Helena Read online

  I had crossed the last remaining boundary of civility. As I had made no attempt to lower my voice, people were beginning to look around at the spectacle of an insolent woman insulting a man of the cloth. Old fashioned as he was, he wore his dog-collar around the neck, even when he was off duty.

  "I think we should go." He said it as kindly as he could, as charitably. I was obviously drunk and upset and confused. A dismissive charity was the only thing he had to offer.

  Freddie, all this may sound unnecessarily cruel, but you have to realize all the stuff that I needed to get rid off. You were not totally innocent that evening; you were an invisible third party, you egged me on, as I remembered all the things that you had said about my childhood. This was exorcism. I had to have this conversation. I had to go as far as I did because, and I am not joking, I needed to cleanse my soul, to smash the old in order to establish the new.

  We both sat in stony silence while Terrence paid the bill. I did not argue. He was sulking. I was laughing inside like the evil witch that you made me. After all these years, I had found his true Achilles heel. It had obviously bothered him not having sex. It was, I believed, his excruciating, personal truth, the underscore that nulled and voided all other aspects of his life.

  After we left the restaurant, he walked me to a taxi rank close to the restaurant. His idea was to let me go first and then take a taxi to the university where he was staying.

  "Terrence, would you take me home, please? I'm a little frightened of going back alone," I asked him as he awkwardly stood by the kerb, still vexed by my insolent behavior. He obviously didn't want to return to my flat, but being chivalrous to a fault, and as a country boy believing in all the tales of metropolitan violence and vice, he knew that he couldn't refuse my request.

  A taxi came. We went back to the flat, neither of us speaking on the journey. A plan was already shaping in my mind: I had decided that I was going to have him. I knew that I had to be devious. He would never willingly comply in his own seduction, even with all the temptations of my womanly attributes. I decided I would have to present him with a fait accompli.

  I offered him a glass of wine. He didn't want it of course, but I was quite adamant. It was not his chivalry now so much as his inbred English politeness that made him assent, that and a fear of having a further altercation with me. As he sat uncomfortably on the sofa, his back leaning forward as if he was about to leave at any moment, I went to fetch the wine.

  I knew what to do. I have been such a good student. The right amount, just the right amount was essential, enough to make him sleepy, to get him to stay. I didn't want him to sleep through what I had planned. And then the ampoule of powder, a stronger dose of aphrodisiac that would not wear off until well after his slumber, so when he awoke still drowsy, the keenness of his lust would make my ministrations to the minister as irresistible as they could possibly be.

  He sipped slowly, not making any comments on the tampered wine. We talked more amiably, our previous conversation never mentioned. He commented on the Modigliani print that I still had above the fireplace, but made no mention of either of the erotic prints of nudes I had placed over the sofa. Do you remember, the ones you brought me before you went away.

  I could see that the powder was starting to have its effect. His eyes had already begun to glaze over. His head momentarily drooped as if he was about to fall asleep.

  I told him he wasn't looking well. He said he just felt suddenly woozy, but he would be okay. I protested that he stay, that it would be dangerous for him to leave in his present condition, but managing his famous lopsided smile he told me that he would be fine.

  Fortunately, as he made his way to the small table to phone for a cab, he stumbled a little, almost knocking over the telephone table. Although Terrence was no foreigner to the casual slip or trip, the stumble was decisive. Even he realized that he couldn't leave in such a condition.

  I led him up to the small room he was already familiar with from the days when he used to stay with myself and Gregory, and then I left him, retreating to my own room, to anticipate what I was about to do.

  It was the middle of summer. One of those hot, muggy, London nights, that makes one toss and turn restlessly. I opened the window and tried to breathe in the damp air. I was so hot, but this had as much to do with the excitement that whirled within me. How aroused I was! I could feel the wetness slicking the gusset of my black, lace panties. How wonderful such a thing is as a male virgin! I was sure that this is exactly what Terrence was. A fifty-year-old male virgin, a sexually frightened adolescent trapped inside a lean middle-aged body.

