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How did I turn from a sweet, innocent young thing into a subjugator of young women?
I met Josh when we were both in our final year. I was doing Economics, he was studying to be a dentist. I'd had boyfriends before but the moment I met Josh I knew he'd be different.
Our relationship was perfectly normal until one Saturday evening at a student party. Josh had got into deep conversation with a nerdy bloke about electronics and I'd wandered off and got talking to a rather attractive second year called Paul.
One thing led to another until I was sitting on his lap in a big armchair snogging passionately with his hand up my skirt, my knickers pushed aside, two fingers up my very wet cunt, his thumb rubbing my hot clitty. Rather nice.
It was only when Paul stopped abruptly and I looked round that I realised Josh was standing in the doorway, eyes ablaze. I jumped off Paul's knee in a panic and rushed over to Josh.
"I'm sorry, Josh," I said, "I got a bit carried away."
He grabbed me by the arm, dragged me into the corridor and pinned me to the wall, one hand under my chin almost lifting me off my feet. I was terrified.
But Josh planted his mouth over mine and kissed me, forcing his tongue into my mouth. He pushed himself against me and I could feel that he was as stiff as a ramrod.
When we came up for air I said: "Josh! What was all that about?"
By way of reply he grabbed my arse with both hands and pulled me against him.
"Well, well," I said. "That was a turn on for you, was it? Seeing Paul with his hand up my fanny?"
"Did he have it up there?" Josh said.
And Josh pulled me to him again and ground himself against me.
"You've never said anything about, you know, enjoying watching or anything?"
"I didn't know myself," he said.
"Well, well, well. What if it had gone further?" I was beginning to warm to the idea.
"Even better," Josh said.
"Yea? If I'd been touching him up or had his dick out?"
Josh thrust against me.
"Or sucking his dick - what if I'd been sucking his dick, Josh, would you have liked to see that?"
Josh nodded. "Yes," he said.
"If we had gone the whole way?"
"Oh yes," he said. And he took my hand and put it between us against his cock to show that he meant it.
"Well I never," I said. We kissed again then when we parted I said: "So you'd really like me to go the whole hog, eh?"
"Well, I'd better go and get myself fucked then, hadn't I?"
"Yes, yes, yes," he said very quietly.
I pushed him away from me and looked keenly at him. He did mean it. I didn't need any further encouragement. I took his hand and led him back to the room. When Paul saw us he looked worried - Josh is a big bloke. But I gave Josh a peck on the cheek and said goodbye, then whispered to him: "Go and hide somewhere."
I went over to Paul and said: "now, where were we?" and plonked myself down in his lap.
"What about him?" Paul said.
"Josh? Oh he's just a friend. He wanted to say that he's had a message and has to leave."
"Oh," Paul said, very relieved, realising his luck might be in after all. "Come here then." And up my skirt his hand went and together our mouths locked. I wriggled about, encouraging his burgeoning erection and pretty soon we were oblivious to the world around us lost in a haze of arousal. I reached down under my bum and undid his flies. I had just got hold of his cock through his pants when he said: "Do you want to go upstairs?"
"I thought you'd never ask," I said.
We found the coat room, closed the door behind us and he put the light out in case anyone came in.
Paul didn't even bother to take my knickers off. Before I knew it I was on my back, he'd undone his trousers and was on top of me, and up me he thrust - not that I wasn't well and truly ready for it. He came, loudly, in no time flat and said: "Don't worry, give me a couple of minutes and I can do it again."
But he didn't get the chance. The bedroom door flew open and there was Josh standing hands on hips like the jolly green giant in the doorway.
"Out," Josh said.
Paul sprang to his feet hurriedly fastening his trousers. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought..."
But Josh cut him off, "Out."
Paul edged around the door and scurried away.
Josh closed the door and put the light on. Still standing over by the door he undressed slowly and deliberately, his eyes fixed upon me all the time. When he was naked he said: "Stand up. Take your clothes off."
I got up and undressed. Only when I was naked too did he cross to me. Gently he laid me down on the bed, lay on top of me and pushed his rock hard cock into my spunk filled cunt. He came almost immediately too, but with Josh that didn't matter: he could carry on for a second time, sometimes even a third time without losing his erection.
As he started up for round two he said: "That was great, fantastic, marvellous."
"I think I'm going to enjoy being married to you," I said.
"Married?" Josh said. We'd never even mentioned it before, we weren't even living together.
"Married," I said.
"OK then," he said.
And that was it. Possibly the most romantic proposal ever.
This was one of Josh's three-timers. I came twice and he said he'd owe me one. Several people opened the door and quickly closed it again. One girl came in to get her coat: "Sorry," she said, taking a long look at Josh's arse pumping up and down.
After the incident at the party we were both heavily into our finals - me struggling to pass, Josh to get a First - and everything else took rather a back seat.
We got married the day after graduation - nothing grand, just a few weeping close relatives.
House prices were rising fast at the time so we scraped together every penny we could for the deposit on a little two bedroomed flat in Gloucestershire. Josh signed up as an Army dentist - they had sponsored him through college - and I got a job with a Building Society analysing house price movements - the best I could find with my scraped third.
We ordered some velvet curtains for the floor-to-ceiling window in our living room. But when they arrived they were two inches too short so I rang the shop and the manageress said she'd pop in and have a look at them on her way home from work.
Black leather boots, leather corset, studded collar. A large whip. No knickers. That's how she'd be dressed.
I rang the doorbell.
It was going to be a hot day. It was only half past eight but already I could feel the sun beating down on my back. Should I have come dressed as a slave, I wondered?
I rang the doorbell again. Where was she? Pulling on those thigh length boots no doubt. Deciding whether it would be no knickers or cunt hugging leather.
