Chapter 2

Since neither had done this particular thing before, they were slow starting, It took a while to get the correct position on the bed so that Simon “Sorry, I’m not a bendy as I used to be.” and Verity “Ohh, I’m not sure, I think I’ll get a cramp!” were both comfortable.

They were practical people; there was little kissing and foreplay. Actually Verity Lamb didn’t need too much, she had dreamt about what she was about to do, to offer, last night, literally. Admittedly, the perpetrator she dreamed about was younger than Simon, in fact he was younger than she was; but that was quite vague since she rapidly lost sight of him under her skirt. In her dream, she was standing at a bus stop. She could never work out why, but a lot of her erotic dreams started at a bus stop. A man, she thought it was a man; after, when she woke, she wasn’t sure if he wasn’t the first boy she had allowed to kiss her – fifteen! Still, he had knelt down, lifted her skirt and done it, in the bus queue. She was terrified someone would notice. She woke up when the bus came.

She wondered about staying standing, but even if she would have tried it, Simon said his knees probably couldn’t cope. Did he want her skirt off? It was up to her. She opted to leave it on, this time. A tacit admission that this might not be the only time, if it was good. She sat at the head of the bed, propped up with pillows, and he lay below her, pulling himself closer with her legs. She watched the bulge under her skirt. It was almost an out of body experience, she was amazed that she was doing this. Amazed and, yes, pleased. After twenty years of married bliss – as she would tell people – she was experiencing something new. Married bliss had turned to married regular, regimented, uninspired love-making. They both felt it. She couldn’t ask her husband to do this, never in a million years. Her marriage was not unlike Simon’s had been. The spark has gone out, she said to herself, sometimes. Which wasn’t true. The flame had gone out, but the spark was still smouldering. She wouldn’t ever ask him to do this, but she wished she could; at the same time, she would still give her life for him, and he for her. Their married bliss might be married bland, but it was their married bland.

Back in the physical world, beyond her thoughts, Simon was doing his best at something he had no experience with. It does a man good to learn new skills at any age; he wished that she would give him some pointers, but she didn’t. She couldn’t tell him what she liked and what she didn’t, because it was all new to her too. She resolved to lie back and let him do what he thought best, maybe next time she’d have more idea. Oh, but next time would be his turn. She put that, and all other thoughts out of her mind and let the feelings take the lead instead. There were feelings. She liked her husband inside her, but that was very different to a man applying copious amounts of wet, warm, spittle to her. She liked to think it was usually her that provided the fluid refreshment in their love-making, though that was probably debatable; she did like him (her husband) inside, but she rarely loved him inside, she rarely got excited, very rarely sexually excited. This was different, perhaps because it was new, but she was starting to get warm and what this old geezer was doing. She hadn’t really known what to expect. She had just thought she was doing him a favour, that’s what she had told herself. An odd favour, she thought. Oh, maybe I’m not being honest. I’m enjoying this. I’m being a bit of a slut and I’m enjoying it.

She didn’t think she was two-timing her husband, Simon wasn’t getting the whole thing. His tongue finally gave up trying to get as far inside her as possible, and connected with that small nodule packed with nerves near her entrance. She jumped. That was very nice indeed. A wet tongue was better than a dry hand, she discovered. And someone else’s wet tongue was infinitely better than her own dry hand. She started to relax. She had thought she was doing him a favour; but really she had been curious too. Now she was enjoying it.

“Oh, that IS nice.” she murmured. “Oh, yes, I hadn’t realised. It’s ... umm, a little lower.” She was starting to guide him as he moved on and off her G-spots – the places she found the most erotic. Oh yes, this was good. It was very good. His tongue slid – more like a slap of wet fish than a delicate flicker – across her clitoris again; she had nothing to compare to, so it felt wonderful. Later, she would definitely know more, but for now it was delightful. She wiggled with pleasure. Finally, she started to pant. She started to feel out of breath, like she felt after walking up Skiddaw in the Lake District – elated, out of breath but on top of the world. Was this an orgasm with oral sex?

