Thangaiku Theriyaamal Amma Magalai Oothen
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A Trick Of The Light free porn video
It’s Friday evening and as I load the dishwasher I try not
to think how weary I am feeling. Sam has had a busy day
too, I’ve heard about it over dinner, his unreliable office
staff and how the majority are taking time off due to
‘stress’.
‘Stress!’ he exclaims, they’ve never done a day’s work
in their lives, how can they have stress?’
I turn the dial, it clicks and I hear the whoosh of water
beginning to fill the dishwasher. It’s a signal to Sam; he
will appear in the doorway and wink at me. I know this
because it’s Friday and for the greater part of our married
life we always have had sex on a Friday evening. And
there he is, one arm resting on the doorframe, I notice he is
looking older than his forty-four years but, as he winks, he
smiles and his face lifts, I catch a glimpse of the young
man I once knew.
‘Time for bed then,’ he announces, it is more of a
statement than a question.
‘Of course.’ I say making my way past him towards the
stairway. I wish he would take my hand or tap my bum or
something but he never has and I think it’s too late to ask
him to change.
In our bedroom we fall into our pattern of bed
preparation, we are like synchronised swimmers in our
own home, an intricate pattern of our bodies weaving but
not actually touching. Sam is in the en suite, cleaning his
teeth, gargling with mouthwash. The laundry bin lid shuts
with a bang but I know he’ll still be wearing his boxershorts,
he will remove them just as he gets into bed. I use
the family bathroom, and after f******n years of marriage I
still dab a little perfume in my cleavage. My nightdress is
short, Sam commented on it once in a disapproving way.
The lights are off when I return to the bedroom but it’s not
completely dark, there is a gap in the curtains and the
street lamp outside the window shines orange. As I slide
into bed Sam places his hand gently on my thigh, I turn to
kiss him, we rarely use tongues, although I can detect his
mouthwash, it’s spearmint and too strong. We dispense
with foreplay, Sam is aroused almost immediately and
manoeuvres himself on top of me, as our faces meet he
kisses my forehead, I raise my nightdress, shuffling gently
so it’s above my bottom. He pushes hard to enter me, I’ve
learned over the years how to relax my legs, he groans
very quietly. In the semi-darkness I can see his face, eyes
closed and brow creased. It will not take long, Sam always
comes quickly, a little bead of sweat will appear on his top
lip, he will groan and it will be my cue to breathe and
gasp. As he comes he shudders and for a moment his body
weight falls heavily onto mine. He rolls to one side and
instantly grabs at the box of tissues at the side of the bed.
Before he slips into a contented sleep he kisses me again,
just once on the forehead. It’s not so bad, once a week and
my man is happy. Tomorrow as he washes the car and
mows the lawn he’ll wave to me as I stand at the kitchen
window. I’ll smile and wave back happily for he doesn’t
know, after three years, he still doesn’t know.
*****
Ritchie is twenty-five, when I met him he was the most
arrogant and gorgeous man I had ever come across. Three
years on not much has changed, he’s fiercely independent,
a solitary soul who keeps everything about himself and his
life guarded. I met him on a rare night out with my
girlfriends; we kept colliding into each other visiting the
bar. I remember smiling and saying something trite like
‘fancy bumping into you again’ and he offered up a half
smile. By the end of the evening we were both at the bar
for last orders and, fuelled by too many white wines, I felt
confident enough to attempt to chat to him. He barely
acknowledged me; instead he slid his business card across
the bar to me, collected his drinks, turned and wandered
back to his friends. Most of me wanted to leave it there on
the bar, its sharp white crispness soaking up the beer slops,
but the temptation and intrigue got the better of me so I
grabbed it and closeted it away in my handbag.
It took me two weeks after that night to muster up the
courage to ring him. Surprisingly he remembered who I
was and commented how long it had taken for me to get in
touch. Within minutes he had made arrangements for us to
meet at a small pub miles away. And so it started – my
meetings with Ritchie. Within weeks we dispensed with
pubs, I would visit him at home and three years later I still
do.
