I don’t know what time it was when I woke up, but as soon as I tried to lift my head from the pillow to look at the clock by my bed I wished I hadn’t. It felt as if a thousand hammers were thudding into my skull, my mouth tasted of ashes and I felt very sick. I groaned and shut my eyes and waited for the pain to go away.
I must have fallen asleep again because when I surfaced to some kind of consciousness again the world beyond my eyelids seemed brighter, although I still didn’t dare open my eyes. The pain seems to have receded a little too, probably because two sets of fingers were gently massaging my temples — small fingers, a girl’s fingers! What the hell? Girls weren’t permitted in the men’s halls of residence in those far-off days, nor men in the women’s halls come to that. It may have been the Swinging Sixties, but universities were still stuck in the dark ages.
For a while, I was content to just lie there. Trying to think was like wading through thick mud, so I gave up the effort of trying to remember until something like sanity returned. Slowly, however, random pictures began to rise up out of the miasma, and eventually I was able to piece them together into some sort of coherent story.
My newfound friend on the same landing in our hall — this was only a few weeks after the start of the fresher term — was a jazz aficionado and even had a collection of about fifty rather scratched vinyls and a Dansette record player. I had discovered jazz a couple of years earlier when my then-girlfriend gave me an EP of Duke Ellington for my birthday, but I was no expert. John, on the other hand, came from London and had been a regular at Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club since his fifteenth birthday — he had lied about his age since you weren’t allowed into licensed premises until the age of sixteen.
Anyway, as soon as he arrived in Bristol he had looked out all the local jazz clubs, and every Friday night while we were all drinking in the Students’ Union Bar he would disappear, to reappear around lunchtime the next day with bloodshot eyes and the mother and father of a hangover. I have no idea where he spent the night, quite possibly sleeping it off on some bench in the university gardens — it was an unusually warm autumn that year.
That particular Friday he had invited me to go with him to a pub he had heard about near the docks where he said there was apparently a particularly good amateur combo topping the bill. We caught the bus into town — very few students had cars — promising ourselves we would leave the bar before well in time to catch the last bus. When we eventually found the place, it was in a dingy back street. The interior wasn’t much better — with a cracked linoleum-covered floor and walls stained dark brown by nicotine, all shrouded in a pall of thick cigarette smoke, but the beer was cheap.
The first couple of acts weren’t much good so we sank a few beers and got through a couple of packets of fags while we waited. Our patience was rewarded however, because John had been right, the main act may have been amateurs but they were electrifying — the sax player was good enough to play with any of the top bands, and his improvisations were out of this world. My problems started after they had finished. I’ve never been a great beer drinker, but I think I must have had at least ten pints and the last couple of hours are just a blur of fags, faces and the flatter of people talking far too loud. There was a girl I think. Actually, there must have been a girl since it was in her bed that I woke up, but that is moving on a bit.
Once I could think fairly clearly I began to piece together what I could remember about the girl, presumably the girl who was stroking my brow. Somehow she seemed to have joined us during the main act, very politely asking if the chair next to me was free. The first thing that struck me was her voice. Her English was good, but a little precise as is often the way with people where English is not their first language, with a delightful French accent. I don’t know what it is about girls who speak English with a French accent, but I had always found them extremely sexy ever since I had stayed with a family in Paris when I was fifteen. She was petite — probably not much over five feet tall — with short black hair, and wearing a red tee-shirt and a very short mini skirt that barely covered the cheeks of her pert bum. She was bare-legged and wearing black flat-heeled shoes that my mother would have said were slippers, not shoes. Oh, and she was braless, with small breasts but very prominent nipples that made the two most delicious points in her tee shirt. I vaguely recall thinking that it would be rather nice to suck them.
How I ended up in her bed I have no idea. I don’t remember leaving the pub or how we got there. Presumably, we walked. I have no idea what happened to John and I didn’t see him again until hall dinner on Monday evening. I later found out that her flat, which she shared with two other girls, was only about a mile and a half from the docks.
