Helena

by Leo Barton

  "The other thing was, of course, that I was also deeply aroused watching him cram his cock into the girl, listening to her heavy panting. The main reason, I suspect, that I was never detected, is that he was so obliviously happy. I crept out of the room unnoticed and went to sit in a cafe. I was waiting for the girl.

  "She didn't take much enticing to come into the cafe and take a lemonade. I explained who I was and what I wanted. I knew that my husband had to go to visit his brother a couple of hundred kilometres away and that he wouldn't be back until about eleven. I told the girl that she must come to the house and do exactly what I said the next night. Of course, she didn't want to, she told me that she loved my husband and that they wanted to run away together. She was so young this girl. But she relented, especially when I threatened her with going to see her parents. She knew that I would do it even if it meant the destruction of my relationship with my husband, his shame, the loss of his job.

  "Then I went back to my husband, taking great pleasure in listening to him lie about what he had done, less angry at his betrayal, more disappointed with the pathetic state of our relationship. How on earth could all of our youthful love lead to this!

  "The next night the girl came at the time that I had instructed. She looked very beautiful wearing a short tennis skirt and a plain cotton tee shirt. I was so excited. I had never had sex with a woman, but like you, I had dreamed about it very much. My heart raced as I talked to her, her beautiful pouty lips rejecting any kindness, as she sulked feeling indignant at being trapped in such a situation.

  "But I am a clever woman. I can be very manipulative. Also, she was still frightened of my going to her parents and telling them what I saw. I told her, too, that I had taken photographs, which I hadn't. I commanded her to stand in front of me and then to lift up her tennis skirt. She lifted it up slowly, tentatively, but eventually high enough so I could gaze at her delightful skimpy panties. I could feel my skin prickling as I reached out my hand and grabbed her sex in the palm of my hand.

  "She shuddered violently, resisting my touch, but I persuaded her to open her legs out for me again. This time I sneaked my finger onto her clitoris and began stroking her. She was a very sensual girl this, I could see how my husband could be attracted to somebody who was so sexually precocious. Against her will and her fear, I could see it was arousing her, her lips curling with the pleasure I was bringing to her. She splayed her legs out a little further, to feel the impact of my hand on her all the more.

  "I got her to lie down on the sofa and removed her panties. She had a beautiful thatch of thick black hair. Inserting my finger where my husband's cock had been the previous day, I moved my mouth onto her clitoris and pleasured her, as I did with you today, with my tongue.

  "I don't think my husband had ever brought as much pleasure to her as I was doing that day, as I was running my tongue over her, and then taking her clitoris between my teeth, nipping it gently. She came almost instantly, a tremulous cry emitting from the juicy bud of her mouth, changing her attitude to me completely. After that I could do whatever I wanted to the compliant girl, and I mean everything.

  "I took her into the bedroom and showed her how to lick me, suck me, eat me, when to apply the right amount of pressure, how to maintain a steady rhythm. She was a very quick learner.

  "My plan was working brilliantly. After she had pleasured me and I had satisfied her again, I cooked a meal for her with enough aphrodisiacal elements that she was excited within moments. A few glasses of carefully chosen wine meant that she had lost any remaining inhibitions.

  "We lay in bed caressing each other, she sucking on my aroused breasts, me flicking my finger in and out of her. We were in exactly the position that I had wanted us to be in when my husband came, walked through to the bedroom, and rested his astonished eyes on us.

  "He was furious thinking what I had done I had done out of spite, but that wasn't the truth. Still his anger momentarily relented when he found two voluptuous women begging him to fuck them. How could he resist us, particularly when I parted the young girl's legs for him, her pudenda gleaming before his amazed eyes? I sucked on his cock to make sure he was erect, but the positioning of the girl was enough to make him harder than I had ever seen him. He thrust into the girl almost vengefully, pounding away inside her tight flesh so she wailed with pleasure, coming very quickly inside her.

