The Not So Invisible Woman

by Suzanne Portnoy

  'Not very private, is it?' said Sam, looking around, pretending not to notice what was going on underneath the water.

  'No, not especially,' I had to admit. I counted the number of windows that overlooked the tub. Thirteen chances of getting an ASBO.

  'Have your neighbours ever said anything? I assume I'm not the first guy in here.' He smirked, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

  'Oh, they're all far too polite,' I said. 'You know the English.'

  I'd never found the idea of being watched a turn-on, but I'd never particularly minded it, either. If I wanted to have sex with someone, provided there weren't more than ten pervy guys around, I'd strip off and get down to it. I had a postage stamp of a garden, so it was a natural consequence that neighbours might spy on me. I was reconciled to that fact. Even so, I rarely ventured out to the tub before it was dark.

  Presumably reassured, Sam moved closer to me and moved his fingers up my leg until he was fingering my clit. 'I really want to eat your pussy.'

  'I really want you to eat my pussy,' I said. 'And fuck me up the ass.' I raised myself out of the water and, though freezing, sat on the edge of the tub, exposing my sex to him.

  He leaned over and stuck his tongue between my legs, gently probing my clit.

  That's the great thing about Swinging Heaven – you always get guys who know what to do. They've had lots and lots of sex, and they know what they like. Practice does make perfect.

  I moaned quietly as Sam lapped me up. 'Mmmm, that feels so good.'

  After a few minutes, once the water on my wet body began to feel like icicles, I said, 'As good as that feels, I'm absolutely fucking freezing. And I really want to suck your cock.'

  'What's stopping you? Certainly not the neighbours.'

  Not the cold, either. We switched positions. Gratefully, I returned to the hot water, and Sam stood up, holding his huge cock out for me with one hand.

  It was about 11 p.m. and pitch black outside. The moon cast light on the steam rising off his penis.

  Lifting my body as little as possible out of the warm water, I caressed the tip of his cock with my tongue. I held the shaft with my right hand and massaged the sac with my left. I felt him grow longer and thicker in my mouth. I slid his cock further down my throat, easing the passage open to try to accommodate him. I couldn't.

  Within just seconds his cock had grown too large to handle. 'I think we should go to my bedroom soon,' I said. I figured my pussy could handle him better than my mouth, and fucking would be a lot easier, and warmer, on the bed.

  We jumped out of the tub and, laughing, ran in the freezing air towards the house. Our wet bodies were enveloped in steam. I looked at Sam. He was an apparition, almost out of focus and ghostlike under the eerie vapours.

  No sooner had we entered the kitchen than he had me pinned. I had cheekily climbed onto the kitchen table, laid on my back and spread my legs, saying, 'I think the bedroom can wait,' and he concurred.

  He slid his still-hard cock inside me, grabbing my bent legs underneath my knees and pulling me towards his chest. Though I have a very deep pussy, Sam's cock found the far end of it – but too soon.

  'That's too deep,' I said, as he thrust repeatedly into me. 'Too fast. Slow down.' After just a minute it had become slightly painful. Fucking a monster cock might look great in porn movies, but in real life it's not always so pleasurable, at least not right away. I don't think any man had ever filled me up quite as much as Sam did. Accommodating him would take some getting used to.

  'Sorry,' he said. 'I guess I got a bit carried away. Turn around.'

  I climbed off the table and leaned over it. Normally I don't go for short guys. But after meeting Sam, I began to see the advantages of being with someone my own height. No matter what position we were in, his cock was at exactly the right place. I didn't have to crouch or stand on my toes for him to enter my pussy from behind.

  The table wasn't particularly comfortable, but the idea of sex on top of it was hot. Feeling Sam sliding in and out of me was hotter still. As was the way he dominated me. Like many women, I enjoy being taken and told what to do. Perhaps the thinking behind it is a cliché but, having to boss people around at work, I don't want to have to do the same thing in bed.

