Woo Part 4. Could There Be Such A Thing As Rape During Your Honeymoon? ~ Angela Goodnight

Warning: this is the fourth of several parts of the same story. This one stands on its own, but if you want to ensure you fully understand the background you need to read Woo Part 1, Woo Part 2 and Woo Part 3 before starting this one.

If you are not going to read those this is a précis of the story so far: I was thirty-two with my own business, an office and a flat. I had lost my true love teenage boyfriend eighteen years earlier and to know all about us you need to read our About Page, but it  is not essential. I spent the next seven years with solo sex only and this transformed into a period of boyfriends who lasted various amounts of time. I loved sex, but had trouble finding any true love. On February 14th (Valentine’s Day) a lavish bouquet with Dom Perignon Champagne and Chocolates arrived anonymously and a few days later one of my translation clients, Richard Weston asked me out for dinner. He’d been the mysterious valentine.

The next two parts, Woo 2 and 3, deal with our first date and my fear and trepidation at inviting him into my apartment after a first date. I did and the lovemaking was absolutely spectacular. He told me he loved me and I began to realise I probably loved him, too. The first time I could use the ‘love’ word in its truest sense after losing Peter eighteen years earlier as a young teenager.

– o O o –

We continued to date and two weeks later I moved into his house. It was not as convenient as my flat to my office, but only added fifteen minutes to my journey (it used to be only two hundred yards [metres] from my flat).

Domestic life was good as we both enjoyed cooking and Richard was used to living on his own so carried out many of the chores.

Our lovemaking continued to be good and sometimes spectacular and we settled into a happy relationship.

About a month after our first date we were, once again, eating at Rico’s fabulous restaurant and Richard had obviously made a point of getting the same table beside the dance floor. I had bought a red cocktail dress and wore pink tights. Richard wore his light blue lounge suit with waistcoat and we must have looked a stylish couple as we meandered around the dance floor, holding each other tightly as lovers do.

After the dessert we would normally order liqueurs, but this time he didn’t ask me what I wanted and he materialised a small package from his pocket and placed it in front of me. It was obviously a ring.

I was taken aback. This was a total surprise. I guessed what it was. It was obvious. Strangely I’d noticed one of my rings disappeared the previous week but reappeared a day or two later. I thought I might have left it at my flat, but when it reappeared I assumed it had been hidden under something else, but it puzzled me. Now I knew he must have taken it for sizing.

“For me?” I asked and looked into his smiling face.

“Can’t see anyone else sitting at our table,” he laughed.

I peeled off the paper and there was a dark red ring box.

I looked up at him again. He was still smiling.

I flipped the lid open and an enormous solitaire diamond stared up at me from the plush velvet interior.

Suddenly he was on one knee beside me and holding my hand and I knew what was about to come.

“Darling Angela, you are the most beautiful girl in the world and I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife.”

He removed the ring from the velvet and held it towards my left hand, waiting.

I hated making quick decisions on important matters, but it seemed so right, the sex was brilliant, I had a mood to settle down. His smile was turning to anxiety as I thought. Why had he pressured me like this? I couldn’t let him down. I couldn’t embarrass him.

“Yes, I’d love to,” I said and pure relief crossed his face and he slipped the ring onto my second finger. For the second time I was engaged, but the first was at the age of fourteen to my long lost Peter. Was I betraying him? Eighteen years is a long time to miss someone. I had to move on eventually.

I kissed him and suddenly the wine waiter was at the table with a bottle of Dom Perignon 1976. I wondered why he’d been ensuring we didn’t drink too much, now I knew why.

We chinked glasses, toasted to ‘us’ and enjoyed the rest of the experience, dancing until late. In the evening we made beautiful love before ending a ground-breaking day.

The following Saturday we took the train to Stafford where my father met us off the train. I kept my ring finger concealed. I introduced Richard and dad drove us home. Mum was also very welcoming and we stood in the kitchen while she prepared lunch. As soon as she said she’d finished the preparation, while we were all together, I decided it was time.

“Mum, Dad, I have something to show you,” I said with my hand behind my back.

“What’s that dear,” mum asked.

I whipped out my hand and held it for them to see.

“He asked me last week, we wanted to let you know.”

My father immediately offered Richard his hand and congratulated him on our engagement. My mum put her arms around him and gave him a kiss on each cheek. Then they both examined the huge gem and coo’d over it.

Lunch went well and most of the talk was about where and when the wedding was to be.

