Chrissy and Pete - A Spot of Bother

Some of you liked the characters, Chrissy and Pete, so I thought that I had better tell you what happened next. And, if you haven't already read the first Chrissy and Pete tale, then perhaps you should start there.

Pete didn't exactly leap to his feet when Chrissy instructed him to remove his trousers, but he did get to his feet pretty quickly. And then he fell. To make matters worse, he was in the process of removing his trousers as he got up from the couch. So, when he fell, he fell clear of the couch. But not clear of the coffee table. Crack! His head hit the table. Just centimetres from where the wine glasses stood. And then the lights in the living room morphed into a sort of fireworks display before everything went black.

'And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes this evening's our performance,' the man in a dinner jacket but no trousers said. (Pete couldn't help noticing that the man was sporting an impressive stiffy.) 'And now if you will please give a round of applause for this fine young lady and one of the finest examples of pulchritudinous pudenda in the whole of London.'

'Bloody hell, Pete. Are you OK?' The voice sounded familiar. 'Pete? Are you OK?'

Was he OK? Umm ... yes. Probably. But then, when he tried to sit up, everything went black again.

And then he was looking straight at one of the aforementioned finest examples of 'pulchritudinous pudenda in the whole of London' as Chrissy tried to lay Pete on the floor in the recovery position. 'This is not good,' she said. 'I should probably call an ambulance.'

'No. I think just need to lie here for a moment,' Pete said.

'Are you sure?'

'I think so,' Pete said. 'What happened?'

'I think you must have tripped yourself up. And you hit you head on the table as you fell.'

Pete sort of nodded. But not vigorously.

Eventually Pete managed to sit up. 'No. I don't remember,' he said.

'You were taking your trousers off.'

'Was I? Perhaps I should go and lie down.'

'Are you sure I shouldn't call an ambulance?'

'I'll be OK,' Pete said. 'I think.'

Chrissy helped him to pull up his half-masted trousers and then she helped get him to his feet. 'This way?' she asked, nodding in the direction of the stairs.

'Umm ... yeah. Up the stairs.' Pete sort of swayed his way to the foot of the stairs and then, somehow, with Chrissy's help, made his way up to the bedroom. 'Yeah, that's better,' he said as he stretched out on the bed.

'Do you need me to get you some water or something?' Chrissy asked.

'No. But you could come and lie here beside me. That might help.'

Chrissy laughed. 'I probably should go and get my clothes,' she said.

'No. I like you just the way you are,' Pete said. And suddenly they were back in Chinatown and Pete was sitting on a bench outside one of the restaurants. He had a large teapot balanced on his head. 'I have to say, this is not very comfortable,' he told a passing waitress. 'It's heavy and it's bloody hot.'

The waitress frowned but then nodded. 'I get string,' she said.

When Pete next woke up, he wasn't sure where he was. And then, one by one, the pieces started falling into place. Friday. Chrissy. Chinatown. Wine that tasted like ripe peaches. Finger-fucking. But then nothing. Although something must have happened because his head was aching and he didn't think that he had drunk that much.

'You're awake,' Chrissy said. 'How are you feeling?'

'My head,' Pete said. 'I might need to find some Nurofen.'

'Tell me where they are and I'll get them,' Chrissy said.

'Umm ... in the bathroom. In the cupboard. In the corner.'

Chrissy went off and came back with a couple of Nurofen which she handed to Pete. 'There's some water here too,' she said. 'I got it earlier. Just in case. And I turned everything off downstairs. Well ... everything but the stereo. I wasn't sure.'

'The stereo? Umm ... yeah. No, that'll be OK,' Pete said. And then he said: 'Has anyone told you that you have a very nice arse?'

Chrissy laughed. 'Not recently.'

'Well, I'm telling you now,' Pete said.

'Thank you. Are you sure that's not just the bump on your head talking?'

'No. I know a nice arse when I see one.'

'We should probably get you under the duvet,' Chrissy said.

'OK. But we'll need to take our clothes off,' Pete said.

'We?'

'We'll, you can't leave me now. I think I might need looking after.'

Chrissy laughed again. But she got undressed for the second time that evening and helped Pete to get undressed.

'You have nice boobs too,' Pete said. 'Very nice.'

'Thank you.'

Despite his aching head, Pete finger-fucked Chrissy for a second time. He didn't really intend to. He was just intending to give her a little cuddle. But then, when his fingers traced her smooth belly and down to her beautiful furry mound, he thought that he should probably keep going. And it wasn't as if Chrissy was exactly fighting him off. If anything, she was encouraging him, making it easier, spreading her shapely thighs, giving him easier access to her beautiful cuntal valley. And so Pete's fingers continued to explore until Chrissy came to a satisfactorily-noisy orgasm. It was a nice distraction for Pete. It stopped him from thinking about his head. And then, almost immediately, he fell asleep once more.

The following morning Pete woke up at his usual time of 6:45. It was Saturday. He could have gone back to sleep. But he didn't. He had some serious morning wood. And he probably needed to pee.

