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261, THE DATE THAT CHANGED MY LIFE free porn video
261, THE DATE THAT CHANGED MY LIFE
(THE ORIGINS OF MY FETISHES?)
Well, here I was, just off a flight from Cyprus, just back from a six-month military detachment, 21 years old, bronzed 6 foot 4 tall, and still growing, suntanned, hair bleached blond, and on leave for 21 lovely days.
There was a group of about 200 of us and we were ready for home. Unusually we were on leave from the airport, and we each had a lumpy army suitcase, and a bulky kitbag. We were instructed not to wear our UN berets, …but we were young and liked the individuality of the things!
The Southern railway, or at least what was then Southern region of British Railways, with its usual efficient way smoothly travelled me from what we lads knew as ‘Gatport Airwick’, to London`s Waterloo station where we all dispersed to our respective main line stations, by now 200 UN-blue berets were mingling with the civilian crowds, for Murphy and I it was a walk up a long ramp and down onto the old station for the Kentish main line. There was to be 30 minutes wait, so it was in to the station buffet and a long awaited good pint of British double diamond beer! We had been on tenants tinned lager for six months and we had contributed more than a little to the wall of empty tins around the outside of the squadron bar. British beer was nectar to us belive you me.
Murphy began to chat to one of the huge black ladies behind the bar, he was a walking didoe when it came to women and he didn’t mind the shape, size or looks, to Murphy they were all just…well… cunt and he was going to get as many into his book as he could. I ended up leaving him about to try to make just another conquest, as our train rattling in as I left, he came from Ramsgate I think, and whether he ever got home I couldn’t tell you.
The doors clattered shut and I had chance to look round my fellow passengers, oldish single compartment stock meant we would be together for the journey, there was a vicar, two older women and a single pretty girl sat in the far corner it was hot and stuffy and both windows were tight closed.
I humped the case and then the kitbag up into the luggage rack with as little disruption as I could, apologised for the disturbance then plonked myself opposite the pretty girl...well wouldn’t you. It was June, and she was I guestimated about 18 or 19, dressed in a pretty summer frock, chestnut hair, blue eyes and a good figure, I was glad of Murphy`s philandering or by now she would have been under his spell. We clattered into St john`s, the two women removed themselves and a boy got in, at the very next both he and the vicar left, we were on our own, so I remarked how stuffy it was and with the apparently shy girl`s permission I opened the window. It was a ground breaker; the lass came alive. She began to chat perhaps she was nervous of travelling alone with a young squaddy, I don’t know, but she said she was travelling to Shorncliffe and did I know it, she was visiting an old Aunt in Cheriton.” Yes” I knew it Cheriton being an area of Folkestone my home town and I soon had her aunts address, (obviously to explain how to her how get to the place from the station) ah it was a much more innocent time 1968!
I asked how long she was staying for and she told me she was there for a few days, she was in need of getting a tan like mine and do a lot of swimming. Bells rang in my sun addled brain and before Tonbridge we were destined to meet and for me to show her about, with me being a native of FOLKESTONE town.
We were joined at Ashford by a couple and a howling c***d, it being Tuesday and both of us having family things to attend to for a couple of days, so we arranged I would meet her on the Saturday morning, to take her swimming.
I helped her down with her case and she skipped away at her stop with a wave and a smile. I went just one more stop and alighted at the central station to be met by my old dad at the platform exit.
Glad to be home, the next 24 hours were a whirl of aunt`s uncles, comments about my tan, my looks and my eligibility, along with hints about available cousins, with invites to another distant cousin`s wedding, where I knew I would be pushed in the direction of a particularly awful and very available cousin, that ploy had been tried last leave, and I wasn’t going to get trapped again. All this was neatly avoided when I said I had a date on Saturday, the only flaw being that I had not thought to ask the lassies name, so rather than look as though the date was fictitious, I said she was Mary and I had known her a while. Naturally that started an inquisition and it was a case of lie a bit or put up with more and still more questions.
I lied, it was simpler, I found out I had known Mary for a while, (My mind screamed don’t be specific it`s so easy to be tripped up) her dad was a vicar, and she lived in Cheriton, was 18, and pretty!
At that I shut the answers off, well it was a deep enough hole I had dug already so I didn’t want to make things worse and a little intrigue, with mum and aunts is not a bad thing anyway.
Dad at this time was sitting with a broad grin and laughing, watching me wriggle and revelling in my discomfort as dads do when sons lie to avoid weddings especially as he knew it was taking the heat off him as one of my nympho` aunt`s was known to be “interested” shall we say in anything my dad did, sex mad and jealous as hell she had a loveless existence with an uncle who was known to be a sexually indifferent alcoholic!
Anyway, I managed to extricate myself from the mire and the next day or so passed, fairly smoothly, shall we say, me avoiding the subject of `Mary’ as best I could though the questioning probes came out at any occasion my old mum could find a chance to slip one in!
