After dinner

The Man and I exchanged surreptitious glances over our bowls of soup, fizzing with excitement over what may or may not happen later on in the evening.

There were two other friends at the table, who knew nothing of our secret alliance. As far as they and anyone else were concerned, we were just a man and woman who were friends – that at the end of the night everyone at the table would head off in different directions to their own beds.

The clandestine nature of our lustful fun made it all the more exhilarating. I felt myself blush at my naughty thoughts as we talked about all kinds of trivial things as we tucked into the main course – steak and veg, rather than the other main course I would devour later.

The Man was cooking for three of us and it was satisfying to see him whisking plates and cutlery away and breezing back with different courses. I liked to see him a little flustered – it gave me a tiny peak at his usually hidden vulnerability. He was usually strong, calm and in control and seeing this side of him (which rarely appeared) always made me feel like perhaps he was not as self-sufficient as he liked everyone to think. It also made me want to jump up from the table, maybe upset a few plates, push him up against the wall and kiss him. But that would pretty much blow our cover.

So instead, with our friends, I carried on our conversation about how best to cook steak and took sips from my wine.

We sailed through dessert and started on some cheese and biscuits. I could feel myself tingling in the groin, not because of the brie, but at the anticipation of what may come soon. Our friends were muttering about it getting late and looking at their watches. I remained calm – after all, I lived near The Man, so it wasn’t necessary for me to worry about setting off home just yet.

Eventually, our friends left and we sat back down at the table to finish our wine.

Then, he turned to me, this time looking full on into my eyes, now he was free to be bold again.

“So, little girl, would you like to come upstairs with me?” He asked, smirking, knowing full well that I had been waiting all evening for this moment. He was back in control again and was totally aware he could reduce me to mush. All I could do was let him lead me by the hand up to this room.

In the soft-focused red wine haze we kissed and were naked within seconds as he tasted my damp and over-excited pussy. I writhed with pleasure and pulled him on top of me – I wanted to feel him inside me now, after all this time. My patience had run out hours ago.

He entered me hard and deep and I gasped at the force, but thrust my hips to make him do it again, and again, and again… He flipped me over and slapped my bottom playfully. The heat of the slap only made me hunger for more of his dick. We bonked hard and the bed creaked. But the long evening had zapped our energy, so we soon crashed on to the bed in a heap, exhausted but satisfied.

But, dear readers, he is a damn good cook, so if food was all that was on the table, some of my needs would have been satisfied, while others would have been growling and rumbling…

Celluloid or cellulite – part 3: The end of it?

Sandra has been feeling closer to Barry as they have enjoyed their little interludes together – even if it means a quick one when they have both managed to snatch half a day off work, or Barry has snuck into Sandra’s for a quick beer and crisps after her kids have gone to bed. In fact, she thinks about him a lot and suspects she has started to feel the ‘l’ word.

The trouble is that Barry is starting to feel a bit trapped, as Sandra is always texting and calling him to find out when they can next get together. He likes her, but this is starting to feel like the ‘r’ word – something that scares the bejesus out of him, ever since his marriage broke up three years ago, after he found his wife in bed with his next door neighbour. He’s not going down that road again and letting anyone close enough to leave him open to that kind of trauma.

Benedict has similar commitment issues after his ex-wife ran off with the gardener when they were living in his family’s oversized country pile in the prequel to this movie. (Critics panned it when it came out for being ‘too Lady Chatterley’). So he is wondering if he has been spending too much time with Rosetta.

Sandra texts Barry to ask what he’s doing on Saturday, as her kids are staying with the ex and she’d like some quality time with her favourite man. “DVD and a takeaway, if you don’t feel like going to the Sheep’s Leg” she suggests.

But this is the final shove for Barry, as the bleep of his phone interrupts his thoughts. He decides not to respond – his usual way of avoiding a difficult conversation. Sandra gets agitated and as she sits behind her work computer she can’t think about anything else. She pretends to read a report, but is really gazing at her phone, willing it to bleep. When it does she almost jumps out of her chair, before seeing it’s a company asking if she’s had an accident and wants to claim compensation. ““No, but I know someone who bloody-well will soon,” she whispers.

Script writers have made Benedict a bit more open and honest and he phones Rosetta, asking to meet in a quiet café. “I am sorry, darling,” he says, “This is really hard for me to say, but I have to say it. Everything has been happening so fast between us that it has turned me a little dizzy. I need to climb off the carousel and take in some air.”

Rosetta’s perfectly smooth forehead furrows ever so slightly. “What are you trying to say, darling?”

