When It Snows Ch. 02

What the fuck? How did this happen? She was my bitch of an ex-wife, I didn't hate her but I didn't like her much either. OK, that wasn't quite true. But there is no denying that she had taken me to the fucking cleaners and wiped me from her life like a j-cloth of flash cleaner burnishing out a grimy tidemark on her enamel bath. What the fuck's going on here?

Before we knew what was going down, we were sucking each others tongues like a pair of demented intertwined cyclonic Dysons, tearing off our clothes like desperate teenagers with the folks gone up the shops for maybe ten minutes tops.

I swear I must've popped a couple of buttons off her lacy blouse. I hitched her dress up and she pulled down my dishevelled sweatpants, my erection sprang up like a steel girder. I yanked the gusset of her delicate lace knickers to one side and she climbed up on the sofa and plunged down on me until our pelvic bones mashed together like two HGVs crossing the dividing line and hitting head on, both of us explosively expelling the air from our lungs.

Piddles jumped off his end of the sofa in shock at such goings on and hid under the bed. Shirley and I fucked each other like frantic may bugs. We were all over the place, completely out of sync with one another, each urgently trying to catch up with the other and failing, but failing wonderfully.

I pushed up like a submerged mariner desperately fighting for air, she ground down on me like she needed to scratch an itch that she couldn't quite reach no matter how hard she tried. Our bodies steamed in that freezing flat like we were in a Swedish sauna, the sweat poured off us in streams like the flood running from my fucking library books. We came, not together like we used to when we were regular practised lovers, but untidily, spasming to our separate conclusions.

I guess she beat me by a short head.

"What the fuck just happened, Shirl?" I puffed, the blood rushing back to my brain and logical thought belatedly trying to re-establish authority over my automatic bodily actions.

"Love, honey, love," grinned Shirley, still panting, as she continued to slowly grind our pelvises together, making little squealing noises as she did so. I had started to soften after coming but, still embedded in her slick velvet heaven, my response appeared to be stiffening once more under her minuscule movements.

"What about ... Henry?" I hated even mentioning his fucking bastard name, but I remembered how much pain I had felt when some other greedy randy male organ had trespassed into pussy territory that I felt I had exclusive drilling rights on.

"He died," she said undramatically, without passion, her eyes closed as she continued rocking to and fro on my lap, sending scintillating tingles up my spine, while I involuntarily started little thrusting actions upwards again. She continued after some thought, "November ... 14 it was. Oh that's great honey, harder!"

"But ..." I said, stopping my movements in shock at the news of my old adversary's untimely demise, "What the fuck?"

Shirley stopped too, opened her eyes and said matter-of-factly, "He had a heart attack, Barry. He is no longer an issue between us. I fucked him, I lived with him, I never loved him. Now, where the fuck were we, darling?"

She started her familiar little gyrations again, then changed them slightly, into tight little heavenly figures of eight.

"So, are you single again ... or are you ...?" I stuttered, I never seemed to be able to string words together when I was with this woman.

"Single. You?"

"Very single," I muttered, "Not done this in ... years."

"Nor me," she said, eyes shut again.

"Wha'?"

"He was fucking his Secretary, ok? I suppose you find that funny? Just desserts, or something?"

"No," I lied, trying hard to stop smiling, thanking whoever was concerned that her eyes were still closed as I said it.

She opened her eyes and almost caught me smiling, I was trying to keep a poker face even though I was back poking her again. All right, I only held my straight face for a second and I couldn't help grinning again and then she grinned back at me too.

It's impossible to keep a straight face when you're nuts-deep in the woman you love.

Fuck it! I just thought the fucking L word. Good job I never said it out loud.

"I thought he had just slowed down his libido over the last couple of years and finally given up on sex altogether about eighteen months ago. He was seventy-three then after all, so I was resigned to take out my urges in the home-gym and ... you know, I used up a lot of batteries. Then he had a heart attack while he was fucking his twenty-eight-year-old fucking secretary and died almost instantly with them both stuck together on the office desk."

"It's a hell of a way to go," I suggested, seeing a vivid image in my head that looked perversely cartoon-like.

She giggled.

"Only sweet Miss Shorthand couldn't get my fat husband off her and she had to call for help from the paramedics."

"No shit?"

