Teresa and I first got to know each other at college. We’d both had unhappy encounters with young men – overgrown boys, really – who were eager for sex but lacked experience, patience, technique, everything you look for in a compatible lover. Not that we were experts ourselves but there was an inescapable mood of hedonism at the time that led us to discuss what we might be missing. Perhaps it was inevitable that one evening after we had shared a bottle of cheap plonk, we found ourselves in bed together.
What we discovered was that if two women could shed their inhibitions they had an innate instinct for the means to please each other. At first it was little more than kissing and caressing but after the first steps the body’s desires take over. We soon learned not to leave each other unsatisfied.
Nevertheless, it has to be remembered that we were both only nineteen. In later years I came to look back on it as a crush that grew overheated. Or you might like to characterise it as some kind of female rite of passage. It lasted until graduation, though with lessening intensity, and then we went our separate ways. There was no emotional break-up, just a mutual drifting apart. We remembered each other’s birthday, exchanged cards then and at Christmas, became friends who were no longer lovers.
Anyway, as we matured we had to acknowledge wider sexual horizons, while at the same time learning to differentiate between men. The sheep from the goats, you might say. And there were plenty of goats. Charles wasn’t one of them. He was charming, intelligent, courteous and he made me laugh, which was the deciding factor when I agreed to marry him. We had already been to bed frequently – everyone did, it seemed – and sex was fine if unadventurous. Possibly I was retreating a little from my fling with Teresa, content to be on my back with Charles thrusting until fulfilled. It seldom took long. My own orgasms were not guaranteed but masturbation was an acceptable alternative.
It shouldn’t have been. I realise now that I was aware then, if only subconsciously, that sex had more to offer. We should have discussed it, Charles and I, but we didn’t. He was involved in sustaining the family bookselling business, which made heavy demands on his time and energy. So when our two sons came along I felt it necessary to take on the major responsibility for their upbringing. The years passed and sex became an occasional unsuccessful attempt to rekindle what had never been a raging furnace in the first place. When I tried to raise the subject, Charles was uncomfortable. He thought I was exaggerating. People of our age change, he said.
Alone with my vibrator, I wondered if he was right. More and more, I began to believe he was profoundly wrong. But what to do about it? The boys grew up, graduated and left home. Neither showed any inclination to sell books, especially as the internet and the big chains were making life increasingly hazardous for the small independents. The demands on Charles grew. We wouldn’t go bust but we couldn’t sell up either. Economies meant fewer theatre trips or concerts. No holidays. At my most depressed I even contemplated divorce. It wasn’t an option. I loved Charles. He remained a good husband, faithful, gentle and considerate, if less frequently able to make me laugh. Overall, a good husband in every respect – except one. My body was demanding more than the attentions of a battery-powered piece of plastic.
Then a card arrived from Teresa. It was two days before my birthday. Charles was due to take me out for a meal. West end restaurants were no longer possible but there was a more modest, acceptable place nearby. That dinner gave me the chance to suggest to Charles that as we wouldn’t be holidaying this year, I was wondering if I might visit an old college friend for a weekend. Charles gave his blessing, as I knew he would. I felt guilty but I didn’t tell him I had already telephoned a surprised Teresa who had said she would be delighted to see me.
Having taken the plunge, I sat on the train suddenly apprehensive. More than thirty years had passed since we had last seen each other. I knew from a brief note on a Christmas card that she had lost her husband to an untimely heart attack, but that was all. I couldn’t even be sure I would recognise her. And what, exactly, did I expect us to say to each other?
To be honest, when I arrived at the station I looked straight past the smartly-dressed, slim, dark-haired woman until she cried, “My darling Billy – how are you?” I had graduated from Wilhelmina to Billy while still at school and in time even my family had accepted it.
As for Teresa, the voice was my first clue. That hadn’t changed at all: low in pitch, educated upper-middle-class. And when I looked, I could see that this was still the same Teresa. Instinctively, I wondered if I had worn as well. The oval features, the high cheekbones, the narrow waist, the good legs, the dark tailored suit – they all added up to deliver a very well-preserved, attractive woman. Teresa hadn’t just worn well, she had improved dramatically in graceful middle age.
