fact or fiction?

18th November
2015
written by Dame Suzy

I realized I had never written about the aftermath of my brief but intense Australian relationship from 2013.

My Aussie master and I kept in touch, and for the first month it seemed he was still into me. Then he posted “I think I’m in love” on his public Facebook page and I naturally assumed it was me, since he hadn’t been in love/in a relationship in four years. I was all warm and gushy inside since I had fallen for him during our time together – albeit naively, prematurely, and temporarily.

Alas, I was wrong. He had met someone on an online dating site, started dating her right before he met me, and possibly had a date with her the night before I left.

During the time his relationship with this other woman was supposedly on overdrive, he was still talking about seeing me.

Him: Good thing is she’ll prob let me shag you when I come over… She’s like that – understanding.

After some painful (to me) small talk about how they met, etc.

Me: If you don’t hear from me for a while, you’ll understand. That you could fall in love with someone else so quickly is a pretty swift punch in my gut. I of course want you to be happy! I just need some time to recover. Until then…

Him: Oke dokee

Damn, ouch. Well, this is a man who’s never been married and is pushing 45 after all. So knowing how to be nice to women is not one of his fortes.

Anyway, I got over it more quickly that I thought I would and two months later:

Him: How you doing you sexy beast ?? I’m in the USA ( Cali ) for 3 weeks in sept/ oct if you’re around…

After I didn’t respond for a few days out of respect for the budding relationship:

Him: No love?

I didn’t reply until after his trip was over, over two months later.

Me: Hope your trip to the States was great and I wish you and your new family all the best. With love

Him: Wow! Long time no hear. How you been? …(small talk)…Let me know if you’re in town again be good to catch up.

He friend-requested me, I said yes, and all hell broke loose.

Suddenly, his “understanding” fiancée, started looking through all our steamy messages and naughty pictures (all mine since he’s a selfish bastard) and wrote me via his Facebook profile.

Idiot: Hi, This is Idiot. (His) Fiance. So nice to read all stuff here and then. Just funny reading your sex talks and him making you a sex object. and u offering yourself as a mistress. It amazes me to encounter a matured woman like you with family and kids but still looking around and fucking other guys..disgusting! isn’t it. Who would say no to FREE meat..just saying..

Me: It was I who didn’t respond to his Cali request knowing he had a potentially meaningful relationship in the works. And I also knew being understanding works well in theory but shouldn’t often be tested, especially so early. Aside from that, relax, you shouldn’t feel threatened by someone who lives thousands of miles away, and like I wrote him, I wish all of you well, and chalk your rude words up as a healthy amount – however unwarranted – of jealousy, ignorant of what his and my relationship was. Note the use of the past tense.

Idiot: He told me about you fucking around when on holidays overseas. I am not threatened. I am scared for std. Peace of advice though. You are married with kids. I’m not ignorant of what happened to u guys because he told me about you. You flicked a guy in Sydney before him.

Idiot: Fucked. Oh dear! Men are men u know that.u are more experienced.

First of, check your damn messages before you send insults, lady. Actually, get someone who speaks English to write them. You sound like you just fell off the boat, landed in swamp goo, got your brain fluids sucked out by leeches, and then got a yeast infection. (I had fun writing that. Hyperbole? Nah.)

Also, I wanted to add that I actually hadn’t flicked anyone in Sydney but that had had every right to. I believe she wrote more insulting crap via his email account but am not going to bother looking for them.

I saw no point in possibly breaking them up by asking her how she expects a guy who’s never been monogamous and has never been married to suddenly become that for the rest of their lives? Understanding, my ass. But if someone’s going to mess up their relationship, it would be either of them, not me. I’m too much of an adult – geez, when did that happen?

Interestingly, I have no interest in seeing what the outcome of all that was. It’s been two years. Did they get hitched after all? I kind of like being in the dark about it; it remains a mystery. I think of him from time to time, fondly. It would have been pretty awesome to have a private BJJ lesson turn into something much less (or more?) dangerous. And though I have no plans to return to Australia – been there, done that, don’t feel at one with their culture – who’s to say?

5th April
2013
written by Dame Suzy

After a sweaty night at a hostel north of Melbourne, I check in to a chic hotel in the center of the city, a mere eleven minutes from the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu gym where I’ll go to class tonight. The academy has classes every day, but it doesn’t hurt that the head instructor is strikingly handsome.

I walk in a minute late in my short gym shorts and supplex tank top with cleavage cut-out. Before I can be embarrassed that class has already started, the handsome man curtly tells me to put on a gi, and when I start to pull the pants over my own, he tells me there’s a dressing room – oops. I distinctly remember men ripping their shirts off in Sydney after class. Not a bad memory that. But I comply – now I’ve had time to be embarrassed – and emerge swathed in stiff white thermal-patterned cloth.

The instructor is equal parts entertainer and teacher, and in a short time I am impressed with his off-color, witty personality and improvisational style. At first I am paired with a guy that he has happily demo-beaten up, and later I am paired with the fierce and pretty Diana, who shows me quickly who would win if we ever actually were at odds – owww. To clarify moves, the instructor has me straddle him, and he me. Hum dee dum – ahem. Breathe… He has a square jaw, high cheekbones, heavy arched eyebrows, a deliciously hairy chest, and pretty eyes. When he rolls out of a hold, he lands gracefully with one long leg outstretched. I let myself enjoy his strength. When he’s on top of me, I can’t move my hips at all. Jut like being locked into a seatbelt turns me on, I don’t mind it. Happy day.

