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Confessions of a Slut Ch. 01

By: RebeccaR51



It may seem odd to start this story at age thirty-two, but that's when my sex life became interesting. 

I was an ugly ducking as a girl: too tall, big-boned, clumsy, overweight, nearsighted, and shy to attract male attention. Contact lenses corrected my vision, tennis got my body in shape, and big tits made up for other faults. At eighteen I had my first boy friend -- and my first sexual experiences. 

My boy friend and I had sex every weekend for a year, until he found someone better and dumped me. The pain still blocks my memory of our love-making. Was it good sex or not? I don't recall. Honestly. However, I remember well the time I cheated on him. He traveled at lot on his job and while he was out of town I went to a party and drank too much and had a one night stand with a perfectly wonderful man. He was also cheating. Afterwards we both suffered qualms of conscience and we didn't repeat the experience. I never told my boy friend. 

That one-night stand was also the first time I ever got drunk and thereafter booze has been associated in my mind with good sex -- which has caused me some problems. 

Well, after my first boy friend, and my first one-night stand, I was celibate for about a year and then I met Don. He was five years older than me and seemed very worldly. We dated about a year and got married. I had just turned twenty-two and graduated from college. I had a good-paying job as an accountant and that was one reason Don married me. He had big schemes about making money, but he didn't like to work. My regular paycheck enabled him to indulge himself. 

Don also liked my sexual compliance. I gave him exactly what he wanted: a reliable receptacle for his sperm. "Making love" does not describe our sex life. Don fucked me every night. Not only that, he fucked me at the same time every night. At 11:00 we began undressing and, as regular as rain, at 11:10 Don cummed inside me. By 11:15 he was asleep. Sometimes, I cummed too -- but that was the exception. 

Don was a one-trick pony. He liked sex doggy-style. Our routine was that I took my clothes off, laid on my stomach and stuck my ass up in the air. He finished undressing, turned off the light, and leaned over me, sometimes kneeling, often standing up, inserted his penis into my vagina, and humped his way to ejaculation. To vary the routine, now and then he pulled his penis out of me and cummed on my ass. Since Don, I have never really been able to enjoy doggy-style sex. 

During my periods, Don, however, wouldn't touch me. He stood beside me at the edge of the bed and I jacked him off with my hand and mouth and he spurted cum on my tits. I always took a towel to bed with me to clean up the mess and by the time I had wiped off the cum he was in bed and asleep. No kiss, no kind words, no caressing. 

I was the perfect wife for ten years. I cleaned; I cooked; I fucked; I gave Don money. We never had any children. My reward for those ten miserable years, for I realized later how miserable they had been, was that Don dumped me. It was a total surprise and I was devastated -- but only for a month. My confidence in myself as a woman descended to new and lower depths. At thirty-two years old, I believed that my sex life was over -- and that didn't seem such a tragedy. 

One day, however, I realized that I was not unhappy and, in fact, I rather enjoyed not having Don around. Moreover, I decided to venture out of my cocoon and look for a little adventure to relieve the tedium of my boring, boring life. I contemplated sky-diving and mountain climbing, but I settled on travel. Sue, a college girl friend had invited me to visit her and her husband Jim in Bangkok, Thailand and I accepted. It was my first trip outside the United States. 

I went to Bangkok with a thought in my mind that I might have the opportunity to get laid during my visit -- and that I wasn't going to turn down any suitable men, although I was still too shell-shocked to engage in seductive games. But I was away from home, footless, free, and feeling just a tad frisky. When I heard my girl friend and her husband making love I got friskier. I laid in my bed in the guest room and listened to them in the bedroom next door. Sue was noisy, and she seemed to be enjoying what he was doing to her. I had only rarely masturbated, but I did that night while I listened to the sounds of passion and the murmur of their quiet talk afterwards. Maybe there was a possibility that sex could be fun! 

Sue suggested a weekend at the beach in Pattaya. Her friends had rented two large rambling beach bungalows. Three married couples would inhabit one house and I could join two single women in the other. 

We had a wonderful time at the beach. We rented a boat and went snorkeling -- the first time I had ever done that. I noticed that the men were appreciative of my tits overflowing out of my otherwise modest two-piece swimsuit. Looking at the other women, I realized that my body wasn't half bad. I had good muscle tone, no cellulose, a pretty face, large brown eyes, and thick black hair. On the negative side, I was big and raw boned: 5 feet, 8 inches tall and 150 pounds. I wore a 36 D bra, my hips were too wide, and, no matter how much I exercised, my stomach was more rounded than flat. In what for me was uncharacteristic, I encouraged the men's interest by sunning myself with the straps of my bathing suit loosed and my nipples barely covered. 

Pattaya is a great place for bar-hopping and we went out that night. Every bar was full of scantily-dressed Thai girls looking for a man to pay them for their attentions. The men, mostly foreign, in those bars weren't shy about feeling the merchandise before they decided which girl to buy for a night of pleasure. I drank and danced and watched the scene -- oddly turned on by the mating games and business negotiations going on between Thai girls and foreign men all around me, often with gestures because they had no common language. 

We were all a bit drunk when we went back to our bungalows. We parted -- the married couples to their bungalow, the single girls to theirs -- with boisterous hugs and tipsy laughter. I was giddy and happy. 

The other two women went upstairs to sleep in the one bedroom of the bungalow. I had volunteered to sleep downstairs in the living room. I laid out cushions on the floor, stripped down to bra and panties, covered myself with a sheet and laid down to sleep, my head spinning from too much alcohol. It was a beautiful night at the beach; moonlight poured through the screened windows that ringed the living room. 

I was nearly asleep when I heard someone come in the door. I had neglected to lock it. In the moonlight I saw that it was John, one of the married men. I pretended to be asleep while he walked over to me and knelt down beside me, and tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to face him, pretending that I was waking up. His hand found its way to my breast and he whispered to me, "I want to make love." He added. "My wife is asleep" 

He was a little drunk and unsteady, kneeling there in the darkness, his hand kneading my breast gently, while I contemplated the offer. His hand moved inside my bra, his fingers flicking against my nipple and he leaned over me and kissed me, first on the forehead, and then the nose, and then softly on the lips. He was wearing only shorts and I felt his hardening penis against my thigh through the thin fabric. 

For a long minute, I neither protested nor responded to his probing fingers and lips. I had not had sex for three months, since my husband left me. This attractive man with his hand inside my bra and hard penis against my thigh wanted to make love. So did I. I put my hand on his shoulder and pulled him down on top of me. He unhooked my bra and I slipped out of my panties and then helped him out of his shorts. 

I was wet and ready for him when he reclined over me. "You're drunk," I thought. "You're going to regret this," I told myself. What I said was, "Fuck me!" I wasn't in Kansas anymore. 

I didn't have to ask twice. He penetrated me during our one long passionate kiss, and I wrapped my legs around him and drew him closer and deeper. He felt so very good between my legs -- an unfamilar sensation after my years with doggy Don. Unfortunately, he lasted only about three strokes, let out a long contented sigh, rolled off me and lay breathing hard on the floor beside me. I was wet with sweat, juices, and cum. 

I was not ready to call it a night. I had never been so hot. I let him rest for a minute and then shyly and tentatively tried to get him ready again. He was reluctant, groaning and mostly asleep, but he responded when I took his soft penis in my mouth and sucked him back to hardness. With renewed energy, he climbed back on top of me, and once again I received him, this time for a good long time with me nearly screaming in passion and, when I climaxed his hand was over my mouth. "Shh," he said. "You'll wake everyone." And then he cummed too and we both lay there too exhausted to move. 

He went to sleep. I woke him and told him I wanted more but he didn't respond. It had felt so good that I wanted it again. My mouth on his limp pecker didn't accomplish much. Desperate measures were required. So, I rolled him on his back and I sat down on his stomach, facing his feet. From that angle I held his penis in my hand and guided it into my vagina, although he could only achieve a half-erection and kept slipping out. I was determined to climax again; I held his penis against my clitoris and rubbed it up and down and slipped it into my vagina whenever it showed signs of woodiness. I don't know whether it was fucking or masturbation -- but the climax was huge. I shook the room. 

I was exhausted; I laid on top of him, my face at his feet, biting his toes in ecstasy. He was already fast asleep, dead to the world. He would have spent the night there, but I knew that I had to get him up and on his way, back to his wife. I shook him awake and we got his shorts on and I shoved him out the door, pointing him the way to the cabin where his wife was. My bed on the floor was a mess. It took five minutes of feeling around in the dark before I could locate my bra and pants. The room had the distinctive sweet smell of sex -- but I was too tired to care and I dropped off to sleep.

The next morning my two girl friends sniffed the air and knew that I had been doing more in the living room than sleeping, but they asked no questions. And when the group met for breakfast, there were only two couples rather than three. "John and his wife had a family emergency," one of the other wives said. "They got up early to drive back to Bangkok." 

I never saw my sleepy married lover again. I left Bangkok to go home a few days later.

Confessions of a Slut Ch. 02



This is a story I've never had the courage to tell. 

Sue, her husband Jim, and I returned to Bangkok the day after my tryst with the horny husband. Both of them were rather quiet. It was obvious to them that I had fucked John while they were sleeping. I don't think they had expected such scandalous behavior from this goody-goody, all-too-serious college friend. I didn't expect it myself. I noticed that Jim was eyeing me with what might have been a spark of interest. 

That night Jim and Sue made love in their room next to mine and I lay awake listening to the sounds of their sex while massaging my clitoris to a climax. The next morning Sue had an errand to run and Jim and I ate breakfast together before he went off to work.

I liked Jim. He was tall and good-looking, unpretentious, and wryly funny. He and Sue were warm and affectionate with each other and had, to all appearances, a happy marriage. Their sex life, as I had heard through the thin walls of their bedroom, was active -- to say the least. Thus, I was surprised when Jim took a key out of his pocket and handed it to me. 

"Sue's got a garden club meeting this afternoon, so you're on your own. The key is to the Ploenchit Apartments, room 511. I'll be there at 2:00 if you'd like to join me." With that he kissed me on the cheek, smiled, and waved as he went out the door to go to work.

I was flabbergasted. Jim was so, so much cooler than me -- a dreamboat of a man. He wanted to have sex with me? Rebecca the wall-flower? 

I pretended to debate whether I should meet him in the apartment or not -- but my mind was made up the instant he asked me. I would meet him. Travel, I had discovered, causes many a woman to broaden her mind and her thighs. Little Miss Priss in her home town was the Woman in Red in Bangkok. Yes, I thought, I would meet Jim -- and I would fuck him. And I would enjoy it. Immensely.

I did. We met in a luxurious apartment that looked out over the exuberant tropical foliage and bustling life of a Bangkok street and Jim skillfully brought me to three explosive climaxes. 

Jim was at the apartment when I got there and after a quick embrace and a few words of greeting, he showed to the bedroom, slowly and sensually took off my clothes, and laid me down on my back on the bed. Then, he undressed while I watched and, to my shock and surprise, he began kissing my feet and worked his way up my legs to between my thighs. 

It was the first time in my nearly 33 years that a man's mouth had explored my pussy. We hadn't even kissed yet; he hadn't explored my ears or my neck or touched my breasts -- and, yet, here he was with his tongue licking my clitoris. I didn't know what the proper response was to a man whose head is between your legs. He trust his tongue deep within me and I simply laid there and enjoyed it, hunching gently and working my way toward a climax that was so intense that I had to pull his head away from my vagina and lie twitching on the bed, unable to control the compulsive movements of my legs and arms. When I could stop twitching I broke out into tears. It felt so good. 

Jim allowed me a few minutes to recover, whispering endearments and caressing me and then he fucked me long and slow, bringing me to climax two more times, cumming in a mad rush with me the second time. 

Sue was one lucky woman -- and I now knew why she was so noisy in bed. Jim was a great lover; he made me feel glamorous, desirable, wanton -- and satisfied. Jim makes my all-time top ten lover's list. (Sue, if by chance, you are reading this, please forgive me. And don't get mad at Jim; you'll never find a better husband and lover. I know. Believe me.) Bangkok taught me that enjoyable and casual sex is possible for even Ms. Plain Jane. I didn't act on that knowledge for a while -- but it was in my mind as I slowly, slowly overcame my prudishness and advanced toward sluthood. Unfortunately, I was a slow learner as my next experience sadly demonstrates.



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 03



You're a different person out of town than when you're home. During my visit to Bangkok, I had been scandalous -- having sex with two married men, one of them the husband of a very good friend. Back home in Kansas City, I was Ms. Prim and Proper again, serious, studious, career-oriented, and judged by most men to be much too uptight to be a good lay.  

Moreover, I had medical problems that necessitated a hysterectomy, putting me out of action mentally and physically speaking for a good long while -- and ended my already fading hopes of becoming a mother and wife. With the trauma of the operation, and my natural reticence, I reverted to my normal condition: dull. 

Thus, I went through several months of sexual abstinence while shopping for the long term relationship -- and marriage -- that I so craved. That's when I ran into Jack. He was a decent fellow, thirty-eight years old, five years older than me, and he had never been married. Like most unmarried men approaching middle age, Jack was old-maidish in his methodical habits and all too attentive to his mother but I had modest expectations. 

Jack and I followed the script for conventional romances. We got to know each other on our first two dates and on our third date, I invited him to my apartment "for a drink." He didn't set off any sparks in bed that night, but we became a couple and I was happy to have a man and the security of a relationship. We went out a couple of nights a week. I stayed over at his place once, but in the morning he was in a hurry to see his mother, it being Sunday -- and he always, always spent Sunday with his mother.   

Our first few encounters were missionary sex after a pleasant warm-up. We found ourselves in the same climatic zone -- which was warm and pleasant rather than burning hot. The clouds appeared after several weeks. One night, as I was lying on my back, my legs spread and waiting for him to mount up and ride, he asked, "Would you masturbate me?" He added, "For a little variety."  

I said, "Sure." I was a bit disappointed that he wasn't taking advantage of my spread thighs, but I am all too compliant. He lay back on the bed. I made a feint at his penis with my mouth, but he didn't respond. A hand job was what Jack wanted. I gave it to him. After ten years of marriage to Doggy Don and his nightly demands jacking off a man wasn't anything new to me. We had enough light in the room for me to enjoy Jack's response to my hand and to see cum spurting out and pooling up on his chest. I stuck my finger in the pool and tasted it. I got the impression, however, that Jack didn't like me tasting his cum. Maybe his mother wouldn't have approved. 

Jack got up quickly and said he had to go home and I was left laying there wishing that at least he had finger-fucked me. Well, sex isn't always great, I told myself, and, in fact, the next time we went out he missionaried me adequately. But, then, next time he again asked for a hand job (you get the idea why I am calling him Jack, don't you?). After that, the pattern of our relationship was established. We rarely fucked. Our dates often began and always ended with a hand job for him and nothing for me.    

