It is every woman’s romantic dream, at least in England, to live in a country cottage with roses round the door and an old-fashioned country garden with its informal mixture of flowers, herbs, and vegetables densely packed into a small space. In a country where most people now live in towns or cities, many in drearily uniform suburban estates, I have often wondered if the English passion for gardening is partly an attempt to recreate that idyll. However, I am one of those few people fortunate enough to be really living what others can only dream about.
My cottage is one of a pair that were originally part of a farm that had been in our family for generations, and which were originally built for the farm workers. At the rear of the cottage was a large paddock of about two acres, which was only overlooked by the garden of the adjoining cottage, and beyond that was an area of old deciduous woodland which, unlike many of the darkly forbidding Forestry Commission plantations that march across our northern landscape, was light and airy with many sun-dappled glades.
Like my father’s farm, the cottage lay in the western lee of the Pennine Hills. In spring and summer, the hillsides were green with the young grass and bracken, which turned to burnished gold in the light of the late autumn sun, the open fields dotted with the white specks of the sheep which were allowed to roam free until the first winter snow. The cottage was separated from the road by an ancient stone wall of local grey limestone covered in colourful patches of lichen and with ferns growing from between the stones in the shady places where the sun only shone at the height of summer. The small front garden in summer glowed with the multicolours of the profusion of old-fashioned plants like hollyhocks and lupins. A stone path led from the gate to a front door of dark oak, which was indeed surrounded by an arch of white and pink rambling roses which filled the air with their sweet scent from late spring to early autumn. I am indeed blessed to be living in such an Eden.
The mass migration of agricultural labourers to the industrial cities in the nineteenth century, and the increasing mechanisation of farming, resulted in a major decline in the rural population, and many cottages fell into disrepair. With unusual foresight, my grandfather realised that the cottages on his estate were an important capital asset and, in the years following the Second World War, when new housing was desperately needed, he gradually sold them off, using the profits to purchase the most modern agricultural machinery. Most cottages were purchased by members of the growing professional middle class whose incomes were rising and who could afford to buy a car which would allow them to live in the country and work in the town.
My great aunt had married the son of the owner of a small cotton spinning mill in the Lancashire mill town of Oldham. Despite his comparative youth, my great uncle took over control of the company on his father’s death in 1928 at the age of fifty-nine. The decline in demand for British cotton goods during the First World War meant that hundreds of cotton mills began to close during the 1920s, a situation that was later made worse by the economic downturn of the Great Depression of the late 1920s and early 1930s.
My great uncle’s father was a proud man and refused all offers from larger companies to purchase the mill. My great uncle could see the writing on the wall, however, and a year after his father’s death he accepted an offer to purchase the company from the Lancashire Cotton Corporation, which had been set up by the Bank of England to rescue the cotton industry, and he was retained as managing director. Sadly, he was one of twenty-seven people killed during the V1 attack on Oldham on the morning of Christmas Eve 1944, when he was on his way to work on foot owing to the restrictions on the sale of petrol to the public.
My great aunt and uncle had no children, and on his death, she was left with a large house for which she had no need, and a comfortable income from his investments in steel manufacture which had suffered a hit during the depression years but had recovered during the war. For a while she lived on in the house, all alone except for the domestic servants, but when her brother started selling the farm cottages after the war, she sold the house and, after paying off the servants with a handsome settlement, used part of the proceeds to buy her favourite cottage on the farm where she had been born.
My great aunt was able to live comfortably off her investment income, and during my childhood my older siblings and I often visited her and listened to her stories of the old times. She was an excellent cook, and despite having enjoyed the services of a professional cook through her married life, she had never lost any of her skills. I remember with particular fondness her home-grown apple pies with a pastry crust that was just perfect, served with hot custard and cream from the farm. I grew to love the cottage as she did, and when she died in 1981 at the grand old age of eighty-three, whilst I was in my final year at university, she left me the cottage in her will along with a substantial legacy. Following a year at teacher training college, I was fortunate to be offered a teaching post in the English department at a new high school in Haslingden, which was only about twenty-five minutes away by car on a good day.
