9 comments/ 36350 views/ 0 favorites Those Fucking Years By: mandywilluk2000 I only had sex with one person in those fifteen months I waited for my divorce to come through. Just one person in all that lonely period. And then only twice with them. Once the day I kicked my husband out after finding he’d been unfaithful, yet again, and once a week or so later. But that sex was wonderful. It was different to any I’d had before, it was invigorating, exciting so satisfying and it was with a woman. But after Toni I stopped. It somehow didn’t seem proper. I didn’t have the inclination. I didn’t have the will to leave my twelve year old daughter to go on dates. I didn’t also feel the need to “have a drink” with husbands of friends who once I was separated found that “they’d fancied me for years” or that “their wives really didn’t understand them.” I hadn’t realised how popular I’d been all these years I’d been with Kevin. Silly girl! And at thirty five there doesn’t seem to be that many eligible single men and after the hurt I’d been through there was no way I could do that to another woman so married ones were out. So, a combination of being emotional and very morose, disillusionment with men, a general lack of availability and trying to bring some semblance of order to my shattered life all signalled one thing. I became almost a recluse in my new Docklands fortress where I remained barricaded up against any marauding males with my daughter, Sarah, for over a year. I spent that year working hard on the divorce that, thankfully, in the end turned out to be fairly amicable. Both Kevin and I wanted it to be as easy on Sarah as it could be and we went out of our way to avoid any unnecessary acrimony. Fortunately money was not really too much of a problem for I’d helped him build up his small company into a much larger one and he was able to buy out my shareholding. He was also generous, but then he always was and with more than money. I found out as my lawyer delved into his past that he was a serial adulterer. As it turned out he’d been unfaithful to me throughout the marriage. The bastard. Although I had nothing to do with men and after Toni I had no sex at al, it was, looking back, an interesting time. I got a new apartment in a trendy area of London, Docklands. I started playing golf and tennis again. I got a new car and I got a job. Calling on old contacts I started writing copy on a freelance basis. Mainly, as it turned, out for recruitment ads but also some technical stuff, a little scriptwriting and a few speeches for a big company whose marketing director I’d known for some time. He badly, it seemed, wanted to get into my knickers so we had numerous meetings about the speeches he had to give as he briefed me in person. I took his briefs but never gave him my knickers, after all “never fuck a client” is an old ad industry dictate and, in any case, he was married. It was different once the divorce came through. Once that weight was lifted from my shoulders I felt better. I felt more able to start rebuilding my life. I stopped being the reclusive celibate. I bought a whole new wardrobe as I set out to become a woman of the 21st century. A liberated female. One who could take or leave men. One who recognised sex for what it was. Basically a commodity to be enjoyed. Not something that was mixed up with love and affection but a pleasure. An indulgence, something I would do because I wanted to. No other reason, no other motives. Oh yes, as I signed the final divorce papers sitting in my lawyer’s office in my new Janet Regar thong and ridiculously skimpy bra under the tight leather trousers and low cut top, I was sure that I’d now be able to “fuck ‘em and leave ‘em” just as men do us, And for a while it worked just like that. For a weird year and a bit I did “fuck ‘em and leave ‘em.” I may well have actually fucked a few too many and certainly I left too many for at the end there were none left. Was I promiscuous? Of course. Was I an easy lay? Well fairly? Was the sex good? You bet. Was I happy? Was I by fuck? No I wasn’t. My first date after the divorce was a salutary lesson and an amazing experience for me. It was also quite funny, sad, all mixed up and, overall rather disappointing! He was someone I met at a golf tournament. We got on well as we played and we chatted easily at the following dinner. Older than me in his early forties, Peter was a widower with two children. Well-off with his own house he met me at an opportune time just a couple of weeks after the divorce was finalised which was the time I had set myself to re-enter life! Well at least to make an effort at it. Now over a year without any form of physical, let alone sexual contact, I guess I was close to being so frustrated that even a glance from a good looking man could start things moving in me. When he asked me out I at first found myself starting to refuse as I had done throughout the previous year or so But then I remembered my pledge to myself so I accepted. We had dinner and then I met him for lunch and we went out a couple of times for drinks. Other than a few brief pecks on the cheek and one fairly energetic goodnight kiss there had been nothing physical between us although clearly the time for that was approaching. I could feel the pressure of the “if you don’t like the heat get out of the kitchen” or more crudely, but probably more accurately, “pee or get off the pot” being applied. After all people of our ages don’t go out to purely talk about golf do they? And as in fact we didn’t have much else in common that was what we largely chatted about. The moment when I, excuse me, was supposed to pee came with the suggestion from him, that I have now learned is quite prevalent amongst the “new man” age that had passed me by, of “Come round to mine, I’ll cook