Northern lights and sleepless nights

There’s a Reason Why They’re Red

2012-01-26T11:45:00.006+01:00

From my position, propped up on my hands with Heather folded in half beneath me, I looked down into her upturned post-orgasmic face; so mild, contented, beautiful. Her breasts were barely covered by the short-sleeved cropped leather jacket that I had bought for her with the muttered condition “I want to fuck you in that”. The single button at the neck that had held it closed had sprung open at some stage in the proceedings.

Apart from that, her only other attire was the pair of bright crimson patent stilettos which were currently residing in the vicinity of my ears. I knew I was going to have to pull out of her sooner or later, but we had all evening, I was quite comfortable as I was for the time being and besides, it was going to be a pretty messy business. So I continued to gaze down at Heather as she gazed up at me.

Then the phone rang. The bloody phone rang.

I leaned back and unceremoniously plopped out of her. As Heather swung her leg to get clear of me and sit up to grab the phone, the tip of the stiletto heel raked across my chest, pretty much from my armpit to my navel.

“Oh my God, did I get you?” She asked anxiously when she’d finished the call.

“It’s only a flesh-wound” I replied in best Monty Python style. “It’s a good job those shoes are red, so the blood won’t show”.

Being patent leather, it should wipe off all right

As I mentioned before, I am currently undergoing training to become qualified as a sex therapist. In connection with this I would pleased to offer free advice on any questions or problems related to sex, personal relationships and related subjects.

I can be contacted by e-mail at eccles@privat.dk

Naturally all communications will be in absolute confidence. No details will ever be published on this blog or in any other place.

For One Night Only…

2012-01-25T23:31:00.003+01:00

In the middle of Sunday afternoon, Son announced that his GF had relented and was letting him back into the flat for the night so that he could watch the Patriots – Ravens game. He is a big American Football fan, although Soccer does nothing for him at all.

“We’ve got the house to ourselves this evening” Said Heather, her voice heavy with meaning. “ I think we could do with an early night”.

I was way ahead of her. But how best to make use of it? A little bit of dressing up, perhaps? Tying up? A little discipline maybe?

In the end we chose to pleasure each other, and ourselves, using just our bodies.

Heather lay on the bed, arms away from her sides, legs spread just a little. Exposed, vulnerable, available. I lay beside her, resting my head on her upper arm, tongue rolling round her nipple, suckling on her ample breast. As she gently cupped my balls and caressed my stiffening cock, I ran my hand over her soft skin, stopping at her springy pad of pubic hair, pressing down on it and feeling it push back against my hand.

I knelt up beside her, leaning over her so that I trapped the opposite nipple between my lips, lowering myself over her until she could catch my nipple in hers. We sucked on each other, teased each other with our tongues, while she took a firmer grip on my cock and my hand ploughed through her pubic hair and into her moist cleft, eliciting a gasp from her as I hooked two fingers inside her.

Now it was her turn to change position: She sat up and leaned over me, taking charge of my cock and sliding her lips around it. As she was now lying crosswise with her back to me, there was nothing much I could do except to enjoy the moment as sucked licked, caressed and tickled me. At last she laid back again, spread out in a ‘come and get me’ sort of pose. I planted my lips firmly on hers, seeking out the metallic taste of me in her, but what I really craved was the taste of her on me. I turned round and Heather, anticipating what I had in mind, lifted her legs as I sank my head down between them and immersed my face in her sopping wet cunt. At the same time she guided my cock in between her gorgeous lips again and took me to my full length.

I dipped my tongue deep into her cunt and used it to spread her thick, honey-sweet juices over her perineum and all around her arsehole. The rimjob set off a series of reflex contractions and I could feel the vibrations on my cock as she purred and moaned voicelessly. I ventured a well-wetted finger inside her arsehole and felt the sharp intake of breath around my cock. A positive reaction; maybe I would slide the Njoy up in there later on, and we hadn’t enjoyed a good arse-fuck for a long time.

I knelt up beside her to get a better angle with my probing fingers and started to stroke deeper and faster, with more pressure on the front vaginal wall.

“If you’re going to carry on like that, you’d better get the fuck-towel down now” She gasped.

I laid it out between her parted legs and carried on where I had left off, going hard at her cunt and arse, but leaving her clitoris alone for now. One of the things I have learned is that the sensation from clitoral stimulation is often so intense that it swamps the sensations from elsewhere and I wanted this orgasm to be exquisite.

Exquisite it was. Heather was writhing this way and that under my touch, thrusting her hips up and down and contracting on my hand, edging closer and closer to that final all-enveloping release, peaking again and again but never quite getting there. At last I relented and with just a few gentle strokes to her clitoris, she exploded. There is no other word to describe it: She shouted out loud, buried her head in her hands, shrieked and finally dissolved into tears, her whole body shaking.

I held her, stroked her face, comforted and warmed her as she gradually came down. No question of any more anal play now; that would have to wait for another time. When I entered her, it was slowly, gently, respectfully. She had had all the pummelling she needed for one evening. What she needed now was closeness. I enjoyed her soft wet cunt with long deep strokes and, practicing my breath control, managed to separate my orgasm and the actual ejaculation by a good few seconds. This is a thing I have been trying to achieve for a little while now and I’m getting better at it: I came with an almighty shout but held onto my load, then thought ‘What the hell, this feels so damned good’ and flooded her insides anyway and, yes, it did feel like double the pleasure. The physical, mechanical aspects of delaying ejaculation I can manage now, I just need to work on my self-control to see if we can reach even greater heights together.

Fag-Break Fuck

2012-01-23T14:39:00.002+01:00

(Note: For any readers in the USA, in English English a fag means a cigarette, not a gay man. This has doubtless caused no end of transatlantic misunderstandings over the years).

Sunday morning. Ok, if I’m absolutely honest, Sunday morning on the cusp of becoming Sunday afternoon. We’ve had a load of late nights lately. Suddenly I was awake and so was Heather beside me. She more awake than me apparently, for she had heard the door of the spare bedroom along the corridor open softly, and a gentle footfall on the stairs, going down.

“If we’re quick we can have a Fakta-Fuck while he’s out having his cigarette”, she whispered. Call us fascists if you like; we don’t have many rules in our household. The kids have always been free to bring back (and shag on occasions) anyone they liked to the house but the one absolute rule we have is of no smoking in the house, and that’s all there is to it. If they want to smoke – and unfortunately they both do – they must do it in the yard. On this occasion we leapt on the chance of Son being out of the house, even though it was only for five minutes.

With daughter having moved out of the house just before Christmas, a new golden age of carefree sex wherever and whenever we desired seemed to beckon. This was brought to an abrupt end last week when Son’s GF threw him out of the flat they share in the city, at least for the duration of her university exams. It is a small flat with not too much privacy and they were starting to get on each other’s nerves, so son has moved back with us. Originally only for a couple of days, but those couple of days have magically become a week and counting.

This, coupled with a whole crop of late nights over the last week has meant that we haven’t been getting very much lately, so the duration of a smoke where we would be undisturbed seemed like too good a chance to pass up.

Heather just had to pop out to the bathroom and when she got back I was all ready, kneeling up with my little soldier standing to attention and the tasteful pink fuck-towel spread out on the sheet.

“Assume the position” I commanded. Heather clambered up onto the bed on all fours, her bum jutting up into the air, her cunt lips parted and protruding back between her thighs, already glistening with moisture. There was no time for formalities. I spat on my hand, wetted my cock and just rammed it into her, pushing hard against her as she pushed back onto me. Of course, I would have liked to have given her a good licking first, to have paddled my fingers inside her and to have slipped one inside her sweet, tight little arsehole so that I could feel the head of my cock as I fucked her, but in my mind’s eye I could see that cigarette slowly burning down. Fortunately, Heather was wet and slick despite the cold start – or maybe she had been lying awake for a while, thinking wicked thoughts? So I just banged her hard and relentlessly until we reached the inevitable conclusion,

Only just in time. As we fell apart from each other, giggling like schoolkids and trying to mop up the worst of the mess, we heard once again the gentle footfall on the stairs and the soft closing of the door.

Not At All Weird

2012-01-17T10:28:00.003+01:00

”Daddy, that is SO cool… You’re not bullshitting me, are you?

I assured her that I wasn’t.

On the whole, I thought that my telling our daughter that I had just spent a weekend away, learning how to be a sex-therapist, had gone rather well.

When I told her who our course-leader was, a well-known sex-expert who is seldom absent from TV screens over here, she went wild again.

“I LOVE her!! She’s just amazing! I can’t believe this!”

I showed her the assorted paperwork that I had acquired over the weekend, to prove to her that this was for real, that her daddy was going to help other people have better sex.

It’s odd: Before I went away for the first part of the course, I was somewhat secretive about it. I was wondering how long I could decently go without anybody knowing. Now, having had a taste of it, I want to tell the world. The girls at work showed polite interest. I can’t wait to tell my mother-in law, just to see her reaction. My sister will probably be enthusiastic and encouraging. My mother will almost certainly put it down and belittle it, because that’s what she does. I want to be in a better place psychologically in relation to her before I tell her so that I am better able to deal with that.

But the really gratifying moment was Daughter’s enthusiastic reaction. One of the introductory texts which we should have read by the next session is ‘Hot Sex’ by Tracey Cox. As it happens, daughter has had a copy of this for some time.

It ought to have felt weird and just wrong for a father to ask his daughter to lend him her sex manual, but I’m very glad to say it didn’t. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

A Tart’s Boudoir

2012-01-16T14:18:00.002+01:00

“It smells like a tart’s boudoir in here”.

I was in no position to argue, having had no practical experience of such a place, but I couldn’t help thinking that the simile was inappropriate.

Heather had just popped out to the bathroom after a particularly heavy session of raw sex, leaving me pretty much paralysed on the bed. When she came back into the bedroom the smell of sex just hit her like a wall, the smell of sweat and spunk and stained sheets, with an undertone of day-old massage oil. We had got so carried away that we had forgotten to reach for the fuck-towel when things got really heavy, and now I was lying in a little puddle of our own juices, unable to move.

Never having been in a tart’s boudoir, I would imagine that steps would be taken to remove or at least mask the scent of sex with previous clients, both from the locale and from the lady herself so that the tart’s boudoir of my imagination would smell of cheap perfume and cheaper air-freshener, or possibly those pungent pot-pourris that nearly suffocate you when you walk past them on a street- market, let alone in a confined space.

In our bedroom, nothing was hidden. The smell was raw and pungent and real.

Tomorrow the whole lot would be thrown in the wash; sheets, pillowcases, fuck-towel, everything. Tomorrow the windows would be thrown open to give the room an airing. Tomorrow we would shower and remove all trace of our passion, to face the new day bright and clean, but for tonight we would sleep a deep satisfied sleep on love-stained sheets, holding each other close, with our bodies still exuding the warm, intoxicating smell of sex.

Love Shower

2012-01-12T16:10:00.005+01:00

Having received one of these at the weekend, I Googled ‘Love Shower’ to see if I could find a more elegant description of it than I could manage alone. One of the sites I arrived at was a forum where someone had posted the question ‘What is a Love Shower?’ and had got the answer ‘It’s when your partner pees on you’ to which the response was ‘Eeew, gross. I won’t be trying that then’.

Well, no. You’re thinking of a Golden Shower, and all I can say on that subject is ‘don’t knock it until you’ve tried it’. A love shower is a tantric sort thing. A group shows its appreciation / love / support for you by facing the you, raising their arms above their heads and then slowly lowering them again while shaking the the hands and wiggling the fingers and making a ‘Shhhhhh’ sound like falling raindrops.

Heather and I first saw this on a TV programme which had a feature about a ‘tantric singles night’ only last week. When we saw this ‘Love shower’ we had a good laugh and thought “OMG, WHAT is all that about? What are they on?” Funny how karma sometimes comes around and bites you in the arse.

During our first weekend of training as sex-therapists we experienced both giving and receiving love showers and I was forced to admit that being on the receiving end is actually rather pleasant and, when you come to think about it, is no more ridiculous than showing your appreciation for someone by banging your hands together so they make a noise.

The watchword of our instructor is ‘Be Open’, which just happens to be the title of her latest book; be open to others, be open to new experiences, to new ways of looking at the world, to new ways of expressing love. Be open to love itself.

One of the most powerful moments of the weekend was when we gave each other a little massage. We were stood in two concentric circles and paired off so that one partner was on the outside ring and the other innermost, both facing the centre. Then the outermost partner was instructed to give the innermost partner a massage; arms, neck, shoulder, back. Anywhere that felt right.The emphasis was on giving: Giving someone else a gift of yourself, freely and without any expectation of a reward.

After a while the outer circle were instructed to move round one person to the left, but in such a way that they left one hand on the person they had just been massaging until their replacement took over. I had heard before that it is very important that during a massage there is contact and continuity the whole time.

The person receiving had their eyes shut and thus, apart from their first partner, had no idea who was giving them this gift, unless they had been unusually observant before they closed their eyes.

It was towards the end of this session, when I was receiving from the fourth or fifth giver that I suddenly had a powerful insight, like a blinding flash of golden light. Here I was, middle-aged, overweight and under-achieving, when suddenly I saw myself as I was when I was in my early twenties; youthful, slim and full of energy once more. I felt loved and appreciated in a way I have rarely experienced before, outside of my home environment, and it was overwhelming.

Now don’t misunderstand. The love between Heather and me is absolute and unconditional. I dare not even ask myself why this is so, or what it is she sees in me. It just is, and it’s wonderful, but to be appreciated, and even loved, by relative strangers for no better reason than that I exist on this planet was something I am utterly unused to.

I, and the other 30-odd in the group, are strangers no more. We will certainly grow together over the next many months. I can’t wait for the next stage of our journey.

The Down Elevator

2012-01-11T10:10:00.001+01:00

“I want you to close your eyes and imagine you are in an elevator. You press the button marked ‘-5’, the doors close and you start to go down slowly…”

She counted off the levels one by one.

“…The doors open and you are in a big, beautiful, fertile garden with lush grass and exotic blooms. You see a bench in the garden and you sit down on it…”

“…You see your mother in the distance and you call to her. She comes to you…”

It was the third day of my sex-therapist training and we were being given a practical introduction to the principles of Imago Relationship Therapy, the idea that we carry an imprint of the positive and negative traits of our childhood carers with us in our subconscious, and that in our choice of partner, we tend to seek out someone who matches those traits. The purpose of this exercise was to try and find out what our individual traits might be.

The garden in my mind’s eye was about 15 feet across, surrounded by a high wall and consisted mostly of gravel and straggly weeds. My mother was a thin, grey, almost hollow figure and she had no face. No matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t conjure up her face. When I called to her she did not hear.

I wonder if this means something?

The Fat Controller Goes To Copenhagen

2012-01-09T10:03:00.000+01:00

Friday morning, bright and early, I took a 35 minute flight from our local airport to Copenhagen. I am going to have to get used to commuting by jet: I’ll be doing it about every six weeks for the next year and a half.

The purpose of my visit was to attend a three-day course, the first module in my training to become a sex-therapist.

No, that’s not a typo. Sex therapist. Ultimately I want to set myself up in business, seeing clients, counselling them and helping them to a better sex life. It is a thing I have been thinking about for some years and now we, Heather and I, think the time is right, so I am taking the plunge, a leap of faith. This is so out of character for me. I am normally the cautious one, the one that won’t make a move without a safety net, but this feels right, it feels like something I can do and even be good at, and my first few days of training have only strengthened that belief.

It has been a pretty intense few days: Right from the start we worked on opening ourselves up to others and to LISTENING. We were paired off and one of the pair in turn was given a specific subject to talk about; When did you first discover you were a sexual being? What was your first sexual experience? What turns you on? and suchlike. The other partner was expected to maintain eye contact and listen, without saying a word, without nodding, smiling or in any way acknowledging what was being said. This is incredibly difficult but it teaches one both how to listen and to be able to talk about sex in intimate detail with someone who was, until a couple of days previously, a total stranger.

On the afternoon of the second day, I came to give my first therapy session, with one of the other students as client, in front of the whole group. I don’t think I did too badly, at least I don’t think the poor client has suffered any permanent psychological harm.

There are 32 in the class, though only 5 men. There are people from all sorts of different backgrounds and levels of experience here, all ages from early twenties to mid-sixties, married, living together, divorced, divorcing, widowed, and single. Because the keynote of the whole course is openness, everyone is open towards each other; there are no cliques and nobody is allowed to stay excluded from the group. When we break for lunch we just grab whoever is nearest and go off in groups of five or six to one of the many sandwich bars in the locality.

Already from day one we are all bound by client confidentiality, so don’t expect any juicy gossip. I will, however, keep updating regularly on progress through the different modules as we go deeper into such things as Men and Women’s differing needs, sexual technique, paraphilias, the dark side of the psyche and many other topics. The final exam is in three parts: a written dissertation, an oral exam(stop sniggering in the back there) and the delivering of a sex-education lesson in a school, to be assessed by a survey of those present. It’s going to be hard work, but I know I can do this.

Tonight Dear, I’ve Got A Headache

2012-01-03T14:49:00.004+01:00

We thought we’d remembered everything. Early on New Year’s Eve I had made a trip down to our summerhouse to turn on the radiators and the water heater and make sure the log basket was replenished. Then, in the evening, we packed champagne, a particularly sweet and sticky sugar-coated cake made of almond paste known as ‘kransekage’ which is always eaten at New Year,

Chocolates, biscuits, peanuts, milk, sugar, tea,coffee, DVDs (pornographic and otherwise) and bedding. We were fully equipped to see the New Year in down by the coast.

Everyone in this country has their own New Year tradition: People will often see the New Year in with the same circle of friends year after year. There are always fireworks of course, mostly in the half hour or so after midnight but they start as soon as it gets dark, which is about 3.30 around here, and gradually building up throughout the evening so that already by 9 or 10 the town resembles a war-zone and the constant explosions start to get on your nerves. So, our New Year tradition is to eat early (and well) at home, then get the hell out of town to the relative tranquility of our summerhouse.

“I think that’s everything” I said to Heather as we bundled the last of the things into the car. “If there’s anything we’ve forgotten, we’ll just have to do without it until tomorrow”…

It wasn’t until that next morning, lying naked on the sofas in front of the fire, from where we had staggered from the bed at who knows what time, that we made the awful discovery. As the bleak glaring light of a windswept and rainy January morning poured in through the window, etching a scene of half-eaten food, empty bottles and discarded clothing painfully on our retinas, as the little men with sledgehammers started to get to work in earnest inside our skulls we found that we only had two Panadol in the entire house. A dilemma. Do we share what we have, which is barely enough to take the edge off, or do I do the gallant, self-sacrificing thing and let Heather have them both?

We decided to share. We hauled ourselves into an upright position, and gratefully swallowed the tablets with great draughts of cool, fresh water. Heather made a reviving cup of tea for herself and a strong cup of coffee for me, and we sat nibbling toast and trying to convince ourselves that we were feeling a little better, but we both lay down again afterwards, me with one hand on my surprisingly stiff cock, thinking bad thoughts.

After about half an hour I turned, slowly, towards Heather.

“If I do it really slowly and gently, do you think we could have a fuck? I’ve just got to get my cock inside you”

“Well, she said. “When I saw you with your cock in your hand, I did think of jumping you there and then, but I didn’t know if your head could take it”

“It’s probably a matter of whether the sofa could take it”. We both weigh more than we ought after the Christmas excesses and the sofa is rather old and creaky. Rather like I was feeling at the time.

So we made our way back to the bedroom. I realised that I had no idea what the time was and looking around I saw that all the clocks in the place were still on summer time – it is a summerhouse after all. She laid back on the bed, spread her legs obediently and let me in. Sliding between her silky lips, slick with the heavy moisture of her anticipation, I relished the infinitely slow enveloping of my aching cock and then paused as I bottomed out, slowly grinding my pubis into hers.

I lay on top of her and steadily worked in and out while she tweaked my nipples in an attempt to summon up the orgasm I so desperately craved but did not dare to hasten by thrusting any harder for fear that my pounding head should explode. At the end, there was no great explosion of semen either, just a long, drawn-out satisfying stream deep into her insides. I sank my head onto her breasts and she ran her fingers through my hair.

“It’s all right” She whispered. “You can owe me my ‘O’. You can do it when my head’s a little clearer”.

We rolled apart and snoozed a little, snug under the duvet with the log-fire crackling in the lounge. When we woke, the whole world looked different: A watery sun was staring to cut through the rain clouds, the wind had died down to a gentle breeze, we both had a new energy and the headaches, though not gone, were banished to the remoter corners of the cranium. We were ready to get on with the day, the coming year, the rest of our lives.

Though I can’t claim it had influenced the weather, that fuck had made us feel a whole lot better. Clearly, when you run out of Paracetemol, a few endorphins can work wonders.

A Happy New Year to All Our Readers

2012-01-02T10:52:00.000+01:00

(If we have any left)

This country has a somewhat brutal attitude towards public holidays. If they fall on a weekend, it’s just hard luck; you don’t get an extra day off in lieu, so today is just a normal Monday, back to work for everyone and the New Year celebrations seem just like a normal weekend. With fireworks.

The turn of the year is a traditional time for looking forward and for resolutions. I don’t do resolutions but I really am going to try and post more regularly than I have been over the past few months. I’ve missed blogging and I’ve missed regularly reading a lot of my favourite blogs and discovering new ones. We have managed to run our business with one less member of staff this past year and we have managed, but naturally that makes more demands on our time, especially in the run-up to Christmas, which is far and away our busiest time.

