Those Fucking Years

Perhaps I should ask him I ruminated standing over the sink in his bathroom?

I knew that I had to let him make love to me but strangely it no longer seemed as important to me. Most of the excitement and anticipation that had pervaded me since I entered his house had now gone. Sure there was a little tingling but not the rush of feelings I had had previously. I showered and wrapped a large towel round me and returned to the bedroom where he was laying on the bed a sheet covering him. I climbed in again apologising for what had happened but he just shrugged that off and was very understanding.

We cuddled up together and gradually started doing all the things that a naked man and woman do when in bed together. He became hard and I held that and stroked it. He caressed my breast, quite nicely and then kissed them. We pressed our bodies together and we kissed at length and yes I became a little aroused. But not that much. That disturbed me. I should be begging him for it shouldn’t I? The first time for all that time and here I was wondering what Sarah was doing and glancing at the clock to see whether I’d missed the ten o’clock news. Not really the domain I thought of the 21st woman. Where’s the tigress gone? Where’s the rampant frustrated sexual goddess ready to give and take every sexual favour? I couldn’t find her.

But nevertheless he was laying on me, his length was against my pubis, my thighs opened and he slid down so that the tip of that blood engorged tower was pressing against the velvety, also blood engorged lips of that tunnel of love that we keep there for special occasions. He was grunting and sighing as his hips pushed forward. As indeed I was as for the first time in over a year I was penetrated. He was in me, up me filling me. I was being fucked I thought wondering who was presenting the news tonight. A few minutes of, what I thought were, relatively expert thrusting and he was telling me that he was nearing his ejaculation. I’d better join in I thought throwing my body around a bit and gasping and sighing as for the first time in my life I feigned an orgasm. I think I must have a natural talent for it as he was so pleased that he had “made me cum” and that we’d climaxed together.

Not a bad night’s’ work I thought later at home in my own bed. Not bad but not great for certainly the sex had, at best, been confusing, and was not the blisteringly fantastic experience I had expected on my return to being a player of that game. Ah well always next time I smiled as I slid off to sleep after my first date as a single woman.

In the three months or so of our affair the sex did get better. Not a lot but better than that first time. With me not wanting to introduce Sarah to my date we settled into a routine. We’d usually meet for lunch once a week occasionally then going to his house or my flat and spending a couple of hours in bed. Alternatively he’d cook me dinner and we’d have a repeat of the first time. Not, I hasten to add, with me cumming quite so quickly although, I have to admit, more orgasms were faked than were real. I became quite adept at doing that I suppose.

But there was no real fizz in it and slowly, as his kids came home for the summer holidays the relationship just fizzled out and ended.

Madly mixing metaphors, it never rains but it pours doesn’t it? And like London buses none for ages then three at once. Suddenly after a three month barren patch it was suddenly raining men for Mandy.

There was Tom an Art Director at one of the agencies I worked for. I’d known him for some time, not that well and certainly not intimately, but on terms that were close enough for us to chat easily.

There was Stuart, a lawyer I met at a dinner party and there was Gordon a fifty year old Mancunian, self made man I met while on a golfing holiday with seven other women in Spain.

Tom and I sat next to each other at an awards lunch and ended up in his bed that evening. Peter and I went on several dates before gradually getting round to it and Gordon had his hand up my skirt and my tits out on a lounger round the hotel pool at two o’clock in the morning. Quite a varied lot really.

The awards ceremony was at the Savoy. All rather grand and all crushingly boring but I’d written some copy for an ad he’d designed and we were nominated so we had to be there. Fortunately the client couldn’t make it so we were able to overindulge in the free booze and by the time the room was darkened and the presentations started, we didn’t win, we were both a bit tipsy. He pulled his chair closer to mine as many of the others on the round table turned theirs towards the stage. We laughed a lot taking the piss out of some of the ads and I felt his arm go round the back of my chair and his fingers rest on my shoulder.

“And what Mr Mason, do you think you’re doing?” I asked.

“Actually Ms Williams trying to get into your knickers.”

“Well as you know better men at your agency have tried and better men have failed,” I replied jokingly. Such banter wasn’t that unusual between the male and female staff in the ad industry where PC still doesn’t seem to have arrived.

