Harry closed his eyes and accepted that he now had no choice but to let himself go. The eruption from his balls was imminent. He always thought this moment was like the big duet between Florestan and Leonora in “Fidelio”, the two voices rising in rapture, up and up in an ecstatic crescendo. “O namenlose Freude” they sing, “O nameless joy.” And for Harry, the big O was precisely the nameless joy he was about to experience.
He had delayed it as long as he could, proudly conscious of the way he had learned to sustain the rigidity of his cock. Now the tingling sensation on the underside of his knob couldn’t be denied any longer. She’d been good, giving him anything he wanted, and he’d wanted a lot. But he was no longer in control. An unforeseen clap of thunder, the insistent ring of the phone, a wailing siren in the street outside, nothing could have interrupted the onrushing climax. Then it was there, the repeated pulse as the liquid surged from the depths of his loins to escape in spurt after spurt from the engorged tip. Nameless joy. The big O.
When the slow detumescence was complete and his breathing had almost returned to normal, he opened his eyes. He saw that his cum had left a trail across the picture of the woman who had been the subject of his fantasy, the photograph disfigured by the sticky mess. Discarding the magazine, he made his way to the bathroom for a shower.
Masturbation had become something of an art form for Harry. Although he hadn’t reached the age of thirty-one without a number of sexual encounters, some casual, some of longer duration, all had ended in one form of disappointment or another. Ideals formed in his mind and were pursued but he was never quite able to achieve them. He reached for the shampoo, rubbed it into his scalp and reflected on some of his failures. The litany was well-worn, frequently pondered over in moments of frustration and loneliness. He had no difficulty in calling them to mind.
There was the very first one, a girl with a reputation. Harry took her to the cinema, guided her into the back row, which she seemed to expect. She waited for the lights to dim before pulling him to her for a deep, tongue-searching kiss. When they broke apart she looked to see that there were few people around them and then calmly opened the buttons of her blouse. Harry hurriedly plunged his hand into the opening and cupped the breast nearer to him. The nipple was soon hard. The girl leaned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.
This first contact with a female bosom had the predictable effect on Harry, causing him to remove his hand in order to rearrange a cock that was straining against its confines. He would have liked to get it out but wasn’t sure if that would be premature. Rumour had it that his partner had done this dozens of times but Harry was a novice, didn’t know the protocol. He waited for her to take the initiative, which she she did by returning his hand to her breast. After a while, she moved it to the other side. Was this the thrill Harry was expecting? Up to a point it was, but there was only so much fondling he could do without wanting something more. He withdrew his hand and put it on her thigh.
Instantly, the girl opened her eyes, glared at Harry and removed his hand. Bewildered, he waited a few moments and then tried again. No go. Her knees were firmly clamped together. All Harry’s attempts to prise them even a small distance apart were fruitless. They watched the rest of the film in sulky silence, she offended because Harry wouldn’t play to her rules, Harry upset because he didn’t know there were rules. He saw her to the bus stop and they never spoke again.
The shower was running too hot. Harry turned the control down a notch, waited for the temperature to adjust while recalling another of his disappointments.
During the final year of his teens, bolder but little more experienced, Harry found that women wearing spectacles began to take a prominent place in his masturbatory fantasies. Inexplicable but there it was. Sooner or later it was sure to find a focus. Her name was Mandy. She was the sister of one of Harry’s team-mates at the rugby club. After games he developed a technique for casually insinuating himself into her group at the bar. It took a while, and it needed a degree of feigned insouciance in the face of suggestive comments from his friends, but Harry’s determined charm eventually beguiled Mandy.
Getting into her knickers required more patience. Certainly, Mandy was no prude, not averse to a fumble and a feel in the Rugby Club car park after dark. The savings he had splashed on an elderly saloon seemed amply justified. Mandy had no qualms about making her tits available, nor did her knees clenched shut when Harry explored under her skirt. The wetness he encountered at the top of her thighs emboldened him to open his zip and encourage reciprocation. This resulted in an unfortunately premature conclusion and a stain on Mandy’s skirt she had to conceal as best she could on her return home. Harry apologised, asked Mandy to take it as a compliment to her allure, and the embarrassment passed. But the experiment wasn’t repeated.
Several frustrated weeks passed before an opportunity presented itself: Harry’s parents went away for the week-end leaving him in charge of the house. He took Mandy to a disco where their dancing became increasingly intimate. Having ensured that she had enough but not too much to drink, he whispered the good news in her ear.
Mandy was slim, narrow-waisted with small breasts which had responded encouragingly to their car park stimulation. Her dark hair curled forward at the ends to frame an oval face with high cheekbones and a generous mouth. And there were the rimless spectacles. They might have seemed severe to many but they merely inflamed Harry’s long-nurtured passion. In his mind they would be perfectly complemented by silky black lingerie.
