Lying in Maureen’s arms, and cunt, fucking her delicious self, had earned me the tribute of lost blood, from her nails digging into and raking down my back.
It occurred to me in that moment that I’d been an unsatisfactory boyfriend for Maureen in various ways, like unreliability and a general lack of cash, shift and feck. So I was trying to do better by Fliss, my new girlfriend. But Fliss would turn up at my house in about 80 minutes, and she’d be expecting to see me naked. And fresh claw marks down my back would be an indication that I wasn’t being completely satisfactory, as boyfriends go.
We weren’t doing polyamory.
Ah well, the damage is done, I decided, and carried on, getting my hands under Maureen’s arse, hauling her tight against me, pumping and pounding her hard, and earning fresh clawmarks. Maureen was a luscious and energetic girl, and a fuck with her merited full and undivided attention, regardless of the consequences.
But we came, and said loving things, and time ran out. I kissed her goodbye and put my clothes on – blood streaks soaked through my shirt instantly, reported Maureen proudly – hopped on my motorbike, kicked it into life and rode home.
I was happy with Fliss. There were a lot of important reasons for this, that she was gorgeous, and flamboyant, and clever, and assertive in ways that scared a lot of guys, and someone I could watch and listen to with admiration. And, for another thing, we’d discovered within only a couple of weeks into our sexual career together that she was a submissive.
That discovery, about Fliss, had been a turning point in my life. I’d met submissive women before, but those encounters had been rare. But when two girlfriends in a row had turned out to be submissive, without my having suspected or chosen them on that basis, I saw that “people like me” were not as scarce as I’d thought when I was growing up, and that my life might turn out to be a lot more fun than I’d come to expect.
Still, submission didn’t make her any less stroppy, and Fliss was not going to like this evidence of my faithlessness. And that evidence that would clearly still be only minutes old, when I next took off my shirt in front of her.
She might break up with me. That would be very sad. Or else, a lesser sentence, I’d have to live through days of “discussing our relationship”, before I next got to grips with her.
Days of eggshell-walking time with an angry woman. I’d rather scrub wet batshit out of a washing machine, for the same length of time, than go through that.
I considered simply giving Fliss a good beating and roaring at her that I would fuck whoever I wanted and be damned to you, girl. But no. The Brian Blessed approach (I mean the roaring; I don’t know what Brian Blessed does in bed) might work for some things, but not when I was so obviously, and so very recently, at fault.
When I got home, Stella’s car wasn’t in my drive. I’d beaten her home. I had time to have a shower and hide my shirt; that was something.