When my mother died in my arms I experienced a breakdown. During counselling I was advised to keep a journal, recording all the incidents in my life, and the resulting subsequent thoughts and feelings. The following stories are based on extracts from my journal concerning my experience of sexual relationships in later life
Chapter 6
The evening at the theatre was another turning point in my life. After years of repression I realised that I had been lonely and now really craved the social scene that was part of their life.
There were visits to restaurants where the waiter would place your napkin on your lap, call you ‘Madame’ and then stand at the table in case you needed the slightest thing.
More cocktail bars and a couple of business receptions in big London Hotels. Valerie still dressed me for outings but after the theatre visit when she realised that a few drinks would have me offering myself to anyone who showed an interest, the dresses she chose were a little more conservative.
No underclothes was often the rule of the day. I think now that was a reminder that I was their thing. I revelled in it all and all I had to do was make my body available to Paul and Val whenever and however they wanted it.
I only refused them once..
A frequent part of our playtime was what I think was his favourite game. Us girls would be licking and munching each other’s vulvas and he would penetrate whoever was on top eventually ejaculating into the mouth of whoever was on the bottom.
I had got used to the taste of him and was happy enough doing that, but I really loved the feeling of him filling my belly with his semen so it wasn’t my favourite. Although, I did enjoy watching his penis thrusting in and out of her.
He had the habit of pushing a thumb in and out of her bottom at the same time and it was no surprise the first time he did that to me, it wasn’t uncomfortable but it did nothing for me, I was more concerned with getting to a good orgasm before he pulled out of me and took her tongue away from my vagina and ejaculated into her mouth,
I did usually manage that, but was often disappointed. She had to finish me off after he had finished with her.
On one occasion I was pulling on her clitoris with my lips watching him working in and out of her when he suddenly pulled out, thinking he was finishing quickly I opened my mouth wide for him but to my surprise, without pausing, he pushed his penis straight into her bottom, she gave a little squeal and started to push backwards and forwards against him like a wild thing,
Obviously not the first time.
I was a little stunned then soon realised that eventually he was going to pull out of her and use my mouth. As much as I loved her I was not going to clean her poo off his penis, so I wiggled out from underneath and stood next to the bed and watched them.
He just pushed her flat on the bed and kept pushing in and out of her until with some moaning and groaning he collapsed on top of her. She opened her eyes and saw me watching and gave me a weak apologetic smile.
A few of weeks later I was having an overnighter with them. I was on top. He had his thumb in my bottom with his fingers spread out gripping me and pulling me backwards and forwards on his penis. I felt him pull out and remove his thumb and then suddenly felt the tip of his penis pushing against my bottom, I felt myself open just a tiny bit and yelled “No” and jumped off the bed. She began shouting at him and slapped him a few times.
I remember her saying she had told him to be gentle, so it was obviously something they had planned earlier.
I calmed them down and explained this was the only thing I would not do. His penis was so fat I knew it would hurt terribly, and I didn’t want to have to explain a split sphincter to a gaggle of giggling nurses at the local hospital. There was also my fetish of keeping my kitten clean, as mother, had said always wipe backwards. The thought of poo and semen trickling down into my vagina, was an absolute no no.
Later at one of our afternoon chats, she said she was glad I had declined, as she loved him doing that to her and it was the only thing they had not done with any of their group. So it remained something special to them. I said I thought it was lovely that she was willing to share their special thing with me and gave her a nice kiss. That was not what I was actually thinking.
I don’t want anyone to think that we were having sex all the time. I suppose over the two years we were together as a family he was inside me not more than thirty times.
It was more than sex, there was a lot of emotional involvement, almost as if they were my parents in a strange way, but also my masters, caring and loving but forceful.
They were also away from home frequently at the weekends at various houses partying with their sex group. She would keep me entranced with the stories of what she had done or had done to her.
I told her I was a little worried. There was a lot of talk on the news about a nasty virus going round and the importance of using condoms. There had never been any question of condoms when they used me. Valerie reassured me. They always took precautions and only went ‘free range’ with one other couple who had been their first share, They had played together for years and were trusted, but now even with them they were taking precautions.
I did ask if I would get an invitation to a party, she said yes, but they needed the approval of all the members and some ladies were concerned about introducing a single woman.
However, there was a special gala meet up with another group planned over Christmas at a large house in Epping, an upmarket town about ten miles away, and they would take me to that, where no doubt I would get to know some of the members quite well.. I didn’t ask what that meant but my imagination started working overtime.
