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A London derrière July 18, 2010

Posted by Leah in Buggery, Craigslust, D/s, Fucking, Spanking.
1 comment so far

For our date, he asked me to wear a skirt that could be brought up over my ass easily. He wanted to spank me barehand over the knee, you see.

He is a lecturer — roughly, an assistant professor, but tenured — at a university in London. In our e-mail conversation before meeting, I asked him whether his students had ever turned him on, whether he had ever acted on his attraction, whether a girl had ever sucked him off in his office for a better grade. He told me that in his discipline, there are more women than men, at least among the students. He explained that when he was at the front of the lecture theater facing a room full of undergraduates on the rare warm weather day, he would confront a sea of legs under the long rows of desks. Crossed legs, bare and gleaming in the light, were a distraction to his thoughts, and carelessly uncrossed legs so much more so. No one else could see the color of the girl’s underwear but him. In most cases, he believed he wasn’t being flashed intentionally. He has geeky good looks and flustered easily, stumbling over his words when the conversation turned to sex. I don’t expect what he said is entirely true. I have flashed a few profs in class in my time, mostly for the amusement of the game and the private satisfaction of a successful tease. Occasionally, I have done it commando.

The lecturer told me that of course he fantasized about fucking some of the girls in his classes, his advisees, even a graduate student or two. He was attracted to my ad in part because of my age, the dozen years he has on me, that I am a student, a proxy for the ones he can’t touch, or won’t. He claimed that he would never act on his impulses because it was unethical and possibly even a firing offense. At the universities I have been, it happens, not frequently, but enough that there are rumors and hearsay. Most girls I know have had crushes on a teacher or two. Some are desperate for a grade and will pay any price and bear any burden. Not all professors have scruples.

I wore a loose fitting summery skirt with a tank top and made it a point to keep my legs uncrossed and open. The tops of my thighs showed, but I didn’t flash him. Over drinks in the mid-afternoon, he related his latest conquest in Madrid. He had managed to take a señorita back to his hotel room after Spain’s victory in the semifinals of the World Cup. His voice was higher pitched than usual, faster, and he spoke in a whisper as he recounted the tale. I almost expected him to blush. In my turn, I told him about the outcome of my various ads, the older men that I have been fucking in London. I explained that I was a bad girl who deserved a spanking. We got along.

In his apartment, he opened a bottle of wine for us, pulled up some tangos on iTunes, closed the curtains, and dimmed the lights. I pressed my body against his on the sofa. We made out. The kisses were fierce and sloppy, but what he lacked in technique, he made up for in enthusiasm and hair pulling. I stroked the erection in his shorts while he squeezed my tits through the top.

Bringing me over his lap, he flipped my skirt above the waist and yanked my turquoise underwear down to my knees. Having squeezed skin lotion onto my ass, his hands smoothed over the backs of my thighs and my buttocks. He worked the muscles with his strong fingers, giving them a deep massage. His touch was generous and forceful and pleasurable. It caused my skin to feel warm and tingly.


His hand made a loud sound that echoed through the room over the mood music. This unexpected beginning startled me and made me jump in his lap. I touched my hands to the floor and closed my eyes and took a deep breath that I exhaled very slowly. I focused on the sensation in my ass, how the charge rippled through the skin. The friction and the heat of the hands in movement over my skin delighted me. The nerve endings were suddenly alive. Sighing contentment, I kissed the side of his leg above the knee. My weight pressed against his thighs as I settled myself for the spanking he would deliver.

It proceeded slowly. Several times a minute, he brought his right hand down over me. In between, his fingers and his palm rubbed over the curves of the buttocks and thighs. He started the spanking at the fleshy part in the middle of each cheek and alternated between them. Gradually, he worked around to include the downslope of the rump, and the sides, where the ass merges with the hip and the top of the leg, and continued on down to include the back faces of the thighs below. My right side, which was positioned away from his body, received more attention than my left. After the first blow, the subsequent ones did not arrive unforeseen. When the circling motion of the hand was suspended, there was a fractional pause, and I knew that a spank would land in the next instant. I didn’t know exactly where he would strike, but I tilted my ass up in anticipation. I felt goosebumps everywhere as I waited.

