The Holiday

by HAL

Copyright© 2016 by HAL

Sex Story: After an unpleasant breakup, I went to Ireland's West Coast to recuperate. I found someone equally wanting to discover more that she was getting from her marriage.

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Heterosexual   .

I sat on the bench outside listening to James Taylor sing his mellow, yet sad, song “ but I always thought I’d see you again” I duetted with him. Then he went into that last bit in a different tune and I thought yet again how it would be perfect without that, took another sip of my red wine – not a good year, not a good vineyard, not a good country, but who cares I thought as I looked out from the cliff over the sea to the distant headlands. Fairhead, Mull of Kintyre, and maybe, if I screw my eyes up, that dull, darker grey is one of the Hebrides? The afternoon sun was unusually warm for Donegal, it hadn’t rained for 2 days, which for Donegal almost meant a drought. “Yes” I said out loud, to no-one, for there was no-one to enjoy this view with “I’ve picked the right time to come”.

I hadn’t been back to Donegal since leaving the university in Coleraine ‘over the border’. There had been a border once, where soldiers would check your car if you were unlucky, and tear it apart if you were sassy to them. There still was a political border, but you only noticed you’d crossed over when the road signs changed and adverts offering ‘40% on pounds’ appeared. I didn’t really understand what that meant. Pounds were worth 1.40 euros? We give 40% better exchange rates? I never found out, not needed as I had euros with me and cards if I needed them; even Donegal accepted Visa now, there had been a time when there was only cash in places like this ... ah, another time, another place. I took another drink and returned to the article in last Sunday’s paper (today being Saturday). Time was unimportant. “News is still news if you haven’t heard it” as an old man had told me in a bar in Donegal (town). A seagull drifted past to see if I’d put out any more bacon rinds. They had got used to checking me out as I often put out food on a flat rock near the edge.

I’d booked this place on the spur of the moment, I had plenty of holiday left, I was stressed out to the max. and this place came up beside my email “newly finished cottage for rent”. I looked at it on-line, then at the position on Google Earth. Right enough, the land it was on was still moorland on Google. Street View confirmed that; but the position looked fantastic. Now “newly finished” is Irish for “nearly finished”, but I expected that. There were some wires coming out of walls that were just tied in knots (doorbell? Wall lights?), the cooker worked, the log fire worked, the beds were made. Yes, it catered for 6 people, I could nearly sleep in a different bed each night of the week. I didn’t of course; but I did use one room for luggage and another to sleep in. The third, the double bed, I left empty. Too raw, not ready to sleep alone in a double bed yet.

Maxine left on April 3rd at 12 noon precisely. The taxi arrived and she left. That was that. She left no forwarding address. That last weekend she hadn’t spoken to me at all, literally, not one word. She just started packing. Again, I was not entirely surprised by her leaving; she hadn’t loved me for years, had disliked me for at least 12 months, and hated me for the last few weeks; but the manner of her leaving was a surprise. She had clearly planned it, but she said nothing; then when she started packing she just refused to talk. I’m not a violent man, never have been, she knew I wouldn’t hit her or force her to speak. I watched her leave. Sat down and drank a bottle of whisky (good whisky – the 12 year old Glenmorangie, what a waste), woke up 19 hours later on the floor in the living room with a dry mouth, a headache and several emails asking why I wasn’t at work. That latter was easily dealt with; my employer is understanding. I nearly poured all the alcohol away, I knew I could easily become an alcoholic without Maxine’s steadying hand. I have 35 different whiskies – including Swedish, Indian, and German – and that’s what put me off, it really was a collection (and some of the bottles were seriously expensive), otherwise the lot, the wine (one bottle from the year I was born), the beer could have all gone. I swore off drink for 2 months, until I was on an even keel again.

Maxine left no forwarding address, as I said. But her mail kept arriving. I was tempted to tear up the bills and let her stew when her cards were stopped; but I didn’t. It wasn’t that I expected her back. I’d actually changed the locks to prevent it happening anyway, but I think we both knew that this was the last episode in an inevitable saga that would not come back for a new series. I put her mail into a box and when, after 2 months, it was full and I’d still had no word, I taped it up and sent it to her parents. Two days later she rang me, furious.

