“11am,” mumbled Harry.
“11am?” she blew out her cheeks and looked at her phone once more. “So, only about nine and half hours until people start arriving. You’ll be fine. It’s a nice night!”
She clicked the case shut and walked off the field, ignoring their desperate shouts.
Hotel
Matt was smiling. Olivia, who was driving, was smiling too. They turned left, then right and then took the third exit on a roundabout, before zooming down a slip road towards the motorway. Matt held up an open hand. Olivia, without even looking, high-fived him and then turned the volume up on the car stereo. Together they sang along, loudly and out of tune, to Pulp’s 1995 hit, Disco 2000.
A casual observer might have wondered if they had just won the lottery. Or perhaps one of them had just received a promotion. Or maybe they had just closed a fantastic property deal. But none of those things had happened. No, what had just happened was that Olivia and Matt had just dropped their three kids off at Olivia’s Mum’s place.
They were free.
Free, for a whole weekend.
Free.
They were off to Brighton to stay in a hotel. The plan was as follows: eat, drink, make love. Not necessarily in that order. And if they had time they might go to the beach. But only if they had time. They had been planning this for a long time and nothing less than a Sexual Olympics was going to satisfy them. A ‘Sexlympics’, they had called it, when whispering to each other at about 9pm, both of them too tired to do anything except fall asleep. Yes, a Sexlympics. A weekend of rampant sexual catch-up after weeks, even months, of not having the time or the energy to make love.
“It’s what they’ve all been waiting for!” shouted Matt above the music.
“The biggest event of the year!” she yelled.
“THE SEXLYMPIIIIIIICS!” they cried in unison. She put her foot down on the accelerator and moved into the fast lane. It was only midday. They wouldn’t be tired for ages yet. Perhaps there would be time for a quickie at the hotel, then lunch, then an afternoon nap before more sexual fireworks in the evening. She pushed their speed another five miles per hour faster.
Matt and Olivia had met in the mid-90s. In fact, they had met at a Pulp gig, which was why Olivia had chosen Pulp’s Different Class album as their soundtrack for their race to the coast. They hit it off straight away, got married after five years, had a blissful period in a comfortable home just the two of them and then, after much unsubtle prodding and prompting from friends and family, decided to have a baby. They tried casually at first, but when nothing happened for a few months they took it a bit more seriously. Out came the modern gadgets that help to pinpoint the specific second where conception is most likely.
Almost immediately, she fell pregnant.
Nora was a good baby. She didn’t cry too much and she slept through the night from an early age. It was a big transition for them as it is for all parents, but Nora was so calm, so happy, that it had been almost easy. Their friends with louder, less sleepy babies were all a little envious.
Their lives continued along this idyllic route for three more years. Soon, Nora would occasionally ask when she was going to get a baby brother or sister. Matt and Olivia had discussed it, of course. Both of them were not entirely sold on having just the one kid, but at the same time the equilibrium seemed just right. Another child would mean having to move, if not straight away, then certainly within a few years. Financially, that was not going to be easy, even with both their incomes. Clothes, food, an increased mortgage, childcare costs. It would be tough.
Still, both of them wanted a boy, too – one of each, as everyone always says.
Eventually, they stopped using contraception and, even before they had truly decided to try properly for a second child, Olivia fell pregnant again. They took a deep breath. It would be a stretch, but after reviewing everything, they thought they could manage.
And so, they rejoiced. Their parents were delighted. Nora was delighted. A baby brother or sister at last.
It was twins – one of each, as everyone always says.
“I haven’t got any twins in my family!” cried Nora when the doctor told them after a scan. “Are you sure?”
“Definitely.”
“How can that be? We’ve never had twins in our family. Never. None of my sisters, none of my cousins. And we’re a big family. We don’t produce litters! We do it one by one! Like normal people... Matt?” Matt had gone quiet. He was screwing his mouth to one side. “Matt? What?”
