In my last post, I talked about my search for my partner’s missing libido, and my sad discovery that there were no hidden depths to her sexuality, indulged in private; or if there were, they were so deeply buried by all the stuff that was going on for her at the time, that she had no access either. Since then, she - and quite a few other women - have obliged me with a little solo fun for my delectation, and it remains a special treat. So that got me thinking about top wanks: which were the best solo shows, and what was it about them that worked so well for me? (And I happen to know some of you girls worry about whether you look good during these intimate moments – especially at the time when you might have been too far gone to care – so consider this as helpful hints and feedback).
As a general rule, what works for the spectator, is what works for the participant. If someone desires you and gets off on seeing you excited, it’ll work. It doesn’t matter what you do; it’ll still be exciting. I was once with a woman whose modus operandi was to lie flat on her back, rigid as a poker, hands trapped between her legs, arms covering her breasts. She didn’t yelp, she didn’t wriggle, and although she was quite a looker, she definitely didn’t present me with much of a spectacle. But that’s what worked for her, and because she got off, it was still hot. If, on the other hand, someone isn’t interested in what really works for you when you’re alone, then in the long-term, I don’t see how they can be much use to you when you’re together.
I mean, why wouldn’t you be interested in someone’s solo efforts, if you fancy them: don’t you want to know how to give them pleasure? And what better guide could you have? If a woman isn’t interested, then: (a) she isn’t into the man; (b) she isn’t into cock. If a man isn’t interested, then: (a) he isn’t into the woman; (b) he’s gay; (c) he’s insecure about his own or women’s sexuality, and best avoided. And I think the impulse to enjoy another’s solo efforts is irresistible, anyway. It’s an extension of one’s very earliest desire: the awareness that the other isn’t you and so can withhold pleasure; and an extension of one’s curiosity about that difference. (My own sexual life began - ignoring breast feeding and having one’s nappy changed - as a five-year old, when a neighbouring child offered to take her hand off her ha’penny and give me a look see, to prove that she hadn’t got a willy.)
And I suppose the ultimate goal of that curiosity, the ultimate proof of difference and therefore desire, is to see your loved one in action without you. I know it would be very exciting to see my lover or partner with someone else, for example (and more exciting than threesomes I’ve had with two strangers), and seeing them alone is a similar buzz. Since you can’t actually see them without being present in some way, and thus altering things, you may have to rely on their account afterwards, or accept that it’s something different altogether. (Talking about an account afterwards, one thing that’s surely guaranteed to inflate your partner’s interest to maximum size, is to mention what you had to do to yourself because you were missing him that afternoon/last weekend/whenever.) So in a sense, watching someone going solo can never be ‘authentic’; never quite the same as that thrilling sense of catching someone in flagrante, of being unexpectedly granted momentary access to the most secret aspects of someone’s sexuality.
Never mind – it’s nice to have a goal, a dream. And yet, in the end, I’m not sure it matters. For one thing, there are ways to make a solo performance seem as if your partner is on their own. I don’t want to sound like some sort of lewd Blue Peter, but one of these is as simple as putting a blindfold on them. Then they are less self-conscious, because they can’t see you; while you have the luxury of feeling invisible and unobtrusive. Or one of you can stay up and one go to bed early, on the “if I’m not there soon, just start without me” principle. The one in the bedroom is never quite sure when their lover is going to slip in. When I had the use of an apartment for a while, I got a four-poster draped in muslin, the way the sailor finds Jeanne Moreau in The Immortal Story (dir., Orson Welles, 1968, from a Karen Blixen story, if you want to know). It was a sensual, sexy sort of bed, anyway; but as an added benefit, it worked a treat for solo fun: with a lamp inside, someone outside the bed could see everything it’s occupant was up to; while for the person inside, the muslin drapes, illuminated from within, became opaque; so that they could either believe they were alone, or imagine a whole audience of voyeurs…..