The end of class arrives quickly though it’s been 89 minutes, and *sigh* I suppose this is the last I will see of these nice people and of him…HIM. Mrowrrr.

As I dawdle after class, I am pleasantly surprised that he asks if I’d like to join him for a burger and beer. Um, yeahh. He says he needs a quick shower, and shortly afterwards he trots out from the back of the gym, tattoos and pecs glistening, a mere towel around his waist. How long am I allowed to stare? I try not to. My eyes are joyous, and the rest of me is toasty warm. A student couple stays till he flips off the lights and I think it’s just a hang-out with students kind of thing. But they take off on their own.

Just the two of us, he regales me with stories of his dangerous, decadent, and fascinating life, and I soak them all in. I’ve never met a storyteller like this. Championship titles, wild sex interspersed with funny situations, and permanent memory loss. He’s been a bouncer at brothels and strip clubs, and danced in his skivvies in a chorus line with Thai ladyboys. He’s animated and has the cutest boyish smile. The burger bar is about to close so he suggests we go to another bar. I’d love to. Turns out there’s a comedy show about to re-start so we pop in. Mostly great stuff, some decent. It feels natural and easy to be with him. He feels the same. We are also like school kids, nervous and excited.

He asks about me but after such lavish stories, I go blank and recall just snippets of my life. I wish desperately that we would kiss. The moment finally arrives and the kiss is lovely, gentle, and firm, all in one. Hello.

I know that he’s been up since 2 a.m. the previous night, so it’s unlikely that any nighttime playtime will be anything to remember. But I don’t care. My move from hostel to hotel that afternoon has been timely, and we go up to my room.

He confesses that from the moment I walked into the gym, he wanted to slip inside of me. His curtness in telling me to put on a gi was to cover me up so he didn’t ”get all pervy” on me.  I share my own confessions. As I write this, electricity shoots from my pulsating vulva and I clench my thighs together to quell the sensation. When he tied the belt around my waist in class, he wanted to wrap his arms around me. Melt.

He disrobes and slips into bed as I take a shower. Open, horizontal, colored-glass panels offer a peep show of my shower from the bed.  He takes advantage. He likes what he sees.

After I towel off, I slip my naked body next to his. Sweet bliss. Berlin’s Take My Breath Away begins on Pandora as I write this part of the story. Just imagine that as a soundtrack to our kissing and touching each other. I caress his chest hair, move my fingertips over his shoulders, his face, his back, his soft eyebrows. He puts his arm underneath me and it’s comfortable. He’s very vocal in his praise of my body, how he hasn’t been attracted to someone in years like he is now. Well, fuck if that doesn’t make me wetter. I’m not nearly as vocal as I am enveloped in unbridled sensations and emotions.

It is clear that I am with a man who uses creativity in every part of his life. His years of creative lovemaking and fighting show as he deftly moves me into positions but takes his sweet time, not racing against a clock like others might.

When my back is to him, he feels so good but I want to see him, his beautiful broad-shouldered body thrusting into mine, but I have to content myself with some vibrating moments of pleasure before I can see him again.

He insists on using his fingers to cause my vagina to do something it’s only done a handful of times with my man and my last lover — squirt liberally. At first it’s small amounts and then it’s squirting over us both, reaching my face. Whoa, surprising. He says most if not all women are capable of this feat. Live and learn.

He’s absolutely darling. The words “I love you” stop in my throat, and though he doesn’t admit it or perhaps he doesn’t remember, the words do escape his. And when I admit my thoughts, he says, “but is it the orgasms talking?” And honestly, I don’t differentiate the two situations, because it is when I am pleasured and opened up emotionally like a flower that I experience these feelings of love. I love him, take it or leave it.

The next day we plan our little trip along Great Ocean Road. He returns home to get his car and load it up. I wonder if he could be one of those flakes that offer the moon, but he isn’t. When he texts me, “Do you ride bikes?” I answer, “Not really.” To which he replies, “Good. I’ll bring you one.” To which I reply, “Don’t make me spank you.”

When I get into his car, I notice that the windows are open though it’s 90 degrees outside. Hmm. This does not bode well. He tells me the A/C has been broken for four years. Yikes! I feel a sudden pang of fear that this will end badly and I’ll end up stranding myself somewhere on a beach just as night falls. But the fear makes way to unyielding curiosity, and I just want to be with him as long as I can, so I suck it up.

He seldom wears a shirt, thank the gods. And he is amused and pleased when in the car in the middle of traffic, I change into my bikini top. He pretends that he hasn’t seen that before. But I know that things you’ve seen before can also feel new again, and some things never get old.

It is he that complains about the heat, the sun mercilessly pounding him, but for the most part, the most unfortunate part of it is having to alternate between having windows open and closed so that we can hear each other. He tells me how free he feels with me, that he can talk about anything, that he doesn’t have to hide any part of himself. Apparently, most women can’ t handle how colorful his life has been. Getting caught screwing his friend’s girlfriend in a club bathroom, being the other man with permission from a woman’s husband and then living with them for convenience… I am enthralled. And many of his stories end in a punchline, so I laugh a lot, too.

