I read you as a gypsy might. Lucky heather, woven with a lock of my hair and tucked into your pocket as you take your leave. Snugly stored alongside the panties you always carry with you, my scent intact and recharged from time to time. Our time together as yet brief, when measured in hours and minutes, is everlasting in the cells of my mind and the sensory perception of my soul. In my mind’s eye, I dance barefoot. I am a gypsy stirring dust mites tangling and tumbling in the shafts slanting from the casement windows of our home, and I wish you to me as in a dream. As vivid as the colours that I paint when I picture you and me, my daydreams much as they were when I was a little girl. I am a princess, woken from a long sleep and the winding vine that has imprisoned me slowly unfurls, its emerald stems and leaves finally setting me free.
I kneel at your feet; you are clad in butter soft black. My halo of hair is at your erection. I part my lips, glossy Chanel red dresses him in a ring of love, a sticky band, the brand of my lips on the skin of your shaft, hard pulsing, living a life of his own.
Your cock moves me, I love him so. His taste, his scent, his power over me. I take him deep into my throat, I relish the restriction as you fill me with your length and I drink you deep and pray for impalement, long and smooth. My mouth’s secret folds envelop you. Suck you home and dry. I wonder if I’m like the miller’s girl from Rumpelstiltskin. Your tasks are the turret room filled with straw, and I spin them into the treasure of reality. And yet, I do not have an imp to appear and make a bargain, I only desire to fulfil your tasks one after the other. It’s Christmas, and our future beckons, full of promise. I love you. I know that my final task is set for our party on New Year’s Eve. I have no idea what challenge awaits. The seal of your note will remain unbroken until we are ready. Your Puss.
Mathew tucks Eleanor’s note carefully behind their framed photograph on the mantelpiece, crouches and touches a flame to the kindling in the grate and keeps watch until the fire takes hold. The tasks that he devised for the time that he and Eleanor were apart had been a revelation, and he thrills that Eleanor has embraced his way of life so completely.
Glancing at her sleeping form, he takes a seat at the desk. One of the many places at the manor where Eleanor loves to sit and write, he adores her notes, reading her journal and following the progress of her tasks. He studies each lovingly placed item. Tidy and neat, as is he, both military trained, neither can quite unlearn the, everything in its place, rule. He allows his mind to move backward. Reaching across the years, he considers writing everything Eleanor had pleaded with him to share…How will it look? Will she like his past? Will she love him more? Like him less? In their bed, her burrowed form remains still. Making a decision, he picks up the silver pen he had gifted her, squares a sheaf of paper and begins. His distinctive handwriting takes shape as if an arachnid moves across the page. As he warms to his task, his hand moves a little faster, but it cannot keep up with his brain, he has to hold back, keep himself in check; he hates blotting the ink, making mistakes. One wrong word and he’ll have to start over. He wants to say it all, in one long, unspoiled message and have it done before she wakes.
Dear, Eleanor, I know you’re curious about my past. I’ve heard the talk at the base, and know how fond Julie is of you, she can’t have failed to mention my reputation. Until now, I have chosen to keep my past out of our relationship, but we’ve moved on, you and I, and this letter, will be the first of many gifts for you this Christmas. With all my love.
I joined the RAF when I turned seventeen. My father, a retired Wing Commander, expected that I follow, so I did. I left my home for initial training and was billeted in a house owned by a divorced woman in her twenties. She had a child of just under a year old. I could not believe my good fortune. It’s fair to say that I fell in love the moment I saw her.
The front door to the house was actually the back door and led directly into the kitchen. I remember it all as if it were yesterday, and yet, it is almost forty-five years since then. I wonder what she’s doing now. My Annie.
The first words she addressed directly to me were an apology. She had an unruly dog, which jumped up at me and messed up my uniform. “I’m so sorry,” she said shooing the dog away.
“It’s okay,” I managed. God knows what happened to my voice, it sounded as if it came from someone else, a prepubescent idiot, as a matter of fact. My face felt hot, and I hoped it wasn’t red.
“Come through. It’s Matthew, isn’t it? We’ve been expecting you.”
