The Man With No Name
by HAL
Copyright© 2026 by HAL
Fiction Sex Story: He stopped to help a girl who had slid off the road, and found himself drawn into a party that was a hang over from the hedonist days of the 1920s.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual .
The road was icy. It had snowed heavily earlier that day when it was still above freezing (just); so the snow had started to turn to slush and then the sun disappeared and the temperature dropped and the slush melted. The main roads had been cleared, well, the important main roads at least. Two lanes on the motorways, the London roads; but this was an ‘A’ road from one small place to another. Ahead was Ahoro Hill and he was thinking about that; would that be too icy? It was a short, steep stretch; but there only needed a short steep stretch to make this impossible.
He swept round the corner at a judicious speed, clearly unlike the car he saw in front. A woman was standing in what looked like a nighty, or a wedding dress? She had a grey waterproof jacket over it, but was hunched like she was cold. The car was only just on the road; most of it was on the verge and even a cursory view showed that two wheels were far enough over to be on the edge of the drainage ditch. The car was slightly angled, but not in danger of sliding in or off; but the differential meant that the lack of grip of her front wheel nearly overhanging the ditch just caused it to spin manically and the other one – the one that might have helped pull the car back onto the road – did nothing. She was staring at it, as people do, as if willing some inspired solution to manifest. He pulled over. Perhaps he was the inspired solution.
Brief garbled explanation followed – she’d hit the corner ‘not going too fast’ (clearly not true given the events that followed), slipped on the ice (‘I didn’t realise it was icy’ - the laws of physics don’t adjust because you are inexperienced), turned right round, “the car lost grip, then I got it back again” - meaning ‘I panicked, revved up and turned the wheel manically, got sudden grip and had no control’, and slid off towards the ditch. She probably then jammed the foot brake violently on and so had no control at all but will assume that’s why she stopped before going into the ditch. She had left the lights on, so the battery was losing the will to live too. Ford Fiesta: not famous as an off-road, rough terrain vehicle.
She was young, pretty, shapely, inexperienced. Of course he was going to help.
“Get in my car and warm up. I’ll see if I can tow yours back onto the road.” He was fairly sure he’d fail. The ice was not good for grip, his Volvo was better in this weather, but not built for recovery situations. As expected, his wheels slipped. The Fiesta stayed where it was.
They rang the RAC: “Seven hour wait at the moment, lots of call-outs.” The girl at the end of the phone had a note in her voice that said ‘please don’t scream at me, it isn’t my fault. I’m just recording the calls. I’ve had enough of people taking their frustrations out on me.’ She had started a week ago and didn’t like being the front end of a system that was overloaded to the point of collapse. “Unless you have one of the following: Pregnant? Children under five? Passenger over eighty?” The driver was eighteen, and still a virgin – not that she gave up that information, there was no need. No, not pregnant, no children, no old people. The other driver had noticed her young shape; he was still wondering about the style of dress she was wearing on a winter night; it revealed shapely legs, little in the way of underwear (top or bottom), self-supporting bust. Her face was slightly longer than it should be, her cheeks glowed red but that was probably the cold. Her eyes were grey, not the sexy blue or green that might have crowned such a body, but they were misty (tears? Or tears of cold?). Her hair was the real glory, cascading waves of blonde hair. Like so many shallow white men, he mused, a blonde just ticked the box for him. He noticed her eyebrows were darker, but that was often the case even with natural blondes. Was she natural blonde? He’d never know.
A police car coming the other way pulled in and a young copper got out – maybe at last he’d get his first drunk driver. The Chief Constable had started a league table – the winning police constable who got the most over the limit drivers would get a place on the Caribbean Police and Crime Conference in Barbados. That was a prize worth having. The losers would be doing school crossing duty in January.
“Excuse me sir, madam. Is there a problem?”
“Well, this lady has slid on the ice and left the road ... as you can see.” He answered. “Perhaps if we tried both cars, we could pull it back? It doesn’t look damaged.”
“Sooo, did you hit her? Or did she hit you?”
“Neither! I’d already left the road when he turned up.” She answered. “What?”
