“Have you missed this?” he asked, his voice thick as he took a step closer. I could feel the hot whisper of his whiskey-soaked breath on the back of my neck, the solid press of his body against me. So familiar, and yet still fresh and exciting.

We’d been ‘hooking up’, as people call it nowadays, on and off, for years. Nearly two decades, in fact. We’d both had serious, monogamous relationships with other people during that time, but it was almost a given that when those relationships faltered and died, we would find our way back into bed. Or the back seat of his Audi. Or a disabled loo at the Royal Festival Hall.

I allowed myself to lean back into him slightly, grateful for the support and loving the way his swelling cock pressed against my bottom.

“What do you think?” I murmured, playfully grinding myself against his crotch. I heard his breath catch in his throat, and he growled as he lowered his head. I felt the soft wet glide of his tongue run up my neck until it reached my earlobe, and I purred. He nipped gently at the lobe with his teeth, while he ran his hands over my hips and up to my breasts, which he kneaded slowly as I continued to grind my arse against him.

“Shall I fuck you?” he growled, picking up the rhythm of my hips and moving in tandem against me. Lifting one hand from my breasts, he gripped a handful of my hair and pulled my head back until my mouth was aligned with his own. Now only millimetres away from his blistering, devastating kisses, I was burning.

“Hmm?” he prodded. My mouth was watering, hungry for the taste of his tongue. I lunged forward to kiss him, but he yanked me back hard by the hair before I could reach him. I yelped, but he hadn’t really hurt me. He was always careful not to hurt me too much.

“No no,” he growled. “You haven’t answered my question yet, you naughty little bitch.”

I loved this game. It was our ritual. I gave a throaty laugh, and saw the wicked twinkle light up his eyes.

“Hmmm?” he breathed, as he lowered his mouth to my shoulder and bit the soft flesh firmly. “Are you a naughty little bitch? You are, aren’t you?”

The hand that had been gripping my breast slid down, down, down, ghosting over my hips and along my pubic bone. Desire oozed from my very centre. I felt the wet trail sliding down the inside of my thighs, as a strangled moan caught in my throat.

He chuckled. I knew he was perfectly aware of the effect he was having on me, how badly I wanted him. But I also knew how much he liked to play with his food.

I’d met him when I was just 19 years old. He fucked me for the first time three years later. Though he hadn’t been my first lover, he had been the first to make me come.

I’ve always thought that he saw it as a matter of masculine honour that he should wrest as many orgasms as possible out of me that first time. A bit of arrogance and narcissism, too, I suspect. I’m not complaining. Hell, the memory of our first time together still resonated all these years later.

I’d had too much to drink at a party one night and confessed to a group of friends that I didn’t get all the fuss about sex. I sometimes joke to myself that if I’d looked at him in that moment or, indeed, if I’d been sober enough to notice anything, I might have seen a light bulb go off above his head. He’s always enjoyed a challenge.

He’d waited before he pounced, though. It had been about a week later, when we were all alone and sitting in his kitchen with a bottle of merlot and a box of After Eights (“I hate these fucking things,” he’d dead-panned, “but they make me feel like such a bloody grown-up”.)

“Soooooo,” he began, drawing out the word as he’d leaned forward to refill my glass. “You don’t enjoy sex?”

I practically choked on a half-chewed chocolate mint.

“Oh, fuck off and mind your own beeswax”, I laughed.

“Seriously, I’m interested.”

“Yeah, I bet you are. Pervert.” I rolled my eyes and tutted.

“It’s not that,” he began, then seeing the disbelieving look on my face corrected, “okay, it’s not just that”

He raised his eyebrows lasciviously and we had both laughed.

“Do you know what I think the problem is?”

“Oh, here we go…”

“No really, listen. I’ve met two of your boyfriends. They’re not really up to much, are they?” He shook his head in mock sadness, as I’d giggled and feigned shock.

He continued, “These young, relatively inexperienced, frankly pathetic men you insist on dating are clearly not up to the task. If they were doing it right,” he paused, “if they were doing you right, you’d feel differently.”

He grinned. I batted back quickly.

“Meanie. Just because they aren’t of your advanced years” (he was nine years older than me, and I liked to tease him about it) “doesn’t mean that they’re incapable.”

