Diamonds are Forever

So the exploratory date with Easy Rider was quite the success.

The shtick with him is a far cry from my usual search for emotional connection and affection, but it was definitely fun. I’m left feeling a bit shell shocked and confused at first, trying to work out how to process a totally new kind of ‘relationship’ that basically involves me heading to his house for a quick glass of wine, an exchange of pleasantries, and straight down to hot play and brutal sex before heading home an hour later.

It’s the equivalent of a mid-week therapy session – in fact, half an hour spent bending over in stocks feels just like I’ve completed a particularly tough yoga class. And the timing works well for The Husband too. I’m home in plenty of time to carry on the fun with him, and we even get to have dinner together.

I enjoy his creativity and enthusiasm, and the prospects for exploration are very promising indeed. Now that we know we’re sexually compatible, we exchange increasingly detailed messages on ideas and preferences. This involves my love of cum, and his enthusiasm extends to him heading straight out for a blood test and the all-clear.

On the second visit, my nervousness is dramatically reduced but the excitement isn’t. After the perfunctory glass of wine and a quick snog, I’m chained to the cross and grinning with anticipation as he lurks next to his table of implements deciding what to do first. My grin soon shifts when he starts to test my reactions to the flogger, paddle and crop.

It’s all going swimmingly as he releases my wrists and shoves me on my knees, fucking my mouth and turning me into an gagging, eye-watering, drooling mess. I am continually surprised how much I enjoy it.

Eventually bending over the horse, he introduces me to his vibrating butt plug. It’s ingenious and absolutely delightful. So much so that while he fucks me hard and increases it’s intensity in my bumhole, I very nearly cum standing up – no mean feat. The session ends with me on my knees and him cumming all over my face before taking a photo for The Husband.

It’s a unique set up that lasts way longer than any of my other friendships. Primarily because it’s only an occasional thing. But also because it’s a very straightforward arrangement. The boundaries needed to be worked out initially, especially while I reconcile the fact that this one is not going to involve date nights with pizza and cuddling – just two people who like each other indulging in brutal, depraved sex.

My boundaries are further tested on one particular session which puts me off returning to his playroom for a while. And it’s not even his sadistic creativity which pushes me to my limits. It’s my own aging, broken body! I’m bent over with my legs spread and neck and wrists locked into the handmade stocks. Apart from the impressive array of anal toys, the enduring memory is of the toil it took on my aging knees and hips to stay in that position for a prolonged period of time. My reward is being sent home to The Husband with a bum full of cum contained by a very pretty diamante butt plug.

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Whiplash

The first time I drive over to his place I am more nervous than I have been on any other date so far. And understandably too – while we’ve agreed that I’m making an exploratory visit, I’m going to a total stranger’s house to potentially get restrained, flogged and fucked. But as The Husband points out while he excitedly helps me get ready, what’s the worst that can happen? As usual, I give him the address and for the first time, agree a code text message and time limit in case of any problems.

Bizarrely, Easy Rider lives 2 streets away from The Mechanic who I’m in the throes of a complete ‘boyfriend experience’ affair with. Although we’ve never really talked about exclusivity, I still feel kind of shifty as I pull up to Easy Rider’s place. I’ve even asked for him not to leave any marks this time as I have a Mechanic date the following night and haven’t quite worked out how to broach the subject with him yet.

I’m nervous and flustered as I ring the doorbell, with very little idea of what to expect. The run up has been unusually swift and the ground rules have been basic. He’s way more confident and a reassuring presence on his own turf. The house is cosily warm with music playing and incense burning. He leads me to the kitchen counter (again!) and pours me a glass of wine, stroking my hair, wrapping his arms around me and telling me to relax. He’s remarkably soothing.

