Big – erotica and diaries. Part 4 and 5: The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai and More Erotica

UPDATED version Monday June 12, 2017 <3 LSH 

This is THE END!
After writing;
-  a handful of autobiographical erotic stories about her affair with Big;
- coming to terms with her fragile status in The Virgin Diaries,
- and saving herself in the sensual self-help book The Way of the Trickster
Lauren now faces the task of getting her menstruation in check.
She chooses a book by Hsi Lai to guide her through with the promising title;
The Sexual Teachings of the White Tigress.
And after that, there’s more sex.

Part 4;

The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai


The Origin of Hsi Lai

The first question I got was if Hsi Lai was a man. Whoever had convinced women they would acquire immortality, enlightenment and eternal youth by giving blowjobs to a large number of men, should not be of the gender directly benefiting from it. Or my whole story had just lost its credibility. As far as it, or I, had any to begin with of course. My answer was yes. Yes, he’s a man.
But I think there are easier ways to getting blowjobs than to make up a whole book about a Taoist crossover between a brothel and a monastery owned by Madame Lin, where women learn to contain their energy (read menstruation) by committing to a strict diet, lifestyle rules and playful lovemaking with men selected for their virility, strength and sperm.
Hsi Lai is a genuine spiritual seeker, who went on to become a Jade Dragon of his own, the sexual mate of the White Tigress. The White Tigress depends on her Green dragons, to whom she gives oral sex. The Jade Dragon can be her mate for advanced sexual practices, such as penetration of her vagina with just the tip of his penis.
That was more proof Hsi Lai didn’t write the book to do himself a favor. Any man convincing women to allow only for penetration with the tip of the penis (if any), is not making it an easy ride for either one of the genders.
Contrary to the most famous Taoist healing author, Mantak Chia.
Mantak Chia is the number one authority on Taoist healing. He has written multiple books on how to contain your sexual energy. For men, this is through not ejaculating when you orgasm. For women it is through controlling their menstruation. This is exactly the same theory as the White Tigress/ Jade Dragon theory.
The difference between the Hsi Lai book, and the much more popular one from Mantak Chia, is that Chia uses penetration (read: regular sex between couples) as something that is (when done well) healing for both.
This is diametrically opposite to the White Tigress theory from Hsi Lai. Because Hsi Lai stresses vaginal penetration is straining to a woman’s body and she doesn’t benefit from a man’s energy this way. The experience of vaginal penetration just weakens her. Whereas, especially if he doesn’t ejaculate, regular sexual intercourse does invigorate a man.
This warning against intercourse is why the White Tigress theory never made it big. And why Mantak Chia’s Taoist sexual healing is mainstream. Because his version benefits males and couples.
As a single woman, no kids, Chia’s sexual healing is not applicable to me. And not desirable either.
But to become a White Tigress instead, is alluring.
A White Tigress is not a woman trying to make the most out of regular love making or out of her relationship. She is an independent, spiritual practitioner, with an impeccable self-care regime. She arranges playful sexual encounters, in order to have oral sex and restore her youthfulness.
Those things appeal to me. I crave impeccable self-care and a spiritual practice. And the only thing I love more than oral sex, is to be play-raped. And I don’t mean with just the tip. It is one of the many things that could become a bit of a problem, when living by White Tigress rules.
The second question I got was:
“What exactly are you going to do for a hundred days?”
I am at day four and I still have no idea. I have new to do lists, resolution lists, and hard-to-get prescribed Chinese products still on my shopping list. I am drinking Don Quai tea; dried ginger-root like slices. It is grose but was prescribed by the book. And I accidentally clicked on a new article for hormonal balance where Don Quai, again, was literally hailed for being a hormone balancing Wunderkind. So I kept drinking it.
But other than that it is unclear what I am doing.
I have reread parts of The White Tigress, visited Toaist sites including the one from Hsi Lai, and watched videos of the Tao Garden from Mantak Chia. This only contributed to the chaos.
Meanwhile my house seems to be a mess, even though I never go to bed without making it nice and doing the dishes. My body regime too, is erratic. I wax my legs when I see my lover, and I have a workout from teaching yoga and commuting by bike. Here too, I desire order and consistency. I sat down to make a plan.
I didn’t fancy ending up an immortal sex goddess with a domestic disability. What was it, that I hoped to find in the book of Hsi Lai?
I found a YouTube video that illustrates who the White Tigress is. It is from an experimental theater company, that plays out a story from a real White Tigress.
A White Tigress/ actress tells how she meets with a man to have oral sex and how much she enjoys it. This is a perfect representation of how I feel when I am with my lover. All sensual and loving. Worshiping. A White Tigress always plays to be submissive, presumably because this intensifies his orgasm, giving her more of his yang energy. But I’m sure that, just like me, she enjoys being submissive. It intensifies her own pleasure as well.
The video opens with the name of a real White Tigress on whose story the video is based. You can Google her. She now includes other techniques too, but she appears to have been a White Tigress (trained by or through Hsi Lai) since 1989.
Contrary to a real White Tigress, who is on a fat free, beef free, dairy free diet that includes two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice, I have chosen a different diet, in order to heal my teeth. I suffer decay and, or, nerve pains in an increasing number of teeth. Unless I aspire to become a multi four figure contributor to my dentist, I need to turn the tide.
Based on research of Weston A. Price from the beginning of the 20th century, I am on an animal fat rich diet to help my teeth. I make stock from chicken wings and dismantle nuts to get the phytic acid out. I did eat an orange, to meet my White Tigress nutrition list – although it should have been two glasses of juice – but it gave me such a violent tooth ache that I decided to take it really easy when it came to the dietary guidelines of a White Tigress. My teeth would go first. And if that meant my menstruation would stay messy, so be it.
My vision of a White Tigress is a clean and clear single lifestyle, with an orderly sex life. And good teeth.


