So, I'm guessing that most marriages and bedrooms on Sunday mornings are similar to the lazy Sundays in our household.

Before we have even got out of our bed, we have a contract of understanding, if you like, a simple acknowledgement of that weekly arrangement that we are so fond of, and who will instigate it first.

Either it's me, turning around and away from him before edging back and closer to him, backing up to firmly squish myself against him, my spine arched just enough to snuggle my ass against his warmth, his stiffness, and if I’m lucky, maybe I visited him in his dreams, and his morning wood is now throbbing. A move that is deliberate and perfect at relaying the message that sometimes men are in need of a little invitation and subtle persuasion.

His own signature move, a strong arm rising up and reaching over me, running over my side and getting closer and closer to my chest until he senses I'm ready or he has mustered the confidence to cup me, his grip getting firmer before remembering he has a thumb that when brushed over my hardening nipple that feels simply wonderful; the hand wanders until its either up under my top or slid down below my waist.

Now, although I really love our typical Sunday mornings, I’m not going to lie, and I'm not going to tell you any fibs that I cum every time we have our Sunday fling; that in no way is a complaint or any type of disrespect to my man, just the opposite. In fact, if I suggested it or told him what I wanted to make that happen, then he would oblige by insisting he sees me to satisfaction. But nope, sometimes just a simple fuck is AMAZING by itself.

Now you're probably wondering why I'm boring you, but bear with me.

So I'm not sure who instigated what, but I can tell you I was very happy with our under-the-duvet activities. Even if I had not experienced climax, I was invigorated and more than pleased to put a smile on his smug little face. The usual danger after he shoots his payload is that he wants another hour in bed and nothing ever gets done before the morning is gone, but almost right on the button, virtually right after he had slid from inside me, our doorbell chimed.

After a few fumbled seconds of getting ready, apparently, it's me who has to answer the door until he finds clothes. With a robe tight around my waist and a nightie hidden beneath, my slipper-covered feet hurried down the stairs as I felt his seed deep inside me, only to find his parents had surprised us with a visit as they just happened to be passing by.

Even though I really needed a freshening up, inside and out, I invited them in and sat them down on the sofa before sticking the kettle on. Standing at the kettle waiting for it to boil, I was hyper aware of the size of the load he had deposited in me moments ago.

With coffees, teas, and a plate of Tunnock's teacakes and caramel wafers (my favourites… well, some of them) in hand, I returned to my in-laws with the refreshments in hand. I'm not sure if anyone has had a happy ending inside them, but it can make you paranoid you're showing; you don’t ever want the guests to be aware you just did the deed and that you’re holding onto seed for dear life.

I sat and made small talk, the whole time questioning if they had any idea how close they had come to interrupting us. Now that might excite some people, but not me. I was positively embarrassed and probably yittering like a fool the whole time as my mind raced with worry and unease.

Eventually, the bold one appears, after what seems like ages; he has found old grey joggers and a white t-shirt. The t-shirt is tight and looks pretty good on him, but I was still a bit angry that he had taken so long to appear.

Now I'm the only one in the living room not fully dressed, and I feel it – so out of place as we all chat.

Having never been one to escape the real and harsh judgment from the mother-in-law, her darling boy's wife, but that goofy smile on his face is because of me and not her appearance at our home, and that made me internally smile: that kind of smile that radiates, I guess.

The discussion wore on, and we were now somewhere between hearing about a routine doctor's appointment and the daughter of someone that she works with's holiday when my eye caught it. I think I might have gasped and bit my bottom lip at the sight of it, but that's probably a dramatic retelling of it.

All I know is what I saw was, well, seepage, leaking of fluid through the grey material of his joggers, HARD evidence of our Sunday morning routine.

It was subtle yet so obvious; no matter the discussion or topics, my eyes kept looking over and lingering. Occasionally, he shifted, and not only was there a damp spot, but also a bulge. The defined shape of his cock (my cock), almost promoting and boasting about its earlier efforts –just to be one hundred percent clear, it had done a very good job earlier in its efforts.

He was oblivious; they all seemed completely oblivious, but it's one of the most intensely turned-on moments I have memories of. I just could not keep my eyes from darting back and forth, while still feeling his deposit pooled inside me.

As I sat there, all I could think about was that silly mark; the previous sex I had been happy with was no longer enough. Eventually I had little other option than to excuse myself, calling myself a slob – the perfect excuse for having to get out of my nightwear – but even before I closed the bedroom door, before I had even got to the stairs, before I had left the room or even before I had daintily got off the sofa, I knew that I was going for my bedside drawer and what I was going to spend the next rushed moments doing.

I felt flushed and giddy as I lay on the bed while reaching over and opening the bedside drawer. My hands slid in and took hold of my little toy. Before I lay back on the bed, with my robe splayed open and sprawled across the bed, my toy was on and humming as it pressed between my legs, and I let my head lie heavy on my pillow as I put my immediate attentions into the task at hand.

Getting myself off, all thanks to the sight of that tiny, silly stain.