"No shit." She laughed, such a delightful sound, that this shitty flat hadn't heard since it was built, when the Queen before the current Queen ruled OK. Shirley continued, "The facts all came out in the inquest. She had to reach down to pull up his trousers in order to get at the phone in his pocket before she could ring for the emergency services. They had to wheel them through the office still joined together to the ambulance. Something about vacuum suction apparently, I didn't quite understand the medical terminology but it happens more frequently that would appear, apparently. I don't have much sympathy for either of them quite frankly. In fact, I hope she still has bloody nightmares about it. He was a massive 24 stone at the end, it was a wonder the poor girl could breath with the dead weight of that deadbeat fucker on and in her."

We continued making love, slowly, beautifully. That first time, only minutes ago, was just a fuck, thoughtless, uncomplicated and simple. Just two frustrated near-strangers getting off after a wilderness of pent-up sexual and life-sapping frustration. Now we were actually a couple of lovers making love. Not quite like old times, to be honest, probably better, if I'm being honest. Then, we were often too busy, working to pay for our shit, bringing up my two nearly grown-up boys and our baby daughter. We were too busy surviving life to appreciate actually living our lives.

Maybe we took each other for granted after eighteen years together, maybe I failed to live up to her expectations. I was probably crap in the bedroom, that had to be part of it.

But, what we were doing right now was nice, no it wasn't just nice, it was absolutely fucking fantastic.

Shirley still had her bra on. It was a flimsy, white lacie thing and her small but firm-looking breasts were jiggling up and down delightfully. I moved my hands from her hips up her back to find the clasp. She opened her eyes and smiled so sweetly at my fumbling efforts.

"The clasp's in the front, dummy!" she laughed, "You must be so out of practice, hon."

"I am," I admitted.

"You've never lost it, though, honey, really you haven't," she said, leaning forward and sucking my tongue once more into her warm moist mouth before beaming at me again with her beautiful face.

"I lost you, though, six years ago," I said as we broke off the kiss. There was a bitterness in my voice, even though our pelvises continued to grind against one another like an inexorable tide coming in to overwhelm us.

"No, I lost you," she panted, close to sobbing, "I selfishly threw you away. My fault, my own stupid fault."

I thought she was about to cry so I ground myself harder into her succulent groin.

We were still fucking. Strange that we were sort of arguing about the past and fucking in the here and now, at the same time. I thought I'd expose her tits while the going was good. Oh yes, I thought as they peeped out at me. They were better even than I remembered them, I had dreamed continually about them, ever since I had last seen their utter perfection so many years ago. They were still firm yet soft, her hard nipples blushed with blood and passion under my eager thumbs.

I was still infused with anger though and consequently thrust my hips harder, higher, quicker. Not wanting to hurt her but not really caring too much if I did. Maybe she deserved to be hurt but I just couldn't bring myself to go that far. I grunted and she lifted herself higher, supported by my shoulders and bounced down just as hard as she could.

Her earlier delighted squeals of pleasure evolved into grunts every bit as porcine as mine, embellishing each vibrating thrust with an exhalation as forceful as any women's tennis pro delivering a two-handed backhand to the baseline.

"We ... only ... fucked ... twice. The ... first time ... was ... ex ... citing. ... Henry ... wore me ... down ... over ... time ... and ... we did ... it. ... I felt ... guilty, hon ... really guilty ... but it felt ... so good."

"Better ... than ... me?"

I fucked her harder, I had a fucking point to fucking make, the sofa springs were in danger of giving out before I would yield.

"No ... yeah ... fuck yeah ... that first time. ... Then you ... didn't know ... or it didn't ... affect us. ... So I did it ... again."

The sweat ran off the tip of her nose, her eyes closed, she seemed so absorbed, enjoying the moment.

"Then ... second time ... it was ... hopeless ... no thrill ... I was never ... going to ... do it again, ... but then you ... showed up. ... Caught us ... caught me ... your faith ... less whore." Shirley sobbed.

Then Shirley shuddered. "So ... fucking close ... harder Baz, fuck ... me ... fuck ... me ... harder!"

We were rutting like wild hogs now, I was clenching my buttocks trying to hold off my conclusion and failing wholesale. She was screwing down on me with her hips, her nails were gouging lumps out of my shoulders.

