lorna mmm
02-07-2010, 04:29 AM
Stevie phoned today, at last ! I've been going out of my mind with worry all week. Guilt about Rosie as well, yes, but mostly the worry. He laughed when I told him how frightened I was, the bastard. I mean, it's not like he doesn't understand the problems we've got to deal with. He said he'd been surprised at how mental Rosie went when he told her about us; I couldn't tell if he was being naieve, or just taking the piss. Either way, it was so good to hear his voice; to hear my man tell me that he was going to sort it all. It's been bad enough having to listen to Wullie, my impotent idiot of a husband, wittering on about "his" baby, and having to admit to myself that I've lost my best friend [ yes, I know it's my fault ]; without having to be without my man as well. Anyway, he said it won't be long now, so that's what's important. He said we'd be together soon. I wanted to ask him if he'd had sex with her, only I didn't want to hear the answer; of course he'd been shaging her. She hadn't walked away, as I knew she wouldn't; so that meant she still wanted him. Despite whatever arguing and crying was going on, she'd still be opening her thighs for him, of that I had no doubt. I mean, if I was in her position, I'd be doing the same. You fight a battle with the weapons you have, and she was there, and available. After all, I'm his completely after six months, she's got years and years and four kids invested in him. so I can't see her giving him up too easily. Never mind, wars mean more than battles, particularly when women are fighting for something we want. Sisterhood ? My arse. All I have to do is get him back in my bed, refuse nothing, never say no. Lord, how I wish he was with me now, my love. I'm going moist, just thinking about him, and some of the things we've done. Some kind people have told me that they've enjoyed reading what I've written so far; so I'll tell you a bit more about our sexy times together.
I normally work three or four shifts a week, at the nursing home; sometimes earlies, sometimes days, and sometimes lates. I never work nights. The job is basically centered around washing and feeding pentioners, and sometimes wiping their arses; scarcely OK-magazine glamour, but I really enjoy it. Stevie says that I've been using it to fill in for not having kids; you know, like caring for the old folks, instead of caring for my own children, and I think he's right. Some of the old dears have a right story to tell, and some of the old boys try to touch you up, or say the most inappropriate things, but that just helps to make the job more fun. Knowing that they've still got a bit of life left in them. I told you about the uniform I wear, yellow or green dress, with a white trim, and a zip down the front, stopping just above the knee. It looks a little more like a domestic cleaner than an old fasioned nurses get up, but that's pretty much what I am, a nursing assistant. Stevie loves the uniform, he often makes me put it on when he's popping round to see me on my days off. Not that it's fitted so well of late, mind; what with me showing now. I'm going to have to pack it in soon, though I'm still not certain if I'll be coming back to it after. The government give women up to two years of paid maternity leave, I think; the pay gradually decreasing, so I'd be daft to just stop at once. Well, everybody else does it, and I've worked and paid tax all my days, so why not ? Wullie works in a power station, a few miles out of town. He's been there since leaving school, and it shows. Up really early and back around six. There are times, when I've been fed up with him, when I wondered if he'd been reared in a bloody power station hatchery. He knows his workmates busieness, he talks about these people I've never met like they were our nearest relatives, and he gets a wee bit miffed if I can't remember their full job descriptions. Wanker. Stevie's so different; he goes out into the world and actually makes his own money, on his own wits. You know the difference ? HE goes out in the morning, HE makes money, based on what HE does, what HE knows; that really turns me on. Not the job of being a plummer, 'cos like I've said, his lock up smells, but the simple truth that HE makes HIS own money. Yum.
