Diary Of A Sex Fiend

by Abby Lee

  7 The cock and balls will feel nicer in a lover’s mouth without the barrier of hair

  8 Fewer hairs will end up in a lover’s mouth

  9 There will be an increase in sensation for the man when he has a tongue wrapped around his cock

  10 If women can go through the pain and tedium of shaving, waxing and plucking their nether regions, so can bloody men

  10

  October

  Saturday 1st October

  I decided to go for a long run in my local park today to try to clear my head. I feel a bit confused about things right now; what happened with Karl has thrown me a little. I’ve never been upset by a good, honest shag before – I feel like the world as I know it is upside down.

  So I did six miles and I feel much better for it now. I was on the phone to Kathy a minute ago, bragging about my running speed, and she asked me what I think about when I train, to help me stay focussed. I was very tempted to say ‘cock’, though of course I didn’t.

  It is the truth, but I doubt very much that she would be able to cope with my honesty, since she has, when I have responded similarly sexually in the past, retorted, ‘Oh my God, Abby, you are obsessed!’ and then quickly changed the subject, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

  So, instead of telling her what was really going through my mind, I made it up:

  the end objective – how good I will feel when I have finished running the distance

  pushing myself to ‘go just five more minutes’, then ‘another five minutes’, and then ‘C’mon, Abby, what’s another twenty minutes on top of that?’

  getting myself into a ‘zone’, where I feel peaceful, calm and focussed on my breathing

  recalling how my ex, Steven, pissed me off, and remembering what a wanker he was, gritting my teeth and running even faster

  thinking how gutted he would be to see me now, as I tone my thighs and arse even more

  listening to Maximo Park and knowing that I can beat the timing of the guitar riff in ‘Apply Some Pressure’, now that I have overcome that bastard hill

  looking at the park/street/road I am running on, and acknowledging that London can in fact be a beautiful city to live in

  feeling the endorphins flowing through my body as I sprint for the last five minutes of the hour

  Well, I’m not technically lying to Kathy, just not telling her the whole truth. If I had answered her truthfully, what could I have possibly said?

  that when I ran past that handsome blond man, I knew he was looking at my erect nipples, and as I imagined his hands slipping off my top to free my breasts, it helped me run faster?

  that as I got to the brow of the hill, I saw two guys walking towards me, and the vision I had of me between them, one cock in each hand, sucking them alternately, made me sprint to the top and race down the other side?

  that when I saw a woman wearing a body-hugging wrapdress and no knickers, I wanted to lift her skirt up and slide my hands between her legs, and this thought made me sprint past her and race alongside the traffic on the road?

  that if I concentrate on recalling the sex I last had with Blog Boy in detail, then before I know it ten minutes have passed and I am nearer my end objective?

  that if I think about Jamie and concentrate on what it would feel like to have his cock in my mouth, his fingers between my legs, then his cock pummelling me, then a good 20 minutes fly by and I get closer to my end objective?

  that when I listen to Maximo Park, and it gets to the guitar riff in ‘Apply Some Pressure’, I think about how nice it would be to listen to the song when I was on my hands and knees, getting fucked hard from behind. With this thought, overcoming hills is no obstacle.

  that if I see a couple making out in the park, I wonder whether the girl would be circling the outline of her lover’s cock with her thumb like I would, and the tingle that this thought gives me spurs me on even faster?

  that with a constant throbbing and wetness between my legs whilst I run, the pulse of my clit feels like an extra heartbeat pushing the blood round my body and energises me, forcing me to work harder?

  The reality is that no matter how many times I might have a quick frig before a run, I always get turned on when I’m exercising, so instead of being preoccupied with the things normal runners think about (targets, breathing, muscle cramp), I’m thinking about what is happening between my legs.

  And this makes me want to play again. So I figure that the harder I run, the quicker I can finish, and finally reward my pussy with another workout.

  Sadly, I don’t think Kathy could ever deal with all this. It’s one thing being an anonymous sex fiend writing a diary, but it’s quite another to have your mates thinking that you are always gagging for a shag.

  Even if it is true.

  Sunday 2nd October

  Maybe I ran too hard yesterday, or perhaps it’s just period pain, but today my legs are sore and I am aching all over.

  I can’t wait to finish my period and be done with it. At least then I’ll be completely free of pain and able to run with ease, not to mention, most importantly, that then I’ll be free to shag without worrying about leaking blood everywhere.

  This has happened to every woman, I am sure. There’s always that final dreg of blood to our period – a last gush that always, without fail, ruins our favourite knickers, or during shagging, bathes some poor bloke in enough gore to make it look like he’s been in a battle, not a bed. Not a pleasant situation. I’ve even had that final spurt when Karl was eating my pussy some years ago:

  ‘I thought you tasted metallic,’ he said to me later, as I groaned with embarrassment and felt obliged to give him a blow job for an hour to make up for covering his stomach and cock with what seemed like gallons of blood.

  But when the same thing happened with Steven last year, I was actually pleased.

  We were fucking on his couch by candlelight. He was exploring every inch of my body with his hands; thrusting his fingers in and out of me, making me climax over and over again.

