I share my house with a gay man. Flamboyant, camp and unreasonably stable, he's the perfect roomie.

I'd been sharing the rest of my time with a tall, handsome man. A stock-broker. A successful, charming guy with a penchant for Mexican food. He also had a pathological need to lie, and a complete inability to practice monogamy for more than a few weeks.

It's not like I didn't know. My friends warned me. His friends warned me. But like I said, he was charming. He got into my head, my panties, and my bed. He was most welcome in all of those places. Inevitably he also found his way into my heart, and that protected him for a while. I believed what he said, and I just didn't see what he did.

Long story short, I eventually came to my senses. I kicked him out of my bed, told him he could keep the panties, and to please take his lies with his sorry ass, and never come back.

I tried to move on. I attempted to grieve. I got drunk and let a stranger fuck me, and then woke up beside him the next morning, and let him do it again sober. I'm not saying it was without merit, but it didn't work.

So for a while I just kept moving. Spent my day at the office, and then the evenings at home. I watched a lot of TV, and ate a lot of ice cream.

It took two months before Rick confronted me, and told me I needed to find a way to put this thing away. He stood in front of me after I stumbled out from the shower, unprepared, and unable to defend myself. What can you do when all you have is a lime green towel?

Rick insisted that we needed to talk. He took me by the hand, and convinced me to lie on the sofa so he could berate me. At least that's the way it seemed. In fact, he was ready to help in the only way he knew how.

I lay on my back with my head on the padded arm of the sofa, the towel wrapped around my breasts and barely covering my thighs. I didn't care. I was depressed for a start, and Rick was decidedly uninterested in my body in any case.

He sat then, on a stool at the end of the couch. He had a hairbrush, and as he talked, more quietly than he normally would, he gently brushed my wet hair. He'd done this once before, for no more reason than the fact he was curious, but this time was different.

His brushing gave me the focus I needed to hear what he was saying, and as I lay there more or less motionless, he told me all about what was wrong with my stockbroker, how none of it was my fault, and how if I hadn't been such a nice girl in the first place, it might never have happened.

He understood my love for him, he said. He understood how I was broken and dysfunctional. He understood my getting drunk and fucking a stranger. But it wasn't healthy, Rick warned me, as the brush slid through my long hair, to continue to dwell on it. The thing was over, the man was gone, and it was time to move on.

I listened, and tried to accept what Rick said. I nodded now and then, and mumbled a response or two.

I wept. For the first time since all of this finished, I cried. Openly and without trying to stop, I bawled my eyes out, and somehow the hurt flowed with the tears. Not all of it. It's not as though it could just be washed away, but perhaps enough.

I lay in silence after that, listening without actually listening to Rick, liking the feel of the brush in my hair, and the timbre of his voice, and the silence of the house.

I stayed still, with my eyes closed and my mind wandering, and perhaps I slept for a minute or two.

Somehow, in any case, an idea slid quickly through my mind. A sex dream perhaps, whether I was actually asleep or not. One of those vaguely disturbing and unreasonably arousing scenarios that don't make sense, but still leave you dripping with need.

I was more deliberately still then, hearing Rick's voice still, and feeling his hands on my hair. My thighs though, were moving. I could feel the heat rising in me, and the need. I knew I was damp, and even though I couldn't quite recall why, I knew it was something naughty, and sexy, and delicious.

I also knew that this was the last step. To move on, I had to take back control of myself. It's not like I hadn't masturbated. Wanking with a stockbroker was great fun, and he liked to have me do it in the car.

He could drive while I sat beside him, my short skirt flicked up around my waist, slinky panties a wisp of pink about my ankles. I would spread my knees and take care of my other pinkness for him, the fingers of one hand deep inside myself while the other was busy strumming my desperate clit. Desperate for release, desperate to please him, desperate to not be afraid when someone saw us, as they inevitably did.

I masturbated alone too, talking to him on the phone. He was, he told me, at a conference, or some out of town meeting. I found out that he was seldom alone on these occasions. He liked to have an audience to listen to me while he fucked them from behind.

And when he wasn't available, legitimately busy or occupied with someone who would make too much noise for me to continue to pretend, he encouraged me to pleasure myself, as he said he would if he were with me.

If he was with me, and we weren't in public, masturbation was seldom on the menu. He wanted something a little more direct, a little more involved. He'd take me from beneath sometimes, allowing me the illusion of control, as he thrust and lifted, burying his sizable cock in me, whether I was ready or not. I couldn't say I didn't like it. I'd have preferred something a little less aggressive, I think.

