A FEW THOUGHTS ON STONEWALL AND WHY THE T BELONGS IN LGBT

The recent announcement that Stonewall Chief Executive Ruth Hunt will be leaving in the summer has sparked a fair bit of comment. It has been argued that the organisation has lost its way and that it took a wrong turn by deciding to campaign for trans rights. This piece by Jonathan Best in Medium sets out the arguments cogently. I want to look at some of the claims made, in the light of my own experience.
This year marks the 50th anniversary of the fightback against police oppression that began in New York’s Stonewall Inn. Prominent in the fightback that night were two trans women of colour, Marsha Johnson and Sylvia Rivera. I am going to argue that trans people are not a dispensable bolt on to the LGBT movement but have always been an integral part of it just as they were that night at the Stonewall Inn. It is both that logical and necessary that Stonewall should fight for the rights of transgender people.
Best argues that being trans is essentially different from being lesbian or gay or bi. Clearly, being trans is different from having a specific sexual orientation but I think there are three reasons for disputing the argument that it is basically a thing bolted on to the LGB.
Firstly, many trans people identify as lesbian, gay or bisexual, so they are not a discrete and separate group within the community. I identify as bisexual,. For many this is, of course, a matter of logic; a straight man transitioning will identify as lesbian, a straight woman as gay.
But there is a deeper argument. The very process of transitioning, exploring gender, and embarking on the journey of self-discovery this entails, can lead to discovering sexual fluidity and new forms of sexual attraction. This is my experience. I identify as bisexual but I did not do so before beginning my transition. Sexual attraction to men is actually a function of my transition. Yes, that means I like cock. I actually like pussy more and I will return to this later. But the point is that my transness and my bisexuality are not separate from each other so that can be put in separate boxes, they are intimately linked aspects of who I am.
And haven’t trans people always been part of the queer scene? And not only trans people but genderqueer and non-binary people too, all of whom featured in the Tate Gallery exhibition Queer Britain 2 years ago. This, I fact, was one of the things that most struck me. Exploring gender fluidity and swapping gender roles has been seen as subversive as actual gay and lesbian sex. I find this fascinating and attractive. It is not by chance that I have a tattoo of Marlene Dietrich in a man’s suit on my right arm.
Best also claims that being trans is nothing to do with sexual attraction. I don’t agree. In my case it has everything to do with it. Since transitioning I have become attracted to men, attracted too to different kinds of women. Straight men in some cases are attracted to me, yes, I had to pinch myself too, but it is the case. The way I do sex with both men and women has changed, the way that I engage sexually too, and also the way in which sexual partners engage with me. I have experienced this in a powerful way as I have had sex with two women who were sexual partners before my transition and seen who their perceptions and sexual engagement with me changed.
Best argues that Stonewell’s redefinition of gays and lesbians as “people sexually attracted to the same gender” rather than the same biological sex has the effect of making gays and lebians “transphobic”. He seems to imply that trans people generally see gays and lesbians who won’t sleep with them as transphobic. He even suggests that some male bodied trans women have browbeaten lesbians into having sex with them. I take consent very seriously and would never browbeat anyone into having sex with me. And, let’s face it exercising undue pressure on people to have sex is hardly the preserve of trans people.
I want to tell a couple of stories to illustrate my point here.
On a warm summer night two years ago, I sat in the garden of a pub in Birmingham’s Gay Village drinking beer with a young lesbian friend. I asked her whether she would consider a relationship with a trans woman. I asked this out of curiosity, not because I was looking to make out with her, as I hope I made clear.
“With a post op woman may be but preop definitely not, it’s all about the body for me.”
“So you are saying that you prefer pussy to cock?”
“Every time!” She laughed. “Cock is just so not my thing.”
“I totally get that” I replied. “I am bi but, yeah, I do have a preference for pussy.”
And then there was the time I asked my closest girl friend for sex. She is a woman I have known for 20 years and with whom I was in a 10 year sexual relationship. But she turned me down.
“Eve I am straight and for me you are a woman. So it simply wouldn’t work for me.”
Neither of these friends is remotely transphobic and both have been loving and supportive friends. I have many other dear friends who, I guess, don’t want to have sex with me. This is for a variety of reasons, them being in monogamous relationships, my body, or maybe I just don’t float their boat sexually in terms of looks and personality. There is potentially a whole range of reasons why anyone would not want to have sex with a concrete other person. I wild never be so presumptuous as to accuse someone not wanting to make out with me as transphobia and neither would any other trans person I know.
Neither can I imagine any of the several trans women I know browbeating lesbians into sex they don’t really want. I can’t actually imagine them browbeating anyone into sex. For trans people sex is deeply problematic, for obvious reasons, and also because they are potentially negotiating a legal minefield where they could be accused of sexual assault if they do not make clear to potential partners what they have between their legs. For many trans people this is all too problematic and they resign themselves to living without sex and relationships because living an authentic life, as they see it, is more important.
I think the issue of gender probably needs a post in its own right. I do not believe, as Best asserts “the trans ideology” (whatever that is) holds, that gender is innate and internal. I believe that gender is fluid, believe that this very fluidity can be a response to external influences and our response as individuals to those influences. I grew up as a boy and has a happy childhood. No gender dysphoria for me and I can still bore for England about rush back goalkeepers!
Gender is complex and endlessly fascinating and the critique of gender by radical or if you prefer “gender critical feminists” is pretty thin gruel. Sexual stereotypes imposed externally and lived as oppression is part of the picture but only part. It leaves questions unanswered. What, for examples are the mechanisms of imposition? Where does patriarchy come from? Some commentators treat it as being sui generis, an ahistorical approach that I have difficulty with. How do concepts of gender change over time? When and where did the whole idea of gender originate? How is gender linked to biological facts? How does it link to concrete social formations? Is the woman queuing up at the department store beauty counter to buy a new foundation oppressed? Is she oppressed if she subjectively enjoys her femininity? There are those who would say that she is but this takes us into the territory of false consciousness which I think I think is deeply problematical for feminism.
As a socialist feminist I see gender in the light of concrete social formations, and in the modern world as something shaped by the needs of industrial capitalism. Gender, like class is not only a terrain of oppression, but also a locus of struggle, and a source of strategies for liberation. I do not find it progressive to see all men as a class oppressing all women. At some point class and race have to come into it. I think future generations will see Sheila Rowbotham as a rather more significant feminist thinker than Sheila Jefferies.

