Referee!

In the film Unfaithful, the cheating wife is shown becoming less and less capable as a partner and as a mother, in direct proportion to her growing infatuation with her lover. (This Adrian Lynne remake of Chabrol is a creaking affair – haha – which nicely casts Richard Gere as the creepy jealous husband and Kylie’s French ex-squeeze Olivier Martinez as the lover to Diane Lane). So, for example, Lane falls asleep in Martinez’s arms; with the result that she’s late to collect her child from his posh school (like we haven’t all done this for no very good reason now and then). She impulsively abandons her (not very onerous) wifely duties and diverts to the city, only to catch Martinez with another woman and attack him in a jealous fit. She invents spurious charitable projects and lies about them to creepy Gere. (Sorry, but I even found him creepy in Pretty Woman; in fact, he’s always been too creepy for the romantic leads he’s been given; whereas he was perfectly cast as a devious, vicious and corrupt cop in Internal Affairs). Worst of all, our anti-heroine burns the dinner!


Those who haven’t seen it, may think I’m exaggerating. But no – I swear, the burning of the dinner gets more time than any other misdemeanor (apart from the glossy sexual encounters, of course – Lynne’s speciality). In the world of the film, this is the crime passionale – and not Gere’s later murder of her lover. What is really beyond the pale, apparently, is to mistreat your partner’s food. (And yet – once more – how many of us do this to our partner’s dinner without the excuse of a hot affair to distract us?) I only mention it because the camera lingers in sustained close-ups on the smoking pan – and even follows the leads into the dining room to watch her apologise to creepy Gere for slightly tougher than usual chicken. Hey, it’s fiction – they made it up – and she can be abducted by aliens if the scriptwriters so desire. But she isn’t, of course; because they wish to stay firmly within a recognizable, contemporary suburban world.

Well, excuse me – but in that contemporary world, not everyone automatically fails as a partner or mother or cook, just because they’re getting some extra cock! No surprise that the film made me want to shout, "Referee!" In fact, if you’re not pretty damn good at multi-tasking, better not play away in the first place. My own Cutie-pie has never been afflicted with this strange difficulty. It’s a very intense – and very physical – connection between us. It’s not as if she doesn’t take time out of her life for us, or spend time thinking about me:
You must excuse me; I need to have a bath and fantasise about being with the man of my dreams next weekend.
Although even she admits that it’s hard sometimes:
I'm glad it's not just me that finds the love powerful, precious, and tender. I've never known anything like it either. As you say, it's way beyond sex or romance. It is hard to manage along with a demanding life. But wonderful.


Yet manage she does: she juggles, she multi-tasks, she prioritises (mostly she prioritises her family – quite rightly, but much to my irritation). She finds a balance, I suppose. So one email might be about her need for anal sex:
I want you to fuck me in the arse again so badly. It's very pleasurable for me and makes me feel like - nothing... That doesn't translate well, I know. It stops time. Is that clearer?
Another might be about her diligence in the kitchen:
Tomorrow I'm baking. I truly am a Domestic Goddess though with less glamour and more tupperware than Nigella. At least I don't have an arse which has to be shot in soft focus or behind large objects.
or:
You would love my place today. I played house all evening yesterday, post-barbeque, getting it clean so I could spend today cooking. There is just so much food ready to eat. I had to cook two chickens but I had vegetarian children for tea and we are eating out tomorrow, so I have two cold chickens, one of which I stuffed under the skin with coriander, chillies, ginger, garlic and lime, which will keep us going for a day or two. And I made double quantities of lunch and tea so there are enough meals to please anyone.


Motherly duties are not abandoned, you see – in fact, they dovetail nicely with trysts for sex. She’s more than happy to grab a seeing-to while the kids are at Cubs, or in their music lessons. Taking them there provides for some private time - and earns brownie points with him indoors. We don’t need hours at it – we do some chit-chat, we fool around, we fuck - she comes, I come. I drive her back to her vehicle, or to wherever she’s arranged to collect her kids – and she’s on time. It’s not that hard. And she’s not even involved in complicated lies and pretence – she did a bit of shopping, she went for a coffee, she called in at work…..


In fact, the whole business of being loved-up – cherished and wanted, adored and desired (not to mention the actual rogering) – seams to energise her. In the couple of weeks before a recent threesome we’d arranged, she reported unusual levels of capability, even for her:
I hope you wake up tomorrow feeling better... I have been the opposite. I have had so much energy. I have kept myself really really busy. But still, somehow, found time to dwell on my excitement.
And last week, for example, I saw her at the flat we’re using for an hour and a half – while she was ostensibly back at work, catching up with some outstanding matters there. I pulled her clothes off in no time, licked her out, fingered and fiddled with her until she climaxed; and then, after some face-fucking, I came on her tongue. Then we fooled around some more, I fucked her good – and we both came again. I’d picked her up at her work at 8.30 – and I deposited her again, fairly satisfied, I hope – back at her work car park, just after 10pm. No children were abandoned, no risky lies were necessary, and definitely no dinners burnt during this activity.
On the contrary, about half-past midnight, she emailed me and told me all the things she’d done since she got in. Far from burning the dinner, she seemed to have gone into housewife overdrive:
Darling
Sorry it's so late.
This is what I have done since coming home:
Washed - and dried - two loads of washing
Made a cake
Made bread
Made soup
(because it's the first day of the holidays and I want them to have nice snacks and a favourite lunch).
Washed the salad compartment of the fridge
Cleaned the cooker
Unloaded and re-loaded the dishwasher
Sometimes even I am stunned into silence by my domestic goddess-osity.


(Interestingly, although it’s quite a close remake of the French film, Unfaithful differs from the Chabrol original. It also departs from other fictions – John Updike’s work, for example – exploring similar territory; that is, the sexual mores of middle class suburbanites in New York and New England. We might say that in the Chabrol film, (La Femme Infidele), the wife is gratified by her husband’s possessiveness and that the act of violence restores their relationship; though her acceptance of her culpability and collusion will not save him from justice. In Unfaithful, on the other hand, we feel that the wife’s ‘moment of madness’ (a literal and figurative fall which initiates the affair) plunges the couple from their idyllic existence into a purgatory of deception, guilt, mutual recrimination and fear of discovery. Their shared closing fantasy of escape together to a Mexican beach may, like the original, suggest that the wife finally accepts the husband's possessive love instead of being horrified by it; but it is also unconvincing: an excess of female desire has destroyed them both. The suburbanites John Updike shows us inhabit an earthly, fallen paradise of compromises and delights. No such subtleties for Adrian Lynne’s protagonists, who thus end up in a hell of their own making.)

THEY DIDN'T LOOK AFTER THEIR NICE THINGS

When my lover and I talk about our spouses and how they lost us to this passion we now share, she’ll sometimes say to me,
"Well, what did they expect - they didn’t look after their nice things, did they…..?"


No, they didn’t; but some would find this a childishly trite and cynical dismissal of two marriages, of two decent partners’ reasonable expectations of loyalty and fidelity. And yet, trite as it may seem, it hides a world of pain. There’s all the desperate longing of the ugly duckling - the gauche teenager, the girl from a big, impoverished family - who didn’t have any of the advantages the pretty, popular, middle-class girls took for granted - and who’s finally the swan she dreampt of becoming, with the life and the love she deserves within her grasp. And however flippant it seems, it also reflects the years of confusion and distress she experienced in her marriage, after the birth of her children; as her husband denied her the affection, attention, passion and affirmation she so desperately craved. In a constant, undermining war of attrition conducted through sniping, derogatory asides, sulks, arguments, bad moods and public put-downs, he made it clear that she was just too much: too committed to work (but also too committed to their home and to housework), too loud, too demanding, too sexual, too sociable, too much of a gadabout, too superficial, too profligate, too demonstrative, too excitable – and, amazingly, too affectionate.


This appears perverse. She does ask for this attention and affection and affirmation – and she does need a lot - but I find she demands it very charmingly indeed. And she returns so much love, so much joie de vivre and so much attentiveness in exchange; it’s like having a light shining on you. In retrospect, we both agree that my love rival would have been so much happier had he got himself hitched to one of those bossy, ungirly, undemonstrative women. You know, the ones who wear frumpy clothes and elasticated trousers; who exhibit an almost evangelical fervour about making their children and family life the very centre of their world; who aren’t big on glamour or grooming, who actually like going camping or visiting relatives when they go away, instead of staying in a decent hotel; and who either have a matey, mucking-in-together relationship with their partners, or organise, bully and manage them as an additional, and particularly wayward, child.


