Chapter 5

“Holy shit mate, the room smells like a bloody BROTHEL.”

His voice sounded like it had come out of one of those London fogs. My face was to the wall as I awoke from what seemed a drugged sleep. Turning over I saw the face of my roommate Ryan just a bit higher than mine on the pillow. “Were you in here with that girl or her entire dormitory?” He went to the window and cranked it open. “If we don’t get some air in here soon Chadwick the smell alone might make me so horny that I’ll attack you.” He came back over to my bed and shook me. “Wake up mate.” When he saw me lift my head he said, “Damn, had I known that you were such a stud I would’ve had you bring me one.”

The smell was coming from my own bed. Before I had sex with Sioban in Ryan’s bed we laid one of the bath towels down in case we got a little messy. It was the bottom bunk and the only one that made sense. But since Sioban squirted so much when she got excited it didn’t take care of the excess. So, after I walked her back to her quarters, I took the sheets off Ryan’s bed then stripped my own and put my sheets on his bed and vice versa. I rinsed the towel in the washbasin and hung it on the shower rod to dry. My nose stopped sensing the aroma but for my roommate, it was like stepping into a sexual fog.

“I’ll say this for you mate,” Ryan added, “your activities with the girl—whoever she is—certainly stimulate my imagination.” I knew he would get as much mileage out of it as he could and share it with all his mates. The tale would be shared with their respective mates and my reputation would be enhanced. One night would define this teenage freshman as a “world-class cocksman.”

Had Ryan gone high school with me he would have known better. The girls flocked to athletes and the guys in the band. They were getting into girls’ pants, not nerds. I was a pure student going for the kind of extra scholastic credit that might put me in line for the kind of scholarship I was now enjoying in London. I had kissed a few girls and felt a couple up but that was the extent of my romantic endeavors.

Meeting Colette was a stroke of pure luck. I was the kind of young male she preferred sitting by myself in a row of three seats near the front of the airplane. It was a big plane with two aisles. She could have taken the other aisle but chose the one I was in. So, by sitting in the right seat in the right aisle I became the Colette Bentley project du jour. After we landed, she took me home and had her way with me, giving me a crash course in fellatio, cunnilingus, and coitus with side features that included clitoris and G-spot.

Then there was Sioban, who discovered me on the first day of class. Though she hadn’t achieved Colette’s stature in sexual predation maybe she recognized what Colette saw in me. She wasn’t looking for a romantic affiliation just an acceptable boy who would give her the kind of sex she was looking for. Perhaps it was only because Colette got my juices flowing in the first place which brought out such attractive sexual vibes.

Only a couple of days before Sioban and I met I was a sexual zero. To top it all off she became the first female to tell me how great a lover I was. I didn’t know whether she was really impressed, or if she was merely bullshitting me. She had the benefit of enough varied sexual outings to hone her knowledge on the subject. If what she told me was true, she was the first beneficiary of the Colette Bentley sexual teaching method for the current period.

As Ryan went on about the room smelling like a bordello I wondered if he knew what a whorehouse smelled like. But unlike me, he was a real college sophomore after all, and I was technically still in high school pretending to be a college student. If Sioban was an example of what a typical Brit girl was like, he was just living in a society where the girls were more sophisticated about sex than their American counterparts. Ryan was knowledgeable enough to voluntarily vacate the room so Sioban and I could frolic in his absence so he logically could know what a whorehouse smelled like.

At any rate, he was acting like I was a real stud. Having no idea that I was only low-hanging fruit for two sexual predators he probably thought I was an old hand at sex and had it all the time. The irony was that in the few days I had been in London I practically did have sex all the time.

When Ryan suggested that I go to Spike’s for a pint that night I didn’t want to go. He had been ribbing me all day calling me Casanova and Lord Byron so I winced at the possibility that he would tell his mates about my debauch in the room and they would make it even more preposterous. Heeding my father’s advice (“With guys, son, if you don’t face the music, they won’t respect you and will close you out of the group”) I sucked it up and went to the pub. Before the end of the night the group dubbed me “Axe-wound Arthur”, abbreviating it to AWA (ax-wound is a British slang term for vagina).

When I got back to quarters there was a phone message in my mailbox at the front desk that read, “I’ll pick you up at 3:00 pm on Friday. Pack a few things, your razor, and your toothbrush. We will be away ‘til Sunday evening, Colette.”

Holding my backpack, I stood in front of my residence hall. It was still warm, so I put in a pair of shorts and an extra t-shirt, a couple of pairs of underwear and socks. I took my DOP kit. Colette would be taking me to her cottage at Bourne on the Water in the Cotswolds. When she sent the message, she didn’t include her phone number, though I had it. She didn’t ask me to confirm either, just instructed me to be there. I guess if I had not been there, she would have just kept going. I knew she was spontaneous ... might even have picked up another student that could have appealed to her in the same way. She put no pressure on me nor I on her. Though I doubt pressure on her would have done me any good.

