New, red bikini

D was going on a cruise, so she bought a new, red bikini. Buying a bikini is the easier part, though; the harder part is feeling entirely good while wearing it. In order to wear a red bikini and feel entirely good while doing so, you are supposed to look like this:D, modeling her new, red bikini for me in a room at the Kew, did not look like that. She looked like this:And from the back, she looked like this:
Real women are sexy as women in pictures are not and cannot be. Women in pictures are not women at all, but pictures. D, walking about in her new red bikini, was a woman not a picture. She looked very, very sexy.

Some of that sexiness can be credited to the bikini - to its clever, minimalist modesty, which hides very little from the eyes, but leaves a lot to the imagination; to the silver mock clasp - branded 'Calvin Klein' - on the front, between the breasts, nudging the mind towards thoughts of unclasping; to the ties
at the neck and in the middle of the back, each begging for a light tug on one loose end of the knot; to the neckward upsweep of the halter, which by flattening and lifting the breasts, makes it seem as if the back were already arching in surrender or abandon;
to the stretch and cling of the cloth - one of those amazing lycra or lycralike elasticated fabrics - over breast, belly, ass; and to the neat, tight pouch covering the cunt-hair, compressing the cunt-lips, clearing a slot between the legs. But a bikini borrows most of its sexiness from the woman it barely covers. Wearing it for me, D felt very sexy, and it showed. Could she feel as sexy wearing it for herself, and for the strange men and women who would see her wearing it?

D walked about the room, while we talked about what it would be like walking about by the pool on the boat, or on the beach in Jamaica; she lounged in a chair, and on the bed, while I played the stranger, eyeing her from my nearby lounger, or from a nearby spot on the sand. Men, and women also, look at her as she walks by; they watch her as she lounges, in her red bikini. What do they see? If they are looking, they see what I see.

And what did I see? I saw a woman for whom, in the confines of the sexual space, I would do and say just about anything, so long as it remained in the sexual space and did not leak outside it. A woman who wanted to be fucked by me as much as I wanted to fuck her; who wanted to fuck me as much as I wanted to be fucked by her. A woman whose cunt, resting squarely on my face, was capable of stopping all thought. But the random men, and women also, at the pool, or on the beach, would not see any of that. They would simply see a woman who looked damn good in a new, red bikini, and who obviously knew that she looked damn good; a woman happy to be looked at because she knew she was worth looking at; a woman worth lusting after. That she was happy to be looked at was clear, because there she was, by the pool, on the beach, with nothing on but that smart new red bikini, completely easy and free in her body. Was she happy to be lusted after - well, that was not so clear. But she looked damn good in her new, red bikini, and as I lusted after, I reckoned that any man who was looking would be lusting after her as well.

We proceeded, over the course of the next couple of hours, to consecrate the new, red bikini. D was bleeding, so that was added to the mix of sweat and seed and spit, of cuntjuice and come, that we used for anointment. I fingered her through the crotch of the bikini, until it was bloody and wet; I hooked the crotch aside and ate her cunt; we fucked, with the briefs pushed out of the way, and then stripped off altogether; I reached into the halter to pinch and twist her nipples, and then untied it and flung it aside. Later, after D had been naked for a while, I wore the bikini - it fitted nicely - and was fucked wearing it. At another time, I pounded D's ass while she was wearing it, and we watched ourselves in the mirror. D watched as I fucked her while I was wearing the bikini, my ass held tight in the cloth as I drove my cock into her. The red bikini came off me, went on her again; or I had one piece, while she had another. I sniffed and sucked at the bloody crotch while fucking her. I tied the halter in place, untied it to suck at her nipples, tied it in place again. By the time we were done, there was hardly a sexual act that could not be linked to D's new red bikini; every time that she put it on, she would be as sexy as when wearing it for me; whenever she wore it, she would feel as sexy as she in fact is.

An alternative account of this activity would interpret it as territorial marking, or taking possession: whenever D wore the bikini, no matter who looked at her, no matter what she did while wearing it, or who she took it off for, she would still be mine. I prefer my reading, in which, thanks to me, she would feel as sexy as she in fact is whenever she wore it. Either way, it was an interesting, and enjoyable, afternoon.

Normal service

I returned from family vacation on a Wednesday afternoon. By 11.00 am on Thursday, I was in a room at the Herald Square Hotel with D, working my impatient cock into her anxious cunt.

In the two-and-a-half years of our affair, we have never gone quite as long - two weeks - between fucks. We were delayed on our way to the hotel by a meeting with D's sister, who was on her way to her very first extra-marital encounter but interested beforehand in setting eyes on the man who has been fucking her sister; delayed at the front desk at the Herald Square, which is increasingly unwelcoming to short-stay customers; delayed by the slow, slow elevator to the eighth floor: D and I were desperate to fuck the second the door of the room closed behind us. With a high bed for use, we went straight into an edge-of-the-bed fuck. I hiked up her skirt, stripped off her panties, dropped my pants to my ankles, lifted my shirt, took aim, and with my eyes locked on hers, drove my cock steadily into her cunt, all the way to the root. D angled down on my cock and took herself straight up to her first orgasm. That was the start of three hours of continuous sex, followed by another three hours of equally intense, making-up-for-lost-time sex the next day at the Kew Motor Inn.

Sexual pleasure is typically understood as issuing from the satisfaction of desire, and sexual desire is typically interpreted as an appetite, like hunger or thirst. In this model, pleasure comes from the satisfaction of desire, but the desire is not itself a source of pleasure: sexual desire is like hunger, sexual satisfaction like a food that quells hunger, at least for a while. The distinction between good sex and bad sex is like that between good food and bad food, having to do not with the character or strength of the desire but with the manner in which it is satisfied.

This account gets sexual pleasure and sexual desire almost entirely wrong (and isn't much better as a model of food and drink, hunger and thirst). Sex is as much about wanting as it is about getting; getting fuels wanting as much as it feeds it. But going without for a little while definitely does add an edge, as intense hunger can intensify the pleasure of a meal, prolonged thirst make the quenching of that thirst more delightful. After two weeks of not fucking D, it was wonderful to re-establish the circuit that runs through her cunt and my cock, through my body, my eyes, her eyes, her body. So for three hours one day, three hours the next, we rode the delightful urgency of our desire for each other, as if something huge had been pentup, and now was released.

I wouldn't choose, in advance, to go two weeks without fucking D, in order to enjoy the particular pleasure of fucking her after two weeks without. But I am glad to have had the pleasure of fucking her after two weeks without, and so am glad, looking back, to have gone those two weeks without fucking her.

Now, things are quite back to normal: forty minutes of car sex with D on Sunday evening; an intra-marital handjob on Monday morning; another three-hour session at the Kew with D on Tuesday involving her new red bikini, about which I shall post when I have the narrative in good shape; a quiet Wednesday; and a delightful but brief intra-marital fuck on Thursday morning.

