Not Tonight Either, Josephine

This evening, we were both out. Heather to her Business-Ladies piss-up, me to band practice. We’re giving a concert the week after next and just been given this to learn from scratch: (This isn't us, btw. Fortunately for me, and the audience, we have a brilliant tenor sax taking the solo instead of yours truly on the guitar)



When she got home, Heather put her best blouse and my white dress-shirt in the washing machine at 30° so as to be clean for the weekend, before going into the office to sort out the bookkeeping.

It’s now just gone midnight. The office is strewn with receipts and invoices. The accountant is due first thing in the morning and the washing machine has just flooded the floor with boiling hot (boiling hot? wtf??) water.

Looks like it’s going to be a late night again.

(Not only that, Heather may have to find some time tomorrow to go clothes shopping. Oh the hardship and privation!)

No HNT: No Comment*

There is no Half Nekkid Thursday contribution from this here again this week, I’m afraid. I had a brilliant picture lined up, but at the moment it exists only in my imagination. In the future, this won’t be a problem. We’ll all have mini-USB sockets implanted just below the right ear so that we can upload images and manuscripts direct from our imagination and onto the screen, just as easily as uploading files off your Palm, but for now we are still encumbered with keyboards and word processors.

And cameras.

I’d run out of decent photos to post - and Heather had vetoed all the indecent ones – so a new photo session was called for. I asked Heather what if we had anything planned for last night, having been out to various meetings the two previous evenings. She couldn’t think of anything offhand, and there was nothing worth watching on the telly so all seemed set. I said she should start thinking about how she would like to pose, if there were any shots she’d like me to take.

Then, just as we were finishing up supper, Heather mentioned that as it is the end of the month, she would have to go into the office and sort out the payroll. It turned out to be a longer job than anticipated because there were extra days worked over the Christmas break. Then there was the ordering. There is always ordering. Without giving too much away about the nature of our business, almost all our clients orders have to be processed individually. The details have to be entered onto our client database and the orders are sent electronically to one of two major suppliers. Because additional hardware is required to process the orders, with each supplier having their own unique variant, it makes operational sense to have one pc dedicated to each supplier, so Heather and I sit side by side in the office, swapping records back and forth between machines according to which one of us took the order, and where it is going to be sent. Normally, we don’t get time to do this during the working day and, as previously mentioned, we were out the previous two evenings so there was a backlog. We didn’t finish until after 1 am and then only because one of the digitisers had a sulk and refused to talk to its computer any more, so we declared ’game over’ and went to bed.

Too late to get the camera set up. Those pictures will just have to stay in my head for a little bit longer. Too tired for anything else, either. We just went straight to sleep. At least we are still busy at work, and that is something to be grateful for in these times when, almost daily, there is news of some major company or other over here laying off staff, and when two shops and a restaurant in our little town have gone tits-up within the last six weeks.

But I just can’t get the image out of my head of Heather and I, thirty years from now, sitting in our rocking chairs, with blankets over our laps and me saying to Heather,

”I do wish we had spent more evenings like that”.


*with apologies to the 'The Financial Times'

Fuck You Jacqui

Her shackled hands scrabbled vainly at his, scratching desperately at the skin as they closed inexorably around her throat...

I make no excuse for re-posting this picture. Call it an expression of my disgust and contempt for the worst British Home Secretary in living memory, Jacqui Smith.

If you're reading this in England, Wales or Northern Ireland then it would probably be best not to download this picture and the accompanying text if you don't want the police banging at your door. The story is pure fiction, the act depicted was posed and consensual, but it would be up to you to prove that in a court of law. Such are the provisions of Section 63 of the Criminal Justice and Immigration Act 2008 which came into force yesterday. Under this new law it is a criminal offence to posess an 'extreme pornographic image'. For a fuller explanation of the law and it's implications, visit Backlash.

You might have thought that our hard-pressed police force would have enough to do, tackling knife crime, violent robberies, drug-dealing and the like, without having to deal with the whole new category of criminals created overnight by this legislation.

The whole business might be seen to have its roots in the murder of Jane Longhurst in 2003 and the campaign by her mother, Liz, to 'Clean up the net in her name'. Speaking as a parent, what happened to Jane Longhurst is every parent's worst nightmare and I hope that Graham Coutts, the murderer, never gets to see the light of day again, but the criminalisation of ordinary people and the prying into what they do in the privacy of their own homes does no service to the memory of this young woman. Coutts claimed that it was viewing pictures of extreme violence and strangulation, downloaded from the web that made him commit the crime. Well, he would say that, wouldn't he? Far easier for him in his own twisted mind than to take the blame upon himself.

