Categorie archief: Erotica

NSFW

Big, erotica and diaries (2015-2016)

Big cover klein

Out of all the books from The Wait Worth 8,
this one was THE ONE where I thought;
“I can’t”
“I shouldn’t”
“What if this comes out?”
“This is gonna kill me.”
“It’s the One. This is the ONE.”

Because that is something I learned from Marina Abramovic;
Always choose what scares you most.
Having an affair with Mister Big, was what scared me most. Writing erotica about it, was what scared me most.
Going public with it, was what scared me most.
These five diaries tell the story of our affair, which will most likely stay the thing that scared me most. Till the day I die.

Part 1: An Affair

Part 2: The Virgin Diaries (incl one erotic story)

Part 3: The Way of the Trickster

Part 4 and 5: The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai and More Erotica

INVITE: Sign up for my private mailing list.
You should be able to find the box somewhere on this page.
I will pick up sending intimate weekly emails, as soon as I have taken care of some technical hiccups.
My private mailing list is also the only venue where I will issue discounts for my books, the first week a new book is available.

For daily updates and shenanigans join my small community on Facebook, or Twitter 

Overview for all my books that are currently online for a limited time.

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.

Two

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.”
“Okay.”
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”
“Already?”
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.
“Everything.”
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.

INVITE: Sign up for my private mailing list.
You should be able to find the box somewhere on this page.
I will pick up sending intimate weekly emails, as soon as I have taken care of some technical hiccups.
My private mailing list is also the only venue where I will issue discounts for my books, the first week a new book is available.

For daily updates and shenanigans join my small community on Facebook, or Twitter 

Big – erotica and diaries. Part 2: The Virgin Diaries (incl one erotic story)

UPDATED version Monday June 12, 2017 <3 LSH 

Late 2015, after writing a handful of autobiographical erotic stories, Lauren sets out for some deep soul searching on what on earth she’s doing dating a married man.

 

Part 2

The Virgin Diaries

100 Days of dating myself.

 

day 1 Lawyer

The dating profile of a forty-seven year old self-assured lawyer seemed to leave me with only one option. To sign up as a full member to tell him that he had opened my eyes. The deceivingly casual tone of his online profile revealed an intimate insight into his psyche that I only knew from one other person. Me.
This was a heavyweight psychological dating site. Everyone had gone through extensive testing, and all profiles were manually checked. Every line you altered ditto. And profiles were only visible to those who matched your internal make-up.
The site was a sanctuary for all those tired of being selected, or dismissed, on their looks. Although I’m pretty sure most people can see through the blur and still make a decent assessment. Especially if someone was black with a full head of hair and smart enough to look sideways and down. An elegant pose that suggested shyness if it wasn’t for the fact that shy people freeze up in the strangest of poses if you point a camera at them.
The lawyer was not shy, but suave.
He was playing nice so you would understand he did not reply, or wasn’t able to make it. That he did not call after sex. That you wouldn’t take it personal that he wasn’t able to cope with anything that bore the characteristics of a relationship. It wasn’t you, it was him.
The other profiles looked pale compared to his. They didn’t answer questions in three different ways as if reasoning with himself. Only to then cheerfully declare:
“I still haven’t nailed this one!”
They didn’t say they would never want to suffer “unless it would make them understand themselves better”. They did not wish that they could stop projecting themselves onto others. They had professions like: Controller. Entrepreneur. Empty. Disabled. They had the same score on compatibility as the lawyer or even higher.
“I don’t like snobs,” Mister 109 compatibility stated.
Someone who even notices snobs clearly doesn’t have the unwavering self-esteem necessary to face me.
“It’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice,” Mister 108 compatibility reasoned. Sounds like someone justifying not having a purpose in life.
“I like passionate sex,” photographer 107 compatibility announced and I could feel my cunt cramp up in disgust. I was not going to pay three hundred fifty euro to be repulsed.
Because that turned out to be the amount I would have to pay. Give or take. It depended if you paid per month or for the whole year.
Three hundred fifty euro was an awful lot of money to connect with my male twin soul. Especially since the insight he had given me didn’t require his presence anymore. I didn’t really want a man. I really didn’t.
I too, was done projecting.  I wanted to be my own Plan B. Grow my own backbone, and be my own best friend, and lover.
And dating myself was completely free.

day 2 The Sex Guru

It all started with a new and free ebook from sex guru Layla Martin, Epic Sex, on how to deepen your sexual connection in six arousing ways. I was struck by the four pages written especially for the male partner. They explained that a woman will get emotional during good sex and how to embrace that.
I realized that if it required four pages to talk him into this, then no man was going to give me that unless he was The One. I would never experience those six ways of groundbreaking sex and intimacy unless I would find Him. And that’s when I remembered I still had this other course from Layla Martin to help me achieve that. A free video training on how to attract your dream partner.
I had started this training but had dropped out when you were asked to make a list of non-negotiable qualities of your dream partner.
“He is honest. You absolutely need that. He is totally devoted to you. You need that.”
But Layla’s two supposedly no-brainers sparked so much resistance in me that I just couldn’t get my head around forming my own opinion on this. But now I was motivated to give it another go. I needed a dream partner after all.
I had always known exactly what I wanted. Yet every date, boyfriend or fantastic lover had failed to understand me. What I wanted was to really like each other, be equally excited to have found each other and from there be with each other all the time. Where “be with each other” would roughly translate as to screw the living daylights out of each other. After a few months you would know what to do. Break-up or stay together and try those other five ways to have sex from Layla’s book.
The end.
But my dates never understood that. The combination of diving in and experiencing total alchemy and yet at the same time not making any future plans, was something that blew their minds.
One man said he didn’t want to invest if we didn’t have a re-la-tion-ship.
Two were holding out because they still had a partner. Three were hand-picked for sexual strength yet we had no match in other areas. The rest of them were bedded for other reasons, such as companionship or curiosity.
Eight years later I’m back full circle. I still want the same thing. But now I know why those men never wanted to dive in with me. Because female emotions and connection scare the shit out of them. He isn’t going to walk through the fire of real intimacy not knowing you’re going to be there on the other side to take care of his burns. Burns that in his mind, might never fully heal.
Even if you make that promise, take the vow to be there for him till the end of time, it will still take four pages and a super hot sex therapist before he will even consider real intimacy.
No wonder my lovers pretended they didn’t understand what I was asking for.

day 3 Mister Right

I made a list of Mr.Right’s must-have qualities and my cherry-on-top desires. I ignored the standard requirements of honesty and “totally committed to you”. Maybe those virtues were important to teacher Layla Martin, or maybe they were simply different words for things I did want, but honesty and commitment caused a numb dead feeling as if my Mr.Right was doing something against his will. Or because God made him. Or because he was afraid I would leave him if he kept things from me. My ideal man didn’t play by anybody’s rules. He didn’t let me, nor God, dictate him how to behave. Honesty and commitment were probably legitimate wishes for other women, but for me they were traits to look for in a dog.
Which doesn’t mean that I don’t possess them. I do. I have zero capacity of lying, conspiring or doing anything behind anybody’s back. I’m honest to the point most people would find rude or offending. And I’m committed to the point that freaks out most partners because they think it means I’m making wedding plans. I’m not. I hate weddings so much I wouldn’t even attend my own. Commitment and honesty are a part of me like my blue grey eyes. I’m so loyal that if I’m having coffee with two different guys in the same week, I already feel I’m working against my Golden Retriever nature, and insist on telling them both. I carry enough honesty and commitment to make any relationship work, and then I still have spare.
After I had convinced myself to only list qualities that mattered to me personally, and not what mattered to someone else, I got to work.

My non-negotiable list for Mister Right
1. The sexual attraction is so strong it could set fire to a forest in monsoon
2. He is single, separated or divorced and is in no case secretive about us dating
3. He is sexually dominant
4. He’s not into leather or S&M
5. He loves, loves, loves to play, role-play, power-play, any-play. With me of course.
6. He can cook. No packages, jars or pre-fab seasoning mixes allowed.
7. He is moderate in his drinking, doesn’t smoke nor does he do any drugs.
8. He has a consistent workout routine
9. He is super excited to be dating me
10. He showers at least once a day and always wears fresh clothes
11. He keeps his pubic hair in check
12. And his house and personal belongings too. He’s organized without being anal. If he uses coasters to prevent marks from the glass on the table then that’s a deal breaker right there.
13. He fully accepts me.

My cherry-on-top desires for Mister Right
1. He’s not more than 10 years older or younger than I am.
2. He likes cats
3. He prefers women over 35
4. He has a dad bod or one a little more cuddly
5. He has a strikingly beautiful penis
6. Smooth body with naturally little hair
7. He lives nearby

After making this detailed description of my future partner I was to get myself into a heightened state of awareness. And I was to visualize him when I masturbated. But instead of masturbating for an orgasm, diving deep into the pleasure pit of my darkest fantasies, self-pleasuring (as it was now called) was going to be a classy high-quality form of masturbation, to match the sensual love making you desired. For as long as it would take me to draw Mister Right into my life, I was to exclusively masturbate with him in mind.
My imaginary Mister Right spooned up behind me, and nuzzled my hair sighing he was so happy to have me in his arms again. He pressed his sturdy torso to my back and his dick greeted my bum.
“You smell so nice,” Mister Right sighed, as if it was the very first time he noticed.
“I always leave the sheets on after you leave.”
Something started to dawn on me. Not only that these were not sexual fantasies, but something else. I was very familiar with this husky, masculine voice and with this disarmingly cuddly body. One flicker in his voice, a few well-chosen words, and he would set fire between my thighs. One swift sweep taking my panties down and I would press my hips to him. One groan God you’re wet already, and I would spread my legs.
The man I was summoning into my life, with all sexual magical powers I could muster, wasn’t a truthful and committed dream partner. It wasn’t my own happily available, non-secretive Mister Right. The man spooning up to me was the electrifying, the dominant, the will-cook, does-shave, owns fairly clean and tidy penthouse, Mister Big. And the only commitment he ever made was a lie-filled marriage.
And not to me.

day 4 Becoming Big

Online dating is a powerful tool. It consumes ALL your time. If you thought social media were addictive, you haven’t tried this heroin among the internet addictions. Online dating triggers your mental reward center for being liked, for being popular, and for being in a game. At the same time it leans towards falling in love, developing crushes and sex. It is a feast of projection, an intoxicating set of stimuli that will block out about eighty percent of your connection with your real social life. Which meant it would reduce my Mr.Big addiction to twenty percent of its original strength.
The perspective to lose myself, and the best part of my Mr.Big addiction, to online dating was appealing. I could already see myself getting up hurriedly every morning, checking my mail before breakfast or even feeding the cat. I would waste at least two hours a day browsing new profiles, revisiting favorites, writing messages. But the lawyer made me see I didn’t truly desire him, nor any man from that site. My deepest desire wasn’t even to have Mr. Big. It was a lot more bold. I wanted to be him.
I reread my list of non-negotiable qualities of a Mister Right. They were all traits I desired for myself. If I invested in myself what I was on the verge of investing in finding my dream partner, the pay-off could be off the charts. It was an opportunity to tackle every problem that had been bothering me for the last decade.
I only had one problem.
The minute I had refrained from signing up for that dating site, I had freed up the hours of time. Up to five hours a day. So I knew I had the time.
But contrary to browsing profiles and dating, personal transformation was a pretty meaty task. You never heard of anyone being addicted to being alone improving themselves.
Which meant that in order to become my own Mister Big, I had to make it addictive.

day 5 Trickster

An addictive brain is one of the most powerful human assets, if not the most powerful. It is dangerous, toxic, and it will backfire on your mental health, physical health and your social life. But if I can make myself addicted to becoming Mrs. B. I know I will succeed.
And I will worry about the detox later.
These blog posts you are reading, The Virgin Diaries, they are my drugs. It takes a minimum of two hours to set them up. Then there is the rest, the “junkie behavior”. This includes the irrepressible urge to rewrite, refine, post, refine again, throughout the rest of the day. The next morning, I find even more errors. Mostly English words I’m not using correctly. I fix them and update the post, hoping the early readers missed them. Then I start writing the new post for the next day, and the whole cycle starts again. By the time the draft is ready it’s way in the afternoon, I’m still in my morning gear – a hoodie reminding me I originally intended to exercise – and none of my worldly tasks are done.
As long as my fuel, my online writing, is claiming four to five hours, there is no time left to become more successful at life. If anything, I run the risk of becoming less successful as I am actually cutting corners in my work as a yoga teacher.
This blog is keeping me accountable, and it has kept me from signing up with Parship, saving me three hundred fifty euro and a life-sucking online addiction. But my writing is still all raw energy, all consuming. In order to become the financially thriving, daily exercising, glorifying Mrs. B, the powerful beast of my writing needs to be tamed, trained and put to use.
And kept on a very tight leash.

day 6 Plan B

I gave myself one day to kick-start my new identity of becoming Mrs. B. And a permission slip to focus on the main stuff. The complete list of consistent habits to be implemented, new skills to be learned, failed plans to be fixed, and life-long frustrations to be dealt with, was  extensive and intimidating. I would start with the things I could list right away. And even that could mean I was already in way over my head. I have a weak memory, but everything I wanted to do but didn’t, every good resolution I made and then dropped, and every hundred day challenge I failed within a day, all seems to be stocked in the front, tumbling out immediately. When it comes to reminding me of failure my mind is inconveniently accurate.
I focused on my three biggest frustrations, eh, I mean Mrs. B’s three biggest goals.
1. to be financially successful
2. to have a consistent workout routine
3. to keep house and body in check
The last one was the easiest. I had well-functioning routines in place for laundry, doing the dishes, and changing my sheets, but from now vacuuming, waxing my legs and keeping the bathroom clean would also get an official spot in my planning. And I would buy orchids for my bedroom and living. It was a matter of fine tuning.
The second one was kind of half-way. I’m a yoga teacher so four days out of seven I get a workout already. But my home practice was non-existent.
The first one was the hardest: financial success. In a few years the number of active yoga teachers had more than doubled, prices had marginalized and the new colleagues (and some of the older ones) had finally found their way to online advertising. My online competition had quadrupled. On top of everything my website was practically unfindable and despite implementing three different solutions to get it up in the search results, the only available path seemed to rebuild the whole thing with software and hosting that were far less user-friendly than what I had now.
My company had been quietly sliding downhill. But suddenly I was in a hurry to save it. I was now Mrs. B. and we were not going to let this slip through our fingers. I was going to save myself.

day 7 Cold Turkey

The good news was, it worked.
I sparked countless initiatives to get my business back on track. Opened an open study group for colleagues and other yoga devotees, ordered a door sign, rewrote the website, upgraded my Google Adwords and drew up a schedule of what to post when, and exactly on which social media. Especially for my yoga blogposts and online classes. No point creating something authentic and then not properly putting it out there in the world.
I investigated a yoga training that I had dropped out of. They offered a link to graduates on their website. There were zero graduates where I lived, so that would give me a competitive advantage as well as boost my website higher in search results. Completing that yoga training and getting that certificate would be my priority for my company. I estimated that would take me twenty-five hours of study.
On workdays my writing addiction would be pacified with a yoga blog. The weekends were to completely indulge in this blog The Virgin Diaries. At least that was the plan. The non-functioning, failing part of my plan. Because the urge to write recreationally did not get passed by so easily. I worked like a maniac, yet I still wrote hours every day. So even though I had done all my real work saving my yoga studio, I had still been ten fingers deep into my writing. Didn’t do a workout. Didn’t cook. Ate pizza. Barely slept. After a week I was a wreck. A behind-her-desk-before-breakfast doing-ever-more-writing wreck. With a tooth ache, a headache, and a bad conscience.
My plan to use my addictive behavior to actually become high-functioning in the first place, was as effective as it was destructive. It was supposed to be a hundred day challenge. Not a one week guide to getting a burn-out.
Still in Cortisol overdrive I made a dentist appointment, took a pain killer, and  reviewed my options.
The weekends would have to be cleared of writing after all. And of work. It would be this mini-detox where I would refrain from all bad habits that disturbed my mental peace.
My phone buzzed. A Whatsapp message.
“How is my Baby Bee doing?”
It was Mr. Big.

day 8 Fail

Mr.Big and me were on a three month break. My call. When dating him, I had changed from a blushing, healthy woman, to one whose hair was falling out, whose breasts were painful and whose menstruation had become fuzzy. It was preceded by a substance that I remembered from when I was on the pill. Sticky brown to blackish stuff that didn’t even make an effort to look like blood. And now, six weeks totally Biggie-free, I had changed again. I was now an overworked woman whose hair was still falling out, whose breasts were still painful, with a pending root canal treatment, and exactly one blood-free week in her entire cycle.
“Baby Bee” as Big always lovingly called me, was not doing well.
All my efforts to heal myself and claim my life back, had gotten me nowhere when it came to my health.
“Biggiieeee!” I wrote back.
“Where are you? I miss you.”
My last tampon had come out almost clean. God knew how little time I had this month. If Big was in the country I wanted sex. Six weeks without him, had done more damage than the last six months with him. And they were certainly a lot less fun.
As expected Big refused to be pinned down to a date. He was probably doing a preliminary warm-up, so that if he had time between his obligations I would be more than willing to see him. It made me sick that I put up with that, didn’t go look for a man for myself. Self-loathing always surrounded our dates. I never blamed him for wanting to be the pretend-faithful living-apart husband, or the fake-devoted father to his children, or for giving me as little as possible.
I envied it.
He was a professional when it came to optimizing profits, calculating risks, and client confidentiality. I once asked him if he had told friends that he had a secret mistress.
“Of course not,” he said.
“Although your writing makes me wish I could tell someone. It’s like I won a gold medal for sex.”
“I read you got a new job.” I texted.
“You’re into finance now?” he replied with a smiley.
“I Google you when I miss you.” I confessed.
“Do you like London?”
“It’s what I’ve always done. Just busier.”
Hello thousandth rationalization for not having time for me. Yet I was disgusted with myself for letting him get away with it. And even more repulsed for wanting him more badly than ever.
This blog, The Virgin Diaries, was all about standing in my own power and becoming a female Mr.Big. An independent successful woman.
Yet one text, one Google search, or rereading one erotic story, and I was back to being a needy clingy amoeba.
And a very horny one. 

day 9 Nerve

Consulting the dentist didn’t exactly work miracles for my self-esteem. I’ve always considered myself a fearful patient. Or fearful anything, basically. From yoga teacher, to cat mother, to mistress. But it is only at the dentist office where this seems to be receiving special attention. I find that ironic, since a dental treatment is one of the few things you have good reason to be scared about.
Ten years ago, I selected my dentist because she worked around the corner where she was a junior in a firm of cooperative dentists. But she moved out recently, and now has her own practice with her own website. It says she is good with fearful patients. Maybe that is why over the years I built up quite some confidence in the dental chair. I still fear needles, and usually for good reason. After some quite unpleasant encounters with cavities-deeper-than-expected and infection-lessening-the-effect-of-Novacane I’ve learned to always insist on the ones they use to extract whole teeth. That’s the ones that hurt.
But aside from pain and needles, more than anything, I fear having nitrogen cold cotton wool stick pushed to my teeth to inspect if my nerves are either dying or still in order.
One tooth at a time.
It was a diagnostic tool which, as I suddenly remembered after today’s incidents with the substitute dentist, my dentist had offered once to inspect the same tooth I was in for today. She dropped the proposal so quietly and friendly that I had completely forgotten about it. Whereas today will be vividly remembered.
I wasn’t scared of going to the substitute dentist because my last experience with my own dentist, to get a filling replaced, had been strangely empowering. The injection of the anesthetic, as in the moment she pressed the actual liquid in, gave a violent electrical shock to the front of my jaw. I screamed and tried to wriggle away with the needle still in me and the area stayed sore for a week. Nevertheless the appointment was a pleasant experience. We laughed about fucking up this injection.
“You’ll probably become one of those patients who exist only on paper,” she said.
And then sent me out to do some shopping. She knew I liked to give it thirty minutes to settle in, so it would be at maximum strength.
The substitute dentist put me in a chair that resembled a backwards slide, with my head lower than the rest of my body. He asked what was wrong, started inspecting the by me suspected area of infection, at which he called out “Caries.” to the assistant. With the location number of the tooth.
“You can put that in the computer.”
It was like he was studying military maps of Syria, since I had apparently no right to be informed on his findings. This impression was affirmed when he moved on to the teeth of the bottom jaw without telling me what he was doing. Or why. He then started tapping my teeth with the back of his instrument. Again without any notice, until he tapped a tooth that hurt.
“I’m tapping your teeth,” he said.
Something I was well aware off.
“That’s my crown right?” I asked.
Starting to get slightly irritated that he was inspecting an area that I had not asked him anything about.
“Yes, that’s the only tooth that is giving a reaction.”
“I know,” I repeated.
“I had a double apex there and a root canal. It hurts if you tap it. Don’t tap it.”
He pretended to laugh and went to work on the other side of my mouth. Other as in one hundred eighty degrees opposite to the side of my face that was hurting. Here too he tapped all the teeth. There was a switch of instruments, and suddenly I got an ice cold freeze on my tooth. The only thing positive was that this was actually the side he was supposed to be working on. I totally freaked out shrieking;
“Oh my God!!!”
And he said: “I’m using a cold cotton wool stick.”
Again, information Syria would have liked to know beforehand. To threaten back with death, torture and decapitation.
“I know!” I yelled.
“I had no idea we were at that already!”
Meanwhile I thought it a little childish of myself that I was so freaked out over this cold-thing. Maybe I was overreacting. Somewhere between getting out of the chair, and back in, and opening my mouth, and then closing it, and finally calling it a day, and hearing him out, I heard the remarks:
“I think we should proceed.”
“I think it’s really brave you try it again.”
“Maybe if we do it really quickly.”
“This is the best method.”
“Let’s make a photo.”
In that line, the photo seemed like a good idea.
I was standing near the computer staring at the photo. At least I was straight-up, and it appeared he had given up on his ice-torture diagnostic path. But the photo puzzled me because it was from all the teeth, up and down. He hammered on about the poor condition of the bottom tooth. The fact that it had been operated on twice was a sure sign it was trouble. And the pins of the filling were poorly set. And look, there were the two cavities on the top jaw that he was going to fill.
“You’re not filling anything,” I said.
“And where is the photo of the root?”
“It’s so much better to do a diagnosis with the cold stick. Sometimes you can’t see the infection on the photo of the root.”
“But we don’t have a photo of the root,” I repeated.
“No, but if we do the diagnoses with the stick I think we can leave out the photo. You don’t need it.”
“How much is an extra photo?”
“Fourteen euros.”
“You tried to torture me over fourteen euros!”
He kept gabbling on about radiation that was unhealthy and yada yada yada. I thanked him for his time and left. Still not understanding how he had managed to make me feel bad about myself. And even bad about my dentist who I absolutely adored. But he had spotted the caries, and she had not.
But then I decided I didn’t care. I would stand by her. Because even though she had missed a cavity, she had never, in that entire decade, looked passed me. 

day 10 Happy

I remember a tv show where a man, supposedly an expert on the subject, invited the host, audience and viewers, to think of a moment they were happy. And my mind stayed completely blank. I knew what happy felt like, but it was impossible to find a single memory connected to it.
The expert then predicted that this moment we had in mind, would be shared with others, that we would have accomplished something and a third thing that I forgot. But that didn’t seem to do ring a bell either.
My moments of happiness are when I’m alone, when my floor is vacuumed, my bathroom clean, when I have the entire weekend for reading or studying.
And I am definitely an expert on that.   

day 11 Yoga

Self-practice. I always found that an erotic word. Probably because it reminded me of self-pleasuring. A neutral word like self-study also had that alluring ring to it.
Self-practice. Self-pleasure. Self-study.
I instinctively understood that being so intimate with oneself, either physically or mentally, gave the practitioner the advantage of no longer projecting, but reflecting. To not reach out, but to delve in.
My study of self and pleasuring of self, had been consistent. If they stopped I would naturally pick it up again by starting a new blog, by writing in my diary or by indulging in masturbation during daytime, when I was not as tired as at night, and didn’t have a cat insisting I would lay still so he could use my naked body as a pillow or mattress. Self-reflecting and self-pleasuring were second nature to me. But a consistent self-practice, which meant doing yoga other than taking a class or in my case other than teaching a class, that was an entirely different story. At least for the last decade.
It was tempting to say it was because of a power yoga teacher training. There was a before, in which I was a beginning hatha yoga teacher and had a daily practice. And there was an after, where I now had a double teacher qualification, and was so fed up with the mandatory home practice of the training, that I avoided my mat for months. Being held accountable for how much yoga I did at home had been an effective way to knock all the fun out of it.
In theory there were other ways of “doing” yoga than just yoga exercises. Meditation was one. But also how you lived off the mat. Self-study even, was one of yoga’s strongest paths. It wasn’t like I had been running around like a yogic villain or if I had behaved particularly unethical. It was just that I had not managed to restore my home practice to the same level as before that training.

