To Bi or Not to Bi

But Mari, your no longer so shy Rene was not tossing-up between a 'Never!' and 'Perhaps, Someday?'. She wanted to shout 'Gladly' (She actually took some snaps!), and not just because she wanted to show Mark her now so sexily framed pussy. God, your Rene did want to flash it! But what stirred her pussy-juices more was that she would follow-up her 3 and photo, with demanding from Mark a snapshot that proved what her display did to his lust-engorged cock!

What had brought me to this state of advanced horniness were the essays we had previously written and exchanged. On Mark's suggestion, we had set aside a fortnight to write how we imagine our love-making in our first night together. It was a task I failed. I wrote an insipid account of kissing, groping, kissing some more during a shy first fuck, ending in a thoroughly unlikely orgasm for both of us. It was just me. I knew enough about Mark to know that with him, it would not be as stale as this but I could not, or did not dare to include him as taking the lead in my imaginings.

Then his essay arrived. And Mari, did he take the lead with a disturbingly real, quivering flesh-and-blood me! We were in this hotel room. He sat on the bed while I stood, somewhat uncertain before him when he asked me to undress, slowly, just for him. Every piece of my clothing I dispatched he matched with one of his. Then I stood there naked before Mark. I drew in and tensed my stomach to hide my belly-folds and pushed back my shoulders to show my tits in their surprisingly upright, pointy-nippled glory. Mark opened his arms, and I moved into his embrace and his kisses; over and up and down my belly and midriff. And then my breasts; God, how he made love to and aroused my perky tits! When I bend down to search out his caressing lips, they met mine half-open. Mark breathed into my mouth how beautiful and sexily delicious I was. He promised to feast on me.

Without releasing me from his embrace, we rolled onto the bed. Lying side by side, Mark's hand - barely touching - stroked up my side, over a tensing buttock, over midriff into my armpit, the bulge of one breast. Whispering, he told me how he would make love to my hungry mouth - sinking in a probing tongue - to my delectable pussy, to my beautiful ass. And then he turned me on my belly, and his lips began to wander from my neck and shoulder down my side to the top of my thighs. Slowly crossing over, kiss by teasing kiss so close to ... , his lips moved up the other side of my shivering body. Mark felt my goose-bumps under lips and tongue, and it was not the cold.

And then Mark's tongue started its journey south. It moved down my spine, slowly licking through the cleft of my in-panic cramping together buttocks, and then the pressed together thighs. When Mark, beginning in the hollows of my knees, began his journey north, my body, all aquiver, knew! I stretched my arms as far as I could reach, and my fingers and nails dug into the sheet. And Mark, with hard-marking kisses left and right, began to kiss open my thighs. And yes, God, did I gasp when his tongue pressed on my pussy's slit as he began to lick his way through the quivering cleft of my ass and up my spine.

With every one of the five or six repeated passages, my legs spread wider, my ass lifted higher, and its crack awaited more eagerly the passing of the tongue. And Mark's lips lingered longer on my pussy's swollen crest, and his tongue had stroked its luscious lips already well apart. When on the last passage, Mark sank with his tongue his thumb deep into my pussy's heat, it gushed. I cried out a breathless "Yes! God, yes!", as my groin and ass, shaking and shivering, ground into Mark's face.

I could not help myself. I cried out: - "Mark! Mark! Fuck me! God fuck me know!" And he lifted my ass even higher than I had stretched it. And then he sank his deliciously knobbed, thick cock into my red-hot, slippery-wet, already climaxing cunt.

My dear Mari, all the above 'happened' in Mark's story. It left me convinced that his cock alone surpassed in beauty and the way it filled my pussy the cocks of the three, make it four men that - as I have always, ignorantly, described it - 'I have known.' I did not, not one of them. Neither did they, God, no, know me! We were never more strangers to each other, then when we fucked! I read Mark's essay again and again and God, did we know each other down to our deepest sexual core. Sometimes, after another reading, I stripped naked, went to bed, lay down on my belly. Then I stretched out and clawed the sheet until I came.

