-------The sexually explicit diary of an outwardly ordinary couple------
Be advised: contains language of an explicit nature. If you are under the age of 18, read no further. If you are offended by good, honest, earthy Anglo-Saxon words then look elsewhere: You'll find I use them rather a lot. You'll find no coy euphemisms or flowery adjectives here. If it is illegal to read this material where you are right now you should leave at once and find somewhere where it is legal.
I, like most men I suppose, am a serial processor whereas Heather, like most women, can happily multi-task. This quality came in very useful last night.
It was well past our bedtime, even for a Friday night. I had been taking longer than expected over catching up on my favourite blogs and when I eventually went upstairs I was expecting to find Heather in bed. She was, however, sitting in the lounge, engrossed in a film on the television.
Well, I was hot and bothered and wanting to get horizontal, and Heather didn’t really want to miss the last half hour of the film, so I stripped off and plonked myself down in my favourite armchair, beside her.
Without saying a word, and without taking her eyes off the TV she slipped off her chair and onto her knees, leaning forward over the foot rest, and slipped her trousers and panties over her lovely round bottom..
I was a little taken aback by this. Of course we have fucked while watching the TV before, but usually it is the one in the bedroom, showing the kind of video specifically designed to –ahem- enhance sexual activity. Fucking Heather while she was completely detached and enjoying a non-pornographic film was a new experience but I was soon ready for action and squatted down behind her. She was still lost in her film as I massaged her bottom, parted her cheeks and slid cautiously into her. Despite her apparent disinterest she was soaking wet and I was soon banging away enthusiastically inside her until, all too soon, I came with a roar which must have been heard in the street outside. Fortunately, at 2am said street is usually deserted, even on a Friday.
She looked away from the TV briefly to direct me to where a bit of kitchen towel fortunately happened to be lying and I wiped up the worst of the damage before slumping down in the armchair again and seeing the rest of the film with her.
I have been admiring Trixie's Toonlets for the last few weeks and, just the other day, the following conversation took place between Heather and me which seemed just perfect for a toonlet of it's own...
I can't help thinking we Brits drew the short straw. Daughter is in all probability having the time of her life right now, experiencing an authentic Brazilian Carneval. In New Orleans the girls all get their tits out in return for strands of beads at Mardi Gras, or so I'm told. And what do we have?
Pancake day.
And guess which silly tosser managed to splat a half-cooked pancake on the kitchen floor?
Unless you were trained at the Basil Fawlty School Of Customer Care, you can't go telling your customers what you really think of them. You just have to bottle it up and smile, although the times I have said "Thank you SO much!" under my breath after dealing with a particularly difficult customer are to many to count.
By 1 pm Saturday, when had locked the doors against the last of the crazies, we were just shattered. After a bite of lunch, spent in embarassed silence after the big row of the night before, we just went upstairs, stripped off and lay on the bed, side by side, hardly exchanging a word.
I rested my hand on her mons, smoothing the hair there, cupping and squeezing ever so slightly. Heather rested her hand over my cock and let it grow under her touch while I delved down between her labia, seeking moistness. She gripped firmly around the base of my cock, bringing it to full hardness in an instant. I hooked a couple of fingers up into her and her back arched in appreciation then, with my fingertips wetted in the pool of her juices I teased the very tip of her clit while she wanked me slowly and deliberately. This was nothing to do with making love; this was pure need. This was using each other for comfort and stress relief.
Now, I’ve been giving Heather orgasms for long enough now, so I know exactly how to do it. She likes it hard. Fierce, even. Two fingertips, one to either side of her clit, slowly massaging. Sucking or biting on a nipple in the meantime. As she gets closer and closer, I’ll kneel up beside her and catch a nipple between thumb and finger, pinching it. With every pinch she will give out a little cry and will be lifted to another plateau. I will start to pull that nipple or twist it, hopefully keeping her just on the right side of that fine line which separates pleasure from pain.
I know exactly how to make her come. Exactly which buttons to press.
But perhaps I know the routine too well, so that it becomes too clinical, mechanical even, subconsciously going for a quick result so that we can both get some sleep.
This, however, was different. There was no frenzied rush to orgasm. We were lying side by side, flat on our backs. I kept my fingertip well wetted and slippery and just teased it over the very tip of her delicate, swollen clit in little circles and figures-of-eight, being careful not to exert any pressure at all. She stroked my cock and brushed her fingertips under my balls. My free hand did not grasp for her nipples or squeeze round her throat, Instead, it sought out her free hand and held it, fingers intertwined.
We held hands while we masturbated each other.
Heather was the first to come: With a long drawn out wail that, beneath the obvious joy, seemed to be tinged with all the anxieties and frustrations of the week. It just went on and on, and I carried on just gently teasing her clit until at last she begged me to stop.
