Man-Eater

I was having a drink the other day with a friend who knows about my writing; indeed, I suppose I should really call him a fan. He was taking me to task for not writing anything recently.

"Oh! That's easy to explain," I said. "New job, a partner who knows about and doesn't like my 'hobby'... oh, and a lack of new plots."

"Jeez!" he said, "You'll have me in tears next." Then he followed it up by saying, "Go on, what about that truism we were talking about a minute ago?"

"Which one?" I countered.

"Oh, Gawd," he said, "you really do have a bad memory! The one where you told me that these days you've given up fancying the younger women; you prefer their mothers."

Actually, inside I was still thinking of the remark. Alan had commented that at least older women possessed two things their younger counterparts didn't: patience and gratitude -- sexist remarks, ones which I took great pains to dissociate myself from, I might add.

The conversation in the pub went on to higher planes after that, but I have to admit I wasn't really paying too much attention. My thoughts had slipped back quite a time ago and were on a girl that the circle of folks at the club -- the Flying Club, that is -- called "the man-eater".

It's funny how some places seem to attract women of that ilk, and Maggie was certainly "of that ilk". She was nothing to look at: about five foot six with a slim build, nicely proportioned, almost demure. She was nothing special. I was eighteen, and she was somewhere about thirty-one or -two.

I was a late starter and had just lost my virginity a few months earlier. Very proud of that fact I was. Even though no one else knew, I felt they did. I might as well have been wearing a fluorescent flashing badge saying "I've been screwed". But then young men are like that, or they seemed to be in those days, thirty- five years ago. Perhaps they 're still the same now.

I was out with the crowd on a Friday night. We often left the rather staid scene of the club bar and walked across the road down to the pub about a quarter of a mile away. Maggie wasn't sitting with us; she was at another table a little ways away. I said something about not fancying older women. Hell, what eighteen year old does?

My companions were a married couple.

She turned to me and said, "Maggie's after you, you know..."

I can remember choking on my beer and turning a brilliant shade of red, much to their amusement. All I could manage was, "What?"

"Oh, she's been telling folks that you're going to be the next notch on her bedpost."

"Not bloody likely!" I said, and I then avoided Maggie like the plague.

But she kept popping up in unlikely places, at unlikely times. It was fast becoming unnerving. I had taken to glancing over my shoulder. I felt that the next thing would be the development of a twitch.

The married friends thought it was all hilarious.

"You may as well give up and just sleep with her. You know you'll enjoy it."

That made me dig my heels in even more. I realised afterwards they thought I needed a good seeing too, and that Maggie was just the person to do it. In retrospect I suppose I didn't really have a chance.

Inevitably matters came to a head. We had all been out to the pictures together -- I can't even remember what the movie was called. I ended up arriving late and had driving down on my own to meet the others at the cinema. Somehow, when it all ended, Maggie was the one who didn't have a lift, and yes: Sven, ever the gentleman, was coerced into giving her a lift. This was about six weeks after the initial gibes and comments, and I must have relaxed a bit.

By the time we had walked to the car park some distance away where, being late, I had had to park, the others had gone on ahead. I opened the door of my little saloon and Maggie hopped in and we started back to the Flying Club, where we both intended to stay the night. The club/'s sleeping arrangements were spartan, but OK. There were two old huts for the single folks: one for the guys, one for the girls. The married folks had some other rooms available to them. We called them "The Nesting boxes" -- can't think why. So I still felt quite safe.

Halfway back and into open countryside, Maggie began to fidget.

"Sorry, Sven, I can't wait. I have to go to the loo; you'll have to find somewhere to stop."

We were on a fairly busy main road, a four-lane, so it wasn't going to be there.

"Look there's a turn-off," she said, "Take that. I'll find somewhere down there."

Off the main road a few hundred yards there was a pull-in. So I dutifully pulled in, and Maggie hopped out and disappeared though a gate into a field. Fortunately, it had been a dry week, so there wasn't much in the way of mud about. I took the opportunity to nip over the opposite wall and relieve myself as well.

When I returned to the car, Maggie was already back, so I got in and prepared to move off. Before I could start the car, she put her hand on mine as I went to turn the ignition key.

"Sven, I'm sorry you've been teased so much over me."

Maggie had turned towards me as she spoke. She went on, "You would think I was sex-mad or something. I just like a little bit of a kiss and a cuddle. The men here are making it all up."

She had moved towards me and had now put her hand inside my half open shirt. It had been a warm evening; now, suddenly, it was positively sweltering.

