I’ve just popped into the bathroom to . . .’freshen up’ for the evening’s activities. That’s what I’ve told Jacob anyway – exceptionally delectable Jacob. Yes, he is. Still, the truth of the matter is that I’m actually sorting myself out, and I must be quick about it too. Not all men would understand my needs, and this is our very first night of passion, after all. Luckily, I’ve practiced so many times I can usually hit the spot and be finished in less than a minute. When alone, I take my time, naturally!
I hear him singing ‘Waterfall’ by the good old Stone Roses. It’s a favourite of mine, and he’s murdering it slowly, so I stifle my laughter and clamp a hand hard over my mouth. I really must get going, or his singing might stop, his patience lapse, and he’ll get going himself – out of the door that is, leaving naught behind him bar the echo of a terrible tune, a lost smile, and the crumbs of some dark mutterings.
The plastic is hard and unforgiving under my long piano-key fingers, and I always find myself wondering how on earth something so lengthy could possibly fit into what feels like such a small orifice . . . Still, human bodies are exceptionally elastic when they want to be, aren’t they?
One deep breath later, plus a quick check that there’s enough lube on there, and I’m off. I begin to slide the long, smooth white plastic inside myself, then quickly withdraw it, reposition my hips – I’m sat on the toilet with one leg hoisted onto the bath tub, right foot pushing for purchase upon it, the other firmly planted upon the floor under my left knee which is flat against the bathroom wall. An incredibly unflattering yet necessary pose – and then I’m in again, and, and, yes, yes that’s it! A burst of relief and pleasure floods my being from head to toe and I hold back a guttural groan to protect my modesty whilst on he wails, happily, in the bedroom to the other side of this cheap hollow door.
I then do actually have a quick freshen up.
I emerge to find him concentrating hard; brows knitted, in flagrante delicto, his right hand pumping away merrily as he stands completely nude by the night table, casting some impressive shadow puppetry upon the wall.
“Bloody hell, you started without me!” I cry, laughing loudly at his impatience and utter lack of embarrassment. He ceases his play and bounds across the bedroom, swooping, picks me up with ease and chucks me onto the old, creaking, king-size mattress, his laughter joining my own.
“Do you know how long you’ve been in there, Sally?! It’s a miracle this monkey hasn’t been near choked to death! You must be taking the piss, I can only be pushed so far you know missy!” His outrage is mock to the extent he should be booed off a stage somewhere dressed as a ham and pelted with rotten cabbages, and I love him all the more for it.
I reply, with a contrived casualness almost sure to convince, “Oh, I take the piss all the time sweetie, you’ll just have to get used to it. Anyway, some things are worth waiting for . . .”
I’m hoping he isn’t the nosy sort, and so won’t poke about in the bathroom, finding the multiple packets of uretic catheters I have in the cupboard, of which I have no choice but to employ the use of up to nine times a day in order to relieve myself and prevent any unfortunate ‘accidents’.
I very much doubt he’s ever met anyone who takes the piss quite as much as I do.