Saturday dawned, bright and warm and at ten am, the appointed hour, I was stood at `Mary`s’ aunts door, believe me, I was relieved when she quickly answered it first knock as, well… as an opening gambit of “is the girl I met on the train who I haven’t got a clue what her name is coming out” hardly cuts the mustard!
Anyway, she invited me in and I met her father and mother, he couldn’t have been less like the fictitious `vicar I had invited’, he was a brawny navvy, sleeves rolled up, fag in lower right corner of lip broad smile, and a handshake like a blacksmith. “So, you’re taking out our Sally are you son?” he started, Sally... Sally! Oh well its near, “well no bloody funny business and home by 10.30 got it!”
I `got it’ precisely and very clearly, as by now the blood had left my hand and pins and needles were setting in. He introduced his wife, no beauty but a nice little thing who timidly said to “call me Ann, and smiled broadly while taking in every feature of my body in a searching glance very like an x ray.
There was no sign of any Aunt, which surprised me. Over tea while Sally “nipped up to put on some clothes to go out in” they asked the usual questions that parents of eligible girls did in those far off days; what I did, where I lived, age, height, weight, prospects, size of shoe and god knows what else and we were only off for a swim!
Both looked a bit shocked when I said I was a squaddy, no doubt dad remembered his time as a national serviceman and it jolted him a bit!
Anyway, Sally appeared looking a million dollars, white skirt, tight thin white jumper, little or no make -up and carrying a duffle bag presumably with swim kit. Anyway, off we went, being on leave I had no wheels so it was an East Kent bus, resplendent in its gleaming red and cream livery, and a conductor, [remember them!] we caught that to the town and another down to the harbour. It gave us time to chat and luckily just in case we met a family member, I told her of the inquisition at home, how I had felt it necessary to have told a few porky’s, her laugh was like silver as she fell about at the thought of her dad as a vicar. It was lucky that I had confessed as the first woman I met at the bottom of the high street was a cousin, who introduced herself by shaking Sally`s hand said, “ah you must be Mary I`m April!” A non- committal smile and a “pleased to meet you” solved the problem, April luckily being in a rush to get to that dreaded family wedding, where she would no doubt have reported in to HQ about the young lady our Edd has on his arm ….
We were soon on the sands, there being two swim places in Folkestone, one a short stretch of sand opposite the pier, the other a pebble beach on the other side of that pier, backed by a funfair. It`s much longer, less folk but harder on the feet…The pier at Folkestone at that time was a big solid old job that could take three cross-channel ships nose to tail, and had railway platforms for trains to meet the ships, and was no ornamental seaside holiday makers pier this, and I had worked on it until joining the services.
On the sands by now clutching an ice cream apiece we settled in the sun, up against one of the giant concrete arches that backed the sands, and were so beloved of folk changing in the summer days and in the evening courting couples!
We finished the ice-creams then decided on a swim, now that meant changing into swimsuits and I must say in the mid -1960s a female could make quite a fuss about getting changed, and Sally, I fully expected would be just another girl in that regard. But no, much to my surprise it was a matter of fact, change that I must say was slick.
Within a few moments she had by using the big towel changed from her day to day clothes to a beach babe in a single piece white bathing suit!
Not a hint of the lovely body had I got a glimpse of, and amazed I struggled out of my clothes and had to run to catch her, by now running towards the water the tide being well out. We swam splashed and frolicked in the cool water for a long time, she was a fabulous, lively companion and I would be lying if I said that I didn’t grope her body more and more as the swim progressed. She didn’t complain and occasionally her straying hand checked out my body, especially my manhood, so I was feeling pretty happy about my chances with this young lady.
We returned to the big soft towel and lay in the sun warming ourselves and catching the rays.
I asked about mum and dad, as she had said she was visiting an aunt, and she explained that her parents were here in Folkestone for a holiday and she was a trainee nurse, she lived in a nurse`s home in London, and her parents lived in Nottingham, where she had been brought up, all visiting her aunt together as a summer holiday.
To keep the conversation flowing I asked what she was hoping to become when she was trained, and she blushed a little and then said that she always said nurse, but in reality, she was a mortician assistant, the first step to becoming a pathologist, one of those, awful folk you see in detective films who do post-mortems!
The thought of this pretty and rather sweet young lady wrist deep in a rotting corpse, was beyond anything I could imagine, and I must have looked a bit horrified, anyway she laughed and that broke the moment, and we discussed the whole scenario, I had been in a position of having to remove a dismembered corps from a train some years before and had thrown up badly, and amongst other things she told me to always think of it as butchery meat on a butchers slab never as a human being and that has stood me in good stead through-out my later life, both as a soldier and as a recovery man on the motorway. Sadly, on the many occasions that I have had to deal with the less than joyful, it always reminded me, nay… takes me back in time for a brief second, to that moment when a pretty girl in the white swimsuit on a sun-soaked beach in more wonderful times, told me to “think butchers shop slab!”
Either way, she then astounded me by kissing me and whispering that she was not a virgin, and that as the only stiffee she had had in her hand this year was post mortem, and she was in need of “a warm one for a change” so what did I suggest?