Looking forward to the new year, there are changes afoot: Some imposed on us, like the fact that we are once again alone in our own home, and others where we have made ourselves. I have decided that in 2012, my life is going to branch out in a whole new and exciting direction, but more of that a little later on.

With the passing of Half Nekkid Thursday, there isn’t the same impetus to have a picture ready for posting on a Wednesday night, but I hope we will have the time, and the room and the privacy to take some more photos and post them from time to time.

To our old friends: Thanks for sticking with us. To new friends: Welcome here. I hope we can provide you with something to amuse, titillate and stimulate. Watch this space over the next few months because it’s going to be an interesting year.

HNT: First and Last

2011-12-29T14:56:00.004+01:00

It is sad to see the passing of Half nekkid Thursday. Although we haven't had the time or opportunity to contribute regularly of late, we have had a lot of fun with HNT over the last few years.

I thought it would be appropriate as a final HNT from here to re-publish the very first we submitted, entitled 'Lucky Heather' and taken in our local forest during that warm indian summer of 2008, we had so much fun with it we kept going back to our favourite secluded spot to take ever-more daring photos. For that memory alone I am thankful to HNT and to Os

If you want to see more, just click on the HNT tag in the right sidebar (scroll down a bit). If you want to see who else is taking part in the last HNT then go visit Os!

Bye Bye Baby.

2011-12-21T22:15:00.001+01:00

”Look Daddy, there’s my man!”, she cried out excitedly. Our daughter couldn’t have been more than six or seven when I first pointed out the constellations in the night sky. The air here in Scandinavia is noticeably clearer and freer of light pollution than where we lived previously in Southern England and the experience of gazing up into the heavens on a cloudless night is that much more intense. The Milky Way appears as a white stripe across the inky blackness and you really get the feeling of looking out through one of the arms of our galaxy to countless millions of galaxies beyond.

She soon learned to recognise The Plough, Cassiopeia and Orion, the great hunter with his belt and his sword. She adopted Orion and he became ‘her man’. She would point him out whenever she chanced to see him.

I was reminded of this as I drove home the other evening. I had spent the entire day helping Daughter to move into her new flat, in the city, some 30 miles from where we live. Orion hung low in the sky as I drove east along empty roads, and I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to that excited little girl, where all the years had suddenly gone.

We’re used to not having her around, of course. She was at boarding school for two years and in Brazil for a year straight after that, but this is different. It’s more final. She’s not coming back, or at least she’s not planning to. She’s decided that the time is right to cut the ties once and for all and live her own life by her own rules.

And that’s how it should be.

From the moment the umbilical cord is cut, your children start to grow away from you. How many times do we see obstinate toddlers determinedly stomping away from their parents as fast as their legs will carry them? All you can do in the end is to guide them, encourage them, support them and be there for them, all the while gradually releasing your hold on them.

Of course, from a purely mercenary point of view, it does mean that we have the house to ourselves again. In that respect, not only has our daughter gained her freedom, but so have we.

But that’s another story.

Not Sitting But Running

2011-11-24T14:12:00.006+01:00

'This time next week I will be sitting in that pretentious architectural disaster area that is Copenhagen international Airport, on my way home again.'

I wrote that a little over a week ago in a burst of quite unjustifed optimism.

Whatever committee designed Copenhagen Airport, they were certainly not constrained by any lack of space, or indeed by considerations such as the convenience of the passengers who were to use it. It sprawls in one mile-long continuous line of terminal building. Moving pavements to ease the traveller's lot? Few and far between. They get in the way of the shops, you see.

The inbound flight was delayed about 40 minutes because of fog. The aircraft eventually parked at the western end of the airport, close by Domestic Departures from whence my connecting flight should leave, but of course it would be too logical to allow us to leave by that gate. We had to go down onto the tarmac and be bussed down to the far eastern end of the terminal complex for passport control. The cabin crew made an appeal to those on board who were finishing their journey at Copenhagen to stay back and let those with connecting flights get off the plane first, so we climbed aboard the buses which then waited for the remaining passengers to disembark before setting off. Thus those of us who came first into the packed buses were naturally the last to get out and join the queue for passport contol. Brilliant.

With the connecting flight being called as I finally cleared passport control I had to make a mad dash over that mile of terminal. It wouldn't be so bad if it were just a straight mile of corridor, but the route weaves in and out between unnecessary mezzanines, shop units and pavement coffee bars, and of course, crowds of travellers, either lost and aimlessly wandering or bored with waiting to be called to their departure gate and aimlessly wandering.

I was trying to rationalise by telling myself that there was really no need to hurry: My baggage was checked through from Gatwick and was probably already loaded onboard the onward flight. If I didn't show, they would have to unload the whole lot again and retrieve my stuff and serve them right, but I have a pathological dislike of being late for anything, so I hurried.

I made the departure gate with five minutes to spare. No space left in the overhead bins on the aircraft to store my hand luggage. That's why I like being on board sooner rather than later. But I had made it and I was able to phone Heather to tell her to meet me at the local airport as arranged. As it turned out, the only sitting I did in Copenhagen that day was in a seat with a lap-belt, with the back fully upright prior to take-off and the table in front of me folded away.

Porn Again.

2011-11-24T13:32:00.001+01:00

So, I'm sitting in The Flying Horse, the Wetherspoons pub on Gatwick airside, quietly sucking on a last pint of English beer and making use of their free WiFi.

Can I look at this blog to while away the waiting time? Can I buggery. It has been flagged up as inappropriate and pornographic, and not for the first time. I wouldn't have minded if it were true, but pornographic content has been pretty thin on the ground lately.

I'll just have to see what I can do to live up to my erstwhile smutty reputation.

Changes

2011-11-14T10:38:00.009+01:00

Once again I feel I have to apologise for the lack of content of late. So many things have been happening lately that there aren't enough hours in the day.

I would hasten to add that it is not for lack of material. It is just that when time is pressing, I'd rather be doing it than writing about it.

My excuse just at the moment is that I am busy packing Christmas presents and writing cards. Yes, I know that a month from now would be soon enough for any normal person but the day after tomorrow I am off to UK for a few days to do a quick round of family and friends to drop off their presents and, hopefully, collect some loot from them to bring back. The crazy fact is, with the exhorbitant cost of postage and air fares being cheap as never before, it is almost cheaper for me to deliver presents in person than it is to post them.

It is only a short visit, alas. This time next week I will be sitting in that pretentious architectural disaster area that is Copenhagen international Airport, on my way home again. Heather will be staying at home unfortunately -somebody has to keep the business running - but it will be good to see the family again.

The next few months look like bringing some major changes in our lives. I can't reveal anything just now and I don't know how it will affect the frequency or regularity of postings. We will just have to see what 2012 brings.

One change that came right out of left field is that last night, around midnight, daughter announced that she was leaving home. In a month's time.

She has been talking about finding a place of her own in the big city for some time now but, given the difficulty of finding anywhere we thought she had quietly dropped the idea. Then suddenly last night one of her old friends from boarding school announced on Facebook thatr he was moving out of his flat in the city centre and was anybody interested? Daughter was in there like a shot and she is set to move on the 15th December.

As we lay together in the afterglow of a good hard fuck last night there were mixed emotions. Heather was a little tearful at the thought of our little girl leaving home. I reminded her that she is 20 after all and that at her age, she herself had put the breadth of The North Sea between her and her parents and was shacking up with some ruffian in a freezing cold bedsit in Tuffnel Park.

It's not as if we unused to not having her around either. She was at boarding school for two years and then in Brazil for a year. It will mean less cooking, less washing, more freedom, more sex and we get our car back.

But it's going to be strange not having her around.

e[lust] #31

2011-11-14T10:11:00.001+01:00

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #32 ? Start with the rules, come back in January to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

A Feminist Defense of Consensual Nonconsent - How does a woman who identifies as a feminist reconcile her desire to submit to her partner during sex? Being somewhat new to kink, I had some trepidations about how submission seemingly went against my ethics.

Intimates - As the evening drew on, I felt like the sexiest woman alive. It’s strange to describe it this way, but I actually felt brimming with a sort of sexual energy. A lustiness, a sexiness, an allure and a desire all at once.

Tightest Space - I'm paying close attention to your moans, and I stop whenever it feels like it might be too much. But the incredibly tight feeling of your ass gripping my cock is so delicious that I need to get all the way in.

~ e[lust] Editress ~

An Open Letter to the Sex Toy Industry - I write this post not to just let off some steam but with the smallest glimmer of hope that maybe…….just maybe….some of these words will land on the right computer screen and be taken to heart. Maybe one change will happen.

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

International #Fisting Day!! - Beyond awareness and calling for action, I think International Fisting Day is a great day to celebrate fisting; an intimate, hugely erotic and often orgasmic act that doesn’t get the recognition it deserves.

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A Bit about Crushes
Are You on the Pill?
How to Approach Your Partner with a Fantasy
Meeting New People
Sex And Disability: What Does the Literature Say?
Settling – Striving For Connections in Non-Monogamy
Sex and Heart Attacks
Training my rear end

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Getting Past The Word 'Slut'
Private Pictures
The Fetish Fashion of l'Enfant Terrible

Kink & Fetish

Enough is Enough
Hands
In his hands the vibe was intensity personified
Live Well
Public Exposure: The Third Birthday Fantasy
Rope
Scammers come in different flavours
When Submission is a Dry Biscuit

Erotic Writing

A contrast in swinging
A Frightened Heart
6-Some Fun
Bent
Come Again
Emily
Her First Time
In the Bathroom
Move
treat

Duck!

2011-11-11T11:40:00.004+01:00

Unlike cultures with a Catholic tradition who have a saint for every day of the year, this country which is predominantly Lutheran does not go in much for saint's days. However, where food is involved they're always prepared to make an exception.

Last night was the eve of Saint Martin, and on the eve of Saint Martin you eat duck. It's not as if the man himself has any particular links with this country. He was born in what is now Hungary and became a bishop in France in the 3rd century AD. He probably never even visited this country. But his name is linked to a legend involving geese and on the eve of the anniversary of his death you eat goose, or its' more practical modern-day equivalent, duck. Any excuse for a big feed.

It's probably a good thing we don't celebrate St John the Baptist with quite so much enthusiasm. He allegedly lived on locusts and wild honey.

I'll stick with the duck, thank you.

Traditional meal for Mortens Aften: Roast duck in rich brown gravy with red cabbage.

Christmas is Coming...

2011-11-09T16:55:00.003+01:00

And what better way to celebrate the season of peace and goodwill than by terrifying the living crap out of the kids by giving them a wooden chest with a severed deer's head in it.

Maybe the shop in question is trying Mafia-style tactics, as in;

'buy stuff from us if you don't want to find a severed deer's head in your bed one of these days.'

HNT: Feast

2011-11-03T00:45:00.004+01:00

...and Heather wonders sometimes why I can't keep my eyes - or my hands for that matter - off her.

Happy HNT, everybody!
Why not go over to Os and see who else is Half Nekkid this week.

It Was 20 Years Ago Today...

2011-11-01T09:58:00.003+01:00

1st November 2011.

Today our beautiful baby girl is no longer a teenager.

Where did the time go?

Did He or Didn't He?

2011-10-28T14:14:00.007+02:00

This is footage from the EU economic summit meeting yesterday shows our new socialist Prime Minister Helle Thorning-Schmidt (aka Mrs Stephen Kinnock - Yes, THAT Kinnock) entering from the left and greeting international millionnaire playboy and occasional Italian premier, Silvio Berlusconi.

Thorning was only elected to power a few weeks ago and is a relatively new face in Brussels, but Berlusconi clearly wasted no time in checking her out with a serruptitious glance at her rear end as she walked away.

Wouldn't have thought he was her type; at nearly 45, she has to be about 30 years too old for him.

HNT: Mirror, mirror

2011-10-27T01:04:00.004+02:00

Mirror, mirror on the ground
Who has the fairest tits around?

On reflection, there's double the fun!

Happy HNT everybody. Go and visit Os to see who else is up!

I Think I'll Pass on the Cookies

2011-10-20T14:11:00.001+02:00

How do you say 'These cookies taste strange' in Romanian?

e[lust] #30

2011-10-12T10:04:00.006+02:00

Photo courtesy of Emmy @ Right Turn Without Signaling

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you're looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you're going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #31? Start with the rules, check out the schedule and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Week's Top Three Posts ~

Crotch Topiary & Other Delights - I admit I started simple, I realised my teenage dream of having a Winona-inspired heart emblazoned on my mound. It was perfect. I used Contact paper to design my heart and just went to town pulling out every hair that was not covered.

In Defense of Exclusion - Sometimes it's nice to be with people who are like you. It's nice to be around people who get your kink, your fetish - to be somewhere that you don't have to explain it to.

The Boy At Summer Camp - It started with an email with the subject line 'butch at your service,' and an offer for a blow job. And I thought, hm. Well, you know, I do like those. But I'm not usually attracted to boys.

~ e[lust] Editress ~

Ask Lilly: "My sex toy stinks - what should I do?" - Would you put it in your mouth with that smell? Would you gag from the smell and taste? If yes, then why the hell put it in your vagina or ass??

~ Featured Post (Lilly's Pick) ~

A Day At The Circus

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the 'read more tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Erotic Writing

A Long Hot Weekend
A night time walk
A Summer Honeymoon
Blithely Sauntering
Cleaning Up
Cigar
Dreamweaver
Ep 2: One Last Time
Full Frontal Nerdity
Get ready for take off...
Hear this
Let's Play a Game
Le Glamour, the best swing club experience ever
Perspective
Patience for What She Wants
The Cane
The Car Wash
what makes you happy?

Kink & Fetish

A First Ever Punishment
crunk
Having Respect for Dominants
One Year. Today
Spider silk
Those inside-out, head-exploding orgasms
To Munch Or Not To Munch?

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

assplay and me...
Comparisons
Here Comes The Bride
Lover as Chameleon - Flexible Sexual Kinkery
Must we all get along?
Not all conclusions are easy to come by
Non-Monogamy and Starbucks
The (Female) Phenomenon of Emotional Masochism
Why I Love Sex (In That 70's Show)

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Internet Drag
Selling Used Socks on eBay for Extra Money
Sex in Sin City (Yes I had me some...)
The Curses of the Scarlet Woman
Things I Looove Thursday

I’ve Never Heard it Called That Before

2011-10-11T10:04:00.005+02:00

At a meeting last night of the business-persons club of which I am a member (Lions/Rotary/Round Table/Hells Angels/Hizb ut-Tahrir - you know the sort of thing) we had a chap from the local nature conservancy come to tell us about, well, conserving nature.

I was jerked awake from my somnolent state during an otherwise tedious post-prandial ‘Death-by-Powerpoint’ by a slide showing what a good job they had done improving the view from a local hilltop by cutting down a few trees and clearing back the undergrowth. It was exactly the spot mentioned in this post: The setting for our little bit of outdoor fun earlier on this year. You could even see the gorse bush behind which we did the deed.

I couldn’t help a silent snigger and it was all I could do to stop myself laughing out loud when he said in his droning voice:

“You can see how the open landscape lends itself to a wide variety of recreational activities”

Quite so.

HNT: Post-it® notes and fridge magnets

2011-10-06T00:03:00.008+02:00

When Os put out the call for a Half nekkid Thursday on a theme of Post-its®, I began to think of different ways I could adorn Heather in brightly-coloured sticky bits of paper. Then I did what I should have done in the first place and asked Heather's opinion.

She came up with the idea that rather than putting a whole load ofPost-It® notes all over her, I should put her over a whole load of Post-It® notes.

I stuck the end-results up on the fridge and just hoped our daughter didn't walk in until I was finishedand I had tidied it all away.

Happy HNT everyone, now go over to Os and see how creative everybody else has been.

Come Again?

2011-10-05T16:27:00.008+02:00

‘…I had no time to slow down the gentle brushing of her clit when the second orgasm started to build, followed, just as rapidly, by a third.’

I found myself writing those words last week and, on re-reading them it struck me how matter-of-fact it all was. On previous occasions when Heather has enjoyed multiple orgasms, I have written about the event with a sense of awe and wonder. This time it was as if it was an everyday occurrence. It isn’t, but maybe it is getting that way.

The next day of our prolonged summerhouse weekend I had taken Heather’s shocking pink basque out of our little bag of tricks and handed it to her with the words “I want to see you in this”. She stripped off in the lounge, in front of the log fire, and put it on. This time she needed no help from me as it zips right up the front.

She looked perfect in it and I just couldn’t keep my hands off her. The lightly boned panels flattened her stomach, gave her a gorgeous hourglass waist and pushed up her breasts until they overflowed out of their barely adequate half-cups, giving her a cleavage you could gladly get lost in. The little fringe of black tulle, a parody of a skirt, made what it attempted to cover up all the more inviting. I pulled her close to me, buried my face in that cavernous cleavage and ran my hands all over a torso that was tight and firm under the slippery pink satin.

We wandered through into the bedroom. Heather sat on the bed and I stood before her. Wordlessly she leaned forward and rolled her tongue around the very tip of my cock a few times before encircling it with her lips and sliding slowly down the shaft. I began to have thoughts of letting her take me to the very limit before I pulled out and splashed my seed over her breasts, so that I could push my tongue down into her cleavage and lick it all up again, but I needed to get my cock inside her, and so did she.

Eventually she sat back, a little breathless. I gently steered her shoulders down onto the bed so that she was lying with her legs splayed and feet still on the floor. I knelt between them and buried my face in her crotch, drilling into her cunt with my tongue and dragging the sweet, viscous fluid up to her clit. By bringing my upturned palm up under my chin, I was able to ease a couple of fingers inside her and give her the famous ‘come hither’ stroke while I rolled my tongue round her clit.

Heather covered her face in her hands and shrieked as she orgasmed. I pulled the hands away, I didn’t want those shrieks to be muffled; I wanted to hear her sing.

Again, as on the day before, no sooner was she coming down off the first orgasm than a second began to build. Carefully, and with my fingers still inside her, we positioned ourselves on the bed so that I could drive my aching cock inside her instead. I was kneeling up now between her legs so that I could fuck her and still massage her clit with my thumb. With the best will in the world, Heather cannot seem to come from penetration alone and I so desperately wanted her to come again with me inside her.

She reached down and her fingers met mine on top of her clit. We helped each other in massaging her to a second orgasm just in time before I exploded my seed inside her on a wave of her contractions.

As I have detailed before, Heather doesn’t usually come easily, and very rarely more than once. Lately, though, it seems to be becoming a more regular event. I don’t know what’s happening; I don’t think I’m doing anything different. Maybe she is more relaxed and at peace with herself. Whatever the reason, I’m not complaining. For me, every one of the orgasms I help her to is a sheer joy, and I don’t believe you can have too much of that.

P.S. If you want to see how lovely Heather looks in her pink basque, then hurry over to the Boobiethon site, and while you're there you might want to give a donation to help fight breast cancer!

Another favourite place in UK

HNT: Back to Black

2011-09-29T00:30:00.010+02:00

Illustrating the aftermath of our little weekend escapade, as described below.

See if you can work out which bit goes where!

Happy HNT everybody! Don't forget to visit Os and see who else is being naughty.

A Long Hot Weekend

2011-09-29T00:20:00.001+02:00

Heather and I normally work 6 days a week in our little business, and often evenings and Sundays are also sacrificed to tedious but necessary administration.

Once in a while, however, as determined by some arcane formula requiring the use of an ephemeris, an orrery and a bowl of chicken entrails, the staffing schedule allows us to take a Friday and Saturday free. This weekend was one such and, as a bonus, fine weather was promised. The summerhouse beckoned.

We could have gone down on Thursday night, except that Heather had a meeting to go to and wasn’t back till late, so it wasn’t until Friday morning that we packed and left our life’s work in the capable hands of our staff.

It was a wonderful feeling to flop down into the big, comfortable sofa with its view out over the sea and know that there was nothing on the agenda for the next three days except sex. Lots of sex.

While our living room has the view out over the garden and the sea, the bedroom catches the afternoon sun. We can lie and fuck lazily in a pool of warmth and sunshine diffused by the thin curtain. It is just perfect for long afternoons when we have nothing else to do, no appointments, no obligations, no limits.

I had brought our goody bag with us, containing a selection of items from our toyboxes at home. I had decided that we were going to have a ‘black’ afternoon so, while Heather was out in the bathroom, I began to make ready:

Black satin sheet and pillowcases on the bed. Heather’s attire carefully laid out in its anatomic position, starting with the leather ankle-cuffs and chromed leg-spreader at the foot end, all the way up to the strappy leather head-harness on the pillow. Heather looked at his lot when she got back but said nothing, she just stood passively as I dressed her.

A black leather bra, if it could be called that: A shaped leather ring encircling and constricting each plump breast, joined by a chain, fastened by a thick leather strap at the back and with a thin leather halter. Matching pants; a broad triangle of black leather with a generous gash in it, to match her own, and guarded by a chain running along its length, the apex disappearing into almost nothing in her bum-crack and fastening to a pair of slender straps with two buckles at the waist.

Wrist-straps, of course. Thick and heavy and enveloping, with snap links to attach them to each other or to any other part of her attire, to subdue, restrain or to cause discomfort. Whichever I choose. The collar was snapped into place next. Constructed of steel rings joined by short lengths of leather, it is flexible and provides an abundance of attachment points for snap-links.

The head harness. It’s not comfortable, but she sits passively enough as I put it on her and tighten the straps as far as they will go. Under the chin, behind the head and finally the top of the head: Subtly squeezing, constraining.

