Those Fucking Years

No we’ll skip that for a while and I’ll tell you about Brad. He was my escapade into the world of toy boys.

I’d hurt my back playing tennis and went to a local physio. Just my luck, good or bad I’ll leave you to judge, to be treated by a twenty five year old Aussie hunk!

As I lay on his massage table and he massaged my legs I just can’t tell you of the erotic thoughts I had. Each time his strong hands slithered up my oiled thigh I imagined them on one sweep not stopping. I almost felt them continuing upwards. It was as though he was really pushing them further. Further so they went right onto my pussy. They didn’t, of course and he was impeccably behaved.

But at home on the nights when I’d visited him. They didn’t stop. No as I lay alone in my bed naked they went all the way. And as my fingers found the place I imagined his going to, in my mind it was his hand on my wetness. His fingers entering me and it was him, not me, that brought on my climaxes.

So after having had him make finger love to me so many times in my mind I guess I was primed for him when he asked me out for a drink.

His body was like images that are secreted away in the dim recesses of my memory. It was so firm. So lithe and wiry. It was smooth and felt incredible up against me that first time we made love. And that first time was quite amazing, well to me it was, being used to having sex with older men for so long.

I had never been fucked four times in an evening. In fact I’d never been fucked more than twice. But with the stamina that prior to him I could only dream about or read of in erotic novels he seemed to be ready again so quickly that I’d hardly come down from one orgasm when he was sending me up the wall of another.

It wasn’t like a proper affair largely, I have to admit with a degree of disappointment about myself, because I didn’t feel that comfortable being out with him. Being in though was different so we spent most of our dates in bed in his small flat in East London. Not that frequent perhaps once a fortnight for a few months we’d meet, sometimes, but not often have a drink, then go to bed. As simple as that. It was purely the sex. There was nothing else. Of course I liked him but I saw no future or anything else in him other than his amazing stamina and fabulous cock.

And that did sort of disgust me. That I was seeing a man purely for his sexual prowess did make me sit up and think. Not at first for then I was like a bitch in heat for him. I couldn’t get enough of his body. I lusted after him continuously. I’d never been with anyone like him. Anyone that could give me so much in such a short time. But afterwards I felt bad. Not that he might have fucked me three times the previous evening for that overall made me feel good although I was by then having rather worrying moral attacks.

I was concerned at what I was becoming and at my appetite for sex. I was worried that if I didn’t either settle down with one guy or find something else that I would end up sleeping my way through the entire male population.

Morals had never been a topic that I’d thought much about. After all when happily married to a man with whom one assumes she’ll spend the rest of her life there’s not much need. During the happy times of my marriage, say the first eight years, I never even thought about another man sexually let alone did anything. So moral rectitude came easily and naturally. It was then quite a shock to suddenly realise that I was on the looser side of average in my attitudes.

Not just to having sex with a variety of men, but also the frequency and increasingly also the locations. Gordon had been a prime example of that and Steve was another.

I’d known him for some time through the golf club and then he asked me out. We had lunch and dinner and then we were playing together in a match some way away from both of our homes. On the dates we had kissed and he’d briefly touched my breasts but we hadn’t by then, gone any further. I’d assumed that shortly we would but the opportunity just hadn’t arisen.

After the dinner and we’d said our goodbyes he was going to give me a lift to my car that I’d left at a service station on the M25. He lived in a completely different direction to me from that station. In the car he didn’t start the engine but instead turned to me and after sliding his arm along my seat leaned across and kissed me. I responded. He kissed me deeper and I responded deeper.

“Oh shit Mandy I so want you,” he muttered his hand going to my breast.

“Oh” was all I could think of saying as his fingers squeezed me.

We kissed again and he started undoing my top. Alright it was dark outside but for Christ’s sake it was a golf club car park and you know what sticklers they are for proper dress code. And being topless in their car park certainly wouldn’t qualify.

“No Steve, no,” I said holding his wrist before uttering those words that are so easy to misconstrue. “Not here.”

“OK,” was all he said starting the engine before adding, “it’s too late for a hotel so we’ll just have to find somewhere else won’t we?”

“What in the car?”

“Yes why not?”

“I need you badly and you do want me don’t you”

“Yes,” I whimpered partly frightened at the idea and partly hugely excited by it.

He found a place stuck in a wood where we could park but would be able to see any other car if it approached. And then on the back seat of his huge Mercedes by the light from the dashboard I started to have sex in a car for the first time since my teens.

At first I wanted to keep my clothes on but take my panties and bra off. That seemed a sensible precaution should we be disturbed. But it didn’t happen like that. The more we kissed and he touched me so the more appealing and exciting the notion of being naked became. Not just being naked but also being outside the car, well it was July.

And that was my next step in the direction of debasing myself and in self-disgust. I let him fuck me with both of us naked and me lying across the bonnet of his car.

So that was those two fucking years. There were a couple more men but what I’ve described are the main events.

In the end I could do it no more. The hassle the self analysis the pretence to Sarah and the after feelings of disgust with myself became too much. I was finding that sex without any emotional involvement was unrewarding. And I just couldn’t let myself become emotionally involved for fear of once more becoming dependent on a man. The classic Catch 22.

So once more, as I had during the first year after parting, I chose celibacy. And that’s how am now and those fucking years are just a dim and distant memory