I’m wearing a long wrap-over dress over a corset, stockings and no knickers, perched on the kitchen stool with a glass of wine in my hand. We make comfortable small talk as I start to compose myself. He kisses me confidently and I start to feel wobbly with anticipation as he caresses my tits and squeezes my nipples hard. But my nervousness increases my silly jokes and smartarse comments until he shoots me a stern look that literally makes my ovaries twitch. After kissing me hard, he disappears briefly returning with some adjustable nipple clamps which he slowly and deliberately attaches as I stay perched with my tits exposed, increasingly turned on.

I’m grinning stupidly as he leads me to the playroom and stands me against the St. Andrew’s Cross facing the wall and attaching a collar and leather cuffs to my wrists.  My sniggers soon subside as he tries out a number of light flogging implements and eventually inserts the anal hook which he attaches with rope to the collar and gradually tightens. When he unties and turns me around, he’s naked with a huge hard on and a cheeky determined look on his face. He pushes me to my knees, grabbing my hair to shove his cock hard down my throat, making me gag and my eyes water. And just as I think he’s about to cum, he bends me over a horse structure and fucks me hard, telling me what a good slut I am. It’s so much fun.

But where I would usually collapse in a heap on a comfy bed at the end of a vigorous session, I’m left standing in the middle of the room, wobbly, vulnerable, and decidedly unsure what to do. I quickly return to the kitchen to retrieve my dress, cover up and finish my wine. He’s pleasant, but affectionate after-care doesn’t really seem to be in his skillset and I actually have to ask him to come over to my side of the counter to hug me.

He has taken some extremely hot creative photos of the proceedings to show The Husband.  And before I go, he asks if I want a leaving present and fetches his favourite crop. I obediently lift my dress and bare my arse, bracing myself nervously. When it happens, I jump 3 feet in the air, yelling even more expletives than usual, and for a prolonged period of time until the initial shock starts to subside. He takes a glorious picture of my arse with a glowing red line all the way across before sending me on my merry way home looking completely wrecked and ravaged.

Easy Rider

Years ago, when The Husband and I were on our painful break, I had a brief dalliance with the kink scene. A chick from work was being paid on the side for running a BBW chatroom. Chatrooms and message boards were all completely new to me, computers were the size of giant pumpkins, and I could have vacuumed the entire house in the time the dial up internet took to load a single page. But the possibilities for a 30-something working single mother to meet people without going out on the piss every night off were appealing. The work chick set up my computer, explained the basics, and sent me on my way. And before long, I had migrated to the BDSM arena, utterly fascinated and completely immersed in the chat about pain, restraint, humiliation and punishment.

Clearly, The Husband is extremely sexually submissive. And up to that point, I had taken on the role of Domme with style and enthusiasm. But I was equally drawn to his rough, assertive dominance and now I was keen to explore just how submissive I could be.

It was almost 20 years ago and he was my first internet date and my first proper Dom. He was a short, stout, rich, older arrogant bloke – all features which fit the profile. But he lacked the kindness, sensitivity and intelligence that I now understand are central to the whole thing working effectively. While I was fascinated by the lifestyle, I was ridiculously naive, heartbroken and damaged, and the whole episode makes me uncomfortable to think about even now. Basically, it was doomed for failure because neither of us actually liked each other, let alone ourselves.

On the other hand, I was able to explore some of my biggest fantasies and had some of my hottest adventures when he escorted me to some incredible parties, ones I would have been unlikely to find on my own and even less likely to ever been brave enough to go alone. The parties were pretty vanilla group sex affairs, and I adored them. The BDSM exploration was far more psychological and at first, I enjoyed the novelty of doing whatever I was told. I also enjoyed lightly exploring my pain threshold with nipple clamps, spanking, hot wax, and restraint. Obedience and pain were so deliciously different to my usual preferences.

While my exploration over 2 decades ago was merely toe dipping, the visible BDSM scene is now way more complex, and divided into an increasingly accessible and titillating array of specialist, nuanced sub scenes. I’ve said it before, the contrived amateur dramatics of the mainstream fetish scene does very little for me. I have no interest in drinking cheap wine and eating cocktail sausages with people dressed in ill-fitting latex and dog collars talking about the comparative size of their butt plugs. And while I’m aware that the club scene is more sophisticated nowadays, I’m feeling too old for clubbing right now and may well need to build up to that once I’ve met a suitable mentor.

