Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Category: Sex (Page 2 of 4)

ILB’s posts about sex, on this here sex blog

Back in the game.

I haven’t had sex in years, and in that time, I’ve begun to wonder if I have, to any extent, lost my touch.

I need to contextualise a bit. I don’t think much of myself; I have been told by various people that I have an assortment of talents, but by others that I am completely talentless. My natural state is to consider myself the latter, although empirical evidence suggests otherwise. I am, by nature, self-critical – a lot of bloggers on this here side of the web are – and it takes an especially good day to convince me that any fortuitous circumstance coming my way is down to anything but sheer dumb luck.

The same can’t be said for sex, because for a long time I was certain that I was good at that.

I don’t have a lot of pride, but I do take pride in the fact that I am a very attentive lover. I try – and I can but try, even if I’m not always successful – to attune myself to my sexual partners’ needs and turn-ons, doing the things they like and hopefully finding something mutually beneficial for us. If not, but if she enjoys it, then that matters a huge deal for me.

Even without that concept, I have been told by all eight sexual partners that I am good at what I do. The five out of the eight who have had sex beforehand have all responded favourably, and out of those five, three of them told me that I was the best. One of those liked to scream it at me while I was railing her against my bedpost in my old house.

Going for years with nothing but my hand for company has left me wondering if, should the opportunity present itself, I would suffer performance anxiety during sex (or iron fist, which has been a problem for me before), and that I would cease to be the best, or even particularly adequate. As oral sex is bae, this was my main worry: that my lack of experience, rapidly disappearing energy or the disability that I’ve been diagnosed with (or all three) would impact negatively with my abilities on my knees and between her thighs.

My sex princess would tell you the opposite, and here’s why.

There isn’t a lot of nudity in our house, and that which there is is mostly from me. My sex princess is hardly ever naked – ironically, given their former blogging moniker – and, when they are, it is a sign that they are horny. The fact that they walked into the bedroom on Sunday night completely naked was just such a sign, and their delightfully vague insinuation that we should do “sexy stuff” was enough to make me intrigued.

Would this entail touching them with my fingers until they are worked up enough to finish themselves off?
Would this mean that I wield a Doxy and stimulate their clit with it until they finish?
Would this mean that I masturbate in front of them while they watch and admire?

None of this, they attested. They wanted to be licked.

I will now repeat the fact that I was incredibly nervous about this, but once my head was in position between their beautiful thighs (my knees comforted by a duvet that had fallen from the bed during our cavorting), it seemed to matter very little. In so many ways, it was almost as if we had never left off with the sex – their scent, their shape and their taste were all as familiar as they could be – comforting and dependable.

Her pussy lips flushed as I tapped my way along their slit, like they always used to. As I circled their clit with my tongue’s very tip, they moaned and arched (as they do) while the clit itself stiffened and buzzed, its pulse reverberating through my nose as I slid my tongue further south. I’d forgotten how good that felt. They gasped, moaned and grew rapidly more slick with lust as I began to flick my tongue back and forth across their gorgeous, soaking wet vulva, controlling my breathing as best I could, truly savouring the moment.

“Fuck, that’s so good,” said their voice from somewhere in the ether. “Keep doing that.”

It’s a common misconception that “keep doing that” means “do something else”. I, however, didn’t do something else, and carried on lapping my tongue in tight circles across their clitoral hood.

And, as it turns out, that was the right decision, and one that made me feel like, once again, I am indeed skilled. Or, at least, I am at oral sex.

Once they had finished screaming, I went through to the lounge, licked my lips, took a long draught of Sprite Zero…

…and then, with a silly grin on my face, I set up a COVID lateral flow test, which I took as my entire mouth still brimmed with the taste of girlcum.


[Apologies for not calling this post “KAOS”. I was fully intending to, so as to both reference soaking and Donkey Kong Country 3, but DKC3 has nothing at all to do with this. With that out of the way, however…]

The following is a true story:

It wasn’t late. Maybe about seven, or eight. Perhaps it was later. I seem to remember it being dark outside, but then again, maybe it was winter. In any case, the room was bathed in light – probably through the efforts of several very valiant bulbs.

By this point I’d gotten past the sort of mental/physical block that had prevented me from ejaculating during sex. For a few months now – following the initial horny, experimental period – I’d been coming inside her practically every time we had sex. Although we were both content with the fact that what felt good was the journey, rather than the destination (and the fact that she had more orgasms than me), we both enjoyed it when I climaxed.

