In 2015 and 2016 I wrote erotic stories and diaries which will be published in book 8; Big.
Part one, An Affair, are erotic stories. They’re really explicit, and contain as many trigger words as I could possibly squeeze in, so you should strongly consider not reading them.
But in case you’re having doubts I can guarantee you they were all consensual and written with so much love, you can lick it off the pages.
Enjoy, my friends.
Lauren was wearing her red hooded cape because she had made jokes he was a wolf, to add a sense of drama to the encounter, and because it made her feel like Anais Nin. The coat was exactly the right piece of clothing for the weather: chilly but dry. She rang the bell to the penthouse from the man she coyly referred to as Biggie. She had chosen this name because she made a perfect Carrie, to have six television seasons and two movies to let this develop, and because his penis had been larger than anticipated.
“And you’re so virile!” she had exclaimed when she had witnessed how much condom interventions and sex negotiations his hard-on could take without giving in as much as a millimeter. After an orgasm he was back up in less than 15 minutes.
“I only get this with black guys!”
She was just in time to keep herself from adding “in their twenties”.
Mister Big had earned the name in every way, but unlike his Sex and the City counterpart, he had absolutely no intention of leaving his wife, nor to date Lauren exclusively. He did not acknowledge in any way what Lauren had known since their first kiss: that he had fallen for her too.
Mr. Big had done the work. She smelled a fresh shave with the kiss and his wet hair was proof of a shower. And he was wearing maroon leather shoes, even though he was obviously not going anywhere. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, but a tight plain T-shirt. No pants but jeans; dark, new and expensive. A clean yet casual look.
“You’re so disarming,” she smiled.
“You keep thinking I’m a wolf,” he countered, as he took her coat from her.
“But I am not dangerous at all.”
“That’s exactly what a wolf would say.”
She unpacked white chocolate coated strawberries, and he put on water for tea. The kitchen was a dark grey and black, with messy corners, a collection of booze and half a dozen colorful flower pots with fresh herbs in different stages of being eaten.
“God you smell good, ” he kissed her softly.
Their embraces were innocent, no rubbing crotches, no yanking head or hair. For the second time she realized it was his ability to play soft that made you leave all your defenses at the door. Suddenly this appeared the last place on earth where you’d need them.
“Earl Grey?” he asked.
She liked it strong and despised the Dutch habit of using a tea-for-one bag in a pot, and then the nerve to pull it out after a minute.
“Please,” she said.
He gave her the cup, bag and all, and took their chocolate to the living.
They took off their shoes and settled on the couch and he started an art house movie they both still wanted to see. Three times, she asked him to play back because she’d lost the story, until she gave up:
“I would like to watch porn,” she said.
Stoya was Lauren’s favorite porn actress. Which meant she read Stoya’s blog, watched Stoya interviews and collected Stoya pictures.
“You never saw it. I remember,” he recalled their first sexual conversation, which was within 30 minutes after they met.
“Well let’s enlighten you then.”
And Lauren watched in awe, how the pale, wide smiling, Snow White actress showed off her natural pussy and enjoyed sex to a level no woman had gone before. And probably no woman would ever go after.
“This is fascinating!”
Lauren even changed her mind, that the risk of downloading a computer virus could be a fair price to get this for herself. So she’d be able to watch her fairytale twin in action anytime.
While Lauren was still enchanted by her first Stoya streams, Mr. Big went for ice cold wine, and made Lauren her favorite savory snack. With her sugar levels up, her alcohol permillage rising, and Stoya setting a good example, innocent cuddling progressed to naked embraces.
“Hold on a sec,” Big pulled away and switched porn for music they both liked.
He returned and whispered after a kiss.
“Can I go down on you now?”
Lauren had resisted his tempting offer on their first encounter, and on their second she’d been in her period. This was what she had been looking forward to. And so had he.
She was still enjoying his gentle licking, and the tender pulse of one finger moving in and out, when she felt something brush her anus. It went away, and she dismissed it. Probably accidental, she thought with relief. She didn’t want to make decisions back there: about something she’d always fancied but that was surrounded with clumsiness, failure, awkwardness and break-ups. Her lovers had a solid reputation for leaving halfway into their sexual safari, and the two who’d been backside explorative had run immediately after. Despite her fantasies, she had learned to associate anal sex with rejection.
His tongue was ruthless now. She started moaning and her desperate fingers grabbed his head, then yanked away. Fists pinching the pillows of the couch. Pressure on her anus. She still wasn’t sure what to make of it, when it already went in.
“I’m not sure if….”
Her voice was feeble, and she didn’t finish the sentence. Instead her hips lifted towards him and she could feel him moving deeper. The gentle push and pull of his fingers, and the steady rhythm of his tongue. She did not speak, but her body shook violently and she managed to redirect her limbs, not to kick him with her spastic legs. Not to knock her fists into him. Not to scream in a way the neighbors would call the police.
“Please stop…just stop.”
He held still and came up to hold her, for her cry. A ritual that he was getting used to, although the intimacy still confused him.
The cries had almost faded.
“You okay?” he asked.
She smiled and kept her eyes closed.
“You fingered my ass!” she laughed.
“No kidding. You even tried to object. Weak attempt though.”
“I thought you had backed off!” she now joyfully opened her eyes. “Like in the beginning, I thought I felt something, but then it went away. I thought that was it. That my ass was off the menu.”
“Those were the scouts,” he answered.
“We’re just getting your ass on the menu.”
She sighed and stared.
“This is only the third time we’re together. I’m not sure if I’m ready for this. Although waiting too long is also problematic….”
She was getting caught up in her analysis.
“If he waits too long, I feel he doesn’t want it. Or that he’ll leave.”
She frowned as her thoughts kept racing. Soon she’d think of more objections, and stumble onto more painful memories.
“Lauren? Be honest here. What do you really want?”
His voice was stern, almost mocking. As if he already knew the answer.
“Or are you afraid to ask? Think you’re too horny?”
His face softened and his gentle stare waited. No longer pushing for a specific answer.
“Okay. Here’s what we’ll do,” she said, as she reached for her bag.
I recognize the bottle of lube. We used it last time, at her house, when she was in her period. She also had a cold, and couldn’t breathe through her nose. A blowjob had been out of the question.
“I thought today would be perfect for our first time real sex,” she had said, when I was left panting after my orgasm, resting my full weight onto her.
“Did you notice it went right in? Like magnets!” she had commented.
She had been pretty clean, considering her period. The first time anyway. The second and third and the I-lost-counth time, it was a bloodbath. With more lube needed every time she parted her legs for me.
“Hold out your hand,” she says.
And covers two fingertips in lube. I take it down and play safe, touching her pussy.
“No, the back,” she says.
I like the decisiveness in her voice. She can be so emotional, but that’s post orgasm. I touch her ass and press one finger in. She immediately closes her eyes, swearing by God, Jesus and Mother Mary:
Fuck, that’s good.
I lube her up some more, using the other finger, and ask what position she wants.
“Like this,” she says.
We’d be in missionary.
“Never done that,” I admit.
We’ve been frank about anal sex. She only knows failure and my experience is limited to one woman.
“Don’t you think doggy style is a bit easier?”
But she shakes her head.
“I want to look at you.”
Her pull on my arm indicates she’s ready. As I rise towards her, she tears the condom foil, and skillfully rolls it down. I take the tip in front of the entrance and gasp at the view of her pussy and ass, all spread wide open. I peel my glance away, and connect with her eyes, as I slowly push it in. My turn to swear; she’s gruesomely tight. It squeezes every thought, doubt, guilt, right out of me, leaving only this. I have instinctively closed my eyes and open them. She holds my hips, and pulls me in a little deeper. I draw back. She micro-pulls in. A sweet, gentle swaying between her and me.
“God, you need to see this,” I say.
She lifts up her head.
“It’s more than half way in!”
She’s all excited about our home porn frame.
“Of course. What did you expect?”
“It doesn’t hurt at all. I thought just the tip or something.”
Her wide smile is infectious as she drops back, and grins as I fuck her a little deeper. Later we embrace, making it a standard missionary, if it had not been from behind. At one point I slip out, she cramps up.
“Enough for now,” she says and hugs me close, showering me with cuddles and profusely expressing how great it was.
