Light My Fire

This is a story that explores the dark side of one woman’s desperate search for a lover who could

light her fire

. To skip directly to her eventual submission to her dominant lover would not to do justice to the depth of that desperation. Accordingly, much of this lengthy first chapter is devoted to an understanding of the frustrations that gripped Rose Anne’s life. Please stay with her as she tells us who she is and why. It is my belief, and certainly my hope, that your patience will be rewarded. For those who cannot wait for the ‘down and dirty’, however, I am simultaneously posting chapters 2 and 3 along with this one. Whether you prefer the complete story, or only the raw sex…, enjoy…, and don’t forget to vote. Jigs

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SPINSTER!!

What a terrifying word to a female pushing thirty five without prospects. My name is Rose Anne Lombardi. I’m a damn good legal secretary, and I make a decent living for myself. I own a duplex in a good neighborhood that I live in one half of, and rent out the other half as extra income. I own a nice car all paid for. All in all I have a good life, but the years are slipping by and I have no mate. Am I worried about that? You can bet I am. Panicked is a better word.

Why can’t I find

THE

man and make him a permanent resident in my bed? I’m not bad looking. I’m even sexy in a healthy Italian sort of way, and altho I may die an old maid, I won’t go into the great beyond as an innocent virgin. The first penis visited in my pussy fifteen years ago, and in the years since others have occasionally dropped in to say hello.

I haven’t spread my legs for just anybody, but I admit I’ve lost count of exactly how many men have fucked me. Anybody can lose track of such details, and after all, a good Italian Catholic girl doesn’t carve notches on her bed post. My best guess is that I must have shared my bed with about ten to twelve men over the past fourteen years. With all but a couple of those, I have had a continuing relationship of one kind or another, but I was never close to marrying any.

As the days, months and years slip away without a husband, I can hear my biological clock ticking, and I am becoming ever more fearful that I may miss having a home and family. Well, O.K., I’ll admit a husband, a little white cottage, and a brood of rug rats, are not my only concern about what I am missing as time passes me by. To be totally honest about it, as much as I need a man who will marry me and give me his children, even more desperately I need a man who can

light my fire.

A MAN TO LIGHT MY FIRE!! That’s really what I have wanted since I was thirteen, but I’ve never been able to let go, get laid, and enjoy the occasion. You see, I was raised in a devoutly Catholic home of first generation Italian Americans, and I was educated by the Sisters of Charity in a parochial girl’s school. My conservative parents and the good Sisters filled my head with a Christian morality imported directly from the old country.

“Sex is dirty.”

“Men are not to be trusted, they only want one thing from a girl.”

"A good Italian Catholic girl keeps her knees together and her blouse buttoned.“

“A good Italian Catholic girl is a virgin on her wedding night.”

“A good Italian Catholic girl does the dirty deed only with her husband, and then only because it is her duty to him and the Pope.”

Well, I was barely out of puberty before I began to suspect all that was so much crap. My early experiments with my own fingers suggested that a girl chaste and pure was missing something..., something important and very enjoyable. I was backsliding fast, and willing to go faster yet, but a lifetime of cultural brainwashing is not that easy to ignore.

My body blossomed early. I’m no classic beauty, my Italian nose and mouth are too big for that, but my face is passably attractive in an old-fashioned sultry sort of way. I’ve been told that I have a great body. I am tall and full bodied without being fat. I have big boobs with minimum sag, long sexy muscular legs, and a nice ass. Those are feminine assets that attract men as quickly as a beautiful face, maybe even quicker.

From the time I was thirteen I had lots of young (and some not so young) studs buzzing around me. I enjoyed all that masculine attention, and damnit, I tried hard to act sophisticated and send all the right sexy signals. I fogged up car windows with passionate foreplay in every lover’s lane on the Jersey shore, but I just couldn’t muster the nerve ‘to-go-all-the-way.’

All my effort at being a hot chick earned me nothing but a well deserved reputation as a prick tease. Whatever my problem was, however, it was not anything physical. After my date brought me home all frustrated and doubting myself, I would masturbate, and I never failed to orgasm on my own finger.

What the hell was my problem then? The other girls at the Sister’s of Charity School were able to shrug off the sterile Catholic morality the Nuns handed out. All my friends were growing up quite normally, and one by one they were managing to get themselves married, fucked, and pregnant, not always necessarily in that order.

