As if further evidence of my pig-headedness was needed

I received a text message last week from an unknown number, saying something along the lines of, “Hey gorgeous, long time no speak! How are you? xxx”

Who the fuck is that?

The Drummer laughed when I later told him that I keep phone numbers of people I don’t want to talk to, so I know it’s them. On this occasion the system failed as the number was lost in my last phone change-over and I didn’t know who was returning from contact wilderness.

Curiosity got the better of me and I replied and asked who it was.

Ah ha, the long lost Country Hottie. Gone almost two years! He’s back! And sniffing around! And his next message indicated clearly that I was welcome to visit him! Any time I wanted!

Let me think about this before replying.

Teacher of the squirting orgasm!

Giver of some of the best sexual experiences of my life!

Fittest and best endurance of anyone! Ever!

Has his own place! And bed!

Has loads of kink gear! And uses it!

I needed to think a little more clearly before bouncing the exclamation point key right off my keyboard.

The memory slowly crept in of being dumped without so much as a text message, even after seeing each for about six months. People with briefer histories disappearing is puzzling but not always unexpected, however, after the period of time and the experiences Country Hottie and I shared, such (what I consider) cowardly behaviour was not on.

I wrote back and told him his disappearing trick upset me at the time and I was too wary to trust him again.

Higher ground — I’m standing on it.

A while later the sense of righteousness wore off and I wondered if a village was seeking a new idiot as I was available for the job. But, ultimately, we are treated as we allow others to treat us and I’m not giving someone that power to do it again.

He didn’t reply.

The body still surprises (or, my arse rocks the house)

A similarity between the non-sexual and sexual compartments of my life is that I am driven largely by the push and pull forces of curiosity and learning. Sexually, the greatest lesson last year was when Jekyll fisted me for the first time. A human hand fitted inside my body and it took two days for me to dare look at the photo because of the shock at my body’s hidden capability. This year Country Hottie sent my sense of comprehension reeling when I squirted for the first time. I was tied up and expecting a simple spanking scenario but the torrents of liquid running down my thighs told me that another bodily secret had been unveiled. I don’t necessarily enjoy the sensation but it could make a fun party trick when I work out how to do it myself.

Mr OMG has caused probably the second-most surprising moment of the year. He called a few mornings ago at an unexpected time that only birds and tradespeople (and me, now) are going about their business and all he wanted to say was how full his mind was with sexual thoughts. I’m not sure what’s behind his increased attentions of late but who am I to do anything but encourage more? We organised to meet on his way home from a Christmas party but I didn’t expect him because I thought he was too optimistic in the time he could leave. However, he called half an hour earlier than he had guessed and was 10 minutes away if I wanted him to drop by. I was in bed reading a book and sleepy enough to desire being draped around him lazily but alert enough to launch out of the covers, strip my clothes and greet him naked.

I left the bedroom door wider ajar than last time to bathe more of his lean body in light from the loungeroom. We mock argued about who was going to devour the other first, and he capitulated after the briefest of jostlings and laid on his back. I used my mouth from the head of his cock past his balls, with the sensation of my wet tongue brushing along the perineum making him shudder like a skyscraper in heavy wind. I wondered how long it had been since someone had adored attention on him there so I made a few passes that caused guttural sounds to escape from deep in his throat.

I flicked and twirled and rolled my tongue around his hole but he reacted most strongly to my tongue diving in as far as I could reach. He wanted deeper penetration and lifted his legs to allow me freer access. I snuck a look up and thought I saw his feet, hands and head in a perfect horizontal row; I’ll have to ask him to do that again when I’m less aroused so I can appreciate his range of movement (and think deviously about other positions that make full use of his flexibility).

He became too charged sexually to tolerate more foreplay and went down on me before we fucked with him on top. It was my turn to make guttural noises from who-knows-where each time his cock sank deeply. He tested the water and said coyly that he had thought again about fucking me anally — in a classic case of reacting before thinking, I squeezed my muscles and ascertained that I felt clean and empty enough to try. Before I gave myself the chance to talk myself out this hasty consent,  I grabbed a tube of lubricant out of the drawer, smeared a generous cold glob over his cock and rubbed the surplus between my legs. He winced at the initial chill but shuddered again and almost toppled from his kneeling position as I masturbated the slick fluid along his length — I suspect he’s never had a lubed hand caressing his cock and I plan teasing him to madness another time when he is unfettered by protection.

