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Back to Blighty December 19, 2011

Posted by Leah in Bondage, Buggery, Craigslust, Cunnilingus, D/s, Electra complex, Fellatio, Fucking, Gallimaufry, Masturbation, Public, Random hookups, Repeated hookups.

I am in the UK again from December 31st to January 17th. I will be crashing with my former roommate and her husband. They are renting a one bedroom flat near Hampstead Heath. I get the plush new sofa in the living room. I expect I won’t be at their place every night. After all, I have friends to see and be done by.

Amadeo has proven to be a generally poor correspondent. We Skype now and again. Frank writes a long e-mail every couple of weeks. These arrive unexpectedly. The letters are warm and funny and inevitably make me wish I had considered doing an undergraduate degree at Oxford or Cambridge. His missives and my replies are interspersed with frequent text messages. The salacious SMS exchanges happen when one of us endures an incomprehensible seminar. I like to think of Frank growing hard in his seat in public and hiding the erection in his pants with A4 paper. In the back of the auditorium, I squirm in my chair from arousal. My panties become moist. I miss these men.

For the past six weeks in Boston, I have been seeing someone. In his early thirties, David is a newly minted assistant professor. I like him very much so far. We are still in the process of discovering each other, sexually and otherwise. I have no expectations for how long the relationship will last. We aren’t exclusive. My colorful sexual life isn’t a secret to him either. He has seen the marks that other men have left on my body. He disapproves only on aesthetic grounds. He is especially proficient at applying pain without leaving bruises. David and I met through OkCupid. Like my own profile, his indicates an interest in casual sex. Naturally, in the bedroom, he gets off on his dominance and my submission. He is adept with rope. I am his bondage whore. He has made my body contort in positions I didn’t know were possible for me and taken me hard while I was tied. Sometimes he wants a brutally fast orgasm from a skull fucking. At other times he has me between his legs worshiping his phallus for most of a lazy Saturday afternoon. The Venn diagram of our kinks overlaps considerably, but there are also significant exclusions.

Because we have common friends, the ex-boyfriend and I run into each other socially. We haven’t fallen into bed. I have only been back to the old apartment once, to pick up my stuff. It’s over. I think of him less and less. But sometimes, when I am meandering through an art gallery, for example, I play the conversations we could have had in my mind. The abundance of memories I have makes me smile. He is happy. I am also, in my own way, content with the rhythms of my days and nights.

I hooked up with both of my regulars from before shortly after returning to the US. Though we do not play often, the most exciting sex I have had was a gang bang with five men organized by one of these fuck buddies. One by one, I sat on the men’s laps, naked. Wearing business suits, they kissed and touched me. The men toyed with my breasts and fingered my pussy. They affixed clothespins to my body. I brushed my ass over the erections that tented their trousers. We shared bottles of wine. Because I wanted to walk comfortably the next day, we decided that only three of them would fuck my ass. The men conducted a lottery for the privilege. I was doubled up, back and front. Once, briefly, I was tripled. My openings were made watertight. I held a penis in each hand and stroked the shafts. The men tied me to the sort of bench that is typically found in the locker room at a gym. The rope knotted my wrists beneath the plane of the thick wooden plank. It wrapped over my back to hold me in place. My tits were squashed flat. Knees on the floor, my legs were held apart by a spreader bar. My ass extended over the edge. They took my anus and pussy. My chest rode hard against the oak. Frequently, I fellated a man who straddled the bench and fed me his cock while another fucked me. The sex was continuous. It went on for two and a half hours. My friend had me first and last.

A few other encounters may be worth mentioning. I had bareback sex on a single occasion. At a bar, I picked up an eighteen year old, who looked like he was in his early twenties. I didn’t know he was a virgin until he confessed his virtue in my bedroom after we were already naked. Probably, I should have guessed his inexperience from the way he kissed. He departed my apartment having come in a woman. To start, I gave him a blowjob to take the edge off. He erupted almost at once, filling my mouth with the consummation of all of his adolescent daydreams and night tremors. Despite obvious inexpertness, I liked that I was his first taste of cunt. When we fucked, I squealed aloud in ecstasy before he expelled his seed. While I thought of introducing him to my toy box, I ultimately decided against it. I have long fantasized about training up the ideal dom starting from a tabula rasa. He isn’t the one. I haven’t seen him again.

At the other end of the age spectrum, I indulged my Electra complex over Thanksgiving. On Black Friday, I posted an ad on Craigslist and hooked up with a man in his mid-fifties. He is over twice my age and, in fact, said he had a son a year older than me. We met for coffee and then proceeded to a no tell motel at the outskirts of town. The clerk gave us a knowing look when he handed over the key. The man palmed my ass possessively. I never learned his name. I insisted that Daddy place his great, big cock in his little girl’s tight, wet cunt. Fucking and sustained cunnilingus drowned the bedsheets in my flood. I asked Daddy to sperm on me to close because I wanted to wear his semen. He straddled my chest and, punctuated by small licks over the glans, masturbated himself. He blasted over my tits to make them grow.

Lastly, I went to a conference in Pennsylvania at the beginning of October. I took a rental car and drove from Massachusetts. Around two thirty in the morning, I needed a pit stop, coffee, and a bite to eat. I stopped at a diner along the highway. A man seated alone invited me to join him at a small table. Rather than eating by myself, I accepted. He was a trucker and got to talking about life on the road. Intrigued, I asked for a tour of the truck. The living quarters of the eighteen wheeler were claustrophobic. A bunk bed occupied much of the space. Neatly stacked plastic storage containers lined the top bunk. The bed below was immaculately made. He didn’t wear a wedding band, I noticed. I took a chance and kissed him. His tongue dipped into my open mouth. He leaned his weight toward me; my back bowed backward. My fingers worked his belt buckle apart. I shed my jacket and divested myself of clothes. The cab was chilly. He turned the heat up for me. I sat on the edge of the mattress and sucked his penis to hardness. When I was satisfied with how it shined, I tossed the condom I unearthed from my purse at him. He nursed at my teats and lowered his weight atop my body. My arms wrapped his broad shoulders. I spread my legs in the air. The bedsprings gave a metallic creak. The floor seemed to shift slightly, but I may have imagined this. I sprawled in his arms after sex. We had breakfast in the same diner in the morning. I bought a fresh box of condoms from the convenience store at the gas station nearby, and we had a quickie for the road.

These episodes are exceptional. The majority of the sex during the past three months has been pedestrian. Craigslist is less effective than I remember. It has gotten me laid, yes, but the men I have met in Boston through the agency of the casual encounters board have exhibited little promise. Random hookups still happen, but the frequency has diminished since London. Ideally, I want more than another one night stand. The unrepeated fucks are temporary expedients and stopgap measures. Save for David, sex constitutes only a physical release. It lacks an intellectual or emotional connection. The dildo is sometimes more satisfying than a man. I haven’t been on the hunt as regularly as before. This is just as well. Research and grading papers have kept me busy this semester. Marking exams is a bitch. I expect to defend my thesis in May. The dissertation needs much work this spring.

