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.







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 … ?


Between The Times (3) … Getting The Lay Of The Land

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 three introductory pieces, you can visit them here and here and here

As we touched down at Prestwick International Airport the excitement was reaching a crescendo. I felt ready. Ready for anything. What would I do? What would I find?

I was soon to find out.

British Customs and Immigration was relatively quick. I had been worried. A 19-year old on his own. No return plane ticket home. A relative pittance in his pockets. Probably not a likely candidate to sweep through. But I was wrong to worry. There were no awkward questions. No issues about being able to get home.

“Welcome to Britain.”

Whew! I was in! I didn’t know what to think.

With a small group of other young travelers I found my way to change some money, then boarded a bus that would take us into Glasgow proper. On the bus I remember looking at the coins, and trying to decipher them and calculate their value. There were shillings, half crowns, 6d, and 3d, and large coppers (pennies, naturally). It was all so exciting.

But let’s not continue with details. Shall we get to the heart of the matter? I feel we should.

Somehow, on that first night, our 19 year old Marty ended up alone, drunk, almost penniless in front of abandoned warehouses and buildings near the Glasgow docks after midnight. Not through any nefarious means, rather his own innocence and stupidity led him there. An unpleasant situation to be sure. Fraught with potential danger.

Surprisingly I refused to panic. I considered my options. Unfortunately I was drawing a blank, beyond finding a corner somewhere to be unobtrusive and maybe grab some sleep. Just then I heard the klop, klop, klop of a woman’s heeled shoes against pavement. In the very dim light cast by the old and few street lamps I saw a woman walking alone, headed my way. She looked to be wearing a long trench coat. I was carrying a small suitcase so I was likely to appear as no threat to her.

As she neared me I put down my valise.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but do you know if there is a youth hostel nearby?”

She stopped. Looked at me incredulously. In the shadows it was hard to make out her features, but she seemed to be early to mid 30s, medium height, with shoulder length dark hair. Not unattractive.

“Oh Luv, there’s nothing like that near here. Are you lost? How did you get yourself here?”

I confessed my innocence and stupidity . How I had been led here by false promises of transportation. How I was fresh off the plane. How I had only a few British pounds in my pocket.

“Oh my. You can’t stay here Luv. Come with me. You can sleep on my couch. And my husband will drive you to the motorway in the morning.”

“Thank you!” I answered. “Are you sure it will be ok?”

“Yes, Luv. It’s fine. Come with me”.

As we walked towards her flat, I learned that Deidre was just coming home after her shift as a barmaid. She was Irish, and she and her husband and small child had made their home in Glasgow for 5 years.

We shortly arrived at a tumble down apartment building. After walking up 2 flights of stairs, we entered Deidre’s flat. A small,  one bedroom. The couch was in the tiny sitting room, and Deidre immediately set to work making it up for me. I was very tired. Sleep had been non existent for almost 2 days now.

“Can I get you anything, Luv? Will you be alright?”

“Oh yes, I’m fine,” I replied. “And thank you so much, again.”

“Good night”, she said as she headed to the bedroom.

“Good night, Deidre.”

I’m sure I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. Exhausted and relieved at my good fortune.

Then sometime later I awoke. I could see a light from under the door in the nearby bathroom. Momentarily, Deidre came out and approached the couch. She crouched down beside me and whispered.

“Are you alright Marty, dear?”

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you Deidre.”.

“Good,” she said as she lightly brushed her hand along the length of my face. Then she softly kissed my lips. I was taken aback. With sleep still controlling me, I couldn’t really think. What was happening here? But I instinctively kissed her back. Her lips pressed harder in return. And before I knew it, Deidre had slipped her hand under the sheet covering me and had found its way inside my jockies. Despite my fatigue, my cock reacted instantly. Youth will do that I imagine.

She slowly stroked while we continued to kiss. I was perplexed, but didn’t fight it. Deidre pulled off the covering sheet. I slid the jockies down. Without another word or sound my cock was between her lips. I gasped in excitement and wonder. She slowly sucked. Then ran her tongue up and down my length.