He laid me back on the bed and lifted my legs so they rested on his shoulders. Before I could ask him to move slowly and not allow the head of his cock to escape, he was half way in and thrusting. I don’t know which of us was more surprised by the smoothness of his entry. We checked each other’s welfare and were both feeling fine. I propped my head on a pillow so I could take in the view of his cock shifting in and out and felt tingling waves of goodness emanating from my centre. He pushed with more determination a few times and said he was all the way in and asked if I felt all right. I muttered a perplexed, “I do, I feel fantastic actually.” His noises told me more than enough about the joy he was experiencing.

He came and withdrew while he was still hard and we collapsed together — in released pleasure for him and thrilled surprise for me. My body accepted and enjoyed his cock with more ease than a finger or a smaller penis and I felt lighter than air. He didn’t understand my sense of wonder but he didn’t have to; memorable moments are often gifted by people who never realise the magnitude of their benefaction.

I was glad I gave him this pleasure and I felt good, too. If there is a next time, I’ll ask if he wants to try doggy style so he can watch the show as I suspect he’ll enjoy that very much.

Thursday night’s all right, all right

It’s only taken me a couple of years to realise, but the last-minute booty calling night of the week is Thursday. The last week has been an accidental sociological experiment because I’ve been exhausted from learning a new job I think I won’t tolerate for long, managing some nasty PMT and my period and I haven’t initiated non-essential contact with people for fear of wanting to bludgeon them. Here are the results of laying low for the week.

Monday was a non-sexual chit-chat day. There was no contact except from The Bachelor to discuss a serious sports injury he incurred on the weekend that will keep him from physical activity for some time. Damn. He’s interested in visiting the bondage supply shop with me though so that might be a fun afternoon out — the trip would be better if we could have sex immediately afterwards and I might delay plans so we can incorporate both activities.

Tuesday was a quiet day of reflection. I thought about how long it’s been since I last had contact with Country Hottie (a couple of months) — I sent the last message to him and I’m leaving him well alone. The Executive also didn’t respond to my last message a few weeks ago so I assume he’s disappeared as well.

Wednesdays are usually a mixed bag. When I had someone regular like Jekyll, we’d be lining up a short-notice meeting or planning for the weekend; with my current situation the middle of the week is often quiet. Young Lion broke the trend and came crashing in with lewd messages and a new voice recording. He spoke my name a couple of times and it was touching that the message was made just for me but a tad disconcerting to think someone’s out there making customised wanking messages. Don’t say it with flowers; say it with orgasms. In all reality, it made my day to check the phone during lunch and have to stand still while listening in case I fell over from surprise and redistributing blood flow. And then step out of the sandwich queue so I could listen again.

Now, let’s see what happens on a Thursday. People’s thoughts wander from the current routine of work and already-fixed weekend plans and focus on when guaranteed sex might feature over the next few days. Someone I’ve been in touch with for months but is a three-hour drive away suddenly decided that finding a way to meet on the weekend was the best idea ever. I had too much to do to clear a whole day and didn’t feel comfortable organising hotel sex with someone I haven’t met so we delayed that idea.

Pleasure Freak suggested an outdoor activity even though the day was blindingly hot, but it had to be that afternoon because he was scheduled for a vasectomy the following morning. I had to laugh at his living life to the full attitude but suggested a sunburnt cock might be hard to explain to the surgical team. He saw a little bit of sense in that reasoning but I don’t know if he chose to wank in safety or tried the park toilet block for a stranger anyway.

The bisexual man I mentioned a while ago who lives in the city also suggested we find a park to meet in for an outside scenario. He thought a golden shower outdoors was a grand idea, however, thinking with a hard-on tends to exclude the finer details of planning like taking water, wet wipes, towels, a change of clothes and whatever else might be needed to even contemplate pissing on someone away from the luxuries of home.

Young Lion came back and we have agreed tentatively to a hotel evening in the next week or two.

Young Tradesman returned from who-knows-where with some of the friendliest messages a girl could ever want to receive and ran off when he read between the lines that I wasn’t inclined towards launching myself at him on the spot. I was bleeding and tired and couldn’t be bothered, but I learned that using the word ‘period’ in a message sends the fly-by-nighters away remarkably swiftly.