She bent double on the bed so as to give me her full attention. I arched my back as she wanked me hard and fast, then long and slow, then fast again until at last I spurted my warm seed all the way up my belly. She reached for a couple of tissues, floated them down onto me, then patted them gently.
”That was just how it used to be” he mused, dreamily. ”Just like that night in Islev, back in 1978”, referring to the first time I had visited her in her home country, after we had been apart for the best part of three months and I had made her come fourteen times in that one night, including once in the back of a car driving through Copenhagen.
I was glad to hear that. Glad to know that we hadn’t lost the old spark. I told her, half jokingly, that I was a bit disappointed she had chosen not to wrap her lips around my cock, but she just replied enigmatically that she was saving that for later. In any case, it has been a long time since she has wanked me to orgsam and it was just what I needed.
Last week was school half-term. In this country, this means that anyone who has any sense decamps to Sweden, Norway or Austria with their foul offspring, to wrap themselves in duvets and hurl themselves down mountain sides with a couple of planks strapped to their feet.
The corollary of this is that the ones who are left behind are the ones who haven’t got any sense.
Including us.
All three of our staff members have kids in school and wanted time off to go on holiday with them. We are no longer tied to school holidays so we let them. After all, it is half-term week. It should be quiet in town. But the absence of the sane half of the town’s population was clearly a signal to the nutters that they could safely walk the streets. And where do the nutters make a bee-line for when they are allowed out?
Why, our little shop, of course.
Every business has difficult customers, naturally: The whingers, for whom nothing is ever good enough; the demanding, who have you running round in circles on their whim; the timewasters; the just plain rude and belligerent and the outright bizarre. What was different about last week was that all of our least favourite customers chose to come in at once and, with Lynne, Marian and Dot all away, Heather and I had to face them alone. They just kept on coming, one after the other. In the end, Heather and I just looked at each other with incredulity. We just couldn't understand where they were all coming from.
Plus the air-conditioning broke down. Again.
Plus our newly-delivered computerised all-singing all-dancing thingummyjig also went on the fritz, so we had to call the service engineer. Twice.
Plus we had a visit from the Council fire safety officer, who wants a fire door installed. Oh joy.
I have mentioned Brian before, the one with a clock-fetish. Our bête noir-in-chief. We don’t hear from him from months, presumably while he is busy pestering someone else, and then back he comes with incessant telephone calls both in and out of opening hours. A worrying development is that he has now worked out how to leave a message on the answering machnie. Our worry is that he will also eventually work out that the reason we don’t answer the majority of his calls is that we have ’show number’ on the phone, with his number written on the wall above it, and that he will find out how to make his number hidden. If that happens, we’re really stuffed.
It goes without saying that last week, crazies week, was when he chose to break his silence once more. He bought three alarm clocks and a wall clock in the course of three days. That would be just fine except that his idea of after-sales service is him phoning us up every half hour during the day to discuss everything from how long the batteries should last to how he had to go to the doctor with his piles.
All in all it was a very stressful week and, as sometimes happens, we took out our frustations on each other in little displays of bad temper, culminating in a huge row on Friday night when we should have just been relaxing with a good bottle of wine.
I suppose the only positive thing about a big bust-up is the make-up sex which inevitably follows….
Update.
It’s Monday, and life should be gettting back to normal but clearly, having been let out for the week, the crazies are proving a little difficult to catch. There are still a good few on the loose and we have had to deal with more than our quota of them this morning (sigh).
With all the activity at the weekend (details later), this almost slipped past unnoticed. Yesterday was the 22 February: My third blogday.
Thank you to everyone who takes the trouble to read these musings, and a special thank you to everyone who is kind enough to leave a comment every now and again. It really is appreciated.
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #160? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
I humbly submit this in lieu of a Half Nekkid Thursday posting. I don't have anything suitable just at the moment, and the photos I took on this occasion are certainly too hot to post here!
Sorry.
After our previous experiments with the camera I took to making sure I had it with me every time we went down to the summerhouse. It wasn't long before the opportunity to take more photos of my beloved as I love her best presented itself.
"Would you get out the sun-lounger for me?" she asked one Sunday, down at the summerhouse again. "I think I want to sunbathe a bit."
Heather is not a great fan of sunbathing. Despite her dark hair she has very pale skin and burns before she tans. But we have a lime tree by our porch where she can lie in the shade and enjoy the view out over the sea and the warm breezes laden with the scent of pines.
"Do you want me to put some sunscreen on your back?." I offered. Inevitably I also ended up treating her back, front, shoulders, legs and, by pulling her shorts right up into her crack, her lovely round bottom as well, savouring the feel of my hands gliding over her slippery body.
