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The Invisible Man

Right now I’m averaging one new and one existing date each month. The Husband’s work stresses have started to subside and he’s really enjoying my adventures. Me going out on a date and the prospect of getting pounded by a complete stranger has started to become an ordinary part of our relationship. For him, the normalisation has become a comforting and incredibly arousing thing. But for me, the often mundane and disappointing encounters can be challenging and I’ve started to become slightly detached, both from him and my dates. Our lives are really busy and while our sex life together is good, it primarily revolves around me regaling him with tales of my adventures, without us getting much time to properly re-connect ourselves.

There are so many issues at play, primarily around our own individual sexual hang-ups and insecurities. For me it’s the ongoing challenge of reprogramming decades of social conditioning. Where I want to indulge in my love of sex and intimacy as the strong, beautiful, sexually empowered woman that I am, years of being told that I’m a cheap, ugly, desperate slag are hard to break free from.

While my rational brain is all too aware of what’s going on, it doesn’t stop the emotional virtual blow to the stomach that I experience from rejection or regret, one which still has the power to turn me into a needy insecure wreck on a regular basis.

There has been an emotional connection missing in my most recent interactions. While each has provided a unique contribution to my voyage of sexual rediscovery, it’s all been about the physical act, rather than any particular mutual adoration and respect. For The Husband, this is the realisation of his slutty hotwife fantasies. For me, it’s not entirely satisfying and I feel like I’ve lost direction while I’ve been exploring my boundaries and preferences. My new friend marks a bit of a turning point.

He is so non-descript that I’m finding him difficult to describe. He’s recently divorced and lives a couple of hours away but stays in a city hotel for work during the week. The messaging isn’t particularly exciting but he’s persistent, enthusiastic and convenient. And largely due to procrastination from a work deadline, I agree to meet him for a quick coffee nearby.

I don’t feel any instant attraction or connection, but he’s not bad looking and seems pleasant, polite and easy company. It’s an incredibly quick coffee and I’m not madly moved, but messaging me afterwards he starts to win me over with enthusiastic compliments and invitations to dinner. Besides, having a clean, impersonal, convenient place to spontaneously fuck during the working week is an attractive prospect.

Me and The Husband had exciting plans with Easy Rider that night. It was all set up for him to drive me over to get reacquainted with my friend after a few month’s break. After Easy Rider was done with me, The Husband would be invited in to clean me up before we say our goodbyes and head off home. Fun times.

But Easy Rider cancelled around lunchtime. He was heading off on holiday the next day and couldn’t make the timing work. I’m pretty convinced that nerves may have played a role in the decision too, understandably.

So after a hot few days of build-up, we’re left hanging. And out of the blue, The Invisible Man appears with an empty diary, a convenient location, a pleasant personality, and a raging hard on. The Husband agrees, and I take up the offer of a drink after work.

He’s sat outside of the pub watching me walk across the square towards him with a big smile on his face. While he’s a man of few words, he’s warm and affectionate and gazes adoringly at me whilst plying me with wine. I like it a lot.

Soon enough, we’re quite drunk, ravenously hungry and increasingly horny. And as luck would have it, his hotel is just around the corner. Neither of us was convinced it would happen and I’m being almost coy as he gradually seduces me. When he spots his work colleagues in the hotel bar, we have no choice but to retire to his room before our date night is derailed. After a very encouraging snog and a grope, he orders pizza and disappears to get a bottle of wine. There’s no place for coyness now, and I shower and get into the bed naked before he comes back.

The spontaneity, excitement and affection is intoxicating. While his cock isn’t ginormous, we’re a good match physically and the sex is great fun. He has a previously unfulfilled passion for bum sex (again) and when I filthily tell him to cum in my tight little arse, he has the most ridiculously hard and long orgasm, proclaiming ‘where have you been all my life?!?’

And the aftermath of cuddling, pizza and TV is lovely too. So much so that even when I know The Husband is waiting outside to take me home, I jump straight back on and ride him till I orgasm.

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Roman Holiday

It’s been a while. I’ve been taking a break – one which I’ll get around to writing about eventually, when I’ve recovered enough.