But there was a fair chance that my home practice would have slipped anyway. Because I had started teaching more classes, and all that yoga just went straight into my body, decreasing the longing for yoga at home. It was just like the five star cook who didn’t cook at home and the competent psychiatrist whose children go off track. And those adjectives were of course subjective. Maybe they were lousy cooks and discharged therapists. That was probably what I feared most. That my lack of home practice was a sign I was a bad teacher.
But I had other worries now. My health. My hormones were causing havoc and unless I was fine with three week periods and hair loss rushing me straight to menopause, yoga was my best option. Yoga in a narrow definition as physical exercises.
Over the years I had designed several series for women, based on extensive research. So I collected them, printed, drew sticky-women dolls representing poses, and bound the sheets into a booklet. It was time to self-practice.
Self-study and self-pleasure were no longer going to cover it.

day 12 Big Insight

People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.
~Maya Angelou

Pitiful. Pathetic. Disgusting.
The judgement I felt for dating a married man was a merciless stream of negativity. It had been when I saw it happening to other women, and now my hatred had turned towards myself. Dating a married man was a dead ringer for having little self-esteem, and for giving your power away. It was boo-hoo he won’t leave his wife. No bitch, of course not.
Who would leave his handpicked elegant wife for someone who has apparently so little self-worth you would have to build a nano-laboratory and assign three scientists to find it?
Unless you intended to date a married man to use and abuse him, teach him a lesson while getting off along the way, you could not claim having a backbone and dating a married man at the same time.
Period.
But my ruthless self-hatred was not the whole story. It was just my ratio that said that. Or my ego. It was all up in the head, not in the heart. I didn’t feel insecure or unworthy in general, just when friends or self-help gurus said I should want an available man. Or when I thought of all the nice things we could do, if he was mine. Those were the times I wanted a single man. But only a single Big.
I had always admired his ability to maximize profits in his personal life, just like he did for his clients. Of course it was unethical, but it also showed he did not need approval from other people and that he fully trusted himself. He estimated how much was in it for him. If it was worth the risk he would do it. And if things turned sour, he would charm, buy, and trick himself out of it, like he always did.
It wasn’t just my admiration for Mr.Big’s cunning ways that gave away that hatred and judgement played a marginal part in our relationship.  It was something else too. Something so obvious I wondered why it took me so long to see this: Mr.Big made me feel great. And vice versa. We celebrated each other like Bonnie and Clyde.
In the past, the moment I had been unable to admire a man anymore, I knew my place was no longer there with him. And men who had commented on who I was, or what they didn’t like, I never dated them in the first place.
Because I didn’t do arguments. I didn’t do drama. I didn’t do: you need to change.
I only did “let’s only see the good in each other”.
A promise Mister Big had always kept. 

day 13 The Professor

It was a hotel I had been to once, about twenty years ago. To take a stroll through the woods surrounding the golf course and have tea at the sunbathed terrace. But the trees were naked now, and a watery sun was already fading, even though it was only 5 p.m. A blueish mist crept over the golf course.
My graduation process had not been exceptionally memorable, although my professor had saved my thesis and my will to live on several occasions. Usually in conjunction. We had never stopped seeing each other. Once every two years minimum, we would catch up.
“I ended my career,” I said when I became a yoga teacher.
“I ended my marriage,” he’d answer.
“I got a new one,” I continued.
“So do I,” he confirmed.
He was always amazed that I could recall in detail what the state of his love life was last time we saw each other. Who did what. Who betrayed who. What the stakes were, and what the irreconcilable differences.
“You have such good memory! Did you take notes the last time?” he asked.
No I didn’t. I only wrote things down if there was a good chance I would forgot them. Like the name of someone’s first-born after five years of trying to get pregnant.
The professor had never been at the country estate with the mansion like hotel. Although he had heard it was heaven for the rich and famous. And unaffordable for the rest.
It had not been easy to get there, using public transportation and a taxi. For three days my only program was to go for walks, to pick up my yoga practice, and to distance myself from the passionate wish that Mr.Big would finally choose for me. That Mister Big would propose to me. Or that Mister Big would clear his calendar and join me for a short night to make intimate love to me. Or fuck me hard. I had not decided there. But since it was highly unlikely he would come it didn’t matter.
“So you’re on a break?” the professor asked.
“Two nights,” I answered.
“I hired a professional caretaker for my cat. I think he will be alright sleeping alone.”
“But will you be?” the professor asked.
The fetus position with my forever-baby-cat cuddled up under the blankets to my warm belly, had become ingrained.
I ordered more wine.
The professor knew about Big, because he read my blog. I told him the pivotal moment of Big and me. It was when I had not given in yet, and explained to Big I resisted because he was a player, and was going to break my heart.
“Yet when I got home I thought:
Wait a minute Lauren!
You’ve been single for eight years and you’ve given it your all. Love and sex have been your top priority. And then life finally hands you a worthy partner, and then you’re all like boo hoo Mr.Big is so mean?
Get back in there; right now!”

“And this is probably inappropriate: but can you believe the excitement if you’re in bed with someone who is experienced? That you don’t have to go meet someone at their level, where they still have all these issues and fears. That you’re both good to go. It’s like Maslow’s pyramid, but with sex. We were both ready for that small triangle at the top.”
The professor understood immediately. And he was pleased that despite changing careers, I was still using Maslow’s pyramid.

day 14 Utopia

I met the Archaeologist two years ago, when I volunteered to excavate at a site that had my interest. He was a vigorous rangy fifty-something, who decisively managed the chaotic bunch of us. We went for drinks a year later, I can’t really remember the occasion. And he became the only friend with whom I had politically, and historically, charged conversations. I always thought I could keep our dates contained to three hours. But we needed five. And we needed wine, bitterballen, sensitive subjects and complex problems, that I could analyze in one blunt one-liner. And then he would accuse me of using historic shortcuts, but always had something interesting to add.
We were somewhere on our third Chardonnay and I had already given an explanation why the biggest socialist party is currently in death struggle. That went back to the protestant reformation.
If you first throw out all hedonism and mysticism of the Catholics and a few hundred years later you throw out God and Jesus, you have nothing but an empty vessel striving for equal rights for workers. The Archaeologist added that there were equal rights for workers now, so that its ideology had become quaint.
I had slayed democracy and referendums. Having elections every four years already bore a fair chance a dictator would rise to power. So then don’t make matters worse by taking polls in between.
“After all when they asked the people who should be crucified, they chose Jesus, ” I said.
And the Archaeologist answered:
“But the people were deceived.”
“As they always will be. That’s why you should not ask them.”
The next topic was how the invention of vaccines had caused overpopulation in the middle-east. At ten-children-per-household the population had grown explosively, causing massive unemployment.
“And there are few things more dangerous than men who don’t have anything to do. Especially if you put them together.”
Our final conversation was after five wine.
I suggested immigrants should get an option to live in a new to be build city. A true Utopia.  The Archaeologist explained there already was a blueprint, the city of Auroville in Southern India. Founded in the late 60′s for a good part by American intellectuals.
“Maybe they can rebuild the antiquities that IS destroyed. Like an archaeological Disney Land that everybody can come visit.”
And who knew. Maybe in five hundred years, on a chilly Saturday morning, a rangy archaeologist would put a messy bunch of volunteers to work to dig it all up again. 

A Virgin Start, erotic story

I was two weeks into my blogging and life challenge, The Virgin Diaries, 100 days of dating myself. Aside from a consistent feed of one post a day, I had accomplished astonishingly little of what I had planned. Daily yoga, minimize social media and email, writing daily yet without binging. It was non-existent, still abundant and erratic.
The only thing I had achieved, aside from this blog, had been to keep my house clean, my beauty regime consistent, and I had put my company back on track. Only to then throw myself headfirst in a holiday week with out-of-office alibi on my mail. I didn’t do anything even remotely productive. But now I had to get back to work and was determined to give this “dating myself” thing a second go.
I wanted a virgin start.
Until Mister Big called.
This would be our first date with the new me. In full appreciation of what we had. I would never mention the W word and the D word again. Maybe my new attitude, you may even call it a virgin attitude, explained why our love making was exceptionally passionate.
First we went on a proper date.
He was looking sharp as ever. His full head of hair, black and slightly longer than usual.
Drinks. Something to eat. Jokes, catching up, candid conversation. I confessed I had been one credit card click away from starting to date other men, and mentioned the self-reflective lawyer. The profile that had almost made me click, pay, and take my chances as a single woman.
“There were a couple of reasons I didn’t do it,” I explained.
“One of them is that I am curious what is going on inside your head. I can only see glimpses of it. You’re like this oyster. I’m sure there’s a pearl in there.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Big said.
Certain themes seemed to be recurring in his life.
“Like my fear of commitment. I know that’s an issue.”
My jaw dropped.
“You know you’re scared of commitment?”
I had assumed his whole marriage hoax had managed to delude even him.
“Of course I know that,” he said.
“And why. General idea anyway. I will tell you one day.”
“See. That’s your pearl.”
“No. It’s not beautiful in any way.”
He frowned and looked defensive.
“You’re just like a troll, sitting on its treasure,” I laughed.
No! You can’t have it!”
Mister Big sighed.
“You know the more you press this, the longer it will take before I tell you.”
“Oh my God, that’s solid gold you’re sitting on.”

So maybe it was because we had shared that mental intimacy. Or because I was the new me. Or maybe because, as I realized later, his apartment had been comfortably warm. But either way we started kissing. Or I started kissing, the moment he took my coat in the hallway. He responded but then delayed it. He offered tea, his warm and tidy bedroom, and asked me for the dvd.
I always shiver at the thought of how fickle my sexuality is. If he had pushed too hard, had undressed me and taken me immediately, I probably would have lost the desire for sex. At least temporary. If the bedroom had been ice cold or messy? Same thing. Looking back at our dates I always appreciate Mister Big even more. It allows me to pinpoint those moments that could have easily gone wrong. And I would have had to ignore it, get over it, or I don’t know…use some lube I guess.
We settled on the bed, still clothed just the shoes off, and he placed the dvd in his laptop. I had found the resemblance between him and Michael Madsen striking, and this was the first time Mr.Big would consciously watch his counterpart.
I promised the kids I’d take them hunting,” Mister Big impersonated the husky Madsen.
Even their voices were similar.
“He’s in finance here,” I said.
“He’s more you than you are you. I watched it four, five times.”
“You watched it, or you masturbated to it?” a wicked grin on his movie star face.
“Both?” I grinned back and pulled my nose up.
“There is this part where he announces he will handcuff her in the cabinet. And fuck her hard. You have a cabinet.”
I nodded in the direction a small light room. It had been raided when he moved out to live with his wife. It could have made a study, baby room, or walk-in wardrobe, but it had its entrance in the kitchen.
“You fancy that? Handcuffs?”
I shook my head.
“But the cabinet could be a doctor’s office!”
Mister Big nodded in appreciation.
“It’s close to the kitchen. I could transfer some equipment.”
We laughed and started to think of suitable appliances. Even joking about it was fueling the fantasy.
Big and me always had these fantasies. Or I had them, and in the first half year he had fulfilled two of them. Anal sex (“Done properly!” I always added) and a rape fantasy. Which he had passed with flying colors. After that, for reasons I’m still not a hundred percent sure of, it stopped. My most likely explanation is that part of me (and a fairly large part) had expected him to choose for me. And when he still didn’t do that, not even after the sex had brought us together so powerfully, I realized he wouldn’t.
And the sex came at a price. After his five star porn performances, there had been days of silence, grumpiness, break-up. So now we only used the remaining fantasies as fiction. To just let the thought spice things up, instead of playing it out. It took the drama and the neediness out of me and stabilized our affair.
Like I wrote earlier, our love making was particularly passionate that day. We had started making out in the hallway, then I had this double candy experience when I had Michael Madsen on screen and a real life Big next to me. And I had been doing this exercise where you learn to masturbate on your dream partner, where I couldn’t think of anyone else but Big. I had been masturbating on him for weeks. No wonder it would get so good.
We started by kissing fully clothed. I have always loved that. It reminds me of teenage sex. One of the things I never liked as an adult, was to have sex from out of the blue because you’re both in bed. Or kiss and cuddle downstairs, and then go to the bedroom where we would undress ourselves, and lie in bed waiting for the other. I always wanted to start as teenagers. Playful. Hungry. Insatiable.
When we had just started dating, Big and me had complimented each other on sexual skill. I on his virility, which I could only compare to the strength of two black lovers I had. And Big had complimented me on my blow jobs. And those were condomized. Especially in the beginning. Maybe that was why I had been uncertain he had meant it. Similarly, he had been unsure about me complimenting him. He thought his penis was okay, but he had never attributed any special powers to it.
“I’ve been around the block,” I assured him.
“So I know what I’m talking about.”
“Well I’ve been around the block too,” he answered.
“And I’m telling your blow jobs are magic.”
We decided this was ridiculous and that it was safe to assume a compliment was genuine.
Big was always clumsy undressing me. He couldn’t find how to unbuckle my belt, my watch would get stuck in the sleeve, not to mention finding my bra fastener.
“For someone who has been around the block I would have expected a little more routine,” I had teased more than once.
He always replied:
“Some people would find that cute.”
Maybe it turned me on. The reference to some people. Although one of the few things Big had to promise was to never tell me with how many women he slept. I didn’t need to know how many some people had had their belt clumsily unbuckled by him. Or maybe still had, I didn’t rule anything out.
The movie kept playing as we started to make love. It seemed so long ago. His body and mine responded, the skin-to-skin magic that had often surprised me. There had been few men with whom I had this chemistry. He rubbed my clitoris, finding exactly that ridge that I use when I masturbate. Since I was five. I have never bothered with clitoral orgasms when I was with a man. No one could beat me at my own game. But this time Big was spot on, and gave me a clitoral orgasm. And cuddles and recovery time. I took it to penetration, taking a condom and joking that we sure didn’t need extra lubrication.
I strode on top, with my knees pressing violently into his sides with every Oh God. Lifting my pussy up, from the inside. Squeezing him, milking him, but more than anything: making myself come. It was like Anais Nin said in one of the first books I read from her:
“I climax so much easier with my legs together, but Henry always wants them spread wide so he can look.”
My Henry did too. And so did I. But sitting there, climaxing by pressing and squeezing everything, I realized what I usually missed out on.
Again recovery time. I don’t remember why I suddenly took on the prostitute role, just that I did, and I said:
“Because you made me come, you can ask for extra. Ask anything you want. Do anything you want.”
“Take it in your mouth.”
He stood by the bed and I sat on the edge and took him in my mouth, and dear God, yes I know, it’s face rape. So fucking what. Please, yes.
“Turn around.”
And I was fucked relentlessly. Doggy style with me on the bed and him standing behind me. It hurt so much I thought several times I wouldn’t be able to take it. But then I thought of another six weeks without him. Or who knew how long. And I could feel the tears coming.
“Can you feel I’m abusing you?”
He had quickly understood that I liked words, and that his voice was the biggest aphrodisiac in the room. It was the ultimate proof I was in love with him, although I never told him that. That husky voice creating intimacy, expressing desire, and pushing for a full submission in a porn like fashion.
“It’s okay. Come lie down.”
The voice said honey sweet. Maybe I had groaned too hard, or expressed how much it hurt. The last time we had been together Big had been completely gentle, taking me in different positions but never too deep. I had asked him about it, and it turned out Big knew when he was giving pleasure, pain, or gambling in that risky area in between.
We laid down and he wrapped his arms around me. Cuddling me, asking me if I was okay. And I enjoyed that moment, which was probably the closest thing to love he would be able to give me. After rough sex we often had this haze of “My God did we do that?”
Only to then discuss it and get excited all over again.
“Come sit on top of me.”
It sounded friendly.
I took the same position as before, with my knees in the mattrass on either side of his body. And lowered myself over his dick. A sigh of relief, to have him in me again, and I leaned forward. He wrapped his arms around me, and as I started to move I felt a finger pressing my anus. I gave an appreciative groan, and gasped in surprise as I felt it going in, even though that was ridiculous since I could have known that’s what he would do.
I didn’t say no.
Not even when it went in further and it hurt me.
I didn’t object to the sharp pain, and even searched for a slow and steady rhythm so that he could predict my movement, and wouldn’t slip out. The build up from my orgasm, deep inside my pelvis, had started yet again. It was as if every cell in my body was in anxious anticipation, and I heard myself stammer Please don’t stop. The finger went deeper and he repositioned himself under my clingy full body wrap, to get a better reach. I squeaked when he pushed a second finger in.
I still didn’t dare to move my hips faster, but didn’t have a choice. I had to. That climax was right within reach and stalling it with this relentless sharp yet totally gratifying pain, wasn’t an option. I would not be able to take this for much longer. As I moved quicker, he managed to stay in. Both ways. And at some point I forgot about him, about the pain, about having the closest thing to a double penetration I ever had in my life. And that Big was acting out another fantasy that I had told him so often.
I didn’t realize that. Not then.
Just that when I stopped moving, and Big’s fingers slid out, that my first words after I had caught my breath were:
“I can’t believe the control you have over your orgasm.”
He smiled and kissed me.
Then he said “Ow!”
And laughed: “Don’t squeeze!”
I looked at him puzzled. Since when didn’t he like me squeezing his dick with my pussy?
“It’s a little sensitive now,” he explained.
“What? You mean you came?” his dick was still rock hard.
“Yes. I told you when it happened.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“I didn’t hear it. Nothing. I was so wrapped up in myself.”
I held his penis at the condom ridge, lifted off of him, and snuggled up on his chest, receiving his embrace. I still couldn’t believe he had actually climaxed the exact moment I had.
“Now I am even more impressed how well you control your orgasm.”
There was a hesitant silence and then he spoke in a clear voice.
“Thank you.”

day 30 Catch 22

This is the final post, hereby prematurely ending  The Virgin Diaries; 100 days of dating myself by LS Harteveld
My friend Ivy defined it a Catch 22 for me; a paradox.
If I wanted to keep writing autobiographically, I could never have a normal relationship.
This blog is a two sided sword. It celebrates what a man has with me, yet it is a constant reminder not to screw me over. It has the power to please and to paralyze. To seduce and to manipulate.
My blog is like a super power. I can both claim and recreate reality. Ivy was right. The blog is a threat to having a balanced relationship. And yet, even though I was closer than ever to getting the relationship I wanted, I didn’t know if I was ready to give up writing. I was kind of attached to playing God with the pen. And besides: wasn’t I entitled to have defenses? The men I liked were not exactly beacons of safety.
First Biggie. My main man and clandestine lover Big was still married. Few people knew he was doing a terrific job occupying my heart and everything further South as well. When I had started dating Big I had said to him:
“With you, I’m dating in The Major League.”
And not without being totally terrified. But I was holding up. And the only reason I was still playing (instead of being heart broken and degraded) was because my blog was doing its job of defining the truth, remarkably well. It was an exceptionally valuable tool when it came to coping with Big who, like most Major League players, depended on hiding his emotions and concealing the truth. I had never gotten a single I love you. And yet it had become unimaginable another man would ever touch me again. At least it had been until Mister X entered the game.
Now Mister X, to whom I swore secrecy to never write about this turn of events, was equally unclear about the state of his current relationship as well as anything else he had going on the side. It was vague enough to include a whole harem.
Mister X was the first serious competition Big was getting. It was the first time I could see my whole body, mind and soul, breaking free from being cornered by Mister Big.
Contrary to Big, Mister X had made it clear that none of our interaction could go on record. Not the part where I tried to find out how significant his other still was. Not the part where I desperately tried to push away my feelings for him, claiming he wasn’t “fair”. We were fascinated with each other.
The first part of the paradox had been that if I wanted a normal relationship, I needed to stop writing about it. The second part was that the type of men I fancied, were far from normal and I would need my writing. To keep myself sane, and cope with all my emotions.
Besides, I wasn’t dating baby koalas. I was dating men at the top of their sexual game and playing to win. And Mister X had negotiated I could not use my blog, my main weapon. But despite the spooky incantation of his name (Mister X?!) and his demand to stay anonymous, Mister X was less scary than Mister Big. And there was a sexual tension, an emotional connection, and we shared similarities in background. That is the maximum of what I can reveal, but there were more signs he could be The One.
Between sure signs Big would choose for me, and then tending to my wounded ego when Big retreated, Ivy warned me that my cuts were getting deeper every time. She was heavily in favor of Mister X.  Although she probably favored the whole alphabet over Mister Big.

I joined Ivy to some hotshot gathering. A festive thing. By the time I got there the official program was over, everybody was in some state of being drunk, and food was scarce. Ivy said it was always like this.
“The other meetings are fine. But this is an annual fuck up.”
She couldn’t understand which caterer was put in charge.
I didn’t expect to see Big there. He would either still be in London or with his wife. And Ivy said she had not seen him anymore since we had started dating.
“I guess he was never here for his clients in the first place,” she concluded.
Ivy didn’t like him. They were never introduced, but it was a small world, and Ivy immediately regretted taking me to the New Year’s party when she had witnessed me and Big being drawn to each other like magnets.
She told me everything bad she knew about him. Including a crooked business deal that had damaged his reputation. And she pointed out two women with whom he had more than likely slept. But it was all in vain. I was into him, and she had dutifully listened to all my sex adventures and emotional despair ever since. She had even given Biggie the benefit of the doubt on more than one occasion, and had been a supportive friend. Although probably one with grinding teeth.
A Catch 22 means a paradox.
You can’t solve it.
But Ivy and I had found a loop hole.
As long as things were not serious, as in someone bringing a ring and going down on his knees proposing something along the lines of till death do us part, I didn’t have to choose between X and Big. I’m not enthusiastic about dating multiple men. But I agreed with Ivy to first collect, then select.
Mister Big was stalling his divorce hoping that he could block it till the youngest was eighteen. At least, that’s what I suspected the plan was. And Mister X was a player too. I expected them both to be strong enough to handle competition. By dating two men there was something in it for both. I was meeting Mr. X’s request for privacy. And Mister Big could stop feeling guilty for not providing for me emotionally. For not choosing for me.
If I had two partners, one I could write about and one I could not, I would be surprisingly close to a balanced love life. I had gone from a Catch 22, to a Catch 2.
High on the prospect of becoming a queen bee,  I profusely thanked Ivy and made my way out. That’s when I ran into Big. An undeniably drunk, surprisingly courteous and unapologetically happy to see me, Mister Big. We were next to a bar near the wardrobe, where they had just brought in some food. The low hallway was noisy, crowded, and cramped. It smelled like old men’s sweat and deep fried food. Mister Big and I spent ten minutes shouting in each other’s ear, conquering snacks and grinning at each other like idiots.
I considered running into Big a good omen.
Good omen being an understatement. I saw it as a sign God existed and that she had been listening to everything me and Ivy discussed and was now throwing a boon at my feet. The fact that Big was drunk only added to the fantasy that this spontaneous encounter was a gift for me. Not for him. He would probably not be able to remember much of it. He had a disarming straightforwardness that I had never seen before. I realized how reserved he had been.
We went to his penthouse. We had to walk for half an hour because he was no longer able to cycle responsibly. I enjoyed the one on one time, especially in his new compliant mental state. As if he had been shooting up on truth serum.
He could barely find the keyhole and for a moment I was afraid he would set off the alarm because he appeared to have forgotten the code. The house was a mess and we snuggled up on the couch. I lay on top of him. A freshly pressed shirt. I remember this because I thought it was remarkable that he was as spotless clean and nicely smelling as ever.  What followed was something that I can only describe as ten months’ worth of intimacy, poured over me at once. And ten months’ worth of tears sprinkling back on top of him. I had been holding back my sorrow, with the same stubbornness he had been hiding his feelings.
I got about a thousand I love yous, including the first ever. And he asked if I really, genuinely, thought we could have a real relationship.
“The real thing. Nothing halfway.”
With our gaze connected – in my recollection we spent two hours looking into each other’s eyes-  he gave me a glimpse straight into his soul as my tears just kept coming and my sobs were making it difficult to speak. I nodded.
Yes.
It will work out. It will work out, and it is the only thing that will. Because I’m the one. And you’re the one. And you can deny it, but that doesn’t change it.
I spoke from the heart, not the mind. And the heart said I was right. Despite his alcohol-facilitated openness there was one thing he didn’t talk about: Her. Every time we brushed on the subject of why he was still with her, he said:
“You don’t know the whole story.”
Or:
“I’m not defending myself, but you don’t know the whole story.”
He said it without hostility, in a loving way. At least I learned there even was a story. Aside from the fact that he still had feelings for her, which I had guessed pretty early on, there apparently had been something else. And that something was probably a reason to cheat, but not a reason to leave her. For all I knew it could be a reason to stay. And regardless of everything he had done, regardless of how much alcohol he had had, he was loyal to her. In his own way.
That’s when I knew he would forget most of what happened or what he had felt. His feelings for me, symbolized by him as a King and a Queen, were opposite to his actions. He was still fighting to save his marriage. Or what was left of it.
Since that night, I try to understand what happened. Was the night a message? That he would never choose me? Was it a goodbye gift? I still don’t know. I try to estimate how much it would hurt if he would finalize things between us, just to see if I’m ready for it. But then I quickly retreat. Cross that bridge when we get there, and all that.
But I do know that whatever the future holds for me, it improved by having that night together.
We really were a King and a Queen. Even if our reign lasted only for one night.

