It had to be the most bizarre idea for starting a family in the history of procreation. If someone had told me, even a year ago, that my husband and I would do this, I would have said they were stark, raving mad. But some circumstances change people, change the way they think; they changed my husband, and they certainly changed me.
Two years ago, Paul and I were a happy-go-lucky, ordinary, married couple. We both had steady jobs. We had two weeks on a Greek island every summer. We enjoyed a good life, good sex and enough money to get by. We had both wanted children from the moment we got married, but I was just twenty-one, so, like most couples, we thought there was plenty of time. Enjoying life was more important.
Then Paul got mugged. Apart from the indignity and shock, he was on the receiving end of several kicks, one between his legs. The police officer that phoned me said he was conscious and able to walk, his injuries didn’t look serious, but he was on his way to hospital. An examination of his testicles, by a thankfully experienced doctor, revealed that the swelling was due to something more serious than bruising. Surgery was immediate. Radiation and chemotherapy followed, for more months than I care to count.
After a year of agony, emotional for me, physical and emotional for Paul, he was declared by his doctor a new man; apart from needing regular check-ups, he was in full remission. The treatment probably saved his life but left him completely sterile. He could no longer father children. The doctor assured us we would return to having a normal sex life. Normal?
Paul and I quickly decided that his problems would not stop us from having our own family but that, I suppose, is where our attitudes really started to change. We both wanted to experience the pregnancy and the birth, so that put us off adoption, and I have a serious phobia with needles and surgical procedures. I probably would have given in to my fears, but having used most of our savings while Paul could not work and discovering IVF was expensive, I allowed myself not to feel too guilty.
Having considered fertility treatment as a principle, (utilizing the semen of someone we didn’t know) and feeling reasonably comfortable with the idea, discussion progressed to my having intercourse with a complete stranger, me ludicrously suggesting it was just to get pregnant as if the idea were completely natural
I should add at this point, that the particular discussion developed late one night in bed. We had been out for lunch with a group of very good friends. The lunch started at midday. We got home at midnight. We had consumed too much alcohol to want to sleep, enough to have lost any inhibitions, but too little not to remember anything after.
At a bewilderingly clear-headed moment, Paul stated, “People donating semen to a clinic are both assured of anonymity, and checked for disease and abnormality. We don’t want the risk of an STD or worse, so we’d have to do some background checks. That sort of blows holes in someone remaining a complete unknown.”
"They wouldn’t have to be a complete unknown,” I replied confidently. “We do all the checks, then we do it like they do in firing squads, you know, several people shoot, but no one knows who fired the live round.” I felt like an alien had taken over my brain. I was shocked, not only that I could think like that, but that I could sound so enthusiastic about the idea.
Paul, however, was completely unfazed and continued clinically. “It’s an apt analogy in a weird sort of way. If you had sex with someone, we wouldn’t want to know he was the father of our child. Equally, we wouldn’t want anyone to be able to claim paternity rights. It's a perfect solution, you don’t have intercourse with one stranger, you do it with several.”
In the drunken euphoria that followed, we sat at the computer, composed a succinct but sexy advert, took a few soft-core photos and posted an ad on the internet. By the next afternoon, the wisdom of that moment had vanished, our regrets fueled by the collection of weird, crude and troubling emails that filled my inbox. Eternally grateful that we had kept our identities anonymous, it was easy to ignore the responses.
In the days that followed, the emails tailed off to nothing and we put the subject out of our minds. Well, I know I did. I think part of me was still shocked that things had gone as far as they did. Shocked and a little scared. I can’t honestly say that I know what Paul's thoughts were; I didn’t mention it, and neither did he
Now, I should explain that when I check my emails, I have a habit of ignoring who they’re from or the subject, and dive straight into the text. It caught me unaware when, a couple of weeks later, I found myself reading this:
Dear Both,
Some ten years ago, a group of colleagues working for the same multinational company met as a project team out in Canada. A combination of technical problems and weather forced us to spend Christmas holed up, the only residents in an isolated hotel. Although the team was disbanded only a few weeks after, we become very good friends because of that time together and still get together, through work and socially.
When we are able to meet outside a work environment, we try to do something that none of us have experienced previously. I would stress that our escapades here never involved anything illegal or improper and we have never, in the past, contemplated anything remotely sexual, let alone what I’m now suggesting. The most outrageous of our trips, Fred wanted to go to Disneyland, and while I confess that we did visit the Red Light District in Paris, it was purely part of the day we had sightseeing; none of us, as far as I am aware, sampled what was on offer.