I looked up, her face contorted into a grimace. Her lower lip was sucked into her mouth and she was chewing it as hard as any gunslinger who had Doc Holiday digging a slug out of a flesh wound without anaesthetic, using a rusty knife warmed over a sooty candle.

"Fuuuuuck!!" we chorused in harmony, although it was debatable who sustained the higher-pitched note. I think I may have set the dogs off barking three streets away. Shirley collapsed on my bleeding shoulder. We were both breathing heavily like we had photo-finished over the National course at Aintree and couldn't give a fuck about the deciding Polaroid, just wanting a welcome rub-down from Ginger McCain, a bucket of water and a bag of oats.

She leaned against me for a few minutes while we desperately tried to get our breath back. I continued stroking her wonderful breasts and delightfully insinuating nipples. Then Shirley lifted her head off my shoulder and pressed her forehead to mine, kissing the wet tip of my nose.

"Well, what do you think?" she breathed seductively.

"Oh, absolutely beautiful, perfection," I said dreamily, still weighing those glorious orbs in each hand, gently rubbing her nipples, occasionally twisting them between finger and thumb, playing with them in reverential delight, to the exclusion of any other thoughts.

"They feel better than I remember them, even better than I dreamed of, and all the time I think about them."

"Them?" she asked, knowing the answer almost as she asked. "Damn! Tits! Is that all you men ever think about?"

"Well, they are ..." I chuckled even as the thought materialised, "They are outstanding tits, Shirl."

"They are very tiny tits, Baz."

"Your tits are just the right size, Shirl, why would anyone want them bigger than a palmful? I only have two hands you know," I laughed.

"I don't know, anyway," she said, looking at me earnestly, "They are not my tits, honey. I want you to consider them your tits, yours whenever, forever, Baz."

"Shirl ..." I started to say, not sure how to express in words how to continue, not wanting to ruin the moment.

"Alright, I forgive you your misinterpretation of what I was asking you this time, honey," she grinned, "What I meant was, what do you think about us? Would you ever consider giving us, well me, basically, another chance?"

"I dunno, Shirl," I protested in vain, realising how hard it is to be any way negative about the condition of our relationship when you still have your rapidly-shrinking willy jammed as far into the sweetest pussy you've ever known.

The same fucking pussy, though, that she gave away, apparently for nothing, to some greedy un-a-fucking-appreciating arsehole, while not wishing to speak ill of the fucking dead, of course.

"You killed me, Shirl, you and Henry hanged, drew and quartered me until I lost everything I had, even my sense of self-worth. If I went back to you or took you in now after six years in the wilderness, I would just hate myself, I know I would."

She started crying then, oh fuck, no, please don't do this to me!

My sofa was going nowhere except possibly the recycling dump where it was long overdue, but today that sofa was masquerading as a fucking roller coaster to my emotions. We had hit the heights, oh boy, had we hit the bloody heights! And now we were going through the fucking water splash.

I reluctantly left her wonderful tits alone and folded my arms around her and pulled her shaking sobbing body into me, rubbing her back through her jacket, blouse and bra strap still in place, feeling her warm salty tears on my cheek.

"Shirley, I don't hate you, I really don't. I only hate myself and my failings which must have lead to you wanting more than I could possibly give you."

That much was true, absolutely true on every single fucking count.

"But ... I just don't love you anymore." I continued.

That was a downright fucking cynical lie on my part, but it didn't affect how I felt about us being together for just these last two fucks. I now had enough in the wank bank to keep me warm at night for quite a while, at least I could ditch that stupid fucking DVD! OK, I'd put it away in a drawer just in case I ever needed it again.

"What am I going to do?" Shirley continued to wail.

What the fuck was she asking me for? I don't have any answers.

I only had questions, ones that never got asked or answered the first time around. It all happened so damned quick, those six long aching years ago. She'd been working late for a couple of nights, putting together some takeover bid for some struggling firm that Henry had his greedy beady eyes on. So, being the caring loving husband that I thought I was, I took over a late afternoon packed lunch-cum-supper for her and found my lovely wife bent over Henry's desk with Henry's fat pale white arse trying to screw my Shirley into the fucking mahogany, spurred on by her damningly evident vocal encouragement.

Why did she have that affair? Why did she fuck that sonofabitch? I never found out the reason or reasons.

