Heating Up

I am usually a pale Irish person wrapped up in layers like a human onion and having a passionate affair with my electric blanket and revelling in cold weather. But I am absolutely loving this hot weather in London at the moment.

Normally hot weather gets me super horny and ready to reach for the ice cubes but I’ve been a bit distracted by the ongoing life admin of the last month and the my bed still isn’t quite ready for human visitors again sadly so my libido hasn’t reached quite the heights of the thermometer yet.

But I’ve been rediscovering the simple joys of spending times lying in parks in hot weather with people you want to fuck. There are few more enjoyable things than this for me. Something about the heat, the fact you aren’t wearing that many clothes and being relaxed and lazy creating both intimacy and the thought of fucking later. It’s such a rare pleasure in a climate like ours and I love that I’ve been able to do it so often this summer.

My Master and Princess and I made the most of Pride a few weekends ago lying in the park together after they were on their floats. We got delightfully tipsy and took advantage of the fact Pride is not only the day you can be openly LBGTQ+ in the city but openly polyamorous too. We could laze around all afternoon obviously touching each other like partners can do to show affection and ‘coupledom’ which otherwise might cause people to react strangely.

We made even more of it by walking hand in hand across the as the three of us to Vauxhall for a night out before coming home to fuck on the sofa, made horny by public shows of affection, vodka and how relaxed London is at Pride.

Princess sat astride me while I put the Doxy between my legs and fucked herself against it like the biggest cock possible while my Master watched us cock in hand and we all tumbled into bed sleepy with alcohol, orgasms and the heat. He was even hornier next morning with his hangover and fucked me so hard and deep for long I could feel it in my cunt for the rest of the day each time I moved position lying in the park again all day.

It reminded me of long hot summers when I was younger when heat made me seek out cock even more than my usual slutty self. There was the summer of 1995 when I had finished my GCSEs and Northern Ireland found peace for the first time. My shifts at a diner that opened til the wee small hours gave me ample opportunity to meet men all summer.

There were countless nights coming home in the broad daylight of dawn, knickers stuffed in my handbag after staring off drinking on sunny evenings and dancing indoors in the dark forgetting it would be bright again when you stumbled out the club or house party.

Then there were long afternoons in the park with the guy who would become my boyfriend where I pretended to be a good girl who would only let him put his hand down my bikini bottoms when he’d rolled me one of his excellent joints. I’d suck his cock in his baking hot bedroom with the windows so wide open the neighbours could probably watch and then do the same at work in the walk in freezer with the door propped open so anyone could have caught us.

Those long hot summers that feel careful and endless are perfect for fucking and I was lucky enough to get another one just after I moved to London. I seemed to spend the whole summer in a bikini top and a denim skirt that barely covered my ass soaking up the company of men who looked good with low slung jeans and no shirts on.

I kept my cunt shaved so the only bush in town was the ones I’d lie behind so one particular guy who liked the great outdoors could lie on his back drinking a beer and chatting casually with his friends while subtly stroking my cunt and making me come silently and secretly as if nothing was going on.

I also had a semi regular thing going with a beautiful man from Australia who seemed to bar tend in all the best dive bars and clubs under a railway arch over the city. I’d get a text telling me where every so often and turn up to avail myself of the free drinks he’d pour me until I was tipsy enough to follow his orders to flirt and dance with other men knowing it turned him on.

I’d be pressed skin to skin to a strange man feeling that frisson of heat and sweat in a confined space knowing that if I looked over the bartender would be watching me and his cock would be hard. We’ll fall in cabs after his shift and behave in disgraceful ways that Uber ratings have rendered impossible in 2018 but that got him well and truly ready to fuck all night.

But the best nights of that summer were with another semi regular fuck buddy who happened to live in the OXO Tower. I never established if he was lucky enough to have the coveted social housing in there or the sub-let of all time but high above the South Bank looking out over the shimmering heat and sparkling lights as the river reflected both back up again, it created a London bubble of misbehaviour I revelled in.

Tucked a few floors below the posh restaurant, barely visible from the street and with balconies big enough to keep the neighbours away, I spent more than one night there kneeling down, sucking his cock and staring up at the London scene around me. Other evenings we both stripped naked, drinking chilled white wine on the balcony and fucking.

I seem to recall losing a pair of panties over the side of the balcony on on occasion and walking home with a breeze up my skirt failed to curb my horniness or sluttiness. In fact thinking about it makes me think I need to up my slutty game this summer while the heatwave lasts….

Heating Up

Bugging Out

So I’ve been a bit quiet recently because life has just been throwing all kind of sex blocking stuff at me. Between exams, family crises, new jobs, old jobs that get busier, travel and deadlines, kink and fucking have had to step back slightly.

