Tag Archives: groping

Flying with the co-pilot

Insomnia. It is a good state to be in when you want to write. Dark outside, husband asleep, brain racing.

Last week was that start of an adventure. It has been six months of build up – looks at work, touching under the table in bars and conversations full of innuendo and promise. The co-pilot is someone I’ve had my eye on for some time.

He is the pilot’s best friend and partner in crime. The pilot has instigated a role change for me at work, so that I now work directly with the co-pilot. I can tell he fully expects something to happen between us. It has brought about a delicious dynamic between the three of us – meetings, lunches, drinks – we all know what will eventually happen. You see they are both like me. They are serial adulterers.

Last week the co-pilot and I travelled on business together. We stayed in the same hotel, taking the local teams out for dinner and drinks – a double act of charm and hard work. There is an unsaid understanding between us. We work well together. We play even better together. As the evening drew to a close and we regaled the remaining stragglers with stories of the London office, we fondled one another’s legs under the table. That familiar heady heat began to course through my veins. It was time to leave. A short taxi ride later, we stepped out of the lift and walked calmly to his room.

I had decided not to give myself to him yet. I wanted to retain control over him, so I undressed him, not allowing him to remove my clothing. Blindfolding him and tying his wrists together with his leather belt, I pushed him to the bed. It has been such a long time since I had touched a man. I reveled in his pale, naked skin, his beautiful body and fully erect cock. He has a cock to admire – both aesthetically and proportionally. My objective: to give him the best blow job he could have hoped for. And to leave him wanting more.

Taking him in my mouth, I slid his shaft in until his tip touched the back of my throat, clasped his girth with my lips and pressed my tongue against the underside of his cock. I began to massage that throbbing vein with my tongue as I masturbated him with my mouth and hands.

The first time you bring someone to orgasm is like a sketch for a painting. You are looking, watching, reading, interpreting. It is the first stage of a process. Every sigh, exhale, shudder and gesture hints at how you need to capture the person. The co-pilot promises to be an interesting subject for a longer term project. The first studies are done, I begin to plan my masterpiece.

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My first swinging experience

My brain is electric. I have just cycled the 30 minutes to work on auto-pilot. My mind will not stop. I keep thinking about last night. My first swinging experience. I feel compelled to write, to purge some of the imagery, the sensations, the smells.

Having made my excuses and left the husband on the sofa watching Saturday night tv, I walked to the bus stop. I just missed one bus and then missed a second as I walked to the next stop, at which point I hailed a cab to take me to the inconspicuous pub south of the river where I was to meet Moriarty. The pub was packed, the football was on. The air was thick with the smell of beer and sweat, a sea of red faced football fans leering, chanting, cheering. I ordered a large G&T and stepped outside to wait for Moriarty. He was late. I felt appropriately conspicuous in my red heels, fishnets and belted up raincoat. I had tried to distract myself with work all day long, but all the while I could sense the nervousness at the pit of my stomach. As the first gulps of gin took effect, I began to enjoy my heightened state of anticipation. He arrived in a taxi, looking incredibly dashing with his crisp white shirt and smart jacket. He apologised for choosing such a busy pub, went to order a beer and joined me outside. The cool fresh air helped keep my blushes hidden as he said I looked ‘pretty’. It felt rather odd hearing him say something like that.

We had a few hours before the club opened and so rapidly moved onto a less busy pub where we could sit and talk. As I ordered at the bar, he took a call from the economist asking whether he was free to meet for drinks. The irony of the situation was not lost on either of us. Over the next two drinks he ‘briefed’ me on what to expect. The rules of the club, the code we would use in case we wanted to escape a particular situation and finally the rules of our relationship. The rules are: touching, sucking, fondling is ok. Fucking is not. There will (apparently) be no intercourse between Moriarty and myself. I swung from feeling excited, to nervous, to terrified and finally just wanting to get it over and done with.

