Posted on October 2, 2007


Iris, kissing Iris. One time he’d taken her out in a punt. Pure Oxford tourist nonsense. But she’d looked so beautiful sitting there, while he powered the boat, by dipping the long pole into the water.

She’d said it had turned her on. Seeing him do that. Something about the pole. They’d found a place to moor the boat and just lain together kissing for hours. He missed kissing for hours. Kissing Iris for hours.

Oxford. Vix. He’d have to see her. He could sense her right now. Out there in the city. He’d been able to sense her since they got off the train at Oxford station.

He moved his palm against his cock a couple more times then forced himself to break off and take it a little slower. Iris. The punt. Pushing her T shirt up to her neck and biting her nipples. He ran his palm over his own hard chest once or twice. His hips thrust up into empty air and then the tease was almost too much. Fuck. Fuck! The wolf always did this too him.

Pinning Iris down in the bottom of the boat. Some water had splashed in from somewhere and they were both getting wet. He’d touched her through her jeans, made her buck just from that. They were so young then. Early twenties. Not a care.

He’d gone to fuck her and she’d said, ‘No. I want to see it. On me, not in me.’ And she’d touched herself while he did the same, coming over her little tits and making her moan – a little of it splattering over the side of the punt into the Thames.