Finally, the nipple-clamps. Ferocious sharp serrations crushing the pink nipples which are already popping out from the ends of her grotesquely swollen breasts. She draws in her breath sharply as they begin to bite, but still does not complain.

She lay back on the black satin sheet, her voluptuous body squeezed into a grotesque caricature of herself, her legs held wide apart and her mouth forced open by the ring-gag so that she looked like a cheap blow-up fuck-doll.

Now it was my turn to be restrained in leather. We have a full body harness, all thick straps and buckles. Usually, Heather wears it, but it went on me all right, with the my balls sitting one each side of the thin crotch-strap and my cock straining through the lower of the two metal rings which are the focal points for the myriad strips of leather. Heather helped me into the thing and fastened the buckles tight, then tighter still. I thrilled to the grip of the leather as I tried to move and lie down beside her.

My fingers went straight to the slit in the stiff leather undergarment. No foreplay, just the process of dressing up, and she was already wet and dripping. The first touch of my fingertips on her clit and I knew she was already well on her way to orgasm. Hooking my fingers inside her and giving a little tug on the chain joining her nipples was all that was required to tip her over the edge and she came, shouting and gasping.

I had no time to slow down the gentle brushing of her clit when the second orgasm started to build, followed, just as rapidly, by a third.

After that she seemed visibly to deflate. I repositioned myself, kneeling by her head, and tried to push my cock, already constrained by one metal ring, through the second that was holding her mouth open. Then, I wriggled down between her gaping legs, trying to avoid the ankle spreader with my feet and eased into her. She shuddered and moaned and I gave the nipple clamps another little tug, but she was drained of all energy and couldn’t quite manage a fourth orgasm. I clipped her wrists to her collar and she buried her face in her hands while I fucked her hard and came deep inside her soaking slit.

In the fading light of an autumn aftenoon we lay there, drained. He air was heavy with the smells of leather, spunk and sweat. Slowly, painfully slowly, I removed Heather’s gear. The nipple clamps first, revealing nipples squashed flat and corrugated, then the head harness, then any buckles I could reach in no particular order. We kicked the things off and left them to lie in a tangled heap at the foot of the bed while we dozed.

And this was just the beginning of a long, hot weekend.

Surveyed!

2011-09-20T11:25:00.009+02:00

Apart from the house where we live and where our business is situated we have another, smaller, outhouse across the yard where Daughter has a little flat and which is otherwise used for the storage of 40 years of accumulated junk. Junk which we wouldn’t dream of throwing out, of course, but nevertheless stuff we don’t need to use right now.

We have no idea how old this building is but it must be at least 100 years old, with a roof to match. A roof that was starting to sag in the middle and was becoming more and more leaky. Things came to a head during the big thaw of March this year after our second hard winter in a row: water started dripping down into daughters flat so that at one stage, bowls were lined up along her windowsills. Something had to be done.

New roofs cost money, so we went to our local friendly bank to ask for a loan. They wanted someone too look over the house before they would approve it so an appointment was set up so that our bank advisor and a surveyor could give the place the once-over. It was decided that I should mind the business while Heather showed them the roof in question, maybe to take them up into the loft so that they could see the damage for themselves. Not a bit of it. The loan was to be secured against the property and they wanted to see the whole house. The whole bloody house. Every single room.

Fuck. The bedroom. I don’t know how many people’s bedrooms would stand up to an unannounced inspection. Ours certainly wouldn’t. Our children learned very early on that our bedroom was our little sanctum, only to be violated in the event of the house burning down or similar, and certainly now that they have grown up and (more or less) left home we have been less than conscientious in what we leave lying around on the bedroom floor.

To be fair, Heather had asked me to tidy away some of the stuff we had been using after a particularly active evening some days previously but I hadn’t quite got round to it. When she came back from giving the full guided tour, she was hopping mad.

We got the loan without any problems, and nobody made any comment about the state of the bedroom. I tried to pacify Heather by suggesting that perhaps our visitor hadn’t noticed the chains hanging from either side of the door, and the neckties attached to the bedposts, the inflatable butt-plug (washed, at least), the fluorescent pink Rabbit, the ankle-spreaders, flogger, njoy and various articles of lingerie and leather that were liberally strewn around the floor or the bottles of lube on the bedside table.

Who am I kidding? He’s a surveyor. Of course he noticed.

Another favourite place in UK

The Last of the Summer Whine

2011-09-16T12:25:00.008+02:00

Back in May I wrote an optimistic little post, describing how we had just enjoyed a refreshing fuck in the great outdoors and expressing the naive hope that it would be the first of many this year. After two awful winters (Mike and Bernie?) on either side of an indifferent summer last year, I thought we were due at least some sort of summer this year. I was wrong.

However, the forecast for last weekend seemed promising. On fact it was predicted to be the last good weekend before autumn sets in, so we lost no time in getting down to our summerhouse as soon as we were able on Saturday afternoon. It was a bit dull and overcast when we got down there, but not actually raining, and when we got a fire going in the stove it was very cosy.

Sunday morning, on the other hand, was sunny and warm. With a sense of it being our last chance we hurried to get the chairs and sun-lounger out onto the lawn.

I watched Heather as, little by little she first rolled up her top to get some sun to the pale skin of her stomach, then liberated her breasts so that they could get some as well.

"I forgot to bring my bikini" she said as she kicked off her jeans.

"Well, go without" I replied with a grin. "There's nobody to see".

We were round the side of the house, screened from the neighbours by bushes of wild rose. The only way we could have been seen was from the beach, with a powerful pair of binoculars. There was no-one on the beach. There hardly ever is, especially at this time of year.

She strippped off completely and stretched out full length on the sun lounger, face down. I undressed as well and sat in one garden chair with my feet up on another, admiring the way the sunlight cast curved shadows of one bum-cheek on the other and nursing my swelling cock in my hand. Well, I didn't want the fella to get sunburned now, did I? On the other hand, it might have been fun to have laid down on my back and used him as a sundial (or at least as the gnomon thereof [1]).

When Heather turned over to get some rays to her front I had great difficulty in restraining myself, especially when she spread her legs wide and let them drop to either side of the lounger. From where I was sitting the sunlight caught her pubic hair like golden filigree threads. I just had to see it from another angle, or at least that's what I told myself as I got up off the chair and stood at the end of the lounger, looking down at her parted, glistening cunt lips.

I had just intended to enjoy the view but before I knew it I was on top of her, lowering myself very carefully onto the white plastic sun lounger for fear of breaking it, kissing her breasts and her face and jiggling my hips until my cock found it's own way home and slid effortlessly inside her.

Heather just smiled. "I wondered how long it would take you" she said as I drove slowly and deeply into her, "We've never done it on this thing before. I've never known if it would take our weight".

For a glorious moment e everything was perfect on that late summer day; the warm sun on my back, the gentle breeze on naked skin, the sound of birdsong and of her gasping breath. All of this plus the added frisson of the risk of discovery because although we were screened from casual gaze there was always the possibility of unexpected visitors.

I hope the weather is kinder to us next summer; we had such ambitions for outdoor dalliances after our first foray in the spring, and I have a whole catalogue of potential places where we could be alone and undisturbed. Top of the list is. on the beach at midnight, but that is going to have to wait until the water has really warmed up.

[1] There you have today's word. Gnomon: The pointy bit on a sundial. Never let it be said that this blog is not educational.

Just look at the size of that gnomon

e[lust] #29

2011-09-16T11:54:00.000+02:00

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Evidence To The Contrary - If anyone out there ever tries to tell you that internet relationships and friendships are not real, point them in my direction and I will happily set them straight on the matter because I have proof, in fact I am proof, that they know not what they speak of.

Open Marriages Don't Work....- The only way I would agree with that statement is if you add: .....if you're marriage already has problems. But even that part is not universally true.

Love in the Age of Broadband - What happened to our ability to keep it casual? Why would we attach ourselves to someone who is (often) hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away? And, more to the point, why would we attach ourselves to someone we have never met?

~ e[lust] Editress ~

Ask Lilly – Open and Polyamorous: Why be married at all?

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

My apologies, everyone, since submissions closed I've been 100% consumed with personal family tragedy (the flooding in Central PA) so I didn't have time to read most of the entries this time or find a photo. The html code might contain a lot of blank lines for some of you, I didn't have time to "clean" it up, either, just throw up what I have.

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Ask Aunty Dee: Dental Dams
born this way...
Clit Truth
Condoms and Size
Lies & Infidelities
Misguided Dominance
Poly Language
Return to Decadence
Step Inside My Head
Who was the first person you told..
When Bad Things Happen To Good People – Warning Bells

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

To Be Out Or Not To Be Out
Want Sado-Erotic Horror Movies? Yes please! Films by Matthew Saliba
What I've Learned From E[Lust]

Kink & Fetish

A Much Needed Distraction
Another drink?
Caged
Facing Fear
Negotiation Win

Erotic Writing

As Long As It Lasts
Asking For It
Anticipation
Blow Job
Campfire
Debra's Gift
Feral
Fantasy
June’s Caning
Please, Please, Please, Sir
Showers and Strawberries
slick
The Visitor
The Play Fight

As Long As It Lasts

2011-09-06T23:17:00.002+02:00

Our son has finally left home again. As long as it lasts. He has moved into a flat with his fiancee and got himself a job.

As long as it lasts.

Our daughter is back together with her boyfriend so perhaps we can look forward to long weekends where she just isn't around.

As long as it lasts.

Forgive my pessimism, but we've seen it all before. What we come to assume is a steady state is often perilously fragile. We know from experience that our comfortable child-free life can rapidly and dramatically change.

So the trick is to make the most of it as long as it lasts.

So when on Friday afternoon, daughter announced that she would be out all weekend, we weren't slow to make use of the window of opportunity.

"I hate wearing bras" Heather announced, after we had locked the doors of our business on Friday evening.

"Well I don't insist on you wearing them" I replied as I watched her peel off her top and reach behind her to unhook her bra. Is it just me, or is there something inherently erotic in the way a woman's elbows stick out at odd angles as she fumbles around behind her shoulder blades trying to find the clasp?

"Unless" I added hastily. "It's a tiny little quarter-cup push-up one which has your gorgeous breasts tumbling out of it".

She looked at me with an enigmatic sideways sort of look, her bra hanging floppy and functionless by its straps from her elbows. Then she gave a sort of wiggle to flaunt those magnificent free-hanging breasts in my face and off she went upstairs to change while I went out to get pizza.

Which I got back she was wearing a silky black sleeveless top which allowed just a tantalizing peek of a ruffled bra-strap underneath and with a scooped neckline which showed off her cleavage. Whichever bra she was now wearing, it was giving her a fantastic shape; her breasts were made high and massive so that the silky fabric of her top hung down off them like a shimmering curtain.

After pizza and a bottle of Italian red to go with it we took ourselves off to the bedroom. Yes, I know that with the house to ourselves we could pick any room, but the bedroom has the huge advantage that it contains a bed. Not to mention our stock of 'playwear' (for want of a better term), sex toys and pornography.

Slowly, Heather removed her top to reveal what she was wearing underneath: A black bra, heavily underwired and decorated with lace and gold brocade, padded when no padding was necessary, providing a cornucopia of soft white breast for me to touch and kiss and rest my head upon.

As her jeans came off I saw that her full, round buttocks were encased in tight clingy black satin. I wasted no more time in getting out of my own clothes so that I could lie down beside her. My hands were all over her, gripping her behind her neck and roughly jamming her lips onto mine, massaging her breasts, grabbing handfuls of her smooth satin-clad buttocks or pushing that flimsy material up into her already soaking wet crack with my fingers. I wanted her so badly that I didn't know what to do first. I wanted to rub my cock between her breasts and fill her cleavage with my spunk, but I wanted to save my load for her cunt. Or her mouth. Or her arsehole. I wanted it all and I told her so.

Heather didn't miss a beat from the energetic wanking she was treating me to. She just smiled and said gently "Well, you'll just have to save those other things till later on".

I decided what I wanted. Delectable as they were, the knickers were going to have to come off: I needed to taste her.

I laid on by side with my face nestling in her crotch. Heather was on her back with one leg resting on my shoulder and the other off the edge of the bed somewhere. I licked up and down her juicy crevice, circled her clit with my tongue and sucked her plump labia into my mouth. My thumb was probing inside her cunt and a wetted finger traced across her perineum and around her arsehole before pushing inside.

Heather, meanwhile was alternately wanking and blowing me while pulling and twisting at my nipples. She was going at it so hard I had to pull away a little to stop me coming right there and then: I was going to lick her to orgasm and then, and only then, she was going to get a cuntful of my spunk.

To come and not to be able to close her legs is sweet torture for her; I know that, and I know her orgasm is all the more intense for it, so I held her legs apart as she struggled and twisted on the bed until at last she gave out a protracted wail and went limp on the bed. Without giving her a chance to catch her breath, I was on her, bearing down on her, subduing her and penetrating her. My face wore a sticky mask of her juices and I pressed it up against hers as I fucked her.

She crossed her legs behind my back and pulled at my nipples with renewed fury and I let go with all that I had, straining to get as deep inside her as I could in those final moments.

And then we were lying side by side, flushed and exhausted.

"The good thing about having a fuck so early in the evening" Observed Heather, languidly. "Is that we still have time to do all the things we need to do, then we can go to bed and do it all again".

And that's the last thing I remember until I woke up again, way past midnight.

Oh well, I could still get used to early-evening fucks.

As long as it lasts.

Another pic from our holidays: The glorious Sussex Downs

What I Did In My Holidays..Part 2

2011-09-01T23:27:00.007+02:00

It's painful to admit, but my mother is becoming that batty old woman. You know the one. Ok, she's been a batty middle-aged woman for years and of course when I was a teenager she would take a positive delight in causing me maximum embarrassment when we were out together by picking fights with traffic wardens, officious bus conductors and such like, because all parents do stuff like that. I think it must be in the job-description somewhere.

She also has a talent for re-writing history, as in her off-repeated mantra "I never did like your friend George. He used to come round and take you out drinking when you should have been studying for your A-levels". Absolutely and demonstrably false, but any attempt at protest is automatically met with a look of serene detachment and you know that this particular conversation is terminated.

Anyway. We rolled up at her place in Bournemouth around tea time. She had, she said, put a chicken in the slow cooker and it should be just about ready.

Or at least it would have been if she had remembered to plug the slow-cooker in. Never mind, the bird got bunged unceremoniously into the oven and was ready soon enough.

The next day, Sunday, we decided to walk into town along the seafront and take the full Sunday lunch at the Weatherspoons. It was a warm and sunny day and the promenade and beach were crowded with holidaymakers. All the way into town, mother was tutting and shaking her head. "All these people" she kept saying. "It never used to be like this, it never used to be like this ".

Yes it did. Summer Sundays in July in Bournemouth have always been just like this. It's a holiday resort. Oh well, we had an ice cream while we walked and a goodly portion of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding in the pub, and Mother managed to have a quarrel with the man sitting behind her on the bus home, who was opening and closing the window noisily, so we were all happy.

On the Monday, Mother made good on her oft-repeated promise to introduce Heather and Daughter to the seventh circle of shopping hell that is Primark. They seemed to enjoy it, so I left them to it and wandered off to go and look at mobile phone chargers, blank DVDs and other exciting stuff in Maplins.

Still, I mustn't be mean. We had a good few days at my Mum's place. We even managed a shag, Heather and I, albeit a very quick and very quiet one. Mother had given us her bedroom, which faces east and catches the morning sun. I had returned from an early morning visit to the bathroom to find that Heather had kicked off her duvet and was lying in a little pool of warm sunshine. I pushed her nightdress up over her breasts and covered her, luxuriating in her warmth. She half-opened her eyes, gave an enigmatic little smile and parted her legs just enough for me to slip between them. She was already wet and I slid easily inside her; I wonder what she dreams about when she's warm and snug and only half-awake.

She pressed a finger to my lips to remind me to keep it quiet. I pushed a finger between her lips to give her something to bite on instead of crying out. Daughter was still snoring in the bedroom next door and Mother was padding around in the kitchen downstairs as Heather bit down on my finger and let out a silent scream that I could imagine rather than hear, while I gently let slip my load inside her and we both smiled guiltily at each other.

Postscript.

A few days later we moved on, but we met up again at my brother's place later on that week. He had just turned 50 and the whole family was gathered to celebrate. Fortunately the weather was fine so we spent the whole day in the garden. A net had been rigged up for badminton, volleyball and suchlike and the kids played just about all day. Around about dusk, my mother had been roped in to play one last game of badminton with the grandkids, even though it was getting too dark to see the shuttlecock. Suddenly she saw something flitting about and called out "Ooh look, a bat".

I couldn't resist it; "No, mother" I said. "In badminton it's called a raquet.

The view from the top of Beachy Head

What I Did In My Holidays - by F.C., aged 53 years, 11 months and 25 days.

2011-08-30T23:50:00.014+02:00

Part 1. In which I try my best to play the part of the rolling English drunkard

Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head...

Although we were only away for a little over 2 weeks, a bit of sleight of hand meant that we contrived to have 3 weekends in England. We had planned to leave home at about 8 on the evening on the Friday, arriving at Calais at around 8 the following morning, thus cleverly passing through Belgium at a time when no sensible Belgian would be about, no matter how keen they were to get to the beach in the admittedly unlikely event of it being a nice day.

A quick look at the ferry timetables however ruled out 8 pm as a sensible departure time; two ferries from Norway and one from Sweden were due to disgorge their unnatractive contents at the ports just to the north of where we live just about then, so we opted to leave half an hour earlier to avoid having to share the only motorway out of the country with caravans, RV's and the fuckingstupidenormous 4x4s that particularly Norwegians love to drive, all trying to get to the rest of Europe as quickly as possible.

The journey divides itself up thus:
2 1/2 hours in Denmark
6 hours in Germany
1 hour in Holland
2 1/2 hours in Belgium
1/2 hour in France.

This would appear to be a disproportionately long time in Belgium relative to its size and this is entirely due to their awful motorway system. Someone at some stage clearly thought it was a really great idea to build their motorways right through the middle of sprawling cities such as Antwerp and Gent, adding junctions, feeder roads and flyovers ad hoc to relieve the traffic chaos they created in the first place.

Our earlier than planned departure made it even less likely that we would encounter the indigenous Belgian on his home turf at such an ungodly hour of the morning, and so it proved. However, we had failed to take into account the Dutch. The Dutch with their fuckoffstupidenormous caravans, desperate to grab the best places on the beach before the Belgians, and determined to show the world in general that they can drive just as fast and just as ruthlessly as the Germans. They can, the crucial difference being that Germans are disciplined and utterly predictable whereas the Dutch just drive fast..

Thus in the cold grey dawn of a Belgium wreathed in mists and smelling not a little of untreated sewage, we found ourselves embroiled in a free-for-all for supremacy of the fast lane. We were in no hurry, so as a rule we left them to fight it out between themselves.

Even so, it was a relief to finally reach the relative tranquility of the French section of Motorway E40, relaxing in the knowledge of there being only 30 minutes to the tunnel terminal. Daughter was driving by this time because she wanted the honour of driving onto the shuttle and off again on the English side, never having driven on the left-hand side of the road before.

I have to say, the weather didn't look too promising: It had rained most of the way on and off, sometimes torrentially, and as we waited to board Le Shuttle it was still gloomy and overcast. Imagine our joy when we popped out of the other end 40 minutes later to cloudless blue skies and dazzling early-morning sunshine.

Thanks to my abhorrence of being late for anything, it was still ludicrously early. No shops were open and we weren't expected at my Mother's in Bournemouth until teatime, so we wandered off across Kent along minor roads in search of cherries (you have to buy cherries when you're in Kent) and heading in the general direction of Rochester to buy two boxes of widgets for use in my particular leisure activity (no, not that one. Our daughter was with us, remember). In this, however, I was destined to be disappointed. Despite being a major widget-stockist in the UK and my mail-order supplier of choice, the shop in question had run clean out of widgets. In fact my quest for sufficient of the right type of widget became an ongoing theme throughout the entire holiday.

With no particular place to go and plenty of time to get there, we headed in the general direction of Tunbridge Wells until I saw a roadsign to Eastbourne and then it struck me that none of us had ever been to Beachy Head.

Now G.K. Chesterton got it about right when he mentioned Beachy Head in his poem about rolling English roads, which could only have been built by rolling English drunkards. It was not an easy place to get to, but it was well worth it. We left the car by Birling Gap and trudged off up the springy turf to the top of the cliff. In these days of health and safety I was rather expecting the cliff-edge to be fenced off or at least a forest of warning signs for the benefit of the hard-of-thinking, reminding one that throwing yourself off a cliff can seriously damage your health, but there was nothing at all of that kind and the experience was all the better for it.

By the time we had climbed to the very top of the headland and enjoyed the breathtaking views it was ten past pub and we had worked up quite an appetite, not to mention a thirst.

"You did remember to bring the Good Beer Guide, didn't you?" Heather asked, as we went back down towards the car.

O ye of little faith. It was uppermost on the pile of various national and international road atlasses neatly stowed under the armrest. After all, what would be the point of being free as a bird in a land of so many delightful pubs if you couldn't find one when you needed it? I selected one which wasn't too far away, although it was hidden up a narrow country lane that barely featured on the map. We never actually found it because on the way we stumbled across this one,

The Plough and Harrrow at Lullington, near Polegate. It looked charming enough and we were in need of a beer, so we stayed. The other one will have to wait till next time.

