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Falling Off Her Pedestal: When the Girl of Your Dreams Turns out to be an Anal Slut.

Greg learns that when dreams come true they invariably arrive loaded with baggage.

She was waiting at the bus stop when I spotted her through the clear arch of glass that the wipers repeatedly cleared of snow. From a distance, and through the glass, she had the appearance of a tiny figure in some cheap snow-scene trinket. If the traffic had not been so slow, the snow-hushed rush hour a gruelling stop-start, I probably would not have noticed her at all.

It was not just her tallness, her ever-so-long legs in boots and shortish skirt that drew my eye. As I crept closer, she appeared so forlorn, as if someone had abandoned her there. How inappropriate her clothes were, her leather jacket merely decorative, not protective at all. Her attire told how when she had left the house that morning she had not anticipated a white-out.

The dawning of recognition on seeing her face. The disbelief that it was her in that place, at that time. How different she appeared from the picture I carried of her in my memory, her moments of laughter and smiles in summer days all those years ago.

She anxiously scanned the road for signs of her bus, didn't even look when I pulled into the bus turn-lane and got out of my car and called to her over car's low, soft-top roof. Snowflakes settled heavily on my shoulders, wetting my shirt.

She probably thought I was some creep, so I called again, louder now: “Dolce!”

Hearing her name she turned to look, peering doubtfully, still not sure. “Oh, it's you, Greg. . . isn't it?” Then her smile.  

“Get in,” I said.

“I don't live in Weston anymore. It'll be out of your way."

"Where are you now?"

"Newtown. Benson Street. "

"Your bus might never arrive — in this," my finger pointing upwards. "I can't leave you to freeze to death. I'll run you anyway. Will Martin be home? It would be good to catch up.” I said and then quickly retreated into the snug interior of my old MG.

She dusted away the soft snow from her shoulders and shook her hair before opening the passenger door.

And then her legs slipping gracefully into the footwell, the clunk of the door closing. She wore leather knee-length boots and a shortish skirt that rode high as she settled herself, revealing an expanse of thigh sheathed in opaque grey tights. She began wriggling her bottom in a quest for comfort in the hardly accommodating bucket-seat, exposing even more of her thighs. I watched her cross and uncross her legs, twist her feet this way and that trying to find enough space in which to rest them. She eventually settled into this kind of side-saddle position, her knees almost brushing the gearstick.

She saw me looking at her legs and tugged self-consciously on the hem her skirt. “Not a lot of room is there?” she said.

"I should have altered the seat for you. Your legs are very long.”

“They're too long."

“They’re perfect,” I said, once again running my eyes over her thighs. She must have been six foot. When she wore heels, we were eye to eye.

Her smile was sweet, her gaze demur. "I never expected this snow," she said. "When has it ever snowed like this in April? And this jacket's no use. Can you turn the heating up?"

"This is as good as it gets," I said. "Anyway, where's your car?"

"I've given up driving to work. Parking fees are ridiculous in the centre. The bus makes more sense — usually."

"Perhaps you'll check the weather in the morning from now on."

"God, no. I'm up at the last minute, showered and out the door in all of twenty minutes. I'm still half asleep when I roll into the office."

She looked tired, worn down, and she had aged since the last time I'd seen her. I thought of the girl she had been when Martin first introduced her to me five years before. She had been just eighteen, and I'd immediately thought her the most beautiful, elegant girl I had ever met. I was so jealous of Martin, could hardly believe someone like her could fall for a person like him.

I'd arranged to meet Martin and other friends at the races, never expecting a girl as sophisticated as Dolce would be there, or that Martin even had a new girlfriend. When I remember that day, I still get the same tingles I did the very first time laid eyes on her.

 “Greg, this is Dolce. Dolce, Greg,”  Martin had said.

Her guileless smile. “Hi, Greg. Lovely to meet you. Martin has told me all about you.” She had stepped towards me and offered me her hand, and I took it in mine. Even though she was such a tall and sturdy girl, her hand was small, soft and delicate. She drew me close by gently pulling my hand, kissed each of my cheeks.

To see her, to speak to her, was astonishing enough, but to touch her, inhale her, was to be given a peek into what it might be like to make love to her. There was something indefinable about Dolce, her refined feminine allure saved from primness by her visceral physicality. She had studied dance since childhood; she also swam, climbed, and kayaked.

