A Helping Hand

"Let me help you with that," she smiled, reaching back and guiding him in.

Bodies joined in a sea of blissful sensation, flesh to flesh, skin to skin, joining and separating, stretching and filling, a bruised and tortured body giving way to the force and the energy of youth, moaning and groaning, gripping the bed sheet with both hands and breathing in gasps, her breathless pants and painful cries smothered in the fabric.

A progression of give and take, blissful cries of encouragement sweeping away whispers, NO! NO! Turning into YES! YES! YES! Moans clinging to groans, pushing in and pulling out, in and out, forward and back, plunging into her depths, hard and fast, easing from her body and sliding back in, in and out, soft and slow.

A collection of words escaping through gritted teeth, gasps stumbling over sighs, moans clinging to groans, words blurted and stammered, having no meaning and making no sense.

"Oh Mark...Fuck me," she pleaded, compelling urges stealing her dignity.

The sudden outburst of sluttish language caught him by surprise. He choked back a lump in his throat and frowned in disapproval, the crude obscenity something he didn't expect to hear from a Christian kind of woman as refined and innocent as Ruth.

He swallowed the lump and dismissed the frown, knowing that her choice of words were nothing more than a spontaneous reaction brought about in the heat passion, a mixture of crude words responding to impulsive suggestion.

He shrugged his shoulders and responded to her request, storing the momentous obscenity in his memory files for future use during solo stimulation.

Turbulence followed calm, adrenaline fuelling a renewed intensity, breathless pants of passion stealing breath from their lungs, bodies fused together in pools of sweat and perspiration, a momentous exhibition of carnal pleasure, the treacherous length moving inside her body, filling her depths with hard flesh.

In and out, hard and fast, giving and receiving, the tight labia lips gripping the girth on the way in, flaps and folds clutching the length on the way out, breathing in the musky odours of mature sex, erotic thoughts creeping inside his head, wishing that the woman he was fucking would be sluttish again.

"Ruth...I'm coming...I'm coming..." he hissed, through clenched teeth.

"Let it come," was all she said.

Aggression joined physical force, the bed rocked and the floorboards creaked, the mattress bounced and the bedsprings squeaked in a fanfare of perpetual give and take, a sea of passion exploding inside his scrotum, rushing through his throbbing shaft with a burning intensity, continuous spurts of hot seminal fluids splashing the walls of her inner core, filling the vaginal vault with a force and quantity she couldn't have believed possible.

An explosive climax, a responsive release of euphoric bliss, vaginal fluids spilling from her vulva and flooding her thighs, pushing her face into the mattress and gripping the bed sheet with both hands, suffocating moans, pledges and promises and muted cries of pleasure smothered in the fabric, a body sliding into a delirium of coital euphoria, the searing heat of orgasm flooding through her body in an ocean of spine tingling release, an earth shattering orgasm celebrated in blowing whispers of silence.

Easing the softening limb from her body, the intimacy and passion, the physical endurance consumed in racing heartbeats, breathless pants and restless flutters, two exhausted bodies collapsing on the bed, vacant eyes staring at the ceiling, settling into silence, stealing glances and exchanging smiles, waiting for calm.

"That was amazing," she declared, between short panting breaths. "And twice in one night... That's a first for me," she added, shuffling uncomfortably on the wet bed sheet, her words of approval bringing a smile to his mouth, the ego-boost making him feel an inch taller.

"How does it feel to lose your virginity to an older woman," she smiled affectionately.

"But the next time we make love you'll have to control your urgency," she said, brushing her hand across the side of his face. "There are many things you need to discover about the female body and there are many stages of human sexual response that you need to know about especially if you intend to arouse the girls."

He wanted to tell her that he had no intention or desire to even look at another woman let alone make love to them. This beautiful woman had helped to stimulate his imagination through many sleepless nights of tireless masturbation and he wanted her to know that for the rest of his life he would only ever want one woman.

She spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

"This must be our secret, Mark. No one must know. Andy would be devastated if he ever found out we had slept together," she whispered, snuggling her face into the pillow.

An over enthusiastic voice and a tapping noise against the bedroom door broke them from their slumber.

"Are you awake, Mark?" Andy enquired, his fingers playing a rhythmic pulse over the door.

