Around midday on the Sunday of my amazing reunion weekend I stood on the doorstep of my mother’s cottage in Bristol waving goodbye to my sixty-two year old long-lost teenage lover as his Jaguar pulled away and disappeared up the street.
We’d had a night to remember. I know many times that will be said about special events, but on this occasion I can truly say it was unforgettable.
Peter and I had not seen each other since December 1964 and this was October 2010. He’d found me through 192.com and facebook and we’d met up for dinner at the fabulous Cadbury House Hotel in Bristol. He had a room there and I inevitably stayed the night.
Before we’d met I had discovered my father had destroyed Peter’s letters and my mum had not posted my letters to him after we moved to Stafford in 1964. It was a deliberate conspiracy by my parents to break up a relationship which they considered inappropriate and against the interests of my education. Can I understand their reasoning? Yes, of course. I was only fourteen and Peter was sixteen and we’d been enjoying underage sex (see Autumn of Love). What my parents had not appreciated was the fact we were truly and deeply in love with each other. This was not a teenage infatuation. Their conniving meant both of us thought the other was trying to have a clean break and end the affair. It was a crushingly successful strategy for which I will never truly forgive them.
During the weekend I’d discovered Peter had been writing letters to me for months and I’d never spotted that one of my parents was always hovering around the letterbox at the delivery time each day.
Because it was true love we both ended up losing forty-five years of devotion. My father is dead and it has spoiled my memories of him. I was furious with my mother and had walked out on her on the Friday, booking myself into the Premier Inn. Peter insisted we go to see her on the Sunday morning when we checked out of Cadbury House. We drove across Bristol to collect my car at the Premier Inn, then he followed me in his Jaguar to mum’s cottage. The meeting was strained and uncomfortable for me.
When we arrived I stood back from my mother, not feeling the slightest inclination to hug her, but Peter immediately opened his arms and she was enveloped by him, repeating a single word, “Sorry,” over and over and over again and crying disconsolately. I could see she really meant it, but I tend to not be a very forgiving person myself and was able to remain unmoved. My Autumn Of Love book tells of this obstinacy of mine in a different scenario.
We went in for tea and Peter made me reconcile with my mum, at least to the point where I no longer wanted to murder her. After a light lunch and once he was satisfied the two of us could carry on a conversation without coming to blows, he decided he could leave us for his long drive back to Cheadle (near Manchester).
Our lovemaking the previous night had been a total delight. For a man who usually needed sildenafil to get an erection owing to the stroke drugs he took, we were both equally delighted to find ourselves making love a second time around four in the morning without chemical assistance and, even more unbelievably again at eight, although he struggled to reach a less than explosive orgasm on the third occasion. My poor darling.
We lay in the bed after the last event, me looking at the ceiling and marvelling at our finding each other and him breathing frantically even ten minutes after the sex, his chest heaving, his face red and me wondering if my occasional somewhat excessive libido was going to be putting him into an early grave.
Eventually we rose, showered and descended for breakfast. Other guests must have wondered at this sixty year-old woman in a cocktail dress having breakfast with a man in a polo shirt. LOL.
“When can we meet again?” I asked, holding his hand in one of mine while the other hand balanced a slice of toast and marmalade.
He had more revelations for me.
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” he said sheepishly.
A deep pit opened up within my abdomen. He was married again. I was going to lose him all over again.
“You’re going to leave me once more?” I asked in a deathly whisper.
He grasped both of my hands, causing marmalade to fall from the toast onto the immaculate linen tablecloth.
“Angie, I will never, never, never, never leave you. I am yours as long as you want me.”
My eyes had filled with tears as he spoke and I quickly dabbed them dry with my serviette. I still had all of the anxieties I’d felt the previous day before the date.
He continued, “However, I have a difficult task ahead when I arrive home. Can I explain?”
“I have a very loving lady to disappoint back in Cheadle.”
I raised my eyebrows and squeezed his hand.
“I have been living with a very kind, very beautiful young woman, half my age, called Charlotte who has become part of the family. Until I saw the picture of you on facebook I thought I was in love with her. Now I know it was never true love, but it was a genuine loving affection which I now have to destroy. She is also very close with my children and their children and has been accepted as if she were their mother. Well, not quite, but almost.
