SimplySxy

Category: Exciting Escapades

  • The Oldest Profession

    The Oldest Profession

    Something a little different this time if you are a regular to my column. If you are new – welcome! Whatever the case dear reader, want to know how I got started in ‘The Business’? Then read on. All will be revealed (and you might want to grab yourself a cuppa…).

    The Oldest Profession
    A True Story

    I wander alone and untamed by my life’s experiences. Blindly stumbling into no-man’s land as my blood-red XR3i convertible chaotically cavorts through the dimly lit suburban streets.

    It’s midnight and I’m on my way to my ‘other job’ – the host with the most in a brothel situated in the unlikeliest of villages in sleepy Cheshire, not too far from home but far enough to enable me to keep this a secret. I also work as an escort for an agency, that’s all in addition to my day job as an underpaid skivvy, or care worker if you prefer. I am also a nurse part time for the Health Authority and still earn only just enough to make my rent and put fuel in my car. So when this guy who runs the brothel called me on my work mobile to ask if I’d be interested in doing ‘massage’ for him I jumped straight in. That was several weeks ago and I am beginning to settle in now. It is a world away from the mundane occupations of nursing and care work and although my senses ring out with alarming and increasing regularity: “NO!” I choose to ignore the cry of reason as I hurtle towards my new-found family and let’s face it, right or wrong; I am behind the wheel of a fabulous car.

    My new family consists of the best of society’s rejects. There’s Jason the ‘adult baby,’ Jonty the chef, Ben the other “boy” or host, like myself, Derek the milkman who doesn’t actually work at the brothel but he lingered so long once after delivering the milk that he kinda moved in. Oh yes and every brothel wouldn’t be complete without the ‘Madame’ who in this case is an older man called Roy. Roy is a dark and mysterious character with a certain charm to complement his sleazy undertones. He is bald with a long pointy face, crooked teeth and a crackly chest-voice which is mainly a result of too many Marlboro Lights.

    The brothel is poignantly placed between a delightful village church and the local funeral home. Discretely nestled in the middle, the building is an old converted coach house with cobbled driveway, whitewashed walls and a stable door leading into the kitchen. It is charming.

    As my mean machine pulls into the bumpy driveway my body thrills with excitement. I am distracted from the sickness in my stomach by this longing in my groin. It makes me feel alive.

    “Oh hi Matt” welcomes Roy as the door to my exclusive new life opens and beckons me inward.

    “Or should we say: C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-A-A-N!” Jason Teases as I walk into the kitchen in a vibrant bubble of nervous energy. ‘Christian’ is my alter-ego, we never use our real names in this business, it helps to keep a professional distance, or at least that’s the left-brain justification anyway. Pretending to be someone else makes us feel like we are stars performing for the adoring crowd – it’s a rush like no other. So I begin preparations for the rush of this evening as it’s a very special night. Tonight Roy is launching a social club at ‘The Cottage’. Punters pay just a fiver to get in and they have free food, wine, music and use of the play room. That’s where guys ‘play’ but it depends very much on your definition. The play room is fully equipped with a sex sling, massage table, latex gloves, whips, chains, cock rings and every size and shape of dildo you could ever imagine. Oh yes and of course there is 24/7 porn played on the TV which is suitably situated facing the table so the punter, sorry I mean client, has a good view when he’s on top of whichever boy he has chosen. The room smells of sex; a musty, pungent mould that cleverly works its way into my psyche, filling me with desire as it thrusts me sharply forward into this other world. The rush of adrenalin helps me to dance more effortlessly within the walls of this darker side to my nature.

    I can be anyone I want to be – not everyone can say they have a true alter-ego, a whole other person living within them and living a completely different life. I can.

    We are all still gathered in the kitchen as the clients haven’t arrived yet. There’s me, Roy, Jonty, Jason, Ben and a couple of regulars, Daniel and Karl, who always arrive early to try and avoid paying. They make out they are friends instead of clients and it pisses the boys off because Roy never seems to notice. Not that I’m getting paid tonight as it’s my first night in this role so I’m on trial. I have done massages for Roy before, he pays me ten pounds per punter and he pockets thirty five for himself. He says he will give me more when I’m more established. I must do my best because I need the money. I get just enough from the care work, nursing and escorting but I still need more to live on.

    I love standing in the kitchen chatting. Jonty always has something on the go in the oven and the room is filled with the smell of security housed within the aroma of roast beef, potatoes or hot pot that gently rises from the range. As I stand here, with the glass of Merlot Roy gave me, talking to the guys surrounding me, I am comforted by the flutter in my abdomen and the tingling round my head and face: “This is how it’s supposed to be” I think to myself as I look on at my family – all guys together laughing and talking shit but knowing deep down that we are all meant to be here in this moment. Troubled souls who collide into this temporary fantasy, trying to get by the best we can.

    “Shall we go through to the dining room boys?” Announces Roy as the timer on the oven pings the arrival of tonight’s feast.

    We all top up our glasses and make our way to the small but perfectly formed dining room at the end of the hallway, to the right of the kitchen. As I sit at the table, adorned with shiny silver cutlery and beautiful candelabra as the centrepiece, I chuckle inside as I think where we would be if we’d turned left out of the kitchen – that’s the playroom, which leads onto the dungeon, bunkroom and dark room. If only people outside knew what goes on here. The place was raided once by the police but that’s another story.
    As we all settle down in our designated seats – Roy at the end, Jonty at the other and the ‘boys’ placed on display around the table so all guests have equal access, the door bell rings and Jason rushes to answer it.

    WOW! My heart leaps and genitals stir as in walks ‘the army guy’ Conner. He’s straight, apparently, but he makes a bee-line for me and plonks himself very close, so his thigh is touching mine. I calmly and politely say:

    “Hi mate. Welcome to the Cottage”. My mouth dries, lips chap, heartbeat thickens and fastens and I desperately want to lean over and kiss him. I refrain.
    As the evening progresses more clients turn up throughout the meal and are welcomed enthusiastically by Roy and insincerely by me as all I am now interested in is Conner. I dream about him asking me on a date, taking me on holiday and holding me in his big strong arms. I am suddenly aware of Roy’s unhealthy stare into my guilt. He’s spotted I am showing more attention to one guest and that is against the rules.

    “Why don’t you take Damien into the play room Christian?” Roy bosses me as my hand lowers discretely under the table to stroke Connor’s leg.

    “Erm, I haven’t finished my dinner yet.” I shyly say, noticing a familiar rampant thump in my chest. I feel consumed with guilt and fear, as if I’ve done something very wrong but desperately wanting to have some alone time with my new man.
    “Anyway” Jason interrupts “Christian is far more interested in a certain army boy!” To my surprise, Conner, who has previously been very quiet until now, turns to me and says:

    “So how about it then?” as he knowingly turns to Roy with a nod, as if he realises that as a paying guest he has the final say.

    “Ok. Off you go then and suck his cock.” Roy flippantly says as he gives in.
    Both Conner and I simultaneously rise from the table, taking our wine glasses with us.
    As we both nervously stand outside Conner’s night-blue Ford Focus, occasionally taking a jittery sip from our glasses, Conner again tells me he’s straight and asks if we can sit and “talk” in his car. He didn’t want to go to the play room so I suggested we go for a walk instead and this is as far as we got.

    “Okay” I say as he pushes the electric remote to open the doors. I land into the inviting leather bucket seats and wonder what he will say to me. Maybe he will take me for a drive, or gently kiss me or hold my hand. Maybe he will say that he wants to have a relationship with me. My heart is beating so fast now, I can taste his kiss already and the smell of his aftershave is planted deep in the pit of my secure dreams. He is wearing a trendy woolen jumper, grey with ecru stitching, dark grey jeans and I can just make out his leather belt with a huge silver buckle on it. His package is big, bulging and a perfect rounded shape, as I place my hand tentatively on his thigh, I notice his bulge moving. This brings a sense of warmth to my own loin and makes me realise that I must be very special to turn him on like this. He must like me.

    “Wanna suck me off?” he says as he unbuttons his Levi’s. I ignore my sadness and sinking feeling in my stomach. I just go down.

    “Oh man! Oh fuck!” I fill my emptiness with Conner’s manhood as he groans. He quickly adjusts the driving seat so I have more room to perform my duty. Although I can’t pretend I am not feeling used, I still have this exotic rush shooting from my perineum straight into my lips that are now vibrating around his desperate phallus. It’s like a drug.

    “Oh don’t stop! Don’t stop!” He shrieks. God this is just like the movies. I never heard a guy shout so loud before. The girls he’s had must have been shit. I have a great technique you see, it’s kinda a natural gift I have. My ego takes over to remind me how great I am at this and I bring him to a magnificent climax as his hot creamy liquid erupts into me. For a split second I hesitate but then realise that I always swallow.

    With the job done, I lean back into my warm seat and he says “Cheers” as he quickly buttons himself up. I hand him my card with my number on and say I’d like to see him again. Note to self… this isn’t a date: stupid! But I really would like to see him again so I figure I’ve got nothing to lose and he definitely had a good time so maybe he will call. I hope so. Conner says he will come back inside in a minute and I kiss his cheek, trying not to notice his flinching and I return to the family in the dining room. I wait alone as they must have all gone to the dungeon or playroom. He doesn’t return.

    Fuck it, who gives a shit anyways? I follow the sounds of pissed giggling and innuendo and find my family all in the bunkroom getting it on. Now the bunkroom is a themed room, based on every gay man’s and some straight women’s fantasy – army barracks full of testosterone-fuelled men who haven’t had sex for weeks. It is kitted out with two plasma TV screens showing porn, two huge bunk beds with each level big enough for four people, camouflage netting on the ceiling and the walls have paintings and murals of army boots, semi-naked guys in army gear and the walls are also lined with green metal lockers on two sides. There is a table under the TV screens which is just like a picnic bench that you would find in a park, only it’s painted green to resemble the benches you’d see in a locker room or gym. The lighting is typical of the rest of the cottage – red and green. It adds to the ambience of sleaze, debauchery and public toilet sex. Works quite nicely I think.