Anyway, back to the future, or forward to yesterday, or here to infinity, or whatever the heck. A week or two into our relationship, Stevie called me just after Wullie had left for work; he asked if I'd bought the hold-ups. I had, so he told me; black bra, black hold-ups and black heels. He was going to take me shopping, for something with his name on it. He said I should wear this wee tan coloured rain coat I own. It's got a mod look to it, tight fitting and sharp cut, and it stops mid thigh. I was not allowed a skirt underneath. He parked right outside the house, and honked the horn, loud and long; bad enough in a car, but a workmans white van ? I tottered out on my heels trying to shush him, but as excited as hell, knowing that the neibhour women would've loved a bit of what I was going to get. As he drove us into town, he stuck on an old cd, back from when we were kids;
St. Etienne, Fox Base Alpha;
" It's too warm to even hold hands, but that won't stop us from making plans. Just close your eyes"
I loved Sarah Cracknell, the lead singer; so cool, so sexy, so glamorous. He took us into the town centre, to a well known old shop where "ladies who lunch" buy their undies. It's a classy place, though not too toffee nosed, and I've been there plenty times before. Stevie in his jeans and tee shirt, and me looking like halfway between French forigen legion and a female pink panther, we must've looked a right pair, but the excitement had been leaking down to my stocking tops for a while now.
He'd decided that I should have something in his tartan, to wear for him. Most Scottish lassies own a mini kilt at some time, but in your thirties, you've got to have the looks to carry it off. The legs, I know I have; the face, I'm pretty sure I've got. Stevie's mac name, it's part Scots, part Irish, so no surprise that his tartan is mostly dark green and black. A bit like black-watch, if that makes any sense. We picked up a couple of possibilities, size wise, and had to look around for the store detectives. Early in the day, with noone expecting anything, it was easy as pie to slip past the woman on the gate at the changing rooms, as she counted the items we had for trying on. She looked around and Stevie doubled back, jumping from the gents side to the ladies, and he was pushing me into a cubicle, the middle one. Swish goes the curtain, from the roof to about calf length. If anyone were to look from outside, then they would know that we were two. He told me to lose the coat, and I was there, in my lady fighting clothes; bra, hold-ups, and court heels. It's funny, when he whispers, his voice sounds even more male than normal; his quiet words can be an unavoidable command. I tried on both kilts for him; turning, bending, posing an pouting like a lap dancer, in this tiny little cubical. Stevie had already taken off his tee shirt, his jeans and boxers now around his ankles, and was leaning back, slowly wanking, as he directed his muse [ I like to think ]. Swish went the curtain next to us, then giggles and voices, louder than they should be: two girls, who sounded young by their conversation, as they talked about two lads. Talk of cocks, and big, hairy balls, and still not being on the pill coz it makes you fat, everybody knows that; I felt like slapping them both, just in case Stevie wanted to fill them instead of me. But wow, how they turned him on. Have you ever seen a man when his cock throbs so much that you think it'll explode from the pressure ? The absolute in animal, it's perfect. Makes your heart beat like a drum machine on e. Is that an old fashioned drug nowadays ?
His figer went to my lips, as he quietly insisted that I should say nothing. His other hand, though, was on my clit, so orders are more difficult. My hand was on his cock, wanking back and forward; I love it so much, that big, thick lump of meat in my wee hand. I know by now to use my left hand, and to squeeze as hard as I can; I've told you how he likes to feel my wedding ring ? He likes to say that my wedding ring smells of my masters cock. Mmm. Lovely, lovely male smell. Lovely man taste. The girls were laughing about sex, giggling every time one of them said the words
"Shag"
"Hump."
or, best of all,
"Ride. A big, sexy ride."
"Oh aye, he's a big, sexy shag."
With their conversation, I thought that they were most likely about fifteen, dogging off school, with only dinner money to spend, and trying to shop lift if they could. I was looking into Stevie's eyes, trying to figure weather he'd have taken these silly, little girls we'd never seen. I knew that if he'd wanted to, then he could have them both in an instant, but would he have walked away from me, and impregnated these two daft wee slappers instead ? And for an instant, I knew what Rosie must feel, every time he goes on a "boys night out".
That did not make me feel any better, let me assure you. There's a reason that "Slut wife" is the correct place for me. I may not like it, and I'm only ever going to be this way for one man, but I know what I am. In this neck of the woods, we call them "Hoors". That's what I am, only not for money. Lord, Stevie's told me often enough, when he's been fucking me naughty and nasty; I'm nothing but a hoor, his little hoor. Maybe he means it.
I was pressed back against the wall as his knee seperated my thighs, his big hands squeezing my arse cheeks and positioning me. I grabbed again at his hard-on, and guided him toward my hole, prodding at my wetness as he kissed my neck so softly, and lightly gnawed my earlobe. I could smell these young girls with their cheap perfume, and I hoped that they wouldn't be able to catch a hint of my pussy; although they would surely hear the thumping beat of my heart, so excited was I. Stevie looked down and mouthed for me to
"Shhh."