Why couldn’t I? Too choosy perhaps? Maybe, but not really. I just couldn’t seem to get over my hang up about having a man lay between my legs and actually stick his ‘thing’ in me. I had been warned about men, and what they wanted from me, until I was a semi-frigid basket case. Still, even as screwed up as I was, I wanted to get laid in the worst way. As tempting as the thought was, however, I just couldn’t bring myself to spread my legs, lay back, and let some stud give me the delicious dirty business.

As it happened then, I was out of high school a full year before I finally lost my cherry. I was going on 20 years old, earning my own living, and still a reluctant virgin when Mr. Larry Kelly popped my hymen. He was maybe 45, married, prominent in the local society pages, and a wealthy client of the law office where I worked.

I had never met anyone as smooth and confident as Larry. He wined me, dined me, flattered me, and within two weeks, he had my panties off and was fucking me. Yeah, I was as easy as that for him, but don’t let that mislead you about how it actually happened. It wasn’t altogether Larry’s skill and considerable experience as a cocksman that convinced me to let him stick me. I’m sure he thought of my deflowering as a seduction, and from his perspective, maybe it was. For me, however, it was more of an experiment.

It turned out to be an experiment that was less than successful. Eager as I was to try some real sex, the whole thing was disappointing, Not unpleasantly so..., just not all that I expected it to be. I liked what he did to me, and altho the world didn’t shake, some of it felt pretty good. Certainly, I was encouraged enough to keep trying for a better result.

“Damn,” I thought, “maybe I’m just off to a slow start. Larry has a well shaped, experienced, and suitably functional penis. Surely I can learn to get off on it.”

And so, I went back for more..., repeatedly. I had nothing to lose by trying. I was on the pill, and my reputation was safe. Larry was not only discrete by nature, he was very careful not to let anyone know he was fucking me lest the jealous bitch he was married to find out. Anyway, to be Larry’s latest mistress was a kick. He was handsome, rich enough to give me expensive trinkets, and he screwed me only at the best hotels.

Just as important, in my own semi-frigid way, I enjoyed having Larry make love to me. Sometimes he would bring me right up to the edge. I just never fell off the mountain screaming the way I was told a woman was supposed to. Larry was an accomplished lover and he did his best, but every time he put his cock in me I could hear the Sisters of Charity whispering in my ear, “no, no, naughty girl, dirty, dirty.”

With a young girl carrying that kind of Catholic guilt as baggage, the poor guy never had a chance. Hard as Larry tried..., and he tried damned hard..., he just couldn’t give me the orgasm I wanted so badly. I understood where the problem was, and I never blamed him for my failure. Hell, I thought I loved the guy, and even tho not fully satisfied, I was inexperienced enough to be proud of being the secret lover-on-the-side of a big shot in the social and financial worlds.

I thought I was the whole problem, and surely an older lover with Larry’s experience should be able to teach me how to be a real woman. The truth was, however, for all his previous history as a cocksman, Larry didn’t really understand sex much better than I did. There were a couple of times I think I could have made it with him if only he had used his tongue and fingers just a bit longer. I was far too shy and hung up to ask, but I needed him to put his mouth over my sex, his hands on my tits, and just stay there until I could build a climax.

He never did that for me tho. Always way sooner than I could get off he would take his mouth and fingers away, and crawl between my legs and fuck my cunt with his cock. Larry’s eagerness to have his cock in my pussy may have been just selfishness on his part, but probably not. He was otherwise a man too conscientious and considerate for that to be likely. Looking back on it, I think he simply believed it was a reflection on his masculinity to bring a woman off by manual and oral manipulation rather than with his penis. Its a shame, but a lot of men believe that.

Anyway, Larry kept on banging me as best he knew how for about a year, and he never gave me "the big O”. Finally he quit trying and traded me in for a skinny little blond twit of a fashion model with a factory installed automatic orgasm. It’s hard on a girl’s morale to lose her first love, but I had known all along that being a married man’s secret mistress does not promise any thing very permanent.

Once the ice had been broken along with my hymen, I found it easier to taste test the buffet of masculinity that is out there waiting for a single girl. Unfortunately, It was pretty much the same story with all the others who I let fuck me.

