teasing tongues

May 20, 2018

good friends playing nicely

The first time I had sex with a woman, just her and I, I marvelled at the pace. Sex with men always felt pressing, driven by an intensity that climbed quickly. Sometimes I liked that energy, it made me feel wanted, desired. The rush was fun, like tearing open a present. Other times I felt like we skipped over the good parts, like I could have pressed against him while he kissed my neck for hours. Sometimes I felt like I was trying to catch up, I was too young and inexperienced to say “Slow down.”

The first time I had sex with a woman, and it was just her and I, we kissed for hours. Literally hours. Slow, tender, swollen-lips, hands in our hair, teasing tongues, moans and soft sounds, our hips pressing together, in no hurry but never staying still. By the time I pressed my hand between her legs her panties were soaked right through. That little wet spot made fireworks in my head, my clit throbbed. This was divine. I didn’t pull her cotton underwear aside until she was already close to orgasm, just from my fingertips tracing over the fabric, and her eager grinding against my palm.

After she came we slowed down but never stopped touching each other until she’d had her second, third and fourth. There’s a difference between “I came” and “I’m satiated”. Fucking someone who understood that made sex an entirely new thing. We fucked until we were finished, exhausted and spent. I finally felt satisfied.

The next time a man touched me all I could feel was the energy propelled by his hard-on. The rush that rush-of-blood to his cock put him in. I felt like I wasn’t there.

Queer Enough, 2018

Where are the women who, entre deux guerres,
came out on college-graduation trips,
came to New York on football scholarships,
came to town meeting in a decorous pair?
Where are the expatriate salonnieres,
the gym teacher, the math-department head?
Do nieces follow where their odd aunts led?
The elephants die off in Cagnes-sur-Mer.
H.D., whose “nature was bisexual,”
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Where are the single-combat champions:
the Chevalier d’Eon with curled peruke,
Big Sweet who ran with Zora in the jook,
open-handed Winifred Ellerman,
Colette, who hedged her bets and always won?
Sojourner’s sojourned where she need not pack
decades of whitegirl conscience on her back.
The spirit gave up Zora; she lay down
under a weed-field miles from Eatonville,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Where’s Stevie, with her pleated schoolgirl dresses,
and Rosa, with her permit to wear pants?
Who snuffed Clara’s mestiza flamboyance
and bled Frida onto her canvases?
Where are the Niggerati hostesses,
the kohl-eyed ivory poets with severe
chignons, the rebels who grew out their hair,
the bulldaggers with marcelled processes?
Conglomerates co-opted Sugar Hill,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Has Ida B. persuaded Susan B.
to pool resources for a joint campaign?
(Two Harriets act a pageant by Lorraine,
cheered by the butch drunk on the IRT
who used to watch me watch her watching me;
We’ve notes by Angelina Grimke Weld
for choral settings drawn from the Compiled
Poems of Angelina Weld Grimke.)
There’s no such tense as Past Conditional,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Who was Sappho’s protegee, and when did
we lose Hrotsvitha, dramaturge and nun?
What did bibulous Suzanne Valadon
think about Artemisia, who tended
to make a life-size murderess look splendid?
Where’s Aphra, fond of dalliance and the pun?
Where’s Jane, who didn’t indulge in either one?
Whoever knows how Ende, Pintrix, ended
is not teaching Art History at Yale,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Is Beruliah upstairs behind the curtain
debating Juana Ines de la Cruz?
Where’s savante Anabella, Augusta-Goose,
Fanny, Maude, Lidian, Freda and Caitlin,
“without whom this could never have been written”?
Louisa who wrote, scrimped, saved, sewed, and nursed,
Malinche, who’d like all translators, cursed,
Bessie, whose voice was hemp and steel and satin,
outside a segregated hospital,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Where’s Amy, who kept Ada in cigars
and love, requited, both country and courtly,
although quinquagenarian and portly?
Where’s Emily? It’s very still upstairs.
Where’s Billie, whose strange fruity ripened in bars?
Where’s the street-scavenging Little Sparrow?
too poor, too mean, too weird, too wide, too narrow:
Marie Curie, examining her scars,
was not particularly beautiful;
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Who was the grandmother of Frankenstein?
The Vindicatrix of the Rights of Woman,
Madame de Sevigne said prayers to summon
the postman just as eloquent as mine,
though my Madame de Grignan’s only nine.
But Mary Wollstonecraft had never known
that daughter, nor did Paula Modersohn.
The tree-day infants blinked in the sunshine.
The mothers turned their faces to the wall;
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Tomorrow night the harvest moon will wane
that’s floodlighting the silhouetted wood.
Make your own footnotes; it will do you good.
Emeritae have nothing to explain.
She wasn’t very old, or really plain–
my age exactly, volumes incomplete.
“The life, the life, will it never be sweet?”
She wrote it once; I quote it once again
midlife at midnight when the moon is full
and I can almost hear the warning bell
offshore, sounding through starlight like a stain
on waves that heaved over what she began
and truncated a woman’s chronicle,
and plain old Margaret Fuller died as well.

