Role Model Switch

I knew that Salinger wanted me to take the sexual lead more often; to be more creative, more aggressive. But I also knew that when I was he would usually pull back; mixed signals that infuriated me. I would get turned on, get inspired, try to execute that inspiration on Salinger; only to have him pull back on me, leaving me feeling rejected and downright shitty. Eventually, after much observation, I had an epiphany: Men needed to be treated like woman.

This realization came after we got carried away on the famous Vienna Ferris wheel. We were both as turned on as jackrabbits on heat after having just explored one of those very European railway station adult shops. So when we found ourselves alone at dusk half way up the Vienna skyline in one of the little gondolas of the Ferris wheel we could not help ourselves. A single touch quickly lead to our hands reaching for each other, then a hot embrace as I moved to straddle Salinger's lap on the padded bench seat and leant forward to thrust my tongue inside him.

The wheel's halting journey ensured we had some time as those cabins reaching the ground where slowly emptied and filled; time to really get each other going. So when his hands began to move up under my blouse I felt my breasts craving his touch. Looking over Salinger's shoulder I noticed that the city lights now coming on where reflecting off the windows of the cabins in front of and behind us in such a way as to make it almost impossible to see inside the darker cabins. Perfect, I thought, as I reached down and pulled my tight top above my breasts then lent forward to place first one then the other of my aching nipples between his hungry lips. From that position it was only natural that his hands found their way around my buttocks and up under my skirt; only natural that my knickers get dropped, that his fingers slid up into me, that his cock came out, and that my craving wet pussy pull me down to be filled by it.

Oh, but that always felt so good; the first rush of being filled. Then the feeling of wetness growing in his lap while I rubbed myself down onto him as we rose ever higher over the rooftops of Vienna to meet again the setting sun that turned the sky to fire all around us.

It was when we had almost reached the apex of our journey, the point where we would draw level with the gondola ahead of us, the point that Salinger whispered, 'We are being watched.'

I spun my head around to see a couple staring slightly down at us from behind their pain of glass - now close enough and level enough that the reflection of the lights no longer rendered us invisible. She was opened mouthed and frozen in disbelief. I immediately moved to pull out and cover up, but Salinger held me tight.

'Wait,' he said, as he began to move again inside me, small movements of his hips. 'They're enjoying it.'

The wheel stopped again, the gondolas rocking us on their hinges.

'Look,' said Salinger.

I turned around slowly again. The guy's arm was wrapped around her waist, but with his hand pressed down over her mound and his fingers moving in small circles. Her open mouth now only partially shocked. I smiled at them, then turned back to Salinger to renew my pleasure at working Salinger's cock inside me; our heightened arousal leaving no doubt that we both possessed an exhibitionist streak.

Looking forward again over Salinger's shoulder I checked the other gondola following us. It was still slightly below us, and from the three sets of feet I could see that the occupants were all focused on the view out the far side. But would they turn around to look the other way once they got on top? Shit, I thought, while deep within me my sex organs convulsed in pleasure at the same thought.

Behind me Salinger's hands were working my ass, slowly rising up. I felt the air's coolth caress the fluids leaking from my snatch and then cool further up as my skirt was pushed ever higher, exposing us fully to our audience.

One of Salinger's hands suddenly left my cheek, lowering my skirt.

'Oh no, you don't!' he said.

'What?' I asked, as his hand returned.

'Oh, not you. The dude was just raising his phone to take a photo. But he's put it away.'

'We could have been famous,' I laughed.

'Not on my bucket list,' said Salinger. 'But this certainly is ...' as he flipped my skirt all the way onto my back and gave my rump a good slap.

With the little interruption now over we could get back to taking the pleasure we all craved, and we did so with gusto. Salinger devouring each of my breasts in turn while rhythmically pulling my ass hard against him with both hands while I worked his erection with my pussy like a fighter pilot working his joystick in a dogfight.

I glanced around to see that our budding paparazzi had lifted the front of his lady's little black dress enough to slip his hand deep inside her red lace panties - cute. Her pleasure obvious in the way she had interlaced her fingers of her left hand with those of his other hand that was busy kneading her breasts. Her right hand was pushed palm out hard against the glass in front of her. Her beautiful face slightly blurred by the ring of condensation pulsing amoeba like on the glass only inches in front of her with her every breath.

