Intense Sensory Thrill

The door to the apartment swinging open. Now, milliseconds away, that critical moment, seeing in flesh the woman only glimpsed previously in computer profile. The transition from hopeful imaginings to actual knowledge containing potent capacity either way, to sink the spirits or lift the heart.

Her face appearing round the door. Sunshine filling the room. Half recognizing her, then realizing, she looks just like a student at my college, the one every man wanted to conquer but couldn’t, except, this one’s even prettier.

Leading me to a huge bedroom, tall windows with a view over the gardens. Smiling, but in a professional way, like a receptionist. Taking the money. Waiting for me to get undressed. Patting the bed for me to lie on. Pulling a moist disinfectant tissue from a carton, wiping my cock.

Pulling off her clothes, revealing her body. Its curves and softness and firmness and coloration having an immediate transfixing effect. Peach, a good choice for her name.

Seeing my male response, and taking it as normal. Curling into my body, nipples touching my chest, kissing me. Moving down to my cock, taking it in her mouth. Her actions and motions, those of an expert, smoothly overriding any preferences I might have had or thought I had. In doing so, proven correct, my body reduced to grateful submission to her touch.

Prolonged oral immersion for my cock, sometimes deep, sometimes almost withdrawn for her tongue’s tip to titillate. My head resting raised on a pillow, my eyes surveying the pretty student face engaged in its work.

Stopping, picking up a condom, tearing open the pack, stretching it, putting it on me. Lying on her back, pulling me over her. Holding my cock, using it to stroke herself open. Her casual practicality and her overwhelming feminity and the intense sensory thrill on the tip of my cock setting off an electric charge, spreading throughout my loins like a tingle.

Entering her. A low moan, too soft to be contrived. A truly wondrous fit. The electric charge gathering for lightning strike. My efforts to arrest and postpone, futile. A sudden and total crumbling, a seismic spasm, a volcanic spurt, body and soul voiding into her womanhood.

Clenching her to me. Relaxing, releasing. Exiting her, rolling on to my back next to her. She sitting up gently, getting tissues, removing the condom, wiping me clean. For her, nothing out of the usual.

Getting dressed, giving her a hug, leaving. Checking my phone for the time, noticing, barely twenty minutes gone since I first saw her face.

Walking down the street, body and mind tingling with pleasure and health.

Peachy Bum

Once again, low-grade scratchiness on my skin and that sizzling feeling inside, sure signs of need for a woman’s sexual touch. A big business presentation coming up in the next few days, better sort myself out or I’ll start getting things wrong, miss the nuances, push too hard, start annoying everybody.

My wife for once free of pressure at work, spending time with me, planting in the garden together, playing boardgames in the evening. Smiling and sharing. But the closeness having no sexual possibility. A philosophical point for me to ponder, other people can be utterly different from you, beyond your understanding, and it’s still fine to share a life with them. For me, sex lies elsewhere.

Tempting to email Jane, I need to respond to her, reach out across the seas, but I can’t arrange my thoughts properly, can’t think of anything to say. I really must sort out myself out.

No text yet from Carol inviting me for coffee as half agreed after changing her flat tyre. Probably for the best, I can’t think how that would work out. Last night, lying in bed, thinking about something else, suddenly the whole scene with Carol replaying in my mind, her face and voice and demeanor casting an absolute spell, making me fall helplessly in love with her, now I can’t make her face come into focus when I try to remember it.

Ringing Jenny, my absolute comfort in times of sensual desperation. Straight to her voice message. Could be she’s with a client. Trying again periodically, same result. Probably means she’s gone back to Budapest to see her children, hope she comes back soon, I need you Jenny.

Logging onto the escort website, alighting on Peachy Bum. Sixty pounds an hour. Soft, pert and peach shaped ass for you to feel and fondle, then you can suck my nipples. We can french kiss, have oral both ways, no protection needed, and have unlimited sex, protected only. Have me sit on you face while you eat me and lick me everywhere. Cum as many times as you can. No extra charges. The photos in Peachy Bum’s gallery giving credence to her peachy boasts.

Ringing her cellphone, making arrangements. And now here I am, filled with excitement and slight nervousness and the sense of being alive, standing before an affluent suburban residential development, landscaped gardens and trellised walls, finger just about to press the buzzer to Peachy Bum’s apartment.