Before I moved into the cottage, I decided to use some of my legacy to modernise it, which meant complete electrical rewiring and new plumbing. I also had central heating installed — although I retained the lovely open fire in the main living room — and a brand-new kitchen, as there was no way I could have cooked on the antiquated cooker which my great aunt had grown accustomed to. With the addition of double glazing – quite a new idea at the time – it was going to be a cosy nest for me, my cats, and a future husband when I acquired one. There was a small outhouse at the back of the property which I had considerably extended to make a garage, and a stable for my horse – definitely the most important of my improvements – before I went to university, I had ridden out for at least a couple of hours every day of the year.
ooOoo
My upbringing was unremarkable, and ours was a happy home filled with laughter. However, just after my sixteenth birthday, my parents had become converted to naturism by Uncle John and Aunty Rosie – not our real uncle and aunt, but that was how we addressed close friends of our parents in those days. After that, unless they were expecting visitors, my parents both went around the house wearing nothing other than a pair of wooden clogs or Wellington boots, and my father would often go and do the milking totally naked – I don’t suppose the cows were at all perturbed.
By the time I went to university, two years later, I had seen my father and older brothers’ penises in both their flaccid and erect state. Touching between our parents in the house was common, and we would often see our mother stroke father’s penis in a tenderly affectionate way, or our father come up behind her and cuddle her and caress her breasts – all this was healthy and accepted as normal.
From my sixteenth birthday, therefore, our holidays were always taken at a naturist resort where the healthy delights of naked living were taken for granted, including the naked appreciation, if you’ll excuse the pun, of the human body in all its explicit beauty. Those readers who can remember the naturist magazines of the time will possibly be surprised to learn that the absence of erect male penises and the demure depiction of female pudenda in the photographs were a gesture in the direction of respectability and very far from the truth. This was also a time when publication of explicit photographs of naked men was forbidden, and female genitalia were airbrushed out in top shelf girly magazines – so different from today when explicit images of people having sex are commonplace on the Internet.
In retrospect, the impression of monogamous sexual relationships among naturists given by the magazines published by the movement was a fiction, and the reality was that naturists enjoyed a sexual freedom that was unusual in those more repressed days. The appreciation and respect for the human body that naturists enjoyed was generally accompanied by an equal delight in a sexuality that might have shocked the public, and drawn censure from the moral guardians of the nation had it become common knowledge. Masturbation was regarded as healthy, but only in private, either alone or with two or three close friends. Of course, guilt-free extramarital relationships were also pursued within the privacy of the lodges, but explicit public sexual activity was forbidden by general agreement. The only other strict rule was that children under the age of sixteen were not permitted. Naturists did have a moral code, but it was based on mutual respect, caring and equality between the sexes in a loving environment.
We usually took our holidays with another family who were close friends of our parents. In my late teens, I never wondered about the nature of the relationship between my parents and Uncle John and Aunty Rosie. However, on the last summer holiday I took with my parents before going up to university, one of my girlfriends told me that she had noticed one evening the curtains of my parents’ lodge – young people slept in separate lodges, boys and girls together – and, drawn by curiosity, she had peeked through the window. What she told me was somewhat shocking at first, but as it didn’t seem to have affected my parents’ loving relationship in any way, I soon accepted that what they did in private was entirely their business. She said that she had seen my mother sitting on Uncle John’s lap vigorously riding his cock while my father and Aunty Rosie were watching in obvious pleasure and satisfaction.
I don’t wish to give the impression that there was no sexual activity amongst us teenagers – after all, we were at an age when our hormones were at their most active, but we were taught that penetrative sexual intercourse was not something one should do wantonly but as a pleasure to be enjoyed with a loving and committed partner and that an orgasm was a wonderful gift to be treasured. We teenagers regularly experimented sexually in mixed groups of four or five, and I remember many secretive torchlit sessions of hugely enjoyable mutual masturbation in the woods. We naively believed that our parents were unaware of our nighttime sessions, but they had confidence that they had imbued in us a deep moral sense – albeit different from the accepted norms – and trusted us not to exceed clearly defined boundaries of behaviour. Which naturally required a great deal of self-restraint.