At last, when I felt a little stronger, I managed to prise open my eyes without feeling dizzy, and it was only then I realised I wasn’t in my room in the hall, but in a strange bedroom. I gingerly turned my head and took in the floral curtains, and dark red painted walls covered in posters. Finally, my eyes lighted on a vision of sexiness sitting next to the bed wearing a white cotton vest and knickers, looking at me with a concerned frown on her face and rosy lips pursed in thought.
“You need coffee,” she said in a husky voice, “proper coffee, not that instant muck you get in the shops here. But you are lucky. I brought a supply with me when I came over in the summer since I knew that you English were such barbarians. Stay there, and I will make some.”
Quite frankly she didn’t need to tell me to stay there, since I wasn’t going anywhere soon. I had the whole weekend and my imagination was already working overtime thinking about all the rather naughty things that we might possibly get up to, if I was lucky that is. My cock was well ahead of me, and was raising quite a tent in the thin cotton sheet covering me — I had quickly realised that I was naked and that she must have undressed me before putting me to bed to sleep off my drunken stupor.
While she was gone I had a closer look at the posters on the walls. Many were the kind everyone is familiar with … copies of Impressionist paintings and pictures of Paris … but there were a few racier ones of female nightclub singers in tiny black dresses and burlesque artists in very little more than a sequinned g-string. I had fucked one or two girls back home but they were all rather prim and proper, preferring to undress in the dark, but if her taste was anything to go by, this girl was something else altogether. I wasn’t wrong.
When she came back she cradled my head with one arm, with my face resting against her soft breasts, and fed me strong sweet black coffee from a mug. It was delicious and when I finished it I felt much better.
After she had put the empty mug down on the bedside cabinet, she glanced down at the sheet, and giggled, “I think we need to do something about that monsieur,” and stripping off her vest and knickers quickly slid under the sheet beside me.
She cuddled up to me and slowly slid her hand down my chest, across my tummy and through the forest of my pubic hair until she reached my cock. Circling it with her fingers she began to slide her hand up and down the length of my throbbing shaft which made it jerk. “You do have the most beautiful specimen of a cock monsieur, and I love that it is circumcised, it exposes the helmet so nicely, I must suck it,” and she dived under the sheet and took the head of my cock between her lips.
My god, she was a true expert. The way she sucked and stroked, and probed with her long pointed tongue was beyond heavenly. However she wasn’t going to let me cum, and every time my balls tightened and my cock muscles began to contract, she would give a little squeeze just below the glans, until the urge to ejaculate had passed. Then she would begin again, teasing me until every never ending in my body was tingling with delicious arousal.
After about half an hour of this exquisite torture, she resurfaced and kissed me passionately on the lips, her tongue flicking salaciously into my open mouth. “It is time for you to fuck me now monsieur,” she whispered, “see I am already very wet,” and taking my hand she pressed it against her mound of love, where her swollen inner lips were pushing through the tight curls of her pubic hair.
As I said, I had had little experience of female sexual anatomy, but even in my ignorance I realised that her clitoris was unusually large, like a little penis, and I squeezed it gently between my first finger and thumb which made her moan delightfully.
With cat-like grace, she swiftly straddled my upper chest and pressed her swollen labia against my lips. “Lick me monsieur,” she said, “and make me cum,” and began to ride my mouth with rapid undulations of her hips.
I had never licked a pussy before, but I soon caught on to what gave her the greatest stimulation, and I was soon alternating between licking her slit from her tight little arsehole to her clitoris, sucking her labia into my mouth and savouring them like succulent pieces of ripe peach, and sucking hard on her throbbing bud. The taste and scent of her juices were delicious, sweet and musky like the finest Muscatel wine. The way she writhed above me was the most erotic experience I had ever known up till then, and my cock became so hard it almost hurt.
She took my hands and lifted them to her breasts, “pinch my nipples monsieur,” she moaned, “harder, oh harder,” as multiple orgasms swept through her body as fast as clouds across the sky in an autumn gale.
