Endurance

In line with the masochism of American culture, which measures accomplishment mainly in terms of the amount of suffering that accomplishment requires, I am currently in the middle of an endurance trial: how much sex can I fit into six days, while still carrying out all, or at least most, of the normal functions of life?

C left town on Saturday evening, after a friendly, farewell fuck - half the bed taken up with her suitcase and her clothes laid out to be folded and packed, the other half giving us just enough room for a quickie. C returns next Friday. So right now - Monday midnight - I am barely two days into the trial.

I have no idea how to prepare for a marathon, and think running further than the nearest bus-stop is stupid. But several people I admire run marathons, so I could be wrong about that. Anyway, I do not know whether the best preparation is running, or not running. Either would make sense: running, to practice running; not running, to conserve resources for running. For a week-long sexual marathon, though, there is no question how to prepare: fuck as much as you can. So on Thursday and Friday I spent a lot of time with D at the Kew Motor Inn - four and a half hours on Thursday, and another three on Friday. Pot, music, a leather skirt for her and me, the ILY sex toy deployed judiciously, and so on.

After the intramarital, farewell fuck on Saturday evening came five hours with F, starting a little after midnight. That was a lot of fun, and rather special; only the third night I have ever spent with F. A couple of hours in, I lost all semblance of an erection for a while, but later recovered. Then I walked home in light, cold rain.

On Sunday afternoon, I spent about an hour-and-a-half with J, who since I last visited has got the all-clear from the gynecologist, and put a mirror up on the wall above the head of her bed. Our last fuck was from behind, with her kneeling on the edge of the bed, me standing on the floor, and I enjoyed watching us in the mirror.

Sunday evening: forty minutes in the back of the car with D, the rain drumming on the roof.

Sunday night I slept alone, conserving resources for Monday morning, when Q came by for three hours, of which two were spent in sex, and the other in the bath. The sex was mostly fucking, but at one point I shackled Q's wrists to her ankles and fisted her, licking her clit at the same time. Restrained, and unable to back away, she gave herself up, becoming very vocal. I will not forget that in a while: my right hand in her cunt up to the wrist, my left hand pulling back the hood of her clit so I could play with it with my tongue, and Q bellowing her way through one orgasm after another, flooding her crotch, my face, and the bed with liquid. By the time we were done, she had soaked the towel underneath her, the sheet below that, another layer of towels, and a mattress cover. The mattress itself was damp. She is due to visit again later in the week, and expects - hopes, anyway - to be bleeding by then. The clean-up issues will be daunting.

I have never fisted anyone. It is strange and powerful, and I am not sure I will get the chance to do it enough to get used to it and good at it. I hope so. But I do not think any of the other women I fuck are capable of taking my whole hand. D, perhaps.

By the time I reached F in middle of Monday afternoon, I was strung out, and also dozy from two beers at lunchtime, so I nibbled at some Viagra as a precaution. But obviously not enough, for I was only erratically hard enough to fuck.