Snatched Sexual Moment

Days later, and still intoxicated by the woman at the party. Checking the website, studying her photo. The photographer’s stunted imagination, seeking to render her as harlot stereotype, failing, her vitality shimmering through. Her name, Jenny.

Strolling around the local park, trees bare and winter sun bright in a blue sky, pondering the nature of love. Love for Jenny being the thing flooding my heart. After just a few minutes together. Thinking, some would call it infatuation, not love. A casuistic distinction. Whatever, the barb sharp beneath my overcoat.

As in succumbing to a virus, suddenly stricken. Millions of its viral cousins routinely deflected, then one strikes through. Other people seemingly unaffected, like at the party, the other men weren’t particularly drawn to her. And here I am, helpless in her power.

Working through the memories. Seeing her with other men, sucking, fucking. So what, she’d seen me doing similar with the other women. Probably, since the party, she’s done it quite a few times, that’s what she does for a living. Again, so what, everyone knows you can just go through the motions, in itself it’s void of meaning, where it counts is when there’s the sudden jolt connection, a merging of souls in flesh.

In the park, children playing football, plumes of mist streaming from their faces, grandmothers looking on. The sun low and white in the sky. But even such beauty of only secondary interest. Jenny, Jenny, you’ve infiltrated my defenses, your germ is in my brain, I can’t think of anything but you.

Exciting in itself, the excitement multiplied by a sense of reciprocity, her soul reaching out to me too. Could all be a fantasy, but if so, so what? Impossible to verify or disprove, flesh’s message being definitive, indifferent to cerebral superimposition or verbal elaboration. My lover’s discipline, accept it for what it is, don’t seek spurious reassurance, don’t be weak.

Wisest course perhaps, leave it at that, cherish the unique moment, celebrate the brief snatched sexual togetherness, life’s most potent affirmation.

But maybe I’ll just make contact, see how it goes.

Sex Party Love

Two women leading the way to the bedrooms, unzipping bodices, throwing them on chairs, stepping out of panties. One man discarding his bathrobe, lying on the bed. A woman sitting beside him, taking his cock in her hand, massaging it, come along little mister, let’s get big. The other men looking on distractedly. A second woman helping the first, coaxing the cock with her tongue.

The third woman, looking up, seeing me looking at her. To my eye, the prettiest. Crop top discarded, G-string still on. Less immersed in bordello vernacular than the others, less assertive, more human. Coming over to me. You alright, baby? Yes, fine, thanks. Should we try the other room? Sounds good to me.

Leading me by the hand, closing the door behind, sitting on the bed, smiling, patting it for me to join her. What would you like, baby? Me suddenly shy, quiet voice, how about sixty-nine? Sure baby, that’s my favorite, do you want to go on top or underneath?

Arranging our bodies, me on my back, her pussy an inch above my face, my fingers pulling her lips apart. That beautiful pink sheen and tiny clitoris. Tonguing it. Something unseen and sexy happening to my cock. Using my hands to spread her buttocks wide.

Stroking her sphincter, waiting to see her response. Half expecting her to reach back and pull my hand away, gentle rejoinder, don’t go there. No such thing happening. Moving my tongue, making it hard and pointed, flicking around her sphincter. A low murmur from her, her whole body softening. Her stomach changing position, moving her pussy forward and away, bending her ass to me, searching. My tongue pushing deeper, then deeper still, her delicate muscles clinging, the centre receding. Her murmurs continuing, intenser than before. Her secret craving uncovered, counterpart to mine.

Long minutes locked together. Learning her taste and smell and texture, she learning mine. Unable to pull ourselves apart. Eventually however doing so. She dismounting, the act of doing so necessarily inelegant, somehow more beautiful thereby. Sitting quietly side by side, hugging, glowing in rare oneness.

Kissing her. Getting my clothes back on. She staying to watch me. Don’t you want to cum? Concerned eyes looking at me. My voice still quiet, no, that was perfect just as it was. Thinking, I don’t want any other sexual thing to displace that memory, I’ll leave now. Dressing, going. Returning, hugging her. Walking away. Turning back again, hugging her closer, getting hugged tight in return. Then just departing.

