Here, you can take a pew and observe one of many of the sexual performances. Essentially, it’s a live porn show, and I must confess, exceedingly better up front and very personal than watching on a small flat screen! The craziest part is if you’re up for it, you can even opt to become one of the auspicious guests to participate in the saucy spectacle.
I take a seat in the front row...of course, after all, I want to see everything first. There are only two other guests there and they’re so busy getting it on with each other in the back they don’t even notice me walk in.
Then the chair creaks as I sit down. Oh great, now everyone knows I’ve arrived. As I thought, the two snog-birds twist their necks to see who’s entered the room for a taste of consummation satisfaction.
Even the women on the stage have stopped mid-pussy-licking and are now glaring over at me. Oh god, please chair, eject me out of this seat and away from this room into oblivion. Thankfully, the act quickly resumes.
This afternoon’s entertainment is of two women adorning suspenders, hold ups, pearls, headpieces and corsets—very twenties and ever so elegant. The beautiful colours echo the pleasure they’re very clearly feeling as they look out to their audience and teasingly wave their prominent feather fans and begin to shed what little fabric they have on already. They smile longingly in my direction then summon me up to join them. Whilst I’m about to explode from the powerfully hankering waves riding up inside of me I return a smile of gratification and politely shake my head to decline.
“I’m not sure I’m quite ready for this just yet,” I divulge to them. Jesus, why am I so confident when I think about what I wanna do and yet the opportunity presents itself and I go and reject it as if it’s on offer at any moment like tap water!
Both women – a blue-eyed blonde now bearing only her headpiece and a feather boa; and a red head, with just her pearls and long satin gloves, slowly make their way down towards me. Shit, fuck, shit, shit, shiiit. They each take one of my hands. Dubiously, I follow them up onto the stage. They lay me gently down on the bed and begin to undress me. I shut my eyes. If I can’t see them, then they can’t see me either. Utter bollocks of course!
They circle me like hungry wolves about to attack an injured deer. Blue Eyes leans in to kiss me. I enjoy it immensely and instantly relax into it. I reopen my eyes to take it all in.
As we continue to kiss enthusiastically, Red removes the pearls from her neck, places one end in between her teeth and gently pushes the rest inside my now aching pussy. I moan in agonising satisfaction. Still with the end of the necklace gritted between her choppers, Red begins to massage my pulsating clit as she slowly begins to extract the pearls one...by...one. I instantly contract my pussy so I can feel each and every pearl leave my insides. I’ve never felt anything like this before. Never have I thought to utilise my pearls in such a favourable manner. Note to self: must try this at home!
As I’m now pearl-free, Blondie, now wearing a strap-on, moves in and rolls me over onto my front. She shifts me to the edge of the bed, positions me onto all fours and sticks my ass out as she eases the rubber cock into my craving pussy. I moan in a pleasurable anguish as I fling my head back. She grabs a chunk of my hair as she continues to slowly and gently fuck me from behind. I start to relax and I move my right hand onto the back of her ass cheek pulling her in even closer. She accepts my approval to fuck me harder as she rakes her nails deeper into my back.
As I’m being fucked like a dog, Red slides herself underneath me and lines up her wanting pussy with my mouth. She dominates my head into her groin and demands that I lick her clit. I do as I’m commanded. I lick, suck and flick until I’m breathless and my tongue aches. I move my tongue along the sides of Red’s labia as I continue to affirm my contentment. There’s no holding back now. As I massage and tease one of Red’s peaked nipples with one hand, I dribble some spit onto my middle and index fingers on the other and slip them inside Red’s pussy to finger fuck her until she orgasms. She wriggles furiously about, pushing and pulling me by the hair, almost not knowing what she wants. But she does. She knows exactly what she wants.
Shortly after, panting Red then slips away from beneath me, as Blondie pulls out. I crawl backwards off of the bed and take to my feet as I watch as the scene-change takes place. For a second I feel hugely vulnerable as I look over at the fifteen seats which are now all occupied. Quickly and unknowingly, I have become the star of today’s show.
