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My name is
Janine, and this is my confession: I lost my virginity on a sofa, and
ever since that day – night actually – I have much preferred making
love on a sofa than on a bed, no matter how much fluff and stuff it
has.
My other confession
is a life-long quest to find a man that knows how to adore a woman who
is sprawled over a sofa. Sounds easy enough, right?
I’m not one
to complicate my life, but when it comes to sex – great sex, anyways
– I do keep a honey-do list. The kind of man is, obviously, considered
first. Second on the list is the type of sofa he owns: plush and pillowed,
sleek and firm, high arms, low arms, and of course, hand-tied springs,
all come into play. Believe me, there is no bigger disappointment than
to meet a gorgeous man with ten-dollar sofa. I’ll take a small penis
over a romp on a dime-store dump any day.
Occasionally
– and I do mean occasionally – all the stars align, and I get a
good looking man who smells nice, dresses well, has a meaty package,
and sofa built for fucking. Toss in some wine, and I can go all
night – with a little help from my trusty bottle of Kama Sutra oil
of course.
On one such
occasion, I had gone to an upscale hotel bar, which is always a great
place to meet quality men, many of whom are locals chatting up business
with out-of-towners. By quality I mean physical attraction and stamina,
not necessarily their ethics or common good. That’s just too complicated
and iffy. So anyways, I went to the bar dressed in sleek and revealing
black, my hair up, tasteful jewellery, and a new bottle of KS oil. I
had no intention of leaving without a man attached to one arm – or
a man on each arm, if the opportunity arose. Been there, done that –
love it!
Things were
looking uneventful this particular night. A few handsome fellows here
and there, but most appeared to be staying at the hotel, and I wasn’t
in the mood for a hotel fuck. Never feels quite as authentic. So, I
sipped my wine and waited.
Then ‘he’
arrived: tall, good looking, smart suit and smarter confidence. No ring,
but those come off, so a closer inspection is always needed. I don’t
knowingly bed married men, and so I like to pretend I read palms so
I can look for any hints a ring has been removed. Once my potential
beau has passed the unmarried test, I ready my hooks.
George was
his name, a local entrepreneur who makes his rounds looking for business
opportunities. Good a reason as any to be here, I guess.
We chatted
a while – he approached me – and we seemed well paired. He was as
good a listener as he was a talker, always a good indication of how
a man behaves between a woman’s legs. The ‘all-talkers’ tend to
be just that: all talk, and leave my cravings (and pussy) high and dry
- the kind of men you let fall asleep, then hump yourself on the sofa
arm before letting yourself out. To digress, I’ll never forget Josh,
a cheap fuck and poor judgement on my part. After a very disappointing
go, he dozed off while surfing the sports channels. I was so pissed
off I didn’t even bother to pleasure myself, and instead peed on his
sofa and left.
Back to George.
He was indeed
attached to my arm when I left. And, by the time the sun came up the
next morning – to be blissfully blunt – he had fucked the hell out
of me. Now, my little pussy is no stranger to all-nighters. She’s
well trained and has an abundance of sweet girl cream to offer up. But
every pussy has its limits, and after four hours of in and out, I needed
my Kama Sutra to keep going. I asked my superb cocksman to give me a
second, then handed him the oil. He knew what to do.
I must say,
having a talented man massaging love oil into your pussy is about as
delish as it gets, with the anticipation for more fucking and
kissing and slurping sky high.
But wait, what
about George’s sofa?
When we arrived
at his place, the sofa was the first thing I set my peepers on. It was
perfect: lush down with a bench-style cushion, the best if you want
to avoid getting your knees stuck between cushions, which can throw
off the rhythm of a great doggy fuck. The rest of the home was eaqually
appointed: classy, and no expense withheld. We sat for more wine and
repartee, and an exchange of ‘signals’ that we were ready for anything.
George suggested
we go to his bedroom, but when I said I preferred to use the sofa, he
just knew. I am guessing I’m not his first ‘sofa girl’, and maybe
he even bought this exquisite model with us in mind. His smile told
me I was in for a long and delicious night.
