She said with a grin, “I was scared of clamping down on his meat…!” He flipped through the rest of the album, two more pages each of just her proudly displaying her marks presumably after ‘he’ had left. These were the only pictures in the book, the other three pages were blank. She grinned and said, the camera is over there, perhaps we can add a few to fill it up… his grin broadened, “you want pain then or just sex?” She smiled her face like a sunbeam, then she said, “that master is very much up to you,” his errection was instant and very prominent. During that Saturday he had her on the table, over the sofa arm, on the floor, on the bed and overnight three times more in the bed, they slept in on Sunday morning, until that persistent telephone call from Ernest that changed everything… a rapid “I will call you back soon” and a watch of the television while ringing old Jennings his immediate boss confirmed that they had no need to get up early again in the foreseeable future… They. As he and my husband drank and I waited, watching this biggish rotund beer bellied lout, cast the occasional glance in my direction, I sat in silence, dressed like a real tart in stockings, waiting for the fuck session to begin, like a condom waiting to be filled with the semen of a frustrated man. He was a trucker from England, who had met my husband earlier that day in a pub off Princess street. They had got talking, and his apparent frustration at the lack of young pussy to fuck on his journeys inspired my husband to offer my body and willingness to do just about anything this man would want to do to a woman of relaxed morals. ‘You about ready Frida’, my husband asked, while the man looked over my husbands shoulder, as if still disbelieving I was there. ‘Sure I am ready’, I replied, looking through him and directly into the gaze of my soon to be lover, wondering how big his cock was and how he liked to use it. I had downed half of the bottle of wine and suggested we take it back.
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