Blondie fiddles about in the dresser drawer and hands me a small leather whip. She grabs a hold of Red’s tussles and throws her forward onto the bed as she invites me to punish Red’s soon-to-be-crimson pert bottom cheeks. I do, and I enjoy the power of being in control for even a few seconds before relinquishing it back to the main stars of the show.
Red yanks me back onto the bed and slips her hot tongue deep inside my soaking wet pussy, as Blondie moves in for her turn and hovers her sodden vulva over my face. I grip so tightly at the satin sheets that my knuckles turn white. I slide my tongue along the inside of Blondie’s pussy when I feel something penetrate the inside of mine. It’s vibrating and rapidly being pierced in and out of me—like a knife stabbing the plastic film of a microwave dinner. It literally takes my breath away.
I moan for more and the drilling becomes faster. Blondie climbs off of me and kindly allows me some breathing space as she watches me wriggle and writhe about like a snake. The two women lean over me and kiss whilst Red continues to fuck me with the vibrating dildo. All I can see, other than stars circling my head, are two pairs of taut-nippled breasts dangling in my face. I suck on all of them like a baby calf before letting out a loud shrill in satisfaction as I reach the highest climax I’ve ever experienced. The girls part their lips and look down at me as I instantly relax my tensed abs. The room is spinning. Holy shit-fuck that was awesome.
Girl-on-girl / Voyeurism fantasies: Check!
My two patrons smile down at me as they get up and leave, disappearing behind the curtains. Jeez, fuck me and desert me bitches! Now realising I’m alone on stage, I quickly gather my clothes and head in the same direction for some privacy. A tad late for that! I slip back into my clothes and merrily make my way back to my bedroom as naturally as if I had just popped to the shop for some bread and milk.
Well holy hell and yippideedoo, ain’t this here adventure gonna avert my mind from the pitiful pining of my contemptible robot for an ex. And not to mention how it’s going to strip me of all my useless inhibitions...literally in every other way too. This is gonna be fun! Yeehaa.
God knows I need it because infuriatingly, no matter how clear as daylight it is that he and I will never get back together, I’m still incapable of bringing myself to accept that he’s now my past. It’s been a year and a half already. Get over it!
I met him in a bar. That same night, after weeks of being badgered by my girlfriends to go out with them, I’d finally backed down and agreed to go out with them to what used to be our usual watering hole, and which oddly, we hadn’t been to in quite a while.
Over delicious drinks we nattered and reminisced and giggled about previous times we’d gone out there – who had pulled who, who’d spilled drinks over which girl resulting in a shrill of arguments and who’d fallen over what.
Ensuing three tormenting months of solitude, after leaving my previous duplicitous prick for a boyfriend of two and a half years; followed by a brief dabble with online dating acquainting me with a nice enough guy but who turned out to be far too full on and in my face until I bolted; I had finally achieved reaching a juncture in my life where I could stop rocking back and forth in a corner, sobbing my heart out and wondering when I’d meet my next boyfriend. I was finally okay with being single. It just so happened to be the very same night that out of the haziness he appeared—The One.
It was one of those heart-wrenching, adrenalin-pumping moments where you clock each other from across a crowded dim lit room, locking eyes whilst in the back of your mind, contemplating whether or not you’
re imagining it all, or worse, that he’s actually looking straight past you at the girl behind you, whilst still trying to remain focused and at least appear interested in a conversation with your friends, as you smile shyly at each other hoping the other would soon make the first move. It was an uncontrollably awesome feeling.
After a few more drinks, a crafty game of hard-to-get and a few stolen looks from a distance, he caved and approached me first. Hehe, I won! Fortunately my wine goggles weren’t too excessively distorted. He was even more gorgeous than he was when he was stood twenty steps away. He was tall, shaven head, stubble, stunning smile – he had those fang-like teeth that protruded a little more than the others. Such mesmerising eyes and just plain sexy—as sexy as plain can be of course. Oh my god the butterflies!