Sex Party Take Five

The three naked women retiring to a bathroom, to do female things. The men donning their bathrobes, making their way to the living room, settling down on easychairs, turning on the television.

The women trooping into the room, chatting. Two in satin bodices, one in a G-string and crop top. Settling around a kitchen table, lighting cigarettes, nibbling on snacks. The talk concerning a fellow worker, a crisis in her life, her husband suspects what she’s doing. All agree, bummer. Maybe she’ll need to lie low for a while. But what about money? Get a regular job? All agree again, bummer.

Weak mid-afternoon sunshine breaking through. Outside, the half-built Olympic stadiums filling with orange light against black clouds. Our room’s complexion softening. On the television, old Star Trek episodes.

The talk continuing. Maybe we should recruit again, do you know anyone? It’s a good job if you enjoy sex. One woman adding, and you like sucking men’s dicks. Yes, Rosie, though you don’t have to like it quite as much as you do. Laughs all round. Still, we don’t want another one like, what was her name, that one with short blonde hair, tall, Brazilian, Lou something, yes, that’s right, Lulu, liked the money but didn’t really like the sex, didn’t last. Three nodding female heads. Yes, made the men feel bad, made us have to work harder.

The women pausing, puffing on their cigarettes. None of the men smoking. Captain Kirk and Spock having a disagreement. The sun fading, darkness building outside, the room feeling bright and warm.

The black guy coming into the room. Rosie, this here’s a latecomer, can you take him to the pink room, let him do a bit of catching up with you. There we are, pal, you’ve got ten minutes, make good use of our Rosie, I want to see her boggle eyed when she comes out. After that, everyone, party restarts, you hear that ladies, don’t light up any more cigarettes after those ones, ten minutes and it’s lights, camera, action.

Fifteen minutes later, one of the women yawning, pushing her stool away from the table, stretching. Okay boys, get yourselves ready, time for some effort, this time we want to see you all perform. Both women walking to the door. The men leaving Captain Kirk to it, following the women to the bedrooms.

Sex Party Gets Going

A big brown door, an array of buzzers alongside. Pressing number eleven as instructed. The speaker crackling into life, hi, who’s that? Hi, it’s Michael, I phoned earlier about the party. Sure, come up to the top floor, use the stairs. The door buzzing open.

Up seven flights, knocking on number eleven’s door. A brief wait, the door then opening, a muscular black guy greeting me. Taking the hundred pounds. Showing me a dressing room, get your clothes off mate, put on a bathrobe.

Doing as instructed, moving along to a big living room, penthouse views over construction cranes in the Olympic village. Four other men, also in bathrobes. Around a table, three women, laughing, chatting, smoking. Hi there darling, this your first time? We’ll look after you darling.

More general chatter from the women, the men mostly silent. The black guy standing, c’mon ladies, let’s get started. Cigarettes extinguished, last sips from drinks, an exodus to the bedrooms. All the men following.

Two of the women in one room, side by side on the double bed, naked. The third woman making her way to another room. One on the double bed taking my hand, c’mon darling, let me be the first. Stroking my cock, licking it, putting her mouth around it. The other woman doing similar with another man. A third man kneeling, licking my woman’s pussy. The fourth man observing.

After a while, a general change of position. The women swapping sides. Me lying on my back, my new woman kneeling on the bed between my knees, sucking me, being entered from the rear. Interrupting the sucking, turning to the man behind, oh, you do have a condom, just checking darling, resuming her sucking. The other woman lying on her back, entered by the fourth man, the other man now resting. My hand stroking her nipple.

A new man coming into the room, smiling, hello ladies. A brief hiatus, the women greeting an old customer. Laughs all round. Then back to the action, mouths filled with cocks.