Finally the door opened. Lucy was wearing blue jeans and a white blouse. She looked as though she had just crawled out of bed.
"Sorry," she said. "I was asleep."
I was a bit miffed. "Had you forgotten?"
"Certainly not, overslept that's all. Come in."
I crossed the threshold. Lucy closed the door behind me.
"Now," she said. "Are you quite sure you want to go through with this? To do anything I tell you to do?"
"Of course," I said. "As long as it isn't illegal and won't cause permanent injury."
"OK," she said. "Unzip your flies, get your cock out and wank off."
"What? Here?" We were still standing by the front door.
"Slaves do not question their orders. I'm not having you sexually excited all day. You're not here to enjoy yourself, you're here to be my slave. So let's get it out of your system, shall we?"
I unzipped my flies and fished out my limp cock. I started to encourage it, but without instant success. It felt strange to stand in someone's hallway at 8.30am trying to have a wank.
But after a few moments my nervousness began to wane to be replaced by some enthusiasm. Lucy was standing in front of me watching me stroking my cock. That was nice, having her watching.
Lucy unbuttoned her blouse, pulled her bra down from her left breast and began to tease the nipple between thumb and forefinger, to encourage me I presumed. It seemed to work as I felt a surge of randiness. Lucy has lovely breasts, not huge but perfectly formed.
"Will you need to see my cunt?" she asked.
Randy, randy, randy! I didn't answer, I just wanked harder, my eyes fixed on her playing with her nipple, her eyes on my cock. I was really getting into this. I guess I'd been bottling up the anticipation for days. I didn't have to wank for long before I was getting into come territory.
"Are you sure you want me to come?" I said, glancing down at her pristine carpet.
"Just come," she said. "I want to see it spurting out of you."
"OK," I said. "Here I come, I'm coming now."
And come I did. A real knee trembler. The cum jetted out, the first spurt landing on her jeans just above her knees, the rest splatting down onto the carpet.
As soon as I had come Lucy pulled her bra back into place and buttoned her blouse up.
"Now lick it up," she said, pointing to the globs on the floor.
Now, perhaps when you are in a highly excited state, licking your own spunk up off a hall carpet might, if you were rat-arse drunk, seem like a good idea. No, you're right, it wouldn't. Certainly, in the cold light of post-come it did not seem like a good idea at all.
"I'm sorry, Lucy, I really don't think I can do that."
"Are you a fucking slave or not?" Lucy almost shouted at me. "Now get down and lick it up or that's it, you can fuck off home."
'Lucy!' I thought. I'd hardly ever heard her raise her voice or swear, she was such a gentle, mild mannered person. She was giving me a stern 'make your mind up' look.
I shrugged. "If you insist," I said.
In for a penny. I got down on my hands and knees. There it was, right in front of my nose, a pool of spunk. Gingerly, I put my tongue out. I licked at it.
It didn't taste anything like I had expected. It had a creamy, milky taste and texture. The idea had been much worse than the reality. Still, I didn't so much lick it up as press it into carpet with my tongue.
"Good," she said when I had finished. "Now, strip off."
She seemed to be taking this all a bit seriously. Obediently I took my clothes off and handed them to her. She took them from me and threw them into the corner.
"You'll find the carpet shampoo in there," she said, pointing to the hall cupboard. "I want this carpet cleaned pronto."
So there I was, on my hands and knees stark naked with a bowl of warm water, a damp sponge and a bottle of 1001. Pretty sexy, eh?
The phone rang. Lucy took it on the hall phone and talked to what was obviously a work colleague while watching my backside bobbing up and down as I scrubbed. She was still on the phone when I finished the carpet. I put the things away. Lucy motioned me towards her. Still talking, she began absently to knead my cock, bringing it very much to life again. It wasn't long before it was stiff as a ramrod. Lucy started to wank me. Jolly nice it was too. "Hang on a second," she said to her colleague. She put her hand over the receiver. "Go into the bog and have a wank. And I want to see the evidence when you've finished."
"Oh, come off it, Lucy," I complained.
Her hand flashed out and slapped the side of my bottom.
"Ow!" I went.
"Go and do what you're told! Do not argue with me, do not answer back, do not show dissent. Just say 'yes, madam'."
She didn't wait for a reply. She went back to her phone conversation. But she did start playing with me again.
"Sorry," she said to her colleague, "there was someone at the door......Eh? Oh, I dropped a book, that's all."
When Lucy had my prick fully up again she pointed to the loo door and waved me away. I sat on the loo and started to wank. I was in danger of losing it, of not being able to spunk again, but I thought of her lovely arse. I managed it in the end. As I came I carefully caught the cum in my hand.
When I came out she had finished her call and was sitting on the bottom stair. I showed her the sticky evidence.
"That should have calmed you down," she said.
Calmed me down! What had seemed like a great idea a few weeks ago when John had suggested it - 'how would you like to be Lucy's sex slave for a day, for her birthday?' - and had seemed like an even better idea in subsequent fantasy moments, now held no appeal at all. Standing there naked in her hallway I just felt awkward. Only pride prevented me from walking out.
"Come here," she said.
She had a roll of masking tape. She pulled hard on my flaccid cock, stretching it, and wrapped tape around it. She had a half pound kitchen weight. She taped it to me so that it hung a few inches below the end of my cock. Then she wrapped more tape round my cock, mummifying it.
"Lucy," I started, "I'm not sure this is a good idea."
"Does it hurt?" she said.
Actually it didn't. I shook my head. "But what if I need a pee?"
"If you need a pee you ask. You don't do anything unless you have permission. Is that clear?"
"OK," I said uncertainly. "I mean, yes, madam."