But in the end, he has been lonely for four years, and his previous girlfriend of three years hated kissing and would only have sex when she was drunk. WTF! Why would anyone have to be drunk to make love to this gorgeous, sensitive, and skilled lover? Jesus. But he does seem to gravitate toward birds with broken wings, so I can only conclude that he simply has bad taste in women, present company excluded of course.

When he takes my hand in his, I’m filled with warmth and happiness. We are instant girlfriend and boyfriend fashioned from a mix of luck and fate.

He dives into waves as I stand waist-deep in the water trying not to freeze. We’re surrounded by hundreds of revelers enjoying the long weekend. Australian leisure in its pure, simple glory. And as boyfriends do, he splashes me and I protest, then I dip in to my neck to get the shock of cold over with.

I am swimming in an ocean of fantasy. I had intended to write a fictional erotic mixed martial arts story, and instead I live one I could never have imagined.

It is becoming difficult to write this now as my eyes get wet and I long to be with him. The sooner I finish the story, the sooner I can post and then relegate it to memory. *Sigh* But the story hasn’t ended yet, as we continue to feed this romance with brief but frequent messages of affirmation and in his case, requests for photos of me, progressively more provocative. As I always do, I repeat to myself, “Enjoy it while it lasts, no matter how brief.” And as I always do, I hope it lasts forever.

9th August
2012
written by Dame Suzy

I met Jeff on the set of a print shoot. Like many over-25 models of both sexes, he was married. But it didn’t matter as I was just happy there was an attractive guy to flirt/chat with. At forty or so, he was one of those ruggedly handsome guys but with poise and elegance. Very nice.

When I saw him stretch and rub the back of his neck, the generous and opportunistic ME offered her massage services which he accepted with a look that said, “I don’t want to bother you but damn, that would be great.”

A barely-audible moan of tension release later and I invited him – and his wife – for a spa session the next week. His wife was tall, statuesque, and blond, the opposite of me. She also looked like she needed to get laid, but I didn’t mention that absurd detail. I mean, how could she look that way when she had this tempting man sleeping next to her every night?

I started massaging her temples first. And at first she was happy, but as Jeff and I were having a lively conversation, I realized that the voices, especially his, seemed to annoy her. After I was done she admitted that having a spa day meant not having him around. “And,” she said with a coquettish smirk in his direction, “I prefer a man’s touch, but not yours, honey. You’re too rough.”

That left Jeff and me in a house alone for our weekly spa sessions.

We flirted more, enjoyed each other’s company more, and I started working my way from his face to his neck and shoulders. I sat behind him and used the palm of my hand to work his smooth, hard, pronounced pecs and the added bonus of hard delicious nipple. I smelled his sweet faint manly smell with the stronger scent of fabric softener. And I felt the heaving of his chest as I pressed my breasts against his back to get my palms deep into his muscle.

We lasted all of three weeks before things got interesting.

TODAY:

I crane over to work on his face. He notices me stretch my back. “You can straddle me if that’s more comfortable,” he offers. Don’t mind if I do. I don’t tell him that I’m not wearing panties and the way we are sitting my pussy is just out of sight, which is the only way this could be quasi-legitimate. *Ahem* Wow, what a friend he is to me – arousing me by letting me touch and smell him, and what a great friend I am, giving him these luxurious hour-long massages in return.

And it could stop here, and I would be okay with that, but I know there is a high probability that things will get out of control and I am thrilled at the prospect.

And it happens quickly. Because when I seat myself astraddle, he has to have somewhere to put his hands, so they naturally rest at the tops of my thighs. And then his hands begin to move slowly, squeezing once in a while, and his supple lips part slightly and my face is so close to his and my fingers move over his cheekbones and his hands slide up the insides of my thighs… and his until-then closed eyes pop open when his fingers reach wetness, and he puts his hands under my hips and carries me, still astraddle, to the couch, where he sets me down, pulls my skirt out of the way and his mouth closes around my glistening wet vulva. His talented tongue drives me crazy – sensitive! – and I want to touch him so badly that it’s painful and I just have to wait patiently till he has his fill of making me squeal and moan with his tongue and fingers. Then when he finally pulls away, I yank his snug shirt over his head and am like Ahhhhh. He has downy dark hair all over his chest. His nipples are gorgeous and I attack them right away as he continues to fuck me with his fingers.

Only then do our lips meet for the first time. Oh, sweet Jesus. Mmmmm. And he pushes me back down on the couch with the weight of his incredible body and with his uncomfortably constricted man parts lodged in my throbbing female ones.

And then as suddenly as it has started, he pulls his face away and then his body, and says, “Shall we continue next week?”

“Oh, you’re so cruel!” I sputter, my body silently screaming in frustration.

He smiles as he stands up and adjusts himself. “It’s the waiting that’s makes it so great. You know how much it hurts to have you touch me and hear your voice and have to hold back? But this proves that it’s worth the wait.”

He gives me an infuriating kiss on the forehead and is out the door in five seconds, flashing a cocky smile.

