The Holey Trinity – not a typo, I mean all my holes PART II

I am shaky with the fucking I’ve just had but I’m also starving and giddy. I still don’t want to talk. I want to swing out of this man and skip around Dublin basking in the joy of a fresh fuck with the back-pocket knowledge that there’s going to be another good seeing to later.

And I want food.



We’re in Irishtown, for that’s where the BFF lives. So we’re spoiled for choice. It’s the day before the rugby so we eschew Slattery’s or the Chophouse and head for The Oarsman. We get a seat, we get drinks and we get fed. I can’t keep my hands off him or my face from smiling.

I don’t want to break the spell.

I don’t want to talk.



The BFF comes to join us with her boyfriend. It’s the first time he’s met my friends. It’s nerve wracking for me. I’m besotted, I need them to confirm that I’m not besotted with a douche – which I can’t be trusted to know. How can I? because I am fuck-blind. It’s pretty serious it’s like the 2nd most serious kind of blind. After actual blindness.


We drink, we all get on, I am delirious with happiness. And more than content to skip back to the house and continue things there.

We stay up later than I intend until the BFF shoves us up the stairs to bed. Insisting that we needed to go to bed. Not her, just me and Yorkshire.

She might have been labouring under the illusion that we were going to talk?

We were not going to talk.


I’m drunk, and I’m demanding. I can’t tell you how it started but I know we were fucking. He had me from behind – arse up, ploughing his cock into me, holding my hips. Just how I want it. I know he’s saying things to me, filthy things that I love but I don’t know what they are. Then I feel him work a thumb into my arse. And he rubs his cock through my skin, stroking it as he fucks me. I know I beg for more. He gives me two fingers in there as he continues to fuck me steadily. I want more. I ask him to fuck my arse. I want to feel him in there, stretching me, filling me, working me.

He makes some protestations around it not being ready, but drunk Abbi cares not for practicalities, she just wants what she wants.

I tell him it will be fine, I tell him to spit on his cock and work it into me. I beg him to spit on my arse and work it in. He didn’t really need to be invited twice. He gets to working.

Slowly sliding his hard cock into me, as I plead for more. It hurts and I like it, I want it to hurt in that good way. But at one point it hurts too much – I’m not sure what happened but I don’t want to stop. We go back to it and we find a rhythm and he slowly pumps my arse and I push up to meet him, rubbing my own clit and wishing to god I had something to push in there. But I’m loving this drunken, filthy fuck, I’m loving hearing him say my name and fuck my arse and I almost come when I feel him finally fill me with his come.



Hole two; came in my arse.



The next morning. We get up to head back to my house. My Airbnbers would be gone and it was time we had some very loud sex on my couch, stopping off for a serious feed first.


He’s already showered before we left but I wait til I get home. My bathroom is downstairs and as I come through the sitting room to head upstairs he stops me. He’s standing there, fully clothed and pulling his thickening cock out of his jeans. I drop my towel then drop onto my knees on it. Just as I go to get it in my mouth, he pulls it away, and gently tells me to get my hands behind my back. I do, and then he feeds it to me, right down my throat. Then takes it out and gets his balls right into my mouth. We keep this up for a while, I’m loving being on my knees. But my face is about to crack, I need moisturiser. I get up and reach for it in my overnight bag. When I turn back, he’s getting undressed and he’s pulled his belt off from around his jeans. But I hear this more than see it. That unmistakable sound of leather being pulled through cloth, with the whip at the end.


He’s wrapping it around one hand as I turn to get a full look at him. ‘Get on all fours on the couch’. He stands over me and his cock is perfectly at my face height. With two fingers under my chin he lifts my face to look at him, while his belt-wrapped hand holds my arse.

‘Abbi, do you want me to make you count to ten again?’ I don’t answer, I just moan. ‘Do you want me to make you suck my cock as I use my belt on your arse?’ Again I can’t answer, I want it, so achingly but I don’t want to say it.

‘Abbilene, answer me. Do you want me to make you count to ten’.


‘Good girl. I’m going to use my belt and you’re going to thank me and call me sir. Understood?’

I don’t even nod before he starts, a slap on the arse with the belt and my head shoved down onto his cock. Right down, so I gag, then choke and he holds my head there, I can’t move. He feels me go to pull away, ‘Hold it, hold it … good girl’ and he releases me. I am so wet and I just want to be fucked right then. But I have to say the words, I have to say; 1, thank you, sir. Another lash of the belt, it feels delicious, I would have liked more slaps of it, maybe two or three at a time but he was metering out the pleasure, drawing it up to a height.


