Elevated

The quality of being resourceful can be used for the greater good, or downright degenerate behaviour, and I’m unsure which box to tick for this post.

The Country Boy and I were experiencing separation anxiety amid family Christmas commitments and we wanted to meet, if only to do something that wasn’t out of obligation at this time of year. I was also experiencing insecurity about being (unintentionally) made to feel like the piece of arse on the side and was catastrophising that this and my current increased working hours at the temp gig would lead to our downfall. He has never done anything except be respectful, flexible and attentive and I spent some periods of time engaged in internal dialogue to stop catastrophising and chill the fuck out.

We found an early evening to catch up near his part of town and my period arrived a few hours before I left the office. He said tentatively he was still keen to meet if I was, I replied tentatively I was still keen if he was, and we became caught in a game of phone tag indecision. I broke the deuce and said I’d be at a park at the appointed time and he was welcome to join me. Cramps aid decision making, it seems. Once we sorted out that we intended to see each other face to face in whatever capacity, we were both suddenly determined to make it happen.

I arrived first at the unfamiliar location and conducted a reconnaissance around the swampy bushland fringe. We’d have been carried away by mosquitoes if we spent more than a few minutes there so I disregarded that option.The only useful structure in sight was a piece of children’s playground equipment. I was busy feeling dually excited and disgusted at myself for surveying its possibilities seriously when the Country Boy arrived. Necessity won and we decided to have a go because it’s only a piece of children’s playground equipment when children are using it, surely.

We climbed the metal stairs to a square wooden platform, nicely surrounded by rails to meet modern occupational health and safety standards (and privacy standards for perverts) and discussed how on earth we might use its unconventional features. I was in a state of physical discomfort and not inclined towards blood sports, so I said if he pulled his pants down then I’d be inspired with some ideas in seconds. I don’t know if he’s naturally obedient or my idea made eminent sense, but his pants hit the deck while my brain was still spinning for inspiration.

For someone who dislikes hospitals, accidents and injuries, my idea was on the stupid side after reflection. I grabbed the side rails and kneeled at the top of the slide, facing the opposite way to which one would normally traverse down. I then suggested he slide his cock in my mouth as I rocked back and forwards using the rails. Only afterwards did I consider that if my arms had given way, I’d have slid down feet first, face down and ended up a mangled heap at the bottom on my belly. But optimism and determined biceps won out and we engaged in some simple oral sex in the cooling breeze.

We hadn’t discussed who’d keep a look out for visitors, but the crunchy gravel-covered car park gave us ample warning and we remained undisturbed. After no more than two or three minutes, I thought I’d felt the Country Boy’s cock becoming pre-ejaculation hard and I could taste a generous amount of pre-come in my mouth. Then more. And more, until I thought he needed to stop as I couldn’t swallow with my mouth so full. He said afterwards that the contrast of the chilled night air and my warm, wet mouth excited him too much to hold on, and he didn’t want to stop even though he’d reached climax.

Such flattery will get him anywhere, although I’m not sure it’ll be on the slide again as I felt a bit icky looking at it on the way out.

Wet, wet, wet

Just before I finished up at my job (and I had free rein to leave early for job interviews), I lined up an afternoon meeting at the park with the Country Boy. I’m more of the faking a fair proportion of my life type than telling untruths, but I happily lied my arse off about a fictitious company outside my industry in order to wrangle some naked time in the sun.

And it was sunny. And warm. And the park was packed to capacity with cricket training, early season football training, dog walking, hockey and some soccer just to complete the United Nations of sports holding us back from misbehaving in the car park. We strolled to our usual place off the track but the location seemed too exposed after possibly being detected last time.

We wandered the main path and hunted for sub-tracks or imaginary tracks that we could create. On a whim, we cut a swathe through some knee-high grass in a cleared area towards the back of one of the sports grounds. A fallen tree blocked our progress, however, there wasn’t a track in or out of the spot – excellent. My inner paranoiac scanned the scene for disturbed grass where others may have taken a short cut but all blades except the ones we trampled were upright — perfect.

