Betrayal and Redemption
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Add: 19 April 2016 / 08:00
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It's true, we really needed a new village hall. The existing building was just too small, and desperately in need of renovation. We had tried everything — jumble sales, fêtes, appeals in the local newspapers, but the amount of money we had raised was woefully short of what we needed, even for the most pressing repairs.
It was at a meeting of the Parish Council, of which I was chairman, that it was suggested — I forget by whom — that we ought to approach Sir George, who was very wealthy (he was a very successful hedge fund manager) and well known for his philanthropy. He had moved into the village a couple of years earlier and had bought the old Manor House, which made him sort of squire of the manor, and although he was away on business much of the time, his wife Lady Angela was often seen in the village. Some people thought that at the age of thirty four I was too young to be chairman, but in my work for the government industrial conciliation service I had already had considerable experience of difficult negotiations, and chairing the Parish Council was really simple by comparison.
If had known then the pain and humiliation I would suffer, I would not have approached him, but I was innocent of his true nature — and the nature of his business — so I went to see him in good faith. In the end the train of events that I set in motion cost me my marriage, and even now ten years later I still shudder when I look back at those few months. In the end everything has turned out for the better, but I am a sadder and wiser man now, although happier than at any time in my life.
When I rang to make an appointment, the phone was answered by his secretary, and when I had explained my business she said that Sir George would be able to fit me in the next week. It was with some trepidation that I walked up to the imposing front door of the Manor House — a building that dated back in parts to the sixteenth century, although there had been many later additions. When the door opened, I was greeted by a tall and well built man in a dark suit — I learned that he acted as major-domo for the establishment, but had been a professional wrestler at one time under the stage name Big Jake; I never did learn his real name. I was immediately ushered in to Sir George's study and asked to take a seat. While I was waiting I looked round the room and was struck by the rather racy Victorian prints on the walls — erotica seemed rather incongruous in the restrained atmosphere of the room with its wood panelling and bookcases filled with rare books and old manuscripts; fox-hunting prints would have been more in character I thought.
After a few minutes Sir George entered through an door in the panelling, and after shaking my hand, took his seat behind an opulent desk in front of the mullioned window. He asked me cordially what my business was, and after I had explained our predicament he thought for a while, and then said that he would be delighted to help and would a million pounds be sufficient. I nearly fell off my seat in surprise, but managed to stammer that such a generous gift would be more than enough to build a new village hall, and would give us a building that would serve the community well into the future.
“No time like the present,” Sir George said, taking out his cheque book, “but there is one condition.”
“Oh,” I replied, immediately worried, “and what might that be.”
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, and laughed, “I want you to allow your wife to be our house guest for one week during the summer. See, nothing too terrible. I know that Lady Angela will enjoy having intelligent female company; I am often tied up with work even when I am at home and she can get a bit lonely.”
I couldn't see anything wrong with this, so I gave my assent, and said I would let my wife know, thinking that she wouldn't have any problems. In fact I thought she might enjoy it. At that time I didn't think that my wife Sandra and Lady Angela were even acquainted, and certainly not intimately so. How wrong I was.
Sandra went to stay with Sir George and Lady Angela during the first week in August. When she got back home she seemed somehow different, which I put down to a week of high living, but when I asked how she had enjoyed it, her reply knocked me flat.
“I have had a wonderful week darling,” she said, “I have never been fucked so well and so often.” She did have the good grace to look slightly hesitant as she said this, but then looking me straight in the eyes, she said that I might be rather surprised to hear about her experiences during the week, and that it was time to confront some home truths about our sex life, such as it was.
“What are you talking about?” I shouted, “Have you gone raving mad? You must be making it up.”
“O no,” she replied, “I have just had one of the most sexually exciting and liberating weeks of my life.”
By now I was very angry. “What about your wedding vows to love and honour me? I am your husband after all.”
