Sexual Snippets

Sexual Snippets: I wanted to write this evening only I wasn’t sure what to write about. Therefore the following may not be of particular interest or intrigue and is probably more for my benefit than the reader. However, I hope it is appreciated nonetheless.

The Taste of Things to Cum

I love it when I experience small synergies in my life. It makes me feel connected to the world and the people within. It is a quirky, surreal experience when some unrelated and isolated events or situations are moulded together through some invisible strand, pulling us all together in some form of unity.
We are all different, with unique needs and particular passions but then, all of a sudden, something connects.

Last week my lover was talking to me about food. He commented on how I was unusual in my liking for extremely hot and spicy food. He pondered on the idea that my cum and lubricant may taste different depending upon what I had eaten, and suggested, with his own liking for fiery tastes, that we might experiment to find out whether I tasted different after a madras curry or a particularly raunchy chilli.

I’m more than happy to oblige.

I rather like the idea of doing a food diary with a difference…. “Today I have been mostly eating……. So how do my fuck juices taste today?”

I’m even happier to oblige if it means that I get extra cunnilingus.
I adore cunnilingus.
Having his tongue wander around my pussy is one of the most divine and sensual experiences that I can get. Forcing his tongue inside me in preparation for his fingers frolicking around my fanny, sending me to orgasmic highs is stupendous and that is before he has finished me off with a wonderful cock slide, straight in to stimulate me some more.

But back to the taste test.
I rather like my lover been so accustomed to the variety of taste in my fuck juices that he can stick his tongue inside me and tell me what I had for dinner! How cool would that be!
I also rather like the idea of him getting a splendid spicy flavour from my juices that tingles his taste buds but I fear the amount of liquid that he encourages me to cascade may just dilute the effect. More of this later.

No sooner had we had this conversation that I read an account of a man who deliberately changes his diet to ensure his spunk tastes as good as it can. I hadn’t really considered the effects of diet on fuck juices and then within forty eight hours, the subject comes up twice.
I think a serious scientific study should be done on this. It could be life changing for those who are reluctant to engage in fellatio or cunnilingus, purely on the taste factor. It could be enormously liberating if someone could make a connection between a specific food and the deliciousness of secretions.
And just in case this can be proven, I will continue to eat chocolate and oranges to make my stuff as sweet as possible.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Inexhaustible Gushes

I apologise to those readers who have considerable sexual experience. Mine have been somewhat average; more than most, considerably less than others, according to recent statistical information.
Of course these surveys are asking about frequency of sex rather than quality, and to this extent as I say, mine have been average, as has the quality, until recently.

So I have another query regarding sex and the bodily functions of an active, turned on woman of my age, or indeed any age.

Can you run out of sex juice?

I once had a conversation with a group of young lads in the course of my work, explaining how sperm was made and how millions of the little blighters were produced daily. The horror on one of the boys face was hysterical. He literally turned ashen and white. His smile faded and a look of the utmost concern registered distinctly in his eyes.
Willing him to ask a question before having to directly acknowledge his concern, I waited for the inevitable. Thankfully he asked before being cajoled.
“What happens to all the sperm? Where does it go?”

The poor lad had visions of his balls exploding if he didn’t manage to get the damn things out of him with a little help from Lucy and Rita.

As we know, the sperm disappears of its own volition without the masturbatory assistance of the aforementioned left and right hands, although I would strongly advocate that if the need is there to assist the little fellows on their way, then the mantle should indeed be firmly grasped.

The recollection of this conversation made me think about women and their fuck juices.
For example, how rapidly do they develop? I would suggest – pretty quickly between being stimulated and gushing forth.
Is there a part of your body that stores this juice? Well clearly not, otherwise there would be poor virginal women across the world with masses of fluid in their bodies waiting to strike forth.
Can you run out? If so, for how long? Or is the female body so incredible (which of course it is) that it can produce this stuff on tap given the right stimulation?

Last week, I had the utter joy of an immense amount of sex. On Monday, I came all over my beautiful friend as he lay on top of me, fucking me senseless. As soon as he slid his cock inside me, the impact of it being within me made me cum everywhere. Great swathes of juices were pouring out of me. Within the hour, I was riding his cock that was deeply pushed within me, whilst simultaneously stimulating my clitoris. Same thing happened – a mini cataract over his balls, his dick, his stomach and his bedclothes, dribbling out of me and down the side of his legs.
After lunch, we fucked some more and I covered the poor man’s settee in yet more juices, thoroughly soaking his t-shirt and my shirt.

The same happened on Thursday. More towels were needed and more fuck juices poured out of me.

Friday was sensational. Our love making was incredibly tender but fucking hard or sensually making love – it makes no difference. I still cum with incredible volume and intensity. Gallons of juices spill out and after some unbelievably powerful orgasms, I thought that there could not possibly be anything left to come out.

Before the cynics amongst you think I must have been drinking too much water or needing a pee, I can assure you this was not the case. I had neither drunk to excess nor needed to go to the loo prior to having sex.

More sex after lunch produced the same amount of cum and I honestly think that had I stayed in the place any longer, I would still have managed to get another gush out.
So what physically happens to my body? And am I capable of producing that much cum all day?
The other issue is that I am convinced that the more I cum, the more frequent the gushes, the more I want to cum some more, the more I do cum some more.

