New Experience

This is a bit different as a story for me. For years, I've loved panties and have had my share of panty fun -- on my own. I did travel to the UK as a young guy and so the facts of this story are true. However, I didn't have the guts to go through with the fantasy I write about here.

I am married and in my late 40's. I have come to the conclusion that that nagging voice in the back of my head -- my sexuality -- needs to be listened to. So, I am now officially 'curious' about guys and cock.

In an ideal world, I'd have my own playmate to do the things I write about below. Each day I get harder and harder about the thought of playing with another cock. So, this story captures a time in my life when I perhaps should have submitted to the urges I had buried deep in my own subconscious.

In any case, I hope you enjoy this story. If it meets approval then I'll gladly write chapters 2 and 3, maybe more!

I live in South Australia, Adelaide. If there's anyone else who uses Literotica to get off and you have the same 'kinks' as me, I'd love you to get in touch. Who knows? Maybe there's a playmate out there for me somewhere in my town?

Enjoy. Any feedback most welcome but remember, if I was a professional author, I'd probably be better at it!

Cheers!

New Experiences

Some time ago, I spent a couple of years living in London, UK. For a young Australian 'bloke' of 25, this was and still is considered somewhat of a rite of passage -- a time to get out and see the world in the relative 'comfort' of an English-speaking country.

My first few months consisted of the usual alcohol soaked nights at the various clubs and pubs dotted around the dreary streets and back lanes of that massive city. Having come from little old Adelaide in South Australia I remember feeling just overwhelmed at the sheer size of the place and the throngs of people wherever you went. I became comfortable with the idea that I would likely never see any of the people I came across again and that gave me a tremendous sense of being able to be who I was and not having to behave in a way that wasn't me!

Far from the near empty buses and trains I caught at home, the London Underground was just a myriad of tunnels, white tiles, escalators, stairs and 'flocks of people'. People jammed up against each other at peak hour trying desperately to avoid any eye contact with the person they were pressed, often lewdly, against. People running and bumping into others without a care. People launching themselves with lowered shoulders through the doors of a packed train to get where they wanted to go. People farting in the still air and looking petulantly at others with an accusing glare.

People...

Everywhere...

I quickly realised that, in order to gain a complete understanding of the city, its people and its culture, I was going to have to avoid the areas where the 'drunken Aussies' ruled. Earls Court was one such location where you walked down the street and could see Australian flags flapping from most apartment buildings. Pubs were filled with drunken renditions of 'Khe Sahn' and 'Am I ever going to see your face again?' (the Aussie readers will get this -- staple Aussie drunken tunes sung at the top of everyone's voices at four in the morning with a gut full of booze!) and the most 'Aussie' voices in the street calling people 'Digger' and 'Cobber'!

I was and still am incredibly proud to be Australian, however that overt patriotism, even disrespect of another culture and country, wasn't for me.

So, I set up in the Clapham Common area -- a place I remember as being typically suburban of London (although I'm sure my experience would have been different than someone who was born and bred there!). I rented a downstairs apartment a few minutes from the train station -- it was a basement and I was so thrilled to be out of the glare of people when I returned to my 'hidey hole' each day. It had a small kitchen, a small bathroom, a reasonably sized bedroom and a room that was large enough to seat a few people in front of a television.

In addition, it had a small entrance area at the bottom of the entry stairs and a 3 x 3 metre 'backyard' that had a very small lawn section and an area to sit at an outside table. The place cost me a bomb each month but I loved the space it gave me in comparison to other flats/apartments I had been to. It became home for me and I rarely, if ever, had people to visit.

*

The seclusion allowed me to be who I was -- in private. If I didn't want anyone to be there, I didn't answer the door. Friends I made throughout my time there, quickly understood that I didn't have people over 'at mine'. Having never, ever lived on my own, it was almost decadent for me to have a space all to myself without siblings, parents or even friends, to break the spell.

I had thoroughly enjoyed masturbating throughout my entire life -- well, since I was able to do it! My cock is circumcised and measures around 6-7 inches and I know what it likes -- so to speak. People who have had it in their hand have always remarked at how hard it gets when fully aroused and that it has a nicely shaped and sized mushroom head on top. My balls are large and when the area is shaved I think it looks quite sexy -- but enough of the self-love!

