Insomnia

This is not what 'Sleepless Nights’ is supposed to be about. Night after restless night I have lain awake, waiting for sleep that would not come. You have there right beside me, or at any rate within reach, but all the same I have been alone. The deep breathing of your contented slumber has only made it harder for me to reach my own state of oblivious contentment. Night after night I have waited, hoping that, despite the late hour, the chaste kiss or brush of the hand on the cheek would develop into something more passionate. Night after night I have turned away, disappointed, hoping against hope for a hand to bridge the gulf between us, only to be greeted by the sound of you sleeping; happily released from the cares of the day just past and oblivious to the fresh worries the new day will bring.

I suppose I have only had myself to blame: My thoughtlessness and failure to consider your needs have meant that I have not been, in your words, flavour of the month. I know have caused you unnecessary extra work and stress and that has been reflected in more late nights than anyone can reasonably cope with, night after night. It has meant less time with each other, less time in each other’s arms. No time at all to get to our beloved summerhouse.

Last night seemed no different: There was payroll for the staff to be done before we could see our bed. By the time we made it upstairs it was 2.30 am. I waited, undressed, while you used the bathroom, then went in there myself. When I came out you were gloriously naked, on all fours on the bed, shamelessly pushing your bum up into the air, glorying in the lewdness and vulgarity of it. Inviting me, no, COMMANDING me to lick you from your coccyx to your cunt. A quick spit on my cock to lubricate it, a slap on each jutting buttock with the palms of my hands and I pushed deep into you and, as I grew tired of that position, I bore down onto you until you flattened onto the sheets and I stretched out my full length on top of you, entwining my legs with yours burying my face in the angle your neck makes with your shoulders and breathing in the smell of you until I came with an animal grunt.

Eventually I rolled away from you to allow you to take that trip to the bathroom once more but I don’t remember you coming back…

Holiday Memories

Well, we’re finally going on our summer holidays…in two weeks time. We have been so busy throughout the summer that we just haven’t had the chance to get away. Now a window of opportunity has presented itself so we’ll be arriving in UK on the Friday after next. Now all we have to do is convince family and friends that they want to put us up at short notice.

On the subject of holidays: You see the strangest things when you’re abroad. A couple of years ago we were driving on the autobahn near Düsseldorf when we came up behind this coach:

Fortunately daughter had her camera handy. We were all just howling with laughter.

Somehow I don’t think this coach operator does many trips to England!

A Fate Worse Than Death...?

Pissed, wankered, shit-faced, rat-arsed (insert your own adjective here). I’ve been out getting hammered all afternoon and evening with a good friend and it feels GREAT!!!!!

Heather was celebrating her birthday with a whole gang of her friends in the poshest restaurant in town. An all-girls do. One of them turned up with her husband in tow (a fellow expat. Brit) and we were told to piss off and amuse ourselves for the rest of the day so we caught the bus into the city (didn’t takre the car….proof of intent that we were going to go and get pissed) and did just that. It’s a long time since I’ve gone out with a good mate with the expresss intention of getting shit-faced.

So it was about quarter of an hour before the bus back was due to leave and Jim had stepped outside the pub for a smoke while I went to the bog. When he didn’t come back within the lifespan of a lit cigarette I looked out and saw him chatting to some guy out on the pavement. I thought I’d take his beer out to him so he could continue his conversation but as soon as the other guy saw me approach he was out of there like a rat out of a drainpipe. What was all that about? I can only assume he was chatting him up and did a runner as soon as he saw me approaching.

I might just have saved my mate from a fate worse than death

My Worst Date - Part 3: The Debacle

...continued from here

We righted the seats and rearranged our clothing. It was getting late and I had to be up early the next morning. I started the engine, put the car in reverse and lifted the clutch.

Nothing.

I tried again. This time I was aware of an unfamiliar whining sound from outside. Too late I realised that the wheels were spinning and were digging themselves two deep wheel-shaped trenches in the wet sand. Forward, reverse, it was just as hopeless. I got out and was drenched in an instant. I tried putting my shoulder to the bodywork and pushing but I might just as well have tried to push the car over a tree-trunk. It was firmly embedded.

