I’d love to watch another man suck my husband’s cock, basically because it’s so big it hurts my jaw when I do it.

Source HERE


When I was younger I got involved in Taekwondo and was really enjoying it (I still do), but unfortunately things got tight financially at home and my parents told me we had to cut back on expenses.

I told my instructor that I would be quitting. She was understanding about the reason why, but said she would be willing to work things out with me so I didn’t have to quit.

I still got to train but after a few weeks, she asked me to stay on after class. She said she would let me continue to train for free, if I was willing to do something in return for her.

At first it was just letting her do things to me. She would ask to see my pussy; sometimes she’d touch it, put her fingers in me, things like that.

I knew it was “wrong”, but it was exciting too and felt good so I let her do whatever she wanted to do with me. Eventually she started asking me to do things to her, and our relationship progressed from there.

I told my parents that she gave me a job cleaning the dojo after class so I didn’t have to quit. She made me cum two, three times a session. She had me lick her out and finger fuck her hard and fast. She used to shriek loud when she came.

I consider myself straight. She’s the only woman I’ve been with ever, but I must confess, I still fantasize about her and the things we did together. And often, thinking about her, I have to masturbate. There, I said it…



May 15, 2016


‘I’ve given guys blow jobs just because I’ve run out of things to talk about.’

‘Oh, Rae. Who hasn’t’

Anne Lamott
Crooked Little Heart

A true cynic…

April 16, 2016



“He fucks even better than he looks”, I settled on saying. Several heads turned. I didn’t care; I was pissed. “And that beautiful face is going to be clamped between my legs as soon as we get home, don’t you worry.”

Jeaniene Frost
Destined for an Early Grave


Diary 20th March

Sunday, day of rest…Or, alternatively, of wild sexual activity. You choose…
It is sweet to drink, but bitter to pay for…
Earlier: ‘Oh Christ…’ half-whispered in the semi-light, desperate, as we fell together in each other’s arms, and discovered how much darkness there is at the periphery of our world. My eyes on yours. Voodoo doll’s eyes. Skin on skin. Shadows of trees on the blinds behind us…We struggled with the soft curves of sleep, hip to hip…like splinters under each other’s skin.
In my study/workroom/cave open a box of…Of what? Old crap. Photographs and papers. My first wife smiling into the camera, eyes vague as marble. Old friends, only half-remembered now…

An exercise book, maybe ten thousand years old. Look at the notes within, my youthful, spider-like handwriting:

‘In iambic metres an unstressed end-rhyme will almost always be an unstressed hyperbeat (the only other possibility is for it to be catalectic, omitting the last beat)…’

Ah, what sagacity perished here!
Friday night a swarthy man turned up at the front door, just after ten o’clock. He had a large blue plastic box in his arms.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Is this number twelve?’ he asked.


He stood carefully watching me from under thick dark lashes. Then he asked my postcode. I told him, bemusedly.

‘What is it you want?’ I finally asked.

‘I have your order of food. Tandori.’

‘Not mine,’ I said.

‘Ah, he said. It must be for number one. They order Tandori every other night for delivery. I’ll take it there…’

‘Oh. okay.’

I closed the door and returned to the lounge. Two minutes later Dee and Gabriella looked round the door. ‘We ordered an Indian take away…’

‘Oh, I’ve sent it off…’

‘No, the guy phoned my cell from outside. We came down and got it. Sorry, we should have told you. There’s some veggie stuff, if you’re interested…’

Life can be so feckin’ confusing. Especially when other people are involved.
D’you think snails have feet…?
We might try and fit in another fancy dress party before our Sicily trip in June. We sat last night discussing themes, which became increasingly extreme and bizarre…
Te fuiste y te llevaste mi armadura…
We’re out for lunch today, so I asked: ‘What d’you want to do this evening?’ Answer: ‘Watch a DVD while you eat me out…’
Three nuns were talking together. The first nun said, “I was cleaning in the Father’s room the other day and do you know what I found? A bunch of pornographic magazines.”

“What did you do?” the other nuns asked.

“Well, of course I threw them in the trash.”

The second nun said, “Well, I can top that. I was in the Father’s room putting away the laundry and I found a bunch of condoms!”

“Oh my!” gasped the other nuns. “What did you do?” they asked.

“I poked holes in all of them!” she replied. And the third nun fainted.

(laughter tape again)
A dyslexic man walks into a bra…

(More taped laughter.)
A man and a woman were having drinks when they got into an argument about who enjoyed sex more. The man said, ‘Men obviously enjoy sex more than women. Why do you think we’re so obsessed with getting laid?’

