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From: "Zaphod Beeblebrox" <z.beeblebrox@virgin.net>
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Subject: {ASSM} Morris Dancing
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Date: Wed, 24 Sep 2003 22:10:34 -0400
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Morris Dancing.
Please find attahed text file, with introduction.
Regards,
Z.
<1st attachment, "Morris Dancing.txt" begin>
"Morris Dancing" by Zaphod.
Statistically, if two people want a successful and socially
acceptable relationship, they have to:
1) be in love
2) be of opposite sexes
3) be both aged over 16
4) be not married or similarly committed to anyone else
5) be of similar background, intelligence, education, religion
and political persuasion
6) be of the same race, and preferably distantly related, i.e.
second to tenth cousins
7) be aged so that the man is on average two and a half years
older (success can be achieved if the man is between two years
younger and twelve years older than the woman)
8) share at least two distinctive facial features, e.g. eyes,
nose, or bone structure
9) take great delight in the smell, the texture, and the
appearance of each others' bodies.
Failure to meet one or more of these criteria can result, or at
some time in some part of the world has resulted, in adverse
consequences ranging from failure of the relationship, to social
ostracism, to criminal convictions, and quite often in death.
This is a story about a basically decent but amoral character
called Roger who has had a number of relationships, each of which
has met some, but not all of these characteristics, and who, in
the end finds love...
BACKGROUND
The story was inspired by Elspeth, a friend of my ex-wife. She
lived alone in Wales. When I first met her, she seemed to be a
pinched, anxious, obsessive, almost tragic figure. Brian, the
man she grew up with, lived alone in London, stumbling from one
hopeless relationship to another. One day they came to dinner
with us, and I don't think I have ever seen two people so happy
and so excited in each other's company. I hadn't met Brian
before, but Elspeth was transformed. She was radiant, beautiful,
relaxed, in short she was complete. They were not lovers, so far
as I know, but they should have been. Or maybe not. Maybe they
had the perfect relationship without being lovers.
But this is a story, and I can do what I like with the people in
it!
I would be interested to hear what you think: e-mail me on
z.beeblebrox@virgin.net
*****************************************************************
************
MORRIS DANCING
Melissa is the only person I know who can burn a boiled egg, so
perhaps rumbabas were not the wisest choice for a dessert. They
weren't burned, but they had flopped. Her 'boyfriend' Griff, a
man of wealth and good nature, but whose intellect might have
embarrassed a small worm, tried to be helpful.
"You need plenty of cinnamon," he said, having failed to read the
label on the jar and liberally sprinkling chilli powder.
"Different," said his daughter, the shy and voluptuous Jenny,
when the nature of the disaster became clear.
"I'll try anything once," Griff said, gingerly biting into one of
the objects.
"Except incest and morris dancing," I added.
A little red blush appeared on Jenny's neck.
"You do realise," said Melissa giggling, "that Griff is the
secretary of the Glynehall Morris?"
"I'll try anything once," I said, "except quoting from Noel
Coward."
Melissa called an adjournment while she rustled up a Baked
Alaska.
*
Melissa was the part-time archivist at the video production
company where I worked. Everyone thought I was having an affair
with her, but I wasn't. But I liked her. No. To be honest, and
I had not admitted the fact even to myself, I was in love with
her, and I fancied her dead rotten. In fact I'm still in love
with her. Always will be. Although still seriously 'fit, she
was eleven years older, and she looked it, and she had children.
My attraction for her wasn't convenient, so I viewed it with
caution. But I loved her. I loved chatting with her, I loved
her warmth and humour, and the femininity that she never
flaunted.
Most of the women I worked had the harshness of failed ambition.
For most of them it was second best, having failed to get into
acting or television. They advertised their insecurity with
luminous lipstick and silly shoes, but Melissa was sex on legs
without even trying: no make-up, no perfume, long shapeless
skirts and lumpy jumpers. She was wise and amusing - she had
been though one marriage and she was trying to make up her mind
about a second.
At the time, my ten-year relationship with Stephanie, my
girlfriend from art school, was slowly, painfully, fizzling out.
I was beginning to think that the only way to save it was to make
it official. I phoned Melissa. I told myself I wanted to bounce
some ideas off her, but in truth, I wanted to bask for a while in
her feminine warmth.
"Are you okay?" she said when she heard my voice.
"No, not really. Can we meet for a chat? Like now?"
"Well, I am going out soon. Griff's taking me to the Pelham
Court fireworks concert. They won't let us in if we're late."
"It won't take long," I replied, wondering who Griff was, and why
women so often use names without explaining who these names
belong to.
I raced over to her flat. Her car was there, but then it would
be if she had already left with this Griff bloke... I climbed
the stairs. The light was on behind the frosted glass door. I
knocked, and my heart knocked, from an unexpected and powerful
arousal. Which was mixed with anxiety that Griff had already
whisked her away. I waited, but there was no answer. I could
hear the sound of a hair drier in the distance. When the noise
stopped, I called her name.
"Sorry, I wasn't expecting you yet," she called, "hang on a
minute." I could see the outline of her nakedness as she nipped
across the hall into a bedroom. Another wait, a long wait. And
then she opened the door. She was gorgeous, in a green ball gown
that showed her off to perfection. I couldn't take my eyes off
the little blue veins on her breasts, diving invitingly into her
cleavage. I tripped over the doormat and banged my head on the
plant stand, sending it flying.
"Leave it, you'll only break something else" she said, as I
fussed my apologies and offered to clear up the mess. "What do
you think?" she said, as she did a twirl to show off her
elegance.
"Wow!"
"You think it suits me?"
"You bet!"
And then I talked a lot of nonsense and got out the ring. My
delicious friend and colleague blushed, and started giggling when
I said about Stephanie. I didn't see what was funny. A year
later, she told me she thought I was going to propose to her.
More fool me, I didn't, but she gave me a hug as I left. I felt
the flesh on her ribs, her breasts pressed against me. I could
smell the warm womanliness of her body and her hair.
And that evening, I drove 600 miles to Inverness to see Stephanie
- who smiled very sweetly, and turned me down flat. And kept the
ring. I fell asleep at the wheel on the way back, and smashed up
the car.
Which all in all, did not add up to a weekend of unalloyed joy.
I was sore. I had to share the pain - with Melissa (who else?).
And I had to go on my bike. She cooked a delicious lasagne, and
we talked until the blackbirds sang. Edging around this massive
sex thing between us, we didn't even kiss goodbye, but talking
and talking with Melissa was as good as a really good fuck.
