Sienna's Lovers

I get the feeling my life is on a loop.
Why do I never spot the large "REPEAT" bars before I crash into them?

Let's recap:
Breakup [with Sweet Ex (2004)/GB (2009)], then a shorter fling-thing (quite intense) [with Pinocchio (2005)/BBB (2009)], another nausea-inducing break-up and straight onto the rollercoaster of fetish clubs, lesbian kisses, married boys, dirty pirates, phone sex buddies, not-so-sure's (but ok company), internet dates and long-distance rekindled romances.

The only difference being that in 2005 I fucked all of them when the opportunity arose, and now I don't. Which is more fun, as I feel less confused and guilty, my sheets are cleaner and there's always room for one more.

I am no longer willing to stretch my comfort zone, lower my standards or expand my tick-list to include undesirable habits or appearances, so I just cream off the best from the top.

I can snog Mr Adult Playground, have Strawberry Boy go down on me in Ginger Boy's mansion, go to the theatre with Tennis Boy, have Sunday walks with Veggie Boy, visit the fetish scene with slave boy and my Bi Friend, and enjoy the resulting banter during home-cooked dinners with my 'platonic boyfriend', Jake.

OK, I have days where I am horny as hell, but I just stay up late so I'm too tired to masturbate and the urges go away. Then I have saucy dreams about faceless strangers, or familiar faces in odd circumstances.

Went to the races on Saturday with Jake, Nicola and Tennis boy. Apart from Jake everyone lost more money than they won, but it was fun nonetheless and the weather was gorgeous.
Being the argumentative types, judgemental Nicola challenged feisty Jake over his looming divorce whilst Tennis boy and I commented on the sunset.

Back at mine, Tennis Boy helped me set up some flatpack furniture, the others went home. Suddenly my buzzer went.
I had exchanged some texts with a friend who suggested dropping in later with another girl and her flatmate, to which I said yes but that they'd have to bring some food as all that was on the agenda for the night was laziness and watching a DVD.

So I opened the door to find not only the three girls, but also two Swiss boys I'd never met before.
"Remember the surgeon..." one of my friends whispered to me, and I looked up at them blankly. "I wasn't expecting anyone else" I told her, and opened the door to my flat fully so they could take in the chaos of bits of wood and screws strewn around the hallway behind me..

"We are just putting up a wardrobe" I told them, "it's not really a party..." - which they clearly expected, judging by the bulging bags of crisps and alcohol they were carrying.

I'm not sure how this bit of miscommunication occurred, but it worked out well for me. Whilst the boys busied themselves with the flatpack, the surgeon putting the screws and other bits in tidy rows according to their size, us girls sat in the lounge with wine and pizza.

Today is what would have been my due date.

Been running at lunchtime, trying not to look at pregnant women.

Onwards and upwards, as they say...

My hung over date with Veggie Boy was nice, but I found it a struggle to keep my eyes open and my voice working as the afternoon progressed.

I enjoy his company, but there just isn't enough of a spark to make me want to keep seeing him whilst he clearly expects something more to develop.

What would be the point? I may as well just come clean. Yes, people have grown on me in the past, but the small doubts I had about them from the start usually don't go away and always contribute to the inevitable breakup further down the line.
I just can't go there again.
He is handsome, intelligent and good company, but there is just something about his personality that doesn't gel with mine.

The thing I like about Tennis Boy on the other hand is that he is so reserved about making an approach, either by certain comments or being physical, so I feel more comfortable with him. He doesn't overwhelm me, and whilst that sort of thing is nice in someone you have passionate feelings for it is just awkward from a person you're not sure about.
Yes he has wiped a strand of sweaty hair from my forehead after our latest game of tennis, and he has touched my cheek to remove a speck of glitter, but he doesn't try to kiss me or make any other sexual gestures.

After our snog goodnight I knew what may be in store for the end of my meeting with Veggie Boy, but I definitely needed to spend more time talking to him before I let him kiss me again.