Desktop

Desks are perfect for fucking: she lies on her back with her ass right at the edge of the desk, while I stand between her legs and stick my cock in her cunt. It helps to have a desk with some overhang, so that I can get in close, and tables are fine for this reason. But desks tend to be stronger and sturdier than tables, and this kind of fucking requires complete confidence in the furniture.

For the woman, the position is extremely relaxing, so long as her legs can rest comfortably somewhere - on the back of a chair placed behind me, or on a wall if the desk is close enough to one, or on my shoulders, or resting in the crooks of my elbows. For me the position is an easy one too, and offers complete freedom of movement for my pelvis. It is possible to fuck very hard, or very gently; to chat idly while poking away idly, or to focus on steady, slick pounding; switching between cunt- and ass-fucking is straightforward. By holding her legs, it is possible to adjust her angle, to hold her in place while banging, or to move her around. I think more angles of cock in cunt are available in this position than in any other. Her clit is easily reached, and fingered or thumbed; her ass can be fingered while her cunt is fucked, though fingering her cunt while fucking her ass is trickier. I have not tried the strap-on in this position, but I reckon it would be possible to fuck her ass with my cock while fucking her cunt with the dildo.

A high bed is softer for the woman to lie on, and offers many of the same advantages as a desk, but beds that high are now rare. There are some at the Kew, and I once fucked Q in a version of this position on a middle-height bed at La Semana. F's bed is a little lower than ideal, but still very serviceable, and I fuck her in this position just about every time I visit, though the bed usually ends up rolling across the floor to the wall.

I have fond memories of fucking K in this position in my office: she would visit me at lunchtime, lie back on the desk while I ate her out until she came (which took a good while, usually, because K was always slow to climax), and then happily let me fuck her until I came too. I have more recently fucked B this way a couple of times. But the person who I have fucked far more than anyone else on my desk is D.

I do not keep my desk tidy, so fucking D usually transfers a chaos of papers, books, and letters from desk to floor. D enjoys this mess-making. So do I. I also enjoy, later, sorting through the chaos and finding hairs from her head, or her cunt, in the mess. While fucking, I find the sight of D naked on my desk immensely sexy: the contrast between the white of paper and the pale gold-brown of her skin; the clash between the regularity of type and the irregularity of freckles; the contradiction between work and play, between artifice and nature. Office fucking is a little spit in the eye of the work ethic, and who could object to that?

D, interestingly, finds ass-fucking on the desk delightfully calm. Perhaps it is that the requisite quotient of outrageousness is already supplied simply by location, so the ass-fucking no longer carries any weight in terms of shock. In this highly artificial, unsexual environment, any sex act at all is natural, and so none are more natural than others.

Sound

Sex has a soundtrack: noise from outside the sexual space; noises from within.

At the Liberty Inn, traffic on the West Side highway starts, streams past, stops, starts again. Inhuman noise, in the distance, nothing more than a buzz track. The sounds of cleaning in other rooms and in the hallways comes nearer, but still stays outside the door of the room. Only the shock of the call from the desk-clerk penetrates - and usually I am in the shower or dressing by then.

At the Kew, it is common to hear loud fucking from other rooms, as well as the industrial-strength vacuum-cleaners, carpet-scrubbers, and air-circulators that are part of operations there. Listening to others fucking is an uneasy experience; it is hard to know what it is that is being overheard. Real people fucking or a porno-movie on the television? If the fucking is real, are the shrieks and moans nevertheless staged, as in porn? Is she a pro, or someone fucking for pleasure? Over time, both D and I have become noisier, and by now I suspect that others forced to listen to us assume that we are porn actors or faking.

Rooms away from the street at the Seton - I was there fairly recently with D - are quiet, as are off-street rooms at the Herald Square, the Grand Union. These rooms may have clanking or hissing steam-heat, or in summer noisy window a/c units. Overheated rooms at the Herald Square have sometimes to be cooled with a/c if the windows will not open. But still these rooms are typically quiet.

J's apartment: at some times of day the noise of children in the playground of a nearby school drifts in, and it is slightly odd to overhear the play of children while engaged in strenuous adult play. The walls are thin, so we can hear her neighbor's television, and the footsteps of the woman who lives upstairs.

F: the street is quiet, but there is plenty of distant city noise. Here too the walls are thin.

Offices are quiet, but also enforce quiet. Quiet - being quiet, staying quiet - is a deep and complicated topic that I cannot face here; here I am dealing with sound, not its absence.

The soundtrack of car-sex depends a lot on the season. In winter, the engine and heater running, the windows sealed, not much sound penetrates. In mild weather, with the windows cracked, noises of traffic or birds enters. In summer, with the engine and the a/c running, the quiet of winter returns.
What about noise from within the sexual space? At F's, the radio is typically on, tuned usually to WFUV, Fordham's station. The music is nearly always tolerable, and very often good or even great, but we do not listen to it much, and the talk is an intrusion (though a useful time-keeper). With Q at her house, the radio has also been on - again some version of PBS, I think. With F and Q, part of the point of the music is to mask the sounds of fucking. To F, who has a roommate, and neighbors through the thin walls, ceiling, floor, this is a courtesy as well as a precaution, like those white-noise machines that populate therapists' suites, ensuring that everyone can talk with no fear of being overheard. Q's radio serves a similar function if there is someone else in the house who would be puzzled by overhearing sounds of sex. Music as background, not chosen, not listened to, but sometimes noticed, usually with pleasure.

With D (and this was true sometimes with A, back in the days when she and I were still fucking) music is not white noise but integrated into sex itself. This is so especially during MBJs (musical blowjobs) and their close equivalents. The music is not listened to so much as felt; dancing is an obvious comparison. It dictates the rhythm, the tone, the temper of sex. Aggressive, pounding anal sex requires a different soundtrack from slow, feathery lip-and-tongue cunt-teasing.

Beds squeak, creak, bang against walls, often in time with fucking. Desks are sturdy and silent surfaces, as are floors. There are noises from sex itself: the slap of bodies against each other, the liquid slosh of a cock in a wet cunt; grunts, moans, retching. And on top of that, the repertoire of calls and cries that shade over into the full-blown and articulate language of sex-talk, which is not noise at all.

Some women are louder than others. I am very quiet, though when stoned and frenzied I have been known to bellow. D claims that I am loudest in the car, but I think this is partly an effect of the small space. She is at her loudest when sitting on my face. B is a classic 'Yes-woman', punctuating her ascent to orgasm with a series of 'Yes' calls that rise in pitch and volume until she hits the top. Without this feedback it might be hard to track exactly how close to coming she is, though there could be little doubt about the climax itself. It is a sexual response, like the tightening of her cunt around my cock as she approaches the peak - again, not noise at all.

