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It was the last summer of peace. There was an eerie sense of normality as everyday life continued as though nothing was happening although no-one talked about tomorrow or the future for the time being. Silently we all recognized that the only thing we could be sure about was ‘now’. Perhaps that is the key to this story.

When I came down from Cambridge I took my father’s advice and went in to banking but almost died of boredom within a month. I knew then that I must pursue my own ambitions or one day I would wake up and realise that I had earned too much money to risk not being a banker.

I took off to my favourite southern coast with little more than a few pens and a note book to begin my new career as a ground breaking poet. I saw a card in a shop window of the small seaside town advertising an attic room to rent. I answered the call immediately. The house was a few miles outside the town; a beautiful secluded house, with magnificent grounds that ran down to a narrow, shallow river and then to the sea. When I rang the doorbell the home help answered and asked me to sit in the drawing room and Mr. and Mrs. Thompson would be down shortly. When the door opened Mr. Thompson introduced himself as Robert Thompson, and immediately called me ‘old sport’. Moving to one side he then introduced his wife, Sophie and at that moment the world, history, time itself stopped for me and has never resumed. Beyond the few clouds in the sky that day, terrible forces were gathering and soon the world would be turned upside down forever. Nothing would stay the same. My love and passion for Sophie, like the wider world we inhabited, marked the tragic end, not the beginning, of a story.

As for him I took an instant dislike to him; there was something bullying about him, coarse, physical. He did not seem to regard her at all. I thought immediately afterwards that my reading of both of them could have been mistaken; time was to show it was not.

As I left the house an hour later I had vague recollections of being told about the house, the couple’s routines, showed the room, told the rent and so on. But I was drunk, that is how it seemed. It was not just a question of her beauty, which was not the ostentatious, glamorous kind but a refined and delicate beauty, born, I felt, of intelligence and a capacity for love. This was the first of many lessons Sophie was to teach me: human beauty, or at least the female kind, was more than physical. It was the minute, human actions that enraptured me: the way she moved, sat down, smiled, laughed, tucked a stray hair behind her ear and shook my hand when I left.

After I had walked a few steps away from the house I turned around to catch another glimpse of it. To my surprise Sophie was still standing in the doorway watching me go but her husband had gone back inside. When I saw her she smiled and I replied with a limp wave but that smile stretched out forever.

Two days later when I moved in I was met in the entrance hall by Robert who explained that he had to go away for a few days on business but that Sophie would show me all I needed to know. He introduced the housekeeper, Mrs. Henderson, who would help me settle in.

“Sophie will see you soon,” was his parting shot as his car arrived to take him somewhere.

What happened next is hard to explain to anyone else except myself. I hold on to the wildly romantic and no doubt erroneous view, that out there is the right person for everyone but the world is a big place and the chance of everyone finding that person is remote.

Once in my room I touched none of my belongings and just waited for her. The temporal logic of time was in abeyance; events were fiercely compressed into mere moments. Soon there was quiet knock on the door and Sophie came in. Neither of us spoke but smiled knowingly. She walked over to me close enough to touch and paused for a moment before putting her arms around my neck and kissed me before resting her head on my chest. It was that simple. I remember saying, “What took you so long?”

How can I truly convey this? It felt not like a first meeting but a reunion, a resumption of something that we had once, who knows when?

After a minutes silence in that position she stood up and gently pushed me a few inches away. She then started to undo the buttons of her dress and said, “Well, are you going to fuck me or not?” We both laughed and in doing so registered our mutual understanding of this extraordinary moment.

As she released the final button she reached up to the collar to pull it away but I intercepted her hands and put them by her side. I wanted the privilege of doing that. As the dress slid to the floor I saw for the first time her beautiful body. She never wore a bra, she did not need one; I noticed the first time I saw her, the press of a nipple against her dress. She had beautiful, small, pointed breasts with large, dark nipples. She always derided them, “They’re girls’ breasts,” she exclaimed, “not a woman’s! And Ataşehir Escort when I lie down they disappear altogether!” No matter how many times I told her how beautiful they were, she remained unconvinced and self conscious about them. When her younger sister, Martine, who was more generously endowed than Sophie, came to visit I was warned not to spend the whole weekend looking at her breasts. However, this was all jest. I think over time she came to believe me when I told her how beautiful she was but she would never admit it; she never had compliments from Robert and was too modest to believe too easily what I told her.