They returned to the house late enough to sneak in without disturbing the neighbours. No reason for Harry to feel guilty but he wouldn’t have wanted his parents to know. In the sitting room the curtains were already closed and two lamps provided subtle lighting. Harry had prepared the scene before going out, having reluctantly abandoned a plan to persuade Mandy up to his bedroom. In that he was probably wrong for she settled immediately on to the settee, put her feet up and let her skirt slide halfway up her thighs. Harry sat on the floor and began to stroke her calves.
That was as good as it got. Mandy shed her dress without fuss but her underwear was a let-down. Instead of the black knickers and suspender belt of Harry’s overheated imagination, she was wearing matching tan briefs and bra. Neat and not lacking in provocation, but a disappointment to Harry. The skin-tone stockings should have warned him what to expect. Worse still, they were hold-ups. No suspenders required.
In endeavouring to conceal his disappointment, Harry overlooked his pre-planned scenario. While Mandy was nearly naked and ready for action, she had to remind Harry that he was still fully clothed. He undressed In an awkward silence. Seeking to make amends, he knelt at Mandy’s side and embarked on a series of caresses which brought him to the centre of his ambitions. His fingers probed, discovered wet fabric. Mandy lifted her hips, slid the briefs down her legs, reached behind her and unclasped the bra. She was ready for him – but he wasn’t quite ready for her. Although he had remembered condoms, they were still in the pocket of the jacket he had dropped on to a chair on the other side of the room.
Opening the packet and extracting the rubber wasn’t the nonchalant exercise he wanted it to be. During the distraction, his erection subsided. It took some cautious massage from a pouting Mandy – who hadn’t forgotten the episode in the car park – to restore firmness and permit the application of the condom. That was when the next miscalculation revealed itself. The settee didn’t adapt easily to the sexual manoeuvrings of a six-feet-two rugby player. When he placed the soles of his feet against the arm and prodded between Mandy’s legs with his now rampant cock, his head rested uncomfortably against the arm at the other end. He tried dangling his feet over the arm rest only to find he couldn’t generate enough purchase to fuck with the drive he believed essential.
They moved to the floor where Mandy complained her back was reacting uncomfortably to the carpet. After another hiatus while Harry brought a blanket and spread it under her, he finally set about his business – but without repeating the foreplay that would have restored her full lubrication. When he entered her they were neither of them happy. The problem was, having waited so long in rising anticipation, Harry couldn’t bring himself to admit defeat and wait for more propitious circumstances. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t last long.
Looking back, he saw it was worse, far worse, than the fiasco with the girl in the cinema. He drove Mandy home in silence. At her door he apologised, she told him not to worry. But both knew the relationship was doomed and both were privately relieved when they drifted apart.
When Harry stepped out of the shower and began to dry himself it was as though he believed the rough towelling could rub away the depressing memories. But the sequence, once begun, rolled inexorably on.
In fairness, it had seemed for some while that Priscilla might live up to Harry’s febrile imaginings. He met her after he had moved to London. His first job, with an Insurance company, had shown him that an instinctive gift for figures was a valuable commodity in the marketplace. Accelerated promotion was offered but Harry turned it down in favour of an opportunity in the City. Quickly at ease among the big-numbers traders, that side of his life gave him the same kind of satisfaction he had enjoyed when bullocking his way past opponents on the rugby field. The money helped, too. The elderly saloon was replaced by a high-powered sports model.
A similar philosophy applied to Harry’s need for a partner. A series of experimental relationships following the Mandy fiasco had taught him that many women were impressed not only by the sexual stamina he was cultivating but more basically by the size of his cock. Although none had come close to matching his blueprint of the time – a long-lasting relationship with his current fantasy queen – they had given him a taste of the alternative: fucking for the sake of fucking. Which he was never one to turn down. Nevertheless, the search for the elusive ultimate she was never far from his thoughts. The girl-next-door, sister-of- a-friend type had lost her appeal; now Harry’s quest could only be satisfied by a more exotic creature.
Priscilla, who worked for a PR outfit in the City, frequented the same wine bars as the traders and brokers. Harry’s prototype dream girl had mutated from brunettes with glasses to blondes with long legs. Priscilla was blonde and wore skirts that proclaimed she wasn’t ashamed of her legs.
Their courtship was a somewhat staccato affair. Harry earned his ludicrous salary by working long hours. Priscilla’s role with her agency often took her away on projects for days, even weeks, at a time. The result was to make their opportunities to be together infrequent and irregular. When they did meet they seemed always to be making up for what they had missed, notably sex. Discovering Priscilla had reopened the doors to Harry’s private world. When the hair colouring and the legs were added to the balance sheet, Priscilla was an authentic asset. Every meeting, whether after a long or brief interval, was consummated with passionate and abandoned coupling.
