I get in from work at around 1830 and our estate is in a right bloody mess. The blown water main at the top of the road has been repaired but there's mud everywhere. It splashes up the side of the VW as I pull up into my drive and... Yuk. It doesn't smell too nice either.
Alas, there's no sign of my husband, Alex. This isn't unusual. He often has to work late on Friday nights and, when he's not working, he's off pumping iron at the gym or whatever he and his mates do after hours. I try not to ask.
I was in a housework frame of mind, largely because Mum and sister are coming over this weekend for girly discussions about impending plans - like weddings and being knocked-up etc. So it's out with the dustpan and brush, and the hoover and... the house starts smelling like a Mr. Sheen Commercial.
9 pm comes around and there's still no sign of Alex. However, I'm still fixing the place up so I sort of don't notice but, in the back of my mind, I'm starting to get a little concerned. Actually, I'm starting to worry.
At around 2145, I'm cleaning up the master bedroom when I notice... the biggest bird poop you have ever seen right down the main windows. I mean... it's enormous. I wish I'd taken a picture, not because I like photographing bird poop or because I think you'll get a kick out of it. No, said bird poo had a shape and form to it which reminded me very much of a silhouette of soon-to-be-ex-Tory-Leader, Boris Johnson MP. It's enough to make you puke up your chips, frankly. It really is.
Straight away, I go down to the garage and pull out a pair of ladders and a bucket.
Ten minutes later, I'm at the top of the ladder as Alex rolls in. He's in a bit of a state. Seems there was a bench press accident at the gym and he's covered in someone else's blood. A broken nose I think.
I'm still up the ladder removing the bird shit from Hell when Alex decides to hit the shower and, being a bit of a voyeur, I take advantage of the situation and linger at the top of the ladder just long enough for him to get undressed.
I'm not disappointed. The view is... quite nice.
Ten minutes later and the bird poo from Hades is a fading memory and my windows are nice and clean too. Through the curtains, I watch Alex as he steps out of the shower and... off he goes. He's a tease and he knows it, and I am treated to the rather wondrous sight of my good fella cracking one out right in front of me and, better still, he's using some images and a movie I gave him as motivation/stimulation last Christmas - I'm nice like that. There is no higher praise for a women to discover your man wanking over pictures of your girly parts.
He lies back and blows his load after only a couple of minutes and, well, what's a girl to do? I decide I want some of that for myself so I shimmy down the ladder and run upstairs.
Except that the rotten sod has locked the bedroom door and won't let me in.
I'm too much of a lady to beg and I'm too much of a weakling to put my shoulder to the door so... I'm out of luck. I'm reduced to doing Sheldon Cooper style knocks... Alex. Alex. Alex.
Eventually, Alex yields and opens the door. What follows is not an hour of frantic, passionate love making. What follows bears a remarkable resemblance to a Benny Hill skit, wherein I am the sad desperate spinster chasing the luckless (semi-naked) beau around a big house occasionally stumbling into doors and... you know the drill. Just add a Yackety Sax track and we're good.
By eleven, we're too exhausted to do anything so... after watching "The Last Leg" on TV, we head off to bed. It's too hot to wear anything and so I sleep naked. So does Alex. Nothing new here.
But then... Alex rolls over and plants his hand on my bare backside. That's nice, I think. I could just do with some of that. His hand works its way down by ass and between my thighs, which part ever so slightly, affording easy access to the niceties therein. Seconds later and I'm rather wet.
"That's rather nice," I whisper. "Just keep doing that for... I dunno, the next week or so... I'm good."
He slips a finger inside and yeah, that hits the spot exactly as it should. Yes, I think we're about to have sex.
And we do.
This is special. It's the kind of unhurried, middle of the night sex when everything feels like a lovely warm, messy dream and you just roll into it, all cosy and happy.
I roll over and invite him to enjoy the rather flavoursome bouquet I have cooking up between my legs. I love it when he strokes my pubes, back-combing them until they're like a big, fluffy rug. He's an absolute master at finding my most sensitive areas and pays them tribute with an ever-so-gentle finger banging session that leaves me breathless and exhausted.
Then he's on top of me and just running the tip of his prick over my pussy and down towards my ass. I'm not massively into anal at the moment but could be, if suitable motivated. Frankly, I'd rather have his baby batter inside me than sprayed over my tits or up my butt. Biological clocks and all that, you know.
