Next Time In London Ch. 02 free porn video
This story is a direct follow on from my romance, ‘Next time in London’ where I described how I met and began to get to know Sarah.
Chapter 2: In London
When my Grandchildren ask me what has changed most in my life time I tell them, ‘communications’ In the period of this story, there was no internet, e-mail, mobile phones or faxes. Trunk dialling was far from universal, and any way not many people had a phone. Last week I was in a highland hotel, and they still had the gloomy little cubbyhole under the stairs where the Public Telephone used to reside. There isn’t even a phone there now, just marks on the wall and I have no doubt if you knew what you were looking at, you could trace the history of the telephone by the various holes and wire marks.
If you wanted to contact someone from somewhere like the Field Centre, it was through the old penny in the slot phone, and you had to go though the operator even to ring Oban. In those days people still communicated by writing letters, often with fountain pens. Today, by the time she had stopped for her coffee at Tyndrum, Sarah, who I had been getting to know on the island, would probably have sent me an SMS just to make sure that I remembered her.
What actually happened, was that a week or two after she left the Island, Sarah sent me a thank you card simply addressed to ‘Euan’ at the Centre. It took a few weeks to catch up with me, as I’d gone to Manchester to begin my Post Graduate course. I am the world’s worst correspondent and it was a couple of weeks before I got round to replying, (no point in seeming that keen in any case). Neither of us had phones where we lived, so the communications were, initially, entirely by letter. I remember Sarah’s well, they were written on a deep pink scalloped notepaper, with a pink lined envelope.
We settled down to write with increasing openness, initially writing on alternative Sundays. I began to look forward to the distinctive letter being in my pigeon hole when I got into the University every other Monday if I was lucky, or Tuesday if I wasn’t. After a couple of these exchanges, our letters became almost daily. I’d never carried out a courtship by correspondence before. Oh, I’d had girlfriends with whom I had corresponded before of course. With them, there was a sound foundation of experience. All we were doing was affirming a situation which already existed, much of the correspondence was to do with mutual friends, who did what to whom or said this or that, nothing like what Sarah and I were doing.
With Sarah, it was different. Apart from what? four or five hours together, we had very little in common. Mind you, what a four or five hours they were! Although I had gone physically further, quicker in the past with other women and had walked away, there was something about this woman that meant I was settling down to what was in fact a rather bizarre correspondence. I could have said that it was the style of her English. And boy could Sarah could write well. I wasn’t surprised some years later to discover that she had become a novelist.
It was only when I read Linklater’s ‘The Dark of Summer’ that I understood why what Sarah wrote was so compelling. In ‘The Dark of Summer’, the Hero has to take passage from Orkney to the Faroe Islands in a Naval Trawler. In the Captain’s day cabin, where the hero sleeps during the voyage, there is a book case. Linklater describes it thus, ‘all its authors were women: Virginia Woolf, Colette, Rosamund Lehmann…’
The Captain and the Hero subsequently have a conversation. ‘That’s what I call my harem.’ ‘Do you read no authors but women?’ ‘Not at sea,’ he said. ‘The sea has two disadvantages: it’s salt, as I mentioned before, and there are no women on it. Not in war-time. So female authors are a necessity, as well as a luxury. All those books and some are a lot better than others contain a woman who’s undressing herself. Oh yes, they do! Some of them only unwrap their sensibility and their intelligence, but even they give you the feeling that there’s a bed behind the door. But most of them take you on a beautifully observant, roundabout walk, that might be a little bit boring if you didn’t know where it was leading, but it’s leading you all the time, with unfaltering purpose. The whole thing — the whole female art of novel-writing — is an exquisitely prolonged strip-tease. Have you read this one?’
He threw a book on to my bed, a book that has been much admired and said, ‘That’s one of my favourites How wonderfully the disrobing of her sensibilities leads, at long last, to taking off her petticoats! And then what intimacy! Oh, nothing vulgar, but how her mind embraces you. And what good soap she uses. You can smell the steam in her bathroom. In reality, I expect, she would be an infernal nuisance, but in a book, at sea, she’s pure enchantment.”