A smack on the arse, my head shoved onto his cock. Two smacks before I release him from my mouth, and two counts.

He waits til the 7th to check if I’m wet. Holding my head down on his cock, but not choking he slides his fingers into me. ‘You’re lovely and wet for me, Abbilene’. I love him using my proper name, it makes my cunt tighten even more. I am soaking for him. I push back down onto his fingers and he leaves them there, while I suck on his cock, a glorious feeling.

This is amazingly executed. The belt feels amazing and his cock never falters, rock solid the whole time.


We reach ten and before I can catch my breath or even say the words he pushes me forward face into a cushion and fucks me from behind. My aching pussy clenches on to him as it finally has what it wants.

My neighbours here me, the whole street hears me, possibly the next county hears me. I don’t care this is one of the fucks of my life and it goes on for ages.


He pulls out of me and sits down, orders me to sit on him, I duly do. It’s perfect, it’s catching all the right things in all the right pressure points. He goes to put a thumb on my clit, I don’t want it, sometimes just me being on top catches the clit where it needs and nothing else is necessary, I think this is one of those times. He doesn’t listen and tells me to behave. And fuck is he right. I grind down on to him as his thumb rubs my clit. And I feel it coming, a huge tsunami of a climax – but it takes ages, I can feel it building so slowly, and if I just stay here, keep doing this it’s going to hit. And it does. It keeps on coming for ages until I can’t keep myself upright anymore, I fall off him.

He flips me over and takes me from behind again, fucking me deeper and harder. He is knee-deep in me and on course to smash me in two when he comes, hard deep in my cunt.



Hole three; came in my cunt.




And that was the Holey Trinity in less than 24hrs.

(then Ireland beat England in the rugby. What a day)


But we didn’t talk and I didn’t ask and I don’t know what he’s offering. I don’t know anything.

The Holey Trinity – not a typo, I mean all my holes PART I

I love the new, but I love it from the familiar.

I hadn’t planned on ever seeing him again. He has royally fucked me off like only someone you really like can. And god did I like him, The Yorkshire, as he is known (by no one but me, cos I just called him that, right now)

We won’t get into why he was banished but banished he was. And I no longer had any appetite for anything he had to say. Also, just to clarify, he does live in England so it was easy to never have to see him again – banishing was going to work out in my favour, without me actually having to adhere to anything. I could refuse to talk to him, my limits had been reached and breached.


But of course I did see him. He showed up in Dublin. (On purpose mind, not just randomly here on a stag do or for the rugby. He showed to get me to talk to him)


It’s Saturday morning and I’m in IKEA with my brother in law. That’s what happens when you don’t have a car of your own. But I knew what I was here for and I wasn’t about to have any surprises, nothing I didn’t want was going to come home with me. I was better than this place and its cunning. Nothing I hadn’t planned was going to happen. But you can’t ever account for phone calls, can you.


My brother in law is at the returns counter, returning something before we start the dash, I’m sitting on the returns couch waiting for him and congratulating myself on being out here so early and having had a breakfast cooked for me. The day couldn’t have been going more to plan.


Then the phone rings and it’s The Yorkshire. He wants to know if I’m in Dublin.

I am.

Will I be in Dublin for the rest of the weekend?

I will.

And if he got on a plane and arrived in Dublin would I talk to him?


Would I?


“Ok, if you show up here, I’ll talk to you. But I don’t believe that you will. I think you’re just trying to get me to talk to you by demonstrating will. I don’t think you have an actual ticket”

“Abbi, I swear to you I have a ticket, I just need to know if I should get on this plane – it’s one thing flying over but it’s another thing flying over just to have a door shut in my face”



At this point I realise he has no idea what weekend it is. It’s the 6 nations and Ireland are playing England – in Dublin. I’m not sure there’s a seat on ANY plane to be had? There certainly isn’t a hotel room to be had. The city is packed. Is he serious? Is he just trying to get me to talk to him? I can’t tell. I inform him what weekend it is, the penny drops as to why the tickets may have been an extortionate price and somewhat hard to come by.

Even though his credibility is shot, I  do think he’s telling the truth, I think he does have a ticket?

