by Robert Furlong
Part 20: Both Ways
At first I was convinced my ex-wife was in the bed with me.
It was Sunday morning and I was in that half-dreaming half-dozing state I sometimes end up in when I’ve slept too long and I really should get up. I’d opened an eye to check the alarm clock a couple of times and, even though it was well after nine, I’d kept sinking back into a deep, restful sleep.
And that was when I started to think someone was lying next to me in the bed.
Was it Linda? Was she somehow still with me?
I reached out my arm – or, at least, it felt like I did – and I could feel the smoothness of her arm. It felt so good to caress the silky skin of a woman again; to push my hand further towards her, across the gentle sweep of her neck, the plump rise of her breasts…
It couldn’t be Linda… she left me, didn’t she?
I cupped one breast and then the other, feeling their soft, yielding fleshiness and teasing the firmer skin around her nipples.
Could it be Debbie? Was I sleeping with Debbie?
I pushed myself forwards, meeting her hip through my pyjamas with the head of my erection. I ground it against her, leaving gooey trails on her skin with the ooze from its tip as I hoped she would be growing more discreetly moist in her readiness to accept me.
I worked my hand across her stomach, marvelling at the softness of her skin, and then down between her legs, finding her thighs invitingly parted and her labia deliciously wet.
How was this happening? Who was this?
I pressed a finger gently into her and found her surprisingly tight to enter. Her hole was small and resistant, its round opening barely yielding to take even my first knuckle.
I withdrew from her and caressed her gently between her thighs, hoping to relax her. She seemed unusually hairy down there and I roused slightly from my sleep, finding the feel of her – the defined ridge between her legs, bristling with hair – unexpected and yet familiar.
My barely-conscious mind struggled to make sense of this… had I brought someone home with me last night?
I felt something soft and saggy against my wrist and reached upwards towards it. There was something bag-like, with two solid mounds rolling around inside – a large pair of testicles. And above those, the thickened, veined rod of another man’s erection.
Was this a man in my bed?
I struggled to wake up, unsure of what was happening. Who was this?
She – he – turned towards me, my hand groping at his muscular frame, his rough, hairy skin, flailing at his chubby buttocks as he pushed himself towards me. His cock was thrusting against my hip, feeling large and insistent – wetting my skin with its dribbles of excitement.
He wanted to fuck me. He was tugging at my pyjamas in his urgency to mount me.
And abruptly I awoke and the body I was holding onto dissolved into the creases and folds in my duvet.
Except for me, sweating and gasping, the bed was empty.
I reached down for my cock, pounding upwards from the front of my fly in time with my heartbeat, and wanked it quickly and roughly. The dream had turned the tables on me and, in spite of the shock it had given me, I was intensely aroused by the imagery it had presented.
The fucker had been on the verge of becoming fucked: mounted himself in the bed he had, so many times, mounted his wife. It was prophetic: this would soon be happening. I was about to find I really did have a man next to me in my bed!
My excitement intensifying, I hitched down my pyjama bottoms with one hand and licked the middle finger of the other. Taking up a frantic rhythm on my cock which made the bed creak, I opened my legs as wide as I could and rammed my spit-moistened finger deep into my hole. Early mornings, I’d found, weren’t an ideal time to finger myself, but I needed to feel something pumping into me down there.
With a rapid succession of jerks and half a dozen noisy, squelching thrusts, I squirted a copious climax across my pyjama top.
Then I heard Jake stumble out from his bedroom door and slam into the bathroom.
Before I got into the shower, I bent down and splayed my cheeks apart to take a look at my arsehole through the bathroom mirror. I’d never looked at it until I’d started fingering myself, but I imagined that previously it would have been very much like some of the other ‘virgin’ holes I’d seen in the past few months: tiny, pink and tightly clenched.
These days, as I checked it from time to time, I noticed that the furrowed opening between my cheeks was becoming significantly larger and developing a redder and more pronounced ring from the constant intrusions of my finger. It wasn’t yet gaping open and didn’t form a distended purple ‘O’ like the arseholes of some of the guys I’d seen on the internet who were used to being regularly fucked, but I harboured a secret fantasy that one day mine would look equally splayed and well-used.
I relaxed my muscles as much as I could and marvelled in the mirror at how big I could make my hole open. I liked to imagine how much bigger it would grow once I was in the habit of accommodating a variety of cocks inside it and fantasized about it stretching so large that it would be obvious to anyone who happened to see my naked bum when I bent over that I wasn’t quite as straight-laced as I first appeared.
