I was 16 and working as a junior secretary when I learned the meaning of the word, ‘randy’. My boss was in his mid-fifties and, I later realised, was keen to get into my pants. He told me some facts, true and false, about the Red Kangaroo, the biggest of the Australian kangaroo species. He told me this animal had a split penis (not true but commonly believed) and the alpha male was always in a constant state of randiness and so was also always ready to fight the pushy younger males to defend his ownership of the females in his harem.
“Can women be randy?” I asked. “Yes,” said my boss, “but that’s known as nymphomania.” (Not true). He went on: “Women like that are dangerous and anyway, men don’t like pushy women. We want our girls to be girly, to be ready to look after us nicely and do anything we ask, and not demand too much.” I left that job after he had chased me around his desk one too many times. However, I was still very naïve, still ready to meekly put up with a boyfriend’s usually rushed fucking. I knew no better!
I knew some great guys and I quite enjoyed being the focus of a man’s passion or rather his impatient randiness that he claimed to be ‘love’ but was probably more like the behaviour of the selfish Red Kangaroo. My boyfriends and I may have fucked as often as we had the opportunity but neither they nor I knew a lot about women’s bodies. (This was in the days when there was very little porn literature or films easily available, and before the publishing of the books that showed what a vagina looked like.) So I was usually left feeling restless, unsatisfied.
However, I never forgot the ex-boss's stupid randy/nymphomania comparison plus I had met too many men who who behaved like the alpha Red Kangaroo. By the time I was in my early twenties I realised I was so tired of relationships where I felt full of desire, was generous with my body but my needs went unfulfilled. On the other hand I did not really understand just what these needs were.
I decided to do some research. I found a little bookshop hidden away in a lane in the city. The grey-haired owner was in his forties and rarely acknowledged his customers who he let roam around the shop and leave without buying a book. I found the erotica section. While a number of these books were in Latin there were many that had very informative illustrations.
One afternoon, when I was really engrossed in a book, and feeling very aroused, I was startled when the owner spoke to me. “You seem to be a very serious student,” he said. “Have you seen this one?” and he produced a copy of a book of photographs of Indian temple sculptures. He flicked the pages to show me the contents, stopping occasionally to let me see a picture of men and women fucking in some particularly amazing body positions. “Oh!” was all I could say. “I’m just about to shut up shop but you are most welcome to come up to my flat and take your time to look through the rest of the book”.
I knew that going upstairs was going to involve more than my sitting and looking at photographs but I was intrigued and also feeling very aroused. We were no sooner in his sitting room that he put the book on a table and held me close. “So how much do you know?” he asked. “Not as much as I’d like,” I gasped, as I felt his dick pressing hard into my skirt. “We’re not going to rush this” he said, “And by the way my name is Michael”.
He led me into his bedroom and carefully and slowly took off my dress, my bra and my knickers then laid me down on the bed. He spread my legs and spent some tantalising moments first just looking at my cunt, then gently fingering the outer lips, and then opening these to look at the interior. Then to my delight he knelt down and took the whole of my cunt into his mouth and used his tongue to fuck me. His restraint and control were amazing. I had got so used to the wham! bam! techniques used by the callow boys with whom had I had been. None of them had done anything more than roughly finger my clit.
“I love cunt and I love your pretty bush,” he said, “but I also love fucking. I hope you do too.” I was just about begging him to do whatever he liked. He kept looking into my eyes while he slowly took off his clothes. I admit I was impatient to see what was hidden in his trousers. When he entered me he was clearly able to control his actions but the intensity of these gradually became stronger and stronger. While his dick pushed harder and harder into me he alternated kneading and sucking my breasts with playing with my clit. When we, note we, came at the same time I began to cry. “No, don’t cry,” he said. “You don’t understand,” I said. That was the first time ever for me to feel like that. No one has ever made me come before.”
He said nothing because he was too busy licking, nibbling and tonguing my cunt. When he came up for air he began to kiss me and I sucked my juices off his tongue. I was shaking with emotion. I would have done anything he wanted - I was so grateful and happy.
Michael continued my instruction, which he jokingly called ‘teaching the true lore of the bush’, for a number of years. He gave me the confidence and power to manage my relationships with other men. He helped me be a woman who knew what she wanted and made sure she got it. I hope you do too.
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