Some Hot Dirty (Literally) Sex That I Nearly Had

I had two conversations today. Both led back to the same person. The star of this blog and the nemesis of all future beaus. (not really guys, relax I swear he’s human).

I was talking to a guy about waxing and he declared that he’d only do it if someone was going to appreciate the efforts. That if he did get everything waxed down there that he knew he would immediately want a blow job. I concurred, in fact, I revealed there’s been a few boys of my past who only got lucky with me because I’d been waxed and I wanted my new ‘hairdo’ to be appreciated.

The Cop was one of these boys.

Sometimes it has happened because I’ve just gotten waxed and the very act of getting waxed now turns me on and other times it’s happened because I’ve gotten waxed for a particular person and an occasion – and they have let me down.

And I have never been so glad to have been disappointed for what fortuitous circumstances were then brought upon me.


As mentioned, I had been let down by someone. They had cancelled on me .But I’m pretty sure they rued that day so we won’t think too unkindly of them. So instead of being where I should have been, I was elsewhere.

I initially was not open to the advances of The Cop. But he was polite and patient (God, the things you could extract from me if you have opportunity to display manners). So he held my attention. I kept listening and I don’t know what air I gave off or what line I spouted that gave him the mandate or courage to start his deal sealing story. The story of how he first got pegged. It wasn’t just his brazenness but it was his way in telling it, he wasn’t showing off and he wasn’t crude. It was just a story, told just to me, just because he sensed I might enjoy it.

I did.

Half way through when I had said nothing in response he asked if he should continue. I was enthralled, of course I wanted him to continue. But maybe he thought I was shocked. Not this cailín. Not with those words, not with that telling. I was ridiculously aroused.


So we kept chatting, I was sure I was taking him home. I had to know. What was it about this guy? What was it he had that kept my attention (after he told me he was a cop and I nearly walked out). Well I’m pretty sure the waxed pussy made the decision for me.

So, are we going back to your place?

I hesitated, I’m not sure why and then I said yes, fuck it, let’s go. Swiftly followed by ‘Wait. No. Hang on’. And he sat back down beside me, just a little closer.

I brushed my hair back behind my ear, I know I was nervous, hoping that he’d guess what I meant. He did, and he met me half way for the kiss.

Perfect. The chemistry was there. Cher was not lying.


We got in his car and drove the short hop down the canal to my house. One of the most electrically charged drives I’ve ever had. There was no point pretending, I reached for his cock as he drove and was not disappointed – he was iron bar hard the whole way. He used to be a cop in my area, I didn’t need to give him directions, he knew where to go.


But after that..? I can’t remember what we did. I have no recollection. I just remember that two days later I got a text from him saying ‘With very little exception I will do anything you want. Anything’. Those words have never been said before or since by anyone else. They had a profound affect and were the benchmark for our time together.


He never lived in Dublin when I knew him so all our encounters were meticulously planned trysts; hotelscastlesmy workplace, rooftop serviced apartment, and my house. High octane and high expectations that incredibly were always not just met but surpassed. I sometimes read the stories and I can’t believe them myself. But they happened just as I’ve said.

He currently lives in a different country and we keep in touch. He sends me super polite enquiries in to how I am, which slay me. Followed by elaborate dick pics of the hard-ons he promises I give him from my responses.But he’s home soon. He’s home this week in fact. And lo and behold where will he be? Dublin’s fair city. But where will I be? Scotland.A country I’ve wanted to visit for years. I’ve shamefully never been, even when I lived in the UK I never made it to Scotland and now, when I have a trip planned and booked and longed for? I’m now wishing I was going to be here.

But this is my interpretation of what would have happened if I was going to be in Dublin this weekend…


A Could Have Been True, But Sadly Isn’t Fairy Tale of The Cop and the Unicorn Girl.


(this next bit is so fucking Irish I can barely believe it.)