I consoled myself that Jack was presentable, had a good job, and didn't molest children or rob banks. Most of all, it pampered my tiny ego to have a boyfriend, inadequate as he was in the care and feeling departments. Things went on this way for several months until I got a job with the Department of State in Washington and was told to report for work in one month. Suddenly, I had a bright shining alternative to Jack and my built-up resentment against his sexual selfishness came to the fore. I was looking forward to saying sayonara. I didn't plan, however, to do it in the spectacular way that it happened.    

On our next date Jack wanted to be jacked off before we went out. Through force of habit, I acceded to his wishes. He just pulled his shirt and pants off and laid down on my bed and I stroked him to completion. I didn't even take my clothes off -- and he didn't care. Then, we went to a restaurant to eat. The dining room was full, but we saw several friends at a large table in the bar. We sat down with them and drank margaritas and ate nachos.   

"Sly" showed up. I had gone to high school with him. He was tall and handsome and slick and a notorious lady's man. Sly had never paid the slightest bit of attention to me. Until then. "Becky," he said, kissing me on the cheek. "You're looking good."  That was an exaggeration, but I had been working on my appearance, and I'm a sucker for a compliment. Sly pulled up a chair and joined us, sitting by my side. Jack was on the other side of the table, talking about football with another guy. 

To make a long story short, I ordered another margarita and drank too much too fast. Then, I was suddenly sick, my stomach heaving and the taste of nachos in my mouth. Sly took command. He helped me out of my chair, saying to Jack, "Stay where you are, Jack ol' boy. I'll take care of this." Jack looked at me with a puzzled expression, but he didn't offer to help. Football was more interesting than my gastric distress.   

Sly half-carried me to the parking lot and I vomited all over the boxwood bushes. He helped me into the front seat of his car and wiped vomit off my dress with a paper towel. I was alert enough to notice that my dress was hiked up way over my knees and my legs were splayed. I didn't care. Sly sniffed my breath and clothes and recoiled. "I'd better take you home. You're a mess." he said. I muttered my address, and went to sleep. 

Sly drove me home, hauled me up to my apartment, found the key in my purse, and opened the door. I staggered into the bedroom. The bed was still stripped down to the sheets where, two hours before, I had jacked off Jack. I toppled over onto the bed; I was waking up and feeling better. I could still smell Jack on the sheets.  

"You want to take a shower?" Sly asked. 

"Yes," I said. And I sat up and began taking off my clothes. Sly helped me unzip my dress, and pulled it over my head. Sitting there in my panties and bra I had a twinge of romantic feeling. I put my arms around him and started laughing hysterically. Or maybe I was sobbing. I contemplated the bed where Jack had been, thin penis upright and quivering, as my hand stroked him. "Jack and the Beanstalk!" I shouted. "Hit the Road, Jack!"  

"Shhh," Sly said. "You'll bother the neighbors." Quickly, he slipped my bra off and I sat there dumbly surprised, my breasts hanging free. I didn't protest when he pulled my panties off and led me to the shower, turned on the hot water, and pushed me inside. "Jack be nimble, Jack be quick" I shouted. "Jack me off with a hockey stick." 

I continued my loud recitations until, suddenly, Sly was in the shower with me, naked, and he put his hand over my mouth. He handed me a bottle of mouthwash. "You need it," he said. I took a swig, swirled it around, spat it out, and then he kissed me, his soapy finger finding its way to my clitoris.    

I was as hungry for sex as a bear is for honey. I was still noisy. "Fuck me gently, fuck me slowly," I sang. "Take it easy, don't you know, that I have never been fucked before....Not true," I added with a giggle. I was so, so drunk and so out of character. Sly and I dried each other off, headed for the bed, and laid down together.     

That was when Jack stuck his head through the door. He had a key to my apartment and had come looking for me. It must have been a sight. I was lying on my back, my hand on Sly's penis, his body half covering mine, his finger inside me and his mouth on my breast while I tunelessly sang "Fuck me gently, fuck me slowly." It was a mortifying moment. Jack turned soundlessly and left. For just a moment I froze in the bed. Sly paused, but he didn't look over his shoulder at the retreating Jack. He looked at me, and smiled and I smiled, and we continued. Jack was history. 

Sly was into Tantric sex or something that gave him enormous staying power, and I hit all four notes that open Beethoven's Fifth with booming orgasms.        

I should have called Jack the next day to apologize, but in the sober light of day I couldn't -- and I was leaving town anyway. I never had another encounter with Sly. I hear that he got married, got religion, and became a perfect family man. I hope his wife appreciates him the way I did.   



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 04



At age thirty-four my life, including my sex life, was over-due for a major overhaul. I had been successful in my career as an accountant and I had a new exciting job with the Department of State. Henceforth, I would work in American embassies in foreign countries and I looked forward to travel and adventure in my new life. 

Romantically speaking I was nowhere -- and that included my sex life. I toted up my love life: one failed marriage, two failed long-term relationships, and four one-night stands. That was it. The one-night stands had been wonderful, perhaps showing the direction my sex life should go -- although I was too dumb to realize that. 

I'm no beauty queen; I'm tall, big-boned, long-nosed, near-sighted, and my personality is typical of my profession, by which I mean I'm more comfortable with my head buried in a book than in a party dress. But I stay in shape; I'm friendly and honest, and I have lovely black hair and eyes and big boobs. 

My pathetic sex life receded into the background as I moved to Washington, D.C. for training and then was assigned as a budget and fiscal officer in a small Embassy in a remote African country. The country was exotic and poor and the foreign or "Western" community (as we called it) was small in numbers. Twenty Americans worked at the Embassy, including six marine guards who were responsible for security. I was one of three single women employees; the rest were men, mostly married, except for the marines who were all in their early twenties. 

I was so wrapped up in my job that I hardly noticed that my romantic scorecard after six months in Africa showed no hits, no runs, and nobody left on base. One of the problems was lack of eligible men. My employer strongly discouraged relationships with local African men for security and safety reasons. 

My thirty-fifth birthday rolled around on a Friday and a girlfriend and I celebrated by dropping in on the Happy Hour at the Marine House, a large rambling villa where the six marines at the Embassy lived. The marines had a bar and a pool room in the basement and they sold beer and snacks on Friday nights. I drank, danced, played pool and flirted with the young marines -- and the next thing I knew I woke up in a bedroom with one of them sleeping next to me. I didn't even know his last name. 

The sun was streaming through the window into the small bedroom as I lay on the bed naked. I didn't know where my clothes were and I had to pee. The door was closed, but I could hear other marines outside the room walking up and down the halls and talking to each other, and even the rattle of pots and pans by the cook in the kitchen. I was trying to decide what to do when my bed partner woke up, rolled over, and, with hardly a word, climbed on top of me and slid his penis inside me. He entered me so easily that I realized I was still dripping wet from the night before. Vaguely, I recalled that he had spurted sperm inside me two or three times. 

My tongue thick, my head aching, and my bladder full, I should have been humiliated. I was lying on my back on a bed in the brightness of day while a boy I barely knew -- 15 years younger than me -- lay between my legs and thrust his broom-stick penis up my vagina. Momentarily, I wanted to pull away from him and run. But where? Out into the hallway? Naked? 

With no better option, I submitted. He took a long time, pumping mechanically back and forth, straining to cum, still empty after the night before. He paused and said a few nice words to me and, suddenly -- a sucker for sweet nothings -- I felt a twang of pleasure, and then more pleasure, and I began to move with him and soon I had my first man-made orgasm in more than six months. It was a good one. When we had both finished and he rolled off, I relaxed happily and, suddenly, all the pee inside me spilled out and soaked him and the bed. 

He jumped up cursing, wiping pee off himself. He shouted that I had to go and he opened the closet door and threw my clothes at me. I dressed while he stripped the bed and mopped up pee, but he softened as I went out the door and gave me a pleasant kiss good-bye. "Thanks," he said. "I needed that." 

"So, did I." I answered. We embraced and I left, never to bed him again. 

It had not been a romantic experience -- but, on reflection, it hadn't been that bad either. The marine was an immature asshole, but I had gotten laid, it felt good, and I told myself I had performed adequately. If only I hadn't had to pee so badly. A lesson learned. And another was that love and romance weren't going to find me in a small country in Africa, so I had better be satisfied with sex. In other words, after long years of being a good girl who saved herself for love, I decided to become a slut. And when I decide something, I put my heart -- or in this case, my body -- into it. 

I haven't looked back. I am now sixty-six years old, so it's been thirty-one years since my night with the Marine. I've had sex with one woman and 170 men, give or take a few. Most of them were one- or two- or three- night stands. If I like a man and he likes me, I fuck him -- and not a few times that has happened within minutes of our first meeting. 

Not that I don't have standards. I don't have sex with men I work with; nor with married men whose wives are present in the same town. I am not into gang-bangs or anything kinky. My style is one man, one woman, one bed, and missionary or oral -- although I have, on occasion, deviated from those preferences and enjoyed the variety. Strange can be fun. 

Being neither beautiful nor young, I have worked on my technique. My specialty is "Around the World." Start with a nervous or tense man -- nearly all married men are -- and work your way over his body, touching and tasting every part of him. Fifteen minutes of Around the World and a dead man stands up like a flagpole. Not that I've ever had sex with a dead man -- although some were nearly dead. My men have ranged in age from nineteen to seventy-five. The seventy-five year old was last week. He was pretty good. 

I've suffered through lean times -- weeks or even months without a man -- and I had one wonderful vacation in Greece when I had sex with 6 beautiful men in 18 days. I can't say that my sex life is ideal. I've always wanted a man to come home to every day, but that's not going to happen. In the meantime, I vowed to not lose any opportunities by being hard-to-get. That's the life of a slut. I chose it and I'm not sorry that I did. At least, I've got some good stories to tell.



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 05



Early in my sluthood I was overenthusiastic. I'm not a gang-banger by temperament. One man three times a night appeals more to me than three men a night. But excess is probably necessary for a girl to find her sexual balance. 

I'm American and was living and working in a small remote country in Africa. I was 35, and only a few weeks before I had quit saving my body for marriage and long term relationships. I'm a successful, well-dressed career woman, bespectacled, big-boobed, and, alas, rather plain in looks and personality. Prissy, I've been called. Little do they know! 

It was a party on a hot night in a small apartment. Six men and four women. All the others were Peace Corps volunteers in from their rural homes for a monthly weekend of rest and relaxation in the city. It was tough out there for the PCVs. Sex with the locals was not recommended if you wanted to survive your tour so the volunteers come to town with a lot of pent up emotion. I was probably the oldest person at the party. 

This party had no spark. We lounged around the small living room and ate lasagna and drank wine. The spark finally came when two men got into an argument about the Southern Cross -- the constellation. One said you could see it; the other said you couldn't. We went out on the small terrace to settle the argument, turning out all the lights in the apartment to achieve maximum darkness and visibility. 

All ten of us stood clustered together and scanned the skies. No Southern Cross. So, in consolation, the losing man gave us a five-minute lecture on the origin of the cosmos while we sweated in the hot tropical night. As we started to go inside, somebody said, "Leave the lights out. Let's dance in the dark."

That sounded like a good idea. We cranked up the stereo and we reeled and rocked around the living room in the darkness, moving from each to another quickly, coming together to feel the sex of your partner, and then sashaying away to find another. The air conditioner labored and failed to keep down the temperature. 

A girl cried out, "I'm going to dance topless." A boy followed suit, "And I'm dancing bottomless." The topless girl swirled by me and the bottomless boy found the clasp on my halter top and loosed it and then he untied the strap around my neck and my breasts swung free. Bottomless boy disappeared in the dark, and it was a naked sweating woman in my arms who pulled off my shorts and whose finger entered my vagina. 

We were singing and dancing, touching, but seeing nothing in total darkness. A boy and I came together for a slow dance, his erect penis in my crotch, probing back and forth while I helped him with my hands on his buttocks. My tits were slick with sweat. I didn't resist as he maneuvered me to the sofa against one wall. I laid down and he reclined over me, his short thick penis finding its way inside me. The others were still dancing, brushing against us as we lay on the couch, my legs wrapped around him, his ass pumping hard. 

This boy drove into me frantically with all the sexual tension of a long dry spell. He cummed before I was ready, one of the longest and hardest climaxes I have ever felt -- five, six, seven spasms and I felt a large flow of semen. I like to feel a man cum. 

He didn't linger more than a couple of minutes and was up again and off into the dark, seeking another partner. Somebody had turned off the stereo; the dancing had ended; the sex had begun. A couple was breathing hard on cushions on the floor an arms length away from me. The others had disappeared, although I could hear noises around the apartment. 

I listened to the sounds of sex as I laid there in the dark. The girl on the floor was a squealer. Cum was dripping out of me onto the sofa. Suddenly, a man was standing over me. He reached out and felt me, his hand finding my breasts and my hand found his naked testicles. "Becky?" he asked. I giggled. My big tits enabled easy identification. 

He started to lie down with me, but I said, "I gotta pee first. Let's find the bathroom." Together, blind in the dark, we stepped over the couple on the floor -- now quietly locked together -- and felt our way into the bedroom. Another couple was in the bed, grunting and groaning. In the bathroom, I sat down on the toilet and pee and cum surged out of me, making a disconcerting loud noise in the now-quiet apartment. My partner, number two for the night, stood in front of me holding my hand, his penis at the level of my mouth, and he began to hunch back and forth. 

I wanted to be fucked to a good climax, but I'm all too amenable to a man's desires, so I took his dick in my mouth and sucked him while I sat on the toilet. I held him behind his knees with my hands and felt his knees buckle as he cummed. While I still had his limp penis in my mouth he said, "I want to fuck you." 

That's what I wanted to hear. I was still looking for an orgasm. "Let's find a place." But when we got back to the couch, it was occupied by a madly-hunching couple as were the cushions on the floor, as was the bed in the one-and-only bedroom. Where to go? The terrace. 

There was no place to lie down on the terrace. After a couple of experiments we found that the only way for him to penetrate me was for him to stand on the ground, amongst the flowers, while I sat on the elevated terrace and wrapped my legs around him. With gymnastics and cautious movements we could stay connected -- and in fact I achieved a very pleasant orgasm as he stood there thrusting hard into me. 

Man number two and I separated. Satisfied, I began to creep around the apartment looking for a place to sleep. I was getting ready to lie down on the bedroom floor on a pillow -- along with two sleeping men already there -- when the couple in the bed said, "You can sleep here with us, Becky." They didn't have to ask twice. I snuggled in, covering myself with a sheet. 

