I called Jenny on a Sunday morning in 1985. Her ringing telephone, downstairs, woke her up. She sounded tired when she answered my call. Yes, she remembered me, and yes, she was delighted I called. She explained that she had just graduated as a mature student from university in Cardiff and had two months before she started a new job as an apprentice accountant at a firm in in Worcestershire (the first step to becoming a Chartered Accountant). She also confirmed that she was in the process of divorcing Ian, and now lived in her own house.
It was a perfect time for her to come and visit me.
At that time Mikki was unaware of my sampling activities in Texas: I did fly home to Honolulu every month or so to see our daughter. I told Mikki that Jenny was coming to visit -- and Mikki seemed happy. Oh dear.
At the time I was in Granbury, Texas staying in my sister Sally's new home. Sally's exploits at the time are another story -- which I may tell at another time if I don't grow sick of this drivel. (A gentleman named K-Bob is a central character.)
Sally and I flew to Boston (not sure I remember why we picked Boston) and checked in to a double-bedded room at the Four Seasons, overlooking the Public Gardens The Ritz-Carlton was my hotel of choice, but it had been sold to the Taj Group and wasn't the same. (The newer rooms at the former Ritz-Carlton have their own fireplaces. Taj added a "Fireplace Butler" to get the fire glowing. There is a menu where you select your wood of choice -- from traditional New England wood to exotic African wood. I digress.)
Jenny flew to Logan, and Sally and I met her at the airport. She looked, to me, even more lovely than she had in Pago Pago six years earlier. She was impeccably dressed, her make-up was subtle and elegant, and she wore Charles Jourdan high heels which accentuated her legs. She was not the girl in the green dress in Samoa any longer -- she was now way out of my league. And yet here she was at Logan. We kissed (tastefully) and I introduced her to Sally.
We took a taxi back to the hotel.
I asked housekeeping at the Four Seasons to deliver a roll-away bed to the room for me. Suitably weird? We then headed to the Copley Plaza for cocktails in their burnished bar. The champagne cocktails were cold, and Jenny told us a little about her life following her sudden departure from Pago Pago. Sally began talking to a conventioneer (name tag and all). Jenny was jet lagged, so we headed back to the room.
I brushed my teeth and got into my roll-away wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt -- classy guy that I am. Marjorie went into the bathroom to change and walked to her bed wearing a white broderie anglaise nightgown. It simply glowed. The nightgown was not lined, and before she got beneath the covers I could see her creamy skin through all the little holes. I could also see an irresistible dark area between her legs.
She shut off the room lights.
We talked for a little in the dark, reminiscing about all the fun we had together in Samoa. Next thing I was in her bed and discovered that broderie anglaise slips off easily over soft British skin.
I played with her small nipples and she laughed at how I remembered the way she liked them gently squeezed. I pulled off my t-shirt and boxers and dropped them on top of her nightgown on the floor. She gently held my cock, and I laughed at how she remembered I liked her to gently touch the frenulum of my penis. Fancy Latin word for the highly erogenous elastic band of tissue beneath head of the penis, connecting the head to the shaft. The best part is the on the underside of the penis, in that little triangular notch in the head. The frenulum needs to be touched ever so lightly, and ideally by an attractive lady. Doing so for a short period will make me cum.
I played lightly with the area beneath her boobs, and then the inside of her legs. She spread them in response. I lightly ran my fingers over her bush, and then gradually, ever so gradually, increased the pressure until her labia opened and I was running my finger up and down her slit.
Ultimately my finger rested near her clit, and I began slow circular motions. I gradually increased the intensity and speed and she moaned in response.
Up I popped, positioning myself above her. I could feel her warmth and smoothness, beneath me. "Now," she whispered. And I gently entered her.
I was surprised she now talked dirty during sex -- in her lovely, soft English accent. Her voice is more alto than soprano, and her whispering "Fuck me" and "Gently" and "Now harder" drove me crazy. She told me she had not forgotten how good my cock felt inside her.
I came inside her and remained on top of her for a long time, with her purring how much she enjoyed it all. And so did I.
I rolled off, and we spooned. We talked about whether we should put our night clothes back on and whether I should return to my roll-away bed. We'd both thought, during our sexual interlude, about Sally walking into the room and saying, "I'm back." If this happened my plan was to slink, naked, back to the roll-away and worry about my clothes later. Jenny could grab her nightgown off the floor when Sally was distracted by my streak.