After a liquid lunch the effects of driving through the night were beginning to take their toll. Fortunately, Daughter was well rested and even keen to drive. With Heather navigating, I was relegated to the back seat and soon fell into a blissful sleep during which I managed to miss Brighton, Portsmouth, Southampton and a rather spectacular collision at Lancing in which a car ran a red light and smashed into the side of the car right in front of us. Nobody was hurt, but I missed all the fun.

By the time I woke we were at Rownhams Services on the M27, just in time to phone Mum and tell her to get the kettle on.

Another ”Eeeeew” Moment

2011-08-17T09:59:00.001+02:00

F.C. has a birthday coming up. As we sat down at supper last night, Heather asked me if I had any particular wishes as regards birthday presents.

“How about a years’ supply of blowjobs?” I replied, without even thinking.

“I was thinking of presents from my family” She said. “Do you really want my mother to give those to you?”

Quite put me off my food.

The long way home.

2011-08-16T00:40:00.005+02:00

She lies back on the bed, propped up on her elbows and with her feet on the floor. I am kneeling down between her knees and surveying the scene before me: The labia, which are tantalizingly parted to reveal the moistness within, the enticing rim of pubic hair, the breasts lying side by side as if in repose; not firm, pert and girlish breasts but the breasts of a real woman, breasts that show the signs of having suckled, given comfort and even life itself, and all the more alluring for that.

The scent of her captivates me and draws me in. I lay my head on her springy pubic hair, probe my tongue into her sweet cleft and curl it around her clit. Inhaling deeply and getting euphoric from her heady musk, I close my eyes so as to intensify the remaining senses...

STOP! Closing your eyes, even for a split second, when you're driving on the autobahn at 160 km per hour Is not a specially good idea. We were 8 hours into our 12 hour journey home across France, Belgium, Holland, Germany and at last Denmark after our annual two weeks of freedom.

It was a good holiday, during which we had clocked up some 2800 miles of driving (about the distance from Seattle to Miami for our American friends). We had a lot of fun and visited a whole lot of family and friends, had some great days out, drank a load of beer (and cider), and managed to max out most of our credit cards.

But what of sex? Well, not easy when staying with friends and with daughter in tow, but we had our moments and the very fact that we had to grab a quick shag when the opportunity presented itself lent an added piquancy to the proceedings.

However, we were pretty sex-starved by the time we started for home and the thought of what we were going to do when we finally saw our bed was what kept me going through the battlefield that is the Belgian motorway network and the monsoon-like rain through the Ruhr valley. Hence the daydreaming in amongst the throngs of speeding BMWs and Mercedes.

Needless to say, however, when I finally did make it to bed, at some time after 1am, I didn't even stay awake long enough to see Heather return from the bathroom. As soon as my head touched my own familiar pillow I was away, jousting once more with high-powered German cars on endless miles of autobahn.

Another favourite place in UK . The Thames at Sunbury
(Not from this holiday, though. I haven't got round to downloading those pics yet)

e[lust] #28

2011-07-29T02:35:00.001+02:00

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #29 (Which will be in September, taking a short summer break)? Start with the rules and subscribe to the RSS feed and Twitter for updates and submission reminders.

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

What makes me a woman? - It’s a stumper, this question. There must be something that makes me a woman. Something more than how I am perceived by others as I walk down the street. But what is the answer?

Baggage: An Inventory - Everyone brings bags with them. My goal is to carry my own bags. I’ll let people help me shed them, but I will never let them carry them. Those bags are my own to, well, own.

There's pain and then there's pain (and then there's pain) -Part of what I crave in the second type of pain is the selfish sadism of the partner who continues despite my pleas. He does it because it arouses him, and he does it because I'll endure it for him.

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

What Is Gender? - Playing with dolls and preferring the color pink doesn’t make you a girl anymore than chewing on a bone makes you my dog.

~ e[lust] Editress: Dangerous Lilly ~

Sex Toys: Single or Partnered, there is no shame in owning them - There’s no fucking shame in owning your sexuality, in taking control of your own damn orgasm. Can you PREFER human contact and partnered sex to sex toys? Sure. You can prefer whatever the fuck you want. But don’t insinuate to me that owning a lot of sex toys is somehow bad or shameful.

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable ~after this point~. Thank you, and enjoy!

New Blogger Education Posts

Blog Design 101: Balancing Personal Style vs Readability
A Cautionary Word on Joining Affiliate Programs

Kink & Fetish

BDSM Day, an international recognition
BDSM Advice Series: Bondage Tape
Being a Brat Can Hurt
Caning, energy and romance
Screw roses! I enjoy playing with Thorns...
Working Girl

Erotic Writing

A Trip to the Toy Store
Can I get into your knickers now?
Coffee Break
early afternoon
Elevator Shaft
Fogged-up Windows
Fucking Eli
FWB
I'll see you tonight...
One on One
Open By Night
Rock Out With My Cock Out
Renewed Interest
Twenty/Fifty-Three
that little fucking game changer [part I]
the weekend away - Sunday

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Death By Bondage
Hypocrite, PA-Rant!
kink labels....is there a place for me? (or someday my kink will come)
Things I Looove Thursday

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Ask PolyAnna: Multiple partners?? Safer sex??
Are My Nipples Getting The Correct Signals?
Evolution
More Pussy Pride - The Perfect Vagina
My Take On Masculinity
Rambling Harlot: On Internet Dating and Shyness
Sex and Catholic Schools
Sex And Disability: Starting the Dialogues

Twenty Four Hours From Tulse Hill

2011-07-21T21:10:00.004+02:00

Well, we’ve kicked out the last of the punters from the shop (not without a struggle), the clock is running, the countdown is well under way. In 24 hours from now we will be bowling down the motorways of Europe on route to Le Tunnel Sous La Manche to arrive triumphantly back in Blighty on Saturday morning. Please don’t trouble to put on a civic reception or anything. Try to keep it low-key; a little bit of bunting and a handful of children bearing flowers would be about right.

So what are we going to be doing with ourselves? Well, my baby brother has just turned 50 and we’re having a bit of a family shindig which should be fun because I heard a rumour that my wicked stepmother (who never turns up to these events) will be turning up for this one, no doubt to be treated to a withering burst of gamma-rays from my mother. Sis and I were discussing contingency plans the other night on the phone as to how to keep them apart should a cat-fight erupt.

As for the rest, there is a pretty packed schedule of family and friends, a trip up to London is a must and, of course, drink will be taken. In fact I have arranged with my dearest and oldest friend, George, that we meet up at Earls Court on the 3rd of August. Quite coincidentally the Great British Beer Festival is being held there on that very day. Funny, that.

Then there will be shopping. We need to stock up on life’s essentials: Marmite, pork pies, Wagon Wheels and Tunnock’s Caramel Wafers (which I understand are now being made larger – oh joy!) plus of course enough Twining’s Earl Grey tea to last us a year - we usually manage to empty the shelves in at least 2 supermarkets – and as much cider as we can carry in the car.

Posting over the next couple of weeks will probably be more erratic – and less erotic – than is the norm although I am keen to try and put up a post via my newly acquired smart phone while enjoying the free wifi in a Weatherspoons pub somewhere.

Maybe I'll see you, 'Somewhere in England'.

One of the places we'll definitely be visiting...beautiful, rugged Dartmoor

Jinxed!

2011-07-19T17:34:00.002+02:00

Once upon a time it was all going so well. Son was away at college and living in student digs in the city together with his gf. Daughter was on a year-long exchange in Brazil. Heather and I were alone and all was right with the world.

Daughter came back, of course. We would probably have been upset if she hadn't. What we didn't reckon on was Son dropping out of college, thus rendering himself and gf homeless, and the both of them moving back in with us. Gf's parents had the right idea: No sooner had she moved out than they had reclaimed her bedroom and turned it into a den. there was no way they were going to surrender it again.

Even the birds do this: The parents, having fetched food to the point at which they are physically exhausted, and fed their young until they weigh more than they do themselves, then boot the fledglings unceremoniously out of the nest, never to return. With hindsight we ought to have embarked on some major building work and abolished the spare bedroom as soon as he was gone in the interests of 'Tough Love'. We ought to have been tearing out dry wall the day after we delivered the last of his stuff to his new digs, but we were probably too busy celebrating our new-found freedom. Alas for such complacency!

Then, finally, after months of uncertainty and unemployment for our first-born son, things started to go the right way. Son's gf is set to go to university after the summer vacation, they've managed to get a flat in the city that suits them perfectly, Son has a job lined up and is a lot more optimistic than I have seen him in a long time.

Daughter, meanwhile, had found herself a boyfriend in the city, and was spending more time with him than she was at home. On occasions we didn't see her for days on end. She had also managed to get herself a summer job, selling ice creams on the harbour in the little town where we have our summerhouse.

So all was right with the world. I said as much to Heather as we went out on one of our regular strolls one evening last week. It was about midnight, but the sky was still tinted with streaks of colour from the dying rays of the sun. It was warm and peaceful and we felt good. Our holiday in England was all arranged: Just us two with the kids doing their own thing and by the time we got back, Son and gf would have moved out.

As soon as I said it, I realised that I shouldn’t have. Being of a scientific background we naturally do not believe in jinxes, but we are both firm believers in Murphy’s law, as a result of bitter experience. When things are going right, it‘s usually just a brief respite before the next thing goes wrong.

We didn’t even have to wait 24 hours: The very next evening while we were relaxing after supper in front of the television, Daughter came to us in floods of tears. It was all over between her and her bf. Over the next 24 hours she had got very drunk and had a major (no, make that ‘terminal’) bust-up with her best friend, who she possibly suspected of seeing her now-ex on the side, and had to be fetched home from the neighbouring town in the early hours of the morning. She then realised there was no future for her in the ice cream distribution industry when, on account of the sudden miserable weather and bleak outlook, the owner of the kiosk phoned her and told her not to bother coming in because sales were so slack he could handle it alone.

So, with no bf, no bestie, no job and nothing to do until school starts again she has decided she is coming with us to England. OK, not a huge problem; we have the same oddball sense of humour and get on really well together, and it would be another driver able to take over on the long boring stretches, but it does call for some rearrangement and it cramps the style a bit…

OK, since starting to write this, Heather spent a merry Sunday carting Daughter off to first one hospital, then another. Suspected appendicitis was the verdict and she was kept in two nights for observation. I fetched her home today and she seems more or less herself again except that she can hardly move her arm because the inside of her elbow resembles a pincushion from all the blood tests she has had taken.

We’re all set to get out of here on Friday night. I just hope nothing else goes wrong.

HNT: Summer

2011-07-14T01:14:00.004+02:00

Summer occurred last weekend for us. Of course, Heather was ready with the sun lounger to make the most of the sunshine and of course I was ready with my camera to capture Heather making the most of the sunshine.

Happy HNT all! Now go and visit Os for more Half Nekkid fun!

Top Tip

2011-07-08T17:02:00.001+02:00

I got this from Daughter, who was at the blood donor centre the other day.

The nurse there gave her a ‘Give Blood’ sticker and advised her that if you stick it on your front door, you won’t be bothered by Jehovah’s Witnesses.

Result!

HNT: Like Shelling Peas

2011-07-07T01:19:00.004+02:00

Heather enjoys eating fresh peas straight from the pod. This time of year she eats tons of them. We were sitting outside the summerhouse one hot day, wearing not a lot, when I was suddenly struck by the resemblance between a pea pod with just one pea left in it and the delightful anatomy of the person in whose lap the pea pods were residing...

Happy HNT all! Now go and visit Os for more Half Nekkid fun!

Open by Night.

2011-07-06T22:23:00.003+02:00

Two or three times a year our town holds an open by night event. You know the sort of thing; all the shops open till 10, bouncy castle in the car park and free hot dogs to the first 500 customers over at the supermarket.

Nobody was really keen so stand in the shop for 12 hours at a stretch, so we split the staffing into two shifts: Our employees, Marion and Dot opened up in the morning, giving us a little extra time in bed and then we took the graveyard shift.

By happy co-incidence the next day was to be one of our free Saturdays so we decided to head down to our summerhouse as soon as we were finished. Despite it being after 10:30 by the time we got there it was still light.

It was delightfully cool and still after the sweltering heat and bustle of the town. We relaxed in front of the tv, watching one of our favourite series at the moment; 'Angesicht des Verbrechens' (The Face of Crime), a German cops-and-robbers series where two renegade cops go after the various warring factions of the Eastern European mafia in the Berlin underworld. The action is clumsy, the dialogue stilted and the plot predictable, but it has the redeeming feature of lots of gratuitous sex and nudity.

The sex and nudity continued after we had finished with the television; with nothing to get up for next morning we were in no hurry to go to sleep just yet. We stripped off in the lounge as is our habit and wandered through into the bedroom, there to lie on the bed and play languidly with each other.

I traced my fingertip around her stiff nipple as she grasped my cock and started to knead and twist it into firmness, then she caught hold of my nipple and we started a game of 'like-for-like'. For every tug and twist and nip that she gave me, I replied in kind until it became an endurance contest to see who could bear the pain the longest.

I slid my free hand down over her stomach and ploughed through her mat of pubic hair, seeking out her moist, welcoming cleft. It was already dripping wet and my fingers slipped easily into that furrow. Despite Heather's attempt to prolong her pleasure by keeping her legs pressed together and denying me full access I was able to fetch some of that ample wetness and use it to lubricate my fingertip as it circled and drew figures of eight over her clit while her breath came in shorter and shorter gasps and her grip on my cock became tighter.

By stroking and tickling the insides of her thighs I at last got her to relent and spread her legs just a little. My fingers darted inside her like a rat up a drainpipe; first one, then two, then three, with a well-wetted little finger slipping just as easily into her bottom as I stroked her g-spot and massaged her clit with my thumb.

She gasped again as I pulled the fingers out again and stroked slowly to either side of her clit. She started wanking me hard and fast as her whole body stiffened and I matched her tempo, skating my fingertip over the very tip of her clit as fast as I could manage, while twisting and mauling her nipples. As her whole body went rigid I slowed right down, just on the cusp of her orgasm and, as there was nobody to hear, she was able to give it full voice.

I am used to stroking her gently as she comes down again. I wouldn’t dare just stop dead and leave her cold, but usually after a while she shivers with a post-orgasmic chill and lets me know she’s had enough. But this time she hadn’t had enough. Having recovered from the first she was ready for more. This is a very rare thing. Even on the occasions when she hasn’t just said ‘enough’ after the first and we have carried on, we have usually had to give up in the attempt, having rubbed her dry. Not this time. Kneeling up beside her and resting the palm of one hand on her mons while hooking my fingers up inside her and pressing down on her lower abdomen with the other hand I had her gasping and stiffening a second time and almost before I knew it she had come again. As before, I slowed down the massaging of her clit as she caught her breath again but this time instead of passive acquiescence, she positively demanded that we go again.

Now regular readers of these posts (if any) will know that Heather simply doesn’t do multiple orgasms, though it’s not for the want of trying on my part. In fact, the last time we achieved two in a row it was so memorable that I wrote about it. Now here she was, going for number three. Again my fingers slipped inside her; with the little finger popping inside an arsehole that was even more wide open than before. I should have taken advantage of that and fucked her arse there and then but I feared that by the time I had reached the lube we might have lost the moment so I stuck with it and she rode out her third orgasm in a row on the tip of my finger.

Only then did she turn to me, hold me close, and shiver as I put my arms around her. There wasn’t going to be a fourth orgasm. After the best part of two hours she was exhausted.

I looked down into her upturned face as I positioned myself on top of her: She had a dreamy faraway look in her eyes. Fucking her, actually getting my cock wet deep inside her, was necessarily a subsidiary to the main event. It is often so and that’s ok by me. I take my greatest pleasure in giving her pleasure. Having wanked me for so long I felt I could have held back almost indefinitely, but Heather was tired out so I quietly slipped my load inside her and we rolled apart to sleep.

The time was 3:30. The candles we had taken with us to the bedroom had flickered and burned out but outside it was getting noticeably lighter as the birds in the trees in the garden were starting to sing in celebration of the dawn of a new day.

Another favourite place in UK .

A Curious Feeling

2011-07-01T17:31:00.007+02:00

The back door slammed and daughter was suddenly among us.

"Hi Daddy" She called out and proffered her cheek for a kiss.

Then she breezed out again for a quick shower and a change of clothes before disappearing off again. She has a busy social calendar, does our daughter.

Although she is nominally still living at home she is in reality spending more and more time with her boyfriend in the city, especially since school broke up for the summer, and we hadn't seen her since before the weekend. It was a little strange to have her home on a flying visit.

We saw her again last night, when we went out with her to go and see 'Made In Dagenham'. We had arranged to meet in town and she was standing waiting for us outside the cinema when we arrived, looking self-assured and confident. Every inch the city girl, at home in her environment.

After the film we walked down through the town to grab a burger before walking with her back to her boyfriend's flat. There is something special about a summer evening in a city; a relaxed atmosphere after a long hot working day, and daughter feels it too. We chatted and laughed as we walked the near-empty streets and she pointed out the juice-bars, antique shops and cafes that are now a part of her life that is quite separate from ours.

"Well, this is me". She said as we arrived at the door of a big old apartment building in a quiet side-street. It felt so strange to hear her say that; stranger still to witness her tapping in the code of the door entry system and disappearing inside.

She's got a job now. A summer job selling ice creams at a kiosk on the harbour in the same town where we have our summerhouse, so we'll most likely not be seeing much of her over the next few weeks. I see this as another step in the process of growing away from us, a trial run for the real thing.

It's called learning to let go.

Another favorite place in UK

STOP PRESS: Son has just announced that he and gf have found a place to live in the city, from 1st August. Looks like we'll have a (relatively) empty nest again soon and Heather will no longer have to bite on my finger when she comes for fear of them hearing us!

e[lust] #27

2011-06-29T10:15:00.001+02:00

Photo courtesy of A Bedroom Blog

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #28? Start with the rules and subscribe to the RSS feed and Twitter for updates and submission reminders.

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Ruby LOVES her body, so should YOU - What ever size you are, love yourself, be nice to yourself and concentrate on health instead of looks.

Performances - So, of course, I don’t have any sensation in my cock, but holy baby Jeebus, sinking into her is so fucking hot that I groan right along with her.

10 reasons why I shouldn't have had sex, but did anyway - I’ve written extensively about happy-sex; so now here are some of the more unpleasant reasons why I’ve had sex.

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Energy Orgasms - There is a moment, an incredible moment, when it feels like the universe is concentrated in my body.

e[lust] Editress: Dangerous Lilly

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A response to: #Slutwalk will not show our daughters how to get respect
Accidents Happen
All the Time in the World
Dear Jane: How Do I Gain Sensitivity Back After Masturbating Too Much?
Friday Flix: 10 Things We Would Like to Say
Hole. Confession #573
Look at me (please)
Lusting After Sexually Confident Women and HNT
Oh Really?
Sex Toy Collecting
Why Can't I Orgasm?

Kink & Fetish

5 Kinky Toys from the Restaurant Supply Store
A Piece of Meat
Being a Domme, Alone
Daddy's Good Girl
Emotional Masochism
Fucktoy Friday: Urethra Play
Good Morning
Inexorable Love
More Adventures in Chastity
New figure nudes
Plugged

Erotic Writing

Continentally Close
Entwined
First Memory of Sex with Nicole
Far From the Madding Crowd
First kiss
green candle wax
Happy Birthday Baby Girl
Lusty Lips
My first swinging experience
Seducing my Professor
sexy bitch/sexy beast
Strapping On For the First Time
seminar slut
To seduce you
The Minotaur
Twisted Words
The Heist

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Gender Celebration Blog Carnival – A Call for Submissions
Marilyn Monroe: A Sex Goddess Searches For Her Elusive Orgasm
Welcome

Cider With Katy.

2011-06-27T17:46:00.002+02:00

Recently, Heather and I have been taking a good friend with us on our regular trips to our summerhouse. With her slim neck, full body and bubbly personality, Katy is good company. She’s just what we need to put us in a good mood. We share her pleasures and there’s enough for both of us when we take turns at her.

No, we haven’t taken up swinging or polyamory. Not just yet in any case. Our good friend Katy comes in a shapely green bottle and is genuine single varietal Somerset cider, made from the apple of the same name. We always have a little supply in the fridge at the summerhouse and there is (almost) nothing better than to sit out on the terrace as the shadows of evening stretch out across the lawn and to look out to sea as the last yachts of the evening make it back to the little harbour just down the coast, while sipping on a glass of that golden nectar. It is a special time where there is just us two and the outside world quietly slips away into the gathering dusk.

Then, as the chill starts to set in, we’ll make our way indoor and warm ourselves up against each other. Her kiss will be cider-sweet as we entwine our tongues. The scent of apples will be in the air as we make love long into the endless twilight of a Scandinavian midsummer.

Here's to our good friend, Katy.

Getting in Training

2011-06-21T00:23:00.013+02:00

A round trip of four hours’ drive, just to get two hours of training in communicating with clients doesn’t seem like a terribly worthwhile deal, but when you throw in an overnight stay at a four star hotel, overlooking a gentle fjord, and a gourmet dinner including the now obligatory mushy peas, followed by a social evening where limitless amounts of alcohol could be consumed at our hosts’ expense it began to look like a more viable proposition.

We were working Saturday morning, so by the time we got down there was only time to get checked in, find our room and deposit our baggage before the meeting got started. No chance of even a quickie to test out the bed.

Fortunately the organisers had left a good long gap between the end of the meeting and dinner. Just enough time for a bit of fun. We were rather spoiled for choice: Apart from the big, comfortable bed there was also a capacious sofa and a trendy designer chair in our room. Which to choose?