Twenty minutes of gently writhing flesh, then the third woman coming into the room, okay boys, if you’re going to cum, do it quick, otherwise, smoke break. The group breaking up. One man saying, I need to cum now, I don’t have much time. Okay darling, what do you want. Instructions duly given. One woman sitting on the man’s face, spreading her pussy with her hands, his tongue working her clitoris, his hands on her breasts. The other two both working his cock with their hands and mouths. Soon, his body clenching, the white fluid spraying over female flesh and lips and tongues.

A cheer from the women. All arising, smiling, congratulating themselves, making their way to the smoke break.

Doing Something About It

A meeting today in the City, normally a place I like to visit regularly, get caught up in the torrent of people, check out the latest buildings, normally wander around and get lost. Today however finding myself unreceptive to its charms.

Preparing in a coffee shop, finding the coffee tasteless. Snapping at a colleague for a spelling mistake in a presentation. Only later remembering to thank her for having stayed up half the night in putting the thing together in the first place.

During the meeting, discovering delays to various projects. Getting angrier inside. Thinking, there’s a time for restraint, but sometimes you need to lay down the law. Just about to launch into a tirade. Then thinking, nobody else here seems concerned, it’s not really my responsibility anyway. Backing off, just in time. Afterwards, walking, thinking, actually the meeting went quite well.

Stopping in my tracks, realization dawning. Ah yes, that’s it, the foul mood, it’s not them, it’s me. Lucky to have backed off in time, you can be taken by surprise. Sexual tension, it just builds, you can live with it for a while, then it starts getting ugly. It’s up to you to do something. Don’t, and you pay the price, and the price is high.

At far lower price, an escort. Or, thinking about it, how about this time having a new adventure, go to a sex party.

Later on the internet, checking out the options, yes, there’s one I can make it to. Mandy, Caroline and Svetlana to attend to my needs, one thirty until four thirty in the afternoon, no more than eight men, one hundred pounds.

That means waiting a bit. Maybe I should go to an escort today. The lovely Arabella, sixty pounds for thirty minutes, more per minute but less in total, and I’ve found that in that situation, no chat, straight to sex, thirty minutes is enough.

Taking a moment to luxuriate in the choices available to the enterprising man. Arabella by myself today, or three woman shared with other men later. Or both if I want, the cost would still be less than a tiny fraction of the cost of screwing up in meetings like I nearly did today.

That party, tempting, always exciting to try something new.

Sexual Glue

Alone in the house this week, my wife attending some conference. Pottering about, watching the television programs I choose, doing exactly what I want.

After two days, bored. The daily routine, broken. It’s regular punctuation, meals, now uninspiring. Normally it’s a pleasure, go to the supermarket, pick out vegetables, go to the meat or fish counter, choose some meat or fish, bring it home, start the cooking. Throughout, working out how to cook it, which combinations to try, thinking about its presentation on the plate, seeing my wife’s response.

This week my wife’s away, no point. Quick thoughtless meals, a frozen tomato sauce reheated, pasta, thrown together, absently eaten, hardly noticing it’s there. No pleasure in the responses to the meal presented. The day’s events unremarked. No discussion of work or family or friends or planned walks or books. Nobody to prepare bedtime chamomile for.

The telephone ringing, my daughter. Can she have some money, her friends are going to a theme park on Saturday, she wants to go too. Sure darling. Further conversation, some fatherly teasing, daughterly protestations, giggling. Putting down the phone. The house seemingly emptier. Nobody to share the phonecall with.

Watching television, quickly getting restless. Going to bed. Reading. Getting sleepy. Turning the light out. Settling to sleep. Nobody to say goodnight to, stroke her shoulder, hold her hand.

Never mind, she’ll be back soon. Funny, any other woman returning from a week away, you’d celebrate with some lovemaking, refresh your knowledge of each others’ bodies, release some tensions. A beautiful human interaction with intense therapeutic effect. Denied however to me, I know her well, it’s not how she works.

Once I’d have thought, the absence of sex, that means the glue’s not there, no point in being together. Now I think different. Sexual glue, it’s good at first, then it hardens and loses adhesion, then it’s just an impediment. Man and woman, the thing that holds them together isn’t sexual glue, it’s something deeper than that.

