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It was morning, and the sky was blue. You’d think after a refreshing night’s sleep I’d have been fit and raring to go, like any normal forty-something married woman with stuff needing to be done around the house. Ha ha.
Instead, I continued to lie in bed, on my back, my legs apart, my knees raised, like I was in some erotic trance or something, which I suppose I was, come to think of it. My husband Jeff had already left for work. He was an early bird. “If I’m not on the ring road before 7 o’clock, I’m dead meat,” he would say. Traffic round our way is just terrible.
To be precise, it was a Tuesday morning. We had had sex on Sunday morning – Jeff and I. With each other that is. More often than not, that was when we used to do it, on Sunday mornings. Unlike when bonking at bedtime, one is not knackered after a long day’s work, bilious after over-indulging, or rat-arsed on too many gins. And lying there under the duvet before the day has got going, your body feels all warm and receptive. Well, mine does anyway.
Sunday morning sex is pretty middle class, I know. But I regarded it as proper sex. Fundamentally, first thing in the morning you’re supposed to be there, in bed, I mean. And your partner is also supposed to be there, in bed with you. So it’s normal. And it’s warm. And you’re in your diaphanous nightie, assuming you remembered to put it on at bedtime. And there’s no rush to get out and about anywhere. So, not only is there time for a decent amount of foreplay to get the juices flowing, as they say, the sound of distant church bells adds an air of sinfulness to what you’re doing rather than traipsing along to your place of worship. And a touch of sin always is good for erotic copulation, even if you’re a married atheist.
Anyway, now, two days on, my wretched libido was already nagging me again. Like I hadn’t been serviced for six months or something. Not that such a condition constituted a major problem – just that everything else in life, like shopping and daily chores, gets demoted in priority. So, not altogether a bad thing when you look at it that way.
My girlfriend Bea would have known exactly what I was on about. She knew me better than I knew myself. As I lay there on my back, all unladylike, as I said, I fantasised that Bea was lying with me, by my side. Or on top of me even. She would know which bits of me needed attention, and how to fix things. She was a real case, Bea was, but more of her later. That particular day was not just Tuesday, but one of those occasional midweek days when I would clandestinely liaise with Dave, an old work colleague. ‘Old work colleague’ equals ‘secret lover’, to be truthful. I think they call it a euphemism.
The affair with Dave started after he left the company we both worked for. He moved away up north to be an area manager of something or other, but his job necessitated frequent trips back to my neck of the woods. God knows why, but it did. On the first such occasion, he called me at work and said why don’t we meet up for lunch, just to reminisce and stuff. Yes, I say. OK. I am a sucker for a free lunch. And further, I’m pathetically easy if a couple of margaritas are thrown in too. In the unlikelihood you ever want my body, you know what to do.
During the whole time we worked together, we had never even kissed, Dave and I, full lips and properly embraced and everything. The nearest we ever got to physical passion was an office party where we danced and Dave tried to feel me up. Or that might have been someone else – it’s a bit of a haze. I remember laughing, and overtly rejecting his advances, whoever it was. Well, you have to be seen upholding some sort of decorum, don’t you? The last thing you want is to be the subject of gossip flying round your workplace. Spread the dirt about all your sleazebag colleagues by all means.
Therefore, with our first lunch-date meal finished, we were saddled with one of those delicate social challenges whereby after an hour of polite but bordering on flirty conversation, we needed something tangible to precipitate actual action. I could hardly use being treated to a stodgy lasagne and a house red justification enough to swoon into his arms like in an old Hollywood movie. I felt I needed more before pledging my undying love and having him whisk me off to the Kasbah, or somewhere, where eunuchs would massage me with exotic lotions, and he would deflower me on a king-size water-bed amidst a heady environment of oriental fragrances and wafting palms. “Fancy coming back to my hotel room?” he asked.
I guess that occasion more than any other set me on morality’s slippery slope downwards. I remember thinking what does it matter as long as no one gets hurt, except me maybe – I wasn’t embarking on a criminal career or anything. No one was doing anything they didn’t want to do. As long as suitable precautions were observed, irresponsible risk-taking would be avoided. And neither would it diminish the value of anyone’s marriage. The way I saw it, if I was a happier and more contented woman, my husband would be a happier and halkalı escort more contented man. I was a mature grown female for Heaven’s sake. Why shouldn’t I add a bit of excitement to my life?
