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Rachel was about five foot nine to five-ten, slim and athletic with brown hair. Like any woman over 35 she had done the sensible thing to stay in the game: she kept herself toned and got herself a set of ‘bolt-ons’ – that is fake breasts to the non-Australian. This physique, along with her age, made you not just want her, but actually need her. She was intoxicatingly alluring in the way only a woman of her age can be. A young, fresh, sun kissed girl can really brighten your day with her innocent beauty; but there is something behind the smile-lined eyes of a woman over 35, she knows where she is in life, what she wants and exactly how to get it. Rachel’s steely grey-blue eyes begged the question: are you man enough to let go completely and give it to her? Rachel almost met the ideal: A princess out of the bedroom, a whore in it. However, though we succeeded in proving the second part of that crude maxim, the first requirement was much more of a struggle.
This of course was a formula that for a 28 year old man could only end in tears, but that was for the future. The object of this story, and perhaps those to follow, is to explore the outrageously good, always filthy, illuminating and often angry sex we had over the few years of our on-again-off-again relationship. The kind of sex that only such a volatile relationship can provide.
Before I met Rachel I had never experienced anal sex in all its confronting glory. My girlfriend at university once wanted to try it, but that lasted about three seconds, or three inches of shaft, depending on how you want to measure it. I had frequently sent my fingers exploring with numerous other women during my formative years, which was to the assent of some, the pleasure of a few and the protest of many; but nothing like I experienced with Rachel. Even a respectful, loving couple enjoying anal are not making love: they are fucking. Rachel and I definitely fucked. It is said that in love making, what you do onto others you wish to be done on to oneself, certainly to my blushes this was probably the case with me. The first thing a bloke will think with anal play is ‘but I’m not gay’, but Rachel opened my mind to many things; for example, the pleasurable sensation of an over-eager woman vigorously lapping your anus with her tongue during a very expert and enthusiastic blow job.
At times Rachel told herself that we practiced the anal-arts too often, perhaps she felt slutty or suffered from the pang of regret after giving herself up so readily, thus she would indicate that she wanted to give anal play a rest for a while and just enjoy the pleasure of nice, vaginal intercourse. I thought this was a grand idea also, but as soon as Rachel was warmed up and turned on when I enjoyed the pleasure of her deliciously wet ‘front bottom’, I would look down to observe that she had, in the excitement, inserted one or more fingers deep into her arse, automatically and unconsciously breaking her pledge. She loved to feel me sliding in and out of her vagina, while her fingers in her arse applied pressure from the other side of the action. This would happen almost every time during intercourse, her tight behind seemed to swallow up several of her long, slender fingers without her knowledge or consent; which turned her on so much that she could not bring herself to stop; she would finger fuck her arse with such unbridled enthusiasm that her recent promises to herself and edicts to me were quickly forgotten, to the great pleasure of us both.
It was during one of these periods of attempted anal abstinence that the following memorable session took place. As I have explained, anal play in general was a frequent feature of our sessions, but to me this one stands out above all. It was most memorable because it proved Rachel’s proclivity for anal sex, most importantly it proved it beyond doubt in her own mind, as she completely let her already loose inhibitions go and during the excitement exclaimed out loud an affirmation that she knew exactly what she was.
A Drive in the Country
So it came to pass that when I spent two weeks away on a work trip and Rachel and I had parted on rocky terms; she had it in her mind that she, in her words, would not ‘reward bad behaviour’; thus a period of anal abstinence was declared to be observed on my return. As always, she wanted me to show that I was serious about our relationship and probably justify to herself that her own absolute depravity was not in vain. Basically she wanted me to jump through a few hoops to get full access to the ‘playground’ as her delicious body had been appropriately coined.
However, she had forgot to factor in the healthy appetite that her body had for pleasure, and unfortunately for her plans, as I have outlined, pleasure in her case involved all sorts of base acts on her part. It goes without saying of course that my own predilection for perversion made me a more than willing participant, perhaps one could argue that, to my shame, I even took advantage of her faults in this area to meet my own selfish and admittedly disgusting bursa escort needs.