“Now I have to tell her I’ve been living a lie. I don’t love her like I’ve always loved you and I have to leave her. It will be like a bolt from the blue.”
“Oh, Peter, that’s so sad.”
“It will hurt her, very, very deeply. We’ve been a real couple for more than five years. My kids love her. My grandkids love her. She has, for all the world, been like a wife to me and mother to them. Now I have to break her heart and I am not looking forward to it.”
We sat in silence for a while, sipping our tea and finishing our toast.
“Wish I could help, but if I said anything it would make it worse,” I whispered.
“Yes. I have to do it myself. She’s expecting me home around six so I need to get going after we’ve been to see your mum.”
“Forget that. I’ll just go straight back to Bideford instead of mum’s.”
“No, you can’t leave it like that with your mother. We’ll go to see her first. I’ll be fine as long as I get away around lunch time.”
“When will you do it? How will you tell her?”
“Tonight if I can, tomorrow morning if not.”
Suddenly a pang of insane jealousy ran through me, “You might sleep with her?”
“If I don’t tell her tonight I’ll have to share the bed, but we won’t make love. You have my word. I’ll pretend I don’t feel well if I have to. I don’t know what she’ll be like, but I promise nothing sexual will happen between us, Ang.”
Again there seemed nothing I could say to ease his burden. My heart ached with the knowledge he might be lying in bed with another woman tonight. I knew he wouldn’t make love to her, but it did not make it any easier to know her body would be next to his. I was being silly. I had to live with his decision. He could hardly do it over the telephone.
[For new readers: I need to explain these stories are all taken from my or Peter’s real lives. We were lovers as young teens in 1964, lost touch and didn’t find each other again until 2010. We go into quite a lot of life detail during our stories for those who are following our back story. The whole point of writing true stories is to let you understand the context in which they occurred. See the Back Story Page for a précis of our lives.
[Although the stories are true, all names have been changed as have one or two locations which might allow us to be identified. Naturally, as time passes, it becomes impossible to remember dialogue so much of it has had to have been reconstructed although, in this particular story, we are both fairly sure the dialogue is pretty accurate. We have also used authors’ licence to make the stories more readable, but we have made every effort not to include anything to distort the original circumstances. We want this to be a record of our love lives so there would be no point in changing or inventing anything unnecessarily.
[If you scroll down the right hand column you’ll be able to enter your email address to be kept up to date with our future stories. Your subscription is completely anonymous. No one will ever know and you can unsubscribe any time. Finally, if you are new to our site and enjoy our writing the Stories In Life-Time-Line Order provides all of the stories in chronological sequence of when they occurred and you may prefer to read them in progression.]
– o O o –
I watched his car turn the corner at the top of the road and went back into my mum’s house. She’d been watching from the window, trying not to impose on my sadness at his departure.
“I truly am sorry for what we did, darling,” she said, holding a hand towards me.
I stepped up to her and we had a short hug. How could I totally forgive her for her part in my father’s deception?
I told her about Peter’s problem in Cheadle and she sympathised. There was little she could say or do to be helpful. After a while she turned to the kitchen saying she’d start dinner and I went to the liquor cabinet and poured myself a large malt whisky, topping it up with an equal measure of water from the tap while mum busied herself with a chicken she was going to roast.
[If you have read this far I assume you have already read the three Out Of The Blue episodes about Peter finding me. If you haven’t, please do so as it will help you understand the emotion within this story so much better.
Also, you might like to read Peter’s Can You Love Two People, which recounts the dreadful situation he faced when he returned to Cheadle. Again this story will be more relevant if you have read his sad account of the break up, too.]
– o O o –
I stayed the night with mum and set off early on Monday for my waterside cottage in Bideford, getting back about midday after picking up some shopping.
