Sunday 30 September 2007

(Ain't No Cure For) THE SUMMERTIME BLUES

(Sorry! – this post is big on the emotional complexities of an affair, high on navel-gazing – and deplorably low on smut.)

Family vacations can be hell for married lovers. It’s a bitter-sweet time, as the holiday season approaches. The happy anticipation you should both be feeling at the prospect of a break from work and time with your family is clouded by sadness and loss; by sobering speculation on how long you may have to wait to see your lover again. In the run-up to the holidays, you frantically compare dates to see when you might next manage time together, arrange fevered last meetings, and exchange tender parting phone calls and texts – before consigning your dear one to the bosom of their family – and, of course, to your rival.
Our recent meetings had been so dirty and intense (another story for another time), that we both resented the interruption of our illicit activities this year, even more than usual:
This is all very hot and exciting for me at the moment– of course! And I am NOT HAPPY that summer holidays are going to interfere with my enjoyment.
B complained in an email, and I worried I won’t fully enjoy my holidays through missing her. And as long as our school-age children are at home, we find it difficult to talk as often as we’d like, too; even when we aren’t actually away. At least her time away with her partner was going to be diluted by the presence of friends in a shared villa, I pointed out, when she was fretting on the phone; she’s so gregarious I knew she’d have a good time with them, despite her protests. "Yes – but they try to give me and D time together, she whined; they say, why don’t you two go off and have a siesta, we’ll look after the kids. It’s horrible - I tell them we’d rather have a walk – I feel like I’m being pimped!"
"Funny you should say that," I responded; "because letting you go off with him feels to me like being in love with a gorgeous prostitute; if you don’t mind me saying that."
"Actually, I don’t mind," she laughed; "it’s not unflattering. And that is what it’s like with him, a job - but in reality of course, it’s not glamorous – nor well-paid. And I’m not very happy about the actual holiday - I feel like I’m being dragged off against my will….."
This is all very different to previous years…….
I realised, some time ago, that B invariably became more loving, more sexually intense, and even managed to see me more often, as holidays approached – and with them, an inevitable hiatus in our affair. This made it even more agonising to part and filled me with longing for her while I was away; as I assumed it was intended to do. As a result, I would come back from holiday, to the long-anticipated arms of my beloved, very eager to resume the passion we’d shared on parting, only a few weeks before. And yet, I’d always find things were oddly and inexplicably cooler between us. Emails and calls were rare, meetings proved impossible, or got cancelled at the last minute.
This was all very distressing. We’re talking about someone who’ll call me up to three or four times a day – let alone texts and emails – I’m going to notice if several days pass without contact! And any lover treated like this will naturally assume the other party is fickle, that out of sight really has meant out of mind; or even that there’s been some sort of rekindling of affection or passion between her and her spouse, effected by a relaxed break together. Deeply hurt, I’d bring this cooling of her affections to her attention; only to be reassured that, no, she didn’t care for me any less, and time together definitely hadn’t endeared her partner to her any more than previously. And she was very sorry, she knew she wasn’t behaving well, felt I deserved better, etc; but I did need to understand it was all she could manage. She’d always been honest about that, though; she’d never misled me. When pressed further, she’d go on to explain at great length, how she’d realised, over the holidays – absorbed as she’d been by her home, partner, friends, and children – that she’d foolishly been allowing things to reach an intolerable intensity with me. She loved me – perhaps that was the problem – but the relationship really could not be sustained at that pitch in the busy welter of our day-to-day lives; at least, not without sacrifices she just couldn’t make in her home or social life, etcetera.
Fair enough, I thought. She had a point – I probably can’t cope, long-term, with the intensity we shared in early summer, either – and I could be patient. But why jump from hot to chilly – wasn’t there some happy medium, in-between? I never did quite understand why ‘cooling it’ meant going from several intense, needy calls per day to none at all, from fucking me three times a week to one meeting a month. Nor, if she was such a very capable control freak, could I understand why she was unable to keep things on an even, manageable keel, to start with…. Almost envying her the ability to curb and contain her feelings, where I could not, I was bound to assume that hers were less intense than my own. But then, of course, after a while, she was ‘back’; giving me the full-on relationship I craved and which she, too, seemed to need after all. Ain’t women complicated?
No matter how much consultation we had, trying to ensure family holidays coincided, there was sometimes a discrepancy – if we were unlucky, the two fortnights might even be consecutive. So not only was I approaching the holiday season with apprehension at the prospect of being parted from her for up to four weeks at a time – I also had good cause to fear this horrible gap which would always seem to open between us after these enforced partings. It took me a long time to work out what was going on. When someone blows hot and cold, you don’t generally engage with them more, showering them with love and trust and understanding – instead, you’re resentful, you withdraw. I was puzzled and pained to find I had to renegotiate the whole relationship after every holiday. I felt I was being teased and toyed with: I began to feel B was controlling my desire……...
The thing is, I started to wonder if somehow, this control-freakery, this periodic brake applied to our relationship, really worked for her; was part of what she wanted; was perhaps even pleasurable to her. Why not? She definitely took great pride in running a tight ship at home and a very smooth operation at work - why not enjoy a tightly-reined love affair in your spare time? Manipulating sexual frustration had always been part of our sexual repertoire which she particularly enjoyed:
"You'd find me quite easy to train if we had more time," she wrote once. "You could not touch me, or not let me come, or not fuck me, or not allow me to lick your cock if I didn't do everything you needed. (Although actually, I quite like being denied and frustrated so, hmmmm, is that really a punishment...?" )
Perhaps she got off on emotional frustration, too? Conventional wisdom would echo her own protests – assuming the affair with me was bought at the price of her partnership, her home-life, her working life - even her peace of mind. When it intensified, they suffered; when it was necessary to prioritise them, I suffered. But ‘conventional wisdom’, like ‘common sense’, can be deceptive. I was listening to a convincing story of cause and effect, but it didn’t stand scrutiny, or chime with my experience at all: an experience almost entirely composed of ecstatic yet hurried meetings, curtailed by other commitments; of arrangements which were hard to make, yet frequently broken owing to contingencies at work or home, even by as little as one of her husband’s sulks; of long-anticipated getaways or days’ off work which rarely materialised. And all this at the very best of times - let alone during holidays, visiting friends/relatives, or a family crisis.