My parents wanted it in our local church and Richard was comfortable with St Mary’s as a venue and said his mother would have no problem coming over from Hertfordshire. He’d lost his father a few years previously, sadly.

While dad and Richard talked in the lounge, I went through to the kitchen where my mother started quizzing me about him and asking me if we were happy and I was sure. I do remember at one point saying, “Well, I’ve spent so many years wanting Peter Stone to come and sweep me off my feet and it seems unlikely now, so this seems to be the best solution.”

“But you do love him?” she asked and I remember noticing she had ‘coloured’ slightly before she spoke. It was to be nearly thirty years before I realised why she had been so embarrassed.

“I think so. The nearest I’ve known to it since Peter,” I replied.

Again, looking flushed, she spoke, “Forget him, dear, it was merely a childhood thing,” and she stopped looked hard at me and continued, “Richard seems a lovely man – and so successful.”

So it was set. We would marry in June and I made several visits to Stafford to sort out arrangements.

Despite my dozens of lovers I was to be married in white.

– o O o –

[The following is written from having talked about the wedding with the best man at dinner a few weeks after the honeymoon and also from watching the wedding video with Peter the other day. He had never seen it previously. My goodness, video quality is so bad compared with modern HD, especially on the large screen we now have.]

St Mary's Church Stafford where Angela Goodnight and Richard Weston marriedRichard, in dress coat and tails stood at the entrance to St Mary’s church in Stafford with his friend and best man John Stuart. John’s wife, Antonia wore a beautiful lime green dress with shawl and stood nearby talking to Bruce, a friend from my department for trade and industry days and his wife Sheila.

Guests were arriving in dribs and drabs, talking to Richard, John and Antonia before disappearing into the thirteenth century church which had been restored in the nineteenth century, and finding their places.

St Mary’s is constructed of stone and would, even today, be recognised by its founders. Its location means almost every guest has to walk from car parks in the town centre, along charming and varied streets. It is surrounded by an important graveyard containing many listed graves, although rarely used for burials today. The aspect of the church is extremely pretty and ideal for those immediate post-wedding photographs. Today two photographers and a video company were recording the event for posterity.

The inside of St Mary’s is even more spectacular with its nave designed by Pugin, rows of nineteenth century pews, its famous organ and large and impressive stained glass windows.

Richard’s mother arrived and was pictured casually by the photographer as she walked up to her son and kissed him on the cheek. John immediately materialised a moist wipe to remove the lipstick. They all laughed, chatted about how lovely the weather was and she disappeared into the interior.

More guests arrived including dozens of Richard and my family and lots of my friends including Pat and her husband all the way from Gurney. All the men were either in dress coats and tails if part of the official party or very smart suits. The ladies were all in colourful summer dresses with fancy hats, or skirt suits with flowers in their hair, hats or button holes. A number of children of various ages were running around outside the church enjoying the opportunity for play before the service began.

John looked at his watch, “Time to go in,” he said to Richard and Antonia and they made their way into the aisle.

They turned into the master aisle and Antonia joined the pews on Richard’s side of the church while best man John and Richard went forward for the lonely and scary wait in front of the altar.

Richard kept turning and looking to see who was in or arriving and waved tentatively at friends and family.

There was my friend Averil, looking ultra smart with her new man who seemed totally unsuited to her. My part time office help, Alice was there, too and several of Richard’s co-directors with their wives, husbands or social partners.

The organ continued to play incidental music which indicated there was nothing to look out for yet.

“Are you sure she’s on the way?” Richard asked.

“Don’t panic. She’s only two minutes late so far,” the best man replied.

They both laughed and Richard asked, “You have got the rings?”

John patted each of his pockets in feigned panic and said, “Oh my God, I’ll be right back,” turned to go and stopped as he saw genuine fear come over Richard’s face.

“Course I bloody have!”

Richard punched him on shoulder.

Suddenly a fanfare burst out and Wagner’s famous processional tune began on the impressive, and loud, organ.

The congregation turned as one and the doors at the far end of the aisle opened wide and in I came on my father’s arm. My only regret was it was not Peter standing at the pulpit. I even panicked perhaps I should call it off and try to find him. I’d never made an effort, perhaps he was somewhere alone waiting to be found by me?

My veil was like a halo around my head. The dress was stunning. Figure hugging to below my hips, pure white in satin and cotton with white cotton poppies following spiral shapes from the bodice to hips. The shoulder straps, also dotted with poppies, were delicate and pretty. The skin of my shoulders and arms, tanned artificially, but healthy and lovely as usual. I’d always had the most lovely skin. My forearms bore satin gloves with poppies on the sleeves and I carried a multicoloured bridal bouquet to add colour.

