Category Archives: fucking

Frisky business among the Venetian searchlights: Food for Thought Friday

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f4tf_button2The Food for Thought Friday people have asked: 

Where is the riskiest/most adventurous place that you have had sex?

Did you get caught?

 

My answer:

Richard Wagner died in his rooms at a palazzo on the Grand Canal in Venice. The locals, naturally, turned this great historical building, rich in artistic associations, into a casino. 

Wagner's old digs. At night

Wagner’s old digs at night. See the dark area on the second floor, towards the left? We were there

A few years ago I went to the Casino de Venezia with Niamh, a girl I’d met in Dublin. Gambling bores me, and she said she didn’t care about casinos one way or the other. But I wanted to have a look at Wagner’s old rooms, and she came along because we were sharing a bed so we might as well share this too. Also, I’d promised and demonstrated that if she didn’t do as she was told I’d smack her arse. So there was that. She was fond of the hairbrush, in particular.

I guess I should admit that I’d answered her ad on Fetlife, once I realised I was going to be in Ireland for a while, so even before we’d met we’d both established that Niamh was a girl who liked doing as she was told. And getting a smacked arse. Anyway, there we both were. Niamh still wore that afternoon’s wonderful summer dress, the top of which was held up mainly by her breasts. I wasn’t so glamorous, since I was in jeans, but at least I had on decent shoes and a jacket. 

Once we were in the top floor I asked a few casino staff where the Wagner rooms were. They didn’t know. They’d never heard of Wagner. If I wanted an explanation of anything you could do with dice and some cards – in public, at least – then they’d be happy to help, but this Wagner fellow … They’d shrug and hold their hands open and empty.

I got annoyed with this, so when I found a closed door I opened it, and when I found a closed curtain I drew it. When I found the back stairs we went down them to the mezzanine floor where Wagner had lived. And died. It turned out that someone had made a Wagner Museum out of Wagner’s old rooms. It was closed of course. Well, it was closed in the sense that it was dark and there was no-one there. But I turned the door handle, and it opened.  

I wondered about security alarms, and decided that I could probably bullshit my way out of trouble if an alarm went off, and I held the door open for her. Then I followed, and after a minute it was clear that if there was an alarm someone had forgotten to switch it on. Italy’s cool like that. 

I moved through the exhibits, feeling a certain mix of excitement and disappointment. Excitement because we’re here, where Wagner lived! And this is his stuff! And disappointment because I’d hoped for some sense of communion and connection. But there wasn’t. There’s his piano, but he’s dead. He’s not here. 

Wagner's Rhinemaidens. They may kill you but it's worth it. Drawing: Arthur Packham (detail)

Wagner’s Rhinemaidens. They may kill you but it’s worth it. Drawing: Arthur Rackham (detail)

But there was a certain kind of homage to the great man when Niamh came back from her exploration. I kissed her, and then pushed her dress down to her waist, so her breasts were bare.

Like a Rhinemaiden’s. Like a Flower Maiden. Then I put light pressure on her shoulders and she sank to her knees, unzipped me and took out my cock. She licked, then kissed my glans, then opened her mouth a little wider. Oddly, it was me who said, “Ahhh.”

So I was standing there, my cock deep in the mouth of a bare-breasted Irish girl, when I heard something. A security guard had walked onto the mezzanine floor. He’d seen us. I put my hands on Niamh’s shoulders and squeezed, to let her feel how pleased I was with her, though my cock was already conveying that information, and to obscure her peripheral vision.

Then I looked at the security guard and shrugged the apologetic Italian shrug. Niamh was still sucking me, oblivious. He considered for a second or two: is a couple having oral sex in the museum likely to steal things? Or are they innocents pursuing innocent and harmless pleasures? He didn’t smile, but he lit a cigarette (yes, I know; it’s an old building) and wandered back to the stairs. 

overthewallLater I pulled out of Niamh’s mouth and took her by the hand. I opened the window out onto the Grand Canal. There was a ledge with a stone barrier. There were also lights lighting up the front of the casino, but they left pools of darkness at the sides of each projector. So that’s where I bent her over, smacked her pretty little ass, and took a condom from my wallet and put it on my cock. And put my cock in her. 

You’d think that was the riskier situation, but it wasn’t. Our view was fantastic, lights and gondolas and vaporetti, and the throng of people, and so was the softness of her cunt and my hardness sliding slowly together, and the gritty stone under her breasts, uncomfortable in the good way, and our urgency slowly building.

It’s a good place to fuck. Venice is a city for lovers, because without us there wouldn’t be the money to pay to preserve all those drowned streets and buildings. So there aren’t many people in Venice, I don’t think, who don’t like the sight of bare breasts joggling while their owner gets pumped from behind.