The youngest among us, a genuine and kind-hearted man, is incredibly shy and introverted. His brain is wired in ways that leave the rest of us look like idiots, and he is pure genius at his job, but his highly developed intellect as a youth came at a cost; he never learnt the finer art of growing into an adult. The rest of us believe he is a virgin, but we would never embarrass him ourselves by asking.
We have tried to set him up with a partner, but he resists, telling us he wouldn’t know what to do; he will not watch porn because he has an unbendable sense that it's demeaning. We are working on the dating but fear there is nothing but experience that will give him the confidence to try for himself. The last time we met, we suggested we find him someone to have sex with. To keep a very long story short, the only way he was going to agree if we showed him how it's done. Not one of us, all of us.
Apart from Tiny Tim, we are eight; two married, four divorced and two singles. The two that are married may not partake, but I have spoken to the rest, and they are willing. None of us smoke or do drugs, and we are all relatively fit and healthy. We are more than willing to answer any questions. If you are still interested in meeting, it could be to our mutual benefit. We will all be in Birmingham on business at the end of the first week of September.
I am attaching a photo, taken in Canada. We have aged a little, but it will give you an idea of what we look like. By the way, we all have nicknames from watching The Muppets Christmas Carol, the only non-French film on TV that Christmas. They call me Ebenezer.
My immediate reaction was to check the calendar. I had read that a woman is at her most fertile on days twelve, thirteen and fourteen of her monthly cycle. If my periods stayed regular, that Friday fell on day fourteen. It was a sign.
I was still engrossed by the photo when Paul came in and looked over my shoulder. I printed the email and let him read while I tried to get a sense of the men in the picture, imagining who might fit which Dickens character.
“Do you want to go through with this?” Paul asked. Compared to the last conversation, his voice sounded decidedly nervous.
“What I want is to get pregnant and have a baby with you,” I said, trying to keep my own doubts under control. “Outside of being drunk and thinking anything is possible, this is the first time that having that baby seems remotely feasible.”
“But aren’t you nervous about having sex with strangers?”
I had known Paul long enough to understand he was more concerned for his nerves.
“Yes, I’m very nervous.” I stood up and wrapped my arms round him. “You're the only man I’ve ever made love with, and you’re the only man I want. I don’t want to be the wife that sleeps with other men, but this might get me pregnant, and that’s the bit I want to focus on. I could do it because I know you’ll make sure I’m safe.”
“They do look like good, healthy father material,” he said after studying the photo for what felt like hours.
And so began three months of planning. I lost track of how many emails we sent, how many questions we asked, and how many ground rules we set, but each got a polite and positive response. Most replies took several days, I assumed because Ebenezer was consulting others, but a response always came back the following morning; the one time we waited more than four days, it came with profuse apologies. I realized that I had no proof of anything said, that this could even still be just one person leading us nowhere, but the longer the trail of words became, the more real it all seemed and the less vulnerable I felt.
And it was far from three months of plain sailing. There were many times when one or other of us suffered nerves, but we managed to sit and talk through our doubts and concerns, reiterating the same arguments for and against, over and over. One of us would always see the positives.
Like couples the world over, there were times that Paul and I would argue; our backgrounds and viewpoints clashing. Me becoming pregnant, however, was something that united us, and while we discussed our plans over and over, we never fought. I don’t think I could have gone through with any of it if we’d fought.
The repeated discussions, for me, highlighted a particular issue; what had happened to Paul had left scars far deeper than the physical ones. He certainly had a problem with sharing me sexually with other men, I think I would have been concerned had he not, but while he was never able to sustain an objection to what was proposed there was something that kept him going back over the same issues. It became obvious to me that he didn’t know how to express whatever it was. I thought I could hazard a guess, but it seemed more important to let him work it out.
The strangest consequence to that three months was how aroused I became, sexually. When Paul and I started dating—I was still seventeen—he used to tease me about how wet my panties were if he ever got the opportunity to put his hand down them. He said it was like finding a puddle between my legs. Needless to say, he never had any difficulty putting his fingers inside me.
That intense response seemed to fade when the two of us became a regular couple, but thinking about and planning a sex session with several men, had me in a constant state of arousal, and wet. There was more than one occasion when I could feel it running down my leg and frequently had to take myself off to the ladies' at work, illogically fearing someone could see. I even started taking spare panties with me in my handbag. I was so glad I’d never liked the fashion of wearing leggings.
There was a day that the exchange of emails had me particularly distracted. We had stated that the group was not allowed to ejaculate anywhere but in my vagina; Ebenezer responded positively but re-iterated that the group wanted to demonstrate to Tiny Tim that sex can be varied and without restriction, and asked if there were other things they could not do.
