Did You Sleep With Her?

Euphemistically Speaking…

Under the duvet

Did you sleep with her?


Sleep with her?…


That pair have been slapping against each other like an open wicket gate banging an oak post on a stormy night.  They’ve fused for so long you couldn’t peel them apart even if you could call upon the sexual aid of the most anal of temperance police wielding hardwood truncheons to beat them into submission.  You’d have more luck with pulling off two sticky buns bonding in a rubber sack in a heatwave or separating an insole from a marathon runner’s trainer after the longest of sweaty sessions.  A Premiership footballer, however injury prone, has never received such matchless close attention to his groin area.  In the soft velvet, deep liquid black of night they hit grey shade number fifty and started all over again; their prolonged exchange of bodily fluids putting eager virgin donors at the local blood bank to shame as their copulating countdown to daylight commenced. Then, as the orange glow of the rising sun stretched its probing fingers into the gentle rise and fall of their weary trembling buttocks, mother nature’s warming aphrodisiac that was pregnant with the delights of the day explored their bodies fleetingly, unsure as to whether it had simply come prematurely.  A bawdy milkman on his round of housewives – if he hadn’t already been shafted from behind by predominant supermarket forces – would have spilled his cartons of full fat cream in shock, each popping provocatively at the lust-filled whoops, moans, howls and groans that ejaculated carelessly up into the morning air.  In response, blackbird, thrush and tit alike had fought their feelings of inadequacy since grey shade twenty-five marked halfway ticket on their coital return journey from orgasm junction; coy mating calls proving a poor passion play in penetrating the eternal suburban rhythm of twisted bedspring and headboard.  No match for a dawn chorus of congress that spat hormones, DNA, determined emissions and the odour of uncontrolled urges from loose-limbs stretched in a duck down duvet of strangled inhibitions.  And as for the neighbours?  Oh, they slumped exhausted hours ago, drifting on an uneasy compromise of shattered consciousness and exposure, their minds contorted by vivid images of unclothed, everyday acquaintances rampantly auditioning for Porn Hub and fraught with the gestation pains of RSI from incessantly banging on the bedroom party wall – frustratingly all to no avail…



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