Edinburgh is an extraordinary city – even in the rain – and the four days we were there weren't really enough to do it full justice. We stayed at the Ballantrae Albany Hotel (which was excellent!) and, during the day, we did the usual tourist stuff: We climbed the 287 steps to the top of the Sir Walter Scott monument (it was my idea, but I was the one who was gasping for breath by the time we got there!) and we have a certificate to say that we did. Naturally, we went to the castle, spent ages exploring and watched the firing of the gun at 1 pm.
On another day, there was a trip to the Camera Obscurer (only five storeys of stairs this time!) and the exhibition of optical illusions was one of the most fascinating things we'd ever seen.
The nightlife was really good – loads of pubs, clubs and restaurants – and we were pretty well 'fed and watered' every night.
Which leaves the time we spent in our bedroom.
If you've read the first two parts of this story you'll know that we had a growing problem over the issue of introducing fantasies into lovemaking. Harry had been directed to the 'Loving Wives' section of Literotica by his business partner, Morton, and Morton's fiancée. In particular, it seemed as if he was beginning to become a little too enthralled by the stories of cheating wives, wife sharers and the so-called 'swinging.' I was not the least bit happy with this development.
I'd challenged him about it while we'd been driving north on the M6, but he was reluctant to talk, claiming that he needed to concentrate on his driving; but I was determined to find out why, the previous night he'd decided to imagine that the blow job I was giving him was actually being given to the taxi driver who'd brought us home.
It wasn't until we'd left the motorway and were on the 'A' roads that he finally gave in and tried to explain what it was all about. It was obviously difficult to voice his thoughts, so I was as patient as I could be, just encouraging him to talk rather than giving him the third degree. I won't try to repeat the entire conversation – a lot of it covered the same ground several times – but I'll try to summarise as best I can.
Firstly, he insisted that he didn't want to see me having any kind of sexual relationship with another man. He insisted that he would be intensely jealous if anything like that happened and the guy would probably end up in the foundations of something he was building.
Secondly, he didn't want to be with any other woman. He couldn't help looking when an attractive female was in the immediate vicinity but, as he said, many females dressed to attract male attention.
Thirdly, the stories he'd read had turned him on. He couldn't deny that. He'd never been a great reader, but those stories had captured his imagination and it had been his hope that I'd respond in a similar way and that – together – we could indulge in a bit of fantasy role play. That was all it would ever be, he'd insisted.
"So... basically," I asked, "You want me to be a saint outside the house, an angel in the kitchen... and a slut in the bedroom? Is that right?"
"You mean you aren't?" he grinned, unable to resist the opportunity. Then he yelped at the thump he received on the side of his thigh.
That first night, we were tired from the travelling and unpacking, from the lateness and excitement of the previous night (my legs still ached a bit from kneeling on the stairs!) and from the dinner in the hotel's signature restaurant. When we went to bed, we kissed and we cuddled and we fell fast asleep. We made up for it in the morning.
I was awake quite early (bloody sunshine!), but I did my best to shelter my eyes beneath the covers for a while – at least until Harry sneaked his arm around me from behind and I realised that he was also awake. I gave a little moan about being disturbed, but I moaned louder and was disturbed far more when the hand steadily crossed my stomach and came to rest on my breast. I was torn between wanting my 'ten minutes more' and the tingling feeling that his touch produced but, by the time his fingers closed on my nipple and found it treacherously receptive, it was no contest.
My moan quickly turned to a purr of contentment as his fingers played and teased; sometimes no more than a feather-light brushing of flesh on flesh, then a gentle squeeze between forefinger and thumb. I felt him move in close behind me and, as his lips pressed warmly onto the nape of my neck, I could also feel a very solid erection pressing against my thighs.
First thing in the morning, the 'spoons' position is definitely my favoured option, as Harry well knew and frequently took advantage of, so my 'resistance' (not the right word, really) was always pretty much guaranteed to be non-existent. In his cruder moments, Harry called the position a 'lazy fuck,' because it required very little effort from either of us.