It was then that I discovered that I had an exhibitionist streak, and the memory still lingers of the pleasure I got from spreading my labia and playing with my clitoris whilst watching one or two young men stroking their erect cocks until they ejaculated all over their tummies. The feeling of power, and the look on their faces as they approached their climaxes, was extremely arousing and made my own orgasms exquisitely, sensually sweet. It is a pleasure that, thanks to my understanding husband, I still enjoy today.
Surprisingly, none of these group sessions included oral sex; however, by the time I was eighteen, I was enjoying the delights of giving and receiving oral pleasure with my special boyfriend in the privacy of my bedroom – merely a holiday romance, as I didn’t have a long-term serious relationship until I went to university. It might seem surprising, but I was technically still a virgin when I went to university, not out of prudishness but because I hadn’t yet met a man with whom I wished to share the almost sacred pleasure of penetrative sexual intercourse.
Lesbianism and bisexuality were hardly talked about in those more innocent days, but I did enjoy evenings with two or three other girls of my age when we masturbated each other, and once or twice pleasured each other orally. This was when I discovered that oral sex is different with a woman than with a man, probably because we understand better what will give our partner the greatest pleasure from our own experience. Sex with another woman is also less urgent than with a man, and in leisurely sessions of lovemaking women are more likely to enjoy the delights of repeated orgasms. In my experience, only the most sensitive of male partners have had the self-control and patience to give me multiple orgasms before seeking their own release. Sadly too, whilst women remain multi-orgasmic into middle age, and even longer if some of my elderly female friends are to be believed, the ability of a man to have more than one or two orgasms in a night declines sharply with age.
ooOoo
When I was at university and teacher training college, there was little opportunity to practise my preference for the naturist lifestyle. I had a couple of heterosexual relationships when I believed myself to be in love. However, neither of my boyfriends had any experience of the joys of naturism – for them the only appropriate time to be nude was when they were having a shower or bath and when we were making love. As a consequence, my first experience of penetrative sex was a rather perfunctory affair with no foreplay and totally lacked the sensual pleasure and delight I had enjoyed with my naturist friends, both male and female.
I realised that it was up to me to explain this to my then boyfriend, and to teach him ways in which to pleasure a woman. Unfortunately, he never fully accepted my point of view, and I more than often failed to have an orgasm during lovemaking, leaving me utterly frustrated and unsatisfied. The relationship only lasted for a couple of months after that. My second relationship was with a much more sensitive man whom I met early in the first term of my second year, but we drifted apart when he got a job in London after graduating, and I went to teacher training college.
For a time, I adjusted to a more normal lifestyle, although there is nothing abnormal about naturism – it is a uniquely beautiful way of life where all the barriers between the physical and spiritual are stripped away. It has begun to grow in popularity in the last few years, but it is different in character from the highly organised and curiously moral activity of my teens, and much more blatantly sexual in a rather shallow way. The true naturist aspires to the highest devoted delights that flesh may know in a return to the freedom and innocence of Eden before guilt and sin tainted the divine beauty of the carnal with the dark brushstrokes of shame and selfishness.
On my first day at teacher training college, I was surprised and delighted to discover that Sarah, one of my closest friends from my school holidays, was also a student, although we had lost contact when we had gone to different universities. We were required to “live in” during our training year, but somehow, we persuaded the college bursar to allocate us one of the few double rooms. We quickly resumed the friendship and intimacy of our school days and almost immediately became lovers.
I had believed that I was basically heterosexual whilst still enjoying sexual intimacy with girls. For the next few years, however, I abandoned myself to the lesbian side of my nature. As well as each other, Sarah and I enjoyed intimate friendships with a small number of other women of similar inclination, and we began to take things rather further than masturbation and oral sex, experimenting with vibrators and strap-on dildos to give each other extremely powerful and beautiful orgasms. The liberating effect of fully accepting my bisexuality has been wonderful, and happily it is something my husband of nearly twenty-five years is also comfortable with. Throughout our marriage, he has allowed me to take a female lover when I met someone with whom I shared a mutual attraction.
Once I had finished my education, I moved into the cottage, where in the privacy of my own home I was able to enjoy the freedom of nakedness, only wearing clothes when I went out to do the shopping or to work, and even then, I rarely wore underclothes. My great aunt’s legacy meant that I was comfortably well off and was able to afford things beyond the reach of a junior teacher’s salary. While I was at university, my parents had bought a trailer caravan and started going to the continent for their holidays, where there were many naturist caravan sites — these were still uncommon in the United Kingdom.
