Skin against skin

# 2

Maybe the M6 wasn't the best idea, but according to the satnav, it is the shortest route to drive to Walsall. Windscreen wipers on long interval to salute away the occasional spurting roadwater. In the distance, there is a blue sky.

Carla has fallen asleep again. Makes driving even easier. Radio 2 plays Tom Petty. Nice. Free Falling.'I'm gonna free fall out into nothing, gonna leave this world for a while...'

Quite some traffic on the road. But at this hour it's more in the direction of Birmingham than the other side. Some gloating is very ok at this point.

"Right, tomorrow I'm working late." I'm used to giving my thoughts extra power by pronouncing them softly. At least, when I'm alone. Otherwise people think you're an idiot. In fact I mostly do it whenever I want to convince myself of something. This means that in fact I already know it will turn out wrong. Or whatever. Tomorrow late shift. With that trainee again no doubt. What was his name again? Dan? Don? No... Dana... right... isn't that a girl's name? Leftie parents maybe. 25 years ago this name would have meant a shower of nicknames and disdainful jokes. Nowadays, that doesn't work anymore in the police force.

My brain is an sm brain. It yearns for pain. Also a form of attention I guess. I notice that -like a fully filled bucket hoisted from a water well- it drags up the conversation from last friday. "What episode of your career left the biggest impression on you, Simon?" He didn't say it this fluently. He's got something with eyeblinking. Between every two words he blinks his eyes an undetermined number of times. He should do something about that. It's not because the colleagues are more tolerant that the population is so too. Especially not the rifraf.

Every police officer gets that question multiple times. A logical thing. The average police story is way more interesting that let's say the average bank clerk story. People want sensation. Police stories drown in sensation.

The question doesn't even have to completed. Already from the middle of the question all kinds of memories, feelings, images flash in front of you. The problem to that question is certainly not the amount of stories. The problem is to make a choice. Do you choose the crib death, where you had to keep the parents away from their baby, because some prosecutor ordered it that way because of 'possible contamination of the crime scene"?

Do you choose the intervention where some schmuck rigged his house by opening the gass supplies, so when someone from the police or fire department would ring the bell or use a walkie talkie the whole shebang would explode? You had gotten out of there alive and well, but realizing that you litterally had escaped death there.

Or maybe just as well you choose the cup final football match where the section (only 8 officers) was suddenly attacked by 500 raging football hooligans, completely out of nowhere. Not even time to put on our helmets, while being bombarded with bricks, stones, traffic signs to even little trees?

*

"Nearly there, baby?" Carla asks with an aslant head and half open eyes. Good, I think. Back to reality. "Nearly, sweety. Nearly. Happiness is close." It's our first time in Walsall. Last week I saw something on facebook about '25 happiness spots in the city of Walsall'. 25 places in the city that inhabitants and tourists pointed out as 'happy making'. So, what else would you do on a sunday...

We're being dragged into the city in a stream of cars on some impersonal motorway. First parking we encounter in the centre, Whittimere car park, still has a free spot for us. Small places as you see more and more. Let's just hope our neighbours are somewhat careful while dragging their bodies in or out their car.

A flight of concrete stairs leads us out, where Carla nearly stumbles on a beggar sitting down with a sign around his neck. 'Blind'. "He's talking about you I think", I joke, looking a bit nonchalant to the other side. She gives me a sharp look back. "Let's go", she says short. Filipina's are a bit weary of beggars.

"Lichfield street is where we need to be. At St. Matthew's hall. The guided walk starts at 2 PM."

"It's nearby, just the next street," she says. And she knows, because she's better in orienting than me. It's nice to be able to rely on someone for something like that. We walk on. I enjoy the sun on my face. I can't get enough of the sun. One of the reasons I am so crazy about Carla. There's a group of people a little further. 15 persons something. We join them, hoping we are in the right group.

5 minutes later a man comes wobbling in our direction. He calls himself 'the happiness coach'. Happiness apparently costs 50 pounds in Walsall. We pay with a radiating smile on our face. Morton, the man of happiness, waves a stick around and we follow.

Two hours later, we're at the end of the walk. Last stop is Butler's passage. Here Morton says goodbye and leaves the group to reflect on all that happiness. One after another the others leave. Carla and I are the last. Carla seems to be somewhere in Dreamville with her thoughts, staring at a window across the street. But suddenly I notice her hand moving in the direction of my private parts.

I know her ways all too well. She wakes Him up with some firm rubbing motions. And she doesn't stop before He is completely erect. Her breathing becomes faster while she's slowly opening the zipper. Her fingers slide in. In 1 forceful move she liberates Him from his incarcerated position. We both never wear undies when we go out. You never know what opportunity might arise. He soars through the Walsall city air, after which He's being held firmly in her forceful hand. A short determined look at me and then... like a soaring eagle plunging down on a defenceless bunny she attacks. She kneels down, her hot mouth swallows Him deep inside. She settles for no less than a deep throat. Until she gaggs. A short rest, capturing the scurrying saliva with her tongue, a hard suck on my throbbing cockshead and then down again. My hard dick in her amazing sucking mouth. The squishing sound echoes down the narrow street.

A little further is a small statue. I gather her hair into 1 hand and pull her head away from my cock. "Come with me", I whisper in her ear. I lead her to the back of the statue, where she places her hands against the bronze figure. She pulls her tight dress up and hisses to me with flaming eyes: "fuck the puss..." Before she can utter the last letters, He is already licking her dripping cunt. Her warm lips open up very willingly. She feels hot, sizzling. She shakes and moans and pulls me deeper into her. "Harder, give it to me."

I fuck her harder and harder. The rhythmic sound of my cock, balls and abdomen on her tight ass mixes with the Walsall air and fills up the narrow street. Not loudly, but audibly. Suddenly we hear another rhythmic sound: approaching footsteps! For a moment we pause. At least, I do. Carla hisses at me: "fuck me!" I push Him in, really deep. She reacts with an animal-like sound from her throat. We see a man coming our way. Is he looking at us? We're behind the statue, but still... "Fuck me, please". She's nearly begging now. Again I push Him deeper into her, with my right hand now covering her mouth. Her breath escapes between my fingers. The man is now only about 5 meters from us. And suddenly he turns into a narrow lane to the left...

I grab her hair and hold the pony tail in one hand. The other is on her bouncing D-cup. Thrusting strong and hard into her now, she squirts several times. Her juice is dripping on the pavement. I feel my cum telling me it's getting time. Inevitable. From all the way deep inside it comes, that tsunami that's every man's addiction. Just before I burst I lead her down. Instinctively she already opens her mouth and a second later I'm filling her wanting mouth with wisps of hot cum. She lets it slide partly out of her mouth. She knows I love that, and so does she. Her eyes are wild. My woman... truely.

Happiness clearly also lies in hard, spontaneous sex.