Breakfast is Nearly Ready

An erotic story, originally posted on my Lust Illustrated Site. I’m doing all that stuff over here now. Not Femdom, just a bit of fun.)

AMY: Breakfast is Nearly Ready

This was my first glimpse of Amy.


I know, right?

Sir?’ she said. ‘Your breakfast is nearly ready.’ I think this may have been the only time she has ever called me sir, so far. The fantasy that she was serving me lasted about twenty seconds.

I stared into her eyes then I sat up blearily, wondering where the hell I was. A vague memory came back to me, of being moved into Business Class in the early morning, when they worked out I was an infection risk. I’d been sent to Malawi, working on an AIDS project and somehow thought I’d be immune to malaria because I was only there a few weeks. Guess which dumbass got malaria anyway? Yeah. You got it.

I looked around the cabin and realised there really isn’t anyone else in this section. The flight is to JoBurg. We should be there by now. What time is it?

‘Uuuuhhhh.’ I say. She may never let me forget this is the first thing I said to her.

what is it, sweaty?

‘What is it, sweaty?’ she says.

Sweaty? Did she say sweaty or sweetie? Either would be annoying. I want to be angry with her but she smells like jasmine.

‘Uhhhh.’ This is my second vocal effort to her. A bit shorter, but still pretty pathetic.

‘Do you need anything?’ she says. ‘Breakfast will be here shortly’. She is still smiling.

‘Water.’ This is my first proper word.

‘No, silly. No water on planes. It’s not allowed.’

‘Whuh’?’ I said.

‘Because it could be an explosive. I don’t want you to get all blowed up.’

‘But I have malaria,’ I said. Finally, a sentence. Subject, verb, the whole thing. Maybe she will be impressed.

‘Malaria! Really? I must the only person on the entire plane who didn’t know that!’ she says, rolling her eyes.

Do you want something from your cabin luggage?

Christ, have they deliberately given me the single most annoying hostess in the entire world? Feels like it at the moment. I am sweaty, it’s true, and delirious and starting to wonder if this is a dream.

‘Did you want something from your cabin luggage?’ she says, reaching for it. ‘I saw a big butt plug when I was looking in there earlier.’

‘Whuh?’ Yes, that’s right. After one complete sentence, I’m back to the caveman stuff again.

‘That’s right. After you asked me to show you my tits and then passed out, I looked in your cabin luggage to see if you were a pervert. And I found your NJoy. You want it with breakfast?’

you were quite awful

‘What? Hang on. I said what to you?’

‘You asked if you could see my tits.’ she grins. ‘Very rudely. You were quite awful.’


It’s on the cabin video log if you want me to get the other cabin crew to check for you’, she says.

‘Uhhhhh. Look, I’m really sorry. I must have been in a fever or something. I have malaria.’

‘How nice for you.’ she says. ‘Anyway, I showed them to you, and you passed out.’

‘Whuh?’ Yep, Í said it again. There wasn’t much else to say.

‘Man, conversation with you is hard work,’ she says. ‘I said, I showed you my tits, and you passed out….’

and you passed out

After that, she just stood there smiling like I am mouse, and she is holding me by the tail.

The moment was not brief. I sat there with mouth open, until the sweat from my forehead dripped onto my nose. She was fresh as a daisy.

Did she really flash me? I can dimly recall it actually happening. But maybe I am imagining it and she is just messing with me. Her smile is impossible to read.

Finally, a call bell rings in Economy, and she starts to move away.

‘Wait!’ I say. ‘Ummm…’ Great job. I wish I didn’t feel so terrible or I might have been able to at least say something.

‘I like you more when you are delirious,’ she says loudly. ‘You’re kinda more direct. Anyway, enjoy your buttplug!’

Then she walks off and one of the other staff brings me my breakfast, and water, and head towels, and apologizes for the delay, and tells me I will be in Cairo in half an hour.

Cairo? Why the fuck did I check on to plane to Cairo?

A Few Things To Remember

Things went so nicely that first night with Saori, I made the decision to have her stay the night as often as she could during my fortnight in Tokyo. It would save her from having to deal with any other leery businessmen – just me, and as I already explained, my intentions were pure (ish). I didn’t want to sleep with her. I just wanted her around, and wanted her to stay the night with me, but in her own bed, and get paid for it.

