I’m writing this in the department for nuclear medicine at the Queen Elizabeth 2 university hospital in Glasgow.

From my window, I can just about see the River Clyde. It brings back memories of an often-heard childhood song: ‘The hammer's ding dong is the song of the Clyde’. I believe the song's lyrics were about the rivers' association with shipbuilding. This once-significant waterway, just like the mountains I passed through to get here yesterday, is timeless; unlike human relationships or acts of love, the earth and its treasures are not bound by an existence of mere three score years and ten.

I think I’m done writing about Rachel now. As a friend recently counselled me, it’s time to close the book and move on. However, before I do, I’d like to have one final attempt at closure.

The feedback I’ve received on my trilogy of revelations about my life with Rachel has, in the main, been positive. Most of the negative comments have strangely enough come from women who have suggested her behaviour was sluttish, and her iron rod approach to maintaining good discipline was either cruel, sadistic or both.

I’d like to take a moment to try to set the record straight on both counts.

Rachel had endured an unconventional upbringing. She was raised under a very strict religious regime where the slightest misdemeanour was punished hard. She wasn’t allowed make-up, boyfriends, rock music or any of the other pleasures enjoyed by a normal teenager. To add to her sense of being different at sixteen, she needed the support of DD cup bras. If her home life was tough, it was nothing compared to what the poor kid went through at an all-girls boarding school. Abuse, both physical and bullying.

Despite all of the above, Rachel stuck to the task of getting a good education and getting away from the shadow of her family and church.

Therefore, as soon as she left home for university and a nursing degree, her sexual liberation began. She freely admitted to me that she had multiple sexual partners during her years at uni in Sheffield, England. Often she’d have two or three men on the go at once. By then, of course, she’d blossomed into the heavily breasted and promiscuous woman that I’d come to know and love.

The middle bit of her short life was less fun. She might have been good at picking sexual partners, but less so life partners. The poor woman suffered controlling coercive behaviour from her husband; she’d also fallen pregnant unexpectedly, and therefore the rest became history. After years of violence and abuse, she finally escaped from her living hell and eventually rediscovered her zest for life. I will never regret our time together or how it worked for us both.

Time for one last horny Rachel story to share with you. As you might have gathered by now. Rachel was highly educated and well-read. I must have mentioned at some point that I’d always fancied going to the opera. One day, out of the blue, I was told that tickets had been booked and that we were soon to have a night at the opera. With such a contorted sense of humour, it came as no surprise to discover the opera was none other than ‘Pirates of Penzance’.

Rachel looked stunning and was definitely turning heads as we arrived at the Buxton Opera House, or perhaps the Buxom Opera House on that occasion.

She was wearing a black low-cut dress and a Rigby & Peller bra that pushed her huge breasts both upwards and out. I can’t quite describe the look. It was almost over the top. A flat stomach working up to a shelf of tight material covering a mountain of jutting boob flesh. The look was almost comedic, and a bit like Jessica Rabbit in the 1988 film ‘Who Framed Roger Rabbit’ for any reader who may have seen the movie.

We took our seats for Act 1, ‘The Pirates Lair’.

I couldn’t help but notice that despite our seats being deep and plush, Rachel kept shifting from bum cheek to bum cheek as if in discomfort.

Eventually, I asked, “What’s up?”

“Nothing she whispered. "I slipped in a pair of love balls before the show, and they are hitting the spot so to speak!”

And that was Rachel to the core. A night at the opera with some of the area's nicest people, and she was wearing a sex aid and having mini orgasms as Fredric, Ruth and the Major-General all did their utmost to entertain her.

Whilst everyone else enjoyed a drink or snack in the bar during the interval. I spent most of the break fucking Rachel in a disabled toilet. This wasn’t love-making, or a Rachel needing to be told she was beautiful or special; it was raw, needy sex. Dress lifted up, knickers pulled to the side and the feel of black stockings rubbing against my hairy legs as I pushed my thick dick inside of her soaking mound whilst she was precariously balanced on the changing unit next to the sink. She was her usual noisy self, and I’m certain even to this day that the moaning and swearing was turned up a notch or two in the hope that any passing more respectable theatre goers were left in no doubt that someone was getting a good seeing to before Act 3.

As she adjusted her hair and make-up in the mirror post coital, a woman knocked on the door and said, “Are you ok in there? You’ve been rather a long time.”

Rachel replied, “Sorry, love, I’ve been taking a shit.”

I cringed at her crude and vulgar choice of words. I was even more alarmed to find someone waiting outside.

Rachel took me by the hand, unlocked the door and confidently walked us both out into the corridor. She nodded to the person waiting to go in and said, “Might be a bit stinky in there for a while, I’m afraid.”

Sadly, whilst the opera was ok, it wasn’t really about pirates or the sea. In reality, it was another opportunity for her to dress to impress, flirt like mad and get a risqué shag during the interval. Even that wasn’t enough as she demanded a second helping fuck in the back seat of her car in a secluded lay-by on the drive home.

What a girl and what fun we had.

Even to this day, whenever I hear the song called ‘Driftwood’ by Travis, I immediately think of her. She used to sing the lyrics (badly) every time she heard it on the car radio.

Rachel and I shared the best of times and the worst of times. And now, thanks to some very wise words from one of my new Lush friends, it’s time for me to stop ‘drifting, stop feeling ‘emotionally overwhelmed’ and get on with the business of life.

However, I do have the kernel of another writing idea once I fully unblock myself.