A is for Anal

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With apologies to Helen Macdonald.

Just seventy some centimetres south from her neck is an area I have come well to love. The bracken fens nearby, damp, inviting, curling, concealing. That hidden reclusive ravine, holding all that is lovely and beckoning in the feminine world.

Yet just below, often fearfully neglected, cradled by two rounded smooth hills, lies the object of my dreams for some time, now my own royal game preserve, my refuge from the rest of the forbidding, excessively civilised world.

I turned May onto her stomach. This is a quiet, pleasant sight. Her shoulders had been well rubbed earlier, now eased and soothed with the oil I had employed. A faint vanilla odour permeated, not overpowering, yet sweet.

Her long brown hair was splayed out fetchingly on the pillows. The landscape contours were inviting, relaxed. I made my way down her body. My fingertips traced her sides, from shoulders to flanks to hips.Brush, brush, brush.

The first time an anus beckoned me, it did not go well. Lana had agreed beforehand, we had talked for some time. Yet our inexperience was breathtaking. Not enough lubrication was used. She said it hurt, which of course I knew as soon as I entered her, and perhaps all should have come to a halt then. But my excitement was overpowering on that first penetration.

I did go slowly, even she would admit that. The feeling of her rim gripping the head of my penis was extraordinary. The tightest entrance ever. Her first involuntary clench caught me by surprise, and we both inhaled sharply.

She later said that her arse had been on fire. That she felt keenly the impulse to expel the intruder, that my penis felt enormous, invading, ruthless. Perhaps it was.

We would learn the second time – so excellent in life that there are often second times – both for more liquid smoothing to be applied, but also that if I lay upon her back and reached down and under her, and pleasured her vulva with a hand while I impaled her, that good things would occur.

I smiled at the sight of May adjacent me now. Her long trim body holds a gentle soul. Her mind is quick, agile. We had become a couple easily, and the last six months had been intense, satisfying.

Her head was turned to the right, eyes closed, arms at her side. Her flanks gleamed with the oil I had used. Candlelight illuminated her fair skin. Her arse called me.

Late one night I had been with Jorge in the sauna at the university gym. We were the only ones remaining, after two good hard hours of weights-work and exercise. We were naked, sitting on the wooden bench, sweating heavily. Jorge is from Argentina, a sociologist by training, with smooth handsome brown skin, furrowed brows with piercing eyes below. His thick, darkly-furred legs were well suited for football and squats.

“You have to be patient,” he urged. “No need to rush. An arse needs to be worshipped, gently at first, fiercely only at the end.”

His consort, Geena, possessed a rump that called for ravaging. She was short, dark, curly-haired and nearly chestless, but her braless nipples would poke visibly through any shirt she wore. Her arse was round, full, meaty. Jorge confided early on to me that his greatest pleasure in life was to ravish her rear. She did not mind.

He had listened to my musings about May. We talked about the best ways.

As I stood up, sweat trickling down my body, he gazed at my penis.

“You will do fine. This is one of the times when large is not always the best.”

He stood up also, his dark heavy penis nodding, the hair on his legs matted down with sweat.

“I take it that yours has not always found an easy path?” I pointed at his penis but didn’t need to.

He laughed.

“Warmup,” he said. “Warmup and more warmup. Like you are getting ready for a long run. Stretching. It must not be dry.”

He laughed again, long and comfortably.

“Although I do like it when she grunts on first entry.” He smiled confidingly. “Yours is a good size, and with care you will be able to pierce any arse you ever find.”

“Let us see it hard,” he said. His eyes glinted.

As if to help matters, he began to stroke his own member. We stood, looking at each other as we caressed our cocks.

They grew. Rapidly.

The large, rounded head pressed beyond his foreskin. I pictured him impaling Geena while she lay underneath him, her arse-cheeks split asunder. My own penis twitched.

He was much larger than I. His girth must ream her rectum desperately. I imagined his sperm erupting, jetting inside her, his hips thrusting, balls contracting. I smiled.

“Fingernails,” he urged. “They cannot be trimmed too short.”

He looked at my nodding penis – straight, stiff, urgent.

“Yes,” he hissed. “You will do fine.”

I rubbed May’s flanks, her rounded rump-cheeks. My penis twitched. The thought of entering her was overwhelming. Yet I knew I must take my time.

