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Hi. Here's A Little Tease of what's to come with Barcelona, My Cruel Mistress, Book One,
THE BIG O, by A.C. Johnson (that's me).
The Game “Unnggghh...,” he grunted into his cell
phone. His breath was increasingly punctuated by guttural noises, indicating that for him
at least, the afternoon's juego1 had begun. Rhythmic thumping left no doubt that he was
already touching himself. Big surprise. I had first seen him on the webcam a couple
of weeks earlier and since then his hand had rarely left his *** zone in my virtual presence.
I had no trouble imagining it then. He would be sitting behind the locked door of his home
office somewhere down the Mediterranean coast toward Sitges. His terrycloth robe would be
flung open, with one expert fist kneading his *** and thickening shaft, while the
other gripped the phone. “Will you take me all in your mouth?” he finally managed
in accented English. “The last girl who took all was Canadian, like you. Mmmmmmm…I
love Canadians. You get *** when I deep *** your face?”
I followed his tacky *** monologue as politely as I could manage. I was the one to initiate
the game, after all. I had asked him to be specific about his expectations for our upcoming
adventure, but just then I was not in the mood for ***-*** role playing. He continued
with the sexy talk, ignoring my obvious disinterest, “Will you swallow all my hot ***? Mmmmmmmmm.”
More guttural noises followed, apparently expressing more than any words could. The
fact of the matter was that this face-*** fantasy he was suddenly so keen on, was of
little interest to me. The correlation between watering eyes and gagging tonsils, and my
*** pleasure, was absurd. “Heh, heh,” I offered, a nondescript chortle meant to
mark my position as vaguely as possible. He was so deeply absorbed in his pleasure now
that he probably wouldn't even have noticed if I'd hung up the phone.
I was aware that I was using him with these juegos, and I admit to feeling the odd pang
of guilt about it. But now he was talking about swallowing ***? This concept was fine
for fantasy play, but the idea of me gargling this stranger's *** in real life? That was
beyond ludicrous. Even without knowing the full details of his *** lifestyle, my instincts
told me that this was not a risk worth taking. In fact, I was not at all certain of what
games, if any, I would be up to playing with him in person. It all depended on our chemistry:
the way our skins felt together, and how that match would play out was anyone's guess.
What was clear was that Agus had materialized at a very opportune moment in my life. It
would not have been an exaggeration (though I am prone to exaggerate) to say that my whole
life had been leading up to that moment. After some steady victories, as well as few notable
setbacks, my quest for *** liberation was finally in full swing -quite literally. I
was preparing to meet my biggest challenge yet, my first taste test of Barcelona's Swinger
scene. I fancied myself to be on the highest of moral missions, a sort of *** crusade
to the mystical realm of the perverted. As I'd imagined it (and I am prone to imaginings),
in this holy land of libertinism I would be forever changed; irrevocably opened in some
way I could not yet articulate, but longed for. I had to know what kind of people could
be found at the idealogical heart of the that community. What inspired their desire to live
so far outside the bounds of traditional relationships? More importantly, was that a lifestyle that
could work for me? What would it feel like to abandon myself to a room of naked partner-swappers?
I knew that to advance further in my quest, I needed answers to these and other questions
that had been forming during my last fevered months of *** experimentation.
“Mmmmmmmm... You like ***?” Agus tried again to elicit my participation in his cumtastic
reverie. I shifted strategies and tried distracting him with the practicalities of our first “face-to-face,”
or “***-to-face” as he was apparently imagining.
“Errr...Where shall we meet?” I asked, keeping the growing distaste from my voice.
“I feel ready to take this step with you.” I did, and I was. It was a step down a road
I was dying to travel, but this was not how I was meant to be traveling it, or at least
it wasn't how I'd been imaging it for so long.
The Guide I had first been introduced to the concept
of swinging by my now long-vanished lover we'll call, “C.” Yes, The Mysterious Mr.
C was a most worldly lover and so with very little time and effort, he managed to set
my world ablaze with passion, only to later leave me floundering in the ashes. Ours is
a truly remarkable story that must be told, but it deserves a book of its own. For purposes
of this current tale, let's just say I fell deeply in love and matured exponentially under
the *** tutelage of this man. He had spent the last twenty years of his forty-some in
the liberal mecca of Amsterdam, partaking in every kind of *** activity known to man.
He was a veritable encyclopedia of *** knowledge, and possessed a highly enlightened
way of perceiving love; though as it turned out, his methodology was profoundly flawed.
Upon first hearing C's beautiful tales of swinging and the kinds of human interactions
that took place within that movement, my fate was sealed. Having a Swinger encounter became
my love-life's central objective toward which all my lesser endeavors were angled. I still
had my work cut out for me, though. I would need some time to prepare for an adventure
so full of potential emotional triggers and tests of my self-esteem. By late December
of my third year in Barcelona I finally felt ready, but as C was about to stage one of
his cruel disappearing acts -this time leaving me to think he'd gone off to die of cancer-
my aspirations would have to wait some months more. I didn't give up though, despite my
devastation at the loss of my lover, and my rage when I finally had to admit he'd lied
to me. I resolved to keep moving forward, not relinquishing my ambitions because my
guide had left his post. Anyway, the solution was not so complicated. I only needed to find
another willing soul to accompany me where I could not yet conceive of going alone.
Agustino had fulfilled the minimum requirements for the job: he was no stranger to the Swingers
scene; he was willing to wait, only slightly impatiently, until I was ready; and overall
he gave me a good vibe. In his photo and video images he appeared handsome. He was rapado3
(the preferred term for the large population of Spanish men who suffer the effects of an
early balding gene). He had chic “look-at-me-I’m-a-modern-metrosexual” glasses and a decent body that sagged a little,
but looked good for his forty-one years. His *** appetite was immense, that much was
obvious by the frequency and exuberance with which he exhibited himself on his webcam.
Mostly he didn’t find it necessary to show me his face while pleasuring himself. Only
occasionally would he zoom out to let me see the grimace of his wolf teeth as he came,
allegedly thinking about me through all those ones and zeros.
In all truth, he had reminded me of the worldly Mr. C. Maybe that’s why I trusted him (not
that C was trustworthy, of course) and chose him above the other candidates. Though that
“unsexy talk” debacle cast some doubt upon the wisdom of replacing C so quickly,
by February our big moment had come. Agus had suggested a Swinger Club called “O”
be the setting of our first adventure and very shortly after, the plan was set in motion.
Once decided, I didn't waste even a moment backtracking. I knew I was taking a risk and
that it may have all been about to end in disaster, but I would just have to face any
challenges as they came along. That was the general strategy I had adopted my whole life.
Sure, it had been a wild ride so far, but I'd managed to come further along than I'd
ever imagined I could, especially in the years since I'd arrived in that sultry city. There
was little chance of losing my nerve then.