Then that wicked grin of his, this big, little boy, with mischief on his mind. His fingers on my bum gripped hard, and in one movement, he forced himself all the way inside me; deep and hard and aggressive. A squeal of pain and shock escaped my lips, as his big cock punched up hard enough to split me. There was an instant silence from the girls, then Stevie, loud enough so that they would hear, said
"Sexy bitch, you beautiful, sexy bitch."
He started to fuck me, hard at once.
"Your pussy's so sweet and tight around my cock. Say 'please fuck me'."
I tried to mouth the words without sound, but that was not what he wanted. He had a lovely, powerful rythme at once, as my pleasure overtook the pain of his rough entry.
"Do what you're told, fucking say it."
I was lifted off my toes now, and he started to hammer me into the wall. My fear and excitement and shame meant that my breathing was all over the place, and my foot was banging against the partition wall which seperated us from the girls. Panting and grunting now, I gave him what he wanted.
"Please fuck me."
"Louder, say it louder. And call me 'sir'."
I was terrified that we'd be caught, but...
"Please sir, please fuck me sir, please sir, oohh please."
We both knew that the young girls were still there, only two or three feet away; and no question they were listening, open mouthed and entranced, trying their best not to giggle, desperate to peek around the curtain and watch. And lord, how I so, so wish that they had. Everytime I think about that day now, I find myself wondering, just what is it that they would've watched ? A woman, insanely in love and unable to say no ? A part time porno star, doing it for lust, not money ? Or a psycho mad woman, so lacking in sense that she was allowing herself, practically begging, to be raped in public ? The smile which I'm wearing now, and the tingle in my pussy suggests- all of the above. It was a short, sexy, nasty, desperate fuck, and I'm not sure that I came that time, although I've made myself purr plenty times since, on the memory. Stevie pulled out, and I slid down, disoriented, to the floor. His angry, red cock in my face, I opened my mouth for my drink; but Stevie had something else in mind. He wanked himself off for two or three strokes, and then splat; his load hit me square in the face, my forhead, my nose, my top lip and left cheek, and one squirt caught my open left eye. Ouch, spunk in your eye can sting. As soon as he'd stopped spurting, Stevie held me by the hair, and began to rub his cock all over my face. The hot, fat head of his hard-on wiping and covering me all over with his sperm; and smearing my make up. What a disgrace I looked, and he growled out an order for me not to tidy myself. I got to my feet as Stevie dressed again, lord, I was in a state. I put my coat on, and we picked up the kilts, and went out to pay. As we left, Stevie tapped the partition wall, and said
"Bye bye girls, I hope it was as much fun for you, as it was for us. Say goodbye Lorna."
"Goodbye girls, kiss kiss."
With one eye open, and my make up looking like a circus clown in the rain; there was no way that I could look the shop assistants in the face. I just stood, dutifully beside my man, while he paid for my kilt, staring at the floor; I was on fire with shame, yet delighted at my sexy bravery. The spunk hadn't dried in yet, and the smell was unmistakeable. I could taste his cum on my lips, and a glob had gotten up inside my nose; and yet still I thought that they must all be able to smell my pussy. I so wanted to see the two young girls, just to know what they looked like, but Stevie thought it was better to go, just in case they were underage.
I wore the mini kilt for him the following weekend. Stevie and Wullie don't think so much of each other, but sometimes they humour us, Rosie and I, and take us out for a meal and some drinks. I always thought it was important for Rosie, as it's difficult for her to get a babysitter for the four boys, so her chances of a night to herself are slim. Now though, my sympathy is far more strained. I got such a fright when she mentioned the tartan, straight away, but Stevie made light of the "coincidence", and the moment passed. As usual, when I'm in his company, I'd be required to hand him my panties, though this time, he wasn't able to give me back the previous pair. It was a little bit awkward, as Rosie gets very girly when she's had a drink, and always insists that we should go to the loo together for a chat. She's a nosy mare at the best of times, and she'd be sure to want an explanation as to why I was knickerless. That would've been easy enough, just say a wee itch was to blame; but Stevie likes it much better when I give him a warm pair. So I had to do a double back, and tell her that I'd had a little accident. It was Wullie's round at the bar, and when I came back to the table, Rosie was rummaging around in her bag. I took my chance, leaning over and stuffing my warm, moist knicks into his pocket, mouthing the words,
"A present for my love.".