    As always, Roy is standing charge telling people what to do and who to do it to. By this point everyone is naked, there are a few new faces that weren’t at dinner and Ben is tied face down to the bench. Roy is stood giggling with a pot of chocolate body paint in his hand:

    “Eat his ass Christian” Roy orders as he plasters Ben’s buttocks and fifty pence piece with the sweet feast. Not having time to respond, thank fuck, Damien ploughs in and starts to eat the brown substance from Ben’s hole. Not one of the guys has a bona and I wonder just how sexy this scenario is.

    “We’ve all got brewer’s droop” Roy excuses as he sees me glancing downward as I mentally and physically scan the group for any sign of arousal. Yeah, Roy’s gatherings are often non-starters, so I’ve heard but I need the money and I need to impress him if he’s to take me on as a full time boy here. Just as I disrobe and throw my clothes down to the cold, green painted concrete floor Bill, the local farmer, walks over to me. He is forty two but looks about thirty with an amazing masculine physique. He has a perfect triangular shape from his shoulders to the waist and right now his cock is not hard but definitely, as a very pretty woman once said “has potential.” He winks at me as he walks by, turning his head to look at me as he passes. I know he wants me to follow him and without hesitation, after all this is what I am here for, I follow him into the bathroom where I lock the door behind me. Well I’ve already broke the rules once tonight so I know Roy’s gonna give it to me tomorrow anyways. We start kissing and I feel a turgid presence pressing into my own manly reminder. I drop to my knees as if on auto pilot and to my pleasure Bill pulls away, gently stroking my face and guides me back to standing. My body is warm and I never felt so much blood rush to my shaft before. I feel whole and strong as we both collapse to the floor of the bathroom, clumsily wedged between the toilet and sink. I am now on top of him gently yet passionately writhing against his tanned torso, my smooth chest tickling and giggling as his soft brown down brushes next to me. Fuelled by lust, loneliness and Merlot I am consumed with the heat of the moment as I find myself sliding deep into him. We do not speak. It just happens. Neither of us mentions the need for wearing a condom. He wants me and I want him – and now we have each other.

    We emerge sheepishly from the bathroom after our heated liaison. Neither of us climaxed but it didn’t seem to matter. I want to hold his hand as we walk back into the bunk room but he goes over to join the others, occasionally giving me a cheeky glance. So I remind myself of my role here tonight and Roy must notice my flirtation as he leads me to the bottom bunk of the bunk bed and pushes me down onto the khaki mattress as he climbs on top of me. The other boys join in and we all cavort in a group sex act of plastic proportions. No one is truly aroused and I feel absent in my presence. I have naked bodies all around me; everyone seems to be touching me at the same time. Jason leans over me and whispers that I have a face like a porcelain doll:

    “You look so perfect. I’m afraid to touch you in case you break.” He says as I hold him closer and he rests his head upon my chest whilst the others seem to fall silent as they limply stroke each other in drunken lethargy.

    “I love you” Jason whispers as he squeezes tighter with his arms around my naked waist, snuggling his face further into my neck. A chasm of sadness opens up as I hold this broken little boy in my arms. I have only known him a short time, the few weeks I’ve been popping into the Cottage to introduce myself and do the occasional massage, but I know so much about him. He was put in a care home at eleven and was forced to have anal sex with the manager and the staff. He said he “loved it” and that he was the “slut of the home” but the cold blood running through my veins tells me that is just his way of coping. His other coping mechanism is embroiled in his life as an adult baby. Adult babies shave all their body hair, wear nappies, soil themselves and play with baby toys and eat rusks. All the usual stuff a baby does, obviously. Some babies will have ‘parents’ to change their nappies and take care of them. Jason has another baby friend he chats too on the internet and they are both looking for parents at the moment. Roy understands Jason and his needs so he is making a cot for him and has already decorated Jason’s room with Noddy wallpaper and mobiles. Jason feels at home here and loves being allowed to finally be himself now he is twenty eight. Me; I want to help him into therapy and ask him more about what exactly being an adult baby does for him. But I don’t do either.

    As I lay here, in the dark with men all around me I cannot sleep. Jason is still asleep on my chest and I suddenly have the urge to run. Run anywhere. So despite being several glasses of wine over the limit, I gently slide my now cold moist body from under Jason and get dressed, grabbing whatever clothes are nearest. I let myself out, making sure the door locks from the outside and hesitate for a second or two. I fear that I am locking myself out of my home but still desperately wanting to run away.

    I jump into the car and make my way down the by-pass towards the sleepy town that I now live in, remembering that I have work at eight in the morning for the care agency, an old lady I help to get dressed and make breakfast for. Although tired, drunk and cold with fear I am still charged with sex. I want sex and I want it now. I slowly drive down the by-pass and notice a lay-by with just one dim light reluctantly illuminating the darkest corner. I pull in with this thumping need still taking me over and turn off the lights and car engine. My eyes rapidly search into the darkness for signs of life, the glance of a stranger, the look of lust but nothing. I open the car door and swing my legs round as I unbutton my jeans and start to masturbate frantically. I can feel a sweaty, smelly sensation all over. I am blind yet fully alert knowing that if a passing police car saw me I’d be in big trouble but I am beyond caring and so I abuse myself until at last I am relieved of the night’s burden. Post-ejaculation paranoia takes over so I take the back lanes back home to avoid a possible run-in with the police. I stumble into the quant terraced cottage I’m renting and clamber into bed fully clothed, still wearing the ‘Slave’ T-shirt I quickly grabbed on my way out of the brothel.

    It hardly seems a minute since my head hit the pillow for a drunken sleep when the alarm bellows in my ear. I stay in bed far longer than I should and am an hour late to get Annie up and ready. I’m not bothered because she lives alone and no-one will know I’ve been late. She’s a dolly mixture short of a quarter anyway. I pull up outside her cute little bungalow in a small village in Cheshire, very close to the medieval town I now live in and look for the key under its usual hiding place under the wheelie bin. It’s not there. I go to the back door which leads into the kitchen and there’s a woman of around forty stood there, staring at me through the window with glaring eyes:

    “Yes. Can I help you?” She storms, eyeing me up and down with a cutting distaste.

    “I’m the carer, come to get Annie up.” I say wearily through my dry lips and alcohol fumed breath.

    “Well you’re late! And I’ve already got her up!” She snaps. She is intently staring at my white grubby T-Shirt with ‘SLAVE’ splattered across the front in big black letters as I try to jolly her up and say the office gave me the wrong time to come, unconvincingly.
    I go through into the living room where Annie is nibbling on her toast with marmalade, the room smells of moth balls and piss. Annie is wearing a turquoise dress with horrid pink flowers on.

    “Morning Annie!” I force as I make even more excuses for my bedraggled state:

    “Ooh what are they like in the office Annie? They told me nine o’clock today and I’ve been on a night shift too.” Well let’s face it I have been on a night shift. She does her usual grunt at me and continues to fill her miserable face with her new servant’s morning offering and I tell her I’ll see her later.

    The stern prissy women who I assume is Annie’s daughter continues to look at me as if I’m some alien from planet scum as I briskly walk passed her and swiftly exit back to my gorgeous car.

    I’m back home in no time and safely snuggled back into bed. No fucking point doing this crap job anyways, I only get a pound per visit. I’m supposed to go back at lunch time but I don’t wake up till gone four. Whoops.

    I stumble down my wobbly stairs in this old dairy house, situated next to the sub post office which is run by Hyacinth and Donald, the nosiest neighbours known to man. The stairs lead straight into the dining room which is so tiny it’s more like a parlour. It is an odd triangular shape with a brick fireplace and real fire grate. When I’ve got enough money for the coal, I like to spend evenings gazing into the flames, toasting bread and lazing on the mud-brown carpet. It is deep pile and very warm but it stinks of cat piss. It’s okay though and I love living in a cottage, I feel dead grown up.

    I flick the play messages button on the answering machine as I walk towards the kitchen to make a coffee. There’s a message from the care agency I work for: “Hello Matt it’s Sharon, I’ve just had Annie’s daughter on the phone and I’m afraid she’s made a complaint…” I run to the machine and press delete with an incredible surge of “fuck it” anger. FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT! Trying to ignore this inner sense that I’ve let people down and distracting myself from the reality of neglecting another human being. Abandoning my feelings of guilt, I become arrogant, cocky and aloof. I go to the living room window and peer out through the small-town net curtains at my gleaming pride and joy sat opposite, parked partly on the pavement because the road is so narrow. Yes. She’s still there so everything must be okay. I take one last glance at my safety anchor, my gleaming XR3i Convertible before I ascend the stairs to iron my Nurses’ uniform, powder blue with white epaulettes, ready for the six to ten shift for my other ‘mainstream’ job.
    And they say only woman can multi task.

    © Matt Chase All Rights Reserved
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  • IDAHOT Day: No One Must Ever Know

    IDAHOT Day: No One Must Ever Know

    “I want to be famous” he tells me. “And with looks and a body like that, my young friend”, I thought, “You could be famous in about two seconds!” What I said, however, was: “Famous for what?” meaning, for singing? for acting? for writing? for what? He answers: “So I can be rich” “But that’s a result,” I tell him; “It’s the result of DOING something or BEING something.” “I’ll get an agent,” he goes on, not answering my question, “and the agent will make me even more famous and richer.” Boringly, I implore him once more: “But you have to have an agent for writing, or for acting, or for SOMETHING. What will you have an agent FOR?” With two enormous, deep, soulful, sparkling dark-brown eyes that a Rudolph Valentino would envy, he just looks at me uncomprehendingly and changes the subject.

    Now if this dialogue had taken place in Hollywood, or even New York, it would not have surprised me. In fact, this dialogue took place in a small village in Southwestern France, in French, and the young man, Philippe, speaks rapidly, forcefully, and remarkably unselfconsciously. His voice is husky, “with a sexy, throaty, buzz to it, and his conversation is rapid, sure, and peppered with trendy slang.