But I still adore being sexually submissive. Being dominant at home, and a strong feisty woman in my everyday life, it is a delicious and welcome relief. The right combination of words, eye contact and sexual confidence turn me into a quivering wobbly mess. So it’s no surprise that I’ve been starting to explore this a bit more in my online discussions and in real life.

He is single, early 50s, reasonably fit looking, has a cheeky glint in his eye, and is a biker – we name him Easy Rider.

I’m not actively looking for a new friend when his message pops into my inbox. But he’s interesting, flirtatious, kinky, and can string a sentence together. And he has very particular tastes which he gets down to it pretty quickly, sending me pictures of his playroom. The décor is more 1980s suburban blokeyness than the classy chrome glamour of the movies. But the homemade St Andrew’s Cross, stocks, and horse, as well as the table laid out with an array of toys, butt plugs, whips and crops, shows an impressive degree of skill and imagination.

And he has a really great looking cock. I know it’s not supposed to matter, but it does – a fact that I am increasingly coming to realise on my current quest.

I’m heading out to see my friend’s band play and arrange to meet him beforehand. I would know too many people in the first pub he suggests, and there is an unusual amount of activity in the city that night, so by the time I manage to park up and meet him outside the third meeting place we agree on, we’re both a bit over it. But we eventually get a table in a notoriously shitty pub and get down to talking details. He’s a bit shorter than I had imagined but I like the cut of his jib and he’s wearing a lovely pair of cherry red Doc Marten boots.

We share a lot of the same music tastes and a disdain of the mainstream BDSM scene. It’s all going so well that I ask him outright about his politics. This is becoming a thing for me now – I’m sick of emotionally investing in a scenario only to find out that he’s a racist, homophobic, misogynistic prick. He deals extremely well with my interrogation, but as we walk towards his car I’m still unsure if there’s much sexual chemistry between us and detect a slight whiff of chippy defensiveness that is decidedly unattractive, especially when I’m looking for a sexually confident and dominant partner. My main reservation is whether I’m too feisty for him and whether his squeaky voice has the gravitas needed to pull off the patter effectively.

But the kiss goodbye is encouraging and the messaging over the next few days is increasingly hot. He regales me with tales of his ‘pussy pump’ and ‘anal hook’, toys that even a supposedly enlightened chick like me has never even heard of. And when he encourages me with the words ‘good girl’ he definitely has my attention.

The thought of him torturing and using me has also piqued the interest of The Husband, who is completely getting off on the prospect of being made to watch. I put the proposal to Easy Rider and he’s equally excited by the idea… all 3 of us are keen to explore the possibilities.

Hotel

For the first time ever, I’m starting to relate to the frustrations that fellas are always going on about when dealing with us chicks. If The Girlfriend is anything to go by, then there may well be some truth in what they say – women talk a lot, can be unpredictable, and are extremely difficult to read.

We’ve stayed in touch since the awkward ending to our first proper encounter. And the messaging and photos have continued to be extremely hot. Aligning our availability and a venue for us to be able hook up again is proving to be frustratingly tricky. But when an evening becomes free, I enthusiastically get stuck into my other favourite online past time – searching for cheap hotel deals. Two nights before and there’s a flurry of excited messaging to organise the practicalities and The Husband sits patiently on the sofa while I’m glued to my laptop planning my first girly sleepover.

The plan is to meet at the hotel, have a few drinks, then head out to town for fun and frolics before heading back for a night of debauchery. All day, I’m feeling more like vomiting from nerves than getting down and dirty. But where I have The Husband to drive me to the hotel with excited words of encouragement and arrive early to pop the prosecco cork, she arrives flustered, rushing straight from work and sorting her kids. I give her a hug, handing her a glass and waiting patiently for her to relax.