It seems to me that there is a strong possibility that the cleverness of the female form is such that it really does have the capacity and capability to have inexhaustible amounts of gush.
As with the food tasting experiment, I would now like to put myself forward as a human guinea pig. I want to fuck my man all day – from, let’s say, nine in the morning to nine in the evening – a full twelve hours of bonking. Mmmmm, guess whose fanny is filling up at the prospect?

Again, for those who may be concerned about my poor lover having to deal with this middle aged nymph, fear not. As I have explained on many occasions before, there is more to sexual stimulation than mere penetration. Even if he did get exhausted with fucking me with his cock, then he has plenty of well exercised fingers that are more than capable of curving into my cunt to extract more cascades of cum. And I am yet to exhaust him completely for he too has a very vociferous and healthy appetite for sex. He can keep going for a hell of a long time, and his cock is happily and frequently ready for as much sex as my pussy.

The results of these experiments will, of course, be written about on these pages.

Watch and wait.
………………………………………………………………………………………….

Fucking Frustration

It’s been a long week. After a thoroughly fulfilled sexual experience last week, I have had to go to the other extreme this week with no penetrative sex at all.
My dildo has had plenty of action and awaits me now as I conclude this writing.
It is Thursday and I am probably not going to have sex again for some considerable time.
I’ll survive but right now, I could seriously do with getting into my car, driving a reasonable distance and jumping into bed with a man who I know would appreciate the company.

It is not “fucking frustration” at all really because I have more than my fair share of wondrous sex, and despite outward appearances, I can cope without it. I recently went for an immense amount of time without it, and I coped.

But just as sleep breeds sleep, then so to does sexual desire demand more sex.
Last week’s marathon of sex did not placate my need or desire, rather it exacerbated it.

Today, I had the unexpected fortune of spending an hour with my beautiful friend, all the more lovely for it being totally unplanned and a huge surprise. We had a gloriously sexual snog, followed by a quick grope, just enough for him to get some of my lube on his fingers to taste immediately and also to hopefully linger long after I had gone. I managed a quick fondle of his balls and cock, loving the feeling of its arousal, and then we had to stop, behave ourselves, be rational and I had to take my leave.

It was wonderful, it truly was but tearing myself away was quite torturous. And now, I am longing to be in his bed and giving him some much deserved attention. I seriously hope that the sight of me, frazzled and unbecoming as I was, has given him the impetus to grab his gorgeous big one in his hand, slowly wanking himself to climax, whilst thinking about me doing the very same.

………. Where the fuck have I put my vibrator?

Embellishment or is it?

READ PART TWO FIRST

Stupefied by arousal, she stood there, staring at the door, clutching yet another piece of paper, wondering if she had imagined that encounter too. But the hurried scribble of an address some mere three miles away showed her that this was no fantasy.
She turned away from the door, slumping into the wall and closed her eyes.

She needed a wank.

The memory of his hardened cock as she sensed its wetness was too much to bear. She clutched herself hard to hold on to the feeling that she was now experiencing, her palm stretched over her pussy and between her thighs, pushing, holding, experiencing. Would it disperse? Could she just ignore this incredibly urgent need to fuck herself?
But was fucking herself enough?
It would have to be.

She returned to her papers and shoved them emphatically into her bag. She gathered her cardigan from the chair and made her way towards the exit.
As she did so, the door opened and he glared at her; no trace of a smile, just an indomitable gaze that she understood.
Without warning, he undid his zip and pulled out his cock, firmly gripping it, rapidly rubbing it until its length was exaggerated with this action. She stared intently as she saw the translucent thread of juice escape, as though making way for the eruption of spunk that was impending. He continued to jerk at himself, clearly energised by the unbelievable situation he had initiated.

She stood before him, out of reach, whilst she watched his sizable cock waggle around irrationally in his grasp. His face was responding to his arousal. Still he stared but a glimmer of a smile was returning to his face.
She lifted her skirt to grab the sides of her panties, and slipped them to the floor. Stepping out of them, she tossed them in his direction, towards the hand that was not consumed with energetic fucking.
Expertly caught, he hoisted them to his face and smothered his nose within the black silk, deeply inhaling her essence, rubbing harder on his reddened cock, madly wanting to fuck her.

She climbed onto the table, resting her arse where her papers had previously been. She opened her legs and gathered her skirt towards her waist, revealing her fanny to him as his eyes darted towards this newly invited territory. She thrust her fingers inside herself and vigorously rubbed, mirroring his urgency. She curved her fingers towards her g-spot, feeling the arousal but knowing that she would have to withdraw in case she wet herself.

He moved towards her, still wanking, pushing her thigh further away from its partner.
He looked intently at the cunt in front of him, and with his free hand, he pulled hers from its hole. Immediately, he sidled his own fingers inside her, replacing her own that now flopped redundantly on the table. Expertly, he curved his long fingers up towards her cervix, tapping forcefully and perpetually on her engorged spot.
She was incapable of controlling herself. Instinctive functions took over. She arched her back, hands behind her as she allowed him to fuck her hard with his fingers, all the time continuing to rub his dick in simultaneous rhythm.