I still play flute when I can with a chamber group. We don’t perform. We rehearse challenging music for fun. Nearly every morning, I spend an hour at the gym. On Friday nights, I go dancing — usually at gay clubs. Liz and Sophie, two close friends, like making out with girls. We have done a fair amount of kissing and fondling bodies through club wear. It hasn’t ended with tongue circling clit and my mouth imbibing cunt or thighs clamping a head in a viselike grip with fingers pulling the roots of hair and making indentations in the scalp as my pussy fountains against the touch of lips. We haven’t tribbed. Perhaps one day we shall.

I will most likely be in a new city next fall. Where? I don’t know. The job applications are out. I enjoy what I can of Boston while I am living here. I keep busy.

Closing up August 31, 2011

Posted by Leah in Fellatio, Fucking, Public, Repeated hookups.

Work has been extraordinarily busy as I finish up in London. Back in Boston, the winter semester starts this week. I return a few days late. I am in Paris from Friday to Monday. I desperately want to finish a project before I go, so I work long hours. As my stay winds down, there are logistical annoyances to confront. Though I packed lightly, bringing only two suitcases of clothes and a duffel bag full of shoes with me, in the past months I have accumulated stuff that I want to take back to the US. Packing up, hanging out with friends and saying goodbye, having sex (and writing about it) also occupy my ever diminishing time.

Last week, I spent many hours at the café where Marshall works. I happily typed away amid the noise and the bustle. During his breaks, he would bring me an iced coffee and sit with me. He asked me out on another date last weekend, but sadly I had to turn him down because of prior social commitments. I agreed to see him on Thursday, however.

Yesterday, a friend wasn’t feeling well and bailed on a dinner engagement. I had already accomplished more during the day than I had any right to expect, and I knew that Marshall had the last shift, so I stopped by the café, where I worked some more and answered e-mails. An hour before the place closed, I sent Marshall a pair of texts. He caught my eye. I smiled.

Only one other employee worked there in the evening, and I am reasonably certain Marshall convinced his colleague to leave early. He did the final cleaning and locked up for the night.

With the door shut and the room darkened, he and I had sex in the empty café. I loosened the tie on his apron to show the front of his jeans and descended to my knees. The chairs in the café are wooden, painted white, with vertical slats in the back. He turned one in reverse and sat straddling the back of the seat. His cock squeezed between two of the slats. I gripped the top of the chair, met his eyes, and sucked his penis wetly and without hands.

Marshall’s cock is long and thick. I have only been able to deepthroat him with my head dangling from the edge of the mattress. When I do so, his balls press up against my nose. I revel in the heady, male musk.

In the café, I easily quaffed the quantity of the cock that extended through the chair. I gripped the bars at the far sides. I loved the moans, which originated deep within his chest when I rotated my face. Going down, my nose poked through the gap in the wood. The butt of my hand had shuffled to the top of his thigh. Arms wrapping the chair, he stroked my hair and sloped my head so that I had to look up at him. Marshall groaned when I made my lips soft, flooded my mouth with spit, and washed my tongue over the knob. My hands nudged into the rectangular spaces on either side of the hole into which he had inserted his cock. I locked fingers over the shaft and angled the penis into my mouth. The groin receded and advanced while I sucked. The vision of his sac on the other side of the wooden bars made me salivate. The balls sat on the chair, tantalizingly beyond my reach. When he pulled the cock free from my lips, it made a delicious pop.

He didn’t want to come from oral sex. We fucked on a wooden table in the middle of the café. The lights were off, but we should have been visible through plate glass windows as silhouettes moving in the dark with unmistakable purpose. I was on my back with my denim skirt inverted. He dragged me to the edge of the table and butterflied my thighs open and crammed himself into my pussy. He fucked me hard. I came after we changed positions. I was on my side, a foot planted on the floor, a knee on the table. He gripped my ass and prodded my cunt from the rear, passing through my orgasm into his own.

He wiped the table and disappeared into the kitchen to finish in there. We left after half an hour. Marshall spent the night at my flat. We intend to meet up on Thursday as well. Today, I have Amadeo at night and much to do before then.

The phone booth June 18, 2011

Posted by Leah in D/s, Exhibitionism, Fucking, Public, Repeated hookups.

After a particularly intense workout at the gym, I had changed into a black and white striped sweater top that bared my shoulders and a khaki skirt that lifted indecently from my rear whenever I bent forward at the waist. I met Amadeo at a pub in Holborn. He discovered I had come commando when I flashed him at the bar. I had not worn a bra either. The weather was chilly enough in mid-June that my nipples peaked.

At the restaurant, I sat slightly further from the table than strictly necessary, with knees separated and feet planted apart. The fabric bowed, the dip of the cloth draping over the middle and covering me (just). During the meal — sushi — I kept my legs together and behaved. The napkin, which extended over my thighs, enhanced my modesty by a factor of two.

Amadeo told me about his recent visits to Germany. I told him about what I have been working on at the university, my plans for the rest of the summer, and how the thesis clock would tick relentlessly once I returned to Boston in September.

After dinner, Amadeo ordered an espresso. I had a caffè latte. As there wasn’t a need for the napkin anymore, it sat in a crumple upon the table. Pushing myself back half a foot, I hiked the skirt up my thigh and showed my stuff underneath.

Amadeo smiled appreciatively at the view. The tip of his tongue slowly traversed from one corner of the lip to the other and made the amble in reverse. I licked a bit of cream lasciviously from my finger.

He held me by the waist, one step in front of him, as we descended the escalator into the belly of the tube. The tug on the fabric pulled the top down the left shoulder. The drape of the cloth accentuated my cleavage. Amadeo deposited small kisses on the trapezius muscle. I was moist below.

On the train, he sat on the ledge near the door at the end of the car. His arms wrapped me from behind and he laced his fingers over my pelvis. I reached behind me to grip his hip. My knees bent a fraction as I pushed my weight against him. My feet held my backpack in place.

Amadeo took his cell phone from his pocket and took a snapshot of us, together. The flash from the second photograph went under the ledge the bottom of my skirt made across the tops of my thighs. I laughed when he took this picture and felt myself getting wetter.

We took the long way to his apartment. Amadeo shouldered my backpack. We clasped hands. His enormous paw covered my small fingers.

In a dark shadow under the trees, I spied a man peeing. I nudged Amadeo with an elbow to the ribs and nodded my head at the unknown man.

Amadeo stopped, and he considered. “Not today,” he decided, which was a pity.

We walked south. Victorian houses lined the street on either side. Their facades stretched a city block. About half the windows were lit. Silence sheltered the road. A few streets away, cars rumbled on the still busy main thoroughfare.