“Do they make you come?” he retorted, and suddenly the humour and silliness of the conversation had gone. He’d fixed me with his bright blue eyes and something quivered low in my belly.

“Has anyone of them ever made you come?” he asked again.

I opened my mouth, stunned by the question and shocked at the intensity of my physical response, but gave no reply. He had nodded, sagely. He knew the answer.

“You’re very sexy.” He’d just said it, simply, directly, like it was an indisputable fact. The truth was, I didn’t think of myself as sexy at all. And next to the kind of girls he always had hanging off his arms (and lips), I felt like a frumpy, pre-maturely aged also-ran. I could feel the colour rise in my cheeks as I muttered, “Fuck off…”

“You are. You are. And I think…” he ran a hungry gaze over me slowly, and when his eyes returned to mine, he continued, “I think there is a highly sensual woman in there desperate to be set free.”

I couldn’t speak. On the one hand, I felt embarrassed and exposed. But on the other, I felt turned on in a way that had been completely new to me. He was flirting with me — me, of all people! — and I had immediately decided to flirt back. I desperately wanted him to kiss me. Touch me. Undress me. Despoil me.

Surprised at my sudden confidence, I met his gaze squarely and replied, “Oh really, and I suppose you’re going to be the one to free her?”

I took another sip of wine. He raised an eyebrow again and smirked, then sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette. The smoke curled around his head and he sat silently for a moment, taking my measure.

I was lost in a kind of fog. My heart was fluttering and I felt like my face was on fire, but I couldn’t look away as his blue eyes penetrated me. We’d sat there silently staring at each other for what felt like ages, gauging each other, challenging each other, before he stubbed out his half-finished cigarette and pulled his chair back. I can still hear the scrape against the parquet floor. Our eyes remained locked as he stood up, walked to my side of the table and knelt beside me. Taking a strand of my hair and twisting it slowly around his finger, he’d whispered, “Do you want me to be?”

And that was how it had started. Years ago now. And we’d done just about everything under the sun, sexually speaking, at some point or another in the intervening years. But no matter how often he touched me like this, it never got stale.

Neither of us were as young and agile as we once were; me with my stretch marks and saggy skin, him with a slight paunch now where perfectly chiselled washboard abs once had been. But it didn’t matter. I still made him hard. He still made me wet. We were drawn like magnets to each other, though we both knew we could never be anything more than just sex.

With one hand still gripping a handful of my hair, he deftly unzipped himself with the other. I heard the clink of the metal teeth and felt the rustle behind me as he drew his erection out of his trousers, and shivered. Reaching a hand behind me, I felt urgently for his bare flesh, desperate to feel him hard in my hand, craving to hear the familiar moan break from his lips as I stroked his pulsing length. Naughty little bitch…

But he pulled away from my seeking grasp suddenly.

“No, not yet baby,” he begged, his voice deep and throaty. “Not yet. Slow. I won’t last otherwise.”

Slow. Oh god, this was going to be torture. Delicious, but unbearable torment. I wanted him so badly. I’d been waiting for this for so long, and I didn’t know how much longer I could contain the force of my desire before I would erupt like a volcano. Did he not remember how long it had been since our last time together? Didn’t he realise that while he had been living it up in Frognal with the leggy young blonde for the last six years, I had spent the last three of those years divorced and alone, sexless except for frequent furtive masturbations in which I pictured his face above me, imagined his piercing eyes watching from under heavy lids as I writhed against the mattress and moaned his name out loud as I climaxed?

No“, I reminded myself. “He doesn’t know. Because you lied and told him you’ve been out there painting the town red. Shagging your way across London. And why? Because you couldn’t bear the thought of anyone feeling sorry for you, least of all him. Because, deep down inside, you wanted him to be jealous of all those ‘other’ men, dump Blondie, and bury himself between your thighs again.”

Now the girlfriend was gone at long last, but I was still going to have to wait a bit longer. At least he was here now, though, and judging by his hitching breath and the heat emanating from his body, he wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. Not until this was done. Not until we were both spent, and panting against each other’s sweat-slicked skin. Sleepy. Satisfied. Sated.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Slow then. You’re in charge.”

I had intended it as an assurance that I would allow him to lead us in this dance; that he could dictate the pace, and I would willingly follow. However, it ended up having the opposite effect. It seemed to inflame him, igniting a violent ardour that was almost frightening in its intensity.

