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The old bus rattled and bumped, twisting and turning its way along the winding country roads. I was on my doubtful way to Rose Cottage. But forgive me reader, before the story begins, I shall relate the background. Not, perhaps because you desire it, but because, as I am now drawing near the end, I want to put on record my own view of my country as it was then, and apprise you briefly of my personal condition.
A Segment of History.
It was England in 1947. The war that had ended in 1945 had left the nation bankrupt and the greatest empire the world had ever known moving toward dissolution. Twice in the twentieth century the country had gone to war and lost not only its wealth, but also that most precious of national assets, some its finest and most intelligent young people.
The joy that victory brought and the visions of the “Brave new world” had quickly faded, and it was as if a grey dust settled over the country. The people exhausted and still strictly rationed in most essential items of food and clothing, with cities in ruins and a desperate shortage of building materials, we had just passed through the bitterest winter in decades. Coal shortages and inadequate clothing meant wretchedness for many.
It seemed that the spring would never come, the snow extending right into May. Across the Atlantic the “Chromium plated Christmas” had been celebrated. On our side of that heaving body of water we were hard put to find a little extra for the season, and children’s toys were few and poorly made.
My personal history at that time was almost as drear as the nation’s. I was in the fourth year of my plumbing apprenticeship, and had suffered the foul weather on open building sites as we tried to repair the bomb damage.
But life was worse than that.
If you are among those who say, “You can’t die of a broken heart,” do not, whatever you do, say that to an eighteen-year old who has just lost his first girlfriend. I was in despair. My parents worried as this pale wraith failed to eat or sleep with the enthusiasm proper to an eighteen-year-old.
But enough of this tribulation.
In the midst of all this woe, both national and personal, there arrived an invitation to spend what has since become known as, “A long weekend,” with my Aunt Nina at Rose Cottage. This meant from Friday until Monday. And now I must try your patience once more with a preliminary description of Nina.
Nina was the youngest daughter of my paternal grandparent’s brood of seven children. My father was the eldest, and Nina had arrived late on the scene and was only ten years older than me. I still have old photographs of Nina playing with me when I was three and she thirteen.
During the Second World War she had joined the “Women’s Land Army,” and been posted to a farm. At the end of the war, she had stayed on at the farm. With the farm job went Rose Cottage for which she paid a nominal rent.
That part of the county is, or was, very beautiful, and has been made famous by the work of the English artist, John Constable. Rose Cottage is set above the valley of a River, but for all it’s beauty, I had doubts about accepting this invitation from my “Spinster Aunt”, as I then considered her.
Never the less, persuaded by my parents who were no doubt pleased at the thought of not seeing my miserable countenance for a few days, I replied, accepting the invitation.
Today the journey from the London suburb where I lived to Rose cottage would be of no account. In 1947 people like me did not own motor cars, and few even owned motor bikes. My transport was to be by bus. This meant three different buses and about four hours travelling, for what would now be about an hour and a half at most.
I persuaded my boss to let me off early (not easy), went home, threw some things into a canvas holdall, and began the journey.
The spring had come at last and the hours of sunlight had started to make life tolerable. As the bus started to leave the suburbs behind, my woes started to drop behind as well.
After the bitter winter the countryside looked wonderful. Crops had started to peep out of the soil and wildflowers seemed scattered everywhere. I was undergoing that strange transformation that seems to overcome many city and suburb dwellers when they go out into the countryside. It is sort of cleansing or refreshment that washes over you, makes you feel new again.
And so back to the country bus.
Country buses in those days had no particular stopping places. They simply dropped you off at the most convenient spot for you along their route. My bus pulled up at the junction of three lanes, the driver said, “It be just up there,” I got out and the bus departed.
I started up the lane the driver had indicated, but my aunt must have heard the bus arrive and was walking down the lane to meet me. We greeted each other with pecks on the cheek and made our way to Rose Cottage about a hundred yards up the lane.
I had never şirinevler türbanlı escort visited Rose Cottage before, but was to learn that it was about 400 years old, and one of its features was a ceiling decorated with plaster fleur-de-lis. This decoration was part of the original cottage, and thought to be very valuable.