Well it was no contest of course; we used all three. First on the bed, wriggling and writhing in every possible position,

JBFI bed

...then Heather knelt up on the stylish designer chair while I took her from behind.

JBFO chair

When that began to get old, I Sat on the sofa and she straddled me, first one way and then the other before I laid her down and fucked her hard in good old missionary style.

JBFO sofa

It was at about this time that she reminded me that last time we were at this hotel we did it on the floor. Perhaps she shouldn’t have done that; I ordered her face down on the carpet while I finished off, ramming her hard from behind and picking up some carpet burns on the knees for my trouble.

JBFO floor

There was just enough time left to prepare for dinner and so we presented ourselves for pre-dinner drinkies freshly showered, freshly changed and not least freshly fucked, and looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in our mouths.

It was just as well that we took advantage of all our room had to offer because we didn’t get back to it again until many hours and many many drinks had passed, during which the conversation had got louder and the cocktails had got sillier. When I finally collapsed onto that deep, comfortable bed with Heather by my side it was pretty obvious that I wasn’t going to move again until morning. It was all I could do to hold on and stop myself falling off, let alone try any advanced sexual gymnastics.

Still, I’m not complaining. We did both make it down to breakfast the next day and a fine weekend was had by all. How long the company in question will continue to put us up at fancy hotels and ply us with free liquor remains to be seen, but it will be fun while it lasts.

HNT: Generous

2011-06-16T00:51:00.004+02:00

... is just about the only word I can use to describe her charms...

Happy HNT everybody! Don't forget to visit Os and see who else is playing.

HNT: More of the Same

2011-06-09T00:49:00.004+02:00

Continuing a recent theme of experiments in monochrome

Happy HNT everyone! Be sure to visit Os and see who else is going Half Nekkid.

Marmite Wars – Behind Enemy Lines.

2011-06-08T14:09:00.014+02:00

What’s the difference between a bottle of vodka and a jar of Marmite?

Spot the difference

Health-giving vodka can be freely bought at any supermarket in Denmark, whereas Marmite is packed full of nasty vitamins and is therefore not fit to be sold to the general public without strict government control.

Now, I’ll admit I’m a bit shaky on my facts here but I’m willing to bet that the ill-effects of consuming a whole jar of marmite at one sitting are nothing compared with downing a bottle of vodka. If it is even possible. Further, I think it is pretty safe to say that the annual death-rate from over consumption of alcohol in this country (population 5 million) is several orders of magnitude greater than marmite-induced mortality in the whole of the UK (population 60 million).

The tragic consequence of an all-might Marmite party

So why, in the land where you can buy raw, pickled herring, liquorice-flavoured ice cream and hot dogs that are so pumped with artificial colours that they almost glow in the dark, are a few added vitamins considered such a bad thing? How is it that b-vitamins are deemed hazardous to heath when kids can buy liquorice and boiled sweets with so much of this stuff in them that it makes your eyes water?

It’s all about control. The nanny state does not like the idea of people taking decisions for themselves where their own health and welfare are concerned. That is the state’s job. Thus anything which is fortified with vitamins or minerals is viewed with the deepest suspicion.

That beacon of balanced and sober reporting in the UK, The Sun newspaper, went and doorstepped the Danish Ambassador in London, an amiable cove by the name of Birger Riis Jørgensen, and wrung from him the confession that he had indeed tried Marmite in a moment of madness, but he didn’t like it very much and definitely hadn’t inhaled. Or something.

I rather liked this account of how the Marmite War is hotting up.

However, the voice of reason belonged, as always, to the commenters to the online story on The Sun website. Someone called ’brianmathteacher’ raged that in Denmark ’…Prostitution is legal, Marijuana shops are legal…’

(Well, only half right, brianmathteacher. You might be thinking of Holland. I know they are easily confused; they are both flat, boring countries in the northern half of Europe, inhabited by flat, boring people who export a lot of bacon and speak English with an impenetrably thick accent. Prostitution is indeed legal in Denmark, but you can only buy your weed from the stalls on Pusher Street in Christiania in between police raids.)

The cheery Mr Riis Jørgensen assured the newshounds that: "Marmite's manufacturers should simply apply for the relevant documentation and this whole thing would blow over."

Not quite true, Mr Ambassador. It is up to the importer to apply for the permit. In this case we are talking of small businesses selling speciality items to expats. The application costs the equivalent of £1000 for each company that wishes to import the stuff, processing time is 3-6 months and there is no guarantee of approval. Thus highly developed bureaucracy prevents us from enjoying a product that is legally on sale across the rest of Europe.

I, of course, have a secret stash, well-hidden in case of raids from the nutrition police in the early hours of the morning.

A little bit of Britain among all the Danishness in our larder

When my children and my children’s children ask me what I did in the Great Marmite War, I shall be able to hold my head up with pride and tell them that I was a member of the resistance.

Idyll (Pronounced ’Idle’)

2011-06-06T15:27:00.004+02:00

Monday morning. Ragged shards of iron-grey cloud are being chased across the sky on blustery winds. Storms are on the way.

A complete contrast to the long weekend where we have had unbroken sunshine. We took off down to our summerhouse on Wednesday after work and have slept down there every night since, returning on Friday and Saturday to work. We finally, reluctantly, packed and closed the place up again early this morning.

Yesterday, Sunday, was Father’s Day. We celebrated with breakfast out in the middle of the lawn, heat of the sun compelling us to wear very little. Some while later Heather, whose fair skin burns easily, decided to seek the coolness and shade indoors while I stayed out, basking in the warmth, listening to the birdsong and watching the occasional boat sail past.

When I went in, Heather was lying on the sofa reading a detective novel, but the nightdress she was wearing was hitched up over her hips and her legs were splayed wide. My Father’s Day present was obviously on show.

I pushed my face down into her moist, fragrant crotch and inhaled deeply, several times, drinking in her scent. I finally surfaced and stood up, pulling my shorts down so that my cock sprang to attention. Heather laughed and suggested that we continued in the bedroom. The sofa is one that we bought when we moved into our first house back in 1985 and it is living out its last days as all old furniture does in Denmark, in quiet retirement in a summerhouse. We didn’t want to break it prematurely.

We hurried through to the bedroom, Heather pushed to duvet to one side and lay on the bare sheet with legs spread wide, her cunt glistening in her anticipation. I climbed onto her and let myself be surrounded by her. Her arms crossed behind my neck, her legs curled around mine, my raging cock enveloped by her sweet, soft cunt. I freed one of her breasts from where it was squashed between us and sucked on the nipple as I pushed gently into her. No hard, frantic fucking on this occasion; we had all the time in the world and we savoured the closeness of a slow, relaxing fuck in the coolness of the bedroom on a sunny Sunday morning. When I came it was equally slow and quiet with no frenetic thrusting but a gentle letting slip which just went on and on, filling her to overflowing.

We fell apart, naked and glowing, and lay in the bare sheet, touching one another and chatting about nothing in particular. Eventually we rose and made ourselves ready to visit Heather’s parents’ summerhouse so that she could deliver her present to her father, a bottle of single-malt Scotch Whisky. Having subsequently accepted his invitation to stay and help him drink it, we reluctantly concluded that we were in no fit state to drive home and would have to spend another night in our little refuge by the sea.

I had intended to take the strimmer to the wilder tracts of vegetation threatening to overwhelm our garden at some stage during the long weekend, but I successfully concocted a whole series of excuses not to (Too tired, too hot, too drunk, how about a fuck instead?) and anyway, it will still be there next weekend. As will the sacks of garden rubbish which really should have been transported to the council waste disposal.

Let it rain all this week for all we care, just as long as it brightens up again in time for next weekend when we do it all again.

Another favourite place in the UK

N.B. NEVER trespass on or by railway lines - they are dangerous places. When I took this picture I was there by permission, I was wearing the regulation high-visibility clothing and was in posession of a current track-safety certificate.

In and Out

2011-06-03T16:29:00.002+02:00

Out. All day yesterday, in fact from Wednesday night. Delightful to be able to just shut up shop and within half an hour of leaving home be enjoying a cool beer while sitting on our terrace and looking out to sea. At last we have some fine summer weather and it was so fine yesterday evening that we didn’t want to come home. So we didn’t. We stayed another night at the summerhouse and came home this morning.

In: Back at work today, Thursday is a national holiday but Friday is not, except that banks are all shut as are increasing numbers of offices. More and more people seem to be taking a long weekend.

Out: We’re going to do a repeat performance tonight. As soon as we shut we’ll be off down to the summerhouse again and as we have left a whole load of our things there we don’t even have to pack before we take off. There’s a bottle of single varietal cider with my name on it chilling in the fridge. I can taste it already.

In: We’ll probably stay the night. The long, still evenings are my favourite time of day but we’re back at work tomorrow again so once again it will be get up early to drive home.

Out: Then the weekend really starts. The hot weather looks like continuing so we’ll be back down ther as soon as we can get away. Just us two, no commitments, no obligations and no inhibitions.

And here's another favourite place in the UK

On A Promise

2011-06-01T10:09:00.004+02:00

Another all too late night, and a stressful day to come. Tomorrow night it would be different.

Due to the perverse Danish habit of holding public holidays on any day except a Monday, we have tomorrow free. We’re back to work on Friday and Saturday but tomorrow is a holiday.

I wrapped her arms around her warm, soft body, kissed her and whispered in her ear.

“Tomorrow night I am going to fuck you so hard”.

“Is that a promise or a threat?” .

“A promise. We’ll go down to the summerhouse as soon as we get off work and we are just going to fuck”:

“I’ll look forward to that then” She murmured, and within a minute she was asleep in my arms.

Here is another favourite spot in the UK. No HNT this week due to us being out of reach of the interwebs until Friday. You'll just have to wait until next week!

An ’Eeeewww’ Moment

2011-05-28T12:13:00.001+02:00

We had a late night opening event in town last night. All the shops were open until 10 pm and had special offers, there were sideshows and competitions up and down the street with a live band playing in the car-park. We decided to split the staffing in our business into two shifts, and Heather and I took the first. By mid-afternoon when the relief crew arrived Heather asked me what my plans were for the rest of the day.

Well, the absolute first priority was a trip to the bathroom. There is no way to put this delicately but I had some pressing business to attend to there. So did Heather, as it happened, but she decided she could go out and see if she could catch some bargains first if I was that desperate.

Some while later she was back with a couple of large bags from our local houseware shop.

“It’s a good job I didn’t have my dump before I went out” she laughed. “They were giving ‘your own weight in discount’. I would have been a whole lot lighter if I had gone before I went up there.”

File that one under ‘too much information’, I think

HNT: Another Favourite View

2011-05-26T00:42:00.005+02:00

I'll let the picture speak for itself, as any further comment from me would be superfluous.

Happy HNT, Everybody. Don't forget to pay Os a visit and see who else is taking part in Half Nekkid Thursday.

e[lust] #26

2011-05-26T00:18:00.003+02:00

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #27? Start with the rules and subscribe to the RSS feed and Twitter for updates and submission reminders.

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Bikery - The mental image of Suzy mounting this thing and pedaling herself towards a quaking orgasm flashed across my mind’s eye and I grinned into her face.

If you are monogamous can you learn to be polyamorous? - Do you think that someone who is monogamous can learn to be polyamorous for a partner, or do you think they are courting disaster?

Hot Wax - I detached myself from what she was doing to me. *breathe* She pulled again. I came from the pain, motionless, silent, and helpless to stop it. She continued.

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Spring - My eyes wide, there was no time for reaction as another crowd was wandering down the path. Our eyes locked and Daniel smirked, attempting to find something innocuous to say.

~ e[lust] Editress ~

What is Sex Positive? - Just because I create & run something, doesn’t mean I’m a dictator. e[lust] is as much yours as it is mine, and I value the opinions of everyone.

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable ~after this point~. Thank you, and enjoy!

Erotic Writing

6. Gluttony
Erotica: Suit & Tie Guy VS The Construction Worker pt II
Gang·bang»ed
hot and bothered...
In the Morning
My First Blowjob
Oh, What a Sight!
Skate / For Wank Wednesday
Soak(ed)
The tables have turned
Wanting it Bad. Wanting it Hard
What I will do with a dildo: Sing, do with a dildo

Kink & Fetish

As much sex as he can fuck into me
Afternoon Sex x 4
Fetish/Fashion
I used to be a Masochist
Now Lick My Boots Clean, Submissive
Open
Plug Me
Rope play
Staked Out
spank, fisted and strung up
The Room

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A sex-positive female in a sex-negative society
A Period Drama
On Safer Sex and STIs; Musings on The Swingset
Question Month #4
Sense of Responsibility
Simple?
Touch My Cock
Why Did I Engage?

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Hello, My Name is Danny Wylde
Internet Pornography and Women: It doesn’t have to feel bad

Far From the Madding Crowd

2011-05-19T16:49:00.005+02:00

The long period of unbroken sunshine was suddenly broken. The skies were grey and there was no wind, giving a strange expectant atmosphere as if the whole world were waiting for something to happen.

The storm clouds rolled in about midday, bringing with them an oppressive, sticky heat, but the promised thunder did not really materialise and by late afternoon the frontal system had departed to the west, leaving clear skies once again, and a refreshing cool breeze.

Work has been piling up for us over the last week or so and the clammy heat just added to the sense of claustrophobia. The evening could have been spent in ordering of goods, doing the accounts, writing letters or another of the multitude of tasks which are necessary when you are your own boss, but we decided we had to get out.

Heather vocalised my thoughts in the very instant that they were passing through my head. She’s been doing that a lot lately. It’s a bit spooky, or maybe not. We’ve been inseparable for so long that it’s inevitable that we get to know the way the other’s mind works, that there is a kind of synchrony between us.

We are lucky in that only five minutes’ drive from our town there is an extensive forest where you can walk around for hours and not see another person. In a job like ours which involves contact with all sorts of people all day long, it is good to be able to get away from all that for a short while.

We climbed up the side of a wooded valley, dark and pierced by shafts of light from the low-lying sun. The only sound to be heard was birdsong, echoing among the trees. The forest lies on a ridge which is the highest point for around 100 miles in any direction. Our destination was an outcrop which has been cleared of trees which is a viewpoint over the whole landscape. We burst out into the sunlight and stood together wordlessly and not a little breathlessly on this exposed knoll, taking in the view.

Heather put her arms around my waist and gave me a chaste little kiss. I raised my hands and passed them over the mounds created by her breasts through several layers of clothing, then pulled her closer for a not-so-chaste kiss. Before long she was rubbing my crotch as I was unzipping her jacket and pulling her sweater up over her bra. It struck me, however, that standing exposed on the highest point in the entire region, and on a well-trodden footpath which suddenly rounded a corner and disappeared amongst the trees was not the most discreet place for our dalliances. I was wondering how far we dared go and, from the way Heather was looking nervously around her, so was she.

“It’s a pity it’s so open here” she said. “We’d better behave ourselves in case somebody comes along”

“Yes,” I replied. “But if we go just a little way down the slope and behind that ridge then we won’t be seen from the path” As usual I was way ahead of her and had already checked out the lie of the land. Time spent in reconnaissance is never wasted.

We left it at that for the while and continued standing there, taking in the view while holding each other close. After about half an hour we turned towards each other and, wordlessly, agreed that it was time to go. Heather took my hand and led me a down the slope and behind the aforementioned small ridge to an area of hillside dotted with small bushes and useful little hollows. We found a convenient patch of sunlight in one of these hollows, screened from the path by a bush, and Heather threw her coat onto the springy grass.

“How do you want to do this?” She asked.

“Well, if we were going to do it quick and dirty then I’d just pull down your jeans and fuck you doggy style” I said. “But I really want to fuck face to face, if you don’t mind taking your boots off, because otherwise the jeans will get rather in the way”

We compromised. Heather unlaced one boot and slipped her one leg out of her jeans and knickers, leaving them pushed down the other leg as far as they would go. I pushed my jeans and underpants down as far as my walking boots would allow, and so we fucked. My face pressed against hers, just as I had envisaged it, the smell of her combining with that of the fresh grass and wild flowers. Bathed in sunlight, cooled by the breeze under a perfect blue sky and serenaded by birdsong.

And then we lay, side by side, holding hands like lovestruck teenagers and looking up at the deep blue sky.

“The first of many this year, hopefully” Sighed Heather, contentedly.

Who was I to disagree?

Long term readers of this blog will know that about this time of year we have a public holiday known as ‘Great Praying Day’ (Well, that’s the literal translation). It always falls on a Friday and this year it is our turn to have the Saturday off as well. Fine weather is forecast for at least most of the weekend so we’re off as of tonight down to our summerhouse to practice our religious observances.

Chances are we’ll be on our knees at some point during the day.

Another favourite place in the UK

HNT: Favourite Places

2011-05-12T00:56:00.001+02:00

Continuing the theme of photographs of my favourite places...

A huge kiss and a hug, and a promise of a back massage to my beloved for permission to use this one.

Now go over to Os and see who else is playing!

Wanting it Bad.Wanting it Hard

2011-05-11T18:11:00.000+02:00

...there is nothing that says 'I want you' more obviously to a man than digits on his dick...

As usual, Joanna Cake hits the nail on the head. Eschewing the prim euphemisms of the pairing ritual, such as ‘Let’s have an early night’, she gets straight to the point. I like that in a woman.

Heather’s suggestion last weekend was, however, in no way a euphemism:

“I’ll turn the heater on down in the bedroom and when we come back from our walk it will be nice and warm down there”.

No ambiguity there, no hinting at what she might want to happen, her tone of voice evinced just pure practicality. We are going to fuck so let’s get the heating on. It is still quite cold down at our summerhouse despite a week or more of sunshine and blue skies, thanks to a vicious north wind. Heather feels the cold more than I do and as we were going to be getting nekkid we were going to have to warm the place up a bit more first.

When we eventually pull the place down (or it falls down of its own accord) the one we build in its place will have the main bedroom facing east for a view of the sea and of the sun rising out of it. For the moment, our bedroom is at the back, facing west. This means that the afternoon sun filters through the leafy trees, creating a pool of light and warmth on the bed. It was here that Heather was lying when I came in from the bathroom after we had returned from our invigorating walk.

I laid down beside her, sharing her warmth. Reaching around her, I cupped her ample breasts, trapping her nipples between my fingers, and kissed her neck and shoulders while my stiffening cock dug into her back. Despite the cold wind outside, she had clearly been perspiring during our walk: I could smell it on her, musky and exciting, and she tasted deliciously salty. I traced my tongue over her, licking the tangy salt from her warm body whilst my hands wandered from her breasts and down over her stomach in big circular sweeps, edging slowly nearer to her proud bush of pubic hair.

As I ploughed through that luxuriant triangle, she parted her legs wide and my fingers were funnelled into her soaking wet crevice, bumping gently over her clit and slipping around into her cunt. Suddenly she swivelled round to face me, grabbing and mauling my cock while I hooked my fingers up inside her and hauled her up the bed closer to me. We kissed, hard and long, me capturing her tongue then she capturing mine, nibbling and tugging at lips and then squashing them up against each other until we fell apart, gasping for breath.

As I was lying there on my back, stretched out full length on the bed, Heather sat up, bent over and closed those lips over my cock, sucking me deep inside her and licking up and down the shaft. For a while I let her pamper me as I lay in the sunshine, but when the scent of her free-flowing juices hits my nostrils I cannot lie still for long. I knelt up beside her and she laid her head willingly in my lap, her mouth seeking my cock once more. I curled my arm around behind her head, guiding her onto me, supporting her and pushing her gently into taking me just that little bit deeper.

My other hand was back down between her splayed legs. With my palm pressing down on her mons and a couple of fingers hooked up inside her cunt I clenched that hand together squeezing her hard. I could feel the inrush of air past my cock as she gasped and then panted. The hand that had been supporting the back of her head now encircled her neck from behind and squeezed it in a pincer-like grip. She gasped again. She was edging nearer and neared to her climax. There is (almost) nothing I like better than for her to come with a mouthful of my cock but this time it was just not happening. Every orgasm is unique and this one was one of those where every time I tried something new to tip her over the edge it just lifted her to a higher plateau.

My back was now starting to give out from being bent double for so long and with Heather squeezing her legs together as she often does to heighten her pleasure, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep my fingers playing on just the right spot. I released her neck, let her slide back onto the bed and knelt in a more upright posture, which allowed me to reach her clit, keep two fingers inside her and have the tip of my little finger, well wetted, gliding over her arsehole, while she wanked me until I was afraid I might just let go and come all over her tits.

It was then that I succeeded in pushing her over the edge at last. I had made a tentative clutch at her throat but she had waved my hand away, gasping that she didn’t want that, so I planted my open hand down on her upturned face, pressing and squeezing ever so gently. Her heavy breath rasped past my palm and suddenly she was sobbing uncontrollably, her whole body wracked. I carried on massaging her clit gently but my other hand was now caressing her face and the orgasm just kept rolling for several minutes, showing no signs of weakening.

At last Heather went limp and sank back onto the bed, exhausted. I moved to lie on top of her, to warm her from the chills that she always gets post-orgasm and to eventually slide myself gently inside her, but she was suddenly revitalised. She almost sprung up off the bed and in an instant was on her hands and knees, jutting out her back end to receive me. I wetted my fingers and parted her labia, so as to slide my raging cock gently inside her. After her monumental climax I was planning to fuck her very slow and easy, letting my juices just ooze out of me, but she had other ideas.

