My husband fantasizes about me being with other men, and feeling humilated by my enjoying being used by them, but he really gets hot watching me with other women. He doesn't feel threatened by it, just incredibly turned on by the site of me losing myself with another woman.

Women aren't a mystery to me, although I've never spent as much time having sex with them as I've wanted. I actually don't think there is a crucial difference between sex with a man versus with a woman--the variations between individuals really overwhelms any systematic difference. I guess the noticeable distinction would be in how I respond--with men I tend to want to be dominated, with only occasionally needing to be in control. With women it's been much less certain, sometimes I've initiated and wanted to seduce, other times I've been seduced. I've heard from other women that they are less sure whether another women is attracted to them--for some reason I've always known right away when a women wants me. Something in how they look at me and how it makes me feel inside, a tingling in my lips. I think there have been times when the women themselves didn't know they were attracted to other women sexually--denial of your own desires is so common, among men and women.

I've always been attracted to women with large breasts. I'm not sure why, but I like big, maternal chests that I can suckle on and be lost in. I can understand why men love women with big breasts-- I'm not sure they like them for the same reasons I do, but maybe they do. I don't mind if the woman is soft, and if she has a belly or wide hips. I don't like the tall thin, big titty type of woman--I'd prefer a rounder woman who laughs with her whole body shivering with happiness.


It's also easier to "fist" a big woman! I remember when i was first introduced to fisting. I must admit I had never even thought about the concept before, and if I had I would have been horrified. Logically, I know that plenty of things larger than a woman's hands go in and come out of vaginas, and a baby's head makes a hand look puny, but still before you actually have a child it's pretty scary to imagine a balled fist going into your tiny pussy.


I remember the first time I ever fisted another woman. Her name was V., and she was an older woman much more experienced than I was at the time, almost world-weary it seemed to me.

I met V. when I was waitressing one summer. She had the same shift I did and we would take smoke breaks together and hang out afterwards counting tips. Even then, as inexperienced as I was, I knew on some level that she was attracted to me. It was the way she would twinkle when our eyes met, and she would always give me a wide smile that would send a warm feeling through me. I didn't think I was sexually attracted to her, but I probably was and didn't know it. She was a big woman--I'd call her butch now, but then I just thought of her as "large"--almost six feet tall and probably almost 200 pounds. She had enormous breasts that moved like enormous mounds of jello when she walked, and male customers always flirted with her and gave her much bigger tips than my tinier breasts could produce. She had short hair, like a figure skater, except she would have looked utterly out of place out on the ice! After about two months of working together, she suggested that we go hang out at a bar after work. I agreed, and the next night we went to the bathroom together to change out of our uniforms and into casual clothes. Usually I waited until I got home to do this, since I seldom went anywhere after an evening shift at the restaurant--I was too exhausted. That night however, I felt energized even after the long shift, and I watched her as she pulled her uniform off. In her bra and panties, her breasts looked even larger than I had thought they were, she must have been at least 40DD--I'd never seen such large breasts! She had a round belly but surprisingly no rolls of fat, just a soft contour that smoothed into the mound between her legs. I was surprised to see that she wore stockings with garters under her waitressing skirt--I just wore cheap pantyhose, and I felt strangely ashamed as I peeled off my skirt, as if I wasn't as sexy as she was. She caught my eyes looking at her and blushed, looking sheepishly downwards as she pulled on a black skirt and a halter top that barely contained her breasts. I had packed a one piece summer dress that easily fit into my purse, and again I felt underdressed compared to her. She looked like she was ready to go clubbing and I looked like I was going to a church picnic.

We drove in her car, since I usually rode the bus to work, and she took me to a small bar that I had never heard of, tucked between two buildings in a trendy part of town. When we walked in, I noticed something immediately odd about the place--there were an overwhelming number of women, of every age, but quite a few of them had similar short hair cuts as V. It struck me that this was a lesbian bar, and like tumblers in a lock I had a string of thoughts one after another that suddenly opened up what should have been obvious, that V. was a dyke and that we were on a date. I stifled a smile at my own stupidity, and decided that I was just going to go through the evening as if I had always known what was going on. I genuinely liked V., and I didn't want to embarrass her or hurt her feelings, and I thought that if we had a nice evening together that would be that and our relationship wouldn't change. A part of me wondered that perhaps she had taken me here just because she liked the place, and I was wrong about her wanting to have sex with me, but I knew that wasn't the case. Realizing we were in a lesbian bar had basically given the right meaning to all of the odd feelings of attraction that I had detected in both her, and me, over the last few months.

We sat down at a small table and ordered some drinks. The bar was fairly dark, but I could see clearly that the women were lesbians--many of them were dressed in pants and looked butch, with quite a few in leather jackets and with piercings and tattoos, although I was surprised how many of the women looked very girly, with a few who were in the slut wear that men would pay money for.

We ended up talking the whole night about our lives, where we had come from, the trials of being different and marginal in high school, and after about two hours I genuinely felt close to her. She could drink like there was no tomorrow, and as I tried to keep up I realized that she outweighed me almost two to one, and that if I kept pace I would be under the table before she even was drunk. But she kept encouraging me to drink, cheering this toast or that, and I knew that she was trying to seduce me. She would touch my arm to emphasize a point, letting her hand linger before squeezing me gently. As the evening wore on her leg would brush mine under the table, and eventually without even realizing it our knees were resting against each other. I was by then quite drunk, and flying in a happy buzz as we talked. We were leaning forward on the table with our faces close, talking softly, and when she reached out to stroke my hair out of my face, I knew something more was going to happen. She asked whether I wanted to go back to her place for more drinks, and I nodded, even though I knew the last thing I needed was another drink.

I didn't realize that she actually lived within walking distance of the bar, in a small studio above one of the restaurants down the block. Her apartment was tiny, with the kitchenette next to the bed and a small bathroom that only had a shower. The bed was a futon that must have doubled as a couch, but she had left it unfolded that morning with the sheets still rumpled. When she saw me looking at it, she apologized and said that she was a slob and hadn't made the bed that morning, but a part of me knew that this had been deliberate, and that it wasn't an accident that there was no place to sit other than the bed except the single chair at her breakfast table. She went to the fridge and asked if I wanted a glass of wine or a beer. I said no and told her I was already drunk and didn't need anymore. Then I did something without a conscious decision, but which I knew would be an answer to any question that she might have about whether I would be willing. I turned my back to her futon bed, spread my arms and flopped backwards, crashing unceremoniously onto her bed, my heels danglihg from my feet. She turned and looked at me, and I gave her a happy smile. She seemed to know exactly what I had meant, and she put the beer bottle she had taken out of the fridge back in and walked over to the edge of the bed, looking into my eyes the whole way.

"You don't know how long I've been dreaming about seeing you exactly like that," she said. I felt the longing tightness in my stomach that I recognized when I wanted someone badly, and the heat spread from my crotch up through my chest and into my face. "What do you want to do?" I asked, softly. Without answering, she pulled her halter over her head and unclipped her bra, letting her breasts literally spill out. I stared at them, waiting. She unclipped her skirt and let that fall but left her panties and stockings on. Slowly, she edged onto the bed and put her arms on either side of me, lowering herself down over me. Her breasts hung down like huge cow udders, the image that came into my head immediately, but it thrilled me much more than that sounds. Not that I find cows sexually attractive, but somehow having these very large breasts hanging over me made me feel safe and at home. I have to tell you that my own mother did not have very large breasts--in fact they were smaller than mine are now, and so this wasn't an attraction based upon my own childhood or some such.