Cock-up at Cochem

She lifted her skirt a little, closed her eyes and parted her lips.

I took her in my arms, kissed her fondly and held her to me – hugged her to me – with all the immense affection that, at that moment, I felt for her. Yes, I felt the usual lust, I confess, but the physical was joined with an emotional – a spiritual – love that I'd never felt before with anyone.

I'm sure she felt the same and it was in that mood that our flesh was joined and that so quickly, and with such joy, we reached towards the stars and flew beyond them to some heaven where everything is pure and God's Kingdom rules and is ruled by the gentle passions of the soul...

The sun was coming through the windows of the little church but, much more than that, as we reached towards what the locals called our "Himmel," we seemed to be surrounded and embraced by a miraculously clear and comforting light – a light that could only have had its origin in Heaven and that, I thought, promised a special love and comfort for us, then and in the days to come.

So, in the spiritual atmosphere of the House of God, our carnal pleasure touched higher and finer peaks than either of us had ever known before - or anywhere else. That pleasure wasn't lost but enhanced and awarded the grandeur to which – for so many of us – it surely is entitled.

"Was it a sacrilege?" she asked me when we were outside.

"No," I said. "It was a tribute to God's love and the love he has allowed us to express through the pleasure of the phsical union between man and his mate."

"I think He was watching us all the time – and approved, don't you?"

"I'm sure He did."

"But we're getting too philosophical," she said. "He wouldn't want us to spoil what He's given us. It mustn't be something we worry over – its meaning or its worth – till we're not spontaneous in our loving any more."

Now I was surprised at her thinking.

"It was a great fuck, yes, let's leave it at that," she went on. "But you know, darling, it's only made me want more – more and more."

"That's the way it should be. A Divine blessing – to be used and practised and perfected - to the full."

"Yes, and you know what I think: To love is good; to forbid is bad."

"Something like that."

I took her in my arms.

We found a quiet spot along the road and we stopped and made love again. We were then travelling towards Coblenz. It was unbelievably beautiful country: the quite small, gently-flowing Mosel, hills on either bank covered with vines and a succession of picturesque villages each with its own church – each looking very much like the intimate House of God in which we'd made and found such extraordinary love. Some of the villages were so charming, Sara said, she would like to wrap them up and take them home to keep for always.

That night actually we spent at a little village near Ellenz, on the bank of the Mosel. In the morning, we went on to Cochem. There we found a big room on the second floor of the Union Hotel overlooking the Mosel. A Weinfest was in progress with a band and dancing. A big crowd packed the town square; but there were many drunks too - including at least two Americans and a whole bunch of Englishmen.

It was the Weinfest that intrigued us most and that, in the end, taught us a thing or two about our respective characters and relationship.

A Weinfest is in many ways a fertility celebration and fertility means sex – for plants perhaps but also for humans.

The people staying at our hotel had come mostly for the Weinfest and they expected certain relaxations of their normal straitlaced behaviour. When I came into the bar with Sara, the eyes of every male popped and they started to preen themselves and to try to show whatever plumage they had in the best possible way.

On the way to the bar, one of them "bumped" into her and she felt her bum squeezed. When we sat at the bar, the flirting – mostly crude, spontaneous and seasonal, too, if you like – continued. Mostly it was just fun – though hardly good and sometimes not very clean.

For a while, I didn't mind and I even felt flattered that other men so obviously admired the girl I was with. I imagined that they envied me that I would sleep with her that night and they dreamed about what it would be like if they were ever lucky enough to have her – or a girl like her.

But then Sara seemed to become more interested in one or two more sophisticated men who flirted with more elegance and who acted as though they were conditioned to associating with beautiful girls like her.

My special objection was that she seemed to give them far more encouragement than I thought was necessary. If she encouraged the whole bar, that was one thing; if she encouraged just one or two that was something else. I began not to like it.

Now it was I who had to defend my position; so I suggested we go outside into the town square where most of the public celebration was taking place.

That was a case of leaping out of the frying pan into the fire.

In the public celebrations, almost everyone was partly drunk and many of them were very drunk. That included the women.

One young woman – a pretty woman, with a nice figure – squatted down on the footpath and peed while everyone looked on.