But even still I am so tempted to give him nothing – to not engage at all until he’s here. I love the idea of him showing up and not knowing what response he’ll get. I don’t want to give him an inch…


But I do.

Of course I do. I listen to him, I tell him I will hear him out, I promise that I won’t shut the door in his face and leave him in a city he doesn’t know. And then I make a mistake. I get excited. I’m only human and I have an ego like you all do and the thought of someone going to all that trouble? The thought of someone I really liked going to all that trouble? The thought of someone who was particularly good in bed….. going to all that trouble? For me?

I was flattered.

I liked it.

I felt better than I had in ages. I felt like maybe I wasn’t as stupid as I had been making myself feel. That there was something between us and it wasn’t only me who felt it. And that that something, was worth chasing?


So I conceded, and I went to the airport to meet him.



As you can guess we didn’t talk about anything. I kissed him, he asked was I glad he was there and I was honestly the gladdest I’d been all year.


So, what I hadn’t told him was that I was staying with my friend that weekend, I’d rented my house out on Airbnb. But it was fine, I had my own bedroom in her house and it was ok. Or it would be ok. We got a cab straight there and I let us in. There was no sign of the BFF or her boyfriend, they were out. (God she’s cool, and she reads a situation well) Because of course there was no chance in any way this could have played out, that we weren’t going to do anything but go straight to bed.


I think he feared that my ‘bedroom’ was going to be like Harry Potter’s under the stairs, or some half used laundry room with a sleeping bag in a corner. Which is isn’t, it’s a lovely room with a good double bed, most importantly.

We dropped our bags and he kissed me again. I’m going to say this now because it’s true, he is the best kisser of my life. There’s contenders, there are others that are spectacular also but I think, and I do believe that he is the very best.

I’m not sure what I’m hesitant about or at least I didn’t at the time, I do now. I think I’m wary of falling into his arms again and never wanting to get out. We haven’t talked, I don’t know what he’s here for, I don’t know what he’s offering. But I couldn’t have articulated that if my life depended on it – at the time.

‘Look, I know you write about sex but it doesn’t have to be spectacular every time. I’m not expecting something outrageous  – we can just .. have sex’

It’s a lovely thing to say but it wasn’t what my trepidation was about. I didn’t know what it was about. But I did want him. Jesus Christ did I want him.


In our half conversations I’d inferred that the sex would be happening BUT it was to be sex that was exactly how I wanted it. And as usual I didn’t want to have to ask for it. I’m difficult like that.

His starter for ten was way off the mark ‘I’m going to eat you out for ages’  – yeah. That’s nice, but ….. I want the sex that I want. The stuff that I really like. The ….. attitude that does it for me.

I wasn’t sure if he was getting this. And I wasn’t helping. I was just hoping.


He pushed me on to the bed and climbed on top of me. And out came the words I wanted to hear: You’re going to do what I tell you and when I tell you. Now shove up on that bed and turn over, I want that arse in my face in ten seconds.

Oh jackpot, Yorkshire. And I didn’t have to ask.


‘You’re going to suck my cock how I want it, you’re going to give me your cunt to eat when I want it and you’re going to raise those hips higher and give me your arse, like a good girl. I’m not asking again’

All said in that calm, polite tone that makes my cunt tighten and ache. He could be talking to anyone, it’s so measured, light –  as if what he’s asking for is a triviality, which makes it’s reality so dark. It’s the tone I imagine an emergency call handler would have; even, un-panicked giving serious instructions but never demanding, just getting the right result. Always.


It was exactly what I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear that I didn’t have to do a thing, that he was going to take care of the pleasure, I just had to surrender and he would give me exactly what I wanted. And not only that – it showed he knew me. He knew what I wanted and that this was the make-up sex that would placate me.

I wanted to be taken and devoured.


I wanted him to eat me for himself, not for me. In a controlling ‘look what I can do to you’ way – in a ‘look what I can make your body do’ way, owning me, owning my pleasure.


He started off with my face in the pillow, hips in the air, grabbing them and pulling my arse close to his face. He slaps my arse and tells me not to move to keep my arse up so he can get his tongue where he wants.

I couldn’t have designed this better. He has me where he wants me, directing everything. Eventually, knowing that he’s not going to get in there properly to make me come he tells me to get on my back. He comes back up and kisses me, so I can taste my cunt from his lips and tongue. Then he tells me not to move as he goes back down between my thighs and gets back to eating me. He has the longest tongue that I ever had the pleasure of meeting and he’s actually able to get it right up in me. But like anyone who knows his stuff he goes back to where it should be, pressed against my clit, flicking off my clit and sucking on it.