“You fucking, malicious bastard”

“Hello Maxine, glad you’re alright”

“Why did you send that mail to Mum and Dad?”

“What else should I have done with it? I had no forwarding address-”

“Of course not, you swine, I never want you to know where I am again, ever”

“Okay, so why didn’t you tell the bank, the shops, the tax the –”

“Don’t take that superior tone, you fucking pig”

“Should I burn your mail then?”


I began to lose my temper, I always tried to keep my temper in our fights, but it never lasted. She just irritated me deliberately I think “What the fuck should I do with all the crap that you signed up for and that keeps arriving at OUR house now that YOU’VE decided to fuck off with no warning?”

“Don’t swear at me”

“Just answer the bloody question or I’ll hang up and next time I’ll send the letters with no postage so your parents can pay for receiving all your junk mail” This was unfair of course, they weren’t to blame for our marriage breaking down. Okay they were never much help, but it still wasn’t their fault. You’ll notice I haven’t told you why she left. You know I didn’t beat her (never, ever hit her), was I unfaithful? No. Was she unfaithful? No. The truth was we had just learned over the years that we were as unsuited as it was possible to be. We began to argue about everything. Then we argued about nothing. Perhaps we damaged the children by staying together, but I like to think we both did it for good motives even as our relationship dissolved like rice paper in rain. When P. left for America I broke down in tears, Maxine just told me it would be alright; she didn’t hug me or put an arm round me, she just had no interest in me except as a fellow lodger. I realised then that at some point one of us would leave, she was the stronger of the two of us, so she took the plunge. Only problem was she hadn’t told John and Jane, her parents, two of the most conventional people you will ever meet. I knew why she hadn’t told them, they would overreact like it was the biggest disaster since the Tokyo earthquake. Yes, I admit it, it was malicious to send the mail to them. I knew what I was doing. It was a small revenge, but a worthwhile one. But still, what was I meant to do with all the mail?

“I’ll set up a forwarding address with the post office”

“About ... time” She was talking rationally so I missed out the ‘fucking’. “What about the rest of your things? I know you aren’t coming back; should I clear them out to charity shop or is there a friend I could deliver them too so you can pick them up?”

She laughed, her genuine ‘hee hee’ laugh, not the phone laugh she used for polite conversation “You were always quite thoughtful, even when I was a bitch to you. I’ll let you know by email okay?”

“Take care Maxine, I’m sorry we didn’t work out, it would have been nice to grow old with someone who I knew for so long ... but I know we’d end up killing each other”

“Take care yourself, Terry” and that was it, the last time I spoke to her. We emailed the names of solicitors and the process has begun, I never want to see her again, but I don’t wish her ill. I just want to get back to a free mind again. That’s why I’m here.

“Donegal? Ireland? Where it rains all the time?”

“No, Donegal on Ibiza. Yes of course Donegal, Ireland. As to the rain, so what? I’ll spend wet days reading and warm days walking. And, best of all, I’ll have no internet or mobile phone coverage”

“Really? But –”

“No! This time I’m not available to anyone, not work, not family, no-one” I was talking to my brother, he and I get on well; we meet for a drink every couple of weeks or so. His wife Michelle is convinced that I’m a wife beater or a paedophile or something. It must be my fault that Maxine left. We had been too good at covering up our huge arguments from the family. I wondered if he was a little more concerned that he would be sole lawn-mower, doctor-taxi, story-listener for the old folks for three weeks. Well, tough, I was going. If I didn’t get out soon I’d crack up.

My doctor had told me that “Tranquilisers just hide the problem Terry, you need to wind down for a while else you’ll get addicted to them and still have the problems”. I already knew I had an addictive kind of personality; I was actually sure he was probably right. Time to break out for a while. And that’s when the advert about Donegal appeared beside my email. Google mail can read your mind and send targeted adverts apparently. Wow!