Our “post game” reviews usually got around to the subject. Rebecca would describe what my penis was doing as “pulsating” and refer to herself as being “full of cum”, an image I found both disgusting and delightful in equal measure. In any case, that’s what I was doing now, and I’d had a lock fitted on my door, so when we were at my place, we were – to all intents and purposes – free to do so.

And that’s what we were doing.

Although I’d penetrated her a few minutes ago, and we were very much in flagrante delicto at this point, there wasn’t a lot of movement going on. My dick was rock hard – you could have hung a towel off it by this point – and her inner pussy muscles enveloping every millimetre, contracting around my breadth so well that I could feel every pulse, her heartbeat channelling through my shaft as I lay atop her. Beads of sweat were dripping from my forehead, a few running down her cleavage as she moaned and sighed.

Neither of us were moving.

It wasn’t as if this was a regular occurrence. I was usually quite energetic during sex and, by this point, I’d usually be merrily thrusting away. But, at that very moment, I was just caught up in enjoying the feeling.

Enjoying the feeling. My head spiralled backwards. Three very powerful words. I’d heard Esque using them a year or so prior – also to describe sex sans movement – and that was what I was doing. Lying there, completely inside her, bathed in sweat and light and heat… and enjoying the feeling.

I can’t believe this, a tiny voice somewhere in my brain said. (Even after a few months, the fact that I was having sex at all was difficult to believe.) I can’t believe how good this feels. Even though I’m not moving, I’m making love, I’m making love, I’m making…

Silently, swiftly, and even without the accompanying hip thrust that soft porn would have us believe happens every time, I came. Rope after rope of warm, thick cum shot deep inside her, and although she made no sound, the glint in her gaze – for we had been staring into each other’s eyes throughout this whole adventure – told me that she had felt it too.

Latter-day internet knowledge tells me that this is a process known as ‘soaking’. I did, however, manage to finish without anyone jumping on the bed in close proximity. This may well be a skill that I wasn’t aware I had up until now.

Let’s add it to my CV and watch the offers come flooding in.

[Partially inspired by GOTN’s filthy post around the same topic. Go read that too.]

…dilly, dilly

“Is that lavender?” asked my new co-worker, upon entering the room yesterday. It most certainly was, or at least an approximation of the same: my other new co-worker (in effect, my new boss) bought some AirWick plugins last week, and they’d been left on all weekend.

“It is!” smiled my new boss (she smiles a lot). “Do you like it?”
“Uh… no,” said my colleague apologetically. “I’m, uh, allergic, actually. I don’t like the scent, even when it’s not the actual plant.”

And she backed out of the room.

“I like lavender,” I sighed happily, “it’s relaxing.”
“I can get some different scents,” said my new boss. “It doesn’t have to be lavender. What else do you like?”
“Well, my ex had patchouli,” I answered, “throughout the entirety of her flat. It was in every room. Patchouli reminds me of…” Sex.

I didn’t say sex, and even if I had, it would have been the truth. What wasn’t quite true was that she was an ex. Alicia had been my 43-year-old lover when I was in my early twenties. But I’d decided to mention patchouli by that point, and I needed to find a way to refer to Alicia without being too revealing about my (former) sexual proclivities. “Ex” seemed as appropriate a term as possible.

Patchouli reminds me of sex for the simple fact that I had a lot of sex in a flat completely suffused with it. Alicia and I had quite a lot in common, in terms of political views, fondness for hummus and tea, and a love of musical theatre, but the thing that was most apparent was how well my penis fit inside her, and so my patchouli-filled existence was mostly spent horizontally.

Sometimes on top of her, sometimes underneath, sometimes just lying in a pool of girlcum. Horizontal, in any case.

But I couldn’t bring myself to say that to my new boss. We may get along well, but I’ve only known this woman for three days.

“Patchouli reminds me of… her flat,” I decided upon. Which, now I think about it, is a less impressive statement than it could have otherwise been. I could have gone nostalgic, wistful or humorous, and yet all I did was refer to the flat belonging to a lady my new boss didn’t know existed.

My new boss gave a friendly smile and a nod which was code for something like, “cool story, bro, now go and do some actual work”.

Best I could hope for, really. She doesn’t need to know I’ve ever had sex.


[Girl on IRC] I’d like to have you in the shower…
[ILB on IRC] That might be quite tricky.

