Timothy Lea - Confessions of a Plumber’s Mate

My desperate cries bring Imogen to my lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean to shock you.’

‘It’s not that,’ I say. ‘It’s – oh, let’s get on the carpet!’

The lady is clearly suffering from nunga-hunger, there is no doubt about it. Whipping the lantern down to ground level so that the room is in semi-darkness, she reaches behind her and steps out of her dress in one movement. I don’t watch what happens next because I am bent double trying to get my shoes off. Isn’t it amazing how your shoe laces always foul up during those romantic moments? When I am next in a position to cop an eyeful of the glorious blonde creature she is stretched out beside the lantern, the pattern of its light tattooed over her naked body. ‘Take me!’ she moans.

In my present mood of reckless enthusiasm I could easily leave her a couple of feet behind but I control my impetuosity and enter her no faster than I would the last bus home if there was strong competition for places. Now comes the difficult part. To say that I am exceptionally aroused is to put it mildly but I am aware of the golden maxim: ‘Easy come, easy no get invited back for a second whack at the crack’. I must control myself. This lady is very, very beautiful and I must make the most of the privilege that Dame Fortune has conferred upon me.

‘Oh, lordy, lordy!’ she murmurs. ‘That’s good, that’s good!’ I get the feeling that this is her first appointment with the groin greyhound for some time, and the way she is clinging on to me lends weight to the thought. Her legs are crossed round the small of my back and I don’t think it is just for luck.

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