Instead, he found someone considerably fluffier than his requirements - someone who was going to want him to be a man to her woman - and someone who was gong to be confused and disappointed when he wouldn’t step up. I can see how he went wrong. On paper, there was a good fit. My lover, B, values family and home, as he does. They share a multitude of similar values on everything from politics to child-rearing to managing money. Having escaped parochial backgrounds for a more cosmopolitan world, they seemed to take an equal gregarious pleasure in a shared bohemian cultural milieu - at least until the arrival of children revealed that he’d really rather stay in, while she still craved the sophisticated adult company in which she sparkles and shines. And though she didn’t consciously realise it, I’m sure that from her point of view, his grudging approval and affection; so often withheld, so difficult to win, answered her deep, abiding, overwhelming need; not only to please others, but to earn that approval the hard way. (The merest glance at her emails to me, so often requesting that I make uncompromising sexual demands in a firm and unfriendly way – and then respond to their performance with rewards or punishments – shows how central this predisposition is to her well-being and pleasure).


Sadly, like so many relationships, the more profound ‘fit’ between them is probably based on a banal delusion. If I wanted to get Lacanian about it, I’d say that his choice of partner fulfilled his mother’s deep-seated fantasy of men’s imperfection. Although B describes her father-in-law as “a sweet and lovely man”, she’s also reported the way her mother-in-law has always treated her husband as an inadequate irritant. The failure to give love or respect would not have been lost on their son, scrutinising them constantly for signs and information to assist his survival, anxious to make sense of the relationship between the adults central to his existence, keen to please the carers on whom he completely relied, and wanting to become for her whatever his unformed mind interpreted as his mother’s desire. Pure speculation, of course; but unless I miss my guess, I’ll bet his lack of confidence originates in a mother who always withheld her complete approval; who left him needing more from her, always; and thus unable to simply act confidently under his own steam. Whatever love she felt, how could she offer her unqualified approval to a child who would become another man? – and who would thus challenge the fantasy that she had no desire; she could be complete, in herself, without the male. (And he would fulfil her fantasy, because he would be unable to manage on his own, fully, always waiting for her approval). Growing up, D would not want to become the despised object of a woman’s distain, like his dad; and yet, when he met a woman who would be, in every way, ‘too much’ for him – and thus might well become disdainful of him - he couldn’t help himself and refused to see the writing on the wall. A woman who could not be satisfied by him, who was in due course absolutely bound to find him frustrating and inadequate, must surely have been uncomfortable for him – and yet, paradoxically, must have felt just like ‘home’.


I know it all seems a bit like Ibsen – but that whiskery old Norwegian miseryguts had a point. In Lacan’s work I see the most convincing explanation I’ve ever come across, of how the poison is passed down through the generations – through the child’s inevitable striving to interpret the mother’s fantasy and fulfil it by trying to become the object of her supposed desire. And the pursuit of this same objective through a replacement love object in maturity may so easily mean that the male child and his new partner become locked into another version of this same fantasy, this same impairment of the relationship between them. And, in due course, bring up children who will duly note this problem at the heart of the central relationship in their lives, making sense of it as best they can; and duly interpret their mother’s fantasy in their own way, too; to their life-long detriment…….


All might have been well if B’s desire was simply to be unsatisfied – as it almost was - but that is not quite the nature of her wish. She wants approval tantalisingly withheld – just as she loves sexual pleasure masterfully and playfully suspended – and she wants to then earn it, win it and work hard for it, before approval and affirmation are finally, mercifully, granted. To B, her future partner must have seemed just the ticket – hadn’t he been schooled in withholding approval by his mother, who’d done it to him throughout his childhood? Unfortunately, B only wants it temporarily withheld - she does not want it spitefully withdrawn for good in a petty, vindictive way and thus never available to her. So, not only was she frustrated, but the longed-for prize – even the prize of being made to wait - seemed cruelly denied, so very close to being granted. What could so easily have been the pleasurable torment she desired, instead became painful torture.


What B will say now, is that her husband was ‘nasty’ to her. Curiously, it was not the put-downs and bad moods and lack of affection which seem to be resented most; what she complains of in retrospect was that he “wouldn’t give her sex when (she) wanted it”. This is her most damning evidence of his cruelty; paradoxical when so many females complain of too much attention from their partners. She still believes this must have been “deliberate”, or conscious; which seems odd, at first, to an outsider. But perhaps it isn’t so very far from the truth. In finding her demands “too much” – as he was bound to do, since he’d selected her in order to fall short of them - and in rejecting or frustrating them as a consequence, her husband, D, also fulfilled his own deepest needs; that is, to be an inadequate object of desire to the woman.


One can only suppose that at her most desperate, B reached some sort of ‘tipping point’, when her impatience with what must have seemed like needless and undeserved cruelty reached a critical mass. How desperately she must have longed for someone to take charge of her overwhelming desire and restrain it for her – a very different thing to rejecting it, so that she resentfully had to curb it herself. And it must have been at this moment that I appeared on the scene. Conveniently, I was moving in the opposite direction, as it were: when I was younger, I, too, had been unable to tolerate all the demands of B’s kind of femininity, for reasons of my own; though this is exactly what I had always wanted. Now I could handle it, I’d become desperate for the affection, attention, frivolity, girlishness, sensuality, sluttiness and sheer gorgeousness that went with it: my desire was for precisely her kind of woman. And while I’d lobbied and pleaded, seduced and cajoled – in vain – to reach my partner’s desires; here was a woman who was all desire, all wanting; who desperately needed a man's uncompromising demand for performance and looking and submissiveness and pleasing, in order to fulfil herself.



And yet……….and yet this is an unfolding story. I was ready for her – just – and she was ready for me (almost). But the reasons why she was with the wrong man and I was with the wrong woman hadn’t been entirely misguided at the time and hadn’t entirely evaporated. Perhaps they didn’t look after their nice things; but we weren’t ready to replace them. I wasn’t willing to commit completely to the challenge of someone so exhaustively and exhaustingly demanding. And while the licence of an affair gave B the opportunity to indulge her sexuality to the hilt, her marriage gave her every reason to limit it for the sake of her established life:
I can't help it. I love it. But I 'm trying to keep it all under control...


It must have seemed as if she couldn't help herself:
The truth is I don't even let ideas about being with you into my mind. It's too scary. You have to remember, I don't actually want this, it's only my strong feelings for you that allow it to happen and that's why I fight with myself at times. I don't want it, I don't have time for it but I can't help myself. Inconvenient as it may be, I love you.
And she may have told herself that this is the power of love, too great to be denied by convention. I suspect it is something more profound and powerful: she discovered she could have her desire. No wonder she's always felt she cou;dn't help herself. But far from being inconvenient, it’s my experience that I’ve been fitted rather neatly, by a well-organised and resourceful woman, into the fabric of her life, without jeopardising its other priorities and demands at all.


And interestingly, B is now puzzled – and often disconcerted – to find that her partner D, suddenly shows more interest in her than before; partly sexual, yes; but mostly just taking up her time with what she calls “old people’s” chat...
I hope you are being spared a reprise of any sex shennanigans. I thankfully am, as I'm currently keeping him so busy that he's happy but too tired at bedtime for exessive bothering (other than the chatty, old people's stuff).
Again, perhaps it is not so surprising. For one thing, she no longer needs or wants him. She has been steadily becoming someone else’s partner and he has happily given her up. He may not consciously recognise this, of course – I get the impression he’d be most upset if he did. But he cannot help but unconsciously respond to her heightened chic, her better moods, the gloss and glow and confidence which comes from love and attention, from feeling yourself valued and adored. And his nasty moods have gone: here we have him companiable, tired but happy. He can enjoy her without the paralysing responsibility or pressure of even trying to meet her not inconsiderable desires; which has always led to disappointment on her side and inadequacy on his. He may not know it, but he has handed her over, as Rene gives O to Sir Stephen; and he probably feels only pleasure and relief. If you doubt my surmise, what about this little gem: her recent birthday card from her children bore not only their names, but his birthday greeting, too - signed 'Dad'. Now, he is the dad of the other signatories - but not of the recipient - why wasn't his Christian name there instead; or another card also given, bearing more romantic wishes? In a sense, by finding a lover and making him her man, she's finally freed her partner from the banal expectations of his mother’s destructive fantasy. She is doubtless much easier to live with: she is no longer angry and frustrated with him for denying her what she wants.

