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'What happens then, Demi?' he prompted lightly, holding her with his stare.'They get... They get fucked.' It was the mournful tone of a girl submitting, however bewildered, to her sexual fate.'Oh yes they do.' Paul stroked his hand gently over her neatly curved body, shown off as it was in triplicate by broad mirrors. Standing there he felt undiluted in his erotic instinct. He wasn't a harassed dad or a struggling businessman any more, just a sexual animal, primed to bury his seed inside his chosen female, in an act of pure gratification. Maybe he could have got to such a point again by making more effort with his wife, trying harder to communicate with her again. He could have talked her into accompanying him to marriage guidance sessions, shovelled his way alongside her through the accumulated crap of a stale marriage. Found a way back to where they could relax with each other and relearn the unrestrained joys of their physical union. But it was turning out much easier just to. ”“Okay,” I replied, “I’m good with that.”We chatted while they drank their coffee; Jen told me that Martin worked for the port of Calais which was only an hour’s train ride from where we live in Ashford, Kent. Via the channel tunnel rail link which basically joins England to Europe. She told me that Martin works from Monday through Friday and he finishes work at noon on Friday’s.“I can catch the Eurostar train on a Friday morning and be in Calais within two hours,” Jen smiled.I looked confused.“Then return on Monday!” Jen finished.“You are going to go to France at the weekend?” I asked.“Yes to be with my lover, my husband, I’ll come home on Monday.” Jen smiled.“Every weekend?” I asked.“Yes, of course, every weekend; I’m going to need sex!”I looked shocked, “I can give you sex babe.”“Not with that tiny thing,” Jen smiled, “plus, I belong to Martin!”“So we won’t have sex when we get home?” I asked, strangely hoping that she would say no!“No we won’t, why would you think that we would?”.
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