I tried to show her once that her beauty had a lot to with curves but not the curves of her breasts. On one occasion when she was naked I tried to demonstrate it to her. I stood behind her with my hands on the cheeks of her face and slowly ran my hands downwards, first to point out the curve inwards as they ran down her slender neck; then down her spine until it curved outwards to her perfectly formed backside, inwards again down her slender legs, out and down her calves before finally returning inwards as her legs thinned down to her ankles.

“That,” I recall exclaiming triumphantly, “is the beauty of your curves, my love!”

I told her she should read Hogarth’s Line of Beauty. Then she put on one of her mock reprimands.

“Don’t you try and sound clever with me young man. I’m the lady of the house here and you’re just the lodger!”

Then she would throw her head back and peal with laughter. And my heart beat with desire.

That first time was brief, each of us trying to restrain the urgency of desire. I heard for the first time the loud music of Sophie’s gasps and groans that became the soundtrack of that summer. We tried to avoid doing it when Mrs. Henderson was in the house but it was not always possible and so I was forced to put my hand across Sophie’s mouth to muffle the noise. We were insatiable. The more we did it the more we wanted it. My cock hardened just waiting for her. When it didn’t I took off my clothes and massaged it fiercely so it was in prime order when she finally arrived. Throwing off the few clothes she was wearing she was on top of me in an instant. Her loud gasps, sweating body and those rapidly vibrating breasts is an image whose arousal power, all these years later, has remained undiminished.

But it is the sea that is forever locked into all facets of my memories of that summer and Sophie. My childhood was a city one and as children we never once visited the sea; I was fifteen years old when I first saw it and I was mesmerised.

That summer the sea’s smells, sounds and truculent changes of mood were part of my all encompassing passion for Sophie. One glorious, hot day she announced that she wanted to show me a special part of the beach only twenty minutes walk away for which she said brought a large picnic basket in which were fresh strawberries and a bottle of champagne.

The place she took me to was beautifully secluded by dunes and largely unvisited.

“But first,” she announced just after we arrived, “I want a swim.”

“I haven’t brought a costume.”

By this time she had just about stripped off all she was wearing.

“Suppose someone comes,” I feebly objected.

“Don’t be a prude,” she yelled and ran screeching and naked into the sea. I stripped off and ran after her. When we came back Sophie flopped onto the sand with her legs apart and her arms held imploringly outwards.

“Please, Hugh, please, now!”

My earlier inhibitions had dissolved and I eased myself on top of her. I cannot claim to remember all the details of the many times I fucked her that summer but this one I did. As my lips and tongue ranged over her body I experienced for the first and last time that euphoric elixir of female skin, salt water and sweat mixed with the distant call of gulls, lapping waves and the heavy rhythm of Sophie’s loud, urgent gasps.

When we had finally caught our breath Sophie sat up and decided now was the time for the champagne and strawberries but I intervened.

“No,” I remember saying, “now I’m going to teach you something.”

Her eyes lit up. Anticipation enlivened her face.

“There is only one way to eat strawberries and drink champagne,” I continued, “do you know what that is?”

“No,” she said with the excitement of a young child.

“Right, lie down.”

“This is an unusual!”

“Do as you are told.”

For once she did.

“Now for this you will have to lie perfectly still, don’t move or muscle or even talk, which for you will be difficult.”

“Don’t make me laugh then.”

I picked out the two largest strawberries in the box and took a bite of each one. I then placed one on each of her nipples so that the bitten part fitted securely. It was a difficult operation. But the moment they looked secure she laughed and they fell off.

“Keep still!” I cried and smacked her on the Kadıköy Escort leg.