She twirled my nipple with her finger nails, and suddenly I became aware of a certain anatomical problem down south a bit. I decided to ignore it. Maggie moved closer and kissed me. She tasted rather nice. I decided the others could go to hell; Maggie was a nice woman. I kissed her back. After a little while, we came up for air.

"Umm... you kiss nicely."

She still had her hand inside my shirt, where my nipple felt as if it were setting it was so hard. My lower extremities were now becoming decidedly uncomfortable. It was my turn to fidget and hope she didn't notice. I tried to turn a little more towards her and the damn steering wheel and floor gear-shift got in the way.

Maggie said, "Let's get into the back."

It seemed an eminently sensible suggestion, so we got out our respective sides and into the back seat. I took the opportunity to "adjust my dress", to use the euphemism.

Once in the back, Maggie sat on my lap and giggled a bit when she felt my hardness.

"Oh!" was all she said, but the way she said it spoke volumes.

I knew Maggie was going to have her wicked way with me.

By this time I was hooked. I undid the buttons at the top of her dress and encountered bare flesh; when Maggie had been behind the hedge, she had taken her bra off. She moaned lightly as I caressed those wonderful orbs, and then kissed and suckled on them. She was either a damn good actress or she enjoyed what I was doing. She held my face to her breasts and writhed gently underneath me.

I ran my free hand along her leg and got to her stocking top: the giggle band -- past that and you were laughing, so the old gag went. That night, all those years ago, you'd better believe I knew it was true. I ran my hand up, and Maggie moved her legs to give me willing access. She was furry and hot and wet and ready. She smelt wonderful as she pushed me back in the seat and undid my trouser belt. In a flash she had my trousers and my underwear round my knees and had her hands round me. That was my turn to tell her how good it felt. I half climbed out of the back seat as I leaned across to get a condom from the passenger glove box. She took the presented opportunity to slip her lips over me. I confess I nearly lost it all right then. She grabbed the foil from me as I fumbled; she tore it open and, in a flash, had it in place to her satisfaction. Then she straddled me, her knees on either side of me, and then moved up towards my shoulders so she was sitting directly in my lap, sex to sex. She grabbed me and aimed me as she sat, pushing straight onto me, fully home, buried in one, pubic bone to pubic bone.

Neither of us moved for a little while as we just savoured the feelings, frightened it would end too soon. Then she moved off me a little, putting her hand down to keep the condom roll in place. Her holding me felt even better. Her dress was rucked up, and in the faint light from the main road three hundred yards away, I could see myself buried in her. Damn! I could feel myself deep up inside her.

"Christ, that's wonderful..." she said, "You feel as if you're filling me right up!" She kissed me deeply again and I ran my hands down her back and held an ass-cheek in each one as we started to move in real earnest.

Even with the condom on I didn't last very long, but then neither did Maggie. We sort of exploded together in a hot sweaty mess of wonderful sex, tasting our teeth enamel as we clashed and tried not to do each other real physical damage. As I started to wilt, she eased off me, still holding both me and the condom so it wouldn't come off. She sat on the seat beside me, still breathing hard.

"Bloody hell, Sven! That was good; I think we both wanted that."

I laughed, and then I leaned across and kissed her by way of agreement. She carefully eased the condom off, so as not to spill anything on me, opened the window, and twirled it over the hedge. She started to get a tissue out to clean me off, but then she muttered something and, bending forward, took me in her mouth and cleaned me, so I wouldn't mark my clothing. Before I could really decide whether it was as gross as I thought it might be -- remember, this was 1965 -- she leaned back and said, "My turn..."

Without time for thought, I went down on her and cleaned her as she had cleaned me. After all, I had left all my juice in a condom, so it was only hers. Even in my limited sexual experience up to that point, I already knew I liked eating girls out. Maggie was delicious. I guess in retrospect she was the one who gave me that life-long joy of going down on my girlfriends. We kissed a little more and then decided we had better go back... home. Neither of us, certainly not me, wanted to face the club for the rest of that weekend. So I drove her home to her flat and went in and had coffee with both her and the girl she shared the flat with. Before I left we had exchanged phone numbers.

I didn't go back to the club that weekend. A week later when I arrived, no one batted an eyelid. Maggie didn't appear that morning.

I got back to the club at lunchtime following some flying to find a note on the message board. I recognised the number as Maggie's. Inwardly I smiled a little wryly; I thought, "Uh huh, here it comes. She's screwed me; now here's the brush-off. What they've been saying about her is all true." I couldn't have been more wrong. Maggie was rushed and breathless when I got through.

