As part of the process of training Ganymede, and because (frankly) I'd missed playing with her, I invited Blush over for a BDSM threesome this weekend. Group sex is always a bit of a gamble, group kink is even more so. Not only do you need to have participants who are sexually interested in each other but they also have to by psychologically attuned. I place my bets every time I introduce Ganymede to someone else, it's not just about what affect a new body, a new person might have on him, it's about what effect my playing with that person might have and the fact that whenever you include any additional partners you always change the dynamic.
I had reasonable hopes of good odds on this one. Blush and I have a natural connection, the sadist in me matches perfectly with the masochist in her, and she is a good submissive fit for my dominance. I knew that I was using the often flawed argument of "well, I like both of them, so they must both like each other." Fortunately I was right.
The order of the evening was a long, drawn out session of co-subbing (for them) and co-ordinating wonderful, dreadful things (for me). We relaxed into it, I had all the space and time in the world and no intention of rushing. We met for dinner and drinks and then had coffee and liqueur whilst the heating went on and food was digested at the Citadel of Kink. I was whispering silent noises of happiness at the luxury of being able to do this, without worry of interruption and the level of security and control this had offered me. It felt like civilisation.
We discussed, briefly, over dinner what people may or may not be interested in doing. Both of them trust me and neither of them wanted to ruin the surprise so I let the conversation linger briefly on what they might expect. All the better to warm up their anticipation.
Once everything else was warmed up, I moved on to play. We opened up one of the boxes of tricks, and I showed Blush all of the new kit I had acquired since we last played together. I had the remarkable fortune of being gifted a very large bag of some very high quality bondage kit, including a couple of pieces that I have only seen rarely. Her eyes widened and she made a pleasing "oooh" sound. Together with Ganymede, I stripped her down, displaying her body for him, removing stockings and suspenders and applying thick, black buckled leather wrist and ankle cuffs, designed for suspension. This set has three large straps and the wrist pieces almost resemble gauntlets or boxing gloves. She ginned widely as they went on. I set the boy to work licking her cunt whilst I blindfolded her and applied a set of clover clamps to her breasts, then used a pinwheel at the top of her cunt, just above where he was licking.
Once he was in place, I stripped him down and spanked his exposed bottom encouragingly. The game of co-subbing is about balance and contact. Keeping both submissives entertained at the right levels so that neither feels "left out" in a way that would be inappropriate - as opposed to, say, a game of abandonment, or cuckolding, or voyeurism. For a dominant, this means twice the work, in theory, but if it works well it is absolutely twice the fun. And of course, I was able to use them both as toys for the other. Hierarchy, spoken or unspoken, is one of the best ways to help frame what you might do. I knew that Blush would recoil at doing anything which was toppy or dominant, but that Ganymede might appreciate being used as a tool of violence. So that was how I arranged the situation. He was my spare pair of hands, a way of acting upon her flesh. She was my way of giving him pleasure, without having to do so myself, and I made her suck his cock whilst I smiled at him from across the room.
There is an absolute joy in making other bodies sing to your tune, to move them this way and the other, leading them on a merry dance through all kinds of pleasures and pain. I clipped them together at the neck, watching them kiss with the satisfaction of the world's greatest pornographer. Personalised sex acts, just for me. I changed their positions, putting his cock inside her and locking her wrists around his back. He fucked. I gagged him and watched his face as she, teasingly, kissed the hardened leather covering his mouth. Finally, I slid a plug inside him and, pressing in with me knee, ground him into her.
"This is how missionary sex works, right?"
Later, we put a leather arm sleeve on Blush, which arched her back and pressed her breasts out for more torture. I slipped the latex hood onto Ganymede and put him on his back, then made her straddle his face whilst I fucked him. I remember thinking that perhaps this was an ideal girls' night in, with both of us using him for our pleasure and me kissing her whilst I ran my nails down her back, reminding her of their sharpness and cruelty. When he came, he came hard, the orgasm shuddering through his body. Together, Blush and I, smiling, gently removed the hood and held him until he came back to the room, to the world and to himself with a grin so wide it threatened to split his face in half.
