This is not just S&M this is Damo S&M

Welcome to part two of what is probably one of the strangest blogs you have ever read. I want to start by saying a huge thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read my last post and even more to those who had positive things to say. As you might imagine, if you know me personally I do have one or two tales to tell and if they make people laugh a little it’s worth the embarrassment they may cause me. So, on with the stories!

Ties that bind.

I have never been afraid to experiment when it comes to the old ‘in and out’ but in my early 20’s it was difficult to be too adventurous as I was still living with my parents and you don’t want your mum hearing the cracking of a whip or the faint hum of a rampant rabbit from her special little soldiers room next door. I’m sure you have had similar frustrations, having to use a ball gag to keep the lady quiet rather than for any erotic reasons rather takes some of the magic away!
     When my sister asked me to house sit while she was away and I jumped at the chance, obviously because I am a very caring sibling and would help her in anyway I could, not because I was already imagining the Dameboy mansion with 24 hour loving for me and my current squeeze. My sister left me with simple instructions ‘clean up after yourself.’ Easy.
      The first night she was away I set about making the romance happen. I made a nice meal and a large jug of Pina Colada (good tip for you fellas, pineapple makes your baby batter taste better so more chance of getting your lady to play a few notes on the skin flute) After the meal we lay in front of the fire and things started to move towards the cheeky zone. I wanted to take advantage of the liberty we had been afforded by having a house to ourselves and moved things on a bit by grabbing the candle from the hearth and drizzled a bit of the molten wax over her chesticles and further down her body. Now its worth reminding you this was around 10 years ago and the now pretty standard full wax had not yet caught on, and even though it was not a case of looking like the back of bin laden’s head, there was still a bit of a front-bum-fro going on. As the wax landed on her lady garden I knew it was a mistake, the tears were a give away. I tried cleaning up as best as I could but it was far too mattered, scissors were the only solution. I did rather a good job if I do say so myself.
      I was desperate to rekindle her desires so I suggested retiring to the bedroom. After a bit of kissing and cuddling she was back in the game and it was her turn to request spicing things up a bit. Result! She whispered in my ear that she would like to be tied up and I duly obliged, I searched around for anything I could use as a restraint, settling on the belt from my dressing gown and the tie backs for the curtains (I’m like the a-team in the bedroom when it comes to fashioning sex aids out of everyday objects). I had her wrists tied to the corners of the bed and couldn’t help but imagine a cowboy, red Indian and a construction worker laying next to her spelling out MCA with their arms. So there I was thrusting into her like I was get it to pop out the other end. I was getting well into it and by the sounds of it she was too (my parents are so proud of me) anyway I got to the point where I was having to imagine things to slow me down, like Susan Boyle rimming a tramp. Thinking about safety first, I popped it out and she asked for it in her mouth. A couple of  head bobs and I was ready, at this point she decided to take it out and ask if I was ready. Bad timing! Before I could answer I unleashed a weeks worth of backed up jism across her shocked face. She squealed that she was blinded and it was stinging. I am nothing if not a gentleman and I leant forward to give my apologies and offer a wet wipe, as I did this I cracked my head against the headboard and I was out cold. I Came round a few minutes later to a very angry young lady, still attached to the bed and calling me things that I had to look up in the dictionary afterwards. I tried reasoning with her and promised to untie her if she stopped shouting. She didn’t, I even went down and made her a cuppa but she didn’t back down for another five minutes. No pleasing some people! after much grovelling on my part she did eventually calm down and we set about cleaning the house, getting the blood off the headboard from my head wound and getting the wax off the living room carpet.
    When my sister returned she told me off for not cleaning the grill pan but luckily never found out about this particular misadventure of a fat lad from Donny…….until now! So I’d like to apologise now to my big sis and hope she takes some comfort from the fact that I at least had the decency to use the spare room.
                                             

First time down

What I should be doing right now is writing a presentation for a potentially very important interview on Friday. That is what I should do, that would be the sensible thing do, as you may know that is never the path I take. Instead I am writing, with no agenda or goal in sight, just writing. I tend to take to the keyboard when things are troubling me or when I find myself in a state of flux. You will be happy to know that on this occasion there is no ‘mystery girl’ involved (somewhat regrettably) and I have no particular axe to grind, I just feel like expressing myself and it was either this or telling my life story in Doncaster market through the medium of interpretive dance. At least this way I don’t have to subject the good folk of South Yorkshire to the sight of me in a leotard.