Good evening sir

So I rang her up and invited her to come and have dinner with me, and she sounded pleased, and accepted straight away. She showed up very early, at five thirty, wearing a different kimono to the one she’d had on last night. I was immediately curious to know if she had anything on underneath this time, but I manned up, and restrained myself from asking or peering.

‘Good evening, sir,’ she said demurely, no eye contact, but much warmer than she had been the night before.

‘Won’t you call me Pete?’ I said. ‘You did last night.’

‘All right, Pete. And you can call me Saorin. A name for friends,’ she said.

Saorin,’ I said, relishing the name. ‘What do you want to do tonight, Saorin?’

‘Oh. I thought we were to stay here,’ she says. ‘I am not dressed for anything else.’

‘Right. We’ll order from the room service menu. But tomorrow night, we’re going out to dinner, OK? I want you to take me to a great restaurant. Somewhere the guide books don’t know about.’

You are buying me dinner?

Saori looks very confused, and blushes slightly. She sits down in the bench on the sunny side of the room and asks: ‘Pete…you are buying me dinner?’

‘Yeah, sure. Why not? A girl has to eat, right?’

‘And you want me to stay again tomorrow night? I didn’t have plans to work.’

I hadn’t expected this and forgot she only works two nights a week. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’

‘No, it’s good,’ she says. ‘I’d like to stay. I’ll just have to arrange a few things.’

So she sits down and gets comfortable and we get talking. I ask her about her background and she tells me she is actually a quarter German, which unfortunately means the local businessmen think she will be “exotic”, and also, easy. I find it strange to think of German as being exotic, but different strokes, I guess. Then I tell her that I am a typical Aussie, part Irish, part mongrel, and she laughs at my freckles. We drink tea, then wine, and I start to order the meal.

I ask her what she wants and she explains she already ate because she was not expecting to be fed. I remind her that I am taking her out again tomorrow and tell her to come hungry this time, and also, not to show up til it is dinner time, and to come dressed to go out.

She laughs. ‘Yes, I will do all of that. But, I do not know high class restaurants. I only know student places. You want to go to somewhere like that? I know a place with good gyoza.’

‘Sure, that sounds great.’ (I don’t want to admit I have no idea what that is).

‘What do you want me to wear?’ she asks.

‘Whatever you are comfortable in,’ I say. ‘Just what you would normally wear out.’

‘All right. Pete, thank you. I’m not really used to being treated like this by customers,’ she admits. ‘Some are very nice, but a lot of them they want me to act submissive.’

‘Hah!’ I laugh, and try to parody the domineering businessmen. ‘Drop that kimono and show me some respect, woman!’ I say. I am joking, but it is way off base, and she takes me at my word.

‘Like this?’ she asks, and lays back, letting the kimono expose her shoulders.

‘Uh…’ I am momentarily speechless. ‘Saorin, I was kidding. I didn’t actually…’

She sits up and the kimono falls gracefully off her shoulders. ‘Or like this?’ she asks.

‘That’s enough,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. It was a joke that went wrong.’

She smiles and covers herself, slowly. ‘Pete, you should remember what I do for a living,’ she says. ‘And, you should remember that I sometimes enjoy it.’

The food arrives, and I get left to think about that for the rest of the evening. In particular; if she knew the date was just for conversation this time, then why is she still naked under there?

Not that I am really complaining.

The Man from Alibi

The Man from Alibi is that other man you’d want to have sex with, if you were not married to your husband.

He pops into your head sometimes. Most commonly when you are taking care of yourself, but also, when you are with your partner, or when you’re doing laundry, or driving, or just doing nothing at all.

You can imagine him looking something like a combination of several of your favorite actors. They are all shape-shifters too, playing different roles at different times.

Sometimes he just looks like a handsome man that you have never met.

And sometimes he looks like no one at all.

It is not his appearance that counts. It is his potential to express a part of you that lies elsewhere.

And it is his power, the power to lead you into a places and situations that you have never been, and give you leave of absence from from the familiar world you have made around yourself.

(And also, he’s like, crazy good in bed.)

Conversation or Companionship

I stepped into my hotel room after a hasty dinner, and found her waiting for me.

‘Good evening sir. Do you want conversation or companionship?’

Conversation or companionship?

