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I think I might have a problem.
The thing is, I just really love erotica. Nubile virgins and dastardly millionaires, hulking fireman and grateful homeowners, saucy college girls and naughty professors, trysts with mysterious strangers on exotic islands.
It really gets my juices flowing.
I just love to touch myself while I read. I lose myself in an erotic reverie, sometimes for hours, my fingers circling in my own wetness, before finally collapsing exhausted and satisfied in orgasmic bliss.
What’s the problem you ask? And well you might.
The problem isn’t with the erotica, or not as such. I certainly don’t feel ashamed or anything like that.
Its just that I’ve never found a man who could live up to it. To be blunt, I’ve never, yet, met a man who could make me come.
I enjoy sex.
I like feeling a man moving inside me. It just doesn’t lead to anything and leaves me feeling frustrated and aroused until I can sneak off to the bathroom with my phone and give myself the pleasuring I need.
Now, I know what you’re thinking, plenty of women can’t come just from sex and, if you want to get technical, penile penetration isn’t everything.
But it isn’t just that, hands and even tongues, although better, don’t quite do the trick either.
The first time a man went down on me, I thought, yes, this is it.
But it wasn’t.
To begin with, it was amazing. It felt better than anything else I’d ever felt with a man, and it was always a favorite theme in my stories.
But in the real world, it didn’t quite get me there either and in the end he lost interest.
And, to be honest, almost getting there but but not quite was almost worse than missing by a mile.
So, I’ve had a few boyfriends and a few one night stands, including one with a bad boy with a motorcycle who used to get my knickers wet just thinking about him.
But nothing really worked, nothing really, when it came down to it, nothing really got me off.
Motorcycle man was a particular disappointment. He used to work as a courier at the law firm where I was working at the time. He used to look so good in his tight leathers that I used to fantasise about him all the time.
I would picture his face as I read my stories. I was going through a bad boy phase at the time, more in terms of reading than real life you understand, and he fitted the bill just perfectly.
I would imagine him bending me over my desk, panties round my ankles, my tight little skirt hitched up over my arse while he slid his thick cock inside me. In my more naughty moments, I’d imagine the whole office watching as he fucked me deep and hard.
He used to give me so many delicious orgasms without him being in the room that I was convinced I’d be a trembling, quivering puddle of excitement as soon as he actually laid his hands on me.
Alas the reality didn’t quite live up to the fantasy.
I’d popped out one lunchtime to get a coffee when I saw him leaning against a pillar, smoking a cigarette.
He looked so good, I just had to take my chance.
“Hey, do you mind if I take one of those?”
I didn’t really smoke although I quite liked one now and again. It was just an excuse to approach him.
At first he looked annoyed to be asked but then he looked me up and down.
Normally, I’d be annoyed to be so blatantly checked out but it all fitted so well with my bad boy fantasy that it actually made me quiver.
I just really hoped he thought I was hot enough to give up a cigarette for. I was dressed professionally but my white top was quite tight and, I thought anyway, made my tits look perky underneath them.
He smiled, “Sure,” he said.
He lit another cigarette with his Zippo lighter and passed it to me. It was the sort of thing that should only have impressed a teenage girl but it made me feel girly somehow and I enjoyed it.
I flirted outrageously with him as we smoked.
He didn’t say much. Too cool, I thought. Too stupid, I tried not to think.
Finally, it was time to go. I made some comment about seeing him again and he asked me, very casually, for a drink that evening.
Maybe the problem was that I was too pushy, too forward. I didn’t want a boyfriend. I just wanted him to fuck me.
But that isn’t how the fantasy goes.
In the stories the girl is shy, virginal even. The good girl. She is seduced and whisked off her feet by a dark, irresistible passion she cannot control or explain.
She doesn’t make the running.
She certainly doesn’t suggest the boy invites her back to his flat after three drinks and some stilted conversation, dropping to her knees to suck him off the moment the door is closed.
She doesn’t. But I did.
I quite like giving head. I know a lot of girls don’t but I do. Maybe because there’s zero expectation that its meant to make me come, so it takes the pressure off.
I liked feeling slutty, being the bad girl. It was exciting to be in a strange man’s place, taking his dick in my mouth, living out my fantasies. I tried to ignore the bahis firmaları relative squalor of where he lived.