I decided to follow their example, and I bought a new Volkswagen campervan with a free-standing awning, and on my holidays, I took the opportunity to travel abroad for the first time in order to broaden my horizons. Rather than travel alone, I invited Sarah to accompany me — it is so much more fun to have someone with whom to share new experiences. After a day spent exploring the countryside or sunbathing on a secluded beach, we would enjoy an al fresco meal and then retire to the privacy of the awning for a night of slow and sensual sex before falling asleep in each other’s arms.
It was during our summer holiday in the South of France that Sarah’s and my sexual horizons expanded even further. We were stretched on the sand one afternoon in the shelter of a small cove, enjoying the sunshine and the sensual feeling of the warm sea breezes on our naked skin when two beautiful young men, who looked as if they might be brothers, rounded the rocks separating us from the main beach. I was initially attracted by their long black hair and olive complexion, which was in striking contrast to the pale skin of the boys we had known in England, but to be completely truthful it wasn’t only their good looks which I admired. Nature had endowed both with a large and pendulous ball sac and a long penis which swung gently from side to side as they walked. I had seen many penises but nothing quite as beautiful as the pair I was now blatantly admiring. Neither of them had any body hair. From the look on her face, Sarah’s thoughts were clearly identical to mine.
They stopped in front of us a few feet from where we were lying and looked us up and down in the same candid way that we were appraising them. As I have said, naturists worship the beauty of the human body, and involuntarily Sarah and I both parted our legs to allow them, in their turn, the same opportunity to fully appreciate our female charms. In charmingly broken English, the taller, and presumably older, of the pair politely asked if they could sit beside us, which we accepted with an alacrity which many respectable people might have considered rather forward.
Over the course of the next few hours, in a mixture of French and English, we discovered all about each other. Paul and Francois were indeed brothers, a year apart in age, and like us they were in their early twenties. They explained that they lived nearby and looked after the family winery for their parents, who had an apartment in Marseilles, and that they had been coming to the beach in their leisure time for years. When I asked if they were naturists, they looked puzzled at first, so I explained that Sarah and I had family members of the British Naturist Movement. Paul, who was more fluent in English than Francois and often spoke for both, said that they were not members of any recognised society, but that nudism was considered totally natural in their family.
I have rarely felt a sexual charge as powerful as that afternoon, and perhaps for the first time in my life I felt a desire for sex for its own sake and not as the consequence of a loving relationship. I could feel my heart racing and hear it echoing in my ears; I could also control the speed of my breathing to a certain extent. However hard I tried, I was betrayed by my physical responses, and I could not disguise that desire from Paul and Francois — or Sarah, come to that. My nipples were standing out like organ stops, and my labia — which were unusually prominent in any case — were engorged and open like the petals of a rose or the wings of a butterfly welcoming the warmth of the sun as well as their gaze.
It was obvious from the way my body was reacting that I wanted to fuck either or both. Sarah was generally shy and reserved, but when I looked across at her, it was clear to me that she felt the same overwhelming carnal urge as me. I have no explanation for the overpowering feeling of pure lust I felt that afternoon — maybe it was something in the air — but I was totally intoxicated by undeniable passion and the overpowering need to feel one or both of those cocks throbbing and surging phenomenal pleasure deep inside me.
Having described Paul and Francois’ appearance, I feel that at this point I should digress briefly to say a little about myself. At five feet and ten inches, I am tall for a woman born in the 1960s, with narrow hips and long muscular legs, and my bottom is well developed from years of horse riding. I have pale blue eyes, pale pinkish skin and freckles, and reddish-gold hair which I kept long in those days. I had small but firm breasts with prominent dark brown nipples and paler brown areolae. As I have already said, I have prominent inner labia which always protrude from between my outer lips, and in those days, I kept my pubic hair, which I trimmed into a heart shape with the point ending just above my long clitoris.
