MILF


Mr Henry has sadly suffered a hissy fit of epic proportions, which has led to his ultimate demise.

Once he was a studly and virile lover. Sadly, over the years his prowess waned considerably, and he has been reduced to whining and wailing dramatically in lieu of any real sexual interaction. His famously short cock, albeit rich in girth, lusts vainly after strapping young Korean lads, who wouldn’t touch the crusty old gaijin with a barge pole, and so much more so not their own.

His fetish for being cuckolded was what brought about his final downfall. Unable to accept that the woman who he repeatedly claimed to love over the course of 12 years, to whom he said over and over “It’s you. It’s always been you. It will always be you.” was free of him, and no longer wanted anything to do with him, he self-imploded.

The final straw came when she told him of her life and her stable of studly, sexy, virile lovers who have never even looked at a little blue pill, and her ongoing divorce. To her, as to most normal humans, this was called “news”, or “what’s going on in my life, man who I haven’t seen since 2006”. To him, this was an invitation to self-harm, throw a temper tantrum, and finally, completely, and utterly, lose his shit.

Upon the presentation via Facebook and email, of certain lewd and inappropriate suggestions on his part, and their subsequent rejection in their entirety, Mr Henry lost the plot. Expunging himself of much hoarded bile and ill-feeling, he wrote a pissy little note to this author, speaking of how he had also expunged himself of her and anything to do with her — and how this had delighted him.

And then he ceased to be.

He was, as the Pythons would have it, an ex-Parrot. Or similar. Although as metaphors go, parrot is quite appropriate for Mr Henry. When he spoke, whether on paper or out loud, much squawking did ensue. As he got older, so his writing got grayer, like the hair on his arms, back and shoulders. His notions became more staid and repetitive. His syntax grew stodgy and stale. His charm waned considerably, and his bright spark all but vanished. His delightful eloquence gave way to turgid loquacity, and his originality transmogrified into plagiarism and dullness.

In short, what was once love gave way to vitriol and ill-wishes. Misbehavior attractive in a rambunctious, tousle-headed child became loathsome and vile in an overgrown, immature malcontent. Was he always this way? Not according to my perception, certainly not then. But now — no question.

So goodbye, stranger who was once my adored love. Goodbye, farewell, good riddance, don’t let the swing door hit you on your wrinkling, saggy ass as you flounce away.

Rest in peace.

I appreciate that the arguments over taste, flavour and preference are almost entirely academic. What I may like, you may hate, and so on. In addition to making a mockery of the reality competitions involving advanced cheffery and food porn, this also applies to the world of attraction between two human beings. (I do not presume to exclude the sort of polyamorous relationship involving 3 or more, but for the purposes of this specific discussion  this is an irrelevant issue.)

However, since I’ve been around the block once or twice, and have the gravitas of my super-advanced age to back me up (no one has been able to convince me that I’m not heading the way of Methuselah ever since I passed the big four-oh), I’ve decided to give you the benefit of my experience and opinion. Image

Attraction is a funny thing. There are those who attribute all the highs and lows of emotion, feeling, sensation and sensuality to various chemical surpluses or imbalances. There are those who declaim proudly that true love is true love, and it manifests itself through attraction. (This, as a theory, is bollocks, but what can you do. People. Kfff.) Then there are those who realize that attraction is a subtle blend of the physical, the mental and that x-factor that causes one person to be as handsome as Paul Newman in his heyday, whereas another somewhat resembles the Notre Dame’s most infamous resident.

All of this taken into account, the truth is that the real attraction between two people, happens when they have something in common. It can be tangible — a love for basketball, perhaps. It can be ethereal — a love for fantastic boobs, or blonde hair. It can be the x-factor — an indescribable and untouchable reason that sends two people careening back into each others arms, even after political disagreements, or within the uncomfortable familiarity of an abusive relationship.

But what is so fundamentally important, is that if there is something there — something real, where two minds meet and connect — don’t throw it all away upon viewing a bad photo. Not all of us are as photogenic as <insert supermodel of your choice here>. All of us, however, when met in real life, have the potential to ensnare and bewitch another with the glinting sparkle in our eye.

