Claire

My husband is a runner. Every morning he runs to the train station, four miles there and four miles back in the evening. He keeps several suits and shiny shoes at work and you can see him at half past seven in his Lycra. Today he wasn’t going to run home. I parked my car near to the station; you get two hours free in Aldi, although I wasn’t buying anything today. I kicked off my shoes, locked them in the boot and set off home, barefoot. 5pm and traffic was building up. I set a reasonable pace as I wanted to get home in an hour, although I was slowed a little by a few stretches where the Tarmac was rough. The last mile was through the park and I could have walked on the grass, but I didn’t. That would be defeating the object. ...

The metal pony is one of my favourite tortures (see Riding the Metal Pony), balancing on tip toes until my leg muscles tire and I’m lowered onto the metal chain passing between the lips of my sex. A choice between the pain in my calf and the pain deep within me. Never one to rest on my laurels, I had to look for the next challenge; the metal horse. We keep all sorts of rubbish in the garage. Two things had caught my eye. One was a plank, about four feet long, six inches wide and an inch thick. The other was a wooden pole, two inches in diameter and three feet long. I hadn’t realised it was raining until I went outside to get them. The water pooling on the flagstones of the patio was pleasantly cool under my bare feet, the tarmac of the driveway still held the warmth from the previous sunshine. ...