Maybe it was because  I was on my White Tigress journey and expected to one day be able to milk men for their yang energy. But I can’t remember ever feeling so vibrantly happy and energized after giving oral sex. My arm and hand were splattered, my nose, hip, cleavage. I read men who practiced Taoist methods to contain their sexual energy had orgasms only once a month, and would shoot as far as half a meter. Apparently, they needed training for this. For half of this.
Because whenever my lover climaxed after oral sex or a hand job, we had to inspect the whole room up to the ceiling for trails. And I had never told him anything about Taoist practices.
What I had told him, spooning against each other fully clothed, was a detailed account of how I had masturbated.
“I should have drank more,” I sighed as I snuggled up to him and made myself comfortable. In my lower belly I felt the same warmth spreading as when I had made preparations to masturbate.  A script that included every insertable toy I owned, and a vivid fantasy about my lover paying me a visit.
“Two wine is not enough for this confession.”
My lover groaned and pulled me even closer.
“That good huh?”

The biggest misconception about my project is that people think the White Tigress swallows semen to stay youthful. At least that is what I deducted from suddenly receiving links to articles about the nutritional benefits of semen. Also, someone informed me on the practices of bukake. Not a proposal to do one (which would have been quite in your face, but at least practical) but to inform me on what it was.

Let me get two things straight.
First – the White Tigress doesn’t swallow.
She absorbs male energy from her Green Dragons (never through swallowing) and from a Jade Dragon if she has one. With the Jade Dragon she uses more advanced techniques which could involve swallowing, but that is rare.
She will let the sperm land on her skin and leave it to dry. Any sperm that comes into her mouth – for example because she loves to have her mouth wide open and generously sticks her tongue out – has been into contact with air, which will kill most of the viruses. The White Tigress doesn’t let a man climax in her throat with her lips around his penis, and then swallows it. That’s not how it goes.
And secondly – I know perfectly well what bukake is.
I strongly discourage you to Google bukake. It’s the kind of search term that gets your computer infected with all kinds of exotic viruses. Which is a good bridge to one of the many  reasons why the White Tigress doesn’t swallow:
It can get you infected with all kinds of exotic viruses.
The number of men I’ve slept with is limited, because I’m overly aware of the dangers of unprotected sex and the viruses that do not require semen to transfer. If I get genital herpes, then what? Genital warts? How about that number of women on the rise (usually in a relationships) who need surgery on their cervix for a cancer caused by a virus? Men get throat cancer from the same virus from giving oral sex to women. I suspect, although I have never heard this proven, that women too, risk getting throat cancer from giving oral sex. Because why would men’s throats respond differently than ours?
When it comes to “safe sex” I never allow vaginal or anal intercourse without a condom. I have used condoms for oral sex as well, if I had no idea what the risk was or if I would see him again. I’m not going to risk throat gonorrhea for a chance encounter.
And no unauthorized rubbing, or explorative poking, with your bare saber. This is to prevent pregnancy but also to protect myself against warts and herpes, the best I can.
One of the reasons I’m working with The Sexual Teachings of the White Tigress, is that when it comes to safe or unsafe sex, she and me are one of a kind. We are both aware of the dangers yet we are still determined to have it.
Just that she knows more about cucumbers.
Cucumbers are acidic, and many viruses cannot survive there. A White Tigress uses them to clean her throat and vagina.
I ran into one of my yoga students, when I went out to buy my first cucumber. Or at least the first cucumber for this purpose. I had originally planned to get two, but when I saw the price, I thought it wiser to do just one for now. It was a supermarket I rarely use. I was sure my own supermarket would be less expensive. I would need half a cucumber a day minimum, for consumption. But they looked fairly large. I’m sure a third of this well-endowed Dutch greenhouse cucumber equaled half a Chinese cucumber in Taoist times.
I was still doing the math on my cucumbers when my student said hi, and we had a little chat. I considered sharing my cucumber thoughts but realized I would have to explain too many variables before she could help me in my decision process.
A White Tigress drinks the juice of half a cucumber, daily.
I don’t believe in juicing so I just eat that peeled, and whole.
A White Tigress cleans her throat and her vagina once a week with a peeled cucumber. It says the best way to do this is to peel half of a twenty centimeter long cucumber, and insert it (and swirl it around) holding it by the other half. Since Dutch cucumbers are indeed usually thirty centimeter, not twenty, this confirms my suspicion our cucumbers are significantly larger than Chinese.
And not just the cucumbers.
The cucumber is also used to train for a technique called The Red Dragon Retreats Into Silence. This technique is known in yoga as Khechari Mudra, the swallowing of the tongue. A cucumber can assist you in pushing it back.
It has profound spiritual and physiological effects to be able to pull the tongue back, and is essential to become a real White Tigress and absorb male energy.
Cucumbers are also used to clean the penis from the partner of bacteria and viruses, and the smell of cucumbers is considered an aphrodisiac. Since I had no idea how my lover would respond to having his penis rubbed with produce, I decided to leave my cucumbers at home when after what seemed like an eternity, we had a date.
I put on my leather pants, a white shirt, packed my handbag with everything I thought we’d need. My smile revealed I was a woman on a mission.

The sore bits healed deliciously slow, and kept reminding me of our night. According to the White Tigress I had probably aged five years from vaginal penetration. And although I had learned over time to recover emotionally without him checking in or being there, it was at times like this, when our sex had been exceptionally gratifying, that I couldn’t help rethinking the whole thing.
Leave him!
 My ratio demanded.
Or was it my ego? But everything about me that beat, pulsed, moved, and breathed said;
I love you.
I’m so glad I found you.
I never had anything like this.  

Part of me longed for him to choose for me. But if that part was indeed Ego, it wasn’t out of love. It was because if he would choose me, I would be important. Feeding the ego with validation is like eating wine gums; it’s never enough and after the first bite you’re hooked.

