Unconditional Love

When I'd packed the board away, Peter said, quietly, "Would you like your foot massage now?" Like a Pavlovian dog I sat and kicked off my shoes. From almost the first touch of his hands I felt my pussy twitch. By the time he slipped his grasp up to my calf I could feel my labia peeling open like a flower greeting the sun, my insides smouldering.

My last rational brain cell fired onto gear, and I pushed myself off the couch, away from him. Barely able to stand or speak, I husked, "That's enough for tonight Peter. I need an early night, I'm off to bed now. Could you lock up please?" I raced up the stairs and changed dazedly into my sleeveless nylon nightdress. My sopping pants stuck to my pussy when I peeled them off. I knew if I'd stayed with Peter any longer I wouldn't have been able to keep my hands off him.

I got into bed and switched off the light, feeling hot and miserable. I really wanted to fuck that young man, and I didn't think I could resist for another day. I lay wide awake, my pussy aching for satisfaction. After half an hour I was just about to reach my hand down my body when I heard Peter softly climbing the stairs. I listened for him passing my door to his room, then realised with shock that he'd opened my door and stepped into my room. I lay with my back to the door, trembling with anticipation. A moment later the side of the bed sagged as he slipped under the duvet behind me.

I felt a warm hand on my bare shoulder, and breath on my ear. Peter whispered, "Jenny, are you awake?"

"Yes." Fucking hell, was that all I was going to say, to this presumptuous teenager who'd climbed into bed with me? Swallowing, I said "Peter, this really isn't right. You should go to your own bed."

He shuffled closer, and I felt something press against my bum through the nightie. I realised he was naked. His lips almost brushing my ear, he whispered, "I know, I'm sorry, but I was thinking about things downstairs, and I got sad. I was hoping we might have a cuddle.

God help me, I didn't say a word, I just lay there, my back to him, my whole body trembling. He took my silence as consent, and his arms wrapped around my waist. He moved closer still, and it was obvious that he was aroused -- very aroused. His rampant cock nestled between my bum cheeks, pushing the nightie into my cleft. Still I lay in silence. After another minute, Peter's hands slid up to my breasts, and cupped them. He softly kissed the nape of my neck. I had to do something about it, I just had to.

The hands moved again, and slipped through the large arm holes of my nightdress. His hands cupped the flesh of my breasts, and I shuddered as fingers and thumbs rolled my nipples. I hissed with arousal. I could feel him trying to push up the nightgown with his erection and, in the final surrender, I reached back a hand and lifted the material to my waist.

We both gasped as he entered my cunt. He began thrusting into me, fast and deep, his hands squeezing my boobs to match his rhythm. My last inhibitions shattered, my tongue lolled out and I pushed back against him, my pussy burning with lust. We gradually rolled until Peter was on top of me, hammering his cock into me to the hilt, his hips banging against my bum cheeks. Peter was the fifth man who had fucked me, and my cunt had never felt so stretched before -- his organ was clearly both longer and thicker than my husband's.

I lay with my cheek pressed into the pillow, growling "God yes, fuck me, fuck me, come on, good and hard my darling." I couldn't remember having wanted any man so desperately in years. I was still overheated from the foreplay downstairs, and within a couple of minutes I felt my pussy boiling and howled as my head span and I bucked to a massive orgasm. Peter carried on for another minute or so then, with a huge release of breath, he gave one almighty push that drove my face into the pillow and I felt his release.

Totally lost, beyond shame, I rolled over and hugged my teenage conqueror to me, smothering his face with wild kisses. He flopped beside me, his eyes slightly glazed, a happy smile on his lips, and I sat up and cast off the nightgown. A short while later, as we kissed and cuddled, I asked Peter if that had been his first time. He smiled shyly, "No, I've had sex once before, with a teacher at my boarding school. She was older than you are -- I've always found mature women attractive. But with you it was great -- much better than I imagined. You're so beautiful Jenny, so lovely." Completely abandoned to my lover, I glowed with his flattery. He groaned with delight as I wrapped my hand around his big cock and slithered down his body to gaze at it. Looking down at me, he said, "Is it all right? I mean my..."

