It's Raining Men Pt. 01

"Let's go to bed Chrissy?"

Feeling a little like a topless waitress at one of those lap dance clubs in London I stood up as he, in a rather laboured way, lifted himself out of the deep chair clearly a little embarrassed at his erection being on show. Standing, in just the leather trousers and high heels, I waited his arrival in a vertical form and that seemed to take for ages. At last he was beside me the bulge in his trousers looking partly rather ridiculous and partly extremely encouraging,

"Wow I've caused that," I thought.

We embraced and began to sort of dance to the music. His strong arms pulling me to him I felt ready for him and was relieved that I felt prepared to break my celibacy in such a romantic style. I undid his shirt and let his quite hairy chest send extra thrills through the skin of my boobs as we gyrated together on the spot his hands exploring my bottom through the thin leather that was stretched taught across its rounded softness. As if glued together I felt the assuring hard length of his maleness pressing wonderfully and confidently into my belly. After such a long abstinence from feeling an erection, it was both exciting and a little daunting for I was out of practice at what was soon to come. Female intuition and sheer lust took over though and I found myself pressing back against the rod-like piston of flesh (in basic English I mean his cock but I'm feeling flowery) draining every last bit of feeling from it into me. It was gorgeous.

My breasts jiggling as he walked me up the stairs to his bedroom I felt wantonly expectant as we stood by the bed and embraced once more. Looking at each other we, wordlessly both started undoing our trousers our eyes taking in each new sight that was revealed: his boxer shorts ballooning out around his erection: the lacy top of my panties that showed him that I was not wearing tights: his muscular thighs and the respectable bulge in his pants. (Feeling relieved that I hadn't worn my Bridget Jones) the tight pocket of lace across my pubic area and the tops of my black, self-support stockings. His flat tummy and the mass of brown pubic hair clustered above and around his manhood as he slid his boxers down. My legs encased in the luxuriant, black stockings that I hoped flattered them and made them look longer and more alluring.

My body was now crying out to be made love to as I saw, for the first time in over a year that object of such pride to men and intrigue to women. That appendage that to women has little X factor other than when its up close and personal and about to do its business. And his wasn't at all bad as far as such rather silly looking things go. After all there are only so many varieties of cock aren't there? A little more length here and a tad more girth there for sure. But come on lads, especially those in chat rooms when they ask "what do you thinks of it?" What the hell do they expect? For Christ's sake they're all really much of a muchness aren't they? Almost, but not quite, 'seen one seen 'em all really.'

But I digress and simplify the situation regarding women and penises. It's far more of a complex issue than that. That little, medium or large tower of blood bloated flesh that to most women when looked on in a photo has a sterility about it verging on looking at paint dry, somehow changes radically when one is confronted by one in close up. When one witnesses the amazing effect one has had on another party to produce that, it changes the female's perspective. It alters her way of thinking. Maybe it's just the intimacy, the feeling of pride in a well done or possibly because that thing is soon to penetrate her innermost womanliness, that her view changes? Then suddenly she probably thinks 'I don't want a bit of sterile blood bloated flesh up me' so, with the flexibility of thought and opinion that makes us such fascinatingly frustrated creatures it becomes an object of such beauty that we can't keep out hands off them can we?

So let's get on. What else was there to look at?

Ah yes that wonderful sack hanging down that is so attractive to women and so thrilling to touch and fondle. Balls are, I think, our alternative to tits for you. I used to play with My exes's for ages, Rolling them in one's hands as Captain Queeg (was it in Caine Mutiny?) did with those ball bearings, actually that was just before they declared him mad, can be such a wonderful attraction to us that I wonder someone hasn't invented a plastic version to sell at lingerie parties and in Anne Summer shops. Talk about hot cakes!!

"No," he croaked as I went to remove my panties. "Please leave them on for a while." Feeling a might over-dressed against his total nakedness I did, though, do as he said.

Right back to the serious stuff. I was now hellishly nervous and not completely sure that I should be doing this. I liked him, he made me laugh and he wasn't bad company but was that enough to warrant having his sterile rod in me? I pondered for a moment as I lay on the bed in my black thong and stockings and watched him climb on and lay beside me.

As we kissed, his hands caressed my bottom moving nearer and nearer to my crutch that was, actually, aching to receive him. And then they were there! As his fingers slid inside my panties and touched the, by now, sodden wetness of, my body once more exploded with sensations. The feelings that his touch were sending through me were accelerated and increased by those I was gaining from having his warm, throbbing length grasped, probably slightly too, firmly in my hand. I had forgotten just what it was like to hold a man's cock. The combination of the hardness, with just a touch of give in it, and the warmth and feeling of throbbing power that I had created in him is heady stuff I always find and especially so with a new partner. Oh how I wanted that in me. I felt giddy with the thought that so soon now I would once again have a man invade me.

