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Strings: Chapter 2. Wild Times to Wilderness

7/29/2015

I had been globetrotting for fun and business for decades,
home or abroad my libido urged me into adventures prior,
during and after my marriage, often with my partner’s
active approval and participation. I had been faithful
to the four great loves of my life: Laura, Geneen, Candy
and Yumiko, but between each relationship I had roamed
considerably. A very happy hunting ground had been the
major cities of the Far East. After my divorce the centre
of my sexual universe eventually settled on Tokyo, more
specifically Roppongi, a kaleidoscopic neon lit multi-tiered
bar and restaurant district close to the western embassies.
It was frequented by myriad foreign nationalities and
enthusiastic if barely fluent English speaking Japanese.
Then I discovered these petite, demur females were curious
to know if the fabled ‘white willy’ was so much more
formidable than the local yellow variety. When I wasn’t
working, drinking, avoiding Philippina prostitutes
and Philippino ladyboys or chasing adorable Japanese
nymphs I also discovered the depraved erotic world of Nippon
Porn, with degrading new extremes of Bondage Domination
and Sado-Masochism, and their wonderful Bukkake movies.
This was some years before it was exported to the wider world.
I had always been incredibly stirred watching facial cumshots,
whether it be a porn movie or my own climax on a willing upturned
pretty female face.


The Japanese always seemed to develop themes to an extreme
and heir porn industry was no different. One evening, in
a sex shop with personal video booths I discovered it shared
and fed my sordid fantasies. The highly formalised multi
facially deposited ‘Super Produce’ Bukkake movies
were my new best friends. Once an uber polite shop assistant
helpfully handed me a wanking cube for use in my cubicle.
The spongy pink block was about three inches across with
a hollowed out orifice for your convenient insertion.
Once the cellophane wrap was removed the spongy interior
was moist. I tried it but the wanking cube wasn’t for me,
I preferred my own hand to tease myself on the brink of orgasm
for the duration of the movie, which could feature dozens
of male ejaculations over the willing or sometimes bound
and gagged unwilling kawaii (cute) face of the AV (Adult Video) model. I often emerged with a sore dick and
a strained wrist.


Later I stumbled into a magnificent dividend to sex in Japan
when I realised there was a whole new demographic that was
sexually wanting and side lined in the milling cross cultural
pick up bars. The majority of western businessmen were
chasing all these Japanese lovelies, but the small population
of expat women fervently did not fancy the Japanese male.
Professional western women formerly used to commanding
male attention in their homelands were unaccustomed to
life on the periphery of the meat market. My sparkling new
strategy yielded conquests with various Scandinavians,
Brits and Yanks.


I particularly recall my own magnificent bukkake finale
moments with a white-blonde Finnish air stewardess, and
a night of bondage with an English dancing girl. At 4am and
non too sober, I was making my way down the hill from Roppongi
crossroads to my Hotel in Akasaka, the forecast typhoon
had come in from the Pacific and hit Tokyo whilst I had been
partying in Motown, my favourite bar in the world. Torrential
rain like you never see back home made visibility appalling,
and within minutes I was drenched, a word that is partly
a translation for bukkake. It was like walking in a power
shower and as I progressed down the slope with poor visibility
and onto the slippery pavement gradually I saw a tall slender
woman up ahead. As I caught up she staggered wildly in her
heels, her head was unprotected and her hair was plastered
to her skull and neck, with long strands stuck across a pretty
face, if she had worn makeup earlier in the evening it had
long been washed away. She was utterly soaked in rain and
booze.


I asked if she was okay, and offered to help her. She was a
Brit and we shared my jacket as an improvised umbrella,
one of my arms holding the jacket the other around her shoulders.
We crossed over a footbridge and as the jacket slipped off
our heads she turned and kissed me, full on, passionately
under stair rods of Pacific Ocean water.