This dance continued for the space of several songs. I knew my skin was reddening, but the blows themselves felt like light swats. They stung, rather than hurt. He was pulling his punches.

I needed the spanking to hurt. I wanted to feel it later, deep in my musculature. I was chasing the pleasure that derives from pain. I asked — no, I begged — him to spank me harder.

He obliged.

I closed my eyes and grunted at the blows he delivered. I clenched my teeth and clutched my fist around the leg of his shorts. His hard-on poked against my hip. He stopped when I began to sob, but I told him it was ok, that I was fine, and he kept going. On and on it went.

At one point, I brought my head up and glanced over my shoulder to see how he worked me over. The movement began in his shoulder. His biceps were deceptively powerful, with lines etched in relief. The hand had collapsed into a fist at the top and opened as his arm descended. It reminded me of a pitcher’s windup. He kept throwing his strikes all over the plate. With no obvious pattern to predict, each hit was a surprise. The impact of the hand flat on my buttocks jolted over my skin. It made the flesh shake. The pain was sharp and piercing at the instant of collision, then, as the slap reverberated, it became a diffuse ache that spread through the muscles and nerves. By then the next blow had arrived, and the process repeated. He met my eyes with a feral smile.

I can’t say how long he spanked me. My body shuddered at the punishment he inflicted. By the time he finished, I was lost in an endorphin, adrenalin haze. He held me while I rested on the floor afterwards, leaning back against the sofa, one hand clutched tightly around each of his calves. Except for pinpricks of throbbing, the ass on which I sat was numb. He stroked my hair and made me giggle as he brought the glass of wine to my lips to sip. I stroked my pussy lips and discovered just how sopping wet I was. Turning my head, I noticed the front of his shorts were stained dark, either with my juices, or his own ejaculate. Though I hadn’t realized that I had creamed like that, the former was my suspicion.

We shed our clothes. I wobbled on forearms and knees as he took me from behind. His hands clutched my breasts, and he used them to impale my body onto his prick, which had a substantial girth.

I reveled in the pleasure and encouraged his fantasies along.

“Did you see my panties the other day during lecture? I wore them especially for you. Do you like what was inside them? I like having you inside me.”

“Fuck me, Dr. Williams. Fuck my tight little cunt. I will trade you — my exam grade for your orgasm. What do you say? Isn’t that fair? Isn’t this pussy first class?”

“Spank me while you fuck me. I want you to.”

Before long, my words were incoherent, drowned out by keening. He came moments after I did. After we recovered, he fucked me a second time, again doggy fashion. This time, with lots of lubrication, his cock went into my much abused ass. His fingers played my pussy lips and clit while he thrust inside me, pounding the length in and out of my bowels. Strangely, this fuck was briefer than the first. When he came, he pulled the condom off and shot his whiteness over my buttocks. His hands rubbed the semen into my skin.

I am writing this before bed. I have been home six hours. My ass is red and tender. When I inspected myself in the mirror an hour ago, I noticed a bruise forming on the right cheek. It is about the size of a large coin. I am wearing a pair of light running shorts with nothing underneath and sitting on a package of frozen peas. I squirm in my chair, but there is a broad grin on my face.

Anatomy of a hookup July 15, 2010

Posted by Leah in Craigslust, D/s.

I am on my period, and therefore not thinking sexy thoughts at all. I figured I would write a few words about how I choose my partners, just to keep up the discipline of blogging.

First of all, there needs to be attraction. Market forces operate on Craigslist. It’s unfair, but the women have most of the choice. Conventional beauty helps, but often, I am attracted to the unconventional as well. There’s no formula. I am tempted by all kinds. Rugged masculinity and an intellectual look tend to appeal to me more than metrosexual or cute. I have done my bit for race relations in bed.

