They lay down naked
in the middle of the kitchen floor
deciding to adopt the face-to-crotch position
they had heard so much about.

They enjoyed it thoroughly
soon becoming locked in a slippery
hot motion of tongues, taut thighs
and fecund juices, their parts swollen
in obscene dark reds and purples
the  wet hairs of their pubic pamperings
stuck between teeth and tasty parted lips
their burrowing nostrils
sniffing the heady inner scents of
their most personal private places.

Blue steam rose from the tiles.
The wall clock and the timer on the cooker
turned away their blushing faces.

69 was proving to be gratifying
in its provision of additional accessibility
and did have very real oral advantages.
They were able to indulge both lovers’ arses
and all seventeen of the lover’s arsenal of senses.
However, there was one notable exception.
With two pairs of ears clamped by immensely soft thighs
they couldn’t hear anything.
This aural disadvantage had been deafeningly absent
from their well-thumbed
Kama Sutra for Dykes.

When mum arrived home with Aunt Elsie in tow,
and her string of young tearaways
the lovers didn’t notice the sound of the car engine
nor the slamming of the front porch door.
Scuttling farcically into a bathroom
or a  wardrobe with a clutched towel or sheet
was not an option due entirely
to blissful unawareness,
and it was bliss
for they were at their perfect peak.

It was perhaps a good thing
that such purity of enjoyment could continue
unsullied by ugly awareness of others,
false modesty, feigned shyness
or the much misinterpreted
Pleasure Privacy Principle

When Mum dropped the shopping on the floor
behind them in shock,
they responded only by moaning
an eerie duet into each other.
She and Aunt Elsie stared
at the pulsing white tangle on the floor,
unusually lost for words.
The tearaways burst through to the kitchen
screaming, then skidded to a permanent halt
just beside the lovers,
not at all sure what they were looking at.

Mum made to touch a body,
by way of saying “Hi folks I’m home”
but where to do the touching?
The feet, she thought, briefly,
might be the least indelicate prospect
but she noticed even they had salacious
little licks of saliva over the toes.
She leaned forward and picked up the shopping.
She had lost her bottle and her groceries
and there were hungry kids to feed.

She put the potatoes on.

During lunch there were several
muffled climaxes from the floor,
and at one point a slightly noisy
interruption by a flurry of playfully
slapping hands on buttocks
accompanied by a curious throat-based sound
that could almost have been a smothered giggle of delight.
On the whole, though,
despite being temporarily gobsmacked
the lunchtime conversation resumed
the kind of facile emptiness
that lunchtime conversation should have.
The kids had a fight over who should sit nearest the sweating mass,
then pausing for a flushed breather
asked Mum what was going on.

“69” said Mum grimly.
This seemed to satisfy the children,
for they knew then that she was less confused than they were.
They started a jumping competition over the couple.

Aunt Elsie,
who had been uncharacteristically quiet
over her Summer Pudding
finally stood up
and with a mix of purpose and studied care
circumnavigated the couple
and made for the telephone.

She dialled 969
the little known number of the Fire Brigade’s
Specialist Crack Response Unit.

Aunt Elsie had been there before.





















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