I have a key; I’ve been discreet enough to keep it on a
separate ring, zipped away in the back of my purse. As I
arrive, it’s beginning to rain. I like to visit Ritchie in the
rain. His apartment is light and airy with skylights. The
rain can be deafening at times; it reminds me of being a
c***d on camping holidays in caravans, being safe and
cosy inside. He’s not at home, he often runs late, owning
his business and taking hours out here and there tends to
complicate his day. I open the fridge; it is stocked mainly
with wine, Ritchie being a take-away/eat out person. There
is milk so I fill the kettle; he’ll want coffee, good coffee
‘none of that instant crap!’ As I pour the coffee I hear the
front door open, then shut, and him throwing his keys on
the small table, they jangle noisily. He arrives in the
kitchen, his hair damp from the rain; its messiness suits
him.
‘Hello.’ I say, returning the milk to the fridge. Without
a word he picks up his coffee mug, it’s one that I have
bought for him picturing a boat in Whitstable Harbour. He
winces; the coffee is too hot, he returns his mug to the
worktop.
‘Alright?’ he asks, but he turns away before I answer.
He removes his jacket and throws it haphazardly on the
sofa and walks over to face me. He kisses me, a forceful
kiss that pushes me backwards. I reach out to him to
steady myself. Instantly he pushes my hand down to feel
his groin, he is hard. I like it that within moments of him
seeing me he is aroused. I run my hand along the inner
seam of his jeans, his kissing becoming deeper and deeper,
his tongue encircling mine, I can taste the coffee, at first
mildly acrid. I can feel his hands on my shoulders, pushing
me downwards. I break the kiss and kneel on the floor
before him. Deftly I unbutton his jeans, lowering them
with his boxers to the floor, he steps out of them. His penis
is so hard and erect. I instantly want to taste it, feel the
familiarity of it within my mouth. I take him as far as I can
into my mouth, cupping my hand around him too,
rhythmically I lick and gently suck. His hands weave
through my hair, pulling my head back occasionally so he
can watch. I can hear his breath catching in his throat. He
pushes my head back more forcefully to stop; as I stand up
to face him, he smiles. He has a wonderful grin, cheeky
and boyish which is hard to resist. His smile is an
indication to move to the bedroom. Within seconds of
arriving, he is pulling at my clothes, feeling for my
breasts. He squeezes my nipples hard making me gasp in
pain, he laughs but then takes each breast in turn into his
mouth, sucking them gently. I can feel his hand up my
skirt, he never allows me to wear trousers, his fingers
pushing my knickers to one side and feeling me, entering
me, one, two, three fingers. He knows that I can climax
this way; he likes the control. He waits until I’m about to
cry out and stops abruptly.
‘Not yet.’ He says pushing me backwards onto the bed.
His bed is huge, bespoke. With a wrought iron forged head
and baseboard; it dominates the room. Ritchie reaches
underneath it and pulls out a small wicker basket and flips
open the lid. I know what is inside and the thought of it
makes my stomach clench with excitement. Firstly he
removes silk scarves, then handcuffs, serious ones, not the
pink fluffy ones I see in gift shops.
‘I’ll use these.’ Without hesitation he grips my arm,
forcing it backwards towards the headboard, I resist
slightly, teasingly, he bends down and bites my shoulder
hard. I am conscious there will be a bruise there tomorrow
to disguise. He secures one wrist then the other; the snap
of the metal locking heightens my excitement. Ritchie
positions himself over me, an impish smirk plays on his
face, it never fails to frighten me just a little. Using the
scarf he loops it around my head blindfolding my eyes, the
fabric is sheer so everything is now visually hazy, softened
at the edges.
‘Kiss me,’ I urge and without hesitation he crushes his
lips onto mine. He draws away to run his hands down my
body, hesitating at my nipples, then my navel, circling
them with his tongue. He begins to nibble at my inner
thighs, I shiver and pull gently on the cuffs; they
reverberate against the iron of the headboard. He senses
I’m ready and nudges my legs apart with his knees. He
lowers himself into me, it’s gentle at first but then he
forces deeply, above his loud breathing, and mine, I’m
urging him on, again I hear the cuffs clattering noisily, it
turns him on even more. He lifts my legs high, forcing into
me even harder. I can feel in the smallness of my back the
sensation of an orgasm building, tiny nerve endings
springing into life. I cry out to him, his timing is perfect as
we climax together. Within seconds, he moves off me and
instantly releases the cuffs, as he lowers my arms he kisses
my wrists gently. His tenderness is in stark contrast to his
earlier arrogance, but he doesn’t say a word. And neither
do I!
