Birthday girl

My birthday is approaching far more quickly than I’m prepared to acknowledge and time is the one thing my planet-sized state of denial can’t stop. I’m of the age and simple lifestyle of not needing anything or wishing for anything beyond a book shop voucher and a bottle of Lanson champagne — hi, The Drummer, if you’re reading.

Jekyll and Hyde were pencilled in for a hotel afternoon the weekend after Denial Day. I sent Hyde a message asking if he’d be interested in some double penetration for a birthday girl, and his reply was, “Lovely, sounds great!” He makes me laugh. But Jekyll is on permanent hiatus and my timing in causing a ruckus with him has fucked the whole scenario up.

I don’t have the prospects or time up my sleeve to conjure a back-up plan. I had thought about going to the local pub’s weekly over-28s grab-a-gran night and hunting down two likely sorts, but I really do want some class together with proven track records in deviancy. Perhaps next year.

Mad as early March hares

The ability of the male sex drive to sometimes overrule logical thought didn’t truly hit home until a couple of years ago when The Drummer and I were engaged in a bitter argument. At the time we had separated but lived under the same roof while finalising new living arrangements (I don’t recommend this to anyone but the clinically masochistic, although it was convenient not having to move back in when we reconciled). I can’t remember the reason for raised voices but we were near the bottom of a descending spiral of misunderstanding and vitriol.

Finally, he shouted that he was too horny to think coherently and suggested we fuck to get the frustration out of his system and then talk. I responded that I was too angry to consider fucking him, in the archetypal gender mismatching that men use sex to purge stress and women won’t have sex when stressed.

We bickered fruitlessly until I cracked and said, “Well! Go and see a fucking prostitute and then we’ll talk. I’m too angry to touch you.” In an odd bonding moment, I scanned the local newspaper and he had the phone on hands-free as we shopped for somewhere suitable to send him. We must’ve come across as naïve prank callers when we asked parlour receptionists about prices, if bookings were required and tricky questions such as what happens if you’re not finished when time is up? Logistics sorted with the advice of some understanding women on the other end of the phone, he disappeared for an hour and I wasn’t stricken by insecurity — the argument inadvertently helped me realise that neither of us would die if we had sex with someone else and started me on the current phase of my life.

It’s a loose segue, but The Drummer’s cock taking over his brain came to mind when wondering what the hell’s going on with the men I know.

The chap from the post before last who sent the message about the BDSM porn with visions of fucking me has disappeared again without trace — either a post-orgasm reality check or studying for a role in the film version of He’s Just Not That Into You (Unless He’s Got his Cock in his Hand and Porn on his TV).

Jekyll came good on his promise (threat) to create a joint profile on the dating site — weeks ago I said I wasn’t motivated and to not bother because we had so few opportunities with each other. Yesterday he surprised me with news that the profile was up and I should pull my weight and start responding to smiles. I asked him to stop, think carefully and tell me exactly how and when we’ll meet other people. I logged on the site to shut him up for a while, looked at one message and logged off. That’ll do until he responds to my snarky questions.

Hyde appeared from his lair and is apparently interested in hooking up with a couple, with me as the fourth person. He asked Jekyll to sound me out even though Jekyll hasn’t been invited to this particular party. Hyde has my phone number and I don’t know why he’s using Jekyll as his pimp. I’m ignoring them both until they sort themselves out.

ArmyDude and I have been sidestepping each other after I provided blunt feedback about his disappearances (fine) without communication (not fine). He has since dropped by the office three times in three days and sent half a dozen messages of apology. Thank goodness this overcompensating behaviour has slowed.

Just when I thought the planets had re-aligned, last night ArmyDude sent a message saying I still couldn’t visit because of the continuing long daylight hours and his neighbours were active until late. I agreed and said we’d need to talk about our future at some stage as our other options to meet were drying up. This sentiment didn’t sink in as I intended. A few messages later he was overtaken by an erection from hell and pleaded me to come by immediately, forgetting his earlier sage message and promising he’d handle any neighbourhood sightings or rumours. I told him to put the phone down, wank until he got off, rest for 10 minutes and re-consider his insane plan. He replied with a frustrated, “You could have been here by now if you’d left straight away.” I referred to my previous suggestion and went to bed.