The 'popular' press got behind the campaingn, of course. Nothing like a good sex murder to fill column inches and boost ailing circulation, then there is the lucrative spin-off of premium-rate phone and text services under the guise allowing the great British public a voice. Baying for blood while all the time laughing all the way to the bank. The hypocrisy of the British press knows no bounds. And the government has been eager to use this 'groundswell of public opinion' to introduce legislation which seriously limits individual rights and liberties. What we have seen brought into law is only the beginning. They have shown recently that they are not above using heavy handed tactics on a member of parliament who was prepared to expose government blunders and incompetence. How long before the Home Secretary gives herself the powers to trawl the hard discs of anyone on the net, and why stop at pornography? Woe betide anyone who comes into posession of evidence of, for example, serious government corruption. If you think that too far-fetched, just look at the case of Hans Martin Tillack, a respected German reporter who has been hounded and wrongfully arrested for exposing corruption in the highest levels of the EU bureaucracy. This legislation is not about porn, it is ultimately about stifling dissent.

Is the legislation really going to work? How many lives will it save? Would the threat of six months in prison really have deterred someone who was prepared to murder for his own sexual gratification?

One life lost in this way is a tragedy, but clearly the 18,000 or so lives lost on our roads since Jane Longhurst's murder is merely a statistic, something we accept without getting too worked up about it. Until it happens to someone close to you. Try getting the national press to campaign on behalf of a mother whose daughter is killed by a drunk driver and see what response you will get. It's just not news anymore.

Interrogation Time

The lovely Joanna Cake took up my request for her to interview me. The results are a little bit further down.

If you'd like me to interview you, then here are the rules:

1. The first to say in this comments box: 'C'mon big boy, do your worst with me' will have their virtual underwear drawer well and truly rummaged through.

2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.

3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

So, without further ado, here are my five questions á la Cake.

1. Just like my favourite investigative detective, Gene Hunt, I am dressed in cowboy boots and a full-length camel coloured coat. Naturally, this reveals an ample cleavage and the hint of black lace. My leather-gloved fist is slapping into the other palm in a very intimidating fashion. It's clear that I'm not prepared to take any prisoners. Before we get started, is there anything that you would like to confess...?


Under that treatment I wouldn’t last five minutes before confessing to everything from sinking the ‘Titanic’ to kidnapping Shergar. I confess I sometimes blog during working hours, even though The Boss (Heather) tells me I mustn’t.



2. Have you always kept a diary/journal?

No. I have always enjoyed writing but, like most people, I have tried several times to keep a diary and always failed. Just before our son was born in 1988. I was working on a research project in Cardiff and was away from home during the week. I kept a diary at that time because I wanted to be able to look back at it and see how I felt at that time, about separation, about impending fatherhood and the meaning of it all. It lasted a surprisingly long time but, and I know this sounds silly, because I knew that nobody else was ever going to read it I felt terribly self-conscious writing it. I really had to struggle with myself to get my true feelings down on the page. It was as if there was someone reading it over my shoulder all the time. Strangely, I have no such inhibitions about writing the most intimate and revealing things on a blog, which can be read by anybody. If I know that there are potential readers then I suddenly lose that self-consciousness and the feeling that it is foolish and pointless. Blogging for me has been a very liberating experience.

The only other diaries I have kept have been on our various booze cruises around the canal system of England, and these mostly record the pubs visited and the volumes of beer consumed.


3. You and Heather have one of the most successful long-term marriages that I know and I am extremely envious. Has there ever been a time when you thought you might split up?

I’m blushing here. If you want to see a REALLY successful marriage then look no further than Alfie and Emma. Oh yes, we went through a rocky patch in the early ‘90s. As mentioned above, I had given up a well-paid job to pursue a course of research, with Heather effectively supporting me. I had one supervisor leave the university for a job in industry, leaving me high and dry, another supervisor died on me and I had my original funding pulled. At the end of it all it was a question of cutting my losses and getting out with nothing to show for it, or of throwing good money after bad in an attempt to make something out of the data I had managed to collect. We opted for the former in the end but when the tough decision had to be made Heather confided in a friend that she was ready to walk out. I can’t say I would have blamed her because the whole thing was incredibly stressful and I was far from blameless for letting it go on for so long when I should have seen what was inevitable and got out sooner.



4. I notice that you've been getting into some bondage recently. Describe the least vanilla sexual scenario that you and Heather have ever attempted... and would you do it again?

I wouldn’t say ‘recently’. The first pair of handcuffs I bought was in 1988 in an interesting little shop just off The Hayes in Cardiff whose windows were full of high-heeled patent leather boots and other gear; I wonder if it’s still there? I digress.