Sometime in the night, I woke to find man number three mounting me. "Well, why not?" I thought. The couple beside me was snoring peacefully. I scooted down to the end of the bed and spread my legs with my feet on the floor and my lover half-stood and half-reclined over me, thrusting a large penis into my soaking wet pussy. Climax soon followed for both of us, the ecstasy heightened by our attempt to avoid waking up our bed partners with violent movements. I knew who my first two partners were; I never figured out who was number three. 

Well, that was my night. Next morning, we all woke up naked and searched around the apartment for our clothes. We were a little embarrassed -- especially the other three girls. It appeared that two of them had paired up for the night; the other girl -- the first one who had pulled off her blouse -- and I had serviced the other four men. Three for me. How many for her? Two? Three? All four? Probably all four. 

That was the only time in my life I've had sex with three different men in one night. Nothing wrong with that, if it's your thing, but it's not really me. I take my men one-by-one for the most part. One at night; one in the morning; one in the afternoon.



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 06



The first year of my sluthood was my most active. At age thirty-five, my lifetime total of sex partners was seven men. When I reached thirty-six, my total was twenty-seven. I had sex with twenty men in one year. 

Why did I become a slut? I mentioned in a previous chapter that a hysterectomy destroyed my hopes for children. The hysterectomy liberated me from monthly periods and, thus, I was available for sex full-time. I also gave up on the notion that I was going to find the perfect man and husband and spend the rest of my life in blissful serenity. 

An important factor was the times, which were "a-changing." It was 1977 and sexual liberation was in full flower. Women had thrown off their bras and were asserting their freedom to have recreational sex. Sexual liberation was facilitated by reliable birth control methods and the absence of serious health consequences from unprotected sex. Genital herpes only became a concern to the sexually active in the late 1970s and the spectre of HIV/AIDs didn't arrive until the early 1980s. Before those two plagues, sexually transmitted diseases were usually curable with a penicillin shot. Thus, one could fuck without fretting. 

This combination of circumstances made for a whole lot of sex in the 1970s. I was late in joining the sexually liberated -- but I made up for it. 

However, my universe of willing and available males in the African country where I lived and worked was small. Single American men included about fifteen straight Peace Corp volunteers -- most in their twenties -- and young six marines stationed at the American Embassy. Then, there were the occasional visitors to the country: tourists, scholars, and temporary workers at the Embassy. I wasn't brave enough at this time to venture outside the American community to search for love and sex among Africans or other nationalities. 

I had sex with all fifteen Peace Corp volunteers (PCVs) during the year. My other partners included two of the marines and three married men who were passing through the country on business. Most of my partners were repeaters -- men who came back for more, usually once a month. The PCVs lived and worked upcountry. They came to the capital city for visits, meetings, and consultations every three or four weeks. They were sex-starved and hankering for a good American meal. Many of them made a regular stop at my apartment for lasagna and sex. 

I have already told about the night I had sex with three men. That was the exception as I usually take my men one at a time. My typical week went as follows.

During the week I worked hard, from nine in the morning to after seven in the evening and I came home alone, drank a glass or two of wine, ate something, and went to bed. Friday was Independence Day. On Friday night, I always got drunk and laid -- and only rarely did I begin the evening knowing who my sex partner would be. 

Usually there were two or three parties in town on Friday night and I showed up at the one that boded to be the bawdiest. A number of us -- about ten people, with the men always outnumbering the women -- would meet at somebody's apartment or house to drink and dance and eat. Most of the party goers were PCVs -- and they were horny. During the party couples paired off and went into the bedroom for sex. Occasionally a couple, unable to wait their turn for the bedroom, would have sex standing up in the bathroom. Or we would turn the lights out and everybody would have sex all at once. 

We played games such as "spin the bottle" or "truth and dare" or "strip poker" to facilitate pairing off. I drank a lot of alcohol. Others smoked marijuana and hashish. Sometimes I got laid at the party, and sometimes I took a man home with me at the end of the night -- and several times I did both. A couple of times I woke up Saturday without knowing who was in bed beside me. I always recovered well enough from my Saturday morning hangover to play tennis at ten a.m. After tennis and lunch I came home sober, usually to find a peace corps volunteer waiting at my apartment. We fucked and then I took a nap and when I woke up he might or might not still be there. If he wasn't there, it was party time again and another drunken evening capped off by sex. 

On Sunday morning, it was up, shake off a hangover, play tennis, eat lunch, and come home to find still another volunteer waiting for me. Sex again, and then I would shoo my third, fourth, or fifth partner of the weekend out my door so I could get to bed and rest for a long week's work ahead.

That was my life: work, booze, and sex. In all honesty, I didn't fell like a slut, and most of my men didn't make me fell that way. Rather I felt like the Mother Hen of the Peace Corps. These were my boys and I loved them -- collectively. I fed them lasagna, listened to their troubles, and fucked them. 

Of course, I liked some men better than others. My favorite was a charming 25 year old boy who liked oral sex. We always ate each other. At the time, I was experienced at giving oral sex, but not at receiving. Only once had I been brought to climax by a man's mouth. 

My boy -- I always called him that -- was a masterful licker and sucker. We didn't sixty-nine much. A sixty-nine requires that you enjoy what is being done to you at the same time you give your man pleasure. I like oral sex best when you lay back and luxuriate in your own feelings. 

Whenever my boy was in town we met Saturday afternoon at my apartment. A shower together was the first order of business. After a tough life out in the boondocks, he loved the abundant hot water at my apartment. Then, it was to bed and he spent a long time caressing and kissing every part of me and when I was worked up into a writhing frenzy, he put his head between my legs and gently massaged my clitoris with his lips and tongue. It didn't take me long to cum and often the feeling was so intense that I had to grab his head, pull him away from my pussy and lie shaking and convulsing in great pleasurable gasps. 

He was always restrained and controlled and exceedingly gentle. What made my climax so explosive is that I was begging, begging him to go hard with me, fuck me, fist me, thrust his tongue into me harder and harder, but he never did -- and when I cummed it was me thrusting and plunging while he stayed gentle and soft, speeding up to match my rhythm but keeping it easy. There's a time and place for hard fucking -- but I like the gentle stuff too. 

Then, it was his turn. As he laid on his back I gave him my own version of an "around the world," kissing, feeling, probing, my hands oiled, taking baby oil in my mouth to lubricate him, and finally fastening on to his hard, straight dick and taking his hot, salty cum in my mouth, licking him dry as his penis softened and he retreated into a post-coital trance. It was intense but peaceful; relaxed but ecstatic. 

Then, it was rest, nap, get up, drink a bottle of wine, have something to eat -- and do it again. I can't think of a better way to spend a Saturday. 

I was happy with my weekly sex and drink sessions. That is, until one day when my boss called me into his office. I liked him, and he liked me, and I was a very intelligent, efficient, and conscientious employee. He was embarrassed. He told me that that my drinking and its consequences -- he didn't mention my sexual activities directly -- had become of concern. 

In those days, the State Department and its embassies were obsessed with communists and security and behavior out of the ordinary was perceived as a potential security risk. An employee might be compromised by a Russian agent, or blackmailed, and betray his country. Therefore, it was decided -- I don't know by whom -- that I, being guilty of deviant drunken sluthood, would return to the United States to undergo counseling and attend an alcohol anonymous program. 

If I completed the program and behaved myself, my boss explained, I would be restored to good standing as an employee. Otherwise, the State Department would have no choice but to cancel my security clearance and terminate my employment.

It was the most embarrassing and shocking moment of my life. I had thought of myself as a benefactor of lonely men. I had seen sex as a virtual public service, my venture into helping make the world a happier place to live. And I wasn't an alcoholic. True, I was always drunk on the weekends. But never, never had I missed a day of work or even a tennis game because of alcohol. I drank for courage, to raise my self-esteem, to reduce my inhibitions -- and not because I had an addiction to alcohol. . 

As I prepared to leave the country, I turned men away at my door and avoided parties; not a drop of liquor passed my lips; I couldn't meet the eyes of my boss and co-workers. I was a whipped dog, slinking away from pain and humiliation. I reverted to my past life: Ms. Prim and Proper, Ms. Efficiency, Ms. Boring. My next year would be devoted to penance, abstinence, and unimpeachable behavior.



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 07



In 1977, I fucked twenty men. In 1978, I fucked only one and it was a one-night stand. 

I went back to Washington in disgrace. In the eyes of my employer, the Department of State, I was an alcoholic. My excessive alcohol abuse caused "additional problems" according to the brief against me. Translated, that meant I spent every weekend drunk and lying on my back with a man on top of me. 

I am career oriented and I was determined to redeem myself. The only way I knew how to overcome my alcohol abuse and "additional problems" was to be a paragon of efficiency, hard work, and intelligence. No more booze and no more sex was my rule. 

In Washington, I was given a boring, bean-counting job, that I pledged to make the most of. I had counseling sessions weekly with a State Department psychologist. On Friday nights, as required, I attended an Alcoholic Anonymous meeting. I got up in front of a room full of strangers and proclaimed, "My name is Becky and I'm an alcoholic." I told the story of my descent to alcoholism and alluded to the trouble it had caused me. I didn't really believe my own story, but I would do whatever necessary to keep my job and repair my damaged reputation and ego. Between counseling and AA sessions, I worked myself to exhaustion in my job, earning the admiration and support of my boss and co-workers. 

Purgatory ended after six months. At my weekly counseling session the psychologist said he had recommended that I be returned to regular duty and reassigned abroad again. I was elated -- and my elation was only slightly dampened when I was given my assignment. It was a FUBAR post in Africa.

There are two or three Embassies in Africa that have the reputation of being punishment posts -- awful, unimportant places to which assignments seem reserved for employees who have really, really screwed up. FUBAR in State Department slang means: "fucked up beyond all redemption." That was my next assignment. I was out of purgatory, but still on parole. 

I packed up, made my plane reservations, said goodbye to AA and my counselor -- and, then, I went off the wagon for one night, and one night only.

The night before I was to fly to my FUBAR post, I walked from my apartment to a singles bar two blocks away. I sat down at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic and I gulped it down -- the first alcohol that had passed my lips for six months. Then I ordered another, and then another. I ignored the men who attempted to open conversation with me until I finished that third g and t. 

The bartender eyed me warily when I ordered my fourth. I smiled at him and looked sober and he brought me the drink. I sipped it and shifted my attention to my second priority of the evening: getting laid. My choice among several men in the bar was unprepossessing: a chubby, balding man about forty years old who had a nice smile and a pleasant face. I didn't want to play any games. I wanted a man who would appreciate me. 

A glance or two from me and he got my message and came over to the bar to talk to me. We retired from the bar to a table and I asked him to get me another gin and tonic. It was my fifth and I was afraid the bartender would tell me I had had enough. I drank it while we chatted, my head spinning and my purchase on my chair precarious. It was time to make my move before I collapsed. 

"I think I had better go home," I said as he steadied me on my chair, his hand just under my breast. I put my arms around him and in the semi-dark of the bar his lips brushed my neck and his fingers rubbed across the thin fabric of my dress to stroke my nipple. I put my knee between his legs and felt the bulge in his pants. I left my knee there. 

"I'll walk you home," he said. Success! 

We departed from the bar arm in arm. In a dark corner of the street, we kissed. His hand felt its way up my dress and his finger massaged my clitoris. My panties became wet. I rubbed my hand over his crotch, feeling the hard outline of his penis. 

I don't even remember this man's name -- if I ever knew it -- but a penis slipping into me never felt better when we fell into bed at my apartment. I couldn't keep from grinding hard and he cummed too quickly and before I was ready. I needed desperately to climax and he obliged me with his limp penis halfway inside me and his finger on my clitoris. It was a quickie, probably not more than five minutes from penetration to when I fell back on the bed, momentarily satisfied, my head going in circles, my eyelids heavy, and the delicious smell of sex in my nostrils. 

He was sleeping beside me when I woke early in the morning. I didn't wait for him to wake. I sat on top of him, and massaged his limp pecker until it was hard enough to insert into me. While he was still yawning and stretching, I rode him. Hard. I have never humped harder and when I climaxed so did he. We arched our bodies, quivered and shook, and when the spasms finally eased after an eternity of ecstasy we collapsed, exhausted, into each other's arms. 

I am confident that my man -- whatever his name was -- had never been fucked better. After the sex, as we showered together, he asked, "When can I see you again?"

"Two years from now," I answered.

He was puzzled. "I'm leaving for Africa today," I explained. "You have to leave because I've got to go to the airport." 

I went back to that same bar two years later when I returned on home leave from Africa but he wasn't there. 



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 08



I continued my alcohol and sexual abstinence for several months at my punishment posting in Africa. As I explained earlier, I was in deep dudgeon with my employer, the Department of State, for excessive drinking and "additional problems," among which was sex with too many men too often. 

It was six months of abstinence before I got a telegram that allowed me to go off the wagon and become again, more discretely this time, a slut. The telegram announced that I had been promoted and, moreover, that I had been recommended for a meritorious award for my excellent work at my new post. 

That was a huge relief; my career was back on track again. But, working at that small, isolated, Embassy in an inhospitable African country, it was not easy to rejuvenate my sex life. Available men were few and far between. What a waste! I was at my sexual and physical peak. At 37 years old, I was in the best shape of my life -- a slender 140 pounds on my large 5' 8" frame. 

My first sex partner in my resurrected life was Abe. He was a professor and he visited my country for research about a book he was writing. He was forty-five and married, but his wife was in the States. To my way of thinking, infidelity doesn't count if the spouse is more than a thousand miles away. 

Abe was a thoroughly funny and likeable person -- but an awful lover. I ran into him at a dull dinner party and lured him to my apartment. I really, really wanted to get laid. Alas, Abe cummed as I tried to put a condom on him. The next night we tried again and he couldn't get an erection. I put his penis in my mouth to encourage it and one lick later I had a mouthful. Our third night together I skipped putting on the condom and Abe attempted to fuck me, but it was the same story. Ejaculation without erection. He cummed, I didn't. You've heard of three strokers? Abe was a one stroker. 

Abe was good company, however inadequate as a sex partner. He went back to the States for several months but one day a faint ray of sun peeped out of the cloudy sky of my enforced chastity. Abe was coming to town! He asked me to pick him up at the airport when he arrived. 

Well, when it rains it pours. I worked late the night Abe was to arrive. I had a financial report to complete. Everybody had left the Embassy except me and one Marine guard. The Marine usually stayed at Post One near the front door, but he also periodically patrolled the halls of the two story office building. 

I was in the Ambassador's office. I needed the space on his floor to spread out the pages of my report, collate them, and staple them together -- this still being the paper era before e-mail. I was kneeling on the floor when the Marine guard came in, greeted me, and sat down on the couch. 

