Really Weird, Thin, Nine Inch Penis. Do Indians Give The Best Cunnilingus? Will I Ever Want Anal Sex Again? ~ Angela Goodnight

Men’s genitals. Such variety. I’ve encountered small ones, large ones, too large ones, tiny ones, bent ones, long thin ones, circumcised ones, natural ones, flaccid ones, erect ones, really hard ones, bendy pliable ones, black ones, white ones, brown ones and yellow ones.

They are all lovely to touch and play with and most are great for making love. I say most because there are some which have not been so pleasant. There have been two or three which I’ve had to get their owners to wash before sex – come on guys, eight or ten hours after your morning shower, with all that urination – give it a wash before expecting it to be showered with love and kisses.

I’ve had a problem with one or two penises which have been too large for me. I have an unfortunately positioned entrance to my cervix which means anything over about seven and a half inches actually hurts when it impacts my uterus. On one occasion I really, truly liked the guy and it looked as if we were going to have a really good relationship and then he made love to me. The pain, despite me asking him not to push too hard, was too much and I had to end the affair. Sad for both of us. The story is on this link.

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Adventurous Morning Surprise! I Was Aroused, Masturbated, Fellated And Fucked By The Most Beautiful Girl In The World ~ Peter Stone

I have to be the luckiest man on earth.

You know the feeling when you finally drift out of some dream or another into consciousness, but how often does it happen in quite this way?

I suppose this has been a special treat about every three or four months since Angie and I got back together in 2010. Nothing surpasses the experience for sheer sexual adventure.

I was lying almost on my back and could feel Angie’s body against mine, but what was so delightful was that her fingers were curled around my flaccid penis, tenderly exploring its shape and that of my testes. No pressure, no firmness, simply a gentle exploration as if using it as a comforter.

I was awake now and could see she was lying with her head against the very top of my chest, hiding her features as she looked downwards to where the subject of her play was covered by the duvet. I also sensed her breast against my lower chest under the covers and a leg was pressing warmly against my right thigh. She was lying on my right.

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December 2014 Top Fifty Most Viewed Stories ~ Peter Stone

Angie working on the blogAnother sweet, sexy girl with a laptop to represent Angie writing the blog. My Angie was once far more beautiful and my only regret about the  anonymity of the blog is that I can’t show a real picture of her. Anyway, I hope you like the substitutes, but I wouldn’t swap her for the whole lot of them!

They say love is blind, and it is true that when I see my Angela I still see my schoolgirl sweetheart. She worries that we’re getting old and, of course, we can’t hold back the years. The odd twinge in her back and hip plus the occasional gout in my knee tells us we are no longer in our first flush of youth, but we still manage to make love in a variety of positions and enjoy experimenting. As long as we can enjoy sex we will still be alive and vibrant and, as long as we are alive and vibrant we will thrill to our lovemaking.

So often, among our friends, we see people who show no affection towards each other. My own daughter in law has told Angela that she and my sone, George, make love only about once a month. What a waste for a couple not even in their forties yet. I know from the chess club that most men in their sixties consider themselves fortunate to enjoy a fuck two or three times a year and for some sex is nonexistent. How sad is that? Where has their enjoyment of intimacy gone? Angie and I kiss every day. I don’t mean a peck on the lips, I mean a real passionate, sexy kiss. I’m forever brushing my hands against her bum, her hips, her back, neck, breasts or sticking a hand in the hip pocket of her jeans or stroking her vulva through them. She is just as tactile and after a couple of kisses, three or four caresses, and the afternoon progressing too quickly, nothing is more natural than to put the bedroom heating on and consumate our love properly. We averaged four times a week last year meaning we made love on more days than those when we didn’t. Such is the beauty of our love for each other and it is also the reason for our desperate sadness over the forty years we were apart. Writing the stories also boosts our libido no end.

Anyway, enough about our love life for a while. Here is the top sixty story list for December 2014.

As usual many of our best stories never make the top sixty so please don;t use this as an exclusive list. To see all of the stories you are best to go to the life time-line page to find them there.

