Between The Times (5) … Let’s Further Introduce Jessica

jane-fonda-1960s-hairstyle1It’s now way past time to get back to those times. This is a series on our young Marty. Some of the stories that laid the foundation for who he is … or perhaps more accurately, who he thinks he is.

Should you have missed the five introductory pieces, you can visit them here and here and here. And the two most recent episodes (all true by the way) here and here.

You just know Jessica is going to come up again, don’t you … ?

I left off introducing Jessica. Let’s do a quick review. Jessica was Peter’s wife. I had met Peter shortly after my arrival in London. Peter was a work mate of a fellow (Mick) who had befriended me. The crazy part of all this is that I had met Peter in the “City”, the square mile of old London (roughly between Tower Bridge and London Bridge on the north side of the Thames) that at the time housed the major British banks and financial houses. Yet unbelievably, Peter was a habitue of a pub where I tended bar in a far away section of London. The odds of that were catastrophic. No actually, I guess they were providential when you add Jessica to the situation. Are you up with me now?

Jessica would typically come into the pub with Peter on a Friday night. Or perhaps on a Sunday afternoon with their 4 year old daughter while Peter played football (soccer) with his mates on a nearby pitch.

Jessica caught my attention from the very beginning. She was a natural blonde beauty, usually wearing a mini skirt and her hair down and slightly bouffante-style. Think Jane Fonda in Barbarella.  It was the very late 60s after all. Think very Jane Fonda at this time. Small of stature, she nonetheless had a big presence. All heads in the pub turned whenever she came in. I know I wasn’t the only one who thought this … how the hell did Peter … not the best looking man on the planet shall we say … land such a looker like Jessica? Part of the story was their daughter of course. Peter had got Jessica pregnant not long after they had begun dating.

A couple of quick facts here. I was 19. Jessica 25. A much older woman in my eyes. Older, more experienced, more worldly in every way. But I was mesmerized by her.

And she was starting to pay attention to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Midweek Fantasizing … It’s An Uber Thing

I was day dreaming again the other day. It happens. I’m a bit fixated. Call me shallow, but these days I’m avoiding deep waters.

We were headed out from the flat in London to that event we were talking about. It was fairly early in the morning. You had used your phone to hail an Uber, and I admired your loveliness while we waited. The frenetic sex earlier in the morning was even better than I had imagined.

As we climbed into the backseat of the car, I noticed the driver, in his late 20s I’d say, raise an eyebrow as you scrambled through the door. Your hotness did not escape his attention. Nor I suspect our significant age difference as he took a quick glance at me.

I smiled to myself. I had an idea. You know the kind, the way my mind works.

As the ride progressed, I got into a bit of a chit chat with the driver. Even though he was responding to me, I could tell all his glances in the rearview mirror were of you.  You were a little sleepy and were resting your pretty locks on my shoulder.

“Oh, this will be so much fun”, I thought to myself.

As the driver and I carried on our conversation, he was a little surprised at where we were going and what we would be doing. Well, in truth, he was surprised that I would be going and doing that. But it happens a lot … I surprise people with what I can do.

“She is lovely, isn’t she?” I asked as I caught him once again eyeing you.

“Umm … why yes she is, Mate. Quite.”

“Yes, I think so, too.” I answered. I turned to you as I said it, and you smiled up at me with those big dark eyes of yours.

“Say, can I ask you a favor, then?” I queried.

“Why sure, Mate … what would you like?”

“Well, it’s probably against the rules and everything, but we’ve just seen each other for the first time in a very long time … and well … you know how it is … ”

“Sir?” he asked.

I think he had an inkling, but the age thing was confusing him.

“Well, I wondered if you’d be ok if this beautiful flower pleasured me for a bit?”

“Oh! Dunno ’bout that. Despite whot you may pfink, that dudn’t really happen that often, duz it! And not in the mornings … evah”

“Well, maybe you could just look the other way. Just this once,” I said. “And if you really want, as long as you promise not to get into a crash, you can look, too.”