It’s one thing to initially look at a picture and have no desire to communicate any further. But to establish a line of contact  and talk — non-stop — for two hours, only to abruptly rule out any further communication? That’s just fucking stupid.

Of course, the world is your oyster, and you are free to make the choices as your heart dictates. But you should know something. From the moment you disqualified me with your heartless “you’re not my type”, any attraction I had for you dissipated into thin air, like so much angel dust. Not because you weren’t attracted to me, because believe me, my ego is not so fragile as to be unable to withstand such a blow (!). Rather, because I could in no way be attracted to one who acts in a manner so shallow and pathetic. You implied that you were a mature, intellectually stimulating and intelligent human being — but you betrayed your true colors in one sentence. Not only was I no longer interested from that second on, but I feel as though I had the luckiest escape. As Beyonce so wisely (and beautifully) sings, “you turned out to be the best thing I never had.”

My eyes rake the ceiling in idle and vain search  of cobweb or crack upon which to focus. From somewhere beside me, I hear you whisper huskily:

“You’re writing again, aren’t you?”

In truth, no. Not this time. This time I am concentrating on exhaling and regaining some composure. I say “some” intentionally, for “all” is simply a pipe dream at this point. In the space of — what, three hours? Four? — I have lost all semblance of reality, and my outer identity and sense of self have been shed like so many outer garments.

I need to remember this. Above all else, it intensifies that oh-so-fleeting moment, dissipating almost as soon as it comes into existence. A sweetly poignant memory to cherish when this bubble bursts; but one for which albeit briefly, I must burst that very bubble in order to claim.

As I drift off into the never-never land to which you succeed in transporting me, a tiny part of my brain holds back, clinging to the here and now by the skin of its metaphorical teeth, and making tiny notes in the margin of my consciousness. Barely perceptible yet spine-tingling kisses become a rhythmic stroking of my skin, in a manner precisely calculated to send delicious shivers through me.

The word “precise” sticks in my head: it’s such an appropriate word. Every move you make is precise. Accurate. Meticulous.

Your tongue glides across my skin, and I feel you breathing. With no external restraint, despite hankerings to the contrary, you have me enthralled and supine; expectantly frozen in place, barely moving a muscle — save those that move of their own volition. As you close in on your prey, encircling the final location, the delectable fever of anticipation grips me from within. I can barely breathe — I know what will happen, yet I cannot predict the form it will take.

And then it begins — more exact and on the mark than ever before. I gasp, and silently scream my bliss to the rising heavens. The meticulously detailed locale of your soft tongue inside me is of an accuracy hitherto unparallelled. If all this were not enough, you manage to indicate your own pleasure vocally, which just sends me over the edge. That tiny part of my brain loses its tenuous hold and joins the remainder of my grey matter in space, as I spiral ever upwards into sheer ecstasy.

This is an experience that I never want to consign to oblivion — and yet oblivion is the place towards which I feel myself headed.

You navigate your way around my body using your own as leverage, and I marvel at your care and attention to detail. My outpouring of pleasure is both metaphorical and literal — not to mention seemingly endless.

Yet that which truly astounds me is your own participation. There is no distance; admittedly, physical distance would be quite a feat at this stage, but mentally it would not be considered that unusual. However as I writhe in exquisite agony, whimpering with pleasure, you are there with me. I feel you. I sense you through every pore on my skin.

You are precisely where you wish, desire, and intend to be — I couldn’t ask for anything more.

******************************

Epilogue:

It’s been wonderful — thank you.

Thank you for making me feel so relaxed and welcome. Thank you for liking so many of the same things that I do, and concurring on so many others. Thank you for the tea with milk, and for then rendering said tea irelevant as my mouth was busy elsewhere.

Thank you for stroking my skin, and playing with my hair. Thank you for being so much fun to be with.  Thank you for being a wonderful kisser. I could kiss you for hours, days even. I might end up looking something like Mick Jagger, but it’d be worth it.

Thank you for taking me from zero to tsunami in under 10 seconds — a feat hitherto only ever achieved (speedwise) by my glass friend. Thank you for taking me from behind; it’s my favourite position (see above “liking the same things as I do”).

