Where to next?

I have blocked writing ducts. Those of you who write will understand how this feels.

Take now, for example; I have an unplanned day off my day job due to a sick child. Sick child is now sleeping upstairs, so this is the perfect opportunity to bash out a few words. But what am I doing? I have just taken five minutes to complete an online survey from a courier company who delivered a parcel 20 minutes ago. Would I do such a survey on a regular day? Probably not.

Loyal readers (all one of them) will recall my good old days when I could reel off, prolifically at times, juicy tales of sexual encounters, passion, excitement, adventure and arousal. However, of late, the river has run dry. This is not necessarily because I lack these thoughts or ideas, just that my ability to effectively write about them seems to have been lost. It is not helped by a certain someone asking me not to write about such things any more “because it is an invasion of my privacy”, even though much of my work is embellishment, fantasy or fiction, with only a small sprinkling of truth (in most cases), not to mention the fact that I have always written under the nom de plume Drunken Slut Mum (of which this certain someone is completely unaware, but I have told him this work is anonymous). Perhaps he needs to consult a dictionary on the meaning of anonymous.

Perhaps the difference in my circumstances is all the more pointed because ‘The Man’ (remember him?) was not only flattered by my accounts, but also an accomplice/technical support in getting my blog online and, at least at the very beginning, a keen supporter of my work. Perhaps also, this is the difference between being involved with a creative person and being involved with a non-creative person who sees most things in black and white.

It does not, however, resolve the problem. I neither want to ditch my writing, nor the certain person (just yet, anyway). I did stop showing him my work a long time ago, partly because he was not that interested in it. And what I did show him was a few carefully selected pieces which would not incriminate me!

So, dear readers, I am at something of a crossroads. Drunken Slut Mum is not disappearing completely – I still have something I need to do with her, but as a writer with a real identity I need to consider my future direction. Writing is too important to me to stop and I hope that it can be enjoyed by at least a handful of people, maybe more one day.

Mr Curtain

He took me by surprise

When I thought I’d grown quite wise

I was shopping in the sales

Sifting through the kids’ clothes rails,

Looking for a boys’ tracksuit

But the lust arrow did shoot


There he was in his green coat.

I can’t say he floated my boat

Wasn’t keen on his long hair,

The way his pants had a tear,

But his elbow brushed my side.

Well, the aisle was not wide.


“Sorry, love,” he said, blushing.

“It’s fine, but please no pushing.”

“Can’t find no boxers, can you?”

“Some over here in light blue.”

“Wow, thanks so much – that’s great.”

His smile ups my heart rate.


I think he’s not such a geek,

I may take a closer peek.

My gaze is a bit too long.

He’ll think I’m acting all wrong.

“Forgive me if I’m too bold,

“But what I sense must be told.


“I think you are rather fit.

“What say you – how about it?”

“My God, you have got some cheek

“Do you think I come each week

“To pick up men while shopping,

“That I’m just some cheap play thing!


“Buy your damn boxers, you fool.

“I’ll sit right there, on that stool,

Near the changing room curtain.”

Why this was I’m not certain

So, he came back, confused

And I grinned, now quite amused.


“No one in that one,” I said.

In the cubicle, I led.

“Come on quick,” I whispered, and

Reached for, grabbed and pulled his hand.

Then he stumbled into me,

Kissed me so passionately.


I tingled from head to toe,

Felt his hardness down below,

Heard people talking nearby.

“Is that the voice of a guy?”

But we could not stop, would not.

Unzipped his jeans, felt his bot.


Stroked his manhood as he sighed.

Wanted the same; he complied.

Placed my foot up on the stool

The excitement made me drool.

He eased it in without fear,

And bonking we were, right here


Quietly went in and out.

No, not a moan, nor a shout.

But the cubicle wall shook.

“Are you alright in there, chuck?”

Asked an attendant outside.

“Fine, this skirt waist’s a bit wide.”


“Want me to fetch another?”

“No, dear, it’s for my mother.”