“Fuck,” he growled, and yanked me back by the hair again, harder this time. He pressed his mouth roughly to mine and kissed me hungrily. I felt the sandpaper caress of his five o’clock shadow and tasted the familiar tang of his tongue as he plunged it repeatedly into my open mouth. I felt like a drowning swimmer being pulled under by a dangerous current, flailing weakly, needing someone else to breathe the air back into my lungs. But I wasn’t entirely sure whether he was the lifeguard of my metaphor, or the riptide.

The force of his kiss and the fingers in my hair pulled me back hard against his body, and now at long last I could feel the hot naked flesh of his cock prodding the back of my bare thigh. The electric spark of skin touching skin made us both moan, in perfect unison, into each other’s gaping, gasping mouths.

In one fluid movement our lips parted, he released his grip on my hair and, grabbing my shoulders, he spun me around to face him. Eye to eye now, we stared hard at each other, our breathing ragged and heavy. He reached out his right hand to cup my cheek and run his lightly calloused thumb over my bottom lip. Back and forth he continued to graze the tender skin, firmer and more briskly with each sweep, until the blood drew close to the surface and the nerve endings tingled.

As he bothered the flesh with his increasingly ardent strokes, he lowered his gaze to admire his handiwork, and I could see he was pleased with the results. I could feel how much my lips had reddened and swelled. I could tell from the ravenous fire in his eyes, his dilated pupils and his heavy-lidded stare that my mouth must now resemble a cunt. I grabbed his wrist to stay his hand and then, flashing him a knowing smile, I sank to my knees.

“Fuck,” he repeated, but this time his voice was softer, less a growl than a purr. A hum. Resignation to the fact that there would be no holding back, despite his previous plea. We couldn’t hold back this tide, not right now. We wanted each other too much.

I grasped the waistband of his open trousers and slid them down his legs; he bent his head, watching me intently whilst pulling off his shirt. I ran my hands back up, over his tense calves and taut thighs, over his beautiful bum and into the waistband of his underwear. Slowly and teasingly, I pulled them down to expose his hard on, which sprang out eagerly and bobbed before my eyes. Urgent and angry, the flushed member jutted out proudly and I, elated to behold his turgid cock once again, leaned forward to bestow a soft kiss on its dewy head.

“Oh, shit,” he moaned, and I heard him swallow hard. I wrapped a hand gently around the root of his penis, holding it steady, and darted my tongue out to tease the tip, graze the glans, and flick at the frenulum. I cupped his balls with my other hand, loving the feel of their velvety weight and, burying my nose in his groin, I inhaled deeply.

There is something indomitable about the smell of his balls. Mae West famously said that a man’s kiss is his signature, but for me it is the tangy odour of his sex. His smell is pungent, but not unpleasantly so. It reminds me of a muggy carpet of moss on a forest floor, or the animal musk of a male deer. Primeval, primordial, ancient; his smell is my favourite perfume.

I licked a long stripe up his shaft and savoured the redolent male aroma as it filled my nostrils.

“Ohhhh, C-C-Chrriiisst,” he stuttered, the syllables drawn out long out like stretchy rubber bands. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“So, remind me again who’s in charge?” I chuckled, teasingly. In reply, he grabbed my hair roughly, gripped my head in his hands, and thrust his sweating sex against my face.

“Gee, I dunno, bitch,” he retorted sarcastically, and grunted as I opened my lips to suck hungrily at his humid flesh. “Which one of us is on their knees with my balls in their mouth?….”

I chuckled a little, and the vibration obviously tickled at his balls.

“Hmm, oh good bitch, good,” he moaned as he placed a hand on either side of my head and pulled me in closer. I sucked his left ball deep into my mouth, while I gripped his prick and stroked him slowly up and down. I heard him swallow hard again. “You missed this, didn’t you, bitch? My balls in your mouth…. Yes, suck on them, there’s a good girl.”

I moaned into his crotch and alternated between lapping at his balls with the flat of my tongue and sucking them into my mouth, my cheeks hollowed and my saliva overflowing. I loved him giving me directions; in “real-life” he’s always been pretty much in control and, yes, sure giving me orders on what to do to him and how to do it is pretty controlling. But he knows that I get off on it, and I know that he does, too. And I know that once he starts talking really dirty and giving me orders, it means that he’s really fucking turned on.