He was pushing hard against her. I imagined her pleasure of feeling his hard cock rubbing between her buttock cheeks. Will she take it out? I hoped, as I felt Salinger's rhythm begin to break.

He was getting close. I loved feeling him loose control, feeling his suffering agony. His orgasms usually so intense that he would desperately try to grab me tight to prevent my further movement; his pleasure too much to bare. I, of course, would fight him every inch, try to grind him even harder, especially when, like now, he had not yet made me cum.

But there it was, his final shudder, that warm gush of his million little sperm cells rocket-launched deep inside me. God that felt good! Not only the sex, or the conquest, or the power that I had over him, or any man, in that moment, but something primal in my womb wanting every one of those little frantic flapping fuckers sucked high up into me. A feeling that reached its peak during my ovulation, to the point that I felt a little sadness for every drop that leaked out. At other times I could give myself the pleasure of kneeling over his face and watch his mixture of pleasure and revulsion as his own creamy-white pussy-warmed sperm dripped out of me onto his face, onto his tight clenched lips. But not during ovulation, no way, then every drop was mine!

Though not today. Today I could enjoy the feeling of his sperm and my pussy juice cool as they leaked passed my swollen petals down onto his already shrinking dick. We really were giving our audience a good show! But not being done yet and still as horny as hell I lifted my hips up to offer my craving pussy to Salinger's face, praying he had it in him, knowing it would not take much of his expert tongue to finish me off.

But then the carriage jerked and we began to move again. And in that instance the Sex God to whom I had offered my lotus offering was gone, replaced by a mere mortal man of shame and fear and guilt. He began to cover me up, to look guiltily over his shoulder.

'Don't stop!' I cried. 'Don't worry, I'll warn you if the others turn around.'

He did try a few more feeble licks, I'll give him that, but it was no use, his energy was gone. The moment I paused he squirmed to get out from under me, while trying to simultaneously wipe his face, smooth my skirt over my rump and pull his own pants back up. Actions that suddenly just made me feel really shitty, rejected, used.

The sad feelings did not last long. Salinger is a sweetheart and by the time the wheel had moved us halfway down the other side we were sitting demurely in each other's arms on a still dry part of the bench, holding hands, watching the night time persona of old Vienna come to life around us. We even laughed at the fickle nature of human desire; as Salinger said: 'Us men like to bitch about woman being "hormonal", but Christ, have we not looked at ourselves? When I am horny,' he continued, 'I have the courage of a despot in his harem. I can service you any place and anytime. But the moment my balls are emptied a switch is flicked and I suddenly feel shocked at the position I find myself in. The contrast is so powerful; it is like we are possessed. I do not even know that person, that Casanova.'

'Are you regretting it?' I said, suddenly feeling a little hurt again.

'No!' He said. 'Not at all. Not now, a few minutes later with my pants back on. Now my ego gladly claims ownership of that moment and feels proud. But in those few moments directly after exploding, when, back home in the safety of our bed I would be floating half asleep in post-coital bliss, when my dick has switched off and is passing control back to my head, then my mind, my normal timid mind, looks at what has been done it its name, the carnal carnage that has been wrought, and shudders in horror as it frantically kicks into damage control.'

'So men really do think with their dicks?'

'Oh, leading up to that moment, God yes! I totally get how preachers caught with an altar boy or two under their robes would claim that they had been possessed. It really feels like that.'

'So, would you rather we don't get naughty on Ferris Wheels?' I asked.

'Not at all! Bring on the Ferris Wheels. As I said, firstly it does not take long before our ego then kicks in and gladly claims that moment to make me feel proud of it, and then, short of chopping my nuts off, we can always count on my hormones to quickly start flowing again.'

'For your little devil to possess you again?' I said, laughing.

'Or you!' he replied, placing his hand over my mound.

