The previous episode is here.

So, home alone, with a few minutes to spare before Fliss arrived, I dropped my blood streaked shirt in a bucket, with oxygen bleach. It was safe there. My older brothers had had girlfriends who would come round and do their washing for them, but somehow those didn’t seem to be the women I was interested in. Unless they were doing it for pervy sexual reasons.

 Certainly Fliss was not a woman to show any interest in doing my laundry, so there was no chance my bloody and incriminating shirt would be discovered. I took a shower. Afterwards I checked the mirror, hoping that the clawmarks Maureen had left on my back would have faded. But though I could see that they had stopped bleeding, they were still raw and very bright. There was no way of disguising them.

Werewolves: no market these days She wouldn’t believe vampires, either

It occurred to me that I could come up with a story about how I’d acquired my wounds while saving a sad-eyed little child from an enraged grizzly bear. Except that the nearest grizzly was thousands of miles away. And I didn’t think she’d buy werewolves.

Maybe I’d fallen asleep in long grass and someone had run a lawnmower over my back. Maybe I’d run backwards through a thorn bush, though I couldn’t think of any reason why I might do that.

Maybe I’d been juggling cats, and had flubbed the triple-tabby behind the back parabola, so they’d taken their hissing, screeching revenge.

Maybe I could just explain that Maureen had been nostalgic, horny and very fuckable.

I considered this again, and came to the same conclusion I’d reached when I’d been riding home: there’d be unhappiness all over the place, and we’d possibly break-up. I knew I was in the wrong, and I might deserve bad things, but these weren’t remotely good outcomes. I heard Fliss’s car outside. I put on a fresh shirt and pants and went out to meet her.

Not usually a strategic mistake.

She slipped her hands inside my shirt to embrace me, which made me wonder if the gouges would be noticeable to the touch. The best defence was distraction, so I put my own hands inside her jeans, and lifted her up. Fliss wrapped her legs round my waist. I realised I’d made a slight strategic mistake.

We were in the beginning of twilight, and I had thought I’d be better off if I gave her a glass of wine and we talked about our day, and so on, so that it would be dark when we took our clothes off. We’d still turn the light on, during or afterwards, and there I’d be. But at least it would have delayed things and I could have thought of something.

Instead I had Fliss wrapped round my waist, rubbing herself against my cock and riding me cowgirl, and under those conditions, pilgrim, there is only one direction you can go.

So I took her to my bedroom, held her high while she laughed and licked my nose, and dropped her onto the bed. As I’d done with Maureen not two hours earlier. I pulled the curtains, explaining that I’d seen the old woman who lived next door out in her backyard. There was still too much light. Then I joined Fliss on the bed, and we kissed and rolled around, over and over each other, rubbing our faces into each other while I took her clothes off. 

But not mine.

So far so good

It wasn’t so odd that I pulled Fliss’s shirt off without undressing myslf, because she liked to kneel, naked, take my cock into her mouth and pleasure me while I was still clothed.

It helped her to move herself from her outside world persona into her bedroom self, to feel that she was serving and submitting. It was how I’d first suspected – something neither of us had known before – that Fliss was submissive.

But being submissive didn’t matter. When there was hell to pay, she could raise hell.

The next episode is here.

The previous episode is here.

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. 

The stigmata of the Blessed St Jaime

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.

Of course, lions sorted out the lioness-claws problem millennia ago

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, Fliss’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.

The next episode is here.