  Time passed slowly. I wanted to touch myself, but I resisted, frightened that the slightest caress would spark me to orgasm, my excitement being so intense. I lay down on the bed and dreamed of the next stage of my plan, imagining what Terrence's body would be like, if his tool would be as big and thick as I hoped it would be.

  Forty minutes, fifty minutes, I waited, hoping that I would not make any mistakes. I slipped out of my dress, pulled off my bra and panties, but for effect, left on my black, seamed stockings.

  Sixty minutes! I had been counting down the minutes and then the seconds on the brass ornamental clock on my bedside table. I am sure you remember it, Freddie.

  I crept into his room. He lay supine on the bed. He had managed to undress himself before collapsing onto the mattress. The only item of clothing that remained were a pair of burgundy boxer shorts. I had never imagined Terrence wearing anything as sexy as boxer shorts.

  The window was wide open; a street light illuminated his surprisingly muscular torso. I thought I was going to come just by looking at him, the natural bulge of his briefs showed that he was at least pleasantly proportioned.

  I could wait no longer for my prize. I had to be careful. I did not want to wake him before the correct time. I slipped onto the bed without jolting him, checking to see that there was no interruption to the pattern of his light breathing.

  He lay there before me, as vulnerable as the sleeping child he was. I sneaked my hand into the fly of his boxer shorts, felt the warm flaccid flesh of his penis, and slowly and gently eased it out through the flap. Again, I checked the face to see if I had disturbed him. No change.

  His penis was gorgeous, as fat and as thick as I had hoped it would be. When I had sucked him to erection, it would be enormous. Noticing that on the waistband of his boxers there was a little button, I undid it, so my hand had as much access to his long shaft and his heavy balls as I desired.

  I pulled the foreskin over the helmet of his member, flicked my tongue onto the top slit and then rolled the tip all around the underside of the dome, before I took the whole of him into my mouth. Terrence tasted delicious, salty and fresh, exactly as you would imagine a virgin cock would taste. I felt like a Magellan or a Marco Polo relishing the joy a great discoverer feels when alighting on undiscovered, or more appositely, virgin territory. Nobody had been there before, and what a great shame that had been.

  Soon his rod began to grow in my mouth, stiffen, and thicken as I slid as far down onto him as I could, impaling my mouth on his steely shaft. He was still asleep but his cock was throbbing and twitching in my mouth. I reached as far down his shaft as I could, until the slicked tip touched my raw throat, just as you had taught me to do, Freddie, before withdrawing my mouth slowly, grazing the skin of his pole lightly with my teeth, until I reached the thickened dome.

  He woke with a start, his body jerking up, the weight of his upper torso rested on his elbows, as my teeth scraped the sensitive flesh of his twitching dome.

  I met his eyes. What a sight! Like a child who has just been unfairly admonished, feeling the self-pitying injustice of it all, his eyes implored me. Maybe he thought he was dreaming.

  I did not stop sucking him, pumping my mouth further down his shaft. I reached a hand over to his chest and pressed my palm against the tensed flesh. Slowly he fell back, relenting in his drowsiness, unable to muster enough strength to fight a
gainst the exciting sensation I was bringing to him, that I assumed he had only ever imagined before.

  I sucked on him hard now, roughly with a deliberate and fast motion. I could see his face at the edge of the light from the street lamp, tensing in his disgraceful pleasure. I cupped his heavy testicles in my hand, as my head bobbed on his rock hard tool.

  He was coming, his granite heavy balls suddenly jerked, heralding his ejaculation, his copious sperm shot between my lips. I angled my neck so the viscous liquid landed on the roof of my mouth, sliding down onto my elongated tongue before slipping down my throat. One spurt was quickly succeeded by another, his hot and salty seed mingling with my own saliva.

  And then I heard him moan, whine, a deep sobbing noise like an old keener, he covered his face with his hands and began to cry.

  "Helena, Helena!" he moaned pitifully through his splayed fingers.