Us being surrounded by folk in dozens of little family groups this was not a place to be leaping on her bones, so thinking on my feet, I suggested another swim.
We were soon back in the water, those of you who know of the English-channel in the 1960`s will know visibility in that water was not great [understatement of the year] in fact looking down and seeing past your chest was always impossible, so another swim was not as silly as it sounds, my trunks were soon rolled down my legs, under the water, and the lovely Sally`s hands grasping at my manhood in a way that spoke of desperation, and not a little experience! 6 long months I had been in Cyprus, without so much as speaking to a girl in that whole time, so frustration was rife, and it was a very few strokes before my seed was adding to the pollution.
My companion laughed as I explained, then kissing me in a passionate way! She wrapped an arm round my neck and her legs round my hips and we tried to couple, her spare hand holding the suit to one side... It was hopeless. The waves combined with the strong white suit defying us any access, neatly trapping my bell end in its hard-clasping grip!
Frustrated we returned to the shore, hand in hand we walked back to the towels, then it struck me, that an old friend owed me a favour or two!
So, bidding her dress, we dried ourselves and slipped back into our clothes, then arm in arm wandered back along the harbour wall, stopping to eat in the Rotunda, the funfair beside the beach, while I popped in to Sam`s house and collected the keys as I had done so many times over the years. The inner man satisfied we plodded along to the old swimming pool. At that time there were two swimming pools in Folkestone, an Olympic size open air salt-water pool, and opposite it a run-down old hotel cum ballroom, called ‘the marina,’ with a small indoor pool known as the rock pool, where, we local swimmers, both swim-club and life-saving would spend our time during the winter evenings. During the summer the place was little used, and it was run by a friend called Sam, an ex-channel swimmer who kept the slowly disintegrating place alive, just so we devoted few could swim, in fact at that time the ballroom was only used to store boats, that’s how run down it had become.
We slipped into the old place, and relocked the door behind us, giving us privacy and a quiet pool to our-selves, we were soon in one of the big communal changing rooms and my clothes were being shed like petal`s from a dying flower!
`She too began to strip, and what till now had been hidden from my view by the swimsuit, or her clothing was now slowly revealed. Her body, was to me perfection, and the great bit was that she had no inhibitions about letting me see it.
Now back in the 1960s unless you paid for it or were a hippy or a perve the chances of a lady/ girl or young woman sharing the secrets hidden under those clothes were, well…minimal, yes it did happen, but not in polite society, and definitely not with any trainee nurses that I knew!
This one dropped her knickers as if she was taking off a raincoat, it was that simple, she smiled at me and casually said that “she could see I was not used to the female body” asking if “I was a virgin then…” I, mouth agape, eyes riveted, dick at attention, trousers slipping from my grasp as I stood mesmerised by this wonderful lass. No doubt I was a bit red when she said that, but it was a shock!!!
I finally managed to stutter a denial, then added “your dad said I was to not get up to any funny business, but I`m sorry dad, I just can`t help myself …” which had her laughing again and naturally I kissed her once more!
Now I unclipped her bra, and there were those lovely breasts, not huge it must be said, but nubile, rounded, with nipples that screamed suck me, bite me, chew me, with every lift of her incoming breath…So I did!
By now we were both getting fairly worked up, there were a number of slatted wooden benches in the place, so to keep us from the cold stone floor I pulled two together and she lay on them like a body on an altar, while I slipped myself deep into her hot sex. It was tremendous, hot, surprisingly tight, and gripping me hard, with muscles until now I had not known existed.
She came an eye rolling heavy breathing gasping climax that was loud and long and then I filled her, pump after pump as only a fit young man in his prime can, [god I wish it was so again now!]
We lay together for a while, then she said that she was glad she was now infertile, and explained that this navvy that I met this morning was her step father, her real father had been a paedophile, and had ****d her when she was just 6, he had been convicted, and she had had most of her c***dbearing bits removed in an emergency operation, her infertility was a relief but sad to say I like most young men had been following my dick and had not had a single thought of pregnancy or the consequences.
Next, we swam, both suited in case one of the boat owners, who had keys, came in the ballroom next door, only separated from the pool by huge glass panels! We swam and talked, talked and swam with odd moments of kissing, fondling and so on for the next couple of hours, during which we explored minds and bodies. We came to fantasies, that was inevitable really, and she told me of her fetish, what was then called golden showers, which I had no problem with, though she expected I would be repulsed by the idea. We retreated once more to the cool changing room, where we both stripped, well to be truthful I stripped her…then myself…and I have to say that white swim suit now has a place in my heart, (as does if the truth be told white undies and white clothing generally). Anyway, we were soon in that position on the benches again, the benches creaked as we both lay together and she explained exactly what she had fantasised about: Apparently a friend of hers in nursing school had described, when under the influence one evening, how her bloke had got up her and had pissed inside her, and it had become for them their ‘party trick,’ their way of getting to the orgasm we all try to attain.…Sally said that she had wanted to try it for that past two years but none of the blokes she had been with either could or would oblige, and there was no way she was going to her friend to beg the use of her bloke, not least as he was in her view…”horrible!”