Sometimes they would play some of the games from their parties with me.
One which we played a couple of times was ‘Postman’s Roulette’, based on the child’s party game, 'Postman's Knock’. Basically the men would leave the room. The woman would *********** a card from a deck. When there was a knock on the door, the woman with the highest card would open the door and perform oral sex on the man who had knocked. If the man was the woman's partner or husband, there would be general booing, and after she had swallowed his donation she would have to take a card in the next round. This would carry on until all the women had been blessed, occasionally some twice , or the men ran out of steam.
The first time we played a cut down version of this, she came to my house, undressed us both, made me kneel down sitting on my heels in the hallway in front of the front door. When he knocked, she opened the door then crouched behind me pinning my elbows behind my back. He then undid his trousers and pushed his penis into a waiting mouth, first one and then the other. She was lucky enough to be the winner on this occasion and received the mouthful of semen. She then ushered him back out the door.
There was a terrific frisson when I realised that every time he came in or left, anyone walking in the street outside could have glanced in and seen me kneeling naked a couple of feet away from the open door.
After she had ushered him out the door, she led me to my couch and began kissing me all over. She had kept the semen in her mouth and was now anointing me with it. She then used her hands and soon that one mouthful was spread all over my breasts, my tummy and thighs. I think it was on this occasion that she managed to get us in a position where she could gently rub her clitoris on mine. It was very emotional to have a simultaneous major orgasm like this and we were both in tears at the end.
I never did get to go to that Christmas special party.
During our friendship, Valerie and I had gone together to a mobile breast screening unit that came every year to the car park at the local Town Hall, to get as she put it, ‘our boobs pressed’ Screening involves placing a breast onto a small platform while another platform descends a squeezes your breast flat so they can get a good x-ray. The plates then tilt and you get squeezed again from side to side. It wasn’t too unpleasant for me with my little breasts, but her’s, being so big and dense, the squeezing proved very painful and not in a nice way. To cheer her up we used to go to one of the little coffee shops in North Chingford to pig out on cream cakes and Earl Grey tea.
She had received a couple of call backs for a re-screen in the past, once when a cyst was discovered and treated and again when the image they had got was not clear due to the denseness of her breast. So, we weren’t worried when she got a recall to the local hospital, but she was given an immediate referral for a full body scan at the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel.
He went with her to Whitechapel but came back alone. She had been admitted for observation and tests.
I went with Paul the next day, taking her some clean nightdresses, cosmetics, etc as of course Paul hadn’t a clue what a lady needs. She seemed quite upbeat, but when the consultant came to speak to her I was asked to leave. I sat in a corridor for about half an hour with my heart thumping away. When eventually Paul came to find me I could see he was crying and I knew the worst before he told me.
Val had a malignant growth in one of her breasts, but the really bad news was that it had metastasised into her lymph glands. They were investigating the possibility of chemotherapy and radiotherapy treatment, but an operation was not an option. She stayed in the hospital and I spent every day with her.
She just faded away. One time she pulled aside her sheets and lifted her nightdress and said “I always wanted to be slim like you, now look at me”. That was the only time I cried in her presence.
Though Paul converted their garden room into a bedroom for her, with a special bed that rippled gently so she would be comfortable and had booked a specialist nurse, she never came home and died in the New Year. There were fifteen people at her funeral. None of their special friends, I suppose being hedonists they didn’t want to be reminded of their own mortality.
I went numb for a while. I kept myself busy keeping Paul on the rails as he had been absolutely devastated by her death. I found out he couldn’t cook, had no idea on how to operate a washing machine or even a vacuum cleaner, she had done absolutely everything for him. I stepped into her shoes, trying to fight off the depression I had become familiar with after my mother’s death.
A couple of times Paul hugged me, which was comforting, but when after a couple of months, he tried to kiss me I pushed him away. I then realised he had taken it for granted that I would replace her in his life and move in with him. This was out of the question, apart from the affection I felt during the post coital glow I didn’t really find him an attractive personality, I also felt bound by my promise to Valerie that I would not go with him without her there. So I gradually withdrew from his life. I eventually stopped being his stand-in housewife.
We remained on friendly turns and although I never visited next door again again, he did occasionally come to me on a weekend and we would talk about Valerie over a cup of tea. He told me that he couldn’t concentrate at work, and would spend his evenings in tears. He just talked and talked, it was all a one-way street, I rarely had a chance to explain how I felt. It was as if he was unloading his grief onto me.