"CHRIST!" They whispered in unison, shock and horror joining forces with panic and disbelief, rolling off the bed, a tangle of fumbling hands nervously gathering clothes from the floor, Ruth disappearing inside one of the wardrobes while he pulled on a pair of briefs, nervous whispers choking back guilt, apologies already forming on his lips.

A knitted weave of agonising knots turned like a nauseating vice inside his stomach, beads of sweat forming on his brow, frustrated sighs and choking gasps impeding the excruciating palpitations of a racing heartbeat.

He took a deep intake of breath, braced himself and opened the door.

"Hi, Andy," he croaked, forcing a smile and feeling a surge of blood rushing to his face.

"You're up early today. Couldn't you sleep with all the excitement?" he muttered, covering the door with an outstretched arm, hoping it would prevent him from coming into the room.

It didn't. Andy brushed passed him as if he wasn't there, scanning the room suspiciously before turning to face his friend.

"There's no sign of my mother," Andy muttered, his eyes taking another tour of the room. "I've knocked on her bedroom door, but there's no answer. I've been downstairs but she's not there. My mother's always out of bed before six," he added, pointing at his wrist watch, muttering the time under his breath.

Six-thirty for fucks sake. She's only a half-an-hour late. Ruth was right about his controlling influence on her life, he thought, the chaos inside his head filling with impulsive thoughts of how to salvage the situation and furthermore protect Ruth's dignity.

He exaggerated a yawn and feigned a smile.

"Your mother is probably exhausted and don't forget she had a lot to drink last night, so she's probably nursing a hangover. Go down stairs and put the kettle on. I'll follow you down in a couple of minutes," he said convincingly, pointing a finger at the door.

Looking around the room one more time as if he suspected something wasn't right, Andy sighed, shrugged his shoulders and opened the bedroom door.

"You're probably right. But don't take too long."

The wardrobe doors creaked as Ruth emerged from the claustrophobic darkness, her bra and stockings in her hand, blinking her eyes and breathing in whispers, anxiety feeding panic, slipping discretely out the door, tiptoeing across the landing with uncanny silence, avoiding the floorboards that always creaked outside her bedroom door.

Andy was pouring tea into a cup when he walked into the kitchen, guilt and uncertainty plaguing his mind, preparing himself for further interrogation.

An enthusiastic voice interrupted his nervous dilemma.

"Good morning," Ruth announced, draped in a white bathrobe with her hair wrapped in a towel above her head. "Forgive me for not having breakfast prepared but I've just stepped out of the shower," she said, apologetically, forcing an innocent smile.

"Was that you banging at my bedroom door, Andy?" she enquired. "It seems I can't use my bathroom these days without first informing my son."

Andy sighed, shrugged his shoulders and took two more cups from the kitchen cabinet.

The weather forecaster was right when he said it was going to rain.

Bolts of lightning raced across a dark sky, electric flashes lighting up the cruel sea, torrential rain spilling in waterfalls over the deck of the boat, Andy's face slowly turning green.

The Dover to Calais ferry had barely left the port when Andy emptied the contents of his stomach over the lap of an elderly woman sitting next to him.

And after suffering from a severe bout of sea sickness for the rest of the journey, the port of Calais couldn't come quick enough.

In the vaporous humidity of the nearest café, they talked for almost an hour, mostly about Andy's first and last time on a boat. Once the colour had returned to Andy's face and he had listened to his compelling storey of the ferry crossing for the millionth time, he brushed his hand over the misty window.

The rain had stopped.

In the distance an orange-tinted sky shone through a dazzling coloured arc of a rainbow, a clear sign that if they wanted to get to Paris before midnight, it was time to go.

Even without the traditional beret perched on his head and a string of onions around his neck when you looked at Marcel Dubois you knew he was French.

A pair of beer-bottle glasses perched on the end of a huge bulbous nose, a foul smelling cigar gripped between badly stained teeth sitting permanently in the corner of his mouth, an inch of grey ash hanging precariously from the end, his grimy jacket and trousers soiled with ash and a number of indescribable stains, the origin of which you would hazard a guess at but would never dare ask.