“You are so old fashioned Paul,” she said, “love and romance are male inventions to make sure that they pass on their genes, and as for fidelity — well that is just the way that men try to control female sexuality; it is no more than a form of slavery, and so hypocritical too. Sex is like food, you need variety. Steak and kidney pie is all very well once in a while, but not every day. I don't know about you, but I need something more spicy and George and Angie have certainly given me that. They've opened my eyes to what I have been missing, and from now on I'm going to make up for lost time and have lots of lovely sex.”
“But I thought you enjoyed it when we made love,” I said, somewhat lamely.
“Oh, you have a nice enough cock, but you really don't have much imagination, and you are always so busy with your blessed Parish Council. It was fun when we were first married, but I have been so bored and frustrated. I thought I could make do with masturbating, but a dildo is not the same as a good fucking, and besides, I have missed a nice sweet pussy to play with. I haven't told you, but Angie and I were room mates at uni, and I was so happy when she came to live in the village. We used to have really great sex — she has a lovely pussy and I used to spend hours kissing and licking it, and when she returned the favour, I would come and come — God it was so fantastic I would almost pass out with pleasure.”
“And what about the risks of VD? Have you thought about that?”
“Oh that. A quick shot of antibiotics will cure a dose of clap and syphilis, and everyone knows you can only catch HIV from needles or anal sex,” she retorted.
“Yes, but what about genital warts? They cause cervical cancer you know.”
“Silly, there's a vaccine to prevent warts.”
“But it's only given to teenage girls.”
“Normally that is true,” she said airily, “but Georgy can get anything he wants, and he has arranged for me to have a shot from one of his doctor friends, plus hepatitis vaccine as well. There's absolutely nothing to worry about.”
“And was last week the first time you have cheated on me since we were married?” I asked, dreading what her answer might be.
“Oh no,” she replied, “Angie and I met by accident in the village shop a couple of months after she and Georgy moved into the Manor House, and we picked up our old relationship almost immediately. I have regularly been having sex with Angie and George — and Big Jake (and he really is big) — for well over two years. I meant to tell you months ago, but the right opportunity never seemed to arrive, and judging by your reaction, it is a jolly good thing it didn't.”
I realised there was no point in arguing further. It was clear that Sandra was no longer the sweet woman I had married. “You had better tell me everything,” I said resignedly, “and then I can decide what to do. At the moment I feel totally humiliated, and I'm not sure whether our marriage can survive.”
“Okay” she said, “and after I have told you, I have a DVD that you can watch. I am willing to bet you will find it terrifically arousing, and I am certain that George and Angie will be happy to let you join in our games — a foursome is just mind blowing, and Angie knows a lot of tricks to make a man think he has died and gone to heaven. We used to call her the blow job queen.”
Sandra's Story
As I've said, Angie and I were room mates at uni. She was a bit strapped for cash and decided she needed to find a way to earn some money. She didn't want to do anything boring like stacking shelves at Tescos or serving behind the counter at McDonalds, which is what many other girls did, and working in a pub was bloody hard work and would have left little time for enjoying herself, quite apart from studying. She had a lovely figure and thought it would be fun to work as an exotic dancer.
She easily found a job in a local club and was having a good time. However, the money wasn't as good as she had expected, and when she was talking to the other girls in the dressing room after a show, they told her that with a body like hers she could get really good money as a lap dancer. She thought about it for a couple of nights and then decided why not, she had no hang ups about nudity, and it might be quite exciting to have power over men. To cut a long story short, one of the girls introduced her to the manager of a lap dancing club near the business quarter of the city, and after a brief interview during which she was asked to strip and give the man a dance, she was offered a job, originally for three nights a week.
At first Angie only had a few routines, but after watching the other dancers, she realised that she needed to develop her own specialities. She also discovered that displaying her body and flashing her naked pussy at the punters made her extremely horny, and when she got home in the early hours she would either masturbate with her favourite vibrator until she almost passed out in ecstasy after the most amazing multiple orgasms, or better still , wake me up for a fantastic sex session during which she would often ask me to fuck her with a strap-on dildo.