A royal wedding is on the television. I hate the parasitical royal family with a passion. And the wedding is a vile, pompous spectacle of expense to cynically bolster their public appeal while regular families are losing their homes and resorting to foodbanks to feed their children. But then again the frocks are quite nice.

It’s inescapable, my politics play a major role in my sexual adventures – if someone is a right wing dickhead, I just don’t want them anywhere near my genitals. Part of The Girlfriend’s appeal is her open minded independent thinking and I’ve already established that she’s neither racist nor homophobic. But when she expresses her love of the queen and reveals how excited she’s been all day for the royal wedding, I nearly grab my bag and walk out of the room. I have serious doubts that I’m in the right place here, getting steadily drunker with a stressed out jabbering monarchist rather than a saucy, sassy, sex kitten.

But I’ve paid for the hotel room now and continue drowning my sorrows as we check out the frocks. Eventually, the lure of pizza gets us out but it’s already too late and too cold to bother going to the cocktail bar we’d planned on, and we head to the nearest pub. It’s not the most sensible move as it’s where we’re both most likely to bump into people we know – but that’s what’s so good about going on a girly date, just two mates going out for a drink.

After a couple more drinks and more listening to her work woes, I’m getting more impatient by her lack of two way conversational abilities and apparent lack of interest in anything about me. Combined with the wine and lack of food, I’m feeling increasingly cranky.

We move on to the next pub and head to the toilets together where I pee first, lurking awkwardly as I wait for her to finish. I’m standing against the cubicle wall as she kisses me for the first time that night. It’s fumbly and exciting but not altogether enjoyable as she finger-bangs me in the most notoriously skankiest pub toilet in town.

With red lipstick smudged all over my face, and looking decidedly disheveled, I leave the cubicle first. And sure enough, I bump smack bang into someone I know – my neighbour’s daughter who I used to share a yoga class with. I’m awkward with small talk at the best of the times, let alone when I’ve been caught out snogging a chick in the pub toilets, but I brazen it out as best I can until we manage to hurriedly escape, stifling our giggles.

She has definitely warmed up, but I can’t say that I’m entirely comfortable with it, particularly when she grabs my leg and tries to snog me in plain sight in the middle of the pub. It’s definitely time to get that pizza and get straight back to the hotel room.

We kiss passionately in the lift up to the room. We’re getting hotter, and while we’re increasingly wobbly, manage to deftly balance the pizza, jumping when the doors open at our floor. Lying in bed, cracking open more wine, and shoving pizza into our ravenous gobs, she still keeps on talking, this time delving into the darkest depths of her traumatic, abusive,drug fuelled youth. It’s really not sexy and I’m starting to fall asleep.

Finally, she gets the message and shuts up long enough for me to lunge at her. This time it’s much more equal, straightforward, erotic and sensual sex without the sub/dom overtones. We’re both drunk, tired and just enjoying indulging in each other.

For the first time, I’m appreciating women’s bodies from a male perspective, and it’s having a major impact on my own self-consciousness. My belly is my most constant and enduring source of body insecurity but I’m finally starting to see how sexy it can be. I absolutely get it now – she is so deliciously soft and squiggly that I can’t keep my hands and mouth off her, like a fluffy marshmallow. And the two us writhing around together is totally delectable.

We take turns eating each other and she eventually falls asleep. It’s been a very long time since I slept in bed with anyone other than The Husband and I’m not particularly comfortable with it. I’m not the best sleeper and have no idea what to do in this situation, so choose to roll over and spend a fitful night on the opposite edge of the bed.

In the morning, she goes down on me while I slowly wake up. And after another romp, I purposely choose not to shower so that I smell of pussy when The Husband picks me up. As we leave the hotel, he’s standing next to the van, unknowingly parked right next to her car.  There’s an awkward moment when I introduce the two of them – “Girlfriend, meet The Husband… Husband meet The Girlfriend”. They shake hands and he takes my bag while I hug her goodbye before getting into the van. On the drive home, I make him smell the sex on my fingers, telling him all about my night before spending the day hungover and fucking in my own comfy bed.