Dutifully waiting I was anxious to see her again, to prove to myself that she was really what she appeared to be that night on the plane and the day we spent in her flat. She pulled up in a classic white 1953 MG TD with a red grille and red leather seats. Wearing a black, short sleeve top and a black baseball cap that her auburn ponytail stuck out of the hole in the back. She wore American Optical Pilot sunglasses, the tinted ones, not the ones that look like mirrors.

“Nice to see you again Arthur,” she said. “Throw your kit in the boot and hop in,” When I climbed into the passenger side of the open car, she placed her hand on my cheek and kissed me tenderly on the lips.

“Where are we going?” I asked, my heart had dropped into my stomach from the kiss.

“To my cottage in the Cotswold’s,” she said, “I go there every couple of weekends each month.”

I had heard people talking about “the Cotswold’s” but had no idea what it was.

“Borne on the Water is a charming, almost fairy tale place Arthur. I’m pleased to be able to take you there and enjoy it with you.”

I couldn’t help being swept back to our introduction on the plane: the hand job she had given me, then the day we spent together in her flat where she gave me a crash course in sexual “how to do it.” What had gone on in the last two weeks for me was living in the fast lane compared to the humdrum existence I led in the U.S. before my departure to England.

I had been so committed to my studies at home that, apart from dating not much had gone on in my seventeen years. In retrospect sacrificing study time for girls was a nonissue, studies had come so easy for me. Here in the U.K. I was being sexually tempered by two libidinous females. I was being educated in a sophisticated, foreign college, living with an Englishman who was sporting me to the pub and drinking pints a couple of nights a week. And now I was in a classy sports car being driven by this elegant “older” woman to her “fairy tale place” in the Cotswold’s. Who at home would have possibly imagined that Arthur Chadwick could be living a life like this abroad?

The wind rushing past my ears and mussing my hair riding in the sporty convertible made me feel like a rake. I was wearing a black, sleeveless top, camel-colored Bermuda’s, and white low-cut tennis shoes with white ankle-length socks. Colette looked incredibly sexy. I had seen her naked before, but her clothes enhanced her body, her breasts molding into the dark top and her legs showing to perfection in her shorts. She reminded me of a race-car driver as she shifted and down-shifted going around the roundabouts. When we got onto the highway it was smooth sailing except when we would come upon a truck or slower car. She would downshift then shift and accelerate as we passed. The black baseball cap with her ponytail poking out the back made her look like a college girl. Years older than me though she looked so sporty and young. Just looking at her face in profile had me cursing myself as I imagined my rigid sex plugged into her mouth the way I had seen it that day after having arrived at Heathrow.

There must have been something on my face she noticed as she glanced over and said, “Penny for your thoughts Arthur.” I blushed. She noticed. “Come on Arthur, out with it.”

“I,” I started but I had difficulty being candid with her yet.

“Come now Arthur we’ve been naked together in bed, I’ve sucked you and we’ve fucked, let’s hear it.”

“I – I was imagining you ... um b-blowing me.”

“With a youthful giggle, she said, “You naughty boy you. I thought you might have been thinking that very thing. It’s so good that you feel comfortable enough, to be frank with me ... GOOD SHOW.”

She patted my thigh and gave my cock a quick grasp. “I think it would be a marvelous feat for me to be able to drive the motor (British for car) and suck your cock at the same time.” She felt my groin again and patted my growing bulge. “Nice package,” she said with a giggle. “I still haven’t gotten over how a young lad like you can have such a generously crafted sex organ.”

After having heard plaudits from both Colette and Sioban about my endowment I was beginning to believe it myself. I was aware of the difference from being in the shower with other guys, seeing that I was at least better “hung” than most of them. But I never gave thought to what any of them would be like hard. Being with two women who knew what other guys were like and having them praise me in this way was making my ego swell to the tumescent size of my penis.

For the next couple of kilometers, she seemed to be absently caressing my bulge finally saying, “Zip down Arthur, and let’s get that Willie of yours in the wind.”

What she said made me want to scrunch down in the seat and hide. I dreaded the thought of people passing us and seeing my pecker exposed like that. I didn’t want to do it. But with a frolicsome laugh, she said, “People in other motors won’t be able to see what is going on in ours ... he-he-he ... but the truckers will love it. Some will even toot their horns.” She grinned at me and added, “I don’t understand Arthur. The way most males love their penises I would think that a person like you, who not only has a large Willie but a pretty one, would like to show it off. Besides, you don’t even KNOW any of these people.”

After a few kilometers of being cajoled, I agreed and unzipped my pants, pulling out a colorful erection. “That’s a good boy,” she said, “and I must say that it is certainly easy on the eyes (she giggled), if not a bit intimidating, he-he-he.”

