It feels like a lifetime ago—I was twenty, carefree, and enjoying the quiet lull of summer after the intensity of finals. At the time, I was still a virgin—not by intention, but because the right girl had never crossed my path. Everyone else in this story has long since passed, and aside from Marj, no one ever knew what unfolded during those two remarkable days.
When Auntie Marj died, she left a shoebox for me—sealed and set aside in her will. Inside were birthday cards I had sent her over the years, a bundle swaddled in faded linen, and a notebook. In that book, she had written down the story of a hike we took together—recounted with striking detail and a candour that caught me off guard. It was, without doubt, one of the most formative experiences of my life. What follows is my attempt to piece together that memory, using her words and my own recollections as a guide.
I had long dreamed of walking across the New Forest but had not found a companion close enough to join me. Mum was swamped with her job as a full-time infant school teacher. So it was Auntie Marj—gentle, warm-hearted, and unflinchingly curious—who offered to come along. She adored the natural world, except for snakes and rats, which always gave her the shudders. With no children of her own and the freedom of a quiet midweek schedule, she was the perfect partner for a ramble.
Our journey began early on a golden June morning. Uncle Bill dropped us at the trailhead, a kiss on Marj's cheek, a chuckle in his voice, and a promise to meet us again the next afternoon at Rufus Stone. Now, let her words tell the story.
._.
Stephen had never had a steady girlfriend. I wondered if two days, just the two of us together, would present an opportunity to discover why. Stephen was 20, and I was 45, a couple of years older than Susie, his mum and my best friend.
We decided on a route, thirty miles of mixed heath and woodland. It would be an easy exercise on lanes, tracks, and paths.
I had a lightweight two-person hiking tent and all the kit, but I had to take Stephen on a shopping expedition for boots and suitable clothing. I was experienced in mapwork and using a magnetic compass for cross-country navigation. I fully expected to pass some of my knowledge on to Stephen.
My husband, Bill, drove us to Dibden Purlieu, where we set off across a grass pasture towards Dibden Inclosure, our first woodland. Stephen carried all the heavy stuff. My backpack was much lighter than his. After an hour, we reached a bridge over a river, where we stopped to admire the scene. Mature trees shaded grassy banks, and dark water flowed slowly towards us.
He asked me if there were any fish. I replied that I thought there were minnows, sticklebacks, and maybe some brown trout, but fishing was not allowed. He grinned at me and said there was no problem because we did not have any fishing gear.
Looking at him, I realised how handsome he was, perhaps for the first time ever. He was going to be quite a catch for some young woman. Then, something inside me tripped, and I thought of him naked and erect. I shuddered and turned back to stare at the river.
Oh, God, how could I think that about Susie's boy? In my head, I tried to rationalise my thoughts. I knew it wasn't right, but I restored some semblance of normality and told Stephen it was time to move.
We pressed on, striding two miles across a wild stretch of heathland. The air was scented with gorse, its yellow blossoms vivid against the broad swathes of purple heather. When we reached a bridge spanning the main railway line, Stephen paused, leaning on the stone parapet and watching the tracks vanish into the horizon. He hoped to catch a glimpse of a train.
I stood beside him, my eyes not on the rails but on his profile—sharp in the filtered light. An unexpected flutter stirred in me, and before I could question it, I gently rested my hand on his arm.
He turned toward me, eyes meeting mine. I could not look away.
A sudden whistle shattered the stillness. From the distance, a steam engine thundered toward us, its smoke spiralling skyward. We watched it with quiet awe, aware that this relic of another age would soon vanish from everyday life, steam giving way to electricity.
As the locomotive passed beneath us, it released a plume of thick, acrid smoke. We coughed and stumbled back, half-laughing. I lost my footing—but Stephen caught me quickly, his arms firm around me. I clutched his sleeves, the moment holding too much meaning.
He leaned in and brushed my cheek with his lips.
"You alright?" he murmured.
I nodded, managing a faint smile, though inside the weight of it all pressed hard—the blurred lines between memory, feeling, and propriety were not easy to carry.
We continued walking. Within an hour, we reached the outskirts of Lyndhurst. It was bustling with tourists, the pavements crammed with the scent of fudge shops and chatter. We made just one stop—a café, where the manager let us refill our bottles.
It was a relief to leave the town behind and step once more under the green hush of the trees. Not far in, we discovered a sunny glade away from the path. We shrugged off our packs and settled on the grass. I pulled out two plastic containers and handed one to Stephen—simple sandwiches, nothing special, but they tasted good after the miles.
After eating, Stephen lay back, arms behind his head, eyes closed in the dappled light. I sat beside him, watching him quietly—his face, peaceful and open, held a kind of beauty I hadn't noticed before.