Like the proverbial mistress - always waiting in vain for the married man who invariably puts his family first – I’d never noticed my lover’s social or domestic arrangements compromised in any way by our romance; even at its most intense and absorbing. Our relationship had always fitted into the spaces in her life: not only did I know her routines and timetables, but those of her entire household, too. I’ve had to - because a big part of my emotional life revolves around them and the very fleeting opportunities they may provide to see or talk to her. From my perspective, the affair had never been conducted in spite of her commitments elsewhere, if anything, it had been expertly dovetailed with them. (I suspect there’s a real buzz for her, in being able to juggle the demands of adultery successfully - together with the rest of her busy life). And I’ve been tacked-on; or rather, carefully factored into (and over?) its gaps and fissures - essential to her, yet never permitted to put any aspect of the rest of it seriously at risk. To the existing roles of good partner, diligent parent, and successful boss, my driven little darling had simply added the additional role of also being a hot lay for a lover.
So this is how I began to realise that B might well find enjoyment, not only in my affections; but also in controlling them…. Firstly, in successfully managing the complexities and logistics such a love affair always entails: arranging trysts while the children were at Cubs or music practice, for example; or slipping me into the house for an evening’s fun while the rest of her family were off camping. Was there brinkswomanship involved, a frisson from risk? Were the difficulties she encountered actually exaggerated? She didn’t need to befriend my wife, after all: a lot of people might actually find it uncomfortable to socialise with someone whose partner you’ve been shagging only days before!
Despite her avowed caution and carefulness, her pleasure has often seemed to be one enjoyed on the very cusp of discovery and danger: a constant balancing act; a delicious but dizzying tight-rope walk between the twin disasters of losing my adoration and losing her partner’s respect and allegiance. And because these aspects must, surely, be part of the appeal, I suppose I then had to accept that the rewards of the thing might not entirely rely on me; or at least, not on physical meetings with me. She wasn’t a tease, exactly … She genuinely loved cock – and mine in particular – but it wasn’t always necessary for her hap-penis. What was necessary, was to be loved, adored and desired – and she could, and did, get that by phone and email; or from ‘innocent’ meetings over coffee or lunch.
Brief encounters with sympathetic, attractive and admiring company work for me, too – I loved our chats - but I’m a man. And men are simple creatures: to put it bluntly, we want some pussy and we want some attention for our cocks. Only if someone regularly gives that to a man, does he know she still loves him. (Sorry, girls, but otherwise, he just can’t tell. And if the pussy is cute enough and the attention pleasing enough, he’ll love them right back.) When that attention/pussy was withdrawn – as in our inevitable holiday partings – I would find it difficult. And when even the usual flow of calls and messages became severely attenuated, in those horrid post-holiday lulls, I’d find it very very distressing; since I looked almost entirely to her for the passion, romance, intensity and intimacy I’d realised were so essential for my happiness.
Apart from anything else, I’d had a mother who’d blown hot and cold: for whom I was endearingly special one minute and rather less important for long spells, when I’d get parked with grandparents. Amateur psychotherapists might suggest that in my partner of fifteen years, I’d obviously found someone who very acceptably embodied a representative aspect of this first love-object. So long, that is, as my wife alternated absence with brief spells of attentiveness: an only child who enjoyed time alone and didn’t crowd me, a career woman who pursued her own goals outside the home, yet one who focussed on me in her leisure. All fine and dandy: until events in her own inner life led her to withdraw into herself more; to become depressed and just too remote. Call it selfishness, or a mid-life crisis, if you like - or simply a very natural survival instinct - but in first trying contact sex and then starting an affair, I’d had to look beyond this partner, whose coolness, distance and self-absorption had become unbearable. And B had offered a more reliable alternation between the work/family which parted us and her attention while we were together – a more rewarding attentiveness, at that; which made me feel like the most special person on the planet.
No wonder, then, that it seemed like the last thing I needed, when it was no longer simply the routine demands of that ‘other’ life, which took her away from me; but also seemed to be her own pleasurable manipulation of availability and absence, fulfilment and frustration: causing entirely unnecessary separations. Unnecessary to me, that is; clearly they were needful to her. Again, any amateur therapists out there can speculate about her mother’s unreliable affections when very young; or her father’s frustrating absences away from her childhood home when she was a bit older: and how, perhaps, actively managing the availability/absence of the love-object is redemptive for her, an attempt to suture that early wound.
These patterns, these needs must always have been there, in each of us, seeking expression and indulgence as best they could; but we were like two locks, for which the other was the key. It doesn’t matter about the details of her early life, which are her business: whatever her fantasy, her desire, I was clearly its object. And while being the object of desire could be a hugely exciting experience, it carried with it a price I’d always dimly recognised; but never understood or articulated. Being the object, not only of someone’s superficial sexual longing; but also, let us say, of their needful pleasure, of someone else’s most profound and unconscious enjoyment of their repressed desire: well, that’s always going to be unnerving and potentially painful; making one feel very vulnerable indeed.
All this understanding I’d acquired didn’t make it hurt any less. My darling amorosa might have instinctively understood that her enjoyment would only remain pleasurable if she didn’t entirely obtain what she was after (or rather, her pleasure resides in never fully obtaining what she's supposedly after *); but where did that leave me? I think it came to a head a couple of years into our affair, when I rented a flat in another city for a weekend; on the basis that B, visiting nearby family on her own, would get away to join me; if only for the Saturday evening. She never made it: she was roped into drinks, a family meal, something came up, whatever. I paced that apartment for forty-eight hours, and on the journey home, swore to myself I’d never pine and stew like that again: spending my weekend with someone I didn’t love would be way better than finding myself agonisingly denied someone whom I did. No wonder meeting Karolina seemed like the answer to such a very painful predicament.……….
(*) hold onto your brain and try this link if you’re game: http://www.lacan.com/forced.htm

