Another affair. Another dark day.

Forgive me the use of the same male avatar in the next batch of photos, lol. I’ve not been in Second Life that long and have made just enough friends to have pose with me.

I’d still see Paul, dog-walking, after he went back to his wife. We’d smile and say hello but we both knew that there was no going back to what we had. Sometimes he had his wife and the baby with him and I think he was terrified I’d say something. Once, his wife even instigated conversation but I played a straight bat, made small talk and walked on. I think, in hindsight, I was a little heartbroken, despite never having got too attached before.

Before we’d even begun our affair, though, Paul would sometimes be walking the dog along with one of his friends, another black guy called Anton.

One afternoon I’d met a friend for coffee, a few miles from home. She’d just left and I was in the process of paying the bill when Anton said hello. I didn’t remember him.

We chatted for a while and it became clear that he knew all about the affair I had had with Paul, at which point the conversation turned slightly dirty and flirty 🙂

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Thirty minutes later we were in the car park to a local beauty spot, parked well away from others, and I had his cock in my mouth.LL pineau affair31_001b

As usual, it wasn’t my mouth I wanted and needed filled 🙂

So he obliged.

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Still dressed, on the bonnet (hood) of the car with my jeans and panties slid down just enough to make the deed work. He simply unzipped, flopped his cock out, let me suck him hard and he was in me. He came, I didn’t (the only disappointment of the afternoon) but it was the beginning of an affair with him.

We continued as Paul and I had, fucking each other mercilessly on Saturdays.

It was going great for several moths. And then Dave came home early. A burst water pipe at the golf club had seen the clubhouse closed.

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‘I thought I heard voices’ Dave said from the foot of the bed where Anton and I had just finished fucking. Shit!

He turned on his heel and walked out. Anton got dressed and exited as quickly as he could. I never saw him again.

With his cum still dribbling down my leg, I found Dave and tried to explain. My need for sex, his once-weekly not enough, all the toys I’d bought. The racy lingerie.

How I simply had an enormous sex drive and embarked on an affair (I didn’t say it was my second) just to fill that void.

‘I’m going to see my daughter now’, he said quietly. ‘Please have left forever by the time I get back this evening’.

I didn’t leave. Dave came home, as calm as he had been when he left.


‘I meant what I said. But I recognise it’s impossible for you to find accommodation at this time on a Saturday night. I’ve no idea why I should care if you don’t. You have until the end of the month to find somewhere. In the meantime I’ve spent the time profitably by having your credit cards stopped. Happily, we’ve always maintained separate bank accounts so you don’t have access to my money. I shall sleep in the spare bedroom from now on. I don’t even wish to think about lying in a bed where you’ve been fucking God knows how many people behind my back’.

‘The first time, Dave…I swear’, I lied.

‘No matter. What’s done is done. End of the month and I’ll see the divorce lawyers on Monday morning.’






An affair and some first times

I decided I needed more sex, and embarked on my first, of several, affairs. The first one was the most memorable, with Paul, a guy I’d met while walking the dog. Memorable for many reasons, notably that he was the first black guy I’d slept with. Yes, really. In all my time fucking I’d never got around to a black guy. I’d met some, of course, that I would have liked to fuck, but it would often come down to timing. I was (always briefly, remember) with someone else.

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Paul had a dog too, walked it around the same time I did, so we got chatting and well, embarked on an affair. He was married too. I know some white women sleep with a black guy for the simple reason that it’s something different and they want to know if the stories about black guys being bigger, cock wise, are true. I’ve never been a size queen. Quite average sized cocks can make me cum as long as the owner knows what to do with it. And even small cocks can do the same. So for me size doesn’t matter.

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But Paul did have a big dick. And he knew what to do with it. 🙂 OMG, the orgasms he gave me, every weekend! Dave would go golfing, so would be out every Saturday from around 10am until 6pm (spending time at the 19th hole after they’d finished their game).

Paul was getting some holes in too 😉

He’d tell his wife he was going to play football with his mates, and so by midday he’d be at my house, fucking me good and hard. Every Saturday. Boy, did he know how to use his tongue, and gave me the first orgasm I’d ever experienced using just a tongue.

I didn’t even see him as a tick off my list, that I’d now banged a black man. He was just Paul.

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His wife had been suffering from bad post-natal depression, but he was still trying to save his marriage. He just needed some physical release, so I served a purpose. Equally, I’d been trying to save mine, had given up on getting the amount of sexual release I needed, so her was serving my purpose.

I’ve never really got emotionally attached to guys I’ve slept with, although I loved and love Dave and possibly J too, but I did feel a little wrench when Paul said he was going back to his wife.