I chuckled. "God, Peter, it's lovely, beautiful -- just like you. And huge too." He gasped as I ran my tongue down its underside from the tip, then across his scrotum. I feasted on his dick, slavering my lips over it, licking it, taking his balls into my mouth, stroking between his legs with my tongue then working my way back up again. He lay on his back moaning, one arm thrown over his eyes. Finally I mouth-fucked him, wanking his stem with my fingers, until he shot his bolt down my throat.

We did a lot more kissing, cuddling and caressing, and Peter fucked me once more. That time we were face to face, smiling at each other as he screwed me with long, deep, powerful strokes, grunting with each thrust. I raked my fingernails up his bum, which he loved, and guided one of his fingers to my clit, showing him how to stroke it to really excite me. I didn't think I'd cum again, but I did, a sweet gentle orgasm, which radiated warmth through my body like the Mediterranean sun. Peter, with the energy of youth, erupted into me like a volcano yet again.

We lay in bed together until the middle of the next morning, mostly just kissing and giving each other goofy smiles. Then reality hit me. I checked my phone after I'd dressed, and found two messages from Andy. "Jen, I need to speak to you asap. Call me back." "Jenny, where are you? Look, we've got to talk, and soon. What's happening, is everything all right?" I switched the phone off guiltily.

Peter and I went for a long walk along the cliffs, hand in hand. At one point I pulled him down onto a grassy knoll and we lay and kissed for a long time. I felt like a 16-year old with my first boyfriend again: very much in love, feeling slightly awkward about it, but enjoying the feeling. When we got back to the cottage I saw my old friend from the North Yorks Constabulary, Ollie, pounding on the front door. I quickly released Peter's hand, but not before the smirking flatfoot had noticed.

He called across the garden to me. "Oh, there you are love. Your boss was getting worried about you and young fellow-me-lad. He's been trying to get hold of you, urgent like." May face flushing, I told him my phone had developed a fault and I couldn't get incoming calls. He nodded doubtfully, then turned to Peter. "If you'd like to wait in the front room, lad, I just need a word with Sergeant Cross here." We went into the kitchen. Ollie closed the door firmly behind us, started to make himself a cup of tea then turned to me. "The reason your boss wanted you was to tell you he'll be up here tomorrow morning -- to arrest your boyfriend there." I glared at the man, but didn't rise to the bait. Oblivious to my reaction, he continued. "DI Purvis wanted you to be ready, make sure the lad's compliant."

After that Ollie parked his fat backside in a kitchen chair and tried to make small-talk, but I was barely listening. Clearly Andy had made up his mind Richie Marston wasn't our murderer; I wondered queasily whether they'd found new evidence against Peter, or were just too suspicious of his story. Mad thoughts went through my head. Maybe we could make a bolt for freedom. I'd heard on the police grapevine that there were pubs in Liverpool where you could order a false passport at two hours' notice. Then I realised what I was doing -- trying to work out how to help someone I believed to be a murderer to escape the justice I was sworn to uphold. A murder who had become my lover, and my master.

I didn't say anything about it to Peter for some time. We cuddled up as we watched a film, then he massaged my feet and we went to bed. I was just about to suck his sweet cock into my mouth again when he stopped me. "I want to do that for you tonight." He eased me onto my back and squatted between my thighs. I love being eaten out, and I nearly swooned when I felt his tongue tickling my inner thigh, inches from my pussy.

He had obviously never done that before, but he was enthusiastic and a quick learner, and within a few minutes I was moaning over and over, writhing as he fucked me with his fingers, licking my tender flesh around them, stroking my labia with his nose and chin, and tickling my clit as I'd shown him. I had another big orgasm, my hips lifting until I was more or less riding his face, his neck craned backwards to allow his mouth to keep contact with me.

I enjoyed it so much that I decided I wanted some more, and I squirmed round on the bed until our heads were between each other's legs. Peter got the idea immediately, and gripped the back of my thighs as he pushed his face into me. I massaged his cock with my lips, tongue and fingers, and he moaned into my pussy, even as he thrust his tongue deep inside me, sending rivers of molten lava through my veins, and into the void of my cunt. Afterwards, as I nestled in the crook of his arm, I whispered, "Peter, sweetheart, they're coming for you tomorrow. You've got to tell me what really happened that night."

He glanced down at me, immediately understanding where I was coming from. "You already know, don't you?"

