London, 2021

Big Tits

Thank you to readers for the positive feedback for the ‘London’ series. Now that UK life is starting to thankfully look more positive, here is another instalment, set in the early months of 2021.

I’m trying not to watch the news. Every day is a bad news day here. In the high street, pubs and shops are boarded up. People wrapped in heavy coats and scarves hurry to and fro, wanting to escape the January cold and the ever-present threat of the virus. Nurses and doctors crawl home, exhausted, from desperately over-crowded hospitals. Behind a million suburban doors, children isolated from their friends struggle to work at cramped kitchen tables while parents, despairing, pour themselves another glass of red.

My phone pings. I look down. My best friend Sara.

If someone else tells me to go for a walk to cheer myself up I’ll strangle them!

I snort and text back: Tell me about it!

But I will walk. We all walk. It’s pretty much all we’ve got right now.

Ah, yes. You already know all about this 2021 stuff, don’t you? You probably came here to find out more about my affair with Kris. Well, reader. What can I say? You remember how it was. Our instant connection. The lingering glances over tea that quickly turned into forbidden, hungry, body-shaking sex. The best sex of my life.

Well, many things could have happened, after our last incredible, lust-drenched afternoon in June 2020. My husband could have found out about my affair and divorced me, storming out in a rage and instructing his solicitor to leave me penniless. Or Kris could have swept me away to a new life, claiming that he couldn’t live without my love. Maybe the children worked out where I had been all those long afternoons and confronted me, angered and betrayed by their faithless mother.

But the truth is rarely so exciting or dramatic. In fact, towards the end of July Kris and I just … fizzled out. Affairs often do. The summer of 2020 seems a world away now. In the heat, London had finally begun to open up again, tentatively, slowly, like a fragile poppy unfurling its scarlet tissue-paper petals to the sun. After our last encounter there were no emails from Kris, no invitations to come up for tea – or for anything stronger. I had expected a lull in our communications as life became more normal and neighbours started to meet again in gardens and parks, but I hadn’t been prepared for total silence. Ghosting – isn’t that what they call it now?

My pride was hurt, of course. But what could I do? Neither of us had made any promises. Several times I began drafting an email but somehow I couldn’t find the right words, the right tone.

‘Le petit mort’ is how the belle époque French poets described an orgasm: ‘The little death’. I would never quite get over the intensity of that day – our simultaneous ecstasy rocked my body to its very core. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before and yes, it was a kind of death; a climax unlike any other, which electrified for an instant every nerve-ending in my being. Afterwards there was an emotional blankness I couldn’t process. And maybe Kris felt the same way. I suspected that, with so many women in his past, walking away came easily to him.

As July melted into August, I turned my attention outwards once more, accepting invitations to picnics in the park with friends, watching happily as the children laughed and ran in the sunshine, relishing the renewed freedom. We booked a family holiday in a tiny Sussex cottage miles from anywhere and for a whole week I felt safe, content, surrounded by nature. I nurtured the little garden in front of our house, planting fragrant lavender and purple hebe. Oh yes, I looked up at the flats opposite, of course. But I never expected to see so much as a glimpse of Kris. There was something about the blankness of the windows that told me he had gone long ago – maybe even a few days after the last time we had made love. The last time he had kissed me. The last time I had felt his hot mouth on my skin.

By early September I was feeling restored and in some ways, healed. My affair with Kris had given me a new sense of adventure, a new confidence in myself. The things I had done for him – the body-firming Pilates sessions; the make-up and flattering clothes – I now wanted to do for myself. I spent the last days of summer drowsing in long baths, watching the suds lap against my skin. I cleared out the bathroom cupboards and found long-forgotten oils and scented moisturisers that I carefully massaged into my breasts and thighs, enjoying the sensuality of self-care. I loved myself. I didn’t need Kris. I didn’t need to dwell on our heady afternoons of sexual pleasure. The spanking and swearing. The control in his blazing eyes. My eager submission. The glorious shame…

On the first day of the Autumn term, having dropped the kids at school, I marched unhesitatingly to the bin outside the house, lifted the lid and threw in the beautiful green lingerie.


There’s not much I can tell you about the autumn months that you won’t already know. As eryaman otele gelen escort the nights drew in, covid cases mounted once more. By mid-October, schools all over the country were sending students home, and my own children trudged wearily back to the kitchen table to carry on with their schooling. My husband, ever the workaholic, apparently found no hardship in transferring his punishing schedule to his study on the top floor. I had barely a glimpse of him through the week, while downstairs I cooked, cleaned and counselled, day after day.