dinner.” In the two days since he had asked my mind had been on little else. I just could not get my head around whether I would go to bed with him if that was proposed. On the one hand I wanted to. I needed sex and I wanted to have another man. A man free from the impositions of wife-swapping, revenge affairs and the red mists I’d had in the latter days with my ex. I needed to know whether I would be able to respond to and accept his advances. Whether I would become aroused and indeed whether I would be able to have an orgasm? I‘d had no physical contact with a man for over a year and, although I had found relief and a degree of satisfaction from other means, I knew that I was enormously frustrated. I was also concerned at that for I was worried that I would appear rather inexperienced and that I might climax too quickly and make a sexual fool of myself. Was dating worth it I wondered and began to doubt it? Countering all this, though, was my natural reticence. I had never easily given myself, other than for revenge, and I did not want to start this new period of my life as being an “easy lay!” On top of that, although I liked him and did, as far as things had gone, quite fancy him, I didn’t know whether this would transmit itself into the sort of sexual chemistry that I felt would be necessary. I was out of touch with seduction. It had been so long that the outlook that seems to have become quite natural nowadays of, “we get on well so let’s fuck” had completely passed me by. So in a quandary I had packed Sarah off for the night as opposed to having a friend in, just in case I stayed over. Getting ready I was like a schoolgirl on a first date. I couldn’t decide what to wear. Rejecting some things because I felt they were too sexy and others because they were too formal I took ages to prepare myself. I bathed, washed my hair, dried that and spent simply ages with my make-up. I felt that I had better dress with a view to being undressed later so I paid special attention to my underwear. Should it be seductive black or virginal white? Or a pastel colour in between? I pondered on the bra. Net, thin and see through so that should my nipples erupt they would be clearly visible through my top, or thicker and more supportive to create a more interesting and dramatic cleavage? Tights or stockings? I mused over these critical matters for ages for ages? And then of course the panties. The modern, high-waisted cut severely at the thighs type or perhaps, a thong? Oh the agonies of rejoining the dating game. I eventually got myself to his house and we had a couple of drinks before he served me a well-prepared dinner. The atmosphere was easy between us and any concerns or inhibitions I had were being washed away with the bottle or so of white wine that we drank. At the end of the meal I got up and said that I would clear away but he wouldn’t hear of it saying, “Leave it until tomorrow.” Feeling surprisingly warm towards him I went round the table and I kissed him on the cheek and thanked him for the lovely meal. His hand reached out and rested on my hip as I bent over and my top of course gaped a little. His eyes, naturally I suppose went down my top and he pulled me onto his lap. We kissed for some time his hands running up and down my back, outside the grey cashmere sweater. It sent pleasant feelings through me. I felt comfortable and at ease on his lap and showed no resistance when I felt his hands inside the sweater on my bare back. The intensity of his kiss increased and I responded. As his tongue searched deep into my mouth sending signals of his passion to me, my tongue touched his and pressed back against it. It obviously worked for slowly he moved his hand round to the front moving closer and closer to my breasts but taking the time to gain my tacit approval at each stage. And then so lightly he touched one of them. It felt wonderful. The first time a new partner touches a woman intimately really is lovely and so arousing. And this was no exception. They had not been caressed by anyone other than me for over a year and so the feelings were even more intense and special. Slowly and gently he stroked and rubbed me through the thin, black lace teasing the pink tip into a rock-hard protuberance. Feeling no resistance at all from me he became more welcomingly adventurous easing his fingers inside one of the cups so that they were right on the nipple that once more exploded with feelings. Now confident of my compliance and agreement his boldness grew and he pushed the thin sweater up so that he could see my breasts. I was pleased with my choice of bra for I knew that his eyes would be gazing at the two orbs encased in the gossamer thin, black net material and that he would be seeing the swollen nipples clearly. We manhandled the sweater off and it was only moments later that I felt the clasp being unclipped and the pressure on my breasts relieved as he removed the bra. He was now looking at me naked above the waist and he said very softly, “Oh Amanda they are so lovely!” It’s a very special moment when a new partner gazes at a woman’s bare breasts for the first time. The feelings of pride as he compliments you and the, usually, clear indications that you are arousing him are lovely as is the want that seems to go through one from exposing such an intimate part of the body. His hands, now on my bare flesh, did incredible things to me and he murmured. “Let’s go to bed Amanda?” Feeling a little like a topless waitress at one of those lap dance clubs in London I stood up as he, in a rather laboured way, lifted himself out of the deep chair clearly a little embarrassed at his erection being on show,. Standing, in just the leather trousers and high heels, I waited his arrival in a vertical form and that seemed to take for ages. But at last he