I spent the day thinking about the answer, to the point I hardly got any work done and had to run off the ladies more than once, not only to change my panties, but to masturbate, something I have not done alone since getting married. I am so glad it's a small office and the toilet is well out of earshot. After I got home and discussed my thoughts with Paul, I wrote back and said no; no restrictions on what they could do
I also began to think seriously about how I look, both clothed and naked. I realized rather ashamedly I’d become complacent since being married, putting comfort ahead of looks. I’ve always felt vulnerable being naked in front of any strangers; I use a cubicle when I go to the gym or the pool, and insist we find the most remote and secluded spot at a beach if I’m going to sunbathe, even in a bikini. I suddenly felt determined to lose the few extra pounds I now carried around my thighs and bum, I started to trim my pubic hair, and I invested in a lot of new and sexy underwear, useful now I was having to change so often.
The other thing I realized; I’d become complacent about the sex life I was having with Paul; since he’d been in hospital it was almost non-existent. We fooled around that drunken night the ad was placed, and Paul did penetrate me, but it was far from being satisfying intercourse; we both fell asleep. We do cuddle naked in bed, but I’m not sure that counts.
I told Paul how aroused I was getting, and started to encourage him to put his hands down my panties to feel, even if we’d just come in from the supermarket. It brought back fond memories of our first explorations of each other’s bodies. After all these years it was a lot less clumsy, but it was just as exciting, and after all that Paul had been through, it was a new journey of discovery.
Paul had not shown much interest in sex since he was discharged from treatment, but I assumed that my love, and time, was all he needed. Having seen his response to feeling how wet I’d become, and feeling guilty, I took more initiative. I stopped wearing just scruffy, comfy clothes in the evenings, I put nice underwear after I’d had a bath so Paul could take them off again in bed, and I focused more than ever on foreplay.
Paul had always enjoyed licking me and putting his fingers in me; often bringing me to an orgasm before penetrating and getting me to climax again. Instead of my usual laying on my back, legs akimbo, we started to try new positions. Sitting astride his face was a turn off for both of us, but Paul enjoyed sixty-nine style, and responded eagerly with me, bent over, back to him, on my knees. Who knew a woman could orgasm while having her bum hole licked?
sixty-nine was a revelation. I think we had always put so much emphasis on kissing and watching each other when we made love, that it never occurred to us to try. We have both enjoyed oral sex often enough, but it had always been a prelude to penetration. Now I wanted to spend a whole evening just licking, sucking and rubbing him. It was Paul that suggested I change position so he could touch, taste, and watch me at the same time. I didn’t exactly orgasm the instant I felt his breath against me, but Paul told me after I dribbled on his face.
The other thing that changed; my language. Paul and were both brought up by parents that never swore, or discussed sex, so I guess we both had inhibitions. Now, when we were in bed, I wanted to tell Paul to lick my arse or my cunt, or pussy, or any other noun that came to mind. I wanted to tell him to put his cock in me, to fuck me. I didn’t want to hold anything back.
There was an evening, while cuddled up in bed, Paul needed a pee. I got up with him and insisted I hold him while he urinated. With me on my knees, I wrapped my hand around his penis but that started to give him an erection. Instead, I settled for just lightly holding with two fingers. When the flow started, I put a third finger in front of it. Urine sprayed onto my face and neck. Paul momentarily stopped, worried that splashing me had been accidental, but I made him turn to face me and pointed him at my breasts. While it was a pain having to clean and go put towels in the wash, I loved every second of it.
Now all of that sounds as though our sex life went from zero to one hundred in a heartbeat. It didn’t. It was a slow build. By the time September arrived, we were having a night of playing and occasional intercourse perhaps once a week. I was still a long way from being able to get Paul to an orgasm, but I had tasted that little salty dribble of fluid on him a couple of times. Only one thing had grown into a daily ritual; Paul would kiss me and slip his hand down my panties when he got home from work. That alone meant the world.
Paul and I had reached an agreement, if we had not decided by Wednesday to abandon our plans, we would not discuss it further. The meeting was Friday. Our nerves were fraught, and we saw no point in making things worse with last-minute discussion. The deadline also gave forty-eight hours to tell Ebenezer. Even though we did not know who this person really was, we felt we would owe him a courteous explanation.
That deadline passed. I took Thursday off work to pack and relax, but spent most of the day cleaning, ironing, and doing anything that didn’t involve me thinking about what lay ahead. Friday, with enough clothes put haphazardly into a case for a month, Paul and I traveled, the journey uneventful, save for the silence.