THE CONSUMATE SLUT

It’s puzzling that I had never previously understood the height, the breadth, the sheer scope of my lover B’s sexual and emotional ambitions. I have always known that she wanted to please me - and believe me, there is no limit to how pleasing she wants to be. And I’ve always known she wanted to be the best – the best I’ve ever had and the best I will ever have. And yet, I hadn’t previously understood that she wanted to actually be the sexiest bitch in the whole wide world. Phew! Well, you wouldn’t know that, would you? - not if someone is, to all intents and purposes, a model mother, partner, colleague, friend, sister, daughter, and so on – you wouldn’t know that, inside of someone’s head, they’re at the Chateau de Roissy, learning total submission to men. Yes, it’s true that, together with these more public roles, she’s always been an endearing and sexy mistress to me on the sly. And okay, she’s always liked me to show who’s boss, in a playful sort of way, right from the start of our relationship. It’s quite a recent change to call me ‘Sir’ - though only in private, and only when very very excited. This, though, is qualitatively different – this is about performance, this is about a quest for personal fulfilment, this is about wanting the power and the glory – this is a woman who wants to become the consummate slut. I wonder if even she had realised how ambitious she was, previously:

So, yes, I'm doing everything I do to please you. But, yes, I admit, within that remit, what I will always want to do is to tease, please, win over and make my own, every man or woman we play with. You ask whether it’s my overwhelming desire, my instinctive reflex - with every single man I encounter sexually - to offer them whatever they want? Whatever they would most like to have? Whatever they would most like to do with me? Whatever is most exciting to them? Yes. Yes, that sounds like a reasonable view to me. I know it's deeply slutty but I can't help it, Baby.

You’re absolutely right - what motivates ME is not extra cock or pussy - it's being worked hard at being pleasing. Pleasing you. And pleasing someone in front of you - showing him (and you) that I'm (trying to be) the most pleasing woman in the universe. Sorry...?

Do I really want to be the ultimate, the consummate slut? Well, yes, I suppose I do…..
You’re right – though I hadn’t realised it before. No, it is not enough for me to act the slut. I want to be seen by you too. OK, that's true. Yes, I want you to watch me being a slut - for you! Of COURSE I want you to see I am the best with anyone.

See what I mean? As a result of this discovery, I have had to step up my input in a big way; because I feel she wants me to assist her with this very ambitious project.

It’s a dirty job, but hey, someone has to etcetera, so I do what I can to help. This week, we concentrated on oral skills. Not so much how to suck cock, or have your pussy licked; because she’s pretty damned hot in these departments already. More a question of how to be the best, how to get it right with a new playmate, how to do these things in a situation with more than one sexual partner; that sort of thing. Most important of all (and definitely most important to her), is the question of how to look good in front of someone else - whether your lover, a third party, or that implied other which every mirror represents – and to look good as a sexual object, to make yourself into an erotic spectacle, while receiving or giving oral.

So first, she practised asking – very sweetly – if she could please suck my cock? Not would I like my cock sucked; but rather, would I allow her to do so, would I please permit it, because she would like to – and, in the case of another man, because she would like to do so in front of me, for me. And would I please tell her how I would like it sucked? Could she lick it first? – because she would like that. And please, please could I spunk on her face or her tits when she makes me come – because she wants that, she wants to see and feel and taste the spunk - and she wants her lover to see that, to see her enjoying it.

Apart from anything else, such pleas and prompts should ensure wood on another male – no one wants to try to suck a cock as spectacle, if that cock is anything but rock hard. But what if her sex partner still wasn’t rigid enough? I pushed her. Time to practice more moves…. I get her to pull down the bra part of the ludicrously filthy outfit she’s wearing and run her nipples up my abdomen and chest, while stroking my cock through my jeans. Ok! She turns, bends forwards from the waist, pushing her arse back into my groin, and grinds it round and round. Good move, better. She turns and rolls up my tee-shirt up, licks my abdomen, bites my nipples gently. And when her mouth reaches my neck, she asks if she could now please unfasten my jeans. Very good! Lessons are easy when you’ve got a star pupil. I let her. Her mouth travels down again, she gets onto her knees, and with flawless expertise, unbuckles and undoes the jeans. She cradles my cock in her cleavage – a nice touch – lubes it up, and sets to work with her tongue.

There’s just so much work to do! There always is – that must be why it’s called a blow job – but especially so when you need it to be as dirty as possible and as visually affecting as possible. She licks my balls, tongues and kisses and bites my groin and perineum and lower abdomen, and it feels fantastic. I get her to kneel prettily – arse out, back concave, tits out, head back to take in the full length of my cock. She knows to wrap a hand around the base; holding it hard and steady, but also ensuring that when her mouth is covering the top half, it feels completely enclosed. But I have to point out that she mustn’t get too close; so that a viewer can watch as much of the shaft as possible slowly disappearing into her mouth and sliding out again.

And then there’s looking……. There’s a scene in Paltrow senior’s film Duets, where Maria Bello’s star-struck waitress, who’ll do anything to reach the karaoke finals she’s sure will break her into the big-time, makes a car paint-shop proprietor an offer he can’t refuse, in a bid to disguise the stolen car in which she’s travelling. When he quotes her the price for the respray, she doesn’t haggle or agonise, or even miss a beat; promptly responding, with a big open smile, “I’m afraid we don’t have that sort of money at this time - but I’d personally consider it an honour and a privilege to suck your cock for you, Sir.” (Or words to that effect – Drew’s Scriptorama let me down on this occasion). Cut to the car emerging from the paint shop, in its new hot pink livery. What I’ve been teaching B to do this week – strictly at her instigation and request, I emphasise – is to look at the recipient of her attentions, as if it is an honour and a privilege to suck their cock (Sir).

And that’s only the start of the additional skills she’s going to have to hone, if she really means it about being the best, about the whole super-slut business. She also has to try to look at me while giving or receiving oral to or from other parties, for example – no easy requirement, though mirrors help. She has to meet my gaze - partly to seek and confirm my continued approval, and partly to receive directions. Most importantly, she needs to do this because I am orchestrating her pleasure – the immense sexual excitement she experiences in and from such acts is also a spectacle enacted at my behest and for my enjoyment.

Luckily – though luck, of course, has nothing to do with it – the room we’re currently using has four giant, eight foot by four foot mirrors in each corner, slanting towards the floorspace and bed in the centre. So everything she does is a spectacle, everything is watched, everything is approved.

Thank you for all the mirrors. I can't tell you what a difference that makes. It works for me (like many women) in a number of ways. But mainly:

a) I want to look good. If I can check that I do then that's one less worry plus one massive confidence boost/turn-on both at the same time. Because all women learn to see themselves in the mirror in two ways: 1. The critical appraisal required for grooming and reality checks. 2. The generous approval of an interested third party.

b) I am able to actually see myself as just a woman. Just a woman interested in pleasure. Just a woman who wants to pleasure herself and please others, to take and give pleasure to her lover. By being conscious of myself in this way, I actually lose my self-consciousness - if you see what I mean...

Even so, it doesn’t always work out:

But I was disappointed that I couldn't see anything when I was sitting on your face...

Although it may seem as though all this mirror business objectifies B, trapping her as mere sexual object before an all-seeing male gaze, I’m not sure this is right. You might equally say that what B gets from the mirrors, is the vision of her own enjoyment; an entirely female pleasure, liberated from the phallic order, from the Other of law and social convention. What the mirrors are obliged to witness is her multiple transgression of such conventions: perverse acts, with someone else's partner, in front of her lover, or with two sexual partners at once. While she enjoys performing my uncompromising demands, the implied other in the mirror (daddy, husband, society) is forced to be passive and complicit; imagined by her to approve her self-indulgently bad behaviour.