  "Then he turned me over and pushed me onto the bed, his hard rod twitching before me. He entered me in the same place that he entered the girl. I had never felt such an intense pleasure in my life, the joy of having him inside me overlaid by the frisson of pain as he pushed inside my most intimate of opening. He came inside me almost immediately, catapulting me to the most glorious orgasm I had ever felt in my life."

  Simone momentarily paused during her tale, looked at me sadly, before her face brightened into a knowing smile: "But then the bastard left me, calling me a slut, saying I was indecent. I couldn't live with the hypocrisy of a man like that. It, he, disgusted me. I left him two days later."

  "And you came to London?" I had been captivated by her story, regaling me with so many intimate details of her life. I was not used to women talking about their sex lives in this way. It had also stirred me, as much as the anticipatory glances I cast at Jean-Claude, as she told me, imagining him doing the things to me that Simone's husband had done to her and the girl.

  "Yes, I came to England. My mother was half-English so I already spoke the language very well. I was so hungry, even through the sharp bitterness and disappointment I felt with my husband, as well as anger with myself for always believing in him. I had imagined a man that did not exist. But hungry, yes, like you I think, very hungry, for experience, to know myself, discover my identity by exploring my sexual self, learning what I needed through experimentation."

  "And did you?"

  Simone smiled. I needed to know her answer; her story echoed my own.

  "Yes, I did, but it took time, a long time. I was confused a little."

  "How?"

  "Maybe in the same way that you had been. I don't know. What happened to me is that I met Freddie. Freddie taught me so much about myself. This is what I wanted to warn you about."

  I must have looked very perplexed.

  "No, don't worry, Freddie is a wonderful man, there is nothing bad about him, only don't make the mistake that I did."

  "And what was that?"

  "I fell in love with him, for a while, at least, until I understood him, understood that falling in love is about the most useless thing a woman can do, because he'll never settle down. He's too curious, takes too much pleasure from his games and his flings. A wonderful teacher! A wonderful lover, but, I think, a terrible husband."

  "Don't worry, I think I'm safe."

  "I hope so, Helena, I hope so. You know the best thing that happened to me was Frank. Freddie even introduced us, in very much the same way as we were introduced to you tonight. Frank wasn't possessive or jealous. He too liked his flings. I believe, as I'm always telling Freddie, the living proof that you can have love and intimacy and experimentation and not kill yourself with jealousy or guilt. We tell each other everything."

  We went back to your flat. Jean-Claude roughly ripping my clothes from me, tearing at the lace of my bra, pinching hard on my nipples, as you entered Adele at first, and then later Frank, both of you simultaneously thrusting into her as she moaned her pleasure between you.

  Jean-Claude spread-eagled me on a rug and inserted his hard manhood into me as Simone sank her luscious pussy onto my mouth. I grabbed her buttocks and angled my neck up to her, flicking my tongue inside her as she squatted over me, sighing with delight.

  Jean-Claude had pulled my bottom off the floor and was pummelling mercilessly, relentlessly inside me. Each mighty stroke sending a wave of thunderous pleasure pulsating through my body. My bare bottom was slapping against the solidity of his thighs. My pleasure was sharpened by the taste of Simone's juice in my mouth as she lewdly rotated her hips
, so every part of her distended lips could feel the pressure of my tongue on them, as Jean-Claude's prick seemed to press against every inch of my vaginal flesh.

  I could hear Adele screaming her orgasm, but the noise seemed somewhere beyond me, distant, immaterial. My eyes were gripped tight. I could feel Simone's soft pussy flesh in my mouth and Jean-Claude's hard cock in my quim, a delicate contrast, intensifying the pleasure inside me, and then a third sharp sensation. Simone reached over and tweaked my nipples gently at first but then with greater force. It tipped the balance, sending me over the brink of pleasure, compelling me to my climax, the vital provocation that spiralled me into ecstatic abyss, where nothing else existed but the fervor of the electric charge that coursed through me.