I don’t demand a huge cock — enclosed pictures of erections or testimony about the colossal dimensions of a penis are negatives. Creativity and imagination more than compensate for any smallness in size or lack of stamina. Sex is more than what our genitalia do.

Once we start writing, the correspondence needs to be engaging. Because posts get flagged swiftly, I make a quick first cull, then send e-mails to the rest asking for ideas for how the guy envisions play. I look for replies that are responsive to the ad and supply details. It’s an unusual letter that conveys the information I seek. I want to see evidence of a brain at work in the response. I want to be seduced by suspect thoughts — especially if it would be something novel for me. A sense of humor rarely goes amiss, while arrogance is severely off-putting. It’s unlikely that the sex will be a personal epiphany for me. I am looking for a good time, not a revelation or a revolution.

I have a taste for kink. I am in control of most aspects of my life, but I like to let go and have someone else be in command of my body when it comes to sex. If I am going to submit, I need to trust my partner implicitly. I need to believe that my limits will be respected and that I will be safe.

When I arrange a meeting, it is in a public space. I expect my date will be on time and well groomed. Ten minutes of waiting, and I am out. I am happy to pay my share, but if the date insists on pulling out the wallet, I can deal with that. I am looking for a man who is pleasant company and charming and who can talk about topics other than sexuality and the weather. I want good conversation, banter, and wit. Having a thrilling life that is full of adventure is a plus, but making the mundane compelling is just as good. There needs to be chemistry in addition to biology in order to proceed.

When we discuss sex, I want to know about the prospective partner’s experience with the kind of scenario that we have talked about in the e-mails. I want direct answers, without obfuscation or evasion. I don’t require letters of reference or to know who previous lovers were, but I want to hear in specific terms the background with rope, for example, if the intent is to tie me up. I need to believe deep in my bones that I will be unharmed and that the guy knows what he is doing. Visits to subspace can be emotionally draining and leave me feeling small and vulnerable. My partner needs, in my judgment, to be able to cope with that. Experience isn’t strictly compulsory. We all have to start somewhere, and I can be someone’s first. I want to see earnestness, playfulness, and sincerity when experience is lacking. The ideal dominant is open, honest, and without guile. His answers are expansive. He recognizes that my submissiveness is a temporary state, that his dominance is a trust, that props and paraphernalia are a means and not an end, that sex ought to challenge the mind and the body and most of all be fun. After a great many dates, my intuition is finely honed. If there are any warning signs at all, I bail. Most of the time, however, if I agree to meet the guy, sex ends up happening. Much of the filtering has already occurred in the e-mails.

Before proceeding to play, I take a picture of my partner and send it to a friend along with a text saying where I will be. I check in with the friend a few hours later.

There have been experiences I do not care to repeat, but I have never felt sex or submission deriving from Craigslist has led me to activities that weren’t entirely consensual or that put me in a place where I felt threatened. Knock on wood that continues.

How the night unfolds July 10, 2010

Posted by Leah in Bondage, Craigslust, Cunnilingus, D/s, Fellatio, Fucking, Masturbation, Spanking.

1. After drinks and flirtatious conversation at his local pub, he persuades me back to his place. It doesn’t take much effort to convince me: I am an easy lay. On the way to his building, he stops to kiss me against the facade of HSBC bank. It is a warm night, but the stone is cool to the touch. I lift a leg to improve his access below while his tongue becomes familiar in my mouth. He turns me, arms wrapping my waist and hands climbing. He lifts my top and manhandles my breasts through the bra. He murmurs filthy words in my ear. I am wet. I slant my ass at the erection in his pants.