She wasn’t wearing much, just a loose sun top and a pair of shorts. As she warmed through she pulled the top up so that it bunched up under her breasts. I went to fetch the camera.
She didn't mind at all as I photographed her shoulders, traversed by the black straps. She raised no objection as I pushed those straps from her shoulders and carried on snapping. She willingly complied when I asked her to turn over and eased her breasts out into the light of day.
She rose when I held out my hand to her and she followed willingly as I led her from the midday heat into the cool of the lounge.
I sat her in the armchair.
”Play with yourself” I commanded.
She draped herself across the armchair and pulled her top clear of her breasts, resting them on her forearm. Her other hand slid under the waistband of her shorts. She closed her eyes as she delved deep between her legs, and pulled her nipples to attention. She was soon in a world of her own, oblivious to me and my camera as I photographed her from every possible angle.
I helped her out of her shorts and top and moved in for some close-up shots of her gloriously hairy cunt, with her hand ploughing through it to part the pink fleshy lips. I captured the little glistening pool of wetness that was accumulating just at the lower rim, I captured her fingers probing deeper and deeper inside herself.
I stood back for a moment, temporarily satisfied with what I had taken so far. Heather carried on masturbating, eyes tight shut, while I just stood and watched and enjoyed. I let my own shorts fall to the ground, releasing my straining cock so that I could grab hold of it and release some of the tensions growing inside me. I moved in closer to her and laid my stiff cock across her barely parted lips, holding the camera at arms length and shooting in the hope of getting some pictures worth keeping.
It was time to move through to the bedroom. Heather has never been much of a one for masturbating herself, she’s kind enough to say that with me around she has no need to, and she really needed cock inside her. After a few abortive attempts to use the camera while fucking her I laid it to one side so as not to distract me from that serious business. We did it every possible way, that hot lazy summer afternoon. Me on top, her on top, her sucking me, me sucking her, her up on all fours while I pushed a thumb into her soaking cunt and worked her clit to a screaming orgasm and then at last, as a finale, I hurriedly pulled her upright, sitting on the edge of the bed, and had her push her tits together as I came all over them and grabbed the camera one last time to record the little puddle of spunk I deposited between them.
The first photo session a few weeks earlier hadn’t been a freak one-off. It had paid to have the camera with me at all times. Despite her initial reluctance, as soon as I started snapping, Heather’s inner exhibitionist was released and she became more and more turned on as the session progressed.
I was certainly going to carry on bringing the camera with me, and I was also going to remember to bring the tripod!
I’m not gonna lie ter yer. I would like to say that when we got back from out Valentine’s dinner date we stayed up half the night having dirty sex, as prescribed.
We didn’t. We fell asleep.
We were late because we couldn’t get a table until late. We were knackered from being at a party the night before.
We were not a little drunk.
It was midday before we woke on the Sunday. We lay there groping and fondling and holding and kissing in a non-commital sort of way until eventually animal instincts got the better of us and Heather just rolled onto her back, spread her legs and invited me to climb aboard.
Then I went downstairs and made her a cup of tea.
When I came back up again she was sitting up in bed reading one of her magazines. I handed her the mug (is there anything quite so decadent as drinking Earl Grey from a mug?), climbed in beside her and started reading one of my magazines.
Yes. One of THOSE magazines. We all have them. Don’t pretend you don’t have a stash of Scandinavian hardcore within easy reach of the bed.
You do, don’t you?
It did wonders for my recycle time and I was good to go again within minutes. A long slow leisurely fuck this time as compared with the frenzied first round. Doggy style with me caressing her exquisitely rounded bum as I wallowed and sloshed around in her juices.
And mine.
The light of day was already fading when we finally got out of bed. We’d missed out on breakfast completely. Fucked our way through Brunch. It was getting on for afternoon tea time before we slipped some bread in the toaster and made another pot of tea.
The flurries of snow that had been blowing around all day took on a new intensity, just as Heather decided that what we needed was a good walk to get some fresh air. There was certainly no shortage of that as we hunched our shoulders against the bitter wind and trudged off into the gathering gloom. We made hot chocolate when we got back; just the thing in a freezing cold winter’s day. Then we ate Italian again (takeaway pizza this time), saw some TV and went to bed
And fucked some more.
One way and another, I think our Valentine’s weekend ticked most of the boxes.
Saturday morning, when I got back into the bedroom from my shower, I found a box of Belgian chocolates on my pillow. Likewise, when Heather came back from her shower, she found a bottle of herbal massage oil on her pillow.
Then, that evening, we dressed up and went out to our bestest, most favourite restaurant in all the world and had an outrageously expensive but fabulously delicious and intimate Italian meal. Just the two of us.