  I lay beside him on the bed, my back resting on the headboard, my fulsome breasts shimmering under the amber neon light. I lifted his head up to my chest and buried his face onto me, his arms reaching behind me, clasping me in an embrace, his tear-stained cheek wetting my breasts, heightening the intensity of my already aroused state. I ran my hand through his fine blond hair and rocked him like a baby until I felt his tears subside.

  What a witch I am! I could see my little cocktail of drugs had had the desired effect, his penis was already erecting again, very much, I am sure, against his will. I reached my hand down and grasped him firmly in the palm of my hand.

  Poor little boy! You would think that I was torturing him, and not releasing him from forty years of frustration, from all that sexual anxiety that had bound him all his life to arcane books and liturgical practice, the tepid refuge from his sexual apprehension.

  "No, no," he pathetically whimpered as I set about masturbating him with my hand. I was so wet. I could not wait any longer. I pulled his penis by the shaft and crouched over him, rubbing my unsheathed clitoris with the oiled head of his shaft, before placing it at the mouth of my vagina. I slowly slid down on him, the moistened fleshy walls of my vagina further slicked by his sperm.

  I rode him gently at first. I could hear him gasp and moan behind me as my hips increased the pace of my thrusts, impaling myself further onto his rock hard tool.

  Freddie, it was so exciting to have his virgin cock inside me, to tense my muscles on him, to clench his thick rod with the walls of my vagina, occasionally wriggling my bottom on a downward stroke so I could feel every inch of his thick meat inside me.

  As soon as the first gush of his sperm shot up me, I came in an electrifying orgasm that spasmed through my sex, then up my spine, seemingly reaching up to somewhere just behind my eyes. A beautiful shock of an orgasm that made every nerve end of my body tingle with carnal joy. His sperm shot up me and I writhed on his pole, wanting to savour every intense moment of pleasure, to relish each shock wave of satiation, every drop of his plentiful sperm.

  When it was over I got off the bed and went to my room. In the morning when I awoke, he had gone.

  There you have it, Freddie, from beginning to end, my story, our story, what became of the vicar's daughter under your expert tutelage. This is what I am; this is what you have made me.

  Chapter 2

  Freddie, I want to rush to you. To get through all the pre-stuff so I can reach you, the explosion, so I can deliciously recall those beautiful days we spent together.

  But I know that you were always one to caution against haste. Anticipation was a necessary aspect of all pleasure. Take your life greedily, but leisurely. You were always a quality man, a savourer of the new, of the different, of the unique in a world increasingly concerned with the quick, the conventional, the imitation, the pastiche. You know that I will get to you soon, soon enough.

  I return our story to the young virgin girl, now nineteen, fretting over her books in the university library, studious and sensible, shy and demure. A girl a little bit lost amongst those who had not led such a sheltered, protected life, who indulged in all kinds of bodily abuse, who slept around campus with such casual insouciance.

  By day I was a bluestocking; by night still a compulsive onanist, forever elaborating my fantasies, furtively reading my Anais Nin, dreaming of dark strangers, of grand passions, of love with just such a man as you are.

  I'd never really had a boyfriend before university. I had never 'gone steady', as we Christian girls called it. There had been a few more furtive and fumbled teenage kisses, a few infatuations, but nothing more, nothing serious. I was still the vicar's daughter. I didn't drink or smoke, or do drugs, nor, as the stereotype often goes, did I rebel, become the wild, sexually indulgent child of tabloid myth.

  I quietly got on with my work and my life, joined film societies and sports clubs. I did go to pubs and parties so as not to be the college stick-in-the-mud, but nothing much happened. Although pretty, my family having unobtrusively made me aware of the snares of vanity, I dressed drably, not so much as was fashionable at the time in a kind of anti-style, but more no-style: off the peg, department store seconds, nothing revealing, nothing at all that would draw attention to myself.

  However, young men being so indefatigably persistent still made advances to me, but never the boys that I wanted to. In truth, boys frightened me, my sexuality having seemingly ossified into the fantasy world of my nocturnal imagination, the prospect of the real thing seemed so distant and so colossal that it terrified me. I was also such a consummate masturbator that, maybe, I feared that the real thing might be such a letdown. It always was, Freddie, until I met you.