Perhaps one of the more intimate moments came later, when, natural as if it had been something we always did, we showered, turned down the bed and all went to sleep together. In the morning, Ganymede tidied, I made breakfast and coffee whilst Blush went out for croissants. We sat together on rugs and cushions and discussed the night before, agreeing to future dates, and future possibilities.
Showing posts with label fucking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fucking. Show all posts
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
Thursday, 29 March 2012
Fast boys
This isn't the sort of thing I'd have done a few years ago. I've learnt better now: there is no time like the present. The things that you want are not going to magically resolve themselves without your input and nothing ever fell into your outstretched hands. If you want something, you should take it.
I wanted him.
I took him.
I'll even name him, after one of my friends rather pointedly noted my failure to name him even in conversation. As if it would be bad luck, somehow, and once made concrete I would only too soon be announcing that he has left, or not been all than he seemed. Ganymede, then. For the beautiful boy stolen by Zeus.
So named, we are together. Happily. Disgustingly well-matched. It's bewildering, sometimes. I try hard not to giggle, out loud, on the tube or at work. We are still in that sweet spot of a blissful daze, repeated fucking, barely able to keep our hands off each other. The realms of new discovery: each other's tastes and desire - sexual as well as otherwise. He's been reading the blog, from the beginning it seems, and we've discussed with interest the way that his own submission mirrors my own nascent desires. We become the dominant that we want, and then we develop into something else when we meet others - I feel as if I have discovered the submissive that perfectly matches me completely. It's not precisely like doing unto him that which I want to have done to me, it's more about acts that satisfy me are acts that satisfy him also. We are enthusiastically boyish together, and I am enjoying having an appreciative audience for my masculine persona, someone who revels in my androgyny. And I in his. We form an interesting mirror for each other, roughly of the same height and build. The fact that we can swap clothes is creating a lot of excitement in the wardrobe department, and I'm looking forward to developing an appreciation for cissyfication.
We fall into each other easily, as if we have been lovers for a long time.
Lying in the sun, his fingers searching out my pleasure in my cunt. I can see his delight at my satisfaction, and we reflect back upon each other. His pleasure in my pleasure skin bleaching white in the bright daylight. I watch him bite his lip - I love it when they bite their lip - his cock is hard and snug against my side. The obvious signs of desire are sometimes the best, and I am fond of a good erection, thus far he has not disappointed. The game is experimentation. Toys old and new. Each time we learn something new about what works, and each time we build on the last.
There are certain acts, certain first times that are significant. The first time you put a collar on someone, whether in play or to make them yours more permanently. The first time you experience a sensation that transports you elsewhere, into those spaces within you that you never knew existed. Ganymede and I are moving through first times at a rate of knots. where cherries are popped at a speed of kernals of corn. But some are worth savouring.
I'd initially thought to wait for a "special" moment to strap on and fuck him in the arse. It's one of those significant points. I knew that he was bi, so I'd assumed, wrongly as it turns out, that it wouldn't have been a new experience for him. I started slow, all the same, because the build up is part of the fun and I don't think I'll ever tire of putting things in people. After a while, I selected the narrowest of my cocks, pushed him down and pressed into him. A few experimental thrusts and he wriggles his bottom against my hips - I think the boy likes it. I flipped him over onto his back, resting his hips on a pillow to get a better angle and throwing his legs atop my shoulders. Taking him harder now, riding against the moans, grinning at the way his eyes stare wide at me, grinning harder after I slap his face and he whispers, smiling, "you are a mean Daddy." And he is my beautiful boy. We fuck. I revel in the fullness of his appreciation of me, of what he sees in me.
Later, I put him to sleep secure in a padded leather collar, with cuffs around his wrist and ankles. Tied loose enough to the head and foot of the bed, I give him some movement, and to avoid any accidental strangulation in the night. He lets me know that was the first time someone had fucked him like that, and I hold him, happy that I took him. That I have him. Yes, it's been quick. I know that. But I've been long in waiting, so now, I see no reason to hold back.
I wanted him.
I took him.
I'll even name him, after one of my friends rather pointedly noted my failure to name him even in conversation. As if it would be bad luck, somehow, and once made concrete I would only too soon be announcing that he has left, or not been all than he seemed. Ganymede, then. For the beautiful boy stolen by Zeus.