Then she went away, confused.

We sniggered a bit, amused,

Carried on humping until

He sighed and I felt him spill.


“My God, I so enjoyed this!”

He said and gave me a kiss

“It beats looking at clothes rails.”

I laughed and stroked him with my nails.

“But it’s getting late, must go.

“People to see, things to do.”


I got dressed and snuck out first.

Don’t want them thinking the worst.

Seconds later, out he came.

Never even asked his name.

I’ll call him ‘Mr Curtain’.

Won’t forget him – that’s certain!



If music be the food of love…

In our teens and 20s it would be the subject of much anxiety, preparation and could, in some cases, make the evening a success or a failure.

I just remember that, when I was young and had more spare time, I always had a handful of reliable options up my sleeve and would feel much more confident about it than I do now.

The right choice of ‘make out’ music can be a massive deal. What I hadn’t realised until recently, in middle age and still fumbling about with love and sex, that it was still a massive deal to me. Until Lighthouse Family spewed forth from his speakers. Yes, the easy listening R&B duo are harmless and inoffensive enough, but to me they are the epitome of bland cheesiness; in their 90s hey day they were one of those bands my peers and I would joke about,  as they were so far removed from anything we liked at the time. I think my mum also liked them, which in my youth was another reason they were so not-cool.

So, even though the poor guy was trying to create a relaxed, romantic mood, I could not help but let out a small snigger. I feel bad about it now, but at least it wasn’t a loud belly laugh and he didn’t take offence, just said: “Well, it’s better than loud banging music.” For the rest of the album (as I quickly realised it was a complete Lighthouse Family CD and not just a mixed compilation), I managed to zone out enough to carry on in the manner we were both ‘carrying on’.

But it does beg the question – what is good ‘make out’ music? I don’t have the means to carry out some kind of scientific, psychological/neurological experiment, clearly, and the whole thing is extremely subjective, like what is art or what tastes good? But it’s pretty important that the music is something you can both tolerate without laughing or running out of the room with both fingers rammed into your ears.

Nowadays, I really struggle with this, as having a crazy-hectic life in which listening to, never mind purchasing, music is way down my list, somewhere below cleaning the cooker hood, but above reorganising my sock drawer. So usually I go for  ‘classics’ (again a highly subjective term) such as Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Rumours’ album, Suzanne Vega or some 90s chillout music. If I’m trying to impress with a more up to date repertoire, I may plump for First Aid Kit or Kings of Leon, but even then my music collection is woefully in need of a refresh and other newer stuff I own not ‘make out’ friendly – Arctic Monkeys, Foo Fighters…?

Buying/downloading more music is on my to-do list, but like most of us, it’s more about listening for enjoyment than making someone relax and want to get smoochy.
In the old days, the faithful friend I could always lay my hands on, when slightly tipsy after a night out, would be Massive Attack’s ‘Mezzanine’ – in fact I am certain it was a popular choice in the late 1990s. I wonder how many children were conceived to the trip-hop sounds of this still highly listenable album?

And if ‘Mezzanine’, which was usually near my CD player, had dropped down the back of the shelf, there was always Portishead and their sad, but reflective and laid back sounds or the Gallic ambience of Air. In fact in that era, I always had five or six options to put us at ease. Perhaps that just comes with being at a time of life when I had more time for music.

I imagine (and forgive me for sounding like a Luddite) that today the younger folk have downloaded playlists for ‘make out’ time which they can just play continuously, without having to shuffle across the floor, trousers round ankles to change the CD or flip over the cassette or record.

Out with the new

DSM is moving into a new phase in her life: ‘new man’ is going to have a name change.

I felt that after six months, ‘new man’ probably does not qualify as ‘new’ anymore. I was going to use his initials, as I have with previous male ‘characters’ but this also didn’t seem right. No, instead he has earned himself a pseudonym. Feeling playful, but forgetful and often uncertain of spellings, I am going to experiment with Asa. Don’t laugh. It’s very obviously not his real name.