Although touching wasn't allowed, she found that she could surreptitiously grind her naked pussy against a client’s crotch, and she was sure that some of them ejaculated in their pants — the look on their faces certainly suggested it, and she would always get a big tip tucked into the strap of her g-string afterwards. All tips had to be handed over to the barman at the end of the night, but she would receive a bonus at the end of the week based on a percentage of what she had been given. She noticed that many of the girls would disappear with their client through a door at the rear of the bar, and when she asked, they told her that there were rooms at the back where they could give a private show for a really big tip.
After she had been working there for a couple of months, the manager called her into his office after closing. She was rather worried that she was going to be reprimanded for overstepping the mark with her act, but she was relieved and delighted when he told her that some of the regulars had asked if she gave private shows.
“You are very popular,” he said, “and it would be good for custom if you would look after our richer clients and their special guests, quite apart from increasing your own earnings. What you do is your own business, but many men will pay well to watch a girl masturbate, and even more if she obviously has a climax. Fucking is not allowed — this is not a brothel, and I don't want to fall foul of the law — and this also applies to blow jobs, but you may give a client manual relief.”
It was at the club that she met Georgy. He was in town on business, and once the deal had been signed off after a week of hard negotiating, the CEO of the company suggested that a little celebration was in order. The CEO was a regular customer, and after Angie had danced for him and George, he suggested that she might like to take George back stage for a private dance — “It will be well worth your while,” he said, “and will make it more likely that Sir George will put more business my way, rather than going to one of my competitors.”
Georgy came back the following night, and again the next night, and at the end of her private show, he told her that he should have gone back to London, but that he just had to see her again. “I have a business proposition to put to you, so come to my hotel tomorrow at 7pm, and I’ll treat you to a slap up meal and tell you what I have in mind.”
Angie came home cock-a-hoop and woke me up to share her news. While I was licking her pussy she told me all the details of how she had come for Georgy three times before giving him a hand job — “You should see how hard he comes, I have never seen so much spunk, “ she giggled. While we were cuddling after our mutual orgasms, she told me about his offer, and how hoped that he was going to offer her a job.
She didn't come back at all the following night, and it wasn't until after lectures the next day that I saw her again. “It's true,” she almost shouted, “Georgy has offered me a job in London, and he is prepared to pay me ten times what I'm earning at the club. I almost bit his hand off when he asked me, and I signed the contract there and then. I'll be starting in two months time after the end of term, and I won't be coming back. I'll miss you dreadfully of course, but I will text you with my address, and you must come to see me.”
"But why didn't you come home last night?” I asked, although I had a pretty good idea why.
“Oh, we celebrated the deal by fucking — several times that night, and again a couple of times this morning,” she replied, “Georgy is magnificent, and his cock is so beautiful. He really knows how to give a girl a good time,” and she sighed with the memory of her night of pleasure.
Angie never did text, and it wasn't until she came to live in the village that I found out what she had been doing for the last fifteen years. The job that Georgy offered her was as the senior hostess in a private club he was opening in London. He would bring important clients and politicians he wished to influence, and offer them a dining experience par excellence with the most expensive and rare wines, followed by a live sex show. He would tell the hostesses beforehand which of his guests he would like them to fuck, and for this purpose he had fitted out several bedrooms in truly opulent style — complete with closed circuit cameras linked to a central console where everything was recorded on a hard drive — “Just in case there are any misunderstandings,” as he put it.
At the time Georgy was going through a rather messy divorce, but once he had received the Degree Absolute, he asked Angie to marry him. Three years ago he decided that he would like to offer an even more luxurious and erotic service, particularly to overseas clients, and knowing how popular the English Country House experience was, he was delighted when the Manor House came up for sale. Angie looks after everything to do with the girls, as well as entertaining really important clients herself.
So that is it in a nutshell, and Angie and Georgy have asked me to join the payroll as senior hostess, giving Angie more time to deal the entertainment and all the financial details.
I was utterly horrified by what I had heard, and I told Sandra that if she was determined to go through with it, I felt that we ought to go through a separation until she came to her senses.