It’s a difficult question because one man’s (or woman’s) vanilla is another’s peach melba. What seems commonplace to us might be pushing the limits for others and vice versa. For me, being allowed to come in Heather’s mouth is a rare treat whereas anal is, while not routine, certainly well within our established repertoire. For others, I know, that is quite the other way round. If you’re thinking rubber and gasmasks and that kind of thing, it doesn’t really do it for us. Dressing up doesn’t really excite and I find nurses’ uniforms just plain tacky, if not offensive. I would like to explore sensory deprivation a bit more, as mentioned here.


On a couple of occasions I have pushed Heathers’ knickers up into her cunt, then rolled them into a ball and stuffed them into her mouth, securing them with her bra fastened around her head, and then fucked her in the arse with her hands tied behind her back. That must count as pretty non-vanilla. Heather didn’t enjoy it that much so we probably won’t do this too often.



One other occasion springs to mind. Heather was about 8½ months pregnant. She was sitting astride me, because that was the most comfortable for her, and bouncing up and down. All of a sudden she started spontaneously lactating. My head and chest were hosed in copious sprinklings of her milk. That was the most amazing turn-on though, sadly, one I am never likely to experience again.


5. If you could meet someone from history, who would it be and what piece of advice would you give them?

The person I would most like to meet would undoubtedly be Sir Isaac Newton. There is hardly an aspect of science or mathematics that was not been touched by his lasting influence. It would be hard, however, to offer this great man any advice. If anything it would be not to compete with Huygens as to whether light is a wave or a particle, but to work with him on the conjecture that it is both.

It might be interesting to meet the Marquis de Sade. I think the best advice I could give him would be ‘Whatever floats your boat, but for God’s sake be a bit more discreet!’

So there you have it. Thanks to Ms Cake for that. Go and visit her blog if you don't already.





Candidates for an proper going over at my hand, form an orderly queue in the comments box!

No, Honestly

I got this award from the lovely Lady In Red about a week ago, but have been somewhat swamped with other things. Better late than never.

Right from day one of this blog it has said in my profile ’Everything you read here is true’ and I have tried to live up to that. What would be the point of deceit? Who would I be fooling? Anyway, here are the guidelines when winning the Honest Scrap award:

1. List 10 honest things about yourself (try to make it interesting, even if you have to dig deep!)

2. Pass the award on to 10 bloggers

I didn’t quite know how to interpret this. Does it mean ’List 10 things about yourself in an honest way, warts and all. way, or does it mean ’List 10 things that show you are an honest person’? I dunno, so the following list is a bit of a combination of the two.

1) As the preceding paragraph shows, I am inclined to be pedantic. To ponder over a problem, tease it out and weigh up the different ways to tackle it rather than actually getting on with it.

2) I have never had sex with anyone else apart from Heather, since I met her or even before.

3) For all that we enjoy a bit of kinky sex now and again (Bondage, spanking, whipping, nipple clamping etc) I have never raised a hand to Heather in anger.

4) Heather didn’t know about this blog at the beginning. I started it as a bit of an experiment, a creative outlet, but found that I just couldn’t let it go and it just grew. What I wasn’t prepared for was the friends you make throough blogging and that was ultimately something I just had to share with her. I regret I didn’t do it earlier because she has always encouraged me and is an avid reader.

5) Heather and I first met as students in London. She made it perfectly clear right from the start that she was planning to return to her native country and that if we were to have any future together it would ultimately be over here. We moved here 13 years ago. If you’d have asked me 2 years ago if I regretted the move I would have said ’yes’; I missed England terribly to start with, but with the state of the economy and the way the present government is running UK into the ground, with stealth taxes, bin inspectors and bureaucracy as never before, I would not be so sure today.

6) One of my pet peeves is littering. I get so angry when I see someone just chucking their waste down on the street. It is so unneccesary and seems to me to be a very arrogant thing to do. However, I must confess to discreetly leaving half an exhaust system behind the toilets at a filling station in Germany once. I had dragged it 100 km down the autobahn and I wasn’t going to drag it all the way to England. I couldn’t very well put it in a litter bin and it’s not as if I threw it in a bush or into an old quarry or something. I propped it up against a wall, round the back, where someone would find it and dispose of it properly. There, I feel better for having confessed that. (I’ll probably have the Politzei round now, battering down my front door at first light…”ACH ZO!, You’re ze bazdardt…”)

7) I have never taken any form of narcotic drug. Not even smoked a joint. I was at a party once where joints were being smoked in a back room, but I didn’t inhale. I have led a very sheltered life.

8) I think I am reasonably good at my job, but I am hopeless with money. Fortunately, Heather is very good at her job and is also very good with money. She is the real driving force behind our business.

