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The idea of her juices adding to mine drove me crazy. As I approached the tipping point I growled, “Fucking take it all” as I blasted into her.I fell to the side, breathless. My wife laid there for a moment and then reached over and began to stroke my half hard cock. She cooed, “I’m not done yet you fucker.” With that she got on all fours next to me and swallowed by dick. The thought of her cleaning me rod that must be covered in our cum instantly got me hard again.As her ass was near my head I reached in between her thighs to play with her pussy. It was a mess, but in the best way imaginable. In the low light of the TV in our bedroom I could see my fingers glistening with the juices I had just deposited in her.I told her to stay in that position and I got behind her to fuck her from behind. She repositioned herself so I had better access to her. As she did she spread her legs wider and her used cunt opened to expose the pinkness. Just then the load of cum I had just dumped. It might have been best if I had tried to take up some professional work in teaching, but the compensation money lured me away from this. Being without things to occupy me, and as the worst effects of my bereavement diminished, I began to visit old haunts -– places were Roy and I had met and loved. One such ‘old haunt’ was the university cafeteria. It was here that we first met over cups of the awful cafeteria coffee. It was to the cafeteria I often resorted, trying to relive a past that was literally dead. It was here that I began the trail that led to Martin. One day, about the third or fourth time I had gone to the cafeteria, I found myself sitting at a table occupied by a rather melancholy looking young man. I recalled how it could be in one’s early days at university. The enormous pressure of the studies, the confusion about one’s values, often being away from home for the first time, friendless, and struggling with one’s sexuality in often frustrating isolation. I think my own.
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I blew out all the candles and held her close to me in the darkness. The smoke from the burning wax gave the room something of the aura of a Byzantine church. But no pallid saints were honoured here, no paradoxical trinity reigned. This was the domain of a goddess, sanguine and subtle, noble and nude and antique… * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 2:30pm Tuesday The intercom chimed, It was Margaret, our solidly middle class Irish office manager, “Joshua, there’s a young lady called Artemisia Antiqua here to see you. She’s one of your clients? She doesn’t seem to have an appointment.” “It’s ok Margaret, send her in. Thanks.” A minute later I heard a click and there, framed in the chrome rectangle of the doorway was Tamsin. She wore small, rectangular sunglasses, her hair pulled back in a tight pony-tail with a fringe covering her forehead and a disquieting shade of dark red lipstick. She had an elegant black business.

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