I felt really sorry for him and let him hold my hand when he occasionally burst into tears. After about six months he started to talk about making contact with their sex group, as if he was really asking my permission. I told him I didn’t think Val would mind; she wouldn’t want him to be unhappy.
A few weeks later he was really down, he had gone to one of their scheduled parties but had been asked to leave. As a single man he was no longer welcome. I quickly told him that all that sort of thing was of no interest to me now, just in case he got any ideas of using me as an entrance ticket.
One Sunday morning he came round for a chat, and produced Val’s little camera. Those first photographs that Val had taken of me were still on it. He sat next to me and showed me the photos on the little screen. They were all there, the one in the garden with me bending over revealing my breasts as my dressing gown fell open, all blurry and out of focus, and the ones she had taken indoors when we were both drunk on gin and tonic which led to our first fumbling attempts at love making. He said he often looked at them. I realised he was using them to masturbate, it was a strange feeling knowing that. but I felt it was fine if it brought him some comfort.
I had myself tried to masturbate on a couple occasions but it wasn’t really happening and actually made things worse, if it worked for him that was good news.
A few weeks later he had the camera again, and asked if he could take some photos of me as a remembrance of that first time with Val.
I was really in a strange mental state, I had been toying with the idea of letting him use me from time to time instead of the photos.
In truth I really missed the warmth of another person’s body against mine and Val had told me that men get ill without regular sex.
Instead of saying ‘No’, I said I would think about it.
I thought if he had fresh photos of me to masturbate with it would take some of the pressure off me to let him inside me. I dropped a note through his door telling him to bring the camera round next Saturday afternoon.
Come Saturday, I made no special effort to prepare for him. I looked at myself naked in my long mirror, I had lost about half a stone and looked like a sad skinny old lady. I was going to cancel .
Eventually I showered, but just gave my hair a perfunctory brush and didn’t use any makeup. For some reason I dressed in my winter vest and knickers and a dowdy long sweater dress, I suppose I was trying to make myself look as unattractive as possible.
When he arrived he said I looked lovely, I thought ‘you would say that wouldn’t you’ and almost asked him to leave.
He asked if I still had the dressing gown I had worn on that day, so I went upstairs to find it, he followed me and sat on the top of the stairs chatting as I changed. I realised the dressing gown was in the other bedroom and half naked I darted into there to fetch it. I didn’t notice him sneak a photo of me in my sexy winter vest.
He asked if he could take a photo from my garden pressing my body against the glass of the French windows. I hate this photo more than I do the rest of those he took that awful afternoon. My heart wasn’t in it, I looked tired and skinny and not at all happy. He seemed happy enough snapping away.
The last photo he took had me sitting on the edge of my bed with my thighs spread and my little vulva centre stage. After he took this shot, he pushed me backwards on the bed and put my ankles wide apart on his shoulders and started fumbling with his trouser belt.
I knew I didn’t want this. I went ice cold but remained calm. I looked at him and very softly said "Paul, please don’t r**e me".
It was as if I had hit him with a brick. He let me go, and kept saying ‘Sorry!’ over and over again. I just stared at him and eventually he left the room, I heard him run down the stairs and the front door close.
I realised what a fool I had been to allow this situation, and then I pulled the bed-covers over me, and as the grief finally washed over me, I cried myself to sleep.
A few days later an Interflora girl bought me a large bunch of roses with a printed note ‘Forgive me. Paul’. I threw them on the floor and stamped on them before throwing them in the garden waste bin.
Two days later on returning from the shops I found a fat envelope on the door mat. It held a long letter from him with prints of the other photos Val had taken, with photos he had taken on that miserable Saturday, including one of me in my dowdy vest. I threw the whole lot, letter unread, into the kitchen bin. Later that evening I changed my mind and rescued some of the photos from the potato peelings and tea leaves and I have kept them more or less as a warning to myself not to be stupid all the time.
I avoided all further contact with him.
If his car was parked on his drive, I avoided going into the garden in case he saw me and came out, and when I walked to the shops I went the long way home to avoid walking past the front of his house.
Eventually a ‘For Sale’ board was posted in his front garden, and then he was gone.
A young couple with a baby moved in and we soon became friends, and nowadays the little girl calls me Aunty.