I raised to the points of my toes and placed a kiss on Amadeo’s cheek. He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me on the lips. As the kiss deepened, I brought his hand up to a breast. His fingers tightened. He extended their reach. Lured by his taste, my tongue followed his into his mouth. The kiss broke because one of us moved our head in an unanticipated direction. We laughed and re-engaged. I sucked on his tongue, latching on to the tip with teeth to forestall him taking it away. Amadeo palmed my buttocks, one cheek in each of his big hands.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he stated. His voice had a growl. He rubbed me between the legs.

I spotted a red phone booth on the corner of the street. “In there,” I pointed.

The box was a tight squeeze. We stood back to front with the phone on our left. I told Amadeo that I had condoms in the side packet of my backpack. He unzipped and covered his cock. I pushed my hands off the paneled glass and thrust my ass at him. Amadeo prised my legs further apart and entered me from behind. I was so wet that his penis slid all the way in at once.

He fucked me in that constricted space. The cock was like the piston of a steam engine, a single cylinder moving in a two stroke cycle. In and out, in and out, it went. My cunt, greased by arousal, provided the lubrication for the shaft. He accelerated to a pace that worked. After that, the speed didn’t change. Instead of going faster, he went harder. Amadeo held my hips and slammed his cock home. The balls clapped against my buttocks. Their impact echoed in the booth.

I saw my reflection in the glass. My face scrunched up in lines with the effort of fucking. My moans had volume. He matched them with his grunts.

Amadeo pulled the sweater down my shoulder to expose one of my breasts. Shoving me against the wall of the phone booth, he flattened the tit against glass. The surface felt cold to my bare skin. It made me shiver.

A sharp tug of the hair forced my head backward. He bit my bottom lip. My nails broke the skin on his forearm. The end of his belt slapped against my thigh.

His fingers gathered the wetness from my pussy. He pressed them into my mouth.

There were lights in the building. I wondered if anyone saw us. I hoped so.

“Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.” The words were my mantra.

My hand reached behind me. The grip on his ass encouraged his movements. Amadeo was deliberate to allow me to come first. My wetness splashed onto the backpack situated on the floor of the booth. He stopped moving while my vagina contracted about the shaft. He grunted at the achievement of holding his orgasm back as my muscles constricted. Head thrown back, I laughed like a madwoman.

He started moving again when I told him to fuck me.

I started chanting, this time punctuating the premise that he should fuck me with the demand that he must do it harder.

Not a minute after my orgasm, his arms wrapped my waist, and he lifted me up. My feet were suspended in midair. His shaft plugged me impossibly deep. Shrieking, I clamped myself about the penis as it convulsed inside me.

His jolts went on and on in a sequence of hard pulses. His hand gripped the tit that was still partially exposed. My legs kicked in the air as he tightened his hold on me. “Slut,” he intoned.

Yes, I am.

When he set me down, I sagged against the side of the phone booth. The air stunk of sex. My makeup and hair were disasters. I needed to pee.

I heard the zip of his belt and the metallic ring of his belt buckle. I smoothed the skirt to cover myself. Turning, I spread my arms to embrace him. We kissed, and while my arms circled his neck, he lifted me up once more.

We were three blocks from his apartment. I walked there on unsteady legs.

Playing an instrument May 16, 2011

Posted by Leah in Fellatio, Public, Random hookups.

I play flute in an amateur orchestra. We perform in public ten times a year. We are not a large ensemble, nor musicians of stature or importance. Many of the people who come to hear us play are our friends. The concerts are followed by an after party, featuring drinking and merriment. These are often the prelude to sex. Musicians have a reputation for sleeping around. It can be a fun exercise to see who pairs with whom at the end of the night. When the head rush, elation, and kinetic energy of a performance fills up the arteries and veins, the tension often demands a sexual release.

Gi, who plays French horn, extricated me from a tedious conversation with a violist’s friends. The pub we had chosen for the night’s festivities opens to a street from which various side alleys deviate. I wanted air, and as it was a lovely night, we took our bottles outside. Gi needed to piss, so he found a shadowy place and irrigated a stone wall. When he finished, before he could cover up, I went to my knees and took his cock into my mouth. He protested, though his penis stiffened almost at once. The coating of urine over the eye added a tinge of sharpness to the taste of his perspiration.

Working the trousers open, I lowered Gi’s pants. He passively let me. But he was alert to our location. Fretfulness and worry weighted his carriage. His eyes had a nervous lateral movement. Anxious about our surroundings, he looked as though he would flee at any moment. My fingers reached up into his shirt and smoothed softly down to dissipate the tenseness in his muscles. Gi kept his pubis and balls shaved. I lapped the sensitive skin on either side of his cock.

With the cloth pooled around his ankles, I turned my hand about the shaft and bobbed over the front third of his penis. Elevating my tongue against the underside, I washed the glans with mouthfuls of saliva.

Gi exhaled an expressive sigh.

Briefly withdrawing the erection from my lips, I licked wet stripes parallel to the veins along the bottom surface of the shaft, lapped especially at the frenulum, and returned to sucking him. My cheeks bowed inward. My tongue circled the crown and tasted precome there. Lips exerting pressure all around, I rotated my face to a 4/4 beat.

No longer nonplussed, he reached a hand into my bra and cupped my tits. His fingers also played with my ponytail.

He liked it when I held the cock vertical and sucked the balls beneath. Because the contact of my tongue with the perineum elicited such powerful moans, I concentrated my attention there, sweeping the flat tongue from side to side over that responsive patch of skin. The front of the tongue lifting to make a cup, I applied the point to the crease between the groin and the leg.

Gi collected stray tendrils of hair behind my ears. When he lowered the cock and held it out to me, I rubbed my nose along the pubis, planted a kiss over the groin, and returned to sucking the shaft with a simple up and down motion. My arms wrapped his legs, and I raised my eyes to him. Spit leaked from the circumference of my lips. The cobble in the mews bit into my kneecaps, but I cared not at all. Hands twisting over the base of the cock and on his balls, I straightened my posture and continued.

As I sucked him, I mused about how much I loved this act. I procure pleasure from having a lover’s shaft resident inside my lips. It is intrinsically a submissive gesture for me to be on my knees this way. Head lowered, I do my obeisance.

I hummed to a distant unheard music. It was a fugue in D minor. I stepped through the variations, modulating the tempo, accelerating, decelerating, employing more tongue, employing less, tightening the seal of the lips, sucking louder, sucking softer, sucking harder, sucking wetter. My movements became slurred. My movements were discrete and precise. My fingers played counterpoint over his balls. I pushed two fingers up against the perineum and rocked my hand from the wrist to apply a generous vibrato there. Letting his earnest sighs give me accompaniment, I gently raked teeth over the helmet. I scratched the insides of his thighs and performed a glide, eliding the notes as I did.