Pedalling back in the cold grey dawn, I saw a tethered llama
grazing on the village green. It added a dream touch to a
wonderful evening.
A couple of days later, Melissa said she had spoken to her friend
Griff, and if the shop where I had got the ring from wouldn't
take it back, he would give me a fair price. How about dinner on
Friday at her place? She said she would arrange a surprise for
me, a really nice surprise. I didn't have the heart to say that
Steph had kept the ring.
Apart from the fact that they had helped each other through their
respective, messy divorces, it's hard to see what Griff Gasgoigne
and Melissa had in common. He wasn't much of a talker and he
didn't share her wide artistic interests, though to give him
credit, he tried. Griff had inherited the family business, and
it was slowly falling down around his ears - not that it really
mattered - the family were loaded. Gasgoigne & Stone had once
had branches all over the Sussex, but had sold out to the big
boys. Now there was just the one shop, where Griff, a skilful
craftsman, but a crap designer, tried to sell the hideous and
absurd objects he made. He also did bespoke work, and since I
hadn't totally given up on the idea that rocks get your rocks
off, I thought he might be able to make something for Stephanie
that I had designed.
Friday came. I thought of taking some of my better sketches, but
they were only sketches, and I left them behind, all apart from
one, a water colour painting I had done of a ruby ear-ring. I
had specialised in jewellery for my fine art degree. An
embarrassing incident, and the fact that I wasn't good enough to
be one of the few who made it big time in design, led me to turn
my back on jewellery and do something different. In the end, I
thought it was enough for one evening to be introduced, and I
left the painting in the car.
I wondered what the surprise could be... I sort of fantasised
that it was all bollocks about Griff, and that the surprise would
be a scrumptious seduction - I half hoped it wasn't - I didn't
feel ready. But I only half hoped...
*
The surprise... was Griff's daughter Jenny. She was blonde,
bronzed, with a lovely shy smile, gorgeous legs, a butt to die
for, delicious soft round arms, and a shapeless bust bundled up
in a bulletproof bra. It was all quite shameless - Melissa
wasn't making enough to live in the style to which she had become
accustomed, and was trying to make it with Griff. And Jenny was
getting in the way.
Jenny had a place of her own, but Jason, her dangerous and
abusive ex, had taken to turning up and lurking, so she was
staying a lot at her father's place. Griff's ancient
half-timbered cottage, though beautiful, was not set up for
convenience - the bathroom was off the main bedroom, and though
there was a shower room downstairs off the utility room, it was
cold and the dogs jumped up and bothered you. Melissa was
getting frankly sick of Jenny's habit of parading through the
bedroom in a state of undress.
Griff, for his part, wanted his daughter to have someone with
prospects and an income, someone who would respect her and not
whip her, someone who would lead her away from the dope-smoking
no-hopers she usually stuck around with. If Melissa is to be
believed, he wanted also to avoid being seen to be aroused by the
sight of his delicious, half-naked daughter, and he wanted
perhaps even more to be able to make love without Jenny coming in
to watch him.
And Jenny, perhaps aware she was being manipulated, didn't seem
to know what to say to me.
I guessed she was a bit in awe of me. I was eight years older,
doing well in an interesting job, a man of the world. While
Melissa and Griff squabbled over the Baked Alaska, I took Jenny
up through the trapdoor onto the roof. I climbed up first, took
her hand to help her up, and did not let go. She was nervous
still, and pulled away. Perhaps thinking she didn't have
anything 'intelligent' to say, she rambled on about her house,
her lodgers: Peg the crop-haired computer operator; and Benedict
the flight attendant who 'needed a place to crash near Gatwick'.
"Unfortunate way of putting it," I said.
Jenny laughed, and she looked so lovely laughing that I had to
kiss her. "What do you call a girl with green pubic hair," I
said.
"Dunno," she said, blushing at my directness.
"Jenny Grass-groin."
She smiled. Her eyes shone. I thought she would have heard that
one - but when I come to think of it, she was too young to have
remembered Bamber Gasgoigne or to have read the appalling
grass-groin jokes in student magazines. "You'll never guess what
colour it is," she said.
"Brown? Same colour as your eyebrows?"
"I said you'll never guess," she said, to my other suggestions.
*
Jenny had found her tongue, and having found it, went on and on
about the difficulty of getting tickets for the Gasworks concert
the next day. Gasworks seem to have disappeared now, but they
played beautifully on classical instruments and sung so clearly
you could hear every word of the lyrics. The only pity about
them was that the lyrics were the sort of bollocks that appeals
to thick people with philosophical pretensions. People like
Jenny, in fact - her favourite book, which she read and re-read,
was The Outsider, a load of pseudo-existential drivel written by
Colin someone or other.
"Do you want to go?" I said, perhaps redundantly. "I can get us
in for free. On one condition."
"What's that?"
"You'll never guess," I said with a wink, "but you'll have to
help me carry my equipment."
"Is that all?" she said, pouting and pretending to look
disappointed.
*
We met in the car park of the hotel where Gasworks were playing.
I pinned a large 'Fahrenheit Productions' badge to her shirt, and
while I was doing that, I kissed her and squeezed on her steel
belted radial all-weather bra. I couldn't feel much through all
the scaffolding, but Jenny seemed to enjoy it.
The concert was brilliant. The lead singer had laryngitis, but
the musicians were in fine fettle. I had shot all the footage I
needed in the first hour, so we took the kit back to the company
van, and went back to dance.
Elated from the dancing, we kissed in the front of the van. "You
were going to show me something," I said.
"Can't. Not yet."
I wondered if she had found God, or whatever it is that persuades
a girl to deny access to her pubes. My disappointment must have
shown on my face.
She blushed. I lifted her skirt, and kissed the middle of her
thigh, and nuzzled my way upwards. She wasn't wearing
knickers...
Once upon a time, I went a bit loopy and grew a beard. It looked
awful. It itched, and women didn't like kissing me through it.
But facial hair can look good. Some men are made by it, and in
others it can hide an absurdity. There is nothing so elegant as
a beard in a woman of ambiguous and uncomfortable sexuality. And
I rather like underarm hair - I think it looks cute, though most
women think they need to shave it, and it's in a place where
nobody thinks to kiss. So what is the point of this ridiculous
pubic shrubbery, except to spoil a man's enjoyment of the taste
of honeyed cunt?