Sam, staring at the computer screen, sighs loudly, no
amount of manipulating the figures will make the office
budget work this month, he thinks wearily.
He was tired; his eyes became unfocused as they glanced
over the series of debits on the spreadsheet. It was Friday
and already he was running late. As he began to gather his
things his secretary appeared.
‘I’m off now, have a good weekend, Sam.’
‘Thanks, I’ll try.’ He tried to joke.
‘I’ve left all the post in your tray. A courier came.’ She
gestured towards the wire in-tray precariously balanced on
the edge of Sam’s paper-strewn desk.
Sam flicked through it quickly, hesitating at the
couriered package – it was in a white jiffy bag headed up
‘private and confidential’.
‘Thanks Sheila, see you on Monday.’ He dismissed her.
Using the silver letter opener he sliced the top off the
envelope and reached inside. One DVD disk; unlabelled
with no letter accompanying it. Sam reached across and
placed it into his computer drive. With a few clicks of the
mouse his screen came to life. A bedroom – well lit with a
large iron bed and his wife tethered to it. Sam breathed
deeply. A small noise outside his office door made him
jump, the cleaners were starting their rounds. Sam ejected
the DVD, rose from his chair unsteadily and went to the
filing cabinet in the corner. Selecting a key, he unlocked it
and withdrew a mobile phone. Accessing the address book
he selected a number and pressed ‘dial’. It rang twice
before it was answered.
‘Did you get it?’
‘Yes, I’ve just checked the quality.’
‘Good. Is the cheque in the post?’ Ritchie all but
laughed.
‘As always.’ Sam confirmed seriously.
‘Fine then, we’ve made arrangements for next
Wednesday.’
‘Good, adjust the lighting maybe. I have a beautiful
wife; she’s not to be kept in the shadows.’ Sam requested
before he ended the call.
He was happy. Tonight they would make love and
tomorrow, as he carried out all his husbandly chores, he
would cheerfully wave to her as she stands at the kitchen
window. She will wave back to him and smile because she
doesn’t know, after three years, she still doesn’t know.
to think how weary I am feeling. Sam has had a busy day
too, I’ve heard about it over dinner, his unreliable office
staff and how the majority are taking time off due to
‘stress’.
‘Stress!’ he exclaims, they’ve never done a day’s work
in their lives, how can they have stress?’
I turn the dial, it clicks and I hear the whoosh of water
beginning to fill the dishwasher. It’s a signal to Sam; he
will appear in the doorway and wink at me. I know this
because it’s Friday and for the greater part of our married
life we always have had sex on a Friday evening. And
there he is, one arm resting on the doorframe, I notice he is
looking older than his forty-four years but, as he winks, he
smiles and his face lifts, I catch a glimpse of the young
man I once knew.
‘Time for bed then,’ he announces, it is more of a
statement than a question.
‘Of course.’ I say making my way past him towards the
stairway. I wish he would take my hand or tap my bum or
something but he never has and I think it’s too late to ask
him to change.
In our bedroom we fall into our pattern of bed
preparation, we are like synchronised swimmers in our
own home, an intricate pattern of our bodies weaving but
not actually touching. Sam is in the en suite, cleaning his
teeth, gargling with mouthwash. The laundry bin lid shuts
with a bang but I know he’ll still be wearing his boxershorts,
he will remove them just as he gets into bed. I use
the family bathroom, and after f******n years of marriage I
still dab a little perfume in my cleavage. My nightdress is
short, Sam commented on it once in a disapproving way.
The lights are off when I return to the bedroom but it’s not
completely dark, there is a gap in the curtains and the
street lamp outside the window shines orange. As I slide
into bed Sam places his hand gently on my thigh, I turn to
kiss him, we rarely use tongues, although I can detect his
mouthwash, it’s spearmint and too strong. We dispense
with foreplay, Sam is aroused almost immediately and
manoeuvres himself on top of me, as our faces meet he
kisses my forehead, I raise my nightdress, shuffling gently
so it’s above my bottom. He pushes hard to enter me, I’ve
learned over the years how to relax my legs, he groans
very quietly. In the semi-darkness I can see his face, eyes
closed and brow creased. It will not take long, Sam always
comes quickly, a little bead of sweat will appear on his top
lip, he will groan and it will be my cue to breathe and
gasp. As he comes he shudders and for a moment his body
weight falls heavily onto mine. He rolls to one side and
instantly grabs at the box of tissues at the side of the bed.