“Mum, how do you multiply decimals?”

“Mum, what’s for dinner?”

“I can’t find any socks!”

The days congealed into a cloggy mass, like cold scrambled egg. Monday; Tuesday; Saturday – who cared? It was all the same. When the children were silent, the bathroom needed cleaning. When the bathroom was clean, my parents needed a call. When they had been reassured, someone was hungry. Someone was always hungry. The children, normally relatively self-sufficient, began to regress – wanting cuddles and bedtime stories like a pair of pre-schoolers. One day (who knows which day?) in October I was dusting the bookshelves and Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own caught my eye. I gave a hollow laugh and walked on by.

By November my self-care routine had crumbled. I stopped wearing make up, often not even bothering to brush my hair, which had become frizzy and was beginning to show grey at the temples. I wore nothing but jeans and tatty jumpers and stopped doing any exercise, swapping my workouts for constant tea and biscuits. The late autumn weather was as bleak as the daily news; nothing but bone-chilling winds and the spectre of death. And then, on 23rd November 2020, something happened that I could never have expected.


My hands are covered in flour when I hear a knock at the door. I sigh. Yet another Amazon delivery, probably. Irritated, wiping my fingers on my apron, I trudge to the door. But when I open it, a woman is standing there. Mid to late sixties, I judge; tangled salt and pepper hair and faded blue eyes peep out from behind a homemade floral fabric mask. She’s respectably dressed in a quilted coat and thick scarf and, like all doorstep callers these days, stands well back from the threshold.

“Can I help you?”

“I do hope so!” She’s well-spoken and I can tell from the crinkling of her eyes that she’s smiling behind the mask.

“I’m the owner of one of the flats across the road – the top floor one. I usually have a tenant in full time; I had a lovely young man, actually, he was there for ages – but he went home to his parents in Spain when the first lockdown started, and now it’s empty. In fact, the whole building is empty; the other renters lost their jobs and had to move out, so it’s deserted. Well, I myself live down in Kent and I know I shouldn’t be visiting the property unless there’s an emergency…my husband is in the vulnerable health category and he wanted me to find someone local who might keep an eye on things…”

As her sentence falters I immediately jump in with reassuring positive noises (as the British automatically do, even if they are being asked to feed a pet tarantula for the weekend) although my mind is reeling.

“Oh, gosh, well I’d be delighted, Mrs…er…”

“Devoner – oh, but do call me Helen. We would pay you, of course…”

By now I’m recovering slightly and beginning to process the information. The ‘lovely young man’ must have been the colleague Kris had borrowed the apartment from, surely? And I’m to be the new caretaker?

Hastily putting dinner preparations on hold, I don a coat and mask and follow Helen over the road to the flat. There’s no need to announce that I’m leaving; the kids are deeply engaged in the games console and my husband is, as always, tucked away in his study at the top of the house. Helen is still talking ten to the dozen, and by the time we’ve climbed the flight of stairs and the key is in the lock, I’ve found out quite a bit. Helen used to live in the flat herself when she was younger and still kept in touch with neighbours a few streets away – neighbours that, by chance, also know me through the children’s school.

“Anyway, the Brookmans thought you might be able to pop over every now and again as you’re just across the road… and here we are!”

Helen, after some fumbling, has at last managed to open the door.

As I step over the threshold, the memories come flooding back instantly. Helen is chattering away, ushering me into the light-filled sitting room with those familiar orange sofas…

“What a beautiful place!” I exclaim, brightly. A mischievous voice inside my head adds casually, “I’ve had sex here, you know!”

I thank god for the mask concealing my expression. We move from room to room, Helen proudly showing off the flat’s mod-cons, while my mind flickers like a movie-reel. Yes, here is the bathroom (I see us bathing together by candlelight), here is the kitchen (Kris is making tea, laughing at a joke) and here is the bedroom sincan escort (I’m screaming, begging him to fuck me harder, faster…).

By the time Helen gets on to the security stuff, demonstrating the window locks and locating the fuse box and water supply levers, I can feel an insistent throbbing between my legs and my mouth is watering. Everywhere I look, I see Kris, naked and ready to take me any way he pleases…

“And should you know of anyone looking to rent this year, please don’t hesitate to recommend them – the poor flat has been empty so long!”

