Rose gasped as I took my cock from her mouth.
I released her skull from my clenched thighs. She panted, her face red with exertion.
“Half an hour, give or take,” I said. “That’s a long time to get your face fucked.”
She smiled, nodding, silent as ever, per my command.
Her eyes returned to my cock as I stroked it.
I hooked a thumb in her mouth. I focused, I focused, I focused. I really wanted to cum all over her eager face.
But it wasn’t happening.
“It’s not happening,” I sighed, dropping my hands. My cock fell, already limp.
Rose mouthed an apology.
“It’s not your fault, Rose,” I said, stroking her face. “I’m just very, very tired.”
And so it was that I ended my birthday celebration of wall-to-wall sex.
In the week or so surrounding my forty-second birthday, I had sex with over a dozen women, and about half as many men.
A date with one woman would turn into a threesome with the addition of another, a threesome easily spun into a foursome.
I had sex before, during and after orgies.
I allowed myself to be kidnapped and taken across state lines for sex.
By the end of it all, I was exhausted.
My shoulders ached.
My knees hurt.
I had bruises I couldn’t explain, and a gash on my head.
I couldn’t get hard to save my life. I conked out at an orgy.
I needed sleep.
Rose looked concerned.
We had enjoyed a pretty good couple of hours. I fucked her through a few orgasms, flogged her, and caned her to tears.
But she could tell: I was not at the top of my game.
“You need to rest, Jefferson,” she said, breaking her imposed silence.
I looked at her. She looked so concerned.
I let pass her disobedience.
“I will. Luckily, I have my kids this weekend. I can rest.” I paused. “Funny, right? Taking care of three children will be my rest and relaxation.”
Later than afternoon, my eldest son and I were talking when he stopped and looked at me.
“Dad, you need to sleep late tomorrow.”
“I know, right? I look like something the cat dragged in.”
“I’ll keep the kids from waking you up.” He put a hand on my back. “We can eat cereal in the morning.”
“Sure,” he smiled. “Just be ready to make a big brunch at, say, eleven?”
“You got it.”
So while my pecker recovers, gentle reader, I will bring you up to date on my recent shenanigans. But before I do, I will need to backtrack to tell you a few tales—and to reveal my secret boyfriend.
As long as I am making introductions, may I present Aliza?
Aliza is married photographer who lives in the United Kingdom. Aliza’s libido recently kicked into overdrive, and her poor husband is having the devil’s time in trying to keep up.
She finds it rather frustrating, but she has another release: exhibitionism.
The girl loves to show off her lovely body, preferably in knickers.
Aliza also enjoys masturbating to my blog.
And so it is that Aliza and I entered into a special arrangement.
Once a week, she sends me a group of nude self-portraits that she makes just for me.
I masturbate to her photographs, and write a note telling her what got me off.
She masturbates to my notes.
It’s a really fine arrangement.
Aliza also makes photographs to share with you, gentle reader, and posts them—along with commentary—at her blog, Sexy UK Girl.
As you can see, the title is no misnomer.
One more thing, before you go: please don’t embarrass yourself by asking Aliza for special photographs.
Try to behave, wankers, won’t you?