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I still don’t understand why my phone sits silent for days and I suddenly hear from several people at the same time. I spent a fair part of last night preparing for my first home visit with ArmyDude as the guest of honour. I was a wreck by the time I finished washing linen, making the bed, stocking up towels, finding scent-free soap for him (ah, the considerations of fucking married people), shopping and filling the fridge to prepare for dinner, agonising beforehand for hours about what I might make for dinner for someone I know so intimately but not well when it comes to the domestics and, of course, tackling the most dangerous job of scrubbing the computer’s insides of all traces of my other lives in case he wanted to check the shared account together.
He had an alibi that allowed him to also set up a drink with a woman who had expressed interest in us. Five hours before we were due to meet I received a couple of texts saying he was convinced his wife was acting suspiciously. I thought he was projecting his own nerves but I happily gave him the option of deciding to proceed or cancel because he is taking the greater risk.
For the next three hours he disappeared from phone contact, and I knew from experience that he was cancelling but didn’t know how to break the news. An hour beforehand I received a message saying he felt more comfortable cancelling. I didn’t mind: I’d already prepared mentally for a no-show, dinner was almost ready, vibrators were fully charged and the thought of a freshly-made bed was hardly the end of the world. He sent another half a dozen messages apologising and saying how bad he felt, which started tainting my accepting mood. He got the message when I sent a terse “No more apologies, please.” Go away!
At the same time, Pierce came back in a mix of optimistic pleading and anticipated rejection. He unfortunately was at the end of a cycle of meeting people mindlessly and I didn’t want the reminder or to try to start again. Whatever was causing me to lash out with the wrong people seems to have settled for the time being. I’m probably in the opposing mindset of wanting nothing more energetic and safe than lounging in the winter sunny window like a neutered cat, but that’s bound to change soon enough.
The woman I’ve been trying to make contact with also sent an e-mail citing great amounts of nervousness about meeting one-on-one. She suggested we meet at a swingers’ night as the surroundings would be less stressful for her than at a cafe. Really? I could easily get offended if I think about it too much.
To top off my night, a message saying hello and enquiring about my wellbeing landed in the phone from an unknown number. I asked who it might be. Low and behold, it was Mr New Year’s Eve from … let me count with two hands here … oh, six months ago. I asked coolly if he’d mistaken me for someone else because we were meeting last Christmas and he cancelled the same day and disappeared. He bravely (or stupidly) responded and claimed nerves but he’s back now and ready to meet. Again, really? That’s nice. I struggled to contain my sarcasm said it was a shame that people becoming paralysed by nerves sure seems to happen a lot. He didn’t come back. I’m a lot of things but six-month-old bargain barrel slops isn’t one of them.
I logged in to edit a new post and, holy fuck, a burst of paranoia stopped my heartbeat for a few seconds. I re-wound every word I’d written the past year for tidbits that might have outed me.
Oh, I’ve been Fleshbotted. I can breathe again, but I wish my sex life was on that comet-like trajectory. The link was a snippet taken from my last evening with Country Hottie and I’m blushing at my awful post-orgasm dialogue when it’s highlighted to the world. Thank you to whoever generously nominated or found me.
I was lying on my back with my legs in a diamond shape, toes clasping each other in a pre-orgasmic rhythm and fingers clenching the bed covers. Beforehand I had promised myself to be enthusiastic but detached, but promises fly like leaves in the wind when he is naked, positioned between my legs and studiously inflicting a squishy and energetic havoc with his fingers.
A heat rose in my centre, overlaid with a growing feeling of sharper discomfort when his fingers plunged faster. I was surfing the ragged crest of either coming or asking for a rest but my body took over and rushed an orgasm like an electric shock that ended almost as soon as it started.
“What the fuck was that about?” I thought, when I regained the ability to think. I had squirted dark patches over his bed sheets, left droplets down his torso and legs that shone in the light and somehow had spattered myself from belly to shoulder.
I asked, “How do you do that? I haven’t squirted, don’t squirt and now you’ve done it more than once!”
He laughed and deflected my question with a kiss, no doubt wanting to keep his magic finger gushing technique to himself. He should be more community minded and share with the world.