  Eventually we made it to the bedroom and we fucked for five hours, until Sam, a real gent, made me come first. He held back his own orgasm until the end of the night, when he finished inside my mouth.

  'That was amazing,' he said. 'We must do that again.' And unlike Dr Donny, he really meant it.

  I was game, but as we compared schedules we realised nights were out for us. I had my kids for all but two weekends a month. Sam was a care worker and spent many weeknights going to local community meetings. 'I don't start work till ten,' Sam said, as he got ready to leave. 'Maybe we can meet for breakfast sometime.'

  I found the idea appealing. But at that moment, so was the idea of my bed. It was 4 a.m. when he walked out the door and 4:01 when I fell asleep.

  I waited a couple of weeks before shooting Sam a text.

  'What are you doing tomorrow morning at 9?' I tapped into my phone.

  His response came back immediately: 'Fucking you.'

  And he did. This time we went straight to the bedroom where, after juicing me up with his tongue, he rolled on a condom and then slid his thickness into my ass. I'd grown to love anal after living with Daniel for two years. He had slept with so many women, that the pussy no longer held any fascination for him. Anal was naughtier, he felt, and since he was very good at making sure it never hurt, I was happy to oblige. I learned from Daniel that the trick was to take it on my terms, in my own time, guiding the cock into my ass slowly as the muscles relaxed. Deep breathing helped too, filling my lungs with oxygen as Daniel's cock pushed in deeper. By the end of that relationship, I had become something of an anal expert and found it as horny as Daniel did.

  Massaging my clit with a vibrator, I came as Sam gently entered and exited, slowly and rhythmically. After I came, Sam slipped me onto my back and massaged my clit whilst jerking himself off with his free hand. As per our first date, he came in my mouth.

  'That was lovely,' I said afterwards, realising those were my first words since he'd arrived.

  'You're telling me. Gotta run.'

  'See you soon.'

  We kissed and were both out the door within 45 minutes.

  After that second meeting, we got together regularly, usually every other Friday, and soon developed a routine. I would drop my kids off at their school and get back home by nine. Sam would arrive promptly five minutes later, and then, after not much more than a hello, get busy. He'd fuck me until I came, come in my mouth, and be gone by 9.45.

  I thought it was the perfect arrangement and it worked for Sam, too. In fact, he seemed to thrive on the time constraint. Knowing he had just a brief window of time made him focused. He wanted to get me off; for Sam, those mornings were all about me and my pleasure and in taking the fantasy to the next level, one step at a time. It was pleasurable because he understood my body and could get me to orgasm quickly. There aren't many men who are able to do that.

  The only other man I'd ever been with who thrived on eleventh-hour sex was Frank, a long-distance boyfriend I dated around the time my marriage was coming to an end. A French-Irish guy from New York City, he had never been outside the US, so when he came to visit me one week, I took him to Woodstock, a traditional old English village near Oxford, for a few days of sex and sightseeing. Just before checkout, while packing my bag, I announced that we had to be out of the room in ten minutes. The bed was covered with suitcases and clothing and guidebooks, but that didn't prevent him from pushing me down on the mattress and climbing on top of me. He lifted up my skirt and entered me without any foreplay, and came three minutes later. I didn't come, but that hardly mattered; he had made me come numerous times during his visit. We were at the front desk by deadline.

  Ordinarily he was a guy who really liked to take his time, and it
was not unusual that a session with Frank lasted four hours – thus my willingness to carry on with the relationship despite the three thousand miles between us. But that ten-minute window in Woodstock had pushed a button I'd never known existed. I should have caught on earlier. He told me once that he'd gone through a period during his thirties of being with hookers. That's a habit that comes with expensive time constraints, and I think Frank liked the idea of having to get off to the clock.

  I didn't think Sam was into prostitutes, but he certainly liked his 45-minute quickie, and so did I. It was the only chance I got to get laid outside of my designated two kids-free weekends a month. Following the end of my disastrous relationship with Karume, my last serious boyfriend, I'd made a pact with myself never to invite another man over during the week when my kids were around, unless I felt there was a chance of a serious relationship. Sam was not serious – just serious fun – so I didn't feel I was breaking my rule, especially as my kids never met him.

