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

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

Not Very Saintly

I was honestly quite pleased not to have to leave the house on Saturday. St Patrick’s Day in England is not top of my list of things to participate in. Despite it being the day worldwide that any fucker who has ever drunk a pint of Guinness claims Irishness, it’s also the biggest day of the year for people to tell me I’m not really Irish because I’m from the North.

I mean legally you’d be right because I haven’t got round to sending my Irish passport application off post Brexit. I was waiting for  the rush of suddenly green Brits to subside first but honestly don’t tell Northern Irish people what nationality you think they are. It’s literally why we had that whole conflict thing in the first place and neither side takes it well.

Seeing some Twitter beef about ‘proper’ Irish-ness after the rugby on Saturday first made me shake my head and then laugh when it reminded me of one of the finest slutty moments of my twenties in the fair city of Cork (which FYI, is quite definitely Irish by anyone’s standards even if has an English Market.)

Readers may remember me fucking a hot man who partook in extreme sports for a living. Well about six months later I happened to bump into him again in Cork over St Patrick’s weekend (and by happened to, I mean I willingly got on a bus and drove for eight hours with a bunch of hyperactive fellas with too much adrenaline and not enough sense knowing he was going to be there.) I promise it was much less stalker-ish than it sounds.

Luckily because English people don’t have a particularly good sense of geography about Ireland he didn’t look that surprised I was there not knowing it was such a trek to get round such a small island in those days and assumed I’d had not much else to do that weekend. I didn’t bother to correct him in case it scared him off.

We ended up in a pub on St Patrick’s Night in that post parade pre piss up stage of the evening along with my also Northern Irish female friend who was also on a slut hunting mission of her own that weekend hoping to impress one of the boys we’d come down with.

The craic was good when suddenly one of the local girls who had acquainted herself with the out of town men at the event earlier spoke to me. I may have had no common sense when I was twenty but being a massive slut I could always spot the other girls who were equally keen on cock but not on admitting it. We rarely ended up friends shall we say?

And sure enough there was no love lost at this moment. She very carefully directed it at me and my friend that we weren’t really Irish so what the fuck did we think we were doing in an Irish pub pretending we were? Knowing that was likely to kick off actual warfare at the table, I went to change the subject but she wasn’t finished and informed me that no wonder I only wanted to fuck fake Englishmen in that case.

There was that kind of total ‘oh fuck’ silence at that point when the air goes out of a room. The guy I was with was black along as was his friend who was sitting with us and the inference was clear. I wasn’t exactly au fait with racism in a country as white as bread but this was so overt it was impossible to miss.

I stood up picking up someone else’s perfectly poured pint of Murphy’s as I did. The silence remained for the split second that every single person in the pub thought I was about to chuck the stout in her face. Instead I necked it in one long swallow I’ve never managed before or since, banged the glass down on the table and left the pub with both the men she’d insulted allowing the shouting to start behind us.

We walked up the street a bit and the friend bumped into some other people he knew and left us to it. He was quiet after the scene in the pub and I was frankly pissed in both senses of the word. We ended up sitting on the bed in my hostel room drinking the remains of the bottle of gin we’d started on the night before and talking.

It felt like one of those nights you’d set the world to rights instead of anything else and tipsy on gin I assumed we wouldn’t end up fucking. But when I went to get more tonic I came back to find he’d moved the twin beds round for just that purpose. I was supposed to be sharing the room with my friend and having been watched before neither of us wanted an audience this time.

We pushed the bed against the door so it couldn’t open and then he pushed me up the bed with my legs open and started licking my cunt. I had always been ambivalent about oral sex until this point finding it pleasant enough but ultimately pointless for orgasms. Not this time. This guy had both a knack and a love for giving head that I had never encountered before.

He licked me into a literal haze of orgasms with absolutely no interest in stopping and taking any attempt from me to collect myself and my clit to push me into another orgasm with his tongue and fingers. The bed banged at one point as someone tried to open the door and he didn’t stop. Nor did the noise that told us the St Patrick’s party had arrived back at the hostel.

