22yo

When I started using Tinder I was travelling to a particular city most weeks, and the first girl I connected with there was a 22 year old. There wasn’t much on her profile, just her age, her name, and a cute photo.

Amber

This is the story of a woman I met on Tinder. To quote Peter Cook: It’s a very short story, but it is extremely boring.

Tangent

Before I even start, I just want to point out that I love using the name Amber for this woman, because it’s so inappropriate for her. To me, Amber is the kind of name you assign to bimbos – or, better yet, strippers – whereas this woman is accomplished in a field where you have to be smart even to enter it, let alone rise to the top. But I did a quick google search for “names that are similar to <her name>,” Amber was suggested, and the part of my soul that loves irony knew that I had found my name.

Tinder

Because of my conversation with Kimberly, I decided to give Tinder a try. I had to create a fake Facebook account, but that was easy enough to do.

I wrote down some initial thoughts, after a week or so of using the service.

Fantasy: Used: Cleaned Up

I ran a quick shower to clean myself up, and came back to the living room a bit later, wrapped only in a towel. I was able to take a better look at his apartment, now, and saw that it was a bachelor unit: all one room, aside from the bathroom. And it was a true bachelor’s unit, because he hadn’t really even furnished it; a television, chair, and a futon in the middle of the room, where he obviously slept. And, based on the look of it, he didn’t wash the sheets very often either.

He was sitting in the chair, watching TV and sipping a beer, and I laid back on the futon near him, in a leisurely manner, studiously avoiding any thought of how many girls he’d fucked in this very spot. I was driving myself crazy, thinking about the fact that I was just one among a large number of his “conquests,” wanting to believe I was better than them, despite all the evidence to the contrary. I wasn’t just some random slut, trolling for cock, I was sure of it.

Fantasy: Used: Inside

We got in the elevator, along with a middle-aged lady. He pressed the button for the 12th floor, and we all dutifully looked up at the numbers as the elevator made its way up. I guess she was going to the same floor.

As we did, I felt his hand cup my ass. After the way he’d been using my body so far, this act seemed almost tender by comparison. He then moved his hand under the skirt, and slipped it inside my panties, which was still nice, having that skin-to-skin contact. But then he shocked me – literally – by sliding a finger into my asshole.

Fantasy: Used: The Car

Of course he drove a Mustang. Of course he did! What other kind of car would a guy like this drive? He dumped me into the passenger seat, and we were off.

He worked the car like he had previously worked my body: no hesitation, no second guessing himself, the Mustang was just an extension of his will. He didn’t rev the engine to impress me, but neither did he hesitate to gun it when he wanted to run a yellow or pass a slower driver.

It wasn’t a long drive before he was parking at a rundown tenement. There were a few buildings around a little grassy open area, and, since it was a nice night, there were a few people around, sitting on benches, enjoying the warm summer air. I made to get out of the car, but he stopped me.

“Not yet,” he said, “I’m ready for round two.”

Fantasy: Used: The Alley

As we walked into the alley together, he casually slipped an arm around me, letting his hand rest on my ass.

“Easy, sunshine,” I said. “I want to make him jealous, but let’s not get any ideas about what’s going to happen here.”

Fantasy: Used: The Fight

“Why don’t you keep your eyes to yourself, before I rearrange your face?”

Michael was getting tiresome. We were supposed to be celebrating his raise, and I wanted to give him a treat by wearing his favourite outfit: a simple black top, a miniskirt that shows off my sexy legs, and a pair of heels that were a bit too expensive, but what the hell, a girl needs to treat herself sometimes. He loves my legs – it’s one of the reasons we started dating in the first place – so he should have been enjoying the view, and maybe even resting his hand on my knee under the table. Instead, he was sending dirty looks toward any man in the bar who glanced in my direction. He was spending more time watching them than looking at me.

Kimberly, Part 2

Visiting Kimberly

Fast forward to the year 2016, the year that I suddenly started traveling on a regular basis for work. Traveling for work is something I love, and I was getting my desire:

• A couple of weeks in a different province, during which I exchanged messages with the “Too Good to be True” woman and the “Orgy Woman.”
• A week in Chicago, during which I exchanged naughty photos with “juliagarwood.”
• A long stint during which I traveled out of the country every week, during which I messaged a lot with “Sheer.”