“You really are an old fuddy duddy,” she said, “and you are turning your back on the opportunity to make a lot of money. But if that is how you feel, I won't stand in your way — it’s no skin off my nose, and it will mean more money for me, apart from amazing sex.”
The splendid new village hall was completed six months later — whatever private views I may have had about him, Sir George was a very able business man and knew how to get things done. Invitations were sent out to all the villagers for the opening ceremony. Sir George had managed to cajole a celebrity actress well known for her cameo roles in all the soaps to come and cut the ribbon, and everything went down very smoothly to everyone's obvious enjoyment.
Along with other leading members of the community, I received a second invitation to a private party at the Manor House later that evening. I was dreading what might happen, but as chairman of the Parish Council, I could hardly refuse. The first part of the evening was unexceptional, and Sandra even deigned to come and sit with me for the dinner and after dinner speeches, although we were sleeping in separate bedrooms by then. I made a short speech of thanks to Sir George for his generosity and saying how the new village hall would benefit the community in ways we could not have imagined without his help. In his speech Sir George replied that it was an honour to be able to do his small bit for the village, and how welcome he and Lady Angela had been made to feel by the community. Then after he had proposed a toast to the community, he announced that following a comfort break there would be a small entertainment.
Ten minutes later there was a fanfare over the PA, and the main lights in the room dimmed. Sandra had slipped out during the interval, and I assumed that she was going to be playing a part in what to follow — I dreaded to think what that part was going to be, but in the end it was far worse than I had imagined.
There was a small stage at the end of the room, lit by a single spotlight, and Sir George appeared through the curtains, dressed now in what he obviously imagined a mediaeval Lord of the Manor might have worn.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “the following entertainment will be a celebration of female beauty and the delights of love. So make yourselves comfortable and be prepared to be carried to new heights of pleasure and delight.”
With that, he clapped his hands and the curtains opened on a scene of nubile maidens dressed as shepherdesses sitting around a woodland pool enjoying a picnic. A man dressed as a faun entered from the wings, and to music that I recognised as Debussy’s L’apres midi d’un faune, started to caper around, weaving in and out of the girls and touching them on their breasts as he danced. When each girl was touched, as if entranced, she stood up and started to slowly remove her clothes until she was completely naked. The tableau ended with the faun lying with his head in the lap of one of the maidens being caressed and petted by the others.
The curtains closed to wild applause, and when they opened again the scene was of a room in a castle, with George and Lady Angela sitting on thrones to one side of the stage. A tall man who I immediately recognised as Jake, then entered from the other side of the stage, dressed only in tight leather breeches and carrying a whip, leading a line of girls in chains, wearing long flimsy skirts of a gauzy material but who were otherwise naked. The first girl in the line was Sandra, and a gasp went up from the audience as soon as they recognised her.
Jake, who was obviously acting the part of the slave master, then announced in a stentorian voice, that each of these lovely ladies was highly skilled in the arts of pleasure, and that the highest bidder for their services would be able to take them home for the night to enjoy as he or she wished. Before he could start the bidding process, Sir George interrupted him, “I think you need to show us more of their charms before we part with any money. Start with the first one.”
Jake nodded his assent, and turning to Sandra, pulled her roughly to the front of the stage. “Take off your skirt,” he commanded, “and show us what you have on offer.”
Sandra complied with his order, and stood there completely naked to our view.
“Open your legs so that we can see better,” he shouted, and when she did, he slowly stroked the inside of her thighs with the butt end of his whip before rubbing it between the lips of her pussy, making her writhe and moan.
“That's not enough,” said Sir George, “show us what she will do.”
“Turn round girl,” the slave master commanded, “and bend over with your legs apart.”
Again Sandra followed his instruction, her arousal plain to see as she bent over, displaying her pussy to everyone in the room.
The slave master then stripped off his breeches and plunged his erect cock deep into her cunt and began to fuck her roughly, which made her moan even louder.