His cock was a wonder. Erect at the slightest opportunity. Hard for hours. It was both long and wide, and he knew what to do with it, no matter how reluctant I was at the start.

But I didn't think it was this that flashed through my brain. It wasn't his cock, or his attitude. It wasn't the engineered threesome either, though I blushed to recall how much I enjoyed that. How very nice it was to have that woman go down on me, and to come, so fast and so hard around her tongue. How amazing it was to return the favour.

These continued thoughts hadn't helped the situation. I knew that liquid was dripping from between my legs. The towel was probably unable to contain the mess, and I had no idea what to do. My thigh muscles were clenching as I lay there, trying not to move my body, fully aware that Rick had stopped.

I said nothing, and neither did he. I assume he just sat there, and watched, and I didn't look up at him. I knew he was watching. I could feel his gaze. I didn't know what to do, but I wasn't going to look.

My mind was a jumble of history and fantasy now. Things I'd done, and wanted to do. Seen, and been.

My first fuck, with a lovely boy who had no idea. My first orgasm, with the same boy, after I'd taught him a thing or two.

Outside naked in the band rotunda, in the park. Pressed up against the rail with my back towards him, his hands lifting me just enough, and lowering me over him. A Sunday afternoon delight.

The surreptitious hand down my jeans in front of the campfire, almost alone, very late, and the memory of coming against the fingers, and realising I should have let him get this far the week prior, at the movies. Doing so the next week.

The confession to my best friend that I'd been abusing myself, and her blushing response that told me I wasn't alone. The knowledge, at the next sleepover, that we had both managed to do it again, separately, in the bathroom, presumably without anyone else knowing.

I lifted my knees then, unable to stand it anymore, and the towel fell from my hips, revealing my dark thatch of hair, the unmistakable musky smell of arousal, and the ability to do something about it, if I dared.

I still didn't speak to Rick, my eyes closed and remembering. The school dance after-party, and the hired hotel room. The four of us. The embarrassment, the hesitation, and the eventually screaming orgasm.

The experimentation with some dubious drugs, and the lingering feeling that I might have done something I couldn't remember. The realisation the next night that my boyfriend knew exactly what I'd done, and wanted to do it again. Letting him.

I never actually decided. I didn't lie there and think it would be alright, or that it wouldn't. I just spread my knees, and casually attacked myself with one hand. I slid my fingers up between my labia, stunned at just how wet I was, and started to rub around my clit in circles, close and then far away, fast and then slow. I knew he must have been watching, but somehow I didn't care. More circles.

I remembered the time I dressed up as a prostitute. A long black cape covering very little. I recalled the buzz from showing people over the course of the evening, the damp spot that I was sure everyone could see on the tiny black panties, and the surprise on the face of the nice guy who told me I looked stunning, and was then allowed to undress me.

I was thrusting now. My ass was lifting from the sofa and pressing my wetness against my enthusiastic hand.

The towel fell from my large breasts as I moved, and I promptly took advantage of the opportunity to reach up and squeeze my nipples, pinching them hard and stroking the soft skin around them.

My mind was flashing fast, even more confused about reality than I thought.

The naked jump from the bridge into the river. The rub of my panties against the hip of a nice teacher. The first fuck in a waterbed. The hot-tub party. The shave. The wrong number. The black boy. His uncle.

My fingers were frantic with need now. I didn't need any more thought. I just needed release. I returned to a reliable pattern to get me there as quickly as possible. My thumb slid down deep inside me, the slight curl backwards letting is sit just where I wanted it. Two fingertips from the other hand either side of my clit, rubbing gently and squeezing now and then.

The thumb inside me left some fingers free to wander, and between rubs and squeezes one found its way down and over my perineum, and just touching the puckered sensitive circle of my ass.

The first boy in my bed at home.

Faster stroking.

The tall man with the big cock, showing me what it could do.

Squeeze!

The sound of my uncle and his new lover in the spare room at home.

Stroke.

The feeling of a cock in my hand as it passes the point of no return, and starts to pulse.

Fingers reaching down.

The feeling of the same cock inside me, almost ready again.

A fingertip across the anus.

A tongue across the anus.

Stroke.

A heavy man, pumping above me.

A dare.

Stroke.

Squeeze.

Pucker.

Strokesqueezepuckerstrokesqueezecockmanpucker!

The hips fell to the sofa. The images died down. My fingers found their way out of my most intimate places. My legs straightened a little.

I turned and looked up to apologise to Rick, realising just how inappropriate this had been. And I was alone. Relaxed, relieved, released and alone.