Shower power

I have a cast iron bladder that never releases a drop until I send the message. I’ve pissed while hiding in gardens after drunken parties, been drop-perfect in tiny specimen jars for mid-stream urine tests, sprayed over people while perched on the edges of bathtubs and could probably write messages in the snow with my control and aim.


We were in the shower and tried to decide the etiquette of who would piss on whom first. Ladies before gentleman? Flip a coin? He or she who draws weapons first gets first shot? He ended up going first as my body rejected every one of my brain’s messages to send a jet of warm liquid across his thighs. Must have been some kind of urinary performance anxiety.

Thankfully he was ready for release and squirted copious amounts of body-warmth liquid across my front, with plenty in reserve to flow down my back and legs when I turned and leaned into the contrast of the cool white tiles.

He spread the joy around while I thought of positions to despoil his freshly-showered body. He knelt under me as I stood with one foot on the raised edge of the shower stall with the toes of my other foot gripping the tiles at tap level – not elegant but I doubt anything involved with flinging bodily waste around ever is.

Finally, the seal opened and I returned the favour with a stream that rippled from his shoulder blades down his back. He twisted to allow the spurts to cover his chest and splashed about in our combined liquids. Urine play doesn’t seem to turn me on sexually but I gain pleasure from the visual aspects and find a perverse kind of fun in getting grotty. There’s also a nice time warp game in play that one turn of the tap can erase all evidence of the scenario in seconds but the act remains firmly in my memory banks – everything is washed down the drain but I know only seconds ago I was in the same place smelling, seeing, feeling, probably giggling.

Later, I was still a bit out of sorts with new-person nerves and struggling to find my groove, but he found and did glorious things with my G-spot that left me like an incoherent turtle curled on the linen – and these past few months I’ve been beating my clit into submission. Silly me.

Of course there was a shower between.

A little bit of bastardry

I have no idea what mental processes drive ArmyDude’s behaviour at times, but I remain swinging between being baffled and impressed. I hold close to my heart his tenderness when he gifts me with secrets and I know he’d come galloping with the cavalry if I was ever in danger or needed a shoulder to cry on. The less gallant side of his character is that he has no compunctions about keeping me in line when I’m being princessy and precious.

Unfortunately for me, he has worked out I secretly enjoy his refusal to put me on a pedestal. If I dig through the crap that clutters my psyche, I think I enjoy the contrast to The Drummer’s near-idolatry of me — it’s the occasional release in pressure of feeling sacred on a daily basis to being occasionally treasured yet kept on my toes, I think.

ArmyDude is the man who has almost cried when telling me about the unhappiness of his home life, yet has bent me over his lounge suite and ejaculated on the small of my back, leaving me stranded like a garden ornament until he ambled off to fetch a wash cloth, knowing I wouldn’t dare allow a drop to spill on his carpet.

This is also the man who was so nervous about a potential threesome with another man he went on a mission to try fucking another of the same gender so he wouldn’t let me down, yet video exists on his phone of when he tied my hands to the bed and filmed his cock fucking my mouth, ignoring my protests that I have said no to video in the past. The bastard was even going to hook it up to his television and make me watch the footage on the larger-than-life screen, knowing I can’t stand watching myself.

He also knows how much I’d like to do oh so many things to him in uniform, yet, when I’ve been to his house, he leaves a row of camouflage gear and perfectly-pressed mess uniforms lined up like a platoon where I have best visibility of them, teasing me with their silence about when they might be used. Drives me mad yet I think it keeps the tension between us taut and sharp.

The other day he needed to leave work to collect some thing or other and asked if I wanted to go for a drive. We haven’t been alone for a fortnight and I co-ordinated a rendezvous point in the time it takes to say, “When?” I seem to have missed the master class in playing hard to get; perhaps this is why he doesn’t bother inflating my ego and treading softly in order to get into my pants because I want to be in his as ardently and openly.