But nothing has fucked up my fucking habits quite like getting bed bugs. I defy even the horniest person on earth to feel frisky when you’ve got unwanted bedfellows. It is not the kind of action I want on my mattress trust me.

Poor Princess got bitten badly and put me on notice til I could get it sorted. We managed to fuck a few times on the sofa but even that wasn’t ideal. I might have a big sofa but it’s definitely a struggle to fit three people on it and move around too much.

People often talk about fucking in bed as if it’s boring and vanilla and interesting people fuck all over the land in increasingly wild and crazy places instead. Now we all know I like a changing room or two and there’s definitely fun in the exhibitionism and secrecy of an illicit fuck in a strange place on the odd occasion.

But having had a mis-spent and slutty youth, I mainly associate sex in strange places with bad sex. Being young and horny like many teenagers I had nowhere comfortable to fuck most of the time. The only beds I encountered were in student houses often bedrooms barely conducive to spending time in and heaped with coats with parties dodging getting caught by people looking for the lighter they’d mislaid.

And that was if you weren’t fucking in even stranger and more awkward places than that. Desperation and lack of opportunity drove me to have sex in more alleyways than I’d care to admit. There’s not much room for finesse when you are banging beside a wheelie bin. Nor do toilet cubicles lend atmosphere to the proceedings.

I’ve also fucked in the grounds of a church (in fact I think I’ve been non sectarian and managed to orgasm in the grounds of both a Protestant church and a Catholic chapel.) Being non religious the trappings of that never bothered me much. I just thought of them as fairly secluded places you didn’t always have to have sex standing up.

I felt more guilty about the time I fucked a guy in the grounds of an old folks home in case I accidentally gave someone’s granny the fright of her life. Keeping an eye on lights going on and genuinely getting splinters in my arse off the pine tree I was leaning against made that moment memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Teenage fumblings are fine when you’re drunk and horny but once you switch to have time and space for sex it’s revolutionary. Even a one night stand is improved by skin on skin contact rather than only being able to expose the bare minimum of flesh needed. Only being able to fuck standing up or bent over from behind gets restricting and often awkward if like me you are considerably shorter than most men.

Being able to sprawl out on a bed gives so many more opportunities and angles it becomes easy to take that for granted and think it’s being boring. But there’s such a joy in being able to fuck at a different pace each time and use your space to stretch out and get to know your partner’s body to give them the most pleasure possible and receive as much pleasure back as possible. It’s extremely tricky to lick cunt any other way.

Plus a bed you use frequently gives you scope for the use of toys. We have duplicates of our favourite sex toys at both our flats. But you can’t really carry a dildo in your clutch bag and get someone to use it on you when you climb over the fence into a park late at night. The same goes for lube which is of course essentially for things like anal or even giving a decent hand job.

You learn so much more about sex from spending time in bed and you also get to spend that post sex time too. I think you learn as much after fucking as during fucking. You can debrief, decide what to do next or not and simply get to know each other better so that there’s more understanding sexually or emotionally. Pulling your skirt down and your knickers up while looking for a bin for the used condom doesn’t have quite the same bonding experience.

So having my bed off limits and being terrified to infest my Master and Princess’s bed either really did a number on my libido. I found it hard to get quite as horny knowing the sofa wasn’t a fun choice but a necessity. Plus having bed bugs definitely made me feel more dirty than any STI I’ve ever had which crimps your style somewhat.

It was with utter joy this week that I handed over an eye popping amount of money to get my house professionally treated and get my sex life back. Because the best treatment for bed bugs is extreme heat I had to remove anything that might melt from my bedroom. The man on the phone instructing me specified candles and anything ‘hand held or battery operated’ in fact.

In between the sheer bizarreness of spending a good hour taking all my dildos and sex toys out of their box and wrapping them up in plastic bags to hide outside in my garden, my interest was piqued to revisit these old friends. I buffed my latex catsuit and stockings before hiding them too and then pictured wearing them again soon.

Putting the toys back in place, I found myself lining them up in size order and then switching them round to order of favourites before back to size order so I could ask Sir if I could start my stretching training again. It’s never a bad idea to keep your hand in. Especially when that means Sir can get his hand in again soon.

I’m delighted to have my bedroom back with nothing else in there except who I invite. Although funnily enough in all that time off I still didn’t christen my new carpet. Looks like my Master and Princess and I will just have to reacquaint ourselves with every room going…

Bugging Out

Groupie

Princess and I are basically opposites in every way except one crucial one. Both being sluts, we were obsessed with the groupie lifestyle when we were teenagers. I suspect this was a bit of a chicken and egg situation. I don’t know if being a born slut made me seek this stuff out or if coming across it made me a slut but unlike chicken and eggs, you can combine both to enhance your enjoyment.