I removed my pants, sat on the log and sucked his cock as his fingers probed inside me. His cock slid out my mouth and I left him to his own devices as I came. I’d never intend to bite someone’s cock if it’s in my mouth as I’m coming, but it’s one vow I’d never wish to test. I was blinded by the sun and stars in my eyes as I recuperated and he allowed me a few seconds’ rest before working my g-spot again. I grasped his shoulders and buttocks as I came again in a surprise spurt. We discovered that I come more easily when positioned close to vertical  — and I was half-sliding down the log anyway – and he got me off several more times until my legs felt they were filled uselessly with the viscous fluid and glitter in snowdomes.

I didn’t realise until I tried to stand properly that I’d left two wide streaks of fluid down the log, and a large patch of foliage between my legs was shimmering with droplets. I blushed with coyness and just a little bit of pride and said, “Oh.” The Country Boy’s eyes lit up with a mix of pride and mischief and he asked if I’d like to go a few more rounds.

“Only if you’re carrying me to the car afterwards.”

We fucked instead with me bent over the log and him behind me. His legs were wobbly too on the way back.

Orgasm

I orgasm quietly. Always have, and more likely than not I always will.

I don’t know if our sexual expressions are ingrained naturally or if they’re learned with the encouragement (or discouragement) of partners. Perhaps I never lost the secretive silences of self experimentation while living in the family home, or I just internalise a lot of my pleasure like I internalise a lot of my non-sexual thoughts and responses.

Young Lion has asked previously, that when we meet, I should shout when I’m about to come and yell his name at the moment of release. I delayed my response to those messages because I was torn: he was only telling me this because loud demonstrative behaviour turns him on and I’d like to please him in this way, but if I am being truthful and authentic with my own sexuality, the moment I start having to think about my behaviour leading to orgasm, the less likely I am to come. The natural order of things is thrown out of balance when I interfere with its patterns. I don’t mind if I don’t orgasm when that’s how things (don’t) roll at the time, but I most certainly do mind if an orgasm is within reach and withers away or is sabotaged.

The Country Boy knows when I come if using his fingers on my clitoris as I shove his hand away when I become too sensitive. But sometimes he’s asked after penetration if I’ve orgasmed because my internal wild rollicking and crashing and thunderous finale apparently isn’t obvious to the man inside me. I have to remember to communicate with him.

Words weren’t necessary the other day. I was laying on my back with my arms outstretched at a perfect 90 degrees and my legs apart in the air like an open pair of scissors. He entered me and we fucked lazily as we watched his ivory fair, blue-veined cock slid in and out of my swollen, dark pinky-purpley labia. I think I have a fetish for veins: Country Hottie’s striated forearms had my mind racing at lunch before we had sex for the first time, and the Country Boy’s cock has at least half a dozen visible veins that pulse blood to his heart for recirculation and feel like they’re splitting me in half sometimes. And I’ll have to post a photo I saw on the web yesterday of a man’s veined abdominal area that captured my attention. Or, I should concentrate and finish this post.

He brought my legs together vertically so I couldn’t see his face, nor watch the action. He thrust more deeply to the point I almost couldn’t tolerate his size, and in that haze of pain-tinged pleasure, my body decided it was time to come. And come. And keep coming. And a few more times for good measure. I wanted to shout to him then but the only vocalisation I was capable of was something like a strained yowl with a few gurgles thrown in.

Afterwards I was dazzled with endorphins and the part of the brain that manages language was disabled, so I told him, “You know that thing with my legs together and you were driving me through the wall? Yeah, yeah, that. I had like four million orgasms, couldn’t stop, fucking awesome, wow. So good. No idea what you did but holy fuckaroly. Can we do that one again soon?”

I wish I did orgasm more loudly so my partners could be saved from such awful discourse.

Rush hour

I wrote a few posts ago that every man in my contact list was hormone-happy and on the hunt. Then I realised that I say ‘yes’ just often enough to encourage the fly-by-nighters to keep trying me like a casino game that spat coins a few plays ago and may just pay out again. Damn this self awareness.

Pleasure Freak sent a text message saying he was driving through my area, he was horny and we should catch up. The jackpot span for him because at that moment I was leaving the office to attend a chore I’d been delaying and I was in an anti-establishment mood. Fix work problem versus fix Pleasure Freak? While messing about in the office is hardly new to me, I still feel a sense of obligation towards the organisation paying for the roof over my head: I opted to do both.