So, Asa (apparently it means ‘doctor’ in Hebrew) and I are still together and can still stand the sight of each other which hopefully means he’s sticking around for longer than just a quick bonk and a cup of tea before he slings his hook.

We actually miss each other when we are apart for a few days – a concept I had forgotten, being more familiar with the being-glad-to-get-my-space-back kind of vibe. He even worries about me getting home safely at night (when predecessors wouldn’t even see me to the front door and would have only found out I’d fallen under a truck on my way home if they had tuned into regional TV news). And he’ll labour away down below for however long it takes to get my orgasm because it means so much to him that I get my rocks off as much as him.

So, after years of indifference or shouting and stress, this attentive love and compassion thing is a little alien to me.

And where do we go next? The logical thing would be to consider moving in together, but when you’re in your 20s with no kids or complications, this is much easier; find house/flat, discuss rent and bills, move in.

In middle age, divorced, in possession of two kids, a house filled with junk etc. – not so easy. There’s the practical problem of crap he has accumulated over the decades (books, CDs, furniture, bicycles, motorbike…) plus my crap (books, CDs, furniture, toys, kids…) Do we build a giant shed for all our stuff, toss a coin to decide what to throw out or bury it all in a hole in the garden?

Then there’s him having to get used to living with two kids after years of peace. He has a 23-year-old daughter who lives elsewhere with her boyfriend, while my two are primary school age, so we have around 13 years at least before we’re on our own again (if it doesn’t all drive him out before then). That means 13 years of shouting, fighting, spillages and generally trashing the joint.

There are also those things one doesn’t like one’s partner to know about – those private habits or self-prettifying secrets. The things that will shatter the illusion of loveliness before him. Some of you will understand what I mean. For example, that annoying single coarse hair that appears just under my chin every now and then which I pull out with tweezers late at night, the greyish white knickers I reserve for that time of month or comfy days when I’m alone with a good film and Kettle Chips, the days when I can’t be bothered washing my hair so I screw it up in a scrunchie (heaven forbid!). He may not approve, either, of all the rows of washing I hang in the dining room (we only ‘dine’ there at Christmas) or my addiction to eating peanut butter straight out of the jar…

How about long-term sex? I know everyone says you just have to have lots of variety to keep things alive, but how easy is it to build this into hectic lives? The way some of my days go, he’ll have to give me a quick hump from behind while I wash up, grope me as I fetch a shovel from the shed or ambush me upstairs as I change the sheets.

So, moving into the next phase will take a great deal of thought. I have a couple of female friends who swear that they will never live with a man again. They are both in long-term relationships, but happily living in separate places to their menfolk. And clearly, their menfolk are happy with this arrangement too – there has not had to be any compromise or argument over whose vacuum cleaner works the best or which toaster will be tossed.

But, on those cold winter nights their beds won’t warm up, there’s no one else to take out the trash and if they have an attack of the horn (or does this only happen to me?) and only a male member will satisfy, they are kind of high and dry.

Shaken but not stirred – Museu de l’Erotica, Barcelona

“I’m not sure about going in here,” said new man, “I already feel horny, so this is going to make me even worse.” He was always horny. I had persuaded him to come with me to Barcelona’s Museu de l’Erotica – it was on the list of things to do that I had drawn up before our weekend away.

We had already been slightly intimidated by the woman dressed up as Marilyn Monroe shouting “yoo-hoo” from the museum’s balcony down to the people below on one of the city’s busiest streets, La Rambla. Were we going to be met by a whole bevvy of woman dressed up as 1950s film stars? Perhaps Doris Day and Jane Russell were going to pour us drinks and offer canapes.

Luckily that didn’t happen. We entered a narrow door and climbed a staircase to the kiosk where we were charged 9 Euros each.

The museum was small – five or six rooms in total which ranged from the historically fascinating to the easy on the eye, the downright odd and the somewhat tacky.

