Giving 'n Getting

"Did you know that Carrier has a restaurant up the road in Camden Passage?"

"No, I didn't. Would we be able to go there sometime?"

"If you're a good boy we might see if we can book!"

We nattered on about cooking, and t.v., and what was happening to Camden, which was being taken over by writers, publishers, actors, and polymaths, and changing its character. We had got to the stage of touching each other in various ways and places when she got up and explained that she liked to clear up because she hated coming down to dirty dishes in the morning. "And when that's done I want to take you to bed," she added.

"Then I'll help with the dishes," I volunteered.

"No you won't, you'll distract me. Go and use the bathroom and do what I did last week: sit up in bed and read and wait."

I followed orders. I'd been reading for five minutes or so when I heard her in the bathroom, and a short while later she appeared, carrying her clothes but otherwise naked. I really loved her body. Its shapeliness and soft curves were an invitation to caress, and its darker recesses an invitation to explore.

She got into bed and, lifting one leg over me, knelt over my outstretched legs. This position opened her pelvis so that as she lowered herself Cinderella met the Prince. Stiff cock and a gaping cunt at that proximity are bound to come together, but first I wanted to feel the soft hair around Cinders, and gently manipulate the folds of labia. I found what I thought was the clitoris. "Am I in the right place?" I whispered.

"Oh yes! Be gentle to start with..."

I'd got one hand busily engaged, and I then tried with the other to reach round behind her. This was a bit of a stretch, so she straightened her knees a bit, raising herself up so that she could lean towards me. Putting one hand on my shoulder she dropped the other one to grasp the rampant Prince. My free hand could now reach round far enough to take a handful of buttock and gently knead it; then a couple of fingers began to play with her anus.

I think you could say we were now fully engaged.

I don't think I need to describe the rest in great detail. There came a point when it was imperative -- for both of us -- for Martha to impale herself. She was in complete control, rising and falling to her own rhythm, and adjusting the depth of penetration at her choosing.

"Tell me what you are doing, what is happening, use the difficult words." I suggested.

"I've got your cock right up inside my cunt... My cunt is slippery with my juices.... Your cock is magnificently stiff... I'm moving up and down so that the Prince rubs the surface of my vagina, and it is MARVELLOUS! We're having a glorious FUCK!"

All of it was true.

I'd have liked it to go on for a long time, but one of the drawbacks of this kind of position is that the inferior partner has to accept that the superior is in control. Clearly Martha was also hoping to prolong this too, but there came a moment when I had no option but to give way to impulse.

"Just keep going," I implored "don't worry about me." So it was another couple of minutes before she emitted a loud "ohhhhh..." and stilled all movement, slowly unwrapping herself from the ecstatic moment to look at me with such tenderness. Her face was a picture like that of a long-distance runner who has just crossed the finishing line the winner: joy, triumph, surprise, relief.

"I know you came early, and I'm so grateful you urged me to carry on. I hope I'll do the same for you one day, because we can't always have simultaneous climaxes."

***

We fell asleep in the 'spoons' position again and woke soon after first light. It was warm, and there was a bid of birdsong; not exactly a 'dawn chorus' so deep into the urban jungle, but enough to remind me of my more rural past. In fact I was brought up in the suburbs, but in the 50s they were very much outer suburbs, and countryside was never more than a few minutes cycle ride away. We often went off fishing in parks and streams and ponds, and the life of farms and farmers was familiar.

"One day we should take a trip out into the countryside and walk in the Chilterns or the South Downs," I said. "You being a city girl need the open spaces and the fresher air."

"I'd love that. As you have probably realised, I am a great walker. I haven't spent enough time walking in wilder country, but I'd like to walk with you up to Hampstead Heath this morning, if you're up for it."

"That sounds like a good compromise."

We lay for several minutes just stroking each other's bodies. It was not particularly sexual, but it was very sensuous. "Sometime perhaps you would give me a body massage. I have often fantasised about losing myself in a sensual massage, but I haven't found anyone I'd like to do it... until now." She sighed, gently teasing the Prince as she said it.