Now this for me was new ground, I had a little sexual knowhow but this…well, you just have to try don’t you!
By now the implement to be used was rampant, and my bladder was luckily full, so in theory though the ingredients were available, there should be no way it would empty into her body.
I slipped into her like a hand in a warm wet glove, then had to concentrate to allow the mind to overcome the bodies normal function, it took a moment or two then I felt the first trickle pass along my tool and her body stiffen as the hot water reached her interior. Once the first few drops had passed the flow slowly increased, and she began to moan, the hot fluid filling her body rapidly.
Soon her body could hold no more, and the piss was seeping past my prick in a hot wet trickle that dripped from her body drained through the slatted bench and dribbled onto the floor in a noisy flow that echoed round that hollow room in a way I shall never forget. Her moans as I dried and began to ride her body, rising and falling as wave upon wave of hydraulic pressure came and went as the trapped bulk of the urine was pressed then released with each thrust.
It is not a practise that you could try in a bed, or a carpeted room, unless you want the world to smell like a urinal…but I must admit in the right environment it is a feeling like no other.
We both came in huge waves [excuse the pun], our orgasms near to perfectly timed, which for me was another first, and we lay spent, my tool shrivelled and the excess fluid draining in a cascade from her body that splashed the floor and her duffle bag in a noisy fashion. She said that that was an experience she would never forget, and I really hope she never did.
We swam again, washed the outside of the duffle bag, then dressed, Sam was away till Monday, and so I only needed to lock up, returning the key, a spare in the week, so together we let ourselves out then walked hand in hand to the cliff-lift, only a few paces away, in the town we found a café and ate, before taking the bus back to her aunt`s place. Making arrangements to meet next day for a walk in the warren an area of scrubland about ½ mile wide and ten long, between the sea and the white cliffs.
I got home about 8ish and the wedding guests arrived about 11, mother mentioning that “Mary” had been reported as a nice young lady by cousin April just as suspected it would!
I collected Sally next morning this time again in white, but with two duffle bags, telling her folk we were off for a pick-nick.
Again, we caught the bus, into town then changed to the Dover bus, alighting at Capel, a village on the cliff tops, here we had tea and buns at the little cafe tucked under the cliff top, we sat in the warm sun hand in hand and using the 5p in the slot telescope we watched cars in France on the cliff road, it was so clear on that morning.
We had tea and donuts, then together we descended the well-worn chalk path and steps down the cliff face to the plateau 200 plus feet below, it`s an area I knew well.
The pathways lead to the sea, via a bridge across the railway, and we were soon sat above the concrete sea defences, in a shallow grassed dish that I had camped in on a number of occasions.
From there we could see the seafront and were pretty safe from prying eyes.
Out came the swim suit and we swam first this time from the light gravel beach perhaps 50 feet below our pick-nick site, after a while we returned to the towels, and she produced a stunning array of sandwiches and some pop. What more could a young man want, a warm sunny day, a lovely lively companion who was not bashful, a good sandwich, and a big bottle of cold pop in a place outdoors that couldn’t be easily overlooked.
The hours passed, swimming and sunbathing alternately, even screwing just a bit… then, Yes, well, you’ve guessed it, we were destined to do yesterdays trick again though this time she wanted to return the compliment and for me to try it analy…!
Well who was I to argue, sally stripped off that body hugging swimsuit, and donned her skirt and jumper, saying “if anyone came it would be easier to ‘cover up’” then rolled up that big old towel so it wouldn’t get wet, and yep she supplied the lubricant, and was on her hands and knees, and I slipped her a length, it slipped into her easily as if it was an electric plug and socket. I thought we were made for each other! Nieve soul that I was, again it took concentration, then the flow began. If the adventure yesterday had been the practise run.
This time the seal was tighter, she filled till she was moaning with a mix of pain and excitement, her bowel filling and pressing the wet against my tool in a fabulous way, that enhanced the feelings tremendously. My hand slid under her to her clit, and together yet again we hit the high spots. It was fantastic, memorable and magic all rolled into one.
We lay together, flat on her back I lay, chewing her neck, kissing her ears, caressing her breasts crushed between her and the grass. Things shrivelled, and released me, then she got up staggered to the bushes at the back of the dish and relieved herself of her urine enema. In the distance we could see one of those summer showers approaching, it was time to go. We dressed, then hand in hand off we set. The rain hit before the railway, and the climb back up the cliff on slippery chalk steps was a nightmare, the café was about to close when we arrived, a bedraggled pair, wet and cool, we had tea to go and more donuts, then caught the bus home, it had been a truly memorable day.
I was due to visit an aunt on the Monday, so it was Tuesday when I arrived at her door again, her father met me at the door saying she had gone back to London and her husband…!
Oh well, win some, lose some…. She had left me a note, it simply said, ‘thanks it was an experience!’ and it was signed….’ Mary!’
I never saw or heard from her again. I often wonder if she became a pathologist, or what became of her.