'Well, it appears that the blood is still making its rounds,' Chrissy said when Pete pulled the duvet back and revealed his rock hard cock. 'Perhaps I could help you with that.'

'Umm ...'

But it was too late. Chrissy was already into her work. And she certainly had an educated hand. For a few minutes Pete wasn't even aware of his head. His focus was all below the waist.

'I need to go home and find some clean clothes,' Chrissy said when she had caused Pete to spurt a pearly rope of cum over his bare chest.

'I think you look just fine as you are,' Pete said.

Chrissy laughed. 'Maybe. But I have a tutorial. The others in the group might not share your enthusiasm.'

'Oh. OK then,' Pete said. 'Will I see you later?'

'Would you like to see me later?'

'I was just thinking that I may require further nursing,' Pete said. 'Further ...' And he waved a hand in the region of his crotch. 'It stops me from thinking about my head.'

Chrissy laughed again.

'Also,' Pete said, 'I could probably make us some supper.'

Chrissy smiled and nodded. 'One condition,' she said.

'No chicken feet?'

'Well, yes, no chicken feet. But also, if you're not feeling a hundred percent in a couple of hours' time, I want you to go and see a doctor. It's possible that you could have concussion.'

'I think I'll be OK,' Pete said. 'But yes.'

A couple of hours later, Pete wasn't entirely sure how he felt. Soon after Chrissy had left, he had felt slightly nauseous. But it had passed. And then it had come back again. Perhaps he needed to eat something. Also, he was feeling grumpy. Grumpy that Chrissy had had to go? No. That wasn't it. Chrissy had to do what Chrissy had to do. But he felt grumpy nevertheless. Pete didn't like feeling grumpy. Pete wasn't really a grumpy sort of person.

Pete made himself a cup of coffee. A latte. He also made some toast with marmalade. A bit of sugar perhaps. And then he started to think about what he could make for supper. What did he feel like? What might Chrissy like? Chicken was probably a safe dish. Most people liked chicken. There was a dish that Pete had made a few times that was essentially a flattened out chicken breast with tomato and basil and fresh mozzarella. What was it called? Napolitano? No. That was ice cream, wasn't it? But it was something like that. Something Italian.

When Pete had finished his coffee and toast, he took another couple of Nurofen and went and lay on his bed. He still couldn't quite remember the events of the night before.

Capri? No. And then it came to him. Caprese. Chicken Caprese. Or possibly Pollo Caprese. And soon after that one of his students arrived. On a unicycle.

'Why a unicycle?' Pete asked.

'It saves on tyres,' the student said. 'I'm doing my bit for the planet. I'm saving the planet one tyre at a time.'

When Pete next woke up, almost an hour had passed. But at least the Nurofen seemed to be working. And the nausea seemed to have abated. Pete showered, put on fresh clothes, and decided to go for a walk. Fresh air might help. And while he was out, he could also pick up some ingredients for the Chicken Caprese.

It being a Saturday, Pete avoided Euston Road and Oxford Street and wandered east in the direction of UCL and The British Museum. The fresh air seemed to be working, and Pete felt as well as he had all day. But then, as he was passing a café, he spotted Chrissy. She was sitting at a table in deep conversation with an older chap. The chap was wearing a blazer and one of those Italian silk ties that cost almost as much as a small family car. Pete's first instinct was go and say hello. But then he started to have negative thoughts.

Who was the bloke? Her tutor? He didn't look like a tutor. But then what did an Eng Lit tutor look like? Pete hovered for a moment or two, but then walked on. And, suddenly, he felt grumpy again. Was Chrissy just stringing him along? Was that Giles she was with? Giles, the chap she just happened to know. Giles who thought that he was more than just a chap that Chrissy happened to know.

Pete was tempted to phone Chrissy and tell her that supper was off. But he didn't.

He wandered on for about half an hour and then he turned and headed for home via Tesco Metro where he purchased what he needed for supper. He also purchased another couple of bottles of the ripe-peach-tasting Orvieto.

When Chrissy returned, shortly after six, Pete was already most of the way through his first glass of wine.

'How are you?' Chrissy asked.

'I'll be OK,' Pete said.

'Be OK? Does that mean that you aren't already OK?'

'I'll be OK,' Pete repeated. 'I'll be OK.'

'I brought some wine,' Chrissy said. 'Although I wasn't sure if you should be drinking.'

'Well, I am,' Pete said. And he refilled his own glass and poured a glass for Chrissy. 'How was your tutorial?'

'It was ... OK,' Chrissy said. 'We're getting near the end. Finals in a couple of weeks. And everyone is getting a bit frazzled. Michael in particular.'

'Michael? Who's Michael? Was he the chap who was with you in the coffee shop?'

Chrissy frowned. 'Coffee shop?'

'Coffee shop. Café. Whatever.'

'Oh. No. That was Willard.' And then she said: 'Have you been stalking me?'

