Over The Hills And Faraway, Book 5. Paying The PiperChapter 36: Iron In The Soul free porn video
June 2nd, 2009. Bourne Mansions; Iver, Buckinghamshire.
I rolled off a star-fished Annamarie and got to my feet. I was covered in sweat, confusion, embarrassment and depression. It had started so well. Then, about five minutes into what had been an experience of supreme bliss for us both, my tungsten steel prick melted like a snowball in a furnace.
One minute Annamarie was moaning in mounting rapture as I ravished her G spot with every thrust, and then nada, zilch, sod all.
I stared forlornly at the little limp finger of gelatine, which only a short time ago had been a rampant rock hard penis of passion.
"What happened?" Annamarie's question mirrored mine. "We were reaching the heights, and then your prick fell out of my pussy like a drunk out of bed. Did I do something wrong?" Her face was red with suppressed fury, and unsuppressed frustration.
"No, Annamarie, it's me. I've been experiencing a few problems with ED and..."
"You've got erectile disfunction? You bastard! You knew you couldn't get it up yet still had the bloody nerve to ask me up here for a shag," She got from the carpet seething with anger. " I thought this was going to be the night of my life..." Her laugh was scorn personified, "I was bloody right, it's been a fucking fiasco."
She pulled on her knickers then wriggled into her skirt. At one time the sight of her gyrating arse and bouncing tits would have brought my sleeping todger to attention, but now it didn't even raise a flicker.
"I'm going up The Smoke and get a man, any man, to fuck the arse off me. Bloody hell, I'm so frustrated I could scream." She glared at me with a look not far from hatred. "You've made a complete fool out of me, and I bet you'll piss yourself laughing when you tell them blonde bimbos of yours. How come you can fuck those slags and not..." She noticed the expression on my face. "You can't can't get it up them either ... or anyone?" She gave a harsh bark of laughter. "I suppose I should feel sorry for you, but all I feel is contempt. I don't want to see you at my parent's restaurant again. In fact I don't want to see you ever again. I'm going back to sea in a week, where I'll get some real cock from real men. You poor, impotent, limp dicked bastard; what a waste of space you've turned out to be." She left; her door slam rattling the sitting room windows and bringing down some plaster in the hall.
I was so depressed and distraught I would have shot myself had I a hand gun on the premises. It's always the bloody same; there's never a pistol handy when you need one.
I collapsed into an armchair in the sitting room, and then noticed a damp patch on the carpet where Annamarie had leaked love juice moments before my erection disappeared. The question mark shaped stain caused me to contemplate what the rest of my life would be like. I could be facing another 30 years of impotence; with all the frustration, depression, disappointment and humiliation which accompanies the condition.
I suppose it was that moment of startling clarity of how my future would be which was the genesis for my decision to end it all, although at the time I hadn't consciously contemplated suicide.
An interlude of introspection.
When did I lose my soul? When did those elements of my character, which make me who I am, begin to decay and disintegrate?
A huge part of me died the day I discovered my best friend Harry Ledbetter and my wife Suzannah shagging each other's brains out on the plush living room carpet of our Canary Wharf penthouse apartment. However, unbeknown to me, the iron had entered and began corroding my soul long before their betrayal.
Moralists would say the canker first took hold when I killed a fellow human being, the young Argentinian on the summit of Mount Longdon, during The Falklands War of 1982. The religious will assert my blatant disregard of the marriage vows I made to my first wife Miriam set me on the path to perdition. Both acts could well have been the beginning of my desolation, for I wilfully continued breaking the commandments relating to killing and adultery, and paid scant heed to the other eight. That being said I don't consider myself a bad person; I have certain standards and try to maintain them. I reasoned killing people was part of my trade — it went with the job, and I held no personal hatred to those whose lives I ended. It was a case of them or me, and thankfully it had been me.
As for my adultery; from the start of our marriage I considered I had been given carte blanche by my then wife Miriam to take my pleasure elsewhere than in the marital bed. She flatly refused to join me in barracks, and could also be sparing when dispensing the perquisites of marriage when I was home on leave, especially if her so called brother Martin was in the vicinity.
That she had been under Martin Hodge's sexual and mental thrall from childhood was no fault of mine. If given the full facts earlier in our marriage I could have done something about it, and then there would have been no need of adultery on my part, or hers, and our married lives would have been so much more rewarding. As it was, even with the aforementioned problems, at times we shared periods of genuine love and affection.
As I sat slumped in the easy chair, gazing unseeingly at my stained carpet, I thought back to the events in my life which had conspired to completely disillusion me, and bring me to the point where I now considered shuffling off this mortal coil.
Disenchantment with my life began the day I was discharged from the army in 2002, as I had not qualifed for the rank of Staff Sergeant before my 38th birthday.
It was several years later before I learned the real reason for my dismissal from the career I loved. A Member of Parliament, a junior minister at the MoD, with responsibility for the army, had exacted his revenge on Harry Ledbetter for 'stealing' his girlfriend, Melissa Brookes, an event which had taken place many years previously. The sheer pettiness and vindictiveness of the act caused me to doubt the capabilities of those who managed the destiny of members of the Armed Forces. Later, when former comrades in the Greenjackets were being killed and maimed in Iraq, the emergence of the so called 'dodgy dossier' further dumbfounded and confounded me.
This dossier, enumerating the chemical, biological and nuclear weapons, the so called WMDs, weapons of mass destruction, supposedly amassed by Saddam Hussein, was presented to Parliament, and formed the basis, the justification in fact, for the invasion of Iraq in March 2003 by the UK.
At the time a majority of the great British public believed the government had good reason, and evidence, to invade Iraq, and supported the decision, although I remembered Harry Ledbetter had expressed his reservations on the veracity and reliability of the intelligence supplied. However, I thought at the time our leaders would have made the decision based on more accurate and credible intelligence than that seen by Harry Ledbetter. It transpired I was wrong, and the whole adventure in Iraq was based on outright falsehoods, together with wishful thinking, by the governments of the US and UK.
Some time after the invasion, and the capture of Saddam, Doctor Kelly, a member of the inspection team who had been searching for the mythical WMDs in Iraq, let slip to a newspaper reporter that the dossier assembled to show Saddam Hussein had an arsenal of WMDs had been 'sexed up', or in plain speak filled with information, false information, designed to support the justification for the invasion. Doctor Kelly also implied the intelligence community in the UK knew the information received concerning WMDs was flawed, and the government also knew the intelligence was flawed.
The government strongly denied the claims, of course, but what gave the whole episode the whiff of stinking fish was that not long after Doctor Kelly made his revelation he was found dead; suicide — of course.
An investigation, the Hutton Inquiry, was set up to examine the details of the death of Doctor Kelly, and came to the conclusion the government had no involvement in his suicide — of course.
Senior intelligence chiefs were later promoted and/or ennobled not long after the Hutton Inquiry had absolved the UK government of any part in the unfortunate suicide of Doctor Kelly. Make of that what you will, but I see rewards being handed out for mouths being kept shut.
Miracle
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