2. Once the apartment door closes, he leads me to his bedroom and directs me to undress and kneel. He sheds his clothes briskly and makes a circuit of me, inspecting my body from all sides, considering the possibilities that are available to him. I keep my hands on my thighs, palms facing down, and straighten my back so that my chest juts out. My head is canted floorward. I sit on my heels and point my gaze submissively at the patterned rug. The man brings my arms above my head and tells me to steeple the fingers together. I lift them in prayer, in supplication, in grace. He wraps his belt around my forearms. Extracting a slender blue vibrator from a box at his bedside, he sets it to buzzing in my cunt and has me fellate him. The man is a foot taller when I stand on my toes. He simply towers over me now. With his penis in my lips, he scratches my head as though I am a dog. I moan around the cock at the praise I am given. I make my eyes wide, take a long blink, and cast my glance up at him while I work. Fingers clutch his shaft, creating friction at the base as I wash the crown with my tongue. The vibrator falls out as I bob my head over him. Though I would have happily continued awhile, he doesn’t let me suck him long.

3. He has me lie on the bed with my legs in the air and tells me to masturbate myself with a rubber dildo. The toy is an unrealistic black color with a thick scrotum at the base. I work it into my cunt and stab it in and out by the balls. He sits on the bed and observes, first to my side and then from below. He drags me upright by the hair and tells me to squat myself over the dildo and bounce. I fuck the false cock with the muscles in my legs. The man places his head between my wide open thighs and tells me that he likes the way my pussy looks with the lips stretched around the dildo.

4. He removes the belt from my arms and threads it around my throat. He has me suck him again. This time, he wants my head dangling from the bed. The blood rushes to my face. His hands maul my tits while I stick out my lower lip and take the glans inside. He rocks his hips and gives me more of the cock. His grip on the sides of my face tilts my chin in the direction he prefers. He thrusts his pelvis at me and forces himself deeper. The crown muscles into my throat. He holds position and presses down harder, angling my head up so he can get himself embedded fully. His balls press against my lips and nose. The breath comes to me in heavy gasps when he withdraws the shaft partway. He hammers me with the penis, using my throat for a cunt. Saliva sheets over my face. Most of his cock is in my mouth the whole time he skull fucks me. The glans jabs in and out of my throat. My lips are heavy and swollen when he ceases.

5. He watches me pee.

6. I sit on the bathroom sink and wrap a condom over his penis. He stands between my legs and penetrates me. Anchoring one leg to the floor, I push off the counter with the other. I fuck him in the near darkness of the room. The toiletries on the shelf behind me clatter to the floor. He kisses me while he fucks me. He stops himself before he comes and eats me to an orgasm. His tongue licks spirals around my clit. He whisks his goatee over my pubis. The bristles are coarse on the smooth skin. He presses his chin down on my labia and uses his facial hair as a brush on my cunt. It’s prickly. I like the circular movements he makes when he digs down. He clamps down on the clit and sucks. I lick my juices from his face afterwards.

7. In the bedroom, he asks me to do something dirty for him — my choice, anything at all. I urge him onto the bed supine and clamber on top, knees straddling his waist. I lift his left arm up and tongue the armpit. The odor is strong. It fills my nose. I shrug it off and deposit kisses along his underarm. I lap where the muscles bend. I repeat on the other side, nosing into the hair, licking wetly. He tells me no one has done such a thing for him before, not his ex-wife or any other woman. I smile.

8. Pulling me by the lead, he drags me from the bed, makes me stand in the center of his bedroom, and instructs me to brace my neck with my hands and stretch my shoulders apart. Again he opens the toy box, this time extracting a leather cat-o’-nine-tails. Pulling the belt around so that it falls down my back and hangs between my buttocks like a tail, he proceeds to whip my breasts. The first blow takes me by surprise. The impact of the leather smarts upon my skin. I cry out involuntarily. Successive blows are timed about two seconds apart. I count them silently as I flinch. My breasts wobble in response to the whip. By the twentieth hit, I am whimpering in pain. By the fortieth, I am conscious of my tears. He swings the whip harder and harder at the end, stopping at seventy-six. I look down at myself once he has finished. My skin is flushed red. There are stripes above and below my tits, where the falls of the whip have fallen. The nerve endings sing. My body aches.