Sadly neither Princess or I grew up anywhere with access to being a proper groupie (although my first ever email address did have a reference to wanting to as I drunkenly allowed a friend to pick it for me and she clearly knew me well.)

Princess stuck to reading Pamela des Barres’ book along with listening to the music of those who had the pick of those notorious groupies. And clearly she had better taste in sexual fantasies than my teenage interests in tight trousered, big haired LA cock rockers because she neither regrets her early email addresses or her sexual awakenings.

These days I’d probably decline my chances with some of the men I dreamed of back then (debauchery means most haven’t aged well) but my original fantasy has never got old. I’d still get down on my knees in front of a line of horny men with hard cocks and suck their cocks in turn as they watched each other.

So when Princess and Sir went to see the Rolling Stones recently and she revelled in reliving her teenage feelings about Mick Jagger it made me wonder who my band line up would be now if I was creating my own supergroup of cocks to suck. Being indecisive I didn’t make any firm choices but there was one person I’d never say no to and would take any chance to let my inner groupie out to play with.

I have never been a fan of Led Zeppelin’s music but from an early age Robert Plant in leather trousers made me feel all kinds of things I didn’t completely understand. The infamous mud shark story left me with a guilty sense that I should be more disgusted than I was but definitely should have alerted me to my kinky interests sooner.

I think I’ve made my feelings about men feeling the need to speak to women in public clear before. So when years ago when standing perusing a selection of biscuits in a posh deli in central London I whipped my head round ready to use the equivalent of Choco-Liebniz as a weapon when I heard a man striking up conversation about cookies with me.

I could literally feel my mouth fall open as time stuttered into freeze frames and the biscuits hung in my hands like I had T-rex arms as I realised that man was in fact Robert Plant. Large as life and right in front of me discussing biscuits as my mind immediately ricocheted between blank incomprehension, disbelief, filthy thoughts and guilt over my (literally) naked objectification of him over decades. I may even have blushed.

Unlike many hell raisers, he wore living well extremely well and there was definitely that sense of sexual confidence I’d always imagined. I stuttered something back about the biscuits my mouth as dry as my knickers were suddenly wet and I almost willed him to leave me alone before I was so star struck I embarrassed myself.

I must be able to bullshit brilliantly about biscuits because he started asking me questions and advice on cake too. My mouth kept answering calmly and logically about marzipan while my mind screamed at me to just abandon all my life rules about consent and hang ups about initiating sex and just throw myself at him in public right now.

Each time I opened my mouth to reply to his conversation I had to double check I hadn’t just said ‘fuck me now’. I didn’t have the background of Continental foods in mind when I’d fantasised about sucking his cock, but sluts are nothing if not adaptable. I could fuck a long term obsession up against a freezer if it was my only chance and not care about the criminal record for public indecency to fulfil a lifetime ambition.

Being a slow learner and prone to overthinking I started to think as the conversation went on that actually he’d mistaken my taste for dressing all in black for being the shop staff instead of anything raunchier. And then I heard him say ‘shall I get us a coffee then?’ I don’t drink coffee but as I say, sluts will be flexible the situation calls for it.

Before I could accidentally sabotage myself, he ushered me to a table, paid for the cake and biscuits we’d been conversing about and ordered drinks. I attempted to look nonchalant, pretending as such things were everyday occurrences to me. I wondered if I should Google the nearest hotel where he could take me and fuck me senseless or if international rock stars with a reputation knew these things without my help. I did think fast enough to text the friend I was meeting to ask could we cancel, knowing fine rightly I’d fake my own death if that was the only way to excuse myself.

A cup of coffee and some cake appeared on the table and he sat down waiting for the waitress to bring the rest. I normally love flirting. Flirting is foreplay usually. But twenty plus years of fantasising is also foreplay and I needed little else. He started eating the cake and asking me about myself rather than prolonging any more chat about baked goods.

Robert Plant was quite definitely flirting with me and I have no idea what I told him. In my mind he was giving me orders to strip for him, not asking about my interests and hobbies. What do you say to this? Well, I enjoy going out and staying in and picturing your cock going in and out of my mouth until my eyeliner runs and I beg you to fuck me?

I was almost relieved when the waitress came over to give me a moment to breathe. I needed a moment to regroup my slutty superpowers. I waited for the second coffee to be set on the table so I could flirt properly. And waited. The pause was momentarily longer than expected and I looked around to hear him say ‘oh did we arrange to meet here?’

