The last day.
He had a shower, and standing there in just his towel he drank his first cup of tea, looking out of the window to see Mrs Booth on their balcony decking stretching and straining as she did each morning, only this time she had the most brutal looking pattern of red stripes on her arse cheeks as a vivid reminder of what they had gotten up to not seven hours before.
He took his tea and stepped out onto the deck where his older lover was now bent over at the waist, her legs spread wide, her arse and pussy pointing straight at him.
"Good morning Mrs Booth," he said, "now there's that pretty face again."
She straightened up and turned to face him,
"Well you certainly put me in my place last night Mr Daniels," she said, "I'll be remembering that one for a very long time, best one in ages."
"So do you finally hate me?"
"After last night's orgasms?" she said, "No way can I hate a man that makes me come like that."
"It's our last night tonight Mrs Booth," he said, "I don't know what else I can do to make you hate me in the way that you want to."
"I'm sure you'll think of something Mr Daniels," she said, and walked a pace towards him, pulled off his towel and knelt before him, popping up for a brief second when her sore arse touched her heels as she settled before him, "Just a little something to say thank you for taking such good care of me!" She took his hardening cock into her mouth, sucking him to erection and to orgasm in very swift order, being now quite well practiced in what he liked. As she felt his knees buckle she slowed her wanking and just mouth fucked him until the tremors stopped, sucking, licking and squeezing alternately.
Her obligation to him met, she stood, smiled at him and they both went back to their own rooms, dressed and had breakfast, sat some distance apart, the occasional look from her as she struggled to sit comfortably on her abused bottom, still evident with some soreness from her backdoor thanks to the battering that had received after the whipping.
There was a slow morning with no sight nor sound of the cougar and her big tits and curvy arse, not even for lunch and he spent another few hours reading and note taking for his bloody book, still with no real concept of what the end result would be.
That night it was back into his suit for the final dinner to which Mrs Booth did appear in her long black dress with much cleavage, and it was a very jolly affair being the last of the trip and a chance for everyone to sing some songs and swear undying friendships, including young John, who watched as Mrs Booth slipped away red eyed as Auld Lang Syne rang out across the large function room.
He dragged himself away from the crowd of slightly pissed pensioners and made for his room, intent on a final fuck with Mrs Booth, just a fuck like she had asked for originally, after all he had no idea when the next one would be. He unlocked his room door and stepped in and saw that there were no lights on their balcony and no sign of her in his bed. He stripped off his suit leaving it to hang over the top of his suit bag for a quick packing away the next morning for the trip back on the coach to the Channel Tunnel train and St Pancras.
In just his boxers he walked out onto his cooling balcony to watch the moon and stars for the last time of this trip. Leaning back against the rail, the moonlight cast a beam into her bedroom and he saw her roll over and into his gaze, wearing a clingy, lacy babydoll nightdress, a real match for one that Julia used to wear on special occasions. He felt his erection leap into his pants.
He slid open her door and stepped into her room, shutting it behind him.
He could hear that she was crying softly and wanting only to help, raised her duvet and slipped in behind her. She didn't smell of Chanel anymore, just a boring run of the mill body spray and he breathed her in, looking at how attractive she was and wanting only to make love, he moved closer.
She flinched when he touched her, but relaxed as he stroked and soothed and calmed.
He was so tired of all that perverted shit they'd gotten up to in the last week and he wanted to make love; not spank or beat or bugger; no rage against the gender, just to make love.
To do what he and... To do what he and his girl had done, to make love.
Plain boring missionary sex with two people, a man and a woman in bed and loving the other as their race had done for Millenia, to make love.
He snuggled up to her spoons fashion pulling back against him, careful to make sure he didn't touch her bottom, but reaching around to hold and gently fondle her improved tits, thumbing her nipples to rock hard points. He heard her breath quicken and knew he was doing the right thing, kissing her neck and the soft skin of her shoulders, her jawline, up to her cheeks and she turned her face to his so their lips could meet.
He pulled her back against him and flat to the bed, her sore arse forgotten as he kissed her properly for the first time, stroking and pleasuring her body as he had wanted to for the last week or more, normal sex... no, normal lovemaking.
He raised her nightdress up over her breasts and feasted on the nipples doing all he could to bring her that simple pleasure, and she crooned as he did so pulling her nightdress over her head to be free of it then pulling his face into her and taking on all the joy he could give.
He lay on his side and she rolled to meet him, her face lit by the same shaft of moonlight and it also illuminated a tube of pain relieving cream on her bedside table that she had been given by Mr Bead-Smith 'for her sciatica' she had mentioned to him on their third or fourth night and he took it, gently rolling her to her front, squeezing a short roll of it onto each buttock and she flinched.
"Easy Mrs Booth," he said, "I won't hurt you I promise," and just to prove it he gently stroked the cream into her sore and abused flesh with a paper towel.
