One of the things I have to do this year is read the massive pile of books I’ve accumulated over the last twelve months, that I keep promising myself I’ll get through but which I never seem to find time for. A month on a beach, with an endless supply of margaritas, and a few cute men to keep ‘em coming – it’s not much to ask for, is it?
Anyway I began this year by rereading something that has been a firm favorite for the past few years, and with a title like this, can you blame me?
What I Did On My Summer Vacation, by Chrissie Bentley, is a riot of raunch, the TRUE story of its author’s first ever trip to England, and the boys (and girls!) she met there. You’ll meet Melissa, Chrissie’s counterpart at the company they both work for, and her insatiable desire to have her pussy eaten.
Graham, the tour guide who fucks her on the edge of a two hundred foot drop.
Christopher, the mystery man in a restaurant bathroom.
Bill, one third of a throbbing threesome.
Andy, the postcard photographer with a very erotic sideline
Martin, the man who packs a little something extra… (see the excerpt below).
Charles Dickens.
And more blistering blowjobs than you could shake a stiff dick at.
What I Did On My Summer Vacation is non-stop sex, hot as a summer’s day should be, and beautifully written, as well. Read the excerpt below, and then pick up a copy of your own HERE.
EXCERPT
I held him in one hand, gently massaging his shaft, while I wondered how to phrase my next question. In the end, the silence and stillness felt embarrassing. “Okay, I’m sorry, but… is it meant to do that?”
Martin glanced down with a little more panic in his eyes than he realized. “Do what?”
“Um, I’ve never seen…” I indicated the bridge of skin. “What is it?”
“My foreskin?” He sounded confused for a moment. And then, “Is it true about American guys, then? They’re all circumcised?”
“Well, I don’t know about all of them, but most, are I think.”
“Not over here, luv. We like to keep our men intact. After all, you never know when you’re going to wake up in a blackberry bush.”
Eh? I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. (I figured it out later… don’t bother asking). “But does it stay like that?”
Again, I touched the curious flap, and then let out a little “oh” as it slowly retracted onto his shaft.
“Just gets a bit sticky, I guess,” he concluded, and I stroked some more, watching in fascination as a thick wave of skin coiled up with my fist, to tap the rim of his helmet.
I looked up at him, he was watching me curiously. “It’s alright, isn’t it? You don’t mind?”
“Of course I don’t mind. I’ve just never seen one before.” Then, to shatter the growing awareness of the fact I was treating him like a laboratory specimen, I leaned my head forward and let my mouth slip over his helmet. He sighed and an inexplicable sense of relief washed over me. Well, at least that’s the same.
His foreskin continued to fascinate me. His prick was thick, his helmet thicker. However, when I rolled the extra layer of skin up over it, it became thicker still, my lips strained to engulf it. The taste changed, too; sharp and salty when I pulled his skin back, markedly less so as I drew it forward. I loved the contrast, loved the sensation of the flesh folding back against my lips, and then rudely bumping them on its way forward…back and forth, back and forth.
He gasped. “Please, don’t wank me so fast.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Don’t wank me so fast. There’s a lot of spunk down there.”
What? I have heard of packing phrasebooks when you travel abroad, but going to bed with someone never struck me as an occasion when you would need one. Still jerking him, I asked, “What’s wank?”
“It’s what you’re doing now.”
Oh, right. My hand stopped moving. “And spunk?”
I knew he didn’t mean courage. “That’s what’ll happen if you don’t stop the wanking.” He smiled. “Sorry, I forgot you don’t speak English.”
I pulled his skin back as far as I could and licked hard up his shaft, following the thick vein running its full length. “No, I speak in tongues.”
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