Marcel Dubois looked too old to be in charge of a bicycle, let alone a motor vehicle. He was clearly one of those older Frenchman who had obtained a driving licence without having to take a driving test.

They had only been standing on the roadside for about fifteen minutes when the rusty old Renault delivery van pulled up. Because Andy was still suffering from the ferry crossing he quickly occupied the wooden bench seat in the back of the vehicle, although his hasty decision would eventually prove to be a serious error of judgement.

In a challenging protest of groans creaks and splutters the driver fought frantically with a vehicle desperately in need of urgent maintenance and four tyres lacking air and tread.

They had only travelled about fifty yards when the smell drifted into their nostrils. It was the most horrendous smell that could only be compared with diarrhoea.

Marcel tried his best to apologise for the disgusting smell, although it wasn't really necessary when he launched into a comical improvisation, flapping his arms and making a squawking noise in that universal gesture synonymous with a chicken farmer.

He tried his best to occupy Marcel's attention, raising his voice an octave and lowering the window to get fresh air into the vehicle hoping the distraction would deaden the painful retching noises coming from the back of the van.

It didn't. But the Frenchman just smiled into the rear-view mirror and puffed on his cigar, the ash falling carelessly onto his trousers, his stubby fingers casually brushing it away, the grey stains joining the rest of the shameful fabric.

They had only travelled about thirty miles when Marcel made an unexpected hand gesture, pointing a finger at a road sign and pulling the car to a halt at the side of the road.

After swearing on oath never to eat chicken again they sat on a grassy verge by the roadside, breathing in precious air, watching the Renault van chugging up the road, clouds of black smoke spewing from the exhaust, the engine protesting against the reckless misuse of the clutch and gears.

In a moment of collective silence they looked at each other in disbelief.

"He's having a laugh, Andy. Tell him thanks but no thanks."

Picking up his bag from the ground, Andy walked towards the vehicle.

"Let's not be too hasty," he offered, lifting of his shoulders.

A short fat Frenchman dismounted from his motorbike, his leather jacket and heavy boots creaking as he lifted the side-car and removed a layer of water from the pillion seat. After the second down stroke on the pedal, the BMW 500cc engine started with a deep throaty roar. With Andy and their bags squeezed inside the side-car and Mark on the pillion seat, they headed for Paris.

Wrapping his arms around the Frenchman and gripping his leather jacket with both hands, pressing his face hard against a symbol of a blood-soaked dagger imprinted on the back of his jacket, the white knuckle ride feeding his panic, haunting images of his lifeless body lying in an open coffin torturing his mind.

He tightened his grip. He cursed Andy. He prayed.

They had only travelled about five miles when it started to rain.

After standing on the roadside on the outskirts of Paris for more than an hour, cold and wet from the bike ride and the smell of chicken shit still lingering on their clothes, staring into the windscreens of oncoming cars, wondering if they would ever reach the Spanish border.

The Volkswagen Camper Van was a work of art.

Hand painted purple and green with funky images and psychedelic symbols designed to demonstrate and support the revolution for love and peace, the unmistakable sweet smell of cannabis and incense mixed with the body odours of the unwashed welcomed them aboard with a cold beer and a smoke.

'Christ! A Volkswagen Camper was never designed for so many people. There must be ten bodies. They made a mental count. Ten... No twelve, including the spaced out driver and the girl on her knees giving him a blow-job.

Hairy people sitting cross-legged on the floor, lost in their own little world, smoking weed or tripping on a more lethal cocktail, all dressed in a way to express rebellion against social citizens of the contemporary world. Some with braided hair weaved with coloured beads and flowers, some wearing bandanas or floral patterned scarves, most of them wearing t-shirts, blue flared jeans or long flowing floral skirts, everyone wearing leather sandals.

A girl with Che Guevara's face printed on the front of her t-shirt rocked on an old cigarette burnt leather seat, singing and strumming a guitar with a string missing.

It appeared to be an off-key rendition of a Joan Baez song, but sadly without the aid of the high-e string her performance gathered little interest.

Once the guitarist realised she had no future in the music industry the gravely voice of Bob Dylan crackled from a battered old radio.