We have provided a short description of each story beside each link to help you decide whether or not you have already read them. Some merit re-reading more than once, we’re told. 6,668 of our stories were read in November so an average of 215 per day. The average visitor read 2.05 stories.

The amazing curiosity about shower masturbation continues and Angie rewriting her 1964 stories seems to be appreciated and we expect them to be eveb higher up the list in January.

Hope you enjoy browsing the list. Just click “continue” if the list doesn’t already appear below.

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New Home, New School, New Boyfriends, Four Years In A Flash Then University And Freedom ~ Angela Goodnight

[I do so hate disappointing my readers so I’ll warn you right now that there is virtually no explicit sex in this story. It follows on from the saddest story I think I’ve ever written and tells of my struggle to adapt to living more than two hundred miles from my true love. It takes us from the 1964 festive season through to my arrival at university aged eighteen in September 1968. You might want to read our Back Story before embarking upon this one, although it is not essential. Reading the story I mention above would, however, be advisable if you are not going to feel lost in this one. However, boys might find it gives an insight into the workings of a teenage girl’s mind which is maybe no bad thing.

[My father has obtained a headmaster position in Stafford which necessitated us moving from Gurney on the south coast of England where I had fallen hopelessly in love with Peter Stone. We had pledged our love to each other and had a plan to write every couple of days. Peter was also planning to come and stay in a B&B a couple of times each month and his parents had agreed to sort out some way I could come to Gurney for longer visits in the summer.

[The biggest problem was that I was only fourteen and my parents had discovered that Peter (aged 16) and I had been making love. They were hostile to him for that reason although had tried to hide it when they realised we’d soon be split apart by this move. In England it is illegal to have sex with an under sixteen year old so their viewpoint was not unreasonable, I supposed.

[This story begins with our arrival at a hotel in Stafford, covers my adapting to a new school and being pursued by many boys as the ‘new girl’ on the block. Although there is no graphic sex in the story, it is important if you are following our back story and are interested in more than just the titillation of our true life erotic adventures. Also be warned that this is a l-o-n-g story.]

Each night in the hotel I ended up falling asleep in tears.

My room was small. My parents had a very comfortable double room with its own bathroom, but mine was tiny with a small old-fashioned wardrobe, a stained and chipped dressing table and a hard wooden chair which had seen many better days. There was a tiny wash hand basin with a small crack near the overflow hole and the stand had extensive rust showing through its paint. It all made me feel rather grubby. The floral wallpaper décor was tired and there were several damp patches on the side which housed the window. On the wall above my bed was a painting of the seaside with families sitting on a beach which was broken up with groynes to stop the sand shifting. Everyone was in bright colours and the sun was obviously shining strongly. Older couples were walking along the promenade in old fashioned clothes. The fact that it was the seaside made me feel even worse with my longing to be back in Gurney with Peter. Sadly the damp had caused the colours in one corner to run so it was ruined really. The window was of the casement type and wouldn’t open. It seemed to be sealed shut with paint. The putty holding the glass in place was cracked and broken and the whole needed a darn good coat of paint. The curtains, a light colour with pink rose heads, were thin and old. When I drew them their only purpose seemed to be to keep people from seeing in as the amber light across the street just shone straight through. The bottom half of the window had a yellowed net curtain covering it and I pushed this back along its cord so that I could at least see the outside world from the bed. The bed itself was a small single, only about two feet six inches wide and when I turned over or moved within it springs reacted with protesting squawks. I could feel springs in the mattress, too, and turned it the opposite way around so that the protruding springs were at my feet. I tried turning it over, but the other side was even worse. Also, when I took the sheets off to turn it I saw that it was badly stained. I put the sheet back on quickly to hide the revolting marks. The bedclothes were modern and in good condition which was a relief as I would have felt I was living in squalor otherwise. I suspected that this room was used by live-in staff normally. Surely no hotel could consider this to be of the same standard as the room my parents occupied.

