Helena (3 page)

I met his
eyes. What a sight! Like a child who has just been unfairly
admonished, feeling the self-pitying injustice of it all, his eyes
implored me. Maybe he thought he was dreaming.

I did not stop
sucking him, pumping my mouth further down his shaft. I reached a
hand over to his chest and pressed my palm against the tensed
flesh. Slowly he fell back, relenting in his drowsiness, unable to
muster enough strength to fight against the exciting sensation I
was bringing to him, that I assumed he had only ever imagined
before.

I sucked on
him hard now, roughly with a deliberate and fast motion. I could
see his face at the edge of the light from the street lamp, tensing
in his disgraceful pleasure. I cupped his heavy testicles in my
hand, as my head bobbed on his rock hard tool.

He was coming,
his granite heavy balls suddenly jerked, heralding his ejaculation,
his copious sperm shot between my lips. I angled my neck so the
viscous liquid landed on the roof of my mouth, sliding down onto my
elongated tongue before slipping down my throat. One spurt was
quickly succeeded by another, his hot and salty seed mingling with
my own saliva.

And then I
heard him moan, whine, a deep sobbing noise like an old keener, he
covered his face with his hands and began to cry.

"Helena,
Helena!" he moaned pitifully through his splayed fingers.

I lay beside
him on the bed, my back resting on the headboard, my fulsome
breasts shimmering under the amber neon light. I lifted his head up
to my chest and buried his face onto me, his arms reaching behind
me, clasping me in an embrace, his tear-stained cheek wetting my
breasts, heightening the intensity of my already aroused state. I
ran my hand through his fine blond hair and rocked him like a baby
until I felt his tears subside.

What a witch I
am! I could see my little cocktail of drugs had had the desired
effect, his penis was already erecting again, very much, I am sure,
against his will. I reached my hand down and grasped him firmly in
the palm of my hand.

Poor little
boy! You would think that I was torturing him, and not releasing
him from forty years of frustration, from all that sexual anxiety
that had bound him all his life to arcane books and liturgical
practice, the tepid refuge from his sexual apprehension.

"No, no," he
pathetically whimpered as I set about masturbating him with my
hand. I was so wet. I could not wait any longer. I pulled his penis
by the shaft and crouched over him, rubbing my unsheathed clitoris
with the oiled head of his shaft, before placing it at the mouth of
my vagina. I slowly slid down on him, the moistened fleshy walls of
my vagina further slicked by his sperm.

I rode him
gently at first. I could hear him gasp and moan behind me as my
hips increased the pace of my thrusts, impaling myself further onto
his rock hard tool.

Freddie, it
was so exciting to have his virgin cock inside me, to tense my
muscles on him, to clench his thick rod with the walls of my
vagina, occasionally wriggling my bottom on a downward stroke so I
could feel every inch of his thick meat inside me.

As soon as the
first gush of his sperm shot up me, I came in an electrifying
orgasm that spasmed through my sex, then up my spine, seemingly
reaching up to somewhere just behind my eyes. A beautiful shock of
an orgasm that made every nerve end of my body tingle with carnal
joy. His sperm shot up me and I writhed on his pole, wanting to
savour every intense moment of pleasure, to relish each shock wave
of satiation, every drop of his plentiful sperm.

When it was
over I got off the bed and went to my room. In the morning when I
awoke, he had gone.

There you have
it, Freddie, from beginning to end, my story, our story, what
became of the vicar's daughter under your expert tutelage. This is
what I am; this is what you have made me.

Freddie, I
want to rush to you. To get through all the pre-stuff so I can
reach you, the explosion, so I can deliciously recall those
beautiful days we spent together.

But I know
that you were always one to caution against haste. Anticipation was
a necessary aspect of all pleasure. Take your life greedily, but
leisurely. You were always a quality man, a savourer of the new, of
the different, of the unique in a world increasingly concerned with
the quick, the conventional, the imitation, the pastiche. You know
that I will get to you soon, soon enough.

I return our
story to the young virgin girl, now nineteen, fretting over her
books in the university library, studious and sensible, shy and
demure. A girl a little bit lost amongst those who had not led such
a sheltered, protected life, who indulged in all kinds of bodily
abuse, who slept around campus with such casual insouciance.

By day I was a
bluestocking; by night still a compulsive onanist, forever
elaborating my fantasies, furtively reading my Anais Nin, dreaming
of dark strangers, of grand passions, of love with just such a man
as you are.