Cashmere Bouquet

Sometimes I feel as if I spend half my life unwrapping bars of cheap soap. Because I bite my fingernails, the unwrapping is an ordeal, and drives me half-mad. But what I object to is the cleaning-up itself. At the Liberty Inn, or the Kew Motor Inn, or at the Herald Square, the last few minutes of any encounter must be given over to washing away the residues of sex. I hate this soaping and rinsing. I wish I could carry away the smell and the sweat, the film of cunt-juice on my face, the seed smeared on my body, the blood under my (bitten-down) fingernals. Instead, I leave with Cashmere Bouquet clinging to me. Oddly, I feel this as an outrage committed on what should be, an outrage far more grotesque than any other I commit - a lie I cannot excuse, if you like. Perhaps some shame lies at the back of this that I do not comprehend, but the surface shame I appreciate entirely - something is deeply wrong if I can glory in sex and yet not glory in its traces.

For the record

Yesterday, C and I had a brief intra-marital fuck in the morning before I left for work. In the afternoon I had nearly three hours with D at the Kew Motor Inn, with just about all that time spent in one sexual act or another.

The week had begun on Monday with a similar, and similarly relentless, session with B, at the Liberty Inn. This was the most intense time I have yet spent with B, and as I get used to her and she to me, the fucking gets better. Like D, B can come repeatedly while fucking, so I can fuck her through each orgasm and onto the next. A distant analogy might be negotiating white water: dramatic, frenzied passages which, when they are over, yield to calmer stretches; but these calm stretches last only for a while, as the water gathers speed again. I am not sure why this seems a more natural analogy than the one that springs to mind fucking Q - that of riding out across country, with her frequent and successive climaxes like hedges or fences that need to be leapt in order to keep going. Perhaps it is just that fucking Q is somehow more collegial and friendly, less infused with the conventional sensibilities of the passionate, secret affair.

On Tuesday I spent the afternoon with D. On Wednesday I spent the afternoon with Q. On Thursday I spent two-and-a-half hours with F, and much later in the day met D for a drink and then a quick, unplanned fuck in a fitting room at Lord & Taylor. When necessary, as on this occasion, I can come very quickly: D yanked her hose and panties down to her knees, I unzipped my fly and took my cock out, she bent over and leaned against the wall, and I fucked her from behind. We watched ourselves in the mirrors on either side. After I came inside her, I pulled out and zipped up. She turned around and opened her legs while I kneeled down so that I could lick her clit until she came. I doubt we took longer than two minutes start to finish.

Mirroring

D and I always mean to compile a catalogue of the rooms at the Kew Motor Inn, with room-numbers paired to brief descriptions; but we always mean to do this only when we are leaving, and then it is too late to start. The next time we arrive there we are intent only on fucking, and so forget all about the project. The Kew differentiates Mirror Rooms from Deluxe Rooms, and the former always have a ceiling-mirror above the bed, and a wall-mirror along one side of the bed. Most have also a mirror on the wall facing the foot of the bed. Many Deluxe Rooms also have wall-mirrors. There are occasional rooms that have mirrors placed on opposing walls in such a way as to generate those multiple, receding images that so fascinate children. Gently curving away into the distance are multiple couplings, perfectly synchronized - as if an infinite number of sexual acts were occurring simultaneously. But without the catalogue, I cannot tell you which rooms those are.

Metaphors of mirroring and reflection are among the most fertile for thinking, talking, and writing about sex. I find the sight of myself vigorously fucking D slightly unsettling, for she looks quite a few years younger than her age, and I look quite a few years older than mine (I can, for example, ride Amtrak as a senior without raising any suspicions, though I am in fact fourteen years shy of the qualifying age). A clip featuring D and I sent in to a free porn site would probably be labelled 'tasty MILF gets banged hard by old guy', even though we were born just six months or so apart. But apart from that unease, I like mirrors a lot, and with D in particular I enjoy seeing her being well fucked, and like to watch her watch herself being well fucked. I like to see her seeing how good she looks being fucked. But already, the reflection here is intellectual and emotional as well as visual, a matter of feelings, desires, thoughts, intentions as well as of light-rays, shapes, hues.

There are mirrors on some of the ceilings at the Liberty Inn, and I was in one such room with a new partner in pleasure just before the holidays. B is a lot of fun, with a complicated and interesting sexuality that hardly overlaps at all with D, Q, or F. We had met for a drink one evening, and for an almost entirely innocent breakfast, and then set up an assignation at the Liberty Inn. I will try to post about that in the next few days.

Back, though, to mirrors. Mirror-sex mirrors the kind of mirroring that goes on anyway in sex that is any good, for sex aims at the pleasure that happens between two people, not the pleasure that a person can have on their own but prefers to have in company. I use a mirror to shave, and it helps to shave with a mirror, though I can also manage without if I have to. Sex is often like that. I used to have sex like that. It is definitely better to have sex of this self-pleasing sort with another than with oneself, but it is not radically distinct. If the feedback loops tighten around me when I am fucking a woman who fucks me back - when we are truly fucking each other - sex is not self-pleasing at all, though I do of course get a huge amount of pleasure from it, and that is presumably a large part (or all) of my motivation. The difference is not visible. It cannot be seen in pornography. It does not show up in the mirror. Nevertheless, when I look at the reflection of, say, D and I fucking, I am in some way both inside and outside the sexual act, feeling what cannot be seen and super-adding it to the image in the mirror. What I feel is not my pleasure but our pleasure, the pleasure we get from pleasing each other and being pleased by the other, the giving and taking of pleasure that is reflected back and forth between us.

It is very unusual for me to have sex in the dark these days. Intra-marital is mostly in the mornings, extra-marital mostly in the daytime. I like to see the person I am fucking. I like to look her in the eye. This has many of the features of mirroring, for as I drive my cock deep I can also see that depth register. Q, who thinks a lot about sex, is very interesting to fuck in this lights on, eyes wide-open manner, and there is something very pleasing about the way that we can communicate through our glance as well as through the fusion of cock and cunt. It is also fun to watch her repeatedly climb to the tipping-point of orgasm, when her eyes roll up and her steady gaze - visual, intellectual, emotional - is broken. If I am not coming myself, I can ride out her orgasms while my gaze holds steady, and that kind of watching is very like watching in a mirror: I see, I feel, I notice, I attend, but with a kind of detachment or distance that is an analogue of the distant image in the mirror.

The metaphor or mirroring has its limits. Mirrors facing each other can generate the appearance of infinity, as the image bounces back and forth, and sometimes sex seems just like that. But in order for there to be an image at all, there must be something placed between the mirrors - the thing whose image is to be multiplied indefinitely. And this thing, whatever it is, blocks the light-rays, preventing multiple reflection. If sex is relentlessly and exclusively other-pleasing, there is no reflection, just as if it is entirely self-pleasing. But between people who delight in both the other's pleasure and their own, sex really can generate something multiple, joint, and inexhaustible. Of course, with the mirrors, you can angle one slightly, and then repeated reflection takes place. But fucking does this even when the mirrors are precisely square on. That, anyway, is how it often seems.