The cottage is two storied and I was introduced to my bedroom upstairs. This meant a climb up, not so much a set of stairs, as a ladder extending from the floor and disappearing through a hole in the ceiling. My bed was a gigantic affair of iron and brass, and if someone had said, “Queen Elizabeth the First slept here,” I might well have believed them.
My aunt’s bedroom was next to mine and was in any case the only other room upstairs.
Downstairs consisted of one main room and what was called “The Scullery.” In the scullery, one did all ones cooking and washing, including bathing. The bath was a large galvanised iron affair that was hung up on a hook outside the back door until required. When about to be used it was filled with hot water from a wood fired copper. As my aunt and I were frequent bathers, that damned copper was always on the go. The toilet was an interesting and smelly affair in a sort of shed at the bottom of the garden.
There was no electricity or gas, so lighting was by means of kerosene lamp, candles or nightlight. The latter was a sort of stubby candle that was generally used in the bedroom and burnt all night, so if you wanted to get up and move around you were not completely in the dark.
As I said, my aunt was ten years older than I, which made her twenty-eight at the time of my visit. She followed the physical characteristics of our family and was five feet eleven inches tall – which was very tall for an English woman at that time.
I had not seen her since I was twelve years old, so we looked each other over with some curiosity. She made some comment like, “You are a big boy aren’t you,” and I responded “You’re looking well, aunt.”
She was indeed looking well. Life in the country had brought out the bloom in her. She was the picture of health clad in jodhpurs and shirt, and being the male that I was (and am), I couldn’t help observing that she had no bra on, and her breasts pushed very nicely against her shirt with nipples well to the fore.
Tall as she was, everything seemed to be properly proportioned and in the right place. Facially she was not beautiful or even pretty. I think “hearty” is the right word. She had beautiful skin with rosy cheeks, and unusually for those days, perfect white teeth, except for the family trait of having a wide gap between the two front teeth. She also shared the other family trait of a sort of dark blonde hair and brown eyes.
As I recalled her, she had always been fun loving and something of a comedienne. I was to discover she had not changed in this respect.
One thing about her chaffed the family’s interest. Why had Nina never married? Rumours circulated from time to time about a man or men in her life, but none came to marital fruition. In fact, she never has married.
I had arrived in the early evening, and my aunt had prepared a meal, which we soon sat down to. Finishing the meal and clearing up, we settled to a game of cards while the “wireless” played music (no TV then).
During the course of our card-playing aunt made enquiries about the rest of the family, enquiries that soon centered on me. “How is your apprenticeship going? “Do you go out much?” “What do you like doing?” “Have you got a girlfriend?”
I suppose I was somewhat naïve at that time. Certainly, I was not like the sexual sophisticates of today. Thus it was only a long time after, and thinking back on that first evening, I realised that my aunt’s questioning, as it got more and more personal, was directed towards ascertaining whether or not she had a virgin nephew. As a matter of fact, she had.
A First Night.
Around ten o’clock we decided on bed, and after a wash in the scullery we ascended the ladder. Aunt left me at my bedroom door to pass on to her room. I said “goodnight,” and she, instead of responding in kind said something that puzzled me. She said, “I’ll see what I can do for you,” gave a little laugh, and left me.
It was a warm night and so I did not veer from my habit of sleeping in the nude. After I climbed into bed, and I mean “climb in” as the bed was not only gigantic in length and breadth, but in height as well, I lay thinking about the day. My mind ran over the journey, my arrival and the evening with my aunt.
After the fashion of the potent male my mind eventually worked its way toward visions of nubile maidens, bare breasted and willing, and throwing back the bed covers, I sought some self-induced relief.
In the midst of the exercise a voice close to my ear whispered, “That’s very naughty, you know.” I was shocked into temporary numbness. My hand stopped in mid-stroke. I turned my head and şirinevler ucuz escort there, by the light of the nightlight, stood my aunt, stark naked.