Sadly many gender critical feminists make common cause with evangelical Christians, the most reactionary elements of the Roman Catholic Church (yes the same people who blame clerical child abuse on some mythical “gay agenda”) and even the far right. I will just mention Posy Parker’s recent endorsement of “Tommy Robinson.” This, I have to say, is not the basis for a constructive and progressive politics either.
I think, too, that Best’s piece sets up straw men (women) in the shape of unnamed “trans activists” or a “trans lobby” allegedly saying or doing things which few, if any, trans people can relate to their own experience. I don’t recognise any of this in my lived experience. This is simply not a basis for arguing that Stonewall is wrong to campaign for trans rights. Most trans people just want to keep their heads down and get on with their often difficult lives. And knowing that Stonewall is fighting their corner is surely a help.
So why don’t we all, those of who identify as LGBT, pull together and fight our cause side by side, for it is a common cause, just as it was in Stonewall on that New York summer’s evening in 1969 when 2 brave transwomen helped lead the fightback.

A Beautiful Asymmetry or How No Can Affirm

First there was Stephanie, a lover long before I began my gender journey. We had amazing sex in cheap hotels, seedy hotels, cars , fields, a gay cruising spot  in the woods where the sight of her moving up and down on my rock hard cock attracted more than passing interest. We even managed it on a platform at Birmingham New Street railway station. Then the passion died and we began a long and loving friendship, spiced up with occasional sex. When I began my transition, she walked with me every step of the way, always ready with advice, support, a shoulder to cry on. I struggle to think how he could have been more loving. And I will love her to the end of my days.

