FOREVER

She had been looking forward to this day all week and now it was finally here.  It took her two hours and fifteen minutes to get ready and yet she was still ten minutes early for the train.  He met her at the station, she was pleased to see he’d made an effort too.  His skin was lightly scented with cologne, his strategically tousled hair softened his features.  She ran to him and they kissed passionately.

 

At the restaurant they talked about everything that had ever meant anything to them, they had so much in common.  She loved the fact that he tipped generously and he opened the door for her on the way out.  It was a foregone conclusion that she’d end up back at his place.  There was soft lighting, music and champagne waiting.  He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her tenderly.

“Oh!” she gasped, “I never want this night to end.”
He smiled and guided her to the bedroom.  Never had she been loved like this, he took the lead
and seemed to know what she wanted.  There was no time to get tired or even to drink the champagne, she was lost and immersed in him.  The night stretched on with whispered confessions of love, moment after moment of pleasure, orgasm followed by orgasm.

It was only when she went to get a glass of water that she noticed the time.  The kitchen clock must have stopped, she checked her own watch, then her smart phone.  It could not be midnight, they had left the restaurant at half past 11 and that had been ages ago.  She turned on the television in the living room, the clock on the rolling news said midnight.  The newscasters were frozen in mid sentence.  She started to go to the window, but his arms encircling her waist from behind stopped her; “You OK?” he said gently.

For some reason, she shuddered at his touch; “It’s – it’s still midnight,” she replied.
“Ah yes,” he breathed, “you wanted this night to never end.”
“But ...”
“Come back to bed, honey.  There’s still lots of things to do, lots of games to play.”

THE OUTLET

“John, I want that report finished by close of play.  I want quality and attention to detail.”
“Absolutely, with bells on.  Your partner’s on the phone.”
“I’ll take it here ... Sweetheart?  ... No.  Tell them if they don’t have someone out immediately, we will change service provider ... I don’t care about the hassle ... all right, I’ll sort it out, I’ll call them later ... The children’s lunches?  Avril has wholemeal pitta, she’s on one of her faddy diets and Peter has the white bread sandwich.  I wish you’d remember these things  ... The washing machine’s still not working?  Right, buy a new one ... any make you like ... All right then, I’ll come with you ... love you too ...  Bye.  
“John, I’m presenting on Monday, please could you ensure the presentation is on my laptop.”
“Absolutely, with bells on.  They want a decision on Syria.”
“Delay them.  I’m going out in three hours.  I’ll have a decision when I get back.”
“Absolutely.”

At lunch break I find myself in that familiar bare tidy room of that anonymous suburban house, lying on my stomach being fucked.  Will is very good at his job, an absolute professional.  He knows I don’t want to talk when I come in; I just want to be thrown on the bed, stripped and seen to, precisely what he’s doing.  Halfway through he’ll mutter ‘OK?’ just to check I’m all right and I’ll say rather impatiently ‘Yes!  Yes!’

If John says ‘Absolutely, with bells on’ one more time I swear I’ll fire him.

Will is rather good with his hands ... I can feel the tension being squeezed right out of me.  I’m going to cum and it won’t be the first time this afternoon either.  Will usually gets me off twice.

“OK?”
“Yes!  Yes!  Shut up!  I’m going to cum!”
Ahh, so much better!  Now I’m being beaten with some kind of paddle.  It really hurts, really fucking hurts.  Oh yeah!

Maybe I won’t fire John ...

It’s over, it’s done, Will is untying my hands, gently now, stroking my sore skin, soothing me.  I take a deep breath.  Then he kisses the back of my neck, he’s never done that before ...

“Are you coming next week?” he asks as I dress.
“’Fraid not.  Out of the country.  Tell you what, I’ll pay you for then anyway, I know times are tough.”
“It’s not that, I’ll miss you,” he stares at me with wide, sincere eyes.

Another avenue of pleasure closed.  There can be no more Will.  From now on, it’s only going to be Whitehall and its corridors of decision, power and stress.  Then home, the chaos of the children and choosing new washing machine, because my partner is incapable of making the simplest decisions ...