And here’s the other thing: I think our pleasure in this activity has always been bound up with the risk of exposure; a risk it’s carried since we first felt compelled to do it, knowing it was rude and ‘dirty’, as children, or in our early teens. So when my lover describes her nocturnal masturbation sessions beside her sleeping partner, part of the thrill, clearly, is the fear of discovery; which intensifies it. It’s a very private activity, sure; but there’s also the sweet pleasure of risk, of stealing these moments for herself in a shared space. There’s an exciting tension between urges which cannot be denied and the constant fear of embarrassment, which they invariably overcome:
Perhaps it's the thrill ofbeing caught, though I would genuinely be mortified tobe found out, I just can't help it.
Even when she’s been fiddling on her own, she then shares the episode with me. Once she’s started telling me about pulling her shorts down in the darkened house in order to finger herself, she’s reliving the pleasure, through my voyeurism: confession is exciting, too. And how can she ever do it again without being aware of the picture it may make in my mind’s eye, later? When she does it on her own, she fantasises about being discovered, about how I’d guess what she was up to:
As a general rule, what works for the spectator, is what works for the participant. If someone desires you and gets off on seeing you excited, it’ll work. It doesn’t matter what you do; it’ll still be exciting. I was once with a woman whose modus operandi was to lie flat on her back, rigid as a poker, hands trapped between her legs, arms covering her breasts. She didn’t yelp, she didn’t wriggle, and although she was quite a looker, she definitely didn’t present me with much of a spectacle. But that’s what worked for her, and because she got off, it was still hot. If, on the other hand, someone isn’t interested in what really works for you when you’re alone, then in the long-term, I don’t see how they can be much use to you when you’re together.
I mean, why wouldn’t you be interested in someone’s solo efforts, if you fancy them: don’t you want to know how to give them pleasure? And what better guide could you have? If a woman isn’t interested, then: (a) she isn’t into the man; (b) she isn’t into cock. If a man isn’t interested, then: (a) he isn’t into the woman; (b) he’s gay; (c) he’s insecure about his own or women’s sexuality, and best avoided. And I think the impulse to enjoy another’s solo efforts is irresistible, anyway. It’s an extension of one’s very earliest desire: the awareness that the other isn’t you and so can withhold pleasure; and an extension of one’s curiosity about that difference. (My own sexual life began - ignoring breast feeding and having one’s nappy changed - as a five-year old, when a neighbouring child offered to take her hand off her ha’penny and give me a look see, to prove that she hadn’t got a willy.)
And I suppose the ultimate goal of that curiosity, the ultimate proof of difference and therefore desire, is to see your loved one in action without you. I know it would be very exciting to see my lover or partner with someone else, for example (and more exciting than threesomes I’ve had with two strangers), and seeing them alone is a similar buzz. Since you can’t actually see them without being present in some way, and thus altering things, you may have to rely on their account afterwards, or accept that it’s something different altogether. (Talking about an account afterwards, one thing that’s surely guaranteed to inflate your partner’s interest to maximum size, is to mention what you had to do to yourself because you were missing him that afternoon/last weekend/whenever.) So in a sense, watching someone going solo can never be ‘authentic’; never quite the same as that thrilling sense of catching someone in flagrante, of being unexpectedly granted momentary access to the most secret aspects of someone’s sexuality.
Never mind – it’s nice to have a goal, a dream. And yet, in the end, I’m not sure it matters. For one thing, there are ways to make a solo performance seem as if your partner is on their own. I don’t want to sound like some sort of lewd Blue Peter, but one of these is as simple as putting a blindfold on them. Then they are less self-conscious, because they can’t see you; while you have the luxury of feeling invisible and unobtrusive. Or one of you can stay up and one go to bed early, on the “if I’m not there soon, just start without me” principle. The one in the bedroom is never quite sure when their lover is going to slip in. When I had the use of an apartment for a while, I got a four-poster draped in muslin, the way the sailor finds Jeanne Moreau in The Immortal Story (dir., Orson Welles, 1968, from a Karen Blixen story, if you want to know). It was a sensual, sexy sort of bed, anyway; but as an added benefit, it worked a treat for solo fun: with a lamp inside, someone outside the bed could see everything it’s occupant was up to; while for the person inside, the muslin drapes, illuminated from within, became opaque; so that they could either believe they were alone, or imagine a whole audience of voyeurs…..