The horniness effect on The Husband is as intense as ever. But there are some new elements involved that need some different navigation. The first is the sleepover – I have never before spent an entire night away for explicitly debaucherous reasons. But he can sleep through absolutely anything, so it was me that bore the brunt of it more than him. More importantly and quite surprisingly, is the same-sex issue. When we split years before, he explored his bisexual desires with gusto. As I tried to process the impact it had on me, he just couldn’t understand why it was any different to him fucking other women. But in the aftermath of The Girlfriend Experience, he begins to understand. The variations to the jealousy impact are subtle but significant. If I fuck another dude, the rush involves a psychological competition and humiliation. But there’s no competing with another chick, it’s a whole different kettle of fish [pun intended].

The Boyfriend Experience

Me and The Mechanic have become a regular thing, getting together every other weekend when he has the house to himself. We’re quite smitten with each other, messaging regularly to break up the day with photos of my tits and compliments from him. But my previous visits have been time constrained for one reason for another, and now we’re finally planning a relaxed evening together. The plan involves him driving over to pick me up round the corner from my house in the afternoon, cooking me dinner, pouring me wine, fucking me senseless, then eventually dropping me home when he’s done.

I’m excited for date night and so is The Husband. He helps to douche my arse, and packs my preferred bottle of wine, waiting for me to leave before going for a run to burn off some of the nervous energy. I forgo my usual saucy stockinged look in favour of comfort befitting for a cosy night in and wait for him to message when he’s close by. As I get into his ute, I’m worried I might be spotted by someone I know, feeling seedy and nervous. And I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks so the reality of the stout bald middle-aged bloke next to me is a bit jarring against the mysterious dark fantasy man conjured up throughout our saucy messaging.

We’ve been sharing sexual scenarios for the past couple of days and he’s taken his mission seriously. When we get to his place I’m standing next to the kitchen counter when he comes up behind me, moving my hair aside and kissing my neck. He caresses and undresses me slowly and any doubts are quickly put out of my head. He turns me around and before I know it, he has lifted me up onto the counter and spread my legs with each foot resting on a bar stool. The idea of being perched, half-naked, and legs splayed on a breakfast bar would normally fill me with panic and dread, but he achieves it with a surprising and reassuringly graceful manoeuvre, particularly for a woman of my age and stature!

He’s kneeling down and enthusiastically feasting on my pussy while I writhe and moan, amazed at my brazenness and trying to force concerns about food hygiene from my mind. He stands up to kiss me, with his hard cock rubbing against me and I’m desperate to feel him inside me. I lift myself up with my arms and lower myself onto him, grinding, grabbing, snogging and completely abandoned and unselfconscious. It’s a difficult position to sustain and I put one foot on the floor, one on the rung of the stool and he uses his fingers again, making me squirt all over his carpet. He then turns me round, bends me over and fucks my arse until he explodes. It’s absolute pornstar stuff – messy, sweaty and delicious.

We’re both sufficiently blown away by the intensity of it and head out to the garden with our drinks. There’s lots of affection as we lie together on the outdoor sofa getting drunker and eating pizza before giving it another, more relaxed go on the bed. We’re both getting more comfortable with each other, and therefore more confident.

Equally though, it’s tricky terrain. It’s a first for both of us in the intimacy stakes and we’re constantly having to discuss and renegotiate our boundaries. In one message exchange, I reiterate my expectations and he reveals his first signs of possessiveness: “So I have to treat you like a princess, use you like a whore in the bedroom, and be ok with sending you home to your husband?”

That is indeed the size of it. On the plus side, he gets amazing sex, intimacy, friendship, and no risk of a crazy chick moving in on his family and home. It’s a pretty good deal all round if you ask me.

