Mutually-assured destruction

That ArmyDude is a bit of a wild one.

When most of the building’s occupants had gone for the day, I locked the door to the open plan section of my office. He waited in the darkened spare office to the side.

The lock on the second door clicked behind me and its only key was in my hand. Same place, same time, and no one on this planet was going to interrupt us.

I flew when he pushed me backwards towards the wall — instinct curved my upper spine so my head didn’t hit the rendered concrete. First kiss, oh wow, he has cushiony lips, too; this must be what it’s like kissing me. There’s something indescribably hot about a man who likes to kiss.

My god, how long has it been since I kissed a smoker? First live-in boyfriend? Years, decades? Be quiet brain, focus on the olfactory assault later.

Fingers clamped his buttocks and pulled him closer – any gap between us was too far. He sucked my tongue. Clothes billowed like kites.

I think I got the angry red mark above my eyebrow when he bent me over the two-drawer filing cabinet. The whiteboard ledge came towards me too quickly to stop in time.

He licked me through my underwear and peeled the sheer material aside to insert fingers. My palms are sore from gripping the filing cabinet’s sharp corners. My forehead aches because it might have made contact with the wall once or twice when his tongue pressed my clitoris and anus.

I turned, told him to kiss me and share my taste. We had different sensory experiences: he could taste only me, and I only him. Cigarette smoke must be the only substance more powerful than my pussy juice.

I slid downwards and locked my mouth on his cock. Wanked him, licked his balls, gripped the magnificent slabs of thigh supporting his shaking legs. A large hand pushed the back of my head further down his shaft. I was surrounded by a force field of adrenalin and nothing could hurt me. Thwuck, thwuck sounds as he made me mouth-fuck him. I remembered not to leave obviously human marks like fingernail tracks down his back, but his hamstrings will bear blue-black smudges.

Thank goodness I didn’t remove the condoms from my purse after the last postponement. My back is a roadmap of red criss-crosses from being fucked across the floor on the industrial-grade carpet. His knees will be rouged discs from fucking me across the floor. Nice tattoos on his chest and biceps; I wanted to bite them.

I can’t explain the tender area on my sternum or matching sore spot to the side of my navel. Haven’t a clue about the three small bruises on an inner thigh.

He crouched on all fours and asked me to tongue his backside. Oh god, no exaggeration when he said he liked all manner of anal pleasures. He wanted fingers. Saliva everywhere as makeshift lubricant; one finger, two, asking for three. Now my knees are carpet-burn red.

Kinky bastard backed into me for more. My other hand found his illegally hard cock. Wish I had a third here and he or she could be sucking him off at the same time. I masturbated and fingered him until his legs gave way. Needs some skin left on his knees. He can go home like that because he has Army games this weekend and abrasions are easily explained.

I scalded my hands grasping the hot water tap for an anchor when he bent me over the ensuite basin and drove into me again.

Four fingers possessed by demons replaced his cock — I’ll either split in half or come. The sound of masturbating behind me prompted every cell to explode, almost to the point of black-out. Thanks, body, if I had known that fucking in every different way over a basin and having my vagina shredded would get me off, I’d have done this years ago.

Sweat from above dripped on my back. He looked pale and needed to sit. Hard to support someone 30 kilos heavier when my post-orgasmic, bloodless legs were about to fall off. I helped him hobble to an office chair to rest until his breathing slowed.

I think I broke him.

Fists and ass

I returned for another bout in Jekyll’s car, determined to either ditch him or drown him in my juices (over-reactive fight or flight actions are my conduct of choice when frustrated).

In the brief slip of time between arriving home from work and leaving to meet Jekyll, I tossed into my gym bag a vibrator, condoms and the unopened tub of Crisco on the chance we’d test its reputation as the fisting and handballing underground lubricant of choice.

During our warm-up chat comparing who had the most unproductive work day, Jekyll’s eyes widened and he demanded I remove my pants. I glared in response and said mine would hit the deck as soon as his were off.

He asked if I wanted my clit licked.

My shoes, jeans and underwear were in a pile before I could get my tongue into gear to respond verbally.

I pulled a towel from my bag to place under my backside in anticipation of flooding his face and caring about his car’s upholstery. Jekyll asked what else was rattling about in the bag and I said the Crisco hadn’t been opened.