was beside me the bulge in his trousers looking half rather ridiculous and half extremely encouraging, “Wow I’ve caused that,” I thought. We embraced and began to sort of dance to the music. His strong arms pulling me to him I felt ready for him and was relieved that I felt prepared to break my celibacy in such a romantic style. I undid his shirt and let his quite hairy chest send extra thrills through the skin of my boobs as we gyrated together on the spot his hands exploring my bottom through the thin leather that was stretched taught across its rounded softness. As if glued together I felt the assuring hard length of his maleness pressing wonderfully and confidently into my belly. After such a long abstinence from feeling an erection it was both exciting and a little daunting for I was out of practice at what was soon to come. Female intuition and sheer lust took over though and I found myself pressing back against the rod-like piston of flesh (in basic English I mean his cock but I’m feeling flowery) draining every last bit of feeling from it into me. It was a gorgeous feeling. My breasts jiggling as he walked me up the stairs to his bedroom I felt wantonly expectant as we stood by the bed and embraced once more. Looking at each other we, wordlessly both started undoing our trousers our eyes taking in each new sight that was revealed. His boxer shorts ballooning out around his erection. The lacy top of my panties that showed him that I was not wearing tights. His muscular thighs and the respectable bulge in his pants. (Feeling relieved that I hadn’t worn my Bridget Jones) the tight pocket of lace across my pubic area and the tops of my black, self-support stockings. His flat tummy and the mass of brown pubic hair clustered above and around his manhood as he slid his boxers down. My legs encased in the luxuriant silk stockings that I hoped flattered them and made them look longer and more alluring. My body was now crying out to be made love to as I saw, for the first time in over a year that object of such pride to men and intrigue to women. That appendage that to women has little X factor other than when its up close and personal and about to do its business. And his wasn’t at all bad as far as such rather silly looking things go. After all there are only so many varieties of cock aren’t there? A little more length here and a tad more girth there for sure. But come on lads, especially those in chat rooms when they ask “what do you thinks of it?” What the hell do they expect? For Christ’s sake they’re all really much of a muchness aren’t they? Almost, but not quite, “seen one seen ‘em all really. But I digress and simplify the situation regarding women and penises. It’s far more of a complex issue than that. That little, medium or large tower of blood bloated flesh that to most women when looked on in a photo has a sterility about it verging on looking at paint dry, somehow changes radically when one is confronted by one in close up. When one witnesses the amazing effect one has had on another party to produce that it changes the female’s perspective. It alters her way of thinking. Maybe it’s just the intimacy, the feeling of pride in a good job done or possibly because that thing is soon to penetrate her innermost womanliness, that her view changes? Then suddenly she probably thinks ”I don’t want a bit of sterile blood bloated flesh up me” so, with the flexibility of thought and opinion that makes us such fascinatingly frustrated creatures it becomes an object of such beauty that we can’t keep out hands off them can we? So let’s get on. What else was there to look at? Ah yes that wonderful sack hanging down that is so attractive to women and so thrilling to touch and fondle. Balls are, I think, our alternative to tits for you. I used to play with Kevin’s for ages, Rolling them in ones hands as captain Queeg (was it in Caine Mutiny?) did with those ball bearings, actually that was just before they declared him mad, can be such a wonderful attraction to us that I wonder someone hasn’t invented a plastic version to sell at lingerie parties and in Anne Summer shops. Talk about hot cakes!!! “No” he croaked as I went to remove my panties “please leave them on for a while.” Feeling a might over dressed against his total nakedness I did though do as he said. Right back to the serious stuff. I was now hellishly nervous and not completely sure that I should be doing this. I liked him, he made me laugh and he wasn’t bad company but was that enough to warrant having his sterile rod in me? I pondered for a moment as I lay on the bed in my black thong and stockings and watched him climb on and lay beside me. As we kissed, his hands caressed my bottom moving nearer and nearer to my crutch that was, actually, aching to receive him. And then they were there! As his fingers slid inside my panties and touched the, by now, sodden wetness of my lips my body once more exploded with sensations. The feelings that his touch were sending through me were accelerated and increased by those I was gaining from having his warm, throbbing length grasped, probably slightly too, firmly in my hand. I had forgotten just what it was like to hold a man’s penis. The combination of the hardness, with just a touch of give in it, and the warmth and feeling of throbbing power that I had created in him is heady stuff I always find and especially so with a new partner. Oh how I wanted that in me. I felt giddy with the thought that so soon now I would once again have a man invade me. But that had to wait its turn for my body was reacting powerfully to the hand doing such deliciously arousing things between my thighs. I was cumming and I knew there was no stopping it. My body also transmitted that to him and he pulled me even tighter to him as the shudders of expectant