Out Of Nowhere

Walking along a sidestreet, heading for the gym, noticing a credit card lying on the ground, picking it up, looking around, seeing a woman standing by a car, calling to her, hi there, is this yours? The woman giving me a guarded look, seeing the credit card, mouth shaping into an O, reflexly reaching for her purse, taking the card, smiling, oh, thank you.

Asking her, are you okay, can I help at all? No, car’s broken down, just waiting for rescue services. Okay, good luck then, hope they come soon.

At the gym, enjoying her aftermath. Attractive open face, unfazed by the car’s breakdown, seeing it as something that just happens, waiting patiently. Pleasant educated voice, engaging somehow beyond the meaning of the words. Slightly windswept look, probably just from standing outside, but unfazed by that too.

Finishing up at the gym, thinking, the exercises were easy today, hardly noticed the twenty minutes on the rowing machine, it was almost as if she were in the same room, me putting in some extra snap to impress her. The invisible spectator, standard athlete motivation.

Stepping into the street, gym gear still on, heading home. A voice calling out, hi, good workout? The woman still at the car. Smiling at her, yes, thanks, are you okay? Yes, still waiting. Oh dear, it can wear you down, these long delays, what’s the problem with the car, anyway? Oh, flat tyre, see, there.

Telling her, oh, that’s nothing, I’ll do it, shame I didn’t know before. Stripping down to teeshirt, no operational benefit but allowing newly flexed muscles to be on show. Lifting out the spare wheel, jacking the car up, changing the wheel. The woman calling the rescue services to cancel.

Flat tyre stashed away, tools replaced, job done. Pause. She asking, are you from around here? Yes, about a mile away, how about you? About five miles away. Oh, well, we should meet up maybe for a coffee some time. Yes, that would be good.

Okay, give me your phone number, I’ll text you something, then you have mine. She complying. Texting her, reminder, coffee with R, sometime soon. Adding an x, no, seems too forward, deleting it, now it looks too bald, adding it back. Send, click. Her phone squawking, she ignoring it but nodding at me, acknowledging.

She climbing into the car, starting it. Me knocking on the window, seeing it wind down, oh, I don’t think you mentioned your name. Carol. Oh, okay Carol, see you soon.

Walking home, feeling wonderful, wondering, what is it, you can be with a woman for just a moment, it seems as if you know her and she knows you better than you do yourselves? And always coming out of nowhere. Well, I wonder where this will lead.

Slightly Too Much Makeup

Christelle walking towards me, waving, arriving with a smile, perfect teeth on display. Holding out each cheek to be kissed, then again, slightly formal bearing in mind past sexual adventures. Putting her hand under my arm, directing me, keep moving R, don’t look back, some man is following me, let’s find a place with more people.

Making our way eastwards along The Mall, turning left up the stairs, chatting. No sign of anyone following, but the story quite believable, just about every passing man taking an extra look. Her poise and style and sense of dress, noticeably superior, and set off by calves of unsettling shapeliness.

To my mind, however, this new Christelle at my side, she’s, well, too buttoned-up. The men looking at her are doing so in Piccadilly, a place of teethgrinding materialism, the role of a woman for them, look good in a sportscar or at a social event, they're probably thinking less about her than about what her presence on my arm says about me.

Slightly too much makeup on her face, dammit Christelle, it’s me, R, you don’t need all this stuff, how about you get rid of it, maybe let’s go somewhere and you can lose the couture as well.

Tea in the grand entrance of her hotel, served in clinking china by unctuous waiters. Christelle talking. In London to buy art at some auction. Husband’s recent appointment as chief executive. Upcoming holiday on some island. More of same. Conversation free of sparkle or wit, as if rehearsed, all directed at effect.

Hey R, actually I’ve had to change my plans a bit, I don’t have much time, but I did want to say hello, it’s been fun. Me thinking, well, if you’re short of time, it must have been really important to you to show me how thunderously successful you are, how everybody must envy you, the time we did have, that’s what you spent it doing. But managing to stay courteous. Saying goodbye, the same tedious kissing rigmarole, promising to stay in touch.

