My mother’s world was quiet and hypnotic. I was staying with her for a couple of weeks in my childhood home on the Norfolk coast. You may have read the previous stories from this time; Mum’s Friend Dorothy and Grace and Danger. They give you an idea of what this small town was like and more specifically how my widowed mother and her widowed friends passed their days.
The fact was they didn’t do much; they were coasting through middle age, comfortable and inactive. It was all tea and biscuits and television. That had made my arrival something of an event. Not that I was anything special: I realised that. But I was different, interesting because of my career as an illustrator in London. And safe. Her friends Dorothy, Grace and Edna knew – or at least assumed – I was respectable, and they had watched me growing up, so they probably remembered me when I was cute if I had ever been that.
I had had the enormous good fortune to fill the sexual needs of Dorothy and Grace, separately, discreetly and safely; not exactly propositioned by these older women but presented with opportunities which I had taken. Neither I nor they had pushed our luck by suggesting a repeat performance. Encounters like we had, had lasted long in the memory and could be reenacted in the distant future if we wanted to. Desperate encores were the province of younger people. There was no mileage in the relationships for them or me.
We were now friends with secrets, and happy enough like that. I could imagine the four of them sitting on a bench on the seafront, enjoying the fresh air and saying wisely, in reference to something else, that, “a little goes a long way.” Mum, of course, was not enjoying the fruits of her son’s temporary return in the same way as two of her friends had, although I had no way of knowing if she had from time to time availed herself of some other man.
And then there was Edna. With her gregarious, chatty, cheeky nature, I would have expected to find myself having a playful skirmish with her rather than her more sedate friends, but maybe there was something to be said for the old thing about dark horses. Grace, in particular, was the darkest of horses, but she had seen an opportunity to revive the girl/woman element in herself, while in Dorothy that side was closer to the surface and she had staged our beautiful private meeting so naturally, it had seemed inevitable.
The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to get together with Edna, not to complete the set but because in some strange way I felt I owed it to myself and to her. If it never happened, that would be a shame. But I couldn’t suggest anything in the presence of the others. Edna was a retired English teacher and talked about offering her services as a proofreader.
When the subject came up just a couple of days before I was to leave, I said there might be some scope in the area I worked in, where graphic artists wrote picture books in which the words were sometimes almost an afterthought. Maybe there was a chance for Edna there. I took her business card and said I would pass it to someone I knew.
That evening, as I sat in my room drinking wine, I sent her a message.
“Maybe we should put together some samples,” I suggested. “I’ve got some old projects on my laptop. We could do some work on one of them.”
“Genius,” she replied. “But let’s keep it quiet. Nobody is taking it seriously and it may never happen anyway.”
We agreed to meet the next afternoon at her house, a little cottage tucked away up a back street. She had decorated it like a doll’s house and I had always wondered what it was like inside. I arrived at 2 pm to find her sitting in the sunroom at the back, glasses on the end of her nose, writing her life story in an exercise book.
“Yes,” she replied to my initial remark, “I’ll type it up when I’ve finished it, but it flows better longhand.”
We struggled to read the screen of my laptop, but the room was just too bright, so we moved indoors, into a dark room stuffed with cushioned chairs. I asked if she would mind me looking at her manuscript and she hesitated before saying, “Okay, but remember it’s a first draft, just rough ideas really.”
She went to make some tea and I flipped through the book until I found a chapter about losing her virginity in the back of a Morris Oxford up a country lane.
“Well? Rubbish or what?” she laughed awkwardly when she returned.
“Not at all,” I said. “You’ve got a way of conveying things that’s quite conversational. Most people get all stiff and formal when they write.”
“How far did you get?” she asked.
“Just dipping in here and there,” I said, closing the book. “Cuckoo Lane.”
“Oh Christ, trust you,” she said, snatching the book away from me. “I don’t know if I’m going to keep that sort of thing in, but I thought I’d see how it came out.” She changed the subject and gave me her thoughts on the current Norwich City team. This may sound condescending, but I find it quite sexy when a woman knows about sport. As this feeling swept through me like a full-body erection, she noticed. She might not have known what it was she was noticing, but she felt something and it seemed to relax her. She suggested we sit back out in the sunroom and abandon the laptop for now.
As we sat together on a small cane settee, looking at the birds flitting around her verdant garden, she began to speak.
“Makes you feel mortal, doesn’t it?” she said.
“Does it?” I responded. “Doesn’t it make you feel life could go on forever?’
“Because it’s so beautiful and tranquil and safe?” she said in semi-agreement. “ I know what you mean. But I used to sit here with my husband all those years ago, thinking like that. And look what happened there.”
“That’s life,” I said, hoping it didn’t sound glib and insensitive. “I mean it was tragic for you and the other wives, but life goes on, doesn’t it?”
