Giving 'n Getting

By the time we reached Kentish Town and replenished supplies of bread and cheese, and walked back to Martha's little house, it was nearly six o'clock, time for a cup of tea sitting in the yard.

"I do love doing things with you," I said, "I realise that you wanted me for my body, not my mind, but I hope you don't find me tedious company." There was a spluttering from herself in the middle of that little speech. I was rather needy of affirmation you'll notice, still am I suppose, 50 years on.

"I've been found out, obviously," she said, "My drooling lust cannot be concealed any longer; nor can my intense boredom in your company. What a relief that you're going away after next weekend." I had told her that I had a long-planned holiday scheduled. "Where are you going?"

"I've no idea, except that it will be south, and we have a vague intention of making it to Athens. But I'm sure there will be an infinite number of possibilities for diversion. We've got three weeks, if the money holds out."

"I hope you have a wonderful time and make loads of discoveries on the way. You should be able to pass through a dozen countries without too much diversion. Some people seem to think that all Europe is the same, but every country is different, and so are the people."

We moved on to our supper of bread and cheese, masses of fresh fruit and a glass of wine.

"As it is your last weekend I'm going to try to book a table at Robert Carrier's for Friday or Saturday."

"How fantastic. Thank you Miss, you're so good to me."

"You are my favourite slave, and I will work you hard for your reward."

"I look forward to working, and being, hard for you."

"If you aren't exhausted by our day I'd really like a massage. I've got some almond oil which is lovely for the skin, yours as well as mine."

So when we retired later Martha found a large towel to spread on the bed. The oil was put on the bedside table and we went to 'shower'. There weren't any shower enclosures then, and anyway in the tiny bathroom there wouldn't have been room. Instead there was a fixture at the end of the bath that looked like an ancient telephone receiver on a hose, with a hook on the wall to hold it when you wanted to shower. There was a plastic curtain to stop the water soaking the rest of the bathroom.

Martha showered first, while I sat like a garden gnome who's lost his fishing rod. I did have a rod of course, but I've never been inclined to boast about its length.

It was really a delight to sit and watch the intimate process of washing under running water, and Martha knew it. There was a bit of showmanship in the way her hands lingered in the soap suds as they dealt with bits of her body which probably wouldn't merit such attention normally. And the stroking gestures were not strictly utilitarian.

When it was my turn she stood at the opposite end of the bath with a towel over her shoulders and stared. So I mimicked some of her movement, stroking between my legs, turning my back and massaging my small but neat bottom, and then subjecting the Prince to intensive attention.

When I looked up she had a hand between her legs, and she was definitely not washing.

*

We did get back to the bed eventually. "Would you like to lie on the bed ma'am? Face up first would be very conducive to proceedings." I was sitting on the side of the bed, facing the head, with Martha lying to my right. I poured a little oil on a hand and rubbed my hands together. I started my massage with the calves, smoothing and stroking, gently squeezing and then moving to ankles and feet and toes. I concentrated for quite a while on the feet, and then moved to the knees and thighs.

I had to ask her to keep her legs together for fear of (me) being distracted. The thighs were magnificent places to massage: I could just about span them to allow my thumbs to run up the inside while the fingers spanned the tops and started down the outside. I kept up the movement, knee to groin and back, over and over.

The next bit was going to be a test. I decided to treat the stomach, the belly, the mound of Venus and the lower rib cage as the plains and foothills of the twin peaks; so I let my hands move freely about, sometimes in circular motion, sometimes up and down, sometimes taking a little tuck between my fingers.

It seemed to work, as the twin peaks peaked, as it were. They looked beautifully firm and were just large enough to engage two hands cupped around to gently lift and stroke. The oil was still working well: I'd replenished it a couple of times, and now these beautifully anointed objects were glistening with pride. I resisted the temptation to fiddle with the summits -- this was, after all, supposed to be a massage, not a nipple-fest.

