by Abby Lee
If there’s the incentive of getting wet soapy tits when you’re bent over the sink and taking a good, hard cock from behind, then I may just be persuaded to do some washing-up after all.
I really need to hear from Blog Boy soon.
Thursday 10th February
Finally got a text from Blog Boy saying hello. It’s been over a week since I got back from New York and we still haven’t arranged when to meet up for our third date.
I know he’s busy at the moment, but surely with the heat we generated, he wants to meet up too?
I know I shouldn’t read anything into this apart from the fact that he’s tied up with his career, but it would be nice if he worked a little harder to make sure we meet up again.
I’m really craving a shag right now and if he doesn’t fix something up soon, I may just have to find someone else.
Saturday 12th February
I can’t stop thinking about men’s cocks. I’ve been busily checking out men’s crotches on the street, hoping to God I haven’t been caught looking, and have decided that one of the sexiest things in the world is to be able to see the shape of an erect cock pressed up against the material of a guy’s trousers. It’s glorious.
If he wasn’t wearing any underwear, that would be even better. Is there anything sexier than being able to trace the outline of a swollen cock through a pair of jeans? I think not.
Don’t get me wrong; I am a huge fan of the naked erect member, as much as, if not more than, the next girl. I wish I could worship some gorgeous specimens of manhood right now. It’s just that I’ve come to appreciate the thought of seeing a cock straining up against a man’s fly buttons. I loved it that night when Blog Boy’s jeans ended up being a miniprison for him, his penis aching to get out from behind the ‘bars’ of his trousers.
Seeing that bulge – that growing form – battling for space in the trouser department was like a drug to me; it’s no wonder that I was so wet when I felt Blog Boy pressing against me in the street.
I suppose it was because I couldn’t have immediate access to his cock; that little obstacle made me want him all the more. To know, to see, to feel, that he was hard, but not be able to immediately touch him – flesh to flesh – made me crazy. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs I started to salivate, a miniature waterfall began in my pussy, and I was filled with an uncontrollable desire to eat, to slide his cock into my mouth and gobble it all up hungrily. Yum.
So you see, with this in mind, when I think about some of the ways that a bloke might express himself, I would be quite happy for him not to bother with boring flowers, chocolates or lingerie if he wants to get in my pants/apologise/impress me. All he needs is a sharp intellect, the ability to make me laugh, and have a dirty enough mind to know that his half-hidden rigid cock will have me begging to be fucked by him pronto.
And have a button-fly on his jeans: I wouldn’t want to cause any damage when I rip them off him.
Monday 14th February
Tom texted me today:
‘I may be in your neck of the woods soon. Feel like some fun?’
It’s been a year since I’ve seen Tom; our last meeting consisted of some rampant drunken shagging. We both met other people after that and he went back up to Birmingham, so I removed him from my ‘possibility list’.
Maybe he’s single now?
I texted to find out.
‘Are you being a naughty boy?’
He responded straight away:
‘No, we broke up; it’s all fine. But I’m horny as hell – want to hook up when I’m in London in a few weeks?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, somewhat eagerly, ‘Buzz me when you’re about.’
Fantastic: if Blog Boy doesn’t come through, I may have another shag lined up instead. Hurrah. I guess it is a Happy Valentine’s Day after all.
Wednesday 16th February
I have an addiction. I tell myself I won’t let it get the better of me, but it is officially out of my control. No, not the sex one. The other one. You see, I now have almost one hundred items of underwear in my drawer.
I know it is not normal to make regular purchases of slinky pants, lacy basques or satin suspender belts, but I can’t stop myself. Every time I am in a clothing store I find myself in the lingerie department, fondling some soft, sensual material, thinking how cute it would look with my arse in it, or clinging to my breasts, and before I know it, my credit card is being swiped and said item is whisked into a bag and taken back home. Needless to say, I bought far too many knickers when I was in New York.
And now I have just found a new sexy pair of knickers in my drawer that I don’t even recall buying: this habit is really getting too much.
There are pants of every style you could imagine in there: tiny g-string thongs, hipster hot-pants, fitted briefs, tie-string shorts, satin, silk, Lycra, cotton, lace, mesh, and of course every conceivable colour. I haven’t even started on the basques, the teddies or the suspender belts.
I’m not sure when this addiction started. For years I wasn’t into wearing anything saucy, because I thought I would just be perpetuating the same sexist, objectified view of femaleness that was shoved down my throat by the cover of every magazine.
Back then I thought that wearing lingerie represented the male fantasy of female sexual availability, so how could a feminist like me wear something that seemed to exist just to turn a man on? Plus, the thought of my partner getting off on me wearing frilly underwear made me extremely uncomfortable, so all my early relationships were spent wearing comfortable knickers and sensible bras. Bridget Jones had nothing on my big pants.
At some point in the last couple of years, I began to find lingerie appealing. I started to enjoy looking at it and touching it, and when I held it against my skin, it made me feel seductive. The biggest shock came when I finally slipped a lacy g-string up my thighs and the sight of the curve of my arse against the material turned me on, making me want to touch myself.