As the spirals of poppies reached below my waist the dress fanned out into spiralled layers of lacy trim down to the very floor.

Richard later told me his heart missed a beat as he saw me. He said it took all of his will power to turn back and face forward as he heard the hushed conversations in the nave as people commented on my appearance.

Behind me I had two tiny bridesmaids aged about ten years each, cousins of the groom and my maid of honour, Marcia, a long time friend and flat mate from Pimlico. The young girls looked equally pretty in snow white dresses chosen to match mine and the maid of honour in a very simple, slinky, white, satin, figure-hugging dress.

After what seemed such a fleetingly short time I stood beside him and we looked at each other with love and desire. He mouthed ‘I love you’ and I reflected it. John retreated and stood behind Richard’s shoulders, my father joined my mother in the front pew and Marcia took my bouquet and gloves.

The vicar began the service.

When it came to the rings, John placed two platinum wedding rings on the silver plate, one large with a buckle and the other small and plain. Finally the rings were exchanged and the vicar made the climactic statement, “I now pronounce you man and wife,” and in a very slightly quieter voice, “You may kiss the bride.”

Any last hope of Peter marching in and stopping the ceremony finally faded. I was married.

Richard turned and helped me lift the veil and we kissed for long enough to cause both cheers and applause to ring around the Norman church. I would honour my marriage and made a silent vow to never think about Peter again.

After the formalities the entire party decanted for photographs and to a reception nearby where dancing went on into the small hours.

Richard and I had already left and we were soon in the finest room in the Sheraton Skyline Hotel within striking distance of Heathrow.

Already so familiar with each other’s desires, needs and preferences, we made love early so as to make the most of the night’s sleep ready for a relatively early flight from Heathrow in the morning.

The 747 left the ground at 9am and flew west at 35,000 feet. Richard’s mum had paid for the first class upgrade and we were in luxurious reclining seats in the bow of the plane being waited upon hand and foot. I’d never flown in a Jumbo before and was amazed at the size of the machine. After a light lunch we climbed the spiral staircase to sit in easy chairs in the bar area where we had light, but interesting conversations with other people including two other honeymoon couples.

We touched down in Antigua briefly and took the last leg of the flight into St Lucia. There seemed to be some urgency in the flight, a feeling the plane was being flown by the seat of the pilot’s pants, turns being made faster and more determinedly. We soon learned why, when the captain told us he had been trying to get into Vieux Fort before a tropical storm hit, but unfortunately we had been beaten by the weather and we’d be circling the island while the storm burned itself out.

I remember being not a little bit nervous as the plane flew past the famous pitons which were barely visible through the driving rain and wondered how long it would take to die if we hit a mountain head-on. If I’d known more about the island’s geography I’d have realised the conical Pitons were the only mountains on the island.

Eventually we landed in sunshine, but the runways and apron were glistening with the previous torrential rain. We emerged into sweltering tropical heat, collected our bags and found the Thomas Cook agent who allocated a minibus driver to us and one of the other first class honeymooners and an older couple. We set off, past the local town of Vieux Fort and into the interior of the island.

We were amazed at the state of the roads and the minibus driver weaved his way along the road, avoiding all of the puddles as if they might contain sea monsters. It was only later, on a dry day we discovered the potholes could sometimes be over a foot deep and could break your car’s suspension.

Although probably only twenty miles or so, it took close to an hour to reach the Cunard La Toc resort where we were handled efficiently by white uniformed porters and pretty receptionists in gold and white outfits.

The resort which was once Cunard La Toc on St Lucia[As it happens I later discovered this was the same resort Peter stayed at on his widower singles’ holiday nearly a decade later – see this post, but it had changed its nature and was not the same classy establishment it was during our honeymoon.]

We had booked half a villa style apartment and were grateful, upon entering, for the air conditioning which quickly cooled us down. We had a large lounge, part of which being a kitchen and dining area. To one side was a luxurious bathroom with spa bath and walk in shower. On the other side was the enormous bedroom with king-size bed, beautifully furnished, a bouquet of red roses sat on the bed and, on a coffee table in the lounge, we found a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket with two saucer shaped champagne glasses. I always hated the modern tall flutes so a nice surprise.

We stood and kissed in the lounge before both changing into shorts and t-shirts.