Oh my God. This is that ultra-traditional type of Japanese hotel, and, there’s an “escort” in my room. The old-fashioned type – she looks almost a stereotype of a geisha, but without the make-up. She is very pretty, but cold and nervous, and I think she is asking me if I want to go to bed with her, or just talk to her.

Despite the obvious, age-old temptation to say hell yes to the going to bed part, that isn’t going to happen. My wife is back in Sydney with my two daughters, and besides, I am forty-five and have never been to a prostitute and I do not intend to start now. Plus, I have been on a long flight from Singapore and I am shattered.

Do you want me to stay?

‘Ah, no thanks,’ I say, before remembering it was a question with two options. ‘Just conversation. Actually, what are you doing here?’

‘Sir, you get an esuko-to with the deluxe room,’ she says, not smiling. ‘Your company is paying.’

Gotta love my company. Although I am pretty sure that Stan, our accounts manager, would freak if he knew he’d signed off on a call girl. Probably didn’t read what was included in the deal. Anyway, she is here now and I have to figure out what to do with her.

‘My name’s Pete,’ I say.

‘Saori,’ she says. ‘Do you want me to stay?’ Still so cold, distant, guarded. She avoids eye contact as she awaits the answer. I want her not to be scared of me.

‘What happens if you go?’ I say.

‘I go back downstairs, and they send me to another guest.’

‘And, do you get paid if you stay, and we just talk?’ I ask, thinking there might be a way for her to make money with her clothes on for a change.

She catches on pretty quick, like this might have happened before with another generous older customer, and she says: ‘Conversation is less. But If I stay the night, it is the same rate. They just pay me for the night. They do not ask what I did.’

So I make the offer: ‘Why don’t you make yourself comfortable and tell me about yourself. Just conversation. Maybe you can stay the night.’

with the right customer…

She takes the offer gladly, and sits up on the bench by the window, relaxing. She tells me is she is twenty-one and saving money to go to university because her parents cannot afford to pay for her degree. She loves video games, and skiing, when she gets a chance.

After a while she really relaxes and starts telling me stuff about the hotel, and about her job. She works as a call girl because it is the best money in Tokyo for someone with no experience. She only has to do two nights per week, and all her expenses are covered. She says it is a good life, but there is sadness in her face, and I can’t help but ask about it.

‘Do you like being a call girl?’ I ask.

‘Sometimes it’s great, with the right customer,’ she says. ‘But sometimes the businessmen can be a bit awful.’

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ I ask.

‘No. I had one, but he did not like what I do.’ There’s the sad look again. Now I know what it is about.

‘Well, Saori, I am a businessmen, but I am also happily married, and have been for nearly twenty years. You can sleep on the spare bed. I hope you don’t mind if I snore a little.’

‘No, sir,’ she says. And the two of us talk for another half hour before it is time for bed, and she relaxes with me completely, melting like a pool of ice in the sun.

Just before bedtime, as she is getting up to go to the bathroom, her kimono slips for a moment, and I get a glimpse of what I just turned down; she certainly did come prepared for companionship. I guess that means she will be sleeping naked tonight, in a bed seven feet from mine, and I will not get up, and I will not go to her.

Can’t blame a guy for thinking about it, though. No one ever said that wasn’t allowed.

Go to episode 2


The Long Haul (An Erotic Story)

In It For the Long Haul

Free Download word doc, or read it here…

(John and Sue Mobray, mid twenties, newlyweds.)

John and I didn’t end up fucking for the first three days of our week-long honeymoon in Paris.

It wasn’t because we were jetlagged, or arguing, or tired from all that time in the Louvre. It was something much, much better.

Let me tell you what happened.


JFK has a restaurant, La Vie, and when we got off our domestic flight from Boston we had a bite there, which turned into a full meal once we saw the menu. ‘Hang the expense,’ said John. ‘Let’s start this right now.’

We drank some Bordeaux (that actually turned out to be better than anything we had the whole time we were away) and John had the slow cooked lamb, me the fish. By the time we transferred to international terminal and found our gate, we were both a little sleepy, and well contented.

The plane that night was not very full, and we had a three-seat row to ourselves by the wing, with no one behind us and a single older lady in the seats in front. Across the aisle in the middle row, a bald businessman sat entranced by his Blackberry. We could see a few others, scattered further across the aisle and on the other side.