Now, Mari, you are probably wondering what made me run and end this so fulfilling sexual affair? I still haven't found an answer that convinces and satisfies me that it was something I had to do. I was, of course, aware that my now so appreciated single, independent life could be in danger. If Mark had asked me to come to Hobart to realise our first night, would I have said NO? And what then? But there were no indications that Mark wanted the mind-nature of our affair to change. I was also determined no hint would come from me. But Mari, my pussy itched for his uncircumcised, eight-inch by five-inch-circumference cock!

Mari, as you have the complete transcript of our torrid, digital affair, you know what followed. Following our exchange of First Night short-stories, we refined and expanded our Q.&A.-game. The idea of combining the question of 'Do you like ...?' (e.g. 'your pussy/cock whipped?') with 'Your Experience:' (from Never over Rarely to Occasionally to Often) was insidious. It not only widened our knowledge of our respective, hidden sexual tastes and experiences. It seduced us immediately into acting on what we learned and into an outpour of heated, highly pornographic mails

Mari, let me confess a suspicion. Let's leave aside your reputation as a published author on Australian Literature and your unblemished record as a retired Associate Professor. The way I begin to know you, I believe you would have more than just a mild taste for pornography. So enjoy! I am pretty sure that some of these mails - especially Mark's - will make you as hot under your panties as they progressively made me.

While I could not match him, I was pretty pleased with one. When he answered to my query whether he liked to be tied to the bed and how often it had happened with 'No' and 'Never', I followed up. God, the things I did to him to make him change his mind and to make his agonisingly frustrated, so beautiful cock rise to burst. Its size and description I've given earlier.

However, in our Q.&A. gambits, I so often had to answer truthfully with 'Never'. I followed it up, honestly again, only rarely with the No of not wanting. Mark could respond, therefore, and take me from peak to unfamiliar peak onto, hitherto, unimagined sensual pleasures. And I, not only submitted in dozens of different ways; I hungered for more. Were there no limits?

Then one evening, a mail arrived with a question-set that brought me to a boundary I could not cross. Within the sexual mores of today, the question was neither unusual nor anymore outrageous than the ones I had happily answered and 'Likes' I had readily admitted to. So why, did Mark's question: - "Would you like me to fuck you in the ass?" and the associated five grades of my enthusiasm so upset me.

I was in turmoil. Tried for two days to formulate dozens of answers. The fact was I could not put down the numbers demanded and risk Mark's possible response. So, I mailed him a shockingly undeserved - "Sorry. I cannot take this any further. It's my fault, not yours. Forgive me." I pressed 'Send' and cancelled with the web-address the most fulfilling sexual relation I had ever enjoyed.

I better stop. It has become a lengthy waffle.

Love,

Rene.

Text-Messages, 6 hours later:

M. to R.:

"Wow! What a read! Appealed greatly to my refined pornographic tastes. Also - no foremost - am thrilled to learn so much about your hot-glowing, sexy, smouldering longings. They, with Mark out of the way, now really stoke my less than innocent interests in 'shy' Rene. I have not overlooked that you still have not told why you ran, only when. P.S. Would you post one of your pussy-snaps to me? If not, why not?"

R. to M.:

"Am so happy about your response and your "less than innocent interest" in me. After what I've let you know about me, what other types of interest would be fitting, could I possibly wish for? Also, you are right, I have not yet told all. Neither have you! P.S. 3 - 'Gladly.' See photo attached."

From: marimclain8@zyx.com.au

To: renemax6@xyz.com.au

Subject: Telling all: Who to?

My dearest Rene,

After your last mail and the follow-up text (with its enticing attachment!!), letting you into my 'secrets' may read disappointingly dry and barren. So, before I set to it, I want to tell you how much your snatch-shot delighted me. After 21 years, you, my raunchy Rene, have still the most beautifully shaped, sexiest, delectably kissable and so, so fuckable pussy! God, how I envy you. To change the subject - or do I - I hope you are also looking forward to our week in my Robert-built shack in Smoko. It's a lovely place that I have neglected to describe to you. I was too set on shocking 'innocent' Rene by focusing on how I got, in this very shack, so lovingly fucked by Bob the Builder. Thus, the hut is full of, say, happy memories for me. I am excited about getting back there, this time with you!