I don't look like a slut. I dress professionally. I was wearing a knee length skirt, but in shuffling around the floor on my knees I probably showed the Marine a glimpse of inner thigh and the lacey bra beneath my white blouse allowed the most subtle outline of a pink nipple to show through. The Marine and I talked as I worked and when I finished I extended a hand to him so he could pull me to my feet. He did so, and I found myself in his arms.

This boy was a pool-playing friend on Friday nights when the Marines hosted a happy hour at the house in which they lived. He was 21 years old and tall and muscular, a shy Southern boy with a thick uneducated accent. I don't usually have sex with people I work with but I have made exceptions for marines. These youngsters in isolated African countries have sex lives as deprived as my own -- and like me they are discouraged from sex with locals by our employer. So, in desperation, single women in Embassies and much younger Marines hook up sometimes. 

Well, Abe's imminent arrival notwithstanding, I didn't resist and that Marine fucked me real good right there on the sofa in the Ambassador's office. He took his pistol, nightstick, and walkie-talkie off and laid them down on the coffee table, pulled his pants down to his knees; pushed my skirt up around my waist, pulled my panties off and inserted a very large and hard penis into me. It felt good after my long drought. I climaxed quickly a couple of times, as did he, but he continued on, methodically pounding me. I began to feel pain and I was about to call for a cessation of sex -- a first for me -- when a voice barked through the walkie-talkie. "Post one, post one, come in immediately!" 

My marine pulled himself out of me, grabbed his radio, snapped to attention with his pants around his ankles, penis dripping, and said "yes sir, yes sir" into the radio as his sergeant barked out instructions. When he signed off, he said to me, "I gotta go. Orders. Sorry." 

I wasn't sorry, but he was a dear boy, and I liked him, despite the pain now running from my crotch all the way to my esophagus. As he rushed out the door, he picked my panties off the floor and asked, "A present for me?" 

"All yours," I answered. But I got up with difficulty. I mopped up the sperm oozing out of me to avoid having stains on my fashionable and expensive skirt, arranged myself as best I could, and walked out of the Embassy with a painful bow-legged shuffle. That boy had left me in no shape to accommodate even semi-hard Abe who was due to arrive in two hours. I went home, showered, and pondered my strategies while driving to the airport to get him. 

We had a lovely dinner and dessert at my apartment, stripped our clothes off and got into bed. After preliminary embraces I undertook to divert his attention from my ravaged vagina to my breasts, suggesting that his limp penis between them would feel good. I have large breasts and he responded with alacrity. On top of me he humped away, and now and then I caught the tip of his penis in my mouth on his upswing and gave it a sloppy kiss. We rolled over and I let my breasts hang over his penis and massage him. That was how he climaxed, his penis hardened beyond what I had ever seen before; and the sperm shooting out in copious streams against my hanging tits. Abe and I had discovered the sexual technique that suited him. 

Abe wasn't any better after sex than before. He rolled over and went to sleep immediately. I finished myself off with my fingers while he snored happily. I woke up the next morning with Abe on top of me, his penis between my tits, and he cummed all over me before I could properly open my eyes. Abe was a sexual tiger, so long as penetration was not a goal. 

That night set the standard for our sexual relationship. Abe and I had more than a dozen trysts over the next decade. With titty fucking he attained and kept an erection. For me it wasn't overly exciting, but I could sometimes get to an orgasm with just his naked body writhing with me. 

As a lover, Abe got a D minus. The pathology was that he, as a married man, felt guilty about having sex with me. But in his psyche, titty fucking didn't really seem like infidelity and thus he loosened up and performed better. I was willing to accommodate him; what are friends for? 

The young marine, by the way, became a regular lover over the next few months. I persuaded him that we must be discreet and two or three times a week he sneaked into my apartment and spent an hour with me. One hour was enough time for this very horny boy to ejaculate three times. Three shot Johnny, I called him. I learned to cum with him the first two times and then avoid being rubbed raw by giving him a blow job for his third penile eruption. A hard man is good to find.



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 09



I have trouble keeping my boobs contained in bikinis, especially those that are just two triangles of cloth with no underwire support. I have 36 D breasts and they ooze out of the cloth. 

Of course I could have just gone topless on the Greek beach. All the other women were. But I was thirty-eight years old with a bit too much flop and sag to take it all off in the midday sun. So, my beach attire was a pair of shorts and a bikini top. I wasn't certain that I wanted to expose myself to public display amidst a lot of younger women whose little pink tits stand up and salute.

Not that I'm modest. If you've read previous chapters, you know that my sex life has had its ups and downs and in the last two years I had only had sex with three men. Greece was my release from purgatory. I was there for a vacation after completing a difficult and demanding two years working in a remote African country. 

My plan was to visit several different islands, taking ferries from one island to another. I was hoping for a long easy rest exploring the Greek islands and a man or two along the way to share my bed. I'm an accountant, and you know the old joke: an accountant is like an economist except that he or she doesn't have as much personality. Men don't gravitate to me -- at least not until that they learn that behind my unremarkable exterior lies a woman who gives her all -- quickly and easily. 

It is easy for a woman -- any woman -- to get laid in Greece if she has a little money. On every island and every beach there are handsome young men called Kamakis who make a career out of servicing older women willing to spend money for sex. I didn't have much interest in Kamakis, being conservative and tight-fisted. So, I was sitting on a rock at the edge of a beach my first day on Skiathos and hoping to find a companion of the male gender. 

The prospects didn't look good. That beach was crowded with topless women who were younger and prettier than me. It was depressing and I was about to depart when suddenly, a man -- a good looking man -- sat down beside me. He was Australian and about 15 years younger than me. "You know, luv, it's the woman who dares to be different who is interesting."

I took it as a reference to the fact that I possessed the only unbared breasts in sight. Make that one unbared breast. I looked down at my chest and a nipple had crept out the side of the bikini top. I pushed it back under cover. I decided instantly that this boy would serve me well. We chatted for a few minutes "Well, mate," I said, imitating his speech. "I was just going to lunch. Shall we order up another shrimp on the barbie for you?" 

"Right-o, Sheila." 

"My name is Rebecca." 

"Right-o, Sheila." 

We went to lunch -- a salad, broiled shrimp and octopus, a couple of beers -- and my young Aussie friend actually paid half the bill, although he gulped when he saw it. "Nap time," said I, pushing my nipple back under cover again. 

"Your place or mine?" he asked. 

"Where's yours?" I asked.

"I don't have one yet." 

"Well, you can come to my room. But this is nap time --not play time. I have to sleep for a while. I just flew all night to get here." 

"I'll fetch my back pack," he said. 

My room was in a small, old hotel just off the main square. It had a lovely terrace with a view of the white buildings of the town and the blue sea beyond. The Greek islands ooze charm. It was hot; I opened the door to the terrace to let the air come in. I love to nap on a hot afternoon with just a breath of air. My Aussie youngster and I laid down together on the bed. He took off his shirt. He was nicely built and slender. I thought, "What the hell?" and took off my bikini top. My tit was sticking out anyway. 

I slept for a couple of hours, and the sun was low in the sky when I woke up. He was in the shower, and he came out wearing only a towel. "Hi, Sheila. Sleep well?" He sat down beside me on the bed. He put his hand on one breast and began to massage my nipple as I stretched and yawned and tried to wake up. "Too bad, we don't have any oil," said he. "That tit needs a little moisture."

"There's oil. Olive oil. Extra virgin. A bottle on the dresser."

"Hmmm," he said skeptically. "Worth a try." He got the bottle of olive oil, poured a goodly measure in his hand and rubbed it on my breasts. It was my first ever massage with olive oil. It felt a bit grainy which caused agreeable friction as his hands moved over my nipples. The towel was loose around his waist and his half-erect penis and testicles poked out. What a wonderful way to wake up! It was vacation, a Greek island, and a young, handsome man. 

"Give me a little of that oil," I asked. 

He poured a few drops in my hand. I reached out and grasped his penis and rubbed the oil on it with a series of strokes that left it shining and wet and very hard in my hand. "Oh, God," said he. Now, I was also aware that my man/boy had about a thousand options on that island who were younger and prettier than me and to keep his interest I needed to demonstrate my assets in the most favorable manner. I was up to it -- and so was he. 

I pulled away the towel and laid him down beside me, his penis sticking straight up in the air. I pulled off my shorts, straddled him, filled my hand with oil and began to massage him from the toes up and down his legs. As I sat on his groin, he slipped inside me and we both missed a breath. I froze. I didn't want him to cum. Not yet. I eased his penis out of me, oh so carefully. 

"Roll over," I said. He was getting too hot, too quick. I massaged his back and shoulders and then rolled him over on his front again, sitting with his head between my legs. Then, hands slippery with olive oil I massaged his chest while he hunched pleasurably, that penis poking holes in the air. I reversed my position and laid down beside him and kissed him from head to groin, my hips grinding against him. I went around and around his penis, filling my mouth with olive oil, spurting it over his balls and rubbing it in with my lips and tongue. If I had taken his penis in my mouth he would have gone off in an instant -- but I wanted to make sure that this boy stayed around. 

I backed off from his balls. I knew he wouldn't have a condom -- handsome men never do -- so I reached into my purse beside the bed and took a condom out of a box containing a dozen. Always the optimist! I was a little worried that the act of putting it on would make him cum, but he showed admirable self-restraint -- and then he impaled me. Oooh! 

The fucking was splendid. He employed that penis like a pilot does a joy stick, ensuring that I gasped with pleasure as he rammed it deep within me and then withdrew all but the head, forcing me to grab his hips and pull him deeper. We came together in one beautiful sexual explosion, my legs straight up in the air over his shoulders as he dug as deep as he could within me. His final spasms seemed to go on forever, one spurt after another....matching my own. Eureka! As that old Greek -- what's his name? -- said. 

That was the first time and never have I been fucked better or more often than in the two days I spent with that young Aussie: morning, fore-noon, after-noon, and night -- and once on the beach at sunset, only partly hidden from passer-byes behind a large rock. And there was an added benefit to the relationship. As I got ready to leave him and catch the ferry he said, "I have a friend on Skopelos." 

"Tell him I'm coming," said I. 

"I will." I bought another dozen -- no, two dozen -- condoms and a liter of olive oil and his friend, an older and very funny Aussie, was waiting for me at the ferry landing when I arrived. Three days later, that friend told me of a friend he had on another island -- and so it went. By the end of my eighteen day vacation, I had enjoyed five Aussies and one Canadian on six different islands and used three liters of extra virgin olive oil and four dozen condoms. I didn't get much of a tan.



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 10



After my vacation in Greece, I proceeded onward to my next assignment: Bangkok, Thailand. To summarize my sex life up till then, I was almost 39 years old and the number of men I had bedded was the same as my age. (I'm an accountant; I've addicted to numbers and I've got to get them right before I can tell the story.)

Bangkok was different from my life of the past four years working in American Embassies in Africa. In Africa my universe was small and confined; in Bangkok it was limitless and free. The Embassy was huge and nobody paid attention to my private life. The atmosphere was permissive. Thailand is the sex capital of the world with its attractive, friendly, and inexpensive women. Bangkok has thousands of bars, massage parlors, night clubs, strip joints, no-hands-restaurants, and other establishments where sex can be purchased at a moderate price with a smile. 

The men in Bangkok, surrrounded by Thai cuties, didn't pay much attention to round-eyes like me. But I had sex with about a dozen men, nearly all Americans, during my first year in the country. Even in kinky Bangkok, my adventures were mostly conventional: one man, one woman, one bed. 

My most vivid recollection of that year was a foray into group sex on Pattaya beach near Bangkok. The night life in Pattaya was as hot as the weather with sleazy bars filled with half-dressed Thai girls peddling their wares. 

I went to Pattaya with two girl friends. We all lacked steady men in our lives. None of us were beauties, but we looked sexy that night. I wore a short loose dress with a scoop neck and spaghetti straps and I left my bra at home, thus displaying ample cleavage and an occasional errant nipple for the world to see. I love to see men looking down my dress. My two girl friends wore shorts and tank tops, the shape and color of their nipples showing through the fabric. I had every intention of getting laid -- and so did my friends. 

We danced and drank until midnight in a bar with a tiny dance floor. Most of the Western men in the place were tourists and were more interested in the exotic Thai girls than us, but we collected a presentable pair named Steve and Jay and invited them to a stroll on the beach on the way back to our rented bungalow. All three women were calculating the same: three women, two men -- somebody is going to get left out. I figured it would be me because I'm big and clunky and I can never think of anything clever to say. 

The beach was quiet and empty and dark. One of my girl friends said, "I want to go swimming." She pulled off her tank top, shorts, and panties threw them down on the sand, and ran naked into the gentle surf. She turned around and laughed, "Come on in, you chickens." 

The rest of us followed her lead. It was so dark that we couldn't see much, but I remember the outline of flopping penises and testicles and my breasts bounced like basketballs as we ran into the ocean. We laughed and splashed in the water, and played tag. After a few minutes, we quieted down, all of us standing nipple-deep in the water waiting for somebody to take the lead. 

It was Steve. I don't know who initiated contact. We flowed into each others arms and he kissed me long and hard, the contours of our bodies fitting together as we stood in the warm tropical sea. I put my arms around his neck and locked my legs around his waist, pressing hard against his groin. I'm not coy. When a suitable man makes his move I respond quickly. Steve held me with his hands under my butt and sought out my vagina with his penis. He was immediately successful. 

I love the feel of a standing-up climax, a shake-all over, weak-kneed, breathless thrill of emotion that buckles your knees and makes you feel faint. But -- many sexy movie scenes to the contrary -- the insertion of a penis into a vagina while both persons are standing is difficult and usually unsatisfactory. Steve and I enjoyed an unusually good fit. He impaled me and pulled me back and forth, gently and slowly and I arched my back to facilitate deeper strokes, leaning back as far as I could without drowning. He climaxed first with a shudder, but he was a well-mannered man, not one to come and go. After a moment's rest he kept pumping away at me until he went soft. Then, I climbed down and he cradled me one arm while he inserted two fingers into my vagina. I climaxed with a cry in the night. 

We relaxed and shivered together in what now seemed like frigid water. Looking around, I saw one of my girl friends on the beach. Jay was on top of her, her legs locked around his waist, his hands under her buttocks, the two of them rocking back and forth on the sand while little wavelets of water broke around them. 

My other girl friend was standing in the water about twenty feet away, discreetly staring into the distance. She was naked, alone and unattended. Steve was looking at her too and I could feel his penis getting hard on my thigh. I felt generous. It's always been a fault of mine. 

"Look," I said to Steve. "You should pay some attention to her." He nodded, kissed me goodbye. and left me behind, going over to the other girl. They stood facing each other for a moment, kissed, and within a minute the two of them headed for the beach and laid down together on the sand. 

