Northern lights and sleepless nights

Join The Army And See...

2009-12-02T00:33:00.012+01:00

The Norwegian armed forces still have conscription and all 18 year-old males are required to attend compulsory conscription boards. Females are also invited to sign up for a period of military training.

Clearly, the Army has felt the need to make itself more appealing to the nation’s teenagers and has resorted to some pretty bizarre tactics recently, ahead of the first round of conscription boards in January.

They have set up a spoof Facebook lookalike called ‘Futurebook’ and sent login codes to all 60,000 Norwegian youngsters born in 1992. Yesterday, these pictures appeared on teenager’s walls all over the country: (Click the pictures to enlarge)

...and potential female recruits aren't forgotten either...

Army Chief Of Staff Per-Ivar Normann is quoted as saying that the pictures illustrate the sort of things that can happen during a military exercise. For example, he continued, soldiers may have to strip off if they need to cross a body of water.

Well colour me stupid if you like but I’ve never seen pictures of US Marines on the shores of Iwo Jima, giving themselves a good towelling down after a bracing swim from the landing craft. I don’t think there was too much nude bathing going on at the Normandy beaches on D-day either.

Personally, if I needed to paddle around in Stavanger Fjord I would do it with my kit on, thank you very much. And if you have ever been to the Norwegian forests you’ll know that they have midges the size of Lancaster Bombers there that descend in a black cloud on any exposed flesh.

Funny lot, the Norwegians.

p.s. The caption to the first picture reads 'Friend or foe?' to which the comments include 'Unsure which country that uniform is from' and 'I've seen that uniform before in Spain'

e[lust] #2

2009-12-02T00:26:00.002+01:00

Welcome to e[lust] - your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you're looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you're going to find it here. Want to be included in the next edition? Start with the rules, check out the schedule in the site's sidebar and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

♦ This Week's Top Three Posts ♦
The Heart of Darkness - "I swear that man can sense my fear like a hound scenting a rabbit, and just like the hound, his blood rises to it."

Forever... - "Forever is a beautiful idea, a wonderful goal, but it’s not a magic spell."

His First Fuck - "He stood there, obviously nervous, obviously aroused by what he had been witness to seconds earlier."

◊ e[lust] Editress ◊
I Dare You - "Aided by our clutches of printed papers, me hiding my nipples that could cut glass and him hiding the hard bulge in his dress pants, we scurried back to our cubes where the messages flew back and forth."

♦ Featured Post ♦
Who am I? - "I’ve been through a lot of shit in my life and couldn’t fit it all on one piece of poster board."

See also: Pleasurists #55 for all your sex toy review needs

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

♦ Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships ♦
First. Confession #380
In Defense of Squirting
Forever...Gender, Buck Angel, and Me
G Spot Orgasms: It's all about the clitoris
Spitroast
They May be Bi, But They're Still Boys
Why I Sometimes Fake Orgasms
Wonderland: The British in Bed

♦ Kink & Fetish ♦
The Workout (fiction)
I Am Not Clark Kent
Caning
Lips Parted
Curve
She brought her own toys
Rope Bondage: Hemp vs. Mfp
Phew! Another Hole
Hearts
My virginity and how I lost it..
Gift
Spicing it up: Bondage Materials

♦ Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor ♦
20 Questions with Cyd
This Ain't No Disney
A Thank You Note
Vegas Virgins
Sex and Happiness

♦ Erotic Writing ♦
1 Full Body Massage / 1 Happy Ending
The Slut Chronicles #7 ~ I Said No
To Do List
the date
And Your Hands and Your Lips and Your Tongue Tricks
Oh Fuuuck
I Get Around
Sometimes, Love Hurts
In The Dark
Making Up
Quickie - A Good Girl
What I Want You To Do To Me
Hitachi Fun
Her Curves
Carnal
marks she left
Wicked Wednesday: I Love Watching You Watching Me
Birthday Boy
Fucking & Making Love
Thy Mother and Thy Father: A Vodoun Love Spell
What Just Happened?
Happy Birthday Me
What Cums Around

Party Time

2009-11-30T21:58:00.005+01:00

Saturday, and we were lucky enough to secure two of the hottest tickets in town, namely the Football Club Annual Christmas ~~Piss-Up~~ Dinner And Dance. The fact that this is the social event of the year in our little town is rather a sad reflection on the social life of the town, but never mind. Nearly 700 tickets were sold, and that represents about 20% of the population. It follows that we bumped into a few people that we knew. Quite literally so on the dance floor. It is so popular that tickets are already on sale for next year’s event

We started early. People tend to book the tickets en bloc and reserve a table for family and friends and we were in with the group organised by Dot, who works for us. We met at her place at five for drinks before being ferried to the sports hall where it was taking place for more drinks. We saw the first casualty being carried off drunk and incapable just 20 minutes after the doors opened, which must be some sort of a record. One of the other girls who works for us didn’t last to the end of the meal before being taken home, which was a shame because the food was superb. Four big tables where people could just go up and help themselves. Pickled herrings, puff pastry cases filled with chicken and asparagus, smoked salmon, Scandinavian meatballs, glazed ham, tender rare fillet of beef, caramel potatoes, creamed potatoes, creamed white cabbage with cinnamon and sugar sprinkled on top, and to finish off, the traditional Christmas dessert of creamed rice with almonds, topped with hot cherry sauce.