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Before he did, though, he’d introduced me to something else new to me. Anal sex. I’d never really thought that much about it before. Some guys wanted to try it with me but I was too keen for a cock in my pussy at all times. I still am. But one afternoon I relented with Paul, telling him he’d have to stop if it hurt. It didn’t, and it gave me one of the greatest orgasms I’d had in a long, long time, a plus I’d not even considered. I was too busy trying to reach orgasm with vaginal intercourse I didn’t even think about the potential for orgasm through the back door. 🙂

An unsatisfactory marriage

Dave was a beautiful guy who gave me everything I needed, except in one department : bed.

Yes, we’d have sex once a week, but I needed more, and between his work and his age, he couldn’t give me what I needed by himself.

I tried, though, to be faithful (despite the liaison with his best man). I’d actively work on trying to improve our physical relationship beyond a once weekly fuck.

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I’d buy sex toys (and was doing a lot of self-pleasuring with them) and leave them around. Leave used panties on the floor.

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Once, I got naked and had some fun with my vibrator, timing it so that Dave would come in from work and come to the bedroom as he always did to change out of his suit and into something more casual.

And sure enough he did, finding me moaning with pleasure and a huge dong up my fanny. He smiled, but just as I thought he’d get naked and give me a good seeing to, he said he’d let me have my fun and prepare dinner for me. 😦

Whatever I did wasn’t enough to spark our sex life into the fire I needed it to be, and so I decided I needed a lover, or lovers.

And then I did something really dumb.

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And then I did something really dumb, lol. Sure, I’d got myself into some silly situations in the past, but this was one of the silliest things I ever did. I got married!

I met Dave in a bar one night. He was much older than me, 50 when we met, and we hit it off immediately despite the fact I was young enough to be his daughter. It was whirlwind, and we got married four months after that first night.

He was lovely, mature yes, but a gentle, loving man. The sex we were having was straightforward missionary stuff, and while he liked getting a blowjob, he wasn’t keen on cunnilingus, so no one was actually eating me. And that was eating me, because I wanted some tongue as well as cock action.

And maybe more adventurous cock action.

It felt right at the time that we would get married, and as soon as possible. Dave’s daughter, a teenager then, disapproved of me right from the start 🙂

She thought I was a gold digger, chasing her Dad for his money. I wasn’t. I’ve never been a gold digger. When we finally divorced I gave him the wedding ring he’s paid for back, for example.

So, we got married. And Dave, caught up in the moment, was like a teenager in love and a teenager with stars in his eyes. At the reception he got a bit more drunk than he’d intended to and sat there a bit dazed and glazed.

I was to go and change out of the bridal outfit prior to the evening dance, so I made my way to the bridal suite, at which point there was a knock on the door. It was Dave’s best man, a Dutch guy he’d known for years, who had arrived to give me an update on Dave’s drunken state.

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Cees was about the same age as Dave, very tall and slim and very attractive. I have no idea how we ended up in the situation we did, but we ended up fucking in the bridal suite, my wedding dress up over my face, his trousers around his ankles and me getting one of the best fucks I’d had for quite some time.

I’m guessing the danger gave me an added excitement in the sex. My only fear was that he’d get cum on my wedding dress, lol and told him so. He smiled, took his own cock in his hand and wiped it dry on the hem of it. ‘It will blend in with the colour of the dress’, he laughed. It did. I kept the dress for the duration of my marriage to Dave, and if I looked carefully enough I could always find the ‘water mark’ 🙂 which was more accurately a ‘cum mark’.



At this point my sex life became almost non-existent. I saw a job come up (internal civil service trawl) in Brighton, my favourite place in the world for weekends in the past, and I went for it, got it and moved there in 1991, aged 25, and it’s the place I still call home.

I just had to get out of London!

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With getting a flat sorted out, a mortgage, settling in, buying furniture and all that came with home ownership, there wasn’t much time left to party.

Back in London, many of my friends were now settled or settling in relationships. Some were married, one had already had a baby. It felt like it was time to break away and be somewhere else, start afresh. I envied the stability they had in their lives, although I was happier that, at this point, I’d already had a lot more sex, with a lot more guys, than they’d had. Yes, I loved sex and acknowledged the point readily, but even so, my sex life took a back seat for a while as I sorted my life out.

OK, there were a couple of one-night stands along the way, just to fuck away my sexual tension. I’d stopped counting the number of sexual partners I’d had at this stage, but it would be over 40.

In writing this blog, I’ve tried to remember. The ‘relationships’ I obviously recall, and some of the situations I got into stand out in my memory, so I know they led to sex of the one-night stand variety. But to remember all the names, the faces, the cocks? No.

Sometimes I didn’t get to know (or remember) their names. Sometimes I didn’t even get to see their cocks, lol. It was clothes off under cover of darkness, a quick fuck and he’d get dressed and leave.