Kimberly, Part 1

No matter what you’re into, no matter how depraved you might be, there’s always someone out there who’s into something harder than you are. I might enjoy porn, and having adulterous sex with women who aren’t my wife¹; I might be totally into paying for escorts for a low-friction² experience in finding D-T-F women; I might be willing to fuck multiple women at once (though I prefer it one at a time); but that’s nothing compared to some of my friends.

“Looking for Just One”

This is one of the most common themes I see on A-M: the ladies are just looking for one man to have an ongoing affair with, and they want their men to want the same. There are exceptions, usually from women who are experienced with affairs, but this is typically what I’m seeing stated in profiles. The intent is that this woman would find one, perfect man to have an affair with, they’d both delete their A-M profiles, and they’d walk hand-in-hand into the sunset, having a fulfilling, sexual relationship in which they meet all of each other’s needs, and have deep conversations where the men share their feelings, before sliding into bed for selfless, loving sex.

I have a few issues with this narrative:

1. There is no perfect man. Sorry ladies. (Well… there is, but it’s me, and I can’t date everyone. (Sorry ladies.)) This has follow-on consequences.
2. Much as we’d like to pretend otherwise, A-M is a numbers game, especially for men. This also has follow-on consequences.
3. Aside from all of that… is that “riding off into the sunset with one partner” really what you want? From an affair? Really? I mean, it’s adorable that you think so, but… really?

Let’s look at each of these points.

Misunderstandings – With a Vengeance!

Everyone is different¹, and everyone communicates differently. So there are bound to be misinterpretations of things, where I’ll say something, meaning one thing, and someone will read it and think I meant something else. Or maybe she won’t care what I meant, but something I’ve said – or some particular word I’ve used – will cause her to go off on a rant about something else.

Usually this happens in emails or instant messages, and it’s often easy to correct those misunderstandings, but sometimes it happens from the words on my actual profile, and that can be more difficult to deal with because I might never even know in the first place that it’s a problem. There could just be tons of women who are passing me by because of a poorly worded sentence, and I’ll never be the wiser.

Fantasy: Batgirl Part VI: The Web is Gone

• Part I: Spiderweb
• Part II: Sting
• Part III: A Whole New Kind of Sting
• Part IV: Suck the Poison Out
• Part V: The Fly Comes Back for More

The following night Batgirl followed her new pattern. Foregoing any thought of going out on patrol, she simply waited for nightfall, donned her cowl and costume, and drove to the steely-eyed man’s house.

She immediately noticed a difference in the house. There were no lights on, which was not unusual, but there was a preternatural silence about the place which she could not explain. With dread in her heart, she didn’t even bother ringing the bell. She tried the door, and found it unlocked. She went inside and turned on the lights, illuminating the emptiness within. She wandered around the rooms, visiting the library where she’d first laid eyes on him (and bared her breasts to him), lingering in the hallway where he’d trapped her in the window and the bedroom where he’d given her her first ass fucking, then going down to the basement where a dozen men had abused her for his pleasure. There was not a stick of furniture in the house, nor any other sign that anyone had ever been here. The only thing preventing her from going crazy was the lack of dust; if she’d found the floors coated in dust, like some kind of horror movie, she would surely have come unhinged.

As it was, there was no mystery. The man had simply left. Left the house, and left her.

And as she stood there, processing this new information, it occurred to her: she still didn’t know what, if any, illegal activities had been going on in the house, to draw her there in the first place.

Author’s Notes

Not that it matters, but the author doesn’t have any particular Batgirl fetish. The only reason the story features her is that it is inspired by an earlier story from someone named Mr. X, which was posted to alt.sex.stories in 1996. In fact, this story is specifically inspired by a scene in Mr. X’s story in which Batgirl is trapped in a window and raped from behind, which stuck in this author’s mind for almost 20 years before he wrote this story. (Another detail stolen from that story is Batgirl/Barbara masturbating the next day, though this version of the story takes a linear approach whereas Mr. X’s story is told as a flashback.) This is not a retelling of Mr. X’s story, the two stories are completely different, it simply steals Mr. X’s idea of Batgirl being trapped in a window and raped from behind.