My peaceful existence in my basement flat meant that I could masturbate whenever, wherever and however I liked. In fact, for the first time in my life, I had begun to fixate on pulling my cock a lot more than before. I'd plan to use some lube (which I'd rarely done before given the need to clean-up and the fear of inquisitiveness from my mother!), fuck a vegetable (yes, seriously, I fucked many an eggplant and melon!) or even experiment sticking household items up my own ass to stimulate my prostate (I didn't know what it was in those days, just that it felt unbelievably good!).

I also reconnected with a fetish or desire I had had since being a young boy -- panties...

My experiences with panties had begun as a youth, raiding my mother's silky and sweet smelling lingerie drawer when home alone, which was rare -- or rarer than I had liked. I remember the first time I dressed in women's underwear as a teenager. I had been unwell for a week of school and had been in bed for the better part of that time. On the Friday of that week I felt myself again and got some energy back.

I remember getting the idea to put on underwear after watching some daytime TV show with an advertisement for lady's underwear. I tip toed to my Mother's dresser and prized open the drawer revealing a plethora of satin and lace wonder! My shaking hands had lifted a pink set to my nose and I revelled in the faint musky smell of my mother's cunt as I rubbed the fabric against my nostrils. Hearing my heart beat in my ear drums I quickly disrobed on her creamy white carpet and donned the pink, satin treasures and the accompanying bra.

My reflection in her make-up mirror saw my cock stood at full attention in her panties, tenting the front and already I had formed a sizeable smear of pre-cum on the front panel of the material. The bra (Mum had smallish tits) fit snugly to my chest and my smooth, muscular thighs and flat stomach made me look very feminine indeed!

I rubbed my cock head through the satin panties and just about lost consciousness as I came in a torrent of heaving thrusts, my goo smearing on the inside of her panties and leaking down my inner thighs. My chest went bright red and my breath took a long time to return to normal. One of the greatest orgasms in my life time!

This fetish was always halted by my non-private existence when at home, but now, as an independent adult, living on my own, I had the time and the space to indulge in my wildest fantasies. I quickly built up a collection of G-strings, crotch less and full back, lacy, panties that I would often dress in when home, alone in my solitude. I would buy them from Marks and Spencer on Oxford Street in the city, not ever caring when the often young and buxom saleslady would hide her sniggers when she assessed the panties in my hand were also my size. I'd even profess now to walking around the store with a full hard on poking the front of my pants -- but, I'd never see them again anyway... right?

On a lazy Saturday or Sunday (I worked in an Art Gallery during the week) I would often turn the oil heaters up to full heat, get naked, slip on some panties and walk around all day with a semi or, indeed, a full hard on. I'd wank myself stupid some days, cumming up to 6 or 7 times and still getting hard before sleep would stop me from more self-abuse!

Whilst I'd often have fantasies playing out in my head, I also began to just send myself to the edge each time by teasing and rubbing myself. I'd rub and massage my balls and grip them between my thumb and forefinger as I spurted a load of hot cum onto my chest. I would kneel on the floor and reach behind myself, almost 'milking' my own cock as I fingered my asshole with the other hand. I'd lie on my back, legs spread and knees up to my ears, as I fingered my asshole and pumped my cock furiously -- on occasion firing shots of my own load into my mouth, always swallowing. I'd rub the underside of my mushroom shaped head for hours with various lubes until I almost cried out in ecstasy as another load shot from my tingling balls.

I thought about girls and guys when I played. My own sexuality has always been fluid as I was raised that way. I'd had sexual experiences with girls (a few) and had had two 'fumbling explorations' with close guy friends. These experiences with the two guys had usually ended up in a frustrating boner and relief sought after the event -- never any direct touching or fondling. I was Bi-sexual and more than comfortable with that!

I was in heaven in my own little flat and my paradise began to overtake my life. As I said, I would plan my 'me' time constantly, always seeking out a new way to get off or a slight variation to one I'd tried before. Then something 'new' came along...