  I was still feeling the woozie post-sex glow as I walked through my office door.

  'Good morning,' I said to my receptionist, a busty blonde cutie in her late twenties.

  She smiled as she greeted me, as she always did. It seemed just another day at work for her, but as I walked towards my office, I laughed to myself, remembering my horny breakfast.

  Sam was my secret, and it was a turn-on going into the office, having been royally fucked, and being the only person who knew.

  I realised that day I wasn't the only one with a secret.

  'I have something to tell you that I haven't told anyone else,' said the voice at the end of my phone. 'Can we have lunch?' It was James, a colleague who worked in television advertising.

  I wondered what could be so important. He'd never really talked about his personal life before, although he enjoyed hearing, from time to time, about mine. I had met him a couple of years earlier when we worked on a project together professionally, and we grew close enough that eventually we got around to talking about sex. Or rather, I did. He was always evasive and fell into the role of eager listener.

  James was in his late forties, married to a woman he had met at university, and the father of a couple of kids. He was bald, had glasses, and was of average height and weight and build – in fact, pretty much average in every way. Not unattractive, but not standout, either. Instead of 'sexy', he was the kind of guy who seemed safe and would be referred to as 'nice'. And he was.

  We arranged to meet at a gastro pub near my office at one.

  A family of six were sitting a few seats away from us, the children climbing on and off the chairs and making noise whilst the parents tried, unsuccessfully, to contain them. Two women and a man were quietly conducting business on our other side. We ordered roast pork sandwiches with crackling, a hearty meal that suited the crisp, wintry weather outside.

  I took my cue from James, and played along as we caught up on business. Eventually he got around to the real reason for lunch.

  'I haven't had sex in six years,' he said.

  'Wow,' I said. 'That beats my four. Well, not four years since I've had sex, but you know what I mean.' He knew about the long spell without sex I endured towards the end of my marriage to David. Since then I'd been making up for lost time.

  I suddenly wondered if James was one of those guys who wanked on cam – solitary, feverish, and eager for any sexual connection, going cyber when there was nothing real on offer. Not that I hadn't been online myself. But it was always as an adjunct to a busy, and varied, sex life. Yet I often suspected that many of the men jerking on cam were in front of their computer because they weren't getting any in bed and it was their only form of relief.

  'I haven't told anybody else,' continued James. 'You're the only person I can talk to.'

  I felt sad. We hardly knew each other, and it was heartbreaking knowing he couldn't confide in his mates. His whole forties were a desert. No wonder he hangs out with me, I thought. It hadn't occurred to me that James had probably lived vicariously through my sex stories. Or that they might have pained him. Over my six years of singledom I'd met at least a dozen men just like James who wouldn't leave home to find a satisfying life for fear of having their kids taken from them.

  'Have you and your wife talked about this?' I asked.

  'Well, that's the thing,' he said. 'I had a chat with her a while back and told her that I really missed having sex. She told me it's not that she doesn't love me, but she's not interested. She just doesn't feel any sexual desire.'

  'That's not uncommon,' I said. 'I felt that way, too, when I was married.' I explained that it wasn't my husband's fault, but rather the stress of bringing up kids and being tired all the time and just not feeling sexy. 'It's hard to feel sexy when there's baby spittle all over your clothes.'

  'I can understand that,' said James, 'but our kids aren't babies any more. And I really want to get laid.'

  Suddenly, I began to wonder if he had invited me to lunch to help him out. I had encountered other men who'd assumed that, because I was sexually active, they could have me. That had always pissed me off – the presumption that I wasn't choosy just because I liked getting laid.

  I soon realised that wasn't the case with James. He just wanted to vent. He told me that he didn't want to move out on his wife and that he'd never cheated on her, but that he couldn't stand being celibate for much longer.

  'Last week, I had drinks with one of my clients, a married woman,' he continued. 'One thing led to another, and she ended up giving me a blowjob in the car park.'