‘That doesn’t prove anything,’ the woman countered. ‘Think about this…when your ear itches and you put your finger in it and wiggle it around, then pull it out, which feels better – your ear or your finger?’
March 14th was Algernon Blackwood’s 147th birthday…I forgot to mention it.
Slow fade out…


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

start the day with a very good breakfast


As a younger man George Chambers had been possessed of a full head of hair. Now, however, almost tripping into middle-age, the baldpatch on his head brought to mind the tonsure of a medieval friar: a whippet-thin one, with high cheekbones and sensuous mouth. Easy, indeed, to imagine him sneaking into the local convent, his head full of inappropriate ideas.

Gabriella suggested he looked a little “seedy”. ‘Time has been unkind to him,’ she said. ‘But she, on the other hand, like a fine wine, has improved with age…!’

“She” was Mattie Chambers, George’s curvatious wife. And she craved an “adventure”, or so George claimed.

Mattie had always been curious about love…physical love…between two women. As a young girl at school she had formed a romantic attachment to Mrs Wood, her English teacher. This crush had been unreciprocated, of course, but on occasion, at night alone in her bedroom, Mattie had fantasized a flaring of interest in the older woman’s eyes. An exchange of lingering kisses.

Reality, however, always returned to impinged on her dreams of love “realised” with Mrs W. And Mattie came to understand, consequently, that love wasn’t an equally balanced equation. That you could love another with great passion, but that that other might, unfortunately, remain totally oblivious to your feelings.

During her late teens, Mattie dated various boys. She was, she said, a “late developer”, surrendering her virginity, for what that was worth, to a young man named Bill Sutton, shortly after her nineteenth birthday. Bill wasn’t a very good lover; although friends said he was “good with cars”, a “much sort after” mechanic, apparently.

George Chambers, on the other hand, had a certain “bonnes allures”, and bearing in mind the physical restrictions of space, they made love on the backseat of his Ford with a certain lack of inhibition. The “mystères de l’amour” were mysteries no longer to Mattie. While raising her bum to ease down her pants, she realised she’d probably found her “Mr Right” – two months later, amazingly, they were man and wife.

Time passed. Familiarity, they say, breeds contempt. Whatever the truth of that, it certainly breeds boredom. Sexual boredom for George. He craved fresh flesh. While remaining a respectable pillar of the community, he took to secretly visiting prostitutes. Each time this happened, he’d tell himself: ‘Never again’…but the need would return, stronger than ever – that overarching need of cold, unloving, rubber insulated sex with a stranger.

His dad had been a butcher with a largish shop in East Harrow. The young Chambers delivered customer orders on a black, sign-written push-bike. His first sexual experience had been with one of those customer’s, a Mrs Dooley, who had taken in her package of chops, beef mince and sausages, suggesting the boy ‘Come in for a mo, while I get your tip…’

Mrs D, forty-something, a widow, took the boy to her bedroom, undressed him, caressed him, and fucked him five times. With or without an order, young George returned weekly to the widow’s soft embraces. He became, in time, sexually prolific.

As Mattie’s husband, George increasingly adopted the persona of confident poshness. He joined various societies, a film club, became involved in armature dramatics. And all the while his head was filled with images of explicit and kinky sex. He wanted to see his wife used by another man, while he in turn used that man’s wife. These daydreams recurred with frightening regularity, until George decided to “take the bull by the horns” and approach Mattie with a tentative suggestion of “Wife swapping” to “spice-up” their lovelife…

Having awkwardly broached the subject in the living room of their home, George waited for some sign of reciprocation from his silent and stony-faced wife.

‘Who, exactly, would we do this with?’

‘Well, I thought about, perhaps, touching on the subject with Julian Jackson and his wife…’

‘Pam Jackson?’

‘There’s rumours they “swing”. Swap partners…?’

‘My God, no, not her. The only thing she’s ever swapped with is a pair of sabre-tooth pensioners, and that terrible man from the post office and his wife – the one who looks as if she’s just escaped from the “House on Pooh Corner.’

‘What do you suggest, then? EBay?’

‘Well, first off, if this is to happen, I want to get something out of it myself. I don’t want some lust-filled brainless knob pumping away at me. Understand? I want to be with a woman…perhaps two women? Who I could then watch together? The rigors of Sapphic sex are a mystery to me. As an experience, it could prove very educational…’

‘I could watch, too, I s’pose?’

‘Probably so, yes.’

‘Do we know of two women like that?’ He sounded sceptical. Her promiscuous deployment in a Sapphic scenario, while fine for the voyeur within him, suggested little in the way of rumpy-pumpy for himself: lesbians weren’t known for welcoming the tumescent phallus of a randy male into their bodily orifices. He sagged. This would come to nothing…

‘I think I just might,’ she said. ‘And in the right circumstances, they’d probably see to your needs also…’

George gave a small whoop. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’


So George stood in our kitchen, all cheeky-chappie charm, with a slight undercurrent of nervousness. He wore a red and white stripe shirt beneath a navy-blue V-necked sweater from Marks & Sparks. Dee and Gabriella took Mattie in hand, leading her upstairs to Sapphic heaven – found today (hopefully) between the clean sheets of Gabby’s double bed.