I remember getting to the stage of so many orgasms that my legs actually started to go numb and he flipped me over so I was face first in a pile of pillows on my hands and knees as he fucked me to yet another orgasm for me and his first of the evening. I was so spent with orgasms I barely noticed the bed bang again as I collapsed forward ass in the air as he licked his own come out of me for the final orgasm of the last few hours.

I lay in a completely fucked senseless heap, out of breath and unable to sit up and marvelling that my ears were actually ringing from it all. That bus journey seemed like the best decision I’d ever made. And then two things occurred to me at the same time as him. Neither of us could sit up because we’d broken the bed. And the ringing was actually the fire alarm going off.

He rolled over and reminded me that we were staying in the same hostel as the guys who would go on to host the show Dirty Sanchez on MTV and they pulled stunts like this on the tour all the time and that if we wanted to make sure there wasn’t a fire, we were going to have move a broken bed.

We thought no more about it and went to sleep on the other bed instead. We woke up hungover and fucked in the still standing bed before trying to hide the evidence of the broken one. We gave up repairing it and wen to meet our friends in the pub instead.

Turns out that everyone else had had to evacuate the building the night before not because there was a fire but because the hostel had called the Gardai to turn the alarm off and stop the party getting properly out of control. Everyone who was anyone in Cork seemed to have been there and so our absence had been well and truly noticed.

He and I walked into the pub to a chorus of jeers and cheers designed to make a scene with my nemesis from the night before sat with a face like soured milk on her. However there was a noise behind us and the cheers stopped as soon as they’d started falling into shocked silence. Unbeknown to us the only other person unaccounted for during the fire alarm was the friend we’d left the pub with and he had just walked in behind us making everyone assume we’d actually been having a threesome.

Enjoying rendering another pub speechless with my sluttiness, none of us corrected them and my fuck buddy and I very much appreciated his friend loudly and obviously buying us breakfast to add to this impression. I’m sure my comments over the soda bread about real Irish hospitality didn’t compound that suspicion at all…

Not Very Saintly

Drag Hag

I was talking to Princess the other day about RuPaul’s Drag Race. Bizarrely for someone who loves make up and used to work in a drag bar back in the early days of living in London, I’ve only ever seen one episode of it (actually with Sir and Princess.)

She and I were discussing how many millions of people must have discovered their sexuality (or become allies or more aware of LGBTQ+ culture) because of RuPaul and Drag Race. We were both trying to work out who are first drag queen was and despite our age gap both of us thought RuPaul had probably been our introduction to drag culture.

I definitely remember having a card advertising the original Viva Glam lipstick back in 1994. The fifteen year old me was bewitched by the unisex glamour of MAC Cosmetics which were unobtainable in Ireland in those days and I was dazzled by RuPaul in a frock and k.d lang in a suit both gender bending for a good cause.

I stuck that card to my wall above the desk I studied for my GCSEs at and stared at it as some kind of portal to a world where anyone could wear make up and be who they wanted. And like many people before and since I found that world in the local gay bars.

My hometown only had one gay bar that advertised itself as such while one other pub had an upstairs room frequented by what we’d now call bears and tended to be too old for my friends and I to go. I got to know the gay friendly haunts well as I had several barely out gay friends and was a safe person to accompany them as they met men for fun for the first time.

It never occurred to me that some of those men were bisexual until one Monday night a female friend and I tripped along to the gay bar for Miss Penelope Pitstop’s Big Balls Bingo with our town’s possibly only drag queen mixing local banter and high camp to a mixed audience.

Since she was a minister’s daughter she got a fit of guilt about being there and left abruptly (although her parents were very welcoming when she came out as bisexual herself soon after even if she had a tendency to act like the only gay in the village after she did.)

I figured I could finish my drink safely in a bar full of men with eyes for each other and was slightly surprised when suddenly I was hugged hard and joined at my table by a guy I knew from my clubbing days. We’d always enjoyed drug fuelled conversations after big nights out crashed out on aged sofas in student houses talking earnestly while off our faces but had never really spoken sober.

I didn’t really think much of seeing him there until we were well into the bingo and drinks and he mentioned he knew Miss Penelope herself. In a stroke of almost embarrassing naivety I enquired how and he paused and batted his eyelashes at me and casually said he liked to suck her cock while she was in full make up.