But in the meantime, I was keen to keep my posts chronological, if not in real time. And it’s taken me a while to get around to recounting the surreal and relatively spontaneous afternoon I spent with a stranger in a city hotel.

Disillusioned once more, I had given another sex dating site a go. I posted my most direct, straightforward and brazen profile to date and was enjoying a reassuring rush of excitement from the new and varied contacts.

He’s a cheeky, confident, experienced, and enthusiastic Italian who wastes no time in meeting. We both snatch a quick half hour from work and sit opposite each other in the coffee shop. I’m feeling decidedly flushed and uncharacteristically shy as he stares intensely into my eyes. It’s a quick introductory meeting and after we walk outside, I’m taken aback when he kisses me passionately in the middle of the busy street, in broad daylight, just around the corner from my work.

Despite the mild embarrassment, I skip back to work jauntily with a cheeky grin across my face. The short, smooth, swarthy, passionate, middle-aged Italian thing is the stuff of my adolescent fantasies, fuelled by a complete and enduring devotion to Al Pacino.

I tell my new friend that he can make the fantasies of my teenage years comes true. He enthusiastically obliges, setting plans in motion to meet the following day. Of course there always has to be a hitch involved when you’re trying to make fantasies come true, and the hitch this time is that he’s a 50-something year old man who lives with his parents. He dresses it up as being their carer. But let’s be honest, it’s still living at home with parents.

The other hitch is that he turns out to be a bit of a twat, a fact that only begins to emerge slowly at first. The first alarm bell sounds as we’re making plans through the message app in the morning. Instead of charming his way into my pants and reassuring a lone woman who’s about to turn up to a stranger’s hotel room, I detect a hint of irritation when he asks me to phone him to clarify. He’s rushing around doing chores and faffing over details in a decidedly unsexy manner. He even tells me later that he had gone to book the hotel in person rather than online, insisting on inspecting the room first.

I’d initially agreed to meet for a glass of wine and take it from there. But somehow the plans had quickly escalated to getting straight down to it. It’s a really hot day as I make my way sweatily from the train station and I’m increasingly nervous about walking brazenly through a hotel lobby like a woman up to no good. Bizarrely, it’s the logistics of finding the room without looking embarrassingly seedy that’s worrying me more than the naked shennanegins once I get inside.

I call to let him know when I’m nearby, and of course he’s faffing and running late. I head to the pub around the corner to grab a quick glass of prosecco to steady my nerves. Almost immediately, he calls to let me know the room number and I prepare to do the walk of shame past the reception. Unsurprisingly, no one bats an eyelid and I find the room easily, letting myself in as instructed. The blinds are drawn, the room is dark, and he’s sitting in an armchair. I think he’s going for some kind of enigmatic and dramatic mood. There’s absolutely no hint of irony and I stifle a giggle at his pretentiousness.

But the room is nice, the wine is chilled, and the whole daytime hotel vibe has a delightful seediness about it that excites me. We’re standing in the middle of the room and the snogging is fabulous and I’m getting into this already. Despite the hint of twattishness, he’s definitely got all of the attributes of my adolescent dreams – the accent, the confident demeanour, the hairy chest, and a reassuringly hard impressive dick.

Before I know it, I’m on my knees in my underwear with my mouth full and eyes watering.

The reasons behind his fussiness over the room specifics and layout soon become apparent when in another deft move, he positions me facing a floor length mirror, swiftly bending me over so that he can watch my face as he teases my pussy and slides into me.

I’m holding onto a chair on one side and a desk on the other, legs spread and wobbling, as he pounds me hard from behind, holding my hair back and watching my blissed out facial expressions as he tells me how well he’s going fuck me, intent on sending me home to tell The Husband how a real man fucks. This is working out tremendously well so far.

A year ago I would have felt ridiculously self-conscious fucking in front of a mirror. But right now I’m grinning wildly and looking delightfully disheveled – it is extremely hot.

And then it happens – a missed opportunity that I can’t help wishing I had grabbed with both sweaty, eager hands…. During my younger wild years, I had a random night of filthy passion with two men that I met in a pub. It was ultimate slut behaviour which I was pretty ashamed of for years. But equally, it was one of my hottest ever experiences and remains one of my most enduring fantasies, firmly embedded in my trusty wank-bank. And it’s an experience that I’m determined to re-visit on my current enlightened middle-aged voyage of sexual rediscovery.