George had earlier gone to great pains to explain to me he was “a woman’s man”…perhaps, fearing the engorged member of Peedeel lancing his nether regions like a piston when he least expected it? Yes, while thrusting into the delectable Dee, most likely, bare-arsed, vulnerable. Ruthlessly Rogered while Rogering…A most unedifying thought, even for me…but wait, perhaps there’s some hope left in the bottom of Pandora’s box?

George asked: ‘What’s the procedure now? When do we join the ladies?’

‘We wait until invited,’ I replied, feeling just a little like Jiminy Cricket with Pinocchio. ‘Fancy a gin and tonic for now? They might be awhile.’

George, looking like man whose unobtainable sexual fantasy is about to be realised, sipped his gin impatiently. Lust tends to occupy time and thought on such occasions. It made George fidgety. ‘Are they usually this long?’ he asked.

‘Frequently,’ my reply. ‘Love making is an art, and art is oblivious to time’s passing.’

The doorbell went about three o’clock. Outside it was warm and windless, a fine drizzle falling. A parcel for Dee which I signed for. From the hallway I could hear soft grunts and groans. The sound caused me a sudden hard-on.

Upstairs, of course, there was a tangle of limbs. Dee and Gabby had kicked-off the performance for Mattie’s education and entertainment. She sat on Gabby’s stool beside the bed, watching. Inevitably the collision of a long held fantasy with this stark uncompromising reality had an effect on her; she began to feel slightly breathless, intensely hot, and uncomfortably wet in her new lace panties. Almost without thinking about it, Mattie reached out to stroke Gabby’s plump rump.

‘Join us,’ Dee said. ‘There’s plenty of room for three.’

Earlier Gabriella had asked Mattie: ‘D’you want to watch us with your clothes on or off?’

‘Oh, on, I think. Keep them on’d be best.’

Now she wished she’d stripped like them. Because she had to stand and undress with the pair watching her. She felt self-conscious and shy and a little embarrassed about how thick she was becoming around the waist. The damp patch on her knickers. A dead giveaway, that. Like a bitch on heat…

She felt so excited and yet close to tears. One part of her wanted to stop this now: turn her back on the women in the bed, and depart for good. Unfastening her brassiere she experienced a momentary swimmy-headedness. She would do this, or she’d regret it for the rest of her days. She slipped her panties down her legs, turning them inside out as she did so.

Finally naked the pair reached out to Mattie, taking hold of her hands. Together they pulled her to the bed.

‘It might feel a bit of a rocky ride at first. But you’ll soon get the ropes,’ Dee said to reassure. Then kissed her full on the mouth.


We were dully summoned to Gabriella’s boudoir, which was a little stuffy, heavy with the intermingled scent of the three women; they sank back on the bed in reciprocal quiescence, smiling at us, newcomers to their “petite fête”.

George ripped his clothes off, a veritable maelstrom of sexual energy. In contrast the movements of the women seemed weary and slow, almost slumberous…Dee spread her legs, exposed her small wet sex, and said, ‘This is just for you…’

George did not require a second invitation. As Gabriella and Mattie climbed from the bed, he mounted Dee. Oblivious to all else, he thrust into her with an almost primordial force. Seconds later, he moaned loudly. Nirvana quickly, unexpectedly , finally achieved.

I helped Mattie gather up her clothes and escorted her to the bathroom across the landing. ‘I’ve put out fresh towels for you,’ I said, gesturing vaguely at the rail. ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’

Blushing slightly, she nodded. ‘Yes, very much so.’

‘I’ll leave you to shower. We’re downstairs when you’re finished. I’ll sling some food together, you’re probably hungry. And if you’re not, I know Gabby is…’

George, disappointed by his sudden climax, the culmination of two hours waiting with a painful hard-on in anticipation of the fleshy treats in store upstairs, rolled onto his back. Dee kneeled astride him. ‘You don’t get off that easily,’ she said gently. ‘Oh, no. You’ve got a job to do, mister, and I’ll see you do it, come what may…’

‘A job?’

‘You’re going to make me cum six times before you get to leave this room. That’s how many times Mattie came for us. You’re going to match it…’

Downstairs in the breakfast room Gabriella sat at table in a white robe with a towel wrapped round her hair, which was still wet from the shower. Opposite her, Mattie, now fully dressed, fresh makeup applied, forked small chucks of roasted aubergine and red pepper into her mouth.