Three women have warned me this week that I am vulnerable and that he can hurt me. I must end it, now that I’m still in one piece. It’s what society tells us. We must measure what we get from a relationship, and it must be more than the cost of getting hurt. Calculated risk management. And identical to a White Tigress woman who estimates the risk of getting an STD from a man, versus the revenue of his sperm.
One by one, the days went by and still I didn’t hear from him. My life seemed so quiet. As if God was holding his breath, awaiting my decision. What would I do? If he would break up with me, I had a zillion told you sos waiting for me, on top of heartbreak and pain. And all women who were married, had once been married, or intended to ever get married, would be happy that I got what I deserved.
I remembered how I had gotten dressed for our date. The attention for detail. I had shaved my pussy, which was supposed to be a daily White Tigress routine but I intended to keep it at once a week. Or date nights.
We were waiting for dessert. I ran my fingers through my long blonde curls, casually pulling them over one shoulder revealing my neck. We left and he asked me what I would like to do next. I laughed.
“I realize I could still just go home!”
And he smiled back.
“Of course. Always.”
Those are the things that make me stay.
The long build up, where I present myself I as a blushing, well-dressed, radiant woman. She is nowhere in sight, unless I’m going to see him.
And that he never expects anything.
He always meets me wherever I am. Sometimes I do go home and it’s just platonic. Or we have sex, and he is rough and demanding. Always giving me exactly what I want but do not dare to ask.
In real life, when our risky arrangement is simply how things are, and not some act to please me, the difficulty of the situation makes me feel alive. The threat of a broken heart is an extra thrill, that makes being with him even more exciting.

Showdown at the house of LS Harteveld

No one will be picture perfect, I guess. And when it comes to improving your life using an obscure method, with only one hardly known book ever written on the subject, this is even more so. I had to make peace with uninformed choices, and carving out my own path, right from the start.
Having that said, Hsi Lai’s book is very clear there are two things a White Tigress must never do, if she wants to increase her longevity and her mental powers.
1.  to have full, uncontrolled vaginal intercourse
2. to dwell on romantic feelings
Oh bummer. My two favorite things.
Even though my period has relapsed to low point 2011, and my PMS now includes dizziness near to fainting, I still can’t make myself implement the most basic change to my lifestyle. To get more lovers, since mine is hardly available. And to have oral sex with them.
Playful teenage-like sex, with a man coming in your face and on your cleavage, that’s what totally boosts a White Tigress immunity and strength.
The book has tons of chapters on how to do this precisely, but since I hardly get any practice, I must say I haven’t studied them in depth.
I did notice last time we were together that the myth was true. Having a man come in your face gives you significantly more energy than if he doesn’t. I was on a week long high.
But in my opinion ANY male attention will benefit you as a woman.
The theory is, a man is yang, and he loses energy (or Qi) through ejaculation. He needs to supplement his energy with a woman’s yin, which he can absorb through intercourse.
A woman is yin, and loses energy through menstruation. She needs to supplement her Qi with a man’s yang, that she can absorb through oral sex with a man.
I fully acknowledge sex as the most powerful tool to gain energy. But I think it can be platonic as well. That’s what I know from all those times when I felt completely stuck, and merely going on a date gave me such a boost!
I have five male friends. Whenever I see them I always feel invigorated. I’m sure that goes the other way around as well. That they too feel elevated by my company.
When it comes to supplementing my energy, I’m considering more of that. More men in my life who I can hang out with. Because my body was born monogamous. And if not my body, then at least my romantic heart.
As much as I endorse the idea of taking better care of myself, getting more yang on my tongue, face, and rest of my naked body, setting up encounters for the single purpose of having oral sex, is a disastrous idea. First of all, it would leave me upset (because I’m in love with my lover). Secondly, I would probably beg to be fucked hard and deep, and end up with far less Qi than I started with.
With my reluctance to explore sex with other men, barely seeing my lover, and being a total sucker for intercourse and romance, I’ve probably reached the stage Hsi Lai would give me a hard spanking. And expel me from White Tigress School.
Which is why I have decided to bail out. Before I shame the White Tigress title any further.       

The Lonely Pentecost of LS Harteveld

O-Ren: “You didn’t think it was going to be this easy, did you?”
B.: “You know, for a second there, yeah, I kinda did.”