"Hi, Sven, you got my message. Look my flatmate is unexpectedly away for the weekend. Do you fan--"

What a damn silly question! Of course I did; I'd run out of flying money anyway. So I made my excuses and drove as fast as I dared to where she lived. Oh, yes, I did stop off on the way and make sure I had a supply of rubber items.

I parked out the front and climbed the stairs to her apartment. I rang the doorbell and the door opened enough for her to check that it was me. She closed it again, took off the security chain, and then let me in. Naked. No clothes, not a stitch.

She creased up at the expression on my face; then, with me inside, she shut the door behind me and, without touching any other part of me, she kissed me.

The flat was warm; I was even warmer.

"Sven, darling, you're overdressed," she said and pausing only to swat my fingers out of the way, she undid my clothes and undressed me.

It is fair to say that I do remember some bits of the next twenty-four hours, but the details are blurred. At one stage she introduced me to my own taste. I was only half awake, coming out of a short but heavy sleep -- even at eighteen your refractory time means you need some rest. Maggie was indulging me with a blow job -- all the way to completion. Then she moved up and kissed me, transferring some of my own "nectar", as she called it, into my mouth. In truth, it was different, but not too bad. I have to say I wouldn't have tasted it directly, but transferred that way... what could I say? If she liked me enough to do it for me, I figured I'd better at least try it.

Eventually, with the flat smelling like a brothel, we stopped -- actually, I think we hurt too much -- and we cleaned the place up so that it would smell reasonable before her friend returned.

For the next couple of weeks, that was the pattern of events. Then she said, "No condoms this weekend; I'm safe just now." So she introduced me to the joys of unprotected sex.

We played a variation on the theme of positions. Somehow she managed to position herself where I entered her downwards, so that when I withdrew, she didn't leak. She then cleaned our combined juices off me and asked me to do the same. I did, and with my mouth and tongue round her, she moved so that I could eat everything I had deposited there moments before. Had I had time to think about it, I might not have done it, but by then our relationship had progressed to the point where I was happy to try anything. It wasn't wonderful, but it wasn't totally bad either, and it pleased her for me to do it, so I did. In any case, we often kissed just afterwards, and it didn't upset her, so I didn't let it upset me.

By now the club members knew we were going out, so they left us alone. If we went to the club together, we rented a "Nesting box" for the weekend just like the others did.

Maggie even introduced me to anal sex. It was the wrong time of her month, but she wasn't prepared not to have sex, so anal it was. The head of my sex is quite large, so it was slow and steady and lots of lubrication, but then the feeling was quite exquisite, and so different from the other way. So much hotter. So much tighter. Maggie told me she could feel me spurting inside her when I climaxed. It was probably true, because at that point she would climax as well, her sphincter clamping down on me.

The last time we met was during the middle of the week. In fact, we had only managed to meet in the middle of the week for a couple of months. I picked her up and we went to a pub close by where we both lived. I think I had known for a little while that this good thing was coming to an end. Her reasons still surprised me though.

"Sven, this is difficult," Maggie said.

Her words are engraved in my brain even now, thirty-five years on.

"As you know, my other hobby is motor racing."

This was true, and I did know that.

Maggie went on, "Well, I'm getting married this weekend, to a racing driver; he's my age, and, well--"

She really didn't have to say any more, so I put my fingers on her lips and silenced her gently. She stood up and took my hand; we left our drinks and she held my hand even more tightly as we walked back to her flat, where I'd parked my car. She walked straight past it and we went up the stairs to her front door and inside. I started to say something, and she put her fingers on my lips, then kissed me much more tenderly than usual. She leaned back a little and held both my hands in hers.

"One last time, please?" she asked.

I just nodded, and we went to her bedroom and undressed. Our lovemaking was slow and unhurried, quite unlike the first time together some months before.

I reached for a condom and she said, "No. Not this time."

I didn't argue and we coupled gently and then moved together in a way that was now familiar. Our knowledge of the other's pace was such that we timed our explosion together. As we came down from our high, I felt her tears fall on my face as she leaned forward and held me tightly. I know mine fell and mingled with hers. Lovingly she cleaned me off for a last time, and I her. Silently we dressed and then kissed one last time. There were no words necessary.

I didn't look back as I walked away to the car; I didn't trust myself.

Alan came back from the bar with his round. It had taken a few minutes, and Maggie had been in my thoughts again, not for the first time over the intervening years.

"You're quiet tonight, Sven," he remarked.

So I just told him I had mapped out another story for him.

"Great!" he said, rubbing his hands in glee. "When are you going to write it out?"

The end... of a love story?