of possibly unrelated events....

Eventually I relented, and one Tuesday afternoon towards the end of August, I ejaculated into the mouth of Christine H. At almost the same moment - I was later to discover - my Uncle R was stripping down to his underpants, and preparing to jump off a bridge over the river Clyde. I do not think that these two events were in any way related. Even if I was fool enough to believe in God, nothing would ever convince me that He (or She) gave enough of a shit about their creation, to make the effort of constructing some divinely intricate plan for us all – certainly not one so sophisticated, and mysterious, that its success might hinge on the concurrence of these too disparate events.

My Uncle R would have plunged into that cold-black water whether I had succumbed to the temptations of that hot mouth or not. And God (She or He) had no influence on either event – being much too busy fucking up the world in other ways. Of course I am forced to accept that if a butterfly’s wing can influence the trajectory of a hurricane on the other side of the world, then it is just within the bounds of possibility that, had I restrained myself in that moment, my Uncle might just have been deflected from his suicidal purpose. But even that would be to stretch the Theory of Universal Chaos beyond breaking point. In the event I did ejaculate, and my Uncle did leap; and it just so happens that these two things occurred almost simultaneously. In the end I am forced to conclude that this was nothing more than coincidence. And I have a lot more faith in coincidence than I ever will in fate.

Christine H registered some surprise that I had, at last, delivered on my… promise. Her already large eyes widened as she sensed that first contraction as it passed up from the root of my cock – not more than a fraction before I rudely painted the walls of her mouth with my cum. As the contractions intensified, and the little pulses extended into almost pounding waves, I thought that she might pull away - it is an acquired taste after all – but, instead, she drove her mouth harder onto me and swallowed with almost rhapsodic enthusiasm.

“I really didn’t think I’d like the… flavour,” she said later.

“But is was… almost… soothing! Not what I… expected.”

This was probably the result of my almost exclusively eating strawberries over the previous two days - a tip, funnily enough, that had come directly from my Uncle R.

“Helps to sweeten the load…” he had assured me.

My Uncle R was a man of the world, as they say. He was a second-engineer in the Merchant Navy, and had enjoyed a number of ‘exotic adventures’ in his travels. There was a rumour that he had once married an African Princess, but that she had died in childbirth aboard the ship that he had been trying to bring her ‘home’ in. I have no idea if there was any truth in that story – though it would have gone a long way to explain his not infrequent bouts of melancholia. Once or twice a year he would emerge out the black belly of some ship, or other, and seek out his ‘favourite nephew’. After my father had died he had taken it upon himself to ensure that I was properly educated in all the ways of Whisky and women. Most of the time he proved a much greater authority on the former (I don’t think that ever saw him sober). However, his tip about the consumption of strawberries has proved useful more than once over the years.

When Christine H had swallowed down the last drop, I slipped my cock out from between her pretty lips. Even as I withdrew I could feel the little tremble and the flicker of her tongue as she tested my shaft for any remaining residue. She pulled a sad face, and called me a ‘meanie’ for pulling away from her so quickly, and for refusing to immediately fuck her mouth again.

“I want seconds,” she said - petulant almost to the point of insolence.

I told her that I had other plans for her, and that she should try to be a little more appreciative of what she had been given - before demanding more.

“But I did appreciate it,” she said, exaggerating the natural pout of her lips.

Christine H was an only child, and her parents had singularly failed to introduce her to the concept of delayed gratification – much less anything so drastic as actual denial. As might be expected this had nurtured in her a tendency towards the brattish. Even as a young man this was not a quality that I found particularly attractive. However, in moderation, and strictly in the bedroom, I am forced to admit that it does have the potential to be quite… stimulating. Christine H was well aware of this, and would often feign little tantrums for no other reason than to prompt my consternation.

“You’re not going to punish me are you?” she whinnied - more in anticipation than fear.

When she saw that I was not prepared to indulge the ‘spoiled little princess’, she altered her tack. Already on her knees beside the bed, she now lowered her eyes, dipped her chin, and clasped her long hands together between her breasts. With the light behind her she very nearly managed to look penitent of her sins. I almost expected her to recite some sort of prayer – or at least offer a grace:

“For what I am about to receive, may the Lord make me truly… truly… grateful….”

When we had first set out on our sexual adventure together I had been convinced that I was destined to be the real corrupting force in our… relationship. Christine H, for all her veneer of sophistication had initially struck me as something of a naïve - if not quite an… innocent. As time had progressed, however, I was increasingly forced to concede that it was just possible that it was Christine H who was the more corrupting influence.

“Women like to be spoiled… and treated nice,” my Uncle R had advised me - and more than once.

If nothing else could have convinced me of my Uncle’s failure to grasp the true nature of women, then this one statement would have confirmed it. For all his travels, and all his affairs, my Uncle R remained something of an ingénue when it came to ‘fairer’ sex. The simple truth was that my uncle was not a lucky man when it came to love. I remain certain that he would not have thrown himself off that bridge if he had understood women half as well as he thought he did. Even though I was barely twenty at the time I suspect that was already far older than my uncle – at least when it came to matters of the flesh.