We took a taxi to the club. Funnily enough it is located on an industrial estate I shared an office on many years ago. Back then I had no idea what took place in those buildings at night. Now I know. The entrance was lit up with a red light, a large bouncer welcomed us in. We walked up a flight of stairs, arriving at the reception. Showing ID and paying for entrance we then deposited coats and phones in the cloakroom. A friendly middle aged woman greeted us and explained the layout of the club. It was relatively empty when we arrived and so we ordered some drinks and took a stroll around the various rooms: open rooms with beds, smaller, private rooms with glass fronted doors, one large room with a bed the size of four doubles put together and the ‘grope box’ (a cabin-like box with various holes intended for people to touch anonymously). We took our seats in the bar and watched as people arrived. I felt so shy and out of my depth that I locked my gaze on Moriarty. He was relaxed, in control of the situation. More and more people began to arrive, some danced, others sat and talked, there was a general buzz, but no action. Yet.

We walked around the rooms again, spotting the odd couple in embrace or seeing silhouetted figures through see-through curtains. Returning to the dance floor we watched as one woman bent forward to suck the cock of a man, whilst being fucked from behind by another and another woman masturbated her clit, their bodies moving to the music, oblivious to the crowd that had gathered to watch. They eventually moved into one of the ‘open rooms’ assuming positions on the bed. Others flocked the windows to watch. Moriarty took me by the hand and led me into the room. We stood against the wall, only a foot away from the bed and watched as more and more people joined the group. It was the first time I had ever seen people fucking, let alone 8 of them. Limbs interlinked, touched, groped, cocks were in mouths, in cunts and fingers fondled arses. We watched. It didn’t feel real. It felt like watching a screen, and not just the people, but me, standing there in a dark corner watching them. I did not feel real in that moment.

We returned to the bar and Moriarty asked if I was ok. He was so kind, so gentle, so concerned. Something flipped in my head. I ran my fingers up his thighs to his crotch. Now this is not something I am unaccustomed to, in fact, he and I have been indulging in public touching quite a lot recently. What was deliciously new was the feeling of liberation, of the freedom to touch his crotch, feeling his hard-on through his jeans without worrying about being caught. And so I did. I let my hands touch him, massage him a little. He moved his hand to part my legs and felt his way along the fishnet stockings to my fleshy thigh. I could feel that sense of abandon rising. That switch that flips. We walked around the various rooms again, seeing more and more bodies in various states of undress. Standing in a narrow hallway outside one of the smaller rooms we watched as four people fucked. Moriarty touched my leg, hitching my skirt up a little to gain access. As he touched my ass I was suddenly aware of another hand touching my other thigh. I closed my eyes for a second, my heart jumping into my throat and a cold heat gripped my body. We moved to the room with the enormous bed.

The room was packed, there must have been at least 10-12 people on the bed, their clothes and shoes strewn on the floor, another 15 people standing watching. Moriarty led me into the room, taking position in a corner. I stood frozen to the spot watching the mass of limbs, breasts, cocks. The air smelt heavy, thick of sex. I didn’t know you could smell sex. But with that many people in such an enclosed space you could not avoid it. I began to touch Moriarty’s cock, unbuttoning his trousers and taking him in my hands. He hitched up my skirt and touched me. I maintained eye contact with him, letting the music drown out the sounds of the others. Kneeling before him, amidst other’s discarded clothes, I took him my mouth. He has a beautiful cock, incredibly hard and a girth to make a girl melt. We moved to the bed. At every stage Moriarty always asked if I was ok, if I was happy to do it. He climbed onto the bed and helped me join him. Strangely, I did not want to take off my shoes. There was something disturbing about seeing everyone’s shoes scattered on the floor. And so I lay down next to him fully clothed and shoed. He pulled up my skirt and went down on me. I have not been touched for so long. It was an incredible sensation. I was conscious of the people standing just above my head watching the whole scene. Trying to concentrate on the incredible head Moriarty was giving, I closed my eyes, furrowed my brow and tried to block out the sound of others talking. Someone’s hand reached over and slid beneath my shirt, taking hold of my breast. My heart skipped a beat. Moriarty slipped his fingers inside me, fucking me hard. (But of course this is not actual ‘fucking’ according to the rules, so apparently that’s ok.) I was so close to climax but then the cerebral part of my brain kicked in and all I could think about was ‘what if someone steals my handbag whilst I have my eyes closed’. And so I didn’t come.