My mind was still in turmoil after the weekend events and I was desperate to speak to Peter again, but felt I shouldn’t call him in case he was in the middle of important conversations with Charlotte, as his, his, his, what on earth was she? His girlfriend? His soon to be ‘ex’, I hoped. Jealousy reared its ugly head once more. No, I knew he wouldn’t let me down. Was I being uncharitable towards her? What if she’d made love to him last night? I couldn’t bear it. No, he wouldn’t have allowed it. Oh my Peter, please call me. I resolved to call him if I hadn’t heard from him by five.
I threw myself into some housework, giving the place an antipodes spring clean. About three in the afternoon the damn rock music started up again next door. My neighbour from hell was blasting his music deliberately in petty revenge for me criticising his beating of his dog. I looked out of the kitchen window and, there he was, heading across the estuary in his boat. The bastard. Pink Floyd playing on repeat for hours until he came back. [The first episode of Out Of The Blue explains this.]
Shortly after five the music stopped dead. I looked out the back and the boat had returned. He really was trying to be as hurtful as he could to me. I relaxed with a cup of tea and checked my email and facebook. Nothing from Peter. In fact no emails from anyone. This retirement was going to be difficult to get used to. I looked up Marcia’s facebook page and she was doing her usual stuff, going to shows and things in London. I felt lonely all of a sudden. Did I really need to have retired? The business gave me a wonderful capital sum, but I was going to miss the interaction with the clients and pupils. I suppose I should call Peter. Why hadn’t he telephoned? He must know how anxious I was to hear about his breaking of the news to her. I couldn’t say her name even to myself. I thought of her as a her in bold. It was easier that way. How dare she make love to my Peter for the past five years while, all the time, I was on my own? It was irrational of course. Should I ring his home or his mobile? If I rang the house it might be answered by her. I didn’t want to risk it. I wouldn’t know what to say. My God, if he’d already told her she’d be furious with me. No, I didn’t want that encounter. I’d better ring his mobile.
“The person you are calling can’t take your call at the moment. We will send them your number by text to let them know you called. If you wish to leave a message press the hash key now.”
No, I didn’t want to leave a message. Why hadn’t he called? I could use the 1470 secrecy number and call his house and lay down the receiver if it was answered by her. What if he answered, but she was there. Was he planning to ask her to leave? Why hadn’t we discussed all of this?
My tea was cold. I went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on again. Isn’t it amazing how long it takes to boil when you are standing waiting.
Finally it boiled and there was a knock at the door almost immediately after I’d filled my cup with the boiling water. Damn it. Now I’d have to throw this one away. It’d be too strong by the time I got back to it. Who’d be calling? I bet to myself it would be Jehovah’s Witnesses. If it was they’d picked the wrong person and the wrong moment and would get an atheist rant from me. I marched through the lounge to the front door and almost threw it open with an annoyed and frustrated expression upon my face.
“Hello,” he said, staring at my expression.
What a surprise? Peter stood there with a small suitcase. Was I dreaming?
“Can I come in or are you going to send me on my way?”
“Oh my God,” I cried and almost knocked him over with my embrace.
He staggered backwards and we kissed and kissed and kissed.
Finally he broke free, “Careful, the neighbours might talk,” he said.
I almost pulled him into the house and he grabbed his case with the other hand, banging it on the doorway as he was dragged inwards.
I kissed him again, violently, as hard as I could, trying to hurt both his lips and mine to prove it was really happening and causing my emotions to boil over allowing floods of tears to materialise. They were streaming down my face adding saltiness to our enduring kiss.
He seemed to know how desperate I was and made no attempt to break free, simply kissed me back hard and with real force as my hands kneaded his hair and face and pulled his head harder and harder onto mine as his hands finally seemed to appreciate my needs and encircled me in the most delightful and passionate hug.
I didn’t want it to stop. Didn’t want his lips to ever leave mine. I held his head tight to mine, kissing, kissing, kissing him with a fury and fervour I had never previously known.
Suddenly my desire joined forces with my incredible passion and I pulled his jacket off his shoulders. His hands released me allowing me to evict his arms from his sleeves as it fell to the floor. I yanked his shirt from his trousers and pulled it open, most of the buttons finding their way through the buttonholes, but at least two of them twanging their way across the room as it, too, fell from his shoulders. It barely registered upon me, as I caressed his naked chest, that his fingers were fumbling to free the cuffs before returning to me and lifting my top over my head exposing my bra-less bare breasts which were instantly enfolded in his large, warm hands.