I began to say, “Aunt…I…,” but she hushed me and said, “It’s very naughty when there’s someone who would like to share it with you. Move over.” She climbed the mountainside of the bed and got in beside me, and went on, “Now let’s see where you got to. Oh dear.”
The “Oh dear” was related to the fact that my erection had dissipated with the shock of my aunt’s arrival. She very softly touched my penis and said, “We’ll have to do something about this, won’t we?” With that, she began to slowly stroke my organ. She handled me very gently and lovingly.
Again I started to speak, saying, “Aunt, I’ve never been…” but she cut in sensitively again, “I know, leave it all to me.”
A Question for my Reader.
What was your first experience with a women like? Was it the awkward, fumbling and sometimes painfully frustrating occurrence that can happen when two inexperienced lovers come together? Or was it with an older woman who knew what she was doing? If it was the latter, then I suggest that at it was probably the sweetest and most memorable sexual event of your life.
My aunt continued to stroke me to full arousal, and once she had me fully extended, she sat across me and slowly lowered her vagina so my penis began to enter her.
Do you recall your first entry into a woman? Is there anything more beautiful, more amazing? As you penetrate that mysterious world of her soft, warm moistness, is there anything that could have prepared you for its loveliness?
I tried in the dim light to see my entry with only limited success. If I have one regret about that first time with my aunt, it was my inability to see her and what she was doing properly. Not that I have any complaint. Full vision came later, and what a vision!
I was not so sexually backward that I did not know how babies were made. We were using no contraceptive method, and of course, in those days contraception was not what it is now. It was mostly unreliable and frequently uncomfortable. A commonly used method was “withdrawal” or coitus interuptus.
Now consider this, reader. Whether you are using some form of contraceptive barrier or not, the real purpose of sexual intercourse is the production of a new creation (baby). Why else when, as ejaculation approaches, does the man seek to thrust deeper and deeper into the woman? Why at that time does the woman use that very word, crying, “Deeper, deeper”? Surely, it is to thrust the sperm deeply into the woman to give maximum chance for fertilisation.
Experts in the field of human sexuality have noted that, a woman is so made as to be capable of being almost permanently pregnant. The male is so made that, once his sperm count has reached an appropriate level, he is ready to fertilise a woman. Thus a healthy male is capable of fertilising two, three, or even four females a day.
Returning to the matter of withdrawal. If you have not used this method, then at least imagine what it is like to withdraw from a woman at the moment of ejaculation. At the very time nature dictates that you penetrate her as deeply as possible, you must pull back. Not a very happy conclusion.
With my raw knowledge of these matters, and as I felt my moment for eruption approaching, pathetic male that I was, I cried out, “Aunt, I’m going to shoot. I might make you…”
Aunt was in charge. “Let it all come into me,” she murmured. What wonderful words of freedom. I could behave as nature would have me behave. I was allowed that inestimable privilege of pouring myself into a woman.
Suiting her rhythm to my needs, aunt increased her movements and I fountained into her.
I did not want to separate from her. I wanted the precious moment of my first time to go on forever. As she tried to remove herself from me, I held her tight. She smiled and said, “It’s all right, darling, there will be other times.” I let her go.
I entered her once more that night, this time taking my position on top of her. I suppose I was a very poor performer, knowing nothing about changing the angles of penetration to give her maximum pleasure, or holding back to extend the time of penetration. As far as I know, aunt did not have an orgasm. She was all giving, making sure that I had the very best possible experience for this initiation.
She stayed and slept with me that night.
When I awoke in the morning aunt had gone from the bed. I could hear her singing downstairs, so I hastily dressed and joined her.
She was clad in a loose white garment reaching down to her knees, and as she moved, I could see the motions of her breasts. The sight started an erection which was further aided towards full power when she came across and open mouthed, kissed me, thrusting in her tongue, and when she broke from me asked, “Have a good night?” and laughed with that throaty female laugh she had.
I şişli escort somehow managed to get through breakfast without sexually assaulting her. When we had finished she laughed again and said, “Bath time.”