After that lot was cleared away there was dancing to a live band and the two bars did a brisk trade until we all got kicked out at 2am. That’s nine hours of solid drinking. Daughter had gone to a gig at the University Students Union in The City and we had told her that if she missed the night bus home then not to bother to ring us to be fetched because it wasn’t going to happen. She would just have to crash down with her brother or something. I think we judged things just right because as we walked carefully home Heather was just ever so slightly silly drunk and I wasn’t so far gone as to be incapable.

My first instinct, when we got home, was to throw her down on the bed and pull aside any obstructive clothing as best we could without wasting any time in undressing, but in deference to Heather’s party clothes and underwear, some of which was bought for the occasion, I let her undress first. Excepth for the necklace. I love that neclace. I love seeing her naked except for that necklace. It has a raw, spiky, BDSM feel to it.

She smelt of gin and of slightly fading perfume as she wrapped her legs round my middle and I planted my mouth on hers. Her nipples were plump and full under my fingers and her cunt was smooth, wet and inviting as I slid inside her.

It was I who came first, after a good half hour of gentle fucking, which finished with me stroking into her doggy-style and with a thumb just pressing into her arse, whispering ”Tomorrow morning I’ll fuck you in there”.

And the next morning, when we woke around eleven with her still in my arms, that's exactly what I did.

Baby Steps And Giant Leaps

2009-11-29T22:46:00.002+01:00

”Will you tie me up? ” she asked in a tiny, quiet voice.

”Stretch me out, but please don’t hurt me”

Until that moment she had been lavishing her attention upon me, alternating between sucking my nipples and my cock and running her fingers through my chest hair while I simply lay back and enjoyed it.

This was something of a breakthrough. I had been taking things very cautiously since an unfortunate incident a few weeks ago when, through my own over-enthusiasm and thoughtlessness, I managed to hurt Heather. I mean really hurt her.

On that occasion I was in too much of a hurry to get her buckled up and stretched out on the hooks in the bedroom doorway, too eager to start smacking and whipping her that I neglected to make sure that she was properly warmed up first: Thus she was tense and anxious and was not enjoying it at all. But she took it all without complaining.

She was in tears when I finally unhooked her and threw her down on the bed, to re-clip her ankle and wrist cuffs to each other, but they were tears of rage and frustration that the pain I had inflicted on her was not being channelled into giving her pleasure. She was on all fours on the bed and I burrowed my thumb into her cunt, pumping away too hard, too impatiently. As her bottom reared up I gave it a slap and that caused her to writhe against her leather straps and my thumbnail to gouge into her. I froze, then slowly withrew my hand, hoping that the harm was not too great. The nail was not particularly long or rough, but there was blood on my hand and, for the first time ever, Heather used our safe word. I unbuckled her as gently as I could and she buried her face in the pillow and sobbed uncontrollably for a good ten minutes. Not so much from the hurt, I believe, but from the fact that she had trusted me with her safety and I had let her down.

That trust has taken a little time to rebuild. She was sore for a couple of days and that was hard, being a physical reminder of the events of that night, but we took tentative baby steps, with lots of cuddles and letting her set the pace. Her asking me to tie her up again was a giant leap of faith on her part that I had been expecting to wait months for her to take. Of course I was happy to oblige. On went the leather cuffs once more, along with a leather quarter-cup bustier with a halter-neck and loops of chains hanging down over her breasts. She even looked out her high-heeled fuck-me shoes. I led her to the doorway and clipped her wrists to the chain which hangs overhead, between two hooks, then gently spread her legs and clipped the spreader bar to her ankles.

”Don’t hurt me” She repeated.

I ran my hands over every inch of her body, caressed her bottom, smoothed my palms across her stomach, cupped her face and kissed her long and deep. I stood behind her and clasped her hips. The heels had made her just the right height and my cock slipped easily into her soaking wet and slippery cunt. She bent at the knees, letting her arms take her weight as she pushed back on me, in time with my rythmic strokes. Then I came round in front of her and took her from the front as well until we were both exhausted.

I unhitched her and asked if she would kneel down in front of me. At any other time I would have commanded but I still felt I was on probation and not in a position to command anything. She knelt.

”Put your hands together, under your breasts. Like you were praying”. This was more like a command. My confidence was returning, as was her trust.

”Open your mouth and make a big ’O’”.