Damn his belt, it was resisting my efforts to free the buckle, but finally it went, the clasps were quickly dealt with allowing the trousers to fall to the floor where he was kicking off his shoes barely in time to find his boxers also sliding to the floor. Almost naked I pulled him to me. My breasts impacting his chest hard enough to bruise as my hands and nails dug into those lovely buttocks, working his penis against my skirt front which was now being lifted as he dragged my panties to the floor.
“Where?” he asked.
“Come,” I said and dragged him towards the narrow wooden staircase which led up to my room. By the time we got to the bedroom door he’d shed his socks (thank God – hate men making love in socks) and I pulled him towards the bed where we both crashed down.
In seconds he was between my legs and I could feel Zebedee pressing against my entrance.
[Zebedee from the Magic Roundabout was my pet name for his penis.]
I pulled hard at his bum to force him into me. I was surprised it hurt me. I was dry and realised it was probably fewer than three minutes since we’d closed the front door. But it was lovely. His erection, hard as steel, deep inside me. Hot, moving wonderfully, at first hurting, but the early rasping discomfort was quickly replaced by the joy of his increasingly slick and lubricated penis as my body reacted to its unexpected invasion.
We kissed and kissed. My hands dug into his back. I knew I was being vicious. Digging deeply into him as his thrusting began apace. Oh yes, oh yes. He was being violent too. Our bodies were locked together, his balls slapping my bum with tremendous force, his penis stroking harder and faster and harder and faster. My legs rose into the air with the beauty of the feeling of being taken, hanging freely either side of his frenetic body until I clamped them around his waist as I began to rock back and forth in time with him, trying to extend the length of his thrusts, forcing them to come harder and faster, wanting to be hurt by him and to hurt him in return. Faster, faster, faster and inside I was so hot and sore from the friction, my clitoris suffering at each and every push of his pubic bone against my softness. It was coming. Oh, yes, it was coming. I knew I was on the way. The inexorable build up of tension and desire in my vulva and behind it deep within the softest recesses of my sex all of the alarms were sounding, warning of the impending explosion. I began to cry out and louder and louder and it turned into an agonising yet beautiful scream as my orgasm clenched and unclenched his heaving penis at the very moment of his ejaculation.
[The pictures we use in the stories are taken from the web – do ask us if you own one and would like it removed. I couldn’t find a single picture I could use with a girl being made love to in a skirt. Sorry, you’ll have to imagine the actual scene and my poor plaid skirt pushed up and over my waist. LOL.]
I could hardly breathe, but forced myself to inhale and shed more tears of incredible joy at the delectable feeling of being sated after such an uncontrollable episode of sheer loving, fucking, for that is the only word which does it justice. What a fuck? What a massive orgasm? How wonderful? I was done and dusted and could barely move. I felt my ankles unlock and my thighs sliding down his stilled hips, my hands morphing back from my alterego’s grasping taloned paws to the soft helpless fingers which now caressed his flanks. My breathing was easing while he was more slow to recover, so I savoured his erection still sheathed within me, but seemingly diminishing gradually and soon to slip from my carnal grasp.
The inevitable separation happened and we rolled onto our sides, he still gripping me tightly in the most gorgeous and enduring of cuddles as our eyes searched each other’s trying to see what was going on within the minds behind them.
“Do all callers get such a lovely welcome?” he finally asked.
I smiled, “Oh, yes. During election canvassing season it can be hard to fit them all in.”
“Which are best? Tory, Liberal or Labour?”
“The Monster Raving Looney candidates for sure. Thought you were one.”
“You did it?” I asked with a whisper.
“You didn’t notice?”
I punched him in the chest with my free hand, “I was asking if you’d told her?”
“Yes. It was awful. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Why are you here?”
“You mean you don’t want me here?”
I kissed him long and tenderly.