[Girl on IRC] Maybe the bath?
[ILB on IRC] I have had sex in the bath…

While I didn’t go into details, that statement was indeed true. I have had sex in the bath. It was, like I imagine shower sex to be, incredibly difficult.

I can’t really take baths (although I can have sex next to them). My skin doesn’t like warm water – it tends to flare up on contact – so I can’t have a long soak in a bath, play with Matey like I used to as a small child, or post those obnoxious “here are my legs in the bath” selfies that unreasonably hot women on Instagram do. The last time I actually took a bath, I itched so much that I swore, rolled out onto the bathroom floor, and cried for a while wishing I could peel my skin off and send it to a lab for dermatological testing.

Sex in the bath happened a few years earlier.

The fact that it was a success I can attribute to the fact that my girlfriend at the time was very short. As anyone who’s met me can attest, I’m tall, and trying to position myself on top of someone the same height – while remaining in a confined space, as opposed to a double bed or somesuch – would have been a logistical nightmare.

But, this way, it was easier. I drew the bath myself; she settled herself into the water, relaxing against the far end with her legs (which only reached part of the way to the tap end) spread. I got in, my feet up over the taps (the only way I would fit), positioned myself the same way I usually did when we had sex, and after I got consent, slid into her.

The sex itself was quick and dirty, if not the most comfortable. All the familiar sensations were there – the throb of my cock inside her, the tightness of her inner walls around my shaft, the softness of her folds as they pulled back – the water was just an extra bonus. Even our movements were familiar; the water itself made a pleasing slosh with every thrust, and there was more of a slap of body-against-body contact. It just didn’t feel majorly different.

What was different was the fact that I was increasingly stiff throughout (my whole body, not just…). I was jammed into a confined space which, while it fit my 5’2″ girlfriend, wasn’t really optimised for me. After a few minutes of passionate thrusting, I wasn’t really feeling it any more, and she was more than happy to get out and have sex on the bathroom floor, for which I was grateful.

We then decided, in our infinite wisdom, to go to her bedroom and have sex there as well – which we did. This time, we both came – she shuddered and jerked and sighed beneath me; I tensed up, reared back and shot rope after rope of cum into her, and we collapsed, together, into a happy, sticky mess atop her crumpled bedsheets.

“I need a bath,” she said after a while.
“Oh, right,” I replied. “I’ll go and draw you one.”
“No need,” she said, looking around for a towel. “I think it’s full already.”

It’ll Never Work

Why won’t this work?

It could apply to either thing, really. First of all, my CD drive won’t work. I have, in all fairness, had this for a while. It certainly opens well enough, but then there’s the matter of the fact that it’s not reading the CD-R I’ve put into it.

Maybe it’s a problem with the CD-R. I went through labelling them all a month or so back, and this one says “this disc is temperamental”. But it’s not just not reading – it doesn’t appear to exist. My computer isn’t detecting a drive at all.

Maybe it’s not plugged in properly.

I fiddle with wires. Eventually the drive groans into life.

I’m looking for something specific, but I’m not even sure if I have it. Disc after disc go in and out of my drive. Scene after scene scroll past my eyes, flickering like a peepshow. What am I looking for? Is this it? What even is this?

Why won’t this work?

I was hard even before I started watching the scenes. Minutes pass, and this becomes less of a scavenger hunt than a mission of arousal. My body is crying; every part of me screams for release.

It’s too early to be horny, I tell myself. But then I can’t control what my body wants. And I’m haaaaaard.

So why won’t this work? These are carefully curated scenes. They’ve always worked before. My hand knows what to do. But something is disconnected here – it’s not working. If I can’t find what I’m looking for, then I may as well satisfy myself in another way, and if I can’t satisfy myself that way, then what am I achieving here?

Maybe I should just give up. Put on some clothes, get myself a drink and walk to the cinema to see Jungle Cruise.

Google Chrome is still open, I notice. What site was I browsing before this? Click.


Something sparks in the back of my brain. I close my eyes and let my imagination take over.

And that works. Almost immediately.

QuoteQuest: Love, No Sex

Sex without love is as hollow and ridiculous as love without sex.

hunter s. thompson

While I can’t speak for everyone, I’ve certainly had both of these.

The very easy thing to get out of the way is that the very first time I had sex, and the hundred-plus time afterwards, I was definitely having sex with love – that is to say, I was having sex with someone I was in love with. Sex was a big part of our relationship, and the same was true of my second relationship (which was also “sex with love”, although sex of a more adventurous variety). In fact, half the people I’ve had sex with have been people I’ve loved. I’m very lucky in that respect.