"Put these on," she said holding out a pair of stockings, the sort that keep themselves up. I put them on. "And this," she said. She handed me a little red leather skirt. I squeezed into it.
She surveyed me. Stockings, red skirt with end of cock hanging below the hem, weight hanging from end of cock. "You'd look better with a top, I think." Lucy took her blouse off and gave it to me. I put it on. It wasn't impossibly tight. You will gather I am quite slim. Her blouse was warm from her body and smelled of her.
She, dressed in her jeans and bra, looked at me, dressed in her skirt and blouse. She seemed satisfied.
"Right. Breakfast," she announced. "Bacon, sausage, fried bread, mushrooms. You'll find everything. Can you manage that?"
"I think so." How could she eat that kind of breakfast and remain so lithe? She was looking at me with one eyebrow raised as though I was remiss.
"Ah. I think so, madam," I said, adding the madam with as much sarcasm as I could muster.
"Cook yourself the same, whatever you fancy. Off you go. Oh, and wear the pinny," she added. "I don't want that skirt fat stained."
Cooking isn't my strong suit, but I bunged a huge breakfast for two into the frying pan and hoped for the best. Lucy made a phone call then came and sat at the kitchen table. I could feel her staring at my back as I cooked the breakfast.
"Bend over," she said, "so I can see your bum."
What had got into her? I bent forwards. But she got up and went out.
She came back with what I think is called a butt plug, and a tube of KY jelly. "Here," was all she said as she handed them to me before sitting down at the table again.
Dutifully I lubricated the plug, bent over so she could see, and inserted it. Not uncomfortable - that's good design for you. I washed my hands, of course.
"How's Anne?" Lucy asked.
"Do slaves have wives?" I replied heavily.
Lucy laughed. "I was forgetting. Where's my breakfast, slave?"
I put the breakfast onto the plates, took the pinny off and walked over to the table. I say walked. With a thing up your arse and a lead weight hanging from your dick hitting your thighs with every stride, waddled might be a better word.
"No," Lucy said firmly, looking at my plate. "Slaves eat under the table."
I put my plate on the floor.
"Between my legs, facing me. Your face close to my cunt. I haven't washed. I'm still spunky from last night when John fucked me. I want you to smell me. Do I smell?"
I put my nose to her crotch. She did smell, but how to answer such a question without provoking the wrath of one's mistress?
"Pure essence of woman," I said.
"Creep," she said.
I enjoyed my breakfast staring at the nicely bulging crotch of her jeans. There's nothing like the aroma of freshly cooked bacon and yesterday's cunt.
After we had eaten I made her a cup of tea and put the TV on, then I was instructed to go and run the bath.
A few minutes later she came up, stripped off and sat on the loo to have a pee.
"Put some of those blue salts in the bath," she said.
I poured some in. Then I heard it. Plop, plop, plop. She was having a crap! I tried to ignore it and stirred more of the smelling salts into the water.
"Come and wipe my arse, slave."
What was the matter with her? This just was not the Lucy I knew. She would never be so, well, basic, nor so dictatorial. She seemed to be taking to her role of mistress more easily than I to mine of slave.
But I did wipe her arse for her. And as I bent over her she pulled down on the weight hanging from me, giving it quite a hard tug.
I gasped involuntarily, but said: "thank you, madam." Maybe I was getting the hang of my role after all.
Arse wiped, Lucy got up and hopped into the bath.
"Ah," she said, luxuriating in the welcoming hot water. "That's better. Now, slave, you'll find a book beside my bed. Go and get it."
I waddled out and returned with it. I can't recall the exact title, but 'Gay Boys in Bondage' was probably close.
"On your hands and knees, over there where I can see you. Start reading from where the marker is."
Is this what turned her on? Relaxing in her bath looking at a plugged arse framed in a red leather skirt, and a voice coming from the other end reading amazing tales of... but no, you wouldn't be interested in what gay boys do to each other, would you?
I wanted to look over my shoulder to see what Lucy was doing as I read this lurid tale of homosexual depravity. As if I couldn't guess. Perhaps she wanted to stare at my arsehole to help her visualise certain aspects of the story.
I read for what seemed like an age. She didn't even murmur until she was almost coming. Then it was only a little 'ah, ah, ah' and a quiet 'aaaaaaah, ah' as she came.
I stopped reading.
"OK," she said without even a 'thank you, you read that beautifully'. "Go and tidy up the kitchen. Oh, and you'd better take that thing out of your bum. Here, I'll wash it in the bath."
How kind. I pulled it out - not as easy as putting it in as it seemed to have cemented itself into place. I handed it to her. She submerged it and began soaping it. I went downstairs.
I cleared away the breakfast things, stoked the dishwasher and tidied up the kitchen - all with one hand. The other was holding the weight, not because it was hurting my dick - it wasn't - but to stop it bruising my legs.
I'd imagined spending the day in a state of constant sexual tension and I felt aggrieved that Lucy had robbed me of that by making me wank twice.
Lucy was calling me from upstairs: "Hot towel please, slave. In the airing cupboard."
I found a fluffy towel. Lucy stepped out of the bath and I wrapped the towel around her.
"Put the sun lounger out on the lawn, and get the sun tan stuff, it's in the kitchen somewhere."
"I can't go out in your garden like this!" I said.
Lucy was drying herself between her legs. "Yes you can," she said.
"But what if someone sees?"
"What if they do?"
I had no answer to that.
I had the sun lounger all set up by the time she came out. She was stark naked, bold as brass.
"A bit more that way." She indicated how she wanted the lounger moved. "I'm going to have a really nice day. Hmm, you're a bit overdressed, take the blouse and skirt off. Keep the stockings on though, they suit you."