I'd never
really had a boyfriend before university. I had never 'gone
steady', as we Christian girls called it. There had been a few more
furtive and fumbled teenage kisses, a few infatuations, but nothing
more, nothing serious. I was still the vicar's daughter. I didn't
drink or smoke, or do drugs, nor, as the stereotype often goes, did
I rebel, become the wild, sexually indulgent child of tabloid
myth.

I quietly got
on with my work and my life, joined film societies and sports
clubs. I did go to pubs and parties so as not to be the college
stick-in-the-mud, but nothing much happened. Although pretty, my
family having unobtrusively made me aware of the snares of vanity,
I dressed drably, not so much as was fashionable at the time in a
kind of anti-style, but more no-style: off the peg, department
store seconds, nothing revealing, nothing at all that would draw
attention to myself.

However, young
men being so indefatigably persistent still made advances to me,
but never the boys that I wanted to. In truth, boys frightened me,
my sexuality having seemingly ossified into the fantasy world of my
nocturnal imagination, the prospect of the real thing seemed so
distant and so colossal that it terrified me. I was also such a
consummate masturbator that, maybe, I feared that the real thing
might be such a letdown. It always was, Freddie, until I met
you.

If you had met
me then, you would have found a girl who was a little too zealous
in her intellectual defence of celibacy; a girl who maybe gazed too
long and longingly at the pretty boys among the library shelves. I
am sure there was an element of repressed sexuality, as there is
with so many young people, in the occasional mood swings, the
laughter sometimes a mite too manic, the occasional depressions a
little too bleak.

It's not so
unusual for young girls of my age to begin to think that there is
something wrong with them, and of course, the moment they do, in
true catch twenty-two fashion, it doesn't take long until there is:
the self consciousness and the consequent strident defensiveness
become two huge self inflicted wounds that reify one's initial
fears.

Don't get me
wrong, Freddie, I was not exactly in crisis, but maybe you can
understand that my self-doubts made me grateful to someone like
Gregory who was prepared to take the whole bundle on; who saw
passed the occasional prickly exterior, who saw through the
self-doubt, who saw everything and was still willing to fall in
love with me.

We met rather
unromantically - although I have to say with hindsight, there was
very little that was romantic about our relationship - in the
student coffee bar. He was introduced to me by Angela, my flatmate.
It certainly wasn't anything as strong as love at first sight, but
there was a definite mutual attraction.

Gregory didn't
look like a future man of the cloth, with his tufty hair and
bleached tee shirt, an earring piercing his left ear. Gregory
looked like an ordinary student; to me he seemed a little exotic,
not like the bespectacled, pattern-sweatered boys who too
frequently loitered on the fringes of my own little social group.
To a young girl like myself, there was a dash of the dashing about
him. I liked the way he insisted on drinking beer while the rest of
us merely drank coffee. Over a stout, and chain smoking rolled
cigarettes, Gregory would make us all laugh, another affectation
being his swearing like a trooper, his jokes often crossing the
borderline between light-heartedness and mild blasphemy.

I didn't know
then that all this was affectation, that it was Gregory's way of
somehow reconciling his youthfulness with his deeply held beliefs
about the goodness of god and the resultant and equally firmly held
conviction that he had to, as far as he could, lead a thoughtful
Christian life. He certainly struggled to curb many uncharitable
thoughts about the happiest of the clappers. It was a spark of
intimacy between us, as he would lampoon their most ridiculous
excesses, their attitudes as transparently patronizing as many of
the mockingly godless's were to us.

Did I fall in
love with him? Yes, I did, of course I did. After six months, I
felt like I had known him all my life, that we were, in the old
cliché, made for each other. It felt so comfortable, so normal, and
my previous youthful fears an aberration. He made me feel so
mature. I blanched at my pre-Gregorian ignorance and innocence. In
short I had met my man; I could now get on with the rest of my
life.