It's an awful feeling, not to be able to touch him, and still trying to be nice to Wullie, but the evening went off no problem. Actually, I felt a bit wierd about myself, I was trying too hard to be nice to Rosie, and I felt like a two faced cow. She was still my best friend, after all; you wouldn't want to be my enemy, eh ?
We'd wound up in a club where we all used to go to years ago; but the place had changed hands several times, and the atmosphere, and the music were shite, so we made to leave and go home. I don't know where Rosie was, but I was standing outside the gents, as a by now very drunk Wullie spent a penny. The door to the boys toilet opened, and I was taken by the arm and dragged in. Stevie pushed and bundled me into the only cubicle, slamming and locking the door. The smell was bloody awful; the stench of piss as bad as anything I had to deal with at work, and looking down, the toilet bowl was smashed, and there was piss all over the floor. Stevie says that's quite normal, ugg. He lifted my kilt up and hunched down; and he went to work on my pussy. Wullie had struck up a conversation with some other drunken idiot, talking about how he was going to
"Get a grip of the missus, she's going to be getting it hard tonight."
Oh no you're damn well not, I thought. Stevie had his tounge lapping hard on my clitty, two fingers up inside my hole, and I had to bite my lip, while my weight pressed down on his big shoulders. Wullie went on
"Aye, she loves it, fucking loves it."
Indeed I do, just not with you, you impotent prick. A small, yet very welcome shiver of orgasm washed my mind, and I delighted in my nails sinking into my lover. I hadn't been this turned on in the same room as Wullie, since I don't know when. Wullie laughed, farted, and stumbled out of the door as Stevie stood up before me, looked me in the eye, and licked his fingers clean. He said
"You are my property, you will always be my property. I'll make it all work out, trust me."
I am, I will be, he will, and I do.
He unlocked the door, and we stepped out. The bloke who'd been talking to Wullie couldn't believe his eyes. He had no idea who I was, but certainly seemed to like the look of me, letcherous git. Being with Stevie makes me feel so protected, so that was no concern to me. He patted my bum, and told me to wait there, while he went to check that the coast was clear. The door opened up and two more lads walked in; one of them tried to chat me up, and the other went straight to the trough to piss, at an angle where I could see his cock. It looked sweaty, and disgusting, and small. Stevie came back and told me to follow him, that it was safe. Both couples got taxis, and headed home. Wullie was so drunk that I only had to push him off me two or three times, before he rolled over, and started to snore. So much for me 'getting it hard tonight' then Wullie, eh ? I have to go now, but I'll see you soon. xx
I normally work three or four shifts a week, at the nursing home; sometimes earlies, sometimes days, and sometimes lates. I never work nights. The job is basically centered around washing and feeding pentioners, and sometimes wiping their arses; scarcely OK-magazine glamour, but I really enjoy it. Stevie says that I've been using it to fill in for not having kids; you know, like caring for the old folks, instead of caring for my own children, and I think he's right. Some of the old dears have a right story to tell, and some of the old boys try to touch you up, or say the most inappropriate things, but that just helps to make the job more fun. Knowing that they've still got a bit of life left in them. I told you about the uniform I wear, yellow or green dress, with a white trim, and a zip down the front, stopping just above the knee. It looks a little more like a domestic cleaner than an old fasioned nurses get up, but that's pretty much what I am, a nursing assistant. Stevie loves the uniform, he often makes me put it on when he's popping round to see me on my days off. Not that it's fitted so well of late, mind; what with me showing now. I'm going to have to pack it in soon, though I'm still not certain if I'll be coming back to it after. The government give women up to two years of paid maternity leave, I think; the pay gradually decreasing, so I'd be daft to just stop at once. Well, everybody else does it, and I've worked and paid tax all my days, so why not ? Wullie works in a power station, a few miles out of town. He's been there since leaving school, and it shows. Up really early and back around six. There are times, when I've been fed up with him, when I wondered if he'd been reared in a bloody power station hatchery. He knows his workmates busieness, he talks about these people I've never met like they were our nearest relatives, and he gets a wee bit miffed if I can't remember their full job descriptions. Wanker. Stevie's so different; he goes out into the world and actually makes his own money, on his own wits. You know the difference ? HE goes out in the morning, HE makes money, based on what HE does, what HE knows; that really turns me on. Not the job of being a plummer, 'cos like I've said, his lock up smells, but the simple truth that HE makes HIS own money. Yum.