Unblog

It has been ten days since I last posted, and that post hardly logged any activity. So I am seriously behind.

Off the top of my head, what do I remember? A night at the Astor with D, preceded by some activity in the afternoon and evening, and succeeded by a morning's worth of fucking too. A Thursday morning in my apartment with Q - thoroughly delightful. Some more time with D at the Kew. I have seen F a few times, Q once more, D even more than usual thanks to her need to use up accumulated off days before the year expires. J I visited just once. So plenty of sex, and all of it good. All of it excellent, in fact. Yet each woman is distinct, peculiar, discrete, particular.

At some crude and cursory level of description, fucking D is like fucking Q - a cock, a cunt, penetration, thrusting, grinding, orgasms, sweat. Sex that is going on only at this level of attention and awareness - porn sex - is barely worth getting out of bed for, and whether you have this kind of sex with one person or many does not really seem to matter. The only reason to be discontented with a sex-life built around this kind of sex is if you don't get enough, whatever the hell 'enough' means. I don't get any sex like that at all, and don't want any. To me, fucking D is no more like fucking Q than talking to D is like talking to Q - and that they are very different to talk to anyone would agree who knew them both (though I doubt that there is in fact anyone besides me in that category). Have I had a lot of sex in the last two weeks? Yes. A fuck of a lot. But the quantitative question, and its answer, misses almost everything. So, then, does this post.

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.

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.

Running Up That Hill

Last Friday was an interruption to my standard pattern, as I did not spend the afternoon at the Kew Motor Inn with D. This Friday, everything was back to normal - though 'normal' is not really a word that can ever be used in relation to sex with D. Here is her report, pasted in (without her knowledge) from her recap e-mail to me:

I think everytime I attempt the daunting task of writing a recap, after one of these afternoons at the Kew, I simply think I can not do it. If I try to remember really hard about what transpired in the hours between 1 and 4 I can remember how we started, how we ended, some things in between. But there are no words that can describe these hours at the Kew when we get stoned and get to be together.

I love this part of my life, the time that I get to drive my car from my job and find you. I love the short ride to the Kew and how it only takes minutes to get from the car to a room where we can first kiss and touch each other. I love to get stoned with you and talk first about what we are about to do. We started talking about this, and I remember saying to you that this was great sex, this conversation about masturbating in front of eachother that we were having. Of course you knew exactly what I was talking about. It was wonderful to spread my legs in front of you on the floor and show you my cunt. I know you adore it so much, and I have grown to adore it too. My ability to make myself come with my fingers is a testament to that. But it is also very personal in a way that sets it apart from my vibrators. When I thought of doing it in front of you last night I thought of (believe it or not) you sitting in back of me on the bed, facing the mirrors like we did when I jerked you off. I thought of you holding back my legs and spreading my cuntlips apart with your fingers. And then my finger rubbing my clit while we watched together in the mirror. But then when we got stoned together I kind of clammed up thinking about it. I know we will do that, perhaps the next time at the Kew.

So for this time I sat you on the floor facing me. I started rubbing my clit, looking down at my cunt, seeing me all open and pink for you. But I don't remember how I came. I know you were doing something to me. As I told you it often takes me a long time to come this way. And I wanted to come and it was so tempting to have you right there before me. I know you cannot resist me sexually, and you were just dying to touch me, lick me, smell me. That is always what makes me so crazy horny, your expertise with my body and how we read each other's minds sexually. I came, and we kissed and held each other. We moved over to the bed and we began the most amazing fucking. You on top of me, pushing your way into my tight cunt. Soon I was very wet and you slipped in and out of me slowly. I began to come again and again. You were grinding on my clit and looking at me, so happy. We were as close as two people could be. We fucked for a long, long time. At one point you suspected I might be tired so you warned me that you would continue to fuck me. And then we had our little "fuck me harder" battle... and we both won as that morphed into a soft erotic fuck after we became so heated we could do nothing more but switch gears.

Most of the afternoon we spent having oral sex. I sat on your face at first and then you ate me out while I sat up on the bed for a very long time. I must have come tens of times. The orgasms were just rolling over one after the next. I was really enjoying how relaxed it was, how I knew you would spend as much time between my legs licking my cunt as I wanted. How you would not stop. How much you enjoy giving to me in this way, and how much you take from my experience which is ours together.

Then I got crafty, with the musical blowjob stuff. The first song, Desert Rose, I think is very erotic . . . a safe, maybe anyone can do it, classic musical blowjob (MBJ) song. I have listened to that song so many times stoned on my deck, imagining sucking your cock. I hope I did as good a job as I have always wanted to do when I imagined it. You were shaking and moaning and climaxing over and over. And then Fragile, and of course I have sucked your cock many times to that song. And so I think that along with this building that occurred from the other song, and the soft guitar guiding my tongue on the head of your cock , my hands up and down your shaft. You nearly exploded. And then, Running up that Hill . . . I think that was your favorite because it connected you to the past and as you said, it put me back there with you. That is pretty cool and a really great way to listen to this music now. I wonder if you listened on the way home on the subway? But perhaps you had to start the detoxification.

I never sat on your cock! How did that happen? I did however get fucked continually and at one point you started talking to me about how clever I am, how I continue to amaze you, how we are so good for each other in all these different kinds of ways that make it so wonderful to be together. You were just so adoring of me today, and I felt so loved and adored. I can't tell you how happy I was to see you. I was starving for you.

I loved jerking you off in front of the mirror, holding you in my arms. That was the perfect ending to a perfect day for me. I adore you so much and I love to see you so comfortable with me, so relaxed and yet incredibly excited in my arms with my hand jerking your cock. You had to come for me.

So that is my recap. Thank you, my very dear friend and very best lover. D

D is right that it is hard to reconstruct these intense sessions. Part of that is being stoned, but only part, for it is almost as hard to remember the order and details of equivalently intense and active sessions when we were not stoned. Sex is not memorable, as I have observed before. D's recap fails to capture what our time together was like, but not through any failing that could be remedied by better note-taking or more complete recall. Each entry in this blog that recounts some sexual encounter or other fails in similar fashion.

Besides all the activity mentioned by D, there was one round of ass-fucking, or two if you count a change of position as constituting the end of one round and the start of another. The very first thing that we did was stand next to the mirror and kiss and make out, feeling each other up through our clothes. D kept her clothes on while we got stoned, but I removed mine. I sat at her feet while we smoked, and we talked about how she jerked off at home. I took off her shoes, and eventually helped her out of her hose and the tight, short black skirt she was wearing, so she was in her pale blue lace panties, but still with her blouse on. I unbuttoned that, and played with her nipples inside her white, lacy bra. She then took off her panties, sat on the floor facing me, and started fingering herself.