'Like a Rolling Stone,' sang alcohol and dope inspired voices, abandoned mouths struggling with meaningless words and singing lyrics that didn't exist.

They travelled the rest of the journey south to Montpellier in a friendly and claustrophobic atmosphere, drinking beer and vodka and smoking weed, listening to their compelling narrative of why the hippies had given up their boring lives back in the U.K. and were now heading off to spend the rest of their days living in love and peace on the island of Ibiza.

Colin Jenson had a face only a blind mother could love.

One brown eye and one blue, unkempt and scruffy hair, a curved hawk-shaped nose and yellow stained teeth looking out from a face covered in acne healing scars, a mouth never without a dope charged cigarette, his body odour an unwelcome reminder of the stench inside Marcel Dubois delivery van.

The dirty hand of friendship confronted them in a French cafe.

Over a glass of beer Colin Jenson said that he had been travelling through southern France for the last three weeks and was now heading to Andorra in the East Pyrenees.

After swopping trivia about their destinations they purchased three bottles of red wine and headed off to seek refuge under a covered canopy in a farmer's field.

Their sleeping accommodation for the night was dry, warm and comfortable. They smoked weed, finished the wine and laughed at jokes that should get old but still get a laugh.

Any disappointments from their travels that day would now be lost in fragmented dreams.

They weren't sure whether it was the toxic fumes or the sound of the double-barrel-shotgun echoing above their heads that suddenly brought them out of their deep sleep.

The entire haystack was ablaze, thick black smoke bellowing out into the wet morning sky.

When the second barrel echoed in their ears, they needed no prompting.

Ignoring Colin Jenson rolling around on the wet ground with his clothes on the fire, they sprinted like athletes across the muddy field, running in zigzag formation, partly to avoid the trigger-happy farmer and partly to avoid a field full of squealing pigs.

A flock of startled birds flew above their heads as he finally reached a steel wired fence just ahead of Andy. Grabbing the wet wires and jumping over the fence, an unexpected charge of electricity penetrated his leather gloves and forced an urgent gasp of caution.

He looked back to warn Andy. But it was too late.

The painful cries echoed across the muddy field as the electrical charge burned into Andy's unprotected wet hands. He squealed like a scared cat. He looked just like one of those cartoon characters that end up with their finger caught in an electric socket.

After arriving at Perpignan and passing through the French border into Spain they boarded a train that would take them along the Spanish coast, taking in the sights of the Costa Brava on their way to Barcelona.

Andy sat in silence nursing his wound, his hand wrapped delicately around a cold bottle of beer, clenching and unclenching his fist, in no mood of his friend's cartoon impression of a scared Disney cat.

The campsite near Barcelona was modest and inexpensive but more importantly it was close enough to the nightlife and the inviting buzz of city centre. After a night of drinking against the splendour of the fountains and the magic of Gaudi's architecture it healed the wounds and they were able to put the previous nightmares out of their mind.

After taking a gap-year before attending Boston University to study architecture, Sally and Kelly were in their last few days of a four week vacation.

In a café opposite the monumental majesty of Antoni Gaudi's 'La Sagrada Familia,' the two girls asked them to take a photograph against the backdrop of the magnificent cathedral.

The flash of a Nikon camera was enough to make the introductions.

Over a drink in a nearby bar the two girls bubbled with enthusiasm, a deep conversation of historical significance gripping the atmosphere. Gaudi's architecture. The work of Picasso. Renaissance Art. Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci. All subjects joining the conversation.

The two boys nodded their heads and forced smiles at every appropriate junction trying not to look like idiots, hoping there would be no questions to answer. Questions followed questions, nods and smiles quickly fading, the vacant eyes of two idiots staring back.

The invitation to join the girls for a drink at their campsite near Tarragona the following day and a promise not to discuss 'The Arts,' helped to ease their embarrassment.

It was late the following morning when the taxi approached the El Cordoba campsite, the outstretched hand of a Spanish Policeman signalling to the taxi driver to pull to a halt against the temporary barrier.

A cold wave of dread swept over them as they stepped from the taxi, the utter chaos of what they were witnessing leaving them both speechless. The Police had taped off the main access road and all pedestrian routes into the campsite. Nobody was allowed within fifty yards of the entrance other than the emergency services.