Chapter 17: Home Truths

0600 hrs Tuesday, April 9th 2019. 27 Castle Road

DAY 9

I awoke at my usual time and for a brief moment didn’t know where I was. Then I felt the warm body of Molly spooned against me and remembered I was in her bed, and because I was suspended from duty, I had all day to continue the love fest we had embarked on the previous morning. Or at least I had the urge but not the strength. The reservoir of six months of man juice had been drained by Molly’s gluttonous, twat and mouth in a single night. My prick, red-raw and sore, felt as if it had been rubbed with grade 00 sandpaper and I wouldn’t be able to plug an ant, never mind a vigorous, voracious woman like Molly. However there were other ways to pleasure her, and neither my tongue nor fingers were sore.

Molly’s mobile was on the bedside table and chirruped as a text message arrived. She woke at the sound, reached over and picked up the mobile, and then quickly scrolled through the message.

“Deborah sends her love,” she said, after giving me a warm kiss. “She is on board Queen Elizabeth, the aircraft carrier that sailed from Portsmouth last night and is now heading towards the Atlantic. Deborah says she won’t be able to contact me until they are on-station, whatever that means.” Molly placed the mobile back on the table. “Now I know she is OK I can devote myself fully to you,” she said, and pulled me down on top of her.

“So what was it you were doing to me last night,” I asked. “You certainly expended a lot of energy on me then?”

“It was well worth the effort,” she said, and pulled my head to her breasts. Naturally, I sucked on a nipple; it seemed the right thing to do. I was captivated by her nipples, and her twat, and her mouth, and her arms and legs, and her thighs, and her arse and – well, you get the picture. I was cunt-struck in spades. Molly Miller had my heart, prick, and balls, although my prick was worn down to a scarlet stub and my balls were sucked dry.

I switched my mouth to her port nipple and gave it a five-minute sucking and licking.

“Kushti,” she said when I had finished.

“Where did you learn east London speak?” I asked her.

“From you, of course. That’s what you said after plugging my mouth, my quim, and my bum hole, and after sucking and biting on my nipples. What does it mean; I assume it is something good?”

“It means excellent, wunderbar, fantastic, the bee’s knees, the vicar’s knickers, the dog’s bollocks, in fact supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, although I believe the word means happiness in Persian.”

“Well, it certainly makes me happy what you do with your fingers, tongue, and prick, so kushti me again.”

“I can manage some titty loving, but my cock is too sore for any insertion.”

She frowned. “I should have realised we would go ape and shag each other senseless and sore, and had a lotion ready. Actually, I was taken by surprise when you jumped my bones and never thought we would be in a sweaty, humping, heaving, love knot for hours and hours.”

“A lotion?”

“Yes, I have my mother’s recipe for Guinevere’s Balm, a lotion that soothes sore dicks and quims. You have the former, and I have the latter, and thoroughly enjoyed every minute in the getting of it!”

“Guinevere’s Balm? Is that King Arthur’s Guinevere?”

She nodded. “Yes, what do you know of the Arthurian legend?”

“The usual stuff. The sword in the stone, Merlin, the Round Table, Sir Lancelot, Galahad, the Holy Grail, and Arthur being taken off to Avalon after being mortally wounded in a battle with Mordred.”

“Quite the expert then, although it is all hogwash of course. Part legend, part myth, but mostly medieval fabrication. I dare say there was a Romano-British war chief who fought against the invading Saxons, and history has given him the legend that was Arthur. However, the Arthur legend my parents believe was set long before the Romans arrived, and the names would have been Cymric. Gwenhwyfar, Llacheu, Gawain, Mordred, Cei, and Gareth etc. In the earlier myth that my parents believe the Round Tableau is a daisy-chain comprising of Arthur’s henchmen and what I suppose you could call shield-bunnies. The Holy Grail is, of course, a Christian addition or rather a Christian interpretation of what the Holy Grail was to Arthur and his companions. Gwenhwyfar, Guinevere, was not Arthur’s wife but a nymphomaniac who serviced Arthur and his men; pulling a train well before Robert Stephenson invented the steam locomotive. Free love and group sex were what my parents indulged in when they were new-age hippy travellers, carrying on the tradition of Guinevere and the nights of the round tableau, with Arthur being so well endowed his penis was dubbed Excalibur. The location on Glastonbury Tor where I was conceived was supposedly the spot where Guinevere pulled the train. She invented the balm to soothe the sore pricks of the participants.”