I packed light and, again on a whim, I took the Bonneville instead of the car. The Triumph Bonneville was my last link with a past that is nearly lost. It isn’t one of the new, reliable, modern, Triumphs from the reborn company; this is one of the old, oily, beasts from before even disc brakes. It goes like the clappers, but takes more time to stop than an oil tanker. I was once flagged down doing 90 on the motorway by a police biker. I pulled onto the hard shoulder and started to brake. He was in front and pulled over and stopped. I sailed past him and stopped several feet in front. He was so amazed at the inefficacy of the brakes on old bikes that we had a long chat, I promised to stick to 70 in future and he let me off. Police bikers are a breed apart. They like biking, they aren’t stuck in a tin box with a speed gun, they are out in the weather and weaving through traffic. They (mostly) like bikers.

Anyway, I took the bike, over the ferry and then off on the open roads to Magilligan ferry, again on a whim I went by the Antrim Coast road rather than the stop/start motorway (you’d know what I meant if you lived there); the scenery was brilliant; it wasn’t raining, the café I stopped at was ... well actually it was crap, but who cares, and on past places that were just memories from a long forgotten past to Magilligan – by repute the shortest international sea ferry in Europe (the world?). It takes 10 minutes or so. Then the roads get smaller and smaller and steeper and more fun. I arrived at my home for the next three weeks with a stiff back and a smile a mile wide on my face. The key, as promised, was in the door. That’s what I like about Ireland, no caretaker to find, no key safe to open, no ‘please arrive before dark so we can check who you are’. Just “The key will be in the door, sure. Have a good stay.”

I’d put the bike round the back, carried my rucksack in and the food I’d bought with me and sat down with a cup of tea and a book within half an hour. I couldn’t focus though, I kept thinking how in times past this would have been a major exercise; a car load of stuff, half of which would be carried in, left and carried out again without ever being used. One use barbecues, picnic chairs and hampers, food for a siege. Maxine was thorough, when we holidayed it took several days to pack, then a day to unpack at the destination. Everything had to be just right. I remember one holiday when the DVD didn’t work; I spent a whole evening playing with options, like could the Playstation play DVDs? (rewire the connections at the back, unplug this, plug in that, work out the menus, find out that no it wouldn’t. Change it all back. All the while answering inane questions with a smile). Instead we could have just said ‘oh, sod it. Who needs a DVD anyway?’ She was a perfectionist, but an impractical one. So she wanted it right, but someone else had to make it so. I’m the opposite, I’m happy for a place mat to be crooked, or the salt and pepper not to match. Or the bloody DVD to be fucked. I go away for a holiday from the technological crap of life; but I rarely achieved it. This time if I failed there would be no-one to blame but myself.

The shop (shop, petrol station, post office and second pub in the village) was a mile away, an easy walk. The nearest town was 5km, small supermarket, butchers, 3 bars. The nearest biggish town was 10km – large supermarket, two cafes, and lots of bars. See the pattern? Bars are the essential of life in rural Ireland. Bars and churches. Bars are where the people meet and talk and sing and gossip. They can be run down and dreary but they are at least real; not some poseur’s idea of a local shebeen with replica pictures of the 1916 declaration and some fancy name like ‘The Rebel’. These are just called ‘Murphy’s’, ‘Jimmy’s’, ‘O’Hanlons’. They are just there for social interaction. Facebook with alcohol, gets my vote. They can be smokey, even now; you may not see a Guard (police) for days on end.

