Meet Me In St Leonard's

We first met in London two years ago; you were sitting in the bar of the hotel after attending a medical conference and I'd just been stood up by my 'so-called' best friend and was planning to leave after I'd finished my large glass of red wine. I was immediately attracted, after all, you had all of the essential requirements - tall - check, handsome - check and intelligence - check. Three bells in fruit machine parlance - ding, ding, ding.

Seeing me peering at you over my iPad you approached me and enquired whether anyone else was sitting in the tub chair? When I answered in the negative, you sat in front of me and we fell into easy conversation. I particularly liked the way that your eyes crinkled when you laughed, which was often.

I won't give you a name, it feels too close, too personal, but you're a Doctor, based in a large suburban surgery. You're divorced following sixteen years of marriage to a woman whom you met at a teaching hospital when you were both junior doctors. You drifted apart ... pressure from both sides, plus a slice of dissatisfaction from your ex-wife caused a seismic shift in your relationship. The birth of your daughter, seven years ago, only made the rift more acute. These days you don't 'do relationships' as they're far too difficult, but find adequate solace in anonymous internet hookup sites. As time goes on and our relationship deepens, you tell me some of the acts you've carried out with these women and one man. It especially turned me on to hear about the threesome on a houseboat.

One of the conditions you'd agreed with your ex-wife is that, for the sake your daughter, you'd keep your private life, erm private. With that in mind, you'd even purchased a flat for this very purpose - situated on the sunny south coast of England in an anonymous town called St Leonard's-On-Sea. Less than two hours from London by train, it was a very fashionable resort in Victorian times, but after the trend for overseas holiday gripped the nation, it soon fell out of favour and the once grand townhouses got split into crummy flats or worse, scummy bedsits. You'd managed to pick up a dilapidated two bedroom flat for a very reasonable sum and spent eighteen months refurbishing it to your very specific requirements.

So, that was then and this is now. The usual arrangement - the second Saturday of every month; without fail. I have a key. You liked your spare room to closely resemble a seedy seaside hotel - mis-matched furnishings, flouncy curtains and worst of all, nylon sheets on the bed to replicate the scratchy feeling of cheap bedding. They always seem to catch on your body hair, but thinking about it, that turns you on, doesn't it?

Oh - so you want to know more about me? Why? I'm hardly exciting. OK - I admit it, I'm married and no, the old cliche's true, my husband really doesn't understand me. You could give me what he couldn't and I appreciated that. The continued lying is getting very difficult - I think that my husband knows, but he won't elaborate, he's very much of the 'stiff upper lip' brigade.

You were very specific in your requirements: I should be completely naked apart from the blindfold and velvet choker. Pubic grooming was important, but being completely bare wasn't at all necessary.

I arrive before you to factor in enough time to prepare myself -- stepping into the large ornate shower and lathering myself all over. I know that you appreciate a clean body. I'm tingling all over after I switch the spray off, but the harshness of the towels soon grounded me - another nod to the 'cheap hotel experience'. Once dry, I lie on the bed and await your arrival.

You are perfectly punctual. You greet me with a deep kiss and I embrace your solid frame. You place your antique leather Doctor's bag on the ottoman and take out the tools of your trade, which when you're strictly off duty is thus: a butt plug, a set of anal beads, a 7in dildo, two smooth ropes and a blindfold. You, like the Boy Scout you once were, are always prepared.

Affixing the blindfold across my eyes, you command me to place my upper torso on the bed and my feet flat on the floor. You then kneel behind me and lick the round orbs of my quivering buttocks. Then your tongue becomes more localised and moves to the crack of my arse, lovingly furrowing into the deep cavity. As my moaning increases, you move your attention to my starfish, where your talented tongue dips, probes and teases me into complete submission. These actions, combined with a firm pressure on my clit, finally drive me over the orgasmic edge.

As for you -- I tell you to strip all of your clothes off and lie on the bed. I grab the tube of lube from the bedside table and liberally apply it to your arsehole and coat the silicone of the anal beads. I then tell you to relax as I slide the first bead up your rectum, then the second and when I meet no more resistance -- the third and the fourth slip firmly into place. I then quickly remove them, leaving you panting. I tell you that you want more and you agree. More force is clearly required. Your cock is hard and I can tell that the next action will make you explode.

I lube up the dildo, placing it firmly against your hungry hole. With some firm pressure it fits into your slippery pathway. You groan and gasp -- "I can't take it, I just can't!" but my previous experience knows that this is patently untrue. You endure three more minutes of pounding until I remove the hard object from your rear, reach over and take your solid cock in my mouth. A couple more minutes of teasing your rigid organ in my wet and waiting mouth cause you to explode and without further ado, I swallow it all.

We then lie together in the kingsize bed to recover our composure. After an hour, you dress, kiss me on the cheek and pad out of the room, closing the door softly behind you.