A few meters on and I steered her into a narrow alley and in
a tight embrace we kissed deeply again, and I touched her
breasts. It was incredibly sexy, in darkness, under all
that rain, and as she was so responsive I fleetingly considered
taking her standing up then and there. But the promise of
something special urged me to get her home and see what developed.



My holding back paid off, because when we reached her apartment
building she invited me in, through the lobby, paddling
wet shoes up the stairs to her miniscule bedsit, which was
not much bigger than a capsule hotel room.


I said something about taking our wet clothes off, and began
undressing her. Her clothes were small and thin, undressing
was more akin to peeling off skin. She complied like a child
being readied for bed, raising her long arms for the removal
of her top, and letting me turn her around to release lovely,
perfectly symmetrical smallish, firm breasts. I stood
her up and stroked the sides of her body, over a long narrow
waist and then undid her tight wet jeans.


I pulled the jeans over narrow but shapely hips, this girl
was in great shape, toned and slim. I eased her onto the bed,
took off her high heels and eventually removed her jeans.



I quickly stripped and dumped my sodden clothes on top of
hers in a growing puddle on the floor, and kissed her again
before I removed her panties. These were as miniscule as
her room and completely out of character I pocketed the
black g-string panties.


Once naked my skin felt tinglingly fresh, it was only then
that I learned her name, Dawn Bonus, and Dawn was gorgeous.
She was much taller than my usual partners and didn’t
have any excess fat on her at all – slim, long toned limbs,
narrow waist with perfect curves. Her whole body was firm
to my exploring hands and when I complemented her figure,
she simply said, ‘I’m a dancer.’


We romped around her bed kissing passionately and caressing
– well drunken groping in reality, my head was intoxicated
with the excitement and the booze. Then she sucked on OG
and gently bit down on him. Suddenly alerted out of my dizzy
reverie I realised that something a bit more than vanilla
was on offer.


I moaned as she mouthed OG and then asked what her fantasies
were. I ran through a little list as she continued sucking
and closing her teeth half way down my very firm shaft, I
was not quite as drunk as her and OG was well up for it. After
shaking her head rejecting fantasies of lesbianism, anal
sex and urolangia I whispered bondage, and still holding
OG in her teeth she nodded affirmation and writhed her body
against my legs. Hey presto her ankles were tied together
with dressing gown cord and her hands were behind her back
tied with my belt, and then she asked to be spanked.


I had a great time with this tall flexible dancer, lots of
positions, she was the only woman I was successful in tying
her ankles behind her neck, and with her wrists to the headboard
her lower body was upturned, spread and utterly exposed.
Her body was designed for this, I thought as I licked and
fucked away, the first was very easy and enjoyable whilst
the latter was tricky to get my balance and position right.
It was worth the physical effort, holding that position,
which allowed wonderful long, deep thrusts, slowly withdrawing
entirely before re-entering again. And between grunts,
how she met those thrusts! With what little freedom of movement
she had her pelvis pushed up every time I pushed deep. OG
was at his rock hard best and slightly desensitised from
his own alcoholic fug; we were in for a long session.


It was even more fun when she was spread eagled and stretched
and I whacked across her torso with my belt. After leaving
a couple of small welts, I asked if she was working tomorrow,
and what if I left marks on her body.


‘I’ll use make up to cover them, ’ she explained.



At one point I sat on her face, facing her feet and whacked
her pussy. There were lots of gasps during our play but the
only verbal response I got was when I asked her if she wanted
to be hit with the buckle end or the belt end. I must have been
more drunk than I realised to have even thought of the question.
Anyway she breathlessly whispered ‘Belt end’ and
she was saved from worse savagery as I merrily applied the
belt the right way around, thank god.


After a while I dozed off next to her helpless but uncomplaining
form, awakening later to release her so we could crash out
properly.


When the morning sunshine lit the bedroom, and the din of
Tokyo's ubiquitous large black crows announced a
new day, Dawn was still asleep next to me, so I stroked and
kissed her awake, and then went down on her for a while, alongside
her body as she held OG with her left hand. She had a Brazilian
pubic hair style and a nicely shaped vagina – no piss flaps
or surrounding fatty tissue. She tasted good too as her
clitoris and vulva responded to my tonguing.


