Friday Fun

You'll never look at soap dispensers in the same way again...







Now wash your hands.



(It's a funny old world, innit? If I had sent that to one of our female employees, she would have had good grounds to complain of sexual harrassment. As it is, it is one of our female employees who sent it to me!)

Just What I Needed: A Bloody Good...Duck

Heather knows how to put me right. It's still drizzling, in fact it hasn't stopped drizzling for the last four days, but I have a bit more of a spring in my step today.

”How about I put my arse up in the air, and you give me a fuck?” she asked as we were getting changed after work yesterday.

I was standing in the bedroom in just my underpants and socks, and it would have been the work of an instant just to whip them off. Daughter was out for the next couple of hours at a concert, so we would be undisturbed.

My underpants had reached my ankles when boring old common sense kicked in.

”Or maybe we’d better get started on supper, or it’s going to be late by the time we eat” .

I was forced to agree with her. Any other night and there would have been no question about it. A long, leisurely fuck and then get some pizzas out of the freezer, but last night was ’Mortensaften’, the eve of the feast of St. Martin and on Mortensaften you eat duck. Everybody eats duck. The entire population eats duck on Mortensaften.

And what a meal it was. Roast duck with roast potatoes, sweet red cabbage, leeks, carrots, stewed apple and thick brown gravy. Afterwards we had cold rice pudding with cherry sauce, so the whole meal is a scaled-down version of the traditional Christmas dinner over here. A sort of practice run.

We had invited Son and his fiancée to eat with us, but they had already accepted an invitation to eat duck with her parents, so it was just us three sharing the feast and a rather good bottle of Merlot. It still seems rather odd seeing our daughter drinking, but she is 18 now.

Fortuntely, the pleasure we had denied ourselves earlier on in the evening was merely a pleasure deferred. Daughter retired to her room in reasonable time and it was still relatively early when we went upstairs and enjoyed something that rhymes with duck…

November

In ’The Waste Land’, T. S. Eliot famously describes April as the cruellest month. November must come in a close second. The flame coloured leaves that decorated the trees a few weeks ago now choke the gutters and form a treacherous slimy mulch underfoot as, shoulders shrugged against the rain and the biting wind which slices through you without a second thought, you hurry home.

But then, unlike the voice in Eliot’s epic poem, I don’t have the option of going south for the winter.

November imbues me with an empty melancholy. Always has done. In the archives of my mind is the text of a somg I started writing twenty years ago and which will never be sung. It is entitled simply ’November’ and is full of loss and emptiness, destruction and despair. Of a love that will never be and of a world falling apart, or going mad. Every November I add a little bit to that song.

We are on our way towards darker times. Night lasts from about 4pm to 8am at these latitudes. This is the price we pay for endless summer evenings. As I sat down at the keyboard I felt as if I should try to write something light and uplifting to counter the deadening ennui of another dark November day, but I simply don’t have it in me at the moment.

Sorry.

Bad Taste?

And Lo, it came to pass. Not so very long after having published my latest flight of fantasy, and printed it out, I handed it to Heather to read just as we were getting into bed one evening. She grumbled that if she was going to read it she would have to go and get her glasses (not really a sign of age-she’s always been longsighted) so I offered to read it for her.

When I had finished, all she would say was “You’d bloody well better make sure you have that Gin and Tonic ready for me afterwards. Or several”. But we did have a damned good fuck that night on the strength of it.

A couple of weekends ago we were tucked up in bed on a Saturday afternoon after our morning’s work in the shop (Scandinavia traditionally closes down at 12.00 on Saturday until Monday morning) and I leaned across to Heather and said “What about it?” She gave a resigned sigh (after all it wouldn’t do for her to appear too keen) but she got out of bed readily enough and offered her wrists, neck and ankles to be enclosed in leather before kneeling down on the bedroom carpet.

And then I acted out my fantasy to the letter: She clasped her cuffed hands in front of her as if in prayer, her lips described a perfect O as I emptied my load of semen slowly and deliberately into her mouth. She was my passive receptacle and, for this moment, my obedient slave. I instructed her to hold my spunk in her mouth, although her every reflex was telling her to spit it out. Then I wanted her to dribble it slowly down her chin until it dripped over her breasts, but she expelled it rather too hastily for my satisfaction so we’re just going to have to work on that.