Anyway, back to the future, or forward to yesterday, or here to infinity, or whatever the heck. A week or two into our relationship, Stevie called me just after Wullie had left for work; he asked if I'd bought the hold-ups. I had, so he told me; black bra, black hold-ups and black heels. He was going to take me shopping, for something with his name on it. He said I should wear this wee tan coloured rain coat I own. It's got a mod look to it, tight fitting and sharp cut, and it stops mid thigh. I was not allowed a skirt underneath. He parked right outside the house, and honked the horn, loud and long; bad enough in a car, but a workmans white van ? I tottered out on my heels trying to shush him, but as excited as hell, knowing that the neibhour women would've loved a bit of what I was going to get. As he drove us into town, he stuck on an old cd, back from when we were kids;
St. Etienne, Fox Base Alpha;
" It's too warm to even hold hands, but that won't stop us from making plans. Just close your eyes"
I loved Sarah Cracknell, the lead singer; so cool, so sexy, so glamorous. He took us into the town centre, to a well known old shop where "ladies who lunch" buy their undies. It's a classy place, though not too toffee nosed, and I've been there plenty times before. Stevie in his jeans and tee shirt, and me looking like halfway between French forigen legion and a female pink panther, we must've looked a right pair, but the excitement had been leaking down to my stocking tops for a while now.
He'd decided that I should have something in his tartan, to wear for him. Most Scottish lassies own a mini kilt at some time, but in your thirties, you've got to have the looks to carry it off. The legs, I know I have; the face, I'm pretty sure I've got. Stevie's mac name, it's part Scots, part Irish, so no surprise that his tartan is mostly dark green and black. A bit like black-watch, if that makes any sense. We picked up a couple of possibilities, size wise, and had to look around for the store detectives. Early in the day, with noone expecting anything, it was easy as pie to slip past the woman on the gate at the changing rooms, as she counted the items we had for trying on. She looked around and Stevie doubled back, jumping from the gents side to the ladies, and he was pushing me into a cubicle, the middle one. Swish goes the curtain, from the roof to about calf length. If anyone were to look from outside, then they would know that we were two. He told me to lose the coat, and I was there, in my lady fighting clothes; bra, hold-ups, and court heels. It's funny, when he whispers, his voice sounds even more male than normal; his quiet words can be an unavoidable command. I tried on both kilts for him; turning, bending, posing an pouting like a lap dancer, in this tiny little cubical. Stevie had already taken off his tee shirt, his jeans and boxers now around his ankles, and was leaning back, slowly wanking, as he directed his muse [ I like to think ]. Swish went the curtain next to us, then giggles and voices, louder than they should be: two girls, who sounded young by their conversation, as they talked about two lads. Talk of cocks, and big, hairy balls, and still not being on the pill coz it makes you fat, everybody knows that; I felt like slapping them both, just in case Stevie wanted to fill them instead of me. But wow, how they turned him on. Have you ever seen a man when his cock throbs so much that you think it'll explode from the pressure ? The absolute in animal, it's perfect. Makes your heart beat like a drum machine on e. Is that an old fashioned drug nowadays ?
His figer went to my lips, as he quietly insisted that I should say nothing. His other hand, though, was on my clit, so orders are more difficult. My hand was on his cock, wanking back and forward; I love it so much, that big, thick lump of meat in my wee hand. I know by now to use my left hand, and to squeeze as hard as I can; I've told you how he likes to feel my wedding ring ? He likes to say that my wedding ring smells of my masters cock. Mmm. Lovely, lovely male smell. Lovely man taste. The girls were laughing about sex, giggling every time one of them said the words
"Shag"
"Hump."
or, best of all,
"Ride. A big, sexy ride."