I spent a while on the shoulders and neck and then asked the slave-mistress to turn over, which she did with grace. I placed a slim pillow under the towel at pelvis level and started again at the calves, feet, knees. I stopped there and moved to the shoulders. Knowing how stress and tension can home in on this area I gave it my special attention, gently lifting and rolling the shoulders and massaging round the shoulder blades and onto the neck. I used my thumbs as well as the fingers and heels of my hands. I ran my hands down the spine to the coccyx, and then tentatively on to the soft spheres that have always been my fascination. I managed to keep my mind on the job of massage. Well, no, actually I didn't, but I made a passable attempt at it. They certainly couldn't have complained of lack of attention. I was just wondering whether to make a tentative foray into more secret places when the subject pushed herself up so that her bottom was in the air, and at the same time opened up a gap between her knees.

"I hope that you are now getting a good view of the wrinkled orifice, which to be honest is demanding your attention. Can you please get plenty of oil on the middle finger of your left hand and start playing 'round and round the garden' with it? After a suitable pause you could try pushing to see if playtime has come, and if so insert it a little way."

I did as instructed and soon had a finger partly lost from view.

"Now I want you to give my right buttock a good slap."

This instruction came as a bit of a surprise, I have to admit. But I obeyed orders. Smack!

"Now the other one, and get a rhythm going. I want you to make me really quite red. And keep that finger nested."

I administered probably a dozen slaps to each cheek, and they were now warm red.

The Prince had been an alert spectator so far, but now he seemed to be registering a strong desire to participate. I think Martha had anticipated something of the sort because she turned her head round and gasped, "Oh my goodness! I think you'd better put him up Cinderella before he goes pop. Just make sure you give her a really good fucking before you let him go. Otherwise she might turn back from a Princess to a prune... or something"

It was quite difficult to follow instructions while keeping that finger wiggling on station and continuing to administer a few more slaps. Concentrating on these other matters was a good way of postponing the inevitable, and I didn't 'let him go' as my friend put it, for what seemed like a long time. With her rump in the air and head on the pillow Martha was having quite a ball as I ploughed her furrow. We exchanged information about where we were in the proceedings and managed to climax within the beat of a gnat's wing of each other. We collapsed in a sweaty mess, making noises which might have been laughter or tears, or just sighs of contentment.

I suppose I have made this all sound like a jolly little romp -- which it was, of course -- but it was also an incredibly intense experience of two people getting as close as it is possible to be, completely trusting and with each other's pleasure being the principal motive. Utterly lovely...

..as was Sunday morning. Quiet contentment, you might call it, as we foraged in our grapefruit, munched our warm rolls and supped our fragrant coffee. Almost as if, for the time being, there was no need for further communication.

I was quite busy myself as I had a re-submission to complete and have assessed before I went away. So I left after clearing away the breakfast things. I didn't want to but...

***

I did finish and re-submit before the next weekend. My three holiday companions and I had settled on a mid-week start, so there was a reasonable chance of hearing if I'd passed before I went away. I was in Kentish Town by 6 o'clock that evening.

I was very un-cool in my greeting of Martha, throwing my arms round her and planting kisses on her forehead.

"Steady on Tigger. Time for all that, but it is extremely good to be with you again. I have plans for tomorrow, but tonight is our posh dinner at Carriers, and it looks as if you've remembered."

I was wearing my jacket in preparation. I didn't have many clothes, and I couldn't afford to have supplies in both Kentish Town and Marylebone. I carried some things in my small backpack but I couldn't stuff a jacket in it.

I can't honestly remember what we ate that night, but I think it might have been spinach soup, stroganoff and zabaglione. I can't even confirm that we both ate the same thing. Although it was considered a 'smart' restaurant the atmosphere was quite relaxed. There weren't waiters hovering over you and filling your glass every time you took a sip. There was no-one in 'black tie' dress, and I think the tablecloths were checkerboard rather than white linen. Perhaps that was American influence, as Carrier came to Britain from the USA.

Anyway we had a fantastic time: a bit of friendly banter with the waiters and waitresses, even the odd exchange with the next door table, kept things companionable, and the food was really lovely. We did have some quite intimate conversations as well. I remember Martha asking me if I had 'designs' on either of the girls I was going away with.