To begin with, we loved the happy riot of celebration and joined in the singing and raunchy dancing; but then I started to get annoyed. Men were grabbing Sara - my girl - and dancing with her. They were hugging her and fondling her in a way I regarded as being my prerogative – and no one else's.

The big trouble again was that she didn't discourage it. She seemed to like it – indeed she did like it and once, when a man made a gesture that he was interested, she lifted her skirt to show him what she had – and she laughed as he grabbed her and fondled her breasts.

In the end, I couldn't take it any more and, sulking, I left the square, went up to our hotel room and – notionally - went to bed.

I asked her to come with me but she wanted to stay. So I left her there to do whatever she liked.

I thought it was better if I didn't see what she was getting up to.

It wasn't.

From our bedroom, I only imagined the worst – and it was as bad a worst as I could imagine. If that's circular, that's the way my thoughts were: they went round and round, starting with her tart-like behaviour and ending with my love – or lust – for everything about her.

I lay there in our bed and tried to go to sleep but I couldn't. I swore that, if she came back now, I'd have nothing to do with her. I was finished. I didn't want her trembling little dooverlackie any more. It was too cheap and nasty. She could keep it, give it away or market it wherever she chose; but I was through with it.

It must have been about an hour later that she eventually came in. It wasn't very late but it was about midnight and a lot can happen in that sort of time and at that sort of hour.

She went to the bathroom and I heard her undressing and getting ready for bed. I imagined her, in her dainty little panties. I thought of her neat breasts, her bum and her lovely legs and, at their top – above all - her delightful little dooverlackie...

Despite myself, my prick began to stir and then stand up. I thought of putting it where it so dearly wanted to go. I thought of sliding it into her – deeper and deeper, in and out...

"My God," I thought, I'm addicted to her – and to her dainty little panties and, above all, to the trembling little dooverlackie that her dainty little panties decorate so becomingly."

Soon she would be getting in beside me.

My prick continued to thicken, my desire to build. Every moment, I imagined sticking him into her....the build-up of desire, the lovely feeling as I slid him in and drew him out...I visualised myself rocketing to a climax and then exploding...

"Oh, darling...darling, I love you, I love you," I'd scream.

No, I wouldn't. I wouldn't, I told myself. I didn't love her. I didn't want a bitch like that who flirted – played around - with other men and stayed on at a party while I had to go off to bed by myself .

She was just an unfaithful bloody tart.

At length, she finished in the bathroom and turned out the light.

Now she was getting into bed.

I smelt her perfume and that particular female smell – that raunchy reminder of her sexuality – that she always had about her.

"Are you awake?" she enquired.

I didn't answer. I wasn't going to answer.

I always slept naked. She knew that.

I had my back to her.

She stretched over and reached for my cock.

"Ooh, he's not asleep," she said.

Now, how I wanted her...

I wanted, I wanted, God only knew how much I wanted her...

But how could she do that? Fuck around with other guys and then come back to me – and expect me just to forget about it all and make love to her?

I took her hand and flung it aside.

"Don't you want me?" she asked.

"No," I said sulkily.

"Not at all? You've got a big hard on..." She giggled. "Very big. That's nice. She'd like him to pay her a visit."

"I'm sorry – she'll have to go without."

"You mean I've left the party across the road and come up here especially to see you and you turn me down?"

"That's right."

"I think that's very mean. I could have got myself a fuck down there and I didn't – I didn't because I wanted to keep it for you. I came up to make love to you and now it's all wasted."

I turned to her and sat up. "You didn't make love to anyone? Is that what you're saying? No one fucked you? No one?"

"No one did anything that mattered. I wouldn't let them"

"And you want to make love with me?"

"Of course."

"Really? Really bloody truly?"

"That's what I'm here for. You know that. You must know that."

"Oh, darling, I'm sorry. Please forgive me."

She smiled. "Of course, I forgive you. You've just been silly and I understand why....."

"May I take your panties off?"

"Mnnnn! Yummy! That's better. Yes, please...please...and quick - I'm as randy as a nanny-goat."

To make love after that sort of lover's tiff is always special and memorable.

Then after the first time, we started to talk about what had happened after I left the Weinfest.