Although the matter was never formally discussed, they eventually found themselves living together. Harry kept his apartment in the Barbican – it was an investment unlikely to depreciate in value – but spent most of his time at Priscilla’s place in Chelsea. It was convenient for good restaurants and afterwards it took only a few minutes to be back in bed priming his cock for action.
Probably it was their time apart, and the need that generated for physical release when they were together, that sustained the relationship for almost two years. Harry could have picked up other women but long hours at his computer screen in the office usually left him content to have a couple of quick drinks before crashing out until Priscilla returned. However, there came a time when Harry began to feel that sex with Priscilla had lost some of its appeal. She had always been a woman of limited imagination, for all her intrinsic lust. On her back, legs open wide, knees drawn up – it enabled her to experience deep penetration from the full length Harry could offer while providing enough friction for her clitoris to bring on an orgasm more or less whenever she wished. Harry, on the other hand, liked variety, Priscilla on top, on her knees, ankles on his shoulders and other, more athletic positions. As time passed, she became less and less willing to indulge his desire for sexual acrobatics. That she also insisted black lingerie wasn’t her style was another contribution to a creeping sense of disenchantment. When Harry put it to her that they might have a problem, Priscilla confessed that she had started an affair with a client whose account she was handling. And obviously not only his account, Harry retorted. On that note they agreed to part.
The face that looked back at Harry from the bathroom mirror as he brushed his hair was older and wiser but no nearer to turning his dream world into reality. He did acknowledge, with a rueful grin at his reflection, that Priscilla had unwittingly contributed to his disenchantment with their relationship for reasons unrelated to her penchant for the missionary position. It was Priscilla who had introduced him to the world of opera and ballet. It was Priscilla who had access through her clients to tickets for Covent Garden. That was how Harry came to know Beethoven’s “Fidelio” and the soaring denouement of “O namenlose Freude” which subsequently harmonised so well with a stiff cock and a rapid hand. But more significantly, it was exposure to classical ballet that sowed the seed of Harry’s next fixation.
Sitting in the darkened stalls, occasionally squeezing Priscilla’s hand as a token promise of what awaited her back in bed, Harry had quickly realised that ballet offered a great deal besides aesthetic pleasure: it was a voyeur’s paradise. Granted, there were no black stockings and suspenders on view in “Swan Lake” but he could relate easily enough to white knickers stretched provocatively across a dancer’s arse and crotch. Especially when their partners lifted them to afford a tantalising view of legs opened wide. These were gorgeous women whose ability to arrange their bodies with variety and agility was seemingly limitless. A new fantasy had begun to incubate: Harry had started to wonder what it would be like to fuck a ballerina.
Back in his bedroom, fresh from the shower, Harry picked up the discarded magazine and leafed through a few sticky pages before dropping it in the bin. He felt the twinge of guilt that usually followed masturbation, the sense that jacking off, however sensuously he did it, was second best, a reminder of failure. A vision of Marina came into his mind unbidden. Marina the ballerina.
She wasn’t a prima ballerina. In the theatre programme the hierarchy was clear. There were Principals, First Soloists, Soloists, First Artists and, finally, plain Artists. Harry took the pragmatic view that there would be too much competition for the favours of a Principal. He reasoned that even a humble Artist would bring to bed a suppleness most women could never aspire to. Access to an Artist wasn’t easy but Harry had a stroke of luck. Marina was an Artist. She was twenty-three and she came from Belorussia.
At random he chose her name from the programme and began sending flowers. After a while, he enclosed his business card and, to his surprise, it worked. One Sunday morning while he was considering whether to seek inspiration from his store of magazines, his phone rang. The voice was quiet, hesitant but with an attractive foreign lilt. Was she speaking to the gentleman who sent the beautiful bouquets? Yes, he said, and he was thrilled that she had contacted him. His immediate fear that she might be ringing to ask him to desist was unfounded; it transpired over time that his good fortune was to have chosen a relative newcomer to the country who had formed few friendships. She was lonely and she knew she was not the only dancer hoping her career wouldn’t end before she had round a wealthy husband. The bouquets had told her that they hadn’t emanated from someone who counted the pennies.
It still took more bouquets and a number of intimate post-performance dinners before Marina accepted his invitation to view his apartment. Usually, she pleaded tiredness – dancing was hard work – but this time she had a rare day off in the morning. Champagne was Harry’s seduction weapon of choice and it appeared to do the trick. It didn’t occur to him that Marina had evaluated the flowers, noted the style of the restaurants where they dined, marked the luxury of his car and appraised the spacious apartment. Marina happily accepted the sparkling glass of Dom Perignon as the ultimate confirmation of the wisdom of her choice. When Harry gently touched his glass to hers and leaned forward to kiss her there was no resistance. Nor was there when he took her hand and led her to the bedroom.