    I’ve known him for about three years, having perceived him around and about the village. First I noticed him for a regal stance, a ramrod-straight carriage, an angular face with remarkable cheekbones, large, deep eyes, and a dark slender beauty enhanced by a superb, innate sense of movement. Later on I gave rides to him and some of his chums hitch-hiking from the village to one or other of the larger cities and towns nearby. Finally I got to know him better as the close friend of another youth who came from northern France to live in my house during a summer vacation.

    The truth is that I lusted after Philippe since first seeing him. He didn’t look or act like any of the other village boys. He was taller, more stylish, outgoing, and talkative. Also very full of himself. Two years ago, a group of us went skinny dipping in the river, and I discovered that he looked even better naked than dressed in the baggy levis, loose t-shirts, and mounds of cheap silver jewelry so much in vogue then. I took photographs at the time, both color and black and white, clothed and unclothed. Never shy, he was more than pleased with the results of his modeling. Our friendship has grown slowly, and there’s a kind of jet lag between us culturally, educationally, socially, emotionally, as well as a considerable age difference. All those differences make our approaches and distances odd and fascinating, for him as well as for me. We’re very different animals.

    Since I first met him, he’s been an apprentice to a baker, he’s quit school, he’s been in and out of the army, and twice already he’s been engaged to be married. Subsequent to a knife fight with an Arab buddy in the barracks, during which he was wounded in the knee, he was hospitalized for most of his military service. Endlessly bathed and tenderly tended by a brigade of military nurses in a hospital near Bordeaux who were only too pleased to nurse him back to health from a serious blood infection, he emerged with a slight limp which somehow makes his appearance even sexier. Released from the hospital, he spent his last several months in the military in an office shuffling papers, and his advisors are now requesting that he be awarded a full pension as a wounded war veteran. Philippe just turned twenty.

    Having returned to the village four days ago after an absence of almost a year, I was pleased to see Philippe shortly after arriving. 1had gone out for an early jog, partly to fight jet lag; partly because if I don’t do it early in the day, I don’t do it at all, and partly because the morning was slightly misty and cool, a comfortable temperature before the heat of the day makes running a chore. Several kilometers out of town, a truck passed, and I perceived Philippe sitting on the deck, in the rear. He noticed me, as well, and we waved. I figured he’d stop by later in the day, but he didn’t show up until evening, just before dinner. I was very pleased to see him. He gave me a big hug and came into the kitchen where I was in the last stages of preparing a meal for Jeannette and Michel who were getting ready elsewhere in the house. I asked Philippe to join us, but he declined since he’d already dined and said he’d come back later for a coffee. He returned, almost on the dot of ten thirty, and we all sat in the living room while he recounted his life and army adventures during the past year. After an hour or so, Michel went home to sleep, and Jeannette, still suffering from jet lag, retired to her room. Philippe and I were alone for the first time in two years.

  • The San Antonio Power Jacket

    The San Antonio Power Jacket

    A friend at dinner told me he was from San Antonio and then proceeded to tell me how boring it was there. In response I told him it was one of the most interesting places I had ever visited.

    Startled and surprised, he asked me to explain, so I did, happily. As a young art dealer living in Boston in the early seventies, I learned it was worthwhile to take business trips away from Boston in the early Spring, because there was no early Spring in Massachusetts and Winter sometimes lasted until May.

    Consequently, I took Spring business trips to Florida, Texas, California, and somewhere else which might be warmer and nicer than Boston in February, March, or April – which was almost anywhere.

    San Antonio was a particularly lovely destination with an atmospheric old hotel I liked called the St. Anthony, and when you checked in at the St. Anthony, there weren’t many questions asked, and fewer to answer.

    I knew the directors of two museums in San Antonio, so it was an advantageous place to visit for me, arriving with a portfolio of old master prints and drawings, along with a few modern works on paper, and several edgy newer works plus, startlingly at the time, photographs daring to attempt to pass as Art.

    After a couple of days showing my wares around town, the work week was over and it was time to celebrate. I took off my three-piece suit, put on a pair of jeans and a pair of Western boots and set off towards a local bar which I’d located in a gay guide. Because business had gone well, I was feeling flush and in an expansive mood, deciding on the spur of the moment to take a hit of MDA, which we used to call “The Pink Pill,” to enhance the evening and to help overcome my slight nervousness about going out to a new bar in a strange town.

    Arriving at the bar, called the San Antonio Country, there was a lot of frantic activity and some unusual sort of confusion, which I didn’t immediately comprehend. I bought a drink and watched what was happening for awhile, and it seemed to be some kind of rummage sale. Never having seen a rummage sale before in a gay bar, I decided to ask one of the locals what was going on. It turned out that a number of the fellows frequenting the place had decided they wanted to go on a ski trip. None of them had sufficient money to rent a vehicle large enough, so they arranged to hold a rummage sale in the bar to collectively raise funds for a trip to the ski region nearby.

    Amused by the concept, I wandered through the tables which had been set up, looking at old shirts, old boots, magazines, and trivia which I found of little interest. In the very last row, however, a sparkling jacket hanging on a rack caught my eye. Originally a plain denim, Levi jacket, it had been lovingly tended and decorated over many years. The back bore a large letter C (for Claude, who had created this extravaganza) surrounded by jewels and a variety of artifacts, in addition to which the entire front, sides, and sleeves of the jacket had been decorated, fitted out, and encumbered with a vast array of pins, buttons, attachments, brooches, and every possible piece of bad costume jewelry imaginable. The left sleeve had a row of feathers sewn on in such a way that when you were leaning on the bar, the feathers didn’t get damaged. It was fabulous!

    On the upper left lapel was attached a tiny bronze hand with a small clamp grasping bits of paper. When I inquired about the purpose of the bronze hand with the small bits of paper, I was looked at askance and told, with some attitude, that the paper bits were for giving out your phone number, in case anyone asked.

    By this time the drugs had kicked in, and I was feeling ever more expansive. I asked to try on the jacket, and it fit perfectly. Needless to say, it was nothing at all like any Boston jacket I’d ever worn. It weighed about thirty pounds, and, because of all the jangling accoutrements, when I moved or attempted to dance, the jacket went into a rhythmic, noisy counterpoint of its own. I was totally enthralled and asked the price, which was a hundred dollars. Back then, that was more than three times the price of a brand-new Levi jacket. I contemplated the time and energy it would require to attempt to replace the adornments already in place and told Claude, the seller, that I would buy it. I vaguely recall telling him that it was an amazing piece of work, perhaps a masterpiece, and that it would probably end up in a museum. (At the time, the Metropolitan Museum was enjoying great success with its newly opened fabric and costume department.)

    For a half-hour or so, I wore the jacket around the bar, enjoying the weight of it and the noises it made. Unbeknownst to me at the time, news had flown around the bar like wildfire that a crazy art dealer from Boston had paid Claude a hundred dollars for his Levi jacket and was going to put it into a museum. In no time, the jacket was gathering so much attention that it made me nervous, so I took it back to Claude and asked him to put it away for awhile, until I could work up to wearing it again.

    After a few more drinks, I made another sashay around the bar, wearing the jacket comfortably this time, and I was cruised and approached more than at any time in my life. I quickly realized that it wasn’t about me, per se, but that the jacket had its own power, which an amazing variety of men responded to in different ways. At one point, two fellows were actually fighting about which one was going to take me home. This was a quandary unprecedented in my experience. While I was going a little crazy trying to figure out which of these two very attractive guys I should choose, the door of the bar swung open, and a stunning blond cowboy wearing tight jeans and a form-fitting shirt walked in, took one look around the bar, made a beeline towards me and asked simply: “Ya wanna fuck?”

  • Sex in the Hospital

    Sex in the Hospital

    It was the summer right after graduating high school. I was newly 18, ready for college, and deeply in love with my boyfriend. We had been together for almost two years and in that time had sex in a handful of public places, from parks to museums to busses. But sometimes we tried to push further, merely because we could. However this time the August heat was a contributing factor.

    If you don’t live in a big city, then you can’t imagine the kind of traffic a person runs into at three in the afternoon. Add extensive heat and every single human emotion flairs up like a hot air balloon and it has to escape somewhere, somehow. Luckily we were in a city bus that was merely sprinkled with riders. After initially content to escape the heat, the frigid air conditioner quickly chilled the bus as we waited in traffic and I huddled against my Henri for additional warmth.

    But I never just cuddle.

    My hands wandered inside his pockets, at a time when he only wore boxers and it made it so easy for me to play with him. I buried my nose into the nape of his neck and nibbled slightly, causing him to smile. My heart warmed to see that smile, and for me was always a sign of encouragement. I whispered to him all the things I wish I could do if no one was here; how lucky he was that I couldn’t strip him of his clothes right then and there; and how slick and wet I was thinking of the possibilities…

    The bus pulled into the next stop and finally the road ahead of us was clear of cars for the remainder of the ride. We were on the way to see my doctor, but she was the last thing on my mind. The touching never stopped, and we were so anxious to have a moment alone. Entering her office, I was unusually giddy, and my doctor took this as sign of me being completely smitten. Yes, I was completely in love. But I was also sticking to the wetness on my panties and sitting next to him, not being able to touch him as I wished, was an excruciating feeling. I had to keep my legs crossed while he was there, the sound of his voice and the heat he emanated kept the flow of wetness consistent. When he was asked to wait for me in the waiting room until the appointment, he softly kissed my lips and his voice dipped low and rough to say

    “I’ll be waiting for you…” in that way that only he and I understood.

    I was impatient. I was hormonally desperate to escape this place and go somewhere, anywhere for us to have sex. But where would we go? The sun was still too bright outside to discretely find a spot in the park. And by this time the bus would be over flowing with people. We always found a place…

    After I was done, I crossed the hall to find Henri sitting quietly, flipping through an old magazine. We stood in what was supposed to be a children’s waiting room, equipped with its own half kitchen and half bathroom. For months it had remained unused in the middle of a supposed reconstruction. The blinds had been turned down, and in the darkness the toys and books left behind gave the room a creepy abandoned house feel. I wanted to leave, but I wasn’t in a rush to enter the heat again.

