Adieu the Golden State

There is something slightly distasteful about waking up still drunk. Especially if, on waking, you find yourself on the floor, leaning against the sofa at a back-breaking angle, with the lights of Laguna Beach at the bottom of the hill winking in the wee small hours. Even more so when you realise you must have fallen asleep (or passed out) when there were still guests at your party!

It had been a combination party for my fortieth birthday and to celebrate/commiserate the fact that, after five glorious years, I was leaving California for Virginia in just about another two weeks. Adieu Golden State, hello what my proud Virginian friends call the Occupied Territories. As my addled brain struggled with the fact it was now almost 5am and everybody had left me comatose, I realised I wasn't actually totally alone. There were domestic sounds coming from the kitchen.

Gradually transiting from a supine position to all fours, I grasped the arm of the sofa and levered myself erect. At which point I discovered that both I and my favourite appendage were standing up. What the hell had I been dreaming about? Slowly, I grinned. One of the highlights of the party – the last in a sequence of increasingly fun events over the four years I had lived in this fabulous bachelor pad 400 feet above the Pacific – was the fact that just about every girlfriend with whom I had had fun whilst in California (excluding one- and two-night stands which had been just as much fun in many cases) had come. I think one or two of them must have cum too – though not with me – judging by the amount of giggling that had come from my bedroom door at various stages during the afternoon and evening. Fond memories of multiple sexy experiences all over the western part of the States ran through my mind. Fuck, I loved America!

Somehow I managed to persuade my feet to place themselves one in front of the other in sequence and got to the kitchen. There was Patti, finishing doing the dishes. Patti? PATTI! Fuck, she looked good. One of my favourite expressions to describe the glorious view of a woman from behind – an expression very few of my American chums ever really got – is "now there's a bottom you could crack walnuts with." Nobody – nobody – illustrated the accuracy of that comment better than Patti.

She was a girl, she was a friend and we had shagged each other senseless on a number of occasions in the past. She wasn't, however, and never had been a girlfriend. A couple of years older than me, she had been married and gone through a very bad divorce from an Arab American before I met her and had a very dim view of manhood in general. We had met in the British pub I used in Newport Beach about the same time I moved from Santa Ana to Laguna and I put the moves on her almost immediately.

Skinny, with legs that reached all the way to the floor, surprisingly pert and all natural tits, long blonde hair and deep, almost forest green eyes – why wouldn't I. I was single, British, well connected in the local community, reasonably successful, with a wicked sense of humour and an obvious (and often stated) desire to spend as many hours a day as I could naked with any number of Californian chicks. Who could resist me?

Patti could, was what I discovered. She became a good friend and sustained the growing lust I entertained of investigating her underwear for a good two years without giving in. The fact I was still keen after so many gentle but positive rejections was testament to her allure. Then came the infamous day when, leaving a quite boring society party in Beverly Hills, which she had agreed to come to at the last minute since my logistical ineptitude had failed to secure a proper date in time, we started to flirt in the car and suddenly decided that, instead of driving the 53 miles back to Laguna, we would drive 150 out into the Mojave desert. For no other good reason than, when we got there, we looked at each other without saying anything at all, got out of the car and within 30 seconds were fucking like jackrabbits, surrounded by saguaro cacti and probably the odd very confused desert scorpion.

My grin broadened, while watching her at the sink, as I recalled that and subsequent occasions when we had enjoyed each other without needing any form of commitment. Fabulous memories, not the least of which, I reminded myself, was the consummate skill Patti had at sucking cock. Not only was she proficient at it, she absolutely loved it, was immensely enthusiastic while giving head, had a sensational capacity to deep throat a cock and was possessed of an almost literally insatiable appetite for hot cum. It didn't matter whether it was five months or five minutes since you had last cum, she had the ability to coax every last drop of juice left in the whole of your body. Up her, in her, on her or down her throat – it really didn't seem to matter. She could qualify as Ball Drainer in Chief for the entire North American continent, in my not so humble view.

Great memories. But it was over. An unspoken agreement about twelve months earlier meant that it was that long since I had seen her lower her gorgeous body on to me. Pity. Still – a nice person to know. And she had obviously spent the last hour or more, whilst I was snoring drunkenly in front of the fireplace, restoring order to the bomb site that my kitchen always turned into at parties.