Nor did it seem to matter whether I was involved in an affair, or legitimate courtship. Even Eddie Jerrit couldn‘t pull my trigger even tho he sincerely thought he wanted to marry me. I was thirty by the time Eddie came along. He was barely twenty, and I suspect I was his first piece of ass. Certainly, I was his first regular one, and he had no idea that I was faking my orgasms.

Eddie was sure he was in love with me. He wasn’t. He was in love with having a warm place to put his dick as a regular thing. Truth was, poor dumb Eddie didn’t have a clue about much of anything. He kept proposing, and I kept refusing. As bad as I needed a husband, I knew, even if Eddie didn’t, that I was only a young man’s fling with an older woman. The time finally came when dear sweet dumb Eddie began to suspect that my passion wasn’t for real. That he wasn’t actually a natural born, prime, A-Number-One-Cocksman, was more than his young ego could take, and he gave up on me, just like all my lovers have.

Now, don’t go getting the wrong idea. I may not orgasm very readily, but I’m not a cold fish either. My sexual responses have improved some with experience, and I surely do enjoy having a man in my bed. I get goose bumps when a male finger or tongue probes my pussy, and strokes at my clit. I love to have my nipples sucked, the longer the better, and it sure feels good to have a man on top of me with his weight between my legs holding me down.

If the guy is really good, willing to take his time with lots of foreplay, and a dick that last and lasts, chances are I can grab an occasional weak orgasm. It just that I have never had one of those panting, screaming, earth shaking, mind shattering big O’s that my girl friends have told me about.

God, what I wouldn’t have given for just one of those. Indeed, what this little story is about is just what I

WAS

willing to give.

Until just lately my most recent my sexual dalliance was with Alan Seeger. When Alan began fucking me, he was a senior partner in a local law firm, and I was his secretary. Like my very first lover, Alan was older, and damn near a professional Don Juan. All the time he was dipping his prick in me, he had a wife and at least one other mistress. I knew from the day I met him that Alan was a pussy hound with the morals of a Arab pimp. There was nothing permanent possible here, and safe from both scandal and commitment, I could accept our affair for what it was to Alan..., just a little meaningless nookie on the sly in some sleazy motel.

Somehow as the years went by, sex had became easier for me when I could get it down and dirty like that, thumbing my nose as it were at the Sisters of Charity. Alan was a great lover, at least that was the consensus by a whole army of women whose opinion was based on personal experience. I too enjoyed his bedroom technique, and occasionally he even got me off. Like the others, however, he never gave me that overwhelming shattering erotic climax that I have heard so much about.

Unlike Larry Kelly, however, Alan was neither conscientious nor considerate. He was a cheap bastard, notorious for screwing his secretaries in more ways than just with his dick. Not only did he always take his women to the cheapest, most tawdry, disgustingly dirty, hotels and motels for his hanky-panky, he also wouldn’t pay a decent salary to his secretaries, even one that was sleeping with him.

Eventually, just as did all the other secretaries he had fucked before me, I left him for a job that paid a living wage. Once I was gone, I was out of sight, out of mind, and quickly off Alan’s busy cocksman’s schedule. That was about six months ago, and I haven’t had a man in my bed since. I must admit that I have missed Alan’s hard working penis. Poor pay or not, maybe I wouldn’t have left if I had known how horny I would be without him.

I was on the third set of new batteries for my vibrator when out of the blue, Alan called me for a date. I was momentarily all aflutter, but it turned out that Alan wasn’t calling because he hungered for my body. No, some young buck right out of Law School had joined his firm, and Alan, the natural born pimp that he is, was trying to keep the young guy around with sex instead of money. He needed me to get his kid lawyer a date with a cute young blond thing in the office where I now worked.

That wasn’t a very flattering reason for renewing old acquaintances, but I thought, ‘

what the hell?

” So what if Alan Seeger is a worthless piece of shit! I knew that after the children went home, he would take me straight to bed where he would play with my tits, and fill my pussy with his cock. I had been sleeping alone for too long, and I really needed somebody to do that for me. So, in my desperation I agreed to pimp for Alan’s young stud.