And here is my dilemma: If there is a large portion of passion and sexual attraction involved, that spark we all look for and ideally insist on in any sexual partner, who cares what they have to say?
If all you want to do is snog their face off and roll around with them, who has time to find out their political opinions, relationship history or preferred country for holidays?
On the other hand, passion wanes and someone who we're not compatible with on an intellectual level will lose our interest or respect over time.
But what is the point in building a sexual relationship with someone who is a great conversationalist with similar opinions, if you dread snogging them or cannot imagine getting naked with?

Irritatingly, ironically and more and more frustratingly the only people who have really sparked my passion are in some way unavailable or just not interested to build the type of relationship I envisage.
Screw you, Strawberry Boy!
He kept on texting all afternoon and evening, suggesting I should have invited him over and being all sexy and seductive - but ultimately as crap as Tall Boy at his worst. I. AM. NOT. GOING. THERE. A G A I N!

So I had to stroke my pussy to sleep on my own. Knowing he was in a friend's spare bedroom less than a mile away, probably doing the same (not that he has a pussy, but you get what I mean).
He is confident, cocky, cute, assertive, passionate and interesting. And moving to Cornwall. And seeing the Duchess of Herts.
I just knew if I'd invite him to come over we'd have a really passionate fuck after which I'd cry orgasm-induced tears of happiness only to wake up feeling empty next to someone I don't really know, and who doesn't really care about me.

Then we have one of the slave boys from a recent party, the one with the really nice cock.
He started texting me (what is it about Sunday afternoons? Do people just sit at home, horny and bored, scrolling through recently acquired numbers from naugthy clubs?) and suggested we meet up.
Hm. I have no idea who you really are but you have a really handsome penis, what do I expect to happen between us? Do I want this? And why not give me more warning?
"You told me I have a nice cock" said Cock Boy, and I replied "That is true, but that doesn't mean I have to sit on it".
Which brings us to Monday morning - just switched my naughty phone on and here's what he wants me to know for the week ahead: 'My cock is hard and oozing pre cum on my fingers. Let me work my tongue into your pussy and dark tight arsehole, lick and suck your feet and fuck you as you wish! x'
That sounds rather exciting, but not very submissive at all.

Shopping Boy has invited me to come to a fem dom club with him, and I am tempted - not that I want to meet Cock Boy there, as I now know so graphically what he has in store for me!

The Pirate has also sent a few texts to let me know he's back in town for Halloween. I told him my bruise has thankfully faded now. He was cute but far too aggressive in his technique and I don't want to repeat an experience that leaves me with a painful arm and bum cheek for a week.

Veggie Boy emailed to confess he is seeing a therapist (always prefereable to not seeing one, in my opinion) and Tennis Boy confirmed our theatre date, so this looks to be yet another exciting week... even before I've heard back from the married guy who compared me to an adult playground. If he were available, I would restrict access to just one person, no questions asked.

Why can't chaste dating just be a little bit easier!??

I always wonders who the mugs are who write or, indeed, reply to these ads.

"Girl in black coat..."
"Handsome in grey suit..."
"Boy, about 5, in Spiderman outfit"

OK I made the last one up, but come on, this could be ANYBODY!
And who ever remembers whether any of the 200+ strangers ogling you on the average tube journey was remotely hot enough for you to bother replying to a stupid ad like that?

What if it wasn't the handsome guy you remember from the Northern Line, but the ugly geek from the Jubilee Line? What if they stood up and turned out to be a bit vertically challenged?

Worse still, what if you replied and turned up at a date with your keen suitor, only for them to take a look at you that told you they don't remember you AT ALL and were thinking of a different hottie altogether!? Who also happened to own a red scarf, brown briefcase, a brunette mullet or purple Chucks!?

I prefer a slightly less subtle approach, which doesn't have to be overly brave or offensive.

The other day, spotting a sexy man 2 seats away I found an excuse to move closer to him (by giving up my own seat to a woman with child, thus appearing saintly altruistic at the same time) and when my stop approached I stuck a little note with my number in his hand.

