How I missed my first bisexual experience
In vain do you give yourself iron men. My first bisexual experience. All scientists believe that in a few generations we will all be bisexual. I have been dreaming of dating a couple since I know myself as a sexual being, but alas, this is so difficult to achieve in everyday life. But as I was doing a routine check of my account on theswingersource, one of the most serious sites the global swing community enjoys, I woke up with a message from Mike, a Greek member asking me a picture to show Sandra, his crazy partner. Astonished, I complied immediately and sent him a photo of me in the City Center, sunburnt and smiling mischievously. The image was approved and a fascinating e-mail correspondence began, in plain English, which you couldn’t help but notice. But, as when you order a luxury car you are unlikely to pick it up the next day from the showroom, so I had to wait a month for the two of them to come to Manchester on business, but also for “our litlle bisex party” , as Mike put it in his email.
As much as I’m sexually obsessed with fornication, the horror I have of sexually transmitted diseases is secular and makes the condom just a pale measure of protection against HIV, hepatitis C, or HPV; also write in the instructions for use, but I bet you didn’t bother to notice. That’s why I delved into The SwingersSource to analyze the profile of the two. Apparently they had traveled all over the world and received praise from more than twenty other couples, some of them from America. Damn Greeks, they shot her on the planet, and “the rich are full of AIDS,” a venerologist had once whispered to me.
On a frosty January afternoon, I rushed out of the office with my phone in my hand so that my non-progressive colleagues would hear what nonsense I was about to say. Mike himself had called me and was speaking like a character in the Book of Books, who didn’t look Greek by accent. The discussion heated up quickly. I said, extrapolating from my heterosexual experiences, “I can be a real bitch if you know how to take me right.” He confessed to me that Sandra also had Mistress desires; It’s a good thing, because my past also hides a short interaction with the BDSM scene in Bucharest. But he explained to me that it wasn’t that Bond girl coming out of the foam of the sea, in front of him double oh seven – profile pictures with which I had in advance allowed myself guilty pleasures on the computer. The woman in the picture was actually his usual partner, and he was coming with his mistress to “our little bisex party.” He assured me very contractually that I was going to get a picture of the real Sandra, a passionate woman who would surely please me at the age of 42.
Well, wait a minute, old man, what are we doing here? But when I returned to my office, I had a photo of a tall, thin redhead in my mail, which I would have seen as an authoritarian mistress. As I am (bi) curious, I gave properties to the picture and, surprisingly, it was forwarded from the email account which was an even bigger corporation than the one where I am wasting my days. I feverishly opened up Google and my heart set on it: I was doing billions of euros and was a big donkey in a certain industry. I felt rather vengeful, because I finally had a chance to give a blowjob to someone in the financial elite, forgetting that it meant kneeling down. And so, daydreaming about the billionaire swingers I had been in, I realized why the crisis hit us: instead of looking for work, corporatists look for erotic fantasies on the net. I imagined him at his hi-tech office, dreaming of his hungry mouth approaching his erect member, as he had taken the time to describe it to me in detail in the email.
As I am not a good pervert, I was eminently troubled. It wasn’t good if I was fulfilling my bisexual fantasies and dealing with a venereal disease, or if it was another five-year period of pornography in which a young man enjoys his favorite position. On the fateful day, instead of floating on the white clouds in anticipation of supreme pleasure, I felt as if I was going to the gallows. I also had to solve the problem of condoms, lubricants and chaos in the University area, where a kind of mini-revolution had broken out that I had nothing to do with, I just had etheric preoccupations. I was too shy to buy the whole erotic arsenal in one place, so I visited three pharmacies, during which time I received a phone call from my mother, who wanted to make sure I was well in the revolutionary chaos. With my pockets folded, I walked to the meeting place, somewhere near the Center.
Mike was waiting for me on the street corner. He looked solid, sporty, with a kind of furry fur close to his heels. I shook his hand, trying to figure out if I could give him a blowjob. Sandra was waiting for us in a bar. It was a MILF version. All three of us were shy, but the ice broke quickly. I asked him how things were going in the UK and I found out that he was stupid. Mike ordered red wine, Sandra a fresh one, and I, a tactical mistake, a beer that completely soaked me. My companions were each married to someone else, and after a dull life Sandra had discovered Mike, with whom she lived a continuous affair. She was determined to offer this fantasy to her lover as well, an experience that we boys agreed to try only for the sake of strong sensations. Sandra told me, “If all goes well, we’ll invite you to our place tomorrow night. If not, it will remain my secret, which I will take with me to the grave. ” It contained the decision of the Arab who was going to deliver the bomb, I’m not exaggerating. I needed to find out who I was really talking to.
