Jack's Return

My vibrant, sensual Becky was taken from me after six blissful years together. Gone so swiftly, so cruelly. Just another hit and run victim. The driver was never found. So sudden the loss, I was reduced to an aching shell, sure it would take me forever to shake off the spell of her. Alive but running on empty, I was sustained only by memories of her.

Sustained, yet tortured. Sustenance was in recalling her infectious giggle, her azure blue eyes, her reproving frown when I had too much to drink, the sheer joy of her open welcoming face.

But at night, alone in that bed, I tortured myself reliving all the intimate moments we had shared; the uncertain, yet eager way she had surrendered her virginity to me, an ex-gigolo who had experienced women in many forms; the quickening of her breath as I paid homage to her small but perfect breasts, with my fingers, lips and tongue; the exquisite smooth skin of her inner thigh; the way she trembled as my fingers trailed through her tawny triangle, lingering there as she squealed, "You're teasing me." So I would slowly venture into that secret valley. I relived her body spasms as my tongue replaced my finger on her magic spot, and our mutually wild coming together, building to that wonderful crescendo, each luxuriating in the joy of the other's body.

Her early inhibitions gone she would take the lead wanting only to pleasure me. Her mouth enveloping my eager erection, drawing me to the back of her throat, her blue eyes turned up to see my face and gauging, and delighting in the reaction she was having.

For nearly two years I spent my nights reliving our time together, ending up either tearful or with a massive erection, often both. Having no wish to relieve myself by hand, I'd get up and take a cold shower. When that didn't work I'd dress and walk into the midnight cool.

Friends tried to set me up, urging me to get into mixed company. Half heartedly I went along with it, being introduced to unattached women, mainly divorcees. Most of them were highly attractive ladies, and given my active past it was hard to believe that, after two years of celibacy, I had little interest in any of them. Becky remained strong in my mind. Some were peeved by my reluctance, others were less interested than I was, while one brightly dyed blonde, clearly over forty years, leaned into me and whispered, "I swallow, you know." And when I muttered, "Oh, hell." she replied with a salacious wink, "No-- heaven."

But even that kind of promise failed to appeal. It seemed I was a lost cause.

I lived in a comfortable three bedroomed house with gardens front and rear, and one Sunday morning, I was in my front garden pruning back some rampaging shrubs when I noticed three people all dressed in black coming out of a house about five blocks down on the other side of the road. They crossed to my side and as they approached in unusual single file, I saw they were each wearing long black coats and black hats. A tall man in front, followed by two women. As they came level with my garden I said a friendly, "Good morning!"

The man, early fifties I guessed, glanced, gave a curt nod, his long pasty face remaining grim. A similar expression showed on the face of the second woman, probably his wife.

The third was younger, mid twenties, her eyes flickered towards me and then down. And I stood there with my breath caught up in my throat. That face. Delicate, pale, without any make-up was absolutely beautiful, high cheek bones, full lips. I heard the shuddering of my own breath as they moved away. For thirty seconds Becky's image had been blanked from my mind. Guilt poured in on me.

"What about that, then, Jack?"

The voice snapped me out of my stupor. Mrs Grange leaned over the hedge in the next door garden.

"Who—who are they?" I managed to gasp, my eyes fixed on the retreating figure.

"Moved into number 78 about three or four weeks ago. Name's Bakerwell. He's one of these religious sect preachers," Mrs Grange was the eyes and ears of the street. "Creationists or something like that. No alcohol, no decorative clothing, no gambling and, get this, Jack, no sex except for procreation." She laughed out loud, "That's their daughter. Which means they've done it once. God, must be a bloody cold house that one."

It did sound weird. But that face lingered in my mind for a long while, only when I lay in bed that night was I able to call up Becky's tingling touch, and once again, cold showered, I took my midnight walk, noticing as I passed number 78, a light shining in the window of what would be the smaller bedroom. Was that her room? Why was I suddenly bothered?

It was two weeks later that I saw the black clad figures leaving number 78 again. A curiosity about that face had remained but on this day I was surprised to see that there was only the two elder Bakerwells. No sign of the girl. With an uncomfortable sense of disappointment I went to ask Mrs Grange, who told me that the girl appeared to have moved out. Not on holiday, she thought, it looked more permanent than that.