But an experience, yes it was certainly that!
(THE ORIGINS OF MY FETISHES?)
Well, here I was, just off a flight from Cyprus, just back from a six-month military detachment, 21 years old, bronzed 6 foot 4 tall, and still growing, suntanned, hair bleached blond, and on leave for 21 lovely days.
There was a group of about 200 of us and we were ready for home. Unusually we were on leave from the airport, and we each had a lumpy army suitcase, and a bulky kitbag. We were instructed not to wear our UN berets, …but we were young and liked the individuality of the things!
The Southern railway, or at least what was then Southern region of British Railways, with its usual efficient way smoothly travelled me from what we lads knew as ‘Gatport Airwick’, to London`s Waterloo station where we all dispersed to our respective main line stations, by now 200 UN-blue berets were mingling with the civilian crowds, for Murphy and I it was a walk up a long ramp and down onto the old station for the Kentish main line. There was to be 30 minutes wait, so it was in to the station buffet and a long awaited good pint of British double diamond beer! We had been on tenants tinned lager for six months and we had contributed more than a little to the wall of empty tins around the outside of the squadron bar. British beer was nectar to us belive you me.
Murphy began to chat to one of the huge black ladies behind the bar, he was a walking didoe when it came to women and he didn’t mind the shape, size or looks, to Murphy they were all just…well… cunt and he was going to get as many into his book as he could. I ended up leaving him about to try to make just another conquest, as our train rattling in as I left, he came from Ramsgate I think, and whether he ever got home I couldn’t tell you.
The doors clattered shut and I had chance to look round my fellow passengers, oldish single compartment stock meant we would be together for the journey, there was a vicar, two older women and a single pretty girl sat in the far corner it was hot and stuffy and both windows were tight closed.
I humped the case and then the kitbag up into the luggage rack with as little disruption as I could, apologised for the disturbance then plonked myself opposite the pretty girl...well wouldn’t you. It was June, and she was I guestimated about 18 or 19, dressed in a pretty summer frock, chestnut hair, blue eyes and a good figure, I was glad of Murphy`s philandering or by now she would have been under his spell. We clattered into St john`s, the two women removed themselves and a boy got in, at the very next both he and the vicar left, we were on our own, so I remarked how stuffy it was and with the apparently shy girl`s permission I opened the window. It was a ground breaker; the lass came alive. She began to chat perhaps she was nervous of travelling alone with a young squaddy, I don’t know, but she said she was travelling to Shorncliffe and did I know it, she was visiting an old Aunt in Cheriton.” Yes” I knew it Cheriton being an area of Folkestone my home town and I soon had her aunts address, (obviously to explain how to her how get to the place from the station) ah it was a much more innocent time 1968!
I asked how long she was staying for and she told me she was there for a few days, she was in need of getting a tan like mine and do a lot of swimming. Bells rang in my sun addled brain and before Tonbridge we were destined to meet and for me to show her about, with me being a native of FOLKESTONE town.
We were joined at Ashford by a couple and a howling c***d, it being Tuesday and both of us having family things to attend to for a couple of days, so we arranged I would meet her on the Saturday morning, to take her swimming.
I helped her down with her case and she skipped away at her stop with a wave and a smile. I went just one more stop and alighted at the central station to be met by my old dad at the platform exit.
Glad to be home, the next 24 hours were a whirl of aunt`s uncles, comments about my tan, my looks and my eligibility, along with hints about available cousins, with invites to another distant cousin`s wedding, where I knew I would be pushed in the direction of a particularly awful and very available cousin, that ploy had been tried last leave, and I wasn’t going to get trapped again. All this was neatly avoided when I said I had a date on Saturday, the only flaw being that I had not thought to ask the lassies name, so rather than look as though the date was fictitious, I said she was Mary and I had known her a while. Naturally that started an inquisition and it was a case of lie a bit or put up with more and still more questions.
I lied, it was simpler, I found out I had known Mary for a while, (My mind screamed don’t be specific it`s so easy to be tripped up) her dad was a vicar, and she lived in Cheriton, was 18, and pretty!
At that I shut the answers off, well it was a deep enough hole I had dug already so I didn’t want to make things worse and a little intrigue, with mum and aunts is not a bad thing anyway.
Dad at this time was sitting with a broad grin and laughing, watching me wriggle and revelling in my discomfort as dads do when sons lie to avoid weddings especially as he knew it was taking the heat off him as one of my nympho` aunt`s was known to be “interested” shall we say in anything my dad did, sex mad and jealous as hell she had a loveless existence with an uncle who was known to be a sexually indifferent alcoholic!
Anyway, I managed to extricate myself from the mire and the next day or so passed, fairly smoothly, shall we say, me avoiding the subject of `Mary’ as best I could though the questioning probes came out at any occasion my old mum could find a chance to slip one in!
Saturday dawned, bright and warm and at ten am, the appointed hour, I was stood at `Mary`s’ aunts door, believe me, I was relieved when she quickly answered it first knock as, well… as an opening gambit of “is the girl I met on the train who I haven’t got a clue what her name is coming out” hardly cuts the mustard!