We are stone cold sober, we haven’t seen each other in 2 months, I’ve been on the verge of hating him – yet within less than an hour he has me almost coming around his mouth. That’s some feat. I didn’t actually know if I was going to be able.

He licks his fingers and slides two into me, keeping the attention on my clit too. I lift my hips up to meet his mouth, I am writhing and aching to come. But he’s not going to let me press myself against him. He’s controlling this. I am so dying to come that I almost don’t feel him slide the little baby finger into my ass. My juices and his mouth have made it so easy to slide in, he goes so slowly that it’s the undoing of me and the arrival of my orgasm. And it’s as expected, huge and forceful and fucking delicious.

He doesn’t ask me, he just flips me over and gets his throbbing cock into me. And I keep coming. He pushes my face into the pillow and fucks me hard and I beg for it.

It couldn’t be more perfect.


But it could.


Clearly he was getting off on the control he just wielded, he was as turned on as me, he fucks me hard for a while and when he gets close to coming he stops. I beg him to continue but he doesn’t he goes slower and makes me beg some more. Jesus I love this.

And it builds up again, steadily getting faster and harder and this time when he’s about to come he pulls out, stands up, gets me to sit on the edge of the bed as he finishes in my mouth. Shooting hot come down my throat.



And I didn’t ask for any of that. That was all him. And yet….. it’s exactly right.


Hole one; came in my mouth.

No Control Blow job – and a good spanking

I wrote this about 2 and half months ago. Back when it happened. Since then I have been so bitterly fucked off with this boy I couldn’t bring myself to post it. But I’ve seen fit, in my enormous capacity for magnanimity, to forgive him. Which turned out not to be so hard when he flew to Dublin just to get me to talk to him. Even my robot-hearted senses had their cogs moved. 

think I’ve done the right thing, we’ll have to see. 

 (Oh alright. Of course we weren’t just going to talk. But he didn’t know that, I might just as easily have shut the door in his face and told him good luck)

Anyway, this is what happened the last time I saw him:


I love it when someone pulls something new on me. I love learning. I love it when someone really knows what they’re doing and does it properly.


I was aware that he might be good at this and he had mentioned that he was going to spank me properly. I’d been slapped before but not properly not like he was intending. I was also conscious that he might be good at it and I’d waited a long time to find out.

It’s exactly what I’ve fantasised about.

He’s naked, I’m naked, we’re on his bed.

He’s kneeling up, his hands are free. He tells me to get on all fours. I do. And he angles me around so that he has my head by his cock and his hand near my arse.

He holds my head close to his cock. It’s solid and fully up and I want it in my mouth badly. He knows this and is toying with me. Calmly he tells me what he’s going to do to me and that I’m going to do it properly and with no mistakes, or he’ll have to start again.

He’s going to spank me as I suck him off and I’m not to break rhythm. I’m to count as he slaps me, I’m to thank him and call him Sir.

I hate this and I love it. My heart is racing and I know I’m wet.


He finally lets me have his cock in my mouth. He tells me that sometimes he’ll let me do what I want to it and sometimes he’ll control it. That he’ll make me gag on it or force my head down and make me choke. This excites me more. I don’t know what’s coming with the slaps and I don’t know what’s coming with the blow job. I have no control. I am directing none of this.

All pleasure is out of my hands, all I can do is obey.

And hope.


He lets me suck him for a little while as he explains how he wants it and what he expects of me. All the while he gently has one hand on the back of my neck, fingers curled in my hair but not forcing me to anything. His other hand is a flat palm and is circling my arse, gently, softly, encouragingly. All my senses are heightened waiting for him to strike. Will it be the mouth or the arse first? It feels like this goes on for an age when in all likelihood it’s not even two full minutes – stroking me, with all the measured calm of an owner. But every delicate curl of his fingers in my hair, every warm, sweet rub of my arse peaks my adrenaline with its ambiguous tenderness – what is coming…?

I am aching for him. God I wish there was another one of him underneath me licking me, eating me.