  I remember feeling extra slippery, as though I was really gushing every time I came, more even than my usual miniature waterfall … And as it turned out, I was.

  I had climaxed six or seven times before he finally gave me what I wanted: his cock. He fucked me hard. He took me from on top, underneath, side by side, behind, and finally – my ankles around his neck – kneeling in front of me, grinding into me, making us both climax together intensely.

  Drunk and tired, we went straight to bed afterwards and immediately fell asleep.

  When I got up to make some coffee the next morning, I got a fright. For a moment I thought an intruder had broken into the flat and killed someone. There was blood everywhere. Not just specks or spots but scarlet handprints all over the couch, like the aftermath of some act of despicable violence.

  I looked at them and retraced the events of the night before, like a forensic scientist after a murder: ah yes, that was where he had me on all fours and was trying to fist me. Oh, that must have been the moment when I sat on top of him and he was rubbing my g-spot, and oh yes, that was when I was on the edge of the couch and he was ramming his cock into me as fast as he could.

  For a moment, I felt dreadfully guilty. I had thought my period was over and hadn’t expected the bleeding, but it was my blood after all, and his pale cream couch was ruined. But then I got over it.

  I’m not a vindictive or malicious person who holds grudges, but somehow, given that he was cheating on me – it seemed like some kind of karmic retribution. My body had found a way to royally shaft him. It was better than telephoning him and hanging up; more effective than cutting up his clothes; more original than letting down his car tyres – by bleeding all over his precious couch, my body was telling Steven: ‘Fuck you, you prick.’

  It felt good.

  And when I went back for one last fuck, a month later, this utterly house-proud man still hadn’t managed to get all my blood out of the fabric.

  I was very sad whe
n I finally walked away from that situation, but that little bit of sadistic pleasure I got from knowing that I’d left my mark on his world more than made up for the heartbreak.

  Saturday 8th October

  Jamie and I met up again last night. I knew my instincts were right – there’s definitely an attraction between us – and just ten minutes into the evening we were flirting openly with each other. I was relieved that we were; I need a mental – and a physical – distraction from Blog Boy, after all.

  We kept touching each other, a hand on an arm here, a quick touch there, so it was inevitable that we would end up snogging, and we did, passionately.

  An hour of long, slow snogging later, Jamie said to me, ‘I want you to do something for me when you go to the toilet.’

  I was confused but tried to cover it, smiling. ‘What is it that you want me to do?’

  He leant in towards me and said softly, ‘I want you to put your finger inside yourself, so I can taste you when you come back.’

  My pussy tingled with excitement. I thought about what he had asked and took a deep breath, before shyly replying, ‘I think that can be arranged.’

  He smiled at me, and I grinned back, kissed him once more and then made my way to the loo.

  I’d been dying for a piss for the last half-hour, but I found myself in some difficulty. My pussy was so swollen that it was practically impossible to urinate.

  So, this is what it’s like trying to pee with an erection, I thought to myself, as I focussed on attempting to squeeze out even the smallest bit of urine. My clit was so engorged it was like a miniature hard-on.

  But eventually – some minutes later – I managed it, and set to work on the task in, er, hand.

  It was the first time I had received such a request, so I wondered what the procedure should be:

  ⋆ Which finger should I use? Should it be more than one?

  ⋆ Is it right to fully insert it, or should I just rub it against my soaked vulva?

  ⋆ How wet should the finger be? Knuckle-deep in juice? Or just an elegantly moist fingertip?

  Questions, questions.

  I rubbed myself absentmindedly as I pondered these problems, knowing that he would shortly be tasting me and discovering how turned on I was.

  I was sharply snapped out of this delightful fantasy when someone hammered on the toilet door and demanded that I hurry up. I quickly slipped my middle finger deep inside myself, soaked it in my juices, and made my way back to Jamie.

  As I approached him, it suddenly struck me that there was even more to the correct etiquette for this little interaction. Was I supposed to just hold out my finger to him, and say:

  ‘Here you go, fresh pussy juice for you?’

  Or perhaps, slide my finger under his nose, and ask:

  ‘Like the smell?’

  Or maybe, just show him my wet finger and then wipe the juice off on something?

  Why isn’t there a rule book for these things? How was a well-brought-up girl like me supposed to offer a finger covered in her own pussy juice to a guy she barely knew? What was the acceptable and polite procedure?

  I felt so ‘English’ as I made my way through the crowded bar that for all my recent sex-fiendishness I still felt uncomfortable and embarrassed.

  There was no need. He smiled at me as I got near and began to kiss me as soon as I sat down next to him. And as our kiss got deeper and more passionate, I lifted my hand to his face, and slowly wiped my wet finger across his lips. Finding the tip of it with his tongue, he pulled it into his mouth and began to suck hard.

  Feeling his hot mouth devouring my juices made me want him even more and, with my finger sliding between our mouths, I kissed him deeply, tasting myself on his lips as I did so.

  It turned me on so much … and when he whispered in my ear, ‘You taste delicious,’ I wanted to tug down his trousers, pull down his pants and draw his cock into my mouth and tell him exactly the same thing.