"One of them has been fellow resident in my flat for a year, and the other one I haven't met. So the answer clearly is 'no'. I am being used because I have acquired a car. It isn't in London yet because living where I do it would be as useful as ice blocks in an Alaskan winter," I said.

"I think you could visit at least eight countries without much of a diversion. With a slight detour you could visit Venice, which you really must do before it becomes over-run with tourists. I shall be thinking of you and wishing that we had the opportunity of enjoying some of Europe's wonderful cities together. I might even have been able to add a bit to the experience, by showing you things you might not have found or noticed."

"You have shown yourself to be a talented and knowledgeable guide, so I would expect nothing less," I said, looking straight into her eyes, and for once making her duck her head in something near to bashfulness.

I suppose we were quite sensitive to the looks we got from our fellow diners, especially after the incident of the woman on the tube. There was nothing you could call remotely hostile, but women in particular showed interest and perhaps puzzlement. "Jealousy" said Martha. "They've passed the flush of excitement that goes with the early years of a relationship and are just wondering if I've found a way to breathe the embers back into flame. If so, how do they get some of the action. I think I'll hire you out. Have to keep an eye on you of course."

"What do you mean by 'keep an eye on'?"

"Do a Stephen Ward and fix up a two-way mirror."

"I didn't know you were a voyeur."

"So much you didn't know, and some of it still don't," she grinned.

"...and don't want to," I added.

"What a pity. I thought I could titillate you with my salacious stories."

"I don't need titillation" I said.

"That's true."

We had finished our delicious desserts and decided that we needed coffee to finish.

I think that decaffeinated coffee was available, but Martha rejected it anyway. I pointed out that the caffein would keep us awake. "Exactly," was all she said.

*

We considered walking the towpath back, but decided we might feel slightly unsafe, so decided on a compromise of taxi to the Royal College Street bridge over the canal, and then walk the rest of the way along the roads. It took about 15 minutes, and we huddled together, arms around each other.

"What have you planned for tomorrow?" I asked.

"As it's Saturday it will be quiet in the City. I'd like to take you to the Sir John Soane Museum in Lincolns Inn. You've probably heard of it, but I want to try to enthuse you about architectural history, which as you've gathered is my passion."

"I have heard of it, and it would be great to visit. I reluctantly accept that I am not your only passion. Anything planned for the afternoon? Any other gaps in my education that you think need filling?"

"Yes. With an ill-educated uncouth like you there just isn't enough time. But I thought that a walk along the Regents Canal, walking in a westward direction and then drop down along the side of Regents Park to the Royal College of Physicians."

"Oh yes! Excellent: that's my territory, Regents Park, walking distance both from the flat and from the Poly."

We were back to the house now. I filled with a warm anticipation when I knew we were going to shut the door on the world outside and retreat into our cocoon. My family home had always been welcoming, but increasingly it seemed like my parents' home rather than mine; and there was no way I could feel any sort of attachment to my London flats.

So we went in and fixed ourselves a whisky, hers with water, mine with soda, and sat on the sofa. I was in the corner, and she came and half lay on me as we continued our conversation about the Soane Museum and the Lasdun Royal College. After a while I started playing with a breast, and then found a nipple and started rolling it around.

"I'm being very puerile -- tell me to stop," I said

"Why, I like it."

"What do we call them? 'Tits' and 'boobs' are horrible. 'Bosom' is terribly 1930s."

"Careful: so am I. You once called them 'the twin peaks', which felt quite nice. Like what you're doing now."

A little while later I gently pushed her off enough to get up and kneel in front of her. I put my hands under her skirt and pushed it back, then eased her thighs apart. My tongue started to massage between them. Her thin knickers were already damp when I started, and soon they were very wet.

"I'd really like to take them off," she said and managed it to her knees, where I took over to remove them entirely. Her bush was neatly trimmed, but not into fancy patterns, and I was now in an excellent position to make use of my recent education. My tongue started on the labia, softly moving up and down each side, enjoying the slightly acid taste, and then foraging a bit deeper. My right hand search for, and found, the little hood over the glans clitoris, and with extreme caution began to circle it with my thumb. I now moved my tongue up, over the urethral opening, and got it joining in the fiesta which my thumb had established around the glans clitoris. With my other hand I entered the vaginal canal, and two fingers began to cautiously rub the upper surface, just inside the opening.