9) I tend to have half a dozen projects on the go at any one time, with the consequence that I never get any one of them finished and never seem to have time for anything. The loft is full of junk that I have accumulated over the years because it ’might come in useful one day’ or ’I know what to do with that, just as soon as I get the time’. It is rather scary to realise that I will soon have had some of the stuff for more years than I can reasonably expect to have left in which to use it! My New Year resolution is to ditch the half-dozen moribund VCRs, all of which need just a little attention to get them working. The’re obsolete anyway, even the UHF tuners won’t be any good after we go digital in November…Although VCRs do contain some very neat minature ball bearings which I could salvage…Don’t get me started again!

10) I don’t drink a lot of spirits. A single malt or a fine cognac on occasions. A glass of snaps with the family to be sociable. But most of all I drink beer. Not lager, DEFINITELY not Carlsberg, but good, honest English beer. If we should ever meet, buy me a beer and I’ll be your friend for life!

As for passing on the award, being so slow off the mark I would imagine that most people I know have probably already been nominated, so anyone who hasn’t, just pick it up and I will be pleased to pass on the award!

Maybe It's Better Not To Know

'Insano' is apparently the highest water slide in the world. You don't need to be able to speak Portugese to understand the name! It has a drop of 135 feet and accelerates you from 0-60mph in just over 4 seconds...






...And that was our daughter trying it out.

The tower looks like it is made from old bits of lumber just nailed together. Hopefully that is just for effect!

Delaying Tactics

I had to be somewhere early Friday morning, so we decided on an ’early’ night Thursday evening. While Heather got herself ready for bed, I drove up the road to fill the car with petrol.

When I got back she was in her dressing gown, an unglamourous creation it must be admitted, but she shed it straight away to reveal the black satin bra and panties with red embroidery which she had put on while I had been away. We stretched out on the bed together and kissed, and kissed, and kissed. My hands slid over her satin clad breasts and bottom as she took charge of my stiffening cock.

I persuaded her to part her legs by patting her inner thighs purposefully, so that I could run my hand round that smooth strip between her legs from front to back and then return. She moaned her appreciation but soon pushed me away so that she could get rid of the panties altogether. She was already soaking wet, and I dabbled my fingertips into her cunt so as to draw out some of her juices to moisten her clit.

It would have been so easy to just bring her off with my fingers there and then, but there was no rush, and in any case, I wanted more. I turned around on the bed and lifted her legs so that I could curl round behind them and reach her cunt with my tongue. She tasted sweet as I dipped into the pool of wetness there. She spread her legs wide so as to form a big V in the air to allow me to stroke my tongue up and dowm her cleft from her perineum to her clit. I sucked in mouthfuls of her ruffled inner labia, teased around her clit and dipped as deep as I could into her.

Soon, her legs started to close together, a sure sign of impending orgasm, but I wanted to prolong things a bit. I was half-leaning on her one leg in any case and I caught hold of the other behind the knee, forcing them apart again while tonguing her clit even more intensely. She bucked and writhed, she twisted and turned but she could not get her legs together. It was like wrestling with a wild animal as I struggled to hold her legs apart and she struggled to slip free, clamp her legs together and enjoy the release that orgasm would bring.

I relented at last, pulling back my head to prevent it from being crushed between her powerful thighs and slipping a hand in there instead. She came almost straight away, with shrieks and gasps and, at last, a few tears. I let her recover for a good few minutes before gently rolling her over onto her front, tenderly taking hold of her hips and encouraging her to lift them into the air for me, feeding my cock carefully between those engorged lips and then hammering into her for all I was worth until I too gained my release from all the tensions and worries of the day.

We slept well that night and I woke up fresh and alert next morning, despite my early start.

Meanwhile, 5000 Miles Away In A Nightclub In Fortoleza

Daughter is halfway through her year-long stay in Brazil as an exchange student. At the moment she is on a tour of the north-east of the country with 60 or so other young people of all natiuonalities. The tour operator has been sending us regular updates on their progress by e-mail and posts new pictures and video clips every day which I think is a brilliant idea, although I could have done without the one where she is hanging out of the back of a dune buggy going down a near-vertical sand dune, waving and cheering like a lunatic.

This clip was made a few days ago, just about the same time as mummy and daddy were beginning to appreciate what fun can be had when there are no kids living at home. She's there, if you know where to look, and I must say she really looks as if she's missing home dreadfully!

HNT: Restraint

Is she the one being restrained...or is she restraining me?

Happy HNT everybody!

The Next Six Months Should Be Fun

It was 1.30 am. Pretty much our usual bedtime these days. She sat on the edge of the bed, undressing. I lay flat on my back admiring her and trying to emulate a rolling landscape with a solitary flagpole sticking up.

