Like all the previous stories in this series I believe that this one will stand alone. However I suggest it is better to read them all in the correct sequence.
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It was about a week after New Year when Angel and I got together again. We met in a pub, had a few drinks then eventually headed back to my place. I am a little ashamed to report that by the time we got to the bedroom, no stopping off on the living room sofa this time, I was so fired up with lust I just pushed her back onto the bed, pulled up her skirt, pulled aside the gusset of her panties and drove in like a pile driver. No foreplay, no caressing, no finesse and sadly very little staying power.
When I had shot my load and rolled off her gasping for breath, she looked at me with a mixture of shocked horror and anger. After a few moments of silently glaring at me, she slowly peeled her soiled panties down her legs and with a sudden movement shoved them in my face.
"Enjoy that did you? Well you got yours then Mister Panty Perv now get down there and give me mine!"
With that she grabbed me and pushed my head between her legs, clamping me in place with her hands and nylon clad thighs until I had fully paid my debt.
That incident became the basis of one of the rituals of our relationship, no arrangement I think is a better word. The passage of our sessions was always marked by a number of rituals. Over the following weeks we developed an almost rigid routine.
Imagine our meetings like a piece of theatre. We would nearly always meet in a pub, then we would adjourn to my house. Never hers. Although sometimes she would just come straight around to mine instead of meeting up somewhere else. Whatever else she might be wearing on the day, she always wore a lace thong and hold-up stockings, well I like stockings and she knew that and played up to my minor fetish. Our overture of kissing and foreplay would be conducted at least semi-dressed, and our first fuck usually would be with the gusset of her panties just pulled aside.
Once we got into the main body of the play we would undress completely, and then remain naked for the rest of the evening, night, day or weekend, how ever long she had planned to stay. The only clothing we would put on during that time would be bathrobes if it was too chilly to go about the house naked between our sex sessions. Not that our sex was restricted to the bedroom we made full use of every room of the house when the mood took us. A stand up 'knee-trembler' quickie against the kitchen sink in the morning while Angel was trying to wash up our breakfast coffee cups was not unusual, and never rejected. Even if my frail manhood refused to perform we could find ways of having fun, not always sexual, mostly just playing childish games, tickle fights, pillow fights and other such silliness.
"Oh! He's dead!"
With a flick of her hand at my flaccid flesh and a look of mock disgust, or disappointment.
"Well it's your fault you killed him!"
"Oh I never did, you don't look after him properly!"
"Oy Smatrarse! That's not fair, you wear him that's your fault that is..."
That was usually the kind thing that would start one of our play fights. The relaxation and laughter these games brought usually had the desired effect and my old chap would soon be up again and ready to do his duty. Whatever problem Angel would find a way to make a shared joke of it and disperse the male angst that so often follows these failures to perform that most men suffer from time to time.
She certainly was a very insightful and naturally gifted therapist.
The final scene would be showering together and getting re-dressed. When we were dressed she would present me with, washed and dried, the lace thong that she had worn when she arrived, and I would pin the flimsy garment up on my 'trophy wall' above the head of my bed. No, I don't have a serious underwear fetish, it just became one of our joke rituals but I did build up quite a collection of her lace thongs over the weeks and months that followed.
The play-out, if that is an apt analogy, would be to go and have a meal in a pub or a small restaurant. Never anything expensive of extravagant. This was just the way we closed the lid on the box of our arrangement until the next time we met, and prolonged vigorous exercise does build up quite an appetite.
Angel set out a firm set of ground rules for our arrangement, we were friends and fuck-buddies, never lovers. We would meet for fun and sex, there was never any chance of this becoming a 'relationship.' We met, we fucked, repeatedly, and we parted, that was it, everything else in our lives was totally separate. It was a good arrangement and it worked very well. We both understood that in time it would just fade away, no recriminations, no tears when it was time for it to end, it would end and that would be that.
I have used the word 'fuck' rather more often that I usually do, perhaps some of Angel's mode of speech is rubbing off on me. But more likely it is the most appropriate word for what we did. We did not make love, sometimes our couplings would be tender, with lots of kissing and caressing, and sometimes rough, animal almost. It was sex, just for the pure fun of it, two bodies coming together for mutual pleasure. There was friendship, but never love. That was taboo.
So I was rather surprised one Sunday morning when Angel and I were sitting in bed, naked as usual, sipping our breakfast coffee when she said.