They say the holidays are the hardest. He’s with his family, you don’t hear from him, and your body still longs for his embrace. But all cuddles go to those entitled to receive his love. It’s true. The holidays are the hardest. Especially with the memory of your date so fresh.
In the past I could have blogged an erotic story to ease my suffering. A handmade afterglow by reliving the greatness of our sexual encounter. It helped me to process the intensity of it. The boundaries I gave up, willingly, to fully experience what he could give me. The fulfillment of my darkest fantasies. It is always after those sessions I yearn for him most, when his marginal communication is a hard landing after being intimate.
“How are you feeling? Are you okay?” was the last thing I texted.
The silence was deafening.
I had started writing erotica, as a medicine for those day-after mornings, lonely weekends and absent minded working hours. I had experience writing erotica – but mostly fiction – and I had written several online diaries. They had contained sex but were never that graphic and allowed for enough space to have a real relationship.
At least that’s what I had told myself.
In retrospect I had needed the diaries to create a lover more “deserving” of my adoration. The diary compensated for everything he wasn’t and covered up for things I didn’t like. The diaries carved out someone I could unconditionally love. And to complete my betrayal I omitted the times a sexual fantasy was fulfilled. I had left the best things out.
But Big was different.
I never wanted to write about sex with him. I never even wanted to have sex. I never set the intention:
“Hey, let’s go have the best sex of my life with a married man with children, and then write about it.”
I didn’t do that. But I have been entirely intentional going on a sexual odyssey when I gave up a relationship at thirty-four. I went to a sexual therapist to work through my fears and started dating for the first time in my adult life. Finding the perfect lover was my holy grail. And I pursued it with the same vigor other women go after babies or husband material. From that perspective, when my holy grail turned out to be married with kids, of course I was not going to veto it. Especially not on moral grounds. Morality was of no use where I wanted him to go. This brazen, taken, cunning man was the key to every fantasy I cherished. Eight years since I started my quest.
I had found him.
And it was just the beginning.
At our first make-out session I ended up naked. I was intimidated but also fascinated. He had tweaked my resistance in the most satisfying way. And at our first time real sex I was baffled by his sexual stamina. Over, and over, and over. I was in my period. How many men in their forties have the energy to wear you out on days like that? He did. Every date he surprised me, by creating a lighthearted kind of intimacy. Or, quite the opposite, by taking it somewhere I thought I wasn’t ready for. He always seemed to understand what the moment required.
And even though he challenged me sexually, he never initiated it. Not really. I had brought my fantasies up in conversation and he just effortlessly took control and positioned himself as the one in charge. I was cleared from all responsibility.
“What do you want me to say?” I asked before I would enter his “doctor’s office”.
“You figure it out,” he answered in a domineering voice.
“It’s your fantasy.”
If he had hesitated, the session would have started off on the wrong foot. I would not have trusted him with the role, and would have been weary for moments I had to cue him. That one line You figure it out indicated that he was not my buddy or my confidant. He was now a stranger, one step from being a doctor. Distance was a key ingredient.
And it worked. Brilliantly.
With Big everything I had learned about men – they’re not always hard and entitled to have their own insecurities- didn’t apply. Someone joked I was dating a Porn King. That nailed the kind of performance he would deliver. An outstanding one. But it also indicated he was not going to be there for me after. I would be alone. The insecurities that creep up on every woman after having sex – Does he love me? Does he love me enough? Why isn’t he here?- were amplified because the sex had been more intense than ever. I needed him more than any man, and he was available the least.
Every time we had sex it escalated into a break-up, with me needing him, and him withdrawing. But since he was obviously the dream partner I had been waiting for, and because he refused to be manipulated by me, our break-ups were neither permanent nor did they solve anything. They were just annoying. It was like a power struggle I knew I could never win. Because if I would win it, I would have taken his power away and ruin our sexual game.
That’s when the erotica came in.
Instead of trying to get him to do what I wanted, I started writing. For one year I wrote our most memorable sessions to erotic stories, on my LS Harteveld blog. Then I stopped. I would focus on my books. I emptied the blog of anything I wanted to print, including my erotica.
Not just because I was publishing the books. I had also become uneasy with the material being public. I’d had my coming out. My LS Harteveld readers knew the name of my yoga studio, and my yoga students knew my pen name. The two worlds had merged. Which was a good thing, but I didn’t need transcripts of ground breaking sexual sessions available online for free. Not anymore.
But I had forgotten writing erotica had served a purpose. To be there for me when I needed to process some pretty intense stuff. It had been my way to sieve out all the good, let go of all bad, and to work through the fears that had come up.
My erotica had kept me from breaking down.
This Pentecost was not just hard, because I was a mistress. It was the backlash from not writing erotica.
In the words of Kill Bill, the movie that inspired the titles of these chapters:
“You didn’t think it was going to be this easy, did you?”
“You know, for a second there, yeah, I kinda did.”