Sadly, I never heard from him but I felt so brave! And not at all stupidly apprehensive like one of those people who wait in vain for the object of their between-stations crush to stumble across their ad in the LondonLite.
At least I knew the guy had a chance to contact me directly, but chose not to, for whatever reason. Instant closure!
Perhaps he was unavailable, unable to find my number on the receipt and just thought I wanted him to know what I had for my lunch from Tesco, or he didn't fancy the size of my arse as I beat a hasty retreat through the sliding doors - who knows, but at least I took a realistic chance to see him again.

A similar thing happened to me on Friday.
Having recently had a change of heart and hairstyle, I am surprised at how much more approachable my new, short and shaggy, darker cut makes me to men - were the nice and decent ones just intimidated by my Barbie-blonde curls!?
So anyway, I was returning home from a friend's shop launch late on Friday, fairly sozzled from pink Champagne and tired but happy, minding my own business reading "Tease" by Immodesty Blaize.
Suddenly a small yellow post-it landed on my open book, courtesy of a shaggy-haired Spanish looking guy who'd been looking at me from across the aisle of the train carriage.

I unfolded it and found this note: "Hi, I don't know if the book you are reading is telling you about how to 'tease', but truly you don't need it. You are very beautiful (a sort of inner glow). And yes, the heels were nice but you look even more lovely in your flat shoes. Have a nice night"

I was really flattered, and a big grin spread across my face. So he'd been watching me take my heels off on the platform, and wondered for the last 4 stops how to make his approach! How kind, brave and just forward enough to be intriguing without appearing sleazy.

He looked around nervously as I continued to pretend to read, and avoided my gaze as I raised my eyes to him. I wanted to tell him it was just a novel and not a strip manual, but I think he was too shy to actually have a conversation.
He jumped out at the next stop and I wondered what that was all about. A simple compliment, or an attempt to exchange contact details? Why hadn't he put his number on the note?
He wasn't really my type, but that sort of assertiveness is just intriguing enough for me to get in touch with someone.

I showed the note to my lodger at home, and she agreed it was a nice compliment. As she turned it over she discovered his email address and name on the back.

I think I may just write him a thank-you note and tell him it made my night - see what he says?

Trying to write with a hangover is a bit of a challenge.
I have to keep goin g back and deleting typos but I have to get this down or I will get all confused!

5 glasses of water and 2 orgasms didn't brign me back to sleep, the neighbours' kids were making a racket and I had a raging hunger for something a bit more substantial than Muller Corners, so I am up now... well, in my PJs still and watching Parsi Hilton's best friend, feeling like my insides are turning to mush.

I don't get headaches much, though - thank heaven for small mercies!!

Just no voice, a dry throat, dizzy spells and that tiredness that comes from carousing until 4 am at a naughty masked ball, my bare chest (save for some nipple pasties) covered in champagne, pinapple juice and gold body paint rubbed off a fellow carouser whilst slow-dancing sensually.

The boy I snogged at the end of the night, a tall, reddish-blonde vision in a frilly shirt, gold waistcoat and tight grey trousers licked the champagne his friend poured over us as we kissed from my chest and told me: "You're so much fun, just like a big playground - but for adults!"

I have to agree with that! I feel like I am a walking attraction to all sorts of guys and girls right now, apart from the tall boy I had kissed my friend who was dressed like some sort of harem girl and displays the occasional bi tendencies, and a short, busty woman who ate pineapple out of my hand, then pulled me close for a snog. A tall lady in a tight green dress and bobbed hair twirled me around the dance floor too, and gave me a goodbye kiss on the lips with her lipsticked mouth. The 22-year old Prince William sound-alike in a golden mask and unbuttoned shirt was whisked from my reluctant claws by some mousy chick in a ball gown, and so I had come into the capable hands and under the eager tongue of Adult Playground boy.
Tragically, he's married...
"My wife and I sleep in separate rooms... no kids, just a cat..." he told me when I enquired further. "You'll miss the cat" I told him and we continued dancing.
I was disappointed - I really don't care whether he fucks his wife or not, but I don't want to be the reason some other woman may get hurt.
My aching feet forced us onto a chaise longue, my mask was slippy with sweat and my arms sticky with juice from various fruits I'd been cutting up, eating and feeding to eager mouths. I lifted my mask to wipe my brow with his tie, and he stared and stared into my face. "You are so beautiful" he exclaimed, and launched a series of soft, then more passionate kisses onto my open lips.
An expert kisser, I hadn't had a nicer snog since Strawberry Boy at the country house, and he asked for my number as the lights went up and the cleaners started making their rounds.
My friend clattered over to me, ankle bracelets chiming; she had finally ripped herself away from the South African top-hatted man in full tails who had been making dull conversation with her in some dark corner.