Ebenezer had booked two adjoining rooms for us at a hotel just off the city center, in the names of Mr. Statler and Miss Waldorf; one room for the group to congregate, the other for my use. Where Statler and Waldorf chose to sleep, he explained, was up to them. He added that the group now referred to us as the Fezziwig’s, but felt that might have made their booking team suspicious. The choice of names made us smile, and strangely, that we had become part of the group
He also explained that while there were over one hundred company personnel and guests present in Birmingham for that weekend, none of them were booked into our hotel. He did not want us to feel uncomfortable accidentally meeting the group in the bar or at breakfast. Equally, the group did not want to bump into colleagues or bosses and have to explain their presence.
When we arrived, we found ourselves in a very plush lobby (Paul and I were used to low budget), our rooms pre-paid for two nights. We had expected a reservation for just one night and to pick up the bill. The young lady on reception was at pains to explain that the reservation included charges up to £200, but she would need a credit card just in case we exceeded that figure.
I think my heart stopped when Paul handed over his card, his name looking nothing like Statler even at a cursory glance but it was accepted and swiped without issue. The woman then looked to me. After what felt like an age, she suggested we put all charges onto the one room and reminded us we would be responsible for anything over £400. It was not until we settled in our rooms, that my brain caught up.
The whole business of having our stay paid for troubled me. At the better end of the scale, I could take it as a gesture of kindness by someone wanting to make our stay as comfortable as possible. It could simply be that all rooms had been reserved and paid for on the same basis and the monetary gain, for us, was unintentional. The worst, being paid for sex, I shuddered at. Going up in the lift I could see the same thoughts occupying Paul's mind.
“I know we’ve promised each other we would not discuss this now,” I said, my voice filled with trepidation, “but if you say so, we turn around and leave now, not another word, and no regrets.”
He stared at me for what felt like an age, until the lift door opened at our floor, making us both jump. On the wall directly in front of us, our room number and an arrow, seemingly guiding us to our destiny.
“Let's see if we can get you pregnant,” the only words he spoke.
The rooms were beautiful, but the windows stretched from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. One massive expanse of glass through which I could see across the rooftops of Birmingham, and the people of Birmingham could see me.
“It would be weird if I pulled the curtains, Right?” The question was aimed more at myself.
“Yes, it would be weird” Paul replied, smiling. “We’re twenty-eight floors up. No one is going to see you. Apart from me and the cast of Christmas Carol.”
I knew Paul would not be able to just sit there and wait, so was not surprised when he announced he was going for a walk. He promised he would be back in time to meet the group in the bar at 4 o’clock, as arranged, and would see me at 4.30. That gave me two hours to get ready. I got undressed thinking I’d have a soak in the bath, then changed my mind and phoned room service. We had a healthy credit to get through. The voice on the phone sounded confused when I ordered four large gin and tonics.
“Is madam expecting guests?” The question sounded pompous and judgmental.
“No,” I bristled, “they’re all for me!”
Within ten minutes, an older gentleman in a black suit and tie delivered a plate of sandwiches, a pot of tea, two glasses, a full ice bucket, eight mixers of tonic and a quarter bottle of gin.
“Personally, I dislike drinking gin when the ice has melted in the glass,” he said, with the most perfect smile. “We are not supposed to serve our guests with bottles, but we had these in the cellar; an error on the part of our suppliers. I’m sure madam will be discreet. Would you like me to pour?”
“No,” I answered, unsure if he meant the tea or the booze. “And thank you, that’s perfect.” And it was perfect. I didn’t know whether to kiss him or shake his hand, but both would have meant letting go of the tightly grasped bathrobe, and I wasn’t ready to expose my body just yet.
By the time Paul returned, I had bathed, shaved and dressed; a knee-length black dress that would fall to the floor when unzipped. I had agonized over what to wear, but as I had little control over if, when, or how my clothes would be removed, I wanted simplicity. He caught me still in the bathroom putting make up round my eyes.
“Are you ready?”
“Of course,” I said, surprised at how confident I sounded. “How many?”
“All nine. Are you drunk?” If my slightly slurred voice had not been a giveaway, then the collection of empty bottles along the edge of the bath might have been.
“Did you think I could do this sober?”
Paul wrapped his arms round me, kissed me and then, for good measure, lifted my dress and slid his hands down my panties. I could see the worry lines etched into his face, but he was smiling and looked the happiest I’d seen him for several days.