I did her bidding. She lay on her back, legs shamelessly apart. She does have a pretty cunt. I had to notice that even though I was far too wanked out to be aroused by it.
"Have you got the oil?" She lay back.
I did her shoulders, her arms, her face, then down over her breasts, trying to detect whether she wanted me to linger there. I didn't think she did.
Then down over her tummy, to her thighs. Then between her legs. She didn't react at all when I touched her there. Lying with her legs wide apart, the inner lips of her cunt exposed like that, she was in danger of some nasty sunburn. I had to make sure she was well protected. As I rubbed my hand up and down over her cunt I slipped a finger inside her.
"Did I ask you to do that?" Lucy said tartly, without opening her eyes.
"No, sorry." I was a bit taken aback.
"Stand up," she said.
I stood up. She reached out and pulled down very sharply on my weight.
"Not unless I tell you to, alright? Now, get on with it, then bugger off and do some housework. But quietly, I'm going to have a sleep."
Bugger off home, I thought I would. And yet she looked so gorgeous and fuckable lying back like that with her legs apart that I couldn't possibly have left.
I cleaned the kitchen windows to show willing then went and sat down in the living room for a rest.
I must have dozed off as the next thing I knew the doorbell was ringing. I looked at the clock, it was almost half past eleven.
"Get that," Lucy called out drowsily. "And no clothes. I can see you from here." Through the patio door and living room door she could see right through to the hallway. That was why the lounger had had to be moved.
Naked except for stockings and a knee length dong? I reached between my legs from behind and held the weight back out of the way. I opened the front door as little as possible, hiding behind it. It was the postman with a parcel.
"Sign here." And he passed me a pad and pencil. Automatically I reached out for these with both hands. The weight swung between my legs and - bang! - hit the door. The postman cocked his head to one side to see what it was. His eyes widened in disbelief when he saw how I was adorned. I looked him straight in the eye, smiled, signed his chitty, took the parcel and shut the door, thanking my lucky stars it wasn't a glass front door.
The parcel felt like a stack of porno mags, and probably was - I was discovering a lot about 'madam' today.
"Who was that?"
"Postman. Feels like some magazines."
"Oh yea. Come and do my back, I'm turning over."
I put the parcel on the hall table and went to attend to madam. She looked just as gorgeous showing her lovely arse to the world. I oiled her in a very businesslike fashion, starting with her feet and working up.
As I oiled her I began to realise I needed a pee. Remembering her earlier instruction I said: "Er, excuse me, madam, but I, er, need a pee." I was kneeling beside her, doing her shoulders now.
She turned to look at me. "OK, go on then."
I got up and went to head indoors, not quite sure how I was going to manage to pee with my dick encased in tape.
"Where do you think you're going?" Lucy asked.
"For a pee," I said.
"Kneel down. Do it here."
"Here?" I looked around. "But... Well anyway, I can't with all this tape."
My protest earned me only another sharp yank on the weight.
I shook my head in resignation and knelt beside her again. I'd pretend I couldn't go.
"And wait," Lucy said. "Put a finger up my arse."
Phew. I poured some sun tan oil between her buttocks then worked a finger into her arsehole.
"Further in," she instructed. I pushed my finger as far up her arse as I could. She seemed to like that.
"Now piss," she said.
"I don't think I can," I said weakly. And I couldn't. I just could not relax the necessary muscles.
"Take your time," she said soothingly. "Another finger, go on, two."
I squeezed another finger up her arse. She winced momentarily, but when it was in she smiled contentedly.
What was I to do? I couldn't stay here all day with two fingers up her oily arsehole. And I did need a pee. Eventually I found and began to relax the right muscles.
"I think I can do it now," I said.
Lucy looked expectantly at my cock, shifting to get closer to it.
Hello, my name is Jean, I'm 49 years old. But don't stop reading just yet. I want to tell you about the sex I have with young people.
I'm a well developed lady, even plump, but I still have my figure. On a good day I still get plenty of admiring glances.
I've been on my own for two years. My husband was a good man, he worked hard and left me well provided for. We had what I thought was a good sex life. He had normal male drives - he liked it every now and again - but you wouldn't say he was really interested in sex. Sex happened in bed at night. Once, in our youth, on a country walk, I was feeling romantic and suggested we made love there and then.
"Don't be silly," he had chided kindly. "We'll do it tonight." He had given me a little kiss and a hug, and I had hugged him back undisappointedly.
Only now do I realise that for thirty years I was a four ring hob running only one ring to match him - the others closed down, suppressed, forgotten. And so I would happily have continued had the smoking not got him.
Of course, I was devastated at first. But after three months I was climbing the walls with sexual frustration. I found myself lustfully watching the boy who cuts the hedges, admiring his tanned torso, those tight little buttocks, the bulge in the front of his jeans.
So there I was, 49, single, naive and desperate. Something had to be done. I had an approach from a long standing acquaintance, a little older than me, but even after a candlelit dinner he was more interested in the contents of my bank account than the contents of my knickers. What does a 49 year old do for sex?
In a hurry? Skip straight to the action!
It all started when I saw an advertisement in a respectable woman's magazine for 'marital aids'. I'd never had anything like that, Harry would have thought it most perverted, but naturally I had heard of vibrators. A poor substitute for a man, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Guiltily, I sent off for the catalogue.
I never thought waiting for the post could be an arousing experience. But it was. Each morning I found myself in a state of high excitement as I waited for the catalogue to arrive.
I had a very traditional upbringing. Before I married I only had sex once, and then only just. And no affairs while I was married. Masturbation was not something that I ever did. As a girl I was told that 'playing with yourself' was bad for you. The fact that I never masturbated was not a self denying ordinance - it just never occurred to me to masturbate, it simply wasn't something I did.
