Random Rim Jobs

[Continued from "Bed for Four (Part 1)."]

The Brit and I chatted for a bit.  She asked if, perhaps, she could get another guy to join us, if I could host.  She had been in my place, she knew very well that I had it to myself that night.  I said I could host but I didn’t want to guarantee sex with just anyone.  She assured me the guy she had in mind was cute, that he had a big cock, and that he was a good fuck.

Mrs. Vet and her date took off.  They had been making out like teenagers and needed to continue their fun in a less public place.  That left the Vet, the Brit, and I to our own devices.

We went across the street to get some pizza.  While waiting for the food, we saw the acquaintance who had spoken at the Make-Out Room.  The Vet and I talked to her while the Brit met the new guy out front.  I had told the Vet some inside information about the acquaintance before we left my place.  I had not made it clear that the information was inside information, but I still didn’t think the Vet would tell the subject of said information that he knew the information.  Out of my earshot, though, that is exactly what the Vet did.

I was embarrassed that I looked like a gossip, especially considering the information I had was, according to the acquaintance, not accurate.  It was interesting to know that there were most definitely two sides to the story, and chances are the “truth” was somewhere in between.

We got our pizza and our foursome gathered on the sidewalk.  The Brit was right, the guy was cute.  The four of us stopped at a liquor store for provisions – vodka and soda for me, and gin and tonic for the Brit and the Irish.  The guy the Brit had join us was Irish.  Two people with sexy accents for sexy times?  Yes, please.

After some pizza and drinks the four of us made our way to my bedroom.  Then, because we all knew why we were there, we were naked and our bodies were writhing about each other.

It was a good combination of people for a foursome.  The Brit and I are both of curvy figure. Both the Vet and the Irish both had nice thick cocks.  It’s always good when there aren’t huge discrepancies amongst the naked bodies.  I had a foursome that I would not qualify as a success, partially because the guys’ cocks were of vastly different size.  I spent a lot of time in that threesome avoiding the guy with the tiny cock because I didn’t want it in me.

Not so with the Vet and the Irish.  They both had lovely cocks that I wanted in my pussy and in my mouth.  With the aid of the boxes of condoms I keep on either side of the bed, there was penis-in-vagina fucking.  There was cock sucking.  There was pussy licking.  There was watching.  The Vet likes to watch. 

When I’m in a fuck mood I can be pretty rough and like it pretty rough.  Both the Vet and the Irish throttled me whilst fucking me.  I like the feeling of getting my pussy pounded while feeling a bit lightheaded.  The Vet is often surprised he can be as rough with me as he can, but I can take a lot.

And because I can take a lot I sometimes forget that not everyone can – or wants to.  I’m a biter.  I like to bite as hard as I like to be bitten.  When I’m in the bitey mood it really is rather difficult to get me not to bite.  I left both the Brit and the Vet with bite-induced bruises.  The Brit has since told the Vet that she’d like to have another group situation so long as I promise not to bite.

Along with biting I also swallow.  I was lucky enough to get to swallow two loads of come – one from each of the gentlemen – that night.

Generally, my mouth was pretty busy.  I licked the Brit’s pussy.  I don’t get to lick enough pussy in my life.  I need to do something about that.

My mouth also found its way to the Vet’s ass when he was fucking the Brit.  That’s one of my specialties in group situations:  licking man ass while his cock is otherwise engaged.

The Brit and the Irish left, leaving the Vet and I to fuck once more before falling asleep.  The Vet left in the morning, but not until after taking Isis out.  He’s quite the gentleman.

I swear.  True story.

In January 2010 I was contacted via email, as I am occasionally, by a stranger. The initial email was titled “Fisting” and contained a confession to being interested in the subject as well as a fear of being considered a “a perv, or a sicko” for his kinky interests, which he had theretofore kept to himself.

I get this kind of email probably because I am open and honest and unashamed of my own sexuality or by that of my many partners. Also, because it’s just email – because I’m not a “real” person – I’m safe.  I’m safe because I’m a faceless stranger on the internet.  I’m safe because until one talks – actually talks face-to-face – about his desires he doesn’t have to “out” himself as “a perv, or a sicko.”