‘Every year, without fail, I’m forced to write yet another posting saying pretty much all the same things. Like, if you can’t be romantic all year, you don’t deserve a lover. If you can’t remember to live with passion daily, then you’re wasting oxygen…
…I say, boycott (Valentine’s) day. Stay home. Have dirty sex. Don’t support it. Don’t buy flowers. Don’t give a gift. Wait a couple weeks. Do something special every day. Take a moment out. Leave love notes. Steal a kiss. Give several small gifts over several days. Sleep in together, but don’t sleep. Do anything, everything it takes, to make things feel ALIVE again…’
Apparently we have been doing it wrong all these years. Valentine’s day is evidently not for lovers, it is for wannabe lovers who have lost, or have never known, passion and eroticism in their everyday lives.
I don’t know why this should bug me so much. Perhaps it is the thought of the writer of this piece, passing by the restaurant (however unlikely that would be), glancing in and seeing us at our table for two and writing us off as a jaded couple in a dead-end marriage, when nothing could be further from the truth.
So that’s me told. Valentine’s day isn’t for lovers anymore. Rather, it is for the loveless. I just don’t know how I’m going to break the news to Heather.
And by the way, I don’t steal kisses. I don’t need to when they are always so freely given.
I saw this over on Tixie’s blog and asked her to give me a letter for which I could list ten words which mean something to me. Of course she chose the letter H
And who am I to argue with that? However, I did find some other H’s
1) HEATHER…Of course, how could it be otherwise? (you can release your grip on my balls now, darling. On second thoughts…)
2) HAIR (Facial): Up until last autumn I had worn a moustache and/or beard since about 1980 and Heather always said she liked me that way. However, with increasing senility, the hairs were becoming considerably more bristly which was starting to cause problems with kissing. I suppose it was only a matter of time before I shaved the lot off, the little difficulty I had last year only forced the issue. Now I have had to learn how to shave all over again. I bet you girls think it is a skill us guys are born with. Well, it isn’t and I had to learn it all from scratch (literally!). Neither of the kids had known me without a beard. Son howled with laughter when he first saw me. I can only imagine how daughter will react. People say it makes me look ten years younger.
3) HORNSEY: I was born in The Whittington Hospital in HIGHGATE, and lived until I was 3 in HORNSEY, both in the London Borough of HARINGEY. I grew up in the shadow of Alexandra palace and a path at the top of our road lead to the main railway line from Kings Cross to Edinburgh when a good many of the express trains were still steam-hauled. My mother would take me to see the trains every day.
4) HOTELS: A recurring theme in this blog: The joys of hotel sex. There is always a hint of something illicit about sharing a hotel room, even if it’s with your wife. We have been lucky enough to have done a fair bit of travelling on business over the last few years and the first thing we always do on getting into our hotel room is to strip off and christen the bed/armchair/dressing table/bathroom fittings. Hotels are just MADE for sex.
5) (HOVE): No, not the one near Brighton. The village where our summerhouse is situated begins with H, and it’s name means ‘Head’ as does ‘Hove’. What I’m trying to say, in a convoluted way and without revealing too much of the location of our summerhouse (think of the tourists that would come flocking!) is that H also signifies our summerhouse. Our sanctuary from a busy everyday life, our little piece of heaven on earth, the place where we can spend whole weekends undisturbed if we wish, and throw whatever inhibitions we may have to the winds.
6) HUGS: It’s not all just about sex, you know. I’m a very tactile person and I have a very keen sense of smell. Heather and I can lie in each other’s arms for hours and I can just lose myself in the warm softness and the scent of her skin.
7) HOLIDAYS: That invariably means England. Since we moved away, we have been back in UK at least once a year. Up until now we have had the kids in tow and have had a fairly set pattern of family and friends we like to visit. After our abortive attempt at a holiday without kids last September, we are going to try again in April. Visits to the family will be limited to seeing my Mum for a few days (we couldn’t really not, could we?) and we are going to rent a little cottage somewhere isolated. We’ll be finishing on a high with a visit to Trixieville!
8) HEFTI: Neal Hefti. Jazz trumpeter and composer of many great tunes made famous by, among others, The Count Basie Orchestra and Frank Sinatra. You certainly know at least one of his compositions for it was he that wrote the theme to the 60’s TV series of Batman. (You know the one; Nana nana nana nana nana nana nana nana nana nana nana BATMAAAAN! Etc). I play rhythm guitar in a local Big Band, and there are two or three of Neal Hefti’s works on our repertoire. They are always great fun to play.
9) HIGH SUMMER: One of the things I love about living here is the long summer nights when we sit out on the terrace at the summerhouse, sipping chilled cider and staring into the dying embers of a barbecue as the twilight gathers but never progresses fully to night. We’ll stand hand in hand by the water’s edge, consumed by the total silence and we’ll make love until the dawn chorus heralds the start of a new day.