The penis slipped out of my lips with a plop. I swirled my tongue around the crown and placed little kisses over the lobes before swallowing him again. While I could throat Gi’s cock easily, I didn’t, dedicating myself only to the front part of the shaft and to the engorged head.

He came without warning me. The precipitate lurch of the flesh meant that the penis escaped my mouth. A volley of semen landed on my cheek. Quickly, I snatched the stem and snapped up the glans to capture the remainder of his come. The shaft pumped and extruded the semen, which layered over my tongue as a warm, salty, and welcome presence. I spread my jaws to exhibit it to him. Closing up again, I tongued the knob and sucked on it hard to extract the last drops from the aperture. My head swayed fractionally from left to right.

I swallowed and stuck out my tongue to show him that the semen had vanished into my esophagus. He helped me to my feet and pulled up his trousers. I took a swig of the beer. Because I like the texture, I smeared the semen that had striped my face into the skin. We rejoined our friends inside.

I had Gi’s scent in my nose through the night. I washed it away only in the shower the next morning.

Dog girl April 5, 2011

Posted by Leah in Bondage, Craigslust, D/s, Fellatio, Fucking, Public, Urine.

In his second e-mail, he sent a photograph of a buttplug that ended in a ten inch dog’s tail. He wanted me to be his dog girl. The scenario amused me far more than it turned me on, but I agreed to meet him for a cocktail Sunday evening and conversation. He was a charming man, a business professional, who was fully candid and disarming about his kink. We strolled through a park, both of us on our two feet. In a small copse of trees, he pressed his hands to my cheeks and kissed me. The touch of his lips over mine was tender and gentle. We negotiated play without the silicone tail.

Inside the apartment, he changed into a terry cloth bathrobe, and I stripped to my thigh high black stockings. He fastened a collar around my neck and attached a metal chain, and then I padded behind him on hands and knees while he took me for a walk through the apartment. While he sat in the arm chair, I crawled back to the bedroom to fetch his slippers and curled myself at his feet. He stroked my back. His fingers ruffled my hair and worked thoroughly over my scalp. He scratched behind the ears and then had me play fetch with a red chew toy. I nosed at his feet, kissed the tendons on top, tongued the ankle.

Drawing apart the bathrobe, I stuck out my tongue and pretended to salivate at the prospect of placing his stiff penis in my mouth. He had me lick his balls first, as dogs are wont to do, and then he pressed the glans to my lips. I was on my knees, with my hands resting on his thighs, while I fellated him. The soft tug of the lead told me when he wanted me to go faster and when he wanted me to slow down. His moans showed me what he liked. The blowjob lasted fifteen or twenty minutes, and I touched myself while I pleasured him. His semen tasted salty and pure.

As it was dark, he turned off the lights in the apartment and took me onto the balcony, naked, where he poured water for me in a dog bowl, and looped the lead around the railing at the edge. He set out food as well, but as this wasn’t my kink, I laughed and shook my head, no; he didn’t press.

Once he had regained his erection, we went indoors and fucked. He took me doggy style, of course. His hand wrapped the chain, and he tugged on the lead fiercely, as though controlling an unruly canine. The chain went around my shoulder, so that the jerk on my neck wasn’t too pronounced — evidently, he had given this fantasy some thought, or had previous experience. He had me bark and woof, which I did amid the guffaws. The man was almost as amused by the absurdity of the situation as I was, which was the only reason that any of this worked.

Elbows buckling to the ground, I moaned on his living room carpet while the erection sliced through the waters of my cunt. In it went the whole way, and back out again nearly to the tip. He slapped my ass cheeks and made me sweat. I scratched at the carpet and, on my own, howled while he fucked me. He lasted about ten minutes in my pussy before he came.

As I was cleaning up in the bathroom, an idea occurred to me suddenly. I summoned the man to join me and crawled into the tub, where I raised one leg and peed. He stood transfixed. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting this. The erection grew to prominence before my face.

He raised a bath and insisted on washing me up. I peeled the stockings off and returned to the tub, where he took a soapy sponge and wiped every square inch of my body. His attention concentrated on the most sensitive bits. After that, I had a boner to gnaw on.

Stairway to heaven April 3, 2011

Posted by Leah in Craigslust, Fellatio, Fucking, Public.

His fantasy was to have sex on the stairs of his apartment building. As I get off on fucking in public, the idea intrigued me. We met for a drink at his local, which was conveniently located across from the tube station, and then, once I had determined that his looks and his personality passed muster, we walked parallel to the main road until we reached his place three and a half blocks away. I followed him into the lobby of the post-war building, and we stepped into the elevator. He told me that he lived on the seventh floor. I hit the number five, and we got off there instead. The stairway was accessed through a sturdy wooden fire door to the left side of the elevator. On entering, I scanned the ceilings and the walls for CCTV cameras and did not see any.

He unfastened his belt and brought his trousers down. I went to my knees on the concrete floor and brushed my lips against the cock until it attained a state of adamantine hardness. Holding the base of the shaft, I bobbed my head over him. The man’s fingers twisted in my hair while I sucked. Leaning his weight against the wall at his rear, he pressed his hand commandingly at the back of my head and forced me to take his glans into my throat. Once I had accomplished this feat, he responded by jabbing the cock at me with a movement of the pelvis that kept three-quarters of the shaft contained in my mouth. The penis glistened with spit and my chin was sticky when he brought me to air again. I smiled up at him and mouthed his heavy scrotum.

While I stripped from the waist, he sat in the middle of the flight of stairs and stroked his phallus. Extracting a condom from the pocket of my jeans, I threw it to him, and he rolled it onto the shaft. Clutching the cylindrical steel railings along the side of the stairway for support, I straddled his body, which had inclined backward against the unforgiving stone. The pussy lips stretched about the shaft and made a taut ring at the base when I had completed my slow descent. The walls of the vagina remained tight inside. As I bounced myself over the man, he launched himself up to meet me halfway. The thighs made violent slapping noises when our bodies collided.

Because of the angle, the penis kept falling out and having to be replaced. So we switched positions. Feet planted two stairs apart, I gripped the banister. Grabbing hold of my breasts through my loose fitting shirt, he took my cunt from behind. The groin slammed against my buttocks when his cock bottomed out, and the balls followed with a softer clap. The sounds of sex, the moans and grunts, my demands to be fucked harder, and how he named me cunt — these all echoed in the stairwell.

On the landing, where the stairs turned ninety degrees, I went to hands and knees. He positioned my shins far apart and knelt in the space between them. Gripping me by the waist, he fucked my pussy with punishing severity. The cock entered and thrust with velocity. Pistoning in and out, he used the shaft as a hammer inside my cunt.

My hands rested crosswise under my head. The curtain of hair swung wildly as he fucked. He gripped the bottom of my shirt and dragged my body backward against his prick. We must have continued this way for ten minutes, silent except for fuck and pleasure. We kept going until I let out a loud wail and shattered expressively in that empty stairwell.