No sooner had the tip of my cock parted her inner lips and found its way to her hole than she slammed back onto me hard. I pulled back and slid into her again, very gently. I was no more than half way before she thrust back onto me again. OK. No mistaking the intentions now. I knelt a bit more upright behind her, grabbed her firmly by the hips and smashed into her, fucking her as hard and as fast as I knew how, pounding the breath out her with a frenzy of bone-jarring impacts while my balls slapped up against her engorged cunt lips in counterpoint.

Of course it was all over too soon. In a matter of a minute or so I had slipped my load inside her. Even Heather was taken aback by the overwhelming power of her climax and the relief of tension which followed it. I don't think she realised how stressed she had been over the previous few days. After that monumental release she had wanted me to fuck her hard and fast and of course I am always pleased to give her a good hard fucking, but sometimes the deepest pleasure comes in helping her to her orgasm, rather than in my own.

Another of the places I like in UK

No Shit, Sherlock

2011-05-06T14:24:00.000+02:00

The Europe-wide police agency, Europol, have just published a report highlighting how the relaxation of border controls within Europe, under the so-called Schengen Agreement, has made it easier for organised criminals to move freely between lands and to expand their activities.

In other news:

Pope revealed to be a Catholic

Bears ‘shit in woods’, says expert.

…and finally, a weather forecast: It’s going to be dark again tonight.

I don’t know which is the more tragic: That Europlod have only just sat up and taken notice, given that the Schengen agreement has been in force since 1995 or so, or that the idiots who sit in Brussels and Strasbourg and dream up these grand schemes lacked the imagination to foresee that those naughty criminals might be so mean-spirited as to exploit a piece of legislation designed only to benefit the free passage of people and goods between member states.

There ought to be a law against it.

Arts and Cunts

2011-05-05T19:42:00.015+02:00

It was a post by Joanna Cake back in January that jogged my memory: I had meant to take a photograph of the the toilet down at our summerhouse but could not do so at the time on account of the vast quantities of snow that were lying about

It is a fairly unremarkable toilet except in that the view when one is 'closeted aside' is rather nice. We have had the place now for 22 years and we haven't done very much with it as we will prefer to rebuild rather than decorate when the funds permit.

This means that the toilet still has the wallpaper that was put up by the previous owners and it is the wallpaper I wanted to photograph. For years I have had occasion to sit study it without noticing anything unremarkable until last year it suddenly struck me what I was looking at...

All very William Morris, all very Arts and Crafts, but the more I look at it now, the more I am convinced that the striking resemblance to the female reproductive organs is no co-incidence. It's all there: The outer labia sperad wide, revealing the rufled inner labia which themselves partially hide the entance to the vagina. Where they meet above there is a little bud which simply must be a clitoris and at the very bottom (lol) a very definite anus.

Maybe I'm just sex-fixated, but it seems to me that whoever designed this pattern must have had a good laugh, thinking of how many households would be adorned with his representation of a cunt.

Closer

2011-05-04T15:14:00.003+02:00

With her back to me she lifts her head from the pillow, waiting for me to slide my arm under. I accept the invitation of course, and curl that arm around her as she sinks back down. My other arm goes under hers to lie over her soft, warm breast. Her neck and shoulder are within kissing range and I lie with my lips just barely touching the skin and breathing in her unique fragrance, which seems to emanate from just about there.

I draw my legs up so that they follow the line of hers. My larger-than-I-would-like middle fits neatly into the curve of her back. We begin to breathe in synchrony. We are one.

At this moment, just before sleep, we are even more as one than during the physical act of sex itself. This woman, this beautiful, clever, resourceful, loving woman, chooses to let me, with all my faults, hold her close to me every single night and take pleasure in her body. That is a continual source of wonder to me.

Sometimes sleep comes at once and I have the joy of her asleep in my arms. Other times she will turn drowsily towards me and rest her head on my shoulder while her hand quite automatically comes to rest on my cock, not trying to stimulate and stiffen it for that time is past for the night, but to play and caress. It feels reassuring: We are one. No part of my body is forbidden to her, nor of hers to me.

When our closeness suddenly makes us too warm we turn away from each other but push our bottoms together so that they squish up. We need to maintain contact.

We live and work together, Heather and I. We are rarely more than a few feet from each other, so we don’t send each other raunchy text messages as some couples do, intimating what one will do to the other when they are at last together. But my hand will stray across her behind when we pass, I will fondle her breasts and nuzzle her neck in her office when the staff aren’t around, her hand will find its way to my crotch when we are alone and unobserved in the kitchen.

It never gets old. It never gets stale. At least it hasn’t in the 33½ years we have been together. “I love you” is the last thing I want her to hear at night. She is the first thing I see in the morning. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Another favourite place in the UK

There is Always a Price to Pay

2011-04-28T14:16:00.003+02:00

Well, that was the Easter break: This year it was our turn to have the Saturday free, which is otherwise a normal trading day in the middle of the Thursday, Friday and Monday, which are all public holidays over here.

So we were free from Wednesday night right through to Monday and with unbroken sunshine promised for the entire weekend, we wasted no time in packing and taking off for our summerhouse as soon as we had closed up the business on Wednesday evening. Five days of sun, sea, sex and slothfulness was on the agenda, with just a little bit of gardening and a family gathering on the Sunday.

It was my intention to write heroic tales of legendary orgasms as soon as I could snatch a few minutes at work after we got back. Alas for such optimism. Slothfulness very clearly comes at a price. One of our assistants had chosen to take the rest of this week off as part of her annual leave and the other, freshly returned from a weekend with her extended family at their summerhouse in Sweden, was far from well. She was running a temperature and looked awful. We sent her home again.

That left just Heather and myself to deal with the pent-up stream of punters who had not been able to get in to ~~whinge and gripe~~ honour us with their business for the best part of a week. Not only that, we are approaching one of our busy times: There is a tradition in this country that Confirmations all take place at the same time, in the spring. Whole school classes are confirmed at once and it is a really big rite of passage. The whole family gets together, there is usually a big party at the local hotel or village hall and there are of course presents for the newly confirmed. Lots of them.

That is where we come in: As part of our business we sell jewellery and watches, which are traditional confirmation presents despite a growing tendency for today’s youth to demand laptops, smartphones or money towards travel to exotic places. In our area, confirmations usually take place on the weekends on or around 1st May and it is only due to the vagaries of the lunar calendar that this year they occur only a week after what has been an exceptionally late Easter. The result has been a last-minute rush to buy presents and with no staff to help us we’ve had no time to spare for anything much – even cooking for ourselves has been abandoned in favour of takeaways – and I just haven’t been able to find the time before now to write anything at all.

I rest my case.

Never fear I will be back with more soon.

Meanwhile, another favorite place in the UK:

e[lust] #25

2011-04-26T23:58:00.000+02:00

Photo courtesy of Sadie

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. And in this edition you can read all about the best sexuality conference of the year (ever?), Momentum, in a one-time-only Editor's Choice anomaly: I couldn't choose just one, so I chose them all! Want to be included in e[lust] #26? Start with the rules and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Where We Are - It was only supposed to be about the fucking. I don't know how I convinced myself that it could be. I fretted before we began, about how I could ever possibly separate sex from emotion.

The Edible Slut - His hand made an audible crack as it connected with her ass, loud in the dim bedroom. Did he really sink his hand into her hair, turn her head to face him, and shout, “Stop being such a brat!”

Beyond Bisexual - I don’t identify as bisexual, because I am interested in so many more people than just two of the variety of sexes or genders out there. Except, that is a word that a lot of people understand.

~ Featured: Momentum Conference Posts (Lilly’s Picks) ~

An Extraordinary Gathering (and a Gathering of the Extraordinary)

Finally! A Real Momentum Post

Inspired by MomentumCon

#mcon Rehash

Momentum

Momentumcon, Part One

~ e[lust] Editress ~

To Be or Not To Be....Anonymous, That Is - If you’re out or decide to be out….you’re not just outing yourself. You’re outing them all. And did they give their consent? Probably not, I’d guess. And even if they did give their consent could they even have a clue what consequences there will be?

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Thank you, and enjoy!

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A Bump In The Road - A Swinger Party Goes Bad

Bridging the Gap (Between Swinging and BDSM)

con-sent

Eating Pussy

Jane Says: What Does Sex Feel Like For A Man?

Let's talk about food

Safe Word

S&M And Abuse

The Rules, Revisited

The Wet Patch

Who Cares About Your Open Relationship

Where There's Smoke...

Kink & Fetish

BDSM Advice: Nipple Clamps

bloodfucking

Communicating by touch

Consent [Violated]

Debasement

getting ready...

He mixed pleasure and pain, and my body responded to it all

Invitation

Stolen

Safety Scissors

Topping From the Bottom: An Ode

Wantonly Restrained

You Can Make It Feel So Real

Erotic Writing

3. Wrath

Cunt Licking

Definition of Inspiration

Linger

Miss Me?

My Sex Life: The Journey Continues, Part 2

Silk Memories

Sexy Dance-Ing

teacher sweaters and the cock that haunts me

The Casino

The miseducation of Ms. Mullins

Wow. Confession #558

When I come

WWWednesday

You Want This

To Hell With Foreplay, I Need a Fuck!

2011-04-20T18:44:00.003+02:00

So Friay night was the annual ‘See-how-drunk-you-can-get-at-the-bank's-expense’-fest, aka the guarantors meeting of our local bank which is held in our sports hall with vast quantities of food and drink to compensate for having to sit through endless financial reports from the the various members of the board, trustees and so on.

There was dancing to live music after the nosh, as ever, and I don’t know whether it is because I had changed my aftershave or whether they are getting desperate but I had to beat the womenfolk of the town off with a shitty stick to prevent me being dragged out onto the dance floor. (I relented for a couple of notable exceptions).

Daughter drove us out there but she had other, no doubt more interesting plans, for the rest of the evening so we were left to stumble home as best we could when the entertainments had ceased. After completing the essential pre-bedtime duties (check e-mails, check Facebook, shut down computers, lock up, make sure that hard disc recorder has recorded what it was supposed to) Heather and I stripped off and flopped out on the bed. We were both hot and not a little silly from all the free booze.

We snuggled up close, her pale skin soft and warm under my touch. She smelt good as I pressed my head against her neck. I wanted to grab hold of more of her, to press her closer and closer to me and she evidently felt the same because she opened her legs and wrapped them around mine. This was too much to withstand and I slipped my raging cock straight into her sweet, moist haven with a grateful sigh. I rolled her over onto her back and bore down on her, dominating her, and she responded with little sighs and moans of her own. I pushed slow and long and deep into her, then picked up the pace and gave her a couple of dozen short, sharp, jarring thrusts followed by a rapid- fire frenzy of fucking before dropping the tempo right back again, cradling her head in my arms, pushing in deep and staying there for a long, long time.

But Heather likes doggy. Well, we both do. What’s not to like? For me the turn-on is visual: the curve of her back, the roundness of the buttocks I am resting my hands on, the sight of my glistening cock pushing apart her swollen labia. It also gives me access to her arsehole for her increased pleasure, and mine.

I wetted a finger and pressed it up against her tight little rosebud, massaging all around it, but not pushing in terribly hard, fucking her all the while. She purred with pleasure and, as she relaxed, the finger just popped inside. I twisted it round gently, seeking deeper into her insides. By pressing down I could tickle the head of my cock up inside her cunt through the delicate membranes.

I knew I wasn’t going to last long under that kind of treatment, so I just gave way to the inevitable and loosed off my load inside her, but even as I slowly pulled out, I still had that finger in her arse and my cock was quickly replaced with a couple of its neighbours, tikcling up around her g-spot while the little finger lay in her soaking wet furrow and collided with her clit.

Now it was Heather who could hold out no longer and she soon collapsed in a heap on the bed, her knees and elbows no longer able to support her. We were long past the stage of tissues or towels, so we didn’t bother. When Heather eventually regained her composure she ran to the bathroom with a hand cupped between her legs in an attempt to catch the worst of the flood that was leaking out of her, that which wasn’t already forming a puddle on the sheet.

We didn’t care: We were exhausted, we were a little bit drunk and we had just had the best fuck of the week (so far). It wasn’t long before we were contentedly asleep in each other’s arms.

Another favourite place

We'll be dropping off the radar for the best part of a week: It's Easter weekend, we're off work now until Tuesday and the weather looks like being warm and sunny. Our summerhouse offers sea, seclusion, sex, but the one thing it doesn't have is internet access...and that's the way we want it to stay!

Things to Come

2011-04-15T10:40:00.004+02:00

Very apropos what I was writing about earlier this week...

I wonder if this will be us in 30 years' time.

(Click to embiggen)

A Little Bit Longer

2011-04-13T16:06:00.001+02:00

The weather forecast for last weekend promised unbroken sunshine and none of the high winds that had swept in over the country a few days before, taking the roofs off supermarkets and tipping over articulated lorries, and so it turned out. The forecast was right for a change and so on Saturday we packed a few things together and headed for the coast and our little summerhouse.

Whereas once the kids used to love to come down with us and play on the swings or the tower with a slide that I had built for them, it is now the one place where we can be assured of being free of them. The only time they would venture down there these days is if they were holding a party or some such and then their parents would most definitely be not welcome.

The bright, sunny weather continued into Monday so we decided on Monday evening to drop everything and go down there straight after work to enjoy the last couple of hours of daylight. Heather had some daffodils with her which she had planned to plant out and we had vaguely talked of continuing clearing the lawn of dead leaves and the general debris of winter.

First things first, however. Sit in the garden sharing a bottle of chilled cider watching the shadows grow longer over the ground.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” asked Heather as we finished our drinks.

“No”.

“Do you wanna fuck?”.

“No. I want pictures of you. In the bedroom”.

She smiled a huge smile and off we trotted. Th sun had moved around by now so that the bedroom was flooded with light. She undressed as I set up the camera. Nothing smutty, you understand, I was trying to get some studies of my hands resting on various parts of her body. By the time I had taken my fill of photos, however, I was naked as well and Heather was lying on her back with her legs in the air and the clear, fragrant juices were just running out of her.

I leap on top of her and we fucked like wild animals. I must confess that in the middle of it all I did grab the remote for the camera and fired off a shot, but that one is strictly for the secure archive.

We did manage to get our walk in as well, although we missed the sunset by just a couple of minutes. We walked out to the open farmland behind our property and the only sign of any other human life was someone walking out on the sand bar, a good half mile away. All was peaceful and still as we walked down to the waters’ edge and back to our house in the gathering dusk.

The forecast is good for this coming weekend as well. We’ll be down there as soon as we can get away and I’ll make sure I have my camera with me.

Another favorite place in the UK

One-Armed Bandit

2011-04-12T12:21:00.006+02:00

Her post-orgasm flush adorned her throat like a scarlet necklace. She had a far-away look in her eyes. When she spoke it was languidly and with a slight tremor in her voice

“One day we’re going to have to try and see if you can give me an orgasm just by playing with my nipples”, she murmered.

Now that is going to be a challenge. I don’t know if it is even possible. It would take an awful lot of care and an awful lot of time as well. It would be fun trying, though. That night I had been cruel with her nipples. While relentlessly teasing her clit I had pinched and pulled them, sucked, squeezed and bitten them. Every time a little harder than the last, every new assault taking her to new heights until at last she broke down, sobbing out her orgasm, and then lay helpless on the bed while I comforted her.

It was then that she spoke of trying to win her orgasm just by stimulating her nipples. Now, I don’t have a very wide experience in these matters. In fact, the number of women to whom I have given orgasms, or even attempted to, can be numbered on the thumbs of one hand, but from what I read it would appear that Heather is not the easiest person to bring to orgasm. That means that every single one is a little victory. Every one is precious. Every one so far, and there have been thousands, have involved touching her clitoris on some way or other.

Stimulating her G-spot just doesn’t do it for her. It is of course possible that I have been doing it wrong all these years but I would have thought that I might have succeeded at least once, if only on the ‘Give enough monkeys enough typewriters’ principle. It’s nice enough and it will help her on her way, but the effect is nowhere near as powerful as with paying attention to her nipples.

By contrast, a couple of evenings later we were playing around and I thought I might try and find out how far I could take her just by nipple and breast stimulation. On this occasion she just brushed my hand away whenever I went near. Where previously I had bitten and pinched more than I thought possible to bear, now the lightest touch was intolerable. Instead I had her sit on the edge of the bed while I knelt before her, buried my head between her outspread legs and worshipped at the temple of her luscious cunt with my tongue.

A woman’s orgasm is not like a slot machine where all you have to do is push the right buttons and out it pops. I suppose it is more like a one-armed bandit: You need to use all your skill and experience to know which buttons to press and when, you need patience and time and you need to put an awful lot in before you get anything at all out. The size of the prize is never guaranteed, but every so often you hit the jackpot.

If you look carefully at the picture, you might see a cunt.

Enough

2011-04-04T12:30:00.000+02:00

Daughter had left for England the night before. Son was returning from England on the next day. One night. One night to do whatever our hearts desired…

It was a glorious evening. A first hint of spring after a gruelling winter. There was really no need to discuss it; as soon as we had shut up the business we dropped everything and took of down to our summerhouse. We had no bed linen with us, so we couldn’t stay the night - it would have been too cold in any case. we hadn’t turned the water back on so we couldn’t even make a cup of tea but we took our winter coats and an extra sweater, grabbed a couple of beers and some snacks and we just went..

So instead of and evening spent finding new ways and revisiting old ways of giving sexual pleasure, or maybe of inflicting pain, we sat in our favourite spot, on the terrace looking out over the sea, wrapped up against the cold and drinking beer while the sun went down.

Maybe we’re getting too old and set in our ways. Maybe there was a time when we would have considered it adventurous to fuck on a bare mattress in a cold house. On this occasion we decided we’d rather have our creature comforts: We drove home when as nightfall came.

The summerhouse is only a short drive from home and the night was still young when we got back. There was still time for some dressing up, something a little kinky, a little light bondage or whatever else a rummage through our toybox might inspire. But the toybox stayed where it was on the shelf in the wardrobe. It was enough to lie side by side on a bare white sheet and let our hands wander over each others’ naked bodies. It was enough to let my hand gently stroke her pubic hair and part her labia and, sucking on her breast, feel the pressure of her thighs squeezing over my hand and her mons thrusting up against it as she came, not with screams but with sighs and sobs.

It was enough to hold her close to me and warm her as she shivered, and enough to enter her while she was still shaking from her orgasm and cradle her head in my arms as she wrapped hers around my neck. It was enough with gentle but determined strokes, slowly building to a crescendo which had me flooding her while I covered her face with kisses.

It was enough to fall asleep in each others’ arms and to wake the next morning after a night of dreamless sleep and to kiss her into wakefulness.

We didn’t have the wild night of passion and perversity my fevered imagination had envisaged. What we had was each other, pure and simple.

As always, that is enough.

Window of Opportunity

2011-03-28T17:06:00.003+02:00

Right now, both of our offspring are in England. Presaging things to come, maybe. Son has been there since the middle of January, trying to find work and to rediscover his roots (we left the UK when he was 7). Daughter left for London from our local airport on a week-long study tour with her class last night, so we had reckoned on a whole week where we had the run of the house. I must admit we weren't exactly weeping at the gate as we dropped her off and she wasn't bothered if we weren't there to wave her goodbye ('I've managed the airports in Rio, São Paulo, and New York on my own. I think I can find my way around here').

Alas! The whole England adventure has turned somewhat sour for Son and he wants to come home. Without any work or place to live over here he’ll be infesting his old room for the foreseeable future, so there goes our peace and quiet. He might have waited until next week but, no. He feels he has outstayed his welcome and absolutely has to come home now. Tomorrow night, to be exact.

That means that we have one night left with the house absolutely to ourselves. One glorious night where we can do whatever we want without fear of disturbance.

We’ll keep you posted.

The Wet Patch

2011-03-26T12:55:00.003+01:00

There I was, kneeling up behind her, waiting for normal breathing and rational thought to return. The fire and passion of a few moments ago culminated, as always, in me flooding her most intimate parts. Now, in the stillness that followed the fury, I contemplated the lines of her back and how beautiful was her pale skin in the subdued bluish light of the clock-radio.

She was laughing at me gently, amused by my exertions and whatever it was I might have cried out in the heat of the moment and I began to think of what a ridiculous and ungainly spectacle we must present to the casual onlooker or to our daughter if, heaven forbid, she should at that instant burst through the door.

As surely as my cock had risen and hardened under her expert touch, so it began to deflate again, gradually falling out of her. Heather was quick to grab two tissues in quick succession from the box beside the bed. She reached out behind her, offering me the first and, when I had plucked it from her hand she reached down beneath her legs with the second, ready to catch what might drip out of her as I withdrew, while I stood prepared to cocoon myself in tissue paper as soon as I was free.

This is a manoeuvre we have practiced hundreds, maybe thousands, of times over the years but still it is to no avail. When I rolled off her to lay down beside her, flattened out now on the bed, my thigh contacted the unmistakeable coldness of the dreaded wet patch.

I would very much like to know how that blob of bodily secretions always manages to evade our best efforts to catch it. I would quite happily set up a video camera beside the bed to record the exact moment of deposition and the mechanisms involved, although I suspect that Heather would not be so enthusiastic (if she should ever change her mind, you’ll be the first to know). I read somewhere that the head of the penis has evolved the shape it has to act as a pump to actively extract fluids from inside the female: Thus, if the female has had a recent previous pairing, the rival semen will be extracted, improving the chances that the genes of the current mate will be those that are passed on to any progeny. Now, we are always very careful when I am finally pulling out to catch any dribbles and in any case, as described above, by that time the piston is considerably deflated and must have lost a fair bit if its efficiency as a pump.