Suddenly, she bit a silent scream and looked down in astonishment to see cascades of water bursting forth, spraying everything in front of her, splashing his clothes, soaking his hand that was still firmly clutching his fucking big cock, saturating his hand that was plugging her gushes.
This was fucking unbelievable.
She’d never cum like this before and she was utterly shocked at the flow from her fanny.

Without warning again, he withdrew his fingers from her cunt, turned in profile to her and continued to ram his hand up and down his cock. With a muted groan, he raised both hands above his head, freeing his dick to spurt its spunk straight across the room in a silvery, slithery stream.
It was the horniest thing she had ever seen and she simply gazed in astonishment at what she had just witnessed.

He slumped down, resting his hands on the chair, curving, head down to take a breath, sighing with overwhelming satisfaction.

Together they paused, collecting their thoughts, allowing their independent orgasms to work their way through body and mind.

Nothing was said.

Eventually, he lifted his head, composed himself and stuffed his flaccid cock back inside his pants, wiping away the remnants of her cum and rezipped his trousers.
He pulled the chair to sit between her still outstretched thighs, and gazed intently at her wet pubes and the darkness of an as yet unseen fuck hole. Placing one hand on her right thigh, he looked up at her and smiled.

“There’s more” he said, eyeing her face and then her fanny. She leant down and kissed him as he brushed her labia aside and poked a solitary finger inside her, feeling her folds of skin engulf it. He moved his mouth from one set of lips to another, and swinged his tongue into action, replacing his sticky fingers in motions that sent waves through her torso. He clipped his tongue on her hood and circled it constantly whilst revisiting her cunt with his fingers.

She was going to cum again, but surely she couldn’t have any more juices left. The carpet beneath her was already speckled with her watery cum; a watery cum that she had never experienced before.

He stood up, and latched onto her mouth whilst delving further inside her to bring her to climax. He moved aside as he felt the engorgement springing to life, and with perfect timing she shot her stuff towards the wall; great, forthcoming gushes splashing everywhere.

Again she looked on in astonishment as he removed his fingers and placed them in his mouth, licking them free of her cum.
His eyes twinkled and his smile grew.

He returned her panties to her, placing them around her ankles and drawing them up her body.
He liked dressing her. He liked the intimacy of putting them back and folding them over her dampened cunt, smoothing them over her arse, clutching it one more time.

They were both standing, holding hands and simply staring.

“I think it is time for bed” he whispered, and with that she grabbed her bag and finally made her way towards the door.

Embellishment Moving Forward

Embellishment Part Two

She calmly walked away, though the stirrings within her were reminiscent of her most adventurous escapades into Fantasyland.
As she traipsed her way along through the dull and dismal streets, her mind was racing ahead of her, thinking about what had just happened and wondering about what she should now do.

She looked down at the card that had been so delightfully placed in her hand.
For crying out loud, what in God’s name did it say? Was it a number one or a number seven? If the writing was so ambiguous, did he really want her to call, or was he just teasing her, tempting her, willing her to do something off the wall, out of the ordinary?

Did he genuinely want to fuck her?

When she woke that morning, nothing could have been further from her mind.
She could not deny that she had felt an instant attraction to this stranger. She could not deny that the short, subsequent visit to his office in the summer had not tempted her further, and she now vividly recalled the holiday musings when she had slipped into a gloriously embellished story of lust and passion and seriously long sessions of love-making.
But that was her fantasy, not his!

Had he too fantasised about her? Had he too thought about running his hands over her pert breasts, carefully sliding his fingers across the buttons of her blouse, surreptitiously undoing them one by one, whilst he stared at her with the fullness of his sensual gaze? Had he too thought about a walk along a dimly lit street where his hand would wander down her back, grabbing onto her arse, thrusting himself against her, so that she too could feel the extent of his desire? Had he too thought about moving his hand to the front of her skirt, tracing her inner thigh from her knee to the line of her panties, stroking his fingers over the indentations of her unshaven pussy?
Had he imagined her willingness to slide his fingers into her panties and into her cunt, where he would instantly feel the juiciness of her desire? Had he imagined her almost desperate need to hold his balls in her hand as she smothered him with urgent kisses?

He can’t have done, and neither had she since that fortnight in the summer warmth. Yet here she was, reliving every detail and wondering whether that magnetic, electrical force that had been so intriguing and acute when their fingers had collided had been so intense because they had both subconsciously been expecting it. They had both been fantasising and the memories of those beautiful imaginations had flooded back at the mere whisper of that touch.

She returned her gaze to the scribbled number in her hand. She was doing it again; embellishing reality. There was no story here. There was nothing to be pursued. She’d misheard him. She’d been talking about her deadline and all he had done was wish her luck. But then again, surely she was more discerning than that. Surely she wasn’t daft enough to mistake the word “luck” for “fuck”! The thought of such an error was school boy humour; ridiculous.
And even if she had misheard, how could she then try and explain the urgency of the tug on her elbow, and the sincerity in that stare that so clearly suggested the necessity of intimacy?

She walked back to the office and threw herself dramatically into the aforementioned deadline piece of work, hardly pausing to breathe let alone consider the quandary that she had in front of her.
She slipped away from the office in the later hours of the evening, arriving home too late to take any forceful action in the pursuit of this situation.

She’d sleep on it.