By this time I was feeling deeply embarrassed and ashamed, and even though it was dark I could feel the eyes of my friends and neighbours staring at me. I could take no more, and hurriedly pushed my way between the chairs and out of the room. Once I was out in the open air outside the Manor House, I leaned against a wall and abandoned myself to tears, sobbing out my pain and humiliation.
As I was standing there with my head in my hands, I felt a light touch on my shoulder. I turned and through bleary eyes I saw Sir George’s secretary Gillian standing there with a look of concern on her face.
“Are you okay Paul,” she said, and before I could reply she went on, “Sir George is an absolute bastard and Angela is no better than a whore, and I'm afraid that they have corrupted Sandra with their sordid little games. When I first started to work for him, he got me to service his clients too. It was exciting at first, but some of those men wanted me to do unspeakable things, and I told Sir George that I was not going to do it any more. After tonight though, I'm going to hand in my notice; he has gone too far this time.”
“Thank you for your concern,” I said, “I am going to go home now to have a long think about things, especially the future of my marriage. It would be nice to have someone sympathetic to talk to though. Do you think we could meet for a drink in the next couple of days?”
“I would be happy to do that,” she replied in a kindly voice, “why don't you meet me in the King’s Head next Wednesday evening? Would eight o'clock be a convenient time for you.”
“I think I am free then,” I said, “but I will have to consult my diary, can I give you a ring?”
“Yes,” she replied, “but don't phone me at work. I will give you my mobile number,” and she took a notepad out of her handbag, and tearing off a sheet, wrote the number on it and gave it to me.
Sandra didn't come home that night or the next day, and when she did, our conversation was short, and not particularly friendly.
“Georgy has asked me to go with him and Angie to the Bahamas next week,” she said, “he is setting up an adults only resort there, and he has asked me to look after all the local arrangements. It will mean a lot more money, and I have accepted. You can do what you like.”
I managed to keep control of my anger, but told her that I would be seeing my solicitor as soon as possible to draw up a divorce settlement. As we had no children, there was only the matter of our property and belongings to be sorted out, and I told her that I was prepared to let her have fifty percent of our joint assets so long as she would admit her adultery with Sir George.
“Just let me know where the papers should be delivered,” I said. “I don't we need to meet again.”
“I don't think Georgy would like to be involved at all,” she said, “it wouldn't be good for his business reputation, but I'm sure Jake wouldn't mind if you named him. He really is a great fuck and he has no wife or dependants to worry about.”
“Goodbye Sandra, I don't think we will meet again. I hope that you will be happy and get everything you desire,” I said, and offered her my hand.
“Goodbye Paul, I will be back for my things tomorrow,” she replied, and turned and left the house.
I have never seen her since that day.
The King’s Head was an old coaching inn adjacent to the village green. Beside the impressive front entrance framed by Corinthian pillars, an arched gateway large enough for a carriage and horses gave access to the central courtyard with stables on two sides. The original inn sign was a painting of King Charles II, and was said to be over two hundred years old, but it had grown very dilapidated over the years and had been replaced by a modern version, which was rather garish in my opinion.
Sadly, the brewery had done very little to modernise the premises, and it had been steadily losing trade to a modern pub on the outskirts of the village. At the time Sir George came to the village, the inn had been sold, and by the time of these events, was a thriving and popular amenity once more. A modernisation programme glad been carried out without losing the distinctive character of the building, and as well as the main bar with its open fire and secluded alcoves, there was now a fine restaurant.
Gillian was sitting in a small alcove when I arrived, sipping a glass of white wine. Once I had introduced myself, I wen to the bar where I bought another glass of wine for her and a pint of bitter for myself.
I really didn't know how to start, and I since I couldn't think of anything better I started by saying how nice and cosy the inn was these days, and how I thought the new owners had done a really good job.
