I know…..again

Today, for the first time I’ve found a quiet corner of the foyer on the ground floor of the office block. It’s tastefully decorated with large water-colours on the walls, leather chairs and solid oak tables. There’s calming background music, soft lighting and the air smells vaguely, attractively sweet. I wonder how I’ve never noticed this place before.

Over the past few months I’ve been less and less to the local coffee houses and bars. I don’t really know why. Or perhaps I do. I was a different person, no midriff bump to tell the world that I’d been fucking without the use of a prophylactic. Is that the first thing that comes into peoples mind whenever they see a woman carrying a baby gut? Do they instantly have an image of her on her back having the beginnings of a baby squirted into her?

Thinking back I can probably recall the very instant his life giving semen started its fateful journey. It was a Sunday morning after he’d hauled himself out of bed to visit the bathroom. I’d vaguely heard the pissing sound as the deluge hit the water.

Then he’d crawled back into bed, his big hands snaking around my body to cup my left breast, before sliding down over my hip and around to nestle in the soft curls of my pubic hair; searching for the starter button and finding it already slightly erect. And that was the beginning. That was generally how it always started on Sunday mornings.

Well…. since then my world has been well and truly rocked. Here I am several months later, less able to see my feet, than I was the last time I opened up my lap-top, with the intention of communicating with those few of you who are still interested in what has happened and is happening in my little life.

I’m not so much blooming as ballooning. I’m as round as a barrel (probably not strictly true, but that’s how I feel). My waist is daily disappearing; my ass is expanding into next week; I’m starting to waddle like a duck and as for my breasts…… lets not go there. Of course he likes the new cup size, even though I was never small to start with. Men!

It seems like an age since I watched with bated breath as the little blue line appeared on the pregnancy test stick, confirming that I was at long last in the club. I’d wanted this baby so badly. And don’t get me wrong, I still want it – him? her? But I want it to be here. Now. Today.

Some lucky women I’m told, enjoy the nine months it takes to incubate the egg into a fully functioning independent life-form. For me, so-far, it’s been almost day to day vomiting and discomfort. And the daily slog into the city isn’t helpful or comfortable. I don’t know how I’ll feel when I start maternity leave.

Everyone says that it’s the best time of a woman’s life, like having Christmas every day.

Each morning he kisses my bump and almost as an afterthought remembers that I still have lips. He’s already the proud doting daddy.

He went out a bought a pile of books; Baby Names; Bringing up Baby;  Baby Tips for Dads; The Expectant Dad’s Survival Guide etc, etc….. There’s a trend forming. Who’s having this baby anyway?

Of course he says that he doesn’t mind what it is. But I know he really wants a son. And I’d love to oblige, even though there’s a little selfish part of me hoping the little, screaming bundle arrives with a sweet little vagina between her legs.

We still make love, more at my insistence (if you can call it that); a constant desire for food in the shape of soft iced-cream, asparagus and avocado isn’t all I have a craving for. I’ve never felt so overwhelmingly horny. I’d happily bend over the sofa or kneel on the edge of the bed twice or three times a day, if he was home. Of course he dutifully obliges, but he’s always so… so God-damned careful, loving and gentle, it makes me want to fucking scream.
But the orgasms…..my God! They don’t just make me go weak at the knees, they actually turn my bones to water, and make the atomic bomb go off in my brain. Some of you ladies will know what I mean.

There is of course the other side of the news I divulged last October – my mother’s cancer diagnosis.

For her the last five months have brought hospital visits, chemo, radiotherapy, nausea, dizziness, sickness, hair-loss and bloating, (sounds familiar – apart from the hair loss). It’s hard to watch someone you love, who was so alive and vibrant at the start of the year, slowly transform into a listless wraith, staring into space, lost in her own diminishing world.

Even so, she tries very hard to be cheerful, which kind of makes it harder for those of us who love her.

So now you have my letter of excuse. I promise it won’t be long before I take up the reigns of the story again. Now, where were we………..?


I know

I know – I know, I’ve been away for a long time. And I was doing so well. My excuse is that life sometimes throws a curve-ball, or puts a spanner in the works and the wheel comes off your trolley. Enough with the metaphors!

There is good news and also bad news. Which would you like first?

As a child when there was something on my plate that I didn’t like, I always gobbled it down first and fast, hardly bothering to chew; broccoli and parsnips being the twin villains that appeared at least once a week. So, I’ll deliver the bad news first; my mother was diagnosed with cancer a month ago. Since then it has been a roller-coaster of sadness and tears and long weekend drives.

The good news is that I am ever so slightly pregnant. Hooray!
You are the first person I have told. So keep it to yourself. I wouldn’t want the world and his wife to know.


This account was written on my third night while staying with my friend Vitalia at their family home.
Now that I am back and the days have drifted by, it all feels like a bit of a bitter-sweet dream.