But sex with Steph is now a thing of the past. She engages with me as a woman, relates tom me in every way as a woman, and this means, for her, no sex.  She is straight and women just don’t do it for her in that way.  So I had to take a knock back from a woman who has never really said no to me , who loves me so much, and yet. This was hard but I know I have to respect her decision, not do the hurt and wounded pride thing ( not so easy when you grew up in  male paradigms of sexual entitlement) and then……learn to love her more. And I do and I am finding the most incredible buzz from friendship. I have sublimated my desire for her (which will never go away) into a deeper emotional investment in our friendship. I am turning physical desire into love and love is paying me back unexpectedly, with the most wonderful physical sensations. I don’t know if I could call these orgasms but I feel that I am engaging sexually with her without her needing to engage with me. This is a kind of asymmetrical relationship and it is quite beautiful.

Then there is Zoe, a friend with whom I quickly found a connection. We expressed our feelings very physically too, we hugged, kissed, held hands, declared our love for each other. Then the time came when I had to broach the subject. In a bar after a couple of beers when the conversation had naturally turned to sex and she was telling me about an interesting proposition she had.

“I could seriously do things to him” she said.

“Could you do things to me?” I ventured.

“Sorry Eve. I love you but not that way.” She took my hand in hers, raised it to her mouth and kissed it tenderly.

“You’re not hurt?” she asked.

“No” I said “and I know I will keep on loving you. I will always love you whatever.”

“And I will always love you.”

I kissed her on the lips, kissed her hands, stood up to hug her. I began to cry big warm tears, tears of joy.

Zoe remains one of my closest, most loving friends. We still kiss, we hold hands, once we even sat on her sofa chatting and drinking wine with our legs intertwined. This physical closeness I found difficult at one point but then I decided that the agony of restraint implied by respecting her decision in an adult and loving way , was a gift I could offer up to her. Like Stephanie, her saying no has led to an emotional intensification of our relationship, to the point where I get off on the friendship itself.

I had never really considered the possibility of such asymmetrical, yet loving and nurturing relationships before. And I no longer see them as second best. I began to understood too how the asexual can be located firmly in the middle of the sexual, or how chastity can give sexual kicks. I understand too how my sexuality  is so deeply rooted in the core of my being that I can express it ways that don’t actually require the engagement of genitals, either mine or that of other people.

Having said that, there are nights when I take out my vibrator and hold Steph or Zoe before me them before me as I pleasure myself. Some might call this objectification; I call it an act of love. More than that, it is an act of worship. For that is sometimes part of friendship too.

More Than Skin Deep

I am of the generation that had Athena posters on their walls. I had a number of them over the years but the one I most fondly remember is an Art Decoey black and white backlit studio shot of Marlene Dietrich, silver hair, cheekbones sculpted, seemingly, by the interplay of light and shade. This I proudly displayed on my wall for three undergraduate years, enjoying the admiring glances it attracted, and the knowing looks aimed at me. Marlene had become for me an icon. She remains one and that is why I had her tattooed on my right arm a couple of months ago. Wherever I go from now in, she will come with me.

Whilst doing German A Level at school  we were encouraged to read around and outside the syllabus, to equip ourselves with a fuller and more rounded knowledge of German literature  so that we could set the prescribed books in a wider context and, hopefully, bring a greater understanding to bear on them.  One of these was Professor Unrat by Klaus Mann, the story of a pedantic schoolmaster who attends a club where e hazard his pupils are wasting (his view) their evenings. He becomes besotted by the cabaret’s star singer and this leads him to perdition. He dies alone in the school where he once taught, a broken man, publicly humiliated in the town where he had once been a respectable and highly regarded member of the community.