Sex without love has also been fun, although for a very different reason. Louise, Alicia, Lilly and snowdrop all had their reasons for sleeping with me (even if “I was horny and he’s got a dick” was the simple reason). All four were highly sexual people and the knowledge that there was no real commitment other than “satisfy this person” (and I did satisfy them, believe me!) both jarred with my monogamy-centred lifestyle and excited my own sexual self.

My aim was, and has always been and always will be, to ensure that anyone I have sex with enjoys it. Sex goes wrong every now and again – of course it does, everything does – but, if you can accept the person you’re making love to, you can accept the occasional fuck-up (and be aware of your own as well). I like to please – I’m desperate to do so – and so there is, in fact, a common thread here, no matter who I’m having sex with, or why.

Love without sex is different.

I’m in a relationship which is, to all intents and purposes, sexless. This may be slightly ridiculous to say when the relationship started during sex, but it is true. I’m still interested in sex (well, of course I am, I’m a sex blogger, silly), but they are not, or at least not any more.

I’m not entirely sure why – various reasons have been thrown about, ranging from health complications to relationship anxiety to depression to physical weakness to the way they put it the other day – “I’m just disgusted by sex, the idea repels me. It’s not you, it’s sex itself. I don’t like it any more.” To this point, we haven’t been intimate for weeks, and we haven’t had penetrative sex for years. I’ve genuinely lost count of how long it’s been.

I’m not going to press the point, though, as it’s a touchy subject – nor am I going to put them under any pressure. If they don’t want to have sex, they don’t have to, and I’m not going to try to change that, as it’s their prerogative.

My sex life now consists of pleasuring myself. Since I don’t have sex with anyone else, I’m not having sex at all, and with the strange ways my sexual desires manifest themselves being more apparent as a result, I control and temper myself with masturbation – although I don’t always get the time to do that either! I can easily slip into sexual fantasies or explicit half-dreams, but again, when I can’t actually do anything about it, it’s…

…well, yeah, it’s difficult, of course it is.

A cis female friend recently told me about a conversation she had where the other conversationalist (who I don’t know but is also a cis woman) was presented with the same situation – monogamous couple, no sex for boy – and straight-up said, “he’d probably just leave, that’s what men do.”

I could never imagine leaving. I completely, truly, deeply, one hundred per cent love the person I am with, and the fact that we’re not having sex doesn’t change that.

So, no, I don’t agree with Hunter S. Thompson.

Sex without love is fun.
Love without sex is possible.

I miss sex.

QuoteQuest, innit

QuoteQuest: Good Job!

A good blow job is fucking art. It’s like playing jazz piano blindfolded for an audience you’re desperate to please. It’s improvisation and communication and skill and practise and a whole lot of love.

girl on the net

I’m not sure if I’ve ever even had a good blowjob.

Okay, stop sharpening the knives. This genuinely isn’t a slight on any of the nine people who have given me blowjobs over the years – I was grateful, in many ways, for every single one. The issue, I’m sure, is with me; my penis appears to be selectively sensitive. It reacts well to masturbation and it likes sexual intercourse, but it doesn’t seem to do much when being sucked.

Or I’m suffering from iron fist. Maybe that’s a thing.

Or maybe I haven’t ever had a good blowjob. That’s always a possibility.

Whatever the reality is, the idea of blowjobs appears to be something that almost universally appeals (although the first time I heard of blowjobs I ran to the toilet to be violently sick). I’ve seen it written somewhere (and forgive me for not remembering quite where!) that those with penes like being blown because it makes them feel like they’re in porn.

I’m not sure about that. There are a lot of blowjobs in porn, but then there are a lot in real life, too. Porn blowjobs tend to involve a lot of spit and quite possibly gagging. I’m not fond of the hacking cough that results – I mean, not in every porn scene, but quite a few…

…which brings up the other question. Power dynamic. Is there one? Male-gaze porn irregularly tends to depict the one getting the blowjob as fully deserving: either being hot enough, or desirable enough, or having done a good job at work or something. In these ideas, a blowjob is a reward: it reinforces the idea that men are dominant, and that women are, apart from anything else, the gatekeepers of sex, and if they choke a bit on the 9″ dick that all men apparently have, then so be it.