Jenny wasn't wearing knickers, and her pubic hair was not green
or brown or blonde. It was the best colour of all - it simply
was not there. An absolute peach of a pube, a naked pube:
strong, meaty outer lips, a pert erect clitoris, and long lovely
inner lips that opened like the wings of a dragon.
And as I put my tongue in her lips, I knew what the earring was
for. Though it was some time before I dared to mentioned it.
This was 1986, long before body piercing became the common thing.
I'd read about labia piercing in a porn mag, but the only
piercings I had ever seen were in earlobes...
"Don't know why, but I just started plucking it," she said. "It
feels so much nicer."
"You can say that again."
*
About three weeks later, when we were coming back from a night
out in London, Jenny asked me if I have ever done it on a train.
"No," I said, "but I'll try anything once."
We'd been dating for three weeks now. She was fun, gorgeous,
passionate, spontaneous and daring to the point of crazy.
"You serious?" I said.
"Mmm..." she said, with a delicious, inviting smile.
I was just thinking about it when two men and two women,
well-dressed, in their fifties, came into the compartment. I
changed my mind. "No," I said. We had fucked a dozen fucks -
quickies, in hard and public places... I wanted her slowly. I
wanted to taste every gorgeous inch of her in comfort and
privacy. I wanted her in my bed. I wanted to wake up to the
scent and the smile of her. "I want you to stay with me
tonight."
She looked worried and upset. "I can't."
"Look," I said, "I don't snore, I don't lash out in my sleep, I
don't sleepwalk, and I can sleep on the sofa if you really don't
like the idea of waking up with me."
"Don't think that, please."
"You've no idea how much I want to wake up with you," she said,
and I hugged her close...
*
She likes Ovaltine, so I made her some, and we went upstairs to
the bedroom. She was nervous - which I thought was a bit weird
in a girl who had wanted to do it on the train.
She sat on the bed, sipped the Ovaltine and took off her
jewellery. She had started to unbutton her blouse, and asked me
to turn out the light. I could still see her by the light of the
moon, her eyes huge and shining, afraid. Her pants were off, her
tangle of rings and bangles were off, her socks and shirt and
knickers. She was delicious, damn-nearly perfect, but she
wouldn't part with her bra.
"You won't laugh, will you?" she said. "Promise me you won't
laugh."
"Laugh at what?" I said.
"Jason laughed."
"Bugger Jason".... Jason, the brutal abusive bastard, I could
have killed him. She still had the marks where he had hit her
with a riding crop...
"Promise you won't laugh at my tits?" she said.
"Why ever should I?"
"Because they flop."
"I ADORE floppy tits."
"You mean that?"
"Watch me," I said.
"Wow!" I said. My pecker rose to attention as her boobs,
released from her bra, flopped. Seriously flopped, like last
month's party balloons. Big, strong nipples, about three inches
below where nipples had a right to be on a woman of 23. Private,
sexy, amazing boobs. I kissed them and sucked them and explored
them, stringy, bunched in lumps at the bottom of the bags. "Just
adore them," I said, just to be sure, sucking her nipples until
she came, and I made her promise to make ice-cream for me when
one day she came into milk.
*
Jenny, as I said, is not much of a talker, but when she gets
going on a subject, she can talk you into a coma. One such
subject was her breasts. She showed me pictures from her
childhood, sweet sixteen and never been kissed - with perfect
little boobs - not the long, sexy, fuck-making jugs she has now,
but breasts to make a woman look well dressed. And to judge by
the photos, she and most of her family seemed to spend most of
their time in the buff.... Then the bottom fell out of her world
- her mother went off to California with the man from the
Co-operative Bank.
Which left Jenny with a certain sense of insecurity, for which
there is only one cure, a really good fuck with someone you think
the world of... So Jenny went on the Pill. She shot out from an
A-cup to a double C - but the guy she adored didn't even notice
she was trying to seduce him. Or if he did notice, he thought he
was being honourable, but only made her feel more rejected than
ever.
"And the silly thing was," she said, "I needn't have gone on the
Pill - he'd had a vasectomy."
And if the person you adore won't fuck you, then there is only
one thing to do about your insecurity, and that is to find
someone really brutal to distract you from your pain... And
thanks Jenny, I know that your other specialist subject is your
ex-lovers, but I don't want to hear about Jason...
*
To make sure I didn't hear about Jason, I told her about
Stephanie, my girlfriend from my art college days, who had got
this really well paid, but seasonal job as art director at some
sort of millionaire's dude ranch near Inverness. For four
months, and a few long weekends a year, she was with me in
Sussex.
For the eight best months in the year, Steph was 600 miles away,
while I worried about millionaires and their million ways to grab
a girl's heart. As if my faithfulness could fend off
millionaires, I stayed faithful. As if my abstinence could
satisfy her cavernous cunt, I abstained. To compensate myself
for my virtue, I wanked myself to sleep, imagining pleasures I
had never had, which mostly didn't involve Stephanie.
During one of those wanking months, Pam, a very special friend of
mine, called me and asked if she could stay for a few days. She
had just been dumped, with three weeks to go, and her wedding all
arranged. I didn't fancy her that much, but I was lonely, and
she was great company.
Pam and I went back a long way. She was my 'best of best
friends', and she'd had a thing for me since she was about
twelve. But there had always been prettier girls around, and I
didn't want to do anything to put out friendship at risk. I
suppose I thought that if you go the whole hog, you either bust
up or get married - there's no return to plain friendship.
Pam was plain, in an anonymous, moonfaced way. When she put her
mind to it, she could look stunning, but she didn't often bother.
But she had the loveliest body I have ever seen. She knew it,
and without ever being too obvious about it, she never missed a
chance to make sure I knew it too.
In time she went on to university, where she met Dave, a graduate
student. Eventually they became engaged, and the wedding was
arranged for the month after her finals. She signed off her last
paper knowing everything was sorted: the dress; the invites; the
honeymoon. At some point, Dave's family had found out that Pam
wasn't Jewish, and threatened to disinherit him if he married a
goy. No, it wasn't a threat, it was statement. Dave wasn't a
bad bloke really - he didn't drop his bombshell until he was sure
that Pam would not have to sit for a viva.
I'm not sure what Pam really felt about Dave, but he had shown
all the signs of being madly in love with her. She didn't feel
so much betrayed as completely bewildered, and she looked to me
for comfort. And one evening she was in tears and I hugged her.
She told me she had all the tickets for the hotels Dave had
booked in Paris, Venice and Corfu, and for the sailing boat
cruise in the Aegean. She asked me if I wanted to come with her.