– My real name is Andy. This is my ID card. Trust me, I don’t care and I won’t tell anyone, I’m just curious.
Mike’s face fell apart, but he didn’t lose his temper.
– No, my friend, I am not, but why do you think that?
– The picture you sent me was coming from his e-mail.
– Really? Well, you see Sandra, our friend is so smart. I am not, I am just representing him, and the phone from where i sent Sandra picture was his gift for me.
They were Syrians. I was speechless and understood where Sandra’s detachment came from, as a kind of obedience. Unfortunately, she was feeling worse and worse, probably because of the flight, and I went to the hotel, my heart fleas. I’d rather go home and nibble on a cookie, but I sharpened my bisexuality spear and stepped into a taxi, even though at the first traffic light I thought about opening the door and jumping into freedom. To get my heart back, Mike showed me a picture of a cute baby on the phone. “My son. Me, family man. Don’t worry. ” I nodded cheerfully, I wanted to say something in the spirit of “Long live you”, but as I had forgotten how emotional English I was, all I managed to mutter was: “Happy New Year!”.
The apartment was not as sumptuous as I expected, so it was possible that the people were just his helpers. Not that it mattered anymore. In the bathroom, there were traces of green vomit on the bottom of the toilet. I don’t play backgammon in the park to think bisexuals are Satan’s people, but that wasn’t very encouraging. I thought, “A little green vomit can’t scare me,” especially since Mike was taking Sandra’s boots out of the living room. However, there was nothing subversive, illicit in the atmosphere that would take me out of my womb and make me drown in the waters of sin. I found myself massaging Sandra, while Mike invited us to relax. He looked at us excitedly on the other side of the bed, in his T-shirt and panties. Nicoletta put her pillow on her head and said, “Do what you want with me,” an invitation to which I unfortunately did not respond.
After several BTS tests, I was terribly rational, and since cunilingus was out of the question, I was left with only the missionary position. That’s why I had to ask Mike to come with a pair of scissors to remove the plastic from the condom package and the lubricant. I was more miserable than a perverted old man having sex in an asylum with a classmate after a break of years. But Sandra kept her pillow on her head while Mike made the scissors. Then, while I was possessing his mistress, he put the pillow aside and immediately put the strom in his mouth. Then he took it from me and fucked her a little, but wild! All I was able to think about, although at such times it is advisable not to do this, was that I had entered in the form of pixels in my breast.
Once back in Sandra’s arms, I was no longer able to “perform.” Mike wanted to show me how to do it, but he managed to intimidate me even more. Rolling over the doll, I was about to finish, so I got out of Sandra and got on my knees, apparently to change position. When the lazy Mike was there, he grabbed my cock and masturbated me. The irony of fate was no different from how a woman’s hand or I would have rubbed my hand. He said, “Andy, I want to suck you.” I muttered, “Hold on,” and fumbled for the packet of fragrant condoms. And Mike had to come back with the scissors, at which point Sandra burst into the bathroom. They were probably understood. Just like in a porn story from Infractoarea magazine, Mike’s endowment was absolutely impressive. He said, “Andy, let’s play now like boys.”
I thought, “I’m literary fucked.” It didn’t sound like a perverted thing to me, and when Mike took my hand and put it on his cock, it looked like a big, lively sausage. I froze and lay motionless on the bed, as if I had just been rescued from drowning. I was also afraid that he would beat me or rape me (maybe that would have activated the cool button), because I had ruined his Bucharest experience too much. I muttered, “I’m terribly sorry, I ruined your evening,” but Mike was a gentleman, as he wrote in The Swinger. He told me that such things still happen, not to be scared, to wait for my heart to come back or to go out the door and forget everything. I chose the second option.
I dressed in the speed of light, embarrassedly wrapped my condoms and lubricating gel in my soul, and shook hands with Mike, who was lying naked as he had made me, big, dark, and muscular on the bed. I told him he was a good man. I think so now, I’m really glad I escaped unscathed. When she came out of the bathroom, Sandra asked me if I had any taxi money. Of course I did. I returned to the car slowly, lightly in everyday life: the demonstrations continued at the University. I had a lubricant in my pockets and two packs of condoms, which I had to get rid of.