Rebound Sex 101

I popped over to Dilemmas Of A Virgin Slut to do a bit of light reading, and was inspired to comment on her post on rebound sex. Let's face it, rebound sex is something almost all of us end up dealing with one way or another. My dilemma was that I soon found myself writing far more than befits a comment, because VS was asking all the right questions! So here are her questions and my humble offerings.

• "Should I indulge in some rebound sex?"
  

If you're stepping out of one of those intense monogamous things - well, it was intense, and sometimes diving into bed with a new person can just make you miss the old one more. At the same time, it's a good way of creating new memories to take up space in your brain so that the old ones don't jump about, bothering you all the time. So I say yes, with two caveats: One, make sure it's good sex. Have it with an old fuck buddy that you know you have a sexual rapport with and who you know is going to be kind to you and still speak to you afterwards - or with someone who attracts you insanely, who you're not sure you're going to see again. Two, only do when you're over him/ her to the point that they don't inhabit all of your sexual fantasies. If the fantasising thing doesn't apply to you, well and good. I'm an International Woman of Mystery by profession and I still get floored by the way a current love-object insinuates their way into my fantasies!

• "Does sleeping with one person in order to get over another really work in the short run?"
  

It can, if you loosely adhere to the above guidelines. Sometimes we need to be reminded that he/ she/ it is NOT the only person who can satisfy and / or please us sexually.

• "Is it the sort of experience that one would regret later?"

Alas, rebound sex continues to be a great source of regret for many people. Mainly because they do not read this blog, and do not follow my guidelines. Oh, alright, it's because we're full of hormones and emotions and we want to be rescued and treated to a nice chunk of oblivion and dammit, breaking up SUCKS. Also, alcohol makes a lot of people seem more attractive and suitable ("I just know he's right for this. He held my hair back while I was throwing up and then bought me another tequila! He's awesome!"), while making us think we're hornier than we are ("Oh god I HAVE to fuck something right now" - when lying down would very possibly start a chain reaction resulting in sleep).

• "Being the polite girl that I am, should I inform the person that he is the chosen reboundee, and what are the rules of rebounder etiquette?"

Rebounder etiquette is a tricky one. Frequently, good friends are victims of it. Picture this: That guy/girl you've been besotted with for months has come to your house and is sobbing your whiskey / tea / milk about that awful creature who betrayed and left him. You give him a hug. The hug turns into slippery, sweaty, intense, emotional sex. You know perfectly well he's rebounded on you but you can't help but hope things will be different. In all likelihood, he'll run very far away. So yes, with someone you know or like, it is very important to make the rebound situation clear to avoid unnecessary distress. If you don't know your reboundee very well, it's probably enough to make it clear that things are just fun and flirty and a distraction. You always have the option to express a more serious interest in the future.

• "Does being a reboundee (i.e. being used for s.e.x/being nothin' but a mere cock) appeal to most men?"

Well, I am not most men. Come to think of it, last time I looked, I wasn't a man at all. So I can't speak for most men. However, I don't think most men could speak for most other men, if they were put to the task. I think we'd have to conduct a thorough survey on this question to get anything near an accurate answer. I know a surprising amount of sensitive men who seem to view sex as a very emotional and intimate thing, contrary to the laddish image we're daily presented with by the media and... oh yes, most men. At the same time, a lot of these sensitive guys would be very sympathetic to your situation, and no doubt be very willing to lend a helping cock.

What Rebound Sex does not do:

• actually get you over your previous lover
• obliterate memories of your previous lover
• make you more ready to move on

It is merely a distraction.

Certainty

I love those moments - so rare in life - when you know with every cell in your body that something, anything, is going to happen. You're about to sign for the mortgage on your dream house (and can't believe they approved you). You walk out of a job interview knowing you've aced it. And my favourite of all: You've just met someone, you're tingling just because you're sitting next to them, and you know - better than you know your own name - that you're going to fuck them, and that it's going to be amazing.