“You have to be quiet, Luv. We don’t want to wake Gerry.”

I mumbled an agreement and bit my lip.

It wasn’t long. I arched and held my breath, trying to be totally silent.

Deidre kissed me. Got up and headed to the bathroom again. I could hear her brushing her teeth as I fell again into a deep sleep.

A few hours later I met Gerry as he came over and woke me up and introduced himself. I quickly hit the bathroom, washed, cleaned up. We had tea and toast for breakfast. Then it was into his Mini for the ride to the Motorway for me to continue my journey as he headed off to work.

I wasn’t a great conversationalist. I really didn’t feel like talking. And what could I say?


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 …




The Carnality (Part 5)

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

I cried out and grunted loudly as I came. Just as I was finishing, Juliet came again … hard, with a thrilling arch that almost threw me out of her.

I collapsed on her and our breathless bodies soon eased and came into synch. I remember feeling pretty proud of myself, fucking this experienced goddess of a woman and having her cum several times. Not bad for a young lad from a small town.

We kissed some, and then, as I began to soften, I rolled off of her. I suspect that at this point I was ready for my well deserved nap. My job was done. Not an unknown manoeuvre for a male.

Wrong! Juliet was having none of that. Clearly my job was not done. We spoke for a minute or so and then she started kissing. Kissing my face. My lips. Nibbling my ear. Kissing my forehead. Then my shoulders and chest. I was no longer feeling lethargic. Blood was flowing.

As she kissed my chest Juliet murmured “That was nice, Marty. Let’s do some more.”

“Give me a minute,” I responded hazily.

“Mmhhmm” Juliet hummed, as she continued to softly press her full lips to my chest.  She slowly moved lower with her tender kisses.  I think I was moaning. When she arrived at my groin area, youthful energy began to kick in. By the time her lips began caressing my cock, I was a new man. She looked up at me with her big brown eyes. I know I was smiling. Then I remember like it was yesterday, with her mouth half way down my engorged cock she actually winked at me. To this day I’m rather juvenile about a woman winking at me. I think it’s super hot! And now you know some of the background why.

Once she was certain I was again man enough for her challenge, Juliet mounted me. From here on in, it was all about her. She rode me hard. Rising and dropping along my shaft. Slowly at first, then quicker. I studied her beautiful face as she began to grow in excitement. First her forehead crinkled, then she squinted with her eyes closed; her jaw began to sag. The tempo was steady for a while … I watched as her body absorbed the pleasure through the rhythm.  I was getting close again!

Juliet could feel my body tense as I neared another orgasm.

“No Marty!” she breathed, “Hold on”

With those words she arched hard and came with with a loud “Ohhhhhhhhh …ahhhhh”

The pumping began to ease off. I could feel myself oh so close. I held it off as long as I could. Then, it was just beyond my power, all control left my young body. It was my turn to arch with Juliet still riding me hard.

I know I shouted and then released into her, totally done.

Juliet slowly backed off on pumping me. Her breathing was coming back to normal. Some soft cooing could be heard. Then she dismounted and crawled up into my arms.

I sighed lightly and we looked into each other’s eyes. I’m pretty sure a wan smile was etched on my face.

“I need to sleep now,” I said contentedly.

“Oh no, not just yet my man.” Juliet replied

I was learning.

To be continued …




The Carnality (Part 4)

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

and part 3

As we entered our little courtyard of the house where we were staying, it was clear while Liz and Jimmy were probably getting to know each other, nothing sexual had happened, and it appeared nothing like that was going to occur.  I think Jimmy just didn’t have that sort of energy even though Liz may have been willing to engage.

After putting the new batch of wine on a small table off to the side, I joined Juliet on a small bench. She edged in close to me.  What with the warm sun and her hot body caressing mine, plus the effects of the wine, I was feeling a bit sleepy. Juliet could read the signs easily, and in her soft, charmingly accented voice said “Come … let’s go in my room and lie down and rest for a bit.”