She was very compliant as the lovemaking developed as I
entered her, then moved to side on and finally from behind
when she climaxed biting into the pillow. I didn’t cum
but was getting tired and sweaty I rolled off and we both
crashed out again.


Perhaps an hour or two later I re awoke, and again kissed
her and stroked her elegant motionless body. OG was in the
form of his life as I motioned her legs apart and mounted
her again, and for a few minutes she moved and pressed beneath
me. Then I propped myself up a little and kissed her, her
eyes had been open but at that moment I saw them focus. OG
was sliding in and out gently but I slowed down as I looked
into those suddenly focused grey eyes. Her pussy was wet
but her pelvis stopped the involuntary movements that
had met mine.


‘Are you Okay?’ I asked.


She nodded yes, but her expression seemed more confused
than aroused, so I withdrew. Momentarily the pervert in
me considered finishing myself onto her, but there was
something wrong, it wasn’t any physical discomfort
that was bothering her, it was waking up, becoming fully
conscious with a complete stranger on top of her.


I accepted that I'd had my bonus at dawn, so we snoozed
a while and then talked for a few minutes, she had very little
recollection of what had happened – even how we had met
in the midst of a typhoon.


She did agree to see me again, and we did four days later for
a meal. She spoke good Japanese and was quite a nice woman
actually, when sober. There was no chance of a second night
of passion with her though and I didn’t push it. I also
returned her G-string. Quite why I took it baffled her and
me; I am not a souvenir collector and didn’t want her to
think I was an oddball.


Frankly I was lucky, how would some women have construed
what had happened? Would the police? I consoled myself
that I did voluntarily stop when I realised she was just
‘waking up’ as it were, but the penetrative deed was
already done by then and any such pleas to his honour on the
bench would have been dourly looked upon. Mind you I was
in Japan and women’s rights are often poorly served,
just look at their porn.


I had enjoyed fabulous spontaneous sex with a stranger
and also a brush with what might have been interpreted as
non-consensual sex. It left me definitely wiser for the
experience.


I did not permanently live in Asia, typically spending
ten or so days a month criss-crossing between dull cities
like Seoul, or oppressive mainland Chinese metropolises,
easy going Manila, racy Hong Kong and the picturesque ambience
of Hanoi for example. In between hectic bouts of Asian business
trips I commuted in M25 queues around London and endured
only a sporadic social life. My leisure time was usually
just the Friday night beer and curry with some mates and
the thrills and torpid experiences of the roller coaster
ride that was supporting Portsmouth football club.


This was a period where my recurring back injuries gradually
put paid to my running in ten kilometre and half marathon
road races. So to avoid monotonous television and too much
drinking I increasingly went to the gym. I would work-out
on the machines followed by the sweaty reward of the spa’s
sauna and stream room.


But by the turn of the century the halcyon days of frequent
and varied Asian based fornication hit a hiatus. Single
and seriously under-sexed, something had to be done. I
was in my mid forties and no longer comfortable in pick up
bars - an expensive hobby in time, money and hangovers,
very rarely satisfactory, and I did not relish becoming
the oldest swinger in town.


Hookers were apparently acceptable for many in similar
circumstances, an intuition confirmed by the perplexing
variety and proliferation of prostitutes advertising
on the internet. I had not specifically ever paid cash for
sex, but had experienced massages in the luxury hotels
of Asia which had sometimes added an extra special service.



Most notable was in the five star ANA Hotel in Roppongi,
it had been a free add-on to the genuine massage. The hints
started when the old crow pressed her flat hands either
side of OG, over a small white linen towel. Lying on my back
or front her leg massages also reached higher up my thighs,
beneath the towel edge too, ‘You like tickle?’ she
asked as her sharp little fingernails startled my balls.



