Between The Times (4) … Jessica

This is a series on our young Marty. Some of the stories that laid the foundation for who he is … or perhaps more accurately, who he thinks he is.

Should you have missed the four introductory pieces, you can visit them here and here and here. And the most recent here

It took me the whole day to hitchhike from Glasgow to London, and in typical Marty-style, I ended up in the central city late at night just as the pubs were closing. With no cash. Alas I can not tell you the tales of that night as they are well known among my acquaintances. And should they ever stumble upon the blog …  However, I will say that I was befriended by an over-the-top character, Mick, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Michael Caine in Alfie, and whose personal life was more than a match for Alfie’s story. It was the first time I had ever chummed around with a man and his wife and two young children while he expertly handled that situation and his three mistresses. At various evenings in the pubs in the center of London, I met them all, as well as many of his workmates, including one of his best, Peter.

Let’s fast forward several weeks, shall we?

I had found myself a room … what the Brits lovingly call a bedsitter. A small, tawdry room with a single bed on the second floor of a large house on the main thoroughfare in what could be charitably termed the very worst part of town. The bathroom was shared with 5 other rooms on the floor. A toilet, with a pull chain to flush (it took me fully 2 weeks to master the proper pull-technique), sink with cold water only, and a bath tub (no shower) that needed to be “booked” in advance.The bathroom’s final humiliation, however, was the toilet paper. No soft, tender to the touch Charmin here dear readers. No, you got to wipe your sorry ass from a roll of heavily waxed toilet paper with all the gentleness and absorbancy of street concrete. Colored a yellowish-brown. And that was before use.

These were the days when central heating was an unaffordable luxury for most British homes occupied by the workingclass, and my bedsitter heating consisted of a small gas heater that was activated with 2-shilling coins, the meager heat lasting at most 90 minutes before requiring more cash. The gas fire (as the Brits call them) had a 3 foot long wire cable, so moving its position was rather limited. Certainly nowhere near the bed for long, cold nights. And who wants to get out of bed in the shivering night to feed more money into the heater?

Low paying, menial jobs were also plentiful. The daily newspapers were filled with vacancy ads and adverts for temporary placement services for every kind of job. Basically, if you could walk, you were hired. I started work immediately.

There were 6 different pubs within a hundred yards of where I lived. Which to make my local? Honestly, I don’t recall the criteria, but The Bull Terrier became it. Not atypical for the times or the locale (very similar to the pic above), it had grimy yellowed brick outside, and inside hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint since between the wars. But it was very much the working man’s home away from home, and it rocked Friday nights when Paul came in and played the piano in the lounge and all the old war songs were sung and played.

It took me about a week to understand that I was spending much of my available food money on pints of bitter while learning the specialized skills of dart throwing. The popular pub manager was only too happy to hire me part time, 2 nights a week, one through the week, and one weekend night. It was an excellent arrangement. I saved my food money, got paid to hang out in the pub, and managed to get fully intoxicated each evening I worked. You see in the pub you don’t tip the barman, you buy him a drink every other round or so.  All evening long Marty would have 3 or 4 pints of bitter along the bar in front of customers, as I moved among them between serving, chatting with them over the pint they had treated me to. Thus I also learned the key facilities of listening attentively, commenting sagely, and being everyone’s excellent friend. Plus acquiring the knowledge how to appropriately mix various draught brews and bitters, and mastering the fine art of pouring Guinness for the Irish. All important life skills for a young vagabond as you can well imagine.

It was probably during my second or third week of working at The Bull Terrier that I saw him. Peter, Mick’s friend, whom I had had drinks with several times not more than a month before. And low and behold, he lived in this neighborhood!

I have calculated the chance of that happening. The population of London at that time divided by the odds of a workingman living in my area, multiplied by the inverse proportion of the likelihood of the pub I was working in on that night being Peter’s local on the nights he was home. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 1/8,000,000 I figure.

The odds were so catastrophic against, that clearly it could not, and did not, happen by chance.

Fate was definitely in control. And in this instance Fate had a name. It was Jessica. Who would teach me additional life skills.

You just know Jessica is going to come up again, don’t you … ?


