I stare at the incoming text and wonder whether to ignore it and continue with an evening of TV and the laptop. Why am I even fooling myself, am I seriously going to forego a night of sex with Mr N in favour of Sunday night TV! I refuse to show how weak willed I am by replying immediately so log onto msn and see if there is anyone worth chatting to. Probably not, I seem to have the ability to give my msn address mostly to exhibitionists who assume that I will be thrilled to see their erection on cam; or voyeurs who think my sole desire in life is to get my tits out for them on cam!
Mr N immediately begins to chat telling me they lost and he and the boys are having a post mortem. Lost? Post mortem? I wonder if I have somehow fallen asleep and missed part of the conversation and have a vision of a body lying on the ironing board in Mr N’s flat and being dissected with a No 5 iron. I enquire as to what has been lost and suggest that he tells the boys he has a headache, a backache, a friend in need; anything which will bring the post mortem to a swift conclusion and encourage the boys to leave.
Leave they do and within the hour I’m flying down the A12 with a smile on my face. I get the usual texts throughout the journey and as usual reply, realising that texting and driving at 30mph over the speed limit is not the most sensible of ideas. But when have I ever shown any sense over Mr N? Three days of silence and I give in without hesitation when he wants to see me! Why don’t I say no? Simple, because I don’t want to say no; I want to see him and spend the night, not only having amazing sex but just being with him. Why pretend? As Janet Street Porter says, Life’s too fucking short!
The minute he opens the door I know I was right to give in. He is eager to tell me about the lost match and the post mortem, apologising every so often for boring me with the details. I’m not bored; curled up in a chair with him stroking my hair and feeding me red wine I could listen to him for hours. The point arrives when the talking stops, we look at each other and know instinctively it’s time to move to the bedroom. There are times when the sex is very gentle, this time that isn’t what we want, this time it’s raw and steamy and just as perfect. As I fall asleep I notice it’s 4.30am and accept that I’m going to be late for work yet again.
I drag myself out of bed at 8.30am and go through the flat collecting my clothes when were left in a heap on the floor the previous night. I wonder if anyone will notice the crumpled state of my dress, too bad if they do, I haveno time to call at home and change. I glance in the bathroom mirror and immediately regret doing that; if no one notices the state of my clothing one look at my face, even with make up will tell them why I’m late for work. Mr N is still fast asleep, I nudge him awake and an rewarded with a mumbled ‘Bye darling, text me when you get to work’. Oh where has the previous night’s passion gone?
I race back up the A12 determined not to be more than an hour and a half late for work. I’m surprised to see police cars in the car park and am greeted by a colleague telling me that the offices have been broken into overnight, the police are not allowing anyone into the building and there was no point in me coming to work. I thank him for not ringing to tell me and silently curse him for depriving me of the opportunity to stay in bed with Mr N and carry on where we had left off at 4.30am!
By Ms Naughty