Tuesday 14 August 2007

EVER FALLEN IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE FALLEN IN LOVE WITH?

Perhaps my extra-curricular activities with casual contacts anticipated a more sustained illicit relationship – even made it more likely – since I had already crossed the Rubicon and found some answers to my needs on the other side. But nothing could have prepared me for the experience of falling head over heels for B……

It started with a kiss. Of course it did – I'll bet it often does. A kiss which started as that permissible peck on the cheek, a brush of the lips, an affectionate little hug between new-found friends; but instead became something more intense, something lingering and desiring…… We’d met at a restaurant – a meal with mutual friends – and perhaps it had started there, really, with some flirtatious exchange between us; with an accumulation, during the evening, of complicit looks and smiles. And it was always on the cards, once she’d accepted my impulsive invitation for another drink, on our own, before the walk home….. In any event, that kiss, when it came, had the inevitability of falling in a dream: we seemed to be leaning towards one another for ever; our lips tentative, then passionate; her quick, slick little tongue a surprise, its strangeness a delight.

There are times when you can get away with an illicit kiss – New Year, for example, the office Christmas do, weddings, boozy parties – and it may not mean too much. But this was on a quiet late-night street, when I’d nearly got her home. (Yes, we must both have known what was going to happen, or we’d have got closer before parting). It was an ordinary weekday evening: we didn’t have the excuse of any special celebration, neither of us was drunk, and we wouldn’t be able to shrug it off the next day. She must have been aware of her partner, blind to the betrayal which had begun just a hundred yards away, watching late night sport while he waited for her return. And I knew mine would be slumbering peacefully back at our place; even while my heart was thumping with excitement in the darkness, while I was snogging in the shadows like a teenager. And I suppose, if it was only going to be a kiss – just a hint of something that might have been, just another tempting path you’d never take - then she shouldn’t have pressed her hot, firm little body so tightly against mine, like a promise.

We did the decent thing - we ummed and ahhed for a few days afterwards, when we met to deliberate and explore the options – and then we did the indecent thing. Well, we were never going to leave it there, were we? - I was always going to fuck her. I was going to fuck her from the moment she slyly slipped her tongue into my mouth; from the moment those thin, shapely, girlish legs straddled mine, while I leant back against a wall and wrapped my hands around her cute little rear. Once you’ve had someone’s thigh between your legs, pressing against your crotch, it’s surely only a matter of time before the rest is going to follow…..

For weeks, I was walking on air, giddy with a kind of joy I don’t believe I’d never known, even when I was young. To be loved, to be wanted, again! Not loved in a tolerant, accepting, tender way – by someone who remembered you full of promise, when you’d first attracted them, twenty years’ before – but fiercely, eagerly, urgently; now, for the person you’d become, despite all the wounds time might have inflicted on you. It was intoxicating. Soon I was living for her calls, for the feel of her hot skin against mine, igniting every nerve. It was heaven to be alive once more; to have that sweet, half-forgotten hymn singing in your blood!

Parallel to this wildly seesawing euphoria, I suppose the over-riding feeling was fear. Not fear of discovery: because, astonishingly, it seemed worth the risk of jeopardising my marriage from the very start. No, I think it was the awareness that this wasn’t like contact sex, where you use and are used in turn; instead, profound feelings were involved: people could get hurt. I hadn’t feared for a man who’d wanted to watch me fuck his wife, but I did fear for B’s partner, who hadn’t elected to share her – and for her children, who might suffer from a break-up. And of course, she was one of those people who might get hurt, too. I was another. (In the event, our partners haven’t been hurt as yet; though sure enough, I think we’ve both put each other through terrible heartbreak on several occasions since those first heady days). This fear was prophetic. Why on earth should a brief, casual liaison, only days old, have caused such worries? People strayed, things sometimes went too far – but B’s partner and mine could get over a little lapse like that, surely - as we’d get over it in their case? (That is, in the very unlikely event it ever came out.) But then, I think I already understood that this wouldn’t be brief or casual. It began to feel as if that one tiny gesture, that single moment when our lips had met, had shifted everything in my life around – and nothing would be quite the same again….

The second overwhelming feeling was revelation. If the sex hadn’t really worked, I suppose it would have petered out and that would have been that, no harm done. But it did work: she could make me come with all my clothes still on and I found I could get her to the brink without touching her. I’d experienced other bodies, other women’s sexualities; but they couldn’t have prepared me for desiring, for being myself desired, so avidly.

My new lover was receptive, rather than resistant, confident instead of hesitant, playful where my spouse was doleful, active instead of passive. My partner, I came to understand, habitually waited for my desire. Whether from lack of confidence or ambivalence, she was unsure whether she wanted it, or what she wanted to do with it, until presented with my need. As a result, she took no steps to elicit or prompt it; even on a good day (and we hadn’t had many of those for a couple of years). B, on the other hand, sought it out. She coveted my desire for her; she wanted to earn it, she yearned for it, she worked for it, she had to have it – and she fondled and frolicked and fucked and fished to find it - gratified, triumphant, ecstatic, when she gained her objective and her mouth or hand or cunt filled with my spunk.

Her own yielding, limber body permitted – or rather, it seemed to crave – unfamiliar liberties. It sought out pain, for one thing – whether just hair-pulling and shoulder-biting at the height of passion, or something more deliberate, anticipatory and lingering - as if only the intensity of pain could match the depth of her wanting. For her, giving pleasure seemed to be as thrilling as receiving it, and being teased and denied could bring as much excitement as being touched. She wanted to be tried and tested, as well as indulged; to be used and abused, as well as adored. B needed to be possessed, utterly; to be marked as mine with teeth and hands and semen. If I hadn’t realised it already, I soon came to see that she was in every way a handful: the kind of demanding, desiring, in-your-face sort of woman I’d split up with when I was younger – and thus the subject of much regret and heartache. However badly we were behaving, I wasn’t going to give her up and make that same mistake again.

What did I get up to with B? What didn’t we do? – if it was wicked, dirty and hot, we did it. We had lingering sex in borrowed rooms, urgent sex in the woods in lunch hours and furtive sex in the car after work. I'd go home with her smell on my fingers, she'd go home with my semen on her thighs. We masturbated on the telephone. We even managed the occasional, wonderful weekend away. While my spouse was absent for the night and the children sleeping, I’d slip her into my study, lick her out and then fuck her in the big leather office chair I’m using now to type this post. And though it pains me to confess it, we were spies in the house of love: exchanging the intimate details of our partners’ predilections and shortcomings; conferring, contrasting, advising, supporting.

I’d like to say that we behaved decently, played (away) by some sort of rules: kept away from marital beds, for example; or made it a principle never to speak disparagingly about our respective spouses. Sadly, there are no rules when you’re already beyond the pale. And anyway, our offence was breach of trust, breach of confidence, loving someone else. In the light of this emotional betrayal, your actions don't seem terribly important. Nowadays, we mostly meet in hotel rooms, but I have to admit I’ve given her plenty of cock in their bedroom and occasionally had her on her hands and knees in their lounge; I’ve spunked down her throat on our sofas and bent her over our kitchen worktops. And all the while, all the times we’ve been apart, we've kept the faith, by phone and text and email. So there’s always been an exchange of illicit messages; chatty, intimate, loving, filthy. (They're the main reason for the infrequency of my posts). I suppose they must run to hundreds, perhaps thousands, by now; backwards and forwards between the two of us: mostly late at night, when there’s the chance to be alone. It's meant that every kiss, every touch, every climax, has been anticipated and informed and re-lived in a constant stream of information about our needs and longings, our feelings and fantasies and desires…..