They served us light refreshments, including a glass of champagne for both of us, and then dimmed the cabin lights at about ten thirty.

There were a range of movies on the seat console but the one that caught our eye was Betty Blue, on the Frenchy-themed channel. When it came on, we looked across at each other and smiled because early in our dating, we’d rented this, and John had eaten my pussy while I watched the opening third, where it’s all nice and happy, before Beatrice Dahl starts to go bonkers.

‘Do you want to “watch” this again?’ I asked.

‘Is it good?’ he said innocently. ‘I haven’t actually seen it, only heard it.’

‘The beginning is excellent.’

‘Ah.’ He looked down at the tiny space between my legs and the seat in front, and shrugged. ‘We’d need a mini-me.’

We giggled, and then both put our headphones on and watched the pair of them, Betty and her boy, being so very young and French and sexy. But after the cunnilingus scene, I lost interest, and noticed that I was nodding off. I yawned and summoned the stewardess to ask for a blanket.

‘Sure, honey,’ she says, and I am almost disappointed by her Georgian accent. She might have been Parisian. This is Air France after all. She is dolled up enough to be Parisian. And there are a few other French staff in the cabin crew. Why couldn’t we have got one of those? The unfairness of it all!

Anyway, she brought me back two large blankets and some of those tiny pillows they give you, which is in addition to the larger one I have brought on in my hand luggage. John and I have decided that we don’t want to waste a day recovering, so we’ll make sure to get a good night’s sleep tonight, and then hit the sights tomorrow, soon after we arrive.

(Right. Sure.)

I arranged myself with the large pillow against the corner of the seat and the window, and snuggled into the dull roar of the engine. John set himself up with his eye-mask, because the businessman and a few others are sill reading and there are intermittent flickers from the others watching their in-seat movie players.

‘Oh, damn,’ I say. ‘I forgot my mask! Can I borrow yours?’

‘Hell no. You forget, that’s your lookout.’

‘Humph.’ My bottom lip went out in a feeble attempt to manipulate him. He grabbed it between thumb index and gives it a playful tug.

‘Hands off!’ I pulled away.

‘No chance,’ he says, and prods my belly, before reclining his own seat and lying back under his blanket.

And we go to sleep.

(Right. Sure.)


What actually happened was that I lay there for about twenty minutes and then I heard the gentle sound of John snoring. He always does when he sleeps on his back, no matter what.

The businessman looked over at me expectantly. Obviously the sound of my new husband’s snoring is going to distract him from his very important work, a disruption which will lead ultimately to the collapse of the world economy, so I better do something.

‘Darling?’ I say. ‘You’re snoring.’

‘Oh. Must be the red wine,’ he says.

‘Yeah, that must be it. Do you want the window seat?’

‘No. You have it.’ (He gets that look on his face, the one when he thinks he’s being all chivalrous. Hah.)

‘Well, do you want to lie down?’ I pulled up the seat arm so he can put his head in my lap, and pretty soon, he had his legs up on the spare seat and was lying in comfort across me, totally covered by both blankets.

We stayed like that for about another twenty minutes. The smell from his neck rose up, cologne and sweat and the gentle odour of his skin, and the weight of his head caused my thighs to part slightly, to give him a fuller lap to lie in. He grunted gently as he turned to face my stomach, so the breath from his nose was directed at the lowest part of my belly, and I imagined I could feel it though the blanket. His cheek was pressing slightly into my mons.

The hum of the engine was comforting but unrelenting against the left side of any body, and the warmth from his head and shoulders pressed into the right side of me. French voices drifted from the back of the cabin. The wine I drank was still working its magic and I began to feel dreamy, like I was a giantess, and my body was hurtling through space at many miles an hour; which I suppose, it was.

Long story short: I got horny.

Actually, very horny. So much that muscles in my stomach, legs and pussy had a few exploratory contractions, just to get the lie of the land.

‘You having fun?’ he says.

‘Yep,’ I am happy to report.

He settled back down again, but lifted his head up only a few minutes later and said, ‘You smell good.’

(He has quite the nose for me, it must be said. Sometimes he can smell when I am wet, just sitting next to me in the car.)

I smiled and reached my hand down underneath the blanket, lifting up his head, and I ran a finger along my labia.

Oh, yes. I am horny.