Grrrrrr!

“I’ll punish him next time,” I think. And I ten-percent believe it.

14th July
2012
written by Dame Suzy

I haven’t planned it. I don’t even wish it until someone does the easy part for me and my mind floods with titillating possibilities.

I’ve had a typical screen crush on Spanish series El Barco’s Gamboa, played by Colombian actor Juan Pablo Shuk, seeing him in the weekly over-the-top drama series, his persona easily conquering the small screen. The small mouth surrounded by juicy lips, the eye wrinkles that say he’s seen and done much and many, thick eyebrows, and a heart-shaped yet still masculine face punctuated by dark stubble. He is approaching fifty but doesn’t look it, his body replete with muscles not defined like a fitness model’s but instead thick and hard and covered in smooth bronzed skin.

His character is dangerous and has gotten more so by the week until he has become an utter f-ing asshole, one I am frustrated that no one is trying to stab or maim after he among other things threatens the lives of his much younger lover’s little sister and father.

It is at this point that I stumble upon the remnants of an after-awards party at a popular little cocktail bar on Calle Atocha in my beloved Madrid. Antena 3 (the Spanish NBC) actors file out in varying degrees of inebriation, the drunker ones too loud or completely silent and acting true to or opposite their T.V. characters. I turn the corner on my way to stop by my apartment to change from dinner clothes into a stunner dress, and what I do find is someone punching out a guy a bit shorter but bigger than him. The shorter, bigger guy seems unwilling to fight back though it’s clear he would make mincemeat out of the other guy, and the puncher sees me and then backs off, then turns to get out of there quickly. The guy on the ground is Gamboa.

I offer my nearby apartment for him to clean up his blood-lined mouth, and in a bit of a daze, he lets me help him up the street the fifty meters to my building.

He makes it into the apartment to the first thing he sees, a heavy-weight, old-fashioned club chair. A few seconds after he sits down, he falls asleep.

When he comes to an hour later, I am dressed in a glamorous yet sexy stretch satin bustier dress in blood red with lips to match. And he is very much restrained. Body and legs in the chair tied by layers of saran wrap and hands tied together in front of him. A ball-gag made of manchego cheese with a large breathing hole through it is lodged in his mouth. And he’s naked. And I have enjoyed just looking at him for the past hour. And grooming his over-grown manscape. I was doing him a favor there.

“To answer your ‘Why?’ I’m simply punishing you like I think the other characters on the show should have done a long time ago, except in my own special way.”

I caress his chest with my hair, my face, my hands, lick his nipples which involuntarily perk up. He struggles, then stops, struggles again with less volition, until he just lets me do as I wish and I move down to his cock which greets me, and I can’t resist and guide it into my mouth with one hand and caress his satiny (thanks to me) balls with the other.

He makes sounds as if he wishes to speak.

“No screaming, though. I think you’ve seen enough movies to know why.” I pull the cheese out of his mouth. In truth, if he does scream, I’m not worried. Across the hall is a daytime business and I haven’t heard any evidence of anyone living above me. I just know screaming would annoy me, and I’d slap it out of him – and I don’t wish to be violent.

“Thank you.” And surprisingly, that’s all he says.

I continue to pleasure myself by pleasuring him. I am so very much in my own little world with his lovely thick cock and the small punctuated sounds my playmate makes as I do it. And I bring him almost to climax twice but stop right beforehand, and he growls in upset, and the third time, I try to do the same but my timing’s off and he gushes onto my chin. Whoops. I lick my chin. Nice. Not a smoker.

While his body slumps from satisfaction, I sit on the arm of the chair and caress his hair, his cheek. He opens his eyes, and I see not a smidgen of malice. That catches me off-guard and I regret what I’m doing keeping him tied up like I am.

His lips part slightly and with those eyes of his I have to kiss him. He lets me and oh, his lips do meet mine and they enjoy their playtime together. If lips were delicious, his would be.

His lips pull away to speak. “I wish I could touch you.”

“No,” I reply and continue to kiss him.

Then he suddenly takes my lower lip in his teeth and as I pull away he presses his teeth closer together.

“Untie my arms.”

“No!” I say sternly, kneeing him in the balls.

He lets go of my lip and moans in pain.

“Bitch!” he mutters, the scariness that he exhibits on screen locked in his expression.

“Enough!” I say. “I’m going out.”

I return three hours later to his sleeping frame in the same position I left him in. I give his thighs an appreciative squeeze and collapse on my bed, fully dressed.

In my dream, I am with someone, I don’t know who. We’re on a boat sailing. But wait. Has water entered the boat? My panties are wet and warm. And there’s an electric shock that pulsates every second or so.

I come to.

My arms and legs are bound to the legs of the bed. Gamboa’s head Is between my legs and that beautiful mouth of his must be giving me those shocks. I’m buck-naked and he’s fully dressed.

I’m scared at first, then bummed that he’s not naked, then I get lost in sensations. My clit is ridiculously sensitive and I pretty much hate its being concentrated on. He takes advantage of this revelation and brings me with his mouth and fingers from wanting to bash him in the head from the sensory overload to ooooh, that feels good and back again.

When I feel like I’m about to die or wish I or at least my clit would, he asks politely, “You want me inside of you?”

