Thursday, October 05, 2006

Black sheep in the hay


No, I told Fiona from my mobile positioned out of the bathroom window; the only place for a signal in my country retreat, I don’t know much about my thatcher, but then I’m not planning to set up house, home and hearth with him either. He’s there for a reason, and that reason, Reader, was well worth exploring.

Fiona is surprised at me, for sure. I’ve taken her advice of getting back out there and have run with it naked and free. She didn’t count on that and now she wants to come to the country for a few days herself. Do I want to share my new-found rural activities? I think not. Being the only city dweller round here is quite a novelty to the locals and I’m a bit of a posh bird. Why dilute my appeal? I told Fiona to stay where she is, for now.

Back to the thatcher. I found him perched on the top of a nearby roof, pitching and tucking the bales with such expertise it was a joy to watch. Tanned with hair as golden as straw, he toiled, flexing muscles and wiping his brow when he spotted me, standing below on the cobbled street in my new garb of summer flatties and floral dress. He waved and, tucking his shirt into his jeans a little self-consciously, jumped over planks, down the slope of the roof, to be by my side. We chatted, briefly, but it was obvious our minds soon returned to the previous night, rudely interrupted by my sis Del, who proceeded to harangue me long after I’d dropped off unashamedly, drunkenly giggling on her sofa.

Thatcher, whose name I now knew to be Chad, invited me up to see his work. Having no head for heights, he showed me an easier method of ascent, up a sturdy ladder round the other side. Up I went, knowing his eyes were trained on an upskirt opportunity and, loving it, I sashayed as much as my balance allowed. At the top, it was incredible. Panoramic views of hills, fields and thatches, many of which Chad pointed out as his own handy work. The air was fresh as I sucked it into my city lungs gladly. I was shown to a flat, level and secondary area of the roof where we sat and devoured his packed lunch of doorstep granary bread, hunks of explosive cheese and warm beer. Then all at once he was on me, under me and in me. Strong hands under my shamefully virginal country dress, moving up my thighs, squeezing bruises into my flesh as he went. Sucking madly at my neck, he sent shivers all over like no man had before.

Unlike last night when he’d used his fingers, this time he was plucking a condom from his lunchbox before I could turn round and sliding it onto his – huge, Reader, huge – cock, inching steadily into me from behind. I clutched at handfuls of straw as he ventured further, producing delighted gasps from me. Sheer physics prevented him from entering me fully – I felt an easy extra two inches whilst I was reaching under to cup his balls as he propelled me back and forth again and again. When he came, he expelled such a loud groan from his throat as he grunted my name “Cami-i-i-i-lle !”, it whistled through my swinging hair. One extra effort from his massive muscle made me wince in pain and surprise as I had no choice but to reach a throbbing, shuddering climax myself. Laying me flatly down as he did it, he again sucked on my neck and squeezed my breasts as he indulged my orgasm, which seemed to go on for ever. I groaned, grinding against him, Reader, with each convulse, sighing, dare I say even whimpering.

Oh, the joy of a good, hard fuck! Soon after, in the midday sun and, still locked together, we slept like the newly born.

This evening, there’s a barn dance thrown by a local gent farmer to attend. Hmm, RSVP, Dress code Sleepwear. I brought some baggy, brushed cotton jarmies with me for this draughty old cottage, so I’m wearing those. Do not despair, though, Reader. I’m not stupid. If all goes well, underneath is a sheer, pink and fluffy baby doll with tiny triangular tie-at-the-sides ribboned silk piece purporting to be knickers. Slightly smudged, inky, black mascara, dodgily outlined sixties glittery, pink lipstick, carefully messed up hair and a musky scent will add to the sleepy effect.

One simply must fill a sense of occasion, mustn’t one? I shall judge the occasion as the evening progresses and if my senses are, well, filled in shall we say, I’ll fill you in next time, dear Reader...

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Wednesday, October 04, 2006

Country Girl


Well since writing last, my sister Delores - yes I know dreadful isn’t it, we call her Del – she insisted I visit her in deepest Gloucestershire for some ‘thinking time’ as she put it. What a long snore, I thought. Nothing goes on in her village, except meetings about the church roof. Well anyway I gave in and here I am. First, though, I have to fill you in about my footballer date as I know you’re dying for the score. Fit, he certainly was. Vain? My God, sneaking a look in every window we passed and I swear he wore more cosmetics products than I can afford.