And I remembered that there had been no light in that bedroom window for a week or so. But why should I feel so heavy hearted? I didn't even know the girl.

And that, as they say, seemed to be that.

Only it wasn't. Much of life can be dependent on luck, coincidence or just call it chance. But the following week my business of buying, finding and providing old films and books took me to the local annual book fair.

After about fifteen minutes of viewing the bigger stalls I started drifting to the older books. A place where bargains can often be found. I was reaching for a copy of Edgar Alan Poe stories, hoping it might be an early edition, when a fine female hand picked up a book near my target. I glanced up and it was like being kicked in the chest.

That haunting face. I had only seen it framed by a black hat and coat but now it was the vibrant raven black of her hair that flowed to her shoulders. The full mouth was accentuated by a gentle pink lipstick. A white blouse outlined a pert bosom.

My voice sounded like I'd just come from a ten mile run as I stammered, "Hello---Miss Bakerwell, isn't it?" Why had I remembered the name? Why was I feeling like this? What about Becky?

She looked up at me with some surprise and a little uncertainty showing in her strikingly green eyes. "Yes, it is. Oh, hello—you were the night walker."

"The what?"

"Didn't you used to walk past my parent's house around midnight?"

Staggered that she knew, I could only give a dumb nod. All around us people were jostling. That brought me to my senses. "Look, would you allow me to buy you a coffee? There's a room at the back of the hall"

She hesitated only a moment. A nervous glance at me. And then like sunshine a smile lit up that tantalising face, "I'd like that."

As soon as we were settled at a cosy table near the window looking out on bright floral gardens, she told me her name was Maria, and I asked about her seeing me at midnight.

"Just by chance one night. Then I started watching for you." She blushed as soon as she said it. "I don't mean—I didn't--"

I chuckled, delighted by the idea of her watching for me. I felt myself entering a a new mind state. For the first time in two years a woman appealed to me. "It's no problem." I said, enjoying her innocent embarrassment.

"Is it rude of me to ask why you walked then?"

How rude would it be to give her the truthful answer? To walk off a huge erection!

"I'm a poor sleeper," I said.

"Your wife doesn't mind?"

I told her about Becky. And again she blushed and said, "I'm so sorry."

"You couldn't know. But what about you?"

She sighed, and for a moment looked almost tearful. "A long story," she said. But went on to tell how her whole life she had been subjected to her father's religious beliefs. He had joined the sect before she was born and she had been brought up under his rules in which entertainment, colour and pleasure were near sinful. She had only been allowed to read religious texts and was home taught to prevent contamination.

"But in my late teens I smuggled other books into my bedroom. Read late into the night and began to realise there was another life to live."

"I noticed your window light."

Again she blushed, "Why would you notice?"

"Your face---without make-up—I noticed that, but the make-up just enhances your---" I was about to say 'beauty' but that might sound too forward,"---appearance."

"Thank you. " she touched her cheek. "Make-up. My first steps away from formality."

"But your not at home now."

Her eyes flashed with some inner fire, " Reading my secret books I began questioning my future. Had massive rows with my father. Finally I found I could get myself a job, rented a flat and after one final blazing row I left." She looked almost pitifully at me as she added, "I've so much to learn."

"Like?" I asked, feeling a forgotten overheating as I gazed at her fine features, the high cheek bones, dominated by the almost luminous green eyes.

"Like---well this now---talking to a man---alone. Without being watched. I need to buy modern clothes for myself. These are all I have at the moment. I need to stop being shocked by what I've seen on television over the past two weeks. I need to know what it's like when---" She stopped, bent over her cappuccino, the redness spreading up from her elegant neck. I could have sat there looking all day.

"Well, we've only just met but if there's anything I can help with--"

Her eyes looked up at me, widening, questioning and Jack hastily added, "If you want a male opinion on clothes you buy I could shop with you tomorrow." I hated shopping for clothes, but this was an easy exception. " I'd even take you to lunch----If that's all right."

"Why would you want to do that?"

Answer was simple, "I like your face."