"I'll take you out for lunch soon" AP boy promised, "that's innocent, isn't it?" thus rendering his earlier assurance about the separate bedrooms somehow obsolete.

I debated whether to take one of the dead partridges hanging up everywhere for decoration home for Sunday lunch, but the irony is that I am meeting Veggie Boy later.

So no help to be expected in plucking and gutting the bird I held in my hand questioningly, which looked like a suicide-by-rope victim.
I left the sad animal behind and jumped into a cab with my belongings, nipple tassles now in my handbag but covering my nakedness with feathers and my mac.

So - Veggie Boy. Along with Tennis Boy he is one of two suitors trying their hardest to woo me, neither of them any the wiser to my chaste dating philosophy.
Last week we had a wander around the Thames Festival and ended the night admiring the fireworks and going for a late drink at the BFI bar where we had somewhat of a confession session. He is a nice, intelligent, interesting and handsome guy who has also been knocked around by disappointing relationships, a kindred spirit but possessing somewhat meek personality. A typical internet date, someone who'd never in a million years have approached me in a bar or anywhere.

We met a few weeks ago over passionfruit cocktails and have been out a few times since, but I can't detect much of a spark. Nonetheless, the emotional closeness through our conversation made him bold and me comfortable enough to share a nice long snog goodnight on Charing Cross Bridge. I think he is smitten, but I just like him enough to continue to get to know him and hang out until the ginger boys in my life stop being in relationships (like Strawberry Boy and AP Boy) or disinterested (like Ginger Boy).

The other big plus about him is that he is even broodier than me, were this possible. Still I am not that much of a cynic to stop believing both of us deserve the "whole package", not just a partner-in-the-sack to procreate with.

Tennnis Boy is the guy who took me to the park picnic date, sharing a bottle of champagne, a nice dinner and never-ending smalltalk. He interrupts me when I speak and talks ten to a dozen, asking frequent inane or irrelevant questions, but I think that is mostly to do with nerves and a slight personality clash - i.e. we can be scarily similar in our clumsy conversation style which leads to both of us rabbling on at the same time. A bit exhausting, but at least he shuts up when we play tennis or watch a film or play. He is an attentive dinner partner, a generous buyer of theatre tickets, recently single, so respectful and not sleazy. I feel comfortable with him but no sexual attraction whatsoever, and I wonder occasionally where he sees this leading.
He lent me his jacket the other night when a smelly tramp sat on mine, so he is the perfect gent - just a shame he's not sexy to me and has the misfortune of sharing a few traits with traitor GB.

I revel in the attentions bestowed on me by all these lovely people, and there is no pressure, no boredom and no guilt. I think I have finally sussed it. If I just want a quick poke I can find the likely candidates in the obvious places, and anyone interested in me beyond the contents of my knickers can very well prove themselves in a variety of other ways. No more restricting access to my mind, time and pussy to an undeserving cheat like psycho GB, who didn't appreciate the year-long exclusive play and gave me such heartache in return!

The latest addition to my harem is a guy who took me out shopping yesterday, no strings- he just likes to be bossed about by a dominant woman in control of his credit card! He was cute like a petite Michael J Fox, just over my own age but a few inches shorter, submissive but not boring and very well educated and able to express an opinion as well as carry my bags when another addition had been made to our afternoon's haul. We took in the more upmarket underwear shops around Notting Hill, and I was strapped into a corset for the first time in my life. The pricetag looked prohibitive to me, but as the afternoon progressed I doubled his spending limit he'd set for our little outing before I knew it!