We keep it at that, but she stays for a few more hours. Now that we got the biggie out of the way, the other sex has a newfound lightness. She unabashingly enjoys it when I go down on her, and I get one of her premium blowjobs with a condom; a battle already fought the first time she was here. She didn’t want sex because she had come in just to kiss. I remembered her raging fear of STD’s, and her comment:
“You probably didn’t have an STD check since the Clinton administration.”
“What if I put on a condom?” I had offered after her refusal for oral sex.
Her face had brightened.
And I got the best blowjob in years, yet she refused to believe me. Still ashamed she lacked the nerve to take more risks.
We lick, we suck, we have normal sex a couple of times and I love the way she pulls up her knees; wide, in full submission.
It is after midnight, back in the kitchen. She’s sitting at the table, fully clothed again yet with the same insanely happy grin she’s had all night. She has asked for tea.
“What are you having?” she asks, pointing at my glass.
I hold the clear liquor under her nose to smell.
She pulls a sour face.
“Methylated spirit?” she laughs.
“Gin,” I say.
“That’s for real men.”
“Of course,” she agrees.
“Real men. Who fuck women up the butt.”
By seeing London, I have seen as much of life as the world can show.
~ Samuel Johnson
She never asked why he didn’t leave his wife. Cheaters always marry the sweet ones, angelic beings, victims. An unearthly status that grows with every childbirth she suffers, with every holiday he neglects, and that blinds him with guilt every time he cheats on her. Lauren assumed his marriage had been his final hope of becoming a better man, and now his wife was his penance for having failed miserably. Being torn apart by guilt was his punishment for being the bad guy when she would be eternally holy, above suspicion.
Her phone rang. When she saw his name on the screen her heart made an immature jump, as she picked up with a smile.
“Is this my baby bee?” a husky voice asked.
“Baby bee! Oh my God that is so cute!”
She pulled her nose in happy wrinkles, and curled up her lip in a childish grin.
“I like this much better than Lady!”
In fact she hated Lady. She hated Babe. She hated Hey you. All things he reserved for when she forced him out of an after-sex Whatsapp silence, when she was still sore from him and fear for STD’s lurked beneath her everyday mask, and she needed him to let her know he was still there. And he wasn’t.
“I guess this means we’re not breaking up!” she concluded.
Suddenly last week’s sleep-over became a vibrant memory, her happiness flaring up, as if she had been worried that enjoying the afterglow would set off a full-blown panic attack.
“Breaking up? Of course not. I still want to take you with me.”
Big and Lauren had been on and off for four months, a couple of sexual encounters and an increasing number of platonic dates, hang-out-togethers, run-in-to-you-gethers and left-my-sweater-at-your-place-drop-overs. Lauren had slept hugging and smelling his sweater, that Big had forgotten after he had helped her move house and had met most of her friends. Something she could still not believed had actually happened. And he had inaugurated the house.
“I want you to make tender love to me,” she had demanded.
At noon, they had breakfast at a restaurant because Lauren had warned:
“No matter what’s in my fridge, we’re not going to find our dream breakfast in there.”
“I felt a bit guilty,” Big said.
“You asked for innocent sex and we ended up being very loud and your bed was banging to the wall.”
“It was the first night we slept together. Like babies. That’s pretty innocent.”
And now he was calling her Baby Bee and wanted to take her on a trip. It was progress.
Lauren only had one suitcase; a small white one, with red and pink stitching on the sides, and a print of 50s drawings. It was a suitcase that you could pull off if you were twelve or if you were 42 and wore coats that were so stylish that no one questioned your sense of fashion. Lauren adored her suitcase. It was a part of her identity, and just like her two cats it had become a deal breaker if you didn’t appreciate it.
They were waiting at the check-in at one of the remote gates.
“I do feel a bit boring now,” Big nodded to his stark blue Samsonite. The sun was shining relentlessly. He was wearing pilot sun glasses.
“You look like Michael Madsen,” she said.
“Far from boring.”
Sometimes she forgot that contrary to her, he had actually studied in college, that he was actually making good money with his business, and that he had never invested in developing a hobby or an interest other than finance, booze or other bad habits she definitely did not want to know about.
“Oh, you’d love him,” she said, realizing she could never trust him if she continued that line of thinking. She forced herself to focus on him calling her Baby Bee and complimenting her pink suitcase.
The second the hotel room shuts behind us, she immediately turns around to kiss me. As if the neutral hours on the plane, in restaurants and cab, have created a buildup that now requires immediate release. She rubs her pelvis against me, my hand slides into her white coat. Taste of soft mints from the lobby. Appreciative moaning in my neck as she kicks off her heels and lowers half a head. Our coats off, my shirt open, her top over her head revealing a purple lace bra. Her warm pale arms wrap around me. More skin. I pull off her jeans over her ankles, as she lies lip biting on the box spring, anticipating to be fucked soon. I kiss her undies and sneak a finger in. Wet enough to do this quick and give her the pleasure of force. I turn her around and rip the string down to her thighs. We chuckle when we realize we need to break up our play to get a condom.
“Amateur,” she teases me, as she pulls up her string and walks to her handbag.
I laughingly give it up, undress, and stretch out on the bed. She puts two condoms and lube on the nightstand and straddles on top of me. So wet I can feel it through the lace.
She sighs as if she’s thinking, then lowers down to my nipple and licks it, softly blowing it cool.
“Other one,” I instruct.
She looks up, surprised about the order, then smirks and repeats it on the other side. Sticking out her tongue and keeping eye contact.
“Take it down.”
She hesitates. I can spell out her thoughts reading her face. If she obeys this is the first time we do this without a condom. She drops chin to chest, her hair falls in front of her face. She starts to move back, I pull my leg from underneath her and spread. She sits in between. Blonde curls shielding her away. A warm hand takes my cock. A peck at the base, near the balls. Another warm hand cups my dick in the L shape of her thumb and fingers, pressing firmly into my belly. She strokes upward, down. A lick on my balls, a gentle suck. She tilts her head to the side, revealing her face and presses her tongue to the base. She lets the wet tongue trace the hand all the way up, and licks the foreskin, sucks the tip then pushes the skin back. A firm tongue pressing against the back. My gasp catches her gaze, looking up, and she continues her tongue and lip play around the tip. A warm hand again, now stroking together with her warm mouth.
“Christ, let me fuck you.”
She sits up throwing me a self-content smile and turns to the stand to pick up a condom. One hand pressing down the bed, the other reaching. As she leans over, her hips arch seductively.
She tears the foil and rolls it down. She’s sitting there like a naked fifties pin-up, with her hips broader than when she’s standing or lying down.
“Let’s get this off,” I help her out of her last piece of fabric. “And what about it? Do you want to be fucked in your ass?”
“What? Now?” her laughter is loud and merry.
“Oh my God…. I don’t know!”
Like hell she does.
“I guess…… Just really didn’t expect it!”
She takes the lube, kneels back onto the bed, knees wider this time, and tells me she appreciates me asking boldly, or taking risks. She likes to hear my voice.
“I could have rejected you!”
She’s holding the bottle, and I sit up and let her put lube my fingers. We did this once before.
“Reject me?” I say.
And take my fingertips to her ass, and push one finger in. She collapses with pleasure onto my shoulder the moment I press deeper.
“I know you better than that.”
She has the same strong physical response as the first time.
“I want to be on my back again,” she insists.
Apparently wishing for a rerun, rather than trying something new. I do as she asks. Lying on her back, her knees up and wide, I take my dick to her ass and press it in. She screams in pain. I immediately retreat but it’s too late. Tears fill her eyes, as she cries it hurts so much, and cups her hand over her ass in horror. I give her a moment to catch her breath, and then take her hand away.
“Let me feel. What’s going on?”
I use just one digit, and can see her relax. Still weary, but it clearly doesn’t hurt anymore. I move it, massage strategically. A shallow, slow stroke. Her breath deepens.
“Can we try again?” she asks, widening her legs.
“I think you need to turn around.”
A feeble smile, yet curious. Her strong back turns towards me.
“You can lie down all the way,” I say when I see her wonder if she should be in doggy. She snuggles down onto her belly.
It’s different this time. More relaxed. I can slide in easily and there is no sign of any pain. She squeezes the pillow, occasionally saying she likes it, or lifting up her head and looking over her shoulder. Something I reward by saying something about the view of her ass, or how good it feels. And she talks back, the same light conversation. The small talk connects us but we’re apart this time, and I can feel her drift away, needing less reassurance. I lean forward and lie on top of her, sliding a hand under her. She can ride my fingers. She relaxes even more, and I slide in deeper. I rock back and forth, fucking her, cradling her with my body.