In for a penny, though, so I dressed up my newly waxed body to meet him for dinner. I won’t bore you with the menu. Let’s get on to afterwards, when all thoughts of my Ex seemed to fly from my mind when, back at his place, he proceeded to take my clothes off in record time, with my last, lacey coverings being torn off with his teeth. Totally ruined, they were, but who cared? I was in heaven as his tongue darted in through the delicate threads. I was still standing at this point and legs were weakening. Picking me up in his able arms, he threw me onto the bed whilst slipping on a condom after which several hours were spent in various positions of gym practise. I tell you reader, I’m an adequate squash player yet this workout was unmatched.

Although massively exciting at the time, there were several disappointments. Small cock for a start, yes I know it’s how they use it, but if bouncing up and down instead of in and out of me as far as I’d hoped floats your boat, then you’re fine. Me, I can do without a tanned body, rippling with muscles doing press-ups over me whilst grinning into his many mirrors. Really put me off, reader. I could have been anyone, I only came once and that was with assistance from my own trusty fingers. Reflections were everywhere. His flat was amazing really. Professional footballers have the cash, for sure. His building housed a pool in the basement and the final nail in the goal was when he announced he couldn’t swim since he’d had his legs waxed the previous day. To me, that’s not a man. Chalk it up to experience and move on.

Back to the snoozy countryside then. No don’t drop off, Reader. I have some surprises. Last night while my boring sis was at yet another community meeting, I wandered down to the village inn. Convinced of utter tedium, I wore only jeans and a tee. A low one, though, with my ample breasts aching to be seen. Well, you never know, and my ‘thinking time’ is a little overworked. Well, all heads turned to me as I walked in. My own head nearly spun off its axis as I clocked those around the bar. Real men. Sweaty from working the land, untamed hair all over their bodies, I met farmers, builders, a cute barman barely of age and a thatcher. Oh, the thatcher. He made me try the ale and several hazy sups later, he offered me a stagger home. Outside, against the wall, I kissed him, tucking my hands down the back of his workaday jeans. Strong lips and an earthy, beery smell, dear Reader, saw me, in no time at all, being backed up against the wall, his hands yanking down my jeans with sturdy, man fingers probing my city triangle. Again and again, he thrusted until I came, gasping into the still, night air.

Well, wet isn’t the word. But sister is. Around the corner she came, stopping still, pushing her specs back along her nose with mouth open at the sight of me with denim around ankles, bra askew with country worker attached firmly to my mouth, grunting, yes fully grunting his approval. I extracted myself reluctantly like the naughty younger sibling I am and returned home with her, hedgerows spinning amidst her aural assault of complaints at my behaviour. The country, though, Reader, holds much in its grasp. Don’t underestimate it. Mr. Thatcher has told me where he is working today and I’m, as I write, just pulling on a sweet country dress I’ve raided from Del’s wardrobe. Simple flip flops and I can’t wait to see him in action. Wish me a thorough, rough roll in the hay, do. I’ll tell you all about it later.

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Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Diary of a Nobody (Newly Single) - Love


Diary Of A Nobody, Newly Single.

Love is over-rated. It’s been two months. Well, two months since we split but a week since there was no contact. My choice for both. Why? because he was a lousy liar of course. When I told Fiona, the only person I talk to about such things, she misheard. A lousy lover? Oh, he could always improve, she said, and started talking toys, lubricants, positions. No, no not that, said I. Well, was he then? she went on. What? A lousy lover.



I pondered. No, well, yes, in fact, but it wasn’t about that. I loved him. I just loved him Fiona. Oh the L word, she snorted. And that was that. Now I’ve been through the crying on the sofa, the smudged make-up and not caring, defiance, denial, the angry texts, the miss-you texts. The silence. God the silence! Worse than anything. Now it was time for dates. So Fiona said. I’d been socialising a bit and well, there is this footballer who’s interested ... but it’s not Him, I whined. It’s not my ex, my lousy lying lover.
“A FOOTBALLER?” screamed Fiona, “What the hell are you waiting for? Those thighs, all that sweat, the designer gear. The designer gear Camille!” She shrugged. “May not last, but hell, what fun. Instant FUN! God, what’s his name, who is he?”
I told her. I’m not telling you though, reader. Yes, it’s that good. She became serious. Very serious, snatched my mobile and went through the addresses.
“If you don’t ring him now and accept a date, I’m calling him myself and I’ll fall naked at his feet.” She mimed the act and, I have to admit, it looked impressive. I pulled at the phone childishly like at stolen sweets in the playground.
“Give it back! I’m ok with the relationship I have with my Rabbit, thanks. Anyway, it’s not you he wants, it’s me.” I played with my hair and practised a new smile in my mind, along with a new body, new clothes, the lot. Oh God.


