The Engineer

"Wow..." he said.

"I hope you cleaned your teeth, too," I said. "Because you'd best chow down on this..."

I took my hands away and... Well, there you have it. A big hairy pussy for him to play with.

The Poor Guy nearly fainted. He really did.

Dale dropped to his knees and went down on me without any further discussion. Me? I just sat back and enjoyed.

And he was very good indeed. Patient, caring and, above all, attentive, he knew what to do and how to do it. Rather than just dive in, he prepared a path, delicately brushing my pubes to one side, first with his fingers, then with his tongue, so that he could subtly part my pussy lips. I was soaked, utterly sopping wet, but, even so, he approached his task as someone wary of jumping in too quickly.

Dale began by running his tongue along the full length of my slit, up and down, back and forth, looking for the way in, and all the while, I'm sitting back with my hands behind my head, knees drawn up, eyes shut.

He found my clit with comparative ease but rather than attack it with all the energy and gusto of an inexperienced novice, he chose to explore further, and then further still, towards my taint, perhaps sensing the feminine bouquet rising from down below.

He paused, and sat back on his heels. "I'm soaked..."

"Huh?"

"Your juices?" he whispered. "Your pussy? You're leaking everywhere... Rolling down my elbows and into my pits... I gotta get a towel or something otherwise the floor will stain..."

And he disappeared, headed off to his linen closet to retrieve a rather shabby and careworn item that was good enough to mop up my excesses.

Dale also took the opportunity to disrobe.

He wasn't a slim guy. Not at all. Actually, he was pretty rotund and rather self-consciously tried to suck the worst of it in. His dick was interesting though. Not the longest I'd ever seen but long enough. But fat? Yeah, fat. His dimensions were not entirely unlike that of a can of Coke.

He then went back to the hairy harmonica, upon which he performed admirably. I came, albeit briefly. My first of the evening.

Dale continued with his ministrations until I was, quite literally, a screaming banshee, raking and pulling at the back of his studio chair to the extent that I thought it was going to break.

I remember falling forwards out of the chair, utterly spent, my pussy just a wet mess. I'd actually squirted, twice if memory serves, and Dale and his hair were thoroughly soaked.

Okay, so I'd had my fun. He wanted his.

I was still sitting in the studio chair with my legs drawn up and a pool of moist goodness flowing down the vinyl and onto the floor when it became apparent that Dale very much wanted to stick his cock in me, if only he could reach. Such was the height on the chair, his little legs were not quite long enough to reach my opening. We tried dropping the chair but it still wasn't enough.

"You need a rubber," I whispered.

"I don't think we've got any..." he said. All the same, he scurried away to the main bedroom for a second time. Talk about buzz-kill.

He returned thirty seconds later, attempting to rip the top of an off-white packet open with his teeth. I didn't recognise the brand.

"Lemme see?" I insisted. He handed me the condom.

"Dale! This thing says 2001 on the outside. It's past its expiry date."

I handed the packet back to him. He rolled the packet over in his hands and shook his head in disbelief. In my opinion, there's nothing quite so sad on this good earth as a packet of condoms that has past its use-by date.

"The date?" I said. "This rubber isn't safe to use. It's like ten years old."

"It'll do," he said.

"No, it fucking won't!" I replied.

"2001? That's only seven years!" he said. "These things last forever."

"No, they don't," I said. "The rubber degrades. It'll split, and I'm not on the pill."

"It'll be fine," he insisted.

"No glove, no love," I barked at him. "It's a house rule. I dunno what you have. You dunno what I have."

"I can be pretty sure I don't have anything," said Dale. "I've not had sex in ... five years."

I reached down to put my pants on. "Then another couple of days isn't going to make any difference, is it?"

Don't worry. I was smiling.

"What about a blow job?" he muttered.

"Again, I don't know what you've got crawling around on your dick," I replied. "Do I really want to put that in my mouth?"

"A hand job then?"

"Okay, a hand job..."

I led him through to the main bedroom and pushed him over so that he was sitting with his back up against the headboard and with his chubby cock pointing towards the ceiling.