I sidled quietly up behind her, put my arms around her warm and pliant waist and nuzzled into her neck through her golden tresses.

"Thanks, Chucklebunny. You really didn't need to do this – but I'm real glad you did."

"Yeah yeah Sparky. Eat my shorts."

"If you were wearing any, it would be my pleasure."

She turned her head and gave me The Look. Neither critical nor inviting, I had had frequent experience of The Look from Patti. It was an intoxicating mix of "You're an almost complete pillock," "I don't know why I tolerate you," and "Well don't hang about – get your cock inside me now." They do say, after all, that 70 per cent of communication is non-verbal.

The Look never failed to get a reaction from me. Given the fact I had woken up with a dream-inspired half erection, the sly grin on her face just added the frosting on the cake, so to speak. I shifted my footing and my state of excitement became very obvious to Patti, as she felt my burgeoning erection poking her gently in the ass. She turned round to face me, her grin broadening in a manner I knew all too well as her gaze moved southward from my face. Hope sprang in my breast – she just needed to move her eyes down to the obvious bulge in my shorts and I would almost certainly be less than five minutes away from a Patti Special.

Hoorah! Hoorah squared in fact – through a combination of mismanagement and bad timing, I hadn't got laid for over a month....My eyes began to lose focus as the mental images of imminent shagging ran past my forebrain.

"What the fuck have you done now?"

"Huh?"

Eyes quickly refocusing, I saw her gaze had halted at chest level, rather than moving on to determine how ready I was for a little lovin'. I looked down. Slap bang in the middle of my best (and most expensive) Hawaiian silk shirt was the biggest, darkest red wine stain you have ever seen.

"Oh shit. Bollocks. Fuck! Errr....you finish off here and open another bottle. I'll change my shirt and we can watch the sunrise from the deck."

I wandered off into the bedroom, peeling my shirt off as I went. "Fuck!" I thought to myself. Patti was notoriously fastidious and I had probably just ruined the last chance to pummel her delightful pussy by looking – and probably smelling – like a dirty old Skid Row tramp from a John Steinbeck novel. Bollocks!

Ruffling through the shirts in the closet, I pulled down one I very rarely wore with a bit of a chuckle. Given to me on Saint Patrick's Day a couple of years earlier by my then girlfriend, it was jet black with a recurring motif of bright pink penises crowned with a shamrock. Watching the first glimmerings of dawn over the San Bernadino mountains out of the bedroom window, I pulled it on and began to button it up.

Something pale and fluttering flew past my ear and landed on the bed. One of those damned huge albino moths that occasionally flew in from the Santa Catalina islands on the horizon. I leaned forward to crush the life out of the demented thing. Oh! Not a moth. A pair of very tiny, very sheer and oh ever so feminine panties. I turned round.

In the bedroom doorway, one hand at her side with an open bottle of Columbia Crest Washington State Meritage and two wine glasses, the other hand leaning nonchalantly at the top of the door jamb, was Patti. Patti with a grin on her face. Patti with a sexy grin on her face. Patti in a very short blue sundress with a sexy grin on her face. I grunted eloquently.

It couldn't have taken more than an hour or so for me to shuffle nonchalantly across the ten feet separating us. The only part of Patti that moved in that time was her mouth, as the grin widened and her pearly white teeth began to show. Damn – I remembered those teeth! As I got within cock thrusting distance, she bent down to put the bottle and glasses on the floor and straightened up again, reaching both arms above her head and gripping the top of the door jamb. As she did so, her dress rode up her thighs a little further. You don't need to bang this boy over the head with a ten inch dildo twice to get him to recognise an invitation. No sirree!

I knelt down. Very slowly I took hold of her legs, one at a time, placing one on each shoulder, with her calves down my back. As I did so, I came face to pussy with the result of the panties having been discarded a moment or so earlier. I like pussy. It's my favourite thing beginning with pussy. And Patti's had always been a pussy among pussies. Always freshly waxed and normally showing visible signs of excitement, it was bold and mysterious, inviting and forbidding, seductive and reserved all at the same time. It almost had a mind of its own – at least, that was Patti's excuse for the fact it was always leading her astray anyway.