And here’s the other thing: I think our pleasure in this activity has always been bound up with the risk of exposure; a risk it’s carried since we first felt compelled to do it, knowing it was rude and ‘dirty’, as children, or in our early teens. So when my lover describes her nocturnal masturbation sessions beside her sleeping partner, part of the thrill, clearly, is the fear of discovery; which intensifies it. It’s a very private activity, sure; but there’s also the sweet pleasure of risk, of stealing these moments for herself in a shared space. There’s an exciting tension between urges which cannot be denied and the constant fear of embarrassment, which they invariably overcome:
Perhaps it's the thrill ofbeing caught, though I would genuinely be mortified tobe found out, I just can't help it.
Even when she’s been fiddling on her own, she then shares the episode with me. Once she’s started telling me about pulling her shorts down in the darkened house in order to finger herself, she’s reliving the pleasure, through my voyeurism: confession is exciting, too. And how can she ever do it again without being aware of the picture it may make in my mind’s eye, later? When she does it on her own, she fantasises about being discovered, about how I’d guess what she was up to:
I feign a headache and take to bed for a rest. I have to get my hand between my legs somehow. I take two books. One for effect and one that will make me come - and fast. I get into bed. I'd like to take off my jeans and underwear and feel the cool sheets against my naked body, but I don't dare, I could be walked in on any minute. I slip a lubricated finger inside my underwear while I read - although why I bother I'm not sure, I'm so wet already. I'm still thinking about being submissive, about doing what you tell me to do. I think of you walking in now and surprising me, seeing what I was up to, not fooled for a minute by the clothes, which are pulled down - so that anyway, anyone could see what I've been doing.
Similarly, I met a woman who told me she always masturbates in front of a mirror. It isn’t narcissism, exactly: an extra sexual charge is added, by becoming the implied voyeur of her own erotic spectacle. No surprise, then, that she found it so hot to be watched, she’d come before I did.
And all of this ignores the fun you can have when a solo show is given as a deliberate (and perhaps the ultimate) tease; an extended, extra-dirty lap-dance, with touching. If the performing lover is confident enough, this is as hot as it gets. A session like this was definitely one of my top wanks and I’ll post it in due course……... But let’s do this one, first:
In a previous entry, I talked about taking a holiday in Spain with a woman I’ve called Karolina. We were in a flash hotel, in a chic resort, and she naturally wanted to look as good as all the rich bitches around the place. Despite model looks, this was never going to happen in cheap sandals, or trainers. So I bought her some new shoes for evenings. I say shoes, but they were really just jewellery with heels. I don’t recall the make, but they were fairly exquisite Italian jobs, and cost something silly. Were they ‘fuck-me’ shoes? Dunno: but they did say, ‘Look at me - I’m a babe – and someone with money thinks I’m worth it’. For her, this did the trick (I didn’t need convincing she was worth it in the first place). She was excessively pleased with them – to the extent that she insisted on taking the box home with her at the end of the holiday, even though we had no room for it. And nothing in a man’s life is nicer than an excessively pleased woman.
And I suppose to show me how pleased she was, she said, should she model them for me, when we got back to our room?
Hey, why the hell not?
We soon agreed she should lose the jeans, because they had a jewelled chain around the ankles, which we couldn’t see.
So she’s admiring them in the big mirrors lining the dressing area, in just her knickers and top. And then I felt she ought to get rid of the tee-shirt as well, if I was really going to appreciate them properly.
“Ok,” she agreed, game as you like; “that is it?”
And there’s a look in her eyes – very dark eyes, she has - a playful, teasing look, which more or less requires me to go the extra step. (I haven’t seen her for a while and really miss her, so I don’t want to talk about her eyes any more - honestly, I can’t cope.)