Thank you for hugging me and holding me close. Thank you for making me laugh, and then laughing at my attempts at humour. Thank you for being so damn sexy. Thank you for making me feel so natural and happy.

Thank you for letting me pleasure you. Thank you for getting hard for me. Thank you for telling me to suck your balls — I’d have sucked them anyway, but I really enjoy being given, and following, (certain) orders in the bedroom (from specific people).

Thank you for the one for the road. It did indeed last the whole way home, the rest of the day, all of last night and is still going — not so much in terms of orgasmic buzz but in terms of glowing from the inside out. Were I to walk past a Geiger counter, I’d be surprised if it didn’t light up and dance all over the surface on which it stood.

Thank you for everything — and in particular, for thanking me. I can’t think of a higher compliment. As you said to me, it was wonderful having you, and I couldn’t agree more.

The first moments of 2011 were spent naked, panting and kissing. Traditionally, in other words.

The new year thing was by-the-by — it was a tryst much longed for by all parties concerned, and the new year was another excuse to get together and get naked. And you all know only too well how I loves to get naked.

There is a myth that with age, the sex drive wanes. This is simply not true. Separating us chronologically are 17 years, although you wouldn’t know it to look at him. Or to fuck him, come to that.

He calls me “jailbait”. I’m 42.

In terms of experience, we pretty much match each other, thanks to my often wistfully remembered slutfest. And then every so often I surprise him. Or he surprises me.

Yesterday was my turn to be surprised. A confirmed kinkster, although he refers to himself as “conservative”, he took vanilla and spiced it up to a level beyond anything that had gone before. He gave me an all-over body massage that rendered me speechless. I murmured as much, from within my stupor-like haze, and he giggled.

“Good to know. So if I ever want to shut you up, I now know what to do.”

I would have fired back one of my trademark smartass comments, but I truthfully didn’t care. If it meant that I got to experience this fantastic and sensuous hand rub again, I’d gladly remain silent.

At one point he lay down on top of me. I was face down, and so was he — but he held off from the obvious poke-and-prod-with-cock scenario — he’s classy like that.

“Is this what you mean by a full body massage?” I whispered into the comforter.

“Kinda.”

At which point he flipped me over, and grabbed me by the cunt.

*************************

We spent today apart — family commitments, prior engagements and so on. Yet all day long I could feel his touch on me. His fingers between my thighs. His cock in my cunt. His breath on the back of my neck. His legs entwined with mine. It was like an indelible print — it kept me in a permanent daze all day. Thank god for multi-tasking, or I’d not have achieved anything since this morning that didn’t involve sitting and staring blankly into space.

All in all, a most auspicious start to the new year.

I raise a glass to you all — to the new year, to new challenges, to new experiences and new forms of fun. May 2011 be a great year for all of you.

Love,
Juno x

It was never an ambition of mine to be fisted.

In fact, when reading this piece, I was reminded of how I once felt about the whole fisting experience. Except I was far less enthusiastic than she sounds.

“Euw,” I thought to myself on more than one occasion.

“A whole fist? Inside my poor little pussy? What if it goes too far in, and I feel his watch in me– and it snags on one of the leftover pubic hairs goddamn-them that evaded the all-pervading destruction of my depilatory efforts? What then? Aiieee!!!”

When i imagine the bad of a situation, I tend to go straight to worst-possible-case scenario, and wallow there for a while. It’s one of the joys of being neurotic. Of which there are many.

And then it happened for the first time.

I lay in his arms, and I could feel his fingers inside me, probing into the deepest part of me, furiously. It was his desire to make me gush my come all over his hand, and by golly he was giving it his all.

“How many are inside me?” I asked him. “Fingers, I mean.”

He giggled. (How sexy is it when a guy giggles with pure pleasure? It could sway even the most frigid of hearts, I’ll bet.)

“Umm… all of them.”

“All of them? All???”

“Yeah. All.”

“All. Four. Fingers.”

“Yes, all four. And don’t forget my thumb.”

“You mean you’re….”

“Yeah. I’m fisting you. How does it feel?”