The outlook from the bedroom was towards the western Caribbean and it opened directly onto a plunge pool so you could jump straight into the water if you wished. From the lounge there was another access to it with steps leading down into the water. We noticed the pool was designed so it could not be overlooked.

We relaxed on the terrace with our champagne before Richard changed into long cream coloured trousers. Shorts were not allowed at the Pitons restaurant, the best of the restaurants at the resort. Aren’t girls lucky, we’re considered so decorative we can wear more or less what we like Only bikinis or shorts with bikini tops were considered out of order in the Pitons Restaurant for girls. I changed into a fine cotton printed skirt and top, but the top ended above my navel and the skirt was around ten inches above my knees. Richard wore a short sleeved pink shirt and looked very tropical. We both wore open sandals and no socks – no not even British Richard. LOL.

After a fabulous meal we wandered back to the villa, turned the air conditioning to high, pushed back the top sheet and quilt, made love slowly and gently on top of the bottom sheet and fell asleep naked and spread-eagled in post-coital bliss. I was so happy.

In the night I had to turn the air conditioning down as I was feeling too cool. I sat in a comfortable upholstered wicker chair and looked at my husband. What a strange word, ‘husband’ could I really be married? Could I also be pregnant, I wondered? We’d agreed to stop birth control on our wedding day. In fact I stopped at the end of my last packet of pills about two weeks previously and had teased Richard to distraction by refusing to allow him to make love to me for those two weeks. I was hoping he’d make up for it during the honeymoon.

Could there already be some cells dividing in my womb from the night at Heathrow or our sex this evening? Richard’s penis looked lovely lying on its side partly resting on his left thigh as he slept. I wanted to kiss it, but resisted the impulse. I’d leave it until the morning.

I’d warmed up a little with the air conditioning turned down and returned to the bed and slept soundly, pulling the single sheet over my shoulders.

There was a banging at the bedroom window. I woke, looked around and no sign of Richard. I stood and walked to the window and pulled back the drape, slowly at first as I was naked, then completely as I realised no one could see into the room. There he was, laughing at me and splashing the glass from the plunge pool. I heard him call, “Come on in.”

I could see he was naked so walked out through the lounge, opened the glass door and was hit by a wave of tropical heat. Crouching slightly as I exited onto the patio as my breasts could have been visible from the road below while I was standing, stepped down into the pool, the water feeling cold to the touch after the heat of the air.

Richard swam the two strokes over towards me and we hugged each other.

“Good morning Mrs Weston,” he said.

“Same to you Mr Weston,” I replied and curled my legs around his body.

“And such lovely long legs,” he commented.

“All the better to squeeze you with,” I retorted and we kissed each other.

His hand disappeared into the depths and I felt it come palm upwards onto my vulva and I reached for his penis which was fully erect. We caressed each other.

“Shall we?”

Sex in the pool? Hmm, that could be a novelty.

“Why not?” I replied.

The plunge pool was around four foot six inches deep so when I stood my head was clear of the water and Richard’s head and shoulders were clear so we didn’t have to stay swimming.

Richard came towards me, I put my arms back, held the bar which ran along the  side of the pool and allowed my legs to float up towards him. He made his way between them and I felt his penis brushing my vulva.

Gosh this was an odd sensation, sexual contact underwater. It was good, but there was a strange dryness to it. I don’t know how there can be a ‘dryness’ when you are completely immersed in water, but I suppose pool water is not lubrication and my secretions were probably washed straight away so were not having any effect.

As he pushed into me I actually felt a little discomfort at the entrance, but once properly inside it was fine and I closed my eyes to enjoy the rest of his penetration. How delightful the feeling is as a penis comes into you, expands you, occupying a previously collapsed empty space which quickly engorges to accept it. A deliciously wonderful sensation I could enjoy over and over again.

“You OK?” he asked, concerned when I flinched as he entered me.

“Yes, lovely. I know it is stupid considering we’re in water, but you were a bit dry at my entrance so was a tiny bit uncomfortable, but perfect now.”

He leaned forward to kiss me, but I sensed he might exit me again and stopped him.

“Sorry, might be best to ensure you stay inside or water might get in,” I said quietly.

“OK,” he said and I got the impression of a little disappointment, but I didn’t think it was a good idea to get pool water inside me. Men don’t have the same danger of internal infections. I was always careful about what entered my body and pool water didn’t seem the most hygienic of liquids.

He began to thrust which was really good, impacting nicely on my clitoris in this position and I ran my fingers through his hair and over his cheeks, while hanging on to the bar with my other arm. I could feel my arousal growing deep within me and my clitoris was starting to react to his movements. Then I had a thought.