I tortured his card for all it was worth and accumulated some kinky and some "vanilla" undies (just giving him a very brief flash, once, completely voluntarily), expensive bright pink heels and a matching leather belt, a new hat, the mask, and the promise to that lovely corset at some point in the future. To stop feeling guilty over shamelessly using a sweet guy I'd only just met I let him take me for a glass of bubbly to wind down the evening, and got into an S&M conversation with our waiter! I just couldn't resist pinging his braces onto his nipples, and he loved it...

Ok, off to have a shower now before Veggie Boy gets impatient!

Who is selling my book for 47p!?

Where did they find it??

And how is that worthwhile business?

Just showing off...

If I'd had a child the day I started this blog, my son or daughter would now be 4 years old.
A weird thought...

Had a text from my crush Ginger Boy this morning: "How was Saturday night?" and I replied that I'd had wicked fun but wasn't sure when I'd be going again.
He tried to pry further by asking what had happened and why I wouldn't want to repeat the experience too soon - but that won't fly with me. I am not going to respond in-depth to someone too vanilla to even set one of his own feet into a fetish club. He needs to see for himself, I won't be probed into providing more dirty details to his pervy mind unless he takes the plunge into a rubber outfit of his own and immerses himself into the scene alongside me.
After all it isn't really my scene either...

And where would I have started to explain to him how it went?
"I was bitten by a Pirate and my arse still smarts from the Aristocrat's spanking"? "Trying to recover from watching pervs beat off around me all night"? "My feet are still killing me from my heels despite a slave's half-hour massage"? "Let me catch up with all the emails from potential fetish sugar daddies first, and get over the mental image of one guy begging me to step on his face"?

Well, maybe I AM pervier than I dare to admit. After all my friend had a perfectly nice time without getting flogged by a sweet transvestite on the dance floor or setting foot into the "Couples Room" as part of a threesome.

I came well prepared.
Drove myself to my friend's house with an overnight bag containing a way-too classy, see-through dress with feather trim, a short PVC outfit, 2 sets of heels, a brandnew flogger which had sat in the bottom of my wardrobe since 2005, a carnival mask, a hat, some chains, some velvet gloves and a golden dog leash with collar.

On top of this bag I flung a knee-length shiny black PVC trench coat picked up for around a fiver at one of Camden's cheap SALE! shops. Also never worn, but puzzlingly missing two buttons.

We got ready with Gaydar radio on full blast, polishing off a bottle of cava in no time followed by 2 shots of Limoncello; 2 sets of false eye lashes turned our eyes into mysteriously glamorous windows into our kinky souls, and we dithered about whether to wear knickers or not.

I did in the end, opting for the short PVC dress rather than the see-through sparkly number (I may save this for Killing Kittens or something like it - who knows how long I can keep up this chaste dating lark and may need some light relief on the side!?), and my friend didn't.

She had on a pair of micro rubber shorts and those really wouldn't do with a VPL.

The trouble with wearing knickers to a fetish club however is that you may end up with them in your mouth halfway through the night, sodden from your own sweaty body caused by the evaporating heat from dancing accelerated by your PVC dress...
On the other hand, if you don't wear knickers and keep flashing your muff you may find yourself the object of attention much sooner than you are really ready for it.

Maybe next time I will need to bring my own slave along to protect me from Pirates and Aristocrats, instead of relying on (largely unsuccessful) attempts to turn one of them into my slave by attaching the dog lead.

As it happened, the night started innocently enough. Waving my flogger out of the cab's window in my PVC-clad arms, high from the alcohol caused my friend to collapse in such hysterical giggles that I feared for the seats of the taxi.

Other punters of the club picked up on our signal and started flirting with us from their own rides, and one unsuspecting middle-aged couple just looked on slightly bemused by our shenanigans.

At the club, we queued alongside fully nude people, the odd person in a gas mask, rubber gimps, slave girls in nipple pasties and other colourful folk to check in our coats and bags, then joined the fun.

We had shots at the bar with 3 rubber-clad trannies who kept exchanging chicken fillets for the best fit - I should mention they were too big to fit into my own dress and pushed my boob right over the top of my neck line when I tried one on!
A tall black slave boy approached me and we exchanged greetings and a peck on the cheek. I don't know what happened to him all night long as he was probably the sexiest person there with the hottest body, but maybe I will get another chance to use and abuse him in the future!?

