by Abby Lee
His cock didn’t move. ‘I’m too sleepy.’
I moved closer so my breath grazed him. ‘You’re probably overtired. I can make you feel better.” I pressed down gently and ran my thumb along the length of him.
He pulsed. ‘I’m aching a little …’
Me: ‘Perhaps I should kiss you, then?’ I leant forwards and kissed the tip lightly, feeling him pulse some more against my mouth.
His cock: ‘Yes, that’s a little better.’ He began to stretch out.
I felt his warmth against my lips. ‘What about if I lick you? Would that soothe you a little?’ I ran my tongue lightly along the shaft, dragging it softly across the skin.
His cock stiffened slightly. ‘Yes, that’s better; I’m beginning to feel more awake.’
I wet my lips and lowered my mouth to him, letting just the tip slide slowly in. ‘How is that?’
His cock throbbed against my tongue. ‘Mmm.’
I gave his cock another kiss. Suddenly Steven himself stirred. I lay absolutely still, not wanting to give the game away just yet, my mouth poised over his shaft. The moment passed and Steven continued breathing deeply, oblivious to my little tête à tête.
‘Ssh,’ I whispered to his cock, ‘let’s keep this to ourselves for now.’ I hovered over him again, and slid the length of him into my mouth.
His cock got harder as it moved against my tongue. ‘Yes, let’s not tell him, it’ll be our secret.’
I agreed, and pursed my lips and sucked him deeply, moving my mouth back and forth. I felt his cock swelling as I tickled him with my tongue again.
We continued in our clandestine liaison, until his cock was rigid and bouncing around in my mouth. At this point Steven lifted the duvet and looked down to find my lips wrapped around his penis. He looked at me as if to say ‘What are you doing down there, darling?’ and there I was grinning at him, as best I could with my mouth full.
Now he knew and I knew that I had been doing something without his knowledge, but his cock, you see, had been carrying on with me quite independently of Steven, who wasn’t even conscious at the time.
If I had just woken Steven up that morning and suggested sex, he might have declined, because he was still knackered from the night before, but suggesting sex to his cock was another matter altogether. I exploited this to my advantage; I knew that a gentle, slow, teasing blow job could subtly persuade his dick to wake up, and then I was bound to get a good rogering from Steven. A win/win situation, in my opinion.
I know that indulging in sexual intimacy with Steven’s penis without his consent, involved some manipulation and coercion on my part and I felt bad about this, but when an otherwise average morning began with a delicious blow job that left me, Steven and his cock very happy indeed, I really found it hard to feel guilty for long.
I’m a repeat offender, but no one else has complained about my despicable behaviour, so I can only assume that guys are content for me to have these private dalliances with their cocks. As long as they understand that my relationship with their penis will occur in parallel with, and simultaneously to, the one with them, life could be very easy, I think.
Although I find it’s best not to speak out loud to a cock – that’s just wrong.
Saturday 9th July
Last night Blog Boy and I were standing on Holloway Road kissing.
I love kissing. It’s got to be one of the most underrated aspects of sex, and it’s probably my favourite. A good kiss will get me going, no problem. A good kiss is like making love with your mouth. A good kiss takes me away to that place where the only things you can hear are our synchronised breaths as we part our lips, and the only thing felt is the pulsing between my legs as he presses against me.
Blog Boy is a great kisser. No, strike that: a fantastic kisser. His kisses send shivers down my spine, make my fingertips tingle and my pussy throb. His kisses make my whole body feel electric. His kisses make me forget who I am and what I am doing.
So that’s why we were standing on Holloway Road, snogging like two drunken teenagers on a night out, oblivious to the people milling around us trying to get the last tube home. The warm summery air was making us both frisky: our hands explored each other greedily as our mouths moved in unison. We stood there and kissed, and the world revolved around us. It was magical.