“I can’t take any more,” a small voice sobs. “It makes me cry.”
I slide out, and lie there, hugging her sorrow.
“You’re always so happy after sex,” she says when the crying has stopped. “You don’t have any issues.”
I tell her that she’s right.
“But in a few days I can feel totally different.”
“You mean guilt, right?” she asks.
I nod silently.
I wipe the steam from the mirror and look at my blushing face. My wet hair wrapped in a towel around my head, cheeks a radiant pink, and with a growing smile from being blissed out by a.m. sex. In moments like this I know I made the right choice: to become single, and to develop my sexuality. Because nothing else, no money, no career and especially not a decade long relationship, can bring me the buckets of happiness that is shining in this reflection. Despite of the many fears that haunt me. Or as I begin to understand it – because of them. The fear is the fuel. A violent demon, yes, but also my strongest ally. The fear of lifelong viruses. And so many of them so disturbingly contagious. Hiv should have been the least of my worries, although when you’re younger you have more to lose.
Biggie’s phone call vibrates through the thin wall. Something about his appointment today. I’m curious if he’s put on a suit. I pull the bathroom door open and walk to the messy bed. He throws me an appreciative glance from his chair, as he continues his conversation.
“Yes, I’ll hold.”
I take the bathrobe off and leave it on the desk. I crawl onto the messy bed on all fours. I touch my pussy. He makes a soundless my God and comes over to caress my butt cheeks, and then licking my parted labia.
“Does half one suit you?” a muffled voice on the phone asks.
“That will do. Thanks.”
I stretch out fully, the sheets are cold to my naked belly.
“I like that you’re dressed, and I’m not.” I say.
“And that you’re wearing a suit.”
“What else do you like?” he sits next to me and resumes caressing my butt.
“The potential. Everything we still haven’t done. It makes me happy.”
The hand is still caressing me.
“Will you spank me one day? Like really spank.”
“It’s a bit tricky. Like where exactly. And not too hard.”
“That doesn’t sound very Christian Grey.”
“I am not Christian Grey. You’re not a 20 year old virgin. Thank God for that.”
“Did you ever have virgins?”
“Not on purpose. It’s not a happy place.”
“I think it’s a real turn on!” I reach my hips up to him.
“I wish you would be my first. And that it would really hurt.”
“It hurt yesterday and it nearly killed you.”
“Oh my God yes! What did you do? Within one minute I went from ouch and crying to Fuck me. What was that?!”
“So you did do something?”
“Yes. Not gonna tell.”
He slips his hand down between my thighs. I open my legs. He touches the entrance.
“I’m so sore,” I giggle. “I’m horny but sore.”
He places me over the rim of the bed, and starts to kiss and lick, but I can’t enjoy it.
“I want to give you a blowjob,” I say.
“A proper one. Sit on the chair.”
The man in the suit sits down and I squat down, and open his pants. As always, he is hard.
“Don’t come in my mouth,” is the last thing I say.
His offended look convinces me he won’t.
His pants are on his ankles, his shirt is open. He watches her hands work him, and her mouth spitting saliva, as much as she can produce in those crucial seconds where she can’t use her mouth. She keeps looking up. Everything excites him: her played submission, her joy to please him, her eye for the visual effect of having her kneeled and naked before him. His orgasm comes as he closes his eyes and throws his head back, despite his desire to keep looking. He can feel the drops of sperm on his belly and chest. She’s still stroking him, slowly. She sees a million ways in which she’s at risk, but only one thing prevails: than he can be trusted. He warned her. He acted responsible in the only area where she needed him to.
He looks down and she looks up, still stroking, her hand covered with her spit and his sperm.
“God you should see yourself,” he pants from exertion. “Look at you…. smiling.”
Jealousy is all the fun you think they had
Over a month since Big had shown interest, and it was getting on Lauren’s nerves. The pacifying effect of his “attempts” to see her on weeknights, when she taught yoga till 10 pm and was pressed to go home to take care of her four-hour-feeding-interval sick cat, the charm of those attempts was wearing off. He knew very well she wouldn’t make it. And every time he then told her they would “see how the weekend turned out” she was hurt. She was no longer worth planning for in advance. The next Tuesday or Wednesday he’d run the same scenario all over again.
She thought there was a fair chance there was someone else, or maybe his guilt towards his wife was flaring up. To make Lauren’s position worse there was nothing for him to conquer anymore. Big knew Lauren wanted to be monogamous (for her own pleasure, not loyalty) and aspired to have sex with him at least a million more times. With zero dates scheduled, she needed to act. Soon enough even his faint weekday attempts would stop, and she’d be dumped in a passive aggressive silence with all her sexual dreams unfulfilled.
She logged on to Twitter, and wrote:
Both my lovers will be in town. But according to my sister that does not count as having a problem.
Then she waited for him to call.
She stalled the date because of her period, but Big didn’t know that. Hopefully he thought she was unavailable because she was having wild jungle sex, in which case her plan was working out even better. The nine days of waiting were filled sharing sweet messages with Big, and a friendly chat with Rutger, who would be visiting this summer.
It had been a hot Friday, and now ink-black clouds were gathering over the city. Big was checking his phone, seated at one of the sofas on the ground floor of a restaurant. He looked his showered-well-dressed-super-datable-self and smiled when she came in. She smiled back, so wide and happy she was probably risking his whole renewed interest in her.
“I missed you Biggie,” she whispered when they had a neutral peck on the cheek.
“Now did you?” he answered, in a husky voice that kicked every cell secretly longing for a father figure out of hibernation.
“You appeared quite occupied.”
“So did you,” she said, suppressing both her impulse to comfort him he shouldn’t have worried, and the cry to fight him for having neglected her.
“We’ll see how the weekend turns out,” she mocked as she made quotation marks with her fingers and rolled her eyes.
“Do you have any idea how cold I get when you say that?”
“So cold you’ve got someone else?” he asked.
Big knew about Rutger, but right now he wished he had paid more attention when she had told him about the last lover before him. The man from America, who after two decades of friendship had turned out to be the best lover she ever had.
“Well until this,” she had added.
Blinded with pride, Big had not recognized the potential competitor. A single father, thousands of kilometers away. What were the chances she would ever see him again anyway?
“I don’t think I have a say in this,” Big said bitterly.
He was relieved that nothing had happened, but angry with her for manipulating him. And angry with himself because it was working.
“Do as you please.”
Lauren sighed and stared at her wine. She looked sad.
“You’re not making this easy for me.”
“What do you mean this?” Big lashed out.
“You’re the one sleeping around!”
“Really?” Lauren felt her sadistic side taking over, who immediately took control after weeks of insecurity.
“Because technically, that would be you.”
She grabbed her purse, placed € 5,- on the table at which point Big started making insulted noises.
“I never should have come here,” she said and left.
The Bucket List
I made notes to write this story, about our most carefree lighthearted date. What the name was of that fancy Italian coffee Big always orders, and that I keep forgetting. His admiration for a cute elderly couple that was having lunch two tables further down.
“And they still dress up. Even after a life-time together.”
That I suggested to go over to his place for tea and a cookie to-go, and how one of the last things he’d say when he showed me out was that at least he now knew what I meant with a cookie to-go. How we had inspired sex, and funny conversations and how he threw a glance at the door when I said I couldn’t imagine having sex with refined people. As if he expected a well-mannered suitor to walk into his apartment, and spoil all the fun. But the truth is, I think you would not believe any of it.
Not that a stone cold cheater carries his heart up his sleeve. Not that a man who lives in a penthouse can be so easy to get along with. But especially not that Big talks in bed. That a man talks like that. Because from what I know from previous experience, oh-
I know you’ve been wondering about this, how many partners I had? Let me quantify: Twelve men intercourse, 5 men other, a few dozen just kissing. Career span: 27 years, with about 80% of all adventures taking place in the last 8 years.
I hope I have your full attention now that I cleared that up for you.
So as I was saying: men who talk in bed are rare. And especially if I rule out men who sex talk in bed, since this barely counts. Whore talk, dirty talk, and anything starting with do you know what I’m going to do with you will not get you kicked out of bed, but I wouldn’t go as far as to giving it extra points either.