It was then, while thinking back over past lovers, that I had my Eureka moment: I realized that they were all the same; raging bulls when their testosterone was flowing - when they had "balls" - and pussies the moment their nuts disengaged and the testosterone stopped. This was never more obvious than during their post-ejaculation slump, but could be in effect at any time. Come on to men when they are "hot" and you can literally grab them by the balls; do the same when they are not, and you will be reeling from the rejection for a week! Exactly like woman.

And their balls could be such grouchy little beasts when asleep and guarded by that timid, logical mind of theirs, I thought, chuckling to myself.

The question was how could we get through to that little dick brain when we needed it; without facing cataclysmic rejection; and not just by waiting around for the damn thing to finally wake up? Did our sex lives really depend on the chance random coming together of our respective horniness cycles, and at times that did not also clash with our overscheduled lives?

The problem haunted me. I now thought about it constantly; bitched about it to all my friends. It was while doing so to Brad and a small gaggle of his gay entourage that he handed me the answer on a platter. 'Oh deary,' he said in his excruciatingly strong and masculine Australian accent, 'You said it yourself; we're all pussies. Even the toughest heterosexual jock is, without his dick, a timid little princess screaming to be swept off his feet.'

'A princess?' I asked, incredulous; my fantasy image of George Clooney suddenly shattered.

'Wearing a lavender tutu,' he added.

'Jocks, wanting to be swept off their feet?'

'Honey, of course! We all want to be seduced.'

'No way!'

'You forget that your best ally in your battle to get through to our dick-brains is our ego.'

'Our ego?' I asked. 'I thought the ego was part of the problem, one of the guards?

'Only Because it's jealous of the dick's attention. Think of the ego as a narcissistic bouncer to the best club in town, permanently miffed that it is never allowed in to join the party - you need flattery to get you in.'

'So our egos want nothing more than the attention of being seduced.' I said.

'And will, in return, offer you the invisibility cloak you need to get passed his brain.'

Over the next few weeks I tested and fine tuned the theory. Then, after learning much I decided to put it to the test; I would get Salinger to do something completely out of his sexual comfort zone, and to ensure that it was me controlling this and not his balls I would initiate my seduction attack within 12 hours of his last orgasm.

I had planned everything impeccably; chose the method, a suitable day, booked the right restaurant with the perfect table and spent hours staking out the perfection location for the grand finale. But after Salinger took me the night before I was worried I would not be able to follow my 12 hour rule. However, when we woke up that Saturday morning I was able to take full advantage of his morning glory to reset the clock.

I then got to work: Still in his post-orgasm stupor I told his ego how wonderful it had felt what he had done to me the night before. I then made sure I was showered before breakfast and wore only a thin cotton singlet that barely covered my ass and showed my breasts to their best. I then set our breakfast out on our little balcony table. We lived on a quiet street, but it was narrow and we were only one floor up, and the morning sun glowing on my bare legs and thin cotton cover would leave little to the imagination of Salinger or our neighbors and any passers-by. I felt beautiful, confident, horny and strong, and it felt good.

Salinger, predictably after I had earlier shut down his balls, was another matter. 'Don't you want to put on some trousers?' he asked.

'Why?'

'People could see you; our railing is not exactly solid.'

'Oh, stop it. I'm not man-spreading, everything is covered. Besides, I'm feeling sexy, thanks to you last night,' I added, touching his leg for emphasis, 'so why not spread the joy?'

He let it go for a while as we chatted a bit and caught up on the news and our social networks on our phones.

But then his ego bit the first hook. 'So, you enjoyed last night?' he asked.

I looked up slowly and smiled at him. 'Wonderful! Whatever you did has still got me horny.'

He almost blushed. But I knew more work was required when he nodded a warning towards my right breast, where my nipple was barely keeping the singlet from falling off after I had earlier encouraged the strap to slip down my shoulder.

'I know, the sun feels wonderful,' I countered, and, as I slipped the other strap into the same position, 'But I should tan them evenly.' The poor man did not know what to say to that so went back to his phone.

After a while I put the straps back up before standing to clear the table; but making sure that Salinger noticed my breasts hanging free and my shirt riding up my rump as a leaned forward to do so.