We got down the galvanised monster and filled it with water. We stripped off and somehow managed to bathe each other within its narrow confines. I was unable to keep my eyes off her, and at one point she laughed yet again, and said, “Time for the general inspection later, wash me here,” and indicated her vagina. I set to with vigour, while she soaped my now throbbing penis.
The bath over we dried each other and during this delightful exercise she announced, “Two things. First, given the situation, and when we are alone together, I think it should be Nina, and not aunt. Second, hurry up and dry me, because we are off to bed.” I hurried.
Once back in bed the promised “general inspection took place.” Nina understood that I knew little about a woman’s body, her needs, and what gave her the greatest pleasure.
She began with an extension of the early morning kiss in which activity I was able to participate without further instruction. This was followed by the suggestion that I might wish to kiss my way down to her breasts, and end up with a nipple in my mouth.
This done, Nina was wise enough in the ways of aroused youth, to know that I could hardly hold back my orgasm, and rather than have me waste my sperm by gushing it outside her, she suspended the tour, came on top of me, and drew me into her. I came almost immediately.
Nina did not stay with me, but instead climbed out of the bed saying, “Back in a minute.” I lay with slackened manhood, awaiting her return.
When she did return it was with a bowl of water, soap, wash cloth and towel. With this, she washed my penis and the surrounding area, which had received her female fluids. I assume that she had also washed her vagina before returning. I noted, in after times, she always did this when we were to have multiple intercourse. This of course meant that we were always clean and fresh for each other.
One of the things most marked about Nina and sex was that she always made it exquisite. Everything was done to enhance the beauty of the experience, and never once did I hear her use any of the cruder words associated with sexuality.
Sadly, many years after, I found that this is a rare quality, especially now some women have decided to surpass men in the crudity of their expressions. My response to such expressions and the accompanying activity, is, to use modern jargon, “A turn off.”
Nina’s washing of my penis caused further disturbances in the organ, and as Nina climbed back into bed, I drew her to me and began where we had previously finished, with her breasts. Further instruction saw me kissing my way down to her vagina, which organ lay open to me as Nina drew up and parted her legs.
Of course, I had never seen a woman’s sexual organ before. Nina knew this, and there commenced a course of instruction on the general anatomy of this delightful region. Outer lips were parted and her entrance displayed, followed by a crash course in cliterology.
You might think that such instruction might then, or later, lead to a more casual approach to a woman’s body. It has certainly not proved true for me. As much as the female opening is the gateway to paradise, it is also the entrance to an unfathomable mystery. To cheapen this in any way, whether it is the man or the woman who initiates such cheapening, is for me, sacrilege.
With the introduction to Nina’s holy place, I worshipped at the shrine with my tongue and lips.
Reversing the procedure, Nina began a full body shower of kisses leading down to my penis, which she began to devour.
Despite having come into Nina three times in the past ten or so hours, I was well and truly ready for her again.
Nina rolled over onto her back, opened her legs to me, and said, “Come into me, darling.” I entered her, and this time was able to hold back my orgasm for some time.
It was now that I experienced the female orgasm. I had heard of this phenomenon, but had no idea what it would entail. I was to find out.
As I moved up and down in her, Nina started to give little cries. My inexperience led to think I might be hurting her and I started to withdraw. Nina grabbed my buttocks, pulling me tight to her calling out, “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me.”
Her cries grew in volume and frequency and I increased the pace and pressure of my movements as if by instinct. Finally she wept, calling out, “Oh, my darling, my love, oh God, love me, don’t stop, don’t stop, aah.”
I had not had my orgasm, and she stayed with me, soft, wet and yielding. My orgasm approached as if from a long way off, accelerating as it drew near. I seem to remember that, like Nina, I cried out, “Nina, I love you, I want you,” and finally moaned into her, plunging deep inside her, desiring her with my whole being.
I think there can be nothing in this world so enchanting than the climb down from orgasm with one you love. Whether the relationship is one of lust or love is tested by what happens after the climax. With lust, guilt and even disgust follows. There is the desire to separate quickly and depart. With love, the desire is to linger, and the feelings are ones of gratitude and respect.
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