I wanted to clear the air about a communication problem that resulted in a missed meeting recently, but it was damn hard to chastise the man when his hand was down my pants and probing my dark places, let alone ask him to stop because we had a farewell presentation to attend when we returned.

“You can’t keep spreading my wetness around like that; I’m going to smell like a brothel on pay day.”



“And you love it, don’t you?”

I can’t lie to him – the risk of public exposure doesn’t excite me, but quieter, more secretive dangers make me buzz to the point of squirming in my chair.

He removed his sodden hand and put his fingers in his mouth.

“You can’t do that; your breath will smell like excited girl when you talk to people.”


His hand went south again, this time leaving my underwear beneath his fingers and mashing the cotton into my cunt, turning the fabric into a soggy and ripe-smelling mess. He’s done this before and I didn’t bother wasting energy in protest.

Basic, straight-to-the-point dirty talk peppered with swear words sends his heart rate soaring and I launched into a retaliative tirade to mess with his frustration level. I described how much I wanted his hand inside my body again and how I have been craving his cock in my arse for some weeks … before I got to the real-time of asking him to pull over so I could suck his dick, his zip was undone and his cock was in the open, assuming my hand would help provide him with relief.

I looked at the gleam of pre-cum on the tip of his bursting cock and didn’t move a muscle. I think he called me a bitch.

I wound him up further with a story about how I’d like him in uniform and driving me somewhere remote, dragging me out of the car, tying me to a tree and fucking me senseless. He wanked furiously as I described the scenario and he added that he’d take some mates who would blindfold me and take turns without my knowing who they ever were.

“Please, when, I’m up for that … hey, hang on, you can’t take away my ability to see and perve!”

“I would.”

“I don’t like you sometimes.”

(I wonder if either of us would consider this scenario seriously when we are *not* aroused and up for almost anything in heated pre-sex talk. Pssst, I would with the right people and careful control of the situation. It’s actually one of my dark moment fantasies – but without the blindfold, of course.)

We reached the office and he drove straight past and beelined for a nearby car park. HI kneaded and rolled his bulging shaft between my fingers and he proclaimed that he was so close to bursting he’d have to masturbate as soon as he got back to work if the car park couldn’t afford privacy. I dared him to return to the office, lock himself in a toilet and take some photos for me.

He asked if I wanted to walk back.

I think I’d lost every round of the battle so far.

The car park was mid-week quiet and — bickering instantly forgotten in light of our good fortune — my mouth buried itself in his groin as soon as he pulled over. I was glad he wore dark pants as I may have dribbled too enthusiastically when re-acquainting myself with his cock. His hand traversed the back of my pants and he was fingering me again to the point I didn’t care that another coat of excitement was being layered on my underwear.

When he couldn’t – or wouldn’t — wait another moment before relief, he took over management of his cock and threatened to drown me in come.

We finally kissed. We had forgotten our manners earlier.

I lowered my head again and opened my mouth. He came in great globs, I swallowed furtively and he removed a finger from my arse that I didn’t recall being inserted.

He dropped me off away from the office so we arrived separately and I could stop at the canteen for more mints. On the way back I sent him a text message regarding the difficulty wet underwear posed in walking comfortably to the office. I received no reply but a broad smartypants grin was waiting for me when we bumped into each other at the function.

I had neglected my own orgasm in the fray and, in the overwhelming relief of seeing each other, I simply forgot. Being able to smell myself and taste traces of semen at the back of my tongue filled my centre with escalating sexual frustration. The rest of the day passed in a haze of charged daydreams flying through my mind at regular intervals and there were no gaps in time to disappear and masturbate discreetly in the toilets.

Later I sent him a text message saying next time we’re together, he owes me a long and leg-shaking fucking.

ArmyDude returns

Yeah, yeah, no shit, you were all laying bets on how long I’d last, I’m sure.

We licked our wounds separately for a few days and sent cautious e-mails pondering if the ‘sensible route’ had to mean no-contact tough love, or if there was room for the heart-tearing (and possibly mature, damn it) approach of adapting to non-sexual contact because we get along superbly outside the bedroom.

