Fucking Anal or Anal Fucking

I suppose it had to happen sometime. I guess it was an inevitability; something that only time and opportunity had prevented occurring before; an event just waiting to come about; an action that was pre-ordained. I mean a forty-plus-year old divorcee with a number of affairs behind her, a free woman with a high sex drive, a female now unshackled from a fifteen year relationship who has found the adventure in sex can hardly not be fucked up her arse at some time, can she?

In the thirty plus years I'd been sexually active it had almost happened many times. That passage had been entered by a number of fingers and tongues and the bulbous tips of a few erections and a couple of buzzing vibrators had all presented their credentials at the enticing entrance. But none had been invited inside, well not far. So technically I was still an anal virgin when I met Ash.

Ash, or Ashra to give him his full name, was gorgeous. Over six feet tall, with a taught, slimly muscular body, he had dark wavy hair with a few unkempt locks that appealingly tumbled down over his forehead. The action, which he did all the time, of flicking them away was so casually sexy that I'm sure it alone could have caused some of his young admirers to wet themselves on the spot, especially if he gazed at them with his dark, moody eyes at the same time.

It was that action of flicking his hair and holding my gaze that first attracted him to me. That and his good looks, his wit, his intelligence, his sense of irony, his way of not taking himself or others too seriously and his style, charisma and sophistication. All that provided him with tremendous poise and assurance. Those, in turn, lent him an air of authority and command. Ash was always in control, was always the leader and director wherever he was and whoever he was with. The fact that he was fairly rich, owned a big slice of a highly successful ad agency that was headquartered in Beirut, which I learned later was where he came from, but operated mainly in London, Paris, New York and LA and lived somewhat of a jet set life style, really had nothing whatsoever to do with that attraction.

Yeah right.

Just as the fact that he was, at times, the most attentive and accomplished lover and at others the dirtiest and most depraved one, had no influence on me. Just as his gorgeous body, his long, thick cock, that he seemed to be able to harden on command, or his mouth and tongue that he used on me in the most amazing ways also had no attraction to me. Watch the window for the pigs flying past, won't you?

Or the fact that right from the outset of our short-lived affair we both knew it was purely sex. There was no real emotional involvement or entanglement yet we weren't fuckbuddies. There was absolutely no way that I could call him up and ask him round. It just wasn't conceivable and in any case when he wasn't with me he was probably with one of a number of other girls he quite openly admitted to seeing in the cities where his agency operated or where he had clients to visit. No, I was more at his beck and call than he was at mine, which is unlike how I usually like my relationships to be; I guess in this one I was the follower, he the leader; me the submissive he the dominator. It wasn't a case of us being fuckbuddies, more fuckboss and secretary I suppose.

Why I went along with that sort of arrangement which in most ways was so foreign to me I'm not sure? Why I was like a stage door groupie to him and why I let him abuse me by being at his command, who knows? Why I would simply drop anything I was doing or change plans at the last minute, even shopping trips, and go to his bed I still can't work out. It was a combination I suppose of the glamour, the sheer fun, the excitement, the difference from my usual life and the extreme sexual pleasure I gained from a man who was by far the most skilful and by an enormous margin the most experienced lover I'd ever had. In other words he fucked me with style and asked for little in exchange emotionally, just my body, well more my tits and pussy really.

We'd met at a launch of a new magazine. I was there in my capacity as a freelance copy writer for an ad agency; basically they could tell me to go while their more permanent staff they had to ask and most declined. I was spruced up in a nice little black number, a Karen Millen, cocktail dress. It was low enough at the front to show that my breasts were of a size that was interesting to most men, 33b at the time. It was high enough at the hem to show that beneath the knee my legs stood comparison with most, but not high enough to show that further up they become a little chunky, 'thighs like nut crackers' as an ex once called them.