“Would it make a difference if I said no?”

He ponders this with a cute glance toward the heavens and shakes his head like a little boy.

“Hmmm…” I start to mutter in a disgusted tone, “I don’t want you inside of me, you lower-than-dirt son-of-a-bitch!”

In a second, he unbuckles his belt and throws his pants down around his ankles to reveal his hard-on that looks even bigger than before as he stands above me.

I ask, “Where is your underwear?”

“I left them as a souvenir.”

He checks my nightstand and finds what he’s looking for, a condom.

“Crazy bitch kidnaps me, I don’t know what she might have.”

I nod my head, then stop. “Get out of here. I don’t want you. You’re sick trash.” I try to believe it.

He grabs me by the small of my back and pushes me onto his cock like it was butter. My body convulses in pleasure at the first thrust.

“Oh, fuck,” I exclaim. “Oh, God!”

And his face softens and he thrusts long and slow which drives me utterly crazy as I am about to explode already I am so primed, and I’m moaning and writhing and wanting so much to touch him, to kiss him, but he shakes his head and he continues his drawn-out years-of-practice torture, and then he withdraws which is like being suddenly suffocated.

My body spasms for a few seconds as he wipes sweat off his brow and breathes heavily – it isn’t easy for him to stop, he’s just punishing me. He gives me a wicked smile. “Touché, pussy cat.”

I struggle against my restraints. “I want to touch you.”

“I thought you didn’t want me. I’ll just go home now.”

“Nooo,” I moan. “I want you, I want you so badly.”

“That’s not what you said before.”

“But that was just…I was just wondering what denying you would be like.”

He pulls his pants up and I whimper. He notes it and pauses.

“Fuck me, please,” I whimper. “Take me, destroy me, devour me. Don’t leave me like this.” Tears well up in my eyes. Embarassing.

His eyes go soft again and he removes his shoes and socks, and as my chest is heaving from desire, he takes his time undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. I whimper. I bite my lip almost to bleeding. My back arches off the bed.

He undoes my restraints. We are both free. We are both each other’s prisoners without the bonds. I rise up and embrace him, kissing him all over his face. His hands roam my body, his lips meet mine as they pass, we kiss deeply, we pull our bodies closer to each other’s. He enters me and I yell out almost in pain.

He thrusts long,luxurious, and deep, and he makes me come over and over, never holding out on me this time, and then when he comes, I feel elated, relieved, victorious, and well-fucked.

And when we awaken from our post-coital bliss, he asks me, “Why did you do all this?”

I shrug and stretch like a cat. “It’s just an idea I had for a story,” I smile, giving him a thank you kiss on the cheek.

“What? That’s all?”

“I’ll do whatever you want. I’m your prisoner.”

“And I yours,” he responds, pushing his new erection on my welcoming clit.

—–

Later… “By the way,” I suddenly remember. “Why did that guy punch you and why did you let him?”

He answers, “Well, you’ll just have to ask me next time.”

Oooh, there’s going to be a next time. Damn, he’s good.

Note: this story is fiction if you hadn’t noticed 🙂

15th February
2012
written by Dame Suzy

As you type, you realize you don’t mean it.

Which is what happened when a lover (and guy I’m still in love with) IM’ed me out of the blue, two years after I’d last felt his firm embrace and we’d had several rounds of delicious, emotional (for me) sex.

He typed, “How are you?” which gave me a panic attack that released a flood of emotions, and after some chit chat…

Me: I texted you last time I was in Barcelona.
Sergio: I know. My girlfriend saw it too and you got me into a ton of trouble.
Me: But all I said was if you wanted, I would like to see you. You could even have brought her.

Even as I typed those words I was thinking, “Um, no, I don’t actually mean that.” But then he replied:

Sergio: That would be best.

So I was kind of stuck. So then I wrote:

Me: I could even bring my Italian.
Sergio: Sounds good.

Of course, my Italian had never been mine in the carnal sense and only came to Barcelona to visit his brother, but what can I say; I was trying to be nonchalant.

Two months later, I’m in Barcelona, hanging out with some girls I met last time, and since they’re only 21/22, that’s the age of most of the meat that circles us too. And I’ve had a couple of drinks in me, and it‘s my last night in Barcelona, so I call him.

Sergio and his girl show up right before we enter a club that the girls like and coincidentally the only club in the city where I’ve actually slept with a bouncer, and of course, the bouncer’s there and we share some flirtateous words and touches before he lets me and the girls in. Sergio and his girlfriend have to pay. As expected, Sergio’s girlfriend is kind of ugly, with a big forehead, no lips, and blah hair. I didn’t say the guy had taste.

I am cordial to the girlfriend, but I don’t go into super-friendly mode which is what I instinctively would have done to defuse the weird situation. She is in defensive mode, her arm wrapped tightly around his, and she gives me the up-down grrr look and constantly gauges Sergio’s reaction which is annoyingly placid. And he’s refrained from giving me the classic cheek-kiss greeting which I realize I miss from him terribly.

Some time passes and nature calls. The girlfriend tells us girls that she needs to go to the bathroom, anyone want to go with her? I don’t say anything which unnerves her, and my friend drags her away with a smirk.