So I did. My hands followed the line of the thong as it reached down between my legs; the material felt delicate against my skin, and, my fingers didn’t take long to slide underneath the lacy fabric and rub me to oblivion. You could say it was a watershed moment. From then on I began to revise my anti-lingerie stance.
Surely there was nothing wrong with wearing something that made me feel so sexy? And I found out that it also turned me on to know that I could turn on a partner too: I liked the idea that a man could enjoy a thing that gave me so much pleasure – even if it was the thought of me in a boned basque and stockings. I didn’t feel degraded by this, I felt empowered.
Fast forward to now, and I cannot bloody stop myself from purchasing lingerie. Because I’m single most of my pants don’t even see the light of day, let alone get the chance of being fondled by another person, so I have no idea why I keep on buying more.
Recent purchases include:
⋆ Baby-blue satin low-rider hipsters with black piping
⋆ Black lacy French knickers with a ‘v’ plunging in the front
⋆ Bright pink satin thong
⋆ Lilac shorts with black lace trim
⋆ And my favourites: black satin briefs with a slit cut out in the rear, held together (just) with three pink bows
However, I’m not going to try any of these on in front of my mirror: that’d be a waste of perfectly clean pants, because my hand would wander down just to test out how silky the material really was and then …
No, I think I shall save these for a special day, for a special somebody to appreciate. And to wrestle them off me.
I hope that happens soon though; I haven’t got many normal pants to wear until then.
Friday 18th February
I don’t know if it is because:
my wank last night didn’t fulfil me totally
I have only had three hours’ sleep
I have had no time to play with myself today due to work
– but I knew it was going to be tough for me tonight when I was soaking we
t before I even got on the tube.
I was meeting my mate Tim for drinks. We met at college and have known each other for more than a decade now, but there’s no sex on the agenda any more – we’re just friends, which is great.
It was different when we first met: we shagged with a passion, but both decided we’d be better off as mates. Getting the sex stuff out of the way helped us become much closer, and we can now talk very honestly about sex, which is wonderful: it has helped us both to get the other gender’s perspective on it all.
So, a bottle of wine drunk and we’re both merry, talking about shagging. Tim’s been having a dry patch too, but that has recently changed, due to his hot new fuck-buddy (lucky bastard).
He told me about their third meeting:
‘So I knock on her door and she opens it.’
Me: ‘What’s she wearing?’
Him: ‘Does it matter?’ (He sees my disappointed look.) ‘Oh, OK, a tight top and a short skirt. So, anyway, I walk in, shut the door behind me, and say to her, “bend over”.’
Me: ‘And?’
Him: ‘And she bends over. I walk up to her and I can see she has no underwear on.’
Me: ‘Oh fuck! What did you do? Stick it in her?’
Him (grinning): ‘No. That’s what she was expecting, and I didn’t want her to take me for granted. So I lifted her skirt up and started licking her instead.’
Me (clapping my hands in glee): ‘Ha! You bad boy! And?’
Him: ‘Oh, you know, I stuck my tongue inside her and she went crazy, started begging me to stick my cock in …’
Me: ‘And did you? Please tell me you did, you cruel bastard …’
Him: ‘Yeah. I walked her over to the couch, bent her over again, pulled up her skirt and slid it in.’
Me: ‘I bet she came straight away …’
Him (proudly): ‘Of course, but she came even harder when I slapped her arse cheeks and fingered her hole.’
Me: ‘Mmm …’
So we’re sitting there, drunk, and I am thinking:
⋆ Tim is my good mate
⋆ We are friends
⋆ Sex would fuck things up
⋆ We have put our sexual history together behind us
⋆ I am not that attracted to him
But, I was also SO fucking worked up. The whole time he was describing his shag I was getting jealous – wishing that it was Blog Boy in front of me so I could just jump him, and I was getting wetter and wetter.
I regretted not having had time to play with myself before I went out to meet Tim; leaving the house with a throbbing pussy is a dangerous thing for me to do right now.
My rational brain began to shut down. I started thinking about getting out of my seat and walking over to Tim to say:
‘You don’t mind if I sit on your lap for a minute, do you? It’s OK if I just rest my legs here, isn’t it, how about I wrap them around your hips?
‘You want to know why that is? I am just a little hot, that’s all. Yes, that’s good. What’s that? I have no underwear on? Oh dear, I must have forgotten to put some on, silly me.
‘Comfortable now, isn’t it? You can feel something damp? That’d be me, I do apologise; how about I rub myself against you and let you absorb some of my wetness?
‘No need to apologise, I like that pressing into me, let me just hoist myself up a little – that’s better. Maybe you should place your hands around my thighs for stability. Actually, I meant the inside of my thighs. What? They are wet? Well, maybe you should rub your fingers all around there, wouldn’t want an accident there, would we?