I nodded. "I know the story you've told me so far doesn't work. You've got to tell me the truth, honey, so I can try and help you. If you were defending yourself, for example..."

He nodded slowly. "I was, in a way. My father started abusing me when I was about six. It felt wrong, but he was my dad, and your dad doesn't do bad things to you, does he? I didn't think mum knew -- dad told me the way he loved me was our little secret. It stopped when I went away to boarding school at 13. But then, after we witnessed that murder, dad began hitting the bottle, and...that night it started again."

He took a shuddering breath, and tears appeared in his eyes. I hugged him to me, and stroked his chest. He took a deep breath and continued in a shaking voice. "He was drunk, and he told me he loved me. It was the way he said it that scared me. He came and sat next to me and put his arm round me, stroking my hair. Mum was there and I thought she'd say something, but she just looked away. I begged her to do something. She just gave me this cold, hard stare, and said he was my dad and it was his right. Then she walked out of the room. She'd known all along what he was doing to me.

"I tried to push him away, but he was too strong. He pulled my jeans and pants down and started fingering me. I kicked him and managed to get away, but he came running after me, screaming that he'd kill me. He was nearly on me and I just reached out for something to fend him off, anything. I swung it, and realised I'd picked up the cleaver. Mum came in and screamed, and threw herself at me. I didn't mean to kill them, either of them, but...I just had to stop her screaming."

He was openly crying now. I should have felt sickened, repulsed, but I just felt a yearning sympathy for him. I hugged him and kissed him whispering, "It's okay baby, it'll be all right, really it will." His account hadn't mentioned the mysterious phone call to Richie Marston, which had brought him conveniently close to the murder site on the night when Peter's father just happened to try and rape him, but...I didn't ask Peter about it.

The next day we dressed in silence and sat on the couch, cuddling and trying not to cry. When Andy arrived, with another of my colleagues, he was cold and formal with me. He asked me if I would charge Peter, but I shook my head, unable to speak. With a huge sigh Andy brushed past me into the sitting room, and without further ado I heard, "Peter Stewart Richmond, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of John and Sheila Richmond. You do not have to say anything..."

Events moved quite quickly after that. When I returned home Jim and I were cold and distant, like strangers. I was quite relieved when, on the third night, he decided to go and stay with his sister. We didn't use Peter in the Craig Marston trial, and we got a conviction based on CCTV and firearm evidence. For Peter's trial, Andy wanted to include the phone call to Richie Marston in evidence. That could have been quite damaging, but I managed to convince the Crown Prosecution Service that the link to Peter was too tenuous -- there wasn't a shred of evidence that he'd made the call; in fact, I embroidered, he was prepared to swear he'd heard his mother making furtive arrangements on the phone.

I used our savings, mine and Jim's, to get Peter the best defence team I could find. They went with his self defence story, and we were lucky to get a sympathetic jury. The female QC who led the prosecution went quite easy on Peter too, I thought. I gave evidence for the prosecution, but I did my best to put across the view that Peter was as much a victim of his parents as their killer. As I left the witness box Andy Purvis refused to look at me, his expression one of undisguised disgust. Peter caught my eye from the dock, and mouthed, "I love you". That finished me: I fell to my knees in the well of the court, sobbing for my poor, sweet lover. The press hyenas gobbled it up, and I was on the front pages the next day.

Peter was sent to an open prison. That's quite unusual for a killer, but his psychiatric report said he was a low flight risk and would struggle to cope in the testosterone-fuelled environment of a closed prison or a young offenders' institute. I'm not a police officer anymore. I'm now a trainee social worker, with the city council where Peter's prison is located. My friends -- my former friends -- think I've lost my mind, literally. Maybe I have; I've certainly lost my marriage, my career, my nice two-bed semi, my social circle and, according to Superintendent fat-arse Petty, my moral compass, whatever the hell that means.

But Peter will need me when he gets out; he certainly hasn't got anyone else. He was given seven years, and with luck he'll be out in less than four. I visit him every two weeks: my new boss is very good about me making up my time. Mostly we just sit and hold hands across the table, reaffirming our love for each other. And we are in love, deeply. It's difficult to explain, but we really have connected spiritually as well as physically and emotionally. I need him too. And I know that, whatever happens, I really can't imagine my life in the future without my darling boy being in it.