I replaced the strawberries. Then I opened the champagne, poured a little in one glass and then tipped the chilled liquid over each strawberry nipple. As the champagne oozed down each breast I took into my mouth, one strawberry at a time and carefully began to nibble it. Soon most of the champagne flavoured strawberry was gone and her nipple came into my mouth where I sucked away the last few remnants of the fruit and licked away the remaining drops of champagne as it dribbled down the mound of her breast. I consumed the other strawberry, champagne and nipple in the same way.

“That,” I rounded off triumphantly, “is the only way to eat strawberries and champagne.”

Her eyes were now closed. When she opened them I saw she was crying.

“How dare you come into my life and make me this happy,” she sobbed.

Two days later Robert came home and his imminent arrival threw me into a terrible, juvenile sulk that, like all lovers, I took out on the one I loved.

We were sitting in a buttercup carpeted field under a hot July sun but Robert’s imminent return had induced in both of us a quiet introspection.

“He’ll want you, won’t he? To-night, I mean?” I finally let free what was needling me. She gave a small resigned sigh that seemed to say, ‘what is the point of bringing that up?’


“I suppose so,” she conceded.

“You suppose so? It’s a crushing bloody certainty, I’d say.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I exploded incredulously, “doesn’t matter to who?”

“To me. Nor should it to you.”

I reverted to silent sulkiness. She continued.

“It’s not what we do, please don’t think that. He’s just pleasing himself. He has no sense of me at all. He’s just…….masturbating on top of me.”

“Inside you, I would say.”

She refrained from replying to that but added, “Either way it doesn’t touch you, or us. It’s a duty I’m called upon, unfortunately, to perform. It’s just as much a duty to him, after all he has plenty of other women.”

“Other women?”

“Yes, wives always know these things.”

“Don’t you care?”

“Once I did but no longer. I’ve settled for a pragmatic marriage. We have a beautiful house, plenty of money, no children, of course but that’s my fault, in return I maintain the outward show of decency and respectability and give him what little he wants in bed every so often. The availability of these other women, who presumably are in love with his money, takes the pressure off me. Of course, I would like all that and to love my husband like I love you but life’s not like that, is it?”

There was a long silence. Eventually she threw her arms around me and said, “Darling, please don’t pick a fight with me I can have that anytime I want. I’d much rather have a good fuck.”

She looked at the clock.

“We’ve got five minutes before Mrs. Henderson comes back to start making the dinner.”

The fuck was as good as ever but it failed to change my mood. I awaited his return like a death sentence. I refused to look out of the window to see his car arrive but Mrs. Henderson knocked on my door some hours later and said that Mr. his business meetings had been hugely successful. Champagne flowed. As he poured it Sophie looked at me with a mischievous smile as, this time, we drank it from a glass. If only he knew, I thought, as I supposed, she thought also.

Robert bored us to tears the whole evening with details of his business affairs. Sophie and I made all the right noises, smiled and laughed when required and so generally added to his burgeoning sense of his own worth. This I realised was what she must do all the time.

Then suddenly he said, “Well my love, I think we’ll have an early night shall we?”

I flashed a glance at Sophie but she responded without looking up and gathered together some plates.

“Leave that, Sophie, that’s Mrs. Henderson’s job.”

She did as she was told and said goodnight to me with the briefest of glances.

“Good-night, old sport,” he called out, no doubt relishing the task ahead.

I felt sick and walked out into the garden, choosing the back of the house because their bedroom was in the front. The lights on or off would not make me feel better. I kept reminding myself of what Sophie said about duty but it made no difference. Against reason and rationality, I felt betrayed.

I went back into the house and poured a very large, neat Scotch which I knew would knock me out pretty quickly. Even if it only did so for a couple of hours I would by then be able to console myself that they would probably be asleep.

The following morning she came into my room just as I had woken up.

“Time for breakfast,” she announced.

I struggled to sit up but she pushed me back down.

“You don’t understand,” she said and threw off all my blankets. It had been a hot night and I was wearing Bostancı Escort nothing. She took hold of my cock and began to massage it and, as ever with her, it hardened quickly. She took it in her mouth and sucked it vigorously and I lay back and endured the painful pleasure. The ejaculation came soon. For a moment I lay still with my eyes closed; when I opened them she was using her fingers to wipe away the remaining juices into her mouth followed by a theatrical licking of her lips before rounding off with, “There, that’s what I call a breakfast!”