And so, when I
was twenty-one and Gregory was twenty-four, we lost our virginity.
I have to say that this was largely at my instigation, Gregory not
sure whether we should commit ourselves so physically to each
other. He was going away to London the following year to do his
doctorate in theology and we would be separated from each other for
most of the year. We had decided to wait until I had finished my
degree and Gregory had completed his thesis before making the
greater decision about whether we should get married, even though,
I think that by that stage it was largely expected by everyone,
including us, that we would marry. It was not that Gregory did not
want to make love to me, of course he did, but I was so precious to
him that he didn't want to upset me in any way, and to rush things
might confuse us both. I was used to his hand straying between my
legs and petting me. I had, much to his surprise, already taken his
fingers and showed him where my clitoris was and how to rub it,
although Gregory, strangely, never liked me to reciprocate by
masturbating him. My argument was that the physical aspect might
bind us closer together. At the time, I was right.

The first
time, probably like everybody's first time, was not fantastic, and
after my languorous hours spent in self-abuse, surprisingly quick.
He came in me almost immediately. But after that we made love
frequently and more confidently. At first I thought our
love-making, especially after considerable practice, was quite
beatific, to clasp him in my arms, to hold his cock in my hand, to
feel it inside me, to feel him shooting inside me was not only all
I could expect, but all I wanted. I had nothing to compare it with.
Of course, I also loved him, so to me making love was the physical
cementation of our spiritual love for one another.

Even so, there
were frustrating limitations with Gregory. He would not go down on
me, although I longed for him to do so. Likewise, neither was he
very comfortable with the idea of me putting his cock in my mouth.
And we always, and please don't laugh Freddie, employed the
missionary position. Gregory told me, rather romantically I thought
at the time, that he liked to look into my eyes when we made
love.

I thought with
time things might change, that as we grew together, a necessary
corollary of our deepening love would be a more thorough
exploration of our mutual sexual pleasure.

Our situation
was strange because even though we were both virgins, and I, of
course, was the woman, I felt that it was I who had to treat
Gregory gently, not to be too greedy, not to go too far too soon or
else I would hurt him, or he might somehow find my lust too crude,
too disgusting and go off me.

I realized
then that Gregory was much more sexually repressed than I was, but
that this repression was a self-willed act, a consequence of his
beliefs. I could not see any disjunction between believing in god
and cunnilingus, in leading a Christian life and his making love to
me from behind. But Gregory could!

I had hoped
that I would now have been able to stop fantasizing about sex; now
that the real thing was happening why bother imagining it in my
head? But the desire within me wouldn't let go. In the darkness of
the night, alone in my room, my hand would stray between my legs,
making me feel doubly guilty, in fact trebly guilty: firstly,
because surely I was betraying Gregory by caressing myself anyway;
secondly, I was betraying him because he never registered in my
fantasies which were always peopled by strangers or half
acquaintances; and thirdly, because my fantasies were becoming more
and more outrageous, completely distanced from what happened to us
when we made love. I could never tell him that I dreamed of being
sodomised, gang-banged, bound and whipped, or given cunnilingus by
a bevy of beautiful women. What had the lurid images in my world of
sexual fantasy have to do with Gregory's gentle love-making?

I'd read my
Freud, my Reich, my Jung; I'd studied the feminists, the
sociologists and the anthropologists. I was living in a time when
society, its pleasures and its pains, was opening up and out. I
knew that it was not unusual for a woman to have sexual fantasies,
even wild sexual fantasies. Nothing was supposed to be repressed
anymore, the most unusual sexual practices were often discussed on
chat shows in the late afternoon; the body was king, its
multifarious pleasuring not only a given, not only a right, but a
veritable duty. But this was my problem, because I knew, I only
knew. The disclosure of so many varied sexual practices remained in
my mind on the mere level of intellectual abstraction. How was I
supposed to equate this vertiginous free for all of sexual variety
and indulgence with my sheltered life, with my parents' gentle
philosophies; how could I assimilate all that libidinal relativism
with meek Gregory? There was to be, as I said, no Damascus like
conversions to libertinism, no assuaging of so many years of
genteel conditioning. Sex carried all the weight of a biblical
nomenclature: I believed in sexual tolerance; in theory at least, I
could accept sexual variety; I held politically correct views about
homosexuals, bisexuals, and where it was mutually consenting,
sadists and masochists, but I didn't feel it. After my hand had
stimulated my clitoris and my mind had conjured vivid images of
domination and submission, of buggery or orgy, of what I then
considered to be the grossest practices of defilement and
depravity, I would be swamped by a terrible guilt, by a sense of
betrayal, by a deep depression that I was so sexually incontinent,
that I had so easily submitted to the temptations of the flesh,
even if, at this stage, it was only my own.