The outline of some strap-on action played out the other night almost to the letter, except the part where I ask if ArmyDude wants the larger dildo — in real life he told me to damn well stick it inside him. He took the wide implement to the hilt where my hand was providing stabilisation, and he wanted my fingers uncurled from the dildo’s base so he could swallow the last half-inch. I was more surprised than he.
A couple of days later my hamstrings still ache, my groin muscles protest with the effort of getting out of bed and my quadriceps and upper thigh muscles are unrelentingly and distractingly sore. Fucking is really hard work: men, I salute you for lasting longer than a few minutes at a time.
Granted, much of a woman’s work in wielding a strap-on is in managing balance and co-ordination of an appendage that can’t be sensed spatially or felt bodily. After a while, I was begging silently for him to either stop or come because my legs were screaming with unfamiliar strain. The other difference is the way my body moves in penetration: the thrust originates at my hips and the movement rolls downwards and forwards like a wave breaking to the shore before receding out to sea and starting again. Short-stroked aggressive pounding isn’t on my body’s list of features, only my list of loves as a recipient.
I ended up wrapped behind his backside with one hand helping my hips plunge the dildo and the other stroking his cock. He groaned with pleasure at the tempo of my thrusting but wanted quicker rubs of his cock: it’s like trying to pat your head and rub your tummy at the same time at different speeds. Ain’t gonna happen with this neurally-challenged amateur man-fucker, I can tell you right now.
We changed positions and he propped himself atop my recumbent form and lowered his arse down the dildo. I laid back and enjoyed the visual feast of the man bouncing up and down my fake dick with unrestrained enthusiasm. The joy wasn’t for me erotically but I felt warm with pleasure about being included in a fantasy he’s day dreamed about for a long time. And, slyly, I was hoping he’d be as sore the following day as he makes me sometimes because he treats my anus as an instrument that doesn’t require tender loving care.
His legs fatigued after a few minutes of riding me and we set the gear aside for the finishing act. In line with my promise, I asked mouth, cunt or arse? He chose the latter and gave me a straight-stroked reaming from behind that was glorious to behold at the time but I can still feel inside. Payback. He came hard and collapsed over my back. We hobbled to the bathroom arm-in-arm to clean the lubricated mess we had created and compare the damage tally. I think I won. Thank goodness birthdays are only once a year.