I’m hyperbolising a bit here. I don’t even watch that much porn. Blowjobs in softcore always involve a lot of hair, perhaps for obvious reasons.

Yet I’ve also seen a lot of people – of all genders – saying that they like giving blowjobs. Again, they like the concept, and (as GOTN’s rather excellent quote suggests) it’s difficult to get one right, so if they do, they have done a good (blow)job. I’ve talked to people who tell me that they feel like, when giving one, they are the dominant partner; they have, to an extent, control.

My friend Louise, who has given a lot of blowjobs, says this:

I like giving blowjobs simply because it gives me control. It’s a way of gratifying the boy without having him guide the whole experience. I get to call the shots, and I take my time doing it! Oh, and I like the taste of cum, which helps…”


Which is fascinating. Like all aspects of sex, it must vary according to time, place, situation and/or individual. Louise, to her credit, adds that her entire aim in giving a blowjob is to get the recipient to orgasm without any extra stimulus (her nickname, Swallow, is probably the clue there), and that she is nigh on successful every single time…

…but that’s one person with one fixation. There are almost eight billion of us; we can’t all give perfect blowjobs.

I’m probably not the right person to ask. I’ve never given a blowjob, and I’ve never come from getting one.

But if you were to ask me about giving oral sex instead… sign me up for that one!


It’ll Never Work: ILB and his 53-X sex machine

In my early years of secondary school – say, years 7 to 9 – I spent many waking night hours trying to divine different ways to have sex on school property. Quite a number were simple – holes in the ground, under the table in a classroom, on the field in the morning mist, etc. – but some were more complex.

And then there was one which was downright bizarre.

When I started secondary school, I didn’t really know what sex looked like. After year 7 biology, I was at least aware of the missionary position (previously, I had been envisioning something similar to anal sex), and therefore, that was what my fantasies involved. I was even less aware of the time it took to have sex and was surprised at how brief it was – again, I was envisioning falling asleep inside someone and staying that way for the whole night – but, in my young head, that all made sense.

But what if you didn’t have to stop having sex? What if you never wanted to stop? Could you, hypothetically, have sex for as long as you wanted, without having to eat or sleep or exercise or do anything else at all, if you had the right equipment?

The right equipment

So here’s what I invented.

The 53-X was a box roughly the size and dimensions of a sideways kitchen ‘fridge, although bigger (obviously; it had to have two humans inside it), laid sideways on the ground, like a coffin. It was also mounted on a concrete pedestal around the back of the Science Block, but that wasn’t particularly important.

There were two sections of the 53-X, mounted atop each other. The bottom section was for those with vulvas; they would lie supine on a kind of memory foam, which would mould itself around their body shape, making them feel comfortable and relaxed. The pelvic area would be slightly elevated; the 53-X itself would also provide sustenance if you wanted it to. It was completely self-contained, although not constraining.

The top section was for those with penes; they would lie prone, the foam on the lid, also moulding around and holding their body in place. Mechanics in the design would enable the genitals to connect; effectively, you could penetrate your partner, stimulants would keep you both sexually aroused, and the 53-X would hold you both in place for as long as you wanted.

There was also a satisfying sci-fi hiss when it opened or closed, accompanied by a dry ice smoke effect. Because of course there was.

You could stay in the 53-X for as long as you wanted, and while in it you would not stop having sex. Hours. Days. Months. Years.


To my teenage brain, this was the hottest thing imaginable. Voluntarily (or involuntarily, I had a dream once about the 53-X being used as a punishment), one could get strapped into this machine and actually spend an incredibly long period of time having sex, which of course was completely taboo at the time and something I’d never, ever, ever get to do.

I also never imagined using the 53-X myself. It was always one of the faceless masses. I was just its inventor… although why I hadn’t been given a detention for inventing this sex machine in a school full of underage teens I wasn’t quite sure.

I’d work that one out later.

Why am I talking about it now, then?

Ah, that’s the big question, isn’t it? I last mentioned the concept, vaguely, twelve years ago; I’ve never touched upon it since.

The other day, with some work colleagues, we passed by my old school. It’s not in an area I go to much any more, and I hardly ever see it. But, as I looked out of curiosity, I spotted – among the jumble of new buildings and coloured fencing – the exact spot where the 53-X would have stood. Pristine. Untouched. In exactly the same state it had been when I walked across it all those years ago.

Its rightful place, waiting for it.

Not that I’d ever actually build it.