So gauche was I that I hadn’t even introduced myself, and I experienced a plip-plop of disappointment at the “we” deciding there was a Mr. Annie hovering nearby.
“Yes.” I found my voice at last. “Nice to meet you. Thank you for having me.” I extended my hand and she held my clammy fingers in her slight, warm grip.
I think I was lost at that moment, her hand so tiny in mine.
“Leave your bag by the door,” she said, “I’ll show you to your room later.”
“Thank you,” I repeated, following her from room to room as she showed me around.
“Your room has a bathroom attached. The family bathroom is here, downstairs. Unusual, I know, but when this place was built, it didn’t have a bathroom at all. This part of the house is an addition.”
I didn’t say much as she showed me around. I had to battle my cock, which woke up the second she appeared in the doorway.
I managed to hide my discomfort all through that first night, settling in. She cooked steak and chips but didn’t dine with me. Preferring to talk while I ate, telling me all about the village and the airfield nearby where I was to do my basic training, along with a few others, two of whom were due to arrive the following day. I bit back the disappointment of having to share her and tried not to stare at her lips when she spoke.
Since meeting Annie, my preferred type was set forever at the altar of her iconic image, and until you, Eleanor, it was brunette. Still, I love that you are fair and other than your colouring, you’re a lot like Annie. I didn’t have to and couldn’t have taught Annie anything about sex. I was totally inexperienced when I arrived at her house but by the time I left I was well on my way to total sexual fulfilment.
I’ve spent my whole life trying to find someone who measured up to Annie in my eyes. Nobody even came close. Until you. I’ll never forget our first night, and my first with Annie was memorable too. My eighteenth birthday. What a gift. I hadn’t told her that she was my first, and I’m proud to say that she didn’t guess, or she said she didn’t. My ever-hard cock made our first time stunning. So snug was she, so warm, so vibrant. Even after all this time, my cock stirs at the thought of Annie and the things she taught me in the days and nights of those five, billeted, halcyon weeks. Whenever we were alone, and when everyone else was asleep, we explored each other, every cell. She seemed so much older than me, so much more experienced. Looking back with the benefit of age, I see that she was barely that much different to me, and I see her vulnerability, which I was too naive to detect at the time. She hid it well.
I knew she wanted me not long after our first meeting. Mutually smitten and desperate to consummate our longing. Looking back, I’ve no doubt that the others noticed too, although, at the time, we thought we were able to keep our feelings in check when we were in company. Her son was far too young to know what was going on. He’ll be grown now. I often think about him and wonder how he’s doing. If he’s happy. Whether he’s healthy. I became extremely attached to him. I doubt that he remembers me at all.
“We lost his dad in a motorcycle accident,” she told me, that first night at supper.
I stuttered over my reply. Untried and unknowing in most social niceties and intimate etiquette, my school hadn’t taught me how to deal with relationships; it wasn’t on the curriculum in those days. Mum and dad weren’t demonstrative either; their relationship was conducted with military precision. I didn’t know it then, but my own marriage turned out that way too. That came later, much later
, about five years after meeting Annie. I’ll tell you all about it one day. Not now. Now is your time, and it’s time to share Annie’s time, and I’ve jumped ahead, so I’ll go back to the beginning.
oOo
“Where do you come from, Matthew?”
“Hertfordshire.”
“Have you always wanted to fly?”
“Yes,” I said. Watching her breasts rise and fall, rise and fall.
A lock of hair had come loose from the top-knot she’d tied and the shining chestnut tendril called to me. “Touch me … touch me… Push me behind her ear. Kiss her lips.”
Anxious to make a favourable impression, I answered her polite series of questions and asked a few of my own. I can’t remember them now, but I know it was then that I learned she was a widow.
“You’re too young to be a widow,” I told her. “Widows are supposed to be old ladies, dressed in dusty black, with crooked backs and walking sticks.”