As soon as the girlfriend is out of sight, I notice Sergio’s gaze instantly changes and he looks me deeply in the eyes.
Sergio: I’m really happy to see you. You look fantastic.

And I can imagine his lips on my neck and my pussy throbs.

He gives me my cheek greeting and I’m nervous like a school girl.

Him: It’s too loud in here. You want to go outside to talk?

I nod vaguely and he takes me by the hand, past the somewhat jealous bouncer to the outside. And he doesn’t stop. We keep going until we feel the breeze caused by the waves slowly lapping at the sand.

And he pulls me toward him and his curvy lips envelop mine. And we kiss deep and hard, and I bring his hand down to my ass and reach my pelvis toward his, to feel him against me once again.

Sergio: I want to take you right here.

ENDING A

And I unsnap his pants in reply, but he jerks my hand away and says:
Sergio: No, I want to but I can’t.

And my breath catches in my throat and my pussy growls in annoyance. And I can’t stop myself. I’ve never said the words out loud to him, but I do now.

Me: But I want/love you.
Sergio: I know.

And he pulls away which is more devastating than the years apart have been.

And I find myself running back toward the big arms of my bouncer, who has never lied to me, never broken my heart, never hurt me, and when Sergio catches up, the 6-foot-5 man built like a truck tells Sergio he should go.

And at that moment, the girlfriend who’s been frantically looking for her man comes out, sees us three, doesn’t know what happened but knows she’s mad about it, gives me a dangerous look to which I give a dangerous look back, and goes to Sergio, who has already started to go at a quick pace and doesn’t slow down; she has to hurry to catch up.

And though it should be the last time I set eyes on Sergio, somehow I know he’ll break my heart again.

ENDING B

And I unsnap his pants in reply and feel his thick hardness directly and its warmth and feel bring back pleasant memories. He stops my hand.

Sergio: Not here.
Me: I can’t wait. Please do me, now! Please, please…

And I turn around and press myself against his cock and without hesitation he enters my soaking wet vagina. My whole body trembles; it has wanted this for so long. I utter a sharp moan as he manages to control his thrust to make it best for both of us. And it feels so right, like this is the way things should be, that we were meant to fuck, that we were made to fuck each other. And my first orgasms come within a minute or two, and others follow in quick succession, and he kisses the back of my neck and reaches in my dress to grab my breast and tweak my nipple.

Sergio: Let’s go.

And we go back to my apartment to avoid getting maimed or murdered by his irate ugly chick, and we spend the night making love, sleeping, fucking, sleeping, caressing, sleeping, making love, sleeping, and eeking out one more round.

And I feel like this is as close to bliss as one can get. And for the moment, I forget that it will disappear as quickly as it started and I will shed yet more tears for a man who will never understand why I love him and will never feel the same.

29th August
2011
written by Dame Suzy

It finally happened!! A hot guy sitting right next to me. I’m not saying objectively he was perfect, but he was a 9 for me and I’m sure many other women would find him delectable.

Jet black hair, muscular thighs, beautifully tanned skin, one of those semi-shiny T-shirts that revealed great back muscles, and a nice muscular body in general. Light hairs on his arms, mmm. And he wasn’t a baby, in spite of his chiseled face with smooth skin. *Sigh*

And I kept sneaking looks at his thighs, his package which was sadly smashed by the tight crotch of his pants, and his arm, his shoulder, his head, his cheek. And then I tried to take a nap and could only manage to start a vivid fantasy about how after the flight landed he would lift me against the wall in the airport and slip his beautiful cock into me. Back in reality, I kept touching my lips – they needed to be touched – and I wrapped my legs tightly around each other to quell my girl bits, and meanwhile, felt short-of-breath and that liquid fire routing itself through my nervous system signalling that my various body parts were like We want that! I wonder If he noticed.

Then when I bothered to look at his face, I saw a really handsome one. Funny thing is that in the beginning when he moved out of the way so I could get to my seat, I didn’t really pay attention. I only noticed his face when our fellow traveler – I’ll call him the suspicious fidgety terrorist-in-training – got out to supposedly go to the bathroom. Then when the hot guy and I started actually chatting upon our flight’s descent, I noticed that gorgeous smile. Ahhh.

And he said he’d just moved to my city a month before with his wife and son, and how he didn’t really get out much since he worked from home. And that they hadn’t even been downtown yet. And I offered to take them out.

But I really just wanted to find a dark corner somewhere and please him and have him ravage me.

But my not being trained in how to seduce a married guy and also thinking that’s crass, we parted without my offering my number (even a 20 percent chance would have been better than 0%), my knowing full well that I would very unlikely run into this stimulating recluse ever again.

But at least and the fidgety guy didn’t blow up our plane though he was strangely missing from his seat the last hour of our flight including while we were landing. Weird?

Oh, yeah, so in case you thought there was an Act II, there isn’t.

31st October
2010
written by Dame Suzy

From the moment we met, there was a strong spark of mischievousness and strong attraction. We fed off of each other’s bold energy and silliness, passion for life, innate intellect, and appreciation of the human form. We sang out loudly in the karaoke bar, dragging one of his more timid friends to join us, and after our set he threw me over his shoulder as I struggled to keep my dress over my bare ass.

