It was another of those dates – the ones I almost cancel, but can’t find a good enough excuse. Which is, unfortunately, the impetus for many of my dates. But, oh well, that’s the way I roll…
So there I was at the quaint little hotel on the outskirts of Paris, greeting the cleaning lady with a cheery “bonjour”, hoping she wouldn’t linger too long in the hallway. I knocked gingerly at the door. It swung open… and a massive bunch of roses was thrust in my face.
“Wha – what is this?!” I exclaimed in amazement.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, darling,” said the Professor.
“This is the first time anyone has given me flowers,” I told him, throwing my arms around him and kissing him with passion.
“Surely… someone… sometime…” he protested, between kisses.
“Hmm,” I paused to think. “Only my brothers.”
“Take off your clothes,” he told me. “All of them.”
I stripped off my bright pink jacket, peeled off my lycra running pants and unzipped my bra, letting my breasts spring out. I paused when I came to my black ribboned knee socks.
“You can keep the knee socks,” he said, unzipping his pants. I knelt down and began to suck his erect cock. Eventually, tiring of the CMNF thing, he began to shed the rest of his clothes, but he had to do it with his cock in my mouth, for I kept sucking him, giggling. Finally he grabbed me under my arms and lifted me up, until I was not only standing, but completely off the ground, and then he tossed me onto the bed like a doll.
“I feel like such a pervert, fucking you in these knee socks,” he said as he sank into me. I laughed delightedly. He began to fuck me harder, exhorting me to come. Then he flipped me over onto my stomach and lay on top of me, pinning me down so that I couldn’t move.
“You’re helpless now,” he told me. “I can do whatever I want with you…”
I felt his hand straying to my ass,and I whimpered and tried to wriggle away, hoping to dissuade him from fucking me there. He forced his thumb into my ass and pulled my head up by my hair, making me look at myself in the mirror as he fucked me. Then he withdrew abruptly, flung me back over onto my back and re-entered me in missionary, pushing one of my thighs down against the bed to keep my legs apart and my pussy wide open for him. I squealed with mounting excitement, thrusting my hips up to meet his rutting pelvis. He held me down, fucking me harder as I came, though I squirmed and struggled to get away, until the last throes had subsided, and I lay there limply while he continued to fuck me. It was then, as always, that I heard him make the soft, low sounds of nearing climax, and I felt that proud thrill of knowing he would come, and very soon, and that it was because of me.
We talked for a while afterwards, mostly about his father, erstwhile notorious skirt-chasing gynaecologist, with a voice “like melted chocolate”, according to one of his many admiring junior doctors, now hobbling around, having lost one foot to diabetes, starting a PhD program at the age of, oh, I don’t know… he must be around 90. And all that was apparently to say that there might still be hope for my Mum, after all. But I was already getting dressed and only half-listening. I contemplated the flowers, lying at the end of the bed.
“You know I can’t take these home with me,” I said wistfully.
“I know,” he smiled. “It’ll be a nice surprise for the cleaning woman, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” I agreed, as I kissed him. How I wished I could take just one rose! Smuggle it home, pressed against my chest. Then it occurred to me – I could take a photograph instead. That would last forever… longer, certainly, than our affair, which already seemed to have lost some of its lustre. I remember days when we would stand face to face outside the cinema doors, and I’d be trembling all over, just at the thought of his touch. Where have the good times gone? It isn’t just boredom – it can’t be. And I still love him… sort of. He is the progenitor of my children, and it still thrills me to see traces of him in their childish expressions. But perhaps our love has simply run its course. After all, seven years is a long time for an affair, is it not? And we were doomed from the start. He was Winston, I was Julia. We couldn’t win.
I admit, I wrote this entry just to have somewhere to put my flowers. And to break the monotony of Edge-centric posts. Not the best of reasons, maybe. But hey, that’s how I roll…