The last man who talked in bed was my most recent lover before Biggie, Rutger. He was sensitive and complicated, which was a very happy surprise because I knew him for the better part of my life as robust and cheeky. I was prepared to see the experiment blow up in my face, when we finally kissed after all those decades. That he’d be pushy and overly sexual, and that I wouldn’t be able to connect with him.
My assessment couldn’t have been more wrong.
And he shared everything. What he liked, what he loved, his fears or anything else he was struggling with or curious about.
I had hit the jackpot.
Shame though, that jackpot had migrated shortly after our college years and was now bound to another continent by two beautiful children and an ex-wife.
Every summer he visits the Netherlands, and I’d told Biggie about him, which lead to one of our infamous week long break-ups.
But Big made his peace with it. The carefree date was our first time we saw each other again. As usual we wouldn’t talk about the incident, or about what drove us apart. As usual, I felt butterflies and excitement when I saw him. Reading a paper in the late morning sun. His unpronounceable coffee in front of him.
He gets up and we peck on the cheek. That whiskeyed out voice asking me how I am, like a warm hug.
“Are you okay sitting outside? I saved you a spot in the shade.”
He uses his charm to get us a late breakfast. I take a large one with extra bacon, and he orders a continental.
“That yoga must burn off quite some calories,” he says, as he appreciatively checks out my physique. I remember the first time he kissed me and he grabbed my love handle and said:
“Oh! You have that nice extra bit!”
And I said:
“Of course I do. I’m very sexy.”
“I wish I could eat as much as you can.”
He sighs as he peels his boiled egg. Biggie works out the quadruple amount of me, and that’s only because I count commuting on my bicycle as sports.
“I still have space in my Wednesday group,” I grin.
Of course I would never let him even near my yoga classes or my students. They would all see what was going on. God knows, they may even know him. Or his wife.
“I may need something sweet after though,” I add.
“You know, to tap it all down.”
I make a gesture as if I’m tapping a sand castle, until it’s firm and smooth.
As we walk from the terrace to his house, he points out some of the historic buildings and landmarks.
“And there is that hotel I told you about. With the sauna.”
He uses their waterside restaurant for business meetings, and befriended the staff. Or he bought them. Or both.
“Do you like the sauna?”
I shake my head.
“But the hotel could be nice. We can play that you pay me. Like an escort.”
“Oh…. You mean we plan that right? Not that I put ten euros on the table after.”
“After? Those ladies need pay in advance.”
We have our tea and he serves my cookie is served to me on a saucer. We sit down at the couch and I throw my legs over his. He immediately begins to caress them, sliding his hand up the legs of my trousers.
“You’re always so new to me,” I sigh, as I happily nibble from my cookie.
“It’s like every time you’re a stranger. It’s brilliant.”
I tell him that my friend Ivy has told me she’d be completely fed up with him by now. That she would insist he’d divorce.
“But I told her it’s okay. It’s not that I don’t want more. But when it comes to being new and exciting, nothing can top this.”
Big slides his hand between my legs, pressing his middle finger hard, violating me through the jeans.
“So I need to conquer you?”
His kiss tells me this thought excites him as much as me.
“You’re new. Every time,” I confirm.
“I’ll go easy on you then….”
It’s something that happens when our clothes come off and the skin touches: my body relaxes completely in his presence. People usually describe that chemistry as sexual attraction, but either they have it all wrong, or they are experiencing something completely different. Because it’s not sexual at all. It’s safety. Familiarity. It’s having a deep understanding, and being understood, merely from a physical perspective. Sex is in the mind. You can have sex with anyone, if you create the right context. But you cannot hug, cuddle, kiss, be happy with someone’s sheer physical presence.
It’s like that coffee Big drinks: it’s so good, you don’t have to add milk and sugar.
I could be happy just being physically close to Big, without having another day of sex in my life.
Which is of course a highly unlikely scenario. Especially if you know the amounts of full cream milk and luscious thick foam I add to my coffee.
Big kept word and we made love in that soft, explorative spirit, as if it was the first time. And that he licked me for the first time, intruding me with a ruthless fingertip that made me gasp for air. And we were both in awe, all over again, when we saw his cock going in. As if I had forgotten that it was always like this: rock hard and entering all by itself, as if we were magnets.
Our embrace was exceptionally tight. A full body, full wrap, clingy experience. Two lovers amalgamated to one pulsating, sweating, orgasmic body; whispering everything we could say without saying I love you. As if our bodies had not already given away what our hearts were feeling.
We lie together for a while, before Big pulls our sticky bodies apart and gets up to clean up the condom. He returns wearing a pair of black rim glasses.
“Oh wow!” I exclaim in appreciation, and I feel yet another wave of excitement and novelty.
“You like it? My contacts were bothering me.”
He settles onto the lounge sofa again, where I snuggle under the blanket he brought me.
“Oh no, not on me. I’m still hot!”
“You look like a doctor,” I say.
“That’s why it turns me on so much.”
There’s another reason I’m not with Ivy when it comes to Big: I have so many fantasies and want them all with him.
“Maybe we can make a list of everything I still want to do,” I suggest.
“So first, playing doctor of course.”
“Of course,” Big agrees.
Big had been surprisingly unshocked by my doctor fetish. It was on one of our early dates that were supposed to stay platonic (for my part) because he was married, where I had compensated the lack of physical intimacy with brutal sexual honesty. I had informed him that the biggest flaw in 50 Shades was that it had a hard limit on gynecological instruments. And that the book committed a mortal sin against writing erotica when it described what must have been a dripping good scene of the first ever pelvic exam of a recently deflowered Anastacia, in a meager four words as:
“After a thorough examination”
Chapter 19, look it up. Full on heresy.
“A proper exam. And I want it to take very long,” I say, just to make clear that we’re going to milk this. I’m already aroused at the thought of lying there with my legs pulled up for what hopefully feels like an eternity.
“We’ll reserve a whole night,” Big says.
“Noooooo… not at night! It’s a doctor’s appointment, it has to be by day!”
“Okay, by day,” Big laughs, realizing he’ll probably have zero input when it comes to playing out my fantasies.
“And I would like double penetration…” I dream, as if I’m planning a romantic wedding instead of asking for sexual acts that would count as hard limits for even pretty broad-minded woman.
“Like being fucked from behind. And a dildo in the front.”
“You mean one of those giant ones?”
“No, that would make more like a solo event. A normal one. But I would like two men also.”
He gets up and seizes the remote from the tv.
“I’ve got a new Stoya. With double penetration.”
At the sight of Stoya’s frail, pale body being touched all over by four rough male hands, I feel a pinch inside, between my legs. A sudden violent horniness.
“How do you want to organize that?” Big hints, as we watch Stoya taking it in her mouth and pussy.
I love the happiness she displays.
“Who do you have in mind?”
“Well I have you in mind. And Rutger of course. But I can’t plan it. Either it happens or it doesn’t.”
“But how do you divide your attention?” he asks.
It’s what kept him from pursuing two women.
“Yes. It would be a challenge. Especially since I like you both a lot.”
Big appeared to be completely over any jealousy he had felt.
I flip over onto my belly and turn my head away.
“My bum needs some TLC,” I wiggle my hips.
He comes closer and starts to polish my butt cheeks. I can feel his eyes staring.
“I like your butt. It’s so great. Like it’s standing or something.”
I give an appreciative moan. His hand slides between my thighs.
“You’re so wet!”
“You made me watch double penetration!” I defend myself.
“And showed up with those glasses.”
“Yeeess….” he muses.
“I think I’ll keep them on. I’ve got a whole new sense of self-esteem.”
I chuckle as I turn my head towards him, checking him and his sophisticated glasses out. The more or less familiar face of Mr.Big, looks professional and distant.
“You’re probably seeing me as the doctor already….”
I part my legs eagerly and the finger moves in deeper.
“I hope he takes advantage of me,” I admit.
For a moment I consider telling him my final fantasy, the one I kept from him deliberately because I never had the guts to share it. It’s the reason I’m doing this recap of everything I already hinted at, or talked about, during other dates. I’m mustering the courage to ask it.
“I need to be a little deeper,” Big says with a solemn face.
“Just try to relax as much as possible.”
