Mae Me Hate You

The last day.

He had a shower, and standing there in just his towel he drank his first cup of tea, looking out of the window to see Mrs Booth on their balcony decking stretching and straining as she did each morning, only this time she had the most brutal looking pattern of red stripes on her arse cheeks as a vivid reminder of what they had gotten up to not seven hours before.

He took his tea and stepped out onto the deck where his older lover was now bent over at the waist, her legs spread wide, her arse and pussy pointing straight at him.

"Good morning Mrs Booth," he said, "now there's that pretty face again."

She straightened up and turned to face him,

"Well you certainly put me in my place last night Mr Daniels," she said, "I'll be remembering that one for a very long time, best one in ages."

"So do you finally hate me?"

"After last night's orgasms?" she said, "No way can I hate a man that makes me come like that."

"It's our last night tonight Mrs Booth," he said, "I don't know what else I can do to make you hate me in the way that you want to."

"I'm sure you'll think of something Mr Daniels," she said, and walked a pace towards him, pulled off his towel and knelt before him, popping up for a brief second when her sore arse touched her heels as she settled before him, "Just a little something to say thank you for taking such good care of me!" She took his hardening cock into her mouth, sucking him to erection and to orgasm in very swift order, being now quite well practiced in what he liked. As she felt his knees buckle she slowed her wanking and just mouth fucked him until the tremors stopped, sucking, licking and squeezing alternately.

Her obligation to him met, she stood, smiled at him and they both went back to their own rooms, dressed and had breakfast, sat some distance apart, the occasional look from her as she struggled to sit comfortably on her abused bottom, still evident with some soreness from her backdoor thanks to the battering that had received after the whipping.

There was a slow morning with no sight nor sound of the cougar and her big tits and curvy arse, not even for lunch and he spent another few hours reading and note taking for his bloody book, still with no real concept of what the end result would be.

That night it was back into his suit for the final dinner to which Mrs Booth did appear in her long black dress with much cleavage, and it was a very jolly affair being the last of the trip and a chance for everyone to sing some songs and swear undying friendships, including young John, who watched as Mrs Booth slipped away red eyed as Auld Lang Syne rang out across the large function room.

He dragged himself away from the crowd of slightly pissed pensioners and made for his room, intent on a final fuck with Mrs Booth, just a fuck like she had asked for originally, after all he had no idea when the next one would be. He unlocked his room door and stepped in and saw that there were no lights on their balcony and no sign of her in his bed. He stripped off his suit leaving it to hang over the top of his suit bag for a quick packing away the next morning for the trip back on the coach to the Channel Tunnel train and St Pancras.

In just his boxers he walked out onto his cooling balcony to watch the moon and stars for the last time of this trip. Leaning back against the rail, the moonlight cast a beam into her bedroom and he saw her roll over and into his gaze, wearing a clingy, lacy babydoll nightdress, a real match for one that Julia used to wear on special occasions. He felt his erection leap into his pants.

He slid open her door and stepped into her room, shutting it behind him.

He could hear that she was crying softly and wanting only to help, raised her duvet and slipped in behind her. She didn't smell of Chanel anymore, just a boring run of the mill body spray and he breathed her in, looking at how attractive she was and wanting only to make love, he moved closer.

She flinched when he touched her, but relaxed as he stroked and soothed and calmed.

He was so tired of all that perverted shit they'd gotten up to in the last week and he wanted to make love; not spank or beat or bugger; no rage against the gender, just to make love.

To do what he and... To do what he and his girl had done, to make love.

Plain boring missionary sex with two people, a man and a woman in bed and loving the other as their race had done for Millenia, to make love.

He snuggled up to her spoons fashion pulling back against him, careful to make sure he didn't touch her bottom, but reaching around to hold and gently fondle her improved tits, thumbing her nipples to rock hard points. He heard her breath quicken and knew he was doing the right thing, kissing her neck and the soft skin of her shoulders, her jawline, up to her cheeks and she turned her face to his so their lips could meet.