As I showered, I thought about what it would be like to be naked in the changing rooms with Steve after squash and to innocuously reach down for something I needed to pick up. Whereas he and the other men around us would bend down to reveal only the most delicate pink rosebuds nestling between their cheeks, I was taken with the fantasy that I would splay for them such a cavernous orifice and plump, puckered sphincter that they would instantly recognise that I’d developed an unorthodox hobby which had had a rather profound effect on me back there. Boring, predictable Rob would show himself to be not quite as homely as they might have assumed and was flaunting an arsehole that revealed his sex life had a lot more to it than they might have expected.
In reality, of course, I’m uncomfortable enough just being naked around other people and would be completely mortified to show my bum off – gaping or otherwise – so overtly to them. But in my fantasy, I’d scrabble around as if searching for something under the bench, spreading my arse cheeks as wide as I could to parade my well-used and prominently inflamed arsehole to my awe-struck audience.
My hole would be splayed and shocking; its once tiny, puckered circumference, so recently clamped tightly shut like those of all the other men in the room, now yawning open with its edges puffed up and scarlet. I’d let them see how wide it was stretched: not just enough to accommodate an inquisitive finger in a moment of self-exploration, but so dilated that it would be clear to even the most unworldly observer exactly what I had so eagerly been using it to receive.
I’d linger for them, allowing them time to imagine me – good old reliable, harmless Rob – having his bowels cleaved open by a succession of large, thrusting cocks; and to wonder how many men it might have taken to loosen my once unremarkable anus to such an obscenely commodious state. They might even imagine themselves coming up behind me to grunt and thrust and add their own veiny girths to the many that had gone before them.
Then I’d stand back up, smiling innocently at Steve, and ask him something stupid like what he was doing at the weekend.
And he’d gawk at me, flustered, his own cock hardening between his legs, unable to stop himself envisaging the two of us rutting together, imagining his own slick shaft sliding effortlessly into his friend’s crudely gaping and well-practiced entrance.
I smiled as I washed myself, aware of how ridiculous the scenario was but enjoying it regardless. Having such a broad and distended arsehole would bring with it obvious impracticalities, but how useful it would be to be able to show off to other men one’s voracious availability without having to utter a single word.
Next time I had to share a hotel room with another man, whether at a wedding or a football game or most likely through work, I’d be able to treat my room-mate to a view of my behind as we got undressed; reaching for something on the floor while flaunting my stretched hole so blatantly for him to ogle at.
I’d finger myself beforehand to bestow it with an inviting shade of purple, and push it out towards him, bloated and swollen and evocative of his wife’s lips. He’d immediately recognise the sort of man he was sharing with: a man who liked to receive the copious loads of others. And he’d realise that, along with my talk of my ex-wife and the woman I was dating, I’d taken up a second interest with my own gender and had become an unremittingly active recipient of my fellow men’s attentions.
He’d find himself musing about adding his own day’s accumulation of seed to the countless gallons I was so clearly used to taking, and might, in the dead of night, creep over to my bed. In the absence of his wife, I’d let him use me to pleasure himself, heaving and sweating against my back with his cock finding my male version of her hole even more accommodating than hers. I’d soon be on all fours taking it from him, his knees between mine pushing them apart, grunting together and sniffing at the strong, acrid odour of our exclusively male variant of sex.
I chuckled as I rinsed my hair. This was a ludicrous idea, completely at odds with my reserved character, but it was hugely enjoyable to fantasize.
One video I’d seen had shown a guy whose arse was so well-ploughed by repeated and relentless anal sex, with a ring which was so engorged and pushed so far outwards, that it would have made a conspicuous and inviting circle against the seat of his trousers when he bent down. I was hugely intrigued by the idea of having an arsehole so blatantly distended that I would be able to bend over fully clothed and have men be able to see from the swollen prominence of my ring and the sheer scale of my hole that I would take on all-comers.
I liked the thought of male colleagues coming to my office, as they often do, to show me their designs or proposals and for me to bend down as if to pick something up and flaunt the mound of my rear opening, making an eye-catching ‘O’ between my buttocks, to show them how available I was to my own gender. I’d enjoy seeing their trousers bulge at the prospect of what was on offer, the prongs of their cocks eager to connect snugly with the socket of my gratuitously accessible hole.