“Yesssssss,” he hissed as I slowly let his ball slip from between my lips. “Now put my cock in your mouth. I want to fuck your beautiful mouth.”

I was so hot, and so wet. I could feel myself spilling down my own thighs. Obediently, I ran my tongue over my lips to lubricate them, took his length in my hand, let a dribble of spit fall onto the blushing head of his prick, and then lowered my mouth onto him. He gripped my long hair tightly in his hands, pulling it up in a makeshift ponytail and holding it tightly in his fist while I worked him up and down. With one hand gripping the base of his cock, I used my other hand and my mouth to suck and tease at his head, my tongue circling, flicking, lapping. He groaned and grunted, raising his hips rhythmically up to meet my eager, hungry mouth, sometimes hitting the back of my throat and activating my gag reflex. Whenever I would gag a little, he reassured and praised me.

“Good girl, good bitch, that’s it. You can take it, yes you can….. Beautiful……”

I drew him in deep and tried to relax the back of my throat. He’s not a small guy in the trouser department; in fact he’s hung kind of like a donkey. So getting all of him all the way down my throat has never been easy. But I’ve always loved how much it pleases him when I do. The first time I managed to take him all the way down, he came so hard, shouting my name, begging me not to stop, and afterwards he praised me until I felt like I was floating on air. I’d made him proud, and I’d made him surrender to me completely. It was worth the sore neck, the discomfort and the tears.

But I hadn’t done this with many men in the intervening years, and certainly none so well-endowed as him, so I was well and truly out of practice. Tears ran down my cheeks as I struggled to get as much of him down my gullet as possible. He went slowly; he was still making thrusting motions, but not so deeply that it would hurt or choke me. Instead he caressed my head, my face, my hair, and coaxed my jaw wider. I closed my eyes tightly, the tears streaming and, I could tell, mascara running down my face (honestly, it must look to him like being fellated by a panda).

“Yes, baby. That’s right. Oh, your mouth feels incredible. Good, good, bitch, you’ve always been so good at this,” he panted. “So fucking good….” He growled the word “fucking” from between tightly clenched teeth, and it was so sexy I almost came on the spot. I sped up the rhythm of my hand on the base of his shaft, and he groaned. He gave a couple of deep thrusts that made my jaw click, and then pulled out.

“Oh, fuck. Get on your hands and knees. Now.”

I willingly complied, and within seconds he was behind me, his hard, wet member prodding the skin of my buttocks as he unhooked my bra and threw it across the room. He reached his hands up under my arms to cup them, kneading the flesh and squeezing the nipples, and licked a long stripe along the indentation of my spine, up to the back of my neck, before planting a soft kiss on my nape.

“Do you want me to fuck you, baby? Like this?”

I moaned “yes” in a kind of delirium. I wanted him so much. I felt as though part of me was floating above and watching us, me bent over on all-fours like a beast of burden, him kneeling behind me with his stiff cock in one hand, his other caressing my upturned bottom and rubbing my pussy from behind, ready to prise me open like ripe fruit, dripping with juice. And yet, conversely, I have never felt so ‘in’ my own body; aware of every nerve, every synapse, every heartbeat, every surging of my pulse. I was attuned to it all.

I felt the head of his prick nudging my entrance, and moaned again, “Yes….Please, please fuck me.”

“Fuck me please, who, kitten?” he teased, sliding the head of his cock up and down my labia.

“Fuck me please, Daddy Bear!” I almost screamed the pet name out. He chuckled, and the warm sound resonated in my head.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and rewarded me by thrusting his full length deep into my cunt.

As soon as his hard length was sheathed inside me, we both moaned loudly. God, I had forgotten how good he felt; thick, long, and utterly filling. His rigid cock could rend me in two with just one exquisite plunge, let alone with the rough, bruising thrusts he hammered me with now.

“Fuck, bitch, yes!” he grunted, and I keened and whimpered as he called me filthy names; bitch, whore, slut. I loved the humiliating endearments in the same way a child adores praise from a beloved parent, and for the same reason. Because I knew that I was pleasing him. I knew that whenever he fucked me like he was angry with me, it was a sure fire sign that he loved me more than ever. There’s always been a part of me that’s wondered, hoped even, that when he fucks me angry its because he’s annoyed at himself for loving me too much. Loving me more than he ever wanted to, maybe.

