To Bi or Not to Bi ...

What had brought me, Mari, to this state of shameless horniness? It came from the essays Mark and I had written and exchanged. Mark had suggested we set aside a fortnight to write how we imagine our love-making on our first night together.

It was a task I failed. I wrote an insipid account of kissing, groping, and kissing some more during a shy first fuck, ending in a thoroughly unlikely orgasm for both of us. It was just me. I knew already that with Mark, our loving would be very, very different. However, as I composed my essay, I did not yet dare imagine how he would take the lead.

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. He told me to undress, slowly, garment by garment. Every piece of my clothing dropped to the floor, Mark matched with one of his. Then I stood there naked before him! I drew in and tensed my stomach to hide my belly folds and pushed back my shoulders to show my tits in their upright, pointy-nippled glory.

Mark opened his arms, and I moved into his embrace and his kisses. He placed them over and up and down my belly and midriff. And then my breasts: - God, how he aroused my tits as I pressed them in his face! When I bent down to search out his caressing lips, they met mine half-open. Mark breathed into my mouth, whispering how beautiful and sexily delicious I was and how he would 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 my midriff into my armpit and the bulge of one breast. Whispering, he told me how he would make love, first to my hungry mouth -- sinking in a probing tongue -- and then to my delectable pussy and sexy ass.

The hinted prospect made my head spin even before he turned me on my belly. And then his lips began their journey from neck and shoulder down my side to the top of my thighs. Slowly passing to-and-fro my frantically shut thighs, Mark placed kiss by teasing kiss. God, it was so close to my quiveringly hidden pussy! Eventually, his lips moved up the other side of my shivering body, feeling my goosebumps under his lips and tongue. It was not the cold!

And then Mark's tongue began to move down my spine to lick through the crack of my in-panic cramping together buttocks and thighs. When Mark, starting 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 began to kiss me open. And yes, God, did I gasp when his tongue slid through my pussy's opening slit. And then I just whimpered as Mark slowly licked 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 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 Mark lifted my ass even higher than I had stretched it. And then his deliciously knobbed, thick cock rammed into my red-hot, slippery-wet, already wildly 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 what it could do to my pussy the cocks of the three - make it four - men that 'I have known'. I did not; get to know them like this. Neither did they - God, no! - know me! We were never more strangers to each other than when we fucked!

Mari, I read Mark's essay repeatedly. I felt we knew each other down to our deepest sexual core. Sometimes, after another reading, I stripped naked and went to bed. Then I stretched out, and one hand tore at 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 me that I had to end it. I was 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!

Following our exchange of First Night Stories, we refined and expanded our Q.&A. game. The idea of combining the question of 'Do you like ...?' (e.g. 'being tied up?') with 'Your Experience:' (from 'Never' over 'Rarely' 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, pornographic mails

Mari, let me confess a suspicion. Let's leave aside your reputation as a published author in Australian Literature and your unblemished record as a retired Associate Professor. The way I begin to know you, I believe you have a taste for pornography. So enjoy! I am pretty sure that some of these emails, especially Mark's, when you read them will make you as hot under your panties as they continuously made me.

While I could not match him, I was pretty pleased with one of mine. When he answered my query about 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 a '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. I not only submitted in dozens of different ways but I hungered for more! Were there no limits? But one evening, a mail arrived with a question that brought me to a boundary I could not cross.

Within the sexual mores of today, the question was neither unusual nor more outrageous than the ones I had happily answered and the 'Likes' I had admitted. So why did Mark's question, 'Would you like me to fuck you in the ass?' and the associated five grades of the possible responses so unsettle me?

I was in turmoil. I tried for two days to formulate dozens of replies. The fact was I could not put down any of the numbers demanded and risk having to respond to Mark's possible answers. So, I mailed him a shockingly undeserved 'Sorry, Mark. I cannot take this any further. It's my fault, not yours. Forgive me.'

I pressed 'Send'. Then, crying, I cancelled my Web Address and with it the most fulfilling sexual relationship I had ever enjoyed.

I better stop now!

Love,

Rene.

Text-Messages, two hours later:

M. to R.:

Wow! What a tempting introduction to what I will devour in Smoko! I'm sure it will appeal greatly to my, I happily admit, pornographic tastes. Also -- no, foremost -- I am thrilled to learn so much about your hot-glowing, sexy, smouldering longings. These, with Mark gone, now really stoke my less-than-innocent interests in 'shy' Rene. I have not overlooked that you still have not convincingly told me 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 less than innocent interest in me. After what I've let you know about me, what other interest would be fitting or could I want? Also, you are right: I have not yet told all. Neither have you!

P.S. 3 -- 'Gladly'. See photo attached.

From: Mari"s URL

To: Rene's URL

Subject: Telling all: Who to?

My dearest Rene,

After your last mail and the follow-up text, 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 pussy-shot delighted me. After 21 years, you, my 'shy'(???) Rene, have still the sexiest, delectably kissable, and so, so fuckable pussy! God, how I envy you.