I placed the finger under his nose.

‘You’re lovely,’ he said quietly, and his arched his right hand over my thigh so that he can assess the situation for himself. I assisted this endeavour by pulling my g-string back out of the way, and soon, his fingers were gently probing the outside of my pussy.

John loves my pussy. If he touches it, he mostly wants to keep touching it until something happens. I know this. So, it was no great surprise or shame when he slowly worked his middle finger inside me, and then rested his thumb on my clitoris and gently nuzzled it. We do this all the time at home.

Just then, the Georgian stewardess passed by and had a cursory inspection of our row, and I wondered how obvious we were, under the blankets, John with his head in my lap, me with my hips slightly forward, and his right arm nowhere visible.

Can she see his hand in my cunt?

Apparently not. All she does is to check that his feet aren’t sticking out into the aisle too far. And then she moves on.

My hips relaxed slightly and my pussy opened. John put his mask back on, kissed me on the stomach through the blanket, and started slowly fingering me and stroking my clit with his thumb.


Sometimes my pussy has no off switch, and it was one of those nights.

John worked away slowly and steadily inside me, and after about ten minutes, I came, quietly. But he didn’t stop like he sometimes would, and after a few seconds of discomfort, the sensations turned to pleasure, and I realised I could go again. And then again.

Then, I have to get up to go to the toilet, and I gently move John’s hand and head so that I can get up. He does not say a word, just smiles at me and kisses me as I pass.

I cannot tell him what I am doing. It’s now after midnight and only the businessman is still awake nearby, but I don’t even want to whisper, which might break the perfect unspoken trust between us.

I get to the toilet and take off my g-string, which has become a genuine pain in my ass, scrunching against the join between my leg and my pussy every time John adjusts his angle. Being as wet as it is doesn’t help. I am slightly chaffed.

Then I go to the toilet. Coffee, water, wine and champagne have made this a necessity, and the last orgasm was spoiled by trying so hard not to pee. If I’d been at home, I might have…but not tonight.

After I pee, I wipe up some of the moisture that has found its way down to my thighs, and take the opportunity to explore my pussy, which is wet and open and still aching with gentle pleasure. I touching my clit and moan, and I can’t wait to get back to John.

But this is important: he can’t say anything. If he says something, it’s over.

Please don’t say anything, John. Please just put your hand back the way it was.

I come in past John, who is sitting upright, and he lies back down immediately I have the blanket in position, but this time, he steals his hand underneath my right thigh before I have a chance to put it down.

I am now sitting at an angle, with my left leg flat and my right one slightly raised. Two fingers find their way inside me quickly and wordlessly and his thumb is back on my clit, gentle but insistent.

I love you, John Mobray.

Blackberry man, still entranced in saving the economy. Lady in front, asleep. Stewardesses, all seated. Lights low. Engine loud.

We are go.


A further hour later, and I am engrossed in, dedicated to, the serious business of prolonged masturbation. The lovely, dirty man in my lap is giving me orgasm after orgasm. They just keep building, they are like waves in slow motion, breaking in the beach, and even as I’m having one, I could feel the next one, five minutes away, coming over the horizon.

I have elected to turn on the movie console to give myself some visible reason to be still awake, and making the occasional noise, and am now watching the beginning of Clooney’s Batman.

I did attempt to watch Amelie on the Frenchy channel but I found it stupid and incomprehensible. I wanted to pull Amelie’s hair. I also felt sorry for Amelie, because I knew that Amelie will never know the wanton thrill of being gently fingered to massive, shuddering climaxes in a cabin full of sleeping people. She is just too pretty. Poor Amelie.

I cannot actually follow Batman either in my current state, but I know it has something to do with trying to prevent an explosion. (Most of these films are, nowadays.)

George Clooney himself, I can comprehend. I know he is not Batman. He is George Clooney, pretending to be Batman by wearing a sexy mask, and getting paid lots of money to do it. Some of which he would surely like to spend on me.

Can he see me out of the corner of his eye? Does he notice as my faces creases up into yet another searing, delicious wave of pleasure? I bet he can. I bet he would be very interested in me, right now.

Let’s face it, any man would be interested in me right now. Feel how fucking wet I am! I am the superwoman of sex!

I grind down, and my husband responds. The fingers inside me build up the pace again.