9. He fucks me after that. This is simple missionary sex. He is on top pounding away while I am beneath him, writhing. My hands clutch at his shoulders. I moan. I wail. My head rocks from side to side. There is no finesse here, but neither of us need it. We are animals rutting. Fingers clutch at my throat, their grip tightening on my windpipe when he comes. I orgasm twice. The first time is explosive. It has me shrieking. The second time is softer. It radiates from my cunt in waves and resonates deep in my bones. Coupled with how he shudders inside me, the sex leaves me euphoric.

10. After he extracts himself from my pussy, he pulls the condom off and turns it inside out. He smears the semen over his palm and offers it to me. I bring my head down obediently and lick it up. The condom may have been lubricated on the inside. The semen has an unpleasant taste. I swallow quickly. I know he won’t come for me again. The man is in his late forties. He told me earlier that he can generally orgasm only once in a night. This is why he has been careful till the end. The underground, I know, is still running. I reach for my clothes. The man helps me dress. I go down on my knees and thank him for the evening with my lips encasing his penis. I stroke his balls. Hauling myself to my feet, I leave kisses on his chest and collar. He embraces me. The grip of his fingers is strong in my hair during our last kisses. It is time for me to go.

Open July 7, 2010

Posted by Leah in Autobiography.

A reader asks me to elaborate on my open sex life. This is my response.

I can only tell you about my personal history. My relationship with the boyfriend developed in an organic way. I moved to Boston almost three years ago, and just like London, it was a new city, and I slept around. There was one guy I slept with quite a lot. Our bodies fit. I respected his intelligence. We have personalities that mesh well. He is dominant in the bedroom while I enjoy being submissive sexually. Like me, he also slept around. As we were casual to start, this was not problem. We turned each other on with stories about our experiences. (The blog is a way of continuing this conversation.) Eventually, the two of us started dating and shacked up. But we continued to fuck other people as well.

Since we only had the one bedroom, unless one of us was traveling or explicit about spending the night elsewhere, we didn’t bring partners home after six. The trysts in the apartment were typically daytime encounters scheduled while the other person was at work. So that we wouldn’t accidentally intrude, we called each other before coming home during the day. The sheets were constantly in the wash. We decided that condoms were mandatory for messing around and got tested regularly. The majority of the sex I had was with the boyfriend. After all, we shared a bed most nights. The others were fun extras on the side.

I came to care about my regular partners. It may have started differently, but the sex became an extension of friendship and affection. The feelings I had for my other lovers were never as deep or personal or intimate as with the boyfriend. I don’t label myself polyamorous. I am a slut who fucks her friends and gets off with strangers and is mad about one guy in particular.

We are human. At times, there is jealousy and envy and insecurity and confusion. We deal with these emotions as forthrightly as we can. We agree that different people can scratch different itches and occupy different spaces in a life. Some aspects of sex that work fabulously with one partner won’t work as well, or at all, with another. Sometimes I want an anonymous fuck or a bit of casual kink with a stranger. Diversity of experience serves two functions: it keeps us interested in each other and fulfills — or just plain fills — us sexually.

The boyfriend and I Skype every day. I will go back to the US — it is home — and the boyfriend will visit me in London. A year plus is a long time to be separated by five time zones, especially when we are, in many ways, still beginning. Though we are both young, we pretend at maturity. Our relationship may not last. He might meet someone special, or I might. We could grow apart with distance. The world is large and full of possibilities. We know this. But we are content with where we are at this moment, with the patterns of our nights and days. The future will take care of itself.

Kafka on the shore July 6, 2010

Posted by Leah in Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Fucking, Random hookups.

I had intended to spend the day at the library. Instead, I have barely left my bed. I didn’t dress so that I was presentable till the late afternoon, and I expect the clothes are off again before long.

Last night, at a pub near the university, I picked up a young man, who I brought home with me. It was the first sex I have had in my own bed since moving to London.