My resolve for the sensible, no contact way of the world softened when he asked if we could stay in touch. In a later message he said he hoped my sensible approach wouldn’t last forever.

I knew my game was up when I felt so damn happy to read that sentence.

We met at Halfway Park later in the week. I sat in the passenger seat of his car and said hello. He said hello back. We wore half-happy, half-sad, kind of gleeful but cautious smiles, glad to be in the same place but uncertain what to do next.

He broke the pause and asked if he still got a hello kiss. I said he could have whatever he wanted. He always could.

Lips on lips, hands holding, rediscovering each other’s places concealed by clothes, sharing my juices from our fingers, feeling his semen coat the back of my throat, talking and then walking off the residual tension from our absence with laps of the park until he had to leave.

He’s out of town at the moment and I’m still sane. Maybe I have enough strength now to counteract some of my weakness.

Car sex

Few public spaces in the metropolitan area allow discreet evening opportunities to talk, flirt and fuck quietly after daytime visitors have packed up their bicycles and kites and gone home.

One park Jekyll and I frequent has partially escaped the council’s desire (and sensible need, I admit) to evict visitors and lock the gates at sunset. An empathetic town planner designed the first car park to remain open 24 hours a day and only the subsequent trail is locked in the evenings. The bitumen area is protected by trees and housing is far enough away to minimise the risk of scaring people taking an evening constitutional.

Other night time visitors understand the gift of this space and the etiquette between strangers for use of the car park is based on an unspoken camaraderie. I usually arrive before Jekyll and, if other (we’ll assume) lovers are parked near the entrance, I take the space diagonally at the furthest end of the car park, allowing everyone maximum privacy. Occasionally a third set of visitors will park somewhere in the middle, but if two ends are occupied, new arrivals will usually drive through and go somewhere else (I wish I knew where because I could use a back-up plan or two when we are the third wheels here).

Last night Jekyll was reasonably local and we met at this car park. I arrived first and took the empty territory at the far end. The lengthening daylight hours were helpfully dulled by dark grey clouds and rain and we reclined in the seats of his car, watching the storm outside the window. The condensation from our heavy breathing created another veil of privacy from the world outside.

Sometimes our mobile meetings leave me lingering with disappointment from limited space and opportunity, but with his availability being erratic and the hostile weather raging outside, the metal and glass shell was as luxurious and welcoming as closing the door of a hotel room.

I wished his car had a transparent sunroof so I could have watched the clouds rolling and rain falling above his head when he was fucking me in the passenger’s seat. He didn’t last long when I gripped the headrest behind me and curled my legs around his back. He never does.

That was a brief intermission

I ache. My mouth protests at pronouncing words containing an ‘O’, although it held that shape faithfully many times. My inner thighs and backside are pock-marked with bruises and the vertical crease between my eyes is longer and deeper from frowning when he ignored my pre-menstrual sensitivity. My lower spine is surprisingly limber considering the corkscrews it formed to hide my buttocks from his gnashing teeth.

My quadriceps muscles feel like the overtired workers of a long run, but I didn’t travel further than his ensuite. Confusing. I fucked him from behind with the strap-on; perhaps maintaining balance and some semblance of control wiped more strength from my legs than I’m crediting them for.

My anus is bouncing back, so to speak, after his playful warm-up tonguing, determined fingerings and a final fucking when I said I couldn’t, really couldn’t, take another battering. My body betrayed my sense of self preservation and took him fully in a few deceptive thrusts that I knew I’d lament later.

He almost screamed from tear-welling sensitivity when he withdrew his cock from my arse the final time. His anus is probably tender as well after my earlier turn with him — fair’s fair, share the pain.

I hope his hand has recovered from a prolonged period of pins and needles. My drained body had lost enough nervous edge to allow his hand inside but my tightness cut off his circulation. He tried to twist once to find a more comfortable position but a nerve-shattering squeal put a stop to that. Actually, I hope his hand is as tender as my cunt as a reminder that he is big and I am not and big things don’t turn in small spaces.