I pulled a pillow from the head almanbahis of the bed and carefully tucked it underneath her. She made way, and settled herself on top of it. She knew what was imminent. I felt an involuntary shudder.

I kneaded her rump-cheeks, my own penis bobbing.

Patience. Patience.

The ancient Roman treatise on this, De Arte Penetrationis, from the second century CE, repeated this advice again and again. Never to rush. To exist at that edge. To respect the act of impaling, and the person who would be penetrated.

The Romans did not much care who, or what, was impaled. It was just more manly if you were the one to wield the javelin, the pilum. Higher status males would take their wives, their concubines, their maidservants, even the water carrier boy, with no compromise to their sexual persona.

The anus was fair game, regardless, and the author of De Arte, reputedly a cousin of Suetonius, wrote at length about anal preparation, the stretching necessary, the oils to use, and then the entry, the violation, harnessing the raging desire of the erect membrum virile, channelling the urgency of the final thrusts.

The sides of May’s flanks twitched as I stroked them. Tremble, tremble. Her toes curled and uncurled with expectancy.

Her landscape was so familiar, yet new every time. Always there was a fresh detail to note. Today it was the little hillocks of her vertebra that stood up on the great fair-skinned plain of her back. The candlelight elongated the shadows each spinal bone made as it pressed her skin upward. Sierra the Spaniards called this sort of mountain ridge – saw-toothed, serrated.

I ran fingers along the ridge of spine, each little prominence giving a pleasing sense to my fingertips. She sighed in anticipation.

Although Lana had been my first, two years ago, blonde taut Gennifer had posed problems. We had talked. She had been fine with the notion in theory. Yet I never was able to enter. Twice we tried.

Gennifer’s arse-cheeks were intoxicating. Smooth, rounded, ample. Dusted with the lightest microscopic blonde down which stood upright when she was cold or anxious.

Yet even after my fingers had entered her, even three together, and she was well stretched and well lubricated, my penis-head would press at her entrance and could go no further.

I proceeded slowly. I stretched her again, applied more friction-easing liquid. My impetuous cock-head would press against her door and she would involuntarily close tight. In a fit of impatience I even tried pushing hard once against resistance, but that was a mistake. It hurt. I was refused entry.

I grew angry. Frustrated. Thwarted.

The second and final time we tried was not a disappointment, I think, at least to her. After another fruitless anal attempt, I eventually took her conventionally from behind, as I had many times before, my sperm flooding her insides whilst my fingers reached underneath and rubbed her ravine to a climax, her arse-cheeks shuddering underneath me as I drove. She came hard, with much noise.

But I knew then my penis would not find refuge in her rectum, ever.

It was many months after we had parted that I met May. Mabeline is her Christian name. She was from a village in Wiltshire. She told me later she had once been thin, some years ago. As it was, she was trim, firm, well assembled. A fine example of intelligent design.

She said that after university her thighs had begun to thicken, her bum grown wide and soft from her desk job and lack of activity. Hoping to shed some pounds she took up gym-work, doing squats and lunges with free weights, but the opposite had happened. She gained muscle mass, her thighs got thicker, not thinner, her haunches larger, but far firmer. She was not displeased.

We met at an outdoor soirée just east of Salisbury. It was a stone manor house from the early 1700s, with spacious back grounds and elaborately trimmed formal gardens. Her smile drew me first, and the way she held herself erect. The faintly curling light brown hair that plunged past her bare shoulders.

But when she turned and walked back to the manor house, wine glass in hand, I held my breath. Her full rump, held by her perhaps too-snug dress, was impossibly alluring. I knew then that my penis must find a way inside her, into her tightest entry place, between those two strong, devastatingly curved twin sentries that moved with such enchanting abandon.

But it would take time. An anus must not be rushed.

As I straddled the back of May’s left thigh that night, my heavy erect penis resting on a firm dorsal leg muscle, and kneaded one bum-cheek with my hands, I thought back to the first time we made anal love.

I had prepared for that moment for weeks. The journey had been fraught, but not disagreeable. In our first months together we had taken easily to the traditional aspects of exploring and delighting a new lover.

We had found distinct ways of pleasuring each almanbahis yeni giriş other. She was experimental, imaginative. I revelled in her thick nipples, how erect they would become, how easily they yielded to my lingual caresses, my tongue flicking them to attention, small moans of appreciation coming from her mouth.

