Nineteen. Turning 50.

Actually “nineteen turning 50” probably aptly sums up my state of arrested development. After that one long relationship throughout my twenties, and two subsequent engagements (and strictly serial monogamy, admittedly, sometimes only for a night or two), I had firmly decided that I was a) too independent and b) too crap at anything except the horizontal bits, to successfully carry off ‘a relationship’. I was not going to give my parents any grandchildren (although I did still hold my breath whenever I opened the postbox on Father’s Day).

Just before I turned 50, I had returned to the UK for half the year. My interim post-Brexit visa had run its course, and since I was selling the house, I had decided against applying for residency, as it was just too much like hard work. As it turned out, family issues – a father with terminal cancer – ended up keeping me in the UK for much longer than anticipated, issues which also delayed the sale of the house, and my planned move to Ireland to start again on a new derelict wreck, where I could at least argue with the planners and building inspectors in my first language.

I was a glorified couch-surfer, staying in one or other of my sister’s houses (which were often empty as they visited their respective second-homes too). I was also bored witless. I had none of the upkeep that a 17^th century stone pile requires of you on an almost daily basis, I had obviously jacked in the cheffing, and had no guests to fuss over. I turned a hobby into a sideline to keep my hands busy, building electric guitars to make myself enough pin-money to keep myself and Henry the Golden Retriever in kibble. But otherwise, I was bored and a bit directionless – a split-shift caring for the elderly parents being my only task at hand.

So I joined Tinder.

I figured it was a fun game checking out gorgeous younger women who wouldn’t touch me with a bargepole. Turns out there’s a lot of kinky women in the North West of England. I run through some of them as a sort of ‘addendum of near-misses’ in the next chapter, but will kick things off with my very first match, the Norwegian 22 year old named Christina.

Christina was a post-grad student at the University of Liverpool. She came from money, was basically a trust fund kid, and genuinely had the ‘helicopter’ option turned on in her Uber app. We chatted for several days, during which I quickly found that just being open and honest about who I was was the best way to make sure everything was on the level. It gave her an insight into who I was, that my name and pics were genuine. It gave me the sense of relief that if I was being catfished, they would work out fairly quickly that I wasn’t worth messing with, and that if I was being scammed or blackmailed, that I had no sense of shame and that none of my family or friends would be the least bit surprised that I’d been flirting hot & heavy with a beautiful woman barely out of her teens.

Our first actual meeting, on neutral ground near to her student flat, was cut short due to an influx of her friends into the same pub. I figured this was an intentional safety valve, and assumed I’d have to move on. Then came the call for the second date.

“So sorry about those friends, I bet you thought I’d texted them to come and rescue me, didn’t you”

“I did, and that’s okay, I totally understand”, I was trying not to be too crestfallen.

“It was a total accident, and I want to meet again”.

OK, maybe there’s life in the old dog yet. Off I troop to a second date at the same venue, expecting something similar to happen all over again. I think we were there maybe 20 minutes before she whispered to me: “last time I was so wet for you, I wanted you to take me in the toilets and fuck me right there”. Ah, ok, my radar was off again. “Let’s go back to my flat”. Approximately six minutes later, we were back at her apartment tearing each others clothes off before the door had swung shut. She had three flatmates, and at that point I had no idea (and nor, it turned out, did she) if any of them were home. We just got right to it.

Christina was stereotypically Nordic. I’ve mentioned before that I’ve rarely had any natural blondes. There were several who were actually mousey-brown or (more often) red heads who had turned blonde from a bottle. There were a couple (especially in NYC) that I had no idea what their natural hair colour was, as they were fashionable completely hairless elsewhere, and I was never with them long enough to see any hair care routine or find empty peroxide bottles in the bin. Christina was the sort of almost-white platinum-blonde that you assume only comes from chemicals, but was actually entirely natural. Her grey-blue piercing eyes, and hair in a short pixie cut that showed off her stupidly high cheekbones and sharp jawline, meant that I was, once again, punching several divisions above my weight class. Tall, too, about 5’10”, and lithe, with smallish-borderline-B-cup breasts, and “more leg than a bucket of chicken” that ended at a tiny, pert, almost chiselled bum, with that sort of bronze glow of the perma-wealthy who spend their summers in St. Barts and their winters skiing in Zermatt.

She also had two very distinct characters. One was voracious, risky and submissive, who enjoyed that I was a generous lover, as she adored me going down on her. But she adored it more when I let the beast loose, and just fucked her as hard as possible, to the edge of heart-attack, working up as hearty a sweat together as we could manage. That was her ‘sauvignon blanc’ personality.