"They all seemed to expect me to have sex with them. They were following me around as though I were a bitch on heat. I was trying to tell them that I wanted to sing and dance but I didn't want them to fuck me – that was for my husband. That's you."

"And that was all?"

"Not really. There was one fellow who seemed more normal – less aggressive than the others. He was young and fairly good-looking and he said he wanted to chat with me. 'Where?' I asked him. 'In my car,' he said."

"So he asked you to sit in his car with him..."

"Yes. I took him at his word that that was all."

"And did you? Was it all?"

"Did I sit in his car? Yes, for a while. But as soon as we got in the car and sat down, he just undid himself, took out his cock and wanted me to touch it."

"Didn't he want to fuck you?"

"I don't think so. If he did, he didn't say. He wanted me, so far as I could make out, just to jerk him off..."

"To give him a handjob?"

"I suppose. But he had a long, thin prick that...well, somehow, it disgusted me. I couldn't ever have brought myself to touch it. It revolted me. I didn't want even to look at it. It was sort of dark and slimy - and so thin I thought he'd more likely stab a woman with it than fuck her with it..."

"So what did you do?"

"I got out of the car as quickly as I could. And then another guy came up behind me and felt my bum. He looked nicer and I quite liked having my bum squeezed but he didn't show me his cock. He just went on, squeezing other bums and then..."

I didn't want to hear any more.

"You've had a good evening. Why did you come back to me?"

She thought about that. She wasn't going to humble herself completely.

"I don't know really. Probably I could have got down there as good as I could get up here. If I'd known you were going to sulk, I wouldn't have come back at all..."

"But you needed me?"

I was randy again. I felt between her legs, kissed her breasts...

"Do you need me again?" I asked.

"Yes, please...don't tease me any more. Just stick him up me...It's the least you can do after sulking all evening..."

I got on top of her and eased him in.

"Tell me you really do want to fuck me," she said.

"I want to fuck you," I obeyed, driving him in more deeply. "I want to fuck and fuck and still more fuck you."

"Tell me I'm a good fuck."

"You are a good....oh, ooh, darling..." - I moaned as I poked him further and further in - "you're a great...a great fuck, the most delicious fuck I've ever known."

So delicious, I thought, that I'm going to come at any moment.

"Tell me you want to spurt into me...that you're going to spurt all your love into me..."

I felt the floodgates begin to open.

"Oh, darling, I'm coming into you right now with everything I've got..."

"And I'm coming with you," she said as she began to writhe with pleasure.

"Aaaaa...aaaah..... aaaaa...... aaaaa..... aaaaaaaaaahhhhh"

We came in one great, united orgasm as I shot my load deep into what I always thought of as her trembling little dooverlackie.

I stayed inside her for a couple of minutes, kissing and murmuring love-words to her.

When I finally withdrew, she bent down to kiss my subsiding heartbreaker reverently...

"Oh, that was lovely," she said. "I love you, love you, love you, my darling... I adore you..."

I thought of the man who'd exposed himself to her in the car.

"Is he – my heartbreaker - too thin?" I asked.

"Oh, no, he's nice and fat," she replied and, caressing his tingling tip, kissed him again. "I love him the way he sticks up, stout and strong when he's ready...

"But is he too fat?"

She kissed him again.

"Oh, no, he's fat when he wants to go in but he's also nice and lean when he's resting."

She stroked him with one hand and kissed his now quivering tip..

It was so delicious, I thought I'd unload again.

"Is he too short?" I asked. "Doesn't he go far enough in?"

"Oh, no, he touches her just where it matters. His gorgeous head – ooh, I love it – he thrills her hungry little soul..."

"But is he then perhaps too long? Does he go too far in?"

"No, no, darling, he's just exactly...exactly right." She hugged him and kissed him and stuck a hand under my balls and gently rocked them. "Darling, you ask too many questions. Please just put him back in. She's trembling for him again...Please, darling, please...."

I fucked her six times that night. The last couple were, for me, pretty dry runs – I'd used up everything I had – but they were none the less joyous for that.

A couple of days later, we flew to Heath Row. She was, after all, supposed to be on a holiday to see her mother, so she should at least put in an appearance at the family home in Bucks – and brief her mother on how she should play it if hubby called.

I hired a car for her at the airport and she drove off, headed into the depths of Buckinghamshire where her mother lived in a tiny village called Little Missenden.