Is there an element of revenge in the things married lovers get up to behind their spouses backs? No question, in my view: there’s always going to be a bit of “you didn’t love me enough, and now look what you’ve made me do!” going on. Silly as it may sound, we feel let down, betrayed, hard done by – and the agony which loving someone else can bring seems like a pain the marriage has imposed. It’s a long time since I’ve felt shame or guilt or fear about sex with other people. But just sometimes - times when I’ve been distraught, heartbroken, strung-out by the vicissitudes of my love for B - then I’ve seen myself for a moment as my partner might see me, and felt a hot flush of embarrassment. Then, and only then, have I felt something akin to shame – wondering what my lovely and long-suffering spouse might think of my abjection and enthralment – reduced so easily to tears of despair, and raised again so easily to happiness, by the whims and stratagems of another woman’s love……

CONTACT!

I’ve tried to remember what I was looking for, when I started to look for extra-curricular fun - or rather, what I thought I was looking for – which is not necessarily the same thing. The real answer, I think, is female desire. I’ve already written about trying to find my partner’s missing libido (http://manincrisis.blogspot.com/2006/12/desire-for-desire.html) - and it was only when I failed to do so that I started to look further afield.
Nowadays, it’s easy to feel I must have been desperate for all the qualities we traditionally associate with femininity - tenderness, sociability, sensuality, affection, glamour – qualities which definitely had gone missing from my home life. But this is hindsight: I actually think all that came later, once I'd hooked up with my present lover, and realised what I’d been missing. At the time, I didn’t seek out a girlfriend to ‘understand me’ better than my wife and embody these virtues where she did not. I never entertained the idea of paying for sex as an option, either - even though many men who feel frustrated in a relationship do so (and, one suspects, are often seeking the solace of traditional femininity, indulgence and attentiveness, as much as the sex itself).

I’m not sure this was principle or squeamishness – it just wouldn’t have given me what I needed - because, presumably, female sexual desire would not have been part of the equation. What I turned to instead, were contact magazines and contact sites. These did hold out the promise of authentic female sexuality. And how! Instead of a woman who couldn’t even remember ever having a mojo, here were women who were extremely uncompromising about what they wanted and how much they wanted it. Here were women who, instead of skulking around the house in a fleece, hunched and self-absorbed, were laughing and smiling at the world through the camera lens, or had had themselves photographed looking desiring and desirable, confident and provocative (sometimes, it must be said, in astonishing anatomical close-up). Unlike many of them, who specifically wanted “over the knee treatment”, or several men at once, or were bi-curious, or had decided they should be treated as a "no holes barred cum-slut”, for example, I don’t think I personally had any particular agenda, such as anal sex or a threesome. I had no objection to these activities - and indeed, most other options on the smorgasbord of human sexuality. I’d have been – in the event, I was – very happy and very excited to do any and all of the things their ads suggested would please them, providing the woman in question was fit and fairly eager about wanting these things; which, of course, they were.

* * * * *

It proved to be a real eye opener, in some ways. Sex with someone I shared my life with had turned out a dud; yet I discovered you could have very very hot sex with someone who had nothing in common with you. What’s more, your sexual needs didn’t even have to match that well to make it work - you simply had to each have sufficient hunger for sensation - and, perhaps, both share enough interest in the whole business of sex to know what you could do for someone else and how you could do it. If you wanted to go at it like beasts, perhaps not having anything in common was an advantage…….
We’d arranged a social meet before J let me come to her flat - and I suppose we more or less continued this conversation there (one about our different experiences of France) over a glass or two of wine. It was pleasant, but not very exciting and I was unsure how to move things along. I always find it hard, that bit: there’s a grave danger, if someone’s nice, of desire getting overwhelmed by friendliness. What a cool woman, I think, and completely forget about wanting to roger her stupid. Luckily, J wasn’t going to let that happen and started rubbing my crotch with her foot…..

So far, so good; but I still can’t even remember how or why it became so very very hot; so…..well, frenzied, really. How exactly did we get from fooling around to fucking like animals? I felt she was self-conscious about not having very long legs and perhaps about having very strong features, which just denied her prettiness; but there was no need: I found her very attractive and incredibly sexy. She wan't built in the lean willowy way I admire; yet it was a fantastic body, you wanted to caress and hold and fuck. And instead of yielding to my appreciative touch, she started to use her body actively to fire me up and direct my attentions; and to make them more forceful. So she turned in my arms and while I caressed and squeezed her fabulous, jutting, pointy breasts, she was grinding her arse into my groin. Her arse which wasn't small, or cute, but it was astonsihingly firm; an arse which you wanted to rub your cock up against, an arse you wanted to part with your cock. Plus, everything sexual she did was performed with vigour and gusto – I liked that about her, too – there was no timidity or hesitation. When I started licking her, she threw her arms up and spread her legs, as if to make room for two or three tongues. When she turned her attention to my cock she got quite carried away; kneeling to deep-throat me with an enthusiasm I’d rarely encountered. And when she wanted me to fuck her, she ‘presented’ herself, like a cat in heat – on all fours, with her back concave, her face to the sheet and her arse in the air.

“Look at my pussy!” she kept saying.
She herself was studying a side view of the two of us in a mirror opposite the end of the bed, watching my erection nudge her upturned butt and cunt. My eyes naturally followed her gaze to the debauched tableau we were making.
“No, look at it," she demanded. "Look what a lovely pussy I’ve got,” she repeated, over her shoulder. “No - fuck me, put it in - don’t stop! Just tell me how good it feels. Isn’t it a lovely pussy, isn’t it good?”
And with this she reached under her gorgeous stomach, parting her lips for my cock and stroking herself with a two-fingered motion, as if presenting it to me was such a buzz, she couldn’t resist.
Well……. It’s all right, I was thinking – with an odd sort of calm, given that I was severely turned on by her increasngly excited state. Well, she’s not wrong – it ain’t bad, I thought. Lovely seemed too strong a word, though - I’ve definitely had some close encounters with prettier, sweeter, smaller and cuter ones. The thought had even occurred to me – while I was happily licking it, earlier on - that she’d been a bit savage with the razor. Having quite thick, dark hair, a Brazilian might have been more successful and less brutal on her pale skin than the full Monty, I considered. But even as a part of me was metaphorically standing back and making these observations, another part of me – the more active part – was utterly indifferent to whether she had a shaving rash or not: it simply wanted to fulfil her obvious need for me to supplement her fingers with some cock.
In the end, what made it so urgent, so frenzied, was her demand; her open pursuit of pleasure and my determination to match her and give her what she wanted. I liked the bossy way she took control, the imperiousness of her needs. Not knowing me and therefore not trusting me, she was worried I wouldn’t stay with her all the way, I think. and kept exhorting me to go the distance:
“Don’t come!” she was shouting. “Wait! Don’t come yet, wait for me!” - all the while impaling herself rhythmically, pushing her arse back into my groin to meet every thrust.
It was a long, hard ride; but no problem, I was up to the task. And it was certainly a very demanding pussy. We’d both been giving it everything we’d got – my tongue, my fingers, my cock, her fingers, some more cock – but it did seem to be working. She was increasingly sweaty, her encouragements inarticulate now, and her lank hair swinging. Her skin was becoming deeply flushed – not only her front, above her breasts, which I’d noticed when I'd given her a licking, but now her upper back and shoulders, too. As she frigged and fingered and I gripped her hips to thrust, we were gradually turning her pink! We came together in a grunting, sweating, cursing rut. The urgent animal need and energy of her was just so exciting, I absolutely had to come again, for the third time that evening, before taking my leave…….