The other was her ‘vodka personality’. Dominating, the steely eyes turning predatory and wolflike, she would, just occasionally, order me about, which was fun.

So I could tell you about the time she played pool in a barely-there skirt, which she hitched up to display even more barely-there see-through lace panties that gave the five lads behind her a perfect view of her slightly glistening cunt, before she wrapped herself around me and said, loudly, “take me home and fuck me, I’m wet”. Or the time we fucked on the counter-top in the kitchen and finished literally seconds before one flatmate walked in. But I’m going to recount the standout moment from the wolfishly dominant personality – the night we had a threesome.

So I was over-sexed in my early 30s, living in a throuple as I did for three years. But I’d only had one other “MFF” threesome in my entire fuckboy career (and had been invited by a friend and her husband for a ‘Devil’s Triangle’ or “MMF” threesome, back in New Zealand, which I had declined on the grounds that I worked with the guy and would have to see him in the office the next day, whilst trying not to imagine his cock). That other occasion was also a bit of a let-down, the Irish fiancé in NYC invited her Colombian friend over, and honestly, it was more like we just did our usual thing but with a naked Latina audience – once we’d got all the rules of what I couldn’t do to or with our guest out of the way, I was exhausted and bored.

This one was more fun though. It was the middle of the summer, and two of the three flatmates had ‘gone home’. The only one that wasn’t, Molly, was a goth-gurl that was almost the exact opposite of Christina. Almost jet-black hair with purple ends, pale, almost alabaster complexion, and short and round. Not quite ‘dumpy’, but certainly curvy, with double-D cup breasts and a big, soft, round arse. We’d met several times, although never ‘socially’, usually just in passing en route to the shower or in the brief moments we’d spend in the kitchen after getting in before we went and fucked like rabbits.

On this occasion, we hadn’t been out. I’d come over and cooked for Christina (seared tuna in ginger and chill, since you’re asking), and I’d selected a delightfully fine, flinty Gruner Vertliner wine for Christina (this being my sober phase), which she had devoured before we even ate. Sadly (?) the only other thing she had in was vodka…

She basically ordered me to bed and to strip. She was in charge. Everything she did, she prefaced by teasing me about it: “I’m going to just suck the very tip of your cock now, and you’re not allowed to touch me or touch it”. I was the focus of attention, which made a fun change. Everything was done *to* me, even when we fucked, she rode me and teased me, rising too high for me every third thrust or so, and then grabbing me and saying “ah ah ah, only when I say so”, before sliding me inside her again and riding me for another few thrusts. It was divine.

Around 12:30, Molly arrived home from her barmaid job. We heard her arrive as we were flopped out, post-coital, Christina on my chest, me taking in how different she had been, and how much I had enjoyed myself. I was pretty spent, but knew that we’d probably wake one another up in a couple of hours for another go around.

We could hear Molly finish showering, which she usually did after a shift, because she generally stank of lager and soggy crisps, when Chrstina sat bolt upright and looked at me with the predatory, evil look. “Wait here”, she said, as she strode out naked.

She returned a few minutes later with Molly in tow, wrapped in just a bath towel (black, naturally, as befitted her emo style). Molly sat at the foot of the bed, and we all just ‘chatted’ about her night, with Christina slipping back under the covers and snuggling up to me. Her hand eventually slid down to my cock and just started stroking me gently, coaxing me back into action. Eventually our guest just said “how about you guys, did you have a nice evening?”

Christina threw back the covers and said “I’ve been riding that” and held my cock, now pretty hard, in her hand.

“Oh my, that’s a nice one”, said Molly.

I was surprised, but not entirely shocked, I figured something naughty was coming from the way the mischief in Chris’ eyes had turned from a twinkle to a pure evil earlier in the night.

“It is, isn’t it, and it’s not fully hard yet”, Christina looked at me and licked her lips to tease me. “Show him your boobs, he likes boobs”, she said, and then “but mine” (as she grabbed one in her left hand) “are too small”. She was right, of course, I’ve never met a pair of breasts I didn’t like.

Molly opened her towel to display her double-D tits and grabbed them and said “like this?”

“Mmm, like that”, Christina looked at me. “Do you like those boobs?” My answer came as I hardened a little more. “Oh, see, he does”, she laughed, holding my cock at the base so it was fully erect and the centre of attention.