Right in the midst of his porn-star sex talk, he drops the bombshell that his friend is on standby, waiting for the call to join in. It’s the kind of scenario I think up in the comfort of my own bed – he’s fucking me from behind, telling me what a delicious slut I am, and asking if I can handle more cock. But this is for real.

While I’m getting better at spontaneity, this was never even hinted at in our preliminary discussions. And having a surprise thrown at me when I’m in an already potentially vulnerable position does make me kind of nervous. I hesitate and tell him that I’m not sure… then spend the rest of the afternoon regretting my decision, half hoping that there would be a knock on the door anyway.

Nevertheless, there’s an enjoyable romp that ends somehow in a crumpled sweaty heap on the bed. I’m lounging, relaxed and hoping for some chilled and affectionate post-coital flirtatious banter to lead us into round two. He jumps up to fill my wine glass and proffers a Tupperware bowl of random sweets that he’s brought from home – he really has thought of everything.

But instead of playful bants, I get angry rants. He launches into one long interminably dull tirade about an ongoing problem with his neighbour’s fence. For ages. At one point, I even try responding with some encouraging and supportive comment to try and bring him back to the point at hand. But he’s in full flow and interjects crossly: ‘can I speak?!?’

So the decision is final – he is officially rude and arrogant, and pretty boring too. And I’m completely turned off the idea of having his penis inside me again.

Thankfully, The Husband is waiting eagerly outside to take me home to my own bed, a sanctuary from rudeness, arrogance, and indifference. Instead there’s maximum affection, appreciation and excitement as I recount my exploits. When I get to the missed threesome opportunity though, he’s gobsmacked – ‘what were you thinking?!?’ I couldn’t have put it better myself.

A few months later, and with some exciting new opportunities on the horizon, I’m now actually relieved that I went with my gut feeling about the wrongness of his approach. Now I’m absolutely confident that it’s me who’s going to call the shots for setting up my ultimate group fantasy scenarios, and I’m looking forward to it very much indeed.

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The Towering Inferno

What girl doesn’t love a fireman? And this one is funny, gentle, built, and hot too – he really is the stuff of fantasies. And he knows it.

He contacts me first, luring me in with pics of his smiley face, bulging biceps, and powerful thighs. He not only endures my multitude of cheesy unoriginal fireman puns, but completely joins in with it in a cute, flirtatious barrage of spraying hoses, shiny helmets, and greasy poles.

I haven’t been this excited for a date in a long long time. And when he walks into the bar, I’m decidedly dizzy.  He’s tall, muscly and friendly, and when his massive arms reach in for a hug, I weaken immediately. The flirtatious, cheeky, warm tone of the messages continues into real life and I giggle girlishly over our quick drink. While I know we’re getting on well, I’m not at all sure that he’s as into me, so I’m mildly taken aback when he leans in for a snog as we say goodbye outside.

It’s a soft, gentle, romantic kiss, and his huge stature wrapped around me is delightful.

On the way home, I’m immediately thrown into a spin of self-doubt and confusion in what is a typically me response to a very nice date indeed.

Of course it’s too good to be true when it turns out that his teenage daughter lives with him. Clearly I had been so carried away with the prospects of a muscly calendar-model of a fireman that I hadn’t paid as much attention to the details and logistics as I usually would before meeting in person.

But where there’s a will, there’s a way. And within the week, he lets me know that he has the place to himself for a few hours and I drive over to see if the reality lives up to the fantasy. He lives in a brand new development, above some commercial premises, and it takes me a while to find the carpark and doorway. So much so that I begin to think it’s all some kind of practical joke.

But sure enough, he sees my message when he gets out of the shower and greets me with his characteristic warmth. I stand awkwardly making small talk and drinking a glass of wine in the kitchen waiting for him to make the first move. When he does, it’s slow, soft, and romantic again and it makes a nice change from my more vigorous adventures of late.