So, after a week I was winding down nicely. I sat and watched the sea, then I sat a little longer. A car came down the hill opposite, followed by a second one. Then I heard the gears drop down and they climbed up the other side. As they approached the turning, I was surprised that they turned in. Driving past to the last cottage, the one that had been there a few years judging by the grass being well grown (unlike here where much of the land round was still rough and stony after the building had been completed, something else that will probably still be unfinished for a year or two or five). The first car contained a man with a child and two older people. The second contained two women and a second child in the back. As they got out and did that post-travelling stretch thing that we all do after a journey I waved. One of the women waved back. The older couple looked and then shuffled inside. The children ran off to explore inside and out. The man and the woman who waved were left to unpack both cars; the other woman went in with the older couple, helping them up the steps. That seemed to mean she didn’t need to unpack. I started to make up stories about them and wondered which, if any was correct. I put on my sun glasses so they couldn’t see I was watching, and then did just that. The body language of the couple suggested a married couple, they were easy with each other but not particularly respectful. They were married with two children I decided. The older couple was one of their parents; and the other woman? A nurse? No, no, they weren’t the type to bring a nurse with them. A daughter to the old people too. Yes, that was it, but sister to whom, man or woman? That would have taken longer to discover if she hadn’t appeared while the wife was indoors, she came out to get her bag, but as they – the man and this second woman – went towards the door, she suddenly drew him round the corner where they could not be observed from within and kissed him full on the mouth. Second wife for a Mormon? No, this was the unmarried sister who was having (or hoping to?) an affair with the husband. If my surmise was correct this might result in a less calm second week to my holiday. Or maybe I’d got the whole thing wrong; could she be the wife, the second wife the children don’t like so she has to take a kiss in secret when she can? My ideas became more and more outlandish until I laughed and said out loud “nah, this isn’t some crazy ­­soap on TV”. I took another drink, watched a gannet glide low over the sea and then rise and drop like an arrow. It was too far away to see if it caught its tea with that dive. Stunning piece of biological engineering. Hmm, tea, “What shall we have for dinner?” I asked myself, forgot my new neighbours and drifted inside to see.­­

The following day dawned as bright and clear as the previous. Donegal was putting on a fine show of pretending it was summer. I climbed the fence, as I had several times before, and made my way down the old, overgrown pathway to the small beach at the base of the cliffs. The cliffs were intermittent, here and there small ledges existed which the pathway had made use of to get down in a zig zag to a small sandy beach where driftwood (partly the object of my visits) collected. At the base a single wall existed, evidence of an old Irish hovel. I use the word hovel deliberately, life must have been exceptionally hard here. Did they collect seaweed and shellfish? Were they one of the few families trying to eek out a living by fishing from the shore? I found myself wondering again if the small ledges had cultivated potatoes for some overburdened, hungry family before the famine wiped that existence away. It would have been a hand to mouth existence, and perhaps it was as well that the famine brought it to a close, though the manner, the pain, was still evidenced across the land in the lonely ruins and sometimes whole ruined villages. “The beauty of this world hath made be sad” Padraig Pearse wrote. I could see what he meant.

I was shaken from my reverie by a voice “Good morning, lovely isn’t it?”

“Oh, good morning, I’m sorry, I was miles away. Yes, it lovely. Are you from the end cottage?”

“Yes, we arrived yesterday, you waved I think? The rest are still asleep, I couldn’t wait to explore. Is it safe to swim do you think”

I smiled, she was as excited as a small child allowed off to play alone for a while “I have swum here a couple of times, there are a couple of jellyfish on the beach, but I guess that’s a hazard everywhere now. Is it safe though? That is a different question. I wouldn’t go out too far, when you watch the tides you can see clear flow lines round the head and across the bay. I think there may be quite strong currents”. Before I’d finished she had her shoes and socks off and was paddling.

“Brrrgh! You need to be tough to swim, it’s freezing! Still, it would be a shame not to, from such a wonderful place. Maybe this evening before dinner”

I’m not in my grave yet, I still have a beating heart and I admit I fleetingly imagined what she would look like in bathing suit. She was slim, not overly well built, but then she didn’t have the thighs and hips that often accompany growing children. Well balanced, I think it would be fair to say. I think she saw me give her the once over, but she didn’t blush. Perhaps she was confident of her looks? I bent to pick up a piece of wood. “I might see you then. Where are you planning to go today?”

“Nowhere too far, Mummy and Daddy are tired after the journey. We need some shopping, maybe the local town and along the coast”

“Glencomish is about 10 K, 7 miles, away, it has a big supermarket. Nice square too. The local town – Muckrum – has a smaller shop and a nice café – ‘Mollies’. Excellent cakes.”