Only minutes before, on that day we met, a brief squall had swept the racecourse and had caught Dolce out in the open. The sudden wind had sent strands of her hair all hither and thither and left her fascinator askew at the side of her head. That hint of dishevelment contrasted with her otherwise immaculate outfit, her impeccable poise.

Her height, her lingering proximity as she kissed my cheeks, and her intoxicating fragrance, they all filled me with a desire for her so complete it frightened me. Being close to a girl like Dolce, I realised I could guarantee nothing about my behaviour in her presence ever again. Before drawing away from me, she held my gaze. It was as if she were trying to remember me, searching for the person in her life I may have once been.

For me, It had been love at first sight, though I would not have called I that at the time. Looking back now I can see it was precisely that. Having to live with the heartbreaking knowledge she was out of bounds was too much and I had to put myself out of harm's way, had begun to make an excuse if Martin called to ask me round to theirs.

Eventually, my aching crush abated, buried by denial in that rarely disturbed eluvium called, "if only".  I did not like to look at all the "If only's" in my life; there were too many.  But little by little, our friendships resumed for a while, until I was moved to another city by my company. My only contact with the couple being birthday greetings and the occasional email from Martin. I told myself my feelings for her had been lust only.

 But then on that snowy Friday evening when snow stilled the city, I found myself alone with Dolce for the first time, emotions long denied began to surface. Something enormous was stirring in the depths and silt of my subconscious.

“Shouldn't we get going?” she asked.

I realised I was staring at her legs again. I coughed involuntarily and turned from her and gave my full attention to rejoining the traffic, which was still barely flowing.

The car indicator tick-ticked as we waited for the kindness of a fellow motorist. The flash of headlights and my old MG found its place among the other barely moving vehicles.

“I suppose you’ve heard,” She said flatly.

“Heard what?”

"About Martin and me.”

“Have you finally named the day then?”

A scowl. “It’ll have been two months tomorrow . . ."

"Two months?"

"Two months since I said enough is enough. I've left the bastard.  You know Emily, don’t you?”

“Emily Tomkins?”

“That's the Bitch! From here on in to be known as That-Fucking-Bitch.”

“Martin and her?” I was shocked. I’d always thought Martin and Dolce as forever. “My god!" I said, "Martin adored you. You were his perfect girl. I mean, Emily is a babe, but she's not in the same league as you, Dolce. No way is she! What-the-fuck happened?”

“That-Fucking-Bitch happened, that’s what happened. Everyone knew except me. She lives in my home now — my home! Can you believe it?  I'm sorry Greg, it makes me so furious to think of her alone with him in our apartment.”

Emily Tomkins!  Gorgeous she may have been, I'd always thought of her as a girl that had risen above her comfort zone and would soon be falling back down into the sluttiness from which she had apparently escaped. But I didn't know anything about Martin's involvement with her.

“I didn't know,” I protested.

“You must be the only one who didn't." I sensed her thinking. She looked directly at me. "If you had known, would you have said?"

“You mean would I have told you about their affair?”


“But I didn’t know, did I? I've had a lot on lately; I haven't seen Martin or you in over a year.”

“But would you have. . . If you had known?”

I asked myself if I would have told her. I didn’t know. I thought hard. I might have; it would have been a door through which to reach her. But Martin was my oldest friend.

We were nearing a side road that I could use to escape the congestion — and her question. “If we go down here we can avoid getting stuck in the snarl of junction forty-five.”

Well, that was the idea. Ten minutes later we had to abandon the car. A small hill had become a ski-run which my motor refused to climb. The engine roared, and wheels span, but we were going nowhere.

“What now?” She asked.

“We walk.”

“It’s five miles to my house. I can’t walk that far in these boots.”

I sat and thought. Then an idea:

“Look, Dolce, we're still in town. There’s The Hilton. Its only five minutes by foot if we go via the canal tow-path. We could hang out at the bar. Maybe eat, kill time until it clears.”

“My boss said it was set in for the night, which is why he said I could go home early.”

I checked my phone. The BBC said the same. Another six hours of snow, at least. And even if it stopped, the roads would be gridlocked for hours.

I said, “Your boss was right." And then very tentatively, "If it doesn't clear, we could share a room?" She looked at me in a way I found hard to read. Was it disbelief that I had even suggested such a thing? Or was it something else? I couldn’t tell. "Twins of course,” I added.