On the other hand I am not into humiliating hot guys, I'd much rather they wanted to be on my own level than beg me to kick them or something. Where's the mutual respect in that? Give me an ugly slave to spank and shove my toes into, any day! The sexy boys should be arrogant and masterful.
Then again, why would I bother playing with an ugly slave? I would just feel used and get annoyed at them for real.

Maybe I am not that much of a dominatrix, actually...

We went upstairs to the dance floor and I started dancing with R, one of the transvestites. "Can I give you a big kiss?" she asked me, all doe eyes and floppy blonde hair on six-inch stilettoes.
Next thing I knew I found myself embracing her 6'2'' rubber-clad slim body with the fake boobs, my face cradled in her gloved hands whilst she kissed me with tender, girl-like lips and a soft probing tongue.

I couldn't get enough of that lovely snog and we stayed like this in the middle of the dance floor for a few precious minutes.

Then she asked me to bend over the side of the stage, slipped my flogger off my wrist and began to spank my thighs and bottom with stingy, feathery strokes which went right up my crotch and moistened the tips of the leather tails.

She was very good at flogging; I've had a brief lesson before from a lesbian dominatrix for a role I played in the Vagina Monologues for charity (it wasn't really relevant, but fun!) but I can safely say I suck. As I found out when R bent over the stage and I tried flogging her, to little effect.

So we gave up on that particular kinky game and mingled back into the crowds.
I briefly acquired a slave by attaching my dog lead to his collar, but suddenly I found myself holding the end of an empty leash, so he must have moved on to another mistress...

A red Indian chief with full feather headdress bought his clique - consisting mostly of barristers with double-barrelled surnames and their hot eastern European girlfriends - bottles of Moet and invited my friend and I to join, which got us even more drunk.

A naked guy sitting on a paper towel which he'd spread on a leather sofa opposite us kept touching himself vigorously as he watched us dancing, drinking and flirting.

Suddenly a tall, naughty guy in a pirate's costume who had been catching my eye around the club sat down next to me and tried to kiss me. He had a sexy Spanish accent and was quite forward, but I pushed him off.
He wandered away in search of new adventures, but later on he found me again. By that stage I was walking around with a blonde boy dressed up as an 18th century nobleman. I had my dog leash attached to his flouncy neckercief but he didn't get our difference in status- he kept trying to hug me tightly and talked incessantly.
"You're a crap slave" I told him, "stop talking!" "I am not a slave at all" he insisted cheekily to my face, and embraced me so the rough tweed of his jacket pressed into my skin with woolly needles.

"He is the most entertaining slave I've had all night" I announced to the people waiting at the bar around us, "but he isn't very obedient at all".

Indeed.

Before I knew it, we were by the spanking contraptions and he had me pushed up against the metal chains of one of them, lifted the bottom of my short dress up and began spanking my bum.

He actually slipped his belt out of his trousers and rolled it double so it hung stiffly beneath his hand, then raised his arm and hit my bottom in its lacy knickers for all to see.

A Master in a black suit and glassed joined in with his whip, whilst some lady in dark rubber carressed and spanked me with her bare hands.

"I am not particularly getting turned on by this" I thought to myself as I hung spreadeagled against the cold metal chains, my bum smarting from the strokes.
Well you won't know if you don't try it, I mean it felt naughty and a bit wrong, but I am not sure I wanted my sore arse to be the centre of attention in a fetish club if I wasn't getting off on it.

So I jumped off the thing (thankfully nobody had thought to tie me up) and turned tables on the naughty nobleman. I undid his trousers and was just about to pull them down over his hips when he stopped me: "You're very good at this" he chided, "you must have undone a lot of trousers in your life.." probably, but his white breeches really didn't prove a match for my dextrous fingers and kinky mind.

I turned him into the chain contraption and tried to enlist the help of the whip master, but he told me "ladies only" and stalked off.

So it was up to me to give his bum a good whipping with his own belt, until I grew bored. The Pirate approached again and pushed me into the spanking contraption once more. His blows stung a lot more and I disentangled myself once again.