“Could you blow into this please? Just routine of course.” She shrugged and blew. It was negative. Then the policeman tried the male driver. He thought of objecting, since technically there was no reason to check him. He hadn’t been involved at all in the accident, so there was no actual reason to test him. Random testing had been deemed illegal by the Supreme Court hearing. Still, anything for a quiet life. It was negative too. PC Randall looked disappointed. At that moment, his radio beeped.
“Crash on the M62, any nearby officers please attend. Eighteen vehicles involved.” Hurrah! It could be quite possible that people had been drinking at office parties. This was the weekend before Christmas; there were sure to be some. It didn’t matter if they were at fault in the vehicle shunt or not, over the limit meant points. And points meant prizes (for him).
“Well, since no injuries have occurred and no drink was involved; we can leave this for the insurance companies to sort it out. Thank you for your cooperation. I’ll just...” The policeman put tape on the car saying ‘Police Aware’ and then Randall left, debating with himself. He came to a conclusion half a mile down the road and put the blue lights and siren on, and hurried very carefully on the icy roads. He wanted some of those arrests!
So the two were left again. “Where were you heading? Can I offer you a lift? You may need to get someone out tomorrow to get the car. By the way, why the ... rather revealing, but very fetching garb?”
“I was going home for the party – we have a toga party every year on the weekend before Christmas. Are you sure you wouldn’t mind? Offering me a lift I mean? It isn’t far.” He nodded at her and opened the car door again. She knew the policeman had recorded the car number plates, he had lost interest after that and forgotten to take their names; that’s when the call came in about the accident. But she felt safe. Anyway, what choice did she have? She would freeze if she stayed here. So she got in to the warm, and he pressed the ‘seat heating’ button. It was further than she expected, they got up Ahoro Hill with no issues, which she thought very impressive but then round the corner the road was blocked with a snow drift. As he pointed out, he would have been diverted anyway, so it was no problem; it wasn’t like it was her fault. A ‘Diversion’ sign sent them down into Alum Valley; which meant that their ten mile drive became a thirty mile cruise around the countryside. “I’m sooo sorry, I hadn’t expected this. I’m really sorry. Look there’s the drive. Thank you, thank you. Look, it’s very late, come in and have some food and a drink and stay the night. Honestly, Mummy would want you to. Granny too.
The party had once been a weekend of Bacchanalian excess; it had once been what could accurately be described as an orgy. Partners would give each other carte blanche for forty eight hours and the young virgins (male and female) would be fair game for all concerned – some, it was rumoured widely, whether they agreed or not. At the end of the two days, all would return home and return to their normal lives as if nothing had happened. Young girls in knitted suits who still lived in their girly rooms and referred to Mater and Pater, would return to being apparent virgins patiently awaiting a curate or other ‘Mr Right’ to appear and sweep their inexperienced body’s off their feet. That those bodies knew precisely what to do in bed (or out of it) was actually all to the good and probably made for happier marriages in most cases. Discovering that your new husband likes Doggy Style or fellatio on your wedding night can be a shock to an innocent bride. Discovering it at a forty eight hour orgy with two, three (or even eight in one famous case!) partners can work wonders for rapid education. The parties weren’t quite so crazy now. For example girls often said no and were believed, and boys and girls had a lower age limit that mirrored the legal limits now.
It was very late, he had been heading home, but there was no hurry. The next day would do ... or the one after that come to think of it. He lived alone, had done for a while. He found himself grateful (at last) that his faithful Irish Wolfhound had died a month ago. He had no need to rush home.
“You have a lovely home Mrs ... Sutton. Thank you for letting me stay. I’m sorry I don’t have a toga. Isn’t it odd to have a toga party in the winter?”