So she knelt there, as if in supplication, with her head back and waited impassively to receive my semen. When I had filled her mouth she awaited my instructions and I held my hand under her chin for her to spit into.

And the most wonderful thing is that she did it all without demur or complaint. Her way of telling me that that trust we have enjoyed between us for so long has been repaired.

HNT: More Pearls

2009-11-26T00:46:00.003+01:00

Happy HNT everybody! Don't forget to go and visit Os.

What Just Happened?

2009-11-25T00:16:00.007+01:00

I’m still trying to work out what we did differently that made Sunday night so special.

Sunday was a lazy sort of day. The rain kept us indoors, and we didn’t see much of Daughter because she had been out on the town the night before and was sleeping it off. At around about 10 pm I suggested that we take a really early night and enjoy a long, slow comfortable fuck. Heather readily agreed. The night before, with Daughter out for the evening, had been noisy and energetic so we needed something slower and less frenzied on which to wind down the weekend.

We started with massage: Heather gave me a good rub down, from my aching neck and shoulders, right down my back and legs with fern-scented oil. Then she lay down and I returned the compliment. Nothing if not predictable, I finished off by dribbling a stream of oil between her bum cheeks and massaging that in particularly well, before spreading her legs ever so slightly, laying on top of her and inching gently into her. Slow and relaxed. Long deep strokes. Changing position and changing again. Missionary; her legs up and folded in half; me standing while she knelt on the edge of the bed; the so-called 'Seventh Posture'. No hurry to get it over with and just come. Enjoying the closeness of our scented bodies and the way her moist cunt welcomed and enfolded me.

When I finally did come it was in the doggy position; Heather’s favourite. She caught the large glob of our combined juices that followed me out of her in a tissue but stayed on all fours as I tended to her needs; Head down in the pillow, bum jutting up into the air. A thumb slid easily into her so that it was gliding to and fro over her G-spot. The remaining fingers of that hand were lying along the length of her wet cleft with fingertips circling her clit. Still everything was taken at a slow and easy pace; I had learned my lesson not to rush things. As her body stiffened and her legs started to close over my hand I slipped a finger from the other hand into her arse, still slippery with the massage oil. Her breath started to come in gasps and I knew it wouldn’t be long…

And then, suddenly and unexpectedly, my hand was soaking wet and getting wetter. For one awful moment I thought that I had damaged something and I looked down half expecting to see blood. At that moment there was the muffled sound of a long drawn-out wailing cry from the depths of the pillow as Heathers body was hit by an intense orgasm. I slowly withdrew my hand after she had come back to earth a little, and was relieved to see no sign of blood, but my hand was soaked in a clear liquid which was also running copiously down the inside of her thighs. She quickly grabbed more tissues to try and mop up while I cupped my palm to try and contain what I had in my hand.

This has never happened to us before: Not in all the thirty years we have been together. I'm sure there are people out there nodding knowingly as if to say 'You mean to say you've never tried that before?' Of course we'd heard of female ejaculation and I've read a few instructional pieces on The Web as to how to bring it about but this was absolutely the first time it has happened, and we weren't even going after it. It's nice to know that even after all this time there are still new experiences to be discovered.

So what did we do that was different? The position was not new, in fact it’s one of our all-time favourites. The only thing I can think of is that, thanks to the massaging beforehand, and the fact that there was no pressure on to get a quick result, we were both very deeply relaxed. I’m sure that must be the key. Whatever it is, it was a intensely sensual experience and one which I’m sure we’re going to try and repeat.

In a relaxed sort of way.

Another Great Idea For A Post Bites The Dust

2009-11-23T17:46:00.001+01:00

I began writing the draft of a post last week, in fact I had almost finished it, but it needed sharpening up a bit and the ending was a bit unsatisfactory, so I parked it in my ’pending’ folder intending to give it another look this week.

It’s likely to stay there permanently now.

It described how, when I first met Heather, I was rather proud of the fact that I could give her orgasms every time, where some previous boyfriends had not been so attentive. She doesn’t come that easily.

It went on to bewail the growing sexual sophistication through the 1980’s which assumed at least one orgasm as a given (with which I, of course, wholly concur) but set out the multiple orgasm as the holy grail of male sexual prowess. Heather doesn’t do multiple. I mean, she just doesn’t. One big one is more than enough to leave her sated and exhausted.

I concluded with the observation that multiple orgasms seem almost to be taken for granted these days and that what we should be all aspiring towards now is the female ejaculation. I had written:

’In all the years of experimenting with different positions, different ways to get her off, then if there was a way that I could make that happen for her then I feel sure that I would already have found it…. I refuse to be guilted up because I can’t make my woman gush.’

Suffice it to say that, after last night’s long, slow, relaxing fuck, my views on the subject have had to be radically revised.

