Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Category: Sex (Page 2 of 3)

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

International (booty) call?

About a week or so ago, I made an international call to someone who doesn’t like speaking on the telephone. I knew this was risky – and her fear of a disembodied voice proved to be an issue the last time I saw her in person (to the point of her masturbating in the same room as me, so she wasn’t distracted by any noises I made) – but this was, to put it mildly, important.

I had something to say, and I wanted to do so without preamble… but then, what kind of friend would I be had I done that?

“Er, yeah, hello, this is ILB,” I said hesitantly. “I’m sorry for calling, I know you don’t like it very much. And it’s an international call, so I’ll have to be brief.”
“What’s this, a booty call?”
“Uh…” I looked around at this point, the grey work building I had ducked out of at lunchtime surrounding me like three looming monoliths. I couldn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, think of a place less designed to be making a booty call. “No, it’s not an 8,419-mile booty call. What it is is…”
“So it’s not a booty call?”

In all fairness, it’s not out of the realms of possibility for Louise to genuinely travel eight and a half thousand miles for sex. I’m fairly certain she’s done more.

“…and that’s why I think you need to check your e-mails. Do you still use that old address?”
“No, but I have the password for it. I mean, I used to use it for…”
“Sex,” I supplied. “You had a directory of people you liked to bang; do I have that correct?”

There were a few seconds of silence before she burst into a loud, wheezy laugh.

“Well, I can hardly use my work e-mail for that!”
“You can’t?”

Another wheezy laugh. I’d forgotten how breathless she sounds when she’s amused. Something else which slipped my mind in the intervening seventeen years.

“Okay, I’ll check. I’ll e-mail you what I find out.”
“Cheers. You’re okay with e-mailing me everything, yeah?”
“You tell me. How much of me do you want?”


“You’re the one that made the booty call!”

Wo ist mein Handie?

“So, apart from being silly, what would you say are your core strengths?”

She genuinely said that. I don’t mind the silly part. I just don’t have any strengths.

“Okay, well, I’m humorous,” I lied, “and sometimes making people laugh is my only aim in life.” (That part, at least, is true.) “And I’m knowledgeable. I mean, good for a quiz. ‘Brain’, they used to call me at school.” (That part, at least, is also true… mostly. Nobody’s ever called me ‘Brain’. I was ‘Brains’ for about a week.)

The interviewer smiled politely.

“You said you’re good at IT, and you can play the guitar,” she pressed, shuffling notes. “Are you good with your hands?”

Am I? I do, indeed, play the guitar. I type on keyboards without having to look and see where the keys are. I can flick through the shuffle feature on my iPod without having to do anything other than press the button twice. I can even write longhand, which… is a skill, I suppose.

Not to mention all the wanking, and additionally the fact that, two days ago, I brought someone to a shaking orgasm with nothing but my right hand and a generous helping of adroitness. The rhythmic beat of her clit against my thumb certainly suggests that I am good with my hands.

But I couldn’t say that. Nor could I say yes in all honesty. My left shoulder has been frozen for months and that arm doesn’t extend or flex. Doing the YMCA is impossible, as is playing the violin. I also have a tendency to drop things – pens, phones, my glasses, sex toys.

I don’t think my left foot has ever recovered from having a full-size Doxy impact with it from a great height.

And, of course, I can’t take a firm hold of a breast while licking someone out. I discovered this, again, the other day. The best my hand could manage was to flop around limply on her stomach, like a dying fish.

But I couldn’t tell her that either. I needed to have some sort of answer, though, one that would get me the job.

“Yes?” I settled on.

The gift of brevity.


Just before I slide my smooth, firm cock inside her, I’m euphoric. Not just at what is happening, or what has happened up until now, but about what’s about to happen.

I like the smooth, spreading motion that her lips do as I ease myself inside. The way her labia minora tease the head of my cock, the very tip feeling everything as I go further… deeper.

I like how hard I get, growing harder than I thought I could while inside her. As her inner walls contract around my shaft, I can feel it all. The pulse. The movement. The warmth. So hot, so wet. Where I belong.