I hesitatingly mumbled a clipped confirmation, ‘Hai’
and pretty soon the cheeky little thing alternated brief
wanks between conventional massaging. Taking her time,
the build-up was slow, inexorable and exquisite.


I came explosively, although I managed to muffle my usual
vocal announcement. She maintained gentle contact along
OG’s softening shaft before calmly cleaning the mess
up with tissue paper. Then she moved around the bed and gave
me a head massage to die for. My post orgasmic swoon enhanced
tenfold and I drifted off into a brief happy snooze.


I stirred awake when she lifted her hands from my temples.
Before she left my room I was given a paper to sign the charge
to the room, just a few Yen for the bona fide massage. Had
I experienced yet another example of excessive and perfect
Japanese service? Or just a randy old Obasan?


Elsewhere in Korea or China the masseurs were decidedly
unappealing, often they were blind, old and fat, and once
in the Westin Chosun Hotel in Seoul one of this tubby gropers
told me I had to lose weight!


Even in the licentious Philippines where I stayed in the
Peninsula, the best hotel in Manila, the massage service
was very sensual but strictly above board.


I did stray in the brand new Dawoo Hotel in Hanoi, the massage
progressed to a question, ’Special massage?’ And
for a measly few extra Dong my schlong said so long to my sperm
in a hard fast pull. That didn’t feel like prostitution
even though it couldn’t be defined as anything but.


Something puts me off paying for it, certainly travelling
on expenses and being well paid it wasn’t about miserliness.
It was all about the girls.


From committed long term relationships to one night stands
with strangers I enjoyed giving pleasure as much as receiving
it. In fact as I moseyed into middle age I got more from the
giving. If my partner for the act responded genuinely to
my attentiveness I loved it.


Do whores ever enjoy sex? Is every response fake? The idea
of going down on a pussy that has had hundreds of cocks turns
me off totally, but it’s not all about health, it’s
fundamentally about satisfaction, hers and mine. Simply
put, I doubt I can get it up for a hooker because she doesn’t
care about the sex. I had been on a fifteen year escalator
of improving income, seniority and job satisfaction,
halfway through this period there had been a divorce and
from that personal nadir a parallel escalator of sexual
freedom had taken off, leading to new relationships and
happiness. First with Candy and then Yumiko. Then both
career and sex escalators stalled forever.


The first of my challenges that heralded the hiatus years
that followed was being ‘furloughed’ as the United
Airlines Human Resources Stasi representative coldly
put it. To be furloughed didn’t have a cultural resonance
for me though. We call it redundancy, and that had the desired
impact. What a word redundant is, it’s meaning seems
to spread beyond losing your job to being rendered a worthless
individual of no use to anyone. It was a traumatic time,
a direct consequence of the terrorism of September 11th
dumping me out on the street like a black bin liner of trash,
with no pay off or income. All within ten days of Al Qaida’s
barbarism. It drastically altered every other part of
my life and to this day I dramatically if erroneously claim
that’s when my hair went grey.


I panic plummeted into the life of many redundantees and
became a consultant.


Amongst the many challenges of my new occupation and poverty,
I no longer had the luxurious combination of long haul travel
and generous expenses. At first I still travelled long
haul, utilising a residue of United Airlines staff travel
benefits for a few months. I used the privilege for several
flights back to at United’s global headquarters in the
US lobbying for a commission only deal. The offer was to
sell their best selling software system to airlines far
removed from the instantly depressed US and transatlantic
markets. I had won sales awards selling United’s product
under licence and it was the reason they had recruited me
just three months before September 11th 2001. The deal
was they would pay me and my colleague $1 a year salary plus
commission on sales made in return for access to the staff
travel, essential to sell to the Asian, African and South
American airlines we had existing sales leads for.