A Day Off

2009-11-20T10:23:00.001+01:00

I woke as the smell of coffee filled the room, took the steaming hot cup and sipped at it gratefully. Downstairs, daughter was busying herself getting ready for school. No such panic for us, we have a day off together.

I drifted back to sleep, duvet thrown to one side.

I woke again as her breasts gently brushed across my chest and face. Wordlessly, she straddled me and lowered herself onto my morning-hard cock as I submerged my face between her generous breasts.

Ten minutes later, she had gone downstairs to shower and I had drifted off to sleep just one more time…

HNT: Pearl Necklace

2009-11-18T23:51:00.004+01:00

Every woman should be given a pearl necklace...or several

I saw this picture in a jewellery catalogue recently. Roll over with the mouse and see Heather's very own pearl necklace

Happy HNT everybody! Please go and check out what else is happening over at Os's place

It's Not Just The Destination That Matters...

2009-11-17T18:56:00.008+01:00

It’s also the journey.

You’d think I’d have learned that simple truth by now, but every so often I need reminding.

Right from the time we first shared a bed, I have made it a point of honour – a part of my self-imposed sexual etiquette, if you like – to never leave Heather without her orgasm. I understood from her that some previous boyfriends had not been so attentive: Maybe that’s why she decided to hang on to me, apart from my boyish good looks, mischeivous grin and curly dark hair, that is.

Unfortunately, and I should know better, in my determination to give Heather her orgasm every single time – to do the ’right thing’ by her – I can sometimes lose sight of the fun there is to be had along the way. For both of us. The single-minded rubbing of her clit with the sole intent of making her come risks being pointless as an end in itself, with the resulting orgasm empty and unfulfilling. 30-F-London described it perfectly as being ’…determined to make me come, not in a romantic sense (but) a technical one’. The other evening, for example, I just didn’t get it when Heather told me she’d just rather be held. It seemed to be an indictment of my technique, my prowess. Now I get it. It’s not always about the orgasm itself, it’s the getting there. It’s the intimacy and the sharing and the ultimate submission into trust that is the real turn-on. Without that, all that is left is the mechanical act of masturbation. We’ve both been rather stressed and I’m afraid that I have been tending to the mechanical of late.

Now, right now as I write this, I realise a truth. Heather doesn’t masturbate herself. She doesn’t use vibrators, although I occasionally use them on her. Why? Because what she needs from me is more than a motorised silicone phallus can deliver. It’s not about the orgasm per se. It’s about the closeness. When, the other night, she whispered that I didn’t need to make her come, just hold her close, I felt that I was cheating her of something because I’d had my fun and now it was her turn. I now realise that just being held really was all that she needed right there and then.

Heather will be the first to admit that she is not good at telling me what she wants, although she can be very emphatic about what she doesn’t want. I need to be more sensitive to the fact that what she really wants is more closeness, in preference to the slavish chasing after a sometimes elusive orgasm.

e[lust] #1

2009-11-17T18:01:00.001+01:00

Dr Magnanti, I Presume

2009-11-16T23:24:00.006+01:00

Until this weekend, Dr Brooke Magnanti was well-known only within her rather rareified spheres of developmental neurotoxicology and cancer epidemiology. Now it has been revealed in ‘The Sunday Times’ that she is also the person behind three bestselling books, a television series, occasional newspaper columns and, not least, the blog, ‘Belle de Jour, Diary of a London Call-Girl’. The best-kept secret identity in blogging has been made public. I wonder if India Knight would come and sit on my bed if I offered to reveal my identity?

I owe a special debt of gratitiude to Belle. Hers was the first blog of any description I ever read. It was she who introduced me both to the wider world of blogging, and to that wonderous subset that is the sex blog. It was her blogroll that was the springboard to the other blogs that I read regularly. It was Belle that gave me the inspiration to write a blog of my own blog.

We all form a picture in our mind’s eye of what the author of a given blog may be like in real life. While the various pundits debated whether Belle was a real person, truthfully recounting her actual experiences, or a middle-aged man living out his erotic fantasies, it was clear that Belle was an educated person. She herself mentioned in her blog that she was a university graduate, though I would have guessed in an arts subject rather than sciences. I’m glad that I had a ‘day job’ which I could fall back on when I was a postgraduate, because if I’d have had to rely on working as a male escort to support myself I think I would have starved. I must admit to being surprised on seeing the photographs that have been published of Dr. Magnanti. I had expected a raven-haired temptress, stunningly good-looking but also with a streak of hardness and cynicism. I couldn’t have been more wrong: She is blonde and there is no sign of the latter traits in the pictures I have seen. She tells the story of a young man at a railway station asking her straight out when the last time was that someone had told her she was gorgeous, to which she replied ‘about forty minutes ago’. I can well believe that. A pussy that makes men cry? I can believe that too.

To her belongs the rare distinction of having been publicly denounced by the Archbishop of York. I suppose it must be a consolation to know that he must have read at least some of her writings.