He takes his time and the first move is to shove my head down hard onto his cock so that I gag. He holds me there – just long enough and calls me a good girl in that darkly lustful and controlling tone. And just as he releases my head he wallops my arse for the first time. I barely have his cock out of my throat as I release it from my mouth fully to say the words. I struggle with these, both to catch my breath and to say the actual words. I hate them, this isn’t who I am. But I want to. I want to be owned by him. I want to obey and at the same time rail against it. This is delicious torture. I want to surrender to his control. I want to trust that he will push me only so far. That he knows what he’s doing. I don’t have to think what to do, I don’t have to guess, I don’t have to do anything – I just have to obey and surrender to my own rising pleasure.


I’m out of breath and have let the spit drip all down his solid cock and I manage to say it. ‘One thank you….. Sir’. The Sir is the hardest part. I think he knows this. When he had told me before that he was going to spank me properly he had started out telling me that he was going to make me count. This is standard they teach it in Spanking 101. But I’ve never had anyone do it to me. Then he told me he was going to make me thank him. I reeled at this but in his polite and lovely way he convinced me that it was going to happen and that I would do it. Conversations passed and moved on and once he had the agreement on the ‘thank you’ he introduced the notion that I would be calling him Sir. Again I balked at this but he knew he had me, he knew I was going to do it – he knew I wanted it.


So I said it and before I can catch my breath properly he shoves my head back down onto his cock, makes that satisfied mmmmmmmmm noise and says ‘Good’.


He circles my arse with his hand and soothes where he’s hit. Takes his time with the next smack and comes down hard on my other arse cheek and just before I go to release his cock to say the words he shoves my head right onto it so that I deep throat him, holds it for a second and then releases it. Again I am choking as I say the words but this time he calls me a good girl and only runs his fingers through my hair as I go back to sucking it.

I am wildly turned on. And slaps three and four come in quick succession. If I wasn’t half choking I’d be heaving and barely able to breathe anyway.

I am sucking him hungrily and he isn’t controlling it, it’s just my mouth and tongue. He calls me a good girl and tells me he knew I would be this obedient. Tells me that I’m a good little sub. He squeezes my arse cheeks and tells me they’ve come up nice and red. I am still sucking on his cock and just aching with every fibre in me to be fucked. To be touched. To be devoured.

And he knows this too. He asks me do I think I’m wet. Oh God PLEASE, PLEASE let him check. Please let him slide two fingers into me to find out. But Jesus am I naïve to think that I was going to get anything! He does slide two fingers into me and I am so wet for him. I clench onto them gagging for them to stay there as I still have his rock hard cock in my mouth, working it up and down. But he isn’t here to relieve me, no. No sooner has he his fingers in me for a few thrusts when he pulls them out and slaps me hard again. I stupidly wasn’t expecting it. It was perfect.


Again he pushes my head down onto his cock, making sure he’s in control, fucking my face any way that he wants using me as a fucktoy.


We eventually get to ten and that’s the end. I am past aroused I am insane with need for him, I am blind with desire for his cock in me. And I get finally get it.

He pushes me face first onto the bed, rolls a condom on and ploughs into me.

Another Dick Move I Pulled

I left Ireland when I was 18 to go to University in Wales. I had a great time. I shook off the jaded judgment of small city Ireland and acted like the person I always wanted to be. Which unfortunately was a bit of an annoying dick. Nonetheless I managed to still have friends, some of which tolerate me to this day even.

But before I left Ireland I was seeing a boy. A nice boy if he did have his issues, I’m not sure what they were but he was the start of my stock trade in broken puppies. A phase I’m glad to be mostly out of?

Anyway, he had moved to Dublin, I wasn’t so sure what I was at, I didn’t know how I felt about him… it was vague anyway. But … and I’m not proud of this, I took off without telling him. That’s right, I moved to Wales before I had a chance to see him and never said goodbye.

I wrote him a letter, from college in Wales, and I never heard from him again. I’m not sure I ever saw him either? Although I do recall some run ins with his sister. Ouch.

No, not my finest move. But to be fair I think he was glad to be well shot of me. We weren’t well suited and he did think I was rubbish at just about everything.


But that wasn’t his legacy. Oh no, that’s not what he’s remembered for in the history annals of my brain. Seán is credited with being the guy who made me decide to be great at blow jobs. Yup, that’s what he did.