A Weekend for Blowjobs (4) … Noises in the night

This is the fourth part of my weekend away with Rachel. A weekend that would be filled with blow jobs. In case you missed it, the first part is here and part (2) is here.  Part (3) is located here.

Knowing that we had a a likely aural audience I was becoming rapidly excited. I wasn’t afraid to let it be known how happy I was feeling. It didn’t take long. I cried out with a yell and arched and came hard into her mouth.

That was three blow jobs so far.

With that we both fell right asleep. The day had been long, the play with my cock effectively tiring for me.

But somewhat later I felt Rachel stir. She had found her way into my arms and I heard her whisper …

“Do you hear that? They’re at it again.”

And sure enough, from across the hall I could hear the telltale squeaks of a bed in action mixed with Scott’s unmistakable grunts.

“Hmmm,”  I replied.

Almost by default, I pinched Rachel’s right boob and nipple. It caused her to sigh and nibble my ear lobe.

We were off to the races! I slid myself down and spread her legs. As my tongue slipped between her folds I could hear Rachel sigh again. Then softly moan. Louder. I increased my pace and pressure. Even louder moaning from Rachel. Perhaps it was the turn-on of having pleasured me so many times already that day, maybe the fact this was our first weekend away, or the sounds from the room opposite, whatever the reasons Rachel reacted quickly. She bucked savagely and cried out as she spasmed to my mouth.

By now I was again rock hard. I shimmied my way up Rachel’s still quivering body and knelt above her shoulders. She parted her lips and I shoved my cock inside. This was no time for fancy moves. Face fucking 101.

I pushed hard. Deep into her mouth. I pumped faster. With each stroke she lifted her head to help get me deeper.  My need was urgent. This was animal action at its rawest.

I exploded in Rachel’s mouth. She gulped down every drop.

Are you counting? Four blow jobs since we left home.

To be continued …




It’s Elust Time!

Marty’s on elust again this month! My post “She Strips The Boundaries Away … The Black Bra” was a top Readers’ Choice on SEXBYTES.

Take a look and sample some of the great reads below

Welcome to Elust #80

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #81 Start with the rules, come back April 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Something Meaningful
The debate goes on

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

No Take Backsies: Sexual “Politeness”
THE Process

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

He’s not a Tumblr Dom
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!


Erotic Non-Fiction

She Strips The Boundaries Away The Black Bra
He enjoyed Playing with My Shoes
One… two… ménage à trois!
Doing Mt. Shasta
What’s Behind that First Strike…
How To Top Off Valentine Weekend Lovemaking
Watching Cunnilingus
Scened All Night
Spoiled in the Sun
The Tennent
01/14 Session With Mistress Claire & Others
THREESOME HEAVEN – extreme sensations
The neighbours don’t learn my name

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

I Don’t Date on the First Sex
Meat market

Erotic Fiction

Who’s the Boss? (She is)
A Little Distraction
Let Me Share
Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies…
a bit of filth
Original Sin

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

My Day of Punishments Part 1
Filthy girl
Kink Without Sex: What Happens After Orgasms
Dominant roots
Using Our D/s to Get Through Stress

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

First Times
The number of the beast…
Sometimes Love is Not a Pie
Looking deep through reflection
Pussy Pics
So I Was Thinking


A Night with Zombies – Cinema l’Amour
ELust Site Badge

Between The Times (3) … Getting The Lay Of The Land

This is a series on our young Marty. Some of the stories that laid the foundation for who he is … or perhaps more accurately, who he thinks he is.

Should you have missed the three introductory pieces, you can visit them here and here and here

As we touched down at Prestwick International Airport the excitement was reaching a crescendo. I felt ready. Ready for anything. What would I do? What would I find?

I was soon to find out.

British Customs and Immigration was relatively quick. I had been worried. A 19-year old on his own. No return plane ticket home. A relative pittance in his pockets. Probably not a likely candidate to sweep through. But I was wrong to worry. There were no awkward questions. No issues about being able to get home.

“Welcome to Britain.”

Whew! I was in! I didn’t know what to think.

With a small group of other young travelers I found my way to change some money, then boarded a bus that would take us into Glasgow proper. On the bus I remember looking at the coins, and trying to decipher them and calculate their value. There were shillings, half crowns, 6d, and 3d, and large coppers (pennies, naturally). It was all so exciting.