 Part 5

More Erotica


The Saint, erotic story

I have been sober for two weeks, praising the clarity of my mind and embracing my new identity as social saint. I am beyond suspicion when it comes to matters of good character, disciplined living, and other traits hailed in yoga teachers and other balanced professionals. I have given up drinking to gain full control over my mental powers and my old personality fell of me. Like lizard’s skin. My white winter coat, that I am still wearing these cold days this May, has become a white cloak of innocence. Not drinking has provided me with a VIP Saint card that will let me off the hook till eternity or until my first wine. Whichever one comes first.
I ring the top bell to the penthouse and stay in front of the camera even though I will have to leap to get the door. The buzzer always seems too short. His “hello?” always disturbed, as if he didn’t expect company. The hallway is quiet like an insurance office, with succulent dark green plants and luscious ferns in brick planters with terra colored granules. The elevator is waiting for me on the ground floor and will take me to a home cooked dinner. Steak and salad. He will have dark chocolate mousse from the caterer and will feed it to me before dinner and I’ll say:
“You know this is cheating, right?”
And he’ll answer:
“I do.”
For a while we switched to daylight. The dates became more frequent and never caused the withdrawal of our nightly encounters. They didn’t invoke the insatiable need in me to be held, to be comforted. Which had proven to be problematic. His after-sex service stopped at the door.  Daytime sex was neither remembered for its epicness, nor for its disruptive backlash. It merely touched the surface of what we were capable of. They probably stopped because he too preferred agony – in his case a guilt ridden heart – to barely feeling anything. It was a price we were willing to pay.
A wave of nervousness flushes over me, mixed with excitement and arousal. A big smile, feeling so deliciously alive. Still in awe over the purity of this. Wholeheartedly being in love is miraculous in its simplicity. You can’t believe you’ll ever settle on feeling anything less than an intoxicating thrill.
His tall physique blocks the door. I kiss the shaved cheek and receive a hug from the sturdy torso. It’s the familiarity between our bodies that always surprises me. I like role playing and sex games, and have done that with all of my boyfriends. But it’s the uncompromising love our bodies have for each other that makes this intoxicating.
The friendly wrinkles near his bright blue eyes. The husky How are you? It’s all equally enchanting. Craving that first moment our lips touch and then controlling myself because I don’t want to admit how much I want him. Or how much more I want. Progressive and addictive as wine. Maybe that’s why I stopped drinking because no way I could sober up on this one. The deeply seductive Mister Big.
He’s wearing one of his white pressed shirts, top buttons loose, sleeves rolled up. I never understood how a man my age could be so potent and yet still have a full head of black hair. Where does he leave all that testosterone? He has moderate chest hair like a twenty year old. But the cute eye wrinkles and sun tanned skin put him right up in his forties. I suspect he has never been more stunning than he is now. And he has never been more dangerous.
“So no wine I guess?”
He throws me a wicked smile before taking a sip from his red in an elegant oversized glass.
He prepares our meal without putting on an apron. Thank God. Not that I ever detected one here but with a business shirt like that and my broad experience with dating, part of me still expects he’ll get anal on moments like that. And not in a good way. Considering the flaws I neglected in other men, insecurities I healed, egos I mended and the gallons of unrepresentative outfits I tolerated, I forgive myself for being cautious. Those poor lovers probably had to put up with my quirks as well. Nothing is as tiring as imperfect love. It’s the flawless ease of being together that gives him away. His true feelings. The ones he’ll rather choke on than share. I’m convinced never speaking of love is his way of staying loyal to his wife. A successful one, as far as I’m concerned.
The table is already set and he serves me a medium steak without asking how I have it.
His is thicker and rare.
“Why did you stop drinking?”
“I got you to make my head spin,” I tease.
“And I like the saint status. I could play out my darkest fantasies and still look at myself in the mirror.”
“I like that. What do you want to do?”
I had not thought of taking it literally. Big’s bedroom has a mirror on the ceiling.
“Maybe we could do something from the bucket list?” I suggest.
Part of me still fears he’ll reject me. Before, during or after. And that’s not counting his regular forty-eight hour post-coital fallout.
“Sure. Which one?”
“I thought the doctor one.”
He gulps down his wine.
“Give me a minute.”
He leaves the candles burning, music on, and walks to the bedroom.
“What do I say then?” I suddenly panic.
We French kissed in the kitchen half an hour ago. And although I could feel myself getting turned on, making out on the countertop, legs spread, it didn’t count as real foreplay. But this does. That domineering voice telling me:
“You figure it out. It’s your fantasy.”
He calmly walks to the bedroom and closes the door lightly. Nerves flare up with an intensity of a thousand butterflies. Fuck. We’re gonna do this.
My mind races with options. A non-sexual ailment and leave it up to him to make it sexual? That’s not my fantasy. That’s a porn script.  He might as well have been a pizza delivery guy. I decide to take responsibility for the way we start off. He’ll take it from there, I know he will. But he will be more bold if I stand up for what I want. And not be shy or dodgy.  I will say I have a new boyfriend after a very long time of being single. Intercourse is painful and I have no idea what’s going on. I walk to the bedroom. I’m suddenly scared but I already knocked. The door opens. He’s wearing his glasses. I’m so stunned I forget to introduce myself and weakly shake his hand.
“Please take a seat.”
The room is brightly lit. I get the extra chair near a small desk. The bed is bare, with a white fitted sheet. He routinely goes through a set of questions, without showing any interest. He tells me to undress.
I take my pants off. He stays at his desk, occupied with his notes.
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen it all.”
Bored. Arrogant. I can feel the thrill of this fantasy unfolding. Like I’m unwrapping a present knowing what’s in it, and yet I get more excited with every new layer of see through paper. I know I’ll be wet when he examines me. I can protest and complain as much as I like without him thinking I want to stop.
He looks over his glasses.
“You can lie down. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
A towel is waiting for me, laid out horizontally.
I stare in the mirror above, my knees drop out, ankles crossed. I’m still wearing a red top. I can hear a pen scratching the paper. A dry cough. Absentminded noises. Maybe it’s the lack of alcohol but I have this heightened sense of awareness. I feel the air to my skin and between my legs. The tension in my body builds up in a way that becomes unbearable. The only choice is to let go but it’s like it’s wringed out of me. The face in the mirror stares back, close to tears, reflecting an uneasy bunch of mixed emotions. I close my eyes. No shame. No mirror.
His weight next to me.
“This can be a bit cold.”
He spreads my labia.
“Just try to relax as much as possible.”
I moan, startled by his fingertips and my burning desire.
I answer questions about what I feel and follow instructions. When to push, when to relax. When to brace myself. I don’t protest when he announces he will do the back, and he goes through the whole script again. And I welcome the final phase. The build up to examining both. I squeak and can’t resist looking in the mirror. No matter how much shame forbids it. He leaves for the bathroom and I hear him wash his hands. I smile at the bashful woman. She’s blushing.
He returns, still drying his hands with a soft white towel and I give him a “That was fun!” glance. But he looks serious.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
He puts the towel on the nightstand and sits next to me.
“I need to do one more examination.”
A shock of horniness immediately flows to my pussy. I gawk at him. He ignores my off-key response.
“You need to stay present for this. You can’t shut your eyes and you will have to look at me. Can you do that?”
Another rush. I nod. Yes.
He extensively walks me through what I can expect. Every detail, every calmly explained invasive act makes me shiver, desire, and fear in the most delicious way. A growing urge to drop out of the role of the victimized patient and share my enthusiasm. But I don’t.
I manage to smile only once. He rewards me with quick wink.
“I need your permission,” the serious voice rounds up everything he just told me.
“It will be painful. But I’ll stop if you can’t take any more.”
Blue eyes. Stern glasses.
“Okay,” I whisper coarsely.
Our session goes on for another hour before we lie in each other’s arms. Fully satisfied. I can finally tell him how amazing this was. I already got a taste of it with a playful lover, years ago.
“I never went for pap smears after that,” I say.
“Why not?” Big asks.
“You would actually enjoy it.”
I repeat my pragmatic view on illness and early diagnoses. Something we have opposing views on. But that’s not the only reason.
“Until I played doctor with him, I didn’t know how much I love this.”
I let past experiences and what we just did melt together. Like I’m accumulating treasures.
“I think I love it more than life itself.”
He tightens his arms around me, and squeezes me even closer with a warm hugging leg.
“I know.”

The Quickie, erotic story

The buildup is always different. Time is a factor. The longer it takes before we see each other, the stronger the desire. But it’s not just the weeks apart that determine how much I need his touch, how much I crave to be kissed and hugged, or how eager I am to be fucked before my body has a chance to catch up. My longing grows with every fantasy sparked and shared. With every scenario hinted at and masturbated on. With every script in my head that gives me orgasms no real life partner can give me. Big’s imaginary and always available twin brother works them brilliantly. How desperate I am to see Big depends on how many earth shattering masturbation sessions I had.
And this time it was a lot.
“BB I’m of no use. I’ll be wasted from my trip.”
BB meant Baby Bee. But this little insect was not taking no for an answer.
“Can I come over a.m.? I’ll bring breakfast.”
On a sunny day I arrive with a box of fresh eggs, French bread, Italian meat products and a selection of condoms that could cover a modest gangbang.
As expected Big is clean and dressed, despite just rolling jetlagged out of a plane. His overseas meeting was jammed into an in-and-out operation which illustrated his attitude to work. I fear I will one day lose him to a heart attack but I never say that. And by pushing he has sex with me, I am keeping him overworked.