“You’d like them around your cock, wouldn’t you”, she told me. And Molly hitched herself up a little and leaned forward, surrounding my cock with soft, plump breast and squeezing. “Mmm, you like that”, Chris giggled as I got even harder in her hand.

“He likes a titfuck, but I haven’t got enough”, she let go of me and grabbed both tits.

“Hon, your tits are gorgeous”, I said and leaned over to suck one nipple. It was true, they were, pert and lovely, her nipples could cut glass when they were hard. Molly’s, on the other hand, had very large aureola and tiny little soft nipples.

As I sucked her breast, she commanded Molly: “suck him”. And she did, wonderfully. A very different technique to Christina, whose had tight, drawn lips, and so was all about the tongue action, accompanying hand movements and some creative use of timing. Molly had big, plump, soft lips and her action was all about a gentle, steady rhythmic action.

I looked at Chistina, eyebrows raised, with a ‘wtf is going on right now’ silent headshake. She leaned in and whispered “she wants us both”.

After a few moments of this, Christina taking me head in her hands and kissing me as Molly sucked me, Chris turned to our guest and almost spat out the words “ride him”. Molly got up on her knees, the rest of the towel dropping away, and her big black hairy bush, in complete contrast to Christina’s well-manicured, tanned short blonde landing strip, hovered above my cock. Christina herself reached down and positioned me to slide inside as Molly came down on me.

Christina just sat to one side watching as Molly rode me, I sat up to suck one of the big breasts that was bouncing in front of me, but all I could think of was that this would be another threesome with a spectator. I turned to Christina and said “join in, don’t watch”, and she leaned in and also sucked Molly’s breasts. Boys are simple. Girl-on-girl action is the holy grail of almost every fantasy, so obviously I loved it as they then started to make out while Molly continued to ride me.

Because real-life isn’t like porn, this was interrupted energetically by my having absolutely electric pain in my right calf – a cramp so bad I actually stood up and threw Molly off me so that I could stand and flex my leg. Fortunately, this was mostly funny rather than some sort of horrible threesome etiquette faux-pas, with both girls, hearing me go “Agh cramp cramp cramp cramp” rushed to rub the offending calf.

I stood beside the bed as the girls laughed it off, and Christina crashed backward to the pillow end, her legs semi-crossed. Molly pushed her head between those tanned limbs and started to lick at Chris’ clit. Now I knew a thing or two about how Christina’s body reacts by now. That’s often the downside of the one night stand or short fling, you never get to explore the body’s reactions. Chris could cum twice clitorally no problem. In fact it was this fact that drove her to change her age criteria on Tinder. “Boys”, she had said to me one night, “never make you cum more than once if at all. Men do.”, and she had described how it was a friend of her father’s that had introduced her to the multiple orgasm, playing with her clit in a hot tub before going down on her in a chair when she was just 19, and he was about the same age difference as me. But try as she might, she had never managed to reach that elusive third orgasm in one night. Until me, that is. Her clit got spent, and what she needed were fingers inside her (or sometimes my cock managed the trick too). She’d already cum twice that night, she wasn’t going to be licked to a third, however hard Molly tried. So I, now crampless, leaned over Molly’s back and slid two fingers inside both of them. Christina nodded at me “yes, but fuck her”. And so I did, it was something of a stretch, but I could find the little patch that I knew sent Christina into ecstasy as I slid myself back into Molly. As I did so, I saw Chris’ eyes narrow as she looked m directly in mine, and hissed at me “but don’t cum in her. Your cum is mine”.

It was only a matter of moments before Christina came for her third, or possibly fourth, orgasm of the evening and she pushed Molly’s face away from her pussy, dripping with both sweat and juices. She held Molly by the hair and looked at me and said “fuck her harder”.

I tried, but I was so close to cumming myself that I held back, remembering the directive that “vodka Chris” had just issued. “That’s not hard enough” she yelled at me.

“I’ll cum if I go any harder”, I said.

“Then fuck it, cum”

I tilted my head in that way dogs do when they half understand you. “Cum in her you dirty bastard”, she said.

I almost winced, and as I started hammering harder, my heart rate rising and my consciousness of cervical bruising happening, it finally occurred to me to check with Molly that this was ok.

“Fuck yes, I want your cum”, she yelled, in the throes of something certainly very orgasm-adjacent.

And so I did.

And as the three of us relaxed back into the bed that night, Christina whispered to me “don’t get too smug”.