I assumed a position over Moriarty where I could give him a blow/hand job (and also keep an eye on my bag). As I leant over him, I was suddenly conscious of my skirt still being hitched up around my waist, and the fingers of another slipping inside me as I sucked him. I heard him say to another couple that it was my first time, and to ‘go easy’. I felt like such a clumsy school girl. A blond woman kissed me and said ‘You’re pretty’. Her partner asked Moriarty if he wanted to ‘swap’. He took me to one side and asked me how I felt about that. I couldn’t, the thought of being fucked by the stranger next to me felt wrong. It would be outside my safety net, without Moriarty. And so he declined their offer. I brought him to orgasm and he came over his stomach. I enjoyed watching him cum. And so did many others I think.

We moved back to the bar and ‘de-briefed’. I didn’t even recognise the couple who had propositioned us as they sat on the sofa next to us. That is what I find so strange. I can’t remember the faces of anyone. Usually, I have a very good memory for faces. But last night, everyone seemed to blend into one. Or perhaps there were just too many (orange) tanned platinum blondes. I don’t know. All I know is that after a shared taxi ride with Moriarty at 3am, I entered my marital bedroom, waking the husband briefly before he fell back to sleep. As he slept, I masturbated myself in the bathroom next door. Seeking the relief that had eluded me earlier.

A sensory overload, an indulgence, an education, an incredible experience. I just wish I wasn’t so damn shy.

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Schedules – Breakfast meeting

I’m exhausted. The first week of 2011 has proved to be a packed schedule. I wonder if this is the sign of things to come. It started with a rendezvous with the economist, followed by drinks with the lecherous ex boss, then dinner and drinks with the tall guy, culminating in yesterday – breakfast with the tall guy and dinner with the economist.  And yet, still no date arranged with my older lover. I am hoping we manage to meet next week. No one else brings me to climax quite like him. However, all in all, six orgasms in four days with two men ain’t half bad.

When he told me he was in town on business, I knew it was necessary to meet him again. The tall guy is someone I’ve known for many years. In that time, I’ve got married, he’s dated various women and has himself got married to someone who has distinct physical similarities to me. He says he is in love with me. I say I reciprocate. But I don’t. And I don’t want to hurt his feelings. So I found myself meeting him for dinner on Thursday. He wanted me to come back to his hotel. I couldn’t that evening, as my absence would have raised suspicions. And so I agreed to pay him a morning visit instead. I woke early, dressed in stockings and bra, stuffing my lacy knickers into my handbag. If I was going to get on a packed commuter train, I wanted to be standing between them, knowing that I was bare beneath my little black dress. As I clung to the rail and bumped against weary looking commuters, I closed my eyes and began to think of the physical sensations of being pleasured. Though I like the tall guy as a friend, he is not what I would call ‘my type’. He doesn’t turn me on physically in the way the economist does, for example. And so I need a little bit of mental preparation before getting into a bed with him, especially if no alcohol has been consumed.

I arrived at his hotel – the same hotel in which I bestowed him his wedding gift last year. Strangely, his room number was the same room number the economist had had before xmas (different hotel of course). I knocked on his door and entered. He was dressed only in a towel. He had cancelled his meetings for the morning, so we could be together. Now normally, a gesture like that would thrill me, but with him, I wonder whether he is a little ‘too in love’ with me. His kisses tend to smother and I find his advances, constant IMs and texts a little stalkerish at times. More on that later.