Well Sarah was pure enchantment. I thought that I was a bit of a wordsmith but Sarah took me for a beautifully observed roundabout walk. Building on the foundation of our time together on the Island she took us past my frequently rigid prick into areas of soft talk and being together.
I heard her life story, I heard how her brother had tried to rape her when she was 14 (she was adopted), and she had successfully fought him off and knew that she could in the future. She was of course interested in the act of sex, but equally interested in making sure that it took place in a genuine situation of real intimacy. Had Linklater been writing in the 1970s rather than the late 1950s, and reflecting attitudes of a decade and a half earlier, he might have had ‘Silver’ describe the work of female writers as an exquisitely prolonged foreplay. Certainly, through her letters, mentally my erotic zones were being touched and caressed.
The correspondence took place against a complicated background. I was perfectly happy as I was in Manchester, I had picked up some very posh totty indeed.
At a party in the department, I had picked up a young lady called Drusilla, who had been educated at Benenden School. While Drusilla had a boyfriend at Oxford, who was very posh as well, (I think that he was in the Bullingdon Club) Drusilla had no problem pounding the mattress with an Oik like me. Mind you, being Irish, I was exotic enough to be outside the English class system, and anyway I had gone to both a good School and University, even if I didn’t have a lot of money with which to bless myself.
Fortunately, right at the beginning of our relationship, we had confessed to each other that we had another in reserve. It was the most liberating experience I ever had. I must tell you about the screwing of Drusilla some other time.
So here I was receiving letters from Sarah which were fast become more intimate and at the same time, I was maintaining a healthy relationship with Drusilla during the week (Most weekends she seemed to disappear off to one social engagement or another).
Sadly, much later in the year, her very posh boyfriend was caught with his arse in the air on top of a less posh piece of totty at a party and Drusilla decided to call it quits. As it happened I was down stairs with a friend of Drusilla’s and she really made a great fuss so that I went up stairs and filled her noble friend in. Her, by now, ex boyfriend was poured into a Taxi with a bloody nose, and the maledictions of Drusilla ringing in his ears. Talk about coitus interruptus!
Sarah was making it quite clear that her virginity was going to have to be given and taken. She had told me on the Island on that glorious Sunday afternoon that I was ‘top of her list to take her cherry when she did decide to let go,’ and, ‘I hope to entertain you in London. These two things looked as if they were about to come together.
It was not quite as simple as arranging how her deflowering was going to be done. It needed to be at both the right time and in the right place. Sarah had been brought up to wait for marriage for full penetrative sex — though this
didn’t mean that she didn’t allow great liberties with her body. How I looked back with prick inflating memories of how we had got to in that bay on that Sunday soixante-neuf with the hope of going further which had been dashed when a mixture of her PMT and discretion stopped play. She once wrote about this predicament, ‘If there isn’t a dick up my hole it is all right.’ As the weeks went by this changed to ‘If I’m not going to have a husband’s dick in my hole and I haven’t met anyone with whom I’d contemplate spending the rest of my life with, then I want your dick in my hole.’ I was indeed flattered.
There was the discussion on contraception, the pill or condoms, the question of where, quite literally her place or mine, one of the flats or a hotel somewhere? Because the taking of her virginity was such a momentous occasion, we needed to organise the background very carefully. Too many of her friends had lost their virginity in the atmosphere of free love and had found it a profoundly anticlimactic experience. It was her writing which gave our planning a life and expectation beyond a quick fuck. As I read her letters, I thought back to the embraces on the Island, and forward to the prospect of gently sliding my cock into her moist, warm, inviting hole.
Finally, before Christmas, we had things organized: her place, the week after the New Year. New Year’s Day was going to be a Saturday and during the next week the schools were off, the University was off, and Sarah’s flat mates would be away for the holiday. We would have the flat to ourselves for almost a whole week.
I went back to the Island for Christmas, While Christmas wasn’t that big a celebration in Scotland then, there was a house party at the field centre and I was to be on the staff. Then Manchester would be a useful stopping off point on my way south. The New Year was not a big English Celebration. Of course, I hadn’t the faintest idea where Sarah lived in London. Hell, I’d only been there twice in my life, so she told me that she would meet me at Watford Tube station. This amused me, for I knew that to a true Londoner like Sarah, Wogs (any foreigner) begin at Watford and in her letters to me, it had become clear that Sarah would never be happy outside the area served by the tube.