*

London is famous for its red phone boxes. At this time in London's history, they were still quite prevalent as the mobile phone phenomenon had just begun to break. Inside each phone box in many parts of London, locals and tourists alike will tell you about the 'call cards' that adorn lots of them. They advertise 1 300 -- FUCK numbers, hooker and escort services and fetish book shops. They advertised all and any sort of weird stuff, depending on where you were in the city.

I was out in Camden Town one Saturday afternoon and had to call a friend. Entering one of the big red phone boxes I was greeted with the usual display of call cards and services. I had, on occasion, taken one if something about it caught my eye and that day I came across one that piqued my interest immediately.

It was advertising a sex shop nearby that specialised in 'Masturbation Fantasy Play'. The line on the card reached out and slapped me in the face -- could this be an extension to my, already full, repertoire of wanking ideas? I shoved the card in my pocket, made the hasty call to my mate and headed off (trusty London A-Z map book in hand) to find the sex shop.

Five minutes later I was standing at the entrance to the 'Naughty Boys and Girls Adult Shop' just off the High Street, buried amongst food and produce markets. I looked around to assess the place and immediately entered, head down, when it seemed all those around me had their minds and eyes elsewhere.

Inside there were the usual rows of books, DVD's and sex toys. I slowly walked up and down each row one eye on the displays, the other on the guy at the counter. He was puffing on a cigarette and mindlessly flicking through a copy of the Sun newspaper, seemingly unaware of my existence. His hair was greasy and slicked back and he wore a multiple day growth on his face.

The shop was an L shaped room and, around the corner, I found a section of Gay magazines and DVD's. I found it weird that, in London (where gay people appeared widely accepted) they seemingly 'hid' the gay stuff around the corner from the 'regular punters view'. In any case, I scanned the pictures of hard cocks, blowjobs and ass fucking on one wall but my attention quickly was drawn to the other wall.

It was a wall made into a noticeboard with the rather amateurishly scrawled heading of 'Play mates'. The very used board (evidenced by the number of pin holes all over it) had up to 60 small cards with handwriting on them dotted all over its surface. Closer examination of a few revealed they were messages or requests for people to join them for various 'activities'. Words like; anal fuck, blowjobs, ass worship, big cock, small cock etc. began to jump out at me.

After several minutes of reading them I understood that most were written by escorts or hookers and were yet another way of drawing in a paying customer. Those that used words like 'please you' and 'sensual services' were of that ilk.

About five of them seemed genuine and one kept reaching out for me in particular. It read: "Wanted -- a male playmate to join with and masturbate occasionally. I'm male, not gay, inexperienced yet curious about men. Interested in meeting a like-minded guy for mutual fun and friendship. Only neat and clean men should apply. Ref #ZC367893."

My hand, almost by itself, began to reach out for the slip of cardboard in front of me, but a voice right behind me caused me to almost jump in shock!

The greasy haired guy from behind the counter was behind me.

'These are all pretty recent, these ones.' He stated, 'They have a reference code down the bottom to quote to me at the front counter, so you don't need to take them down. Just have to quote the number, alright?'

'Y-yes.' I stumbled in reply, but he didn't move.

He added, 'Any take your eye? I see that one there (he pointed to the one I was reading), he came in just to put that up today. Nice guy him, a bit older than you, but a nice bloke, him. You want me to pass on a message to him? That's how it works.' Despite his appearance and seeming lack of any personal care whatsoever, he was going above and beyond in his role as 'counter guy' in a sex shop in my humble opinion!

'Fuck it!' I thought, 'I'll never see this bloke again, who gives a fuck?'

'So... what do I do mate? Do you I give you my details to give to him or what?' I asked, very quickly.

'Alright mate. Yeah, you give me your email address or phone number and I pass it on to him. No middle man here mate, the number goes straight to him next time he comes in...' he clarified.

I, perhaps too quickly, asked him, 'How often does he come in?'

He smiled a shit eating smile and said, 'Wow there young lad. Hold your horses. He came in today and I'd imagine he'll be in within the next week or so.'