He pulled her back against him and flat to the bed, her sore arse forgotten as he kissed her properly for the first time, stroking and pleasuring her body as he had wanted to for the last week or more, normal sex... no, normal lovemaking.

He raised her nightdress up over her breasts and feasted on the nipples doing all he could to bring her that simple pleasure, and she crooned as he did so pulling her nightdress over her head to be free of it then pulling his face into her and taking on all the joy he could give.

He lay on his side and she rolled to meet him, her face lit by the same shaft of moonlight and it also illuminated a tube of pain relieving cream on her bedside table that she had been given by Mr Bead-Smith 'for her sciatica' she had mentioned to him on their third or fourth night and he took it, gently rolling her to her front, squeezing a short roll of it onto each buttock and she flinched.

"Easy Mrs Booth," he said, "I won't hurt you I promise," and just to prove it he gently stroked the cream into her sore and abused flesh with a paper towel.

"Thank you... John," she hissed, reaching down with her hand to gently stroke his thigh, in a similar motion to his.

Once the cream had been fully absorbed he rolled her to her side to face him and they kissed, with the kind of rising passion that they had both avoided since their first night of sex on the boat.

Their body heat rose along with their pulse rate and pretty soon they were close together and the raw passionate desire was too powerful for either of them to fight and soon he was across her hot naked body with her raised thighs gripping him, stopping only to open her bedside drawer and the lube it contained, quickly squirting a line onto his cock to allow him instant access into her hot pussy.

He groaned as he pushed hard and deep into the hot sex of a woman, enjoying that closeness that he had enjoyed most of all, his face pressing against hers as her arms held him tight one arm pulling their torsos together while the other clasped his naked buttock pulling him harder and deeper into her, and he felt her tremble beneath him to her first orgasm, and she gasped and giggled her face a picture of joy, more so than at any other point during their nights together.

She came down from the crescendo of her pleasure and looked up into his face in shock.

So he kissed her, their tongues bashing together like he always had with Julia, and with a sudden realisation she pulled away from him.

"No... John..." she gasped, as he stroked her hair and caressed her cheek, "John NO!" she snapped as he gently pushed into her again, pulling her thighs up to hold him.

Then he realised. It came to him in a flash as if the lights had gone on in one huge illuminatory burst.

This was the ultimate torture for her, after the spankings, the tying up, the blow jobs, the outrageous sex, the anal - he was making love to her the way that he had wanted; simple and loving missionary sex and she was responding to it as he hoped she would.

"Come with me Mrs Booth, let me make love to you, this is what it's supposed to be like, this is making love, not... not fucking rutting like an animal, love," he pushed down as hard as he could deep into her pussy and kissing her face again, "lovemaking Mrs Boo... Molly!"

"No!" She cried out. "Don't call me Molly!" She hugged him tighter even though her brain was telling her to do the opposite.

"Come for me Mrs Booth, come for me!" he pushed himself up, stretching his arms so she could get the full benefit of his practiced screwing; and the look on her face said it all and she clung to him as her second orgasm swept through her.

"Oh Christ, John... no, please... I mean it... oh shit... I'm coming... com... NOOOOOO!" She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him as her orgasm flooded through her. "You bastard, you absolute bastard..." she wept as she felt him come deep into her pussy. This was the lovemaking she secretly desired but couldn't have from him, "I hate you John Daniels, I fucking hate you!"

He held her for a few moments until she got up and he felt her kiss his cheek and she was gone and he heard her shower start to run.

Wasn't that just typical Molly Booth; he screwed her anally, fisted her, covered her in oil and lube, came in her hair, on her face, had spanked and whipped her and had even pissed all over her and she was content to sit around with him afterwards making wisecracks and smart arsed comments about his prowess or lack of it. But make love to her, perfectly normally passionate lovemaking and she was scrubbing herself down the moment they'd finished like she had discovered he was a lousy, poxed up crack whore.

What a fucking strange bitch she was. He heard that the shower had stopped running but she never came back out. He knocked on the door and called her name, even calling her Molly. She just told him to fuck off.

After 10 minutes he gave up and went back to his room and rolled into his bed for one of the most peaceful, restful night's sleep he'd had on the entire holiday.

