Dumped, Actually(44)

My penis, so happy a few moments ago, is starting to get a little concerned about both the build-up of friction and how much he’s being squashed.

Vanity is having a whale of a time, though, so I grit my teeth and try to enjoy myself.

She continues to slide up and down for a while longer, before gasping and looking at me with the kind of raw, animalistic sexual aggression that I have only ever seen before in my dreams.

I wish she’d get back to stroking, actually. All this grinding is starting to give me chafed thighs.

‘Would you wear something else for me, Ollie?’ she asks, one hand snaking into areas that are guaranteed to get her a positive answer.

I nod dumbly, and watch as she leans over me towards the bedside cabinet again and pulls out a cardboard mask.

Right. This is starting to get downright peculiar.

The mask is one of those photographic jobs you can order online, of either celebrities or of people you know – if you have a photo of them good enough to use, that is.

The carefully cut-out face on the mask Vanity wants me to don is of an extremely attractive man, with very dark hair and the kind of designer stubble that must take ages to get just right. He’s a beautiful chap, of that there is no doubt. Kind of a Latin-looking Ryan Reynolds – if such a thing were possible. Deadpoolio.

‘Who is that?’ I ask Vanity, but she does not answer, and is already yanking the mask over my head.

I look out through tiny pinprick eyeholes as the tight elastic band constricts my ears and rubs against my hair. What on earth is going on here?

Never mind. Vanity is busying herself with my downstairs area again, so we’ll just go with it. If me wearing a cardboard mask of Ryan Reynolds’s European cousin is what floats her boat, then so be it.

Vanity pulls out little Oliver and starts to coax him back into full preparedness again. This works a treat, and in no time at all he’s accomplishing one of the very important tasks he was put on this earth to do – after the application of a condom, of course.

I’d like to see what Vanity is doing on top of me, but all I get are fleeting glances of various parts of her jiggling anatomy through the entirely inadequate eyeholes.

‘Would you do something else for me, Ollie?’ she asks in the middle of this.

Oh good grief. What else does she want me to wear? You’re supposed to get undressed for sex, not the other way around.

‘What do you want me to do?’ I respond in a muffled voice, hoping it doesn’t involve a hat, boots or a thick winter jacket.

‘Do you know any Italian?’

‘Italian?’

‘Yes! Do you know any Italian words or phrases?’

‘No, sorry.’

She looks vaguely disappointed at this news. ‘Can you speak in an Italian accent?’

‘An Italian accent?’

‘Yeah! Just start talking in an Italian accent for me.’ As she says this, Vanity squeezes her thighs, sending pulses of pleasure through my entire body.

‘O-kay. I guess I can do that.’

‘Great. That’s great, Ollie,’ Vanity says, increasing her pace on top of me a bit.

‘Er . . .’

Jesus. How do you speak in an Italian accent? I don’t know any Italians. My only regular interaction with anyone who could remotely be considered Italian is Super Mario – and he’s a horrific stereotype, created by Japanese people.

But he is my only real frame of reference, and Vanity wants me to speak like an Italian, so . . .

‘Hello! It’s a-me, Mario!’ I exclaim, in the single worst Italian accent ever attempted, from beneath the confines of the cardboard mask.

‘Oh yeah!’ Vanity moans.

Bizarrely, this appears to be working.

‘Er . . . how are-a you-a today-a?’ I venture.

‘Oh God, I’m sooooo good,’ Vanity tells me, closing her eyes tightly.

‘Um . . . would-a you like-a da pasta salad-a?’ I ask . . . for some bloody reason.

‘Mmmmmm,’ Vanity groans as she starts to increase her pace even more.

‘Ah . . . I must-a collect-a da golden coins-a, and-a save-a the Princess Peach-a.’

‘Uuuhhhhh.’

I’m not sure Vanity is really listening to me now, which is probably just as well. There’s nothing less sexy than a fat plumber with a thick moustache and a thing for jumping on tortoises.

‘Eh . . . I getta da Bowser, and I-a unlock-a da secret level-a with the warp-a whistle.’

‘Aaahhhh.’

‘Um . . . You like-a da hat I’m a wearing-a?’

‘Uuuhhhh.’

I figure I’d better try saying something a bit sexier at this point.

‘Ooh yes-a. That-a feels-a so good-a. Ride-a me hard-a. You have-a da lovely pussy-a.’

Oh, for God’s sake. That’s just creepy.

I can’t think of much else to say, now I’ve discovered how much Super Mario sounds like a sexual predator when you try to speak dirty as him, so in mild panic, I just start to do the Super Mario theme.

‘Da da da, da da da da, da da da da da da da, da da daaaa,’ I sort of sing, possibly completely out of tune. Fearing this may not be exciting enough for Vanity, I also throw in a loud and happy ‘Woo hoo!’, much like Mario does when he collects a particularly large stack of gold coins.