My grief and our travelling had made me tired, though, and I didn’t really sleep at all badly, but Christmas was approaching and I took no pleasure in knowing I was about to spend it in this awful environment.

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My World Came To An End On 19th December 1964 ~ Angela Goodnight

[I hope you’ve got some paper hankies somewhere because this story is one of the saddest of my life. It follows on from the last story of our weekend of love. So, we are back into our teenage years with this tale. It stands on its own, but it would be a good idea to read our Back Story before embarking upon this one, but it is not essential.

[For those who don’t know, a few weeks before the start of this story we’d lost our virginities. Our weekend of love put right the trauma of our first lovemaking. We’d managed to wangle an entire weekend in Peter’s house while his parents were at a wedding. Simply wonderful.

[This story tells of our having to adapt to having no bed in which to make love during the winter in the south of England. It takes you from immediately after that fabulous weekend of lust and love through to the most dreadful event of 19th December 1964.]

That weekend in October was my coming of age. My heart was Peter’s for all time, a world without him was unthinkable.

There were no repercussions for either of us and the only slip up we made was that I left my toothbrush in his bathroom. Ironic that the toothbrush which started the weekend should also play a part in its end. Peter told me his mum quizzed him about some cutlery not being where it should be and he made some excuse about trying to cook himself an egg. It turned into nothing and there was never any suspicion about the towels which had been my biggest worry, or finding our waste in the bin. Once I knew his dustbin men had called the following Wednesday I felt a lot better.

My mum quizzed me about the weekend in Bournemouth, of course, and I relied upon my memories from the previous visit to answer her questions and invented one or two episodes which I also told to Pat so that she’d not give it away next time she was around at my place. The only other danger was my parents meeting Pat’s parents and, as they never had before, there was no reason why they should in the future and I intended to find any and all ways to keep them apart. So would Pat. I think she was more paranoid about it than I was myself.

Winter lovePeter and I continued to see each other as often as we could. On the very best days we would disappear to the castle hollow and make love, but the cold was becoming a problem. I wore woollen stockings so that my legs were warm and all I had to remove was my briefs. I also had bought a pair of heavy woollen tights which I had carefully unstitched so that there was no crotch. Peter, of course, didn’t really have a problem extracting his erection to make love. I even managed to have orgasms occasionally, but nothing like those during our weekend of love as it had become known to us. Today, however, was one of the very best I could remember during the height of winter.

We’d gone to the castle hollow, but there was a cold breeze. We sat on an old towel Peter had brought with him huddled together. It was the first time I’d worn the doctored tights and I think Peter was a little disappointed that I was wearing tights instead of stockings until we cuddled lying down on the towel and his hand found its way to the opening. He was delighted and the flimsy barrier my briefs provided was soon moved to one side. He was wearing a thick quilted anorak as was I plus I had a pullover, a heavy winter vest, my briefs which were indeed sexy, boots up to my knees and a heavy woollen skirt. He was dressed more or less ordinarily but with a heavy pullover under his anorak. So, with the exception of my briefs and specially adapted tights, we were not really dressed for lovemaking.

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Christmas Sex. You Are Never Too Old For An Xmas Oral, Festive Fuck And Yuletide Orgasm ~ Angela Goodnight

Christmas in 2009[You might find it useful to read the Out Of The Blue series of three short stories before reading this one. It does stand on its own however, so not essential. This story is set in our home in Gurney on Christmas Day 2014.]

When I think back to Christmas 2009 I awoke alone in a single bed in my mother’s cottage in Bristol. I was lonely and sad. I’d just broken up with a man who had become increasingly demanding and, at 59 years of age, there seemed little chance of a replacement coming along. Lovers had been few and far between since the millennium.

I could be thankful for my very successful translation business, lots of clients including one or two who had tried to become romantically involved with me, but nothing worth pursuing. Yes I had friends, but they were mainly couples.