“Didn't you know,” Gillian said, somewhat to my surprise, “Sir George bought the inn — he really fancies the idea of being a king, even of such a small kingdom as the village. But you would be very surprised if you knew what went on behind that door,” and she gestured to a door to the left of the bar with notice saying “Private” above it. “The inn is just a respectable front,” she continued, “but that door is the entrance to an adult sex club, and at the end of a short corridor there is a reception desk with a larger than life picture of George wearing nothing but a crown and being given a blow job by Angela — “giving the king head” he calls it. He thinks that is very funny. Half the parishioners are members if I'm not mistaken, and I guess that Sandra has slept with most of them. Sorry to give you such unpleasant news, but I thought it was only fair that you knew what a slut your wife has become.”
That put a bit of a dampener on the evening, but I proceeded to tell Gillian that I would be divorcing Sandra, and that I had put the house on the market. “As soon as I have made a sale,” I said, “I will be moving to London, and I hope to buy a small apartment near to my office. I have already resigned from the Parish Council, and the sooner I can leave the village the better. There is really nothing to hold me here.”
In return she told me that she had left Sir George’s employment with immediate effect that day, and that she would be going to live with her parents until she found a new job. “Whatever you might think about him,” she said, “Sir George is not a vindictive man, just totally without any moral scruples, and he has given me a years severance pay, so I will be alright for the time being. He has also given me excellent reference, so I should have no difficulty in finding something suitable.”
After that there was very little else to say, and once we had finished our drinks, we said goodbye, promising to keep in touch, although that was merely out of politeness.
Two years later I was living in London in a nice part of Chelsea. This was before the property boom took off and I had managed to find a nice apartment in a quiet mews near to the Royal Hospital. This was a few months after the financial crash of 2008, and I had learned from the newspapers that Sir George had been badly affected and was being sought by the Financial Services Authority for possible fraud and tax evasion.
Since our divorce I had totally lost contact with Sandra, although I had written to her parents to express my sorrow at what had happened. Her mother had written a very gracious letter in reply, saying that she didn't blame me at all, and that she was not at all surprised. She went on that she had always known her daughter was a person of loose morals but had hoped that her marriage to me would have changed her for the better.
I was walking down New Bond Street late one afternoon when by chance I literally bumped into Gillian again. My mind was on a particularly difficult negotiation that I was involved in and I was not really looking where I was going, when I collided with a young lady leaving the front door of an office building and knocked her bag out of her hand. I bent to pick it up for her, hurriedly offering an an apology for my clumsiness, but when I stood up to give it to her, she just smiled sweetly and said “Hello Paul, how are you these days?”
Rather flustered, I stammered a greeting and was about to continue on my way when she put her hand on my arm and asked whether I had time for a drink for old times sake.
Well, a drink became a meal and we parted with a promise to meet again the next day after work. I had not really paid much attention to Gillian's appearance before as I had been too preoccupied with my marital breakdown, but I now realised for the first time that she was a very attractive young woman, with a nice smile and sparkling blue eyes, and a lovely musical laugh. After two years of bachelor life when I had devoted all my efforts to my career, I was ready for pleasant female company, and I suppose, ripe to fall in love. Fortunately for me Gillian was the right person for me, quite different in character from my former wife.
To our mutual surprise and joy we found conversation very easy, and over the following weeks we discovered that we had a great deal in common, including a love of opera and the theatre. A couple of months after our meeting I saw that there was a new English National Opera production of Puccini’s La Bohéme at the Coliseum, directed by Jonathan Miller, who was returning to the ENO after a break of twelve years, and with the renowned young tenor Alfie Boe as Rudolfo. This promised to be a very exciting and much sought after production, and after pulling a few strings managed to get two tickets in the Dress Circle.
After the show we had a nice meal in an Italian restaurant in St Martin’s Lane, only a stone’s throw from the theatre, and afterwards in it seemed quite natural to invite Gillian back to my apartment to discuss the production and to compare it to others we had seen. To be quite honest, I was also growing more than a little in love with Gillian and the breath of fresh air she brought into my life, and hoped that perhaps we might become more than just good friends one day.
