Jenny Wren Ch. 01

I felt I at one with the storm raging around us, connected somehow with the trees thrashing in the capricious wind, I welcomed the gift of rain washing over me, I was conscious of the wet grass under me, the tiny twigs and other garden debris digging into my shoulders, they were me, I was them: I was at one with Mother Earth and performing Her primal act as my lover plunged relentless in and out.

I looked into his eyes, aware of the rain streaming down from his matted hair, his eyebrows, ears, nose and chin. His makeup was running down his face then he flicked the rain contemptuously out of his eyes and I saw the feral glow in them when he returned my stare. He gripped my hips then pierced my soul with the words, "Just say when, Jennie Wren." Exactly what Petey used to say when he was primed and holding back waiting for my pleasure to build.

"When, Petey, when, when, WHEN" I screamed and found myself flat on my back with Petey/Clive hammering inside my cunt. A startling flash of lighting triggered me and the following crash of thunder jerked me still higher until its boomed reverberations merged with my sobs of wonder. I became aware that he was holding me as my tears mingled with the rain. Eventually I took his face in both hands, looked into his eyes and querulously said, "Petey? My Petey?"

A little puzzled, he replied, "No, Gaygan, I'm just Clive. But you can think of me as Petey any time you want."

"But Clive, only Petey knew our phrase and his pet name for me. There's no way you could know them."

"I don't know. When you looked at me like that, the words just came right out, I never even realised what I was saying until I'd said it and then you went into a world of your own.. But come on, we need to get you dried off and warmed up. We can talk as much as you like later."

He was right, no longer fuelled by passion I did feel uncomfortable with my frock ripped apart, my tits hanging beneath my bra and my body exposed, but it had been a special sort of heaven and was worth the small discomfort. He helped me up from the ground and shepherded me across the slippery grass to the house. As suddenly as it had started, the rain stopped: the rumbles of thunder were sounding more distant as the clouds rolled away over the house. The sun was beginning to shine through as the heavens recovered from the storm.

He soon had me out of the wet clothes, wrapped me in my bathrobe and dried my hair with a towel he has also snagged on his run upstairs. He set about patting me dry through the bathrobe and I told him to get out of his wet things. He stripped and I was amused by the sight of his penis shrivelled by the cold clammy material engulfing it.

He left me sitting on the patio, once more warm and sunny, as he gathered up all the wet things and disappeared. I sat there trying to get my mind round what had happened, yet not knowing what to think. He did look like the young Petey but my mental picture of my husband was his later, 'lived in' face and the familiarity of Clive as he had grown from child to man hid the similarities from my eyes until today even though I was surrounded by pictures of my beloved..

My chaotic thoughts began to coalesce along a certain line. Counting back from his birthday, I realised he had been conceived the same week as I sat by that hospital bed and held Petey's hand while his life slipped away. Then I knew how Clive could say those words. With the conviction growing in my mind, I knew how Clive could make love to me as if he knew my body. He did know my body - intimately. Somehow Petey's spirit had crossed into the new life created in Mary's womb. Impossible! Crazy! But 'Just say when, Jenny Wren.' was the unavoidable clincher.

I made my way back to my bedroom, via the bathroom, and sorted through my old pictures, selecting five. Picking up a hand mirror I returned to the patio. Clive was back dressed in shorts and a summer shirt. He had another pot of tea on the table and two cups poured ready. He's an angel, I thought as I thanked him and sipped at my tea, wondering how to say what was on my mind when he gave me the perfect opening. "What are those pictures, Gaygan?"

I handed them one by one. "These are of my husband when he was about your age." I picked the largest, clearest picture up and held it in front of his face then held the mirror next to it. I watched his eyes as they flicked back and forth. My hands started wobbling a bit so he took the two articles in his hands and I saw the look of amazement cross his face.

"We could be twins," he said.

"Think about this, Clive. We've already made love several times – Oh, blessed day it has been thus far – and each time you have done it exactly as Petey would have done it. It's like you instinctively know what to do." He put the mirror and picture down and we held hands, watching each other closely.

"Then you said something, a common enough phrase, 'Just say when,' but that was our special catch phrase. It was a natural thing to say at a party, but we both knew our own private interpretation, it meant the one who said it was ready to boil." I chuckled, "I think we may have surprised one or two of our by the teasing passion we could put into that phrase.

"Anyway, more than that, you called me Jennie Wren. You've known me all your life as Gaygan. I'll grant you may have heard me called Aunt Jennifer or Aunt Jen at family gatherings but never Jenny. Jenny was what only he called me and Jenny Wren was a special secret accolade. How did you know? Yet you did know!

"OK, the next bit is weird. What's your date of birth? Now work back about 39 weeks to your conception." I gripped his hand. "Petey died that same week. Exactly 20 years ago today."

We sat for a while holding both hands and looking at each other, not really seeing, as both considered these strange coincidences. I finally broke the tension and refreshed our teacups. "I'm going to catch some of that!" I pointed to the late afternoon sun and shucked off my robe.

Resting back in the warmth, I closed my eyes and calmed my racing thoughts. After a while I felt him lift my hand and kissed it. "I love you," he hesitated briefly, "Jenny Wren." He spent the next few minutes tenderly dabbing the tears away as they streamed silently down my face.

Chapter 5: Evensong with pictures.

As the sun turned over the corner of the house and shadows started to creep across the garden we moved back into the kitchen. The serious mood slipped away as he made us a scratch meal of cold meat and pickles with microwave chips, joking and flirting with me as he worked. When we finished the leisurely meal, he gathered the pots and set the dishwasher running.

I told him to get the family photo albums out and get mine from my room – I had to tell him where to find them. I had several pictures of Petey as we had grown up together – building castles on the beach, wild eyed at the end of an exciting funfair ride, in his school uniform ... For each one I found, we found photos of Clive at similar ages in his development. Apart from the dated fashions and backgrounds, the photos could be of the same boy and youth.