I walked out of the water and sat on the sand. On one side of me Jay was fucking one girl friend and on the other Steve was fucking the other. Jay finished first, their climax noisy. They rested together a moment, lying side by side, her hand on his limp penis. He sat up, looked at me, sitting there naked about 10 feet away and walked into the water. He washed sand off himself in knee deep water and then motioned for me to join him. He didn't need to invite me twice. 

We met in the water, kissed, and I dropped to the sand, sitting with my legs apart, and he straddled me. The waves lapped over us and he played in my vagina with his hand and penis, not really able to penetrate me deeply. It didn't matter. I went off like a roman candle. When I began to massage his penis to help bring him to climax him he said, "I can't do this twice so quickly." 

The other two girls and Steve were now sitting on the beach side by side recovering from their trysts. Both girls sat with their legs open and receptive. Jay and I joined them and we talked and rested for a few minutes. I sat in the middle. I was the queen bee -- brought to climax by both men while my girl friends had each only had one. The men soon remedied that inequity. 

With a nod to each other they took my girl friends down on the sand. Both men climbed on, so close to me that they nearly touched me on both sides. Both had already climaxed once and it took them a few minutes to get erections, which caused merriment, ribald comment, and mouth-to-penis resuscitation but soon both couples were humping together. One girl sought the deepest penetration by locking her legs around Steve's waist and the spreading her legs wide, pulling him down hard on every stroke. The other sat on Jay, bouncing up on down on top of him, tits and hair flying in the dark. Both had lost all inhibition, screaming in joy as penises pounded their vaginas. 

I couldn't keep from getting hot all over again and playing with myself, pushing fingers deep within myself while stroking my clitoris with my thumb. We all climaxed together, the two entwined couples and yours truly with her hand, and lay gasping with pleasure on the sand, jolly with the pleasure of having had good sex.

I suggested -- only half joking -- that I had not yet exhausted my sexual resources. Neither man responded to my exploratory hint. We soon parted company. We women put on our clothes and walked together to our bungalow, and waved a casual goodbye to the men who continued on down the beach. We never saw either of them again.



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 11



I'm ninety-nine percent straight and one percent lesbian. By that I mean I've had sex with a lot of men and only one woman. But, oh, lord, did I have sex with that woman! 

I'm American and I was working as an accountant in Bangkok, Thailand. I was 40, unattached, and taking men home with me when I could find them. In sin-city Bangkok that wasn't as easy as it sounds. The eligible men like Thai girls who are cheap, willing, and attractive. A round-eye like me often gets left out. 

Hearing from friends about the skill of a Thai masseuse, I hired her to come to my house after my Sunday morning tennis game. I didn't know what to expect -- although I knew that when men went to a Thai massage parlor the culmination of their purchased hour was a hand job. More than that was an extra cost option. But my massages were innocent -- although sensual as the nearly naked little Thai girl crawled all over me and came very close to making me purr. I say girl because my masseuse was named Noi, which means "small" in Thai, and she was small, about five feet tall and less than 100 pounds. Compared to her I was a moose at five feet eight and 150 pounds. She was 25 years old, but looked a teenager.  

Noi worked during the week at a large, well-known massage parlor, occupying a prominent five story building and employing 50 girls. She told me to telephone her at the massage parlor if I wanted a massage during the week. One slow afternoon in the Embassy, man-less and horny, I did just that. 

Noi was available. She told me to come to the side door of the massage parlor where I would be met and escorted to her room. I didn't want to go in the front door of the massage parlor to be seen by a dozen or more male tourists picking out their masseuse -- and sex partner -- by examining them through a fishbowl window. In Thai massage parlors, the girls awaiting potential customers sat in a brightly lit room on a stairstep platform. They wore short, white dresses and have a red number pinned on her chest. The men stood outside the fishbowl, gazed in and selected a partner by telling the attendant her number. "I'll never forget number 23" is a standard joke among men in Thailand. 

I took a taxi to the massage parlor and nervously found my way to the side door. Waiting for me was an older woman with a small flashlight. I slipped in through the door and the woman led me down pitch black corridors and up a freight elevator to Noi's room. The corridors were dark to ensure that surreptitious customers like me did not run into their boss or spouse or priest. 

Noi's room contained a bathtub and a massage table covered with a mattress. Noi was dressed in a white nurse-like uniform although the dress was too short and the zipper down the front open enough to reveal what little cleavage she had. She had the number 42 pinned to her chest. 

We exchanged air kisses and she said, "You want bath?" I said yes. She gave me a plastic hair cover to keep my hair from getting wet and while I took my clothes off she filled up the bath tub. She knew I liked very hot water. I slipped into the bathtub, leaned back, and relaxed. It had been a hard week at work. 

To avoid getting wet while bathing me, Noi pulled her dress over her head and hung it up. She was wearing only lacy panties. At my house, she hadn't taken her clothes off and I marveled at how truly small she was. Her pointed tits were mosquito bites and her nipples were like licorice jelly beans. OK, that's a bad simile, but I can't think of anything better. I like jelly beans. 

Noi bathed me with hands and lofa sponge, dried me with a big towel and I laid down on the massage table. Noi was a good masseuse. She climbed all over me and pulled, tweaked, pressed, and squeezed every part of me, including standing on my back and massaging me with her toes. She finished by sitting on my upper legs and leaning over me with hands spread on each side of my groin pressing down, letting up, pressing down, and letting up in a move to ensure that the customer was ready and eager for the finale -- which for men was masturbation. 

I was ready and eager that day. With my clitoris feeling as swollen as a pumpkin, I pulled the tiny Thai girl down on top of me and locked my arms around her in an embrace, her long black hair falling on my chest. Noi pointed to her panties. "I take off?" she asked. I nodded and she slipped them off and we lay together. For the first time in my life I felt another woman's naked pussy pressing against my own. She was shaved; I had a narrow triangle of hair. 

Noi anticipated that I wanted more than a finger massaging my clitoris -- she also knew that I tipped well -- and she slipped down the bed, looking up at me for confirmation, and stuck her tongue into my slit and began to lick and suck on my clitoris. In three strokes of the tongue, I cummed, bouncing my body wildly up and down on the massage table while she kept her tongue working on me. 

I was still shaking with ecstasy, that tiny Thai girl in my arms, when I decided I wanted more. I lusted for this girl. I kissed her, a long lingering kiss in which our tongues met. I put my hand between her legs and began to feel her. "We fuck?" asked Noi. 

I wasn't sure what that meant for women, but I said "Yes." I got up from the massage table, rolled her over on her back, stood beside her and began to kiss and caress her body. I've done a "round the world" many times with men but with a woman it was different. She was brown as a bean, tiny, silken, and her black hair cascaded over her shoulders. I would kill for such hair. I completed my round the world with my tongue in her vagina, her hips gyrating moving back and forth to capture my tongue. 

She seemed to be near a climax when I got back on the massage table and got on top of her. I wanted to feel what it was like for a man when he mounts a woman. Her hand slipped down to my clitoris, my hand to hers, and we brought each other to climax. Mine was real. Hers? She was a professional, after all, working for money, not love. 

That was the beginning of an affair that lasted more than a year. Every week or two, I would sneak away from work to meet Noi in the massage parlor and I would enjoy an hour or two of being bathed and having my clitoris massaged by Noi's talented fingers or mouth. Each time, I went back to work with a bright smile and a tired happy body. 

We had a relationship. Her English was good, and I could speak a little Thai. We had our terms of endearment and language of intimacy. Our favorite was "flying a kite." In Thailand, kite flying is a popular sport. The devotees make elaborate fighting kites and try to win a contest by cutting their opponent's kite string. In manipulating the kites they jerk the strings up and down. Thus, "flying a kite" has become a humorous reference to masturbation. 

Near the end of my massage, Noi would always ask me, "We fly kite now?" That would break us both up. I would usually nod yes, but sometimes I wanted more and I would respond, "No, today we fuck." We would then lie together on the table and finger and tongue fuck each other. 

I didn't give up men during that year. I took a few to bed, but my purchased sex with Noi gave me more satisfaction than most of the sex I have had with men. 

There's a denouement to this story. Just before I left Thailand for another assignment I visited Noi at her family's house in northeastern Thailand. Most of the bars girls and masseuses in Bangkok were from that poverty stricken part of the country. Her house there, where her parents and several younger siblings lived, was surprisingly luxurious: three rooms, concrete, with a metal rather than a thatched roof, a television antenna, and several acres of rice land. Noi had purchased the house and land with her earnings as a masseuse. She was doing well -- and the fortunes of her family were on the upswing. 

And, by chance, at a drunken partly not long before I left Thailand, I heard three men talking about a girl named Noi. I perked up my ears and listened. It was my Noi they were talking about -- and they had all been fucking number 42. Noi, I realized, was servicing half the men and women in my office -- male and female. More power to her. I got my money's worth -- and more.



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 12



The horniest man I ever knew was Dick. He was 32, had been divorced for two years, and was making up for lost time. The easy availability of inexpensive sex in Bangkok, Thailand drives many men into a sexual frenzy and Dick was one of them. By all accounts, he had been a good husband but, after his divorce and assignment to a job in Bangkok, he got into sex in a big way. During his lunch hour he often went out for a blow job. He ran thru all the girls, numbers one through sixty-nine, at Madame Lulu's 69 Club in less than two months -- and started all over again.

I know this because Dick and I were tennis partners. I went by his house on Saturday and Sunday mornings to pick him up for a game. A giggly Thai cutie was always there, often still in bed with him. I never met the same girl twice. Dick had a maid -- a middle aged, dumpy woman who he paid about twice the normal salary. He had sex with her occasionally -- and the extra salary he gave her helped keep her jealousy in check at the parade of women going through his house. She loved Dick -- and I would bet that ten years later, long after Dick has departed Thailand, he still sends her a monthly check for services rendered. He was a nice and thoughtful guy. 

Dick and I were soul mates. We're both Americans. I was forty years old, tall, big-boned, big-boobed, and attractive in a clumsy, clunky way. To all appearances, I was a serious career woman who dressed and behaved with professional primness, but in my private life I was an unrepentant slut -- and a secret drunk. 

Dick and I often followed up our tennis games with lunch and a bottle of wine, and frequently by afternoon drinks and chats at his large, rambling house. We were the best of friends. We shared secrets and trusted each other. As far as I know, I was the only round-eye woman he had a close relationship with in Bangkok. 

We had sex with each other now and then, as well as with a lot of other people, but that's a story for the next chapter. Dick's sexual energies were aimed at Thai women-for-hire and I was having an affair with a woman-for-hire -- a Thai masseuse. He met my lover, Noi, once at my apartment. His eyes lit up with interest and I have no doubt that he subsequently procured her services. After all, she was a working girl -- and I could hardly begrudge her attentions to paying customers. I'm glad, however, he didn't tell me about his tryst with Noi. 

Dick invited me out on the town to go bar-hopping one night. Four old school friends were visiting him and they wanted to see the wilder side of Bangkok life. I was along because Dick thought I might enjoy extending hospitality to one or more of his friends during their visit to Bangkok. I did. 

We were in a Thai night club about midnight. To set the scene, you had a small stage with half-naked dancing girls and a dance floor with strobe lights. The tables surrounding the dance floor were in absolute darkness. Waitresses showed you to a table with a small flashlight, and you called a waitress to your table with a flick of a light -- thoughtfully provided. 

All this darkness had a purpose: anonymity. You could not recognize anyone. Girls in bikini outfits worked the room, going from table to table, allowing the men to feel their assets in the dark and sitting down with them if asked. Around the main room were smaller rooms outfitted with cushions where, for a modest fee, one could take a woman for pleasuring. There was a lot of traffic back and forth to the rooms. 

The five men at my table kept hopping up and down, dancing with Thai girls, inviting them to sit down at our table, and then disappearing into the darkness. I was bored and neglected until I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a small man, a Thai, I could tell by his accent, and he asked me to dance. I said yes. We swayed around a dark corner of the dance floor for a couple of slow songs. His head fit nicely between my tits. I usually feel self-conscious dancing with a man shorter than myself -- but it was dark, really dark. 

He invited me to his table for a drink, but when I realized there were several other noisy, drunk Thai men there, I said no. "We find quiet place?" he asked.

"Yes," said I. "We find quiet place." I was thinking that we would find another table, but he took it to mean something else. 

He flicked his light and a waitress appeared instantly to scoop up our drinks and to escort us. I was impressed. Service like that showed that my invisible partner was somebody. 

She took us to a private room, also in total darkness, and we sat down on the cushions around a low table, and he snuggled up to me. My first thought was, "I'm not ready for this." And then, "Oh, what the hell." I'd never fucked a Thai man -- nor any man as small as this one. He was about five feet four inches tall and maybe weighed 120 pounds. I'm five-eight and weigh 150. He was very nice, and suave, and a little shy. His hand slowly found its way to my breasts and explored them. Most Thai women have very small breasts and my big bassoons were a source of wonderment to him. 

He pushed his hand inside my blouse and his fingers down my bra, continuing his exploration. My nipples were large and hard. I assisted him to remove my blouse and unhook my bra and he rolled his face around my breasts for long minutes as I reclined on the cushions. 

We fucked on the cushions, his small penis lost in my vagina and his mouth firmly attached to one of my nipples. Fortunately, I cum easily because he didn't last long. I didn't linger as he laid there breathing hard. I pulled my clothes on, kissed him on the cheek -- our first kiss -- and said, "I have to go." He touched my hand and put a roll of bills in it. I started to protest -- but changed my mind. I put the money in my pocket.

Dick and friends were all at our table. "Where have you been?" said Dick. "We've been waiting a long time." 

"Girls want to have fun too," I answered. As we came out of the night club onto the lighted street, I counted the Thai money my diminutive lover had given me. It was about one hundred dollars. Not bad, thought I, for five minutes work. 

We rode home, all six of us, cramped into Dick's car. I sat on the lap of the cutest of the men. His hands held my waist tighter than necessary and I felt his hardened penis rubbing against my butt. When we got to my apartment, he got out of the car with me, and we exchanged a good night kiss. His hand found mine. I didn't pull away and he got the hint. I led him toward my place. We turned and waved good-by to our friends in the car.



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 13



I reached the peak (or the abyss) of my sexuality while living in Bangkok, Thailand for three years around my fortieth year. 

I've already told you about my friend Dick whose passion was to have sex with every Thai woman in Bangkok. He almost succeeded. We met by chance and quickly became tennis partners, soul brothers -- and occasional sex partners although Dick liked Oriental women and I had a lesbian relationship with a Thai masseuse. 

We played tennis together every Saturday morning. We had known each other about a month when Dick invited me to his house for an afternoon drink after tennis. It became a long afternoon of talking and I had more than a few drinks. 

