Moving Home

As she reflected over the years the memories were good, the happiness shone through although, as with every couple, times had been hard, words had been spoken. But both she and Steve had found that the love they had was strong enough, a bond together against all those who spat at them, a fortress against the malice. Neither regretted, those few years past, leaving respective partners to live as a couple.

They had both cried, both needed the other for support. That is where the love came in, shoulders where previously there had been none. A relationship borne out of love for sure, but a relationship cast in stone by each others relentless appetite for sexual adventure. Neither had known another so wanting, so demanding, yet so giving. Steve, not shy at having his hand rising between two parting legs, had been surprised, but so happy, to have Helen’s first sexual touch the one that found his bulge.

Helen looked back at the times they had made love in the house, not just to each other but to passing friends too as parties ran their course. Every room told a tale, each wall whispered a secret of breathless bodies, each carpet bore the stains of want.

She wondered, but a fruitless thought, how many times they had made love in the main bedroom. Perhaps if not how many times then how many positions? No record book to recall, just sweet memories. Within the bedroom how sweet was the lovemaking that Sunday morning that left them bruised from falling to the floor and how did they just remain interlocked? That bright Sunday morning, Steve entering her vagina in time to the peal of the nearby church bells. Cum all ye faithful.

He was a pest that man of hers. That time in the kitchen when they had returned from work together. Would he never leave her alone? Thankfully not! There she was at the sink, washing up the breakfast things left untouched by the normal late rush. Sure, the skirt she had on was short, sure she had stockings on, sure she was as horny as he was but, but, but …. Oh my. Did he have go behind her, kiss the back of neck, reach to her skirt and lift it? Did he have to lift it so high, lick at her butt crack. Did he have to make her so wet? Moreover, did he have to lift her onto the sink, pull down her knickers, push his cock roughly into her wet hole, fuck her like he had been without for ever? Maybe not, but hell, that was so good.

Some lovers don’t bath together. Perhaps they fight over who should take the taps end? The answer is of course that, unless you want your lover to toe fuck you, neither of you have the taps end! Lay your man down in the bath, lay on top of him, insert one cock, stir gently, bring to boil. The bathroom had been a constant source of sperm transfer from Steve to Helen. Whether in the bath, on the floor where she got her pussy astride his face and watched his expression as her juices escaped into his mouth, or, more often, in the shower. All lovers should make out in the shower, explore the body, sense the feelings of your lover, learn.

The games they played. Dressing up games between themselves and many friends. That game played in the lounge when Helen had been blindfolded and had taken all the men in her mouth for a tasting just to see if she could recognise them all. Okay, so she did recognise most of them. So what? Helen also recalled that orgy in there too. God, at least six, maybe seven, couples in various positions all over the room. She had had at least three guys fuck her pussy, another cum in mouth and one or two cum over her face as she watched Steve shoot over the boobs of that coloured girl in the nurses outfit. Messy, but so fine. No regrets.

Moving was a shame but better things ahead for them. Strange how different things remind of different times. Each stain a moment of loving. Seemed to Helen that her pussy had been made to leak all over the fucking house. Geez, look at that stain on the stair carpet! To be honest, how they had got away without fatal injury from some of the times their bodies had been coupled was beyond her.

The two smaller bedrooms had seen a fair amount of action too. The greatest fun it seems comes from nothing at all with one of the bedrooms being bare save for the carpet. The times Steve had taken Helen from behind as she looked out of the window. How many of the neighbours had waved up at the window and yet not known that Steve was deep inside Helen at that very moment. And those blindfold fumbles where no intercourse was allowed, just touches, short touches. The smallest bedroom? Waterbed – say no more.

Out in the garden the gnomes could tell a tale or two. Where others others mowed their grass to close cropped perfection so on summers nights Helen was being fucked by Steve on the imperfect grass. What was that sound? A dog, a fox, a bird crying into the night? No, that was Helen being shafted long and hard in the back garden.

Helen was in love with Steve, knew his mind, knew his heart too. That womans instinct when things are wrong, that timing when to give gentle loving, when to play the games, how to deal with anger, to wipe away stray tears, what to say, the patience to stay. Of all the loving that they had the simple task of holding hands was the dearest to them both. After the years of pain Helen looked forward to staying with Steve forever and a day. This house had bought them closer and then closer still.

The first time they ever made love in this house was after a candlelit meal of fish and chips. Not the most romantic at first sight but when you have no electricity the options are limited. Food eaten Steve had brushed all the remains and knives and forks to the bare floorboards. Helen got the message. She undressed, climbed on the table, spread her legs and let her man invade her vagina and make sweet, sweet love. That stain on the dining room table had never come out.

A bang on the toilet door.

“Pickfords love. We’re all packed up now and we’re off”.

“Just coming”, replied Helen as, with knickers round one ankle, she rose from and sank onto Steve’s cock. Toilet – the full set.