However, his erection didn't last more than the first few seconds. "Stage fright," he said. "It's just nerves. Help me out..."

"What do you want?" I asked,

"I wanna see you diddle yourself."

So I obliged and he was hard again in a couple of seconds but, again, his erection didn't last.

We repeated this circus for another ten minutes before he orgasmed but his jizz wasn't up to much and just trickled down his cock in little white puddles. The poor guy was monumentally embarrassed. "It's been such a long time," he said. "I think I've forgotten, my Dick has forgotten, what to do..."

"Hey, it's okay," I said softly. "I'll come back tomorrow, suitably equipped."

Okay, that's it. It was time to quit.

I was sober, more or less, so l dressed quickly and left Dale to sort out the bed. I then headed downstairs to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.

The conversation moved from the kitchen and into the Living Room, followed by some uncomfortable small talk but we were done for today. That much was clear. We parted as friends as he waved me off but I could tell that he was massively disappointed.

I called him up that night and again the next morning, and told him I wanted to come over. He said that he was busy though how much of that was true is debatable. I did sense that a certain amount of butt-hurt was involved but how much? I don't know.

As promised, I went around to see him the following day. Dale opened the door but he was not a happy man. He looked shattered for a start. Frightened, even. He clearly thought that this was the end, that I'd turned up just to dump him.

It wasn't and I didn't.

Once inside his house, we went directly to the studio and, when I had gathered all of my tapes and my memory sticks, I led him to the bedroom. He looked a little crestfallen, as if he was certain beyond a reasonable doubt that I was about to break everything off with him.

Anything but.

I was out of my clothes in a second or so. He got to see the goodies, all of the goodies just as nature intended, for real. I also presented him with a fresh pack of rubbers, bought that very morning.

I simply lay down on the bed, legs spread, and watched as he undressed. I took charge of the condoms, taking care that they were applied properly and fitting snuggly. I also checked his fingernails, looking for sharp edges. [You should too - Stealthing is a real issue].

Foreplay wasn't really a thing at this point. He was on me and in me before I'd had much of a chance to prepare myself, and our first fuck was functional rather than pleasurable. His 'coke can' wasn't quite so easy to accommodate and the fit was incredibly tight. Dale came quickly in a series of nondescript grunts, and then that was it. Disappointing perhaps but I sensed he was a actually a sensitive lover that has simply lost his touch, his confidence. Goes with the territory, I figured.

In our first post-coital discussion, Dale admitted that he hadn't actually had sex in seven years, not five as he'd previously stated. In fact, it may have been longer, he just wasn't sure. He counted the years out on his fingers. Missy wasn't interested and hadn't been interested in years.

So, yeah. Poor guy. Hardly surprising that he'd lost is Mojo.

He also told me that he was fairly convinced that Missy had fucked someone else, a close friend who had suddenly dropped out of their lives without any good reason, and maybe another guy before him.

Sucks, eh?

Our second fuck was an improvement. More relaxed, more intense (in places), less hurried. He began by slowly caressing my feet, before moving slowly up my legs, pausing at my pussy, then my belly and boobs before we started to properly kiss. He was a good kisser and brilliant at foreplay. However, before too long, we were back at the old dick-bumping-up-against-my-pudenda lark. I sensed he was looking for a way in without a raincoat. I discouraged him, and directed his ministrations elsewhere but, time and time again, we were back to the so-called Salesman's knock.

"Nope, you're not going in bareback, old son..." I whispered.

"I won't come," he said, sounding rather pathetic.

"You won't come at all unless you become acquainted with a little rubber friend..."

"They hurt," he said. "They're too tight."

"Then we'll find you a bigger size," I replied. "But, for now, this is it..."

Realised that he was out of luck, he relented and ripped open a fresh rubber.

This fuck was nicer. Much nicer. We began with a basic Missionary and then progressed to a doggy position, and then finally with me on my back with my legs over his shoulders. Good 'n' deep works best, every time. Lord, he was so big I felt like I'd been pulled apart at the seams.

