libido.
Dick enjoys a challenge. Sex within a time scale was a kink as yet untried and he went at it with gusto, determined to beat the cock, or do I mean clock, probably both.
In less than a minute I was debagged and bent over the kitchen table with a gobbet of goose grease left over from the Christmas festivities standing in for lube. No way was Dick wasting precious time by going upstairs to get the ID Glide Lubricant. It was goose grease or nothing for this boy’s bottom. Thank heaven the River Cottage chef - him with the tongue-tripping name (Huge Manly Bits, or something similar) wasn’t hanging around watching me being stuffed. He’d probably have chucked a few herbs and a squeeze of lemon juice into the sausage meat mix. It certainly put a whole new perspective on being goosed.
Dick gave a roar of conquest as the timer went off and so did he. By way of crisping my skin he gave my bottom a victory slap as he pulled his cock out of me. I was done to perfection and basted in fooking juices. To be honest it wasn’t the most romantic or comfortable shag I’ve ever had. Dick went at it so fast I feared the friction might ignite the goose fat and roast our love spuds and sausages, sure they’d taste good, but they’d be useless forever afterwards.
After washing and applying soothing salve to my thoroughly goosed botty I re-dressed and made Dick a cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee by way of lunch, while writing a mental memo to myself: check to see if Sainsbury’s sell sex suppressants . I then got on with the business of preparing Shane’s birthday dinner, safe in the knowledge Dick’s carnal lust had been slaked and I could safely bend over to retrieve any cutlery I might drop.
Turning on the radio to lend musical ambience to my endeavours I caught Seal singing ‘Kiss From A Rose’ and sang along, while marvelling that an endothermic vertebrate mammal could produce such fine vocals and all while balancing a beach ball on its nose. (Lie detector sighs heavily, but declines to comment) It’s a haunting song and in my case made more so because when I was younger and first heard it I was convinced the lyric was about a kiss from a rose on the grave rather than on the grey . I still insist on singing about grave roses rather than grey ones. It’s funny how some things stick in your mind and refuse to shift. Besides, I think my spectral version has even more unfathomable resonance than the original.
Exhausted from ball games Dick settled on the couch to watch horse racing on the telly, but soon fell asleep, a clutch of betting slips in his hand. It’s a hard life being a kinky oversexed posh person with a penchant for gambling.
By half past four that afternoon I had everything pretty much under control. The partridges and veggies were spiced Moroccan style and ready to slip into the oven.
The potatoes were boiled. All I had to do was reheat them, drain them and turn them into delicious buttery mash. I’d improvised (cheated by buying) a starter of chicken liver and mushroom pate to be served with crusty bread. I also had my signature dessert dish of raspberry hazelnut pavlova chilling sweetly in the fridge. I planned to stick a couple of celebratory sparkler candles in it and present it at the table with fanfare. I also prepared a rather impressive cheese and fresh fruit board.
I surveyed my efforts with a proud eye. Had I been a contestant on the TV show ‘Come Dine With Me’ I reckoned I’d have stood a damn good chance of winning, if I managed to hold my temper and not shove the pavlova in the face of some pretentious git intent on using their five minutes of fame to be rude and nasty to everyone else. I especially detest contestants who claim to be ‘plain speakers.’ Being a plain speaker generally translates to being a spiteful, mean-minded bully who wields words as weapons to intimidate and demoralise other folk. Whoops, sorry, another small rant slipped in there.
Food prepared I turned my
Dick enjoys a challenge. Sex within a time scale was a kink as yet untried and he went at it with gusto, determined to beat the cock, or do I mean clock, probably both.
In less than a minute I was debagged and bent over the kitchen table with a gobbet of goose grease left over from the Christmas festivities standing in for lube. No way was Dick wasting precious time by going upstairs to get the ID Glide Lubricant. It was goose grease or nothing for this boy’s bottom. Thank heaven the River Cottage chef - him with the tongue-tripping name (Huge Manly Bits, or something similar) wasn’t hanging around watching me being stuffed. He’d probably have chucked a few herbs and a squeeze of lemon juice into the sausage meat mix. It certainly put a whole new perspective on being goosed.
Dick gave a roar of conquest as the timer went off and so did he. By way of crisping my skin he gave my bottom a victory slap as he pulled his cock out of me. I was done to perfection and basted in fooking juices. To be honest it wasn’t the most romantic or comfortable shag I’ve ever had. Dick went at it so fast I feared the friction might ignite the goose fat and roast our love spuds and sausages, sure they’d taste good, but they’d be useless forever afterwards.
After washing and applying soothing salve to my thoroughly goosed botty I re-dressed and made Dick a cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee by way of lunch, while writing a mental memo to myself: check to see if Sainsbury’s sell sex suppressants . I then got on with the business of preparing Shane’s birthday dinner, safe in the knowledge Dick’s carnal lust had been slaked and I could safely bend over to retrieve any cutlery I might drop.
Turning on the radio to lend musical ambience to my endeavours I caught Seal singing ‘Kiss From A Rose’ and sang along, while marvelling that an endothermic vertebrate mammal could produce such fine vocals and all while balancing a beach ball on its nose. (Lie detector sighs heavily, but declines to comment) It’s a haunting song and in my case made more so because when I was younger and first heard it I was convinced the lyric was about a kiss from a rose on the grave rather than on the grey . I still insist on singing about grave roses rather than grey ones. It’s funny how some things stick in your mind and refuse to shift. Besides, I think my spectral version has even more unfathomable resonance than the original.
Exhausted from ball games Dick settled on the couch to watch horse racing on the telly, but soon fell asleep, a clutch of betting slips in his hand. It’s a hard life being a kinky oversexed posh person with a penchant for gambling.
By half past four that afternoon I had everything pretty much under control. The partridges and veggies were spiced Moroccan style and ready to slip into the oven.
The potatoes were boiled. All I had to do was reheat them, drain them and turn them into delicious buttery mash. I’d improvised (cheated by buying) a starter of chicken liver and mushroom pate to be served with crusty bread. I also had my signature dessert dish of raspberry hazelnut pavlova chilling sweetly in the fridge. I planned to stick a couple of celebratory sparkler candles in it and present it at the table with fanfare. I also prepared a rather impressive cheese and fresh fruit board.
I surveyed my efforts with a proud eye. Had I been a contestant on the TV show ‘Come Dine With Me’ I reckoned I’d have stood a damn good chance of winning, if I managed to hold my temper and not shove the pavlova in the face of some pretentious git intent on using their five minutes of fame to be rude and nasty to everyone else. I especially detest contestants who claim to be ‘plain speakers.’ Being a plain speaker generally translates to being a spiteful, mean-minded bully who wields words as weapons to intimidate and demoralise other folk. Whoops, sorry, another small rant slipped in there.
Food prepared I turned my
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