I went back to concentrating on that soft warmth beside me. We fell asleep, naked, in each other's arms. It turned out that Sally stayed the night with the conventioneer. She said it was to give us "space." Sally had recently dumped her pot-crazy husband (that's the K-Bob story) and would fuck pretty much anything that pointed a penis in her direction.
Sally returned after Jenny and I had the equivalent of a Full English Breakfast. We spent some time sightseeing in Boston and riding the swan boats. We then got our rental car and headed west on the Mass Pike to Old Sturbridge Village. We spent the next night in the Publick House in a room with two double beds, Sally in one bed and Jenny and I in the other. I have no idea why we didn't do the logical thing and get two rooms, but we didn't.
Jenny and I had sex -- ever so quietly, and not using the Tex Position. We moved in unison and almost in slow motion. Jenny skipped the dirty talk. I learned later that Sally pretended to be asleep.
By the time we got to The Barclay in New York Sally decided that she wanted to go home to Honolulu to tell her husband about K-Bob. It was agreed that Jenny and I would fly to Granbury to fetch Sally's cat, and we'd then fly back to Honolulu.
At this point I realized that my marriage to Mikki was over. I also couldn't quite figure out how Jenny, Mikki, my daughter and I would sleep in our two-bedroom apartment in Hawaii. I went downstairs to a pay phones in the hotel lobby and had a long, unpleasant conversation with Mikki. Bridges irreparably burned. I felt sorry for Mikki, but personally I felt liberated.
I went back to the king-sized bed in our hotel room where Jenny was waiting for me. Naked. She looked fantastic and smelled wonderful. Definitely way out of my league.
"How did it go?" she asked.
"As well as could be expected, I guess. It's done." I replied.
We spent the rest of the evening fucking in every position we could imagine, and Jenny's dirty talk included words I'd never heard before. We ordered cold champagne from room service and took a long hot bath together.
Jenny and I spent a few days in the house in Granbury. I remember lots of cold champagne and lots of skin chafing. We had to go to the pharmacy for cream for my cock and my knees, and lube and moisturizer for Jenny's bits.
One night we decided to go to the Cattleman's Restaurant in Ft Worth for dinner. It was there, over big steaks, that I asked Jenny to join me in Hawaii -- permanently. I promised her a more exciting life than becoming a Chartered Accountant in a small town in the UK Midlands.
She naturally had some reservations -- but she did not say "no."
Hawaii had strict quarantine laws, so the cat would need to be quarantined on arrival. Miki and I had tranquilized our cat when we flew to Hawaii after leaving New York, and Sally asked me to do the same thing with her cat. Jenny and I went to the vet to get tranquilizers: the vet promised me they were safe. No likelihood of overdose. Sally had given us a bag -- the size, I suppose, of a bowling ball bag -- into which she had cut many hidden breathing holes. The cat was tranquilized.
When we got to DFW Airport our hand-carry baggage needed to be x-rayed. Fortunately the x-ray folks were Samoan, and so we did the secret Samoan handshake and they let us through without a word about the sleeping cat in the bag.
We flew non-stop from DFW to Honolulu, First Class. During the flight the cat kept stirring, but otherwise seemed comfortable. We checked on him regularly. After the meal the cabin lights were dimmed, and we decided it was time to join the Mile High Club. The First Class cabin was nearly empty, and we thought we were discreet. Nobody would know.
Fucking in the lavatory of a 747 is not romantic. Jenny could make me hard anywhere, so we each lowered our pants. Jenny stood over the toilet and I pulled up one of her legs and entered her. We were both laughing -- as quietly as we could -- but I managed to pull out and cum on one of those rough paper towels they have on airplanes.
Shortly after we sheepishly returned to our seats, several young flight attendants came over to us with a large bottle of champagne and a very technical looking flight map on which the navigator had marked the exact point at which we joined the Club. He duly annotated the map, and it was signed by all the crew on the flight deck.
Many speak of joining the Mile High Club. We are proud to have a formal document from American Airlines to prove it. Framed, on our bathroom wall. The map is fading -- I don't think these maps were made to last long. Now that I think about it I think I'll unframe it, scan, and use my Photoshop skills to bring back the contrast.
