Secret Sexual Fantasies

In this podcast Wanda and I chat about:

- Twitter
- TweetDeck
- Amy Winehouse
- CS
- cross-dressing
- hypocrits
- sexual fantasies
- breasts
- Phil Petrol
- big cocks

and much more.

"If you're going ot be a crossdresser, then fucking be a crossdresser."

"I have had a relatively sexaul deviant past."

"Most of the times when someone is sucking on my tits it feels like nothing."

"If you touch my tits I'm gonna break your wrists."

"What do you mean you don't want to fuck kittens?"



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New Year, New Challenges

I love that the new year brings new challenges and new experiences. I've just signed up to do the London Triathlon. Crazy, eh? As a new years resolution I said that this year I'm gonna get real fit. So I've been going to the Reebok Gym like crazy.

I swim one kilometre every other day. I feel absolutely knackered this morning, having been to the gym before work.

Wanda and I are working on more podcasts. Don't worry. They're coming.

I have a new job. I've left the TV industry and have moved into advertising. So now I work for an ad agency. It's way better than my last job, but it did sound cooler to say, "I'm a producer" rather than "I'm a creative strategist."

Phil Petrol came by my flat a few days ago. We hadn't seen each other since I left the old job. We sat on the couch and watch TV. He asked me what my favourite show was.

"Scrubs," I answered.

"Um, Scrubs. What's that?"

I stared at him with a combination of shock and awe. "You've never heard of Scrubs? That's a fucking problem."

He gave Doggums the KFC he bought then we went into the bedroom. Nothing crazy happened. We just cuddled and held each other. It was more sweet, than romantic, really.

I did feel his cock. It was massive! Out of all the guys I've ever been with, his girth is tops. Man, his wife is so lucky.

He had to leave before midnight to catch the last out of Canary Wharf. As soon as he left I brought out the vibrator. I imagined what it would be like for his cock to be in me and I came really hard.

Phil Petrol and His Massive Cock

“Oh my God, you’re naked!” I exclaim.

“Shhhhhhh!” Phil Petrol urges me to be quiet. I enter the board room and close the door behind me.
He gives me a big bear hug. He kisses me gently and sweetly. It doesn’t seem like the kiss of a desperate married man wanting to get laid; but rather the kiss of a smitten teenager.

Then he turns out the lights. It’s completely dark in this windowless boardroom.

“Nice thick cock!” I say to him.

He reaches for my shirt and raises it just above my left breasts. He moves my boob out of my bra and kisses it. He sucks on my nipple. He switches to my right boob, sucking on it ever so gently.

I return the favour to him. I gently bite his man-nipples. He winces. I can’t tell if it’s in pleasure or pain, but since he doesn’t say, “Stop,” I continue.

I take off my shirt, bra, trousers and panties. I press my naked body against his. It occurs to me that if the night janitor walked in, I would be in a fairly compromising position. I put that thought out of my head and tell Peter Petrol that I want to lay down.

I hadn’t realized how uncomfortable the carpet in the board room was until it was time to lay down on it. Phil lays next to me.
“Now I want you to lick my pussy,” I said to him, as if I were schooling a naughty kindergartener.

He positions his head between my leg and starts licking the area around my vulva. He’s obedient. I like that. He’s not exactly hitting my clit.

“Down, more, “I direct him. “Now to the left. Yes, right there.” He keeps licking me. “Now put a finger in me.” He sticks a finger in my pussy

I compare Phil Petrol’s pussy-eating style to the Shark’s. The Shark uses his whole mouth when he eats me out whereas Phil Petrol just uses his tongue which leads me believe that either he doesn’t know what he’s doing or he’s really not into it. And there’s absolutely no point in getting eaten-out by a guy who’s really not into it.

Then suddenly he gets a rhythm going. I feel hornier and hornier. I can tell when a guy is doing a good job eating me out, because I crave his cock inside me.

I push his head away from me.