For the sake of that passive third party, she has to take oral, as well as give it, in a manner which is visually pleasing and spectacular. I mean, as well as exciting for her, of course; but then, what has gone before should have made it clear that if she feels she looks good doing it, it will be exciting for her. This week I concentrated on 69 variations: partly because straddling a man’s face or chest; or taking up a position on all fours above him, is going to look and feel hotter for her, than being supine with someone’s head buried between her thighs; partly because they’re more active positions, giving her control of her pleasure. Of course she came a few times during these exercises – learning needs to be stimulating and fun – but I also think she came to see the other’s mouth, not as something to be accepted and so vulnerable to their skills or lack of them:

I never cared for pussy-licking before you. It was too difficult for anyone to get right, and they all made the same mistakes, and all went on, so terribly earnestly, for so long it was both mind and clit-numbing...

but rather as something she could actively use, like a cock, to obtain her own pleasure:

I will be forever grateful that you have allowed me to enjoy this, to relish it. Once upon a time, I never even thought any man could bring me to orgasm, licking and sucking me. I have had to accept how hot it is to have a proficient pussy-licker (aka you) getting into their stride and taking me along for the ride. And now you’ve also shown me just how I want it done for me, how to get it done for me, how to take it. And I want you to show me how to demand it – though of course I want you to use everything you know to withhold and tease me as well as pleasure me.

I know, I know – some readers may be thinking all this is a bit odd – it’s all gone rather too BDSM for your taste. But you couldn’t be more wrong about that. B loves vanilla sex – hot and sweet and one-on-one. I don’t have to make any show of forcing her to do anything; I only need to ask. And if I get it wrong, she's a tergament. She has no desire whatsoever to be part of any scene – fetish, or otherwise – or have anything which might be referred to as a ‘lifestyle’ (other than the sort on offer in Heal’s catalogues). She’s not going to be told what to do at home, like these domestic discipline people. There’s no dom/sub role-play, we’re not going to any specialist clubs. She has no interest in piercings or tattoos, let alone in any of the accoutrements and accessories of BDSM practices. She ddoesn’t call me ‘Master’ or consider herself my property, or any such nonsense. She wants to behave like any ordinary, assertive, confident, middle-class, professional woman who happens to have a lover. As her lover, I can be as firm and demanding as I like; but more than anything, she just wants to be loved, romantically; to be my baby, my darling, like any other girl. If it was otherwise, I wouldn’t have only discovered so recently that she wants to be the hottest slut in Christendom, now would I? No, B’s submissiveness is merely part of her take on feminity; a disposition as natural to her as breathing; but really only evident in her most intimate relations with men.

Perhaps the feistier females among you may have been bristling at the idea that she needs me to orchestrate her pleasure. Why should she? Dunno – but back off; because it’s what she wants. I suppose the answer is that because of her version of femininity, her need and her desiring are infinite. She wants me as the male both to try – and try very hard – to meet that need, limitless as it is. But also, as if she herself recognises that this is impossible, that it simply cannot ever be satisfied – she wants the male in me, at the same time, to set boundaries, to limit and constrain her desire. And not for some sadistic thrill on my side, but from an astute innate awareness, on hers, that limitless need and desire are potentially annihilating. (In The Story of O, O’s pursuit of fulfilment through her sexuality is a path leading to the obliteration of her will, individuality and personality - as Sontag points out, ‘O’ stands both for her sex and for absolute zero, nothing *). B has always sensed the risks of surrendering her will to her desire:

If we were younger/ had no other commitments I could be dangerously submissive to you. So it's always been hard for me when you have questioned me about sex with other people - because I think, how does he not know that he's the boss and I don't want any say in this.

And yes – there it is, so perfectly set out in her second sentence – unlimited desire (she will have sex as and how, and with whosoever, I see fit), but within boundaries set by me (I’m the boss, she has no say in this). Both trying to meet or indulge B’s desire and setting boundaries for it are intensely pleasurable to her. Perhaps they’re inseparably bound-up for her now – so that it isn’t even necessary to accede to her desire – merely constraining it at one and the same time, pleasurably evokes it in her, indulges it and sets a limit within which it can be enjoyed without becoming too overwhelming:

Please tether me as soon as you possibly can. I feel desperate. And I love it.

In the same way, even being denied or unsatisfied is satisfyingly pleasurable:

I love the idea of being fucked and deposited at home in a state of dishevelled excitement though I agree, hard to carry out without a) turning him on - eeeeek. Or b) turning me in. I get a similar thrill - though you don't understand it - from being denied satisfaction, and sent home in a state of silent, frenzied excitement.

In psychoanalytic terms, this is her jouissance, is it not? – that is, the enjoyment of her symptom: an enjoyment beyond mere enjoyment; intensely pleasurable to the point of pain. (**) Clever and resourceful girl that she is, she has found a way (and a helpmate in me), to enact her most powerful drives and compulsions – to her intense satisfaction – yet all within the safety of an entirely hidden relationship.

(*) Sontag, Susan. The Pornographic Imagination, in Styles of Radical Will, Secker, Ldn, 1969.

(**) http://nosubject.com/Jouissance http://www.iep.utm.edu/l/lacweb.htm

A BABE IN TOYLAND

I’d hate to say I got into a routine with B this summer; but we were definitely in a groove, on a particular wavelength – and it’s been a very hot place to find oneself. I arrive at the hotel a little earlier than her, since she always has trouble getting children to bed, etcetera, before she gets out; though I would, of course, do so anyway. And I decide on how she’ll be dressed for our evening’s activities:
“Have you got something nice for me to wear?” she’ll coo, over the phone, if we get to talk earlier in the day.
“I have, but you’ll have to wait and see what it is,” I invariably tease.

She can’t keep much at home, obviously, so I have most of her kit (to which I occasionally add a new piece), and I lay out her outfit for when she arrives: there’ll often be stockings, heels, a basque or one-poece body, or maybe a bra and thong set, perhaps gloves or a mask. Choosing it – thinking about what she’ll wear and how it may suit what I have planned for her – gives me an anticipatory frisson. And however distracted or stressed her mood may be as a result of her working day, or her difficult escape from home, re-adjusting her make-up and getting kitted out for sex always soothes and relaxes her and turns her on. She sloughs off her roles as colleague or partner or mother and becomes the sex Barbie of her fantasies and my desires. So that when she emerges from the bathroom in her finery, graceful and gaudy as a new mayfly, she’s become a purely sexual being; one whose only purpose is to give pleasure and be pleasured, to desire and be desired. It has, then, become my job, my mission, to find her inner slut. (It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.)

What B expects of me then, is that I know what I want from her. She requires very clear and specific commands. Then she will gratefully and happily perform them. Whatever these demands might be, obeying and fulfilling them will, in itself, give her a lot of pleasure. Just the fact that I am demanding is itself pleasurable:

When I say you can be nasty, I fantasise about you being superior/aggressive/abusive. Not shouting, or shoving, just putting me in my place. I do find it exciting that you are such an alpha male, you know what you want, you are determined and you want things done your way. I like you being firm and nasty. Hitting or smacking me is well within what I would like so long as no bruises! Ha ha. (Her amusement is because, while carried away on our last encounter, she bit my lip until it bled).

At the same time, it’s obviously going to be even better for her if the things I demand fulfil her own secret fantasies - are the kind of sex acts she would most like to be required to perform. Once you’ve got a handle on someone else’s sexuality, once you’re familiar with all the little triggers which turn them on, it isn’t hard to extemporise and get it right for them. But I also receive plenty of tips and pointers by email: what does a control freak do when they take time out? Put herself in someone else’s hands – and then ensure that he’s been instructed as to exactly what he should to demand of her……….

I felt excited about you looking at me last time, especially while I had my hands bound. I would be excited if you told me how to stand and whether I could move - especially if I could only move if you asked me to or only to lick, suck or bite some part of you. I find it absolutely HOT not to be allowed to touch myself, especially if you slick me up with some lube so I am desperate for it……..

Or:

We all know I only have to touch your cock with my tongue and I am in ecstasy. (For a real treat you might let me do this while you still have your underwear on. I love your cock in pants. Especially if your lovely arse is naked)………….
I can’t say she wouldn’t welcome any desire I wanted to impose – since the imposition of that desire by me would be a genuine thrill for her – but all those emails and chats and feedback tend to shape my desires. So that what I seemingly demand of her on my own account is, of course, exactly what she would secretly want to do anyway.