So named, we are together. Happily. Disgustingly well-matched. It's bewildering, sometimes. I try hard not to giggle, out loud, on the tube or at work. We are still in that sweet spot of a blissful daze, repeated fucking, barely able to keep our hands off each other. The realms of new discovery: each other's tastes and desire - sexual as well as otherwise. He's been reading the blog, from the beginning it seems, and we've discussed with interest the way that his own submission mirrors my own nascent desires. We become the dominant that we want, and then we develop into something else when we meet others - I feel as if I have discovered the submissive that perfectly matches me completely. It's not precisely like doing unto him that which I want to have done to me, it's more about acts that satisfy me are acts that satisfy him also. We are enthusiastically boyish together, and I am enjoying having an appreciative audience for my masculine persona, someone who revels in my androgyny. And I in his. We form an interesting mirror for each other, roughly of the same height and build. The fact that we can swap clothes is creating a lot of excitement in the wardrobe department, and I'm looking forward to developing an appreciation for cissyfication.
We fall into each other easily, as if we have been lovers for a long time.
Lying in the sun, his fingers searching out my pleasure in my cunt. I can see his delight at my satisfaction, and we reflect back upon each other. His pleasure in my pleasure skin bleaching white in the bright daylight. I watch him bite his lip - I love it when they bite their lip - his cock is hard and snug against my side. The obvious signs of desire are sometimes the best, and I am fond of a good erection, thus far he has not disappointed. The game is experimentation. Toys old and new. Each time we learn something new about what works, and each time we build on the last.
There are certain acts, certain first times that are significant. The first time you put a collar on someone, whether in play or to make them yours more permanently. The first time you experience a sensation that transports you elsewhere, into those spaces within you that you never knew existed. Ganymede and I are moving through first times at a rate of knots. where cherries are popped at a speed of kernals of corn. But some are worth savouring.
I'd initially thought to wait for a "special" moment to strap on and fuck him in the arse. It's one of those significant points. I knew that he was bi, so I'd assumed, wrongly as it turns out, that it wouldn't have been a new experience for him. I started slow, all the same, because the build up is part of the fun and I don't think I'll ever tire of putting things in people. After a while, I selected the narrowest of my cocks, pushed him down and pressed into him. A few experimental thrusts and he wriggles his bottom against my hips - I think the boy likes it. I flipped him over onto his back, resting his hips on a pillow to get a better angle and throwing his legs atop my shoulders. Taking him harder now, riding against the moans, grinning at the way his eyes stare wide at me, grinning harder after I slap his face and he whispers, smiling, "you are a mean Daddy." And he is my beautiful boy. We fuck. I revel in the fullness of his appreciation of me, of what he sees in me.
Later, I put him to sleep secure in a padded leather collar, with cuffs around his wrist and ankles. Tied loose enough to the head and foot of the bed, I give him some movement, and to avoid any accidental strangulation in the night. He lets me know that was the first time someone had fucked him like that, and I hold him, happy that I took him. That I have him. Yes, it's been quick. I know that. But I've been long in waiting, so now, I see no reason to hold back.
Tuesday, 20 March 2012
Many Pleasured Things. Part Two
The morning after the night before.
We hadn't slept, but spent the night exploring the possibilities of our bodies. Touching on the outskirts of new territories with fingers, mouths and toys. Those first few touches, like the moment of penetration, of a hard object sliding in to fullness, can never be really recaptured. There will never be a second, first time. The movement from unknown to known. The thrill of expectation followed by satisfaction as you realise that yes, this is as good as you had hoped, had wanted. As good, and perhaps better.
Friends had left, for other places and other people, and the room had become more empty as the evening became the night became the day. We bid them farewell in amidst fucking. There was an unselfconsciousness about seeking joy in each others bodies and I don't recall we actually broke contact. A limb would touch a limb. A mouth seek out a tongue, a cunt, a nipple. Fingers would search for warm hardness or soft wetness and tease out more soft moans.