A lonely Angela Goodnight in 2009I had discovered in my thirties, during my abusive marriage, that I would never have children and I had begun to think of my life as something which would become an increasingly lonely existence. My mother was now 86 and, although fit and healthy, I guessed I would eventually be orphaned. I had no other relations except some cousins on my father’s side who were frothy and uninteresting when I was younger and, at a get together in the nineties, I had discovered they were boring soap-watching individuals with lots of kids and grandkids. The whole situation made me feel even more isolated.

One day I thought I would die in some retirement cottage somewhere and perhaps not be found until weeks later. I’d be buried as per my will and a simple gravestone would gradually grow mould over the centuries and millennia to come.

After breakfast, mum and I opened each other’s presents, hugged and cuddled on the settee before roasting a turkey crown for Christmas dinner.

Somehow my life seemed to be over with only an indeterminate period of ageing and wrinkling, deteriorating energy and failing health to look forward to. I suppose I was depressed and had no idea what to do about it.

2010 saw me make resolutions to become more social. I also decided that I would sell the business when I reached retirement age in August and find myself a waterside cottage somewhere, preferably on the south coast and perhaps even in Gurney where I could be close to my dearest friend, Pat Ormand (Gorman that was), who still lived near to the town where we were once at school together. However, today she was married to a farmer, had a grown up family and grandkids so I could only be at the fringe of her interests.

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Last Hoorah Of Our Illicit Weekend Of Love. My First All Body Orgasm. Blissful Lovemaking ~ Angela Goodnight

[This story follows on directly from my early morning cowgirl sex story. All of them are part of a sequence dealing with our teenage weekend of lust, love and sexual exploration. Each story stands on its own, but reading them in order will help you understand us. To get the best out of this sequence you should really start with the loss of my virginity in this story, but it is completely up to you. This one is the last of the weekend itself.

[For those who don’t know, a few weeks before the start of this story we’d lost our virginities. Peter lasted just five seconds and because he’d only brought one condom we ended up in a blazing row which almost broke us up. At last an opportunity had arisen to put things right. With the help of my best friend, Pat, I had managed to deceive my parents into thinking she and I were spending a weekend at her sister’s in Bournemouth, but in fact Peter’s parents had gone to a wedding and we were going to get a whole weekend together in his house.

[This story begins in Peter’s home on the Sunday morning in October 1964. We have been making love and then I showed him how to cook a simple breakfast. Now we needed to wash up and we would then have until about one o’clock at our leisure and that meant making the best possible use of our sexual desire. We were also aware that we needed to ensure we were never found out for what we’d done as it would be impossible to fool our parents a second time. So, before anything else we had to thoroughly check the house for any evidence of our weekend together.]

After we’d finished breakfast we stood at the sink, me in my pink pyjamas and he in his dressing gown and washed up.

Once that was done I turned to him and said, “Right, before we do anything else, let’s check we’ve left everything properly. No slip ups now. Your parents must never suspect I was here for the weekend.”

We checked the lounge. He made up the fire ready to be lit. I saw something under the fruit basket and, on checking, it turned out to be a packet of condoms with one missing. CondomI waved it at him.

“Good God,” he said and coloured.

I checked the loose coverings of the sofa for any marks or any dropped tissues or underwear or anything worse then we went back into the kitchen. I recovered my slippers from beside the cupboard and made sure all that remained was my anorak and the shoes in which I’d arrived. I took the waste bin and another bin bag and worked through the rubbish ensuring only items which Peter alone would have used were in the new bag. I knotted the original bag, slipped on my slippers, beckoned him to follow me and went out to the rubbish bin. I lifted the lid and slid this bag under one of those it already contained.

I said, “Just wanted you to know I put it under the other one.”

He nodded and we returned to the kitchen where he watched me thoroughly wash and scrub my hands.

Next the bathroom where I made him show me all of the towels we had used so far and how he had hidden them in the airing cupboard amongst others to dry. Then I checked all of my belongings were together by the sink and there were no tell tale briefs or other giveaways which could be spotted. I noticed the condom from this morning which I’d left knotted on top of the cistern was gone.

In the bedroom I ensured all of my clothes were either in my bag or folded on top of it.

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