Reassembling the night - Sex Stories

Reassembling the night

... to thirty, the more chance they knew what they wanted so sex became a collaborative experience. He revelled in the connectedness and energy delivered by a woman in charge, especially when she was horny and knew how to channel that incredible sexual tension to their mutual benefit. The married ones he talked into bed were even better. Highly-strung career-driven bitches that needed to let off steam, or those neglected by workaholic husbands, both types were often flattered by the attention of a younger model. He made them feel like they still had it ; sex appeal they thought had begun to wane or had long-since evaporated. Such specimens broadly fell into two camps. First the "nurturers" who justified cheating by rationalising they were passing on their knowledge. The type of woman who would openly masturbate in front of him, so he might learn how she liked to be touched. And secondly those who had given up hope, resigned to a diet of idealistic trash fiction, having almost forgotten what it was like to be really fucked. Above all, he loved the realism the married woman offered. No pretence, no fake tan, no false nails, no clumpy eyelashes. He provided a necessary service, bringing her back from the self-inflicted scrap heap. Helped her feel alive, comfortable in her body, despite it not being her vision of perfection. But there was also a quality he enjoyed about the youngsters like the girl currently in his bed. Having just taken fledgling steps into the world of work, such ...

... creatures were easily corruptible, their willingness to experiment meaning he could coerce them into wholly debauch acts by simply implying they were missing out compared with their peers. At twenty-three himself, his brash, confident "older man" persona was a significant draw. To such impressionable minds with Facebook bragging rights as currency, he was their Sensei, their Mr-long-term-forever, their shot at mind-blowing happiness and cult status among her circle of friends. And he loved demonstrating the benefit of his experience in their tight little pussies, eager mouths and pert bottoms before discarding them. No matter the specifics, there was something they all shared: contorted pleasure screwed up on pretty features as he brought them to Big O. That was the best part. It was what he did, what he lived for, and always tried to catch every drop as they ground against him, drowning in their beautiful, wet, irrational sin. Ryan splashed water on his face and fumbled for the hand towel. Filled a tumbler and gulped noisily, then drained two more before returning to the bedroom. Perching on the bed again he traced the room, re-enacting the trajectory of clothes in bullet time the way CSI staff might. The hallway was the epicentre, the first sign of desperation, her top a crumpled purple rag on the floor, his chequered shirt not far behind. By the bathroom door, her short black skirt lay discarded, his socks flung the other side of the room. He already knew the whereabouts of ...