Before he slips into a contented sleep he kisses me again,
just once on the forehead. It’s not so bad, once a week and
my man is happy. Tomorrow as he washes the car and
mows the lawn he’ll wave to me as I stand at the kitchen
window. I’ll smile and wave back happily for he doesn’t
know, after three years, he still doesn’t know.
*****
Ritchie is twenty-five, when I met him he was the most
arrogant and gorgeous man I had ever come across. Three
years on not much has changed, he’s fiercely independent,
a solitary soul who keeps everything about himself and his
life guarded. I met him on a rare night out with my
girlfriends; we kept colliding into each other visiting the
bar. I remember smiling and saying something trite like
‘fancy bumping into you again’ and he offered up a half
smile. By the end of the evening we were both at the bar
for last orders and, fuelled by too many white wines, I felt
confident enough to attempt to chat to him. He barely
acknowledged me; instead he slid his business card across
the bar to me, collected his drinks, turned and wandered
back to his friends. Most of me wanted to leave it there on
the bar, its sharp white crispness soaking up the beer slops,
but the temptation and intrigue got the better of me so I
grabbed it and closeted it away in my handbag.
It took me two weeks after that night to muster up the
courage to ring him. Surprisingly he remembered who I
was and commented how long it had taken for me to get in
touch. Within minutes he had made arrangements for us to
meet at a small pub miles away. And so it started – my
meetings with Ritchie. Within weeks we dispensed with
pubs, I would visit him at home and three years later I still
do.
I have a key; I’ve been discreet enough to keep it on a
separate ring, zipped away in the back of my purse. As I
arrive, it’s beginning to rain. I like to visit Ritchie in the
rain. His apartment is light and airy with skylights. The
rain can be deafening at times; it reminds me of being a
c***d on camping holidays in caravans, being safe and
cosy inside. He’s not at home, he often runs late, owning
his business and taking hours out here and there tends to
complicate his day. I open the fridge; it is stocked mainly
with wine, Ritchie being a take-away/eat out person. There
is milk so I fill the kettle; he’ll want coffee, good coffee
‘none of that instant crap!’ As I pour the coffee I hear the
front door open, then shut, and him throwing his keys on
the small table, they jangle noisily. He arrives in the
kitchen, his hair damp from the rain; its messiness suits
him.
‘Hello.’ I say, returning the milk to the fridge. Without
a word he picks up his coffee mug, it’s one that I have
bought for him picturing a boat in Whitstable Harbour. He
winces; the coffee is too hot, he returns his mug to the
worktop.
‘Alright?’ he asks, but he turns away before I answer.
He removes his jacket and throws it haphazardly on the
sofa and walks over to face me. He kisses me, a forceful
kiss that pushes me backwards. I reach out to him to
steady myself. Instantly he pushes my hand down to feel
his groin, he is hard. I like it that within moments of him
seeing me he is aroused. I run my hand along the inner
seam of his jeans, his kissing becoming deeper and deeper,
his tongue encircling mine, I can taste the coffee, at first
mildly acrid. I can feel his hands on my shoulders, pushing
me downwards. I break the kiss and kneel on the floor
before him. Deftly I unbutton his jeans, lowering them
with his boxers to the floor, he steps out of them. His penis
is so hard and erect. I instantly want to taste it, feel the
familiarity of it within my mouth. I take him as far as I can
into my mouth, cupping my hand around him too,
rhythmically I lick and gently suck. His hands weave
through my hair, pulling my head back occasionally so he
can watch. I can hear his breath catching in his throat. He
pushes my head back more forcefully to stop; as I stand up
to face him, he smiles. He has a wonderful grin, cheeky
and boyish which is hard to resist. His smile is an
indication to move to the bedroom. Within seconds of
arriving, he is pulling at my clothes, feeling for my
breasts. He squeezes my nipples hard making me gasp in
pain, he laughs but then takes each breast in turn into his
mouth, sucking them gently. I can feel his hand up my
skirt, he never allows me to wear trousers, his fingers
pushing my knickers to one side and feeling me, entering
me, one, two, three fingers. He knows that I can climax
this way; he likes the control. He waits until I’m about to
cry out and stops abruptly.