It is a little before one in the morning. Sleep eludes me as my thoughts chase each other around my mind like loud, over active children.
The house is quiet. I’ve opened the French doors to invite in the moonlight, the cool night air, and the sound of the crickets in the garden below.

Reader, I am afraid. I am terrified. I’ve locked my bedroom door. But am I locking out the possibility of him coming to me in the night? Or is it a weak attempt to lock myself in?

There is, as I’ve already said, a commotion going in my mind; raised voices – reason and commonsense arguing with base desire. It’s a conflict I’ve lived with for years. But tonight the voices seem louder. Reason is chirping on endlessly about the track of devastation and anguish such a relationship would bring, while desire sits snivelling like a child having a tantrum.

Have I come so low, that I would even consider for one moment the things that my unchained libido is suggesting? Have I become a beast that is happiest when it is feeding on illicit-unions?

All day I’ve felt his eyes on me. All day I’ve avoided returning his gaze. But if I don’t look, does that not say something? Send its own message…..

I’ve read enough cheap novels, in which the quivering virgin avoids the hot stare of the darkly handsome stranger, whose eyes say, ‘lay down, I want to fuck you senseless’.

Inside I’m laughing at the image of myself as the quivering virgin. But quiver I do. I know myself. A need for sexual gratification is ingrained in my character.
I have been corrupted – I am corrupt…… I am as much a sexual pariah as he is.

In the past I’ve chosen my partners carefully – and there have been enough of them to feed my growing vampire-ish need. And I know that letting go now would be careless and stupid in the extreme. But the snivelling child sitting in the corner wants what she wants.

Is it the risk, that draws me, I wonder? Or the gratification of a desire?

If only he knew what I really was, that I’m not the faithful wife I pretend to be; that my recent history was pot-marked with adultery and worse……

I could see how he sees me – the friend of his sister – of the family. The tall, athletic older woman who came into their lives…… his life, at a time when young boys start to fantasize about naked women… breasts…. vaginas…. sex.

Vitalia had been right, years ago I had caught him looking at me with undiluted early teenage desire. His gaze had followed me when I walked by; licking at me when I lay by the pool wearing almost nothing. Even then I’d read the message in his eyes and in the anguished expression on his face. All he’d needed was a little encouragement, the slightest indication that I might be available. But I’d been eighteen, immature and perhaps a little conceited, and took it as an amusing compliment.

Now, fifteen years later his gaze has lost its innocence; now he looks at me with a knowledgeable stare that said that the hot desires of the adolescent still burn as brightly.

Vitalia had told me that there have been a host of women who have succumbed to his charms. The road to Rome was apparently paved with broken hearts, and cuckolded husbands.

What am I going to do tomorrow when we are alone together?
I know I haven’t told you why we will be alone. But that will have to wait, sleep is finally pulling down my eyelids, and I have to be up early……Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz



It’s been a while since I’ve sat in this seat with coffee, prawn salad sandwich and a lap-top.
Not much has changed except for the bar staff; two strangers paid to smile and be constantly cheerful.
The laughing banker-boys are not here today. Perhaps they’ve migrated to another watering hole. I found them mildly obnoxious, but I still miss them. Odd.
On the left by the window, four lady-shoppers sip gin and tonics, natter and giggle; their leather handbags by Bottega, Givenchy and Alexander McQueen stand alongside plastic Harrods and Selfridge bags.

If you could see me you’d note the vaguely belittling smile on my face. I’m not proud of it. I am mildly envious of the pretty, pampered creatures with their Rolex watches and Gucci pumps. I admit it – I’m a snob. I’m proud of the fact that I work bloody hard for what I have.

Anyhow, back to my recent visit to Italy.


Just as we had all changed since my last visit, the house too has also been altered. I don’t know why I was expecting it to be exactly how I’d left it on that fateful day so long ago. I suppose it’s like being used to a friends face, and then running into them after it has been tucked and tightened by a plastic surgeon; the same but somehow different. Nicer but still disappointing. Just imagine being given bigger breasts – an improvement, but somehow missing the familiarity and comfort of the original smaller ones.

A classically Italianate extension had been added to the east-wing, for Vitalia and her growing family. The floor of the outdoor dining area near the pool had been re-laid with an intricate blue and white mosaic of Aphrodite bathing; and the orange and lime orchard has been dug up and transplanted well away from the main house, making it possible to extend the lawns and flower borders.

Like all good reunions, a lot of time over dinner this evening was spent giving run-downs of all that had happened in the intervening years. When it came to my turn to give an account, I didn’t leave out too much. But as you might guess, my relationship with the Sicilian, the Canadian, the strange dark skinned gentleman, (of whom I have yet to tell), Inga and the others, (again as yet untold to you) are still a closely guarded secret between you and me.

I did come clean about my stop over in Thailand, but left out the salacious details of the brothel and the reason for my eventual, tearful flight in the middle of the night.