'A week or so... Oh well, nothing ventured...' I thought to myself.

I gave my new mate my Hotmail email address, stopping short of giving my phone number to a complete stranger. He thanked me and returned to his desk, keen to return to ogling the tits on the 'Sun' page three girl in front of him.

I thought for a moment I should buy something, but with little money, I decided to head home and, to be quite honest, pretty much forgot about leaving my details. I thought it would be a long shot and there appeared to be many hurdles in the way of anything really 'happening'. What about if he was a serial killer? What if he got off on skinning people alive like in the movies...

*

A week or perhaps more had passed before I figured I'd check my email account. I had a slow, old laptop in my flat and that seemed to keep me connected with emails from home or friends I'd made in London.

I had fired up the computer to see if my parents had managed to forward some funds from Australia to me so I could travel on the mainland of Europe during my upcoming holidays in a month or two.

My inbox came into view and I immediately noted an email from an address I wasn't familiar with. The tag line simply said, 'HI: About your message'. My heart skipped a beat... The email was dated the day I had entered the sex shop...

My shaking hand pressed the keys and it opened. First impression was that it was about 300-400 words long and was signed, 'Matt'. I read on. I can't remember the message exactly but he opened it with thanking me for 'reaching out' and went on to talk about his curiosity and the need for this to be a private, purely physical 'exploration' of his own desires. He stressed that, if we were to meet we'd need to do the first meeting publicly and he was not able to 'entertain' at his home as his wife and children were always there. He finished with the bait -- 'I'll leave the next step with you.'

I hit reply before I could think but then just sat and thought about what to write. After a while, I carefully typed out my pretty honest response. I explained my background, my job, my likes and my own curiosity about guys. I told him I lived for masturbating and would be keen to pursue our 'friendship' if he was up for it.

I agonised over the finer details of the email for a long time but eventually pressed 'Send'. With a huge boner in my pants I fired up a joint of some gear from Amsterdam, put on my favourite white satin panties and bra and proceeded to tease myself all afternoon with images of what a meeting with Matt would be like.

*

Work beckoned for a few days and upon arrival at home, late one afternoon, I opened my email account to find a reply from Matt.

His response seemed almost relieved as he explained he had had four responses to his ad in the sex shop but that the other three had been weird guys who started talking to him about pissing on them or feeding them his own shit! Sounded hilarious actually!

Matt went on to suggest we meet and then the sudden reality hit me. This was going to go down! He mentioned the name of a pub not far from where I lived (a short train ride away) in the suburb of Chelsea. Pretty posh area but Matt was at pains to point out that he didn't live there. He was suggesting the following evening for a few drinks and was clear that he wasn't promising anything would 'happen' that night. I was resolute -- I was definitely up for this! I replied and told him I was in...

*

The next 24 hours my mind whirled and spun. All sorts of images flooded my head -- pictures one minute of lust and mutual wanking, moving to pictures of a guy standing over my half dead body as he butchers me!

Never the less, time stops for no man and soon I found myself sitting at a bar in an uncrowded pub in Chelsea, looking for a guy in a pair of jeans and a red and black checked jacket.

The door ringer announced a new arrival to the pub and Matt stepped into the dimly lit environment with just a hint of trepidation in his step. He glanced around and saw the gathering in the bar -- myself and two other guys, both in their 60's at least -- and immediately made his way toward me.

As he entered my space I turned directly to him, put out my hand and said, 'Matt, is it? Nice to meet you mate.'

He immediately smiled and took my hand in a firm shake, almost relieved. 'Hi there. You must be Jack, good to finally meet you.'

As he set himself on a bar stool we both took a few moments to take each other in. He was shorter than me and perhaps a little geeky to be honest. His demeanour was nice and he seemed quite genuine. His body was quite solid, if perhaps a little skinny (like me) and he had dark brown hair with an ever so slight hint of grey. He was 34 so a little older than me by about 9 years. He didn't have a massive bulge in his pants but it seemed to be a little pronounced 'down there'.

As I lifted my eyes from his bulge I caught his eyes on my cock area and I must admit it made me feel really hot to have someone eyeing my dick!