It was like a pervert family Christmas morning when we removed the plastic lid and peeled the tub’s protective silver foil. We looked, poked our noses in and dipped our fingers as if the vegetable shortening might come to life and bite us. We rubbed the white grease between our thumbs and fingers until it turned clear and our digits slippery. It tasted bland but acceptable enough if dollops reached our mouths during hands-on testing. We pondered if people really used a cake-making ingredient to insert human body parts into other human body parts or if we’d been taken for a ride. We wiped our hands on the towel and placed the open container on the dashboard for later. The electric blue tub and its pound of contents stared at us mockingly as if we were too scared to play.

Jekyll folded his legs into car’s floor cabin and licked, fingered and slurped until all I could hear was my breathing. I went to a glorious place where my body turned on and my brain turned off and nothing mattered but the tiny mass in my centre where our surfaces connected.

My hamstrings strained to secure my body higher up the backrest and allow Jekyll’s fingers more room to move. I wriggled into his first two, burbled something unintelligible when the third entered and lost the power of speech when the last finger slid against the upper lining of my vagina.

So close to making the car rattle on its axles and forgiving Jekyll for any sin of the past, present and the entire fucking future. Please, body, I will crawl along a highway of broken glass to pass the stubborn gatekeeper between tension and release.

I asked Jekyll to rest his tongue when the cruel remnants of medication dangled relief an unreachable grasp away. He noticed my stagnation and enclosed his thumb in his hand, toying with my already-stretched cunt. We played with pushing and holding, retreating and re-trying, stretching and contracting.

“Feel that,” he said.

My right hand groped a digit-less forearm and I yelped.

“Where are your fingers?” my last functioning braincells asked.

“Inside you, silly.”

He guided my hand to the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the last undulation my vaginal entrance was reluctant to accommodate.

“Want to try the Crisco?” asked Jekyll.

“Why the hell not?”

He allowed his vaginally-lubricated hand to slide out and mixed my secretions with the greasier substance. I stretched and relaxed to settle myself for the battle of the last knuckle.

Jekyll’s hand slithered to its previous progress mark within seconds, and I heard him whisper, “Ninety-nine per cent, want to try for the last bit?”

“Please,” I said.

I didn’t have time to finish my sentence because he was in. Almost an anti-climax.

My brain exploded.

Jekyll tried to articulate the moment but my mouth uttered a jumbled, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, overload.”

He asked what was wrong.

“Shut up! And don’t move.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, brainy full. Shuddup.”

He closed his mouth but twisted his hand a few degrees at a time to test the effect. I reacted with yeses and nos as his subtle movements translated into buzzes of pleasure and pangs of discomfort. He said I felt full inside, which I agreed with but also found hard to believe considering his hands are of average size.

The oh fuck, there’s a whole human hand in me concept loosened its hold and I marvelled at the everyday miracle of women popping miniature humans out of their bodies.

I felt his tensed forearm again and marvelled at the I-don’t-know-what of the last few minutes. Like the night I was close to handballing Hyde, there were no sexual connotations at this stage; we were awestruck by the mechanics rather than the sensations.

Jekyll asked if I wanted a photo.

“Um, yes, no, oh, I don’t know, I don’t think I could look at it. Oh, maybe, I don’t know. Can you reach your phone like that?”

His spare hand was within reach of his mobile phone resting in the centre console. As he fiddled with the settings, I spread my thighs to minimise the effect of eating too much comfort food over winter in a surge of camera shyness and silly vanity (in case I did want to peek at the photo one day).

I caught sight of the stump of Jekyll’s arm between my legs when the flashlight illuminated the cabin. I reached mental overload again and it was time for his hand to be removed.

The extraction of his hand was like giving birth to the head of a giant octopus and his fingers were its tentacles. They kept coming out and coming out and I nearly yelled at the never-ending slippery intruders to get the fuck out of my body. A lifetime later my vagina was my own and thankfully Jekyll’s octopus child turned into a hand again.

We wondered and analysed and kissed and decided we were rampantly in need of a good old-fashioned fuck. The night so far had been surreal so Jekyll continued the theme and lubed my anus with his greasy hand. He ordered me on all fours as he wiped his hands and applied a condom.

We muddled about in the confined space and found a happy medium with my face wedged between the seat and headrest and my legs splayed wherever they fitted. Jekyll covered my back from behind and did a rollicking good job of pounding my arse.

He is a confident lover but purrs with the best when he receives compliments, especially my dead-honest feedback between moans and gasps that it’s been the best-feeling anal sex I could remember.