I know my mouth made a perfect O in response to that. Not because as he thought for a second because I was shocked or horrified but because I was instantly turned on by the thought of it and fuelled by gin and confidences told him so. He grinned and signalled for more drinks. I knew that night wasn’t going to go home as early as my friend had.

We played several rounds of bingo, failing to make a house at any point since our attention had shifted to making eyes at each other. Having only ever discussed politics and putting the world to rights with this guy I was delighted to discover he was funny and incredibly fucking filthy.

I had no qualms when the bingo ended and he bought me a drink, kissed me on the lips and told me to entertain myself before disappearing for about fifteen minutes. I was amusing fag hag fodder to the other men in the bar who thought a wide eyed girl in a bar with a dabber had no idea what was going on.

My date reappeared and rescued me, sliding onto the seat beside me and his tongue into my mouth as he kissed me still tasting of cock and come. His hand definitely crept up my skirt and we looked very straight in a public place. That was our cue to leave together.

We fell into a cab kissing hard enough that the cab driver had to remind us we’d arrived twice. There was no pausing for drinks or polite chit chat in that way people do when they pretend they haven’t gone home together to fuck. We went straight to the bedroom.

I noticed two things that surprised me. For a man of barely twenty who appeared to live separately to his parents his room was immaculate with a properly made bed and even more unusually he was holding the first sex toy I’d ever seen.

He pushed me down on my knees and started pulling my tights down and skirt up so my panties were just low enough to sneak a peek at my cunt and for him to wedge the dildo he was holding into them so it stuck out like a cock that I had to hold tightly in place by pressing my thighs together.

I could feel my cunt soaking wet around it and making it tricky to keep in place with how slick my knickers felt. But when he knelt down, pulling his long hair off his face and started sucking the dildo like he clearly had been with Miss Penelope’s cock before we left together. I looked down watching his head bob and up and down on the dildo taking it deeper than I knew was possible.

I was so turned on and wet watching his floorshow I almost didn’t notice his final flourish as he deep throated the dildo pulling it out of my panties with his lips before putting his mouth back on my cunt and licking me with equal enjoyment and vigour.

My cunt responded in delight as I discovered my first bisexual man that night. We fucked hard that night so that my first time using a sex toy was with his mouth and ass. I did enjoy his legs eleven for me, cock in hand and getting his jackpot that way.

Maybe not the most common introduction to drag culture I’ll agree but one I’ve remembered for years since…

 

Drag Hag

Heat Me Up

I’ve had more conversations about boilers recently than anything else. Not only did mine decided to go on strike over the weekend but a friend might just have embarked on a illicit *thing* with the gas safety engineer who came to check hers the other week.

I did laugh as she sighed over a glass of wine that you can’t just fuck the boiler guy and thought to myself ‘I would’. It was only after she went home and I was clearing up the glasses that I remembered I had fucked the boiler guy once.

The only reason I didn’t text her to tell her that as encouragement is that while I didn’t mind her knowing my wicked ways but I did feel slightly embarrassed that my wicked ways are so debauched that I’ve got beyond forgetting the names of people I’ve fucked and into just forgetting whole people I’ve fucked. Being a slut is one thing. Being a slut with a terrible memory is a whole different game.

But when I was lying in bed that night I was pleased to note that I remembered the boiler guy extremely well when I thought back. He’d come to check gas safety certificate and do some maintenance work to allow the boiler to be signed off so was going to be there for a couple of hours.

Somehow the conversation went from flues and valves to tattoos. And it turns out this gas engineer was a tattoo obsessive with full sleeves and coordinating chest and back pieces of botanically accurate Japanese cherry blossom which I have to say I wasn’t expecting in deepest south London.

His face lit up in that way that happens when you give people permission to talk about the thing they love and that was the moment I realised the boiler guy was extremely good looking. I have always been an absolute slut for men who lose their self consciousness and just enjoy their interests even if they are silly or geeky or unfashionable.

And this guy loved Japanese sakura. I mentally skipped over the bit where he mentioned travelling to Japan to see the blossom in person on his honeymoon and listened to him describe how beautiful it was. I was trying to picture how that might look tattooed on his body when I realised he was asking me did I want to see the artwork?