I stood up, quite slowly, making sure Patti wasn't unbalanced. (Well, she was about to shag me again, so her mental stability might be in question, but at least she wouldn't fall down!) She tightened her grip on the narrow handhold the doorframe offered. I began to kiss my way up the inside of one thigh. Slowly, almost languorously, I got to within an inch of her pussy. I could feel the warmth from her, smell her excitement. I stopped. And started again halfway down the opposite thigh. There was a muffled hiss from above my head.

I have always been quite proud of my skills at giving head. At the age of 17 I was introduced to the delights of oral sex by a woman twice my age. Kim was responsible for single handedly taking me – in the space of a single weekend – through a Master's Degree course in sexual abandon. I have never forgotten her and I think I do her justice in spreading as widely as possible the skills she began to instil in me.

I love to alternate quick and slow, licking and thrusting, sucking and blowing gently. Having a beard – I dare to think – makes it a somewhat different experience for the recipient. The gentle tickle of a well-trimmed beard on the sensitive skin around a woman's labia and the rasp of a moustache against the clitoris never fail to get a slightly breathless reaction. I just fucking adore it!

My tongue travelled inwards from the crease of her thigh towards General Headquarters. I blew softly on Patti's pussy and began to lap gently on her clitoris. The sounds of breathing from above quickened and became louder. The legs down my back began to pull my upper body closer in to the junction of her warm thighs. Gradually I moved from the clit and started licking – long, slow strokes up and down the tantalising cleft before me, alternating with rapid flicks of the tongue on the clit again and occasionally supplemented by the ball of a thumb on the clit when the tongue was otherwise engaged.

Memory fails me with regard to how long we stayed glued face to pussy like this. I can honestly say, though, that it was a first for me – the first time a woman has ever cum on my face while hanging from a doorway. Regrettably, it has remained a unique experience – though one that never ceases to be commented on fondly when Patti and I speak these days!

After she came we quickly disengaged and I returned her slightly wobbly legs to the floor. We kissed – a long, lingering kiss while we clinched in the doorway. Patti demonstrated what a wonderfully, gloriously dirty-minded girl she is by licking at the damp patches on my beard. As if my erection needed any further encouragement!

Both moaning quietly, we moved towards the bed without coming up for air. As I collapsed backwards on to the bed, Patti straddled me and began to rub her walnut cracker all over my groin. The moaning increased in volume.

She rose up from me, wriggled down the bed a little and flicked her long blonde hair to one side. Looking at me straight in the eyes, her talented fingers found the buttons on my shorts and undid them one by one.

Shortly after arriving in California I adopted the habit of 'going commando' except when in business dress. So, with no underwear to negotiate its way through, my achingly erect cock shot up through the fly and hit Patti under the chin. She giggled, looked down, grunted wordlessly and, opening her talented little mouth, slid my cock inside with agonising slowness.

One of the most memorable aspects of Patti's skill at giving mind-bending blowjobs is what I have always called 'plunging fire,' using a phrase more normally associated with artillery or mortar barrages. She would raise her whole head up six to eight inches from the prominent target and then suddenly, unerringly, plunge her head down at an incredible speed and engulf my cock in her hot, wet mouth, right up to the balls. This is a woman with a very deep throat and zero gag reflex. I have never been able to work out why I didn't ask her to marry me!

Variety in blowjobs has always been a very important thing for me and Patti was perhaps one of the best exponents of the art I have ever cum across (in, on, over). One moment her head would be bobbing up and down at a speed to rival a food mixer, the next she would be slowly licking her way up and down the length at a speed more appropriate to those 'nodding donkey' oil pumps you see all over the States. She licked my balls, nibbled on the fringes of my pubic hair, ran her tongue round the head of my cock and then went back to rapid sucking just as deep as she could go. Sheer fucking heaven – and it wasn't long before I had to get her to slow down. If this was the last time I was going to get to shag this glorious woman, I was going to ensure we both enjoyed the full treatment. A blowjob – no matter how spectacular – was not going to do it for me – or for us – on this balmy March night in California.

