Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 46

"Oh, you mean the piano?" she asked with pretended innocence.

"Of course I mean the piano. How come you never told me you could play?"

"You never asked," she smiled.

"Well, I'm asking you now. Have you got any other little accomplishments you've never let on about?"

She looked dubious. "Like what, for instance?"

"Oh, I don't know, like riding a horse or something."

"Don't be silly, darling," she laughed. "Of course I can ride a horse."

I thought she was joking and left it there, but it turns out to be true. Apparently a man living just up the road from her, back in Scotland, used to breed ponies and she started riding almost before she could walk. And now that money is no object she has joined an exclusive riding club with stables adjacent to Hyde Park and she often hires a horse and goes for a brisk canter along Rotten Row. Occasionally I go and watch. She looks incredibly sexy, totally in control of a huge powerful horse, her red hair flowing behind her in the wind in splendid defiance of the club rule that riding helmets must be worn at all times.

She gets away with it because this is usually about six in the morning, which reminds me of another of Fran's quirks, and one that is all the more remarkable considering her profession: she must surely be the only "early to bed, early to rise" whore in London. In complete contrast to the rest of my girls, who stay up late and sleep late and in some cases appear to be almost entirely nocturnal, Fran is always up and about by six, sometimes much earlier, and since she likes to be in bed by ten she will turn down lucrative late-night meetings with perfectly good clients because she is afraid she will inopportunely fall asleep. On the other hand, her early morning availability is appreciated by many clients, and if you are a business traveller staying in London with an eight-o'clock erection in need of attention (what the girls call a "morning glory") you could do no better than to call Fran, who for a trifling two hundred pounds, or an extra fifty if you want her to take it up the ass, will put a smile on your face that will last all day.

Fran has approached her new calling with the earnestness and focus typical of her in everything she undertakes, and as her husband it gives me nothing but pleasure to say that the inexperienced and rather strait-laced girl of a year ago has blossomed into a skilled and attentive lover, full of ideas to make a man happy.

Nor is the seriousness with which she goes about things the only characteristic that has remained constant: she still reads omnivorously (the fruit of a childhood without television); she displays incredible ingenuity in reconciling the requirements of her profession with her enduring instinct to occupy the moral high ground in any situation (not for nothing do the other girls sometimes teasingly address her as "Mother Superior"); and she still combines her fascination with the world around her with a complete lack of interest in matters domestic, so she remains the same Fran for whom boiling an egg is a major culinary challenge.

So, in spite of everything, Fran is unaltered in her essentials. But for some time I felt that something was different, something subtler and more elusive that the loosening of sexual morals that is the most obvious change. It irritated me that I could not put my finger on it, but maybe I was too close.

Last month, when Fran went back to Scotland for a long weekend to see her family and a few old friends, she looked up someone that has known her all her life: the head teacher, long since retired, of the local primary school. It was she that encouraged Fran to read and first sat her at a piano, and she has ever since kept a watchful eye on her pupil's progress through life. She was, naturally, delighted to see Fran so ... happy? No, that was not quite the right word. Contented? No, not that either.Serene. With that the old lady hit the nail on the head. Over the last year Fran has attained a kind of rich inner calmness that she never had before. And now that I have been alerted to it I realise that this quality of relaxed assurance comes across in everything she does, even in the way she walks and the way her eyes meet yours, and it is this, rather than any change in her physical appearance, that has transformed the pretty girl of a year ago into the ravishing young woman of today, who turns men's heads wherever she goes.

*

What of the future? How long can I go on like this? Wendy insists that I have got younger over the last year and that FUCK is some kind of elixir of youth, but this is wishful thinking. It is true that I have lost a fair amount of weight, and my muscle tone has improved, but these changes result not from any magical quality of FUCK but from all the horizontal exercise I have been getting. Although I still refer to myself as being fat, I think these days a passer-by seeing me in the street would probably describe me as stocky. I detect no weakening of sexual capacity or desire at the age of almost fifty-one, and I reflect that Albert was nearly seventy when he died, yet clearly still expected to get the benefit, so I ought to be good for a few years yet.

