Mating and Death

I'd told the chauffeur I was emigrating to New Zealand to be with my daughter, and just wanted a last drive around town, to take a farewell look at some streets where I'd been happy during my long London career.
The last part, at least, was true. The first part was not. My daughter did indeed live in Auckland, but there was a good reason why I would not be able to join her there. Little thing called brain-cancer. Not long now...

I was prepared to find the Chalmers Street launderette bulldozed into something new and unrecognisable, but it was still there, and the same old facade in yellow-grey London brick carried great emotional f***e.

For this was where it had all started when I was a sulky sixteen, quarrelling with my father every weekend, and allowed to sit in that warm, steamy launderette, if I would help the manageress to tidy-up at closing. God knows she wasn't a beauty, all double chins and missing teeth, but she was woman-flesh and she was willing, which was all that mattered to me. It was the first time I'd ever seen the naked female buttock, and it was a startling experience - vast, wobbly and orange-peel rough, and it put me badly off my stroke. But she was the one who uttered those eternally wise words "Never worry. Never hurry." By the time her experienced fingers had got to work, we were well on the way. (And to think, I'd never heard of oral!)

Now it was a sunny avenue in Hampstead, and Christabel - lovely name for a lovely actress, big, buxom and wonderfully uninhibited. In her well-honed cut-glass accent, out poured every glorious obscenity in the language, a seriously arousing music. And when she reached down casually to switch holes, screaming "Worship my shit!" I was transported into a new world of tightness and tautness and tingling wickedness, as she began to make odd little whooping noises, rather like a pigeon, I thought. (And to think, I'd never heard of anal!)

The office building was still there, just off Piccadilly, and Ye Gods, was that one a bolt from the blue. Small business, just a husband-and-wife team, for whom I'd been a relatively humble supplier for a few months. The wife knew I had the hots for her, but always treated me like the hired help. Until one day, when I arrived by appointment, to find her in an odd state, tapping her foot with impatience. He'd gone off to a big trade conference in Menorca - "Sorry, wives not invited this year" he told her - leaving her to look after the front desk all week on her tod. Then she discovered by chance that wives had been invited all along. They say the prick has no memory, but I think this one has to take the cake. Four days of pent-up anger went into that supreme fuck, on the deep-pile carpet of the back office, followed by a splendid act of rebellion as she stood up and pressed her stockinged foot hard into my face, making me erect again almost at once. (And to think I'd never heard of podophilia!)

How true it is that the most glamorous ones are often the most frigid. For I could never pass that discreet little luxury block among the trees in Holland Park without remembering one particular Anglo-French model, certainly the greatest beauty I ever bedded. It was like fucking a perfect waxwork. And by that time, I was well past the stage of wanting just one-way gratification. I'd discovered the joy of giving. And she could not allow me it. It was rather a sad salute as we headed out to the suburbs, towards home. And I realized that this was a form of post-coital triste. Time to draw the curtain...

Ah well, at least I'd lived.

And loved.

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Categories: AnalFetishTaboo
Posted by gallowglass
3 years ago    Views: 674
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