“Thanks, we haven’t found any kind of information brochure. Usually rental cottages have that”

“Ah yes, welcome to Ireland; it’s a bit more laid back compared than England” I should mention that we were both English, or I thought so, certainly her accent was not quite English, there was a hidden, yes, “Sorry are you from Ulster?”

“Well spotted, Mummy and Daddy live in Belfast. I left when I was 18 and never had a strong accent, but I am ‘Norn Irish’, as my children say”

“And your husband?”

“Oh no, he’s English, he was in the army, that’s why I left at 18. It’s great to be able to come back with no worries again. My sister, is staying with us for a while. She was working in USA until” she lowered her voice so ... the leprechauns wouldn’t hear? There was nobody else on the beach “a relationship blew up. It seemed a perfect opportunity to get most of the family together again. Sorry, I’m rambling on, you came to collect firewood and you get some crazy lady talking at you”

“Not at all, it’s interesting.”

“What brings you here, are you alone?”

“Yes, well, in the spirit of reciprocation, my marriage finally broke up 3 months or so ago. I booked this on the spur of the moment to get away from it all and recharge my batteries”

“I’m sorry”

“Oh, well, it had been on the cards for a while, so it wasn’t a surprise. Still a major change after 30 years though” I could see a look in her eyes, just a flash. She was wondering, as people do. “No, before you think it, no affairs on either side (as far as I know). We just lost the spark. Sorry, I’ve embarrassed you.”

“No, I mean, well, I...”

“It’s fine, everybody wonders, of course they do. Some people just assume; I probably would too”

We walked back up the hill together and I wished her a good day. I’d forgotten the pleasure of talking to a woman with no ties, expectations or baggage. It had been a long time since I could feel free enough to talk without thinking ‘how can I make it clear we are just talking, I’m not coming on to you because I’m married’ it’s a feeling that was there even when it doesn’t need to be, like something I needed to convince myself. Of course talking to my wife had been a matter of avoiding the bear traps for years. Any small, innocent comment could be taken wrongly. And then I would wonder, ‘had it been an innocent comment? Had I subconsciously deliberately [as Maxine maintained] started the fight?’

I finished “The Long Mars” and started “Dombey and Sons”. One pannier had been packed with books, but I was getting through them too quickly.

I saw them all pile into the two cars and away they went. I watched out for their return, for this woman, my new friend, to head to the beach; but it was late when the headlights swept passed the cottage. I could see her in the kitchen rushing around to make a meal. No-one else appeared to help.

Next morning we found each other again at the beach, the tide just a little further out at the same time. “We can’t go on meeting like this” I laughed. So did she, which was good as I realised it could have been taken for flirting. I don’t think it was (flirting I mean).

“We got back too late. I suspect we always will, things are a long way, or seem to be, in Donegal. Everything is slower”

“I know. It is a place to relax, not to rush from tourist site to tourist site”

“But you only have to please yourself, we’ve got to please two teenagers, two old folk and a Karen”

“A Karen? Oh, your sister. Siblings can be hard work”

“So can parents and children” She smiled. “I’ll end up needing a holiday at the end of this week”

“Try the railway near Glenties”


“Heritage railway, near Glenties. Loads of fun for all the family. Ardara is just a little further and that has lots of tweedy shopping for people that like that”

We began to walk up the hill when she slipped “Owww!”

“You okay?”

“Umm, yes, it hurts a little but I’ll be okay”

I watched an hour or so later as the expedition set off; returning many hours later, clearly tired. Once again she ended up in the kitchen. I wasn’t spying, one of my living room windows looked that way; she was limping slightly. Her husband and sister came out of the side door and round to the front. They thought they could not be seen, I realised from her face that she could see their reflection in the car window. When they kissed I felt I could hear her gasp, but not enough; she wasn’t as shocked as I’d expected. She didn’t grab a knife or throw the dish she was holding onto the floor or dissolve in tears. Ah! She knew already!