Now, not unrelated, of course, to my secret, and to the pussy-envy you provoked all these years ago. After watching Karin's contortions on the bed and repeatedly looking at her beautiful sex, I spread, for the first time, my legs in front of a mirror. From that moment on, I knew that my vagina was ugly, even repulsive. Mine looked nothing like Karin's. I had a flat, fleshy gash between my legs with loose, oversized flaps on either side. They were not lush, pouty lips - like Karin's and your's - that would temptingly open to touch and kisses.

And they were, subsequently, too often just carelessly brushed aside by fumbling fingers and rudely pushed through by clumsy, hole seeking penises. It was not that my misshaped - I thought - pussy lacked in nervy sensitivity and hunger. I liked and wanted sex. While too proud to be too forward, I was neither frigid nor played hard to get. Still, only one of the dozen or so men 'I have known', ever made the love I wanted to my ugly pussy or my, admittedly, tiny tits. So, I'll spare you from the boredom of mentioning more than two. (About Bob the Builder and how I got belated 'full-filled', we can talk in my shack!). The two I will mention played with and aroused more my - as you know - lively dirty mind than my unloved, ugly pussy.

To be fair, the first, Anil, did not know what he was doing to me. He was an Indian postgraduate student I met during my year in Cambridge. He was a historian, came from a three-generational Indian railway-family, and was working on a thesis and book about the 19th Century colonial railway boom. I was stuck in Newham's, a Women's College. Anil and I met over a shared table in a Pakistani restaurant. I liked him; liked his brown skin and, when we began to furtively smooch on the banks of the Cam, I liked the way he tasted and smelled. And he was interestingly attracted to me.

We could not risk fucking in our respective colleges. So, we decided that I would accompany Anil on his research-related visits to the industrial centres of Britain's railway boom. His costs for this were born by his study-grant, and I had generous parents. So we fucked in seedy hotels in down-at-heels, rustbelt downs. Slumming, it heightened my sexual arousal considerably. But more than this, Anil had an Indian scholar's appreciation of the Kama Sutra, having studied it in detail through a long, virginally frustrated youth.

Already on our first trip, he gave me his well-thumbed copy to review during the day, while he visited the sites and workshops and industrial museums. And then at night, usually after another meal in a Paki- or Indian diner, we'd retire to our dingy room and less than clean bed to practice what I had learned.

It should have been perfect. We were young, horny and athletically fit. Anil played competitive hockey, and I had been a runner and top Netball player. However, with every outing, it became clearer that the tantric fulfilment the Kama Sutra promised would elude us. Sweet Anil concentrated so much on the artfulness of what he was doing that he forgot he was doing it with and to me.

Instead of being carried away by getting fucked in quite interesting contortions - which I unreservedly enjoyed - I began to watch Anil with amusement. Also, I learned that I could make him very quickly and prematurely come. I only had to touch him to switch his attention from the theory onto me. I was, after all, the woman he was supposed to pleasure. And his quite beautiful cock would almost immediately discharge, and he would sink out of position 21, without reaching tantric perfection.

More serious was that I was getting very disenchanted with Anil's deliberate neglect of two critical elements in his recommended text. I was most attracted by the centrality of the cock- and pussy, the lingam- and yoni-worship in the love-celebrations of the Kama Sutra. I was also lecherously keen on Anil's beautifully coloured, shaped and sizeable lingam. I was prepared - to coin an unoriginal phrase - to go to my knees to worship. And I longed to have it reciprocated on my yoni! But in our Kama Sutra wrestlings, my floppy, ugly yoni was all too often brought before Anil's eyes. And I knew its looks disenchanted him so much that he struck all cock and pussy worship with me from his erotic script. Once I realised this, I lost all interest in Anil, and in Britain's industrial centres and seedy hotels.

The other man in my disappointing collection you knew: Michael, my second husband of six years. You formed, I am sure, your own impression. You wondered, perhaps, whatever kept me attracted to a weasel like him for almost ten years.

We met as honours students in English Literature and had an on/off sexual relationship before I left for Cambridge. Both Michael and I had secured tutor-ships in the Department, were doing postgraduate work and were considered talented, and future academic prospects. But we were very different: I was scholarly and self-critical in my work; Michael was erratically brilliant. Both of us had articles accepted for publication. Mine were received with muted praise. Michael's, however, were usually enthusiastically applauded by some, then, over weeks and month closely examined and deconstructed by others. The final judgement was that Michael's work was unsupported opinion. When I won a prestigious scholarship to Cambridge, Michael raged. Over the year I was away, we did not exchange a single letter.