I was impressed that the boy was sitting on the terrace with Kafka and a tall pint glass of beer, so I struck up a conversation. He is a faculty brat like me and an undergraduate at Magdalen College. To my ears, the name sounds maudlin, but it seems a cheery enough place. I know one of the senior fellows of his college by reputation. We compared educational experiences in the US and the UK. Mine are in Chicago and Boston, American cities that are dirty and modern and alive, while his university is somnolent, steeped in traditions that stretch back centuries. His college was founded before Europeans had landed on my continent. He knows pubs where the victory at Agincourt was once the latest news from across the water. Colleges, however, and college students in particular are the same everywhere, and given to the pursuits of education, libation, and fornication. We entertained each other with stories over drink and pub food before I invited him home.

I took advantage of the energy and enthusiasm of someone even younger than me and exceedingly fit. (The muscles are from rowing, he said.) I lost count of the number of times we fucked. Exhausted from the labor of sex, we finally fell asleep around five in the morning. My poor flatmate, who leaves for work at eight, must have been awake almost the whole night listening to us. I couldn’t help but be loud, orgasming as I did. The two of us woke around ten, and immediately proceeded to fuck. After that, after he had visited the toilet and emptied his morning bladder, he started gathering his clothes from the floor. I wanted to nap and cuddle myself against the warmth of his gloriously male, wondrously naked body, so I persuaded him to stay. We fucked again before eating lunch, raided the fridge for leftover takeaway, and then, since the apartment was empty, had more sex on the sofa.

Chopsticks have their utility in fellatio and cunnilingus. Because he was a dexterous hand, I asked him to use them on me. I especially liked when he tugged on my pussy lips and squeezed them with the hard plastic and licked me over the labial folds. My clitoris was sensitive to being touched and held after so much fucking, but I asked him to do it anyway. I wanted the pain and the pleasure. I wanted him to bring the pearl to prominence. I told him to bite down on the clit hard, because it hurt, because when his fingers were inside just so, pressing against the nerves from behind, and when his teeth sunk in the flesh outside, the burst of stimulation, both tender and savage, made me come explosively. He only did it the one time. Sweet boy, he was squeamish at my pain, though I wanted it and begged for it.

For my part, I had him lie on his back with his legs in the air. I ran the chopsticks down and up the shaft and pointed the cock while I sucked. I lifted the foreskin with the pincers and manipulated the balls and stooped to kiss and lick them with the broad flat of my tongue. He didn’t come in my mouth, so I have no idea how his ejaculate tastes.

We dozed the afternoon away in a confusion of limbs, reviving sporadically to fuck some more. The sex was all vaginal. I rode and was ridden. I was taken front and back and side to side and knelt over his cock while he sat on the bed supported by fluffy pillows. At this point, he has but thimblefuls of semen to give, but his cock continues to pound away at me unceasingly. He left for a few hours to get a change of clothes and promised to return with Indian food and booze. A one night stand is going to turn into a two night stand. That’s ok: my supply of condoms will last and sex beats sleep.

Wine on a Saturday night July 4, 2010

Posted by Leah in Craigslust, Masturbation, Public.

He wanted to make me come in public.

I met him at a wine bar in north London. The place was full, but after one glass standing up, we managed to claim a candlelit booth against the wall on the far side. Drink flowed generously as the conversation advanced. Mostly, we talked about the mundane — how I was settling in to life in the UK, what I liked and what I didn’t. It felt good to rant about how British engineering hasn’t yet figured out how to combine hot and cold water into a single faucet in the sink. For the date, I had worn a light cotton sundress that ended about mid-thigh, blue with abstract white patterns, the usual sundries underneath, and a strappy pair of shoes that I kicked off. Barefoot, I snuck my toes under the bottoms of his trousers and pressed the pads of my feet against the muscles of his leg. I liked the soft cushion of hair that tickled my feet. Once I had initiated contact, he kicked off his own shoes. Sock covered feet stepped along the insides of my calves and my shins, sometimes turning at the knees to touch the shadows of my thigh.