His kisses were now spreading across my shoulders – delightfully – because that is definitely one of my erogenous zones and then he was nibbling at my earlobe (another one!), obviously enjoying the effect he was having on me. And then I heard his breathy whisper saying; "I love you more than you'll ever know, Dawn," and I virtually melted into the mattress.
His long left arm edged its way gently past my neck, reached my other breast, and began to fondle me slowly and gently. Both of my breasts and nipples were now receiving the kind of attention they most appreciated but, before long, his right hand was retracing its path down across my stomach and his extended fingers brushed through my pubic hair in search of the damp warmth that they guarded.
There have been times when I've clamped my thighs together at that point, trying to make him pay more attention to the upper portion of my body – but this wasn't one of those times. Without any hesitation, I eased my legs apart to give him all the access he desired.
He had no problem finding what he wanted; I was already wet with arousal and his first touch made me groan with pleasure. He ran the tip of his middle finger up the full length of my lubricous outer lips, making my legs twitch as if I was beginning to get cramp and then, pressing slightly to flick it lightly across the small bud of my clitoris – which almost made me squeal – he eased it past the inner folds of flesh and very slowly pushed it into the depths of my body.
It felt so enjoyable that I had to bury my face in the pillow – otherwise, I think I would have yelled loud enough to wake not just the hotel but the whole of Albany Street! As he worked his finger back and forth, I knew that I was very close to a shattering climax, but I didn't want it be with his fingers – I wanted the real the real thing. That was when I hooked my leg back over his legs – the signal he was so used to that told him I wanted him inside me (and I said Harry wasn't a patient lover!) and he was more than ready to accede to my needs.
He left his finger against my lips, using it to guide his erection into position. The first attempt was just a little too hasty and the tip merely slid across the lubrication, but the second attempt was perfect. The bulbous head parted the entrance with ease and then the whole length buried itself in me, giving me that inexplicable feeling of fullness that I'd always loved so much.
This time, he didn't even need to thrust; as soon as he was fully enclosed in me and his hand returned to squeeze my breast, I came! It was just as well that my face was sunk into the pillow because I shrieked helplessly with the sheer rapture of it. Albany Street? I'd have woken the whole of Edinburgh! Harry remained still while this was happening, pressed as far into me as he could reach for what seemed eternity although it was probably far less than a minute and then, as my spasms died away, he began to pound against me.
I gently placed my legs together, trying to squeeze him because I was afraid that my climax had made me so wet that it might reduce the feeling and I desperately wanted to give him the same pleasure he'd given me. Not surprisingly, perhaps, that didn't take long. The squelching noises, and the slaps as flesh met flesh, grew louder and faster until, with a huge groan, he injected gushing streams of warm fluid into my eagerly absorbing insides.
We stayed just as we were until he eventually softened enough that I couldn't hold him in place any longer and then, like a couple of synchronised swimmers, we both turned onto our backs with deep, contented sighs. Turning my head towards him, I tried my best innocent look as I said;
"Thank you. That was very nice. Errm... what did you say your name was again?"
"Ohhh... you wicked woman!" he declared, turning to me and grabbing my waist. "So... you want to take the piss out of my perverted fantasies, do you?" And this time I did shriek as he tickled me.
That day started well and got better as it went on and, while we were in Edinburgh, we made love at least once every night and started the days off in similar fashion. It was only on the final night that any further mention was made on the subject of fantasies.
It was started by a news item we saw on the TV in the bar. It seems that a couple had decided to adopt the so-called 'swinging' lifestyle, but the husband had been humiliated when he found that none of the other wives in their 'circle' was even slightly interested in him. Meanwhile, his wife had proved to be enormously popular. It had ended in an argument that turned into a rowdy fight; the police were called, two people were seriously injured and the couple were now 'estranged.' It was one of those items where the newsreader struggled to keep a straight face and, when they showed pictures of a quite glamorous middle-aged wife and her less-than-handsome husband (I'm being generous), I found it difficult not to laugh as well.