    “Are we leaving?” He was just as uncomfortable with the appearance of the room.

    “Hold on, let me go check my hair in the mirror before we go,” and I headed to the small bathroom. The tiny toddler toilet was emptied of water, and the privacy curtain lay limp to one side of the bathroom, attached by two metal rings. Unused waiting room chairs stacked on top of one another completed what could have been mistaken as a storage closet save for the small clearing that remained in front of the sink and mirror.

    “Trust me babe, this place has looked a lot better—” my lip gloss fell and in bending over to pick it up, I saw Henri’s feet approaching.

    “Do you like the view?”

    I received a hard smack across my bottom as a response and I laughed when he grabbed onto my haunches and bucked himself into me. “Are you getting hard, baby?” I did my little girl impression, pushing into him, slowly gyrating my hips and feeling his bulge grow under his jeans. He unzipped his pants while he locked the door behind us. My shorts were hardly settled at my ankles by the time he shoved his cock into me. He thrust hard, rotating his hips in wide circles; I covered my mouth with my hand to stop myself from screaming as he stretched my pussy with each rotation.

    We heard chatter and footsteps approaching the room. We were initially frozen, but he slowly continued, pulling far out and rotating his cock in tiny circles on the nub of my clit, then entering me slowly, reminding me in a muffled whisper not to make a sound.

    We heard the two women retrieving items from the refrigerator. Henri was relentless with his tease, and in the mirror I could see a mischievous smile on his face and the warmth of a hand moving across my back side. His thumb rubbed circles on my anus, adding various points of pressure here and there, moans managing to escape the prison of my fingers.

    I didn’t know if the women were still there or not, but for a moment the sound of the world disappeared and all I heard were the sound of our heartbeats synchronized with the huffs of our breaths. He went faster and my cunt felt the expansion of his cock and his cum filling me inside.

    “Oh my goodness, did you hear that?”

    “What the hell was that?! Hello? Is someone here?”

    The door handle jingled, but we remained silent. The beads of sweat falling from my temple and my heartbeat sounded the same while I stood bent over the chair.

    “Hello?! Jeez Lisa, this room gives me the creeps!”

    “I agree, let’s get out of here. I’m keeping my lunch in my office from now on…”

    We heard the footsteps fade away and fixed ourselves, withholding our laughter until we were safely outside in the August heat.

    “Did you enjoy being ghosts for a while?” I asked Henri as we waited for the bus that took me home.

    “As long as I’m inside of you, I will be anything, anywhere.”

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  • Unexpected Valentine

    Unexpected Valentine

    Oh that Rick! What a friend! What a guy!!

    I’m visiting Rick in San Francisco for three days. Jeff, our actor friend in El Lay, calls excitedly this morning to tell us he’s on TV tonight, featured in a spot on a major soap opera, so I stay in to watch the show, which is scheduled for 9 p.m. It’s an inconvenient time, because it’s impossible to go out for dinner before, and afterwards it’s too late. Then, too, the timing is wrong for a real movie either before or after, consequently one small segment of a soap opera interferes with the entire evening. Another friend who promised to call didn’t keep his promise, so I take that as an omen, in addition to feeling a certain sense of loyalty to Jeff, and decide to stay in with a book to read –even though it’s the night before Valentine’s Day, and I figure there will be Major Action in the streets, in the bars, in the clubs or everywhere, despite the fact that it’s a Sunday night.

    At 8:30 Rick arrives with a spectacularly good looking fellow. Rick introduces the friend, Brad, whom he’s just met at the Jackhammer, a leather bar in the Mission District. Brad is about twenty-two, six foot three, lean, with short blond hair, smooth fair skin, wearing tight jeans, no shirt, black boots, and a leather jacket. After a bit of idle chat, Rick and Brad go downstairs to Rick’s Rec Room (which has become equally famous – or infamous – as Rick’s Wreck Room) while I stay upstairs in the guest room with book and TV. Rick says maybe they’ll come up and watch the show, but I have my doubts, assuming they’ll be otherwise engaged.

    At 8:55 I turn on the TV to watch the soap opera. It’s completely idiotic, and Jeff’s appearance lasts about two seconds. His opening moments are fine, and I watch the rest of the show, expecting he will reappear, but he doesn’t. Meanwhile, Rick and Brad are downstairs having a much better time, I’m absolutely certain, than I am. I feel I’ve made a mistake, both by staying in and by watching the stupid TV show, and I feel ripped off by my loyalty to Jeff. It occurs to me to telephone him and ask how much he gets paid for acting stupid on a show that’s already idiotic, but I check the urge and keep my bad attitude to myself for a change.

    Just after 10, there’s a tap at my door. Rick is standing there, handsome, muscular, and naked except for his suntan from Costa Rica and a towel in his hand. He says: “I told Brad you’d give him a blowjob. Come on downstairs. He’s waiting for you.” Incredulous, I ask: “Are you kidding?” From the look on his face, I can tell he’s not kidding, so I abandon the book and take off my shirt, muttering half out loud: “I’m not quite sure what to wear.” “You’re fine! You’re just fine!” he assures me. “But…but…” I stammer. “But what?” says Rick. “But have you finished with him?” I have to ask. Rick smiles enigmatically and replies: “I’ve gone as far as I can go. Now it’s up to you.” Scarcely believing my good fortune or Rick’s generosity, as well as wondering what Brad’s attitude might be about this whole thing, I accept the invitation, of course, telling Rick “Thanks!” and he answers: “Thank Brad, don’t thank me.” Then I descend the stairway and go into Rick’s Rec Room. The room smells of sex and poppers. Brad is on the bed, lying on his back, naked except for a leather collar and a cock ring. His eyes are wide open, he has a delicate, slightly rococo armband tattooed on his upper arm, and his long, lean body, in complete repose, is clearly receptive. “What a pretty picture!” I say, almost in awe. Rick agrees, adding: “He’s a beautiful man!” Brad doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. I sit on the edge of the bed and begin to run my fingers over Brad’s tight, flat belly. Rick goes to the top of the bed near Brad’s head, leans over, and begins to kiss him. Brad moans gently, and his cock begins to swell. I put my mouth on the head of it and taste a savory combination of sweat and lube. His hips began to rock under me, and as Rick kisses him and plays with his nipples, I gently begin to suck on his cock and lift his balls. Rick gives us each a hit of poppers, and the three of us begin to make love in wondrous synchronicity. As I suck on blond Brad, I can see Rick’s dark cock getting bigger and bigger, and I wish I could suck on them both at the same time.

    The unspoken message is to please Brad, so together Rick and I pay our separate and various attentions to Brad, who remains surprisingly recumbent and passive. Gradually, we get him, as well as ourselves, hotter and hotter. Suddenly Rick stands up and exits the room, leaving me unexpectedly alone with this tall, exquisite youth. For a moment I feel like a usurper. I’m confused, wondering: Why am I here? How did this happen? Do I deserve this extraordinary feeling of trust? Why is Rick sharing him? Why has Rick left? The moment of doubt passes, and I begin simply to enjoy the feelings. Brad loves to be touched, anywhere, everywhere. His skin is flawless, his chest perfection, and his responses to my touch on his skin are almost orgasmic. So much so I wonder what drug he might be on. I run my fingers and lips over his body, and he throbs in response. I suck on his balls and run my hands over his legs. In turn, he draws up his left leg, inviting access to his innermost parts, and slowly, gently I put my right hand into his ass, all the while playing with his upper body and flat belly with my left hand and continuing, the whole time, to suck on his cock, which gets harder or softer, in my mouth, in gradual sequences. At one point, Brad puts his left hand around his cock and begins to play with it, watching as I bite his nipples and play with the rest of his body. I put my hand in his butt once more, and he shoots his wad, wordlessly, all across his flat, muscled belly. I rip off my T-shirt and underwear, grease up my dick, and masturbate on top of Brad’s recumbent form, as he looks up at me. Rick returns, puts his arms around me first, from behind, then hugs us both and leaves the room once again. It is reassuring and odd at the same time.

    Brad still has his hand on his cock, and the sight of this beautiful man lying under me makes me crazy. I shoot off in what seems only an instant, and we lie there, close together, and with my fingertips I rub the cum into that tight, youthful body until it disappears into his skin. Brad says: “I’m cold,” and pulls the covers over him, then goes into a sleep-like trance. I get a drink of water and go upstairs to look for Rick, who is stretched out on my bed, naked, suntanned and spectacular, calmly looking at the book I had abandoned an hour or two earlier. We compare notes about Brad’s astonishing beauty. Rick tells me how he first perceived Brad in the bar, bare-chested, his jacket hanging off one shoulder, tall and so incredibly stunning that no one dared approach him. Always ready for a challenge, Rick set his sights on the unknown boy, shined his magic light, and within moments they’ve left the bar together to come back to the house for a drink, etcetera.

    Now it’s two hours later. Rick and I agree that Brad was On Something, but neither of us can determine exactly what it was. Maybe a little pot; maybe a bit of speed, too. Probably a mixture. In any case, he’s extremely high and astonishingly sensitive to touch; no doubt that’s why he more or less passed out. We go back downstairs to look at him, try to get him to talk, which he doesn’t or can’t, and Rick opines, not unhappily: “I think Brad’s going to stay the night.” Five minutes later, much to our surprise, Brad awakens and gets up.

    Each of us has a shower, we have a drink and talk for a few minutes in the kitchen. Brad doesn’t have a lot to say, and it doesn’t matter. I ask him why his skin is so sensitive. He smiles a slightly shy, dazzling smile, and replies ingenuously: “I guess that’s something I get from my mother.”

    Everyone says goodnight, Rick drives Brad home, and I change the sheets, which are a mess, but that’s why God invented washing machines, isn’t it? Then I make up Rick’s bed and leave a chocolate for him on the pillow, as at any good hotel. That’s the very least he deserves.