I’m safe also because I’m encouraging.  My response to the initial email was to tell him that being a perv, or a sicko is part of the fun of having a dirty mind, that it might as well be embraced.  Our email exchange continued.  He told me he had been in a sexually incompatible marriage, and that he had considered hiring a professional, but that seemed “too risky.  And expensive!”

Ladies and gentlemen, isn’t your sexual fulfillment worth a few hundred dollars?  A few thousand dollars?  Being honest with yourself and others?  I simply cannot understand why someone who is afraid of his own desires, who worries about being labeled ill, wouldn’t hire a well-respected escort with whom he can be open and honest without fear of rejection or judgment.  You’re not paying for the sex, you’re paying for the faith that she’s probably seen “worse.”  An escort is a professional who gets paid for her discretion.  If she wants to keep you as a client, she doesn’t laugh at you or judge you.  You think you’re depraved?  You should’ve seen the last guy.

An escort is much like a waxer.  (Stay with me, people.)  An escort, like a waxer, sees her clients at their most vulnerable – with their ankles behind their heads.  Sure, you have some dark fantasies, but you’re not the only one, and you needn’t concern yourself with shame.  Your escort will take care of you so you can go out in the world anxiety-free.  Sure, you’re hirsute, but a few minutes behind closed doors and no one else needs to know.  Both waxer and escort suggest you come back about once a month.  I would suggest not seeing escort and waxer the same week every month – stagger those appointments.

I suggested the emailer and I meet.  He told me that he had a place in the East Bay, and said he didn’t have a lot of either time or money.  He also told me that he could almost “cum” from licking pussy.  And then I knew it:  This guy was ashamed that he had fantasies about being submissive to women.  I think it’s just plain silly to be ashamed to want a woman to sit on one’s face, but then I live in the sex-positive bubble known as San Francisco.

We scheduled a date to meet.  He told me he wanted a woman to squirt on him.  More submissiveness.  I want to make clear that a man being submissive to a woman is not a negative thing, does not make him any less of a man, yet he was only letting me know this about him in bits and pieces because he thought it was something that was shameful to disclose.  That was probably one of the major reasons his marriage was sexually incompatible, he didn’t tell his wife what he wanted.

[To be continued ….]

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "The Day of Fuck (Cock No. 2)."]

Cock No. 3 was Jules Verne.  No, not the writer of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, but nonetheless that’s the nickname this one’s gotten.  We had gone out once before.  We met at Velvet Cantina, a Mexican restaurant/bar in the Mission.  It seemed to be a bit of a bridge and tunnel crowd, but after a couple of strong margaritas and finally getting a table it wasn’t so bad.  We had fun even though we didn’t get around to getting me a new tattoo.  (Damn San Francisco tattoo parlors for not being open late-night!)

On the Day of Fuck Jules Verne picked me up and we went to dim sum.  I hadn’t had dim sum since I dated Ms. Absinthe, and she had a slight allergy to shrimp so we could have very few of the dishes.  She did, however, introduce me to chicken feet.  Yum.  I told Jules Verne I liked chicken feet on the drive over.  He agreed to try them, but I could tell he thought I was a little gross.  He did try the chicken feet, barely.  Lucky me, I got to eat the majority of them.

Lunch was very nice, though not without its problems.  Jules Verne’s credit card was declined so we had to wait while he called the card company.  Apparently the card, which was in his hand, had been stolen.  After that was resolved, we went to the parking garage to get his car, stopping on the way to pay for parking at a machine.  The machine ate the parking ticket, so we had to wait for an attendant to open up the machine to retrieve it.

Jules Verne was afraid to do anything else for fear that something would go wrong, again.  We drove to his house in the Oakland Hills.  Well, his parents’ house.  His parents’ house that was well-stocked with wine.  The parents, conveniently, weren’t home.  The day was gorgeous so Jules Verne and I sat on the patio sipping wine and enjoying the view.

Of course we got to talking about sex.  Of course.  A large duffel bag appeared from which he pulled a huge dildo.  Huge, not “super” at all, SUPER.  I’m not sure if he asked, but I told him I could take it.  Perhaps I can, but that was not for the Day of Fuck.