Mr OMG sent an unexpected message asking if I’d like a late-night visitor. My alarm goes off at 5am now so his proposed visit after 11pm didn’t work. And if he’s sniffing around so soon after last time I’d prefer not to be always available so I  have some equality of power (yeah, right). I have a scenario in mind for him involving the trio of oral, vaginal and anal sex that will take a couple of hours to play out, so my period and a quick raid might interfere with my plans if he wanders off again afterwards. I might start planting the seeds of the idea and see where it takes us because I think I’m starting to understand the current workings of his mind.

Friday is variable: extremely quiet at the moment but was busy with post-midnight opportunists when I was in the phases of searching for partners online.

Saturday and Sunday aren’t even worth turning the phone on for. Thank goodness for fingers and lube.

Go to work for the day … or go fuck Country Hottie for the day?

Let me pretend I thought about this for more than five seconds. Country Hottie had a few days off work and invited me to visit him. The last weeks of my resignation period have been filled with ostracism, politicking, lazy bastards trying to involve me in their late projects so the soon-to-be absent me can take the blame on their behalf and some constrasting heartfelt support and kindness from others that has had me hiding tears too regularly. And I have three months’ sick leave because I’m usually conscientious and sick leave isn’t paid out on exit. Easiest decision ever. The hardest part was deciding what to take.

I experienced a pang of guilt early in the day and hoped like hell I wouldn’t be involved in a bizarre event or car accident that made the news (a friend once skipped work to see me when I was living interstate, and it was the day a baggage handlers’ strike broke and she was seen standing in the airline queue on the TV that night; another was featured on the front page of a newspaper after a photographer snapped him enjoying a ride at an agricultural show instead of being at work), but today space junk didn’t fall from the sky on my head and  traffic parted like the trip was meant to be.

I arrived and Country Hottie said, “So, what was this plan you had in mind for me?”

I replied, “Massage you and jump you.” I considered my bluntness and lack of detail and added, “I know it’s a simple plan, but simple plans are often the best.”

He said he wasn’t good at trying to be submissive and I negotiated impatiently that all I wanted from him was to relax and be still. I’m not sure if grinding his groin into the mattress while I was massaging his backside was relaxing either of us as I was getting awfully distracted, and by the time I had oiled his feet he was rubbing them over my breasts, but he tried to relax and not participate, I guess. As I rolled him on his back and worked from his thighs to his upper body, he had me flipped over, pinned underneath him and was sliding his slippery chest along my body.

I have little gaps in memory and the order of events, but before I showered I remembered remarking that I was covered in oil, sweat, my own wetness, squirt juice and the semen he massaged into my breasts when he came on me.

At lunch we had a heart-to-heart talk and he said he had no problem meeting switched-on, attractive women but their sexual conservatism has been a deal breaker. One considered having her hands bound beyond her limits and they said they wouldn’t consider indulging him in his BDSM interests if in a committed relationship. None would support him seeing other women with an interest in fetishes so he could feed that side of his sexuality elsewhere. I said his situation was a reminder of the fortunate position I was in and that breaking free of ego issues and social conditioning got easier with practice (and making the most of my side of the bargain) but I could understand how a lot of women don’t learn to both merge and separate love and sex. I said my problem is that I struggle dealing with people and the sex isn’t usually a problem as it doesn’t often get that far. We sighed and decided to make the most of the day and return to his house.

Part of the afternoon was spent seeing the other women’s point of view: I was sitting on the edge of the lounge with a large dildo in my cunt surrounded by a dozen clothes pegs attached to my labia and clit. My hands were tied behind my back and he was standing in front of me with his cock sliding in and out of my mouth. If I allowed his cock to fall out of my mouth, he would smack my breasts with a riding crop. I let him slip out a couple of times to test the water and the strikes were firmer than I wanted to tolerate; he also gradually leaned back so I had to bend to not lose his cock, which made the dildo start to slip. Very clever. I’m the first to agree these games aren’t everyone’s idea of a good time and the breadth of his experience can be intimidating, but seeing him switch to the part of his mind that concocts these scenarios is like opening and allowing part of his sexual expression to bloom.