I actually most enjoyed the pictures hanging on the wall. My particular favourites were the turn of the 20th century and 1920s images of people with their clothes pulled up performing sexual acts or just getting their bits out. Their facial expressions were rather passive and many of the ladies seemed to gaze into the middle distance while the men busied their hands, mouths or dangly bits in their nether regions.

“There’s too many big bushes for my liking.” Observed new man.  But, I tried to reason, people did have ‘big bushes’ in those days; it was the norm and no one would have regarded them as unattractive.

As well as photos there were drawings, paintings and pen and ink cartoons of people in various sexual acts, some man on man, some man on woman and others with multiple participants. These dated back over the 18th and 19th centuries. But also there were Chinese and Japanese paintings dating back to 13th century of couples in the act, with many of the ladies still with their feet bound up.  Picasso had a couple of erotic pieces up and there were some delicately painted images from the Karma Sutra.

In another room was a bit of a history lesson in the use of the phallus, with a giant wooden penis in a display case and lots of smaller penises (or is it penii?) we might assume were dug up by a team of archaeologists somewhere. We also learn that when Pompeii was unearthed from volcanic rubble there was erotic art all over the place – those Roman types must have been at it all the time. And, it seems so were the ancient Greeks if the figures painted on old vases and urns are to be believed. Apparently ancient Greece was also one of the first societies to accept, and at times, even encourage homosexuality.

Fetishism and sadomasochism was the theme of another room, but there wasn’t much to go on – the main point of interest was the ‘Chair of Pleasure’ by Yves Fedou , a metal chair with restraints plus metal penis – certainly unlike anything I have ever seen on a trip to my local dentist’s. There were a few whips, photos of people in bondage gear, along with another work of art, a sculpture of a painted, slightly scary woman.

There was also a curious turn of the century porn film flickering in another alcove, which seemed to feature a priest having his way with a middle-aged parishioner in flickering black and white, accompanied by traditional silent movie music. This was next to the details of members of the Spanish royal family’s interest in eroticism.

An area dedicated to Marilyn Monroe – hence the garb of the ‘yoo-hoo’ lady at the beginning didn’t quite fit in with the tone of the place. It’s not like Monroe was a porn star. Whoever curates the museum must be a fan and decided to celebrate her in the middle of all the penises and fannies.

Also incongruous with the art and history lesson, was a room dedicated to amazing sexual feats and world record holders, such as the longest ejaculation, the most sexual partners someone has had in a day, the largest orgy, biggest boobs etc. etc.

Of course, after this the exit was through the gift shop, after passing a display case of early vibrators, some of which looked like kitchen appliances.

The shop had nothing unexpected – some novelty wind-up penises, willy warmers, willy lollies and a few sex toys. I lingered too long on a small plastic cock ring/vibrator and the girl behind the desk leapt up, hoping to make a sale.

“You like this?” She asked in a Spanish accent. I shrugged, but she continued. “These are very good, you can test how it feels by touching it on your nose.”

And before I could politely make up an excuse about having to catch a bus, she whipped it out of the packet, switched it on and stroked the tip of my nose with it. New man by this time was curious at what the Hell was going on and came over.

“Here, you try too.” Continued the girl, so he also had the humiliation of a vibrating cock ring stroking his nose.

“Mm, yes,” he nodded, “Thank you.” He looked at me, bewildered. The girl backed off, perhaps hoping we would discuss it and agree to make a purchase. We quietly retreated to the exit. I told him they were good devices, but there may be an awkward moment if we were the subject of a random bag check at the airport, seeing as our cases weren’t going in the hold.

“I’ve come out of there not feeling horny at all.” He said, after we escaped. So we instead decided to have a look around the market.


Dress me up

When I was about five or six the idea of dressing up involved an old cardboard box stuffed with my mum and granny’s cast-offs – usually long patterned dresses, scarves and a dozen hats. My brother and I concocted various stories and characters. The only one I remember now was my brother’s ‘wedding’ to one of my dolls.