After ten days the marital aids catalogue arrived. It really was in a plain brown envelope. I tore it open with trembling fingers only to find another envelope inside marked 'warning - sexually explicit material'. I cannot tell you what a surge of excitement those words gave me.
On the front of the catalogue was a naked girl, nothing unusual about that. I turned the page. Well! Even the first page opened my eyes. Vibrators; a thing to go in your bottom; and a thing for men to use as a substitute for a woman. And then more vibrators of all colours and sizes, even little vibrators for your bottom! And clothes - did anybody really wear things like that? I studied every picture, read every word. I had never imagined such things. I wasn't even sure what some of the things were for.
Now, I am not a woman who starts something she does not finish. I plucked up my courage and sent off an order for an 8 inch vibrator, slightly curved at the top. At the back of the catalogue a publication was advertised: 'for people who want to meet people'. That sounded like me, so I ordered that too, not quite knowing what to expect.
I don't think I've ever washed quite so much underwear as I did in those few weeks. I seemed to be in a constant state of arousal.
I worried that the postman might guess from the shape of the package what it contained. Each morning when he did not bring it I hoped only for the next day. Yes, I busied myself with Parish Council business, keep fit class, singing practise, but there was only one thing on my mind. Then, one afternoon when I was beginning to think the catalogue was a fraud, a van pulled up outside and the driver left a package on the doorstep.
When I realised what it was, my heart raced. This was it! I'm not sure I had thought much beyond the opening of the package. I tore open the Jiffy bag, then the bubble wrap, then the box. And there it was. It looked so big. I touched it gingerly. I stood it upright on the kitchen table and sat back to look at it. Could I really - use it?
The slip of paper showed how to turn it on. I turned the base. Nothing happened. No batteries. In a sense I was relieved. I wouldn't have to do anything with it. I turned to the magazine, itself in a separate envelope.
It was titled 'Experience'. As I started to read I found myself shaking my head in disbelief. It seemed to contain classified advertisements from couples and single people seeking (always 'seeking') other people for, well, sex. At first I thought the advertisements could not be genuine, but as I read on, the sheer repetitiveness, and the pictures, convinced me they were. How could people put photographs of themselves not only naked but in such lewd and revealing poses, in such a public forum?
Batteries. I had none the right size in the house. I drove into town. I was sure the girl on the till in Woolworth's knew exactly what I wanted them for. I walked out stiffly.
At home I retrieved the vibrator from its hiding place in my bedside drawer. I sat on the edge of the bed. I put the batteries in and started the vibrator going. It was so powerful! Should I try it? After weeks of excited anticipation now the moment was here I think I was more nervous than I was excited. But I would try it.
I switched it off and put it on the bedside table. I stood up. I took my skirt off. I took my knickers off and sat down again. I picked up the vibrator and switched it on. I put my hand between my legs and parted the lips of my sex. I was lubricating, though I did not feel particularly aroused. I moved the buzzing thing into position. Its end touched my sex. The vibrator felt cold and strangely numbing. I pushed it so that its end parted my lips, just entering me, then I pushed it in more, then more still until it would go into me no further. It felt good, so good to have something solid, something hard inside me. I lay back on the bed, relaxing a little now.
I began to move the vibrator in and out of me, then from side to side, then I pulled it up towards my pubic hair, then pushed it the other way, just to see how it would feel.
It was having an effect on me. I closed my eyes, imagining a man, a real man, a young man. I caressed my breasts, as a man might. I pulled the vibrator up again, pulling it up against my sensitive spot, luxuriating in its vibrations against me. So this was what a vibrator was meant for. I began to lose myself. Weeks, months of frustration overwhelming any apprehension or guilt at using such a thing.
I was doing myself with it now, in and out, repeatedly pulling it up hard against my sensitive place. I put my hand under my bra and squeezed my breasts. This thing was so good I knew it was going to bring me to climax for the first time in very many months.
Other than with Harry, I had probably only ever climaxed half a dozen times in my life. One of these was during a drive in the country. I was wearing tight fitting jeans and we were on a rough forest track. I had that lovely feeling of well-being, of warmth, of loving (though strangely I never used to associate that feeling with the need for or lack of sex). The shaking of the car must have been rubbing the seam of the jeans against me and before I knew it pleasure was sweeping over me. Of course, I didn't tell Harry, he would have though there must be something wrong with me.
I remember another time when I had been persuaded by our keep fit instructor to do a charity rope climb, and on the fifth descent the rope passing between my thighs was enough to bring me to such a climax that I cried out with the unexpected pleasure, so much so that everyone rushed to assist me, believing I had hurt myself.
But apart from such accidental fleeting pleasures Harry had been my only source of release for all those years.
But now here I was, making love to myself. I had pushed my bra from my breasts and was squeezing myself hard now. I abandoned myself to my need. I was heading for my first real mastabatory orgasm. I pulled my new friend out of me and rubbed it around the lips of my sex, wanting to prolong this new found pleasure. I traced its buzzing tip down between the inner and outer margins of my sex, then up the other side, then round the circle of my sex again, then I let the tip dance on my pleasure spot. Such sensations! I wanted more. I pressed it harder against me, but the sensation dulled, numbness set in. So I plunged the thing into me again, pushing it in until it hurt me, then pulling it up so that its shaft shook, jangled, roughed that best part of me, insistently driving me now to the edge of climax. And I held there, just hovering on the edge of ecstasy, no-one else to consider, just my own pleasure. And then I could hold it back no longer. The extreme of joy engulfed me. I felt the juices running out of me.