One evening the three of us were sitting in the drawing room listening to one of Robert’s favourite and tedious popular jazz programs when it abruptly ended. There was an urgent news bulletin. The political situation that before the summer had eased was now moving towards crisis: there were significant troop movements towards key border areas. Rearmament was advanced. When eventually the music programme was resumed Sophie stood up and turned it off. With her back to Robert and me she said very softly, “There’s going to be a war.”

Robert with characteristic bravura got up and exclaimed, “Nonsense! It’s just the usual politicians’ sabre rattling. No-one wants a war.” But he left the room without waiting for a response.

Sophie and I remained seated and said nothing for some time. I have retained in my memory every detail of that moment: the slight breeze blowing the curtains against the windows, the smell of the tulips in the vase next to where I was sitting, the taste lingering in my mouth of the whiskey I was drinking, the way the hem of Sophie’s skirt was slightly folded back revealing her knee. It is as though I am looking at a painting.

She turned to look at me with the gaze of the inquisitor and said, “This is how it will end, won’t it, for us?”

In the fifty years since then I have replayed that moment more times than there are numbers to count it and wondered why I said what I did. All I know is I turned my gaze to her beautiful, frightened face and said, “Yes.”

Despite the crisis, or perhaps because of it, we gradually retreated into our own hermetically sealed world of passion and eroticism. One evening Sophie, Robert and I sat in the drawing room. Robert was once more boring me with details of his financial maneuverings. I sat facing him whilst Sophie stood behind him. I could therefore see both of them but Robert could only see me. As Robert droned on and I was making a valiant effort to sound interested, I saw Sophie take up a banana and unpeel it. After this she ostentatiously put it deep into her mouth and rather than bite it she simply thrust it and an out of her mouth in imitation of what she did to me everyday. I tried to retain my composure whilst Robert continued with the details of his financial achievements. When Robert had finished he stood up and Sophie innocently began to nibble the thick, erect banana, a model of the quiet, attentive wife.

The following morning Sophie rushed breathlessly into my room to tell me that Robert was going to be a way for a whole week and she had persuaded him that she would be able to take care of household duties and so give Mrs. Henderson some well deserved holiday. A whole week in that house with just Sophie. Ineffable bliss!

The following morning it seemed Robert took forever to breakfast and pack. Finally, Sophie took him to the railway station. I must have looked out of the window to see her return about twice a minute. Eventually I heard the car door slam followed soon by a pounding up the stairs. I opened the bedroom door so that even a fraction of a second would not be wasted. I was desperate for her. When she reached the top of the stairs she ran into my room and leapt at me and I caught her and she kissed me with a terrible ferocity. The run upstairs and the urgency of her desire caused her to breathe loudly and quickly.

“Fuck me, Hugh, please, now, fuck me, fuck me!”

Our urgency was such that we were clumsy getting out clothes off. Finally, she was so wet that I penetrated her with ease at which she let out a loud gasp which was not so much pleasure as sheer relief. It was over quickly and we laughed.

We lay side by side quietly for about a minute to catch our breath. Then I propped myself up on my arm and looked down at her sweaty, shining body.

“You have such beautiful body,” I said, not for the first time. I ran my hand down from underneath her neck, across her breasts, down her belly, inside her thighs and down her leg.

“So slim and lithe,” I concluded.

“You mean skinny and flat chested.”

“You are not flat chested.”

I ran my hands down the mounds of breasts, pressing them slightly with my thumb and forefinger.

“They’re beautifully firm. And then these beauties,” as I turned my attention to those beautiful nipples and could not resist putting my teeth gently on each one. She closed her eyes and groaned very slightly.

“I’ve always hated them,” at which she paused, before adding, “until now. You’ve convinced me. Like you’ve convinced me about a lot of things. About myself, that is. But…”

“But what?”

“But…..I want you to fuck me again.”

“What now?”

I looked down at my lapsed cock.

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