So he’s home from abroad, probably flying into Shannon, of course. But there is a big GAA game on. I’ll assume it’s Kerry I don’t know, I know fuck all about GAA and lack of inclination will see me fail to bother Googling it. I know it’s a big game cos it’s on in Dublin. He sends a message to tell me that he will be in Croke Park on Sunday. And so with a legitimate excuse to be here he will lose his companions and come see me for a few hours after the game. Well if you had the choice of either continuing a day’s drinking or getting two hours with the best sex of your life, what would you choose?

I am devastated at this news. I shouldn’t be, but I am.

The plan he then teases me with, is thus; he only planned on fulfilling one of my fantasies of simply showing up at my door. I have always told him that I dream of that; to just be surprised by a sex visit. Sure, I’d freak out cos I’m likely to be at home wearing underwear and toast crumbs writing or just lying on the Sunday papers – the point is I could be looking like shit and totally not ready for sexy time. A situation that would not be conducive to getting any sexy time. Except with him. I know, I truly know with every fibre of my being that he wouldn’t give a toss what I looked like, that he would just want me. A belief that I haven’t been able to feel with many.

I think he’d let me protest and freak out for a few seconds, all polite and calm as he is but he’d pull me in, kiss me and then get me on my knees.

He’d be hard already, I have no doubt, he’d sweep my shitty, messy bed hair back and guide my face towards his cock. He’d hold it there, jeans not open, knowing that the sight of his bulging erection would conversely calm me from my distress of how I looked and arouse me to not caring about it. Still holding my head gently by my hair, he’d open his jeans with the other hand, button by button, making sure I can see but not letting me touch it. And when he finally lets it spring out, I reach for it with a hungry mouth and ready tongue – he pulls me back one more time, so that I’m looking up at him, angry, wanting and then he lets go of my hair and I smirk at him and slowly envelope his magnificent cock with my mouth for the first time in months. I can hear the noise he makes, it’s relief but he hasn’t let go. He’s got too much self-control and he’s not done with me yet. He wants to give me what I want – which is, torture.

He puts his hands back in my fucked up hair and he pushes his cock deep into me until I gag, getting spit all down his cock and dripping down my chin and onto my tits. And then abruptly, as if he’s afraid he’d lose control, he stops. Pulls me up from my knees and looks me straight in the face then takes one long lick up my chin to my ear and whispers ‘Turn around and bend over, I want to see that perfect cunt of yours, and it better be as wet as I think it is’. I bend over the couch (that’s where we are in this fairytale, just for context) and he pushes me further over it, holding me there as he grabs me between the legs with his other hand, feeling how wet I am through my knickers. He then slides them down but doesn’t take them all the way off. I don’t know why this always feels dirtier to me but it does. He kicks my feet apart as far as they’ll go while bound at the knees by my underwear and makes an appreciative noise. Then he licks his fingers and pushes two fingers in to me, slowly deeply. He holds me down so I can’t squirm but I can barely take it, I push back onto his fingers wanting to be filled. As soon as I do that though he pulls out, he loves taking things away from me and he bends down and starts tonguing where his fingers just were. I start protesting saying I haven’t had a shower, he tells me to shut up and taste how good I am and kisses me. But then it’s back to my knees again and he has his cock down my throat, making those fantastic sounds and once again telling me how much he missed my mouth. And I moan and gag as he thrusts into my mouth and holds me there. Then lets go and lets me hold it and lick it, sucking on it and then swallowing it all again. And that’s about as much as either of us can take. He pulls me up, swings me round and bends me back over the couch and without warning has his cock plunged into my swollen, aching cunt. I cry out, I know I do. He’s big and as much as he’s gotten me wet I haven’t had his size in, well, since him.  But it’s a great pain, the very best and he could split me in two and I would still cry out for him to carry on.

He’ll finish me with his fingers as he’s fucking me, slowing down to torture me as I beg for him to keep fucking me but he won’t until I’ve come for him. His dick solid inside me, his fingers delicately working my clit. And then I come clenching onto him and begging him to start up fucking me harder again.

He’ll plan to pull out and finish in my mouth, but he won’t. He’ll finish inside me as I urge him to fuck me harder and faster. Like I always do.


Then we’ll finally say hello and I’ll skip off for a shower and we’ll try and get more filthy before he has to leave.


The End.


Or something close to that

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