The first night, Alex waited for me to make the first move. Before I left his car, my lips reached for his and we started making out. Our full lips meshed and played and the kissing left me breathless and him unable to let me go. But I told him he would have to wait until the next night, Halloween.

But the next night he awkwardly introduced me to his girlfriend, who immediately corrected him, “his fiancée.” I almost laughed out loud because I’d had no idea he was taken, except that I also felt a pang of longing. Had I only stayed with him the night before…

She was dressed as a sexy librarian – no curves but cute. I was dressed like sex on a stick, curves everywhere from my thin ankles and waist to muscular calves, wide hips, and full breasts. I noticed she had very thin lips. I have always wondered what men with full lips could do with those things.

Alex was dressed like a Chicago mafia hit man, in a black pin-striped suit and shiny vest. He nervously played with a cigar. He looked unbelievably hot, the back of the suit jacket popping out over his round behind.

Another pang, and I excused myself to get a stiff drink. The fact is that ever since I’d left him the night before, I’d pictured him inside me, being rough and gentle in his macho but suave way. So this new knowledge was a definite let-down. “That’s okay,” I told myself. “There are plenty of other guys here who aren’t getting married.”

And I found myself one. He wasn’t too bright, but he was a good dancer and had pretty hands with long slender fingers. I could think of what he could do with those. And at that thought, one of his fingers slid into me. I didn’t mind. I didn’t care if people could guess what was going on, what with his big body bent over me and his hand under my skirt.

And when I opened my eyes to take a breath, I saw Alex staring at me, his fiancée obliviously talking with several of her girlfriends, probably bridesmaids. And I closed my eyes again and his image appeared, and so I imagined it was his fingers in me.

And when I stepped into a taxi with the big guy, I saw Alex again, this time alone. And he blew me a kiss, and I felt a pang again but the big guy took my mind off it.

It would be two years before I saw Alex again. Two years, no problem. Just a friendly drink. He had been married for over a year – he’d even invited me to the wedding, and though I’d imagined showing up in a short red dress, I was not that rude a bitch.

Long story short, it was he and I alone, in a city in which neither of us lived, brought together by unrelated business in Paris. The spark had apparently become a big throbbing beast, because after a mere hour of joking, cautious flirting, and one drink too many, we were passionately kissing in my hotel room, clothes were being pulled off as quickly as possible, and he was thrusting his beautiful cock in me.

He was a good friend. A good friend who four hours later scrambled for his clothes and returned to his wife, who had unbeknownst to me, come along on this trip.

This time, I did laugh aloud. And I would do the same when we saw each other again in Frankfurt, and Madrid, and New York in the years to come. After spending a few glorious hours with my special friend.

30th October
2010
written by Dame Suzy

No, it wasn’t with would-be Parisian-Algerian gang rapists. And the best time I’d had was when I got into a car with a bunch of Catalans. So what was the worst ride?

New York, last weekend, with Canadian investment bankers.

It started out well. After watching The Social Network in IMAX, I was dropped off in the Meat Packing District, which the cab driver told me had been transformed in the last five or seven years into a nightlife mecca.

I had a lovely mojito at some bar and started talking to a cute boy with dark hair. I was introduced to several of his colleagues, including a hot guy and a super-tiny Asian girl, who ended up having a higher rank than many dudes much taller than she was. They all worked for an Australian investment bank and most were Canadian. That wasn’t in and of itself a problem, and certainly the cute guy and hot one were much more intriguing to me than the fish out of water guy in a bad suit and butt-ugly tie, who otherwise was very good-looking. Why oh why do good-looking guys cock-block themselves by acting dumb or wearing ugly clothes?

Anyway, I flirted a lot with the cute one, and I was wearing a dress that probably no one else in the city was wearing that night. Straps and criss-cross ties, tiny studs in a tattoo pattern down the sleeves, short but in good taste, showing off just an inch or two of healthy décolletage.

Then the twenty of them decided to go to another place and jumped into five taxis. I stupidly chose one without the cute or hot guys, thinking shortly we’d all be together, and anyway, who wants to look too interested in someone? That’s not cool.

Then began a journey to nowhere, a twenty-minute ride to a place that wasn’t open, then another twenty minutes back to the place from where we had started except that the cab driver had made a mistake because my companions didn’t know where they were going, then my bladder simply being unable to handle yet another twenty minutes so I exited at some random bar where I talked with random uninteresting guys. And at three o’clock, a sigh and a taxi back to bed.

The anti-climax is the worst end to an evening. Pfffftt, like a deflating balloon or a warm piña colada.

26th October
2010
written by Dame Suzy

I pride myself in wanting to build on sexual relationships, the ideal being a one-night stand becoming a passionate affair or a lasting friendship. But this time I wouldn’t want it.

It began wonderfully. I was spending a weekend with an old friend, and a mere two hours before I was to leave the city, I noticed a classic bad boy. He was diligent in his sandwich-making duties and his head was shaved. His jaw was square and broad, his lower lip juicy. Short, dark swaths of stubble outlined his face, as did a soul patch and bit of mustache. His lower arms as he sped through his work were lined with defined bulging veins, and his loose pants betrayed his individual round butt cheeks to my eyes’ delight.