We failed. Head count ruled and I was one of twenty thousand
employees hurriedly jettisoned by United’s dog eat
dog, survival management style. One sixty year old former
colleague had been with United his entire career, except
during his airforce stint of national service. He was given
an hour to clear his desk and was escorted out of the building
by a security guard. His comment, ‘I thought the worst
day of my life was being shot down over North Vietnam, but
I was wrong, ’ summed up Corporate America’s ruthless
and heartless attitude to anyone unfortunate enough to
be employed by them.


‘Fuck America, ’ was my bitter mood.


But I did use my very last free flights on United’s network
for a long way round flight to Sydney. Fourteen coach class
hours to San Fransciso, then four hours sat in the terminal
before boarding another flight for fourteen more cramped
hours in a 747. The cost of the week was minimal, the flights
on United were virtually free and I cashed in my American
Express card loyalty points accumulated over years of
five star Asian hotel stays to have a free three star hotel
overlooking Darling Harbour in Sydney. Down under I negotiated
a deal with a small Aussie company to sell their aviation
software product to the European airline market.


Back in Blighty the lonely weeks of cold calling every small
to medium sized airline I could find beckoned. Of the many
challenges, surprisingly, I even missed the office social
life and those ‘water cooler’ moments I had briefly
shared with my former colleagues at United Airlines, and
the years of gossipy banter tea breaks at British Airways.
I spent longer in the gym, regaining lost fitness whilst
simultaneously becoming an old git with his favourite
locker in the changing room, (locker number one), for its
easier access.


And with this miserable new existence there was no comforting
sexual outlet. My previous life of swinging, one night
stands and one trip stands, foreign romances and office
romances (of which I had enjoyed two, both of which became
a little awkward subsequently), and slightly dodgy massages
had abruptly ended.


I had no sexual opportunities through my work, no fuck buddies
or interest in prostitutes and had never been comfortable
in the British meat market scene. I faced a bleak loveless
and sexless future of boring wankdom, so even memories
of the Japanese wanking cube seemed erotic. Coupled with
no income or banter it wasn’t exactly paradise.


My field of operations for entertainment had shrunk from
intercontinental to my local pub, but actually a good bunch
of friends semi permanently inhabited The Royal Oak local.
They were mostly guys and mostly working class lovers of
beer, televised sports and assorted illegal substances,
but among the handful of women was Kerry. She was married
to Jim who worked shifts as an engineer in central London,
but Jim disliked pubs as much as Kerry loved partying. She
also detested being alone when Jim was on nights, so Kerry
was a funny, often inebriated regular in The Royal Oak.



I got on well with her and along with others had been invited
back to her place for all night drinking binges, and the
odd joint. I nearly always enjoyed the parties and deeply
regretted the hangovers.


On one busy football evening in the Oak, with a lot of friends
around I forgot my worries and enjoyed myself. Kerry was
socialising easily too, she was very funny, sarcastic
and self deprecating. She was also imbibing large glasses
of white wine, so much so that towards the end of the evening
she was quite drunk and asked me to take her home. At that
moment I was chatting to Michael, a sixty something bachelor
with a liking for ‘young girls’ – (I think he meant
women in their twenties but most women including Kerry
were uneasy in his presence). He seized the opportunity
to help half carry Kerry home.


At her kitchen she changed the colour of her poison and poured
everyone red wine, and in a slurred monologue bemoaned
her life, with Michael consoling her with fake care and
hugs. We talked and drank more wine and Michael railed about
being accosted by schoolgirls in the supermarket and how
if he had behaved that way it would have been construed as
sexual assault. Kerry had recovered from her earlier doziness
and walked behind the breakfast bar chair I sat on. Facing
him she said to Michael, ‘Did they touch you like this,
’ and startled me as she leaned over my shoulder and massaged
my chest with both hands. ‘Or like this, ’ she said as
she stretched one arm down my front and her hand grabbed
my groin.


I was as astonished as Michael, but we resumed drinking
till Kerry went dozy again and I suggested to him that at
2am it was time to leave. We let ourselves out as our hostess
had fallen asleep with her head flopped onto the breakfast
bar. At the nearby crossroads we went our different ways
but a couple of minutes later I doubled back. Michael had
dutifully gone home so I returned to Kerry’s and re-entered
her kitchen.