* * * * *

Overall, though, on the basis of my (very limited) experience, I haven’t really got a good word to say about swinging and contact sites; even though I had the odd entertaining rendezvous (and, with J, a top fuck). As someone who was miserable within a relationship he didn’t want to give up, it was the obvious way to go. Firstly, it was honest: I wasn’t trying to pretend I was up for anything as a free agent, or a singleton looking for a LTR; I was married, looking for discreet fun with others in a similar position. (You think people are fulfilled in their warm, fuzzy long-term relationships? Yeah, right – take a look at some contact sites and you’ll see a whole gamut of excluded, unfulfilled desires, spilling out onto the internet, desperately seeking someone, anyone, to meet those needs.) Secondly, there was the reassurance that I wasn’t alone – a quick trawl soon showed me there were lots of women out there, also looking – hot women, game women, eager women. All I had to do was hook up with a few of them.

In practice, this is easier said than done. For a whole host of reasons, I suspect single men rarely do well out of contact/swinging arrangements. (On occasions when I’ve run couple ads with a lover, we’ve immediately drawn many many more replies than I ever did on my own, and in a fraction of the time). Thing is, women can’t move for offers and have to wade through a mountain of approaches from so many hopeless, desperate, unlikely and downright unattractive single males, that it’s going to be pretty hard to get their attention. Their physical vulnerability means they’ve got to be a lot more careful whom they’re meeting with anyway - and makes a couple a better proposition for them. And of course a huge number of them are bi-curious – so the whole point of advertising is to meet with women or with couples which include another bi-curious woman.
In a recent Observer magazine article
http://www.guardian.co.uk/technology/2007/jun/17/socialnetworking.internet about “no strings casual sex”, much is made of the online opportunities for linking up with others; especially among young singletons. But as with any journalism, there's a lot of hyperbole, half-baked conjecture, and two and two making five. Online dating may work, now and then, but I don’t believe sex contacts work very well for anyone, online or otherwise; there are just two many sad timewasters out there: and they’re definitely a dud for single men. Couples, on the other hand, can do quite well, though the article didn't really get into the swinging side of things. But then, if you are a couple looking to swing – and you’re actually fit and worth shagging – I think you’d be much better off going to some chic party, like the ones Fever run,
or holidaying at Cap d’Agde.
If you can't manage this, or it isn’t right for you, try:

Suzanne Portnoy’s The Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick Maker (Virgin, 2006) is not a good book. The writing’s poor and it’s not even successful on its own terms – as a so-called “erotic memoir” – since it’s about as erotic as a wet weekend in Skegness. Far from being “shocking and heartwarming” as it’s blurb suggests, it actually made me bored and depressed. It wouldn’t get onto anyone’s one-handed reading list in a million years. Her gushy little sentences. Are irritating. As fuck. (There is a skill to that kind of writing, which she lacks and her editor can’t bestow). And her subject – a 40 yo cosmopolitan divorcee’s search for a half-way decent shag, with at least the prospect of a meaningful relationship – turns out to be a very dull quest indeed.

And yet, what it inadvertently can’t help but reveal about the world of contacts pretty much chimes with my own experience - that, if you aren't already in a couple keen to swing, then a really ludicrous amount of effort has to be constantly expended for the very limited benefit of a relatively small number of successful meetings, and an even smaller number of sexual experiences worth having. What’s more, most of the people trying to contact you are hopelessly inadequate in one way or another - and a large proportion just waste your time. This was my assessment and this also seems to have been her experience – despite the fact that she’s in London, which is ten times easier than elsewhere because of the high concentration of cosmopolitan singles - and the fact that she’s a woman, which makes it ten times easier than if you’re a single male.

Portnoy’s book isn’t interesting enough to read cover to cover, but as far as I can tell she fails to mention the timewasters, the people with strange and incomprehensible agendas of their own, the droves of reasonably attractive but silly women trying to make money by getting even sillier older men to buy photos, or dirty laundry, or just send them cash. She doesn’t mention the droves of sad, lonely men and scary-looking women. When you advertise, it’s simply astonishing how many replies you receive which bear no relation to the criteria you specified. An astonishing number don’t even send you/attach photos at all and any woman or couple will tell you that most men who do either send only a head and shoulder shot, or only send a picture of their miserable-looking cock, as if that would convince anyone to meet with them!

In a couple of years of advertising and replying, I don’t suppose I had more than a handful of worthwhile contacts. In part, this may have been due to my particular circumstances; distant from big urban centres and only able to pursue contacts when away from home. Partly also, I acknowledge that just when I was making some progress and had managed one or two very promising connections, I met and fell head over heels for B. Nevertheless, I suspect that as far as the world of contacts goes, it’s only meeting others as a couple which really works – not singles’ contact sites.

Even when couples advertise, it’s the woman’s attractiveness which is the unit of exchange, the currency of swinging. (Most parties insist on only couples or single women.) It will be her pictures which determine the number and quality of their responses or invitations to parties. (And they know this: however good-looking, fit, or well-endowed the man might be, a typical listing on, say, Adultfriendfinder, (http://adultfriendfinder.com/) may have half a dozen photographs of the woman and just one or two of the man.) Although it may not be the woman who’s initiated swinging or the advert, it’s very often her needs which are pre-eminent in it: adding another woman to satisfy her bi-curiosity, adding extra cock action for her (which her partner may only watch), or finding others who’ll make her the centre of attention.