He didn’t look at me, which afforded me the opportunity of looking at him and sent urges for sex that had already been high for days into overdrive. I wanted him naked. I wanted to take him into an alley somewhere, I wanted him to fuck me.

Because I felt I couldn’t leave without saying anything, I told his colleague to tell him that he was “ridiculously hot” and left before I could see a reaction. But a few moments later, while I was leaving, he appeared by my side and asked me for my number.

The next hour was spent sending texts back and forth and I finally decided to stay an extra day, at least through the evening. He arrived on bike, and was about to leave because he saw me enjoying the company of a huge Italian guy who was trying to get me to blow off the other guy, but I wouldn’t. I had to see him naked of course.

Well, unfortunately, the poor guy spent way too much time telling his dull and low-class story, and revealed that he wasn’t even 10% bad boy. He just looked like one. But I held out, thoughts of nudity propelling me forward, and I endured a painful, too-long walk in platform stilettos and more random talk. I pretended to be interested in his urban drawings, but his talk, lack of education, and his artistic hobby brought back a flood of memories of an ex-boyfriend who was also low-class and always talking about what he could be in the future. It was a turn-off.

Finally we kissed. And his kisses were great. And his body was killer! Even better than I’d imagined. His skin was soft but everything about him was hard as rock. Fantastic ass, muscular back, pecks, calves, arms, lats, ahhhh. Not bad for a sandwich guy. The sex was awkward and forced, and for some unknown reason, I wasn’t wet but he didn’t pause to rewet me. And he didn’t even know olive oil destroys condoms. Annoying. And even though I was coming (thank God), he couldn’t himself and blamed the condom. So sex ended with a fizzle and my bringing him off with my hands and getting shot in the nose and eye with a surprisingly powerful jet of gizz.

He was a sweet guy, but so very, very uncultured. He continued to text me, but two days later, I am over it. I had to see him naked, I did, and that’s the end. I feel like such a guy. And I don’t feel guilty about it. Which makes me even more a man.

24th September
2010
written by Dame Suzy

Who would take the trouble just to be able to make a grand entrance twice a year to the glamorous Real Madrid stomping grounds on the outskirts of Madrid? Lori would. She specifically took motorcycle lessons to get her international operator’s license just to do it.

She already had a distinctive look to her, cocky but with an innocent girlieness that when it did come out, did melt – at least temporarily – the biggest bad-boy heart. Here she was again, long black hair flying around her head, in a bright sexy dress and a stuffed kitty cat between her legs. The big bouncers were surprised – even they whose eyes had seen fights, cars wreck into the club’s façade, and their share of drunken wardrobe malfunctions. They stopped what they were doing even if it was a famous footballer they were greeting, to see Lori rev the motor once in announcement, stop, jump off onto her 4-inch heels – still holding the kitty against herself, kick the kickstand in place and kill the engine.

The new bouncers would ask who she was. The older ones would always remember her, not only for her entrance but for her charm.
She remembered bouncer Eloe by name, and he smiled as she placed the little stuffed animal in his huge hands. Notably, she ignored the footballer to her left, though she would have to admit she’d had a few fantasies about him when he’d played for another team.
But he asked her, “Do always give away your pussy as a gift?”

And she responded, “Not to jocks. It’s not worth fucking just once in awhile because of their schedules, doing all the work. Their fame makes them lazy. And your girlfriends and wives practice an evil method of revenge.”

A little bit taken aback, and exhilarated by the possibility of a challenge, he nonetheless let her go unmolested as she gave Eloe a hug – Eloe squeezed a little longer than normal, after all, she’d be gone till the next year in a few hours – and she went past the plush deep red harem-like canopied couches to get herself a drink.

Once or twice, a seeker – an athlete’s personal friend or assistant would try to entice her to join the VIPs. But the thought of sitting around over-eager wannabes trying to take a rich boy home didn’t appeal to her, and instead she’d give the seeker a peck on the lips – maybe more if his lips were the succulent sort – and send his derriere on its way with a stroking pat.

As she danced – sometimes eyes closed, in her own world, sometimes taking in the view of someone with some asset worth studying, over the next couple of hours men and boys from all walks of life would approach her. One pissed her off enough that she would leave to avoid him and go talk to Eloe in the front.

And she stood by his side and sighed. He was still married. Still couldn’t make time. Last time she’d visited he’d called her just to tell her he couldn’t see her before she left. And meanwhile he’d made her horny just suggesting what he’d do to her and it ended up to be nothing. And it’s not like they could just steal away to the bathroom or to his car – she didn’t want to ruin her reputation – that she never left a club with a guy. That added to her mystique.

Then, out of the corner of her eye she spotted a man she couldn’t resist. He stepped out of a taxi dressed casually in a sweater and tight pants, a subtle shine to his polished boots, his gray-brown hair trimmed a half-centimeter from his well-shaped head. Lori hated sweaters, but this guy… Eloe regarded her stare with a tinge of jealousy.

As another bouncer greeted him, this sweatered guy’s deep brown eyes locked with hers for a moment. “Buona sera,” he said to her with a deep, melodic voice. “Ciao,” she replied with an unexpected blush…

TO BE CONTINUED…

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