Only of course, sleep was far from her mind as she unclipped her bra and removed her pants. She delved under the pillow for her nightshirt but as she did so, she paused. Sitting on her bed, she straddled her legs and looked down at the mass of hair between her thighs. She raised her hand from where it was resting and stroked the silky threads of pubic hair in a downward direction, finding the indent that invited wandering hands towards her clitoris. She held her forefinger forcefully against the button and with some strength, rolled her finger from left to right over her hood.
Her other hand emerged from the pillow and clasped a sizeable handful of tit, and she longingly circled the circumference of her nipple, gently gliding towards its peak.
Aroused and stimulated, anticipating more, she lay down on the bed, widened the angle of her legs and allowed her fingers to run from the hood that she had been rubbing to thrust her labia apart. She was unsurprised to feel the moisture that was sticking itself to her fingers as they manoeuvred around inside.
She delved further in, and curved her finger right around, as though she was searching for her hood again, only from within.
A sudden surge of sensitivity shocked her, and she quickly pulled her fingers away, waiting for her body to resettle. Then she turned on her tummy, stuffed the pillow between her legs and humped away till her clit was successfully stimulated and she felt that beautiful tingle submerge her into her very favourite fulfilled state.

She lay there for a minute or two, naturally seeing him holding her elbow as her cum took over, and once her orgasm had subsided, she flopped onto the pillow and slumped into post cum divinity.

As ever, after a short while, her need for the toilet levitated her from her naughtiness and through her swollen pussy, she relieved herself, wondering why she always needed to pee so soon after having an orgasm – such was her naivety, such was her best sexual experiences being of the mind rather than the physical.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

A month passed. She needed to talk to him about the joint piece of work that their companies were working on but it wasn’t vital. Before Christmas, she decided a friendly seasonal greetings was called for, and she tentatively fingered the keys of her phone, recalling the private office number that he had given her.

Yet again, there was genuine delight in his tone as he expressed the surprise of hearing from her. They talked for some twenty minutes in the most pleasant of tones. He listened to her stories of deadlines and politics. He told her of his Christmas shopping process and she laughed at the similarity to her own frenzied last minute rush. The ease and flow of the conversation reiterated every thought that she had conjured up in her frequent fantasies about this man. There was something instinctive about their interaction; still relative strangers yet some indescribable bond, something unsaid, something that even without the eye contact, even without the accidental brushings was most apparent.

More holiday time, more erotic fantasies, more waiting.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

“For goodness sake, phone me tonight, I need to fuck you!”

How fucking stupid had she been, on every level. If she had misheard, then why had he looked at her in that way? He’d clearly meant what he had said, and she had chosen to be coy, to be bashful in spite of the fact that she had wanted this man more than she could describe.
Why the hell hadn’t she phoned him? What had stopped her, prevented her other than her utter disbelief that this gorgeous man could possibly be attracted to her?
What would she have lost by phoning him when he actually wanted her to do so? Even if he had changed his mind, she didn’t know him. Her life would not have been damaged by the inevitable rejection.

And now, she was here, about to meet him once more, knowing that she had missed an opportunity, thinking that by now he was sure to have found someone else to fuck.

To simply ignore the fact that he had been honest enough to convey his desire was unforgivable, and now, she wanted him so badly, and second chances such as these just don’t happen. The man had his pride, damn it.

She came out of the shower and slid the towel over her damp body. She walked towards the mirror and glanced down at her nakedness. Her hands followed the natural contours of her curves and she levelled herself, hands on hips, unable to avert her stare from the bushy cunt in front of her. A slight moisture, distinct from the remnants of shower water, was stirring within her but there was no time to meander in that direction.
She wrapped the bra around her waist and connected the eye holes together. Twisting her bra around, she pulled the black silk over her tits, and moulded them into their home for the day. She then slid her thumb down her cleavage and smiled.
A black vest followed and the lacy crème top was buttoned above. The trousers were replaced in the cupboard and the long, black skirt was removed. She placed the skirt alongside her as she moved towards the new packet of barely black stockings.
Carefully she unwrapped these delicate garments, and slipped them over her toes, gradually allowing them to engulf her calves and knee and thighs.
The elasticity clung to her left leg and she repeated the sensuous act on her right one, finally lifting the skirt from its resting place and stepping into it.
Clad in black boots and a long crème cardigan, she set off for the meeting.

There was no sign of him. The meeting needed to start. She’d carefully placed herself at the back of the room, deliberately ensuring that she sat far away from the place where the hands had collided.

The meeting began.

The door opened and in walked her colleague, the one who had told her that he “had history”.

The disappointment was insurmountable.

She continued to open the meeting, explaining that the agenda needed to be adhered to as there was plenty to discuss. Her colleague was grabbing a coffee and was walking towards the empty seat next to hers, when he opened the door and darted in front of her to edge his way towards the vacant chair.
Vacant chair was a good description.
All rationality had vacated this particular chair as she shifted some papers to allow him some space. He sat down, acknowledging her gaze and she proceeded as she was directed to do.

There was no accidental brushing of fingers, or hands. There was no need, for as he placed himself on his seat, he edged a little closer; close enough for their parallel knees to sidle together. He dropped his hand to his side and carefully laid it in her lap, and squeezed her knee with a telling sign that all was well, all would be fine.