After that, he lay on the landing, and I mounted the penis again. My hands pushed off the floor, and, compressing most of his shaft within, I raised and lowered my pussy over the bottom part of the cock, adding twist and torque with a movement of my hips and buttocks. Bracing one hand against the wall, I ramped up in turn the intensity and the tempo of the sex and fucked the penis in my pussy harder and faster. I sucked on his fingers while I wrung myself about the cock and persisted in this ferocious grind. I wanted his orgasm, and he gave it to me, his arms wrapping my back and hunching my body over his as the rocket cock blasted off at last. We shared our first and only kisses as he was coming in my cunt.

The chain-link fence March 3, 2011

Posted by Leah in D/s, Fellatio, Fucking, Masturbation, Public, Repeated hookups.

About a month ago, I suggested to Amadeo that when the weather warms slightly, the two of us should play in public. Even a brief session outside, with the risk of being caught in flagrante delicto appeals to me. There’s a sordid danger to the act. There’s the fear of discovery. I don’t want to be seen. But I get off on the possibility. It’s an illicit thrill — to get away with being dirty in places where one ought to behave with propriety. Given the ubiquity of closed circuit television cameras in London, a quickie encounter has an added peril.

I received an e-mail from Amadeo two evenings ago in which he outlined a scenario for us. Though he allowed a winter coat in acknowledgement of the weather, he wanted me to wear a dress short enough to ensure easy access to my pussy. He specified no stockings. I took care to shave my legs in the morning and brought the outfit to the office. After my workout in the gym, I showered and changed.

The winter jacket reached to my knees. The leopard print minidress I had worn stopped halfway up my thigh. I liked the bracing rush of air that spiraled between my legs as I descended into the arteries of the London underground.

Amadeo and I ate at an excellent Italian restaurant. (He is finicky about the cuisine of the country of his birth.) The waiter stood behind me when we ordered. Following the scoop of my dress, his eyes nestled in my cleavage. Amadeo’s amusement at how conspicuous he was found a mirror in my smile. We lingered over wine until 10 pm. Then it was time to go.

We drove north of High Barnet, beyond the terminus of the Northern line, and wended through narrow streets. Standalone houses replaced the apartment buildings of the interior of the city. After several minutes of seemingly aimless driving, Amadeo circled around a block and then doubled back. He parked the car and told me to bring the bag in the back seat. The side street we had stopped on was deserted: there were a handful of cars parked on the side of the road and no pedestrians at all. The streetlamps offered only a dim illumination to the setting. The buildings around us were dark. They looked to be abandoned. A hundred meter metal fence marked the boundaries of an asphalt lot. I surveyed the length of the street and didn’t see cameras.

Amadeo took the bag from me.

I removed my coat.

“You will be cold,” he said.

I shrugged and threw it over the trunk of his car.

“I am going to cuff you to the fence.”

He sent me to my knees, brought my arms up above my head, and secured the wrists with handcuffs to the chain-link fence. He pressed his fingers to my lips and had me open my mouth. The fingertips skated along the row of teeth. He stretched them over the tongue. He scissored them apart to widen the maw. The fingers spun inside. I forced saliva between them. I bobbed my head as though I were sucking his cock.

Amadeo brought the penis out of his pants. He hadn’t worn underwear and was most of the way erect. The eye of the glans peeked through the foreskin. The fingers made a circle around the thickening shaft and exposed the head.

I glanced all around me. Amadeo and I were still alone. I was aware of the goose pimples on my thighs and exposed forearms. I could see my breath.

The metal was cold against my back. Suppressing the impulse to shiver, I focused my attention on his prick. I licked my lips and waited. A jolt of electricity raced up my spine as I contemplated what we were about to do.

When he gave me the cock, I took it down halfway without a second’s hesitation. My head moved back against the fence, then forward, in the direction of his pelvis. The saliva dripped over the front part of the penis. I made slobbering noises as I sucked him.

The pressure of his hand tilted my head up and made my neck arch. The fence gave behind me as he pressed inward, the metal biting at the back of my head.

He jabbed the cock deeper into my mouth. My fingers looped through the links of the fence. I tightened my grip as I strained to accommodate the front part of the erection into my throat. I made gagging sounds.

He swore at me and bade me to throat the cock fully. I followed his instruction. The gag reflex was more pronounced than usual last night. It took an effort to comply. But I did. My lips came to a halt where the seam of the scrotum begins. My nose was buried in his pubis. I had his scent deep inside my lungs. I glanced up at Amadeo and conceded my submission with a needful look. He fucked my face for a minute or so. After that, he let me continue the blowjob at a more equal tempo. I interrupted the sucking to tongue the sides of his shaft. I accepted the knob of his penis into my throat repeatedly, surfacing for a swallow of air each time.

Amadeo took his penis from me. He used it to slap my cheek. He pressed down on my forehead and ran the shaft, which was sticky with saliva, over my cheeks and nose and then placed it between my lips. I sucked. Without my hands to help guide the movements, there was no finesse to this blowjob. He didn’t care. He had me swallow the spit that corded in thick strands on the lower part of the head. As the cock was now lubricated, I could take it deep more easily. I shook my head from side to side with the penis seated atop my tongue. The cheeks puffed up. They expanded and contracted like bellows.

He boxed the side of my face. He reached for my tits and tweaked them through the stretchy cotton fabric of the dress. He combed his fingers through my hair. The fingers dug into my scalp. All the while, he surveyed the area to make certain there was no one else present. I was constantly aware of the backdrop of the sex. It excited me to be sucking cock, chained outside, like a dog, like a bitch, like a slut. I was a mouth he had claimed for his use. I was a woman.

He pulled his cock away definitively and fished for the key in his trouser pocket. “I don’t want to come this way. I want to cream in your pussy.”

Amadeo uncuffed me and brought me to my feet. My hair caught in the fence and snagged, causing me to wince. Amadeo went to the ground. He wet the corner of a handkerchief with spit and wiped it across my knees and just below, where they had become scuffed with the dirt on the pavement. When he was satisfied, he pushed me against the fence and kissed me as though he had just returned from the wars.

I stretched my arms to the side and made a large V. He cuffed my wrists to the fence again. The dress was too short, but it was also too tight over the legs. He contended to pull it up my hips. When the dress had lifted enough to show my underwear, he shifted the panties — also leopard print — to the side and considered my cunt. The fingers slipped inside. Their presence made me groan. Amadeo wiggled them. The blowjob had left a puddle in my knickers. Now I longed to be filled with cock.

He rolled a condom on. He entered me.