I was a secret drunk -- always a moderate drinker in public, careful not to allow alcohol to interfere with my career as a prim and proper accountant -- but on Friday or Saturday nights, I often stayed home by myself and drink until I was insensible. I was always up, however, the next morning to play tennis. Getting drunk was my private secret. 

It became Dick's secret too because that afternoon I drank too much and woke up the next morning in his bed with only a foggy recollection of the night before. As Dick and I sat at his breakfast table drinking coffee -- me with a massive hangover -- Dick said, "I fucked you last night."

"I remember," I answered.

"Do you remember that I fucked you a second time?" he asked. 

"No."

He was nervous. "Is it all right?" 

I kissed him on the cheek. "It's all right. Anytime. But next time, please wear a rubber." I was in love with Dick. 

"Okay," he answered. That was about as romantic a conversation as we ever had. As a sex partner, Dick wouldn't make my top one hundred. He was more interested in quantity than quality -- spilling his seed as fast and as often in as many woman as possible. As a friend to whom I granted sexual privileges, however, he was the best I ever had. 

Our first night together established our pattern for my next two years. On Saturday Dick and I played tennis, ate lunch, and retired to his large and luxurious house. We talked and sunbathed and drank -- I did most of the drinking -- all afternoon and by early evening I was drunk. 

Madame Lulu at the 69 Club always sent a couple of girls over to Dick's house on Saturday night. They would frolic with Dick while I methodically sat on the couch and drank gin and tonics until I couldn't walk without assistance. Dick would help me upstairs to a bedroom, take my clothes off, set me down on the toilet to pee, and tenderly put me to bed. Now and then he would join me, but I doubt that we had sex more than twenty times in two years -- or at least that's all I recall. His tastes ran toward Thai women. That was fine with me. My priority on Saturday nights was to get quietly and methodically drunk. 

I knew enough Thai to understand that Dick's girls called me "that drunk American woman." I don't know what they thought about our outlandish sexual lives. Perhaps they thought that all round-eyes behaved the way we did. 

Sometimes Dick invited male friends over Saturday night and Madame Lulu sent over additional girls to ensure there were enough for everybody. At times, I would join in the party and retire upstairs to have sex with one of Dick's friends. He was always careful to be sure that I was conscious enough to know what was happening to me. Before I went to bed with anybody, Dick would whisper in my ear, "Are you okay? Do you want to do this?" I usually said yes, but if I said no, Dick would whisk me upstairs and put me to bed alone, and make sure that I stayed that way. 

One night when he had friends over he said. "I've got a shortage of beds tonight. Would it be all right if I ...uh...slept with you...uh...along with a girl?"

"I doubt that I will notice," I answered. It was a big bed. I got even drunker than usual. He put me to bed, but when I woke up a few hours later, my head pounding and with a raging thirst, Dick and a Thai girl were in bed with me and he was on top of her. I got up and staggered into the bathroom and got a drink of water and when I came back to bed, Dick put out a hand and patted me on the rear with affection and I squeezed his hand. He went back to the business of fucking the girl and I went back to sleep. 

Thereafter, Dick and his woman -- or women -- of the night often shared the bed with me. I loved it when I woke up in the morning and he was cradled against me -- even if another woman was in bed with us. 

Dick liked to watch me have sex. I allowed it -- and I also watched him occasionally. A room he used as a library and office adjoined his bedroom and through a louvered door you could see what was going on in the bedroom. With his usual politeness and little-boy shyness he asked one night if he could watch when it became obvious I was going to bed with one of his house guests. 

"Yes," I said. "But don't tell my man. I don't want him to inhibit him." 

"Thanks," he answered. "Leave a light on. Tell him it's more romantic that way." 

I watched Dick one night when he fucked his maid. She was hardly a prize: mid-forties, short, dumpy, and downright ugly -- but she adored Dick and was jealous of the many women circulating in and out of the house. Dick paid her an outrageous salary of one hundred dollars a month (this being about 1980) for her indulgence and he had sex with her about once a month.

As I watched through the louvered door, Dick put on a virtuoso performance with the dumpy maid. As opposed to his usual style of ejaculating quickly and moving along to his next partner, he treated that woman as if she were the most desirable in the world, lavishing upon her a smooth and slow hand, a supple tongue, and a disciplined penis that brought the woman to climax after climax. I was jealous. "Why doesn't he fuck me like that," I thought. When I mentioned my jealousy to Dick, he just laughed. "That poor woman has had a hard life. She needs someone to love her and I enjoy giving her what she needs and wants." When he took me to bed later for one of our infrequent trysts, he was more loving that usual. Unfortunately, I passed out after my first climax. I suppose that cemented in his mind the conviction that I was not appreciative or worthy of his most inspired sexual energies. Oh, well.... 

I did Dick favors by servicing two old and unattractive -- but very rich -- Chinese customers. Like many Orientals, they were enamored of large-breasted Western women and they wallowed in the vastness of my bosoms and lost themselves between my ample hips. 

The best sex I even had with Dick was a threesome. He invited me upstairs one night while I was still half-sober. I thought it was to be one of those rare occasions in which we had sex, but rather, after Dick and I undressed and laid down on the bed, my head resting comfortably in his lap, he clapped his hands and out of the closet stepped a naked Thai woman. She kneeled at the end of the bed, spread my legs, and put her head between them, her mouth and tongue seeking out my clitoris.

"I thought you might like this," Dick explained. "She has a very talented tongue"

So she did. She sucked and licked me to a rapid orgasm as Dick covered my hair, face and breasts with caresses and kisses. "I like to watch you cum," he said. 

"If you hold me, she can do it again," I said. He did and she did and Dick and I had a romantic moment, albeit one in which the stimulator of erotic parts was a third party. 

That was our relationship. Casual sex -- usually not with each other -- mixed in with voyeurism with me greasing the wheels, so to speak, of a few business deals. Dick gave me a safe place to indulge my addiction to getting dead drunk once a week. It was a fair exchange and I don't regret it. I would have married Dick in a moment if he had asked me. I wouldn't even have insisted on a vow of fidelity. Heaven knows I would never give such a pledge -- and I was a vestal virgin compared to Dick.



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 14



I left Bangkok when I was forty-two years old. Enroute to a new assignment in an African country I joined a tour group for a visit to China. This was 1984 and China was still relatively new and exotic for tourists. 

I was worried that my life was spinning out of control. I was drinking more and recalling less. Shortly before I left Bangkok, I woke up in an unfamiliar bed with a man of whom I had absolutely no recollection. That scared me. It was time to curtail -- but not halt -- my drinking and become more selective in my sexual partners. In addition, AIDs and genital herpes had become rampant, shutting down the permissive sexual environment of the 1970s. So, China was to be a drying out time for me. I hoped to find sex among my tour partners, but I would enjoy it soberly and sanely. 

I like to watch other people have sex. Especially if they don't know I'm watching, or if they are oblivious to my presence. It's a window into unguarded and personal moments when people are at their most intimate and exposed. I had indulged my voyeurism in Bangkok, spending weekends with my friend Dick, sleeping drunk in his bed and waking up to watch him have sex beside me with one or another Thai bargirl. Moreover, I had often watched Dick or his friends have sex through a louvered door that looked into his bedroom. Dick had known I was watching; his friends hadn't -- and that made it more exciting. Dick had also watched me have sex with several different men, and I had enjoyed knowing that he was watching. 

On the China tour I shared a hotel room with a sweet attractive 30 year old woman named Mandy. She and a handsome single man on the tour of the same age became enamored with each other. The third night of the tour -- we were in Xian -- my roomie broached the subject with me.

"Becky, this is embarrassing to ask, but would you mind if Randy came to the room tonight?" 

"No," answered I, not offended but a little jealous. There were no men in this group for me. A sex-less two weeks loomed ahead. And I was already edgy from a lack of alcohol. 

Well, Randy came to our room that night and the two of them made the earth move. The room was small and our two single beds were separated only by a small lamp table. Randy and Mandy bounced up and down on that little bed for an hour while I pretended to sleep -- and secretly brought myself to a quiet climax just about the same time they did. After they finished with sex John departed for his own room. 

That set the pattern for the next several nights. They fucked and I pretended to be asleep. I especially enjoyed watching them one night when moonlight flooded the room. They did a 69 and there was enough light for me to see his erect penis as she took him in her mouth and brought him slowly to climax. I was worried that their bed would collapse when he cummed in her mouth while her hips were bouncing up and down over his face. They paid no attention to me during their revels. When they finished he sat on the edge of the bed facing me and I could have reached out and taken his limp penis in my hand. In my pretend sleep I had loosed a button on my night dress and one of my breasts was exposed in the moonlight while I slumbered innocently. He didn't seem to notice. My invisibility both irritated and excited me. 

I've had many failures and frustrations in my love life, but this turned out to be one of the lucky times. Mandy got sick in Changsha -- deathly ill with amoebic dysentery -- and she spent a night in the hospital with a needle in her arm getting re-hydrated. Randy and I visited her in the hospital that night and as we were returning to the hotel in a taxi he said. "I apologize for all the inconvenience we've caused you. You're a sweetheart. And tell me," he said after a pause, "have you really been asleep all these nights?"

I giggled like a schoolgirl. "Well," I admitted, "I noticed that the two of you were enjoying each other." 

"You could sleep through an earthquake if you hadn't. Thanks for putting up with us." 

"My pleasure." And it really was. 

When we got back to the room, Randy dropped a hint. "I hate to go to my room," he said. "My roommate is a boring old man who talks too much and snores and gets up too early." 

I contemplated a minute. "There's an empty bed in my room. I think you're familiar with it."

"You wouldn't mind?" I assured him that I wouldn't. 

He came to my door an hour later. I had showered and prettied myself, including a dab of perfume behind each ear and I had (again) loosed a button on my knee-length night dress to show deep, impressive cleavage and, if I bent over just a tiny bit, a pretty pink nipple. We exchanged a friendly hug and he clung to me a touch longer than necessary, my breasts pressed against him. 

I chattered as I slipped into bed, my night dress riding up to show my upper leg as I pulled the bedcovers halfway around myself. He sat on his bed and started taking off his shoes. "Do you mind if I shower?" 

I didn't. I sat in bed, propped up by pillows and read my book and made sure that my cleavage was prominent. He came out of the shower wearing only a towel and sat down on my bed. "I....uhh....," he began. I reached forward, put an arm around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. It was an innocent good night kiss if he wanted it that way. He didn't. His arm went around my waist and his lips traveled around my cheek and down my chin to my neck. I laid my book on the table and the bedcovers fell away from me. My bare leg was against his and one breast came out of the nightdress to press against his shoulder. 

He gently moved me away and I had a panic-stricken moment that he was leaving. But he wasn't. Instead he took a long look at my bare boob and finally said, "I saw your breast the other night after ....uh....Mandy and I...uh...you were sleeping and it....uh..."

This lad was inarticulate, but his lips found mine and no further chatter was necessary. I turned off the light, laid back; his towel fell off and my nightdress rode up over my stomach and we were kissing, side by side, his penis rubbing against me. I helped him pull my nightdress over my head and off. He took the initiative in giving me a very nice going over with his mouth working down from my ears to my clitoris. I was making the bedsprings sing in tune to his tongue when he asked, "Do you want to cum?" 

"No," said I. "Make it last. I want it with you inside me." He relaxed on his back and I cooled down for a moment. Then, I rolled over half on top of him and kissed and sucked him. 

"Make me cum," he said as I neared his penis. "Then, I'll last longer when we fuck." He didn't have to ask me twice. My preferred technique for a blow job is to build the man to a climax with gentle licks and kisses. And when they're ready I clamp down hard with my lips to the tip of their penis and suck the cum out of them like drinking soda through a straw. Men writhe with pleasure. Often they pull my mouth away from their penis because they can't stand the intense spasms. 

Randy rested for a good fifteen minutes after cumming and I was afraid that his promise to fuck me was not going to be fulfilled. But he rose again -- with a little help -- rolled over on top of me and proceeded to pump long and hard -- at least ten minutes -- while I went off like the Fourth of July once, then a minute of relaxation, then again, and relax again, and finally a third time in which he joined me in a glorious finale. "Five firecrackers, out of five," I said to myself, rating the experience. 

Randy spent the night in the other bed in the room. While we sipped room-service coffee in our beds the next morning, we talked about checking Mandy out of the hospital. "This might be a little uncomfortable," he said. "I mean you, and me, and her....uh." 

"If you're talking about sex, you two continue just like I'm not here. I'll enjoy watching," I said with a laugh. But I didn't watch. I was tired that night and I don't know whether Mandy felt well enough yet to have sex. And the next night I was also tired and drifted away while they were entwined with each other. Then, the trip was over. Randy and Mandy got married later -- and I've seen them a couple of times since, but Randy and I have never repeated our one and only sexual experience. But who knows? Someday...maybe. I'll be ready.



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 15



I am well aware of the conventional wisdom that a woman, to demonstrate that she's not a slut, shouldn't fuck a man until the third date. I never follow that rule and, to the contrary, I believe it is a good idea to have sex with a man as early in the relationship as possible. Sex before your first date will relieve mutual sexual tension and, afterwards, you can get to know and enjoy each other and decide whether you want to continue the relationship with sex after the first date. If there is no first date after the first fuck, well, it wouldn't have been worth it anyway. 

I recall one date that went from shaking hands to a union of harmonious conjugation in half an hour. I was living in an African country and a friend made a blind date for me with an American visiting on business. She told me that he was fifty years old, handsome, and married but with a roving eye. I have nothing against sex with married men -- provided their wives are not in the same country as I am. 

At the time I was 43 years old and had worked at American embassies and lived abroad in Thailand and remote countries in Africa for eight years. Romantic relationships with local Africans and American co-workers were discouraged by my employer, so my possibilities for sex were mostly with visitors to the country. Unfortunately, African countries have few visitors and for several months I had been an underutilized slut. 

My date, who we'll call Slick, was to pick me up at my apartment to go to a party. I fixed myself up nicely. I'm no glamour girl, but I have a healthy, wholesome appearance. I wore a scoop neck dress that revealed a goodly expanse of cleavage and a loose flowery skirt. Slick was as advertised: Hollywood handsome, perfectly coiffed, casual, and elegant. I hated him at first sight; he had the oily charm of a car salesman, but hate is not always antithetical to desire. I served him a gin and tonic and had a weak one myself, trying to keep myself sober and stylish. We sat down together on the couch. He complimented me on my dress, which was in fact rather well-tailored and expensive, and felt the fabric, allowing his hand to brush lightly over my breasts -- which may have already been heaving.

About two minutes after we sat down on the couch he made his move. I suspect that the girl friend who arranged the date had told him that (1) I was easy; and, (2) I was desperate. Both statements were true. His hand found its way expertly to my waist and he pulled me closer to touch his lips gently against my forehead and cheek. I was taken aback. I had anticipated sex at the end of the evening. But he was coming on to me before the date! 

