Those Fucing Years

I only had sex with one person in those fifteen months I waited for my divorce to come through. Just one person in all that lonely period. And then only twice with them. Once the day I kicked my husband out after finding he’d been unfaithful, yet again, and once a week or so later. But that sex was wonderful. It was different to any I’d had before, it was invigorating, exciting so satisfying and it was with a woman.

But after Toni I stopped. It somehow didn’t seem proper. I didn’t have the inclination. I didn’t have the will to leave my twelve year old daughter to go on dates. I didn’t also feel the need to “have a drink” with husbands of friends who once I was separated found that “they’d fancied me for years” or that “their wives really didn’t understand them.” I hadn’t realised how popular I’d been all these years I’d been with Kevin. Silly girl!

And at thirty five there doesn’t seem to be that many eligible single men and after the hurt I’d been through there was no way I could do that to another woman so married ones were out. So, a combination of being emotional and very morose, disillusionment with men, a general lack of availability and trying to bring some semblance of order to my shattered life all signalled one thing. I became almost a recluse in my new Docklands fortress where I remained barricaded up against any marauding males with my daughter, Sarah, for over a year.

I spent that year working hard on the divorce that, thankfully, in the end turned out to be fairly amicable. Both Kevin and I wanted it to be as easy on Sarah as it could be and we went out of our way to avoid any unnecessary acrimony. Fortunately money was not really too much of a problem for I’d helped him build up his small company into a much larger one and he was able to buy out my shareholding. He was also generous, but then he always was and with more than money. I found out as my lawyer delved into his past that he was a serial adulterer. As it turned out he’d been unfaithful to me throughout the marriage. The bastard.

Although I had nothing to do with men and after Toni I had no sex at al, it was, looking back, an interesting time. I got a new apartment in a trendy area of London, Docklands. I started playing golf and tennis again. I got a new car and I got a job. Calling on old contacts I started writing copy on a freelance basis. Mainly, as it turned, out for recruitment ads but also some technical stuff, a little scriptwriting and a few speeches for a big company whose marketing director I’d known for some time. He badly, it seemed, wanted to get into my knickers so we had numerous meetings about the speeches he had to give as he briefed me in person. I took his briefs but never gave him my knickers, after all “never fuck a client” is an old ad industry dictate and, in any case, he was married.

It was different once the divorce came through. Once that weight was lifted from my shoulders I felt better. I felt more able to start rebuilding my life. I stopped being the reclusive celibate. I bought a whole new wardrobe as I set out to become a woman of the 21st century. A liberated female. One who could take or leave men. One who recognised sex for what it was. Basically a commodity to be enjoyed. Not something that was mixed up with love and affection but a pleasure. An indulgence, something I would do because I wanted to. No other reason, no other motives.

Oh yes, as I signed the final divorce papers sitting in my lawyer’s office in my new Janet Regar thong and ridiculously skimpy bra under the tight leather trousers and low cut top, I was sure that I’d now be able to “fuck ‘em and leave ‘em” just as men do us,

And for a while it worked just like that. For a weird year and a bit I did “fuck ‘em and leave ‘em.” I may well have actually fucked a few too many and certainly I left too many for at the end there were none left.

Was I promiscuous? Of course. Was I an easy lay? Well fairly? Was the sex good? You bet. Was I happy? Was I by fuck? No I wasn’t.

My first date after the divorce was a salutary lesson and an amazing experience for me. It was also quite funny, sad, all mixed up and, overall rather disappointing!

He was someone I met at a golf tournament. We got on well as we played and we chatted easily at the following dinner. Older than me in his early forties, Peter was a widower with two children. Well-off with his own house he met me at an opportune time just a couple of weeks after the divorce was finalised which was the time I had set myself to re-enter life! Well at least to make an effort at it. Now over a year without any form of physical, let alone sexual contact, I guess I was close to being so frustrated that even a glance from a good looking man could start things moving in me.