It was me guilty of mistaking someone for the shop staff this time as the well dressed young woman in front of use was clearly his girlfriend and if looks could kill, it wouldn’t be my awkward flirting that finished me off after all.

I introduced myself as politely as you can when you were shamelessly about to fuck someone’s partner as he started the kind of innocent explanation as to why we were having coffee that only ever sounds extremely incriminating. I’ve rarely felt as frustrated in my life sitting there as she whisked him away briskly making damned sure I didn’t have the chance to pass him my number and cursed that he of all people didn’t have an open relationship.

His girlfriend then insisted on ordering drinks to take out so they were standing just enough in my line of sight as to be both awkward and tantalising in equal measure. Plus I had to sit and drink the coffee I hate in order to cover my less than innocent intentions while kissing goodbye to the chance to turn my adolescent fantasies into very adult actions.

I watched them walk out just as my extremely prudish friend walked in. She hadn’t got my text and she certainly hadn’t got the interest in slutty men I did so I couldn’t even share my moment of almost groupie glory with her.

Instead I sat and nodded occasionally as she talked as I used my brush with reality to really enhance my fantasies for when I got home. I think the orgasm was definitely increased by the delayed gratification but also the seal of approval of my sluttiness by one who knows best…

Groupie

YES!

As I write something incredible and life changing has happened: Ireland has repealed the 8th Amendment to their constitution which considered the life of an unborn foetus equivalent to the person carrying it. This effectively prohibited abortion even in the most exceptional and life threatening circumstances within Ireland.

To access abortion Irish women had to travel outside the country, mainly to Great Britain but sometimes to Holland and pay the full costs of the travel, time off work and the procedure itself. This put abortion outside the reach of most people. The younger you were, the poorer you were, if you already had children and needed childcare, if you were disabled or had immigration issues, abortion was priced out of your reach. Even budget airlines cost too much on social security.

And you couldn’t just ask people for help. The shame and stigma of abortion in a country that for years had mother and baby homes and Magdalene Laundries that literally locked women up for being pregnant and took the babies they were forced to birth away was immense. In places like Tuam, those babies ended up in a mass grave. Elsewhere they were sold to couples wanting to adopt. The last mother and baby home in Ireland closed in 1996. That’s the year I turned 18.

The culture was cloaked in wanting to protect the unborn but really it was about shaming sexually active women and denying their rights and bodily autonomy. The case that triggered yesterday’s referendum was that of Savita Halappanavar, an Indian dentist who came to work in Galway. When her wanted pregnancy turned to miscarriage and infection set in, she requested an abortion to save her life. But because the foetus still had a heartbeat as it miscarried the 8th Amendment prevented doctors from acting as to hasten the end of the miscarriage was illegal.

Savita took took seven days to die from sepsis in a Western country with less access to maternal rights and healthcare than her native India. The case was pivotal for Ireland and set the path for the referendum (Ireland must hold national referenda to change any aspect of its written constitution. It has previously held them on divorce and same sex marriage as well as the 8th itself in 1983 when it was still illegal to buy condoms without a prescription.)

The only countries with more oppressive abortion laws in Europe than Ireland are Northern Ireland, Malta and the Isle of Man (although there is campaigning under way there to change the laws.) Northern Ireland has the unique quirk where its citizens can hold equal Irish and British citizenship but access the full rights of neither country. The UK government exempted Northern Ireland from the 1967 Abortion Act meaning that abortion is still illegal there. It will not become legal or easier to access because of Ireland’s referendum.

Northern Ireland remains the only part of the UK that still prohibits same sex marriage and in many ways the mindset of the politicians who govern it is back in the 1950s (at best.) Amnesty International has polled Northern Irish people who back similar on demand abortion up to 12 weeks as Ireland voted on and the same roughly 69% of people back it north of the border.

Yet there have been prosecutions and convictions in Northern Ireland in 2016 and 2017 of women who bought abortion pills over the internet because they could not afford to travel to access abortion. Many Irish women, north and south, had those pills seized and in both countries buying them can incur a life sentence in prison. Abortion law in Northern Ireland is from 1861 and a law created before the invention of the lightbulb is not fit for the online era.

Until recently Northern Irish women, despite being considered part of the United Kingdom were unable to access abortions on the NHS if they travelled to Great Britain. Again they had to pay privately for everything forcing many women to choose if they could afford the fee for the anaesthetic and the cost that would incur of staying in a hotel to recover from it rather than travel back the same day. When you reduce medical care to your financial ability you automatically create inequality in your system.

I have never been pregnant. I have never had to access an abortion. But I grew up in Northern Ireland and the lack of abortion rights across the island of Ireland haunted every woman. Something as enjoyable and affectionate and life enhancing as sex felt like Russian roulette.