Of course, fantasy rarely turns seamlessly into reality, does it? Thus no palms wafted and the cleaner’s lingering smell of Domestos in the bathroom was an inadequate substitute for the aroma of Turkish spices. Nevertheless, my little heart did bang a bit faster after David closed the bedroom door, securing us inside, alone. I imagined I would have to take the lead, being more experienced, he being a bachelor and everything. But no, I found him skilled and confident, and disarmingly adept at unfrocking me from behind. I can’t remember his exact words, but I do recall him whispering subtly romantic assurances that he had dreamt of nothing but fucking my brains out since the day we first met.
His manual dexterity impressed me further as he single-handedly released my brassiere’s 6-hook back fastener, allowing the shoulder straps to fall and his other hand to slide intrusively inside a warm left C-cup. I mean. godammit, even I myself needed both hands to escape from that particular undergarment. There’s something goddam erotic about underwear that takes a lot of getting in and out of. Well, I think there is.
I was used to laying on my back when having full sex, or ‘making love’ as genteel folk call it, bless their refined nature. It wasn’t that I was prudish or anything. It was just a surefire way that worked for me, almost every time. Maybe some boffins at the department of gynaecology, osteopathy or orthopaedics, would explain with even longer words why the good old missionary was so right for me. All I knew was that despite (or because of) having a clumping great male on top of me, I could more effortlessly raise and lower my pelvis using tummy and thigh muscles. This would sympathetically counteract the thrusting penis inside me, and an ecstatic G-spot orgasm almost always would launch me to outer space. And when I cum, I cum big-time, I can tell you. My husband used to worry that the neighbours would complain.
And it is one of the few geometrical configurations of mating humans that affords full eye contact – something of an essential, I think, to attaining full satisfaction from a climax. I revel in the opportunity to widen my eyes or pout encouragingly as soon as I spot the tell-tale signs of on-coming male ejaculation. I find this immensely empowering, as if his precipitation is confirmation that I am the sole irresistible object of his desire. Thus, legs open and vagina sweetly lubricated by the miracle of nature, even the strangest of cocks with some degree of rigidity can happily be accommodated, leaving hands free to cling to shoulders, rake a back or chest using beautiful feminine fingernails, hold the sides of a face, or push away an assailant in fake protest. (Or whatever might be my mood at the time.) In another interpretation, I smugly adopt the self-satisfaction of a specialist nurse, successfully treating a helpless patient’s urgent condition. Fanciful stuff of course – the man has simply had his end away. But it amuses me nonetheless. Bear with.
Anyway, my first romantic encounter with David went without any hitches, except that it was all over a bit quick. But then you don’t want to spend too much time faffing around when it’s your first time with someone. There’s the danger that one of you will lose interest after spending too much time kissing and petting, licking and stroking, fingering, and all that stuff. Then the pressure of performing can affect your ardour, and nerves take over, zapping your confidence. The man needs to be at his very firmest when it’s time to slide it up your love crack, not when he’s pampering your mammaries or has his face in your pubes. Also, I’m fairly sure that pre-cum stuff which trickles down and out of his dick and soils your bedsheets, is a sign he won’t be hard and throbbing for much longer. Take my tip girls, don’t overwork your lover – cocks don’t stay solid for hours on end like they do in porn videos.
That illicit liaison was the first of many such, spanning several months, during which I got to know a lot of different restaurants and hotel rooms. On the whole, I would come away from each date with a warm satisfied glow, my morale boosted by what I imagined was my overwhelming sexual allure. I did feel, however, there was always a certain reluctance on David’s part to stick to the same lovemaking routines. But I believe if something isn’t broken, don’t try to fix it. And he always seemed grumpy that I insisted he wore a condom – godammit, I even had to get it out of the packet and roll it on for him. He also wanted to play games, like me pretending to be an out-call prostitute of all things, and he my client. That didn’t work out too well either.
The final time we did it, we had got to the point where I was on my back, legs wide apart, and just about ready and able to receive boarders. My outer taksim escort labia were gaping wide open, my clitoris was swollen, and my pulsating vagina had secreted the necessary flow of natural lubricant to expedite intercourse. Too many words, godammit. I was good and wet, OK? Then I felt something strange.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Mmm… do you like it?” David replied.