When he asked me out I at first found myself starting to refuse as I had done throughout the previous year or so But then I remembered my pledge to myself so I accepted. We had dinner and then I met him for lunch and we went out a couple of times for drinks. Other than a few brief pecks on the cheek and one fairly energetic goodnight kiss there had been nothing physical between us although clearly the time for that was approaching. I could feel the pressure of the “if you don’t like the heat get out of the kitchen” or more crudely, but probably more accurately, “pee or get off the pot” being applied. After all people of our ages don’t go out to purely talk about golf do they? And as in fact we didn’t have much else in common that was what we largely chatted about. The moment when I, excuse me, was supposed to pee came with the suggestion from him, that I have now learned is quite prevalent amongst the “new man” age that had passed me by, of “Come round to mine, I’ll cook dinner.”

In the two days since he had asked my mind had been on little else.

I just could not get my head around whether I would go to bed with him if that was proposed. On the one hand I wanted to. I needed sex and I wanted to have another man. A man free from the impositions of wife-swapping, revenge affairs and the red mists I’d had in the latter days with my ex. I needed to know whether I would be able to respond to and accept his advances. Whether I would become aroused and indeed whether I would be able to have an orgasm? I‘d had no physical contact with a man for over a year and, although I had found relief and a degree of satisfaction from other means, I knew that I was enormously frustrated. I was also concerned at that for I was worried that I would appear rather inexperienced and that I might climax too quickly and make a sexual fool of myself. Was dating worth it I wondered and began to doubt it?

Countering all this, though, was my natural reticence. I had never easily given myself, other than for revenge, and I did not want to start this new period of my life as being an “easy lay!” On top of that, although I liked him and did, as far as things had gone, quite fancy him, I didn’t know whether this would transmit itself into the sort of sexual chemistry that I felt would be necessary. I was out of touch with seduction. It had been so long that the outlook that seems to have become quite natural nowadays of, “we get on well so let’s fuck” had completely passed me by.

So in a quandary I had packed Sarah off for the night as opposed to having a friend in, just in case I stayed over. Getting ready I was like a schoolgirl on a first date. I couldn’t decide what to wear. Rejecting some things because I felt they were too sexy and others because they were too formal I took ages to prepare myself. I bathed, washed my hair, dried that and spent simply ages with my make-up.

I felt that I had better dress with a view to being undressed later so I paid special attention to my underwear.

Should it be seductive black or virginal white? Or a pastel colour in between? I pondered on the bra. Net, thin and see through so that should my nipples erupt they would be clearly visible through my top, or thicker and more supportive to create a more interesting and dramatic cleavage? Tights or stockings? I mused over these critical matters for ages for ages? And then of course the panties. The modern, high-waisted cut severely at the thighs type or perhaps, a thong?

Oh the agonies of rejoining the dating game.

I eventually got myself to his house and we had a couple of drinks before he served me a well-prepared dinner. The atmosphere was easy between us and any concerns or inhibitions I had were being washed away with the bottle or so of white wine that we drank. At the end of the meal I got up and said that I would clear away but he wouldn’t hear of it saying,

“Leave it until tomorrow.”

Feeling surprisingly warm towards him I went round the table and I kissed him on the cheek and thanked him for the lovely meal. His hand reached out and rested on my hip as I bent over and my top of course gaped a little. His eyes, naturally I suppose went down my top and he pulled me onto his lap.

We kissed for some time his hands running up and down my back, outside the grey cashmere sweater. It sent pleasant feelings through me. I felt comfortable and at ease on his lap and showed no resistance when I felt his hands inside the sweater on my bare back. The intensity of his kiss increased and I responded. As his tongue searched deep into my mouth sending signals of his passion to me, my tongue touched his and pressed back against it. It obviously worked for slowly he moved his hand round to the front moving closer and closer to my breasts but taking the time to gain my tacit approval at each stage.

And then so lightly he touched one of them. It felt wonderful. The first time a new partner touches a woman intimately really is lovely and so arousing. And this was no exception. They had not been caressed by anyone other than me for over a year and so the feelings were even more intense and special. Slowly and gently he stroked and rubbed me through the thin, black lace teasing the pink tip into a rock-hard protuberance. Feeling no resistance at all from me he became more welcomingly adventurous easing his fingers inside one of the cups so that they were right on the nipple that once more exploded with feelings.