  Jean-Claude still hadn't come but insistently continued thrusting into me, until the ecstasy he caused was almost unbearable, as I surfeited on pleasure. One orgasm followed another, each one more powerful than the last, as I writhed under him unable to escape each new wave of demented ecstasy.

  And then the salve of his seed shot up inside me cooling my seared flesh.

  As soon as my joy relented I turned my attention to Simone, licking her clitoris with a fury that I would have thought impossible of me only a few short weeks before. I did to her what Jean-Claude had done to me, extending her pleasure to almost unendurable limits, nibbling on her clitoris long after her body had gone into spasm, until she had to thrust my head away, unable to stand the torment of her climax any longer.

  Do you remember that night Freddie?

  After they all left I slept with you, or rather you slept and I stayed awake, unable to relax, my mind buzzing with everything that happened. I was almost incredulous at what I had experienced, expecting almost that if I fell asleep I would wake up to Gregory, to unwashed dishes and other sundry domestic chores. It was exhilarating to feel the magnitude of historic if personal event, removed from all the drudgery of domestic detail.

  I didn't want to leave you that day. I wanted to stay nestling against you, listening to you speak, feeling the language of your hands on my body. But I knew, being such a dutiful daughter that I couldn't let my parents down. They had invited me home for a couple of days thinking that I would be lonely without Gregory.

  I sat on the train and thought about you. Maybe that day was the closest I had ever come to falling in love with you. Simone's words reverberated around my head, her caution about not falling in love with you.

  It would have been so easy to do. You were such an enticing prospect: interesting, calm, experienced, intelligent, wise, handsome, humorous.

  I imagine that Simone wasn't the only one who had lost her mind to you. There must have been hundreds of women like her, and many not as astute as Simone.

  At least she knew when she was on to a loser, and in the sense of connubial bliss or even domestic contentment, that is what you were Freddie, a loser.

  Chapter 5

  I was sensible though. I kept you at a distance, tried not to convolute my feeling for you with the sentiment of love; that would have been too confusing. There was still Gregory, the bed where I had dozed for half an hour before going home, not long cold. I needed time and peace, to order my thoughts, to think what inevitably had to be thought. I had to be clinically logical. I could not complicate my mind with loving you, although the temptation was there on the train, as a blur of English countryside swept by me not dissimilarly to my recollections of the last few weeks.

  I saw my father patiently waiting for me as the train pulled into the station. His bald, noble head glimmering in the noonday sun. A feeling of utter dread and desolation was sinking into my heart, knowing as I did what a game I would have to play for them. I knew I would have to make conversation about the most inane of things, pretending that I was still deeply in love with Gregory, when my mind was in such turmoil.

  Don't get me wrong, I loved my father and I loved my mother, but in much the same way that I loved Gregory. They were kind, decent people, who probably deserved a daughter that could settle for what she had got, who didn't have such intractable sexual urges. Over the coming months I knew that I would bring them a lot of unhappiness, that their faces would twist in their incomprehension as I told them that I was leaving Gregory. It was, of course, another reason why I had to be so careful about the how of my separation with him: for their sakes too I wanted to minimize their pain, even if it meant deceit, lies that were no longer white but tarnished by my libidinal zest.

  My father hugged me to his black blazer, overjoyed to see me. It was going to be such a colossal effort this pretending business, inventing minor preoccupations about my job or my domestic life so they could provide their considered parental advice, careful as they were not too intrusive.

  "You look well," he said pulling away to look at me. I have never been an actor and my father could always discern when I was lying or whether there was something upsetting me. My father was indeed the reason why I was no good at lying, knowing as I did that however clever I tried to be he would easily guess the truth, and even a goody two shoes like me occasionally descends into mendacity.

  "I'm great," I said a little over-emphatically.

  "Gregory get off okay?"

  "Yes, last Thursday." Of course Gregory's departure to them would have seemed my nemesis had they known what I had done the previous night. It would be my temporal salvation, knowing that any upset they perceived in my countenance would be put down to my present loneliness or my slight disgruntlement that he had gone in the first place.