Homeward bound.

He woke at six, showered and made his usual cup of tea taking it out to the balcony with him. Mrs Booth's curtains were drawn across and the sliding door was locked, something it never had been before.

She never appeared for breakfast, and he only saw her when they docked and left the cruiser for the last time getting on the coach for the drive back to the channel tunnel. She sat as far from his back seat as possible, wearing large dark glasses and staring out of the window only getting off in the Belgian town to use the facilites while the others shopped. Once at passport control and back in the UK the glasses had to come off and she never bothered to put them back on again. He was sure that he saw a faint tear in the eye of Mrs Booth as she stepped off of the coach one stop before his; she walked across to a nearby taxi rank and climbed into the first one, never casting a single glance at the people she had just spent all that time with. Especially not him.

He got off of the bus with all of the other travellers, said goodbye to all of his new friends and walked the short distance to his mother's house and his car on her drive. He drove straight to the care home where she was still recovering from her surgery and receiving initial physio. He gave her the gifts he'd bought for her and several boxes of sweets, chocolate and biscuits he'd bought for the other patients and staff.

As his Mum bit down into her dark Belgian chocolate she asked about the other guests. He did his best to remember the names of her friends.

"What about Jo, was she there?"

"Jo?" he said with some questioning inflection.

"Of course Jo! She was in the cabin next to yours! She's been on the last few of those tours, doesn't mix much but we kind of fell in together because it was her first trip on her own."

"I think so," he said, "there was a lady that I shared a balcony with that did keep herself to herself."

"Blonde woman mid to late fifties? Quite slim, quite attractive," his Mum leaned closer to him, "big tits," she hissed, "probably fake!"

"Yes," he said with a grin, just stopping himself from saying 'likes her nipples bitten'.

"She's such a quiet squeaky little thing, wouldn't say boo to a goose. Comes from London, bit posh, spinster, never been married..." His Mum sat up slightly, "had the end of her little finger missing, she was born without it apparently, has a little plastic fake one she glues on every now and again."

"Really?" said the son trying to keep the surprise out of his voice, as he thought back to that memorable hand that had lazily moved up and down his cock prior to the many blowjobs she'd given him over their trip.

"Yes, when I first met her she was travelling with her disabled sister Molly; poor thing was in a wheelchair and she used to take care of her, she died last year a few months before our last trip." Mum leant forward, "Apparently she was a bit of wild one while Jo was the quiet spinster. You'd never believe the stories that Molly told me! She was a TART!" Mum looked around her checking that no one was in ear shot then leaned forward again, "Lost her virginity to the son of an Earl in her debutante year... the poor man shot himself after being found in a toilet with another man, I actually remember that being in the papers." Mum shook her head sadly at the wrongs of the past, "got up to all sorts of things... you know... a bit odd... with a Guards officer the night before her wedding! Can you believe it?! Then she was married to a whole selection of different rich men and she had to perform for them."

He tried not to be too interested again, "Course poor Jo would never know where to put her face when Molly was waxing about her wild days; I think she was a bit jealous being the one that stayed at home and looked after their parents and had to behave." Mum looked wistful again, "such a shame, really pretty girl is our Jo, but no family, no kids, looked after parents until they passed away, then Molly after her illness. Guess that now Molly has passed away Jo can let her hair down."

"Yeah," said John Daniels, "I guess she did."

"Did you see much of her?" said Mum.

He thought back his first view of the almost naked 'Mrs Booth' her in her teeny underwear, then her breasts in the dining room, then naked in her room and on the balcony in daylight. Her pretty face moving backwards and forwards over his cock as she sucked him, the pale skin of her back and bottom as he took her on her hands and knees, the bottom that he gradually turned red with his hand then her belt as he spanked her. Her well made-up face streaked with sweat and tears, her lips and cheeks stretched by the gag he'd tied around her face, as she knelt before him naked, long strings of his come sprayed across her face, hair and tits, his entire fist stuck into her pussy...

"Yeah," he said, "Suppose I saw quite a bit of her..."