Apart from the kitchen sex, my other favourite Mechanic episode involves a bottle of prosecco, slow cooked garlic lamb, and a bit of light bondage. Again, he picks me up from close to my house. But this time, I’m dressed up for filth, wearing stockings, heels, see-through blouse and black satin pencil skirt – the full saucy secretary look.

And he’s put a lot of effort into preparing the night’s proceedings too. We’re snogging as soon as we get through the door as he steers me to stand with my back towards the wall. I can tell that he’s got a plan from the cheeky glint in his eye. He gently ties my hands together and lifts them above my head to attach to a special hook he’s drilled into the wall. He’s kissing, licking and groping me all over and my legs are already getting pretty wobbly by the time he brings out a remote control vibrating toy he’d bought for the occasion.  It’s not long before I’m untied, bent over the sofa, and it’s me that he’s drilling – him in my arse and the toy in my pussy. It’s totally breathless, sweaty stuff.

More importantly, the intimacy is a first for me and The Husband. All along, I’ve been clear about wanting a regular boyfriend, but the reality of sharing me on that level is slightly more challenging than the idea. He would definitely prefer me to have a stream of casual encounters – for fetish reasons more than emotional ones. We talk it through incessantly, with me checking that it’s still working for him each time and him reassuring me that it is when I come home with a fresh load of cum for him to clean up. In addition, he’s protectively picking up on the possessiveness signals and is more aware than I am that I’ll reach my boredom threshold soon enough.

Point Break

It’s a fruitful and exciting time, awash with sexual energy.

The Mechanic and The Girlfriend are my two main friendships and proving to be very promising indeed. But I’m on a roll and still addicted to the thrill of meeting new people. I’ve been chatting sporadically to one guy who hasn’t particularly wowed me with his wit and repartee, but his photography skills and hot surfer’s body have kept my attention.

The practicalities line up too. While my current friends have limited availability, the surfer dude lives alone in a convenient spot for impromptu visits on the way home from work or a night out. While there’s no particular banter, he’s laid back and experienced, and we seem to be after the same thing.

I’ve found that fitting in a quick date helps me fight the mundanity of the working week, treating it as a reward to motivate me to smash through deadlines. I’ve arranged to meet him for a late afternoon beer on my way back from a meeting and arrive at the pub a bit earlier than expected. When I message him to let him know I’m there whenever he’s free, he asks if I want to drive round to meet outside his house. When I point out how shabby that sounds, he backtracks, claiming that he’s feeling lazy. It’s not a particularly good sign – laid back is one thing, too lazy to walk round the corner is another.

But I’m there now, it’s a sunny afternoon, and I may as well finish my drink. When he arrives, he’s way more dishevelled than I expected, but in a windswept, outdoorsy, surfer kind of way. And he’s smiley, friendly and very easy going company. We spend a comfortable hour chatting, only distracted by the brassy blonde drunken old bird at the next table who’s wearing a short skirt and apparently no knickers as she flashes her minge to her fancy man. And I thought I was the disrespectable one around here.

Me and surfer dude have talked through our expectations and wish lists. While the lack of banter still worries me, his hot body, chilled attitude and easy availability continue to interest me. He walks me to my car and kisses me confidently before cheekily asking for a lift home. For such an active fella, he really doesn’t seem to like walking.

I feel awkward having him in my car, but even more awkward saying no, especially after the conversations we had been having. A couple of streets away, we both get out of the car to say goodbye and grab another snog. The results are sufficiently tingly for me to keep him on hold as a convenient booty call.

It only takes a couple of weeks before I’m calling on him to help me out during the ridiculously horny aftermath of my girlfriend experience and decide to pop over for a quick shag. In the relatively short period since I’ve been exploring new relationships, I am stunned by people’s different understandings of what it means to be a ‘friend’ with benefits. Surfer dude has said all of the right things in response to my comments about the importance of hanging out and having a laugh together. But his reality is completely different as he ushers me to his room to get straight down to it. It’s a dark, dingy, messy house and there isn’t even the offer of a drink let alone a smattering of small talk to break the ice.