Guys are funny in these situations, always playing the ‘I’ll call you’ card constantly. Some offer mobile (cell) phone numbers which may or may not be accurate, lol. 🙂

Yeah, a lot of guys are dishonest in these instances, just wanting sex with a woman, any woman and pretending there’s something going on between the participants. I never felt like that. Once I’d learned I liked sex, a lot, I’d make no bones about my needs. I might have been drunk, a lot of the time, but there were few instances where I was so drunk I was doing something I didn’t want to do. If I was in the mood, the guy was getting laid and so was I. And I didn’t need to see him again. I served his primal need and he served mine.

What replaced sex for a while, once I’d moved to Brighton, was drugs. And I had an appetite, I quickly learned, for them that almost matched my appetite for sex.

Before this, a quick puff on a joint was the extent of my familiarity with drugs. As I didn’t smoke cigarettes I could never properly inhale as I should have, so they didn’t work for me.

That changed in Brighton. I had begun smoking cigarettes, which I put down to post-rape trauma. I was also drinking a lot alone. Every night. And the friends I’d made were doing a lot of weekend, recreational drugs. So first it was weed that I was smoking, daily.

The whole techno and acid-house movements had peaked, I think, but were still very popular, particularly in Brighton and the entire Madchester scene was in full flow at this time. All of these encouraged a bit of chemical stimulant to enhance the experience. 🙂

I did a lot of mushrooms around this time and dropped quite a bit of acid too. Although ‘E’ (ecstasy) was the drug of choice, I didn’t do a lot of it, preferring to trip out on shrooms or acid.

I was probably a bit older than many of those embracing the whole Madchester scene, but I was still young, still ready to party. A lot.

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So I’d go to clubs or raves and party like fuck all weekend. Absolute insane levels of partying going on.

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Months of insane weekends passed by. And if I wasn’t so far off my tits on drugs that I didn’t want sex, just to dance my life away, I would still pull the odd guy and go back to my place and fuck him. There’s no point in retelling much of this in pictures as it was just straightforward sex without strings for either of us. The great thing was a lot of these guys were young, in their late teens, and if they weren’t out of their skulls on drugs too they had the energy to go at it all night, so there were a couple of times when I’d be wrung out the next morning, sore to the point where I could barely walk 🙂 having been done 2-3 times and cum 2-3 times during the night 🙂

Eventually, though, it got to be too much every weekend, so I stopped, both the ‘raving’ and the drugs. I’m glad I did them, though. They were an interesting part of the passage of life.

Besides, my appetite for cock was returning and overtaking my appetite for drugs.


While being raped was horrible, it didn’t put me off men. Far from it. Yes, there were a few weeks afterwards where I didn’t go out, and I also awaited the results of tests to determine if I was pregnant (on the pill, so doubtful) and whether Id contracted some disease, gonorrhoea or, worse, HIV/ADS. All tests came back in my favour, thank goodness.

But damaged? Yes, I probably was by that, and also from other experiences. J’s infidelity was damaging. The inability to form a long term relationship was another. I’d bed hop constantly.

24 years old and with a history of 40-odd sex partners behind me. I was officially a slut, whereas double standards then (and even now) would say a man with 40+ partners was ‘a stud’.

So, a few weeks after the rape, I found myself back in Brighton for the weekend, but with my alcohol consumption reined in (temporarily, at least).

So I was quite sober when Bob and I hooked up in a club, danced, kissed, chatted, laughed and made our way back to my hotel.

He suggested we shower first. Strange, all other men are usually busting to get into bed immediately and maybe (not always) shower afterwards, even in the morning. Bob was quite insistent. I was OK with that, Im happy to show off my body and enjoy theirs in full light.

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We were showering, soaping and he was fingering me in a lovely way when he suddenly stopped.

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Do you need to pee?’ he asked.

I wasn’t that desperate, but most of us can pee at any time. ‘Not really’, I said.

‘Do you know what watersports or golden showers are?’

I did.

‘Would you pee on me? In my mouth?’ What the fuck!!!!!!

The rape had changed things slightly in that I was up anything as long as it didn’t hurt me or him. I wanted to broaden my sexual spectrum. I know that sounds weird. I should maybe have been shrinking back from ‘weirdness’. I seemed to have been emboldened to try weirdness. So I pissed on him. Over his face. In his mouth. And it gave him the quickest, hardest erection I’d ever seen appear in seconds. Literally seconds.

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There’s only one thing to do with a hard cock. Suck it or fuck it. I decided to suck in the shower, get him more ready for the bed. Not that he needed ‘more ready’.

‘I love watersports. Ever tried it?’

‘I just did.’

‘No, I mean have you ever been pissed on. And swallowed it?’

I hadn’t. By now I’d had all manner of cum down my throat from several of my partners. I say several because I preferred, then and now, for their cum to be buried in and then dripping from my fanny. But what the hell. Like cum, if I didn’t like it first time I could spit.

