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

Spring Warmth

The absolute best time of year for your boiler to stop working is the Saturday afternoon of a four day weekend. I had to get naked at my Master and Princess’s over Easter for purely practical reasons to use their shower while I waited for my landlord to get back to work.

But it did offer up another opportunity to invite a boiler engineer into my house since we all know I love flirting with men who come to my door for work. My Master has me back in stretching training and he’s never a man to miss the chance to push my training further.

So while waiting for the engineer I was to train my cunt with the giant jiggle balls and my waist with the corset, both of which I’ve been neglecting a little bit recently. I love both but potentially wearing them for a time slot between 2pm and midnight was daunting.

The last time I wore the corset, I struggled a bit to get it done up and was panicking a little that I’d lost my hard won waist training milestones. It’s been hanging there taunting me while I’ve been working hard  with the waist trainer.

I brought it down to try it on over the dress I had picked out to make sure there was just slightly more hint of nipple piercings than there should be and was pleased to see that the reason I’d struggled to pull it tight enough was that the laces on one side had twisted and ruined the tension.

A few minutes untangling and untwisting them and a few minutes reminding myself how to pull the laces behind my back properly and the corset went back into place perfectly. I was tempted to keep going but my tits were quite perky enough with an inch to spare so I decided not to push myself in case I was wearing that corset until the clock struck twelve.

I was so pleased that after my worries the corset fitted so well that it didn’t occur to me that I had meant to take it off and put it back on to wear it under my dress. I’ve really missed wearing it and that comforting feeling of being held by it made me only concentrate on enjoying the movements within its structure. I love that feel of being shaped yet supported by the corset just like my submission to Sir.

I was so distracted by that and how wet it was making the panties I’d also been ordered to wear that next thing I knew the boiler engineer had arrived earlier than I’d expected and I had to answer the door with the corset fully on display. And I think it worked well.

Not only was the engineer even friendlier and flirtier this time (bearing in mind he practically invited to visit his parents’ house in Portugal before) but he resisted the temptation to laugh in my face when it turned out the boiler fault was because of my own incredible stupidity with my gas meter. He solved the issue easily but just ‘double checked’ the previous fault again to linger slightly.

I was half enjoying him staying with all the flirtation and flashes of exhibitionism that entailed being the slut for that that I am but I was also desperate for him to leave because Sir had ordered me to make myself come the second he left and I was more than ready for that moment.

I managed to reassure him that my carbon monoxide levels were perfectly safe and I wasn’t going to touch my gas meter again and he finally left. The second I heard my front door close as he let himself out I was leaning against the kitchen work top with my fingers down my panties and not stopping myself from touching my clit.

The corset held me up as I pressed my hand onto my cunt and made myself come hard and fast. It reminded me of when Sir uses the constriction of the corset to hold me up in place while he fucks me against the front door and the thought of that exhibitionism on top of my afternoon made me come very easily.

It was only after I’d texted my Master to thank him for the orgasm and show him my waist training progress in the corset I remembered how visible it had been to the engineer. Even Sir was impressed by that level of blatant sluttery putting it down to my inner instincts rather than accident.

Now all I have to do to impress him further is keep up my training and find a new home for the panties I was wearing when I came…

Spring Warmth

Go Faster Stripes

I’m not sure it was entirely down to shaving my legs but I’ve definitely come back to life a bit recently. Smooth skin definitely got my brain going if not my cunt and I felt the urge to start texting smut chat to Sir again.

There was definite excitement on Saturday when I arranged my first proper trip out of the house since New Year to go Master and Princess’s house. Lying in bed during the day resting a tiny bit of me felt like I should be sensible and make sure I didn’t over do it too soon. The rest of me was absolutely adamant that even if it landed me back in bed for the foreseeable I was going to fuck them when I was there.

The only thing of any warmth and interest I’ve touched in weeks has been my electric blanket and it’s a very poor substitute for the feel of my two favourite people pressed against me. I told Sir I was hoping to get naked again after getting dressed to come to theirs and wore my favourite fuck me boots to be sure I had made my point when I arrived.

Honestly I’d have been quite content to walk in their front door shedding clothes with each step and straight into their bed but Sir hasn’t lost his love of making me wait. He poured drinks and cooked an excellent dinner and left me to squirm on the sofa the whole time. I was so close to discovering my inner brat and actually begging him to fuck me when Princess let her brat flag fly and started sucking his cock while he laughed at how eager we both were.

She and I took turns to suck his cock and it was the oddest thing. I felt completely out of practice. His cock tasted and felt familiar but instead of that muscle memory of knowing a long term lover’s body I felt like I was starting all over again like I’d never sucked a cock before. And not just with him but I couldn’t get my position or rhythm with Princess’s cunt either. It was like I was a beginner again.

I always love when my Master takes charge and I needed it even more than usual as he ordered me how to kneel and what to do and pulled me onto his chest to kiss me so I couldn’t have moved away even if I wanted to. Which I didn’t. Him kissing me so hard he almost bit my lips brought me back into the pace of playing with both of them as I rediscovered the feel of them both.

I love that state. Sort of blissed out on sex and submission and open to anything Sir tells me. So when he led me over the kitchen table and bent me over it I didn’t care how much I needed to contort myself to take his cock. Or how hard he was fucking me against the edge of the table. Nor how high in the air I had to hold my legs up when he put me on the table under Princess’s cunt and kept his cock deep inside me.

I was drunk on dick and her taste barely registering what they were doing just drinking in the feeling of it all. Sir brought me right back by coming on my cunt so it dripped down onto the table while Princess licked my clit on her hands and knees with her naked ass and cunt right up against the kitchen window for all the street to see.

It felt amazing. And even better next day when I had stripes of bruising on my upper thighs where Sir had fucked me so hard against the table it had left marks. I love those markers of sex. I love the smell of someone on me next day, the feeling that my legs were pushed apart, the sensation that my cunt was fucked raw the night before.

I felt it in the ache of my muscles afterwards and the bruises that kept developing and the sheer sense that as well as being sated with orgasms, touching and fucking and playing with my Master and Princess somehow feels like being back to myself after feeling distant while the only warm touch in my life had been with my electric blanket.

Each little ache and mark reminded me that it’s like coming home to sex after a long vacation…

Go Faster Stripes

Awarded

So I’ve been busy with the non kinky world for the last few days and had no time to blog my second threesome of last week or write up any Throwback Thursday posts. I’ve been doing all kinds of boring life admin things like wrestling with my highly strung internet connection and out of the online world.

Logging back in knocked my socks off when I discovered that the blog is in the Top 100 Sex Blogs on Molly’s Daily Kiss! You lovely lovely people nominated me and I’m in there at number 94 feeling as proud as punch to be in such good company along with so many fantastic bloggers.

Thank you so much to Molly for compiling such a comprehensive list and putting so much work into it. And thank you so much for everyone who nominated me and continues to read and support the blog. It makes writing something so personal so much more enjoyable and engaging for me and of course it appeals to that exhibitionist streak I pretend I don’t have…

Top 100 Sex Bloggers 2017
Awarded

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

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