“Sweetheart, you are lovely, gentle and beautiful, but I need to take some time out, to decide what I want. I told you what happened with Cordelia – I need to be sure before I open my heart to anyone else.” Sad-sounding violins and pianos play in the background as Rosetta’s China blue eyes well up with tears.

“You are casting me aside?” She sobs.

“Not quite, darling. You are not an old sweater. This may not be the end. I just need some time out, a break to find myself.”

It is four hours since Sandra sent her text. She is now chewing gum in a fit of frustration to stop herself from eating the entire contents of the office’s biscuit barrel. As five o’clock strikes, she rushes out of work not wanting to talk to anyone and heads for her train. As she sits wedged between two suited men who won’t budge in either direction, she gives in and sends Barry another text, trying to adopt a cheerful, not-in-the-slightest-bit-exasperated tone. “Or we could still just go to the Sheep’s Leg, if you’d prefer that.” She then spends the rest of the evening going from one task to looking at the phone, almost like a religious ritual. Even bathing the kids is punctuated with glances at it, which leaves the screen blurred with condensation.

She goes to bed with the phone on the pillow next to her, just in case Barry feels the need to respond to her at 4am.

On the commuter train again, she cannot bare the waiting. “Barry, are you ok? Starting to worry now.” Still no response. Still no response by lunchtime and Sandra, by now, is on the edge. Then at 3.30pm he texts: “Sorry – can’t do this any more. Don’t want a relationship.”

Sandra re-reads the message three or four times to take it in, even though it’s only ten words. She then runs off to the toilet, locks herself in a cubicle and cries as quietly as she can.

Meanwhile Rosetta is sobbing into her silky dusty pink duvet in her spacious pastel bedroom as piano music plays in the background.

So, readers, is this the end for our foursome? Maybe I’ll return to them at some point to see what happens next…

Quick on the drawer(s)

Briefs, bikinis, low-rise, high legs, shorts, French, control, thongs, and even ‘magic’ ones; is there any limit to the number of types of knickers available to us ladies?

Walking into any well-known purveyor of panties and the choice is baffling. I have to ask myself whether I want to be high legged, but low rise or whether I want to wear ‘shorts’ of the mock boxer or knicker variety. Do I want to be pulling a piece of string out of my bum every five minutes or do I want something that pulls up over my belly and reaches halfway up my chest? As if it isn’t already bewildering choosing the right bra, never mind a pair of drawers.

Despite my enjoyment of clothes-removal and penchant for a pretty lacy bra, I have never got to grips with finding the right pair of knickers. Sadly, when buying a new ‘set’ to dazzle him in the boudoir, the bras are usually just right while the bottom half is almost always a straight choice between a thong or a ‘Brazilian’. One makes me feel like I have done a hasty job in the loo and left a bit of toilet paper up my jacksie while the other one may fit my rear but rubs uncomfortably in my lady hole like a badly inserted tampon. What is wrong with a good old-fashioned pair of bikini-style pants?

I have gone out on many occasion in what I think is a sexy ‘set’ (obviously with other clothes over the top!) and spent half the evening discreetly trying to dislodge sheer fabric from between my buttocks. It is then a complete relief, not just for the one-on-one action, to remove them later on and end the agony.

Maybe I should just get with the programme and accept the feeling of having dental floss between my butt cheeks as normal, like period pains or the scalding sensation whenever my shower unexpectedly gets boiling hot for a few seconds. Maybe I am not a proper grown-up woman because I can’t tolerate ‘sex kitten’ undies. But I did once get a dose of thrush after trying to tolerate wearing a new pack of Brazilian knickers for a week – I did wash them first and wore a clean pair every day, just to be clear.

On the other hand, I am not ready for ginormous granny pants yet. I think one can feel sexy in a pair of short-style knickers if they are worn with confidence and a pretty bra. However, I also wouldn’t dismiss wearing a pair of ‘magic’ control pants for those special occasions when you are in a party dress and want to reduce the tummy bulge.

The thing is, though, do men even notice what pants we are wearing? I have never once had one say to me ‘totally dig the panties, darling’. They probably spend a few more seconds looking at the bra, often because they can’t quite figure out how to undo it. As for knickers – they usually end up thrown across the room or disappear to the bottom of the bed, only to be discovered when you next change the sheets.

When I see you next

When I see you next…don’t make me wait; let’s not eat, drink and talk for three hours. Save that for afterwards.