He stared intently at her. He allowed others to see his admiration. She engaged in this obvious flirtation, though such an overt action was not required.

The meeting ended and they were nearly alone, at the back of the room, unable to talk, unable to move, willing people to leave the room.
He tugged on her skirt and pulled it towards her seat, revealing the black stockings that had clearly been warn in anticipation.
He dramatically pressed his hand on the rim and thrust his thumb below, sharply and sensitively stroking her upper thigh.

Alone at last, he rose and moved towards the door, his hand firmly gripping hers insisting that she follow his pace.
The thick door was shut and he leant against it, still not speaking, still not looking at her until he was sure that he could in the way that he wanted to.

He pulled her towards him and he firmly clasped her buttocks, feeling around her hips, moving his hand over and over her arse, pulling her closer. He moved his hand around towards his cock, lifting it in its aroused state to the centre of his trouser, behind the rigidly closed zip, so that she could feel the full benefit of its hardness as he asked her to push her clit towards him.

They kissed as he found the entrance to her body, riding his hand up her shirt towards the silky bra, snapping its sides away from the dark nipples beneath. He pulled at her vest until he had sight of her voluptuous tits and he moved his tongue expertly towards their erection.

He grabbed her hand and guided it into his pocket so that she could feel his cock through the thinnest of material. The moistness of his helmet was seeping through and her own wetness increased at the mere thought that he too was as wet and lubricated as she.

“I told you I wanted to fuck you. I need to fuck you. Can’t you feel this? Can’t you feel what is happening here?”

He kissed her passionately, forcefully, energetically and suddenly stopped.
He held her by the shoulders and stared into her awaiting eyes.

“Phone me. No, don’t phone me. Just come”

And with that, he scribbled on yet another white card and placed it in her hand, grabbed the door handle and left.

Embellished Meetings: A Scene Setter

Embellished Meetings: Scene setting.

She dashed out of the car and crossed the busy street; late again. How was it that she always mistimed the journey even though she knew she could not get there in twenty minutes flat, despite her determination to speed to the best of her car’s capability, forgetting of course, that it is not possible in this implausibly stationary city?

The tardiness was not going to deter her enlivened spirits. The day was bright. The sun was incredibly powerful and the summer holidays were but a few small hours away.
This was the last meeting that she would have before she could pack her bags and disappear in a week’s time, and she was thoroughly looking forward to a fortnight of sunshine (told you it was embellished!).

She ran along the street, crossing the road towards the river and skipped into the building as she watched the water rippling its way downstream, aiming to escape to the open seas, just as she was about to do.
The usual tedious crowd were not going to diminish her joie de vivre either. She was determined that this would be a focused and swift meeting and thankfully, as chair, she had the ability to control the conversations and keep things as orderly as possible.

With a natural and unrestrained smile on her face, she breezed into the meeting room, exclaiming profuse apologies for the ten minute delay and cheerfully placed her belongings on the table.
The smile remained, fixated and bordering on inane and she maintained this for fear of giving herself away. Her eyes twinkled and fleeted across the boardroom, pretending to flow around the entire room, yet firmly maintaining the newcomer in her sphere of vision.
Continuing to settle herself in, she arranged the glass of water and composed herself, trying again to ensure that her body language was not revealing the fascination she felt for this stranger that stood out so spectacularly amongst the usual suspects.

Introductions were done and she still didn’t manage to catch his name, so mesmerised was she by this weird, unfamiliar and indescribable fluttering in her stomach.
The inane grin remained and she professionally and logically pursued the purpose of the moment; to conduct the meeting quickly, carefully and take her leave as soon as was convenient and politic to do so.
But of course, the cronies wanted to talk. They wanted to strategise and meander around, justifying the enormous time and expense of sitting all day discussing and debating rather than getting any real actions to take place. They wanted to summarise and reflect, which is all very well if there is anything of any worth to reflect upon.

And the newcomer simply sat; his eyes focussed downwards as though he was disinterested in this office politics, as though he was indifferent to the entire proceedings.

She controlled the meeting, ignoring the mutterings of her inner wishes, and attempted to conclude the discussions once more. Another meeting was suggested, another meeting at the earliest opportunity. Next week, just before she was due to go on holiday.
Damn her bloody sense of duty. She’d have to attend. She had the most important contacts and the vital information.
Reluctantly, she agreed and a venue was discussed, stating for all to know that she was interrupting her holiday for the greater good.
Finally, the stranger raised his head and nonchalantly stated that his office in the city was available on the suggested date, and looking directly at her with glistening eyes and a solid stare, informed her that some people worked without the need for immediate vacations.
He then raised a smile that seeped into her and she wondered why. Smiling back, she acknowledged the virtue of the vocational and agreed that his office should be the place to conclude this meeting.

Collecting her belongings together, she relieved herself from her plastic seat and made her way towards the door. Brushing passed her as she said her goodbyes; he simply walked by, grinned and said, “Well chaired!”
And he was gone.

Of course you know all about him don’t you, said one of the cronies. A woman like you should tread very carefully there.
What on earth was that supposed to mean?
She walked towards the car slightly unsettled by the newcomer, his stare, his eyes and the comments from this colleague.
How could she know his “history”? She’d never set eyes on him before, and quite frankly, she wasn’t interested in knowing anything about his life. All she was interested in was why she was feeling so entranced by what had just happened. What indeed had happened? It was hardly a momentous meeting. He’d barely raised his head out of his papers and when he did, he had spoken so softly in such a non-committal way that she wasn’t really convinced that he was remotely interested in this area of work.