* * * * *

And yet…… In the end, I suppose it was ‘empowering’ (as earlier feminists used to say), because of my particular circumstances. And it did prove to be a transition for me – between miserable monogamy and my present loved-up state… First of all, I discovered that there was no need to tolerate pussy-hunger (let alone pussy starvation, or pussy frenzy - a dangerous affliction which can set in when denied it long enough). Half the population were in possession of the qualities I needed – and quite a lot of them weren’t disqualified by age, physical unattractiveness or geographical remoteness. Not only were a goodly number in possession of a desirable femininity; there were also a lot of women out there for whom sex wasn’t just a negotiating ploy, part of something else, or something to put off until some nebulous future time when conditions might be more propitious. Hell, no! – they were up for it, now - already in the mood. And they clearly saw it as a separate activity for its own sake - for fun!

I’d got used to sex being a ‘problem’ in the context of my relationship; or at least, let’s say, problematic. So it was empowering because sex was still there, could still be there in my life: fun sex, thrilling sex, dirty sex, hot urgent sex, animal sex. And it was a joy and relief to discover that I wasn’t over the hill or undesirable. Contact ads can be completely absurd and unrealistic in their demands; as if lovers were like home-delivery pizzas, and all you had to do was choose your toppings. Yet it was also liberating to find that others, especially other women, could be that confident and upfront about what they wanted. As I’ve discovered since, fulfilling a particular desire someone expresses - however unusual or exacting that might be - is so much more fun and so much easier to do, than always struggling to meet some vague, unspecified demand, which is never quite made clear and so can never be satisfied…….

Monday 12 February 2007

Just What Herr Doktor Ordered

I had a very interesting insight over the Christmas period……..
(Warning: sorry, no smut in this post.)
Absent family members were being discussed at the dinner table one day over the Christmas holidays. And I’ve got to admit that I was being mischievous - backing a hunch, seeking a bit of extra research - newly aware as I was of the dynamics of my childhood from my once-a-week psychoanalytic excavations. As adolescents and young men, my brother and I had attracted girls and formed relationships with them; but some insidious mechanism, planted in us during childhood, had then sabotaged our desire. It still rankled that I’d parted from my first real love, for no good reason at all. And I’d seen my brother Tom lose his earliest amours in a similar way; almost giving them up to rivals, like some noble fictional character. It seemed that neither of us had possessed the determination to really go for the one who mattered and either fight for her, or hang onto her.
“Whatever happened to that beautiful girl, Heather - the one Tom was going out with at university?” I enquired innocently of my mother. “My brother should have stayed with her. She liked him – I’m sure she did. And she was gorgeous and perfect for him - I thought it was a done thing, and then he went and let her go.”
“Oh she did, she did like him,” my mother confirmed; “she even called her little boy Thomas.”
I was surprised by this immediate and unequivocal confirmation of my suspicions.
“Blimey! Of course there was someone else, wasn’t there – an Irish guy - there’s always someone else lurking in the background, where a beautiful woman is concerned……”
“Yes, but she preferred Tom.”
“Evidently! Either that, or she just liked the name. But why didn’t he hang onto her, then?” I insisted; though I hadn’t been shelling out for therapy every week without having a damn good idea of the answer to this question. “He should have got her away from this other character.”
“I don’t know – he just seemed to let her go.”
Mindful of an opportunity to instruct and encourage my teenage boys not to make the same mistakes, but always to go for it in matters of the heart, I warmed to my theme:
“He shouldn’t have done. He should’ve just said: ‘Come with me – now! – I want you more than anything or anyone else. I’m taking you to Paris – tonight!’” I went on. “Or New York, or wherever…. The point is, tell her in no uncertain terms that she’s the one for you and you’re going to prove it to her…. So bear that in mind!” I told my sons.
“Righto, Dad. You won’t mind when I touch you for the airfare, then,” the oldest came back, quick as a flash.
“Oh well, at least you practise what you preach,” my wife chimed in. “I’d only known you a couple of weeks, and you said: ‘Come to Ibiza with me’. I was very tempted, but in the end, I said ‘no’, because I thought I hadn’t known you long enough and then you’d see too much of me too soon and get put off…… I suppose I should just have said ‘yes’!”
Well, that would have been the right answer.

Anyway, all this was a bit of a turn-up - and way more information than I’d been expecting. I’d completely forgotten that proposal of mine; though I did remember that (distant) holiday; finally taken on my own, on an as-yet unspoilt Ibiza. Apparently, I had learnt from my first loss, after all. On the other hand, you could say, with hindsight, that I had received advance warning of unsuitability, which I obviously went on to ignore at my peril. We can’t have been completely mismatched, since we’ve stayed together, brought up children, etc. Yet I had been forewarned of trouble ahead: that early test had demonstrated my present partner and I were not well matched in some important ways: she’d evidently lacked confidence; as well as my impulsiveness and my romantic nature.

Something else came to me, subsequently. I realised why it gave me so much pleasure to take Karolina to Spain or Paris – apart from the fact that she's gorgeous and fun, that is - it was because she’d said, ‘yes’.

I remember the first time we went away together. We’d arranged to meet up at a particular airport, and I’d been nervous she’d change her mind. (I think I now understand how much was riding on it). Anyway, she’d had various transport problems and had got herself delayed. I couldn’t get her mobile to answer. I tried to be philosophical and decide whether to wait for her in the hope she’d still turn up so we could go on later, or whether to abandon the break entirely. But I had no idea what to do really and I was getting a bit despondent. Then, at the last minute, I saw her making her way through the crowds, and when she caught sight of me she gave me that big, perfect smile of hers and my heart just melted; it just overran with happiness: I loved her, then, simply for turning up. I was so happy, I felt like crying.

And that’s how it went on – or rather, it got even better. We caught the plane, landed in southern Spain, and picked up the hire car. As we headed west along the main coast highway in the unaccustomed brightness of the late morning sunshine, K put some music on, and wore her big Dior shades, and we opened up the windows and the sunroof, and the warm wind whipped her dark hair back, just like in those Springsteen songs. On one side, the Mediterranean was azure, paling to translucence where it met a cloudless sky. On the other, hamlets and billboards and truck stops and fields baked the colour of biscuit gave way to the ragged outlines of the Sierra Blanca, already floating in a heat haze. I wanted to say something; to tell her how it felt to be there, with her beside me, at the beginning of a holiday.
“Ahhh!” she sighed, before I could say anything; “here is perfect! This is just what we ordered……?”
“Just what the doctor ordered.”
“Ye-es! Is just what the doctor ordered.”