To get to London, you flogged down the M6 until you came to the M1 and you went down that until you ran out of motorway. Off to the left was Watford down the A 40something. On the appointed day, eventually I found Watford High Street Underground Station. Through luck rather than good judgment I arrived at the right time and there was Sarah. Now I couldn’t be sure about it but I seem to remember that she was in a chocolate coloured maxi coat and brown boots. Her blond hair hung around her shoulders from below a Cossack hat. She looked very cool and sophisticated.
I swung the car in beside her. She looked at me and got in, we greeted with a kiss. Neither the deep passionate kisses which I hoped I would experience later, nor a chaste greeting, but a kiss that seemed to hint that better things were to come. I really was the rural hick. Glasgow, Manchester, they, to me, were big cities. Even with the light traffic because of the holidays I had to pay attention to the directions which Sarah was giving me, though occasionally at traffic lights we held hands for a moment and smiled at each other. In a way, the long, complicated city drive was a great way of breaking the ice and becoming comfortable with each other in each other’s presence. At long last, we got there. I parked the car, grabbed my luggage, and hand in hand we walked up the garden path. When we went into the house we walked up one flight of stairs. It was typical of a house converted into flats. Sarah stopped at a door, produced a key and let us in. Briefly, she showed me round and I noted with amusement that I was being given my own room, though I was wondering just how much time I was going to spend in it.
We met up in the kitchen, as Sarah was putting the kettle on for a cup of tea. She had taken off her coat and boots and was wearing a brown and cream Kaftan with small bells on it so that when she moved there was a gentle tinkling noise. I had dressed up, I was wearing cavalry twills, a Jaeger shirt, a plain tweed tie and a Harris Tweed sports coat. As the room was warm, I took off my sports coat.
‘That’s better, the coat looked a bit prickly.’
‘I suppose that it is, best hand made in the Islands, and all that.’
Resolutely I moved over, stood in front of her, took her in my arms and kissed her. She responded without much enthusiasm.
‘Thank God that you did something, I was getting all embarrassed, this is so different from the romantic Island,’ said Sarah.
‘Would you rather than we just went into Platonic mode? Or we could just take our time.’ I replied.
‘Not really, it’s just that I’ve never been in this situation before. In the past I’ve always had a whole load of inhibitions to keep me from doing anything, but you are so dangerous. Just standing there you make me want you. And it’s not curiosity only, I’m lusting for you.’ Sarah responded.
‘Well, let’s solve that ma’m.’ I laughed,
This time I gave her a real kiss. For a second I thought that it wasn’t going to work, but then she threw her arms round my neck, pulled her body close to mine, and moved back slightly so that her back was against the kitchen units. As I pressed against her, with my hands roaming across her back, our lips caressed and her tongue flicked in and out of my mouth. I felt her warm and tender body close to mine, my erect prick pressing into her stomach.
‘That’s settled then, we know what we are going to do.’
Sarah took my hand, and led me out of the kitchen and across to the bedroom.
There was a smell of joss sticks, the lighting was subdued, and the heating was turned up. I took her in my arms again and discovered that the arm holes of the Kaftan were big enough for me to get my hands in and had proved to me what I had suspected, Sarah wasn’t wearing a bra. I followed the contours of her back down to her buttocks and discovered that she wasn’t wearing any panties either. I knew that I wasn’t going to be wearing much either soon as Sarah pulled off my tie, worked at my shirt buttons and then my trouser belt and zip. I reached down and took off my shoes and socks. Then I shook my clothes off, and taking Sarah’s Kaftan I pulled it up over her head. Sarah pulled my y fronts over the top of my prick and we stood there naked. We lay down on the bed, facing each other. Yes, she was as attractive as I remembered her to be, not stunningly beautiful, but as she lay there, she was a vision of blond and tan, incredibly sexy and easy on the eye.