“Tell you what, Greg. We’ll go for that drink and wait and just hope it clears.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. Already my ego was crushed,  the word "hope" a leaden thing falling on my thoughts of her and me alone for the night.

The estimated five minutes walk to the Hilton became fifteen. As we made our way through snow that fell heavier with each step we took. She had to hold my arm for support as her footwear, fashion boots at best, were hardly adequate for the conditions underfoot. As soon she tried to walk she skidded and slid. She reminded me of a baby giraffe trying to stand for the first time. I had to quickly take her arm to stop her slipping onto her butt.

We walked along arm in arm, and every few paces she would lose her footing and nearly bringing us both down. The snow settled densely over our coats, and by the time we reached the hotel, we resembled a pair of towship-scavenging polar bears.

We found a place to hang our wet coats. I asked if she wanted a hot drink? Something stronger?

“I'm frozen,” she said. "Is it too early for brandy?"

I order two doubles. The bar was on the third floor. We found a seat by the window with views over the city.

My toes have no feeling," she said as she removed her boots.

She brought up both feet and tucked them between her haunches and the leather of the bench seating. Her stockinged toes peeped out, and she massaged them with a lazy hand as we talked. There was a background murmur of conversations from the other patrons who sat close by, their words indistinct became a soothing static that, along with the whiteness beyond the glass, mesmerised us. We said little and watched snow fall vertically down. It rarely snows in our part of the U.K., so a prolonged fall was a thing of magic to us both.

Dreamily she said, “I love it when you can steal time from the world when no one can claim you.”

“Yeah, like when you are a kid, and it snows, and the school bus doesn’t come, so you have to go back home. Then you sit and watch it fall.”

We sipped our drink, once again silently looking out.

“Do you want to talk about Martin?" I eventually plucked up the courage to ask.

“Not really, but I suppose you being his friend you must be dying to know the sordid minutia.”

“How long had he been. . .” I'd nearly said, shagging Emily. I managed to catch my tongue, change it to, "playing away.”

“Greg! I hate that phrase. Playing away makes a treacherous betrayal sound like a team sport — and it isn’t; it’s heartbreaking.”

Couldn’t I say anything right? I looked into her eyes and was sure she might cry.

“How did you find out?”

She seemed to gather herself for the telling. “I got a text one evening before he got home from work. It was intended for her, but the idiot sent it to me.”

“Texting without due care and attention. A capital offence,” I said

She looked at me with intense anger burning in her beautiful large brown eyes. “Do you know what it said, Greg?”

“Tell me.”

“It said, ‘Can’t make it tonight, the stupid cow wants me to go to her parents with her. It's her Mum’s birthday. Love you so much. Can‘t wait to get shot of her.'”

“Jeez,” I exhaled. "The bastard."


We sat silently for a moment, again looking out into the night. The snow seemed becoming more like sleet. I said, “We might be able to make a move in an hour if it turns to rain.”

I saw something new in her expression: a decision made. “You know what you were saying?”

"What was that?"

"About a room."

“The one we won't need anymore.” I laughed.

"What if I said that we still do need that room."

 "I'd ask you why."

“And what if I said that I wanted you to hold me? Could you do that, Greg? Just tonight? All night?”

“I can do that,” I managed to say. But I don't know how I found the ability to speak the words. The idea of us being together made my mind reel.

She smiled and reached out her hand and touched my cheek. Her eyes were sadder than any I had ever seen, "You're such a sweet man."

I went to the reception and learned they only had one room. It was expensive: the Deluxe King, coming in at twice the price of the usual, and four times what I pay at a Travel Lodge. But I did not hesitate when they told me the price. I would have spent ten times the amount to be with Dolce for just one hour.

We did not speak in the lift, stood side by side and watched floors counted down as if we were strangers. She had not bothered to put on her boots; they dangled from her hand. When the lift door opened I stood aside to let her pass.

"Which way?" she asked, and then she saw the plaque with room numbers and arrows.  I followed her without a word.

Our room. Spacious and high above the city, two walls entirely glass. The thickly caked snow was beginning to slide down the panes revealing the blur of the city's lights, a haze of twinkling beyond our concern.

The bed was high, the mattress vast. I could not comprehend that we would soon be under its covers.

