I was riding my bike back home from the university. It was a blue, moonlight evening, on a road that glistened with rain. There was something about the moonlight and water that made me think of my ex-girlfriend Maureen.
I was finishing my degree, and earning money by cleaning the Psychology block at the university. I knew more about the shit of rats in Skinner Boxes than any young man needs to know. One interesting thing, for example, is that the turds of rats who were in operant conditioning experiments involving electric shocks were slightly olive in colour, while the poo of rats that were conditioned only by rewarding them with food pellets could be dark or light, but it tended to be brown. There’s a potential thesis in that, isn’t there?
I had a Norton motorbike at the time, an old one with what was called a featherbed frame, though in reality you still felt every bump or crack in the road, through the bike and your arse.
I’d seen the bike in a shop, and when I learned its type was Norton Dominator, I just had to buy the thing.
I should say that I’m not a motorbike guy any more, though the black leather jacket and the knee-high leather boots are still useful.
Anyway, there I was, riding the moonlit main road into the city, and thinking about how much nicer this night would be if I were riding a sleigh pulled by the Parisian Women’s Nude Iceskating Team. It’s a long ride, from the university to the city, and I often found myself passing the time in mildly lustful reverie.
I started thinking about an ex-girlfriend of mine instead of the Parisian nude ice-skaters, and I decided to go and visit her.
I’ve told a story about her in this blog before. It was about the first spanking I gave, in my life, where I was bold and competent and everything had been hot and sexy and very right. I’ll call that woman Maureen in this story too.
We’d split up because we’d both done some stupid things, and she’d left me for a lawyer who played in a mildly famous rock band. At that time she was single again, but I wasn’t. I was with Felicity, a girl who called herself Fliss. She pops up in this story a little later.
I turned off the main road and took the streets that led to Maureen’s place. I suppose I just wanted to look at her and possibly hug, for my sake, and for her sake to listen sympathetically while she told me about her recent boyfriends. Mutual friends had told me that her recent guys were even less reliable, sensible and even more appalling than I’d been. A bit of sympathy was definitely called for.
I parked my bike under a tree round the back, outside her kitchen, just like I did in the days we were together. So Maureen knew it was me. She came out to welcome me, wiping something nasty off her hands with an old tea towel.
She was wearing tight, ripped jeans and the sort of t-shirt you wear when you’re cleaning the oven. We hugged. I kissed her, but managed the hug without squeezing or smacking her arse, despite the temptations posed by those jeans. Maureen had always had the kind of body that most men like, just a bit more voluptuous than the women in women’s magazines.
I let her lead me into the house, watching her walk with nostalgic admiration. She sat me down on the couch in the living room, and went to the kitchen, coming back with wine instead of the tea I’d asked for. I moved over and she sat next to me.
I asked her about her current love life, as if I didn’t know anything about it. Her facial expression confirmed that she wasn’t having a great time, and her grunt said she didn’t want to talk about it. So we talked about our time together instead.
We laughed about pleasant times, like camping beside a river and going into the water late that night to fuck, the glade we were in made magical by the moonlight on the trees and the water. We talked about the less pleasant times too, and we forgave each other for our stupidities, selfishnesses and lies. And so we kissed. The kisses were for, oh, friendship and affection’s sake.
Then we kissed some more, with more intensity, and we shared breaths, and Maureen undid buttons on my shirt so she could stroke my back.
It was only about an hour from when I’d parked my bike when I got off the couch to help Maureen off with her t-shirt, jeans and panties. That was all she was wearing. It was a warm evening and she hadn’t expected company. Anyway, she knew she looked good.
When her jeans and panties were round her ankles I put one foot on the gusset and pushed her feet down to the floor. When she lifted her legs again she was naked.
She wrapped those legs round my waist, so I couldn’t get away, and when I straightened up she came up with me, a nice firm limpet with her breasts pressed against my chest and her arms and legs around me, holding tight.
I walked her, to keep my balance, until I pushed her back against the wall. She laughed at me. That laugh used to disconcert me a little, when we were first together, but I’d learned that it just meant she was happy.
I was thinking we were about to have one of those stunt fucks, where we’d adjust out position a little so that my cock, currently bouncing up against her buttocks, could slip home into her, and I’d march us round the room while she bounced on my cock until she came or I was exhausted. Whichever happened first.
But Maureen had a suggestion to make.