By deciding that her first orgasm should be from her own hand, and that I should not touch her at all until she had come, I turned myself into a spectator - but not a passive one, for of course D and I could talk, I could tell how pretty and pink and tempting her cunt was, how wonderful she looked with her legs spread, her fingers methodically working her clit. The noli me tangere rule got broken, however, as D asked me to pinch and tweak her nipples, and it was that as much as anything she was doing to her clit that took her over the edge.

The 'fuck me harder' contest was fun, but D is generous in describing it as a draw, as it was really a victory for her. She can take harder fucking than I can give her, for longer than I can give it to her. This is true whether it is her cunt I am fucking or her ass.

There was a great deal of oral sex, as D says. The musical blow jobs were not quite as intense, as the splitter was not working properly, so we were only getting the left channel. But still extraordinary, exhilarating, ecstatic. I am at my noisiest under those conditions - stoned, listening to loud music, with D relentlessly working my cock with her mouth and her hand. The music provides a level of ambient sound that makes it easier for me to vocalize my pleasure in moans and gasps and groans and shouts. By contrast, D is quieter when music is playing, at her noisiest when I go down on her, wrap my arms around her thighs and refuse to let go of her clit with my lips and tongue. That kind of determined and forceful pleasuring is something I am driven to do by an urge deep within me, and not something that could easily be elicited by attention to music as well as to D's sexual response. So perhaps she is quieter when music is playing because my approach to her is generally quieter under those conditions.

We were in a room with a high bed, and so did some edge of the bed fucking, first ass fucking and then cunt fucking. At this point, D's armpit hair is luxuriant, and she does look incredibly sexy lying on the bed in the half-light, arms raised above her head, with my cock driving into her cunt or her ass. If I lean back slightly, she gets no clitoral stimulation and so cannot quite make it to the point of no-return, and it is fun to play with delay. But after a while, D demanded that I lean forward to allow her to synchronize her pelvic movements with mine and to generate enough pressure to get herself off. She can do this about as easily whether my cock is in her cunt or her ass in this position.

The final handjob was very joyful - I put my glasses on so I could see clearly, and sat close to the edge of the bed, facing the mirror. D sat right behind me, one leg either side, put her right arm around me and took my cock in her left hand. Resting her head on my shoulder, she could see just what I could see. At some point she changed hands, and jerked my cock until I came. Though this had the formal structure of a 'money shot', the mood and tone was utterly at odds with anything in porn: affectionate, amused, light-hearted, happy, and playful. But it was also fucking hot to watch.

Full-time

My last post covered opportunities seized along the edges - an hour with F here, an hour in the back of the car with D there. I do not think such times are enough in themselves to sustain sexual connections of the depth and intensity that I desire. But once that connection is established, they can assist in its maintenance. It is important, though, to find ways to be together for longer. Today I managed that: by a subtle juggling of obligations and alibis I cleared about four hours, which D and I spent in a mirror room at the Kew.

The mirror room was chosen in part because D had expressed interest in fucking me with the strap-on and watching herself, which she could do easily enough in the wall-mirror, while I watched myself get fucked in the ceiling-mirror. And we did get to do just that, late on in the four hours. D fucked me with the new dildo and then, when it was obvious that I just wanted her to be deeper, with the older, larger dildo. Even that, I felt, did not cleave me in quite the way that I wanted. But it was very good, very intense and demanding. And D looked great fucking me.

We had begun with D climbing on top, lowering herself on to my cock, and fucking me, and many aspects of being fucked by D are the same whether she is fucking me by riding my cock or fucking me by taking my ass with the strap-on. I encourage her in the same way, try to give myself to her just as much. But she cannot come while fucking me with the strap-on, whereas when she rides my cock she can and does come again and again. I am not penetrated in the same way when she rides my cock as when she fucks my ass, obviously. I can, when she is fucking me by riding my cock, if I am stoned, grant her the role of fucker, me the role of the one who is being fucked. And once that is done, it is possible to interpret the sensations of fucking as those of being fucked in such a way that I feel she is penetrating me, coming inside me. Today, then, I was encouraging her to come in me, again and again, and she obliged.

The stoned fucking was not the first act, for we had fucked before we smoked: I took D's ass the second we were in the room, pulling her jeans down and working my cock into her ass with minimal lubrication or preparation. That led into some edge of the bed cunt-fucking, more ass-fucking, and eventually to the decision to take all our clothes off and get stoned.

I am so happy, so relieved of the boredom of the rest of existence, when I am fucking or being fucked, that it is difficult ever to stop. D asked today, during one of her cigarette breaks, when I was lying tense and impatient on the bed, if it was painful not to be fucking, and I was inclined to answer 'yes'; but I realized that she was asking something else, to do with the idea that for men it is difficult to be aroused and not fucking, that women somehow inflict pain upon men by saying 'no'. I do not think that this is true - what I find hard is the diminution of arousal in myself. But perhaps the end-result is the same. Still, there is no arousal damper more efficient than the realization that the woman you are fucking no longer wants to be fucked, so it is not as if I am impatient for anything except more pleasure for her as well as for myself. The standard, 'blue balls' story is meant to persuade women to give men what they want even if they don't want it themselves - that it would be cruel to say 'no' once the man is aroused, because it is painful to be aroused and not permitted to act upon it. My complaint is a different one - that it is painful to feel arousal begin to slip away and the world as it is otherwise begin to reassert itself. I am typically quite happy to have my cock ignored, so long as I am not asked to ignore the woman I am with at the same time.

Nearly four hours with D means a lot of sex, and any day with a lot of sex in it is a good day. So this was a very good day. We did all the things we always do, watched ourselves doing all those things in the mirrors, congratulated ourselves on how fucking hot we looked doing all those things, and so on. And we did look hot. True, I looked like a grey-haired old man fucking a woman a good ten or more years his junior, for though D and I are only six months apart in age we look to be separated by at least a decade. You could not market film of this as porn, as she is not young enough for it count as old man/young girl, and the MILF must be fucked by someone younger rather than older. Still, I say we looked hot.

The fiercest of D's orgasms are so intense that 'coming' seems a strange word to use. Falling, bursting, going - or the French petit mort. Wonderful to behold; even more wonderful to be a part of.

Interleavings

After a session together, D sometimes sends me a recap, which I return with my own comments interleaved. Sometimes I do the recap and she interleaves, as here:

Dear D,

Though I couldn't see, I am pretty confident that I have never produced as much seed as in that last series of ejaculations - certainly the most amazing handjob I have ever had. A wonderful way to finish three crazed and ecstatic hours together.

Yea, that was fucking hot! Sitting on your face like that jerking you off as you shot your hot come all over my body. I do like all that come all over me especially right before we have to part. It's a way I get to keep you.

Remember the first fucking - when you just impaled yourself on my cock and worked your way down it until you could grind your clit against me, and propel yourself up the slope to the first peak? You fucked me hard and long, coming any number of times. We watched ourselves in the mirror, you riding my cock through wave after wave of pleasure. Remember also when I was holding you tight against me? You on top is not one sexual position but a whole set of them, depending on how you angle your cunt against me, how I angle my pelvis, how much you sit up, lean back, lean forward.