“Richard,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied rather impatiently as if I was destroying his mood.

“What are we going to do when you come? Don’t want to leak in the pool.”

“Damn it all, Ang, there’s a filter in it,” and he carried on thrusting.

I remember feeling slightly hurt at his reaction and the pleasure of his thrusts dwindled a little. I’d lost my enthusiasm and couldn’t seem to get it back. He was right, of course, it would soon be filtered away, but it didn’t ease my concern.

“Can’t we dry off, darling, go back inside?” I asked softly.

“No!” he almost shouted, “I want it here, in the pool!”

I said nothing else.

It is a strange sensation when you have lost your interest in sexual intercourse, but it is still happening to you. His penis was still moving in and out and still stimulating me, but the sexual pleasure had dropped off and it was now only a mechanical thing. I could feel it rubbing backwards and forwards inside me, but it no longer felt good. The knocking of his body against my clit was no longer a wonderful sensation. Now it was just part of my body being knocked. There was no longer any growth of sexual sensation. No hope of orgasm. It was almost as if I was outside myself keeping a record of what was happening. Yes, there was the heat within me of the motions, yes I could feel the motions, but it was doing absolutely nothing for me at all. If I had been masturbating I’d have stopped and left it until later and I realised I really wanted this to stop and continue later, but Richard had made it very clear he wanted to finish in the pool.

He wasn’t making love to me now, he was just having an enjoyable fuck and it happened to be inside my vagina.

I could see the expression on his face. He was having a wonderful time, but his gripping of my buttocks and his thrusting was no longer pleasant. I was putting up with it, not enjoying it. I didn’t want to be doing this. Should I call a stop? He’d seem so angry when I suggested moving previously and I didn’t want to make him angry. He was usually so loving and nice. I decided to grin and bear it.

I put both my arms back on the rail again and lay there in the water with his hands on my behind, holding me tight to him as his penis continued its thrusting into my vagina. I’d become conscious this was actually happening against my will.

I know he is my husband. I know I love him and he loves me and we mutually started to make love in the water, but I didn’t want it to continue. I’d asked him to stop and move into the villa and it had upset him. I was allowing this to continue because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings or disappoint him or maybe, even worse, because I was afraid of his reaction, but it definitely was not what I wanted.

The very fact that all of this was going through my mind during intercourse shows how much my desire had diminished. In a sense, this was rape.

His thrusting slowed. He was savouring every thrust. His hands gripped my behind tighter. I could tell he was approaching his orgasm. I felt his penis expand within me. Suddenly I sensed it jerking as he pushed himself into me as far as he was able. I couldn’t feel the actual semen, but I knew it was being pumped into me from his ejaculation. It meant nothing. Nothing at all. It didn’t feel good, in fact it felt bad. I didn’t feel good, in fact I felt used. He was grunting in pleasure and had now stilled. He was still inside me and I vowed to get out of the water as soon as he withdrew. I didn’t like the idea of his semen in the pool. But why? It wouldn’t have bothered me until my passion vanished. If he’d asked me to masturbate him in the pool I would not have normally had a problem with that sort of sexual fun. I could soon shower off or even lick off any semen and, as he said, there is a filter so it doesn’t really matter. These were conflicting thoughts. How could semen in the water be fine or even fun when it was for the enjoyment of sex, but semen now, leaking from me after an intercourse I did not want to be completed, was a different matter entirely.

Click this for Angela & Peter's BooksFinally he withdrew and I turned and ran up the steps into the villa to grab some tissues with the sound of him laughing at my quick exit. He had no idea what he had done to me. I felt hurt and annoyed he hadn’t thought about my sensibilities when I asked us to finish making love in the villa.

I’d been fucked against my will and such an act was normally rape. I was very unhappy. Was I being silly? Was I being unreasonable? Could I ignore it?

I didn’t know what to think or feel and decided I would try to deal with it as a one-off unthinking event that this kind  and loving man would never had done if he’d realised the effect it was having upon me.

I showered and changed into another simple outfit and suggested we go for breakfast.

Despite my determination to put it behind me, I couldn’t stop analysing what had happened and Richard’s pleasant chit-chat and hand holding went over my head. I felt better after breakfast and became even more determined to forget the event, but something had changed in our relationship in that instant in the pool.

This story has now been continued in Woo Part 5.

By the way, clicking on the book link above helps move us up the ranking even if you don’t want to buy our books. Thanks.

Angela Goodnight, 9th February 2014