What the huge dildo in Jules Verne’s possession told me was that he was a size queen.  No, he’s not a queen.  But he likes to see big things going in pussies.  Isn’t that was a lot of porn is all about anyway?  Well, he clearly wanted to see it live.

That Jules Verne and I were going to fuck eventually became inevitable.  I wanted to go upstairs and fuck but he refused me.  What?!  I could tell he wanted to fuck me, I was offering myself to him, I was wanting his cock in me, so why was I being refused, dammit?  He was worried the maid would show up.  Uh, we’ll just tell her not to clean the room in which we’re fucking.

Only “maid” wasn’t quite the right term for her.  She was apparently Jules Verne’s nanny when he was a kid so he felt an affinity to her as a child for a mother.  He wanted to keep the illusion between them that he was not a sexual being.  Fine, whatever, but I wanted to fuck.

Into the car to drive back across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco.  To my building where my neighbors’ apartment was still an option for fucking.  I deposited him there and then had to, for the second time of the day, go to my apartment for my Magic Wand, the Pure Wand, lube, and condoms.  And for the second time of the day it was clear that I needed a Doctor of Fuck bag always at the ready.

For the next couple of hours Jules Verne fucked me in my pussy and ass with his cock, the Pure Wand, and his hand.  I lost track of where went what and I didn’t care because it all felt good.  It was clear that both Jules Verne and I liked fucking pretty damn hard.

At one point both of us could tell that I was going to squirt or gush or whatever – I was going to female ejaculate.  And I really wanted to, I did, but I was on my neighbors’ bed and I was worried about the state of their bedding.  Worrying does not a huge orgasm make.  By the time I decided, “Fuck it, I’ll wash everything anyway,” it was too late, the moment had passed.

My pussy still felt fucking great.  We were having a lot of fun … until I looked at the clock.  Fuck, it was late.  I had another date that night, and I don’t like to spring a threesome on a guy without warning, so Jules Verne had to go.

I sent Jules Verne on his way and realized my pussy was quite sore.  I was a bit worried, as the next fuck of the day was the Russian.  The Russian has a delightfully huge cock …

[To be continued ….]

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Correctional Officer, Part 7."]

The Ex and I broke up.  I didn’t contact Correctional Officer.  I fucked a whole lot of people.  I didn’t contact Correctional Officer.  My life generally went to shit.  I didn’t contact Correctional Officer.  I fucked a lot more people.  I didn’t contact Correctional Officer.  My dog died.  I didn’t contact Correctional Officer.

I did finally contact him just to say happy birthday.  I figured I’d send an email into the ether, he’d read it or not, but that I wouldn’t hear anything from him.

Only I did.  We began emailing each other again.  He told me that he and his wife had broken up, less over he and I, and more over her being an irresponsible mother to their son – by overdosing on prescription drugs when she was caring for him.  He told me about his friends I had met.  His one sweet, young friend who had only slept with one woman had taken in a woman who had just had a baby and he was considering marrying her, but only after she divorced the baby’s father.  I guessed when they were bored in their shit town they created their own drama.

CO and I didn’t have the same relationship we’d had before the shit storm.  Maybe because neither of us was cheating, so it wasn’t nearly as exciting.  Or maybe because we had both been through so much shit.  I encouraged him to go out and find some ladies to fuck.  He said he was too shy.

I didn’t fully comprehend just how shy he was.  I didn’t fully comprehend that the major reason we fucked because I made things happen.  Though it was he who drove several hours to really make it happen (because I certainly wasn’t going to go back to the shit town he called home) so I thought he had some initiative.  However, he had cast himself as the shy guy who was afraid to talk to women so he was the shy guy who was afraid to talk to women.  Well, not afraid, because he talked to women all the time, but unaware if they were hitting on him and unskilled in the flirting arts.

Eventually we planned another tryst.  He had to lie to everyone about what he was doing, which I thought was just silly – everyone needs to get laid, it’s good for the soul.  He drove to San Francisco.  We had planned to go to sushi but the two places I knew were good that were close to my house were closed because it was a Monday afternoon.  We finally settled on burgers, but not until he whined about having to walk too much.  Or maybe he was just giving me a hard time and I was defensive.  I hate being in a situation where I’m supposed to know something – like my neighborhood – but I fail miserably to meet someone else’s expectations.

