Good Friday

On Easter Sunday 1762 the 28 year-old Marquis de Sade picked up a young penniless widow, Rose Keller, and persuaded her to ride with him in his carriage. He took her back to a cottage he had rented and imprisoned her there, subjecting her to, among other things, whippings and hot wax torture. She managed to escape and the public scandal which ensued left The King with no option but to have him placed under house arrest, despite Keller having been persuaded to drop the charges in return for a very substantial settlement.

Was the timing deliberate? It would be fascinating to know whether Sade derived an extra kick, an added piquancy, from doing what he did precisely because it was Easter Sunday. Was the the public outrage stirred up by this episode so great because of the treatment meted out to the young woman, or rather that the acts were perpetrated at the most sacred point in the christian calendar, a time when all right-thinking people ought to have been in church? Would the whole affair have been easier to hush up, as The King would have preferred, if it had taken place at Rogationtide or on the third Tuesday after Trinity Sunday? Certainly growing up in the care of Jesuits instilled in Sade an abiding contempt for the hypocrisy of the established church at the time as is apparent in his writings.

It’s funny the thoughts that run through your mind as you butt-fuck your wife on a Good Friday afternoon.


We woke to the continuing noise of the gales sweeping down the coast. So much force, so much anger. No gusting, just a constant pressure for two whole days unabated. The promised snow, however, had failed to materialise in any great quantities. We rose late, breakfasted late, saw a DVD while sprawling on the sofa and then, when it had finished, we got up, undressed and made our way into the bedroom again.

Heather was crouching on the bed, bum jutting high in the air, when I got there. No mistaking how she wanted to be fucked. There is a time for foreplay, for gentle seduction, for stroking, teasing and caressing. This wasn’t it. This was a time for fucking. Hard, raw, urgent fucking. I spat into my palm, wetted my cock in my hand and just stuck it into her. She was already very wet. Whether this was beacause the two minutes it took from the initial ”Let’s fuck” to penetration was long enough for her juices to start flowing in abundance, or whether she, too, had been thinking impure thoughts on this Good Friday and had been slowly been getting hotter and wetter over a longer period I don’t know and she’s not likely to tell me. I just know that it was sheer bliss to slide into her, as tight and slick and deep as she was, to hear her sigh and to feel the front of my thighs press up to the coolness of her buttocks and my balls nestling up against her swollen cunt lips.

I am very visual when it comes to sex. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I enjoy doggy style as much as Heather does. I can enjoy watching my glistening cock parting her plump lips and sliding into her. As she was now, with her head buried in the pillow and her bum jutting up, I could also see her puckered little arsehole pouting at me. I just knew what I had to do; I stuck one thumb into my mouth to wet it, then eased it inside her bum, pressing down so that I was tickling the head of my cock through her silky membranes. It felt good, really good, but it still wasn’t enough. Remembering Heather’s wistful comment of ’Lucky girl’ when, during the previous night’s video, one of the girls was getting worked over by two men at once, I pulled out for long enough to retrieve our ’modeled on an actual pornstar’ phallus from our overnight bag, lubed it up and, without further ceremony, rammed it into her right up to its polypropylene balls. Then, holding it in place with my thumbs, I eased back into the tight little space which was all that was left in her cunt, my cock squashed up and rubbing against its synthetic neighbour.

I don’t know if the same problem arises during real DPs as I’ve never been fortunate enough to take part in one (perhaps someone is in a position to enlighten me) but it wasn’t easy to get a good ’pumping’ action going. It was far to easy for me to slip all the way out and difficult to get back in again, as tight as it was. So we changed places. Me in the back and, after a quick wipe, my pornstar friend in the front. This time we had some difficulty in stopping it from being shot across the room, taking my balls with it: Heather giggled and held it in place with her fingertips while I slid in and out of her bottom.

I tried rolling her over and fucking her missionary style, attempting to hold the dildo in by pressing up against it but it just flopped out again. It didn’t matter, by now we were too far gone to worry about the intricacies of getting it in again. I just hoisted her ankles up on my shoulders, knelt in to her and massaged her clit with my thumb as I shoved away in her sweet little arse.

I came first, with an animalistic cry, and then leaned back, exhausted, with my head thrown back and Heather still impaled on me. I sat there, motionless, letting the natural shrinkage take its course until eventually I plopped out of her, dribbling a trail of semen down the crack of her bum. I scooped it up with my fingers, mixed it from the ample juices flowing freely from her cunt and used them as a lotion to massage her swollen clit, kissing her neck as she clamped her legs over my hand and shrieked out her orgasm.

The most bizarre thoughts flash through your head when you’re about to come. On this occasion I had been thinking of the Marquis de Sade and his Easter rendezvous. Was this my subconscious trying to bring to the surface those thoughts that I had been trying hard to bury? The uncomfortable thoughts that my somewhat repressed and religious upbringing, the three-hourly vigils in church on the Good Fridays of my childhood, were leading me to derive an extra thrill from indulging in the forbidden on the holiest day of the christian calendar?

What do you think?