I tried to get Anne to lift the clutch gently as I pushed but she had never driven before and just didn’t have the necessary control. It probably wouldn’t have helped anyway. I took the mats out of the luggage space and the footwells and tried as best I could to lodge them in under the wheels to give a bit more grip but succeeded only in getting them filthy dirty and ripped to shreds.

There was only one thing for it. We were going to have to walk back to civilisation and phone for help. We had passed a phone box in Blackheath village, a mile or so back so we started hiking back down the road in the pitch dark and the rain. The conversation, such as it was, centred on recriminations and talk of ‘divine retribution’. It was a relief when we finally stumbled into the sleeping village. Relief turned to disbelief, however, when we found that the phone box was in total darkness. The light bulb had failed and we couldn’t see to dial. Dialling 100 for the exchange to make a transferred-charge call to her parents’ didn’t help as the exchange wanted the number we were dialling from, which we couldn’t see. The headlights of the occasional passing car, sweeping through the village, didn’t last long enough for us to dial all the digits until, at last, after about half an hour, one paused for just long enough for us to make the call and get her father out of bed to come and tow us free. The irony? He was ultimately responsible for the maintenance of all the phone boxes in the region. He was highly amused at our predicament and kept asking questions like "What WERE you doing all the way out here at this time of night?" Anne turned a delicate shade of beetroot.

It was about 2.30am before I finally got home. My parents were asleep when I got in and were still asleep when I got up to travel back into town, leaving a car that was plastered in mud both inside and out for my mother to drive to work in. Needless to say she was not amused, and I kept a very low profile for the next few weeks.

Anne came up to stay with me in Hall of Residence about a month later. We were going to a concert in town and had got the tickets long in advance. I let her sleep in my room, while I crashed down with ‘a friend’ somewhere else in Hall. (Heather’s room, of course, as I had done for most of the term). Heather was ill with the flu’ that weekend, and her period was late. I spent the whole time rushing from one room to the other, looking after Heather as best I could while keeping Anne occupied. It was a relief when she went home.

The last time I saw her was at Christmas that year. We were at a party together. We hardly spoke. We had become strangers.

She knew.

My Worst Date - Part 2

Continued from here



Newlands Corner or Blackheath? That was the question as we started off down the road. Both were favourite spots of ours if we wanted a little bit of solitude. Newlands Corner was good for a quick snog and if you drove far enough along the car park there was a good chance of not being disturbed, but it was a popular beauty spot and there was always the risk of her exposed breasts being caught in the lights of a turning car. Blackheath, on the other hand, was wild and remote. A longer drive up narrow lanes, but with no risk of anybody being within a mile radius. The perfect place for some heavy petting on a dark and stormy night. Tonight, Blackheath would fit the bill perfectly.

I tucked the car in between some straggling gorse bushes on the otherwise bare and exposed heath, some hundred yards from the road, and turned off the lights. Without the wipers to clear the windscreen we were instantly isolated in our own little world. Anne was just a shadow beside me in the sparse illumination provided by the lights of the city reflected in the low, ragged clouds. The sound of my heart thumping in my chest seemed to drown out the incessant drumming of the rain until I was sure she would be able to hear it too.

We kissed and we cuddled and my hand slid inevitably down until it was sliding over her firm little mounds through the soft wool of her sweater. She didn’t object, she just draped her arms tighter round my neck as we kissed more deeply. Neither did she object as I pushed her sweater up until it bunched under her neck, or as I slowly started to unbutton the cheesecloth blouse which was pretty much regulation for teenagers in those days.

I reclined both front seats and she raised her arms above her head, allowing me to take off her sweater completely before she laid back, blouse gaping. Never before had she been so accommodating, but still I couldn’t see what is so obvious to me now. She was enjoying it, needing it, just as much as I and probably always had done, but it served her purposes very well not to let me know that, so that every little thing we did together was a concession. A gift from her.