Or to show myself off in Tesco, bending to reach the groceries on the bottom shelf, letting other men see how flagrantly dilated and puckered I was and how willing I am to receive their attentions. A guy would catch my eye and we’d smile at each other, and then make our way to the store toilets so he could stretch me a little wider with his cock poking out from his fly while his wife got on with the shopping.
I knew I would never do any of this stuff, but the prospect of flashing around a grotesquely widened arsehole was, on some exhibitionistic level, rather fascinating. I loved the idea of being among other men and to be the one everyone knew was bending over for just about any cock that happened to get hard in his company. To be naked in the changing room and have them all staring at me as I bent so far forwards that a dribble of white liquid, the merest hint of a copious deposit made in an earlier encounter, oozed silently from my gaping ring for them all to see.
I got out of the shower and looked at my backside again in front of the mirror, this time with my buttocks in a more seemly state of togetherness. I thought I had a nice bum – on another man, I’d have certainly found it appealing – and I’d once had a girlfriend who’d said, a touch enigmatically, that it was my most attractive feature.
There was a heavy banging on the door. “What are you doing in there?” Jake called in.
Sometimes it was like having my brother in the house.
“What do you think?” I replied.
“Well, hurry up, ’cause I’m going to be late for football practice.”
I started drying myself, wondering if a course of driving lessons might make a good Christmas present for him so he could start driving himself around.
I had an e-mail from Debbie.
I’d logged in quickly as Jake was throwing some kit into his rucksack, gulping down the last of my coffee while I tied up my shoelaces.
After my last e-mail to her, asking if we could reschedule our second date (I had a rather cruder encounter planned with an as yet unknown man from my office – although obviously I didn’t tell her that), I hadn’t heard back for a few days. I’d been wondering if I’d offended her so much that she had decided against meeting up with me and I’d been a little worried that perhaps I should have done the honourable thing and put her first. However, it had also occurred to me that if she was so easily upset, it was likely that we weren’t particularly well-matched, as my ex-wife had always claimed I have an innate compulsion to antagonise women. If that were true, I clearly needed a woman with a rather thicker skin than one who would be so easily provoked.
I clicked on Debbie’s message, which she had sent the previous evening, to open her e-mail.
Reading through it, its tone was largely one of disappointment – that was fair enough – but she seemed remarkably understanding that I would have prior commitments and said she would see what she could do to change her own arrangements. She was eager to see me again before Christmas and the offer of a stopover at her place was still on the cards.
I felt relieved that both my options were still open to me. I still had my night with whoever it was that Cameron was fixing me up with – whichever man he had in store for me – but I also had an evening at Debbie’s place to look forward to.
I clicked “Reply” and thanked her for her understanding. I assured her that my plans for Friday – my God, it was actually this Friday coming! – were unchangeable as it involved work (which it did, kind of) and that I would have altered things around if I could have done.
I said I hoped we could meet as soon as possible after that – even that same weekend if she could wangle it. Poor Jake would have to have two nights over his mum’s.
The change of scenery would do him good.
After driving Jake to football practice, I returned home to see if Debbie had replied to my e-mail. She hadn’t.
Maybe she was sulking. More likely she hadn’t yet read it.
I had an hour before I needed to pick Jake up and thought my time could be productively spent taking another, more languid, look through Andrew Marter’s entertaining website about male rimming. However, I wasn’t able to find the link that I’d brought up previously and instead, having clicked along a trail which turned out to be misleading, I found myself in an archive of gay stories written by amateur authors.
With my arrow hovering over the back button, I glanced down the list of categories and spotted “Asslick” as one of the links.
After reading through a few of the stories, which turned out to be surprisingly well-written and bracingly explicit, I realised I had stumbled across quite a find. Here were all sorts of fascinating accounts of men enjoying my own particular fetish in an imaginative array of beguiling scenarios.
In ‘Chilean Bore Holes’ a group of trapped miners were forced to commit unthinkable acts of camaraderie together, coupling up in the dark, claustrophobic tunnels as their only means of solace. Chapter one, in which the men discovered the inner yearnings they had harboured for one another, was highly enjoyable but the fun really got going in chapter two. In this, following a landslide in one of the tunnels, two of the men were pinned one on top of the other; one man’s face pressed firm against his compatriot’s bottom. Their fellow workers struggled to pull them free but were only able to tear the rags of their clothes away from their immovable bodies. In time, the man whose face was so fortuitously positioned realised that every cloud has a silver lining and told the others of his chance discovery. By the time a shaft from the surface had been drilled into their tunnel, the miners were requesting that only food and water be sent down to them; rescue, they unanimously decided, was not necessary.