Another mystery that I never figured out, even though my attorney Perry-fucking-Mason-fucking-Junior tried his best to fucking explain it to me in legal terms that only he could fucking comprehend, was why I had to pay Henry's inflated fucking dental bills! OK, I admit, I had tried to push his molars down into his stomach with my clenched fist. On the other hand, he didn't have to give me a fucking penny for doing his darndest to stuff his own blunt fucking instrument of choice into my wife's fucking uterus.

Fucking divorce solicitors, fuck 'em all, every last one of them, I say.

"... I may be putting a bold face on things ..." Shirley said, as she continued weeping.

Actually I might have missed quite a bit of what she had said then, while I was occupied with my own thoughts. I expected I may have missed something important or profound, and didn't know how to respond coherently, which would definitely piss her off. On the other hand I didn't want to go as far as replying "Whatever", like some petulant teenager and really upset her. After all, if she got the upper hand and murdered me in my own pathetic garret, there were no witnesses and I was certain that she'd fucking-well get away with it. I wasn't going to give her the fucking pleasure.

Oh shit, she's still rabbiting on while I'm busy thinking and not paying attention and I'm missing most of it again.

"... But I don't want to live without you, Baz, you are my whole life, hon," she sobbed, "I made a silly mistake, on just two occasions and I want to make it up to you. Can we? Pleeeeeaze?"

Oh fuck, what do I do now?

I am going to be wrong whatever I do, this is a lose-lose situation for me. If I go with her I will be a fucking hen-pecked wimp who will apparently swallow anything for a bit of token pussy while waiting with absolute fucking certainty for her to fuck up again and replace me with her next preferred fucking stud.

On the other hand if I kick her out on her shapely arse right here, right now, I'm branded a fucking insensitive arsehole who doesn't deserve the fucking princess that we both know she fucking-well is. I'm sure she said something else while I was thinking this last bit, and I've fucking missed it entirely, again.

Stupid fucking woman knows I can't multitask and yet she's still asking more stupid fucking questions, when I haven't even answered the first fucker yet.

"... Besides, Baz," she looked at me with tears still dressing her cheeks but a smile appearing on her lips, "maybe the third time might be a charm."

How in the fuck did we get to this point? I haven't said a fucking word in the past ten minutes and she's now considering giving me a third fuck?!

"Yeah, OK." I said.

Fuck! I can't believe my own fucking mouth sometimes. I didn't even think about it. There was no decision-making process, I just jumped in with both feet. I'm fucking silly putty in her hands, it's like the last six years apart have been erased from our collective memories.

Shirley looked happier than I have ever seen her. She screamed on hearing my capitulation and then she squeezed me, tucking her head into my neck and kissed my sensitive throat with dozens of little wet kisses. I just buried my head in her sweet-smelling hair and tried not to cry.

For the last six years I felt I had been fucked over.

Now I know, though, Shirley was on top in every sense of the word, which means that as an independent entity I was totally fucked.

We couldn't stay at the flat, that was clear. It was far too cold and, just to emphasis the probity of that unspoken decision, as we started to dress ourselves ready to venture out into the elements, the fucking electric lights went off as the power company chopped my overdue account off at source.

I stuffed Piddles into a cardboard box, managing to retain most of the skin on my hands. I threw half a dozen tins of tuna in a carrier bag, plus the one decent pair of trousers and collared shirt that I only wear for interviews, plus a couple of pairs of the dodgy stiff underpants that I prudently double-wrapped in a bin liner for security.

We went off in her car to, well I never, it would be the Fucking Grand Hotel, wouldn't it? And it would be the penthouse suite, naturally, just to fucking-well rub it in.

Shirley signed me in at the desk, to make my presence among the unaccustomed opulence official and got me issued with one of those plastic keys that allowed the lift to climb that extra floor to the top and enable me to gain entry into the suite. I felt decidedly underdressed and shabby in my sweats, threadbare wind cheater and poor excuse for trainers. Shirley was a lady, radiating class to her fingertips and very kindly didn't mention how unbelievably disheveled I looked.

When we let Piddles out of his box in the sitting room of Shirley's beautiful suite, he dashed through the bedroom door and dived under the bed. I just hoped the sneaky bastard wouldn't shit or piss under there.