Pulp and Palpability

Trina's writing inspiration is right up the spout. So is her friend Pam.

Nurse Trina was a valuable addition to the staff at the fertility clinic's sperm bank. So often had been the case that self-conscious donors would be so overcome by nerves, they would falter at the critical moment, and not come up with the vital deposit. After all, the sight of a test tube is hardly a well-known aphrodisiac.

Whether it was Nurse Trina's soothing voice, her technique, her figure, her eyes, the cut of her uniform, or maybe even her fragrance, who knew? But sperm stocks were suddenly on the increase, and donors were queuing up to visit.

Frank checked in at the clinic. As per the issued guidelines on male fertility, he had had a hot bath, and was wearing his loosest boxer shorts under baggy jogging trousers. He also had declined alcohol for some while -- well, a couple of days, anyway. He was determined to conceal his embarrassment, but faced with Miss Prendergast, the elderly receptionist, was not making a good job of it. "Um, Frank Crawford, appointment to, er, ahem, see the nurse for a sp.. sp.. sperm don.. er.. donation."

The rather austere administrator looked Frank up and down over her spectacles. "Fill in these forms, Mr. Crawford," she said impassively, "then down the corridor, first cubicle on the right. Nurse Trina will sort you out..."

Oh, what a load of tosh. Surely I can do better than that.

Trina La Trois slid slowly and sensuously down the pole. Her fishnet stocking-clad legs then walked her to Petrov's table, where he and several of his oil-rich cronies were sitting, leering... and leching. Her six-inch stiletto shoes were cruelly rubbing the backs of her heels, her calves were crying out for mercy, and the constriction of her costume was squeezing the breath out of her.

But she knew her job, and where the money was. She parked herself on Petrov's lap, her jubblies bubbling over the top of her black satin basque, leaving scarcely sufficient gap for the £50 notes that the drunken oligarchs subsequently slipped down her cleavage. She felt a Russian cock hardening beneath her as she wriggled provocatively.

"Dobry dyen, big boy," she said huskily.

Oh God, that's awful, too.

I was having a serious attack of writer's block. I wondered if I needed a break. Get away from the keyboard for a while, come back later with fresh ideas. Take up golf. Crochet maybe. Trace my ancestors? I discussed it with my husband.

"You could maybe learn to cook," he suggested, rather recklessly.

"Ha ha, very funny," I replied. "I'm going round Pam's to get some tea and sympathy. See you in a bit."

Pam was a close neighbour and my best friend. "I've got a story for you," she said. "It's totally unbelievable, but knowing your stories, that shouldn't be a problem for you."

I gave her a stern look. "Pammie, I get enough sarky at home, I don't have to come round here for it." It was just banter. We both knew we would always be as thick as thieves. "So, what's the plot?"

"You'll never guess," she teased.

"Shit, Pammie, just tell me the story, woman!"

"I'm preggers," she announced.

"You're what?" She was right, I never would have guessed. Pam wasn't as ancient as me, but was surely post-menopausal. "How did THAT happen?"

"Well, the man sticks his thingy up your whatsit, and you both jiggle about a bit, until..."

"Yes, yes," I interrupted, "I know all that. I mean, I thought your periods would have finished ages ago, and..."

"I know, I know," she cut in. "They did. But doctor said there are times when your hormones can spike during the course of the change, and you can still conceive. Mine apparently did, and here I am -- in the pudding club."

I was a little lost for words. Was my writer's block spilling over into real life? I was somewhat concerned about Pam's lack of positivity. "I seem to recall you telling me a little while ago that the last time you and Jack did it, he put his back out, and you'd been living like a nun for six months ever since." I knew, of course, that there are many methods to get around mobility issues, and love will always find a way. But Pam simply shrugged.

I looked at her dubiously, then tried to cheer her up. "Well, unless he suddenly had an out-of-body experience and poked you while you were asleep, I declare it a miracle, and claim this whole neighbourhood a pilgrimage site. It'll be worth a fortune. Trinkets, mementoes, statues. We'll clean up."

"It's no joking matter, Treen," Pam complained, "I'm not sure I can go through with it. I've been there, done that, got the T-shirt. I'm too old -- haven't got the energy any more. Nappies, sleepless nights, nipples in shreds, tantrums, the school run, surly teenagers... Even the pre-natal clinics -- all the others looking like teenies, me looking like an irresponsible, sad old wrinkly."

