Bryan & Carla Ch. 02.
AT THE BROWN RESIDENCE FRIDAY EVENING
"Blimey love, giv'us a chance to get me jockeys off." Barry said in an agitated tone, "What's got into you tonight? All that yawning and 'we got a big day tomorrow' stuff to start with, just after Carla put Brie to bed and drove off to work. Then when George said 'Right, Dad, I understand it's my round', and I said, 'Too bloody right, son,' and you then spring on me that universal code line about,
'We need to talk, and I mean talk, now. Bedroom!' I tell you, love, you fair put the willy up me."
Myra was sitting up in bed, with the pink sheer nightie that Santa brought her for Christmas, one so private that it wasn't actually left under the Christmas tree. Barry could smell the heady perfume from the doorway, it smelt like a Persian harem, or how he imagined one did.
"There will definitely be some 'Willy up me' later Darling," she said, putting on that husky voice Barry usually associates with the bedroom at playtime, "but first we need to talk."
Part of his apprehension at the 'We need to talk' phrase aimed at him earlier, was drifting away to now be replaced by a fear of the unknown. Mentally, while he was in the shower, he had ticked off possible causes for her behaviour. Number one was that she'd pranged her car, but it was happily sitting in the drive when he got home from work and any crash damage wasn't obvious; Carla's very old car was parked on the road as usual, so she wouldn't get boxed in, and again, no damage was evident and apparently she drove off to work without a problem; then he was almost certain after he flushed that he hadn't left a 'floater' in the downstairs toilet this morning; and finally he was pretty sure she wasn't aware what he'd paid in cash for those Rugby League Cup Final tickets that he hadn't told her about yet as the time wasn't right and the time definitely wasn't tonight. He sighed, no matter what problem you solve in life, there's always another riddle just around the next corner.
"So, what now, Myra my love?"
She smiled her bedroom smile and she asked, "Barry, can you assure me you've shit, shaved, showered and ready to rock'n'roll, right?"
"Yesss?" he replied hesitatingly, after all, his body wasn't due another shit for eight hours. Barry was regular as clockwork, knowing the building regulations stipulated he had to have a chemical toilet on site but he wasn't going to be forced to use it except in dire emergencies.
In response to his positive reply she simply drew the bedclothes back on his side of the bed, revealing more of her negligé, which, as he now recalled, was completely negligent in its role as an item of clothing that actually had anything substantial in the way of cloth. Almost unnecessarily, she held up an open palm to her eye level and, with her curling index finger, summoned her willing victim into her clutches.
"Bloody hell, My," he gulped.
Ever since the five kids had put in their appearances, popping up at roughly regular intervals during the first decade of their marriage, Barry and Myra had settled into a pretty regular and, though they thought so themselves, spectacular routine of sex on a Saturday night plus a rigorous reprise on Sunday morning, completing just before the kids demanded their breakfast.
He wasn't really prepared for this turn of events on a Friday night, especially after all the banter from his three eldest sons during the day had centred on them enjoying a full night at the new gastric pub in the town centre next to the river. But then, at his age, 55, he dare not look a gift horse of bonus pussy in the mouth.
It all hinged on the catch. When something so good as this was in the offing, there had to be a catch.
"Look, Myra, I was hoping to be on a promise for tomorrow night after stunning you with my outdoor culinary skills during the afternoon, but you remember, the reason for the BBQ tomorrow was to celebrate George joining the firm last Monday, and part of the same family company tradition is that he buys the Boss, that's me, beer all night, Friday night. Remember love, even Elton says Saturday night is ripe for dancing, and that's when we usually do the Horizontal Hokey Cokey."
"Well, ... my ... darling ... man," Myra breathed, kissing him softly on the lips with pouting lips and no tongue between her words, and rubbing the outside of the boxers that were his usual bed wear from Sunday to Friday, "I ... will ... let ... you ... drink ... all ... after ... noon ... then, ... won't ... I? But now, lover, ... I need to get you up to ... speed."
"Blimey, My, you keep this up and I'll be overtaking you, in top gear."
"Mmmm," she determined, "I suppose I am not going to be able to get any real sense out of any conversation with you tonight, am I? At least until we get the elephant in the room out of the way."
Myra pushed on his chest with both hands so he was flat on his back, his head at the foot of the bed. She yanked at his boxers with a command of "Lift your arse, Darling," with which he complied without thinking and she tossed the offending pants away, to land on the chest of drawers (an irony that escaped the pair of them) as she grabbed his alert member, before she settled herself down across the bed flat on her stomach and engulfed the knob head in her hot, wet mouth.
"Oh, My, if you go straight into one of your famous blow jobs, you'll finish me before we even get started," Barry groaned, "why not turn and scoot your bum up here and I'll see if I can get you up to steam."
"Don't distract me," Myra gasped breathlessly, still pumping his cock furiously by hand, "I'm a girl on a mission here, and I have only a few seconds in which to accept this mission before it explodes in front of my eyes!" And with a laugh she carried on sucking with gusto, working her tongue around the head, then with particularly furious licking aimed at the bottom of the gland. Barry's breathing laboured.
"Oh my good God, My," he murmured, finding it hard to breathe enough to formulate words in any recognisible language, "Ungh, ooh, ooo, argh! Fuuuuuuuck! Here it comes!"
Barry's body was wracked with jerks, almost throwing his wife of over 28 years off the steely grip she held onto her favourite sex toy. She stayed on target and, pump after pump, she sucked him dry.
"Oh God, love, that must've been a world record for BJs!"
Her eyes sparkling and alive, still softly sucking and holding on to his rapidly deflating cock. As he lifted his head off the foot of the bed to look at the woman who had always fulfilled his life, all thought of holding up the bar of the new pub faded from his forethoughts. He knew there would be no holding any bar up, for a while yet. But, boy oh boy, was he relaxed! That was good, he asked himself, right? Right, was his immediate answer, although he felt unasked questions, more than one, remained.
As their eyes met, she lifted her head up slightly and his slippery cock plopped out of her mouth with a "pop!' and slapped against his lower stomach, before slipping away to the left and pretty much out of sight. Myra smiled at him in triumph.
He was a beaten man, happy, admittedly, blissfully so as every muscle in his body was shutting down and whispering 'g'night, Baz, see you in the morning', resigned to believe that there was no point in beating around the bush, she was definitely in charge of his life and happiness, and right now, although he knew that she knew she had him exactly where she wanted him to be, he was exactly where he wanted to be, anyway, sated and perfectly happy. What could possibly go wrong?
"All right, love," Barry found he'd got his breath back, reminding himself that he had really had absolutely nothing to contribute to what was definitely the most satisfying event of the whole week for him so far. "Now you've got that out of the way and I am literally putty in your hands or mouth, what is it you wanted to discuss?"
"First of all, Darling," she smiled, "scoot up to the top of the bed, I can't do much talking to your feet and hairy arse all night." Myra moved the short distance back to her place and sat upright, plumping a couple of pillows behind her back.