sexual release ran through me. I sighed and moaned as my first man induced climax for so long took over and transported me to that place of such pleasure. That was bad enough. Here he was thinking he’d pulled a woman in her supposed sexual prime. One that was up and ready for anything with up to 20 years solid sexual experience behind her. A divorcee who was naturally gagging for it and who had the maturity and skills to be a really good lay. And what does she do? What she bloody well does is cum immediately he touches her. Oh yes what a lay? What an experienced woman? What a skilled lover? And it got worse for, as the amazingly powerful orgasm swept over me with wave after wave of what seemed like increasingly intensive sensations, so my emotions just exploded and I started to cry. Floods of fucking tears everywhere, mascara down my face, hair all over the place, bloody big tits heaving and my body jerking like a junky doing cold turkey I cried and cried. The poor sod had no idea what was going on and even less as to what to do. I could see that he wasn’t sure whether to cuddle me leave me alone or jump between my thighs and try and fuck me. The evening didn’t end on a very high note. After that exhibition I think he was convinced that instead of an experienced lover who would transmit him to sexual heaven, he had on his hands a bloody nutcase that might easily take him to the hell of madness. Needless to say he wasn’t happy that all he’d got for his efforts slaving over the stove was a grope of my tits and a hand in my knickers and I have to say I felt bad about that. I recognised that it was not good value. A half dozen quite delicious King Prawns and a lovely crown of lamb, not to mention two bottle of Chablis and four or five previous dates, must be worth more than a flash of boob and a touch of pussy. If not the laws of economics, that I know may at times be cloudy, would have no meaning at all would they? So compensation was needed. Restitution had to be paid. The scales of economic justice had to balance. But what was the going rate? I didn’t know for I hadn’t had to balance any such scales at all for ages. Maybe the currency had even changed since I had last dated. Then what was possibly a hand job might now have become a blow one! What may have been in my day a furtive finger or two fumbling in a furry fanny might now be a pushing, pulsating penis penetrating a private place promised as the preserve for privileged people. Those Fucking Years Perhaps I should ask him I ruminated standing over the sink in his bathroom? I knew that I had to let him make love to me but strangely it no longer seemed as important to me. Most of the excitement and anticipation that had pervaded me since I entered his house had now gone. Sure there was a little tingling but not the rush of feelings I had had previously. I showered and wrapped a large towel round me and returned to the bedroom where he was laying on the bed a sheet covering him. I climbed in again apologising for what had happened but he just shrugged that off and was very understanding. We cuddled up together and gradually started doing all the things that a naked man and woman do when in bed together. He became hard and I held that and stroked it. He caressed my breast, quite nicely and then kissed them. We pressed our bodies together and we kissed at length and yes I became a little aroused. But not that much. That disturbed me. I should be begging him for it shouldn’t I? The first time for all that time and here I was wondering what Sarah was doing and glancing at the clock to see whether I’d missed the ten o’clock news. Not really the domain I thought of the 21st woman. Where’s the tigress gone? Where’s the rampant frustrated sexual goddess ready to give and take every sexual favour? I couldn’t find her. But nevertheless he was laying on me, his length was against my pubis, my thighs opened and he slid down so that the tip of that blood engorged tower was pressing against the velvety, also blood engorged lips of that tunnel of love that we keep there for special occasions. He was grunting and sighing as his hips pushed forward. As indeed I was as for the first time in over a year I was penetrated. He was in me, up me filling me. I was being fucked I thought wondering who was presenting the news tonight. A few minutes of, what I thought were, relatively expert thrusting and he was telling me that he was nearing his ejaculation. I’d better join in I thought throwing my body around a bit and gasping and sighing as for the first time in my life I feigned an orgasm. I think I must have a natural talent for it as he was so pleased that he had “made me cum” and that we’d climaxed together. Not a bad night’s’ work I thought later at home in my own bed. Not bad but not great for certainly the sex had, at best, been confusing, and was not the blisteringly fantastic experience I had expected on my return to being a player of that game. Ah well always next time I smiled as I slid off to sleep after my first date as a single woman. In the three months or so of our affair the sex did get better. Not a lot but better than that first time. With me not wanting to introduce Sarah to my date we settled into a routine. We’d usually meet for lunch once a week occasionally then going to his house or my flat and spending a couple of hours in bed. Alternatively he’d cook me dinner and we’d have a repeat of the first time. Not, I hasten to add, with me cumming quite so quickly although, I have to admit, more orgasms were faked than were real. I became quite adept at doing that I suppose. But there was no real fizz in it and slowly, as his kids came home for the summer holidays the relationship just fizzled out and ended. Madly mixing metaphors, it never rains but it pours doesn’t it? And