Helen gives a tinkling laugh and I politely join in, while images of pure filth run through my head.

Less than half an hour later, I’m back in my usual spot at the kitchen stove, stirring pasta sauce and trying to get the rush of sensations in my body under control. The agreement with Helen has been made; I will do a spot of gardening and check over the premises once a week, and if I hear any word of suitable renters, I will be sure to let her know.

I look down into the saucepan at the thick, bubbling mixture. I dip in the tip of my finger, the very quickest of movements so the sauce doesn’t burn my skin. I close my eyes and taste. Roasted onion and garlic, a hint of thyme and sweet oregano and a burst of rich, heavy tomato. The same sauce I’ve made a thousand times, but today it’s different; stronger, more powerful. My senses are heightened, sharpened by the visit to the flat and the memories of a thousand kisses.

Pressing against my thigh, tucked into my jeans pocket, I can feel the small metal key.


I haven’t told anyone about my new position of responsibility. The flat is my secret. From the minute Helen pushed open the front door I knew I had found it – the room of my own. But I’m not an aspiring novelist or portrait painter. I want the flat for one thing only; my own pleasure. My body has been neglected for too long. With or without a lover, I need passion in my life…

For a week the key lies concealed in my jewellery box, more precious to me than the gems within it. Like a spy, I monitor the family’s daily routine. When is everyone occupied? Is there an hour I won’t be missed? In the end I find it – Friday, 10am. The children have online classes and can keep themselves entertained for a while afterwards. My husband has back-to-back meetings, as ever. I plan rigorously, stashing some extra food at the back of the highest cupboard so I can ‘buy’ it on my ‘shopping trip’.

Up and down this friendly street, we all lend each other a hand. There are spare keys tucked in kitchen drawers in every house. We’ve all knocked on doors asking for favours, particularly in these unusual times. Swapping ingredients for recipes and feeding pets. All so suburban and supportive. If anyone sees me on the steps to the front door, it’s very easily explained. What a good neighbour I am.

Friday, 27th November 2020. I’m dressed for ‘shopping’ with some groceries already hidden in my rucksack. It’s so easy to slip over the road, up the stairs, key in the lock…and I’m in.

I close the door on the outside world and let my bag and coat slump to the floor. I bend to take off my boots, shivering partly with excitement, partly with the chill of the deserted apartment. I straighten up, sniff the air. Not a hint of his masculine muskiness lingers; it’s been far too long. But the memory is there, as I look towards the kitchen diner, of Kris approaching me, casual but gorgeous in his faded t-shirt and jeans, a sexy smile on his face.

Opening the rucksack, I delve right to the bottom. From underneath tins of tomatoes and packets of biscuits I pull out a fluffy towel bundled into a roll. I actually smile to myself as I unwrap the contents: a shiny electric blue vibrator and a small tube of lubricant.

Where shall I do this? On the wide orange sofa? On the bed? In front of the mirror? I decide on the last option, although I’m wary of looking at myself. I try to remember when I last had an orgasm. Two, three months ago?

In the bedroom I make my preparations, spreading the towel on the floor, undressing hastily and shifting the bed so that I can sit propped up against it and see my full reflection in the long mirror. Looking at myself, naked and ready now, I shiver with excitement. My body is … mine. Familiar and friendly. I don’t feel as desirable as I did when Kris was making love to me, but I’m happy enough with what I see in the glass. I’ve gained a little weight over the weeks of lockdown but I can see it suits me – there’s a new softness to my shape, a luxuriant heaviness in the curves of my breasts and hips. My hair curls down past my bare shoulders now and I shake it out, letting it sweep over my naked skin.

How to begin? This was never something I had to decide with my lover. Kris always had a plan; a deft, devastating seduction routine that left me begging for more. I cast my mind back to our summer liaisons, imagining his fingers sliding silkily over my skin…for a few moments my mind blurs into sensation elvankent escort and suddenly I’m touching my naked breasts, cupping them sensuously. Oh god. I’m panting. I grab the lube and watch in the mirror as the clear, viscous drops fall on to my nipples. I gasp as the chilly liquid touches my flesh, and then moan as I trace wet circles with my fingertips, around and around, over and over again. My nipples are hardening into tight, brown buds and the cold lube makes them more sensitive. I moan again, louder this time, elated to be finally expressing my desire, delighting at the sounds echoing through the empty space. I want to grab the vibrator right now, plunge it into my pussy, but I keep my eyes resolutely fixed on the mirror. I change position, kneeling up so I can get closer to the glass, and start caressing myself all over. The mirror is Kris, watching me. Commanding me to excite myself more for his pleasure and for mine.

