Thursday, September 07, 2006

A very memorable trip home

I had been up in Edinburgh in bonnie auld Scotland on a blissfully boozy business trip, and was flying back to my home in London (not flying myself, you understand - I was just a passenger in a fucking aircraft). As Lady Luck would have it, I was seated next to this absolutely gorgeous hunk of manflesh who (I observed happily) had a very interesting-looking lump in his pants. Quite a mouthful, I thought, salivating at the thought.

We got to chatting and after a few G&Ts or four, the upshot was that he dragged me home with him - not unwillingly, especially after he had shoved his tongue down my eager gob. I, being a loving wife, phoned my then husband, the ultra-faggy Bert, and told him I was delayed and I knew, just knew, Bert would be off to the nearest toilets looking for some trade.

I have to say my new bedmate was hung like a horse and he slipped me a couple of satisfactory lengths, one in the puss and one where the sun don’t shine. But that was after I had given him one of my very finest blow jobs and he had practically licked my womb clean.

Reflecting the huge amounts of booze we had demolished, my airborne pickup fell into a drunken stupor, and his snores were enough to wake the sodding dead. So I thought, shag this for a lark, I’m out of here. So having determined, I grabbed my clobber, said I had to go, called myself a cab and back to the airport I went to collect my waiting car and then off home in the early hours.

Which is where I got (even to me, sophisticated bunny that I am) a slight surprise.

In the days before fame and riches smiled on me, I lived in a modest suburban house in Acacia Avenue, so the ten-ton truck parked outside stood out a bit; I thought, “Bert wouldn’t… would he?” But he had. Would you fucking believe it?

I crept into the house, as quiet as a little mouse, and up the stairs I went to the master bedroom (which is what we called the one with full en-suite bathroom so you didn’t have to walk down the hall for a mid-night tinkle. Ah, those dear long-gone days of yesteryear.)

The bedside light was on and I peeped shyly round the door and what a wondrous sight was there revealed to my scarce-believing eyes and waiting Canon Sureshot.

Hubby Bert was trussed up and gagged on our marital bed, whilst a hairy-arsed giant pounded into him from the rear, like a mighty piston working double-overtime. I could tell he was a really high-class trucker as he was still wearing his official Eddie Stobart hat, and he had folded his trousers neatly by the bedside (although I noticed a nasty skidmark on the inside of his discarded frilly knickers).

Now you might think most women would be offended to find their spouse acting thus, for gay sex, gaily up-ended; but I am Edna Sweetlove and am made of sterner stuff. So, fighting back my gag reflex (but only just), I took a few quick snaps for the family photo album and smiled, “Hello, and don’t let me interrupt you for a moment, dears”.

And, so having said, I got out my ever-waiting bullwhip to give them both the lovely thrashing they so fucking richly deserved. And - would you credit it? - we ended up having a kinky little threesome.

Well worth posting on my blog, I feel.


Anonymous said...

You don't need commment
You need an insult


Anonymous said...

All your poems are bullsheet

Edna Sweetlove said...

Frankly, my dear, I don't give a "sheet".

Jimmy Burns said...

All your poems are bullsheet