“In how long? Weeks, months, years?” he asked during thrusts.

“I don’t know.” Oooh. “Probably forever. Don’t know if it’s you or, hmmm, the heavier lube or both but, ahhhh, I don’t remember backing into a cock like this to get more.”

He’s sweet (and backhandedly asking for more) when he says if I keep talking like that he’s going to come.

I provoked him with the most vulgar dialogue I could channel and was drowned out when throaty groans and wails signalled his orgasm. He collapsed on my back as I fell down the seat in a helpless lump.

We cleaned ourselves and congratulated each other’s talent for causing so much mayhem in barely an hour. As I searched for my belongings, Jekyll offered to send the photo to my phone.

My skittishness returned.

“Okay, but not Bluetooth because it’ll open on the screen and I can’t look at it yet. Send a text and do not dare text me for the rest of the night, because I’ll forget and open it accidentally.”

I ignored the discreet buzz as the image hit my inbox and skipped to my car, forgetting how to drive and where I lived and how I managed complex tasks like remembering which traffic light meant stop and which said go.

My leg and glute muscles are strained from maintaining anatomically unusual positions but the important bits have bounced back to normal. I’m curious to try his hand again now the ignorance and apprehension have been dealt with and I can focus on how it feels.

The Second Threesome Act III: The closing (or, this would not be a good time for a fire drill)

It was time for all good things to end and Hyde to return to his other life (even at this early stage it’s obvious he gets the guilts after orgasm and looks for a polite moment to shower and leave). Jekyll offered to drive him home and return to the hotel to ravage me some more.

We agreed a fitting last act of the night was to spread-eagle and tie me to the bed, though I can’t remember why.

I adjusted the pillow and settled my limbs into an X formation as my soft Japanese ropes were run under the bed and through the D-links on my cuffs. Jekyll worked quickly and quietly, only pausing when Hyde asked him for knot recommendations on his side of the bed. Master and apprentice discussed the merits of popular knots as if I were a yacht that needed mooring against an oncoming storm. Jekyll demonstrated a nifty slip knot with the rope ends at the wrists within reach if I needed to undo them.

I joked and said to Jekyll, “Is that because you’re going to leave me here like this when you take Hyde home?”

Eyebrows rose in devious arches and within two minutes the room was dark, the clock on the bedside table was turned away and I was by myself with nothing but my thoughts, a dildo in my vagina and an anal vibrator buzzing away at my clit, its wire and controller resting on my torso and over my bicep.

I listened to the buzzing and squeezed my pelvic floor muscles to adjust the vibrator’s position. I wriggled the digits attached to each arm and leg in turn, and arched my back every few minutes to keep my muscles pliant. I pondered how many minutes had passed and imagined where Jekyll and Hyde might be. I heard my stomach growl and send extra-sensory messages to Jekyll that he might want to return with supper. Notes and lyrics from the music I was listening to earlier reverberated through my mind. Self-congratulatory claps of “Ooh, aren’t I daring for allowing myself to be tied up and left alone?” occasionally rumbled between my ears. Enforced relaxation can be an agreeable way to pass the time.

An unknown number of minutes later, fissures started appearing in my flow of pleasant thoughts. Shouldn’t Jekyll be back by now? What’s that grinding sound outside the door – surely not the elevator cable breaking? I wonder if Jekyll’s car has broken down; I wouldn’t know if he’s called because our phones are set to silent and are over yonder somewhere. I could really go to the toilet about now, or sooner. Crap, he must’ve had an accident. What if I release myself but he comes in the door 10 seconds later?

Internal muscle contractions caused the dildo to fall out which made the buzzy toy drop from my clit. Wriggle, wriggle of my arm to prise the thing to its former place. If I untie myself I could re-position the toys … hmmm, but how would I re-tie the knots?

Is that a fire siren outside the window? Would I have time to remove the leather bits in the event of an emergency evacuation? My god, what if a by-stander captures photos of me in a collar, tangled in ropes, the red marks on my bare backside accentuated by the spotlights of television crews? Goodness me, the situations I allow myself to be in. What will my parents think when they see their eldest and most sensible on the late news?

The door clicked.

“Oh, hi,” I said.

“How are you?” he replied.

“I’m fine, thanks. It’s nice having some quiet time to relax.”