He led me into the bedroom and stood me at the end of the bed, adjusting my clothes and hair, making sure I looked perfect. I wanted him to hold me, or hold my hand and just continue holding my hand but guessed that may not be practical. He had promised he would stay in the room to make sure I could come to no harm. It was enough.
“Will you tie that scarf around my eyes. Please.” I’m sure the designers intended it to be worn around the neck, but this suited my purpose well. We had never discussed being blindfold; I am not sure I knew myself until that moment, but Paul seemed to understand what was going through my mind, and complied, fiddling with the knot until it was comfortable and secure.
There was perhaps a minute or two when I knew I was on my own, but time slowed to almost a standstill. It felt that I would be waiting forever. I could feel every heartbeat, hear every breath. It was a beautiful sunny day and the room was comfortably warm, but shivers ran down my spine.
Suddenly, I was conscious that someone, perhaps several someones, were standing close to me. I was aware of voices and other noise, but the scarf muffled the sounds. I felt certain if I concentrated, I might understand what was being said, but preferred to be shutting out as many senses as I could.
Then a hand landed on my breast, quite hard. A hushed voice. The pressure softened and the movement became a clumsy attempt at a caress. More whispers and the touch moved to my leg, sliding slowly under my dress, up the inside of my thigh until it reached my panties. Again the pressure was harsh. Not particularly comfortable or pleasurable.
Someone unzipped my dress, allowed it to slip to the floor, and then held me while I stepped out of it. It struck me that this grip was different; gentler and more confident. The same softness easily unhooked my bra and slipped my panties off. Apart from realizing that the expense and elegance of my new underwear had been given no more than a cursory glance by whoever was in the room with me, I was now naked. I tensed. I blushed.
Again, someone touched my breast, this time slower and more sensual. I felt my nipples harden involuntarily against the weight. The hand moved down my body, slowly mapping each rise and fall of my rapid breath, stopping to investigate my pubic hair. I was expecting fingers to reach between my legs and wondered how wet I was, how easily they would slide into me, but that didn’t happen.
More voices. Someone said ‘get undressed,’ this time the words distinct. A pause. The noise of clothes discarded. I was guided to sit on the edge of the bed, laid on my back, my legs lifted, and parted. I became more exposed than I had ever been in my life, and judging by the hands gently holding my calf’s, in front of two strangers, three if someone else stood in front of me. I felt embarrassed. I felt vulnerable. I felt terrified; Three months of discussion had not prepared me at all.
The next sensation distracted me; a penis pressing hard against my pubic bone, the pressure on my clitoris sending mild electric shocks up through my abdomen. A second thrust, much lower, nearer to my bum than my vagina. I remembered telling Ebenezer that there were to be no restrictions, and wondered where this was going.
I decided not to let fear get the better of me and reached between my legs. I took hold with every intention of guiding this man's penis to where I wanted it to go. It felt large and heavy in my hand. The third thrust was better aimed. The swollen head of someone’s manhood entered my vagina. Someone that was not my husband.
I am not sure I can describe the flood of emotions and thoughts that went through my mind in the seconds that followed; a realization that it was too late to refuse, the elation I could get pregnant. There was guilt, worry for what Paul was feeling, and a whole lot more. But all that quickly gave way to the physical sensations of being fucked.
The penis inside me was longer and thicker than Paul’s. It was being pushed hard into me, each movement deeper, distorting my insides. I was getting sensations, not just from my vagina and labia, but in my stomach. I didn’t know if I were gasping from having my vagina stretched, or having my insides squashed. The thrusting stopped. I felt the man’s cock throb and twitch inside me. He withdrew, but continued to spray semen; I felt it on the cheeks of my bum and the inside of my thighs.
There was another pause. Muffled voices. Sounds of movement. Someone wiped me with a tissue, and several hands gently lifted me further onto the bed. Still on my back. Legs still spread wide.
After that everything became a blur. The next person took me missionary style, and the one after that turned me over and had me on hands and knees. The heightened sensations of having that first man inside me became one of just constant movement. I lost all track of whether they fucked me quick or slow, deep or not.
I had cocks enter my vagina. I had penises put in my mouth. I had them rubbed against my breasts. I had hands caress and squeeze my tits, pinch my nipples, and hold my head while I gave a blowjob. There was a point when someone inserted a long and rather chubby finger deep into my anus. There were times when I was sure I was on the bed with just one person, others when it could have been all of them together, but all seemed to stick to the deal; as far as I could tell, they all ejaculated where I’d asked.
I was aware, after the first two, that there were bodily fluids escaping my vagina. Whenever I was put on my back, I could feel it running down the crease of my bum and as I was moved, I touched wet patches on the bed. In the brief moments I lay alone, I felt a towel being considerately wiped over my body. Occasionally someone smeared what I assumed was lubricant on me.