I removed my coat and he kissed me, unzipping my dress as he did so. He took off my clothes and boots, leaving only my stockings and bra. Pushing me to the bed, he took the silk scarf I had worn around my neck and tied it over my eyes. Gently he touched my arms, breasts, stomach and kissed his way down to my sex. Pushing my legs apart, he began to lick my clit, moving his tongue rapidly up and down and from side to side. The sensations of sex first thing in the morning are very different to night time fondling. I feel suddenly hot, feverish and a surreal state of mind grips me. My orgasm was swift as he pushed two fingers inside me and licked my cunt into submission. As I came, I was grateful for the blindfold. I did not have to see who was pleasuring me, and could imagine a stranger, or one of my many other lovers. But not him. I couldn’t bare the thought of him. He thrust himself inside me and within a few short seconds had come.

We lay in bed together for a long time, I closed my eyes and tried to sleep a little. He kept touching me as I feigned sleep and I was conscious of him looking at me throughout. For some reason I found this behaviour a little disturbing. Like his smothering kisses, I felt trapped. I was keen to get out of that hotel room and be alone again. When I stirred from my faked slumber, he moved his hand to my sex and began to masturbate me. I was still very sensitive from the climax earlier and so knew his fingers would tease another orgasm relatively quickly. I closed my eyes and concentrated on coming, so I could get out of there. His touch lacked the softness or delicacy of other lovers and I came, but was removed from the sensation mentally. He came in my hand at the same time, giving me an excuse to wash in the bathroom. I decided not to bother with a shower and instead washed at the basin, trying to remove his scent from my body as best I could. Then I dressed and made a swift exit, leaving him to shower and dress.

I walked in the rain, feeling slightly bewildered and sick. I ended up at the British Museum. There were so many people and my head was spinning. Looking at the ancient Greek and Roman statues, I decided that I could not sleep with the tall guy anymore. There was a sense of uneasiness at the pit of my stomach. He was definitely a sympathy shag, someone I had slept with to be polite and it had to end. And so I will need to fashion a good excuse for not visiting his hotel room next week when he is back in town.

 

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New year, new lovers

Thanks to a recent message on Twitter from @ladylikepervert I feel inspired to write today. It has been months since my last post and so I am a little rusty. I apologise.

Re-reading some of my posts from the last nine months in bed this morning, reminded me of how alive I can feel in this double life I lead. It also made me realise how withdrawn I have become. So let me recap, briefly, on events of recent months:

After the masseur experience back in early October, I returned home from my travels with the husband, got a job, didn’t go out, didn’t drink and focused entirely on work. On a trip back to London in early November, I met up with the tall one and the female friend for, what turned out to be a very drunken evening. It ended in a shared taxi ride home with the female friend, a long chat about her feelings for me and us parting company (and friendship) at about 3am. The strange thing was the relief I felt when we parted. More about that later.

I returned home to the husband, suddenly liking his familiarity, his warmth, his embrace. And in the dense fog of my hangover the next day I decided that we should try to have a baby together. It struck me quite out of the blue. And so, a week or so later, we tried. Twice. And a week or so later, I got my period.

That too was a relief. And, knowing I was not pregnant, I went out on the town with two male friends visiting the city. It was one of those crazy nights, when one bar leads onto another, when you meet some of the strangest people and have surreal conversations. We ended up in a club, already empty due to the lateness of the hour. I suppose it was the drink, but I found a dark stairway with one of them and we kissed frantically, fondling one another. I had my back against the wall and sunk down to waist height, unzipped his jeans and took his cock in my mouth. It was a swift and perfectly executed blow job. He came within seconds. We returned, individually, to our mutual friend and I returned home shortly afterwards to a sleeping husband.

The blow job was ten days ago and I have seen him twice since. Once when he was still here and then again a few days ago at his club in London. I think he might be my new lover. A new lover for the new year.