I was extremely aroused, and I knew from the way he was grinding his crotch against mine that he was too. Everything was intensified, so when he mumbled in my ear that he wanted to ‘feel’ me, I didn’t question what he meant, and just went with the flow … even when he squeezed his hand down the front of my jeans and twisted two fingers into me.
I don’t know if it was because
he turned me on so incredibly much;
I am becoming such a sex fiend that doing something so risqué in public excited me;
he seems like such a well-brought-up boy, which makes what he did totally out of character, and that made it even more outrageous –
but within 60 seconds I was having a massive orgasm. As we stood on Holloway Road. With people walking all around us.
I did try to conceal what was going on, but it wasn’t easy. When the shaking subsided, I suddenly came back down to earth and realised what had just happened. I was mortified and made him remove his hand and tried to compose myself.
I have never done anything like that before. If he had given me longer to think about it, I would not have let him do it, but because I like him so much and because of those glorious kisses, I didn’t have time to think. Before I knew it he was fingering me in full view of London.
How he had the guts to do that, I have no idea. How I had the guts to let him do that, I have no idea. Maybe he thinks I’m the sort of girl who would be up for it and took his chances. It seems he lucked out; maybe I really am a sex fiend.
But no matter how dirty or sordid I might think I am, his audacity showed me he’s far more willing to push the boundaries than I thought he would be. Even if he looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
Wednesday 13th July
I have a bone to pick with men.
It is not about the fact that some – OK, most – of them stare at my tits.
And it is definitely not about me wanting a shag and being pussy-teased by all the cute men I see, until I have to rush home to have a wank, although it is most inconvenient, especially at rush hour on the Northern Line.
No, what I must speak out about is a terrible, terrible crime. Men shaving their chests.
Stop it. Now. I mean it.
‘Why did you shave?’ I squealed at Blog Boy a few days ago, as I felt the stubbly regrowth under my fingertips.
‘I thought that’s what women wanted,’ he replied, mystified as to why I was so disappointed.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. What women want is someone who’ll let us unload our stress at the end of a hard day; who can give us sympathy and cuddles when we have PMT; and who will offer us a nice firm cock to do what we like with, on demand.
But depilating your pecs? A firm NO. That is not something women want. Ever. At least, not a woman like me.
Hair is what makes a man a man. Even just a sprinkle is sexy, though I personally prefer the full forest to the barren wood.
Recently I’ve encountered a couple of guys who shaved off, or aggressively trimmed their chest fuzz and this has begun to worry me: why do men think their hair is so unattractive to women?
I fail to understand why they do this. I love to feel it under my fingers – the bristliness and roughness contrasting beautifully with my own softness and smoothness. Let’s face it, if I wanted to stroke a smooth chest I’d sleep with a woman – which although nice in its own way, is nowhere near as pleasant as being with a man.4
So please, I beg all hairy men: leave your chests alone. Stop worrying about women finding your hair a turn-off; a real woman will like you for who you are – fur or no fur. Allow yourself to grow bushy! Let your forest run free! Be the man you are – be hairy. Women like me wi
ll spend hours fondling your chest and love every minute of it.
If you blokes must shave or trim something, by all means chop off your pubic hair – it is, after all, not that pleasant getting hairs stuck in one’s mouth mid-suck. The increase in sensation you’ll feel will be huge – definitely a reason for trimming it.
Just think: you could get your balls sucked if they weren’t lost in your pubes; you could feel a tongue dabbling around your shaft – its wetness soaking the skin where the hair would have been. You’d get regular blow jobs because it would just be easier for us girls to slide your smooth cock all the way into our mouths. Worth a try if you ask me. You’d certainly get no complaints from this girl were you to go hairless – my mouth would be far too occupied to actually speak.
Monday 18th July
When I woke up this morning I was wet.
Not that this was anything unusual for me, since I always wake up horny, but this situation was different. Firstly, because it was only 5 a.m., and not a great time to be wide awake with the raging horn, and secondly because, not even three hours ago, I had been given three intense orgasms by Blog Boy, who was still lying next to me in my bed.