Reading the book led inevitably to seeing the film “The Blue Angel” in which Dietrich plays the singer Lola Lola with Emil Jannings co-starring as the doomed schoolmaster. This was her most celebrated role in German speaking cinema before she left for Hollywood in 1931. She combines sensuality, eroticism and a cold streak of malevolence which is seen in her palpable enjoyment of the indignities and humiliations she inflicts on the man who has become her husband. In this role she is intoxicating and totally believable.

I fell in love with Dietrich all those years ago but only came to appreciate her fully some years later. She is an icon for me because she was openly bisexual, because she experimented with gender fluidity, because she enjoyed sex and didn’t care who knew it. But she was an inspiration for other reasons. She was a German who rejected the regime that had taken over her country and was to lead it to disaster. She turned down financially attractive offers from Goebbels to  return home to appear in propaganda films (her erstwhile co-star Jannings took the Nazi shilling) and returned to Germany only in 1945, a US citizen in American uniform.

Some Germans never forgave her this “betrayal”. When she toured Germany in 1960, her shows were the target of boycotts and demonstrations. She left Germany vowing never to return. She did return, but only after her death in Paris in 1992. She is buried in a modest grave in Schoneberg Cemetery, in the sandy soil of her native Berlin. Marlene has many visitors, who leave stones, lipsticks, powder compacts, cigarettes, and even occasional flowers. I visit every time I am in Berlin, just to spend quiet time with her, feeling that she would understand the paths my life has taken. She would just “get” me.

My tattoo is, therefore, not just about Marlene and my feelings towards her. It is a statement of who I am. And when I think of Marlene it is above all of her as a lover of women, as I am a lover of women. She will always be there when I make love, she will fire my erotic imagination. She has already made me love my body. And that is the best thing of all.

Identity

This post arises from the happy coincidence of two books I have been reading recently, books which, at first sight, don’t seem to have much in common. The first is Maya Angelou’s “See How The Caged Bird Sings.” We discussed it this morning at the monthly Birmingham Feminist Book Club. Part of a wide-ranging discussion revolved around literature as a means of self understanding, this arising from Angelou’s won discussion in her book of what reading the classics of English literature, and especially, Shakespeare, meant to her, and how she was able, by engaging with the texts, to make sense of her own experience.

This was a concept that was made real for me a couple of years ago when I was a volunteer buddy for a Community Interest Company that worked with adults experiencing mental health difficulties, in particular by encouraging them to read literature and sharing their experiences. To get a flavour of what they did I was invited to attend one of the meetings. We were reading Rose Tremain’s novel The Road Home. The group consisted of people of varying ages, many of whom lived in considerable isolation, an isolation made worse by anxiety and phobias. Some of them only left the house for the weekly meeting in a local library. Most of them had little experience of serious reading. From the discussion, however, it became clear that the book was opening doors for them and all of them were able to use the text to make sense of their own lives, at the same times bringing their won experiences to bear in interpreting the text. As they talked they gave me new insights into the book. This experience was both illuminating and humbling.

These experiences and thoughts are particularly relevant to the other book I have been reading. This is an anthology called Identity, whose contributors all attended the recent Eroticon conference. I have to declare an interest. I was one of the contributors. But that is now why I am writing about it. The content is pretty eclectic, some of it personal reminiscence, and painful reminiscence at that, some of it fantasy, some of it opinion, some of it seriously hot, you know, the stuff you read one handed.  And then there was Meg-John Barker’s piece on erotic fiction as means of self understanding which got me reflecting again on my own identity, or in this case my sexual identity and what it means to me. This short essay was in my head as I read the other pieces and enriched my reading experience.  This really is as a wonderful anthology and I can’t recommend it highly enough.

Erotic fiction has changed my life. I really don’t know why, one day in 2012, I felt the urge tio write a story about a carer in a elderly person’s home who has a relationship with a gay man whose carer he is. Other stories followed. I went online, I set up a Twitter account, I read voraciously, I discovered Eroticon and became part of a community. And a new Eve emerged, an Eve who is kinky, bisexual, who is proud to know sex workers she can call friends, an Eve committed to the freeest possible expression of human sexuality (subject to consent). In short an Eve I could not have imagined even existed only 6 years ago. It is through erotic literature that I have discovered what was previously latent, and been able to articulate it.