A country that denies its women the right to choose denies them all reproductive choice. Contraception is treated like a shame on society too. When I was a teenager it was incredibly difficult to access the Pill and condoms were prohibitively expensive. We’d go to the Brook Clinic in the centre of Belfast in our school uniforms and run the gauntlet of people screaming ‘slut’ and ‘murderer’ at us, clearly unaware of how Durex work. Even now my Northern Irish peers are given less access to long acting contraceptives and had to endure protests by anti choice activists like Bernie Smyth to get it.

We had no sex education either and it was pre internet. We learned about genitals from a diagram in a biology book on a frog. Periods were often called ‘the curse’. There was nowhere to go to ask for help or advice. With this repressive background and an ongoing civil conflict meant we didn’t even need the legality of Section 28 to prevent LGBTQ issues and rights being mentioned at all. We simply had the bigotry of the Save Ulster From Sodomy campaign instead. And of course this archaic attitude did little to stop us having sex.

Everyone I knew was fucking rings round themselves. Not only did all that repression make sex forbidden fruit that we thought would taste all the sweeter, but in the middle of an armed conflict your leisure opportunities were fairly restricted and all there was to do in a country that still chained the swings in the park up on the Lord’s Day was have sex.

But the irony was that sex was all about the risk and not the fun. Every time you fucked you were running the consequences of having to ‘take the ferry’ through your head rather than the pleasure you should be experiencing. There was this collective fear and shame about sex. We discussed our escape plan for an unintended pregnancy more than our sexual desires or our bodies (and yet I was still 17 and had been sexually active for 2 years before I first heard of the morning after pill.)

The act of sex for pleasure was shrouded in deep deep shame because that was to admit you were one of those women who put your own selfishness before the unborn child’s rights even if you never had an abortion. You were a slut and a disgrace simply by association. We never discussed masturbation. We never discussed queerness. We never asked if this was normal or acceptable because we’d internalised the idea that any sex made us abnormal and wrong. We went in for self loathing rather than Cosmo quizzes.

Being able to access abortion due to my health (and the sheer fact I’ve never wanted kids) was a huge reason I moved to England. But in order to access the right to choose I had to leave everyone I knew and everything I grew up with and I left with a sense that my country was ashamed of me and I was unwelcome there. Many of my friends didn’t even have that choice or were unwilling to trade family and connections for hypothetical situations and so stayed.

But there was consequences. A girl at school concealed her pregnancy for eight months until she went into premature labour at home with a stillborn baby. She blamed herself for the death and killed herself a decade on after years of mental health issues. 80% of the girls I went to school with had children by 21.

Even if their children were chosen, they suffered from post partum mental health conditions at a rate far higher than their GB peers because it’s hard to switch from the mindset of being told that having a baby ruins your life to loving one. I’ve lost count of the cases of postal natal depression, PTSD in childbirth and post partum psychosis my school friends have mentioned. Infant mortality in parts of Northern Ireland remains the highest in the whole of Europe. Reproductive choice in Northern Ireland is class based and compounded by post conflict sectarian divides.

I’ve received out of the blue Facebook messages from people I barely remember more than once which under the ‘oh I was just thinking about you’ jollity was the question ‘could I stay with you in London for a night?’ It was always an interview or some cover story but I was just the only person they knew with a free place to stay or an address they could use. I asked no questions and played along.

I even let a friend of a friend use my English address her to have abortion pills delivered to knowing having them delivered directly would arouse suspicion and possible seizure in Belfast. I wrapped them up disguised as a birthday present for her and posted them on. They were for her 14 year old daughter who had been raped.

We both knew the risks but she did it for her child and I did it for all the people who that culture failed to prevent from abusive relationships. Again compared to my non Irish friends we, myself included, were so vulnerable to levels of abuse, coercion and sexual trauma it’s hard for people who grew up with legal abortion rights to comprehend.

Our lives and transition into adulthood was marked mainly by fear and shame. I haven’t lived in that atmosphere for nearly 20 years and it still impacts me now. It took a long time to shake off the fear of judgement and (self) blame around sex for me and to not feel profound shame for being sexually active but knowing I didn’t want children.

The things we are told as children and teenagers by our families, teachers, religious leaders and community linger in our minds for a long time and it breaks my heart that my friends’ children are hearing the same shame inducing ‘morality’ we heard from the same people. I wonder how it must feel to be a teenager in Northern Ireland today seeing the Yes vote next door and seeing that campaigning and solidarity can change things that we thought would never change.

If you are celebrating Yes today then please take a moment to sign Amnesty’s petition for Northern Irish abortion rights or support the work of the grassroots Alliance 4 Choice organisation or the fantastic Abortion Support Network who raise money to help women on both sides of the border travel for abortions. The need for their work will not be eradicated overnight.