True, he seemed a bit taken aback almost. Not complaining obviously but not the dominant, in control figure of my dreams.
The sex, when it came, was fine.
Not much more than that really. He didn’t bend me over, slap my arse or call me his little slut.
He just fucked me mechanically and missionary style on his unmade bed.
There was no question of him going down on me, no foreplay beyond what I’d bestowed on him. Just a slightly overlong pause as he grudgingly fumbled with a condom.
Condoms also didn’t feature in my fantasies but nor did getting pregnant or an STD. I don’t want you to think I’m completely reckless.
There was, of course, no question of me coming and I’m not sure it would even have occurred to him that I might expect that.
I was glad when it was over.
I got dressed, made my excuses and left.
Bad boys and risky sex, it seemed, were not the answer.
After a while,I began to wonder if maybe I was a lesbian. If the problem was that I just wasn’t into men.
It didn’t seem likely. Most of the stories I liked were about men, most of my fantasies were about men and most of the people I fancied in real life were men.
But you never knew.
I did sometimes like to read about two girls together, exploring their sexualities in tight fitting lingerie and I must admit it got me going in a different kind of way to reading about men.
Only one way to be sure.
So one night I put on a tight little skirt and a dusky red biker jacket and headed across town to a lesbian bar I’d read about online. It sounded like an upscale place, nothing too dykey.
I was approached by a couple of women as I sat alone at the bar, sipping a margherita but I politely deflected their attention. They weren’t what I was looking for at all. After a while I started to think about leaving, maybe this had all been a mistake, when a different girl walked up to me.
She was cute. Maybe twenty five, slim almost petite with a cute little blonde bob. She was perfect.
She introduced herself as Charli and asked me what I was doing all alone at the bar like that.
I had no idea how to flirt with another woman, so I decided to be straight up with her.
“Its an experiment.”
“What sort of experiment?” she asked, curious.
“To see if I like girls?”
“And do you?” More than merely curious now.
“Not sure,” I shrugged, “I’m still hoping to find someone who could help me find out.”
“So you’ve never been with a girl? Never even kissed a girl?”
“But you’d like to?”
I shrugged again, “I guess. I mean that’s why I’m here. To find out.”
“Would you like to… I mean, would you like to kiss … me?”
I looked her in her clear blue eyes. She really was very cute. I looked at her lips, cherry red, soft, just slightly moistened and ever so inviting.
I started to feel a tingling inside me. Maybe this was it? Maybe this was what I was waiting for? Maybe Charli would finally make me feel the things I’d only ever felt in stories before?
The thought was slightly terrifying. What would it mean if I was a lesbian? My life would change in so many ways. But it was also more than a little exciting.
“I mean, well, yes, I guess we could try.”
Charli leaned in. I felt her lips find mine, open mouthed and then her little tongue darting inside my mouth. My body responded. I kissed her back.
We pulled apart. I looked up at her, her eyes dancing with mine.
“Well?” Breathless for the verdict.
Well what? It was … nice. I certainly wasn’t repulsed and I was eager to find out more. But Charli didn’t make me melt. I felt less with her than I had with most of the men I had kissed.
“I’m not sure,” I replied. I tried to sound coy, as if my uncertainty was teasing rather than the stone cold truth.
“I think I would need more, to really know for sure.”
Charli leaned in, to kiss me again.
I stopped her. “I mean, I think I would need more than just kissing.”
“My place isn’t far. Want to come back for a drink and maybe just a little bit of ‘more'”?
“Perfect. But, Charli, go gentle with me.”
And she was.
It was fun. It certainly felt different than with a man, softer, more tender. It felt good to feel her kissing my breasts and her tongue felt really good lapping away inside me. But she still didn’t make me come and somehow it wasn’t the same as with a man.
I knew almost as soon as she touched me, it wasn’t going to happen for me.
Which at least wasn’t true for her. I wasn’t sure until I was actually there, whether I would really have the nerve to go down on another woman. But it just seemed to flow in the moment.
It was a thrill at first, tasting her juices, rubbing my tongue over her nub, an unfamiliar, almost overpowering surge of female sexuality but after a while, it became a bit boring and I settled into an almost mechanical lapping rhythm.