I borrowed a work vehicle, drove off and texted Pleasure Freak a general co-ordinate of where I thought we’d find a quiet industrial estate. During business hours. On a work day. Weirdly enough, as I was trawling the streets he found a quiet cul-de-sac adjacent a freeway off-ramp; when I pulled up alongside his car I could see vehicles whizzing past too quickly to see us and I marvelled at the deceptive privacy.

I got out of the car and looked into his passenger’s side window; he wasn’t joking when his last message said his pants were off and a hard cock was throbbing in his hand. I used my magnificent powers of observation to note that this encounter wasn’t going to be about me. We said hello and exchanged a few pleasantries while he was manhandling his cock. Pre-come was already threading like a cobweb to his belly.

He appeared to have the masturbation aspect of his enjoyment under control and I tried to add value by brushing my fingers along his balls and perineum. After not long at all, he pushed my hand away and asked for a finger inside his arse. Can do. I spat on my middle finger and slid it in, inserting as deeply as I could and working it against the upper wall of his passage.

He came and wiped his belly with take-away food serviettes. I extracted my finger and wiped my hand with take-away food serviettes.

We laughed at the convenience of take-away food serviettes.

He said we should catch up soon. I said yes, and added with intentional innocence that a hotel might be good.

I knew he’d look like a frightened squirrel after that suggestion but I felt like baiting him anyway. It was my mental reward for not receiving a physical reward.

We kissed briefly once and went our separate ways.

The end.

Did not need to see that

I haven’t bothered trying to perfect the art of administering an enema since the disastrous first time and, thanks to keeping an online diary, I know I haven’t had anal sex this year.

So when the little devil on one shoulder says, “Hey, the Country Boy suggested engaging in some anal sex sometime. Drop your pants and go for it now,” and the little angel on the other shoulder says, “You’ve not had to think about how clean and empty your body truly is for some time. Stop and think properly,” listen to the angel. The angel knows.

I know everything washes off with soap and water, but there is such a thing as too much sharing.

After the storm

I am sorry for the unexpected disappearance from here, but I’ve been so tired that I can’t think, let alone form sentences. There’s six drafts in various forms of disarray in my e-mail account (I sometimes log into my web mail and jot a few sentences if things are quiet around the office) and I need to post something before I’m toppled with a mountain of incomplete trains of thought. Here goes.

The earth tilted towards the sun when the Country Boy and I met last week (more than two weeks ago , now) at the park. After days of wild weather we were given some brief moments of watered-down sun and a barely-there breeze.

He was propped against the side of his car when I pulled up, and I said, “Hey, it’s almost a good day to explore the bushland.”

He replied and said, “Great minds think alike; that’s why I’m stand here waiting to see if you’d like to take a walk.”

He has a devilish smile. And an alluring bulge between his legs.

My new mobile phone for work has a data package and a map application that I haven’t yet needed for work purposes, but it proved a blessing in checking out the park’s topography. We scanned the satellite images and located a path behind a football ground that was ripe for discovery. How did people find private places in the good old days?

We strolled arm-in-arm along the dirt path (trying not to look suspicious as we were the only visitors without dogs) and saw some narrow tracks deviating to each side. One in particular was blocked by a fallen tree — which increased the risk of me falling on my backside navigating the damp ground and branches — but increased the likelihood of no one else being in the area. It was perfect. We struggled through the foliage and continued along the path until we encountered a small clearing with a fallen tree trunk resting at knee height.

I grabbed the Country Boy by the hand and told him to follow me. I chose not to respond when he asked what I was thinking, but he got the hint quickly when I sat on the branch and undid the button and zip of his trousers. Everything was at the right height for my hands to clasp his buttocks and draw his cock to my mouth. He used his legs to push mine apart and plunged a handful of fingers into my wet space.

I became tangled mentally between enjoying the mutual closeness and daring of our location, but keeping one eye open towards the path in case we missed the warnings of someone approaching. After a couple of minutes of his fervent attentions though, I started to not care if half the municipality walked past in shock, but thankfully the impact of the storm allowed us uninterrupted privacy.