I nodded:
“I think no underwear would be best,” I told her, adopting a serious and judicious tone; “it really needs to be only your jewellery and make-up. And maybe not that necklace – the diamante one.”
“Only jewellery?”
“Yep, only the jewellery…...”
It’s that magic time: that beautiful, beautiful time on the very cusp of night, when you can feel the whole world hold its breath before exhaling slowly; shrugging off the heat and labour of the day and easing into a softer, an easier mood. Dusk is swift - the huge palm trees in the hotel gardens are already silhouettes. As darkness falls, the evening air becomes heady with the scent of jasmine and stephanotis at that time of year, and it’s filled with the shrill cries of great gangs of swifts. We're in Andalucia, once part of the Moorish empire, and the call to prayer still rings out from a nearby mosque every evening. And it always feels such a wonderful moment: when you’ve showered and put on evening clothes, after a day in shorts and sandals, and you take a chilled drink out onto the balcony, the breeze a mild and fragrant caress after the air conditioning inside, and somewhere in the room behind you she’s putting the finishing touches to her make-up before she comes out to join you; it’s just perfect. Then we have a drink, waiting for night – in Spain, we don’t eat until ten, when darkness rapidly becomes complete, and it very suddenly becomes much cooler - then everyone comes out onto the streets of the old town to promenade past the brightly-lit shops and the tables of bars and restaurants, which spill out onto the cobbles.
I light some candles, draw the curtains against the glow in the western sky, put some music on (Jan Garbarek, as I recall, if you’re interested). I pour out some wine we’ve had chilling in the mini-bar. When she comes back into the room to pick up the sweating glass I’ve poured for her, she’s only wearing the shoes, a shimmering necklace, and silver bracelets.
She holds her arms out, palms upwards, still playfully self-conscious, amused, in a ta-dah! gesture. I whistle, impressed.
“What do you think? You like?” She knows I like. “They are much more better than the other ones I tried.”
I agree.
She has a fabulous body, but so what - she walks around naked all the time – taking a shower, applying after-sun, putting her bikini on, changing clothes. It’s somehow different, wearing only the high heels.
Karolina catches the rythmn of the music and sways to it from the waist, drink in hand, wearing that big grin of hers, a knowing tease. Then she puts the glass down, raises her arms out to either side, and does a little move, a bit like that salsa one; where the woman bends her knees to drop down, and then comes up with a wiggle of the hips. I’m amazed she can do this in the heels without falling over, but she doesn’t stumble.
She parades for me, then - up and down the main bedroom - while I sit and sip my drink and admire her. At first, she strides self-mockingly, swinging her arms, careless and coltish; then in a more graceful parody of the cat-walk, a hand to one hip.
The shoes do exactly what it says on the box, exactly what they’re supposed to do: they exaggerate the length of her legs, stretch her calves, emphasise the muscles in her thighs, stick out her neat little tush, give her breasts a jauntier angle, and generally make her look a million dollars.
Oh, and when she walks, the heels force her hips into a languid sway.
She’s brown as a berry and the stones on them twinkle against her dark skin. Like her necklace, they wink at me in the candlelight with every movement she makes.
“And now what?” she asks, her eyes still teasing.
Perhaps she imagines she owes me for buying them and she’s going to square that little debt straight away, perhaps being admired puts her in the mood; she’s high on looking fabulous, on being desired. Does it matter?
What are you going to do, in a situation like that; given that it’s impossible to do it all at once (and definitely not all of it, if we were going ot get some dinner)? I wanted to up-end her, her feet locked behind me, feeling those heels scrape the skin of my back at every thrust. I wanted to lick my way, slowly, from her bejewelled feet, up the brown skin of her beautiful legs, to her cunt. And yet, what I really wanted to do, was carry on admiring her – I definitely hadn’t finished enjoying how gorgeous she was. And that’s when I realised what I wanted most.