I was conscious of my surroundings: the stillness of the street, the brick facade of the building across the way, Amadeo’s car parked in front of us, the long shadows on the pavement, the wintry arctic air, how the metal of the cuffs dug into my wrists, the movement of the fence at my back. I brought my knee forward and kicked my foot off the wiry mesh, drawing my thigh flush against Amadeo’s leg. The movement enhanced the angle of penetration. Amadeo yanked on my hair to jerk my head up. His hand gripped my jaw from below. He lowered his spit into my mouth. He bit my lower lip. He grunted fiercely. The fence buckled as his cock slammed into me. He came within two minutes.

I hadn’t orgasmed, but this didn’t matter. My cunt was raw. The sex had satisfied.

He inverted the condom, placed it over his index and middle fingers, and brought it to my lips. I sucked his sperm from the latex. Once he released me from my bondage, I went to my knees and mouthed his drooping penis. Before rising to my feet, I picked up the discarded Durex wrapper. “We shouldn’t pollute,” I told him, and he laughed.

The reserves of adrenaline exhausted, I shivered uncontrollably. I wrapped myself in my winter coat and, teetering on pointed heels, spun myself in a circle, taking in the neighborhood around us. Though we had been outside for barely ten minutes, the heat in the car felt heavenly.

I masturbated during the drive to Amadeo’s, leaving a pool of moisture on the seat. Whenever he could manage it, his left hand migrated from the stick shift to the space between my legs. As soon as the apartment door had shut, he sent me toppling to the floor and threw himself on top of me. The sex continued for hours.

Hallowe’en 2 November 2, 2010

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

I dress as a Greek goddess for the night. The costume is a white dress with a short pleated skirt whose fabric flows and bounces with each step. The top is form fitting, with its neckline dipping low to display considerable cleavage. (I went braless, as Greek goddesses do.) Braided gold rope encircled my waist. The material of the skirt is flimsy and translucent to light. The hem leaves two-thirds of my thigh exposed and covers my ass — just! — and only when I stand motionless. I affix gold ribbon to the sandals and vine it around my calves. A wreath of laurel leaves on my head completes the outfit.

This costume is indecent without hot pants underneath. Otherwise, I can’t help but exhibit my ass when I move. Only tiny see through panties cover my girl parts though. It is Hallowe’en. The purpose of this night is to get debauched.


A violinist in the orchestra is one of the show runners. She has convinced much of the band to come to the masquerade, and there are other groups present as well. The organizers of the festivities have rented a warehouse in the north of London. The cover for entry is steep, but the booze inside is cheap. I resolve to drink less than on Friday.

When I arrive, I don’t feel like dancing at once. I get drinks at the bar and find friends at one of the tables that ring the walls of the room. We nurse cocktails and talk about our days. I get ribbing for my choice of costume.

Musicians — even the amateurs like us — are incorrigible gossips. I am asked about my tryst with the clarinetist following the concert two weeks ago. I offer my imprimatur to my friend, and despite entreaties decline to produce any details of the encounter. We all giggle when he walks past and waves.


I am surprised to see Mike. He is a cellist. When I first moved to London, he introduced me to the theaters and the museums. Though he is perhaps thirty years older, he might be my closest male friend in the city. Marriage never suited him, though he has attempted the enterprise twice. He has no children and enjoys the bachelor life. I have told him about my promiscuity. This amuses him.

Mike invites me to dinner once or twice a month for no reason at all, or knowing that I can’t afford good seats, asks me to the opera and the theater. He flatters me by saying that he enjoys the company of clever and beautiful women. Though Mike knows that I am unlikely to refuse any proposition he makes, he has never tried. He informed me kindly that he prefers women closer to his age. The kisses at the end of a date land chastely on my cheek.

He dresses extravagantly as Frans Banning Cocq.


A fireman comes on to me. The conversation is banal. I am not attracted.

I am grateful to Eliza, who rescues me. Displacing the arm from my shoulder, I make my excuses and visit the toilet.


When I dance, it is with the Grim Reaper. I do not know who is behind this mask. But, goddamn!, does he ever know how to move.

The music delivers a driving, persistent beat. The rhythm pulses. I feel the bass notes resounding in my bones.

I grind my hips. The sway of the swinging skirt shows my cheeks.


I lean myself into him, embracing Death.

Fingers trace the line of the spine. He applies a gentle pressure at the depression at my back just above the tailbone. When I place my arms upon his shoulders to encourage his further explorations, he shifts his attention to the front. His hands grip my sides, and he rolls his index fingers below my breasts. I twist toward him, letting the hands cover my tits. He knows that I’m not wearing a bra. He stares down into the gap between my breasts. I pull the fabric aside to quickly flash him a tit, then cover myself again. He cups my breasts. He kneads them through the skeletal gloves he wears.

My hands stroke the front of his pants. I raise his erection.


We go outside, the Grim Reaper and I. It has rained earlier in the day. The pavement is wet. I arch my toes and lower my knees to the ground anyway. We are positioned between two cars and out of sight.

I tell him to leave his mask on. I don’t know who he is. I don’t want to know. He holds his black robe bunched above his waist. His jeans are zipped open and lowered to the knees along with red, white, and blue striped boxers. His cock is lean, but it has length. I place wet kisses on the glans and let my lips cover the tip. The penis stiffens in my palm.

To begin, I slide my fingers along the bottom half of the shaft and suck only the head. My tongue slides under the helmet, poking at the frenulum, while I splash saliva over the top. Death leans against the car. I look up at him and scratch his thigh. My tongue curls around the knob. I give the underside a series of quick licks, then bounce the glans softly off my lower lip. Concentrating on the front of the penis only, I make a ring with my fingers and drag them up and down rapidly over the remainder of the shaft.

The woolen gloves are gone. I like that he works his hand over a breast and tweaks the nipple while I suck. The blowjob becomes wetter.

Death responds with heavy moans when I lip the crown above the circumcision ring. I repeat the movement for half a minute, then give his balls the same attention. Turning my head sideways, I lick at the seam at the center of the scrotum. When, I suck the cock again, I take him in deeper.

He pulls the laurel ring from my head. Holding the robe up over his stomach with one hand, he brushes the other through my hair.

I hear the voices of people having a smoke. The parking lot is dark. But his head is visible at least as a shadow. The risk of being discovered giving head excites me.

My knees scratch over the asphalt as I suck him harder. I drive my face at him, sinking lower and lower, breathing carefully through my nose, swallowing with my mouth to suppress the gag reflex when the glans presses up against my throat. Except for the hold of two fingers making the skin at the base of the cock taut, I have him fully embedded. The glans never leaves my mouth as my head bobs over him.

I look up and wonder at what he sees. A woman dressed up as the huntress Artemis is sucking the Grim Reaper’s cock. The mythologies are confused. The hood is drawn down. He throws his head back. Even in the near darkness outside, the veins in his neck stand visibly in relief. The grip in my hair tightens. The mask still covers his face, and I wonder if this is a man I know in a different context.