But they missed out. Even when Niamh and I came, fairly close together, and not completely succeeding in suppressing orgasm noises (we sounded like donkeys coughing), not a soul noticed us. 

Mouth to mouth 10: In Qing’s petite cunt

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There are things you can’t do, when you’re a Dom about to have sex with a vanilla woman. You can’t whack her arse if she’s awkward or displeases you. You can’t haul her into the position you want her, because a vanilla girl expects to be asked, or at least not pushed and pulled into place like an artist’s dummy. You can’t give her orders or else she’ll get stubborn, not obedient.. 

I’ve developed a style for vanilla fucking that’s unlikely to trigger any sort of anti-bdsm response. I take the lead but every so often I ask for permission. It doesn’t matter what for. I just ask her something from time to time but not so often that it becomes annoying. There are some other things, but that’ll have to be a different post. 

qing outercoursedSo I was on my knees, sliding the underside of my cock along Qing’s slippery and wet groove, while she’d bent double, her knees almost touching her nipples. Qing’s face when she was being pleasured was absurdly happy.

I hadn’t seen that expression on her before. I leaned down and kissed her; it wasn’t something anyone could not do. 

She kissed me back, and then caught my cock with her hand. I stopped, letting her capture me. That’s another difference. In vanilla sex I let that sort of thing pass, but in bdsm sex I’d have been genuinely shocked if a submissive girl had done that. I’ve have pulled her up from the bed and walloped her ass hard, until I figured I’d done enough to make her cry. (The idea is to be fair to women who don’t cry at the same stage when other women are likely to be weeping.)

qing fuckedSo, in a vanilla bed, I let Qing line my cock up so the head pressed against her cunt. I’d intended to tease her longer, but that invitation, and her soft, sleek folds were too much to resist. 

I pushed forward and though she was a tight girl she felt warm and wet around my glans. Qing frowned once, and said, “uh”.

“We’ll be fine. I’ll take care. And let me know if it’s too much.” And, because that seemed vanilla enough for a while, I pushed down on her shoulders so she couldn’t move. I took her nipples in my mouth one by one, and kissed then gently bit. Qing had closed her eyes and stopped breathing, by the time I’d repeated this.

I pushed forward, and though she was still tight on me, she was slickly, sweetly wet. I pulled back a little and pushed forward again, and she clasped my cock warmly, using her vaginal muscles to point out that I was welcome. I slipped forward, the way becoming easier as we joined, until our pelvic bones met, and I was fully lodged in her.

Mouth to mouth 9: In Qing’s bed

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Qing was slender with small and perfect breasts and nipples the colour and to some extent the shape of olives. Because of the sheer drabness of the pyjamas, I’d expected to find a huge, thick, metal-reinforced bra under her pyjama top. But if she had one she wasn’t wearing it.

I’d also expected her to close in for a hug, because she’d figure that if we were cuddling she could keep her modesty, since I wouldn’t be able to look at her breasts. So she’d surprised me when she’d stood there, letting me look at her.

Shenzhen in the smog

Shenzhen in the smog

Qing seemed to be an odd mix of mainland Chinese dowdiness and diaspora Chinese sophistication. She’d said that she grew up in Shenzen, a hideous industrial town, Shenzhen, all smoke, rubbish, noise and steel. Then she’d taken the university path as her ticket the hell out of there. That was why her English, and her lack of accent, were so unusually good.

So was the sight of her, waiting bare-breasted for me to show some appreciation. I’d decided that my choices amounted to kissing her nipples, which would be vanilla and possibly a little staid for a girl who seemed to be wanting a bit of adventure, or using my thumb and forefingers to pinch those nipples until her face showed pain and her breathing quickened. While that wouldn’t be boring it could easily be the wrong kind of painful, and slightly annoying. I could annoy my way right out of Qing’s bedroom.

So I put my hands on her hips, with my thumbs inside the pyjama bottoms so that I felt like a mild-ish sexual threat. I leaned forward and kissed her left nipple, adding special effects like sometimes trying to suck her entire breast into my mouth, and sometimes lifting my head so the cold night air caught her wet olive. She whined when I took my mouth away, so I was doing the right thing. 

asian-girl 1I kissed and sucked her breasts for some time, and then turned my face from side to side, letting my teeth graze along her rubber-hard nipples. I glanced up to find Qing’s fiercely concentrating face, eyes closed. 

So I pushed her pyjama bottoms down over her hips. Underneath she turned out to be wearing knickers with a pattern of smiley frogs joining hands and kicking like a chorus line. I ripped them down too. They might have been sexy on a less girly girl than Qing, but on her they were just too much.

Qing sat on her bed, almost naked, with her legs out and her pyjamas bunched below her knees.