I returned to Melbourne with a mostly completed PhD thesis. I finished it and had it published within 18 months. It gained me a lecturer-ship in the English Department. Michael was still a tutor and had acquired a reputation, based partly on notoriety, partly on admiration for his sharp wit and original mind. I soon did my part to add to his less than savoury fame. Michael reputedly "fucked everything that moved". Within days of returning from Cambridge, it included me!

So, my dear and now curious Rene, what attracted me and my pussy to Michael. As you recall, he was neither 'nice' (like your Martin) nor an Alpha male. In addition to being a head shorter than I, non-athletic, he was interestingly under-endowed in the lingam department. He had the absolutely thinnest and shortest cock of all my male acquaintances. But God, whenever Michael decided - or consented - to fuck me, this little cock was rock-hard, and he certainly knew how to use it.

But what aroused me more was his arrogant, no objection tolerating or expecting approach whenever he wanted to fuck. With others but you, Rene, I would find all sorts of more acceptable explanations for my reaction: For instance, that I loved Michael, admired his intellect, and felt guilty about being more successful and wealthier than him.

None of this was the truth for me. Yes, for Michael, our relationship had always been a strained one because of his non-acceptance of my relative success. For example, in the last year of our marriage, I was promoted Senior Lecturer and Michael, for the first time, to a permanent position as Senior Tutor. So, jealousy had always given his sex with me an extra edge of triumphant cruelty. After prolonged periods of disdain and showy indifference, Michael would just take me in a show of naked sexual aggression. It expressed the fundamental truth of our relationship, it was the only thing that bound us together. We never liked, or respected each other, or sought each other's company except to fight and fuck.

And Rene, I was addicted. God, it turned me on whenever he wordlessly stepped up to me. There were dozen of possibilities. He could decide to tear open my top and sink his nails into my tits and nipples marking me for weeks, or slide his hand into my pants and press his fingers deep into my unready, but then quickly wetting-up vagina. Or, he could bend me - and I let him often - over the table, my computer, the window-sill and rip my panties off and fuck me in his particular ways. Michael's steely little prick would spear me from behind, and three of his fingers would push into and brutally torment my throbbing pussy from the front until I shook and twisted in a torrential coming. I could neither stop his doings nor my incredible surges of pleasure. I tried my hardest and mostly succeeded in denying the latter. And then, Michael would zip up and grin and walk away.

I don't know (?? Don't I, Rene?) why I married Michael, as marriage only hardened our differences. Added to Michael's stalled academic career was my higher income and, because of the generosity of my parents, personal wealth. Being married, it began to matter more crucially than before. I had bought a house, it was my property. Throughout our living-together, Michael contributed little or nothing financially. Neither he nor I had, I believe, any illusion about our marriage improving and lasting. But, if and when it would end, I was not going to walk out of it. It was Michael that would either decide to leave or - just as likely - be sent packing by me!

Instead of a calm, although resented acceptance of the situation, it heightened the sexual tension between Michael and me to an extreme level. It became for us a game, an ever-mounting challenge. How far would Michael want to, dare, and be allowed to go in this sexual pandemonium before he or I would bring down the curtain?

Within a year of marrying, we vacated a shared bed. Put simply, the tension arising from Michael's prolonged refusals to fuck, robbed us both of needed sleep. I took, therefore, possession of our bedroom and turned it into my private den. Michael did the same with our smaller guestroom. Throughout our marriage, thus, most of our sexual meetings began with an act of invasion.

After lengthy intervals of Michael barely talking to me and treating me with studied disinterest, he would suddenly appear in the door of my den. He always waited for light-out to find me in bed. If already asleep, I would wake-up blinded by light to look at Michael standing in the doorway. He was either in his front-open dressing gown or, in warm weather, naked, always with a rampant erection of his finger-like-pointing little cock challenging me. I am now, dear Rene, somewhat ashamed to admit how seldom I pretended not to wake up. On the few occasions I did, Michael flicked the light-switch a few times on/off, before turning and firmly closing the door behind him. Whenever that happened, he ignored me, as punishment, for weeks.