Thursday, 23 February 2012

Sharing in Skipton

As I type this, I can look out of the window in front of me and see a green hill covered with sheep. This chair is too low for me and, until I discovered Google Chrome lurking on the Windows bar, I was fearing that I'd have to use the AOL Browser to do anything. I wasn't even aware that the AOL Browser still existed. Wonders never cease.

I'm in Skipton. It is a town comprised almost entirely of charity shops, estate agents and caf├ęs. The houses are nice, and there's a castle which may or may not be worth a visit (I'm truly not sure; we didn't have time to go), but there is the spectre of impending doom hanging over this town, truly suggesting that old people come here to die. I can think of worse places, but frankly, I can't help feeling that, as I type this blog post, I am in Skipton: God's waiting room.

Our hotel room is really quite nice. It's well-stocked, has complimentary vegetable soup as well as teas and coffees (which will be my dinner as Catharine doesn't like eating out), and a magnificent four-poster bed, which makes me feel like a mixture between minor royalty and Paris Hilton when I lie down on it. I've only ever slept in a four-poster once before and that was in a low-budget B&B in Bath. This is a less nice town, but with a nicer bed. I guess that's almost a fair trade. Y'know, almost.

We arrived here bang on the check-in time and, after I opened all the drawers and examined the free stuff, we sat on the bed and got down to some serious kissin' time, which turned into scratching of the back when I removed my T-shirt. You can probably tell where this is going, so I'll just skip the boring bits.

*snip*

She lay on her back. I'd been trying to count the orgasms, but to be fair, I was otherwise occupied, and hadn't really been in a position to count. I could tell when she started having orgasms, and I could tell when she stopped. I just hadn't been able to clearly define what had happened in between. She was sitting on my legs with her left hand in her crotch, and I was lying on my back, so I could probably be forgiven for not exactly seeing...

...but anyway.

I listened to her heavy breathing. I kissed her and tasted a slight tang in her mouth, which - as I then realised - was probably a result of her intermittently giving me sweet blowjobs in between her own orgasms. Insofar as I was concerned, I was really very close. She kissed me, crawled up into a seating position and spread her legs open, looking directly at me.

I closed my eyes and bit my lips as my own orgasm hit. I wasn't counting seconds, but if I had been, I would have lost count. It was long. I felt my cum hit my collar bone, and trace a line down to my hand, which was still tightly wrapped around my throbbing penis. Unable to move, speak or even breathe properly, I gradually brought myself back down to earth, feeling the softness of the bed under nay back and grasping hold of the warm, soft hand of Catharine to my left.

It took me a while to recover. I went into out en-suite bathroom, which looks like it cost about £1m alone, to clean up the bits that she didn't lick off. That took me a long time, as well - I kept finding bits in places I didn't even know I had.

And then we walked into Skipton.

I think I'll be using our hotel shower this evening, though.

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