So fucking irritating!  Will, getting unprofessional  like that ... If John doesn’t have that report ready, I am fucking firing him.

STRAWBERRY CREAMS FOREVER

Sex was what Steve was wired for.  It wasn’t fun if he wasn’t confident, so he avoided sweets and junk food.  However, the sight of a sexy woman lured him into the Candy Shop at closing time.  Katie was voluptuous, with long brown hair and striking violet eyes.  She smiled as if she wanted to play too.
“What would you recommend?” Steve asked casually.
“Did you really come in here for chocolate?”

Once they were naked in the back room, she poured wine over his erection.

“Pleasure’s about taste and sensation,” she breathed and gave him the best head he’d ever had.
“Stop,” Steve gasped, “I don’ wanna cum yet!”
He fucked Katie on the floor, feeling her wet tightness.  At the moment of no-return, she put something in his mouth; the taste was exquisite, Belgian chocolate melting, the heavenly burst of strawberry and champagne like fizz.  As he orgasmed with that wonderful flavour, the neuro-networks in his brain changed and fused.
“There,” she said, “strawberry creams forever.”
He bought a packet and went home.

Steve couldn’t look keen, but as he sucked on strawberry creams and thought of Katie, he became uncontrollably horny.  He returned within two days, having eaten them all.  An older, austere woman was behind the desk.  As she informed him that Katie was away for three weeks, a middle aged man picked up three bags of strawberry creams, paid and left.  She didn’t react and said nothing when Steve bought a packet that day, the next and the next.

That first week, Steve couldn’t stop eating strawberry creams, thinking of Katie and masturbating.  The second, he tried to give them up and took a girlfriend home, but ordinary sex wasn’t good enough; it had to be Katie, there had to be strawberry creams.  He couldn’t get hard.  He rushed to the Candy Shop and bought four packets.  That middle aged man was there and Steve wondered if Katie had fucked him too.  Imagining that, when he was back in his bedroom and sucking on a strawberry cream, only excited him more.  Steve stayed in, neglecting his fitness/nutrition regime and social life.  By week three, he was late for work, not washing his clothes and neglecting to shower.  He ate strawberry creams and thought of Katie in the toilets, during meetings, behind his desk ...  He couldn’t fit into his sharp suits anymore ... 

One Saturday, he rushed back to the Candy Shop and there she was!  He loitered until the shop was empty, then hurried in; “You’re back!”

Katie stared at the unkempt, overweight, smelly guy.  He reminded her of that middle aged man, who came in every day and gave her the creeps; “What can I get you?”
“You know what!” he lunged behind the counter, grabbing her waist and pushing his mouth against hers.
She pressed the panic button and managed to fend him off with the threat of a pair of scissors used for cutting gift wrap.
“Please don’t do this!” he begged as the Police dragged him away, “I need you!  Please!  Just once more in the back room with the strawberry creams!  Katie!  Katie!”
Only then did she remember who he was.

THE MIRROR'S SUICIDE

The mirror had been lovingly crafted by Tibetan monks who lived lives of purity, moderation, health and humility.  They liked to think wherever their work went, these values would be reflected.

The mirror found itself in a student bathroom reflecting Manky Franky wanking into the toilet.  After Laurence the Landlord would press his face to the mirror and squeeze his unruly zits until they erupted, then he’d wash his smug face, knowing he was ready to meet his mistress.  Helen his frumpy wife would simultaneously sit on the toilet, pushing out a number two while smoking a fag.  Later, Pervy Peter would slither in for his turn; he’d move aside the picture he’d hung up and check the hole he’d drilled so he could see into Laurence’s bedroom was unblocked, then he’d scrape the dry skin off his feet with a pumice stone.  Last into the bathroom was Lovely Lisa.  The mirror was reassured by the way she sprayed air freshener around and cleaned up.  There was something of the monastery about her – purity and humility.