“I want you to put the tip of your cock in me. Don’t go in all the way. Just the tip.”

“I can’t do that or I’m gonna cum,” he says.

“You won’t cum. Just the tip.”

“Are you on the pill?”

“Yes,” I lie Oh my god, why did I just lie? “You won’t cum, just the tip,” I urge.

He obediently purses the tip of his cock on my pussy. He pulls away after a few seconds. He sits back. He takes a few breaths.

I place my hand on his cock. I move my hand up and down. He moans and sighs in pleasure.

“Don’t cum,” I say to him, “Now I want you to eat me out again.”

He moves his head between my legs and furiously licks my pussy. It feels amazing. His slow rhythms build up faster and faster. I’m screaming at him, “I want your cock. Fuck me now. I want you to stick it in me.” But he keeps licking. I cum loudly. He covers my mouth. He keeps licking even after I’ve cum, but I push him away.

“That was very nice,” I tell him

“Now, I want to give you a blowjob that you won’t forget. Don’t cum in my mouth.”

“OK,” he says.

“I mean it.”

I put my mouth on his cock. I flick my tongue against the tip of his cock then I take as much of his cock into my mouth as I can. I bob my head up and down. I use my full lips to provide the ultimate suction. He moans, which indicates to me that he’s enjoying it.

I stick a finger up his asshole. He moans even louder. I keep sucking,

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God!” he yells.

Then I pull away.

“Wait, where are you going?” He questions.

“That’s just a taste of what’s in store.”

“Baby, you gotta stay. At least watch me cum.”

“Next time,” I say casually.

I quickly put on my clothes. I turn on the light. He’s standing there with a enormous hard on.

“See you tomorrow at work,” I smile and wave goodbye.

And So I Waited…

And So I Waited…

Phil Petrol, the VP of Ad sales was supposed to call me 8:30 PM yesterday. Although I had the chance to save my dignity and abscond, I actually ended up staying in my office, perusing though PerezHilton.com for gossip. Every fibre of my being said “Go home, don’t wait for this idiot,” But part of me was curious, why had he suddenly asked me out?

At 9:00 PM I got tired of waiting. So I left my office in search of something to eat. I told myself, “If he doesn’t call by the time I eat, then I’ll just get on the tube and go home.”

I headed off to McDonalds and bought a happy meal for £1.99. Whenever I buy a happy meal I pretend that it’s for my non-existent kid which seems less embarrassing than admitting you’re a cheapskate. The cashier didn’t take the bait, hence I didn’t receive a fun, yet useless happy meal toy.

After I ate, still there was no call, no text, nothing from him. So I thought to myself, “If he doesn’t call by the time I get to Chancery Lane, I’ll get on the tube and go home.”

I got to Chancery Lane. Not a word from him. I got on the Central Line and headed to Bank. I changed trains to the DLR. It seemed to take ages for a train towards Canary Wharf to arrive. I passed the time by playing Breakout on my Blackberry.

As soon as the train surfaced above ground I received a text message from him. He says he’s on his way and that he’ll meet me in Covent Garden in 30 minutes. Damn, not enough time to go home. Too much time to go directly there, but whatever. For once in my life I was ridiculously early.

I arrived at Covent Garden and watched a street performer play an acoustic version of Blondie’s “Call me.” Out of sheer boredom I played a few more games a Breakout, beating my all-time high score. I called, the Voice-of-Reason in New York. I called a friend in Spain. I called another friend in LA.

While I was on the phone I got a text from Phil Petrol saying that he’ll be 10 more minutes and he’s on his way. It was past 10PM now.

What the fuck am I doing? It’s 10:30 on a school night and I’m waiting here in Covent Garden like an idiot. What did I really think was going to happen.