We spent a happy couple of hours poring over those pictures with me reminding him of where some of his older photos were taken and me again reminiscing over the pictures of Petey as we progressed through the years. I told him some scandalous bits of gossip about some of the strangers in my collection and related anecdotes about what Petey, or I, or both did with whom.

We flirted with each other all evening with lots of hugs, kisses and groping: Periscope Petey was a permanent bulge in his shorts but never threatened to get out of control. When Clive put his albums away he carried mine upstairs. I followed him at my own speed and when I reached my room I asked him if he would like to see some more pictures, and tipped him an outrageous wink. His eyes were shining when I retrieved a couple of albums from a locked chest.

Half-sitting side by side on my bed I took him through several groups of pictures of me as a younger woman, posing in revealing dresses, in sexy underwear, doing a strip routine, of me naked both before and after I got my tit and pussy rings. Glistening close-ups of my pussy showing everything, my nipples leaking milk from when I was nursing, ornamental attachments to my piercings or weights suspended. Me in all my proud glory.

I opened the next album: now there were others in the pictures, more men than women but all naked or getting that way. There were pictures of me being fucked in every hole by cocks, tongues, fingers and a selection of fruits and vegetables. Sex in pretty well any way sex between two or more people can be accomplished.

"Do women like it up the back passage, Jenny?" We had slipped naturally into 'Petey' and 'Jenny'.

"Some do and some don't. Never push a woman that way if she doesn't want to go. It can hurt, especially if it's done roughly but once the prick is deep inside and the muscles have stretched to compensate, it is a lovely different way of fucking: I've had many an orgasm in anal sex. I leafed back through the pictures and showed him one of me on my knees, a massive tool just outside my arse which was still wide open with sperm bubbling through the sphincter. My semen splattered face was turned back to grin at the camera. "Do you think I just enjoyed that?"

"I wouldn't mind betting you're wet down there just thinking about that picture!" His suspicions were confirmed as his hand found my pussy and then drifted down to finger my anus.

"And I wouldn't mind betting you want to get your dick up there. Do you want to fuck my arse, Petey? Men say it's nicer because it's tighter. Now, grab that blue pot on my dresser. The back passage isn't lubricated like a pussy, you'll need some help." He stripped before returning and helped me out of my robe. I smeared the hard flesh of his tool with the cream then got on my knees in front of him. At my direction he lubricated the ring liberally and introduced a finger into my back passage as I explained how much better this made it for a woman – or a man! I got him to insert a second finger and the third a little while later was his own idea. When I was fully relaxed down there, I told him to put his tool in, but gently.

He slid in easily as I stretched to take the extra girth then I pushed back at him, encouraging him to continue. I really love that feeling of being stuffed and re-stuffed with every stroke. I took the pressure off my knees and sank to my stomach: he followed me all the way. Having already come several times today I knew he would be in no hurry so I relaxed to enjoy the rhythmic probing.

I fell into a luxurious reverie as small waves of pleasure suffused me with each stroke. After countless minutes of this heaven, I asked him to turn me over. He had to pull out but soon he had me on my back with my knees over his shoulders as he found my waiting hole and pressed home again. Ah, that hit a few different spots and intensified the pleasures washing through me. I felt my own climax building and whispered those words to him, "Just say when, Petey Boy!"

Tantalisingly he kept to the same rhythm for endless seconds then suddenly gripped my hips, cried out, "When, when, Jenny Wren," and banged in. Oh, that was it for me: with his words ringing in my ears, a warm tingle spread from deep within my arse from where the head was repeatedly knocking and through my body. I was vaguely aware of his load pumping into my passage and of my own incoherent moans and through the mists I heard him calling "Jenny, Oh, my Jenny Wren ..."

When we recovered, he cleaned us both up with tissues then we decided to watch a movie on TV: a gentle romantic comedy. He knocked up some finger snacks for our and we opened a bottle of wine to sip while we were watching TV. It was a lovely evening spent with his arm round my shoulders hugging me.

Petey cleared away the supper dishes after the movie then rejoined me to finish off the wine. At 11:30 I put the lights out, positioned him on his back and with my mouth I brought Periscope Petey back to life. When he was nice and hard, I lifted one leg over his and slipped his tool into my waiting pussy but told him not to move a muscle.

This was a hard lesson for him but the day's activities had drained away all the urgency so the movement of his body against mine stilled as I whispered endearments in his ear and told him to concentrate on his tool deep inside me and think of nothing else but the warmth engulfing it.

For half an hour we just lay there; unmoving but intimately connected one to the other. It was a time out of time: the feel of that quiescent tool resting in me became the centre of my being. I could feel the heat generated by my own blood supply surging through my loins, generating a steady leak. I could feel his blood throbbing to keep his erection alive, pulsing through his shaft. It felt like a furnace down there.

I have an old fashioned clock in my bedroom, one which sounded the Westminster chimes every quarter-hour. As the gongs sounded out the tune for midnight I told my lover still not to move but to get ready to come. As the first stroke of midnight I whispered, "Come for me, Petey. Come with me." Still unmoving I felt the surge of his tool delivering its load and my whole body was suffused with love for him as the furnace burned through every nerve of my body, every 'bong' of the clock generated a further surge of this ecstasy. As his softening tool slipped out he hugged and kissed me and declared his love.

"It's midnight, Petey. Do I win the bet?" I asked.

In the darkness and the silence of the night I heard him agree, "You win, Jenny Wren. I'm all yours."

I drifted off to sleep conscious of his arm lovingly round me, resting on my breast, and conscious of his semen leaking from my pussy.

~ooOoo~

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