I was working on a project which had a mixed bag of international participants, and for whatever bizarre reason, for the position I had, I was required abroad, while in my home town another person, from yet another country, took my place. My colleagues were a jolly, geeky bunch, and the boss a ball of insane energy - all highly entertaining. In any event, even though I wasn't currently needed in the project, I was invited to the group dinner when they had my replacement over, and accepted with delight - I love fine dining, and the hotel the dinner was hosted in - one of those places with ridiculously high ceilings and black walls - is renowned for its cuisine. I was also fascinated to meet my counterpart, whose career I had coveted for many years - just to see what he was like and what he had to say about our industry, if anything.

So I roll up at the hotel, in my favourite "look at my pert little butt" suit pants and a little blazer - both from Paris - and cutesy flat brogues (I sometimes enjoy cross-dressing like an insane little CEO/ Maitre'd, because in my line of work it's not expected), smelling subtly of Eau Kenzo and delighted that I have fresh, strawberry-blonde highlights in my hair. I'm introduced to my counterpart (let's just call him B, for short), register his height with great delight, note that shaking his hand is far more exciting that such an activity usually is, and somehow when everyone trails into the dining room, we end up sitting together.

I don't remember that much about the dinner. I know that I drank a little too much wine, and that I ate risotto with Parmesan, and went into paroxysms of delight over the cheese, which is one of my favourite things. Mainly, though, I was transfixed by the person to my right, and the delicious food and wine were a poor substitute for what I would much rather have had in my mouth but which was, for now, trapped most unfortunately inside his pants. We didn't talk all that much; we were polite and demure, and then shared an utterly delicious dessert which incorporated, if I remember correctly, pistachio and orange ice cream. Neither of us could figure out what it was, until I hit upon it, and he was impressed at my picking out the flavours and had to agree that I was right.

After dinner, some of the younger people, including myself, repaired to the bar for drinks. I lamented my sore back. Our only other colleague left, and B and I were left in the bar. He started to give me a massage, and said he hadn't done it when our colleague was around because he didn't want to appear pervy. Anyhow, we drained our vodkas and made a date for the next day - I offered to show him around the city, because although he'd been here before, nobody had really taken him out. I went home knowing in my bones that we were going to fuck, even though we had barely touched, bar the massage, and hadn't flirted at all.

Next evening, I'm at his hotel at the appointed time, and we're both wearing long dark coats, which is amusing and makes us feel like characters out of the Matrix. We attempt to go to the cinema, but the lines are long and full of people who seem terribly obnoxious and dumpy, so we opt for drinking, and go to a lovely hotel bar near the river. As luck would have it, a snug is free, and the waiter ushers us in there, smiling bashfully. Do we already look like we're fucking?! We have still barely touched. Anyway, we order sea breezes and eat chips and talk about travelling and enjoy being in the snug, away from prying eyes, and suddenly his finger is ever so gently stroking my inner arm. Mmmmm. I savour that for a minute, and place a hand on his knee; I turn my face up to his, and he inclines his face ever so slightly to my right; but I want to be in control, a little bit, because I'm in that sort of a mood, and I reach up to cup his jaw in my right hand and drag his face close to mine and we are kissing, and it's wonderful and sometimes people walk past the door of the snug (closing it would have felt too obvious, or furtive, or something) and my hand is on his stomach, and his chest, playing with his nipples, skimming his soft hot skin.

"Where did you learn to be so sexy?" he murmurs into my ear. I just smile. I know I look all demure and proper, but that's the main appeal of Capricorns. He strokes down my leg and pulls my foot out of my sandal and plays with it, and I kiss him some more. We pull apart, and sip our drinks. He goes to get another drink, and I refuse another one; I'm already slightly whizzy in the head, and don't need any more whizziness, because I'm still at the stage when I can feel my body.

I don't know about you, but when I'm fucking I like to feel everything that's going on.

We drink and kiss some more and decide to leave the bar. Without talking about it, we head back to his hotel, holding hands; only when we're at the bridge crossing the river does he formally ask me if I want to come back to his room. We mug in the lift mirror, and go into his room; we take of our coats and sit on the couch and start to kiss. I pull the little clip that's holding my hair up in its demure, proper chignon, and throw it somewhere, so that he can push me back onto the couch; my hands tangle in his hair, we grind and writhe together, and I wrap my legs around his waist.

And now I really have to pee, from that sea breeze. Damn.