Marilyn Hacker
Selected Poems: 1965-1990


I spent the first 25 years of my life as a lesbian, knowing I was always secretly bisexual, but knowing also that my conservative family could never understand the diversity of sexuality, of people, and of lovers. I was with a long-term girlfriend, then another long-term girlfriend, so the binary label seemed easier. Straight. Gay. Leave the “in between” part for when I’m alone wanking to porn. But then I tried the dick. With a lot of curiosity and experimentation, it seemed ok enough, and if I could help match fantasy to reality, it could possibly even be decent.

But with a lot of trial and too much error, I decided men had no idea how to go down on women. Let’s face it, I’ve worked with real experts. Women know women better. It’s a fact I always accepted. It’s like taking your vintage car to the dealership vs. the local mechanic. Sure, you’re going to get up-charged, but they know your brand the best.

When men would try to go down on me, I would stop them at the thought. “No, no…it’s ok… just stick it in,” I’d tell them, unwilling to waste my time faking another orgasm to prevent a fractured ego. Ok, I was a little more polite than that, with a baby thrown in for good measure. “But I love doing it,” a lover said once. I rolled my eyes, secretly wondering if I could get away with reading the news on my phone at the same time he was drowning in his own drool.

Giving the direction “fingers inside me with clitoral stimulation” seemed to cause as much confusion as telling him to look behind something to find the milk. I half expected him to stand at the foot of the bed like I was a refrigerator with the door open and gaze at me in endless confusion at this foreign concept. This was not “walk and chew gum”, this was a another thing far more complicated. I thought, I can speak “bro”. I was a lesbian, for Christ’s sake. “Have you ever driven a stick shift?”

So I made things simpler. Fuck me. Hard. Preferably from behind. Because once you get that angle, that oh-so perfect angle just right, that thrust will set me off like the Fourth of July just had an orgy with Cupid and Santa while the Easter Bunny jerked off in the corner and the world exploded with fireworks, flowers, presents, and chocolate cream eggs all at once, then twice, oh wait…one more time…there…I’m good…pardon while I tremble. Am I crying? It’s ok, it’s the good kind.

But then I met you. You were too tall, too tall. Your strength scared me. What if you hurt me? What if you yelled at me and I got scared? Given the stories I know and things I’ve seen, this wasn’t an impossible fear. But, no. My gentle giant’s hands are used only for snuggles, and squeezes, and slipping up my skirt or down my panties. For wiping stray eyelashes or insisting on another cookie while we play video games. For that one time I tried to hide my silent laughter behind the hair hanging in my face and you softly pushed it aside and caught me.

You have facial hair. That just won’t do. My father has facial hair, and we all know how I feel about him. But…..no…your furry chin doesn’t block your soft lips and perfect kisses. It cozies right up to my neck to tickle until I giggle with goosebumps and you pull me closer against you.