And remember, you can be pro choice while not having an abortion yourself. No one is going to start forcing women and pregnant people to abort. But people who can get pregnant need the choice whether to continue that pregnancy or not. We don’t force people to give blood or donate organs and extending abortion rights will not detract from your right to refuse a termination.

But you can give Northern Irish women a choice not to grow up and live with the sense that pregnancy is a trauma in its own right. You can help make sure all children are wanted children. There is no sex positivity in a country that is negative on reproductive rights and I want rights for everyone I left behind.

YES!

Pillow Princess

I love Eurovision. Partly because I’m Irish and we excel at it and partly because it’s such high camp it’s known as Gay Christmas. I love the unbridled kitsch of it from costumes to songs you really shouldn’t love but do. I even forgive it for unleashing Michael Flatley on the world. And I adore that it owns its LGBTQ+ heritage and often shows the mainstream world aspects of queer culture they didn’t know about before.

In fact it was the one day of year the gayness didn’t have to hide or make itself acceptable in 80s and 90s Ireland and so I was very very surprised on my first Eurovision in England that there was a lack of campness or kitsch around it, more lot of self knowing jokes about European history. So when I found myself at my first English Eurovision party listening to middle class uni types winking about the former Czechoslovakia’s voting intentions I did the only thing you can do. I necked all the gin I could find and fucked the hostess’s flatmate without her knowing.

He was a ridiculously good looking semi professional swimmer with the smooth sleek body and core strength of someone who spends a lot of time in the pool. He was also very serious and bookish and totally out of his comfort zone with a tipsy Irish woman who actually likes the music at Eurovision rather than showing off their intellect ironically.

Yet he happily kept pouring me drinks and asking me lots of questions about Irish politics and the border in a very serious attempt to geekily flirt and offered to stay behind to help me clear up when I insisted on doing so to thank our hostess for her hospitality. She went to bed grateful and gin filled and left us to it unaware my intentions were not as clean as my manners.

So I came in from the kitchen irritated to see that my crush was carefully laying out a sleeping bag on the sofa for me. There’s nothing like thinking you’ve been cock blocked by something as ugly as practical sleepwear. I tried to shake the rejection off with a gracious smile until he said ‘ the pillows are in my bedroom. You should come with me to get them.’

I did not need asking twice because even if I was mis-reading the signals I need two pillows to sleep or I hate the world. But once inside his room, his upright demeanour seemed to disappear and within seconds, his smooth body was wrapped round mine and we were kissing hard.

It was like one of those TV sex scenes where you kiss hard enough to devour each other and start pulling your clothes off at the same time. He was lying back on the bed watching me undress when I realised he was actually wearing a pair of tiny swimming trunks and nothing else.

Normally I’d judge the shit out of a man who wears his sports kit in scenarios not involving said sport. Plus I’d have my ‘oh really?’ face on if confronted by the dreaded budgie smugglers with their image of middle aged European lotharios but maybe out of Euro solidarity, I didn’t mind so much that night.

Not only did he have the kind of body made for them including those well defined crests above the hips that serious swimmers get, he also had a beautiful thick hard cock poking out of the top of them. One of my favourite things is a ready to fuck cock rising out of a waistband like an erotic invitation and this was a particularly glorious example of the genre.

He pulled me on top of him and rubbed his hard but semi clad cock against my very bare cunt as we kissed again. I had much smaller tits in those days and he took delight in sucking my nipples hard and biting them in between kisses, using his knees to lift me away from his cock when I squirmed too greedily against it.

Having made me wait all night, he was going to keep me waiting a little bit longer before I got my hands or mouth on his cock. He pulled me up and turned me round onto my hands and knees over him with my ass in his face so I could look down at his incredibly hard cock but unable to touch.

He slipped two fingers into my incredibly wet cunt and proceeded to lick my ass with great enthusiasm much to my surprise. Certainly not something I’d encountered back in Ireland either, it was yet another English twist to the evening. The taboo feel of it made it more enjoyable than the act itself but it was the effect it was having on his cock that made me a big fan.

Making me come with his fingers, he pulled those teasing trunks down enough with the other hand to let his cock spring free. Even harder than it had been and glistening with that pre come that shows just how turned on a guy is, he finally pulled me down onto it and fucked me hard.

I do love that moment when you finally get a cock inside you and this felt particularly good from the delayed gratification and how clearly horny he was. I’ve rarely fucked in that position as usually being on top is about seeing the man’s face but following on from him eating my ass it worked well. He came hard into me as I ground against his hips for another orgasm for myself.