I was happy to climb on top of you and impale myself on your erect cock. I wanted to do that since the second I left you on Wednesday, I kept thinking about it. The elation when I am riding your cock is very unique, just like ass fucking, sitting on your face , you eating me out in the chair, you fucking me on top... they are all different in their own way. But riding your cock and knowing that was the first way I orgasmed when fucking, and how far I have come since then... I just want to get there as soon as I'm on. And I know exactly how to make myself come now, with exact precision so I just completely use you for my own pleasure. And you just love it! So that is very sexy to me.

I think we went from you on top to me on top, and when we took the first break - when you took the first break, I should say - we had done nothing but fuck. No oral either way. I think I had come once, and you had come a bunch of times.

My god we fucked for an hour! You were so exhausted that you didn't even eat me out when I was on that chair smoking. I didn't like that.

After that, we had a lot of oral - you sitting on my face, me going down on you, you sucking my cock, and also another of our attempts at 69, which ended up as usual with you blowing through a series of orgasms. I know I go at you hard, relentlessly, and I do sometimes worry if I am little too rough, but I always think that each time is unique, and if I stop, I will never find out what would have happened if I had carried on. What will your next orgasm be like, given that you seemed almost to pass out during the last one? Let's find out! What will happen if I fuck you even harder, or start thrusting rather than grinding, or move to fucking your cunt from your ass, etc. There is always more to try, more to do.

I know darling but you are relentless. You are never too rough though. I want to get as much out of you as I can too, but you are much more driven.

The ass-fucking was certainly relentless, and again watching in the mirror was great - your ass, still or bucking up towards me in response, my hips driving my cock into your ass again and again, my body above yours, your body given over to my pleasure and yet taking all the pleasure you can yourself. You are indeed a strong and powerful sexual woman, D - just as much when you are taking a heavy pounding in the ass as when you are riding my cock to the point of exhaustion. Am I right that you came from that anal penetration without any direct clitoral stimulation at all, when I was fucking your ass deep and steadily?

No.. I did not come in the way of a clitoral orgasm. But often when you ass fuck me like that I feel like I'm coming in another way. It is hard to describe , it is the sensation of being completely filled up by you and open. It is wonderful. I want to do that all the time. I loved watching you fuck me like that. I can't wait to do that again.

I came in your ass, I am sure - but maybe it was an orgasm without ejeculation, like the (two?) orgasms I had during that long blowjob that you gave me.

I LOVE to suck your cock like that. I did such a good job sucking your cock today.

Eating you out in the chair, your feet on my shoulders, your cunt positioned precisely at the edge of the seat so that I can use my lips, my tongue, my chin on you. Again, we just went right back to work after you came, and it was from the chair that we moved to the bed so you could sit on my face for the first time - so there were definitely at least two separate sessions of face-sitting. You know that eating you out in a chair is one of my real favourites, and today I think I did more clit-sucking than ever before. There were a couple of times when I had your clit and the hood and the whole upper part of your outer cunt-lips sucked into my mouth, and I was flicking the very end of your clit with my tongue. When I fucked you after the face-sitting I think you were as wet as you have ever been.

Oh my god, it is so hard not to have that right now! I wish I could be with you in the middle of the night, to wake up and just start fucking.

You watched me tonguing your clit, you watched yourself sitting on my cock, my face, you watched yourself sucking my cock, being fucked hard in the cunt, the ass - all of it so amazingly natural and beautiful. I am not sure if the shrieking from next door was a porno movie, someone faking, or someone fucking, but I did not mind it at all, except that it seemed to bother you a little. Yet there is nothing that could possibly have taken my sexual interest away from you today D. Whatever goes on in other rooms at the Kew - those threesomes or foursomes or moresomes, or stranger things - are of no consequence. I love the three hours spent squeezing every drop of pleasure out of you that I can.

Well I think someone was watching a loud movie. So I'm very happy that we have never watched TV at the Kew or anywhere else. Us watching porn... we rather make our own porn. That , we should do. When I fuck you with a strap on that looks really hot... I would like to watch that! I'm sorry there was no time for that today... we need four hours at least. Otherwise we just do the three hour routine.

That huge ejaculation - I think I have done that before, maybe that time at the Grand Union when we were in the room with about four beds. I came three times in quick succession. Today, I was not holding back exactly, but I let you drag me to the point where I had to give you every drop that I could, and that somehow stretched the orgasm out, or distributed into distinct phases. It was a lot of fun.

Yes... lately when I sit on your face you get so turned on you have to come. Remember when I sat on your face today and you said it was the best orgasm you ever had and you didn't even come. Ohhh.. that was so sweet.....

Fridays at the Kew are great, aren't they?

We love them very much ... but I'll take you anywhere.


What is the point of recapping? The same, perhaps, as the point of blogging - the futile attempt to hold on to what is already gone. Sex changes nothing, and leaves no trace; once over, it might as well have never taken place. But once written about, this is no longer true. I can delete this blog when I wish, and also every e-mail I have ever received; perhaps I can eradicate all records. Still, someone has read this post meanwhile, and that trace remains.

Catch up

I am falling behind. These adventures need to be logged, and maybe later I will get to blog them:

I spent a couple of hours with AA being sexually serviced by him in the corporate hotel suite. That episode I have already mentioned.

The next morning, D came to my apartment and we fucked our way around the place for over three hours. Later that day, I dropped in on D in a hotel for a brief fuck. And at midnight, I met her in a bar, and after a drink we retired to the hotel for the night. The next morning, D drove me out to work, we fucked in my office, and I then went off to a meeting wearing her thong. After that meeting was over, we went to the Kew Motor Inn. So huge amounts of sex with D, who becomes more and more orgasmic.

The next night I spent alone, I think. But the following night, a Saturday, D drove into the city and we met around midnight and talked and made out, and then fucked in the back of the car.

I think it was on Saturday afternoon that I visited CJ, the cross-dresser. That was new, interesting, and fun.

On Sunday, I spent about an hour and a half with F.

On Monday I had intramarital sex in the morning, and a couple of hours with F in the afternoon.

Tuesday was busy, but D kindly visited me in my office for about half an hour of energetic fucking at lunchtime.

On Wednesday, I saw F for a brief impromptu session in the afternoon; I spent a little longer - approaching two hours, with F on Thursday.

Today is Friday.

This dry catalogue is of little use to anyone - not even me. But when I have more time to blog, I hope to expand upon it a little. The problem is, of course, that sex is forgettable, and so usually forgotten. Almost nothing of what makes sex so enjoyable, so intense, so completely absorbing, can be captured in writing. This is why just about all descriptions of sex function as pornography. Without accompanying arousal they are just dull descriptions. Yet that is, in general, what I aim at here - accounts of sexual encounters that no-one jerks off to. And this post, I am fairly confident, succeeds in that aim.