“Yes but they haven’t been close up to you when you’re tipsy and just gagging for it have they?” I quipped back, “who says I’m half tipsy?”

“Well OK pissed then,” he retorted clearly realising that I hadn’t rejected the “gagging for it” remark.

As the ceremony droned on so I felt his hand softly rubbing my shoulder. As we got nearer to our section so his leg pressed against mine. As we both drank more wine so his foot ran up and down my calf and as we realised we hadn’t won so I felt his hand on my leg.

“Oh well that’s that then,” he muttered leaning over so that his mouth was close to my ear. ”We might as well go and fuck hadn’t we?” In my slightly, well fairly to be truthful, pissed state and with me now trying to be the sophisticated sexual predator of the 21st century it seemed sort of cool really to say.

“Yeah I guess we should I suppose.”

So we did. Twice actually later that afternoon. And it was good. Neither of us was in that fit a state for sexual acrobatics so both times were leisurely and probably not that expert but they were fun.

Until Tom I’d never really looked on sex as being fun. But with him it always was. .He didn’t take anything serious so why should he with sex was his belief. So for a two or three month period, when he introduced me to smoking marijuana again after what must have been a fifteen or sixteen year absence, we had fun as we had sex. We smoked, drank and laughed our way through a series of premature ejaculations, a number of “oh fuck it I can’t get it up” and some absolutely monumentally mind blowing sessions.

At the same time Stuart was pulling me. Slowly and methodically as his legal training prompted him he did everything absolutely properly.

The first date all friendly and diplomatic and a peck on the cheek as we said goodbye. The second, dinner, a little more romantic and talk of a more intimate nature followed by a lips on lips kiss in the cab on the way home. No thought on either part though of coming in for coffee, no not on a second date that wouldn’t be right. It was on the third though as was a full on kiss and tongues in the others mouth. Up top only on the third date as he enquiringly at first touched my breasts. Finding only the appropriate level of resistance he persevered as we sat in his flat and over what must have been an hour he undid a couple of buttons on my blouse. It took probably another twenty minutes for him to get his fingers inside my bra and another ten or so before he yanked each boob out from its restraining cup.

Being the demure and modest lady I felt he wanted me to be, after he’d played with them for a while not, of course going so far as to suck my nipples even though that was exactly what I wanted him to do, I put my toys away and went home an intact and well behaved lady.

As I’d got more into dating I’d worked out that the fourth or fifth date is the watershed. It’s the one where you’ve both got to know each other quite well, where inhibitions have gone a bit and both parties are quite comfortable with each other.

So when he also suggested “come round and I’ll cook you dinner” for our fourth date I assumed that this would be where the heat would be turned up.

As I rode over to his place by cab I recalled the old schoolgirl dating protocol of “only up top for the first few dates and no up the skirt until at least the fourth or fifth!” I was quite pleased that I wasn’t wearing trousers this time!

Out of his pinstripe suit and white button down shirt Stuart was a different man. Once he threw off the uniform and restrictions of his profession and training he changed completely. When naked he was Godlike. I could hardly believe that the man who’d been so diplomatically dating me could be so awesome in bed. He was an amazing lover. Quite the most technically adept I’d ever been with.

After the meal we’d sat together on the sofa and he took up from where he’d left off last time. Remember that? Bra still on, but tits out yet no sucking or nipple chewing. Of course this time there was that. That and so much more. I’d never had a man pay such homage to my breasts before.

He’d undone the buttons on my blouse, gone through the cursory entry level of caressing me outside my bra before again getting them out. This time though he leaned behind me and undid my bra. I like that feeling as the restriction of the tight elastic is removed. I like the sensation as the cups are eased away from the mounds. And I enjoy the look on a lover’s, well a potential lover in this case, face when he looks at them for the first time.

I am a little bit arrogant about my tits. I know they’re not bad at all. I know I’ve got a good rack and I know that many/most men are suckers for big, soft, full tits. And Peter was no exception. Where he was different, though, was the time he took playing with them and what he did to me by doing that. He must have licked and kissed every single square millimetre of them at least once and for an age. He must have sucked and chewed each of my nipples for longer than News at Ten lasts and he stroked each of the orbs until I was in fear that he’d rub them away. One way of losing a little weight I guess.