In contrast, Sarah was short and slightly plump with wide hips and large breasts with pale pink nipples and areolae, alabaster skin and dark curly hair. She had profuse pubic hair covering her plump vulva, the deep slit between her lips concealing her delicate inner labia which opened to reveal the rose pink of her inner sex and a small clitoris peeking shyly from its hood when she was aroused.
As the sun began to set in a blaze of gold and pink in the Western sky, the level of sexual expectancy had reached an almost unbearable peak. Both Paul and Francois were sporting strong erections, their long, slightly curved cocks proudly saluting the first stars in the dark azure of the evening sky. Although we had not eaten since breakfast, the only hunger we felt was the irresistible need to consummate our mutual desire in frenzied coupling. Without a word being spoken, Paul moved to kneel between my parted thighs and, leaning forward, he plunged his tongue between my swollen labia into the heat of my dripping cunt, flicking my hard clitoris with his thumb. I came almost immediately, waves of intense pleasure running through my body whilst I writhed in endless ecstasy. From the sound of her moans and cries, Sarah was equally carried away in a tide of rich rapture.
Still in the grip of an earth-shattering orgasm, I reached down to grasp Paul’s cock and pulled him into the entrance to my cunt. With one smooth thrust, he embedded every inch of his raging manhood deep into my throbbing tunnel until his balls were slapping against the cheeks of my bottom and he slid his hands under my thighs, raised my legs to rest above his shoulders as he started to fuck me with controlled savagery. His was only the third penis ever to plunder my inner depths, but this was incomparably better than my previous experiences. He filled me in a way I had never been filled, and exquisite sensations shot through every part of my vagina and pulsed through my whole being. I lost count of the number of times I crested the summit of pleasure into indescribable rapture, as his shaft thickened and throbbed with powerful muscular contractions. I almost passed out with the intensity of the sensations as he pumped unbelievable amounts of hot seed deep into the depths of my inner heart.
Even after he had emptied himself into me, Paul kept on thrusting, more slowly and deliberately, but still sufficient to send aftershocks of pleasure rippling through my blissfully exhausted body. This was raw sex as I had never known, and deep in my soul I knew that it was unlikely that anything could ever surpass it for sheer carnal magnificence.
It was almost dark when we finally returned to earth from the sexual heaven that we had visited. The heat of the day had long dissipated, and Sarah and I hurriedly dressed and made our unsteady way back up the lane to where the campervan was parked. Paul and Francois accompanied us, both still completely naked, and promised to return the following day.
Somehow Sarah and I managed to fix a simple supper of bread and cheese, washed down with several glasses of the local red wine, and then crawled into our sleeping bags and rapidly fell into a deep sleep, both utterly satiated by our shattering sexual excesses.
ooOoo
We hardly had time to drink our morning cup of tea when Paul and Francois rode up on a most magnificent pair of roan horses, looking resplendent themselves in their naked manly beauty.
“Climb aboard,” shouted Paul in his sexy French accent, “you won’t need clothes. We are carrying you off to our home where we will spend the day drinking wine and fucking.”
I quickly locked the campervan, put the key on top of the front wheel, and vaulted up behind Paul. Sarah was less certain – she had only ridden a few times, and that was with a saddle, not bareback – so Francois dismounted, hoisted her up with ease, and remounted behind her. I couldn’t help noticing that his erection ended up nestling between the cheeks of her bottom.
When we were both safely aboard our gorgeous mounts, with our naked skin in intimate contact with our equally gorgeous kidnappers, we galloped through the woods until we broke through the trees onto the golden sand of the beach. Paul and Francois steered their horses using only their knees until we were riding through the crystal-clear water of the Mediterranean.
We must have covered a couple of miles when we veered off onto a rough track through the trees, which opened out after a few minutes into a cobbled courtyard with low buildings along three sides.
“Welcome to our home,” said Paul, “this is where we make the finest white wine in France, but in such small quantities that it is only sold in the local market or to connoisseurs who originally discovered it by accident, and now order a few dozen bottles of each year's vintage.”
“The buildings are very old,” Francois chipped in. “The building on the left is our farmhouse, which has been in the family for generations, and the one on the right is where we store the wine – it is always cool because of the thick walls, which is ideal for wine.”