The doctor fantasy stays with that line. And with him wearing his glasses. Perhaps we both feel this is pretty intense, and shy away from playing it out spontaneously. But it does the trick of getting me incredibly hot, and we have sex like teenagers: with me wanting to squat down on top of him, and him comforting me and retaking control every time I accidentally hurt myself because his dick slams in too deep, and I cry out from the sharp pain deep inside.
We watch my pussy taking in his dick, the thrusting, over and over again. It’s explicit, mature, R-rated. The porn has moved from the screen to between my thighs.
“I need to rest,” I say, with my quadriceps on fire.
I pull my feet back one by one, and collapse onto his chest.
He lets me catch my breath, and cuddles me, gently stroking my hair.
I reach for his cock, holding the condom as I pull out, and roll over on my side. He takes it off. His cock is still so hard he needs to draw it away from his belly, to handle it. Forty-two going on twenty-four.
“You’re so smooth,” I caress his shoulders and his upper arms.
Big has little chest hair and appears unmarked by the hormones that must be ravaging his body. I slide my hand over his chest, belly. His hard on lifts up, when I wrap my hand around it. I work the thin foreskin with my fingers, and massage the shaft with my palm. Slowly up and down. I want to feel him, taste him. It’s the best part of sex I think. Oral. I tease him with my mouth hovering, and small kisses tracing the line from his balls all the way up. He moans uncontrollably when I finally take it in, and suck it in as deep as I can.
The blow-job is easy and effortlessly, although I know Big could delay it if he wanted to. Just to make me work, or to increase his own pleasure. But he’s not pushing it, and gives me a warning before he comes. I take my head away, and finish it manually. I feel his cock jumping on the waves of his orgasm, and the sperm pulsating under my hand, on its way out. It’s so strong that I half expect it to reach the glasses! But I’m not going to look, I might laugh. And I play my role of bringer of pleasure, appreciating his orgasm. Moaning. Biting my lip and looking up seductively.
“You have it on your glasses!”
We clean Big up, and I ask for Stoya back on. As sort of a back-drop. She’s the only woman who can make me want to be even whiter than I am, and lose four dress sizes. And aspire a career in porn.
“I think we’ve got most of it,” I summarize what we talked about.
“Like the prostitution thing. And a double penetration. Two guys. And playing doctor of course.”
“Of course,” Big repeats his earlier response.
He’s again very warm and every time I throw the blanket over him, probably instinctively just to have him closer, he throws it back instantly. He’s drinking a glass of water.
“Well…. There is one more thing….” I start.
“Yeah, you wanted the rapey thing,” Big says.
I’m taken aback.
“Oh well that too!”
“That goes without saying?”
“Yes. Like we can do the rapey thing on other days. When we’re not up for anything heavy.”
“Like playing doctor,” he smirks.
“Yeah well….so there is this one thing. And I’m a little worried you may not like me anymore.”
I tell Big what it is. He replies with “okay”.
“Okay? Now you’re not asking how I want to do that?”
“I think I get the idea.”
“But it’s perverted. No one asks for this.”
“It’s pretty flexible. You can pass a baby through there.”
Big tells me how you can widen it, by massaging it. A good midwife knows that. And I have a sudden flash back to Rutger, who massaged me like that. And although it was fully sweet, there was clearly some experience behind it.
“You actually did that?”
I feel like I just dropped a bomb.
“Like I said, I get the idea,” he smiles, apparently forgiving my intrusion.
“And I still like you.”
We talk a little bit about my list, fetishes, shame. And I ask him about what would be on his bucket list and he jokingly says:
“I don’t think you’ll like me anymore if I tell you…”
“Oh my God! That good?”
I get all excited even though I’m pretty sure he’s just humoring me.
“So. When are you available for a doctor’s appointment?” I ask.
“Soon. Even though I’ve seen the hospital a little too much lately.”
I shrink back. Another landmine.
“You want to talk about it?”
He stares at the ceiling, his fingers mindlessly fiddle over his chest. He shakes his head, still gazing at memories.
“I like what we have. Like you said: it won’t get any more exciting.”
There’s a smile again as he turns to his side, pulls a knee towards me. He rests his head into his palm.
“When I’m with you, I don’t want to think about all the other stuff.”
His eyes are a friendly blue. His sadness is almost tangible.
“But you are thinking about it,” I say, as my fingertips trace his eyebrows to his temples.
I notice a few gray hairs between the black.
“You think about death. And sickness. It’s the reason you’re with me.”
I suddenly understand why we go so well together.
“You and me…. This is like our Carpe Diem.”
The Major League
It’s just sex. That’s what I keep telling myself, and that’s what keeps popping up. Her legs pulled up, her face close to orgasm. Or her despair when she took it doggy style. The tears were real, but her hips were arching up towards me. The maddening horniness of the darkest corners of her mind.
“What are you waiting for?” she had said.
We had not seen other hikers since we crossed the cattle grid. Waist high fields of grass waved in the wind. We followed a sandy trail, carved out by water and surrounded by trees.
“You’ve done this before, right?”
Her hand was warm in mine.
“Kind of,” I dodged the question.
“But you can’t copy-paste. It depends.”
She made a cheerful hop.
“Every woman I rape is special.”
We had not talked this through. We didn’t even have code words or anything agreed upon.
It was just sex.
Now is the right time to break up with her. Now, that I still have my marriage and my kids and Lauren still has her reservations about me. Not about how she feels; she made it pretty clear the only reason she’s playing this game, is because it’s the only game I’m playing. She called it the Major League. Must have been on our first real date. According to her, the Major League was home to the premier players, the heart breakers, the sexual omnivores. It was a place with few female participants, since they had little to win. But she would play. She even gave me the score after our dates. If she had rejected me sexually, she’d win. If I gave her the cold shoulder, not replying her texts, she’d break up. But afterwards she’d appoint me that one. I asked her how she knew who had won. She answered:
“The one with the least emotional damage, wins.”
I am the one to end this. And if I strike now, I win. Match point.
A dreary weekday. I had asked to meet her A.M. She agreed, providing it was on the other side of town. She needed to clean her yoga studio. We both showed up wearing sports jackets, and she made a remark about my three day beard.
“Sorry. Bit of a rough patch. My wife wants a divorce.”
Lauren was visibly relieved, confessed she had thought I wanted to break up with her.
“What good news could a date be on Monday morning, right? But okay… the wife. And now you want her back?”
“I want her to stop divorcing me.”
“And stay separated?”
I tell Lauren I bought my own condoms, as if I wanted to rebel against the divorce, and promptly ran into a mom from the playground. I managed to sneak the condoms through the register, but then the alarm went off and the young employee shamefully asked me to come back.
I flash Lauren the pack of condoms.
“Thoroughly demagnetized. Front and back.”
“You’re trying to turn me on? Back to your old tricks, already.”
We order breakfast and she tries very hard not to be excited about my divorce. Not to say anything about it. But she can’t help herself.
“Listen, you must have your reasons to stay with your wife. I don’t want to interfere.”
“But…playing devil’s advocate here. Why is this all so hard? And secretive? She knew who she married, right?”
“We don’t have an open marriage or anything.”
She pulls a face.
“Of course not. It’s not the 70s. But what is it then? That you’re not some kind of domestic daddy tucking your kids to bed?”
“More that I don’t tuck her into bed,” I can’t help but grin.
She shakes her head, and plays with her glass. Spinning her Latte around.
“I must have told you about Nathan, right? Maybe not everything.”
Nathan was the one who broke her heart. He was the reason I scared her, the reason she could just see herself losing it again, crying for days on end. And Nathan broke up with her because he was with her best friend. For five months. Behind her back.
“Half a year later I ran into him. They just had a fight. His eyes were wet, he was stammering. So we sat down and talked and I get all this stuff about the mean things she said, and how she’s breaking him. He was ruined. There was nothing there anymore.”
“I’m not ruined,” I say.
“Yet,” she answers.
She takes the subject on pretty seriously. Like I’m some exotic animal that just needs to be handled correctly. By her preferably.
“What would you do then? Let me fuck around?”
“Not like that. But you could have your secrets. And your moods.”
Suddenly she breaks into a wide smile.
“And every Summer I have my fully transparent love affair with Rutger!”
Rutger. Still in the country of course.
“Have you seen him yet?” I ask.
“Yeah…it was nice. No sex though. Just daddy time.”
I pick up the bill and she invites me to see her studio. We are just down the street when it starts to pour. She sneaks under my umbrella, and I give her the what will people think-look.