We instantly got talking and within around thirty minutes of some ballsy banter, I had somehow managed to divulge nearly every major secret I had—from being divorced, to having a threesome, to having a drawer full of toys, even the fact that I was bisexual. What the hell possessed me to unveil such private facts so haphazardly to a random guy is beyond me. The thing is, he was really easy to talk to – to the brink of feeling almost powerless in his presence. He was my kryptonite! Shit, thinking back, I could have scared him into a futile soberness and right into the drunken arms of the prettier petite woman I was cunningly shielding behind me. I guess, now I almost wish that I had.
That night consisted of flirtatious exchanges, many drinks, soft touches and his hands dipping into my jeans and ripping my thin stringed panties right off of me then dangling them in my face as he grinned. Surprisingly, to myself, as turned on as I was, I still didn’t invite him back to my place to fuck mindlessly. You’d have thought we did with all the teasing and taunting but instead, I took back my torn lace underwear, he ushered me into a cab, we kissed and I went home alone. And boy was I proud of myself! Horny but immensely pleased I had not appeared slutty. That, funny enough, turned out to be the reason he gave me the time of day and ended up going out with me.
Disastrously, Glen turned out to be incredibly closed and psychologically detached. He couldn’t even help me decide which colour shoes to wear or answer whether or not I looked pretty in an outfit before going out, never mind express his feelings towards me. He was undeniably an impassive vacant-eyed, pokerfaced, time-wasting, passion-slaughtering, emotionally constipated mind-fuck. It was so bad that even birthday cards, Christmas cards, Valentine’s Day cards or any occasion cards were as simple and loveless as ‘Dear Gemma...from Glen’. That’s it. Not even a ‘love Glen’ and indeed not even a kiss at the end. Shit, one teency-weency little ‘x’ would have done!
I, on the other hand, would buy out the shops, get home and decorate the fuck out of the house; so much so it’d look like Cupid just puked up every furry heart-shaped fairy light, candle and chocolate. Hearts and fluff everywhere! And do you know what he did? He’d laugh and tell me I was silly as he happily munched away at the lovely romantic dinner I’d cooked for him, then head to the sofa to watch TV.
Whilst my heart ached daily to be loved by him, I knew even eight months in that I’d never receive it. Still, I talked myself into believing I could change that - that I could make him see how easy I was to love and how worth his love I was. I was foolish enough to tell myself that if he never ever paid me a compliment, or if we never did anything as a couple together, I’d have stopped asking him for those things and simply accepted the way he was, so long as he told me that he loved me. But, despite our numerous talks and my begging and pleading and my constant distress of not knowing where I really stood in his life, I continued our relationship living in false hope.
Two years into this and I decided enough was enough. I wanted and needed to be loved – to be looked at adoringly, to be missed when I wasn’t around and appreciated for everything I did. So what better way to get that, than from reliant, fluffy, cuddle-craving little critters? So I decided to adopt two cats and they gave and still give me all the love and adoration a girl could need. And honestly, as hair-brained as that sounds, it bloody worked like a sparkly charm. I started to become less interested in relationships in general and it was no longer essential for me to have a man to fulfil my life.
Another year and a half later, I realised I was on tenterhooks and holding out for the impossible, so I started to push back my feelings for him. I hid them so far back in my mind and my heart that eventually I reached a point of feeling numb towards him. I no longer cared. I stopped wanting anything from him and distanced myself entirely. When I eventually reached breaking point, I told him I was leaving. As usual, he showed no sensation at all. I mean, as numb as I had managed to become towards him, I still bawled my eyes out. It ripped my heart to shreds and at no point did he even fight for me.
Most nights I’d cry myself to sleep or down the phone to Karl, who at the time was just a good work friend that I’d become quite close to. Coincidentally, he too was going through a separation from his wife. I had known Karl for over two years and we’d become really great friends. At the time of our mutual despair we’d spend most of our lunch times together talking and cheering one another up. Funnily, one afternoon, he confessed to how he often used to try and flirt with me. It just goes to show how totally and utterly blinded by love I was with Glen.