Another flushed cheek as she asked, "And you wouldn't mind?"

Mind? Only one other woman had had this effect on me. And her acceptance of my offer

gave me such a lift that I went home and gazed apologetically at a photograph of Becky. This girl had totally shaken my resolve.

So we met the next day. Just watching her approach, still in white blouse and jeans, put a lump in my throat. And being with her buried my dislike of shopping.

She ended up buying two dresses, but it was the trying them on that got to me. After her second appearance in a green sleeveless number that clung to her curves as though made for her, I felt a familiar twitching down below. When the third dress came on show, flowing out as she twirled, I had a full blown erection.

Nervous about getting out of my seat I urged her to get the green, "matches your eyes", and the orange dresses. When she came back with her packages I offered to carry them and held them discreetly in front of me while my bulge subsided.

Lunch went by in a dream. We talked and I found that she was able to hold my gaze more easily. I drove her back to her flat, and like a gentleman got out of the car and held the door while she struggled out with her parcels.

"Thank you," she said as we reached her door. "I've enjoyed that."

Quickly I asked if she would like to meet for dinner the following night, "You could wear the green," I urged.

Her eyes held mine as she hesitated before agreeing.

Gently I placed my hands on her shoulders, felt the slight tenseness there, before kissing her on the cheek. "I'll look forward to it," I said, as her hand drifted to her cheek.

"So will I"

In that green dress she was ogled by a few male eyes as we entered the restaurant on the following night. I had been as excited as I'd ever been on a date. The meal was first class and Maria had her first sip of white wine, which she wasn't too sure of at first, but had finished one glass by the time the meal was over.

"Coffees, sir, " the waiter asked, and I looked questioningly at Maria. She shook her head and when the waiter had left she whispered, "I've bought myself a percolator. I'd like you to try it out."

Come on, I told myself, you are a highly experienced guy. You shouldn't be feeling like a besotted schoolboy.

Back in her flat which was conservatively but femininely decorated, the coffee was just right. We talked some more about my business and her new job with a local publisher. "I'm hoping to become a reader for them.," she said.

At eleven fifteen I felt it to be a discrete time to leave. I stood and told her how much I had enjoyed the evening and her company. She stood along side me, " I enjoyed it too. May I return this." And she placed her hands on my shoulders and kissed me on the cheek. As she stepped back, pink faced, she murmured, "I've wondered what a real kiss was like."

In a daze and without another thought I gently placed my lips on hers, with my left arm around her back and my right hand on her side so that the heel of my hand rested on the initial rise of her left breast.

It had been my intention to merely provide a slight taster, but the touch of her, the fullness of her lips, the scent of her, made my lips linger on hers. And she didn't resist. My tongue was eager to probe but feared she might find that off-putting.

When I broke away she kept her head tilted, and her breath shuddered out of her. Green eyes, the colour of a Caribbean sea, held mine uncertainly. "That was good," she sighed.

"Glad you liked it."

"There's more in a kiss than that though, isn't there?"

"Is that question from the books you read?"

She laughed, and then checked; looking surprised, "That's something I hadn't done for a long time until I've gone out with you."

"What's that?"

"Laugh, "she said. "There weren't many laughs in our house."

"Maybe I should make sure you laugh more often."

She nodded and I quickly added, hoping my timing was right, "And maybe explore whether there's more in a kiss?"

"How many girls have you kissed since----since--"

I helped her out of her awkwardness, "You are the first."

Her face lit up in surprise," Then yes, please—I don't mind exploring."

Over the next few weeks we took long Summer walks along tree lined river banks, gradually going hand in hand. We visited cinemas and the theatre and she laughed and cried at the elements of drama on view. I took her to some of the more historic sites in the area and she was enthralled by the stories they evoked. Seeing her growing enthusiasm, the joy and freedom in those wonderful eyes, gave me a lift I had almost forgotten.

And of course there was the the further exploration of that kiss. Despite her innocence and my allegiance to Becky's memory, I pondered the responsibility of leading her along more intimate paths. It had to be her own urges which guided me. And there was another doubt in my mind---it had been two years. Did I still have the skill, the necessary delicacy that would be so needed with Maria.

