Over The Hills And Faraway, Book 5. Paying The PiperChapter 30: Some More Equal Than Others free porn video
Gwen disengaged her mouth from my flaccid penis. "It's no good babe ... it's like flogging a dead horse."
Earlier that evening I had lost wood during a session of rumpty pumpty, and Gwen had been forced to give mouth to groin resuscitation to restore my libido, which unfortunately was a wasted effort. This wasn't the first time over the last few days I had failed to give Gwen the shagging she deserved; the shagging she expected and, quite rightly, she got bloody angry when I didn't come good —pun.
The session would start off well enough; my prick, steel stiff, sliding smoothly in and out of her clenching, tactile, twat, but after five of so minutes of pleasurable movement rigidity would vanish, and it became like pushing a dead worm up a chimney; no grip, no friction, no pleasure. I began apologising, again, but she stopped me with a look.
"I feel you at first, then your cock just goes limp, and you seem to disappear. Have you gone off me already, babe?" Her voice held a justifiable hint of anger.
I shook my head emphatically. "Hell no, Gwen; it's bloody frustrating for me as well as you. I want to fuck your brains out, but my prick just doesn't respond." We both looked at the shrivelled part of my anatomy under discussion.
She derisively and disdainfully, and me dolefully.
Gwen let out a sorrowful sigh. "You rang all my bells, and blew all my whistles, when we first met. What's happened?"
I shrugged, baffled as she was, and a bloody sight more frustrated and angry than her. The truth was I had no idea what had brought on this malady.
It wasn't as if I were seeing visions of other women, as I had when fucking Gemma Sloper in Praslin. Gwen stayed as Gwen, although her expression of delight and pleasure soon changed to frustration when Mister Floppy replaced a rampant John Thomas.
Although flashbacks of the Argie, the Bosnian Serb, and the Shifta child soldiers, had returned they didn't bother me anymore. In fact, Carlos the Argie, Stefan the Serb, and the Shiftateens, as I thought of them, were now as familiar as family as they hovered and murmured in the background of my dreams. Sometimes they came to the forefront, displaying their wounds, and casting sour looks at me, blaming me for their deaths, which of course was only right.
It didn't faze me one little bit, and I gave them the squaddie's retort to all that sort of blaming and shaming. 'If you couldn't take a joke you shouldn't have joined'. What was worrying — terrifying more like — was that the shapeless, formless wraith, conjured up during the Pikani tribe Sweat Lodge Ritual I had participated in when at BATUS in Canada in 1987, had reappeared in my dreams. As then the sight, or rather the feeling, of dread, despair and despondency which took hold of me filled me with terror, and I would wake up sweating, and sometimes screaming. Lone Elk, the Pikani Dream Catcher, or Shaman, told me the wraith represented what my life would become should I not dominate, have the ascendency over, my squaw, my then wife Miriam, and have her obey me.
I returned to the UK filled with zeal to be the master in my own house, and brusquely laid down the law to Miriam, which resulted in us not seeing or speaking to each other for almost three years. I suppose I could blame all my future troubles from that event. Had I not upset Miriam by my bull headed approach we might have built a proper marriage, and broken the unnatural bond she had with her step-brother. Instead her righteous anger sent me off in a strop, allowing Martin Hodge to further corrupt and manipulate her. My bad!
Gwen had been flicking my worse than useless prick with a finger, and a contemptuous expression on her face, while I had been dwelling on things past.
"Well, you better take yourself off to the doctor, PDQ, and bloody well find out," She said, getting from the bed and starting to dress. "You ain't no good to me, or any other woman, the way you are now."
As she finished dressing I digested her advice. I could still manage one successful insertion a night, but Gwen was a woman who needed to get her rocks off at least three times during a shagging session, and I sensed her rising frustration and anger at my inability to satisfy her. Even my best cunnilingus technique, although making her purr in pleasure, didn't result in her screaming in rapturous abandon.
"What's that for?" I indicated the suitcase she was carrying."Are you taking your stuff home to wash?"
Gwen kept several bits of clothing, and some personal possessions, in my apartment although she had refused my several offers for her to move in with me.