“It does, Philip, it does,” she said dreamily. “But not forever. My number is nearly up.” This shook me.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean according to the doctors,” she said evenly. “I’ve got a rare form of cancer that’s going to do me in within a year or two.”
When someone gives this sort of insufficient information it’s hard to know what questions to ask for clarification, or indeed if you should ask any. I decided to wait and see.
“I won’t bore you with the details,” she continued. “Nobody knows and nobody’s going to know. I shall disappear.”
I put my hand on her knee. She was wearing jeans, quite tight and apparently stretchy. A loose shirt, Jane Russell-style on top. She was short and not exactly dumpy but not neat or elegant. She was a small woman in a style that might be called modest or unpretentious. Nice little breasts, a rounded but not fat stomach and her thighs looked firm beneath the cotton/elastane mix. We both became aware that I was studying her body and as I looked away, she shifted in her seat.
“It’s okay,” she said. “If there’s one thing I have realised recently it’s that human beings waste a lot of time and miss out on a lot of pleasure through being what we call civilised.” She put her hand on mine on her knee and stroked it. “This is nice, for instance,” she said. “But many people would expect me to brush you off. Well, I don’t want to. And I’m not going to.” She looked at me for my reaction and all I could manage was a nervous smile.
“This is not a battle, she said. “It’s not a tactical contest that will end up in victory and defeat. We can win together by triumphing over convention. Imagine what it was like for Adam and Eve, if you believe what it says in the Bible. Which I do, by and large.”
“By and large,” I conceded.
“Good,” Edna said. “So how did they feel before Eve picked that apple? Were they going to have sex and not worry about it, or hadn’t it even crossed their minds?” She looked deep into my eyes. “For the human race to multiply, which was God’s will, there would have had to be sex, wouldn’t there? But if humans hadn’t been given intellect, it would have been frantic, mindless coupling, like dogs and horses.” She laughed. “But big creatures like horses, it must be so uncomfortable and hard to organise. Because they can’t even talk about it.”
“And they don’t have a choice of positions,” I offered.
“Good point,” Edna said. “So all in all, the human approach to procreation makes a lot of sense. And because it’s so enjoyable, I suppose it just gained in subtlety and sophistication because our ancestors realised it was too much fun to waste.
“Except people like the Victorians,” I suggested.
“Precisely,” she agreed. “Killjoys. Someone somewhere got the idea that it was uncouth. Probably someone very repressed, cripplingly shy. And he or she spread the word that the act of procreation had been abused by being linked with things like lust and – heaven forbid – enjoyment. So they had a go at making it unacceptable.”
“But that didn’t work because it’s like saying you shouldn’t enjoy eating and drinking,” I said. “Like saying it’s just fuel, just functional.”
“Just so,” Edna said, squeezing my hand. “And you can’t live like that. Not if you believe God loves you. If he didn’t love us, he wouldn’t have given us the awareness that makes us seek pleasure – and seek to give other people pleasure, which is a great part of sex, don’t you think?” She was now leaning towards me and my arm went around her shoulders instinctively.
“So if you were to kiss me,” she said, running a finger down my chest, “I would derive pleasure from it and you would enjoy giving me that pleasure, as much as getting your own. Or am I putting words in your mouth?”
Our eyes became sealed at opposite ends of an invisible tube of suction which spread out to draw our whole faces together, and as we kissed, it spread further to engage our entire bodies. We kissed for a full five minutes, taking brief pauses to gaze at each other and stroke, caress, softly squeeze.
Eventually, Edna pushed me gently back.
“Now, we both know what’s going to happen next,” she said with a gentle firmness that sent shivers through me. “But I want it to be uninhibited. You can touch, look at and kiss any part of me and I can do anything to you. Okay?” A smile leapt onto my face and I tried to squeeze it off. She continued. “That doesn’t mean we have to do everything in the book just because it’s there. But let’s indulge each other.”
In her warm, womb-like bedroom, she pulled her shirt off and lay back on the bed, unbuttoning and unzipping her jeans for me. I pulled them off smoothly and derived an unexpected thrill from her complicity in the act. She was wearing a white lacy bra and panties and as I got close to pull her knickers down I could smell the newness of them. She dispensed with the bra and propped herself up on her elbows to watch me undress.
“Now my turn,” she said. “I’m going to watch you get naked and I’m going to look at your penis. We can call it your cock if you like. But we’re not going for anything as twee as willy, okay? And what you’re trying not to look at is my hole. Or cunt, I don’t mind. But we’re not having willies and pussies.”
Right on cue my erect cock bounded into swinging, attention-grabbing view as I wrenched my underpants off.