But that had to wait its turn for my body was reacting powerfully to the hand doing such deliciously arousing things between my thighs. I was cumming and I knew there was no stopping it. My body also transmitted that to him and he pulled me even tighter to him as the shudders of expectant sexual release ran through me. I sighed and moaned as my first man induced climax for so long took over and transported me to that place of such pleasure.

That was bad enough. Here he was thinking he'd pulled a woman in her supposed sexual prime. One that was up and ready for anything with up to twenty years solid sexual experience behind her. A divorcee who was naturally gagging for it and who had the maturity and skills to be a really good lay. And what does she do? What she bloody well does is cum immediately he touches her. Oh yes what a lay? What an experienced woman? What a skilled lover? And it got worse for, as the amazingly powerful orgasm swept over me with wave after wave of what seemed like increasingly intensive sensations, so my emotions just exploded and I started to cry. Floods of fucking tears everywhere, mascara down my face, hair all over the place, bloody tits heaving and my body jerking like a junky doing cold turkey I cried and cried. The poor sod had no idea what was going on and even less as to what to do. I could see that he wasn't sure whether to cuddle me leave me alone or jump between my thighs and try and fuck me.

The evening didn't end on a very high note. After that exhibition I think he was convinced that instead of an experienced lover who would transmit him to sexual heaven, he had on his hands a bloody nutcase that might easily take him to the hell of madness.

Needless to say he wasn't happy that all he'd got for his efforts slaving over the stove was a grope of my tits and a hand in my knickers and I have to say I felt bad about that. I recognised that it was not good value. A half dozen quite delicious King Prawns and a lovely crown of lamb, not to mention two bottle of Chablis and four or five previous dates, must be worth more than a flash of boob and a touch of pussy. If not the laws of economics, that I know may at times be cloudy, would have no meaning at all would they? So compensation was needed. Restitution had to be paid. The scales of economic justice had to balance. But what was the going rate? I didn't know for I hadn't had to balance any such scales at all for ages. Maybe the currency had even changed since I had last dated. Then what was possibly a hand job might now have become a blow one! What may have been in my day a furtive finger or two fumbling in a furry fanny might now be a pushing, pulsating penis penetrating a private place promised as the preserve for privileged people.

Perhaps I should ask him I ruminated standing by the sink in his bathroom?

I knew that I had to let him make love to me but strangely it no longer seemed as important as it had earlier. Most of the excitement and anticipation that I had felt since I entered his house had now gone. Sure there was a little tingling but not the rush of feelings I had previously. I showered, wrapped a large towel round me and returned to the bedroom where he was laying on the bed a sheet covering him. I climbed in again apologising for what had happened, but he just shrugged that off and was very understanding.

We cuddled up together and gradually started doing all the things that a naked man and woman do when in bed together. He became hard and I held that and stroked it. He caressed my breast, quite nicely and then kissed them. We pressed our bodies together and we kissed at length and yes I became a little aroused. But not that much. That disturbed me. I should be begging him for it shouldn't I? The first time for all that time and here I was wondering what Emily was doing and glancing at the clock to see whether I'd missed the ten o'clock news. Not really the domain of the twenty first century single woman, which was how I thought of myself. Where's the tigress gone? Where's the rampant frustrated sexual goddess ready to give and take every sexual favour? I couldn't find her.

But nevertheless he was laying on me, his condom covered length was against my pubis, my thighs opened and he slid down so that the tip of that blood engorged tower was pressing against the velvety, also blood engorged lips of that tunnel of love that we keep there for special occasions. He was grunting and sighing as his hips pushed forward. As indeed I was as, for the first time in a year, I was penetrated. He was in me, up me filling me. I was being fucked I thought wondering who was presenting the news on TV that night. A few minutes of, what I thought were, relatively expert thrusting and he was telling me that he was nearing his ejaculation. I'd better join in I thought throwing my body around a bit and gasping and sighing as for the first time in my life I feigned an orgasm. I think I must have a natural talent for it as he was so pleased that he had 'made me cum' and that we'd climaxed together.

Not a bad night's' work I thought later at home in my own bed. Not bad but not great for certainly the sex had, at best, been confusing, and was not the blisteringly fantastic experience I had expected on my return to being a player of that game. Ah well always next time I smiled as I slid off to sleep after my first date as a single woman.

In the three months or so of our affair the sex did get better. Not a lot, but better than that first time. With me not wanting to introduce Emily to my date we settled into a routine. We'd usually meet for lunch once a week occasionally then going to his house or my flat and spending a couple of hours in bed. Alternatively, he'd cook me dinner and we'd have a repeat of the first time. Not, I hasten to add, with me cumming quite so quickly although, I have to admit, more orgasms were faked than were real. I became quite adept at doing that I suppose.

But there was no real fizz in it and slowly, as his kids came home for the summer holidays the relationship just fizzled out and ended.

Madly mixing metaphors, it never rains but it pours doesn't it? And like London buses none for ages then three at once. Suddenly after a three-month barren patch it was suddenly raining men for Chrissy Hunt.

To be continued - very soon

Chrissy