  'I thought you said you never cheated.'

  'Well,' he said, 'I'm still trying to work out the boundaries. I mean, we didn't sleep together. So it's not really cheating, is it?' It wasn't that he was looking for absolution; he really wasn't sure if he'd crossed the line.

  'Oh,' I said, 'I think you'll find most people would say that getting sucked off in a car park is cheating. I think we can pretty much universally agree on that one. Sorry to disappoint you.'

  James laughed.

  'It must have been one amazing blowjob after a six-year hiatus.' I thought he'd laugh, but instead he suddenly looked glum.

  'I tell you, I almost cried,' he said. 'I mean it. I was that close to crying.'

  I didn't know what to say. How do you tell a man who hasn't had sex for six years that his marriage is dead? According to most of the men I've met over the years, a car park blowjob soon leads to a hotel room, and then to a pay-as-you-go mobile that allows you to schedule the next liaison. A year or two later, you've handed the house keys over to your wife and are sitting in a tiny apartment, the only thing you can afford after the alimony payments. But at least you're getting laid. I'd been there myself and had grown used to the financial insecurity. Still, it was a small price to pay for happiness.

  I said the only thing I could. 'Maybe you should talk to your wife again. See if she's open to your having an arrangement whereby every once in a while you spend a night in London. It's not unheard of. You might be surprised at her reaction.'

  'You're right,' he said. 'Maybe I should just be upfront with her.'

  'And if that doesn't work,' I continued, 'you can always do what I do.' I told him about my virtual wanking. 'It's not really cheating if you're not in the same room.'

  3. ANOTHER MAN, ANOTHER BLOWJOB

  Thinking about James describing his car-park blowjob as a non-cheating event made me chuckle to myself. I felt bad that he was in a bind in his marriage, but I wasn't too worried about him. He had reconciled himself to the idea of getting sucked off in car parks and hotel rooms and God knows where else, either with the woman he'd just met or with the others who were sure to follow. Once you're back on the sex train, you don't make any stops.

  I knew. I was celibate during the last four years of my marriage before meeting Frank from New York. He turned me on to swinging, fetish clubs, exhibitionism, anal, blowjobs, and good old-fashioned fucking again. After my affair with Frank, I realised all the fun I'd be
en missing during my relatively sex-free marriage, and I haven't stopped having fun since. I was confident that, on James's express route to future orgasms, now that he'd broken six years of celibacy, he'd be OK, all the while making excuses to his wife and justifying his behaviour, telling himself his affairs were inconsequential.

  I'd figured out a long time ago that men have a gift for concocting excuses for their indiscretions and creating boundaries that suit their desires. My first boyfriend, Tim, from university, taught me this lesson one term after disappearing for three days. Eventually I tracked him down – in the apartment of a close girlfriend of mine. He wasn't wearing any trousers when I found him, but he assured me that he and Marsha were only friends. They moved in together within a couple of months and I cried my eyes out for a year after that. They remained together for a decade, and I got wise.

  By the time I came across Mark, during one of my Friday evening sessions at Rio's, men and their twisted boundaries were water off this duck's back. For several years Rio's has been my home away from home, my refuge from Medialand and all its artifice. A naturist 'health club' in Kentish Town, it serves as a hook-up spot for men and women looking for a quickie, a threesome, or sometimes, on a lucky day, even a gang bang in one of the club's private rooms. It is frequented by all sorts, from government workers, property developers and video producers to lawyers, builders and security guards.

  Even so, it is the one place I know where one's occupation is immaterial. Being naked means being free of dinner-party chat. I've often thought that the liberation from small talk is one of the reasons why I enjoy sex so much – when the clothes come off, so too does the bullshit that most guys carry around with them.

  That Friday evening Rio's session began with me lying face down and naked in the steam room. I was pretending to be asleep, whilst half-hoping someone attractive might offer me a real massage, not just the cursory back rub as a prelude to fingering my pussy or bum, as was usually the case.