It was a posh do at the V & A museum in Knightsbridge, London with masses of people from publishing, PR, advertising and most areas of business life. As with most of these do's it was about 70/80% male so the minority of us females were in demand as everyone circulated eating canapés and sipping drinks. That's something I have real difficulty in accomplishing with any semblance of elegance. The juggling of the plate and glass as you drink and nibble generally ends up with me dropping one or the other or, worse, letting crumbs or bits of food fall into my cleavage. And yes I have had men offer to lick it off!

"Why don't you let me hold your plate while you sip the champagne," a voice said.

That was my first contact with Ash. The second was him suggesting we stand by a table so I didn't have to juggle the food and drink. The third was him walking me round the museum away from most of the other people and the fourth was asking me to dinner after the do.

"I'm hosting a small dinner later, please join us," he asked, or had he commanded me to join them, I wondered later, for that's in a way how it sounded?

I circulated for a while chatting to colleagues some of whom I'd known for years, a couple of whom I'd had mild flings with. I listened to the various speeches and the official launch of the new magazine and watched the spectacular short accompanying cabaret.

As it was all ending a young guy came up and asked if I was Christina Hunt and was I joining Ash for dinner? I had thought that maybe he had forgotten for we hadn't spoken since he'd invited me. I did notice that he was in the front row, the VIP seats, and a couple of time as he turned he caught my eye and we smiled at each other. That actually felt good, not cheesy or smarmy at all.

Together with eight or nine others I was directed to a side door where we waited a few moments before a couple of limos turned up. I'd seen that I was one of only a couple of single women for the others all seemed to have partners. We sort of introduced ourselves on the short journey but more formal ones were made by Ash when he greeted us all at a private room in one of London's top restaurants.

We stood around sipping champagne and kir royals until Ash ushered us to the large twelve-seater round table. I was surprised, yet secretly thrilled to be seated next to him. On my other side there was a fairly high powered magazine journalist and round the table I could see a couple of other faces I knew. It was a pretty impressive, ad industry A list dinner table. And, being a humble, freelance copywriter that was something I most definitely was not used to at all

Ash clearly knew everyone and most seemed to know him so I was, to a large extent, the odd one out. That didn't faze me too much, though, for he treated me as if I was an old friend; no that's not true, for from the moment we sat down he really treated me as if we were lovers.

He had this unusual, well to me at least, combination of supreme self-confidence and amazing humility. He could tell me things about his life-style that from most men would have sounded boastful, but from him they didn't. He could say things about him that from most men I had met would have sounded arrogant. The way he stated them, though, with a disarming smile and that shrug of the shoulders that's so common amongst the French and men from the Middle East, they didn't sound a bit like that.

When he complimented me, held my hand, stroked my wrist and on two or three occasions during the meal kissed the back of my hand it wasn't cheesy, overly come on or assumptive. And when his knee pressed against mine a few times and once when his hand rested on my thigh it didn't seem pervy or out of order as it usually did when men had done such things to me in the past. Those things were done with such assurance and, I suppose in a way, style, that at the time they seemed perfectly natural. Looking back now, I can't understand why I let him do such things so quickly, for that was so not me. With Ash though, the idea of resisting or objecting seemed so trifling, childish and totally out of the question. So as I sat at that table full of strangers I didn't' stop him stroking my hands or kissing it. I didn't think of objecting when his leg pressed against mine under the table and it was just not a viable option for me to move away when his hand ran up my leg taking my skirt with it to a level where he knew I was wearing hold-ups.

As his hand found the lacy tops to he looked at me, smiled and murmured.

"Mmmm how nicely decadent."

All that was done with an assurance, sophistication, style and level of aplomb I'd never experienced before. He was clearly used to getting his own way, but didn't seem to be the type to force himself on a woman.

And he didn't force himself on me.

