A week ago, I felt like you might actually have outgrown me. I felt like you were dragging me in and like this time I might get hurt. Like this time you might have the power to break me.
I was wrong.
You want to.
But you can't.
You told me that this time tomorrow I'd beg for mercy. That this time tomorrow, I'd be exhausted and used.
You told me this time tomorrow, you wouldn't care if it hurt.
Is it because of all those times I lied to your face? Or slept with your friends? Or dated someone that wasn't you? Or those times I forgot your birthday? I still don't know when it is, honey.
The thing you don't know about tomorrow is that I want to feel a firm touch. Even though I'm just playing dress ups with you, you pretending to own me for one night will carry me through. Satisfy my kink.
Truth is, you're still mine babe. Always have been.
You take one look at my big green eyes, and I can see it on your face. You're still mine.
And at the end of a night, after you fuck me, put your hands around my throat, slap my ass and call me names, you'll love me that little bit more. I'll love you that little bit less.
Don't you understand the game yet?
The more you give, the less I want.
Sad part is, I think you want me on my knees, your cock in my mouth, hoping I'll gag, just so you'll feel like for one moment in ten years I'm yours.
Every text message you send me softens just a little more than the last.
You're right, I will look beautiful, looking up at you, your fingers inside me. I know you'll want to keep them there forever.
Remember all those nights, Punk? The ones I left before you woke? Lets be truthful, even if my bodies there in the morning, I won't be.
You can't keep me.
And I'm only happy with you when I think you're over me. I know it's cruel. But when I think you don't love me any more, I love to suck you back in a little, see if I've still got the power.
I slept with (s)Ex again. The sex was largely unremarkable. But the oral sex was wonderful.
Not long after I arrived he had my dress off over my head, and he pushed me onto my back he had two fingers deep inside me and was licking my clit.
I screamed with ecstasy, digging fingers into his shoulders. I was very wet, and very ready. I got on my knees and I sucked his cock hard. I wasn't patient like the times before. I wanted him to come. He was ready, and he came quickly with his cock deep in my throat.
I was hoping for extraordinary sex, but it wasn't unfortunately. I think perhaps the second blow job might have teased him too far. Things fizzled within minutes with him on top. He came hard though.
I dressed quickly, not wanting to waste time. I hate to hang around afterwards. I pulled my dress and bra on, gathered my iPod, keys and phone. I kissed him on the cheek, tucking my panties into my handbag.
As I reached the front door I kissed him on the cheek good bye. My phone rang. I picked it up and recognised the number. The name wasn't saved in there, but I knew who it was.
My little Punk. Bless him. I love that boy. I really do. And after ten years, he's still my boy.
Ahh Punk. This songs for him. This story needs a sound track.
I met a boy. Ten years ago. I was 14. And I challenged him to a drinking competition. I won. Nothing like a girl who can out drink an army man all night to capture a mans attention.
I remember the night vividly. I spent it being spanked and fucked in the back room by his good friend. Hand around my throat on my knees...
After being fucked I wrote my number on his bottle of bourbon, and I left.
He called me. Every day. We went for drives and hung out. Eventually just after I turned fifteen, this young army man and I ended up in bed. It was an intense night. He picked me up and fucked me. I'd never been with anyone strong enough to just lift my (then 45kg) body up and fuck hard. He wasn't violent, but rough. He dragged me around, pushing me onto my knees, my back. He came over and over. I came so many times on my knees I passed out. After fucking me for hours, I waited till he fell asleep, then I snuck out his bedroom window, and left him there, holding his pillow.
I ignored Punks calls. My boyfriend would have gone insane if he'd found out. After a couple of months, I eventually caught up with him again. My disinterest only made him crazier for me. He'd changed. His hair was green to match my beautiful dyed black hair. My heavy dark make up. He'd pierced his lip which went nicely with the half a dozen piercings I had.
Poor Punk. I liked him better before he tried to be who he thought I wanted him to.
The more he changed, the more I fucked him, the less I liked him. The more I fucked him, the more he liked me.
Culminating in an "I love you". Resulting in me bailing, not returning his calls for a year.
Repeat. For nine years.
And out of the blue he got in touch.
I silenced the music by answering as I heard (s)Exs door click closed behind me. "Hello?" I asked. Pretending I didn't know who's call I was answering. It makes him crazier when I ignore him.
He misses me, he's sorry he let it go so long, He wants to see me.
He thinks he's toughened up. Wednesday next week he wants to see me and show me. He threatened to cable tie me to his headboard so I will actually have to be there when he wakes up this time. Then he chuckled. Then he whispered throatily "Plus I wouldn't want you to be able to squirm away while I'm seeing how many fingers I can fit in you. And I don't just mean in your pussy."
I was a little surprised. It was far more forward than he'd ever been with me.
He whispered "I want to fuck you until you literally can't take any more. I want you to scream and scream and scream. And remember all those times that when you passed out I stopped. I won't this time. I'm going to keep going. Because when you come to, I want you to shake awake with orgasms."