I both admired and despised his forwardness -- and I also knew that he was going to rumple my pretty dress if I didn't stop him -- or take off the dress. So, I said to him, "You have to stop. I don't want to wrinkle my dress." 

"I'll fix that," he said. He turned me so that he could unzip it from the back. I stood and he eased it over my head. It was time to stop him, my reason screamed. "I just met this man -- and I don't even like him." Fortunately, emotion prevailed over reason. I helped him pull the dress over my head and carefully laid it over the couch so it wouldn't wrinkle. We had a quick embrace and then I led him into my bedroom. He took off his clothes, being similarly careful to hang them up. 

What followed was a good, albeit brief and mechanical encounter with a man who knew a lot about making love. He worked his way with hands and mouth up from my feet to my lips while I explored him with my hands. His pubic area was as carefully groomed and sweet-smelling as his hair. I opened a drawer on my bedside chest and took out a condom. Some men I trust. Slick? Never. I slid it onto him. He rolled over on top of me and I met him with my legs parted. 

Slick paced himself expertly and we climaxed simultaneously. On my rating scale he was four firecrackers out of five. We allowed ourselves a scant couple of minutes of afterplay and then agreed that we would be late to the party if we didn't rise, shower, dress, and get moving. I looked at the clock. Thirty minutes from handshake to consummation. Pretty quick -- even for me. We showered together. The night was young, with promise of more sex with oily Slick. 

At the party, however, Slick became inattentive and I ascertained that I was of no further interest to him in light of several other women there. That was not a tragedy although I was insulted. While Slick was trying to decide which of two sweet young things he was going to seduce, I found myself another man. We'll call him Clod. 

I had known Clod -- in the biblical sense -- a couple of times. He was pleasant, a fumbler and bumbler in life and bed, not much to look at, and hardly prized as a catch by the Embassy's fishing fleet of lonely women. But, he was a man and I asked him to take me home. 

"I thought you came to the party with Slick," he said. 

"I did, but I'm going home with you." As we walked out the door I had the satisfying pleasure of seeing a surprised look on Slick's face. I waved goodbye to him and smiled. 

Well, I owed Clod big-time for rescuing me from being humiliated by Slick and I paid him back with a night that I put my soul into. Slick had aroused me, I had to admit, and I was more than ready for a second go round. 

I love ears. A man who greets me with a brush of the lips on my cheek and a gentle caress of one of my ears arouses me instantly. During an orgasm my hands usually find their way to a man's head and hair and ears. A favorite pleasure is to hold a man's head between my legs while he drinks the nectar at my fountain of love. I quiver at the feel of his face and hair and ears against the soft skin of my inner thigh. 

With a bit of subtle guidance, Clod performed beyond all expectations. Head buried in my thighs he gave me a thrilling orgasm and then I proceeded to pull him down on top of me, locked onto his penis with the equivalent of a vaginal death grip, and led him on a wild and impassioned ride. In the passion of the moment, his penis thrusting and sperm spilling out of him, Clod blurted out, "I love you. Will you marry me?"

I kept on grinding hard to reach my own climax and answered, "I never accept a proposal of marriage from a man with an erection." Fortunately, he didn't bring up the subject of marriage again. 



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 16



When I left my job in Africa to move back to Thailand in 1986, I was 44 years old and still in the full flower of my sluthood, a confident, mature, attractive, successful woman. Having had a hysterectomy 11 years earlier I had no restraints due to periods or fear of pregnancy. My sexual partners now totaled more than ninety. I regretted only a few of them 

Enroute to Thailand, I went on vacation to the Greek Islands -- among my favorite places in the whole world. But I spent my first two nights there alone in my room with a bottle of gin. Amidst all the twenty-somethings I seemed ancient, so I indulged my loneliness by getting drunk. The reader of earlier chapters will know that I am a secretive alcoholic who had spent many weekends dead drunk. I now had my drinking mostly under control -- but, it was a vacation and I indulged myself.   

I was relieved my third night when an American couple invited me to a party at their villa. They said there would be a single man there and I -- with quiet desperation -- prepared myself. I wore a flowery, flouncy knee-length dress with a white peasant top of fine, clinging cotton. Sans bra, the shape and color of my nipples showed through discreetly. I displayed ample cleavage and a shrug of the shoulders or a slip of the spaghetti strap revealed an areola. It was a blouse designed to make men look down it -- and I love having men look at my tits. 

I was also aware that I was a bit old for my outfit, so I hoped for flattering lighting at the party. As it turned out, the lighting was good for me. It was a group: of eight: three married couples, a single man, and me. We danced and ate and drank. But, even getting high on gin and tonics, I didn't like the company much. They were all Wall Street types, people who had attended the best schools and made a lot of money, but they had a slimy and clever texture that didn't attract me. That is, except for the single man who was about my age and most charming and attentive. I decided quickly that he would be a good partner for the night. 

The villa was luxurious and even had a swimming pool, a rarity on the water-scarce Greek islands. About midnight, I was sitting beside the pool talking to my presumptive lover, sipping my fifth drink of the evening when two of the married couples took off their clothes, whooped and hollered, and leaped into the pool. As they splashed and played it become apparent that a spouse swap was underway. One of the women was entwined about her partner's waist; the other seemed dedicated to giving her man an underwater blow job. 

I was a bit reluctant, not being overly enthusiastic with the company, but my single man persuaded me to join the others in the water. I slipped my dress off over my head and took my panties off. He pulled off his shorts and we jumped into the water.  

Soon, seven of us -- four men and three women --all naked, joined arms, circled together in shallow water, and made bawdy jokes. The person missing from the pool was the other married women. She was lying drunk and semi-conscious on a chaise lounge beside the pool. As we reveled in the water, her husband shouted, "Somebody fuck my wife! Come on! Fuck her!" he exhorted the other men. He was drunk and obnoxious. With more men than women in the pool, he wanted to divert one of the men to his wife to increase his odds of pairing with one of us. 

His strategy didn't work with me. He approached me in the water, put one arm around me, felt my tits, tried to kiss me, and thrust a finger up my vagina. I pulled away, pretending to laugh and quickly found myself in the arms of my single man. I stayed there for safety. 

The drunk continued to shout, "Fuck my wife" and not finding a partner for her or for himself, he proceeded to get out and do it himself on the chaise lounge, the wife motionless beneath his humping body. "I'm cumming, I'm cumming," he announced to the uncaring world. And then he passed out beside his comatose wife. 

The two other couples had completed their swap negotiations and foreplay and headed for bedrooms. Alone with my man, chest deep in the water, we indulged in a long, naked kiss that put me in the mood. He had a slow hand and a gentle touch and, my clitoris feeling the size of an orange, I wrapped myself around his waist and maneuvered his penis inside my vagina. 

In the center of the swimming pool was a fountain with a wide circular base and that was where we fucked. I laid on my back on the concrete base, water running over and under me, my legs straight up in the air resting on his shoulders. He stood hip deep in the water, thrusting into me. It was a most excellent climax. I nearly drown as I relaxed and the water from the fountain filled my nose and mouth. 

My partner knew how to treat a woman after sex. We got out of the pool, laid down on adjacent chaise lounges, and he got me a drink. I drank it and then he got me another one and then he fucked me again. And then I finished my drink and passed out.  

I awoke later that night, cold and naked, confused, my head throbbing, and still lying on the chaise lounge. My lover was missing. He was a few feet away. He was fucking the woman who had passed out earlier. And on top of me was her obnoxious husband, thrusting his penis into my dry vagina. 

I laid there for a moment, unsure what to do, the pain from his penis radiating all through me, and then I was thoroughly disgusted, mostly with myself. I raised my legs and pushed my would-be lover away from me. It was too late. He was climaxing and he writhed over me, spurting cum over my stomach and thighs. I pushed him harder with my foot and he tumbled over backwards into the pool. 

"What the hell," he said.

"Get away from me, you asshole," I shouted. "I wouldn't fuck you if you were the last man in the world."

"You already have," he said with a smirk, standing in the water and looking at me. 

I kicked at him and he laughed and swam away to the other side of the pool. 

My earlier lover didn't come to my aid and comfort. He looked at me for a long moment, shook his head, and went back to humping his comatose partner whose moans were the only thing indicating that she was still alive.  

I jumped into the pool and cleansed myself of the offensive left-over sperm of my two partners, thrusting fingers deep within me, trying to wash away my shame and anger. When I had done all I could do I was crying and nearly hysterical. I got out of the pool, stepped into my dress, didn't bother to seek out panties or shoes, and found my way in the dark to the door of the villa, nearly tripping over another couple co-joined on the couch of the living room. "Fuck you," I said in parting. "You Wall Street leeches." 

It was a long walk to my hotel through the dark streets of a Greek island town, I was shoeless; my dress was clinging to my wet body, my hair was disheveled, and I was still drunk enough to be staggering, slack-jawed, and empty eyed. Most of the town was asleep but several late night revelers, young Greek men, shouted at me as I passed them on the streets. 

"Hey, lady!" they shouted, noticing my condition. "Tough night?" I ignored them. "How much?" they asked. "You give me one hundred dollars and I fuck you," one added laughing. 

I finally made it back to my room in the hotel and fell onto my bed crying. "Never again," said I. "Never again will I get drunk and used by a man." I have kept that vow. My days as a drunken party girl were over.  

They say that men overestimate their number of sexual partners by counting women they wish that had bedded -- and that women underestimate their partners by not counting men they wish they had not bedded. That's true. I refuse to count as a partner that slimy bastard who fucked me poolside on the Greek island while I was unconscious



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 17



I was forty-five years old when I achieved a lifetime total of one hundred sex partners. I don't keep a precise count -- but I've picked one as a symbol of achievement -- a Bronze Medal for sluthood. I may never win silver or gold, as I got off to a slow start. 

One problem in toting up partners is defining "sex." Does it have to be vaginal intercourse? What about oral sex? Yes, oral sex counts. Masturbation? Only if it goes both ways. Thus, my count doesn't include a few men I jacked off. But mutual masturbation qualifies as sex. And so does the exertions of a few men who tried and failed to accomplish linkage with me not through lack of intention but lack of woodiness. Any attempted penetration, I decided, whether successful or not, qualified as sex. 

I only counted one woman among my sex partners although a few other working women in Thailand had brought me to climax with tongue and mouth. 

So I came up with 100 sex partners, and while my hundredth was unremarkable in most respects, he was the only United States Senator I have ever fucked. 

I was living in Bangkok, Thailand. I'm a divorced woman who worked in American Embassies around the world. In that isolated and insular world long term relationships were hard to come by. The US government frowns on its confidential employees cohabiting with the locals and with each other, so my sex partners were mostly tourists and visitors to the Embassy, along with a sizeable number of young marines and peace corps volunteers. 

My Senator was on an official trip to Thailand, and I was assigned as his "control officer" meaning that I arranged meetings, accompanied him, ensured that his visit was useful, and that he was suitably impressed with the efficiency of the Embassy -- so impressed that he would vote in favor of budget increases we were seeking. 

I liked Senator Foghorn. He was about the same size as me: 5 feet, eight inches tall and 150 pounds. He had a good sense of humor and we laughed and joked as we went around town meeting with Thai officials. I have an accountant's personality so I'm not exactly scintillating, but I was comfortable with this Senator. 

At the end of our work day, when I took him back to his hotel, he suggested dinner. I accepted. I wasn't thinking of sex. He was in his late sixties and he seemed like a little old man and he was married -- although that has never put me off. 

We had a lovely dinner and over dessert he suggested that he would like to see something of Bangkok's fabled night life. He was polite and shy -- and so embarrassed at raising the subject -- that the thought of a night in bed with him first crept into my mind. I tossed my head and made my hair fly, crossed my legs, and turned off the professional me to become the personal me -- moderately attractive and sophisticated and quick to go to bed. 

I was familiar with Bangkok's night life. It was wide open. Thai girls are dark, slender, willing, and cheap. Sex of any variety was readily attainable at moderate prices. This being 1987, prices were still low. A one hour massage with masturbation as the piece de resistance was ten dollars at the best massage parlors and for a tip of the same you could enjoy more than a massage. Most of the attractions around Bangkok were for men; a round-eye woman like me was a rare sight in a Thai bar, night club, and massage parlor. 

I took Senator Foghorn to one of the better known bars in town, the Thai Beer Garden. It was (and is) a big thatched roof place with a rustic bar, wicker tables and chairs, and lit well enough so that you could examine the merchandise on display. About fifty women showed up every night to ply their wares. They were mostly non-professionals -- waitresses, maids, and secretaries who turned a trick when they needed extra money. Most were in their twenties, but a few were as old as me. 

The men in the place were almost all Western. They came to drink beer and talk to the girls and make onward assignations. You saw a little kissy-feely, but, unlike the raunchier places, I never saw couples at the Beer Garden fucking on the tables. But, then, I always went home early... 

The Senator and I sat down at a table and ordered Singha beer and the girls began to drift by to have a look at him -- and cast a wary eye at me. He was about twice the average age of men in the place. And what was I doing there? I quieted their concerns with a welcome smile and a wave to join us. Two girls sat down. Both wore provocative, slit-sided dresses of cheap polyester and push-up bras out of which their not-so-voluminous breasts protruded. That's catty of me. I've got big tits, which is about the only asset I can claim as superior to those sensual little Thai honeys. 

One of the girls settled in next to me, indicating a willingness to travel the lesbian route if that was my desire, and the other squeezed into a chair very close to the Senator, ensuring that her little body pressed against him. Both girls spoke a few words of English and I spoke a little Thai and we attempted to communicate. 

The Senator was jolly; he asked me about the Thai sex scene and I enlightened him, although protesting -- not in complete candor -- that I knew little about it. I warned him, however, that you should always ensure that the girl you're planning to engage for an evening is really a girl. He laughed and told me that was not on his mind. 

Girls came and went to our table, each trying their luck at hooking up. The Senator enjoyed himself and tipped each one generously. I liked him even more. So many rich and famous men are mean -- with money as well as people. 

Well, a slut I am, but a pimp I am not and after about an hour I said to the Senator, "It's about time I called it a night. You may stay if you wish. I'll tell the owner to make sure you get home safely." 

He ceased diddling with the girl cuddled up next to him and gave me a long look. "I think I should go also. This is interesting, but it's not my scene. Let's go back to the hotel." 

Hmm? Being a typical woman I over-analyzed that remark. Was it an invitation? If it turned out to be I decided to accept. Screwing the Senator was not in my job description, but it sounded like fun to the non-professional me. 