We hadn’t thought to take protection on our walk because we weren’t expecting to find a quiet location, so he gripped the back of my head and fucked my mouth until he filled it with come. It’s easy and enjoyable with him because he maintains a clean diet and also ejaculates in one neat spurt. When he recovered he stood me up and I held his shoulders as he worked a finger around my clit. I almost bit his chest when I came, more out of surprise than pleasure as I didn’t expect to relax into him so readily.

We stumbled back to civilisation with wobbly legs and broad smiles on our faces. Nighttime hadn’t fallen by the time we returned and we plotted some possibilities for our next meeting.

And then he …

And then he said, “Oh, I watched that squirting video you sent me.”

What a throwaway comment to change the topic, I thought.

“What did you think?” I asked.

“I think I was using too much energy and strength in my fingers rather than the whole arm movement. I noticed the guy in the video wasn’t built like Mr Universe but he still had his girlfriend coming like crazy.”

“Did you notice the sound when he was working his fingers inside her?”

He shook his head.

“Damn, it was one of the most important signs that the technique is spot-on; I should have thought to tell you when I sent the message. No worries, we can watch it again and try another time.”

He kneeled higher from the floorpan and unbent my legs from atop the dashboard, shifting one to each side. He inserted two fingers inside me and said, “Apparently my fingers aren’t supposed to bend, something like this I think.”

I felt the swelling build against his finger tips during each plunge and could feel the approach of an orgasm. I crashed back against the seat and swore as I came.

I shook some sense into my head and said, “A bit more practice and you’ll have it down. I came but I didn’t sq…”

Suddenly the leftover internal pressure felt like it was releasing with a different sense of urgency and I sprayed fluid down his hand and forearm. My backside soon felt cold and wet, which meant his car seat was damp as well. Fuck.

“Whoops, sorry. The orgasm and the squirt usually happen within a couple of seconds of each other, not, um, 20 seconds. I’m a little out of practice.”

I felt sheepish that I’d lost control but he was inspired and determined. He commenced fingering me again and within 10 seconds my fingernails were wedged deep in his forearms as another orgasm ripped through me. The release of my juices was more closely synched this time and he lifted his arm proudly to show me the wet trails dripping from his elbow.

He placed his hand between my legs again for more and I acted all grown-up and sensible and said that we needed a towel before I destroyed his upholstery. Neither of us had brought one so his work jacket was sacrificed in the name of squirting.

The jacket was soaked. And I received a message two days later saying the seat was still damp. Oh.

The comeback fuck

I was starting to feel healthy again and the Country Boy had mentioned his urge to be spanked. I was determined to find a way of meeting him.

Our houses are off limits at this point in time and I was unable to drive. The Drummer chimed in and said he could give me a lift to the park after work and collect me later. I appreciated his offer but I couldn’t get my head around being driven by my partner to a liaison and possibly have him hang around discreetly in the car park. The Country Boy said he could collect me and drop me home but in the end I felt like a soft bed, lots of warm skin and space to warm up my rusty spanking hand.

In a fit of enthusiasm, I booked a motel for an after-work meeting and confirmed arrangements. Then I wondered how on earth I’d get there. The Drummer ended up picking me up from work as I still wasn’t able to drive — I felt awkward, as if I was new to the prostitute scene and he was my pimp dropping me off at a seedy liaison point. He found my discomfort amusing and bid me a good time. I mumbled a thank you and tried to make the mental transition from exiting a domestic situation into a sexual one but I jittered impatiently when the check-in clerk gave me the long-play version of the motel’s facilities. I didn’t give a flying fuck about the in-house laundry service and the pool, but just needed a quick point in the direction of the room and I’d sort the rest out.

I sent the Country Boy a text message with the room number and directions and only had enough time to kick off my shoes and fold back the bed cover (are they ever laundered?) when he knocked at the door. In seconds he was on top of me on the bed and we struggled with prioritising a first rough-and-ready encounter or waiting a few minutes to shower and then savour each other all over. We compromised and showered quickly, and followed with the roughest tangling on the bed I was able to muster. Although it’s the first sexual encounter I’ve had in some time, I can’t recall most of it amidst the flurry.

