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This was where I used to meet the Canadian every three to four weeks. We never arrived together. and we didn’t leave at the same time. After a couple of drinks he’d get up and walk out and I’d follow after a minute or so. He’d be waiting in his car parked around the corner. Then we’d often drive to a pre-booked motel about a mile away and sign in as Mr and Mrs Robinson. It was a bit of a pantomime and unnecessary, since he had a large rented house in Chelsea. Afterward I’d leave him in a bed and take a taxi to my car.

It’s early evening and there are fourteen people in the bar; none overly interesting, except maybe the handsome, chocolaty skinned man, who now and then raises his eyes from the chunky book he is reading, scans the room as if he is looking for assassins, his glance momentarily coming to a stop in my direction. His expression doesn’t alter when our eyes meet, as if he was seeing me but for some reason I’m not registering in his mind.

His head is hairless and has a smooth baby-like quality, as though not a single follicle has ever lived there. His clothes look expensive and unusual; a tailored Nehru Jacket, inky-blue silk collarless shirt, well fitting trousers and black leather shoes. I heard him order a double whisky with no ice at the bar.

In my job I have to be able to judge if someone is evasive or just plain lying. I have the feeling that he could tell me that Pacific Ocean was an inch deep and I would believe him.


I don’t know how common this is, but giving a blowjob often makes me cum. It is as though there’s a little clitoris in my mouth that is directly attached to the one down below.

Last Sunday had been one of those bright sunny days when the air smelt of possibilities, when a slow ramble through the woods, and across the fields, over the foot-bridge, along the lane, entering the pub around lunch time, seemed a perfect way to spend a late morning at the back end of April.

Almost half a mile from the gate that lets into the fields at the bottom of our garden is a small clearing, a natural amphitheatre, surrounded by trees, almost naked at this time of year. Right in the centre of the clearing is a larger tree, its trunk almost wide enough for two full grown men to embrace it with only their finger-tips touching. Over-head the branches spread out evenly on all sides in an almost perfect round topped cone, and in later spring and summer, when the trees are heavy with leaves, the sunshine produces a dazzling rainbow of colours on the ground beneath.

That is where we often stop on Sunday summer’s mornings, with the bells of the distant church ringing in the air, and perform my husband’s favourite pre-lunch exercise – the alfresco blow-job.

Like a lot of men, he believes that there’s no better way for a woman to prove her love than by worshiping his cock with her lips and her tongue. And as has been stated, fortunately for me, blow-jobs generally produce sympathetic orgasms.

I can well imagine the scenario that began to play out in his head that morning when he called from the bathroom, “Darling, do you fancy a walk to the pub for lunch?”

What was implied of course was; “And on the way you can wrap your lips around by cock and give me some suction.”

“That’s a good idea,” I said, unsurprised. Earlier he had kissed his way down my body, burying his face in my groin where he stayed, licking and kissing, two fingers driving slowly into me, until I screamed my lungs out, pulling him up by the hair when I couldn’t take another orgasm.

He always looks like a little boy seeking affirmation of a job well done, as he gives my nipples a passing suck before planting his pussy tasting mouth on mine and giving me a deep kiss. He could have slid straight onto me and fucked me right then, I could feel his iron hard erection pressing against my leg; but he didn’t.

“That was wonderful darling,” I said.
I wasn’t lying. It was wonderful. He gives almost the best head of any man I’ve ever known.


He leaded up against the rough bark of the tree and there was that look in his eye; a cross between an adolescent pleading and a command that said, “Blow me already, woman!”

I could see the outline of his penis, straining against the material of his trousers; begging to be released.

Stepping closer I ran my fingers over the hardening outline. “What’s this?” I mocked, “Is that a pistol in your pocket, or art thou just pleased to see me?”
“It’s a gun and it’s primed and ready,” he said.
“I bet it is. I could just bend over and you can take me from behind.”

He grabbed me by the short curls at the side of my head, the usual intense look in his eyes, his teeth slightly bared.

“You know what I want, woman.”
“Do I?” Reaching between our bodies I slowly un-buckled his belt and slid down the zipper of his jeans. He eased his groin away from the tree, so I could push his pants down over his tight, muscular buttocks. I grabbed the warm, circumcised pole, giving it a small squeeze, feeling it pulse back in my grip.

He smirked, kissed me hard on the mouth, then put his hand on top of my head and pushed me down toward the ground.
Behind me the dog sat, waiting patiently. He’d see this all too many times before.

He kissed me. “Hot-lips, that was worth waiting for,” he sighed, love and gratitude shining in his eyes. I was still holding the slimy, softening penis in one hand, stroking the sensitive head with my thumb.

“Did you?” he asked, cocking his head to one side like a dog.
I nodded and grinned.
“Outstanding,” he said smiling triumphantly. “You are truly fucking amazing.”
“What, because giving you a blow-job makes me cum in my pants every time?”
“No, because I love you, and you give the best fucking blow-job this country boy ever had.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, since I know there were at least a hundred other women before me.”
“Only ninety nine and a half,” he joked. “The half was from a gay lover I had during my homosexual period.”
“One hundred and ninety nine and a half would probably be more accurate.”

“You notice I don’t ask how man cocks you’ve sucked before mine.”
“There were none before you, my love. I was a nice innocent little catholic girl.”
“So how come you’re so good at it?”
“Because I’m head-over-heels in love with your penis, that’s why.”
“Good answer. Now put him away and let’s go and eat. That’s if you are still hungry after swallowing all my sperm?”
I tucked his penis back into his pants, then stepped back so that he could finish dressing. “That was just an appetiser to sharpen my appetite,” I said.

We must have had the same conversation a hundred times over the years. I’d lied to him about the number of previous sexual partners I’d had. I wasn’t sure if he believed that I’d only had two. There had actually been seven before him. I hadn’t sucked many cocks, but I had sucked a few cocks many, many times. Particularly one.