We checked again on the cat. It was still. Too still.
From our euphoria over our initiation into the Club, and warmed by chilled champagne, we had to shift to a somber pallor. These were the days when people could meet you at the arrival gate. Sally and her not-yet-estranged husband knew they couldn't mention the cat at the gate -- it should have gone into quarantine. It was difficult to tell them when we got to the car. And later that day Sally dropped the K-Bob story on her husband. But, again, that's another story.
Jenny and I spent a night at the Royal Hawaiian, and then went to stay with my father.
My dad had been a page at the NBC Radio studios in New York before World War II -- but his real income came from being a gigolo. I don't know if he simply escorted older ladies to dinner and society functions, or whether he provided value-added services. I never asked, which is a shame. He's gone now -- so the stories he could have told me are lost. One of his ladies made him enlist in the Navy when the US entered the war. This always amused me because my father couldn't swim. He was terrified of the water. The Navy sent him to be a telegraph operator in Iceland and in some Heart of Darkness corner of Brazil. He was demoted for telegraphing vulgarities to a ship, but I never found out why he did this.
My dad was very understanding and proud of me, or jealous, or both. He thought Jenny was great.
Over the next few days Jenny told me more about her life in the UK. After Ian insisted on their early departure from Samoa they returned to the area in which they both were grew up -- Worcestershire. Ian is a licensed electrician, so it was easy for him to get a job. Jenny went to work for a small chain of insurance brokerage offices -- as Personal Assistant to one of the two owners.
Is the next part of the story too predictable?
His name is Mervyn. He'd been a PE teacher before he entered the exciting world of personal lines insurance -- but when I met him he looked pink and squishy.
It did not take long before he started taking his gorgeous Personal Assistant to lunch, and on visits to the other offices.
He was married to his childhood sweetheart, Tricia. They had two kids in public (i.e., private) schools. Mervyn and his business partner made successful real estate investments, so all was rosy in Mervyn's world. But ( . . . here it comes . . . ) his wife Tricia was no longer interested in sex. Mervyn couldn't possibly leave her, but he was open to other options. And he was horny. Very horny.
Mervyn had a friend in London who owned a vacation house near Mervyn's office. One day, after a boozy lunch, Mervyn asked Jenny if she'd go to the house with him to carry a TV up the stairs from first floor to bedroom. Of course she obliged -- with more than just moving the TV.
This affair was typically British. Jenny remained married to Ian and lived with him. Ian's passion continued to be hunting with his buddies -- and spending the night in the forest. He would shoot anything that moved, once bringing a peacock carcass home for Jenny to cut and cook. At least he had gutted the poor bird in the woods..
Jenny was spending every weekend alone, and she was also horny. When he was home Ian's fucking was hurried and devoid of passion.
Mervyn loved to play golf, and Tricia was happy for him to spend the day on the course -- or even a few days away if there was a tournament. Mervyn and Jenny had to travel some distance so neither would be recognized. They had a couple of close calls -- but found these exhilarating.
Mervyn soon gave Jenny a VISA card -- and he paid the bills. Jenny could indulge her love of Charles Jourdan shoes and designer dresses. Mervyn loved it when she looked nice. He was almost ten years older than Jenny: nothing helps an older man feel younger than fucking a beautiful lady.
Jenny told me Mervyn talked a lot during sex, which is why she now talked dirty. When Mervyn was approaching climax he would say something uniquely British -- "I'm about to cum, won't you please join me?" Marjorie would politely accept the invitation, but she did not fake an orgasm. Because -- have you guessed? -- she had no idea what an orgasm felt or looked like. And Mervyn did not have a clue either.
Eventually he picked up the tab for her to go to University as a mature student. Bought her a house in Cardiff -- so getting away from Ian was no longer an issue. I understand he would drive down from Worcestershire to Cardiff just to have sex and would then drive back. I can't imagine what that must have been like. "Hi, honey, I'm home. Let's fuck. Grunt. Groan. I'm about to cum, won't you please join me? Gotta get home to Tricia -- bye."
Jenny did not give me many details about her sex with Mervyn -- even though I like discussing sex and am curious about what my partners did with others. Call it male vanity: I want to be sure that I am not outperformed by the other team and want to know that I am not missing some pleasurable technique.