Next morning, there she was on the beach; very definitely limping. “How did you get down the path? Your ankle must hurt a lot”

“It does, but I’m determined to get a swim. Today’s the day!” With that, and with a little shyness (I made a point of looking away, though I wanted to watch) she took off her top and her trousers to reveal her swimming costume. It was nothing overtly revealing, but it had no wired cups to emphasise small breasts, they were hers (and more acceptable size than I’d imagined they would be; yes, of course I had imagined them). Her bottom was barely disguised now, and if it was larger than it had been at 20, it could probably still hold its own with bottoms 10 years younger. She paddled, affording me ample time to enjoy the view. Perhaps she liked my appreciation, or perhaps it was cold. Eventually she braved it and flung herself in “AhhhhH!!!!!! It’s freezing!”

After swimming a few strokes she stood up and then realised, at the same moment as me, that the cold had made her nipples stand to a very rigid attention. I turned to look at the cliff “There’s a nest up there, see?” Was there a nest? Probably, there were nests everywhere. The fact was I was also standing to attention, as obviously as her. I wondered if she’d seen. When I turned back (after subtle re-arrangement) I saw her eyes flicker down; that answered that, she had seen my response. Now we were both embarrassed, she was hiding her breasts under the water, which probably wasn’t doing anything to soften her nipples. Then “This is silly, you’ve already seen them and I’m freezing” And she walked out.

“For the record, and without wishing to offend, insult or gain any advantage. Your body is fantastic”

“Thanks. I’m not sure how to take that. It’s been a while since I’ve been ogled by teenagers”

“I doubt that, you probably just don’t realise”

“Enough!” she laughed “I’m a married woman”

We started the walk up the hill, me with my kindling, she with her shirt and trousers. It was obvious very quickly that she needed help. “I had hoped the cold water would bring down the swelling, but it hasn’t. By the way, we went to the railway, it looks great. It wasn’t open yesterday; we are going back again today. The shops in Glenties were good too, Ardara is on the agenda for today”

“Here, put your arm round my neck” I dropped the kindling, I could come back and pick it up later. She didn’t argue, I think she’d realised there was no way to get back up without help, each step she winced a little. “You know, you really shouldn’t drive”

“Not really got a choice, we can’t all fit into one car”

They went away and she waved as they went passed, I waved back. When they returned I could see she was limping badly. It was late, if they’d been driving all day she would have had no rest for her ankle. Later I saw her husband and sister in the kitchen. Was I imagining an atmosphere through two windows and 50 feet? Probably, but I still felt the movement round the room was strained. I was probably making it up. What I didn’t make up was the long, intimate kiss that they exchanged at one point. I went back to my whiskey and book. Then I wandered down the darkened lanes to the bar where an old guy who looked like a tramp was playing the fiddle better than Liberace, or, oh, you know that really good violinist, Menuhin, that’s it.

The next day when I walked up from the beach she was standing looking down.

“Not going for a swim?”

“No, I couldn’t make it, my ankle is worse today”

“You need to rest it”

“I was thinking that. I might take the day off, they could all fit into the people carrier without me.”

“Couldn’t your sister drive?”

“Well, she is a scary driver, and a scared one. She has that waif like look ‘I’m a female and I can’t cope driving on my own’. Sorry, does that sound bitchy? It’s true, she uses it to get her way” ‘and her man I imagine’ I thought.

So it was that I watched one car leave with 6 people in it. One stood with a walking stick (her Dad’s spare it transpired) propping her up and waved them away, then retreated inside to tidy up. “The bastards” I said to myself, they just left her with the house work.

An hour later I walked over with a flask of fresh coffee. No plan of any kind in mind. I saw her through the window, and she saw I’d seen her else she would have tidied herself. She had been crying, bitterly. When she came to the door she looked at my face and burst into more tears.

Her sister, evidently, was stealing her husband. She wasn’t blind, or stupid. She’d said something, separately, to both of them; and both had denied it. She’d said she’d seen them kiss outside on that second day (she hadn’t seen the first kiss, nor the last one last night apparently). That, in a sense, confirmed it to her. An innocent kiss would have been explained away, not denied.