I clambered over to lay on top of her. "I'd be honoured and privileged," I said, tweaking a nipple between thumb and forefinger and sucking quite noisily on the other one.

Martha now had her hands grasping my buttocks.

"Please give the Prince to Cinders to look after while we lay quietly together."

These sorts of request are irresistible.

***

Well yes, we did walk to the Heath, entering at the south east corner, walking up Parliament Hill, taking in the fantastic views over London, and down again to the eight Highgate ponds before returning in a loop.

Hampstead heath is full of variety. There are all kinds of attractions which change from time to time, but sport has almost always been played there. There are three pools for swimming, and a lido. There are rugby and cricket pitches, a petanque court, athletics track and tennis courts. I can't honestly remember how much of this was there in 1969, but it was certainly a busy place to be at weekends. However, there are wilder bits, where grass is allowed to grow uncut during the summer. In all the 800 acres are a much loved and used part of the city.

This was the first time we had been out together, and I had wondered how that would be. Would she be embarrassed to be hand-in-hand with a man young enough to be her son? I got the answer quite soon: she took my hand and we linked fingers as we got into the park. We were both quite tall, so it wasn't difficult for my six foot and her five foot nine to match stride length, and our hands were more or less the same height. It felt natural and comfortable.

On our way back we stopped to pick up a warm and crusty loaf, some reasonable looking tomatoes (from a street trader), and a couple of bottles of beer, which we took back and consumed in the yard/garden with a piece of ripe Camembert cheese. The sun shone. I thought 'I can't possibly imagine wanting to be anywhere else.' Happiness is an elusive state, but this seemed as near as it comes.

"What would you say are your ideal qualities for a life partner, if you've decided?" she asked in a dreamy sort of way that suggested maybe she was simultaneously considering her own ideal.

"Female," I said.

"Good start. Anything else?"

"Beautiful, but not so beautiful that the entire male population lusts after her. Isn't that what they call a 'trophy wife'? It would be good if she had interests that diverged from mine, and some that we shared.

"What about political views?" she asked.

"I doubt if I could live with someone whose political views were radically different to mine, and it would be helpful if we had matching intelligence, so that my natural intellectual arrogance wouldn't get out of control."

"What about sharing chores, and childcare?"

"I hope they'd be fairly shared. From limited observation partnership seems to be about making it possible for your partner to do things that might not happen without you. Do you think that's true?" I asked.

"Yes I do. But limiting expectation is also a good prelude to harmonious partnership. Don't expect too much of your partner or yourself."

"Last but not least I'd like my partner to be TOTALLY sexually compatible; body and soul." I added.

"I like your list, but I'm surprised that you aren't specific about physical type, like fat or thin, tall or short, fair or dark. And you don't mention nationality or ethnicity."

"I won't say I'm indifferent to those things, but my preferences aren't constant, so I suppose that must mean they aren't critically important."

"And the word 'love' is missing." Martha said.

"Not a word you use easily," I replied.

"You're right; the word is used in too many different ways, and we've got hung up on the idea that you need to be 'in love' before you try to create an enduring relationship."

"It sounds as if you don't go along with that idea.".

"Well, being 'in love' is a form of obsession, and only a tiny minority sustain their obsessions through life. The one or two people I have been temporarily obsessed with have been like fireflies in the morning sun."

We sat in the yard for another hour or more, 'chewing the fat' as my mother would say. I loved to talk with Martha. There were always thoughtful, sometimes provoking, comments and replies to my immature certainties. A bit of the schoolmistress maybe, but one I could easily become obsessive about.

***

We went to the concert. The whole evening was fabulous: music by Mendelsohn, Lennox Berkeley and Brahms; wonderful orchestra, great soloists, and a world famous conductor. Not to mention the enormous space that is the inside of the Royal Albert Hall, the domed ceiling of which had been recently part-covered with acoustic panels, which became known as the 'flying mushrooms' because of their inverted dome shape.

On the way there we were on the tube (what Londoners have always called the underground or subway) and sitting, holding hands, on the bench seats which face the gangway and the seats opposite. We were looking straight at a woman on the other side, probably fiftyish, with a miserable face which turned to a scowl when she noticed that we were in a hand-clasp.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," she suddenly blurted out, directing her gaze on Martha.