I humored you that first time. “Oh great… he wants to go down on me,” I thought. “Where’s that book I was reading?” But dear God and all other deities. You’re sucking my clit while you’re sticking your big long finger in me. Holy shit, is that two? Ohgod, ohgod, g-spot while you’re lapping at my clit? I was wrong to doubt you. How are your massive arms just the right length to reach to my breast to squeeze my nipple? Harder, please. Ahhh yes…just like that. Don’t you dare stop!

I couldn’t focus, I was overwhelmed. Overcome. That must be where that word comes from. I didn’t just come. I was overcome! You had to hold down my pelvis or my careless thrusts could’ve knocked a tooth out. My legs shook, my body tensed, and I squeezed your fingers hard. I was scared of how big the orgasm would be. Almost like it was going to be too much and I didn’t want to come because I wasn’t sure if I could handle it. A string of profanity followed, but you didn’t stop. You were taking me there. One more flick of your tongue across my clit and I covered your fingers buried inside me. But you were just getting warmed up. Three more like that followed and on the fourth I told you I didn’t think I could come again. I now understand how much you love a challenge, so of course, I came once more.

Nearly two years later, our sex has only gotten better. Sometimes passionate and loving where I won’t let your lips leave mine while you’re fingering me. Sometimes I’m on top of you laughing while my hips twerk to the music as I bounce on your cock. Sometimes I text you when you’re on your way over and tell you not to be gentle, and you spank me while you take me from behind.

And that one time you came over before going out of town. I was shaking with release and you were moving me to spoon before I stopped you. “No… I want another one…” And you seemed surprised before the lightbulb came on. “You’re gone for a few weeks, I just need-” and you shook your head. “I know what you’re doing. I got this,” you said with determination. I giggled at your “serious face” until you were inside me again.

You taught me I had it all wrong. You get me. You love me. You care for me. You protect me. And your balls always smell clean when I’m going down on you. You broke every rule, every assumption, I ever had about men and I will always love you for it.


How to make me come

Goodbye Kinky Wednesday…

October 3, 2015


Terresa is well educated, ambitious and accomplished. However, her attempts at conventional relationships with men or women over the years have proved less than successful. Consequently, she’s gone for the casual, “now you see it, now you don’t” type of encounter, gender unimportant.

In her business life she’s assertive, even opinionated. She’s in charge of a department of thirty other individuals in a sales environment, and is seen as a company “go getter”.

In her private life, she’s discovered pleasure in relinquishing control. She gets great satisfaction from submitting, being hogtied, suffering mild pain – by spanking or caning, this administered by either male or female Dom, it really doesn’t matter to her – and being penetrated in a wide variety of ways, by a wide variety of objects, including male cocks, the bigger the better. As far as Terresa’s concerned, size DOES matter!

She’s learned she likes humiliation. It’s been a revelation to her, for sure, but even being inundated with pee has become acceptable to her – especially when others witness her humiliation, her degradation. Recently, in a well known coastal resort, she attended a “scene” where she was repeatedly penetrated with a huge dildo, caned, then forced to drink the pee of five other people, three males and two females. This while being watched by an invited audience of thirty kinksters.

At the end of the scene Terresa was in an almost ecstatic state. She’d taken one step beyond, and overloaded on pleasure. She’d shed what few inhibitions she still had, like shedding her dirty underwear. It took almost an hour for her to “come down” again, return to a “normal” state.

Things she thought she’d never do, she now actively encourages. Including allowing three strangers to sodomise her on a small makeshift stage, and a housewife and grandmother to fist her while a small crowd of males surrounded her, masturbating to completion over her face and breasts.

But still, obviously, she has her limits. Body modification is a big ‘No, No’ with her! Tats are out, too, as are any marks or bruising that would be visible to the general public. These scenes are only a small part of her life. They are private and she is very discrete. Very careful. She keeps her private life well away from her public persona.

We’ve known her three or four years now. We’ve observed how her “boundaries” have expanded over that period of time. Unlike me, she can’t switch, she’s a sub, end of story. She could no more dominate another person, than she could fly unassisted or strike a safety match on a kids redcurrant party jelly.