I extricate myself, and go to the bathroom, and while I'm there, I wash my dripping pussy just in case, though I think we're probably going to roll about on the couch a lot more before we get to the bed. I look at myself in the mirror. Sex hair, but face not drunk or crazy-looking - check. I'm not actually drunk, I realise now that I'm on my own; it's just that being near B makes me all dizzy and crazy-feeling. Why, how wonderful! I'm truly a cheap date. I emerge from the bathroom and make some joke about the sea breeze, which he replies to with some crack about how in that case I'm not responsible for my actions, but I insist that I'm perfectly aware of everything that's going on, and suddenly we're more serious, and kiss a little more in a different, more intense, urgent way, but only a little, and suddenly he has scooped me up in his arms and is stumbling across the suite to his bed.

I firmly maintain that being carried to the bed has to be one of the yummiest things in existence. It makes me feel dominated, utterly in the hands of the person doing the carrying. Maybe it satisfies my inner damsel in distress.

Well, once I'm deposited on the bed, we kiss some more, and I keep running my hands under his shirt, feeling the beautiful soft skin on his stomach and back and chest - how I want it pressed to mine! - and then we take off my trousers, and he - still fully clothed, the tease - neatly pulls the fabric of my thong to one side, and slowly begins administrating soft, gentle little licks to my clitoris. I am in heaven; his tongue is divine, my body is tingling all over just from the excitement of being near him, and his tongue feels like three tongues dancing around my vulva. His licks grow stronger and bolder, I writhe under his face, and arch my back, arms stretched above my head. Suddenly, to my surprise, I'm coming, and he is eating my orgasm, and I am shocked, electrically. He pulls away from my pussy and kisses up and down my inner thighs, aching, burning, stabbing kisses. He looks up at me with unfocussed eyes and sits up. I sit up, too, and kiss him, breathlessly, and begin to pull his shirt over his head so I can feel his yummy skin. He finishes the job for me and I take off my shirt, still in bra and thong. We kiss and stroke and the trousers come off and I feel the hot long silky length of his body against mine and I am so hungry for more, more, more. We lie side by side, kissing, and I gently push him back and kiss my way down his chest and abdomen.

What a beautiful cock greets me. I still hadn't seen it until now, just felt its outline in his trousers, and, given that I didn't have all that many precedents for trouser-feeling cocks and subsequently comparing them unclothed, I hadn't dared guess what it might be like. It is fat and pretty, standing up happily, in a trimmed bed of hair, a good solid size, and so delicious-looking I can't not taste it. I lick it very gently with the tip of my tongue, from base to tip, and it quivers a little; on a whim, I decide to tongue-bathe his balls and immediately feel his body tense up with pleasure. I tease first one, then the other, with soft, long, gentle licks. I could play with them forever and want to tease each one in turn by sucking, but the cock is irresistible, and I begin my journey up to its tip with my tongue, flat against the smoothly veined underside. I snake up and down, and up, and up, and up, licking hard, then take the head into my mouth, sucking gently and flickering my tongue around the head. So delicious. I want it inside me so bad. It's hard and sweet and velvety. I take his whole length into my mouth and slowly move up and down, twisting my head in figure eights, and then he pulls me away and kisses me and dives into my pussy again. I'm insanely wet, dripping with the idea of having his cock buried in me.