Throughout it all, my thoughts never strayed from what Paul was thinking and feeling. I had decided at the outset, if we were going to go through with this, I did not want to have an orgasm, I did not want Paul to feel this was anything but what we said it would be; me getting pregnant. I did not want to enjoy it.
When Paul told me I’d be fucking all nine, I realized that two would be cheating on their wives. For all I knew, the others may have girlfriends, so they may be cheating too. That made it considerably easier distracting my mind; I didn’t want any of them having the satisfaction of pleasuring me.
I assumed I had fucked and satisfied all nine when Paul came over, put pillows under my head and my backside, closed my legs together and pulled a cover over my body. Of course, I couldn’t see, and nobody spoke, but I knew Paul's touch. In the stillness that followed I allowed my mind to switch off. I was exhausted. I think I may even have slept. It may have been for a minute. It could have been an hour.
“Laura.”
It was Paul’s voice, soft, quiet and somewhere close.
“Tiny Tim has asked if he can have some time with you, without me or anyone else in the room.”
I knew Paul would not even ask if he felt that I was at any sort of risk, and his voice was calm.
“I’ve said yes, but only if you agree.”
My immediate thought was I’d get fucked one more time and increase the chance of getting pregnant. “Yes,” I agreed, “Of course, but if I’m going to be alone, please take this blindfold off.”
I watched Paul leave the room, leaving the door slightly ajar, and turned towards the movement in the corner. I could see why they called him Tiny Tim. He was not only diminutive in stature, but appeared to be much younger: I knew from prior conversations he was thirty. He looked fifteen. With piercing blue eyes, pale skin and floppy blonde hair, I might have described him as pretty, and certainly a boy.
“Hello, I’m Michael,” he said approaching me and holding his hand out.
“And I’m Laura,” I replied, pushing myself up to sit on the edge of the bed. I expected his grip to be soft, perhaps limp, but he grasped my hand firmly and shook it with vigor. It didn’t occur to me that I was again naked.
“Sorry,” he said more softly, “was that too formal?”
“A little,” I replied, thinking he was reading my mind, “but it’s ok. You have no need to apologize.”
“It’s just that I am not very good at meeting new people,” he continued rapidly as if he’d not heard what I’d said. “I’m not very good at relationships. I've never really understood how they work. I bury myself in my work. It’s much easier. Most technology is very predictable. You know how it’s going to respond. People are not like that.”
I thought he was going to continue, but he stopped as suddenly as he’d started.
“Sorry,” he said again.
“It’s ok.” I held out my hand for him to hold and guided him to sit next to me. He didn’t let go.
“Why don’t you tell me why you asked to have some time alone.” I continued, trying hard to keep my voice calm. In truth, the prospect of getting fucked once more, instead of filling me with terror as it had all afternoon, had me excited.
“I have watched my friends have intercourse with you,” he started after a brief pause, his voice controlled and analytical. “It was intended that I would get to understand the mechanics of sex, and have a bit more confidence should I ever find a woman to date.”
The last part sounded terribly sad. I squeezed his hand.
“But in truth,” he continued, “I haven’t understood at all. You just lay there most of the time while they did things to you. I have no idea if that's what really happens in relationships, but it didn’t seem very realistic. I don’t know if you enjoyed it, or even if you were meant to enjoy it.”
I had to collect my thoughts and work out how to respond, but Michael seemed to understand the silence and waited patiently.
“What you saw wasn’t realistic. Any of that would be a bit weird in a normal relationship. What you saw was a group of men having sex with a woman they had never met. For most women, enjoying sex with their partner means taking an active role. That wasn’t what I wanted today. We all had our reasons for wanting to do what we just did, but that's not what a relationship is about.
A relationship is one man and one woman learning how to be together, learning how to enjoy each other, learning how to enjoy sex. It involves a great deal of work, and give and take. And no two couples are alike. What works for one, may not work for another.”
“So, there are no rules,” he stated, looking defeated and shaking his head.
“No. No rules, but that's what makes it special. Couples make up the rules for what works for them.”
“Paul told me why you wanted to do this,” he said. “I think I understand while it may not have been physically enjoyable, it gave you something you both needed.”
I was surprised that Paul had confided in him when we both wanted secrecy. Michael and I both remained silent for several minutes processing our own thoughts. While I could only see Michael’s face in profile, I could tell the worry lines had partially gone. Something was making sense.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice becoming more business-like. “I’m not sure I’m ever going to get how a proper relationship works, but that helped.”
