Marty’s Story

Chapter Two

ADOLESCENCE WAS THE SEXUAL minefield it remains for so many boys. I worried and suffered my way through it, tormented by my addiction to the long, solitary sweating nights (and days, when the necessary solitude could be engineered) of fevered wanking, whose lurid fantasies invariably cast me in my passive role, generally the victim of humiliation, bondage, physical violence, and stupendous copulation which resulted in spectacular ejaculation.

No one could have been more confused than me when, eventually, at university I met up with Clio. I was a virgin old enough to vote. Clio already had the franchise on both counts. I suspected her sexual experience from her superior knowledge of who and what went where. I wasn’t quite as naive as I now sound. I had reasonable knowledge of the theory, but was virtually untested in the practical. I was dazed and terrified to find myself one afternoon with my head up Clio’s dress and her knickers newly dropped from my trembling hand, and the spicily aromatic vista of her darkly fringed vulva towards which she was imperiously thrusting my hypnotised face. I dived fearfully into the unknown, dipping my curling tongue like a toe into uncharted waters. And was lost, buried myself worshipfully, greedily, sacrificially, into the glory of the female sexual parts. From that seminal moment, I was captivated, captive, an enchanted worshipper at the font of womanhood.

Drunk with delight and wonder, and with deep-seated relief that I had escaped the demons of my ambivalent sexuality, I was desperately, hopelessly in love with Clio. ‘No one’s ever loved me like this before!’ she breathed rapturously, and lay back and let me lick and nibble and finger for hours until, at long last, when even I in my besotted state was exhausted, her fingers would knot agonisingly in my dishevelled hair, and her pubis would thrust, her belly lift and thighs convulse, battering me, as she ground my face deep against her until I thought my buried nose must surely be broken. ‘My slave! My slave!’ she groaned, transported, as the final tremors of her climax shivered away, and I collapsed, literally gasping, across her wet thigh and belly, thrilled by those whispered words, never realising how prophetic they were.

And to my equal amazement, eventually, after we had been going together for several months, she achieved for me the ultimate miracle. We fucked. I say “we”. I did little, except, eventually provide the briefly rampant penis to slide home into her vagina – miraculous enough, something I dreaded I would never achieve. I did right to be afraid. One night, she took us to the top of Observatory Hill, on a balmy summer night that was more St Tropez than Southampton, and announced we would spend the night there. ‘I’m not shacking up with a virgin!’ she declared. For yes: she had, to my amazed and dizzy delight, agreed to put our partnership on a legally recognised and hopefully permanent level. She knelt and took my face between her hands, rubbed her nose Eskimo fashion against mine.

I had often wondered privately and with much discomfort just how Clio had acquired her impressive sexual knowledge, both theoretical and practical. As though reading my mind, she gave a husky chuckle. ‘This cute proboscis and those busy fingers of yours have been so far up me and so often that I can hardly claim to be intactaany more.’

I found it hard to believe that my fervid rootlings had been the first she had enjoyed, but what the heck? I had more than enough to worry about breaking my own duck as far as the virginity stakes were concerned. So far she had confined herself to the occasional handjob, embarrassing enough for me, with a prick that rarely grew to more than 3.5 inches (it was scarcely less unworthy in centimetres!) and generally shot its bolt before full erection was achieved. Now I dreaded like death her discovery of my impotence and my final shame and loss.

All seemed doomed to go according to my schedule of horror. Perhaps she was nervous and doubtful too, but instead of my anticipated prolonged (as far as possible) cunnilingus, she permitted only the very opening strokes, with her dress still up round her belly and only shoes and pants discarded before she suddenly heaved me up onto her and clawed her way almost savagely through my flies and underpants, to seize my wet and throbbing penis in a vicelike grip and put me to her. My chief sensation was one of fierce pain – perhaps that was why I actually found myself with a completely unexpected hard-on, a testament probably to her determination and force – so that I was astounded to find myself riven deep inside her tightness. In panic, I began to hump frantically, pounding on top of her, until she grunted in startled dismay and squirmed under my brief assault. And of course the nightmare came all too true, my prick went limp and flopped out of her to shrink dripping onto her thigh like a fish on a slab.

She was heartbreakingly good about it. I was dumb with misery, unable to hide my tears, which she calmed, held me close when we had restored our dress, kissed and soothed me, with talk of nerves and tensions over exams and jobs and the scary responsibilities of our permanent union. ‘It’ll all come right,’ she promised, and I hid my face in her fragrant hair and wondered miserably how it possibly could, and why I fancied her so desperately when I was clearly a strange brand of deviant by orientation.

She worked a miracle. We drifted asleep, in our hidden nest in the long grass, under a magnificently starry night, on our blanket, nestled like babes in the wood. I woke to a pink dawn, a glorious day, and Clio’s skilfully busy hands unzipping my trousers, easing them down, then my underpants, until my body was bared from kneecaps to navel. When I tried to move, she held me down by force, even stopped the instinctive move of my hands to shield my exposed genitals. ‘Keep very still!’ she ordered hypnotically. ‘Don’t move a muscle. You can’t! Understood?’