"Why is that?" replied Martha

"He must be young enough to be your son."

"Yes, aren't I lucky?"

Fortunately, the woman got up and went to stand by the doors with her back to us. The man she had been sitting next to raised his eyes and smiled at us.

On the way back we took a cab. When we got out the cabbie turned to me and said "You're a lucky young man. Look after her." He grinned at me as he took the money.

***

We were sitting together on the sofa having a drink, discussing the evening: the music, the food, the auditorium and the people. Martha was wearing a simple dress, just above the knee in brightly printed cotton, and she'd kicked her heeled shoes off. I had a striped blazer, with wide royal blue and navy stripes. I wore this most of the time in summer, sometime with a roll-neck, and sometimes, as tonight, with a collar and tie.

"That woman on the tube was an old cow," I said.

"Be a bit more charitable."

"Why?"

"Think that she was probably ten years or so older than me, which means she'd have been in her early twenties when war broke out. It's quite possible that she lost a lover by one means or another. Nearly half a million British people died as a result of the war, and a large proportion of them were in her sort of age group."

"That's a possible explanation, but not an excuse is it?"

"Agreed, but I'd forgive her even so. It was quite flattering in a way."

"I preferred the cabbie's way of flattering you!"

She put her arm round my shoulder and took my drink to put it on the table. I turned towards her, and her other arm came round me. She gently pushed me back to lie on the unoccupied bit of the long sofa and gave me a deep and highly erotic kiss, while a hand sought the Prince, now in a state of agitation. He required a bit of adjustment for comfort, which her hand skilfully accomplished.

Daringly, given past experience with other women, I put my hand on her thigh and pushed the hem of her dress upwards. The soft flesh of the inner thigh arouses me with the thought of where it is heading. It's like the overture to an opera...perhaps. Anyway, it is quite delicious. And my hand seemed to have been given a free pass.

In this sort of pose things can get a bit messy. To gain access to the promised land my hand would need to perform the several complex tasks involved in removing bits of clothing whilst prone and while locked together in oscular activity. I decided not to attempt this advanced manoeuvre. Instead I whispered to her, "Can we go to bed?"

We adjourned to the bedroom and stripped each other, and then lay naked on the bed cover. We entwined ourselves, exploiting the full tactility of bare skin.

"Now," she said once she was sure that I was fully erect, "I want you to lie on your back and let me pleasure you."

I thought this was a request I could reasonably comply with, so I did. Lying on my back as instructed I noted that the Prince was showing off by waving around in a near vertical position. Martha climbed over me, knelt to straddle my chest facing my feet, and began to suck the Prince with apparent noisy enjoyment. The sensation was divine, as was the rear view of my partner-in-lust. She had lifted her butt so that I was not asphyxiated, and what I could now do as she leant forward was to carefully part the labia so that my tongue could rhythmically lap the inner folds. This seemed to meet with approval. She abandoned the Prince momentarily to murmur.

"Oh yes, please lick my cunt. Oh darling you're doing such a fantastic job! But in a minute I'll need you inside me."

Sure enough in a few minutes she shifted down, lifted her beautiful bottom and landed safely and precisely where God obviously intended. The 'rise and fall' was heavenly; the dimensions of the vaginal canal might have been adjusted with precision instruments to softly enfold the Prince. Thinking back I can almost sense again that exquisite feeling even 50 years later.

Alas, this could not last. Quite noisily we reached an almost simultaneous climax. She lifted herself off and lay down next to me. We joined together again and lay in total contentment for an age.

I had noted the 'darling', used for the first time and in the heat of the moment. I had also noted, as we rose to the climax, a sort of lump in my throat, as if my body was expressing emotions that my brain couldn't articulate. These two things seemed to suggest that we had moved on from doing things to and for each other, to doing things together.

***

"Are you an only child then?" I asked

"Yes."

"Was that choice on the part of your parents, or circumstance?"

"It could have been either. My mother was quite elderly to be having me, and she may have thought that it would not be wise to try again. She had been married before, to a man 20 years older than her and they had never conceived -- I never asked why."

