The Great Outdoors

I love having sex – I think we all know that by now! And I’m a bit of an exhibitionist, too. Add those together, and outdoor sex is one of those things I really enjoy, even if I don’t do it often. One of those things about outdoor sex, though, is that the potential for amazingness – and disaster – is often increased…

Let’s get the (hilarious in retrospect) disasters out of the way first, shall we? It turns out golf courses use sprinklers – and they turn on about dusk, drenching the hapless couple getting it on nearby. Who knew? Then there’s bamboo. The otherwise excellently concealed piece of parkland where I chose to fling my virginity away – yes, really – had small shoots growing. Right where the small of my back was. Didn’t matter how I repositioned myself, it always ended up just there. It was a toss-up what was less fun, that day. And then there was the day-trip to Picton where rampant horniness got the better of us, and so we put a towel down in the bush by the ferry terminal and went for it. Apparently other people had the same idea, and managed to – literally – stumble across us. Oops!

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Sticky and Slippery and Covered in Come

I’m a wanton, greedy, messy slut. Delightedly so! And while Apollo may not have known that the day we met, he certainly did just a few days later, once I’d thoroughly seduced him. It’s one of my charm points, you know. Me? Slutty. He’s fine with that. It works well for us.

Being as I am, and being polyamorous, I also share my wantonness around – another thing Apollo knew when we met (seducing a wonderful woman from Wellington the day after we met and the day before I took him home? Yeah, that might have given that away …).  But! I do keep one thing – one single solitary thing out of my great big bag of fun-sexy-stuff-to-play-with – just for him. Yes, there is one thing I do with my husband that I don’t do with any other partner – one thing that I am really happy to keep just for us.

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A Kiss is But a Dream

He stood a little over six feet and was solidly built, with a rusty-red beard, shaggy hair, and a twinkle in his eyes. He smiled over at me with a questioning shrug, and then leaned down to Apollo’s height and planted a kiss on his lips.

Apollo was caught by surprise – he’s my husband, I know that look. But the unexpectedness of the kiss notably changed to appreciation, and what may have started as a quick smooch turned into something longer, deeper.

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Because I’m a curious person, I get to wondering about how sexual the previous generations of my family were.

(This isn’t as weird as it sounds. My parents are dead. All grandparents bar one are dead. And the greats? Long gone.)

Obviously they were sexual enough to reproduce, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. That goes for the ancestors of most everyone on the planet. But were they happy? Did they smile, or ‘think of England’? Did they have relations because it was part of marriage and  expected of them, or necessary to survive, or did they take pleasure – and give pleasure – and feel joy in coming together?

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First Kiss

The first guy I ever kissed just friended me on Facebook. Which I actually think is pretty cool, so I friended him back.

It’s been a long time since that first kiss. He was first of many things, actually – first kiss, first oral (both me on him and him on me), first really heavy serious petting make-out session. And my first outdoor sexual experience. There are lots of memories there, all spanned over the period of about a year and a half, and I haven’t thought of them for quite some time.

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I am very focused. Not on my work  – although somehow I am still managing to make phone calls and update systems – but on the heavy pulsing that is focused on my cunt.

All I want to do is wrestle my hand inside my trousers, inside my knickers, and slide across my clit to my cunt. I can feel my wetness. I clench my thighs, noting the slick movement of my lips against each other.

I want to touch myself.

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Wicked Tongues

I love cunnilingus. I love having the opportunity for my lips and tongue and chin and nose to discover the secrets of another; and I love to have my legs spread, my cunt open and welcoming of anothers’ teasing face.

There are so many different ways that a mouth can connect themselves with my cunt. And so many partners, each with their own way of connecting with me.

There’s the gentle approach: insidious, determined lapping which erodes my defences. Long and lascivious licks from my perineum, across the labia and up to the clit, then circling and stroking and nuzzling.   Continual contact, laving and stroking until a tidal wave gushes forth and drenches their face.  This approach can go for hours, and the waves keep on coming until we are nothing but a tiny figures in a large, damp, lake.

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I was completely tangled up in my own arousal. I’d been horny all day, incredibly turned on, wanked twice already, teased at dinner.

Now, my clothes shucked off, I slipped against the satin sheets and rubbed against his latex-covered skin. My body was overflowing with the pulsing of blood in my ears and dampness in my cunt. My nipples, usually too sensitive for play, I rubbed and angled towards his mouth. Full of desire. Wrapped in it.

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Hand in my pants

Originally published in Express Magazine on 11th May 2012.  This is not the picture originally included with the article!

Hooray for May! While it’s rapidly heading into the chilly season, I happen to be flinging off my clothes rather than wrapping up warmly. Why? Because it’s International Masturbation Month, and I want easy access to my nether regions!

Not that I don’t wank the rest of the year, of course – but come May I ramp up the intensity considerably. The rest of my spelunking-related-activities increase too. I suspect by the end of the month everyone will be sick of me talking about jilling, writing about rubbin’ the nubbin, whinging about my aching fingers, hunting for more batteries and taking up all the outlets recharging my toys – not to mention asking if everyone else is blissing off as well.

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Chill Pleasure

I pull the glass dildo from its fur pouch, and a shiver goes through me as I feel the solid coldness of it. Smooth and rounded, weighted and clear, it holds all the chill of winter within itself.

Other than my questing hand, the rest of me is snuggled deep into flannelette sheets; the winter duvet and two blankets weighs warm atop of me. Resting by my feet is a toasty wheat-bag; another is by my groin. (Over the other side of the bed, Apollo’s feet clasp a hot-water bottle instead. To each their own.)

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