10) HORRIBLEBLOODYKIDS: That’s my affectionate name for them. Of course we love them dearly and are intensely proud of what they have accomplished so far. Each new e-mail from Daughter in Brazil is eagerly devoured and in between times we trawl Facebook for snippets of news from her. However, it is wonderfully liberating to be without them in our daily lives just for the moment. It will be a bit of a shock when Daughter finally comes back in July: Having been away at boarding school for a couple of years before she went out, she hasn’t really been living at home for any length of time these last three years.
So there we have it! If you’d like to have a go, just drop me a comment and I’ll be happy to give you a letter.
What can I say? I’m a bloke and we blokes like our gadgets. Now, no self- respecting gadget comes these days without a remote control, and if you add this to the fact that multi-function remote controls are gadgets in themselves, you can see how the Controller household is overrun with remote controls. If I see a new or interesting multi-function remote I simply have to have it. You can’t stretch out on the living room sofa in our house until you’ve cleared half a dozen remotes off it. It drives Heather to distraction. We have conversations like:
H. “I don’t see why we can’t have one remote that does everything”
FC “We do. It’s this one…and this one…and this one…”
This remote, however, is one I don’t yet have in my collection. I wonder where you can get them?
(I really wanted the Steve Hillage version, but I couldn't find it on You Tube)
It’s a bright, sunny day here right now. True, temperatures are well below freezing point and are likely to remain so for the next few days, but that doesn’t matter so much when there is brilliant sunshine and deep blue sky. The plus side of a long, dark, winter is that when you’re on the way out of it you notice the changes almost every day. It is noticeably lighter in the evenings now and green shoots of the first snowdrops are starting to show themselves in the garden.
But it’s not just the physical signs of coming spring that lighten the heart. Nor even the fact that I was able to book us a holiday in UK for April, so that Heather and I can pick up where we left off in September, and that we were able to get flights for about twenty five quid each way, to Gatwick from an airport right on our doorstep.
It’s not just the real, physical, clouds that have suddenly parted to let the sunshine in. Something that has been hanging over our heads for a couple of years now has at last been resolved, and at the very last minute...
When we had our business rebuilt and refitted over two years ago, we gave the job to a specialist firm of shopfitters who offered a complete ‘design and build’ service. They would make all the necessary arrangements, from contacting air-conditioning engineers, glaziers and carpet-fitters to submitting planning applications and liaising with the local authorities. We preferred to use local builders and electricians and that was no problem: They would be contacted with what exactly needed to be done
Only, they didn’t. That is to say that the project-manager in charge of our particular little enterprise turned out not to be able to manage a piss-up in a brewery. It was left up to us, at the last minute, to organise some air-conditioning before the false ceiling was put in. We had to act as go-between between the shopfitters and our increasingly frustrated builders and electricians to get things as fundamental as detailed ground plans sent on to them.
Worst of all, there was no planning permission. It hadn’t even been applied for.
All credit to the tradesmen who had to get our place looking like the beautifully-produced computer graphics in the proposals. They worked like Trojans, long into the night on occasions, so that we were able to re-open on schedule, but there was a long list of faults and deficiencies. We were on the phone to the shopfitters almost daily but our project manager was increasingly difficult to get hold of. When he did return our phone calls it was with increasingly vague promises. In the end, patience completely used up, we left a message demanding action otherwise we would take matters to the owner of the company. This brought an immediate return phone call begging us, pleading with us, not to do that. He was just about to get the last few things in place and everything would be sorted out within a few days…
Of course it wasn’t. We never heard from him again. When we next contacted the company we found out that he had been fired, leaving a trail of similar cases to ours behind him. The owner of the company was kept busy clearing up the mess that had been left behind and it was almost a year later when we had most of the outstanding work completed.
But still they hadn’t submitted the planning application.
Now, we had taken out a large loan to cover the rebuilding and the bank started making noises about needing assurances that the work had been carried out satisfactorily. They needed to see the planning permission from the local authority, along with a certificate of fire safety. The local authority demanded more remedial work, which the company did at their expense, and the case went back to the local authority and so things shuttled back and forth, at the relaxed pace known only to snails and planning committees.
The bank, however, was getting impatient. In the end we got an ultimatum that if things weren’t in place by 1st March they would call in the loan. In other times this might not have been a problem; we could possibly just find another lender, but in these times of credit crunch even the most healthy of businesses are having difficulty finding finance. There was a real possibility that the rug would be pulled out from under us, despite our business being, and remaining, healthy.