“The real magic happens in the building at the end,” Paul continued, “because that is where we press the grapes and ferment the juice using equipment installed by our great-grandfather just after the First World War. Older equipment had to be burned because of a fungal infection that nearly wiped out the wine industry.”
“You will see how wonderful our wine is in a few minutes,” Francois butted in, “but before we drink, we must eat. Bread, cheese, slices of the local sausage and olive oil make a feast to fortify us for what comes after we have drunk.”
“Yes,” said Paul, “after our feast we will be ready to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh in an ecstasy of fucking. You are both so ravishing, almost as if you were sent by the old gods, that we will remember the joy of this day even after we have settled down into dull married life and produced a tribe of children to carry on the family name.”
“And after we have fucked, we will relax in the sun for a while; we will swap partners and drink some more wine to fortify ourselves for a second journey to the land of celestial delight,” continued Francois.
“Who says married life will be dull?” I asked, but neither of them answered as they were busy preparing our little feast.
Francois set a table with four chairs in the courtyard, replete with plates of delicious food, four glasses and a carafe of golden wine. It was indeed a feast that caressed our buds with delight, simple pleasures creating a hunger for the carnal feast to follow.
After half an hour, Paul took Sarah by the hand and led her into the house, while Francois fetched the horses and indicated that I should mount and follow him. We rode back down the track, and when we reached the beach, we turned in the opposite direction to the way we had come. We rode side by side through the gentle waves of the turquoise sea, laughing like children in delight at the feel of the wind in our hair, the sun on our flesh, and the water splashing our limbs. As we rode, I could think of no better prelude to our approaching ascent to paradise in the carnal act of intense pleasure that we were soon to enjoy, mating under the sky in uninhibited joy.
When we came to a place where a small stream flowed from the woods into the sea, we turned inland and followed the stream to a small glade where we dismounted and left our horses to graze on the short grass, while we walked for a few paces to a small clearing in the trees like a miniature amphitheatre.
Francois took me in his arms and drew me down to lie with him on the soft grass. Just lying side by side, I cannot deny I could already feel the heat building between my thighs. How could this be happening? I questioned why I was becoming so lost in someone I barely knew. Then I looked into his eyes as he pulled me closer and saw the burning desire of undeniable lust in the way he regarded me. He looked at me so intensely; my mind was past the stage of warm, and all he had done was kiss me and stroke my naked legs. He took my hand and held it for a moment; then his fingers began to trace a line along my skin upwards from my wrist towards my elbow and shoulder, with a featherlight touch so gentle it was barely touching me. When he reached my shoulder, he stopped and waited to see my reaction. His touch felt like electricity on my skin. It may have something to do with the wine, or the way I had watched him effortlessly please Sarah right before my very eyes the night before, but in my depths, I knew the truth: I desperately wanted him to fuck me, and I had a feeling this was going to happen soon and that it was going to be extremely slow and very sensual.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he told me, looking at me with piercing eyes like blue fire. While his hand caressed my body, his mouth went to my neck, and the pressure his tongue placed as he licked and bit me a little made my body fall towards him. His light touch inflamed my desire from the heart of my being. I couldn’t hold back my soft moans as he played with my body and mind. I could feel him gently gripping my skin, his fingers sliding around me; I started to feel strange, a feeling I had never had before.
Then his lips met mine, a kiss so long it awakened me and took my breath away in my arousal as he breathed his life into me, while his tongue searched my mouth. I couldn’t remember a feeling of being so alive, reigniting a desire that I thought was lost. The feeling of his hot hands on my body, pulling me in until our bodies were touching, drove all other thoughts from my mind apart from the intense need to be possessed and fucked so hard that I became his body and soul. My entire being was no longer my own, and I was falling into a whirlpool of extreme lust with the inevitability of leaves falling from the trees in autumn.
I was completely at his mercy, with his hand around my neck and his other supporting my waist. I felt as if I was floating. My stomach churned with anticipation, and my blood was boiling. I was powerless to resist him and wanted nothing more than to surrender to what I desired above all else, my will was no longer my own, and I was totally his to control.
Then he pulled away, and as I caught my breath, I managed to speak. “Don’t stop,” I whispered.