like London buses none for ages then three at once. Suddenly after a three month barren patch it was suddenly raining men for Mandy. There was Tom an Art Director at one of the agencies I worked for. I’d known him for some time, not that well and certainly not intimately, but on terms that were close enough for us to chat easily. There was Stuart, a lawyer I met at a dinner party and there was Gordon a fifty year old Mancunian, self made man I met while on a golfing holiday with seven other women in Spain. Tom and I sat next to each other at an awards lunch and ended up in his bed that evening. Peter and I went on several dates before gradually getting round to it and Gordon had his hand up my skirt and my tits out on a lounger round the hotel pool at two o’clock in the morning. Quite a varied lot really. The awards ceremony was at the Savoy. All rather grand and all crushingly boring but I’d written some copy for an ad he’d designed and we were nominated so we had to be there. Fortunately the client couldn’t make it so we were able to overindulge in the free booze and by the time the room was darkened and the presentations started, we didn’t win, we were both a bit tipsy. He pulled his chair closer to mine as many of the others on the round table turned theirs towards the stage. We laughed a lot taking the piss out of some of the ads and I felt his arm go round the back of my chair and his fingers rest on my shoulder. “And what Mr Mason, do you think you’re doing?” I asked. “Actually Ms Williams trying to get into your knickers.” “Well as you know better men at your agency have tried and better men have failed,” I replied jokingly. Such banter wasn’t that unusual between the male and female staff in the ad industry where PC still doesn’t seem to have arrived. “Yes but they haven’t been close up to you when you’re tipsy and just gagging for it have they?” I quipped back, “who says I’m half tipsy?” “Well OK pissed then,” he retorted clearly realising that I hadn’t rejected the “gagging for it” remark. As the ceremony droned on so I felt his hand softly rubbing my shoulder. As we got nearer to our section so his leg pressed against mine. As we both drank more wine so his foot ran up and down my calf and as we realised we hadn’t won so I felt his hand on my leg. “Oh well that’s that then,” he muttered leaning over so that his mouth was close to my ear. ”We might as well go and fuck hadn’t we?” In my slightly, well fairly to be truthful, pissed state and with me now trying to be the sophisticated sexual predator of the 21st century it seemed sort of cool really to say. “Yeah I guess we should I suppose.” So we did. Twice actually later that afternoon. And it was good. Neither of us was in that fit a state for sexual acrobatics so both times were leisurely and probably not that expert but they were fun. Until Tom I’d never really looked on sex as being fun. But with him it always was. .He didn’t take anything serious so why should he with sex was his belief. So for a two or three month period, when he introduced me to smoking marijuana again after what must have been a fifteen or sixteen year absence, we had fun as we had sex. We smoked, drank and laughed our way through a series of premature ejaculations, a number of “oh fuck it I can’t get it up” and some absolutely monumentally mind blowing sessions. At the same time Stuart was pulling me. Slowly and methodically as his legal training prompted him he did everything absolutely properly. The first date all friendly and diplomatic and a peck on the cheek as we said goodbye. The second, dinner, a little more romantic and talk of a more intimate nature followed by a lips on lips kiss in the cab on the way home. No thought on either part though of coming in for coffee, no not on a second date that wouldn’t be right. It was on the third though as was a full on kiss and tongues in the others mouth. Up top only on the third date as he enquiringly at first touched my breasts. Finding only the appropriate level of resistance he persevered as we sat in his flat and over what must have been an hour he undid a couple of buttons on my blouse. It took probably another twenty minutes for him to get his fingers inside my bra and another ten or so before he yanked each boob out from its restraining cup. Being the demure and modest lady I felt he wanted me to be, after he’d played with them for a while not, of course going so far as to suck my nipples even though that was exactly what I wanted him to do, I put my toys away and went home an intact and well behaved lady. As I’d got more into dating I’d worked out that the fourth or fifth date is the watershed. It’s the one where you’ve both got to know each other quite well, where inhibitions have gone a bit and both parties are quite comfortable with each other. So when he also suggested “come round and I’ll cook you dinner” for our fourth date I assumed that this would be where the heat would be turned up. As I rode over to his place by cab I recalled the old schoolgirl dating protocol of “only up top for the first few dates and no up the skirt until at least the fourth or fifth!” I was quite pleased that I wasn’t wearing trousers this time! Out of his pinstripe suit and white button down shirt Stuart was a different man. Once he threw off the uniform and restrictions of his profession and training he changed completely. When naked he was Godlike. I could hardly believe that the man who’d been so diplomatically dating me could be so awesome in bed. He was an amazing lover. Quite the most technically adept I’d ever been with. After the meal we’d sat together on the sofa and he took up from where he’d left off last time. Remember that? Bra still on, but tits out yet no sucking or nipple chewing. Of course this time there was that. That and so much