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Toyboy fantasy – the cute barman

The cute barman has been upping the ante recently. Our rather innocent, yet flirty IM chats of the last few months have degenerated into pretty steamy cybersex chats. He is determined to ‘have’ me and we’ve agreed that a no strings sexual encounter will be the next step. We have known one another for a few years now, as social acquaintances (he was the barman at my office local) and then Facebook friends. It is strange how something so seemingly fleeting can fuel such lustful thoughts. And then there is his age. 28! He reminded me of that last night when we were chatting. So much younger, yet so deliciously decadent.

I find myself fantasizing about him when I’m working and I have taken to listening to the Arctic Monkeys in a bid to conjure up his Northern charm. My daydreams dwell on what it will be like when we finally meet again, that first moment of eye contact across the room and the tingling butterflies, the rising sense of anticipation. We haven’t seen each other in person since our ‘chats’ became rather more. He now IMs and texts almost daily, planting little erotic images in my mind, tempting, teasing me along.

I desire him.

I long to kiss him, to taste his tongue, his scent.

I want to bury my nose in his neck, inhale and lick that spot just below his jaw and ear.

I want to touch his hand, feeling my way up his arm, under his shirt sleeve, feeling his warmth, unbuttoning his top with my other, revealing his chest.

I want to slip my hand below his shirt, tracing the outline of his ribcage, down to that soft fleshy part above the hip bone, then run my fingers inside his trousers from his side to his front so I can undo his belt and unzip his jeans.

I want him to be hard, to feel excited at the thought of what I am about to do.

I want to slip my hand inside his unzipped trousers and tease out his cock, gently, pulling his trousers down a fraction to reveal him fully.

I take him in my mouth, licking the underside of his dick as I do so, letting my lips gently brush over his shaft as I draw him in.

I press harder with my lips and tongue as I slowly move my head away again, stopping when I find that sensitive spot underneath, where the rim begins and ends.

I move my tongue along this rim, to the left, then to the right and pull his entire dick into my mouth, feeling his tip at the back of my throat.

He gasps and holds my hair, guiding me to his rhythm.

I close my eyes and just feel.

Red moist darkness.

He quickens the pace, we are rolling, lurching, falling together.

Then the moment comes when he suddenly stops, pulls back a little and then thrusts forward one more time.

I feel him deep inside my mouth. I feel the hot jets trickle down my throat. The salty sea.

I swallow him.

He falls to his knees opposite me.

We look into each other’s eyes. He is beautiful.

I am wet.

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Hotel adventures

The classic setting for an affair is of course a hotel. Over the years, I have stayed in probably 15-20 different hotels with different lovers. These were occasions when my own place was too much of a risk, or we felt like a change of scene. Taking a cab through London after a late night is usually a drive down memory lane as I whizz past the various Edwardian facades of the hotels I’ve fucked in. Outside of London my experiences are mainly tied to business trips abroad… Paris, I’ve already told you about. One of my other favourite hotel experiences was in Hamburg.

Our team was visiting the German office for a series of meetings. There were five of us staying in a five-star hotel overlooking the Alster in Hamburg. Those were the days before the recession, when companies didn’t scrimp and save on accommodation. Once again, through a series of political maneuverings, my original lover and I had managed to get ourselves on the same trip. During the flight, we tried to play the ‘we’re-just-colleagues’ roles, limiting eye contact and planning for the meetings the next day. We arrived on the evening flight, traveling directly from the airport to the hotel.We checked in, one after the other. I went first and pretended to look for something in my handbag so I could hear the room number given to original lover as he checked in. It was on a different floor altogether and so I took the lift up to my room, planning to call him when I was safely inside.