All of a sudden I found myself in the queue for the Couples Room, a dark play area in one of the corners of the club - with my two boys. The dog leash was still firmly attached to the Aristocrat's neckerchief, and he had re-looped his belt but the Pirate was just holding on to me for pure fun. Running his hands up and down my body, he kept talking to me in his thick Spanish accent, telling me what a naughty girl I am. "I am rrelated to Antonio Banderath" he said (yeah right), "he ees from Malaga, I'm from Malaga..."
Ok, that's all right then, come on, I'll fuck you! LOL!

I'd had a look in this room earlier, it was tiny, dark and sweaty with writhing bodies in every corner but there hadn't been a queue.
Now, for each person who came out someone new was let in, but there wasn't anyone coming out from behind the black curtains for a long time as we waited.
I was beginning to have second thoughts. What was I doing, queuing up for a sex room with two guys I'd only just met!?

It appeared that everyone who entered the room was sucked into some kind of sexual vortex, never to emerge again.
Finally, the couple waiting in front of us disappeared into the room, and we followed about 2 hours (it seemed) later.

The Pirate bent me over and slipped my black lace knickers to the floor, then stuck them into my mouth, then his pocket. They were wet and smelled of sweat and me, and I was glad he didn't gag me with them for long.

The blonde Aristocrat (I had now found out he was wearing a wig) began to undo his trousers behind me. "Wear a condom" the Pirate sternly reminded him, and whilst I was taken aback at the assumption I would just let him fuck me right away (hm, maybe the fact we were in a dark play room had something to do with his assumption!?) I was glad at my unlikely knight in frilly white shirt's protection.

Turns out, the Aristocrat was so excited he just came all over my bare legs in seconds instead, whilst the Pirate undid his flies and sprang his meaty cock out for me to close my hand around.

Seeing the Aristocrat's disappointing size (it was like half a Frankfurter sausage!) after he turned floppy it was a relief to have something like the Pirate's thick cock to play with, whose girth was larger than a tennis racket's grip.

I could feel him keenly harden in my hand, and he roughly pushed my head down to to take him in my mouth.

OK, I wasn't looking for roses and romance, but the whole thing could have been done a bit less forceful. So I only gave him a perfunctory suck and then continued to kiss him and let him and the Aristocrat play with me.
He went down on his knees to lick my clit, they took one nipple in their mouth each and slipped their hands up my dress and into my bush, then I found myself lying back on a leather-padded stool in the middle of the room. The Pirate rolled on a condom, pushed my legs apart and himself inside me and gave me a vigorous seeing-to. "I'm fucking your pussy, beetch" he grumbled as I lay there with my legs around him for all to see under the frosted red lightbulb above me.
Not that anyone cared much what everyone else got up to! In a corner, one woman sitting astride a man's lap orgasmed loudly, other couples were fumbling and sucking and licking each other in all manner of positions, and it was hard to tell where one person ended and another began with all the intertwining body parts covering every last spare inch of the room.

As the Pirate fucked me, the Aristocrat continued fondling my breasts and giving me deep, lusty kisses and I was sorry to feel the Pirate go soft inside me shortly after he entered me. I think it was all the excitement, as he surely hadn't come.
It felt great to have a large cock inside me again... A girl can only stay celibate for so long before all she thinks of before drifting off at night are throbbing great dicks.

We moved off to the side of the stool and as the Pirate got hard again I braced myself against the wall for him to take me from behind, which he did with gusto, slapping my bum hard as he entered me with harsh thrusts.

This was all getting a bit much, and slightly painful - especially when he bit me on the top of my right arm, that really hurt! He yanked my head back by the necklaces I was wearing, and I felt like I was about to choke.

I pushed him away with a small yelp and didn't want to bother about sucking him hard again, instead I sat on one of the side benches with the Aristocrat who slipped his fingers into my pussy.
"Did you come yet?" he asked me, and I could tell he had recently come for a second time. "It's just because I haven't had sex for a month" he defended himself, with a grin. Obviously all his wet dreams had now come true at once and he was keen to make sure mine did too.