Brooke/Belle, you have entertained me at home, at work (naughty!), in airports, in the bath (rather a lot in the bath, actually) and while waiting for the car to be MOT’d. I love your wit, your candour, your insight and I especially like it when you talk dirty. Thank you.

Friday Fun

2009-11-13T00:07:00.006+01:00

You'll never look at soap dispensers in the same way again...

Now wash your hands.

(It's a funny old world, innit? If I had sent that to one of our female employees, she would have had good grounds to complain of sexual harrassment. As it is, it is one of our female employees who sent it to me!)

Just What I Needed: A Bloody Good...Duck

2009-11-11T17:13:00.003+01:00

Heather knows how to put me right. It's still drizzling, in fact it hasn't stopped drizzling for the last four days, but I have a bit more of a spring in my step today.

”How about I put my arse up in the air, and you give me a fuck?” she asked as we were getting changed after work yesterday.

I was standing in the bedroom in just my underpants and socks, and it would have been the work of an instant just to whip them off. Daughter was out for the next couple of hours at a concert, so we would be undisturbed.

My underpants had reached my ankles when boring old common sense kicked in.

”Or maybe we’d better get started on supper, or it’s going to be late by the time we eat” .

I was forced to agree with her. Any other night and there would have been no question about it. A long, leisurely fuck and then get some pizzas out of the freezer, but last night was ’Mortensaften’, the eve of the feast of St. Martin and on Mortensaften you eat duck. Everybody eats duck. The entire population eats duck on Mortensaften.

And what a meal it was. Roast duck with roast potatoes, sweet red cabbage, leeks, carrots, stewed apple and thick brown gravy. Afterwards we had cold rice pudding with cherry sauce, so the whole meal is a scaled-down version of the traditional Christmas dinner over here. A sort of practice run.

We had invited Son and his fiancée to eat with us, but they had already accepted an invitation to eat duck with her parents, so it was just us three sharing the feast and a rather good bottle of Merlot. It still seems rather odd seeing our daughter drinking, but she is 18 now.

Fortuntely, the pleasure we had denied ourselves earlier on in the evening was merely a pleasure deferred. Daughter retired to her room in reasonable time and it was still relatively early when we went upstairs and enjoyed something that rhymes with duck…

November

2009-11-10T14:34:00.003+01:00

In ’The Waste Land’, T. S. Eliot famously describes April as the cruellest month. November must come in a close second. The flame coloured leaves that decorated the trees a few weeks ago now choke the gutters and form a treacherous slimy mulch underfoot as, shoulders shrugged against the rain and the biting wind which slices through you without a second thought, you hurry home.

But then, unlike the voice in Eliot’s epic poem, I don’t have the option of going south for the winter.

November imbues me with an empty melancholy. Always has done. In the archives of my mind is the text of a somg I started writing twenty years ago and which will never be sung. It is entitled simply ’November’ and is full of loss and emptiness, destruction and despair. Of a love that will never be and of a world falling apart, or going mad. Every November I add a little bit to that song.

We are on our way towards darker times. Night lasts from about 4pm to 8am at these latitudes. This is the price we pay for endless summer evenings. As I sat down at the keyboard I felt as if I should try to write something light and uplifting to counter the deadening ennui of another dark November day, but I simply don’t have it in me at the moment.

Sorry.

Bad Taste?

2009-11-03T10:44:00.003+01:00

And Lo, it came to pass. Not so very long after having published my latest flight of fantasy, and printed it out, I handed it to Heather to read just as we were getting into bed one evening. She grumbled that if she was going to read it she would have to go and get her glasses (not really a sign of age-she’s always been longsighted) so I offered to read it for her.

When I had finished, all she would say was “You’d bloody well better make sure you have that Gin and Tonic ready for me afterwards. Or several”. But we did have a damned good fuck that night on the strength of it.

A couple of weekends ago we were tucked up in bed on a Saturday afternoon after our morning’s work in the shop (Scandinavia traditionally closes down at 12.00 on Saturday until Monday morning) and I leaned across to Heather and said “What about it?” She gave a resigned sigh (after all it wouldn’t do for her to appear too keen) but she got out of bed readily enough and offered her wrists, neck and ankles to be enclosed in leather before kneeling down on the bedroom carpet.

And then I acted out my fantasy to the letter: She clasped her cuffed hands in front of her as if in prayer, her lips described a perfect O as I emptied my load of semen slowly and deliberately into her mouth. She was my passive receptacle and, for this moment, my obedient slave. I instructed her to hold my spunk in her mouth, although her every reflex was telling her to spit it out. Then I wanted her to dribble it slowly down her chin until it dripped over her breasts, but she expelled it rather too hastily for my satisfaction so we’re just going to have to work on that.