This time around, the lovemaking was passionate and unhurried, the thrusting slow and easy, and less like a first year student losing his cherry. I'm pleased to report that Dale still had a few tricks up his sleeve, like gently pinching the top of my pussy lips together when he was inside me. The combined pressure of his fingertips against my clit and the gentle rocking back and forth of his dick was incredibly intense. Try it. You won't regret it.

He was also massively into shrimping - sucking on my toes. He was the first guy I'd been with who wanted to explore this mystical art. Normally, I'm too ticklish to even consider letting anyone near my feet but he was so delicate, so sensitive and so patient that I screamed out loud on more than one occasion, an experience as intense as an orgasm.

He had a few tricks and techniques that I found less than exciting. He was into fingering my butt hole on the assumption that the nerve endings in that region are doubly sensitive. Yes, the feeling is intense and it is quite nice but I've always been wary of getting an infection down there so it's been sort of off-limits for as long as I can remember. With Dale, it was pleasurable but the health concerns made me want to stop before he'd even started.

Two o'clock rolled around into four, and then five.

"I need a wash," I said. "My Mum is coming over for dinner at seven, and I need to get home and fix the food."

I was in the shower when he joined me. The water was warm and soothing, and very relaxing, and I started to feel pretty good about this guy, even with the age difference and his on-going marital problems. I sensed that I could get to really fall for him.

We finished showering and stepped out of the tiny glass cubicle to dry ourselves off. And here's the good news. He was rock hard again.

We were all smiles and coy looks when Dale span me around, pushed me gently up against the bathroom wall and slipped his cock into me from behind. I thought about screaming, about punching him away, because I knew, with an absolute certainty, that he wasn't wearing a rubber.

And then I paused and thought, "Hey... Why not?"

I stopped fighting. I put my hands between my forehead and the wall, and just let him hammer into me. I know that a condom is an absolute necessity in this day and age but even the thinnest sliver of rubber tends to spoil the sensations, and going bareback, despite the risks, is just sooooo nice...

And so Dale became only the second guy to properly come inside me, as nature intended. Everyone else up to that point (bar one *) had worn a rubber because I didn't, and I mean I really didn't, want their jizz inside me. This guy? Yeah. Why not?

So I let him. And I'm glad I did. I wanted him to come inside me. I wanted to feel his sperm running down my thighs and up my arse crack.

What followed was a vigorous, athletic fuck and I was, frankly, more than a little worried that he was going to over-exert himself, or put his back out. But still, it was more than nice and I ended up gasping to yet another, rather frantic orgasm.

And he came. Hard.

Moaning and grunting, he collapsed, spent and exhausted, against the shower room wall.

"That was gorgeous," I whispered.

Dale, meanwhile, was gasping for air.

"Are you okay?"

He smiled, a big smile, and nodded. "Yeah, I'm good," he said. "A bit too energetic but, you know..."

His face was more than a little red and his heart was obviously trying to punch a hole in his torso but he was determined to remain upright.

I touched between my thighs and I felt his seed trickling down my thighs, pooling on the floor between my ankles. Wow... An unusual sensation.

Back in the bedroom, I blew him to the point where he was hard again, and then I let him fuck me until he couldn't fuck any longer. From the back, the front, from both sides, and then with my legs up behind my head. All bareback. He finally came when I pinned him to the bed and rode him hard, Cowgirl style.

We woke and came to our senses an hour later. I looked at the clock. Six fifteen. I had forty five minutes to get home and cook dinner, and I knew I wouldn't be able to manage it.

Mum and I ate out that night. I just explained that I'd been held up at work, and she bought the lie, shameless, unrepentant Harlot that I am. However, as dinner progressed, I discovered that walking was uncomfortable and sitting upright for long periods was nigh on impossible. Mothers know this sort of thing. They have a sixth sense and are able to sense when their daughters have spent the greater part of the afternoon rolling around between the sheets with some dirty, filthy man-thing.

Though she said nothing, I'm sure she was smiling, inwardly.

That wasn't the last of Dale. Actually, far from it.

With Missy still living under the same roof, Dale didn't want to muddy the waters between them. Divorce is never an easy process and any hint that Dale had a 'Squeeze' on the side was, we felt, apt to tip Missy over the edge and then we'd never be rid of her.

