Fucking Anal or Anal Fucking

I suppose it had to happen sometime. I guess it was an inevitability; something that only time and opportunity had prevented occurring before; an event just waiting to come about; an action that was pre-ordained. I mean a forty-plus-year old divorcee with a number of affairs behind her, a free woman with a high sex drive, a female now unshackled from a fifteen year relationship who has found the adventure in sex can hardly not be fucked up her arse at some time, can she?

In the thirty plus years I'd been sexually active it had almost happened many times. That passage had been entered by a number of fingers and tongues and the bulbous tips of a few erections and a couple of buzzing vibrators had all presented their credentials at the enticing entrance. But none had been invited inside, well not far. So technically I was still an anal virgin when I met Ash.

Ash, or Ashra to give him his full name, was gorgeous. Over six feet tall, with a taught, slimly muscular body, he had dark wavy hair with a few unkempt locks that appealingly tumbled down over his forehead. The action, which he did all the time, of flicking them away was so casually sexy that I'm sure it alone could have caused some of his young admirers to wet themselves on the spot, especially if he gazed at them with his dark, moody eyes at the same time.

It was that action of flicking his hair and holding my gaze that first attracted him to me. That and his good looks, his wit, his intelligence, his sense of irony, his way of not taking himself or others too seriously and his style, charisma and sophistication. All that provided him with tremendous poise and assurance. Those, in turn, lent him an air of authority and command. Ash was always in control, was always the leader and director wherever he was and whoever he was with. The fact that he was fairly rich, owned a big slice of a highly successful ad agency that was headquartered in Beirut, which I learned later was where he came from, but operated mainly in London, Paris, New York and LA and lived somewhat of a jet set life style, really had nothing whatsoever to do with that attraction.

Yeah right.

Just as the fact that he was, at times, the most attentive and accomplished lover and at others the dirtiest and most depraved one, had no influence on me. Just as his gorgeous body, his long, thick cock, that he seemed to be able to harden on command, or his mouth and tongue that he used on me in the most amazing ways also had no attraction to me. Watch the window for the pigs flying past, won't you?

Or the fact that right from the outset of our short-lived affair we both knew it was purely sex. There was no real emotional involvement or entanglement yet we weren't fuckbuddies. There was absolutely no way that I could call him up and ask him round. It just wasn't conceivable and in any case when he wasn't with me he was probably with one of a number of other girls he quite openly admitted to seeing in the cities where his agency operated or where he had clients to visit. No, I was more at his beck and call than he was at mine, which is unlike how I usually like my relationships to be; I guess in this one I was the follower, he the leader; me the submissive he the dominator. It wasn't a case of us being fuckbuddies, more fuckboss and secretary I suppose.

Why I went along with that sort of arrangement which in most ways was so foreign to me I'm not sure? Why I was like a stage door groupie to him and why I let him abuse me by being at his command, who knows? Why I would simply drop anything I was doing or change plans at the last minute, even shopping trips, and go to his bed I still can't work out. It was a combination I suppose of the glamour, the sheer fun, the excitement, the difference from my usual life and the extreme sexual pleasure I gained from a man who was by far the most skilful and by an enormous margin the most experienced lover I'd ever had. In other words he fucked me with style and asked for little in exchange emotionally, just my body, well more my tits and pussy really.

We'd met at a launch of a new magazine. I was there in my capacity as a freelance copy writer for an ad agency; basically they could tell me to go while their more permanent staff they had to ask and most declined. I was spruced up in a nice little black number, a Karen Millen, cocktail dress. It was low enough at the front to show that my breasts were of a size that was interesting to most men, 33b at the time. It was high enough at the hem to show that beneath the knee my legs stood comparison with most, but not high enough to show that further up they become a little chunky, 'thighs like nut crackers' as an ex once called them.

It was a posh do at the V