Except when I met the young stud, Clyde Horner, I couldn’t help but drool a little. He was younger than I, but not by as much as Eddie Jerrit had been. A twice decorated Marine platoon leader in Viet Nam, this Clyde was certainly no green kid.

At almost six feet five inches tall, and 250 pounds, he was too much like a big amiable bear to be called handsome. His appearance tho, was as misleading as his unlikely name. Handsome is one thing, and masculine sex appeal is another. Hidden behind that hick name, his “aw shucks ma’am, I’m just a country boy” act, and delightful southern accent, was just about the sexiest man I had ever met.

Alan took the four of us to the best and most expensive local bistro for a four star meal and a great floor show (all on some client’s expense account I’m sure). We all ate, drank, laughed, and danced. It was the very best kind of fun evening. All the while, however, my mind was on what would happen later. Clyde would probably wet his cock in the pussy of the blond bimbo I had provided for him, and I was green with envy. I could only hope she wasn’t as smitten with Clyde as I was. Maybe she would be stupid enough not to let him fuck her on the first date.

Eventually my evening went just as I had known it would. After the floor show we split up, and my old boss took me straight back to my place, and fucked the bejabbers out of me. With my legs wrapped around Alan’s waist, I tried to pretend that it was Clyde Horner’s dick I had in my cunt. With the help of that fantasy, I had a small orgasm, but I couldn’t help but wonder what my dreamboat was doing at that very moment. Was his head between the legs of that snippy bitch licking her blond pussy? That picture in my mind’s eye was enough to ruin my evening.

The next Monday the slut was non-committal about that part of her blind date, but she had a smug satisfied smile on her face that I didn’t like. Three weeks went by, and Clyde hadn’t called me. Damn! Damn! I thought the way I had gushed over him in front of Allen would have given him a hint about how hot I was for his body. Maybe he was too busy fucking that little blond whore. Well, if he wouldn’t call, there was only one thing left to do. I would throw myself at him shamelessly. Faint heart never got fair lady laid.

And so, one Friday morning at work, too horny to care what he might think of me, I put my pride on hold and called him. I was so coy on the phone it was sickening. I suggested that if he was free after work I could meet him at Doc’s Place for a drink. This was a pretty outrageous thing for a good Italian Catholic girl to be doing, and I held my breath when my offer was met with a long silence on the other end of the phone. Then to my huge relief, he said he would meet me there at five thirty.

Doc’s Place is home base for the swinging singles set of our town, particularly right after work on a Friday night. For a couple of hours Clyde and I were a part of the swirling crowd, exchanging sexy pick up lines and bawdy talk with the horny Friday night regulars at the bar. We had an number of good belts of Jack Black, and properly loosened up, the two of us walked romantically hand in hand down the street to a steak house. After more drinks with dinner, we wound up back at my duplex where I opened a fresh fifth. Like they say, ‘candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker’!

Sure enough, before long he had me laid out on the couch with my blouse off, and my bra down around my waist. He took his shirt off too, and it did feel so good when his strong arms hugged my breasts against his hairy chest. Soon thereafter he had his hand up my dress and into my panties. I tried hard to put on a proper front. Even when he stripped off my panties and stroked my bare pussy, I was still struggling, and saying ‘no-no-no,’ the way a good Catholic virgin should.

The moment of truth came, however, when he opened his fly and pulled out a sizable hard-on that he obviously wanted me to suck. I was impressed. It was as big as any cock I had ever seen in the flesh, but I don’t do blow jobs, certainly not on a first date. Rather than suck him, I quickly gave up on preserving my fictional reputation, and suggested we adjourn to my bedroom.

By then he was fully erect and his hard-on was sticking straight out his fly like the jib of a big four masted schooner. He didn’t resist a bit when I took a firm grip on that thing and used it to pull him up from the couch and toward my bed. In our drunken stagger down the hall, his fingers found the zipper on my skirt and the last of my clothing dropped away before we ever reached the bedroom door.

Naked as a jay bird, I took a seat on the edge of my bed trying hard to be sophisticated but not very experienced and knowledgeable about what we were getting ready to do. Flustered as I was by my nudity and the huge penis that was bobbing up and down right at my eye level, I doubt I was very successful. Moreover my little act was complicated by Clyde’s insistence on that blow job I had avoided back on the couch.