The pressure of the hand on the back of my head makes me look down again. I bob my head faster now. Lubricated with saliva, the cock sinks easily into my throat. The fingers now have a hold on his balls. I tug them. The tip of my nose smashes into his groin. The hair is matted down. I smell the maleness there. His movements acquire a charge. The robe is wedged against the car. He cups the sides of my head, and he holds me down when I have him in my throat.

Because I don’t want him to come just yet, I pull the cock from my lips and lay kisses on his thigh. I bring the sac forward with the press of fingers in back and drag my tongue over each hemisphere. I push the testes against the skin and suck on them. The tip of my tongue combs through his pubis. I use the point to lick over his groin. I poke at the eye. The precome has a viscous texture. Death tastes of salt and brine.

I make my tongue flat and drag it along the underside of the shaft. I mouth the sides. I hold the cock in my two hands and drop kisses over the top. I coo to the erection. Death looks down at me, and he moans.

Gripping my hand around the shaft, clenching the fingers tightly, I fellate him again. My thumb rubs along the bottom of the shaft. My tongue depresses in the middle, the front raising against the heavy knob. I bring my bottom lip up and tighten the seal. Filling my mouth full of saliva, I wash it against the mushroom knob. My head moves from side to side. I rotate my mouth slightly. I go up, and I go down. It goes on.

My hand tightens on his thigh. I suck him with no hands, starting with my lips on the glans, sinking down nearly to the bottom. My head twists as I take him down my throat. I descend until the lips rest against his balls and flick my tonguetip at the lip of the scrotum. I do this several times just to satisfy myself that I can swallow all of his length. Mostly, I work the upper two-thirds of the shaft. With the penis implanted in my throat, my lips nibble on the skin before reversing direction.

I go faster. He drives his pelvis at me while I suck him with obvious intention. One hand pushes off his hip. The other is splayed against his belly to balance myself. My cheeks hollow with the suction they deliver. Glancing up, I observe that his eyes are shut. His fingers shove at the back of my head. When he tells me he is going to come, I fight his grip and pull back from his cock. Tilting my face up, spreading my jaws, I extend my tongue to cushion the glans and jerk his shaft to completion.

Death dies the little death. He grunts and spews. The shaft trembles in my fingers. His come doesn’t shoot out with any velocity: it merely dribbles from the aperture. I push the thick glans against the roof of my mouth to collect the spendings. My tongue swirls round and round. The erection diminishes in my fingers.

I swish the semen in my mouth and swallow. I clean up the mess of saliva I have left on his cock. My knees are painted with dirt when I lift to my feet.


The man with whom I depart is not the man I blew. I hope the Grim Reaper remains a stranger to me.


Inside, I dance mostly with my female friends. We laugh and we drink and then dance some more. When I take a break around half past one, I sit with the clown. He is our pianist. I find his long fingers enchanting.

The conversation is flirtatious. He likes my costume. I have been horny ever since the blowjob outside sometime before midnight. We are having drinks in a dark corner. I take his hand and place it over my skirt. I spread my legs and push the hand against my pussy. I belatedly notice the ring on his finger when I do.

“You don’t have to,” I assure him. “I will apologize, and this won’t happen.”

He wants to.


He retrieves a change of clothes from his car and washes off the clown makeup in the bathroom. I clean up as well and say my goodbyes. Mike gives me an enormous hug and a knowing wink and admonishes me to have fun. The pianist — his name is Vikram, and he is a physician — takes us to a hotel.

Vikram is in his late thirties and looks as he should: fifteen years older than me and naturally tanned. I am bundled up in a trenchcoat that reaches to the knees and look perfectly decent. But the desk attendant knows why we want a room sometime after two in the morning. She develops an attitude. I wrap my arms around Vikram and lace my fingers over his waist. I place a kiss over his jacket where it falls at the shoulder. “I wish she’d hurry up. I can’t wait to get you into bed,” I stage whisper.

Let the bitch stew.


In the hotel room, we undress with alacrity.

He has no condoms in his pants or in his wallet. I look inside my clutch. “We can fuck twice,” I count.


He has me lie on the bed. His kisses start at my belly and descend to my cunt. His mouth covers the opening of my pussy. The tongue slides over the slit. The breath from his nose strikes my bare pubis. My hand presses lightly on top of his head. I twist the graying hair while his face slides from side to side. He extends the tongue over me and licks the labia. The nub of the nose rubs across my skin. I run my hands over his forearms. I comb his hair. My knees are upright on the bed. My feet arch from the mattress. My pelvis raises as I seek to improve the angle. Vikram sucks my cunt. He holds my hip and squeezes my breasts. The point of contact acquires a torque as he rotates his face. The tongue focuses on my slit. It pokes in and out. The touch on the clitoris remains incidental for the moment.

I have been wet for hours. My panties were moist when I removed them. The dexterity of his tongue amazes me. It presses the right spots, between the lips, just inside the opening. He attacks the clit at last with his lips. My head rolls on the pillow. I clutch at the sheets. His hand presses over my belly while I squeak with pleasure. I wriggle my shoulders and bring my hips up. My back arches like a rainbow. The grip of fingers tightens in his hair. My thighs squeeze the sides of his head. The orgasm bursts over his tongue.

I take heavy breaths as I recover. I giggle.


I want to suck him, but he tells me that his cock is hard already, that he can’t wait. He slips the condom on.

Vikram is on his knees when he enters me. His hands grab the backs of my thighs. I bend the knees and tilt my buttocks off the mattress, raising my pussy to him.

The moment of penetration is exquisite. I am wet from the cunnilingus. The nerves inside vibrate with potentiality. The latency is made real when the cock muscles through. The flesh parts and collapses back against the shaft. The cunt is tight inside. The muscles are slick. I feel the friction on the walls of my vagina acutely. I compress him. We moan in counterpoint. It is a fugal harmony.

When the cock slips out, he slaps the head over my cunt and slips it back inside momentarily. Bringing it out again, he pokes my clitoris with the knob. The head slides across the tender nerve endings. The contact makes me come a second time. This orgasm is small, but no less satisfying for that.

When I place the cock inside me again, Vikram pulls me backward by the thighs. The length of the penis sinks into me. As he bounces himself on the mattress from his kneeling position, I flail my hips at him. Feet anchored to the bed, I grind the pelvis down. My head swivels with the pleasure of the sex. I hold his thigh and squeal.

The sex is etched in memory. The surrounding details are vivid. I notice the nearly inaudible buzz of the heater, the clean smell of the sheets, the soft lights, and the plush mattress. Clothed in sweat, I find the air bracing on my skin. He smells like lust.

We switch positions. He lays down horizontally, and I straddle the cock. The fullness inside feels different now. I control the angle of penetration and clench about the shaft. He holds me by the hips. In time, he takes over. I spread my hands and prop my weight on his chest as his thighs pump up at me. I hear the distinctive slap of skin striking skin. My pelvis gyrates as I bounce over his groin. My pussy impales herself over his cock. Vikram moans an occasional bass note. The sounds I make are higher pitched and feverish.

