A Death, A Life

We were students at University. My ex-girlfriend died in tragic circumstances—pneumonia was on the death certificate, but medical error was suspected. To be honest, I had loved her more than my current girlfriend. The night she died we fucked like animals, needing the immediacy of flesh on flesh. We needed to know we were still alive. Death is a shock to anyone, but to young people the shock is seismic: we had had no real world-wide wars and the NHS was slowly reducing quotidian death. No one I knew had died since I was an infant and too young to be really aware of it.

My girlfriend, J, was a Rubens painting, all curves and contours to be fondled and fooled with. But my dead ex-girlfriend had been my ideal woman in many respects. She wasn't conventionally pretty: she had a large nose and cropped hair. There was a gamine quality to her, despite her luxuriant breasts. For the linguistically curious, gamine is a French word that means a boy-ish woman. Well, F was certainly a woman: she fucked like one, felt like one, reacted like one. And yet, there was that boy-ish element, that touch of masculinity about her that I loved so much.

I do not have any homosexual leanings, believe me: though she had. I knew before I went out with her that she had lived in a ménage à trois (her description) with another couple, and she indirectly broke my heart after we had parted when a friend told me of the night he had spent with her and another woman, and that he had particularly enjoyed watching F eating the other woman.

Why did we part? Her past experience was something to do with it. I was, frankly, provincial and gauche. She was metropolitan and omnisexual. God, how I wanted to be like her: God, how my background totally bolloxed it. How many times, even after I was with J, did she tell me she loved me—but it wouldn't work. She wanted freedom—from any relationship, not just from me. She knew how romantic I was, how I would marry her like a shot if I could: so she gently kept me away. I wanted her so badly, but she knew she wanted others too, and that I would not be able to accept that, being so young and so inexperienced in life. I hated that cruel-to-be-kindness. It has an effect.

So F was dead, and neither of us understood it. So we fucked. This was no ordinary student fuck—we fucked each other black and blue. I was (still am) shocked at the violence with which we went at each other. J, hitherto insecure about sucking cock, was almost choking herself trying to swallow me, whilst I ate her pussy with gluttonous relish and then transferred my attention to her arsehole. J went wild with my tongue in her bum. It made me think of the times I had had anal sex with F, her slender buttocks pounding against my stomach, her obscenities flying into my ears. J had never been interested, indeed had resolutely rejected any approach I had previously made. And yet here she was, her arse gyrating about my tongue.

There was so much on (and deliberately off) my mind that I put that aside, tossed J onto her back and fucked her savagely, my hips slapping hers. The rough music of our flesh filled the room. I turned her over again and had at her like a dog. My thighs were awash in her juices. I love the taste, the smell of pussy, but the room stank of her—and I loved it all the more, wanted it, drove into it, drew it into my nostrils. I pulled out of her and sank my face into her hindquarters, lapping up the waterfall from her clit into the swamp of her pussy: no, she said -- shouted --that it was her cunt that night. Her cunt that I should suck and fuck. And at that moment I sucked it, my face wet beyond wet in her.

And then, like an army struggling out of the muddy grip of a river struck end-on, I found the comparatively dry ground of her arsehole. J's moans changed pitch as I savoured the different taste of her, my tongue rimming and then plunging in, gung-ho, no prisoners taken, reaming her as she writhed on all fours. Her arms shot up to slap the wall behind the bed, changing my angle but not my purpose. Her right arm flailed out, and I thought she was going to pull me away. Instead, blindly, she grabbed her tub of hand lotion off the bedside table. With the motions of someone newly awakened from a coma, she dropped the tub next to me on the rumpled bed.

"Fuck it. DO IT!"

J, who hated the whole notion of anal sex, now lay before me with my tongue still deep in her arse, begging for it. F, and her untimely, stupidly young death hung around the bed along with J's rich loamy odour as I lathered my cock with hand lotion. It's vanilla smell almost broke the spell of what we were about to do. But then J thrust her bottom back up from the recumbent pose she'd taken when released from my tongue, and my greasy cock met it and her anus kissed the tip of it and opened, slowly, stretchingly, to admit me.

I knew it was hard for her. I knew she hated giving this profound intimacy to me, whom she wasn't sure of, who might not love her. It was her last virginity, and she was giving it up in lust and pain. My cock made slow headway through her sphincter. I was conscious that she hurt. I was thinking of the ease with which F took me that way, twisting her head to kiss me as I sank into her bowels. But J's head was sinking into the pillows, and her moans were not good moans.

Without clear thought I disengaged and brought my mouth down to her anus. My tongue sank in before my brain had a chance to acknowledge the very different taste of hand lotion. What had been natural and earthy was now chemical and rank. I nearly gagged, but then J's moans shifted back from minor to major and I kept on tongueing her hard until I felt her relax enough and I quickly brought my cock back to her hole and pushed and I was in her, all the way, and her moans hadn't shifted down that tone that had worried me, and her arse pulsed against my belly.

Was F looking down at her successor's defloration? Was J infused with some of her spirit in that moment when she felt my cock touch her arse? Who knows? What I do know is that J, suddenly, unmistakeably impaled through her anus, went wild. She was at heart a sweet Home Counties girl, and although the sex that night had been uninhibited this was something else. As I pushed slowly into her arse and pulled slowly out, so the motion seemed to unblock in J all those dirty words she could never quite say without blushing, and they spewed from her mouth onto the knotted sheets and soaked in with our sweat and saliva.

I did what she unashamedly asked. I sodomised her, buggered her, fucked her arse. She screamed at me to "cum in her bum" and I did. We stayed coupled there for an age, found the strength to kiss and then flopped forward onto the pillows and sank into sleep, slowly growing up.

Someone died. Something was born. I doubt if either of us knew what it was.