Further to this point, the author knows absolutely nothing about Batgirl/Barbara Gordon other than what he could glean from 10 minutes of rushed “research.” He has no idea what Barbara Gordon’s love life is like in the comics, so he made some assumptions. Is she a virgin in the comics? If not, is it usually “Barbara” who’s having sex, or “Batgirl”? The author doesn’t know. Comic nerds may be disappointed by anything the author got incorrect, so minor apologies are offered.

Fantasy: Batgirl Part V: The Fly Comes Back for More

• Part I: Spiderweb
• Part II: Sting
• Part III: A Whole New Kind of Sting
• Part IV: Suck the Poison Out

There was no pretense of going out on patrol the next night. Batgirl – Barbara – all of her – just wanted to see him again. To be his. The only restraint she enforced on herself was to wait until after dark, so at least people in the steely-eyed man’s neighbourhood wouldn’t notice Batgirl’s motorcycle in his driveway all day.

Fantasy: Batgirl Part IV: Suck the Poison Out

• Part I: Spiderweb
• Part II: Sting
• Part III: A Whole New Kind of Sting

When Batgirl got home she stripped off her cowl and tights and slid naked into bed, exhausted. She had to lay on her side, still sore from the spanking, and she could feel dried cum between her bum cheeks, along with the cum which had already caked on the insides of her thighs. At least she hoped it was cum in her bum, and not blood; her asshole still felt loose to her, leaving her to hope it would repair itself with time.

Not only was she tired, she was honest enough to admit that she was satiated as well. As Batgirl – Barbara – got older, and started to experiment with her sexuality, she sometimes came home and leisurely masturbated herself to sleep after a night of crimefighting. She’d had a few short sexual experiences with boys her own age, but her most satisfying orgasms came from her own fingers after she’d violently thrown a few villains around. The sense of power she got from being a superhero definitely played into her role as a sexual woman. But none of her experiences, alone or with boys, had ever left her as satisfied as this night had. She fell asleep almost immediately, unaware of the smile on her face.

Fantasy: Batgirl Part III: A Whole New Kind of Sting

• Part I: Spiderweb
• Part II: Sting

He left her hanging out the window for a while, panting and dribbling cum, before finally releasing the windowpane which held her. He reached out the window to grab her hair, and used it to yank her back inside, where she landed in a heap on the floor. She saw that the man’s cock was already back inside his pants. In fact, to all appearances he’d been involved in no strenuous activity at all; he could have been reading the newspaper a few minutes ago, rather than relentlessly pounding her sloppy pussy.

Fantasy: Batgirl Part II: Sting

• Part I: Spiderweb

The worst part about the semi-public spanking Batgirl was receiving was that it was so unpredictable. The grey-eyed man continually adjusted the force with which he landed his blows, and there seemed to be no pattern to the order he would strike her right and left cheeks. If there had been a pattern she could have learned to anticipate the blows, to prepare herself, but every one took her by surprise. Maybe that was the pattern; perhaps he sensed her steeling herself for a blow on one side, and used that as a guide to aim the blow in the other direction.

She had long stopped glancing up at the sidewalk to look for witnesses. She just hoped nobody would walk by – or, if they did, that they wouldn’t look up at just the wrong moment and see this nude, blushing woman, breasts bouncing hither and yon as she was administered her spanking.

Fantasy: Batgirl Part I: Spiderweb

Batgirl’s head cleared quickly, but she didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious. She kept her eyes closed, playing possum until she could gauge the situation. Her wrists were bound above her head, so her arms were getting sore; soon she’d need to reassert the strength in her legs and stand, to relieve the ache, but for now she let them dangle limply beneath her, hanging from her restraints, to keep up the ruse.

Sheer: Part II

Continued from Part I.

Sheer: Part I

The tone of this story is kind of weird. I wrote much of it when I was feeling very optimistic about myself, and then came back to edit it at a time when I was feeling like unattractive dog shit, and then I did a final pass when I simply didn’t care much about Sheer anymore. So, while the facts are all definitely correct, the tone probably veers back and forth between wild optimism and bitter pessimism.

juliagarwood: Part II

Continued from Part I.

juliagarwood: Part I

I always struggle with how I should name these women, but in this case I’m using this woman’s actual A-M account name.