"Oh aye, he's a big, sexy shag."
With their conversation, I thought that they were most likely about fifteen, dogging off school, with only dinner money to spend, and trying to shop lift if they could. I was looking into Stevie's eyes, trying to figure weather he'd have taken these silly, little girls we'd never seen. I knew that if he'd wanted to, then he could have them both in an instant, but would he have walked away from me, and impregnated these two daft wee slappers instead ? And for an instant, I knew what Rosie must feel, every time he goes on a "boys night out".
That did not make me feel any better, let me assure you. There's a reason that "Slut wife" is the correct place for me. I may not like it, and I'm only ever going to be this way for one man, but I know what I am. In this neck of the woods, we call them "Hoors". That's what I am, only not for money. Lord, Stevie's told me often enough, when he's been fucking me naughty and nasty; I'm nothing but a hoor, his little hoor. Maybe he means it.
I was pressed back against the wall as his knee seperated my thighs, his big hands squeezing my arse cheeks and positioning me. I grabbed again at his hard-on, and guided him toward my hole, prodding at my wetness as he kissed my neck so softly, and lightly gnawed my earlobe. I could smell these young girls with their cheap perfume, and I hoped that they wouldn't be able to catch a hint of my pussy; although they would surely hear the thumping beat of my heart, so excited was I. Stevie looked down and mouthed for me to
"Shhh."
Then that wicked grin of his, this big, little boy, with mischief on his mind. His fingers on my bum gripped hard, and in one movement, he forced himself all the way inside me; deep and hard and aggressive. A squeal of pain and shock escaped my lips, as his big cock punched up hard enough to split me. There was an instant silence from the girls, then Stevie, loud enough so that they would hear, said
"Sexy bitch, you beautiful, sexy bitch."
He started to fuck me, hard at once.
"Your pussy's so sweet and tight around my cock. Say 'please fuck me'."
I tried to mouth the words without sound, but that was not what he wanted. He had a lovely, powerful rythme at once, as my pleasure overtook the pain of his rough entry.
"Do what you're told, fucking say it."
I was lifted off my toes now, and he started to hammer me into the wall. My fear and excitement and shame meant that my breathing was all over the place, and my foot was banging against the partition wall which seperated us from the girls. Panting and grunting now, I gave him what he wanted.
"Please fuck me."
"Louder, say it louder. And call me 'sir'."
I was terrified that we'd be caught, but...
"Please sir, please fuck me sir, please sir, oohh please."
We both knew that the young girls were still there, only two or three feet away; and no question they were listening, open mouthed and entranced, trying their best not to giggle, desperate to peek around the curtain and watch. And lord, how I so, so wish that they had. Everytime I think about that day now, I find myself wondering, just what is it that they would've watched ? A woman, insanely in love and unable to say no ? A part time porno star, doing it for lust, not money ? Or a psycho mad woman, so lacking in sense that she was allowing herself, practically begging, to be raped in public ? The smile which I'm wearing now, and the tingle in my pussy suggests- all of the above. It was a short, sexy, nasty, desperate fuck, and I'm not sure that I came that time, although I've made myself purr plenty times since, on the memory. Stevie pulled out, and I slid down, disoriented, to the floor. His angry, red cock in my face, I opened my mouth for my drink; but Stevie had something else in mind. He wanked himself off for two or three strokes, and then splat; his load hit me square in the face, my forhead, my nose, my top lip and left cheek, and one squirt caught my open left eye. Ouch, spunk in your eye can sting. As soon as he'd stopped spurting, Stevie held me by the hair, and began to rub his cock all over my face. The hot, fat head of his hard-on wiping and covering me all over with his sperm; and smearing my make up. What a disgrace I looked, and he growled out an order for me not to tidy myself. I got to my feet as Stevie dressed again, lord, I was in a state. I put my coat on, and we picked up the kilts, and went out to pay. As we left, Stevie tapped the partition wall, and said
"Bye bye girls, I hope it was as much fun for you, as it was for us. Say goodbye Lorna."
"Goodbye girls, kiss kiss."