"I have a condom." he says quietly, getting up.
"Good!" I whisper, lying back with one knee up. He rummages and returns with a condom, rips the wrapper off, sheathes his cock, kisses me again, and kneels down between my legs. I raise my trembling hips to his and he inches his cock into me; we gasp at each others' tightness and hardness and wetness and width and he pulls out and dips in further and pulls out and dips in, in, in, and he is embedded in me and I twist my arms and legs around him and fuck him from below, pressing the front of my pussy downwards on each outstroke so that his cock is gripped firmly between my pubic bone and perineal wall. We move together, gasping, and get entirely lost in each others' bodies. My brain takes a cigarette break and I am all body, all flesh, suffused with delight and energy and sex and deliciousness and I come again, everything around me disappeared, nothing in my universe except for his cock and my cunt. I get my breath back and keep fucking him, not missing a beat.
"You nearly made me come when you were sucking me," he breathes into my ear.
"Good!" I whisper, smiling mischievously. We kiss each others' smiles and he breaks away from me and goes back into my pussy with his face. It is delicious torment; my cunt aches with emptiness and throbs in the afterglow of being filled and coming, and my clitoris doesn't know what hit it. He aims for my g-spot with a finger and I'm so stimulated I can't really tell what's going on down there, except that I completely lose it and cum round his finger, clenching and clenching and clenching. He does the inner thigh kissing thing again and each kiss makes my pussy clench shut like a beartrap; I'm partly satisfied but still aching and hungry for his cock.
He scoots up to me and kisses me.
"Can you taste yourself?" he smiles into my mouth. I laugh and nod and he's inside me again, and we're fucking and laughing and I pull my leg way up and out to the side with my hand because there's no wall to brace my foot against, and he's even deeper inside me and stabbing and stabbing and my puss clenches in orgasm again with the new stimulation. Finally he comes inside the condom inside me, and we have to stop fucking, and we lie there panting, completely spent. He goes to the bathroom to dispose of the condom and comes back to bed and I lie on his arm, and we giggle and talk about sex and nothing and he asks me questions and I tell him vague, veiled things, and he strokes my body with the backs of his nails and I shiver and arch my back and we start to kiss again and I kiss his cock up and down, and take it, filling, into my mouth, gently moving up and down, and he gets another condom and somehow pulls me up off the bed so that before I know it I'm on hands and knees at its edge and he's standing behind me, pumping, in and out and in and out and in and in and out and in and out and deeper in, and my pulse is racing and all the blood rushes out of my head and how can each stroke feel new? how can we repeat the same thing over and over again, and it's newly fascinating five times a second? These questions have no answers, and he tries to drive us to simultaneous orgasm but it's too much for me and I come before he does, and he is sucked into orgasm by my clenching cunt.

As befits a one-night stand, I don't stay the night - we have to work the next morning anyway - but we arrange to meet the next afternoon.

Drought

I'm experiencing a sexual drought right now. The last morsel of sex I had was eating out my friend, who has been a lover of mine for many years, a couple of times in January or February; every time she touched me she was too rough and I had to brush her away, and she wouldn't let me make her come. Not an energy-exchange experience, sad to say.
Before that, in December, there was a delicious threesome - the best group experience I've had, despite being orgasm-free for all concerned; perhaps it was the lack of drama that marked it out. A few weeks before that again there was a delicious, half-secret, zipless fuck in a hotel with a rather pretty boy I'd met a few hours before (we even fell into a position I'd never tried before, which was a happy and unexpected bonus).

And right now? Nothing. My poor, hungry pussy desperately craves to be stuffed and my clit has been chafed raw from my several-times-daily ministrations; this is normal for me sometimes, I naturally go through phases of severe horniness, but what's truly frustrating is that there is no person in my sphere who creates a frisson for me, there's nobody I want to fuck. If there were, I could at least pursue them and fantasise and feel I were going somewhere; as it is, I feel as though I am in a vacuum, and have no idea when I'm next going to get fucked.

I have an unfortunate system when it comes to choosing sexual partners. There's one main criteria: going near them has to make my body fizz. When that happens, I know that the sex will be insane, terrifyingly hot, and memorable for both of us. Anything less than that feels like I'm betraying my sexual self, my true self, and my partner. Realistically, though, this is something that happens at an intense level once in a blue moon, and not all of my recent sexual partners have quite gotten there. Still, fucking them has been pleasant in many ways, which I look forward to detailing!

Back to my desperation. I've never been the kind of girl who blooms under the unsolicited attention of strangers - I got a bit too much of it in the first flush of my youth, and it was never from anyone I was interested in. Anyhow, the other day, I ran into a shop to get some tracksuit bottoms on my way into a class (I had been too disorganised to do laundry beforehand). I picked something out, ran to try it on, was delighted about the price, and took it to the cash desk. The young man serving me was clearly somewhat flustered by my presence and made it very clear that he liked me by giving me a 25% discount. I was flattered, and smiled, and the intensity of his... attention? the energy that he was beaming at me? ... whatever it was affected me, and I haven't forgotten him since.