Even as we drove to her village some twenty miles away, my doubts about the wisdom of the visit began to recede. The gauche undergraduate I remembered had blossomed into a warm, relaxed hostess. Her home spoke of taste and understated luxury. A cautious question about her deceased husband elicited the information that he had done well in the City; and there had been family money which he had invested profitably. Teresa had been comfortably provided for.
I unpacked in a chintzy guest bedroom that overlooked fields and distant wooded hills. Peace and quiet and open air – isn’t that how the song goes? The village,Teresa had said, was very small and getting smaller, refuge for a dwindling number of retirees. But very friendly people and supportive, she said. At the time, I took the statement at face value, never dreaming quite how friendly they could be.
Dinner was already prepared. “Just some smoked salmon and salad,” Teresa said with a laugh. “My diet rules. I hope that’s all right with you. I can allow myself a glass of wine.”
Momentarily I recalled a shared bottle of wine in our college rooms, but put the thought aside. We sat at the table catching up on our disparate lives during the long interval. If I envied her financial security, I sensed that she was wistful when I spoke of our sons; Teresa was childless. But as the evening wore on and the sky outside darkened, I felt that we were not quite the strangers I had feared we might be.
We carried our wine glasses and the half-empty bottle of Muscadet through to the sitting room. “I shouldn’t indulge,” Teresa said, “but Billy, it’s so good to see you again, so why not celebrate?”
Soft lighting revealed a room that said a good deal about Teresa’s situation. She saw I was looking at a number of paintings that I would have guessed were early twentieth Century without being able to put a name to the artists. I was contemplating a landscape of dappled sunlight with a distant train when Teresa broke in, “Pissaro. Spencer thought it might be a Pissaro but Sotheby’s said not.”
“A pity.”
“Oh, it’s still valuable. Or you would think so if you saw the insurance premiums. Spencer had an eye for work that would appreciate in value,” she said, “but to me they’re not important for what they are worth; to me, they are a lasting link with him.”
“Do you miss him very much?” I asked.
“Yes. But not as much as I used to. I don’t want to sound callous but I have to move on. I made up my mind I wouldn’t be the grieving widow. I wanted something more than sympathy. People here have helped a lot.” She turned away from the pictures, and we sat facing each other,Teresa in a deep armchair, me on the sofa. She sipped her wine. “Tell me about your Charles.”
I hesitated for only a few seconds but long enough for Teresa to go on, “Please Billy, tell me if I’m intruding and I’ll shut up. The fact is I can’t help noticing we’ve spent the last couple of hours catching up on our lives yet you’ve hardly mentioned your husband. If there’s some kind of problem you don’t want to talk about, we’ll change the subject. But we’re not naive girls any more so if you do want to talk, I can listen.”
If I am truthful, it was precisely why I was there but when the moment came I didn’t find it easy. I’m afraid I rambled a good deal, about the business, about the boys going away, about the pressure Charles was under, what a good husband he was in so many ways, until Teresa interrupted.
“But not in every way?”
“Well …”
“Sex rears its ugly head. Am I right?”
“Not often enough.”
“For you or him?” The questions were direct and perceptive but they were spoken kindly.
“For me.” I felt as though I were betraying Charles but it was the truth.
On a pretext of refilling my glass, Teresa left her armchair and came to sit beside me on the sofa. She put her arm round my shoulder. “Maybe I’m putting two and two together and making five. Or maybe I’m not. Maybe you’ve never quite forgotten that once upon a time we knew each other rather well. Yes?”
When I said nothing, she went on, “And therefore I might be someone safe to talk to about it.”
It was such a shrewd assessment after such a brief reunion, I found myself unable to deny it. I looked at Teresa and she was smiling. “Talk is good, Billy,” she said, “and talk we will. But it’s not the only kind of therapy.”
She drew me closer with the arm round my shoulder and put her mouth to mine. We kissed. She broke away to say, “Don’t hold back, Billy. Please. This isn’t just for you.”
Although I didn’t realise it then, In those few seconds my whole life had begun to change direction. The second kiss was different, not only from her initial approach but different from the exploratory exchanges of our college days. Now there was hunger and urgency, probing tongues and whimpering sounds. Two mature women in the throes of a passion that demanded fulfilment. Was this really me? Us? When finally we broke apart, Teresa said, “Don’t speak, Billy. Relax. It’s what you need. We can talk later.”