She undressed for him without coquetry. Her tits, he saw, were small but interestingly pointed with dark brown nipples. She hadn’t needed a bra. He understood that boobs like melons were hardly conducive to elegance in a dancer. Her simple knickers were white, which he didn’t mind. They were part of his new fantasy. At his request she kept them on while he took off his clothes.
With mock gallantry he picked her up and carried her to the bed. Maybe, he thought, those male dancers had a special technique: she was heavier than he had expected. He made another discovery when he began to caress her. A dancer’s legs weren’t the shapely legs of a catwalk model. All that time spent en pointe developed sinewy knotted calves. Harry turned his attention to the white knickers, slipping them down her thighs to reveal a neat mound with shaved lips. When he touched them, they were dry. There was work to do and he applied his mouth to it with relish.
Marina lay back with her hands behind her head while accepting the attention of his tongue. From time to time she gave a little sigh and her pelvis moved briefly which he took to be evidence that she approved of his approach. He slipped a finger between the hairless labia and probed carefully. She was moistening promisingly. He inserted a second finger and began to give her a preview of how it would be when he entered her with something larger and more potent. He heard an intake of breath but then she relaxed while he continued the finger fuck. They spoke little. Harry was never sure whether a woman would be aroused or offended by dirty talk. He would have liked to say to Marina, “I love the way your cunt gets so wet. How would you like me to fuck you?” As this was their first time he resisted the temptation. Nevertheless, his cock had grown hard without any practical help. His fantasy was about to be fulfilled and he could wait no longer.
Kneeling, Harry rolled a condom over his projecting member. He wanted Marina to see this process for several reasons: to admire the expertise with which he had taught himself to deal with the item, to reassure her that he was taking care of her, and above all to indicate that he was ready for action. Marina responded with a smile and a widening of her legs. Still lacking any verbal communication, Harry thought it best to start in orthodox fashion. He positioned himself above her, took his cock in his hand and, conscious that it was above average length, guided it into her inch by sensitive inch. He was gratified to find that his foreplay had made her wet and receptive. Once again, the little sigh escaped from her lips.
Harry held the position, exerting pressure on Marina’s mound but without moving inside her. He looked down at her and smiled, hoping she might be encouraged to play with her tits until he went to work in her cunt. Marina smiled back but remained motionless. It was clear he would have to take the initiative. By this time Harry’s cock had acclimatised to the luscious warmth of her inner passage, giving him confidence to start moving without fear of too rapid a conclusion.
They fucked slowly in a silence broken only by Marina’s soft sighs and the more guttural emissions from Harry at the end of a particularly forceful penetration. It was good, Harry told himself, but not extraordinary. He withdrew and sat back on his heels wondering how to persuade her to balance with one leg on the bed head and the other on the floor while he entered her from behind and underneath. It was a position that figured prominently in his fantasy. Instead, Marina reached forward for his cock and fed it back inside her. Harry took her hands and placed them on her tits but she shook her head. Instead, she raised her knees and held them in place with a hand under each. If this fell far short of the poses he had seen her adopt in “Swan Lake” and “The Sleeping Beauty”, it was at least a start.
The lifting of her knees probably meant that Marina was feeling his knob prodding against her cervix at the top of each stroke. Harry took that as a positive development and began to speed up his movement, bringing his arse right through to add force to the thrust. Perhaps he could unleash some internal force in Marina that would lead her to transfer her professional athleticism from the stage to his bed. It was a miscalculation.
Suddenly alarmed, Harry realised he had set off a reaction in himself that was going to be hard to stem. Pumping into Marina’s now sopping cunt, withdrawing until only the tip of his knob was inside and then plunging in again, had undermined his control. In a moment of panic, he pulled out completely and squeezed the base of his cock between finger and thumb. Too late. He watched in dismay the bulb of the condom filling with a sad flow of milky liquid. He looked at Marina with a gesture of apology but she had already applied her fingers to her clitoris and, with the minimum of effort, gave herself an orgasm. The little sigh that followed reached Harry’s ears as a sound of wistful reproach.
It was past one in the morning before Harry felt he had apologised adequately for his disaster and Marina had agreed to stay the night. The following morning, Harry decided to try the direct approach. He put her hand on his cock and asked her if she would try again but this time “like you do when you dance?” He lifted her leg in demonstration but she eased him away. “Dancing is dancing,” she said with a frown, “not sex.” Besides, she said, she had to go to class. When Harry said he thought she had a day off, she explained that only meant a day without a performance. Dancers had to go through a rigourous exercise regime every day.
A few days later Harry sent a bouquet with a note wishing her well but regretting that he would be working abroad for the foreseeable future.