‘George is still with Dee?’ she asked.

‘He will be for awhile,’ Gabby said. ‘Dee puts her heart and soul into these things. It’s what I most love about her.’

I smiled. Poor George. Dee would use him as her living sex toy. She had let him shoot his first load, certainly, but now he’d be closely controlled. She would keep “edging” him, taking him as close to climax as possible, then stopping all movement. “Restricting” him, until he “relaxed”, then her “demands” on his aching cock would be renewed with fresh vigour.

‘You can go up and watch, if you want?’ Gabby said. ‘Dee won’t care.’

‘No, I’m alright, thank you…’

Dee had an unending repertoire of sexual tricks. She might, for example, allow George to just touch the finish line…but then brutally ruin his orgasm. A milky dribble without pleasure. And Dee, smiling, would say: ‘Whoops. Don’t worry. Just a hiccup. Look. It’s still stiff and wonderfully usable.’ He wouldn’t be allowed a break, of course, not even to go for a pee. Poor George.

‘Dee is good with electrics,’ Gabriella said. We were now in the sitting room with a bottle of wine between us. ‘She’s got this wonderful ability when it comes to diagnosing faulty electrical appliances. Hasn’t she, Peedeel?’

‘Indeed she has.’ Almost equaling her ability to torment (probably) a now red-raw cock. I glanced at my wristwatch: quarter past seven. George had been “at it” for two-an-a-half hours with voracious Dee. Probably feeling quite exhausted by now, no doubt. And experiencing a desperate need to pee…

‘More wine?’ Gabby asked.

Finally, a little after eight o’clock, George, fresh from the shower, edged his way carefully down the stairs. He moved like a man who has suffered a serious blow to the balls. His face was peculiarly lacking in colour, sallow, but dark beneath the eyes which now appeared rather bulbous to me. A haunted face, I thought.

He had a neat “stiff gin” but nothing to eat, wasn’t hungry. He nodded to his wife and to Gabby, gulped at his gin.

‘You were a long time,’ Mattie said. ‘Piggy at the trough, eh?’

Dee made her appearance in a flowing flowery kaftan of black silk, her damp hair piled high, looking gorgeous and certainly good enough to eat…George had probably experienced Dee’s “culinary delights” to ample sufficiency by the strained look on his face.

‘Have you paid the electric bill yet?’ she said to me.

‘Taken care of.’

‘We must do this again Mattie.’ She sat on the arm of Mattie’s armchair, kissed her chastely on the cheek. ‘It was an eye-opener for me.’ Her smile was more a grin, like the Cheshire cat from Alice. ‘A real blast…’

‘Oh, yes, we must…’

George’s face dropped. It was as if he’d received an unexpected slap to the face. Or another roughish blow to already swollen testicles.

And for no discernible reason I thought of the Chambers’ house in the next village, a modern, stone-built affair that had originally belonged to a German woman who raised parrots. When they first moved in, apparently, there’d been perches everywhere in the downstairs rooms. George had ripped them out along with most of the guts of the house to create a whitewashed minimalist’s dream. That was George, really: Minimalist Extraordinaire!

‘I think we’d better get going,’ George said. ‘Leave you good people in peace.’

‘It’d be really nice to have you again,’ Gabriella said, rising from her seat.

‘Yes,’ agreed Dee.

Gabby kissed Mattie on the lips then smiled at George. ‘See you soon,’ she said.

I shook George by the hand.

‘Nirvana,’ I said quietly. ‘Is never achieved without cost…’

I watched as he hurried towards his car. Mattie, walking slowly behind him and occasionally turning to wave at us on the porch, called out: ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow.’

‘Oh, yes, please do…’


Sophie was now tied to the massage table with her legs spread and her feet in stirrups. The three men had left the room and the little elfish servant was standing between her taut legs and examining her private parts closely.

She closed her eyes. The strange little pervert moved in with his nimble fingers and started to explore her private parts and all the beautiful little nuances between her legs. His head was bent over and very close to her entrance while his fingers probed softly and meticulously but creepily around her delicate flower.

Soon he was spreading her moist lips and his fingers began probing alongside and just inside her opening. It was feeling astonishingly rude and lecherous at this point and Sophie was embarrassed at how aroused she felt.

She lifted her head to look and ..EEK.. she saw his pointy face between her legs…and OMG…she was extremely startled to see the length of his huge purple pointed tongue that darted in and out of his mouth while he drooled and masterly fingered her opening.

Sophie was now close to delirious. Was this for real? She looked again and yes, it was his tongue and it was a giant, purple, throbbing appendage, thrusting rapidly in and out of his little mouth.

Erza Wells
Dark Path to Love: Free Fall into Submission