“Yes, I like your cock,” Edna said, demonstrating the thrilling freedom of our arrangement. “It’s beautiful. Has anyone ever told you that before?” I shook my head.
“Girlfriends have been affectionate about him,” I said. “But generally… I don’t think women like to sound like experts.” I lay beside her and stroked her as I began a little story. “Men are expected to use their experience to set the tone of the whole thing,” I said. “But women, some women think they’re expected to be virginal all the time. I had a thing with a Portuguese girl once, went out with her three or four times and one time she got on top and without using her hands she put herself on my cock and got it in, just like that. But when I said, ‘That’s clever,’ she was quite offended.”
“That’s the sort of thing we’re going against,” Edna said. “You and me, enlightened, fearless sexual warriors fighting the good fight together.”
We kissed again, another very long one, but this time our hands were all over each other. My middle finger was exploring the inner limits of her cunt and her hand had taken complete ownership of my cock and balls.
“There’s one thing we should establish,” she said, easing up slightly. “All the things we’re going to do, it’s going to take more than one session. You’ve got two days left, haven’t you? We’ll need both of them, I reckon. And if there are things left over, I’ll have to pop up and see you. Would that be okay? I’m not trying to claim anything or oblige you in any way, but I get the feeling we could stand to be together a bit. Or am I being presumptuous?”
“I think you’re probably right,” I said. “We can confirm it later.” In truth, Edna was a good looking woman, intelligent, good fun and the attitude to sex that she was proposing was irresistible.
“We’ll have to write a list,” I said, joking.
“I’ve already started one,” she replied.
“And what’s on it for today?” I asked.
“Mainly oral,” she said. “Me sucking you, you licking me. Including my arsehole.” She hesitated almost imperceptibly on the word. “Is that okay with you? Or have I blown it already? Bigmouth Edna, the laugh-a-minute old boiler.”
“Edna,” I said softly, “I would be honoured to lick your arse.”
She went down on me and sucked me with such passion and devotion it seemed like she loved me. But I concluded I was the recipient of the award on behalf of all the men in the world. She took my knob deep into her mouth – not into her throat, as porn sites would have us believe so many women do, but she gave me the most comprehensive sucking I had ever had. And she licked my crotch and licked and sucked my scrotum and carefully took my balls into her mouth one by one. She scrutinized my knob and poked her tongue into its nooks and crannies. She sucked the shaft sideways like a dog with a bone and she licked right down to my crack and poked her tongue in briefly but quickly withdrew.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Women’s cracks are nicer than men’s. You can do that another time if you like, but it’s not one of my favourite things.”
Then it was my turn to explore her midsection. I got down and looked at it: a forest of dark pubic hair, neatly trimmed but still very much part of the picture, her big curly lips a sort of purple-grey on the outside and shiny pink inside. I licked that fabulous silky flesh and smelled her womanly natural lubricant. I sucked her clitoris and licked it and located her piss hole and sucked that as if trying to get something from it. And when she had luxuriated in that feeling for a while, she turned over and presented me with her rump.
Her arsehole was a smooth, slightly crinkled but perfectly regular indentation and the colouring around it and up her slide was pale yellow. She offered it to me with an emotion that may have been pride and may have contained an element of defiance. She wasn’t to know this was the stuff of dreams for me. She had probably read comments from squeamish men who disliked the activity.
“You have a beautiful arsehole,” I said as factually as I could while licking it tenderly. “I love it.”
“You’re very welcome,” she said. “I think you’re going to make me come. Give me that beautiful tongue.”
I gave Edna the full treatment, blitzing her nerve endings with the intense blandishments of my soft, strong, agile, adventurous, hungry oral instrument of pleasure. She responded most when I straightened my muscle and pushed it as though I was trying to enter her. She whimpered and twitched. And when I laid it flat and licked her like the most sublime, meaty ice cream, she let out a long groan of ecstasy and had a shimmering orgasm during which her voice rose in pitch and volume until she was almost singing.
“Now, did I enjoy that as much as you did?” I asked. “In a very different way.”
“I think you loved giving me that thrill,” she said. “but you have no idea how fantastic it felt for me.” She paused for a moment, then resumed. “So, one off the list.”
“No, absolutely not,” I insisted.
“What?” she asked, startled.
“That one stays on the list,” I said. “We need to do it again. Possibly every time I see you for the rest of…” My voice petered out as I remembered what she had told me.
“The rest of my life,” she said, stroking my arm. “Okay with me, lover.”
We kissed and I felt I was falling for her and she was falling for me, and although that wasn’t part of the deal, the deal had just got better.
“Show me the list,” I said brightly, to change the subject.
“Okay,” she replied. “Then you’re going to fuck me. That’s another thing that’s on repeat.”