When I see you next… I want you ready for me, but fully clothed. I will walk through the door, kiss you slowly, taste you, drink you in. Our embrace will last long enough for your knees to go weak, your head to feel dizzy. Then I will slowly peel off your layers, tugging off your tee-shirt, prizing open your jeans so I can nibble your delicious core.

When I see you next… I will kiss and taste your entire body, from your feet, all the way up your legs, sucking and licking your muscly firm thighs. You will be passive, only able to writhe with pleasure as I crawl, cat-like up your body. I will pause at your balls, encircling each with my tongue, sucking and nibbling every single millimetre of them as you moan and undulate.

When I see you next… I will slide my tongue from the base to the tip of your towering hard penis. I will tease the end by poking the very tip of my tongue into the urethra and glide it around your glans, maybe several times. After I think I have licked every bit of it I will hold it firm and lower my mouth over it as far as I can go, sucking, licking, devouring. As you are powerless under me, I will pull off my pants, leaving on my black stockings.

When I see you next… I will lower my wet, excited pussy over your penis, slowly taking you in and begin to fuck you slowly, as I throw off my dress and unleash my breasts from underwired restraints. I may even let you have some freedom to touch them, squeeze them, take them in your mouth.

When I see you next… I will at some point dismount and make you take the upper deck and thrust yourself hard inside me, as you finger my clit and kiss me hungrily. You may at this point have a little more control to place me where you will, but I will slap your bottom if I want more and deeper.

When I see you next… I want your climax to be intense, explosive, spectacular. Let it spray all over my breasts, let it squirt into my mouth, let it smear all over our bodies. I will smell, taste, touch and inhale you.

When I see you next… we will end up sweaty, sticky, exhausted, in a lovers’ embrace with our hearts thumping loudly.

When I see you next…When will I see you next?

Hip hip hooray!

This week Drunken Slut Mum is having a double celebration, so please help yourself to a glass of bubbly and some nibbles. You can also throw your coats on the bed, but the only person I want to see under them is The Man, waiting patiently for me to dive on top of him at the end of the night!

So, why the popping corks? Firstly, this blog you see before you is a year old (it was actually 30 August 2012, but what’s a few days between friends?). If you have been reading this since then, you deserve a medal for sticking with it and I thank you for your support.

If you are a DSM virgin, it’s never too late and you can wade through anything from a poem about vibrators to top tips on how to be a DSM, erotic shorts with ‘The Man’ in a range of positions and locations (such as this), debates on sex education, tales of my sexual adventures and meet ‘Barry’ and ‘Sandra’. There’s much, much more than can be listed here. So maybe, readers, you can suggest your own favourite bits, or even your worst bits.

And to prove this isn’t one of those episodes of ‘Friends’ or ‘The Simpsons’ where clips from old episodes are spliced together when characters remember old times (and the writers can’t be bothered that week), my second celebration follows up last week’s lament about the times my body lets me down.

Ladies, we may knock things over, break wind, cough, sneeze or have a wobbly belly, but we all have a bad habit of focusing on the bad. Celebrate your good bits – here are mine:

Lots of squashy bits: Let’s face it – you are not going to get a really good cuddle from a supermodel. I imagine snuggling up to Kate Moss or Lily Cole would be like putting your arms around a coat stand. On the other hand I can provide a range of locations which will double up as warm pillows.

A talented tongue: My tongue is the most athletic part of my body. I can flick it, touch the end of my nose with the tip, make it into a spoon shape and use it to such precision that I can push ice cream right down to the bottom of the cone. I don’t need to suggest other ways it can be employed…

Boobies: I like this childlike word for them, as does my toddler son. Mine are not perfect, but they are neither too big nor too small and still have some bounce left. I enjoy grabbing them and pushing them up and down in the same way as men in drag do when they have a fake pair. This may sound strange, but I still regard them as a bit of a novelty, even though I have had them over 20 years.

Legs: I don’t have the best legs in town but they have run a few miles, carried me up and down lots of hills and pedalled my bike. Oh, and they will spread quite far apart and wrap around bodies quite effectively too. So despite the knobbly knees they will do for me.

Hands: My hands are no better than anyone else’s – as we all sit there tapping at keyboards, phones and touch screens. In fact they would not win a beauty contest with my unmanicured nails and dry skin, but they can do some amazing stuff – ranging from sewing and kneading dough to plaiting hair and drawing pictures. I am also a pretty good tickler and amateur masseur, when required.

So, dear readers, raise a glass with me to DSM’s first birthday, the useful bits of our bodies and hope that I still know what to write about for another 12 months…

And I can’t sign off without saying a big thank you to my technical support/design team of one who made this possible in the first place. You know who you are.