Before the mayhem, I was lounging at home with my head in a book and eyed the beeping phone that interrupted my indolence. Home alone, you say? Tonight? A few hours later I snuck into his house and found him lying on the bed, his dick released through the open zip of his jeans. You like? Oh yes, I like. I sidled up to him with lingering touches and kisses tinged with hibernative warmth and somehow the rest just happened.

It’s best we don’t have a lot of time together because our bodies would collapse, and so much exchanging and giving and accepting and shape-shifting takes place that I can’t remember the exact order it all happens in. The flashbacks and aches are my only reminders.

Rest after fisting

I have been editing this chapter for three days and am no closer to being pleased so I’m going to hit ‘publish’ and move on. The synopsis is that Jekyll is a hyperactive sex fiend, I was fisted and came like I have never before, and Jekyll is a hyperactive sex fiend. The feature-length version follows.

Jekyll is the only man I’ve known who can be in the throes of starting a new round less than 10 seconds after orgasm (I know I have no right to complain but often I prefer not to live my life as if every moment’s my last). Being fuelled with nuclear power is a delightful quality for shorter, frenetic sessions but with our half-day together I was wishing he’d listen to my request to slow down and savour rather than gorge.

After two uninterrupted hours of pinching, biting, smacking and being fucked with my legs in the air until my hamstrings felt they might snap like new season asparagus spears, I thought my wish for some unhurried sex was granted. He gestured for me to rest my head on a pile of pillows and I seized the opportunity to uncoil my cramped legs.

After a few minutes of exploring my female place with his tongue, Jekyll came up for air and spread the embarrassment of juices from his cheeks and chin to mine, and we kissed like sloppy-tongued teenagers until he put some extra artillery to use.

He pushed the very new, very basic, very black, very fucking buzzy vibrator (or battery-powered drill, I’m really not sure, but I know we will be very happy together) between my legs for a test drive as he went about the business of preparing whatever he was planning. It’s amazing how a sky-high level of excitement blasted away my shyness at being observed and I played with the control as if I had unwrapped a new musical instrument on Christmas Day.

I heard the snap-top release on my travel container of Crisco but by then didn’t give a toss what he was going to do with industrial lube and the leaking, molten lump of flesh I had become.

“Well, it didn’t take you long to take four fingers, missy,” he said.

A gurgle was my best reply, and rather articulate considering my Physical Laws of Fingery state that four fingers automatically cancel the power of lucid speech.

I descended into a new sexual place and the only way I can describe it is feeling like I existed solely inside my torso and abdomen. My vaginal contractions felt like the slow and strong heartbeats of a marathon runner and I was inside my body, trying to understand how I was both the recipient and silent observer.

Unlike our first successful foray into fisting while in his car, he didn’t need to apply pressure with his hand or talk down my nerves. As each contraction subsided, a gelatinous vacuum drew his hand further inside my body. After half a dozen cycles, I sensed on a deep cerebral level that his hand was up to the wrist inside me but I didn’t want to open my eyes and allow the light to ruin my dreamstate.

I moved the vibrator around the stretched landscape and discovered a bed of nerve cells that responded instantly to my oval-shaped movements. A message wrapped in smiles reached my brain and said I could actually come from this.

Empty air around me was interrupted by the echo of someone saying, “Oh my god, fuck,” as an orgasm started in lines along my labia, spread through my limbs like a lightning strike and seared back to my clitoris as if the energy needed to return to its origin. My orgasms are one-way through my feet and hands and I’ve never experienced a reverse sensation of this kind.

I thought I was fucked after the previous hours with Jekyll, but this time I truly was fucked. My skeleton had vaporised and I felt like an outer skin filled with warm lemonade in the hollows where my bones used to sit.