“No, you have your finger in my anus,” I said. I felt I had every right to be indignant.
“Most women like it, why don’t you give it a try? You might enjoy it.”
How the fuck would David know what most women liked? He was a sales rep, not a professional gigolo. I was a bit put out. “I don’t care if most women do like it,” I insisted. “This woman doesn’t. Leave it alone.”
The rest of the session was somewhat of an anticlimax, or in my case, no climax at all. David seemed to finish OK, but without his normal flourish – that being typically, at his point of no return, grabbing a handful of my hair and pulling my head back, indicating that I exclusively had induced his uncontrolled spasm of ecstasy. But we never made love again after that, and when we parted, he said he didn’t know when next he would be able to see me, owing to him now being responsible for another sales area in Cumbria or somewhere.
At first, I was surprised – I regarded myself as a catch, and an easy regular lay for him, he being a lonely single man and everything. But soon the penny dropped – he was a serial philanderer, had women all over the place, and had got bored with me. His loss, I tried to tell myself. But deep down, I was deflated, and concerned how I was ever again going to be able to arrange the regular extracurricular sex to which I had become accustomed. I was not pensionable, but not exactly getting any younger either. Clouds were appearing in my blue-sky outlook.
Shortly afterwards, my love-life took another down-turn. I noticed scratch marks on Jeff’s back. I asked him about it and he shrugged it off. “From that bramble bush I had to cut back in the corner of the garden,” he said. “It’s a bastard if you catch yourself on it.”
He is not normally naked to the waist when he does the garden, so I wasn’t totally convinced. But I let it pass. He wouldn’t even let me dab a bit of TCP on it. “Don’t make such a fuss, woman,” he said, “I’ll smell like a hospital ward.”
Ironically, it was smell which brought the whole thing to a head a few days later. I picked up a trace of scent from his shirt upon his return from a business trip. It certainly wasn’t the deodorant I bought for him, and it wasn’t my perfume either. Nice enough, I suppose, but too sweet and cheap, in my opinion. It caused a bit of kerfuffle between us. I know you’ll say, well, if you go sleeping around, you haven’t got any come-back if your husband does it too. The fact that I managed to keep my indiscretions secret puts me on moral high-ground. You don’t agree? Well, I expect you’re probably male. I didn’t kick him out though. He simply upped and left me. Just like that. Said he found me too demanding, for God’s sake. My sky was showing ominous signs of stormy weather.
Bea, who I think I mentioned already, popped up like some guardian angel. I had met her a couple of times, on walks arranged by our local ramblers group. Bea was very fit, if a bit on the chunky side, and so confident and in control, I couldn’t help but admire her even though she came over a bit butch. Despite our quite different backgrounds, we hit it off together, chatting often about love and life. Quite by chance, we were drawn together for a sort of fun-orienteering exercise organised by the group, whereby the minibus dropped couples off at some miserable location and you were given a map marked with some other miserable location you had to get to, else you risked starvation, hypothermia and being eaten by wolves. Not that any of those things are too likely around High Wycombe in summer.
I am a rubbish map-reader, as my husband tirelessly verified. If we were driving south, I needed to hold the map upside down to figure out what the hell was left and what was right. Then I couldn’t read the goddam place-names because they were upside down. I’m fairly certain all that nerdy stuff is fundamentally a man thing. Pretty soon after we started our quest, Bea and I that is, Bea also concluded I was lacking in navigational skills, and consequently assumed total responsibility for our survival.
After an hour or so, we halted on a secluded grassy knoll to rest and snack. Bea sat uncomfortably close to me. Being my innocent old self, I didn’t place too much significance on it, simply supposing she wanted the both of us to study the map or something. I had finished my cheese and lettuce sandwich and was wiping my mouth.
“Here, you missed a bit,” said Bea, reaching across me. She dabbed the offending eyesore away. We had chatted plenty on our travels thus far, me about my problematic marital and extra-marital love-life, and she about her hectic social life and strange şişli escort circle of friends. In my naivety, I failed to appreciate the polarity of her sexuality, but at the same time felt that we got along very well. Obviously Bea thought so too – she held my face in both hands and gave me a full passionate kiss on the lips. I was torn between losing my wool at the affront of it, and repugnance at the implication of it. I considered making a run for it, but godammit, I was lost, and Bea had the map.