I love, love, love the sensation when she tightens up around me. Sometimes I wait for this before I start moving. Sometimes I don’t. It happens after we finish as well.

I am euphoric for all the things I’m about to feel, buried deep inside her cunt.

It hasn’t happened for years… but I’ll never forget the feeling.

And I am craving it right now.

Getting my nose tickled (aka: oral sex is bae)

I cry a lot. I’ve been crying, on and off, for most of my life – it’s something I’ve done since I was very small. Crying is generally my default reaction to pain or distress – I remember crying when I failed to make the University Challenge team; I cried for weeks when my Eroticon session idea was first turned down. I was recently asked, by a client, if I cried when I found out that I was losing my job. I did. I told her the truth.

The other night I cried when it suddenly dawned on me that I wasn’t giving oral sex.

I love oral sex. Love it. But, due to Circumstances, I haven’t been able to engage in cunnilingus for… maybe over a year now. Perhaps more. I used to do it practically every night, whether as a precursor or epilogue to sex or not (it works spectacularly well on its own); more recently, however, I haven’t had the chance. It’s a difficult thing to ask – which, since the question generally is “can I please try to give you as much pleasure as possible and hopefully make you orgasm?” – seems like an odd thing to say.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep (and I don’t sleep well at the best of times, so this is quite often), I rehearse oral sex in my head. I imagine her scent, her warmth, and the shape of her thighs. I wrap my hands around her legs – or hold onto her hips as she closes them around my head. Breathe in, bathing myself in her heat, getting used to her presence.

This is how I used to perform oral sex. A gentle lick to the pussy lips to feel them out. Even if I’m desperate, I’ll try to be as measured as possible. It’s not a race. I’ll flick, with my dextrous tongue, back and forth, over the lips…

all the way up…
all the way down…

…again and again and again. Sometimes I’ll pause at the top, holding myself just over her clit. Occasionally I’ll be thumbing her clit as well, but not this time. This is just oral. As I said before, it’s what I love.

When she’s ready (because consent is sexy), I’ll go a little deeper. Swivel my tongue in broad circles, tasting her, each one getting a little tighter, until I can gently part her soft folds and lick her deeper inside. I feel the pulse of her heartbeat through her inner walls, the flush of her labia against my cheeks, and her stiffening clit beating as my nose presses it. I’d go as deep as possible, keeping my breathing steady, but continue my tongue movements.


This might be where my hands come into play – where might she like them? Cupping her breasts? Stimulating her nipples? Teasing her mound, or perineum, or anus? When I’m giving oral sex, I’m all about her pleasure. I’ll do whatever she likes if it helps.

I’ll continue the lapping motions, lips open, nose against her clit, warm breath, for as long as it takes. Maybe she’ll put her hands on my head; maybe she’ll feel her own breasts. Maybe she’ll just bite her lip and let her eyes flutter closed and enjoy. Sometimes she moans; sometimes she shakes; sometimes she even lets out a sort of guttural screech. I like it when she says “yes!”. It lets me know that I’m doing well.

If I’m good, maybe she’ll come. There’ll be a spreading sensation as she gets wetter and wetter, and I’ll keep licking her, all the way through her orgasm. I like the taste of girlcum in my mouth. I may get some on my chin, or nose, but that’s okay. It’s messy. Sex is, by nature, messy. I’m not making any pretentions otherwise.

When she’s finished, I’ll pull back, a trail of gold sparks breaking as I do so. I’ll lick my lips (or wipe them with a tissue, if there is one – or the back of my hand: that works, too). I’ll ask her is she is all right, Maybe she wants to cuddle afterwards; maybe she wants to be fingered, or held, or fuck. Whatever her desire is, that’s what I’ll do. But I’ll start with oral sex.

Because it’s what I love.

And that’s why I’ve been crying… because I ache for it.

…as mustard

“Oh, you are desperate, aren’t you?” she said, although with a coquettish little smile which made it clear that she wasn’t averse to this.

I mean, of course she wasn’t. She liked the fact that she could make me hard in a matter of seconds. And she was sitting on me. There wasn’t much left she had to do.