Even as she spoke, she was grappling with my clothes, fingers fumbling in her haste, lifting my blouse over my head, unfastening my bra, lifting me from the sofa to let my skirt slide to the floor. I was left in my knickers – midnight blue and thankfully quite flattering to my hips – and the dark hold-ups that go with them. It seemed only seconds before Teresa was standing in a matching black lace set, looking down at me as I sprawled, half sitting, half lying, on the sofa. There was a pause while she seemed to regain a little composure. Then, very softly and gently, she said, “Oh, yes, I remember.”
Kneeling, she parted my legs, moved my knickers aside to expose my sex, and buried her head. Until that point I felt we had simply succumbed to a set of circumstances neither of us could control. But suddenly I wondered if the idea had always been in Teresa’s mind, perhaps even before I arrived. It didn’t matter. Planned or spontaneous, it had me totally in its thrall. As my companion’s tongue began to lap slowly, carefully, knowingly against my clitoris, I abandoned myself to sheer physical pleasure. Teresa could do whatever she liked. I wanted it all.
My only fear was puncturing the erotic enchantment: I mustn’t give way to a quick orgasm without being sure I could sustain what we had begun. I needn’t have been concerned. Teresa’s ministrations were exquisitely subtle. Satisfied that her opening gambit had achieved its objective, she insinuated her tongue between my labia, savouring the moisture she had generated. Her return to my sweetly throbbing clitoris was prolonged and infinitely varied. Only when my responses told her a crisis was near did she back off completely. Sitting back on her heels, she looked up into my face and asked, “Is it good?”
I nodded. “You know. Don’t you?”
“One doesn’t forget. Would you like to do it for me?”
“Of course.”
“But not yet. We mustn’t hurry. Not when it’s so good.”
How long it lasted I don’t now know, but a long time. With seemingly infinite variation of lips, tongue, fingers, Teresa took me to the brink again and again. Her instinct for the impending moment of crisis was unfailing as she gently led me back down only to start building once more. At last I heard myself cry out for release, clutching the back of her head, forcing her face into my groin, demanding that her tongue should finish what it had begun. Surprisingly, I think, there was no great explosion. It happened slowly, the long delicious climb that spreads through the body until just the most subtle movement triggers the denouement.
Recovery was very slow. Teresa, ever sensitive, continued to lap tenderly, licking up the juices that had coated my labia with an unprecedented flow of sweet stickiness. Only when my pulse rate had subsided to something nearer normal did she say, “My turn now. But not here.” Taking me by the hand, leaving garments unheeded where they had been discarded, she led me to her bedroom. There, at her suggestion, I allowed her to remove my soggy knickers before returning the favour.
My servicing of Teresa, I fear, lacked her ingenuity but I was soon aware that she was co-operating fully, spreading her legs, raising her bottom, twisting her body to meet my increasingly fervid efforts. All the while she was murmuring encouragement, teaching me what was good, what might be better. Determined not to fail her, I did as she asked – even when she suggested I could slide a finger carefully into her bottom while continuing to nibble at her distended clitoris. It wasn’t something that had figured in our college love-making but I soon understood how arousing it could be for both of us. Sixty-nine proved less rewarding. Teresa’s know-how induced such excitement I couldn’t concentrate on playing my part.
By one means and another, however, orgasms great and small came and went until we were sated, lying side by side, happily exhausted. “There’s no need to use the guest bed,” Teresa said. “Stay here with me. We might even wake up in the mood for more.” Which, of course, we did.
****************************
Returning home after the weekend wasn’t easy. I simply don’t know whether what had happened had been the result of my subconscious desire when I contacted Teresa in the first place, but I couldn’t bring myself to regret it. On the other hand, I couldn’t either avoid a sense of guilt when Charles asked if I had enjoyed myself.
“Yes,” I said, “We did a lot of catching up on old times.”
“I’m glad. You should do it more often. I’ve more than enough on my plate here – it’ll do you good to get away from it occasionally.”
A green light that I justified to myself on the grounds that it might be saving our marriage; what Charles didn’t give me in bed, Teresa could. At least, that’s how it worked out for a while. But there came a weekend when my friend’s intuition pierced my guard again. We were in relaxed mood with a glass of wine after a long exchange of kisses and caresses.