Her tongue had determined the best manner to tantalise my penis-head, cause it to grow excited, and then kept on edge, like a cliff diver waiting for the best wave to enter the cove, before violent release would arrive. Pulse, pulse, pulse. The sperm flooding her mouth. Her suction then draining my semen reserves, lips nursing at my cock-head until I was completely spent.

From the beginning we copulated easily. Front to front. On our sides. Upright. Early on I had taken her from behind, and the pleasure she took then augured well for the future.

I had prepared her mentally for my fantasies, talking much beforehand, praising her rump-cheeks, which neither was difficult nor dishonest. By the first time of my anal entry, she knew the magnitude of my desire. Its white-hot intensity. The raging pleasure my penis would achieve upon her violation. Perhaps she even was able to guess at her own enjoyment in this unnatural coupling. But I had had to proceed to this stage slowly, cautiously, like a panther stalking its prey.

“I should like to make love with Cordelia.”

I had said this one night in bed after we had coupled. My arms were around her, she was facing away. I spoke softly to her left ear. We were both spent, still hot, our breathing and heart rates almost back to normal, satisfied. My warm sperm was nestled inside her.

She stiffened.

“Already? And we are not yet at the half-year mark together? And you wish to take another lover? Who is this woman? One of your students? How have I displeased you?” There was an edge to her voice, not yet quite angry, but far more than indignant.

“Nay, not that,” I whispered. “Cordelia is part of you. You are her overlord, her grand mistress.”

She shook her head in exasperation. I could hear a trace of irony in her voice.

“Ah, you’ve gone and named my quim. That favourite recreational area for your penis. Or perhaps second favourite. While I hate the ‘C-word,’ as you well know, I hardly think Cordelia is a suitable surrogate.”

She sighed. “You men with your need to names things…”

“No, not your vulva,” I persisted. “Your third orifice, as yet in a virgin state.”

She laughed, then paused. “Are you serious? You wish my arse to yield to you?”

I heard a challenge in her voice. Not defiance, but a defence.

My siege took some time, with long extended conversations. She was initially adverse, yet early on I detected a hint of intrigue which I sought to cultivate. I played my arguments out slowly, patiently, trawling for the right catching point.

It turned out she liked the sound of the word ‘sodomy.’

“So illicit!” she murmured. “Nasty. Dirty. Forbidden.”

I tried to convince her it was onomatopoeia. The ‘s’ sound of a penis sliding through her well-oiled sphincter, the ‘dom’ when the mighty cock-head hit the top of her rectum. She laughed but did not believe.

“I don’t think so!” But her eyes twinkled.

She had smiled quietly when after many weeks she finally agreed to my request.

“Yes. I will,” she said simply, her lips pursed into a small smile, after I had made my case. “I trust your capacity to be gentle. And I enjoy pleasing you.”

Her eyes were hot, her lips soft. Her narrow face looked up at me expectantly. I kissed her hard.

She asked me why the name Cordelia. I told her this was the identity of the singular object of affection for a man named Johannes, in Kierkegaard’s Diary of a Seducer. Johannes was a patient aesthete, his great pleasure in life was everything leading up to pleasure, but not the pinnacle itself.

His modus operandi was to identify a suitable object for his attention, slowly introduce himself to her, gradually excite her own curiosity, arouse in her an interest in himself, and nurture that desire into a long protracted simmer.

Cordelia was his chosen target, a young innocent maiden in town. He took his time, prolonged the anticipation, lead his prey along, letting her reach an impossible state of anxious desire. Then he broke off, eschewing a satisfying consummation that he felt would inevitably ruin the relationship. Romantic foreplay. An endless round of increasingly attractive appetisers, yet no entrée.

But I wanted my own Cordelia to be completely different. I sought a proper climatic end to the tale. I wanted her to yield, wanted to enter the gates of heaven myself.

For that first event I took my time. I gave May a long backrub. Her strong thick thighs were softened, her arse well attended, well praised, well oiled. I had lavished my touch to her slowly, lovingly, while at the same time my own thoughts whirled with a reverberating, almanbahis giriş insistent lust.

A pillow had been placed underneath her, for comfort. Her bum was somewhat elevated. The fingers of one hand teased and probed her fundament. The fingers of the other were busy pleasuring her labia, soft, wet, excited, the texture of a freshly cut ripe peach.