"Whoa," I protested. "Pammie! Being a mum is the best job in the world. And you're getting another go at it. It'll keep you young, keep you in touch, stop you rotting like a cabbage in your retirement." It was not the best simile I might have been able to come up with, but I was under pressure. A long hug allowed our emotions to flow, and our tear ducts to relieve themselves.

Trina returned home. No sooner had she stepped inside her front door than her husband waylaid her. "Thank God you're home," he panted, "I need you so badly..."

And without further explanation, he pulled her towards him, one arm round her back, the other cradling her head. He showered her with fierce kisses, enough to bruise her lips which had fallen open, aghast. Between kisses, he managed to declare his undying love, and how his passion would not be replete until he'd transported her to levels of ecstasy she had hitherto only dreamt about in her wildest fantasies.

Her boots and jeans unceremoniously unzipped and removed, her panties downed with indecent haste, manly palms fondled and squeezed her bottom cheeks. The inside tops of her thighs began to receive the feverish attention of his thirsty lips, which deliciously caressed them while his darting tongue teased around and inside her labia. She laid back on the hall carpet and let it happen, purring with pleasure as her pussy moistened...

Yeah, right. Another bit of wishful thinking.

Pam's unwanted pregnancy was a lot more real than that pile of codswallop. My hubby was stretched out on the sofa watching the zillionth repeat of some worn-out war adventure on the Movie Channel. However, he seemed interested enough in my news that he at least paused the TV while I told him the whole story.

"Has she been entertaining the window cleaner or something, do you think?" he wondered.

"If she had, she wasn't admitting to it," I replied. "My best shot would be an accident in bed. Hmm, wasn't YOU, was it? Just nipping round to borrow a jar of instant coffee?"

"Not me," hubby proclaimed. "You're more than enough for any man to handle."

I wasn't sure whether that was a compliment or not, but not getting too many compliments, I took it as such.

I started visiting Pam on an almost daily basis, offering the best support and encouragement I could muster. But something was wrong -- I could sense it. She was avoiding certain topics of conversation, and ill at ease. Jack was avoiding me too. Perhaps it was me. I asked if she'd prefer I left them alone for the time being. Pam burst into tears, and yet again, a lengthy hugathon was called for.

"I'll have to tell you," she began, "I can't live with this any longer. Jack isn't the father."

I gulped. "Ooooh, Pammie," I said, waiting for her to expand on her confession.

"You remember that party at Susan's?" she asked.

"Where we all got smashed on Bill's evil sangria? Only too well, I'm afraid." I recalled the roasting hot day, the loud music of a live band, the crazy dancing and the blistering headache that took me days to get rid of.

"I did something really silly in the kitchen," said Pam. My immediate thoughts were of broken best china, throwing up on the hob or losing one's wedding ring down the plug-hole. But Pam put me right. "You remember that big guy in the band, the one with the greasy black hair?" I did...

Housewife Pamela was at the kitchen sink, in a borrowed apron, washing up drinks glasses. It seemed her lusting days were over. Her husband, who was getting past his prime anyway, was incapacitated, and here at the party, despite her daringly short dress, no one had given her a second glance. But she'd had so many wines at this stage, she was becoming resigned to her celibate fate, as well as being in danger of toppling off her rather sexy, but too-high-heels.

Pete, the band's tall, hairy bass player, happened to come into the kitchen during a break, for a lager refill. "That's what I like to see," he said, "a woman at work in the kitchen -- that's if she's not at work in the bedroom, of course, heh-heh."

Pamela was not too drunk for a little competitive repartee. "That's what I like to see," she countered, "a man whose charm matches the size of his dick."

Pete was used to dealing with, and winning over young groupies, but here was a far more exciting challenge -- a mature milf with attitude. "You wanna check this out?" he dared her, approaching the sink, unzipping his jeans.

Before she knew it, Pamela was sat on the edge of the sink, without knickers, and with her dress up round her waist and in a tangle with her apron. She more or less took hold of his pride and joy to stop herself falling backwards into the sink. Her grab-handle responded by adapting its girth, length and firmness, much to her inebriate delight. Then, much to the bassman's delight, and without the nicety of too much foreplay, he slid himself into her inviting, open vagina. To give credit to Pamela's desirability, if not her sensibleness, it was over very quickly, and he withdrew, his swollen glans wet with his own semen.