Back at his empty flat he slumped on his sofa and thought about dinner. After nine days of cordon bleu dining, his small kitchen and what food he had left in it was pretty dull and uninspiring, so he ordered a pizza.

It was fucking spectacular though and he even had ice cream.

He waited until the next morning before he unpacked his bag, and hidden in the lid of his suitcase was a copy of Ben MacIntyre's 'Double Cross', a book he knew he hadn't taken with him because he only had it on Kindle.

He picked it out and saw that a note had fallen out of it.

"Dear John,

By now you have probably spoken to your Mum or worked out that I'm not actually Molly Booth and am indeed her sister Jo - Jo Walsh, and no, nothing to do with 'The Eagles'. You probably also guessed that I'd never done all of those things that my sister Molly had, and never having had any kind of sexual intercourse was the real reason I was so insistent that you didn't need protection. The letter actually was about my sister Molly and a test I insisted she had before I became a carer for her.

I lost my virginity, the broken hymen part at least, to a vibrator I'd found in my sister's wardrobe during one of her occasional pre-divorce stays at home some twenty years ago. Other than some other plastic romances with some other devices you were my first ever flesh and blood penis and real intercourse with a man ever - you might have noticed - but thank you, especially for your introduction to the multiple orgasm.

Both my sister and I were caned and spanked at school and often at home so I can't give you that as a first although you were my first anal sex of any kind, and on that second night after dinner when you made me blow you that was a first as well; but I think you rather knew that at the time.

My breast enlargement was courtesy of Molly, one of her nasty sick jokes to begin with but the joke was on her when I took her up on it. We didn't often get on.

Why then?

I will confess that I was angry, angry that I was alone, then angry that I had to share my balcony with you, then angry that I felt attracted to you, and hell I was really attracted to you; and it was made worse by my recent hormone replacement therapy that had made me horny as hell. To make it worse my lack of experience with men meant that I couldn't think of a way to get you to notice an old bird like me, and had to fall back on all that I knew - and that was courtesy of the experience, recall and I'm sure the imagination of my rather wayward, boastful but ultimately slutty sister and some porn of a similar nature I'd found.

I was the good, convent school educated Roman Catholic girl (most of my spanking and caning experience) guilted into staying home to care for my parents after inflation, taxes and death duties had seen the end of their waited-on lifestyle that they had both grown up with and were so used to (the rest of my spanking and caning experience).

Every man I tried to date was never good enough, was too good for me or was after my diminishing family fortunes. Before I knew it, I was gone forty, past dating and any meaningful relationships having just buried my father and having to think about selling my semi-senile mother's wardrobe to pay for another funeral that could not be too far away.

My rapidly deteriorating Mother hated me even more than usual because I was having to hawk marginally valuable furs, clothes and costume jewellery she hadn't worn in thirty years so I wouldn't have to extend the second mortgage she and my father had taken out without my knowledge then insisted I work to pay, to cover the cost of an expensive society funeral that society wouldn't come to. Most of their society friends were already dead after all.

So once in her cut price grave over my father (not next to him, I can almost hear her turning in it through the shame) I hoped that it might finally be my turn to live and not just work when my freshly separated slut of a sister arrived demanding that MY house be sold so she could have 'her half of the money'.

I pointed out that I had now been paying mortgages on 'our house' for twenty five years while she was off whoring her way around the country houses of Great Britain, and the moment she forked out her half of the mortgages I'd paid she could have her half of the value of the house. Her silence was thunderous and her face long as I showed her my meticulous financial record keeping, one benefit of being my father's daughter.

She slept in the spare room that night and apparently due to her stress of that conversation and those home truths (no-one mentioned that she was a borderline anorexic, semi-alcoholic, cocaine using whore) she had a stroke and suddenly I'm a carer again.

Just before her divorce came through her last husband died which left us enough money to pay off the mortgage and we could both continue to live there in some comfort. We had a few holidays where we both met your Mother, and Molly could take centre stage and all the attention to retell her slutty anecdotes to any that would listen. I've often thought about writing them down - they would probably make one hell of a story; perhaps you should? That way 'the unspeakable Molly Booth' will live forever.