I said nothing. I just got up and went to make coffee.
Why did I turn down the chance of the holiday of a lifetime with
my best of best friends? Jenny asked me the same question.
"Because I wasn't in love," I said.
"But you aren't in love with me either, are you?" said Jenny...
I didn't know what to say...
*
Pam left the next morning, without so much as a word. The next
thing I knew, and I think it was my mother who told me, Pam was
getting engaged to this nerd called Arnold. Apparently, she had
gone on the dream trip with this Canadian guy Arnold, whom Dave,
in his kindness, had fixed her up with. I'd met the guy: the
whole thing stank, and if you took an average of all the guys Pam
had said she hated, you'd be pretty close to the image of Arnold.
I phoned Pam. "You can't be marrying HIM!" I said.
"What right have you to tell me what to do?"
'What right?' I thought. I was furious. I thought of the
vicious things she had said about Stephanie, not to mention what
she had said when I went out with sweet pretty Jessica, her
classmate and oldest friend.
"You always say what you think," I said. "Why can't I?"
"Because you don't think. You don't see. You don't listen...
You're useless and you're selfish and you're blind... And you
weren't there when I needed you. Arnold was." Pam slammed the
phone down on me and it was nearly twenty years before we spoke
again.
"Is she happy?" asked Jenny.
"Dunno. Sort of lost touch. Last I heard they went to Canada,
some town on Lake Ontario, Oshawa or something..." I don't know
why I said that - it was true. My feelings for Pam were private
and confused, and I didn't want to explain them to Jenny. What
could I say? She had demolished my excuse that you should avoid
sex with someone you liked, but you weren't in love with. I
wasn't going to lie, nor was I going to deny that I did like
Jenny a lot...
"A beautiful fuck," she said, "is a beautiful fuck... Whoever
it's with."
*
So I fucked her. A hard vicious fuck of strangers. I banged
into her and she bit me as I came. And in the morning, when I
laid her out for another one, she told me to wait, and she got
her whips out from the underwear drawer. "It's something I need
every three or four months," she explained.
Well, like many men, and quite a few women, there is a thing
inside me that lusts for the thwack of a whip ploughing into the
creamy willing flesh of a voluptuous woman. There is a dark
thing, which I do not wish to feed, which is turned on by a
woman's silken thighs crossed with bruises and welts.
"You'll love it," she said, with that same wicked smile that
invited me to fuck her on the train.
"That's what I'm afraid of. Anyway, doesn't it hurt?"
"Of course it hurts. But afterwards you feel like it's washed
away all your mental toxins... I trust you... Jason didn't know
when to stop..."
"I don't want to hear about Jason." I got up and started to get
dressed... But there was something about her smooth, creamy,
unblemished skin that made you want to mark it, damage it,
personalise it in some way. And though I don't like pubic hair,
there is something about the naked lips of a plucked pudendum
that cries out for decoration.
She was lying on the bed on her front, the sun shining on the
round mounds of her buttocks, the whip scars on her, back, her
thigh and her buttock still visible, but no longer red. "Turn
over," I said.
"Cunt rings," I said, taking her cunt lip in my hand. "Like ear
rings, but through here."
Jenny loved the idea, but a hole was needed, and neither of us
had any idea how to go about making it. I suggested she borrowed
her father's ear-piercing kit, and I gave the design to Griff for
him to make up with an extra large stud. He liked it and asked
if I had got any more designs...
"Dad refused to pierce me," said Jenny when the stud was
complete. I can't say I was surprised he had refused, but I was
surprised she should have asked him.
*
We went to a party held by some people Jenny knew. Her brother
Ronald was there: a dedicated breaker of hymens and hearts he was
too. He had an old brass tobacco box: 'Gasgoigne's Patent
Virginity Cure' was engraved on the lid. Corny, but it worked.
I went into a room thinking it was the toilet, and Ronald was
there, cracking a nun on the hearthrug.
"At least I don't need to be jealous of him," I joked to Jenny
afterwards.
"Why not?"
"Well, you aren't a virgin."
"He's not fussy. He probably would if I asked him," said Jenny,
kissing me, arousing me, "But I prefer an older man."
"I'm not that old," I said.
*
Then another odd thing. It was New Year's Eve morning, and
Jenny's washing machine was on the blink. Mine was a monster, so
we went over to use Griff's. Griff gave us both a glass of wine,
and took Jenny's bundle and put it in the machine.
"Anything else while I'm about it?" he said
Jenny stood up and pulled down her jeans.
Accidentally-on-purpose pulled her knickers down at the same
time.
"Oops!" she said, slowly pulling her knickers back up.
"Shameless girl," said Griff, fondly.
And while the three of us drank wine, and the machine did its
business, Jenny sat cross-legged by the fire. Her lace knickers
hid hardly anything, and Griff made no effort not to look.
Then we went to my place to change. The phone rang. It was
Melissa, wishing me the usual. She had fallen out with Griff -
again. Her children were with her and being awful, but they were
off to spend New Year with their Dad. She was off to see her
parents. for an evening of ghastly television, and a midnight
'wee dram'. Her father had worked for Weights & Measures, and
when he said 'wee dram,' he always had to explain that a 'dram'
was one twentieth of an ounce. Perhaps he thought he was being
generous when he measured out about quarter of an inch in the
bottom of a sherry glass.
I guess we were on the phone for about ten minutes, and I laughed
quite a lot, but I don't think either of us said anything you
wouldn't say to any good friend and colleague. But Jenny was
white with anger. "Why don't you just go and fuck her? And you
better keep away from my friends."
I felt like saying 'what friends?'. There were of her brother's,
ex-lovers of her brother's, ex-lovers of her own, but no school
chums, work chums to call her own. Just a lot of borrowed
wankers sitting around in circles addling what passed for their
brains with the very best Moroccan dope. And frankly, I had been
dreading passing New Year in the company - sorry, wrong word -
presence, of that lot.
I wasn't going to be told whom I could and could not speak to.
"I work with Melissa. She introduced us... And I owe her for
that," I said, moving towards Jenny to give her a hug. She moved
away. She lit a cigarette, picked up her bag, and walked out of
the house. I called after her. She didn't even turn.
"Sod it," I thought, and phoned Melissa.
"Fancy being rescued?" I said.
"My knight for the night," she said, sounding a bit drunk. "Why
don't you come over?"
"Okay. I'll bring some champagne."
"Bring some food if you've got any. I've only got eggs."