But let’s not continue with details. Shall we get to the heart of the matter? I feel we should.

Somehow, on that first night, our 19 year old Marty ended up alone, drunk, almost penniless in front of abandoned warehouses and buildings near the Glasgow docks after midnight. Not through any nefarious means, rather his own innocence and stupidity led him there. An unpleasant situation to be sure. Fraught with potential danger.

Surprisingly I refused to panic. I considered my options. Unfortunately I was drawing a blank, beyond finding a corner somewhere to be unobtrusive and maybe grab some sleep. Just then I heard the klop, klop, klop of a woman’s heeled shoes against pavement. In the very dim light cast by the old and few street lamps I saw a woman walking alone, headed my way. She looked to be wearing a long trench coat. I was carrying a small suitcase so I was likely to appear as no threat to her.

As she neared me I put down my valise.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but do you know if there is a youth hostel nearby?”

She stopped. Looked at me incredulously. In the shadows it was hard to make out her features, but she seemed to be early to mid 30s, medium height, with shoulder length dark hair. Not unattractive.

“Oh Luv, there’s nothing like that near here. Are you lost? How did you get yourself here?”

I confessed my innocence and stupidity . How I had been led here by false promises of transportation. How I was fresh off the plane. How I had only a few British pounds in my pocket.

“Oh my. You can’t stay here Luv. Come with me. You can sleep on my couch. And my husband will drive you to the motorway in the morning.”

“Thank you!” I answered. “Are you sure it will be ok?”

“Yes, Luv. It’s fine. Come with me”.

As we walked towards her flat, I learned that Deidre was just coming home after her shift as a barmaid. She was Irish, and she and her husband and small child had made their home in Glasgow for 5 years.

We shortly arrived at a tumble down apartment building. After walking up 2 flights of stairs, we entered Deidre’s flat. A small,  one bedroom. The couch was in the tiny sitting room, and Deidre immediately set to work making it up for me. I was very tired. Sleep had been non existent for almost 2 days now.

“Can I get you anything, Luv? Will you be alright?”

“Oh yes, I’m fine,” I replied. “And thank you so much, again.”

“Good night”, she said as she headed to the bedroom.

“Good night, Deidre.”

I’m sure I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. Exhausted and relieved at my good fortune.

Then sometime later I awoke. I could see a light from under the door in the nearby bathroom. Momentarily, Deidre came out and approached the couch. She crouched down beside me and whispered.

“Are you alright Marty, dear?”

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you Deidre.”.

“Good,” she said as she lightly brushed her hand along the length of my face. Then she softly kissed my lips. I was taken aback. With sleep still controlling me, I couldn’t really think. What was happening here? But I instinctively kissed her back. Her lips pressed harder in return. And before I knew it, Deidre had slipped her hand under the sheet covering me and had found its way inside my jockies. Despite my fatigue, my cock reacted instantly. Youth will do that I imagine.

She slowly stroked while we continued to kiss. I was perplexed, but didn’t fight it. Deidre pulled off the covering sheet. I slid the jockies down. Without another word or sound my cock was between her lips. I gasped in excitement and wonder. She slowly sucked. Then ran her tongue up and down my length.

“You have to be quiet, Luv. We don’t want to wake Gerry.”

I mumbled an agreement and bit my lip.

It wasn’t long. I arched and held my breath, trying to be totally silent.

Deidre kissed me. Got up and headed to the bathroom again. I could hear her brushing her teeth as I fell again into a deep sleep.

A few hours later I met Gerry as he came over and woke me up and introduced himself. I quickly hit the bathroom, washed, cleaned up. We had tea and toast for breakfast. Then it was into his Mini for the ride to the Motorway for me to continue my journey as he headed off to work.

I wasn’t a great conversationalist. I really didn’t feel like talking. And what could I say?


A Weekend for Blowjobs (3) … Cookie’s Influence

This is the third part of my weekend away with Rachel. A weekend that would be filled with blow jobs. In case you missed it, the first part is here and part (2) is here.

Then she reached over, unzipped my pants, and sucked me off right there on the city street! I have no idea how she got me erect and had me cumming so fast given my mood. But she did. And I did.