I tend to have a rough narrative in my mind – some idea of what we’re going to get up to – simply because it’s much more difficult to be the firm and demanding lover which seems to be required if you haven’t got an agenda and are responding only to the whim of the moment. And as adulterous lovers, we don’t have time to take wrong turnings: we don’t see each other often enough, or for long enough, to indulge in trial and error: it’s got to be hot from the off. But my sense of what we’ll do is only in the form of mental bullet points; what transpires may not follow the script, as it were; it still has to adapt and respond to an urge which might take hold of us, to any one of a thousand strange alchemical reactions which may spark between us and carry us off in some new and unexpected direction.

We managed a double session last week – an afternoon and all evening (though obviously we both have to leave the hotel to go home at half-past five, as if from work, and then return in the evening, on a pretext).

As I waited in the hotel room, laying out her things in anticipation, she rang to apologise for a delay.
“Sorry! I had to go and look at new furniture with D….” (her partner), she told me. “I don’t often take a lunch-break, let alone get an afternoon off,” she explained; “so I had to multi-task and make the most of it, if you don’t mind.”
Honestly, she is naughty, isn’t she? – shopping with hubby while her lover is in a nearby hotel deciding what sort of sexy kit she’s going to be wearing for the afternoon - and planning what lascivious acts she’ll be performing in it! (I say naughty, but this is nothing – wait til you read future posts….) You could suggest she was selfish for making me wait – and cruel for dismissing him so she could go and shag someone else - but then, she aims, she lives, to please; so pleasing two men in one afternoon, in two very different ways, is something of a result for her.

That afternoon, she had to wear a short, stretchy skirt over knickers and hold-ups, with heels, and her blouse over a cute matching balconette bra. When she was ready, I made her stand still, at first: partly so that I could admire the way she looked; partly because I find that being made to stand still, when she very badly wants to touch herself or touch me, is a very effective way of building up sexual tension. I undid the blouse, slowly, and toyed a little with her: raising the skirt enough to feel the crease in her arse and the soft skin of her thigh between stocking top and knickers; teasing her nipples under the fabric of the bra; running the tip of my tongue along her upper lip; brushing the back of my hand down her lean abdomen, curling my fingers under the waistband of the skirt and pushing down until my knuckles grazed her mons. But before I could move things on, I needed to put the blindfold on her.

Forget your fancy lingerie, your aphrodisiacs and pills; forget Barry White on the stereo and turning the lights down low: a blindfold, as we all know, is THE single most erotic item lovers can use, the simplest, the most effective and the sexiest accessory of all. It’s as simple as an old scarf and as effective as a drug. At a stroke, the wearer (male or female) is stripped of individuality and will.

Although she’s occasionally worn one in the past, routinely using a blindfold or mask is a recent addition. Why? Because for B, it has another function: when she can’t see me looking at her, she loses all anxieties about how she looks, and all inhibitions about me looking at her, or about what I’m making her do:

I love the blindfold. I’m very simple. I don't worry about you looking if I can't see you. I think I’m going to enjoy wearing it quite a lot
Not only does it take away the wearer’s self-consciousness and thus banish shyness: it removes your specificity as their lover, too. The blindfold makes you, the lover, faceless: you’re just a cock, hands (how many hands? – it’s hard to tell), a mouth, or more than one mouth. And for a woman like B, who is aroused by a submissive role, by performing someone else’s demands, a blindfold also means pleasurably giving herself over, into the power of the other; entering a world only of sensation, one where she must obey instructions and guidance, or she will totter and fall in her heels; where she must be led, must allow herself to be positioned, submit to being made to stand or sit, bend or kneel.

While I toyed with her - in her dark world, reduced to sensation – toyed and teased and touched, I explained what she was going to be doing for me that afternoon. Urgent lust has its place. (In fact, we had a hilarious session, recently; when we were trying to discuss a lot of serious stuff we really did have to get through, yet couldn’t keep out hands off one another: as a result, we ended up fucking like maniacs, while still talking). Generally speaking, though, it’s good to delay and tease: it’ll get urgent enough in due course; but there’s no harm in upping the ante by telling someone first (and in no uncertain terms) what you’re going to be doing to them: thus giving them time to anticipate and speculate.

What she was going to be doing, was a bit of a performance with a dildo. I’d had an email tip-off that something of the sort was on her wish-list, anyway:

I am quite desperate for some more dildo action. It made me deliriously happy at the time,

she’d let me know, referring to a previous session:

and it continues to make me excited whenever I think about it.

I was going to add to that little store of excitement, if I possibly could! And for my own delectation, I planned to do some pussy-licking, at the same time as using a dildo on her myself.

I kissed her neck and her shoulders, as I slipped the blouse off her, and teased her nipples until they were proud of the lacy cups of the bra. My hands traced the smooth planes of her abdomen, unrolling the top of the stretchy skirt downwards, just enough to almost expose her cunt, and then, hands flat on her hips, I pressed her arse back into my groin. While she stood and waited, I took my time squeezing out lube onto my fingers. I told her to open her legs more and made her stand like that for a while, then took my time slipping under the skirt and easing her knickers down a bit, until I could gently run my slick fingers up her slit – lubed her up until she started to tilt her pelvis, moving to brush her clit against the sliding fingers. But of course at that point I stopped and left her panting. God knows, I love to touch her. She does a thing which is too hot to mention – where I tell her to stand, legs slightly open, and I hold my fingers very firm and straight, just touching her clit - then she performs a hoola-hoop action, making her pelvis go round and round in small circles on my fingers, getting more and more excited. At the same time, less is always more.

Next, I sat in the armchair to watch, while she stood in front of me, and I told her to pull up the skirt and pull her knickers down for me – but slowly. (I think it’s dirtier to have to pull your own knickers down, on someone else’s command, than to have them removed). I got them off her completely and made her straddle my legs, so that I could lick her cunt. I also gave her the dildo and told her she had to lick that before I used it on her. The skirt and knickers didn’t come down slowly enough, so she had to do it again. And I realised that I wanted her to turn and bend forwards, as she did it, with her arse stuck out. Don’t think me perverse – I assure you, nothing makes my compliant cutie happier than being corrected:

I love it when I know what you want me to do. And I am really happy when you show me how to do it better. I am in heaven if you make me keep on doing it until I get something right. This is just too exciting to write...

I knelt then and licked my way up her legs. I don’t open her up straight away with my tongue, but instead concentrate on an extended tease: running the tip of my tongue up her inner thighs, almost to her opening; kissing and nuzzling that soft place to either side of her cunt where her legs meet her belly; dragging the whole flat width of my tongue very lightly up her crease, without letting it enter; pausing promisingly over her clit before descending almost to the tight little button of her bum, and then starting over.

Once I do get my tongue into her slit, I love the way B is so eager – instead of passively being licked, she squirms on the end of my tongue, starts to move her hips backwards forwards, as if to fuck my face. It makes me want to give her more, to give her the dildo as well; so once I’ve really got her going, we swop places, with her in the chair and me kneeling between her legs.

Wearing the blindfold, she can’t see me and so she doesn’t feel self-conscious about being exposed to my gaze. I lube-up the dildo (a sort-of jelly one in a cock shape) and begin to slide that slowly between her lips, while I lick and flick her clit with my tongue. This seems to please her, judging by the blasphemies to which she begins to give voice. One of her own hands is soon under her arse and the other, the right one, has liberated both her breasts from the half-cup of the bra and is fondling them, squeezing the nipples, as she so often prompts me to do.

Inspired, I change my grip on the jelly dong, with my fingers around the bottom and my thumb along the top, curved upwards; so that the pad of my thumb is nudging her clit each time I slide its slick length into her. It’s an old seven-incher, re-commissioned because of her renewed interest in toys. Being more rigid and cock-shaped, it’s better for her to lick – though not so good as the new big one for this sort of trick, because that enables me to get a firmer grip on it, while still giving her a good six inches. This one’s working, though; it’s definitely working, as I bend to alternate fingers and tongue. Soon she’s panting and beginning to yodel, getting so excited she’s lifting her arse right off the chair, pushing herself onto the dildo. I take it in my left hand, so that I can give her a steady, slower action; while the middle finger and thumb of my right hand keeps up a quicker, lighter rhythm on her clit. This does it for her – and it does it in a noisy, tearful climax, this first time – I only hope neighbouring guests haven’t checked in yet.