To be honest, I’m that horny that it doesn’t even bother me at the time. The room looks like a 1980s student pad with bare floors and hippy wall-hangings and we’re stood next to the large futon snogging and quickly undressing. It takes me back to the fumbling one night stands of my teens – only this time I’m completely sober. He’s remarkably skilled at foreplay and I’m feeling extremely wet and wanton very quickly. While I’m not complaining, his moves are pretty rehearsed like he’s ticking off a well-timed checklist until he’s straddled over me announcing his intention to put on a condom and penetrate me. I’m absolutely gagging for it by the time he does and am completely lost in the fucking as we get into our good old missionary position rhythm. It’s surprisingly effective and I actually cum, something that I don’t even expect to happen with my most adored companions. He looks understandably pleased with his performance and shoots soon after, collapsing on his back next to me.

While the sex was surprisingly good, the post-coital interaction was equally awkward. We congratulate each other on a job well done as if we’d just completed a particularly impressive gym workout. The conversation is stilted and there isn’t even the offer of a cuppa, just an overwhelming desire to move on. I quickly get dressed and he walks me to the door, telling me how super-keen he is to repeat the episode again soon. I head home feeling sexually satisfied, but also slightly dirty and used – and not entirely in the positive and empowered way that I’m aiming for.

Snatch

I’m obsessing about the possibilities. Her curvy, tattooed, pinup look is the stuff of my fantasies, and she agrees that it’s the first time that she’s had an instant connection in ages too. She’s a single mother who only gets every other weekend off and we make a plan for the Saturday night. She drives over to get me so that I can drink and the messaging from both The Husband and The Lorry Driver becomes increasingly excitable as the day progresses.

The aesthetic of the two of us together is a stunning prospect, so we’re going for the whole pinup, seamed stockinged look. The Husband takes some hot photos of me as I prepare for my first full-on lesbian adventure of the new era.

I am ridiculously nervous, and think I’m going to vomit as the pickup time draws near. She messages me when she’s nearby and I head to her car armed with 2 bottles of prosecco for courage. She looks very cute in a dress very similar to one that I have at home, nude stockings with red seams, and red lipstick. But she’s distracted by her ex who is messing her around about childcare for the following morning. She chats away as we drive across town, but it’s friendly chat with no hint of sexual tension at all and I have no idea how this is going to work and how much of a dominant role I’m going to have to play.

Back at her house, the similarities in our taste continue and her vintage décor is freakily like my own. We crack open the wine and she gets out a cheese board – I wasn’t expecting to be fed too! It turns out that she’s been ridiculously nervous all day and is the same whenever she has a new adventure. We’re on opposite sides of the breakfast bar in the kitchen and she’s sharing all sorts of heavy shit with me about her life. It’s the kind of conversation I would have with a new friend, but really would not count as a preamble to hot lezza action.

Before I know it, we’ve finished the second bottle of wine and still haven’t made a move on each other. She’s frequently exchanging messages with The Lorry Driver too which is really disconcerting as I’m honestly not sure to what extent he’s instructing her, or to what extent she’s genuinely attracted to me. And her tales of extreme submission and risk-taking have intimidated me so much that I’m increasingly unlikely to make the first move no matter how much I want to snog her face off.

Eventually she comes round to stand in front of me while I’m perched on the bar stool with the tops of my stockings showing. We kiss and I grab her towards me between my legs. She whispers that she’ll do anything I want, and I’m reeling so much that I have no idea what I want first. Before I’ve had time to think, she’s got her hand up my dress pushing her fingers into my pussy as I stroke and kiss her tits. I just want her naked and in bed right now.

I go to the toilet and when I get to the bedroom, she’s turning the bed down, moving the table for my wine, and generally getting ready, more like a saucy chamber maid than a woman overcome by passion. I sit on the side of the bed pulling her towards me and moving my hand up her skirt. She swiftly moves away to take off her dress and I follow with mine. We’re snogging on the bed, a tangle of boobs, hands, stockings, and lipstick. It’s absolutely lush.