But the control I had of my pleasure! Even as I was climaxing I found I could move the machine to intensify, to prolong, to heighten the feeling! It was a if a second climax was rising beyond the foothills of the first. And still I was climaxing, still I was experiencing the agony of extreme pleasure. Could it be prolonged for ever if you did it to yourself, touching everything just perfectly, just as the right moment? That squeeze of the nipple just as it would multiply the pleasure, that pause to enjoy, that gentle touch, then roughness just as the pleasure threatened to subside. This was a revelation.
But even as I thought I could carry it on for ever, it was gone. I sank back, panting, sweating, suddenly exhausted. I lay there, still, for several minutes.
I pulled my new toy out of me. I switched it off. It was shiny and slippery. I wanted to kiss it, but I didn't. I didn't remember ever getting so hot, so sweaty, with Harry. I could smell my perspiration.
I had a bath. I put on fresh clothes, made myself a cup of tea and sat down to come to terms with what I had just done, with what I had just experienced. I think I had glimpsed my true self, the self that had been submerged for so many years.
I felt some guilt, but little of it. I felt satisfied, yet not satisfied. If anything, I wanted more. I felt adventurous, bold! The magazine. I found it. In a new light I read through its advertisements.
So many men wanting to meet women! Could I? Too much of a risk, surely. You read so much of muggers, murderers. Were they even genuine, was there some sort of confidence trick, some danger I was unaware of? But their pictures - fine, muscular, young male bodies, their all displayed. I was intoxicated. I wanted one of these men.
I read the instructions on how to reply - I had no intention of replying. I found writing paper, envelopes, stamps - I had no intention of using them. Just for fun I wrote a long letter, as if I were replying to an advertisement. I read it back to myself. I tore it up. I wrote again. He looked so young, so handsome, so nice. "I'm a mature lady, I need a man like you. Telephone me at any time. Jean." If only I could have the courage to send this letter! But I couldn't, I couldn't. Why couldn't I? Why?
I put it in an envelope. I wrote the address. I put a stamp on it. I held it in my hand. I had to post it now, before I lost my nerve, before reason returned. I walked out of the house. I walked to the post box. I was at the post box, the letter in my hand. All I had to do to get a man was to put it those few inches into the opening. That simple action for a man! But I couldn't do it.
"Jean? Are you all right? You look a little flushed." It was nice Mrs Warboys.
The letter, oh my God! It was gone! I'd popped it into the box so Mrs Warboys wouldn't see it.
I must have been standing there looking shocked. Mrs Warboys took me by the arm and walked me back to my front gate, only letting me go in alone when I assured her I really was all right.
I was terrified. What had I done? My name, my address, my telephone number! So many horrors went through my mind. That night I double checked all the locks, left the lights on.
I have never been so worried in my life, imagining burglary, blackmail and worse. But when three weeks had passed and nothing had happened I began to relax. Then one evening the phone rang.
I didn't recognise the voice.
"Yes?" I said.
"You answered my ad."
I froze. I mumbled something.
"You want to meet?"
He sounded very confident.
"Well, I, um..." My brain was spinning. What was one to say?
"If I've rung at a bad time, just say 'I think you've got a wrong number'."
"Oh, no," I said. "It's not that. It's just that I, er..." I couldn't seem to collect my thoughts.
"Look, if you want to meet, next Thursday suit you?"
"Er, Thursday, yes," I found myself saying.
"Er, yes, that would be all right." Had I really said that?
"Er, yes. But..."
"OK, girl. See ya then. Ta ta."
And the phone went dead.
Oh my God! What had I done? I slumped into a chair, shaking. It didn't seem real. I would awake at any moment.
But it was real. I knew it. Had I really invited an unknown man to come and have sex with me, had I? My God!
Pussy and Tom were dozing. Pussy could feel Tom's stiffness pressing against her arse. Drowsily she pushed back at him but he only murmured, not yet ready to give up his sleep.
Their reverie was interrupted by the doorbell. It was sure to be the postman. Pussy liked the postman, he had muscley legs from all that cycling and in the summer wore shorts that showed them off to good effect. The postman had in the past seen Pussy naked through the living room window. Pussy always got a thrill out of displaying herself, though the postman's glimpse had not been intentional.
This morning Pussy was feeling daring. She didn't wrap herself in her dressing gown. Last night she had been playing innocent bridal virgins with Tom and the cunt length see-through nightie still lay crumpled on the floor beside the bed. She slipped it over her head and went downstairs.
She opened the front door. But it wasn't the postman, it was a postwoman. The postwoman looked surprised, even amused and smiled broadly at Pussy.
"Sorry to get you out of bed," she said. "Would you sign here please?" She proffered a little booklet for Pussy to sign.
Pussy leant forwards resting the booklet on her knee: "Where do I sign?" she asked, looking up at the postwoman. As she looked up she caught the postwoman's eyes diverting quickly away from her breasts.
"Second one down. If you could sign and date it?" the postwoman said, a little embarrassed.
Pussy looked the postwoman in the eye and smiled. She leant forwards again to sign, but this time slowly, making sure the postwoman would be able to look down her nightie and see her breasts. Pussy took her time signing, then handed the little booklet back. As she did she met the postwoman's eyes. Then Pussy lowered her gaze to the postwoman's breasts. The postwoman must have been around thirty. She wore a light blue shirt, wet under the armpits from cycling on such a hot morning. Her breasts were large, larger than Pussy's, her nipples were standing proud. Pussy lowered her gaze further. Pussy could see the slight bulge of the postwoman's sex either side of the seam of her shorts. Pussy looked up again. For a moment the postwoman stood frozen, mesmerised by Pussy's blatant look over, like a rabbit caught in Pussy's headlights. But she quickly snapped out of it and said: "Oh, your parcel, I nearly forgot!" She gave a little laugh and handed the parcel to Pussy.