“I’ve got twin cousins. On both sides. Back in Trini,” he said, carefully.
“Matt, you never mentioned that before.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t see them very often, do I? And they’re not identical twins. They don’t even look much alike these days. They were at the wedding. I… I thought you knew.”
“No, Matt. There were about a million people at the wedding, and my first question when I meet members of my new family is not ‘Hi, how are you? Do you have a twin?’”
This may all sound a little harsh, but this was how they talked to each other, and it was always done with a lot of humour. The doctor grinned at their little routine. “So, twins, then. Great!” she said, as brightly as she could.
“We’ll work it out, babe.”
“Yeah, it’ll be fine.”
Of course it was fine. It was more than fine. It was brilliant. Exhausting, terrifying, impossible, but brilliant. Nora, Eddie and Tara took up pretty much every second of their lives when they weren’t at work. When the twins were babies they hoped things might get easier when they got older, but they soon realised things were even tougher once they started walking. Keeping an eye on the pair of them toddling around aimlessly and apparently without fear while still gibing Nora the attention she needed was a difficult task in itself. But they managed.
Two years flew past and gradually they realised that time spent alone, talking about normal things, or lying together in front of the TV, or making love, had all but vanished. They hadn’t even had time to notice it, but their relationship had been boiled down to parenting and little else.
Fortunately, they were a strong couple and when Olivia pointed it out one day when they took the kids to the park, Matt immediately suggested a weekend break. The kids were old enough to leave with the grandparents for a couple of nights, after all. They deserved a bit of time off.
That was four months earlier. It took a lot of planning and a bit of saving and, to be honest, a kind offer from Matt’s parents to foot the hotel bill (a joint birthday and Christmas present, they said, which made Matt and Olivia feel like they were nine years old again), but finally they were on their way. A weekend of peaceful, sexy bliss.
“Woohoo! Sexlympics!” yelled Olivia again. And then, much quieter, “So, what are the Sexlympics, exactly?”
“Um. I’m not sure. Did we ever actually discuss details?”
“You mean discus details? Get it?”
“Er, yeah.”
“Because the discus is in the Olympics, and we’re talking about the Sexlympics and… oh forget it. Anyway, you started it. You said we should have the Sexlympics. I assumed you knew what was involved. I was just going with the flow. Woohoo! Sexlympics!” she howled.
“I thought you talked about it first? You said you really fancied Tom Daley, even though he’s probably young enough to be your son, and then you said something about us entering the Sexlympics.”
“Did I?”
“I think so.”
“Maybe that was your other wife.”
“Could have been. I get you two mixed up all the time.”
“Well, look, it doesn’t matter who said it. The point is, we’ll be there in about 45 minutes and as I’m not going to jerk you off while I’m driving we have plenty of time to decide what the Sexlympics is going to be.”
“You’re right. We’re creative people. We can think up some events. You start.”
“No, you start.”
“
Okay. Umm. All right… how about…”
“Got one! Trampolining!”
“Trampolining?”
“Trampolining! So, we start making sweet, sweet lurve, then we stand up on the bed, you inside me, and we jump together and see how many times we can trampoline-fuck without either a. Falling over; b. Dying; or c. Snapping your penis in half.”
“Excellent. If a little unsafe. What about Event Two, then… Well, I guess the obvious one is the marathon.”
“You want us to run for 26 miles while your thingy is inside my thingy?”
“Umm, no. I was thinking endurance. Once we’re shagging, see how long we can last without either of us coming.”
“Well I’m going to win that, easily.”
“It’s not a race… what do you mean anyway? That you’ll win by coming first or by lasting longer?”
“I think you know, Matty.”
“Right. Anyway, it’s a joint endurance test. We have to last at least 26 minutes.”
“Excellent. What else? We need at least seven events to make it like a heptathlon or something,” she said.
“I think we can rule throwing events out.”
“Yeah, apart from me lying with my legs open and you trying to lob a dildo into my pussy, I can’t see where we’d go with that.”