After a while, I plucked a long stalk of grass and traced it across his nose. He sneezed and blinked up at me.
I took my chance.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" I asked casually.
He shook his head.
There was a pause—then, bravely, I ventured further.
"Have you ever kissed anyone properly?"
He seemed puzzled and wanted to know what properly meant.
"Like this."
I bent over Stephen, brushed my lips against his and pushed my tongue inside his mouth.
Whether he had done it before or whether it was just a natural reaction, I never found out. His tongue played with mine; that was all that mattered to me. When I lifted my head, I saw his mind struggling with the situation. I stroked his face with my fingers and explained that I was Marj, not Aunty.
Then I kissed him again. Stephen's arms went around my neck, and he pulled me down hard, mashing our lips together. My brain was in a firestorm. Stephen was a child who came of age in the sixties during a sexual revolution, but that liberation had bypassed him. I was a child of a more prurient age when sex came with marriage and was only with marriage. Now, I was a wife kissing another man sexually.
._.
Nineteen, when I wed Bill, we learnt on the job. There was nothing in the public sphere to teach us about sex. I didn't enjoy it because there was no pleasure for me, but Bill seemed to want sex, to lie on top of me and plunge his shaft into my body.
In time, his needs abated, and the nights I opened my legs for him became rare. I never fell pregnant, and I never found out why. It just seemed ordained.
My innocence lasted for many years until a girlfriend loaned me a dog-eared copy of a book by D.H. Lawrence, an author I had never heard of. My eyes were opened, and I read of women who craved sex for their own pleasure. I saw the word fuck in print and understood its meaning for the first time. I learnt about deep kissing, oral sex, anal sex and masturbation.
One day, reading one of his works, I touched myself down below and realised I was wet. My fingers explored the wetness, and I found the place I had read about and rubbed it hard. I tried to concentrate on the picture the words had created until something burst inside me, and a surge of extreme pleasure crashed through my brain.
My first orgasm was at the age of thirty-seven.
._.
Now, I had put myself forward as a sex teacher to Stephen, even though I had not been fucked for nearly twenty years. I tried to reason with myself. Was this for him or me? Actually, I did not care.
Our kiss was endless, and his passion was apparent when I laid a hand over his crotch and felt the hardness beneath. I rubbed my hand across his stiff shaft, enjoying the feeling of it rolling under my fingers while all the time our mouths were locked together. Stephen started to grunt in short, sharp sounds, and then his hips bucked and rolled.
I realised he had come and felt elated. As I lifted my mouth off him, I asked if that had been nice.
He mumbled a soft reply, though there was something unusual in his manner.
Then, I twigged it. Stephen felt guilty about coming too quickly and, in addition, had been denied the opportunity to pleasure me.
I reassured him that this was just the beginning and there was plenty more to come—though he didn't know it was my first time, either. I had never before taken a man to the brink with my hand.
As I stroked his chest, I shifted onto one elbow and glanced over the glade. There, a magnificent red deer stag with a dozen impressive antler points emerged from the trees. I tapped Stephen on his chest to signal silence, and we watched together as the stag met our gaze before quietly ambling off, becoming a shadow amongst the trees.
Our eyes locked in that shared wonder. Stephen's arms then drew me close, and just before our lips met, I heard a quiet thank you.
It was a delicate acknowledgement of what we had shared.
We lingered in the glade long after lunch, savouring the magic of that place. Later, after meandering through sunlit woods and open heath for two hours, we found a secluded space amid a gorse thicket that was carpeted with heather—a perfect camp for the night.
Once our tent was set, Stephen's eyes sparked as he noticed a stream marked on my map, only a hundred yards away. Eager for a cool respite, we strolled down to the valley, settling on a tuft of reeds with our bare feet dangling in the crisp water. In a moment of playful mischief, he splashed me - then I joined in smacking my feet on the water, our laughter mingling with the gentle murmur of the stream until I felt the comforting weight of his arm draped over my shoulder.
He pulled our bodies together, then whispered my name. When I turned to him, he kissed me firmly, and his tongue pushed through my lips into my mouth. Then he told me he wanted to make love to me.
Later, we lay in our tent, completely naked, and I was at ease with him, running my hands across his tummy but keeping away from his beautiful, erect penis. I didn't want another premature ending.
His hand was between my thighs, gently exploring my vulva. I taught him where to touch, sometimes using my hand to guide him. I told him a woman can have multiple orgasms and how kissing, teasing and touching would arouse her higher and faster than straightforward penetration. I taught him the importance of lubrication and the need for it before anything went inside.
Stephen was a good pupil, and my body was prepared for him when he pushed several fingers into my vagina. I was ready when his thumb pressed onto my clit, rubbing up and down its little shaft, and when my first orgasm came, I was swamped with pleasure. Even as I was heaving and shuddering in climax, he did not stop, and my second came immediately. In fact, he never stopped, and I came again and again; as soon as one finished, the next one was upon me.