‘Not yet.’ He says pushing me backwards onto the bed.
His bed is huge, bespoke. With a wrought iron forged head
and baseboard; it dominates the room. Ritchie reaches
underneath it and pulls out a small wicker basket and flips
open the lid. I know what is inside and the thought of it
makes my stomach clench with excitement. Firstly he
removes silk scarves, then handcuffs, serious ones, not the
pink fluffy ones I see in gift shops.
‘I’ll use these.’ Without hesitation he grips my arm,
forcing it backwards towards the headboard, I resist
slightly, teasingly, he bends down and bites my shoulder
hard. I am conscious there will be a bruise there tomorrow
to disguise. He secures one wrist then the other; the snap
of the metal locking heightens my excitement. Ritchie
positions himself over me, an impish smirk plays on his
face, it never fails to frighten me just a little. Using the
scarf he loops it around my head blindfolding my eyes, the
fabric is sheer so everything is now visually hazy, softened
at the edges.
‘Kiss me,’ I urge and without hesitation he crushes his
lips onto mine. He draws away to run his hands down my
body, hesitating at my nipples, then my navel, circling
them with his tongue. He begins to nibble at my inner
thighs, I shiver and pull gently on the cuffs; they
reverberate against the iron of the headboard. He senses
I’m ready and nudges my legs apart with his knees. He
lowers himself into me, it’s gentle at first but then he
forces deeply, above his loud breathing, and mine, I’m
urging him on, again I hear the cuffs clattering noisily, it
turns him on even more. He lifts my legs high, forcing into
me even harder. I can feel in the smallness of my back the
sensation of an orgasm building, tiny nerve endings
springing into life. I cry out to him, his timing is perfect as
we climax together. Within seconds, he moves off me and
instantly releases the cuffs, as he lowers my arms he kisses
my wrists gently. His tenderness is in stark contrast to his
earlier arrogance, but he doesn’t say a word. And neither
do I!
Sam, staring at the computer screen, sighs loudly, no
amount of manipulating the figures will make the office
budget work this month, he thinks wearily.
He was tired; his eyes became unfocused as they glanced
over the series of debits on the spreadsheet. It was Friday
and already he was running late. As he began to gather his
things his secretary appeared.
‘I’m off now, have a good weekend, Sam.’
‘Thanks, I’ll try.’ He tried to joke.
‘I’ve left all the post in your tray. A courier came.’ She
gestured towards the wire in-tray precariously balanced on
the edge of Sam’s paper-strewn desk.
Sam flicked through it quickly, hesitating at the
couriered package – it was in a white jiffy bag headed up
‘private and confidential’.
‘Thanks Sheila, see you on Monday.’ He dismissed her.
Using the silver letter opener he sliced the top off the
envelope and reached inside. One DVD disk; unlabelled
with no letter accompanying it. Sam reached across and
placed it into his computer drive. With a few clicks of the
mouse his screen came to life. A bedroom – well lit with a
large iron bed and his wife tethered to it. Sam breathed
deeply. A small noise outside his office door made him
jump, the cleaners were starting their rounds. Sam ejected
the DVD, rose from his chair unsteadily and went to the
filing cabinet in the corner. Selecting a key, he unlocked it
and withdrew a mobile phone. Accessing the address book
he selected a number and pressed ‘dial’. It rang twice
before it was answered.
‘Did you get it?’
‘Yes, I’ve just checked the quality.’
‘Good. Is the cheque in the post?’ Ritchie all but
laughed.
‘As always.’ Sam confirmed seriously.
‘Fine then, we’ve made arrangements for next
Wednesday.’
‘Good, adjust the lighting maybe. I have a beautiful
wife; she’s not to be kept in the shadows.’ Sam requested
before he ended the call.
He was happy. Tonight they would make love and
tomorrow, as he carried out all his husbandly chores, he
would cheerfully wave to her as she stands at the kitchen
window. She will wave back to him and smile because she
doesn’t know, after three years, she still doesn’t know.
Vicky
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