The story continues in 
Big Part 3, The Way of the Trickster 

For part 1 check erotic stories with Mr.Big,
more temporary free reading at the books overview page.

Big – erotica and diaries. Part 1: An Affair

UPDATED version Friday June 16, 2017 <3 LSH 

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.
~LS 

Part 1: An Affair

erotica

The Biggie, erotic story

Lauren was wearing a red hooded cape that made her look like Red Riding Hood. She liked having a fairy tale reference. But it was also the perfect coat for the weather. Chilly but dry.
She rang the bell to the penthouse from the man she coyly referred to as Mister Big. Not just because he was a successful dark haired man in his forties. But also because his penis had been larger than anticipated.
“And you’re so virile!” she had exclaimed when she 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 fifteen 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. 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.
Hard.
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 leather shoes, a dark T-shirt and expensive jeans. A clean and casual look.
“You’re so disarming,” she smiled.
“You keep thinking I’m a wolf,” he concluded, 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 flower pots with fresh herbs in different stages of being eaten.
“God you smell good, ” he kissed her softly.
Their embrace was 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. This seemed 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 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 settled on the couch and he started an art house movie they both still wanted to see. She lost the story three times, and asked him to play back. Until she gave up.
“I would like to watch porn,” she said.
“Stoya.”
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,” Big recalled their first sexual conversation. Which had been within one drink after they met.
“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 wondered if the risk of downloading a computer virus would not be a fair price to get this for herself. 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 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.
He returned and whispered;
“Can I go down on you now?”
“Yes! Please.”
Lauren had resisted his tempting offer on their first encounter, and on their second she’d been in her period. She had been looking forward to this. 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.
It was something that was surrounded with clumsiness, failure, 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 associated 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 on 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 up towards him and she could feel him moving deeper. The gentle push and pull of his fingers, and the steady rhythm of his tongue. Her body shook violently and she managed to redirect her limbs, so she wouldn’t kick him with her spastic legs. Knock her fists into him. 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 still confused him.
“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. 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.
“Are you afraid to ask? Think you’re too horny?”
His face softened into a gentle stare. 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 had used it because she had been in her period. She also had a cold, and couldn’t breathe through her nose. A blowjob had been out of the question.
“Today was perfect for our first time,” 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 spread 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.
I lube her up some more 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.”
She tears the condom foil, skillfully rolls it down, and lies on her back. Knees pulled up towards her. I take the tip to her ass and gawk at the view. I connect with her eyes, and slowly push it in. My turn to swear. She’s gruesomely tight. It squeezes every thought, doubt, guilt, right out of me. 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 her head up.
“It’s over halfway 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. We embrace, making it a standard missionary, had it not been from behind. At one point I slip out, and 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.
“Cool!”
I got the best blowjob in years, but 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. 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.
“Just guess.”
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.”

Credit, erotic story

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 his wife would be eternally holy.
Her phone rang. When she saw his name on the screen her heart made an immature jump.
“Biggie!”
“Is this my baby bee?” a husky voice asked.
“Baby bee! Oh my God that is so cute!”
She pulled up 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. Still sore from sex, fear for STD’s lurked beneath her everyday mask and she needed him to let her know he was there. And he wasn’t.
“I guess this means we’re not breaking up!” she concluded.
Suddenly last week’s sleepover became a vibrant memory. Her happiness flaring back up, as if she had been worried that enjoying the afterglow would set off a full-blown panic attack.
“Breaking up? Of course not. And I still want you to come 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 forgot after he had helped her move house and had met most of her friends. She could still not believe that had actually happened.
“I want you to make tender love to me,” she had demanded, the first night she slept at her new house. She saw it as an inauguration.
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 feel 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.”
But Lauren had laughed.
“It was the first time 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 you could pull off if you were twelve or if you were forty-two and wore coats that were so stylish that no one questioned your sense of style. She adored her suitcase. It was a part of her identity. Just like her two cats, it was 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 sunglasses.
“You look like Michael Madsen,” she said.
“Far from boring.”
“Who’s 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 moment the hotel room shuts behind me, she 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 her jeans over her ankles. She lies lip biting on the box spring. Ready 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 suitcase.
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 her tongue out and keeping eye contact.
“Take it down.”
She hesitates. I can spell out her thoughts. If she obeys this is the first time we do this without a condom. She drops her chin to chest, her hair falls in front of her face. She starts to move back, I pull my leg out from underneath of her.
She sits in between my legs.
Blonde curls shielding her away. A warm hand takes my cock. A peck at the base, near the balls. 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 all the way up, licks the foreskin, sucks the tip, pushing the skin back. My gasp catches her gaze, looking up. 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. Her hips arch seductively.
She tears the foil and rolls it down. Kneeling 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.
“What about it? 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, and kneels onto the bed. Knees wider this time. She tells me she appreciates me being bold. Taking risks.
“I could have rejected you!”
She holds the bottle up. I let her lube my fingers.
“Reject me?”
I take my hand between her thighs and push one finger in. She collapses with pleasure onto my shoulder.
“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.
Lying on her back, her knees up and wide.
I take my dick to her ass and press it in. She screams out in pain. I immediately retreat but it’s too late. Her eyes fill with tears. It hurts so much she cups her hand over her ass, terrified. I give her a moment to catch her breath, and take her hand away.
“Let me feel. What’s going on?”
I use only 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,” I say.
A feeble smile, yet curious. Her strong back turns towards me. I see her wonder if she should be in doggy.
“Just lie down.”
She does as I tell her, and arches her hips up slightly.
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 lifts her head and looks over her shoulder. Something I reward by saying something about the view of her ass, or how good it feels.
The small talk reassures her, but we’re apart this time. I can feel her drifting away. I carefully lie down, a full body embrace, with one hand underneath her. She can ride my fingers. She relaxes even more, and I can 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 rest.
“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 tomorrow 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. A towel wrapped around my head, cheeks a radiant pink from being blissed out by a.m. sex. On moments like this, I know I made the right choice to become single and to develop my sexuality. Nothing else, no money, no career and especially not a regular relationship, can bring me the buckets of happiness that is shining in this reflection.
Despite 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 I was younger, it was still lethal of course.
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 on 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 licks 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?”
He hesitates.
“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 twenty 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 arch 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? I went from Ouch and crying to Fuck me. What was that?!”
“A secret.”
“So you did do something?”
“Yes. Not gonna tell.”
He slips his hand 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. 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. Despite his desire to keep looking, he closes his eyes when he climaxes. 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. That 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 exhaustion.
“Look at you…. smiling.”

Intermezzo

Jealousy is all the fun you think they had.
~Erica Jong

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 ten p.m. and was then 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 following week 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 Facebook, 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.
It had been a hot Friday. Ink-black clouds were gathering over the city. Big was checking his phone, seated at one of the sofas in the hotel restaurant. He looked his showered, well dressed, super datable self. And smiled when she came in. She smiled back, so wide and happy she probably risked 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. We’ll see how the weekend turns out.
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.
“Maybe.”
Big knew about Rutger. He wished he had paid more attention when she had told him about the last lover before him. The man from America. After two decades of friendship he had turned out to be the best lover she ever had.
“Well until I had you,” 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?
“He’ll be here in a few weeks,” she said. “Any thoughts?”
“I don’t think I have a say in this,” Big said bitterly.
He was relieved she had not seen him yet. But angry because he had been manipulated. And it had worked.
“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. It immediately took control after weeks of insecurity.
“Because technically? That would be you.”
She grabbed her purse, placed five euro on the table at which point Big started making insulted noises.
“I never should have come,” 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.
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 now he 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.
Men who talk in bed are rare. Especially if I rule out sex talk. That’s not what I mean. The last man who talked in bed was my most recent lover before Biggie, Rutger. He was sensitive and complicated. This was a 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. I thought 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.
He visits the Netherlands every summer, and I told Biggie about him. It lead to one of our infamous week long break-ups.
But Big made his peace with it. The carefree date was the first time we saw each other again. We wouldn’t talk about the incident, or about what drove us apart. I was excited to see 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 whiskey 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 we kissed and he grabbed my muffin top at the back, and said:
“Oh! You have that nice extra bit!”
“Of course I do. I’m very sexy.”
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 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.
We walk from the terrace to his house, and 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.”
He serves my cookie on a saucer. We get on the couch and I throw my legs over his. He immediately begins to caress them, sliding his hand up the leg of my trousers.
“You’re always so new to me,” I sigh, and 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 a wide variety of people, as long as you create the right context.
But with Big I could be happy just being physically close. Without having another day of sex in my life. Which is of course a highly unlikely scenario.
Big kept his 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 wrap experience. Two lovers amalgamated to one pulsating, sweating, orgasmic whole. Whispering everything we could say without saying I love you. As if our clingy bodies had not given away what our hearts were feeling.
We lie together for a while, before Big gets up to clean up the condom. He returns wearing a pair of black rim glasses.
“Oh wow!” I exclaim in appreciation.
Another wave of excitement and novelty.
“You like it? My contacts were bothering me.”
He settles on the lounge sofa again, where I cover up with a blanket he brought me.
“You look like a doctor,” I say.
“That’s why it turns me on.”
There’s another reason I’m not with Ivy when it comes to Big. I have so many fantasies and I 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 un-shocked 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. I had compensated the lack of physical intimacy with brutal sexual honesty. I had informed him that the biggest flaw in Fifty 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 could just as easily count as hard limits.
“Like being fucked from behind. And a dildo in the front.”
“You mean one of those giant ones?”
I laugh.
“No!. That’s more of 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 it pinch 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.
“I don’t know. It would be a challenge. Especially since I like you both.”
Big appeared to be completely over any jealousy he had felt.
I flip over to my belly and turn my head.
“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 like it’s standing or something.”
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 study his face. More or less familiar. But he 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. 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. I’m mustering the courage to ask it.
“I need to be a little deeper,” Big says with a solemn face.
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 squatting 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 on 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.
I slide my hand to his belly. His hard on lifts up, and 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. 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 blowjob is easy and effortlessly, although I know Big could delay it if he wanted to. Just to make me work harder. 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.
His cock pulses in my hand. Warm sperm on my skin. I play my role of bringer of pleasure, appreciating his orgasm. Moaning. Biting my lip and looking up seductively. Then I burst into laughter.
“You have it on your glasses!”
We clean Big up, and I ask for Stoya back on. As sort of a backdrop. She’s the only woman who can make me want to be even paler than I am, lose four dress sizes and aspire a career in porn.
“I think we’ve got most of it,” I summarize my bucket list.
“The prostitution thing. Double penetration. Two guys. And playing doctor of course.”
“Of course,” Big repeats his earlier response.
He’s very warm. Every time I throw the blanket over him, 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?”
I chuckle.
“Yes. Like we can do the rapey thing on other days. When we’re not up for anything intense.”
“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.”
He shrugs.
“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 ask Big.
I feel like I just dropped a bomb. By mentioning a midwife there is a clear link to his wife.
“Like I said, I get the idea,” he smiles, apparently forgiving my intrusion.
“And I still like you.”
We talk about my list, fetishes, shame. And I ask him what would be on his bucket list and he jokes:
“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. I’ve seen the hospital a little too much lately.”
I shrink back. Another landmine.
“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 on his side, pulling a knee towards me. He rests his head on his arm.
“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.               “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.
Just sex.
“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.”
“Player!”
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 to 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?”
“Maybe.”
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.”
“Good.”
“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. Nathan had broken up with her because he was with her best friend. 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 pretty seriously. Like I’m some exotic animal that needs to be handled properly. Preferably by her.
“What would you do then? Let me fuck around?”
She shrugs.
“Not like that. But you could have your secrets. And your moods.”
Suddenly she breaks into a wide smile.
“And every Summer I would 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.
She mocks:
“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 our shoes off 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! 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?”
“Absolutely!”
She grins, clasps her hands, shakes them victoriously over her head.
“High score!”
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 would break up?” I ask her mirror image.
“Yeah. That’s why I’m not wearing make-up. Even though I told myself I wasn’t gonna cry.”
“Why did you think that? The break-up?”
“You were short. Absent. You know. I barely heard from you.”
I sigh.
“Things were rough. I told you.”
“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 buries her nose to my chest.
“Not here I mean.”
“A hotel? Like the escort fantasy?”
“Escort?”
She looks up.
“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? Someone 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.
“Me too!”

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.
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 signal. 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.
“Again.”
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 while 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.
“Get up!”
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 on her knees, then all fours, her head hanging in submission.
“Knees wider!”
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 up 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 on her side, still sobbing. Her legs limb. Ankles bound by her jeans.
“Turn around.”
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.
“More!”
I kneel and fold her legs towards her. Diamond shaped legs with her pussy wet before me. She holds on to 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 on 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…..”
“So?”
I press the tip in. Her pulled up legs are giving it the easiest access imaginable.
“Oh my God,” she stammers.
“Fuck…”
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 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.
“Yes, it’s….”
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.”
“No!”
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 takes her shoes off to get the jeans over 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!”
“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 chuck2le.
“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 one arm out and she takes the invitation and cuddles up next to me on my chest.
“I’m jealous of you wife, do you know that?”
“Why?”
“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 break heats. And you’re so sexually active. 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 locked 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 on 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.
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, but with a kiss smiley. I put the phone down with a sigh and saw Ivy returning 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?”
“Just normal.”
And I realized how ridiculous this was for two people having hardcore good sex less than two months ago.
“That bad, huh? 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.
“Better not waste time then,” I had smiled, looking forward to six weeks of sexual slavery and Biggie stretching my consent to the utmost limit.
But instead of that, 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 really pushes how far he can go. 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.
“I thought it was because I had sex with Rutger,” I disclosed.
Ivy shrugged.
“Well that probably didn’t help. But that’s not what’s causing this. He’s 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.”

Love Letters

Dear Big,

It’s been twenty-four hours since I told you we can’t see each other for a while. 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. When you revealed your recent medical history, I knew you were suffering too. Our health is being ruined, one layer at a time. I am disappointed about 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 wriggle with pleasure in the mirror 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 rounding off one of our sexless 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 was sometimes amazed at the forceful fantasies that jumped on me, usually right after I had said No. 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 imagined how you told your wife you would keep the penthouse as a real estate investment. How long did it take before you started taking women there again? Was there ever a time you gave up your promiscuous lifestyle in the first place?
That room oozed danger.
I needed to feel safe for my sexual bucket list of submission. Not like a porn actress with her legs pulled up 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 your lovers. Every line seemed scripted. And none of them could ever be I love you.
Nine months ago. You could have had me at hello. But instead you already had me by 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 a 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.
“Oh God, not Mister Big,” Ivy sighed at us exchanging glances.
The sparks could have set fire to the New Year’s decoration and to anybody wearing polyester.
“I could have known. Of course Mister Big.”
A minute later you excused yourself and headed my way. Ivy left me to meet my doom, dream prince, or whatever fate had decided you would be. I waited as you maneuvered through the room, tapping shoulders and excusing yourself.
“Hi.”
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.
Intimacy of any kind has the potential to bring us back together. On that rollercoaster of desire and fantasies. But you left that path. I often feel like I am still there, waiting for you to come back and play. But I want it to be out of free will. Not because I played the pity card when at five in the morning my cat was in pain and slowly dying. It was 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.
Your recent resentment of crying is what is moving sex from great to not so great. From I never want to lose you, to I need to end this. From we are made for each other to choking up, 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. On the road to recovery you and I kept sleeping together, but merely brushing on my fantasies. They became 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.
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.
Because I’m still not well, and neither are you. We’re still wearing each other out.
I barely ever feel lonely but I did last Saturday. After fighting it for hours I gave in, I 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.
You were dressed casually, without losing an inch of charisma. You kissed me on the cheek, asked me how I was. A stranger all over again. 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.
You had ordered some sort of Italian beef.
“We are both into food,” I answered.
“So 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 like you 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 say yes to.
Yes, I want to go to your house.
Yes, I want to go to the bedroom.
Yes, I want to fuck.
If you had asked me to give myself to you, without any prospect of a normal loving relationship I still would have said yes. I just regret you never asked.
We went to your place. You excused yourself for the mess, and opened a bottle of red wine.
“And I have chocolate too. Want some?”
From all the men I’ve known you were the only one who put so much effort downplaying in 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 either on or off, but never halfway.
But none of 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 using toys, too recklessly. I never told you this, but after our rape scene? I was horny for days. I didn’t get any work done. 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. If it wasn’t for my vibrant memories and ruthless horniness, it was as if it had never happened. You were obviously a lot more skilled at penetration than I was. Although you also had better equipment.
But even if we didn’t play rape, I would always beg for more. Deeper. Harder. And you would give it. And the pain 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. On 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 the blankets anywhere near you.
“You didn’t hurt me….” I suddenly realized.
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. Despite your remark I saw that incredibly happy blushing woman again. That curvy body that looked as if God made it for a career in porn. The way we always joke about.
You came in handing me the water. I took it and said:
“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.

Love,

Lauren

Dear Lauren,

You know I don’t like this. I’d much rather meet in person. But I’ll write.
You are making the right choices. Your health must come first.
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. You know I never give up anything 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.
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. 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. 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 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 know we could have. The sex we know we could have. Because face it, that is what binds us. It’s a powerful, maddening, intoxicating. You never experienced it 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 tell. I even notice how they change and redefine themselves. 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 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.
I said we could rent a room like that. And I joked I would pick up every piece of equipment there and test it on you.
“You will just lie there and be spanked and penetrated. And paid.”
You buried your face, grunting in the pillow and then you 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.

Xxxxxx

Big

The story continues in Big Part 2, The Virgin Diaries

For more temporary free reading check my books overview page.

22 Erotische Verhalen – alle verhalen

22 kleinHet is wonderlijk deze verhalen weer te lezen. Toen ik ze schreef vond ik ze al goed. Maar nu, belast met de vederlichte taak ze te redigeren, zag waarom. Waarom ze intrigerend en sensueel bleven terwijl ik zo ver ging. De lezer en mezelf meenam naar wat slechts een enkeling wil kennen. En soms ging ik nog verder, over de grens.
In die verhalen, met dat contrast, zag ik duidelijker dan ooit die ene kwaliteit. Een emotie die zo overvloedig door de donkerste passages stroomde dat je je tong kon uitsteken om de zilte druppels op te vangen.
Het ingredient dat mijn verhalen fascinerend maakte, en dat me er jaren na dato weer inzoog en vasthield, was liefde.

deel 1 
Rebound
M.
Naima’s Verlangen
Lang geleden
Heimwee

deel 2
Geen Onderwerp
Herboren
Playboy
Een Verloren Wedstrijd
Was getekend
De Vreemdeling
Twee vrouwen
Onschuld
De Weg Terug
Later

deel 3
De Opdracht
Prequel
Paar
Twee mannen
Deo Volente
Miguel
Herbeleefd

Bijna alle verhalen werden geschreven in 2011 en 2012, met twee uitlopers ervoor en een paar erna. “Miguel” is geschreven in 2009 maar toen nooit afgemaakt, waarschijnlijk omdat ik toen nog niet de ervaring had die daarvoor nodig was. En dat bedoel ik puur literair ;)
22 Erotische Verhalen kent maar één autobiografisch verhaal hoewel het ik- en Lauren personage wel meerdere keren voorkomen.
Na 22 Erotische Verhalen heeft mijn erotica een vervolg gekregen toen ik in 2015 een relatie kreeg met mijn minnaar Big.
Deze Engelstalige erotica komt in boek 8, Big.

 

22 Erotische Verhalen – deel 3 (slot)| vroege lezers editie

Ik ben acht boeken aan het publiceren en “22″ is het NSFW stuk van mijn oeuvre. Deel 3 is…. tja… it’s where everybody gets raped I guess! Ha ha ha. Behalve het eerste verhaal (De Opdracht) en het allerlaatste (Herbeleefd). Die twee verhalen zijn supersweet.
Deel drie is ook waar de verhaallijnen net als in de erotica van Anais Nin, in elkaar vlechten. Als een duister maar romantisch seks sprookje. Bonuspunten voor wie weet naar welk verhaal het slotverhaal terugverwijst. Er is helaas geen geldprijs aan verbonden ;)

 

De Opdracht

Alsof haar hart en schoot tegelijkertijd openden, naar buiten keerden om hem te bereiken; de jongen die glimlachend opkeek van zijn schoolwerk terwijl zijn vader de nieuwe huishoudster voorstelde. Maria wist dat ze zich niet hoefde te schamen. Niet voor het leeftijdsverschil. Niet voor het gapende verlangen deze jongen aan te raken. De Don zou deze emoties goedkeuren en haar het extra geld laten houden. Toch schrok ze. Ze murmelde “meneer”, boog haar hoofd, maakte een buiging. Door haar verwarring miste ze zijn naam. Dons woordenstroom viel betekenisloos over haar heen.
“Om 6 uur Paco wakker maken, de rest weet hij zelf.”
Hij liet haar zien waar zij zou slapen. Een lavendelblauw behang, een oude secretaire, een nieuw eenpersoonsbed.
“De kast heb ik leeggemaakt.”
Het weer was grauw. De regens veranderden de oprijlaan in een donkerrode modderpoel, en de verwilderde struiken sloegen hun felblauwe bloemen uit over het pad. De Don manoeuvreerde zijn witte Mercedes stapvoets door de diepe plassen, en verleende voorrang aan een magere bejaarde met een bos hout op zijn hoofd.
Ze klopte en riep zijn naam. Geen antwoord. Toen ze binnen ging, staarde Paco haar aan vanaf een reusachtig bed midden in de kamer. Leunend, zijn ellebogen diep in het matras, zijn blote rug in een golf tot zijn billen die net onder het laken verdwenen. Ze lachte zo sereen mogelijk en sloot happend naar adem de deur. Toen Paco beneden kwam, in een nieuw donkerblauw schooluniform, vroeg hij haar te stoppen hem meneer te noemen.
“Vanmiddag komt mijn neef, oké?”
Maria kneep door haar schort haar bovenbenen fijn.
Je zou niet zeggen dat ze familie waren, en wellicht waren ze dat ook niet. Paco’s haar was glad, halflang, wat de zachte trekken in zijn gezicht nog vrouwelijker maakte. Diego had grove krullen en een stoppelbaard. Diego praatte weinig. Maria hoorde altijd Paco’s hoge stem, waardoor ze wist dat er gezelschap was. Met Diego erbij bleef Paco de hele middag in de keuken. De twee verhuisden na het eten naar de keukentafel, lieten haar eindeloos limonade bijmaken, terwijl zij de afwas deed en klusjes verzon om te blijven.
“Denk je dat ze het met ons zou willen doen?” fantaseerde Paco hardop over haar seksleven.
Diego begroef zijn gezicht op zijn armen.
“Wat? Dat kan toch?” plaagde Paco, en keek met gespeelde verontwaardiging naar Maria.
“Diego schaamt zich! Wat doen we daar aan?”
Maria tikte Paco bestraffend tegen zijn bovenarm, en wreef de denkbeeldige pijn weg. Haar hand zoog zich vast aan de sterke schouder onder het klamme linnen.
Op dagen dat Diego er niet was, was Paco minder vrijpostig. Hij vroeg haar gezelschap, maar praatte over school of, als ze aandrong, over de meisjes die Maria aan de telefoon kreeg. Ze moest altijd zeggen dat Paco er niet was. De maagd (die nu geen maagd meer was). Sofia. Paula. Losse veroveringen die in het weekend waren verschalkt en wanhopig probeerden zijn aandacht te krijgen.
“Wist je dat Diego een nieuwe motor heeft?” veranderde hij van onderwerp toen ze een hysterisch huilend meisje aan de telefoon had afgepoeierd.
Is Paco gelukkig? Gaat het goed op school?
Elke vrijdag, terwijl hij zogenaamd naar biljetten zocht in zijn portemonnee, vroeg de Don dezelfde vragen. Verstrooid, alsof hij verontrustende antwoorden niet aan zou kunnen en zwijggeld gaf.
 Wees lief voor hem. Hij mist zijn moeder. Hij is een jongen als alle andere.
Waar het riante salaris voor was, zei de Don nooit expliciet. Noch vroeg hij naar de aard van hun relatie.
De droogte kwam en Paco werd stiller, de telefoontjes hielden op en hij verloor zijn interesse in Maria of haar maaltijden. Toen de Don thuiskwam zonder het vertrouwde gestommel van muziek op de eerste etage, vroeg hij aan Maria waarom zijn zoon niet thuis was. Er blonk wanhoop achter de strenge bril.
“Ik zal kijken wat ik kan doen,” antwoordde Maria.
Ze had een sterk vermoeden waarom Paco zijn levenslust had verloren.
Diego was niet moeilijk te vinden, maar Maria was blij toen ze de rode motor op het adres in de voor haar vreemde wijk zag. Ze vroeg zich af of er een dienstingang was, maar liep het trapje op en belde aan bij de witte hoge voordeur. Een grijzende negerin deed open en vroeg haar te wachten. Diego’s begroeting was formeel, maar toen ze alleen waren vroeg hij naar Paco, en liet haar vertellen waarvoor ze kwam.