    Counting my blessings, I’ve determined that Rick has gone St. Valentine one better. His behavior is not exactly saintly, and he has no inclination whatever to become St. Rick. Nor does this have anything to do with sentimentality or sweethearts or Victoria’s Secrets or heart-shaped, red candy boxes. Nonetheless, Rick’s generosity, charity and cleanliness are beyond, if not above, godliness, and tonight’s gift was as unique, unforgettable, and spontaneous as it was – how shall I say? – deeply appreciated. Furthermore the night before Valentine’s Day is not yet over, and tomorrow night, if we choose, there’s still plenty of time to Go Out!

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  • Aunt Leona’s Birthday Party

    Aunt Leona’s Birthday Party

    Yesterday, June 2nd, was Aunt Leona’s 82nd birthday. Last week I asked her if she’d like me to have a party for her, and she said no. I suggested a small dinner instead might be preferable as a celebration, and again she said no.  Then I went to the desert for the long Memorial Day weekend, returning late Monday night, at which point she telephoned saying she’d changed her mind and that she did indeed want a party. She decided to invite four people, then waffled about when the party should take place: whether it should be on Wednesday, the actual day of her birthday, or whether it should be the next weekend, or perhaps the following week, because she hadn’t made up her mind soon enough to give advance notice, etc. etc. Knowing that this event could loom large on the horizon if something weren’t decided quickly, I told her I believed the party should be on her veritable birthday, that we should get on the phone instantly and invite the people we wanted. If they could come, Fine, and if they couldn’t, Too Bad! She agreed, the guests were invited, and I spent the next day shopping, cooking, and preparing.

    Karen arrived an hour before the party was to begin in order to help me set up. Instead of setting up, we sat on the porch and drank martinis. Jon and Jeff had offered to bring Aunt Leona, and when they were half an hour late, we concluded that they’d either decided or been asked to redo her outfit, and sure enough, an hour after that, they arrived, the three of them. Leona was in black from head to toe, glowing, with her newly cut white hair crowning the somber ensemble, in complete contrast to her personality, which is as mischievous as ever. She loved describing her change of attire after fashion consultants Jon and Jeff got to her door.  Jon was elegant wearing a dark silk shirt with fine linen trousers, and Jeff very handsome in a blue, mock workshirt with pearl buttons, chino trousers, and a high-fashion tan leather belt with a silver buckle. They entered giggling, because she had greeted them wearing different shoes on each foot, asking which one they preferred.

    Two of the people Aunt Leona invited, Tom and Tim, arrived even later. Tom, whom she calls “The Tomster,” is a refined, delicate young man of about twenty-five, whom I’d met once before at Leona’s house. He’s clever, bright, and good-humored, as well as just a little fey.  His other half, Tim, surprised me in that he looks as if he could be Tom’s brother. They are both the same age, slender, delicate and handsome; both have abundant dark hair, fair skin and wear elegant, casual clothes with great style. As they walked in, Jeff whispered: “Awfully Junior League, aren’t they?” and two minutes later, Karen, appraising their entrance on her own, cupped her hand and muttered quietly in my ear: “Girls!”

    We enjoyed drinks, hors d’oeuvres and small-talk outside on the deck. Several of the guests arrived even later than Tom and Tim; as a result, cocktails were served at some length.  I’d placed pâté, crackers, almonds and cheese on a stool for easy access. When Wayne arrived, Leona asked him to sit with her, moved the cheese off the stool, and announced that cheese doesn’t require a seat.

    By then the evening air had taken on a chill; consequently I changed my original plan to have dinner outside around the picnic table. The interior dining table is too small for a large group, so it was decided at the last minute to serve a buffet. We arranged pillows on the floor by the coffee table with candles and wine goblets nearby; chairs were pulled up to make a comfortable circle for those who wanted them, and the meal was presented with complete informality, creating an intimate atmosphere conducive to good conversation among a group of people who were not all previously acquainted.

    Talk was spirited, sometimes silly, and always amusing. Jeff told me he overheard Aunt Leona ask Karen, with some puzzlement, in the kitchen: “Tom and Tim, are they awfully Junior League?” Karen answered, “I don’t know. What’s Junior League?” After the meal and before birthday cake and presents, we continued to sip our wine and converse. Someone asked Tom how he and Tim had met, they exchanged glances, and Tim exclaimed: “Oh, we’re not going to tell THAT story, are we?” Everyone said: “I hope so!” and we all urged them on. In response, together they recounted how they had met in college, then became room-mates and good friends, but not more than that. After graduation, they made a date for a night on the town, and rather late in the evening, after several stops and diverse entertainments, decided to go to a bar called The Louie, located near a downtown freeway in a somewhat questionable neighborhood. The patrons of The Louie usually leave their cars at an adjacent parking lot which is well lit and supervised by an attendant furnished by the club. For some reason, the attendant was out of sight as they parked, and before they realized what was happening, the car was surrounded by four muscular black men armed with knives who told them to get out and start walking. They were hustled across a footbridge over the freeway, where the thieves took their car keys, money, wallets, and finally, all their clothing. They were left naked, in a state of shock and terrified, in a dangerous part of the city. We all wondered: what happened? The answer: they burst out laughing and fell in love. There was nothing else to do. It was too late to knock on a stranger’s door, they were doubtful about walking around naked, and they weren’t certain what course of action to take.  Fortunately, soon after, a woman drove by, took pity on them and provided them with a sheet to wear. (She happened to have a sheet in the car because she was in the process of moving.) Too frightened to ask two naked men into her car in the middle of the night, she told them to wait right there, that she’d call the police from a pay phone and not to worry. Later on, the police arrived; were characteristically neither sympathetic nor friendly, but eventually returned the boys home. The car was not found until weeks later, completely trashed, and ever since, Tom and Tim have been sweethearts.

    It was a sensational story, and no one could top it, so cake was served and Leona was presented with her birthday gifts. The last one to be opened, a surprise from Jon and Jeff, proved to be a life-size, inflatable man-doll, with an open mouth, a similar size opening at the crotch in front, and another similar size opening at the backside. With the doll, although packaged separately, was an oversize phallus, dismembered and wrapped in cellophane, cleverly designed to fit into any of the doll’s orifices: mouth, crotch, or backside, in any direction. We blew up the doll-man and inserted the cellophane-covered phallus into the normal front position, so it appeared as if he were wearing a condom. Jeff introduced him as Doc Johnson. Aunt Leona grabbed him by the cock, shook it admiringly, and said “Pleased to meet you.”

    Then we sat him on a chair while we continued talking and laughing hilariously. When it came time to leave, Aunt Leona grabbed him again by the cock, waved him in the air, and said:  “Come on, Honey.  Let’s go home!” Then she delicately took Jon and Jeff, each by one arm; still holding on to Doc Johnson. Off they went, the four of them out to the jeep, three of them giggling into the night.

     

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  • Naughty or Nice: Begging to Cum

    Naughty or Nice: Begging to Cum

    Men tied up and begging to cum. That is the catch phase of fetish porn site Men on Edge. The site caters to those that have a BDSM fetish that skews towards Edging. Edging is orgasm control. It is a sexual technique where you reach a sexual high while consciously prolonging your climax. In one of the scenes that I watched, a guy was blowing another guy that was tied up. The blow job was aggressive making the submissive hard and high quickly. Before the submissive could climax, the dominant stops the simulation to prevent the submissive from ejaculating. It does sound like torture but there are some people that enjoy it; having erotic sexual denial sessions that could last hours.

    Edging is not only a form of sexual pleasure but there are those that use the technique to help to cure premature ejaculation naturally. When performing Edging on your own, you would masturbate to learn your own point of no return. That is the point when you know you will ejaculate. Once you learn how the sensation feels like, you will have to learn to resist the urge to ejaculate both physically and mentally. This is a tall order that requires patience. Some recommend that an Edging session last between 20 to 30 minutes. And adds that you might only see improvements after a few weeks of training.

    Sexual pleasure and curing premature ejaculation are only some of the benefits of Edging. Another interesting benefit is multiple orgasm. Guys having multiple orgasm is a topic that is rarely talked about. However by practicing Edging, it is something achievable for men. When you are fully well aware of your own point of no return, you are able to stop stimulate during sexual intercourse before you cum. Hence, your body will feel the full pleasure of climax without ejaculation. This is also known as a dry orgasm. Once the wave passes, you should be able to carry on for the next round. Making sexual intercourse last as long as both you and your partner what to.

    It is important to know how long a session should last. During one of my sexual escapades, I ejaculated however the guy that I was with did not. I remember the guy told me I almost made him cum twice but he held back. It made me wonder if it would have been different if he did not hold back. I had to endure getting lock jaw, prolonged anal pains and general fatigue. It is not easy for someone in the bottom position. It also made me wonder the effects of Edging causes desensitization of the penis. I have slept with guys where they remain flaccid for long period, take a lot of stimulation to get hard and it feels like they take forever to cum. It is not the most enjoyable of all sexual encounters. However, these negative experiences are just speculation on my part that might be cause by Edging.

    At the end of the day, Edging is pleasurable and useful sexual technique. It may bring an interesting dynamic to current your sexual lifestyle. So this Christmas if you are planning to have some fun, then trying some Edging fun and leave someone begging to cum.

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  • A Dominatrix Fetish Session with an Escort — The Common Client

    A Dominatrix Fetish Session with an Escort — The Common Client

    It’s been a long day at work. The boss was talking to me about another deadline. I feel like I can never catch a break. Maybe I’ll just sit down for a few and check out the weekly new reviews for the ladies. This usually helps me decompress.

    11112
    Justina Carter

    I see Justina has a new one out. “Noticed there were 4 tie down straps on the bed, read her other reviews she like to tie and tease, so why not. She only tied my hands where I could not touch her…” Wait a min; did he say that she tied him down? I’ve never done that before. I’ve actually never even thought to do that but suddenly I’m very turned on by the thought of letting someone else control me. I think I should reach out to her and see what could happen.