“I’m not desperate,” I protested. “I’m just… keen.”
“You’re keen?”
Keen. That’s the word.”

I didn’t elaborate; neither did I do so while we stayed there, curled together on the big chair, or during dinner later on, or watching the requisite amount of Nickelodeon followed by Have I Got News For You that evening. I didn’t elaborate, although I probably didn’t need to, later that night as I closed my lips around her pert nipple. By the time my very hard, very warm and very thick penis was inside her, the time for elaboration had long passed.

Although I didn’t think to tell her why I was keen (“I’m horny and you are hot” was certainly part of it, but maybe not all…), there was certainly a reason. As there was for every single time we had sex.

I’d been very tightly wound for most of the week. We all knew I’d be having sex on Friday evening, and with her. And we knew where we’d be doing it, and for what it’s worth, there was always a ballpark figure as to when. My friends, who knew all this, liked to tease. My token black friend had, that evening, texted “Got any action yet??” while I was still on the coach. I hadn’t even left London.

There was also the fact that I was perhaps the third, or fourth or fifth (it’s unclear; I can think of about four, but who knows?) in my year to lose what Lightsinthesky charmingly termed the “flashing V”. I didn’t brag, nor did I go into too much detail (…says the explicit sex blogger), but it was well-known. Some people were aghast; some were confused; some were repulsed. The most common reaction was polite bafflement, which I would take.

I would also take the gentle teasing in good humour. It wasn’t the relentless taunting to get a reaction my bullies had done a few years prior. At the very least, having a serious girlfriend made me interesting. Nobody, especially me, had thought I’d ever get one. My parents, even, had a bet going as to whether Einstein, Robinson, or I would be the first to have a girlfriend. It looked like a close-run thing.

And, of course, I’d Completely Given Up.™

Having a girlfriend gave me the sort of attention I so desperately craved. I wasn’t just the smart guy any more. I was the smart guy with the active sex life. I would object to people terming her my “bird” (because, as a human being, she wasn’t a bird!), but at the end of the day, I liked the sort of explicit mysticism that came with this. And it made my final year of a difficult school life one in which I was, for the first time, genuinely positive.

But it was the constant talk, the references, the questions – and the suggestive texts from her with a heavy abundance of 😉 – which wound me up. That, and the fact that I didn’t masturbate and would watch soft porn during the week anyway… and the fact that we had a sort of routine worked out. If I made it through the week, onto the train on time, and then the coach, and if I made sure that she was getting as much pleasure as I was, then we’d both be satisfied – messy, exhausted, drenched in sweat, and (in her case) full of cum – but satisfied.

And that’s why I was so keen.

On the way back home, I got a call while walking through Victoria Station from my token black friend, “in case you was getting any action with your bird.” He seemed rather put out that I was already back in London.

But it didn’t stop him asking questions.

I think he was keen, too.

Keep a mild groove on…

There’s a monkey in the jungle
Watchin’ a vapour trail
Caught up in the conflict
Between his brain and his tail

I had every reason for going to the club at 9pm. I couldn’t really thrash about on the dancefloor with the sweating, heaving mass who usually rolled in at around 11, and although I usually stayed until everyone chucked out at 2am, half of my night would be drinking something soft. In a corner. Alone.

So I went in at nine, danced for two hours and then resigned myself to my quiet existence otherwise. People I knew, and people I liked, drifted in and out at various points, and sometimes people liked to watch me dance. But, again, I was usually alone.

On this night, however, I didn’t feel alone. I hadn’t been alone for a week, and I was still enjoying the high.

I knew the DJ by sight; I liked him, too – he had a good taste in music and would usually play some James for me if I asked. Despite this, I never quite caught his name; the one whose name I did know had graduated to Actual Clubs™. The university’s union bar was busy, but still… a union bar.