He has made his way into all of my fantasies.

He had a German accent, and I have decided that his name is Kurt, or Lars, or Jens, and that his cock is a very firm eight inches, veined and smooth and clean in a little patch of trimmed dun hair. In my fantasies, we make out for hours, like teenagers, and go down on each other for hours, using each other like slaves. He refuses to release me from his maw even when I have definitely, definitely shuddered through my final orgasm, and always agonizingly manages to draw out another climax. I tease his cock until he begs for mercy, but don't let him cum. It's powerful and hot in my mouth and I ache to have it in my pussy, even though I've already cum so many times, but I grip his hipbones and lick him raw until he forcefully drags me off it and sits up, kneeling, pulling me close to him and bruising my mouth with kisses. Our genitals fuse together as though drawn by electromagnets, and I am allowed to set the pace for a few minutes as I fuck him, my hand at the sweaty base of his neck, face pressed into his shoulder (for he is much, much taller than I). He takes my arms and pushes me down, back, onto the bed, holding my hands above my head and stabs into me over and over and over and crashes into my clit with his pubic bone. It seems he goes deeper with every thrust, as impossible as it is, and finally we both capitulate, drowning each other in messy fluids, panting and laughing.

So, should I go back into the store and pretend I need some random piece of sportswear...? What are the odds that I remained in his mind, too? This is completely out of character for me; I've not fantasised this much and this long about someone I had a mere glimpse of since I was a young teenager.

Eating Sex, part two

... read Eating Sex, Part One first...

After that kiss, we carried on with working and talking, and my friend and colleague returned, and my heart was filled with this fantastic secret. I carried it like a prize somewhere near the base of my spine, or it carried me.
We all did our day's work, and every so often that man and I would catch each others' eye and electricity would pass between us - as it had from the start, but now with more energy. At one point I became lost in thought, so locked in the memory of the kiss that I was entirely unaware of what was happening around me, and when I returned to the present, I found my tongue wandering slowly across my lip, where his had, and his eyes locked in mine, his mouth forming an sentence which made no sense. We snapped out of it and nobody noticed.

I can barely remember what I did that evening. Did I hang out with colleagues? I remember writing rapturously in my journal, leaving out names, painting a broad sweep over what happened, and falling asleep with my heart in my throat. I, the author of countless erotic stories, emails and text messages, could not bear to imagine what might take place between us. As soon as I tried to picture anything, it was as though my vulva rolled up like a frightened hedgehog. But a very happy, frightened hedgehog.

The next morning I rose very early and ran through the sleepy city to a self-service tanning booth, because i felt too pale and pasty to take my clothes off in front of anyone. The vitamins and the heat soaked into my starved bones and made me feel less transparent. More substantial, but still sleek enough to dart in and out of anywhere without anyone noticing. I spent the morning working; the afternoon was given to group work. I think I ate dinner with colleagues, but was far too excited to eat. I vaguely remember ordering something and eating about three leaves of lettuce. My colleagues worried about me, but I brushed off their concerns, and as soon as it was decent, left for my hotel room, pleading tiredness and work.

Just thinking about it still makes me feel sick with excitement. I hopped into the shower and washed myself as quickly as I could, messed my hair in the mirror. I put on dark denim panties, a grey cotton Calvin Klein bra, the pale blue CK jeans I had starved myself all summer to fit into, a brown linen shirt that tied at the neck, which I left indecently open. I shoved my wallet into my back pocket and left my hotel room and ran to look for a taxi. I must have been giving off tons of energy, because everyone sitting outside at the little cafes stared at me. My heart was in my pussy, and I hoped against hope that none of my colleagues had chosen that particular street to drink a coffee in the setting sun.

Maddeningly, the one-way system in the city meant that I didn't have a direct route to the hotel, which would have taken all of five minutes, but the driver had to go first left, then right, then down the river, then right again. After what seemed like forever, I arrived, paid the driver, and steeled myself to walk through the doors as though I did this sort of thing every day. I got into the lift - thank goodness nobody was in it with me. I inspected my face in the mirror. I was still there, and prettier than I remembered. The lift bounced to the third floor and I got out and went into the corridor; his door was ajar. I knocked anyway, and he was there immediately, and somehow we were locked in a kiss, and I wondered what I was doing there because this was crazy, crazy, crazy, but god, kissing had never tasted or felt so good or so delicious or so right or so wrong.