“is it still good for you? Us, I mean.”
“Yes. Why not?”
“Well, you say sex with Charles is more or less non-existent. You seem to enjoy what we have. So let me put it this way: do you think of yourself now as a lesbian?”
This was a conversation I’d been having with myself but I had wanted to keep it from Teresa; if I wasn’t prepared to think of myself that way, I was admitting that there was something missing with Teresa. When I didn’t answer, she read my silence. “No? Neither do I. What we have is very special but I certainly couldn’t manage without a man’s attentions from time to time. And I guess you are much the same. Yes?”
“Perhaps. But it’s perhaps best not dwelt on. I mean, there’s no obvious solution.”
That was when Teresa told me about something called Helping Hands and opened my naive eyes a whole lot wider. Apparently, the whole village was nothing short of a care-home for the sexually needy. Nobody seems to know how it started, though someone she called The Mad Major seems to have a lot to do with sustaining it. The Major and his wife are the only couple involved: Helping Hands is for singles, some divorce survivors but primarily widows and widowers. Teresa said that she and Spencer had knowing nothing of it, but soon after the funeral Major and Mrs made a call and issued the invitation.
Everything about Helping Hands is informal. Occasional coffee mornings in the village hall serve as a focal point. Nothing untoward happens but newcomers can be looked over, innocent invitations offered. A suggestion that a man might help out with a little D-i-Y project, or perhaps an offer to iron a shirt or lend a book. Pretexts are easy; what then happens behind closed doors is a matter for two people and no-one else. But what is clear is that Helping Hands has a purpose much more basic than changing washers or baking cakes.
“Do you see what I’m saying?”
It dawned on me slowly. The only way Teresa could know about this startling enterprise was by being part of it. “You mean Helping Hands has found a man for you?”
She smiled. “A man? Men, you mean.”
“Men?”
“Oh, one at a time. Helping Hands doesn’t organise orgies. It enables people to get in touch with each other. And if you get in touch with more than one, well – why not? Variety is the spice of life, isn’t it?”
I began to understand why Teresa was so satisfied with the life of a country widow.
But there was something I didn’t understand. “I’m sure I should be pleased for you. But where does that leave me?”
She hesitated, clearly weighing up how to continue. Then she put down her glass, looked me in the eyes and said, “My dear, what I’m suggesting is that something could be arranged.”
“How do you mean?”
“We are not short of obliging males.”
“But how?”
“I don’t know – I haven’t really thought about it. But the house is here, I could make myself scarce.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t.”
“Don’t say no too quickly. Think about it. You may change your mind.”
Was this simply prescient Teresa again? It was almost as though she knew me better than I knew myself. Because just before the end of my visit , I found the courage to articulate a fantasy that had formed in my mind and wouldn’t go away. “Remember our conversation about Helping Hands?”
“Have you changed your mind?” Clever, direct Teresa again.
“Not exactly. But I’ve been think about your offer – making your self scarce.”
“That still goes.”
“But … suppose – Well, suppose you didn’t?”
“Kind of chaperone, you mean?”
“No. What I mean Teresa, is could we be … together – and get one of your friends to join us.”
For once, I had managed to surprise her. But not for long. The sparkle in her eye told me all I needed to know. That’s how I heard about Big John.
****************************
It was arranged for my next visit. Teresa met me at the station and confirmed that all was well. We arrived at her house shortly before seven; John was due at eight. We had agreed a tight schedule for two reasons: to give me the minimum time to lose my nerve (which I easily could have done), and to remove the temptation to indulge ourselves first. We wanted to keep appetites sharp.
I showered and changed: a new white bra and French knickers set under a loose silk gown. Teresa would wear the black lingerie that she said always turned John on. Hopefully, the black-white contrast would enhance the effect. I couldn’t help my nerves but when Teresa, imbued with eager anticipation, suggested a stiff drink I refused. This had been my idea and I wanted to enjoy it completely sober.