She leaned over to kiss me. A goodnight kiss.

”Look” I said. ”He’s standing to attention in your honour”

Without saying a word she swung a leg over me like she was mounting a Harley and slowly sank down onto me, guiding me into her and brushing my face with her breasts. Any fears that she might be painfully dry vanished as she impaled herself on me. She was deliciously, lusciously wet.

”Have you been having impure thoughts while you were in the bathroom?” I said, accusingly.

”I’ve been wet all evening” She replied. ”In fact I’ve been wet the last few evenings if you had but noticed. I think it’s something to do with not being stressed. The stocktake went better than I dared hope, I’m on top of the bookkeeping, we don’t have the kids to worry about on a daily basis”

She stretched out with her hands behind her head and arched her back. I reached up and cupped her gorgeous breasts as she ground her hips backwards and forwards on me. It just felt so good. -Ladies, have you any idea how good it feels when you do that?- Then she leaned over me and dangled her soft breasts in my face, teasing me as I tried to entrap a nipple between my lips. She squatted up and pounded up and down on me and then leaned forward and lifted her hips a little clear so that I could arch my back and thrust up into her. And we repeated this again and again until we were both breathless.

I rolled clear of her, and she positioned herself on all fours, face down in the pillow, her bum jutting up in the air, proudly displaying her wares. I sank myself deep into her and we both sighed as my balls nudged up against those swollen protruding labia. I clasped her waist a little too hard in my enthusisam and she had to give a gentle word of correction. As I settled into a steady rhythm she reached between her legs and I could feel her fingertips on me as I slid in and out of her. What she was doing to herself I was in no position to see.

Heather didn’t orgasm on this occasion: Sometimes the journey itself is more rewarding than the destination. When I came, however, it was long and intense and I carried on pushing into her long after the last drops had been delivered. Not bad for what was supposed to be a quickie. As usual, the box of tissues was just out of reach on the floor so, still joined, we shuffled across the bed in tandem like some grotesque caterpillar.

I’m sure Heather has a point here. We love our son dearly but having him living at home could be stressful. As a parent you can’t help looking out for your offspring. Now there’s a greater degree of separation. He’s out to work every day and responsible for everything from getting himself up in time for the bus, to making sure he doesn’t run out of toilet paper, to feeding himself properly, and we don’t need to feel the same concern. I’m sure Daughter will cause just as much grief when she comes home in July, but until then there’s never been a better time to start enjoying life a little.

We’ve got six months of freedom, starting from….

NOW!

WWW: Wednesdays Weird Word 5

An easy one today:

PATTER!

Go on, use your imagination.

BIG clue, it's a plural.


Back soon

I'll Get My People To E-Mail Your People...OK?

The stocktaking to which we had dedicated our weekend was nowhere near as horrendous as it has been in the past. The first year we were in this business I remember having all our stock in great mountains on the kitchen table, the dining table, sideboards, window sills in fact any flat surface we could find as we noted the individual items down by hand and tried to assign values to them. These days most of the stock is on the computer system, and it is simply a matter of going round with the hand-held barcode scanner and bipping the individual items in. We had made such good progress by Saturday evening that we felt we could have a little lie-in on Sunday morning before tackling the rest.

A little lie-in that involved much pressing up against each other, intertwining of soft, warm limbs around one another, much nuzzling and feeling, cupping and squeezing. In my head I was working out where to go with this: A gentle finger or two, perhaps, sliding across her stomach and down into the inviting dark forest betwen her legs? Perhaps I should kiss my way down her body and encourage her to part her legs as I placed my head between them? Maybe not, as that would involve major rearrangements of the duvet and we were just so snug and warm under it.

In the end I could wait no longer. I had to get inside her. In the mornings her juices are so thick and sweet and viscous, it seemed a shame to dilute them by stimulating her further. It also seemed a shame to venture fingers up inside her when she was so tight and snug, just like the first time we made love. Just a little dab of spit on my cock to help it past the outer dryness and into the enveloping silkiness that is her. In a way I feel sorry that Heather can never know how glorious it is to be pushing deep inside her while she lies with her legs spread wide in that wonderful act of giving. That feeling of privilege that she has something wonderful to give and she chooses to give it to me. I only hope that the feeling of being filled, which I will never know, is just as pleasurable for her as the feeling I have of being allowed into her most intimate place.

