Helping Hands

The climax was all I could have desired. She let me know that all restraint should be abandoned. Her writhing against me grew fierce and demanding. Her mouth opened, sucking in deep breaths. Her hands clasped my buttocks, reinforcing the urgency of my driving penetration. And so the dam burst inside her. I felt the first gush, then the spasms as spurt after spurt emptied me. The relief was total and shattering. The feeling exquisite.

****************

Half-an-hour later, showered and dressed I sat with Marjorie in a comfortable room downstairs. She again wore the housecoat but now decorously closed. I was nursing a large scotch and soda, Marjorie had a mug of coffee.

"The thing you have to understand about Helping Hands," she said in reply to my question, "is that it doesn't really exist. There's no organised body, no constitution, no secretary, no membership. If Helping Hands is anything it's a kind of code word that identifies anyone in the village who is single - or becomes single - and is over a certain age."

"Which is?"

"Oh, there's nothing fixed. It fluctuates. But we're not talking young. Or even youngish. The majority are widows or widowers. Without being brutal about it, you can say that whenever there has been a funeral in the village, discreet enquiries will be made. After a while, of course."

"And then?"

"Well, that too can vary. The whole Helping Hands thing depends on who's involved at any time. We talk among ourselves, the women do, and we do what seems interesting and enjoyable. At present, I'm acting as a kind of meeter and greeter for anyone new. Like you."

"Doesn't sound too hard."

"You'd be surprised. You and I clicked and it was great. But that doesn't always happen. I've had disappointments. And one or two disasters."

"So what about us? Another time, I mean."

"Ah, that's important." She paused, considering. "Yes, I hope there will be more evenings like this one. But one thing that has always been part of Helping Hands philosophy is that no-one can monopolise anyone else. We've had a few cases of a man and a women hitting it off so well that they settle into being a couple. But then they disappear from Helping Hands because we are no longer what they need."

"I can see that. So what should I do now?"

"Nothing"

"Nothing?"

"Don't worry. The point I've been trying to get across is that in Helping Hands we circulate. Variety. Spice of life, eh? But experience has taught us that the initiative is best left in the women's hands. Men can get - well, pushy. We had one serious case and we had to tell him he wasn't welcome. He moved away."

She offered me a refill but I declined. I still had to cycle home and the evening had left me intoxicated enough. Taking my glass, she leaned down and kissed me; full on the mouth but not in away that suggested a resumption of engagement. "Just go home, John, and be patient. We women talk, you know. My guess is you won't wait long before your phone rings.

****************

I didn't hear from her again for several months, though we smiled when we passed each other in the street. But in the meantime I was drawn into a world I couldn't have dreamt existed; certainly not in a sedate village like ours. And Marjorie was right. The revelatory thrill, especially for someone whose previous decades had been sheltered and unadventurous, was the variety. Obvious really, I suppose, but no two of these women were the same, or wanted the same things.

Audrey was unremarkable in appearance and quiet in manner. Sex was invariably missionary but unhurried and ultimately very satisfactory. When it was over, she always made me a cup of tea and sat and chatted for half an hour without ever referring to what had gone on in her bed.

In contrast, Vera was extrovert and beyond embarrassment. She was the one who surfed the internet and went mail order shopping for sex toys on behalf of several of the other women as well as herself. Without Vera I would never have known what a clever substitute for a man the Rabbit could be. Vera, who claimed she masturbated every day she didn't have what she called 'an appointment,' gave me a noisy demonstration. And still had appetite for a vigourous workout afterwards.

Masturbation was what Cynthia liked, that and nothing more. I found it strange the first time she suggested that we should sit in facing chairs and watch each other's handiwork. But there was a real erotic charge as she paced us, drawing out the pleasure until there could be no further delay. Simultaneous orgasm was always her objective and, with experience, we were able to achieve it more often than not.

Trudy was a novice when she called me the first time. She was one of a few divorcees who came into the circle. A familiar story, ditched by her husband shortly before her fiftieth birthday in favour of someone younger. I was the first name she was given by Marjorie who apparently told her I was "very big." This wasn't anything I'd ever given much thought to but I discovered, not only from Trudy, that it was one reason why my phone rang so regularly. Big or not, she climbed on top and rode me with the relish of someone making up for lost time. Sessions with Trudy were almost always exhausting.

Much the same was true of Edna. The difference,though, was twenty years: Edna was seventy, still going strong and proud of it. Her body was still in good shape and so was her vocabulary. "How are we going to fuck today?" was her customary greeting. Then she might suggest, "Why don't you have a look at my arse in my new knickers? Feel me up a bit and when your ready give me a bit of doggy." When I did, she would offer continuous encouragement. "Harder. Get it up me. That's good. Just the way I like it." I felt I had moved a long way from Dorothy. Edna passed away recently. Her funeral had a remarkable turnout of elderly men.

If Edna was something of a one-off, so too, in an entirely different way, was Connie. Terrified of what her neighbours might think, she was only an occasional caller, always wanting to know if I could visit at short notice. The reason was that she had seen the occupants from either side of her little terraced house leave the street. "It's safe if you come now," she would say. "I've been without for too long so please come if you can." Even then we would have to couple in virtual silence. "I wouldn't like it if next door came back and heard us," she'd say. These couplings were somewhat surreal but I never demurred. Because of the long intervals between what she felt were safe opportunities, when we got down to it she was the most ravenous of partners, with a repertoire in which sixty-nine was a major feature.