So, naked above the waist, skirt pushed up to mid thigh my breasts being lengthily stimulated by this amazingly patient man, what did I do? Unusually for me I did just lay back and enjoy it. He was so in charge and was so systematically directing proceedings it didn’t seem right for me to interject. Sure I kissed him back when appropriate and I did undo a couple of buttons on his shirt and yes I felt his, quite impressive, length through his trousers, but not much more. My part seemed fairly well defined and that was to be his plaything. So plaything I became.

And boy did he play. Although his concentration was on my boobs, and wonderfully so I must say, there was the occasional fingers sliding along my thighs and now and then the lightest touch on my panty covered pussy. As I tended to jerk when he did that, well girls do don’t they, he would then apply a little more pressure right there. Right where I wanted that pressure. Right where all females love that pressure. Yes right alongside my clit that, unlike many men, he seemed to find so easily. Usually as he did that he was sucking, quite noisily in fact, on a nipple or licking the softer flesh of one of my tits. The combination of being strongly stimulated in two places at once had the inevitable effect on me. Yes I climaxed, twice for sure and maybe three times on that sofa.

It wasn’t anything like it had been with Peter where I embarrassed myself by cumming far too early. No, with Stuart, my climaxes were an essential part of the sexual foreplay as he saw it. It was almost as if it was my duty to cum. And being a dutiful girl I did, willingly and explosively with his hand between my legs and his mouth on my tits.

But that was just the start. As I lay on the sofa in my mellow, post orgasmic state he stood up and not taking his eyes from mine for a moment he undressed. And as I said out of his pinstripes he was Godlike. He had an almost perfect body, at least to my eyes. Tall and slim without an ounce of unnecessary flesh he obviously looked after his body in the methodical way he did everything else including me. Lightly tanned with a covering of hair on his chest he had an absolutely flat six pack and a beautifully long and smooth cock that reared up from a thatch of golden pubes tinged with splashes of grey. Totally unselfconscious about his nudity, unlike many men he picked me up and carried me to his bedroom.

You’ll notice that I’m not including much dialogue and that’s because we hardly talked throughout the entire episode. But then the way that Stuart made love didn’t programme in talking.

Sitting on the bed with me standing next to him he slid my skirt up. He did make a noise then by sighing deeply as he looked at the pretty white knickers I was wearing, without tights or stockings for the weather was still warm and my legs still had the tan from my Italian holiday. Slowly moving the fingers of one hand in little circles right on my clit he eased the back of my panties down with the other. Eventually getting them down my thighs he took them and then my skirt off.

At last I got to lie on the bed and was thinking that now we’d fuck. Wrong. Oh no. No it wasn’t time in his programme for that. No this was the time for the beneath the waist foreplay. I won’t bore you with the tedious details but we then had another hour or so of him attending to every part of my lower body. Strangely though only with his hands and not once did he use his tongue or mouth on my pussy. But the intensity and, I have to say gentleness and expertise, with which he inflamed my lips both inside and out continued on my clit and all around my bottom made me cum again.

His lovemaking though quite expert and very giving was sort of mechanistic and so bloody drawn out. It was as though he could give for ever but not want anything in return. As though he took all I had but never really revealed anything about himself. Even when, eventually, he did fuck me it was as if he were programmed. He did everything correctly, he took his time, he combined long and short thrusts and fast and slow ones but not once did he let himself go. No loud moans or words. It was like being fucked by a machine. True a powerful and very efficient one but still a machine. A fucking machine actually.

So in my raining men period I had one guy where it was all fun and another where it was mechanistic.

On the golf trip to Spain I found one in the middle

I was in Spain with seven other women of varying ages on a golf trip. Five rounds in seven days staying in a great hotel right on a golf course. It was a popular place for groups of particularly English golfers to go and the place was full. What more could eight female golfers want? Great golf, sun, a smashing hotel, good food and wine and a hotel full of men!!