I penetrated her with long, slow, deliberate strokes, luxuriating in those thick morning juices, pushing my feet against the bed-end to get as deep into her as I could go, kissing her neck as she kissed mine. But in the back of my mind was the nagging little thought that we would have to get up at some stage. Despite our good progress there was still work to be done. I thought I’d better up the tempo a bit. I eased out of her and encouraged her to roll over onto her front. She automatically started to go on all fours; she loves doggy-style, but I wanted her flat on the bed and I had her stretch out while I carefully parted her bum-cheeks, slid into he and stretched myself out on top of her, burying my face in her hair, drinking in the scent of her. Not of her shampoo, or her antiperspirant, or her shower gel, but of her.

Eventually I relented and let her up into her favourite position, clasped her gorgeous rounded buttocks and pounded into her, driving the breath out of her in gasps, just the way she likes it. I spread my hands out across her backside until first the tip of one thumb, and then the other, were resting on the very rim of her arsehole, pressing in with every thrust. Then one after the other, those two thumbs were wetted and eased inside. I knew then that I wasn’t going to be able to resist fucking her arse and so, I think, did she. Without breaking the rhythm I reached down beside the bed for the lube…

I slid in easily. A little pressure, a sudden giving way, a little gasp from Heather and I was there, deep inside her, right up to the hilt. The tighness that enfolded even closer than before, the sight of my cock swallowed up in her tight arse, the roundness of her buttocks under my hands, the curve of her back and her cries were all conspiring against my holding out very much longer and I exploded deep up inside her before subsiding, spent, back on my heels for a moment’s respite before devoting all my attention to her pleasure. Her head was down in the pillow with her bum stuck right up in the air. After what she had just accommodated there was no problem slipping an index finger deep into her arse to paddle in my juices there. Two fingers went into her cunt and the tip of little finger rested on her clit. She clenched her thighs together, closing over my hand.. This was going to take less than a minute.

In the stillness that followed we lay side by side in the half light of the grey January morning. I wanted it always to be like this, like those Saturday afternoons when we were students in London. After lunch in the hall of residence we would go back to her room, turn on Capital Radio and explore the feel, the taste and the scent of each other’s bodies until teatime. Long lazy afternoons with no one to see except each other, nothing to do except make love, hold each other close, have a cup of coffee, make love again, trace patterns on the other’s skin, snooze a little and wake up to make love once more. We just don’t have weekends like that any more, there’s always something or other that has to be done. Heather suggested that we simply set aside a weekend for just that purpose, to put it in the diary, as immovable an event as any of the others and maybe it’s the only way we’re going to manage it but then the spontaneity is lost and I know that, while Heather loves sex, she hates being in a situation where it is pretty much a foregone conclusion.

But maybe it is the best solution. I’ll make an appointment to see her and she’ll make an appointment to see me. We’ve not got too much lined up for next weekend just yet so who knows?

Let’s just hope it rains.

Rubber Goat

So, what on earth is a 'gummiged', or 'rubber goat'?

Here is a link to the website of a very nice firm who would be delighted to sell you one.

What you do with it is up to you.

Entries were a bit thin on the ground, but even if there had been a dozen suggestions I think it would have been difficult to top Nitebyrd's contention that a gummiged is a receptacle to be kept beside the bed to store excess semen. The mind boggles!

The Christmas Present

So what was the Christmas present that I wouldn’t let Heather unwrap in front of the assembled family? It was this



I had heard good things of the We-vibe, for example this review from Alex and Suze which, like many of their reviews, gets you turned on just reading it so I thought that with it’s twin vibrators to work both the clitoris and g-spot, and the fact that is it slim enough to enable penetration at the same time, this would be just the thing to help us attain that (for us) still elusive sexual holy grail of the simultaneous orgasm. We tried it one cold, grey morning a few days after Christmas, one of the days when we allowed ourselves to stay in bed all morning. The first thing that amused Heather was the carrying case. “It’s a spec case!” she exclaimed. Well, I suppose it makes it unobtrusive if you want to carry it round with you but could be a bit embarrassing if you pull it out of your handbag by mistake when you want to see the price of something in the supermarket. Could YOU tell the difference between your We Vibe and your specs?

Is the We Vibe in this one? (Roll the cursor over to reveal)

Or this one?


I turned the thing on, on the low setting to start with, and applied it to a well-lubricated Heather (part natural, part assisted) fiddling with the little c-shaped lump of silicone to get into just the right position. She purred and “mmmmm”-ed but not much more than that. I tried putting more pressure on the g-spot, more pressure on the clit but it wasn’t really doing the business as far as Heather was concerned. I hoiked it out and switched it up to maximum revs, which was by no means easy as the switch is inside the device, covered in a thick layer of slippery pink silicone.