I let myself in, she was still slumped over the breakfast
bar and patting her shoulder gently I woke her up, asking
if she was okay. Kerry quickly recovered her composure
and was soon organising music and more glasses of red wine.
As I leaned against a kitchen counter she stood in front
of me and said she had never seen me so relaxed as I was in the
pub earlier. And then she kissed me.


We made out in the kitchen and moved to her living room. She
put on some music and went to get more drinks from the kitchen,
returning in a breast clinging thin black dressing gown.
She unbuttoned my shirt and stroked my chest, and then after
cupping OG through my jeans she undid my belt, opened my
flies and levered my cock out from my pants. Soon I was stripped
naked, whilst her voluptuous curves remained strained
within her dressing gown, I had never been undressed before
by a still ‘clothed’ woman. Now I understood the eroticism
of CFNM (Clothed Female Naked Male). She didn’t remain
covered for long though as her large breasts and bum were
liberated and off we went.


That was the first time we had sex, and this occurred a couple
more times with one notable failure.


My party piece in the bedroom had become cunnilingus and
I suggested / boasted to Kerry that I could be the one to give
her the first orgasm by that means. We were back in her living
room, she in her sexy black dressing gown again and me soon
stripped by her. We drunk Hardy’s Crest white wine with
music playing as I proceeded to my task.


She lay on her back on the sofa, her long black hair spread
out on the cushions either side of her head. Her eyes were
closed, her red lips pursed, she stretched her arms out
and those large breasts moved apart. Finally she spread
her thighs open before me as I knelt on the carpet.


Her ‘Lily’ was unshaved but trimmed, I licked and separated
her folded labia and began. Kerry tasted fresh and clean
and got wet soon enough, she was mostly quiet and still,
only occasionally did she moan or move to my attentions.
But she couldn’t quite get there. I listened to the music
as I lapped and after a while began to count the tracks. We
got to seven before I finally surrendered in my vain attempt
to make Kerry cum with my exhausted tongue, which along
with my back ached with the effort.


Our affair, that she called our ‘little liaison’ lasted
a couple of months, based around Jim’s shift pattern
and our copious alcohol consumption.


I surprised myself with how untroubled I was about a married
woman desiring a clandestine affair with me, but later,
on reflection I was more uncomfortable knowing the husband
and our activities stopped, with one more exception.


A young and strong Irish Traveller had been knocking back
pints for some time in The Royal Oak. He knew Kerry and another
mutual friend, Colin.


Soon after I arrived the Irishman came up to me as I chatted
to Kerry, he was handsome guy, tall and well built, his name
was Pat. He talked about his boxing and then out of the blue
said, ‘Do you want to fight me?’


The pub was crowded and no one but Kerry and myself heard
the challenge, and I joked something stupid in reply, but
he was serious and repeated the challenge.


That week my road running had taken its toll and I had strained
my lower back again. I had a habit of standing with my spine
slightly arched and supporting it with one hand behind
my back.


‘What you got behind your back?’ he demanded.


I started to reply, ‘nothing at all….’ When Kerry
interrupted.


‘He’s got a bad back.’ Why do women try to defend a
bloke by undermining his physical prowess in the eyes of
the potential assailant?


So I made another jokey remark, hoping to diffuse him, and
it only made him more menacing, and he accused me of ‘Talking
with your rubber mouth.’


Ho hum, I had to wake up a bit, calm the situation and extricate
myself well away from my ex-amateur heavy weight boxing
chum. I got away and kept away from him, spending the rest
of the evening chatting to other mates about football or
formula one. On the other side of the pub Pat continued drinking
and rolling around from one conversation to the next, quite
often with the diminutive Colin in tow.