The last part of the day was spent lying on his loungeroom floor with him on top piledriving me into quivering orgasms every few strokes, thinking the other women have no idea what joys he could give them if they trusted him. He’s healthy, athlete fit, responsive, skilled, open to any scenario and stays hard for as long as desired — communication dramas aside, the man is a human playground and it’s not every day I’m left lying on the floor so exhausted with heart-singing pleasure.

The universe punished me with a rotten head cold the following day that genuinely kept me at home. It was worth it.

Squirting, binding, fucking

The next day I spent an evening with Country Hottie.

I was in a leading-from-behind frame of mind and the plan I formulated was to emerge from the bedroom in underwear and leather accessories, hand him the lead and take my sweet time undressing and teasing him until we needed to devour each other. It didn’t work like that at all.

Instead, he removed the garments from my lower body and went down on me. I’m unsure about this squirting caper now: he got me too early in the night and I sprayed like a burst water balloon over both of us. This time he kept going until the feeling of fullness escalated into abdominal discomfort without end and the eventual second expulsion of fluid over the floor, lounge and my face was more a relief than a curiosity. I don’t know how the women in do-it-yourself porn videos keep smiling as they go for seconds and thirds in front of the camera (M1 sends me unsolicited clips even though we aren’t in touch any more) — I was hurting and finding it hard to stand from dizziness.

After a brief recovery he fucked me on the lounge and had the stamina of the detached while I had peaked too early. The bend of my body sitting semi-upright helped his deep thrusts hit my cervix and he was unrelenting even though I was squirming up the wall with each impact. I suppose this was silent payback for my dealings with him earlier in the week.

When I was a crumpled wreck on the upholstery, he laid me on the floor and brought out his ropes. I relished the opportunity to relax as he got the dominant urges out of his system. Again, it didn’t work like that at all. I was lying on my back and he tied my wrists together above my head, and artfully bound my lower body with my legs bent and apart and suspended in the air. The rope ends were tied to furniture to ensure minimal movement. He stuffed a large dildo in my vagina, a vibrator in my anus and alternated slapping my exposed buttocks and clit — not quite my idea of relaxation after the previous treatment.

He found a way of trussing ropes between my legs to hold the toys in place and turned to face the same direction as me. He squatted and I tongued his arse and I could see one arm moving rapidly, presumably wanking over my belly. The bastard would not come and my legs and shoulders were seizing from being unable to ease pressure on the hard floor.

When he came close to orgasm, he removed the bindings and toys and I had time for a quick stretch before he pounded me from on top until he finished. I enjoyed that part very much.

He asked if I wanted to come again, and I said no. I’m fine. Really, but thank you for asking. We curled up and I left before he found the energy to contemplate another round; I was sore all over for two days. If nothing else, the itch for bondage has been scratched for a while this time around.

Jigsaw puzzle

A few pieces need to be put in place.

ArmyDude: He is back but dropped by the office unannounced three times in the week of his return and hovered aimlessly when other people were around. I read him the riot act about taking unacceptable risks and asked for some breathing space. He agreed quickly but has sent messages daily and I need a break; he is also having serious problems at home and I’m not comfortable with his boundary management at the moment.

Country Hottie: I sent him a photo of nipple clamps attached to a place I don’t have nipples and he responded awfully quickly like Pavlov’s randy dog. We set a date to meet, he became more flaky than my current temperament would tolerate and I let rip with a message calling him a slack fucking bastard who needs letting go, among other less politely worded things, and I walked away. I felt better after clearing my air, he chose to keep hanging around for now and I’m going to be tied up and spanked a pretty shade of scarlet next weekend. I like him more now that I have acknowledged I don’t really like him.

The man with potential from a few posts ago: We agreed congenially and with a hint of regret to stop before we begin. His diary is a ferociously full beast and, with three weeks passing without a spare few unplanned hours in his schedule, I let him know that things weren’t going to work for me, much as I’d like. There is enough intent without availability in my life without adding to it.