I once asked her if she enjoyed fucking Mervyn, and she told me how much fun they had with the clandestine nature of the affair. They liked finding hotels in small towns where they could spend a dirty weekend without the fear of discovery.
I pressed Jenny for an answer to my question -- "Did you enjoy sex with Mervyn?"
"I don't really remember," she said, "I think so."
This did not sound like a five-star Yelp review of Mervyn's cocksmanship. I felt a sneaky satisfaction.
But there was a problem. The cover story for the week-end escapades was always a golf tournament. Mervyn would pack his bag of golf clubs in the car -- when all he needed was his driver. The weather in the UK meant few (if any) golf tournaments are held in the winter. When the weather was cold and damp, and called for a day in bed with a warm and willing partner, they were limited to short mid-day dalliances.
At some point Mervyn figured out that they held golf tournaments during the winter in warmer climates. He wasted no time in booking a private villa in the Algarve, taking care to be sure it had a king size bed and a private swimming pool. He told Tricia he would bring her some nice Portuguese wine, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and headed to pick up Jenny for the drive to Gatwick. They could not depart from near-by Birmingham Airport -- too risky.
Jenny did tell me about their weekend in the quinta. The rustic house was on the edge of a national forest, with no other houses in sight.. They took no time in changing into their swimsuits, grabbing towels, and heading outdoors to the azure pool. It was a near-cloudless, warm day -- nothing at all like the British Midlands. Jenny brought sunscreen and shared it with Mervyn. He applied it to his hairless white chest and even whiter legs, as Jenny rubbed it on his back.
She handed the tube to Mervyn, and he took no time in applying it to her back. He then untied her bikini top and reached around on both sides to apply the cream to her breasts with his hands shaped like D-cups.
They soaked in the sun on blue and green striped sun lounges. The sun felt particularly decadent on Jenny's bare chest. (Jenny showed me the photos she took of the villa -- it was interesting that Mervyn was not in any of them. In these days cameras used film, and she did not want the clerk at the one-hour photo counter at Boot's to recognize Mervyn.)
When they were very hot, it was time for a dip in the cold pool. Jenny doesn't like to put her face in the water -- bad for her eye make-up -- so while Mervyn dove into the pool at the deep end, Jenny descended the steps like a showgirl in a Busby Berkley musical.
They soon were in each other's arms and kissed with a passion that came from knowing nobody would find them in the villa, and they were there for another couple of days. Mervyn's growing erection was uncomfortable in his swimsuit, so he shed the suit and tossed it up on the side of the pool. He then turned his attention to Jenny's bikini bottom, and with a bit of underwater playfulness he managed to pull them off as she faked protest.
With her near weightlessness, he lifted her legs and balanced the slit of her vulva on his cock -- and slid slowly back and forth. After a few minutes of doing this, and being horny as hell, he adjusted her and his angle a little, and now slid into her cunt. The pool water was cool -- but his cock was engulfed in her warmth.
His thrusts lasted a minute or two. Pool water is a passion-killer: it saps lubrication and fucking quickly becomes unpleasant.
He picked her up and climbed the pool steps with her in his arms. He put her down gently on the blue and green stripes and put his head between her legs. He gently sucked on her clit and her own juices began to flow. He augmented this with his own spit, and soon she was fully lubricated and fuckable.
He lustily obliged, talking dirty and alerting her when he was about to cum.
Nobody could see the pool from the forest because of a whitewashed fence. But if someone were to have overflown the pool at this moment, they would have seen a very white bum joyfully bouncing and bobbing on the blue and green stripes, framed by two delicious female legs reaching towards the heavens.
The deed done, and their urges satiated, they resumed their sunbathing. Mervyn returned to his sun lounger. Having tanned their bare chests before swimming, they each lay face down to get the sun on their backs. Post-fuck is not a time of mental clarity, so they both forgot they had not applied sunscreen to their butts. They both fell asleep.
The Portuguese sun was blazing, and they burnt their asses. Mervyn even managed to sunburn his perineum and the back of his scrotum.
The sunburn made fucking in the king size bed a little tricky, but they were away from the dreary cold of the English winter, away from Tricia and prying eyes. They fucked gingerly and as often as they could.r"