“What? You’re not suggesting those cozy arches, right?”
I couldn’t resist touching her for one second if we would stand there dry and surrounded by rain.
“It’s that way!”
She points across the street to a narrow alley.
The studio has a nameplate between the regular tenants. She opens the front door and pushes it open with her hip.
“Fair warning. I just had my party. So it’s a bit of a mess.”
“Oh yeah…your birthday. I still wanted to get you something this morning…”
“It’s okay. I didn’t expect it anymore.”
She turns on the light and we descend to the basement. Suddenly it seems very hot. We take off our shoes and put our vests on the hooks.
“I thought: how bad is it if he forgets my birthday? But it’s okay. Especially since you won’t be giving me what I really want anyway.”
She smirks but I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“What? You mean the threesome?”
“No! I meant your heart. But a threesome is cool! You’re giving me a threesome?!”
“Well, no, it’s just that…”
“Good to know you’re game!”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t give me a birthday present. You’ll just have to comply with my wishes.”
“Did Rutger give you a present?”
“No. But I would never force him into a threesome.”
“And you would me?”
She grins, clasps her hands, shakes them victoriously over her head.
It’s a small studio with a cork floor and an Indian statue. Pillows and mats are set up against the walls, but no sign of cups or plates anymore. She goes from corner to corner, lighting a serpentine of lights around a mirrored wall.
“Welcome to my lair,” she speaks solemnly.
“It’s probably not a good idea to fuck you here right?”
The space certainly looks inviting.
“I would love to take you over one of those bolsters.”
“Not gonna happen,” she says, and wraps her arms around me.
We look at each other in the life size mirror. She grins her teeth bare.
“That’s my favorite emoticon.”
I grin mine.
“And can you do the one with the eyes open?”
We both try and look like Ashton Kutcher.
“Did you really think I wanted to break up?” I ask her mirror image.
“Yes. That’s why I’m not wearing make-up. Even though I said to myself I’m not gonna cry.”
“Why did you think that? The break-up?”
“Because you were short. And absent. I barely heard from you.”
“Well…things were rough. I told you.”
“And that’s why I thought you would break up. To get one problem out of the way.”
“You’re not a problem.”
Our gaze still hooked in the mirror.
“Are we going to have sex?” she snuggles her nose to my chest, and looks up.
“Not here I mean.”
“A hotel? Like the escort fantasy?”
“Escort? I wouldn’t earn a dime if I wore this as an escort.”
She scratches my beard. “We can do rape! You look the part!”
We agree to go to the nature reserve.
“And I think I have a knife here somewhere. From the cake.”
“Is that necessary? Somebody might beat me in the head if they see that.”
“Okay. No knife. But they’ll probably just masturbate to me getting raped.”
“I will masturbate to you getting raped!”
She smiles in anticipation.
We park our bikes on the cycling path near the freeway, climb the crash barriers, and then down the hill on the other side. Our jeans get wet from knee high bushes, as we find our way through.
“It’s behind these trees. You can already see the road.”
The entrance is deserted. A concrete square with a sign on park etiquette and a map behind glass. The ground is still damp from the rain. We stroll hand in hand, casually chatting, as if we’re waiting for some kind of cue. She makes a joke what’s keeping me so long.
“I shouldn’t have said that right? You can’t possibly start if I initiate…..”
I stop and she turns towards me. A long kiss, warm tongues entangled. I touch her throat, light as a feather. She gasps and the kiss stops. My fingertips grab around her neck, my thumb penetrates the weakness under her jaw. Other hand on her shoulder as I force her down, sitting up high, knees in the sand. I swiftly open my pants.
“Not a peep!” I hiss aggressively, cupping one hand around the back of her head and directing my cock straight into her mouth.
She gags as I jam it up her throat and grab her neck. My other hand on her head, like a giant claw seizing her scalp.
Desperate moans between gagging and holding it in, and sucking while tears fill her eyes. She holds on to my legs for balance, and I feel her hands creep up, giving my butt a little squeeze.
“Slower…slow it down,” I hush. “Now take a deep breath.”
She inhales, mouth wide open around me. Eyes closed. Then wraps her lips around me and starts to work it up and down.
I pinch her nose, holding it closed. Her eyes fly open, but she keeps moving.
“I’ll tell you when you can breathe….”
After a few strokes I release and she inhales sharply.
I’m no longer holding her head, just the nose. And she obeys, three times, four. Every time I make it longer for her to hold her breath, and I shorten the breaks. I release her nose and immediately grapple her head again with both hands. Tiger’s claw around the back, and sadistically prodding the soft spot in her throat. I pull her mouth over me entirely, and the tears come back.
“Yes, take it in…. Enjoy it now you can. Before I ram it up your ass.”
She retreats immediately, frowning, looking up.
“That’s…I don’t know.”
“What?” my voice has immediately switched to normal.
“Because it hurt so much that one time….”
“That’s not my problem,” I step back into my role.
She does as I tell her.
“Take your pants down!”
A sulking frown still. Bit angry. She starts to unbuckle and I get the pharmacy bag out of my pocket. I’ve got the condom out of the foil when she’s standing there, pants down, waiting for instructions.
“Hands and knees. Ass towards me!”
She turns around, falls onto her knees, then all fours, her head hanging in submission.
I position myself behind her luscious bottom, my jeans in the same wet sand as her bare knees. I invasively stick two fingers in.
“God I’m going to fuck you so hard… get lower!”
She places her forearms down, her back rounds as she starts to sob it will hurt this way.
“Yes, it will,” I grunt and bang into her. She shrieks out and I immediately thrust again.
“Ow, it hurts so much …. Please no….”
She sobs down to the ground and yet her hips are opening towards me. “It hurts, it hurts so much!” she wails over and over.
Finally drenched in her darkest fears. Until the words fade to plaintive howls. I slow down and release her. She rolls onto her side, still sobbing. Her legs limb. Ankles bound by her jeans.
She shuffles onto her back with difficulty.
“Pull your legs up.”
Her hands wrap around the backs of her knees, giving me the full view at her pussy.
I kneel and fold her legs further forwards her. Diamond shaped legs with her pussy wet before me. She holds onto the bound feet, her head up, keeping an eye on what I do. I hover over her, as far as the pose and the bound legs allow, and enter her again. She lets out a sigh and her head falls back, for one moment relaxing into it. I fuck her with long, slow strokes, leaning onto both hands like a wide push up with her under me as a toy that only my dick can enter. It slips out, and lands straight on her ass. She lifts her head.
“That’s the back…..”
I press the tip in. Her pulled up legs are giving it the easiest access imaginable.
“Oh my God,” she stammers.
She bites her lip, head lifted up, piercing between her legs although I’m sure she can’t see beyond her pussy. Gradually I take it in deeper.
“You didn’t think you’d escape this….did you?”
She pulls her feet even closer towards her, and then looks at me. Giving up her effort to watch.
“It’s …” Her nervousness prohibits her from speaking.
“Too bad!” I fill in the silence, giving it a few strong strokes as deep as I dare to go.
I take it out, and right back into her pussy. She gasps. Opens her mouth as if she wants to protest. And then her face gets that familiar haze of pleasure. The speeding of her breath.
“I’m gonna come…. Oh my God…”
She squeezes her face and I lean further forward, folding her legs closer towards her.
“Ow! Ow! That’s too deep!”
I keep going, beating that sensitive spot deep inside. The orgasm expands and mingles with her pain. I hold still. Her breath and tears find their peace.
“You liked that, didn’t you?” I pull back and withdraw to my knees.
A bewildered look. Not knowing if the game is over. Normally I would let her recuperate.
“I lie down and you’re going to sit on top,” I announce.
“With your back towards me.”
Reversed cowgirl. It’s the only position we ever aborted because it was too painful.
“One more no, and you get it in your ass again. And this time not so gentle.”
She starts to snivel but sits up straight. Mourning her fate.
“Take your pants off, ” I instruct.
She does as I tell her, and has to take her shoes off to get the jeans from her ankles. I lie down on my back. She kneels over me, butt and black hoodie towards me. Her shins down, toes in wet socks.
“Put it in!” I command harshly.
She cautiously takes the tip in, and I pull her hips down. She screams
“Ow it hurts! Ow!!”
Every thrust is more violent and she leans forward. Back. Desperately looking for a way to make it less agonizing. I tip her forward and push my finger in her ass, as the crying increases.