The main protagonist of my first story was Eric, an Oxford graduate who had been jailed for “gross indecency” in the dark days before 1967 and who experienced late sexual joy with a younger man. I killed him off at the end as the younger man had to move on and make his own way as a gay man in a different age, but acutely aware of the debt gay men, indeed all of us who are in some way not heteronormative, owe to those who suffered for daring to be different. I made sure, however, that Eric died happy, at peace with himself. I knew then that I owed him that. I know now that I owe him much more.

Fruits from the Garden

I read voraciously. Yet while I am always looking ahead to the next book I always finish the one I’m on with a hint of regret. It was hard to put the novel I was reading recently back on its shelf as I had grown to like the main protagonist and saying goodbye to her was hard. On the other hand I could not wait to finish the other book I have been reading recently. I read it in the bath, read it on the bus, read it on the exercise bike at the gym. This was not because I disliked it, quite the opposite. I was desperate to absorb it, enjoy its treasures and out it down to reflect on what it all meant. This is a book you may well be reading. It is The Garden of Desires by Emily Dubberley.

In fact it is a book written by every one of those who responded to the invitation to complete a questionnaire and shared their sexual fantasies. It is not a dry scientific study but a wonderful journey into worlds of sexual imagination I was hardly aware of.

The fantasies are grouped by the various types into which they could be categorised. Clearly some crossed boundaries but some kind of categorisation was needed and the one adopted seems reasonable. It was striking to me how many fantasies, across all categories, involved activities that are usually associated with kink or BDSM. A few hoary myths are nailed along the way too. Fantasy and reality overlap but not all women want to live out all their fantasies and no woman really wants to be raped.

I was amazed at the sheer variety of the fantasies and relieved too, that my fantasies did not seem out of place, and that I was not alone in feeling, or having felt shame. If reading the Garden of Desires has taught me anything it is that I am normal and  have nothing to be ashamed about. That is a very liberating feeling not least because one of the messages of the book is how much women’s sexuality has been constrained by societal norms, conditioning, shaming. It continues to be as we enter a neo-Puritan age where even some feminists are seeking to invoke the power of the state to control women and slut shaming is rife. I was shocked to read about the vile abuse that Emily experienced when the Cliterati website was launched in the not so Victorian era of 2001.

The final chapter is a call to arms to women to fight for their sexual freedom against the puritans. Whether you are straight, bi, lesbian, trans, sub, domme,  sex worker, or whatever, you must be free to express yourself sexually however you want. The only restraint should be the need for consent. The battle for sexual freedom is inherently political and part, but a necessary part, of a wider struggle for freedom and equality. It is a struggle that I rather think it might be fun to fight. .

Men, too, should read this book. Our freedom is also your freedom and in any case women’s sexuality is a store of delights that might be available to you too if you put your patriarchal prejudices aside and ask nicely!

Daniel My Sister

LGBT

The story below is included as part of an LGBT blog hop organised by Scorching Book Reviews. Hope you enjoy it as well as the other posts. Click here to find them. There’s a prize draw as well – just click the link at the bottom of the page.

I have been dabbling in erotica for a while but only succeeded in getting something published last year, a story in the Xcite Books gay anthology Boys in Bed. I would describe myself as a bi-curious heterosexual  but write about all kinds of sex. In fact a significant proportion of the stories I am working on involve either lesbian or D/S relationships. I just find the idea of women making love to women incredibly beautiful. And the thought of a woman submitting to another woman I find unbelievably erotic. This is why I write about sex, it is a way of exploring things I might never get to do myself, a way too of understanding myself and my sexuality. If anything I write helps even one reader to have a better understanding of his or hers then it’s been worthwhile. Even better if it makes you reach for your clit or your cock……:-)

DANIEL MY SISTER

Agata gasped as Daniel took off his shirt and she was that he had proper breasts, female breasts, just like hers but bound with tape and flattened. Then he slid off his trousers and boxers and she saw a cunt, just like hers only shaven and with a stud in the clit. She struggled to get out her words,

‘But you’re not a man!’