(Of course, the other mental note I can’t help making while I’m giving her a bit of dildo action, is that this would make a good position for her to take a second cock. She wouldn’t have to turn her head much to enable another man, standing beside the back of the chair, to present his cock to her mouth. It’s an exciting thought I intend to discuss with her soon. Because really, once someone is wearing a blindfold and taking cock and dildos, willy-nilly, in every orifice, the question of whether to bring in someone else to give her a bit of extra, live wood at the same time as you, instead of extra prosthetic cock, ceases to be an emotional issue and becomes one of logistics and boundaries.)

Perhaps it’s on the strength of this line of thought that I inform her I want to see her suck the dildo while masturbating. So we have a little cooling off period, in which she gives my cock some welcome attention, and then I tell her to get up onto the bed on all fours. For some reason, it isn’t quite right. You’d think it would be easy enough, wouldn’t you, to flex your back into a nice, concave curve and stick out your tush, invitingly, while bending your head down to suck a synthetic cock? She muffs it, though: back arched, like a human doing the cat pose in yoga; instead of like a receptive feline queen in heat.

If she gets something wrong in this way, she has to do it again, until she’s doing it to my satisfaction. If she persists in getting it wrong, she’s ‘punished’, by a spanking; or by being ‘denied’ pleasure. Again this isn’t my idea, but I must confess I’m quite happy to oblige:

I also love you being firm and punishing. So it would be exciting for me if you punish me for getting things wrong and reward me for getting things right. You'd find me quite easy to train if we had more time.You could refuse to touch me, or perhaps not let me come, or not fuck me, or not allow me to lick your cock if I didn't do everything you needed. Though I quite like being denied and frustrated so, hmmmm, is that really a punishment...? Well I think you get the picture.
If she gets it right, she’s rewarded - with cock, toy, fingers or tongue.

You know I like you to spank me, and tell me what to do, don't I always ask? I wondered is there anything I could say when you spank me to show that I am compliant, to encourage you to treat me badly? I know you love me which gives you complete licence tobe as nasty as you like. And I don't think you understand how nasty I imagine you being. As for reward. well, let's see... cock (please), or penetration with a dildo or a vibrator. I like loving, sexy fucking as you know but you can be a lot less friendly if you want to. I like you when you are demanding. I like to imagine you already have your cock out when I come into the hotel room. It's rock-hard and lubed up. You can't really be bothered with all my chat and you just push it in my face, drag it across my face. It's pretty obvious that I'm your bitch and I can get on with it to my heart's content.

So she gets a (token) spanking. And what I especially like about the way she takes this rebuke – apart, that is, from her ‘Ohh!!’ of surprise and pleasure on receiving the first blow – is the way that she’ll turn her hips, one way and then the other – a slow, responsive wiggle - in order to receive the slaps, first on one cheek and then on the other. It isn’t always enough for her:

Do you think you could at least threaten to whip or cane me?

She’ll beg by email. But the punishment must fit the crime. I did have to whip her very soundly this week, but she had really deserved it on that occasion, because of some truly filthy behaviour. You’re just going to have to wait to hear about that.

Once more, I show her how I want her – and she gets it right this time – head down, with her nipples brushing the sheet, arse up, her back concave, on her knees with her legs slightly apart. Like this, one arm can hold the dildo, sticking up from the bed, for her to suck; the other arm can reach down between her legs, so her fingers can get busy with her clit. What I wasn’t prepared for, when ordering this little spectacle, was how affecting it would be. She loves – she adores – putting any cock-shaped object into any orifice and while her right hand works between her legs she lavishes the same attention on the dildo that she would on any real cock – tongue licking up its length, head rising and falling to take it all into her mouth.

Of course I can only watch this for so long, before wanting to replace the dildo with my own cock. It’s a hot sight and I want to keep on looking; but more than that, I need those encircling lips, that eager tongue around my own aching, straining member. I tell her that she’s got it right – she looks so good, I’m going to give her some cock. At this, she lets out a keening sound of pleasure. I kneel in front of her on the bed, take a bunch of hair in my right hand and lift her head up from the dildo. Avidly, she takes it in. The hand which held the dildo begins to wank the shaft, while her head travels backwards and forwards over the head of my cock. Her other hand rubs feverishly, wanting to make herself come again at the moment my spunk shoots down her throat........


The evening is always different again. How strange, to return to the same room, in darkness! I smooth the rumpled bed, put away discarded lingerie. I’ve a chilled bottle of wine with me and pour myself a glass, switch on some side lights. Daytime sex has a different kind of energy and I find I come more easily, quickly – and often she does, too. I put some music on (I’m planning to make some noise – and get some noise out of her, too), and I light some candles.

Once the children are in bed and her excuses to her partner have been made, B will get a taxi across town to the hotel, calling me as she approaches, so I can go down to the lobby in the lift to meet her. We’ll kiss, riding up in the lift, while a taped female voice, calm, Amercian, tells us which floor we've reached. She’ll sip some wine, shed her little jacket and the bag with her yoga kit in (yeah, yoga’s the excuse – we’ve done all the jokes); she’ll expect me to admire her (and I do, I do), waiting for the compliments, as she stands before me, or adjusts her hair and make-up in the mirror over the desk.
She doesn’t need a lot of chat, having seen me that afternoon.
"What have you got for me to wear, then?" she’ll ask, after I’ve kissed and fondled her. And I’ll show her the things laid out, ready for her arrival – a Luxxa body which is mostly black organza ribbon and elastane, with push-up half-cups, but no pretence whatsoever of actually providing even token coverage to the lower half, hold-ups with deep lacy tops, lace gloves, a diamante choker, and naughty high heels, with a pattern of sequins and cute little bows. She goes to the bathroom to change – a process of calming transformation.

While she prepared herself behind the bathroom door, I thought about how much penetrative sex we were having nowadays. Since I’d got her high on it, we were filling every hole with something at fairly regular intervals - and yet we weren’t getting anywhere – although the attempt was certainly pleasurable.

I have always known I liked cock, and getting fucked.
What I didn't know before loving you is that I really,
really like being penetrated by, well, anything
really. Anything hard and approximately cock-like at
least. I absolutely love you spanking me.
Oh, and having you fuck me with a dildo. I like to
fuck myself with whatever comes to hand as much as the
next woman but I must admit that the big pink silicone
dildo is very very exciting.

It was very, very hot having your face between my
thighs. I can't stop thinking about it. The most
exciting thing of all was being teased and only licked
now and then. When you slid the dildo in I was in
heaven.

I knew I loved fucking myself slowly with your cock while playing with myself. I knew I LOVED watching you handle your own hard cock. But then recently you made me come very hard by wanking your cock from behind me while it rubbed against me. Somehow that made me realise that I loved the feeling of something nudging into me, and staying there, as well as being fucked.

And another thing, which I can add in retrospect: on this particular night, she complained she’d had to service her partner the evening before; when she’d rather just have concentrated on an extended grooming and preening session in anticipation of our meeting. Then she complained to me the next day, too; this time that she’d had to attend to him yet again when she got home from our one-day fuck-fest – at a time when she’d rather have quietly masturbated in the bath, while re-living its highlights. Now we don’t normally go into our home sex-lives too much – it’s generally recognised that they’re mostly uninspired, and in their case, mercifully infrequent. Of course I recognise that married lovers inevitably act as fluffers for the ‘wronged’ partner back home sometimes (see my earlier post ) – but you have to ask - why two nights in a row on a weekday? One can only assume that she was giving off such an excited, sexual vibe that she’d pricked his dormant interest. And she may not even have been aware of this herself, but for all her complaints about his intrusive needs, I nevertheless detected a certain vain contentment, at finding herself the focus of unbidden, surplus male desire; as if it was self-evident that when you were a woman like her, available and acquiescent - and when you went around extra loved-up and gorgeous – then having to take cock from every direction was more or less par for the course.

In short, all things considered, try as I might, I wasn’t ensuring she was getting enough penetration. Fun though all our antics were, it seemed increasingly obvious to me that we were going to have to call in help. She wasn’t averse:

I really like having your cock and being penetrated too. I am very satisfied with a silicone cock though I would have real one for you darling if you wanted me to.

I didn’t mind – but I was convinced she’d feel so much happier if we could get a nice big cock into her from behind while she was sucking mine. And recently, I was proved right.