We caught a taxi back to his hotel and chatted amiably, turned just a bit toward each other and with his leg barely touching mine in the small back seat of the Toyota taxi. I didn't move my leg. 

When we got to the hotel, I bid him good-night -- if that was the way it was it be -- as we stood beside the taxi. He searched for words. It was endearing how shy this glad-handing, talkative politician really was. Finally, he came out with, "Shall we go to my room and look at the schedule for tomorrow?' 

That was lame. But I've always liked men who fumble a bit, rather than the slick, smooth sorts. "Certainly," said I, innocently. "We can discuss what you want to say to the Foreign Minister." 

We got to his room; he offered me a drink; I said no and I sat down on his bed, hiking my skirt up over my knees and smoothing out my blouse over an impressive bosom. He sat down beside me with schedule in hand and we discussed our meetings for the next day, our bodies touching each other oh-so-lightly. Our heads came closer and closer together and he said, "You know, I don't really want to talk about these meetings." 

"Nor do I." Our lips locked, his hand sought my breast, my arms wound around him, and we reclined together on the bed. He took my clothes off slowly and gently and laid them carefully on a chair beside the bed. They were expensive, so I appreciated that. Soon, I was naked and I worked on getting him that way.

Most married men like blow jobs. Wives fuck as a duty but don't give out many blow jobs. So, men want to be blown -- and that's what I did to the Senator. I kissed and caressed him from head to toe, and I hardly touched his penis when he exploded in my mouth. I've given oral sex to a lot of men but few who enjoyed it as much as Senator Foghorn. He whistled like a banshee as he writhed in pleasurable agony and, considering his age, shot an impressive load of semen into my mouth. 

Afterwards, he apologized, "I didn't do much for you -- and at my age one climax is all I've got in me." He looked down ruefully at his limp penis lying comatose on his stomach. "An act of Congress wouldn't make it hard again." 

We laughed together and I said, "That's all right." And I turned him over on his stomach and massaged his back until he went to sleep. Then, I went to sleep. 

The Senator woke me early in the morning. "I'd like to try to give you something more to enjoy than I did last night." He was a considerate man. He really wasn't up for fucking, but he felt an obligation and his reluctant penis got hard as he climbed on and gave me his best -- which wasn't very good, but I don't have any problem finding my way to a climax with a man I like. I think he faked his. There wasn't anything left in him after the night before. 

And then we showered and went to work and we were around other people all day and both of us were very cool and professional and when I bid him farewell at the airport we shook hands. The next day a beautifully gift-wrapped gold orchid pendant was delivered to me with a card that said only "Thanks." 

The Senator wrote the Secretary of State a nice letter telling him how useful his visit to Thailand had been and how much he appreciated all the work I had done. A few months later I got a promotion. Senator Foghorn knew how to service a constituent.



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 18



Conventional wisdom says that women over forty years old have trouble finding sex partners. Well, I'm not Miss America and I found sex over forty. A lot of sex. I had twice as many sex partners in my forties as in my thirties. To toot my own horn a bit, I went from being an ugly ducking as a young woman to an attractive swan as a middle-aged woman. Praise the Lord, there is justice in life. If you wait long enough for it -- and work hard enough to get it. I work hard. 

When I was forty six I went back to my home town of Kansas City for a visit and there, at a reunion of college buddies, I re-met a man I had not seen for twenty-seven years. Away back in Chapter One, if your recall, I mentioned a wonderful one-night stand I had when I was nineteen. That was John. But we were both cheating -- and we both had attacks of conscience and we didn't repeat the experience. 

So suddenly, and by accident, I met this wonderful man again. John was happily married; he had two children, a dog named Spot, and a good job. It sounded like what Republicans call "family values" -- and was very appealing despite the different trajectory of my own life. I didn't tell him I was a recovering alcoholic nor allude to sex experiences with more than one hundred men. 

The words pouring out of John. The idyllic marriage had a problem. He told me his wife had multiple sclerosis and as he talked I realized that sex in their marriage had become impossible. He was tied to his home and his needful wife, celibate through loyalty and the demands on his time of a job and his children. 

He had no self-pity. It was a frank talk between people who had once been intimate and recaptured that intimacy. When we parted that day, however, his last words were what I wanted to hear. "It was so good to see you again, Becky. Can we meet again? For lunch? Or...uhh...more?" 

"I'd love too," I answered without hesitation, "but it has to be soon. I have to go back to work in Thailand in a week." I worked overseas for the State Department as an accountant. "When can we meet? I paused. "For more." My conscience didn't bother me in the slightest. John needed me and I needed to be needed. 

His voice lowered and he said confidentially, "How about this Thursday afternoon? Do you want me to arrange something....for more?" 

"No need for you to arrange anything," I answered. I'm staying at the Westin downtown, Room three forty seven. Two p.m.?" I pecked him on the cheek and he grinned crookedly, as if he were out of practice at smiling. 

I pondered my strategy for our meeting in my hotel room. First was a shower and a trim -- naked pussies were not yet in vogue. Next, clothing. I didn't want to come across as slutty by meeting him in lingerie or fuck-me shoes. Better to appear casual and relaxed and I chose a flowery loose fitting knee-length dress with a scoop neck and spaghetti straps. Every time I wore that dress a man untied the straps. It was old reliable. Bra or no bra? No bra. My boobs were big and firm and my dress permitted the display of a areola with the slightest shrug of my shoulder or slip of the strap. I chose bangs for my thick black hair to cover my worst feature: my face. Well, it wasn't that bad. In fact my face looked pretty good in comparison with some of my previously glamorous, but aging friends. I completed my preparations by applying a subtle perfume. 

It was a wonderful afternoon. We talked more than we fucked and that became the pattern for our encounters over the next five years. Whenever I was home from Thailand -- and I made a point to get home every few months -- we met for a stolen afternoon or two, me for sex with a man I loved, he for sex and a release from his onerous home life. Soon -- and my affair with John was a factor -- I quit my job with the State Department abroad to accept a consulting position in Washington. I began to meet him in Kansas City once a month. 

Now, let's get on to my favorite position. It's nothing unique or kinky, but it suits the relaxed sex of two old lovers with limited time and a need to talk as well as have sex. The talk begins as we quickly undress, catching up with each other's lives and discussing the most mundane things: the health of my mother, his teen-age daughter's school play, etc. 

We lie naked on the bed and kiss, our bodies entwined. Then, I turn over on my back, with one knee bent, and he comes at me from the side, at a right angle, his legs beneath mine and his penis finding my vagina beneath my bended knee. We don't even stop talking as he enters me -- "How did your daughter do in her soccer game?" He pushes forward to get deeper penetration, and I gasp with pleasure. Then, he relaxes and he falls back on his side and his penis slips out of me -- which causes me to utter an even bigger gasp. 

The wonders of this position is that we can talk and our hands are free. I feel his penis with a hand and move it inside and outside me, giving myself a clitoral massage. At the same time his hands can rub breasts and my vagina and manipulate his penis to touch me where he knows a touch will do the most good. Neither of us is in any hurry to cum. He has reached an age in which one shot is all you get -- and we both want a good one. 

So there we lie, for a half hour or more, talking and feeling each other. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in our conversation that he will go limp. That's good. I like to make him rise again. Sometimes, he will surprise me by suddenly putting his head between my legs and making me cum -- very quickly -- with his mouth. I have to make sure that he doesn't cum prematurely, so I am slow and gentle with my hands, and sparing in the use of my mouth. 

We communicate with a nod when it is time for the finale. Sometimes, at this point, he climbs on top of me and we fuck hard. Missionary, all things considered, brings me to a harder and more satisfying climax than anything else. Sometimes, we continue in the relaxed mode without changing position, my hand guiding and holding him inside me and massaging my clitoris as he hunches up over my legs seeking the deep, not finding it, but climaxing in exquisite agony just inside or outside me and spilling cum all over my pubic areas. I like to watch his penis twitching up and down as cum spurts out. I then cum by stroking his wet, half-limp penis with my hand, rubbing it up and down my slit and over my clitoris -- a quiet and almost gentle climax that gives me a sense of well-being rather than huge waves of pleasure. 

That's the way we do it. It's a friendly adult fuck, casual and familiar, with no frantic passion but an enduring affection. Sometimes he will answer my last question while I am still in the spasms of orgasm. "Her team won. Three to two." 

I had found the love of my life. He was married and had burdensome family responsibilities, but I treasured our time together. I continued to have sex with other men between our encounters, but John was what I had lacked for my whole life -- a man I could love with all my heart. Romance had found me at last.



Confessions of a Slut Ch. 19



Well, this is the finale. I could tell other stories. There was the young marine who fucked me six times one day, thus becoming the hardest man I ever knew. Another man and I jacked each other off on a crowded dance floor. (I wrapped my panties around his penis to catch his sperm and then dropped the panties into a potted plant.) I have never had sex in an airplane bathroom but I did in a train bathroom, and on the steps of the United States capital building and on top of a pyramid of Egypt and another in Guatemala. 

I'm not an exhibitionist but I liked it when a good friend watched me have sex. (See Chapter Thirteen). And I enjoy watching people if they don't know I'm watching. I don't do gangbangs, but I've often begun a night by having sex with one man and ending it with sex with another -- and once I had sex with three men in one night, a story that I told in Chapter Five) The best sex I ever had?. Probably Noi, the Thai masseuse and my only lesbian relationship. (See Chapter Eleven.) 

I used to be an alcoholic and a few times -- fortunately not many -- I woke up in the morning naked with a man beside me and no recollection of having had sex with him. And once in the back seat of a car two men took turns fucking me while I laid there drunk and semi-conscious. It wasn't fun. 

I'm sixty-six years old now and have been happily married for fourteen years. I married the wonderful man I talked about in the last chapter. His poor wife died after being crippled for many years with multiple sclerosis and, after a decent interval, we got married. 

Being happily married, however, does not mean that I am monogamous. In my married years I've had sex with forty new partners, as well as repeat engagements with about ten old partners. That brings my lifetime total up to one hundred and seventy five men, more or less. I'd like to get to two hundred, but I don't think I'll make it. The sands of time are running out.  

My husband doesn't ask about my sex life outside marriage, nor do I tell him. My extra-curricular sex hasn't hurt my marriage. It's like tennis. I like to do it -- and it's good for me. My first episode of "unfaithfulness" occurred only a month after our marriage. An old friend was in town and suggested we get together. I didn't hesitate to accept his offer.  

My sex life outside marriage is facilitated by my career. I'm a financial management consultant. I work out of my home in Kansas City and I make frequent long business trips. I am on the road three months of every year. In addition to acquiring frequent flyer miles I meet a man now and then and go to bed with him. And I occasionally divert from my business travel for a weekend with an old friend -- Abe the Titty Fucker for example (see Chapter Eight) who, unfortunately, died two years ago. I'm pretty sure that his last sexual emission was on me -- although I would deny that our sex had anything to do with his death.

If you've read my stories you know that until the age of thirty five my sex life was about as exciting as reruns of the Brady Bunch. I regret wasting those early years with my misguided philosophy of monogamous commitment. Some people are suited to monogamy; I am not. 

Fortunately, after long years of seeing myself as Ms. Plain Jane, the boring accountant, I acquired some self-esteem and confidence and, combined with a body that is still in excellent condition, I attract men, often younger than me, with some regularity. Not that it's easy for a woman my age. I often feel that I am invisible. Men look right through me, uninterested and indifferent. .   

Well, this is supposed to be a sex story, not a lament, so I'll I tell you about the last man -- except for my husband -- that I had sex with.  

It was in Washington, D.C. and at a dinner party hosted by a friend. I was paired at the dinner table with a pleasant and attentive man a few years younger than me. He was married -- but his wife was in a different city and to my mind it isn't adultery if the spouse is a thousand miles away. There is always the delicate question of how to hook up as the party winds down. It was even more complicated in this case because we came in separate cars. But a man talking to you at the end of the party most likely has sex on his mind and the direct approach is best. Most married men are guilt-ridden sheep and they need to be led to bed. "Do you want to go back to my place for a drink?" I asked him. 

His mouth plopped open. This was a man who stuck pretty close to home. "Uhh....yes....uhh. I would like that." 

He followed me to my hotel in his car; and we took the elevator to my room. He was nervous; I like married men who are nervous; it shows that they are mostly faithful to their wives -- and I like mostly faithful men. Mostly, I said. I'm not a home-wrecker, just a single woman who needs a man to cuddle me -- and make me go off like the Fourth of July. 

This sheepish man turned into a tiger. I was standing at the bar pouring him a drink when he came up behind me, put his hands on either side of my waist and said, "I don't really need another drink."

I gave him just a little bit of a butt-wiggle to feel what was already a rising penis beneath the fabric of his Brooks Brothers gray flannel trousers -- and then I gave him a lot more of a butt-wiggle when his arms circled me. He kissed my neck and his hand moved up to one of my breasts. I like loose-fitting bras that allow my breasts to bounce up and down and permit easy access to a hand searching for a hard, pink nipple. His hand felt his way down the front of my blouse to said nipple -- and now against my butt cheeks was a penis that was stiff as the proverbial board. A hard man is good to find. 

His hand left my breast and found its way downward to the triangle between my legs. I was wearing loose fitting slacks and he through the fabric he felt the slit where my clitoris resided and gave me a most pleasant and exciting massage with his middle finger. At the same time he kissed my neck and ears -- I love having my ears kissed -- and I pressed my butt harder and harder against his groin. 

We turned to face each other, his hand now inside my pants, working a finger beneath my panties and into my vagina. I unzipped him and groped for his penis, pulled it out of his pants, and cupped my hand around his balls while he thrust his finger deep within me. Oh, wow! This was getting good. We were still fully clothed and already I was hunching back and forth on my way to a climax. I would have, right there, standing with him kissing my ears and with his middle finger inside me and his thumb on my clitoris -- but he motioned me toward the sofa. I edged that way -- not taking my hand off his balls. I didn't want him to get away.       

When he selected the sofa rather than the bedroom I knew he was not going to spend the night. Even in the age of cellular telephones married men have a horror of not being in their hotel rooms when their wife calls at 3 a.m. 

We didn't do anything fancy on the sofa. I turned the lights down, and my man of the evening stripped off my clothes, lingering over my large breasts. He blurted out that his wife was flat-chested. I didn't mind the reference to the wife. I don't worry about such things. 

I took his clothes off and as he stood over me and I was about to give his very, very hard dick a little suck, but he said, "Can't wait." And he mounted me. He didn't last long. A couple of spasmodic jerks and sperm was oozing out of him and I was sticky wet. He caught his breath and then gave me a few more strokes with his semi-hard penis and I enjoyed a satisfying climax to a pleasant evening with no harm done to either his wife or my husband. My conscience is clear.  

I wish he had stayed the night -- but I came before he went.

That's all, folks.