She came to me and asked me to hold her, rested her head against me as I wrapped her in my arms. I had never embraced intimately a woman who was so tall, and for just a moment I was unsure of myself. It was as if there were too much of her, too much woman, too much curve, an overabundance of softness. Would I be able to meet her needs, emotional and physical?

The heat of her body carried the scent of her day; her underarm spray, her hair products; cigarettes and fabric conditioner mingling in the fibres of her clothes, and for a moment I wondered who it was in her life who smoked. But below those, her person was awash with her female creature pheromones, nature's essential gift to her sex. When we kissed, my desire for her became primal.

To have the woman I had adored from a distance giving herself to me. . . . Well! It was soul-shaking. I knew the world would never again be the same place it once was. I tied and tied, but the enormity of it was beyond comprehension. I could not believe it was happening.

If she had been any other woman, my hands would not have hesitated, but I hardly dared touch her intimately. It was not the fear of rejection that prevented me undoing the fastener at the side of her skirt or the buttons of her blouse. No. It was the fear that by hurrying to an assured conclusion, I might miss so many things about her. In years to come, I would need to remember, evoke, relive, and cherish everything.

So we just stood pressed together,  I do not know for how long for. We did not kiss.

"Do you want another drink — I could call room service?" I finally asked her.

"Wine would be nice. Is there a menu? I'm starving."

I broke away from her, walked to the dresser. "Here." I passed her the room service brochure.

She studied the menu for five minutes before saying, "I'm going to have a Club Sandwich. What about you?"

"The same. Wine? "


"Red or white?"


I ordered us both a Club Sandwich, the wine too, and we chatted while we waited for room service to arrive. It was as if we were colleagues away at a convention. She told me about her work, and I told her about mine.

"I thought life was perfect," she said. "I had the most wonderful bloke, a job I loved."

"You still have your job,"  I said.

"My work suffering because of him. I can't concentrate when I'm at the office."

I wanted to say something, but I knew that whatever I said to her would be a truism unworthy of her. "It may seem bleak at the moment, but you're a talented and gorgeous woman. Life will be good for you again one day."

"Perhaps you're right. You are right — of course, you are — but at the moment I feel so betrayed.  How could he. . . ? You're a man, Greg: how could he have done that to me?  What is wrong with your sex?"

I was about to go to her again, but room service arrived, and I answered the door. The waiter wheeled the trolley in and began fussing with the wine bottle. I let him uncork it, then I quickly tipped him and walked him hurriedly to the door.

We ate in silence, sipped wine with our food.

When we had finished eating, she said, "I should shower."

"You don't have to — not for me," I said.

"I must. It's been a long day."

She stood, began towards the bathroom.

"I'll join you, then?"

She turned and smiled. "If you like."

"Can I undress you?"

"I'm not a toddler, Greg. Believe it or not, I'm big enough to fasten my own shoelaces, you know." She smiled sadly.

"I'd like to, though,"

"It's been so long since Martin undressed me. We'd just get naked as fast as we could."

I stood close, reached out and slowly undid each button of her blouse, one after the other. All the while she held my gaze, smiling like a mother allowing her child one last treat before bedtime. When I removed her top, she took it from me and folded it carefully and then reached to her side and placed it on the dresser surface in front of the mirror.

Before I unfastened her bra, I caught her eyes again and saw how they now shone with secret pleasure. Perhaps she sensed how much this meant to me, was starting to realise that such knowledge could give her complete command of me. But if she did sense how utterly in thrall to her I was, she chose not to abuse her power.

I had to take a deep breath when I saw her naked breasts. I purposefully delayed touching them. But, oh man, how I looked and looked, studied their every millimetre. She had enchanting breasts, proportionate to her build, shapely, taut, the aurora pink, her nipples not yet stiff.

I love to undress women, remove their tops and skirts, their tights and panties, but after the glory of her breasts, my excitement was at fever pitch. My fingers fumbled as I struggled with the waistband fastener of her skirt, the impossible small zip that refused to cooperate. When I eventually had them undone, I found that the material of her skirt was reluctant to leave her hips, and when I tugged down the body of her tights came along too. Her skirt fell to the floor, and she stooped and retrieve it, folded just as she had her blouse.