Walking back across St James’s Park, remembering, all those years ago, the excitement. So electrifying at the time, now it feels as if maybe then I didn’t have the years to realize, I was just a bit part in the script she’d written for herself, and for those around her, including me. Thinking, well, not all bad, helluva thrilling bit part.

Still, interesting to ponder, her boundaries, years ago they felt so much wider than mine, now they feel so much narrower. Who’d have thought it, Christelle, that you’d be so happy in some gilded cage? That’s if indeed you are happy.

The trees in the park standing leafless in mute commentary. Her spell over me, gone. And mine over her. Nothing of Christelle left in me now but a slight ache of loss.

A Penchant For Anal

An unexpected phone message yesterday, Christelle, my student lover from France, hello R, I’m in London, would you like to meet up? Arrangements duly made, meet at midday for a stroll around St James’s Park, find somewhere for lunch, maybe move on to the Tate.

The small hours of last night, lying awake, thinking of her, of my luck in meeting her, of my greater luck in being chosen by her. The perfect woman for a young man, slightly older, confident in her world view, blowing away my juvenile preoccupations.

Sex with her, a matter for unfettered discussion and vigorous practice. All without boundaries. Or, lying in bed thinking about it, the house’s night sounds clicking and stirring softly, it wasn’t so much that there weren’t boundaries, nobody’s mind can work like that for long and stay sane, it’s that her boundaries were different and wider than mine.

Yes, that was it, she was the first woman I knew that knew what she wanted, and the things that she wanted were outside my experience, and were wonderful. Other women had been willing, not all that often, but sometimes. But with them we’d landed up doing the things that I wanted. So with them I was never certain whether they liked it because of it or because I wanted it, or maybe they didn’t really like it at all.

On my bed last night, my facial muscles aching slightly, been smiling too long at memory of her. Christelle. Different from the others. I just had to be present, and avoid being obtuse, and take cues. Wish I could apply that more widely. But with her, easy. Her body made it clear what she wanted. God, makes me horny now, remembering, seems impossible, at one point I used to wish she didn’t have quite such a penchant for anal.

Shifting on the bed, rearranging the pillow, still smiling. Those student days with her, months rather, they seemed like one unending summer. Wine and sex and discussions about deconstructionism, she was a Frenchwoman, she thought she necessarily knew more about all of them than me, she was probably right.

And now here I am standing by the little bridge at St James’s Park, one minute early, she’ll be at least fifteen minutes late but I wouldn’t dare. Oh no, look, there she is, waving, making her way to me.

Unremarkable Everyday Event

Walking into the room, a student pad, two young men, chatting. Satchels discarded on the floor. A kettle being filled and turned on. One of the men taking a book out of a satchel, putting on spectacles, opening the book, pointing to something inside, reading it, making some point. His friend, slightly older, more savvy somehow, responding. The kettle starting to boil.

The door opening again, a woman coming in. The man in spectacles being introduced. A smile from the woman, oh, this is the friend you were telling me about, the lonely one. Taking his hand, leading him to the sofa, kissing his cheek. Clattering in the background of tea being made.

The angle of view unchanging, from a fixed camera mounting. Acoustics just about okay. The effect on my computer screen being that of witnessing an unremarkable everyday event, one however normally kept private, the sharing of it containing an edge of excitement.

The woman still holding the man’s hand, stroking it. Let me read your palm, honey, yes, it’s telling me what I could see when I walked into the room, and what your friend told me, you need some stress relief, honey. Patting her thigh. Come lie down here honey.

The man hesitant. Come on honey. Pulling him gently down. His legs now outstretched on the sofa, his head using her thigh as a pillow. The woman’s fingers stroking his hair, rubbing his temples gently, touching his ears, kneading his neck and shoulders. The man’s body relaxing.

Her hands moving over his chest, massaging his thighs. A small murmur of pleasure from him. Undoing his belt, unbuttoning the trousers, unzipping the fly. Her hand feeling inside, a gasp of mock astonishment at the object found within. Pulling out his cock, another mock gasp at its magnificence.

The man’s eyes half-closed in pleasure. She looking at him fondly, one hand stoking his hair, the other working his cock. Her smiling sexual detachment, her matter-of-fact acceptance of male need, containing an intense erotic charge for the man, and for me.

His body starting to stiffen slightly. Her face turning to watch his cock. Her hand continuing its steady motion. A slow mounting groan from him, his legs straightening into rigidity. His body convulsing. His cock spewing its white fluid, the woman watching expertly.