The room I had been allocated stank of smoke and so I returned to the hotel reception to ask for a new one. The keycard to the new room turned out to be next door to the room my original lover had been given. My pulse quickened and I entered the room, surveying the setting that was to become the backdrop to a night of sensual delights. It had a kingsize bed, huge bathroom with walk-in shower and an incredible view over the lake through a French balcony window. I called him and told him where I was. He said to look out of the window and he popped his head out of his room next door. Then he climbed out of his window and onto rather narrow ornamental balcony, squeezing himself under the metal awnings separating our two rooms. Inside my room, he took me in his arms and we kissed, feeling a sense of excitement at the night ahead. He told me that one of our other male colleagues* was staying in the room on the other side of his, so we would have to be doubly careful about entering and exiting each other’s rooms. Thankfully, the balcony gave an escape route if needed.

We only had a short time before we had to meet the rest of the team for drinks in the lobby bar and so he snuck back into his room and we quickly freshened up, changing into a more appropriate attire. Downstairs in the lobby a jazz pianist accompanied our cocktails. Once everyone had assembled we set off to a nearby restaurant for a relaxed dinner. As a team everyone got along very well and so the evening was full of banter and witticisms. Throughout, I kept imagining what it would be like to be alone with him in my hotel room and all the delicious things I wanted to do with him.

Finally, after many hours of eating and drinking we returned to the hotel. The three of us staying on the same floor all entered our rooms with a cheerful goodnight, doors closing behind us. I opened the balcony doors and peered out. There he was, the reflection of the lights on the water below dancing across his face. He made his way quietly to my room, the cool night air cleared my head a little. Then we were alone. The hours of build-up took their toll and we tore at each other’s clothes, stripping down to naked flesh and falling onto the bed, ready to devour. He moved his hand up and down my body, kissing me fervently, finally allowing his fingers to find my pussy. I was so wet with desire that his fingers slipped inside with ease. He teased me like this until I was on the brink of climaxing, then withdrew. We had all night together and wanted to make the most of it. I rolled him on his back and sat astride him, lowering my head to his chest and then gently kissing my way towards his cock, taking it in my mouth. Lightly at first, then with more pressure from my lips and tongue until he began to sigh with pleasure. Holding the base of his shaft and balls in my hands I licked and sucked until I could feel the sudden movement, the slight pulse that signals the start of his orgasm. I withdrew and pulled him up to his feet.

I opened the balcony doors and leant against the railings, my naked body visible to anyone who cared to look up. The thrill of being seen by a passerby, or even our colleague two doors down was exciting. Leaning forward against the railings, half my body outside, half still inside the room, I beckoned him to enter me from behind. He pushed my legs apart a little more and found my wetness with his erect cock, thrusting it inside. As he did so, he let out a loud grunt. I was conscious of the noise, but at the same time, loved the potential of being discovered. He gripped my hips and moved against me, pushing ever deeper inside. I held onto the railings, my bare breasts moving to his rhythm. The cool air made my nipples incredibly erect and I looked out over the lake as he came with a shuddering jolt. We moved inside and onto the bed again, he was out of breath. I sat above his face, feeling his short breaths calming down as he licked my pussy, letting his own juice trickle into his mouth. I leant back and felt the orgasm rising, not able to control it this time, I climaxed loudly, falling back on top of his torso as I did.

We lay together for some time, just enjoying the warmth of skin on skin. Then we moved into the bathroom and the tiled walk-in shower. We stood in the jet streams of the shower together, washing each other with a soapy lather. The sensation of such a soft lubricated touch on my skin was excrutiatingly tantalising and he pushed me against the wall, lifting my right leg and entering me again. I was conscious of the contrast between the cold hard tiles of the wall against my back and the warm water trickling down between our bodies as he gently made love to me. Our soapy bodies slipped and glided together. He took a fresh squirt of shower gel in his hand and started to rub my clitoris with it as he fucked me. I was so aroused that it took only seconds for me to come again and he held me as I almost melted to the floor. He continued to move, getting quicker, stronger and took my wet hair between his hands, pressing my head to the wall and looking into my eyes as he came, doubling over letting himself go.