more. I’d never had a man pay such homage to my breasts before. He’d undone the buttons on my blouse, gone through the cursory entry level of caressing me outside my bra before again getting them out. This time though he leaned behind me and undid my bra. I like that feeling as the restriction of the tight elastic is removed. I like the sensation as the cups are eased away from the mounds. And I enjoy the look on a lover’s, well a potential lover in this case, face when he looks at them for the first time. I am a little bit arrogant about my tits. I know they’re not bad at all. I know I’ve got a good rack and I know that many/most men are suckers for big, soft, full tits. And Peter was no exception. Where he was different, though, was the time he took playing with them and what he did to me by doing that. He must have licked and kissed every single square millimetre of them at least once and for an age. He must have sucked and chewed each of my nipples for longer than News at Ten lasts and he stroked each of the orbs until I was in fear that he’d rub them away. One way of losing a little weight I guess. So, naked above the waist, skirt pushed up to mid thigh my breasts being lengthily stimulated by this amazingly patient man, what did I do? Unusually for me I did just lay back and enjoy it. He was so in charge and was so systematically directing proceedings it didn’t seem right for me to interject. Sure I kissed him back when appropriate and I did undo a couple of buttons on his shirt and yes I felt his, quite impressive, length through his trousers, but not much more. My part seemed fairly well defined and that was to be his plaything. So plaything I became. And boy did he play. Although his concentration was on my boobs, and wonderfully so I must say, there was the occasional fingers sliding along my thighs and now and then the lightest touch on my panty covered pussy. As I tended to jerk when he did that, well girls do don’t they, he would then apply a little more pressure right there. Right where I wanted that pressure. Right where all females love that pressure. Yes right alongside my clit that, unlike many men, he seemed to find so easily. Usually as he did that he was sucking, quite noisily in fact, on a nipple or licking the softer flesh of one of my tits. The combination of being strongly stimulated in two places at once had the inevitable effect on me. Yes I climaxed, twice for sure and maybe three times on that sofa. It wasn’t anything like it had been with Peter where I embarrassed myself by cumming far too early. No, with Stuart, my climaxes were an essential part of the sexual foreplay as he saw it. It was almost as if it was my duty to cum. And being a dutiful girl I did, willingly and explosively with his hand between my legs and his mouth on my tits. But that was just the start. As I lay on the sofa in my mellow, post orgasmic state he stood up and not taking his eyes from mine for a moment he undressed. And as I said out of his pinstripes he was Godlike. He had an almost perfect body, at least to my eyes. Tall and slim without an ounce of unnecessary flesh he obviously looked after his body in the methodical way he did everything else including me. Lightly tanned with a covering of hair on his chest he had an absolutely flat six pack and a beautifully long and smooth cock that reared up from a thatch of golden pubes tinged with splashes of grey. Totally unselfconscious about his nudity, unlike many men he picked me up and carried me to his bedroom. You’ll notice that I’m not including much dialogue and that’s because we hardly talked throughout the entire episode. But then the way that Stuart made love didn’t programme in talking. Sitting on the bed with me standing next to him he slid my skirt up. He did make a noise then by sighing deeply as he looked at the pretty white knickers I was wearing, without tights or stockings for the weather was still warm and my legs still had the tan from my Italian holiday. Slowly moving the fingers of one hand in little circles right on my clit he eased the back of my panties down with the other. Eventually getting them down my thighs he took them and then my skirt off. At last I got to lie on the bed and was thinking that now we’d fuck. Wrong. Oh no. No it wasn’t time in his programme for that. No this was the time for the beneath the waist foreplay. I won’t bore you with the tedious details but we then had another hour or so of him attending to every part of my lower body. Strangely though only with his hands and not once did he use his tongue or mouth on my pussy. But the intensity and, I have to say gentleness and expertise, with which he inflamed my lips both inside and out continued on my clit and all around my bottom made me cum again. His lovemaking though quite expert and very giving was sort of mechanistic and so bloody drawn out. It was as though he could give for ever but not want anything in return. As though he took all I had but never really revealed anything about himself. Even when, eventually, he did fuck me it was as if he were programmed. He did everything correctly, he took his time, he combined long and short thrusts and fast and slow ones but not once did he let himself go. No loud moans or words. It was like being fucked by a machine. True a powerful and very efficient one but still a machine. A fucking machine actually. So in my raining men period I had one guy where it was all fun and another where it was mechanistic. On the golf trip to Spain I found one in the middle I was in Spain with seven other women of varying ages on a golf trip. Five rounds in seven days staying in a great hotel right on a golf course. It was a popular place for groups of particularly English golfers to go and the place was full. What more could eight female golfers