  "You know it's important that somebody like him went. They need somebody with an incisive mind to ask the right questions, to analyze the problems, not some of those old fuddy-duddy clerics."

  Momentarily I felt melancholic. Why couldn't I have been like them? Why couldn't I have taken pleasure in the minutiae of life, the flowers in the garden, the theological disputation, the neat lives of my father's parishioners? It worked for them. They were happy with their order and tranquillity, in the cosiness of each other. It could have been like that with Gregory, the tiny disputes, love shown in kind detail, a tender mocking word, or just in the sheer silent presence of the other's company. But no, I couldn't live like that. That was what all this had been about, what had tortured my sleep, what had driven me to despair, to near collapse, to the brink of madness. I liked excitement. I needed to travel human experience, and the place that I knew I needed to begin in was the unmentionable, at least unmentionable to my parents, alley of my sexuality.

  He took me for a drink before driving me home to meet my mother for lunch, thinking himself to be cheekily decadent indulging in a pint of frothy English beer, not even looking askance as his daughter asked for a gin and tonic.

  "Would Gregory think about moving back to the country to take a parish?" His question pained me, predicated as it was on a situation that no longer existed.

  "I don't really know at the moment. He's a bit caught up with this theology course he's devising, not to mention all this African stuff. It takes up a lot of his time." I wondered whether I was saying the right things, and whether my intonation did not betray the fact that what Gregory did from now on could be no concern of mine.

  "You know I've been thinking, Helena," he said before taking a gulp of his beer.

  "Yes dad." I was sure he had some proposition in mind, something that would bring myself, through Gregory, back to the natural order of the countryside and away from the danger and decadence of London.

  "Well, I'm coming up to retiring age. I mean not yet, life in the old dog etcetera, but being an old dog I don't want to prolong my day. I wondered whether Gregory might like this parish. I know the bishop. He speaks highly of Gregory, fresh blood and all that. It has to go through the process but I'm sure all concerned would be amenable."

  So that is what he wanted, me back in the old family hearth, their little girl brought back where they thought she belonged.

  "But where would you go?"

  "Oh, your mother ha
s seen a little cottage, Davidson's old place, it's up for sale now that the old man has past on. With a bit of savings and our pension we could just about manage it."

  It seemed that he had thought it through. Even three weeks ago it might have been a serious consideration, but now, not now: that was impossible.

  "I'll talk to him when he gets back," I lied, trying to sound as enthusiastic about the proposition, hoping, praying, if that isn't such an inapposite word, that my father would not detect the sad deception perpetrated behind my optimistic response.

  My mother had prepared a roast in honour of my return. A modern touch, absent from my childhood, was a bottle of Rioja in the centre of the table.

  "Work's okay, Helena?" These were the usual questions. There was an undercurrent of disappointment in the question, because having achieved my first and for all their Christian humility and belief in charity, I knew that they both felt I could have done something more 'challenging' after leaving college. My mother had virtually said as much when I told her I was going to teacher training college. "But you're so clever, Helena, you have such a good imagination."

  She had no idea of course, how I was accustomed to employing it.

  "Oh you know, it's busy."

  "And Gregory's well?" It was funny to hear my mother interrogate me again. I had forgotten this little habit she had, eternal optimist as she was, of phrasing all her questions in positive statements.

  "He was the last time I saw him."

  "You're going to miss him?" Yes it was a question, or at least framed with the same intonation, but one which I could not bring myself to answer.

  At night I lay in my childhood room, barely changed over the long years, the same pastel shaded walls, the girly pink bedspread, the little oak chest of drawers, a strip of moonlight casting a square of light on boarded floor. It all reminded me of not only the girl I was but also the girl had been destined to become. It would not have been difficult to trace the trajectory from obedient vicar's daughter to compliant vicar's wife. I was going against destiny. How I longed then for it all to be over, my sluttish soul outed for all to see.