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My sexual life as an unattached woman includes about
fifty one-night stands. I plan to count them up more accurately one of
these days. Being an accountant I have an interest in getting the numbers
right.
One of my briefer affairs went from a handshake to a union of harmonious
conjugation in half an hour. I was living in South Africa and a friend
made me a blind date with an American visiting Pretoria on business. She
told me that he was fifty years old, handsome, and married but with a
roving eye. I have nothing against dating married men provided their wives
are not in the same country as I am.
At the time, I was 42 years old and had worked at American embassies and
lived in remote countries in Africa for eight years. Romantic
relationships with local Africans and American co-workers were discouraged
by my employer, so the possibilities for sex were mostly with visitors to
the country. And, unfortunately, African countries have few visitors.
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 that helped cover up
broad hips.
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, we sat down together on the couch, and he complimented me
on my dress, which was in fact rather stylish, 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. All my dates end that way if
the man and I like each other. But he was coming on to me before the date!
I both admired and despised his expertise -- and I also knew that he was
going to rumple my pretty dress. I had a choice between stopping him or
taking off the dress --so I took it off and carefully laid it out over the
couch. I led him into my bedroom. He took off his clothes, being similarly
careful to hang them up to avoid wrinkles.
What followed was a good, albeit brief, encounter. He worked his way with
hands and mouth up from my feet to my lips, and I explored him with my
hands. His pubic area was as carefully groomed and sweet-smelling as the
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 and we locked together with
urgency.
Slick paced himself expertly to cum with me. 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. I like numbers. We showered
together, caressing each other's pubic areas with soapy hands. The night
was young, with promise of more in the near future.
At the party, however, Slick became unresponsive and inattentive and I
quickly 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's
pleasant and harmless, a fumbler and bumbler in bed, not much to look at,
and hardly prized as a catch by the local 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 at
him and smiled.
Well, I owed Clod for rescuing me from being humiliated by Slick and I
paid him back by giving him a night to remember. Oily 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. Another
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, lock onto his penis , and lead
him on a wild and impassioned ride. In the passion of the moment, Clod
blurted out, "I love you. Will you marry me?"
I kept on humping hard 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. |
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