We both thought it as well that I shouldn't meet her mother just yet – you couldn't be sure how she'd react to a new lover in her beloved daughter's life.

So I farewelled her at the airport and took a BA bus into town. I'd booked a room – a double room, just in case – at the Waldorf Astoria in the Aldwych.

That night, I slept by myself. After the loving of the past week, I felt grievously deprived and I woke with an erection that wouldn't go away when I woke – and grew still burlier when I thought of her – in the morning.

I rang her and she couldn't promise that she'd be free to see me that day – "Maybe tomorrow will be possible," she said. "How's Fred?"

She'd got into the habit of calling him by a name – of her choice. This morning, it was Fred, tomorrow it might be Big Top or Bruiser, Teaser Tip or Tiny Tickle and a favourite was Pleasure-trove. She giggled when she called him Pleasure-trove; "but," she said, "that's what he is for me."

"Fred's fine," I told her. "He looks fine anyway. Now I'm talking to you he's standing up big and strong to say saying hello to..."

"That's so nice. Give him a little tickle from me."

"What about your lovely little dooverlackie? Is she trembling with desire?"

"She's lonely. She sends her love to Fred and wants him to visit her soon....Ooh..."

"What's happened?"

"I've got to go. Thinking about Fred, my trembling little dooverlackie – as you call her – did tremble and she's rather wet my panties a bit, I think. I'll have to take them off..."

"That I'd love to see."

"You will but not today. I'll have to give her a tickle myself – unless I can get to fuck the milkman."

I did have some business to do. It wasn't entirely a fuckman's holiday. I went down to the city, checked in with my broker, made a few phone calls and wandered round Harrods, seeing whether there was anything new.

There was and I took a few items home for the girl with the trembling little dooverlackie. Fred approved.

It was about five in the afternoon when I picked up my key at the Waldorf desk and took the lift to the second floor.

I went through the door – and there she was, stretched out on the big, king-size bed wearing my dressing gown.

"Darling," I cried.

She pulled the dressing gown open.

"Welcome," she said.

Under the gown, she was naked except for her ever-dainty little panties.

"I know how much you like to take them off," she said. "But please be quick or I'll have to take them off for you."

I was quick. After my 24 hours "lay-off", I had her panties off and my cock in her little dooverlackie before she could murmur "I love you."

"Mama said I shouldn't come this evening. She said I should wait..."

"You told her?"

"She said you'd get too used to me if you saw me too often..."

"She doesn't know how marvellously you fuck... By the way ..."

I spread the things I'd bought out on the bed.

"Are they for me?"

"All seven of them."

"Oh, darling, you're wonderful. We'll have a fuck tonight for each one of them – that'll be seven, one more than the six fucks we had that night in Cochem."

"Cochem – that was a wonderful time, wasn't it – after the big cock-up?"

"After you turned me down – yes then it was wonderful; but I haven't forgiven you for rejecting me to start with."

"I was crazy, stupid but it was good afterwards. By the way..."

"Yes?"

"I thought we might go to see the revival of 'No sex, please, we're British.' It's on just next door – tonight."

"Then come back here and prove them wrong? Oh, please darling, just love me once more before we go and then several times afterwards. I know I'm British but..."

The plan was that, just as we'd departed separately from Ikeja, we should return separately too. That would provide a little cloak to obscure our tender – though illicit - little affair of the heart.

We took a plane that did a round trip from London to Accra and Lagos and then directly back to London. I got off at Accra and she flew on to Lagos to celebrate her homecoming with her husband.

When the aircraft was airborne after Accra, she went to the toilet, with her overnight bag. She took off her miniskirt and left it in the waste basket. The forensic evidence might be too incriminating to take home. She left two large, rather damp handkerchiefs in the waste basket too. She washed herself as well as she could, dabbed her body with some perfume and slipped on a nice, fresh pair of her dainty little panties – pure white and virginal. She thought that was the right colour for arrival back home to greet her husband.

She wouldn't wear any bra but a top that revealed absolutely nothing to anyone. Down below, she pulled on a pair of jeans that might make her husband's eyes goggle in memory of pleasures in the past and in anticipation of pleasures to come; but no one else would notice anything especially erotic.