Slowly, she undressed me: shoes, socks, pants, then sweater, shirt, allowing me to move only to facilitate her stripping of me, until I lay completely naked in our little bower, and heard the distant shouts and laughter of pupils on the way to school. She didn’t undress, though I found out she had already removed her knickers and her sandals. ‘Now remember! I said don’t move a muscle.’ She grinned down at me. ‘Well, maybe one!’ I felt the silk caress of her dress over my thighs and stomach as she sat on me, leaned forward until her face was close to mine, and she kissed me, gently at first, but lingering, her tongue working, insinuating itself in my yielded mouth. She broke off, only to trail those lips and tongue down my hairless chest, to lap at my erect nipples until I could hardly obey her instruction to remain motionless. I felt my prick uncurl, and flip up, swelling onto the crease of my thigh and pubis. I gave a soft whimper. Her thin dress was still decorously concealing our loins, but her fingers searched under this flimsy cover, found my stirring penis and stroked with gentle rhythm, always unhurried, and brushed the wet tip over the wiry curls of her pubic hair, and down the dampening folds of her labial divide.

I groaned, involuntarily lifted my buttocks and belly against her pressing weight, and bit my lip hard to stop the whimper escaping from my compressed mouth. My prick was swelling mightily, thickening, and stiffening until it ached, and still she continued to brush the sensitive slit of my helm against her furrow. She shivered. I felt her sharp buttocks against my upper thighs. She increased the movement of the hand holding my prick, and her own motion too, against its urgent beat. At last! I cried out as I felt its rigid length slide into the welcome grip of her cunt, and the pressure of her riding me, bearing down in time to my upward thrusts. My buttocks clenched and pumped on the hairy folds of the blanket, and I was whimpering again, constantly now, lifting her weight, my column thrusting deep. I gave a sharp, rising cry. ‘My God! Clio! It’s happening! I’m coming!’

And suddenly she was bouncing violently up and down, riding me, our cries mingled. I came, pumped on and on, a rich flow, and she rode me still, faster, until all I could feel was the wetness sealing and binding our union, and I was crying, and she was folded over me, her brown hair spilling over my face, wet with my tears of devotion and gratitude.

Coitus happened rarely, and never like that again, but I was happy over the following months, as I slipped more and more into my role of worshipful vassal, skivvy and bondsman, the natural servitude which became my station in our relationship. There was always regular sex in those early days. Climax for me had to be first, and swift. I was required to penetrate and come within a minute or two; if the first was achieved (which was very unusual) the second requirement was virtually unavoidable – in fact my climax often came before coition. I soon learnt to prevent this by making sure that neither entry nor ejaculation took place. Thus I spent hours, until my tongue felt like a rasp and my face stung, performing the rite I excelled at, oral sex, until at last, even to mybesotted relief, Clio would twist and writhe and hale my sweating wet face back and forth against her heaving belly and scissoring thighs.

She became brutally frank after the first months, sometimes cosily, with a no-secrets-between-us kind of intimacy, other times (all too often) vindictively, with an awareness of how deeply her disclosures hurt. ‘You didn’t really think you were the first, did you?’ she laughed. ‘Jesus! I had my first fuck on the beach when I was 14. And my best friend Kathy had prepared me well in advance. We did the honours for each other. It was good fun. I could easily become a lezzy! We–e–ell,’ she drawled modifyingly, ‘maybe bi! But then I don’t need to, do I, sweety, when I’ve got you. The fastest tongue in the West!’

Other liaisons were revealed at intervals. She liked to tease me with vividly erotic details of sex with various people we both knew, then, right at the end she would grin and say, ‘Don’t worry, sweet! Only joking!’ until I didn’t know which was truth and which imagination. But I knew where I was all right. Fairly and squarely under the thumb. ‘And don’t you just love it, my cute little catamite!’ she would say, with sadistic pleasure. ‘You wouldn’t have it any other way, would you, my little slave?’ It frightened me to admit to the element of truth in her jibes.

But she began to work late at her PA job, and go out in the evenings to visit “old friends” – ‘If I have too much to drink I’ll stay over, so don’t worry. You get a good night’s sleep. Don’t sit up all night marking.’ I was working at the local comprehensive, dispensing the pearls of my literary wisdom to see them trampled in the mud. I was beginning to grow unhappy on all fronts.

I plucked up courage, my heart thumping, when she returned from work at about eight one evening. ‘Where’ve you been? Why are you so late?’ Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shone, and her face wore, to my private horror, an expression I could recognise, which I suspected came from sexual fulfilment. And when I drew near I could smell wine on her breath.

‘For God’s sake, Marty! We had to work late, so Alan took me for a drink.’

(My name is Martin, which, at this early stage of our relationship, Clio had already diminished to Marty, which she made worse by saying – ‘Do you think we should spell it with a “y” or an “i”?’ It was to get much worse. By the time we had gone abroad and I became enslaved by her and Ant, she insisted on referring to me as Martina – ‘Martina Cantgetalegover,’ she would explain with relish to every newcomer.)

I suspected everyone and anyone. And said or did nothing about it, except to lie for torturous hours, alone, vividly picturing her infidelities, highlighting the sexual connotations, involving even her female friends in my lurid scenarios – and, of course, myself, either as helplessly captive witness, or transmogrified into my wife herself in her starring role (whichever way you care to spell it). Inevitably, however much I tried to extend my fiction, writhing body would vanquish fertile mind and I would spill my seed, not, usually, on the ground, but equally sterilely, and my shame would be complete. And then came the worst part, the silent whisper of acknowledgement from the weary brain – ‘You love it, don’t you, little perv? Von Masoch, eat your heart out!’ And I’d quietly cry myself to sleep.