Pleasure Freak: He’s new. He sent a message. I replied that I was growing tired of attached men whose concepts of having time for flesh-and-blood pleasure were illusions and I’d leave it to him if he wanted to get in touch. He sent a nude photo instead. I sent him one from work. He sent another from his car. I enjoyed his sense of daring. We met yesterday and I was almost felled by knee-buckling attraction. He almost thankfully wasn’t quite as handsome as his face photos, but in the lovely paradox that looks don’t always equate to attraction, every girl hormone in my body started having a wild party. He is tall and dark and rangy with broad shoulders and a small arse cupped by faded jeans and emits sexuality that I really and truly want to explore. I held back and looked for clues of what was going on in his head; at one stage he touched my arm as he stood to get something from his car and the girl hormones started somersaulting and doing backflips. Later, he asked if I was keen. I paused to manage some nerves, stared in his eyes and said, “Yes, very much so if you are.”

We talked until a few minutes before he had to go and I made him late for a function because we started kissing in his car and it all felt so very, very good. He made himself even later when he said he was going to wank quickly before leaving. I asked if I could stay and perhaps help because I like watching men masturbate (especially attractive men with high sex drives who have sent nude photos and are right in front of me). He pulled down his jeans and I asked if I could touch and taste. He, of course, said yes. I wrapped my lips around the top of his deceptively thick cock and wondered how I’d manage to fit it in, even with more time and a less cramped position for devouring him. I wasn’t able to wonder long as he gave warning signs of orgasm and I let him escape from my mouth before he came up his belly. I’m trying to behave and not do too much on first meetings with those I want to see again. I am cautiously optimistic (and want his cock inside me in many different ways).

Mr OMG: Ha, now how did he sneak in? I ‘accidentally’ clicked on his profile I’ve been ignoring and he sent a smile the following day. Now I wish I hadn’t, and he hadn’t. I sat on my hands and pondered whether to re-open the not-quite-healed wound. I ended up sending a guarded message to which he was brave enough to reply and we spoke briefly on the phone last night. He is a beautiful man and the centre of a thousand fantasies but after a somewhat awkward conversation (which had to end abruptly and was left open-ended) the reality is that I’m not sure I want to see him. Months after we met the first time he is still drifting and doesn’t seem to know what he’s looking for. I think I don’t want him and I’m too surprised by that thought to believe it yet.

Forecast postscript: No, I don’t have ESP; I think tomorrow I’m going to contradict my last sentence.

The Drummer: Last week The Drummer and I were having a heart-to-heart talk about his mental health, and a side issue that caught me by surprise was his admission of jealousy towards my other life and the opportunities it affords. He is losing his masculinity and sexuality on an increasing dose of anti-depressants; he has (we have) a long and tough journey and I’ll never give up on him but this week I wanted be somewhere else, live someone else’s life and not have to be the parent, the boss, the leader, the guide, the decision maker for a partner who has lost himself. I need someone strong, too, but I look around and the only place I see that kind of help is in the mirror and I am sad.

I didn’t have a response to address his jealousy but the next day I said to him all I really want with the others is something along the lines of what I had with Jekyll, who was around but we weren’t in each other’s faces, and we could mix up the car parks and hotel rooms and go to town on each other in any way with firm boundaries. I don’t have that at the moment and my other life is not all he is perceiving it to be. The majority is just chasing and distractions and misplaced hope. I get nervous meeting new people and cynical from knowing that the intentions of most online aren’t what they appear. I get a little house crazy some weekend nights if he is working and my closest girlfriends work nightshift and a couple of other friends disappeared after I entrusted them with my other life secret. I feel lost and probably in need of more female company sometimes. Some men are mindless diversions, like the stripper, and it’s so easy that it’s not fun. If I could have anything sexually, it would be more of him as my partner, away from the grip that medications have on his sexuality, and perhaps one other to fill the urges for controlled insanity, and that would be it, but that’s not life at the moment and so I will roam with a heart equally weighted with desire and discontent, but I will stay home tonight because my eyes are red and puffy from purging this.

Fall and transcend … and fall

Reality arrived.

He was hungry and I was shivering with cold and verging on exhaustion. He collected my spare clothes from my car (it doesn’t lock and the bag was thankfully where I left it — thank you honest rural people for respecting my laziness in getting to the mechanic) and he ordered food from the only late-night place open while I showered and dressed.

We sat in front of the television like old friends and talked about sport and work and meeting misadventures — he has said yes to more of the wrong people and his stories were better than mine. Without warning, a post-adrenaline comedown swept in waves of nausea on top of the bone-aching weariness. I forced myself to take some food, feign greater wellbeing than I felt and hoped for the feelings to pass.