‘I’m all man’ said Daniel ‘and all woman too, at least for the time being. Forget about what you were told in Poland and forget about all the nonsense your priests drummed into you. If you want to be a whore you’ve got a lot to learn and I’m going to teach you. I’m going to fuck you as a man and then I’m going to have you as a girl.

Agata froze, then, remembering that she was being paid for this, she removed her panties and lay on the bed, thinking that she had got rather more than she had bargained for.

Agata had been in England just two months after leaving her village in Poland to come to England in search of work. She had moved in with her best friend Justyna and found a job packing airline meals, nothing exciting and the money was never enough. It was Justyna who had suggested they sell sex and so they placed an advertisement in the local newspaper

‘Gorgeous Polish girls your dream come true.’

They quickly had custom and the hostility of established girls in the area as they undercut the local rated, £50 for half an hour £80 for an hour although most punters wanted to be in  and out of the shabby flat quickly. Agata was a pretty girl, she had lovely breasts that just asked to be caressed and kissed and sucked and she, known as Jasmine, attracted most of the business.

And now, in her second week as a sex worker she was confronted with Dan. Dan was right, she was naive. In the village in Eastern Poland there were no gays, no cross dressers, no ambiguity and no-one enjoying sex, no-one who had thought about it the way Dan had. Her initial response was to feel repelled but now, she was fascinated. She remembered the priest at home warning her about the moral danger but now she didn’t care. There was a sexual world to explore and she wanted to explore it.

‘Half an hour that’s fifty pounds isn’t it?’ asked Dan.

Agata, thinking quickly said ‘more for special requests, it’s like doing it with a couple after all.’

‘Let’s say sixty then.’

Agata was feeling distinctly uneasy and conceded the point. He counted out the notes and handed them to her.

Dan lay on the bed beside her. He came over took her in his arms and began to rub his body against hers. If he looked and dressed as a man he had the smooth and lissom body of a woman and when he reached for her cunt with his fingers she resisted the temptation to shout out ‘No that’s not allowed.’ Because she wanted to know, she had to know what it was like to be touched by someone as intimate as she was herself with female genitalia. Dan placed his finger very gently on her clit and began to massage it with finesse and delicacy. Agata felt herself becoming hard and Dan began to rub more vigorously. As Agata grew wetter, Dan took the fingers of his left hand and pushed four of them into her rapidly dilating and, by now, very wet vagina. He began to move in and out, slowly at first then picking up speed, did it more and mote vigorously.

He took his finger off her clit and said,

‘Go on you do it yourself’ and Agata massaged her clit vigorously as Dan put a further finger inside and they both picked up the pace until he finished her off and she came with a scream.

‘See how nice it is?’

Dan smiled and kissed her gently on the top of the head.

‘And now I want you to fuck me but not with your fingers.’

He stood up and made his way across the room and took a dildo out of his bag.   Agata gasped.

‘Don’t worry’ said Dan, ‘This is my prick well one of several actually I keep in a draw. It won’t hurt believe me.’

He strapped it on, rolled a condom onto the end and applied a little lubricant. He dropped onto the mattress and began to finger Agata again. She found this very pleasant. No one had ever touched her like that before. It seemed instinctive on Dan’s part.

‘I fuck you as a man but I touch you as a woman.’

Dan continued to massage Agata’s clit with an expertise she was unused to and suddenly she felt her juices rising. Dan stuck a finger inside her, then another, then another,

‘Three fingers’ he said. ‘You’re soaking wet. And ripe for a good fucking.’

‘Bend over the chair.’

Agata did as she was told. She was a little disconcerted by this, it was different from anything she had experienced before. She sensed Dan coming up behind her, let out an involuntary gasp as the felt the cold dildo touch her. Dan felt for the pening and slid in.