‘Now, how about we unzip that fly, get your cock out and slide it deeply into me, hmm? We could talk about that movie we saw last week; no need to discuss the juices flowing out of me as you fuck me with your hard cock, now, is there?’
And so on …
I sat there, pussy pulsing away, soaking wet, stupidly tempted to throw away our friendship for one quick randy moment.
But destiny intervened: Tim’s fuck-buddy called and wanted to meet up immediately, so we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.
And now I sit here, with another great friend of mine: my favourite vibrator. May our friendship continue indefinitely.
Sunday 20th February
Still no response from Blog Boy to a text I sent him yesterday. I know I’m getting neurotic, but not replying for more than 24 hours seems suspicious to me. Maybe he has gone off me?
Why am I bothered that he might have?
Monday 21st February
Blog Boy finally replied to my text. Seems he’s still busy with work. Pretty feeble response, I guess, but I know what it’s like. When I have work, everything else falls by the wayside.
Anyway, he suggested meeting for a meal next week, so I guess the interest is still there, and no, I still wouldn’t turn down a shag with him.
Fingers crossed something happens; if all goes to plan, my new sexy knickers will get an airing at last.
Saturday 26th February
I have come to the conclusion that I must be a size queen. I admit it: I like large men. In fact, more than that, I adore large men, and when faced with someone big like Blog Boy, it’s no wonder that I swoon (and drip) in his presence.
Penis-size, however, I really couldn’t give two shits about; as long as the owner of said cock knows how to use it well, then the fact that it’s large or small makes no difference to me whatsoever.
No, my size issue is different altogether. It regards the main three physical attributes of a man – besides the face, eyes and arse of course – that grab my attention and make me go weak at the knees:
if he is tall
if he has large hands
if he has big feet
Now, my liking of these things is not some kind of fetish, but it is fair to say that they all form part of the somewhat idiosyncratic requirements that I have of a man.
Regarding height:
I am not being discriminatory against short men for sexual reasons. I’m not saying that short men are incapable of satisfying me – I have dated men shorter than myself in the past and been perfectly well served. It’s just that given my outgoing and somewhat dominant personality, it takes a lot of man to make me feel all girly and shy. Being with someone whose sheer physical presence – his height – overpowers my own size, leaves me feeling like a smitten kitten, curled up safe in the arms of her protector, or being made to meow for her dinner. Either way, purring loudly.
So I need my man to be taller than me: the taller the better, six foot minimum. I want to feel that I am small and girly. I want to get a tired neck from leaning up to kiss him. And I want the reason I am staggering about in five-inch heels is so that I can feel his cock between my legs when we embrace.
Regarding hand size:
I don’t just think, I know that it’s a total myth that there is a correlation between hand and cock size – Tony had quite small hands and a large cock, whilst Steven had huge hands and a tiny cock – so my earlier, uninformed assumptions about the two being connected have been proved wrong.
But regardless of cock size, for me, a man must have large hands. Small ones not only do not turn me on: they actively turn me off.
Now this is partly due to the outsize ‘man-hands’ (as Kathy and Fiona put it) that I myself have – my un-dainty, non-fragile-looking, big mitts dwarf all the female hands that I encounter and, quite often, male ones too. Naturally I have an issue with this – an insecurity if you will. After all, I couldn’t bring myself to shag a man whose breasts were larger than my own 36 double Ds, so how could I feel all feminine and sexy when his petites mains looked slight and delicate next to mine?
There’s another reason for my hand-fascism. When I saw Blog Boy and his large hands, I could only think of one thing: his lovely long fingers inside me, filling me up. It’s just not the same with short stubby fingers.
Sod having a big cock, I want big fingers to fuck me. I want to feel that he owns me with his han
ds, that when his fingers are inside me, it feels like my pussy belongs to him. And when he motions with his forefinger to ‘come hither’ that it means exactly that: ‘Get your arse over here, Abby – you see these big fingers? They’re going to stroke you until you drench my hand with your juices.’ Whoever thought that just beckoning me towards them would make me wet? But it does.
Regarding foot size:
I have one rule here. It has nothing to do with wanting his toes inside me, having a hard kick on my butt, or licking his feet – though possibly the first one might be interesting to try, now that I think about it. Nor does it have anything to do with cock size, any other kind of penetration, or anything else sex-related.
It comes down to this: I have size eight and a half feet, so I think I should never date a man with feet smaller than my own. Shallow, I know. But since I am a vain cow, then in order to make my feet look dainty and feminine – which, let’s face it, is every woman’s objective when she is wearing a pair of stilettos – then my partner has to have damn huge feet.
No one, I repeat no one, is going to make me feel like a fucking, massive duckfooted-boat-impersonating-heffalump.
Though I suppose that if he were six foot four with massive hands, I might make an exception.
But he’d have to be really good in the sack.
And not try on my shoes when I was out at work.
The Girl’s Guide to Cock Size
Small
Pros Cons
You can get fucked as hard as you like It doesn’t always fill you up
It always rubs the g-spot It doesn’t push against your cervix