And while she attended to her garment, I kneeled to peel away her hose from her legs, and could not help but stroke her feet when I had done so. Her toes were still icy, and I kissed each foot before discarding her tights, and they lay where they fell.  Lastly, I downed her cotton panties, such plain, day to day, things that did not match her bras. I suppose the last thing she had considered while dressing for the working day was to make sure her underwear matched in case of an amorous encounter.

I stood back and looked her over.  Even though this moment was one I had often imagined, her naked reality exceeded the stuff of my dreams.

"What?" she asked in that eager to know manner that people affect when they know the answer will be a compliment.

"You're the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

"I'm not."

"Don't argue," I said.

I took her in my arms again, and the fact that she was naked and I still clothed gave the moment an intense piquancy. It lent her the illusion of vulnerability.

We kissed, and I became self-conscious. I was trying too hard, my mind analysing, racing.

"Just relax," she said. You don't have to prove anything to me."

She took my hand and led me to the bathroom. While I took off my clothes, she stood under the almost scalding jets while getting up a lather with the complimentary shower-gel. As she thoroughly soaped herself, she cast a glance at my nascent erection. I tried to read her eyes, but she turned from me when I stepped into the cubicle.

I pressed myself against her back, the water streaming, my cock lodged between myself and her rump, that was thoroughly slippery with suds. I pushed against her, delighting in how my cock could find no one spot to settle but continually slipped this way and that over her curves. Her hips gave pushback, and the length of my cock established itself along the crevice of her buttocks, was almost enfolded by them. We were shrouded in vapour, the power-shower jets hissed their white noise.

Try to image the sweetness of that moment, the sheer sensuality of my cock rubbing between slippery buttock cheeks. In the perfection of having her, I saw the feebleness of the years of my imaginings about her, how they in no way prepared me for this moment. How could I have ever have created this reality in my head, come close to foreseeing the numinous moment it turned out to be?

She had been my goddess for five years, and now my devotion had been rewarded by the boon of her body. I ran my hand over her shoulders, her breasts, and on down across her belly and abdomen. There was no traction between my palm and her skin; my hands skated like curling stones across ice.

I turned her to face me, and we kissed under stinging jets. Her hand went down to my cock, clutched it inconsiderately, selfishly, as if she believed that by holding it so tightly it would solve everything. I feared that if she did not let go soon, she would be sorely disappointed.

"God, Greg. I never imagined you'd make me feel like this," she said.

I took her hand from off my cock, whispered through the spray, "Let me save it for you,"

She understood; her grip lessening. She let it go and stepped out of the shower. She dried herself while I twisted the temperature gauge all the way down and rinsed the soap from my flesh under an icy stinging spatter, gritting my teeth as the relentless chill robbed me of breath and dispelled the intense insanity of my arousal.

She went back to the bedroom wrapped in a large bath sheet, and I followed her five minutes later. I found her using a dryer on her hair at the dresser, her breasts now hidden in the wrappings of the towel.

 I looked out the window.  "It's snowing again," I said. "Worse than before."

"Good job we took the room," she said. "Would you do the back of my head?"

I took the hairdryer and did as she asked.

"Oh, Greg, you really are nice to be with," she said.


"There's never any pressure with you. You're nothing like Martin."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Tonight it is."

"Do you still want me to hold you?"

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't. Here, I'll finish. You get into bed."

 I propped myself on pillows, my lower half beneath the duvet, and watched her finish attending to her hair, brushing with long, almost brutal, strokes that meant it should behave. With each stroke of the brush, I heard the crackle of static.

When she had finally done, she slipped into bed beside me.

 "After tonight we can never be friends," she said.

Her words stunned me. I could think of no words, no questions. I was devastated. "why on earth not?" I asked.

"If Martin were to find out. . ."

"If he were to find out — what? I thought you were done with him."

"He would think I'd betrayed him."

"He's the one doing all the betraying," I said.

"But if he asked me to take him back, told me that he really did love me, I would forgive him. But he would never forgive me for sleeping with you."

She pulled back the covers, went down to my cock and began to attend to its needs, her lips gently travelling its length, her tongue flickering over the tip while her palm massaged my balls and perineum.

But it was only the entree, the main dish about to be served. Dolce left off sucking my cock, raised it and held it at ninety degrees to my abdomen. She straddled it swiftly, up and over me as if mounting a pony. With a determined grip on my cock, she positioned herself with subtle shifting, until she thought herself just so, and then she lowered herself while steadying my cock to accept her heavy descent.