Published
Part 2
Casting the dismal memory of Marina aside, he looked at his watch. Nine oclock. Much too early for bed. Or at least, for his own bed. He turned to the back pages of his contacts book and made a few calls. After three invitations to leave a message after the tone and one sorry, Im washing my hair, he gave up. He knew of one or two watering holes where his acquaintances would be but a night out with the guys didnt appeal. He was hungry. No point in looking in the fridge: it was due for restocking. In desperation Harry went to his car, drove to the nearest multiplex cinema and bought a ticket to the first screen that had vacant seats. Surprised, he enjoyed the movie and set off home in a better mood.
Remembering he still hadn’t eaten and his refrigerator was empty, he made a detour to his favoured supermarket. It was a good time to drop in. Most people were still out enjoying their Saturday or heading for home while the serious night owls wouldn’t arrive for another couple of hours. Staff stacking shelves almost outnumbered shoppers. In little over thirty minutes, Harry had filled his trolley with more than enough unsuitable foodstuffs to see him through the coming week. The checkouts were quiet, too. Harry began to unload his purchases. When he handed over his credit card, the woman at the desk said, That should keep you going for a bit.
Harry grinned and nodded. “Anyway,” said the woman, “if you don’t mind my saying so, it’s a bit of a surprise to see a good-looking single man out on his own on a Saturday night. No girl friends?”
“Not tonight.” Harry shook his head. “But how did you know I was single?”
She indicated the items she was packing into a carrier for him. “Frozen meals, ready for the microwave? You’re no husband, that’s for sure.”
“In that case, thank heavens for the microwave. Otherwise I might starve. At least it won’t take long when I get back.”
The woman laughed. “Far to go?”
When he told her, she put a restraining hand on his arm. “Could I be very cheeky and ask for a lift? Im finishing now. I had my till balanced half an hour ago, so I won’t be long.” She placed a Checkout Closed sign across the end of the conveyor belt. “It’s my direction and after midnight you can wait for ages for a bus. Drop me off where you can and I’ll get a taxi from there.”
It would have been churlish to refuse and, in truth, he was in no great hurry. “I’ll be in the car park,” he said. “A blue sports car.”
“Nice,” she replied. “And thanks.”
Waiting, he wondered whether the womans employers would have approved of her taking a bit of a liberty with a customer but he could understand a woman not wanting to wait around on her own late at night. Beryl was the name on her ID tag. Middle to late forties, he guessed. Almost old enough to be his mother. His train of thought was broken when the passenger door opened and she slid in.
They made comfortable conversation while he drove, small talk, the weather, the traffic. He told her about the film hed just seen. She said she only did the two late shifts at the week-end because she and her husband put the money towards a holiday. And she had a part-time job in the mornings, Monday to Friday. They were planning a cruise this year. He asked where she lived and, when she told him, offered to take her all the way. It was only an extra couple of miles, he said, and the microwave could wait.
Her house was in a suburban avenue like thousands of other suburban avenues. A light could be seen behind partly closed curtains at an upstairs window. “John’s probably gone to bed already,” she said. “He wont be expecting me this early. Anyway, thanks for the lift. It was really kind of you.” She unfastened her seat belt and leaned across to kiss his cheek.
Impulsively, Harry sought to give her a return peck but suddenly they were face to face and she was looking into his eyes and smiling. “Would you mind if I kissed you properly?” she said.
Harry realised that he wouldnt mind at all. He drew her to him and put his hand behind her head as she opened her lips. When they parted, both gasping for air, Beryl said, “I don’t do this sort of thing. I don’t know why I did. I’m sorry.”
“No need,” said Harry. “It was good.” They sat in silence for a while, looking at each other, unsure how they had arrived where they were or what should happen next.
“I’d better go,” Beryl said.
“Please dont. Just for a couple of minutes.”
“You know what will happen, dont you?”
“Yes,” said Harry and kissed her again. This time he couldnt resist the temptation to let his hand discover her breast. She put her hand on his and made to move it away, then pressed it against her. He could feel the nipple hardening under the material of her blouse. Beryls resistance crumbled. While Harry massaged her tits more vigorously, she reached for his crotch. He paused for a moment to open his zip for her. She had difficulty extracting his cock, already semi-erect. It sprang into her hand. “Oh,” she breathed, “you’re very big. Nice.”
Glancing through the car windows to ensure that the street was empty, she said, “A good thing were beside this tree. It’s quite dark, so I don’t think we can be seen.” Reassured, she bent her head to Harrys purple cockhead. Precum was already oozing. She licked slowly, first across the top, then underneath the knob. Soon, unable to resist, she opened her mouth and took in as much shaft as she could cope with.