His mouth drew closer to mine, his sweet perfume overwhelming my senses. His lips met mine, and I instinctively closed my eyes as his tongue slipped inside my mouth. I felt the power in his tongue picking up where he had left off, searching, but more than anything, he was delving deeper, and I knew right there what he had come for. Our tongues entwined in a dance of mutual arousal, and I was burning up from the inside and losing all my balance. His hand reached between my legs, enticing sighs not only from my voice but from my very heart. I let this moment completely consume me as I reached closer to the edge of rapture than I had ever been. Francois lingered at the entrance to the source of irresistible sensual delight in my throbbing cunt, making me wait and driving me mad with excruciating frustration; my whole body was on fire, and I had no hope in hell of keeping my moisture under control; I was ready for him to penetrate me, and I desperately needed him inside me. But he was so sure of himself and knew exactly what he was doing to me, making me even more aroused.
Looking up at him, his beautiful muscular body, so strong and well-tanned, a vision for my eyes, I couldn’t hide my flushed cheeks or the nervousness in my eyes, as I negotiated my secret fears, the heritage of my past experience with men.
“Relax, I will be gentle,” Francois promised as he held my neck firmly with one hand and caressed a breast, making my nipples tingle. He leaned over me as I lay back on the soft grass and pulled me closer so that our lips touched with a feeling like fire. His tongue danced wonderfully with mine, making me moan with pleasure; my hands climbed up his chest and around his neck, pulling him further in. I could feel his arousal against my skin. I experienced an unknown urge, and I broke away from the kiss. This felt very different from anything I had experienced in the past. His hands on my skin felt like they were resetting my entire being.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered. I felt apprehensive and slightly guilty about Paul. Even though I knew Francois had ignited a different spark in me.
“You want to do this; I know you do. You know, Sarah is with Paul, and they are most likely fucking,” Francois whispered deeply in my ear, whilst licking and kissing my neck periodically. My body was warming more than ever. I did want to; I knew he was right; I ached for it.
“Let me please you,” he said with sincerity. I regarded him with a bit of doubt. “I will only please you,” he promised. I thought for a moment and then nodded my head. “Place my hand on your body, where you would like me to touch you,” he asked, so I moved my hand down his bicep and took his hand down towards my waist and paused. I didn’t know what had come over me.
“Don’t be shy,” he said. I continued moving his hand again between my legs; I shifted on the grass. He intently massaged my pussy, pressing firmly yet gently, whilst listening to my body language, telling him when he was in the best spot to arouse me further. I gasped, and my body took on a life of its own, rocking in synchronisation with his hands, and I cried softly with the wonderful feelings of pleasure.
“Would you like to feel my warmth?” he asked. I smiled, knowing he knew fine well what I wanted.
“Yes, I would,” I replied, and he positioned himself between my legs. Looking down at me with longing.
“I will kiss you again.” I nodded. He immediately pinned my thighs wider and grasped my wrists by my side and licked my warmth from top to bottom. I shivered beneath him, lost in the moment entirely, while his appendage danced between my legs so precisely and gracefully, each motion pre-planned and articulated better than the last. I could feel something stirring within, like little jolts of electricity which got stronger and stronger the more deliberate his actions were, and finally I burst inside right there. Francois did not falter in his technique in any way; he kept twisting and turning until he was sure that I reached the top, which he knew would be soon. He kept the pressure on my legs and continued to please me all the way to the end. My body tightened under him, and he could feel me beginning to climb to a higher peak of pleasure. I squeezed his wrists with gentle pressure and then let everything go and became lost in the vivid void of ecstasy. He smiled mischievously; something about him felt dangerous, but I didn’t care.
“I would love that feeling again,” I said with a flustered smile
“I want you to touch and hold me now, feel me,” he said, placing my hand on his member. I gasped, “I want to know what this can do for me.” I questioned in my head if it would fit. I smiled.
He kissed slowly along my neck and whispered, “I will put this inside your body and, over time, give you the best feeling you have never known.”
“Will it be painful?” I asked. He was so big, bigger than Paul now he was erect and I wondered.
“It will not hurt for long, just when I enter and stretch you, but you will enjoy it,” he promised as he slid along my body, with my hand guiding him to where I so desperately wanted him.