“Oh! That duz it then, Mate! Be my guest. Enjoy my hospitality.”

I could hear you snicker just before you released your safety belt and bent your head over my lap. You were going to enjoy this, too.

You slid my pants and shorts down to my knees. I was, of course, already erect. It doesn’t take long with you. As your tongue followed the path of my vein up and down I couldn’t help but gasp, then let out a contented sigh. Already the driver was taking stolen glimpses.

Your tongue next circled my head, then you took me quite deep right away. My loins were already on fire as I pushed my hips up towards your face.  Ever the lady, you licked the drools of saliva rolling down my cock. Looking up at me, you gave me your naughty wink.

I wouldn’t be long, especially when you began to murmur as your pace up and down was being ratcheted up.  I had one hand on your head and the other grasping the safety handle above the window.

From up front I heard a whispered “Bloody ‘ell.” All three of us were having a good time.

I cried out. I bucked. I came.

Looking up I could see the driver’s smile in the reflection of the rearview mirror.  You looked up at me again and swallowed hard.

You squeezed yourself back into your seat and smiled … “There, feel better, now?” you asked. Your seatbelt clicked into place.

“Alright then, we’re here!” the driver said as the car slowed. “Now that was a fun trip, wodn’t it!”

You slid out of the car first, to tap your phone.

Smiling at the driver with your patented sexy grin I heard you say “Yes, thank-you, it was! I certainly needed that.”

As I walked past you two, I caught his look at me. Surprised? Jealous? Amazed? Puzzled and bewildered? Yep, I think so.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Between The Times (4) … Jessica

This is a series on our young Marty. Some of the stories that laid the foundation for who he is … or perhaps more accurately, who he thinks he is.

Should you have missed the four introductory pieces, you can visit them here and here and here. And the most recent here

It took me the whole day to hitchhike from Glasgow to London, and in typical Marty-style, I ended up in the central city late at night just as the pubs were closing. With no cash. Alas I can not tell you the tales of that night as they are well known among my acquaintances. And should they ever stumble upon the blog …  However, I will say that I was befriended by an over-the-top character, Mick, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Michael Caine in Alfie, and whose personal life was more than a match for Alfie’s story. It was the first time I had ever chummed around with a man and his wife and two young children while he expertly handled that situation and his three mistresses. At various evenings in the pubs in the center of London, I met them all, as well as many of his workmates, including one of his best, Peter.

Let’s fast forward several weeks, shall we?

I had found myself a room … what the Brits lovingly call a bedsitter. A small, tawdry room with a single bed on the second floor of a large house on the main thoroughfare in what could be charitably termed the very worst part of town. The bathroom was shared with 5 other rooms on the floor. A toilet, with a pull chain to flush (it took me fully 2 weeks to master the proper pull-technique), sink with cold water only, and a bath tub (no shower) that needed to be “booked” in advance.The bathroom’s final humiliation, however, was the toilet paper. No soft, tender to the touch Charmin here dear readers. No, you got to wipe your sorry ass from a roll of heavily waxed toilet paper with all the gentleness and absorbancy of street concrete. Colored a yellowish-brown. And that was before use.

These were the days when central heating was an unaffordable luxury for most British homes occupied by the workingclass, and my bedsitter heating consisted of a small gas heater that was activated with 2-shilling coins, the meager heat lasting at most 90 minutes before requiring more cash. The gas fire (as the Brits call them) had a 3 foot long wire cable, so moving its position was rather limited. Certainly nowhere near the bed for long, cold nights. And who wants to get out of bed in the shivering night to feed more money into the heater?

Low paying, menial jobs were also plentiful. The daily newspapers were filled with vacancy ads and adverts for temporary placement services for every kind of job. Basically, if you could walk, you were hired. I started work immediately.