The Second Threesome Act II: The thumb goes on the inside

Sometimes things just happen, like having my hand up to the knuckles inside Hyde’s anus. Before withdrawing, I gave my fingers a disbelieving wiggle and, yes, they were missing up his arse. The most intelligent sentiment I could express was, “Wow,” and days later that’s still the closest I can describe the experience.

He was lying on the bed with me on all fours between his knees, trying to suck his roller-coaster erection to firmness. His anus accepted my index finger like an old friend and I squirted more lube and added my middle finger. He swallowed them without effort and soon took my tee-pee of index, middle and ring fingers.

Jekyll was performing miracles on my bottom with his tongue and thankfully stopped the distraction when he became aware of the sudden quietness. We three are shamelessly visual and I almost heard Jekyll’s jaw hit the mattress when he saw how much of my hand belonged to Hyde.

Hyde grabbed my wrist and, without speaking, pulled it into his body. My supporting left hand squirted more lube down his cleft as my mind tried to catch up and thought fuck, I wasn’t expecting this. I nestled my little finger with the other three and held the now-larger cylinder of my hand against his anus. I didn’t have to wait for him to push into it because he pulled again with his hand, as if having it disappear up his arse was the urgent priority for the night. We were both heading into new territory and I was petrified on the inside but fascinated by how far we might go.

He pulled with enough force over time that my forearm muscles started shaking. I felt like I was in an action film sequence and my rapidly-fatiguing arm was the only thing stopping him from careening over the side of a cliff. Jekyll noticed my instability and I nodded in his direction that I was still in control – just. Hyde kept pulling and I wedged my elbow into my inner thigh to provide greater leverage and stability. And remembered to tuck my thumb into the protective cone of my fingers. And hoped like hell that his arse didn’t suddenly swallow my knuckles because I imagined my hand would shoot at a hundred miles an hour out of his stomach.

I enquired into Hyde’s comfort level. He said he felt fine but full and hadn’t a clue how many fingers were inside him. Jekyll replied chirpily that it was all of them and it looked amazing. A mental barrier went up inside Hyde’s head and he said he was starting to feel discomfort. I allowed his body to slide my hand out slowly as Jekyll and I watched the reverse motion in abstract wonder.

When my hand became mine again, I showed Hyde how much he had absorbed. I managed to form a lucid thought beyond ‘wow’ and said that – because of my lack of a penis – I’ve never had that much of my body inside someone else’s. We agreed the awe wasn’t sexual but surprise and newness and anticipation of more to discover next time. I have already scoured the web for a heavier-duty lubricant.

The Second Threesome Act I: Those who maketh a mess cleaneth the mess

I walked out of the bathroom and saw Jekyll and Hyde lying in bed like an old married couple waiting for a butler to serve cups of tea. With Hyde off-kilter from a head cold, he had cuddled into Jekyll for body heat as I fussed about preparing for my surprise.

I looked at them with a mix of lustful leering and motherly urges to snuggle Hyde to good health. Simultaneously I felt two pairs of eyes scan my naked form and leather bondage accoutrements from top to bottom, and return to the feathered black halo perched atop my head. They giggled wolfishly at the sight of the already-defiled angel before them.

Their “don’t you look cute” comments soon turned to malice-laced plans about how to corrupt me next.

“I want to come on her,” Hyde said.

Jekyll smiled. I mock-frowned.

“I think that’s a bit porny,” I said, not that anyone was listening.

“We’ll both come on her,” Jekyll countered.

I did a boys are gross eye roll as they cheered their creative brilliance.

“No,” I said, to no one in particular. “That’s so trashy.”

“Let’s do it and take photos with come all over her,” shouted Jekyll.

“Yes!” I said, “Now we’re talking proper trash.”

Quicker than the speed of sound my upper body was bolstered on pillows and the formerly-lounging men were on their knees, busily wanking over my stomach.

I looked at the masturbating bookends and thought this is great ogling and even though I don’t get the lure of the money shot to men, they’re having fun so lay back and enjoy the view.

Hyde came almost politely on my chest, not spilling a drop. Seconds later, Jekyll’s first spurt careened up one of my nostrils and in a glob over my eye. I made the mistake of gasping with astonishment and gagged on the inhaled semen. Thankfully, amongst the blindness and choking, survival instincts kicked in and I blew my nose, snorting the white splodges from where they entered. My unexpected Battle of the Sperm caused Hyde to topple laughing while tears rolled down Jekyll’s face as he tried to complete his ejaculation with more style. His aim didn’t improve and I felt more warm goo spatter my cheeks and seal my eyes further shut.