I nodded my approval, and with that she clasped my hand in hers and with nary a word to the others, lead me across the yard to the door to her bedroom. Once inside the room and the door closed, she put her arms around me, raised up on her toes and lifted her beautiful face to match mine. She kissed me tenderly. Not with particular passion, but sexily, softly. My breathing quickened, and I was instantly hard, my drowsiness suddenly completely evaporated.

Juliet lifted off my t-shirt. She bent down to untie and remove the boots and socks I was wearing. Then she unbuckled my belt and pulled my jeans and underwear down in one stroke. As I stepped out of them, I stood before her, displayed and fully erect. Juliet eyed me up and down, smiling, happy with herself.

We laid down on the bed, kissing fiercely.  I unbuttoned her blouse and as she removed her bra, I began stripping her of her jeans and underwear. She was incredible to look at. Touching her all over felt like a mystery revealed. This youngster really had arrived!

“I want you to fuck me hard” she breathed into my ear.

She was already ready, wet, anxious. No foreplay. No waiting. No backing out. No more time for banter.

I climbed aboard and slipped in. It had been about 6 weeks since I had fucked, and I was worried about how long I was going to last. I wanted no disappointments with this woman. This was a gift I needed to keep happy.

I pumped into her deeply, but slowly.  Her legs pulled up to my hips, her heels on my ass, I loved hearing the sounds of her soft moaning. I really don’t remember the time frame, all I do recall is that it was sudden … she arched as she came, with only a tell tale grunt giving it away. Then a long hiss.

As I continued to give her more, I tried to keep the speedometer way, way below the red line. I wanted to increase the pace, my hormones pushing me. But I held back, fearful my youth and relative inexperience would end it much too soon.  The level of her moaning increased … Juliet arched again … and then again. I knew Jimmy and Liz could hear us, but I didn’t really care by this point.

Juliet’s sounds became louder, they were no longer moans, but short, sharp cries. I knew I was a gonner now …  she’d pushed me to the edge and I had to increase the tempo, as I would explode in her no matter what. I wanted it now … she wanted it now … I raised myself on my arms and it was my turn to cry out and arch …

To be continued …




The Carnality (Part 3)

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

This was going to be interesting. Was I equipped to handle it?

My friend, Jimmy, and I had arrived mid afternoon. As the conversations continued, it soon became apparent that our supply of local wine was rapidly dwindling. Luckily replacement stocks were very nearby … the village winemaker was one narrow street over and up a small hill. I volunteered to make the trek. Juliet offered to accompany me. Not so surprisingly,  I enthusiastically accepted the assistance.  As we walked up to Nikolas’ home and winery, Juliet tucked in close to me.  I judged her about 5′ 4″. As we walked, she mentioned she was especially fond of men over 6′ like me.

As Nikolas drew our wine from his casks, his wife and daughter fed us cheeses and cakes while we waited, and we all feigned conversation in a patois of various languages … Greek, English, German. Meanwhile in the shadowed reception area I had ample opportunity to drink Juliet all in. Perhaps it was the several glasses of wine already earlier consumed, but I was now far from subtle in my gazing. She was a stunning woman to behold. And both intelligent and well traveled. And lest I forget, her figure was a magnificent masterpiece of womanhood, too. I was longing to do more than behold it.

She, too, began to let down her mask. Every phrase of conversation seemed to finish with a sly smile from her. I was not unfamiliar with women’s eyes following my movements, but typically their glances, even stares, would flicker and dance across my physique, usually ending with my eyes. Juliet’s approach was oh so different. Her dark eyes mimicked a slow, crawling serpent, absorbing the feel of every muscle, each turn and nuance, seemingly tasting every square inch of my body. From her chair, 4 feet away. I didn’t feel violated certainly, though I was recognizing that Juliet was not going to be the usual  fling, if we were, in fact, going to have a fling. Perhaps not surprisingly, my 20 year old hormones were anxious to be out of the starting gate and get a crack at this 25 year old beauty.

