It started with and ended with Tom. Let me explain. I'd been married for a few years to a bastard disguised as a gentleman. I though he was charming, despite his complete inability to tell the truth. After I threw him out, I kept to the house for a long time. No dating. No boyfriends. No sex. Well, not with anyone else. And I was happy, I thought. My right hand had an intimate connection with my privates, my fantasies were the equal of anything you could imagine, so to speak, and what the hell else could I need? Work was absorbing, challenging and frustrating, just as it should be. I had money, not much, but then I didn't need a great deal.

I have no idea why I went out with the girls that night, nor why I drank so much, and I sure as Hell can't tell you why I took Tom home. Unless I wasn't so in love with my right hand as I thought.

Tom was no great lover. Actually, he wasn't a lover at all. He was more of a fucker. Yes, that's it. A fucker. He liked to fuck, to be fucked. He had no time for the niceties of life, love, or lovemaking. A fucker, that's all.

As I turned and closed the door to the house behind me, he grabbed my shoulders, gently but firmly, and pushed me against the wall in the hallway. After commanding me to stand where I was, he proceeded to strip me, not quite tearing my clothes off, but close enough. Soon enough I was standing naked in front of him, excited and scared at the same time.

After commanding me to stay where I was again, he moved back slightly, and removed his own clothes, revealing a stunning erection, an appropriate decoration for his muscled hairy thighs.

Not wasting any further time, he approached like a white hunter who had managed to trap a tiger in his cage. When he reached me, he kissed me on the lips. Hard. Repeatedly. Then suddenly he scooped me up in his strong arms, his hands on my butt, my back against the wall, and spread my legs like they were his possessions, which I guess they were.

My fear didn't banish the excitement, and I could feel myself hot and dripping as his mouth returned to mine. Just as I was getting used to the rough touch of his lips and the soft firmness of his tongue, he literally dropped me over himself, his big cock sliding up inside my wetness, tight and hard, stretching me delightfully, making himself comfortable as he grunted in my ear.

After holding still for a moment, he started to move. His hands lifted me momentarily from him as pulled his thighs back, and then he pumped himself back deep inside, pushing hard again as his hands released their hold, my full weight on just his manhood and the wall.

And as he got the rhythm going, I was raised and lowered like an old fashioned water pump, oblivious to everything except the feeling rising from my loins. The relentless pressure was bringing me near the edge, a cutting tingle spreading from my legs, an excitement vastly different from the controlled arousal my fingers provided.

As the frequency of his pumping and grunt continued to increase, I realised he was as close to orgasm as me, and as he finally pulled himself deep inside me, and filled me with his hot stickiness, I tipped over the peak, and came in an avalanche of pleasure, with a hot edge of surprise, and the taste of unadulterated lust on my lips.

He didn't waste much time after that, disentangling his no longer erect connection, and gently lowering me to the floor. He grunted some sort of thanks, threw his clothes on, and took off out the door. I was astounded to have not even got to the bedroom, and stood in the hallway, a stranger's hot semen dripping from me, and I thought of all the reasons I should not have done this.

I'm ashamed to say I liked it. Not Tom. I didn't like him specially. I liked the way he got on the job, finished without fuss, and left. Hell, the state I was in, I'm not certain exactly what happened anyway, but it was rough and ready, to be sure. And then he left, just as he should have.

The following day one of the girls phoned to see how things were going. She, and the others, had been surprised the night before, first because I got drunk, second because I dragged a strange man home with me. I told her what I could recall of what happened, and was foolish enough to accept her offer of another night out, just for the hell of it. And I did it again. No, I didn't bring Tom home. It was another one. God only knows what his name was. He wasn't quite the master of the game that Tom was, but he wasn't bad, not bad at all. We did make to the bedroom that time.

And it all became a habit. I'd go out, usually alone, have a few drinks, and drag an unsuspecting man home, and one of us would ravish the other. Ideally he would take the lead, and drive me to distraction with his technique, but I wasn't above taking control myself if necessary. It was always swift precise action though. No romantic stuff. As I said, fucking. There were no shortage of times that I had to take care of the final arrangements myself though, frantically flicking my fingers in and out of myself as the spent stranger looked on, not terribly interested any longer.

I saw more cocks in three months than the entire preceding twenty seven years, and had sex in more places and positions than I could possibly have imagined. If there was any time that I fucked the same guy twice it was by accident. I had become a sex machine. My whole body lived to process erections. Fucking, right?

Then, inevitably, I brought home a man who was a completely incompetent fucker. He had told me his name was Tom, but that was the only similarity to my original fuck buddy. He was far too gentle, and seemed to want to take his time. I just wanted him inside me. Instead, he poured me a glass of wine and walked me quietly to the bedroom, turned down the lights, and sat me on the bed, still fully clothed. He handed me his glass, and hopped on to the bed on his knees. Shuffling around behind me, he started to massage my neck and shoulders, digging his supple fingers into my tense flesh, stopping occasionally to take a sip from his glass, which I continued to hold on his behalf.

After some long period of the admittedly thoroughly pleasant massage, he hopped off the bed and asked me politely if I was feeling more relaxed. My response probably wasn't what he expected. I told him to hurry up and fuck me, or go, because I was sick of waiting, and could take care of this myself if necessary.

His response was a surprise to me as well. He told me that he wasn't interested in fucking me, and that he would prefer that we made love. I had become somewhat set in my routines by now, and could only stare at him as he took the wine glasses out of my hands and set them on the dresser, and then returned and began to kiss me, gently, softly, starting with my hands, and working his way up one of my bare arms, across my shoulder and up to my neck. I have to admit liking being kissed on the neck, and he was good. Very good.