Now confident of my compliance and agreement his boldness grew and he pushed the thin sweater up so that he could see my breasts. I was pleased with my choice of bra for I knew that his eyes would be gazing at the two orbs encased in the gossamer thin, black net material and that he would be seeing the swollen nipples clearly. We manhandled the sweater off and it was only moments later that I felt the clasp being unclipped and the pressure on my breasts relieved as he removed the bra. He was now looking at me naked above the waist and he said very softly,

“Oh Amanda they are so lovely!”

It’s a very special moment when a new partner gazes at a woman’s bare breasts for the first time. The feelings of pride as he compliments you and the, usually, clear indications that you are arousing him are lovely as is the want that seems to go through one from exposing such an intimate part of the body. His hands, now on my bare flesh, did incredible things to me and he murmured.

“Let’s go to bed Amanda?”

Feeling a little like a topless waitress at one of those lap dance clubs in London I stood up as he, in a rather laboured way, lifted himself out of the deep chair clearly a little embarrassed at his erection being on show,. Standing, in just the leather trousers and high heels, I waited his arrival in a vertical form and that seemed to take for ages. But at last he was beside me the bulge in his trousers looking half rather ridiculous and half extremely encouraging,

“Wow I’ve caused that,” I thought.

We embraced and began to sort of dance to the music. His strong arms pulling me to him I felt ready for him and was relieved that I felt prepared to break my celibacy in such a romantic style. I undid his shirt and let his quite hairy chest send extra thrills through the skin of my boobs as we gyrated together on the spot his hands exploring my bottom through the thin leather that was stretched taught across its rounded softness. As if glued together I felt the assuring hard length of his maleness pressing wonderfully and confidently into my belly. After such a long abstinence from feeling an erection it was both exciting and a little daunting for I was out of practice at what was soon to come. Female intuition and sheer lust took over though and I found myself pressing back against the rod-like piston of flesh (in basic English I mean his cock but I’m feeling flowery) draining every last bit of feeling from it into me. It was a gorgeous feeling.

My breasts jiggling as he walked me up the stairs to his bedroom I felt wantonly expectant as we stood by the bed and embraced once more. Looking at each other we, wordlessly both started undoing our trousers our eyes taking in each new sight that was revealed.

His boxer shorts ballooning out around his erection. The lacy top of my panties that showed him that I was not wearing tights. His muscular thighs and the respectable bulge in his pants. (Feeling relieved that I hadn’t worn my Bridget Jones) the tight pocket of lace across my pubic area and the tops of my black, self-support stockings. His flat tummy and the mass of brown pubic hair clustered above and around his manhood as he slid his boxers down. My legs encased in the luxuriant silk stockings that I hoped flattered them and made them look longer and more alluring. My body was now crying out to be made love to as I saw, for the first time in over a year that object of such pride to men and intrigue to women. That appendage that to women has little X factor other than when its up close and personal and about to do its business. And his wasn’t at all bad as far as such rather silly looking things go. After all there are only so many varieties of cock aren’t there? A little more length here and a tad more girth there for sure. But come on lads, especially those in chat rooms when they ask “what do you thinks of it?” What the hell do they expect? For Christ’s sake they’re all really much of a muchness aren’t they? Almost, but not quite, “seen one seen ‘em all really.

But I digress and simplify the situation regarding women and penises. It’s far more of a complex issue than that. That little, medium or large tower of blood bloated flesh that to most women when looked on in a photo has a sterility about it verging on looking at paint dry, somehow changes radically when one is confronted by one in close up. When one witnesses the amazing effect one has had on another party to produce that it changes the female’s perspective. It alters her way of thinking. Maybe it’s just the intimacy, the feeling of pride in a good job done or possibly because that thing is soon to penetrate her innermost womanliness, that her view changes? Then suddenly she probably thinks ”I don’t want a bit of sterile blood bloated flesh up me” so, with the flexibility of thought and opinion that makes us such fascinatingly frustrated creatures it becomes an object of such beauty that we can’t keep out hands off them can we?