I don’t know why I kissed her, but I did. And she reciprocated. Then she hesitated. She was thinking about the consequences? No, she was thinking about the morality :

“No, not here, I can’t. I’m married, it would be wrong” I wondered not what here? Oh, I see, wow, that was fast.

“Come to my place then”

There was a silence, I didn’t try and persuade her, but she weighed things up again and then said “Okay”

As we slowly hobbled over to my cottage she was justifying it to herself “I couldn’t do being unfaithful if Tom was true to me, but this isn’t the first time, and I couldn’t do it where our children sleep [she meant in the same building, not in their bedroom, that would just be perverted], but I’ve had it with his pity sex on a Friday after he’s been away all week and pulled whatever he can. I know he does it, I’m not imagining it, at first I thought I was, but things he said, the smell on his shirt once or twice, and then a phone call from a girl – I pretended to be the cleaner, I’m not usually that quick thinking, I just said could I take a message and she said “here she started to cry again, then she continued “she said, just tell ‘big boy’ to dock his ship again, ‘he’ll know what I mean’. She said, like she was being subtle; about as subtle as hammer to his overused bollocks!” I winced “We used to play docking the ship when we first married” This was too much information I felt, but if it was doing her good... “and he is using the same games with this wee twenty five year old. I looked her up on LinkedIn, just his type, blowsy, big tits, blonde ... Sorry, no, that’s unfair, she’s probably a nice girl; he’s the one who’s playing away. Well now I’m learning from him”. At the door I picked her up and carried her to the double bed. It would be used after all. She hesitated again and then put her arms round me and pulled me down on top of her “Try not to hurt me”

“I’ll be gentle” I smiled

“No, I mean my ankle, try not to hurt me.”

Oh, male ego slightly dented, she wasn’t saying ‘oh you’re so big I don’t know if I can take it all in... ‘

“As to the other, I need wild rampant crazy uninhibited sex in gay abandon. I mean it, I need that. No, not gay abandon, you know what I mean. I’ve had enough of wee housewife, dutiful daughter, patient mother, loving sister for a while. If this is just another missionary quicky then what’s the point? Release the slut in me.”

Male ego restored, I wasn’t sure I was ready for this, but I’d give it a go.

I undressed her from the bottom up, gently releasing her shoes so as not to hurt the ankle, even more so with the ankle socks; pulling down the jeans, her pants started to slide too and she made to stop them, I reached up and pulled them further down instead, revealing her groin with all its hairiness. She was a mother of two teenagers, if she ever shaved her pubic hair, she had stopped many years ago. I left her panties just above her knees and her jeans just below to move up and kiss her hairy slit. I hadn’t had sex for a while either, I felt exhilarated, renewed. And the invitation to see her as a horny, sex machine just made it better. This was to be no well-behaved, middle class missionary sex. I let my tongue penetrate her vagina and she gave a little jump. This was not something she and hubby did apparently. I didn’t ask for details, she didn’t offer, I just concluded. Then I returned to removing her clothes; jeans, pants, shirt, then bra. She was naked. I suspect it had been a long time since she had disported her naked self like this. She could so easily become self-conscious at the extra pounds she had here and there. I made appreciative noises, not for effect; I really did appreciate her body. It was in good shape. I told her to stroke herself while I undressed (hopefully I too would be at least not an unpleasant surprise). When she saw my erection she made all the right noises to keep it firm and straight. We men can be very insecure; and for all I know I might be wanting in that department compared to the husband. But of course he was playing away, or planning to, so she wasn’t too fussed about his sexual prowess at the moment.

I lay beside her and sucked her right breast. Then deliberately, clumsily climbed over to suck her left one. Her nipples were hard, but not as hard as I’d seen on the beach. An idea! I ran to the kitchen, clutching my waving flagpole so it wouldn’t break, and came back with ice cubes. She yelped as I began to caress her breasts with them. They had just the desired effect and she stood up like, well like a woman with smallish breasts but surprisingly large nipples and areolas. They were amazing! I didn’t want to stare, I wanted to suck them for ever. But I didn’t, what I did do was slide one of the ice cubes down to her groin and hold her giggling-screaming-self down while I stroked her lips with it. She said the feeling was the most intense she could ever recall, save only for child birth “where the pain overtook any intense pleasure I might have felt”, this time it was an overwhelming and mind numbing pleasure/pain. She actually reached orgasm as I stroked her clitoris with it. I hadn’t expected that.