"Who's that?" It was Tom calling from upstairs.
"Postman," Pussy called back. "Well, postwoman actually..." She smiled at the postwoman, opening her mouth slightly and momentarily touched her top lip with the tip of her tongue.
The postwoman smiled back but said: "Well, must be getting along."
"What did he want?" It was Tom again.
Pussy shrugged. The postwoman turned and walked away. Pussy admired her firm arse as she walked down the path. As the postwoman mounted her bike Pussy called: "Come back when you've finished your round." She hadn't intended to say that, the words just came out of their own accord. But the postwoman only smiled and shook her head as she rode off.
Pussy went back to bed, strangely excited by the postwoman's obvious interest in her body. Pussy had never had sex with a woman but was curious - what would it be like? But these thoughts were lost as Pussy found Tom now wide awake and ravenous for her body.
Later, and well satisfied, Tom went out to meet the boys before the rugby match. Pussy lazed in the bath for a while, then donned jeans and tee shirt. She was making herself some lunch when the doorbell rang.
It was the postwoman. She looked hot and sweaty and uncertain.
"Er, you did say if I wanted to come back?"
Pussy was very surprised to see her. But having spent the morning shagging she wasn't feeling particularly playful.
"Come in," Pussy said, without much enthusiasm.
"Oh sorry, perhaps I shouldn't have come back," the postmistress said, sensing Pussy's mood.
"No, come in," Pussy said, a little brusquely. "You look hot."
"Yes, it's boiling out there. Look, I'm sorry, I really shouldn't have come back, I don't know what came over me."
"Oh well, come in and have a drink anyway. Orange juice?" Pussy said.
"Well, all right then, yes, that would be lovely, thank you."
Pussy showed the postwoman into the kitchen and poured them both a long cold drink. The postmistress was a lot shorter than Pussy and somehow she looked younger now - perhaps because she looked less official sitting there at Pussy's kitchen table drinking her orange juice. And there was something about her, a certain submissiveness, that sent a feeling of power suddenly coursing through Pussy's body.
"I hope I didn't startle you this morning," Pussy said, "opening the door dressed like that."
"No, I just came back to apologise for staring, really."
Pussy laughed. "Did you?"
The postwoman blushed. "Well no, not really." They both laughed.
The postwoman drank up quickly and said: "I must be going, thanks for the drink."
"Hey," Pussy said. "What about that apology?"
"Oh yes: I'm sorry," the postmistress said, smiling broadly.
"Huh, that's not much of an apology, is it?" Pussy said sharply.
The postwoman looked a little taken aback.
"Would you like to apologise properly?" Pussy said.
"Mmm?" The postwoman noticed the look in Pussy's eye and fell silent.
Pussy looked hard at her. The postwoman looked down, avoiding Pussy's gaze. Pussy crossed to the postwoman, cupped her chin, lifting her head up, forcing her to look Pussy in the eye.
"I said," Pussy said slowly, a little menace in her voice, "Would you like to apologise properly?"
There was a long pause as they looked at each other.
"Yes," was all the postwoman said, but there was such meaning in that one little word.
"On your knees," Pussy said, stepping back.
There was a moment of hesitation, then the postwoman slid from her chair and knelt on the floor.
"Now," Pussy said. "Say 'Sorry Pussy for looking at your breasts'."
The postwoman looked up: "Pussy?" she said, "Is that your name?"
But before she could finish the sentence Pussy slapped her, gently, across the face.
The postwoman drew in her breath, not in pain, just in surprise.
"Do not look at me," Pussy said.
"Look, I don't think..." the postwoman started.
But Pussy slapped her face again. "Will you stop fucking talking!" Pussy said. And not waiting for a reaction she grabbed the postwoman's hair with both hands and said: "Say 'Sorry Pussy for looking at your tits when I came to your door this morning'." And she shook the postwoman's head as she spoke each word.
Pussy let go and looked down at the postwoman kneeling there silently. The postwoman did not move.
"And how dare you come into my house smelling of sweat," Pussy continued. "Now, are you going to apologise or not?"
She started it. She asked for it. It was all her fault.
I was innocently perving my way around my favourite chat site when I chanced upon her ad.
'Lady, 30, would like to be raped.'
Oh yea? Still, I zinged off a reply: 'Seriously?'
She must have sent the same response to hundreds of people.
'Thank you for answering my ad. I want to be stalked, spied on, attacked and raped. You can hurt me but not injure me. I do not want to know anything about you or meet you beforehand, but there must be some way of identifying you: figure this out and you can fuck me any way you want.'
I could see how the identifying bit would cut the field down from hundreds to, well, nobody so far I presumed.
But I had a solution.
'Hi, I am a webmaster. I could put a message on the site so you'd know it was me. Then if you needed to identify me you'd only need to contact the company and ask who their webmaster is. The site is www.blueblue.com.'
She replied: 'OK. Put "Diane in June" on there.'
I put those words up on a backwater page of the site and emailed her the URL.
Minutes later Diane replied with her full name and address, the address of the estate agents where she worked and she said: 'Stalk me, spy on me, rape me. It will be rape, I will fight back - kick you in the balls if I can. Any time any place before June 30th. My period will be 25-29 this month and June 22-26, but this is not a bar on those dates. If I spot you before you attack me the deal is off.'
And a few moments later another email arrived with a photo of her sitting at an outdoor cafe table dressed in a smart black suit and black tights. She was the sort of girl you'd definitely want to fuck if you saw her.
I was excited, very excited. For about a minute. Then the doubts set in. Anyone could have sent those emails and that picture - someone with a grudge against her perhaps.
So I emailed her back: 'How do I know it's you sending the emails?'
