It’s been barely 3 weeks since I last had sex and my insatiable body is starting to struggle. I find it odd I am frustrated so quickly when I spent years only ever pleasuring myself in my marriage. Yet now my whore has been released from her cage and gained the acceptance she has always craved it makes her reluctant to return to self-pleasure once more.

But I am better at it now. Much better. When I first left my husband, I used self pleasure as a way of ‘taking myself to bed’. It was a self seduction that would last all evening. It would start with a bath, candles, music. It would involve massaging myself with oils, seductively dancing for myself in the mirror, and ended giving myself a good hard fucking usually with a small vibrator in my cunt and my favourite large purple dildo in my arse. Sometimes one in my mouth too. It was my way of telling the world I didn’t need a man.

It was the First Lover who started something new. We have been friends now for a number of years both working in the same city away from our families. We never discussed sex while I was married. But then one day after I had spent about a year separated we started talking about it. Well he did. He’d not had it for a while. His marriage was drifting in the comfort zone which I knew all too well. He talked about a woman at work interested in him. How attractive she was. How difficult he found it to resist her. I have known this man since he was a boy. His father died when he was just 13. Loyalty to his family is at the very core of his being. For him to be talking so openly and honestly with me about what he perceived as his greatest weakness was humbling. He’s no longer a nightclub bouncer but still full of the grit I have always been attracted to. I loved the boy and I have never lost my physical connection with the man. His vulnerability made him even more desirable. I remembered he was the first lover to dominate me. The first to give me an orgasm.

In this intimate environment snuggled together in a basement booth, it was easy to forget it was the middle of the afternoon. We’d met for lunch and had wine, turning to drinks. I told him my story. My self seduction techniques. My ‘I don’t need a man for anything’ attitude. He tore me apart. Shone his light right through me and found that ball of darkness stopping me from connecting physically with another human being.

‘Stop denying yourself,’ he told me, ‘and stop looking for your happy ending. Have a fling. You’re single. Come on, you were always so confident. If you wanted a man, what would you do?’

I’m staring at him, thinking only about how much I still want him. Wondering if after all these years he’d be as incredible as I remember. I look at his body. Still strong. His face. Still hard with that beautiful softness in his eyes if you look long enough. Because I am silent he speaks again.

‘Would you ask him to go to bed with you?’

I’m looking in his eyes. I’m looking deep. I see his desire and I am sure he sees mine.

‘Yes’ I respond in a soft but sure voice. He smiles.
We don’t have sex that day but inevitably a few months later we meet for dinner at 8pm and end up in a club at 2am discussing the sex we used to have together. I told him he gave me my first orgasm.

‘There are two reasons you would tell me that,’ he says ‘one is because you are trying to flatter me which is very sweet,’

‘And the other reason?’ I ask.

‘Because it is true’.

We talk about having sex with each other. He tells me he’s out of practice and would be nowhere near as good as he used to be. I look deep into his eyes before I tell him ‘I doubt that’ and we both know.

From the club we go to a hotel. I make a pretence about getting twin beds but as I am quite tipsy I stand back from the fancy hotel reception desk and let him take charge. We end up with a double room. He takes his clothes off apart from his underwear and gets into bed. I stand coyly at the foot of the bed.

‘I don’t know what to wear to bed’ I say, looking down at my leather pencil skirt, white shirt, and angora jumper.

‘What do you normally wear?’ he asks.

‘Nothing.’

‘Then wear that.’

I remove my clothes slowly while he watches. Shirt carefully unbuttoned, hold-ups gently slid down my legs, bra unhooked, knickers teasingly dropped to the floor. All before I climb into bed beside him. I cuddle closely to him but he is reluctant. It reminds me of our very first kiss over two decades earlier at a disco where our lips touched and I thrust my tongue into his mouth only to have my kiss not returned. Rejected, I walked away and later he found me and kissed me with a passion so fierce it made my legs shake.

‘You don’t want to cuddle?’ I say, brushing my fingertips across his strong, toned chest and teasing the hair there between my fingers. Hair he certainly didn’t have there when we were 18.

He looks directly into my eyes. ‘I’m worried you’ll think less of me tomorrow if I do.’

I stroke his face and kiss his cheek softly. ‘I won’t,’ I whisper into his ear as I climb on top of him …

We have fantastic sex. Over and over. I love the responses his desperate body gives me. I love our fire together. Our passion. I start things off teasing his lips and tongue with mine and I savour the wonderful moment he can take no more and his mouth snaps hungrily to devour mine. He fucks my arse once at my request but tells me he prefers the warmth and softness of my cunt. I am yet to receive my deep throat training with the Young Heart at this point but his moans encourage me that even pre-training I’m not bad at it. We fuck, sleep, fuck, shower, fuck, dress and then head downstairs.

Travelling together for about 15 minutes of our commute, he leans over to me and whispers,

‘It felt so good to surrender to you. You are the only one I could do that with.’

We have never spoken of it again. The one perfect night. We would ruin it with a repeat performance. That night empowered me to see the inhibitions holding me back and it was not long before the Young Heart entered my bed. And now I am back to self pleasure, I know it is different this time. I have more toys. I have learnt more. My fantasies are something I can live in my head and on paper if I can’t live them in real life. But the whore is hungry and she grows hungrier by the day. She has always been desperate to surrender herself.

Now she is hungry to devour a man’s true surrender for her own …

Advertisements