When Helen was at work, Laurence’s mistress Marlene would arrive and Peter would come straight to the bathroom and stand, eye pressed against the hole in the wall, watching Laurence beating Marlene’s bare backside with a paddle.  “Classic,” he’d whisper, while pleasuring himself.

At the end of one of these vile days was a party.  Laurence smugly checked out his reflection – wife and mistress both present at same event.  Lovely Lisa conscientiously cleaned the bathroom in preparation, dusting the mirror reverently.

Purity, moderation, health and humility didn’t make an appearance.  Instead there was excess, Manky Franky got drunk and vomited round the toilet.  Then drugs, Helen sat on the loo smoking crack.  Her husband knocking on the door roused her, she staggered and slipped, falling heavily, passing out, face in the remnants of Franky’s puke, pants round her ankles.

“Do you think she’ll notice?” Marlene asked as she and Laurence opened the door and saw her prone frame.
“No, let’s go!” cried Laurence, pushing Marlene into the bedroom for debauchery.

Peter slithered into the bathroom, stepping over Helen’s body and pressing his eye to the peephole.

“Peter!  What are you doing!” Purity had arrived, the Lovely Lisa.

“Look!” Peter ushered her to the hole in the wall.

She peered through it gasping; “Oh my!  I didn’t know you could ...”

Peter put his hand up Lisa’s skirt; “I can show you so much more, my dear.”

She turned to him; “Oh, Peter, you mustn’t, my boyfriend’s downstairs ...”, but she let him slide his thick tongue down her throat.  At their feet Helen stirred and moaned.

“She won’t wake up!  Don’t worry!” Peter flung Lisa against the wall, pushing up her skirt and unzipping.  The two began to fuck passionately against the tiles.

Lovely Lisa being defiled by that sleaze was too much for the mirror to bear.  Illusions broken, it longed for the monastery.  They all eventually went to bed, but the mirror knew it faced another morning of Manky Franky and the rest.  It couldn’t do this anymore.  Gradually it wriggled until it was at the edge of its fastenings, then it leapt from the wall and shattered with a deafening crash.  Seven years’ bad luck to them all and a curse upon their house of iniquity!

THE FUCK BUDDY

He didn’t do relationships, they were messy; people got hurt, he explained to Maria in the bar and she nodded in agreement.  Fuck buddies were better.  Somehow he got side-tracked by his reflection in her eyes and they ended up in bed.  Maria was an excellent fuck buddy, she complimented him on the music he wrote, laughed at his jokes and told him he was intelligent.  So he saw her again and again.  She never nagged about his drinking, she encouraged it and as he worked from home he could get away with a lot.  He and his mates would always wind up in the same bar as her and hers.  Eventually, it became a mixed group so his friends started inviting their girlfriends along.
One afternoon after sex, they went into town and accidentally met her parents, who turned out to know his parents through the Rotary club.  The next Sunday they all went out for a family lunch together, her smug sister and harrassed looking brother-in-law came too.  Maria whispered to him; “At least we won’t end up like my sister and Paul.”
Maria became Omnipresent; as well as the drawer of stuff she had already, more and more of her things started to appear in his flat.  His guitar collection disappeared into storage to make room for potted plants and Disney DVD’s.  He went out without her like old times, but the lads brought their girlfriends and he felt left out, Max even got engaged, he never thought Max would marry.  One night, Maria was waiting for him when he got back, didn’t she have a home to go to?  She’d made him a bacon sandwich; “You need your strength.  It’s Ikea tomorrow for shelves for our second bedroom.”
“Our second bedroom?”
She gave him a confused look; “I did move in two months ago, daftie!  Remember, I sold my flat.  Have another whisky.”
Time passed in a blur – Ikea, work, sex, nights in by the telly, takeaways, routine sex, Max’s wedding in Las Vegas of all places, parents’ wedding anniversary, too tired for routine sex but doing it anyway  ... A cat appeared in the flat, it’s name was Gotye after the musician, but Maria pronounced the name Got Ya.  The endless family social events were easier if he had a whisky in his hand.
It was at the birthday party of Paul, Maria’s brother-in-law that he suddenly had a horrible moment of clarity.  Couples were everywhere, the women talking babies and the men with same harrassed look on their faces that he’d seen in the mirror that morning.  He looked across at Maria, her figure was sagging, she was tucking into a large plate of buffet food.  He knew it was time to leave, saw the exit and headed for it.
Paul stepped into his path, whisky in hand; “Can’t go out that way mate, you’ll set off an alarm.  Your wife’s got an appetite, hasn’t she?  Eating for two eh?”
“Hang on!  Did you say my wife?”
Paul looked puzzled; “You married her weeks ago, doubled up with Max and Suze at Vegas, you were well drunk,” he showed him the pictures on his smartphone, Max and Suze, Maria in a white dress and him in a suit looking harrassed.
“I don’t remember ...”
“There you are love,” Maria put a glass of whisky in his hand, “drink it, all in one go, you’ll feel better.”
He could have sworn that, from the corner of his eye, he’d seen her put something in it.