I still wasn't sure if we were going out to dinner, or what, and I pulled away. He stroked my face.

"When I kiss you, I am afraid of you." I laughed into his mouth and kissed him harder, and kissed him, and kissed him, and he was undoing my jeans, and I had my hands in the back of his, and skimming around to his belt. I had never undone a man's belt before, and it was challenging, but I pulled strongly at the stiff leather, and managed to keep kissing him and paying attention to what his hands were doing. They were under my shirt, teasing my nipples through the thin material of my bra, teasing the small of my back, butterflying across my navel. I freed his shirt from his trousers and began to unbutton it. He started to take my shirt off, but it was narrow in the shoulders so I pulled it over my head while he took off his shirt and vest.

Skin. This was new. We pressed our bodies into each other again. His skin felt like warm marble; insanely smooth and inviting. He kissed my neck, my collarbone, my face. Somehow, we were free of our jeans, and on the bed; he in his boxers, I in my dark panties. He lay back and I sat next to him, tracing gentle patterns on his stomach, leaning in to kiss some more. I was almost afraid to touch his cock, but when I laid my hand across it it was hot and sprung full of energy behind the cotton. Not fully erect, but solid, hardening, heavy. He slipped a hand into my panties and I almost fainted; but he was insanely gentle, butterfly teasing my clit as though it might break or burst any second. My panties were obstructing his access, so I removed them and then we tangled our limbs and kissed more. I began to kiss his body - that dark, antique marble skin! - but was too shy to take his boxers off and devour his cock as I wanted to. He turned me over onto my back and licked my stomach, kissed my nipples, and then dove into my pussy with his tongue.

Wow.

This was something very new. For all the times I had written about oral sex, fantasised about it, had boys tell me the things they were going to do to me with their tongues, this was the first time I had let anyone go there in real time and space. My pussy was slicker and warmer than it had ever been; his tongue felt amazing, like more appendages than I could count, darting up and down and around and then his mouth sucked my clit, engorging it further with blood, and he shook his head, my clit moving with it. I was no longer a girl lying on a hotel bed in a civilized European city; I had become a puddle of mercury concentrated in my vulva. I didn't feel like it was going to make me come, though, it was too new and shocking. After a long, pleasant time, he licked his way up my body - following a path with his tongue between two moles above my navel and below my right breast, and kissed me on the mouth again. He rolled back and it was my turn to explore his cock with my mouth.

He was a little nervous and not entirely stiff; but I had been reading about fellatio on the internet for years, and I knew what to do. I kissed all around his penis, licking the little groin between thigh and mons (do men have a mons? If not, what is that place called?), breathing hot breath onto his cock, teasing. It twitched and I felt it in my abdomen. I licked around the base, gentle, short licks, growing longer, until I reached the tip with my tongue. I licked and closed my lips and allowed his cock to penetrate my mouth; I heard a sharp intake of breath from him. Taking all of him in and sucking more stiffness into his cock, I moved up and down, varying the pressure of my lips, licking around the head as lightly as I possibly could, flicking my tongue across the glans, tapping, and again licking from base to tip. He was very hard now, and I could see a tiny glisten of precum on the tip, which I hastened to taste - it was pleasant and mild. I put my lips around the head of his cock and sucked gently. I felt his hands at the side of my head, pulling me up, and insisted on getting one more deep lick in before I came up and kissed him.

He guided me towards him and I hesitated slightly with his cockhead almost grazing my vulva.
"Aren't you going to use protection?"
"We will be careful."
I threw caution to the wind and, contrary to everything I believed in, lowered myself slowly onto his cock.