I pushed her bra up until her breasts sprang free, barely perceptible in monochrome out of the corner of my eye, where night vision is at its most acute. I stretched out beside her, laid my head on her chest and sought out her pert little nipples with my tongue. She shivered. I had done this before, but it was not often I was allowed so far. She tasted different, but different from what? Different from last time I had tasted her, or different from the taste that Heather was more than happy to share every single night?

She could feel a difference too and she said so. She couldn’t say what it was but something was just different. Was I gentler? more confident? more direct? Had I learned to use the soft underside of my tongue on her nipple instead of the rough top? The diffident virgin of six weeks previously had now tried everything from cunnilingus to fisting to anal, had taken lessons in how to pleasure a woman from a woman who was not ashamed to show her pleasure, so I suppose it would have been extraordinary if she hadn’t noticed a difference.

She didn’t ask directly if I was seeing someone else. She didn’t need to. She knew.


To be concluded…

My Worst Date

Part 1. Prologue

Back in May, when various bloggers were striving to put up a post every day, Vi tried to help things along by suggesting various topics to write about. Now, like the elephant, nobody could ever accuse me of being quick off the mark but I do have a long memory. Thus I bring you now, at Vi’s suggestion, an account of my worst date ever. (Unfortunately I can't link to Vi's blog as it is now defunct)

That is if you can even call it a date when it's with the same person you've been seeing for five years. I'll call her Anne, for the good and sufficient reason that that was her name. My first girlfriend , in fact my only girlfriend apart from Heather.

To understand the nature of our relationship it is necessary to appreciate what an influence the church had on us as teenagers. We were in church twice every sunday, plus bible-class. Friday evenings were spent, not at the school disco (bear in mind this was the '70s) but at prayer meetings and discussion groups. We met at the church youth group, all our peer group went as well. That’s not to say that we didn't have fun: we did, it was just clean, wholesome fun. I have some very happy memories of that time and as proof of the power of prayer, I actually managed to give up masturbation for a whole three months.

Of course there was kissing and cuddling. I would go round to Anne's of an evening and, on the pretext of staying up to see the end of whatever was on the television, we would stay in the lounge long after her parents had been gracious enough to go to bed. However, she operated a policy, not of ‘You can look but you can't touch' as operated by lapdancing clubs and suchlike, but the exact opposite: 'You can touch but you can't look'. Whether this was due to an overzealous interpretation of the biblical dictum 'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out' I don't know, but it was not negotiable. I could push up her jumper, unbutton her blouse, lift her bra clear of her tiny breasts or pop the clasp if she was feeling particularly kindly disposed towards me and was wearing her front-opener. But the whole thing always took place in total darkness. I never actually saw her breasts.

When we went our separate ways, to different universities, in autumn 1977 we were still officially an item. However I hadn't been away more than a week before I was ensnared by this rapacious viking woman who was clearly only after my body. Although, technically, we didn't fuck on our first date we did manage just about everything else. And the rest is history…

About midway through term I got a letter from Anne, letting me know that she was to be confirmed in her parish church and that I was invited back to the house afterwards for refreshments. It was a midweek evening and I had an early class next morning, but I could stay the night at home and catch an early train up to town so there was no problem.

It had been raining all day, in fact it had been raining all week: The garish streetlamps reflected on the road as I pulled up in my mother’s car outside the little church in Merrow. The actual service didn’t take long: A pat on the head from the Bish and then back to the family home for tea and stickies. Then, as the assorted broithers and sisters that comprised her family began to drift off she suggested I might like to take her for a drive in the car. I was surprised and delighted: She had barely acknowledged my presence all evening. It was pitch black outside and still raining hard so she obviously didn’t have sightseeing on her mind but, naïve as I was back then, I simply didn’t realise that this girl whose favourite phrase was ”You men are only after one thing”, this well brought-up christian girl who let me put her hand inside her blouse every so often as a treat, could possibly have needs that she wanted me to fulfill. That just wasn’t the way it worked. Looking back now, it is clear that she wanted a romp in a quiet car park somewhere just as much as I did. More so in fact because, unbeknownst to her, I was now getting it on a regular basis.