Anyway, she invited me in and I met her father and mother, he couldn’t have been less like the fictitious `vicar I had invited’, he was a brawny navvy, sleeves rolled up, fag in lower right corner of lip broad smile, and a handshake like a blacksmith. “So, you’re taking out our Sally are you son?” he started, Sally... Sally! Oh well its near, “well no bloody funny business and home by 10.30 got it!”
I `got it’ precisely and very clearly, as by now the blood had left my hand and pins and needles were setting in. He introduced his wife, no beauty but a nice little thing who timidly said to “call me Ann, and smiled broadly while taking in every feature of my body in a searching glance very like an x ray.
There was no sign of any Aunt, which surprised me. Over tea while Sally “nipped up to put on some clothes to go out in” they asked the usual questions that parents of eligible girls did in those far off days; what I did, where I lived, age, height, weight, prospects, size of shoe and god knows what else and we were only off for a swim!
Both looked a bit shocked when I said I was a squaddy, no doubt dad remembered his time as a national serviceman and it jolted him a bit!
Anyway, Sally appeared looking a million dollars, white skirt, tight thin white jumper, little or no make -up and carrying a duffle bag presumably with swim kit. Anyway, off we went, being on leave I had no wheels so it was an East Kent bus, resplendent in its gleaming red and cream livery, and a conductor, [remember them!] we caught that to the town and another down to the harbour. It gave us time to chat and luckily just in case we met a family member, I told her of the inquisition at home, how I had felt it necessary to have told a few porky’s, her laugh was like silver as she fell about at the thought of her dad as a vicar. It was lucky that I had confessed as the first woman I met at the bottom of the high street was a cousin, who introduced herself by shaking Sally`s hand said, “ah you must be Mary I`m April!” A non- committal smile and a “pleased to meet you” solved the problem, April luckily being in a rush to get to that dreaded family wedding, where she would no doubt have reported in to HQ about the young lady our Edd has on his arm ….
We were soon on the sands, there being two swim places in Folkestone, one a short stretch of sand opposite the pier, the other a pebble beach on the other side of that pier, backed by a funfair. It`s much longer, less folk but harder on the feet…The pier at Folkestone at that time was a big solid old job that could take three cross-channel ships nose to tail, and had railway platforms for trains to meet the ships, and was no ornamental seaside holiday makers pier this, and I had worked on it until joining the services.
On the sands by now clutching an ice cream apiece we settled in the sun, up against one of the giant concrete arches that backed the sands, and were so beloved of folk changing in the summer days and in the evening courting couples!
We finished the ice-creams then decided on a swim, now that meant changing into swimsuits and I must say in the mid -1960s a female could make quite a fuss about getting changed, and Sally, I fully expected would be just another girl in that regard. But no, much to my surprise it was a matter of fact, change that I must say was slick.
Within a few moments she had by using the big towel changed from her day to day clothes to a beach babe in a single piece white bathing suit!
Not a hint of the lovely body had I got a glimpse of, and amazed I struggled out of my clothes and had to run to catch her, by now running towards the water the tide being well out. We swam splashed and frolicked in the cool water for a long time, she was a fabulous, lively companion and I would be lying if I said that I didn’t grope her body more and more as the swim progressed. She didn’t complain and occasionally her straying hand checked out my body, especially my manhood, so I was feeling pretty happy about my chances with this young lady.
We returned to the big soft towel and lay in the sun warming ourselves and catching the rays.
I asked about mum and dad, as she had said she was visiting an aunt, and she explained that her parents were here in Folkestone for a holiday and she was a trainee nurse, she lived in a nurse`s home in London, and her parents lived in Nottingham, where she had been brought up, all visiting her aunt together as a summer holiday.
To keep the conversation flowing I asked what she was hoping to become when she was trained, and she blushed a little and then said that she always said nurse, but in reality, she was a mortician assistant, the first step to becoming a pathologist, one of those, awful folk you see in detective films who do post-mortems!
The thought of this pretty and rather sweet young lady wrist deep in a rotting corpse, was beyond anything I could imagine, and I must have looked a bit horrified, anyway she laughed and that broke the moment, and we discussed the whole scenario, I had been in a position of having to remove a dismembered corps from a train some years before and had thrown up badly, and amongst other things she told me to always think of it as butchery meat on a butchers slab never as a human being and that has stood me in good stead through-out my later life, both as a soldier and as a recovery man on the motorway. Sadly, on the many occasions that I have had to deal with the less than joyful, it always reminded me, nay… takes me back in time for a brief second, to that moment when a pretty girl in the white swimsuit on a sun-soaked beach in more wonderful times, told me to “think butchers shop slab!”
Either way, she then astounded me by kissing me and whispering that she was not a virgin, and that as the only stiffee she had had in her hand this year was post mortem, and she was in need of “a warm one for a change” so what did I suggest?
Us being surrounded by folk in dozens of little family groups this was not a place to be leaping on her bones, so thinking on my feet, I suggested another swim.
