Full stretch

My last post was about what sex is like, but in it I neglected to mention all the ways in which sex might be compared with fishing. Fishing-stories, like sex-stories, are always exaggerated, or anyway are assumed to be. Anglers are obsessed with size - length, girth, weight - in just the ways that people are in sexual contexts; they like to set records. Like recreational sex, recreational fishing is a complete waste of time, but a very pleasant one, or so I am told. For me, though, the analogy is weak. My sex-stories are not exaggerated. I do not care about length or girth or weight, or about setting records. I do love to waste time pleasantly; it is better than the only alternative, which is wasting time unpleasantly. I cannot see what is pleasant about fishing - but I suppose there are many anglers who can't see what is pleasant about having a woman sit on your face and come copiously in your mouth. So, as usual, one man's fish is another man's poisson.

I do not exaggerate, I say. But then, I would say that, wouldn't I?

This morning I had one of the better intra-marital fucks of recent times: I began by massaging C's shoulders, back, ass, legs, and finally fucked her from behind. She then turned over and once I was back inside, took herself up to a good, long orgasm by grinding her clit against the base of my cock, while I maintained steady counter-pressure. Once she was through coming I took a leisurely time fucking her, until my own orgasm put an end to things.

That was not the last of the day's activities, however, as D rolled by for what was billed as a quickie, but which turned out to be a little more than an hour of car sex, at the tail end of the afternoon. Excellent car sex too - fucking, oral, anal, and a DIY handjob to close the proceedings.

Yesterday, three hours at the Kew with D: almost continual sex, fuelled by pot, a little nibble of Viagra, and high-class stoned-sex music. We had a mirrored room, and the first fucking was D on top. I kept my glasses on for a while, and watched her working herself off on my cock. At one point, she disappeared into an orgasm so intense that I told her, right afterwards, that I was sure she would never have such an orgasm again. She, sensibly, said she expected to have an even stronger and deeper one in a few minutes, and she did. She fucked me through several demanding songs, and from then we cycled through the standard repertoire: lots of going down, face-sitting, cock-sucking, ass-fucking, cunt-fucking. I ejaculated for the second time just moments before the desk-clerk called with the fifteen-minute warning. After that, I ate D out to all eight minutes of Genesis's 'Ripples', showered, and set off for home.

The day before that - Thursday - I went to visit Q at her home, for a little over two hours of extraordinary sex. Though we are still exploring, there is already - after only a handful of meetings - a solid and stable sexual connection that inspires great confidence. It is perhaps like a lounge singer establishing a repertoire of old standards, so that there is no longer any question about being able to put together a good set. New numbers can then be added piecemeal, either in place of the old or in addition. On this occasion we stuck to the old standards; the toy chest that had been open on my last visit (Home visits) stayed closed. While Q and I fucked, we talked of this and that, but mostly this - how getting used to someone else sexually enables you to do the same thing over and over and yet it not be the same each time; how the stable platform generated by past experience forms the basis for the present; how much like talking fucking can be, and how sad it is that more fucking is not like talking, and more talking is not like fucking.

I confess that I am completely hooked on Q's ejaculations. Fucking her through her orgasms, feeling the wash of her come on my cock, my crotch, my balls, is wrenchingly joyful, and there were a couple of times when we seemed so fused that I could feel her coming as a release for me too. This was, in fact, another topic of conversation: how easy I find it with Q to incorporate her approach to orgasm into my desires, my thoughts, my feelings, so that the approach to orgasm is a joint venture, and the orgasm thus achieved is also joint. This is something that also happens a lot with D, but I have been fucking D for almost two years, and that kind of fusion has really only come about in the last six months.

The time with Q came to an end with my jerking off, while Q lay with her head on my chest, watching and waiting. I had earlier drunk several loads of come from her, and I was happy to give her something back - but in terms of quantity and quality, she gave a lot more than she got.

The session with Q at her home followed another session with her at the Herald Square Hotel the day before. That day - Wednesday - began with an inconclusive handjob from C: I reached the point of orgasm, but did not ejaculate. Then just a little later, I met Q, and we had a wonderful, intense time together. And considerably later in the day, as the light faded, I visited F for an hour-and-a-half of calm, communicative fucking.

Tuesday was ridiculously active, as D took off from work to tail me through the day. We fucked in the back of her car between the subway and the office, she gave me a shattering blowjob in my office once we were there, and then we spent three hours at the Kew getting stoned and fucking relentlessly.

Monday I saw F for a long and lazy session that gave us both great pleasure. But that is a long time ago by now, and details escape me. Do they matter, anyway? I am at full stretch, in sexual terms. But if I fucked any more than this, who would believe me anyway? That would stretch credulity even further. And yet it is possible that this record is incomplete, not through modesty but because of forgetting.