Several stories involved sex with celebrities, usually beginning with disclaimers about the works being fictional. My favourite was ‘Warm Front from the South’, in which one of the BBC weathermen, the rather sturdy Yorkshireman Darren Bett, was portrayed as becoming friendly with one of his followers at a meteorologists’ conference (I wasn’t aware that weathermen were attended by fans, but for the sake of the story I accepted the premise). After dinner at the event, it transpired there had been an unfortunate double-booking at the hotel – an organisational blunder which one would assume to be widespread from the number of stories it recurred in – and the two men were forced to bunk up together. Needless to say, Mr Bett took advantage of the attentions of his admirer and demanded that he prove his adoration by using his mouth to do the “one thing that his wife wouldn’t”. The weather enthusiast was keen to comply and Mr Bett performed well; an earlier forecast of wind proved to be happily unfounded.
Most of the stories, though, developed commonplace situations into sexual opportunities and it was these that I liked most. One of them, ‘Son Burn’, was written from the perspective a young doctor who was on holiday in Gran Canaria with his wife and their young daughter. The couple in the room next door were accompanied by their son and his friend, both of whom were in their late teens, and on the first day of the holiday the son – Jamie – went off with his friend and overdid it somewhat with the skinny-dipping. Being laid up in bed with sunburn the next day while the rest of the gang were out sightseeing, our good doctor offered to check in on the scorched patient and rub lotion on the parts he wasn’t able to reach himself. Within a surprisingly short number of paragraphs, the doctor-patient relationship had taken a somewhat steamy turn and the lad was proving himself eager to have the doctor give him an especially thorough examination with the soothing probing of his tongue.
The only let-down with many such stories, for me at least, was that the authors were often reluctant – scared, even – to describe what it was like to rim a guy with anything approaching realistic language. It was as if the tastes and smells of rimming a man were too offensive to be clearly expressed.
A guy would home in on another’s splayed buttocks, only to find within “a salty, damp hole exuding a uniquely human taste of manliness and strength”. What was that supposed to mean?
Another might grapple the muscled hips of his wily co-conspirator, pushing his face between the cheeks in front of him, only to take in “the raw essence of his pent-up virility deep inside.”
“Long, lapping licks into the balmy crevice” would yield only “a seasoned festival of flavours”; while someone who “drove his nose with all the force he could muster between the abundant globes before him” was left with merely “a delicate suggestion of the most natural of scents”.
It was all too vague; too sanitary. How did it really smell to have your face pressed into a guy’s arse? What was the actual taste when your tongue was licking his most secretive hole? Without knowing such details, the whole scene fell flat for me; the two men might as well have been on a picnic together.
Sometimes there was no description of smells or tastes at all, as if the author was too afraid to upset his readers with the reality of what was lurking between a guy’s arse-cheeks. One man would press his face close to his friend’s rear only to notice “the burgeoning hairiness down there” or the “warm, moistness of the tight, pink entry” with his tongue.
And? Anything else?
It was like reading ‘Dracula’ with all references to blood, fangs and anything else too unsavoury for polite company cut out.
The whole point of rimming a man, as far as I was concerned, was to enjoy the powerful intimacy of having erotic contact in the most private and personal way possible. Such an experience demanded a whole swathe of striking, vivid and unambiguous adjectives. These guys were going to be having sex together – passionate, expressive sex using each other’s bums – and words like ‘aromatic’ and ‘fragrant’ simply wouldn’t cut it for me.
Having said that, I came across an occasional story which went too far in the other direction, and an author could sometimes find himself, for my tastes at least, overstepping the fine line between eroticism and distastefulness. For me, there would be no appeal whatsoever in putting my face near a guy’s unwiped backside and so any descriptions of rimming which included faecal associations in any of their variants was an immediate turn-off. From what Cameron had told me, I knew that some men must enjoy that level of seediness, but not me.
I didn’t expect a guy to scrub away all traces of his own scent back there and smear himself in perfume – after all, if I wanted to smell flowers, that would be a pretty unlikely place to start sniffing – but nor did I want to discover when I pressed my face to him that he smelled like a toilet.