The conversation took a sexual turn. He asked me for stories about what I had done in public spaces. I told him about having once given my boyfriend head under the table at a Thai restaurant. I told him about using the toilet at the Neue Galerie for a quickie. (What can I say? Gustav Klimt and Egon Schiele turn me the fuck on.) I told him about the sex clubs I visited when I was trying out the scene. I told him about the porn cinema and a drive-in movie theater in New Hampshire. I told him about fucking in offices and classrooms at the university, the tunnels under campus, various parks, under the stars and in the rain. I told him about bars and dance clubs, swimming pools, the back of a pickup truck on the side of a country road, and blowjobs delivered in cars speeding along highways. I told him about my mile high fantasy. I shared fond memories of a seedy alleyway or four. The risk of discovery, of getting caught in flagrante, of being found out fucking excites me. Danger is a drug — but the thrill of getting away with it intoxicates me even more.

The man I was with was only in his late thirties. He had explained in his e-mails before we met that he could no longer get an erection. But he wanted a sexual escapade: an experience with a woman who was willing, a girl he found attractive, someone who didn’t demand payment.

I wanted to oblige him. At this point in a normal date, I would have happily moved on to bed. I can’t imagine a life without sex. I admired how he didn’t dwell on his physical flaws, how upbeat he was when he spoke of sexuality.

My stories had made me moist between the legs. I excused myself to the ladies room. When I returned, I set my purse on the table and reached for his hand. I had come back with my underwear wadded in my fist. I let go. We sat there, holding hands, my small ones atop his larger ones, our right hands cupping a scrap of cloth, slight and black, which minutes before had covered my pussy from view. Exposed from below, she breathed easy now. Leaning across the table, I kissed him lightly on the lips. The candle radiated heat below me.

“Why don’t you sit next to me,” I suggested, scrunching toward the wall, making room.

I pressed my thigh against his when he settled himself, and I huddled close, burrowing myself into the crook of his shoulder when he draped his arm around my back. The fabric of the skirt had ridden up when I sat. I brought my legs open in invitation. The skirt lifted more as I straightened my posture. I tugged the hem up my thigh so that the cloth bowed and draped over my pussy, hiding it just.

His right hand sat over the joining of my legs. Fingers on top of the skirt touched my pubis below. They gently tapped at the skin and descended the short distance to my cunt. Fingertips traced the outline of my lips through the thin fabric.

There was a buzz of conversation all around us. Our movements didn’t go unnoticed in this. There were other couples present, but we were the only ones making out. There was as well the obvious age difference between us. The people in the bar saw us hunched together, whispering conspiratorially. They saw tongues flicking at earlobes, kisses that trailed down the run of the neck, across the collar, down the shoulder. I didn’t care that we were witnessed, and neither did he. He licked the sweat that had beaded over my breasts. His big hand pawed at my tits while we kissed. Eyes closed, our faces turned and repositioned as we prolonged the contact of lips. His tongue spilled into my mouth. My teeth nipped at its tip. I fluttered my tongue against his. He applied pressure to the back of my neck and combed his fingers through my hair. We breathed together.

The lights were dim but the table was glass. Looking down, I saw his hand working me by candlelight. The back of it made a visible bulge under the cloth. He gripped my lips. Fingers softly stroked the slit. The wetness inside me was flowing. It made his hand slick. He smeared the viscous fluids over my pubis, which I keep waxed and bare, like a little girl. The kisses deepened as he insinuated two fingers — the index and middle — into my cunt. I tightened the muscles at the entrance. My thighs gripped his forearm between them. He wiggled his fingers, scissored them inside. He also rotated them within my folds. Gently, he fucked me. The touch pistoned in and out, so, so, so slowly. After a moment, he brought his hand out to examine in the light, then wiped the wetness that coated his skin over my thigh.