15 minutes later he arrives. He looks good. He’s wearing a light blue Armani shirt and dark trousers. He has a posh yet difficult to place accent. Apparently he’s a child of the world, having grown up in 4 different counties. At times he sounds English, then mildly Australian, bizarrely Canadian cross ed with posh American boarding school type accent; think Julianne Moore in The Big Lebowski.

He apologize for being late explains that he was at a business dinner with some folks from Nintendo; that he’s negotiating to get a free Wii and a Wii fit, for his own personal benefit. My God! I’m playing second fiddle to a piece of exercise equipment!

We go to one of the many pubs in area all the while I’m trying to figure out his agenda. I want to know:

1. What does he want?
2. Is it appropriate for me to be hanging out with a married man past 8PM in the evening?
3. Does his wife know where he is?

He buys me a white wine and orders the same for himself. We talk about work stuff. It’s nothing out of the ordinary except that it’s nearly 11PM. Surely, he could have talked about work stuff at work, no?

The pub calls last orders. We finish our wine then search for another pub. We end up at the Walkabout – ugh! For those of you not from London, the Walkabout is a cheesy Australian-themed pub. Young crowd. Party atmosphere. Loud music Faux Australian culture. Basically everything I detest in a pub. But we had little choice. As the Voice-of-Reason would say, “Any port in a storm.”

We order a bottle of white wine and take a seat in the back. Phil Petrol keeps mentioning the low-cut top I wore during the Christmas party. I try to visualize what I was wearing, but I can’t quite remember.

“I’m sure I remember you telling me at the Christmas party that you were gay,” he says to me.

“No, I’m not. I must have been joking if I said that.”

“It just weird’s me out, man. Cuz, well, you know…”

“No, I don’t know,” I say challenging him.

“Cuz, well, I, um, well, I was looking at your breasts that night. And I had these thoughts.”

“Like thoughts that I was gay?”

“It’s this top you were wearing. So low cut. And I kept looking at your breasts.”

“Well, yes. They’re there to be stared at,” I say jovially.

“But, well, after that night. I put you in another category.”

“The gay category?”

“Just that category where nothing would ever happen between us.”

I sense a slippery slope here, but I pursue with the questioning. “Shouldn’t I have always been in that category?

He seems nervous; tongue tied, and a bit frustrating at me for not being able to understand him. He takes a deep breath.

“I fancy you,” he states, “There. I’ve said it. And when you wore that low cut top I thought about what it would be like to suck your nipples.”

I barely raise an eyebrow. I’ve been down this path before with the BFE, CS, the DG, and the Shark. Suddenly, I’m not feeling so naïve.

“Cool,” I say in a confident and bitchy way that could only suggest I have his balls in my hands and I’m calling the shots.

“And I think about how great it would be to lie naked with you,”

I don’t ask the obvious questions:

• How long have you felt this way?
• What about your wife?
• What about your kids?

Instead, I ask him more pertinent questions:

• How often do you masturbate?
• What are your top three things to do in bed?
• Do you have an erection right now? [and I feel for proof]

He seems thrown by the conversation. He pauses for long periods of time before he speaks. As if he had been anticipating a conversation with me, but not quite this conversation.
I tease him a bit. I lean in and go for a kiss. I put my hand on his crotch. I can feel raging hard on beneath his trousers. His kisses are nice, gentle. He has plump lips; almost as big as mine, but not quite.

We spend twenty minutes kissing. We finish the bottle of wine. By then he’s begging me to set a day where he can leave work early and come over to my place.

“Why? “ I ask him. “I mean, what’s in it for me?”

But this point I was quite drunk. I don’t remember what he said, but I do remember his answer was so pathetically laughable; merely a flimsy excuse to fuck.

I’m evasive. I tell him, ‘sometime in the future, maybe.” Still, he presses me for a time, a day. I don’t give in.

We exit the walk about and walk towards Piccadilly Circus so we can both catch our respective night busses. We’re walking and then suddenly he turns and pins me against the wall. I can feel his cock pulsating against my leg. He kisses me and then kisses me some more. “I want you Anjelika.”