“Excuse me,” I said as politely as I could while having to raise my voice over the thundering din, “but could you play 19/2000 by Gorillaz?”
“Original or remix?”
“Soulchild remix, if you have it!”
“OK, hang on…” he replied, shuffling through a pile of what I recognised as NOW That’s What I Call Music! collections. “It’s here somewhere. Do you want it dedicated to someone?”
“Yes, please, can you dedicate it to Louise?”
“Sure thing. THIS ONE’S FOR LOUISE!” he yelled into the tannoy before Gorillaz (I’m not sure which one – probably 2D?) informed us all that it was the music that we choose. “What’s she done for you?”

He probably didn’t mean that to be such a loaded question. I’d honestly no idea how to answer, either.

I mean, what exactly should I say? Maybe I could mention the way her soft folds tightened around my erection as she mounted me in her car. Perhaps I could talk about the way she bent over her bath expectantly just after sex and clearly ready for more. I could even mention how good she felt during public bathroom sex, but then the public bathroom next to the DJ booth was also somewhere I’d had an orgasm (albeit alone, on my first night there). I’d be disrespecting it, or something.

“She just likes the song,” I shrugged, not untruthfully. The first time we met, 19/2000 had just come out, and she had been texting me snippets of the lyrics whenever she was bored.

It made a change from the ASCII-style porn that Emma kept texting me.

Anyway, the DJ seemed satisfied enough with my answer.
“Hey, do you want to hear some James?” he asked, as I turned to walk away. “I like Laid, how about Laid?”
Oh my Glod, does he know? my dickbrain suddenly started asking. Can he tell? Do I still have that ‘just-had-a-week-of-sex’ glow on me, even though I had a shower recently? Is it that obvious?
“Yes please,” I gabbled, and left as quickly as possible, choosing to avoid the dancefloor with my completely inappropriate erection and instead head to the bar for my first soft drink of the night.

Where, pulling out my ‘phone, I started texting Louise the lyrics.

4(nal) secs

I was three pints of Diet Coke into a raucous game of “I Have Never” when somebody – I forget who – said that he had never given, or been the recipient of, anal sex.

A few people drank, including the pretty French teacher who was leaving the following day, the Asian doctor who had treated my head injury less than 24 hours prior, and the Liverpudlian girl who was better at rugby than the 200+ other people in the centre. After a few seconds, I drank too.

I always drink – for this isn’t the first time it’s come up during such a game – for anal sex, but in truth, I’m not entirely sure if my experience counts. I certainly had my penis inside an anus, and it was certainly enjoyed by both parties involved, but (aside from what might be termed the ‘technical’ side of things) I don’t think it really counts as anal sex – mainly because of its duration: four seconds.

It’s not even as if I’m at all squicked out by anuses (anii? No, I had to look it up – anuses) at all. I’ve given analingus (and would again). I’ve penetrated anuses with my finger (my second girlfriend liked to have one finger in each hole while I licked her clit, so I became pretty adept pretty quickly). I’m not shy, or ashamed, to touch. I’m aware it’s sensitive and I’m aware some people like it.

Having said all that, my arse is a no-go area. I’ve even had offers, but I’ve said no. I’ve had enough gastric problems throughout my life to know that I don’t trust my intestines very much, and I know from experience that, even if I use the toilet, clean, wash and then get bizzy with it, my rear end isn’t a very pleasant place to be around. I’m not really expecting to be on the receiving end of anal sex anyway, but yeah. I’m the giver, in this case.

Right, yeah. My experience.

My four seconds of anal came after forty or so minutes of incredibly vigorous vaginal sex, so there was plenty of preparation there. She had, incidentally, had somewhere between three and five orgasms (I’d stopped counting after two) and had been fingering herself in both holes while running a bath in order to clean up. I hadn’t had an orgasm, myself (I had earlier in the day, of course), and right then, I was still hard.

“Can I help?” I asked unsteadily, as I walked into the bathroom having regained the use of my legs.
“Certainly,” she quipped, bending over with her hands on the edge of the bath. “Go on.”
“I’m waiting.”
And I shuffled forwards, angled myself into what I thought was the correct position (having only seen this in porn, and never really given it more than a passing thought), and carefully slid my shaft into her anus, keeping a hand on each hip to hold myself in place.