She laughed then, threw her head back and laughed out loud. Already in love, I was lost. Her throat, creamy. A long column holding her beautiful head, she was as beautiful as the classic statues I had studied at school in my History of Art classes and seemed as untouchable too. I wanted her so bad, the ache in my cock spread through my body like a rampant disease. Seeking out every nerve-end, every sensor, and every tiny pore. Annie burrowed so deep into my heart within the first few hours of our meetings; I have never been able to remove her. But you, my darling, Eleanor, have prized her free. You’ve unchained me.
You already know that I have sucked and fucked my way around the world. It’s easy to get laid when you fly fast jets, and I took advantage of the RAF groupies in the towns and cities of every country we visited. Onesomes, twosomes, threesomes, group sex, my favourite anal sex, double penetration, spanking, bondage and all kinds of games. Nevertheless, nothing fulfilled me like a night in Annie’s arms and up until these past few months, I thought nothing would.
That first night in Annie’s isolated farmhouse, there was just me, her and the baby. I waited until the sounds of the house settling down had passed, opened the window and looked out into the night. The house was situated near the airfield, a bustling village, and close to the end of a long, unmade road. Hardly any traffic passed by. The silence hung in the air; so still, I could hear my own thoughts echoing. Reaching back to me, mocking me, and making me hard, making me ache; my need for sexual release far greater than it had ever been. The depth of yearning was more intense than any of my boyhood crushes, including the nurse at school. We all masturbated over her. That night, in my room, in Annie’s house, I had to rub myself off into a handkerchief. My mother always packed pressed handkerchiefs, even though I often used tissues. I was grateful for it then, in spite of the dilemma of disposal. Annoyed with myself for not thinking, it was probably the first time my cock truly ruled my head. In the end, I stuffed the soiled cloth under my pillow and eventually fell into a fitful sleep.
oOo
The smell of breakfast cooking was my alarm call. Ravenous, as only teenage boys can be, I dressed quickly, went downstairs and followed my nose to the kitchen where I discovered Annie, oh, joy of joys, she wore a dressing gown. My cock agreed that she looked stunning cooking breakfast in a gloriously, silky purple kimono, triggering my obsession with wraparound silk.
“Can I help?” I croaked, wishing my cock didn’t have a mind of his own. I hoped my fly wasn’t bulging but thought it might be. She seemed intent on the pan on the stove, so I decided I had got away with it. Her son was in his high-chair messing about with a few small toys.
“No, you’re fine, Matt. Is it okay if I call you Matt?”
“Of course. Where’s your dog?”
“Outside, he’s gone for a rummage in the grounds. He’ll be gone for ages. Your trousers are safe.”
Regretting the question which led to her reply, we both glanced at my crotch. Fuck knows why, we just did.
“Can I set the table?” I said.
“Hmm.”
She seemed distracted, and my cock did a little dance for joy. “She noticed me, she noticed me.”
“The cutlery is in that drawer,” she nodded towards the dresser.
oOo
Our affair bloomed, and I blossomed. It may be a strange thing to say about a young man, but it was true nonetheless. Always meticulous with my appearance, it was part of my military remit; I started to take a lot more interest in my hair, the way I styled it, my aftershave, proud that I needed to shave daily. My floppy fringe was untameable, and I was supposed to keep it short when in uniform, I knew I’d be able to let it grow a little in the future. At the time, I tried to tame it. Already tall, I walked taller, and my telephone conversations and letters to my parents were littered with references to Annie.
When I played sports with some of the other trainees at the weekends, I was more competitive, always imagining that she watched whether she was there or not. She often came along to the games, bringing her son in his pushchair and standing at the side-lines of rugby pitches, at the poolside when I went swimming. Later, at the close of spring, she and I went swimming together, in the river close to the house, careful to choose low tide, mindful of the current. Seeing Annie gleaming in that river is an image that I’ll carry with me for as long as I live. Although the weather wasn’t particularly warm, it wasn’t too cold either, but when we got out and sat on the bank she started shivering uncontrollably and I wrapped her in her towel and then in mine too. I held her so close to me, her head nestled under my chin that I was certain she’d be able to feel my heart hammering in my chest. I felt as if it were going to beat its way right out of my body and take flight to another planet. Higher than I’d ever flown in the fixed-wing training aircraft I was learning to fly.