As one gets older the novelty wears off, or it does for many of us. In my teens and 20s, I went to a handful of fancy dress parties with varying degrees of costume success. But there usually reaches a point when either the fancy dress parties dry up, or the idea of them produces moans of “do we have to?!” or the use of a convenient, yet plausible excuse for declining the invitation.

As for dressing up in the boudoir – I have managed (by sheer fluke) to avoid such notions, feeling that I had neither the body, nor the confidence to carry off a ‘horny devil’, ‘French maid’ or ‘naughty nurse’ (sorry if these are obvious clichés), regardless of whether the outfit was constructed from fabric or PVC.

So having coasted through life and relationships without even a Venetian-style eye mask in my possession, I thought I was home and dry.

I also thought new man was contented enough with the odd bit of lacy lingerie – a basque here, a babydoll there.

That was until on one of his evening visits when he produced a package, something he had purchased online.

Innocently, I assumed it was going to be a piece of jewellery or little hand bag. But, as he pulled it out of the plastic packaging and unfolded the tissue paper, I saw it was black and shiny. It also seemed to have a lot of shoe lace-type bits attached to it.

When he held it up to show me, I realised that it was either a very odd-shaped handbag or something altogether unknown and unchartered for me.
I blinked in surprise, trying to keep my mouth closed and my expression neutral.

“It’s a cat suit,” he explained, as my calm exterior was clearly failing.

“Aah,” I replied, still unable to speak. (‘Hmm, middle-aged woman in a catsuit,’ I thought to myself).

“Well,” I said, trying to regain composure, “I will try to get into it.”

“It’s size eight to twelve, so I’m sure it will be fine.” He wasn’t going to give up on this.

I folded it up again, carefully, and agreed to try it on later. And I meant it. No one has ever bought me a PVC catsuit before and, I am told, the zip down the crotch nicely frames things, like a fanny display case…So who am I to argue with wearing something for his arousal?

Next, I need to decide what he can wear for me. The clichéd firefighter’s uniform, Batman, Zorro, or perhaps a blue boiler suit?



Four days later

I had missed him. It had only been four days, but it felt like an eternity and I ached from his absence. The emptiness was now palpable.

Six o’clock – he was supposed to be here now. I gripped my phone, looking at it every few seconds, knowing full well it would make a noise if anyone tried to call or text. But still, I may have missed it, not heard it, or could have accidentally turned off the sound.
I stared through the window, no longer caring about peeping discreetly from behind the curtain. Where was he? I flicked through the TV channels, not really seeing it properly, as my mind was full of him, needing him now.

Just as I went into the kitchen to put away a couple of plates – something to do to break up the waiting – I heard a car door slam shut. His footsteps neared the front door and I dashed to open it before he had chance to knock.

“Well, hello,” he said, unnecessarily and leaned in to kiss me. I thought he was going to pull away and start a conversation, but he stepped forward to continue the kiss. I locked the door and he kissed me again, this time deeply, his tongue exploring my mouth, his hands moving down my back, over my bum. He pressed against me, so I knew he was already hard.

Then, I gasped as one hand went down my loose cotton trousers.

“There’s plenty of room here, isn’t there?” He said, cutting straight to the chase with his long fingers. No gradual, subtle sliding over my knickers, but right on to my soft, wet and eager clitoris.

I had thought this was just a hello kiss, but I was ready for him, if it was right now, or a few hours later. Four days was too long.

So, his welcome fingers made me writhe and groan and forced my hand. To his belt buckle, button, zip, bulging pants and upright, throbbing member.

His fingers and kisses became more urgent, more intense – he wanted me there and then. He tugged at my trousers and I obliged, easing them down and stepping out of them and he followed suit.

“Here?” He suggested, pointing at the stairs. I agreed and bent over the bottom three or four steps, as he trailed warm kisses down my neck, shoulders and back, before gently lowering himself into my wet vagina. It felt so welcome, so good, so delicious that I sighed loudly.

