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She did, he didn't.
(I got quite good at that. The bed was really springy.) However, once I got a certain speed up the bed went berserk. All the springs would seem to scream at the same time. The first time I heard it I was so startled that I'd slipped and found myself splatted against the carpet, scared that I'd broken my bed.
Subsequent to that I'd enjoy the bouncing and squeaking until my mother walked past and heard the racket. She given me a real mouthful and that was the end of my trampolining on the bed.
Now I got the problem. A young couple, happily screwing, just getting a nice rhythm going and then the bed starts wailing. Coitus interruptus time.
"Let me guess," I said dryly. "The bed protest during certain activities. You promptly stop those activities and feel frustrated. Why not just ignore the noise. It would probably be over in a few moments."
Maureen was blushing harder than ever.
"We can't continue with that noise going on," she muttered. "Everyone would know what we were doing."
I blinked, running my eyes over her figure. Damn right they'd know what she and her husband were doing at night.
"So what? Everyone knows what you're doing anyway. I assure you, one look at you and I knew straight away the sort of things your husband would be doing with you."
"Well, there's a difference between people guessing that we have sex at night and people listening to us do it. There's no way we can carry on. Can't you do something about the bed?
"Bit awkward to swap it around," I pointed out. "That would just make it someone else's problem. I'll tell my mother about it and she'll probably replace the bed, but that won't help you right now."
I glanced around the room. There was a nice sturdy dressing table there, complete with a very large mirror. There was also a very nice rug on the floor, with a very thick, soft, pile. The weather was currently quite warm. Maureen's scanty shorts and top attested to that.
"Maureen, you see that dressing table?"
She nodded, looking puzzled.
"Grab it with both hands and try to shake it."
No way known she would be able to budge it. The thing was heavy.
Looking rather bemused Maureen did as I suggested. She tried to shake it, even bending down a bit to put some muscle into it. The dressing table ignored her. I stepped up behind her.
"If you were to present yourself to your husband like this," I said, giving her bottom a friendly pat, "he could have your panties down and you getting some serious affection with no noise."
She squeaked and jumped erect, her hands on her bottom where I'd patted her.
"Mickey would never do that," she gasped. "He's a very straight laced sort of guy. He wouldn't dream of, well, what you said."
"What, he wouldn't pull down your panties and push you over the nearest solid object? What's his second name, Mouse?"
"It's just that he has standards," she snapped. "That's all."
He might have but she didn't. Her nipples were tight and all I'd done was pat her on the bottom. (And discussed her sex life, in a round-about manner.)
"Geez, a moron" I muttered, making sure it was just loud enough for her to hear but be able to ignore, although her flush did deepen a trifle.
"Well, might I point out that there is a very nice shag pile rug next to the bed? Why can't he just lie you down on that? It's soft and roomy and I'm sure you know what shag is a synonym for."
"What, on the floor? We couldn't. And the rug isn't long enough anyway."
"Why couldn't you? People have been doing it on the floor for thousands of years. And what do you mean it's not long enough? Just get on your hands and knees and let him rip."
"I told you. Mickey has standards. He wouldn't be that crude."
I rolled my eyes. Crude? She had to be kidding.
"Maureen, what could be cruder than a man taking out his dick and sticking it in a woman? It's the ultimate crudeness.