Again, unlike me, she has a fascination with blood. Needles, pins and blades. Although any slight bloodletting must take place on her body normally concealed by clothing.

I find the whole concept abhorrent – which she knows and accepts. Sharp knives scare me, I make no bones about It – and I talk as a man who once suffered multiple stab wounds in a brawl outside a Paris bordello, a subject which Terresa finds fascinating. Simulating rape, is one thing. Simulating it with a knife or open razor in your hand, is way out of line in my little black book.

Anyhow, I digress. Wednesday evening Terresa joined Dee, Gabriella and myself for a few fun-filled hours. It gave Gabby, more often Sub than Dom, a chance to dominate completely an attractive young woman, subjecting her to a range of humiliations and mild punishments before Dee took over.

Dee played the bitch from hell. She forced Terresa to drink a jug of pee and fucked her hard with a massive strap-on dildo before taking a riding crop to the soft curves of her inner thighs.

Finally, while Dee and Gabby held Terresa down by her wrists, her arse swaying invitingly in the air, I bum-fucked her like there was no tomorrow…no yesterday, either, come to that. Her eyes were almost bulging out of her head with each fresh thrust.

Later we sat around almost ghostlike after our excesses. We eat hot buttered crumpets, a stack of them, washed down with creamy hot chocolate. We were all naked or semi-naked – Terresa has these magnificent, upthrust, pouting tits. I just love ‘em. She has a piercing in her bellybutton, too, and a hairless pudenda.

‘We should do this again,’ she said.

‘Good idea,’ Dee said. ‘When?’

‘I need to check my diary. But early next month…?’

‘Fine with me,’ I said.

‘And with me,’ Gabriella agreed. ‘Why don’t we make it a Friday or Saturday next time? You could stay over. Make it an all nighter!’

While the women finalised their arrangements, I went to the kitchen to toast more crumpets. I wondered would anyone be sharing my bed on that Friday or Saturday? Or would the three women get by tangled in each other’s arms in the guest room bed? It was a king-size, after all.

We said our goodbyes around midnight. I didn’t kiss Terresa on the mouth, knowing what she’d drunk from the jug earlier in the evening. Instead I kissed her check.

‘It feels as if you’re still up me,’ she confided. ‘Someone could park their car in there.’

‘You’ll recover.’

Sure, no worries. I’ve got a few weeks before you do that to me again…’

We stood on the drive and waved as she departed in her little red car; she acknowledged this with her own waving, her hand out the open window, until she turned onto the lane.

‘I’m for bed,’ said Dee.

‘I’ll join you, I think,’ Gabriella said.

‘Goodnight ladies,’ I said. ‘Goodnight sweet ladies.’


“What I remember best about my teens was drinking cider and Bacardi Breezers round a friend’s house on Friday nights in the summer, getting seriously fuzzy-headed on them, then making out with the other girls there. These were our girly nights, you know, and we’d all be a little messed-up with the booze.’

Dee was seated slouched on the two seater sofa, he legs draped over Gabriella’s lap. She was drinking a mojito with so much mint in the glass it looked like the New Forest on a wind-swept day.

‘I tried it on with all of them at one time or another,’ she said quietly, smiling at her own confession. ‘I scored big time with both Julie Brown and with Barbara Sherborne – Babs was a very curvy girl for her age…Curvy like her mum, who was Irish, sort of top heavy curvy.’ Dee used her free hand to exaggerate the size of her bust. ‘Her dad was Afro-Caribbean and ran his own cab company in Wembley. We were sleeping over at Claire’s place and Babs let me finger her. Then she put her hand in my PJs…

‘Yay. Handjobs without kisses. Was she gay? Dunno. Don’t care…We both came, eventually.