Half an hour later I felt more stable but was tangled between asking for one last hurrah with him or using the last of my energy to get home safely.

I tested the water and said, “Hey, I’m getting tired [understatement of the year] but I don’t know whether to jump you first or just go home like I should.”

We curled together on the lounge and I rubbed his shoulders as we pondered separately and something that was entertaining on TV was suddenly irrelevant and dull. He stood and held his hand out and I knew I wasn’t being kissed goodbye.

I don’t know if it was the opportunity, the illness (I have that strange, mortality-shirking love of sex when I’m sick), more hormones, him, me or everything or nothing but what followed was one of the most sexual hours of my life. He said to me earlier that he doesn’t just like sex or adore women but he is a sexual being, and it all made sense and I joined him in that place.

I unbuckled his belt and removed his jeans to adore his cock with my mouth. He embraced my head and said wonderful things as I existed purely as a tingling extension of his body. We moved to the bed and he entered me again and warm good health spread through my body and blanked my mind. All I recall was him on top and two shapes in the dark breathing and existing on each other’s sexual energy and I was one of those merged shapes. I felt my muscles clenching around his cock and he held the position to bring on the orgasm I didn’t wish for because I wanted the journey to keep lasting.

The spell was broken momentarily and he slowed and asked what I wanted. I found some words and asked for him to fuck me and pound me and come inside me and fill me with his fluids and make me his goddamn fucktoy. He grew wings again and tried to destroy me with lust but I was unbreakable. I fed his ears with more of the things he tells me and I squeezed my cunt around his cock in a 1, 2, 1, 2 rhythm as my words became dirtier and he exploded and fell defeated on my beating heart.

I drove home feeling powerful and wanting to fuck everybody to see how much is him and how much is a new and magical fairy powder I can sprinkle over others.

The postscript: He was overwhelmed and struggled to articulate the magnitude of the last experience as well, which means he will disappear for a while, possibly longer. I learned more about his self protection measures when he opened up about other women. They fall, too, like me, but the unattached ones lose control of their expectations and create ongoing problems. I have similar levels of frustration when he disappears but better impulse control than they because of my other life but he will put his shield up regardless.


I was awash with a kaleidoscopic swirl of hormones that filled me with a peaceful energy, withheld the pending pains and made me fall deeply with a pure form of love for him. I glided behind him to his bedroom and felt I was otherworldly and sent for nothing else than to exchange pleasure and was convinced this euphoria was a new and permanent state of being.

(I was off my dial on sex hormones. I woke the following day struggling to deal with the shift from glorious hormonal dreamscapes to the physics of reality of she who soars so high has to land with an ugly thud. I think the reason I don’t take drugs is I’d become addicted purely to avoid crash landings — I don’t do ‘down’ well, which may be partly why I don’t lose control physically with ease.)

I purred and warbled hearing him say how beautiful and sexy I was, and my eroded emotional shell allowed me to shower him with admiration and play in his field of falling entirely during sex. I became him in a way, wanting to feel how he becomes so utterly bonded in the moment but doesn’t lose his sanity afterwards.

A few memory gaps as it was surprisingly late when we came to, but I remember lying on my back with my legs splayed and bent. He was perpendicular to me with his legs under mine and rubbing his erection against my genitals, more smoothly and quickly as my wetness gushed. I was engulfed in permission to enjoy him after the restrictions of the roleplay and I opened my legs further to encourage his penetration. He entered and we slipped quickly into a tempo that made him iron hard and straight and me the perfectly-shaped vacuum around him. I almost never orgasm through penetration alone and something released inside me and let go, a transitory kind of climax that gave me an overwhelming sense of calm but awakened a deeper and more ferocious hunger for him. A woman in full flight is a scary beast indeed; I would have been terrifying to swaggering and cocky young men if I had discovered these powers earlier in life.

A gap again but I ended up on top riding him with my breasts swinging above his face. He was close to coming but shifted position in preparation and lost momentum. I needed for his pleasure to equal mine and I leaned back to find a new position where he would have deeper penetration. While still thrusting on the way backwards, another orgasm from nowhere hit like a slap to the cunt — I sat bolt upright uncontrollably and somewhere in the midst I wondered what the fuck had happened and who had control of this new and crazy body. I fell back with my head between his feet and with his cock still inside me. I have to warm up and do complementary stretches before doing that to my quadriceps in real life but I felt the back of my head on the bed covers and started laughing like the village idiot. Nothing could hurt me, not even extreme human origami without a warm-up. He became worried and asked if I was all right but I couldn’t explain because nothing made sense.