I kissed her again and then traced the line of her jaw with my finger. I reached over with my other hand and placed my palm on her mound of Venus, the roughness of her fair pubic hair, wire like, pressing into my palm. I began to gently caress her clitoris with my finger. I moved the finger of the other hand down her neck until my hand was resting on her breast. She must have been happy with what I was doing for she followed where my hands were on her with her hands. Sarah grasped my scrotum and then brought her hand up my prick. We kissed deeply. I moved my finger down her slit until I felt her wet cunt preparing to receive me. She lay back and opened her legs. I gently rolled on top of her, one hand supporting her shoulders, the other on her buttock. My prick lay between her legs, rigid. Gently I pressed it on her body, and felt my prick move up to her hole.
‘Are you sure you want this?’ I asked (Although God knows what would have happened if she had said no!) In response she pushed her hips forward so that my prick was on the very cusp of entering her. I reached my hand down so that I was able to guide my prick into where we both wanted it to be. I pushed gently and felt my self entering her narrow love passage. Gently I pushed in, sliding into her until I fe
lt my public hairs mass with hers and her strong muscles grasp my prick. I pressed up on my arms so that I could focus on her face, which had a great big smile on it, and she had a bright look in her eyes.
It was only then that, with more and more force that I began to pump my prick in and out. I felt her flex her muscles. I’d never deflowered a virgin before, but this recent ex virgin sure knew how to manipulate a cunt to give maximum pleasure. I could feel her muscles working on my prick. Our breathing was beginning to get laboured, I could feel the pressure on my balls, I held her ass while she stuck her finger nails into my back, I heard her moan and felt the excitement in her cunt as she came. I held on for as long as I could and then came with a shuddering ejaculation. No sooner had I come, but Sarah not only shuddered again, and seemed to get new life, wildly bucking her hips as she came a second time.
‘God’s great gift to women, multiple orgasm,’ she panted. Kissing me as she locked her legs together so that I lay on top of her while my prick deflated inside her. We kissed gently and my hands sought out her breasts and I played with them, rubbing her nipples between my fingers and thumbs. I moved slightly incautiously and my prick fell out of her cunt. We giggled.
Gently, Sarah pushed me off her and moved me so that I was lying on my back. My prick flopped between my legs. She rolled over onto her front and sat up with her legs folded below her, her knees were level with my hips. She reached down and picked up my prick. Then she lent down and smelt my pubic hair, rubbing my still flaccid prick with her hand.
‘Someone told me that cunt juice smelt different on a man than it did on a woman, mind you, it might just be the smell of your spunk as well. I’m glad that the first time we were able to do it bareback. Does the little man not want to come out to play?’ She teased.
My prick began to show signs of taking an interest in its surroundings. She blew on it, she rubbed my scrotum. ‘Oh the little man is coming out to play,’ she said, and began to grasp the shaft of my prick, which was still floppy. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ she asked my prick, she played with me so that eventually my prick rose to the occasion. It stood there, hard and proud. ‘I know, I’ll have to sit on you and see if I can keep a good man down.’
With that, she straddled my body and taking my prick in her hand lowered herself onto it. I could feel her sliding down my pole. She knelt there, and then she reached down and placed her hands on my shoulders ‘This is what I’ve had a fantasy about since I met you.’ She bent down and kissed me.
I reached up and fondled her breasts. Sarah raised and lowed herself on my prick sometimes pressing on my shoulders, on other thrusts drawing her self up so that she was sitting erect on top of me with her hands behind her head. I could see the faint peach of the hairs on her body rising with the goose pimples. She slid up and down my cock. I felt my self bottom out on her cervix, and the ripples of her muscles grasping me. I quite literally lay back and felt her ride me, then, eventually as she slid down, I just let go and felt the juice pump into her. She paused in her sliding up and down, but I could feel her motion squeezing me as she came and she came, and she came and collapsed forward on top of me.
‘Let’s get under the covers and warm up.’ We disengaged, and she was right, we were cold. We got under the covers and she snuggled up to me. The heat from our bodies had permeated through the bed clothes, we lay enfolded in each others arms kissing gently. The dim light of a dull London January afternoon seeped into the room through the slight gaps in the curtain.
We must have dropped off, for the next thing I knew, Sarah’s hand was over my scrotum, fingering my balls, it must have been this which woke me. The light around the window had turned to yellow from the street lights, as well as fucking, we had been sleeping together.
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