*

De vlinders in Paco’s buik fladderden onwennig, alsof ze niet wisten of ze stierven of vlogen. Kom thuis na school, ik heb een verrassing. Maria had niets losgelaten maar haar hand door zijn haar gehaald en hem een geruststellende kus op de wang gegeven. Het huis was stil, ook in de keuken, en hij liep door naar haar kamer. Op de deur hing een A4 met een rood hart. Er klonk muziek, gegiechel, een bonk tegen de muur. Hij voelde een glimlach in zijn stijve kaken komen.
Maria’s slanke taille leek nog kleiner in Diego’s grote handen. In het tentje van hun laken keken ze elkaar aan toen ze de klik van de deur hoorden. Hun lach verstomde, blik versmolt en ze zoenden. De golf van verlangen overviel haar, en toen hij binnendrong zag ze Paco vanuit haar ooghoeken.
“Vergeef me,” prevelde ze.
En nu gaf hij haar een geruststellende kus.
Paco’s hand op haar borsten, Diego nog in haar. Maria’s lichaam verscheurde in tegenstrijdige verlangens. Ze rilde toen ze Paco’s lichaam tegen het hare voelde. Hij reikte over haar heen, zijn hand op Diego’s stotende billen. Diego gromde, stootte harder, en wierp zijn zware arm over Maria, naar Paco. Ze voelde Diego’s orgasme in zich, Paco’s harde pik nu fel tegen haar billen, en met de brandende laatste stoot van Diego, sloot haar hart. De jongens susten en veegden haar tranen, maar wisten dat er geen troost was.

 

Prequel

Hete tranen gleden langs Sterre’s gladde wangen en druppelden op het kussen. Ze hield haar benen open. Wijder. Zoals hij had geëist, fluisterend, dwingend. Gruwelijke beelden van wat haar straf zou zijn als ze zou weigeren, haar vermoeide benen los zou laten. Het bekken zou kantelen waardoor zijn pik haar baarmoeder niet meer kon bereiken, en het meedogenloze stoten op zou houden. Die gruwelijke beelden maakten dat ze volhield. En huilde. Een wanhopige stroom tranen.

“Hoi, ik ben Sterre.”
Het ranke meisje kwam voor hem tot stilstand. Het was windstil, maar het strand was nog fris. Joggers en loslopende honden ver langs de waterlijn, na honderden meters droog los zand. De driepoot van zijn reflectiescherm vocht voor grip.
“De visagist is er nog niet. De kleding ook niet.”
Patrick stuurde haar met zijn bestelling naar een nog dichte strandtent, en kneep zijn groene ogen samen tegen het felle licht over de duinen. Ze hadden nog eerder moeten beginnen.
Het zand spatte op in Sterre’s slippers, zwiepte bij iedere stap op haar gevoelige huid. In elke hand een beker ijskoffie. Een styliste sprak in plat Haags verder met Patrick, terwijl ze rommelde door een rek badpakken en topjes.
“Jij bent bikiniklaar?”
Ze richtte onverschillig het woord tot Sterre.
Voor er antwoord kwam duwde ze een cobaltblauw setje in de handen van het jonge model.
“We beginnen zo snel mogelijk,” bulderde Patrick geïrriteerd.
De wind stak op en rammelde vervaarlijk aan het mobiele kleedhok.
Een half uur later nam Sterre plaats voor zijn camera, de handdoek zat met haringen in de grond verankerd. Sterre’s ogen keken waterig de lens in, vanachter een zorgvuldig masker van make-up.
“Spreid je benen Sterre.”
De wind droeg het bevel en de grijns naar haar handdoek. De visagiste annex styliste zat verderop, in de open bestelbus, in de luwte van de laadruimte. Haar benen bengelden, geur van een sigaret waaide in Sterre’s neus neus.
“Spreid je benen,” herhaalde Patrick, harder.
De styliste nam een telefoontje aan, en verplaatste achteloos haar zonnebril naar haar neus. Langzaam kwam Sterre in beweging, direct begon het klikken van de camera. Een applaus en bevel tegelijk. Een onzeker model in bikini, een shoot waar niemand zin in had. Het was een opdracht zoals alle anderen en de steek van geilheid in zijn lendenen overviel hem. Een spagaathouding. Een spreidzit. Hij praatte haar door zijn oude turnhoudingen heen.
“Misschien is dit jaar iets yoga-achtigs wel leuk.”
De klant was koning. Ook als die klant een muisgrijs postorderbedrijf was, waar iedere laatste euro werd wegbezuinigd.
Terwijl zijn camera de ongelukkige Sterre vastlegt, ingehuurd op haar balletervaring, ziet hij zichzelf. Jong, veelbelovend. Liggend op een uitgerolde mat, de coaches spreidden zijn benen, zoals ze het altijd hadden gedaan. Maar steeds vaker, pijnlijker, intensiever. Een strijd met het oprukkende testosteron dat zijn spieren verkortte en zijn pik stijf maakte. De vernedering en geilheid, voor altijd versmolten. Na een jaar gaven ze het martelen op.
“Uw zoon heeft er de bouw niet voor.”

Ze hoort zijn stem niet door haar snikken, realiseert zich niet dat hij uit haar is gegaan. Zakelijk pakt hij haar handen en strekt de slanke lichtbruine armen uit boven haar hoofd. Haar vrouwelijke vingers grijpen de metalen spijlen. In de stilte van haar huilen kijkt ze hem aan. Blauwe ogen. Verwachting van pijn. Hij streelt de binnenkant van haar dijen. Drie gouden ringen, waarvan één om zijn duim. Op de buitenkant van zijn duimen beginnen kleine haartjes te komen. Zijn vingertoppen strelen het open gepijnigde kutje. Hij sist in de stilte. Hij duwt met één hand op iedere dij. Het kutje verwijdt. Zijn grip verhardt, klauwende vingers in haar vlees. Hij richt zich op, zijn gewicht perst de benen naar het matras. Het huilen is weer begonnen. Patrick vertraagt, voor de ingang. Zijn grote pik, het kutje open. Hij dringt voor de laatste keer bij haar naar binnen, sluit zijn ogen om de lange uithalen van haar huilen beter te horen. Hij slaat ieder detail van deze herinnering op, en duwt, leunt, perst tot de knieën het matras raken, en ze zijn naam smeekt.
Hij komt klaar, opent zijn ogen en kijkt haar in afschuw aan. Haar benen blijven liggen, vastgepind. Alsof zijn handen nog altijd hun dwingende werk doen.

 

Paar

Het toestel plakte van het bier. De lens knarste toen hij de groothoek eraf draaide. Patrick ontvette de gladde delen en blies met een kwastje en een bus zuurstof het zand weg, dat tot iedere groef was doorgedrongen. Het tentdoek klapperde en Marcel stak zijn rode gezicht de iglo in.
“Pat, ik ga terug. Die backstagepas is rond. Effe kijken of ik die Trent nog krijg.”
Patrick knikte naar Marcel. Jonge hond. Geen enkele opleiding afgemaakt maar bloedfanatiek. Trok interviews los bij artiesten die op voet van oorlog met de pers leefden. Patricks tiende keer hier. Hij zette de fik in zijn Marlboro en zoog de rook naar binnen. Met de sigaret diep tussen zijn vingers geklemd, maakte hij zijn schoonmaakklusje af.
Het VIPgedeelte was armoedig. Patrick nam nors zijn koffie aan en stevende af op een grote zitzak. De schaduw onder de boom zag er aanlokkelijk uit. Een roodharige vrouw met volle borsten glimlachte naar hem, zonder het gesprek met haar vriendin te onderbreken. Ze was minstens 30. Patrick glimlachte terug, zijn pik wipte op. Zijn beringde vingers wreven over een korte, grijnzende baard. Hij plofte neer in de zak piepschuim.
“Laat me raden, niet je eerste keer?”
Ze zat gehurkt voor hem. Haar ogen waren even groen als de zijne.
“Voor eerste keren zijn wij te oud.”
“Nee. Voor jou ben ik te oud,” concludeerde ze.
“Jij jaagt op de hertjes.”
Ze knipte haar vingers rakelings voor zijn gezicht.
“Bloeden ze beter….?”
Traag liet ze haar hoofd schuin zakken. Patrick slikte zijn geilheid weg, en negeerde de beweging in zijn broek. Het woord bloeden zoog zich vast aan het groen van haar ogen. Ze knipperde, giechelde, en veerde licht als een elfje omhoog.
“Geef me je telefoon maar. Je hebt nu toch geen tijd.”
Ze scrollde behendig door het menu en gaf hem in een mum van tijd terug.  “Ik sta op de camping. De U van Ulva.”
De “i” was smakelijk rond, en de “a” had een korte, Oost-Europese klank.
Het begin van de optredens schoot hij foto’s bij het grote podium, maar ondanks de glimp van Ulva (zonnebril, dansend op spa rood) die hij daar opving, bleef hij bij zijn plan zich op comedy en literatuur te concentreren. Bekende gezichten van tv, die zich wentelden in de stroom van alternatieve muziek waar ze nu deel van waren. Amsterdam in de polder. Het laatste optreden op het grote veld liep op zijn eind, Patrick bestelde een cola tic en stuurde een sms naar Ulva. Een ram op zijn schouder.
“Drie keer raden wie ik net heb geïnterviewd?”
Marcels wangen waren nog vuriger dan in de middagzon.
Rond één uur trof hij Ulva bij een kampvuur, in een rode hoodie. Ze was bezig een halve kip te verorberen.
“Honger?”
Ze stak een pootje zijn kant op en zette een fles Grolsch aan haar mond, die glom van het vet. Na haar maal vouwde ze het papier in het plastic tot een prop. Ze trok een vies gezicht toen hij haar een sigaret aanbood.
“Waarom zit je helemaal hier?”
Patrick zwaaide met zijn sigaret naar de donkere weilanden. Hij had twintig minuten gelopen en was niemand tegengekomen.
“Dadelijk ga je me er op wijzen dat glas verboden is.”
Ze dronk het onderste uit de fles en duwde de beugel erop.
Quod licet Iovi, Patrick.”
Voldaan zakte ze achterover op haar ellebogen en staarde in het vuur, de blik zelfingenomen en gelukzalig.
“Beloof me dat je alles geeft.”
In haar ogen danste het vuur. De slang in zijn broek kronkelde, haar blik flitste naar zijn kruis. Ze lag op haar zij, hij ook. Hun kus was eenvoudig, gelijkwaardig. Ze legde haar been over zijn heup. Zijn pik wreef tegen haar aan en ze gromde.

*

Haar adem stokt, iedere zoen zweeft tussen ons, voor hij vervliegt. Ik word in haar capuchon gezogen, bedwelmd door het kleine driehoekje blote huid bovenaan de rits van haar vest.
“Hou niets tegen,” fluistert ze weer.
Haar hand pakt de mijne en leidt hem naar boven, haar keel klopt warm in mijn palm. Ze werpt me een onderdanige blik toe en ritst langzaam het vest open. In de opwinding over haar naaktheid verslapt mijn greep.
“Maak je broek open.”
Mijn stem is vastbesloten, ze doet wat ik zeg. In het flikkerende licht van de vlammen trekt de glimlach nog één keer over haar gezicht.
“Nu de mijne!”
Ze volgt ook dit bevel op. De weke kuilen onder haar kaak geven mee met mijn vingers als ik loslaat en haar hoofd naar beneden dwing, naar mijn pik. Ze draait haar billen mijn kant op, ik stroop de broek af. Ik schok van genot als ik haar mond om mijn pik voel. Het ritmische strelen en zuigen houdt aan terwijl ik haar been door haar spijkerbroek haal. Ze gaat over me heen zitten, glad en zout.

*

Zijn warme tong vult mijn kut, zijn pik mijn mond. Hij dwingt niet meer, hij biedt zich aan. Zoals ik me ook aanbied. Ik laat hem uit mijn mond glijden, zwaai mijn been terug, en kruip bij hem vandaan. Met een woest gebaar graait hij mijn kant op, en werkt me tegen het gras. Ik grom, spartel en duw mijn heupen omhoog. Hij dringt binnen en ik hap naar adem. De grote hand in mijn nek pint me neer, terwijl de tweede stoot in me neerdaalt. Een kreet van pijn en vreugde tegelijk.

 

Twee mannen

Wesley had al drie keer een eerstejaars verleid, en in september een Creoolse “neef” tijdelijk kost en inwoning gegeven. Toch voelde Luciano ook nu jaloezie, omdat er een ander was onder zijn dak. Onder hun dak. De zak koffiebonen kraakte toen hij de schaar erin zette. De koffiemachine roffelde. Ieder geluid overstemde het weinige dat er te horen viel. Het was minuten geleden dat de stemmen verstomden.
Hij vroeg zich af waarom dit meisje Wesley vertrouwde. Via een vriendin? Of was het de Hugo Boss waarmee hij direct van tafel de stad in was gegaan? Luciano twijfelde hoeveel koppen hij wilde maken. Toen hij de melk door de luidruchtige stomer haalde klonk er een korte gil, die overging in onderdrukt gejammer.
Sterre kneep haar tranen in het kussen. Haar benen lagen zo wijd als de afgestroopte spijkerbroek toeliet. Wesley maakte sussende geluidjes terwijl hij haar in een houdgreep hield en de egaalbruine onderrug bewonderde. Hij streek over de zonnige billen en glimlachte toen hij het vocht voelde bij de ingang. Ze huilde toen hij langzaam een vinger naar binnen stak. Hij sleepte de vochtige vinger in en uit, met één oog op de deur. Luciano kwam binnen zonder kloppen. Sterre draaide haar gezicht op een betraande wang. Luciano knielde, veegde een blonde lok uit haar bibberende mond en kuste haar warme hoofd terwijl hij koortsachtig zocht wat te doen. Wesley keek geconcentreerd tussen haar benen en wrikte. Luciano vloekte naar Wesley bij Sterre’s crescendo.
“Ze is nat.”
Wesley zette onverstoorbaar zijn beweging voort.
“Wesley. Je moet echt stoppen.”
Geïrriteerd haalde Wesley zijn hand weg.
“Ik zeg ’t je, ze wil het.”
Hij kneep keurend in de stevige zongebruinde billen van Sterre, stond op van het verende bed en liep de gang in. Luciano koos de rand, liggend naast Sterre, die snotterde en zich excuseerde voor “deze shit”. Ze sjorde haar broek omhoog met onduidelijke analyses over hoe ze het zover had laten komen. Ineens nam haar uitgelopen mascara Luciano op. Van zijn halflange zwarte krullen tot de gladde leren laarzen die op de glimmende zwarte sprei lagen.
“Ben jij de huisgenoot?”

Languit op de bank, enkels strak over elkaar. Battlefield 3 spatte door de geluidsboxen. De controller schokte in Wesley’s vuisten. Meestal knikte Wesley wel, of zei hij “thanks”, of “lekker ding”, als Luciano hem iets bracht bij het gamen, maar nu landde de dubbele espresso zonder welkom op de brede leuning. Geruis van de waterkoker. Sterre had om thee gevraagd. Hij voelde haar aanwezigheid door de voorkamer, achterkamer, over de bar naar de grote keuken waar ze aan de tafel zat. Luciano en zij kletsten over Lucifer, die met zijn kop het kattenluik niet open wilde duwen. Zo te horen zat de kitten bij Sterre op schoot. Wesley voelde de erectie onder zijn spelende handen en richtte de aandacht op het scherm.
“Dag, ik ga weer,” zei de aai van Sterre.
Maar Wesley was in Iran om een peloton mariniers te ontzetten.
 Kan Lucifer het luik al vinden? Ha ha ha
 Ben in de buurt. Bakkie doen?  
De xoxo smsjes van <3 <3 Sterre leidden tot regelmatige bezoekjes, en hulp van Luciano voor haar huurgeschil. Luciano maakte op zondag vegetarische paëlla. Sterre nam een toetje mee van de Albert Heijn. Een wekelijks ritueel. Wesley’s stilzwijgen was inmiddels vervangen door grappen waarin hij hen lovebirds noemde. Soms vertrok hij voortijdig, alsof Sterre’s luchtige toenadering fysiek pijn deed. Als hij midden in de nacht thuis kwam was hij dronken, neukte Luciano te hard, en rolde af in een beschuldigend zwijgen.

De koopavond druilde. De grijze stenen glommen in een miezer die maar niet feestelijk wilde worden. Sterre stapte uit het kleine café en botste tegen de imposante wollen herenjas van Wesley. Een vlaag eau de toilette streek langs haar neus, handschoenen los in één hand, Ici Paristas in de andere. Het gloeide warm tussen haar dijen toen ze zich op haar tenen uitstrekte, en de gladgeschoren bruine wang kuste.
“Het staat er weer,” knikte Wesley in de richting van het reuzenrad.
Hun eerste zoen. De introductieweek. Ze was Wesley in een kroegje, dat ze later niet meer terug kon vinden, tegen het lijf  gelopen. Ze voelde haar slipje vochtig plakken en deze keer had ze niet gedronken. Gebiologeerd, haar ogen in trance op de glimmende rode cabines, stapte ze de markt op. Een kort rukje aan de warme hand van Wesley. Hij betaalde de kaartjes. Een jongen met twee stukjes van zijn voortanden deed het deurtje achter hen dicht en lachtte toen ze bij de grote neger op schoot klom. Ze protesteerde niet. Tranen welden op toen hij haar broek naar beneden trok, terwijl ze op haar knieën zat, maar ze stak haar heupen naar achteren en gromde toen ze zijn vingers in zich voelde. Ze hoopte dat hij een condoom gebruikte, maar meer nog dat hij haar zou neuken. Dat de gruwelijke uren dat hij haar negeerde beloond zouden worden. Ze zei “God ja” en “Fuck wat lekker”. Haar tranen vielen op het goedkope zwarte leer.

 

Deo Volente

 Nee, Wesley! Niet Paco. Niet Paco. Niet Paco.
De gipswand naast zijn hoogslaper zei “niet Paco”. De benauwde meter tussen het bed en het plafond zweeg “niet Paco”. Zijn adem, opgejaagd door nachtmerries die hij was vergeten, smeekte “niet Paco”. De woedende arrogante kop van Wesley doemde op voor de muur.
“Paco wants me to rape him. He’s begging for it. Just like you were!”
Wesley had Engels gesproken omdat Paco erbij was. En ondanks dat er geen greintje spijt viel te bespeuren in Wesleys agressieve houding, was Lars nog steeds opgelucht dat zijn geheim eruit was. Rape. Het had een naam. Een naam die in de hoge keuken van het oude studentenhuis was uitgesproken, en was gehoord door hem, door Wesley, en door Paco die in een rode hooggesloten jurk met afgesneden mouwen op de keukenbank zat. Met de slanke gespierde armen die onder de outfit uitkwamen was het een treffende Michelle Obama-imitatie.
Toen de laatste gasten hun slaapzak opzochten of naar huis gingen, had Paco Wesley uitgelaten. Met zijn jurkje opgeschort zat Paco op de gangkast. De grote neger tussen zijn benen. Hand onder zijn jurk die hij er weer uit haalde. Een “nee”. Maar een “nee” met een belofte. Lars voelde zijn gekrenkte trots door het bier heen.
Hij werd voor de tweede keer wakker. De deur van zijn kamer viel in het slot. Lars wierp een blik over de bedrand. De make-up had zwarte schaduwen om Paco’s ogen achtergelaten. Zijn zwarte lokken waren nat naar achter gekamd, en hij droeg een groot badlaken om zijn borst geknoopt. Het gezicht van Paco stond net zo serieus als gisteren in de keuken. Een uitdrukking die Lars in vier maanden nog nooit eerder had gezien. De valse nicht met zijn hoerige gewoontes hield voor één keer zijn bek. Paco knoopte de handdoek los. Zijn slappe pik schommelde toen hij de trap van de hoogslaper beklom. Zonder zijn hoofd te bukken kroop hij in het bed. Net zo groot als de meiden. Gracieus gleed Paco onder het dekbed, manoeuvreerde een arm onder een kussen en nestelde zich op zijn zij naar Lars toe. De letters van zijn tatoeage liepen op de kop over de gladde huid van de vrouwelijke oksel tot aan de elleboog.
“What does it mean?”
Lars’ stem klonk alsof hij van een ander was. Paco meets the Mona Lisa. Een vrije hand pakte die van Lars. Lars staarde verdoofd terug. Hij sloot zijn ogen voor hij de kus van Paco ontving.
De mond was zacht. Zachter dan van een vrouw. Zachter dan van een meisje. Uitgelokt door de afwezigheid van iedere agressie of lust, likte Lars de volle lippen van Paco, en kreunde toen Paco antwoordde. Zelfs de tong smaakte koel. De zware adem, kreun, verlangende mond van Lars nam terug. Duwde terug. Zijn één meter negentig schoof tegen Paco. De jongen gleed op zijn rug en voelde de pik van Lars tegen zijn lies porren. Hij opende zijn benen. Lars’ grote geslacht wreef door de boxer heen, tegen de veel kleinere blote Paco. De gladde koele voorhuid van Paco zat helemaal over zijn eikel, terwijl Lars zijn voorvocht al voelde vloeien. De slanke gespierde benen om hem heen, de sereen glimlachende Paco nog steeds onder hem. Handen kneedden over zijn boxer. Een glimlach kuste Lars’ verbaasde wangen.
“Paco… please.”
Lars worstelde zijn short naar beneden en trok de hand van Paco op zijn pik. Hij sloot zijn eigen hand om de erectie van Paco.
 Het verlangende kloppen van een andere pik in zijn hand. Het afgelegen strand bij het meer in de avondzon. De Kroatische leeftijdsgenoot met de diepbruine huid.
Lars’ orgasme mengde zich met de herinneringen. Paco’s gekreun was onvolwassen, en het geslacht nauwelijks groter dan wat hij op die vakantie in zijn handen had gehad. Lars opende zijn ogen. Zijn grote hand om Paco’s pik. Het sperma kon elk moment over de platte buik spuiten. Bij de aanblik van de eerste golf kon Lars zich niet meer beheersen en nam Paco in zijn mond. De smaak van sperma, de geur, de herinneringen. De sensatie van de eikel in zijn mond.  Lars likte Paco schoon. De jongen liet zijn vingers spelen door het blonde korte haar.
Buiten de slaapkamer bleef alles hetzelfde. Paco met zijn plagerijen en divagedrag speelde met verve de rol van outsider in het dispuutshuis. Lars bleef door zijn reputatie als vrouwenversierder boven iedere verdenking verheven. Ze hadden in de zolderkamers. Niemand zag het als Paco ’s ochtends de verkeerde deur binnenging of uitkwam. Paco’s zachte mond die hem pijpte. Het harde taaie lichaam van Paco dat zo gewillig meegaf in iedere omhelzing. Als de klik van de deurklink uitbleef, wachtte Lars uren in bed in de hoop dat Paco zou komen.  De woorden “Wesley” en “rape” waren nog nooit meegelift. De vernederende herinneringen brandden in afwezigheid van Paco.
De regen sloeg tegen de dakkapel, en Paco liet zichzelf met een zacht klikje binnen. Lars grijnsde vanaf de bedrand en kriebelde de natte kruin. Bij de stralende glimlach van Paco kreeg Lars zijn erectie. Badlaken op de grond. Vliegensvlug klauterend de ladder op en onder het dekbed dat Lars al open hield. Warme zoenen. Paco rolde onder, Lars op. Tussen de ontvangende benen van Paco voelde hij zijn eikel tegen de kont van Paco aan. Ontdaan verschoof Lars de vochtige eikel weer veilig tegen de lakens. Hij prevelde een excuus.
“I think it’s time.”
Paco sprak langzaam, terwijl hij Lars aan bleef kijken.
“I brought condoms and I want you to do it.”
Lars voelde zijn pik steigeren tegen Paco’s dij, zoende hem, en liet zijn vingers tussen de billen van Paco glijden. Hij stak zijn vingers naar binnen en voelde Paco kronkelen, wensen, openen.
“Where are they?”
De woorden schor en gehaast.
Zijn harde pik stond tegen zijn buik aan. Het condoom knelde. Paco was na het omdoen op zijn rug gaan liggen, zijn huid stak af bij de witte lakens. Hij wachtte. Het pulseren van zijn pik, van zijn bekken deed Lars nu al duizelen.
“Turn around,” gebood hij Paco.
Het tengere egaalbruine lichaam van Paco draaide zich om, spreidde zijn benen, en legde zijn polsen op zijn rug. Lars greep ze, spreidde Paco’s billen, en drong binnen. Paco schreeuwde en Lars voelde de opwinding nog dieper in zijn lendenen toen hij de pijn van Paco’s gezicht aflas. Met een sadistische grijns trok hij Paco’s bovenarmen achter zijn rug naar elkaar toe, en stootte dieper in de protesterende kreun. De letters van de tatoeage lazen van boven naar beneden.
De kont van Paco was strakker dan welke vrouw dan ook. Het harde lichaam onder hem kon tegen een stootje en was zijn gelijke. Paco schreeuwde en had pijn maar zou straks in zijn armen klaarkomen. Lars liet Paco los en boog zich over zijn geliefde. Hij kuste de gladde wang, de vrouwelijke wenkbrauwen, de tranen in de volle zwarte wimpers. Zijn laatste stoten waren langzamer terwijl hij sidderend terugtrok en weer naar binnen gleed.
Eén gelukzalige glimlach verspreidde zich over twee jonge gezichten.