“No don’t! No!”
I push in a second finger. I consider ass fucking her again, but she could be close to her limit. I stop the thrusting, my fingers are pushed out. Her head hangs in defeat.
“Not again… please not again.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
She slowly rises, I feel my cock sliding out of her depth, that tormented side of her vagina. She turns around, face wet, and I push up to sit as she straddles in my lap, embracing me with arms and legs. Her tears buried in my neck.
“That was scary…..”
I rock her back and forth until I hear a little chuckle.
“You’re good at this!”
“Of course I am,” I joke back, cuddling her funny half naked body.
“This is the Major League.”
“I never had that…” she’s smiling through the tears.
“I mean, the guy always needed reassurance. And with the ass thing!” Her appreciation volleys through the trees.
“And then back into my pussy!”
I had broken just enough rules to make it exciting.
We rub her clean with a tissue, and she takes her socks off before she puts her sneakers back on. I lie on my back. Grey clouds make way for the blue sky. I hold out one arm and she takes the invitation and cuddles up next to me onto my chest.
“I’m jealous of you wife, do you know that?”
“Because she can divorce you and you still want her back. You obviously still have feelings for her.”
“Of course I do. But I have feelings for you too.”
A warm sigh.
“Off the record, how much more do you need? You’re as crazy about me as I am about you.”
“Off the record? Why didn’t I meet you ten years ago?”
She caresses my cheek and stares into my eyes, with a Mona Lisa smile as if she has the key to everything.
“Because you didn’t have those cute wrinkles ten years ago.”
“I do not have wrinkles!”
She laughs it off, the tension melts. We resettle into our hug.
“Okay,” she starts.
“And I say this just because it’s a rainy Monday and you just ass-raped me.”
She is quiet, as if she’s gathering her thoughts.
“It’s like…when I met you, you were everything I didn’t want. You’re dangerous emotionally. Physically. You’re so sexually active and I haven’t even told you half of how scared I am of STD’s. And you break hearts. I had to deal with all of that to be with you. And it’s the same for you. Sooner or later, you have to choose.”
She lets the words sink in.
“You need to decide what you want.”
I still look at the sky as I think about her. Me. The choice that haunts me.
“I don’t want to lose you. But I don’t want to lose her either.”
She shakes her head to my heart.
“That’s the whole point, Biggie. You’re afraid to lose.”
Deadline (Intermezzo 2)
There was a time I would have looked back to lock eyes with the beefy young man with the sun tanned baby face and the perfectly groomed black hair. I would have even allowed his friend to point that tattooed elbow in my direction, leaning sideways onto his chair, hovering between our tables. Maybe I would make a joke to the inked guy, but only to immediately connect with the handsome young man. Everything about him breathed cougar hunter. He would take the bait.
But instead I took a mouthful of Chardonnay and wished Ivy had not gone to the toilet, leaving me a sitting duck for male attention. I shielded with my phone, pretending to be texting. There was a Whatsapp from Rutger which I answered, and then I sent one to Biggie. A question about something practical but with a sexual reference so strong I felt a sudden warmth between my legs.
Big came online immediately and answered in a business-like fashion, with a kiss smiley. I put the phone down with a sigh and saw Ivy return from the loo. She took the wine the waiter had brought in her absence.
“To what shall we toast?” she cheerfully asked.
“I already drank half of mine,” I apologized.
She took a sip.
“How are things between you and Big?”
And I realized how ridiculous this was for two people having hardcore good sex less than two months ago.
“That bad, huh? Did you have vanilla sex?”
I washed the last wine down.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
That was the disturbing thing: on the surface nothing had changed.
“Are you still breaking up with him this weekend?”
“Of course not. Our deadline has not brought anything I hoped for.”
Somewhere in the process of Big struggling, of Big not deciding, of Big not seeing that we were obviously made for each other and that his marriage was doomed, somewhere in there I decided I would do the dirty work for him.
“Let’s set an expiration date,” I suggested.
“Like in six weeks. That way you don’t have to decide anything and I don’t get frustrated.”
Big had wondered if a planned ending of our affair would work. But I assured him I had done this before, and that it was a drama-free solution for both of us.
“But we still have your whole bucket list,” he remarked.
That was true. My biggest sexual dreams, unfulfilled.
“Well better not waste time then,” I had smiled, looking forward to six weeks of sexual slavery and Biggie stretching my consent to the utmost limits.
But instead our sex menu had been cleaned up. The most vulnerable sex acts quietly disappeared, along with the intimacy they nourished.
“Makes sense,” Ivy said. “He’s retreating.”
“You don’t understand,” I explained.
“Big always has great sex before a break up. He pushes how far he can go sexually. He drains them down to the last drop, told me so himself.”
Ivy gave me a wide smile.
“That’s when he wants to break up. Not when you want to break up.”
My jaw dropped and I gazed at her.
“I thought it was because I had sex with Rutger,” I disclosed.
“Well that probably didn’t help. But that’s not what’s causing this. Big is worried he’ll get hurt. You know what that means right?”
But I was unclear about everything.
“It means Mr. Big is in love with you.”
It’s been 24 hours since I told you we can’t see each other for a while, and already my body is throwing a tantrum of nausea and razor sharp pains. It was a rational decision. The stress had been wearing me out for months, and after you revealed your recent medical history, I know you were suffering too. Our health is being ruined, one layer of immunity at a time. I had been disappointed with our sex life becoming less intense, and yet you were probably right when you replied:
“So what if we turned the heat down, to a level we can sustain. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
But just turning it down wasn’t enough. Still having you eat my pussy on red silk sheets while I could watch myself wriggling with pleasure in the mirrors over your bed, was not exactly relaxing. Maybe it was the bedroom itself that forced us to ditch the rough stuff.
Originally I wasn’t allowed into your bedroom. I remember you showing me out after one of our dates. I had to get up early and wasn’t interested in quickies.
“Is that your bedroom?” I had asked as you were hugging me close and kissing my neck, in a last playful effort to win me over.
“Yes. But before you can go in you’ll be stripped from your last thread of fabric.”
You laughed and failed to notice you had turned me on. Even I myself was sometimes amazed at the forceful fantasies that jumped on me, usually right after I had said no. Right after I had chosen a good night sleep, a lady-like exit or a menstruation-blood-free week of celibacy over being with you.
“I wish he would bend me over and ass rape me right now,” my inner sex goddess with La Tourette would blurt out.
She had no inhibitions about staining the sheets with blood until she saw your bedroom where the sheets were already red. She fantasized about being a whore until she was taken to that room with its tasteful anthracite colored walls, and the dark double curtains weighing straight down from the ceiling.
It was that room, a residue from when you were still a bachelor, that paralyzed me. I imagine how you will have told your wife, then fiancée, that you would keep your penthouse as a real estate investment. I wonder how long it took before you started taking women here again. Or if there ever was a time you gave up your promiscuous lifestyle in the first place. That room oozed danger. And I needed to feel safe for my sexual bucket list of submission. Not like a porn actress with her legs pulled wide, regardless of how much I liked that view. Every slap on my ass echoed all the ones before me. Every glance in the mirror reflected all my predecessors. Every line seemed scripted, and none of them could ever be I love you.
Nine months ago. You could have had me at hello, if it wasn’t for the fact that you already had me at wearing a suit, and staring unapologetically from the other end of the network meeting. I answered your gaze by boldly staring back. Ivy had just pointed out her Jaguar dealer, as she had promised herself her next car would be a jag. She had brought me to meet new clients for my private yoga sessions, which came at a rate you could buy sexual services for.
“Oh God, not Mister Big,” Ivy sighed at us exchanging glances.
And not because the sparks could have set fire to the New Year’s decoration and to anybody wearing polyester.
“I could have known though. Of course Mister Big.”
A minute later you excused yourself and headed my way, and Ivy left me to meet my doom, or dream prince, or whatever fate had decided you would be. I waited as you maneuvered through the room, and tapped on a shoulder to pass.