I had told CO that we would be using condoms this time.  I informed him that there were concerns other than pregnancy, and since I was on the Pill and he had had a vasectomy, that wasn’t a concern at all, and that he should practice jacking off with a condom on if he thought he might have trouble coming whilst using one.

Once I saw his cock I realized that I had not really looked at it when we had fucked before, at the W.  It was larger than I remembered.  What a pleasant surprise.  It was one of those cocks that is thickest at the midpoint of the shaft, as opposed to the head being the largest part.  We fucked, utilizing condoms, of course.  Again, he tossed me around and roughed me up in a somewhat clumsy way.  It was probably due to his job that he was rougher than he realized.  I reminded him that I was a girl, and that I was not a guest of Butte County, and that he needed to tone it down a bit.

He reminded me that I had not given him a blow job the first time we fucked.  I apologized profusely.  Apparently he had only ever gotten one blow job in his life, and it was half-assed.  His ex-wife didn’t see the point of blow jobs since they didn’t provide her with any pleasure.  How sad.

He sat on the edge of my bed.  I sat on my haunches between his legs.  I sucked his cock.  At first I think he just felt lucky to have a mouth on his cock.  Then, after I got his cock all wet and sloppy, I put my hands behind my back and let my mouth do all the work.  He came in my mouth and I swallowed it all.  I looked up at him with a smile on my face.

CO looked down at me … sort of.  He couldn’t really focus.  He was loopy.  That fun kind of post-orgasm loopy.  He said he was worried he’d not be able to drive home.  I assured him he’d be fine and told him that he should tell his coworkers what he did on his day off, because surely getting a driving impairing blow job was worth bragging about.

After that we continued to contact each other, but not with nearly as much zeal.  I had no intention of going to his town, and it was way too much driving and lying for him to come to me, even for great blow jobs.

Our last communication had him asking me, via text, about fisting.  Really, fisting is more than a text conversation so I told him he should call me but he never did.

I swear.  True story (that is over, finally).

I would proudly wear this necklace, or this pin.  The word cunt should not be a bad one.  Actually, it’s silly that there are bad words at all.  It’s the way it’s used that makes it bad, not the word itself.   Words have connotations, and “cunt” has a negative one on Urban Dictionary.  But I like it.  Because it’s only one syllable with very short, clipped sounds it can sound harsh.  And it can sound dirty.  I like it.

I also like that some people don’t like it.  I like that it’s a shocking word to say in public.  Every once in a while I like to throw out a good “cunt” when I think people are listening in on my conversation.  Serves them right, the nosy fuckers.

Finally, I like that I have a cunt.  A cunt that can take a lot.

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "I'm Merely a Tool Here for Your Pleasure, Part 1."]

With his hand guiding me I eventually got all of my fingers into her pussy.  Then the tough part, the base of my thumb, went in.  Pussies feel so fucking wonderful enveloping my hand.  We gave her time to get used to my hand, then he grabbed my wrist and we fist fucked her pussy, hard.  She was screaming.  He and I were grunting with our effort, because though it was my hand in her cunt she was being fucked with the force of both him and me.

I was amazed that she could take such a pounding.  But she was taking it.  And it looked fucking hot.  My right hand was fucking her while I supported myself on my left elbow so I could have a view of my hand going into, and out of, and into, and out of her pussy.

She was still screaming.  We were still pounding.  And then she squirted.  A lot.  All over my face.  It was fucking great.

We were all exhausted.  He let her out of her bondage and she sat at the head of the bed below an open window and smoked a cigarette.  He went to his desk.  I sat at the foot of the bed.  We chatted.  At least he and I chatted; she smoked her cigarette.

Then it was time for round two.  Cool.  She was no longer bound to the bed so there were even more ways for the three of us to become entangled – without his cock going into my pussy, of course.  I licked his ass while he fucked her.  I licked her pussy while he fingered me.  I sucked his cock while she sat on his face.  It was all fun.

I had the most fun, however, when he was fucking her.  She was on her hands and knees.  He was on his knees pounding her from behind.  My head was below them.  I licked her clit while his cock was sliding in and out of her cunt.  While I was down there I also licked the shaft of his cock.  I sucked on his balls, because that’s just fun.  My mouth was all over their parts while he fucked her.  Then he came – on my face.