Strange how everything seems to point the same way. Let marriage do the things marriage is good at, find sexual release elsewhere.

Exit Sexual Sparkle

Walking in front of me in the autumn sunshine, a young couple. He of nondescript looks and nondescript clothes. Holding his arm, a leggy raven-haired stunner. She more interested in him than he in her. But the interest having the character of need rather than desire. Meanwhile, his movements and demeanor being those of someone noticing her hardly at all and when occasionally doing so being slightly annoyed.

Following the couple, passing the shop I’d planned to go into, but too interested to bother with that, the passing street parade taking precedence. Studying their unhurried progress, spinning scenarios. Rich guy and gold-digger? Possible, but not ringing true somehow. A false note somewhere, yes, that’s it, they’re not interested in display, they don’t care who notices them, it’s not about wealth.

So what then? Following them, discreetly studying. God she’s beautiful, I don’t know how he can keep his eyes off her, I certainly can’t.

Eventually, understanding. Ah, how slow of me. He’s her dealer, he owns her somehow, she’s probably only of interest to him to use or to sell.

The insight accompanied by a sense of deflation. Enter drugs, exit sexual sparkle. Even recreational drugs. Like my Russian ballerina in Battersea, we met up again, long after she’d first suddenly disappeared. The pleasure of seeing her again, and the physical desire, overwhelming. Brain disconnecting. Immediately and totally in love, thinking, this time she’ll stay.

Only later recognizing her Russian genius, presenting the beautiful blank screen on which you script your own fantasy. She remaining blank throughout. Never stating her requirements, high amongst which, you supply the requisite. Me, I was only interested in her. She, she was only interested in me, as long as the me included the means of sniffing or popping or smoking or other suchlike. Me, in such things, an ingénue. Spotted by her within a day. She’d already left, wrenching my heart, by the time I figured it out.

And that slightly blank look. Not addled or crazed, just slightly not all there. That’s the trouble with drugtakers, everything else in their lives is just marking time. Like the couple in front. Same slightly blank look on her face, her body is just a optional extra, thrown in for free as long as she can get the requisite.

Authentic Porn

A slim, smiling woman opening the door to an athletic youngster coming to see about lodging in a spare room. The woman explaining that the house has been empty for six months since her husband passed away.

The two sitting around a kitchen table, she pouring tea. Telling him about rent, and what is included. Suddenly shy. Saying, there are some extra things that are included if you want. What sort of things? Well, I haven’t had a man for two years, that’s when my husband got sick, I wouldn’t mind it if you want to get me started again.

The camera switching from her face to his. I guess I’d better have a test run, see what I’m getting. The woman standing, the man’s hand stroking her thigh. The woman gasping slightly, the sound of surrender after long denial. The man gently sliding down her panties, leaning her forward slightly, pulling her cheeks apart, spreading her pussy and sphincter.

The woman’s hands reaching back to help, pulling her cheeks wider, freeing the man’s hands to stroke her. Gently massaging her clitoris, moving to her opening, inserting his fingertip, smiling, my, you’re very wet. Both laughing, the wetness like an erection conferring shared intimate knowledge.

The camera panning to her face. Eyes closed, lost in the physical moment. Breathing with shallow irregular gasps, as if on the edge of implosion. The camera sweeping over her tight white skin, moles, breasts, nipples, curve of her buttock. Moving behind, her spread cheeks filling the screen. The man tonguing her sphincter, stroking her pussy.

Changing positions, the woman pulling down the man’s jeans. His cock full but not yet hard. She contemplating it slowly, reacquainting with something cherished and familiar but long absent. Taking it into her mouth. The cock gradually stiffening. The woman removing it from her mouth, oh my, I’ve got a good one here, sucking it again.

The scene playing on my screen, and too much for me. A tracer arc of sperm, my whole body in a vortex, a groan of relief. Collapsing into a chair, momentarily comatose.