WHAT HE WISHED FOR

Gerry St John Smyth was fed up of his wife.  He’d told her he needed adventure and passion, but she acted like he was part of the furniture.  It wasn’t as if Elizabeth wouldn’t have sex, but it was always in the missionary position and – well – there were things Gerry wanted to try while he still could.

There was a possibility, Carmen and Louisa were two ladies who volunteered at the same National Trust premises Elizabeth and Gerry did.  They shared Gerry’s love of history and often went with him for drinks, while Elizabeth went home to make dinner.  Gerry hoped his wife didn’t know, but he had such thoughts about Carmen and Louisa.   ‘We do everything together’, they frequently told him – apparently they met up with men on the internet and got up to all sorts ...

“I would love to do the things you do,” Gerry stated one evening, “I’ve asked her again and again, but Elizabeth won’t, you know.”
“What won’t she?” Carmen asked.
“Well, er, she won’t do ...”
“Blow jobs?” Louisa enquired
“Anal?” pressed Carmen.
“We love giving blow jobs and a bit of anal,” Louisa stated, “don’t we Carmen?”
Gerry had problems walking across the bar to get the next round in, he was about to order drinks, when Carmen came up behind him, wrapped her arms around his ample waist and suggested hiring the room upstairs for a few hours - they’d be terribly discreet. 
Gerry thought it was the chance of a life time, sex with two liberated younger women and his wife would never find out.
Upstairs in the unfurnished room he wondered how to start, would one be offended if he kissed the other first?  He needn’t have worried; Carmen pushed him down on the floor and tore off his shoes, while Louisa set about stripping off his shirt.
“Whoa!   Ladies!  Steady on!” he cried, but before he knew it, he was naked on his front and Carmen was walking across his back in her stilletos, while Louisa sounded like she was rumaging in a bag; “Found it!” she called triumphantly.
“Found what?  Carmen, your heels,” moaned Gerry, the metal caps were digging into his flesh.
Then he felt something lashing his buttocks, Louisa was whipping him!
“Gerry, turn over!” Carmen ordered after a while, stepping off.  He obeyed nervously, at least Louisa had stopped beating him.  Carmen put his half flaccid penis in her mouth and sucked very hard.
“Ow!” he yelled, “can’t you be gentle?”
“I’m too overcome with passion!” purred Carmen, her red finger nails digging into his balls.
Out of the corner of his eye, Gerry saw Louisa holding a large black vibrator in her hands; “Are you ready for your anal?” she asked him.  He pushed Carmen off him rather abruptly, leapt to his feet and grabbed his trousers, he almost ran to the door, putting them on as he went, red faced and flustered.  “You two ought to be ashamed of yourselves!” he cried, putting on his shoes and picking up his shirt and jacket.
Louisa and Carmen regarded him in disappointment; “But Gerry, we thought you wanted adventure and passion,” Louisa said sadly.
At home he sank into bed next to Elizabeth in relief.  He held her for a long time; “I love you, old girl,” he said.
“I love you too, Gerry,” replied Elizabeth happily.  When he’d fallen asleep, she reached over and took her mobile phone from the bedside table, there was a text waiting for her; “Did it work?  Carmen xxx”
“I believe so!  I do hope you did all I told you to.  Looking forward to lunch tomorrow.  Elizabeth xxx”.