With one eye open, and my make up looking like a circus clown in the rain; there was no way that I could look the shop assistants in the face. I just stood, dutifully beside my man, while he paid for my kilt, staring at the floor; I was on fire with shame, yet delighted at my sexy bravery. The spunk hadn't dried in yet, and the smell was unmistakeable. I could taste his cum on my lips, and a glob had gotten up inside my nose; and yet still I thought that they must all be able to smell my pussy. I so wanted to see the two young girls, just to know what they looked like, but Stevie thought it was better to go, just in case they were underage.
I wore the mini kilt for him the following weekend. Stevie and Wullie don't think so much of each other, but sometimes they humour us, Rosie and I, and take us out for a meal and some drinks. I always thought it was important for Rosie, as it's difficult for her to get a babysitter for the four boys, so her chances of a night to herself are slim. Now though, my sympathy is far more strained. I got such a fright when she mentioned the tartan, straight away, but Stevie made light of the "coincidence", and the moment passed. As usual, when I'm in his company, I'd be required to hand him my panties, though this time, he wasn't able to give me back the previous pair. It was a little bit awkward, as Rosie gets very girly when she's had a drink, and always insists that we should go to the loo together for a chat. She's a nosy mare at the best of times, and she'd be sure to want an explanation as to why I was knickerless. That would've been easy enough, just say a wee itch was to blame; but Stevie likes it much better when I give him a warm pair. So I had to do a double back, and tell her that I'd had a little accident. It was Wullie's round at the bar, and when I came back to the table, Rosie was rummaging around in her bag. I took my chance, leaning over and stuffing my warm, moist knicks into his pocket, mouthing the words,
"A present for my love.".
It's an awful feeling, not to be able to touch him, and still trying to be nice to Wullie, but the evening went off no problem. Actually, I felt a bit wierd about myself, I was trying too hard to be nice to Rosie, and I felt like a two faced cow. She was still my best friend, after all; you wouldn't want to be my enemy, eh ?
We'd wound up in a club where we all used to go to years ago; but the place had changed hands several times, and the atmosphere, and the music were shite, so we made to leave and go home. I don't know where Rosie was, but I was standing outside the gents, as a by now very drunk Wullie spent a penny. The door to the boys toilet opened, and I was taken by the arm and dragged in. Stevie pushed and bundled me into the only cubicle, slamming and locking the door. The smell was bloody awful; the stench of piss as bad as anything I had to deal with at work, and looking down, the toilet bowl was smashed, and there was piss all over the floor. Stevie says that's quite normal, ugg. He lifted my kilt up and hunched down; and he went to work on my pussy. Wullie had struck up a conversation with some other drunken idiot, talking about how he was going to
"Get a grip of the missus, she's going to be getting it hard tonight."
Oh no you're damn well not, I thought. Stevie had his tounge lapping hard on my clitty, two fingers up inside my hole, and I had to bite my lip, while my weight pressed down on his big shoulders. Wullie went on
"Aye, she loves it, fucking loves it."
Indeed I do, just not with you, you impotent prick. A small, yet very welcome shiver of orgasm washed my mind, and I delighted in my nails sinking into my lover. I hadn't been this turned on in the same room as Wullie, since I don't know when. Wullie laughed, farted, and stumbled out of the door as Stevie stood up before me, looked me in the eye, and licked his fingers clean. He said
"You are my property, you will always be my property. I'll make it all work out, trust me."
I am, I will be, he will, and I do.
He unlocked the door, and we stepped out. The bloke who'd been talking to Wullie couldn't believe his eyes. He had no idea who I was, but certainly seemed to like the look of me, letcherous git. Being with Stevie makes me feel so protected, so that was no concern to me. He patted my bum, and told me to wait there, while he went to check that the coast was clear. The door opened up and two more lads walked in; one of them tried to chat me up, and the other went straight to the trough to piss, at an angle where I could see his cock. It looked sweaty, and disgusting, and small. Stevie came back and told me to follow him, that it was safe. Both couples got taxis, and headed home. Wullie was so drunk that I only had to push him off me two or three times, before he rolled over, and started to snore. So much for me 'getting it hard tonight' then Wullie, eh ? I have to go now, but I'll see you soon. xx