After she had been cumming almost continuously for what must have been nearly half an hour, she slid down my body and impaled herself on my cock, taking my entire length inside the slippery velvet sheath of her hot vagina. Then like some Napoleon astride his mighty steed leading his armies to battle she rode me until time became a blur and my whole being was concentrated on my throbbing cock. I was not doing the fucking! I was being fucked by an expert and I loved it.
I have no idea how many orgasms she had, they just seemed to go on and on, but eventually, my body exploded in a paroxysm of intense ecstasy as my pulsing cock pumped stream after stream of hot white semen deep into the heavenly depths of her rippling tunnel of love. It may seem unfair that women can experience orgasm after orgasm, but I had no reason to complain as the intense sensations of my climax swept through every muscle in my body in a wave of exquisite sweetness.
We slept for hours, exhausted by the excesses of our mating, but when I awoke all signs of my hangover had vanished into the air, and I felt more alive than ever before. It seems almost incongruous that we were still strangers after the intimacy that we had shared but over an early supper in a little bistro that she often frequented we introduced ourselves in a more conventional manner. Her name was Jacqueline and she came from a town on the outskirts of Paris where her father was in charge of the large SNCF marshalling yard. She was studying psychology at the University of Paris at the Sorbonne and had been offered the opportunity to study for a year at Bristol University before taking her final examinations. In return I told her about all about me, that my name was Keith — she always called me monsieur or Keissy — and that I was in my first year of the honours course in Microbiology.
She told me that she was sharing the flat with two English girls in the final year of a Sociology degree. “They are studying the social anthropology of the islands of Polynesia and Melanesia at the moment,” she said, “ and they’ve got a book written in the nineteenth century full of the most explicit details of the sexual practices of the women before they were suppressed by the missionaries. Every Sunday afternoon we sit naked in a circle masturbating while taking it in turns to read the most exciting passages.”
“My flatmates are lesbians,” she added, “they are away this weekend, but when they meet you I’m sure they will let you join us, and even watch them making love. It is so lovely and sensuous and so different from fucking a man. Me, I like having my pussy made love to and I adore the taste of pussy, but I do like a handsome man with a nice hard cock, and I’m sure that you and I are going to have a wonderful time together for the rest of this year before I have to return home.”
For the rest of that university year, I spent the weekends with Jacqui and her flatmates. I had lectures on a Saturday morning, and I always tried to get my notes up to date straight after a lecture, so I would not join them until tea time. We got into the habit of eating out, and tried a variety of different restaurants, but our favourite was the little bistro where Jacqui had taken me that first weekend. Afterwards, we would go back to the flat and make love as a group well into the night. I discovered that I was both a voyeur and an exhibitionist, and enjoyed watching others and being watched having sex.
We would sleep late on Sunday, but after lunch prepared by one or other of the girls we would sit around masturbating in a circle whilst taking it in turns to read a chapter from their book. The two English girls would often invite their friends to join us for our sex sessions — both men and women — and Sunday evenings would often end in an orgy. By the end of the year, I had lost count of the number of sexual partners I had fucked, and I had experienced the delights of threesomes or foursomes many times.
At these sessions, the men always used a condom, but when I fucked Jacqui she insisted that I fucked her bareback, “I like the feel of your hot cum inside me,” she said, “fucking with a condom is like your English coffee, bland and unexciting.”
I have no idea how she didn’t get pregnant. The pill was only prescribed to married women in the U.K. in those days, so I suppose she must have worn a cervical diaphragm. I’m also surprised that none of us contracted a sexually transmitted infection — the principal subject of my working life as a virologist and epidemiologist — but this was long before the beginning of the HIV pandemic, and syphilis was still a rare infection, unlike now.
After Jacqui went back to France we kept in touch by letter for a while, but when I fell in love and married my wife, our lives went in separate directions. My sex life took a much more conventional turn after that amazing year of sexual licence, until just a few years ago, that is. I remained faithful to my wife, although I was honest with her about my time with Jacqui. I also suspect that our lovemaking has been rather more experimental than most of our friends, and mutual masturbation and oral sex have always been a major part of our sexual repertoire.