I was still wired from not reaching orgasm and he had recovered quickly from his. I spilled the contents of my bag on that handy carpeted bench in most motels that usually holds suitcases or whatever it does. In my haste of running late and some nerves of excitement about meeting later in the day, I had forgotten what I’d packed. Three lengths of soft rope, collar, lead, wrist and ankle cuffs, caribiners, vibrators, lubes … enough for plenty of scope but not so much that I’d scare him away (I hoped).

To my delight the cuffs fitted his wrists and I attached a couple of caribiners to the D-rings purely to make a rankling sound. After weeks of playing out scenarios in my mind, I experienced choice overload and didn’t know what to do next with my willing subject apart from smacking his arse. My dominant side doesn’t come out often but my desire to bend and manipulate him was focused like a beam of white light in my mind, and he looked at me once and said I had a crazy person’s look in my eyes. So I threatened him with a blindfold and gave his backside a couple of test smacks while I was arranging my thoughts.

The answer came to me: he needed to be on all fours facing the bedhead with his broad but taut, spankable arse in the air. He obediently placed himself in position and I ran a length of rope through the D-rings on the cuffs and secured an end tightly to each side of the bed. I admired my handiwork: as he was a novice to being held captive, I had given him enough leather and rope to look at and think about, but plenty of lateral movement to shift along the ropeline if he became uncomfortable.

His arms were far apart and I admired the sweep of his back. Looking further down his body, his legs were close together and I asked him to part them for me. I sat on the end of the bed facing away from him and slid under his hindquarters so his cock was dangling above my face. I held his buttocks and pulled him toward me, nestling his cock in my mouth until it swelled to a size larger than I could hold. I pulled his backside towards me as a signal for him to fuck my mouth and he understood and rolled his hips into me.

I didn’t trust myself to hold his cock safely in my mouth as I slapped him for the first time and I took over masturbating him. When he had settled into the new sensation of my hand massaging his cock, I landed the first slap on his right cheek with a sharp sound. He moaned quietly and I became a little power silly and started laughing. I rubbed and ran my fingers around both cheeks to settle us both again, removing them from his skin occasionally so he couldn’t predict the next strike. My left hand landed without warning and gave him a matching pair of marks and he moaned again, this time with more depth and volume in his voice.

I checked into his welfare and he said he was enjoying himself.

“Good,” I said, and I hit both cheeks almost simultaneously for a cracking sound that made my eardrums sing.

I experimented more with alternating between sucking his cock and spanking him until he was rock hard and my palms were bright red and stinging. When I thought we had both had enough, I kneeled behind him and massaged his backside. He started backing into me and I ran my tongue from his balls to his anus and rimmed him while wanking him with a free hand. Pre-come was dripping from his cock and every breath he emitted was loud and starting to fill the room.

My mind snapped with a new idea: I undid one of the rope’s knots and slid it through the cuffs to release him. He stretched and then smiled when I said I wasn’t finished yet. I was warm to the core and wetness was almost dripping down my thighs; my only thought was that his weapon-like cock should be inside me sooner rather than later.

I laid him on his back and clipped the wrist cuffs together over his head so he was sprawled out over the covers for me and looking slightly helpless. I wanted to stop and admire the view but his cock was irredeemably hard and he was murmuring something important about me needing to ride it. I slipped on a condom and climbed aboard with my ankles tucked into his sides and knees raised into my chest. His cock protruded between my upper thighs and I teased him by squeezing my thigh muscles around his hardness. He asked and complained and begged and shouted that I had to fuck him right then, and I upped the ante and started massaging his cock against the soft skin of my pubic area. I became concerned that guests in neighbouring rooms could hear his new pleas — and I was wild with lust anyway by this stage — and I lowered myself on him. He rocked his legs up and down to maximise penetration and I gave him permission to express his frustration. I took him for a ride with my hands on his shoulders while leaning forward, grabbing his legs behind my back when I leaned backwards, and sitting upright and gripping the bedhead while he sucked my swinging breasts. Again, I wasn’t able to come despite my most energetic efforts and he ended up exploding inside me.

I think I was too excited to relax enough to reach orgasm but the hours with him flew by in a haze of pleasure. After we were sated, we showered together and talked about my experiences with female ejaculation. We finished with a quick hands-on attempt at getting me to squirt, but I was out of practice and I promised to brush up on my research and try again next time.

It’s good to be back.