“Open your cunt for me, Callie,” I hear his low voice in my head.

I want to delay, to try and tease myself for a while longer, but I’m already overwhelmingly aroused. Whimpering just a little, I gently lower myself down and spread my thighs wide, raising my knees so I can get the best view of my pussy. My fingers, still sticky with lube, carefully slide over my labia…oh, oh yes. I’m so ready. The sight is glorious – my outer lips part like wilting orchid petals revealing the bright fuschia-pink flesh within. A creamy wetness is oozing out of me.

What would Kris say now?

“Suck it, Callie. Put it in your mouth, sweetness.”

I silently obey the voice in my head and lick the vibrator, stiffly at first, just brushing the cold tip with my tongue.

“Keep going. Yes. Good girl.”

I push it further in. In some ways it’s easier – the vibe is slimmer than Kris’s bulky, wide cock – but it’s hard and unyielding. Sucking it is unsatisfying but I realise I’m perversely enjoying the sensation. Kris liked to make me uncomfortable…

When the vibe is wet and warm from my repeated sucking, I slide it out from between my lips. I look at myself in the mirror. My face is flushed, my eyes glittering with desire. I’m becoming beautiful again.

I switch the vibe on now, and gently touch it to my sticky nipples, sweep it over and around my breasts, which are dappled with strawberry patches. My belly is tensing and I moan again, knowing that I can’t hold off for much longer. As my arousal mounts even more I can barely believe that I’m alone, here in this place where my lover had total control. I want Kris to walk through the door and wrench the buzzing wand out of my hands, angry that I’m daring to make myself come without his permission. I close my eyes and picture it: first he tosses the toy away, then pulls my hands behind my back, holding my slender wrists tightly. I feel a sharp pain as he slaps my behind once, twice; the stinging has barely subsided before he plunges into me and I’m shouting, screaming … yes, yes Kris, yes ….

On the rare occasions I use a vibrator I let it pulsate gently against my pussy, then push it slowly all the way inside me. When it fills my whole pelvis with a rhythmic throbbing I begin to caress my clitoris with my fingers, rubbing until my climax comes and my muscles spasm against the hard toy inside my body.

But I know that won’t do today. I need something hard and fast. I take a deep breath and try to relax my trembling legs, while clicking up to the highest vibrate setting. Inwardly urging myself not to flinch from the extreme sensitivity, I place the tip of the vibrator directly against my clitoris and hold it firmly in place. Three, maybe four seconds pass and then the orgasm hits me like a tsunami. I shout, almost scream and my body jerks with violent contractions that radiate from my cunt and shudder through my lower body. I fight the overwhelming sensitivity and keep the vibrator in position, although I’m desperate to pull it away.

“Oh, oh god…ohhh…ohh..!”

It’s probably only been a minute or two at most but I’m barely conscious of my surroundings now. All I can feel is the intense throbbing in my cunt soaring to a level somewhere between pleasure and pain…

I pull the vibe away and collapse on to the damp towel.

After I’ve recovered my breath, I open my eyes. My clitoris is still softly pulsating with orgasm aftershock. I smile at the dishevelled woman in the mirror, and slowly but firmly insert the blue toy into my cunt, making tiny noises of excitement. As usual after coming, my pussy feels tight, and it’s gorgeous to push past the resisting entrance and into the welcome juiciness deep inside me. I play for long minutes, slowly using the vibrator to fuck myself, watching as I pout and pose in the mirror like a cheap cam girl. I can’t believe how much I want – how much I can take. This time I perform my usual masturbation ritual, switching on the vibe while it’s inside me, and then rubbing myself to orgasm. It’s slower but incredibly satisfying. I judge my arousal to perfection, easing off to tease myself and then caressing harder when I want to get closer to the edge. My clitoris is still very sensitive but with my fingers I can be more exacting…just a few more seconds of touching, rubbing, the toy lodged deep in my cunt and rocking me towards pleasure again…

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