 

Miguel

Miguel was een Argentijn die voor onbepaalde tijd in Nederland woonde. Zijn appartement lag op de hoek van twee drukke straten. Onder en boven hem woonden andere mannen. Net als hij werkten zij in goedbetaalde banen, bij vooraanstaande multinationals, en kwamen ze iedere avond thuis in een luxe studio. Ieder met een kleine maar complete keuken die nauwelijks werd gebruikt. Een parketvloer waar ze hun onderbroeken op lieten slingeren. En een internetaansluiting waar ze porno mee keken. Als de bewoners elkaar tegenkwamen in het lichte trappengat groetten ze elkaar. Een knikje. Niemand wist de nationaliteit van de ander, of welke taal hij sprak. Eens per week werden alle studio’s schoongemaakt. Maria, een Poolse vrouw die uitstekend Nederlands sprak, verloste de kamers van de troep. Van omgevallen bierflesjes en schrale lucht. De ramen vlogen open, de stofzuiger ging aan, en ze zong mee met Christina Aguilera op haar MP3. Op dinsdagavond, als de mannen thuiskwamen, waren de appartementen schoon. Vlaagjes allesreiniger met bloemengeur dwarrelden door de kamers, voordat ze door gebrek aan zuurstof weer neersloegen op het witte vloerkleed, de blauwe sprei en de lichte meubels. Daarnaast kwam er met regelmaat een blonde Servische, Eva. Ze waste het ontbijtbord van Miguel, gooide natte handdoeken in de wasmand en trok de gordijnen dicht als de winterdag geëindigd was.
“Welcome home,” zei Eva, als ze op haar weg naar buiten Miguel tegenkwam.
En Miguel knikte. Hij wist niet dat deze service niet was inbegrepen. Eva leende de sleutel van Maria en kwam alleen bij Miguel.
Het was vrijdagmiddag. Eva deed haar gebruikelijke ronde in het huis van Miguel. Het kleine beetje schoonmaakwerk was bijna gedaan. Nog even het bed rechttrekken en dan kon ze zich wijden aan waar ze voor kwam: de sfeer van het beloofde land. De eerste keer had ze een schoonmaakdienst van Maria overgenomen, en in dit appartement een envelop met grote, vreemde postzegels gevonden. Haar vingertoppen gleden over de exotische achternaam en haar blauwe ogen knepen samen om de minuscule letters in de zegels te ontcijferen. Alsof ze betoverd werd. Daarna kwam ze iedere week terug. Ze kon bijna het woestijnzand horen knarsen onder de lichtbruine leren laarzen onder het bed. De sneeuw van de Argentijnse bergen zien smelten in de zware zwarte jas. De scherpe Argentijnse zomerzon voelen branden bij de stapel biefstukken en ijskoude Heineken in de koelkast. Miguels appartement was een ansichtkaart, een reisgids. En Miguel zelf een levende belofte van een broeierig continent dat ze nooit had gezien.
Het bed lag niet open. Meestal hingen de dekens en lakens vanaf hun instoprand tot op de grond. Alsof Miguel open en naakt op het bed sliep, als een hond, zonder dekens of beschutting. Het beddengoed lag tot over de helft. Eva trok het los, zodat ze het opnieuw kon instoppen. En toen zag ze het bloed. Midden op het bed. Haar beweging bevroor. Ze liet het laken terugzakken, stevende naar de badkamer en opende de pedaalemmer. Een lege deodorant. Tissues. Geen condooms vandaag.
De deur vloog open en Miguel kwam de kamer in. De deur sloot met een harde klap.
“Go away,” blafte Miguel.
Wat zelfs voor zijn doen onbeleefd was. Zijn lichtbruine ogen stonden op onweer. Regen had zijn donkerblonde lokken aan zijn wangen geplakt, een baard van een paar dagen. Aan zijn slaap een droge snee geronnen bloed. Een verwilderd dier.
“I said, go away,” herhaalde Miguel.
Hij gooide zijn sleutels op het aanrecht en trok zijn jas uit. Miguel was eind twintig maar zijn stem klonk nu onverbiddelijk.
“I want you out.”
Adem snoof door zijn neus. Hij schudde natte krullen weg voor zijn ogen.
Eva wist niet wat ze eerst voelde. De adrenaline? Het bonken van je slapen, je hart. De hitte in je bovenbuik. Of was er eerst de opwinding? Ze was vochtig geworden van Miguels ruwe woorden. En Eva glimlachte even om haar eigen blindheid. Al die maanden was het niet Argentinië waar ze naar verlangde. Het was deze man. Miguels agressie vulde de kamer.
“Or else?”
Eva keek op. Miguel kneep zijn ogen samen. Hij werd hier in Nederland nooit tegengesproken. Mensen meden hem soms, maar niet dit. Zijn ogen volgden Eva, die langzaam naar het bed liep.
“Or else you are going to hurt me?”
Ze spreidde ze het laken open. Het bloed kleurde zwart in de slechte verlichting.
“She was a whore,” siste Miguel bijna onhoorbaar.
“You paid her?”
Ze deed alsof ze niet wist dat Zuid-Amerikanen ongeveer iedereen behalve hun eigen moeder een hoer noemden.
“She gave me a blow job, and then wanted to fuck her,” zei Miguel.
Hij staarde naar de besmeurde lakens.
“She said she was a virgin.”
“You took a virgin?” vroeg Eva, dit keer met licht afgrijzen.
“A vir-gin?”
Langzaam schudde Miguel zijn hoofd.
“That- ”
Hij wees naar het bed en toen naar zijn hoofd.
“Is my blood. She stopped me.”
Miguel had nooit de bedoeling gehad het meisje te verkrachten of te ontmaagden. In Argentinië komt orale seks na het neuken, als een stel elkaar goed kent. Toen dit meisje hem had gepijpt, maar daarna weigerde, had hij willen nemen waar hij recht op had en hielpen haar “nee”, het tegenspartelen en de tranen niet. Een scherpe dreun met haar ring tegen zijn slaap had hem wakkergeschud. Ze greep haar spullen bij elkaar, en hij had zich daas verontschuldigd. Misselijk van wat hij was geworden. Maar ook geil. Haar droogte onder zijn vingers. Hij dronk de hele koelkast aan bier leeg om te vergeten hoe haar strijd hem had opgewonden.
“I am not afraid of you.”
Eva sprak de woorden langzaam terwijl zij naar het licht liep. Miguel zag nu pas hoe mooi ze was. Stevig. Groot. Met haar 1,80 iets kleiner dan hij. Zwijgend stonden ze tegenover elkaar. Eva’s sluike haar glansde.
“I’m not afraid,” herhaalde het lichtgebruinde gezicht met de heldere ogen.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” huiverde Miguel.
Zijn opwinding was duidelijk voelbaar. Zijn pik hard.
“You hurt women all the time,” zei Eva.
“You like it.”
Het was waar. Hij wist precies wat een vrouw nodig had om opgewonden te worden, hoe hij haar zacht kon openen. De woorden en de tijd waarmee ze gewillig werd. Maar hij genoot meer van ruw, snel, pijn. Op de dagen dat zijn bloed kolkte, hij wilde vechten, zijn agressie kwijt moest; op die dagen meed hij vrouwen. Gisteravond was een ongeluk. En één dat hij nooit meer mee wilde maken. Zolang hij maar niet aan die overweldigende geilheid dacht, toen hij op het punt stond tegen haar wil bij het meisje binnen te dringen.
“You are right,” zei Miguel.
“I like hurting women.”
Deze waarheid verraste hem meer dan Eva. Ze had al lange tijd geen vriendje meer gehad. De meeste jongens boeiden haar niet. Ze voelde zich groot en lomp onder hun zwakke ledematen. Te geil onder hun verwarde geest. Eva wilde vuur en passie, en dat hadden Nederlandse mannen niet. Pas nu ze Miguels rauwe woede zag, voelde ze het gemis van de afgelopen maanden. Eva sloop dichterbij, haar lippen streken over de ruwe wang van Miguel.
“What are you waiting for,” fluisterde ze.
“I know you want to.”
Een golf van opwinding, begeerte en agressie stuwde in Miguel. Hij greep haar armen en wierp haar tegen het aanrecht. Haar stuit bonkte tegen de harde rand. Eva hapte naar adem en voelde zijn gezicht in haar hals. Ze rook de regen in zijn haar. De lichte alcoholadem van zijn roes.
“Don’t make me.”
Zijn stem was schor. Zijn harde pik duwde fel door hun kleren heen.
“I don’t want to be like this.”
In zijn polsen brandden de nagels van het meisje, in zijn oren galmde haar gegil. De geilheid van gisteren zich mengde zich met vandaag.
“Tell me your name,” zei ze zacht.
“Miguel,” fluisterde hij.
“Miguel…..”
Ze proefde de naam op haar tong.
“I am Eva.”
Zijn adem golfde in haar nek, als een wild beest dat zichzelf probeerde te beheersen. Zijn gewicht onverminderd hard tegen haar aan.
“Miguel?” fluisterde ze.
“Just stop when I say stop.”
Met een grom maakte Miguel zich los. Hij keek haar aan en knikte. Met zijn volle gewicht tegen haar aan zoende hij de mond, bezegelde de belofte, en zij begroette zijn tong, spreidde haar benen en ontving zijn ruwe omhelzing. Hij tilde haar op en liep met haar naar het bed. Hij gooide hun beider lichamen op het bed en samen verloren ze zich in een lange zoen. Toen draaide ze met een ruk haar hoofd af. Haar knie bonkte tegen zijn heup.
“Get off me!” spoog ze.
Miguel grijnsde. Hij greep haar heupen en keerde haar met een felle draai op haar buik. Voordat ze zich kon verdedigen greep hij haar broekrand en trok hem naar beneden.
“No!” gilde Eva.
Haar slipje schuurde in haar vlees. Miguel rukte haar spartelende benen tot over de bedrand. Haar billen omhoog. Knieën werkeloos gebonden door haar jeans.
“You are wet,” constateerde Miguel.
Zijn vingers streken vluchtig langs de ingang. Eva glimlachte met haar ogen dicht. Toen sprong ze op, een stuk over het bed heen. Haar buik over het bloed van de vorige avond.
“Don’t you touch me!”
Ze trapte hard in zijn buik, terwijl ze zich om haar as draaide. Hij dook woest op haar, perste één hand tegen haar borst, en stak twee vingers in haar. Haar geilheid vochtig tegen zijn hand. Gulzig spreidde ze haar benen.
“Miguel… I want you so bad.”
Snel schopte ze haar schoenen uit, zijn vingers nog diep in haar. Jeans viel op de grond. Slipje uit. Zij haalde zijn harde pik uit zijn broek. Toen trok hij zijn vingers uit haar, dwong haar weer op haar buik en trok haar spartelend naar zich toe. Hij zette zijn pik voor de ingang en stootte in één keer naar binnen. Ze onderdrukte een grom in het matras, haar handen klauwden de lakens.
“Hurt me again.”
Ze draaide haar hete gezicht uit het matras. Haar lange haar vurig om haar hoofd. Hij kromde zich over haar heen en stootte zijn volle lengte in haar. Hij hoorde haar kreet van pijn. En het huilen van alle vrouwen waarbij hij zijn zelfbeheersing had verloren. Geen “stop”. Hij hoorde geen “stop”, perste zijn vingers in haar vlees, en stootte opnieuw.
“Ow! It hurts,” schreeuwde Eva nu.
Haar lichte ogen vol tranen. Opnieuw stootte hij genadeloos. Haar hele lichaam schreeuwde het uit van de pijn.
“Stop! Please……..”.
Miguel liet zich over haar heen vallen. Hij rustte uit op haar sterke rug. Zijn naderende orgasme trok langzaam weg. Ogen dicht. Adem regelmatiger. Nu pas rook hij haar.
“Vanilla…” zei Miguel. “You smell like vanilla.”
En hij kuste haar betraande wang.
Bijgekomen van hun eigen passie en fantasieën ontwarden ze hun lichamen. Zijn zachte pik gleed uit haar. Hij treuzelde met zijn half afgetrokken jeans. Zij met haar T-shirt. Moesten die uit of aan? Eva schudde even met haar lange haar en kleedde zichzelf helemaal uit. Zonder toestemming te vragen kroop ze in het bed. Miguel volgde. Het meisje lag op haar zij en hij lepelde zichzelf erachter. Zo vielen ze in slaap.
Miguel en Eva spraken weinig. Als zij “stop” zei moest hij stoppen. Dat was alles wat ze van elkaar moesten weten. Zij mocht hem schoppen, slaan. Hij perste haar dijen open en nam haar snel en hard. Direct als ze binnen was, ‘s nachts als ze sliep, of ‘s ochtends als ze uit de douche kwam. Het was voor allebei even nieuw. Maar net als die eerste keer, kwam het “stop” altijd. Ze kon nooit alle pijn verdragen. De fantasie van zijn binnendringen, waardoor ze al geil was op weg naar hem toe, kon haar nooit voorbereiden. De pijn ontwaakte haar uit haar roes.
Na de playrape was ze altijd uitgeput. Viel ze bijna in slaap. Soms likte hij haar. Liet hij haar geil worden, totdat ze haar kreunen nauwelijks meer kon onderdrukken. Dan nam hij haar. Ondiep. Met haar benen bij elkaar. En duwde hij zijn vingers tegen haar kutje zodat ze klaar kwam samen met hem. Een slapend prinsesje dat teder werd genomen door haar prins. Maar meestal was hij ook te moe om opnieuw te beginnen. Hun geslachten ruw, armen en benen vermoeid van de strijd, en vielen ze in een slaap vol vervormde dromen. Maar altijd als ze “stop” zei en het neuken werd afgebroken, bleef ze hunkeren alles te ondergaan wat Miguel haar aan wilde doen. Een onstilbaar verlangen zich over te geven.
Op een dag kwam Eva weer langs. Ze liet zichzelf binnen. Miguel lag in bed.
“Hello beautiful,” vleide hij haar.
“How are you?”
Beduusd liep ze de donkere kamer in.
“No sex today?” vroeg ze.
Miguel lachte.
“Today I make you suffer.”
De televisie speelde cartoons. Hij liep bloot naar de koelkast voor een biertje.
“Why don’t you join me in bed?”
Zonder haar antwoord af te wachten opende hij ook een flesje voor haar en zette het aan haar kant van het bed. Mokkend trok ze haar kleren uit en ging naast hem liggen. Haar mond floot verveeld op het flesje.
“Are we not having a good time?’ zei Miguel plagerig.
Eva zuchtte diep.
“I don’t like this.”
“Then tell me………” zei Miguel.
“What would you like?”
“Sex,” mokte Eva nog even door.
Miguel schudde zijn hoofd. Zijn tong maakte een klikkend geluid.
“Nope. Not that easy.”
“Why not?” zeurde Eva.
“Because today you have to work for it.”
Eva keek hem niet-begrijpend aan.
“I am going to make you suffer,” verklaarde Miguel.
Bij het woord suffer drukte ze haar benen tegen elkaar.
“I hope you make me suffer a lot!” glunderde ze direct.
Weer het klakkende geluid.
“Nope. This is a special kind of suffer. Just for you.”
Eva fronste. Ze dacht heel diep na.
“Okay,” gaf ze zich gewonnen.
Ze zette de Heineken terug en ging op haar rug liggen.
“Let the suffering begin!”
De tv ging uit. Miguel ging bij haar onder de dekens liggen. Leunend op één arm bestudeerde hij haar lichaam. Zijn vingers gleden over haar gewelfde buik. De kleine blonde haartjes op haar venusheuvel.
“Eva,” sprak hij gewichtig.
“Today you have to say exactly what you want me to do.”
“Take me,” zei Eva.
Miguel onderdrukte een lach.
“No. Tell me how you want to be touched. Or licked. And tell me how it makes you feel. Or you don’t get anything.”
Eva rilde, maar maakte nog geen aanstalten mee te spelen.
“For example you can say: “I want you to kiss my belly, Miguel.””
Miguel bracht zijn mond naar beneden en kuste haar onderbuik, bovenbuik, een cirkelend spoor van kusjes. En hij maakte koerende geluidjes alsof het zijn hoogste genot was en hij er uren mee door kon gaan. Onder hem werd Eva’s lichaam ongeduldig.
“Miguel, I want you to…..”
Ze kwam niet uit haar woorden. Haar benen en buik reikten naar Miguel en haar vingers strengelden in zijn haar, maar de woorden bleven hangen. Onverstoorbaar vervolgde Miguel zijn kusjesregen. Ze gooide een been over zijn schouder, haar geslacht open. Ze duwde zijn hoofd naar beneden, maar hij weigerde. Kuskus op haar blonde buik. Ze plaatste haar andere hiel op zijn schouder en probeerde hem naar beneden te schoppen. Kuskus op haar navel. Er brandden tranen in haar ogen.
“Miguel!” perste ze.
“Yes, beautiful?’ vleide hij weer. “What is it?”
“Don’t do this!” beet ze hem toe.
Haar gezicht liep rood aan van frustratie.
“Do what, Eva?”
Hij koesterde zijn oor tegen haar buik alsof hij ging slapen.
“I could be with you like this forever Eva…”
Hij zuchtte verrukt.
“Touch me!” gebood ze.
“Where Eva?”
Ze greep zijn hand en wreef hem tussen haar benen. Miguel trok terug.
“You have to say it. Where do you want me to touch you?”
Frustratie werd tranen. Gekwetst trok Eva zich terug op haar zij.
“I cannot do this.”
Miguel lepelde zich achter haar. Ze stak haar hand tussen haar benen en wreef er tegenaan. Zacht maar beslist trok Miguel haar hand weg.
“Not allowed. You have to ask me to do it.”
Eva perste haar benen tegen elkaar.
“Miguel!”
Wanhoop in haar stem.
“Just ask.”
Miguel sprak rustig, maar zijn hand klemde nu als een bankschroef om haar pols.
“Touch my pussy.”
Ze brak.
“Please touch my pussy, Miguel.”
De klem om haar pols ging weg. Miguel streek de haartjes. Eva draaide op haar rug en spreidde haar benen. Langzaam gleden zijn vingers tussen de natte schaamlippen tot aan de ingang. Hij tastte de ingang af. Onder zijn vingers bewoog Eva haar bekken en kantelde het omhoog.
“Inside?”
Miguel kuste haar oor. Eva knikte. Miguels vinger gleed door het natte gleufje.
“Say….” zei hij rustig.
“Inside Miguel,” antwoordde Eva.
En op het moment dat hij twee vingers in haar stootte duwde ze haar heupen gretig naar hem. Haar adem versnelde onmiddellijk. Ze schoof onder Miguel en zoende hem. Hij zoende terug. Snuivend stortte zijn mond zich op de hare. Hij trok zijn vingers gehaast uit haar en nam haar diep. Ze hijgde en kreunde woorden waar met moeite “Miguel” en “God yes” in te herkennen was.
“Stop!” riep ze ineens.
Hij had de volle lengte van zijn pik nog niet gebruikt maar deed wat ze vroeg.
“What is it?” vroeg hij.
“Did I hurt you?”
Ze schudde haar hoofd en beet in haar trillende onderlip.
“Miguel……..I need something.”
Haar kutje spande en ontspande. De golven van emoties op haar gezicht masseerden zijn pik.
“I want you to….”
Vragend rustte zijn pik nog steeds in haar. Toen keek ze hem strak aan. De wanhoop van geilheid die niet bevredigd was. Een waas in haar ogen.
“Ignore me when I say stop, Miguel.”
Hij knikte. Heel langzaam. Hij hoorde haar geschreeuw al. Hij kon in gedachte haar wanhopige spartelingen voelen. Zijn maag kneep zich samen maar zijn pik werd nog harder en hij schoof dieper in haar.
“Are you sure?”
Hij moest zijn eigen stem even horen. Nog een moment had hij nodig. Het beest dat hij was begon zich al te roeren. Er zou geen weg terug meer zijn. Ze knikte. Het branden in haar moest stoppen. Dat eeuwige verlangen dat altijd gesmoord werd in zijn diepe stoten, maar nooit helemaal bevredigd. Hij liet zijn vingers tussen haar billen glijden. Ze huiverde. Hij huiverde.
“Have you ever…..?”
Zijn stem was schor. Ze schudde haar hoofd. Rillend las hij haar antwoord van haar lippen. Ze had het laatste gezegd dat ze wilde zeggen. Hij trok zijn pik uit haar. Terwijl ze zich op haar buik draaide hield hij haar blik zo lang mogelijk vast. Haar vuisten grepen het kussen vast en ze begroef haar gezicht.
Miguel nam nooit een vrouw van achteren. Hij kon een vrouw al nauwelijks gewoon neuken zonder haar pijn te doen. Er waren grenzen. Een grens die nu met haar billen omhoog en haar hoofd in het kussen voor hem lag.
Hij tilde Eva’s gespannen lichaam iets op en schoof een koel kussen onder haar buik. Ze verborg haar gezicht nog dieper. Het blonde kutje tussen haar benen. Het vocht. Hij vingerde haar terwijl ze gromde. Toen spreidde hij met zijn andere hand de plooitjes rond haar anus en bracht een natte vinger in haar kont. Nat. Vlug. Eva spartelde even, maar alleen met haar voeten. Haar heupen stak ze zelfs nog iets verder omhoog. Ze spande zich onwillekeurig, zijn vinger werd afgeknepen. Hij trok hem uit haar en knielde tussen haar dijen. Zijn pik tegen haar aan. Hij wachtte niet tot ze weer ontspannen was, maar drong binnen. Het was zo strak dat hij duizelde van geilheid. Zijn ogen dicht, uitgesteld genot. Nog heel even en hij zou zien wat hij alleen kende van pornofilms en van zijn eigen fantasieën. Hij opende zijn ogen. Eva’s onderrug holde als een kat. Haar spieren golfden. Tussen haar hoog geheven billen stond alles strak. Zijn grote handen op haar stevige billen, zijn duimen duwden vlak bij haar anus. Zijn pik tot net na de eikel erin. Hij greep haar heupen vast, en trok ze fel naar zich toe. Haar kreet kwam door het kussen heen voordat ze haar hoofd draaide zodat ze zeker wist dat hij haar hoorde.
“No! Stop!”
Tranen op haar wangen. Schrik in haar lichtblauwe ogen. Hij klemde zijn volle gewicht op haar. Een grote arm greep om haar schouder. De andere om haar middel.
“Please no……”
Ze jammerde toen hij haar nog wijder duwden. Vastgeklonken in zijn omhelzing kwam de tweede stoot.
“Come with me,” beval Miguel.
Zijn schuivende vingers gleden uit tussen haar schaamlippen. Hij verloor. “Eva… come now!”
Zijn bekken trok samen, het orgasme bulderde, kreunen echoden in zijn hoofd. En dan niets.
Een auto die start. De koelkast die aanslaat. In het trappenhuis galmt een vermoeide tred. Haar hart klopt dof en snel onder zijn oor. Hij is ogen die knipperen, oren die horen. Zijn tong trekt droog weg. Met een uiterste krachtsinspanning pelt Miguel zijn klamme wang van de stille spieren, zijn oor van het dof kloppende hart. Eva voelt een koele bries over haar rug. De blonde lokken woelen, draaien om. Lichtblauwe ogen staren verward.