He said he'd spent 10 years being too afraid to do the things he'd always wanted. And since I hadn't seen him in a couple of years, he now had the balls. He said he was ready to step up.
I told him I didn't believe him.
He said I'd beg him to let me have a break, if I could manage to through a gag.
It was a conversation that lasted for almost two hours. By the end, I'd had to use my panties shoved in my bag from my one night stand to clean up a mixture of the mess (s)Ex had made, and how wet I'd got from listening to all the promises.
Last night... So last night was an interesting night.
I didn't 'man up'.
I didn't tell him I wanted him to be firmer with me. I just told him he was sexier when he was assertive.
He was at first. He was firmer. He dragged my hips over the end of the bed and pushed me right over the edge with orgasms. So many orgasms I was quivering and shaking. I'd guess more than a dozen.
I got him on his back on the bed and went down on him.
And nothing.
He just wasn't up for it.
I could sense the disconnection immediately. Like something had washed through his mind. Like a thought had been swirling through his head and had re-routed the blood.
I could feel him tensing up. Him retreating from sex. As though it was game over. I curled up next to him, Kissed him and curled up next to him, running my hand over his muscular chest.
I asked him what was going through his head. He chose not to say. I nuzzled and kissed his neck. It wasn't sexual, more comforting. I didn't want to make a deal out of it. I've dealt with penis issues as a girlfriend - it's easy then. You tell them how you feel, that you like them for who they are. What the hell do you say to an ex?
I rushed a platitude. I wasn't trying to be condescending. I just wanted him to relax. My comfort sounded hollow to my critical ears. I paused and breathed. His dark brown eyes were a zillion miles away. My trite reassurances were lost in the void.
I hung in that awkward place. I quizzed him. I got imprecise blurred sentiment. "It's different. Now that we're not together. The sex is. I'm different" he stuttered. His face impassive. His voice lacked it's usual cadence. The sentences were forced. The sentiment lost. Yes, the observation that things are different was valid. Things were. But why? My sexual feelings hadn't changed.
And then it struck me.
For me, sex and love are exclusive feelings. I can love someone asexually. I can have amazing sex with someone I don't love. He was in crisis: he'd never really slept with a girl he wasn't on a "path". To him, this gentle but fulfilling sex was filled with all those guilt emotions that those of us who are less conservative feel only when we breach one of societies more illicit rules.
To him, this was me compromising. And with that, he some how felt freer. Freer to touch me, freer to push me sexually. Then the guilt. Guilt that women deserve more. Guilt that he wasn't respecting me. And for him, those two feelings had been personified in the moment that I pulled his cock from my lips, licked it then sucked the head like a lollipop. That was what caused the freeze. I'd done it so he'd be able to see. I thought that he'd like the look of my soft lips. And I'd been right. I hadn't anticipated the guilt.
I assured him that there was nothing I was doing that I wouldn't have done as his girlfriend, that the freedoms he was exploring was just him exploring his sexuality. I assured him that the sex was amazing. My trite reassurances from before became veritable truths. With more direct and genuine conversation, he eased. Pulling me on top of him, he slipped his rock hard cock inside me and I started to grind against him. His fingertips stroking my soft breasts, as I came he pressed them against my clit, rocking my hips harder with the other hand.
We rested for a moment after I came for the sixth time on top. It was seconds before he had me on my back, legs over his shoulders. His cock pressed firmly against my vagina, slipping in.
I came instantly. He pressed my knees down against my chest, pushing his cock further inside me. I was a shaking mess. I came again. I shook so hard. The more I shook the more he pushed and the more I came.
I finally shook and shook and moaned and he came hard, deep inside of me. He rolled of next to me. We lay in bliss. The whole encounter, from him pulling me to the edge of the bed to us lying shaking on the bed was four hours. I'd had well in excess of two dozen orgasms. I was physically exhausted. We laughed, shared a moment of peace together. The chemistry between us was electric.
We curled up together and I slept in his bed. Two hours later I got up, went and sat on the couch. Passed an hour and a bit with some Angry Birds. Weighed up what I'd wear when I got home. I'd woken with a pounding headache and a very sore throat. The chills were running through my body. I curled up back in bed and (s)Ex brought me something for my fever and some water. He stroked my tired head. We lay naked and entwined for another hour, my fingers running over his morning erection. 8am. I excused myself. It was home time. I did some basic stretches to ease my aching muscles. My head was still throbbing and my throat was aching. I kissed him, dressed and he walked me to the door.
I rushed home, the painkillers slowly easing my achy body.
I showered quickly, make up, lipstick and a tidy outfit later, I met a new man for a cup of coffee. TallBoy. He was handsome and funny. Outdoorsy. He's muscular. He looks like something off a glossy cover.
Conversation flowed easily. His big bright blue eyes have a flash of cheekiness. The coffee was easy, the chat was pleasant. He laughed at jokes that weren't funny. Turns out, it's not just girls who do that.
He kissed me on the cheek goodbye. I was grateful to go, the painkillers from earlier were wearing off, and the drive home seemed like an eternally long way.
I rested my forehead against my steering wheel.