I have yet to decide what to do when my girls' sexual desire lessens and their fertility returns. Fran, of course, will still be easily young enough to start a family and I look forward to giving her the children I am sure she will want. She can have as many as she likes. Other girls too will, of course, want children and I ponder from time to time whether to supply the need myself or encourage them to find husbands. I suspect the answer will be a bit of both. I feel confident, incidentally, that my girls will make excellent wives if called upon in that capacity; they will, according to Albert, be fertile, affectionate and maternal, and while their sex drive may no longer be spectacular I can guarantee that their present occupation will have taught them more than enough to keep any husband happy in the bedroom.

My fifty-first birthday is coming up in a few weeks, and Wendy and Fran are preparing something special for me. I keep coming across them plotting and giggling together; they think I am desperate to discover what they have in mind, but in fact I am content to let it unfold in its own good time. After all, if I were as much consumed by curiosity as they think, I could have ordered one of them to tell me.

And today is the exact anniversary of FUCK, a year to the day since I so heedlessly swallowed Uncle Albert's potion. It is a time to look back and reflect. It has been a time of dramatic upheaval in my life, especially the first few weeks when I struggled to understand and deal with what was happening to me. I wonder what Albert would have done, had he used FUCK on himself as he intended. It is sobering thought. He combined a consuming interest in sex with, so far as I could see, an entire lack of concern for women as people, and I fear the result might have been devastating for everyone. His motto, I suspect, would have been "Find 'em, fuck 'em, forget 'em". I like to think I have done better by my girls than that. But maybe this is self-deception.

And what of me? Has FUCK made me happy? The answer, which I know must come as a crushing disappointment to all good moralists, is that it has. Any other outcome would, after all, be a poor reflection on the nearly two hundred women whose uppermost concern is my pleasure. Before FUCK came into my life I was in a rut; and I still am, only an entirely different type of rut, like some rampant stag in a never-ending mating season.

FUCK certainly has its drawbacks. One is the fear that my activities will become known to the authorities or, worse still, the press. Another is that I cannot undertake any activity that will last more than a couple of hours unless I can arrange for a sex break; so simple a thing as taking Fran out for a meal means insisting that we must be waited on only by men in some alcove well away from other diners, and I have to ensure there is a flat nearby with a girl where I can go for relief between courses. Travelling any distance would be so hard to organise that I am a virtual prisoner in London, although I have to add that I can think of nowhere else I had rather be confined.

But FUCK has its blessings too. I bask in the love and admiration of my girls. Induced it may be, but Fran's Law applies. Not one of them would undo it if she could, and that must count for something. And of course, there is the sex; there is still nothing to equal the feeling of drenching a moist young cunt in hot sticky cum, especially when the girl is a new one, confused, even frightened, made helpless in my hands by an overwhelming lust such as she has never known. This moment of capture remains, if I am honest, the sweetest taste of all. It is something that I suspect will feature largely in whatever Wendy and Fran have planned for me.

*

As this first anniversary has approached, I have spent more and more time between fucks writing up this account, and a couple of days ago I got it into a state that I was willing to share with Fran and Wendy in order to get their views and satisfy their curiosity about why I have been at the computer so much lately. I discussed it with them just now. They both claimed to have enjoyed it thoroughly, but they are, of course, programmed to please so I am not letting this praise go to my head.

Wendy pointed out that the printout bore no title.

"Don't you think," I asked her, "that Uncle Albert has already chosen the only possible title?"

"I suppose so," she agreed, "but in that case I think it needs a subtitle to give a clearer idea of what it's about."

"Like what, for instance?"

She thought a moment. "How about," she suggested, "A Summer's Tale of a Man, a Corrupt Genius, and Two Birthday Parties?"

I weighed this. "Hmm... What do you think, Fran?"

Fran wrinkled her nose prettily. "It's a bit wordy," she replied. "If you want a descriptive subtitle, why not one that just says what it is?"

"Which would be...?"

"Well," said Fran as if she were stating the obvious, "it'sA Love Story."

* * *