Yes, I admit it. During the autumn of 1977 I was a cheating, two-timing love-rat.

To be continued…

Welcome To The Batcave

The latest Batman movie, Dark Knight, is currently busy breaking box-office records but I'm thinking more of the '60s television series with Adam West and Burt Ward camping it up for all they were worth.

Remember how each push-button and gadget in the Batcave was meticulously labelled - presumably in case the Caped Crusader and the Boy Wonder should forget what they were for? My favourite was the 'Shark-Repellent Bat-Spray' (or was it 'Bat-Repellent Shark-Spray'?).

I digress.

While daughter is away living the high life in Brazil, we have taken in a Japanese exchange student and are currently doing all we can to teach her the language. No easy task, but she is determined and incredibly hard-working so I'm sure we'll manage.

One of the things we have done is to label pretty much everything in the house that we can think of. The floor, ceiling, fridge, sink and kettle are all adorned with bright yellow and orange post-it notes (the one on the kettle turned out to be a bad idea-the heat loosened the gum and it fell off into my cup of coffee) so that she can learn the names of everyday objects. Son thought it was hilarious, just like living in the Batcave.

Now where did I leave my utility belt?

For H.

Although this photo was taken thirty years ago, it doesn't seem like more than yesterday. You're still just as pretty now. You still have that mischievous, playful smile you had then.

**Gone again!**

Happy birthday my darling. My love for you is still as strong as it was all those years ago.

An Unnatural Act

Somtimes there is a statement of intent, and often delivered with a growl.

"I want to fuck your arse".

A tacit request for permission actually, but couched in a dominant tone. It is understood by both of us that she has the final say, but she likes to feel she's being dominated and "please may I fuck your arse" just doesn't do it.

Sometimes there is an unspoken statement of intent in the subtle exploration with fingertips or tongue straying across her glossy smooth perineum and circling around her arse, interpreting her little moans of pleasure as an invitation to go further.

And sometimes it just happens. Unannounced, unrehearsed, unexpected.

That's how it was last night. For various reasons, outlined previously, sex has been pretty low on the agenda this last week or so as all we have wanted to do when we have finally got to bed is sleep. Last night however, despite being past midnight, we found that we simply couldn't keep our hands off each other.

I stroked her face, scrunching her head against the curls of my chest and feeling the first little thrills of arousal coursing through her body. She stroked my cock and felt it stiffen under her touch.

Her legs intertwined with mine and we held each other closer, trying to get as much surface area in contact with each other as we possibly could. I lifted my body slightly, allowing her to clasp her legs around my middle, and slid gently into her. Heather likes to be dominated, to be pinned down and fucked hard, but tonight was a night for sharing: For satiating the longing in both of us. Her body rocked in a gentle counterpoint to mine as I penetrated deeply, but gently, inside her.

Indicating to her not to move, I disengaged and knelt up behund her while she was still lying on her side with her legs drawn up. Parting her labia ever so gently with my thumbs I sank into her again. With one hand gliding over her bottom, fondling her just the way she likes, my thumb almost found its own way to her puckered little rosebud, and only the very slightest of pressure was needed to pop it inside.

Normally we will spend a good long time preparing if we are to have anal sex, but on this occasion her arse just felt so wide and open and welcoming. Without breaking my rhythm I reached out for the ever-present tube of lube on the bedside table, put just a dot on the right place and eased into her; so deep and smooth and satisfying.

We rolled over into the spoons position and I held her around her middle in order to get every last bit if me as deep inside her as I could. Her gentle moans an purrs of well–being had been replaced by more urgent sounds; little gasps and cries accompanied by a quickening of the breath, telling me that I was pushing her nearer and nearer to the edge. I was taking my time, making it last with long slow strokes. At that moment I was determined that I was going to last as long as it took for her to come with me in her arse and I paced myself accordingly. Whether she could last the distance, however, was another matter. I was willing her to come; willing her to push her own fingers down into her juicy slit and wank herself to orgasm as I fucked her from behind.