Fantasy: The Cuck: Part II

Drinks at the house

When we get to the house, she and I get out of the car first, while he's a beat behind us. The townhouse has a half dozen steps leading up to the front door, and as we walk up, I slide a hand up to move her dress up and squeeze her bare ass. With him behind and below us, he sees not only my familiarity with his wife's ass, but staring directly into her bare pussy tells him better than words that she's discarded her panties somewhere along the way. With any luck, there might even be some cum leaking down the inside of her thigh, leaving him no room for doubt.

Inside, we congregate in their modern kitchen, around the island.

“What do you feel like?” he asks, gamely trying to pretend everything is normal.

“Shall we continue with the scotch?” I ask.

“I haven't got scotch,” he replies, “but I've got some good rye. Crown Royal Blue.”

“Sounds good,” I say. “Neat, if you don't mind.”

“How about you, dear?” he says to her.

“The same,” she says, “on ice.”

He mixes the drinks, and for a few minutes, as we sip the whiskey, things almost start to seem like any gathering of friends or acquaintances. He's on one side of the island, his wife and I are on the other, and we're talking about his golf game – of all things – when I casually reach up behind her to unzip her dress.

As it falls to the floor around her feet, leaving her stark naked, he gapes across the island at us. He knows I've already fucked her, probably twice, but he can't comprehend what he's seeing now. She, meanwhile, takes another sip from her drink. She's obviously comfortable in her own skin.

“Why don't you go sit on that table?” I ask her, nodding toward the little two-seater breakfast table in the corner and lightly clapping her on the ass to send her on her way. “And maybe you should go somewhere comfortable to wait,” I tell him, as I unzip and walk toward her, “because we're going to be a while.”

I lean in to kiss her, and she hungrily kisses me back as I slide into her. I don't know if this table will be able to take it, but it's not high on my list of worries.

My first hint that he's still in the room comes when he asks his next question. “Do you honestly expect me to just sit by while you violate all of my wife's holes?” he asks.

I stop moving inside her, and break off the kiss. “Why that's a good idea!” I say. I am looking her in the eye, so I see the emotions passing through them first hand as easily as if she were speaking out loud: confusion – what does he mean by that?; shock – he can't mean that!; and finally apprehension – oh shit, I think he does, but nobody has ever fucked me there before!

I pull out of her, and then grab her hips to slide her off the table. I turn her around and bend her over the table, and start to nuzzle her pucker hole with the head of my cock. It occurs to me, as I prepare to enter her, that this might have been his form of revenge on her: if you're going to be so brazen with your cheating, I'll have your asshole punished. What he doesn't yet realize is that sitting in the living room while a stranger fucks his wife's ass over the kitchen table will be much harder on him than it will be on her.

And I assume the living room is his destination; after his parting shot he left the room. But I no longer care about him. I'm consumed with the beautiful, whimpering woman before me, whose asshole is currently puckering with all its might, in a vain attempt to keep my cock out.

“Please,” she whispers, “I've never had anyone in there before. Please go easy.”

“No worries,” I murmur, rubbing my cock back and forth over her entrance, “once the head is in, the rest is easy. All you need to do is relax. It'll hurt… and then it won't.”

Back and forth I move, over and over, occasionally putting some pressure on to see if she's ready to receive me, and all the while she's breathing shallowly, mentally preparing herself for the invasion. And suddenly I'm in.

“Ah!” she cries, in pain and surprise, and if he's listening from the living room he probably thinks he's got his revenge. If so, the next thing she says should clue him in that he's miscalculated. “More!” she says, “Give me more!” and I start slowly fucking her ass, feeding in a bit more with each thrust, until I'm all the way in.

As I continue to fuck her, she's getting more and more vocal. “It feels so… Fuck! It feels so big! Oh shit… oh shit it feels so BIG! I've never felt so full!” I don't know how much is coming from her pleasure and how much is just for her husband to overhear from the living room, but frankly I don't care. Every man loves hearing these kinds of noises from a sexy woman, and I'm not averse to hearing about how huge my cock is. If I hadn't already cum twice, all of this stimulation would make it a thirty second job, but I did already cum twice, so I know I'm going to be a while.