As to the flogging I had promised her as her reward, it somehow didn’t seem right at the time, so we left it. I trotted downstairs to mix her G and T, heavy on the G with lots of ice and more than a dash of lime. Just how she likes it. She’s clearly got more sophisticated with age; when we first met she would be mine for a digestive biscuit or two, now I have to ply her with gin. I suppose that’s inflation for you. I poured myself a large Lagavulin 10 year-old single malt.

“If there’s one of these in it, you can do that again” she smiled as we sat up in bed, sipping our respective drinks. You didn’t taste nearly as bad as I was afraid you might”

I closed my eyes as I let the mellow whisky work its magic on my tongue.

“We’re definitely going to have to have drinkies in bed like this again” I said “It’s so delightfully decadent”.

“What’s more” I added after a moments reflection “It’s the most fun I’m ever going to have in bed with a ten year-old.”

And then she hit me.

Happy Birthday..

2009-11-01T14:55:00.004+01:00

In much the same way as she did seven weeks ago, Heather asked me last night if I remembered what we were doing exactly eighteen years ago. Of course I did, and the answer was much the same as last time she asked. She was again heavily pregnant and again we were gently denting the baby's head.

During the second pregnancy the sex seemed even better and I was not as inhibited as I was first time about 'stealing milk from our child'. There was plenty for everybody, but that is possibly a subject for another post.

At 3 am she had woken with contractions, half an hour later our childminder's husband turned up to whip Son away and by 9 am it was all over. Again, like our son, Daughter showed great consideration as regards the timing of her arrival. I had booked that day off work months in advance as I had a dental appointment. As it was I was able to get home, phone everybody who needed phoning and still keep the appointment before getting back for afternoon visiting.

18 years on, and our little girl is everything we would wish her to be: Vivacious, warm-hearted, generous, adventurous, strong-willed and talented. For the second weekend in a row she has been at her college both days, rehearsing for the musical which opens on Wednesday. As soon as they packed up yesterday she was off into town with her girlfriends for an evening of bowling, clubbing and a fair bit of drinking. She got back at 2.30am, was up again at 8 for breakfast and presents, then out to rehearsal at 9.

Tonight, as soon as she's finished, we're all off to a restaurant in town to celebrate her birthday. She certainly lives at full-throttle.

I wish I had her energy. I wish I was 18 again.

The Kink That Dare Not Speak Its Name

2009-10-30T01:08:00.002+01:00

”I’ve been thinking…” I began, as we snuggled up close the other night.

This is my cue to let Heather know what I’d like us to do together, to expound on my fantasies, test the waters to see how she reacts and, most of all, to get her wet. I can usually tell if what I have in mind appeals to her by how hard she grips my cock as she listens.

And, as I kissed her all over her face I whispered what it is that I have been thinking about for a good long time, on and off.

The wanking stopped. She was appalled.

For about a microsecond.

Then she made as if she were appalled, but her grip on my cock and the shiver that ran through her body gave her away. She was excited despite herself.

”You can’t ever write about this” was all she said. I understood. I, too, had thought about this and how it would be a difficult thing to write about, how people might not understand.

But as I detailed what I had planned she became more and more excited and on the strength of those expressed thoughts alone we had a glorious fuck.

I don’t know why what I have in mind is so hard to talk about, but it took me months to bring the subject up with Heather, let alone anybody else, and even then I really didn’t know how she was going to react.

Don’t worry, it’s nothing messy and it doesn’t involve children, animals or dead people.

It has to do with restraint, sensory deprivation and simulated breath control but that’s all I can say.

It’s just got to remain our secret.

What's In Store

2009-10-28T10:30:00.003+01:00

Recent research at the Loma Linda University Medical Center in California, presented at the American Society Of Plastic Surgeons’ conference in Seattle at the weekend, shows that daughters really do turn into their mothers, at least in terms of the patterns of ageing changes in the face, according to this article. The team used 3-D imaging and computer modeling techniques to compare mother-daughter pairs in an age-range of 15 to 90 years and found that daughters tend to follow the same patterns of ageing as their mothers.

So if I really want to know how my beloved will look when she’s 75, I have only to look at my mother in law. Actually, that’s not such a scary prospect. She looks very good for her age and on the occasions when we have turned up unexpectedly at my in-laws’ summerhouse to find her sunbathing round the back….

Actually, I think I’d better stop there before this starts sounding too pervy. Suffice it to say that I don’t think I’ll have any problem jumping into bed with my beloved when she’s 75. Whether she'll feel the same way about me is another matter!

Dressing Gowns And Guilty Grins

2009-10-27T14:15:00.006+01:00

”Feed me, Mummy”

I laid my head in her lap and she leaned forward, hand under her ample breast, guiding it towards my open mouth. I latched on to the nipple and suckled while she stroked my face with one hand and wanked my cock with the other.