In even the most devoted and loving relationship there is a time when six becomes rather unexciting and even perfunctory. This was true of our marriage and about a dozen years ago my wife wondered whether we might perhaps try something more licentious, by which she meant having sex with other people. Though the idea was exciting and talking about it pepped up our lovemaking, nothing happened until by chance Jacqui came back into my life.
We had rented an apartment in a resort on the island of Madeira and one morning I quite literally bumped into Jacqui in the resort supermarket. She had hardly changed apart from filling out a little — but in all the right places. She said she recognised me too despite the fact that I had grown a beard and lost most of my hair — perhaps when you have been so intimate with someone for so long it is something about the eyes, or even the subtle shades of a person's pheromones. It transpired that she and her husband were sharing an apartment with another couple in the same complex.
She invited my wife and me to join them the next evening, I assumed just for a meal and pleasant conversation. But as it turned out sex was on the menu, and over the next week, we were both introduced to a whole new cookery book of sexual pleasures. My wife had never shown any interest in having sex with another woman, but she rapidly developed a taste for sapphic pleasures. She also decided to try anal sex when she saw how arousing it was for the other two women — anal sex has always been more prevalent in France than in England — and by the end of the week had enjoyed the singular pleasure of double penetration, not once but several times. The only additional pleasure for me was that I now had a small but sophisticated camcorder and was able to capture much of the action for our later enjoyment.
On our return home we talked about our week of mutually enjoyed debauchery and decided we didn’t want to return to a life of conventional sex. We didn’t really want to go to an adult club, but thought that it would be better to find a small group of like-minded couples from among our friends. As you can imagine finding people who are willing to embrace greater sexual liberation is very delicate, but we ended up with a group of five other couples with ages between forty and seventy-four.
We discussed whether there should be any rules, and eventually decided on four — everyone agreed not to have sex with anyone outside the group, everyone should be tested for sexually transmitted infections which I was able to arrange discreetly, all the women who were still fertile should start taking oral contraceptives, and all the men should wear a condom when having anal sex — microorganisms that are harmless or even beneficial in the gut are not so harmless in the female genitourinary tract. Apart from one of the younger women who had a symptomless chlamydial infection, no one was infected with any sexually transmitted organism, and that was soon cleared up with a course of oral doxycycline. We also agreed that it was permissible for group members to have sex with each other outside the group weekends, and wife (or husband) swapping has become quite common.
A couple of years ago the women challenged the men. Basically, they said that as the men enjoyed watching the women making love to each other it was only fair that they should be able to watch the men having sex with each other too. As no one objected — we were all by now very comfortable with a wide range of sexual activities including mild BDSM and bondage — this also became a regular part of our sexual repertoire. Just a week later I sucked my first cock and later that evening enjoyed a 69 with one of our friends which ended with us both coming in each other’s mouths. Since then I have been anally penetrated — the condom rule still applies — while one of the women sucked my balls. It was very pleasurable.
For the last few years, my wife and I have taken our summer vacation with a couple from the group in their fifties — we are both just the wrong side of seventy. We found a spacious apartment on one of the Greek islands with a totally secluded garden and a small pool. Except when we go out we are free to spend the entire holiday naked and able to enjoy sex in any combination whenever we like. I have found I need to take regular Viagra but apart from that age has made no difference at all in enjoying intense and frequent orgasms, although I no longer ejaculate much semen. Last year we invited Jacqui, her husband and friends to join us and a splendidly carnal time was enjoyed by all. One highlight for me was watching — and filming — my wife bound hand and foot to the bed and being fucked by every member of our party. She said afterwards that she had almost continued orgasms for the whole two hours, although she was a bit sore and puffy for a couple of days.
Who would have thought that a drunken evening in a dingy pub would end up changing my life, and ultimately the lives of a small group of friends too. Our marriages are all stronger because of our liberated, and what I suppose some would call an immoral lifestyle. Sexual boredom and cheating are the causes of many marital breakdowns, but our novel solution has turned out to be an ideal and very pleasurable solution.