Harry groaned. “That’s it. Just like that.” He looked down at the bobbing head of this middle-aged checkout lady who was giving him a blowjob of such subtle intensity. Unable to contain himself, he put his hand against the back of her head and began bucking himself to meet her, fucking her sensuous mouth, willing her to add friction with her tongue. As if reading his mind, she responded. Harry recalled that a few hours ago his hand had taken him all the way but now, under this expert stimulation, there was no sign of fatigue. His cock was throbbing and Beryl was showing no sign of easing off. He had to warn her. “Careful,” he whispered. “I’m nearly there.”
She released him just long enough to say, “It’s all right. Just come.” Her mouth descended again, her lips fastened round his shaft, her hand cradled his balls. Little by little, she increased her speed, gripped more firmly, sucked more greedily. Harry bit his tongue to prevent himself from crying out as he let himself go, feeling her suck the spunk that emerged in fierce jets deep into her throat.
When it was over, she licked him clean, though almost no residue had been allowed to escape. Harry lay back in his seat and looked at her as she sat up. “Do you know something?” he said. “That was absolutely amazing. Fantastic.” And then, remembering himself, “But its all been me. What can I do for you?”
Beryl kissed him lightly on the lips. “Nothing, I’m afraid. Not just now. It’s not that I wouldn’t like it. I know I would but …” she glanced up at the lighted bedroom window. “John may be awake still, and he – well, you know”. She smoothed down the skirt that had ridden up round her thighs and refastened her blouse. “I’m glad it was good for you. It was for me, too. But I really have to go now.”
As she prepared to leave, he caught her hand. “Another time, then. Next Saturday?”
She shook her head.”I couldn’t, not here, not every Saturday night.”
“What about one afternoon? You only work mornings, you said.” Harry suspected he might have only explored the surface of a very sexy lady and he was fearful she would escape.
“I’ll think about it,” said Beryl.
Harry took his business card from his wallet and thrust it into her hand. “Please do. Think about it. Give me a ring.”
She took the card, smiled and disappeared up the path to the house. He watched her take a key from her handbag. She gave him a little wave and went in.
Each time his phone rang during the next few days, Harry snatched it up expecting – hoping – it would be Beryl. Disappointment gradually gave way to resignation. Two weeks passed. He thought about calling in at the supermarket on a Saturday but it would be unfair. If she’d really wanted him, she would have rung. A memorable one-off but a one-off for all that. Put it down to experience and move on.
And then she called.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch,” she said, almost without preamble. “I’ve wanted to several times but – “ And now, having done so she didn’t seem to know what to say.
“John?” Harry prompted.
“Yes. Hes very good to me and I couldn’t do anything to hurt him. But …” she paused, again searching for words. “But I think with you it would be different. Different from John.”
“Shall we try?”
“I’m forty-seven, nearly forty-eight. Doesn’t that put you off?” As though if he said it did, it would save her from having to make a decision.
“It didn’t put me off before. It wouldn’t again. What’s it matter, anyway?”
There was another silence before Beryl said, “But how? I mean, where could we go?”
“A hotel.”
“I don’t think I could.”
“Come here, then. I’ll collect you when you finish.”
“I’d have to be home before five. In time to prepare John’s tea when he gets back from work.”
She had given in. They agreed where to meet. She wanted it to be the next day. Before she could change her mind.
When the moment came, they were both nervous. She met him immediately after leaving her morning job: she was a receptionist for a hairdresser in the west end. She wore a tailored business suit, dark, with a red blouse, a large bow at the neck. No more the checkout lady but a nervous forty-seven-year-old nonetheless. He had offered to take her to lunch but she refused, still apprehensive that she might want to back out at the last minute.
Closing the door of his apartment was the watershed. She looked around briefly, took in the spaciousness, the luxury furnishings, the expensive drapes, the flat-screen television, the surround-sound hi-fi. Music was playing quietly, classical music she couldnt recognise. She turned and offered herself to him.
Harry clasped her in his arms and kissed her. The kiss was long, deep and inherently sexual. Tongues explored, signalling that both were on fire. When they parted, Harry said, “Thank you for wanting to be here.”
She nodded. Very serious. “I’m still not sure I should be. But thank you asking me.”
“Something to drink?” He indicated an ice bucket, a champagne bottle, two glasses. She shook her head.
He took her hand and led her to the bedroom. “Kingsize,” he said. “I hope you approve.”
For the first time, she relaxed slightly, smiling. “How the other half lives,” she said. “May I try?” After removing her jacket and setting it carefully aside, she sat on the edge of the bed, tested the firmness, then lay back. Harry took off his own jacket and unfastened his belt. Beryl raised her knees, opened them and let her skirt slide part way up her thighs.
“Will you help me?” she said. “Please remember I’m a novice at this sort of thing.”
When Harry eased the skirt from her, she raised her bottom slightly to help him. “How did you know?” he asked.