There were others, the circle waxing and waning (and wanking), as some departed with the years and others were enlisted. One never knows how many of us there were at any given time. We are a constantly rotating community of temporary mix-and-match pairs. Only once, after the original coffee morning, did a number of us get together in a group. Freda organised a theatre trip to our nearest town.

I'm not much of a theatre-goer but the local repertory company were putting on something called 'Round and Round the Garden' by Alan Ayckbourn. I went along thinking it might appeal to my gardening interest. In the event, it turned out to be a comedy that had had very little to do with gardening but was mildly amusing. Much more interesting was the journey home.

We were in a sixteen-seater mini-coach. It was dark and there was only dim lighting in the coach. I was sitting with Alice making noncommittal conversation about the play when she nudged me to draw my attention to the couple across the aisle. Despite the subdued illumination, I saw that Vera was leaning down into Arthur's lap. The rise and fall of her head left little to the imagination. Alice smiled approvingly. Then she carefully folded back her skirt, took my hand and placed it firmly between her open legs. Her theatre-going outfit hadn't included any knickers. In time, clenched lips and a short sharp drive with her hips signalled a carefully managed orgasm. She pressed my hand in place while she recovered. Unfortunately, just as she was preparing to reciprocate, the coach driver announced that we were nearly back at the village. Alice let her disappointment show. "Next time," she murmured.

There never was another trip but Alice made up for that on several subsequent visits to her home, so I've no complaints. Indeed, these last five years have passed so swiftly I find it hard to recall the person I was before all this began. Without exception, all the women I have met in these circumstances have broadened my outlook in varying measure. I am grateful to them all. But none has excited me more than my recent experience with Teresa. And that demands recounting in some detail.

****************

Teresa is - I guess - somewhere between fifty and fifty-five,slim and well-preserved. Where sex is concerned she undoubtedly ticks more of the boxes for me than anyone else. Black underwear, for a start. A taste for extended foreplay, too - there have been days when I have arrived in the early afternoon and left after dark, and we don't spend our time watching soaps. The television certainly gets switched on but Teresa subscribes to adult channels. One that features spanking movies is a favourite and never fails to provoke a session with Teresa across my lap. One day, displaying my blossoming knowledge of the new world I have entered, I enquired about bisexuality. Specifically, female bisexuality. She said there was a lot of it about,more than most men supposed, but she was unforthcoming about her own proclivities.

Then,one evening, my phone rang. It was Teresa. "Can you speak?" she asked. With Helping Hands members one never knew so it was proper to be discreet. I assured her I was alone, hoping that she would offer to pop round. That wasn't what was on her mind.

"You asked me once," she said, almost without preamble, "about bisexuality."

"I remember."

"You were fishing to find out if that was my line of country."

"Oh well ..."

"No need to be coy. It was understandable." There was a longish silence. I said nothing, though I was impatient to know where this was leading. Eventually, I heard her take in a deep breath. "This is confidential, isn't it?"

"Isn't it always?"

"Yes, of course it is. I'm sorry.:

"Just tell me what's on your mind."

"Well, I have a very good friend. Billy. Oh, a woman friend. Wilhelmina, really, but everyone calls her Billy. We met at University." Pause. "Where we were ... very close friends. Yes?"

"Go on."

"It was good, but it didn't last. We went our own ways, both got married,kept in touch with Christmas cards, that sort of thing."

Again she stopped, still seemingly uncertain, needing reassurance. I said, "And now Billy is back in your life?" It was the only logical conclusion.

"Yes, up to a point. She's taken to asking if she can visit. Just for a week-end. Every few months. No more."

"But you are back where you were and it's still good?"

"Yes."

"So you feel perhaps the time has come to part company with - well, you know, a lot of your friends in the village."

"Good heavens, no," she exclaimed. "Cut myself from all that - especially you. Of course not."

"What then?"

"The last time Billy was here we talked about a lot of things. The situation with her husband isn't good. Sex is virtually non-existent. But there are no real grounds for divorce. And anyway, when you pass fifty the lonely life of a divorcee can be frightening."

"Not if you know about Helping Hands."

"Exactly. So I told her ... more or less everything. I know I can trust her and, in any case, she doesn't know the village and the village doesn't know her."

"But - if she divorces him and comes to live here -"

"It's not what she wants, John."

"So what is?"

Another pause, this time longer than before. "Let me put it this way. What Billy and I do together is good. More than good. But what Billy needs is a man."

"I see."

"I'm not sure you do. What Billy has in mind is a threesome. Her, me and a man."

My turn to pause for thought before I asked, "How do you feel about that?"

"The more I've thought about it, the more it appeals."

Not difficult then to see where the conversation was heading. "And you've rung me because - "

"Yes, John."

"Mr Big."

For the first time she giggled. "Not just for that. But it helps. Will you?"

My only question was, "When?"

"This week-end. I know I should have called you before but - well, anyway, I've done it now. You know we'll try to make it good for you, too."

They did.

And, every few months, still do.