I couldn’t move (or see the photo) until they had re-gained blood flow to their legs, stopped laughing, taken happy snaps and wiped my face with a damp flannel.


Balance has been restored to the universe temporarily, though in my usual diet-soft-drink-in-one-hand-and-chocolate-cake-in-the-other way of overcompensation.

The Drummer and I passed in the hall between the kitchen and loungeroom and our eyes locked.

He said I could suck his dick.

I said I could if he said please.

He said please.

I like it when he’s assertive.

The next few minutes blurred but I remember telling him to get on all fours. I parted his bottom cheeks and buried my head in the cleft, aiming my tongue at his anus. I realised two design issues in quick succession: he is larger in all areas than Jekyll, including the depth of his gluteal muscles; and my nose is proportionately longer than my tongue, making access to his hole a challenge.

The Drummer rolled on his back to try a different angle. I managed to lick, probe and flick without wedging my nose too far where it wasn’t intended and heard a few “That’s fucking fantastic” murmurs in appreciation. Give me a new skill and I’m dangerous — I’m afraid Jekyll and Hyde have spoiled me forever and I’ll never have sex with anyone who’s not into anal play. I have a tongue and I’m not afraid of over-using it.

“But wait, there’s more,” I said as I jumped off the bed to the toy drawer. I found the vibrating butt plug and lube and fucked his anus as he masturbated. He usually comes quickly when masturbating but the arse play and side-effect of medication held him in an almost-meditative trance between wanting to come and not wanting it to end.

He finally hit saturation point and flipped me on my back – in his mind I could see I was a porn vixen in scanty lingerie begging for a money shot, while in the real world I fell back in my flannel pyjamas and knitted socks, my hand covering my eyes as I realised the only place he could come was on my face. He laughed when he snapped out of his orgasmic reverie and saw the mess he made of my pyjama top, neck, face and hand. I laughed in tune through my sticky hand and waited for his legs to recover enough strength to fetch tissues and tidy some of his handiwork.

He promised to wash my pyjamas.

How much is that doggy in the window?

I found a short piece from my sensual wish list that I had forgotten about. It reminds me that dominant/submissive liaisons can be about good humour, respect and a bit of high camp.


I want a human dog.

He will be younger than me, eager to please, responsive to training but retain a spark of cheekiness so I can punish his perfectly curved backside.

He will learn to kneel by my side and, if he’s a good boy, I’ll have a water dish inscribed with his name, which might be Wolfgang if I like him, or Fluffy if I don’t.

I’ll also teach him to ‘stand’ on all-fours, lie down, roll over and lick on command. And beg, of course.

I’ll look forward to seeing him enter the room wearing nothing but his collar, lead and cuffs, greeting me on all-fours so I can inspect him. Skin, hair, genitals, mouth, anus, all in the name of immaculate presentation rather than my urges to perve and grope, of course.

His dress outfit will be a leather short-sleeved shirt with police emblems, leather pants and black lace-up boots so he can be my police dog. This is where my discipline as the dominant will turn to custard because I’ll be so turned on my hand will open the zip of his pants and pull his cock out for attention. Police dogs don’t wear underwear.

I’ll tie him up when I go out and he’ll be the one throwing me a bone when I return.

Three is a magic number

I am often the fatalist when facing something new that prods at my insecurities, such as wondering if I was up to meeting two men at the same time and leaving with smiles of satisfaction all round.

Planning, good fortune and equal levels of desire played their parts to make a delicious haze of warmth, sharing and delightful flashbacks that continue to invade my waking mind at the most inappropriate times. Jekyll also took a photo of Hyde working his fingers in my crop-marked backside as a memento. Thank goodness .jpg files don’t fade with age and wear thin at the corners from regular handling.

The only awkward moment of the day was slipping the hotel key at reception on the way out and not knowing the etiquette of saying I wouldn’t be staying the night, or hoping the obvious could be left unsaid. I went with the latter.

The only embarrassing part of the day was sitting and re-gaining mental clarity after some mind-bending pleasure, and seeing the mess of clothing, leather bits, toys and ropes scattered around the room. They were all mine. I don’t know how the half-dozen piles fitted earlier into one bag but the only non-sexual items I had packed were clean underwear, lipgloss and a toothbrush. J&H called me a hussy in its most flattering context; I replied I was just obsessed with being organised, and added in a slightly perverted way.

