Thursday, 31 May 2012

Andy! You cannot do these things (in a German accent).

I met a dirty girl by the name of Michelle on Boxing day night in 1999. Dwelling in Holland at the time, my 2 week Christmas holidays spent in England, were supposed to be a chance to spend some quality time with my family. But what was I supposed to do? Less than a week till the new millennium and the golden chalice had just been handed to me on a platter. It had been a while, a drought not far short of the Ethiopian crisis of 1984. A few weeks engrossed in the pleasures of the body could not be refused. My family, I'm sorry to say from a retrospective viewpoint were to play second fiddle, whilst my own fiddle was being played by the nimble fingers of Michelle. The only conversations I had with them that Christmas break, I'm afraid to admit, were the ones that I snatched in those moments that I emerged from under the covers, battered and bedraggled.

It was a great week and make no mistake. I did things in that week that I did not believe my body (or mind) capable of. But this story is not about the things that happened during in this time. It is events that happened in the aftermath of this highly sexual encounter that I wish to focus on. You see, Michelle seemed to take a shine to me and took it upon herself to ask for my Dutch address. For the next few months she would write me letters of a highly sexual nature. Of course, I responded in an equally sexually descriptive manner. I even sent her a picture of my John Thomas. Easier said than done in those dark times before digital was even a microchip in a laboratory. And so our naughtiness continued for a short while in this fashion. The pen far mightier than the pork sword, one might say.

Sometime in January, my friend Nick decided to visit my Dutch apartment, and with him he  brought his very straight laced German girlfriend Christine. Lovely girl, Nick in case you're listening but straight laced all the same. I don't recall whether it was the first time that I had made her acquaintance or not, but rest assured it was going to be the last time that we would see each other for many years. My actions later this evening were to make sure of that.

Nick knows me well and I think that he is a little afraid of introducing Christine to me. I have made vows that I will be on my best behaviour and I have promised to keep my alcohol consumption down. And I mean it , I really do!

They arrive around 6 pm on Saturday evening, having driven from Arnhem. True to my word, I have gone to great efforts to make a nice meal for them. My apartment is only one room but I have laid the table and tried my best to present it well. Although Nick seems a little anxious at first, he see's the effort that I have gone to and after a few glasses of wine, he relaxes a little. We sit for a while and make small talk over coffee, whilst making plans for the evenings activities. We decide upon a nice bar in the old part of the city (the city being Leiden).

The evening goes extremely well, and Christine and I are getting on like a house on fire. Nick's anxiety levels have been lessened by my own subdued drinking levels, and we return to my apartment at a reasonably early time, reasonably sober.

As always, I have given my guest the double bed, whilst I selflessly sleep on some laid out cushions, on he floor. The bed I hasten to add is from Ikea and is low to the ground. This is not a random fact, it is very pertinent to the story, in case you're wondering. I fix them some drinks and leave them comfortably snuggled together on my bed watching a comedy, whilst I make us all a midnight snack in the shared kitchen next door. I leave the door open and we make chit chat throughout the culinary process.

In many people's worlds this would be the perfect end to a great evening. But this is not any person's world. It's mine, and of course it's all going to go horribly wrong.

I hear the phone ringing in the next room and decide not to answer it. It continues to ring far longer than it normally should and I am left with no other choice than to pick up the receiver. What if something is wrong back home? The phone is on the far side of the bed, on a bedside table by the window. Skillfully I vault the bed and grab the receiver, much to the delight of the cuddling couple, who have grown tired of the incessant ringing. I hold the receiver to my ear and I am greeted by the following sentence

"Andy, me pussy's soaking, I've got my new vibro with 10 interchangeable heads and I'm looking at the photo of your cock, whilst I push it up me".

I am taken aback. How am I supposed to reply to this? Under normal circumstances I would find it hard enough, but with Nick and Christine on the bed not 2 feet away from me, I am lost for words.

"Erm erm", is all that I can mumble.

She takes my "erms" as noises of sexual gratification and continues.

"I just want you up me, please, please fill me with your cock".

"Erm, erm", comes my response.

"I want you to take it out of me pussy and rub it on me clit".

"Erm, erm".

"Please, please, tell me what you are going to do to me".

By now, the snuggling couple are aware that something is amiss. My "erms" have alerted them to this fact. They are watching me as intently as Michelle is listening.

"Andy, please, I'm begging you babe - please talk dirty to me"

And how do I respond? I'll tell you how I respond. Like this.

"Where are you"?

My question takes her off guard.


"Where are you"? I repeat.

"I'm at fucking home, where do you think I am the supermarket"?, she replies.

All I can say in response is "Where at home"?

Agitation enters her reply "On the fucking stairs if you must know", she spits out.

"Why are you on the stairs"?, is definitely not the response she is looking for.

By now her sexual pantings have turned into grunts of irritation.

It turns out that she also has guests and has sneaked out of the room for a little satisfaction without them knowing. I make her aware of my own situation regarding my guests and she asks me if I can go anywhere private. Reluctantly, I lie on my back and slowly edge my way under the bed. Meanwhile Nick and Christine look on in disbelief.

I'm flat on my back staring at Ikea slats, the phone coil stretched as far as it can go. Above me I hear the TV but little else. I can imagine their faces,

"Are you somewhere private. My pussy's tingling"? she enquires.

"Yes, sort of",I reply.

"Get your cock out", she begs.

Of course, I respond in the affirmative.

"I'm rubbing my clit, you better be stroking your cock". she demands

"Yes, I am, I am", I tell her. Although at this point I'm struggling to breathe, never mind mess with myself.

The conversation continues in this vein for the next couple of minutes, cocks, pussies, arse holes, nipples, lips and balls being thrown in a rate of one a second". Eventually of course, there is a rumbling in my boxers and any reserve I may have had is thrown out of the proverbial window. The same window that I imagine Christine to be escaping from right now.

Michelle's conversation seems to be getting dirtier by the minute in direct proportion to the hardness of my knob. Her orgasms are coming thick and fast and she's urging filthier and filthier talk out of my mouth.

Before you know it, I'm screaming "I'm going to slide it up your pussy and get you to lick off your own juices", "then I am going to take it out and slide it up your arse". As I am shouting this, my throbbing member is thrashing against the wooden slats of the Ikea bed with enough force to lift them from their base. I am taken away on a wave of euphoric sexual pleasure that knows no bounds.

It's only when I am fully relieved that my ears choose to focus on Christine's sobbing. All of a sudden, I am consumed by embarrassment. As much as I want to, I can't stay under the bed forever. So with great effort I sidle out.

Nick remains on the bed but he is nervously smiling, unaware of what to say or do. Christine meanwhile has run off down the corridor, through the shared kitchen, to the area down the hallway where the washing machine is located. She sits next to the washing machine in her nice pyjamas, sobbing with the passion of somebody who has just lost something very special (And I don't mean her innocence).

"Chistine, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to get so carried away", I plead.

At first she does not respond but slowly, every so slowly she comes around.

"Andy" she shouts , and then in a very German accent "You cannot do these things".

I apologise and promise not to do it again. And true to my word. I haven't.


Anonymous said...


Robin Brown said...

Good God. I though this was going to end in a similar way the time when you'd moved out of Waverley and Craig had moved in. And found you trying to climb into bed with him just a few short days after he'd arrived in Flat 5.