The sun rose. My eyes had only closed in moments of pleasure or that warm, light, not-quite-asleep, not-quite-awake cocoon following an all-nighter. Quiet but not still. Chemicals still whispered to our skin of heightened sensations and unreality. Our smells had mingled in the night giving that strange perfume that comes from the sweat of sex, the scent of another body overlayed on top of yours like a ghostly embrace. His eyes opened and revealed that bright, bright blue I had hoped was real and not a trick of the night. Much like the rest of him, I was not sure that this could actually be real, my experience so far has made me wary, to anticipate some catch, some flaw that would prevent me from getting what I wanted.
We have all known the fragility of our hopes and desires when, come the morning, those whispered promises and offers are revealed to be the gasps of transient passion, never to be consummated. I was ready for that. Ready for us to say goodbye and shake hands like gentlemen, to accept that what went before was a wonderful thing, in and of itself, but not to be repeated. An experience amidst other experiences and water under the bridge to boot. There comes a moment, in the morning, when you wake and you know it is time to leave. When you feel the day come heavy upon you and time, real time, rather than the hazy time of parties and play dates, starts to tick.
I took a breath and readied myself. He was still looking at me.
"I want to be yours."
Without a beat, I replied "yes" and wrapped him up in my arms. As simple as that, then. Again, it all seemed to good to be true. But as we talked, it became clear that feeling was one he shared. That what I represented did not feel real to him either, as if I too would evaporate in the sunlight, to be merely a reverie. I took control, he offered it. I explained what I wanted and required from him, how he would become mine: my slave, my servant, my boy and many other things besides. I gave him my name, and the instruction to never call me Mistress.
I gave a reality check, for fear that I was on an imaginary pedestal I could never climb upon in reality. That this was a beginning. That there would be more, and less, than just kinky fucking. That there was a full life to be had, a future. That I wasn't interested in half-hearts or half-measures. I wanted something whole and complete and with potential. That this was now. That later, as we developed together we would change and grow. That underneath it all, alongside it all, I was just a person. Not a fictitious mistress who stalked the night in heels and hair scraped back tight. We would have bad days along with the good, but that he would be mine and in a curious way, I would also be his.
With mild euphoria, and sleep-deprived adrenaline we got up, got dressed and went out into whatever passes for the real world. Over coffee in the fresh air we checked our histories. Loves lost and won, what we wanted for ourselves. Those beautiful beginning moments. I feel a little as if I have started again. His newness to the scene combined with his openness for experimentation, alongside the broad plains of his desire gives me more scope than ever before in a D/s relationship. We are not constrained by the demands of others, by the worries of sexuality, by the expectation of loss or of foregone conclusions. Like some kind of rite of spring, the world had changed, suddenly and quite dramatically.
And I am very happy that it has.
We hadn't slept, but spent the night exploring the possibilities of our bodies. Touching on the outskirts of new territories with fingers, mouths and toys. Those first few touches, like the moment of penetration, of a hard object sliding in to fullness, can never be really recaptured. There will never be a second, first time. The movement from unknown to known. The thrill of expectation followed by satisfaction as you realise that yes, this is as good as you had hoped, had wanted. As good, and perhaps better.
Friends had left, for other places and other people, and the room had become more empty as the evening became the night became the day. We bid them farewell in amidst fucking. There was an unselfconsciousness about seeking joy in each others bodies and I don't recall we actually broke contact. A limb would touch a limb. A mouth seek out a tongue, a cunt, a nipple. Fingers would search for warm hardness or soft wetness and tease out more soft moans.
The sun rose. My eyes had only closed in moments of pleasure or that warm, light, not-quite-asleep, not-quite-awake cocoon following an all-nighter. Quiet but not still. Chemicals still whispered to our skin of heightened sensations and unreality. Our smells had mingled in the night giving that strange perfume that comes from the sweat of sex, the scent of another body overlayed on top of yours like a ghostly embrace. His eyes opened and revealed that bright, bright blue I had hoped was real and not a trick of the night. Much like the rest of him, I was not sure that this could actually be real, my experience so far has made me wary, to anticipate some catch, some flaw that would prevent me from getting what I wanted.
We have all known the fragility of our hopes and desires when, come the morning, those whispered promises and offers are revealed to be the gasps of transient passion, never to be consummated. I was ready for that. Ready for us to say goodbye and shake hands like gentlemen, to accept that what went before was a wonderful thing, in and of itself, but not to be repeated. An experience amidst other experiences and water under the bridge to boot. There comes a moment, in the morning, when you wake and you know it is time to leave. When you feel the day come heavy upon you and time, real time, rather than the hazy time of parties and play dates, starts to tick.