The funniest part of the day was surprising J and H with how much I laugh when I’m being pinched, bitten, hit and whipped. Neither is experienced in the BDSM sphere but a crop in one’s hand and a strop in the other’s — combined with two doses of wicked imagination — had me lying on the bed having both bottom cheeks and thighs whacked in an inspired percussion routine. Their experimentation with beat, rhythm and sheer ouch factor made us giggle at our childishness. Hyde even laid a smack on Jekyll’s arse with the strop and left a fire engine red L-shaped mark that we cheered.

The most lasting memory of the day was how naturally everything flowed between us. We came together with an uneven history: J and H have been involved casually including one time together with a third person, J and I have been seeing each other the last few weeks, and H and I have met briefly once. I knew everything would be all right when we entered the room and H kissed me, telling me he was looking forward to the day, and J looked on and smiled at us. They moved so smoothly and beautifully together.

The most joyous unplanned moment of the day was when I had two penises in my mouth, sucking both at the same time. None of us had thought of it in our ‘shopping lists’ but H was on his back and I bent over perpendicular to him, paying homage to his dick with my lips. I beckoned J to finger H’s arse and he slid a lubed finger in while I kissed him and enjoyed the view. After a couple of minutes J snapped into a ‘me too’ moment and kneeled in front of me, his erection poking at my cheek as I sucked on H. I opened, I manoeuvred, I sucked, I got us into a rhythm, I still don’t know how. It was like a trashy porn scene but affectionate and funny so I did it a second time just to make sure it really happened.

The most fulfilling moment of the day was J’s earlier promise that two sets of hands and mouths meant twice the enjoyment. He was correct. I spent indeterminable periods of time not knowing whose body parts were where and how they were being used as my nerve endings melded in a glorious overload of endorphins.

I don’t know how I could have been treated to so much yet crave more.

An hour of firsts

Jekyll had some free time after work and I had some ideas how to amuse him. He needed my riding crop applied to his backside after the previous day’s erotic text message taunting from himself and Hyde. Their tag-teaming when I was at work caused nearly everyone around to wear a spray of my sexually-frustrated snappiness.

We met and he led me through darkened hallways and training rooms, pinching my thighs and smacking my bottom as we walked. A partition wall rattled when he pushed me against it to kiss me. Bless the person who incorporated lycra into denim jeans because his free hand slid to its wet target without resistance.

A few tweaks of my engorged clit later, I melted in a puddle of liquid lust on the carpet.

“What’s in your tool bag?”

Fingers work circles in slickened cunt.

“Hmmmm, *gurgle*, doesn’t matter. You’ve ruined my plan.”

Legs almost buckling.

“What plan did you have? Tell me, tell me.”

Tongue drives down throat and brain cells seize.

“Um, something about, oh my god that’s good, whacking you with things for teasing me yesterday *purr*.”

Teeth scrape ear lobe.

“What’s wrong with that plan?”

Tongue and lips in frenzied assault on neck.

“Arghhhhh, because, um, something, come on brain, the second you do that I lose the plot and forget what, oh my god.”

Cock grinds into pelvis.

“You like that, don’t you?”

“Fuck you. Oh, yes, I do.”

He helped me replace my clothes, revelling that he was forcing me to walk with damp underwear stuck to my genitals. I left a trail of sexual aroma in my wake as we left the building – we giggled at our timely escape when a tradesman entered the room soon after we left.

We had only an hour after we got to Jekyll’s office. He bit, licked, pinched and bent me over his desk as he slapped my bottom cheeks a new shade of raspberry. I stood to face him and our heads nearly bumped as we both dove in a telepathic race to attack each other orally. The last of my rational thought processes expressed itself through my mouth and I heard myself tell him to get on all fours.

His arse is the first I’ve rimmed. He was clean, pliable and spread his legs as far as he was able so my tongue could lick in long lines from his testicles and dart around and inside his hole. I can’t wait to master that fine art.

It was the first time I’ve been in a 69 position on an office floor. I was on the bottom. There will be new stains on the faded green carpet after he worked four fingers and the start of a fist inside my sopping cunt.

He is the first man who’s made me ponder the definition of sex. We haven’t fucked yet in the traditional sense of the word, presumably because his erections come and go without rhyme or reason. While I figure him out sexually, he can continue coming in my mouth and kissing me before we swallow. Another blissful first.