Taking the hint, Patti stood up. Reaching behind her, she unzipped her sundress and let it fall to the floor. When she came to the party, she was wearing two items of clothing. Having used her knickers as an insect substitute half an hour earlier, when the dress fell off her flanks she was stark bollock naked. And thanks to the full-length, full-width mirror on the door of the walk-in closet, I got front and back views of her immaculate body at the same time.

Strange as it may seem, I can't remember whether the expression MILF was then in common use in California (this was the mid-1990s). If it was I certainly hadn't heard it at the time. Also, Patti wasn't and never had been a mother. Nevertheless she fits the best of the description. Lanky and fit, deeply tanned except for an enticing (and tiny) area round her pussy, perfectly proportioned tits and a smile that could melt the heart of a Californian Republican Congressman (if they had such organs) she was in every way the mature Mother I'd Like to Fuck. So I did.

That is – I tried to. Patti, however, had other ideas, albeit preliminary to what I was looking forward to as the main course. Having had the amuse bouche in the doorway and the appetizer at the foot of the bed, she made her intention perfectly plain. There was an intercoursal (pun intended) palate-cleansing sorbet that she had to be served before tucking in to the meat and two veg that was the only main dish on offer. I wasn't entirely certain it was necessary, but then I wasn't the most important diner on this particular occasion. A phrase from school ran through my head, bizarrely. "When rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it."

When suitably aroused, Patti would stop being slow and gentle and cut straight to the chase. So it was the work of a very brief but immensely erotic moment for her to wriggle her naked body all the way from the foot of the bed to sit on my chest. Straddling me, she shifted further and further forward until, hands gently pulling her lips apart, she lowered her gorgeous sopping wet pussy on to my face. This time there was nothing slow or gentle about my reaction. Sure, there was a bit of flicking the tongue across the clitoris and thumbing it every so often. Mostly, however, I just used it like a tiny cock, trying to get it as far inside her fascinating tunnel as I could. Every so often I would miss and jab her with my nose, but more often, when I needed to rest the muscles driving my tongue to peak performance, my fingers would take over and tease the blushing orifice before me. Her pussy began to drip on to me in an ever increasing flow, accompanied by sounds ranging from stifled whimpering to quiet cries of "oh fffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuckk!" I was revelling in her tart, astringent juices. The taste of her was driving me completely nuts and I wasn't going to play the attentive lover much longer. My cock was in full assault mode and was raring to engage what the Chinese are wont to call 'the Jade Gate' in imitation of a very oddly shaped battering ram.

I grabbed her by the waist and gently urged her backwards. She took the hint and began to wriggle herself down my chest to the impatient cock that, if it could talk, would have been crying out "get a fucking move on, will ya?" There was nothing subtle about the moment of entry. No teasing, no "now you feel it, now you don't." There was just a moment's final positioning, a filthy dirty smile replaced by a look of keen anticipation and a quick downward thrust of her hips. It was my turn to cry out. My cock felt like it was suddenly being wrapped in a soft but resistant warm Indian flatbread soaked in hot melted butter. I started to move my hips but Patti placed both hands on my chest, bit her lip in concentration, said "stop that, Sparky" and started bouncing up and down to an internal rhythm only she could feel. Sometimes slow and almost stately as a passacaglia, sometimes the most jagged and syncopated rhythm of a modern jazz piece, she ground down, around and over the cock that adored her, her hair flying with the motion of her body and her magnificent breasts occasionally slapping me in the face as she leaned forwards to adjust the angle of penetration. I would like to say that I was thinking erotic thoughts at the time. Truth to tell, all I can remember is thinking "Fuck! I can't let this stop. How do I keep this woman glued to my groin for the rest of the two weeks I have left in California?"

But variety is the spice of life, they say, and one of the things I had always loved about Patti was her interest in varying the positions she liked to adopt. Although we had started with her favourite cowgirl, after a few minutes she decided on the command "all change." Actually, I think with all the bouncing she had been doing she was getting a bit tired and had decided I ought to put some effort in for a while. So she pulled up, my cock appearing in the light for the first time in what seemed like an age but probably wasn't more than five or ten minutes, slick with a mixture of lube and pussy juices. She rolled off me on to her back, scooted further up towards the head of the bed and pulled me over on top of her.