I thought Molly might be having a laugh and pulling my pisser but I knew there are more things in heaven and earth than you can shake a stick at, so gave her the benefit of the doubt. I also wondered if she had ever been in a daisy chain or had pulled a train. I didn’t really want to know, especially if she had.

I changed the subject as my bladder was bursting. “All very interesting Molly, but I must go for a slash.”

.”Can you use the one in your flat, Joshua? I also have to go and I’m not into shared lavatorial time, or scat or water sports.”

“That’s okay with me. Rebecca wouldn’t allow me in the bathroom even when she was only having a shower!”

Molly stared at me in surprise. “Did you never share a shower?”

“During our first year together we did but gradually the occasions got fewer, and by the end of our engagement we rarely shared a bed.”

Molly gave me a full mouth of tongue. After several minutes of mutual sucking, we unglued. “You have a lot of time to make up, Joshua, and I’m ready, willing, and able to bring you up to speed.” She smiled, “Well, I will be after making the balm.”

We both attended to our abutilons and met in the kitchen. Molly wore a button through dress that reached to mid-thigh. She was bare-legged, and looked and smelled gorgeous. I wore my casual gear and had shaved and splashed on some Paco Rabanne.

Breakfast was a mushroom omelette so light and fluffy it practically floated out of the pan onto my plate, and was eaten in the kitchen. Molly and I behaved like a newly married couple. She sat on my lap and fed me forkfuls of the delicious meal; my hands were busy sliding up and down her silky smooth legs. After a cup of tea we went into the lounge and watched TV wrapped together on the settee, snogging, necking, and smooching, and generally working ourselves up to a pitch of lust that I for one wasn’t going to be able to assuage.

“I’m sorry Molly, but I can’t give you the shagging you deserve just now, my cock is red raw and...”

“My quim is in a similar state, Joshua. We did rather overdo the fornication yesterday but I enjoyed every moment. I can soon make up a batch of Guinevere’s Balm. I have the ingredients; there’s St John’s Wort, Meadow Sweet, Juniper and Fennel in the garden, and white vinegar, olive oil, and cider in the cupboard.” She got from me and bustled away into the garden, leaving me to clear up the breakfast things. Ten minutes later there was a large saucepan bubbling on the gas hob of the stove.

“All the ingredients are in, and it should be ready in two or three hours. It then has to steep and cool for several more hours,” Molly announced. “Meantime, we could try my soft, moist, mouth around your sorely abused cock, and your wet, licking tongue on my equally ravaged clit.”

“You mean a soixante-neuf?”

“I never thought you’d ask. Get your kit off!”

There are several variations of a sixty-nine, and Molly and I assayed four of them.

The first was with me on my back and Molly on top. The second, with Molly underneath and me atop of her, is not as popular as the first but I quite enjoy a change. The third variation is a comfortable position for both participants where the couple lay side by side with mouths at each other’s genitals. This allows the man more twat territory to reach with his tongue, and suits all shapes and sizes of participants. The final variation we tried, the standing sixty-nine, can only be accomplished successfully if the female is petite and the man is muscular. I do not profess to be muscular but Molly is certainly petite. I stood, holding Molly upside down, her imbibing my dick while I munched on her twat. I can report, with no little pride that during Tuesday morning, on the well-used Axminster carpet in the lounge, Molly and I successfully performed sixty- nine in all four modes. However, after finishing the standing sixty-nine I had to take a long rest. I was drained and my arms felt as if on fire, but I, and indeed Molly, wore huge smiles of satisfaction and achievement.

Molly re-buttoned her dress and then kissed me. “That was kushti, and something I’ve not done before.”

“What, a sixty-nine?”

We sat back on the settee and I put my arm around her shoulders and hugged her to me.

“The standing sixty-nine,” she said snuggling in under my arm. “The blood ran to my head and to your cock. You were as hard then as ever you’ve been.”

“It will be some considerable time before I get hard enough to do any good, Molly. You have drained me again.”

She chuckled. “Have no fear, Joshua. John Barleycorn will soon spring up when I anoint you with Guinevere’s Balm, there’s an aphrodisiac included with the soothing lotion.” She laid her head on my shoulder and we enjoyed a long period of just being together and enjoying the closeness.

There had been something niggling away at my self- confidence ever since Molly had mentioned ‘Denny.’ He was someone in her past she obviously had feelings for, someone she had loved in fact, and I wanted to know if he was still around and could perhaps appear again in her life. I couldn’t face having Molly reject me in favour of this Denny guy if he should suddenly reappear on the scene. It would be another blow to my self-esteem; first Alice followed by Rebecca, and then Maddy. It would be the final straw if Molly joined that triumvirate. I decided to grasp the nettle and ask Molly outright.