At closing time I left the Oak the same time as Kerry, turning
left from the entrance as she turned right. Seconds later
Colin and fighty Pat left the pub and caught up with Kerry.
I stood there thinking ‘What the fuck should I do?’
There was a real menace from the Irish Traveller, who clearly
already despised me, I didn’t know Colin well enough
to predict his intentions either. Kerry was a friend, so
with great reluctance and a sense of foreboding I decided
to follow them.


Deliberating what was the right thing to do had delayed
me a couple of minutes and when I got to the corner where Kerry
would have turned, there was no sign of them. I walked along
the side street and after fifty yards I looked up a darkened
back alley and saw the silhouettes of all three of them,
Pat’s formidable bulk, little Colin and slightly matronly
Kerry.


I caught up with them, Kerry and Colin seemed pleased to
see me and fighty Pat was ambivalent.


We finished up in Kerry’s party kitchen, and though I
didn’t have any more alcohol the drunken conversation
between the three of them weaved around aimlessly. But
every so often Pat would fly into a rage, usually directed
at Colin, and sometimes at me. We would talk him down and
the night would carry on. I desperately wanted to go home
but couldn’t leave this maniac with Kerry.


At some point Pat raged again, pulled off his shirt over
his head in flamboyant fashion, exposing his fully flexed
and massive shoulders and chest and threated to kill Colin,
‘Just like I killed my brother!’


The long bad night was getting worse, and we talked him down
again. He put his shirt back on and he settled down to more
serious drinking until the next explosion ratcheted up
from the last, the shirt flew off again dramatically and
he grabbed some decorative knives from Kerry’s cupboard,
and again threated to kill Colin, pointing one of the knives
at him within stabbing range.


Well no one got stabbed, thankfully, and we did calm him
gain, and then Kerry asked him to leave. Pat pleaded like
a naughty schoolboy that he would behave if she let him stay,
and she foolishly relented.


So we continued, and inevitably he raged again, this time
t me and before I knew it, he had whipped his shirt off like
a prize fighter in the movies. But instead of the posturing
and threats he immediately set about me, bludgeoning the
top of my head with several blows from both fists. With lots
of yelling and glasses falling to smash on the floor Kerry
and Colin leapt in between us. I did stand my ground, but
to my masculine shame I didn’t carry the fight back to
the drunken lunatic.


Pat was successfully subdued and evicted by my hostess
and protector.


After half an hour Kerry asked Colin to leave too, he didn’t
ant to go, cared that Pat might be waiting for him outside.



I knew what Kerry wanted, and was pretty sure Colin understood
too. With indifferent selfishness I sat quietly whilst
she demanded he leave and with some trepidation akin to
facing high noon he went into the night at around 4 am.


She wanted to go to my place so an hour after Colin had ventured
into the darkness we emerged into the breaking dawn. The
only time I ever made Kerry cum was that night. She liked
to suck my tongue whilst being fucked slow and hard in the
missionary position. She gripped the base of my cock beneath
my balls with her hand as I pumped in and out and when the orgasm
hit she bit down on my tongue. Not the best moment for me,
yelping ‘ow’, instead of ‘oh’ until she loosened
her jaws and I zipped my bite imprinted tongue in as fast
as a lizard.


Then it was my turn, so I moved her around with her head next
to the edge of the bed, and got above her so she could lick
my balls as I stroked OG to a neck splattering climax. ‘I
always wanted a pearl necklace, ’ she joked.


Tired from a long night shift Jim got to his home later that
morning to a kitchen in disarray with spilt drinks, smashed
glasses, a broken photo frame and knives scattered across
the floor. Well at least he didn’t find any dead bodies.



Colin had got home safely and subsequently told me Pat had
been in prison for violence, although he had no idea whether
if he had ever stabbed let alone killed his brother. It was
probably drunken fantasy used to intimidate us, well he
successfully intimidated me. As it was, thankfully we
saw no more of fighty Pat.


Jim later thanked me for looking out for Kerry. I liked Jim,
getting involved with his wife was wrong, and proving dangerous
from unexpected quarters.


I had to find another outlet.

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