There had to be a happy medium between the two extremes, but very few of the stories I was reading through were willing to commit themselves to where exactly that was.
“His hole had a funky, nutty smell to it,” was the closest I could get, in a story about a college student whose curiosity got the better of him when he was undressing his drunken roommate. “It tasted bitter, like dirt would taste,” the story went on, “but the fact I was licking his arsehole was such a turn-on that I didn’t really care.”
“When Steven pushed his tongue into Nathan,” another author related in a story about two guys who had met in a subway station, “he found his companion tasted musty and metallic.” Metallic? I wasn’t sure about that. On both occasions I’d done it, I hadn’t noticed any similarity to sniffing a handful of coins.
“His butthole smelled rich, ripe and cheesy,” was the description in another story. That didn’t sound right, either. Too fungal to be erotic.
“When I pulled his briefs down, a delicious waft hit me, as if straight from the sewer.” No, no, no. Mark well and truly overstepped.
The computer made a pinging sound. A reply had come in from Debbie. That was encouraging.
She’d have to wait, though. These stories were far too interesting.
I clicked the back button a few times to see what other categories the archive had on offer.
Rejecting ‘Ass to mouth’ (I’d followed such links before when looking for rimming movies and found the content wasn’t at all what I’d expected it to be), I clicked on ‘Bisexual’. I wondered if any of the stories in this section would touch upon my own predicament of being faced with meeting up with both a woman and a man.
I found that most of them, however, revolved around guys getting together for sex with both a woman and a man at the same time. While the idea was intriguing – I wondered, actually, why it hadn’t occurred to me before – I was looking for something that related more directly to my own situation.
After a few minutes, I found a story about a young guy called Declan who worked in a bank and who had always dated girls. He went to gay clubs because he preferred the music (yeah, right) and there he had met up with a friendly young man called Reece. Reece started coming back to Declan’s flat after clubbing and the two of them would chat into the night about the many bands, TV shows and films which they both liked. Soon Reece was staying over on the settee, and Declan would take lingering looks at his friend the next morning as he slept, wondering whether Reece was interested in him sexually and curious about what it would be like if they experienced intimacy together.
He thought back to some of his girlfriends – especially a girl called Charlene who had been special to him – and found himself musing, with Reece splayed out on his couch wearing just a t-shirt and his briefs, how a night with this gay man would play out.
“I wondered how Reece would differ in his expectations of me,” Declan pondered in the story. “With most of my girlfriends, what I call ‘full sex’ (but what the books would probably call penetration) was pretty much a given. Would it be the same with Reece? Women, especially Charlene, like to be the more submissive partner during sex. Would Reece be more assertive; would he try to take a more dominant role with me?”
It was an interesting question and one which I had been wondering about myself.
“Perhaps Reece would, during foreplay, expect me to do the same things with him that I like to do with a woman. He might want me to finger him the way I sometimes start out by masturbating a woman. But with Reece, without a pussy down there, I was faced with having to work a finger in and out of his backside.”
Declan didn’t disclose whether the prospect of fingering his friend’s arse appealed to him; I suspected for many straight men, the idea would fill them with revulsion. For my part, I was very attracted to the idea of masturbating a man anally during the early stages of our sex, although how I would pleasure him down there without a clitoris to guide me was something I’d have to figure out by trial and error.
“Would he pump himself against my hand, the way that a woman would?” Declan wondered. “Or would the rhythm be left to me, to choose how quickly to work my fingers back and forth in and out of him? Perhaps he’d want to finger me at the same time; maybe that’s what two guys do together.”
Plausible idea, Declan, I thought, but it doesn’t seem likely. After all, it’s not something you see men doing together in porn movies. I remembered the librarian telling me that I shouldn’t base my expectations of what men do together on what I see in porn – which was good advice, albeit haughtily given – but in this case I felt porn was likely to be a fairly reliable mirror.
Declan ultimately decided that Reece would prefer his attention to be directed towards his penis. “That is, after all, where men get their sexual sensations from and the part that we mostly link with feelings of pleasure. Our hands will probably be drawn to each other’s erections, and we’ll stimulate each other the way we enjoy doing it to ourselves.”
He seemed relieved that his and Reece’s bottoms would probably take a secondary role, being used as an occasional diversion rather than being solely responsible for their joint excitement.
