we found out we had.

I don’t know if she’d known you could do that before or had been doing it already but I definitely hadn’t and we both felt the effects of it as soon as we did going from casual exploration to pleasure seeking. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have explained this as masturbation if pushed to explain but we’d definitely changed the dynamic now.

I remember her lying back on the bed against her pillows with her knees open and her cunt looking different to mine but right there with her finger inside as she wriggled and moved. I remember also putting a finger inside myself but being up on my knees with the magazine in between us and definitely continuing to flick through it.

We didn’t articulate what we were doing as I doubt we had words for it but we took turns in those positions to pull ourselves open into the same poses as the women in the magazine as if copying them and pretending each other was the audience even though it wouldn’t have occurred to us that women could look at each other too.

I remember being a stickler for rules and orders even then and not deviating from the poses I saw in pages and pages of porn. But she was a rebel who used her other hand to pinch her nipples and rub her cunt as well keeping her fingers moving inside her. I don’t know if she’d acquainted herself with her clit before but she was certainly a faster learner than me with her body arching and squirming as both her hands moved at once while I watched until she went still.

I think I thought she’d gone still because she’d heard someone coming home but now I realise that she’d actually come in front of me. I know I didn’t because I was still sticking to the orders of the magazines to pose rather than perform like she had. I bet if she’d told me what to do I’d have got over my shyness instantly.

And then we did hear her grandparents coming home and luckily both were slow on the stairs giving us time to shove the magazines under the duvet and pull our clothes back on. I remember feeling so aware of my cunt when I put my shorts back on with the almost throbbing ache I now know is being incredibly turned on but not getting to come.

I also remember eating dinner with her and her grandparents and then being sent to play together afterwards but her barely looking at me or talking until I went home with my stash of magazines rescued from her bed. I do remember that one was missing when I checked though and I also remember that she and I never hung out again before going on to separate secondary schools a few weeks later.

I also remember being very keen to get that intense almost uncomfortable but can’t think about anything else feeling between my legs back again because it felt so good to me. I suspect that that was the summer I discovered masturbation. I wonder what else I’ll remember next…

Start As You Mean To Go On