She’d already sent me photos, so I knew she had a pretty pussy, relieved that it didn’t look like a car crash. And my concerns about tasting it were equally unfounded. It’s official, I love eating pussy, well this one at least. I took to it immediately, munching away enthusiastically, and instinctively doing to her what I like done to me.

The highlights of the whole episode include her sitting on my face while I grabbed her voluptuous arse, and then watching her face as she looked into my eyes gently biting on the softest flesh of my tits, leaving delicious tiny bruises which lasted for days. While I was lost in the moment and decidedly dizzy from all the wine, her photography skills were impressive, often capturing a sneaky image to send to the boys and remember the night by. One photo in particular I’ll keep forever to remind me of the hottest moment by far. I had her bent over with her arse in the air, grabbing her hair and whispering that she was my slut while I gently played with her pussy. Kneeling between her legs I focused on getting my fingers into her wet cunt, fucking her harder and harder until I had most of my hand in her, while she moaned louder and louder, and eventually came. At some point, unbeknownst to me, she’d managed to get the camera underneath, capturing a fabulous shot of my arm in action and an extremely determined and filthy look on my face.

We’d been at it for at least an hour and stopped for a breather around midnight, both aware that the boys would be waiting with baited breath to hear of our progress. Not without reason, The Husband had concerns about The Lorry Driver turning up unannounced for a piece of the action. And sure enough, she jumps up excitedly, announcing that “Daddy’s here”.

While unsurprised, I’m really not happy. This was never discussed and I let her know that I’m uncomfortable with it. She tries to reassure me that he just wants to say hello before heading to the door to let him in, and I immediately message The Husband to let him know that it’s time to come and get me.

Despite my uneasiness, I give him an enthusiastic hug when he enters the room, perhaps because he’s so much hotter than I had anticipated. Me and the chick are sitting on the bed, close to the end of the third bottle of wine and looking decidedly ravaged. He is sat in an armchair towards the end of the bed with a satisfied, confident and domineering look on his face. He’s dressed in a simple tshirt and jeans, has cropped hair and a fit body for a 40-something year old, and he has a real bad boy tattooed look about him. It had been really hard to gauge from the few photos he’d shared with me, ranging from the hotty sat before me to a decidedly paunchy Jehovah’s Witness look.

When he asks if we’ve had a nice time we both answer enthusiastically and she excitedly boasts that she made me squirt. As ever, her impressive ability to talk gets us through the 20 minutes until I can make my exit. When I get the message telling me that The Husband is waiting outside, I swiftly get my stuff together while they stand talking in the sitting room with his proprietary arm around her. I really have no idea what the etiquette is for this kind of awkward situation and head to the front door waving a cheery goodbye. She comes over, snogging me passionately and letting me know that I can see her any time I want.

I run enthusiastically to the waiting husband, buzzing from the adrenalin, excitement and incredible hotness of the whole episode. I am incredibly turned on by the success of my lesbian endeavours and now, by the prospect of what we could all do together too. I feel like I’ve only just scratched the surface with her, and am now equally intrigued by him too, thinking that my ultimate FFM fantasies are now a distinct and imminent possibility.

I’m still pretty drunk and The Husband has come up with a plan for us to indulge in some MDMA to make the most of the decadent episode. On the few occasions that I take it, I’m usually really anxious and nauseous at first, while he immediately throws himself into the effects becoming blissed out and horny just by looking at it. This time, I’m drunk, buzzing, and already on a high from my adventures, talking effusively about how hot it was, how hot they both are, and how I can’t wait to do it all over again, only more so. But he hasn’t had the build-up that I have and hasn’t had time to process what’s happened, so he ends up being the one who’s anxious and nauseous, hit by the whole reality of jealously instead of the warm, perverse glow of cuckoldry. But it’s only a brief wobble and within no time, we’re back on track, talking it through and completely loved up.