So while I was away the heart, if you will, definitely grew fonder. Thanks to emails, texts and even a racy Skype session, we had all but had the long distant equivalent of make up sex by the time she picked me up at the airport, it having be arranged that I would come straight to her place on my return. So a 45 minute country drive from the city out to her house on the outskirts of a small town awaited us before our reunion could be consummated.
Immediately as we kissed at our greeting I could sense the familiar forced, over-emphasised, cold reservation from her as she less than subtly signalled that she was still upset with me and was dictating the course of the relationship. I played along with this as we made small talk about the flight, the boring details of what she had been up to the last few days and the trivial trials she was suffering at work.
Rachel was wearing a simple outfit of small jean-shorts and a tight fitting white cotton top. Although extremely casual and seemingly without thought except as a concession to the warm weather, this outfit showed off her attributes famously.
With my hand resting on her toned, smooth thigh as she guided the car through the tight curves of the climb over the ranges, I remarked that she was looking well and I had certainly missed her. She expressed that she had also been looking forward to my return and indicated she had plans for a camping trip, a game of golf and a seemingly endless list of other non-sexual activities. However I sensed that she was trying to suppress other thoughts too, she was trying hard, but her bottom shifted slightly in her seat and the flesh of her leg rippled with a hint of goose-bumps as I absent-mindedly stroked there with the lightest touch of the tips of my fingers. I added that she was looking particularly tanned and healthily fit as well, even more than her usual, already exceptional level of fitness I remembered on our parting two weeks ago. She stated that this was due to working out at the gym and running almost every day, plus of course since I had been away it had been much easier to keep off the alcohol, as well as other bad habits that I affected on her.
‘And the tan?’ I asked, my hand reaching up and lightly touching her shoulder and neckline, then back to her thigh to physically indicate that she was indeed sporting a healthy tan all over.
‘Oh, I have been sun-baking too, in the backyard, most days’ she said, innocently. I of course knew, as she herself had told me in the past, that she liked to do this topless, her backyard was quite private, and even sometimes tried to give her bottom and bikini line some sun.
‘I see’ – I paused contemplating – ‘I hope you have still kept your cute tan-lines, I do like those’. I made a show of peering at the neckline of her top, ‘but it looks like you have been giving the ladies some sun too have you?’ I was referring to her own nickname for her magnificent 32 double-deltas, which she was immensely proud of, having spent so much of her own hard-earned to attain them.
‘They may have come out from time to time’ she said, struggling, without success, to suppress a bit of a smile. I felt at this moment that victory was close. Even the hint of conversation about anything to do with sex in a positive light would turn her into a ravenous wench willing to drop her knickers for me at the slightest advance, but it was still a delicately poised game.
‘Well we wouldn’t want tan lines on the pride and joy would we? As much as the tan lines on your bottom do drive me wild, I think for the girls full sun is best.’ I was perhaps a bit bold with this statement, so I steered seamlessly to a question about the weather, but at the same time my fingers gently continued to brush her skin. She described the weather of the last few weeks with an astonishing thoroughness, an analysis of the meteorological observational data would have given less detail as she gave a blow by blow account of the conditions, and how it was when she went for a run this day, or the driving range that day or shopping to get more coconut oil as she had run out and…
‘Run out of coconut oil?’ I interrupted, spluttered in innocent shock at this statement. Yet even then my fingers were cunningly transitioning from an innocent touch of affection to a gentle yet more determined caress of purpose. As we spoke they began, without applying any more pressure, to describe small circles on her smooth, golden flesh. The circles started to extend to the softer, more sensitive skin of her inner thigh. They ever so slowly and patiently made progress, the circles moving higher up towards the edge of her shorts, my fingers artfully lingering in those regions that created the hint of a tremble in her toned leg.
‘Yes, I suppose I have been using quite a bit’ she conceded, ‘I almost have been tanning every day.’
I queried after the purpose of this flurry of topless tanning, and as I presumed there were no friends there to help her, how did she rub bursa escort bayan all that tanning lotion into her back, with me, chief lotion rubber absent? She giggled at that, but once again battled to regain her composure, wriggling her bottom in her seat as her body made the link between the pleasant skin on skin contact it was currently experiencing and the memory of the contact of my hands kneading coconut oil into her back, front and everywhere before ravishing her body in a memorable session by the beach a few months before.