Big is always quicker than me. Already back into his clothes, his hair nicely combed. Music and the smell of coffee escape from the kitchen. I’m putting my hair back up although I’ll probably look fucked despite. I join him in the kitchen. He’s boiling two eggs for each.
“I’m concerned about you, how much you work. I feel guilty asking for your time.”
“You have every right to ask for it,” Big responds.
“How’s the yoga business going?”
“Crushing it. I want the same success for my books. I’m inspired by Stoya.”
Big was responsible for introducing me to her porn on one of our first dates.
“I want to be the Stoya of literature. She’s totally independent. She has her own channel.”
“Are you a member?” Big laughs.
“It’s a business expense. My accountant might think otherwise.”
Big shakes his head, still laughing.
“Compared to you my work will always be boring. And stressful.”
We sit down for our breakfast to conclude our ninety minute date. He has to leave for an appointment.
“I collected my stuff, but the cap from the lube is missing. You were the last one to have it.”
“Just leave it,” he shrugs. “It’s not like it has any text on it, right?”
“Like extra long lasting lubricant for hours of anal sex?”
“I’m sure it’s neutral,” he insists.
“I would recognize a lube cap anytime. You’re responsible. You were Chief Lubrication Officer.”
“I’ll have a look. Are you still sore?”
“From behind you mean?”
He nods.
“Because it hurt and we stopped.”
I shake my head.
“That’s okay. I got greedy. I wanted you so much it hurt.”


I smelled liquor on his breath. Probably booze from the Wall Street bar he went to with an American colleague.
“There are two cute girls,” he texted.
“But my buddy here is not getting my signals.”
“Are you turning me on?” I texted back.
“Is it working?” he asked.
I was always afraid he would get an STD. Yet when he hinted at sex with other women the turn on was undeniable. If he ever became trustworthy I would probably end it for reasons of irreconcilable boredom.
“It scares me, you and someone else. But it also turns me on. Conflict of interest.”
I Whatsapped when he was waiting at the gate.
“I can handle that,” he texted back.
I can handle that opened the door, I dropped my bags, threw myself into his arms and was welcomed by a warm tongue, strong arms, and dry fucked against the wall. I was groaning with every painful rub of his hard on to my jeans. We made it to the bedroom and undressed each other in what seemed like one yearning, one mutual desire. And then it stopped. It was the too-much-on-your-plate suddenly-not-hungry experience I never had with him. That feeling of wanting sex but for unknown reasons dropping out of it. It would still be okay but it would lack the most vibrant part.
We were naked and kissing and I didn’t know if I was going to tell him. I could already feel the disappointment that whatever I would do, I could not bring it back. Suddenly he ceased his passionate cuddling and made eye contact.
“What do you want?”
I let the maturity of his question sink in. It went straight between my thighs. He gave a soft kiss on my cheek but his embrace stayed still.
“What do you really want? You can tell me.”
His voice was controlled, sensual and slow. He knew the effect it had on me. And we had a shared memory of our first time anal sex where he had asked the exact same thing: What do you really want?
“I want anal sex,” I sighed. “Very much”
I nodded.
“I bought new lube. I’ll show you.”
Relieved I could hand this over to him, I showed him the lube and which condom to use for this.
“I got it.”
He lay down on his back.
“Now come here.”
He directed me in a straddle pose over his face and I received his warm tongue. With a generous combination of tongue, saliva, and  fingertips, he did what he could to prepare me. He asked me to give him a blowjob and I did. I still didn’t know who enjoyed it more, him or me. It was one of the many things that was always flawless. Memories of other men were mixed. Like I had been the one enjoying sex and needed to fix them. Mister Big didn’t require fixing.
“Here,” he said.
I looked up and he handed me the condom.
“Come sit.”
I was the woman on top and the moment it went in I collapsed in total pleasure.
“It’s been so long,” I said, suddenly emotional.
He embraced me, hugging me close. Our French kisses mixed with my tears of joy and I pressed my knees to his ribs. He slid a fingertip up my ass and hugged me even closer. A rocking movement.
He took the bottle of lube. I sat up straight and we stared in each other’s eyes as he used the lube to stretch me from behind.
“You like it double, don’t you?”
I gave him a wide smile. He lifted me up.
His tip pressed my anus and I slowly lowered. He thrust up, just a little nudge, which resulted in an immediate sharp pain.
“Ow! Don’t move,” I begged.
Whenever I dared to move it hurt. No matter how careful I was.
“It’s so painful. I can’t take it.”
We hugged intensely, faces buried in each other’s neck and my tears ran freely.
“I miss you so much sometimes.”
I was on hands and knees.
His first thrust was just to get in. The second hit the cervix. The third and fourth made me shout out. I forced him to slow down even though I had agreed to be “fucked doggy style, properly” as he put it. When he finally backed off it became sensual smooth fucking. The two, three deep thrusts I got after I cried out became a source of joy, transforming into hot waves of pleasure. A finger in my ass, probably a thumb. Pleasure and shame. I dropped onto my forearms and pressed a pillow to my face. Smothering my orgasm. He came the moment I did.
We cuddled and kissed. Our after play was always simple and loving.
I remarked:
“I think we did everything two people can do to each other. In under thirty minutes.”
“The best recipe for a jetlag I could have wished for.”