My car was over at Jenny's place so I loaded my bicycle with
steak and champagne and some of the things nestling in the fridge
that needed eating up.
Melissa was wearing other best dress - I'd heard the saga of her
buying it - but never seen it before. It was grey and showed off
the tan on her arms to wonderful effect, showed the shape of her
beautiful breasts. Sparkly earring, an onyx on a chain around
her neck. The gorgeous cream expanse of her back shown off.
"You look ravishing," I said, taking her in my arms and kissing
her. Our first kiss, and it made us a bit shy. We drank a bit,
messed about putting food together, briefly turned on the telly
to see the New Year in and listen to the bagpipes farting. We
talked some more, and lay close side by side on the rug by her
living-room fire. I don't know where the time went, but it
hardly seemed like minutes before it was dawn.
We climbed through the trapdoor onto the roof. I knocked the
champagne bottle and let off the cork. It fell with a clang onto
the roof of someone's car.
Melissa faced the dawn, and I stood behind her, kissed her on the
nape of the neck, and put my hands on her hips. She moved away
from me. Too much, too soon, I thought.
"Let's go back inside," Melissa said, "I'm getting cold."
It was difficult for Melissa climbing down in her high-heeled
shoes, and I caught her in my arms as she sort of half-slipped.
And she fainted. Spark out.
I kept her in her arms and carried her to her bed, threw off the
quilt with my foot, and laid her down. Her eyes were shut, she
was breathing with a quiet regular rhythm. I wasn't sure what to
do. I wasn't sure if she was just exhausted, or if there was
something more serious. I went back onto the roof to get the
bottle and the glasses, then sat by her on the bed, listening to
her regular soft breathing, drinking in the scent of her, and
adjusting my trousers to ease my erection.
She moved a little in her stupor, and I saw a red mark where the
straps of her dress seemed to be cutting into her shoulders. I
couldn't leave her in her very-best dress, and I rolled her over
to unzip it. She flopped like a rag doll as I moved her. I
pulled her shoes off, and saw, really for the first time, the
loveliness of her legs. Then I eased the dress off the top half
of her.
Two glorious ripe breasts tumbled out. It would have been a sin
to have left them unadmired, and I fondled them and explored
them, kissed them and tasted their fragrance. And then I eased
the dress over her hips. She was naked, still spark-out of it,
and I gently kissed her lips through the bush, and breathed in
the amazing musky scent of her. I went to the wardrobe to hang
up the dress...
For a moment, there was absolute silence, as if the whole world
was holding its breath. Melissa hadn't moved. "It's time," she
said, and I threw off my clothes, climbed into her bed, clamped
her in a kiss, and slid into the well-wetted walls of a welcoming
cunt. I was home.
At first I just relished being there inside her, and as I began
to move, she tightened a bit to perfect the sensation. I was, as
someone said, signed on the freehold, and later at my leisure
would I explore her coves and curves and tastes and scents. A
fine woman ripened like a fruit at its moment of perfection, that
hot-cold ice-sorbet warmth as we rocked and delved.
"I love you so much," she said as we came like a collision.
"Happy, happy New Year," she said as I fell limp inside her, and
the fruits of a massive come oozed onto the bed.
We finished the champagne, and as she sat up to drink, I cupped
the fall of her breasts in my hand, took possession of the long,
strong softness of them and the silken resilience of her skin. I
got a towel to wipe up the gunk. Melissa curled in my arms,
sighed, and we slept.
"I had a dream," she said, "of waking up with your arms around
me..."
My erection was already tapping the cleavage of her buttocks as I
put my hand on her bush, and began to delve for the button.
"Tea first," she said. "And a pee."
So we had tea, and made love again slowly, gently, savouring our
luck. And slept again. Woke up again, Melissa sleepy in my
arms. Breakfast at three, baths. Melissa in a gown, drying her
hair in front of the living room fire. Caught her, kissed her,
laid her flat and spread her legs, spread the deep copper bush
and tasted the fresh caviar of her cunt.
A pretty cunt, the dinkiest little button, and no inner lips,
just two Citroen-chevrons above the puckered place of her vagina.
Tongue on the button, a moan of pleasure, upwards, hands and
lips over her lovely luxuriant breasts, upwards to kiss her until
she blushed all round her neck, and I was thrusting inside her in
the place I belonged. And this was the best of all, with the
tank almost on empty we climbed and rested, and climbed some
more, and climbed until we were, I swear it, floating hardly a
foot from the ceiling.
It was all so clean, so beautiful, so natural, so (for lack of a
better word) pure. Much as I had loved Jenny, and for all my
gratitude to her for rescuing me from the desert years with
Stephanie, there was something unwholesome about her, about her
sexuality, about the taste of her.
Three days went by, I'm not sure where - walks, food, pubs, and a
sea of super fucking that all washed into one, and then it was
Sunday. Melissa was expecting her children to come over - I
wasn't ready for that yet...
Back to work in the morning. Needed the car. It was still over
at Jenny's place, so I went on my bike to collect it. I hoped
for quick, quiet, get-away. Tell Jenny later... There were no
lights on in the house, but her car was there... Gone out with
the deadheads, I supposed... I didn't have a spanner to remove
the front wheel so I had to wind down the passenger seat to make
room...
"Hi," said Jenny. I turned around, and before I knew what was
happening, she had pulled me into a hug and kissed me.
"Givenchy," she said. "You've been with Melissa?"
"Yeah," I said, not wishing to lie, nor to rub it in too hard.
"It's just great you two have finally made it. You're so right
together."
I wasn't expecting this. I mean, Jenny was a loyal daughter and
Melissa had treated Griff pretty shabbily at times, dumping him
when she got bored (which didn't take long) and going back to him
when she needed some bills paid. Yet she was glad I was with
Melissa, and she seemed genuinely pleased to see me.
"Are you going to come in for some tea?" she said. "I was going
to cook a chicken. You're not in a hurry to rush off?"
"Are you staying the night?" she said, later that evening as I
was thinking it was about time I went. "I'd really like you to -
if you've got any strength left." She raised her eyebrows and
smiled...
She was wild when I fucked her - I'd never known her like that...
It was her birthday coming up. I asked her what she wanted.
"You know what I'd really like," she said, blushing. "A video of
you fucking Melissa."
"Why?"
"It's just such an amazing turn-on."
"Why?"
"It just is."