“Of course I do. I was so gobsmacked when I saw you at the door. I’d let a cup of tea go cold and I’d just poured the water into another one as you knocked at the door. I was furious I’d have to throw the second cup of tea away as well and wondered who it was. And it was you. A lovely, lovely you and I couldn’t help myself.”
“Angie you can continue to not be able to help yourself as often as you like.”
“You ruined my tea.”
“Come on. Show me where you keep stuff and I’ll make us another one. Probably need it even more now.”
I put my arm around him again and said, “I’m scared to let you go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“You serious? You here to stay?”
“If you’ll have me.”
We kissed again, and again, and again.
“I had to move out and it was either here or to my daughter’s. I knew I’d get a rough ride with her after having hurt Charlotte, so came here.”
“Ha ha, and got an even rougher ride.”
“That was amazing, Ang.”
“You’re really staying?”
“Yes please. I’ll use the spare room if you have one.”
I laughed, “This cottage hasn’t got room for spare anythings!”
We kissed and hugged again before we eventually disentangled our limbs to go downstairs for tea. We stood in the kitchen, me still in my now creased and soiled skirt, him naked behind me having lifted it to allow himself to sway side to side against my buttocks. I adored the caress of his flaccid penis on my bum as his hands hooked over my shoulders holding me to him.
“Finish making the tea, I’m leaking,” I said and grabbed some kitchen roll to use on my way to the bathroom.
I returned to find him sitting on the sofa with two steaming mugs of tea. I sat beside him, having cast off my badly soiled tartan skirt and only wearing some utilitarian M&S briefs capable of coping with his semen, God, that was some ejaculation. I was thrilling to his hand encircling my shoulders as I rested my cheek upon his chest.
What a perfect afternoon. I whispered I loved him and he reflected the sentiments.
– o O o –
Peter was falling asleep in front of the nine o’clock news after his somewhat distressing morning, long drive and violent afternoon fuck. We retired to bed to actually sleep with each other for only the second time in forty-six years and, I thought, for only the fourth time ever.
I climbed into bed beside his naked body, turned towards him to kiss him, but he was already fast asleep. I lay still and observed him. I watched his steady slow breathing and the sheet rising and falling gently over his chest. I studied the face of this wonderful man who, seemingly yesterday was only a teenager yet now exhibited all of the trappings of approaching old age. His face sported a short-cropped beard almost totally silver with some darker hairs either side of his mouth, in his sideburns and above his top lip. He kept the beard long enough to be soft, but unobtrusive. His hair was cropped and had thinned over the top. I witnessed the evidence of a dream in his eyes as they flickered and seemed to move within his closed eyelids. Was he reliving his momentous decision he’d taken to leave Charlotte? There, I’d said her name even if it was only to myself. Perhaps he was in torment over what he would say to his children when they discovered he’d run off to live with his childhood sweetheart.
I couldn’t resist tenderly stroking his cheek and feeling the softness of his beard. My hand slowly found its way under the sheet and rested, still, upon his chest, feeling the rise and fall as he breathed. Oh how I loved him.
– o O o –
Something was touching my face. It was his lips. I took a deep breath and turned to face him and our mouths met in a moist embrace of sheer and utter love.
“You’re really here?” I whispered.
“And you, too. Oh, Angie. I hadn’t realised how much I’d lived for this day until I awoke and found you beside me.”
“Love you, Peter. Can’t believe you are really here with me.”
“Tea on the bedside unit,” he indicated behind me and sat, propped against his pillows with a mug of tea he’d made for himself.
I forced myself to sit up and wriggled closer to him so our bodies were in contact, grasped the tea, which was made perfectly as if it was yesterday he’d last made tea for me in his parents house in Gurney forty-six years previously. The warmth of his body was a dream come true. His foot was resting against mine with his toes trying to caress my own. Our thighs were pressed tightly together with incredible warmth. Same with our hips and our shoulders. Our closest hands were intertwined while our free hands cupped the steaming beverage which we sipped, slowly.
“Seems like a dream,” he whispered.
“What, being together?”
“Yes and the intervening years seem to have vanished.”
“Oh, Peter, I am so furious with dad destroying your letters.”
“What did your letters say? What were you writing when I didn’t respond?”