  Trouble was, we were in a well-lit, crowded bar, and I very much doubt that displaying genitalia or participating in public sex acts would have been considered acceptable behaviour there.

  As we sat there, he began to stroke my arse and said softly in my ear, ‘You weren’t lying earlier.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About not wearing any underwear,’ he replied, running his hand along the curve of my bum where my knickers would have been, had I chosen to wear them.

  ‘I would never lie about something as important as that,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I just forgot to put them on.’

  He laughed, ‘Of course, that must be it – you forgot.’

  I grinned cheekily at him, and felt his hand travel lower down my arse cheek. Moving my arm to stabilise myself, I placed my hand on the couch between his legs, and noticed that if I subtly rested my forearm against him I could feel his stiffening cock pushed up against me through his jeans.

  ‘Mmm’, he said, his knob giving a little twitch against my arm, ‘that feels good.’

  I pushed my arm further back and could now feel his cock straining behind the denim. His hand gently tugged at my dress; his fingers exploring my bare skin under it.

  I looked at him smiling at me, felt the throbbing between my legs increase tenfold, and tried to think clearly. We were sitting in a public bar. There were people sitting either side of us on the couch. To indulge in any more of this sort of play surely meant attracting attention to ourselves and that was appealing in itself, but this was not really the right environment in which to explore my newly found exhibitionist tendencies.

  I barely knew Jamie and had been trying to maintain dignified intellectual conversation with him, and I was worried that if I indulged my carnal desires like I did with Blog Boy, it might scupper the possibility of something other than sex developing between us.

  The main problem, though, was that I was all too aware of the fact that my pussy was fucking soaking and I was immensely turned on and needed some release. Feeling his erection pressed up against the back of my forearm was driving me crazy. All I wanted to do was zip open his trousers and grip his cock in my hands, and for his fingers to slide further down so he could discover how wet I was.

  I tried desperately hard to focus – to remind myself that I was not a slave to my lust, and that I could be dignified and friendly and manage to make a connection on a non-sexual level. I could behave myself in public, even with a dripping wet pussy.

  As he carried on regardless, gently stroking my arse, I couldn’t bear it any more, and I raised myself so he could slide his fingers under my dress and down between my legs. Then I sat on his hand.

  ‘My God, you’re wet,’ he murmured in my ear, as he rubbed his fingers along my pussy.

  Jesus, it felt good: too good. As he stroked me lightly, I felt myself quiver, and I couldn’t stop myself from gently shifting on his hand and asking him to put his fingers inside me.

  Waves of pleasure washed over me as his fingers entered me; I responded the only way I could in this very public place, pushing my forearm back and forth in time against his substantial trouser-bulge.

  It all felt divine: his fingers softly stroking my wetness, my arm pressing against his erection. I was getting carried away by it all, my pleasure increasing with each stroke he gave me and each pulse of his cock against my forearm.

  And then I knew what was to come. That is – me coming. It was inevitable, there was nothing I could do to stop it. Forget men and their ‘point of no return’: there are no brakes that can stop my orgasm train. I glanced to the left and saw my neighbours deep in conversation, and then I grabbed the edge of the couch and steeled myself in an effort to make my shuddering less noticeable.

  Feeling his fingers moving faster inside me, it was all I could do to stop myself shouting, ‘Oh God, fuck me, I need you to fuck me!’, unzipping him and climbing onto his cock to sit reverse-cowgirl and ride him hard.

  I had to hold my breath, grit my teeth, and feel my body and all my muscles become rigid a
s I held back the shaking and convulsions. I came violently, dripping onto his fingers.

  ‘You’re so naughty,’ he breathed in my ear, kissing my neck.

  Still shaking from the aftershocks, I said breathlessly, ‘It’s you! You’re bringing it out of me.’

  He laughed, and kept moving his fingers inside me – a dangerous thing to do, especially when I then promptly had three more orgasms as he went on fingering me in clear view of at least 70 other people. It should have been some cause of concern for me, but I’m amazed to say it wasn’t.

  Preoccupied with his hand constantly moving between my legs, I concentrated on the sensations in my pussy and the answering throb of his cock pushing up against my forearm, and somehow all my worries and inhibitions disappeared.

  When a mutual acquaintance came over to our couch to say goodbye to everyone on it, I whispered to Jamie, ‘What if he reaches out to shake your hand?’ He grinned at me, and rubbed me harder, replying, ‘I was thinking the exact same thought.’

  With the fingers of his right hand fully engaged, and my thumb now circling the outline of his cock through his jeans, we politely waited to bid our farewells. Luckily, this didn’t include a handshake and Jamie’s fingers were still sunk deep into me when the friend made his way round to us to wish us well for the night.

  ‘I’m not sure I can take much more of this,’ I said, after he’d gone.

  Jamie moaned as his cock stiffened against my touch and looked at me, the frustration clear in his eyes. I had been a little cruel. It wasn’t intentional, but given the circumstances, and my female physiology, it was far easier for him covertly to push his fingers inside me, than it was for me to have my hand around his cock.

  So instead, I surreptitiously hid my hand underneath his shirt and rubbed his swollen cock through his jeans with my fingers. He groaned again, and I felt the heat of it through the thick denim.