Weirder, and weirder, I thought. I didn't get to see much of
Jenny after that - and the video was Melissa's idea. Coming back
late from a job, I had gone straight over to her place with five
grand's worth of video kit. Which the insurance wouldn't cover
if I left it in the car overnight, so I unloaded it. It's weird
- but there's something about a 2-foot long broadcast quality
Betamax camera with lights and make-up that brings out the porn
star in any woman with some pride in her sexuality. It takes a
fair bit of practice on an unmanned camera, but we got pretty
good at it, and I have to say, the compilation I made is one of
my proudest possessions. I never did get to find out how Jenny
got a copy. Perhaps she just asked Melissa.
But I get ahead of myself. It was a couple of days before I saw
Melissa again, and she flat refused to have sex with me. I
wouldn't have put it past Jenny telling Melissa about the Sunday
night encounter, but that wasn't the reason. She was 39, and
quite a heavy smoker, and since the Pill had always given her a
headache, her doctor had advised her not to use a coil. Not
being used to it, she had done something wrong inserting it, and
she was bleeding. The reason she wasn't used to it was she
hadn't needed it with Griff, because he had had a vasectomy...
If talking and talking with Melissa was as good as a really good
fuck, then heaven itself was talking and talking before and after
a really good fuck. Clean, fresh sex, night, morning and
afternoon, long talks and long walks, dancing the night away, sex
for the camera, body paint on both our bodies...
We became an item - it helped we weren't working together any
more, but people didn't accept us. She was eleven years older.
She smoked, so she looked older than her years. I didn't.
People took her for my mother, which was hardly fair.
It has become almost a fashion statement now for younger men to
be with older women, but back in the late 'eighties, even gays
had an easier time of it. You cannot believe how wearing it was,
the constant assumption that Melissa was pathetic, and that I was
after money, or cheap sex. We even got it from long-standing
friends, and the constant lack of acceptance ground us down...
There were exceptions - my brother (who had an Indian
girlfriend), Melissa's children, and surprisingly, Griff, Jenny
and Melissa's ex-husband.
There was also the problem that I didn't want to take on a
ready-made family, especially one that included a disturbingly
beautiful daughter.
I thought there must be another woman in the world I can love,
and love more conveniently.
Then Steph phoned to say, 'you know that proposal, how about it?'
I said 'okay'.
Stephanie was been convenient, at least in terms of social
acceptance. And although someone else had taken over her job,
she was still spending quite a lot of time in Scotland on a
consultancy basis. I had lost the habit of being faithful to
her, and probably, she to me. But we gave it our best, for ten
long years.
Melissa was shattered when I told her, at first disbelieving,
then angry, then grimly accepting. She met some jerk who could
keep her in style, but we continued being lovers until the day
before her wedding. A painful day, because not only was it the
last time, but she told me about her miscarriage. Our child, two
inches long, dead in a pool of gunk and blood. Was it the coil
that had killed it (which is what coils are for, let's face it)
or was it my rejection of her?
Sometimes I dream of the little mite that I never saw, and I feel
very pointless.
*
Jenny, visiting her mother in the States, met some Canadian and
married him. I saw Griff in town from time to time and heard all
their news, like for example, Jenny was living in a cabin on a
creek off Lake Ontario, and expecting her second child. Apart
from the odd phone call to Melissa, to the sound of scowls and
clattering pots from her husband in the background, I didn't have
any contact with any of them for three or four years...
Then one day, when Stephanie, just for a change, was in Scotland,
I got a phone call from Jenny. She was at Gatwick. Very
apologetic - her flight had been overbooked so she had travelled
a day early, and her father wasn't in, and if I wasn't busy,
would I mind collecting her?
"Delighted," I said, thinking of the delights I had given up.
And then stopped myself thinking - she was now a married woman
with two fine bairns to her name. I sort of hoped she hadn't
brought them with her, or her husband for that matter.
But there, in the Arrivals Hall, was Jenny, alone, and sporting a
very impressive bust. I put my arms out to hug her. She fell
into my arms and my kisses. "Roger, it's so good to see you,"
she said, and nuzzled her hips to my erection.
"God, this is good," she said as I slid my hand under her coat
and felt the strong round firmness of her now-exquisite breasts.
"They real?" I said, fondling more strongly.
"Full of milk. Careful! You've gone and made me leak."
And there, on the front of her blouse was a spreading dark wet
patch, and I could smell the milk.
"I'll have a swig later," I said - and while a woman may (with
discretion) breastfeed her baby almost anywhere, there are bound
to be laws about breastfeeding grown men in the Gatwick Arrivals
Hall.
"No you won't, it'll taste like shit."
"Try me."
"I've been eating airline shit and smoking. You'll have to
wait..." she said with her most seductive smile. "I want you to
enjoy it."
Once we were on the motorway, she took her seat belt off and lay
in my lap. I fondled her face, put my hand under her blouse and
felt the milk leak into the cloth. Her hand crept onto my
trousers. "Someone's pleased to see me," she said.
The key to her father's place was in its usual place under the
shed. Jenny let us in, and kissed me, holding her damp, leaking
breasts against me. She leaked some more as I kneaded her. A
smell of milk and Jenny-sweat overwhelmed me.
"I've got to go and get these things off," she said, and though
the heating had come on, she asked me to lay a fire. I heard the
washing machine, and the shower motor... I went into the kitchen
and made a pot of tea, put out two cups and went to the fridge...
No milk...
With the motor of the power shower running, I didn't hear Griff
come in.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, more puzzled than angry.
"Just collected Jenny from Gatwick. Something about the booking
- she couldn't get hold of you."
"That's strange, because I've been in all day. Just nipped out
to get and some milk."
Which was a shame: I was hoping for Jenny milk in my tea...
Griff and I talked of this and that, and eventually Jenny came
in, in her dressing gown. She put her arms around her father and
kissed him, though he pulled away a bit in embarrassment when she
kissed him full on the lips... And all the while the tie on her
gown was slipping. It had come almost undone by the time we'd
gone into the living room with the tea tray, and Jenny had sat
crossed-legged on the sofa. Letting Griff see the glory of her
boobs.
He didn't seem fazed. "Had a boob job?" he asked, in a matter of
fact sort of way.
"No, just full of milk."
"Pretty damned impressive."
I thought there can't be many fathers who discuss their
daughters' boobs with them in such a matter of fact way. I
wasn't sure what to make of it... Since I was expecting a phone
call from Stephanie, I made an excuse and left. Jenny kissed me
goodbye at the door, and promised to eat organic food, no spices,
etc, etc, and make me the best gooseberry fool I'd ever have in
my life.