"I thought you had four girlfriends?" I asked him. "Yes" he replied, "but they don't fuck me, they just want to meet up with me..." OK, I thought, interesting definition of a girlfriend. Smart cookies if you ask me.
After all why not string a nice man along with chaste dinners and cinema dates until you are sure of his intentions, and you can get your sexual thrills from naughty clubs on the way, no strings attached...

Although I had given my number to the Pirate I didn't imagine he'd call me, and neither would I want him to because what would be the point? I'd already seen his cock and didn't neccessarily need to see more of his personality.

"I've not shaved in a while" I told the Aristocrat as his fingers played with my clit and he examined the wet curls under the murky light. "I love the hair" he said, "It turns me on...".

With one hand around the Pirate's ever-stiffening cock, exchanging kisses with the Aristocrat, I came from the incessant fingering he administered to my pussy. He whispered dirty things into my ear. "Just imagine me inside you, I want to thrust into you, deeply... without a condom... I don't like them... and I would come deep inside you, filling you up..." all the while I was wanking off the Pirate I thought of his hot meat inside me, foregoing the rubber, taking me roughly and filling me up to the hilt, spilling his seed as he shot into me.

I came, but was slightly distracted by the Pirate trying to insist I take him in my mouth again.

Feeling a bit sore from all the attention lavished on my pussy I tried to get up to leave the room, but got stuck behind the writhing crowd.
Another woman had now taken my place on the platform, and a shaven-headed guy was thrusting into her. Now standing up, the Aristocrat continued kissing me and playing with himself, whilst I still had one fist around the Pirate's cock. He began to slap his cock against the mouth of the woman on her back being fucked, and she slid her hand up my short dress and into my pussy and bum hole.
The Aristocrat had his hand on my clit and it was all quite horny, but I'd seen and had enough.

I left the room with my dog leash, readjusting my dress and hair as I walked away. I hung by the door next to the bar for a minute, waiting to see if the Aristocrat would emerge behind me, but he must have liked disappearing in the black hole of sex I had just left, so I went to find my friend again.

She was sitting downstairs by the toilets having a chat with one of the transvestites, and I joined her after a quick wee and clean-up. There was no soap and I felt a bit gross.

My watch said 5am. My feet were killing me, my pussy was sore... time to go. Before I could get dragged into a long conversation about customer service complaints at Club Submission by a guy in lipstick and a black wig, we had made arrangements with our taxi driver and went to join the cloakroom queue again.

The black slave appeared again, and I gave him a kiss goodbye. "You should keep him" someone said in a low voice from behind me "black slaves are the best!" Not sure just how highly this comment scored on a non-PC chart of shocking things not to say, I decided to ignore him.

I had a hangover all of Sunday... but it was worth it.

1) there is no guilt.
So what if I am out with one guy one night, and another the next? We are just hanging out, chatting and eating dinner. Playing croquet and watching plays. Discovering we have mutual friends or colleagues.

2) you can grow your bush to the size of an Amazonian jungle with no risk of detection or repercussions. Fluffy!

3) you can improve your knowledge of fancy restaurants, British lawn games, current musicals and Tennis. Nothing you can do in bed could really be that different from the one before, could it?

4) you don't give a stuff who else they are seeing. So what if he hangs out with his ex, goes to the cinema or running with someone else, or had a snog on Saturday night? Who cares?

1) there is nothing to report.
Yes, 'Priscilla Queen of the Desert' is a funny show, yes dinner is usually very nice, yep it was a great idea to play croquet with friends in the park, yes hanging out is fun (to a degree). But there is also no spark, no kisses, no sex, no desire. Which may be a good thing as we all know where desire and all this malarky has landed me in the past.

2) there is a little bit of feeling like you string them along.
No spark? No hope for sex? Ok, I am a witty conversationalist and great arm candy, but that can't be all they are hanging with me for. Or can it?

3) you don't know what to call them.
"We're dating" implies sex or a relationship in most people's perceptions. "Guy I've been on a few dates with" sounds clumsy and non-committal, which I suppose I am...

4) you feel like a good rodgering but know you won't get any for a while.