“At first I wrote almost everyday, expecting replies, but nothing ever came. After about a week I stopped for a few days, assuming you were not yet at your new address. Then I became more upset and thought you were trying to break it off, to start anew.”
“Oh, Peter. It’s so unfair.”
“After about three or four weeks I’d given up, but I thought back to our undying promises of love during the last week in Gurney and I wrote several angry letters to you, demanding you write or ring me to explain why you were behaving so badly. I even spoke to Pat about it and she said she’d heard nothing except one call to tell her about your new school. I suppose they got fewer and fewer. I poured my heart out to you, pleading for you to answer and interspersing those with furious letters accusing you of being hateful towards me. Did you know your number was ex-directory in Stafford?”
“Oh, my darling. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he’d kept us unlisted.”
“When nothing came on my birthday that March I stopped writing. I made one final attempt when I sent your fifteenth birthday card in August ’65 and when nothing came of that I called it a day.”
There was nothing I could say. I simply squeezed his hand and sipped my tea.
Draining the last of the warm liquid from my mug, I jumped out of bed for the loo, freshened up and returned to the bedroom. I stood naked beside his side of the bed with my arms folded to hide the slight sag in my breasts. He looked up at me.
“I’m old,” I said and let my arms drop from their position folded under my breasts.
“You’re beautiful,” he replied and his left hand stroked from my outer thigh up to my hip.
I laughed a nervous laugh, “I’m sixty, Peter. Sixty.”
“As always I’m two years older than you, and overweight. You’re as slim and lovely as ever.”
I pushed the bed-clothes off him and kneeled between his legs with a hand on each side of his hips.
“You’re still handsome as hell to me, Peter Stone,” I said, rubbing my hands up and down his flanks.
“I love you, Angie. Always have. Always will.”
I straddled his hips and helped him wriggle his way down the bed so his head was supported by the two pillows. I could feel Zebedee becoming erect beneath me, resting against my vulva.
“Have you taken a tablet?” I asked as I sensed the quality of his erection.
“Well, I was hoping we could make use of it. Did I guess right?”
“God, I want you, Stone.”
“You’ve got me, Goodnight. I surrender.”
I lay down upon him with my thighs outside his, my tummy against the top of his erection and pressing against his slightly too convex abdomen, my breasts rested upon his warm chest and I wriggled upwards to bring our lips together.
What a heavenly kiss. Our mouths opened and embraced. Lips moist and mobile against each other’s, our tongues tenderly tasting our oral juices and textures. The kiss went on and on and on, becoming increasingly adventurous. We each nibbled the other’s lips, using our own to pull upon their rivals before returning to the overwhelming loving warmth of our open-mouthed kiss of joy and knowledge that we were together once more.
My mons was resting on Zebedee so I eased upwards until I felt him slip into the apex of my thighs, wriggled gently to assist him to seek out my entrance, once there I slid myself downwards to force his entry into my body.
Oh, the joyfully anticipated entry moment. The stretching of my vagina’s entrance to admit his glans, the heat and firmness inside me before I pushed further downwards to coerce his penis fully into my moist and welcoming sheath. The filling of me and sensation of being possessed overtook me. I closed my eyes, stilled our kiss and thrilled to his penetration. Absolutely delightful. Like the comfort of coming home after a long vacation.
I made myself more comfortable upon him and lifted myself so I was looking into those crystal blue orbs which have haunted me for four decades.
“I love you so much,” I whispered.
“Love you, too, Ang. You feel so good. Just as I always remembered.”
I began to ease myself back and forth upon him and could feel every motion of his member within my vagina. The friction as it moved upwards, the lovely point of maximum penetration and the more smooth slide backwards. I repeated the motion and there it was, coming along my length, stretching and filling until once more, like receding waves it was slipping backwards again.
Another motion not wanting it to leave my body, concentrating on maintaining our carnal contact and anew, it retreated smoothly.
Again the thrust downwards forcing it into me, sensing every ridge and vein as it trekked inwards only to slide wetly downwards to the point where my muscles would try to evict him. Before my treacherous kegels could expel him I moved down again gripping him within me, tightly, concentrating on squeezing every ounce of pleasure from each glorious stroke of our lovemaking.