You will be aware that I was trying to show off my newly acquired knowledge. Martha's hands were now holding my head. I thought she was going to move me away, but she seemed content to let me play. Basically, I just continued with my triple engagement: thumb, tongue and fingers, trying to set up complementary rhythms with each of them.

From the time that I started playing with the nipples to this point possibly 15 minutes had passed. I didn't have to worry about my own orgasm, because my concentration was all on Martha and her state, but I thought it best if I asked where to go next.

"Darling please can you stop... what you're doing with the right... thumb, because the clit is now too sensitive... but please keep going with... your tongue and lips. Sorry I'm only just able to speak."

I was only too happy to comply. Within a few minutes, just as I'd started gently sucking, Martha seemed to experience an overwhelming orgasm. It gripped her for quite a long time and I was astounded. Gosh! did I do that?

The little quiverings eventually subsided. She drew a deep breath and let out a long sigh and pulling down her skirt said "Come up here and be cuddled. I can't think of any other way to express my feelings for what I have just experienced. I have never come close to that with anyone else."

So I did, only too happily.

"I feel guilty that you didn't get much out of that," Martha said.

"Bollocks. I was totally engaged in the nicest possible way."

"Well I'm going to take you to bed soon and give my body to you for free play. And I will respond to anything you'd like me to do for you."

We had another little tipple, then proceeded upstairs.

"Can we shower like we did last night please?" I asked, and we made for the bathroom.

It was just as sexy as last night, and I did my best to pretend that I had a matchless body by running my hands all over the soapy surfaces trying to disguise its resemblance to a stick insect. As the night before she was sitting watching. I held the Prince in one hand, then thrust my pelvis forward and ran my other hand round my rump. She burst out laughing and clapped her hands. "Bravo Mr Universe," she cried.

I had a ball that night. I really wanted to see her lower herself onto the Prince, facing my toes, and let me play with what she called 'the wrinkled orifice'. And that's what she did, and I enjoyed the wonderful view and playtime in the back garden while the Prince nestled snugly in Cinders' welcoming folds.

Judging that perhaps it was time to move to the next act she got off, turned me over and got the almond oil to massage my bum, and having got me wriggling with pleasure it was her turn at the w.o. -- mine this time -- and ever so gently she eased her finger in, probably as far as the second knuckle, and started a rhythmic sink and draw. I'd just got to the point when I thought I might elect to maintain this all night when she stopped again and got off the bed. She knelt down and rested her upper body on the bed.

"Come on Tigger: now it's your turn to let go. Come and give me a good fucking please."

Of course I had no option. I got on the floor behind her and separated her knees, then took hold of a buttock apiece in my hands and, holding them apart I pointed the Prince at Cinderella's glistening portal and entered. I pushed as hard as I could. I really wanted to feel the flesh of her buttocks press hard against my groin, and I wanted her to feel my balls against her perineum. I then felt all was set for a fine fuck. It was quite vigorous... no, in truth it was an out-of-control rampage, which alas did not last as long as I'd hoped but was fantastic while it did. And we created that slapping noise flesh to flesh, that I find so stirring.

I collapsed over Martha's back, nibbling the bit of neck and shoulder that I could find, and whispering my thanks and endearments.

"That was indeed a good fucking, my young lover. A+ for the Prince: Cinderella was well satisfied," my partner-in-lust announced.

***

Next day the mistress' plan was put into action, and we travelled by tube to Holborn for our visit to Sir John Soane's Museum in Lincoln's Inn Fields, a museum much-loved by architects for its quirky rooms and extraordinary collection of models, sculpture and paintings. In the crypt, which is the darkest part of the display, is an Egyptian sarcophagus: a stone coffin some 3700 years old.

"He couldn't stand his son and didn't want him to inherit the buildings and collection. So he had a Private Act of Parliament passed to create the museum and ensure that it stayed largely as it was in his time," Martha explained.