John proved to be everything Teresa had promised. He was probably ten years older than either of us, tall, grey-haired, clean-shaven with honest blue eyes. He wore what looked like his best casual outfit: dark blazer and pressed grey slacks, white shirt, no tie. He shook my hand firmly but with no air of presumption or forwardness: a manifestation of the courtesy that Teresa said was typical of the Helping Hands generation. When, though, I lowered my gaze and looked closely, I thought I could detect a telltale bulge. Maybe my imagination, or maybe John’s quiet manner concealed a need as pronounced as my own.
Teresa, ever the gracious hostess, dealt easily with a slight awkwardness that had followed the introductions. “Now, darlings, no-one has to be shy here. We all want the same thing and I don’t see any reason to put it off. I think the bedroom is indicated.”
Interestingly, John led the way and, once there, enquired politely if he could use a coat hanger. His voice was soft with just a hint of the countryman. He opened a wardrobe door and removed his jacket. I concluded he was no stranger to Teresa’s boudoir. Turning to face us, he paused with his hand on his belt buckle. “Yes, John, please carry on.” Teresa might as easily have been asking him to display the roses she says he grows. “Show Billy I haven’t exaggerated. And while we’re about it, we can show you something, too.”
Moving to my side, she stepped out of her housecoat and motioned that I should do the same. With one arm round my waist, she slid her other hand inside her knickers: my cue, too. Any embarrassment I felt at behaving like this in front of a man I had met only minutes earlier didn’t last. John, having removed his trousers and hung them with his jacket, turned to us with his own hand in front of his groin. “I hope I won’t disappoint you,” he said.
In one movement, he removed his hand and stepped out of his boxer shorts. I remember thinking I hoped he’d take off his socks (which he soon did) but that couldn’t seriously detract from the magnificent sight of a huge erect penis, circumcised, the head purple and gleaming. Only lightly supported by his fingers, it stood out proudly from a few wisps of grey hairs. He certainly didn’t disappoint me.
So far, so good. But what now?
The same question was apparently troubling John. Looking from me to Teresa, he said, “Excuse me, Terry, but this is all a bit strange to me. How do you want to – ”
Terry? It was the obvious diminutive, just as I had become Billy, but I had never heard it applied to my friend before; the relationship grew more intriguing by the minute. Teresa was unflustered, calmly taking charge. “This is Billy’s treat,” she said, “but perhaps I could just have a little taste first.”
Indicating that for the moment I should perch on the edge of the bed to watch, she knelt in front of John and took his penis in her left hand, guided it to her mouth and kissed the tip. John widened his stance slightly and closed his eyes. Teresa turned to reassure herself that my view wasn’t obscured before opening her mouth. The relish with which she set about taking in the rigid member was unmistakable. I noticed that she seemed unable to cope with much more than half the length. How, I wondered, would I manage?
I didn’t have long to wait. Teresa was preparing him for me and it must be said that he didn’t need much preparing. Our hostess rose to her feet and brought John to the bed. “Now,” she told him, “there’s no reason why we shouldn’t both give Billy a good time. Can you just kneel there?”
When John nodded acceptance, Teresa persuaded me to lie back on the bed. John knelt beside my head. Suddenly that distended purple knob that had just emerged from my friend’s mouth was only inches from my face. “Are you all right, Billy?” he asked.
I nodded, smiling, encouraging him to continue. I did appreciate his cautious approach but my anticipation of experiencing a strange man hadn’t begun half an hour ago; I had been building up to this moment for days. I was ready. I wanted that cock. Opening my mouth, I reached up and grasped the shaft and took it in. Impossible to describe how it felt to me but it had to be good for John, too. I was determined this shouldn’t be some abstract technical experience on his behalf. I hollowed my cheeks and sucked. I held him outside me while I licked the underside of his knob, cupping and squeezing his balls with my other hand. I knew it was working when John began thrusting movements, pressing forward to bury as much as possible of that great length between my lips. I pressed my tongue against it as it entered, creating the friction he was starting to enjoy.
That was when I discovered what Teresa – Terry? – had meant when she spoke of both of both of them giving me a good time. While I devoted all my efforts towards more saliva for better lubrication, more suction for greater arousal, I became aware of Teresa moving my legs apart and raising my knees. I knew what would follow. Wasn’t this how we we had behaved when there were only the two of us? I felt her mouth descend upon my sex to begin the teasing titillation which so many times in the past had brought me to the inescapable brink.