‘I’m all in’ he announced. ‘Is it nice?’

‘Yes’ she said struggling for words.

Dan began to move in and out, slowly and deliberately at first then, gradually picking up the pace. Soon he was working away quickly and thighs were slapping against her bottom as he moved in. Agata shut her eyes. She thought of home, the time she lost her virginity, the ordeal in the confessional the following week. She thought about the men who came to her for a cheap fuck, a massage, covered oral that she was still learning to do, realising that she had never really experienced sex like this before. She used to joke about transsexuals but now she was giving herself to a beautiful man who was still a woman. Dan knew what he wanted, he was skilled and experienced, he was……..

He let the pace slacken.

‘Keep going’ she said and Dan grabbed her roughly and pushed in hard and deep. Soon he was thumping away harder than ever. Agata began to play with her clit.

‘Harder harder I want to come!’

He came in again two mote thumps and she came.

Dan withdrew. She turned round, looked at him, looked at the big strap-on, looked at the smile on his face.

‘I’ve never paid for it before’ he said. ‘I just had to try.’

He took a step towards her, pulled her head towards him to kiss her. She resisted.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t do kissing.’

‘You’ll kiss me though, feel me, feel my soft skin, I will kiss you like you’ve never been kissed before.’

He grabbed her head pulled her towards him. Agata closed her eyes and opened her mouth. His tongue slid into her mouth just as smoothly as the dildo had entered her cunt. She let herself go limp. He put a finger inside her, wet it with her juices, and put it in her mouth.

‘That’s the taste of you.’

There was a knock on the door. Justyna called

‘Time’s up.’

‘Still busy’ called Agata. She did not want this to end.

Dan pulled away, took off the strap-on and said to Agata

‘Kneel before me and lick my cunt. I want to feel your tongue on my clit.’

She knelt before him, felt the hard cold floor digging into her knees. She looked at Dan’s shaven pussy. She had never been this close to someone else’s cunt before. Dan held the labia apart with his fingers and she began to lick at the opening, felt the sour juices……..she was confused, giving cunnilingus to the man who had just given her the best fucking of her life.

She took hold of Dan’s buttocks, pulled him a little closer towards her and worked his cunt with her tongue, worked her way to his clit, worked it until she heard him come.

‘Thank you’ he said almost matter of factly.

He pulled his trousers back on, took a twenty pound note out of the pocket and handed it to Agata..

‘It’s not so much.’ she protested.

‘But I’ve gone over time and you have been so good.’ He smiled and put on his shirt and jacket. After he had put his shoes on he gave her a peck on the cheek and made for the door.

‘I’ll show you out,’ said Agata almost as an afterthought.

When she returned to the room thoughts were racing through her head. Nothing seemed real any more, she was almost floating in an alternative reality where nothing was quite what it seemed. Then she noticed that Dan had left his strap-on.

Justyna came in.

‘That was a long time nearly an hour I hope you took extra money from him.’

‘I did’ replied Agata ‘but I didn’t want to,’

She smiled.

‘I’ve learned so much. Let me tell you what I have learned.’

She walked across to Justyna and gently pulled down her skirt. Her friend was ready for work, had no underwear and she knelt before her and began to worship her friend’s cunt. She would be good at this she knew. She enjoyed the stubble rubbing against her face, she loved the smell, She could feel Justyna becoming aroused. She stood up, with Justyna’s juices on her tongue and slid it into her friend’s mouth.

‘I’ve learned that nothing is as beautiful as a woman’s body, that nothing is as lovely as a cunt.  I’ll sleep with men for money, but for me I have to sleep with girls.’

‘Lean over the chair and I’ll take you.’

Justyna made as if to protest.

‘He left this. I don’t think it was an accident. We have to try this.’

Agata had little idea of how to use the strap-on but she was determined to try. She put it on, walked up to Justyna, slapped her bottom before feeling for her rapidly dampening cunt.

‘I’ve never fucked a girl before.’

And they both laughed.

THE END

Powered by Linky Tools