So. If I’m not ranting and this is not going to be a love story, what is left? How about making people smile? People don’t smile enough and I think we all should more. A long time ago I asked my Facebook friends to suggest, if I was to write a book what would it be about and the unanimous response was ‘The life and times of Damien Oliver’ so here’s a snippet to whet the appetite:

First time down

I have no idea why I thought about this, or why I was compelled to tell you about the first attempt at advanced communication…….cunning linguist?.......oh ok as my mate Gaz would say ‘mopping out’ a girl. Everyone remembers losing their virginity but as that is a bit of a boring story in my case (even if it did involve a town centre window sill, an impatient bus driver and a girl dressed as an elf) my first time ‘going south’ was much more entertaining. I met a girl at a party, she was particularly out of my league but at that age, 17ish, I was more confident than Ashley Cole and almost as much of a cock. Due to copious amounts of alcohol somehow this princess decided I was good enough and agreed to accompany me to my friends flat for a night of unbridled passion or more likely a drunken fumble. Having had a couple of encounters of this kind by this time I had this ridiculous self image of some kind of world class cock-smith, in my head I was a match for Don Johnson (very much en-vogue at the time) or possible an early Russell Brand. I was smooth, but ill prepared. As things got heated and Pedro popped up to see what all the fuss was about I decided it was time to put his hat on. I took a prophylactic out of the special pocket in my jeans which I can only presume was deigned solely for this purpose and seductively opened it with my teeth, like James Corden opening a Double Decker. Along with the condom came something I wasn’t I wasn’t expecting, the pungent aroma of chicken madras. Just before we left the party a I asked my friend Neal for protection and, as he is a good friend he duly obliged, unfortunately Neal is as well as being a great friend. Also a bit of a twat and gave me one from his curry flavoured collection. As it happens I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t keen on the smell and Pedro retreated faster than a Frenchman at wartime. Being the gent I am I could not bear to see this poor girl left unsatisfied and decided to try drinking from the furry cup for the very first time. I’d seen it in some ‘specialist’ movies and decided to take a crack at it. So with all the flair and grace of a baboon tying a balloon I slid off her knickers (black as I remember, strange I remember that but I don’t remember her name) and went to work. I was on my knees and she was flat on her back on the living room carpet, taking in the ambience of the two candles on the fireplace and the romantic sounds of East 17 on the stereo. I started lapping it up, not stopping to take a breath and responding to her moans of pleasure……or so I thought. I was young and eager and in that situation sounds of pleasure and pain are not dissimilar. What had actually happened was that in my haste to bring the lady to orgasm I had stated to push her around the living room floor like a Jack Russell pushing a football. The call came for me to stop when her journey across she shagpile was brought to an abrupt end by the immovable skirting board. That was not the end of this poor girls pain, as she stood up, slightly shaken I noticed her back. Oh dear. She had carpet burns from her buttocks to her shoulder blades, just imagine the colour of Alex Ferguson’s nose and you will be about there. I tried suggesting I put some cream on or something but the only thing to hand was a tube of deep heat and for some reason she didn’t really take to that idea. In fact the only thing she wanted was her mum and after a quick and awkward 2am telephone call that is what she got. Her mum arrived shortly after, I found her quite rude, she hardly said two words to me. But she took her daughter home (or possibly hospital) and that was the last I saw of either of them. So let this be a lesson to you, if you find yourself with only curried condoms do yourself a favour, slip it up her bum and if she complains just let her know it could be worse. You could go down on her.

If anyone likes this I may have another instalment of My Sexual Misadventures, watch this space!..............