It took me eight weeks to find out.

Each meeting the kissing got stronger. More importantly her responses became more positive. Her lips softened, parted slightly, two pairs of lips exploring each other. It was the third week before our tongues touched, a tingle of electric shock shook both of us, and she was panting as our mouths parted. Each date I had placed my right hand alongside her left breast, and in the fourth week she twisted her body so that my hand slipped easily to cup her wonderful bosom, to squeeze ever so gently. "I've wondered what that would be like," she whispered. "And I knew you wanted to."

All the time I was constantly reminding myself of her repressed background. One night during the sixth week I tentatively unbuttoned her blouse. At the freeing of the first button she broke from the kiss, looked at me, before placing her mouth on mine again. Other buttons opened to reveal no bra. I felt her shudder slightly as I first marvelled at the perfect shape and thrust of her breasts, with their delicate brown nipples.

Tentatively, and feeling myself harden, I ran my fingertips over the incredible smoothness of each mound, trailing around and over each nipple. My fingers felt her heart beating like a hammer. I lowered my head to gently kiss those tempting mounds, moving lips and tongue around the darkly raised nipple, she half turned away, her breathing short and gasping, "It's not a sin, is it?"

I raised my head to look into her eyes, "Only if your heart tells you it is. I'll stop if you wish.". Bold of me since my trousers were bulging massively.

"It felt so good," she admitted. "It can't be wrong. I so want it to be you, Jack." And added, "It has to be you, you've seen my breasts. Why don['t I feel embarrassed?"

So the slow progress went on. For me it was often pure agony. Somehow I was able to direct her attention from the serious bulge my erection was making. Despite my past experience of women, I feared it might scare her off. Yet when we kissed standing up she must have been aware of "the gun in my pocket".

Sometime in the seventh week as we stood in a warm clinch our lips and tongues working frantically, I knew for certain that she was indeed aware. Her hips unexpectedly began to grind, thrusting her delta against my hardness. Almost trembling with the surprise of it, I pressed into her thighs felt them part slightly so that I was thrusting through trousers and her clothes in the direction of her dark, sweet secrets.

She broke from the kiss and half turned her body away from the sensuous contact. Her eyes looked clouded as she gasped, "It's a good job we had some clothes on."

"Were you all right with that?" I asked, allowing one hand to slide down to the perfect curve of her belly, and taking the risk, covered the swell of her hidden triangle .

"Better than all right," she said, with her breath still heaving. I could sense her hips twitching, uncertain whether to move into or away from my lightly pressing hand. My little finger curved subtly into where I was sure her valley began. "I think you'd better go. I need to get my head in order."

Our next date was into the eighth week, and I had fears of what her response was going to be to our last meeting. It began with the talking. That particular night she had cooked me an excellent pasta meal, "I'm learning fast-----about everything," she said. Later,warmly snuggled together on her sofa she asked, "Jack, you know how it was when we were kissing last week."

Was this the beginning of the end? Something she had decided she couldn't face. Prepared to find her inhibitions were taking over, I told her I did remember.

She turned her face up to mine, all open and trusting, "Well, the feelings I had ---down there--- I knew they would happen, sooner or later. In fact I've been getting those feelings---not as strong—for a week or two now when you've held me."

I gave her a comforting squeeze, "It's no bad thing, Maria."

Her head shook slightly, " I wasn't complaining. But I wanted to tell you---when I was living with my parents I knew that if I touched myself there I got pleasurable reactions. " She laughed nervously, "My father would have called them signs of the devil in me."

I kissed her gently before she went on, "But when you've touched me, it's been like a fire on my skin. But that fire has recently grown, spread, moved downwards, deep down there where I feel the need to explode. A physical ache. After last week I wondered how it would be if we—if you-- I want to know it all--."

I couldn't tell her that I had a massive physical ache of my own, so all I said was, "Growing fires and explosions. Maybe I'd better stand well back."

She laughed delightedly, "Quite the opposite, in fact." And she kissed me, her lips warm and slightly parted. My hand caressed through her hair, down the taut side of her neck. .

Her lips broke away from mine, "Jack, I so want you to ease my physical ache. But I'm so scared at the same time."