We were soon back in the water, those of you who know of the English-channel in the 1960`s will know visibility in that water was not great [understatement of the year] in fact looking down and seeing past your chest was always impossible, so another swim was not as silly as it sounds, my trunks were soon rolled down my legs, under the water, and the lovely Sally`s hands grasping at my manhood in a way that spoke of desperation, and not a little experience! 6 long months I had been in Cyprus, without so much as speaking to a girl in that whole time, so frustration was rife, and it was a very few strokes before my seed was adding to the pollution.
My companion laughed as I explained, then kissing me in a passionate way! She wrapped an arm round my neck and her legs round my hips and we tried to couple, her spare hand holding the suit to one side... It was hopeless. The waves combined with the strong white suit defying us any access, neatly trapping my bell end in its hard-clasping grip!
Frustrated we returned to the shore, hand in hand we walked back to the towels, then it struck me, that an old friend owed me a favour or two!
So, bidding her dress, we dried ourselves and slipped back into our clothes, then arm in arm wandered back along the harbour wall, stopping to eat in the Rotunda, the funfair beside the beach, while I popped in to Sam`s house and collected the keys as I had done so many times over the years. The inner man satisfied we plodded along to the old swimming pool. At that time there were two swimming pools in Folkestone, an Olympic size open air salt-water pool, and opposite it a run-down old hotel cum ballroom, called ‘the marina,’ with a small indoor pool known as the rock pool, where, we local swimmers, both swim-club and life-saving would spend our time during the winter evenings. During the summer the place was little used, and it was run by a friend called Sam, an ex-channel swimmer who kept the slowly disintegrating place alive, just so we devoted few could swim, in fact at that time the ballroom was only used to store boats, that’s how run down it had become.
We slipped into the old place, and relocked the door behind us, giving us privacy and a quiet pool to our-selves, we were soon in one of the big communal changing rooms and my clothes were being shed like petal`s from a dying flower!
`She too began to strip, and what till now had been hidden from my view by the swimsuit, or her clothing was now slowly revealed. Her body, was to me perfection, and the great bit was that she had no inhibitions about letting me see it.
Now back in the 1960s unless you paid for it or were a hippy or a perve the chances of a lady/ girl or young woman sharing the secrets hidden under those clothes were, well…minimal, yes it did happen, but not in polite society, and definitely not with any trainee nurses that I knew!
This one dropped her knickers as if she was taking off a raincoat, it was that simple, she smiled at me and casually said that “she could see I was not used to the female body” asking if “I was a virgin then…” I, mouth agape, eyes riveted, dick at attention, trousers slipping from my grasp as I stood mesmerised by this wonderful lass. No doubt I was a bit red when she said that, but it was a shock!!!
I finally managed to stutter a denial, then added “your dad said I was to not get up to any funny business, but I`m sorry dad, I just can`t help myself …” which had her laughing again and naturally I kissed her once more!
Now I unclipped her bra, and there were those lovely breasts, not huge it must be said, but nubile, rounded, with nipples that screamed suck me, bite me, chew me, with every lift of her incoming breath…So I did!
By now we were both getting fairly worked up, there were a number of slatted wooden benches in the place, so to keep us from the cold stone floor I pulled two together and she lay on them like a body on an altar, while I slipped myself deep into her hot sex. It was tremendous, hot, surprisingly tight, and gripping me hard, with muscles until now I had not known existed.
She came an eye rolling heavy breathing gasping climax that was loud and long and then I filled her, pump after pump as only a fit young man in his prime can, [god I wish it was so again now!]
We lay together for a while, then she said that she was glad she was now infertile, and explained that this navvy that I met this morning was her step father, her real father had been a paedophile, and had ****d her when she was just 6, he had been convicted, and she had had most of her c***dbearing bits removed in an emergency operation, her infertility was a relief but sad to say I like most young men had been following my dick and had not had a single thought of pregnancy or the consequences.
Next, we swam, both suited in case one of the boat owners, who had keys, came in the ballroom next door, only separated from the pool by huge glass panels! We swam and talked, talked and swam with odd moments of kissing, fondling and so on for the next couple of hours, during which we explored minds and bodies. We came to fantasies, that was inevitable really, and she told me of her fetish, what was then called golden showers, which I had no problem with, though she expected I would be repulsed by the idea. We retreated once more to the cool changing room, where we both stripped, well to be truthful I stripped her…then myself…and I have to say that white swim suit now has a place in my heart, (as does if the truth be told white undies and white clothing generally). Anyway, we were soon in that position on the benches again, the benches creaked as we both lay together and she explained exactly what she had fantasised about: Apparently a friend of hers in nursing school had described, when under the influence one evening, how her bloke had got up her and had pissed inside her, and it had become for them their ‘party trick,’ their way of getting to the orgasm we all try to attain.…Sally said that she had wanted to try it for that past two years but none of the blokes she had been with either could or would oblige, and there was no way she was going to her friend to beg the use of her bloke, not least as he was in her view…”horrible!”