Regathering. Okay, quick clean up. Stop the video, save it to favorites, I can finish it some other time, but probably won’t, you can’t normally recover that first sharp excitement of encountering a new sexual personality. Sanitize the computer. Okay, the day can start now.

Changing Sexual Times

A cycle ride to Greenwich, a teenage haunt, and on to Blackheath. Keeping on watch for a particular corner shop, one visited many times. There it is, but look, it’s changed, it’s now a hairdresser.

Well, that’s not it was when I was a teenager. In those days, sweets and newspapers adorned its shelves. On the top row, very interesting magazines. Every few weeks, summoning courage, entering the shop with studied nonchalance, noticing with hammy unexpectedness something that looks interesting, pulling down a magazine, studying it as if with detached amusement, replacing it, selecting another.

Doing this for as long as I could get away with. A complex calculation, if the shop was uncrowded you’d get the shopkeeper’s attention, if it was crowded there were too many people who could see what you were doing.

Eventually, buying one. To add to my collection, each one lovingly thumbed, each one with favorite women in favorite poses, each one fuel for countless masturbatory adventures. But each one also posing a problem, where to keep it. My hidey-hole, under an attic floorboard, hard to find and just about possible to disown.

Cute, innocent times. Now, no need for anyone to see you when you buy, in fact, no need to buy, it’s free. Three clicks of the mouse and you’re in your preferred site, and in your preferred niche in it. As much time as you want, no need to worry about a shopkeeper’s raised eyebrow. No limitation to five or six titles, the choice is never-ending. Videos rather than photos, No reining back to please prying censors.

Afterwards, run a free program downloaded for the purpose, to sanitize your computer. All records, browsing history, files, obliterated. The invisible files left behind by the computer's operating system, nuked, you can choose the same security setting as that used by the Pentagon. After a while, the sanitization an automatic habit. Saves embarrassing discoveries and allows everyone to sustain the fiction that you’re one of those mythical men that never watch porn.

Oh look, ten miles gone by without noticing, well, interesting thoughts, the world’s moved on.

Sexual Tedium

Once again, that zing of anticipation. Pressing the doorbell. Waiting. Pressing again. Waiting again. Noises behind the door. The door then opening.

There in the flesh, CindyLove. Tall, long thin legs, high breasts, bony features. A flimsy nylon shift. Exactly as in her picture, yet somehow not as attractive. The parts not cohering harmoniously into the whole. Her face expressionless.

Smile from me, see if I can charm her, hi there, you must be Cindy. Her face remaining impassive. Yes. As in, stupid question, of course I am. Belatedly, a forced smile in response to mine.

Leading me up the stairs into a small shabby bedroom. Taking the money. Returning. The same expressionless face, not druggy, not stupid, just the demeanor of a deeply boring person.

Her hand patting the bed as if impatient, don’t you even know you’re supposed to lie down. Taking my cock in her hand, trying to work it, failing to elicit anything but a staunch flaccidity. Looking at me questioningly, as in, oh, an erectile dysfunction problem, how am I supposed to deal with this.

Gesturing at her with an open mouth, as in, try sucking it. Shake of head from her, no, don’t do that. Well baby that’s not what your profile said. She still shaking her head, profile says discretionary. Slightly mispronouncing the words, but still slick, they’ve been much used as an automatic rejoinder.

Lying back, thinking, this ain’t good, try to think of it as masturbation with some help from a pretty woman. The attempt only partially successful, failing on the thought that actually she’s not that pretty. Stroking her thigh, my hand moving to stroke her pussy, her hand intercepting mine, no, I don’t do that. Any incipient hardness draining, thinking, don’t tell me, your profile says it’s discretionary.

Lying back, giving up, mentally excluding her. Getting up, putting on my clothes, giving her a cursory smile. She no doubt thinking, you should get some Viagra, pal. Me thinking, the sense of prohibition, that’s the absolute extinguisher of sexual fire. Also thinking, the corollary, unfettered sexual license, as with Anna for instance, or Christelle, that’s the sexual furnace.

Oh well, it had to happen, a visit to an escort that didn’t work, abject failure from beginning to end.