“Would you like me to show you how to make love?” The words emerged from my mouth long before I knew what I was saying, helped loose by the quarter bottle of gin lying empty in the bathroom. I wasn’t sure if I was motivated by sympathy for this man’s situation, by the desire to get pregnant, or by hormones in overdrive.
“I hadn’t intended we have intercourse,” he snapped defensively. “What about Paul?”
“You know why Paul and I are doing this, “I said, a calmness in my voice untrue to how I felt. “If I and you make love, it might help me and Paul and it might help you understand a little better.”
He paused. I sensed from his frown a conflict. I recalled Ebenezer’s comments and guessed making love to another man's wife crossed a border that just having sex hadn’t; Michael had a highly developed sense of right and wrong. Equally, I could see how keenly he wanted to learn, wanted to make the most of this one-time opportunity.
“Will you tell me if I get something wrong?” He asked, his voice full of genuine concern.
I felt guilty, yet relieved that he agreed. Sitting next to this man, naked, holding his hand, had me aroused. I wanted him to fuck me. Getting pregnant was in danger of coming in second place.
“Just do what you feel is right,” I said softly, standing up and pulling him to his feet. My body had no intention of giving my brain time to think. “I promise you won’t get anything wrong.” I felt something warm dribble down the inside of my thigh. It may have been the excess of semen inside me, but I suspected not.
I undid his haphazardly buttoned shirt and slipping it from his shoulders, allowed my hands to wander gently over his body. His chest was surprisingly smooth, his muscles well-toned, his stomach flat. I kissed his chest, then stood back.
Michael understood the message, and first laid his hands on me, then just his fingers. I remembered reading that we can sense more with our fingers than any other part of our body. He gently explored my shoulders, the curve of my breasts, my stomach, moving slowly back and fore as if building a picture of my shape. Shock waves ran down my spine each time he glanced across my nipples.
He moved his hand lower allowing his fingers to tease my pubic hair. “You won’t get anything wrong,” I whispered. A finger slid over my pubic bone and between my wet lips. I gasped involuntarily as it grazed over my clitoris.
I pulled him a little closer. Now holding his shoulders more firmly, I wrapped my right leg as best I could around his waist and closed my eyes. I wanted to shut out all light and sound, turn off all thought and give in to the feelings.
Suddenly, his finger was inside me, still moving, still exploring, the palm of his hand pressing into that most sensitive of spots. I bit my lip and held my breath. There was still a part of my brain alert enough to remember what I’d promised myself, but I no longer had control. I orgasmed. Loudly and explosively. While my body shook, Michael held me tight allowing me to put both feet back on the floor.
“Was that supposed to happen?” He asked, his voice a mix of gentleness and concern.
“I didn’t expect it to, but that's the beauty of there being no rules.”
“Should I stop there?” I tried to detect some irony in the words, but there was none. The man was genuinely confused by what he was experiencing.
“There is no need to stop,” I assured him. “Just do what you feel is right.”
“I would like to kiss you.”
“Just do what you feel is right.”
Now, I should explain that whilst I am only 5 foot 3, I stood perhaps 5 inches taller than Michael. I had to bend to let him reach my mouth, and he had to stretch. The first attempt was as brief as it was clumsy. It made me think of how I used to kiss my grandmother, but realized that kissing a relative may have been the only experience this man had.
At the second try, I put one hand behind his neck, trying to indicate that a kiss could be longer. He understood and gave me one of the gentlest and most sensual of kisses I’d had in a very long time. I would not have objected if he had tried to put his tongue in my mouth; something I remembered girlfriends from school raving about, but was glad that Michael was also inexperienced in kissing. When we first started dating, Paul and I had experimented with as many variations of kissing as we could imagine, but tongues did nothing for either of us.
I sensed Michael was engrossed in the new sensations, and we kissed for what felt like hours. I guided him to put his arms around me, placing one hand on my back and one on the cheek of my bum. He instinctively pulled me in closer, squashing my breasts into his chest, and my thighs into his groin. Again, it felt like there were electric currents running up and down my body. I could feel his penis hardening and straining against my leg.
I gently persuaded Michael to lay on the bed and busied myself removing the remainder of his clothes. Seeing his penis made me realize that his was the first I’d touched that day, his was the first to clumsily fuck me, his was the first to cum inside me and over my thighs. It lay, long and thick against his abdomen, not yet hard, but swollen.
I took it first into my hand, and then into my mouth. I had only ever performed oral on Paul fresh from a shower and even the men that put their cocks in my mouth today were clean, but now I could taste that Michaels penis had been inside me, and something that I assumed was semen.