want? Great golf, sun, a smashing hotel, good food and wine and a hotel full of men!! We’d been chatted up quite a lot for we were very much in the minority amongst the, mainly, male golfers. Around the pool, on the course and at the clubs and restaurants we visited in the evenings. A couple of the girls had got off with guys and, funnily enough they were both married. Us single women seemed more reticent but, what the hell, the old golf maxim of “what happens on tour stays on tour” would be strictly enforced, wouldn’t it? It was our last night. We were leaving the next afternoon and we’d decided to eat in the hotel restaurant. That day we’d accepted an invitation from a group of guys to play mixed golf and I’d been paired up with Gordon. He was a sturdy man with strong looking arms and hit the ball miles. A bit wayward but a fair golfer even though his handicap was higher than mine. Nice to shove that at the men, I’m fifteen! He was from Manchester and as we wandered round the course he told me that he owned a business that manufactured something that I never quite understood. He was supposedly separated from his wife and three kids and lived in Cheshire just south of the city. We got on well. He had a good sense of humour didn’t take himself too seriously and flirted with me in a friendly and challenging manner. He had a quick mind and I admired his thoughtful phrasing even though he made it quite obvious that “he was available” if I wanted him. Nearly five hours of golf and talking and you get to know someone pretty well. And overall I quite liked what I got to know. Although my affair with Stuart was on the wane that with Tom was still wafting along on a cloud of smoke, booze and laughter but was going nowhere. So was I on the lookout, I wondered that evening getting ready for dinner, for a Stuart replacement? I didn’t give it that much thought but I did find myself dressing in underwear that would look good to be undressed in. Daft and a little lacking in moral fibre, but then hey I’m single and free aren’t I? And of course I’m now a woman of the 21st Century and if I want a quick fuck tonight why not? It didn’t come to that. Not quite. It could have easily. It was there for me to take if I wanted but I didn’t After the dinner there was a dance in the disco and Gordon made a beeline for me. “Looks as if Mandy’s pulled,” one of the girls remarked as he pulled me onto the dance-floor a third time. As the disco closed with a slow, smoochy number so I was in Gordon’s arms pressed fairly tightly to him. It felt nice. It felt warm and comforting being in his arms. And I felt nice. Very mellow and satisfied, a little tipsy, quite receptive and close to him. I was absolutely primed I imagine for him to make his move on me. Grabbing a full bottle of white wine and two glasses he took me by the arm and said, “Come on let’s go for a walk.” His authoritative and commanding manner sort of impressed me and didn’t think for one moment of saying no. We wandered around the hotel and into the extensive ground, across the large pool area and onto a narrow pebbly path that ran alongside the beach. He was telling me about his business at first and then we chatted about golf and I told him a little about my life. We’d been walking for ten minutes or so away from the hotel and we’d reached what was a public beach area with loungers spread out over it. It was dark and very secluded. “You really are a stunning woman Amanda,” he told me stopping and turning towards me. I never know what to say when complimented like that so I usually smile and say, “thank you,” as I did to him. “And on top of that an intelligent one and a great golfer,” he went on smiling but also playing to my weakness of being told I’m intelligent. I like that. I like to be admired for that more than I do my looks although being admired for my tits does run my mind a close second. It was all becoming a bit messy. Here was I on the one hand acting like an out of control nympho getting laid regularly with a changing rota of men yet on the other I was trying to fulfil my duties as a mum. Logistically and physically I could just about make it work and, in any case, I’ve always enjoyed sex in the afternoons, there’s something so splendidly sordid about it isn’t there? It was the emotional bit I couldn’t hack so well. The lies to my daughter. The recall when she came home from school that just previously her loving, caring mum had been in bed with a man her legs wrapped round him as he took her to heights of sexual joy and pleasure. The memory when she came home one morning that the previous night I’d had sex with Gordon on the very sofa on which she was sitting. And the guilt. I simply felt guilty about the loose way I acted. The way that I’d gone with Gordon so easily on that beach and the way that I went with Mike in his car. Oh I haven’t told you that yet have I? Should I? Do you want more of the same tedious details of my descent into what I was becoming to think of as a pretty decadent life-style? Those Fucking Years No we’ll skip that for a while and I’ll tell you about Brad. He was my escapade into the world of toy boys. I’d hurt my back playing tennis and went to a local physio. Just my luck, good or bad I’ll leave you to judge, to be treated by a twenty five year old Aussie hunk! As I lay on his massage table and he massaged my legs I just can’t tell you of the erotic thoughts I had. Each time his strong hands slithered up my oiled thigh I imagined them on one sweep not stopping. I almost felt them continuing upwards. It was as though he was really pushing them further. Further so they went right onto my pussy. They didn’t, of course and he was impeccably behaved. But at home on the nights when I’d visited him. They didn’t stop. No as I lay alone in my bed naked they went all