Downshifting to pass a black car with an old couple in it she upshifted and gained speed. Her hand came off the gear shift and clasped my knob like a team captain capping the end of a baseball bat when choosing sides. As she wrapped her fingers around my shaft she said, “Human anatomy is the most MARVELOUS thing, Arthur. I can never get over the feeling of a hard, yet soft erection.” After a contemplative chuckle, she continued, “Young ones are harder than older ones, but all hard cocks are soft and silky to the touch.”

In a way, I felt funny having Colette’s hand on my dick while comparing it to others that had been in her hands. It seemed like there must have been a lot of them. But it brought to my mind that I had been a virgin when we met when she introduced me to sex in such an interesting, joy-filled, and guilt-free way. After having been raised with and around so many people who made sex a veiled and even taboo subject, Colette approached it with a joie de vivre that was infectious. And having been with—and inside—Sioban who was equally enthusiastic about pursuing sex, I was beginning to understand that being horny and enjoying sex was not just a “male thing.” It could be universally enjoyed by both sexes, just not shown off with such visible flair by most women.

After having felt uncomfortable in being exposed this way I began feeling daring and even sophisticated. There was no question that I loved the feeling of Colette’s hand caressing and stroking me while she navigated the highway. It seemed that every time I came close to popping, she would remove her hand to shift or guide the steering wheel. Or maybe in simply understanding my urgency, she scaled back her manipulation ... she was certainly an expert at handling me in this way. And there WERE leering truckdrivers who honked or put their hand out the window emulating a jackoff stroke or giving a “right on” gesture. At first embarrassed, I soon began feeling braggadocious about it.

I don’t know whether or not it was a practiced routine with other males on this section of highway where the road was smooth and straight or if she had just perfected it on me, but I would say that about twelve kilometers went by with Colette giving me the most fantastic hand job I would ever know. Before the road got curvy again, she jerked with a purpose. Seeing how long I could resist cumming I clamped my butt so tightly that I was hoisting myself out of the seat. Reaching between her legs she produced a white handkerchief and said, “No need getting your splooge all over the upholstery Arthur, let it go.” After releasing my load into the hanky there was a buzzing in my ears and my strength was entirely sapped. Yet it was the most relaxing moment I had ever experienced in a car.

While the curvy road required Colette’s attention, she kept looking over at me with a satisfied if not adoring look that seemed to make her face glow. When the road straightened, she upshifted, reached over, took the handkerchief, and held it close to her nose. Sniffing she said, “Don’t think I am too strange Arthur but sperm to me is one of the most elegant perfumes I’ve ever smelled in my life.” Giving me a sidelong smirk, she touched her tongue to the mess in the hanky and added, “And yours my lovely boy is a fragrance as pure as I’ve ever smelled. Chuckling she added, “And it tastes DIVINE.”

Recalling the first time she sucked me at her flat I remember feeling astoundingly overwhelmed and unsure of myself. I wanted so badly to shoot my jizz into her mouth but felt it would be disrespectful. When I tried to pry her head off my dick, and she refused to budge I felt both exhilaration at letting yet shamed when I came. But when she eagerly swallowed and gulped it down, I was confused as I wondered how in the world can she DO that? Then, when she looked up at me with a satisfied smile, I had to deal with the question of how can she actually enjoy swallowing that nasty sperm? I remembered my mom giving me cod-liver oil, can this be like that? But Colette just became more passionately intent on seducing me completely. It was then that I began realizing that sex was an act that brought out the kinkiest behavior in human beings. Sioban had done the same thing and seemed to relish my nasty sperm just as well.

During this weekend I would be discovering other varieties of kink. While at first thinking it was strange behavior I was surprised at how quickly I fell in love with the whole concept of sex and its questionable vagaries.

As we pulled off the highway and made our way to Bourne on the Water it appeared that we were driving into an enchanted, fairytale setting. The houses were of honey-colored stone or stucco, some were white with unpainted, weathered timbers in the stucco ... most had thatched roofs, but many were gray slate. Colette turned the MG down a lane and drove about two hundred meters. Slowing she turned into the driveway of a one-story cottage behind a white picket fence with a gate. There was no garage.

I followed her to the front door which she unlocked and opened. Reaching inside the door she released something and pushed the top half of the door all the way back—It was a Dutch door, where the top opened separately. I had seen pictures of that kind of door but had never gone through one for real. Stepping inside she closed the bottom half of the door. Standing inside the cottage she faced me with the upper part of her body framed above the closed bottom door. Smiling at me it was as if she were posing for a picture. “You’re cute,” I said, feeling a little unsure of myself in saying it but thinking that I’d better try and say something she might herself consider “cute.”