    Appointment is set for Thursday afternoon. I am not sure I will be able to focus until then. All I can think about is being tied down. Will she laugh at me? Will she leave me to suffer? Her reviews say she’s great at what she does so I have to assume I will be fine. Wow, I can’t believe how nervous and excited I am.

    It’s Thursday and time is slowly ticking away as I anticipate my appointment for later today. She sent me an email yesterday confirming our time and location. She seems genuine and put together. I like that. Makes me feel at ease. This isn’t the first lady I’ve seen but this is the first I’ve seen where I’m going to let her tie me down. I hope I can go through with this.

    I’m walking to her hotel room. My palms are sweaty from nerves but my erection is pounding. I can’t get over this feeling of erotic anticipation. I can’t turn back now.

    She opens the door and I am floored by what I see. She has short blond hair, blue eyes, petite and curvy in the right places. Wow, she is tiny, she must be around 110lbs! Her skin-tight black outfit is amazing and her smile is warm and inviting. I feel my erection throbbing.

    We sit on the couch for a little with drinks to chat. She asks me about myself and I can tell she’s trying to help me relax. I focus on my breathing but her hand grazing my arm is intense. Focus … focus … some time has gone by and I feel more relaxed. She’s shared some things about herself and I am amazed by her knowledge of things. She comes off as sincere and this makes me want to submit to her even more.

    It’s time to move to the bedroom. I see the straps laid out on the bed ready for me. She kisses me and slowly undresses me. I notice she’s staying dressed but something about that leaves me intrigued. She tells me to lie down in the center of the bed and to get comfortable because I won’t be getting up for a while. As she walks around the bed, she makes sure she’s continually touching me. She explains that since this is my first time being tied down she’s only going to tie my wrist down to give my legs room to move. She then explains the “safe words” and how they are to be used and how she will proceed if I use one. They are simple enough but yet my heart is pounding. She tells me to take some deep breaths as she removes her heels. Wow, she just shrunk about 6 inches. This makes me chuckle a little because she’s so tiny but yet she is oozing in confidence and sexuality. I already know I am going to love this. I want this woman to just take charge of me.

    It’s 45 minutes later and I’m left in a dazed. I’ve been released from the straps but I can’t move. Justina is cleaning me up and has this amazingly devilish grin on her face. She knows she’s succeed and gone beyond my expectations. I can see that this pleases her. She finishes cleaning me up and then lies down next to me. Her body is very warm. She asks me how I’m doing and by this point I feel as if I have my strength back and can move. I tell her that I am great and that I loved every bit of it. I can see she is still grinning. We talk a little bit longer but I know my time is getting near its end since I only booked an hour with her. I’m sad I have to leave but I know I will be back.

    I am dressed and ready to leave. She’s wearing a thin robe and is adorable in her bare feet. I’m still stunned on her size and her authority. She clearly has a power and she knows it. I’m going to relish this for days. She walks me to the door and kisses me goodbye. Goodbye Justina, I will see you again and very soon. You have captured me and now I must return to my world with my memories of our time together.

    1114
    Justina Carter

    He has left and now it’s time to shower and clean up. He was very sweet and nervous and I could tell he enjoyed himself. I love it when I can take someone who’s never submitted to a level of pleasure and enjoyment that leaves them breathless. I know the kink world has so many levels to it and I see this as more of a beginner stage but I still enjoy reining them in. I smile as I remember the moans he made and the look he gave me as he was silently begging me for more. Having this power makes me feel empowered. I am in control of myself and I know I can control others.

    There have been many clients who’ve come through my door who have never experienced any sort of kink. Most of them appear as your “Average Joe”. They come from blue & white collar backgrounds. Some are married and others are just looking for an easy way to have fun without the hassle of having to “woo” a girl. But then again, what I do, I doubt there are many who’ve done this on a first date.

    Why do I do this? Because I get a high every time I bring someone to ecstasy. Knowing that they are leaving with a smile on their face that will linger for hours; even days. Each has their own reasons for visiting me and I pride myself in knowing that they all feel safe. They are able to express their individual needs and desires without the fear of feeling bad about them.

    Am I a kink expert? I don’t claim to be. However, I do understand the power I posses and my capabilities to expertly tease someone and push them to limits they didn’t know they had. Taking away their ability to touch a free will is a powerful thing. Being in control of their release (in more ways than one) leaves me on a high for hours on end.

    Not only do I love what I do, but also I relish in it and crave for more.

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  • Holiday Sex With A Handsome Stranger! Could It Develop Into True Love? (Part II)

    Holiday Sex With A Handsome Stranger! Could It Develop Into True Love? (Part II)

    Instead of the levadas walk, mum spent the afternoon helping wash and dry my hair, putting it up into a French twist which looked absolutely beautiful by the time she had finished. I know why she was doing this. She was desperate to see me married and at 31, she was worried I might be left ‘on the shelf’. We have to love our mothers, don’t we?

    At ten to seven, I arrived in the Reid’s Palace lobby, checked my coat into the cloakroom and took a seat in the reception area. I waited.

    “Good evening, Angela,” a voice said from behind me. I stood and gave Martin a peck on the cheek.
    “Where’s your mum?”
    “She was tired after the walking and decided to get an early night. Would you prefer to wait until another night?” I said, putting obvious hints of suspicion into the latter end of my reply.
    “Well, we can always do it again, but I’d still like to buy you dinner tonight.”

    He was good. No doubt about it. I was pleased, too.

    He stood back, looked me up and down and said, “Angela, you look absolutely fabulous.”
    “Thank you,” I replied and we walked off towards the more exclusive hotel restaurant rather than the event location, we’d been in the previous night.

    We had tasty local seafood starters followed by traditional Portuguese suspended skewers of both chicken and fillet steak. For dessert, he chose ice cream, but I went straight on to coffee. Conversation was interesting. I really liked his personality and was now waiting for the request to return to his room. Would I say yes? Should I wait? I never had a problem with first date sex if everything seemed right and it certainly did this evening. After dinner, the question didn’t come. We walked out to reception, recovered my coat and strolled into the grounds.

    “How far away is your apartment?” he enquired.
    “Only a few hundred yards.”
    “I’ll walk you home.”

    Was he probing? I couldn’t make the initiative? I’d made up my mind if he’d asked me to go back to his room I would, but there was no way I would suggest it. I couldn’t do that? Wouldn’t do that? We wandered out of the hotel grounds and turned along the coastal road, chatting about nothing in particular. He asked a bit about my translation business and I discovered he was a freelance journalist. We were almost to our apartment complex.

    At the concierge area, I turned and went onto tiptoe to kiss him. He quickly reciprocated. Yes, those lips were as kissable as I’d originally thought.

    “Thank you for a lovely meal, Martin,” I said, holding his hand in both of mine.
    “If you still have another week we could do it again.”
    “That would be lovely.”

    He turned to go and I remember a crushing feeling of disappointment coming over me. I stood in the doorway, about to close it and heard him speak again.

    “Angela.”
    “Yes.”
    “Is your mother waiting up for you?”
    “Not at any particular time.”
    “I have a beautiful room which is far too large for one.”
    “Oh, do you now?” I knew I could now be playful. He wanted to take me back to the hotel after all. My heart lifted.
    “Yes.”
    “And what? You want to play Scrabble or Pontoon?”
    “Wouldn’t mind scrabbling, but not with the Scrabble bag.”
    “Is your other affair truly over? I am certainly not one night stand material.”
    “It’s over. Come back with me.”

    I let the door swing shut, took his hand and we turned back towards Reid’s Palace.

    – o O o –

    We walked hand in hand back towards the hotel. Neither of us speaking, but plenty going on in the caresses of our hands. We both knew we would shortly be making love. For me it is always a nervous experience with a new lover, but also a great excitement, anticipating the thrill of sexual coupling, wondering about his naked body, hoping mine would please him. All of these thoughts ran through my mind as we approached the hotel entrance, cut across the reception area and awaited the lift.

    We were the only people in the elevator. Martin pressed four and squeezed my hand tightly.

    “You are all right with this, Angie?”
    “Oh, yes. You?”
    “Can’t wait. You’re so beautiful.”

    He was growing on me with every minute we were together. I couldn’t wait, either. The lift stopped, doors opened and we walked along the plush carpeted corridor to the second door on the left. He materialised his key, the door to 403 opened and he ushered me inside.

    The room was large with a balcony looking out over the sea and towards the Funchal promenade. There were two chairs, a built in dressing table, heavy floral drapes which matched the bedcover, two side tables and a full length mirror. A separate door led off to the bathroom and I made my excuse to step inside, handing him my coat.

    A large bath with shower over, the usual WC and I could see his toiletries. Old Spice. It was Peter’s fragrance, too. I thought I’d recognised it. I used the loo, took a minute to freshen my nether regions and rubbed a finger over my teeth with a smidgen of his toothpaste, swirling some water afterwards to rinse away any flavour. A final look in the mirror and I was ready.

    Back in the bedroom he had removed his jacket, tie and shoes, gave me a swift kiss on the lips—yes, really kissable—and disappeared into the bathroom. While I waited, I stepped out onto the balcony, undid the grips in my French roll allowing my hair to hang freely. It was becoming cooler in the clear sky, but was not cold even with my bare shoulders and arms.

    The Atlantic sparkled with the light of the moon and the city of Funchal lit up with myriad lights—amber, white, blue and all colours in between. Far to the left, the main coast road was fringed by the Jacaranda trees whose blossom was just magnificent and clearly visible, even in the street lighting, as a blue haze. I’d seen these trees before, but never in such profusion as they could be seen in Funchal.

    I sensed him standing behind me before feeling his breath on my shoulder as he leaned down to part my hair and kiss my neck, his hands gently moving to grip the tops of my arms. His lips were warm on my skin. The Old Spice smelled stronger now—he’d obviously added a refreshing dab.

    “Your hair is beautiful and even outshines the view of the city in loveliness,” he said softly in my ear.
    “Thanks, but the view is amazing. Look at the moon’s reflection.”
    “Stunning,” he agreed, his warm hands moved up and down my upper arms.