She reaches down with a free hand to stimulate her clit, and before too long she brings herself to a loud orgasm – and then, a few seconds later, another one. Just as she seems like she's going to start to come down, I grab her hair and give it a good yank, and use the other hand to give her a hard slap on the ass. It sends her even higher. She practically shrieks, she's cumming so hard.

Now that I've taken my hands off of her hips I need to get leverage in a different way, so I keep hold of her hair, and use it to pull her back against me as I fuck her. My other hand makes itself useful in little ways, reaching up to tweak her nipple or running tenderly down the soft skin of her back, or smacking her ass. Her own hand never leaves her clit, and from time to time another orgasm wracks her body.

When I'm finally ready I pull her hair back to the point where she's almost upright, grab her breast, and growl into her ear, “take it, slut.” And I unload in her, as she has another orgasm of her own.

When I'm done unloading what feels like a huge load inside her I let her hair go, and she collapses onto the table, panting. I'm still in her ass, and I'm kind of breathing heavily myself.

I finally pull out of her – she lets out the tiniest moan at the new sensation of emptiness – and ask her where they keep the dishcloths. “Right drawer,” she says, “second from the bottom.” I find one and wet it at the sink, so I can clean the ass off my cock.

When I'm done I come back over to the table, where she's finally starting to get up. As she does, I notice a small pool of liquid on top, and much larger pool on the floor under the spot where I'd had her. “I squirted,” she whispers, on unsteady legs. “I've never squirted before!”

I lean over and kiss her behind the ear. “Why don't you go get cleaned up,” I suggest, “and then come join us in the living room.”

She gives me a look that can only be described as adoration, and kisses me lightly on the lips. “OK,” is all she says, as she turns to what I assume is the direction of the bedroom.

A polite conversation between adults

I grab my unfinished drink on my way back to the living room, then at the last minute I grab the bottle as well. He might need to have his drink refreshed.

I find my way to the living room and find him at the couch. He looks kind of numb, and, as expected, his glass is empty. “Here,” I say, as I pour him a healthy belt of rye. “You look like you could use it.” I almost laugh when he says thanks, it's such a surreal moment, but I keep a straight face.

I sit in the chair opposite him, and sip my drink.

“We can't have children,” he eventually says. “Doctor says it's my fault. She's fine. So we decided to get a donor. Except… Except she said she prefers 'the natural way.’ Next thing I know, she's having sex with all kinds of men. All kinds. Sometimes she comes home late and asks me to… clean her. And I do it. I clean her. With my… you know… with my tongue.” He takes a sip of his drink, with a shudder. In his mind, I think he's tasting the cum of a dozen men. He might also be doing the math, and wondering to himself, if that many men have cum inside his wife, why isn't she pregnant yet? I also wonder what he means by “all kinds,” and whether he's a racist, but it's not important at this particular moment.

When she comes in the room I'm pleased to see that she's still naked. Her skin has a pink, freshly scrubbed look, and there's a subtle, pleasant scent from whatever body scrub she uses.

She hesitates at the door, unsure where to sit, and I nod down at the floor beside my chair. She immediately comes and virasanas by my side, and I reach up and rest my hand on the back of her neck.

I turn my attention back to him. “So you don't think you're looking for anyone right now, but maybe in the spring?” I ask.

“What?” he asks, trying to regain the conversation.

“The consulting position,” I remind him. “You said you don't need anyone until the spring?”

“I… er… yes. That's right. Unless you think I should get someone… uh… sooner?”

“It's your division,” I say, a smile on my face, “you'd know better than I would what you need.”

“Uh, yes. Yes, you're right. Well… I'll look at the staffing needs again when I go in on Monday.”

“Sounds good,” I say. “Let me know how I can help.”

He's trying to stay in the work-related conversation, but he can't. He's too stuck in the strange situation in his living room, and my possessive hand on the back of his wife's neck. I can't blame him. The whole thing is both funny and strange at the same time.

“How…” he asks, “How do you do it?”

“I don't really do anything,” I respond. “It's not a magic act. There's not some secret incantation I utter that makes women want me. Frankly, it's not so much that I have something special, it's more that you lack something other men have.” I give the back of her neck a squeeze, and she immediately takes the hint: she comes around in front of my chair, unzips my pants, and starts sucking my cock with gusto. She acknowledges neither her husband nor myself, there's no one in the room – in the world – except for her and my cock.