Carpet crawlers

I saw F on Wednesday and Thursday, and then D in a mirror room at the Kew Motor Inn on Friday. D and F are the only women I fuck regularly these days other than my wife. The attempts I make to find new recruits never go anywhere, and I am rather lazy about it, but I do make them. I am not sure why I find two an unsatisfactory number of extra-marital regulars, but I continually think that I should either add to the number or else make up my mind and scale back to just one. Were I to do that, I would certainly choose D. F is wonderful, and extremely convenient. But D, even after a year and two-thirds, continues to surprise me, and when I am with her, I continue to surprise myself.

Friday afternoon at the Kew with D, though it has ritualistic and hence repetitive elements, is always fresh, unpredictable, startling. D spends the days in between our meetings in anticipation, and she likes to make plans, if only to fuel her fantasies. This time, her plan was for musical blowjobs - something that we have done before, but not for a while. So I brought along a Y-splitter for her iPod, and my iPod also.

First, though, we got significantly stoned, and I took off all my clothes except my boxer-briefs (boring, white ones, if you care to visualize). Somehow we fell into roleplay in which D kept her clothes on and continually delayed touching my cock while I told her how much I wanted to feel her mouth on me, and how I could not stand to wait any longer. Having a little more discipline than me, and being mildly better at delaying gratification, she made me wait a while, but eventually she began sucking my cock. Stoned blowjobs are always great, and this was wonderful. But not the musical blowjob she had planned. That came later. D took off her jeans and panties and sat on my cock - this was after I pointed out that if we went straight to the musical blowjob she would have to delay orgasm for herself. Surely it was better for her to sit on my cock and ride it until she came, and then to turn to the musical blowjob in a more contented state? She proceeded to have three orgasms, of increasing intensity. I encouraged her to go for one more, and when she began coming for the fourth time I came precisely alongside her, releasing what felt like huge gouts of seed inside her. We have come together while fucking a few times by now, but this was the most self-conscious simultaneous orgasm we have ever had - deliberate and reflective, even though also ecstatic and blinding.

D lifted herself off my cock and lay down on me, her head on my stomach (her right breast, still in her red cotton top, rested on my crotch, so she acquired a large stain from the come and cunt-juice coating my cock). After a little while, she sat in the chair and smoked a cigarette, while I set up the iPod. But once I had done that, while she was still smoking, it seemed silly not to sit on the floor between her legs and smell and taste her cunt, and then eat it, gently at first, and then more aggressively, until she came.

After that, the musical blowjob - actually three in a row, as after the first song we decided to explore a couple of different kinds of song. So D worked my cock with her lips and tongue and fingers first to 'Carpet Crawlers', then 'Born to Run', and then - my choice this time, and from my iPod - Massive Attack's 'Teardrop'. The Springsteen was perhaps least successful, but still amazingly good; I am not a huge fan, but it did seem a good idea to associate it for evermore with D and her considerable cock-sucking skills. In each case, though there were times when I could attend to the music only at the cost of not attending to my cock, or vice versa, there were also long intervals when I could focus on both, as if I could sense the music through my cock, or through D's lips and tongue on my cock as she sensed it too. It is hard to describe this blending, and I think it happens partly just because of sensory overload. Getting stoned turns up the volume with all senses, and with the music playing very loud, with that headphone-induced feeling that the music is inside my head, my eyes closed, my body perfectly relaxed, I became only my ears and my cock, and the consciousness of sound and sensation. I would urge everyone to try it. It works well the other way too, as we proved when I went down on D to Annie Lennox's 'Why'. That was interesting because the lyrics introduced elements of conflict, wistfulness, complaint, sadness, disappointment. These are emotions that are not often present in sex (or not good sex, anyway) and yet they seemed to belong there just as much as the emotions of connection, joy, delight, happiness, contentment. The ideal sexual relationship is the one in which every emotion gets expressed during sex, and music functions well to enable that, at least if it is loud enough and I am stoned enough.

Because D and I had four hours to spend, there was still lots more to come, including another simultaneous orgasm when I was on top of D and fucking her relentlessly. I came a third time in her ass, almost at the end of our time together (only almost at the end, because D insisted on another bout of cunt-eating as I was about to head for the shower). There was, as always, a lot of face-sitting; I had D's panties and jeans on at another point; we also looked at ourselves in the ceiling mirrors while I played with D's nipples and she played with her clit.

D's women friends are, she says, typically incredulous when she tells them that we have sex for four hours straight with hardly any breaks, that I will not even let her smoke a cigarette without eating her cunt while she smokes, that she demands, and gets, another orgasm or two even when time is almost up. Stranger still, many of her friends do not even find the idea of sex like that appealing. It is hard to want what you have never yet had, especially if you do not believe it can ever he had. But it can be had, for D and I have had it. Once you have had it, it is hard not to want a lot more of it.

Intra-/Extra-

C proposed that we go to bed, so by 10.30 am or so I had already had my intramarital sex for the day - a pleasant, ten or fifteen minute session of brief fingering and cocksucking followed by a good, solid fuck with me on top. C came long and hard, I did too, and because I managed to stay hard a while longer I kept fucking and then was able to come again a little.

I have in the past faked orgasm with C in order to preserve my sexual capital for later in the day. That might have been the wiser course today, as by 1.00 pm I was with F. At first, though, I had no problems, and we fucked for a good while before I went down on her. But from then on, until towards the end of our two hours together, I could not quite sustain an erection hard enough to do serious fucking. I told F that I had fucked C earlier, a fact she thought I would have done better to keep to myself. And about that she was probably right.

We filled in the time with a lot of oral, and fingering, and then I hardened up while F was working on deep-throating me. Something about her gag-reflex kicking in, and the urge to grab her head and force it down on my cock, brought the life back to my cock, and F promptly speared herself on it and fucked me hard. Later, I flipped her over and we fucked some more. Then, as I softened again, I fingered her and went down on her, and then she took over and brought herself off several times in a row. Hard again, and out of time, I fucked her fast, pulled out and came on her belly and breasts - the rather pale, watery semen that I often produce on my second or third ejaculation of the day.

I believe that, by many measures, my intramarital sex-life is good. But between the pleasant, companionable, efficient fuck of the morning with C, and the two hours of sweaty, confused, passionate, unpredictable, stop-start gymnastics with F in the afternoon, there is a divide that is unbridgeable. With the best will in the world, the best therapeutic help, and the best pharmaceuticals too, sex with C will never be like sex with F or D, or any of the other women who appear in this blog. And for that reason, I do not think it is likely that I will decide any time soon to give up the extra-.

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Addendum: Intra-/Extra- II

Wednesday has so far been a rather strange quasi-repeat of Monday. C and I fucked before I went to see my therapist, and I went from there fairly promptly to F, with whom (nyah! nyah!) I spent a delightful two-and-a-half hours. With C today, though, I did fake orgasm, and I am not completely confident that she did not do the same. Anyway, I had no problems with F, and we did a huge amount of fucking as well as a lot of fingering and oral.