Not during the meal, not after it as he asked me to stay behind as his guests left, not when he took me in his arms in the empty room and kissed me and not when he cupped my breasts. It also didn't seem forced when he suggested we go to his flat or, when once inside he kissed me again, or as we kissed he caressed my breasts. Nothing was forced or overly manipulated. Not my breasts being eased out from my dress and bra, not his erection being pressed firmly and confidently into my stomach and not him undoing the zip at the back of the dress and sliding the garment from me. I was in this as equally as he was. So as he unclipped my bra, I undid his trousers. As he removed the bra so I slid his trousers down and was amazed to find he wasn't wearing underpants; later I found out he never did. So, as it happens then, for he had already removed his tie, as we slipped his shirt off, he was naked before me. Somewhat unusual, but then, as I subsequently found out, most things were with him.

When I think back I realised that I never was naked that night. I was wearing hold-up black stockings and they stayed on, but that often happens, for many men find that a turn on don't they? Rarely do they keep the girl's knickers on though, but Ash did for our first fuck. He kept them on; he pushed the silk into me and rubbed my pussy and clit through them. It created an oddly erotic sensation to have his fingers in me but covered in my silk panties. It was just as odd to have the silk pressed firmly against my anus and my lips; it was even odder to feel his erection pushing the gusset of them into me.

I thought at first as I lay in the middle of his bed on my back with his naked, muscular body between my opened legs that he was going to use my panties as a sort of condom so far did he push them in, but no, he was too long for that so the panty material slid to one side. He still, though, did fuck me while I had my knickers. He also later fucked me with them off.

That night broke new ground for me in many ways.

I had so very, very rarely in my years of sexual activity, slept with a man on a first date.

I had never really been as totally and utterly seduced as I was that night.

No man had ever controlled, dominated and directed me in the way Ash did as the night wore on.

I had never let a man be so intensely and basically intimate with me so early in a relationship as I did Ash.

And I'd never quite let myself go with a new lover as I did with him, both that night and throughout the short affair.

It was a night, and I do mean a night, for we didn't get to his apartment in Regents Park until after mid-night and I didn't leave to go home until nine the next morning. I felt embarrassed even though he had a driver take me home; God knows how I'd have felt in a cab in my cocktail party type dress!

I did things with Ash, willingly and eagerly I have to say, that were so different on a first date, well for me at least. Some I had never done before and others I had always reserved for much later in a sexual affair. For instance, the whole thing with him both finger and cock fucking me through my panties was new, exciting and adventurous to me. As was him pushing his cock inside my panties and then when he eventually removed them wrapping them round his cock and balls.

I sucked him and licked him. I took him deep in my mouth and sucked first one, then the other and then both of his balls into my mouth; actions that were not unknown to me, but actions that were usually reserved for later. Similarly, with me lying on my front letting him open my legs, a little, going along with him raising me up so I was half kneeling my face squashed against the silk sheet and then delighting at feeling his mouth on my thighs, on my back, on the cheeks of my bum and between them right on my anus. This wasn't new but was not something many men had attempted on initial lovemaking. I mean it takes quite a lot of sexual self-confidence to try licking the asshole of a woman you've only known for a few hours doesn't it?

So that's how I met Ash and how we "got to know" each other. In the following few months we got to know each other a great deal better and did things I'd never even contemplated let alone indulged in.

*

A bit of a diversion.

For those of you that like the detail I usually go into, this chapter will probably be a disappointment. For those who enjoy how I describe both the emotions and feelings I have during sex and how I try to combine them with telling you about the physical actions that were occurring at the same time, this may not be for you.

I'm going to write this chapter in shorthand; I'm going to cut to the chase; leave out the detail, miss the little things. The reason being is that this account is really concerned with just one sexual deed. Everything else that went on between Ash and me is peripheral to that. The times and places where he fucked me are subservient to that one particular fuck, that one special fuck, that one spectacular fuck. Yes all that I tell you about in this chapter is the build up to that fuck, the ways and means by which we got there, they are the reasons why, after all the years I've been having sex, I let Ash fuck me in the arse.

So for a couple of months I had an amazing time with this fascinating man.