“There’s also a doctor.” I teased.
“A doctor?” my Maureen Lipmanalike friend shrieked. “Just as good, if not better. What’s his number?”
While she searched through imagining I’d have him listed as Doctor, I wondered if any of them mattered. They weren’t Him. It was him I missed. His voice, his closeness, the way he loved me, knew me.
“Stop that!” said Fiona. “I know what you’re doing. Going through all the good bits. He lied, Camille. Again and again. You told me if he said it was raining you’d look out the window to check. Now, do you want that? No you don’t. And he was shit in bed. You said so.” Did I? “He left the loo seat up, he bit his nails, he farted at every turn around, in front of me too, your friend! God, Camille, get a grip. I hated him.”
I looked up from fiddling with my nails.
“Yep,” said Fiona with folded arms, “I did. There, I’ve said it. We all did. He was bad for you. We thought you’d have learned something since your divorce. Nasty, useless, jobless ex. That’s what he is. And, he came on to Sara once.”
Sharp intake of breath. “You lie!” I accused in Shakespearian speak. “How low, Fiona.”


She was quiet and horribly insistent. “We didn’t tell you, I’m sorry. We gave him a fucking telling off though.” Looking triumphant, she dialled a number.
“Don’t you dare call the footballer.” I said, reaching around her but grabbing at air.
“Yes, Lou, it’s me. I need a waxing, manicure, pedicure and a colour, cut and blow dry please.” She ordered. “It’s urgent. Farrar. F. A. Double R. A. R. Yes, thanks. An hour? Great. Love you!”
I watched open-mouthed as she scribbled onto a piece of card the address of Louis, her gay husband, as she called him.
“All that’s going to cost a fortune. I’ve just had the flat decorated.” I complained. She said the girls were paying. All planned. Call it an early birthday or something.
“Now. Call footballer or doctor, I don’t care who. Choose!” she commanded.
God she’s so bossy. I decided footballer for now. She disappeared into my wardrobe amongst metres of fabric tut-tutting and gushing in turn as she swished through my labels.
“Hi,” I said quietly, clearing my throat in his ear as he answered. “Yes, hi! It’s me. Yes, sorry I haven’t called back, work, you know. Yes, I would like to have that dinner. Oh, tonight! Tonight?” Fiona pokes her head out of a dress with ruffled hair and nods manically. “Er, yes, I could tonight, that’s fine. Lovely, I mean. Eight, um… Ok. Bye then!” I smiled, not feeling smiley.
Fiona came out with a simple black dress, strappy, one of his … er … my old favourites and some sparkly Dune shoes.
“They hurt.” I said.
“Don’t care. They’re high, they’re sparkly, sexy and fabulous. And so are you! Oh and the wax … all off!” she said, shamelessly pointing at my triangle. “Yes!” she insisted. “A smoothie, nothing less. You’ll thank me!”
She giggled as she left me at the door, shoes and dress in hand.
“I want at least one text this evening to let me know how it’s going, and all of it tomorrow in DETAIL.” Right. Detail for her and for you too, reader. My work’s cut out. “Oh, and you know what they say about a man who chooses eight to meet?”
I looked at her blankly. She rolled her eyes.
“Not seven; yawn… not nine; too out-there. Or, in there!” she giggled at her own joke. “Eight. He has an eight! Perfect!”
I laughed, pushing her out as she theatrically sighed “FOOTballer…” and headed for the shower. As I rushed past the hall table I knocked over a small frame. Then, there we were on the floor, amongst several chips of glass. Him; Ex and I, at a happy time, laughing head to head into the lens. Ohh … I picked each piece up carefully, preserving it, protecting it, then with a sigh I instead carried the whole sorry mess to the bin and dropped it in.

Pulling my drawer out, I picked up Mr. Rabbit and lovingly turned him on. Laying back on the bed I quickly lifted my skirt and pulled my plain cotton white knickers – must look out black lacies for footballer – down to my knees and positioned the tip at my cunt entrance and rabbit on my clit. No messing about, I was straight into it, pressing, pulling and pushing, closing my legs around it and rolling onto my side, sighing in a final climax, I let out a scream of delight as I pictured the possibility of a new cock later that evening. Washing Mr. Rabbit carefully, I tucked him up, comfortably back in my underwear drawer, where he belonged. Hopefully for a while. I had an appointment with Louis.

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