I looked over at him in the dawn half-light. He seemed to be sleeping, his gentle breathing rhythmically lifting his diaphragm up and down. I watched him for a moment and pondered my options.
I considered going back to sleep. I was, after all, very tired; that earlier session had drained me a little.
But I was still horny.
I couldn’t understand it: it wasn’t as if the sex we had hadn’t pleasured me – it had – the powerful orgasms he had given me had more than satisfied me. I was deliciously content.
But I was still horny.
I lay there and felt annoyed with myself. Why can’t I just be a normal woman? Why does my body have to plague me with this perpetual randiness? Why am I such a sex fiend?
I watched his sleeping face for a moment, and got a flashback to his expression when he was in the throes of passion last night. I closed my eyes and remembered the joy of it, trying to relax my brain using that image, that beautiful post-coital moment of bliss.
But I was still horny.
I knew that sleep would evade me until I had let off a bit of steam, so I decided to have a quick fiddle.
I slid my hand between my legs and stroked. Jesus, I was wet. I couldn’t recall the last time I was that wet; even my thighs were slick with my juices. I rubbed myself as I thought about all the sexy things we had just done, and I watched his face as I pressed my hand against myself, wondering what he might think if he knew I was playing with myself and thinking about him.
Suddenly he jumped out of bed. He was awake.
Startled, I turned and saw him standing by the end of my bed. For a moment, I thought he was putting on his clothes and was leaving.
My heart sank. Not because it was the first time in my life that a man had left in the morning, but because I was shocked and hurt that despite our friendship and despite how much I like him, he would scarper so early. Didn’t he like the sex? Was I too demanding? Or was it because he knew I had been playing with myself, and was put off by my high sex drive?
It was because he had cramp. He rubbed his leg furiously then jumped straight back into bed and laid his arm across me. Clearly I am a neurotic twat.
We lay there for a moment and snuggled. I debated trying to get back to sleep.
But I was still horny.
With Blog Boy’s arm on me, and knowing he was awake next to me, turning me on even more, I knew that there was no hope for it. I had to achieve some release.
I slipped my hand down between my legs again and told him I was playing with myself.
He lifted the covers to look for himself and moved nearer to me, resting his hand on my arse and draping a leg over mine. I couldn’t bear it: I was so close. I needed him, my own hand wouldn’t do the job. So I told him how wet I was.
He reached down and felt how slick I was and when he pushed his fingers right into me, I felt myself gush onto his hand.
As he deftly worked his fingers in and out, I felt him rub his thigh against my thigh – his cock pressing into my arse cheek – and the sensation was overwhelming. I knew I wouldn’t last long. Within a couple of minutes I was having a mind-numbingly intense orgasm and as I felt him spurt against my bum, my body convulsed so fiercely that I felt like I was going blind.
We lay there afterwards, both grinning, the post-orgasmic thrill still pounding round our veins, and then, the nicest thing of all, he fell asleep. I had felt guilty about interrupting his sleep because he had to be up for work in a few hours. He started snoring softly after our explosive five o’clock quickie, and I was relieved and happy. At least something good – aside from the shag itself – can come out of being such a sex fiend, even if I had to sleep on our combined wet patches.
The only downside was that when he was leaving, Blog Boy told me awkwardly that we shouldn’t have sex again, because we had to protect our friendship. He added that he was going to try to take a ‘moral’ stance and behave when he’s with me. It seems like he doesn’t want me to think that the fact that we fucked again means anything more to him than just that – a fuck.
After he’d gone, I lay in my bed and cried into the pillow. It still smelt of him.
Tuesday 19th July
Spoke to Tim this evening. He has a knack of cheering me up and gave me a wonderfully supportive response when I sent him a picture of myself in shorts, vest and trainers, ready to go for a run.