the way. And as my fingers found the place I imagined his going to, in my mind it was his hand on my wetness. His fingers entering me and it was him, not me, that brought on my climaxes. So after having had him make finger love to me so many times in my mind I guess I was primed for him when he asked me out for a drink. His body was like images that are secreted away in the dim recesses of my memory. It was so firm. So lithe and wiry. It was smooth and felt incredible up against me that first time we made love. And that first time was quite amazing, well to me it was, being used to having sex with older men for so long. I had never been fucked four times in an evening. In fact I’d never been fucked more than twice. But with the stamina that prior to him I could only dream about or read of in erotic novels he seemed to be ready again so quickly that I’d hardly come down from one orgasm when he was sending me up the wall of another. It wasn’t like a proper affair largely, I have to admit with a degree of disappointment about myself, because I didn’t feel that comfortable being out with him. Being in though was different so we spent most of our dates in bed in his small flat in East London. Not that frequent perhaps once a fortnight for a few months we’d meet, sometimes, but not often have a drink, then go to bed. As simple as that. It was purely the sex. There was nothing else. Of course I liked him but I saw no future or anything else in him other than his amazing stamina and fabulous cock. And that did sort of disgust me. That I was seeing a man purely for his sexual prowess did make me sit up and think. Not at first for then I was like a bitch in heat for him. I couldn’t get enough of his body. I lusted after him continuously. I’d never been with anyone like him. Anyone that could give me so much in such a short time. But afterwards I felt bad. Not that he might have fucked me three times the previous evening for that overall made me feel good although I was by then having rather worrying moral attacks. I was concerned at what I was becoming and at my appetite for sex. I was worried that if I didn’t either settle down with one guy or find something else that I would end up sleeping my way through the entire male population. Morals had never been a topic that I’d thought much about. After all when happily married to a man with whom one assumes she’ll spend the rest of her life there’s not much need. During the happy times of my marriage, say the first eight years, I never even thought about another man sexually let alone did anything. So moral rectitude came easily and naturally. It was then quite a shock to suddenly realise that I was on the looser side of average in my attitudes. Not just to having sex with a variety of men, but also the frequency and increasingly also the locations. Gordon had been a prime example of that and Steve was another. I’d known him for some time through the golf club and then he asked me out. We had lunch and dinner and then we were playing together in a match some way away from both of our homes. On the dates we had kissed and he’d briefly touched my breasts but we hadn’t by then, gone any further. I’d assumed that shortly we would but the opportunity just hadn’t arisen. After the dinner and we’d said our goodbyes he was going to give me a lift to my car that I’d left at a service station on the M25. He lived in a completely different direction to me from that station. In the car he didn’t start the engine but instead turned to me and after sliding his arm along my seat leaned across and kissed me. I responded. He kissed me deeper and I responded deeper. “Oh shit Mandy I so want you,” he muttered his hand going to my breast. “Oh” was all I could think of saying as his fingers squeezed me. We kissed again and he started undoing my top. Alright it was dark outside but for Christ’s sake it was a golf club car park and you know what sticklers they are for proper dress code. And being topless in their car park certainly wouldn’t qualify. “No Steve, no,” I said holding his wrist before uttering those words that are so easy to misconstrue. “Not here.” “OK,” was all he said starting the engine before adding, “it’s too late for a hotel so we’ll just have to find somewhere else won’t we?” “What in the car?” “Yes why not?” “I need you badly and you do want me don’t you” “Yes,” I whimpered partly frightened at the idea and partly hugely excited by it. He found a place stuck in a wood where we could park but would be able to see any other car if it approached. And then on the back seat of his huge Mercedes by the light from the dashboard I started to have sex in a car for the first time since my teens. At first I wanted to keep my clothes on but take my panties and bra off. That seemed a sensible precaution should we be disturbed. But it didn’t happen like that. The more we kissed and he touched me so the more appealing and exciting the notion of being naked became. Not just being naked but also being outside the car, well it was July. And that was my next step in the direction of debasing myself and in self-disgust. I let him fuck me with both of us naked and me lying across the bonnet of his car. So that was those two fucking years. There were a couple more men but what I’ve described are the main events. In the end I could do it no more. The hassle the self analysis the pretence to Sarah and the after feelings of disgust with myself became too much. I was finding that sex without any emotional involvement was unrewarding. And I just couldn’t let myself become emotionally involved for fear of once more becoming dependent on a man. The classic Catch 22. So once more, as I had during the first year after parting, I chose celibacy. And that’s how am now and those fucking years are just a dim and distant memory