[Disclaimer: Don’t actually do this. Anal sex takes a large amount of preparation, careful planning, toilet time beforehand and lots of lube. Louise was incredibly wet in all areas and more than ready at the time, and we were two horny teenagers, but it’s more than worth putting a warning here.]

My memories of being inside – brief as the actual experience was – amount to the fact that it was:

(i) tighter than usual (I could feel everything)
(ii) warmer than usual
(iii) completely baffling for me
(iv) clearly very pleasurable for her, as she let out a low, deep moan very unlike her usual high-pitched shrieks of joy during sex

Ed Miliband using the classic phrase to dramatic effect.

I didn’t actually say anything, or do anything else. I was very stiff from all the sex and didn’t really trust myself to thrust. If memory serves, all I really said was “uh,” which was pretty much everything, as I pulled out immediately after I went in, and nothing happened afterwards. Louise gave me a giggle, and a kiss, and then went to get some towels.

With nothing else to do, I got into the bath.

So, no, I can’t pretend to be an expert and I’m not entirely sure if what we did counts. My memories, like the summer heat and the air around at the time, are hazy. But if we’re playing I Have Never, and anal sex comes up, then I’ll take a drink. Nobody really asks any further questions, but if they do… well…

…that’s what my blog is for.


I wish, and I say this with earnest sincerity, that I could bottle the feelings I have in my less lucid moments, for voracious consumption when fully awake and actually aware that I want to have sex.

It’s probably not as cut-and-dry as that; nor is it particularly practicable, I am aware. Both the sleepy daytime dreams and cosy quasi-wakefulness betwixt sleep and death probably warrant lustful feelings precisely because I’m not entirely in control of my body, and devolving somewhat into something more primal. I’m fairly certain that there’s even some amount of credence to the idea that my sexual desires, buried as they are in my unconscious during the day, find their outlet when I’m not wrestling them back.

It’s frustrating, then, that I have feelings like I did during yesterday’s rest (wherein I hit upon the idea of sex as a sanitary, clean, purely recreational activity with no ramifications whatsoever – stemming from idle thoughts of a social media friend and ending up, as ever, with the message pervasive in Emmanuelle), resulting almost invariably in RAGING HORN plus glorious visions and imaginings, that have all but vanished by the time I actually attempt to act upon them (as I also did yesterday).

[Check me out, English graduate over here, writing the previous paragraph as one complete sentence, including parenthetical remarks (twice) and unwarranted tense change.]

These feelings – and the visions that come with them, that also act as an aide-de-camp to arousal (I had a particularly vivid sensory hallucination recently, so much so that I could feel the vaginal walls contracting around my cock) – would be of a lot more use if they could be bottled, preserved, and used during masturbation, or even sex itself. They’re the perfect blend of lust, whimsy, and the like of laissez-faire attitude that makes for fun and fancy free sex.

Unfortunately, I’m fairly sure that a major component of these semi-fantasies is that they involve being very sleepy, and as much fun as sleepy sex can be, I probably wouldn’t be a fan of dropping off during (although it does happen!).

But if I could just, as I said above, bottle those feelings, and keep them for when they are needed… why, if I could do that, I’d own this town.


Last week, because I am a wild rebel who leads a life of extremity and excitement, I bought myself a new diary from WHSmith.

Hold your applause; I’m not quite done yet!

For those of you who have yet to discover the delights of WHSmith diaries, they contain – as well as, you know, days and shit – a tiny, almost unreadable map of the London Underground (a Herculean task to decipher at the best of times) and – and I was surprised to find this – the skeletal National Rail map which, if you’re not aware, both displays all the major stations in the UK and makes some very dubious suggestions as to what counts as a major station.

Something I’ve been meaning to do for about seven years, and only remembered to this morning, involves going through the National Rail map and circling all the places I’ve had sex. Inevitably there will be some places NR scandalously left off the map, but then I need to use my memory for those, eh? So let’s go…

…and, just to make it that little bit more difficult, let’s go in order of frequency.

National Rail
If you squint and twist your head it looks like a bunny.