He and I would have to differ on that point: for me, a large part of the fun of having sex with another man would be getting face-deep in his butt-crack and having him do the same to me. The appeal of that seemed rather lost on Declan, who would prefer to keep his dealings with Reece very much on the level of the penile.
“Perhaps we might kneel close together so we could work both of our organs as one; one or other of us grabbing both our erections side by side and pumping them together in one outstretched fist. Grinding our hips towards each other, feeling our balls slapping together. Yes, I was sure I would enjoy that.”
That’s when that fingering idea might prove felicitous, I thought, envisioning one guy wanking at their twinned cocks and the other using both hands underneath their balls to seek out their separate hot, moist holes. But no: Declan’s heterosexual leanings directed his imagination almost completely towards how he could pleasure his erection.
“I wondered if we could rub our organs against each other’s chests, the way I enjoy doing to a woman between her breasts? Would our pecs be big enough to stimulate each other’s shafts? Would our chest hair get in the way?”
So Declan was hairy, was he? I wondered how he knew about what Reece had under his shirt.
“But of course,” it suddenly dawned on Declan, “we wouldn’t need the valley between a pair of breasts to do such things: gay guys probably do the same thing along the cracks of each other’s butts. We could hump each other’s from behind, taking it in turns to rub ourselves between each other’s arse-cheeks.”
I liked Declan’s idea and could picture the two of them taking turns on each other: the bank clerk rubbing his cock so cheerfully between his gay friend’s buttocks and then turning, dutifully, to let Reece pleasure himself in the same way. Declan might stay hard while the other man grunted and grinded behind him but his thoughts, I was sure, would be on how long it would take before his own turn came again.
I would love to work myself between another guy’s splayed buttocks; seeing my cock-head thrusting upwards from his tight, hairy crack. In some ways it would be better than doing the same thing with a woman’s breasts: with a man, you’d be able to sniff the scent of his rear as you humped him; the whiff of his backside giving an alluring preview of the stronger, earthier odours you’d enjoy when you were buggering him properly.
For my part, though, I would relish with almost the same excitement the feel of his cock sweeping up and down between my buttocks; having him humping my arse crack as we squatted together with his knees pushed between mine. Not least, I would enjoy smelling my own musky anal scent and to know that he too could not be unaware of the unique flavour my own backside was exuding as he thrust his swollen manhood back and forth inside my hot, hairy crack.
And then, when he was panting with excitement and his shaft was slick with the pungent wetness from my hairy cleft, he’d stand up and I’d turn to lick his girth. How exciting it would be to devour the thick, earthy stink of my own sweaty bum from his cock like I was rimming my own arsehole.
Declan didn’t touch on such inelegant matters but instead chose to consider how far he would go with Reece in the way of what he called ‘full sex’. While he was happy to allow the other man to use his buttocks as a masturbatory aid, he was adamant that his banker’s vault between them would remain secure.
“I cannot see myself doing that,” he wrote. “While I am sure that Reece and I will be able to have a lot of fun together in my bed, to submit to him in that way would be out of the question.”
That seemed rather a shame.
For me, rubbing our cocks between each other’s arse-cheeks would like an unspoken aperitif before we committed to anal sex, the two of us trying each other out to see which way around we most enjoyed it. Declan was very particular, though, that if Reece was under any confusion about which of their sausages would end up in the stuffing, the whole thing would be off as far as he was concerned.
I glanced at the clock on the computer and saw that I should have been picking Jake up twenty minutes ago. I wasn’t overly concerned: after having the misfortune to see on Facebook the way he and his mates messed around in the changing rooms after football practice, I knew that there was no point in rushing.
Feeling some disappointment that I wouldn’t get to read about how things transpired between Declan and Reece, I quickly deleted my browser history.
After closing down all the programs and almost on the point of switching off the computer, I suddenly remembered to check Debbie’s e-mail.
It turned out that she could meet me the following night for a meal in a restaurant she knew in Cranford if I was available. That sounded pretty good.
Even better, she had managed to swap things around and was free, as she put it “the whole of Thursday night”. That sounded a lot more promising.
So, if all worked out as I hoped, it seemed that I’d be staying over with Debbie on Thursday and then might finally get to have a man in my bed on Friday. I might even get a kiss the following evening after our meal.
As I grabbed my car keys and headed for the front door, I thought, “Who says you can’t have it both ways?”
Next story: Stain Devils
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