Another wow moment. This was delicious and strange and incredibly erotic. His eyes were closed and he was making little, sharp intakes of breath; his cock was only embedded in me by about an inch, and my pussy was tight and strong and he felt big and hard. I pulled back a little and went further; just another inch. It was insanely hot; his cock stretching me, our skin steaming in the heat; my vulva slick with my excitement and his cock still damp from my mouth's attentions. I pulled back again, and then in one movement impaled myself completely. I sat still, revelling in the feeling of being stabbed, full, stretched, penetrated in my deepest place. All words and thought were gone, lost to the wind, and we began to move together. He reached out for me and pulled my body to his, our hips slowly undulating, and we kissed again. I sat up again, adjusting my weight, riding him lightly and shallow, then letting him right in, my centre of balance at my sacrum. My eyes were closed and I knew nothing except sex and flesh and skin and heat.

"I love you."

My eyes flew open. I was not expecting this; despite my obsession I expected only to be a fling for him, to be cast to the wind when he was bored. He was looking at me through hooded eyes, his hands on my hips. I touched his hands with mine and answered him. He pulled me off his cock, and I kissed him on the mouth, but he kept pushing my body upwards and I was sitting on his face, my thigh muscles burning, his face buried in my pussy. I saw stars and gripped the bed as though it were the rail of a heaving ship and I could be thrown overboard at any second. He pulled my hips closer to his mouth; I was keeping my weight away from his head as much as I could, but he wanted more of me. I heard myself gasping and moaning and he pulled me down his body and back onto his cock, and I kissed him and tasted myself on him. We moved together and he braced me with his body, rolling me over onto my back, still inside me, fucking me. I was a glowing ball of eroticism, but was nowhere near an orgasm; too overwhelmed and too inexperienced. He pressed my shoulders onto the bed and snaked his hips so that he was buried even deeper inside me, stabbing and splitting me. His cock tasted sweet to my pussy and every movement was new and sent sparks and shivers of arousal through my body. He pulled out of me and lay back, pulling my hips to him; then I lay on him with our faces pressed to each others' groins. I tasted more sharp precum on him and fucked his cock with my mouth; he did his best to remain gentlemanly and not thrust hard, and concentrate on eating me out. When it became too much for him we pulled apart and lay together, kissing, his hand in my pants, I lightly stroking his cock and belly.

He went to the bathroom; I lay back on the bed with my knees up, suddenly wondering again what I was doing there. Who was this person? Who was I? Why were we doing this? But then he came back and ran his hand across my smooth teenaged body and down to my cleft and I was back in the drug of sex and he was inside me again and I was experimenting with different ways to move my hips and he was hard, so hard, and filled me, and there really wasn't that much I could do with my hips because he didn't bend sideways, just filled me up more and more and deeper and then he was on his back again, and my mouth was on his cock.

"Can you drink me?"

I nodded, licking and sucking him, all of him in my mouth (thank God for those internet deep-throating lessons), my hands gripping his hips and drawing him further into me, going up and down and licking and pushing and licking up and up and up, and then I decided to play with his frenulum and tickle it from side to side and his cock twitched and prepared, like a pistol being cocked, and I knew he was going to come and I didn't let up with my side-to-side tonguing and then it came, spilling, thick and hot and salty, and I lapped it up and swallowed as he came, and cupped the head in my mouth as more and more spilled out and gently sucked and swallowed and swallowed and swallowed, and then no more came out and I gently gently moved my mouth down over his cock and licksucked it clean one last time, lingering with my lips on the tip.

We lay together, exhausted, holding hands, all tension gone. He got up to go to the bathroom and I started to put my clothes on. We adjusted ourselves in the mirror and left for a nearby sushi restaurant, where he plied me with beautiful food and asked me questions and we indulged in feeling free and hidden and naughty and forbidden and right, our legs pushing together under the table.

And that, my friends, was the first time I ate sex.

Introduction

About me:

• I'm a woman in my mid-twenties, living alone somewhere in Europe.
  
• I love to read.
  
• I love to eat.
  
• I love having great sex.
  
• To me, great sex has nothing to do with the exchange of bodily fluids, nor penetration, nor orgasms, nor touching in intimate places - it is an exchange of energy. A good sexual relationship can extend so far beyond pleasuring one another physically and go way into the metaphysical.
  
• I consider my sexuality to be the very core of my being. It's one of the few things that wasn't fucked with when I was a child - I'm grateful every day for my luck in that respect.
  