‘No reason, just for myself.’ She vainly tried to dismiss my question and regain her ice-queen demeanour; but I knew victory was mine when she added: ‘besides, I used most of the coconut oil on my front, not my back.’ I knew I had the contest in the bag, but set my face to incredulous nonetheless.
‘You mean to say that while I have been away, innocently working, without an impure thought in my head, you have been here smothering your breasts with coconut oil whilst exposing them for the world to see?’
She protested that my innocence was well and truely in doubt, especially after that night the weekend before I left, for only a deviant of the worst kind would think of such abhorrent acts. She was referring to the last time we had enjoyed anal, in a session involving a prelude of far too much red wine then some clothes pegs, a roll of industrial tape and the use of one very moist pair of panties as a make-shift gag. Rachel had enjoyed this session so much, that I believe it was during the shame of self-reflection on her carnal enthusiasm to carry out such depravity, that afterwards influenced her to declare our period of anal abstinence; a policy that I sensed was already looking shaky.
‘Well if I am a deviant for having such thoughts, then what claims do you have on piety Miss Rachel, on so enthusiastically acting them out?’ I lent across and gently kissed her neck, I made a point of sniffing loudly, as if my purpose was just to search for any incriminating scents, as I moved up from her shoulder towards the tender spot below her ear, I gently expelled air across her skin, then kissed lightly, my tongue darting out to taste her: those sweet notes of sweat, perfume, coconut oil and her own private hormones, which were now getting stronger. ‘You see! I can smell coconut oil, you have been lathering your exposed body in it this very morning!’
‘Well it is you that leads me astray, I am just a poor girl taken advantage of.’ She squirmed overtly in her seat now, as I nibbled on her ear she moaned ever so quietly, a whimper as I breathed words onto her saliva moistened skin.
‘I can’t help it, I just have to have that body, it makes me lose control’ I whispered, my mouth against her ear. She was silent now, she had given up, her legs writhed to the ever bolder caress of my hand and fingers and she cocked her head away to further expose the sensitive flesh of her neck to my mouth. Her hand dropped from the wheel to my lap to discover she was not the only one feeling aroused. She moaned ever so quietly, an act of surrender as she knew she would have to have my cock, which was bulging against the confines of my jeans.
I had her and we still had a ten minute drive left.
By the time she clumsily pulled into the driveway, I had told her all the things I enjoyed doing to her. I also told her how horny I knew it made her, I reeled off all the evidence like a charge sheet. In the matter of rubbing her own clitoris violently while protesting against the pegs torturing her nipples: Guilty. Multiple counts of loud orgasm while screaming encouragement of where exactly a penis should be inserted so vigorously: Guilty. Watching abusive pornography while she sat on the couch, me lapping between her legs as she sipped a cocktail: Guilty! I made her confess her sins, admitting to herself that she was losing control.
‘You like to finger your arse, don’t you?’ I demanded, as I brushed my hand against her breast, the nipple hard though bra and singlet.
She murmured some incoherent reply.
‘What did you say? I can’t hear you. It makes you so wet doesn’t it, when you are horny you can’t help it, you have to finger your own arse don’t you?’ I asked again, taking on the harsh tones of a cross-examiner sure of drawing a confession from the accused.
She finally gave in and pleaded guilty to these undeniable accusations as the wheels crunched across the gravel where the car came finally to a stop. She then leaned across and aggressively kissed me, her hand pressing against my throat.
Without unpacking, the keys left in the ignition, clothes strewn through the living room, in under a minute we were in the bedroom.
Denial Causes Relapse
Naked, she lay spread eagled on the large bed, her face flushed with passion, matching the pink colour of her erect nipples and engorged sex steaming between her firm thighs. I could see the results of her tanning on her flat stomach, perfectly manufactured breasts; see it in the stark definition of the pale, definite line around her vagina, escort bursa with its carefully manicured tuft of bushy pubic hair, sticking up like a rabbits tail in the centre of that white triangle of skin.