I took a breath and readied myself. He was still looking at me.
"I want to be yours."
Without a beat, I replied "yes" and wrapped him up in my arms. As simple as that, then. Again, it all seemed to good to be true. But as we talked, it became clear that feeling was one he shared. That what I represented did not feel real to him either, as if I too would evaporate in the sunlight, to be merely a reverie. I took control, he offered it. I explained what I wanted and required from him, how he would become mine: my slave, my servant, my boy and many other things besides. I gave him my name, and the instruction to never call me Mistress.
I gave a reality check, for fear that I was on an imaginary pedestal I could never climb upon in reality. That this was a beginning. That there would be more, and less, than just kinky fucking. That there was a full life to be had, a future. That I wasn't interested in half-hearts or half-measures. I wanted something whole and complete and with potential. That this was now. That later, as we developed together we would change and grow. That underneath it all, alongside it all, I was just a person. Not a fictitious mistress who stalked the night in heels and hair scraped back tight. We would have bad days along with the good, but that he would be mine and in a curious way, I would also be his.
With mild euphoria, and sleep-deprived adrenaline we got up, got dressed and went out into whatever passes for the real world. Over coffee in the fresh air we checked our histories. Loves lost and won, what we wanted for ourselves. Those beautiful beginning moments. I feel a little as if I have started again. His newness to the scene combined with his openness for experimentation, alongside the broad plains of his desire gives me more scope than ever before in a D/s relationship. We are not constrained by the demands of others, by the worries of sexuality, by the expectation of loss or of foregone conclusions. Like some kind of rite of spring, the world had changed, suddenly and quite dramatically.
And I am very happy that it has.
Wednesday, 14 March 2012
Many pleasured things. Part One.
The orgy happened.
And then some.
It's take me a long time to compose this piece, because I really wasn't sure where to start. There was no point during the night when I wasn't completely revelling in one form of decadent sensation or another. It's all Glamourama's fault, she's a gateway drug to sexual hedonism, and I rather love her for it. Going through my mind is a series of edited highlights one by one like a sequence of events that by all rights should have occurred over many months rather than one night. And yet it did, giving me that wonderful feeling of being removed from the world which has been so difficult and dull for such a long time and into something brighter, sharper and more free.
There are few places in the world where I feel comfortable enough to let go and safe enough to get what I want sexually without worrying about who might see. In a very strange way, domination, particularly female domination is about being unreachable, in some fashion aloof and challenging. Something always, slightly, out of the grasp of most people. That way when you do accept someone they feel special, because they are special. This makes, to my twisted logic, group sex sometimes difficult. Especially if you want to be fucked, rather than doing the fucking. However, like I said, this was a good space for me. It helped, certainly, that most people there did not know me very well, and those that did were accepting of my changeable, capricious nature. And desire to be many things at once. A dominant masochist. A switch. A gay man in a woman's body. Someone who wants everything at once, with a cherry on top.
I met my date in a coffee shop for a pre-flight briefing. I'd had my eye on him for a while, but wasn't sure whether he was comfortable or interested in what I liked doing. We talked, and the more we talked the more things started to click in my brain. We collected flowers and perverts along the way, and my step became lighter as the night fell and the world became darker, into that marvellous lilac colour that the London sky could get. We were off for an adventure.
We started with drinks and nibbles, as any good party should. Once all the guest had arrived and stripped down to a reasonable level (she keeps her house hot on purpose) the shows started. We'd been encouraged to bring party pieces: I had my violet wand to hand. The performances did not disappoint - an instructional strip tease, a spanking counting lesson and I tested the flesh of one of the new boys finding him delightfully muscled and responsive to the touch of electrics. A wide grin formed on his face, and I knew - as I had known when we first met and I smelled him, that I wanted to fuck him. Soon, everyone was in their underwear and people were starting to feel each other out, quite literally. I was entertaining myself tying people up and surprising myself with my rope skills - it appears I have actually learnt something through my practice, and enjoying looping rope tightly around two people.
