MaryFelix

Curious about Mary Felix? Here is the introduction to Love and Duty, the first volume of her memoirs which is available on Amazon as a paperback and eBook. Just search for Mary Felix…

In the 1950s I grew up in a large Victorian villa on the south coast of Devon, England. Mary lived next door, and we became firm friends. She was wealthy and exuberant and exuded a level of exotic sophistication and worldly experience which burned brightly in drab post-war Exmouth. I was powerfully drawn to her as I grew older.
On the day of my eighteenth birthday, whilst preparations were underway at home for a party in the garden, a note arrived from next door asking me to come around, as Miss Felix wished to give me a present.
Mary was sitting on a settee wearing a dark blue and red Chinese silk robe and looking wonderfully elegant and poised. She beckoned me over, indicating that I was to sit next to her. I remember the rose-scented perfume she was wearing to this day and occasionally still smell it at parties. It always makes me smile.
She wished me a happy birthday and talked about how I was a young man on the verge of adulthood and a fine handsome fellow and lucky to have my whole life ahead of me, whilst bemoaning her own declining years. I hastened to tell her that I thought she was very beautiful. Which was true, even though she was in her sixties by then.
She smiled at this and thanked me before picking up a large envelope.
‘Can you keep a secret?’ she asked, looking at me with an intensity to her wonderful green eyes that made my heart pound. I assured her very earnestly that I could, and she added that what she was about to give me was to be strictly between ourselves and never to be discussed with anyone else. She put her hand on my thigh whilst saying this, and the pressure of her fingers was very distracting.
‘Have a look,’ she said, smiling, and handed the envelope to me.
I opened it and removed a single black-and-white photograph some six inches by four. I remember both my furious embarrassment and instant arousal as the image of a naked and utterly captivating young woman appeared before me. It was the first time I had seen anything of that kind.
She was standing smiling at the camera, with a double bed and a big wall mirror in the background. Her high, full breasts and dark nipples caught my eye immediately, but as I stared I realised that a tattoo of some kind of serpent was wrapped around her perfect, lush body, its mouth open and a forked tongue stretching down towards her hairless groin.
‘I wasn’t always old and wrinkled.’
Her quiet voice broke the silence as I stared, transfixed, at the image. It was her, of course. Even as she said it, I had realised who I was looking at. ‘Stand up,’ she said, and I complied, my heart beating wildly. ‘This is my present to you. May it be the first of many.’ Sitting forward, she unbuttoned my trousers and gently released me.
‘My word, look at this.’ She laughed delightedly as her hands stroked my achingly hard shaft. ‘I’m going to put it in my mouth now. You can come inside me. Don’t worry, just let it go.’ With that, she took me into her mouth and sucked me off, her hand pumping firmly as I stared down at her bobbing head.
The sensations were exquisite, and I came within half a minute, crying out loud as my knees trembled with the intensity of it. But instead of releasing me, she moaned and continued to suck and stroke for some time. Then she leant back onto the settee and pulled her robe open with one hand, and I saw that she was naked underneath. Still firmly grasping my cock and smiling wickedly up at me, she opened her legs and drew me forward. She climaxed quickly with a loud cry, and as she bucked and thrust upwards onto me, I followed suit.
When Mary died in the mid-1960s she left me a large cabin trunk. The contents were a revelation. She had kept a detailed journal from an early age, and this was supplemented by letters, press cuttings, society invitations, and a mass of other scribbled notes and jottings that, taken together, formed a picture of her extraordinary journey from innkeeper’s daughter to skilled secret agent and friend of the highest society in the land.
Even more surprising were the contents of three battered photograph albums at the bottom of the chest. They contained a collection of images, some merely erotic, others pornographic, featuring Mary, the woman I came to know as Georgina, Jimmy, and many others. I counted over two hundred photographs in total, in many of which the participants are labelled.
Finally, packed to one side of the chest was a finely made but worn briefcase that contained a collection of beautifully tooled implements for the delivery of pain and pleasure.
This is Mary Felix’s story. I have sometimes updated the language and added or rewritten some pieces to help link the narrative, but the voice is Mary’s own, and the events she describes are faithfully reproduced without embellishment.
What a story. What a woman.