I have fluctuating
mores on what a gentleman should do first. Kiss my shoulders? Whisper
sweet nothings? Or, just jam his head between my legs and lick me into
oblivion?
A combination?
George set
a new standard for me.
After a sweet
kiss to my ear and shoulder, he stood me up, embraced me a long moment,
then turned me around, still tight in his arms. We swayed to the music
a few minutes, with me pushing my bottom back on his penis. I could
feel him there, between my cheeks.
He then nudged
me forward, with me now kneeling on the sofa, and my elbows resting
on the back. He continued to dry-hump me with his hands tight on my
hips, and pulling me back hard against his cock. In this position, I
could feel him pressing against my vulva, and my vulva was well aware
of the visitor.
George got
on his knees, lifted my dress away from my bottom, and kissed every
square centimetre of my silk. He ran his tongue along the lace, half
on the panties, half on my skin. He seemed quite content to savour me
just like this, but I was ready for a little more. I reached back and
pulled the panties aside with one hand, and massaged my clitoris with
the other, giving George a little warm-up before sinking a few fingers
in, then offering them to him. He took the bait and suckled the happiness
from my fingers – with a lot more enthusiasm then I had seen before.
So, I gave him a few more ‘taste tests’.
Was George
pussy tasting? Was he a connoisseur, like sipping wine? I could
feel his nose skim over me between licks, and I could feels his lips
test the firmness of my vulva, and tug at my hairs. Should I offer him
a few oyster crackers?
No, but I did
offer him something I doubt he has had before. It was very clear he
liked my tastes and my scent. I think he even may have forgotten he
had a cock, and just wanted to spend the rest of his life right where
he was – face down in me.
He pouted a
moment as I rolled on my back and pulled the panties off. He was about
to speak, when I motioned him silent, then sunk three fingers deep in
my pussy, finger-fucked myself a few moments, then offered up the warm
cream. George was one happy boy!
I was just
getting started.
You see, fucking
is wonderful, especially when on the receiving end of a talented cock,
but having someone positively adore your pussy and all the tricks it
can do is rare, and I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass me
by. After a few more three-finger teasers, I asked for my purse.
George handed it to me, and I fished out the oil.
George watched
in boyish amusement as I oiled up my pussy and hand. A smile filled
his face when I worked my whole hand into me, and then began fist-fucking
myself into a frothy nether-state. I was so into it, with my legs as
wide as they could go, my eyes closed tight, and my other hand tugging
and pinching my nipples. I knew I had an audience, and loved every passing
second. When I came, I could feel my release coat my hand. This would
be one ‘lovin’ spoonful’ for my Beau.
I opened my
eyes to see George’s riveted to my pussy. I slowly, teasingly, pulled
my fist out and offered it up. That man kissed, caressed and nibbled
my buttery fingers and hand for ten minutes, then did the most erotic
thing someone has ever done to me; he oiled my hand, then gently guided
it back into me. When my fist was buried to the wrist, he then played
it like a toy, moving my hand in and out, in and out, then sinking it
deep as he could, kissing my stretched pussy and clit, then pulling
my hand out to my finger tips. He kissed it clean, then pushed it in
again, over and over and over. I just lay back and let him pleasure
me with my own hand.
Once George
had his fill of me it was time to fuck, and fuck we did; every position
and every hole on every inch of that sofa - until the sun came bursting
through the curtains. For the first time in my sex life, I was sore.
Blissfully sore. Even my cervix felt bruised.
I’m not a
gold digger by any means, and keep my finances and my own home to myself.
I also tend to avoid relationships that could get all mushy and emotional,
and prefer my independence hands down to being a mother for men. But
George really got to me. He’s the complete package, and yes, we are
dating now, but with a few caution flags to keep it real. As fantastic
as our sex is – and certainly the very best I have ever had, not to
mention the best sofa I have had the pleasure of ripping apart in orgasmic
bliss – I still need that safety net, that complete sense of my independence.
I think George senses that without me needing to go into some diatribe
about it. We just fit, physically and mentally, and spiritually.
*****
A.W.
****
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