The flasks and bottled filled, we headed back to the small house we would be sharing. In fact, that was very much the topic of conversation as we marched down.

“How long will you be here, Marty?” she asked.

“Well, I’m not sure. I need to be in London in about 3 weeks, but I’d like to see if we can get Jimmy a whole lot stronger before we head out. A week perhaps.”

“Hmmm” Juliet replied. “That sounds like enough time so we can get to know each other.”

“I think I’d like that” I said with a wink.

“I know you will.” she stated matter of factly. “And so shall I.”

To be continued …




The Carnality (Part 2)

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

Juliet and her travel mate Liz, met my friend and me at the door. Juliet was a very good friend from their home of the woman in the couple who lived in the house, but the couple had decided to prolong their stay away. They had known Juliet and Liz were coming, and had left a key with one of the village elders.

I also knew they would be there, but was told nothing of what to expect. You think Cindy Crawford is heading this post for no reason? Yes, that is almost exactly what Juliet looked like, sans the beauty mark. The 20-year old Marty froze at the doorstep. Unable to say a word. It was left to my older, more mature, and still sick friend the task of explaining who we were, how the couple would not be returning for a couple of weeks yet, and that the four of us would be sharing this small house for a time.

Juliet and Liz, who had only arrived the day before, seemed to take it all in stride. All part of the adventure, I guess. It was a few minutes later that I began to recover my composure. We stored our gear in the room where we would sleep, and came out into the small open courtyard to chat with and learn about our new housemates.

I’m all about observation and analysis. As I was trying to be discrete in checking out Juliet, I suddenly realized, unbeknownst to me, this was very much a two way street. Juliet was taking charge of the conversation, but at the same time, and in no uncertain terms, it was clear I was being sized up. It’s not that I felt uncomfortable at all. I had spent considerable time in London earlier, and had met and been involved with several women. So meeting and learning about new women, new beautiful women, and quickly was something I had jumped into with both feet. This whole trip I was on was to be one great adventure, and this looked like a new chapter with hints of great promise.

But having said that, I remember there was this doubt in my mind. Clearly she was older, very experienced, and no doubt given her stark beauty, would have men falling all over her wherever she found herself. So I did have concerns with what she would find interesting in a 20 year old, fresh from the road in dirty jeans and tee, with no particular intriguing life stories to share.

But fairly quickly I determined from the stare of those deep, dark, chestnut eyes, it wasn’t my stories or background or even keen intelligence that were going to influence Juliet.

This was going to be interesting. Was I equipped to handle this?

To be continued …




The Carnality (Part 1)

I suspect that most of you might assume (and not without good reason) that I’m only interested in younger women. Much younger women.This is not strictly the case, though in truth, it has been an unusual turn for me to be with women my age or older since I was about 25. Rare, but not out of the realm of possibility. Marcie, for example, was (is) my age

This story is about an older woman. One who showed me a lot. It took place when I was a 20-year old, and this woman was w-a-y older. She was 25! Now I know a lot of you will snicker at that … knowing full well “25” is not “old”. And, of course, it is not. But for a 20 year-old, with still much to learn, an already divorced and much more sexually experienced femme fatale certainly counts as an “older” woman in my eyes.

I have mentioned this village before, a place where I found much happiness. A refuge that is very special to me which I came to through serendipity.

How or why is irrelevant to the arc of the story, however.  I met an incredible couple shortly after I arrived, and they took this wayward vagabond under their roof almost as part of their family.

A few weeks on, I received some disturbing news, and I felt I had to leave. I was hoping to perform a sort of rescue for a close friend, who it turns out, was not that far away. It seems I had found a part of me that was not solely Marty-centered. Off I went, with my new friends to share the adventure. An adventure it was!

A month passed with the rescue successfully accomplished. The rescued friend and I headed back to the village, for what we thought would be more recuperation.

And then I met Juliet.