Nearly as tall as me now, she emerged from the bathroom on elegantly long legs, a walking wet dream.
"Well?" She asks me.
But she already knows the answer, because she’s examining herself in the full-length mirror while she poses in front of me, tilting her hips first one way and then the other, to extend her legs even further. She pretends to be appalled by the Luxxa body.
"Oh my God, it’s just so very very rude!" she observes.
But I can tell she’s very happy with her appearance; glancing at herself approvingly over the rim of her wine glass.

"How do you want me, then?" she asks; her habitual opening gambit.
I wanted her sitting on my face. I wanted her lavishing the sort of emergency resuscitation technique on my cock that I’d watched her give the dildo earlier. And then I wanted to fuck her brains out.

As I say, I’ll generally have a rough agenda in my head – just so that it touches all the bases she needs me to touch and so that B evolves naturally from A and segues smoothly into C. I may put it together from urges or fantasies of my own; but if it isn’t based on them, I’ll certainly be throwing in hints and pleas from her emails....
My agenda right now is devoted to hair-pulling, name-calling, arse-fucking, spanking and fucking myself silly with sex toys. Also being tied up (which I fantasise about now), blindfolded, and teased with cock. I have very intense feelings about your cock. I want to see it, touch it, lick it but I also like to know you are touching it when I can't see it or touch it. Especaially with a cock ring. What are you trying to do to me? That was too much. I like you looking at me when I'm dressed up so if you make sure I look good and blindfold me, you can do what you like.

I wondered if you would have an objection to me using a toy in my arse while you fucked me? If I was wearing lingerie, stockings and heels, and doing everything you asked me to. Do you think that would be OK to try?

Already revved up by the afternoon’s shenanigans, the teasing tonguing I’d had in mind soon turned into an urgent, hungry 69. She loves a face full of cock and greedily licked and sucked; while I bit the inside of her thighs, then held her arse and ate her up until she hollered:
It was so hot I can't explain last time we were together – I mean the first time you made me come in the evening, under your tongue. That's what I like...What you were doing to me... wow, it’s not like any sort of clit-licking I've ever had before you, it was more like being eaten alive. It was rough, intense and I didn't feel you were doing it to please me, it was as if you were hungrily satisfying yourself, accidentally-on-purpose satisfying me at the sametime. I particularly love 69 (oops, perhaps I should have told you before, though I think I may have?) because 1. the focus is equal so I don't have to think, and 2. I get cock in my face. Though I had actually forgotten just how mindblowing it is (for me) to have a fit body within holding and licking distance, on top of me. So it's a joke really to say that the focus is equal because I can't focus at all and couldn't give a decent blow job if my life depended on it. I found it ridiculously exciting.

Then, of course, I fucked her – on her front, on her back, sideways. Legs in the air, feet behind my back, on her knees, on her stomach, arse out over the corner of the bed. Not for as long as I’d liked to have done, though; eating her out had got me so excited, I had to come. And I had to see it. I got her to frig herself with her fingers, straddled her chest, with her tits between my legs, and for the second time that day I fucked her face, spunking over her outstretched tongue.

After we’d had a bit of a break, she gave me probably THE best floor show you’re ever going to see. No, I tell a lie – it wasn’t quite slow enough. I insisted on seeing the whole thing again when we had more time on a weekend away – THAT was the one which was the best floor show you’re ever going to see... (to be linked) This was the first time I’d actually watched her arse-fuck herself, though (I know, I know – I’m so slow – but we have a long agenda and not a lot of time). Awesome! - it absolutely blew my mind. I got so excited, I had to fuck her again – of course. Inevitably, I wanted to fuck her up the arse, given the display she’d just given me; but I’m a pretty reasonable size and anal sex takes time and relaxation, which we didn’t have at that point in the evening. So I made do with her request for a double-fucking, with a toy and my cock. I got her bum-up on the bed and her fingers were already between her legs, as I slid my greased cock up the crease in her rear and wanked it, nudging her button, a sensation she loves. I withdrew and got the toy in first – a small silicone phallus for anal, smaller than the glass dildo – and she sighed with pleasure as I very very slowly sank it, til my knuckles met her arse. Then I slid my cock into her cunt, feeling the toy in her rear against the bulbous ridge of the glans. I fucked her very slowly – the whole length of my cock sliding in right to the hilt. Then after a while, when I had a rhythm, I fucked her arse with the toy at the same time, but at a different pace; even slower than my cock in her cunt.

With both holes filled and her own eager fingers busy with her clit, there was pandemonium underneath me, as B bucked her hips and spat a muffled, indecipherable mixture of curses and praise into the mattress. I kept double-fucking her until she came – again, noisily; we are THE worst hotel neighbours - and then I wanked my cock until it spunked onto her arse – producing another stream of blasphemies, expletives and happy sighs.

DADDY SPANKING

My gorgeous lover recently sent me a very interesting message, which led to a lot of fun. Fuck knows what you're doing reading this if you're likely to be offended, but if you're too PC to be reading this, stop here! For the rest of you, here's the text of her email:


Darling

DADDY SPANKING

This is how it works:

It's just like any other spanking (ha very ha) only it's not.

Daddy spanking is a special spanking being given because you have been so good, and Daddy needs to make sure you are going to stay good - which he knows is hard, because it's hard for him, too. So it's a sort of lovingly thorough spanking with maximum skirt pulling up, breast touching etc.

Naturally Daddy ends up getting worked up - which is your fault since he's only been doing this for your own good - leading to Daddy showing you what you've done to him and how you will need more spankings from him so that you learn to control your behaviour.

Seeing the hard bulge in Daddy's trousers exposed as an erect, throbbing cock with him touching it - or not- you don't know what to do: touch it, suck it, touch yourself. All of which you KNOW are wrong.

Can end there. That's just good, dirty fun.

BUT it's extra filthy if Daddy explains that you have to help him deal with it now - after all, you have to learn you can't get men worked up like that. He might make you wank it, taking care to show you how to do it properly, or he might show you how to suck cock.

Can end there. That's extremely filthy.

But it can't end there, can it? Because now you WOULD be demented and your pants would be wet and you would whisper, Fuck me Daddy, and shortly after, Fuck me HARDER Daddy!

Really does end there.

Obviously some men are uncomfortable with the Daddy thing (completely understandable, though they aren't actually your daddy so no need to worry, really) but IF they do get it, it can be a mutually rewarding experience...

It's so wrong it's right...

I need to deal with myself now. So will call text and call later.
x

Naturally, I suggested that the girl in question might well plead at some point: Lick it for me, Daddy! Then after a while, Oh yes, lick me out, Daddy! And she agreed that this might well be the case. I should also mention that it's romp which works best with clothes on, not nudity. It's good if the man is dressed formally, in suit etc, and if the woman has a skirt and blouse without a bra, or dress, and bare legs.......

BATTERIES NOT INCLUDED

Both my regular partners had had sex toys in the past - as personal presents and to use with me - but over time they’d somehow lapsed from use at home - and apart from a few dirty solo shows, they weren’t a regular part of my shenanigans with B. The supersonic rabbit contraption I got them both was sort of part of a progression, which merely started with a dildo apiece (though interestingly, both women still enjoy their big jelly dildoes most of all – especially combined with my tongue, or with them sucking cock).

How did this progression begin? I don’t know what I was after, exactly, but for some reason, I revived a modest-sized jelly one with B, first of all, and it went down very well with her:

I like to use something cold on myself, so I like the idea of astainless steel or glass dildo – how cool. But I have to say I found the one you used the other night was very sexy - understatement of the year.

What with Christmas coming up, I think I subsequently bought her the glass one as a present – and that led to a lot of fun. But at first, I just fucked her with a jelly dildo:

I have always known I liked cock, and getting fucked.What I didn't know before loving you is that I really, really like being penetrated by, well, anything really. Anything hard and approximately cock-like at least.

I hope you believe me when I say that what I want, desire, and must have in bed is cock. I have also told you that it's only being with you that has taught me that I like being penetrated - by anything really -as well as being properly fucked. It's just dirty and intense to be fucked by an object. And it's hot and intense in a different way to be fucked by you. And different again - and oh so good, the best - to have my tongue touching your cock, or your balls.

Of course a dildo usefully gets rid of the either/or situation: it lets you fuck her, while she licks your cock or balls. And I started to combine it with clit-licking:

I never knew until being with you that I love penetration... Perhaps you would consider fucking me -slowly - with something other than your cock while you lick me?