She drove away, winding the windows of the car right down so that she could be smothered by the freshness of the summer breeze, and the other thoughts in her mind could swiftly float out in the opposite direction.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………..

The city was hot. When the city is like this, there is no escape from it. The buildings monopolise and crouch over you, robbing you of air, whereas in the winter months they create a passage way for violent, biting winds to sever the hairs from your neck.
People were milling around all over the city, darting into the anonymous offices, dashing to the perplexingly omnipresent corporate coffee houses that had bred in every orifice during the last few years.

She found the office with ease and walked into what could only be described as a perfect haven in this madness of the mundane. Care had been taken to consider the people who used this building; their needs, their enjoyment, their belonging. A sense of positivity, of warmth, of thought oozed out from every plant and every artefact. Someone cared. Someone had created this oasis and their very essence was embodied in the fabric of the building and its furnishings. Their very self was evident in the manoeuvrings of the clients and employees alike. Somebody cared.

She’d found out the newcomer’s name once she had arrived back at her office to say goodbye before she ventured off to her holiday destination. One of her colleagues had visited the City Dweller in these enlightened environs but she hadn’t asked about him. There was no need, no desire.
She’d dismissed the fluttering stomach and the irrational fascination as pre holiday excitement. That was all it was.

Until he smiled at her once more.

There was genuine warmth in his greeting, and she was shocked at how much that meant to her. You’re one of us, he said, still smiling, as she recognised the familiar accent of her childhood.
I thought I had taken the burr out. I thought it had died from twenty years away.
Not to one who lives there, lived there he said, again, smiling with every distinct feature on his face. Dialect and intonation are your giveaways.

The meeting surpassed expectations both in time and resourcefulness. Conclusions were swift. Agreements made and it was soon time to depart, and really set about that fortnight’s holiday.
Enjoy the break, he said. He too was taking some leave but later in the month. We all need down-time and a place to simply be.

……………………………………………………………………………………………….

Some would say that her indulgent imagination was her nemesis. Some would argue that she drifted all too readily into a fantasy world that was far removed from reality and that her fondness for the fabricated was senseless. But she liked living there. She always had done.
Her childhood was written into the stones that formed her imaginary castles, her adolescence was reinforced with great escapes to the unknown territory of dark lovers in far off places, her classroom thoughts drifted into expanding real situations into absurd and exciting possibilities that were never, ever going to happen. Throughout her adult she had slipped into her wild imaginings whenever she felt the need. It was these thoughts that excited her more than reality. It was these indulgences that made her want to touch herself. It was these unreal happenings that made her cum.

She’d had many positive relationships with many pleasant blokes but the really horny, downright sexual, the totally liberating and sensual pleasures, well these had mainly come from the unreal.
She’d had sex in a terraced swimming pool with a hefty, blond, blue eyed lover, who didn’t give a damn if anyone was watching them. He had to fuck her there and then, and the invited guests simply smiled. She’d transferred herself into a known film or book, playing out the sexually explicit parts, and if they weren’t there, she’d make them up, embellishing the story, just as she was doing now.
For on that holiday, she had a few joyous cums thinking about the stranger and his suggestive smile.

But it was fantasy. It really was, and she left her thoughts behind as she packed her suitcase and returned to the City.

He fucked her rather well though.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

Months passed, nearly three months in fact, and the stranger did not enter her head. She passed the office a few times, and smiled at the memory of her fantasising during the summer months. But the howling wind as it rushed through the gulley’s, void of warmth, brought her back to reality.

And talking of back to reality, she returned on a wet November day, with Christmas looming ever nearer, to the offices by the river for another meeting with the cronies that had gathered there on that hot summer’s day.
He’d missed the previous meeting and she had no expectation of him being there, and as she approached the room she felt at ease, indifferent to his presence.
She walked in, early for once, and set about convening the meeting. A few last minute arrivals and they would start in due course.

He walked into the room and grabbed a coffee from the machine. She approached him, asking for a document that had appealed to her, wondering if she could have a copy. He suggested that she should call in to his work and grab it from a colleague, maybe after this very meeting. He informed her that he would have to leave the meeting early as he had another appointment that could not be missed.
And as they took their drinks to the table, they sat down next to one another and got on with the task in hand.
Matter of fact; no fantasy, no musings and thoughts of kinky encounters, and that was fine.

The meeting was running smoothly. Discussions were to the point and she sat back, composed and assured that it did not need her interference or manipulation.
She picked up her pen to take note of a particularly important reference, and in the slightest of seconds, the merest movement, a miniscule moment of intimate touch had taken place.
She stared fixatedly at the paper in front of her, unable to move her hand away from the very spot where their little fingers had accidentally meshed for that incredibly short instance. She felt the redness rushing through her face and she was rigid with numbness, unable to look forward, unwilling to move her head towards the culprit yet simultaneously completely aware that he too was mirroring her thoughts and motions. Although their fingers had long since parted, the scolding sensitivity of the contact was still there, not painful yet paralysing, and a stillness had transcended.