But for a moment before my grand entry, she remained poised as if reconsidering her options. A decision reached, she relinquished restraint, letting herself settle onto me, her weight now unrestrained was captured by gravity and she was taken down. When her pubes made contact with mine, she momentarily wriggled her hips, and I saw in her eyes a lost and distracted farawayness that suggested she was savouring the sensation of my cock locked deep in her innards. And then the long sensual undulations of her hips began.

She was no longer a woman who needed comforting; she was a woman whose need was about to overwhelm her, and it was my cock inside her that would purge the sexual wild-fire that raged through her body.

"Oh, God, Greg, your cock feels soooo good!"

She ran the backs of her fingers lightly down her chest, knuckles brushing her nipples, pinching hard. She rose and fell like a ship in deep waters on a waxing swell, her hips billowing like full sails.

Her milling hips went back and forth, grinding their war to dust. Her cunt had ease and motion, the plunge and drawing out of a reciprocating pump. Her pace was increasing as if she were racing to finish, but there was no known end. Sweat drenched her, her glazed eyes like an aspirant's. Her long hair adhered to her flesh.

I raised my hands and ran them over her belly as she fucked me, and I sensed her muscles at work beneath the veneer of her abdominal flesh. And then it was her right hand over her mons, down to her clit, rotating frantically as her climax approached. The walls of her cunt gripped-relaxed, gripped-relaxed, over and over.

Her fingers becoming incessant on her clit brought her to orgasm. It was God's ecstasy made incarnate, the display of its intensity epileptic — grand-mal, not petit. It washed over her like a long-travelled ocean wave reaching the shore, its completion of thunder and collapse.

And that was it for me! My cock at full amplitude, my cum summoned by a calling older than the human. I groaned in joy, for a moment was complete — No, we as a couple became completed, made one, fused together by heat and rapture.

Exhausted, her dead weight stretched out over the length of my body, my dwindling cock slipping from her as I held her. Her back was an unblemished expanse of equable flesh, the unexpected extent of its surface astonished me. I stroked her from the nape of her neck to the rise of her buttocks, over and over.

My hands rounded the curve of her shoulders, still mapping her form with my rational mind, appraising her skin drawn taut over muscle and hard bone beneath. I pulled her against me hard, and we shared a saliva-rich kiss, her tongue uselessly trying to arouse my passion, rekindle my momentarily spent libido.

Her vigour and assurance had overwhelmed me. I'd never imagined her so sexually driven, had always thought her quite prim, butter-wouldn't-melt, head-girl material. But I had found her a roaring sexual animal — and it disconcerted me to learn that in her depths such passion had always slumbered.

Until that hour, I'd always imagined that if she and I were ever to get together, I would be all hero, taking her in hand, wooing her, cherishing her like a princess. Her determination and uninhibited sexuality was a thing unforeseen. I had all but floundered beneath her.

Momentarily satiated, she eased herself from me and lay by my side. I turned to her and watched the nuances of her mind spoken by her features, her eyes most telling.

"I loved how you felt inside me," she said, still a little breathless.

I wondered if she found my cock bigger than Martin's. I nearly asked her outright, tried to word it in my mind before speaking. I was about to say it when she said:

"There's so much more of you than Martin,"

"Do you think?"

She sensed the self-satisfaction in my tone, said, "I didn't mean like that. You've more muscle mass, are larger boned. What I mean is: you have more substance."

We lay together, our limbs pleached tightly, faces nose to nose, the moisture of our mingling breath dense between us.

"Do you realise how much I have always wanted this?" I asked.

"How could I not have known? Even Martin knew."

"Was I that obvious?"

She smiled and kissed me. "Yes: you were that obvious. Those puppy dog eyes of yours."

"I suppose you both had a laugh about poor old Greg."

"Don't be so precious. Martin respects you. He always had your back."

"And you?"

"I never encouraged you did I? Say if I did."

"No, you were always sweet to me. A friend."

"So now you've had me. . . What do you think? Was I worth the wait?"

"I don't feel I have — had you, that is."

"So, what was that we just did?"

"That, my sweet girl, was you having me."

"Oh, was it now? But who was it who lured this poor damsel in distress to his evil lair?" Her hand went down to my cock, her palm cupping soft turtle eggs in the dark.

"I could never picture you and Martin making love, " I said.