Then I put the rope on my date. And that felt very different. There was something in the way he held himself, the way I moved the rope around him and the way he just melted against my touch. We kissed. For a very long time. And then I pushed him down, holding his hair, and raising my hand. He looked at me, properly looked at me, with beautiful blue eyes, whispering fiercely "go for it." I hit him. His eyes widened briefly, he gasped, we kissed again. And I hit him. Again. I spoke to someone later, who was watching me as I was doing this. Time had stopped. My pupils had enlarged and my face was lit up, radiating desire and excitement. Which was true. The offering had been perfect, full of want and insistence. The reaction too - willing me to do more, to take more.
Flow. A recently discovered word, it described that space between control and arousal, where skill and challenge meet. For me, it represents the perfect arrow flight of dominance within submissive space. Something I hadn't felt in quite a while. And the night flowed from there...
And then some.
It's take me a long time to compose this piece, because I really wasn't sure where to start. There was no point during the night when I wasn't completely revelling in one form of decadent sensation or another. It's all Glamourama's fault, she's a gateway drug to sexual hedonism, and I rather love her for it. Going through my mind is a series of edited highlights one by one like a sequence of events that by all rights should have occurred over many months rather than one night. And yet it did, giving me that wonderful feeling of being removed from the world which has been so difficult and dull for such a long time and into something brighter, sharper and more free.
There are few places in the world where I feel comfortable enough to let go and safe enough to get what I want sexually without worrying about who might see. In a very strange way, domination, particularly female domination is about being unreachable, in some fashion aloof and challenging. Something always, slightly, out of the grasp of most people. That way when you do accept someone they feel special, because they are special. This makes, to my twisted logic, group sex sometimes difficult. Especially if you want to be fucked, rather than doing the fucking. However, like I said, this was a good space for me. It helped, certainly, that most people there did not know me very well, and those that did were accepting of my changeable, capricious nature. And desire to be many things at once. A dominant masochist. A switch. A gay man in a woman's body. Someone who wants everything at once, with a cherry on top.
I met my date in a coffee shop for a pre-flight briefing. I'd had my eye on him for a while, but wasn't sure whether he was comfortable or interested in what I liked doing. We talked, and the more we talked the more things started to click in my brain. We collected flowers and perverts along the way, and my step became lighter as the night fell and the world became darker, into that marvellous lilac colour that the London sky could get. We were off for an adventure.
We started with drinks and nibbles, as any good party should. Once all the guest had arrived and stripped down to a reasonable level (she keeps her house hot on purpose) the shows started. We'd been encouraged to bring party pieces: I had my violet wand to hand. The performances did not disappoint - an instructional strip tease, a spanking counting lesson and I tested the flesh of one of the new boys finding him delightfully muscled and responsive to the touch of electrics. A wide grin formed on his face, and I knew - as I had known when we first met and I smelled him, that I wanted to fuck him. Soon, everyone was in their underwear and people were starting to feel each other out, quite literally. I was entertaining myself tying people up and surprising myself with my rope skills - it appears I have actually learnt something through my practice, and enjoying looping rope tightly around two people.
Then I put the rope on my date. And that felt very different. There was something in the way he held himself, the way I moved the rope around him and the way he just melted against my touch. We kissed. For a very long time. And then I pushed him down, holding his hair, and raising my hand. He looked at me, properly looked at me, with beautiful blue eyes, whispering fiercely "go for it." I hit him. His eyes widened briefly, he gasped, we kissed again. And I hit him. Again. I spoke to someone later, who was watching me as I was doing this. Time had stopped. My pupils had enlarged and my face was lit up, radiating desire and excitement. Which was true. The offering had been perfect, full of want and insistence. The reaction too - willing me to do more, to take more.
Flow. A recently discovered word, it described that space between control and arousal, where skill and challenge meet. For me, it represents the perfect arrow flight of dominance within submissive space. Something I hadn't felt in quite a while. And the night flowed from there...
Orgy organising. Part Two
The day of the orgy finally arrived. Glamorama and I had been working rather hard - if contacting attractive young men and meeting them for coffee counted as "hard" - over the past few weeks to arrange everything.