Straddling in tight spaces

I am enjoying the Country Boy. Apart from his physical assets and showing up at appointed places on time, I like his sense of adventure and keenness to say yes to almost everything, including situations that may not allow great satisfaction. He has the classic ‘can do’ attitude, and we did in the front seat of his car (before my break) even though his car only has a front seat.

We met at the park and waited for some dog walkers to escape the poor weather before allowing hands to travel indecently. He kept whispering there were so many things he wanted to do to me; I didn’t know whether to ask him to describe them and escalate the tension, or beg him to shut up because the frustration was becoming agonising. Self-sabotage is nothing new to me so I asked him to tell me one idea. His mind was so choked that all he said was, “I. Have. To. Fuck. You. Soon.” This is probably the part in a movie where both characters would lock eyes, rip the clothes from each other and screw violently on the floor, but all we could do was lock eyes, look around the car park dejectedly and screw our faces with looks of impatience.

His car thankfully has a centre console that flips into a seat, much like the bench seats of the cleverly-appointed cars of old. While our shoes and pants were being discarded, we discussed how we might fuck along the narrow seat. He suggested we brave the cold by standing outside the car and bending me over the seat while he stood and drilled me from behind. Apart from the risk that my bare arse would freeze and fall off in the cold, cars continually drove into the car park looking for available space — ‘my’ park has become a beat of sorts and I’m going to have to start looking for more back-up venues. Too many locals might recognise my backside.

The Country Boy is too tall to lay along the seat without a fair length of his legs poking out the window, so we curled up together and thought. I thought I’d think better with busy hands and mine parted his legs and stroked his shaft and balls. The only other thought I could generate was that his cock should be in my mouth and I shifted into an oval shape next to his lap to think with his cock in my mouth.

It worked. I asked him to sit upright in the centre and place a leg in each floorpan and I’d try to straddle him while facing each other. I wasn’t sure how much lateral scissoring my legs would manage without falling backwards and taking out the windscreen, but anything was worth a try as were at the stage of extreme sexual frustration and starting to doubt why we were there. He scrambled underneath me and cupped my buttocks as I grasped the seat headrests for balance and tried to find a way of impaling myself in the soonest possible time. When I felt stably positioned over him, I lowered myself and used one hand to guide his cock inside me and allowed gravity to do its work.

It felt good in a I-don’t-care-how-stupid-this-looks-or-if-anyone-sees-me way — I used to be shy about being exposed (mentally and emotionally more than physically) while on top, but I’m well and truly over that insecurity. I gripped the back of a headrest and used my other hand to reach behind me and hold the steering wheel for better leverage as I rode his cock. He got into the tempo with his hands grabbing my backside and wrenching me up and down aggressively. I closed my eyes and could have been anywhere except for the occasional collision of my head with the roof.

We became sweaty and the interior glass fogged to opaque greyness as we fucked with abandon. I wondered briefly what the occupants of the other cars were doing because it wouldn’t have been half as fun as our cramped quarters, although I’m sure they thought along the same lines. He apologised and said he couldn’t last longer and came. I was content at the time to keep going for as long as I could, but when we cooled I realised my legs were cramping and my arms had been stuck in unnatural positions for too long and took some time to extricate.

I recommend this position most enthusiastically for tight spaces. Next time I’m going to try tilting my pelvis back a little so my g-spot receives more of the action.

The hotel afternoon

The Country Boy and I met again (lust and selfishness defeated my moral stance) but the day happened to be unseasonably warm and clear and the beach car park was filling with sunseekers. I could only spend so long sprawled across his lap with my pants on and my eyes open looking for innocent bystanders who might chance upon us.

I made some calls and found a reasonably-priced motel a five-minute drive away, and we impatiently waited for the clock to tick near the check-in time. I always become awkward when at a hotel registration desk, as if the person organising my booking can see every lewd image of potential in my mind flashing like a porn video over my head, even though a huge number of hotel bookings must be of the less-than-one-night kind. She asked if we were touring, and I said, “Oh yes, first time exploring the area,” nervously unaware of the double entendre that sent Country Boy laughing with a hand over his mouth.