I leant over her and kissed her, still in my jeans, my torso bare. She reached up and ran her fingers through the hair on my chest as I cupped her breast, rolling the nipple firmly between thumb and forefinger, causing her to moan into my open mouth whilst she arched her back, her breasts rising to my touch. I stepped back and lowered my jeans, my cock sprang up as it escaped its bonds, pointing like a lance at her face at bed level. She hungrily reached out for it, her head lifting off the bed, a greedy, animalistic need in her eyes.
I roughly clamped my hand around her throat and slammed her back onto the bed.
‘Uh, uh not yet babe’ I tutted. She, sighed squirming under my grip, gasping for oxygen yet writhing in pleasure.
‘Please, just stick it in me, no games. I just want to feel you inside me, I’ve missed you!’ She gasped, her hands reaching out for my throbbing member, for it wasn’t just her sex that was desperate for long awaited relief.
I stepped back out of her reach, releasing her and opening the top draw of her bedside cabinet. I pulled out three light silk scarves, quickly tying them together end-to-end using a fishermen bend – the best knot for this type of job with frictionless material – thus creating one long scarf. Reaching out, I grasped her right arm at the wrist, our eyes were locked as I firmly tied the scarf to it with a simple slip knot, her face showing frustration, but also an eagerness and anticipation for the unknown that was to come. I led the scarf around the post of the polished wooden bedhead and back to my subject. I wrapped the scarf once loosely around her throat, she gasped urging me to be careful, even as the excitement and uneasiness of the danger of the binding raised her arousal more.
I walked slowly around the bed, staying out of the range of her free hand and led the scarf around the other bedpost. The final preparation was binding her left wrist, the scarf reaching it with just a little slack to spare.
I surveyed my handy work. Rachel was spread eagled, still in a star shape, her arms up toward each corner of the bed where the scarf loosely held them. She tested her range of movement, lifting her arms forward to reach out toward me, the scarf tightened around her throat, forcing her head back and down to avoid the gentle pressure choking her. Moving her arms back and out towards the bedposts, giving herself some slack in the binds, she could lift her head up off the bed, her wrists being pulled toward the bedposts before reaching the limit, the wrap of silk again constricted against her skin, causing her to gurgle slightly.
I was satisfied with the restraints, my loins throbbed and the sight of her made my heart race. That fabulous body in the half-light of the bedroom; her breasts rising and falling with her agitated breath, the rhythmic writhing of her hips as she squirmed her bottom in anticipation and the black silk scarf tight against the tender skin of her throat. It was a ravishing sight, it was no wonder that this body and her deprived mind stirred such lascivious thoughts in my otherwise innocent imagination.
Standing along side the bed I offered my penis to her, the throbbing knob glistening with a hint of pre-cum, the tumescent skin red and shiny from being stretched to its limit. She turned her head and craned forward, the scarf constricting around her throat, she could just about manage to roll her tongue over the tip, her moist lips brushing the head. She strained against the scarf, her face turning scarlet as the lack of oxygen started to tell. She gave a final effort, pushing forward, her arms stretched right out to the bedpost corners to give the scarf the maximum length possible at her throat, she achieved getting the entire head into her mouth, slurping enthusiastically before she collapsed down onto the bed gasping for air.
Stepping back again so that I was out of her reach, I began the slow, deliberately systematic torture of her with light, sensual touches with hand, lips, tongue and breath. My fingers traced everywhere, followed by ripples of goose-flesh on her gently convulsing body: the inside of her thigh, the small of her waist, the tips of my fingers sometimes brushing her nipples, as if by accident. My mouth combined the gentle sucking kiss and nibble of teeth, with the cooling sensation of my breath; on her ear, her throat, across her lips and down her stomach. I slowly worked my way towards her steaming sex, until my mouth traced down the outside of her quivering labia while my fingers roamed across her buttocks.
She squirmed her hips and lifted her bottom up off the bed, making it difficult to accurately place my tongue and fingers and still maintain my avoidance of her vulva, now pink and glistening with moisture. My finger lightly traced across her anus while my tongue was exercising itself by slow laps around her bunny-tail bush, causing enough distraction to disguise the movement of my fingers, leaving the doubt in the air of its intentions: did the finger brush against that pulsating muscle by coincidence or by sinister design?
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