I eased myself up, thanked him for the surprise and started fucking again to distract him from asking more questions I couldn’t answer. I found a position close to the original with my arms straightened where he also had space to thrust freely. He became pre-orgasm solid again and we fucked with nothing except the sound of my wetness shifting around his cock until he grasped my arms and came. I watched his face crease as he entered his own world for those seconds and adored him for letting go so beautifully.

I slipped by his side, nestled into his chest and swam in the embraces I’m usually wary of — his fleeing after fucking response is delayed compared to other men’s and the intimacy I know is but isn’t real is disconcerting but I let myself keep living his sexuality.



I assembled, packed, unassembled, re-packed, paced the house, showered, unpacked, checked my phone a dozen times to ensure he hadn’t cancelled, re-packed and pounced on the tick of the clock that I was allowing myself to leave the house.

The timing was good: I tried a new route in daylight that got me there a longer but quicker way and I arrived in the comfort of darkness. I stopped in the town centre to change shoes and breathe a few moments.

I parked and knocked on his door. Hair straightened and tied back, fresh make-up with darker eyes and glossier lips than usual, pressed white shirt, charcoal pencil skirt, black heels and leather compendium. No earrings — lose them too easily. Friendly-but-tired-after-a-long-work-day smile. We didn’t shake hands but he welcomed me in. I left my handbag in the entrance hall.

I flipped out brochures and property prices I’d ripped from the web and prattled inanities about the market as he walked me around the loungeroom. He started friendly enquiries veering towards where I live, who I am, who I’m with. I brushed him off with a fabricated life as a divorced career changer with little interest in men and no interest in clients. He maintained generous personal space between us in the open plan kitchen and dining room; a third of the house inspected and I hadn’t noticed any clues of when or where he would transfigure.


Home office, main bedroom, second bedroom, I talked about walk-in robes and en suites and he asked more insistently if I would consider dating a client. Preparing to strike. He had left until last the narrow and dark hallway and compact bathroom, toilet and laundry. Which one? I didn’t have a plan to instigate action if he let me inspect the house without interruption — suddenly I was more nervous about something not happening.

He closed the personal space in the bathroom but moved to allow my exit. I checked the toilet perfunctorily and stepped out towards the laundry. He blocked my path silently. In heels I was taller but he dominated the space with presence alone. Too early to resort to panic although my heartbeat was hurting my eardrums. I stood my ground and told him to let me through.

He asked for a date, a kiss, just one, he knows I want to, he’s lonely, the town lacks single women, just one kiss. I said no, no, no, no, let me finish my job and I’ll leave without reporting you. Let. Me. Go.

There’s a gap here. The next thing burned in my memory is being pressed against the wall of the hallway with both of my hands locked in one of his and my compendium wedged against my throat. He licked my face. I spat at his. He slapped mine and I spat again, giving tacit permission for more. I remembered later that he alternated sides — a considerate attacker.

Another gap. I remember seeing my fishnetted legs strobing under the entrance hall lights as he dragged me by my feet towards the loungeroom. My skirt must have gathered somewhere around my backside. When was the transition from vertical to horizontal? I twisted and launched for my bag and car keys. He slapped my thighs so sharply that my eyes shed tears of surprise and the keys slipped from my fingers.

We wrestled on the carpet. I don’t know where the buttons of my shirt ended up landing. He stuffed the rags of my underwear in my mouth. I spat them out and bit his arm. He wrenched my inner thighs between his thumb and fingers and sent flames through my nervous system. Easy way to stop me biting.

We surged with the same adrenal gland chemicals and fought with the same intensity but he was stronger. I squirmed and pushed and shoved and we shed the same amounts of sweat and exhaled loudly in unison. I sent strings of verbal obscenities as surprises but words were useless against the decades he’s spent strengthening his body.