“I know that Denny was the first man to make love to you, but what is he to you now? Do I have to be on the lookout for him?”

There was a moment of silence before Molly replied.

“You don’t have to look out for him because Denny is dead, Joshua.” She then burst into tears. I just held her and let her weep. After a few minutes she stopped crying and I handed her a handkerchief. She dried her eyes. “When he died all I wanted to do was to join him,” she said, handing me back my sodden hanky. I decided to keep it handy as I foresaw more tears before the day was over.

“You attempted suicide?”

“I came perilously close to it.”

“Do you want to talk about it, about Denny?”

She nodded. “Yes, I want you to know all about me, Joshua.” She moved out of my arms but kept hold of my hands. “I first met Denny, Dennis, Allen, on my fifteenth birthday. His sister Marlene worked in my father’s leather workshop; in fact, she was my dad’s mistress if hippies and free love, wife swappers and swingers, can be said to have mistresses. Anyway, we had been to a restaurant in Newmarket for my birthday treat. Denny came to the restaurant to drive Marlene home, she lived in Bury. As soon as our eyes met we knew we were made for each other. I persuaded my parents to take Marlene home with them for some intensive threesome swinging. I then got into Denny’s car and we drove to a well-known lovers lane where we shagged each other’s brains out. It wasn’t just shagging it was making love, and we continued to do so for the following six months. Denny was nineteen years old and in the army and we...”

“Did he know you were underage?”

“Of course he did, but as I said, in those days if a girl was big enough she was old enough.” She smiled in remembrance. “What we had was wonderful. Until Denny arrived on the scene most of my sexual activity had been swift and generally unsatisfactory with no foreplay. On the grass, up against a wall, occasionally in the back seat of a car, with most of my clothes on. OK, so on that first time with Denny it was in the back seat of a car but he had first undressed me, and then had me gushing juice with his fingers and lips before he entered me. I came. I bit him. I fell in love and lust with him and never wanted to be parted from him. He was working in the Army Recruitment Office in Bury, and we made love every free moment he had, which was quite a lot. I knew he had other girls and was probably shagging them when not shagging me, but I made sure I monopolised every free moment he had. I was still at school but would bunk off some afternoons and spend them with Denny. He had a mate with a flat in Newmarket and we would make love all afternoon and evening. Some nights I would sneak out of my house and met Denny in the Army Recruitment Office in Bury. He had the keys, and we would shag in his boss’s big leather recliner chair. One night we fell asleep in it and got out of the office only ten minutes before the officer arrived for work. I had decided to come off the pill as I wanted...”

“You were on the pill? How did you manage that, I thought it had to be on a doctor’s prescription?”

“My mother got them and gave them to me. She had been sterilised and my father had the snip after I was born. They didn’t want more kids, or a crop of bastards being produced with the amount of freelance shagging they did. I came off the pill as I wanted to have Denny’s child. I knew he would be posted away from Bury eventually and I wanted something of him with me when he left. The six months with Denny were the best I have ever spent.” She kissed me, “present company excepted. You remind me of Denny at times. Not so much in looks; you have dark hair and brown eyes while Denny was a typical Englishman with flaxen hair and cornflower blue eyes. You’re about the same height and build, and both of you know how to pleasure a girl. You are probably better educated than he was. Denny left school at fifteen and joined the army. By all accounts, he had bunked off from school more times than he had attended. He was in the Royal Anglian Regiment, the second battalion, known as The Poachers. His battalion went on manoeuvres in Canada and he was killed when his Land Rover was hit by an artillery shell.” She started sobbing and I handed her the handkerchief again then held her in my arms and rocked her.

She pulled herself together. “Sorry about that, Joshua. It still hurts like hell. ‘A tragic training accident’, the army called it. The Land Rover shouldn’t have been in the area but Denny, who was driving, had been given the wrong map reference or something. Denny and another man were killed outright; a third man was severely wounded and lost both legs from the knees down and his family jewels. I know Denny would have preferred death rather than being legless and bollockless for the rest of his life.” She sniffed and I handed her a clean handkerchief for her eyes and nose. She cuddled to me, putting my arms back around her. “I was heartbroken, but what was even worse was to receive a letter from him a week after him being reported killed, asking me to marry him.” My handkerchief was used again as another series of racking sobs shook her body. Molly got from the settee and disappeared upstairs. I thought she was going to swill her face or take herself to bed, but five minutes later she returned carrying a sheet of paper.

“Read it and weep, Joshua, unless you have a heart of stone,” she said, and handed me the letter.