The woman leaning down, giving him a kiss on the forehead, sliding out from under his head, passing him a cushion, going to the kitchen for a paper towel to wipe up. The man’s body untightening, his head sinking back in peace.

Wonderful That You’re Not Here

Saturday evening, my wife away at some family event, the house empty except for me. Bubbling gently on the cooker, a simple sauce, beef and tomatoes and oregano. A pan of water boiling and the pasta thrown in. Pop of a cork from a bottle of Italian red, pouring some into a glass, smelling, tasting.

Sitting down, enjoying the sense of physical ease. Thinking, it’s probably attributable to Jenny, half an hour with her still working its magic more than a week later. Her skin and smells and touch, her wordless understanding of my body and its needs.

Draining the pasta, stirring in the sauce, serving it on a plate. Topping up the wine. Surveying the scene, contemplating its simple joy.

Jenny having a presence, but far preferable just at this exact moment for such presence to be in mind only. For her to be here physically, that would turn this simple meal into something different entirely. I'm sure I remember reading somewhere, only part of the money you pay to an escort is to be with her, the rest is so you can leave afterwards.

Raising a glass. To simple pleasures, free of entanglements.

My thoughts no doubt fully reciprocated, she probably has her fill of men, being an escort means she can seal off her free time. No need to pander to male egos or be sent running on errands or be moaned at for spending too much money.

But thinking again, maybe she does have a man somewhere. I wonder, does she do with him the things she does with me? Or is he the last one she’d want to have sex with, too exhausted having done it all day, thinking to herself, it’s fine for money, it’s fine when the man leaves afterwards, but not now I’m home, it’s time to relax. Maybe she and her man, all they do together is argue about bills and drinking too much and not getting chores done.

Half the bottle of wine finished. Plate empty. Wonder if I should have some more, um, well, okay, as it’s so delicious, I think I will, thank you. Serving myself. Refilling the glass.

Raising another toast. To solitude. And to Jenny, I love you baby. Wonderful to have you in my mind, wonderful that you’re not here. Some time in the next week, maybe we can meet up, you can once again do all those wonderful things to my body and soul.

Got Married, No Blowjobs

An email from J to brighten up my day.

Hey R, you darling, it gave me a thrill to be told you still think i’m loveable and lickable, actually, that’s exactly how i feel, but it’s good to be told, the media is so youth-obsessed and you sometimes think you’re delusional unless you submit to its agenda. in denial, that’s the term, applied whenever you demur from some dimwit teenage categorization. so, to hell with them all, what i know and now have written proof of, is that my R still wants to get naked and naughty with me.

Yes, marriage and sex, time to decouple them. seven years was when things started getting desperate for me, my body not getting what it needed, that was a few years ago now. so i’m breaking loose. there’s this man who handles our company’s audits, i can tell he’s interested, and i figure he knows i’m interested, he makes a point of stopping at my desk, occasionally our eyes cross and there’s that embarrassed smile, so far i’ve kept the sexual door closed to anything more but now i’m going to leave it ajar, see what happens.

Actually, some time ago, around that magic seven year point, i was at a barbeque chatting with this other man, sipping beer from bottles, sun shining through the eucalyptus leaves, a bit woozy from the heat and the alcohol, we got talking about relationships, he made this remark, it’s stayed with me, he said he had one of those marriages, he got a lot of blowjobs whilst they were courting, got married, no blowjobs thereafter. like a lot of men, he said.

Well, i didn’t really want to respond, i thought it was a bit of a crude come-on, but he didn’t press it, i made up my mind, if i saw him again, i was going to ask him whether he’d had a blowjob yet, and offer to give him one if he hadn’t. i guess that was the first time i abandoned ideas of a sexually shackled marriage. but i didn’t bump into him again so nothing came of it. still, it’s what i need, a hard, eager cock with the smell of the sperm wanting to get out and the man’s body desperate for relief and my mouth providing it.

So now i wonder what’s going to happen with this man from audits. i keep tangling him up with the man from the barbeque, similar builds, i think of us on a picnic rug on a hot day beneath the trees, me giving him long slow sucks between sips of beer.