Dale had taken to sleeping in a room at the back of their house although the bed was impossibly small even for Dale on his own. We took to rolling around in Missy's double bed, even photographing the blankets and duvets prior to any post-studio coital sessions simply so that we'd have a reference when it came to restoring the bed sheets. It was a waiting game. I was convinced that, sooner or later, Missy would notice the signs of our disgusting fornications and react badly.

Dating was difficult. To placate Missy, we'd invent all sorts of excuses - gigs, friends, visits to studios, that sort of thing but, more often than not, we'd end up back at my house or down a country lane where we would do the dirty deed as and when was necessary which is to say all the time.

Dale took me to meet some of his musician buddies, local bands he'd known since he was a kid. One or two were semi-major artists meaning that if their record company had actually bothered to promote their work then they could have been much bigger.

I did end up at one party with around five guys and three girls, all named musicians, faces you would recognise if they were on the TV. We got drunk and then very drunk, and then we ended up playing a game of Twister with one major difference - make a mistake and you had to take off an item of clothing. As you might have guessed, I'm incredibly competitive and so... I won more often than I lost but still ended up naked and rolling around on the floor every single time. Make of that what you will.

Life with Dale was never dull. On one occasion, my Mum was on holiday and I agreed to pop around, keep an eye on her house, water the plants, that sort of thing. Of course, with Dale in the picture, any visit to Mum's house was just an excuse to get utterly naked and fuck in every single room. Immediately prior to Mum's return, I nipped around to her house first thing with the intention of baking a cake only to find myself impaled on Dale's cock, my tits rolling around the kitchen table and covered in flour. That mess was difficult to clean up properly. Ever tried to get cake batter out of your pubes? No, me neither.

Worse, Dale did dumb stuff like going outside to bring in a load of washing without bothering to dress and without taking notice of the gaggle of curtain-twitchers that surround and overlook my mother's back garden. Later, questions were asked, questions such as "Why was there a sixty year old naked man in you back garden?" Her neighbours actually thought she'd taken a lover of her own age, which was a bit of a wake-up call frankly in that it brought the thorny issue of the age difference between Dale and I to a head.

Dale was actually older than my mother.

Dale and I were together for the next nine months and we only split because, you guessed it, the age gap became too awful to contemplate. Think about it. Where would we be in just ten years? Whilst I would still be in my late thirties, poor Dale would have been nearly seventy.

There were other reasons for splitting. I wanted a family - always have - and we'd been trying seriously for kids for nine months. We hadn't used contraception since that shower-room fuck and, nearly a year down the line, I still wasn't pregnant. Not even close. Dale admitted he had a problem right from the start. He was fully open about his problems. He'd had the tests. Low sperm count. Deformed heads and poor motility. Hence, he hadn't been able to get Missy knocked up either. They'd gone down the IVF route and that hadn't worked so we knew we were in trouble in that area, too.

And then the thought hit me one morning, standing on the Metro platform at Ilford Road. Even if we'd had kids then he'd be past eighty by the time they could vote. Beyond that, he'd be pushing ninety and, by his own admission, he really didn't want to saddle me with caring for a geriatric. Rather selfishly, I have to admit that I felt the same way.

So we split, albeit reluctantly, very reluctantly in my case. Worst of all, his divorce came through barely six weeks after we'd agreed to go our separate ways and I was heartbroken all over again.

As for relaunching my musical career, the album enjoyed some good reviews in the local press and earned some airplay on many of my favourite heavy rock stations but it never really gained much traction outside of the North East of England. A year later and you couldn't actually give my CDs away. Such is the music business.

Shortly afterwards, I was handed a major promotion at work accompanied by a hefty hike in salary. This meant that, whilst I'd be working some long hours and travelling a lot, I could be financially independent and fully able to buy my own house, too. The album, and any aspirations I had for a return to pop superstardom, were just pushed to one side and eventually forgotten.

Sad to say, Dale and I became history. I haven't seen him in six or seven years. Perhaps longer.

However, he did message me two or three years after we'd split. He said that he had indeed found true love. I later met him at a gig and he told me that all was good and that he'd recently re-married.

To Missy.

Go figure.