 

Herbeleefd

Massief en spiegelend, maar met grillige ronde vormen waardoor de verdiepingen zweefden boven het verzengende asfalt. Geblindeerde auto’s en hoekige four-wheel drives schoten als hagedissen onder het gebouw en flapten hun kaarten langs beveiligers. Auto’s die voor de supermarkt kwamen passeerden met een babbeltje. Een onopvallende BMW reed de kelder in.
Massief en zwart, met olieachtige kringen in het matte glas. De schaduwkant van het gebouw lag tegen het volgende rayon en wierp zijn koelte over het gescheurde asfalt en ruziënde taxichauffeurs. Stapels tapijten, roedes vol lederwaren, en platte rollen stof, uitgestald tot diep in de desolate kelder waar de politie iedere ochtend de daklozen uitveegde. Een witte taxi stootte langs een walmend vuurtje met gebraden vlees en een vrouw sloeg vloekend de deur dicht. Witte blouse, een witte sjaal om haar haar. Een zonnebril verborg lichtgrijze ogen.
Hij stapte in de lift, die ondanks de luxe vloerbedekking en glimmende houten lambrisering om de paar seconden schokte en met een klap tot stilstand kwam op de verdiepingen. Alsof hij zich op het laatst bedacht. Drie early shifters stonden bij hem in het logge ding. Niemand stapte uit bij crèche of Spa & Health. In de grafieten gangen fluisterde een fonteintje. Uit de kamers kwam een kabbelende bedrijvigheid. Hij groette de strakgeklede secretaresses en tijdens het koffie pakken viel zijn oog op een geboortekaartje. Hij informeerde naar de bevallen medewerkster en keek naar de deur tijdens het antwoord. Een ruis kondigde haar komst aan. De ogen nog vermoeider dan gisteren en haar sjaal nog los om haar hals, het glanzende haar erover gedrapeerd. Ze groette beleefd de secretaresses voor ze hem aankeek en vroeg of ze hem kon spreken.
Ze nam het zware grijs van de vloerbedekking in zich op en klikte de spotjes aan. De kamer verschoot lichter. Het bloedrode bruin van haar bureau, het nachtpaars van de fauteuils. Het had weken geduurd voordat ze zich realiseerde dat er geen zwart was, met uitzondering van het landschap in zwarte inkt waarvan iedere kamer er één had. De gekleurde ramen spiegelden een koperen stad. Hij klopte tegen de deurpost en glimlachte op de drempel. Ongekreukte schoenen. Een soepel pak. De slapen een spoortje grijs waardoor de negroïde structuur zichtbaar werd.
“Je laatste dag.”
Het was een constatering. Ze knikte.
“Wat heb je nodig?” vroeg hij.
Hij sloot de deur achter zich en wachtte. Ze leunde rillend tegen de muur, de ragfijne sjaal strak over haar schouders getrokken.
“We hebben alles geprobeerd en het werkt niet.”
Haar stem was hees, van flirten was geen spoortje meer. De blouse zat los om haar bovenarmen, alsof ze zelfs daar was afgevallen de afgelopen weken. Haar groeiende breekbaarheid deed hem meer dan welke seksueel uitdagende opmerking die ze ooit had kunnen maken. Ze raakte hem omdat zij op haar leek. Haar, van vroeger. Zij, die jaren voordat hij dat deed was doorgegaan met haar leven, een ijshockeyer was getrouwd en hem nog wekelijks treiterde met blozende Facebookfoto’s. Maar dan gebroken, hanteerbaar en hier. In het hete verre land waar hij had gehoopt alles te vergeten en waar nu een bibberende herinnering hem dolend aankeek.

*

Ze gunde het zichzelf hem op te nemen. De man die hem niet was, maar er zoveel op leek. Ze mocht zich laven aan zijn aanwezigheid, die ze na vandaag weer zou moeten missen. Zoals ze al een half mensenleven had gedaan.
“Je handen. Weet je dat het dat was?”
Zijn blik ging naar de beker, middelvinger en ringvinger door het oor gestoken, waardoor hij de kop omvatte.
“Toen je hier naast me stond. Precies die van hem.”
Hij herinnerde zich niet meer welk excuus hij had gevonden om naast haar stoel te gaan staan en haar laptop te gebruiken terwijl zij nog zat, maar wel hoe zijn heup haar bovenarm raakte en ze met ingehouden adem was opgeschoven. Pas na een halve dag kwam haar bericht dat als hij het nog een keer in zijn hoofd zou halen “tegen haar aan te schurken”, ze zich niet nog een keer zou beheersen.
“Soms bid ik dat hij in leven blijft,” zei ze. “Dat is het enige. Stay alive.”
Ze had geen foto’s van hem, alleen een herinnering aan een hotelkamer waar ze nog één keer sprakeloos samen waren geweest. In elkaar verstrengeld door lust en verdriet. Een herinnering die nu werd ingekleurd met de warme stem die zijn beker wegzette. Zijn trouwring tikte tegen het porselein.
“Waar heb je spijt van?” vroeg hij.
Ze schudde haar hoofd en keek naar buiten. De tranen rolden onopgemerkt.

*

Zijn woorden glijden onder al mijn goede voornemens, en strelen iedere vezel die mist, verlangt en wanhoopt. Ik vouw mijn sjaal nog dieper om me niet huilend in zijn armen te storten. Als een magneet trekt mijn blik terug naar de slanke man, de wijze ogen, de hoge jukbeenderen. De gladde wangen een lichtbruin fluweel, alsof de tijd is vergeten hem te verouderen. Hij komt in beweging, slow-motion nadert degene die ik wil met bijtende vurigheid.
“Deur op slot.”
Ik vind rust in mijn onverwacht stabiele stem, die verantwoordelijkheid neemt.

*

De tranen versnellen naarmate ik dichterbij kom, en het kleine postuur vouwt zich in mijn armen, de snik nestelt tegen mijn revers. Ik druk haar hoofd tegen me aan, pers mijn ogen dicht. In een wanhopige kus op haar haar, zie ik de blonde kinderen. Ze hebben zijn grote krullenbos. In hun moeder herken ik de dwaze pupillen van mijn vroegere geliefde. Nog steeds verdoofd en beneveld. Mijn troosten gaat over in het strelen van het warme haar, en ze ontspant de klauwen, gruwelvuisten, uit mijn colbert en steekt ze eronder. Ik voel de warmte door mijn overhemd. Ik kus het zoute vocht van haar verdriet. Ze sluit haar ogen en prevelt:  “Het doet zo’n pijn”
Ik zeg: “Noem me bij zijn naam.”
Ze glimlacht en antwoordt: “En mij bij de hare.”

*

Ze recht gelukzalig haar rug en staat in volle lengte voor hem. Ze veegt de sjaal af, die landt om haar hakken, en haar gezicht licht op terwijl ze de naam noemt die altijd in haar geest is maar nooit op haar lippen.
“Eindelijk!”
Hij slaat haar plezier verbaasd gade, de geprezen handen op haar magere heupen en zijn duimen tegen het zachte vlees van haar buik. Ze schatert als hij haar noemt bij de naam, die hij droomt, nooit zegt. Haar eenvoudige ik hou van jou ontroert hem. De blije glimlach kust hem en hun tongen strelen speels. Haar ademkreuntjes snel en hijgerig, het puntje van haar kleine neus kriebelt zijn statige rechte. Ze schuurt haar schaambeen tegen hem, een plagerige stoot, en hij zet de volle lippen tegen haar smachtende kreun. Haar tong geeft mee, en ze laat zich tegen de tafel duwen. Knoopjes van haar door hem, van hem door haar. Ik ben zo blij met jou. Wat ruik je heerlijk. Ik heb je zo gemist. Ze zeggen dezelfde zinnen, herhalen elkaars nooit uitgesproken woorden. Bewonderen het onbekende lichaam dat ze op moesten geven. Na de eerste naakte kronkelende omhelzing, gevlochten ledematen en het roekeloze tongen, haperen hun monden in een nieuwe behoefte: Ik wil je proeven. In een korte worsteling laat hij haar winnen en ze hurkt neer. Ze sluiten hun gedachten voor de ander op het moment dat ze zijn pik in haar mond neemt. Haar slag is langzaam en regelmatig en ze trilt haar keel om zijn eikel. Het snelle orgasme slikt ze goedkeurend door, en ze likt tot de laatste druppels.
Ze ligt op het donkere gladde hout van de tafel, haar benen open en zijn volle lippen kussen het vocht. De topjes van zijn vingers onderzoeken de ingang. In een vier keer herhaalde please en een venijnige krab maakt ze duidelijk dat ze net zo ongeduldig is als de vrouw die hij probeert te vergeten. Hij veert op en buigt naar haar protesterende mond. Druktemaker. In een lange tongzoen trekt hij haar omhoog. Voorhoofden tegen elkaar, ze staren naar hetzelfde. Het schouwspel van zijn pik, vibrerend voor haar. Zo graag. Na de eerste centimeters vinden ze elkaars blik weer. Een naamloze ontmoeting.
Ze zit nog steeds op de tafel, hij koesterend tegen haar aan. Hun orgasmes zijn overgegaan in een stille omhelzing.
“Dat het niet anders kon,” zegt ze. “Daar heb ik spijt van. Net als nu.”

<3

Dit was het laatste deel van 22 Erotische Verhalen. Mijn volgende boek is LS Diary.
Ik zet deel 1 t hier zo spoedig mogelijk online, en ook op Twitter en Facebook.

22 Erotische Verhalen – deel 2 | vroege lezers editie

Heetste dag van t jaar! Ik ben mijn acht boeken aan het publiceren en “22″ is het NSFW stuk van mijn oeuvre. Deel 2 bevat meer ruige seks dan deel 1, dus langzaam gaat de temperatuur omhoog.. Maar wat me eigenlijk het meest opvalt, nu ik dit jaren na dato redigeer, is met hoeveel liefde de verhalen geschreven zijn. En dat je dan echt alles erotisch krijgt.
Dus oordeel zelf.

Geen onderwerp

De vale ochtendzon en mijn hongerige kater maakten me wakker. Ik glimlachte. De lange nacht had mijn geheugen in slaap gesust, en alleen de roes van geluk was achter gebleven. Ik wist niet meer van de emails. Niet meer van het neuken. In omgekeerde volgorde dreven de herinneringen omhoog. Mijn knieën krampachtig tegen je flanken en mijn billen weerloos in je handen. Langzaam liet je me over je pik zakken.
“Shhh. Ontspan maar,” tilden je handen me iets omhoog.
Je stootte opnieuw. Ik onderdrukte mijn kreet schuilend tegen je borst.
De herinneringen gingen terug.
Een halve maan, wit tegen de hemel. Het natte, donkere dekbed. Ik hoorde de stilte van mijn snikken en de vraag die je onbeantwoord liet. Nu wist ik nog niet of jij ook wel eens verdriet had in bed. Ik voelde mijn lijf, omgekeerd. Mijn haren los tussen je dijen, mijn mond zoog aan je pik en tussen mijn benen de onverzadigbare hitte van je tong. Mijn vocht droop langs mijn buik. Je pik groot en onrustig in mijn hand, mijn mond ontvangend in je schoot.
Ik lag op mijn rug, ik was bloot.
Er was een man in mijn bed. Een man die vreemd voor me was, maar die me zoende, kusjes die hem tot mijn kutje hadden gebracht. Zijn stevige handen duwden mijn knieën uit elkaar. Kou streek langs mijn vocht. Verlegen schoof ik omhoog, zijn ogen tussen mijn benen, en hij hield mijn heupen vast. Het duurde eindeloos, en mijn verlegenheid prikte tot tranen. Toen voelde ik zijn vinger, die zacht tussen mijn lipjes streelde. Hij zei lieve woordjes die ik niet hoorde. Mijn stem was schor toen ik hem smeekte naar binnen te gaan.
Ik zat achter de computer en er was een jongen, ergens in Nederland.
Hij schreef me, waarom wist ik niet. Hij had geheimen, welke vroeg ik niet meer. Zijn verlangen zat gevangen in woorden, in alinea’s die hij snel typte, gretig. Je vergat de tijd als je het las. Je vergat wat je buiten die woorden, buiten de seks, met elkaar had. Op hun eigen imperfecte manier waren ze het enige wat er toe deed.

Herboren

Er waren verklaringen, studies. Geleerden die vertelden over plantages en symbolen, een slavenverleden gekerfd in het geheugen van zowel wit als zwart. Maar Lauren kende geen enkele mythe, behalve die ene, waar elke blanke haar naar vroeg: of het met de afmeting te maken had.
“They come in all shapes and sizes,” antwoordde ze.
Zich baserend op n=2 en haar logisch verstand.
“Ik knap altijd af op vrouwen zoals jij,” antwoordde de afgewezen blanke man op de chat.
De duivel in haar lach. De nieuwe identiteit voegde zich naar haar blanke schouders, naar de welvingen van haar buik en haar gladde venusheuvel. Ze hoorde de Afrikaanse naam in haar hoofd, plakkerig als honing, met klinkers die misten waardoor er in het midden een scherpe stilte viel. Ze had nog twee uur om haar huis op te ruimen.
De sneeuwvlokken dwarrelden als een tedere douche tegen de donkere nacht. De straatlantaarn piekte de lucht in, ver boven Lauren’s besneeuwde huisje.
“Gelukkig is het niet heel koud ofzo,”  waren zijn eerste woorden.
Zijn donkere gezicht viel weg onder de muts en zwarte capuchon. Ze manoeuvreerde haar fiets en Albert Heijn tassen de krappe gang in.
“You’re such a baby,”  kuste ze zijn koude wangen.
Haar bevroren neus rook zijn vertrouwde geur nog niet. Hij hield het gesprek gaande vanaf de bank, met zijn voeten tegen de verwarming in plaats van op de koude keukenvloer. Zijn tour door Europa met vrienden. Wat er zo leuk was aan Japan. Hij memoreerde zomervakanties waarin hij meeging met zijn ouders, waarna de honger en armoede hem tot de herfst achtervolgden. De stress van zijn tentamens. Zijn Onmogelijke Ex.
“Volgens mij ben jij anders dan andere mannen,”  zei ze.
Hij ontkende en pakte de kop chai aan, met hete melk.
“Moet het eten nu nog 45 minuten in de oven?”
Ze zou van hem nooit risotto leren maken.
Lege borden. Uit de bak Mona brownietoetje staken twee afgelikte lepels. Weer een smsje van een vriend. Waar hij bleef.
“Wil je nog een kop thee voor je weggaat?”
Ze verzamelde de vaat, dralend aan zijn kant van de bank. Hij trok haar langzaam op zijn schoot, zodat ze haar handen leeg kon maken. Ze omhelsden. Ze kuste het korte kroeshaar, en hij haar decolleté. Hun geluidjes waren sabbelend, tevreden. Kusjes op haar gezicht, zijn gezicht, zoenen op de mond, droog, de lippen gesloten. Zijn handen masseerden haar billen. Hij gaf geen zoenen die haar verwarden, waar ze in verdwaalde. Het afknijpen van de strakke jeans was niet te harden. Het beperkte elke beweging en alles wat ze wilde voelen. Geen seks. Geen seks. Maar ze vroeg hem of de kleding uit mocht die haar pijn deed.
“Ik kan dat wel aan,” kleedde hij hun uit.
Haar ogen dronken de chocoladebruine huid die onder zijn winterkleding vandaan kwam. Hij duwde haar, nog steeds in trance,  zacht achterover, zijn boxer over haar minuscule string. De zucht leek uit haar tenen te komen, toen zijn forse lichaam het hare bedekte. De herinnering aan een slanke koele man smolt onder de warmte.
Het kant van het slipje. Het zijde van zijn boxer. Haar vocht doordrenkte alles en de begeerte stuwde naar haar tenen, naar haar kruin. Wiegend op zijn schoot. Weerloos op haar rug. Zijn duim en vingers sloten om haar blanke hals.  Hij domineerde, streelde, zoende. Zijn erectie streek, plaagde, daagde haar uit.
“Wat wil je dat ik doe?” bracht ze uit, hangend in een draai die ze niet begreep.
“Niets, genieten,” draaide hij haar verder op haar buik.
Ze stak haar heupen omhoog voor ze de gladde pik tussen haar billen voelde.  Ze kreunde, overweldigd door lichamelijk verlangen. Er was zelfs geen echo van de bedwelmende fantasieën. Zijn hand over haar slipje, de kloppende venusheuvel.
“Wat zei je? Ik kon je niet verstaan.”
2009. Bloed. Handdoek. Nieuwe lakens. Weer nieuwe lakens.
“Ik moet vandaag ongesteld worden.”
En terwijl ze sprak schoof zijn hand achter de string. Ze voelde een onomkeerbaar “ja” toen zijn vinger naar binnen gleed. De pik dringt binnen en vult zonder pijn. Ze hapt naar adem. Hoe heeft ze dit kunnen vergeten. Hij verandert slechts één keer van positie, een kleine aanpassing. Ze zoent de volle lippen, grijpt zijn brede schouders, verbaast zich bij elke blik over de schoonheid van zijn donkerbruine huid bij haar blanke. Hij fluistert. Als ze klaar kan komen, moet ze dat doen.
Minuten liggen. Hij valt bijna in slaap. Het lome wakker worden en hij kleedt zich aan om weg te gaan.
“Ik vond het niet makkelijk, de eerste keer seks na mijn ex,” zegt hij.
“Voor jou is het beter zo. Mij kende je al.”

Playboy

Grijze ogen. Haar donkere wenkbrauwen piepen nog net onder de dikke rand van de muts vandaan. Het oud papier in de hal klappert in de ijzige december wind.
“Hoi, ik kom voor de locatie. Voor Playboy.”
Handschoenen trekken de witte sjaal iets naar beneden.
“Ik ben Lauren.”
Zij is groter dan hij, maar zij draagt hakken. De donkere jongen steekt zijn hand uit.
“Joel.”
“Wat een mooie naam.”
Krachtig veegt ze haar laarzen en neemt een grote stap over een omgevallen doos.
“Zouden Nederlandse ouders ook eens moeten doen.”
“Ik heet gewoon Heemskerk hoor.”
Zijn glimlach heeft de volheid van zijn moeder.
“Je ziet er wat koud uit.”
Muts af, sjaal los. De lange slippen van haar jas beklimmen de afgetrapte treden.
“Woon jij hier, of ben je het model?”
Ze schudt haar haar uit.
“Ik woon hier. Jan is mijn oom.”
De afwas staat in grote stapels in de gootsteen. De Senseo warmt op en Joel wast twee mokken af.
“Ik had iemand van Playboy verwacht.”
Ze laat haar stem luchtig klinken.
“Moet jij me de locatie laten zien?”
“Ik wil een dubbele, jij ook?”
Hij ververst de pads en duwt nog een keer. Het zeil van de keuken is grauw aan de randen, de naden gescheurd en piekend. Bij het fornuis liggen drie verdwaalde aardappelschijfjes.
“Dus hier kan ik straks op mijn knieën gaan zitten,” constateert Lauren pinnig.
“Die vloer is nog harder aan een beurt toe dan -”
Ze verslikt zich. Hij kijkt op van zijn koffies. Haar jonge giechel vermengt zich met zijn grijns.
“Kun jij mooi ons vloertje dweilen.”
Hij reikt hij haar de Forever Friends mok.
“Mevrouw de cougar.”
Zijn vingers raken haar vingers. Om de mok valt een stilte. Traag beweegt ze, pakt de mok met twee handen aan. Haar vingers om zijn pols, nagels langs zijn huid. Zijn palm gestreeld als hij langzaam terugtrekt.
Handtas tussen wetbundels en laptop. Haar jas over zijn ochtendjas aan de deur. Ze drinken koffie op de bank met een minuscule strook Ikea tussen haar en zijn dijbeen.
“Joel?”
“Ja?”
Hij slaat zijn lange zwarte wimpers op.
“Ik begrijp het niet.”
Haar adem stokt als ze zijn mond voelt. Haar lip trilt. Hij zoent haar wimpers, likt haar neus. Als een kat schuift ze haar gezicht tegen hem aan, likt hem terug, ontvangt zijn warme tong. Beweeglijk vlecht ze haar lichaam om hem heen, streelt zijn armen, glijdt onder het shirt. Buikspieren golven onder haar hand.
“Uit,” gromt ze.
 Mooi.
Mmmmm.
Je bent zo…

Haar handen kneden spieren, haar ogen drinken zijn huidskleur. Na ieder kledingstuk vlijt haar blanke huid zich tegen zijn donkere. Ze streelt zijn pik. Hij is hard door de dunne zachte stof.
“Zullen we naar boven gaan?” vraagt hij.
Lauren’s rondingen wiegen voor zijn gezicht als ze op de hoogslaper klimt. Hij gooit een tasje van de Etos op het dekbed. Het dak zit een krappe meter boven hun zoenen.
Ze kreunt als hij haar vingert, trekt haar knieën hoger, tilt het dekbed op.
“Ik wil je zien.”
Haar dijen blank, zijn huid donker. Hij gebruikt een vinger extra als ze haar benen wijder doet.
Hij op zijn rug.
Allebei houden ze hun adem in als zij de dunne boxer van zijn heupen laat glijden. Ze kust de koele voorhuid, voordat ze hem terug duwt met haar lippen. Haar tong likt langs de schacht omhoog, iedere keer als ze haar hoofd terugtrekt. Zuigend, strelend. Haar vrije hand pakt condooms. Met de steigerende pik in haar keel klemt haar mond de basis. Ze ritst een verpakking open, laat hem uit haar mond glijden en negeert een protesterende kreun. Haar handen vaardig.
Ze kijken elkaar aan als ze op hem gaat zitten en hem helemaal in zich neemt.  Ze leunt behoedzaam over hem heen. Een arm om haar rug, een hand op haar billen. Hij zet zijn voeten in het matras en stoot krachtig in haar. Ze kreunt en hapt naar adem in zijn hals.
Hij kneedt haar billen. Zij likt zijn huid. Tussen de stoten door zoenen hun monden hongerig. Hij rolt haar op haar rug. Haar benen klemmen gulzig om hem heen. Snelle stoten, ondiep. Hij tilt zich iets hoger en laat haar kijken naar haar buik, zijn buik. Het stoten van zijn pik. Een blos verspreidt zich over haar borsten, langs haar hals. Hij voelt haar knijpen, schokkend, en stoot dan dieper. In een omhelzing komen ze klaar. Zij kreunt alsof ze moet huilen. Hij kust haar ogen.
Ze liggen stil op hun zij, om elkaar heen, naar elkaar toe.
“Joel…..”
Zij is de eerste die spreekt.
“Ik begrijp het nog steeds niet, maar dank je wel, Joel Heemskerk.”
Ze lachen.
“Jan had gezegd dat je zou komen,” zegt hij.
“Die shoot is niet hier. Maar ik kan wel vragen of ik je model mag zijn.”

Een verloren wedstrijd

Zijn loop is asymmetrisch, gehaast, alsof hij nog ergens naar toe moet. Hij tast onder het harde plastic van zijn schouderpads. Zijn gezicht verbijt zich in de schmink van de strepen. Het speeksel in zijn mond. De rochel van zijn adem. De lage gang perst al zijn geluid naar hem terug. Dan rolt het gejuich vanaf het veld de catacomben in. Euforisch stampen duizenden voeten boven zijn hoofd. Met zijn gezonde schouder ramt hij de deur van de kleedkamer open. Zijn heup beukt tegen de klink, net naast de heuppadding.
“Godver!”
Hij bijt bloed in zijn lip. Tranen frustreren zijn ogen. Onwillekeurig werpt hij nog een laatste blik de gang in. Zijn vloeken sterven op zijn lippen.
Haar ronde heupen donker tegen het licht van de ingang. Snelle deinende pas. De zwarte schim wordt zwierende schaduwen, worden blonde lokken, een onberispelijk witte blouse. In de kanten rand van haar bh zit een roze borduursel.
“You’re staring at my tits,” merkt ze op als ze voor hem staat.
“You usually hide it better.”
Haar lange strakke wimpers waaieren uit in de hoeken, waardoor haar ogen nog verder uit elkaar lijken te staan. Met een autoritair knikje geeft ze aan dat hij de deur blokkeert.
Met veel au en gevloek trekt hij het shirt uit. Ze bevrijdt hem uit de bescherming om zijn borst, gespt, ritst, trekt het harnas uit. De geur van zweet vergezelt zijn bewegingen. De harde bank is laag en klein. Haar vingers onderzoeken zijn gespannen spieren, schuren het zand over zijn huid, en glijden over de rode plek die glimmend schoon is. Hij kreunt als ze onder zijn schouderblad voelt.
“It’s not dislocated,” brengt hij uit, en proeft het bloed in zijn mond.
“I don’t like it when somebody fucks with my investment,” antwoordt ze.
Zijn blik dwaalt over de koude vloer van de kleedkamer. Het denim rond haar dijen schampt langs zijn been.
“You should shower. You’re getting cold.”
Ze doet een stap achteruit en gaat zitten. Hij trekt zijn schoenen uit, sokken. Twijfelend blijven zijn duimen hangen op de broekrand. Hij reikt in zijn broek naar het beschermende foam.
 Wisselende tongen van cheerleaders die zijn ballen likken.
Neuk me. De zachte diepte van zijn vriendin. Kale natte kutjes waarin zweet en geil zich mengen met de kruidige geur van sauna.