• I'm a definite masochist and find it hard to decide, on my own, to have fun in non-self-destructive ways. This blog is part of my cheer-myself-up routine.
• The nature of my work is irrelevant... it's cultural, and involves a lot of travel. I think it's much more fun to fill in the blanks for yourself, and try to guess if you know any of the people in the story, know me, know the place, know the industry.
  
• I've been devouring sex blogs pretty much since the phenomenon started, and the writing I link to is, in my opinion, super hot and special.
  
• I've had many other blogs, but this is the first one dedicated to sex.
  
• I'm bisexual, but mentioning that is sort of an afterthought; I find certain people attractive, and some of them are male, others female. I tend to forget that not everyone is like that, despite my lack of fortune with straight girls!
  
• I'm currently single and ridiculously horny; this blog is born out of horniness and constantly thinking about sex (I thought I thought about it constantly before; boy, was I wrong) and also an attempt to burn off some sexual energy in writing.
  

Eating sex

The first time I truly experienced sex with another person, I was - technically speaking - not a virgin. I had chosen to lose my virginity two years before, in what turned out to be an experience that wasn't much to write home about (which is why I'm not writing about it right now).

I was eighteen when I first dipped my toe into the pool of shared carnality. I had been insanely in love, to the point of obsession, with a certain man for two years, fighting denial and common sense until I was forced to admit to myself that this was how things were, whether I liked it or not. Having seen him once again a few months before and being convinced that the frisson was not purely on my side, I had talked myself into believing that when we met again, I would behave myself properly and nothing would happen, because it couldn't (he was married), because it was all wrong for everyone involved (he was a fair chunk older than I), etc. I wasn't so foolish as to believe that he would behave; I knew it was my job to keep a lid on things.

I had never travelled alone before I reached the age of eighteen, bar little train journeys here and there. So coming of age was exciting in more ways than one. Instead of being accompanied everywhere by my well-meaning but overprotective mother, who would even come with me to the corner shop to buy a bottle of water if we were away somewhere, I got to do whatever I wanted - wear what I felt like wearing, sleep when I wanted to, strew my things about my hotel room, go out for a drink with people I had met. It was utterly fantastic and I still cherish the memory of that sense of freedom and release, and that first long trip across Europe.

So there we were, that man and I. We had arrived in the same time and place again, and I knew the instant we clapped eyes on each other that all of my little resolutions were entirely futile. I knew that I would not be able to resist him, no matter what. So I accepted it, and dealt daily with my knocking knees, dry throat and vulva so excited and wet it was practically numb.

A few days in, a male friend and I found ourselves in his hotel room. I expected it would be work and cheerfulness as usual, because my frantically turned-on and obsessed mind couldn't, despite evidence to the contrary, believe that anything was going to happen between me and someone whom I was so crazy about that I couldn't even fantasise about him (I'd tried, once, and it was too intense - I had to turn my face away from what my mind's eye was seeing). But lo and behold, after a few minutes, that man sent my friend out to do photocopies. As soon as he'd done it I understood that the whole photocopying thing was a ruse, and he came up to me, took whatever I was holding out of my hands, and kissed me. Just as well, because with that kind of a kiss, I would have dropped even the most precious and fragile thing. My knees turned to liquid and I clung to him with my lips, my consciousness entirely concentrated in my mouth. He pulled away, and pulled his collar a little away from his neck. My immediate instinct was to kiss his collarbone, caressing it with my tongue, and from the rapt expression on his face, he seemed to enjoy it very much. I kissed his mouth again, and his hands moved to my hips. His thumbs made gentle, tiny circles an inch below and in from my hipbones - a movement which made my entire womb quiver. I couldn't even think.

We pulled apart, and regained our balance, and smiled at each other. The line had finally been crossed; we were in a new territory.
"Will you come to me?"
I didn't understand what he meant; English was not his first language. Did he mean I should come and visit him sometime?
"Maybe," I said coquettishly. He asked again, more of a growl in his voice, not letting my eyes leave his.
"Yes."
"When?"
"I don't know." I looked at him through my eyelashes, my soul the weight of a pebble in the bottom of my abdomen.
"Tomorrow?"
"Okay."
"We will have dinner, come at eight."

To be continued...