"How did she come to marry your father?"

"My father was an Oxford Don, and my mother and her first husband were also connected to the University. Mother met my father at an evening class that she attended 'to keep myself from becoming moribund' she said. When she'd got to know him she invited him to supper. He was a bachelor who taught evening classes to stop himself becoming too reclusive. Well he came to supper, and I think she must have had evil designs on him because she got him drunk and insisted he was not safe to go home."

"This is sounding a bit familiar!"

"Shut-up and listen. She put him to bed in a spare room, and later that night, when she was sure that her ailing old husband was sound asleep, she snuck into the spare room and slid into bed beside my Dad. She told me that she had not had sex for about 10 years, and I think my Dad was the beneficiary of a lot of pent-up sexual energy. Did the trick, anyway. He was completely hooked - by his own admission."

"Whow! How long did they have to wait to get married?"

"Only about a year until husband no.1 died. In the interim she used to visit Dad in his college rooms. The porters kept up a pretence that my mother was Dad's sister, for the sake of propriety, but apparently everyone knew or guessed the truth. Fortunately, my father was very popular with both staff and students, so they treated it all quite lightly."

*

We were walking in Ashdown Forest. A sunny July Saturday had attracted many visitors, but in an area of 6,400 acres (about 7 times the size of New York Central Park) we were quite often walking without anyone in sight.

The Forest is only about 40% wooded, the rest being open heathland, famous and much-loved for its wide-ranging views and fantastic skies. It had taken a bit of a sweat to get there by train and bus, but it was already feeling worth it. I had really wanted to do a good walk with Martha. I've always found talking while walking a comfortable and helpful thing to do. Silences don't matter; the rhythm of the paces seems to help articulation; and the open air is somehow liberating.

"You've walked a lot?" I asked.

"Probably more abroad than here at home. Put me in a new country or a new part of a country, and I'm like a hungry hamster, nosing out all the things of interest."

"That's walking with purpose, even if it's not a specific purpose."

"You're right, and I haven't done nearly enough walking for its own sake. It never is entirely for its own sake of course because you can't fail to absorb from your surroundings. What about you?"

"I've always walked a lot. In the sixth form a few of us decided to take up President Kennedy's challenge to walk 50 miles in less than 20 hours. Most of us didn't get anywhere near that, and I rang for help at 25 miles responding to the excruciating pain from the blisters. I've tried once more since, but still only made 37 miles. I will do it one day when I grow up and find the right shoes."

"Not bad, though, for a skinny little thing like you."

I slapped her on the bum.

"More, more!" she cried.

I grabbed her by the arm and hustled her into the woodland, pushed her up against a massive oak trunk, and pinned her by her shoulders.

"Now what are you going to do?" she asked, grinning naughtily.

I leant heavily against her and gave her breasts a robust massage.

"I'll tell you what part of me wants to do, and that's lift up your skirt, pull down your knickers and give you the fucking that you richly deserve."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not brave enough... yet."

Instead I kissed her: a deep, can-I-taste-your-tonsils kiss. And my hands went round her to grab hold of sumptuous buttocks.

"Let's sit down darling," she whispered.

I'd thrown off my tiny backpack when we arrived at the tree. In it I'd brought apples, sandwiches and water. We sat down on the dried out leaves from last autumn, and I pulled out the food and drink. We both drank.

"I think that your natural shyness still inhibits you. There are things you'd like to do, but you're not sure whether it's all right. Partly you don't want to be rebuffed again, but you're also worried about people finding you doing something which might offend and which is generally considered a bit anti-social. Also, being a bit of a control freak, you think that you ought to be able to control yourself."

"Am I that complicated?"

"At least," she said, smiling. "If it's any consolation I was a lot worse at your age."

We each grabbed a sandwich and started to chew. Silence. Then: "Do you feel any more relaxed about sex than you did a while ago?" Martha asked.

"Much more at ease with some of my feelings. Not so worried about becoming obsessive. I guess that what you want but can't have is bound to become an obsession, and I'd got a bit like that. As you say, I'm not one who likes to lose control of his emotions."