“Come here,” I said, standing; my voice now hoarse.
She sashayed over, suddenly as tall as me, and we kissed.
I toyed with her: a hand stroking her arse, the soft skin inside her thighs, brushing the intriguing crease of her sex, with its neat little upward line of dark hair.
“I want you to touch yourself,” I whispered, my cheek next to hers.
My tongue runs down her neck, her right pectoral, the bronzed slope of her breast. It curls around a nipple. My right hand covers her cunt, the middle finger slipping into her slit, climbing in a slow caress. She’s already wet.
“Can you do that for me?”
“Ahh. Mmmm.”
“Yes?”
“Oh-h. Yes. Here?”
“Sure. Sit on the bed.”
Karolina sits. I pull one of the armchairs a little closer and ease back into it.
“Good girl. Do what you want, whatever you like.”
At first, she lay in profile to me, her arse at the edge of the enormous bed, feet planted on the floor at its end, head tilted back, hands beginning slow caresses over her breasts, her lower abdomen, her mons. But after a while, either she wanted to give me more of a visual feast, or she wanted to see how excited she was making me; because she swung around and straddled the corner of the bed, so that she could look at me wanking my cock, so that I could watch the elegant fingers of one hand making tiny circles at the top of her cunt…………
I was so happy, I thought I’d die.
Karolina writes a love letter to herself. Lol, she writes slowly with her fingertip, loloooooololoooololooooo. I always love it when they stop watching you, when they lose their self-consciousness and get carried away by the sensations they’re giving themselves. Karolina soon gets there: she sinks back onto the bed, head to one side, dark hair tumbled on the counterpane, thighs spreading, her hands only on her snatch now, fingers moving faster, as she proceeds to give herself a very good time.
At her final cry, I stand, spattering her with jism, along one of those shapely brown thighs of hers.
We finished our drinks, giggling and breathless, still high – and then went back to the shower together.
In the end, there was probably nothing amazing about the way she did herself, or the way her climax affected her – nor anything about mine, come to that, which was particularly spectacular. I think it was just the build-up – and, I suppose, the way she looked such a very glamorous, desirable honey while she did it.
When it was time to go out to eat, the sweet thing desperately wanted to continue wearing her shoes, but worried about losing a heel or twisting an ankle on the steep climb up the cobbled alleys of the old town, which can’t be accessed by cabs.
Similarly, I met a woman who told me she always masturbates in front of a mirror. It isn’t narcissism, exactly: an extra sexual charge is added, by becoming the implied voyeur of her own erotic spectacle. No surprise, then, that she found it so hot to be watched, she’d come before I did.
And all of this ignores the fun you can have when a solo show is given as a deliberate (and perhaps the ultimate) tease; an extended, extra-dirty lap-dance, with touching. If the performing lover is confident enough, this is as hot as it gets. A session like this was definitely one of my top wanks and I’ll post it in due course……... But let’s do this one, first:
In a previous entry, I talked about taking a holiday in Spain with a woman I’ve called Karolina. We were in a flash hotel, in a chic resort, and she naturally wanted to look as good as all the rich bitches around the place. Despite model looks, this was never going to happen in cheap sandals, or trainers. So I bought her some new shoes for evenings. I say shoes, but they were really just jewellery with heels. I don’t recall the make, but they were fairly exquisite Italian jobs, and cost something silly. Were they ‘fuck-me’ shoes? Dunno: but they did say, ‘Look at me - I’m a babe – and someone with money thinks I’m worth it’. For her, this did the trick (I didn’t need convincing she was worth it in the first place). She was excessively pleased with them – to the extent that she insisted on taking the box home with her at the end of the holiday, even though we had no room for it. And nothing in a man’s life is nicer than an excessively pleased woman.
And I suppose to show me how pleased she was, she said, should she model them for me, when we got back to our room?
Hey, why the hell not?
We soon agreed she should lose the jeans, because they had a jewelled chain around the ankles, which we couldn’t see.