I re-read it. It was hardly a masterpiece of erotica. But from the sketchy details Pam had given me, it must have pretty much described what took place in Susan's kitchen.

"And Jack knows?" I enquired.

"Yes," answered Pam. "I confessed all. He's not a happy bunny, but I suppose you wouldn't expect him to be."

Jack was a lovely bloke, and I'd always thought the two of them made a brilliant couple.

"What about our musical Lothario?" I followed up.

"No, and I don't want him to know. You're the only one, Treen. I'm hoping Jack will eventually come round and forgive me, then we raise the little scamp as our own."

Several mornings afterwards, having slept like a log, I strolled bleary-eyed into the kitchen where my lovely hubby was stirring the tea-pot.

"Morning, lover," I said.

"Bit of kerfuffle in the middle of the night," he replied. He knew how to ring alarm bells in my head. "I presume you slept through it."

"Obviously," I confirmed.

"Medics round at Jack and Pam's. I think she must have been taken in -- no car in their drive."

My heart sank. I rang Pam, not expecting to get an answer, and didn't get one. I left a message. Later that evening, Jack rang back. Pam says would I like to go round and see them. Of course I would.

Trina had been invited to make up a ménage à trois with John and Pamela. It was awkward at first, none of the participants having much experience in threesomes. A couple of large glasses of wine washed away their inhibitions, and the party soon began to sizzle. They devised a game whereby each player randomly picked out another player to undress, and make as seductive a performance of it as possible, for the benefit of the one sitting out their turn.

This was followed by more random selections of sexual activities such as fellatio, cunnilingus, masturbation, face-sitting and full coupling, with rolls of the dice determining who was the top, and who the bottom. The excitement of who would lay claim to the one available cock, and who would be responsible for pleasuring one's pussy was almost too exquisite to bear. It threw up a few impossible scenarios, but eventually they settled into a breathtaking orgy of taboo debauchery, with orgasms coming at regular intervals...

Yes, it was yet another banal fantasy masquerading as a story line. But this one was different. It was my temporary escape from the dread of the meeting I was about to have with my very good friends and neighbours.

Jack opened the door for me. "Hello, Trina, thanks for coming," he said. "Pam's in here, I know she'd love to see you."

I entered the lounge. Pam, in her dressing gown, was sitting on the sofa. She looked pale, but serene. She smiled faintly, but there was sadness in her eyes. She didn't have to say anything. I knew she'd lost the baby. We fell into the biggest hug ever, and even Jack, bless him, joined the party. To say 'perhaps it is all for the best' would have been the wrong thing to do, and maybe even the wrong thing to think. A long hug can sometimes say things much better than words.

When we'd eventually become all cried out, I decided to leave them together, to kick start the rest of their life. I gave Jack an extra hug in the hallway. After kissing him on the cheek, I whispered "Look after my dearest friend. She loves you madly, and needs you now more than ever," adding, for encouragement, "I can't think of a nicer man for the job." I left them to their privacy.

"You don't have to fill the whole beaker, Mr. Crawford," Nurse Trina remonstrated. "We only need a few cc." But Frank was adamant, and Trina's very presence was driving him wilder and wilder with desire.

"Just give me a minute or two, that's all. It's surely best to provide as large a quantity as possible?"

"Well, alright," Nurse Trina reluctantly agreed. "Just once more, then." She unzipped her pvc uniform a bit further, and put on a fresh pair of latex gloves...

Oh, save us. How does crochet work?

Trina La Trois emptied the assortment of bank notes tucked into her corset and panties, counting the evening's haul. The club owner, without invitation, strode into her dressing room. "Doesn't anyone knock, these days?" she asked, already knowing that his haste was to ensure she had no time to hide any of the takings.

"Just wanted to make sure you remembered the club's modest share," he said, with a sinister edge to his voice, adding, while unhooking her bustier from behind, "and our personal, little... arrangement."

With both large, rough hands, he helped himself to her gorgeous jugs as they finally spilled over the loosened garment, and she felt his hot breath on the side of her neck. She knew the club's 'modest share' meant most of the cash. She also knew she was in for another thorough shafting, of a different kind...

Oh my! It gets worse. Where's my golf clubs?

End