My thoughts exactly. (I assume she meant Dr Freud, not Dr Foster who went to Gloucester, or Dr Mengele, Dr Doolittle, or Dr Jekyl.) I felt as if I’d been holding my breath for twenty-five years and could finally exhale. Is this the meaning and nature of a mid-life crisis – to identify the thing you needed and to do it again – so that you can get it right this time? To act your symptom? You lose sight of it, I suppose, in the welter of children and careers and home-making; but it never goes away. I hadn’t known it at the time, of course; but perhaps all I’d been after, I now realise, was someone who said ‘yes!’ – not, ‘I don’t know you well enough’, or ‘perhaps later’, or ‘I’ll give it some thought.’ Because when will you ever know anyone well enough; when will it be 'later' and yet not 'too late'?

In fact, not only did she say ‘yes’; but when we got back from Spain, she looked up at the departures board, and said: “Let’s go somewhere else! Where shall we go now?”
No wonder I have such happy holidays with K. And yet there’s something else, particular to her. Because it doesn’t matter what she proposes – a restaurant or club, getting drunk, a midnight swim, modelling her new shoes, or simply riding through Paris with her in a cab – whatever it is, Karolina has that knack of convincing you completely that you’re in exactly the right place, doing the best possible thing you could be doing – and doing it in the best possible company. So you are utterly lost in the moment – there’s nothing of you left over, wanting something more or something else.
Material Girls

In Stardust Memories, (1980) Woody Allen has a recurring dream of riding on a train, in a carriage of miserable misfits, and glancing across to a train on parallel tracks, where attractive people are clearly having a ball. Although one of them (a youthful Sharon Stone, as it happens) beckons him over, he’s unable to leave his own train and the tracks eventually diverge, sealing his fate. Driving along that sunny Mediterranean highway with Karolina, I felt as though I had finally managed to get across to the other train.

Saturday 20 January 2007

Dressing Her Up In My Love

Back, at last, after a lengthy Christmas and New Year break. (It would be a bit sad, wouldn't it, if I had time to do it more reliably?).

My lover and I have gone to some trouble to gradually put our respective families on a friendly footing. This works out well; though unfortunately, it did not mean I got to see her New Year’s Eve as we’d planned, and we ended up at different dos. They came round to ours for a little get-together another day, though – and it was nice to hear my partner talking approvingly of B’s parenting skills afterwards. For that matter, I was gratified to hear B complement my partner, in a subsequent debriefing session (haha); confirming my own opinion that she's been looking considerably more chic and lighter on her feet of late.

B was looking good, too: wearing jewellry I'd given her and a skirt I'd bought for her birthday, late last year; a black, layered little number, which swings and flares nicely when she walks.
(Honestly, I’m unafraid out there in the glossy world of girlie things – the only problem I have is lack of infinite funds. “Is there something else we could show you?” they asked me in a jewellery shop one day. “Don’t tempt me,” I warned, minded to invest in half their stock; “I’m at a very difficult age.”)
Doubtless, this was a territorial stratagem on B’s part – wanting to be marked as mine and remind me that she’s my girl - but I appreciated the gesture, since I really don’t get enough opportunities to see her in things I’ve given her.

We had a bit of a ding-dong just before Christmas over this very issue, as it happens. B was resentful of spending on other 'friends'. There are loads of reasons why this wasn’t fair or reasonable; though of course, being fair and reasonable isn’t in her job description, I must admit. For starters, any spending ought, by rights, to be on my partner, not my lover; as I pointed out. And most of it is on holidays, which means it’s on me, really. A few gifts don’t make me the soft touch she assumes. I mean, I know someone who was given a BMW convertible, for fuck’s sake - now that woman has got a proper sugar daddy! Me, I’m just an average Joe who knows his way around a clothes store. What’s more, it’s unfair, because she gets a lot of offerings – I mean, apart from lingerie and hotel bills. They’re just little gifts - a gesture to show I’m thinking of her all the time when we’re not together – but they’re things which by rights her partner ought to be giving her: jackets and knitwear and dresses and jewellery, gloves and hats, a watch, shoes, etc.

I understand, of course. At home, she’s someone’s mum, someone’s partner. But with me, she’s simply an object of desire and that’s what she wants: to be the babe, to be the glamorous mistress, spoilt with treats. So she doesn’t want that role usurped by someone else, someone younger. Problem is, there are unwritten rules. If I’m away with a friend like K for a few days (while my lover is on holiday with her family, playing dutiful wifey to Bugger-lugs), then my companion is entitled to my devotion and attention and indulgence in all its forms; just as my partner is when I’m with her, and just as B would be, if she was able to get away with me. And this is how it works: you're out together, you see something which would look good on her, so maybe you treat her. She’s happy. Then, when you're together that evening, she wears it for you. You admire her in it and you’re both happy. You get back to the hotel, and take it off her. Simple. You can be given the odd pair of earrings to show someone cares; but I’m not sure you can always have the the full kit without the man getting to enjoy you in it; you can’t have things simply because you live with some unimaginative, tight-fisted, boorish, indolent fart who forgets your birthday and buys you an egg whisk for Christmas! It’s not really on, I feel.

Nevertheless, the festive season was fast approaching and I love her to distraction, so what could I do? A little spoiling was in order. At the end of the day, I had to get her nice presents – ones which answered her hints about warm yet cute nightclothes, perhaps – because if I didn’t, I knew her lazy husband wouldn’t and then she’d have made all the effort at Christmas for everyone else and no one would have been thinking of her pleasure, of what she needed. And yet…….. And yet why was I making a woman look cute and desirable for my ‘rival’, and at bedtime, too, for Christsakes – when he couldn’t himself be arsed to get her anything much (and when I wouldn’t even see her in them)? Readers will surely appreciate my predicament.

Then I hit on a solution: a pyjama party! I’d give the presents to her at hotel meetings and break them in, so to speak, before sending her home in them! Perfect. I had to give her one warm, cuddly pair of pyjamas to open at Christmas without an opportunity to fuck her in them: so I made the requirement that she masturbate wearing them instead, and let me have the details by email. The other gifts would wait til we met up, and I could get to enjoy them on her, and her in them…...
This arrangement worked very well, I thought.
Sure enough, her family gave her nothing, or crap:
The pyjamas were my best present - though I must admit there wasn't much competition. I got one box of chocolates from Lidl and another from the Co-op. One sister said presents had to conform to LOAF precepts – locally sourced, organic, animal-friendly. Worthy and appropriate as principles for day to day living, perhaps - but for presents? – I’d like to make a plea for FUL principles: frivolous, unnecessary, and luxurious!