Her husband has a perfect view of her ass as she's bent over in front of me. He's transfixed, half horrified and half aroused, as he watches her pay more attention to my cock than she ever has to his. When I cum, and he watches her gobble it all down like it's champagne – and then keep cleaning me with her tongue, so as not to miss a single drop of what she's been craving – I'm pretty sure he also cums in his pants, without even so much as touching himself.

When she's sure that there's no more cum for her to slurp down, she lovingly tucks me back into my boxers, and does my pants back up. She then returns to her place at my side. I run a hand down the skin of her back and give her a light tap on the ass to express my pleasure with her work. She blushes slightly, in pleasure. I return my hand to the back of her neck, still claiming ownership of my… toy? Slave? Property? Whatever I want to call her, she has serviced me well, a number of times.

Later I'll wonder how a woman like this ended up with him, whether it's a mutual “hotwife” thing or whether she regrets marrying him and this is her escape. But that's later; right now, all I'm wondering is whether I can go another round.

Goodnight

“Well,” I say to him, “I've very much enjoyed your… hospitality. But I think it's time to go.”

“Do you need me to call you a cab?” he asks, and I almost laugh at him. Even she is smiling at his naivety.

“I don't think you understand,” I respond. “It's time for you to leave. I'm going to take your wife upstairs, lay her on your bed, and make her cum over and over. I'm going to fill her every hole with my cum. You can come back tomorrow, to see something you've never seen before: your wife, lying on your bed, completely satisfied.”

I don't wait for his response. I just stand up, pick her up in my arms, and carry her upstairs to make good on my word. He must have gotten the message, though, because I heard the alarm beep when the front door opened and closed.

As I say, I don't know if she was actually trying to get pregnant, or if she was just really enjoying fucking all of those guys. But I was going to do my part tonight.

Fantasy: The Cuck: Part I

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Everything’s going gr – wait, where did she go?

There isn’t really a “normal” A-M interaction, per se, every exchange with every woman is different. There are some patterns that often get followed, but when you get to the details every interaction has its own unique characteristics. This one, however, was even more different than usual.

Sending a “key” to one’s “showcase”

There are lots of things that A-M gets wrong, and some things it gets right. Actually… I can’t think of much that it gets right, it just happens to be a place where you can go to find married ladies who want to fuck. (And actually… most of them don’t want to fuck, they just want to think about it, and then change their minds later.) (Actually… most of them aren’t real in the first place, they’re either spammers or accounts that A-M staff created to boost their numbers.)

One of the aspects of the site that always makes me laugh, however, is how it treats your photos. Photos are obviously an important part of the process, you can’t know if you want to fuck someone until you see what they look like, so of course A-M has capabilities for handling photos. There is an option for public photos that anyone can see, and, given the nature of the site, an option for private photos that can only be seen by people you specifically grant access. All of this makes perfect sense. In fact, they even have some rudimentary capabilities for editing a photo to insert a mask over your face, so that you can have a public photo that really is you, but still protect your anonymity. Private photos can be sent or requested in isolation, or photos can be attached along with a message.

“I have a weird feeling...”

It started with a “wink”¹ in A-M from some girl²: “Please check out my profile to see if you might be interested in connecting with me. If you are interested, Message Me!” Per usual, I went and checked her profile, which was slightly confusing, because her stats said that she was attached, but her “preferences and encounters I am open to” text said “Single looking for a relation.” I can’t fully parse that English, but it clearly contains the word “single.”

What the Hell You Tryin to Say, Woman?

Probably the number one question I get about Ashley Madison is about the females’ profiles. What do they look like? What do the women say? What do they claim to be looking for? Are they well written, or all chat-speak? And I don’t have a good answer because they’re all over the map. Some are eloquent treatises on the state of human affairs (pun intended), others are a sequence of random syllables thrown together in a language-y manner that resembles – but isn’t quite – English.

Fantasy: First Anal

Nervously, Jan replayed the conversation in her head. Had she said too much? Had she somehow given him an unwanted advantage? He had a knack for getting her to admit more than she wanted to, and the way he seemed to file away information in his head made her nervous. Then again, what did she know? When your boyfriend is an older guy – already finished college! – you sometimes have to trust that he knows what he’s doing.