We got the letter on Tuesday of this week. A very ordinary plain A5 envelope containing the vital documents that secure the future of our business. At last the changes that were made have been approved. It is like a huge stone has been lifted. Not that either of us would admitted it, but this is something that has been hanging over us for months. We chose to ignore the elephant in the room because, other than repeatedly calling the bank, the local authority and the shopfitting firm, there was really not much we could do about it, so we determined not to let it get us down. We had plenty of other things to worry about in any case.
But now, suddenly, things look different to the way they did even a week ago. The clouds, real and metaphorical, have rolled away, the sun is shining and…..
For the first time in weeks, Son was home and stayed over Saturday night, but this was only because he needed a lift on Sunday morning so that he could catch the ferry to Oslo. Apparently, part of a teacher’s training over here is to be able to speak Norwegian, so his entire class is in Norway this week. In a hotel in the mountains, at the height of the ski season. I smell a rat.
While I was glad to drive him up to the ferry early on Sunday morning, it did rather put a crimp on the evening’s entertainment. When we went to bed, Son was still in the lounge next door watching TV or surfing the net. Heather got up the same time as me the next morning and we all had breakfast together. However, when I got back from my taxi run, about an hour later she was back in bed so I undressed and slid under the duvet beside her. It was so warm and comfortable and inviting that we spent a decadent Sunday morning in bed, cuddling, dozing, fucking, then dozing some more until it was well over midday.
It was a brilliant sunny morning, with bright sunshine and clear blue skies and we determined that, as soon as we had finished lunch, we would go out for a good long walk. However, in the course of just a few minutes, in the middle of our lunch, black clouds had rolled in from nowhere and suddenly it was snowing. Hard. I would like to say that we cut our losses at that point, went back to bed and fucked some more but we do have a business to run and there are always administrative tasks that need to be done, along with the more mundane things like the laundry (Our new washing machine arrived on Friday, to replace the old one which went tits-up last week - hooray). We did, however, decide on an early night.
It seemed really strange, going to bed at 10.30, especially having already spent so much of the weekend in bed. It felt like we were having a John and Yoko thing going. As Heather rested her head on my chest I whispered to her.
”What I would really like is for you to take my cock in your mouth now while it is still limp and let it inflate inside you”.
”OK”, she agreed, ”but would you scratch my back first?”
It took a huge effort of will on my part not to get hard while scratching her back, which would have taken all the fun out of it, but it was still pleasingly flaccid when she engulfed it with her lips and by gently teasing it with skilful flicks and swirls of her tongue it grew and filled her. I was tempted to just remain on my back and let her suck and wank me until I came like a fountain over my belly, but I just had to get inside her. The urge to feel my cock enclosed in that other warm, moist sanctuary was just too strong.
Heather sensed that too and rolled over onto her back, legs splayed wide.
”I know you just want to fuck me, so just get on and do it” she said with a knowing smile.
I hadn’t laid a finger on her; she had made all the running up until now, but she was gloriously wet and slippery as I hovered over her and she guided my cock into her entrance. She squeezed her elbows into her sides to push her breasts up into my face as I fucked her and licked her nipples at the same time. It was all over very quickly. Despite the relatively early hour and the fact that we had spent most of the weekend in bed we both felt the need for a good night’s sleep. As is her custom, Heather trotted out to the bathroom afterwards to clean up. I don’t remember her coming back.
As a footnote, the next morning we had a phone call from Son, just to let us know he had arrived safely in Norway and was settled in the hotel along with the rest of his group. They had just had a big cooked breakfast and were enjoying the view out over snow-capped mountains and deep valleys. He also told me that they had a surprise visit from the Danish Minister of Education, who had joined them for breakfast.
”I hope you were polite to him, he’s actually one of the good guys” I said, knowing that their politics are poles apart.
”Oh yes”, he said, ”I shook his hand”.
I must remember to shake Son’s hand when he gets back. Assuming that the Education Minister shakes the hand of the Prime Minister every so often then, when the Prime Minister meets President Obama later this year, I will be four handshakes from The President, as I have been from Bill Clinton and from Dubya.
A cold, grey Saturday afternoon at the end of a busy week. Nothing to do, at least nothing urgent, no-one to see, nowhere to go.
What to do?
What indeed?
Turn the heating right up in the bedroom and get naked, skin on skin, under the duvet. That’s what.
There was no frantic tearing off of clothes, no strenuous bed-gymnastics or frenzied fucking. We just held each other tightly, warming up the parts of us that were still cold. Each position had its advantages: Face to face we could wrap arms and legs around each other and press tight into each other, kissing necks and nibbling ears, hands wandering down to grab great handfuls of bottom and squeezing. My hand sliding round, fingertips seeking out her wet slit: Back to back, pushing two cold bottoms up against each other: Spoons, with my stiff cock positioned up between her buttocks, my arms wrapped around her, cradling her soft breasts: Lying flat on our backs, side by side, my hand smoothing her long, silky pubic hair, while she gripped my cock and wanked it in a languid sort of way: Me on my back and her on her side, with her heavy breasts resting on my chest and me stroking them, while she wanked me with a little more determination, or bent down to suck me a little.