As to the flogging I had promised her as her reward, it somehow didn’t seem right at the time, so we left it. I trotted downstairs to mix her G and T, heavy on the G with lots of ice and more than a dash of lime. Just how she likes it. She’s clearly got more sophisticated with age; when we first met she would be mine for a digestive biscuit or two, now I have to ply her with gin. I suppose that’s inflation for you. I poured myself a large Lagavulin 10 year-old single malt.

“If there’s one of these in it, you can do that again” she smiled as we sat up in bed, sipping our respective drinks. You didn’t taste nearly as bad as I was afraid you might”

I closed my eyes as I let the mellow whisky work its magic on my tongue.

“We’re definitely going to have to have drinkies in bed like this again” I said “It’s so delightfully decadent”.

“What’s more” I added after a moments reflection “It’s the most fun I’m ever going to have in bed with a ten year-old.”



And then she hit me.

Happy Birthday..

In much the same way as she did seven weeks ago, Heather asked me last night if I remembered what we were doing exactly eighteen years ago. Of course I did, and the answer was much the same as last time she asked. She was again heavily pregnant and again we were gently denting the baby's head.

During the second pregnancy the sex seemed even better and I was not as inhibited as I was first time about 'stealing milk from our child'. There was plenty for everybody, but that is possibly a subject for another post.

At 3 am she had woken with contractions, half an hour later our childminder's husband turned up to whip Son away and by 9 am it was all over. Again, like our son, Daughter showed great consideration as regards the timing of her arrival. I had booked that day off work months in advance as I had a dental appointment. As it was I was able to get home, phone everybody who needed phoning and still keep the appointment before getting back for afternoon visiting.

18 years on, and our little girl is everything we would wish her to be: Vivacious, warm-hearted, generous, adventurous, strong-willed and talented. For the second weekend in a row she has been at her college both days, rehearsing for the musical which opens on Wednesday. As soon as they packed up yesterday she was off into town with her girlfriends for an evening of bowling, clubbing and a fair bit of drinking. She got back at 2.30am, was up again at 8 for breakfast and presents, then out to rehearsal at 9.

Tonight, as soon as she's finished, we're all off to a restaurant in town to celebrate her birthday. She certainly lives at full-throttle.

I wish I had her energy. I wish I was 18 again.

The Kink That Dare Not Speak Its Name

”I’ve been thinking…” I began, as we snuggled up close the other night.

This is my cue to let Heather know what I’d like us to do together, to expound on my fantasies, test the waters to see how she reacts and, most of all, to get her wet. I can usually tell if what I have in mind appeals to her by how hard she grips my cock as she listens.

And, as I kissed her all over her face I whispered what it is that I have been thinking about for a good long time, on and off.

The wanking stopped. She was appalled.

For about a microsecond.

Then she made as if she were appalled, but her grip on my cock and the shiver that ran through her body gave her away. She was excited despite herself.

”You can’t ever write about this” was all she said. I understood. I, too, had thought about this and how it would be a difficult thing to write about, how people might not understand.

But as I detailed what I had planned she became more and more excited and on the strength of those expressed thoughts alone we had a glorious fuck.

I don’t know why what I have in mind is so hard to talk about, but it took me months to bring the subject up with Heather, let alone anybody else, and even then I really didn’t know how she was going to react.

Don’t worry, it’s nothing messy and it doesn’t involve children, animals or dead people.

It has to do with restraint, sensory deprivation and simulated breath control but that’s all I can say.


It’s just got to remain our secret.

What's In Store

Recent research at the Loma Linda University Medical Center in California, presented at the American Society Of Plastic Surgeons’ conference in Seattle at the weekend, shows that daughters really do turn into their mothers, at least in terms of the patterns of ageing changes in the face, according to this article. The team used 3-D imaging and computer modeling techniques to compare mother-daughter pairs in an age-range of 15 to 90 years and found that daughters tend to follow the same patterns of ageing as their mothers.

So if I really want to know how my beloved will look when she’s 75, I have only to look at my mother in law. Actually, that’s not such a scary prospect. She looks very good for her age and on the occasions when we have turned up unexpectedly at my in-laws’ summerhouse to find her sunbathing round the back….

Actually, I think I’d better stop there before this starts sounding too pervy. Suffice it to say that I don’t think I’ll have any problem jumping into bed with my beloved when she’s 75. Whether she'll feel the same way about me is another matter!