Take a breath,” he said as he slid his engorged head along my entrance, putting pressure on me. It felt as if everything was happening in slow motion, but it started to feel so amazingly good. He moved his hips as he kissed my neck and chest, his hand wandering over every inch of my body and resting just between my legs, not far from where his tongue was earlier. He moved in a smooth rhythm, pulling out and pushing in; it felt like heaven. He pulled me close, holding tight. I wrapped my legs around him, no longer worrying about anything, lost completely within his powerful grasp, then I felt like I had moments before. My rise was coming, and I was about to have another orgasm with him deep inside me, and his fingers playing with my body as if it was an instrument that was his to possess as his personal property.
He flicked a switch in me that I didn’t know I had. Now I knew I must be going crazy; he had seductively burrowed his way into my mind, and his ethereal voice stirred me deep down to my soul, and I knew my reluctance had become non-existent as his touch froze me to the spot and the scent of the sweet wine fragrance of him imprinted me, leaving an indelible mark on my soul. I could feel it in every muscle of my being, my body begging for more, although my voice wouldn’t work. I was about to lose my all, and the glint in his eyes told me all I needed to know.
“Come for me. I want to feel you tighten around me with your fireworks,” he whispered in my ear, kissing down my neck with a few more slick, subtle movements, and under his spell I was falling, irretrievably lost and on my way to paradise. I was so full.
My body started pulsing around him, gripping him tight. I moaned and cried, and in my extremity my back arched as I pushed against him, trying to pull him deeper into my body. This was it. I had completely lost myself in sensations of an intensity I had never experienced before. It was almost too much, a pleasure so unbearably superb, my vision starting to blur and my senses reeling with the delicious intoxication as I crested the peak as if it was the very first time. The rest of the world melted away, and I was completely willing to vanish into a spiralling vortex of carnal delight. It was all I could do to remember to breathe through every gasp, every thrust.
While my body was preoccupied, my heart was beating in my chest like a beast in torment. This, however, was the torment of extreme pleasure; every inch of me on fire, all resistance vaporised as I climbed and climbed toward a full-blown, toe-curling, body-shaking orgasm as he watched. I gripped and tore at his flesh like a mad woman until my body surrendered, and I fell with sobs and cries that echoed off the trees like the church bells on a Sunday morning. Aftershocks continued to travel through my blood in a frenzy, and then, when he knew I was in heaven with a few swift, hard thrusts he tensed and, his penis pulsing, he released all his hot essence inside me. My last vision as I closed my eyes in utter bliss was the sight of him above me consumed by the piercing pleasure of rapture.
A few seconds, or was it minutes, later – I had fallen out of time for a moment – I heard his cries of joy, and, opening my eyes, I saw the look of amazement on his face as his climax went on and on, his beautiful member still throbbing inside me.
As he slowly descended from bliss, he kissed me on my forehead. “You really went all out on the fireworks,” he said in amazement.
“All or nothing,” I replied, “and that was all and more.”
Slowly, he softened and slid out of me, and for a while we lay exhausted but happy, our bodies entwined, flesh to flesh, on nature’s bed, breathless from the joy of our mating, drifting in the languor of post orgasmic euphoria, serenaded to sleep by the sound of running water and the song of the bird in the trees high above.
When we woke, the sun was well past the zenith and beginning to sink toward the horizon, so it was time to leave our magical place and return to real life. We mounted our horses, which were still grazing contentedly, and rode slowly down the stream and along the beach to rejoin Paul and Sarah. When we arrived, there was no sign of them, so Francois suggested we should drink some more wine and sit with the sun and breeze caressing our transformed bodies until they awoke.
That was the first time my husband and I made love, although I didn’t know that at the time, and when we left Paul and Francois that evening my heart was torn in two because I thought I would never see my divinely chosen lover again. I was wrong, but it was several years before we found each other again.
Back in England, it soon became apparent that Sarah was pregnant. Nine months after our night and day of sexual nirvana, she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl whom we christened Pauline Francoise in memory of our two French lovers. For the next two years, Sarah and I lived together like other lesbian couples until, on another spring day, fate intervened once more.
ooOoo
To be continued