Standing in the bedroom, he does the whole 80s music video style kissing my shoulders and slowly undressing me thing. I consciously have to stop myself from emitting an audible sigh of disappointment when I finally get my hands on his willy. But while it may be smaller than I had hoped, it is encouragingly hard and enthusiastic. And the fucking is intense, energetic, and much harder than the slow build up would suggest.

Eventually we collapse in a sweaty, panting, ravaged heap and feel surprisingly comfortable and relaxed together as he holds me in his lovely big arms and proclaims that we ‘fit well’.

But ultimately, I’m not convinced. His last minute booty calls and constantly changing plans quickly have me feeling insecure – after all, it doesn’t take much. He’s playing along with the boyfriend role but really just needs a convenient fuck buddy.

And while it’s not a deal-breaker, I’m mildly uncomfortable with his fixation with having his arse rimmed. I understand how hypocritical a position it is from someone who has written so much about loving arse play, but I’m just not the giving kind. If I’m going to shove my tongue into a fella’s poo hole, then it’s going to be The Husband – the man I love and whose butt I have neglected for almost 30 years!

The episode ends with me getting a bit over excited about the prospect of us spending a public holiday in bed together while his daughter is away. I cancel all existing plans, organise transport, get my nails did, and shave my minge, ready for an afternoon of filth and wine. But sure enough, he cancels at the last minute. The first time was disappointing, the second time was rude, and the third time just isn’t going to happen.

In a bizarre turn of events a couple of months later, I learn that the fireman’s flat has burned down. And no, it wasn’t me. Sitting watching the news one night, we recognise his apartment block in some spectacular fire footage. The whole building is destroyed, miraculously with no serious injuries, and 3 teenagers arrested for arson. In a brief message exchange he tells me that they lost everything and I send him well wishes and support, strongly resisting the urge to draw attention to the irony – even I recognise that it’s way too soon.

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Dirty Grandpa

I’m getting slightly better at knowing what I want. Or maybe I’m just getting better at projecting my desired qualities onto unknowing and unwitting partners. Whichever way, it doesn’t always work out well and the run of misfits continues.

I’m not sure if I’m physically attracted to him, but his messages are cheeky, charming, and deviant. And he’s older, single, lives alone, and experienced in the swinging scene. It’s an attractive combination, particularly during a current dry spell.

I’ve been sick again and out of action. The bleeding during sex that had been hampering my sexual adventures has been put down to a polyp which has been successfully removed. At the same time, I’ve had a proper clear out and a IUD contraceptive device fitted, both for added protection and to help with my peri-menopausal symptoms. The upside is that my womb is sorted and ready for action. The downside is that I’m feeling exhausted, hormonal, bloated and decidedly unattractive. Perhaps some dating adoration is just what I need to start feeling fabulous again.

He’s the supervisor on a huge building site in the city. I arrange to meet him for a quick drink round the corner from his work on the way to meet a friend. He’s in the whole construction worker gear, complete with flouro vest, big dirty boots, and an impressive shiny helmet. While he’s not traditionally good looking, he’s got the whole rugged thing going on. And he’s cheeky, charming, and confident – I like him. To the extent that I feel an intense tingling when he tells me how much he wants to take me back to his site office and bend me over his desk there and then. In an uncharacteristically sensible move, I politely decline and agree to visit his place the following week.

But when I see him standing by his ute (again!) waiting to pick me up near my house, I wonder what the hell I was thinking and consider running away. He looks completely different in his own nasty jeans and cheap trainers with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Without the fantasy construction worker think happening, he just looks like a shabby, unkempt, dirty old man.

Everything is lined up though, it’s been a while since I had an adventure, and The Husband is excited about picking me up on his way home from work for an evening of our own. I decide to go with it.

His house is reassuringly clean and he has a beautiful if slightly scary dog. Both are factors that help me to relax reasonably quickly, especially combined with the large amount of wine that I quickly knock back for courage. The place is clearly set up for his sexually deviant lifestyle, complete with large recliner sofas and huge television with surround sound. The screen is still showing his last porn category and I point out to him that displaying a preference for teen porn probably isn’t the wisest move when trying to seduce a mature woman. We share a drink, a cigarette, and a laugh, and before long, he has his face buried between my legs.