So let’s get on. What else was there to look at?

Ah yes that wonderful sack hanging down that is so attractive to women and so thrilling to touch and fondle. Balls are, I think, our alternative to tits for you. I used to play with Kevin’s for ages, Rolling them in ones hands as captain Queeg (was it in Caine Mutiny?) did with those ball bearings, actually that was just before they declared him mad, can be such a wonderful attraction to us that I wonder someone hasn’t invented a plastic version to sell at lingerie parties and in Anne Summer shops. Talk about hot cakes!!!

“No” he croaked as I went to remove my panties “please leave them on for a while.” Feeling a might over dressed against his total nakedness I did though do as he said.

Right back to the serious stuff. I was now hellishly nervous and not completely sure that I should be doing this. I liked him, he made me laugh and he wasn’t bad company but was that enough to warrant having his sterile rod in me? I pondered for a moment as I lay on the bed in my black thong and stockings and watched him climb on and lay beside me.

As we kissed, his hands caressed my bottom moving nearer and nearer to my crutch that was, actually, aching to receive him. And then they were there! As his fingers slid inside my panties and touched the, by now, sodden wetness of my lips my body once more exploded with sensations. The feelings that his touch were sending through me were accelerated and increased by those I was gaining from having his warm, throbbing length grasped, probably slightly too, firmly in my hand. I had forgotten just what it was like to hold a man’s penis. The combination of the hardness, with just a touch of give in it, and the warmth and feeling of throbbing power that I had created in him is heady stuff I always find and especially so with a new partner. Oh how I wanted that in me. I felt giddy with the thought that so soon now I would once again have a man invade me.

But that had to wait its turn for my body was reacting powerfully to the hand doing such deliciously arousing things between my thighs. I was cumming and I knew there was no stopping it. My body also transmitted that to him and he pulled me even tighter to him as the shudders of expectant sexual release ran through me. I sighed and moaned as my first man induced climax for so long took over and transported me to that place of such pleasure.

That was bad enough. Here he was thinking he’d pulled a woman in her supposed sexual prime. One that was up and ready for anything with up to 20 years solid sexual experience behind her. A divorcee who was naturally gagging for it and who had the maturity and skills to be a really good lay. And what does she do? What she bloody well does is cum immediately he touches her. Oh yes what a lay? What an experienced woman? What a skilled lover? And it got worse for, as the amazingly powerful orgasm swept over me with wave after wave of what seemed like increasingly intensive sensations, so my emotions just exploded and I started to cry. Floods of fucking tears everywhere, mascara down my face, hair all over the place, bloody big tits heaving and my body jerking like a junky doing cold turkey I cried and cried. The poor sod had no idea what was going on and even less as to what to do. I could see that he wasn’t sure whether to cuddle me leave me alone or jump between my thighs and try and fuck me.

The evening didn’t end on a very high note. After that exhibition I think he was convinced that instead of an experienced lover who would transmit him to sexual heaven, he had on his hands a bloody nutcase that might easily take him to the hell of madness.

Needless to say he wasn’t happy that all he’d got for his efforts slaving over the stove was a grope of my tits and a hand in my knickers and I have to say I felt bad about that. I recognised that it was not good value. A half dozen quite delicious King Prawns and a lovely crown of lamb, not to mention two bottle of Chablis and four or five previous dates, must be worth more than a flash of boob and a touch of pussy. If not the laws of economics, that I know may at times be cloudy, would have no meaning at all would they? So compensation was needed. Restitution had to be paid. The scales of economic justice had to balance. But what was the going rate? I didn’t know for I hadn’t had to balance any such scales at all for ages. Maybe the currency had even changed since I had last dated. Then what was possibly a hand job might now have become a blow one! What may have been in my day a furtive finger or two fumbling in a furry fanny might now be a pushing, pulsating penis penetrating a private place promised as the preserve for privileged people.