I begged Jekyll for a few minutes’ respite to find my faculties and he started withdrawing his hand. The power and wonder of the orgasm could almost make the nausea of expulsion worthwhile.

I’d have given a kingdom to drift like a jellyfish floating in a warm sea but Jekyll started poking about to see how sensitive my body had become. I yelped, my clit screamed and my nipples possibly snarled at him. I adore the man, but I wish he’d slow the fuck down and join the slow-the-fuck-down sex movement.

The least-disciplined dominatrix

I am hopeless. In my fertile mind that gorges on images of metal and leather and scarlet marks on pale skin and the mindfuckingly pervading aromas of fear and serious sex, I can conjure film-length domination scenarios to the minute. And ideas, dialogue, bindings, timings and the great big exciting hoo ahh moment when I have been granted control of a willing and noble man who wants to see where I will take his brain cells and balls.

A glimmer of opportunity arose to visit ArmyDude late last night. We sorted out details and I asked what he wanted me to bring. He made a tactical error in saying that whatever I wanted was fine because I can do anything to him.

I replied that I was packing the arse tools and I’d see him soon.

In my handbag fitted a small container of lube, my camera phone and the strap-on harness with its two dildos. By the time I arrived I had a strip, on all fours, licking, fingering and fucking ritual plotted, filmed and in the can, ready to be acted out on real flesh and blood.

The reality of my dominant self sits at the opposite end at the back of the undisciplined universe.

I let myself into the darkened house, locked the door behind me and found ArmyDude sitting in the office chair in his study. Within 10 seconds of entwining my arms under his singlet and massaging the contours of his pectoral muscles, my nose was in his hair inhaling his freshly-showered scent and my tongue was running races along his ear lobes.

The ‘arse tools’ in my less-than-eloquent text message didn’t make it out of the bag. He stood, drove his tongue down my throat, pulled my pants to my knees and forced me to hobble to the bedroom like an arthritic penguin. I pushed back when he forced my body in an arc towards the mattress and he return volleyed me to the bed before I could catch breath.

He ditched more clothes, messed my hair, left my breasts spilling out of my bra and pushed my underwear aside to insert his cock. Something about turning the tables on a disheveled dominatrix triggered a rage of lust and he orgasmed in a few dozen heartbeats.

He apologised for not lasting longer. Dominatrix Girl laughed softly and replied that it was a compliment to the joys of her pussy.

We tidied and talked for a long time about his fractured existence and it became too late for seconds. I’ll focus more diligently and mess with his head next time — shambolic Dominatrix Girl needs to die.

The office

I am not sleeping well and assembling thoughts into paragraphs is like surfing in glue. Here, have an executive summary.

Jekyll has a new office with a large, L-shaped beechwood desk.

The table top is a little too high for me to be bent over it and taken from behind.

However, his dick is flush with the bench when he stands before the desk.

I rolled on my back and wrapped my legs around his neck.

He held my hips and I grasped the edge of the desk for support.

The sitemaps and plans on the desk crinkled and were tinged with sweat and my juices.

The view for both of us was spectacular, especially when he spread my legs like an open pair of scissors.

But I closed my eyes when he asked me to masturbate before him — hello again, my quirky insecurity.

He gets so turned staring into my eyes when watching me frig that I become more self conscious.

Two men at a time, two dicks in my mouth, a fist inside my body, whips and is whipped but falls into a shy mushy heap when asked to bring self-pleasure from under the covers to daylight.

Silly girl I am.

Hypocritical, too — I’d cease to exist if the men in my life stopped wanking for my visual stimulation.

Less than two minutes after we finished, we heard footsteps from the weekend security patrol.

The privacy panel starts from knee-height and we couldn’t scramble for our pants in case the guard saw movement through the clear segment of glass.

We turned into half-naked statues and didn’t breathe until the creak of footsteps faded.

Pants on and door open to dilute the reek of sex in the enclosed space.

Vowed we won’t be so reckless again.

Yeah, right.