It's early afternoon. There is so much more of today left.
So much more.
Despite my aching muscles and my throbbing headache and sore throat. Despite my returning fever. I prepare to text (s)Ex. I'm going to tell him that I'll see him after I finish with some friends tonight. I want to see him. I want to feel his tongue pressed against my clit again. I want to see his big brown eyes looking at me like I"m something of wonder. I feel like a princess the way he looks at me.
As I sit, message screen open. I ponder. What do I say? I know TallBoy is the embodiment of everything (s)Ex would dread I'd like. He'd hate him. If he knew I'd spent the morning with another man, he'd be green eyed and jealous. He'd retreat. Those warm brown eyes would become steeled cold. I'd hate to lose the little care we have left. It'd be saddening to watch him walk away. Fear that he'll make me sad reassures me. I hate being afraid. I'll keep my secrets from him. He need not know. Right?
So today I caught up with a friends fiance. She's great. I love her heaps. She's smart and funny and sweet. Cute too. We had chats and coffee (at his behest). She's great, she dealt with the fact he was in love with me for a very long time. She forgave him fucking fat girls behind her back. She doesn't know we've been fooling around.
I thought I'd feel weird and guilty. I thought it would make me chew my nails. She merrily chatted away about her wedding planning and stuff. All I could think about was him in his car up on his knees jerking off into my mouth.
I know it's dirty. I know it's wrong. She's great. Why risk one of his oldest friendships for a few fuck arounds? Why jeopardise their entire future for a few minutes of fun?
Because he can.
I know that's awful. I know it sounds hollow and empty and shallow. But that's all there is to it. Because he can. The more he manipulates her trust with half truths and the more public the place he cheats the more it turns him on.
A week ago we were parked a hundred metres from a construction site.
Stupid part is he actually loves her. I can hear the moral uproar in my head "If he loved her he wouldn't fuck around with you, homewrecker".
Truth is, if he wasn't fucking around with me it'd be someone else (hey, truth be told, probably is someone else too). At least I don't want to keep him. She doesn't like sex, he does. What do they do?
This strikes me as a not entirely uncommon scenario.
Whilst pondering this question I got into a lovely private chat with one of my readers (Darling, if you're reading this, hello. I didn't use your web ID in case your girl stumbled across my blog).
This lovely man shared with me that there are things he desires sexually that she doesn't share with him. So I did the responsible thing and did a quick whip around of my guy friends to confirm a few things.
After a brief chatty poll I discovered that this is normal. I was speechless. Every guy I spoke to gave me the same chewed out company line: She's great, she's sweet, I love her, it's just this one little thing.
Maybe that's why I'm perpetually single? I actually like getting laid?
In the "getting laid" department (so much fonder of that): this week has another impeding night of my (s)Ex and my favourite TV shows. We may end up drinking tequila.
We caught up last night, but I have a new rule. If he's too gutless to make a move, then why should I fuck him? I told him tonight flat out. If you want more, go for it. I'll just have to keep my Wednesday morning date a secret. He'd flip if I told him. He'd be jealous and possessive and weird.
With much confusion (especially about frigid bitches) Your favourite homewrecking SSB xxx
I can call my (s)ex, but at the same time I don't want to cause myself more trouble than it's worth.
Or I can stay home and watch porn.
I know sex for two is so much more fun but the allure of a night with my vibrators and some peace is so powerful.
I know traditionally single-and-horny's frequent bars, looking for someone drunk enough to smear their lipstick and jizz on their panties before passing out, but drunk fucks with strangers are rarely enjoyable. They always lack the dedication and stamina I look for in a partner. Those first moments of anticipation, of alluring naughtiness, and the threat of impending next-morning-guilt while hunting for your panties as you kiss a perfect stranger never compare to the depressing morning after.
As it is I'm a well documented post-coitus-bailer, I barely like to cuddle with people I love. When I don't love them, I tend to just get dressed and go. On the few occasions when I've stayed the night with someone I don't care about, the next morning while I get dressed, tidy my messed hair and make up and hunt for any excuse to get out makes me resent them and pray I never even have to speak to them again.
The reaction to dressing immediately after sex and leaving is usually one of hurt confusion. I'm sure women hate it, but guys hate it too. They all THINK that they'd be ok with it, but when the girl can't give an explanation about why she doesn't want to stay and just leaves it makes them paranoid it was them. And every precious minute I spend standing there persuading them it wasn't them, I get less persuasive because each precious minute makes it a little less true. It becomes the neurosis that makes sure I never ever go back.
I think it's self defence though - if you stay, if you spend time pretending you give a fuck about people you don't, you end up actually giving a fuck. Why stay and cuddle if you think it's stupid? To make someone you don't care about happy?
For those reasons, I despise having sex at my place. You feel so pressured as the hostess to offer them water, to let them sleep if they're "exhausted" as so many men claim to be after sex (I think of them as "lodgers" when they go "Oh I'm soooooooo tired *yawn*"). How do you tell a lodger that they've overstayed? Look, your penis was great, but you should take it and get the fuck out.