I subsequently learned that he was Lebanese and had been educated in England at Millfield School and Durham University and then at Harvard in the USA. He was a Catholic and his family had suffered quite a lot during the troubles in his home country so he hadn't really lived there very much. He travelled extensively but just how much real work he did I often wondered. Like many Lebanese people he was fluent in French and English, nearly so in German and of course his mother tongue Arabic.

He told me early on that he still loved his wife.

"She is the mother of my children and for that I will always love her"

He said that divorce or even a parting was unthinkable. He told me equally early on also that he was not and never had been faithful to her.

"Like in the Godfather, Christina, as he called me, I fucked a bridesmaid at the reception."

He really was a master at the double standards that are so prevalent in the Middle East.

I wasn't sure why he was telling me all this, perhaps to ensure that I didn't get any ideas in that direction.

I guess during the first few weeks of the affair I saw him three or four times a week. Probably two lunchtimes and afternoons and two evenings and often nights. Although he took me to some wonderful restaurants and clubs, to Ascot and Henley and on some great shopping sprees, especially in Janet Regar and Agent Provocateur, the focus of the affair was sex.

Now that was unusual for me. I was still struggling to find the balance between satisfying my sexual hunger and not making an emotional commitment to a man. For months prior to Ash I had been pretty much celibate, preferring no sex to the guilt I got from sex without emotional commitment, and that I could no longer give to a man; that is since my divorce from my ex who I'd been with for fifteen years.

Sure I'd had flings in the four years we'd now been apart. Sure I'd had sex with a few more men than perhaps I should and yes I'd done one night stands and had tried a fuckbuddy. But none of it had worked, hence the celibacy bit.

As I said the focus of our relationship, well probably the reason for it as well, was sex. He was good and I needed it. I didn't realise just how much until I started getting it regularly from him. It was like drifting back to smoking. You can go completely without, and then you dabble with 'just one after dinner."#' But then, hardly before you know it, you want more and more and can hardly exist without a regular fix. That's exactly how I became about Ash. I wanted as much of him as I could get, not in a lovey-dovey sort of way, purely physically.

That's why during that amazing period he was fucking me probably eight or nine times a week. Often it was several times in one long afternoon or an all-night session. He had two residences in London. One was a house in Belgravia, the other a flat in Chelsea Harbour. He did take me to the house, but not often. He made it clear that was his London family home and, of course, he had servants there. How the hell he explained me staying overnight or how he kept them quiet, I have no idea. We would now and then go to a hotel in the country, Chewton Glen in Hampshire being one of his favourites. He was interested in where I lived and visited me there a couple of times, but Essex was so much off his radar it was only twice.

Wherever, we went it was always good sex, sometimes even great. It was adventurous and varied. We did most things. I modelled the loads of underwear he bought me and then he'd fuck me in them often ripping a pair of silk panties that cost fifty quid. We masturbated together, used vibrators on ourselves and the other, obviously fucked in every conceivable position and we had very extensive oral sex. I let him cum in my mouth and let him shoot onto my breasts and face. What we didn't do, though, was what so many men yearn for, anal sex.

Yes I let him finger me, yes I let him hold the vibrator there and even open me up a little and yes I let him, very willingly actually, lick me there to full orgasms. And on top of that I returned the compliments. I kissed licked and sucked him there, I slid my tongue up him and I pushed my finger knuckle deep into his anus and finger fucked him until he shot all over my face.

But still my fear and trepidation, not moral indignation, prevented me letting him have everything I had. And that's what he wanted. Everything. And a key part of everything sexually was my bum. He felt that it's such an integral part of sex that without full and active penetration of it a couple have not pushed the boundaries as far as they might, they haven't gone all the way and they haven't created a full sexual relationship.

"There should be no holding back Christina, nothing should be restricted, everything you have you should give me, as I give my all to you," Ash said in a rather chauvinistic way, his Middle Eastern attitudes I thought, but not totally disagreeing with him.

I did feel deep down and on a purely intellectual level that anal adventures are an essential part of a truly sexual relationship. They are the most forbidden action and are the most precious gift a woman has to give. And of course the taboo never existed in the part of the world that Ash came from