“There,” she said. That’s better.”
“Hmm.. Didn’t see that coming,” I said. Well, I didn’t.
“You’ve had your eyes on my arse ever since we started out,” she said, laughing. “No wonder you wanted me to lead with the map.”.
It wasn’t true of course, though Bea did have the kind of derriere that displays an extraordinary amount of lateral movement when the person is walking. I smiled sheepishly.
“How would you like to be kissed?” Bea suggested.
“You just did, I think,” I replied, still a little shaken. She laughed. God knows why.
“A proper kiss,” she said, her large green eyes sparkling wickedly. “A girl’s kiss. Blow your troubles away.”
I was getting more confused by the minute. “Shouldn’t we be figuring out how we get to the rendezvous?” I said, partly to gather my senses, and partly because I was shortly going to need the loo, and squatting behind thorn bushes in the open countryside was not my style.
We duly arrived at the meeting point, and we nearly goddam won the contest except for another couple of keep-fit loonies who took it all too seriously. Before going our separate ways, Bea told me about some munch she would be attending the coming Saturday night at a private room up in town, and would I like to come.
“A what?” I said. It sounded like a gastronomic event for foodies.
“A munch?” she replied, smiling. “Where have you been! It’s a party for fun-loving adults who enjoy the more bizarre side of relationships. A sort of Vicars and Tarts party meets Fifty Shades of Grey – without the vicars. You should come along – you only live once, give it a try.”
“Should I dress up?” I asked.
“Of course,” Bea said. “Something outlandish – otherwise you’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”
That was a paradox and a half. I hated the idea either way. “I’ll check my diary when I get home,” I said, lying – I don’t even keep a diary.
Inevitably, Bea’s constant cajolement by phone now resulted in me conspicuously standing in the public bar of the King George the something-or-other pub in Soho, having arrived early. Some idiot outside had already asked me if I was ‘in business, darlin’?’ and I was now worried the landlord was going to throw me out for soliciting, being dressed as I was, courtesy of several charity shops, in what I would have been wearing for David’s pleasure, had I succumbed to his fantasy requirements. The taxi driver could probably have seen my belly button in his rear-view mirror, my skirt was that short.
People eventually arrived, including Bea who greeted me enthusiastically with a powerful bear-hug. “You look fantastic, Treen,” she said, “Here, this is Sandy and this is…” I didn’t catch the name of Bea’s second companion, but I can remember as clear as day that she (or he) spoke in the deepest voice I’d ever heard. We duly shifted into the back room, and some food got served, and some fizz got quaffed. At one point I was merry enough that I was actually enjoying myself.
There was some entertainment involving whips, paddles and cross-dressers, with the emphasis seeming to be on ownership of one’s partner – not a concept with which I was over-enamoured. Then what remained of my somewhat-comminuted blue sky abruptly fractured totally. I could hardly believe what I was watching. Most, though not all attendees were female, and I have no problem with lesbianism, but a bound ‘slave-girl’ in nothing but a collar, chain and a thong, was knelt between the parted thighs of her ‘Domme’, who sat with skirt lifted, upon a makeshift throne. While being lightly flogged by a leather-clad assistant, the girl attempted to envelop the whole of her Mistress’s vulva inside her mouth, using her tongue to achieve some beneficial effect one would imagine. In public. For all to see. Was it even legal? And I’m not kidding. I was as shocked as hell.
I finally got home, a little worse for wear due to the drink, but at least a bit more aware of what Bea’s ‘proper kiss’ might entail. However, I was no further with my own dilemma – the need for the regular attentions of a reliable man.
I turned to dating agencies, providing them with all my rather intimate personal details and lifestyle preferences. I attracted very few suitable men, and became even more despondent. When I complained, the agency informed me that I needed to broaden my horizons. In short, I was too demanding.
Demanding? Me? All I wanted was to be laid two or three times a week – not too much to ask for an active adult woman, surely. Was I demanding because I didn’t fancy foreign objects, be they living or artificial, being stuck up my back passage? Was I demanding because I chose not to dress like a cheap tart in a short leather skirt and impossibly high stiletto heels? Was I demanding because I felt uncomfortable with the idea of a naked lesbian servant girl practically eating my reproductive system?
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