Iedere scene klettert uit elkaar op de harde tegels tussen hun verbaasde gezichten. Ze knijpt haar ogen samen. Haar blik speurt over het jonge gezicht. De glanzende bruine spieren. De snel ademende buik. Haar voeten glijden uit haar pumps. Geruisloos staat ze op en sluipt over de tegelvloer. Vlak bij hem houdt ze stil  en ruikt langs zijn huid. Haren kietelen zijn hals. Ze strijkt langs zijn ademloze borst, kust de ademloze hals. De gladde lijn van zijn kaak totdat hij teder terug zoent, één hand twijfelend op haar bil. Ze lacht en duwt de hand diep achterlangs tussen haar benen, zijn middelvinger over de strakke naad van haar jeans. Hij gromt, trekt haar naar zich toe, perst zijn erectie tegen haar aan. Ze zoenen bedwelmd van geilheid, met hongerige tongen. Haar hete huid siddert onder zijn lippen en haar volle borsten stralen roze en warm. Ze likt zijn zoute spieren. Hij stroopt de broek van haar heupen, knielt naakt aan haar voeten. Hij helpt haar uit de laatste kledingstukken en hij zet haar benen verder uit elkaar. Zijn hand streelt langzaam, tergt de binnenkant van haar dijen. Hij zoent de blonde venusheuvel, ze onderdrukt een kreun als zijn tong haar vocht raakt. Ze grijpt hem voor houvast als hij twee vingers in haar steekt.
Hij zit. Haar hoofd in zijn schoot. Mmmmm, spint haar mond. Zijn vingertoppen verkennen haar haar en ze vangt de handen om haar achterhoofd. Aarzelend trekt hij haar mond dieper over zijn pik. Mmmmm, slaat ze haar ogen op. Hij grijpt, stoot, stoot opnieuw. Zij omhelst hem in het diepste van haar keel terwijl hij kreunt in zijn eigen ritme.
Ze zit op de harde bank met haar benen wijd. Hij zit voor haar, zijn knieën op de scherpe voegen. Zijn erectie hard naar voren tegen de ingang. Haar brede diepliggende ogen kijken hem eindeloos aan. Zijn bruine ogen zwijgen. Heel langzaam glijdt zijn pik in haar. Ze wendt haar blik af en slikt. Dan kijkt ze hem aan om nooit meer weg te willen kijken.

Was getekend

Dita kon niet aan Nederland wennen, ze was altijd onrustig. Ze ging op de fiets naar de Hogeschool, at taart van de Hema en kende een paar woorden. Goedemorgen. Eet smakelijk. Prettige avond. Dita’s ouders waren diplomaten en ze was opgevoed door haar oma in Barcelona, die haar stijfgestreken kleren aantrok. De bloesjes en rokjes waren zo strak dat de harde stof haar kinderhuid irriteerde en ze tot ergernis van haar oma haar kleren uittrok. De meisjes uit Dita’s klas benijdden haar schone, stralend witte bloezen en haar prachtige dikke haar. En hoewel ze zich sinds haar kleutertijd niet meer op school had uitgekleed, waren haar vrouwelijke klasgenootjes het nooit vergeten en pestten ze haar dat ze een diertje was. Alleen haar zigeunervriendje, een potig ruw kereltje dat twee stukjes van zijn voortanden miste, speelde graag met haar. Ze schikte zich naar haar lot, en reisde toen ze oud genoeg was haar ouders achterna. Na een jaar vertrokken zij, weg uit Noord-Europa, en lieten Dita achter.
Het was nog niet eens zeven uur. Helen, de frêle hospita van begin veertig waadde zich in het donker door de gang naar de badkamer. Ze douchte, smeerde zich in met bodylotion, en trok een setje wit ondergoed aan met bloemen in zachte poederpastels. Haar dure ondergoed was slechts één van de vele dingen waarin de Française in haar zich liet zien. Ze maakte het af met een wit hemdje met spaghetti bandjes en een randje kant. Toen ze de badkamerdeur opende zag ze Dita bloot uit haar kamer komen. Dita’s huid had een lichte honingkleur. Haar lichaam was slank maar met stevige ronde vormen, alsof het uit zandsteen was gehouwen. De huid glansde in de slecht verlichte gang. Dita’s borsten waren klein en de tepels zacht alsof een interne hitte ervoor zorgde dat ze niet hard konden worden. In Dita’s schouders, armen en benen golfden spieren onder een zacht laagje vrouwenvlees. De ogen van Helen gleden over dit jonge lichaam en hielden stil tussen haar benen.
“Dita!” riep de Française.
“You don’t shave!”
Het schaamhaar van Dita was vol en donker. De Spaanse wierp een blik naar beneden. Haar ogen waren nog dik van de slaap en haar mond stond een stukje open.
gIt is natural, right?” concludeerde ze.
Haar “r” was rond en voor de “i” zat bijna onhoorbaar een “g”. Gedachteloos gleden haar vingers door de haartjes.
“Sometimes, when boy asks.. ”
Ze nam niet de moeite de zin af te maken.
“But David don’t mind.”
David was de minnaar van Dita. Meerdere keren per week kwam de jonge Italiaan ’s avonds langs en hoorde Helen ze vrijen. Helen’s vorige huursters hadden nooit een seksleven. De kleine slaapkamer met de twijfelaar, nauwelijks groter dan een eenpersoonsbed, was voor hen prima geweest. Maar door Dita was er het kreunen van David en het zwoegen van de oude planken. Als David er niet was, hoorde ze voor het slapen gaan het zachte zuchten van Dita die masturbeerde.
Op een dag kondigde Helen aan voor een paar weken naar Frankrijk te gaan. Ze vroeg of Dita bezwaar had als er een jonge vrouw kwam.
“She can have my room,” zei Helen.
“It’s only for a few weeks.”
gI don’t mind,” haalde Dita haar schouders op.
Ze was niet iemand die zich veel aantrok van de aanwezigheid van anderen.
De maand daarna vertrok Helen en meldde de nieuwe bewoonster zich om acht uur ’s ochtends aan de deur. De etiketten van de intercontinentale vlucht wapperend in de gure Hollandse wind. Dita hielp de vrouw binnen en flanste een ontbijt in elkaar terwijl de nieuwe bewoonster haar bagage naar boven bracht. Zwijgend zaten de twee vrouwen tegenover elkaar. Kopjes thee dampten. De nieuwe bewoonster keek onderzoekend naar een beschuit met hagelslag die op haar bordje lag. Dita keek op haar beurt nieuwsgierig naar haar nieuwe huisgenoot. De vrouw was donker en dun. Een Afrikaanse met de jukbeenderen van een fotomodel. Haar westerse kleding stak af bij haar donkere handen en gezicht. Dita herkende onmiddellijk de toewijding waarmee de lichtroze blouse gestreken was.
“Don’t that irritate skin?” vroeg Dita, terwijl ze haar handen over de mouw van de stof liet gaan.
De zwarte ogen van de Afrikaanse spuugden vuur.
“You think we all run around naked?”
Verschrikt sloeg Dita haar handen voor haar mond.
“No! Of course not!”
Maar haar Engels was niet goed genoeg om uit te leggen wat ze bedoelde, en Edda, de Afrikaanse, was niet in de stemming om te luisteren.
Een aantal dagen leefden de vrouwen langs elkaar heen, slechts beleefdheden uitwisselend. Goedemorgen. Slaap lekker. En Dita liet zien hoe de wasmachine werkte.
Op een dag kwam Dita thuis van haar werk. Edda was niet thuis en Dita maakte eten voor zichzelf. Haar ogen dwaalden af en toe naar het bureau van Helen, dat sinds de komst van Edda begraven was onder stapels paperassen, zakken drop en een laptop. Toen Edda na het eten nog niet thuis was, kon ze haar nieuwsgierigheid niet langer bedwingen. Langzaam liet ze de mappen door haar handen glijden. Unicef rapporten. Een Engels rapport van het Nederlandse Ministerie van Volksgezondheid. Ze opende een willekeurige map. Plaatjes van verminkte vagina’s. Besnijdenis. Daarom was Edda hier. Ze sloeg de gruwelijke vondst dicht, onwillekeurig gleed haar hand tussen haar benen. Ze begon te huilen en kroop op de bank.
“Why are you here in the dark?’ informeerde Edda, terwijl ze het licht aanklikte.
Dita’s grote ogen keken haar aan. Het zout van tranen opgedroogd op haar wangen.
gI saw the pictures,” antwoordde ze.
“On your desk. They are so bad.”
Edda knikte.
“That’s why I do my work. Because they are bad.”
“You too?” vroeg Dita.
“This is not about me,” zei Edda, die haar tas begon te doorzoeken.
“Yes, but you have that too?” vroeg Dita, die niet begreep dat Edda de vraag bewust  onbeantwoord had gelaten.
Edda zuchtte.
“Yes, me too.”
“Let me see,” zei Dita.
Edda greep een gordijn en trok het dicht. Stof slingerde door de kamer.
“No.”
“I want to,” zei Dita.
“It is ugly,” bleef Edda weigeren.
“Goodnight.”
Dagen, nachten en beleefdheden gingen koeltjes voorbij. In de laatste week van haar verblijf kwam Edda in een donker huis. Dita’s jas en schoenen slingerden bij de kapstok. Ze keek of Dita weer in het donker zat te huilen maar de bank was leeg. Opgelucht trok ze haar jas uit. Toen viel haar oog op de tafel. In het midden lag een roze briefje.

Dear Edda,
I am sorry you are angry. You are not ugly. Please let me see you.
I promise I will not touch if you don’t want. I will wait in bed.
Please don’t be angry with me.
Dita.

En onder de zakelijke kleding, onder het strakke gezicht, smolt het topje van Edda’s woede, en voelde ze het verdriet van Dita. Dita, die huilde om het verdriet van een ander. En Edda, onmachtig haar eigen lijden te voelen, huilde nu voor Dita. Ze ging naar boven. De kamer was donker. Het dikke dekbed bedolf de kleine Dita.
“You came,” zei de berg met dekens.
Ze knipte een lampje aan en klom uit bed. Zwijgend keek Dita hoe Edda zakelijk haar broek los maakte en naar beneden stroopte. De Afrikaanse ging op de rand van het bed zitten. Haar broek laag.
“Better lie down,” zei Dita.
Toen Edda op bed lag, trok Dita de schoenen en sokken uit, en de broek en het slipje.
“Blouse off too,” rilde Dita.
“Not good for skin.”
In een wit hemdje lag Edda op bed.
“I am going to look, yes?” zei Dita, die op de bedrand was gaan zitten.
“You shave,” glimlachte ze.
“Muslim habit,” antwoordde Edda.
Toen trok ze haar knieën op en liet ze open vallen. Enkels gekruist. Een gladde venusheuvel opende zich. Oude sneeën en sneetjes. Grove dikke stukken. Kleine gaatjes alsof iemand met een naald geprikt had. En op het serieuze gezicht van Dita kwamen tranen. Haar vingers raakten de littekens. Edda rilde.
“Edda………….” huilde Dita.
“Can I touch, please?”
“You already are,” zei Edda droog.
Vederlicht bevoelde Dita de schaamlippen. De littekens waren te droog en te ruw om te strelen.
“You need honey,” zei Dita.
“My grandmother told me.”
En weg was de Spaanse. Toen ze terugkwam staarde Edda daas voor zich uit.
“They are old,” zei ze bedachtzaam.
“I am scarred for life.”
“I want to,” schoof Dita de donkere benen weer wijder.
Ze smeerde de honing op het ruwe geslacht van Edda, maakte kleine cirkels van boven naar beneden, langs de littekens die eerst schaamlippen waren naar de ingang. Na een paar cirkeltjes doopte ze haar vinger opnieuw in de pot.
“Have you been with a man?” vroeg Dita.
Edda schudde haar hoofd.
“That is not for me.”
Ondanks de aanrakingen van Dita toonde Edda geen enkele opwinding. Haar benen lagen open alsof ze bij de dokter was. De dokter in Nice, die alle ontstekingen van de besnijdenis had moeten behandelen. Verschillende dokters. Zusters. Artsen in opleiding. Edda’s vagina was niet meer van haar. Het tweede rondje was afgelopen. Dita had de hele buitenkant nu twee keer gehad.
“Can you have orgasm?” vroeg Dita.
Edda schudde weer haar hoofd. “No. It is gone.”
“Maybe inside?” probeerde Dita, die over haar verdriet heen was en geïnteresseerd het gewonde lichaamsdeel onderzocht.
“May I?”
Edda haalde haar schouders op.
“You must close eyes,” zei Dita.
“And think of a really nice boy.”
Met een glimlach om haar mond deed Edda wat haar werd opgedragen. De onschuld van Dita werkte aanstekelijk.
“He must really nice,” zei Dita.
“Otherwise it doesn’t work.”
Edda dacht aan een jongen uit haar dorp die haar waterton droeg, en zelfs hielp haar haar te vlechten. Usman was een jaar of veertien geweest, toen zij het dorp ontvluchtte.
“Think of being with a boy. And he is touching you,” vervolgde Dita haar eenvoudige instructies. Toen voelde Edda de warme mond van Dita tegen de venusheuvel. Edda’s ogen vlogen open.
“You must keep eyes closed,” zei Dita zacht.
“Boy is kissing you.”
En Edda’s ogen gingen dicht. Ze voelde alleen nog het likken van Dita. Zorgvuldig gleed ze langzaam naar beneden en weer terug naar boven. De honing weg. Speeksel en adem verkoelden het zachte vlees.
“Boy touches you very gently,” zei Dita.
En toen bracht ze voorzichtig een vinger naar binnen. Edda kreunde. Haar benen klemden maar Dita hield haar dijen open. De warme tong duwend aan de buitenkant. De kleine vinger onderzoekend in haar, in en terug. Iedere keer als de vinger terugtrok, tot vlak bij de ingang, hield Edda haar adem in alsof ze vreesde dat de vinger haar alleen zou laten. Maar hij kwam altijd terug. In een kleine curve, duwend in de richting van haar schaambeen. En in die golvende stuwende beweging, voelde Edda hoe ze vochtig werd. Eerst de binnenkant. De kleine vinger gleed steeds makkelijker naar binnen.
Dita bracht een tweede vinger in. In een golf verspreidde het vocht zich aan de buitenkant. Door het littekenweefsel sijpelde sap, vocht op de plaatsen waar eens haar schaamlipjes zaten. Met lange halen likte Dita het op, en duwde haar tong breed tegen de hele buitenkant. Haar tong krachtig tegen het levenloze weefsel van de clitoris die was weggesneden. Cirkelend, breed, toegewijd, en de twee vingers die in en uit gleden, met het ritme dat ze voelde diep in Edda.
Het kreunen van Edda veranderde in schreeuwen, in huilen. In stoten waarbij Dita moeite moest doen om niet weggeduwd te worden. En toen voelde Dita het diepe schokken, strak om haar vingers heen. Een golf van vocht langs de vingerkootjes naar buiten geperst. Helder vocht in haar mond, op haar lippen. En de ontspanning van Edda, die trillend haar benen dicht wilde doen. Voorzichtig trok Dita haar vingers uit het natte kutje.
“You have bled,” stelde ze vast.
Bloed op haar vingers en een veeg bij de ingang. Edda sloot haar benen, en krulde zich huilend op met haar handen diep tussen haar benen. Troostend sloeg Dita haar armen om haar heen.
“Is natural,” wiegde ze.
gIt is only natural.”

De Vreemdeling

Zijn lange postuur vult haar kleine hal.
“Kun je het zien?” zegt hij laconiek.
Ze kijkt op van de bobbel in zijn spijkerbroek. Zijn zwarte haar in dikke lokken. Hij draagt zijn bril en Armani spijkerbroek.
“Ik heb liever dat u gaat,” zegt ze.
Hij glimlacht en grijpt haar arm terwijl hij zijn gezicht in haar hals duwt.
“Hollen,” fluistert hij, en draait zich om naar de voordeur.
Haar hakken vliegen de trap op, blijven haken, de deur valt in het slot. Een langgerekte schaafwond trekt over haar onderarm, en ze schreeuwt. Hij stort zich op haar, perst haar tegen de trap, tot haar knieën, heupen, kaken bezwijken onder zijn gewicht. Zijn vrije hand grijpt haar geschaafde arm. Zijn harde pik wrijft door hun kleren.
“Stop is stop.”
Weer zijn fluistering. Haar lip trilt, een eerste traan biggelt over haar wang. De stevige greep om haar bebloede arm perst de pijn weg. Hij kust haar op haar wang. Waterig kijkt zij hem aan, ze knikt met haar ogen. Een ogenblik is zijn jonge gezicht er. Dan rukt hij haar omhoog, ze schiet langs hem en landt vol op haar buik. De bovenste tree perst de lucht uit haar longen. Ze huilt in de witte vloerbedekking terwijl hij ruw haar rok omhoog trekt. Hij streelt haar billen, tussen de billen. Zwijgend. Zijn klap komt toch nog onverwachts. Ze gilt. Hij slaat opnieuw. Ze verbergt haar gezicht en bijt in haar eigen onderarm. Haar rug schokt bij iedere slag. Zijn hand staat wit en rood op haar blanke billen. Ze hoort zijn rits open gaan, en hij nestelt zijn warme pik tussen haar dijen.
“Ik ga je diep en hard neuken,” belooft hij.
“Maar eerst ga jij aan het werk. Hup!”
Met een ferme tik jaagt hij haar naar de slaapkamer.
Ze zit op haar knieën, zijn pik bij haar gezicht. Ze neemt hem in haar mond en legt haar hand om de basis van de gladde schacht.
“Geen trucjes.”
Hij haalt haar hand weg.
“Helemaal in je mond.”
Ze omarmt zijn smalle heupen, en hij draait zijn handen in haar blonde haar. Zijn tempo ligt hoger dan normaal, met lange diepe stoten achter in haar keel.
Ze ligt op haar rug, haar rok opgeschort, nylon kousen tot halverwege haar open dijen. Een slipje droeg ze niet.
“Jezus, wat ben je lekker nat.”
Zijn vingers hard en ruw in haar.
“Eens kijken hoe geil je bent voor mij.”
Hij duwt een extra vinger erin, en ze schreeuwt fel. Hij stoot. Bij iedere beweging die hij maakt kreunt ze, totdat geilheid en pijn ieder besef verdrijven van wat hij doet en ze schokkend klaarkomt. Dan verliest ze het bewustzijn.
Voorzichtig trekt hij zijn vingers terug uit haar bewegingloze lichaam. Ze kreunt en beweegt haar heupen weg. Ze heeft haar ogen nog dicht als hij tussen haar benen plaatsneemt en zijn pik in één keer in haar stoot. Getergd schiet ze omhoog en klampt zich aan hem vast. Haar binnenste open en rauw. Instinctief slaat ze haar armen en benen om hem heen, wat de pijn alleen nog maar verergert. Haar opgeschorte rok klemt haar buik. Met een lange haal trekt hij zijn pik er uit.
“Uitkleden jij.”
Zijn dure overhemd hangt los over de voorkant van de jeans, en hij blijft onverminderd hard terwijl hij haar gadeslaat. Haar sieraden moet ze omhouden.
“Omdraaien.”
Ze zit op handen en knieën, hij zit achter haar en leunt over haar heen. Hij grijpt een kussen en duwt het onder haar. Hij trekt haar armen onder haar weg. Met een verschrikt gilletje landt ze met haar billen omhoog. In een snelle beweging draait hij één arm op haar rug. Zijn vrije hand vingert hij haar. Even valt ze uit haar rol, en opent haar benen verder. Hij glimlacht en maakt haar van achter nat met haar eigen vocht.
“Je dacht toch niet dat je al klaar was?”
Hij draait haar arm nog strakker op haar rug. Ze jammert in het kussen maar duwt haar billen hoger. De eerste stoot doet pijn, de tweede ook. Hij steekt zijn handen onder haar armen door, grijpt om haar schouders. Zijn rug kromt over haar heen bij iedere stoot.
“Nee, niet doen!”
Ze jammert in het kussen. De stoten volgen elkaar sneller op. Hij zakt weg in zijn eigen genot en hoort haar niet meer. Het orgasme doet hem duizelen. Uitgeput ligt hij op haar. Nog verbonden.
“Je zei toch geen stop?”
Zijn stem is droog en ongerust.
Ze ligt als een theelepeltje voor hem. Zijn pik zacht en warm tegen haar billen. Zijn stugge spijkerbroek strengelt om haar blote benen. Hij gaat verliggen, zijn armen iets losser om haar heen. Zijn adem zwijgt in haar nek. Een koude rilling trekt door haar rug.
“Ik zal de komende tijd niet veel meer kunnen komen,” zegt hij.
“Het is het einde van het jaar, dan heb ik het altijd heel druk.”
Zijn jonge stem is feilloos luchtig, zonder een spoor van emotie. Ze draait zich om, speurend naar een blik van herkenning.
“Jij zei zelf toch ook dat je weinig aan schrijven toekwam,” voegt hij eraan toe.
Ze draait terug en blijft verdoofd liggen in zijn armen terwijl haar keel zich dichtschroeft. Haar hart bonkt doffe harde slagen.
“Ik ga douchen,” zegt ze flink.
“Ga je mee?”
Het water is warm, en haar handen verweekt, maar haar lichaam blijft koud. Aarzelend voelen haar vingers haar geslacht, de beurse ingang en de gladde binnenkant. Zorgvuldig maakt ze het schoon. Met een vingertopje douchegel wast ze haar anus. Haar vocht en zijn vocht spoelen weg. Ze huilt als ze haar borsten streelt, haar buik. Ze koestert de schaafwond op haar arm. Wankelend komt ze de douchecel uit. Op de grond ligt een gebruikte handdoek. Ze raapt hem van de tegels, en duwt hem tegen haar gezicht. Haar schreeuwen worden gesmoord in de natte stof. Het ruikt naar hem.

Twee vrouwen

Het was half mei en Lauren sliep alleen maar. Soms kwam ze haar bed uit om les te geven of deed een poging te sporten, omdat ze een maand geleden had bedacht dat ze die laatste kilo’s voor haar 39e verjaardag kwijt zou kunnen zijn. Drie dagen na dit goede voornemen was er de nacht met Samuel. Ik wil je op alle manieren waarop twee mensen elkaar maar kunnen willen. Zes neutrale DM’s in tien dagen en drie kribbige e-mails zonder aanhef waarin Samuel haar erop wees dat hij het druk had en ze niet zo moest zeuren. Lauren zocht haar bed weer op. Vanaf de yogamat keek de kleinste kater haar beschuldigend aan en zei piep. Ze trok de deken over haar hoofd.
Morgen..  Morgen was het zaterdag en ze wist nu al dat de moslimjongen waar ze mee had afgesproken in rook zou opgaan voor hun eerste date. Dat de batterij van zijn telefoon leeg zou zijn, en hij er “niet aan zou denken” haar te mailen vanaf een andere telefoon. Of dat hij met een smoes zou antwoorden als zij rond etenstijd zou sms’en of ze elkaar nog gingen zien. Ze zouden elkaar niet zien, zoveel was zeker. Lauren zag ze namelijk nooit, moslims. Zelfs niet als het rechtenstudenten waren. Zelfs niet als de vonken er online vanaf spatten. Zelfs niet als ze al jaren moskeevrij waren. En zeker niet als ze liefdesverdriet had en ze behoefte had aan een grappige, luchtige moslimjongen.
Juist dan niet.

Voordat ze de deur uitging checkte Hassnae haar mail. Haar uitgever vroeg iets over een column. Dit Was het Nieuws wilde haar in de show. Een maagd van 20 vroeg haar om raad. Hassnae checkte haar timeline op Twitter voor ze afsloot.
Na jou nooit meer een ander. Niet alle wensen komen uit.
De tweet van Lauren stond bovenaan.
“Gaat alles wel goed met jou?” stuurde Hassnae haar een privébericht.
Ze waren elkaar weleens tegengekomen in de hammam waar je geen badkleding hoefde te dragen. Lauren was zo’n vrijgevochten Hollandse die haar vrijages aan de grote klok hing.