There were 6 different pubs within a hundred yards of where I lived. Which to make my local? Honestly, I don’t recall the criteria, but The Bull Terrier became it. Not atypical for the times or the locale (very similar to the pic above), it had grimy yellowed brick outside, and inside hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint since between the wars. But it was very much the working man’s home away from home, and it rocked Friday nights when Paul came in and played the piano in the lounge and all the old war songs were sung and played.

It took me about a week to understand that I was spending much of my available food money on pints of bitter while learning the specialized skills of dart throwing. The popular pub manager was only too happy to hire me part time, 2 nights a week, one through the week, and one weekend night. It was an excellent arrangement. I saved my food money, got paid to hang out in the pub, and managed to get fully intoxicated each evening I worked. You see in the pub you don’t tip the barman, you buy him a drink every other round or so.  All evening long Marty would have 3 or 4 pints of bitter along the bar in front of customers, as I moved among them between serving, chatting with them over the pint they had treated me to. Thus I also learned the key facilities of listening attentively, commenting sagely, and being everyone’s excellent friend. Plus acquiring the knowledge how to appropriately mix various draught brews and bitters, and mastering the fine art of pouring Guinness for the Irish. All important life skills for a young vagabond as you can well imagine.

It was probably during my second or third week of working at The Bull Terrier that I saw him. Peter, Mick’s friend, whom I had had drinks with several times not more than a month before. And low and behold, he lived in this neighborhood!

I have calculated the chance of that happening. The population of London at that time divided by the odds of a workingman living in my area, multiplied by the inverse proportion of the likelihood of the pub I was working in on that night being Peter’s local on the nights he was home. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 1/8,000,000 I figure.

The odds were so catastrophic against, that clearly it could not, and did not, happen by chance.

Fate was definitely in control. And in this instance Fate had a name. It was Jessica. Who would teach me additional life skills.

You just know Jessica is going to come up again, don’t you … ?

 

The Carnality (Part 6) … Learning to please

This is a continuation of my story about Juliet. You can catch up here for part 1 and part 2

and part 3 and part 4  and part 5

We lay together silently, just relaxing in the sexual afterglow.

“I wonder what Jimmy and Liz are up to?” I said. “How much they heard? What they’re thinking?”

As far as we knew they were still out in the small adjoining courtyard, but we hadn’t heard anything. Mind you, we had been preoccupied with our own noises.

“Don’t worry about them. Liz knows what I’m like, so she doesn’t care. Maybe they’re getting it on anyway.” Juliet nonchalantly replied.

“Maybe” I said. “Why don’t we go out and see.”

“No not yet.  Why do you even care? Wouldn’t you rather be here with me? Besides, first I want you to go down on me,” she said.

“Have you ever eaten a woman out before?” she asked.

“Yes, of course!” I said.

This was true. I had. Several times in my young life with a few women. And I had had some expert direction from another older woman in London a few months previous. But I had never been commanded to perform this before. I was a bit startled. Taking orders in the bedroom was all new to me. I hesitated.

“Don’t you want to?” she asked. “What, don’t you like it?”

The honest truth was I loved eating pussy. And I still do.

“Yes, I like it.” I answered. “I want to”.

But the truth also was that I was, at that moment, very unsure of myself. My skills, despite my London experience and a couple of women since, might still be rudimentary. My inexperience could show. And this goddess was anything but inexperienced. My timidity was probably evident.

“That’s good, because I really want you to. I need it. I don’t get it often enough. It makes me feel so wonderful.”

My mind raced. My cock was definitely not ready for a third round this soon, so this would certainly help to keep her pleased. And heck, this would be very desirable practice.

I slid down her tanned, slightly perspiring trunk. I looked at her bush. These were the days when only porn stars and the models in very raunchy magazines shaved their pussy region. Juliet’s was full, dark, and dare I say, inviting. I wanted there.

She slowly spread her legs for me and I eased my head down. My tongue gently began lapping between her folds. I heard her sigh softly.

I continued. Gently nuzzling my face into her cunt I rose to my knees. Juliet’s legs squirmed and her breathing became heavier. The sigh became a moan as I began to share the space with my forefinger. Then my ring finger, as well. I hoped I was performing it well. She seemed to be enjoying what I was doing. Naturally I was!