We took it in turns to doze. It didn’t matter, there was no rush. Then suddenly we were both wide awake. Heather turned towards me, wrapped her legs around mine and crushed her breasts into me, grabbing my cock with renewed vigour and suddenly wanking it hard.
“Move in to the middle of the bed” she commanded, and knelt up to straddle me. Reaching down, she guided me expertly into her soaking slit. She grabbed the head of the bed and rocked backwards and forwards as I arched my back and thrust into her in counterpoint, sliding an upturned hand in between us in an attempt to find her clit.
Eventually, exhausted, she fell over to one side and I knelt up beside her, wetting my hand in her juices and rubbing around her clit while, with the other hand, I caught hold of one of her nipples and lifted and twisted slightly. She gasped and shook her head from side to side and, as she did so, her head slipped between the two pillows. The rubbing of her ears bought her orgasm suddenly and unexpectedly crashing down over her.
Before she had time to fully recover, I was on her. Fucking her slow and easy, changing position then changing again. Missionary, legs hoisted up on my shoulders, sideways-on and, as I pulled out to re-position, Heather rolled automatically on to all fours. She likes me to finish off dogggy style – and I don’t mind that much either. I was just on the point of coming when I decided I wanted to come over her, not in her. I pulled out and scooted up so that I was wanking myself over the back of her neck. I had the idea of depositing my load on the back of her neck, so that it would trickle down on either side of her throat like a real pearl necklace, but it never goes quite where you plan it to go, does it? In the end she was left with a puddle between her shoulder blades. Quite a sizeable puddle. For various reasons, our sex-life has been at a bit of a standstill over the last few days and I had quite a bit of surplus to get rid of. In the half-light of a grey afternoon there seemed to be gallons of it which I attempted to dissipate by smearing it all over her back, leaving it shiny and slippery and salty. I would happily have licked it all off her again, but she preferred to take a shower. I dozed again while she showered it all away and then she joined me in bed and we cuddled and dozed again.
Yes, I’m back. Not that I was ever away in a physical sense, but mentally and spiritually I’ve not been all here the last three weeks or so. I’ve been a bit preoccupied. Worse than that for Heather, I have been irritable, restless, short-tempered. Let me explain.
I am not hypochondriac. Really, I’m not. Of course I get ’Man-Flu’ just like half of the world’s population, but the reality is that there is a darker side to the long-standing joke that men make a fuss over the slightest sniffle, and that is that they soldier on and refuse to seek medical help when there really is something seriously wrong. I heard a convincing evolutionary explanation for these two phenomena from a gerontologist once (look it up!) but I won’t bore you with that now.
For the last three weeks I have had a sore throat. Big deal. Everybody gets a sore throat in January. You don’t go running to the doctor with a sore throat in the winter. But this was different. It wasn’t a red-raw sore throat. There was no hoarsness, coughing, sneezing or anything else. Just the feeling that deep down there was something lodged that wouldn’t go away. I could feel it every time I swallowed or spoke. When it hadn’t shifted after a week or so the nagging worries started to gather. I tried to rationalise it by seeing if I could remember if I had experienced anything similar before: Yes, probably, but I had most likely just ignored it and it cleared up by itself. Was I just being over-sensitive because of the experience I had in the late summer when I had a lump (mercifully, benign) removed from my neck?
The human imagination can be a wonderful, creative thing but it can also be dark and destructive. As time went on my imagination began to get the upper hand. What if I had to go back into hospital again? What if it were worse this time? Inoperable,even? Would we call our daughter back from her year in Brazil, or hope I was still well by the time she got back in July? Would she be angry at having her stay shortened, or would she be more angry at missing out on time spent together? Would I make it to our wedding anniversary? (25 years in August). Would there be any point in organising our planned trip to UK in the spring, or would I be called back as before?... Fuck, now I see those words down in black and white they seem to be just what they are; just foolish imaginings, embarrasing to articulate, but in my head, in the dark of night, they were very real and almost overwhelming. At a point there seemed no purpose in planning anything. I became apathetic, listless, fatalistic.
I went to the doctor. Eventually. He couldn’t see anything but was at pains to stress that that didn’t necessarily mean there was nothing. Just that he didn’t have the equipment, or the time within the framework of a 10 minute consultation, to have a good look around, at the root of the tongue for example. I wished he hadn’t mentioned that. The very phrase ’root of the tongue’ fills me with dread. The consultant at the hospital had mentioned it as a likely spot for cancer to grow, and what do you do about it there? Some places you can cut the thing out or remove the affected bit completely. Devastating enough in itself but you can at least live without a breast or a lung or a leg. You can’t really remove the tongue without seriously affecting quality of life, I wouldn’t imagine. So all that’s left is radiotherapy or chemo, isn’t it? I had dark imaginings of meeting my daughter at the airport bald and in a wheelchair, and tried to suppress them.
