The Kitchen Table

A strange sigh from Seamus. 'Come on, you two,' he seems to be saying. 'I can't stand sentry for the whole day. I have things to do, people to see.' Fair enough, Seamus. But don't want to rush things too much. Savour the moment while there's a moment to savour - that's always been my policy.

Entering into Amanda's slippery smoothness. By good fortune, her red high-heeled shoes and this sturdy scrubbed pine kitchen table combining perfectly. Everything at just the right height and just the right angle. Parting her luscious lips with my thumb and forefinger. Sliding slowly into heaven. And then, flesh on flesh, my balls snuggled up against her soft fuzziness, pausing. Savouring the moment. O, yes. Even on this umpteenth occasion, not a moment to be taken lightly. Pause and enjoy. And then down to work.

And when he was in he was in. And when he was out he was out. And when he was only halfway in ...

'Don't stop! Don't tease!'

'Tease? Who moi? Perhaps you are confusing me with the gardener, my love. Or the postman. Does the postman deliver? A special delivery for Lady Amanda. An important package. The gentleman paid extra and asked me to deliver it personally, Milady. He said that I should deliver it right to your cunt, Milady. So if you could just bend over and lift your skirt so that I can confirm your identity. O, yes. There's no mistaking that lovely cunt, is there? Once seen, never forgotten. Plump, furry outer lips; slippery pink lips within. And a hot slot waiting to receive my special parcel. Ready yourself, Milady, steady yourself, and in we go.' And in and in and in again.

'Oh, fuck, yes!'

Oh, fuck, yes, indeed, Amanda. I think that if ever a table was made for fucking, this might be it. Forget all those country kitchen photographs of scrubbed pine tables with bounteous bowls of seasonal fruits, or braces of pheasants or partridges. Give me a table with a randy naked-arsed woman any day.

And speaking of naked arses, I wonder if this might be one of those occasions on which my rampant plunging cock might slip out and 'accidentally' find your sweet puckered rosebud, this same sweet rosebud that I am now massaging with my thumb. What do you think, Amanda? Eh? It does seem to be relaxing nicely. Maybe help it along with a smear of your wonderful, slippery cunt juice?

'Oh, fuck, yes!'

Fuck yes? I shall take that as a yes then. Ready yourself, steady yourself. And ... oops! Oh well, perhaps just a gentle push, just an inch or so. And maybe just a little more.

'Oh, fuck, yes! You dirty fucker.'

And afterwards, Amanda sitting on the edge of the table, her skirt still hoisted, her knickers still down around one elegant ankle, a small damp patch forming on the table. 'A very good table.'

'An excellent table, my love. And an excellent kitchen. I can picture it in Architectural Digest already.'

'It has possibilities.' And then, after a moment or two: 'Do we know if the Aga is in working order?'

'I would imagine so. But I will arrange for an expert to come and inspect it. An Aga-ologist. Just to be sure.'

'We should start making a list.'

Did you hear that, Seamus? We should start making a list. A list of things that a good man and a boy might do in a day. A buying signal if ever I heard one, Seamus. The beginnings of a great big yes.

O, when we are up we are up, Seamus. When we are up we are most definitely up.