And she did. Heather never masturbates. I mean she never does and never really has. I suppose I should take it as a compliment when she tells me that she doesn’t feel she has to when she has me to take care of it for her. But this time she did. I could feel her whole body quaking as she rubbed herself to a frenzy. She started to become more and more vocal, her cries taking on an edge of despairing urgency. I laid a finger across her open mouth so stifle her cries (we have a guest at the moment) and wished I hadn’t as she bit down on the finger harder and harder. I could feel wave after wave of contractions clutching at my cock as she came; my cue, after days of anticipation, to release my pent-up load into her rectum .

It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t prepared for. It just happened. One minute I was was stroking easily in and out of her sumptuous, slippery wet cunt and the next I had popped in next door and had propelled us both to even greater heights of pleasure.

On this particular occasion this ’unnatural act’ seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

Goodbye

No, not from me, or from this blog. Monday we said goodbye to our daughter for the next 11 months, as she boarded a plane for Brazil.

It’s what she’s been wanting for years, she’s been preparing for it and looking forward to it since it became a reality over 6 months ago. We’re all for it because we know it will be the experience of a lifetime for her, and in any case I am the local co-ordinator for a scheme which enables young people to spend a year with families on the other side of the globe. Just last month we sent another girl from town off to Australia. The scheme is so well-organised, you get blasé about it

It’s different when it’s your own kid.

It was a gruelling journey to the airport. Ten days of baking hot summer weather broke on Monday morning. With a vengance. As we drove down the motorway towards the ferry in driving rain we heard radio reports from all over the country of flood damage and road accidents caused by low visibility and aquaplaning. Driving as fast as I dared in the conditions we made the ferry with five minutes to spare.

By contrast, we had plenty of time to get from the other side of the ferry crossing to the airport, although we got absolutely drenched on the short walk from the car park to the terminal. We sat in the Burger King, eating a lunch that none of us really enjoyed. Daughter was edgy, getting upset over the slightest things. When Son excused himself, clearly wanting to go outside for a smoke, I nudged him and indicated to him to take her with him. She denies it, but we know she smokes and has done for some time. On this occasion I thought a quick cigarette might help to calm her down and Son was happy to do his brotherly duty.

There was a party of about 30 travelling to Brazil, and they had all met each other some weeks before at a briefing meeting. They were all checked in together as a group and then we had about half an hour before they were all to meet up again and go to departures together. They were all called up onto the staircase leading to departures for one final group photo. I brushed the tears from her cheeks and told her how proud I was of her as I hugged her. Heather was in tears too. It was only then that the enormity of what was happening started to hit me. Up until then I had just suppressed the thought that this was the last we will see of her until 11th July next year. Our daughter is going to be somebody else’s daughter for a year and, one way or another, it is bound to be a life-changing experience.


Footnote:
30 hours it took her to reach her final destination. She phoned us at 2.20 this morning,having just arrived in the southern city of Maringá. It was 10.20 pm local time and she was about to go out to eat with her new family. That must be the first of many cultural differences she’ll experience; in this country if you tried to get a table at a restaurant after about 7.30 you’d get treated to a look of withering disdain from the Maître d’ and surly service from the waiters.

She's Damaged My Ring

Well that got your attention, didn't it?


This is a picture of my ring finger. With a ring on it.



As you can see, it had a section soldered into it when I was bigger than I am now, and one of the joins has come unsoldered, but being of quite thick silver it takes quite a bit of force to push it out of shape.

Like Alfie, I use the ring finger of my right hand for one other specific purpose, other than the wearing of this ring. It is my finger of choice for pleasuring Heather. Now, I have mentioned before that she really cannot orgasm unless her legs, and more specifically her thighs, are squeezed hard together. Thus my fingers tend to get crushed in the heat of the moment so I often take the ring off beforehand. The other night I had forgotten, and she was more enthusiastic than usual, leading to it being reduced a good couple of sizes, crushed under the force of her thighs. It took quite a lot of effort with the soft-jawed pliers to bend it back into shape. I must get round to soldering it again.

And I must remember to take it off or one day it’ll get lost up there.