“Hit me,” I begged, slamming my hips back against him to meet each brutal thrust. “Fucking hit me!”

He slapped my arse hard, really hard, and I cried out from the stinging blow. He hit me again, and my whole body shook from the force. In that moment I wanted every humiliation, every physical pain he could possibly inflict. My greatest pleasure was to be used by him, his fuck-doll, an empty vessel for him to slap and bite and fuck and fill until he was spent.

He reached a hand around my throat and leaned close to my ear.

“You love this, don’t you slut?” he growled.

“Yes,” I moaned.

“Yes who, slut?

“Yes Daddy Bear.”

“Good girl,” he murmured as he fucked me so hard that I could barely breathe. “Good bitch. Good little slut.”

I squeezed my eyes closed tightly as he continued to grunt in my ear, his hot breath electric against the sweaty sheen on my skin.

“Still so tight,” he moaned, appreciatively. “Still juicy. Just like the filthy cum-whore you always were, huh?”

“Yes, Daddy Bear.” I moaned in agreement. “Yes, I’m a filthy cum-whore. I want your cum, inside me, all over me.”

“Yeah, you do. You naughty little slut.”

He was panting hard, and punctuated every word with a hard, brutal thrust.

“Yes, Daddy Bear, I’m a naughty little slut. I’m your naughty little slut.”

I felt his sweat-dampened forehead fall against my bare shoulder, and I knew that he was watching himself slide in and out of me.

“Beg,” he commanded simply, closing his hand tighter around my throat. I knew what he wanted from me.

“Please may I have your cum, Daddy Bear?”

Do better!” His voice was raised, forceful and demanding.

“Please! Please, Daddy Bear. Please give me your cum. I want it so badly. Please, please… ”

I repeated the word please over and over like a mantra. My voice shook and hitched, his hard and violent thrusts making slapping sounds against my bottom and making my whole body quake.

“Yes……” he groaned and, letting go of my throat, he gripped both my hips and pounded into me. “Yes…. Oh god yes, you beautiful fucking bitch!!”

He shouted as he pulled himself out of my cunt and with a couple of brisk jerks with his palm, he came hard, in thick, juicy ropes all over my bottom and lower back. I rocked and swooned as the warm liquid painted my skin.

He fell to his knees, gripped my hips and pulled me back hard against his face. I bent forward as far as I could, opening myself up wide as his mouth and tongue lapped and sucked at my pussy hungrily. One of his fingers slid down against my clit, and he flicked and rubbed the hard button as his mouth devoured my cunt. I came hard, with a shout, my legs trembling and buckling as I drenched his face with my juices. He drank me in like he had been lost in a desert and my pussy was an oasis.

I came again and again crying, “Please, Daddy Bear! Too much!” as tears started to roll down my cheeks. It was overwhelming, orgasm after orgasm rolling over me, with barely a moment to breathe between them, and as I became more and more over-stimulated, the pleasure was turning to pain. He persisted, though, now with two fingers inside me, fucking hard, while his other hand slapped and rubbed my clitoris. I howled like an animal. I wanted him to stop, but at the same time, I never wanted the sensations to end.

“Squirt for me, bitch,” he cooed, adoringly. “C’mon, there’s a good girl. All over Daddy Bear’s face, that’s right…”

I whined and cried as his jutting fingers thrust hard, vigorously beating against my g-spot again and again. An intense heat spread through my lower belly, and the magnificent feeling of sudden release was incredible. It felt as though something went “pop” inside me, and as liquid shot out of me, I heard him shout triumphantly, and bury his face between my thighs for a moment, before resuming his brisk stimulation and making me spurt again.

When the eruptions subsided, and I was crying uncontrollably, he drew me down onto the floor with him, my back to his chest, wrapped my shaking body in his broad arms and kissed the side of my face. I could smell the salty tang of my own scent on his face as I let my head fall back on his shoulder, wasted and exhausted. As he stroked my face gently, soothing my tears and holding me tight as I came down, I heard him whisper “There’s never been anyone like you, baby. I’ve missed you so much”, and my heart danced happily inside my chest….

Written by

Erotica writer, Audiobook Narrator / Producer, Freelancer, Blogger. Physically residing in London, UK, but spending most of my time living inside my own head.

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