An especially vigorous movement means that his cock slips out of my cunt. I tease my pussy lips over the side of the shaft. Vikram sits up. We exchange gentle kisses. I hold his chin while my lips revel in his taste. The breath we share is sweet.

Vikram fucks me doggy style. His hands hold my hips as he rocks his body into me. I list back and forth on hands and knees. I like the steady deep penetration from behind. Hand between my legs, I touch my clit. I rub his balls.

Vikram moans eloquently. And then his cock convulses. He laughs when he completes, and I join in the chuckling.


We sleep, saving the last condom for morning. I rest in the cradle of his arms when slumber claims me.


Around eight, he wakes me with his kisses. I raise one leg over his side, and he threads his between mine. His fingers touch my pussy from below. The penis is warm against my thigh. Reaching between our bodies, I stroke his cock to hardness.

I lie on top of him while he fucks me. His hands hold me below the breasts. He kneads my buttocks. The kisses are unending.

I want to feel his weight on top, so we roll over in the bed. I press my thighs against his hips. My feet wave in the air. He fucks me hard. The cream from my pussy turns the condom white. I claw at his buttocks, the nails leaving my mark on his skin. My tongue stabs into his mouth when he comes inside me.


When he drives me home, I have my dress in a plastic bag. I am naked under the trenchcoat. I haven’t sucked Vikram’s cock, so I ask him to park the car and let me. His third orgasm offers little semen. He fingers my cunt during the blowjob. The thumb flicks at the clit.

The night finishes at nine-thirty in the morning.

Orientation October 1, 2010

Posted by Leah in Fantasy, Masturbation, Public.

I had a mandatory and completely useless orientation today. I sat in the back row of the auditorium with the laptop dangerously perched on the foldout desk. It was too distracting to read a paper or write with someone talking at me from the front of the room. Starting from the highlights at Fleshbot, I surfed the sex blogs to amuse myself.

A spray of semen against the asshole of a multiorgasmic woman made me wish that sex without condoms happened more frequently in my life. I longed to be fucked in the shower by more fingers than there are on one hand or seduced in the office by a professor, which is a recurring fantasy of mine. The touch of fingers strayed to the seam of my jeans. Reassured that being a slut is ok, I read about Emily’s sexy family. My fingers rubbed harder now.

The row of seats immediately in front had four people grouped before me. My row had six or seven in total. I was quiet about masturbating. From my position at the end of the row and in the corner of the room, only the guy three seats away could see the hand moving between my legs as I scrolled down the web page. Jaw hanging open, he stared at me in disbelief. Meeting his look, I shrugged my shoulders and went on with the business.

An hour and a half into the session, the girl sitting in front passed me the attendance sheet. I signed beside my printed name and handed it along. I noticed the guy scrutinizing the paper, trying to figure out who I was before he signed himself present and sent it over to the next man.

We adjourned for coffee soon after. During the break, I felt his eyes on me from behind. Having signed the sheet, I had no intention of staying for the second half of the morning session.

I am an opportunist. I am shameless. I walked over to him. “I am horny. I could use a fuck. Do you want to get out of here?”

He answered in accented English. The voice had a singsong quality.

His name is Oscar. He is from Stockholm. He fucked me in the basement under the stairs meters below the side exit to the building, which we heard open and close. I slipped off my shoes and out of one of my pant legs. He stood with his jeans pooled at his feet and his boxers about his ankles. Flattening myself against the wall, I raised my thigh against his body, and he held it against his hip. The panties were shifted to one side so that his penis could enter me. He hunched his knees and angled his cock at me from below. The penetration brought me to my toes. The painted brick was unforgiving on my back. I felt its solidity across my shoulders and ass when he speared my vagina. I lifted my arms high above my head. He twigged what I was after and clasped them by the wrists with the hand that wasn’t supporting my leg. I liked the sensation of being taken by someone I had just met, of having my cunt pounded by a man who didn’t know my name, of doing it in the open with the risk of discovery heightening my arousal. Hungry kisses stifled my moans.

Sadly, the last paragraph is a fancy. It could have happened had the man been slightly braver, been named Oscar, and come from Sweden. Instead, I found a toilet and frigged myself. The climax is an anticlimax.

A date and a non-date July 25, 2010

Posted by Leah in Craigslust, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Public.


He invited me to join him in the park. He knew a place where the grass was long and uncut (just like his cock, he said). First, we enjoyed a little picnic — he brought a blanket, sandwiches and fruit, salad, a bottle of wine, two glasses. We basked in the weather and spoke of the plays we had seen, museum exhibitions, the daily aggravations of the underground. Yards away, people kicked around a soccer ball, walked dogs and babies, and laid out on the grass, like us. We saw and heard them.

I had worn a loose fitting skirt that fell to the knees with no panties below. I loosened his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped, and tugged the shorts and briefs down his remarkably hairy thighs. The cock was hard, an average size, and uncut; his pubis could have used grooming, the nest of hair was so thick. I retracted the skin and licked at the head. Lips taut about the shaft, my mouth took him in. While I worked the penis with lips and tongue, he reached up the skirt and fingered my pussy. He ran over my slit, rubbing the moisture from the cunt over the bare pubis. The grass concealed us effectively, but the sounds of the blowjob were loud in my ears. With a penis in my mouth, my eyes scanned the surroundings for voyeurs. It didn’t appear that we were observed. I sucked him five minutes, ten at the most, before he came.

He jerked at the orgasm, and the penis slipped from my lips. The come landed on the ground and also on his shorts and legs. Though we wiped it with paper napkins, it left a wet spot on the fabric. Since it was there, once he had pulled his shorts up, I pressed my mouth over it and sucked, tasting his brine. The saliva made the wet spot bigger. The penis stirred below me.

When it was my turn, I laid on the blanket on my side, my head level with his waist, and hitched up the skirt. I showed him my pussy, pressed a grape inside, ate another. He extracted the grape, popped it in his mouth, and swallowed, then proceeded to eat my sex. His technique was to rub my pussy lips, sending his middle finger inside, tapping the walls with it, perhaps reaching for the G-spot, while he licked and sucked on the clitoris. It lacked variety, but it did the job. The summer air hit me from below as he lapped. I had the scent of dirt and grass. Looking down, I liked the contrast between his skin and mine. Aroused by the blowjob already, I quivered and had a small orgasm. Since I was busy being licked, I didn’t pay attention to what was happening around us. The noises of the park hit me after: the sounds of children playing, the babble of indistinct conversation, a foot striking the ball. There was no applause or laughter when we finished, no police, no amused or disapproving looks. We must have gotten away with it, in the tall grass, on a lazy afternoon, surrounded by hundreds, out in the open, right in the heart of London.



My lunch date didn’t show. That’s shibari I won’t be having.