The boys are behaving strangely. I’ve heard Mars is in retrograde Uranus or something but this broadscale assault of the cock over the brain is bamboozling.

Planetary hiccough

I have been using the solar system as a pretty darn good representation of my personal life.

The Drummer is the sun and I am Mercury who circles closely. Jekyll orbits as the nearby Mars, Hyde is the faraway but occasionally visible Jupiter and Army Dude can be Earth (in close proximity, body hard as a rock and is expected to be rather hot on the inside — the dodgy comparison is working so far). The Drummer is the constant, the planets have their unique orbits and this is how I will manage my interactions.

The theory worked beautifully until yesterday when The Drummer and ArmyDude bumped into each other on the street.

They are loose acquaintances, but this is the first time they’ve met since I told The Drummer I’d like to proceed with ravaging ArmyDude.

The Drummer relayed casually that they had said hello. My smile flipped vertically when ArmyDude sent an e-mail trying to describe new feelings of paranoia and uncertainty.

He isn’t showing signs of insecurity about potential comparison with another male who knows him, or the thought of sharing (as was evident by some men from the dating site who fled upon realising I wasn’t deprived or dissatisfied). He also appears to have faith in my promise of every privacy except his identity — I have already been handed a couple of desires unlocked from his chamber of secrets.

I replied that the source of anxiety might be that his veil of anonymity as the ‘other’ has been lifted. I don’t feel comfortable sneaking around the outskirts of his marriage but that’s the price of admission I am choosing to pay. His is to know this time around he can’t hide and a third person is keeping a quiet eye on him as my protector.

He cancelled a planned lunchtime catch-up today at the last moment. What does this mean, oh, mysterious universe?

Patience is not a goddamn virtue

Just when the anti-depressant residues are leaching out of my system and I want to road-test my new ‘old’ self that orgasms, it feels like I couldn’t score a fuck in a brothel with a fistful of fifties. “I’m here!” I feel like shouting to the world, “You, person with a dick, come and get me.”

The Drummer apologised recently for his current lack of interest in sex. I’m more amazed than annoyed as he’s the man who can get himself off up to five times a day and I used to worry about not keeping up with him. I helped masturbate him to orgasm yesterday and everything still works, but self-tinkering with prescription medication seems to be messing with his sex drive. I fixed myself up later in the day with some lube and the buzzing gift from heaven I bought on my last shopping trip.

Mother Nature threw a spanner in the sexual works a couple of days ago. I don’t like penetration when I’m bleeding, smelly (my sense of smell amplifies at that stage of my cycle and I dislike the merest whiff of my purging), cramping and double checking that tampons are out and towels are down if sex is on the menu. Too much fucking about but that doesn’t stop my mind spinning like a kinky porn DVD of everything I’d like to be doing.

With a bout of warmer weather shining on the southern hemisphere, Jekyll and I explored a park yesterday to determine its suitability to play out some outdoor fantasies. On first glance it was everything we hoped for: isolated car parks, bushland, sturdy outdoor furniture and undercover picnic benches. I want him to sit at a bench as I kneel on the ground and suck his cock while he controls and manoeuvres me with the lead attached to my collar. I also want to be on all-fours atop a picnic bench as he stands on the seat and takes me from behind. If that doesn’t wear us out, I also envision him bracing himself against a tree as I remove his jeans and tongue his arse until he’s so lust-crazed we collect scratches attacking each other on the ground. I wonder if Hyde is into the great outdoors. He’ll get an invitation, too.

On a more detailed recce the park’s features became everything the fun police have stuck their noses into: every stick of furniture is in open spaces under a light aircraft flight path and the scrub is too sparce (I trotted off to pee in the densest bush I could find and Jekyll wolf-whistled when my pants came off – an unconventional but effective way of testing visibility).

We traipsed around until sunset and returned to his car. I sucked him off as he reclined in the driver’s seat before we went our separate ways. He set me a challenge of masturbating but not climaxing for two days and I may have already broken his rules once or twice. I hope for a darn good spanking as punishment next time we meet.