Hope you don’t mind sharing my naughty thoughts, R. you ever need a blowjob, i’m waiting here patiently to give you one. Jxxx.

Years Of Experience

Walking home from school with my daughter, keeping an eye out for changes. Last night, a phonecall from her mother, hi R, just thought you’d like to know, our little daughter’s now a grown up daughter, she’s just had her first period, this is a good time to bring out your sensitive side.

Now, walking home with the not-yet teenager, chatting. Hey, look, it’s five o’clock already and there’s still light in the sky, it’ll soon be spring, long days, lots of fun, do you fancy trying something new this year, maybe get some new rollerskates.

Polite responses from her, but no interest in fatherly suggestions. The world constructing itself anew in her mind, the mainstay being that there are things that women understand and that men definitively don’t. Such things being everything that’s important. All other things, such as rollerskates, mere male trivia.

My job, stay normal, grounded. Not too difficult, years of practice, knowledge painfully acquired that no other way works, when a woman’s hormonally jangled, if you take her on, you pass through a meatgrinder and lose the argument anyway. Male forbearance, a small price to pay for not having to go through it myself. All well rehearsed, just have to apply it.

Passing a coffee shop, looking through the window, seeing young people looking cool. My daughter also noticing. Hey darling, would you like to stop for a hot chocolate? A departure from our routine. My daughter’s face lighting up. Then thinking again. School uniform. Being seen in a cool place with her dad. Maybe not.

Continuing our walk together, both of us in silence now. Me thinking, I’d like to keep communications open, say to her, oh, your mother told me, well done. Keep it light, don’t make a big thing of it. But the years of experience nudging. It might be no big thing for me, for her it’s huge, touch on the subject and it could set off a box of firecrackers. Leave it for another day.

Arriving home, putting on the kettle to make tea. My daughter throwing her bags aside, tripping over them, banging her elbow against a wall. Looking up to see if I’d seen. But experience kicking in again, one of the mugs suddenly discovered to have a strange thing that needs fixing, our eyes not crossing, no explanations needed.

Putting out the mugs of tea, watching the curls of steam, thinking, men, women, sometimes there’s a chasm between them that can’t be bridged, wisdom lies in recognizing that and not even trying.

Seven o’clock Blowjobs

On the escort website, another riveting profile, window on other people’s worlds.

Wanted. Spare bedroom in your house in Central London. Quiet needed during day. Payment in kind.

Hi. My name’s Marsha. You’ll see from my photos that I’m in very good shape and have a pretty face. I’m also skilled at sex. These are the reasons why I’m so much in demand.

I’ve decided to work outcalls to classy hotels, which usually involves working at night. What I need is somewhere I can go home to, and mostly sleep through the day, so I’m fresh for my night’s work. At the moment I stay with other sexworkers, but the house is too busy as men are coming and going all the time. I need somewhere quieter.

If I’m your lodger then instead of money, you can have sex with me once a day. You’ll see from my list of likes that I do most things, in fact everything except pain. The things that I normally charge extra for, like anal sex, you can have for free once a week.

I had an arrangement like this before, but the man had to leave to work in China. It worked very well, and we became good friends. He called me his alarm clock, because I woke him up with seven o’clock blowjobs. My trick was to see if I could get him hard in my mouth while he was still asleep, then nudge him awake so that when he came he knew it had happened instead of just being a dream. He said that it made him go to work every day with a smile on his face. He wanted me to move to China with him, but I like it here in London.

If you want you can ring him, to check that I can be trusted. Also, you can have a copy of my passport and driving licence. I’m happy to do this because I know that if you’ve got a nice place you’ll want to know that I won’t make off with your things.

If you want, I’ll service your friends, and charge only half my normal rates.

Other than the sex, we need to lead separate lives. I have my working career to attend to, just like you.

This will only work out if you have a nice house in Central London, and if we get on well. We can give it a try for two weeks, then decide.

Call me on my cellphone, and we can arrange to meet up.

She Didn’t Like Being Licked

A late night car journey through town, the roads all free of traffic, pleasant variation from London’s normal buzz. On impulse, deviating slightly through Holland Park, remembering the streets, reliving teenage days.