We were personally escorted into the room and the seconds crept again as we waited for our guide to get the hell out. On her exit we closed the drapery, locked the door and stood before each other, suddenly unsure where to start now we had secured our privacy. He sat on the bed and called me over, and I happened to fall on him in a whoops, look what’s happened but no harm done so let’s just stay like this a while kind of way.

“You like it on top, do you?” he said.

“Oh, I think I’ll like you any old way,” I replied, as I clamped my knees into his ribcage and felt his cock through his jeans.

We reached the moment I knew we had hours and could take our time yet I wanted the first fuck out of the way. The first time with a lover is new and filled with revelations but the lack of knowledge beforehand also obstructs the ability to contemplate what else is possible.

I ended up naked and laying on my back with his head between my legs. He lapped like a thirsty man chancing upon an oasis while two of his fingers made corkscrew movements inside me and I was surprised to find my body climaxing quickly. I was energised and said it was my turn to explore him more. He stood beside the bed in front of me and asked me to close my eyes as he removed his jeans. I knew he wasn’t as innocent as he has played because he was presenting his cock to me like a gift to behold, already knowing the reaction he’d receive. I kept my promise to keep my eyes closed and opened my mouth. I couldn’t say you’re fucking kidding me because my mouth was full and my lips strained to take the first couple of inches, and I knew that he knew he had been more generously proportioned than I had felt in the car when we met. My hand reached towards his shaft and I felt more hardness and I really wanted to get the first fuck out of the way to make sure I could take his size without discomfort.

He asked for me to start on top because the unrenovated 1970s architecture blessed the room with huge wardrobe mirrors to one side and equally large pieces of glass at the foot end of the bed and he wanted to see my arse bouncing. I wasn’t keen on seeing my wobbly bits from so many angles but being on top would allow me the opportunity to control the penetration and I pushed him back on the pillows and got on board.

The first tentative strokes were a sublime mix of piercing pain and addictive pleasure. I leaned backwards a couple of times but what felt like veins on the sides of his cock seemed like they were splicing my insides. I was more comfortable crouching on him like a jockey on a racehorse where I could control the penetration, and it also gave him an unfettered view of my hindquarters. My face was buried in his chest hair while he watched the action from all the angles.

Slowly, slowly, my body relaxed and expanded and I placed the palms of my hands on his shoulders and drew myself up. He wasn’t thrusting and I sat upright and held him inside me for a few moments to simply feel him. A few deep breathes later I shifted forward into a 45-degree angle and he joined me in moving our bodies together; I can usually come from this angle but I was overloaded from sensation and he came first.

He is easy to talk to and we filled the quiet moments with casual conversation and roaming hands. There wasn’t much down time as he recovered quickly and licked and massaged my breasts. That was my cue to explore his cock with my hand and it grew rapidly with silken touches along the shaft. If there were a cock Mr Olympia, I think he and Mr OMG would fight for the trophy: Mr OMG’s is more classically shaped but the Country Boy’s is slightly thicker and more workmanlike with its own appeal. I thought briefly of the delights of having them in the same room: they would tear me in half but I would be torn in half a very happy woman.

I sat on the bed with my legs crossed and drew him closer and clasped his buttocks. I licked up and down his shaft and rolled my wet tongue around the head of his cock. When his cock was coated with my saliva I ran my barely-open lips along his length, which made him generous with compliments. When my mouth needed a rest I stroked his messy-wet cock with one hand and licked his balls and perineum with the tip of my tongue. I’m not sure if I was doing a good job or if he’s responsive to almost anything but he seemed even more pleased. I spread his legs and thought about an approach further back but I couldn’t recall if we had discussed rimming. There are plenty of joys in the traditional zones and I can save the other ones for later.

He fingered me to wetness again and my crossed legs splayed open on the bed covers and my hand on his cock became undisciplined in its movements. He took the opportunity to fall on me and I wrapped my arms around him to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere. His cock grinded atop my pelvic bone until I was almost begging him for relief from the teasing. He grabbed a condom and entered me and I possibly bit his shoulder with surprise at the sensation: again an unfathomable depth of pleasure with tinges of searing pain. I could become obsessed with the mix of newness and familiarity and my body’s responses.

We fucked some more and felt and licked and kissed and hugged and probed and touched until darkness fell and we had to go. I hope we do it all again soon; I felt whole and rejuvenated again.