I wanted to take her flying, show her the patchwork of fields that I flew over each day, but I wasn’t qualified and we’d have to wait. I was impatient to share everything with Annie. I raced home from the airfield daily, out of my mind with desire, having to squash my longing if anyone else was about or her son not yet in bed. I would count the seconds until we could be alone.
My sole aim in life was to please her. I could think of nothing I wanted more. Everything I thought said or did during those mad, obsessed days began and ended with my absorption with Annie, and my need to be deep, deep inside her. In her skin, undulating, vibrating and spilling my ever present seed into her again and again. I seemed to have boundless energy. Endless supplies of semen gathering in my aching balls. If the stars were on offer I’d have plucked them out of the sky for her, one by one and delivered them in a glowing package to her feet.
Taking a bath. The tank in a cupboard on the landing always made the most unspeakable noises. I often expected it to explode. Everyone in the household knew when the bath was being filled; the rush of water to replace that taken from the tank went on for ages and ages. Deafening. There was never any need to lock the door.
One day, washing my body, over and over like a man possessed, rummaging into every little crevice, I managed to get soap into my eyes. Groping around for the towel, the next thing I knew, it was in my hand. Squinting up, I saw her standing there, naked. The dark triangle of hair where her thighs met and her voluptuous breasts took my breath away. I forgot all about my stinging eyes and sat in the soapy water like an idiot and my cock rising to the expectation of her.
Her small waist looked impossibly tiny, and my heart contracted with love for her so intense I thought I would die. The gentle curve of her hips heralded the beginning of her slender, shapely legs. All the way down to her toes. There was no part of Annie that I didn’t find glorious - that I didn’t want to kiss. I wanted to kiss her over and over, and my cock showed her everything else I wanted to do.
Holding another towel for me, she signalled me out of the tub. I stepped onto the floor, cold, uncomfortable. The bathroom was functional and not at all luxurious; she wrapped me in the towel and pulled me towards her, my back a
gainst her breasts. We stood like that for ages, her lips nuzzling my neck, her hands under my arms clasped in front of my chest. She pressed her nakedness against the towel until I let it drop and we were skin to skin.
Her fingers snaked around to my cock, aching oh so much, just so needful of her firm grip. She turned me so that I was facing her and gently moved down my body until she was kneeling at my feet. I cannot describe the emotions she wrung out of me that day. A woman I adored had my cock in her mouth and seemed to worship it as much as I did. She took me to places that I knew must be heaven, and I never wanted to float back to earth. I just wanted to sail away on the crest of orgasm that she sucked out of me. That day, her tongue on my glans, my semen seeping, gently oozing, in no time at all, I had come.
“Oh, my god, oh, oh, I’m so sorry, Annie. Oh, god, no, don’t, I can’t do that.”
I didn’t want to come in her mouth, it didn’t feel right, I was burning with lust and hot with embarrassment, but she clamped her lips over my shaft and sucked it so deep into her throat that there was nowhere else to go. I will love her forever for that one, simple act. It changed my life.
And now, my glorious Puss, there’s you. I recognised you from your ankles up, at that memorable September Battle of Britain memorial dance. My ticket to heaven. I hope you enjoy everything Annie taught me and all I’ve learned since then because we have such a bright future together and I love you, Eleanor, with my heart and soul.
And we’re at the hotel, my dream, now, yours too and about to be realised. A new project all ready for our New Year’s Eve opening dance, and in between, here we are on Christmas Eve, the entire staff away home and just the two of us. Cocooned in our apartments, with views to the cliffs, surrounded by lush gardens and on to the sea, the ever changing seascape, the ocean where we roll in blue. I love the way that this part of Falconworth juts out a little and allows views to east and west, it’s almost panoramic. The centre of this room dominated by our canopied four-poster bed with classic drapes and deep frills, the curtains tied back at all the windows match. Everything else is cool and cream. Stamped with your touch, Eleanor. You didn’t overrule the interior designer in any other part of the manor, only in our apartments, where you had your say and had your way…
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