"Oh, we made love," she said.

" . . .What I mean is, you looked so perfect as a couple, as if something so visceral as sex would sully you and so was best left to your servants."

She broke from me and sat up. "What are you going on about, Greg? I don't have any servants."

I had lost her. I sat up too, eager to re-engage her in conversation. "It's that quote. . . "

Immediately I felt pretentious and that it was perhaps not appropriate at all. I let it go and continued groping for words to express how I had always seen her and Martin. "I'm trying my best to tell you how as a couple you made me feel, how envious I was of him — of you both and the life you shared together. You were so suited: Martin and Dolce, the perfect couple."

"We weren't perfect, Greg. Far from it." She became quiet. Thinking. Then: "Do you want to know about Martin and me? The truth? Do you really want to hear about the person he is, and the person I became for him so that he would continue to love me?"

"I'll listen," I said. And I really did want to listen, desperately needed to know who these people who were, two people who had been part of my life for so long..

"Maybe I was the person you think I am — once. The young girl with a head full of self-righteousness, someone for whom sex was just a distraction from the important things life promised to bring. It was Martin who showed me how wrong I was. In Martin's world, sex is the only reason we exist; having money just a means of making more opportunities for sex to happen."

I was alert now; a satiated animal by the watering hole sensing an approaching bushfire. I wanted to ask her a million questions, but the words were spilling out of her, leaving me no opening.

 "Martin showed me myself; the person I now am — the one I did not know I was."

"And who is that person, Dolce?"

"The one you just fucked. Did you like her?"

"You mean the most attentive, sensuous woman I have ever been with?"

"Do you think so, Greg? Well, that's okay then, isn't it? Why don't you ring Martin and say, 'Hi, Martin, I've just had your ex-girlfriend — remember her? That little slut, Dolce. What a great job you did with her. Respect, man!'"

The dawning realisation that an iceberg of resentment had just entered the shipping lane of my dream cruise. I searched for signs of rescue, hoping it would not come to flares and a scramble for that last lifeboat; or would it be that last inch of the towering stern?

I stood up and poured the remainder of the wine into my glass.

"I hope you're going to ring for more," Dolce said.

It was going to be a long night. I called room service and ordered beers and a fresh bottle of wine.

"Listen, Greg. I'm sorry. I shouldn't take it out on you, but I'm ruined."

"What has happened that is so terrible?"

"Tell me: do you like anal?"

 I stared blankly. Had I misheard her?

"Do you like to fuck girls in the arse?

"I. . ." My mind was fuddled by her words, congested emotions holding up speech.

She paid me no heed, her words flying wildly. "Martin liked anal. He liked it that way best. Like I said, Greg, I'm not the girl I was. You see, Greg. I got to like it that way too. Almost more than the usual. But not quite. It becomes a drug. It feels so wrong, but there's pleasure as well, though I know one day my body will call time.

We sat on the edge of the bed side by side. An immense sadness threatened to engulf me. I sipped my beer, my eyes downcast. She reached out and stroked my cheek.

"Oh, baby, don't sulk. Isn't it what all you guys want — to fuck a girl where it's oh-so-tight?"

"Why are you telling me this, Dolce?"

"There's more, Greg. I've only just got going. There were girls too. Are you listening, Greg? I wasn't enough for him."

"You mean Emily?"

"Before her. All the little sluts he brought home from his casting agency, They all ended up in our bed. He used to make out he was doing me a favour."

I'd been online, knew that many couples tried to purge the emptiness of their relationships by including others in their misery. But Dolce and Martin? Surely not. Had they even been together long enough? Really? Does it get that bad once you're settled with someone? Apparently, it did; Dolce was living proof.

Room service at the door with the drinks. I wrapped a towel around me and went to get it.

The beer was cold; the wine was too. Dolce filled her own glass and drank.

I asked her, "So why were you so upset when you found out he'd been screwing Emily?"

She sighed, exasperated. I was the stupid child, the one who never paid attention, the one prescribed Ritalin. "Becuase I trusted him. All those other girls, we shared them, enjoyed them together. Emily was the last straw. I tried with her. Oh, yes I really tried. Look how he repaid me. I had no idea what he had going behind my back with that fucking treacherous little witch."

"Oh," I said. No other words would come.

