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The Cone
It was Sunday. The package had arrived the day before and now the object sat on my desk beside a vase of lilies, lose change, Chinese worry balls, whose alternative possible purposes had been explored, and two canisters of lube (one excellent: ID Millennium; the other hilariously foul, stinging and smelling of old chewing gum: Durex Tingle). This, then, was the Cone.
I'd had a sit on it myself the night before, but - perhaps it was the lateness of the hour or my possession of a Y chromosome - it hadn't done much for me. Tempting as it had been to rouse a flatmate, this would not have gone down well and, in any case, the snores emanating onto the landing were not entirely their own.
The Archers omnibus was playing. There was a knock at my door.
Now, the general Sunday around-about-midday routine, with the girls, is to compare notes regarding the night before and assess each other's morning-after if it hasn't left yet. Fiona's expression, on creeping into the room, attested to the fact there were notes to exchange. I was expecting 'Oh my God' and got it. Then:
'Ooh.'
'You want to try it?'
'What is it?'
'The Cone.'
We worked it out first underwear on, then, coffee having been brewed and low-fat bacon grilled, the Cone was dispatched with Fiona to be reviewed - while watching Friends.
I waited. Fiona is generally reasonably quite when it comes to orgasm - actually quite interesting, given that Fiona is not generally reasonably quiet.
I waited some more. The Archers finished. I checked my mobile phone for new numbers. Desert Island Disks began. Then it finished.
At last, there was a very quiet knock at my door. It opened - very quietly.
The Cone was returned to me, washed and wrapped in a towel.
'How was it?' I asked.
Fiona smiled.
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