He knows that I’m way out of his league, which makes him extra enthusiastic and appreciative, and makes me feel like an absolute porn star. It’s extremely hot. Soon we’re energetically fucking on his massive leather sofa – until he gets his leg stuck and we have to take a break.

Honestly, I’m not always as responsible about using condoms as I should be, particularly when I have a good idea about who I’m with and their sexual history. But this time I am extra careful. His sexual deviancy may be attractive on one level, but from what he’s revealed to me tonight concerning his occasional hiring of sex services and meth-fueled orgies with neighbours, his bare cock is definitely not going anywhere near me.

I’m increasingly drunk and end up on his bed with my legs in the air with him shouting ‘yummo’ and proclaiming that all his christmasses had come at once. When The Husband arrives, I head to the car in a slightly wobbly state to regale him with my tales of debauchery and we carry on the fucking into the night. The whole episode has a uniquely dirty quality to it. But it’s not one that I’m keen to repeat again in a hurry. And nor is my liver.

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The Misfits

Of course I end up fucking the strangler dude. It’s been a particularly busy work week and I’m thinking that a few hours of rough sex could be just what I need to relax in time to spend a couple of days off with The Husband.

I’m exhausted, but excited enough to get dressed up in my corset and stockings, black dress and favourite leopard print coat. He picks me up around the corner from my house to take me to where he’s staying – a trailer park. It may be described as a ‘luxury’ holiday village, but it is still a trailer park. It appears to sum up the dirty shabby nature of the whole episode. But not in a totally wrong way.

He’s attentive, funny and flirtatious on the way there, and acts the gentlemen opening the door for me to climb out of the ute. But that’s where it ends. I’m used to a glass of wine and some gentle foreplay to ease me into a submissive state, but straight away he has me bent over the table spanking my arse – really hard. No niceties, just straight into the brutal play as he shoves me to my knees and tries to ram his pathetic cock into my mouth. I’m a bit stunned to be honest. We’ve chatted about different scenarios for a few weeks, but now I’m thinking that I really should have been more proactive in establishing boundaries and expectations for the visit.

I know I can stop at any time and that The Husband will be waiting outside shortly, so I go with it. His under-performing penis is clearly something he works with on a regular basis as he arrogantly mansplains female sexual pleasure to me while vigorously using his fingers to make me squirt all over the bed. He jumps up with a triumphant smile on his face, heading to the kitchenette in just his socks to fetch a can of rancid beer to thrust into my hand.

The mood becomes far more affectionate and chilled as we relax over our beers. And I’m sure that the squirting has given him a much needed boost to his sexual confidence. The afternoon culminates in him cumming over my face. I walk to the car park past the holiday makers looking like a hooker from a 1960s British film, complete with my leopard print coat, disheveled hair, and a dirty grin on my face.

He was enthusiastic about seeing me again but there was something missing for me. And it wasn’t just the lack of a big hard cock. Maybe if he’d have lived nearby I would have invested more time into exploring the potential. But then again, maybe I wouldn’t have. It was just a little cold and flat.

The continual chatting with prospective guys and juggling coffee dates is pretty intense. It’s often hard to work out what does and doesn’t do it for me. And as with anything, it comes in waves of nothing or all at once.

During a particularly lean time and a rare day off to myself, I spontaneously agree to meet a local man for coffee. The alarm bells should have rung when he sent me an unsolicited video of him fucking a fleshlight attached to his kitchen counter. While I’ve seen worse, it did seem an odd thing to send straight away, and I reminded myself that whatever came of it I should never let him cook for me.

The coffee shop was really busy and he’d already ordered his to take away before I arrived. He didn’t offer to buy mine or even wait with me, instead telling me he was heading outside. While he was reasonably good looking, he had a distinct lack of charm or even personality. As we walked along the seafront with our coffee, I felt like I was an unwilling participant in a job interview as he listed off his CV of sexual conquests. He appeared completely disinterested in me, not asking a single question, and at one point even interrupting me to hold a full-on conversation with the volunteers who were out cleaning the beach. I have never felt a more striking example of mutual incompatibility. And yet he was seemingly totally unaware, bizarrely pestering me to come to his flat for days after until he finally took on board my definitive ‘no’.

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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.

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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].

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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.

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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.