Don't Tell Me What To Do - Sex Stories

Don't Tell Me What To Do

... impression I was going to be the lucky recipient of this. We knew each other vaguely from the gym on Friday evenings and our unspoken mutual attraction had now been confirmed by the simple act of her joining me at my table in the canteen afterwards and striking up this confessional conversation.

"So, tomorrow afternoon," she said. "36 Girton Avenue?" That was my place, where we had arranged to meet while her husband was at the football.

That night I could barely sleep for excitement. I had permitted myself one quick wank to blow off steam while saving myself for the real thing. I tried not to think about what lay ahead. I tried to ignore the thought that I would be peeling off her knickers and she would be rummaging in my underpants, sucking my cock and spreading her legs so my face could become covered in her juices and aromas. I would have her natural oils in my mouth, in my saliva, in my pores, under my fingernails.

After a restless night and an impatient morning, the doorbell rang in my rented Victorian house and this vision in tight light blue jeans and a skull t-shirt waltzed in. She was warm and fragrant and beautiful: the ultimate gift. A woman who had brought nothing with her but herself, and who wanted nothing from me but myself. It is the purest of transactions: my masculinity in exchange for her femininity. All we had to do was unwrap each other. Oh, that's lovely. Just what you've always wanted. We began immediately, kissing on the settee, touching ...

... each other up. No pretence, no negotiation. When my hand found its way into her knickers and my middle finger found her hole we locked eyes and without a word we walked up the stairs to my bedroom.

Helen stood before me to be undressed and I did so lovingly, carefully, at a leisurely pace. One unusual thing about her: she was hairy. I had noticed her armpits at the gym. Billions of women around the world shave under there but I don't know why. I find it very exciting it's a natural place to have hair and it's sort of a reminder that this woman is an animal, not an android. She's real and she fucks, she likes fucking.

She smelled fabulous, from her perfumed neck to the natural fragrances of her crotch and crack. Naked as Eve, her neat, small breasts alert, standing to attention as she moved, she then undressed me and enjoyed the more rough and ready delights of a man's body. Does a woman really think that cock and balls contraption is beautiful? Fascinating, perhaps, but then what is beautiful? Most of them don't like the look of their own bits, apparently, and it is true that some of the elaborate, worm-like labia would not be a contemporary designer's choice. They seem to have been created with practical matters in mind, but even then, the system of sealing and protecting seems rather hit-and-miss if you really study it.

Helen certainly was made for studying. In my eyes she was pretty close to perfection and I intended to kiss, suck and lick every inch of her. First, ...