The motley crew jabbered away but for that split second, there was nobody in the room other than these two people, this man and this woman who had just felt one another’s skin for the first time.
Still silent, still sensitised, still motionless, she was suddenly increasingly aware of the proximity – to his legs, his hands, his breath.
Without looking down, she felt his presence. Without any more touches, she felt his awareness of her thoughts and she didn’t know what to do.
She wasn’t panicked, she was just immensely aware that something had happened in the mere mishap of those colliding fingers.

On auto-manoeuvre, she gradually replaced her pen and slid her hand onto her thigh, trying to compose the irrationality of her imagination. Without looking, she knew he was mirroring her actions and then, with a determined force, he reached over and smothered her hand with his, crunching in into a fist, enveloping this cluster with his palm and squeezing it knowingly.
He moved away from this clutch and gracefully swept his hand across her thigh to resettle in his own lap, and still they stared at the papers in front of them.

In a daze, she continued about her task. She was chairing a meeting for goodness sake, and she emerged from this shock to ask a significant question that gave the impression her concentration had not been deterred.
He moved his hands and collected his papers together, writing a simple note as he rose from his chair.
“I have to go”, he whispered as he left his seat, leaving the small scrap of paper in front of her.

She smiled and thanked him for coming and returned to the meeting, unable to look at the note, unable to do anything other than work through the remainder of the agenda.
Again, on auto pilot she concluded the meeting, and imitated his last motion, collecting her papers together and taking her leave.

“Come to the office, straight away”.

That was what the note said. And there was absolutely no question as to whether this was feasible or indeed as to whether she would.
The magnetism of that miniscule moment had already paved the way for an immediate encounter, whatever shape it took.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………….

“Glad you could make it over……. I want you to meet someone”.
Meet someone, she thought. Was that why I dropped everything to wander over here?

“And I have that paper you were interested in. I hope you will find it useful”.

A bizarre meeting ensued with almost complete detachment from the previous encounter when a surge of energy had surrounded and engulfed them. Could he really have been oblivious to what had happened? Had she actually imagined his hand stretched out across her fist?

Professional business ensued, and with the third party present, they continued in a classic work mode that had hardly been present an hour or so ago.
On completion of the suddenly arranged meeting, he suggested a walk to the nearest coffee bar, and in a bewildered sense of dumbfoundedness, she obliged.
More small talk occurred, but with a greater sense of meaning. They wittered on, talking like people who have just met do; finding commonalities, asking knowing but not pervasive questions of one another.
He paid for the coffee and got up from his seat. There was determination in its conclusiveness. He needed to get back to work.
She still had the unasked question protruding from her mouth, but he was not giving cause for her to spit it out.
She was going to disappear not knowing whether her stupid imagination had spilled into a real setting. Perhaps she really had imagined everything.

At the exit, she turned away to walk back to her office. The rain was intermittently splattering them as they talked some more for a few minutes before the rain finally put paid to the encounter.
Bizarrely, her unease at the inconclusiveness of this meeting had disappeared, and she was happy to turn away.

In doing so, he gently caught her elbow and brought her closer to him, near enough to kiss her on the cheek but a mile or so away from doing just that.

With his other hand, he reached into his pocket, and gave her his card. She moved away and glanced at the small note in front of her. Quickly, he retracted it, taking a pen from his inner pocket and scrawling another number on the back of the card.

“ My home number….. safer than the office ones……. Phone me……….tonight”.

She looked up at him, as he replaced his hand on her inviting elbow. Again, he pulled her slightly towards him.

“For goodness sake, phone me, tonight. I need to fuck you!”

The Right to Sex

The Right to Sex

Yesterday, I was listening to the radio whilst waiting to go to a meeting. It just goes to show how frequently in our lives we half listen to things because I cannot remember the entire thread of the discussion.
From what I can gather there is a poll to be launched soon to ask the great British public some questions about their lives. The broadcast was inviting people to submit a question that they would really like to know the answer to about how people live their lives.

One bloke had written in earlier in the week and was on air being interviewed about his query.
His question – how many people have sunbathed in the nude? He was suggesting that there was a greater percentage of the population who enjoyed naturism on a more regular basis than is currently implied (by whom I am not sure). He suggested that there was more than 10% of the population who sunbathed in the altogether on a regular basis, and not just in the usual places of East Brighton and Studland Beach. Personally, the idea of doing naturism on a pebbly beach doesn’t appeal to me. I am sure that other folk might say it is far less dangerous than doing it in the sand! Each to his own – but if naturism did lead to you getting rather horny, then sand would be my preferred option for a quick romp.

I think this man may be wrong. I would suggest that there is probably less than 10% of the population who have done it once let alone on a regular basis. He implied that people probably do it far more regularly in their back garden but how many gardens in this country are not overlooked by neighbours who may not be quite as enlightened as you would hope? I can’t see it myself, with the prudish mentality of the majority – or at least the media representation of the majority.

Obviously, I then thought about what question I would like to know, and having thought around the subject for some time, I think I would have to ask about one of my favourite subjects, that being squirting. How many women squirt during orgasm? How many men have experienced their female partners doing it? How frequently does it happen? Every time you have sex or just an occasional excitement? Admittedly, that is more than one question but I am sure these could be amalgamated into the multi-choice tick box that most of these surveys choose to use.