As we entered my apartment I could feel myself getting both anxious and yet yearning for a closeness with this wonderful woman. However, even after two years I was still feeling very bruised, and was afraid of being rebuffed if I made a move to take things beyond pleasant companionship. So I opened a bottle of wine and put on a well known recording of La Bohéme from my large collection of CDs and records. Time passed very quickly as we talked about the performance that evening and other operas that we liked, and by the time we finished the bottle of wine it was well after two in the morning.
“Just look at the time,” I said, “you really can't go home at this hour; you must have my bed and I will get a couple of blankets and sleep on the settee.”
To my utter surprise Gillian took the initiative, and in a stroke solved a lot of my problems, by turning and putting her arms around my neck and giving me a small kiss on the lips. "Don't be silly Paul, I have had a wonderful time, as I have had every day since we met again. But it really is time that we took this to the next level if there is to be one."
I was so relieved and happy that I just held her closer to me and kissed her with a fervour that surprised me. I couldn't have been more delighted that Gillian had been the first to speak of what I had been unable to express. I guess Sandra had been right about me being an old fuddy-duddy. But no longer, not now, nor ever again.
Gillian is a woman with everything I had ever wanted in a true partner and friend and the physical attraction that had been simmering for weeks came to the boil and swept away all my hesitancy. Running my hands down her back until I reached her bottom, I squeezed and massaged the soft roundness of her cheeks and pulled her even closer to me. She moaned into my open mouth as we continued to kiss passionately, and pushed back against my now very hard member.
I couldn't wait and started unzipping her dress and when she manoeuvred to get her arms free and moved her bra straps off her shoulders with the dress, I became unable to think of anything but the joy of having her in my arms. I turned her around and unfastened her bra and let it slide forward off her arms and pushed her dress to allow it to fall to the floor with the bra.
I turned Gillian around and just held her at arms length so I could take in the beauty of her lovely body — softly swelling breasts with perfect nipples tapering down to a narrow waist above full rounded hips barely covered by little panties, and finally long shapely legs in thigh high stockings and dainty feet in sexy high heeled shoes. She was moving her hips back and forth and side to side in a tiny circling motion as she stared into my eyes with a longing and desire that I couldn't believe was for me.
Pulling her to me again, I started to kiss her face and neck and grasping her breasts gently in my hands I asked her if she was prepared for this step which would change things between us irrevocably. She said nothing but just nodded to show she was more than ready.
I led her into my bedroom and sat her on the bed while I undressed. Never for a moment taking my eyes off her face and body, I was amazingly calm in unbuttoning my clothes and ridding myself of them in a very short time. Then going over and pushing her gently back on the bed, I placed my hands on the top of her stockings and started rolling them down her legs, removing her shoes and slipping the stockings off her feet. I couldn't help but look with tremulous desire at the lovely and inviting mound beneath those little panties.
Running my hands up the inside of her thighs lightly but with gentle pressure I was impatient to get this woman naked so that no part of her was hidden from my gaze. When I reached her treasure I shifted to her hips and started pulling her panties down her long legs, down and down, slowly, oh so slowly. Gillian was making little noises and her breathing was shallow with anticipation, her body tense and trembling at the same time.
"Paul, oh Paul, please Paul, I have been waiting for this and wanting you so much..."
When she was completely naked, I reached over with my body almost touching hers and kissed her deeply on the lips, our tongues touching and entwining in mutual passion. My hands now holding and caressing her breasts and nipples, I began to shower little kisses on her throat and down to her breasts making her whimper and sigh with pleasure. Urgent now to possess her most intimate treasure I ran my hands down across the swell of her tummy and as I approached my goal she started moving her hips up to meet my hand, urging me to give her relief from her need. I spread her swelling lips apart like the petals of a flower and felt inside to find that she was already slick with her juices. With barely any resistance my index finger then slipped inside her warm velvety sheath and the gasp and deep loud moan she uttered told me without words that Gillian was eager to abandon herself to me without any more delay in the act of ultimate possession and love.