No, apparently not, because her breathing got deeper and faster. She wasn’t there yet, it seemed. She just didn’t know if the climax would be the same with a tongue and lips down there compared to her fingers, or his – her husband’s. She’d had one orgasm before she met her husband, one orgasm with a man, that is. One hand slipped up her skirt and tugging at her pants as she lay on her back in the sand dunes. One hand gently stroking her. She come, and been willing to let him inside; but terrified she might get pregnant. She was sixteen and had opened her legs and let him pull down her pants and then started to cry from fear. She was lucky. He was a good man and had stopped. Well, he wasn’t yet a man either; he was sixteen too. He’d told her to dress and they had walked home. He’d been very nice about it. Then he’d gone away – he’d got an apprenticeship with a company in Aberdeen. Later, when she met her husband, she’d been more careful about what she allowed.

When they were married, she had never once had an orgasm with him in her, even though she let him think she liked it all, and she did. She liked that he enjoyed it, she liked that he made his special noises, she liked that he loved to be inside. At least, he had in the past. Perhaps now it was more an animal thing, any woman would do to relieve the need, and she was his woman. He was faithful, she knew that. But it could have been because he had no opportunity. Maybe if a young girl offered herself, he’d take the chance? She was less confident of herself, more confident of his fear of such a leap. He often rubbed her; but, after, she always felt that he had dragged her climax out of her. This was different, this man was enjoying himself licking her most intimate parts and loving every minute of it. He was achieving one of his ‘must do before I die’ moments, and she was the object. She knew he didn’t care who it was; she didn’t mind. She was enjoying it and “ahhhh! Oh oh oh oh!” That was definitely an orgasm, she knew it was like others she had had; the difference was that she had no idea what she had said or how loudly she had said it. She had been so in the moment.

“That was -” she started to say

“Phenomenal”

“No, it was -”

“Lovely?”

“No, it was ... interesting.” she looked at him as he smoothed down her skirt for her. “You can turn around please, I want to put these on.” She pulled a pair of pants out of her bag. He looked at her, shrugged and turned around. He was seventy four and still didn’t understand women, he was too old now. He had had his face intimately in contact with her genitalia, he had seen every wrinkle, his tongue had gone deep inside her, as deep as he could; and now he had to turn around so he didn’t see her putting her knickers on. Still, he didn’t mind, it was worth it. He was already wondering about his biggest regret. “Look, we don’t have time for ... the other, today. Could we, maybe, do it next week?”

“Oh? Next week? Yes, certainly. Errr, thank you. Oh, and thank you for that. I mean, I never expected. Honestly. I -”

“Shhh.” She kissed him, turned, unlocked the door and walked out with a smile and a distinct spring in her step. She went to find Celia Bingley and listened with a smile to her same story of being married soon, and offered to be a bridesmaid, which made Miss Bingley beam with delight. Verity knew that fifteen minutes after she left, Celia Bingley would have forgotten the whole conversation; but what did it matter? Celia was happy now and then she would revert to being content in her fairyland again. On the way home, Verity bought a Big Issue from a street seller and, for the first time she talked to the seller for a while. She had always had a slight feeling that ‘these people’ were shiftless, she began a slight shift in her attitude.

Simon came out not long after Verity, his face had a grin a mile wide as he passed Angelique Dumonde, a woman of West Indian extraction. Angelique had come over with her family from one of the smaller islands when she was nine. She had experienced the usual levels of acceptance and casual insults whilst at schools. The children played with her happily, while, at the same time calling her a black bastard – words they had heard from their parents. Angelique, as a child, thought little of it. Now she was an adult and wondering why she had to continue to hear such terms from the old people in the home. Simon had never been rude to her, but he had never been that interested in speaking to her either. He wasn’t racist so much as isolationist. He had no desire to socialise or fraternise with the workers. For her part, she had no thoughts either way about him. Some – like Mr. Angus – with their dementia well advanced, were unconscious of their deep prejudices erupting at times; some – like Mrs Smedley – were pointedly polite in a way that demonstrated quite clearly that they did not enjoy black hands helping them onto the commode. Hilda was always friendly – Simon and Angelique both suspected that the semi-respectable aspect Hilda had now hid a much tougher (and more interesting) upbringing. She had lived in Cardiff when it was a vibrant port of multiple nationalities; she had known pubs that respectable people should not even know existed. She had a history that someone should write down, Simon felt; but Hilda kept most of her past to herself.