Don't Tell Me What To Do - Sex Stories

Don't Tell Me What To Do

"Yes, he has got a lot to answer for, Beckham," Helen admitted. "He sort of made tattoos acceptable. I still don't really like them, although..."

She was what is often described as a "respectable married woman", ten years into the marital marathon and leading a model life that had subjugated her spirit. The girl who had had dreams and wishes and desires had been left on the shore, waving forlornly at the ship of her life as it sailed into the distance with this unexciting, unexcited woman looking back, unfulfilled and lonely at heart, outwardly having everything she could want but desperate for some action, not least in the sexual realm.

She and Paul had decided early on that they wouldn't have children, and she was still happy enough with that. Instead, they had a bigger house than they might have done, a better car and more exotic holidays. Helen was well dressed: stylish and sexy, turning into what was now known as a MILF, except she wasn't a mum. The world was absolutely full of men who would like to fuck her, but she belonged to one man, and that was now a problem. There had been a time when belonging to someone was part of the dream, and if it were taken away from her now, she would feel lost, but she also felt she belonged to herself, to her own screenplay, and the script had taken a turn he didn't like.

It had come to a head a few months earlier when she and Paul were discussing tattoos. It was when David Beckham was young and the most exciting footballer in ...

... England, both as a player and a personality. She had admired him on Parkinson, surprised that he was confident enough to smile and chat on a talk show whereas most of his peers would have been awkward, grunting embarrassments.

And then he had got that big, wide, dark monstrosity on the back of his neck, visible above the collar, and suddenly everyone was at it. Even women. And when she had discussed it with Paul, he had uttered those fateful words: "I forbid you to get a tattoo."

That was it. Happy as she had been in general with this man, she was not having him lay down the law like that. She had gone into town at the earliest opportunity and done the deed. She was inked. And Paul didn't know because it was in a very discreet place. It would only ever be seen by someone inspecting the rear of her most private of parts, which Paul did not do. He liked to be given a blowjob and would occasionally lick her in a hesitant way, holding something back, his nose wrinkled and tongue darting in and out like a lizard.

This was therefore also on Helen's list of priorities: to have a man really go to town on her down there. Or a woman: a nice lesbian might do a good, carefree job, but no, she wanted a cock at the end of it, to plough her and cum deep inside while she wrapped her legs around him her. She couldn't do that with her husband now; there was too much of a power struggle going on and great sex was partly about surrendering and enjoying being taken.

I got the distinct ...