In a house full of teenagers, being interrupted in full flow is as common as having to change our plans last minute and having to put off what we want in order to prioritise others. It happens frequently and these days we are resigned to having to work around it. Not only are we masters at the art of the silent orgasm, we are also creators of opportunities where there seem to be none, experts in time maximisation of time and lords of changing plans last minute.
Being interrupted is never a good thing and when you half anticipate that it will happen, you sort of always have one eye and ear on the door. I have to hand it to HisLordship, he is excellent at dealing with these incidents and interruptions when they do occur and he will try to shelter me from the fallout if that is at all possible. His work in emergency response and crisis management has definitely come in handy over the years and whether it is managing a bomb threat, the fallout from an explosion, or an interrupted scene, he remains calm and thinks logically.
During the first four hotel nights we managed to sneak together, we were interrupted each time by fire alarm and the following evacuation: over the years this has continued and evolved to include interruptions by parents, ex partners, work and children. One of the most recent, and the worst in my mind, was an interruption at about 11.30 one evening, by our teenage daughter. This will happen from time to time as they knock to let us know they are home, or have brought a friend back to stay, or have been passed over by the latest romantic interest.
Because we are used to such things, we will prepare accordingly and conceal ourselves, as far as possible, behind a locked bedroom door. One of the first things HL did was to add a hidden dead lock and this is something that we engage during our more intimate moments. Now the walls are pretty thin and I am sure they have heard the odd thing over the years but in my mind, seeing your parents in full swing as it were, is taking it to a different level. So they knock, we scamper around, and then withe a bit of fumbling and twisting, the door is opened.
So there we are. We are naked on the bed with my freshly caned arse perched over his knee. He has spread my legs as wide as he can in that position and is using the wand on my clit as he screws a glass dildo into my bum. Cue a knock at the door. We both freeze for a second and he switches off the wand. There is a second knock to the door and I recognise who is there at the “Mum?” which follows. I answer, “Yes?” which transpires to be a mistake. My thinking is that she will then tell me what it is she needs help with.
Wrong. The door, seemingly unlocked, then opens and she proceeds to tell us that there is water pouring through the ceiling. She is in the room and we make eye contact as I utter my surprise that such a thing should be happening. Without thinking I adopt that habit when in shock of repeating the statement as a question. “There is water pouring from the ceiling?” I say. It feels like it takes an eternity, as I lay there naked, bum in the air, with the glass protruding from me and the wand sitting waiting as if some giant karaoke competition is about to kick off. I hope that by making eye contact she has not noticed what is in her periphery but it seems unlikely.
HL tells her not to worry and that he will deal with it, and she leaves. My stomach is in knots as I have scarred my child for life and he tells me to attend to her while he attends to the ceiling. She has not exaggerated. Water is indeed pouring through the ceiling and I mean pouring. He climbs up into the loft, having pulled on some shorts, and discovers and issue with the water tank. I am less sympathetic about his ruined record collection than I should be as I make my way sheepishly into my daughter’s room to discuss the issue.
She tells me it is fine and laughs it off. She can see that I am mortified and I can only hope that she has seen less than I imagine. I take my feelings out on HL who has forgotten to lock the door. He makes time for me in between setting his albums out to dry in one of the bedrooms and we return to the scene of the crime. Alas on this occasion the moment is gone, and we are content just to curl up together in shame and hope that tomorrow brings new opportunities.
Posted in Submissive Journal.