Ah, there it is behind the trees, Sonia’s parents’ mansion. Sweet innocent days. Meeting at a party, Sonia being by general repute the most desirable girl there, not however to me. No problem in agreeing with my friends, though, item, long shiny hair, item, long legs, item, clear skin, only trouble was, no chemistry somehow, not for me.

Nothing remarkable, really, happens often both ways, except one thing, Sonia choosing to hit on me. Thinking later, it was exactly my insouciance which she found attractive, sharp contrast to attitudes of other men. An important life lesson, relearned subsequently through not applying it, ardor repels more than it attracts, except if you can keep it down to about one out of ten.

Over the next month, spending more and more time together. A matter of near indifference to me, the most interesting thing being my friends’ response, slightly chary, I now think borne of envy.

After a while, finding ourselves in bed. For the first time, discovering that you can be naked with a woman, and also bored. No initiative of mine sparking off any response in her, she taking no initiative herself save leading me to her bedroom in the first place. Also, that telling thing, I couldn’t make her laugh, or if she did it was forced. Another telling thing, she didn’t like being licked. Another, she preferred to have the light off. The sex therefore feeling constricted, free of orgasms on either side, my simulated twitching being merely a means of discontinuation.

Nevertheless, carrying on in some sort of relationship, desultory for me, more assiduous for her. Meeting her parents, answering enquiries as to my school, my parents, my plans. Being assessed as to suitability for pairing with an heiress. Found to be wanting, and glad to be so, being uninterested in a life dedicated to wealth and tiny social gradations. Her parents, like her, profoundly boring.

Finally, breaking it off. Leaving her with her pain, as you have to do, feeling it too from the memory of having been on the other side. But of course much easier for me this time. Walking off, buying some cold beers and peanuts, heading to Kensington Gardens to consume them in the sunshine.

Ah, driving now through the winter’s early morning, I can almost feel that hot sun on my skin, the icy taste of the beer, the oily salty peanuts. Freedom from social expectations and feeble sex and demands on time. Heaven.

Sex Doesn’t Matter At All

Woke up this morning feeling warm about Jane, and in a frame of mind to send her an email.

Hi darling J, so you’ve decided you’re going to have an affair. How exciting. Remembering how you looked when I last saw you, it's what you need. Whoever you have it with, he’s a lucky guy, I wish it could be me.

Let me tell you something, darling J, I only mention it because as the years go by women seem to doubt their sexual attractiveness, well, your magnetism’s as powerful as ever, you looked to me just as you did as a student. I wish I’d been less reticent when I was with you in Australia, I’d have given you as much cunnilingus as you wanted, the thought now gives me an erection.

You say you’re going to stay with T. I’m glad, it saves a lot of trouble. You and I are at the same nexus, J. For what it's worth, I have some thoughts to share, see what you think.

The crucial thing about marriage, at least for me, probably for a lot of people, is that doesn’t go with sex. Sex is transitory, intense, chaotic, desperate. Sex is about discovery and excitement. Marriage is none of those things. Marriage is about steadiness and reliability and durability. Which makes it annoying that they’re so yoked together.

Maybe it made sense in bygone times. Marital fidelity would matter if we still had primogeniture, restricted social reach, high mortality. When marriages lasted about seven years before one or other died, faithfulness might have been achievable, maybe that’s why the seven-year itch kicks in when it does.

But now it's all different. Now we have contraception and women’s emancipation and social networking. You’d think that ideas of fidelity would update themselves.

But still, what I find surprising, J, is that marriage itself stays worthwhile. For me anyway. Sharing the lifelong narrative. Laughing at old jokes, remembering old things. The time the cat went missing and turned up days later in the laundry basket. Getting up early together to watch a spacecraft return. Holding hands to comfort one another at a friend’s child’s funeral. Do without those small things, you start to go crazy. Tiny reference points for sanity.

And of course, the big thing, if you’re going to have children, they need the steadiness and reliability and durability too. Marriage is very good for them.

That’s what I think, J. It’s not that marriage doesn’t matter, it’s that it matters a lot. Too much to be shackled to sex. Because in fact sex doesn’t matter at all. It’s like a meal, you eat it, you savor it, you enjoy it, you get vital nutrients from it, but then it’s gone.

And when we see each other again, J, we can take a break from the cunnilingus to raise a toast, to the glorious transitoriness of sex.

Stay well, darling J, and stay your beautiful self. Love, R, xx.