I tugged the pyjamas and knickers all the way off, and she lifted her knees to help me. And to present her tiny cunt, between her raised, open thighs. She watched me as I got on my hands and knees and crawled up her white sheets towards that little cunt, like a wolf who sees a baby in the snow. 

Sex in the South Seas 11

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I was in the world of Senemelia’s pleasure, my nose and most of my mouth in her cunt, with her thighs braced on my face and her body heaving underneath me. She was making sounds that couldn’t be words, not even in Fijian. I doubted that she knew she was making them. 

But then she stopped. I could feel the tension drain away. I suppose that she’d got distracted at the last moments, since this was new and possibly “dirty”. I slowed right down, and started again.

But Senemelia took a handful of my hair. “Fuck me. Mort – Jaime, please fuck me.”

So I reached for the Gideon Bible where I’d stashed my condoms, slipped one of the things on, and pushed her down, my hands on her shoulders, holding myself over her while I looked down into her eyes. I held eye contact while I slowly pushed my way into her. She was very wet but also a very tight girl, and she winced when I had my cock all the way inside and our bodies pressed together. This awoke stupid cock pride, and also my urge to be cruel in small, measured doses. So I pressed as hard into her as I could manage, and held us there together.

Senemelia bit her lip, wide-eyed, then grunted. It was an affirmative noise. So I started again to pump her, savouring the sliding of warm, slick, velvet skin, moving very slowly. Then I was ambushed.

dark fuckSenemelia wrapped her legs around my waist and simply began to fuck me, bucking up at me, using my cock hard and fast, at more than twice the speed I’d been moving. So I sped up to join her, and we jolted each other until Senemelia came, with a series of short sighs that broke and fell like notes of a descending scale.

Before she’d recovered I put my hands under her ass and rode her, giving my very best hard and fast fuck. She began to come, again, in about a minute, and I was past any sort of control. I shouted something wordless and triumphant and released into her. 

Then we rested for a bit, puffing like steamtrains and holding each other. 

We fucked again, and again, until it was getting light. Then I fell asleep.

fiji girlWhen I woke up, about 8AM, she was gone. I vaguely remembered her getting up, a shadowy, twilight girl, about 5AM. She’d had a shower, and whispered something about getting back to her uncle’s place in Raiwaqa before he woke up. She’d kissed me on the cheek, and shut my room door carefully after her. 

I only thought of the questions I wanted to ask once she was gone. Did she have a phone number? What was her address in Raiwaqa? Did she want to see me again?

I thought of going to Raiwaqa and asking round till I found her. But that would be stupid.

A kaivelagi looking for a specific Fijian girl would certainly be noticed, and start scandalised gossip. That wouldn’t do Senemelia any good at all. 

Still, she’d taught me that sex isn’t something completely “natural”. Different cultures have different customs and different styles, not just about who’s allowed to initiate sex and how free women are allowed to be, but also about the details, the actual things people do when they’re fucking or leading up to it. And I learned that just the same, you can always work it out. Sex isn’t completely “natural”, but it partly is, and if we suspend our cultural arrogances we’ll have no trouble enjoying the differences and making them work.

But I had to leave Suva in a few days, and though I went back each of my remaining nights to the club where we’d met, I never saw Senemelia again. 

Sex in the South Seas 10

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Bed suddenly seemed urgent. I waltzed, or fox-trotted, Senemelia to the bed and pulled back the sheet. Senemelia sat down on on the edge, watching me.

I pulled my shirt over my head, not worrying about buttons. Senemelia was still sitting there when I’d finished, so I leaned down and kissed her and then, suddenly and treacherously, pushed her so she rolled onto her back. 

While she was still sprawled, legs in the air, I crawled onto the end of the bed, jeans and underpants round my ankles, and knee-walked towards her, led by my cock. I’d have thought that was a terrifying sight, but she laughed. Merrily. I’m going to have to say merrily, since that’s what it was.

When I was in range I sprawled forward, and put my hands under her ass. Senemelia looked surprised. I dipped my head, and kissed her belly, just above her pubic patch. Then I trailed my tongue downwards.

Senemelia squirmed, trying to get away. “Noooo.”

cunniI supposed that her mother, or some nun or similar from her school, had told her that oral sex is dirty and that God doesn’t like dirty things. Or something on those lines. “Senemelia, this is really fine. Lots of lovers do it. Lots of girls love it. And you look beautiful, and you smell wonderful. It’s something men like to do.”

“I’ve been dancing for hours. I’m not…” Senemelia frowned.

“It’s something I want to do. For me, to please me. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want, but … will you let me?”

It didn’t take her long. Senemelia give me that smile with which she’d tiold me she was so going to going fuck me, and lay back, head on the pillow.

“Ok. Do your worst, kaivelagi.”