Then she did the same to me, I had to get more ice and then she stroked me with the ice cubes. First she stroked my chest and my nipples rose almost as much as hers, then she went south and I received the same intense mixture of pleasure and something else, not pain exactly, just like fucking a snowman. The situation helped of course, a housewife throwing herself, and caution, at me; 3 months since Maxine had left; it all built up to an explosive and immediate bang. Thing about women coming is it is generally fairly tidy, sweaty, maybe a little water soluble stuff drizzles out; but men not inserted into a woman’s vagina [editors note : other orifices are available and have equal value, this is an equal opportunities story] tend to produce sticky messy stuff. I did. We walked and hobbled to the bathroom so she could wash her hands and I could wash my cock. Then, still entirely naked, I went into the kitchen to make some more coffee. Just at that moment the aged aunt of the landlord arrived at the back door. A tea towel covered my embarrassment. “Good day to you, I see you’ve settled in nicely so you have. Is there anything I can arrange for you? I haven’t been around before as I’ve been a bit unwell in the hospital so I have” I realised she was probably about 90 and I was keeping her standing.

“I’m awfully sorry, do come in, I’ll just put something on” As I scurried out, realising too late that I was now displaying a pair of slightly overweight (but not too much) buttocks I heard her say :

“Sure, don’t need to worry on my account, it isn’t anything I’ve not seen before, and I’ve been around animals all me life, they never have clothes on” I was pretty sure a bull, even a ram, had several impressive inches on me.

I grabbed some clothes and went into the bathroom “Stay here, she won’t be long I’m sure”

Back at the kitchen we talked a little and the kettle boiled. I told her how lovely the place was; “Oh well, good, I just thought I’d check. I’ll let you get back to your visitor so I will” She indicated the two mugs on the counter, she was good, 90 or so and completely with it. I swear she winked at me as she left. As they say in this part of the world ‘she wasn’t as green as she was cabbage looking’.

I made a pot of coffee, warmed some milk, opened the Jaffa Cakes that I had been resisting for fully 10 days now and took them all back to the double bed where a naked siren was now under the covers. We spent the next two hours drinking coffee, eating Jaffa Cakes, occasionally smearing a melting chocolate covering over her lovely nipples before licking it off, and talking. I felt I was doing her a good turn, she needed someone to unburden to and I was happy to listen, as she was to me. Relationships – both of ours were shit and now we had a stranger to talk about them.

Then we got up. I know right? No sex, not wild rampant fucking, not cock-sucking, minge-licking, arse penetrating, cunt pounding mindless, grunting pleasure. We got dressed, I helped her find some more suitable boots, put my one helmet on her head and we went for a ride on Trixie. Trixie? That’s the bike. Got the nickname after one too many fixes when I first bought her, she was trixie to fix you see. She’s settled down a lot since then, or I’m a better mechanic. We road to Mackies pub and diner and had a drink and an Irish Ploughman’s each. An Irish Ploughman’s meant the bread was wheaten and the cheese was Irish Cheddar. Aside from that it was just a good old fashioned chunky cheese sandwich with pickle on the side. It was good though, and the beer was not the piss they serve in the tourist pubs in Dublin, it was smooth and creamy and a meal in itself. Mandy – my God! I had forgotten to ask her name at the start (or not heard it if she’d told me), luckily it came up in conversation – why parents name you what they do, phew. You shouldn’t have to ask a women you have seen naked and sprayed spunk on her name! Anyway, Mandy was not a stout person (beer or shape, probable not shaped stoutly because she didn’t drink the beer stout), but she appreciated trying the local brew

“We’ll not go out at night, Mum and Dad don’t like to.”

“Couldn’t they watch the children and you three go?”

“And experience the pained looks from them? ‘oh, we’ve come away with you and you’re deserting us’”

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