Now, though, it was a more complex relationship and I was caught in the middle. I had to be aware of the sounds and movements that might tell me of John’s need for a few moments of recuperation to prevent a premature discharge, but at the same my body was ready to abandon itself to whatever response Teresa’s tongue was stimulating. All I can say, looking back with more experience than I had then, is that I was vaguely aware of reaching towards sexual heights I had scarcely dreamed existed.
Eventually, though by no means hurriedly, Teresa decided it was time for a change. “Would you like to have John now?” she said.
No need to ask, but I had a contribution of my own to make. “Yes,” I said, “but like this.” Slightly apprehensive about taking that monster when I was on my back, wide open and susceptible to deep penetration, I wanted him to take me from behind. I let John remove my knickers, running his hand across my vulva as he did so. That done, I turned on to my knees and waited. John took his time, enjoying the view I was offering him, I suspect. Then I felt the first contact, the bulging head nudging against my lips, testing to see if I was ready.
While I was wondering where Teresa was in all this, I heard her voice. She was speaking quietly, to John and to me, introducing a new element to the erotic mix. And this was a different, startling Teresa, speaking softly but raising the temperature with uninhibited language.
“Billy,” she murmured, “John is going to give you his cock now. He’ll be careful, I promise you, but he’ll be trying to get it all up you.” The head nestled between my lips. Then Teresa again: “That’s good, John. Slowly and you won’t have a problem. That’s a hot, wet cunt. I know. I’ve been there.” It was already making its way inside. I felt Teresa’s hands on my bottom, spreading me wide to help his access. “See if you can go all the way in, then hold still. Let her feel your balls up against her.” The probe came slowly but with relentless determination, burrowing into my inner depths. The further he penetrated, the more sure I became that I could take it all. He stopped, pressing hard against my bottom. I was aware of the knob nuzzling my uterus. I could feel his balls, swaying against me.
Teresa gave us time to appreciate the sensation, ensuring that John grew accustomed to the humid walls pulsing against his shaft while he still had control. Then she urged him into action again. “Now fuck her, John. Like you do me. Slowly now.” I felt him withdraw until I guess, about half his length was outside. “I knew she wouldn’t let you down. She’s so wet in there – her juice is all over your cock. Give it to her now.” John began to pump. With each insertion the speed increased. There was more force, too. I was loving it, happy that I could cope with the size, settling into John’s rhythm, aroused further by Teresa’s encouragement. ” Yes, John, fuck her faster. I’m sure she’s all right. It’s what she wanted.” He was holding on to my hips and that seemed to help him settle into a consistent tempo. We had found an equilibrium and with it the confidence to give ourselves up to a pleasure that grew ever more intense without threatening to overwhelm us.
Until Teresa appeared in front of me. I saw that she, too, was now without knickers as she slid half underneath me, opening her legs, holding her labia open with her fingers to display the moist pinkness within. The invitation couldn’t have been more obvious, but Teresa was on a roll. “Lick my cunt, Billy. Suck me. Get your tongue up me. Nobody can do it like you.”
It wasn’t easy. Teresa was already on heat and was soon squirming with pleasure as I tried to give her what she wanted. The problem was maintaining contact as every piston stroke from John rammed against me, jolting me forward. Somehow, we managed, John fucking, me sucking, John gasping as he fought to master the rising juices in his balls, Teresa moaning and mouthing the words she hoped would drive me to finish what we had started. The three of us went at it with renewed urgency. A series of tremors in her thighs and a lurching pelvis accompanied by a loud, wailing cry announced her orgasm. Immediately, John reined back, decelerating with each insertion until he was able to withdraw completely. Rolling on to my back, using Teresa’s lower stomach as a pillow, I saw that his erection was undiminished.
Teresa was aware, too. “I’m done, John,” she said. “Billy’s sucked me dry. You finish her off. Fuck her and make sure it’s good for both of you.”
We needed no second bidding. I had long ago embraced the debauchery I had invited, and now I was ready for its culmination. Teresa reached behind her head to hand John two pillows which he arranged under my bottom. With my knees drawn up and the soles of my feet firmly planted, I was open and waiting.