Yes!  I love come on my face and that night I got both girl come and boy come all over it.  I was a very happy girl.  I left in a sex daze.  I walked home as the sun was coming up.

A few weeks later they again requested my presence.  On the second visit I fell off the bed.  Theirs was the highest bed I’ve ever encountered.  It came up to my waist when I stood next to it.  I had to make a running start to get on it.  So falling off the bed was rather a big deal.  Luckily, there was a wall for me to hit before my body impacted the floor.  I came away with multiple bruises.

He showed me how to find a man’s prostate.  Well, he didn’t really show me so much as let me know by moaning when I located his.  That was fun, but overall the second visit wasn’t nearly as hot as the first.  I think they requested my presence a few more times but I was never available and I’ve not seen them since.

A friend, however, has seen them.  Based on my description of the couple (which I’ve not included here), my friend picked them out at a local sex club.  San Francisco is such a small city.

On neither one of the visits did she ever say a word to me.

I swear.  True story.

Back when I used Craig’s List, I used it a lot.  I both placed ads and responded to ads.  One to which I responded was placed by a couple who wanted a lady to participate in threesomes with them.  Actually, I responded to several such ads.  This couple, however, I actually fucked.

The guy and I exchanged emails.  He told me they were a professional couple.  They all say they’re a “professional” couple.  Frankly, I don’t give a shit what the people I fuck do for a living, but in the Online casual sex world “professional” seems to mean “not creepy.”  Or at least that’s what it’s supposed to mean.

I don’t know if this couple was creepy per se, but I certainly didn’t see them do anything professional.  In the emails I exchanged with the guy he said their only rule was that his penis could not go into my vagina.  Other things could go into my vagina, and all sorts of things could go into my mouth, but him fucking me was off-limits.  I don’t recall us discussing anal sex at all prior to our first meeting.

Our first meeting wasn’t planned.  I was home alone late one night when I received an email from the guy.  He requested my presence that night.  They lived relatively close and he assured me that my cab fare would be covered.  Usually it’s best to meet in public first to see if there’s chemistry, but I’d gotten a decent vibe from the guy via email and, well, I was horny and up for an adventure.

I got dressed and called a cab.  I was a tad worried when I arrived at the address he had given me, since it was definitely not a house or apartment building.  But there was a man waiting out front, and he paid the cabbie, so I assumed he was the guy.  He was tall and blond with some facial hair.

He let me in their place, which had been converted from a less residential use.  It was dimly lit but I could tell the place had some serious square footage.  While San Francisco isn’t quite like Manhattan, real estate is definitely pricey, so a big place is unusual.

We walked to the back of the building where there was a living room area set up.  I sat on the couch, which was facing a rather large television, which was not on, and a curtain.  While I still sat on the couch he went through the curtain.  I heard that he was talking, but not what he was saying.  I figured he was talking to her, but wasn’t at all sure.

Eventually, he bid me behind the curtain.  Beyond the curtain was a “bedroom.”  The bedroom had a large office area with a very large, multi-winged desk.  He and I sat at the desk while he said all the things we’d do to her.  I heard not a peep from her, and began to wonder if “she” existed.  But then I peeked over and sure enough, there was a woman bound spread-eagle to the bed.

We made our way over to the bed.  He kept up a constant chatter about what was going on.  After all, she couldn’t see so he had to keep her updated.

He directed me to do various things to her.  I was fine; I follow direction well and I was having fun.  I licked her pussy.  I fingered her pussy.  I sucked his cock.  I watched him fuck her.  I do so like watching couples fuck.

The whole time she made clear she was enjoying herself.  She didn’t talk, but she did moan.  He interpreted.  He assured me that she liked what was going on.  I, too, liked what was happening.  We continued with our ministrations, focusing mostly on her pussy, as there it was open for us.

I did whatever he told me.  I licked.  I sucked.  I fingered.  Then he grabbed my wrist.  He whispered in my ear that he wanted to fist her but that his hands were too big.  He said my hands were just the right size.

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued, of course.]