I must have said yes but next thing I knew his shirt had come off and his tattoos were right there along with his nicely muscled torso. He turned and paraded for me so I could take in the detail of each black and white blossom and flower. And the only other thing I am a bigger slut for than lack of self consciousness is really really good tattoos on men.

And these were some of the most beautiful tattoos I have ever seen. Clearly designed as one whole piece and with an artist who wanted to use and enhance the shape of this guy’s body with light and shade, it literally flowed and cascaded down his back and arms and showed off both his skin and the sheer movement of his body with each little ripple or flex of a muscle or tendon.

It was incredibly hot. The kind of hotness where the room seems to grow thick with anticipation and time seems to slip and slide slowly but inevitably to the moment you start fucking. He lifted my hands onto his arms and let them move across this carpet of flowers and start sliding down onto the smooth but unmarked skin of his stomach.

I’m not sure if my hands moved themselves almost without control or he guided them but I was undoing his trousers and he was completely naked in my hallway, his body contrasted between the black and white of the top and the bare flesh of the bottom drawing my eye right to the middle and his hard cock.

He was still in the hall where anyone could see through my front door when I went down on my knees to suck his cock. I could feel his muscles tense and although I wasn’t able to see it from that angle I could just picture how good his back looked flexing like that. I loved that I was fully dressed and he was completely naked.

Something caused a noise outside and we both realised what we were doing and he stepped into my living room and closed the door to give slightly more privacy and possibility to fuck. I used the break to go and find some condoms in my bedroom and when I came back was greeted by another favourite sight that goes straight to my cunt.

He was standing cock in hand with that same lack of self consciousness as earlier and exactly how I imagine he makes himself come when he’s alone. I love that familiarity men have with their own bodies and it always makes me horny to watch. He just kept pulsing and clenching his hand on his cock so smoothly I hardly noticed he’d slipped the condom on while I’d got undressed.

He pulled me down on top of him on the carpet and we fucked. I had a fantastic view of his arms and chest and those tattoos almost til the last second when he pulled me down hard onto his torso and came into me. I remember grabbing his arms and pulling him against me until I came and then lying back for one last glance of that beautiful blossom.

I can’t remember how we disentangled ourselves but it wasn’t awkward. None of that ‘what the fuck just happened?’ wash of shame or regret. Almost that feeling of it just being how things are sometimes. I’m fairly sure in a stroke of pure Irish sluttery I made us tea while he got dressed again and went back to being a gas engineer without this ink superpower under his shirt.

After he left I thought many times about his tattoos and the effect body modification can have. In fact the impact lasted so long and so vividly in my mind’s eye that’s why I’d forgotten about the boiler connection til now. I think I could probably still draw his tattoos but I couldn’t tell you what his face looked like.

I’d only know it was him come to fix my boiler again in the future if he recognised me or happened to have stripped his shirt off before he got here. I won’t lie. The latter would have made a midnight boiler call out last night much more fun…

Heat Me Up

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I’m in the middle of trying to get a bit of work done to my flat. It’s one of those very practical things that feels very adult indeed. I’ve been comparing quotations and checking people’s insurance and credentials. And laughing at how much I’ve grown up in the last few years because the last time I hired anyone to work on my flat, the fact he was incredibly fuckable was just as much a concern as how well he could lay my floor.

But don’t worry, even my formerly slutty self didn’t let him lay me as well. I just spent two long days flirting outrageously with him and respecting the fact that temptation wasn’t going to make him cheat on his clearly adored girlfriend. In a world where so many men will fuck you if they think they can get away with it, his honesty and conscience even when his cock was whispering in his ear made him even hotter.

That wasn’t where I learned to flirt with workmen. I think I developed that skill in my teens when I started working in service industry jobs and learned that male manual workers are often the only men who understand the use of emotional labour and platonic flirting as social interaction.

There’s probably some class dynamics in there about being the ‘hired help’ around middle class women who are paying their bill, but either way I have always loved flirting with workmen. Partly I can’t help playing up that stereotype that girly girls like me know nothing about practical things like paint or shelving because it often allows me to flirt my way to discounts or use the element of surprise that I actually know much more than I’m letting on if needed.