I closed my eyes blissfully. In a bedroom lit only by fading light of a dull October afternoon, through curtained windows, I relaxed in her warmth.

She leaned forward more, pressing her heavy breast against my lips, while sliding her hand almost imperceptibly down my face until she was able to pinch my nostrils and I was suddenly unable to breathe. I became harder still and she responded by wanking me faster.

She relented and let me draw breath. A little too soon, I thought. But my nostrils were clamped between her fingers again almost straight away. She was still wanking me; I was on the verge of coming, on the verge of throwing away that which I had planned to do that afternoon for one glorious splooge across my stomach. I held back.

She released me again. This time I managed to take a deep breath and then breathe deeply out before she pinched my nose once more. I bucked and writhed and she held me tight and wanked me all the harder.

At last she leaned back, releasing me. I knelt up behind her, my stiff cock stabbing her in the back. One hand slid slowly across her face and pinched her nostrils, the other clamped firmly over her mouth. It was her turn. I rested her head on my chest and kissed her hair as she started to struggle, then vocalise, then finally break free and take big gasps of air. She was flushed and breathless and wet.

Very wet.

I couldn’t wait any longer. I plunged into her wetness and fucked her every way I knew how: Frontways, backways, sideways. I fisted her while I licked her clit and chewed her newly-denuded cunt lips. I fucked her doggy-style and while she gasped and moaned I stuck a thumb up into her arse.

”You know what I really want” I breathed. Of course she did.

She rolled onto her back and spread her legs in a wide V up in the air, putting all her wares on display. There was a tense moment as I eased myself into that tight little passage, so I lay there quite still for a moment or two, then she spread her arms out wide, as if crucified, and hung on to the bars of the bed head while I grasped her shoulders, brushed my cheek against hers and gave her a good hard anal-missionary fuck, unrivalled in the feeling of closeness that it gives.

Heather can very nearly orgasm from such treatment. Almost but not quite. After having come myself I knelt up beside her and gave her the old three-pronged treatment: little finger in the arse, rest of the fingers tickling her g-spot, thumb over her clit. She lay there kneading and pinching her breasts as she got closer and closer and then, the finishing touch, my hand closing gently but firmly round her throat sent her shuddering over the edge..

It was quite dark by the time we were finished. We lay with limbs intertwined, feeding off each others’ warmth, breathing in the strange cocktail of scents that was the inevitable result of our exertions, oozing and dribbling various bodily fluids onto the already sweat-dampened sheet and not caring. Dozing a little, waking, then dozing some more until….

…Daughter returned home unexpectedly to find her parents emerging from the bedroom with hair in disarray and wearing dressing gowns and guilty grins in the middle of Saturday afternoon…

Psycho/Physio

2009-10-26T14:39:00.003+01:00

Having been at the hands of both just recently, I have realised a similarity between physiotherapists and psychotherapists: They are both skilled at finding the raw nerve, the tender spot, and pushing on it until it hurts, hurts almost to the limit of bearability. I was at the physio this morning for treatment and when I had finished I felt like I had been put through a wringer. Much the same feeling, indeed, as when I gingerly walked down the stairs from the psychotherapists office last week and blinked my tear-stained eyes in the sudden daylight.

As I heard someone say the other day: "When the therapy stops hurting, it's a sign that you have no further need of therapy"

Sloppy Seconds-For once

2009-10-25T12:40:00.001+01:00

Having our daughter home after what is effectively three years away has required some adjustments - from both sides. She has had to get into the daily routine of getting to college, doing homework and suchlike, we have had to get used to having another person in the house, buying extra every time we shop, for example. Also, we miss the 'Martini Sex'. We can't just tear the clothes off each other and fuck whenever and wherever the lust overtakes us. I sometimes wish we had made more use of that when we had the chance, but you never appreciate what you have until you no longer have it.

I have to say that the adaptation to the new routine has been relatively trouble-free. During the week she gets herself up in time for college, she makes her own packed lunches, when she gets home in the afternoon she takes herself off to her room and gets on with her homework without fuss.

And at weekends, she parties. She works hard during the week but from Friday through to Sunday she plays hard. She has also had the good sense to get herself a boyfriend who has the use of his mother's car. More often than not she is away one or more nights, leaving large tracts of the weekend free for our pleasure.

That's how it was a couple of Saturdays ago (I am shamefully behind with these chronicles). Daughter was sleeping over at a friend's house in town. When asked who else would be there, she replied. "Just five or six girls from school, plus Harry. He's from Sri Lanka",

Lucky Harry.

We finish work at 1pm on Saturdays but there is lunch to get and the weekend shopping to do, so it was considerably later when we were free to go upstairs. We undressed unceremoiously and Heather knelt on the bed, eyeing me playfully.

"Fuck me now" she demanded at she went on all fours and jutted her bum over the edge of the bed.