He drew back and thrust again and again, harder, faster, as I leaned on my forearms on the step, sliding back and forth. I could feel him building up to a climax and I knew this was not going to last long, but it didn’t matter – the thrill of a spur of the moment ‘quickie’ was exciting in itself and meant my lover was as eager to see me as I was to see him.

“Ah! Yes!” He exhaled, as he exploded and collapsed on to my back, nuzzling my neck. I loved to feel his warm breath on me and his sweating body pressed against me, knowing I had caused it.

As we got to our feet, pulled on our clothes and composed ourselves, he hugged me tightly.

“God, I really missed you this time,” he said.

“Yes, I could tell,” I replied.

There were two in the bed…

There are some rites of passage/stages in a relationship that most of us only expect to experience within a certain time frame. One is learning to share a bed with another human being.

I am not talking about a bed partner for straightforward bonking (sorry, erotica guys). In fact, the bonking part is straightforward, compared to sleeping. Yes, in my advanced years (compared to you 20-somethings), I have experienced bed-sharing with several attachments over the years, not to mention having to sleep with my mum and daughter at some point or other.

But when you get to my age, the whole sleeping next to a new person thing is a massive challenge.

Will he snore? Will he talk or shout in his sleep? Will he lash out, or swing his limbs across the bed in the early hours of the morning? Perhaps he will sleep walk, re-enacting scenes from ‘The Godfather’ (pick a number). One my ‘bed partners’ in recent years snored to such a degree that, on one particular  sleepless night, I counted four different types of snores, even naming them in my head – there was the ‘loud hog’, the ‘tractor engine’, the ‘irritating mosquito’ and the ‘stop-start motorbike’. So, I am no stranger to the flipside of not sleeping alone.

Even if you do find he is afflicted with none of the above, it dawns on you that you can no longer sleep with a teddy, pile of books or yesterday’s clothes strewn on the bed. If you are like me, you have probably become set in your ways, after a few years of mostly sleeping alone – tissues under your pillow; your favourite pair of fluffy socks and comfy jim-jams; a pile of books and magazines on the floor; a secret supply of buzzing ‘thrill seeker’ devices secreted away in your bottom drawer; a torch to hand and a sturdy hockey stick in the corner for lamping intruders (or is that just me?). In short, it’s a single woman’s bedroom survival kit.

And, if your collection of objects does not faze him, you can’t quite believe what is happening. This week, the new man is ‘living’ with me for six entire days while my children are on holiday with my ex and his girlfriend. I am finding it all very strange, actually accepting that someone wants to prolong the time they spend in my company, never mind in my bed.

I am still waking up at 4am and checking he’s really there, thinking to myself: “Look, a man is in my bed – a real person, not an inflatable one!” I peer over him, watching him breathing in and out, amazed he chose to be here, amongst all my crap and dust, rather than in his clean and tidy room. He is warm, very warm – in fact, my comfy jim-jams are not welcome here, now I have a man-sized heating system in my bed. The socks have disappeared too, in fact all my clothes, seeing as we had our fun before the light was switched off. He is also very long and his legs go diagonal from his side to the bottom corner of my side. He has already complained that my bed is too short, but it’s not the right time to go bed shopping, just yet.

I watch him for another few minutes in the half-light, looking so peaceful, with me, next to me. (Thank God he isn’t a snorer.) Then he twitches, groans and rolls onto his side. I carefully kiss his forehead, lie down and drift off to sleep.

Scream if you want to go faster

So, readers, a quick straw poll: in the throes of passion, are you a) a screamer/shouter, or b) a quiet, heavy breather?

Of course, you expect me to answer this, too. I would say that until recently, I probably fell somewhere between the two. But then, I didn’t make a great deal of noise in childbirth, either, not that your chosen way to display extreme pain is any barometer for how you channel extreme pleasure.

Is it better to let it all out when you are going at it, or keep it in? I have stayed in hotel rooms with thin partition walls, where it’s impossible to ignore the moans and screams of a copulating couple next door. I have also lived in a flat, where I heard my portly neighbour giving a lady what sounded like a very satisfying evening.