To change the subject -- or do I -- I hope you are 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 shack, so lovingly fucked by Bob the Builder. Thus, the hut is full of, 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 vagina, I spread, for the first time, my legs in front of a mirror. From that moment on, I knew that my snatch 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 pricks. It was not that my misshaped, I thought, vagina lacked in nervy sensitivity. 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, too-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 my lively dirty mind more 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 and came from a three-generational Indian railway family. He worked on a thesis and book about the 19th-century British 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 smooch on the banks of the Cam - the way he tasted and smelled. And he was interestingly attracted to me.

We could not risk fucking in our respective colleges. So, I began to accompany Anil on his research-related visits to the industrial centres of Britain's railway boom. His costs for this were borne by his study grant, and I had generous parents. We fucked in seedy hotels in down-at-heels, rustbelt towns. Slumming heightened somewhat my so middle-class sexual arousal.

Also interesting was Anil's Indian scholar's appreciation of the Kama Sutra. He had studied it in detail through a long, virginally frustrated youth.

On our first trip, Rene, Anil lent me his well-thumbed copy. I could study it while he visited the historical sites and industrial museums. And then, at night, usually after another meal in a Paki- or Indian diner, we retired to our dingy room and a 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, it became soon apparent 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 admired - I began to watch Anil with amusement., I also learned that I could make him very quickly and prematurely come. I only had to touch him to switch his attention from the theory to me. I was, after all, the woman he was supposed to pleasure. Anil's quite beautiful cock would discharge much too soon, and we would abandon Position 21 without reaching tantric perfection.

More serious was that Anil seemed to neglect deliberately two critical elements in his recommended text. I, for one, was most attracted by the centrality of the cock- and pussy, the lingam- and yoni-worship in 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 it. 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 came to believe that Anil was so disenchanted by its looks that he struck yoni-worship from his erotic script. Once I realised this, I lost all interest in Anil and 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 impressions. 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, were considered talented, and had 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 months examined more closely. The final judgement was usually 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 into his orbit'. Within days of returning from Cambridge, it included me!

So, my dear and now curious Rene, what attracted me and my ugly pussy to Michael. As you recall, he was neither a nice man like your Martin nor physically 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 thinnest cock of all my male acquaintances. But God, whenever Michael decided to fuck me, this cock was rock-hard. And he certainly knew how to compensate for what it lacked in circumference.

But what aroused me most was Michael's arrogance; his no objection tolerating or expecting manner 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, our relationship had always been a strained one. For Michael, there was his non-acceptance of my success. For example, in the last year of our marriage, I was promoted to Senior Lecturer and Michael, for the first time, to a permanent position as Tutor.

So, jealousy had always given his sex with me an extra edge of cruelty. After 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; sex 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 dozens of possibilities. He could decide to tear open my top and sink his nails into my tits, marking me for weeks. Or he pushed his hand into my pants to press his fingers deep into my unready but then quickly wetting up vagina. Or, he bent me -- and I let him -- over the table, or my computer or -- at night with the room's light on - the window sill. He'd rip my panties off and fuck me! 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. I shook and twisted myself into a torrential orgasm. I could neither stop his attacks nor my unforgivable surges of pleasure. I tried my hardest and mostly succeeded in hiding the latter. And Michael would zip up and grin and walk away.

I don't know (?? Don't I, Rene?) why I married Michael. Marriage only hardened his attitude. Added to Michael's stalled academic career was my higher income and, because of the generosity of my parents, personal wealth. Being married, 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 my house. Michael 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 months of getting married, we vacated a shared bed. The tension arising from Michael's prolonged refusals to fuck, robbed me 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. Thus, throughout our marriage, almost all of our marital intercourse began with an act of invasion.

After lengthy intervals of Michael barely talking to me and treating me with studied disdain, he would turn up at the door of my den. He mostly waited for light out to find me in bed. If already asleep, I would wake up, blinded by the switched-on lights, to look at Michael standing in the doorway. He was either in his front-open dressing gown or, in warm weather, naked, with the rampant erection of his finger-like-pointing little cock challenging me. I am now, dear Rene, somewhat ashamed to admit how seldom I pretended to be disinterestedly sound asleep. 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.

Most of the time, I opened my eyes. We looked at each other, wordless. Michael stepped up to my bed, pulled away the covering, dropping it with his dressing gown to the floor. And then he took me.

He either turned me on my belly and rammed his little prick into my high-lifted cunt, or he raised and pressed my legs against my ears and drilled his steely erection into my stretched-up vagina. All this in silence. When he looked at me, reading my expression, I shut my eyes, determined to give nothing away. But then, of course, my wet-hot, throbbing pussy betrayed me once again as Michael fucked and fingered it into another uncontrollable orgasm. And he, disdainfully silent and grinning, sprayed his semen over my ass or heaving belly!