And over the hols, I duly got my report:
I love the pyjamas. I might have to get some more so I don’t have to keep washing these ones.
I did an experiment last night….. I had a bath and put on my pyjamas. I was tired, but horny too (after all, I had prepared to see you – see above) AND I had to do my sit-ups. I thought one way to get everything done and get to sleep quickly would be to masturbate while I did sit-ups. More successful than you would think – the sit-ups tense your muscles, leaving your hand to work away. I kept my mind on counting while pleasuring myself with my fingers – which I thought would keep me from coming too soon. But I had to stop and keep my – by now very sticky – fingers still well before I got to 100 and – of course – I then made myself wait while I did the extra 25. After that a shuddering climax was merely a wet finger away – though I would probably have come in anticipation very soon regardless.

So far, so good. Then there was a big fluffy dressing gown I’d got her. She was going to look just so sweet and cute in this, that male territoriality was obviously going to demand something uncuddly, like cock-sucking. It was pinky-white, so I got a very pretty, hot, little combi to go under it, in black lace with pink ribbons. What a treat! The knickers looked so good, she admitted wearing them the next day, too, beneath her work clothes (which doubtless reprised the fun in her idle moments).

I opened the gown and slipped my hand under them. God, how I love my little pussy! And after I’d spent an enjoyable time getting her into third gear, she did this thing which always slays me, whether she uses her own finger or mine: she lithely wriggles her hips, her arse, her entire lower body, in a rhythmic undulation; so that your finger is travelling up her slit, touching base with her clitoris, then sliding down her lips, to start travelling up towards her clitoris again. Bliss. She tried to make me stop before she came, because she likes it to keep building, but I carried on, responding to her body, not her words, until I’d got her bleating.

We don’t do ‘turns’; but she did then focus her attention on my cock: as much for her own further stimulation, as my satisfaction, I’m sure. Soon I’m kneeling either side of her waist - so that she’s in a good position to wank and suck me - and she’s making the gurgling, moaning noises typical of the first stages of demonic possession, one hand wrapped around it and the other curled into her slit.

How did she get to be the best cock wanker I’ve ever come across? Dunno: I can only assume she trained hard as a teenager and has refined the technique since. What makes it so hot, though, isn’t technique; it’s the obvious way it turns her on. She isn’t doing me a favour: if I refused, she’d beg me to let her wank it (a pleasing thought I’ll have to put off til another time). And once she’s started, she doesn’t mess about: she lubes it up generously and tackles it with both hands, like an expert potter. Whereas your cock shrinks from someone unconfident, tentative, or clumsy, as much irritated as stimulated; it becomes even more engorged and rigid in her firm, excited, admiring caress: jutting rudely into the air above her abdomen and breasts, like a living flagpole on some proud national day, eager as it is for more of the same treatment.

Then she’s shuffling down, to lick and suck my balls, running her tongue up and down the shaft, while still wanking the head of it. Oh happy day! Her hot mouth feels absolutely unbelievable as she tongues the base of my cock, licks my perineum, takes one of my balls into her suck, and then licks her way back up the shaft again. I’m so lost in it, I can’t even find the words to encourage or guide her, beg her or thank her: I’m just making inarticulate noises. I can’t bear her to stop. Luckily, she has no intention of stopping - but she’s going to go slow.

And it’s very hard to find the words for how it feels to approach orgasm, very very slowly, in your lover’s mouth. It’s an exquisite torture. You can’t thrust, you just have to wait. One thing’s for sure: it feels a fuck of a lot better than it looks in porn! To my mind, they haven’t even got the right technique: wanking away roughly; bullying their cocks into a performance for which they aren’t even ready. When you’re fucking urgently, then your crisis may be something you’re striving towards, together. But when someone’s playing with you, ejaculation shouldn’t be something you aim and struggle for – after all, most of us, men and women, can come any time we like, in a few minutes flat, under the right circumstances (or even the wrong ones). No, if she (or he) is any good, it should be a release you find yourself pleading to be given, when you can take no more stimulation.
You have to grant the other person the power to withhold, or to give, in order for you to receive.

Sometimes, it is good to be sucked off deeply, vigorously and enthusiastically, by someone determined and eager to make you spurt. What am I talking about? – it’s fantastic! But it can also be fabulous to go slow. So although she starts out tonguing and sucking my cock with her usual alacrity, I find the trick is to get her to wank it - up, up, up…..Woah! Steady…… and up a little bit more – up to a plateau where you can hardly bear it. Now the little minx can return to licking and sucking it again – very slowly and lasciviously, this time, kittenishly and luxuriously - while you squirm and quiver and plead with her to get it right into her gob and make you come. Then she knows that any time she wants, she can open up, encircle your cock with her mouth, and go at it steadily til you holler, sending hot jissom down her throat; but she can also make you wait…..
“Oh God, I love that moment,” she said to me once, (once, when her mouth wasn’t full); “it’s like a surge in the current - when it clicks and you're climbing together; when you just suddenly know it’s going to happen for you both, soon……..”

But she doesn’t do it; she doesn’t open up and go at it: instead, she just carries on, running the flat of her tongue slowly and firmly up the underside of the shaft, from my balls, all the way to the swollen head of the thing; then starting over at the base. Of course you want to give it up: you want to give in and wank it over her face, or you want her to get to grips with it properly, or deep throat it; but you have to resist all these impulses. Instead, one of you - and it doesn't matter who, really - one of you needs to just tease and chivvy and caress your cock towards its inevitable moments of spurting glory, with a rapid, delicate, encircling touch - one as quick and light as the vibration which a woman might want in order to be teased to climax – while she licks and sucks and coaxes the cum from you with her mouth…..
And that’s what she does to me, a hand completing its mission between her legs as my cock jerks a flood of warm spunk over her eager tongue.

So that’s the fluffy dressing gown and the pretty bra and knickers set satisfactorily gifted. I’ve still got another pair of sexier, satiny pyjamas to give her, though. And I haven’t yet decided what I’m going to do to put my mark on them, before she can take them home: should I pull the trousers down to her ankles and slowly lick her out? Tempting. Or pull them down just far enough from behind, and fuck her up her arse?
You’ll have to watch this space. Maybe it’ll be both - and more – whatever I feel it'll take to make sure her sleepwear will always have the right kind of associations, whenever she wears them later – me, and the ruder forms of pleasure………………...