I look at George. I look at his chin, and the lines around his eyes, and the lovely touches of grey in the sides of his…



And, now I gently tug the finger of the lovely man with his head in my lap.

We have a system. If I pull the finger, it means stop for a bit. Then when I pull it again and he keeps going.

He has stamina, my husband. He will do this for as long as I need. He is in it for the long haul. In fact, it is highly possible that he has been specially trained in this task, and hired by George Clooney to make me feel good, for the rest of my life.


Somewhere over the Atlantic at an unknown hour, we are partly reclined, with my skirt hitched fully up around my waist. The lights are all out and there are gentle sounds of sleep all around. Even Blackberry has switched off. We are all still covered in the blankets.

I am watching (sic) a movie with a blonde actress in it who is very stupid, and a top lawyer, and this is fine by me. I am not in the mood for finding discrepancies in things.

My new husband now has three fingers inside me, or maybe it is four. He is not moving them at all. Instead, I am slowly grinding my hips so that my cunt makes circular motions around his hand. The middle finger of my right hand sits on my clitoris, which feels as though it is about the size of a wine cork and aches to touch, but I can’t keep off it. There’s just no end to its demands, this evening. In almost total silence, I am coming again, and again, and again.

But something tells me that soon, this is going to have to stop. They will put the cabin lights on. They will come around and check on us. Blackberry will wake up. George Clooney will pull the funding for the project. John’s wrist will break. Or maybe, I will have a climax so big that I will finally feel that enough is enough. Something is starting to give. Something is starting to hurt.

I decide to put my foot down. It must be two o’clock in New York by now, and we land in a few hours. I am going to have one, last, orgasm, and then that will be the end of it.

I grind down hard on the lovely husband-man’s fingers and hear him gasp in pain, but there’s no way I’m letting him out. I rock backwards and forwards on his hand, and feel the ends of his fingers deep inside me, and then I rub out an absolutely huge orgasm, long and joyful and painful and exquisite, and I hold my breath for far too long, and lose control of my body.

My legs start shaking and I stamp them all over the floor like an epileptic having a seizure.

Fuck, I really have put my foot down.

I come to, and notice there are more cabin lights on than there were a while ago. Blackberry is looking over at me, scowling, and John has his mask up and is staring at me anxiously.

‘You OK?’ he says, and the sound of his voice breaks the spell.

‘Uhh…yeah. I’m OK.’

I move his hand out and close up my legs, and that is when I start to become aware of how much pain I am in.

The next thing I know, the Georgian’s voice comes over the loudspeaker.

Good morning, ladies and gentleman. We will be arriving in Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris in approximately one and a half hours. The local time is just after eight am. We will shortly be coming through the cabin serving light refreshments.

So that’s…um…

My brain can’t work out the time difference. I find I have no idea how many hours John and I were at it, or, how many times I came.

But my cunt is starting to tell me it was too many.



‘That was a genius move, spilling the milk and apple juice on the seat,’ said John as we waited at the baggage carousel. I was leaning on the trolley so people would not see my saddlesore limp, and ask if I need assistance.

‘Thanks. Those stains needed some explaining.’

‘I know. You were like a fire hydrant for a while there! I was most impressed.’

I laugh, then wince slightly as I shift my weight. My whole vagina from labia to cervix feels slightly raw, and some spots are worse than others. My g-spot feels like someone punched it.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks again.

‘Yeah I’ll be all right. It wasn’t your fault.’ I say.

And then I realised he wasn’t being at all apologetic, and was smirking at me.

‘In fact, fuck it. No. I’m not all right. You’re a bad man. You should have known I couldn’t handle that.’

‘I thought a big girl like you could look after yourself,’ he says. ‘So, first stop the Muse Picasso?’

‘Oh, fuck off. First stop a nice flat bed and then possibly a trip to the vagina transplant ward. You’re a bastard.’

‘I know, but loveable,’ he says. ‘Of course I will be expecting a return of the favour when we get into this nice flat bed of yours.’

‘You want to feel like this?’

‘Oh hell no,’ he grinned. ‘Unlike you, I know when to stop.’

‘I thought I did too!’ I whine. ‘But it just felt soooo good. Seriously. Incredible.’

‘And to think, it was all because of my snoring!’ John said, and winked.