De mist dempte alles. De weinige fietsers spookten door de stad. Koopmannen hielden zich stil tussen verlaten kramen.  Voor het gesloten badhuis stond een groepje vrouwen.
“Mijn horloge loopt voor,” glimlachte Hassnae.
Haar man lag thuis te slapen.
“Ik heb het koud,” zei Lauren bij wijze van groet.
Klokslag tien uur openden de deuren.
 “Je hoeft geen nieuwe condooms te kopen,” zei hij toen zij vroeg welk merk hij het fijnst vond.
“Daar zorg ik voortaan voor.”
 De krappe ontvangsthal lag direct aan de straat. Iedereen sprak Arabisch. Of Berbers. Of iets anders dat Lauren niet verstond en dat haar ook niet interesseerde. Ze beet op haar lip. Er was geen pinapparaat en iemand had geen contant geld bij zich.
“Willen jullie een massage reserveren?” vroeg de jonge moslima toen ze eindelijk aan de beurt was.
Lauren keek geïrriteerd naar Hassnae bij het woord jullie.
“Gaat alles wel goed met jou?”
Hassnae’s stem verstoorde het monotone geruis van water. Verstoorde het eindeloze bonken van haar geest en het onbedwingbare huilen naar het mozaïek. Met kinderlijke handen veegde Lauren in haar ogen en schudde haar hoofd toen ze zich omdraaide.
“Is het Samuel?”  vroeg Hassnae.
Er brak een lach door het masker van misère.
“Queen Hassnae leest mijn blog!”
De lach schalde met het verdriet tussen de tegeltjes.
Douchen. Zwemmen. Stomen. Weer douchen. Het ging over modder. Het ging over zeep. Over hammams, strings van de Zeeman, en seks met onbesneden mannen.
“Ik ken alleen mijn eigen man,” knipoogde Hassnae voordat ze een pot scrub achter de balie stal.
“Ik ben stout met andere dingen.”
De twee vrouwen wasten, scrubten en ontweken de andere gasten terwijl ze van ruimte naar ruimte kletsten.
“Volgens mij is de mijne anders dan vroeger.”
Lauren wierp een vluchtige blik tussen haar benen. Ze sloeg de slippen van de badjas dicht en pakte haar muntthee.
“Maar ik denk dat je in een gelukkig kutje niet moet knippen. Zo’n rejuvenation is uitgesloten.”
“En dan hebben we nog niet eens kinderen gehad,” concludeerde Hassnae.
Ik wil je kind.
Een slag van pijn trok onaangekondigd over Lauren’s gezicht. De slok in haar mond weigerde te slikken. De tranen die een uur lang door grapjes buiten de deur waren gehouden rolden onstelpbaar over haar wangen. Ze merkte niet dat ze een hand voor haar mond sloeg en de andere diep in haar schoot drukte. De badjas kromp ineen.
 Niet een kind. Ik wil jouw kind. En ik wil niet eens kinderen.
Ik ben bijna 39 en ik wil niet eens kinderen maar ik wil jouw kind.
 Lauren lag loom, haar benen open. Ze huilde in het spotje aan het plafond terwijl ze de zachte vingers van Hassnae over haar onderbuik voelde. Koele aanrakingen waar geen verdriet aan kleefde. Geen vuur van passie waar ze zwanger van kon worden.
“Hassnae, wil je me aanraken?” vroeg Lauren.
Ze tilde haar hoofd op en keek de Marokkaanse aan. De vingers van Hassnae gleden zacht naar binnen. De twee buikjes lagen tegen elkaar aan. De blondine fluisterde. Hassnae giechelde achter haar ravenzwarte lokken.
“We zijn twee vrouwen, dan telt het niet,” zei Lauren.
En ze duwde de dijen van de veel kleinere Hassnae plagerig uit elkaar.
“Je bent een sletje,” lachte Hassnae.
“On a mission.”
Lauren streelde de gladde heuvel en liet haar vingertoppen nieuwsgierig tussen de schaamlippen van haar vriendin glijden. Ineens stopte ze.
“Hassnae, mag ik dit doen? Je bent toch een soort van maagd.”
Ze bleven in de hammam die middag. Zo discreet mogelijk en als andere gasten binnenkwamen groetten ze en trokken een neutrale plooi over hun gelukkige wangen.
“Jullie mogen wel in de massageruimte,” zei het meisje van de balie.
“Met z’n tweetjes dan.”
“We gaan zo naar huis,” zei Hassnae.
De man van Hassnae kwam er nooit achter wat zij deed met haar vriendin. Of waarom zijn vrouw ineens zo avontuurlijk was geworden. De keren dat Hassnae en Lauren afspraken bleven beperkt tot hun uren in de hammam, en een losse nacht als Hassnae vrij had. Lauren hield haar buik nooit meer in, en wilde net als vroeger geen kinderen. Hassnae genoot van de vreemde fantasieën en penetraties die Lauren iedere keer voor haar bedacht. En ze deden het op alle manier waarop twee vrouwen elkaar maar kunnen willen.

Onschuld

Haar koffie ververste zichzelf. De bekers stonden schoon in de kast. Soms herinnerde de in drieën gevouwen theedoek op de radiator haar eraan dat de jongen ook in het atelier was geweest. Hij sprak weleens als zij rookte terwijl de verf droogde. Iemand zou hem meer aandacht moeten geven. Lilith wierp een blik op haar schilderij. Het kunstlicht vervormde het relief van het blonde haar. De nachtblauwe achtergrond sloeg dicht. Haar blanke lichaam zweefde over het doek. Ze dacht erover om het spleetje iets open te zetten, en de binnenste schaamlippen groter te maken. Dat onschuldige spaarpotje irriteerde haar al de hele serie. Sloom begon ze zich aan te kleden. Het opgekrulde stringetje. De klamme spijkerbroek. De sokken en de dunne sweater plukte ze tussen de hete verwarming vandaan. Ze knipte de verdwaalde spotjes uit, haar ezel werd zwart. Het glazen plafond gaf alleen nacht.

De Senseo pruttelde in het keukentje, en de jongen vloekte. Gestommel. Op zijn knieën voor de gootsteen haalde hij een nieuwe vaatdoek uit een pakje van tien.
“Ik wist niet eens dat ik dat had,” begroette ze hem.
Haar kaken protesteerden tegen de glimlach.
“Gekocht!”
De ogen van de jongen lichtten op.
“Luister, ik kan dit niet,” gaf ze het op.
Afwezig kleedde ze zich uit. Ze spreidde de trui over het koude krukje voor de ezel. Turend naar haar doek nam ze de koffie aan zonder te bedanken. Joss Stone zong reggae. Mick Jagger zong mee. Zijn vinger gleed over het dichte kutje.
“Ik vind hem mooi zoals hij is,” zei de vinger.
“Misschien werk ik vandaag wel aan de lucht.”
Neuriënd veegde haar kwast de hemel schoon van sterren. Ze danste en haar lippen zongen geluidloos mee met de laptop. De geuren uit de keuken vulden het grote atelier. Hij zette een schaaltje knoflookbrood op de kruk en hield een ochtendjas voor haar open.
“Ik kan het niet meer aanzien.”
“Zo’n oude vrouw!”
Maar ze lachte en klemde haar penseel tussen haar tanden, gooide het pallet van hand tot hand toen ze de jas inschoot.
“Het is de hele dag al koud hier.”
Ze knikte en stopte het knapperige brood in haar mond. Goedkeurend smakte ze naar het schilderij.

Haar bord pasta rustte in haar kleermakerszit.
“Serranoham! Er zit ham in!” riep ze.
“En mozzarella,” antwoordde hij niet zonder trots.
“Ik maak mijn tortellini iedere keer weer anders.”
Lilith’s wangen hadden een gezonde blos, en ze nam nog een slok rode wijn.
“Hoe heet je eigenlijk? Of heb ik dat al eens gevraagd?”
Koffie op maandag en dinsdag. En sinds kort op woensdag en vrijdag een diner. Lilith begon oog te krijgen voor de ritmes van Ian. Op zaterdag schilderde ze op creamcrackers en sigaretten. Op haar oude laptop speelde de muziek die Ian voor haar achterliet. Als de zon scheen verliet ze het lichte atelier voor de weekend drukte van het park. De man in de kiosk van het park vroeg of ze hier nieuw was.

“Wil je blijven eten?” vroeg Lilith.
Ian’s lange ledematen kwamen overeind op de bank. Bestuursrecht viel open op zijn sweater. Hij leek iets te willen zeggen maar slikte het in. Een grijns trok over zijn heldere ogen.
“Oké! Wie ben je? En wat heb je met Lilith gedaan?”
Hij smste een vriend dat hij niet kwam roeien en bood aan boodschappen te doen. Ze vroeg om een fles bubbels omdat het schilderij af was.
De borden met de frittatakruimels stonden op het witgeschilderde kistje. Het stof op de grote stompkaarsen was niet zichtbaar. De vlammetjes flakkerden onder de wilde bloemen in een omgespoelde kwastenpot. Lilith stak twee sigaretten aan en reikte er één naar Ian. Hij staarde naar het doek, dat in het licht van de spotjes tot geelblauw negatief wegtrok.
“Je hebt het kutje vaak overgeschilderd.”
Zijn blauwe ogen keken haar nu aan. Ze haalde haar schouders op.
“Ik lijk wel een baby daar.”
Ian legde zijn sigaret weg en ging voor haar zitten. Ze protesteerde niet toen hij haar broek open maakte. Ze tilde haar heupen op met dezelfde onverschilligheid waarmee ze zich uitkleedde als ze begon met schilderen. De tepels door haar grijsblauwe T-shirt werden hard toen Ian haar dijen uit elkaar duwde. Ze schrok van de aanraking. Ontspande van de streling. Zuchtte toen hij minutenlang niets anders deed dan strelen. Hij stond op en pakte een schone kwast uit haar kast. De duivelse grijns op zijn gezicht was er weer. Vrijmoedig opende Lilith haar benen nog wijder en keek hem uitdagend aan. De haartjes van het kwastje waren harder dan gedacht.
“Het prikt,” merkte Lilith op.
“Typisch zoiets wat lekker lijkt en het niet is.”
Hij draaide het kwastje om en plaatste het stokje met het puntje naar boven tussen de lippen. Hij wiebelde het open.
“Zacht, het hout voelt zacht,” zei Lilith.
Met zijn vingertoppen spreidde hij haar ingang en duwde het puntje naar binnen. Onmiddellijk verkrampte zij.
“Ik kan dit soort dingen niet. Je komt er toch niet in.”
Ze lag op haar rug met Ian voor de bank en zijn tong tussen haar benen. Het likken van haar warmte; ze sloot haar ogen. Het zoenen van de kleine clitoris in de stevige heuvel; ze kreunde. Het cirkelen van de tong en de vinger die binnendrong; fel trok ze zijn hoofd naar zich toe.
“Geef me meer,” zei ze.
Hij opende zijn broek en viste een condoom uit zijn broekzak. Ze glimlachte en keek verwachtingsvol tussen haar benen. De eerste twee kootjes van zijn middelvinger en wijsvinger.
“Het past echt…”
Ze schoof omhoog alsof ze ineens besefte in welke positie ze daar lag en voor het eerst haar naaktheid wilde bedekken. Ian hield zijn vingers in haar. Zijn “Ssst” klonk als een bevel.
Hij schoof haar verbaasde lichaam terug naar de rand en zoende haar. Ze likte terug, hapte en nodigde zijn tong uit diep in haar mond. Haar enkels vouwden zich om zijn heupen, haar armen om zijn schouders. Hij zette zijn geslacht voor de ingang en duwde naar binnen. Hij schrok van haar reactie en nog meer van zichzelf toen hij opnieuw stootte met een vurig verlangen weer die strakke, paniekerige reactie te voelen. Haar kutje dat hem eruit wilde. Ze keken elkaar aan. Haar schreeuw stond nu in zijn ogen. En zijn sadistische genot in de hare. Ze zeiden allebei “sorry” en wisten allebei dat het niet meer nodig was.
Onder de bloemen zwerven twee bleke condooms. Het kwastje balanceert op het bord tussen de vieze vorken. Ian zit op zijn knieën. Het opgedroogde vocht. Het bloed. Met een vel vochtige keukenrol dept hij haar.
“Je bent een beetje schraal, maar verder oké.”
Ze rilt.
Hij pakt de grote spiegel en zet hem tussen haar benen. Hij houdt haar lippen open. Ze knikt tevreden.

De Weg Terug

Adele zingt Someone like you door de open ramen naar buiten, een zomerse wind waait naar binnen. Lilith plet de sigaret tegen het blauwe glas van de asbak, en blaast de laatste rook in een fel straaltje naar buiten. Geërgerd neemt ze het atelier op. Stofdeeltjes dwarrelen door de lucht. Opgedroogde penselen en besmeurde paletten bij de schildersezel. Kussens zwerven in het bed met zijn sperma. De halve fles wijn verzacht niets. Met de adem in, stroopt ze de dekbedhoes af en gooit het over de houten vloer van zich af. Ze pakt de schone lakens en steekt haar neus in de wasverzachter. Is ze blond? Is zij wel jong? Bruut klappert ze met het grote dekbed, en laat het in een frisse wolk naar het bed zweven. Het ergste is gedaan. Bevrijd snijdt ze het doek van de latten, en propt het gespierde naakt in de vuilnisbak.
Over de afwas doet ze een half uur en twee theedoeken. Ze maakt schoon, gooit weg en sorteert de post van de afgelopen dagen. De schok scheert voorbij aan het bewustzijn. Ze merkt niet dat ze haar adem inhoudt en haar gezicht afwendt. Haar trillende handen klemmen een dun tijdschrift vast. Op de cover poseert een uitdagende dertiger met slordige blonde lokken. Het spleetje tussen de ronde tanden geeft hem iets gulzigs.

“Je woont dus nog steeds in Maastricht.”
De simpele constatering is het einde van de plichtplegingen, die Adam toch al de keel uithangen. Hij leunt achterover in zijn terrasstoel, speurend naar een ober. Lilith’s getergde gezicht valt weg achter een grote Ray Ban en de laatste sigaret uit haar pakje.
“Ik hoorde dat je een ander had,” verbreekt ook zij de beleefdheden.
Adam’s lach is ruw en spottend.
“Ik ben helemaal nooit getrouwd geweest, ik heb zo vaak een ander.”
“Nee, toen het uit ging.”
“Jij ging verhuizen.”
De ober neemt de bestelling op en wijst Lilith de wc. Ze bedwingt haar tranen tot ze de deur achter zich dichttrekt.
Zij spreidt haar benen en hij streelt over het dunne jurkje, tegen de hitte van haar kut. Hij kreunt als zij de gulp opent en hem in haar hand neemt. Zijn hand onder de jurk, het slipje opzij. Hij verlangt naar hoe nat ze zal worden als hij haar vingert.
 “Neuk me, Adam. Dan zijn we ervan af.”
Hij heeft haar niet terug zien komen. Ook nu glimlacht of flirt ze niet. Blozend meisje. Spelend meisje. Ze staakten de seksspelletjes in het veld pas als de zon zo laag stond dat zijn moeder kwam zoeken.
“Ik zou hem niet eens omhoog kunnen krijgen.”
Het raakt haar als een baksteen. Zijn excuses en de verklaring dat hij homo is raken verstrikt in haar huilbui. Hij biedt aan naar haar huis te gaan. Ze kijkt op met een heldere glimlach, door haar tranen heen.
“Ik weet wel een plekje.”
Een locatie die zijn navigatie niet pakt. Eenrichtingsverkeer waar Lilith’s fiets nooit last van heeft. Allebei giechelen ze op weg naar verlaten wandelpaden en herkauwende Hooglanders. Ze springt met haar witte zomerschoenen uit de hoge bijrijderszit op de onverharde weg en rent het veld in, nog voor hij zijn spullen heeft gepakt.
Het hoge scherpe gras onttrekt hen aan het zicht, hun adem is nog zwaar van het stoeien. De lach vervliegt en ze staren naar elkaar. Hij zoent, haar geur is bedwelmend hetzelfde, en het ranke lijf voegt zich onmiddellijk om hem heen. Hun lichamen hervatten de herinnering. De zachtheid van haar borsten overvalt hem, net als de passie van haar zoen, en het kwetsbare zuchten als hij haar uitkleedt, voelt, likt. Maar elke keer als hij haar zachte hand voelt om zijn pik, duwt hij haar weg met een “sorry” dat geen recht doet aan de pijn in zijn borst en de kramp laag in zijn buik.
Naakt ineengestrengeld, haar lijf klein en licht tegen zijn grote blonde buik en borst. Het vocht op zijn vingers is al opgedroogd.
“Hoe lang wist je het al?” vraagt ze.
De eerste woorden na haar orgasme.
Bedachtzaam zoekt hij naar een antwoord. Zij legt een warme hand over zijn onderbuik. Hij schrikt, maar ze negeert het en werkt zich overeind, om ook haar andere hand erop te leggen.
Hij ligt op zijn rug en heeft alleen de hemel. Nooit kijkt hij naar het hoofd dat op en neer moet gaan in zijn schoot. Naar zijn buik die zacht en groot aanvoelt na haar eindeloze stroom strelingen, zoenen en geruststellende woorden, alsof het een puppy was. Van lichtblauw, naar oranje, naar roze, naar rood. Totdat de lucht overgaat in de nacht en purper wordt. Zijn kreun dempt in de kring van gras, zijn handen gaan door haar haren, strelen haar hoofd. De binnenkant van zijn ogen speelt de films van het speelse meisje opnieuw en opnieuw.
Het is dat, of de hemel.

Later

 Ik schrik als Taeke opkijkt achter het raam. Ik heb staan staren. Hij beent het huis uit, een hond slaat aan, hij stormt met zwaaiende armen door de sneeuw op me af. Hijgend probeer ik weg te komen, mijn onervaren voeten glijden weg. Ik val op mijn wanten en hoor het ijs kraken. Met een zuigend geluid begint zich een plas te vormen, die rap dieper wordt. Mijn enkels bevriezen in een vreemde draai, mijn schaatsen haken vast. En voor het eerst hoor ik Taeke’s stem.

De hond piepte van zijn baasje naar de jonge vrouw en weer naar zijn baasje. Zijn gitzwarte nagels krasten opgewonden over de geblokte tegels van de hal.
“Het is goed jongen,” suste Taeke Blinksma.
Hij trok trok het dier aan zijn halsband om de deuropening vrij te maken.
“Het is Lalehan.”
“Iedereen noemt me nu Lola.”
Met een ferme stap trotseerden haar motorlaarzen de hoge drempel en ze dumpte een zware courier bag onder de kapstok. Op de Japanse cartoon stak een stoïcijnse vrouw haar hand op, karate-style.
“De werkplaats is links. In de uitbouw.”
De hond kwispelde met Taeke naar de keuken. De dakruiten gaven een hels licht, metalen constructies staken roerloos omhoog in de loods. Lalehan herinnerde zich het onheilspellende geluid als wind en regen de dijk teisterden en het lugubere geklingel van de beelden in zijn tuin hun aan de rand van het dorp tegemoet kwam. Ook haar klasgenoten leken er altijd flink de vaart in te zetten om zo snel mogelijk langs het huis te zijn. Lalehan’s pogingen meer te weten te komen over de blonde man, liepen op niets uit. Ze vroeg zich nu af waarom hij geen accent had.
Taeke duwde met zijn voet de deur open en gaf haar een kop Nescafe waar de hete damp vanaf sloeg.
“Ik zie je ouders ook nooit meer.”
Zijn helblauwe ogen hadden iets meer rimpels. In zijn haar zag ze een spoortje grijs.
“Verhuisd.”
“En nu ben je dus terug.”
Ze knikte. In haar buik ontrolde een slang, rekte zijn kop op, en stootte zijn staart tussen haar benen. Lalehan bloosde. Taeke zette zijn koffie neer. Ze keek naar zijn trui, zijn buik die dichterbij kwam. Haar adem versnelde en ze voelde zijn vingertoppen langs haar hals, haar kaak. Hij hief haar hoofd op en keek in het donkere bruin van haar ogen, met weer die langzame glimlach om zijn lippen. In gedachte hoorde ze zijn stem “meisje toch”, en verwachtte ze alleen weer die teleurstellende kus op haar voorhoofd. Maar nu zoende de glimlach haar en hij liet langzaam zijn tong naar binnenglijden toen ze antwoordde.

Hij bibbert ook. Net als ik. Mijn trillende ledematen verkrampen en maken het hem onmogelijk me uit te kleden. Alleen mijn schaatsen, die heeft hij kort na het wak uitgedaan zodat ik kon lopen. Hij vloekt en draait de douche open. Ik huil als hij zijn zware donkere kleren afpelt en in een natte hoop op de grond gooit. Mijn schouders. Mijn buik. Alles snijdt, drukt en rilt onder de ijzige deken van mijn kleding. Zijn lippen zijn blauw.
“Hup. Kleed je nou uit joh.”
Het water heeft zijn stem verzacht.
Mijn jammeren is ongecontroleerd, af en toe klappen mijn voortanden op mijn lip. Houterig begin ik me uit te kleden. Elke keer vol zelfmedelijden als een stuk stof mijn bevroren handen ontglipt, of een ledemaat wegschiet en ik me stoot in de kleine badkamer. Het volgezogen maandverband trekt in mijn onderbroek en ik overweeg mijn kleding weer aan te doen, en het huis uit te rennen.
“Ik ben ongesteld,” huil ik.
In de douchebak houdt hij de douchekop tegen mijn nek en schouders. Af en toe een jammerend spoor over mijn haar. Een grote pik hangt half voor hem uit en zwabbert mee terwijl hij ons beurtelings opwarmt met het water.
“Blijf zo lang je wil.”
Hij drukt de douche in mijn hand en hij stapt eruit. Ik huil niet meer.

Lalehan reikte op haar tenen. Taeke was nog groter dan haar Zweedse vakantievriend, haar basketbalscharrel, en de jongens van het techniekdispuut. De geur van koffie en de smaak van zijn laatste sigaret kwamen haar vertrouwd voor en ze voelde hoe de vreemde verlegenheid verdween. Hij was een man. Zij een vrouw. Ze gingen neuken zoals er zo vaak geneukt werd. Taeke tilde haar op, zij sloeg haar spijkerbroek om hem heen, en ze kreunden toen ze onmiskenbaar elkaar voelden door hun stugge kleding. Zoenend, verlangend, lieve woordjes fluisterend vonden ze hun weg naar boven. Haar rode laarzen vastgehaakt om zijn stevige taille. Hij liet haar los, op haar rug op het rommelige bed, en trok haar laarzen uit. Ze kwam tot zit en opende gulzig zijn broekriem en gulp. Hij volgde elke beweging en begon te kreunen toen ze zijn pik in haar mond nam. Minutenlang likte ze, zoog ze, trok ze hem af en streelde zijn ballen, terwijl ze tevreden geluidjes maakte. Ze stopte. Hij bracht haar hoofd terug en liet haar doorgaan tot hij klaarkwam. Taeke’s hand leunde zwaar op haar hoofd, ze schudde hem af. Hij knielde. De zoen hing in het ongewisse tot haar ergste boosheid wegzakte. Hij nam haar irritatie voor lief, kleedde haar uit. Ze schoot weg onder het dekbed maar toen hij erbij kwam rekte ze haar lichtbruine lijf naar hem uit en rolde bovenop hem. De kleine borsten torenden fier boven hem uit. Hij voelde haar vocht, haar hand reikte tussen haar benen naar zijn pik en met een stevige zwaai draaide hij haar op haar rug. Zijn enorme handen pinden haar polsen vast en ze trappelde ontevreden met haar benen. Haar vingers grepen in zijn blonde haar, toen hij haar likte. Hij befte met lange halen, één vinger in haar kut die hij op en neer trok op het ritme van zijn mond. Na haar tweede of derde orgasme smeekte ze hem te stoppen. Haar heupen trokken terug omhoog, weg van het brandende genot.

Hij legt de ochtendjas op de wasbak en laat me alleen. Ik droog me af en schrijd de trap af in de lange mantel. Ik hoor Taeke’s stem door de wanden. Hij zegt dat ik over een half uur thuis word afgezet. Als ik binnenkom hangt hij op. Ik sta vlak voor hem en staar naar zijn buik. Er gebeurt niets. Ik sla mijn armen om hem heen. De knuffel komt terug. Ik wrijf over zijn pik in zijn broek. Er volgt een kreun en een vloek.
“Niet doen,” zegt hij beslist.
“Eenentwintig moet je zijn. Dan praten we verder.”
Hij zoekt kleren die me allemaal te groot zijn.    

Ze is uitgeput, haar heupen zwaar. Loom zoekt ze haar heil in mijn armen. Ik strengel mijn benen tussen haar slanke dijen en ruik haar bedwelmende volle lokken. De hitte van haar kut tegen mijn been, en mijn pik steigert en smeekt.
“Vertrouw je me Lalehan?” vraag ik.
Terwijl ze nog nadenkt over het antwoord draai ik haar terug en trek haar benen op. Haar opgezwollen lippen staan open. Ik breng twee vingers in, en ze schrikt.
“Au!”
“Au of stop?” vraag ik haar.
De verwarring van haar jeugd trekt over haar wangen en haar handen grijpen in de lakens als ik mijn vingers langs elkaar beweeg. Ze opent haar benen wijder als ik ertussen plaatsneem. Haar grote ogen volgen iedere beweging en haar mond huivert alsof ze het woord “stop” al kan proeven. Ik werk mijn wijs- en middelvinger van de andere hand ook bij haar naar binnen, en ze klemt, opent en schreeuwt. Haar “fuck” vloekt bij de glimp van angst. Mijn vingers glijden uit haar en ik buig me over haar heen, met nog één blik op haar open geslacht, mijn eikel er al gretig voor. Ik kijk haar aan. Zachter, zachter. Lalehan praat het duidelijkst zonder woorden. Ik laat alleen mijn eikel bij haar naar binnen glijden. Haar lange zoen vertelt me alles wat ik wilde horen.

<3

Deel 3 van 22 Erotische Verhalen zet ik ook op Twitter and my Facebook.