The perfect storm

It’s about time I wrote about the other things that happened on our recent holiday in the UK, before time dims the memory and leads to (Gasp!) …..EXAGGERATION!

Our normal form of summer holiday is that we go around all the family and friends that will have us and crash with them each for a few days before moving on. This has worked well, but with the kids getting bigger it is becoming more of an imposition on our kind hosts, not to mention the difficulty of getting in any quality sex. I mean, would you have the nerve to do it in your mother’s bed, while she was sleeping in the room below? (O.K. I don’t really want to know. That comes under the category of ’too much information’).

We stayed for a few days with our oldest friends in a suburb of London (We’ll call them George and Kat. George because in the right gear he could pass off as His Late Majesty, King George V and Kat because I like the name Kat and I think it would be very cool to have a friend named Kat). They have a daughter about the same age as ours and the accommodation problem was solved by giving us her bedroom, while the two girls slept in a tent in the garden. This was one advantage of the heatwave.

The disadvantage was that the tent was directly below our bedroom window and we had perforce to sleep with all the windows open because of the stifling heat. Would you want to do it when every creak of the bed, every sigh and, heaven forbid, every fanny fart would be heard by your teenage daughter and her friend, not fifteen feet away? (Again, don’t answer that one). Plus, it was just too hot for sex anyway. Steamy passion in those steamy nights might well have led to spontaneous combustion. At any rate you could work up a sweat by doing nothing more strenuous than just respiring.

It was so hot in some of the pubs in town that girls, clearly maddened by the heat, were throwing off all their clothes and wrapping their naked bodies around cool metal poles thoughtfully provided for the purpose by the management. George and I witnessed this several times on our pub-crawl through the East End.

Eleanor is another good friend. She doesn’t have room for all of us in her flat, so we farm the kids out for a few days to other friends nearby. Eleanor is forty-something, single, celibate (as far as we can tell, one doesn’t like to pry too much) and apparently happy with the situation. She got dumped by a bastard of a boyfriend years ago when he saw something younger and prettier and she never really saw the point of getting back up on that particular horse. She’s a lovely person, Heather’s friend really. She’s fun to be with, she’s witty and she laughs at my jokes, particularly the dirty ones, but she’s just one of those people you cannot imagine ever having sex.

Again, generously, she let us use her bedroom while she moved out to the box room across the hallway. The problem here, besides the enduring heatwave, was that her bed was one of those bolt-together metal-framed structures with ornamental filigree ironwork at head and foot. It creaked like buggery. You couldn’t turn round in it without it making a noise and it just didn’t seem right to be sending out regular rythmic creakings out across the hallway. I mean, Eleanor is broad-minded and all, but it seemed too much like rubbing her face in it seeing as she doesn’t currently appear to be getting any herself.

On the third day at Eleanor’s the storm broke, in more ways than one. I was driving back from having dropped the kids off and the twilight sky was getting darker and darker with menacing, bloodshot clouds. Lightning was going off all around about every half-minute and, on the Downs above Winchester I stopped the car, turned off the lights and just sat and watched as the storm vented its’ full fury.

When I got back to Eleanor’s the storm was still at its’ height. We sat, the three of us, in the living room with the lights off just experiencing it. Then, as it started to move off we headed for bed. Despite the storm there was no relief from the humid heat but I had ten days worth of pent-up sexual energy inside me, and the recent experience of that pub crawl with all those naked girls flaunting themseles in my face only served to make matters worse. Heather was also hungering, I could tell, but that hopelessly noisy bed was out of bounds.

”Kneel down” I commanded her. She knelt. She knew what to do next.

I was standing there in front of her, naked. She had not quite finished undressing but gently closed her lips around my cock while I leaned over and unhitched her bra.

”Stand Up” I said after a while. She stood and I slid her panties over her hips. We held each other tight, she working my cock and me finding a way into her crack.

I turned her around, kissed her neck and fondled her breasts while still worming the fingers of the other hand in between her still-shut labia. My cock pressed like a dagger in the small of her back.

”Squat down”. She squatted. I squatted too, facing her. She clasped her hands together behind my neck, supporting herself on me. In this position, her labia were swollen and protruding, I stroked them, rolled between finger and thumb before venturing a finger between them. Dragging the wetness I found there up the whole length of her vulva I finally found her clitoris and massaged it with the middle finger, while using the index and ring fingers on the labia to either side.

She came, biting her lip to supress any sound, her face betraying the agony of that moment. Then she slumped, taking her whole weight on those hands, clasped around my neck. For a good long while we neither of us dared move and when we did it was me who clasped her tight and helped her over onto her knees.

I made as if to help her onto all fours so I could enjoy her from behind but she hesitated. Much as she loves doggy style, Heather has a big hang-up with doing it on the floor, no matter how opulent the carpeting. There must be some underlying issues there because she has a real problem with having any kind of sex on the floor. Still, that’s just something one just has to respect. It’s no big problem. Not normally.

Eventually we reached a compromise whereby she bent over the rail at the foot of the bed, legs splayed wide apart, showing off her wares and I eased myself slowly into her inviting interior. I stayed there, luxuriating in the feeling of her warmth and closeness around my cock, holding her tight onto me, but not moving. Then I pulled gently out of her, masturbated until I was just on the point of coming and went into her again to spurt and spurt and spurt. An angry squeak (from the bed, that is, not Heather) warned me to try and contain my passion as I quivered and shook and clasped her close to me again.

Pulling out again was also a laborious, painstaking affair. We didn’t want to repay our hosts kindness by despoiling her carpet and it was quite a feat of gymnastics (Literally. The word comes from the Greek ’gymnos’, meaning ’naked’) to get hold of the tissues and position them to intercept the goo which was already plastering the underside of my somewhat less engorged cock.

Yes, we could have waited. A couple of nights later we were comfortably ensconsed in a little stone-built holiday cottage in deepest Wales, with only the sheep for neighbours. But when the need drives you, you simply have to go with it. There’s nothing you can do to resist.