I had always imagined the taste would be a turn-off, but the sensation was anything but repulsive. It was making me contemplate things I would once have dismissed without question. Would I let Michael cum in my mouth right this moment? Just asking that question should have rung alarm bells for the life I had, but I formed an answer in my mind without giving Paul a second thought. Yes.
Thankfully, the desire to be fucked was far stronger. I needed this man's penis inside me one more time. When I felt him hard in my mouth, I shifted my position, initially with the intention of climbing over and riding him cowgirl style. Michael, however, seemed to have other thoughts, and admiring the initiative, allowed him to lay me on my back.
I parted my legs as he lay on top, and used my hand to help guide his now throbbing cock into me. I gasped once again at its size as he entered me and lost myself to having my vagina filled and stretched. His movements, this time, were much gentler, and considered. He had watched eight other men fuck me that day and had clearly taken his role of the student seriously.
I wrapped my arms around his torso and held him as close as I could, savoring the feel of his smooth but sweaty body. I became totally engrossed in what he was doing and the beautiful sensations running through my body. The world could have come to a crashing end at that moment, I don’t think I would have noticed.
It was not long before I felt another climax building. Michael had begun fucking me harder, his thrusts more deliberate, and deeper. I could feel his body pressing into me, his pubic bone pushing against my clitoris. I wanted so badly for him to ejaculate in me, but I lost all control; my orgasm exploded, making my whole-body quake. I heard low guttural noises coming from somewhere deep inside me. I had been aware of when Paul had left the room that my bladder was full. I think, in that moment, I may have wet myself.
For the briefest of moments, Michael stopped. It may have been that I gripped him so tight in my arms and between my legs that movement was not possible, but I looked into his eyes, trying to reassure him it was ok to continue. That I wanted him to continue. That I needed him to cum inside me.
I was going to tell him again to do what felt right, but he kissed me, and with our lips locked together, pushed his cock even deeper inside me. I don’t know how to describe the next few seconds; It felt like the longest orgasm known to humanity, each and every thrust sending groans from my throat and shudders through my abdomen.
And then he came. This time, he made no attempt to withdraw, he kept his cock deep inside me, spraying semen, I imagined, direct into my womb. Words came out of my mouth, but have no idea what they were.
As movement stopped, I started to come back down to Earth. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and hear my breathing, rapid and coarse in my throat. I expected, task now done, that Michael would get up and leave, but he seemed very content to lay on top of me, penis still buried in my vagina, nuzzling his face into my neck. I kept my arms around him, gently caressing his flesh.
I would have been content to have had Michael stay where he was, but he eventually disappeared into the bathroom, though not without a parting kiss. I was half expecting some analysis or question; he said nothing, but I assumed from the smile the experience was better than he thought it could be. I guessed he would be replaying the encounter in his mind, extracting lessons and revisiting pleasures. I guessed I might be doing the same.
When he returned from the bathroom, he had dressed and tidied himself. I had not moved from the bed, but had pulled the bedcover over me; feeling vulnerable while naked and exposed, had started to edge back into my consciousness. He sat next to me.
“Thank you,” he said, “I don’t think I can ever...”
I placed my finger against his lips. “You don’t have to thank me,” I whispered. “Or explain.” I wanted to tell him the confused feelings that had started to run around my head, that I’d enjoyed making love with him, that I could have done it over and over. But I couldn’t; I couldn’t allow myself to open up to him, and if he’d said the same, I knew I would cry.
He’d taken my finger from his lips but continued to hold my hand, against his heart. “Paul is lucky to have you in his life,” he said. “If I ever find a girlfriend, and she is only half as special as you, Mrs. Fezziwig, I think I’d be lucky too.” Then he stood, smiled, kissed me on the lips, and left.
I got up to wash and wipe the lower parts of my body; I had wee’d over myself and made a token gesture towards cleaning my face. I was physically and emotionally drained. I felt I needed to brush my teeth, but that seemed an effort too far.
After everyone had gone, Paul came and found me, sat in the bathroom, dressed in just a pair of panties, on the closed toilet. I didn’t know what to say, and it seemed neither did he. He picked me up and let me wrap my arms around his neck. I loved the familiar smell and feel of him, it felt as if coming home from a long and difficult journey. I kissed him softly on the neck and whispered “I love you,” into his ear. He carried me into the second room, and put me into bed.
“I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.”
He wandered off into the other room, the room I’d just fucked nine men in, and closed the door. I cried myself to sleep.