If I’d been meticulously truthful, I’d probably have been called a puttana (whore), and kicked out of the house with orders never to return.

All evening I was aware of eyes that followed me………


“My younger brother wants to carry you off and make you his sex slave,” Vitalia laughed, when we were alone in my room later that night.

I made a surprised face. “He does?”

She giggled. “You mean you didn’t notice the hungry looks he was been giving you all evening. It’s a good thing his fiancé is arriving in a few days to distract him.”

“You forget that I’m a happily married woman.”

“You might be, but unfortunately my beloved brother is no respecter of matrimony. In fact I think he prefers them married and initially unwilling. The more they struggle the harder he chases. They all give in to him……..eventually.”

“Kicking and screaming, I suppose?”

She laughed and sat down on the bed. “I’m sure they kick and scream, and scratch and bite, but afterward they keep coming back for more. I’ve seen his cock, so I’m not surprised they fall on their backs. It’s much bigger and prettier than my husband’s more moderate weapon.”

“The size of a man’s cock isn’t everything.”
“It may not be everything, but a nice wide cock is a comfort in the night.”
I didn’t know what to say so I asked the obvious question. “Aren’t you satisfied with the size of Carlo’s penis?”
“It’s OK…. I suppose, but Carlo is always so fucking gentle when he makes love.”
“That’s because he loves you.”

“In that case, I’d like him to love me a little less and brutalize me a little more. Is your husband always gentle?”
“No. Not always.”
“Lucky you. What is he like when he makes love?”

I looked at her for a minute. It was an extremely personal question, but we’d always had a fairly no-holds-barred, no subjects off limits relationship.

“He can be rough sometimes,” I began, “but I know he loves me and would never really hurt me…. too much.”

“Does he actually hurt you then?”

There was a gleam in her eyes and I knew what she wanted to hear. “He’s got big hard hands and it does hurt when he spanks me. Sometimes chokes me… a little.”

She shivered with a kind of glee, and I could see that her mind was creating pictures of my words. “I’d love some of that, but Carlo’s not the type.” She hesitated a moment. “Has he ever taken you the other way?”

“What other way?” I asked, although I knew exactly what she meant.
“You know….the other way – in the bottom.”
I should have lied, I know that now. “A few times, yes.”

“I’ve seen pictures of women being ass-fucked and I’d love him to try it. I did once sort of suggest it, but he wasn’t keen. He called it a mortal sin.”
“What’s Giovani’s fiancé like?” I said trying to change the subject.

“Oh, as you might expect. She is tall, elegant, beautiful, aristocratic and best of all, fucking loaded.”
“She sounds perfect.”
“Oh she is, if you enjoy screwing a porcelain doll. And I can’t see her taking it up the pooper either.”

“Perhaps she’s-”
“She’s a cold bitch and still a virgin….apparently.”
“Really! You mean he hasn’t….?”
“Nope. Astonishing isn’t it. By dear brother has fucked women, married and single, the length and breadth of Italy and he chooses to settle down with the only one who won’t share his bed. ”
“He must love her a lot.”

“The only thing Giovani loves is her father’s millions, and the fact that she’s probably the only twenty-something virgin in southern Italy. Their children, if she lets him between her thighs after they’re married, will be very beautiful. But I have a feeling she isn’t the type to allow anything to push out her flat belly, let alone stick it’s bloody head out of her tight vagina.”

“Giovani does want children, I take it.”
“He hasn’t said. But he’s Italian, and you know Italian men.”
“Not really,” I said quickly, recalling Marco the Sicilian.

She laughed softly and lowered her voice slightly. “Nobody knows this, not even my husband, but I wasn’t a virgin when I married. I had five men in the thee years I was at university in Milano.” She sighed, a smile of memory spreading over her face. “First there was Paolo, then Michel, Aldo, Cesare and best of all Franco. Carlo wasn’t the best lover, nor did he have the biggest or nicest cock. That prize goes to Franco. I fell for that handsome bastard, in my final year.  I still pray that he catches something really serious and that his beautiful cock falls off. So I know a little about Italian men. They are mainly dominant in the bedroom, as well as being sensitive lovers. They love their daughters, but wives have to give them sons. They can also be lying, cheating sons-of-bitches.”

“Carlo isn’t dominant I take it?”
“Hardly….most of the time I’m on top. I married him because he made me laugh, because loves to go down on me, and isn’t the type to chase other women. Not like my dear philandering brother. I’ll be surprised if he isn’t off screwing some other woman within a month of getting married.”

“When is the wedding?”
“Next June. It’d be nice if you came, but Isabella is likely to take one look at you and mark you down as trouble, with a capital T.”

“Why? I’m no threat to her.”
“You might not be, but my brother might find it hard to explain the bulge in his pants when you are in the room.”