It felt fabulous, if the truth be told. I felt filled up, but it was different than the thick-cock-filling-me-feeling. And it was lovely, because the movements made by his fist inside me were so different to a cock. So sensual, yet so raw and so powerful. I could liken the smooth, fullness of the moments to how it felt immediately after my anal passage relaxes and allows a cock that is fucking it full access.

It was wonderful.

But I was still doubtful. I mean, if it was this easy, what had stopped all my other lovers from trying it? Was it because this guy was more perverted? Unlikely. Perverted in a different way, maybe?

Yeah — maybe.

I strained to look. “I wanna see!”

“Here, I have an idea. Hold on a second…”

His voice trailed away as he reached behind him and grabbed a large professional digital camera from the stand next to the bed. He fiddled with it a little, and then handed it to me and started positioning my arms with his free hand.

“Wait… let me move your hands for you… lift your arms up a bit… yes.. that’s it. Now push the button.”

I duly pushed the button, and heard the satisfying click-whirr-clunk of a photo taken. He took the camera from me, and single-handedly adjusted it so that it reflected the last picture taken, and then showed me.

Sure enough, there was my cunt, and his fist… all the way inside it. (And he wasn’t wearing a watch.)

It’s the oddest thing to see your pussy iconized like that. The whole picture was my pussy and his wrist protruding from it. And as i was looking at it, I could feel his fist inside me. Accommodating myself to fit him had been far easier than I’d thought, although I am not terrifically big in the cunt area.

Practicalities dispensed with, we returned our attentions to fucking. Specifically, to him fucking me with his hand.

His whole hand all the way inside me. Fisting me.

The sweetest and most intense pressure as his pace increased and my grip on reality started to unhinge. The build-up inside me of pre-orgasmic excitement and an almost-but-not-quite unbearable tension in my bladder or thereabouts spiralled me higher and higher to orgasmic bliss until i came and gushed out rivers of fluid all over his hand, and I heard his contented sigh of satisfaction.

“That’s it, come for me baby. Yesss….”

I exhaled, and lay back, exhausted. I felt his hand slide out of me, caressing me as it slid. I heard his satisfied breathing complementing my own jagged coming-down gasps and i felt blissed-out and dazed.

My first fisting.

Beguilingly and bewilderingly polite. This was my first impression.

A soft-spoken and courteous person by nature, Adam’s initial inquiries about me were very cordial, and carefully structured. In addition to the fact that English was not his mother tongue, which i could tell was restricting him slightly in how he expressed himself, he was obviously also uncomfortable in expressing his desires verbally. And, apparently, unused to dirty talk or profanity.

Or so I thought.

Maybe it’s a xenophobic trait within me that should be stamped out like a burning scrap of paper. But the northern European accent that colored his English so prettily invoked a very polite and well-mannered attitude and impression… which was hard to gel with the disgracefully depraved way in which I like to cavort.

Suffice it to say that I presume way too much.

For this particular blind date, pictures had been exchanged. By the handful. We’d recognized each other immediately from aforementioned photos, through the steam of a Saquella espresso machine in the corner of a seductively warm cafe on a blustery cold and wintry evening. The lights outside along the sea front danced brightly, giving a false impression of cheeriness, but there was nothing cheery about the biting wind outside. We had, however, done our best to banish any last vestige of cold by both ordering wine — red for him, mulled with a stick of fresh cinnamon for me. We looked at each other, and smiled… and I was wondering how to broach a subject somewhat less conventional than the severity of the weather, when he took my hand and placed it on his thigh.

No words really necessary after all. Especially not when i ran my finger deliberately slowly over the growing bulge on his inner thigh.

I’m wet just at the thought of it, as I write.

He leaned into me and whispered politely “I need to fuck you, the sooner, the better. Can we go?”

The next few minutes were a blur of giggles, and bill-paying, and urgency, and hands clasped tightly, and half-walking, half-running to his place, only a short block away from the cafe. Formalities that had seemed to worryingly important had all but been dispensed with as we collapsed through the door, and into each other.

At first, we hugged and held each other very close, our hands roaming, and divesting each other of our accumulated layer of clothing. Once we were suitably scantily attired, he paused, and took my chin in his hand, lifting my face to kiss him.