It probably would have been a better finish if he hadn’t reminded me while I was still on top of him, cock inside me not to forget the pillows I’d come for. I awkwardly scooped up clothes and dressed again aware of his come dripping out of me as I did and went back to my sleeping bag on the sofa.

My only small comfort was that I scooped up his trunks along with my clothes and kept them to remind me and to inconvenience the fuck of him next time he tried to dress for training. Sluts get the best revenge…

Pillow Princess

Gatecrashing

One of the hot topics on Twitter this week came from the chat started by this article by Exhibit A on inviting exes and people you have slept with to your wedding. Lots of people seemed to be of the opinion you should never have anyone you’ve had sex with at your wedding which surprised me considering how many people stay friends with exes.

Then I remembered that I’ve used that social pressure to avoid attending weddings on more than one occasion. I’m not a massive fan of weddings (although I did enjoy the one I met my Master at) and the only thing more awkward than wearing the same dress as someone at one is having fucked the same person as the bride has.

Well that’s what I thought until I accidentally ended up at a wedding where I’d fucked the best man and the groom at the same time and took awkwardness into a whole dimension. As I’ve said before I’d encountered quite a few guys who had hired me for a threesome when I was an escort but it had always turned more into tag teaming.

These two stood out because they didn’t display any of the toxic masculinity many men have around anything that might  make them seem ‘gay’. They didn’t look awkward about seeing each other naked or brushing against each other even thought they weren’t being sexual with each other.

And unusually and memorably while both of them went for the sharing style of a tag team fuck by ending with their cocks aimed over me, there was a last minute surprise when one of them came over his friend’s cock, leaning so close the tips practically brushed together and the second guy came hard over my tits having had his cock well and truly lubricated with fresh come right at the crucial moment.

It was one of the few erotic experiences I ever took home from ‘work’ that genuinely turned me on. That kind of team work went right to my cunt in its casual filthiness and I thought it about enough times over the next few years that I’d sort of turned a reality into a fantasy and forgotten the people behind it.

So a few years later I’d moved from my seaside uni town to the big smoke and had a job that often involved doing make up and styling at weddings. I’d spent a warm Sunday morning in August lugging a heavy kit to one of those postcodes that sounds central but in the arse end of suburban London and I was frazzled after doing four women’s make up by the time I arrived at the church to tuck myself away unobtrusively until the photos.

One of the bridesmaids spotted my wheely kit and called me over to her and the groom who was standing with his back to me. Because the day was warmer than expected he was sweating in his suit and she wondered if I could help. Her exact words were ‘could you touch the groom here up a bit?’ just as he turned and we both recognised each other.

I’d last seen him pumping his come lubricated cock over my tits and it seemed the occasion was as memorable for him as me. I froze and he appeared to melt inside his suit. A few beads of sweat turned to a torrent and I genuinely thought for a second he would faint. He looked like his entire life had just flashed before his eyes.

And the bridesmaid noticed too and called the best man over. I didn’t even need to look to know the man in the grey suit coming towards me was the literal third party. I could see the dawning realisation of the situation on his face like his steps seemed to stand still as he came towards us. From their terror I surmised the groom had not been single when they’d been fucking me for cash in a hotel room.

In autopilot while the bubbly bridesmaid chatted about make up I did myself best to hide the sickening shade of pale grey the groom’s face had gone clashing with his suit and his dreams of the best day of his life. Both he and the best man reacted to me touching them like I was handling live venomous snakes in their face and it was so noticeable the bridesmaid actually joked that ‘she won’t think you’re gay if you wear make up.’

I wasn’t aware three people could clench tighter than we were already doing but every day’s a school day it seems. The bridesmaid nipped off to do something else and the best man hissed at me ‘why is there a whore at the wedding?’ while his friend looked like he might vomit on his own shoes.

Considering he and his pal had much more to lose at that precise moment than me, I replied much more calmly than I felt that ‘like her husband to be, the bride had had hired me for services rendered’ and walked off before I either yelled at him or burst into tears.

Clearly a stern talking to worked on both of them because they pulled it together enough to get through the ceremony without looking like two over grown schoolboys in good suits caught with their hand in the cookie jar and do the legal bits without fucking it up and I managed to restrain myself from shouting anything out at the lawful impediment bit much as I was tempted.

I even managed to make the bride look radiant and the groom less grey before their photos so that hopefully there was no photographic evidence of his shame for them to look at on the mantelpiece for years to come. Standing back while the photographer did his job with the happy couple I took a deep breath and felt some of the tension of the day ease.