We weaved in and out of frenetic fucking and tender caresses of recovery under the covers. After a few hours he observed that we had been strictly vanilla and not yet ventured to the dark side. I nodded but said that vanilla has again been proven a great flavour on its own.
Later he asked one thing I’d like to do during the evening. In the back of my mind was that I was an overly spoiled, jelly-legged mass of endorphins and he hadn’t yet come. I ended up dirtying the vanilla and kneeling on the bed with him standing before me, a leather lead tautly connecting the collar around my neck to his hand. I coated his cock, balls and anus with saliva and tongued and kissed and licked and massaged and feasted and asked for his come in my mouth. He gave quickly and willingly. I opted not to shower and drove home wearing the many aromas of us.
He gives many reasons to be lust-crazed and unbalanced at times but I know I’ll be on the road again for more if the opportunity arises.
I’m concerned about my current level of detachment or self respect or whatever’s driving my choices lately.
I met the pierced man (may as well call him Pierce) at a park adjacent a busy road. I wasn’t attracted to him physically but he was there, I was there, a picnic bench in a protected cove was over there and his skilled kissing tipped the scales towards staying.
He was a large man with a small cock shaped like a rounded triangle, like an elongated Dalek from Doctor Who, but with a massive handful of testicles. I don’t know what Mother Nature was thinking. It was bitterly cold but we left a small mess behind on the wooden bench when his fingers found my g-spot. We switched places and afterwards he was keen to talk and hug. I could picture him as a family man, playing with shiny-haired kids and a family-sized dog in a park and giving flowers unexpectedly to his wife, because that’s what he should be working towards instead of evening distractions without a future. I had to go. He sent a nice text message when I got home to make sure I arrived safely. I felt heavy with emptiness inside.
Number of times I questioned my moral compass: one
Number of times I corrected myself that my moral compass is fine but it’s my something else and I don’t know, perhaps my motivation: several
Number of times I thought, wow, people do this in beats, gay saunas, orgies and swingers’ parties all the time but, no, not for me: one
Number of times I thought sucking a cock with piercings on the underside was potentially hazardous to my dental health: six
Number of times sucking his cock higher in my mouth to avoid damage to lower teeth causing gagging: four
Number of times I thought what the fuck am I doing here? too many
Number of strokes with my lips until he came: 138
I never count when I’m excited.
This time last week I was primed with superfluous energy and looking for somewhere unsuitable to expend it. This time this week I couldn’t be arsed. And men say they don’t understand women …
If you saw hell frozen over last night it’s because I said no to ArmyDude. Get out! I know! He was messaging excitedly and incessantly about us potentially meeting a couple, but shied away from logistical aspects such as when he could escape home safely to meet people about 90 fucking minutes away and, oh yes, I just got access to their private gallery and experienced an instant case of anti-wetness in my central region when I saw the man of the duo. He went into a defensive ‘oh my god, she’s turning into the fishwife’ mode and didn’t reply to my messages yet hours later came out of hiding with a hard-on and invited me over. I thought about it and couldn’t be bothered. Wanting low maintenance needs to work both ways.
I could be meeting the pierced man tonight. Our last contact was left open-ended a couple of days ago as he suggested meeting at my house and I insisted on a neutral place first. I don’t know if a lack of repsonse means that he’s fine and we’ll sort out a meeting point on the day or he’s not happy with that.
ETA: he’s just let me know when he’s free tonight — I must be getting old and out of touch with the she’ll-be-right communication habits of those a dozen years younger *smiles*.
In an act of masochistic game playing I can’t quite drag myself away from, I had Country Hottie pencilled in for this weekend but again he hasn’t confirmed anything beyond, “Hey there, sounds great, will be good to see you, I think this day will work for me xx.” I think more than anything I’m curious about why he swathes non-commitment with flowery niceties that I’m the most special person on earth when we’re both aware I’m not — I’m the loan girl. I’ll absorb his attention gratefully, of course, but it means nothing without follow-up. I think he runs the same attractive, charming cad who makes ‘em feel good routine on everyone and I’m just still stubborn enough to think I can manage him in my way.