I feel my pussy getting wetter. I was now officially horny.

We continue walking. I realize that I need to use the loo.

“I’m walking back to the office to use the bathroom,” I tell him.

“Oh, I have to use the bathroom too.”

“Quelle coincidence!” I say ironically.

“No, really, I do,” he insists. Whatever!

It takes 20 minutes to walk back our office building. I go in first. The office is silent and empty. The lights are out in the women’s bathroom. I pee, then wash my hands and check my make up to see if it’s okay. What the hell? It’s midnight and I look fabulous—or at least as fabulous as I will look at this hour.

As I walk to my desk I past the board room. He’s standing in the doorway of the board room urging me to come in.

“I’ll be back in a couple minutes. I have to go to my desk,” I tell him.

I continue on to my desk. I had received an urgent e-mail on my Blackberry from one of our producers in California. I need to send some files to her before the end of business day in LA. I send the files that were needed. I answer a few more e-mails. I check my MySpace page. I play another game of Brickbreaker. Then, I get up and go to the board room.

I open the door and there is Phil Petrol standing before me completely naked.

And his cock is massive!

Wait

Wait

It’s 7PM and I’m sitting in my office waiting for a guy to call me. Is that pathetic or what? I should be out there living, feeling doing- not waiting. Not waiting by the phone in hopes that my plans will pan out.

I should be grabbing the bull by the horns and taking charge of my dating / social life. Instead, here I am, like in idiot sitting in my office waiting for a guy- and a married guy at that. I haven’t mentioned this guy before, He’s a work colleague. Today he asked me out in such a casual way that it could hardly classify as an event – let alone a date. I call him Phil Petrol...

I can hear Wanda now saying, “Get out of there. Go home. Go Swimming. Go look after your little doggie, but do not wait for this guy to call. Have you not learned anything from the BFE debacle?”

And yes, I’ve learned SO MUCH from the BFE thing. In fact, I'm pleased to share one of the I’ve learned. Perhaps this is common sense, and perhaps I should have probably already have known it, but last weekend I really realized it.

On Saturday evening I had net sex with a married guy. The DG, for those of you keeping track. I like the DG. I like him as a mate. I respect him as a former colleague. I like his attitude about life. I also fancy the pants off him! And the fact that he bares a more-than vague resemblance to the BFE probably helps as well. I frequent think about him tying me up and eating me out. He’s definitely someone I want in my bed. And we’ve fooled around before, but nothing major.

During our netsex session he was telling me how there are some positions and activities that he wants to try with me. I realize now that this is all talk; all fantasy. He doesn’t want to leave the safety net of his wife. To him, I’m like that one flavour of ice-cream at Baskin Robbins that you say, “One day I’m gonna try that” but ultimately you don’t because you don’t want to betray your favourite standby flavour. (Vanilla, most likely).

The thing is, I like him. I like him a lot. And to him, I’m a savoury sweet—once he’s had his taste, he’s had his fill and he’s gone. If we ever did end up having sex it would mean so much more to me in my head than it would to him. To him, I would be the girl he fucked.

I think that was my key mistake with the BFE. I liked him too much. I wanted him, and he wanted sex. Perhaps if we had a meeting of the minds things would have gone smoother. Of course I fooled myself to think that I was only in it for the sex – but as women can we really do that? Is it possible to ‘just fuck’ and feel nonchalant about it?

Men have a way of cutting off that emotion; that emotion that says, “You are a great fuck and you’re someone I could care for at some point” But I find it incredibly difficult. This is something that I am just realizing now.

It’s 7:50 now and my gut tells me to grab my Oyster card and hightail it out of here; that there is no good to come of this situation. I should go home now, while my dignity is in tact. Or I could possibly suffer the indignity of being stood up.

On the other hand I’ve already applied my lipstick. If I don’t go out, I just won’t know what I’m missing.

What would you do?