“Please, call me Sybil. As to letting you stay. It’s me who should thank you. Laura would have frozen out there tonight. It isn’t always this cold. Sometimes the party has even moved outside. Not tonight though. It was started by my Great Grandmother in the 1920s. 1923 I think. She was quite a goer by all accounts. Not just champagne flowed then, we’ve reined in the cocaine since, hahah. No, seriously. It wasn’t illegal then. Anyway, she and my Great Grandfather had crazy parties from what I’ve heard. This is the last remnant. When Grandma reached twenty one, she was allowed to join the party...” She took another swig of champagne, it was her fifth, she was definitely merry. “She was pregnant by the end of that party I believe.” Actually it was never established whether it was at the party, or in the aftermath. There were rumours of who the father might be, but her brother died in the war and any proof probably died in the same plane that he crashed in. “The war years were a little quieter of course, the number of parties reduced to this one in winter. Something was needed to cheer up the family. Then my mother was born and two decisions were taken: one, that this party would be the only one to remain; two, that all bets are off for one or two nights.” He looked confused. “Anyone at the party ... if you get my meaning. That is as it always was I suppose, but it is made very clear now. Some people aren’t quite as polite as they were and sometimes like to boast. They never get invited again. The trouble is ... ah, there she is.”
A thirteen year old dressed in a toga drifted past.
“Yes, my younger daughter, she was meant to be staying with a friend. It was all arranged. Her mother and father were coming to the party and her granny was baby sitting and Louise was staying over. Then Susan – Louise’s friend – got caught smoking. Oh, that’s bad enough, but she was smoking weed! Granny called the cops. So Susan’s mother and father get a lecture on parenting and feel they can’t go out at the last minute. Susan is banned from leaving her room. Louise has to attend the party. She’s too young. I know that. She’ll need watching. Sorry, none of that is your problem. Please, enjoy the party and the food ... and thank you once again for helping Laura.”
The woman – Sybil – drifted after her younger daughter. The man found himself observing that, yes, she was wearing pants, you could see the line of the full size briefs beneath her white toga-dress. He’d already realised, as he stood speaking to her, looking down at her shorter body, that she was unlikely to be wearing a bra. From the angle of his view, as she shook her head over some comment, her whole chest vibrated and the V at the front moved to display more of her left breast than she may have intended. She was impressively built; no doubt that was where her daughter inherited it from. Sybil’s breasts swayed but remained under control with no bra to hold them; he found himself wishing impolite thoughts about his hostess.
His host was non-existent. Not that he had disappeared upstairs with someone; he had died two years ago. Sybil had maintained the tradition of the pre-Christmas Toga Party regardless and felt sure he would have approved. She didn’t partake of the sexual excesses, she concentrated on the alcohol. It was good to be able to let your hair down for a day or two and know it didn’t matter. There were no repercussions if you were sick in the flower beds, or peed in the bath, or fucked your sister in law (or your sister actually).
He decided that yes, he’d rather stay now, since it was so late. He poured himself a drink. “Having a stiff one? Ho Ho.” a man whose bearing screamed ‘ex military’ laughed beside him. “Get it? Stiff one?” He was eyeing a filly so obviously completely out of his league that it was almost sad to watch. He edged over and attempted to ingratiate himself. The more he was rebuffed, the more he looked like a puppy, keen to be approved of.
“Sad isn’t it?” An older woman, still erect and elegant, spoke to him. “You helped Laura? She’s my granddaughter. We’re very grateful ... I’m very grateful. I know she is, but Sybil is very, very grateful, if you get my drift? She would be very grateful and pleased to be noticed... “ He did indeed get her drift, she was saying her own daughter would happily show her gratitude. She’d drop her toga, to be blunt. He was flattered, interested, and hesitant. It wasn’t usually the ‘done thing’ to turn up as an unexpected guest at a party and then bonk the hostess. Still, at least the hostess’s husband wasn’t around, he’d think about it. She was undoubtedly good looking; he was trying to decide what age she was ... then realised it didn’t really matter. She must be over thirty five – she had an eighteen year old daughter – but surely not more than forty five? It was hard to be sure. The older woman who was speaking to him was clearly seventy, plus. Much that could sag and sink had done so; he was pleased to notice not a hint of nip and tuck, not a botox plumping in sight. Her hair was silver grey; she saw not reason to hide her age, she didn’t care. “I’d hoped for one or two of the older men to be interested, ah but they are all the same shallow minded beasts. They like the tight flesh; it was ever thus. I’ve had my turn at that. I can live with it.” She wandered away to talk to another older generation woman; a woman who had had all the tightening, liposuction, hair dying and lip plumping she could. She looked like an aged mannequin. An aged and (even with liposuction) overweight plastic doll. The grandmother looked better.