But isn’t that what science fiction is for?

Truth will open, truth will out

Six days after the first time I had sex, everyone found out.

To many people, though, this wasn’t the first time I had lost my flashing V. The year beforehand, the rumour had spread that I had had sex with Louise, when the truth itself was much more complicated. When it boils down, however, to “I didn’t actually have sex with her, but she asked me to start a rumour that I had“, it doesn’t seem too complex, but at the time it was.

To this day I still genuinely don’t know if any of my (former) classmates believed, at the time, that I did sleep with Louise – although I did sleep with Louise, three years later – or if any of them still do; I was never too clear on the matter.

This time, however, it was real and completely undeniable. No longer was I vague or coy, nor was I ashamed: I was a sexual being and I’d had sex, and I was going to be having some more, and although it came out in a relatively random way, I wasn’t going to not answer things any more.

“So are you seeing her tonight?”
“Yes, I am! I’m going up there right after school!”
“This relationship’s really going somewhere, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’m so pleased! It’s going really far, really fast!”
“What do you mean… you haven’t slept with her, have you?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s to be expected, I mean, we’re in a relationsh…”
“Wait, what?”

By the time the door opened and we made our way into the English classroom, everyone in the class knew I had done it. (And this time, everyone believed it.)

Their reactions ranged from polite, confused befuddlement to absolute horror (which didn’t do too much for my poor self-image). One friend, who had expressed amazement and hastily reassured me that it wasn’t because I was physically abhorrent and she couldn’t understand why anyone would have sex with me (that was Lightsinthesky’s take), eventually came out with what I assume everyone was thinking:

“But I thought you were against sex before marriage?”

I’ve never been against sex before marriage.

“No, I’m not aga…”
“You were, but not any more, right?”
“No, I’ve never been…”
“Because now you’ve had sex and you’ve changed your tune, right?”
“No, I’ve never been agai…”
“But you’re a Christian!”
“Yes, I am, but that…”

At which point our teacher entered and everyone shut up.

It’s not like the signs hadn’t been there. As early as year 7 RS, when I’d stood up in front of the class and said verbatim that I had no problem with sex before marriage (as it was an expression of love and marriage didn’t need to be necessary), and then written the same in my exercise book (my teacher countered with “can you love someone and not marry them?”, which is one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard a teacher say), it had been fairly clear to which mast my colours were nailed.

I barely remember what our teacher said during that A2 English lesson. What I do remember, vividly, was the fact that all eyes were on me throughout, as if I were about to spontaneously combust or something. For the first time, I found myself enjoying the attention.

I was still replaying the conversation/revelation a couple of hours later, when on the coach to Birmingham. I was sure that they’d all still have questions (for me; nobody thought to ask Lightsinthesky, or my token black friend, both of whom had lost their flashing V the year prior), but right then, I was unavailable for comment.

Because I was on the coach, on the way to Birmingham.

For more sex.


It was a very different world in those days…

“I’m going to the village,” her mother said, which was probably code for something. The village was a fair walk away, and I’m still not sure entirely whether it was indeed a village. If it was, it was a very big one – or a very small town.

“Okay,” I called through the door. It was all I could do, really, as – at that very moment – I was more concerned with her breasts (I had one in each hand) and her thighs (which were wrapped around my head). You probably get the general idea, although I ought to point out that I heard the door shutting at the exact moment I penetrated her.

The sex was hard and brisk, but lengthy and filthy. Over time it varied – in speed and intensity – but it was what we needed. We had, in all honesty, spent a lot of time having sex; we knew what to do to keep each other satisfied. She certainly was, and on account of the fact that nobody else was in the house at the time, she wasn’t afraid to let the neighbours know, either.

I’ve no idea what had been in my juice box that day. But, as I said, it was a very different world back then.

I hit my peak around about the time she hid her third. With a noise somewhere between a sigh and a scream, I shot rope after rope into her.




Click. That was the door closing. We were gazing at each other – her face was flushed into a pleasant state of red, and apparently I was too – and we were glistening with sweat. It was a warm day, certainly, but that probably wasn’t why.

“I’m back!” her mother called.
“Welcome back!” I trilled while trying to fix my sex hair before making a public appearance. “How long have you been gone for?”
“About an hour?”


“We just had sex for an hour,” I whispered, slipping back into the bed.
“How do you feel about it?”
“Yeah, me too.”

That evening, we went for a walk to the village…

…and it took us an hour.

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