So I lowered my head again, determined to make the best case for cunnilingus I possibly could. There was a slightly faecal smell underneath the coconut oil and spices on her skin, but it was warm and human rather than gross. I’d stayed in villages and housing where the washing facilities consisted of a communal cold tap, so being perfectly clean wasn’t always easy. Anyway, she may have been shy about it, but in truth she smelt good.

She was pleased enough to be licked and kissed above her cunt, and her inner thighs, and the sensitive skin beside her cunt, and when I finally let my tongue run down between her labia she gasped. That was good, obviously.

I made a pleased noise at her, and began to do her. After a while she tightened her stomach muscles and clenched her fists, pressing them into the mattress. Slim thighs raised themselves off the bed and pressed against my ears. I sped up.

Sex in the South Seas 9

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cupped breastsSenemelia’s teak-dark breasts, her belly and her arms seemed to shine in the halflight. And her eyes. I crossed to stand behind her, to take her hands away and cup her breasts in mine. Senemelia said, “Ahhhhh,” and squirmed back towards me, getting her ass against my cock. 

So that was the right thing to do. Tongue-kissing isn’t a universal practise, but maybe stroking her breasts and jamming her arse with a hard-on is a good cross-cultural practise. Senemelia liked it, anyway. Maybe I was over-generalising from a small sample.

Anyway, Senemelia wasn’t in my room to discuss comparative sexual customs.

I pinched her nipples very slightly, and she turned her head to smile back at me because I was doing something weird, but tried to squirm away. So that wasn’t a Senemelia sexual custom either. 

It would have been even better before the missionaries arrived.

It would have been even better before the missionaries arrived.

So I stuck to things that had already been well received, holding her breasts tight but painlessly,  pressing forward so my cock made known its feelings about her bum. Senemelia pressed back, and rotated her ass against me like a traditional dancer, while I ran my hands down her belly to the catch on that spangled skirt. I fumbled: there was oil on my hands, and on my shirt. Senemelia shone because she’d covered her whole body with oil.

I licked a spot on her shoulder, just below her neck. Coconut oil, I supposed. It tasted mainly of sweaty girl, with faint traces of coconut and something like chili. But Senemelia sighed and sucked her stomach in to help me undo the catch on the skirt. In a second or two it dropped to the floor. 

The knickers were faded and a little worn at the waistband. She hadn’t expected to be taking them off in company. I pushed them down to her thighs. And, because no one could possibly resist Senemelia’s perfect bubble butt, I smacked her arse. “Bed,” I said. 

Do welfare mothers make better lovers?

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I live in a village of about 7,000 people. I checked some demographic information when I was thinking of buying a place here. The population is mostly people of Scottish and German descent. I used to find it weird, after living in the city, how seldom I see brown or black people round the village, except those who’ve come up to the mountains as tourists. I’ve got used to it, though it does mean there’s no decent Indian, Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese or Lebanese food for about 100 kilometers in any direction.

Yoga and yoghurt in the mountains

Yoga and yoghurt in the mountains

A really high proportion of the people up here are single mothers. The single mothers are here because of the property prices: you can afford to live up here, with a bedroom or two for the kids, after a divorce or separation. And there’s a single mother’s mafia, a network who get each other bargains, and swap garden produce, clothes and that sort of thing, to keep living costs down.

Also, according to Neil Young so it must be true, welfare mothers make better lovers.(It’s a great song, by the way, and I recommend the version on Weld. If you ever wondered, “how much noise can Crazy Horse really make?”, this demonstrates that the answer is, “More than you could ever imagine, in your wildest dreams.”)

There’s a temptation to go all man-of-the-world when you hear bumper stickers like that: ah, yes, that welfare mother, the colours her face turns when you’re in her bed and the kids are in theirs, just a wall away, and she’s trying to suppress orgasmic screams. Her sexual abandonment and need, when you’re just got an hour left before the kids get back from school.

She has various kinds of wisdom, that come from having loved and had to leave a man, and another kind that comes with responsibility for children, that lead to a willingness to see the world and people as they are. That’s sexy too.

The man of the world says something like this, and he sighs with pleasurable reminiscence. He has a sip of whisky, breathes out and says, again, “Ahhh, yes.” I could do that. I’ve even got a library with a leather armchair.

But it’s bullshit, of course. Not because single mothers aren’t great lovers. But then, you could make up just as reasonable a story about nurses, or teachers, or librarians making better lovers. It’s one of those statements that sounds like knowledge but doesn’t really mean anything.

I’ve never known a woman bank middle-manager, or travel agent or public service policy writer, who wasn’t a brilliant lover. I guess I’m just not a man of the world. 

Anyway, I started this train of thought because I was going to write something about running a bdsm meet’n’greet group up in these mountains, and what that’s like. But I’ll come to that next time.