Between Monday and today fell Tuesday, and a very energetic afternoon with D at the Kew - stoned fucking, sucking, ass-fucking pretty much without a break for three hours.

TWTWTW

The week is not yet over - in an hour or so I will be at the Kew for my regular Friday afternoon with D - but I have a little time to put the last six days on record.

Sunday - just two half-hour car sessions with D.
Monday - Labor Day. No sex.
Tuesday - a frenzied but quiet two hours in my office with D.
Wednesday - intra-marital sex with C, and two-and-a-half hours with F.
Thursday - two hours with F.
Friday - three hours with D.

Given my other commitments, this is plenty. Yet it seems, compared to last Fall, a rather repetitive diet. I have claimed, often, that I am not into conquest. But I am into variety, and it would be pleasant to diversify. At this point, however, Craigslist is almost a complete waste of time. w4m has been swamped with fake ads, and responses which I send to mw4m never seem to go anywhere either. I fall outside the age-range specified in most ads, and have no availability in the evenings or at weekends. The desperate housewives are a myth. Few couples seem to have any interest in sex in the daylight. I am hardly in a position to complain - as the record above shows, I get more sex than any man can reasonably expect. But about sex I am unreasonable, and appropriately so. I have enough, I have more than enough, and I want more.

Denim

I do not wear jeans. I do not own any. But one day at the Kew, back in the summer, I somehow ended up putting on a pair of D's jeans. I typically wear waist 32 or 33 trousers, though ever since I gave up smoking two-and-a-half years ago my weight has been gradually increasing. But D, though slim, is hippy, and I could wriggle into her jeans, just.

I was stoned, which helped, but even so I was taken aback by the inner transformation that this really rather modest outer transformation effected. I felt very sexy, felt like flaunting my cute butt, felt altogether much rougher and younger and New Jersey than normal. Interestingly, I also felt more like being fucked in the ass, so whatever exactly was going on it was not straightforwardly and stereotypically masculinizing.

I have donned the denim with D subsequently, with similar effects. The last time D and I were at the Kew, I wore her jeans for a good while, while fucking D and eating her out. This was again in a mirrored room, as the first time I wore them. Because I am usually without my glasses at these times, and especially when eating D's cunt, I do not get quite the benefit from the mirrors that D does. She loves me in jeans, loves to watch my ass moving in them as I fuck her. And I confess, from the blurred glimpses I get, it does look pretty sexy.

I wore jeans as a teenager, so for me I am sure that there is an erotic flashback element to the excitement. If I think of myself in jeans making out, my first real love, Roz, springs to mind. Small, hard-bodied, smart as a whip, she was the first girl who seemed to feel sexual desire and register sexual pleasure in a way that was real - before that, it seemed only a struggle to get the girl to do things that she didn't want to do, even if she pretended that she did. A reminds me of Roz very much.

Thicker than water

Blood seems to be a theme this week. Z had just begun her period when we were messing around last Friday morning. D began her period during the night we were together at the hotel on Friday, and was in full flow yesterday afternoon at the Kew Motor Inn. Today, F was bleeding hugely, and we had a wonderful time daubing each other with her blood. Towards the end of our time I came all over her, so we then had a wonderful mixture of seed and sweat and blood to ingest. Taking a shower together afterwards the water was running red, and it took a lot of scrubbing to get all the blood out from under my fingernails. Hitchcock used chocolate syrup for the shower scene in Psycho, I think.

C is postmenopausal and so no longer menstruates. I wonder if the near-synchronization of D and F is in part mediated by me. Nuns living in close proximity end up menstruating at the same time; perhaps women who share a lover do so too.

Thursday

Given the nature of my family life, and my job, it is often hard for me to create alibis that will sustain an entire day spent in someone's company. It is easier to break the day up, by going here and there, doing this and that, and carve out a couple of shorter sessions. These could, of course, be devoted to the same person - but they need not be. Today, they were not.

This morning I was with F just after 9.30, and stayed until a little after 11.00, under the cover of errand-running, subways, and so on. A good, intense session, ending with what may be the best ass-fuck I have ever had with F. I had been fucking her cunt, with her legs up on my shoulders. I put a pillow under her ass to raise her up a little, lubricated her asshole with her own cunt-juice and my spit, and worked my cock into her gently. F comes relatively easily when I am fucking her cunt, but just about all of the stimulation that does the work is external grinding on her clit. With some manouevering, I found that I could get almost the same angle and pressure on her clit with my pubic bone and the very base of my cock, even though the shaft and head of my cock were in her ass. She told me she was going to come, and that helped take me over the edge too. So we came together with me plugged inside her - not something that has happened before, except possibly months ago when I was still using condoms with F. And condoms are, of course, designed to prevent coming inside a woman rather than enabling it.

By 1.30 pm or so, D and I were installed in a 'deluxe' room at the Kew. Deluxe rooms there typically have a wall of mirrors along one side of the bed but none on the ceiling. This was one of those, with a high bed ideal for one of my favourite positions - me standing, D lying. We got to that position later on. First we got stoned and fucked with D in a chair and me kneeling between her legs, and then on the bed, me on top. Excellent stoned fucking. The order or events, and even the list of them, is unrecoverable, but there was a long bout of face-sitting in which D came at least three times in a row. After a conversation about how both her nipples and her armpits can function as triggers, I fucked her while telling her at great length and in considerable detail how I was just about to take her nipple into my mouth. As I drew the waiting out, she neared the tipping-point, so when, finally, I merely touched the tip of my tongue against her right nipple, she immediately began coming. A little later, we performed a similar trick with her left nipple. Another aspect of the 'orgasm-trigger' phenomenon with D occurred later, when she had what she described, jokingly, as an earlobe orgasm. Just as with her armpits, so with her ears - licking and sucking is enough, on top of the clit-grinding at the base of my cock, to help her come.

Almost every time that D and I get stoned and play around for a couple of hours, we describe the sex as the best sex we have ever had. This is I suppose another aspect of the drug-induced heightening of sensation. Yet it seems utterly true at the time. Certainly, this afternoon was spectacular. I came several times, I think, though a couple of these orgasms were of the strange 'I will come a little now, just to juice things up, but no way am I going to stop fucking' variety that seem to happen when I am stoned. I am not, in these cases, completely sure whether I am ejaculating or not, but the sudden extra lubrication, particularly noticeable if I am fucking D in the ass, suggests strongly that I am. I came for the final time in D's cunt, and was already half in the shower when she begged to have the 'last orgasm'. I ate her out, and kept on going once she had come so that she could come again, and then we were done.

Either one of these women would count as providing more than enough joy and delight and satisfaction and ecstasy. Both in one day is obviously far more than I, or anyone, needs or deserves. But if sexual liberation means anything at all, it means liberation from thinking of sex as justified only by need or merit. None of this is about what I need, or what I deserve; it is just about what I like.