Fortunately, kaçak iddaa Charli came quickly, which made me jealous, but at least it was a thrill, feeling her orgasm surging in my face.
We didn’t talk much afterwards. She would have known I hadn’t come and could probably sense I hadn’t really been that into pleasuring her. I suggested I get a cab. She didn’t object. We didn’t exchange numbers.
Still, I had learned something about myself and it had been fun. Something to consider in the future but not the answer.
And when I got home, I found the hottest lesbian stories I could find as I slowly and delicately fingered myself into a satisfying orgasm and drifted off to sleep.
The problem was perhaps, or so I wondered, that I was simply too good at making myself feel good.
I could make my own body sing so perfectly, knew exactly how to get the best tune out of myself that perhaps no one else stood a chance.
Perhaps if there were a man who really had the time and inclination to get to know me, to put the work in, to really learn how to rub me up the right way. Maybe then.
But in this crowded sexual marketplace, that seemed too much to expect.
I met James at a party of Trixie’s.
I didn’t go looking for love. I only went to have a drink and blow off some steam and because Trixie is my best friend.
An old friend from universityl not work. Nothing to do with work.
I only mention that because somehow the thing with me and motorcycle man got out. I mean obviously he told everyone and now most people at work think I’m a complete slut. The women look at me funny and all sorts of men, even the head of HR, keep on propositioning me.
It’s cool. I can ride it out but for now it’s good to hang out with people who don’t know anything about it. I mean of course I told Trixie but she’s my best friend, she loves me, she isn’t going to judge me.
Well, not too much.
I first saw James across a crowded room. Just like all the best romances.
He kept checking me out. Not quite like in the best romances.
Not blatantly or possessively but like he couldn’t keep his eyes off me. I could tell he thought he was being subtle and I pretended not to notice but it really turned me on.
He was fit, in a slightly nerdy kind of way and I liked the fact that he just didn’t seem to be able to help himself. He wasn’t checking anyone else out either, just me.
I’m not generally the type of girl who likes a man leering over her, not unless I like him first. I’ve been known to call out wolf whistling builders but there was something about the way he did it, bashful but like he just couldn’t help himself that really did it for me.
He seemed like the type to take fright if I just went over and introduced myself or even let him know I’d caught him looking. Besides, my recent experiences with being forward hadn’t really worked out that well.
Well, if it was meant to be, it was meant to be. And, if not, well it was nice to get the attention. I knew what I’d be thinking about that night as I fingered myself.
Later I lost track of him and had almost forgotten about him when I was in the kitchen looking for a drink.
Two guys behind me were discussing films. I wasn’t really paying attention but one of them had the sexiest voice I’d ever heard.
He was listing his favourite films, Alien, Fight Club, Pulp Fiction, Apocalypse Now, the Usual Suspects.
So far, so predictable.
I was pretty sure it was only said for effect and it certainly prompted incredulous guffaws from his friends. It also got my attention.
Now, I’m not a girly girl when it comes to films. Give me Tarantino over Jennifer Aniston anyday. But I’ve always loved Dirty Dancing, even if I couldn’t really say why.
And here was sexy voice guy launching into a long, well thought out and really very funny defence of its merits.
I pulled a beer at random from the fridge and turned around to him.
“I think you’re so right,” I said and put my hand on his arm.
It was only then I realised that it was the nerdy guy who’d been checking me out. God, I never would have thought he’d have a voice like that.
He froze. Rabbit in the headlights. The funny, intelligent guy I’d just overheard talking to his friends was completely gone.
Which was sweet but this was going to be hard work.
“Thanks,” he sort of squeaked and sort of growled.
I introduced myself as a friend of Trixie’s.
“James,” he sort of hiccupped back. Maybe this was going to be too much like hard work.
Fortunately one of his friends, Michael, clearly clicked on to what was happening and played the perfect wingman. He filled in any gaps, gave James his cues to speak and generally kept things going.
Gradually, James gained his nerve and the conversation started to flow. After a while, I realised Michael wasn’t there anymore and it was just me and James.
We talked all night. He was funny but he could be serious, he seemed to kaçak bahis know about everything but wasn’t opinionated or pushy.