She replied: 'Fair enough. I'll take one pic posed in any way you like to prove it's me.'
A million dirty poses flashed through my head. But a malicious boyfriend could take any one of them without telling her why. So I replied: 'write "www.blueblue.com I want you to rape me" on a bit of paper, hold it beside your face and take a pic.'
And within the hour she did exactly that.
Now I knew it was her, I replied: 'I am going to rape you.'
She replied: 'Yes.'
But how to do it? How do you watch someone without being spotted? Or maybe I should just turn up at her place in the middle of the night and knock on her door. No, she wouldn't open it. And for all I knew she lived with a large Rottweiler and an even larger boyfriend. And how did I know that was really her address?
Grab her in the street perhaps? No, not a very realistic idea. Lure her to a property asking for a valuation? No, she'd see that coming a mile off. My excitement was rapidly turning to gloom as the impracticality of the whole thing began to dawn.
Still, I looked up her home and office addresses on Google maps. Her office in - I'll call it Hertown - was in a pedestrian precinct near the station and her home was less than half a mile from her office.
I had nothing to lose by just going to have a look, so next morning I took the 40 minute train ride.
Coming out of Hertown station I was nervous. I felt as though all eyes were upon me. I felt guilty, maybe I even looked guilty.
Number 44, 42, 40, 38 - her office was no 22. I crossed over to the far side of the pedestrianised street and glanced across at 22. And there she was! She was standing in the estate agents office with her back to the window talking to a man. Blonde hair, black dress, black tights - it was her, no doubt about it. And, God, did she look fuckable.
I hurried on by, my heart pounding, blood coursing through my veins - some veins more than others. I went into McDonald's. From my seat there I could see her office.
The Big Mac and medium fries calmed me down and I began to plot how I'd stalk her. It all seemed a lot easier now I was there and I'd seen her in the flesh. I'd go to her flat next, see where she lived, work out her probable route to work - it wasn't far so she most likely walked.
But my grand planning was interrupted by her emerging from her office clutching a folder, looking all business-like and gorgeous, accompanied by the man she'd been talking to. They were coming my way. Oh no. They were coming to McDonald's! I had no time to run and hide.
She must have passed within six feet of me - I could hear the swish of her tights, smell her perfume. I looked out of the window, at my fries, anywhere but at her.
I ate up and left as nonchalantly as I could, resisting the temptation even to glance back.
I went to her flat. It was a four storey block. There was no security so I went straight in. Number 30 was on the fourth floor. I took the lift up. There were 8 flats off the landing and no CCTV as far as I could see. I rang her doorbell. I was wearing a suit so if anyone did come to the door I'd think of something plausible. Nobody answered. I had a sudden urge to wank over the door - leave a streak of cum down it so she'd know I'd been there. But that would mean every man she'd seen that day would become a suspect and she'd be looking for those faces again.
I beat a retreat down the stairs and went home and had a glorious wank.
Two days later I took the train again. This time I wore jeans and sunglasses. I went for a haircut in the hairdressers next to McDonald's. That the hairdresser was a big girl in every way was a bonus, and I sat there in a hazy pleasure stupor with a huge hard on, watching Diane's office in the hairdresser's mirror.
Diane wasn't in the office as far as I could see, so suitably shorn I carried my erection across the street and pretended to study the properties in the window. Diane definitely wasn't there. I wandered round the town to get the feel of the place and then explored the possible routes between Diane's home and office.
Early next morning I took the car and parked where I could see the front door of the flats.
Diane bustled out at twenty past eight, not looking around at all to see if anyone was spying on her. She took what I had thought was the most likely route. There was a narrow alley that way and I did think of sprinting after her and attacking her there but it would have been far too risky at that time of day.
Instead I went up to her flat again and rang the doorbell. Nobody answered. She must live alone. As I went down the staircase I realised that its windows looked out over the approach to the flats. My plan was beginning to form.
I drove home knowing now that I was going to rape her, and how I would do it. But not just yet. I wanted to enjoy the anticipation and to spook her. Besides it was her period this week.
Next day I went in by train - in shorts and t-shirt this time - with my camera. I took a picture of her office, of her route to work, of that narrow alley, of her block of flats, of the inside of the lift and of her front door.
Back home I emailed them to her saying: 'I am going to hurt you.'
Knowing this would put her on her guard I didn't go to Hertown for the next week. Was she excited, I wondered, or frightened? Suspicious of every man she saw, surely.
The long week finally up, I drove in for one final recce. I parked near her flat late afternoon. She came home just after six. I watched the sway of her arse as she walked up to the front door of the flats. She'd be all hot and sweaty and smelling of woman and she'd taste nice. I'd find out tomorrow. I'd lick her arse.
Next day I was as calm as anything. I went in on the train, stiff as a ramrod all the way. I got to the flats at quarter to six and waited on the staircase between the third and fourth floors, looking out over the approach. If anyone came up or down the stairs I'd do a circuit via the lift back to my vantage point. If she didn't show up I'd come back tomorrow. Simple. I had my shorts and t-shirt on. No underwear. I had a large handkerchief that would serve as a gag and a length of cord just in case.
And there she was! Just after six as yesterday, without a care in the world, walking up the path and coming into the building. I was excited but not at all nervous. I went to the top of the stairs and looked through the little window. I heard the lift doors opening, I saw her walking towards her door, saw her getting her key out and putting it in the lock, turning the key and the door starting to open. I sprang from my hiding place and was on her in an instant, my hand over her mouth, pushing her into her flat, kicking the door shut behind me. She fell forwards. I fell on top of her. I sat on her arse and pulled her hair, jerking her head back.
"Make one sound and I'll gag you and then really hurt you," I said.