There was no change of habits either. I didn't do overnighters with my job, and we weren't empty nesters; we hadn't even started nesting yet. I did, however, recognise a mercy fuck when I was getting one.
I was getting one now, and I didn't like it. Betty, my wife was riding me cowgirl style; I love cowgirl; I can play with her superb tits, but the look in her eyes was pure guilt. There is more than one reason a woman will give her man a mercy fuck to aswage a guilty conscience.
Did she buy a new three-piece suite for our front room? A pair of ridiculously priced shoes. Jewellery, it had to be jewellery; nahh, the tart would be wearing it now. That was my Betty's big fault; she was such a vain tart that she just had to pose.
Had she shunted her car into a parking bollard? Or worse, was it my car? Or, the unbelievable--could it be the slut was--nahhh, my Betty would never do that. She was definitely a slut, but I was sure she was my exclusive one-man slut.
I couldn't think straight while she was bouncing up and down on my best mate. My route of least resistance was to give her tits another squeeze, pump my impending load into her puss, then wait until she told me.
Three days later, in bed she said, and I shit you not "Stick your pocket python up my wrongun big boy".
She has let that twat up our street at number 12 borrow my new table saw. Ohh shit, perhaps she has... Nahh, no way would she do that. There was definitely something though.
She was still squealing like a little piggy at the slaughterhouse as I eased my pork sword into the tradesman's entrance. I had three fingers and half a tube of KY jelly in her dirt box to prep her.
I'm very proud of what nature gave me in the trouser department. When we were early in our relationship, she told me in my dreams when I asked her for her brown virgin hole.
Betty gave it up to me as compensation. She was trying to play motorbikes in my garage, and she dropped my beloved RC45 and cracked a faring panel. She is too short to sit on it and get her feet on the floor so it fell Don't tell her I was more scared she had hurt herself, I cant buy a new Betty. She was cheating again with the waterworks when I got home. She isn't strong enough to lift it when it's on the floor. I am a sucker for her tears.
The second time was when I bought her an NC35. the bike Honda brought out for little Japanese kids to play at being Joey Dunlop on. I had a lowered saddle put on it for her. She looks like Mitzi when she is on it. It cost me a small fortune, but it was worth every penny. NB If in doubt here, google Ogri and Mitzi.
Once I get up her shit chute, she loves it. That is, unless she is a better actress than Uma Thurman; she usually cums like the Hogwarts Express. I have to do it right for her; she has to feel that I am using her; she loves a bit of rapeo fantasy. It loses a bit on the preparation, but it has to be done; I'd never hurt her for real.
What the fuck is the bitch hiding? Oh, fuck, she is pregnant. I said no kids until we were both thirty. The fucking broody cow has flushed her pills and got herself up the duff. The bitch has tricked me into putting a bun in her oven. Her fucking mother is behind this, always on about grandkids. I suppose the bitches are planning to get me to stop playing rugby and sell my motorbikes.
Well, fuck that for a game of soldiers; if anything goes, she goes. No, it can't be that; she isn't trying to get me to paint my chill-out room pink or baby blue. Or move my hi-fi out of there. I know! She wants me to buy her a puppy. Fuck that, I'll be picking up dog shit in the garden for the next fifteen years.
Hang on; a dog may have its compensation; he will need an evening walk. I can take him down the road to the Royal Oak; be rude not to have a couple of pints on the way.