“Painful.”
“Quite. Ooh! What about show-jumping?”
“Umm…?”
“Yeah! Well, not with horses, but we could set up an obstacle course in the bedroom! Make little jumps with the pillows, um… a sort of scramble net using the duvet… er…”
“Yeah, like that game I used to play when I was a kid and you had to get round the whole room without touching the floor.”
“Brilliant. Love that. How does it end?”
“We could make this one a race? Time each other?” he suggested.
“Okay, but it’s not very sexual at the moment, is it?”
“We could do it naked?”
“Well, that goes without saying.”
“Right. Got it. The other person has to be totally honest and do their best for it to work, though.”
“Go on.”
“Right, so we do the course individually, right? Scramble under the duvet, jump over the pillows, then climb round the rest of the room without touching the floor. Then, back on the bed, the athlete gets oral sex from the spectator. When they orgasm, that’s the end of the round. We time it, and whoever finishes the round, including reaching orgasm, in the quickest time, wins. But we both have to be honest and do our best when doing the licking and sucking, or it’s not fair.”
“Awesome! Sexlympics! Woohoo!” cheered Olivia.
“Sexlympics Rules!” They high-fived again.
“What else?”
“Naked wrestling.”
“Brilliant. Like the old Roman times. We can have rules relating to getting points for forcing sex acts on each other. Love it… Oh, what about handball?”
“How’s that going to work?”
“Well, it’d be a bit different to the actual game, but… Right, bear with me. We’re naked in the room, right?”
“Right.”
“And we start at opposite ends. We make a little goal each and we’ll buy a little rubber ball or something.”
“Oh, thank God for that. I thought this was going to be a game involving you grabbing at my testicles. I mean, fine in theory, but that could get dangerous and/or painful is all I’m saying.”
“I never thought of that. Keep it on the back burner. No, we get a ball, right, and the object is that you get, say, three steps and one throw to try and score. If you miss, it’s the other person’s turn. If you score, you are allowed to demand any – and I mean any – sexual favour from the other person. Game ends when someone climaxes.”
“That is ace. Did you really just think of that right now, off the top of your head?”
“I did,” she said proudly.
“Dirty bitch.”
“And proud of it. Okay, we’ve got: Trampolining, naked wrestling, handball…”
“Marathon and… show-jumping.”
“Good, how many’s that?”
“Er, five.”
“Two more then.”
“I’ve got a brilliant one,” he said, a grin on his face. “It’ll take a bit of planning, mind.”
“Oh no! We’ll never have time, what with the kids and everything… but wait! THE KIDS AREN’T HERE! Sexlympics! Woohoo!”
“Sexlympics! Woooooo! Okay. This is Brighton, right, so we should easily be able to find a little cheap plastic bow and arrow, you know, the ones with the rubber sticky bits on the end, not actual arrows. That would be mental.”
“Yeah, we’re not mentalists.”
“Exactly. So, we get the target, and for each colour on the target we allocate a sex… thing.”
“A sex thing?” she asked.
“Yeah, a sex thing. You know. Oral sex, or masturbation or a passionate kiss or whatever. And bullseye could be rampant, hardcore doggy-style. And then we take turns shooting at it and doing what the target tells us to do.”
“Sex things, I got it. Great. Love it. That’s six. We need one more… Wait! Got it! Oh, why didn’t I think of this before? Gymnastics! Freestyle! I was a great gymnast at school. I bet I can still do the splits.”
“I haven’t seen you do the splits in years.”
“Bet I can still do it. Close enough, anyway.”
“That could be amazing actually. You are pretty bendy, as it goes. I didn’t know you were a bit of a Beth Tweddle in your youth.”
“Yeah, I was. Got my BAGA 2 badge and everything. Good old Beth Tweddle: Olympic medallist and elastic sex machine. It’s not like we’re not all thinking it.”