    I turned, looked into his smiling brown eyes, stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Suddenly his lips were alive with tender motion, savouring and pressing against mine with moistness and incredible warmth. I felt his tongue very tentatively brush my top lip, sent mine out to surrender to it and we tasted each other.

    “Wow, Angela,” he said breathily, “you taste wonderful.”
    “And you.”

    Although a feminist, I was always uncertain about being first to instigate sex with a new partner. I preferred to be ‘wooed and taken’ which is a little old fashioned, I know.

    “It’s a shame to leave the view,” he said, turning me around so we could both look at the necklace of lights along the shoreline and the isolated sparkle from the homes on the distant hills towards the airport.

    He kissed my neck again, his hands moving from my shoulders and so, so softly cupping my breasts. I leaned backwards into him to let him know I approved. He began to caress them more deliberately and I could feel my nipples stiffening into his palms.

    “Would you like to come inside?” he whispered.
    “Please,” I said and turned, ran my hand over his back, feeling his strength through his shirt as we stepped over the aluminium slide for the balcony door.

    Once inside, Martin closed the door and was about to close the drapes.

    “No, leave them open. I love the view,” I said.

    He stopped his action and turned towards me, reaching behind my back and fumbling with the clasp on my dress. I pulled his shirt from his trousers and ran my hands over his lower back. He felt so warm and muscular, his skin soft yet firm beneath. I felt my dress sliding to the floor, temporarily removing my arms from his body to let it fall.

    “God, you’re lovely,” he said as his hands caressed my back, found my bra clasp and expertly undid it.

    I unthreaded his cufflinks and helped him shed his shirt. This man was in fabulous condition for someone of his age.

    “You’re fit,” I commented. [This is in 1982 when the word ‘fit’ meant healthy rather than the more modern meanings of ‘sexy’ or ‘hot’.]
    “Used to play rugby for London Irish.”
    “I’m impressed,” I said. I didn’t follow rugby, but had heard of London Irish.

    I leaned into his chest, turning my cheek to rest against its warmth. His hands descended to my behind and lowered my slip over my hips where it, too, joined the pile of my clothing on the floor. I looked up at him and kissed him again. His hands returned to my breasts and quickly teased my nipples into erectness once more. I leaned encouragingly into him and kissed his upper chest, my hands still massaging his back.

    He instigated another kiss and I brought my hands around to his front, found the waist belt on his trousers, undid one clasp, found a button and slipped it through its hole. I discovered the zip and slowly lowered it so his trousers slipped to the floor. We both stepped out of our clothes and moved closer to the bed. He stood back and looked at me in my sexy briefs, suspender belt and stockings.

    “Like what you see?” I asked, tongue in cheek.
    “Amazing.”

    He looked pretty good, too, in his socks and boxers. I dropped to my knees and got him to lift each foot so I could remove his socks. I hate seeing men’s legs in short or ankle socks. They look comedic. His legs were hairy, but not overly so. His boxers were plain blue, one of my favourite colours for men’s underwear. I could see they were bulging outwards. I stood back up and closed the gap between us, using my right hand to slide in through the top of his boxers and encircle his erection. I guessed between six and seven inches, could feel foreskin and gave him a gentle squeeze while looking at his face, noticing his eyes close in pleasure, his hands squeezing my breasts more tightly in response.

    He stood back, found my suspender belt clasp and released it. Bending down, I stood still while he rolled each of my stockings down my legs, spending plenty of time caressing them, leaving me wearing only my fancy new briefs. I was so glad I’d bought them. I felt his lips press against my mons as he began to lower them inch by inch while I opened my thighs to allow them to fall unhindered.

    Once he was standing again, I slid his boxers over his hips and they fell to the floor as I, once again, held his penis in my right hand and his testes in my left. I massaged him slowly and deliberately.

    “I’ve got a condom in the bedside drawer,” he advised in a soft spoken voice.
    “No need. On the pill,” I told him, squeezing his erection tighter. [In the early eighties STDs were not taken so seriously as they are today.]
    “Wow, that’s lovely Angela.”

    I lay down and he lay beside me, his hand opening my thighs and caressing my vulva, squeezing and tenderly massaging. It felt lovely and very shortly afterwards, his palm started to massage in small circles over my clitoris. I sensed one of his fingers pressing against the entrance to my vagina, opening me and sliding easily inside. Such a delicious feeling. I never had difficulty become aroused and knew I was ready for him. All of this time, I was gently masturbating him with long firm strokes.

    His finger began to press against my g-spot. It was so good, causing my whole vulva to ache as my clitoris began to heat and tingle.

    He climbed on top of me as I opened my thighs to welcome his body, his penis quickly finding my moist entrance. My anticipation was now growing rapidly. I have always found the first entry of a penis into my vagina the most delightful and awe inspiring sensation and as Martin’s slid smoothly and deeply into me, I closed my eyes and gave a long drawn out groan of sheer pleasure.

    “Oh, Martin. So good.”

    He came completely out of me and entered me again. The filling, the internal expanding, the rubbing against my internal sexual ache was all so wonderful. I groaned again and used my kegels to squeeze him tightly.

    He began to thrust. Each time, at the furthest extent I enjoyed the compression of my labia against his body, his testes hitting my perineum, his pubic bone caressing my clit. Each thrust the same, so delectable, the progress of his glans along the ribbing of my vagina, the end reached, the impact on my vulva, then the slow withdrawal and again and again. This has to be the most delicious and satisfying experience any woman can ever have. The oneness, closeness, affection, warmth and sheer sexual excitement.

    Resting upon his elbows, his arms caressed mine and lifted gradually to hold each of my cheeks. He ceased his lovemaking and delivered the most passionate kiss, taking my breath away with overwhelming pleasure. I wanted more. I moved my hips against him. I didn’t like stationary, I wanted movement, thrusting, stroking, rocking. Anything but stationary.

    Encouraged by my own body motions he began moving again, accelerating his thrusts, not only deeper, but harder and faster. Amazing. The hardest I’ve ever had intercourse. So frantic, exciting and after a few minutes I knew I was already close to orgasm. Sexual aches flooded through my body from breasts to thighs with everything centered on those few inches of another loving human being inside my body, taking me, wanting me, possessing me, making love to me.

    I came. I gripped him tightly, shouted out in joy and he ceased his motion to experience my explosive orgasm.

    “Oh, wow, Angela. You’re amazing.”

    I couldn’t speak, could hardly breathe and just held him fiercely, knowing my nails were digging into his back.

    He waited, my orgasm ended, my body relaxed and his thrusts began again. Slowly at first, but over several minutes he, almost imperceptively, increased the speed and depth until I felt my body reacting once more. Oh God, I was going to come again.

    I cried out, tightened my hold on him anew and he ceased his motions to enjoy my orgasm with me.

    “Martin, this is bliss.”
    “Yes. Heavenly.”

    He began afresh, the slow steady strokes increasing bit by bit to a pounding, almost violent thrusting. My vulva was hot once more, I ached all over my nether regions, my clit red hot, my vagina pulsing with pleasure as I tightened my kegels to try not to come too, soon, but it was a hopeless task. Again my whole being was racked by a third stunning orgasm.

    Another huge cry of self gratification, my gripping and holding of him, his sudden stillness, his penis receiving my loving, involuntary squeezing as it rested temporarily from its exertions. Could I survive a fourth? I was totally exhausted, yet wanted more, more, more.

    I felt his penis slide extremely slowly to my very entrance and back in tenderly and sensuously, repeatedly. I knew he was enjoying himself now. I was totally sated and desperately loved the feeling of his strokes into and out of me. So moving, so satisfying. This time his speed grew more slowly and didn’t reach the severe pounding I had experienced previously. This was more tender, more loving, slower, more sensitive, but nevertheless my vagina was aching again in the most luscious way, the pressure building anew, but I was determined, this time to hold off my orgasm until his arrived.

    He began to moan with pleasure and I encouraged him with my own groans of support.

    “Lovely, Martin, lovely, yes, yes,” I whispered.

    “Oh, Angela,” he cried out as I felt the amazing sensations of his ejaculation forcing its way along his erection and being deposited deep within me. My own orgasm suddenly joining forces with his to squeeze and suck the last few drops of his semen into my body.

    We both collapsed, totally exhausted, speaking short phrases of pleasure and satisfaction to each other, saying each other’s names and kissing tenderly between frantically recovering our breath. It was some time before we finally separated and lay side by side in post coital bliss, his hand on my mons, mine holding his still partially erect, very moist and hot penis.

    So, so delightful. So special. God I liked this man. Could I maybe love him?

    The glow in my vulva very slowly began to fade. What an experience? I’d never had such an energetic lovemaking before and four orgasms on a first date was certainly out of this world, but time was pushing on. The bedside clock said 1.30am.

    “I think I ought to go, Martin,” I said quietly.
    “Oh, no. Stay the night, Angela, please.”
    “I’d love to, but my mother might worry. Maybe another time. When do you fly home?”
    “A week tomorrow.”
    “Oh. Afternoon?”
    “Yes.”
    “Same flight as us.”
    “Go on. Stay the night.”

    I leaned over and kissed him tenderly and turned to sit on the side of the bed, removing the hastily grabbed tissues I’d needed after our sex and gripping some more between my thighs as I picked up my briefs and headed for the bathroom.

    I stood by the bathroom door and said, “I really can’t Martin, but there’s plenty of time for us to get together again.”

    When I returned to the bedroom Martin was up with his trousers on and pulling on a sweatshirt. He announced he was going to walk me back to the apartment.

    “Oh, no. There’s no need,” I protested.

    “Angela, there is great need. Firstly you could in danger walking these streets in the early hours of the morning in the dark. Secondly it would give the hotel the wrong impression if you were seen leaving on your own. Thirdly I want to see you safely back to your apartment and won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

    “Haha, you think they might think I am a lady of ill repute?”
    “No, not at all. They might think I am the sort of man who would employ a lady of ill repute. I’m thinking of my reputation, not yours,” he laughed and we hugged each other for a minute before I started to find my clothes and get dressed.