This isn’t actually on the map, as they’ve only listed the major termini (terminuses? No, that looks wrong.). It doesn’t list all the bits of London in which I’ve had sex – Barnet, Brent, Camden, City, Croydon, Enfield, Harrow – but then again, the tube map lists all those more accurately. Maybe that’s another blog post.*

(*No, it isn’t.)

Though I love Oxford – the atmosphere, the shopping, the architecture, the eateries, the bikes – and the fact that I must have had sex hundreds of times in Oxford – the thing I’ll always remember about it has to be the announcement on the platform. I did start formulating a story in my head about the Oxford announcer guy banging the Paddington announcer lady… but it never got any further than what I’ve just told you. Ay me.

Birmingham, et al.
Birmingham’s on the map, but the bits of Birmingham I’ve had sex in aren’t. I never managed to do so in the city centre, but I did so numerous times in Walsall, and once in Sutton Coldfield, so… you know… there’s that.
I don’t actually mind Birmingham as a place. It just looks unfinished. I took the coach up practically every week for a year and a half, and the area around Toys “Я” Us continued to look like a bomb site. But maybe that’s part of the charm.

Is the closest I can get, because the little town (with a Leeds postcode) isn’t on the National Rail map. It consists mostly of charity shops and estate agents and was a bus ride away from Leeds train station.
I cried in Leeds train station after a particularly difficult time in which I was convinced I had done something terrible. I’ve never been back there since.

Now we’re into make or break territory, really, because I’m not entirely sure which of these places I’ve had sex in a few times is the most numerous…! But let’s go for Bath.
Bath is perhaps my favourite place in the UK. I can’t really pinpoint why, but I love it. On account of the fact that I went there at least twice with a highly sexual girlfriend, I’m betting that it’s next down my list. I’ll probably end up back there at some point, of course.

Is probably next, mainly due to the same girlfriend. I like Brighton too, even though my most recent sojourn was a bit of a washout. Still, I saw Parasite there, so. Trivia tells me that it’s the only place where I’ve successfully had sex standing up, so that’s certainly worth a mention.

Bristol (Temple Meads)
“TAKE A GOOD LOOK, BRISTOL!” I shouted, standing completely naked at the window in the Radisson Blu looking at the lights twinkling around the Western night. Almost exactly twenty-four hours later I was having probably the best sex of my life in exactly the same room.

The last place I can think of, and the northernmost, in which I’ve had sex. I spent a week there in a hotel room with a hot girl who, at one point, woke me up in the middle of the night for sex. I mean, we did it a few times – once a day, if I remember correctly – but I remember the middle-of-the-night sex a lot more!

And the rest…

Cambridge, Canterbury (East), Marlow, Manchester (Piccadilly), Newport, Nottingham (I spent three years here and had sex only once!), Skipton, and Taunton all deserve a mention too; I think that I had sex once in each of these places, but I remember them all for more reasons than that!

Brandon and Stratford-upon-Avon aren’t on the map at all, but I’ve had sex there too!

Provence, France
Probably doesn’t count.

Port Elizabeth, South Africa
Definitely doesn’t count.

Boom, clap, I’m in me friend’s car

It’s another balmy day in Port Elizabeth and I’ve been attempting to float in the pool for half an hour now. I can’t float – it’s always been impossible for me despite the Seamstress insisting that it is – but trying is fun. At least being in the water is fun. I don’t like the heat, anyway, and being in water is a way to pretend it isn’t as hot as it is.

Louise isn’t in the water, because she’s paralysed with laughter. She’s been watching me flail around for a few minutes. I leaned back and almost floated for about a second before sinking into the water with a sound like the ‘drowning’ noise from Worms 2. Apparently my facial expression was what made her laugh. She hasn’t stopped.

“Hey, you,” she says. “Let’s go for a drive.”

I pull myself out of the pool with a huge reverse splash. The heat in the air dries me off almost immediately. Who needs towels?