I went to dress, choosing a light white cotton summer dress with a red floral print that showed my legs and matched my toenail varnish, then went to tell Salinger I was dropping books off at the library. I made sure to give him a goodbye hug and was relieved when his hand dropped to my bum cheek - his predictability was sometimes useful.

'You're not wearing knickers,' he said.

'Shhh, don't tell. I shaved this morning and I'm still a bit tender. Hopefully the wind doesn't pick up,' I added with a wink.

'May I see?' he asked with pleading eyes , his hand maneuvering to get under my skirt.

I let his fingers just caress my lips before I gently pulled away. 'Later, if you're good,' I said. 'I won't be gone long.'

I added that last bit on purpose; my teasing was clearly starting to work and the last thing I needed was for him to take care of himself while I was gone. At least not unplanned.

Perfect, I thought, as I hurried out the door, almost forgetting the books I was supposed to be returning. The library was only a short walk from our apartment. As soon as I had dropped off my returns I went to find the book I wanted; The Spanish Inquisition by Joseph Perez, with its graphic cover depiction of half naked "witches" ready for burning. I then found one of the empty reading chairs in a quiet corner, sat down, spread my legs, pulled up my skirt, tucked the book face up between my thighs right up against my shaven pussy, and snapped a couple of picture of the ensemble with my phone.

I chose the one I wanted, deleted the rest, and sent him the first TXT.

- Are you be'n good

- Yes??

- In that case, as promised ...

Then, using the self-destruct messaging app Burn Note set to 45 minutes I sent the chosen picture above the caption 'Intellectual stimulation'. The image being the one where the fingers of my free hand were spreading my shaved labia just wide enough for my slightly swollen clitoris to be seen peeking out at the book between my legs. I then took a moment to check my dress was properly smoothed down before sending the last message:

- Meeting Jen. Back in 1 hr.

A blatant lie; instead I headed directly home. But would he take the bait? Had I tantalized him enough? And would I catch him with my intellectual pussy picture in his free hand, or some internet porn, or worse, the yummy mummy from two floors up?

It was therefore with pounding heart and rising doubt that I hurried back to our building. I glanced up to check there was no Salinger reading on the balcony. A good sign. I let myself into the lobby and, with keys ready, headed quickly up the one flight of stairs. I had just silently unlocked the door and was about to slip in when Yummy Mummy came beaming down the stairs behind me. It was not without relief that I frantically indicated to her to keep her usual cheery greeting to herself. How could any person always be so damn happy, and cute, and energetic, and that with a six month old baby on her arm! But thankfully she was also smart enough to get my signals in time.

'What's going on?' she mouthed with a questioning shrug.

'I'll tell you later,' I mouthed back, as I slipped in, not knowing how the hell I would explain.

This is crazy, I thought, as a gently pulled the door closed behind me, ears straining for any indication of where Salinger might be and what he might be doing. One thing was certain, I had to look completely natural when he first saw me just in case he was not doing what I was hoping. But that fear evaporated as I moved down our short passage and caught the first faint sound of flesh rubbing on flesh. I froze. Oh my god! I had never seen this before. I mean, I've had the odd lover masturbate for me, on me, against me, over me, but I had never caught anybody in the private act, and certainly never secretly watched them. Exciting!

I pulled out my phone, double checked it was on silent mode and edged forward. The sounds were coming from the lounge. I heard a pleasurable 'Fuuuck!' coming from deep within him. Damn, he had better not cum before I could catch him. I started the video recorder and edged around the corner. And there he was; sitting on the couch, back to me, his phone in one hand, dick in the other, pounding his python. It was all I could do not to giggle. I glanced at my phone to check I was getting it all; judging by his body language he was really getting off but it also looked like I still had a few more moments to enjoy the spectacle.

My initial reaction had been to giggle, I mean, it really does look silly, but now it was starting to turn me on; knowing that he was thinking about me, looking at a photo of my pussy in his hand, the same naked pussy that was getting turned on between my legs. Goodness it was all I could do to not ride him right then and there. But I was on a mission and I had to keep him horny for a good while longer. I switched off the camera, tapped a few keys into Burn Note then lowered the phone.