All the time our lips were either locked together or nibbling. Our tongues tasting and savouring their partners or we spoke sweet nothings or words of love so beautiful and adoring, explaining we knew this love was forever. For ever and ever and ever.
I was so hot and my vulva so sensitive I knew I was close to orgasm and if I carried on like this it would arrive in seconds.
“I’m going to come,” I whispered.
“Love you, Ang.”
“Please. Can’t wait.”
The motions continued. No faster. No more urgency. Simple slow motions back and forth, moving him like a piston within me. I could never have masturbated to orgasm so slowly. This really was a build up full of emotion rather than sheer sexual arousal. Back and forth. Back and forth.
The intensification of the mysterious and extraordinary internal pressure was continuing. Despite the slow motions I knew I was close. The heat. The heat within. I felt my kegels tensing. Yes under my control, but vital to push me nearer to the edge from which I so wanted to leap.
Closer, closer, closer. I remembered a tiny whimpering cry as my whole body relaxed and released the most incredible orgasm of unconditional joy. My body held still, relaxed upon him, unable to move, but there was movement. My vagina, anus and clit released their programmed climax, squeezing his penis once, twice, three times and four and five and six and seven and eight. All of the time I was still, unable to breathe, heart pumping. A second sequence began at nine and ten and eleven and twelve and thirteen before another pause when I gasped a breath. The movement of my body triggered fourteen and fifteen and sixteen and seventeen. Another gasp.
I barely heard his whisper, “Angie that is so amazing. Love you.”
I half laughed in my exhaustion, but my mind was coming out of its ecstasy and I began my slow movements again. Continuing the wonderful slow rhythm which was masturbating his penis within me and keeping my own orgasmic desire right on the edge.
I felt him move slightly which pushed him deeper into me and, oh my God, I was off again. I stopped breathing while contraction after contraction wracked my vulva anew. I couldn’t believe the bliss I was experiencing. My body seemed to be trying to make up for all of those forty years of lost fucking with my teenage lover.
Again I began to breathe and move, continuing my lovemaking motions, still sensing every inch of his manhood as it remained so delectably erect within me then I remembered he hadn’t yet come. I looked into his eyes.
“Love you, Peter.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Would you like to come?”
“Yes, but no hurry. Your orgasms are magnificent.”
“You’re feeling them okay?”
“Every clench. Wonderful.”
“Another one any second,” I cried with the word second increasing in pitch as yet another full-blown orgasm arrived right on schedule.
How long could this go on? I was exhausted. Every time I moved I seemed to trigger another heavenly wave of uncontrollable spasms. I could feel them squeezing him, seemingly wanting to alternately suck him deeper into me and evict him in equal measure.
I began to move again and felt a slight kick from his penis within me. I wrongly assumed he was coming, but I was wrong. It was, however, enough to fire off another ecstatic sequence. I was so overwhelmed I literally cried real tears which Peter responded to by kissing and licking my cheeks and eyes and nose and mouth and, here we go again. The emotion of it all, more than any physical effect this time, triggered another full progression of mind-blowing internal compressions. How exquisite, how exciting. The greatest and most lovely pleasurable experience a woman could ever have. But so exhausting when they run into each other like this. I’ve always been very orgasmic but this was crazy.
“I can’t go on,” I whispered and felt his hands grasp me by the hips to hold me still while he began his own thrusting from underneath me.
Barely eight or ten strokes and another orgasm hit me and he was still pushing and forcing himself as deep within me as hard as he could manage. It was so very lovely and my vulva truly seemed to be incapable of resting. I was experiencing a continual and irresistible flow of undulating waves of contractions in groups of four or five or six or seven with barely a similar number of seconds between them.
I was incapable of anything now. Absolutely knackered. Totally sated, but the best was yet to come.
I don’t know how long we’d been making love, but finally the telltale thickening and hardening of his erection warned me he was on the verge of completion.