My contention therefore is that the pool is already there long before you expect it to be. Or at least a whole lot of it. So does it occur before or after ejaculation? Does it consist of a puddle of female secretions only, produced in copious amounts and dribbling out or ejected by the pumping mechanism previously described, or is there semen in there as well? Of course there is a very simple way to find out, but I have never had the inclination to taste the wet patch (and that phrase should throw up some pretty bizarre search results). If it is the case that the wet patch is a post-ejaculation phenomenon then the simple way to avoid it would be for the man to stop pumping the moment he has come. This takes a lot of the fun out of it, so I suppose must just accept the wet patch as an inevitable consequence of fucking. Only last week, and quite unconnected with any of these musings, Heather finally came round to the idea of using a fuck-towel instead of loads of tissues after the fact, but I suspect that is only because she wants to buy some new bathroom towels and the old ones are too good to throw out.

On a more serious note: I suppose that if the wet patch, or at least a portion of it, is formed after ejaculation but before the final withdrawal then it would be a good idea for couples trying to conceive if the man did indeed stop pumping away as soon as he came. On that basis alone, there would seem to be a serious need for this matter to be investigated in depth.

I wonder if anybody would give me a research grant.

Here's another of my favourite places in the UK

e[lust] #24

2011-03-22T23:52:00.002+01:00

Photo Courtesy of Kitten's Toys

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Women, Swinging, and Seduction – From Meeting to Fucking in the Swinging Lifestyle: “My wife wants to drop out of swinging and instead have an open relationship…” announced a good friend of mine..

The Scent of a Woman (Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love my Snatch): Years back, during a scene, I had my dominant lean in and whisper lasciviously that he could “smell my wet pussy” and I started to cry.

5 Kinky Toys from the Office Supply Store: If you’re a nerd like me, you find the idea of office supplies a little bit arousing already but Pet & I paid a recent visit with an even more focused purpose — finding the best pervertibles Staples had to offer.

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Two Fantasies in One: The sexting progressed from just spanking and fingering to fingering both my holes, to slipping a butt plug in to punish me for being a naughty girl. By the time Tuesday came around we were both very horny and on edge to get together.

~ e[lust] Editress ~

Ethics in Blogging: Ethics don’t always equal human kindness/respect for others. You can be a snarky, grumpy shit-stirrer but still be ethical. You can be sweet as pie on the outside and be unethical.

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Barriers

Being a Slut

Bush. Confession #556

Effects of Effexor

Honesty and Courtesy

#LadyPornDay

Master and Slave?

My Experiences with Porn

Question Month: #1

Thoughts on Porn by Holden

What if His Is Much Larger Than Mine? – His & Hers Perspectives on Cock Size And Swinging

Wet Pussy

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Introducing the charity spanking anthology

Kink & Fetish

A Negotiated Spanking

Cuff Me to the Bed

Don't Let Go

given

I Want In

Sexlopedia: Edge Play

Sex as a Tool

Sometimes

The cute checkout girl browsed my bare cleavage

Worth The Wait

Erotic Writing

Back to the scene of the crime

blood/lust [pt.one]

Deals

dirty me...

Hooray for Half Term

Honey, I'm Home

I Like Your Dream

Naughty Nurse Night At The Swingers Club

On Eating Pussy

Our Nectars

personal records

Returned

Short Dress. High Heels. Margaritas…

Sex With A Friend Part 1

Traditional Loving?

The fun of firsts

The Power of Seduction

We Begin With Talk Of Drink and Debauchery – Hazy Memories of Desire

Wet Wednesday

At Last, Some Good News

2011-03-15T17:40:00.001+01:00

I was greatly cheered to read of this useful piece of research, carried out in Germany, which found that staring at breasts is good for you. To quote Dr Karen Weatherby, one of the authors of the report, "Just 10 minutes of staring at the charms of a well-endowed female, is roughly equivalent to a 30-minute aerobics work-out." No question as to which I would prefer to do as a part of my daily fitness regime. The beneficial effects of staring at the breasts of females on a regular basis included lower blood pressure, slower resting pulse rates and lesser episodes of coronary artery disease.

So now I have an excuse, if ever one were needed.

Thee was some good news for Heather as well: She has been plagued by hot flushes and night sweats over these last few years but research now shows that, though they are inconvenient they may be a healthy sign, according to this report, and may be a marker for a lower risk of heart disease and strokes.

It does also mean that Heather spontaneously throws the covers off the bed every so often and lies there starkers while she cools down. Thus, if I haven’t already had my ten minutes-worth of boobs before bedtime I can be sure to get them one way or the other!

HNT: Beautifully Framed

2011-03-10T01:02:00.004+01:00

Here is one of the fruits of our little weekend photo session, after I had played around with it a bit.

Happy HNT everybody. Now be sure to pay Os a visit!

Spring Roll

2011-03-09T00:10:00.002+01:00

A steady rise in temperatures over the last few days has meant that at last the snow has almost all melted, revealing dog turds and discarded cigarette packets that have lain encapsulated since late November out on the streets and moraines of leaf mould and miscellaneous garden debris in our back yard. However, with the above-freezing temperatures came a wind that ripped the body heat out of you in seconds and made it feel colder than the calm days in freezing air.

Wrapped up warmly, we went out for a brisk walk on Saturday afternoon: It was good to see the sun, shining out of a flawless blue sky. However, my devious mind was thinking of other uses for the sudden abundance of natural light. Out living room is upstairs and south-facing, with broad white vertical blinds to block out the view of inquisitive passers-by on the other side of the street. On sunny afternoons like this it is flooded with light. With Daughter away for the weekend, Heather needed no persuading at all to change into her sexiest underwear and pose for my camera.

I get hard just thinking about it right now, visualising her standing there. She wore her padded push-up bra in black with delicate gold embroidery, not that she needs padding but the result was spectacular. Matching knickers in sheer black satin, a broad suspender belt, also matching, and black stockings with pretty patterned tops. Over all of this she had put on a sheer, silky, black slip just as she had done for me a few nights before. Then she had stood before me and slowly pulled it up, gradually revealing more and more of her thighs and bottom. I had commented at the time that I simply had to have photos, and she didn’t demur.

Up and down went the slip as I snapped her from every possible angle. I had her gather it up under her breasts so it looked like a baby-doll, teasing and tantalising with what it revealed, I had her bend over, put one foot on the sofa, recline on the sofa and finally take it off entirely while I busily snapped away.

Then there was that bra with the pretty gold embroidery and her breasts welling so magnificently out of it. I couldn’t resist burying my head in those soft warm mounds until I got a stern reprimand from my model that I should behave professionally while I was photographing her.

Next, the knickers came off, revealing her dark, mysterious triangle of pubic hair neatly framed by suspenders and stocking tops. One again I took pictures from every possible angle – including with me lying on the floor pointing the camera straight up.

It was time for a change of clothing: The stockings and suspenders were retained but now I helped Heather into her leather corset, boned with spring steel and laced all the way up the back. A leather mini-skirt completed the ensemble.

While most of the shots I had taken were with Heather standing up, we had finished with her reclining on the sofa. My cock was rock hard, as it had been for most of the previous hour. I risked another reprimand for conduct unbecoming of a photographer by putting one hand inside my trousers and mauling it furiously while reaching up under Heathers’ skirt with the other – no great distance as it was pulled up over her hips anyway. She was soaking wet. The glistening juices were trickling out of her and the scent of her filled my nostrils. I couldn’t hold back any longer: I knelt on the floor between her gaping legs and fucked her hard, jeans and underpants around my ankles and t-shirt thrown carelessly aside. Then I had her turn around so she was kneeling on the edge of that old sofa and fucked her harder.

When we had recovered somewhat, we sat down on the sofa together, still half-dressed, and reviwed the pictures on the camera. That got me hard all over again but there are other primal instincts other than sex by which we humans are driven. Eating, for one. We had to keep our strength up after all. However, Heather had kept her stockings an suspenders on under her jeans as we went downstairs to eat, so I was able to enjoy the sight and feel of her in them when we headed for the bedroom a little later.

The Sunday was glorious, with the unbroken sunshine again and no wind as a bonus. We decided to take a trip down to our summerhouse, the first this year, primarily to make sure it was still there and not blown halfway to Sweden or demolished by falling trees. The ground was completely free of snow, except for one long remnant, about 3 feet wide and stretching halfway across the lawn. We couldn’t quite explain this except that maybe it was the remains of an exceptionally deep drift that had established itself just there.

Heather was sitting on a garden chair, sunning herself, and I was pottering around tidying up and pulling ivy off the outside walls when she called to me, asking if I had my camera with me.

No, I hadn’t as it happened. Why?

“Because”, she replied, “I could have got my kit off and thrown myself down on that snowdrift for you to take some pictures”.

Damn. I knew I should have brought the camera with me. I had been wanting to get a picture like that all winter but had not reckoned on there being any snow left.

Ever since, I have been aching to ask Heather whether she had meant it. Whether she really would have posed for me, naked, in the snow, having said on several occasions that it is something she would never consider doing, what with her feeling the cold terribly. But I know I would only get a teasing, evasive answer if I asked so I might as well not bother.

Maybe she was serious. Maybe she just did feel in the mood for throwing off all her clothes in the unaccustomed sunshine and rolling around in what snow was left. I don’t know whether it is because spring is in the air and Easter is approaching, but we've been at it like bunnies just recently.

Another picture of one of my favourite places in the UK. (For a sample of the pics we took at the weekend, you're just going to have to wait for Half Nekkid Thursday. I know, I'm a rotten tease).

HNT: Shower Part 2

2011-02-24T00:06:00.006+01:00

The last of our photos from our weekend away:

As you can see, Heather is actually completely nekkid, but I'm only showing half of her, so it really is a half nekkid picture

Happy HNT all! Now why not visit Os and see who else is playing!

At Last, Something Useful.

2011-02-22T16:05:00.005+01:00

An interesting little packet arrives in the post this morning. No, not from Switzerland, but from one of the companies that was exhibiting at the trade fair we were at a couple of weeks ago. Apparently, while we were visiting their stand our names were entered into a draw and it turns out that we had won a prize: Two tickets for a night out at the movies to see the film of our choice, including popcorn and drinks. Now that's something we really can put to good use.

What are we going to go and see? Well, I like authentic historical dramas and Heather has the hots for Colin Firth so go do the math...

Today's picture of a favourite place in the U.K....

e[lust] #23

2011-02-22T13:45:00.002+01:00

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Roadmaps of Consent - I fucking love consent. I love safewords. I can be much more cruel, and push much harder, if I trust my partner to tell me when I go too far.

Staying Safe - One cock, from one man, missing one condom, ultimately led to my brother’s death. And that sucks.

Flying the Friendly Skies - One button on her sweater was undone, there was a rip in her hose, scratches on her boots, and her hair was carelessly pinned back with stray wisps of hair escaping. There was a curious flavor of soiling about her, something a bit dirty and unkempt.

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Labels and my thoughts... - In the past year and a half I have gone from being someone that was lost, without identity that fit, rattling around inside myself to someone that has names for what they are.

~ e[lust] Editress: Dangerous Lilly

See also: Pleasurists #116 and #117 for all your sex toy review needs

Kink & Fetish

5 Kinky Toys from the Dollar Store

Alive in my Skin

Dacryphilia

Digitalized for Posterity

Eroti...ca

filthy...

He ripped a string of orgasms from me, and then ramped it up

Manual Dexterity

Nadia's Surprise

Orgasms, Spoons Rests, and Fishnets! (The Play Party)

Punishment, humiliation and bondage

Schoolgirl in Saturday Detention

Steeling The Show

Water torture

Erotic Writing

A Little Night Music

Afternoon darkness

Crisp White Linens

dancing with (& then kinkily fucking) the dj

In the Mirror

Lope

Morning Sex

My First Anal Sex

September 1935

Shutter

Schoolgirl Part 1

Teenage Bukkake

Transition

You're Gonna Keep My Soul

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A Doggie Kind of Love

Ashamed?! Are You Kidding Me?

Giggles, Groans and Panting

I Can Imagine How You Feel

Sex As Love

6 Moves Men Need to Be Sex Gods in the Bedroom

Terminology Fundamentalism

The COME HITHER QUIVER -or- How To Squirt

This Love

What I Want

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Kink Network Announces the Opening of Their Adult Blog Host Kinky-Blogging.com

Porn, degradation, and Khan Tusion

Women With Two Vaginas

Kink, virginity and big-tittied whores

Hooray For Half Term

2011-02-21T16:40:00.003+01:00

Time for a quick status update: I have not been so active in blogland as I would have wished recently, there having been so many different calls on my time. Obviously there is the business. Our senior assistant was headhunted to another firm just before Christmas and, as trading is till a little bit depressed (although there are signs of recovery), we decided not to replace her straight away. Thus we are saving her salary, but having to run just that little bit harder. Son, who has dropped out of university, came to live with us again, together with his fiancée. He has now travelled to England and is staying with my sister while he tries to find a job. Daughter is still living at home – sort of. She has a little flat across the yard but has found herself a boyfriend in the big city, and seems to be spending more and more time there. I don’t think I have yet come out with the phrase “You treat this place like a hotel” But that is only because it is a cliché and I hate clichés.

One of the things that has been consuming valuable blogging time recently has been that I was required to give a talk to the club of which I am a member. Being a lazy sod, I decided to entitle it ‘Britain – The Best Bits’ and just make it a Power Point presentation of lots of my photographs. That seemed to be well received, so I have decided to post one of these pics every time (apart from any HNT posts) and see if anybody recognises the location.

It’s half-term week this week. Traditionally this is when half the population load up the car and head for Norway or Sweden and risk life and limb by pretending they haven’t forgotten how to ski since last year. We’re not going anywhere: We let the staff take the time with their kids because half term holidays don’t really have any relevance for us any more, especially as Daughter has declared her intention of being away the whole week, starting Friday. Thus we have the enticing prospect of having the house to ourselves for over a week (unless her bf gets pissed off with having her stay and boots her out earlier).

Friday night, freed from all restraints, our hands were all over each other: Gliding, grabbing, squeezing and twisting. Our lips met and tantalizingly brushed together with the lightest of touches. Tongue tips likewise; tip teasing and tickling tip, until we joined battle with each tongue pressing for possession of the other’s mouth. Lips nibbled and pulled at lips then pressed hard down on each other until, gasping for air, we were compelled to break apart again.

My cock swelled and hardened under her expert grip. I found a nipple and squeezed. Hard. The sharp intake of breath that resulted was one of pleasure, not of reproach, So I squeezed again then, tearing my lips away from hers, bit. Bit hard. Not through the lips as recommended in all the best sex manuals but with bared teeth on bare skin. I bit as hard as I dared. Harder, even. She mauled my cock and squeezed my nipple in response and that only drove me to bite harder still. I was afraid I might pierce the skin, but all I was getting were sobs and sighs of pleasure from her.

I reached round behind her and grabbed a handful of her bottom, again squeezing it hard, then inched my hand around until it was in the crack between her bum cheeks and dabbling in her wetness. My fingertips found her inner labia and brushed them aside, prying and exploring, seeking the treasure they concealed. Thus wetted, I traced them around the rim of her arsehole and pressed a finger up against it, pushing in but not penetrating. Not yet.

I had Heather roll onto her back and pushed one, then two, then three fingers up into her soaking cunt. I curled them forward to tickle the front wall and she could not help but to shout out loud, twisting and turning on my hand as I leaned in over her and licked her clit., but I did not want her to come just yet. I had other designs.

A finger, well wetted with her own cunt juices, was pushed deep up into her arse. I gently twisted my hand to make room for a second finger beside it, then a third.

“What are you doing?” she gasped.

A rhetorical question. She knew perfectly well she was going to get her arse fucked tonight. Having come so far and found her so wide open and relaxed she must have known it was inevitable that I was going to want to spear her there on my throbbing hard cock. She said nothing further, but had made no objection and that was all the encouragement I needed to carry on. That is how the game is played.

She lay on her side and I knelt, straddling her lower leg, admiring the view of her splayed cunt lips, dripping with moisture, and her dilated arsehole. I enjoyed her cunt first, loose and sloppy after the treatment it had received, but still warm and wet and enveloping. Already I was reaching for the bottle of lube which has a permanent home on the bedside table and as I pulled out of that delicious cunt I supplemented her own viscous juices with some from the bottle.

I placed the very tip of my cock against that delicate little rosette and pushed just a little. It plopped straight in and we both sighed as I went in to full depth. Then, having got established, we fucked. We fucked hard, we fucked slow, we fucked frontways, backways, sideways, every way. We ended up doggy-style with Heather herself reaching the parts I couldn’t, her head buried in the pillow while she desperately clawed at her clit with one hand and mauled her breasts with the other. I, meanwhile, was enjoying the obscene sight of my stiff cock rhythmically disappearing up inside her guts to the accompaniment of her muffled cries.

I tried to hold back for Heather to come first: I wanted to feel her contracting on me, but she could just not push herself over the edge. I shot my load of warm sperm into her and had her roll onto her back again. With a thumb massaging her clit, little finger bathing in my own spunk inside her arse and the rest of my hand soaking up inside her cunt, it took very little before she cried out her orgasm, clinging to me for warmth as she slowly came down again.

We slept long the next day. Nobody to get up in time for school, no hurry to be at work. It was our turn for a Saturday off. A morning fuck is always fun but our bedroom is right above the shop and if we can hear customers down there, they would undoubtedly be able to hear us. Still, we have a whole week of undisturbed evenings. We just need to plan them carefully to make the best possible use of them.

HNT: Shower

2011-02-17T01:49:00.003+01:00

More from our weekend away. We spent rather a lot of time in the shower!

Happy HNT everybody. Why not go over to Os and see who else is playing, or better still post a pic yourself and join in the fun?

Early Morning Exercise

2011-02-16T15:27:00.002+01:00

I woke early. We both woke early. I had my morning stiff on and I was horny as hell. I was literally aching for it. Heather turned away from me and I put my arms around her, pushing my hardness against her lower back and running my hands over those places I love so much.

Eventually we had no choice but to submit to the inevitable. We turned to each other and nodded. We knew what we had to do...

Forty minutes later we tumbled into the shower, exhausted and - as far as I am concerned in any case - no longer hard. In fact, when Heather waved her tits at me in a friendly sort of manner all I had to respond with was a pathetic, limp, shrivelled little object.

But then I suppose that's bound to happen when you've been out in sub-zero temperatures, shovelling snow from the front of the house.

The Pigsty

2011-02-15T10:47:00.008+01:00

We stayed in a pigsty the other weekend. No, not our house for a change, although it is in such disorder at present due to circumstances that I will allude to in another post, that it would be a forgivable mistake to make. This was a completely different class of pigsty: A very classy pigsty indeed.

We were on a weekend away, at a trade fair, and we were put up at this very fine country house hotel

Our minion, Dot, was put up in the main house in a room with a four-poster bed, a chandelier in the ceiling and a resident ghost. We thought we had the rough end of the deal, being allocated a double room in what was the outbuilding which had housed the livestock for the associated farm. The pigsty, in fact.

Until we saw the room, that is. The whole building had been completely gutted inside and beautifully renovated in a very distinctive style,

That brick silo in the middle of the floor is in fact the shower cubicle, with an opening towards the far wall, and a little apron of glass mosaic tiles on the floor by the entrance and inside it.

This was the wash basin. Everything was open-plan apart from (obviously) the toilet and all the fittings were of the very highest quality, even down to the Bang and Olufsen flat-screen TV on the wall.

And here is the bed.

Unfortunately we were there on business and did not have the time to enjoy it as much as we would have liked, but if you look carefully you can see the indentations of two knees and a forehead from where we had a 'quickie' before getting dressed for dinner.

We'll have to save up and go there again on a weekend break. Just the two of us.

Another Present From Switzerland

2011-02-11T13:23:00.004+01:00

Those fun-loving Swiss, givers of deranged presents, are at it again. Hot on the heels of the potato they kindly sent me the other week comes an identical red package. What can it be this time? How can you possibly top the splendid potato-peeling set they sent last time?

Well of course. Gloves. White cotton gloves. Now those are going to come in really handy for when I take up conjuring. Or mime.

The cost of the gloves was probably only a fraction of the cost of having them freighted halfway across Europe, but I suppose that is ok as long as their sales message is getting across. Whatever that was.

Now I’m waiting to see if this was just the latest in a series of bizarre and meaningless gifts and, if so, what they will come up with next. Will this madness never cease?

Incidentally, does anybody have any suggestions as to what I could use these fine white cotton gloves for (filthy ones only please, although I find that latex gloves fit the bill admirably in that department in most cases)?

HNT: Pink Lady

2011-02-10T01:28:00.009+01:00

We were staying at a rather grand old country house hotel at the weekend and, like any self-respecting old country house, it is said to have a resident ghost, a white lady who is supposed to wander around the place at night.

I didn't see any white lady, but as I was lying on the bed I thought I caught a glimpse of a pink one.

Happy HNT everybody. Why not check out Os and see who else is revealing what?

The Things Customers Say (2)...

2011-02-04T12:52:00.002+01:00

(Customer was complaining about a defective product)

Me: "This wasn't bought in here. It isn't a brand we carry".

Customer: "Well, where was it bought, then?"

They just keep coming today.

The Things Customers Say...

2011-02-04T12:37:00.002+01:00

"This one comes in two versions; the small and the large" Say I.

"Are they both the same size?" asks she.

"No, this one is bigger. That's why it's called the large." (Smile becomes fixed. Resists temptation to tear hair out).

A Little Night Music

2011-01-31T21:52:00.000+01:00

One of the most valuable lessons we took with us from our university days was not just how to do our job properly in our chosen career, but also how to do it with a screaming hangover. At this we had plenty of practice.