But for me, early days of intercourse were fairly quiet events. I would breathe heavily, sigh a bit, maybe talk about getting cramp or leg ache, but there was no screaming, howling or neighing. The most noise a person on the other side of the wall would have heard would be the bed creaking, a headboard hitting the wall, or the thud of one of us losing our balance.

Marital intercourse was more of the same, with the added need to do it quietly when the small people came along.

It is only in recent times that I have felt comfortable enough to vocalise my joys. In fact, this is probably proportionate to actually experiencing the inner explosions I had missed out on for so many years.

Being in a position to discover these things a little later in life than other women has been a revelation. Until a few years ago I wasn’t sure I would meet any man willing to put the time and effort into taking me to ‘the big O’. Now I know that there are a few chaps out there who do want to see a woman judder and pop, who will persist until it happens.

So, perhaps my relative silence was just down to being stuck in second gear for so long. Now I have discovered fifth, my engine is fully revved and turbo-charged.  I have heard myself making sounds I never knew were in me – “aargh”, “ooh”, “fuuuck”, “Go-o-o-d” or “ye-e-e-s”.

The downside is that it is almost impossible to ‘make whoopee’ with the kids in the house, as I am now one of those annoying couples who keep other hotel guests or neighbours awake at night.


We have come back early from the party. We just couldn’t wait any longer for the next stage of the evening.

As I fumble about in the kitchen with coffee cups, you go upstairs to the loo. I expect you to come back down for a drink.

What I don’t expect is a naked man in my kitchen with a cheeky grin on his face and not even a blink or shrug of embarrassment. The surprise makes me tremble and tingle below with excitement. What shall we do now?

I glide my fingers over your chest hair and tiptoe to kiss you, softly first, then our teeth and tongues clash wildly, echoing the want in our bodies.

You press against me, so I feel your hard, naked penis prodding me, pushing through my dress and knickers. You guide me backwards against the worktop and kitchen sink which form a right angle corner. My back is pressed into this alcove; your body grinds against me. As we continue to kiss, my hands glide down your back to your bottom while yours are bolder and travel up my dress, onto my knickers, into my knickers. Perhaps I am a little over-dressed.

I thrust forwards, willing you to touch me inside, to tug my pants down. I want you to do it, to show me you want me as much as I want you. I don’t have to wait. You ease them down my thighs and they drop to the floor.

Stepping out of them, I raise my left leg onto the worktop, stretching across the cooker hob, carefully kicking a couple of glasses and mugs back as I go. I want you to move closer to feel you against my already hot, wet vagina.

You eye me hungrily, as you lick your middle finger and slowly move it to the place I want it, as I grab your dick, easing my hand slowly up and down.

But I am impatient. I want you inside me, filling me now and there is no time to move from this spot. So, carefully I raise my other leg, so I am straddling the corner, one leg across the hob and the other now outstretched across the edge of the sink and draining board. Secretly, I am impressed that I can stretch so far, when I am not really that flexible. Now I’m the perfect height and position for you to get inside me with ease.

You briefly glance at my open legs, also admiring my agility, before kissing me softly and easing yourself inside. It feels wonderful and I gasp in relief, excitement and pleasure. You thrust into me hard and deep, again and again as I lean back, trying to avoid pots and pans, raising my pelvis to match your every move. We fit so well together, you and me, and I lose all sense of time and place. At times I forget we are in a kitchen.

While inside me, you twiddle and stroke my clitoris and I shudder and writhe to your fingering, feeling myself ready to burst. Faster, faster we bang against the worktop. I moan and whimper, you swear and purr, then as it feels like I can’t take any more, we both find our pinnacle, firing our own rockets, grabbing each other, embracing in sweat and sated exhaustion.

You take my hand to help me down, then we sit on a wooden chair, me on your lap, my arms around your neck, my face buried in your shoulder, your fingers gently stroking my back. I feel safe, warm, wanted and completely smitten.