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I didn’t exactly swallow it all, but did some. Despite the warmth of the shower there was a different warmth to his piss on my chest and face, some splashing into my mouth.

‘Did you like it?’ he asked. I didn’t love it, but I wasn’t so turned off I’d never do it again. And in fact have many times since.

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Eventually he entered me (vaginally) from behind and came in a few seconds. I was a little disappointed. I wanted it to last longer but it seemed his kink was to get off on the Watersport element of it and then empty his balls in seconds once in me.

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But it was another ‘kink’ or foible ticked off the list.


A dark night.

I said at the outset that there were times when I’ve been reckless. Sex without contraception was one. This night in 1989 was the next really big, stupid, life-altering mistake of my life.LL train4_001b

Separated from my friends (again) and drunk insensible (again) I made my way to the Tube, somehow. And got onto a train travelling in the wrong direction, somehow. A few stops down the line I realised my mistake, got off and made my way up the stairs intending to go down onto the other platform. But of course I was feeling sick, and decided to head for ground level for some air and, yes, probably vomit freely somewhere. And maybe there was an all-night kebab shop open that would help soak up the alcohol.LL train5_001b

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I made it to ground level and into an entry (alley, for American readers) to be sick, alone, at 200am, not knowing where I was and very, very drunk.LL train7_001bLL train8_001b

Actually, forget that. Suddenly very, very sober. I don’t know where he came from, but he had one arm gripping my waist and the other at my neck. With a knife to my throat.

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I still think about it most days. I’ve had to explain it fully to various partners since, and one or two haven’t been able to deal with it and we’ve broken up as a result of them learning I’m a victim of rape. I was pinned down in an alleyway, knife to my throat, terrified I was about to die. One minute his hand, having ripped my skirt off, was in my pussy, the next he’d grown hard at the thought of exerting his power over me, and his cock was in me. It felt like hours, and between thrusting grunts and reminders not to scream or I would die there, he emptied his load in me in maybe 2-3 minutes. He laughed a coarse, hollow laugh, pressed the knife a little deeper to my throat while he fixed his trousers up. And with the words ‘you white girls are such sluts’, he was gone.

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I remember it had started to rain and I was lying there contemplating what had happened. I found my skirt, but not my knickers, one shoe or my glasses. My purse had disappeared too.

It’s those sort of details I recall. That I couldn’t find my shoe or knickers, not that I’d been raped.

I need to get a lot out here. Because each time I do, it acts as a catharsis of sorts, although I’ll never forget the incident. Or forgive. I didn’t see much of him, I was too scared to look in case he thought I might identify him. But he was Asian. Definitely not Afro-Carribean. Maybe Afghan or Pakistani, that part of the world. Possibly Indian, although I err on the side of giving Indians the benefit of the doubt here as the area was much more of an Afghan/Pakistani demographic.

And I’ve hated those guys, all of them, with a vengeance since.

I’m sorry, I know it’s not ‘PC’ in today’s social climate to say such things, but when you’ve been raped by one your perspective changes.

Almost half a million sexual assaults are reported in England and Wales every year. It’s on the rise. Last year there were 285 in the borough of Camden alone! And very, very few result in convictions.

20% of British women between the age of 16-59 will have experienced some kind of sexual assault.

Over 7000 rapes in London last year, a figure that’s rising year on year.

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My only bit of luck that evening was that having staggered out of the alley, I came across a milkman delivering his pints of milk at around 300am. We’re talking about the pre-mobile phone era, so I couldn’t call anyone. I had to find a phone box. The milkman did it for me, I was too emotional, stayed with me until the police arrived (in their favour they were pretty damned quick to get to me) and I was transferred to a police station.

I don’t know your experiences of police stations. I’ve been in one three times (we’ll come to the other two occasions in due course) and they’re sterile, horribly lit, impersonal places.

While that’s OK for dealing with thugs and hooligans, I found the entire experience horrid. Having undergone a rape, I felt like I was being raped again with a line of unsympathetic questions. I know it was 30 years ago but the line of questioning pretty much followed a ‘your skirt is half way up your arse, you were clearly asking for it’.

Sorry, no one has ever asked to be raped. I know things have changed, in terms of the police’s sympathetic approach, but the courts have a long way to go, where every woman is guilty until proven innocent of ‘asking for it’. Lawyers remain anti-women in this regard, managing to stoop to any low level in order to protect rapists.

My parents were called and arrived at 500am with a change of clothes, by which time I’d had the clothes I had on bagged for evidence, and I’d been medically examined (which felt like a third rape).

No one was ever caught. No one did time. No one had their cock cut off with a rusty blade.

The perpetrator maybe doesn’t even remember or think about that night. I got a life sentence, he got off scot-free.

Of course I was pissed insensible and in a short skirt. So what? I wasn’t ‘asking for it’.

It’s a damaging experience, whatever way you look at it.