“Know what?”
“Black. Black knickers, suspenders, stockings.”
“Oh, Harry, youre just a boy, aren’t you? A dark suit for work, so black stockings. I happen to like black knickers. But the suspenders are just for today. Because that’s what boys are supposed to like. Aren’t they?”
“Turn over for me.” She removed her blouse first, revealing a matching black bra supporting ample breasts, then lay face down, ready. He knelt beside her, caressing her buttocks beneath the black fabric. At forty-seven – not disguised by greying hair, fashionably cut thanks to her employer – she was probably not as slim as she once was but the roundness was not excessive. Harry remembered the breasts he had fondled in the car. He unclasped her bra and turned her on to her back again. His memory hadn’t deceived him: the nipples, pink and slightly tapering, were hard, demanding attention. He bent his head, took one between his lips and teased with his tongue. Small sounds of encouragement led him to be bolder. His hand stroked a thigh, moved upward and inward, pressed the silk with eager fingers, encountered dampness. Beryl turned towards him, making herself more available.
Releasing her breast but leaving his hand pressing into her crotch, Harry sat up, looked down at her with undisguised lust. “I want to fuck you,” he said, “but first I want to lick your cunt, finger your arsehole, if you like that.” When she didnt respond, he went on, “Do you mind me talking to you like that? If it upsets you, I won’t do it.”
“No. It makes me … makes me want to … to be fucked.”
“Can you talk to me, too? Like that.”
“Would you like me to?”
“If you can.”
“I’d like to try. I mean, were grown-ups arent we? Just the two of us. No-one will know what we do.” She frowned. “Oh, Harry, this is all so strange to me, but I want to try. If it pleases you.”
“It would.”
“Let me see your cock, then. Is it hard? I can suck it for you, if you like.” Beryl had broken through another barrier. The careful pressure on her clit from Harrys fingers, the knowledge that she was wet, the aching desire spreading from her loins overcame any remaining inhibitions. As soon as he was naked, she nudged him on to his back while she examined the cock she had previously encountered only in semi-darkness, the light of street lamps obscured by the branches of a tree. My word,” she said. “You really are big. Will I be able to take all of that. In my … cunt.”
“We could try,” Harry suggested.
“We will. I promise you that. But not yet.” She began to work on him with her hands, at first alternately, then both together, bending forward to kiss the tip each time it emerged.
“Hey, this is good but you’re getting left out. How about sixty-nine?”
“You mean you want to suck me too?”
“Your cunt, yes.”
Beryl sat up, straddled Harrys face, felt the tip of his tongue along her outer folds, gave a happy sigh and bent forward to resume her oral attention to his now rampant cock. He clasped his hands round her arse and pulled her on to his mouth. They remained like that for some time, rocking gently as first one then the other became more active or, in Harrys case, needed a short rest to regain supremacy over an urge to explode. During one of these pauses he asked, “Ready to come yet?”
“I think so. But would you mind if I leave you for a bit and just enjoy myself?”
“Turn over and open wide.”
As soon as she had arranged herself, Harry took full advantage. One hand cupped her arse cheeks. Two fingers of the other slid effortlessly into Beryls wet cunt. His tongue found her clit and licked. “Harry!” she cried. “It wont take long like that.”
“Shall I slow down?” Stopping nibbling but leaving his fingers in place.
“No. Just do it. I’m already on the edge. Fuck me with your fingers like you were.”
Harry did just that, fingers and tongue working in harmony, feeling the tension build in her, aware of her thighs growing tight round his head. Faster and faster he went, struggling at times to stay in place as her writhing became more pronounced. When it happened, she was screaming. “Yes, yes, yes!” And then she fell back, panting.
Harry watched her recover. “Can you do that again?” he asked.
“I think so. Soon. Dont you want to fuck me yet?”
:Yes and no. I want to make sure you get everything you need. If it was that good, why don’t I do it again?”
“You said earlier … you said you might finger my …”
“Your arsehole?”
“Yes. My arsehole. Will you do that?”
“Do you like it?”
“I don’t know. I want to find out.”
It needed some complicated arranging first. Harry took a pillow and placed it under her, raising her bottom, exposing the little pink aperture. He knelt at her side, slid one hand along the pillow underneath her until his fingertip found its target without exerting any pressure, reintroduced two fingers of his other hand into the well-lubricated front passage and finally added his tongue. Sensing that Beryl was partly apprehensive in spite of being aroused, he waited until he felt her relax. He touched her anus with his middle finger. She pressed back on it. He waited. She pressed further. Slowly, gently, carefully, he opened up what was clearly a virgin entrance. When he reached the second knuckle, he stopped, massaging now from the other side with the two fingers in her cunt. “I like it,” he heard her murmuring almost to herself, from somewhere above him. “I like it when you finger my arse and my cunt at the same time, and Im going to -” The sentence was never finished as a second huge orgasm wracked her body.