And Christine H had the most exquisite flesh. To this day, if I close my eyes, I can still vividly picture each and every delicious portion of her. While she was no flawless beauty, she was as perfect in her own smooth, and unblemished skin, as any woman I have ever met. At the age of nineteen she was, as they say: all woman. There was a plumpness to her belly, but it was slight and only acted as the perfect counterpoint between the weight of her breasts, and the full curve of her hips. The over-all affect was entirely seductive. Without a doubt Christine H was a whole lot more than just the sum of all her - admittedly luscious - parts.

Without prompting, Christine H put away her ‘prayers’ and effortlessly assumed her more familiar role – that of the whore. When she was on all fours she flipped the skirt of her dress up and over the small of her back and, shamelessly, wiggled her bottom in my direction. She arched her back and spread her cheeks so that I could be in no doubt of her desires. It was of no little wonder - even amusement - to me that despite all our ‘games’ Christine H had, somehow, managed to remain a virgin – if only the most technical of senses. She was a spoiled, and largely ungrateful daughter, but there was some part of her that did not want to disappoint her parents. To this end she had promised her mother that she would ‘save herself’ for her wedding night. Because it amused me I had agreed to do nothing that would cause her to break that promise.

Given all the unbridled debauchery we had indulged over time, it took quite a perverse sort of rationalisation on her part to somehow convince herself that she remained essentially pure. I think that she really did believe that what we did together could not really be counted as sex, so long as we continued to avoid actual coitus. Once or twice - probably more than that - I regretted agreeing to this particular restriction on our activities. However, all in all, I can’t say that it had proved all that much of a barrier our pursuit of the more impure pleasures. Over that summer I had tasted her cunt in all its various states of arousal, fingered it, fucked it with any number - and variety - of objects, teased it, pounded, spanked it… and even drunk from it. The only thing that I had not done was to slide my cock, even the slightest distance, into it. I may not have entirely appreciated it at the time but I think it taught me a very useful lesson in self-discipline. And if it gave her comfort to think of herself as virgin - even as I eased my tip beyond the outer ring of her anus – then who am I to resent her that? Or question her judgement with regards to the sanctity of marriage?

Not to suggest that I was not tempted. All cunt is perfection of course. By the particular arrangement of its dips, and mounds, and folds, and the inner textures of it, each is uniquely beautiful - and irresistible. If each is a work of art (and I would argue that it is) then the cunt of Christine H was a fucking masterpiece. There are saints who would have given up their seat beside God Herself to have slid their saintly cocks just once into that perfect cunt. And my flesh is a lot weaker than any saints. Still I abstained, and I’m glad that I did. If nothing else I learned that the act of sexual pleasure than vaginal penetration – a lesson that all young men would surely benefit from. It certainly made me a lot more… imaginative in my dealings with Christine H.

“Never marry a whore,” my uncle had once insisted.

He was very animated on this point - as though he had some personal investment in subject.

“Now don’t get me wrong boy,” he hastened to add.

“I’m very fond of whores myself, but they are not the marrying type… it’s not in their nature. All the joys they have known…! Now why would they give that up for some grey little wedding?”

I liked my uncle enormously… but, if I’m honest, most of the time I had no fucking idea what he was trying to tell me. Looking back I suspect that he was doing his best to stop me from making the same mistakes that he had made. If that is the case, then it’s fair to say that he largely succeeded. I never ran away to sea, I never rubbed ‘oil of chilli’ under my foreskin (a Chinese ‘remedy’ for impotence), and I never jumped off a bridge into the River Clyde – or any other river for that matter. (Perhaps some part of me regrets that I never had the opportunity to marry a whore – I suspect that I could have made that work.)

Christine H pouted as she waited impatiently to be punished for her transgressions. Her back was at the full limit of its curvature, and she almost purred as I stroked her haunches - my fingers tipping almost between that perfectly wetted cleft. She tilted her hips and held her breath in anticipation of a less gentle stroke. She sighed as she heard that first indelicate smack of flesh on flesh. And as I raise my hand again I saw a shiver ripple along her spine, and a plump pearl of moisture form where her lips met on the outer limit of her quim. At that moment I could almost taste her arousal - the air was so thick with it.

When I was hard again I fed my cock over her tongue, and each time I struck her pinking cheeks, she drew me deeper inside her. As I struck at the little shaft of her clit I could feel her tighten around me, and begin to convulse. Christine H fucked my cock hard with her soft mouth, and when we came at last, it was together… and completely. At almost that exact moment my Uncle R was swimming towards the banks of the River Clyde. I’m told that when he was safely back on dry(ish) land, he performed an impromptu jig for all the spectators who had gathered on the bridge.

Again I am forced to conclude that these two events were in no way related.

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