Our smiles melted together and your steel blue eyes pierced me. Black hair with only a few gray ones, sparsely scattered. A pattern I only knew from my eldest cat. He died a few weeks back, I didn’t even tell you that. Mental intimacy of any kind has the potential to bring us back on track, back to that rollercoaster of desire, and fantasies. But you left that path. And even though I often feel I am still there, waiting for you to come back and play, I want it to be out of free will. Not because I played the pity card when at five in the morning he was in pain and slowly dying, yet it was still hours before the VET would open and I needed someone I could talk to. I called Rutger. He was in a better time-zone to pick up the phone, but he was also better wired for the occasion. That night when I was with him this summer? I cried. Several times. And it was okay. When as with you…well. I think you “allowing” crying would be the best description of your ambiguous attitude towards it. Funny. I think crying is what moves sex from great to magical. And your recent resentment of crying is what is moving sex from great to not so great. From I never want to lose him, to I need to end this. From we are made for each other, to choking when instead of comforting me, your irritation gives me a real reason to cry.
My hair is falling out, my throat is sore, my breasts are painful. My period is starting to get messy around the edges. I know when all this started: after you fulfilled my rape fantasy with flying colors I got a violent cough. The doctor said it could take up to eight weeks to heal, and it did. And on the road to recovery you and I kept sleeping together, but merely brushing on the topic of my fantasies. They had become fantasies of fantasies, and although they did the trick of turning me on I kept wondering why we had stopped fulfilling them. No: why you stopped fulfilling them. And it took me until now to realize it was never you. It was me. Like with any healthy power play it is never the dominant who determines how far they will go. It is the submissive. And after the play rape I withdrew. It wasn’t right. Not with a man who is so emotionally absent.
I didn’t want to lose you, so I chose normal sex. Something I could handle. Or so I thought.
Except I’m still not well, and neither are you. We’re still wearing each other out.
Last Sunday started the night before. I barely ever feel lonely but I did then. And after fighting it for hours I gave in, sat down with my diary, ready to spill my misery on the pages. That’s when your text came in.
“I miss you.”
That was a first.
We set a lunch date for the next day, and like always I felt I didn’t know that mysterious man and was again struck at how casual you could dress without losing an inch of charisma. You kissed me on the cheek, asked me how I was. A stranger all over again. And I looked forward to yet another divine first time sex with you. But not before being properly fed. You laughed when I greedily ordered leaf lard in my duck salad.
“You’re probably the only one eating leaf lard,” you said affectionately.
“No fancy Italian cow for me. But we’re both connoisseurs. At least we have one common interest.”
“I can think of another one,” you replied.
Sex of course. Oh absolutely. And we’re definitely connoisseurs there.
Maybe the reason I’m calling it quits for now was because last Sunday was different. Not your voice…God your voice. It should be forbidden for a man your stature to have a voice like that. Raw, husky, free of any insecurities. Free of innocence, I’d say. Your voice is like the equivalent of a woman sitting in a bar wearing something red with a navel deep cleavage: something you can only answer yes to. Yes, I want to go to your house. Yes, I want to go to the bedroom. Yes, I want to be fucked. If you would ask me if you could ruin my life, and wreck any future prospect of a normal loving relationship I would still say yes. I regret you never asked.
We went to your place, and you excused yourself for the mess, and opened a bottle of red wine. You confessed you only did that when you had someone to drink with.
“And I have chocolate too. Want some?”
From all the men I’ve known you were the only one who put so much effort into downplaying yourself, as if I was a nervous deer that could easily be scared away. How accurate.
Your charm. Our dance of trust. Me being won over by your chocolate, kisses and hugs, and in awe of how hard your cock was. You have the only binary dick in the universe; it’s never halfway.
But none of all that was new.
What was different was how you fucked me: for the first time it didn’t hurt. Not that I ever got damaged. That happened once and was totally of my own making because I was masturbating too recklessly. I never told you this, but after our rape scene? I was horny for days. I didn’t get any work done, because all I could think about was more sex. Or more masturbation, as the next best thing. The rape had definitely hurt at the time, but the pain didn’t stay in any way. Nor in any cavity ;) It was as if it had never happened, had it not been for my vibrant memories and ruthless horniness. You were obviously a lot more skilled at penetration than I was. Although you also had better equipment of course.
But even if we didn’t play rape, I would always beg you for more. Deeper. Harder. And you would give it. And the pain that followed would never fail to shock me. But also soothe me. It was comforting to have some real pain to focus on. Not heart ache, not doubt. Or fear….so much fear. Of losing you, that would top of the list. But at moments like that I would just have that pounding pain where your tip hit the cervix. Or breached it, I don’t even want to know.
I am lying in your arms. You’re cuddly as always, as long I respect that you don’t want blankets anywhere near you when we rest during or after sex.
“You didn’t hurt me….” I suddenly realize.
I had asked for it, but this time you had answered by forcing my knees wider, grabbing my throat or by turning me over making me shiver at the thought of taking it doggie style. And then you slapped me, harder than usual, and slid into me. Effortlessly, smoothly and yes…lovingly.
“You like this, don’t you?”
The insanely husky voice would ask the face buried in the pillow. Yes, yes, I did. And now I realized something had been missing.
“Like on the inside I mean. When you fuck me hard.”
“Well good. I don’t want to hurt you. Always say so when I do.”
As if the danger was in the physical pain you inflicted, instead of what I had to sustain mentally. Being the other woman. I don’t think I said anything. Maybe “okay”.
“I’m thirsty. Want some water too?”
You left for the kitchen and I turned on my back and studied the mirror above. And despite your remark I saw that incredibly happy blushing woman again. That curvy body that looked as if God is saving it for a career in porn. It was one of our standard jokes since I started working for Ivy as an actress in her web shop videos. Her husband did the camera and he kept referring to me as The Talent, something I only knew from porn. I had brought the idea of them filming us into our already very lively fascination with porn.
You came in handing me the water, and I took it saying:
“You know, if we get our own porn channel, people will know we have something. You can’t keep it a secret anymore.”
“On the contrary,” you said.
And I noticed you didn’t sit down on the bed with me, but stayed there standing next to it.
“If we get a career in porn, it’s just business.”
You announced you were going to take a shower and needed to shop for groceries.
I heard the shower as I lay on my back again, looking up.
The blushing woman was gone.
You know I don’t like this, and I’d much rather meet in person. But I’ll write. You are making the right choices. Your health must come first, as I suppose mine should too, but I’ve turned living under pressure into an art form these days. To say I would give you up for my health is a lie. After all, you know I never give anything up for anything, no matter how obvious the choice may be for someone else.
I’m always surprised at how you see me. It’s so…I don’t know… dark, I guess. Is that how you see me, as insensitive? A womanizer? There was someone. It was an accident, more or less. We used to date briefly and she had invited me to her birthday. I shouldn’t have done that, and maybe it did influence the mess we were already in. But it wasn’t planned or anything like that. I don’t have some malicious plan of breaking as many hearts as I can, nor do I ever force myself onto women. It reminds me of one of our first conversations where you already accused me of being a bad guy. When I told you I would never do anything against your will you laughed and said:
“Of course not, that is for amateurs. You’re worse. You’ll manipulate me until I’m begging for it.”
Maybe the words were prophetic, I don’t know. Recapping our story: you did start out not wanting it, and after a few weeks you did. With me as the bad guy, but okay. I can live with that. I was the one taking all the responsibility, so you could let go. And you did.
I’m sad we didn’t make it. As long as I’m married it can never be the relationship we knew we could have. Or more precisely: the sex we knew we could have. Because face it, that is what binds us. It’s a powerful, maddening, intoxicating sexual attraction that you never experienced with someone else. And neither did I, not like this.
Don’t think I didn’t hear you. Each and every one of your fantasies. The escort. The threesome. The doctor. And the last one that you were so afraid to ask for. I even noticed how they changed and redefined themselves. How whenever we talked about it, they morphed into new ones. Last Sunday I said I needed to have a special bench to put you over to spank you and you recalled a hotel where they had SM rooms. And then you told me something you had seen on tv, about a prostitute who was a submissive. As a job.
“That’s brilliant right? To get sexually abused for money. That’s so hot!”
You were really enthusiastic about the idea.
So I said we could rent a room like that. And I joked I would pick up every piece of equipment there and test it onto you.
“You will just lie there and be spanked and penetrated. And paid.”
You buried your face, grunting in the pillow and then smiled:
“Do you know how horny that makes me?”
I know, Baby Bee. I know. And damn, I wish for a lot of things but mostly that one day you will have someone to do all those things with. Someone who loves you, and chooses you, and with whom you can cry as much as you want. And I will never say that can’t be me.
The story continues in Big Part 2, The Virgin Diaries
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