And let her fuck herself with it:

I would love to suck your cock while using a dildo and fingers on myself.

This was all good dirty fun. And yet, we were still only using dildos – like an extra cock, without all the bother of dealing with other people. We discussed them, but we just thought vibrators would be too distracting, if they weren’t part of a solo show – and we worried a little about the noise, when we were so often in hotel rooms:

Not sure vibrators are for introducing into our own play. Really we have enough to get through. Anyway, it's a private pleasure. Could be a public/private pleasure if you wanted to be my audience.

Then B put in a request:

Baby I might have changed my mind about vibrators. I had a little run in with one this evening. I was clean and glowing after a bath, having shaved from ankle to armpit and it seemed like a good idea to treat my manicured pussy to some lube. One thing led to another and I found myself practically fucking a vibrator which I had wedged in front of me, standing. I was bored after a while, needing something thicker, but found it made me feel sick with excitement (that's good) to rub against it slowly. I started having the slowest, wettest all-body orgasm which went on for so long that my legs were shaking and I had to stop, lie down, fuck myself and come again. I still feel slightly shaky now.

Ok, no problem – whatever the little lady wants, etc – so off I went to the shops again. As luck would have it, her partner and children were away for the night around that time and there wasn’t the same worry about buzzing noises at her house as there might be in a hotel. I went round there armed and dangerous – multi-function rabbit (the Swiss army knife of sex toys), anal probes, big jelly dong, arty glass dildo – I had the lot. By the time I left, she was completely spent: exhausted, satiated and rung out like a wet rag.

I was so impressed, I didn’t buy the company, but I did buy my partner a selection of these toys, too. Of course the girls do vary in their wants: B likes more tongue action combined with vibrator or dildo - and likes to fuck herself anally with the glass one. My partner, on the other hand, likes me to use something a little smaller and more flexible in her arse; but often combined with giving her some cock; so that I’m double fucking her – she says this is like having sex with an alien, but in a good way. Both girls share a love of their big jelly dongs, as I say – and love to be fucked with them, or fuck themselves with them, while sucking cock. And yes, they do both love their rabbit ones – what’s not to love about something which is more or less totally reliable at giving you several orgasms every time? – but at the same time, I think they both feel that it can be a bit much. It’s a little bit too fast, too reliable, almost: five minutes at gas mark 5 and that’s you, done: it shuts off other, more languorous and dilatory possibilities, delivering a coup de grace which ends play, at least for the time being.

A DILDO FAUX PAS

I made a bit of a sex toy faux pas a while back. Oh yes – now I remember – it was on New Year’s Eve. No surprise, then - because I’d had quite a lot to drink.

I’d given my partner a bit of a work out, making her come with my tongue and a dildo, and she’d sucked a first load of jism out of me, like a good girl. It being New Year n’all, I reached for a vibrator to give her some more:

"Where’s that big blue one?" I asked.

"Purple", she corrected me, quite needlessly, in the way drunken people do; "it’s purple."

True enough. Woops! It’s B’s one which is blue – I just bought my wife a similar model out of some warped sense of fair play. (Actually, I bought them each the same anal probe and they both got the same big jelly dildo, too). Anyway, she didn’t make anything of it; so I proceeded to hoover her clit with this ridiculous all-singing, all-dancing purple supersonic rabbit thing (sometimes trapping my tongue between the rabbit ears and her clit, so she got a vibrating tongue job, too) – did this until she came so much I thought she was going have a fatal spasm. Then I turned her over and fucked her until the second coming (my second coming – God knows where she’d got to). Anyway, after about four hours’ manic dancing, and quite a skinful, I thought it was good going for us old folks.

Yeah, I suppose it is funny to get them exactly the same sex toys; but it does make sense. Firstly, these purchases were the fruit of research and effort – you can’t ignore work you’ve put in, just because it’s a different person. Secondly, it’s only fair – you can’t buy your lover an expensive present, then sell your wife short. (Though to be honest, my lover got a very arty glass dildo because she likes its coldness, while my wife didn’t get one). And thirdly, there’s human curiosity – who could resist, who could help wondering how two very different women would react to the same sort of stimulation?

BACK DOOR MAN

Family vacations can be tough on married lovers, but the long school holidays can also offer additional opportunities for meeting. One partner may take the kids to visit grandparents, for example; leaving a working partner in town, and providing the perfect opportunity for evenings together, or even lunch-time trysts (for which it’s always difficult to get a hotel room, because they won’t let you in til two or three o’clock).

I must confess I’ve never been entirely comfortable in the role of ‘back door man’ (not in that sense, at least). When you’re in the other couple’s home, you’re very aware of the presence of the other man, manifested everywhere about the place by his clothes and possessions; by evidence of his taste and interests in books and CD’s and pictures. It’s sharply brought home to you – in a way that no amount of hotel meetings will ever do – that they have a life; a life into which she has surely poured an enormous investment of emotions, time and effort. And you’re surrounded by that life they’ve made: the photographs of family holidays, the children’s drawings, the furniture and décor they’ve bought together on shared shopping trips……

It’s a different matter entirely, when you’re brought in as rogue male to fuck a woman in front of, or in tandem with, her partner. In that situation, their life together doesn’t mean a damn thing to you, because you’re not having a relationship with her. It’s a little weird until you’ve got over initial nerves, but in some ways it’s easier…. You’re top dog, for a while, and there’s a real buzz from being the one adding the spice. (Getting her off is easy, not only because of the novelty factor - and sometimes the fact that she’s going to get two cocks and four or five loads of spunk - but also because she’s extra-excited for him to watch her doing all those things with you.) So if anything, you get an extra frisson from their relationship; from the fact that she’s being a slut with you in front of him: though rightly or wrongly, you always suspect that the best sex takes place between them after you’ve gone….

When you’re someone’s regular lover, you’d think it would be good for her to entertain you at home now and then – she can be more relaxed and in control, she doesn’t have to get in and out of outdoor clothes, she doesn’t have to watch the clock, or get up and go home to a partner’s chit-chat afterwards, and so on – but there are new worries. She’s wondering whether neighbours will see you leaving, or hear the noise you’re both making; she has to check that her partner and children are really where they say they are and won’t turn back or arrive unexpectedly to catch you in flagrante. (At the same time - and even while she’s taking practical steps to make sure it doesn’t happen - the possibility, however remote, perhaps adds a little something. And if pushed, I’ve got to say I think there may be a naughty urge to desecrate their perfect home, too.)

For me, I find there’s a queasy, uneasy sense of intimacy with the other couple, as she phones to check-in with her absent family: part love and genuine concern with their doings, part controlling instinct, and partly, of course, in order to ensure he doesn’t ring while we’re having sex. Last time I went round to hers under these circumstances, I sat with B on a sofa in their lounge, while she made the call: chatting fondly to the children, one after another; then with her partner, sweetly enquiring how things we’re going and wishing him goodnight. The familiar endearments trip easily off her lips. Yet all the while she’s talking to him, she’s stroking my burgeoning erection through my jeans; knowing that once she’s got off the phone, she’s going to be wrapping those same lips eagerly around it in the sanctuary of their bedroom. I have enough sense of my own betrayal to be dealing with, and don’t really want to be quite so closely inscribed into her infidelity; that’s her business.Nevertheless, as she ends the call, I find I’m eager to be lead upstairs….

I think it must have been the summer before last that we had a wonderful week, a perfect week, while her partner took the kids way up north somewhere. It was hot in the south, I remember that. Every night, I’d make my excuses – gym, work, a drink with a friend – and I’d stroll over after dinner, through the balmy evening air. People were spilling out onto the pavements from pubs and bars, in their casual shirts and shorts. Along the back alley I always took to evade the curiosity of neighbours, honeysuckle tumbled over garden walls, filling the air with scent, and in the soft, fragrant dusk clouds of moths would flutter and spin around each lamp down the alley-way.

I always paused before knocking, when I arrived at her door. Side lamps and candle light would gently illuminate the interior, as I peeked in through the blinds. And I’d see her then, oblivious as yet to my arrival - a vision, as she moved about their warm kitchen at the back of the house, lighting candles and pouring wine - fresh from her bath and already wearing black lingerie and stockings for me. I hesitated on the threshold, stealing a precious moment of anticipation and holding it tight; before I knocked quietly and broke the spell.