His thrusts slowed almost to a standstill then he pushed as deeply into me as he could, cried a single word, “Angie,” and I felt Zebedee kick violently within my vagina igniting a final explosive set of orgasmic constrictions which seemed to go on forever, certainly way beyond his ejaculation.
We were both panting for breath, absolutely wasted.
Slowly we recovered, my head sideways on his shoulder and his hands tenderly stroking my sides and back and bum and arms. So wondrous and awe-inspiring. So much in love.
I fell asleep, drained from the exertions, only waking when I felt him move slightly beneath me. We kissed and I rolled over onto my side of the bed. Our lovemaking was over, we held hands and stared at the oak beams crisscrossing the bedroom ceiling.
– o O o –
We rose and breakfasted about eleven and Mister Moron next door started his music again. This time it was Led Zeppelin. Peter was horrified and said he was going to have it out with my neighbour, but I pointed out the culprit was already disappearing across the river in his boat.
So, rather than put up with the noise, I took him out for a walk to get to know the town and countryside within walking distance. Bideford is such a pretty place.
[The cottage I lived in during 2010 is just hidden from view beyond the bridge (with its strange construction of no two arches being the same) on the right side of the estuary.]
The previous evening Peter had explained the terrible time he’d had explaining to Charlotte what had happened to destroy her world. I felt dreadfully sad for her. My tears fell with Peter’s as he told me how desolate she’d been. He also explained what he was doing with his house and suggested as this cottage was too small for the two of us, we should find something a little larger and asked if I fancied returning to Gurney, where we’d been at school together. It seemed a good idea, squaring the circle, so to speak.
We discussed finances. I had a large five-figure nest egg from selling the business and flat in London, plus a really good pension and no mortgage on the cottage, but Peter’s wealth was a bit of a shock to me. As well as the enormous house in Cheadle, well half of it anyway, he also had a villa in the south of France near St Tropez and investments totalling several million even after the 2008 crash. So, we would be very comfortably off and could enjoy what life had to offer for our autumn years.
We decided to put my cottage onto the market straight away and go to Gurney the following weekend to see what was on offer there.
We had a pub lunch in the town centre and got home about two. The music had stopped and Peter was determined to go and see him. I tried to discourage him. After all this guy was a burly Devon fisherman in his thirties. I feared for Peter’s safety, but he was adamant. When he went through the door I opened the window so I could eavesdrop upon the conversation. I heard him knock on the door.
“I’m Peter Stone. Angela next door is my wife,” I felt good about his lie.
Mister Moron said something, but I didn’t catch it.
Peter continued, “I’m now moving in and I don’t want you and I to fall out so how about a truce over whatever you and Angie argued about?”
“No more music aimed at our walls. Okay?”
“Okay. Oh, and you’ll park so Angie doesn’t have trouble getting into her space?”
Another mumbling sound.
“That’s fine, then. Hopefully we can be good neighbours in future. Oh, by the way, can you repair the fence so we can put some plants against our side?”
“It would be a good gesture, don’t you think?”
“Okay, Jack. I’m Peter, by the way. Let me know if you need a hand with anything.”
I saw a hand appear from the doorway and they shook hands. A minute later Peter came back through the door.
“Right. That’s resolved,” he said.
I kissed him.
“If he beats his dog again I’ll still have to say something,” I said.
“Better to report him and say nothing.”
He always seemed to see things so clearly, “You’re right as usual,” I agreed and we kissed again.
We made some tea and sat together on the settee listening to Fleetwood Mac, gently cuddling each other.
“What would you like to do this afternoon? We could go down the coast to Bude or up to Barnstaple?”
“Angie, I’d rather stay in and make love with you again. Please. However, I’ve used my tablet for the day this morning, so I might need some coaxing. Only one allowed each twenty-four hours.”
My face must have beamed back at him for he leaned over, kissed me tenderly and said, “I can’t believe I’ve found you after all of these years.”
“Bedroom heater,” I exclaimed, jumped up and ran up to the bedroom to get it nice and warm for us. I had no central heating upstairs, but coaxing Zebedee to an orgasm would, I was sure, not be a problem – and, of course, it wasn’t.
Read Peter’s take on this story here.
Angela Goodnight, 4th December 2014