So she’s admiring them in the big mirrors lining the dressing area, in just her knickers and top. And then I felt she ought to get rid of the tee-shirt as well, if I was really going to appreciate them properly.
“Ok,” she agreed, game as you like; “that is it?”
And there’s a look in her eyes – very dark eyes, she has - a playful, teasing look, which more or less requires me to go the extra step. (I haven’t seen her for a while and really miss her, so I don’t want to talk about her eyes any more - honestly, I can’t cope.)
I nodded:
“I think no underwear would be best,” I told her, adopting a serious and judicious tone; “it really needs to be only your jewellery and make-up. And maybe not that necklace – the diamante one.”
“Only jewellery?”
“Yep, only the jewellery…...”
It’s that magic time: that beautiful, beautiful time on the very cusp of night, when you can feel the whole world hold its breath before exhaling slowly; shrugging off the heat and labour of the day and easing into a softer, an easier mood. Dusk is swift - the huge palm trees in the hotel gardens are already silhouettes. As darkness falls, the evening air becomes heady with the scent of jasmine and stephanotis at that time of year, and it’s filled with the shrill cries of great gangs of swifts. We're in Andalucia, once part of the Moorish empire, and the call to prayer still rings out from a nearby mosque every evening. And it always feels such a wonderful moment: when you’ve showered and put on evening clothes, after a day in shorts and sandals, and you take a chilled drink out onto the balcony, the breeze a mild and fragrant caress after the air conditioning inside, and somewhere in the room behind you she’s putting the finishing touches to her make-up before she comes out to join you; it’s just perfect. Then we have a drink, waiting for night – in Spain, we don’t eat until ten, when darkness rapidly becomes complete, and it very suddenly becomes much cooler - then everyone comes out onto the streets of the old town to promenade past the brightly-lit shops and the tables of bars and restaurants, which spill out onto the cobbles.
I light some candles, draw the curtains against the glow in the western sky, put some music on (Jan Garbarek, as I recall, if you’re interested). I pour out some wine we’ve had chilling in the mini-bar. When she comes back into the room to pick up the sweating glass I’ve poured for her, she’s only wearing the shoes, a shimmering necklace, and silver bracelets.
She holds her arms out, palms upwards, still playfully self-conscious, amused, in a ta-dah! gesture. I whistle, impressed.
“What do you think? You like?” She knows I like. “They are much more better than the other ones I tried.”
I agree.
She has a fabulous body, but so what - she walks around naked all the time – taking a shower, applying after-sun, putting her bikini on, changing clothes. It’s somehow different, wearing only the high heels.
Karolina catches the rythmn of the music and sways to it from the waist, drink in hand, wearing that big grin of hers, a knowing tease. Then she puts the glass down, raises her arms out to either side, and does a little move, a bit like that salsa one; where the woman bends her knees to drop down, and then comes up with a wiggle of the hips. I’m amazed she can do this in the heels without falling over, but she doesn’t stumble.
She parades for me, then - up and down the main bedroom - while I sit and sip my drink and admire her. At first, she strides self-mockingly, swinging her arms, careless and coltish; then in a more graceful parody of the cat-walk, a hand to one hip.
The shoes do exactly what it says on the box, exactly what they’re supposed to do: they exaggerate the length of her legs, stretch her calves, emphasise the muscles in her thighs, stick out her neat little tush, give her breasts a jauntier angle, and generally make her look a million dollars.
Oh, and when she walks, the heels force her hips into a languid sway.
She’s brown as a berry and the stones on them twinkle against her dark skin. Like her necklace, they wink at me in the candlelight with every movement she makes.
“And now what?” she asks, her eyes still teasing.
Perhaps she imagines she owes me for buying them and she’s going to square that little debt straight away, perhaps being admired puts her in the mood; she’s high on looking fabulous, on being desired. Does it matter?