But mainly a lot of manual workers are hot. There’s something about the physique of a man’s body that comes from the simple act of using for hard physical work in the course of a day that always appeals to me in a way a gym honed body has never done. I love that hint of muscle and promise of strength in a body that moves and builds things for a living.

And watching people do something they are skilled at is one of my greatest turn ons. It doesn’t particularly matter what the skill is but seeing someone do something they are so confident and skilled at that they make it look easy gives me that pinch in my stomach of attraction as well as stirring in my cunt. Doesn’t matter if it’s cooking a meal, re-roofing a house or tiling a floor really. The attraction is in the expertise.

So when a friend asked me if I would stay at their flat for a couple of days while they were having some work done to the windows I agreed readily. Rather than them take time off work to let the guy in and out all day, I was happy to supervise and hope I hadn’t set myself up to stare at builder’s bum and make tea all day for a man with dubious political views which is the flip side to spending time round men who work with their hands.

But the slutty gods were smiling on me because he was young, handsome and Hungarian. I’m usually not a fan of Aryan looking men but his wholesome ashy blonde hair and blue eyes were complimented by an underlying air of filth that made me much more interested in making him tea and discussing Central European politics than I’d usually be.

He really did work on those windows the first day although there was much more flirtation on the second day. But by the third when the work had moved indoors, things stepped up a notch. I thoroughly enjoyed seeing him leaning over the sills with his ass right in my line of view all morning.

This time he took his lunch break and as we moved round the fairly small kitchen he brushed against me a few times that way that could be accidental if the response wasn’t favourable. I brushed back as he insisted on helping me wash up the mugs and plates used before he went back to work.

I spent the afternoon very aware of that sensation of where he’d grazed against my ass with his crotch feeling the tingle linger in my cunt and distract me. He’d stayed out of my sight line since then and I wondered if he was feeling awkward. I decided bringing him a beer when he finished work was the way to go.

He thanked me and finished clearing up. I slunk back into the kitchen feeling foolish and horny for mistaking porn for real life and started putting the washing up away. Clattering plates I didn’t hear him come up behind me until he set the beer bottle on the counter and slid his hands round my hips pressing me against him.

I went soft against how hard he was and he brushed his hands increasingly firmly across my tits and hips before pulling the zip of my jeans down, letting his fingers explore my clit and then inside my cunt as I leaned back into him. He had strong hands to hold me but with fingers used to small skilful movements and he made me squirm as I came.

Only then did we end up facing each other and we kissed before it was my turn to run my hands over him, slipping the straps of his painters overalls down to reveal that he wasn’t wearing any underwear and his cock was right there for me to play with.

I pulled the overalls right down and slipped his cock into my mouth. I was right that he was the right kind of filthy. He was shaved smooth and scented with just enough hard work and sweat to make me really want to suck on his balls too. I alternated between cock and balls with my mouth until he pushed his dick further into my mouth.

I balanced myself by cupping my hand under his balls as I sucked his cock and he reached down and cupped my fingers further back pressing against his asshole. I paused and he widened his stance so I knew he wanted my finger inside him. I put my fingers on top his cock and drew them down it as I sucked them slick and then slipped one into his ass.

He stiffened against and then opened up so my finger was able to slide in and out in time to my mouth on his cock, literally sucking and fucking him at the same time staring up at his face from my knees. His eyes were closed and he was only moving in synch with my actions almost like he was in trance.

Suddenly he startled forward grabbing my shoulders so my finger pressed inside his ass and he came so hard into my mouth I couldn’t swallow it all running down my chin and making his cock slip out of my mouth as he was still coming. It was dripping off his cock and my face and onto the floor as he was still gripping my shoulders.

He let go and I stood up to kiss him still covered in his come. I pulled my jeans up and he stepped back, pulling his overalls off completely so he was naked from the waist down and taking a cloth he got down on his hands and knees, back to me with his just fucked arsehole visible and slowly and deliberately mopped up his own come as I watched.

Still on the floor, he tossed the cloth in the sink and pulled my jeans back down and buried his tongue in my cunt with his cock in his hand. We both came again and only just had time to get dressed and composed again before my friend arrived home with more beers to thank us both with.

I have no idea what we sat and  talked about because both my mind and cunt were still completely distracted. I’m not sure I’ll ever look at a pair of painters overalls again the same way….

Trade