My feast went on for another 20 minutes or so if I remember correctly. Juliet bucked and cried out many times during the session. She had hold of my head several times, then would release me from her grasp as the waves of pleasure rolled through her. I had never experienced a woman like this … so ultimately sensual. So at first in control, then so suddenly absolutely lost in the passion.

Finally she gasped out “No, stop! Stop! No more!”

It was easy for me to acquiesce. My neck hurt badly. My tongue was very tired. But my cock was so very hard again.  As I released my arms from around Juliet’s legs I crawled up to kiss her. Then I slid my cock into her for one last, quick fuck. She lifted her legs and tightened them around me, her arms around my neck. I pushed in hard and fast and deep. It wasn’t long, perhaps 4, maybe 5 thrusts and I came again with a loud growl.

I was done.

And thankfully so was Juliet. At last I could sleep.

To be continued …

 

 

 

It Was The Between Times (1)

“London Bridge is falling down,
Falling down, falling down.
London Bridge is falling down,
My fair lady.”

                  traditional English Nursery Rhyme

There is a short prologue post which you may wish to read should you have missed it setting up what is to follow.

London in the late 1960s found itself squarely in the midst of a drastic era switch. It was the dowdy, gritty capital of a former Empire refusing to acknowledge its demise. You could still see men wearing bowlers in the City. It would take nearly thirty more years before the Union Jack was lowered for the final time in Hong Kong, the last colonial crown jewel. Until Hong Kong was gone, there was always something of the past to be held on to.

Britain was caught up in a swirling vortex of change led by its avant-guard young generation. These were the days of Carnaby Street, the micro-mini skirt and Twiggy and swinging London. The musical British Invasion still had some legs. The Beatles’ White Album was released in October 1968, a foreshadow of the end to that era.

London, Manchester, and Birmingham were packed with new immigrants from all corners of the Commonwealth, not all of them equally welcomed by many of the existing population.

The pound sterling was at record lows and gasping.

Though the damage was mostly repaired, the mindset from WW II was still prevalent. British meant best for the old guard, though British factories were now renowned for their poor quality, and most workers needed a second source of income or graft ( a fiddle) to adequately take care of their families.

On the other hand the beer was still good.

This was the time when the overnight mail train from London to Glasgow didn’t run because of a tea pot. The union contract specified an earthenware pot; this train’s teapot was metal. No London mail in Scotland the next day because workers’ rights needed to prevail.

It would be another decade before the Iron Lady arrived to pound change and modernity into the collective and with none too kind or subtle a hand. It would cost her.

This, too, was the time the troubles in Northern Ireland were set to begin. An unwelcome, disastrous echo from history.

The economy was a wreck. The currency was between £sd (pounds-shillings-pence) and decimalization. The farthing (1/4 of a penny) had been eliminated less than a decade before but the halfpenny was still in use.

Should it join Europe or no? The between times.

And yes, London Bridge was coming down. It had just been sold to Arizona.

America had an influence of course. But it was limited. It was that place away. America seemed rather quaint in a cutsie type of way. All big and gung-ho. If you wanted to get a decent hamburger in London (Wimpey burgers were not “decent”) you had to find a restaurant near Buckingham Palace. The Brits still ate their burgers with knife and fork.

The between times. Drifting through a shadowy gloom. A glorious past remembered, and uncertain, decidedly different prospects for the future ahead.

The between times. Leaving carefree, innocent youth and seeing the world as it really was. Up close. With no safety net. An adult world. Seeking adventure and knowledge and finding more of each than could ever be imagined.

The between times. Beginning to understand that when a one in 8 million chance occurs, there’s probably a reason. Learning that while heads might be coincidence, tails is likely fate. Absorbing that your moral compass might not be true and wise in different environments and changing times. You only learn when your mind is open to different views and perspectives.

The between times. For a country. And a city. And our Marty.

… to be continued