"I went to school with her, did you know? I haven't always been the leggy, gorgeous thing you see me as. Once I was gangly and sad. Deep down I'm still that girl. I was a real billy-no-mates. Emily and her clique made my life a fucking misery: 'Hey Dolce! How's the weather up there?' I can still see her smug face, hear their laughter. Have you ever seen her without heels? She's a fucking midget!"

"You were friends though — later. You were always chatting with her."

"There was more than chatting that when on between Emily and me. More fool me, heh? Just shows how easily manipulated I am." She emptied her glass and stood to pour herself more.

"Should you?" I asked. Her voice was beginning to slur.

"Absolutely I should. I'm going to tell everything; I'm going to puke until its just bile. Perhaps then I can put it all behind me. What do you want to hear about first: the ropes? Those clubs we went to? No, I bet you what you really want to hear is about the girls? Should I tell you how sweet Emily's pussy was?"

She was a car wreck on a motorway. Three lanes closed, and I was turning to stare. At the thought of Dolce and Emily together, my penis began to take notice.

"Perhaps we should sleep on it. Talk in the morning," I said.

"The bastard filmed it all. Greg, I'm so scared my colleagues will see it. If he puts it online, it will destroy me. Oh god! oh god! My mum and dad!"

"Martin would never. . . He's just not like that."

"You don't know him like I do."

"Why would he? What would he gain?"


"Revenge? For what?"

"For not doing as he asked — which is why he left me for Emily. She is so biddable, will do exactly what he tells her. He wanted to see me with men — all sorts of men. The girls from his agency weren't enough. What he wanted me to do was disgusting! Emily never says no."

My cock was rock hard, and I felt ashamed. "Do you want me to speak to him?"

"Please, no. If he knew I'd told you. . ."

"But, Dolce, if he did put anything online without your permission it would be revenge porn. There are laws you know. I have a solicitor friend. I could sound him out."

"Would you?"

"Of course."

It was if the weight of the world had dropped from her. She came to me and hugged me, and we kissed. There was such need; it was profound. We lay face to face wrapper in each other's arms, my cock was full again, straining to be in her. I let her feel my growing desire in the kisses I showered her body with. I eased her onto her back.

"No! Not like this," she said. And she deftly got out of bed and went to her bag and began to search it.

I watched her bring the tube over. It was some kind of skin lotion.

"I want you to fuck me like Martin liked to. I miss it so much."

At the realisation of what she was asking of me, a thousand tiny scurrying creatures invaded my guts.

"I don't know, Dolce. . ." My mind was spinning. No, it was more than that. It was panic, and she saw it in my eyes.

"Shhhh, darling. It's what I need. Please?" Her eyes wide, pleading. "Come on, that's it. I don't have to be on my back. Just some pillows. Pass me one.

I passed her a pillow. She folded it and placed it beneath her buttocks. On her back, she began to unscrew the cap, dowsed the fragrant cream over her palm.  

"Come, kneel here," she said. "You know you've always wanted a girl who'd let you."

I went to her, and she smeared the chilled lotion over my cock. When she had done with me, she filled her palm again and massaged the lotion between her buttocks."

"There, I'm ready for you."

One leg came back really far, her knee presenting itself to her face, the flat of her upper thigh against her left breast, her right leg set out at an improbable angle. And in that space between her spread legs, I saw clearly the glisten of lubricant dawbed over the dark, puckered tightness I was about to penetrate.

She took my cock in hand to guide me, and I pushed gently, afraid I might tear her. But she was pliant, her sphincter surrendering after only token resistance. I inhaled sharply as I breached her, and then my breathing synchronised with her grunts of fulfilment as the mass of my penis found its way into her most intimate depth.

 My excitement was off the scale. I began to hyperventilate. Oh, god! The sensation of her muscles gripping me like a curling constrictor. But she was not as tight as I had imagined, the path to her bowels being much travelled by Martin before me.

And you know how in sex too much thinking can destroy the moment? Well, my mind was working overtime, a hamster in its wheel, and I felt my cock dwindling inside her.

To end the stark disgust irrationally conjured by my mind, I asked her, "Tell me about those girls, about you and Emily."

And that is what she did. Her words raised my cock from its death bed, and with restored elan, I pressed into her further. And in such a sweet, sweet voice, as I fucked her in the arse, she told me her sordid life.

LucaByDesign©Lushstories. Copyright 2018



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