“But what are the rules of the gym…sextics. Yeah, the gymsextics?”
“Easy. We just have to do as many ludicrous, bendy, fantabulous positions as we can in, like, ten minutes.”
“Deal. This is going to be awesome. The Sexlympics. We need to make this regular, like the real Olympics.”
“What, sex every four years?”
“Well, I was thinking once a year at least. Plus tune-up events and all that.”
After an increasingly frustrating attempt to actually find the hotel (they drove along the sea front three times) and then a really annoying ten-minute search for a parking space, they finally strolled excitedly into the cavernous reception area. Then Matt realised he’d left their bags in the car, so while Olivia checked in, he raced outside to grab them. You see, they weren’t used to this kind of thing. It should have been easier without three kids, but somehow their giddy exhilaration at their freedom and their outright eagerness to begin The Sexlympics was not doing them any favours.
There was no sea view in the room, as that cost about double, but they could at least see a garden from their window, even if it was raining, and few places look bleaker than the seaside when it’s raining. Still, they hadn’t got much intention to leave the hotel. If the food was good, they might not even put their shoes on for 48 hours.
Overall, it was comfortable. Nothing incredible, but clean, tasteful and there were no suspicious stains on the carpets. They sat down on the end of the bed together. Olivia put her head on Matt’s shoulder and he put his arm around her.
Silence. Almost total silence. There was the occasional shriek of a seagull, the dull hum of some sort of air conditioning and the distant muffled sound of a TV in a nearby room (they were probably watching Quincy or 60 Minute Makeover). But, mainly, it was silent. Something they had rarely heard in the last few years – not during the day, anyway. For five minutes, they simply enjoyed being together and listening to nothing. Then Olivia lifted her head. “Right, that’s enough cuddling. What shall we do first?”
“What do you fancy?”
She got up and strolled into the bathroom, which was actually quite a nice size, with a surprisingly large, wide bath. “Tell you what, before we go crazy, how about we start slowly. Op
en one of our bottles of wine. Or the champagne! What about the champagne? And take a nice, hot bath and decide which event to start with.”
“Deal. How about you start running the bath, I’ll get the champagne, and I’ll also get all the events down on the laptop so we can keep our results for next time.”
“Okay. Bit nerdy, but fine.”
Olivia disappeared into the bathroom and turned on the tap. The water didn’t run very fast, but that was okay. They weren’t in a rush. In the meantime, Matt nipped downstairs to see if the bar would lend him a couple of champagne flutes, which they kindly did. They were annoyingly reluctant at first, but then he lied and said they were on their honeymoon, and they relented.
Back in the room, he whipped out his laptop and wrote down the seven events, complete with rules and a totally arbitrary points system for each sport. Olivia undressed and slipped into the hot water. She had to call him three times before he finally entered the bathroom, laptop balanced precariously in one hand, champagne bottle tucked dangerously under an arm and holding the two glasses in his free hand. He wore nothing.
“For God’s sake, don’t drop anything,” was Olivia’s first reaction. But then, as he turned to place the laptop next to the sink, she grinned as she checked out his firm, brown buttocks. “Now that is what I’m talking about,” she laughed.
He turned around. “Were you checking out my butt?”
“Indeed I was. Can’t wait to dig my nails into that flesh,” she said.
“You just keep your eyes to yourself. I’m not a sex object,” he said primly. She gave him a look. “All right, I am a sex object, fine.” He placed the glasses next to the laptop and unwrapped the foil from the top of the champagne bottle. He twisted the wire top and Olivia flinched, as she always did, in case the cork flew off and struck her in the eye or something. She had once read that more than one in ten people had suffered injuries from dive-bombing corks.
“Be careful where you’re pointing that thing,” she giggled.
“Have you ever watched a champagne bottle being opened without making some kind of crude double-entendre?” he asked, feigning seriousness.
Sex with a Sting: Six Erotic Fantasies with a Kink in the Tail Page 6