I do not know how many times I came, but eventually, I could take no more and jerked his hand away. Then, he mounted me, and I felt him position his hardness in line with my sopping wet cunt. That was a word I couldn't bring myself to say before he made love to me. Fuck my cunt, cunt, cunt. I mouthed it at the moment he pushed into me. I felt like a slut, and it was good. For the first time in my life, I enjoyed being penetrated, and my body responded to that. My clit seemed to swell with every stroke because it was already on edge. I knew I was going to orgasm quickly. My brain seemed to explode as my body went into overdrive. I remember screaming and then feeling his shaft jerk inside me before the warm feeling of a flood of semen hit my vaginal wall. Beyond that, there was a period of nirvana while he lay on me, panting from the stress of his orgasm.
Finally, we lay side by side in the tent, our sleeping bags drawn tightly around our bodies. Stephen was spooned against my back, and I slept like a log until a damp sensation on my leg stirred me awake. Groggily, I glanced toward the tent entrance and found a vast bovine head peering in between the unclosed canvas sheets. Its tongue was playfully licking my bare leg.
For a long moment, I stared at the cow as it met my gaze, its eyes as curious and unhurried as its slow, deliberate movements. Then it turned and ambled out through the thicket, leaving behind a trail of slobbery dung along our lone exit route. Later, after breakfast and a quick packing-up, we found ourselves back at the stream, scrubbing the stubborn mess off our boots in the rushing water.
Three hours into our journey on an open heath path, Stephen pointed ahead at a small brick structure and asked if I knew what it was. Aside from the occasional bridge, our only encounters with any constructions had been rare, so his question made sense. I explained that it was a wartime observation post built for a bomb testing range.
The path brought us within fifty yards of the building, and Stephen's curiosity deepened as we ambled across the surrounding grass. The red brick post, a rectangular box with one side open to the world, featured three narrow slits in the far wall that cut through concrete blocks. Once inside, I stood on tiptoe and pressed my palms to the cool brick, peering through one of the slits as if to capture a secret from another era.
I sensed Stephen behind me before his hands touched my shirt and then pressed and squeezed my breasts before letting them slide down my chest and push into my crotch, rubbing me through my clothes. I remember moaning but also pleading with him to be careful as we were in full view of the path. I knew he wanted to make me come, and the more his hands pressed against my sex, the more I desired it. In the end, he got his way. I rocked and swayed as my orgasm rolled through my body, his strong hands holding me up when my knees buckled. A minute before, I had pleaded for him to be careful, but then I pleaded for more cums. He went on to give me three more deep orgasms, after which I turned around and gave him a huge, wet kiss as I rubbed the bulge in his trousers.
There was no way I would treat Stephen in open view of the path, so I took his hand and led him around to the far side. It was perfect: a grassy area in the shade from the sun and summer heat. No one could see us from the path or the viewing area on the other side of the wall. We shed our backpacks and sat with our backs to the cool bricks.
I shifted to straddle him, my thighs on each side of his. Then I kissed him deeply and whispered into his ear, saying I had a special treat. I reached down and fondled him through his trousers, squeezing the hardness inside. I found the zip, pulled it down and pushed my hand to hold him in my fist before pulling his rock-hard cock into the air. With one broad smile, I slid down and took him in my mouth. The taste and odour were nectar to me, Stephen's sweat and weeping juices. As my lips and tongue made contact, I heard him gasp in surprise, and then he whimpered. Hearing this man whimpering as my mouth worked on his erect penis was the most erotic sound I had ever heard, and it drove me on, masturbating, sucking, and licking simultaneously. When his moaning and whimpering changed to panting, I knew he was close. I felt his hand on my skull, pushing me down; his shaft pulsed, and then my mouth was filled with his seed. I had read about oral sex in Lawrence's books and wanted to do it someday. The experience was beyond all my expectations, and I felt all-powerful, a real woman, a sexual goddess. Still holding onto his erection, I sat up and opened my mouth to show him the puddle of him inside. Then, I closed and swallowed the lot before giving him another sloppy kiss, and with this, he tasted himself.
We cuddled close, sharing the last of our dwindling supplies, before setting off on the final leg to Rufus Stone. Three hours later, we stood before the monument, reading the tale of the arrow that glanced off an oak and killed King William Rufus in 1100 AD. I turned to Stephen and asked if he believed it was an accident. He grinned and shook his head. I smiled and said we now had our own unbelievable story—one that could never be told. He kissed me on the mouth one final time. Then we crossed the lane toward the pub, where my cuckolded husband, Bill, was waiting.