Well... technically he never used the word “boyfriend,” but they’d been on a few dates and she’d had sex with him on every one, so she knew they had something special, regardless of what he wanted to call it.

The conversation had started out so innocently, and before she knew it they’d been talking about fantasies. And then he somehow got her to admit she’d always wanted to make out with a girl – and not just any girl, he’d managed to get her to admit she had a specific crush on Amber! Amber was Brian’s age, and Jan’s opposite in so many ways: cropped blonde hair in opposition to Jan’s long, brunette do; so confident and outgoing where Jan was shy; tattooed and pierced, while Jan would never consider doing that to herself. It was no wonder Jan wondered what it would be like to kiss Amber; to run her fingers through that short hair.

She already knew Brian’s fantasy, he did’t have to tell her anything, because he’d never made any secret of it: he wanted to do her in the butt. Gross! She blushed at the thought of it. What kind of girls let guys do them in the butt? (Maybe Amber? Jan quickly pushed the thought out of her head.)

Jan already regretted spilling her secret to Brian. He and Amber were acquaintances, and now she was afraid he might tell. She would be so embarrassed if Amber found out!

A Representative Sample

When I talk to people about my “adventures” on A-M¹, they commonly want to know about the level of conversation on the site. There are a lot of weirdos on the site (and, lately, a lot of spammers), but occasionally there is a diamond in the rough. So the level of conversation is all over the place.

Orgy Woman

Alternate Title: Jennifer Ann wants to fuck me in a crowded room!

I mentioned in another post that I’d been travelling to another town, and I tried Ashley Madison’s Travelling Man feature, which sucks ass. But this was the first time I’d actually logged onto A-M in quite a long time, and an interesting byproduct of the whole adventure was that I had a few women from home notice my presence and message me.

I had only originally planned to be travelling for a week, but plans changed halfway through and I ended up staying a week and a half, including the weekend. Based on the amount of clothing I’d brought, this change of plans meant I’d need to do some laundry, so that’s how I spent my Friday night. (Well, the first part. Then I went out and caught some live music at a nearby bar. But that’s not relevant to the story.)

Ever since I’d sent my Travelling Man spam in A-M my email had been blowin up, so I wasn’t surprised at all when I got another message. Nor was I put off by the fact that this email was from someone in Toronto; I knew I’d be coming back to the city eventually, so it would be nice to have someone to fuck when I got back.

Too Good to be True

One of the features of Ashley Madison that had always fascinated me, yet which I’d never had occasion to use, was the Travelling Man feature. Going to another city for work? Bring your A-M profile with you! Temporarily set it to your new location, so that all the women there who are looking for a one-night stand can start getting in line.

From the moment they introduced the feature, A-M was pimping it hard. Every time you log into the site there’s an animation in the top right corner of the browser of a plane landing, which cuts to a picture of a bed with sheets a-flyin’ – someone’s obviously gettin it on! – and then the man pokes his dishevelled head out, followed by the wide smile of some married lady – followed by the broad smile of another lady! Travelling men, take the hint: All you need to do is use this feature, and you’ll be coated in slick, wet, willing pussies.

Unfortunately, when I finally got the chance to try it out, I found out it’s a terrible feature. You tell it what city you’re going to, set some criteria for the women you’d like to fuck… er… meet, and then it… spams every chick in the city who meets your criteria with your message. That’s it. It doesn’t even change the location of your profile, it leaves you where you are, so anyone logging in from your destination city is not going to see you as being nearby.

Worse than that, it doesn’t use credits, you have to pay separately with a credit card. After being hacked and exposing our credit card information all over the internet, these greedy fools have the gall to demand separate credit card payment for this feature, rather than allowing one to use the credits one has already bought?

But what the hell, right? You only live once, so I figured I’d try it anyway. When I got booked into a travelling assignment, and found myself in a new city for a week, I got myself a burner credit card¹, paid my fee, and sent my message. (It was at this point that I realized Travelling Man is just a big ol’ spam message. Up until now, I was still assuming this was something you’d set on your profile, and then turn off when you go back home.)

Here’s the story.