It was rather joyous to listen to a conversation about naturism that did not manifest itself as some sort of titillation and didn’t incorporate some kind of snide and smutty humour. It was an interesting debate which, alongside another thing that happened yesterday, made me think about how people do express themselves sexually and how comfortable people are with their own bodies (my only preclusion to naturism).

Earlier in the day, I had been talking to a group of women about their housing situation. They happened to be of Middle Eastern descent; Muslim, in full head dress and covered arms and legs but their story is sadly similar to many - indigenous and settlers alike.

One of the women had requested a larger property from the council when she fell pregnant. This was not deemed as an essential and so she stayed within her tiny one bedroom flat in a block of flats near an exceptionally busy road. She now has two children, a lively two year old and a six month old – both boys. Her husband works long hours and she remains in a damp ridden flat, in one bedroom, with two demanding children, unconfident in her spoken English but bright, clever and extremely personable.
She admitted to bouts of severe depression and had been offered anti-depressants by her doctor. Her friend, her husband and her good self had taken photos of the cramped living conditions and the mould ridden walls of the bedroom where four people sleep, and had taken them down to a pre-arranged meeting with the council’s housing department.

At this meeting, the council dismissed the mould and damp, saying it would be a good idea to wash the walls down with bleach. Where she was going to put her children to sleep whilst this was happening, she had no idea.
Requesting yet again, a property with an additional bedroom, she was told that this was not a necessity until her eldest son was ten years old. Ten years old!
She is expected to live in a one bedroom flat until her son is ten years old – eight more years of sharing an intimate place with her two sons, eight more years of covering herself away from any potential accidental glances, eight more years of sleeping with a great wodge of damp in the corner of the bedroom!

Now I am not so naïve as to be overtly shocked by this but it did strike me as being particularly insensitive of the council, especially considering the religious tendencies of this woman, and I know many would argue – so what?
The point is that she never gets an ounce of privacy, irrespective of her religion.
And this got me thinking……. You can put a baby to sleep and have sex but as they get older, and especially if they are sleeping in the same room as you, and doubly so if you have some religious rituals to contend with too, how on earth do you maintain a decent sexual life under those conditions?

Coming back to the point of this woman’s depression, isn’t it actually a well-established fact that sexual activity as well as other forms of exercise are beneficial to mind, body and soul? Of course this poor woman is depressed, and she has no means of proper relaxation with her partner to enjoy the sexuality that she deserves and undoubtedly wants. Isn’t this a right for all – the right to express and practice sexuality? Shouldn’t this be a human right?

I have done my research. I have looked at the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights and there is nothing in there whatsoever about the right to sex. I didn’t actually expect it to be there but just because there is a current omission doesn’t mean it should always be the case.
I think I have found a new cause celeb for Zenpuss!

Joking aside though, this is a serious issue. Looking through the UN Universal Declaration, there isn’t even a reference to sexuality let alone the right to sex, let alone the right to good sex!
Article 19 states “Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers”.
Phew! That’s Zenpuss covered then but this is as near the right to sex that any of the articles come to.
If you have the urge, then look at the charter for yourself – there are a few other comments that I would like to make on this but that is for another place and another time. http://www.un.org/en/documents/udhr/

So I am here today to initiate the idea that the “Right to Sex” should be the 31st article.
I would actually go further and suggest that as humans we have the right to good sex as well as a mere quickie.
If the UN is really serious about human rights then surely this should be an integral part of their charter. Imagine, a world at peace with oneself and one another – all because every human being is entitled to good sex, if they choose to do so.

In Article 25, there is the following statement. “Everyone has the right to a standard of living adequate for the health and wellbeing of himself (him?)and of his family, including food, clothing, housing and medical care and necessary social services……”
Again, there is no mention of sex, which is extremely interesting if you relate this to the core instinctual behaviour of fight, flight and fuck.

There is a universal lack of appreciation and acceptance that sex has an integral and important part to play in our mental wellbeing, and everyone should have the right to express their sexuality in a way that they deem to be appropriate.
The naturists should be allowed to sling their clothes anywhere they feel like if it makes them feel good.
Spiritual and emotional liberty should be the means and the end to sexual expressionism, and visa versa.
The woman that I met should have the right to sex, and with her current sleeping arrangements, I am not sure she has this. Certainly the council has not considered her sexual entitlement when telling her she could not have a room for herself and her partner for another eight years.

And I, like many others, should have the right to sex as and when I want it, as long as this also complies with my partner’s desires.
I am not suggesting that we all go around demanding sex. That could get out of hand, and I certainly wouldn’t want people to use Article 31 to justify the manipulation or repression or victimisation of others in a sexual nature – that would contravene other Articles.
All I am saying is that there should be some true acknowledgement of the right to sex, and further acknowledgement of the immense positivity and wellbeing on individuals and society that this could bring.

As for good sex, well I seriously wish that other people could enjoy the intense satisfaction and intimacy of long and frequent fucking that I have the pleasure of experiencing. Everyone should get to know themselves, exploring their own bodies, sharing that exploration with others, allowing others to reach inside or around their most intimate parts before joining together for a deeply, deeply sensational session of love-making.

Now that really is a human right!