After she had recovered some composure, she said, “I need a rest. Come and kneel across me and let me have that cock where I can see it.” She pressed her tits together with both hands: an invitation Harry couldnt refuse. He placed his cock between two creamy mounds and settled into a languorous to and fro motion. The nipples were still hard. “Its a great cock,” Beryl said, “and I still haven’t had it up me. In my cunt.” Could this, Harry wondered, really be the nervous woman who had arrived with him les than an hour earlier.
Finally, Harry sensed that she was ripe, this woman, sixteen years his senior, who seemed to have discovered a sexual liberation that she could wait no longer to explore. He made her kneel in preparation for entering her from behind. Her protests that she couldnt then see his cock entering her subsided when he arranged a dressing table mirror to give her a full view of their coupling. It was a moment for them both to savour. He took it very slowly, first just the head, next a little of the shaft, then nearly complete withdrawal, followed by a deeper insertion until he was fully buried, his balls swinging against her. When he withdrew again his cock was gleaming with the moisture gleaned from her sopping depths. He allowed her time to enjoy the experience before settling into a steady rhythm, little by little driving into her with more force.
“Oh, Harry,” she said, “you are so good with me. Fucking me. With that great big cock up my cunt.” He saw her reach underneath herself to use her hand for some complementary enjoyment.
“Shall we try this again?” he enquired, slipping his finger into her arsehole. This time it glided in with ease, almost as though the muscles of her sphincter were sucking it in.
“In my cunt and arse at the same time,” she said. Beryl was – perhaps without realising – talking to him almost constantly, telling him what she was feeling, urging him to greater effort. There could only be one result: sooner rather than later, he would have to come.
They changed positions again, Beryl on her back, legs wide apart. Harry insinuated a leg underneath her and probed with his cock from underneath. Her cunt absorbed him and they fucked like that, Harry now able to use a hand to rub on her glistening distended clitoris.
“I can’t last much longer,” he groaned. “How do you want me?”
“Just on top. Put the pillow under my head so I can see.”
“What about a condom?”
She shook her head. “Not necessary. Just fuck me. Fill me. Fill me with your cock. And your spunk.”
He fucked her for as long as he could, marvelling at his own stamina when being encouraged by a woman in the ultimate stages of heat. As the end approached, she put her hand down and fingered herself, telling him how close she was, trying to get them to come simultaneously. It didnt quite work, but they were close enough. She clutched his buttocks with both hands, trying to feel the cum spattering her insides.
Afterwards they showered together. Little was said. There was nothing to be said. They had sated themselves, given and taken in equal measure and both understood that the occasion had been something very special indeed. They were quiet, too, while he was driving her home. She asked to be dropped off at a bus stop for the last stage, not wanting to be seen arriving in a sports car in broad daylight.
She left him quickly with just a peck on the cheek. “Call me,” he said. “Ill try,” she replied.
Five days later she rang. He was immediately aware of a certain tension at the other end. She said, “I have to tell you, Harry. I’ve told John.”
Oh oh!
“He found out?”
“No. I just felt I had to tell him. Hes a good husband, he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. So – “
“But what now?”
“Its all right. He’s not angry, not with me or you. At first, he was – not hurt, more puzzled. He wanted to know why and how, so I told him. Then he began to ask about the details, what we did.”
“And you told him?”
“Not everything, obviously. Some things are just between the two of us.”
“What did he say?”
“It was strange, Harry. He seemed to come to terms with it because the more we talked about it the more aroused he got. We were in bed and the inevitable happened. Really, he was very good with me. Not as good as you, Harry. Nothing could be as good as that – not ever. But in its own way, it was nice.”
They were silent. “Will I see you again, then?” Harry asked.
“Thats up to you. But there’s a condition.”
“Which is?”
“John wants to be there.”
“Wants to be there? Join in, you mean?”
“No. Just to watch. He might take care of himself, I expect, but what he really wants is to see me with you.”
“Could you do that?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. Could you?”
“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I have to think about it. Ill call you. Next week.”
But Harry already knew he couldn’t go through with it. Talking to Beryl, having her beg him to fuck her, finger her arse, doing all the things that had been so exciting but doing them while her husband sat on a chair stroking his cock. It wouldn’t work, and he guessed that Beryl knew it, too. Instead of waiting, he called her back at once and told her his feelings. And he was right. She couldn’t have done it either. He put the phone down without saying goodbye.
Another of Harry’s dreams was over. But not this time in ignominious failure. He had a new masturbatory fantasy: a checkout lady in black knickers. It would last him a long time, he thought. Or, at least, until something new occurred.
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