Elle and I

I’m editing my books and rereading my man quest, man trouble, man desires, from eight years back and beyond. And two things stand out. No three. Three things stand out.
1. I’m never jealous if I suspect or know a man has someone else
2. I have a weak spot for unavailable (read: taken) men, which has “deteriorated” with age.
3. I keep thinking I should date an available, single man
And then I read this article about compersion. It was written by a woman whose boyfriend had “cheated”, with her permission. Compersion means getting aroused from the idea, or knowledge, that your partner is having sex with someone else. Between her sentences, describing how she and her boyfriend were in this together and how she took part in selecting the new partner, I discovered a whole new species.
The compersionist.
Just like there are dominants and submissives, a cheater has a counterpart. An ideal partner that everyone has failed to identify: the compersionist.
Someone who likes the idea of you having other partners. Like the dominant and the submissive, the compersionist and the cheater are like yin and yang. Like the hero and the villain, they need each other. When matched to others they are dysfunctional, but together they are the perfect match.
The compersionist is the counterpart of the cheater that no one, as far as I know, has managed to identify. She, or he, is the missing link in our view on relationships.
I realized:
1. the reason I am never jealous is because I get turned on by my guy and other women
2. the reason I prefer men in relationships is because they have another woman
3. the reason I don’t have an available, single man is because he could fail to cheat on me.
Just like I like to be play-raped, and play doctor, and love watching Stoya’s beautiful little pussy, I need a guy to have someone else. Sure! It would be great if I was number one. But being number two is a guarantee he has sex with someone else, and that the compersionist in me stays excited and intrigued.
More than ever, Big’s marriage will have my respect. Now that I realize I didn’t choose him despite him being married. To a large extend, I chose him because of it.
I remember a conversation I had with Big. Could be a year ago, but it’s something that comes up frequently. I always say to him:
“If we ever get a normal relationship, I’m giving you one task. One responsibility. To make sure our life is never boring.”
Somehow I think he’s up for that.

The Choice, erotic story

I first noticed it last summer, although to this day I have no idea what caused it. Instead of just opening the front door and staying in his penthouse apartment, Big was waiting in the hallway. The black haircut appeared slightly longer, and the eyes had a friendliness that conflicted with their icy blue color. But more than anything it was the wordless longing that was expressed in him being there, literally meeting me halfway. I felt like Dian Fossey the moment a gorilla acknowledges her presence. It moved me. I was grateful, yet I had no hope this change was permanent. I was still living on one night of alcohol induced I love yous from last year, so I expected this second cameo of his soft side to be short lived. Soon he would be the tough, married business man again, who did whatever was required to be successful in the field of finance, family life, and pleasure.
He was able to downsize himself, to make me feel at ease. I still needed that casual ignorance and the lighthearted jokes to relax around him. But I had never mistaken his behavior for vulnerability. But the moment in the hall? I immediately treasured it as his second slip of the heart, as evidence he loved me. Not knowing how long I had to go without signs this time.
But something had changed.
He grew more consistent in asking me out, and in sending me messages every couple of days. And for the first time in our entire affair, he allowed me a glimpse of the drama that was the cause of havoc in his marriage and family life. I cried. Early this year, I had decided:
“Whatever his reasons are, I can trust them to be just.”
I didn’t doubt he was a cheater. Or as I had diagnosed it: a closet case polyamorist. But I could feel in my bones our affair had not been planned this way. That it exceeded the level of secretive fun with lady friends or exes he picked up in bars. Something I hoped he still did because it turned me on. I wasn’t justifying his cheating. No excuse was needed there. But after our night of I love yous I was certain he was crazy about me, and didn’t understand why he didn’t crossover.
That’s when I decided;
“He has his reasons.”
The thought had comforted me. Except now that he had told me what was going on, it was far from comforting. My part, as the unacknowledged mistress, had been the long end of the straw all along.
I wrote him a love letter closing with;
“I will cherish every moment we have together. And I want you to stop thinking that a man who would choose for me would make a better partner. I am my own woman and I made my choice. And it’s you.”

It is a rainy November night. He greets me in the hallway.
“Hello, Red Riding Hood.”
It sounds like a love poem.
“Hello Wolf.”
He takes my red woolen coat, and I snuggle my scarf and gloves over the heater.
“If you ever break up with me, I’ll only have black men,” I announce, looking for an alternative should the highly arousing Big leave me.
“You already did that. Before me.”
“I was still pretty versatile. How do the others do that? Don’t they miss you?”
“Like they would tell me!”
We go to the kitchen and he makes us hot coco with whipped cream. And I explore my favorite topic a little further.
“I was serious though. Even if it’s just one night. I’m sure they all want more.”
“Not really. I’m always very clear.”
“Sure. The next day. You fuck them and then you’re clear.”
“No, I always say it upfront. They have a choice.”
Big ensures me it’s common sense and serves his own interest. He learned early on that if you leave that open, there’s going to be trouble.
“Sometimes they didn’t want sex. That’s okay.”
I think back to our first make-out session. He wanted sex, but I was afraid because it was going so fast. He scared me both emotionally and physically. If he had warned me it meant nothing, he would have gotten nowhere with my tensed up body and anxious mind.
“I didn’t get your disclaimer,” I confront him.
“Now what does that tell you?”
He smiles contently, as if he won an argument. And maybe he did.
The past few weeks went by fast, and were marked by an uncanny number of intimacies. Big hung out on my couch with my cat Max, who he fist bumped because Max supposedly craved male companionship. He mastered Max’s wide eyed facial expression, and used it to get my hugs and kisses on demand. He supported me, cracking jokes when I had to call the GP’s office to get my STD results. And I finally conquered my shame, and asked him to play doctor with me. I would say “bringing in the big guns”, but that would probably be too graphic.