A lot of booze has flowed under the bridge since those happy days however and we are now, I’m sorry to say, a little more sensible. We hardly ever drink midweek these days, except on special occasions (Frank Sinatra’s birthday, anniversary of the battle of Tafalgar, Zambian independence day and suchlike).

Heather had invited a posse of harridans round for some sort of commitee meeting in association with the businesswomens club of which she is a member. You know the kind of thing: Square Table/Lionesses/Spare Wheel/Rotavators. Not content with putting a few beers and a bowl of potato chips on the table, as I would have done for my homeboys in a similar but rival organisation, she had to go and bake a couple of apple pies and a whole load of spiced buns. I suggested to her that when she changed after the baking she should put on her naughtiest underwear and wear it under her conservative outer clothes through the whole meeting and only she and I would know. I would gladly have laced her breath-squeezingly tightly into her corset and eased a butt-plug into her, but she cried off, using the excuse that she wouldn’t have time what with all the preparations. She was right, of course. It was I who answered the door to the first of the harridans while she was still upstairs getting ready.

I was banished from large tracts of the house for a couple of hours while The Committee secured the furtherance of global democracy or some such other worthy cause and it was only when they finally left that I was able to emerge from my lair to scavenge what food I could from the leftovers. Included in these were a couple of opened bottles of Chianti which we quickly despatched the help of some foul-smelling but delicious-tasting Esrom cheese on crusty white bread with strips of sweet red pepper.

When we made it up to the bedroom we were both nicely mellow. So mellow, in fact that we were in danger of falling asleep while languidly playing with each other. Nice though this is, I thought the party could do with some livening-up. I rolled towards Heather and kissed her hard, full on the lips, pressing down to make an airtight seal. One hand slid over her face and pinched her nostrils, depriving her of all breath except that which I allowed her. She was passive for a few moments, then started to wriggle and squirm, finally shouting into my open mouth and trying to suck the breath from me. I released her and let her take two or three gasping breaths before clamping down on her again, smothering her, pinning her down.

I ventured a finger between her legs. As expected, she was now soaking wet. A little breath play plus the feel of something closing over her face never fails to get her wet in no time. I climbed onto her and slid into her slippery expectant cunt, giving her a few exploratory thrusts before pressing my lips down on hers, pinching her nose once again and pounding her hard as she struggled for breath.

She wrapped her arms and legs around me, giving herself to me completely, but I wanted to take her higher still. I pulled out and knelt up beside her and eased a couple of fingers up inside her. She seemed to like that, so I ventured a couple more, with my thumb swirling round her clit for good measure.

I mentioned recently that, with Son and his fiancée living at home, things had been a little quiet recently as far as sex was concerned. Literally. This was the night when all inhibitions were cast aside. Heather is not usually very vocal at the best of times but with both of us being somewhat tipsy and with nobody but me to hear she really gave it everything she had.

I grasped her ankles and lifted them up over her head, then, giving my little finger an extra coating of her viscous juices, I slid it into her arsehole as far as it would go. She was shrieking with pleasure by now and when I leaned over and the tip of my tongue touched her swollen clit she exploded into orgasm.

”Bring me down gently! For Gods sake bring me down gently!” she shouted despairingly, again and again as her anal sphincter contracted repeatedly over my finger. All my instincts were to leap on top of her and savagely take her while she was still being hit by wave after wave of contractions but I held back and took her down slowly as she had begged, gently running the underside of my tongue down the smooth inner surfaces of her labia and occasionally over her bulbous little clit, sending after-shocks coursing through her body. Slowly, infinitely slowly, I drew my fingers out from inside herand then held her close to me as the shockwaves subsided and the shivering took over.

Again I covered her, but gently this time and kissing her on the forehead as I cradled her head, and the pillow on which it rested, in my arms. Again she spread her arms and legs wide to receive me and I entered her with slow, gentle, rhythmic thrusts until she began to moan again with pleasure. I held off as long as I could, delaying and intensifying my enjoyment, until I sensed that Heather was tiring and had had enough. She pulled at my nipples; a kind of code between us that she wants me to finish off, and I obliged within seconds, releasing the pent-up sperm deep inside her and overflowing to leave a large opalescent blob on the sheets.

I cupped her face in my hands, she did the same to me and we gazed wordlessly into each other’s eyes. We didn’t need to say anything but we both knew it was the best sex we had had in a long time. Though neither of us could bring ourselves to formulate the words, we both knew that it was due in a lage part to being able to make as much noise as we wanted, now that we have the house to ourselves again.

Though I think the wine might have helped as well

Resolution

2011-01-28T09:37:00.003+01:00

We are well into 2011 now, so it can't really be called a New Years' resolution, and in any case, Heather doesn't go making those because she says they never last. But a resolution it was that she came out with last night (in bed, late, after a quick shag).

"From now on we will try to be in bed before midnight, and we will have sex every night"

Can I get an AMEN!!! to that?

HALLELUJA!!!!!!!!

Goodbye Again

2011-01-26T13:47:00.006+01:00

Out first-born has flown the nest at last. For the second time. With his leaving comes a whole cauldron of mixed feelings. Relief, concern, elation, sadness, pessimism, optimism and, not least, guilt.

He last left home a couple of years ago when he went to University. Not that he moved all that far away; no further than our nearby city, but he had a place of his own which he furnished with a little help from us and IKEA, and set up home together with his girlfriend/fiancée.

Eventually he came to the realisation that the academic life was not for him and he has increasingly felt the need to rediscover his roots in England. He was born there and spent his first seven years there, now he wants to go back and make a life for himself there.

Is it wrong to say we’re pleased to see him go? Over the last few months, having given up his place at Uni, he had moved back with us. When his fiancée moved out of her parents’ house they lost no time in converting her bedroom into a study/hobby room for themselves, making it impractical for her to move back with them for any length of time. Maybe we should have done the same, but the result of it all was that we had the two of them staying with us, at least at weekends and over the Christmas break when she wasn’t away on a residential course. We don’t have overly much room to begin with so it did put a strain on the resources to have them staying.

So therefore the sense of relief when we waved him goodbye at the airport yesterday, but not only because we will have the house ourselves more of the time and can once again run around naked upstairs without having to give it a second thought. It is also relief that he is actually pulling himself together and doing something active, having watched him aimlessly drifting these last few months.

Of course there is a certain sadness. He’s doing what he himself has decided he wants to do. In essence he is trying to create a new life for himself in England and has no immediate plans on coming back here. Getting to England from here is quicker and cheaper for us than getting to certain parts of this country so he is not really that far away, not as far away as when we sent Daughter off to Brazil for a year, for example, but inevitably we will not be seeing as much of him in the future as we have done. Of course, that is the natural way of things but it still brings a little twinge of sadness. Even though the place was full to capacity when he was here, we’ll still miss him now he's no longer around.

We can’t really complain: Heather did exactly the same thing 33 years ago when she left her family and came to the UK to study, and I still hold a British passport. It is not a big step into the unknown as he has a network of family and friends over there he can call upon for support if need be. He speaks English fluently without a trace of an accent and he has somewhere to live, at least for the time being, but I hope he realises how tough things are in the UK right now. It won’t be easy to get any sort of decent job so that he can afford a place of his own. It’s going to take time, hard work and not a little luck. I hope he stays the distance and doesn’t get dispirited when things get tough.

Having said that, we’ve glad to have got our freedom back. Having two young people inhabiting the bedroom just across the landing from your own does cramp the style somewhat. Though neither of us would really admit it, we have been a good deal more restrained and less adventurous in our lovemaking over the last few months. Now we our freedom again and we’re looking forward to exploiting that to the full. Do we really need to feel guilty when we admit that, in this respect at least, we’re happy that he’s gone?

Be kind to him, England.

The Garden (Part 2)

2011-01-25T16:02:00.002+01:00

Continued from here

Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, I was sprawled across the bed as Heather came in from the bathroom. As my head was occupying the place on the bed where she normally sits to undress, she stripped off standing up, putting on a little show for me - Result.

Her crotch was just about at my eye-level as she strutted around provocatively. Suddenly the need came over me and I could resist it no more. I reached out and grabbed her around the waist and pulled her towards me, thrusting my nose into her pubic bush and inhaling deeply again and again as if her essences were as vital for my existence as oxygen itself. For that moment I was lost in her fragrance, oblivious to all else while Heather stood there patiently, rather amused by my antics.

Eventually I rolled in towards the middle of the bed, taking Heather down with me. We wrestled and grappled for a bit, trying to grab at various bits of each other or kissing hungrily with a sudden violence. I was just about to go down on her and drink her juices in earnest, having had a little taster, but she needed cock inside her and wasn’t in the mood to wait. She knelt up on all fours, her glistening labia already swollen and parted in welcome. As I knelt up behind her the scent of her lust was unmistakeable.

I let the tip of my cock sit there at the very entrance to her hole for a few moments, while I enjoyed running my hands all over her smooth rounded bottom, then I eased myself into her infinitely slowly until I had given her as much as I could give and was rewarded with a deep sigh of satisfaction. Another couple of long, slow penetrations and I changed grip, taking her around the waist and pulling her to me as I thrust myself hard into her. Ten times I banged into her: I counted under my breath, then ten times slow and deep and another ten hard and jarring.

As I was sinking myself slowly into her yet again, my one hand wandered around and underneath, coming to rest on her fleshy, hairy mons. I grabbed a handful and began to pull gently. Then I slid the other hand up the length of her back, took hold of her hair just above her neck and pulled her head back; not sharply, but firmly.

There was a gasp of surprise and of pain from Heather as I tugged at both handfuls, but nothing to suggest that I should stop: At least not for the moment. I modified my grip a little and used it to give me a little extra leverage as I battered into her, pulling her onto me at the same time in a welter of jarring impacts.

Heather was helpless beneath me: All she could do was go along with it to try and minimise the tugging on her hair. The hand underneath her was driving round in a circular motion, grinding into her clit and bringing her closer and closer to her release. Suddenly, overcome, she let out a cry and collapsed onto the bed. I pitched forward on top of her and with frenzied pelvic thrusts finished myself off deep inside her, pumping spurt after spurt of my hot sperm into her already overflowing cunt.

Inevitably, and despite the greatest of care and years of practice, we left a wet patch, right in the middle of the bed as a physical and rather chilly reminder of our lovemaking. We hadn’t really done much in the way of hair-pulling before, and certainly not pubic hair-pulling, but I can see that it might have earned a place in our repertoire from time to time.

Certainly, Heather is not going to be trimmed too short down there anytime soon

Rebel

2011-01-21T13:44:00.001+01:00

I was in a local branch of H&M not so long ago. Not of my own volition, I hasten to add, I was simply an adjuct to Heather, who was clothes-shopping.

We were going up to the top floor on the escalator when I noticed a sign which read ‘The playing of games on this escalator is strictly prohibited’. So being somewhat of a rebel I pointed the sign out to Heather and then said.

“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with ‘E’”.

But she wouldn’t play, even though it was really easy. The answer was ‘Escalator’.

She’s not a rebel like I am.

HNT: The Garden

2011-01-20T00:38:00.005+01:00

Following on from the recent post of the same name...

What's not to love?

Happy HNT, all. Why not drop by Os to see who else is celebrating Half Nekkid Thursday?

Present From Switzerland

2011-01-18T17:06:00.007+01:00

The UPS guy came breezing into the business this morning with a little red box from Germany. Nothing so unusual about that, we do business all over Europe and we see him most days, but I didn’t recognise the sender’s address on this packet.

It turned out to be from a Swiss company who wanted to introduce their product range in the hope of a future co-operation to our mutual benefit blah blah blah.

The introductory blurb also mentioned that a little gift was included. Something that personified Swiss craftsmanship and attention to detail. Whatever could it be?

A Swiss watch, perhaps. A precision-crafted and flawlessly accurate timepiece? Too much to hope for, I suppose.

One of those Swiss Army knives with a hundred and fifty different gadgets, including one of those pointy things for taking boy scouts out of horses’ hooves? Maybe not.

Some sumptuous Swiss chocolates. The creation of generations of master chocolatiers. No chance.

This is what they have chosen to epitomise Switzerland and Swiss manufacturing expertise.

A potato.

A bloody potato, complete with a Swiss-designed potato peeler to peel it with.

To add insult to injury, there was a warning on the box not to eat the potato.

Brilliant. A potato I can peel, and then throw away.

As I have previously explained. If a new supplier wants to woo me away from an existing one, selling what is basically the same product then I am going to need some serious inducement. At the very least a USB memory stick with a minimum 2 Gb.

A potato is just taking the piss.

Exposed!

2011-01-14T11:14:00.002+01:00

That pesky cartoonist has obviously sneaked into our bedroom again. How else could he have captured the two of us so accurately?

The Garden. (Part 1)

2011-01-12T22:50:00.003+01:00

No, not our back garden at home: We haven't seen that since it was covered in snow in the last week of November. The garden I am talking about is what Muhammad ibn Muhammad al-Nafzawi called 'The Pefumed Garden of Sensual Delight'. To whit: Heather's lady garden.

I am perfectly aware that I may be in a minority here, but I like to see pubic hair on a woman. Specifically, I like to see pubic hair on MY woman. I like to see it, to feel it and to smell it. While I can see the appeal of a close-trimmed, styled or absolutely bald pubic area, I am a little troubled that there is a tendency at the moment to regard that as the norm. Reading some of what has been written on the subject, the impression I get is that shaving, trimming or waxing is a desideratum and that failure to do so is slovenly, unhygienic and possibly downright kinky, and furthermore rules out being gone down onto (for want of a better phrase).

I beg to differ. Part of the function of pubic hair is to concentrate and disseminate the natural fragrances of a woman to help attract a mate and that, by definition, makes it attractive. The hygiene aspect is easily addressed by the simple act of washing and I am more than happy to help Heather when she showers to make sure she does a proper job. When freshly washed it is springy but soft and delightful to the touch.

As for oral sex, avoiding a mouthful of hair is just a matter of technique. Broad sweeps of the tongue, starting low down and brushing upwards towards the clitoris and out over the outer labia clear any hair out of the way. Though I have clearly never experienced how this feels for myself, I understand that it is not entirely unpleasant either. The giving of it is certainly no hardship for me.

Of course Heather trims and even shaves herself from time to time, or lies back and lets me do it, and of course the feel of soft, freshly denuded flesh is also delightful to the fingertips or to the tongue, but the pleasure is short-lived. Within a few days the irritation sets in and it is invariably I who gets the blame. When the question arises as to whether to maintain the shaven state or revert to nature, nature always wins. The other is simply too high-maintenence. But it is not a matter of laziness or not caring. On balance, I really do prefer her that way.

Sicknote

2011-01-09T18:21:00.004+01:00

Sorry not to have been around so much over the last week, but I've got a sicknote if you want to see it.

Yes, the spectre of disease and pestilence has cast its fell shadow over the Controller household (note to self - do spectres cast shadows? Better check that this isn't a mixed metaphor) as we took it in turns to fall prey to the dreaded lurgi.

Apparently, this year's lurgi comes in not one, but two exciting varieties: the first being the common-or-garden headache, shivering and feeling like death warmed up type flu, the other being the infinitely more dramatic and entertaining variant with all of the above symptoms plus D & V.

I took the first turn just before Christmas, then it was Son's go. To say he looked pale just doesn't cover it. He's pale to start with so he ended up pretty much translucent. It was like sharing the house with one of the undead which, to be honest, is the sort of look he is constantly striving for.

Daughter managed to complicate matters of course. Nothing Daughter does is ever simple or straightforward. At the same time that she was showing all the signs of sickening for the disease she managed to walk into a door and bash her head, leaving us wondering if the symptoms she subsequently developed were due to 'flu or concussion, or both.

Her explanation for walking into a door in the first place was that she stumbled out of bed to go to the bathroom expecting to find the bathroom door open, for the good and sufficient reason that she never closes it. Unfortunately, she had forgotten that she had her Italian Stallion staying with her for a few days (her social life is a deeply complex thing and would require a blog of its own to adequately explore its constantly developing twists and turns) and he was already in the bathroom behind the closed door with which daughter collided, with brain on auto-pilot and at full cruising speed.

Heather was the last to fall, with the shivers and headaches and the wanting nothing more than sleep. I have wanted to hold her and cuddle her but with every inch of her body jangling with a thousand outraged nerve-endings, a cuddle was the last thing she wanted.

So…sex has been off the agenda for the last couple of weeks. We didn’t even manage a fuck to see in the New Year, compared the three that we had last year. Fortunately we signalled our more-or-less return to health on Friday night with a power-fuck which, at one point, involved Heather lying curled up in a foetal position and taking my cock, which was slimy with her juices, down her throat while I worked her clit with my fingertips between tightly-pressed legs.

We’re back on form again and hopefully ready with more records of our exploits in the near future.

He Is The Walrus

2010-12-31T19:48:00.003+01:00

Have you ever experienced that last-minute race around town after that one particular Christmas present, only to find that it cannot be had anywhere? Of course you have. It is a universal experience. They even made a movie about it ('Jingle All The Way' with Arnie, in case you missed that particular cinematic gem).

For me, the worst example was in the early 1990's when Son (in common with just about every other small boy in the developed world) wanted Crash Dummies for Christmas and I had to trawl through every toy shop in Southampton until I found a little place where they hadn't yet sold out.

Daughter, of course, has to be alternative. Her Christmas quest this year has been for a walrus. Not a real one, I would hasten to add. A little plastic model one.

For her boyfriend.

Quite why she identifies her boyfriend with a walrus I don't know and I'm not sure I want to, but she scoured our local city for one without success. Rather disspirited after a fruitless day's walrus hunting, she turned to us for advice.

In a flash of inspiration I suggested the gift shop at The Zoo.

"Will the zoo be open this time of year?" Daughter asked.

"Of course it's open". I replied. "It's not like the funfair. They don't pack the animals away at the end of the summer season".

Sadly, though, despite the shop being open for business and boasting a comprehensive selection of camels, tigers, blue whales, anteaters and a whole shelf of meerkats so you really could compare them (this is a joke for people with access to UK tv channels), there were no walruses to be found.

There's only one solution. She is just going to have to ditch this boyfriend and find one who reminds her of a more commonplace animal.

Just as long as it isn't a donkey.

Well, that's about it for another year. The champagne is chilling, fireworks are going off all around us with increased intensity as we get nearer to midnight, the mailbox has been taken indoors to prevent it getting blown up, the kids have been packed off to various parties leaving Heather and I alone to see in 2011.

It only remains to for me to wish a very happy, peaceful and prosperous New Year to anybody reading this. Don't forget to check back again soon!

HNT: My Favourite of 2010

2010-12-30T01:11:00.003+01:00

Now we are well and truly in the grip of winter, I thought it would be good to remember a warm summer Sunday morning, and some warm breakfast rolls, fresh out of the oven...

Now go over and visit Os to see who else is revealing what!

Happy New Year and Happy HNT!

Is Somebody Trying to Tell Us Something?

2010-12-29T16:54:00.000+01:00

British bedrooms are invariably freezing cold. As a child I remember scraping delicate fronds of ice from the inside of my bedroom window and, even nowadays, when we go visiting family in the UK the chilly air in the bedroom has to be offset (if you’re lucky) by a veritable mountain of eiderdowns and quilts in the bed.

Perhaps it is a throwback to our Victorian past. If it is unavoidable that sex should take place then it should be under the covers and (naturally) with the light off. The lady should, having exhausted all possibility of rejecting the gentleman’s advances, discreetly lift her ankle-length flannelette nightgown while the gentleman should open the emergency hatch in his long woollen combinations so that the whole unpleasant business may be accomplished in as little time, with as little exposed flesh, as humanly possible. John Lydon (Johnny Rotten of the Sex Pistols) summed it up perfectly with his ‘Sex is two minutes and 52 seconds of squelching noises’ quote.

Scandinavians, on the other hand, appreciate their creature comforts, not to mention their sex. It is no co-incidence that three of the biggest manufacturing industries in this little country are Rockwool thermal insulation, Danfoss radiator thermostats and Velux insulated windows. Despite the sometimes harsh weather outside, they like to be warm and cosy at home. Our bedroom is a little oasis of warmth and comfort, with a big old armchair, erotic painting on the wall and, most importantly, an industrial-sized radiator down one side that we can turn the place almost into a sauna within minutes. We don’t have central heating here; we have District Heating. A central boilerhouse supplies the whole town with piped hot water 24/7 so there is limitless warmth available just by turning up the thermostats. The bedroom is our playground and we play just as much on the bed as in it, wearing nothing but our dirty grins. I don’t even posess a set of pyjamas.

This Christmas, however, Heather received not one but two sets of warm, head-to-toe-covering brushed cotton night attire. One from our daughter and one from her mother. What are they trying to say here? That it is time for us to start wearing sensible things in bed, rather than the tiny thongs, impractical bras, concoctions of leather and chains or, as is most often the case, nothing at all? Are the puritanical daughter and spoilsport Mother-in-Law implying that we are getting to old for that kind of thing and that from now on we should confine our bedroom activities to knitting or reading?

Heather was actually quite pleased with her new pyjamas, saying that the ones she has already got are quite old. Of course they’re old: She’s had them a long time but has never had the chance to wear them out. One of the new pairs is actually a little small for her but she is hoping to lose some weight after the holiday season here so that they will eventually get to fit her.

My response to that would be that if she loses those few extra pounds then I will be even more enthusiastic about admiring her body unadorned by brushed cotton pyjamas than I am already.

If that were possible.