But before we go thinking he’s some sound guy who was extra patient and helped me out on my initial exploratory journey into sex, let me unburden you of that notion right now. He wasn’t. He told me I was pretty crap at everything. Hand jobs, blow jobs, sex – even though we didn’t even have sex really. God, come to think of it, given how awful I was at everything why was he with me at all? Maybe I was ok at the kissing (read: I am fecking great at the kissing)

But I wanted to be good at this, I took all the criticisms and tried to be better. I tried asking what he needed, I was eager for direction. But he always finished himself. Grand, I’d usually have gotten bored by then anyway.

So we’d have these conversations, all about how I could get him off – eventually he got me to stand behind him and give him a reach around. But in all of these times there wasn’t ever a conversation about how he would get me off. There was never an offer of him going down on me, no discussion about what he could be doing to get me off.

Maybe he didn’t know that girls did get off?

I’ve no clue.

But I don’t remember thinking that that was weird either? Or maybe I did and I’ve blocked it out. Because the real sting from that relationship was the disaster after disaster of blow jobs.


Before Seán, I had given just one boy a few blow jobs; all had gone successfully, I was happy with my performance, I had generally enjoyed it. Actually I was so happy with the response that it had garnered that I think it had set the tone for me wanting to continue doing it. And I was very surprised to hear that I was supposed to hate it… and that swallowing was an ordeal?

I couldn’t relate to these things so I kept my opinion to myself, it was much later in my life that I started to be vocal about what I enjoyed regardless of cultural norms or what my “friends” thought.

I definitely liked it, that was for damn sure and I was going to do it when the opportunity presented itself. Or so I thought.

But it wasn’t working out as well with cock number two, ever to be in my lovely mouth, this time I wasn’t doing it the way this boy wanted. And whatever I was doing he only seemed to be able to critique my skills, telling me how bad it was or how much he wasn’t enjoying it without actually telling me how I could maybe be doing it better or what he might actually want me to do with my lips and tongue. This was impossible. The situation was untenable. But I persevered and I honestly can’t tell you why.


What I can tell you is that telling someone they’re rubbish at something and displaying an award winning lack of patience is not the way to get what you want or to help someone do something the way you’d like. But none of us is the person we want to be at 18. In fact most of us are dicks.

So it was after Seán that I decided that I was going to be the world’s best blow job giver (I obviously don’t know if I am but I’m fairly sure I’m more than ok). Because I obviously stopped giving him head, and of course moved countries so he wasn’t going to get any benefit from this personal resolution I’d made, inside my head. But right, just before that phenomenal resolution, I’d actually decided to give them up forever, so scarred was I by the continual failures, I never wanted another dick in my mouth. And I’ll tell you now, for I don’t know any of you, I’m not someone who’s great at a lot of things and at 18 there wasn’t anything that I was good at, at all, so this embarrassment was too much to continue to bear.


But along came the next boy, who patiently coaxed me into eventually putting his dick near my mouth and when I did? Well miraculously he came in like seconds – which of course did everything for my fellating confidence. Not only that but he was complimentary and gracious. So I gave him more blow jobs and the more I gave the more he liked them, the more he appreciated them the better I felt (fancy that?). This was self-perpetuating. Until, eventually I told him what had happened with the other boy and naturally he was shocked. Ok, he wasn’t totally shocked, he knew I had been reluctant at the start he just didn’t know why.

Anyway, not content with just being able to make him come with my mouth I wanted to do more. I wanted to learn to deep throat and to do tricks. I wanted to be able to own a man with my mouth.

So I practised, I read, I trialled and I practised some more. I wanted to make sure that I could give any kind of blow job that anyone would want, I wanted to be memorable. And I would show him, I would show that old boyfriend that he missed out and that I was great at head and that he was wrong….

And ….. then I copped on. Exactly how was I showing him! This guy I never saw and never spoke to? How was me, being Munster’s best blow job giver, affecting him in any way? It wasn’t, of course it wasn’t. How fucking ridiculous. But it was something way better, it had given me a determination that I might not have had otherwise.

So thanks a million misguided boyfriend from when I was a young naïve 18yr old, you did more for me than you’ll ever know. Giving head is one of my greatest pleasures in life, it really is. I just adore doing it and being with someone who loves getting it.

And before you think I’m lacking any manners – I of course do thank the boy who took the patience route and got me to believe in my cock sucking skills. Thanks D, you had your moments.


And we all lived happily ever after.


The End.





(I moved back to Ireland  – just in case you hadn’t guessed. And I still live here to this day, imagine that)