‘Abby, I gotta tell you, you look FIT!’
‘Shut up, you.’
‘Serious! I knew that you went training, but I didn’t know you would look so good!’
‘Honestly, be quiet, Tim. You’re talking out your arse.’
‘I’m telling you – that picture – you look really HOT!’
‘Look, you saw me a few weeks ago; I haven’t changed that much since then.’
‘Yeah, but your thighs and arse were a bit bigger then. You’re so trim now! Looking really good!’
‘Well, thanks. But if you really think that from looking at that photo, you’re mad.’
‘You must have men queuing up outside your door.’
‘Um, no. None at all right now …’
‘What? Come on! There must be a few – looking like that, they should be begging to get at you.’
‘No, sadly, they’re not.’
‘Not even one?’
‘Can we change the subject, please?’
‘Honestly, Abby, all the blokes you know must be fucking stupid or something. What the hell is their problem? A beauty like you shouldn’t be single.’
‘Thanks. Now can we change the subject, please? Got laid recently?’
‘Fucking fools, the lot of ’em. I think you’re fucking gorgeous, you know that, right?’
‘Yes, and I love you for it, thank you, but if I ever get rich and famous I bet you’d sell our sordid sex tales to the highest tabloid bidder without hesitation, wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course. You know me.’
‘Well, as long as you give me fifty per cent of whatever deal you cut, and make sure I come out looking good, I’m fine with it.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell them about you squirting all over my bed. Your wet secret is safe with me.’
‘You mug. That wasn’t me. That was the girlfriend you had after me.’
‘Oh. Shit. Well, anyway, wanna meet for a beer next week?’
‘As long as you don’t stare at my arse, my dear, it’d be a pleasure.’
Shame Tim and I are so incompatible; he is otherwise a lovely guy and will make some woman very happy.
Especially given his devotion to eating pussy on a daily basis.
Friday 22nd July
Fiona called me this morning – said she had a client who wouldn’t mind if I sat in during his session with her. So I set out to meet her at an address in the City this afternoon, feeling seriously
uneasy about the whole thing.
The dungeon turned out to be nothing like I’d expected.
Instead of arriving at a Tower of London-type castle with a moat and a drawbridge, I found myself buzzing the intercom at the door of an average-looking block of flats. I breathed a small sigh of relief.
Fiona opened the door and led me into an inconspicuous duplex: the top floor had a lounge, kitchen, two bedrooms and a study, but the basement was something else – room after room devoted to various forms of sexual play.
The dungeon where Fiona works was painted black, lined with mirrors, and two of its walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with every instrument of torture you could imagine: whips to paddles, ropes to chains. I had never seen so many of the things collected together and was a little dumbfounded by them. I didn’t even know what half of them were for.
As I was looking at the tools of the trade, a non-descript chap in his mid-thirties entered the room. Fiona told me later that he worked in IT; he seemed totally ‘normal’ to me and was very polite.
In return for letting me sit in on his session, he had requested that I ‘looked the part too’ so the fantasy wasn’t spoiled. I grudgingly agreed to wear the rubber dress and sixinch platform stilettos he handed to me as gifts. It felt wrong that they were presents; I’m not the sort of woman who accepts money or other handouts from men I don’t know – it feels like prostitution to me.
The dress was very difficult to get on. Not only was it very tight, but the zipper ran from the chest down to the thighs, making it hard to do up once it was in place. Since it was obviously designed for a C cup bust, my DDs spilled out over the top when I finally wrestled the zip up. This, Fiona assured me, was a bonus in the world of S&M.
I then had to close the five buckles that ran across the zipper, from the top to the bottom of the dress. Not that there was much of a ‘bottom’ to the dress: it barely covered my arse – I was glad I’d thought to wear knickers.
So there I stood, barely able to breathe, in this skin-tight rubber dress, trying to balance in these outrageously high stilettos. I wobbled and took a look at myself in the mirror.