So I went to the ENT specialist yesterday. The one I saw back in the summer. A Frenchman, tremendously likeable, tremendously reassuring. He stuffed some anaesthetic-laced cotton wool up my nose and did a laryngoscopy. Not the most pleasant of experiences, but far less horrible than I thought it would be. And there was the problem: An inflammation on the margins of the vocal cords, just where the trachea meets the oesophagus. He prescribed an antiseptic gargle and antibiotics – I seriously haven’t taken antibiotics since I was 11 years old – I’m a day into the treatment and the discomfort is going already. Not that it bothered me, I just wanted reassuring it was nothing nasty. The discomfort I can live with, especially when you see the potential side effects of the antibiotics. Given the choice of 'sore throat' over 'acute, bloody, diarrhoea' I think I'd stick with the sore throat, thank you very much.
So I’m back and fighting fit. Looking forward to putting up lots more red hot posts, looking forward to picking up where we left off in England with a short break around April/May time. There are so many things I want to get done this year that I think the only thing that’s going to stop me is not having enough time to do them all!
I really hope it’s not going to be like this every time I get a sore throat.
Last week I used the excuse of pressure of work not to post a pic for Half Nekkid Thursday. But really, there's no excuse: There are still pictures to be had, even when Heather is slaving in the office.
”Studies have found toxins in the semen and in the fluid produced in the prostate. As you age it is more important to flush them out”
So says Polyxeni Dimitripolou of the University of Nottingham, who found that frequent masturbation and sexual activity helped protect men in their 50s from prostate cancer. (source: New Scientist)
Maybe I’ve just got a dirty mind, but when I first heard that the half-yearly meeting of our trading group was to be held in the Hotel Trinity, I just couldn’t stop thinking of this young lady:(WARNING! Definitely not work safe!) She certainly seems to have seen the inside of a great number of hotel rooms. I certainly wouldn’t have minded coming across her in mine – so to speak!
We arrived in good time for lunch. I was hoping that we would be able to get our luggage into the room and freshen up before going into lunch. OK, to be honest I was hoping we could get a bit sweated up first, THEN freshen up before lunch, but we couldn’t check in before midday and an early lunch was essential as we had a busy afternoon ahead of us, talking with our established suppliers, checking out potential new ones, and trying the latest new kit. We ended up doing a deal on a brand-new all-singing, all-dancing machine, packed with computers and touch-screens and 3-d imaging technology. It cost about the same as a medium-sized family car, but it should pay for itself within a year or so and give our customers a better service. And besides, it felt good to be able to say “We’ll take it in the white. How soon can you deliver?”.
Spending money is a powerful aphrodisiac, even when it’s money you don’t have. When we got back to our room to change for dinner I just popped into the bathroom and when I got out, Heather was naked, crouching on the end of the bed with her bum sticking into the air. I had other ideas, though, and led her over to the high-backed armchair where I sat like a king on his throne, legs wide apart while she kneeled before me and sucked. It is the Hotel Trinity, after all.
Another hotel, another 'just-been-fucked-in' hotel bed.
I wanted to have her in that armchair but, ever practical, she was worried about messing up the blue velvet upholstery. Fair enough. I had her kneeling on the bed again while I fucked and fingered her to orgasm, then laid her flat on her back on the carpet with her arms and legs spread wide and fucked her there on the floor.
I was in the shower a little later, while she was getting dressed for the evening. I heard her laugh from the bedroom. She was changing specs from the Shiseidos she had been wearing all day to her Oscar Magnussons and picked up the wrong spec case. “I don’t think I’ll wear these just now, they don’t fit me terribly well” she giggled when she saw what was in it.
The dinner was fun, with good food, good company and a team of two or three magicians going round the tables during the evening. Afterwards there was dancing to a live band and free bar, so Heather and I enjoyed a little sex on the beach. OK, rather a lot of sex on the beach, followed by sex in the bedroom. I think that was good, I just don’t remember a great deal about it and as soon as we were finished I just rolled over and was out like a light. I didn’t even manage to get the duvet pulled up over me; I was just gone. It goes without saying I was pretty wrecked the next morning. Heather was in a better state and dragged me back into consciousness with a streaming hot cappuchino.
Alas! No chance of any last naughtinesses before we checked out. I did suggest it, but there was much still to do, an AGM to attend and new products to see and try out.
Oh well, mustn’t complain, although it would have been nice to have had a trinity of fucks at the Trinity.