I scanned my surroundings and was surprised to see I had dragged myself with him atop me in a full circle towards the front door. With the realisation of my effort came the loss of my energy. Nothing. I slumped and moved to bargaining with my captor and wished to myself the gift of a second wind. He said I could leave when I had done what he planned. I nodded and looked away. He cajoled and offered me water, fresh clothes, safety if I obeyed.

My prediction about duct tape and hessian rope was wrong: a box on the bookshelf contained lengths of chain, thick powerlifters’ nylon and velcro straps with large D-rings and rock climbing caribiners. I didn’t protest my wrists being shackled. He left my legs unfettered and guided me to the dining room, his spare hand carrying jangling metal for the next phase.

He attached my ankles with chain around the legs of a dining chair. My hands connected to my feet with more chain draped through the chair’s support beams. As he was arranging other chairs in a formation, I scratched away at the velcro around my wrists and freed my left hand, then my right. As he bent to remove his pants I dropped the wrist restraints and fled with the chair still attached to my feet — he had wound the chain around and not through the wood and the furniture had to come with me.

Funny moment one: I dipped my head to avoid being seen smiling when the futility and stupidity of this tactic hit.


I ended up lying on the floor while still attached to the chair, as if I were eating a meal and everything had been tipped backwards at 90 degrees. The tiles were cold and he collected a cushion from the loungeroom for my head. I rejected the gesture but quietly wanted to hug him for being a sweet bastard. He punished me with nipple twists and slaps that elicited unguarded shrieks of pain. I had revealed my tender spots and he pinched me there again when I refused his cock in my mouth.

He turned his body around and my world became black when his testicles spread over my face. I felt digits on my breast and started licking to avoid another wrenching. He edged lower and I knew what was coming.

Funny moment two: When he insisted I use my tongue on his arse, I called him perverted and disgusting and filthy and I couldn’t do that because I didn’t know what to do. My script writer needs a kick in the pants. He was spotlessly clean and hairless and I was in reality wanting very much to pleasure him with my tongue.


My hands were turning red and purple from restricted circulation and the bend of the chair prevented his next act of fucking me. I was the quietened victim with my eyes shut and head turned. Yes, I will do as you bid and promise to behave if you loosen the bindings. I ended up facing the chair, bent with my head resting on the seat in an upsidedown J with hands fastened in front. With time and space now to watch and absorb, I was aroused and tried to conceal my readiness for his cock by clenching my thighs. He slapped them open.

He fingered me and I came with my eyes open in a naive attempt to bely my body’s ripples. He wasn’t done and I abstractly watched a rain shower spray from my cunt. He was pleased and I still disbelieved that my body holds these fluids for his taking.

He entered my messed-up hole and I bit my lip to contain my noises. I was unsure whether to continue feigning horror or head towards redemption and give myself to him. Don’t fantasy rapists want to ‘convert’ their victims? I must have started rocking back into his cock — a finger invading my anus let me know we were still in role. My final pleas were for mercy when his cock moved towards the space broken by his finger. Another gap — sensation overload? I remember him taking me anally for what seemed a long time but can’t remember how much I enjoyed.

He withdrew and stood by my side as I lifted my head for the next act. There weren’t any words and I don’t recall any cues but at the same moment we broke into warm smiles and he hugged me and we laughed and kissed like reuniting lovers. He freed my wrists and we tongue kissed and found new reserves of a different kind of energy. I was more talkative than he about the previous 90 (that was all!) minutes — he said something about needing to stage a roleplay if we do another one and I wasn’t sure of his meaning. I was already dragged in too many mental directions to ask. I’m curious now but it’s probably not important as once is more than likely enough now I’ve come down. With the return of commonsense I thanked him effusively for *not* letting me escape when I was mostly naked and attached to the chair.

He led me to the sanctuary of his bedroom with murmurs of affection and how early the night still was. I stopped by the bathroom to tame the mass of fairy floss that was my hair and to tidy the rings of eyeliner that smudged more than I could have planned — I looked completely fucked.



I don’t think I’ll be wearing the underwear and pantyhose any more. He played hard because I chose garments with the strongest cotton stitching and edgings — I never knew an interest in fibre crafts would help in a sexual context. I’ll type more when I am aching less. I’m not sure how I’ll explain the emerging bruises on my hands and scrapes on my wrists without concealing the massive grin on my face; at least the other welts and marks and physical memories are mine alone to observe.