I eased it inside her again and slid myself in right behind it. The slim design means that there is plenty of room for a cock to press the internal vibrator against the g-spot. She splayed her legs and I bore down on her, grinding the external vibrator into her clit. It was pleasant, she told me, but it wasn’t going to rock her world. Not at all like the Rabbit, which has been known to bring her to orgasm in 30 seconds flat and leave her demanding more. I also felt the double buzz, on the shaft of my cock just below the glans, and at the base and very pleasant it was too. I decided to just gently push in and out of her, not to get myself too excited, while I tried to get Heather closer to the edge. So there I was, fucking her in a nice easy relaxed way, enjoying the barely-audible buzz when suddenly I was gripped by a spasm, an orgasm that hit me out of nowhere. All at once I seemed to lose control over my limbs and I was lying flat out on top of her with my arms and legs flailing helplessly, shouting at the top of my voice.

When I had recovered sufficiently I admitted defeat, pulled out the We Vibe and pleasured her with my trusty fingers. It hadn’t worked for her on this occasion but, DAMN!!! It made me come like a train. I think we’re just going to have to practice using it more.

No Peace For The Wicked: Part 2

Continued from here

There was no let-up at the weekend, either. Saturday we borrowed Heather’s brother’s trailer (in this country, everybody has a towing hitch on their car and owns, or knows someone who owns, a trailer) and drove 100 miles or so to the place where the legions of the undead shuffle in endless, empty-eyed succession before displays of self-assembly Swedish furniture. Son’s gf sorry, fiancée came too as she is planning to move in with him. We managed to get him a bed, a sofa, bookcase, coffee table, and a computer desk and what is more, we managed to get them all on board the trailer.

So Sunday was spent with some father/son bonding, passing down the sort of life skills that have been handed from one generation to the next since the dawn of time. In the same way that cave men taught their sons how to make flint axes or hunt for food with bow and arrow, I carried on that proud tradition by teaching my own first-born how to assemble an Ikea bed. Armed with this new knowledge he then went on to put the coffee table together by himself, while Heather went out with his gf sorry, fiancée, and passed on the skill of shopping. It is amazing the amount of stuff you have to remember when you are kitting out a home from scratch. Fortunately the place is equipped with a fridge, there is a communal laundry room on site, and we had a spare microwave oven, so we were spared that expense.

We were invited over to the gf’s sorry, fiancee’s parents for a cup of tea so that we could actually meet face to face, so by the time we had finished up at the flat and left the young people to it, it was well past 11. With work again the next morning we just went to bed and fell straight asleep.

Well, never mind, there's always this weekend to look forward to, especially with Son out of the house at last. Think of the potential for wild, uninhibited sex, naughty photography, kinky bondage play...



Er...not quite. After three days of that never-ending round of mirth and jollity that is the 'Post-Christmas Half-Price Sale' we get to play a little seasonal game in our busines called 'The Annual Stocktake'. As soon as we close at Saturday lunchtime, Heather and I get started on counting every last miserable item we have for sale in our business, and it must all be finished before we open again on Monday. I forsee sleepless nights ahead, and not in a good way.



No peace for the wicked, or should that be 'No wicked for the peaceful'?







I'll give you one last chance on the Wednesday Weird Word, people. What is a 'Gummiged'? what would YOU do with a rubber goat?

HNT: Trust

For her, the turn-on is the feel of my hands closing around her neck.

For me, the turn-on is knowing that she trusts me completely.

The History Teacher

The boys of form 1e at the King’s Grammar School, Redbridge gaped in amazement as the new history teacher entered the classroom. Teachers, especially history teachers, were supposed to be slightly shabby middle-aged men in tweed jackets, invariably with leather patches on the elbows. The person that met their astonished eyes was young, tall, lean. His dark hair was combed back into a pony tail, he had two piercings in his lower lip and wore a Metallica t-shirt, camo trousers, high combat boots with shiny steel toecaps, a studded leather belt round his waist and a studded leather strap on his wrist alongside a chunky watch and admission armbands from various rock festivals. Even the sides of his black spectacle frames were studded. Rumours had circulated the school for days about sightings of a highly unconventional student-teacher. Now here he was, standing before them. Student teachers were generally regarded as fair game for every prank and form for misbehaviour known to the schoolboy mind but there was something about his manner and bearing which, while in no way threatening, just said “Don’t even think of messing with me”.

“You can put away your textbooks” he announced. “Today I want you to think. I want you to think about leaders. From tribal chieftains, to medieval monarchs, to present-day heads of state. What makes a good leader? What makes a bad one? What are the differences between how leaders are selected today from how they were in the past? Hands up, who can name a famous leader from the past? What were their achievements? What brought about their downfall?”

The class were captivated. For the first time, history was more than The Battle of Hastings, 1066, The Battle of Agincourt, 1415 or the battle of Bosworth Field, 1485. More than the dates of sucession of the Stuart Monarchs. History was suddenly alive, relevant, even interesting.