I could hardly keep myself from just pushing my cock into her, but used first one finger and then two, I found her g-spot and caressed and stimulated it, whilst I rubbed her erect clitoris with my thumb.
I could feel the muscles of her vagina rippling and gripping me as she moved to the rhythm of my fingers, and soon she groaned “Mmmmmm, oh Paul! Yes, yes, YES!" There was no doubt of her high state of arousal and in a short time Gillian came for the first time, writhing and crying out in ecstasy.
The feeling of pleasure and love that came over me at that time! To be able to bring this lovely and wonderful woman to a climax overwhelmed me. This was not at all like the frenzied and lascivious fucking to which my former wife had seemed addicted, and the acts of degrading depravity which she craved. There was a sweetness and joy in our coupling that went beyond the physical, and in these moments of ecstasy there was a coming together of minds and souls as well as the carnal union of our bodies.
Moving Gillian to the centre of the bed, I climbed up and spread her legs with her knees up and her heavenly opening wide and shining with moisture, and I finally pushed deep into her with my hard cock with a single slow thrust until every part of me was enfolded in her warmth. The way her pussy gripped me as her arms tightened around my back, and her hips arching up to meet my thrusts ……….. I was entering paradise. Slowly at first, and then faster and faster, and deeper and deeper, I totally abandoned myself to all but the joy of completely possessing this woman.
The sensations in my body went beyond the merely exquisite into realms of delight I had never experience before, and when I felt I could hold off no longer I reached between us and pressed on her little bud and moved my fingers over and over it until she screamed out and climaxed with such force that I had no way to stop myself from releasing deep into her, giving her all that I had, filling her with seemingly endless streams of my essence. Ecstasy, rapture and bliss seem inadequate to describe the overwhelming feelings of our mutual orgasms. We truly flew among the stars that evening, a journey that we have taken many times since.
To say that my life took a wonderful turn on the day I met Gillian again is an understatement. Within a few months we had agreed that there was nothing keeping us from marrying and sharing our lives. My small apartment was far too small for our needs, especially when the first of our two baby girls arrived into the world to enrich and delight our lives. We moved back to the country in a small village about twenty five miles from London on one of the main commuter railway lines into the capital, but far away from my former home. The only thing I have always been sorry about was that I didn't meet Gillian before Sandra. My humiliation and pain could have been avoided, for now my life is complete, but I did learn one thing from the disaster of my first marriage, and that was to put my wife and family first, before work and politics and community involvement.
As to what happened to Sandra, I have no knowledge for certain, but I did hear that someone looking like her had been seen working in a topless bar in Miami — I only hope that she has found some sort of contentment and peace. Looking back on our twelve years of married life, I have sometimes wondered about our inability to start a family. I had assumed that it was the result of what Sandra obviously thought of as my under-active libido, but with the birth of mine and Gillian's first daughter I started to think again. I dismissed it from my mind because it was no longer important, but a recent conversation with a neighbour of mine has awakened my curiosity.
Jim and I travelled up to London together, and sometimes if we were on the same train in the evenings we would stop for a quick drink in the local pub on our way home. As is the way with Englishmen, for many months our conversation was limited to the weather and the performance of the England soccer and cricket teams, but eventually we reached the point where it was no longer impolite to talk about more personal topics, and it was then that I discovered that Jim was a leading scientist with the government Department of Health. A couple of months ago when I enquired into his current work, he told me that he was helping to draw up new policies regarding sexual health and the prevention of sexually transmitted infections.
It was interesting, he said, that many of our assumptions about the importance of the various causes of these infections had been sadly limited, and that recent investigations had shown that a bacterium related to one causing eye disease was a major cause of infertility, and that in our major cities, as many as ten percent of teenagers were infected without showing any symptoms. I found that rather enlightening, and wondered if Sandra's admittedly promiscuous lifestyle before we got married might have been more significant than she realised. I will never know however, and it is now time to put that episode of my life firmly behind me.
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XPORNO.ME 2014-2016
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