“Didn’t we go for a drive yesterday?” I asked. “You drove me around the city. We went to the wharfs. We went to the café. We probably would’ve ended up in the bush if I hadn’t persuaded you otherwise.”
“That was then; this is now,” she replies, as if there’s some sort of weighted finality in this completely innocuous statement. I’ve no idea what she’s going on about, but I’ve long since decided there’s no point at all in questioning her. I shrug, walk through the French windows, throw on a loose T-shirt and pull on some shorts that I hadn’t been aware I still had.

She’s already standing by her car by the time I’ve locked everything and left through the front door. It’s quite a nice car, although I don’t really know anything about cars – I just think it looks nice. It’s a nice blue colour. To be frank, I’m just impressed that she can drive. She learned at 17 which, I remind myself, was two years ago. Still, she picked me up from the airport and has been driving me around a city I don’t know for two days now, so…

“Your chariot awaits,” she says (and yes, she seriously says that), holding open the passenger door. The seat is pushed all the way back, which I assume is because I’m a tall idiot with hecka long legs.

As is turns out, that’s not exactly why she’s pushed the seat back.

“I thought you said we were going for a drive,” I say, albeit quietly, as she climbs on top of me without so much as a preliminary warning.
“Eh… I lied,” she admits. “Surely you don’t mind this?” she adds, pulling off her top to reveal her breasts, huge and shiny, grabbing my hand as she does so and guiding it so I can feel how wet she is.
“Mind it? No, not really,” I say. Or, at least, I would, but I’ve got my lips wrapped around one of her peaked nipples and can’t really say anything right now.

I could spell it out in Morse code via small licks, I suppose. But I’m not sure that would work. I don’t know Morse code.

She arches her back while I work her with my tongue. She looks fantastic, but then again, she always has. I’m starting to feel the heat again, but then, I’m in a car with a beautiful girl sitting on top of me – it’s hardly an Arctic floe.

I won’t recall, later, exactly the particulars of how she manages to get my shorts off and my pants down without dismounting. It’s not that important anyway, I reason. She’s not wearing anything under her skirt which, I suppose, shouldn’t be too much of a surprise. She shifts; there are a few moments of silent anticipation, and then I feel her folds split wide as my smooth, firm cock slides in, her grinning the grin that she grins at my semi-gleeful, semi-abashed face (which, apparently, is what I look like every time).

I feel her inner walls squeeze, moulding themselves around my shape. I’m throbbing – a lot – but can’t really do much, stuck as I am into a car seat. She’s doing the work, merrily riding away, sliding up and down like only she knows how to do, giving me what I need… and, judging by the sounds she’s making (and yes, she is loud), she’s getting what she wants as well. I try to do something with my hands, but all I can really do is hold onto her sides. She doesn’t have a problem with that.

We’re having sex in a car. I realise this just before she orgasms – a huge, powerful, rolling one. She makes a kind of low guttural moan – almost bestial – as I feel her girlcum begin to cascade from her soaked sex, coating my shaft, and running down her legs, to boot.

She leans forwards, resting her whole body on me (but there isn’t too much of her, so this doesn’t hurt). I wrap my arms around her and just hold her. Neither of us say anything, but then what else is there to say? Good sex is good. I’m not going to look this gift horse in the mouth, specifically when the gift horse is a millionaire’s daughter who did quite a lot of pleading a few days ago to actually get me onto the ‘plane.

It’s only after we get back into the pool – we didn’t go for a drive at all, you’ll be totally shocked to hear – that I think to ask what she’s going to do about the large stain we left on the seat.

“Oh, that’s okay,” she says brightly. “I’ve got a sponge and some cleaning fluid. It gets the stains out of anything. I’ll clean it up tomorrow, and then we’ll go for a drive. A real one this time.”
You’ll clean it up? Surely you’d let me do it, after what you just gave me.”
“I’m the one who came, and besides, it’s my car.”
“It is,” I demur. “But surely I could at least help. Carry the bucket, or something.”

It takes me a while to convince her that “carry the bucket” isn’t a euphemism for anything. But, by the time I’ve finished explaining, she’s right back to where she was an hour ago… on the side of the pool, watching me flail, and wheezing with laughter.

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