Tensions are rising with ArmyDude. He has returned to his former workplace and we have been flirting incorrigibly with text messages and guardedly in code using e-mail. I keep thinking about his arms in short-sleeved shirts: forearms muscular and sinewy from years of weight training but tapering to refined wrists in contrast, as if he could snap me like a twig or seduce me with a velvet touch at will. Right now I’d like a lot of both. We were thinking about meeting this weekend but his plans changed at the last minute; I’m somewhat relieved as I might eat the poor man alive and scare him off. And I want to feel him inside me discovering, feeling, pushing, pulling, pleasuring, until we’re both sweaty and hurting. And not worry about tampons and towels.

Frustration doesn’t become me.

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.

Hurry up and bleed

Drafting the last post prompted me to think why I didn’t ask for or desire sexual attention from The Drummer.

I tend towards the visual rather than physical in the days before my period and don’t mind if sexual activity involves penetration or not. At ovulation my body screams fuck me fuck me fuck me while the pre-menstrual voices yell fuck with me and I’ll kill you with a detached smile.

My fantasy mind is active in a clinical sense and pondering scenarios for the next meeting with Jekyll and Hyde. I remember an e-mail from Hyde saying he wanted to punish and fuck an angel, and Jekyll jokes that I lost my halo a long time ago and it clatters on the ground when I walk. Yesterday I found a black feathered halo at a costume shop and will team it with leather collar and cuffs, cream and black lace underwear, black stay-up stockings and stiletto-heeled pumps for a fallen angel look. Emerging from the bathroom with a riding crop between my teeth might be overkill but I’ll consider it on the night depending on the mood in the room.

If my period decides to start soon instead of bloating my belly like a human watermelon, I think I’ll be ovulating during our next threesome. The cerebral will be pushed out of the way by the physical and I’ll be demanding Hyde rip the damn clothes off and do depraved things. Now.

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.

Dr Jekyll (and Mr Hyde)

Last week I met Jekyll for a bout of night-time gymnastics in his car.

Before we caught up, he organised a tall, fair and hot-as-all-hell surprise. On the way to the meeting place he messaged that his bi playmate from the advertisement, Mr Hyde, had time to make a brief appearance. The already-fractious  butterflies in my stomach did nervous backflips and threw in a few high-fives for good measure.

I arrived first and Jekyll was running late — it wasn’t my preferred order of events to be waiting for a stranger by the side of a road, but there was no time to fret as headlights flashed in my rearview mirror. A lean silhouette emerged languidly from the car, a handsome face and easy grin illuminated under the street light as I opened my door and stepped towards him. We exchanged smiles of recognition and a soft kiss on the lips as I mentally pulled the petals off a flower he likes me, he likes me not and hoped the last fell away with he likes me. Like Jekyll, he was more leagues more attractive in the flesh than the photographic medium. I don’t how I’ve engendered such good fortune but I won’t be taking a second for granted.

When we broke contact, he spoke first and said my pictures didn’t do me justice. My exterior self replied, “Thank you,” with a coy smile as my internal voice said he was probably this charming to everyone but who cares and I should lap it up, roll on my back and present my belly for a tickle like a purring kitten.

We chatted for a few minutes before Jekyll arrived. I observed them greeting and searched for hints of their physical past to manifest in their body language. They exchanged banter like a couple of pals talking after football training so I filled my mind with images of Jekyll on my left and Hyde on my right, barriers of fabric dropped on the floor and hands roaming, whispers evolving into urgent growling, a world of new sexual possibilities emerging.

I time-warped back to reality when Hyde said he had to leave. His body felt warm and firm beneath the soft cotton of his shirt when we embraced goodbye — I blushed when he said the ‘shrinkage’ from the cold had disappeared after we touched. I fought an urge to drop at his feet and slink myself around his ankles.

Hyde’s parting words were that Jekyll and I should go and have fun. We did. In a deserted car park. Attempting the adult version of teenage-era gropefests in the confines of a contoured passenger’s seat wasn’t the most comfortable experience but we made the most of limited time and space. I still have a bite mark on my backside.