That night we slept in my room. The next morning he scrambled across the balcony again to get dressed. We met our other colleagues for an early breakfast before heading off to the office. Everyone looked fresh. Everyone, except us.

* this male colleague also became my lover later on

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Hitchcock inspired

Rear window‘. One of my all time favourite films. If you haven’t seen it yet, watch it and luxuriate in the beautiful Grace Kelly, the dashing James Stewart and the heat of a New York summer. I watched it again recently and it reminded me of my own lover-in-a-cast experience. You would think that having a leg in a cast would hamper a man’s sexual appetite. I found it to be quite the opposite…

I suppose given the nature of his work, it was hardly surprising that the gardener injured himself on the job. He ended up in a full leg cast as the summer was starting. The timing was bad. I had just taken him as a lover and was excited by his strength and fit body. Within a few weeks, my hunk of a gardener was bed ridden and limping around on crutches. It wasn’t quite the image I had had in mind when getting involved with him. Nevertheless, his new invalid status meant he could not drive and so, feeling rather sorry for him, I offered our sofa bed for him to sleep on for a few weeks until he was in a better state.

He would spend the days lying naked (bar a pair of shorts) in the living room. I would go about my daily business, returning in the evenings and making supper for us both. He would hobble over to the large mahogany dining table, balancing his crutches against it, propping his leg up on another chair. The heat of the day did not subside at night and so he remained topless for dinner. I found myself looking at his body as we ate, feeling that prickle, that sense of desire and lust awakening. I touched his other (good) leg, moving my fingers up his inner thigh, finding a way under his shorts towards his crotch. His erection became visible and so I placed my other hand on top of his cock, rubbing it gently. He placed his fork down on the table and closed his eyes, enjoying the sensations.

I got up from my chair and knelt in front of him, pulling his shorts down far enough to expose his erection. Taking him in my mouth as far as he would go, I began to give him a blow job. Perhaps it is the Florence Nightingale in me, but I thought he needed a little bit of pleasure after all that pain. His breathing changed and he began to gasp. I looked up at him and he started to tear at my dress, desperate to see my breasts. I stood up, slowly and took a step back. Then unbuttoned the fastening on my dress, button by button as he watched. His eyes sparkled and I could read the same lust in his face that I was feeling.

As my dress dropped to the floor revealing my pink satin bra and knickers, he reached for his crutches and tried to get up. I helped him stand and he held onto the back of a chair as he slipped one of my breasts out of my bra and kissed it, suckling and fumbling for the clasp. When it pinged open and my bra fell from my shoulders, he could not contain himself anymore. The gardener lurched forward and pushed me, face forward over the dining table. I could feel the cool shiny surface against my breasts and his hardness against my ass as he leaned over me. He steadied himself, balancing on his good leg and then pulled down my knickers. I felt him find my hole with his fingers and then thrust his cock into me. It was my turn to gasp. Pushing myself up a little, so our bodies were touching, we fucked. He had a surprising amount of energy given his invalid status. He pounded and pounded, my hips hitting the edge of the table as he did so. When he lost his balance a little we changed positions, I climbed on top of the table, lying back with my legs open and cunt close to the edge so he could enter me again and balance against my legs. I could feel him deep inside me, the table was just the right height. We were both sweaty from the exertion and heat and I began to slip on the mahogany surface. It felt so lustful, so raw, so untethered. As he brought me to climax, I held onto the edge of the table so that force of our bodies colliding was increased. He came shortly after me, panting and sweating as he collapsed, bent over me.

Those weeks were intense – hours of heated sex, standing, sitting, lying on the dining table or sofa bed. My hips were black and blue from being pounded against the table edge and I got a thrill from inviting friends around for dinner, knowing that only ten minutes before they had arrived I had been fucked on the same table at which we ate. He was remarkably versatile given his cast. It was like having a personal sex slave at home… He couldn’t leave and so we made the most of our nights together I’m not sure if it helped or hampered his recuperation, but what a great way to be bed ridden!

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