I did as I was told. I stood behind her, lifted one foot up onto the bed and eased myself into her. She was already adequately wet, but tight. Unused.

I took her firmly by the waist and banged away hard at her. It's not as if we were short of time; we had all afternoon-and all evening for that matter-to enjoy everything each others' bodies had to offer, but for the moment it was all about immediate gratifiation; Heather needed cock inside her, I craved the feel of her soft wet cunt, the smell of her juices, the sounds she makes as the breath is driven out of her with every stroke. There's no good denying good old-fashioned carnal lust when it takes you.

Pleasuring Heather afterwards was altogether a more leisurely affair. We laid together side by side and she turned towards me, offering her body to me to do with as I wished. It was while she was gripping hard on my cock in the throes of her orgasm that I realised I was still hard. I hadn’t actually deflated after the first go. I like to think I have a pretty respectable recovery time-ten minutes tops and I’m good to go again-but this was one erection that just would not go away. So while Heather was still lying prone on the sheets, moaning, I pulled her gently upright, knelt up behind her, grabbed her shoulders and sploshed away inside her. With the over-abundance of lubrication I was concerned that Mr Happy might yet decide he didn’t want to play any more and go off the boil, but Heather was still having little muscle spasms and has superb control in any case, so I was pumping whatever I had left inside me into her before she really knew what had hit her.

As the daylight faded on that dull, chilly autumn afternoon we lay there in the gathering gloom holding each other, tracing fingertips over faces, kissing, until we decided that if we were going to going to have another fuck session that evening were would need to break for tea.

London Lady

2009-10-23T14:11:00.000+02:00

We collected Daughter from the airport last Sunday after her half-term week spent in England. As she walked off the plane she was showing off the pork-pie hat and Green Doctor Martins boots she had bought over there. I have to say, she looked The Business. She’s just got that indefinable thing about her that whatever she puts on she can wear it with style.

This was her first time, footloose in London. We’ve been there many times together as a family but this time it was just her and her best mate, who is a bit naïve and has never even flown before. So Daughter was very much in charge. During the two days they were in town they managed to visit a photographic exhibition in The National Portrait Gallery, Got her DMs from the DM shop in Covent Garden (half the price they are over here!) spent an afternoon in Camden Market and saw the Queen musical ‘We Will Rock You’ (for the second time). She managed to navigate herself round on the Tube without looking like a lost tourist and found the right train back from Waterloo to Winchester.

She told me she loves London and, come hell or high water, she is going to live and study there, just like we did. As a father and a Londoner, that makes me very proud.

Maybe I’ll buy her an Oyster Card for Christmas.

HNT: Unzipped 2

2009-10-22T00:21:00.004+02:00

No apologies for featuring the same piece of playwear as last week. I could look at the real thing for ever!

Happy Half Nekkid Thursday everyone! Don't forget to say hi to Os

Getting Sorted

2009-10-22T00:01:00.002+02:00

I’m not doing much regular work this week, one way and another.

Monday: At the physiotherapists, getting my knackered shoulder sorted. This included a happy ten minutes lying on my side doing an impression of a hedgehog with a forest of acupuncture needles sticking out of my shoulder. In the end he gave me an elastic sheet and instructions to hold on to each end while I stood on the middle and did a thousand shrugs per day. I asked him if he was serious. I mean, a THOUSAND? He was absolutely deadpan. I reckon I can make it by taking a break every half hour and doing fifty. All this shrugging might turn into a nervous tic and even more people might take me for being Jewish than they do already on account of my olive skin tone and curly black hair. Only Heather and my doctor know the truth. (I am in fact a Celt, with possibly a pinch of Hispanic to make me interesting).

Tuesday: Time to get the car sorted. MOT and rust inspection. No problems. Fortunately, the dealer I use has a waiting room with unlimited supplies of very good coffee and internet access.

Wednesday: Off to Odense, home of Hans Christian Andersen and the Danish National Railway Museum. To a meeting with our IT people to get our computers sorted. As I write this, I am on one of the spanking new IC4 trains. One of these...

In fact, this one.

I have to say, I am totally underwhelmed, being five years late because the Italians don’t know how to build trains properly, and hardly better than the locally-built IC3s they are supposed to replace. When the first batch were originally delivered, they were so full of faults the whole fleet was grounded and the the Railway operator refused to take delivery of any more. Why can’t people build trains any more? Stephenson could. Still, there is a 220V socket so I can run my laptop without using the battery, although the promised internet access seems non-existent.

Thursday: A ‘normal’ day, for a change. Hopefully.

Friday: Off to the psychologist to get my head sorted. Didn’t I tell you I was an axe-murderer? Sorry, must have slipped my mind.

The Weekend: Daughter has a leading role in her college musical and there are rehearsals all day both Saturday and Sunday. Plus she’s out to parties both Friday and Saturday nights. Heather and I can have an undisturbed weekend.

SORTED!