'Who's Willard?'

'You have, haven't you? You've been stalking me.'

'I was just out walking and I saw you.'

'So why didn't you come and say hello?'

'You still haven't said who Willard is.'

'Willard? Willard is a chap with too much family money who wants to start an online arts magazine. He's looking for ... well ... cheap labour I suppose - although goodness knows why. Unless my source is talking through a hole in her hat, he's rolling in dosh.'

'Oh. So ... are you going to be his cheap labour?'

'Don't know. It would be a way to get into journalism. But it would be a start-up. Start-ups can be risky. What do you think? Should I keep talking?'

'To me? Or to him?'

Chrissy laughed. 'Tell me ... have you been feeling irritable today?'

'Perhaps,' Pete said. 'You know. Perhaps a bit grumpy.'

'Which is not really you, is it?'

Pete frowned. 'Probably not,' he said, eventually.

'Concussion,' Chrissy said.

'And you know this how?'

'My mother. She trained as a nurse and then worked as a paramedic. She used to spend most winter weekends on the side lines of rugby matches. Head clashes are not uncommon among rugby players. It used to be that the solution was a sponge and some so-called "magic water". But then clubs started taking it a bit more seriously. Concussion. Confusion. Headaches. Nausea. Irritability. Any of that sound familiar?

For a while Pete said nothing. And then he said: 'OK. You win.' And he gave Chrissy a little hug.

'Let's just put the wine to one side for the moment and focus on supper, shall we? Now ... what were you thinking?'

'I was thinking chicken. With tomato and basil and mozzarella.'

'Chicken Caprese? Oh, yes. Perfect. Do we have the necessary bits? Or do we need to go shopping?'

'I got some stuff earlier.'

And that's how Chrissy and Pete came to make their first two-handed supper.

'How are you thinking of doing this?' Chrissy asked.

'Beat out the chicken. Pan fry it lightly on both sides. In olive oil. Sliced tomato. Torn basil. Torn mozzarella. Salt and pepper. Eight minutes in a reasonably hot oven. Onto a couple of plates. Maybe a drizzle of olive oil to finish.'

'That should work.'

'And I suppose you want something healthy with it.'

Chrissy smiled. 'Not necessarily. Chicken, tomato, basil. That's pretty healthy.'

'Maybe some fried potatoes?'

'Yeah, why not? Probably good for your soul. We can chop them up and microwave them first. That'll speed things up.'

Pete got out the ingredients: chicken, tomato, basil, mozzarella, and a couple of potatoes.

'Do you have a pan that can also go into the oven?' Chrissy asked.

'I think so.'

'Good. That cuts down on the washing up.'

'Have we just had our first tiff?' Pete asked.

Chrissy laughed. 'Let's just put it down to the fact that you weren't feeling yourself. Maybe next time, you shouldn't try to stand up and take your trousers of at the same time.'

'Is that what I did?' Pete said.

'Pretty much.'

'I don't remember.'

Three-quarters of an hour later, they were ready to eat. The Chicken Caprese was just right. And the sautéed potatoes were perhaps the best that Pete had ever tasted. 'Am I allowed a glass of wine?' he asked.

'I don't think one will do too much harm.'

'So, where did you leave it with the Willard chap?' Pete asked as they ate.

'He wants me to think about it, and then he wants us to talk again. Perhaps you could come along next time.'

'I'm not sure that I know anything about online publishing,' Pete said.

'That might be a good thing. You could be the sensible one. Think about it.'

After they had finished eating, Chrissy suggested that Pete should make them each a coffee. 'I probably feel more like another glass of wine,' Pete said.

'I know. But I have to keep an eye on you.'

'Is that something else your mother told you?'

Chrissy laughed. 'Come on. A quick cup of coffee and then you can fuck me - assuming that you'd like to.'

'Two coffees coming up,' Pete said. Pete made two espressos, and they drank them while still standing in the kitchen. And then it was up the stairs - and, this time, Pete managed to get there pretty much under his own steam.

'You know ... you are a very sexy-looking woman,' Pete said, as he undressed Chrissy.

Chrissy smiled. 'Maybe there are some advantages to be had from a bit of a bump on the head from time to time,' she said.

As the last of Chrissy's clothes fell away, Pete began to unbuckle his belt.

'Uh-uh,' Chrissy said. 'Let me do that. You are not to be trusted. Remember?'

'I don't,' Pete said. 'But still ...'

The foreplay was brief. Chrissy was already wet. And when Pete put his tongue to her clit, she almost pushed his head into the deepest depths of her cuntal valley. 'I might need to breathe,' Pete said.

'Oh, yes. I forgot. It's your fault. You got me distracted.'

'My pleasure,' Pete said.

And then it was time for the first time.

Chrissy bent her knees and spread her legs even further, and Pete placed the tip of his hard cock at the entrance to her already-slick tunnel. And then he pushed. 'Ohhhh, yes!' Chrissy said. 'Ohhhh, yes, yes, yes!'