‘Julie and I got it on, but on another occasion. She started it. She kissed me on the neck at bedtime. Sucked on me till I had this hicky from hell. She called it her brand. Honestly. She’d put her brand on me. Great big purple bruise like a Tequila Sunrise on my neck. I looked like I’d been with Count Dracula. She was older than me by a year or so. Skinny girl with boobs like pimples and slightly bulbous blue-grey eyes. Both of us were awash with Strongbow and Bacardi Breezer that evening. We were really totaled…

‘Anyway, I slipped my hand up her nightdress and started fingering her. She didn’t stop me, so I assume she didn’t mind. She had on these baggy white knickers. Passion killers. A little later she plunged her hand in my PJs, started feeling me up. We were both too pissed to reach any sort of climax…But it felt good, just the same.’

Gabriella sipped her gin and tonic. ‘What a naughty thing you were, Dee,’ she said. ‘I always thought you so peachy clean! Church school and all that.’

‘We had our moments. Mostly we talked about boys. I had a terrible crush on this one boy, Bobby his name. Short, chubby-faced chap with blonde hair. God, I’d have let him do anything he wanted to me.’

‘And did he?’ Gabby asked. ‘Did he do whatever he wanted with you?’

‘No,’ he didn’t. ‘And part of the reason for that, the great non-event of my young life, was one of those evenings round Clare’s.

‘I was bed sharing that night with Susannah Radebe. Her dad was an estate agent and worth an absolute mint. She went horse riding and show jumping. Read Jackie and Bunty for girls. And was full of herself…

‘Anyway, awash with cider I tried it on with her. Big mistake, it really was. She went through the roof. She made so much fuss that Clare’s mother had to intervene. Darling Susannah told her I was, quote, “Unnatural”. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she wanted to sleep in another room. Where she’d “feel safer!” I could easily have strangled the little minx.

‘The whole thing was beyond embarrassing. In fact it was the kiss of death for our Friday night drinking sessions. Clare’s mum called a halt to them after that. But worse, word spread about it and delectable Bobby got to hear I was a dyed-in-the-wool dyke. A lesbian who delighted in forcing herself on other girls. That was that. End of my first, perfect love match…’

‘Do you remember your first grown-up kiss?’ Gabriella asked her. ‘I remember mine. It was with a boy at school called Colin Grapebatch. My heart was pounding so hard. I could feel it in my head. Just gazing into his eyes, our faces moving closer. I couldn’t breath…

‘I was shocked when I felt his tongue flick in my mouth, but also aroused by it. He was older than me, more “experienced”.’ Gabby made quotation marks in the air with her fingertips. ‘I knew at the time I’d remember that moment forever. His body pressed close to mine. His lips much softer than I’d imagined. And then his tongue. I nearly fainted away. I could hear these feathered wings flapping in my ears…’

‘Ahhh, that’s so sweet, Gabriella. I wish I’d known you back then.’

‘You wouldn’t have liked me. Not then, Dee.’

‘Yes, I would. We could have been sweethearts. Could have had hot makeout seshs together.’

‘And renamed the days of the week?’

‘How so?’

‘Moanday, Tongueday, Wetday, Thirstday, Fuckyday, Sexday, Suckday…And the months too…’

‘That’s too much…but then, why not? I think the thing I love most about you is when you start making your O-face, Gabriella. I see that and…Well, things happen inside me. You know they do. I’d have loved to have seen it when you were a school girl, my finger on your button. We could have had oodles of fun…Ahhh, so many missed opportunities.’

‘No, no, it would all have ended in drama, exhaustion and extreme chafing, Dee, darling. I know it would. I was all about pretend. You’d have hated me…’

‘What about you Peedeel? Early memories of romance? Special girls…?’

‘At school? The smell of girls, I remember mostly…minty breath from chewing gum, nicotine on slender fingers, or salt from the packets of crisps eaten in the playground. Damp cotton, shampoo, dreams. A thousand and one smells. There was one girl in particular with storm grey eyes I loved from afar. I was too nervous to ask her out, though.

‘Then one lunchtime in the dining hall she was sitting on the table beside me, and she leaned over and said, “You’re nice. I really like you.” And I just shrugged and looked away, my face on fire with embarrassment. Can you believe I did that…?’

‘I find it hard to believe,’ Dee said gently.