The penny drops. He wasn’t snoring. He’d done it deliberately, to get onto my lap, and into my pants.

He’s a very bad man, my husband.

We got to the hotel and I slept all day, and was sore for three.

Then, we finally “made love” on the Thursday and again on the Friday, and it was fine, but we both always knew that the real moment of honeymoon bliss had happened well before the City of Love.

It was high over the Atlantic, on the long haul flight to De Gaulle.

Sweet Spot

Things are good in my world lately.

We’re about to go on a 3-week holiday overseas and that will give us both a chance to unwind and spend a lot of time together.

But even with all the activity leading up to going away things have been pretty good.

Michelle has ben teasing me a lot of late. The other day she came to bed and then asked me to masturbate while she posed naked for me, which I did at once. Then she bit me and made me kind her glorious boobs and smell her armpits, all of which was heaven./ She told me she was going to let me come  at the end, and then reneged and said she had changed her mind. After that she kicked me out of bed and insinuated she was going to masturbate in her own time.

The following night we actually tried to have coital sex. It was a bit hopeless – I haven’t come in several weeks and am very ‘backed up’. Sometimes I am fine in this situation and can still maintain control but last night was not one of those times. We screwed for about ten minutes, very slowly, and then she pushed me off and said that I could watch her while she came.  kissed her breasts while she played with herself. No orgasm for me. No sign of one either.

Her skin feels amazing at the moment. It’s warm and tender and smells heavenly. She giggles when I tell her things like this this because she knows that it’s largely the hormones making me feel that way but I also think she likes it too.

Putting Out the Garbage (Episode 1)

(An original and ongoing illustrated erotic story, originally from

I find my best friend’s new boyfriend very attractive.

I have to keep saying that to myself, to see if it’s really true.

I don’t want it to be true, so I test myself.

Is it still true today, like it was yesterday? Or last week? Or the first time I met him at that club, two months ago?

Or have I gotten over it, and come to my senses?

hqdefaultNo, I haven’t. Damn. It’s still true. I fancy him like crazy.

And that’s messed up, because Janie has been my best friend for ten years now and we’ve never mucked around with the men in each other’s lives. That’s just part of the deal. We’re sisters. We don’t do that to each other.

But if I did deeper, and I’m really honest, I have to admit the real reason I think it’s messed up.

He’s a garbage collector. At age 33.

And he talks like a garbage collector. Fuck, he even looks like a garbage collector too. Even in a suit, he somehow still looks like one.

So: I have a massive, gut-clenching crush on a 36 year old garbage collector who didn’t finish high school.

I have to stop myself fantasizing about him jumping on and off the back of a truck, in overalls! And whenever I can’t help myself and I do it anyway, I kinda forget what he looks like. It’s like I’m actually turned on by him being a garbageman.

And that’s messed up.


Friday night. I am going to meet Janie and Paul the Garbageman, and we’re going out to dinner. It was supposed to be a double date but my husband Graeme decided not to come, he wants to watch the game instead, but I haven’t told Janie yet because I don’t want her to cancel. Just the two of us girls, out with her new boyfriend. (Yeah, that should be fine.)

Graeme comes in to the bedroom while I am getting changed to go out. I am naked. All I have done so far is put on perfume. Various outfit choices are laid out on the bed. I don’t want him to see them.

‘Hi. What time are you heading out?’

‘In about half an hour.’ I stand forward so I am between him and the bed.

‘Hmmm.’ He moves closer and puts his hands on me. He smells like Scotch. ‘That’s a nice perfume,’ he says.

It’s one I don’t normally wear. He always said it was a bit girly.

‘Thanks. I didn’t think you liked it.’

‘Well, I like it today.’

His hands are still on my lower back, and it’s pretty nice, so I kiss him. I want him to leave, so I can try on all the outfits.  But I want him to stay and kiss me too. So we kiss for a while and I get a bit carried away.

‘You’re a sexy thing this evening!’ he says with a smile.

‘If I wasn’t going out, you’d probably be naked by now, too,’ I reply.

He laughs and kisses me some more, and then his hand drifts down to my pussy and he finds me wet. It’s lovely having him touch me there, gently, just for a moment.

‘Sure you don’t want to ring and cancel?’ he says.

‘Hmmmm….I’d love to, but I really should go. Janie is really keen to make sure her friends like this new guy.’