What are you going to do, in a situation like that; given that it’s impossible to do it all at once (and definitely not all of it, if we were going ot get some dinner)? I wanted to up-end her, her feet locked behind me, feeling those heels scrape the skin of my back at every thrust. I wanted to lick my way, slowly, from her bejewelled feet, up the brown skin of her beautiful legs, to her cunt. And yet, what I really wanted to do, was carry on admiring her – I definitely hadn’t finished enjoying how gorgeous she was. And that’s when I realised what I wanted most.
“Come here,” I said, standing; my voice now hoarse.
She sashayed over, suddenly as tall as me, and we kissed.
I toyed with her: a hand stroking her arse, the soft skin inside her thighs, brushing the intriguing crease of her sex, with its neat little upward line of dark hair.
“I want you to touch yourself,” I whispered, my cheek next to hers.
My tongue runs down her neck, her right pectoral, the bronzed slope of her breast. It curls around a nipple. My right hand covers her cunt, the middle finger slipping into her slit, climbing in a slow caress. She’s already wet.
“Can you do that for me?”
“Ahh. Mmmm.”
“Yes?”
“Oh-h. Yes. Here?”
“Sure. Sit on the bed.”
Karolina sits. I pull one of the armchairs a little closer and ease back into it.
“Good girl. Do what you want, whatever you like.”
At first, she lay in profile to me, her arse at the edge of the enormous bed, feet planted on the floor at its end, head tilted back, hands beginning slow caresses over her breasts, her lower abdomen, her mons. But after a while, either she wanted to give me more of a visual feast, or she wanted to see how excited she was making me; because she swung around and straddled the corner of the bed, so that she could look at me wanking my cock, so that I could watch the elegant fingers of one hand making tiny circles at the top of her cunt…………
I was so happy, I thought I’d die.
Karolina writes a love letter to herself. Lol, she writes slowly with her fingertip, loloooooololoooololooooo. I always love it when they stop watching you, when they lose their self-consciousness and get carried away by the sensations they’re giving themselves. Karolina soon gets there: she sinks back onto the bed, head to one side, dark hair tumbled on the counterpane, thighs spreading, her hands only on her snatch now, fingers moving faster, as she proceeds to give herself a very good time.
At her final cry, I stand, spattering her with jism, along one of those shapely brown thighs of hers.
We finished our drinks, giggling and breathless, still high – and then went back to the shower together.
In the end, there was probably nothing amazing about the way she did herself, or the way her climax affected her – nor anything about mine, come to that, which was particularly spectacular. I think it was just the build-up – and, I suppose, the way she looked such a very glamorous, desirable honey while she did it.
When it was time to go out to eat, the sweet thing desperately wanted to continue wearing her shoes, but worried about losing a heel or twisting an ankle on the steep climb up the cobbled alleys of the old town, which can’t be accessed by cabs.
“Put them in your bag,” I told her; “wear your flat ones, and swap when we get near the restaurant.”
I explained it’s something my partner does all the time, but this is apparently a new trick to Karolina.
“Ver’ good idea!” she declared, giving me a peck and squeezing my arm in gratitude for this tip, her happiness restored. “I will always do this now.”
And of course, all the time we’re out, I have that image of her in my mind, head tilted back on the bed, legs braced, thighs taut, back arched, elegant fingers busy at the apex of those long, brown legs, that beautiful pouting mouth of hers parting in pleasure - and I can’t wait to get her back to the hotel……….
So there you are – that’s one of my top wanks – and a lesson in how two people can be made very happy by one little purchase.
I explained it’s something my partner does all the time, but this is apparently a new trick to Karolina.
“Ver’ good idea!” she declared, giving me a peck and squeezing my arm in gratitude for this tip, her happiness restored. “I will always do this now.”
And of course, all the time we’re out, I have that image of her in my mind, head tilted back on the bed, legs braced, thighs taut, back arched, elegant fingers busy at the apex of those long, brown legs, that beautiful pouting mouth of hers parting in pleasure - and I can’t wait to get her back to the hotel……….
So there you are – that’s one of my top wanks – and a lesson in how two people can be made very happy by one little purchase.