Now this for me was new ground, I had a little sexual knowhow but this…well, you just have to try don’t you!
By now the implement to be used was rampant, and my bladder was luckily full, so in theory though the ingredients were available, there should be no way it would empty into her body.
I slipped into her like a hand in a warm wet glove, then had to concentrate to allow the mind to overcome the bodies normal function, it took a moment or two then I felt the first trickle pass along my tool and her body stiffen as the hot water reached her interior. Once the first few drops had passed the flow slowly increased, and she began to moan, the hot fluid filling her body rapidly.
Soon her body could hold no more, and the piss was seeping past my prick in a hot wet trickle that dripped from her body drained through the slatted bench and dribbled onto the floor in a noisy flow that echoed round that hollow room in a way I shall never forget. Her moans as I dried and began to ride her body, rising and falling as wave upon wave of hydraulic pressure came and went as the trapped bulk of the urine was pressed then released with each thrust.
It is not a practise that you could try in a bed, or a carpeted room, unless you want the world to smell like a urinal…but I must admit in the right environment it is a feeling like no other.
We both came in huge waves [excuse the pun], our orgasms near to perfectly timed, which for me was another first, and we lay spent, my tool shrivelled and the excess fluid draining in a cascade from her body that splashed the floor and her duffle bag in a noisy fashion. She said that that was an experience she would never forget, and I really hope she never did.
We swam again, washed the outside of the duffle bag, then dressed, Sam was away till Monday, and so I only needed to lock up, returning the key, a spare in the week, so together we let ourselves out then walked hand in hand to the cliff-lift, only a few paces away, in the town we found a café and ate, before taking the bus back to her aunt`s place. Making arrangements to meet next day for a walk in the warren an area of scrubland about ½ mile wide and ten long, between the sea and the white cliffs.
I got home about 8ish and the wedding guests arrived about 11, mother mentioning that “Mary” had been reported as a nice young lady by cousin April just as suspected it would!
I collected Sally next morning this time again in white, but with two duffle bags, telling her folk we were off for a pick-nick.
Again, we caught the bus, into town then changed to the Dover bus, alighting at Capel, a village on the cliff tops, here we had tea and buns at the little cafe tucked under the cliff top, we sat in the warm sun hand in hand and using the 5p in the slot telescope we watched cars in France on the cliff road, it was so clear on that morning.
We had tea and donuts, then together we descended the well-worn chalk path and steps down the cliff face to the plateau 200 plus feet below, it`s an area I knew well.
The pathways lead to the sea, via a bridge across the railway, and we were soon sat above the concrete sea defences, in a shallow grassed dish that I had camped in on a number of occasions.
From there we could see the seafront and were pretty safe from prying eyes.
Out came the swim suit and we swam first this time from the light gravel beach perhaps 50 feet below our pick-nick site, after a while we returned to the towels, and she produced a stunning array of sandwiches and some pop. What more could a young man want, a warm sunny day, a lovely lively companion who was not bashful, a good sandwich, and a big bottle of cold pop in a place outdoors that couldn’t be easily overlooked.
The hours passed, swimming and sunbathing alternately, even screwing just a bit… then, Yes, well, you’ve guessed it, we were destined to do yesterdays trick again though this time she wanted to return the compliment and for me to try it analy…!
Well who was I to argue, sally stripped off that body hugging swimsuit, and donned her skirt and jumper, saying “if anyone came it would be easier to ‘cover up’” then rolled up that big old towel so it wouldn’t get wet, and yep she supplied the lubricant, and was on her hands and knees, and I slipped her a length, it slipped into her easily as if it was an electric plug and socket. I thought we were made for each other! Nieve soul that I was, again it took concentration, then the flow began. If the adventure yesterday had been the practise run.
This time the seal was tighter, she filled till she was moaning with a mix of pain and excitement, her bowel filling and pressing the wet against my tool in a fabulous way, that enhanced the feelings tremendously. My hand slid under her to her clit, and together yet again we hit the high spots. It was fantastic, memorable and magic all rolled into one.
We lay together, flat on her back I lay, chewing her neck, kissing her ears, caressing her breasts crushed between her and the grass. Things shrivelled, and released me, then she got up staggered to the bushes at the back of the dish and relieved herself of her urine enema. In the distance we could see one of those summer showers approaching, it was time to go. We dressed, then hand in hand off we set. The rain hit before the railway, and the climb back up the cliff on slippery chalk steps was a nightmare, the café was about to close when we arrived, a bedraggled pair, wet and cool, we had tea to go and more donuts, then caught the bus home, it had been a truly memorable day.
I was due to visit an aunt on the Monday, so it was Tuesday when I arrived at her door again, her father met me at the door saying she had gone back to London and her husband…!
Oh well, win some, lose some…. She had left me a note, it simply said, ‘thanks it was an experience!’ and it was signed….’ Mary!’
I never saw or heard from her again. I often wonder if she became a pathologist, or what became of her.
But an experience, yes it was certainly that!
Gert
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