Caught Short Again - Sex Stories

Caught Short Again

As anyone who knows me will tell you, I am no shrinking violet, and especially not where women are concerned. You can call me shallow, but I live for two things; football, and shagging, and the best sex I’ve ever had has been after my team has won. The adrenaline rush from seeing them win somehow gets the old pussy poker cranked up to turbo power, and I can keep going all night. I love going down on a woman, but there’s nothing to beat the feel of her hot mouth wrapped around the end of my cock while she does that flicky thing they do with their tongues. Fucking magic! Missionary is okay, although personally I don’t think you can beat a bit of deep stick with the lady on her back, legs over my shoulders while I drill into her hot pussy. I’ve tried anal, but it doesn’t do much for me - and sure as hell your partner gets little joy from having her ass hole stretched to buggery and then not being able to walk for a week! I can’t see any pleasure in that. However, none of my previous sexual exploits had quite prepared me for my encounter a few days ago with the woman in the coffee shop bogs – that’s toilets to you posh types. We’d both been bursting for a pee and she’d offered to share the only facility available, the one normally reserved for disabled customers. Not only that, but she’d then sucked the piss off the end of my knob and invited me to clean up her wet pussy, before we fucked over the sink I’d just relieved myself in. She was a squirter, and had left me with ...

... stinking wet jeans from where she’d unloaded her bladder after I’d shagged her, and, although she’d left me her mobile number, she wouldn’t give me her name and didn’t want to know mine either. This whole bizarre episode had left me a bit shell-shocked, and so I’d not done what I would normally do with a new conquest, which is to ring her immediately. My previous girlfriend had dumped me the same day I met this older woman, and I was in no rush to get too deeply involved with anyone on the rebound. I’m in my mid-thirties now, and have managed to avoid any kind of commitment to any woman up to this point; I would certainly not normally go for the older type, although this one was definitely tasty, with a great figure and good skin, and horny as hell. Her old man had left her for a younger model after fifteen years of marriage, and she’d been keeping a low profile since then, she’d told me, although she’d lost none of her oral skills and fucked like a train. I was still carrying around the crumpled piece of paper with her number on it that she’d left behind at the coffee shop; it was in my pocket as I pushed my way into the bar of my local, where the big screen TV was showing a mid-week cup match live. My mate, Weasel – that’s not his real name, but no one can remember what that is – had arranged to meet up with me for a pint or two, so that we could join in the ritual shouting at the referee, questioning his parentage and using colourful language to provide a running commentary for ...