‘She opened her heart and I responded with stony silence. Nothing scares you more than your own negativity. But my response to her that day would have been like a slap in the face with an iron glove. She never spoke to me again…So, a view inside the outsider. Portrait of the artist as a tongue tied twerp…’

Dutch Sex Orgy…

January 25, 2015


Four years ago we were in Delfzijl in the Netherlands visiting Any Van Liewens and her partner Emile. Our original plan was to stay with them for a couple of days before moving on to Nijmegen, but we ended up staying five days, which gave Dee, Gabriella and Any humongous amounts of time to catch-up on gossip, go shopping, and what-ever-else they wanted to do.

Any and Emile are members of a local BDSM group. They are in to mild S&M, mainly role play, not the serious belt & braces pass me the thumbscrews sort of stuff. Any is a Dom and is happy to play that roll with Dee and Gabriella. They are both happy for her to play it too…

Our first morning with them, after Emile had departed for work (he owns and runs a small furniture factory on the outskirts of Delfzijl), Any took the two girls into her bedroom and (mildly) chastised them. We’d all been exhausted the previous night after the long journey, but had slept well and woken full of vim and vigour (well, apparently they had). I laid in, being a lazy male and listened with interest to the miscellaneous cries, moans and giggles coming from Any’s room.

A little after ten I heard this rhythmic whacking sound (Any smacking Gabriella’s lovely round backside with her hand ) and Dee yelling: ‘That’s right. Lick it, lick it harder. Come on…’

Ultimately, these intimate sounds were interrupted by Dee’s orgasmic cry as Gaby’s tongue carried her beyond infinity. Then for about twenty minutes silence filled the place. I yawned, rolled over. Drifted gently back off to sleep…

That afternoon Any told us all about the party that coming Saturday. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘more of an orgy than a party. Lots of couples, various ages, you know, all getting together for one thing.’

‘For sex?’ I said.

‘Sounds fun,’ Dee said.

Gaby remained silent, uncommitted to this unexpected hedonistic event. While Gabriella is, like Dee, bi-sexual, her leaning is much more towards women than men. She loves Dee, of course, but that doesn’t preclude her enjoying other women from time to time.

Dee said, ‘Will there be any unattached ladies or is it all couples?’ She was obviously thinking of Gaby’s sexual proclivities. Gaby would curl up happily with someone’s young wife, but pleasuring their hubby would be a whole new ball game. In fact Dee had nicknamed Gabriella “The Handjob Kid” ages ago, because that was all most blokes were ever going to get off her. And that with some reluctance.

‘Probably, yes,’ said Any. ‘But there will be at least a dozen all female couples. They usually occupy what’s known as the Sapphic room…Usually with these occasions there are around 100 couples attending all together.’

Gabriella smiled broadly. This now sounded like an event filled with possibilities. ‘Oh, WOW,’ she said, and squeezed my hand.

So, it was agreed. Saturday evening we’d eat early and go to the orgy for nine. ‘Have no fears,’ Any reassured us. ‘Attendance is by invitation only. The guest list is exclusive, you know. It’s very safe; very secure.’

‘The cream of the crop?’ Dee said.

‘And we’re invited?’ I asked, a tad perplexed.

‘Yes, yes, Emile took care of all that. We have your invitations. You’re our guests. It’s our treat. The other people attending…Well, there will be an architect for sure, a couple of doctors, lawyers, people from local government, maybe a celebrity or two. All nice people, though…’

The party was in this huge old house (like we’re talking Château here, boys and girls, the place was a feckin’ castle) set in its own grounds and in the middle of nowhere. We were met by our hostess at the front door, a tall, attractive woman with really long legs – which were exposed for our delectation below the hem of a white dress that barely reached to her crotch. She wore spiky high heels and had red hair swept back on her head and the most startling neon blue eyes I’ve ever seen. She welcomed us and showed us inside…

The staircase before us branched into a giant Y-shape. ‘The Sapphic room is upstairs on the right,’ Any said. ‘The main party is off to our left, usually…’