*
Weird thing when I got home. A long message on the answering
machine. I heard my voice and Jenny's. Her mobile must have
redialled my number - I thanked my lucky stars that Steph wasn't
due back for another week. But I was expecting to hear from her,
so I listened... and I heard Jenny and Griff talking. I heard
Jenny say that her husband, Anthony, was gay.
'Thanks, Jenny' I thought, remembering something about HIV being
passed on in breast milk. I was so angry I phoned with an excuse,
cancelling our dinner date. I said Stephanie was coming back
early. Later I heard the rest of the tape. Griff said: "Christ
sake, Jenny! Is he clean?" He sounded cross, confused.
I didn't hear Jenny's reply very clearly, but it was something
about Anthony being careful, and he'd been tested and all that,
and his parents wanted an heir and a spare, and she'd come home
if they'd settle for a million... Griff grunted something. I
heard footsteps on the stairs, and the tape ran out.
All week I kept wondering about that gooseberry fool, and on
Friday I changed my mind. "Thought you would," said Jenny.
"Make sure you heat it when you collect it because it goes off
very quickly," I said.
"Do you think I don't know that?" she replied, irritably.
Okay, it did sound condescending, but heat should cut out the
risk of HIV...
You want to know what it tasted like? Perfectly ordinary
gooseberry fool, with a hint of Jenny-sweat, if you must know.
*
It was years before I saw Jenny again. Writing letters wasn't
her thing, and I had other things on my mind, like my marriage
unravelling, and my job coming apart. The company was losing its
edge, and the boss responded by charging too much and not having
enough staff or new equipment to do the work to the standard
required. As the company sank, the pressures got worse, and I
made a couple of serious cock-ups, but by that time I'd stopped
caring... I had set up a jewellery workshop in my cellar, but
however hard I tried, I never seemed to get the finish right. I
never managed to make my conceptions come to life.
Then I saw Griff in town one day, and got talking. Said what I
was up to. Explained the problems I was having. He had always
had the opposite problem. Give him a design, and he was up there
with the best of them, but that's all he could do, copy or work
to a design - which depressed him, and annoyed him because it had
taken him twenty years to accept the fact. There was a whole new
market opening up in body piercing, and frankly, very little
available to suit the more discerning customer. He had sold
several dozen copies of my 'ear stud' before he realised what
they were being used for, and he wanted more designs. I went on
a body piercing course - that deserves a tale all to itself - and
held Saturday 'surgeries' in the upstairs room in the shop.
Mostly I just did noses and ears and blokes' nipples - I left the
most of the intimate stuff (including the Prince Alberts) to a
woman from London who came by appointment. Then we bought a
laser machine for hair removal, and the business really began to
take off, just in time for the day job to make me redundant,
which paid off the loan on the laser machine...
*
The trouble with living near an airport is all your friends and
family seem to think you are some sort of taxi and hotel service.
First there was Jenny. She was coming over for her father's
wedding, and could she stay for a couple of days? Well, it was
actually nearer a couple of weeks, slobbing around the house with
her now seriously unpleasant tits flopping around her midriff.
She wouldn't let me hump her because she said she was trying for
another child, which was just as well because I didn't want to
anyway. Though she didn't say anything about a new bloke in her
life, and Griff had told me she had separated from Anthony, and
got her half million.
She said a really weird thing - that she'd met my 'old friend
Pam'. You might not think it's weird, but I don't know anyone
called Pam.
"I can't believe you didn't roger her," said Jenny. "She's
gorgeous."
Then I remembered Pam was the name I'd used when I told her about
Megan, my best of best friends. How did she know that Pam was
Megan? Weird.
"Because," I said, "I didn't see we had a future together... and
there was Stephanie."
"You know she's crazy about you."
*
Then my grandmother died...
It was getting on for twenty years now since I'd spoken to Megan
- we had exchanged a couple of Christmas cards, so I knew there
were no bad vibes, but I was too mixed up to speak to her on the
phone or anything.
Megan was coming back from Canada for the funeral. I heard from
my parents that she was coming alone because her husband couldn't
get the time off work, and the kids were in school. I was
looking forward to seeing her, but I was surprised how nervous
and excited I was. Sort of butterflies in the pit of my stomach.
I was worried too - she could be a total bitch when she wanted
to be - sometimes when she felt rejected, sometimes just for the
hell of it. And last time I'd seen her, I had been protected
emotionally because I had been intending to make my future with
Stephanie. Now there was nobody...
Did I know I was falling in love, or was I just thinking of
Jenny's words: 'she's crazy about you.'? There's no doubt that
such words get the old juices flowing.
I happened to be checking my old Hotmail account (the one on my
last Christmas card to Megan) when I found a message from her.
'Coming on the 20th to Gatwick. Can't face too much family.
Don't want Arnold to know where I'm staying, so don't tell a
soul, but can I stay with you for the duration? All my love,
Megan.'
'Would be delighted,' I replied. 'Plenty of space. Absolute
confidence assured. Tell me the flight details and I'll collect
you.'
Last time I had seen her, Megan had been no more than 23. She
hadn't really changed from the kid I had known - lovely clear
deep blue eyes in a roundish face, an English rose complexion,
chubby cheeks, short, fine, light-brown curly hair, no
dress-sense at all and no idea what to do with make-up. Pam's
idea of dressing to look sexy had been to wear a naff old T-shirt
which showed off the bounce and the shape of her exquisite little
breasts.
*
The 20th came. I went to Gatwick, but late, seriously late. I'd
taken too long shopping for food and clearing the house up, and
then I had got snarled up in traffic. There was nobody left from
Megan's flight. I couldn't see her in the Arrivals Hall. There
was a woman in dark glasses, with a long, angular, folk singer's
face, with long straight, almost metallic white hair, tied back
in a pony-tail. She looked incredibly elegant in the sort of
embroidered Indian dress that you don't often see these days.
Twenty five years earlier, I had bought something very similar
for my best of best friends, the day I took her to a party.
I couldn't help looking at the woman lustful-like, but I wasn't
there for lusting, but for Megan. I went to the enquiries desk
to ask if they could put an announcement out, but I had to wait
in a queue.
"Roger?" a voice behind me said.
I turned around. The folk singer woman stood there, and took off
her glasses. I saw her deep blue eyes. It was Megan. She
dashed forward and put her arms around me. I bent to kiss her on
the cheek, and she took my head in her hands and kissed me on the
lips. It was a glorious kiss, like the brush of a butterfly's
wing that lingered and grew firmer.