The interview process happened last weekend and was an interesting experiment in being proven wrong. I had assumed that given we were attractive women with an offer of exciting sex with ourselves and other exciting women (and men) that there would be no shortage of takers. At the beginning of the process, we had already gone through around a hundred men online, booking in eight to meet beforehand, so they could meet us and we could meet them. Out of our expected attendees we had three fail to arrive for a coffee, one who did arrive but couldn't make the party itself (sadly, as he was quite delectable) and out of the remaining five, two were not suitable. Which left us with three.
We reasoned this was acceptable, although not ideal, with the men we already knew were attending that left us even numbers girls and boys. I remember piping up in a vaguely put out voice that I needed two, to the sounds of laughter. I remain perfectly serious on this front, mFm is fast becoming a passion. But I was very happy with the three we had chosen, although not all my type, I was selecting for a group of people with varying tastes and I had invited a boy who I'd had my eye on for a while so I knew I would be entertained in some fashion.
Come the day, come the party. We kicked off the day with the knowledge that one out of our three was unwell, which brought the number down to a paltry two. Out of an original eight. Which brings us to the point where I had been wrong. In discussions online, I was assured by various old hands at arranging orgies that men were notoriously shy at actually putting their cocks where their mouths were and actually turning up to have sex. I was told I would need to invite at least four times as many as I needed, and scoffed at such. And yet, there we were. Down to two. As predicted.
Now, any number of excuses were offered as to why people didn't turn up, but that is a high ratio of dropout by any estimation, which makes me wonder whether there is something else going on. I met up with one of the two who did show today for a coffee and he admitted he had been nervous, especially as he didn't know everyone. But therein lay the excitement, for him. I think that for some, perhaps, the strangers may have been the difficulty, or perhaps the BDSM element. But I'm really clutching at straws here.
I think that there is a good opportunity to repeat the experiment with women to see if there is a gender bias, but then I wonder whether a woman, any woman, would be prepared to meet up with three men for a coffee and be assessed on her suitability to attend an orgy with them and some other people she didn't know. It's a tall order, when you think about it, which makes me think slightly more kindly towards our drop outs, and no-shows. After all, I can be scary. I make it my business to be so.
The interview process happened last weekend and was an interesting experiment in being proven wrong. I had assumed that given we were attractive women with an offer of exciting sex with ourselves and other exciting women (and men) that there would be no shortage of takers. At the beginning of the process, we had already gone through around a hundred men online, booking in eight to meet beforehand, so they could meet us and we could meet them. Out of our expected attendees we had three fail to arrive for a coffee, one who did arrive but couldn't make the party itself (sadly, as he was quite delectable) and out of the remaining five, two were not suitable. Which left us with three.
We reasoned this was acceptable, although not ideal, with the men we already knew were attending that left us even numbers girls and boys. I remember piping up in a vaguely put out voice that I needed two, to the sounds of laughter. I remain perfectly serious on this front, mFm is fast becoming a passion. But I was very happy with the three we had chosen, although not all my type, I was selecting for a group of people with varying tastes and I had invited a boy who I'd had my eye on for a while so I knew I would be entertained in some fashion.
Come the day, come the party. We kicked off the day with the knowledge that one out of our three was unwell, which brought the number down to a paltry two. Out of an original eight. Which brings us to the point where I had been wrong. In discussions online, I was assured by various old hands at arranging orgies that men were notoriously shy at actually putting their cocks where their mouths were and actually turning up to have sex. I was told I would need to invite at least four times as many as I needed, and scoffed at such. And yet, there we were. Down to two. As predicted.
Now, any number of excuses were offered as to why people didn't turn up, but that is a high ratio of dropout by any estimation, which makes me wonder whether there is something else going on. I met up with one of the two who did show today for a coffee and he admitted he had been nervous, especially as he didn't know everyone. But therein lay the excitement, for him. I think that for some, perhaps, the strangers may have been the difficulty, or perhaps the BDSM element. But I'm really clutching at straws here.
I think that there is a good opportunity to repeat the experiment with women to see if there is a gender bias, but then I wonder whether a woman, any woman, would be prepared to meet up with three men for a coffee and be assessed on her suitability to attend an orgy with them and some other people she didn't know. It's a tall order, when you think about it, which makes me think slightly more kindly towards our drop outs, and no-shows. After all, I can be scary. I make it my business to be so.
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