And that minute the best man appeared at my elbow and asked me was I staying for the reception. My mouth fell open at the sheer brass balls of him and he took my pause as encouragement rather than horror and followed it up with ‘I’ll make it worth your while since that’s all you care about.’

Clearly I have no moral objections to exchanging sexual acts for money but I do object to men using that to insult or undermine me and in lieu of dropping that heavy wheely kit on his very shiny shoes I turned and said ‘no thanks. Your friend was hotter. That’s why he’s married and you’re trying to pick up whores at his wedding.’

And it was true. The best man was definitely only the warm up act to the groom’s starring role which is the only reason I still find the original memory so hot…

 

Gatecrashing

Pump It Up

Something I’ve only learned since starting my relationship with my Master and Princess that very often it’s the talking you do before and after sex where you learn the most and get the best ideas for next time. So when Princess mentioned having seen a pussy pump in some porn recently I filed the mention away in my kink brain.

Without telling her I had ready for my Master to use during the wax play scene recently but unsurprisingly we didn’t get round to it with everything else going on. So it remained a surprise for Princess until I couldn’t wait any longer and wanted to have my wicked way with her.

I told her to be naked and blindfolded on my bed when I got back from the bathroom so she was ready and waiting for me. I can’t tell if it was brattiness or obedience that had her on her knees waiting for her surprise, but I soon corrected that and had her on back with her legs apart instead.

I teased her by trailing my nails up and down her cunt and thighs and biting the marks I left. Making sure her whole body was sensitive and her cunt was getting wet, I distracted her with a slap to her cunt and then while she was squirming, I put the pump on and started to tighten it.

Her whole body managed to relax at the same time as standing to attention with the force of the suction. It was a masterclass in sexual body language and like the good little slut she is, she knew instantly what I was doing to her cunt guessing correctly it was a pump. Even when she begged me to stop because the pressure was so intense, I was still so proud I had to reward her.

I’ve never seen her cunt so swollen and her clit so begging to be played with. I slipped two fingers into her and I’ve rarely felt her wetter either. I paused just long enough to take a photo to let her be able to see her cunt later in its full swollen glory and then it took less than a minute of playing with her clit for her to come. I’ve certainly never felt her come so fast.

I played a little more with the pump using it to tease her nipples while using the Doxy on her clit this time and it produced the kind of orgasm that leaves someone broken afterwards. I was in love with this toy and keen to use it on myself to find out if I was missing out on being the one in charge for once.

Thinking back to using it on Princess made me horny as hell and I texted Sir asking permission to play with it on myself. He told me to tell him in detail how I’d used it in on Princess to see if I’d earned my orgasm with it. Clearly I had impressed him because he not only allowed me to play but told me to do to myself what I’d done to Princess.

I’ve spent a lot of happy hours blindfolded at Sir’s orders but I’m not sure I’ve ever blindfolded myself to masturbate and it made me even wetter than I was already. With a little bit of lube and the right the pump was extremely easy to use on myself and I could see why Princess had almost lifted off the bed.

The suction feels incredible like every nerve ending in your whole body, not just your cunt has been woken up. It’s like a combination of having your cunt held and licked at the same time with the delicious bite of discomfort of a sharp smack. I absolutely loved it and it took almost nothing to make me come afterwards.

My cunt was certainly plumped and swollen after the suction and the orgasm but not quite to Princess’s standards so when Sir told me to use it again, I was intrigued to see what would happen. This time I could take the full power for longer but my whole cunt felt like it was tingling with sensations like tiny firecrackers of arousal afterwards as I played with my clit straight into an excellent orgasm.

I was loving the effect the toy was having on me and my Master. All my favourite things combined with pressure, pleasure-pain and orders creating orgasms and I wanted to see how far I could push myself. Luckily so did Sir and he told me to use it a third time for him. Usually I’d be struggling a little bit to come so repeatedly from a toy rather than penetration but this toy was making it easy.

The third time I pulled the suction tight my cunt really went for it swelling right into it so my clit was exposed and the piercing pulled against it in the most incredible way. I wasn’t sure if I’d even manage to take the toy off before I came I felt so tender and turned on. In the end the toy pulled off my cunt breaking its own suction from pulling so hard and tight and I only needed to brush my fingers against my clit before I came.

Pussy pump on pierced clit

And that point I’m not sure I could have come again no matter how hard Sir ordered me to because my body and cunt were overloaded in the best possible way. My cunt was still swollen and throbbing every time I brushed against it hours later, waking me twice in the night and giving me incredibly vivid dreams.

I can’t wait to have Sir use the toy on me to push the pleasure-pain further and then have Princess’s tongue on my clit when it feels almost exposed with how turned on I am. And then when I can take no more of it, we just start pushing Princess that far too…

Pump It Up