LIGHTS OFF

I stand on the flat roof of the empty tenement and sniff, the bleak November air is rain heavy.  I can squander the water.  The light is dying, I must hurry.  I carry the collection of large saucepans, tupperware tubs and plastic containers downstairs in several journeys.  Then I light a fire in my flat for warmth, I am freezing under layers of clothes, but fire fuel is hard to find and I’m not particularly good at igniting them from scratch.  I boil the potatoes I stole from the nearest Society commune.

I’ve survived here for eleven months since Lights Off day.  The people in the Societies say it was an electromagnetic pulse that fried everything, all the circuits, all the little chips.  Well whatever, there’s no more electricity which means no gas, no digital or analogue systems, nothing.  It’s dangerous for me to stay alone, but I don’t want to go and live in a Society - it’s funny how things revert once technology is lost, all remnants of civilisation slip away.  Men are the physically stronger so they rule and we’re a commodity.  Even though so many have died in childbirth, the urge to keep breeding continues.

I eat, the room is warm, I strip and wash myself with freezing water, the fire is slowly dying; I’ve no fuel to light another one, so I dress quickly.  I sing as I return the water containers to the roof - a popular tune from before, when there was music, office jobs, Friday nights out with the girls ...

Later I hear noise downstairs.  Someone is in my building.  I manage to get up before the door is kicked in.  From the last ember light I make out the silhouette of a man; “You have food?”

“I have nothing,” I answer.
He comes in anyway, closing and barricading the door with my furniture.  It’s completely dark now, I can hear him breathing.  “I heard you singing before,” he said, “I used to like that song.”  His hands find me in the dark, as I try to hide against the wall.  He presses his body against me, “I’ve been lonely; will you help with that?”
I feel his lips on mine and take in the scent of him, his tongue slides into my mouth.  I don’t protest, he asked for consent (I think), that’s unusual, he might be all right.  He’s tall and his body is lean, bones against my bones.  I run my hands through his thick hair and hear him moan softly as he senses my compliance.  The desire grips me then, desperation for some fierce taste of joy in these dark nights of nothing.  I lead him through the blackness to my bed, laughing a little when we stumble over stuff.  “I’ve been alone too,” I say as we lay down, him over me.  I buck my hips against his, feeling his desire for ... well, a woman, he hasn’t seen me nor I, him.

Afterwards we lay together, his arms are round me and I can hear the rain against the window, upstairs the supply of water will be replenished.  We'll drink tomorrow then and perhaps find fuel and food together.  I hope he’ll stay.  I await dawn and the weak light of the winter sun which will show me the face of my new lover.

A WINTER'S PARTY

I met you at some random party.  It was so warm inside, loads of people, all crushed up together.  Alcohol, food and talk, talk, talk, much of it boring.  I guess if you go to enough of these doos you hear the same conversations over and over again and they all morph into one.  Money, mortgages, property prices; the things that stick us to our commitments until we’re paralysed.

I was happy enough until you touched me.  I can’t remember when or how, but I looked into your face and that was it.  I saw amongst that talk of work and wealth, the freedom of winter - you changed the season in my soul.

“Come and play in the snow,” you said or maybe I did.

We left the warmth of the house and crossed the road, just the two of us.  The black ice made the going treacherous; I had to hold onto your arm.  The Church was opposite us, you kissed me under the lych gate.  I glanced back at the house, afraid my husband had come out to look for me, but he was still inside, no doubt he was engrossed in discussing his pension plan.

The cold was bitter, it was snowing in the graveyard, the flakes made a shroud that concealed us as we made love on a tombstone.  I was scared to look at the name on it, in case it was mine.