We’d been chatted up quite a lot for we were very much in the minority amongst the, mainly, male golfers. Around the pool, on the course and at the clubs and restaurants we visited in the evenings. A couple of the girls had got off with guys and, funnily enough they were both married. Us single women seemed more reticent but, what the hell, the old golf maxim of “what happens on tour stays on tour” would be strictly enforced, wouldn’t it?

It was our last night. We were leaving the next afternoon and we’d decided to eat in the hotel restaurant. That day we’d accepted an invitation from a group of guys to play mixed golf and I’d been paired up with Gordon. He was a sturdy man with strong looking arms and hit the ball miles. A bit wayward but a fair golfer even though his handicap was higher than mine. Nice to shove that at the men, I’m fifteen!

He was from Manchester and as we wandered round the course he told me that he owned a business that manufactured something that I never quite understood. He was supposedly separated from his wife and three kids and lived in Cheshire just south of the city. We got on well. He had a good sense of humour didn’t take himself too seriously and flirted with me in a friendly and challenging manner. He had a quick mind and I admired his thoughtful phrasing even though he made it quite obvious that “he was available” if I wanted him. Nearly five hours of golf and talking and you get to know someone pretty well. And overall I quite liked what I got to know.

Although my affair with Stuart was on the wane that with Tom was still wafting along on a cloud of smoke, booze and laughter but was going nowhere. So was I on the lookout, I wondered that evening getting ready for dinner, for a Stuart replacement?

I didn’t give it that much thought but I did find myself dressing in underwear that would look good to be undressed in. Daft and a little lacking in moral fibre, but then hey I’m single and free aren’t I? And of course I’m now a woman of the 21st Century and if I want a quick fuck tonight why not?

It didn’t come to that. Not quite. It could have easily. It was there for me to take if I wanted but I didn’t

After the dinner there was a dance in the disco and Gordon made a beeline for me.

“Looks as if Mandy’s pulled,” one of the girls remarked as he pulled me onto the dance-floor a third time.

As the disco closed with a slow, smoochy number so I was in Gordon’s arms pressed fairly tightly to him. It felt nice. It felt warm and comforting being in his arms. And I felt nice. Very mellow and satisfied, a little tipsy, quite receptive and close to him. I was absolutely primed I imagine for him to make his move on me.

Grabbing a full bottle of white wine and two glasses he took me by the arm and said,

“Come on let’s go for a walk.”

His authoritative and commanding manner sort of impressed me and didn’t think for one moment of saying no.

We wandered around the hotel and into the extensive ground, across the large pool area and onto a narrow pebbly path that ran alongside the beach. He was telling me about his business at first and then we chatted about golf and I told him a little about my life. We’d been walking for ten minutes or so away from the hotel and we’d reached what was a public beach area with loungers spread out over it. It was dark and very secluded.

“You really are a stunning woman Amanda,” he told me stopping and turning towards me.

I never know what to say when complimented like that so I usually smile and say, “thank you,” as I did to him.

“And on top of that an intelligent one and a great golfer,” he went on smiling but also playing to my weakness of being told I’m intelligent. I like that. I like to be admired for that more than I do my looks although being admired for my tits does run my mind a close second.

It was all becoming a bit messy. Here was I on the one hand acting like an out of control nympho getting laid regularly with a changing rota of men yet on the other I was trying to fulfil my duties as a mum. Logistically and physically I could just about make it work and, in any case, I’ve always enjoyed sex in the afternoons, there’s something so splendidly sordid about it isn’t there?

It was the emotional bit I couldn’t hack so well. The lies to my daughter. The recall when she came home from school that just previously her loving, caring mum had been in bed with a man her legs wrapped round him as he took her to heights of sexual joy and pleasure. The memory when she came home one morning that the previous night I’d had sex with Gordon on the very sofa on which she was sitting. And the guilt. I simply felt guilty about the loose way I acted. The way that I’d gone with Gordon so easily on that beach and the way that I went with Mike in his car. Oh I haven’t told you that yet have I? Should I? Do you want more of the same tedious details of my descent into what I was becoming to think of as a pretty decadent life-style?