A little bit of enough is enough for now

ArmyDude and I exchanged a few surface-level e-mails that turned into a heart-to-heart cleansing.

I am frustrated. He is confused. I miss him when I can’t have him. He craves me. I am scared I might be feeling more than I can allow myself. He withdraws when he feels himself becoming too close to me. I said I can’t walk away just yet, and if I feel too much, I’ll wear the pain inside and never comprise his situation. He agrees, and won’t give up either.

We bonded again in the store room. No matter the tangles we were assembled in, I had a hand always clasping his or gripping his shoulder. I couldn’t let go. He couldn’t stop kissing me. I held the drapes of my long skirt as he pulled down my underwear and kissed me there as well. We licked my juices from his fingers. I devoured him with my lips. We shared his taste when he was spent.

I remember thinking, “I would let you do anything to me,” but can’t recall if the words escaped or I clutched them to my chest.

Always pack mints and money

My can’t-be-bothered-with-the-logistics view about penetrative sex during bloodletting hasn’t changed since last month (oh no, let me be precise, since earlier *this* month, fuck you infuriatingly-short cycle), but other pleasant pursuits avail themselves to the imaginative and ravenous. Last night Jekyll and I had a car date and shared lots of kissing, ear licking and groping of warm parts.

He says he likes watching me go down on him because I enjoy what I’m doing (and – my delicate ego hopes — because I know what I’m doing). Hell, what’s not to enjoy? No hogging the bed, no snoring, no quibbling over domestics; the lovers’ honeymoon is the longest of all and floats merrily on a sea of mutual adulation.

He came in my mouth and gave my bum a friendly smack when I stepped out of his car. Short and sweet and home before bedtime.

I don’t know how much of Jekyll’s aroma The Drummer could smell when I walked in the door because all I had in my bag was a bottle of water to swish my mouth – Jekyll has thin and mild-tasting semen redolent of a post-vasectomy, clean-living man, but it packs quite an aftertaste on the back of my throat. I gave TheDrummer a close-mouthed goodnight peck and slithered to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wipe the guilty smirk from my face.

And this afternoon ArmyDude and I managed to co-ordinate some similar moments at work. He and Jekyll don’t know about each other but this week’s coincidentally-shared theme seems to be oral sex. I wonder if I have more input and control than I think … last week both were pretty heavy on the fisting side of things without much direction from me. Hmm.

An early text message declaring he hadn’t masturbated since last week sent my plotting mind into overdrive. ArmyDude has a dick-milking magic trick that’s so new to me and mind-bending I can’t write a coherent sentence describing it, and I was busting to see what he could do with nearly a week’s worth of build-up.

After lunch I scouted a quiet, hole-in-the-wall storeroom and gave him 10 minutes’ warning to show. I don’t know his excuse but I snuck out of my office on the pretext of needing an afternoon sugar fix from the canteen. Minutes later I found myself a more satisfying treat of being sandwiched between the contrasts of an unyielding cold wall and a warm and fluid body.

He asked me not to swallow when he came and instructed me to open my bursting-at-the-seams mouth. Posing for photos of my glossy white tongue isn’t my thing visually — nor is the risk of spilling semen on my clothes  — and thankfully he smiled after the first image flashed up on the screen. I swallowed and we kissed until my phone’s incessant ringing broke our closeness.

As timing would have it, a dear work friend was finishing early for a long holiday and waiting to say goodbye to me. I smoothed my hair down, returned my bra to its usual supporting position and bolted through the work canteen on the way back to the office, one hand grabbing chocolate to tick the checkbox of my alibi and the other taking the biggest packet of mints from the display.

ArmyDude’s semen tastes full and heavy and seems to exude vaporous clouds when I exhale. I filled my mouth with tabs of spearmint and went to see my friend, hoping he couldn’t smell the previous 20 minutes of my life as we hugged goodbye.

I am still hungry. I wish The Drummer’s sex drive would return from wherever it’s been holidaying the past few weeks.