I took care then, and ever afterwards, to keep each hand’s function separate. Right hand to her channel only, left to her arse.

Her own climax had grown close, and I continued to arouse her with soft caresses, whilst one slippery finger circled her sphincter, pressing, teasing.

I let her expectation build. My penis nodded.

First a wet fingertip, pressing, just barely it entered. She gave a small inhalation and I felt her hips shudder.

The rest of the evening careered by in a slow-motion blur. I was able to enter her. I thrust, slowly at first. My head grew dizzy with pleasure. The thought of where my sperm would discharge drove me into a frenzy. I remember how violently my sperm eventually emerged, how wrenchingly my own arse squeezed, how my back muscles curled my pelvis into her. How sweet she felt underneath me as my seed erupted into her rectum.

An anus is neither shy nor coy. Yet it does not leap out at you. You must come to it. It is not a penis, the golden retriever of the male body, all bobbing and wagging and begging for attention, falling over itself with frantic, near-comedic desire.

An anus can be trained. All those nerve endings designed to make the rectum want to expel – they can be coaxed to seek contact, to want stimulation, to welcome the invader. Some strange set of neural connections make them handmaidens to the other gonadic nerves.

May has said, since that first time, her most powerful orgasms, ever, had occurred when I both stimulated her vulva with my fingers and drove my penis deep inside her rectum. The combination exponentially increased her pleasure.

These nerve endings are slow friends. They require courtship. One must treat them with respect. If done properly, they will love you back. They will grip your member, squeeze it like a python, pull your semen forth like nothing else.

A womb is an easy friend to a penis. Everything about it is designed to welcome its advances. Draw its seed forth. A mouth is also natural. A mouth is constructed to allow things to enter, the tongue intended to do marvellous things – dexterous, lubricating, delicate. An anus, however, is engineered to expel. Unlike the other semen receptacles, it will discharge your seed nearly as quickly as it enters. But it is acting within its nature when it does so.

The first time I heard May at the toilet, while I remained in bed, twenty minutes after our inaugural anal intimacies, I was surprised at the violent noise of my semen’s exit from her. Brttt, brrrttt. Explosive. Defiant. An anus retching. She came back to bed with a half-embarrassed face.

“Soppy!” she said apologetically, but she kissed me. And then it just became part of the dance. The arse-penis dance, a tango with impetuosity, a carefully executed crescendo, with a happy leader and a just-as-pleased follower. Sex without soppy is hardly worth the name.

This entrance, normally an exit, must be indulged. Coaxed. Praised. Worshipped. Loved. Anything less and it is a rape.

I grazed my hand over her dark groin hair, tickling softly. May keeps her nether regions in a primitive state. Not exactly old growth, yet neither assarted, clear-cut, devoid of lushness. The bracken fur around her vulva excites me, holding her scent close like a low-lying fog. She is musky, like a forest floor after a light rain. Mushrooms, fecundity, porous yielding earth, soft and springy under your footstep.

I had been at my office at university that afternoon, grading the last papers of Easter term. The coast was almost in view out the window, the great Isle hidden behind a fogbank. The phone rang. Before I picked up, I knew it was May.

No greeting, just one short sentence.

“Will you sodomise me this evening?” she asked. Soft voice. More than a request.

I smiled quietly. “Of course.”

“Excellent.” Then a pause, and a breathless “Bye!”

It was to be a good night.

I repositioned May on the pillow underneath her, at the same time continuing to stroke her vulva, the dark curling hairs now seeping wet. Her labia were pliant, eager. Low sweet moans were beginning to come from May’s mouth. Head still turned to the side, her eyes were still closed.

I held my breath. Her arse was intoxicating. Hips slightly elevated, full rounded contours, her flesh almost rubbery to the touch, the muscles so strong and elastic underneath their smooth outer surface of skin.

I doused her rump with a little more oil, smoothing some into her cheeks, but also making sure her entry was more than wet.

I moved up behind her, one hand on her vulva, stroking now less softly. I played the thumb of my left hand over her anal entry, circling, pressing, testing resilience. May moaned again and her bum made a little quiver.

Her position was lust-producing. Knees spread wide, arse parted. Ready to be mounted.

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