That’s the kind of history teacher I wish I had had when I went to school. The reason for this flight of fancy? Son is currently in his first month-long period of school placement and today was his first time taking a class solo. A history class. That’s the kind of teacher he wants to be.

He’ll make us proud of him yet.

No Peace For The Wicked - Part 1

Christmas… A few days free, time to relax, catch up with missing sleep, missing posts, missing sex. Then, when we finally return to work no crowds of angst-ridden shoppers trying to get the last of the presents in.

No such luck.

Christmas day we had to ourselves, and made good use of it, but Boxing Day, the 26th, in a tradition as firmly rooted as football on tv or Barbour-jacketed men wandering across frozen fields firing off their twelve-bores at anything that flies, we went to the in-laws for dinner. This is a law of nature, apparently. At Christmas, Easter and Whitsun we have no option but to tear a day out of the calendar troop up to theirs so as to sit around a table for hours on end with the entire assembled family and become variously drunk, argumentative, sulky, sleepy or frustrated depending on age and temperament.

Then we had to drive out on one of the days and inspect Son’s new flat. Yes, he finally got to the head of the waiting list and was offered a good-sized flat in a block of student residences very close to his college. Unfurnished, so we had to go out there and measure up for curtains and see how much room we had for furniture.

Monday we were open in the business again after the break and if there is one thing worse than facing a crowd of Christmas shoppers it’s facing a crowd of Christmas present recipients, all intent on exchanging their carefully selected gifts, all with no idea what they really want, just a very clear idea of what they don’t want i.e. what they have been given. It was blue bloody murder. With a month in which to exchange their gifts, most made it with just 30 days to spare. At times the post-Christmas rush was worse than the pre-Christmas rush

New Years Eve was a blessed respite. We closed at 1pm, got Son shipped off to a party, ate big, juicy steaks, drank Asti Spumante, red wine, vintage cider and at last champagne as we saw the new year in down at our little summerhouse, just us two. At midnight we trooped down to the water’s edge to see the fireworks from the town and from the other towns all the way up the coast. Our two kids both phoned us around midnight. Daughter from Brazil and Son from his party in town, to tell us that he and his gf (M2 for those of you following the plot) had taken the opportunity of their new years party to announce to everyone that they were engaged. Despite the sub-zero temperatures outside, it was snug and warm in our summerhouse, with a roaring log fire, but the hectic schedule and quantity of alcohol had taken its toll, there was to be no seeing the new year in with a bang…we just fell asleep in the armchairs by the fire.

The whole Christmas/New Year thing was just a blur really, so just a few fragmented recollections of the stuff I was going to write…

They say that semen is only stored in the body for a certain amount of time, and that going without ejaculating for prolonged periods does not increase the volume when you do eventually come as the surplus simply gets re-absorbed. I don’t know what the optimum time is for maximum volume although I’m sure that information is out there on The Web somewhere. As predicted, Heather and I didn’t have an awful lot of time for sex in the run up to Christmas, so when we finally did, I was interested to see how much I would actually come. So interested, in fact, that I pulled out just before I came and scooted up until I sat astride her, so as to spray it over her chest. Now I don’t know whether it is the effect of advancing age, or of the vasectomies (both of them), or of adequately frequent ejaculation, but I don’t tend to produce very large volumes usually. This wasn’t usually. I came like a porn star. Heather squealed as I flooded her upper torso. Spurts of semen sprayed her under the chin and ran down to join the rivulets that were channelled by her breasts into her supra-sternal notch, to pool there for a moment before streaming down either side of her neck and onto the pillowcase. There seemed like gallons of it and we had to use tissue after tissue to soak it all up.

Top Tip, by the way. If you use tissues to wipe up afterwards, don’t use the Kleenex ones with lotion in them, they disintegrate way too easily and you’ll be picking fragments of paper out of your important little places for the next day or so.

Quote of the (Christmas) week, with thanks to Heather: “I know they say that it’s sign of getting old when policemen look younger. It must be a sign of getting VERY old when even Santa looks younger”.

No more for now. Hopefully I’ll get time soon to recount what exciting things we did last weekend, how I passed on age-old life-skills to my son, and what happened when we tried out Heather’s Christmas present from me (the one I didn’t let her unwrap in front of the family).



Oh yes, nearly forgot….This week’s

WEDNESDAY’S WEIRD WORD!!!!

It’s............... GUMMIGED.

To give you absolutely no help at all, it translates literally as ‘Rubber Goat’.

What on earth is a rubber goat, and what would you use one for?

Suggestions please (the filthier the better).