    – o O o –

    So this story is how I met Martin. He was great fun and we went on to have an extended relationship. I’ll have more to say about him in later stories. He also features in my first story about meeting my abusive husband.

    Angela Goodnight | www.angelagoodnight.com/sexblog

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  • Holiday Sex With A Handsome Stranger! Could It Develop Into True Love? (Part I)

    Holiday Sex With A Handsome Stranger! Could It Develop Into True Love? (Part I)

    Madeira is the most beautiful island, especially in May when the Jacaranda trees’ blue blossom competes with the azure sea and skies.

    It is 1982, my mother had lost her younger sister unexpectedly to a massive heart attack. We’d buried her and I’d had my mother staying with me for a few days in the flat in London while I frantically tried to first catch up and secondly to get ahead of all the work arriving to my increasingly successful translation business.

    Once I was ahead of the game, I convinced my mother we should go on holiday somewhere warm and ‘chill out’ together. My father couldn’t come because it was still term time and he was a headmaster. It took some persuading but once she’d agreed, I allocated two weeks free of business for mid May, arranged for another agency to handle any of my urgent work and we flew out of Gatwick on a direct flight to Funchal in the small, mountainous Atlantic island.

    We’d rented a two bedroom apartment so we didn’t have to eat in restaurants all of the time and could cook for ourselves.

    My mother had been very close to her sister and her sudden death had hit her very hard. Me too, I loved my aunt and at only forty-eight she’d almost been like an older sister to me, staying with me several times. I think my mum was worried something similar might happen to her, but to be frank, auntie Leslie was both overweight and also most unfit. She never walked anywhere and did no exercise at all. I suppose you’d say she was a heart attack waiting to happen. It is a shame that her first one killed her, though, it seems so unfair. Many people, once they’ve had the warning event, change their lifestyles and live for decades.

    We tried to keep busy on holiday, visiting castles and botanical gardens, walking several levadas (walks along hillside irrigation channels). Although almost sixty, mum was extremely fit and anyway, the levadas were usually on a level. We took taxis to start points and arranged to meet later a few miles further down the channel. She seemed to be enjoying it and we had as near fun as you could get given the sadness of our reason for holidaying. It was a shame my dad couldn’t accompany us.

    A few nights into the holiday we went to a cabaret evening at Reid’s Palace Hotel. What a beautiful hotel. Five star luxury at a time when older hotels tended to be grubby and were being replaced by concrete monstrosities. We had a good table for dinner close to the dance floor and from where we could see the action which included a good variety from a not particularly adept magician to Portuguese traditional dancing, an excellent male solo singer to a dance sextet which played modern easy listening music. Dinner was fine with good wine and we were thoroughly enjoying the show.

    At the interval, the sextet continued to play and couples were dancing in front of us as mum and I enjoyed watching them, trying to guess who were married and who were with their mistresses or some other illicit partner. Mum had pointed out a rather handsome but marginally swarthy, character in his sixties dancing with an obviously local girl in her twenties. She asked me if I thought she was his daughter, granddaughter or girlfriend. I didn’t get a chance to answer.

    “Excuse me,” came a voice from immediately behind me as I’d turned towards my mother to speak. I looked around. A tall extremely well built individual with dark curly hair, mahogany coloured eyes and large nose was standing beside me, about two feet clear of my personal space, looking down at me and smiling. He looked to be in his late thirties. I remember thinking ‘nice lips’.

    “Sorry to disturb,” he continued.
    I smiled up at him.
    “I noticed you sitting with your -,” and he looked at my mum and said, “sister,” which brought an immediate laugh from her.
    “You don’t have to flatter me to get permission to speak to my daughter,” she said with a smile.

    I’d looked at my mum and back to this gentleman with a growing grin. His flirtatious suggestion that mum was my sister was nice, although what did it mean regarding what he thought of my age?

    “I am sorry,” he began again, “I can now see your daughter is a little younger.”
    “Ahem,” I said, “Don’t dig the hole any bigger!”
    He laughed, “Well I wondered if I could take one of you ladies for a dance? Would either of you like to partake?”

    Mum laughed again. What could I do? He’d asked so nicely, had obviously thought it through and deserved at least one dance. I put out my hand, he took it, I got to my feet and he swept me onto the dance floor. Obviously a far more accomplished dancer than I, so I followed him as best I could. His hand had mine in a very firm grip, his other hand hard against my back, helping me follow his lead. He smelled good, a combination of male plus interesting cologne. He was tall, over six feet and really quite muscular.

    “I’m Martin,” he announced.
    “Hello Martin,” I replied, knowing he expected me to give him my name.
    “Martin Napoli.”
    “Great name.”
    “You’re with your mother on holiday?” he asked.
    “Yes. Lovely island. You?”
    “Well, I was supposed to come with a friend, but arrangements went sour so here on my own.”
    “Ah, so you thought you’d dance with me on the rebound?”

    The song ended, we parted and clapped the band. I turned to return to mum.

    He took my arm, “Please. One more dance. After all, that wasn’t a full dance, was it?”
    I looked up at him, smiled and nodded. The band switched tempo and played an instrumental version of Orbison’s Blue Bayou. Now we were pressed closer together.

    “So?” I asked.
    “What?”
    “Why couldn’t she come with you?” I asked, making the assumption the friend was a partner.
    “Sadly she dumped me two weeks ago,” he reported sadly, “so I’m here alone.”
    “Poor you.”
    “What’s your name?” he asked.
    “Angela.”

    We continued to dance.

    “You know, Martin, I can’t dump my mum at the drop of a hat. Her sister died a few weeks ago and I brought her here to take her out of herself. I can’t simply leave her alone.”
    “No. I’m sorry. I just saw you, realised how beautiful you were and decided to take a chance.”

    I smiled at the flattery.

    He continued, “Are you attached?”
    “Not currently, but it doesn’t really help us, does it?”
    “No. Where do you live?”
    “West London.”
    “Goodness, that’s a coincidence. I live near Heathrow.”
    “You could look me up when you get back if you liked.”
    “Seriously?”
    “Oh, yes. For a date anyway,” I said. I actually quite fancied him.
    “Where are you staying here?”
    “Private apartment. You?”
    “Here. Room 403. Let me know if you get left at a loose end while you’re here.”
    “I will. My business is called Oriental Words. It’s in the book.”
    “Right. I’ll be in touch.”

    The music ended and Martin returned me to my table where my mother was beaming at us both, “You’re a good dancer,” she said.
    “Glad you think so,” he replied, moved around the table, took her hand and continued, “because now it is your turn.”

    Mum resisted for a moment, stood graciously and allowed him to take her to the dance floor where I watched, in great surprise as they danced an absolutely expert quickstep. I had no idea my mother was a proficient dancer and thoroughly enjoyed watching her being whisked around the dance floor by this rather dashing man.

    He returned mum to the table safe and sound and took his leave of us. A few minutes later two drinks arrived with his compliments.

    I couldn’t wait to get back to London.

    – o O o –

    Back at the apartment, we were lazing after breakfast and mum told me she’d got Martin’s room number.

    “And what am I meant to do with that piece of information?”
    “When we were dancing he told me he’d like to take us out for dinner.”
    “That wouldn’t be very fair on him, would it mum?”
    “Well, I was thinking you could set up the dinner and I could cry off and spend the evening here.”
    “We came on holiday together for a reason, mum, so we’d be together, not so I could go off dating.”
    “Yes, but two or three evenings wouldn’t hurt. I’m happy and I brought a couple of good books with me.”
    “Are you sure?” I asked, knowing she was, but feeling I needed to confirm it.
    “Of course. Now go and call the hotel from the phone across the road. Before he goes out.”

    I thought about it for at least ten seconds, ran out of the apartment like a smitten teenager, across the street and encountered a strange looking Portuguese public telephone. I eventually managed to locate the number for the Reid’s Palace and they put me through to his room. It rang and rang without answer, eventually returning me to the switchboard. I asked them to try again and decided if there was no answer a second time I’d leave a message.

    After four rings I heard a breathless, “Hello.”
    “Sorry to call so early. It’s Angela.”
    “Angela who?” the voice said.
    “Angela Goodnight. We danced last night.”
    “Yes and now I know your surname,” he laughed.
    “Very amusing,” I giggled, “My mother said you would like to take us out to dinner. When would suit?”
    “Tonight. Seven. Here?”
    “OK. We’ll see you at the reception.”
    “I’ll look forward to it. What are you doing today?”
    “A short levadas walk in the north of the island.”
    “Hope you enjoy it. See you later,” and the line went dead.

    – o O o –

    I had nothing to wear. Because I’d come on holiday with my mother, all I had brought was smart casual clothing and now I needed something far superior. Mum and I went shopping in downtown Funchal. I found a sweet little green dress which would go with my green shoes and clutch bag. My mum loved it. It fitted to my hips and flared out into a lovely pleated skirt. The material was green with sparkly thread providing myriad tiny explosions of light in the store’s quartz halogen lighting. The bodice was tight with no sleeves and a round neckline which would suit a few of my strings of pearls.

    “Sorry mum, need some lingerie, too.”
    “You like him enough to sleep with him?” she asked in a critical voice.
    “Well, probably not,” I lied, “but I don’t want to be unprepared.”
    “Fiddle-de-dee,” she said, meaning she’d live with my opinion but didn’t accept it was correct. I knew what she meant and it might not head that way, but I didn’t want to end up in his room wearing Marks and Spencer’s briefs and bra.

    We found a really nice ladies’ lingerie shop in the town centre and I bought a lovely lacy green pair of skimpy briefs, similarly skimpy matching bra and spent some time discussing the merits of stockings or tights with my mother.

    “Well, why either, dear?” she said, “You have a lovely tan.”

    I suppose I did, but felt I would be under-dressed without something on my legs so chose an emerald green pair of stockings with green suspender belt. Matched the dress and underwear perfectly.

    Stay tuned to tomorrow for Part II of Angela’s sexy holiday escapade.

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