The most annoying and tremendously confusing part of all of this...other than the wasted, tear-filled, psyche-fucked years of my life...was that according to Glen, I was the perfect girlfriend – the best girlfriend he’d ever been in a relationship with. Now, unless he lied previously about how decent his exes were or at least weren’t, and instead every one of those women was actually awful in every way or he was extremely delusional - someone please explain to me how anybody in their right, albeit cold expressionless mind, could let go of someone so perfect? I know I’ve never been able to figure it out. And this isn’t even the mind-fuck part of it all!
The utter mind-fuck moment wasn’t even the day Glen at last showed his first real snippet of emotion as he cried—yes, he fucking cried. However, this was only after I handed him his keys and put the cats into their carrier. And do you know why he cried? Not because I was leaving, or because it was the cataclysmic end of what could have been an ideal relationship, had he given half a shit. Oh no, no, no. It was over the fact that I was taking my cats. The fucking cheeky bastard! I left that night and didn’t look back and I felt good for it. I mean I felt like utter shit that I had lost my One due to his uncomprehending, adolescent, insensitive ways but good because I finally took a stand and irrevocably stuck with the hardest decision of my life.
Time quickly passed. Approximately three months or so went by after that harrowing day. I was on track with moving on from my dead end relationship when I received an early morning call just moments before leaving for work. Three months later! Three...not one, not two, but three months after I walked out the door!
It was Glen. He was crying down the phone to me. Have I mentioned this was three long months of no communication, no attempts to win me back, nothing?! He decided to call and tell me how much he missed me and how he realised that he was wrong. But wait, it gets better!
The words I will never forget him saying: “I’m sorry, I know now that I was wrong. I do love you and I do want to marry you and have children with you.”
Every ounce of blood rushed from my head down to my toes. I turned dizzy and cold and sick. Forget the cheek of three months. This was what I’d been waiting three and a half fucking years for. Years of anticipation, hope and pleading—just as I’d come to terms with it all – he decided to grow some balls, revive his cold-blooded heart and pipe up.
Just at a time I’d finally allowed myself to be intimate with someone, and literally two days before Glen’s call. I had after all wasted enough time hoping he’d encounter some miraculous epiphany and wake the hell up. Also, the actuality that I hadn’t heard a peep from him the entire duration. I was ready and entitled to move on and do what I wanted and needed.
And I most certainly needed to be shown some care and respect. To be taken care of and looked at like I was the most gorgeous woman on the planet, even if it turned out to be all lies, which thankfully it wasn’t. Glen had taken so much away from me – my self-worth, my pride and worst of all, my confidence.
No matter how numb I’d managed to brain-wash myself into believing I felt; at that instant, after hearing those words, every feeling and every fond memory I had walloped out of my head, overpoweringly bare-knuckle sucker-punched their way back into my mind, head-butted my brain and KO’d my heart into a love-struck stupor.
I had imagined for so long how I’d feel and react if he’d ever told me he loved me. Instead, I felt nauseous and the words ‘I love you’ wrenched my heart out through my throat, slam dunked it onto the ground, stomped and smashed it into a puddle of mush and drop kicked it into oblivion.
Then, as if that wasn’t enough and although he had said what he said, and after we spoke in great length about it, on numerous occasions, all he was interested in, before he was to consider trying again was whether or not I had slept with someone else. I mean come the fuck on dude! What do you think I was going to do; become abstinent and hold out until you decided you were ready to grow a heart and feel something? Talk about fucking delusional. Anyway, that still wasn’t the mind-fuck of mind-fucks!
The ultimate psyche-twisting annihilation was that a brief version of a much longer and more mortifying story of reopening myself to even further condemnation, is that he still had the audacity to reject my suggestion of starting over – and this, because he wanted full disclosure of what I had been doing since we had split up. Idiotically, thinking clean slate and fresh, honest start, I agreed to spill everything. I confessed that just days prior to his overdue decision to get in touch with me, I had indeed allowed myself to be intimate with someone else, whilst politely reminding him that it was after all he himself who’d made it abundantly clear he couldn’t give me what I wanted in the first place.
Sweet Convictions Page 7