Dear god, but he could kiss. My knees nearly buckled.

The passion intensified, and not breaking from the kiss, he managed to remove my remaining articles of clothing. Lacy panties in a puddle on the floor, where they had fallen after he’d given them a sharp, commanding tug. Matching lacy bra strewn halfway across the room, where I’d find it much, much later, decorating a very good reproduction of Guernica. All i wore were knee high socks, and tall, black, leather cowboy boots, which despite their heel, brought me not very close to his height at all (he had to bend to kiss me, but he didn’t seem to mind).

So i was naked but for the boots, which put me in mind of another occasion, and he was barefoot, in jeans, with a button fly with which I’d been struggling until he began kissing me. Once he’d started the kiss, it distracted me enough that I’d kind of concentrated just on that.

His giant-like gentleness was short-lived. He finally broke from my lips, and somehow twirled me in a circle until i was held tight with his arm, but bent over it, with my side against his muscular but softly fuzzy stomach. He almost lifted me in order to get me into position, nudging my arms up and onto the desk, where i rested, facing down, leaning on my forearms and elbows. He slowly stroked my back with his hands; long, relaxing strokes that discombobulated me so much that when he landed me a massive blow to the buttocks, i jumped.

“Stay still,” he commanded, still very polite, but unarguably firm.

I do what I’m told, me.

I felt the warmth of his body as he leaned over me, his cock nudging against my ass, as his hands explored me. He left one hand stroking my body, holding it inches from the surface of the desk, and used the other to draw an imaginary line from my cunt to the end of my ass. All the way, in one slick and slippery stroke.

I gasped. His fingers were strong and probing, and still cold from the inclement weather outside. I wasn’t complaining.

Slowly, deliberately slowly, he started to stimulate me, his whole hand probing, touching, encircling and teasing. This was a touch unlike any I’d previously encountered, and the heady feeling with which it left me had me reeling. In a good way. In moments he brought me to a surprisingly thundersome climax, leaving me wet, spent and thoroughly slippery. As i leaned on my forearms and panted to get my breath back, I heard the crackle of a foil wrapper, then the unzipping of his jeans, followed by the soft sound of denim hitting carpet.

Then politeness left the building once and for all. He grabbed me, hard, but not ungently, spread my legs apart, and held me still with my face on the table; then swiftly, smoothly entered me with a single thrust and no fumbling. His cock felt like solid steel as it entered me and he made sure i could feel how hard he wanted, or needed to fuck me.

“Spread those legs more, baby… yes!” As he pumped.. and pumped.

He grunted, I moaned.

He sweated, drops of moisture falling onto my back. One hand twisted in my hair, pulling it but not yanking my head. Thrust. Fuck. Pump. Push.

“God yes. Yes. Fuck me. Fill me. Yes.”

Harder. Faster. Harder still… faster still…

He grunted his intentions like a mantra.

“Fuck that cunt, that soft sweet cunt, going to fuck it harder than it’s ever been fucked. Fill your cunt. Yes? You want that, baby? Yes?”

In my head, I drifted away on a cloud of spaced-out bliss; the physical not matching the mental. I was in full physical submission, restrained by his strong hand, and his deliberately thrusting body; yet my body gladly accepted, even welcomed the hard furious fucking it was receiving.

Somewhere far away, I heard myself wail… softly at first but growing gradually stronger and more shrill. I could sense the pink light of orgasm approaching as he kept pounding my g-spot until i gushed, my mind afloat in ecstasy, my cunt awash with girlie-cum. It didn’t stop him. Rather, it increased the intensity of his fucking and the depth of each push into me. I felt my body slide forward across the desk, skater-like on a film of sweat. Astonishing really, since such a short while ago I’d felt so cold i couldn’t stand still, and now i was perspiring.

Since i was now sated, regrouping after the orgasm, i could concentrate on his pleasure more fully. I pushed back onto him, using my sweat-aided leverage. I tried to do my kegels as he fucked me, only succeeding some of the time since he was by now pumping hard and very fast.

“Yessss!” With a shout, he came, holding me tightly by the shoulder and hair.

Not quite so polite, after all. But a pleasure to know.

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