She shook her head. "I'm moving out, babe." Her voice broke. "I'm sorry, Des, but I've not been straight with you. You're a good bloke; a sweet man who's given me some of the best shagging I've ever had." She looked at me with tears in her eyes. "I don't visit my mum in Swindon on Fridays, she actually lives round the corner from me on The Brit, I go up to London and visit a bloke in Wormwood Scrubs prison. The bloke who I left my husband and kids for."
I knew she was divorced, but she had never divulged the details, and I'd never asked. Gwen sat on the edge of the bed, and in a halting, tearful voice told me her story.
She had been married for three years, and had two children, when she met, and fell heavily in lust with, Wayne Dalton, a small time criminal. She then left her husband and kids and travelled all over England with him; he shoplifting, mugging old ladies, and picking pockets, and Gwen, well doing whatever he wanted. Six months later, when he was caught with a stolen car, and then banged up in prison for a year, Gwen returned to Slough. By then her husband had started divorce proceedings, and been given custody of the children. Wayne got early release, and once again, like a moth to a flame, Gwen went to him. Another bout of criminality by Wayne, and her on the game, led to Wayne doing another three years. Gwen returned to Slough, and moved in with Jonjo Rawlins; they had been childhood sweethearts. However, when Wayne was released from prison on parole she upped and left and rejoined him.
"I don't know why I keep going back to the toerag. He pimps me, beats me up, and treats me like shit, but when I'm with him I feel so alive, and when I'm from him I get withdrawal symptoms. I'm addicted to Wayne Dalton, and I wish with all my heart I wasn't." She gazed dejectedly at the floor, and I put my arm around her shoulders.
"Surely, when he's in prison you could go cold turkey?"
She sniffed back a tear. "I've tried, believe me, Des, I've really tried. Once I stopped going to see him for three months. He wrote such tearful letters; said he loved me, said he couldn't live without me, said if I didn't go and see him he'd top hisself." She gave a despairing shrug. "What could I do but go and see him, hoping what he said about loving me was true. When he came out he was the same as before ... and I became hopelessly addicted again."
She gave me a level stare. "After I met you I hoped to beat my addiction to Wayne. You gave me the treatment I needed; a hard stromping what made my eyeballs rattle and my clit explode, and giving it me three or four times a night, most nights of the week." She laid her hand on my knee. "Get back to your former state and I could try again with you, meantime..."
"You'll look for someone else to shag you senseless, until such time as that Wayne Dalton gobshite gets out of jail. Then you'll bugger off and join him, leaving the poor sod you've been with hopelessly in love with you." I nearly added, 'like Jonjo Rawlins.'
She dropped her eyes back to regarding the floor, and tears fell. She nodded, sniffed, then kissed me and left.
Gwen was right about one thing; I needed to see a doctor and be checked over. My impotence — there, the elephant in the room has been named — might be due to the wound I suffered in Afghanistan. When I had visited the Harley Street quack not long after my marriage to Suzannah, at her insistence I might add, he had been concerned there were several 'foreign bodies', minute particles of metal and stone, present in my back, which had not been removed in Afghanistan. The major bits, shrapnel from the RPG, and stone chippings from the rock face where the grenade had exploded behind me, had been taken out, but the medical facilities at the 'Uzbek Hilton' although first class, didn't have the equipment required for what would have been micro surgery to remove those microscopic bits.
The Harley Street man sent me for a full body scan, and on examining the results decided the foreign bodies were not causing the weakness in my leg, or anything else detrimental to my health. At the time, in 2004, I was giving Suzannah an eyeball rattling, clit exploding stromping several times a day, and even more times at night, seven days a week, so no problem with John Thomas then.
I rang the surgery of Doctor Malaki, my man in Harley Street, and made an appointment for the next day. The sexy voiced receptionist raised a slight glimmer of movement my groin area, which has to be a good sign.
She was even better in the flesh than her voice had promised. Absolutely stunning. What a female with her looks was doing behind a desk was beyond me. The sight of her had actually caused a slight swelling to my prick. Maybe all I required was some visual stimulation, which was being grossly unfair to Gwen who, if not equal in looks to this goddess behind the reception desk, was a fine figure of a woman in her own right.
"The Doctor will see you now, sir." She said, as if I was the most impotent — oops, Freudian slip — important person in the world. I thanked her and nearly walked into the door, being so dazzled by her beauty.
Fawn
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