I sipped my wine. We laughed together. Then we played. This time, his hand toyed outside me. He undressed my clit. The nails of his fingers brought the hood down. The face of his thumb drew taut circles around the bundle of nerves. I squirmed in my seat. My pussy dripped its heat. After swimming in my arousal awhile, he extracted the fingers from my skirt and raised them to his nose to sniff. He complimented me on my taste, and poked my nose with the tip of his wet finger.

Smelling myself in his touch, my hand latched on to his wrist at once. I kissed the heel of his palm. I licked the creases on the surface and jabbed my tongue at the webs of skin where the digits joined. I held the two long fingers that had been in my cunt to my lips and sucked them clean. Closing my eyes, I pictured those fingers as a cock. My tongue slid along the length, spiraling round and round, teasing the edge. I forced saliva between the fingers and bathed them in the warmth and the silkiness of the spittle. Holding the back of his hand, I turned it in my mouth. My tongue curled around the bottoms of his fingers. I used my grip on the wrist and inched the fingers forward and backward. I spun my face. It was my blowjob technique I applied. He let me suck him for what seemed an eternity, but was probably not one minute. Dipping the fingers in the wine, he let me suck them once more.

Before long, his touch reached up my skirt again. Because I wanted to see, I pulled the cloth up and held it bunched at my waist. His body shielded my nudity from voyeurs. The fingers stretched inside me. He had placed them facing up, so that the heel of the hand protruded against my pubis when they were in all the way. Bracing myself on the table, I brought my weight forward and angled my cunt at him. Looking down through the glass, I saw his thumb in movement. He flattened it over my clit and circled as he pushed down. The sensation in the nerves was immense. I swiveled my torso to face him. My tongue flickered between his lips, and I spoke into his mouth. “Fuck me,” I whispered. “Fuck me and make me come.”

The fingers responded. They stabbed in and out repeatedly. The rhythm was steady, fast, and unforgiving. I heard the sounds my pussy made, the suction noises, the wet slide. The way the digits pressed against my inner walls set my clit to thrumming.

My brow furrowed in concentration and pleasure. I kept my eyes screwed tightly shut. Oxygen came to my lungs in huge and heavy gasps. I bit my bottom lip and willed myself to come silently. My thighs clamped about his hand. I gripped the edge of the table. My eyes flashed open, the pupils rolling back. My toes curled. Stars in the universe exploded. My spine stiffened. I threw my head back and stifled a scream. The muscles in my cunt contracted and released about his fingers. The waters sluiced over his hand.

When I sat back and sunk into the cushions on the bench, the smell of sex overpowered my senses. A few eyes caught mine and turned away. We were noticed. I smiled. I laughed. I gulped down the rest of the wine to rehydrate myself. We poured ourselves new glasses and toasted our encounter.

Snippets of a conversation July 1, 2010

Posted by Leah in Anilingus, Buggery, Craigslust, Cunnilingus, D/s, Electra complex, Fellatio, Fucking.

“The room is ten meters from the lift. I want you to crawl.”

“I think your nipples are as sensitive as mine.”

“Finish taking your clothes off and give them to me. I will return them in the morning.”

“I belong on my knees, don’t I? That’s where a good girl should be.”

“I don’t care if you cry. Choke on it, bitch.”

“Come on my face. I want to wear your come.”

“Go and brush your teeth with my spunk.”

“Do you like that? Do you like it when a dirty little girl puts her tongue in your asshole?”

“I am going to spank your breasts with this.”

“I’ll do anything you say.”

“You taste unbelievable.”

“May I come please?”

“I am going to be the first man in London to fuck your ass.”

“Go slow — but keep going.”

“Turn around. I want to get on top.”

“Pull my hair.”

“Just like that. God. Again. Squeeze your muscles for me.”

“Come in my pussy. Come in my tight little pussy. Give me your sperm, Daddy. Please. I want you to.”

“You would go to sleep curled at my feet.”

“Let me suck your cock and make you come one more time.”