Today’s energy feels a little like I’m swimming with a school of sharks.  The men have sized me up, are circling, and are now going in for the kill.  It’s as if my desire for NSA sex smells of blood.  The sense of danger, urgency, and exhilaration are swirling together into an erotic boiling-over point.  It’s gotten so bad that each guy has a special code name on my phone so I know who I’m talking to or texting dirty messages.  Each of these codes ends in “on CL.”

Last night started with beer and tranny bingo and ended with a two and a half hour fuckfest.  Actually, that’s not exactly true.  We did blot our bingo cards for one round.  We both drank plenty of beer.  And we did have sex for hours on end.  It’s just that even though A-team and I just met—and met on the pre-text of having very casual sex—we didn’t exactly fuck.  A-team touched me gently with his hands and mouth.  He entered me with some force at first, but then we rolled around kissing and pulsing.  Instead of the fast and furious pumping of cock, I got to enjoy pressure and pause.  He touched every inch of me light enough that it sent chills up my body.  It wasn’t until nearly two hours into our lovemaking session that we turned up the heat and forced our bodies into each other as deep and as fast as they could go.

After I rode him for a while and came all over his cock, I asked if he felt my orgasm.  “I heard it more than felt it,” he teased.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the neighbors heard it too.  A-team is a keeper.  We agreed to maintain a light affair (he’s an out-of-towner and married) and only see each other a couple of times a month.  I’m okay with having some distance.  Even though I don’t have much experience with married men, I know I don’t want to become one of those women who turn into a panting dog waiting around the kitchen table for scraps.  He has his wife back home and I have my Craigslist boys to keep me busy.

I work two jobs.  In the mornings I teach and in the late mornings I open my boutique.  While it keeps me pretty busy, I usually find time to masturbate.  As I got out of my work clothes and jumped into my unmade bed, I thought about how much fun I had with A-team.  Reliving the kissing and touching and pumping and pulsing, I played with my pussy and breasts.  Other memories of past romps flitted into my head as I got hotter and wetter.  I was turned on but couldn’t turn the corner.  It was too much.  My own fine self just would not do.  I texted a CL guy to see if he could help:  Any chance you can break away from work and come eat my pussy for lunch?  Mmmmm.  He couldn’t come in person, but our back and forth text messaging about all of the things we will do together this Saturday night helped me explode all the same.

As I write this, I realize that I have only one hour before I need to close the boutique and get ready for my date tonight.  It will be my first NBA game, and I’m excited as hell to be going.  My date is another out-of-towner (I do love expense accounts!) who answered my CL advertisement.  We’ve been chatting with each other a bit and decided that the high energy from the game would be terrific foreplay.  Even though I climaxed this afternoon (and at least once for the last three nights), I’m still as horny as a teenage boy on a car date with twins.  Meeting in his hotel room before the game may be a big mistake—I don’t want to miss any of the basketball action—but his sensual voice, generosity, and fancy hotel room make me want to get on my knees, open his fly, and pray.