John was astonishing. With the same thoughtful care he had shown throughout, he steered his great cock into the waiting portals, paused for a few seconds and then re-established the same rhythm he had used on me from behind. The difference now was that I could lift my head and watch that stiff rod as it slid inside me, see on each withdrawal the glistening juice that lubricated it. There was the sound, too, of perspiring flesh against flesh. There were Teresa’s almost incoherent cries of lust, urging us to seek new limits, new areas of ecstasy. She moved from underneath me to suck at my nipples. Her hand stole down to find my clitoris. She had sensed that neither John nor I could resist for much longer.
“Don’t come yet, John.” She spoke with unexpected authority, the old Teresa, masterminding the finale. “Let me get her there first. Then – you know …”
Whatever that entailed, John understood. I saw him close his eyes in concentration and then gave myself up to reaching the most overpowering orgasm of my life. John continued to fuck me, feeding his cock to the back of my cunt while Teresa worked my clitoris. They didn’t hurry. I made a conscious effort not to reach for it. And so together we strove, up and up and up to the point of no return. When it came, Teresa clamped her palm across my mound as though to contain the throbbing pleasure that originated there and coursed through my body.
John, meanwhile, was no longer inside me. He was standing, feet straddled each side of us as Teresa and I lay side by side. His hand was working the shaft of his cock in much the same manner that he had fucked me, confidently stoking up the pace until, with a deep groan, a stream of spunk rained down on us. A virtuoso performance had finally delivered. As we lay together recovering, I thought back to my nervousness in raising the possibility in the first place -and wondered why I had waited so long.
****************************
If subsequent weekends with Teresa and John never quite scaled those delirious heights again, experience brought deeper awareness. I can honestly say that our couplings never disappointed. There cam an occasion when Teresa blithely confessed that she was not averse to warming up with a spanking session. I declined an invitation to join in, but watching his hand descending on her bottom – John liked her to be wearing the black knickers – helped prepare me, too, for what followed. John, courteous, patient, Big John with his huge cock, and wise, uninhibited Teresa, with her fertile imagination, never left me unsatisfied, always sent me away eager for the next time.
There was , though, a downside. As the months passed my feelings of disloyalty to Charles grew until they could no longer be suppressed. He never ceased to encourage me to take weekends at the village, never doubted that my visits were anything but innocent. That became a problem I couldn’t deal with. In the end, I had to act for my own peace of mind.
Unable to guess how Charles would react, I waited until we were in bed one evening. It was some while since he had shown any desire for sex, so I used that as an excuse to raise the subject. No to accuse but to confess. I told him everything, how it had started with Teresa at college, how we had rekindled the flame that eventually became a furnace. I included John’s contribution and tried to explain how the whole experience had unlocked emotions I didn’t know had lain dormant inside me.
Charles listened the whole time without speaking. But as I went on, I became aware that his hand was moving inside his pyjamas. Of all responses, this was one I hadn’t foreseen. How should I react? Without pausing to think, I put my own hand down to confirm that he was indeed erect, stroking himself. “Shall I help you?” I said, hardly daring to speak.
“That would be nice,” he said.
I did so cautiously, scared that if I made him ejaculate, a moment of rare intimacy might be destroyed. Instead, I heard myself say, “Would you like to fuck me?”
Charles didn’t answer. He was clumsily wriggling out of his pyjama trousers, handling himself at the same time. Sensing that this wasn’t the time for talk, I rolled on to my back and opened my legs. My fingers told me I was only just starting to moisten but never mind, there was a moment that had to be seized. Charles was already kneeling between my legs, pushing into me. By the time I took over to guide him along the right path, there was enough lubrication to ease the way. He started to work himself in and out.
“That’s nice, Charles,” I reassured him, remembering how Teresa had blown away a mental block. “I want you to fuck me hard. I like the way you do it. When you’re ready, shoot your spunk up me.”
Wonderfully, miraculously almost, it did the trick. Charles drove into me. “I want to fuck you,” he said. “You’re very wet.” Thrust. “Your cunt.” Thrust. “Your lovely hot cunt.” Thrust. “I can fuck it for you.” Thrust. “Fill it with my spunk.” Thrust, “Like this!” With a shudder, he was finished, collapsing on top of me.
We talked for a long time that night. A barrier had been breached and many more were demolished before we slept. We were united in a way we hadn’t been since we were married. Much has happened since. And next weekend, Teresa and John are coming to stay with us.
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