That was two blow jobs in the car before we had even arrived at my friend’s apartment.

I was now totally relaxed. Despite the late hour, the long drive, and the previous harrowing experience on the interstate, I had no tension whatsoever. Take note ladies how you can easily make your man relax …

After a few more false turns and unexpected delays, we finally found my friend’s apartment. It was now after midnight. The apartment was the bottom floor of an older, well to do executive home from the early 1920s. As my childhood chum Scott greeted us, through the dim lighting I marveled at the intricate detail of the crown molding and the rest of the surroundings. It was beautiful.

Scott had never met Rachel, though he had heard much of her from me. I could see from the twinkle in his eye, he approved.

Scott’s “date” for the weekend had not yet arrived. During the car trip down, I had explained to Rachel what the situation was. I wanted to avoid surprises and any embarrassment for all parties. Scott’s date this weekend was Cookie, an exotic dancer who had become enamored with him. We had met Cookie a couple of months previous. She was working at the city’s most notorious strip club. And naturally, Scott frequented it, and I had become very familiar with it during my several recent visits. Cookie was bright, engaging, and fun to be around. And I probably don’t need to add, with amazing tits and ass. How on earth she came to be fascinated by Scott still remains one of life’s great mysteries. I had explained all this to Rachel. Cookie was to come over after she finished her late night shift at the peeler bar, and Rachel was looking forward to meeting her. Cookie would, naturally, stay the night.

While we waited for Cookie’s arrival, beers and a bottle of wine were opened. Events were caught up on. Not too long thereafter, a gentle knock on the front door announced our highly anticipated guest’s entrance. Dressed in light sweater and slacks, she gave Scott a big kiss and then another one for me, too. It had been a month since I had seen her. I could see Rachel was wide-eyed, and a little shy. Nothing could perturb Cookie though, and she gave Rachel an affectionate cheek kiss in meeting.

We were all tired, so after one more quick drink, it was time to hit the hay. Rachel’s and my room was just across the hall from Scott’s. Rachel and I quickly stripped and began to snuggle. While we were gently kissing, we heard it. The noise from across the hall. It was clear Cookie was giving Scott a blowjob as we could hear the sounds of her slurping through two doors. And Scott’s gasping and grunts. Rachel looked up at me and smiled. She was getting turned on, I knew.

She slowly slid down between my legs and started on my balls. Then licks along my shaft. Swirls around the head. I think Rachel felt like she needed to compete with the noises across the hallway.

“So big,” she said in a not so soft voice. “So hard! I love sucking you.”

Knowing that we had a a likely aural audience I was becoming rapidly excited. I wasn’t afraid to let it be known how happy I was feeling. It didn’t take long. I cried out with a yell and arched and came hard into her mouth.

That was three blow jobs so far.

To be continued …




When Marty Has to Make Choices Red This Time (2)

RedThongColourSBW and I had agreed that I will choose her thong for the day.  Here is the first post about that as a refresher .

What I’m about to describe happened during the third week of last December.

I knew she was heading out that night to a small, intimate seasonal gathering. So the red thong was clearly what she would wear.

“Which should I wear today, Marty?” she asked in the early afternoon.

“You will be wearing the red tonight, Baby. No question. Seasonal colors and all that. You’ll be so sexy in that little black dress, and the red will let your intimate parts celebrate too.”

“Show me your ass please,” I instruct.

I watch her step into her thong. As she bends forward her beautiful, rounded ass faces me. The curvature is just so perfect. Yes, I said curvature. Identical to the Earth’s from space. Hauntingly beautiful in my humble opinion. How much do I crave that? You have no idea. Pussy lips visible between her firm muscular thighs. Ever so slowly she draws the red band up along those long sexy legs, wending its way to meet this curvature’s Great Rift Valley. I watch longingly as the red ribbon of fabric disappears. Everything snugly fitting.

A final tug and snap. As SBW does a quarter turn, she shimmies her ass in a so, so subtle fashion. I have never met a woman who combines these two unique facets in such an incredible way … sensuality … and innocence. She does know she is a very sexy woman … heck, I remind her several times a day … yet she doesn’t fathom the massive impact that sensuousness has on me.

Yes Marty, today’s choice was well done. You should celebrate!