Both Gabriella and I found it difficult to take our eyes off of our hostess’ legs. But just then a waitress passed us carrying a tray of champagne. She was in a uniform consisting of lacy white glovelettes, red and white lace choker at her throat, red fishnet stockings with fine white bows on her shapely legs, a pair of strappy red high-heels, and last but not least a lace-trimmed pinafore to cover her more intimate parts. Breasts and buttocks were on show to all, and if a gentle breeze caught that tiny pinafore…then we’d see her sex also. Gaby ate the girl with her eyes. ‘I could go down on her, no trouble,’ she whispered crudely. ‘Lick her out till the cows come home…’

In the main room (Room? It was like a feckin’ assembly hall) mattresses had been strategically positioned here and there, and also laid side-by-side following the line of two of the four walls. Lighting was subdued, rosette. Already people were naked, men and heavily cosmeticised women, wrapped in each other’s arms…

‘You can put your folded clothing in the ante-room to your left,’ our hostess explained. She got a passing waiter to give us each a drink and then departed. Dee couldn’t take her eyes off of the waiter, who was tall, well-muscled and nude except for a tiny sequined posing pouch.

A woman came over to Any wearing a Safiyaa top and see-through skirt. They exchanged greetings. Emile kissed her cheek then took her with Dee to the anti-room to undress. Any said to me, ‘I’m just going to take Gabriella upstairs to where the ladies hang-out together. You must undress. It’s bad form to remain clothed here, you know. I’ll be back shortly.’

Abandoned by my friends, I had to strip naked in a room writhing with strangers. I felt very awkward with this, boys and girls, seriously I did.

Luckily, once I’d stripped-off and folded my clothing into a neat little bundle, my cock was semi-erect. This was a definite plus. Unfortunately, when flaccid, my cock looks, well, it looks pretty small…‘like a big clit,’ Dee once said! When it’s aroused, proudly stiff, it’s around seven inches long, but with a very bulbous head like a swollen plum.

Anyway, enough of that. I was having definite confidence issues. Like the first time I met Dee. I took one look at her and KAPOOW, I fell hook, line and sinker, as they say, while she glanced at me, put on her Ray Ban’s and stepped back behind her reserve. I felt lost, didn’t know what to do. Same now. I could use a feckin’ drink! Or two!

So, after much soul searching I stepped out into the main “play” area, naked, cock swaying self-consciously, towards, hopefully, some kind of feckin’ epiphany. Or at the very least some attractive strangers to fuck.

God, I hoped they’d be gentle with me, I really did. I was only a poor Englishman lost abroad…

Later, on the long drive home, I felt a tad overwhelmed by images floating around in my head. Glimpses of Dee blazing with energy, like a sexual superwoman in the centre of a group of five men and women. Kisses on my mouth from all directions. On my knees fucking savagely. A dusky-skinned woman screaming obscenities in French. Arms, legs, fingers, tongues. Beautiful, pouting tits…it was like a feckin’ anatomy lesson. Sexuality enough here to burst any thermometer. Inflammable, unrestrained. I felt like a drunkard, my aching cock in the mouth of a negro woman with day-glo pink hair. All was reduced to fire and hallucination….

Dee said, ‘I must’ve cum fifteen, sixteen times. I’m going to be red raw in the morning.’

Gaby said, ‘I licked more pussy than I thought possible.’ She looked over at me. ‘And what about you? Enjoy yourself, Peedeel?’

‘I don’t know how many women I was actually with. It’s a blur. Just a series of disconnected sense impression. Maybe eight? Nine? Perhaps less than that.’ I closed my eyes. My mouth was full of the ghosting taste of wet pussy. It was so strong I felt the others must be able to smell it on me.

Any smiled and Emile behind the wheel of the car said, ‘The next party is in three months. They have four a year. You should all come over for it, yes?’

Dee said something in reply but I wasn’t sure what it was. I closed my eyes again and drifted. I was going to sleep well when we got back. It was dawn already. I’d probably sleep the day away. We probably all would…