A man of thirty or so was leading the younger daughter by the arm. Not forcefully, the girl was quite willing. Quite willing because quite drunk. He looked round and saw no-one from the family. There was little doubt in his mind what this other man had in mind. Down the corridor they strolled, no urgency; no, just a stroll to look out of the window in one of the bedrooms ... her bedroom. She opened the door and they went in. As he reached the door, he saw the man reaching holding the handle with one hand and the key with the other. No question what the intention was there!
He put his foot in the door. “Ahhh, there you are! I was sent to see if you wanted some more ... food. By Sybil, I mean your mother.” Last minute inspiration, use her mother’s first name like they were old friends. The man looked round at the girl and just stepped out and walked away. Then Louise looked confused and then gave him a vague smile and replied that she didn’t think she did want more food thank you. “Well, how about you take a nap?” He found himself tucking her, alone, into her bed. Even a thirteen year old (especially a thirteen year old) looked enticing in these togas that just slid off the upper part of the body if you weren’t careful – and she wasn’t. “Look, I’ll lock the door if I may? I’ll slide the key under the door after. Sleep well.” He left and was about to lock it when Sybil arrived.
“I ... I was warned by Frances, I think I’ll ask Tony to leave; he knows how old she is. You locking her in?”
“I thought it wiser? She’s asleep in bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow I think. I was going to lock it and push the key under the door?”
“No, no need. But thank you. Thank you sooo much! No-one else would take advantage like that. Would you come with me?” He was looking down at her again, and once again looking into an open abyss of breasts exposed more than they should be and less than he’d like. They found Tony and she ‘suggested’ he leave. He mumbled something which might have been an apology and might not have been. He was probably over the limit. The man said nothing, he provided moral support. The man’s sole contribution was then to suggest a taxi, but Tony was having none of it and left. If PC Russell was around, he would get a scalp at last. “Thank you once again ... actually, my face is up here. Not down my bosom.”
“Sorry, they are ... well they are magnificent. But yes, sorry.”
She looked at him, and he looked at her face this time. “No need, considering the options available here,” she looked past him at two twenty three year old twins who were definitely up for it if they found the right man. “I suppose I’m flattered.”
“Flattered, unattached, and a free agent.” He responded, taking her arm he gave a little pull. If she had been unwilling, she would have pulled back and he would have released it. She wasn’t unwilling.
In her room, he unhooked the toga from her shoulder and watched as it slid easily to the ground. She might have been relaxed about being viewed naked (except for her pants) because she simply stood as he looked at her. In fact she was slightly relaxed by the alcohol, and slightly shell-shocked. She hadn’t had sex for a year, not since the disastrous ‘rebound’ with Eric. It had been embarrassing then; he wasn’t good at it, but then she hadn’t had high expectations to be honest. He husband had been moderately considerate; which meant he tried, but generally failed. Eric wasn’t any better. The occasional one night stand, usually at this very annual party, had given her a taste of what good sex could be like. It was partly her fault, she never said what she wanted with her husband (and certainly not with Eric, she didn’t want to share any private thoughts with him), but partly also that the men were unaware of the women enough.
He knelt at her body and pulled her pants down. In a synchonised move that suggested a natural brillance or plenty of practice, he had his head at her untrimmed bush of hair before the woman’s natural instinct to place a hand to cover herself could happen. His mouth seemed to be engaged with her own lips before she even was aware of what was happening. Others had gone there, even her husband occasionally (but always far too briefly), but not with the practiced skill that his lips opened her and his tongue started to explore. She hadn’t been planning on sex that evening. If she was honest, the raucous, uproarious, libidious days of the Christmas Toga Party had passed and most people were remembering what had been rather than re-enacting it. Only a few, like Tony, were still wedded to the idea of ‘anything goes’. Mostly even the sex was slightly staid and pedestrian (but no less enjoyable ... well, yes, less enjoyable but welcome all the same). She hadn’t been expecting to do more than supervise the food and drink and laugh at occasional rude jokes. His tongue slid over her clitoris and brought her back to what was happening. It was too late to say this was not what she was expecting.
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