ETA: I’m a bit gobsmacked as he has just asked what time I’ll be there. Roadtrip here we come. Note to self: take more notice of what I just wrote about him getting away with caddish behaviour. I rest my argument on my relative detachment and desire for some bondage — I was sorting through a bag of equipment the other day and lamenting I haven’t played with ropes and cuffs since probably the first time with him.
The young tradesman and I had been exchanging messages of a level more intimate and detailed than I’d normally share with someone I haven’t met. He has a sweet way of saying, “So, when are we going to fuck?” that encourages optimistic sharing. Intertwined was the re-surfacing of some unrelated personal grief that made me restless to the core and pace the streets to temper the stressful energy. The two paths met.
I was at home alone debating between going to bed and going out to meet him. Restlessness won and we met in the darkened corner of a hotel car park. I was relieved after a run of outs that we shared an instant attraction and I thought quietly: gosh, you’re fuckable. He grasped my buttock as he kissed me hello. I returned the roaming of hands up his spine, clasping his arse, feeling for his cock through the button fly of his jeans. I didn’t care for perceptions and if he thought me an intrepid ingenue or easy throwaway. He probably didn’t care either and was pleased enough to be in the hands of someone on a mission for a little while.
The beauty of the current cold weather was that people were staying home and the car park was almost deserted. The downside was that only randy idiots with no back-up plans were trying to kiss and caress while legs were shivering and teeth were rattling. I turned to my car to ditch my gloves and hat and he bent me over the roof, kissing my neck and wrangling a hand down my jeans. I thanked whoever first threaded lycra into denim for the ease of the finger working its way into my cunt. He removed and licked his wettened finger and kissed me afterwards. I was early-cycle sweet.
I can barely fit a handbag in my car, let alone a man, yet he thought his car didn’t have much room to explore further. Jekyll and I worked out most physical permutations possible in a sedan and the young tradesman’s vehicle could have hosted an orgy by comparison but he just didn’t know it. I laid him across the back seat and tore his jeans and underwear down, glad for the distraction of discovery to take my mind off residual sorrows for a while. I still don’t know if it’s using someone in order to forget, but we all have our reasons for entering into things.
He came so quietly that I didn’t realise what I thought was pre-come was the finale. I licked him as clean as I could in the darkness and as delicately as I could in not knowing his post-orgasm sensitivity. I must have missed some drops because I can smell his semen on my dark knit top but the spots haven’t dried and made themselves visible yet.
He’s the first one whose first name I don’t know. He’s in my mobile phone under his log-in name and I never thought to ask.
I received a message from ArmyDude saying he was free the following morning if I wanted to drop by and ‘borrow some books’. I organised a time and let The Drummer know I’d be out doing a house call when he returned home from a late shift.
ArmyDude had already selected a couple of titles in order to maximise lustful opportunity time. I had my period and wasn’t inclined towards managing the logistics, so I dropped his jeans, sucked his cock and tongued his balls with a level of intentional deliberation and care that was making him impatient. He smelled clean and soapy and had shaved off recently and I was in no rush. Still, I was in and out in less than half an hour, keeping the alibi legitimate and giving us a pleasant start to the day.
I returned home and The Drummer asked if I’d had a good time with ArmyDude. I said I was bleeding so I sucked dick and did some shopping and got petrol and washed the car on the way home; he didn’t hear a word after I said “sucked dick” and ten minutes later he was in front of the computer watching porn and nursing a hard-on. I rubbed his balls as he masturbated and he said, “Here, have your second load for the day.” I didn’t have a chance to object or laugh at his porny dialogue as he was joyous at taking a short time to reach orgasm (he’s changing anti-depressants and can take up to 45 minutes to finish a simple wank). I guess that was a win/win of sorts.
The same afternoon Country Hottie asked if I was free next weekend — I’m not sure I’ll hear from him after I suggested his communication needed work after he disappeared last time he was in touch. The young tradesman I mentioned earlier seems keen for anything, anywhere, anytime and the pierced man is back in touch (he wants to know if I’m up to being fucked anally — he has several ball-ended studs in his shaft and I’m somewhat curious in a masochistic, death wish kind of way). I don’t understand why this all happens at once.