"Sorry," she said, blushing and pulling away, "Couldn't resist
it..."
Strange as it might seem, and seeing how fond of each other we
had always been, this was our first proper, passionate kiss... I
found myself aroused, and I saw that Megan had seen I was
aroused.
With 18 years to catch up on, there was so much I wanted to say.
Once we had the car loaded up, I started burbling.
"Roger," she said wearily, "you talk too much."
I was now feeling thoroughly confused. As I drove, I rested my
hand next to the gear stick, and she stroked it gently. But
apart from that, she was quiet, distant, even when we got to my
house.
There was a meal waiting in the oven, a bottle of wine opened.
Still distant, she ate some of the pie, but refused the wine. I
showed her the bathroom and the spare room, and with nothing more
than a good-night peck on the cheek, she went straight to bed.
Not wanting to disturb her, I went to bed early myself, but it
was a long time before I could get to sleep. But when I did
eventually nod off, I must have really gone for it, because I
didn't hear her get up and make tea. The first I knew, she was
sitting on my bed, wearing my old dressing gown and gently
touching my face.
"What a beautiful way to wake up," I said.
"Isn't it?... Something I need to ask you... about your old
friend Pam?"
"My best of best friends," I said, wondering at the coincidence
that Megan and Jenny had become friends.
"What would you do if she asked you again?"
"She's asking?"
"She is."
I took my hand and pushing under the dressing gown, fondled her
naked breast. It was beautiful beyond imagining. Soft, perfect,
resilient... I had fondled her many times before through her
clothes, and once, I had pulled back her bedclothes and kissed
her bare nipple... I wondered how things would have panned out,
if all those years before, I had had the courage to take
possession of her body... I put my other arm out to pull her
down into a kiss.
"Not yet," she said. "The tea will go cold..."
But before we could have more than a few sips, she had thrown off
the dressing gown, and climbed into bed beside me. Legs parted,
my hand touching, exploring her exquisite, muscular cunt, finger
on the bead of the G-spot. I looked at her face, at her wild,
excited eyes.
"I think I've gone to heaven," she said, and grasping my penis,
she pulled me into a kiss. She moved down to kiss him, blew on
him a bit. "All mine," she said.
"Mine, and I want it!" she cried, rolling onto her back. But
first I had to kiss her, bury my face in the wettest, most
delicious cunt I have ever tasted.
"All mine," I said, as I sprang up so we were face to face again.
"Always yours."
I was in her now. Straight in, with the perfect aim that it
usually takes a month of fucking to achieve. Sliding down the
little ribs and the softness of her. Taking in the hot,
iceberg-cool wonderfulness of being inside her. Thrusting,
howling, resting, thrusting, resting to not lose the magic of it
by coming too early. And then we came. "I love you," I said.
"I love you, I want you," she whispered. "I've wanted you ever
since... ever."
We lay there for a while, quietly exploring each other's bodies.
Her skin was as lovely as it had been when, when she was
thirteen, I had fondly, not sexually, fondled her arm. Her
breasts were as delicious to the touch as those fourteen-year
old's breasts when... I had sprained my ankle, she had given me
a piggyback ride, I had held onto her shoulders - 'lower' she had
said, 'lower still' until I was fondling her and my erection was
thrusting her ass...
I parted her bush... and her cunt was as pert and delectable as
when, fifteen years old, she had flashed her fanny at me when we
were changing to go to the beach... I looked at those deep, deep
blue eyes, those same eyes that had shone and challenged me to
look, look and look at the pretty little rose bud between her
strong, muscular lips. No, she was not as lovely as the kid I
had grown up with, but lovelier - she had matured in her beauty.
"Do you remember that time I burst in on you?" For some reason,
I had been sleeping in a caravan in the garden, and Megan had
burst in on me when I was wanking.
"God, I was embarrassed."
"And I had never seen anything so beautiful..." A throb of life
came to my now flaccid penis as she touched him fondly. "Still
haven't... Why did you always push me away?"
"Smell."
"You're saying I've got BO?"
"You have this lovely fresh milk and soap and baby smell. It was
like a switch and it put me back in childhood... Fifteen years
ago, I met this absolutely lovely girl, and she had the same
smell, and I turned my back on her... When, I had just turned
forty, and I met a South African girl... Gorgeous."
"I've seen the video - I don't want to hear the gory details..."
"Let me finish, please... I couldn't do anything with her
because I wanted you, and she wasn't you."
"Say that again," Megan said, and I said I wanted her, had always
wanted her, but had tried to deny it. She looked so happy and so
calm, I could have grown wings and flown.
"What video?" I had to ask.
"That woman. The one that Jenny says you should have married..."
"Melissa..." I wondered how the hell Jenny had got hold of that
tape.
"Why didn't you...?"
"Marry her? I guess I hoped something more convenient might come
along."
"And you end up with me... Serve you right... At least I hope
you end up with me..." She looked so vulnerable for a moment,
that I had to kiss her... Oh, the bliss of a kiss of the woman
you love!
But women are practical creatures, and Megan's thoughts turned to
practicalities. "What are we going to do?" she said, sitting up
and taking a swig from the now stone-cold tea.
"Whatever you like. I've taken the day off."
"I mean, about the rest of our lives..."
"I dunno. We'll work something out... Somehow... But it's easy
for me. I'm not married any more. I don't have children."
Megan nodded. "Thing is, I want your child, while there's still
time - yes, I know it's risky..."
I was scared, unbelieving, excited. "We've got to go for it,
haven't we?"
She looked at me, her eyes wide with passion and contentment, a
hundred rejections forgiven and forgotten. Forgiven too, were
the times I had begun to seduce her and explore her, and stopped.
And though she had known it was my duty to stop, there had
always been a part of her that felt I had tasted her, and
rejected her...
"Come on," she said, "let's get up. I want to see this business
you've set up."
*
So I took her to my rooms above Griff's shop. She giggled when I
told her about the cunt jewels: "Will you make some for me?"
"Of course. Need to decide what sort... work out a design, do
the piercings - which will hurt - and you won't be able to have
sex for a couple of weeks."
"Do it just before I go, then."
"Tell you what I'd like to do now," I said...
"Mmmm..."
"Is to use the laser to get rid of some of that the hair."
"Okay," she shrugged. And she looked at me with those meltingly
beautiful, deep blue eyes, and smiled... "Try anything once."
"Except morris dancing," I added, as she started to peel off her
jeans.
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