He was interested in me too and I ended up talking about all sorts of things, about growing up, about my sisters, my job. I must have really bored him. But he didn’t seem bored.
It didn’t seem likely he’d have anymore luck making me come than anyone else had but maybe he was something else, proper boyfriend material.
Eventually, it was time to go home. I kissed him on the cheek and gave him my number. Then I left.
I found an old story I liked about a girl meeting a hot guy at a party and taking him home for a night of wild passionate sex. Plenty of orgasms for everyone of course.
I sort of wished my night with James could have had a similar ending (even without the orgasms) but knew it was probably better to take a bit longer over it.
As I read the story I suddenly realised I was imagining it read out by James. I imagined him sat in the corner of the room reading out loud while I lay naked on the bed, touching myself to the sounds of his voice. Touching myself for him.
It made me so fucking wet just thinking about it and it wasn’t long before my whole body was shaking in the most incredible orgasm.
I rolled up and snuggled down to sleep, really hoping that he’d call.
I didn’t have long to wait. 11.30 next morning to be precise.
Not playing it cool at all then, but I liked that more. I liked that he found me irresistible.
It was a text:
“Really good to meet you last night. Would be fun to do it again if you’re around?”
It wasn’t much but he’d probably spent all morning on it.
I hesitated over the kiss but if he wasn’t playing it cool, why should I?
Besides I did want to kiss him, and more besides.
“Great. The Old Ship?” came the response almost immediately.
So, that’s how James and I became a thing.
I let him kiss me that first night.
To begin with I wondered if it was going to be a disaster. He was almost as tongue tied as the first time we’d met and with no Michael to intervene.
So to begin with I just prattled on, remembering how well we’d got on before and just hoped that something would spark in him again.
Then, somewhere into his second pint, suddenly it just did and we were talking like we’d known each other for ages.
It felt good that kiss good night and my body was crying out to let him take me home but something in me told me to wait.
I’d pretty much given up on expecting anyone else to make me come. And since I could make myself feel so good, did it really matter?
But I really liked James and was sure I fancied him but, even with orgasms, I wanted more than just sex. I decided we could wait just a little longer.
But not too much longer.
The second time we went out, I took him back to mine and we fucked hard into the night.
The sex was good, great really. James, it turned out was an animal im bed with a really amazing cock too. He had the cock I fantasied about motorcycle man having.
I could tell I turned him on so much that he could barely control himself and that thrilled me too, but he did control himself and was a tender considerate lover.
There was plenty of foreplay. He kissed and fondled my breasts, flicking his tongue across my pert nipples.
He kissed my thighs and my clit, slipped his tongue inside my soft, wet cleft, making me feel so good before he slid his really quite magnificent cock inside me.
It was the best sex I’d ever had.
But he still didn’t make me come. He held off for as long as he could but eventually I felt him stiffen inside me and I knew he was coming.
Afterwards, he tried to finger me to satisfaction but eventually I had to stop him.
It had been a wonderful evening but I could tell he was a little saddened about my lack of orgamsm. I thought about faking it but I didn’t want to be dishonest with him. It was a blue note to end an otherwise perfect night.
The next time we had sex was much the same, almost more so. He went down on me longer than anybody had ever gone down on me before.
It felt great but all I could think about was the orgasm that wasn’t coming. I knew he was too.
Afterwards, when he’d finished and he was holding me in his arms, his come dribbling down my thighs, I could sense his disappointment. I decided I had to be honest with him.
So I told him.
I told him that he was really great in bed. I didn’t tell him of course that I wasn’t really expecting much from him there so it had been a very pleasant surprise.
I could see his suspicion though. I could tell he was thinking why, if I’d enjoyed it so much, I hadn’t come. Men can be so fragile.
“The truth is, James, no one has ever made me come. If anyone could it would be you but I just don’t think I’m wired that way.”
“Oh, well. That’s awful.”
Sweet boy. I could see he genuinely felt bad for me.
“I mean, well, there are things we could try?” he suggested.
A previous boyfriend, Alex, had made it his mission to make me come and it had rapidly turned into something of an ordeal, a mission he’d set himself and with every failed orgasm another chip to his self-esteem.
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