I don't know how readers feel about it, but for me there is nothing more erotic than a true story. And the writing process certainly has its benefits -- the reliving of a sexy, fruitful and fulfilling event creates all sorts of stimulation for me and a productive hour or two invariably sends me off in search of human (or battery-driven) contact.
So I offer another account of a genuine encounter burned into my memory - as so many are -- in the hope that it will have the same effect on a few readers. If it does, be sure to let me know in as much detail as you wish.
If not, please spare me the advice on how to live my life and the eternal damnation promised by my innocent pursuits . Some of the moralising I get seems to be the province of old-time religion and bible-bashing fundamentalist types and I get very confused about what they're doing on the site in the first place... But I realise I can't stop you -- it's a free world and always will be. Unless you get your way, of course.
A x
Tony and I like to talk in bed. You know the sort of talk I mean.
With us, it's mostly variations on a theme. We picture either one or the two us being away from home, certainly with no kids around... Sometimes we're on holiday or a quick weekend break, sometimes on a business trip or conference; sometimes in a five-star suite with jacuzzi and room service, or just as often in a ratty Travelodge or some sleazy backstreet hotel where the scent of stale, illicit sex hangs over the rooms. All have their appeal.
But we always create an anonymous place -- somewhere no one could ever know us, recognise or even see us again. We're always happy, relaxed, focused on each other....but focused most of all on sex. And then, in the paranoia-free safety of our own home, in a virtual world free of STDs, where everyone is at least half-decent looking and optimistically endowed... well, with the help of a few toys as 'extras' in our little drama, we're up for pretty much anything.
We've imagined visits to sex clubs -- what we'd want to see there, how close we'd like to get and whether we'd participate and how. We've thought about what I would wear to dinner in a hotel restaurant and how much I might flirt in a bar full of leery business types. We've explored chance meetings with strangers, being watched as we fuck in a back alley or on a beach -- all featuring men, women, old and young, in singles pairs or groups and who all invariably end up in our room, drunk and debauched.
I remember one night, we 'mistakenly' watched an outrageous clip on the Net featuring a gorgeous Brazilian trannie hooking up with a couple... and we managed some serious role-playing with that idea too. All good clean fun... even if it pleases both of us to keep it as dirty as possible.
But one little scenario -- one we never tire of and that always gets instant results -- is the product of a very real event that happened a few years back.
We had planned a long weekend in Amsterdam, with the express purpose of celebrating my thirty-fifth birthday and at least dipping our toes into some of the more achievable and unthreatening of our fantasies. The kids were to stay with my mother while we headed for a hotel just off Dam Square and three days of whatever -- a few clubs, a quick trip round the red light district's sex shops, maybe a little smoking time in the coffee shops -- and a lot of time spent in our hotel room.
We reckoned the art galleries and museums (much as we both like them) could wait for another visit.
I'd bought some great new lingerie including a tiny cut-away bra, a few miniscule thongs and seamed stockings since Tony is such a perv for those. Me too I'll admit -- I'd never where them around friends or even locally, but when we're away I just love the effect they seem to have on men -- the knowledge they infer. Come on girls - the message is always the same with seams isn't it? They say to anyone that's interested; 'wearing stockings and looking to be shagged'
I'd also found an amazing ankle-length black dress -- low cut and made from the same sort of material as opaque tights - soft, clingy and sheer enough to be fairly see-through in the right light... the sort of light you might get in a bar or restaurant for example. We had agreed that I would wear it on the Saturday night when we planned an expensive meal somewhere - accompanied by a full compliment of lingerie beneath, naturally.
There was no intention of doing anything ground-breaking or outrageous, just the two of us getting as horny as possible via some safe voyeurism, maybe a little discreet exhibitionism and well... just general flirtatiousness. Amsterdam always seemed like the perfect place for it and we were anticipating the trip with mutual pleasure.
Of course, the best way to make God laugh, as they say, is to tell him your plans.
Three days before our flight my mother took ill -- nothing too serious but bedridden and inactive. I made sure she was OK then called Sarah, a friend nearby, to see if she would have the kids instead. She was fine with it but also had a sick relative who might call her away anytime, so she was understandably nervous about us being so far away.
As the obstacles piled up we reluctantly cancelled Amsterdam and rather than lose the whole weekend, Tony booked us into a random, but decent-sounding hotel in Broadstairs down on the coast. Bloody Broadstairs!
I still packed everything I'd bought for the trip, adding a washbag full of toys at the last moment when I realised we would hardly be cruising sex shops down on the Kent coast. And the mood during the drive down was promising since the talk turned to things sexual within the first ten miles.
But the hotel was a sad little affair, resentfully owned by a jaded and frankly unattractive couple in their fifties. Our room was up a creaky staircase and off a dimly lit corridor that carried the scent of boiled cabbage throughout the whole place. Not exactly palatial, the room was virtually filled by an ancient double bed, way too high off the floor and piled with faded quilts that gave off that whiff of ancient secretions. You know the one.
We stood and stared at its disappointing Englishness -- the frilly curtains, the once-garish carpet, the trouser-press, plastic kettle, theme-park leaflets and bare, bone-white bathroom.
Tony looked around, scratched his chin, put the suitcase down and crossed to a non-descript, framed print above the bed, unhooking it and setting it against a wall. He then did the same with a wide, bevelled mirror hung on a chain above the dressing table, lifting it from its mounting and hanging it where the print had been, right above the pillows and angled downward.
"Much better," he decided, throwing himself front-down on the bed and staring into the mirror, pleased. "Oh yes... and just the right height!"
We both smiled. We were going to have our fun one way or another -- we'd be fine. I walked into the bathroom and turned on the hot tap. "I'm in need of a nice, long shower hun -- why don't you go downstairs, maybe ask about restaurants. I'm starving..."
"OK. And wear something nice right? Just remember -- it'll be pretty breezy by the water."
I shut the door behind him, realising it was an old-fashioned lock -- we'd collected a heavy iron key on a solid wooden fob at reception. I grabbed it off the dresser, turned it in the door and walked into the now steamy bathroom, feeling good.
We were out of there within the hour and sat outside a waterfront pub watching the world go by, such as the world is in Broadstairs. Even on a Friday night.
We downed a bottle of rioja, then found a passable meal nearby and chatted through two more bottles of the same. It was only ten or so, but it was clear that the best fun we were going to have that night was in our room so we strolled back to the hotel, somewhat worse for wear. In fact, we were drunk enough to buy another bottle of something or other at the bar on the way through.
As Tony fumbled with the lock I threw off the leather coat I'd worn against the sea breezes. I was wearing just a thin summer dress -- short and fitted, buttoned up at the back -- but as Tony approached from behind it wasn't my dress he was interested in. I stood, a little unsteady, enjoying the sensations as he unhooked the buttons one by one finally slipping it off my shoulders and letting it fall.
I watched in a full-length mirror as he knelt, seeing his reddened face admire the whispy suspender-belt and thong I'd picked out... the dark stockings (not the seams, I was saving those for Saturday) and the high, spiky black heels I planned to keep on.
His lips touched the small of my back and the tip of his tongue began to leave a wet trail down to where the strip of thong disappeared between my cheeks.
