I Only Cum When A Dog Watches - Sex Stories

I Only Cum When A Dog Watches

… he says.

It’s been a strange week. October is always a bit weird – neither summer nor winter, it’s that liminal month between the joys of sunshine and the dense, dark rituals of year’s end. This one is relatively mild, but at the office on Thursday, it rained so hard water squirted through a closed sash window.

I picked up the phone, pretended to dial, and then said, “God? It’s Kelly. Yes,that one.” I winked at everyone. They grinned back. “So, about this rain. It’s a bit much – please could you turn it down?”

The rain stopped. There were fifteen other people in that sales office, and they all laughed. There was a touch of disbelief though, and a little thrill of awe.What if Kelly really did talk to… No! She can’t have done. OR DID SHE? We know trans women are meant to be touched with magic, but…

And now this. I’m in the living room of a house in an 80s red brick cul-de-sac that’s the dead spit of Brookside. The room looks smaller than it is because of the clutter, which includes ancient board games, computer magazines from a time when 64K was a lot of memory, a bike frame without wheels, and rusted scuba gear I wouldn’t trust in a paddling pool. There are two lampshades but only one lamp, which he’s tried to style by taping an old blue scarf in front of it. The gloom cries out for a nice candle.

I met the guy in a Tunbridge Wells coffee shop near where I work. The beans they use are from Africa rather than South America, and the coffee tastes bracingly, ...

... smokilydifferent. He’d been going there for a while and kept making eyes at me. He was smaller than I am, curvy and with ginger hair that no product would ever calm.

I wasn’t sure – I once heard him on the phone about a job with an oil company. Given the environmental collapse, those planet-hating psychos are responsible for, I was trying to decide if tripping this one under a bus was a form of self-defence.

He must have known I’d heard. When he found the courage to come over, he’d got a speech prepared.

“I’m in polymer research,” he said with a bashful grin, as if that was the best-ever chat-up line. In a way it was – his joy at what he did made him lovely. “I’ve got realistic plans to recycle plastic.” That’s how he said it, as if the words were underlined. “Properly recycle, that is, not chuck in a landfill in Asia. When I crack it, the stuff can be reused to make new products.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not a planet-hating monster.”

That’s what clinched things – shared use of the phraseplanet-hating.

Around 9pm a week later he is balls deep in me as I buck in his grip until my hair whips my face. Everything goes in and out of focus, as if there’s a vision dial operated by a demented but very pretty goblin. That said, I’m not missing much – all I can see on my hands and knees is an ancient game of Boggle.

I’m naked, which is new despite how much sex I have. Before, I’d want to prove my femininity and keep my bra, boots, or a hiked-up skirt on despite how ...