We’re on the couch with our coco.
“I masturbated a lot, after last time,” I say.
That happened often. My libido could dry up easily, both within a relationship or with regard to masturbation. But after seeing Big, it would flare back up. And sustain sometimes for a whole week.
“You fulfilled my deepest fantasy. Even though it was just the try-out.”
“A try-out? I did stuff I had to Google!”
“Well you know! We didn’t really role play. It was just the technical side.”
Big had thrown in sufficient doctor lines to turn me on, but it had been clear I was running the show. We had been at my place, and I had brought up some concerns with regard to sex. And Big had come with a tempting invitation.
“Maybe you should determine what we’re going to do.”
“Really? Well there is something. Not sure if you’re up for it.”
While taking out my minimalist but deliciously intimidating toy collection and displaying it on the nightstand – unpacking every item like Christmas had come early – I exuberantly jumped on a laid back Mr.Big.
“I can’t believe we’re finally doing this!” I exclaimed.
No wonder the high had lasted a week.
“What’s in the bag?” Big asks, nodding to the backpack I use for everything from grocery shopping to city trips. Just never on dates.
I smile widely, reliving last week’s excitement.
“I don’t want to miss out. Should the mood strike.”
“Looks like it already has. You always smile when we play.”
“I know! I’m so happy because you’re so dominant! That’s why dominants can be hired. No one hires a sub to have a good time.”
“We could make you the first,” Big suggests.
“I could pay you to abuse you.”
I’m so excited I almost shake my whipped cream out of my mug.

He makes me wait outside and blindfolds me before he takes me back in. He is undressing me. I shiver, although the apartment is not cold. He touches me slightly longer than necessary to unhook my bra. To pull down my jeans. Holding me steady with one arm around my legs. He asks me to step out of my panties. There is something so masculine about him, so steady and determined. The anticipation, adds to the excitement. What will he do?
He places a hand on my back, maneuvers me to the table, and makes me bend over. Waiting. He caresses my pussy.
“Good, you’re wet. You’ll need that.”
I moan when he pushes his fingers in. He slowly moves them deeper and back, and starts to talk. In that husky, enchanting voice.
“I’m going to make this as pleasurable as I can. But I’m not going to stop. Do you understand that?”
I feel a warm wave towards his fingers.
“I do.”
My forehead presses onto my fists. For a moment I lose him. He just leaves me there waiting.
I gasp as he wets my ass and pushes a finger in. Damn. I didn’t expect that. My mind immediately catches up to what this means for our session. I think I know what he picked from the bag. The finger slips out.
“This should feel alright. Just relax as much as possible.”
A soft, slim, toy entering. Oh, I know what he picked.
Last year, I joined him on a business trip. On our way to dinner, he suggested to hop into a sex shop. We cheekily browsed through the shelves and he showed me a box that said anal starter kit, which I welcomed with inappropriate enthusiasm. I was still studying the different props on the back of the box, when he said:
“Or maybe this one.”
It was called anal stretching kit, and it had three black butt plugs. Slim, average and extra wide.
“After all, you’re not exactly a beginner.”
I liked the rich content of the first box, but I knew the second would be more practical. The first box was a bit like how they sell boxes of assorted fireworks in the Netherlands. It makes you greedy, but if you sieve through it, you realize there’s only a few really good ones in there.
I chose the second.
We rarely used it, because they were kept at my place. And when we did, we never used the XL.
He pulls the toy out.
“I think you’re ready for the next.”
I’ve had Medium. Two, maybe three times. And it helped a lot. Because anal sex had been painful. More than Big knew.
I had talked about the props with my gay best friend.
“Do you have the after-cramps? It does help when he preps me.”
But my friend shook his head.
“I think men and women are quite different down there.”
“Want some more lube?”
“Please,” I squeak.
And I feel a slippery finger. A warm palm massaging my butt cheek. He pushes a second finger in and I gasp again.
“Oh God….”
It’s standing here like this, that arouses me. Giving up everything. Suffering anything. An emotion I feel quite alone at, but in a positive way. Like the perfect solitude of masturbation. Even Big, being dominant, will never understand this dark pleasure of being allowed to surrender. Just like I cannot understand his.
“Okay just relax. I will go slow.”
I bite my hand.
“Oh God. It’s scary.”
“I’ll be gentle.”
I can feel the tip of the second plug go in, and then he pulls it back slightly. This one is stressful already. Probably because I know he’ll go for that third one after. He pushes it further in. A sharp pain makes me gasp and beg, in one collapse of body language. I quickly recover,  finding the strength in my legs, grabbing the table.
I start to cry blindfolded tears. So bitter sweet. The dildo must be fully in now. Two hands caressing my broken back, stroking my soft hair. Fingertips following my paranoid jaws.
“Are you okay?”
The voice comforting and strengthening.
“It’s a bit much”
The confession sucks me in even deeper into that lonely haze of unnamed grief.
“It’s a bit much,” I repeat.
I don’t know if I want him to rescue me from whatever is triggered here. I feel his fingers in my pussy. Gentle at first, then a two fingered twist. I hear a condom foil, and bite my arm in longing.
It’s as if Big is hotwired to my brain. To a part I don’t have access to. The part that has the answers, and knows which grief to soothe, what pain to end, or when despair is a cue to give you your first double penetration in your whole fucking life.
I get even more emotional because it’s all so damn perfect.
Yes, I’ve chosen.
He makes his cock linger at the entrance. My body and mind are still confused, both in their own way. Dripping wet, but tensed up. Crying, but aroused. His cock moves in, and my “Oh God” has never been more real.
“I love you!”
I choke my confession in my arms, the blindfold, and the unforgiving cold hard table. The hotness between my legs and the grief leaving my body, both fighting for attention. And then I surrender to both of them. They mix, and become my personal version of heaven.
I beg him to stop to recover from my orgasm. But he ignores it. A minimal slowing down of his thrusts, but he grips my hips more firmly. Whenever I start overthinking it he hurts me. Moves the butt plug painfully. Fucks me too deep. Pinches my nipples. He delays his orgasm in the most horrible, delicious, magnetizing way. Until finally, he leans forward, an arm wraps around me, and he buries his head in my neck. He comes hard, in bull-like fashion.
Worn-out, I wait until the panting stops, the heavy hug tightens, and the husky voice gives me the ultimate pleasure.
“I love you too.”

That was it!
With this double penetration, The Choice is actually the final story, from the final book of
The Wait Worth 8.
For those of you who can read Dutch; the first book, first scene, actually starts with a double penetration as well, so in case someone ever graduates on my work, I do think this should be in there somewhere ;)
You can check this page to read the entire Wait Worth 8 for free, for a limited time.

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