‘Paul?’ he says, moving back. ‘He seemed all right to me. What’s she concerned about?’

‘I think she’s worried he’ll feel snubbed, because of what he does for a living,’ I say, putting on a bra. ‘I think he’s in waste management or something.’

$T2eC16R,!)kE9s4Z+lr1BSF101(OYg~~60_35‘Yep, he’s a garbage collector!’ says Graeme.  ‘And when I talked to him, he didn’t seem ashamed at all. He said he makes pretty good money.’

‘Oh. Well, Janie said she really wanted me there, so I’m gonna go. Maybe we can hang out later?’

‘Sure, darling. Have fun.’ He gives me another kiss and then walks out into the kitchen to cook himself a steak.

I’m pretty sure this crush on Paul isn’t subconsciously about trying to make Graeme jealous. But if it is, it’s failing. Graeme doesn’t get jealous.

I put my new pair of sexy knickers on as soon as he is out of the room, and then I quickly slip into the knee-length pink dress, in case he walks back in and sees my choice of knickers.

On my way out to the taxi, I remember why I don’t normally wear underwear like this. Damn thing has already ridden half up my ass. But I wear it anyway.


I walk into the restaurant and I see Paul. He is wearing acid wash jeans and trainers and a blue polo shirt and he looks like the sort of guy you’d see hanging around drunk outside a sports bar. My eyes drift down and I look for his stomach poking out over the top of his belt. But there isn’t one.

men-drinking-beerEven so, his fashion sense is terrible. I am not attracted to this guy any more. Finally. I’m over it.

Janie comes up and kisses me. She is wearing a dress so similar to mine at first I think it must actually be the same, but then I notice hers is backless.

‘Hi! Where’s Graeme?’

There really wasn’t much of a pause between the ‘Hi’ and the question. She’s smiling, and patting me on the arm. Paul is at the bar, looking at the football on the small screen behind it. He hasn’t said hello yet.

‘Gray couldn’t come. He’s had a big week. He says sorry.’ (He didn’t at all).

‘Oh.’ She looks disappointed. ‘Well, do you still want to have dinner? We could just have a few drinks instead if you like?’

I want to have dinner. I booked this place because it has booth couch seats. So I can sit next to Paul. Why hasn’t Paul said hello to me yet?

‘Oh, it’s fine.’ I say. ‘We can still grab a bite to eat. Hi Paul.’

‘Hi.’ He leans over and kisses me on the cheek, absently. His breath smells like beer. His cologne smells like urinal cake. OK, so definitely not attracted to this guy.

‘Well,’ says Janie, ‘Let’s have one more drink and then we can sit down.


‘Yeah, sure,’ he says. He’s still watching the screen. The Raiders are winning by a field goal. Graeme would be pleased.

Janie rolls her eyes. ‘OK, I’ll get them, then. Champagne?’ she says to me.

‘Pint of New,’ says Paul. No eye contact. What a jerk.

She goes to the bar and I stand there awkwardly for a bit while he watches the game.

‘How was your week?’ I say lamely.

‘Huh? Oh, it was OK.’ That’s all. But at least he turns to look down at me. Which means, it’s my turn to talk again. But what to say? How about: “Did you collect any really nice garbage this week?”

Finally I opt for: ‘what sort of route do you take? You know, when you are, um, doing your job.’

He smiles. ‘People always ask that. I do the west side.’

‘Oh. We live in Glengarry. Maybe you do our street. Richmond Terrace?’

Again, the smile. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘The route programmer just tells you where to go.’

‘Oh.’ There’s a roar from the TV and he looks back up. Quick, Lara, think of something else to say. ‘So how did you get into waste management?’

(Oh, man. Note to self: Kill me).

He doesn’t smile this time. ‘I had this friend, and he was doing it so I tried out. Just sort of happened.’ He shrugs.

‘Well, gotta pay the rent right?’


Then, I remember he told last time that he owns his house. I really should just shut up now.

Janie comes back with the champagne and I inhale it.

‘Cheers,’ says Paul and quaffs his half-full pint, spilling some on his shirt collar, before taking a sip of the new one. I watch on in horror, and then notice Janie staring at me.

‘You were thirsty!’ she says. I realise I have just drunk almost the entire glass of champagne.

This guy makes me nervous.