  If you had met me then, you would have found a girl who was a little too zealous in her intellectual defence of celibacy; a girl who maybe gazed too long and longingly at the pretty boys among the library shelves. I am sure there was an element of repressed sexuality, as there is with so many young people, in the occasional mood swings, the laughter sometimes a mite too manic, the occasional depressions a little too bleak.

  It's not so unusual for young girls of my age to begin to think that there is something wrong with them, and of course, the moment they do, in true catch twenty-two fashion, it doesn't take long until there is: the self consciousness and the consequent strident defensiveness become two huge self inflicted wounds that reify one's initial fears.

  Don't get me wrong, Freddie, I was not exactly in crisis, but maybe you can understand that my self-doubts made me grateful to someone like Gregory who was prepared to take the whole bundle on; who saw passed the occasional prickly exterior, who saw through the self-doubt, who saw everything and was still willing to fall in love with me.

  We met rather unromantically - although I have to say with hindsight, there was very little that was romantic about our relationship - in the student coffee bar. He was introduced to me by Angela, my flatmate. It certainly wasn't anything as strong as love at first sight, but there was a definite mutual attraction.

  Gregory didn't look like a future man of the cloth, with his tufty hair and bleached tee shirt, an earring piercing his left ear. Gregory looked like an ordinary student; to me he seemed a little exotic, not like the bespectacled, pattern-sweatered boys who too frequently loitered on the fringes of my own little social group. To a young girl like myself, there was a dash of the dashing about him. I liked the way he insisted on drinking beer while the rest of us merely drank coffee. Over a stout, and chain smoking rolled cigarettes, Gregory would make us all laugh, another affectation being his swearing like a trooper, his jokes often crossing the borderline between light-heartedness and mild blasphemy.

  I didn't know then that all this was affectation, that it was Gregory's way of somehow reconciling his youthfulness with his deeply held beliefs about the goodness of god and the resultant and equally firmly held conviction that he had to, as far as he could, lead a thoughtful Christian life. He certainly struggled to curb many uncharitable thoughts about the happiest of the clappers. It was a spark of intimacy between us, as he would lampoon their most ridic
ulous excesses, their attitudes as transparently patronizing as many of the mockingly godless's were to us.

  Did I fall in love with him? Yes, I did, of course I did. After six months, I felt like I had known him all my life, that we were, in the old cliché, made for each other. It felt so comfortable, so normal, and my previous youthful fears an aberration. He made me feel so mature. I blanched at my pre-Gregorian ignorance and innocence. In short I had met my man; I could now get on with the rest of my life.

  And so, when I was twenty-one and Gregory was twenty-four, we lost our virginity. I have to say that this was largely at my instigation, Gregory not sure whether we should commit ourselves so physically to each other. He was going away to London the following year to do his doctorate in theology and we would be separated from each other for most of the year. We had decided to wait until I had finished my degree and Gregory had completed his thesis before making the greater decision about whether we should get married, even though, I think that by that stage it was largely expected by everyone, including us, that we would marry. It was not that Gregory did not want to make love to me, of course he did, but I was so precious to him that he didn't want to upset me in any way, and to rush things might confuse us both. I was used to his hand straying between my legs and petting me. I had, much to his surprise, already taken his fingers and showed him where my clitoris was and how to rub it, although Gregory, strangely, never liked me to reciprocate by masturbating him. My argument was that the physical aspect might bind us closer together. At the time, I was right.

  The first time, probably like everybody's first time, was not fantastic, and after my languorous hours spent in self-abuse, surprisingly quick. He came in me almost immediately. But after that we made love frequently and more confidently. At first I thought our love-making, especially after considerable practice, was quite beatific, to clasp him in my arms, to hold his cock in my hand, to feel it inside me, to feel him shooting inside me was not only all I could expect, but all I wanted. I had nothing to compare it with. Of course, I also loved him, so to me making love was the physical cementation of our spiritual love for one another.