Coc-up at Cochem

I was never under any illusions. She liked men. She liked to be loved - physically and unequivocally. Anything else was just filling in her time. Her true joy always was in having her ever trembling little dooverlackie stuffed and stimulated by a raging instrument of joy.

I was under no illusions.

For Sara's twenty-second birthday, her husband – yes, she was already married and had been wedded, not very agreeably, for a couple of years – gave her a farewell fuck and a trip home to see her mother.

At 22, most girls are beautiful; but she was a stunner. Lovely straw-blonde hair, blue eyes, and hips, legs and boobs that made me – like every other male – goggle and dream of....

I don't need to spell it out for you; we've all inhabited that sort of fantasy land at some time or other, haven't we?

So she was made for fucking and she loved to be fucked.

At Ikeja Airport, I kept a low profile and went to the aircraft by a separate route – via the first-class boarding lane.

She and her husband, with their friends, were celebrating her birthday and her "going-away present" with a champagne party. She would go to the aircraft via the business lane. So we would be kept separate – and no one would catch on to what we were up to.

After a short flight, the aircraft landed at Kano to pick up some passengers from the north. I had already arranged for her to join me in the first-class section as soon as the aircraft got airborne again for the onward flight direct to Frankfurt.

She was always a girl whose dooverlackie trembled so easily that you could never be sure she wouldn't be diverted by another dick; but she did turn up beside me after Kano and she was even more – let's say - vivacious than usual. The champagne was still having an effect – and, from experience, I knew that would mainly be on the delightful little device she kept well-exercised in her dainty little knickers.

When the steward delivered her, I kissed her "Hello" discreetly on the cheek and we settled comfortably in our seats. I held her hand and looked into her eyes – eyes that always hinted that a fuck would be, if I so desired, not very far away.

The aircraft settled down to what would be a fairly long, all-night flight. We wouldn't be in Frankfurt till morning.

I got a rug from the steward – a very large rug - and he put it over us in a way that was nicely concealing. ("We know how important privacy is to our passengers," he seemed to be implying. This bloke, I thought, knows his stuff. You didn't put a rug over two people, when one was as dishy as Sara, without expecting something to happen underneath it.)

As soon as he withdrew, I kissed her ear – I knew she liked that – and had my hand on her knee, ready when the time was right, to slip it up her skirt, if I had a chance and then slide it right through to HQ.

When I did, she spread her legs accommodatingly and said, softly -

"Ooh, darling, yes, that's nice," and fondled the bulge in my trousers.

A little later, long before we passed over the southern shoreline of the Med, we – both of us - wanted to make love – properly, fully, passionately.

It must have been when we were above the middle of the Sahara that she got desperate.

"In that old film," she reminded me. "Emmanuelle – she made love – she really did it – and I mean 'it' - with her lover - in the aircraft's toilet. Perhaps we could..."

My only practical answer was to tickle her trembling little dooverlackie underneath the blanket, until she whispered, "Oh, darling, ...darling, .... oooooooh!!"

"Now," she said, "I really have to go to the toilet – and alone."

But she gave me a very loving smile.

When she returned to her seat, she said, "Won't it be wonderful when we get to Frankfurt and we can..."

I knew what she meant.

We travelled in what turned out to be rather random fashion through much of the most beautiful country of Western Europe. We went right down to Geneva and then back through Nyon, where we explored the château with its Roman ruins and relaxed for drinks in the Château Square. We took a pleasant drive through St. Cerque and Morez but the country flattened near Poligny. We stopped at Dôle to eat and shop for a picnic lunch on Sunday. We went to a house where Louis Pasteur was born (on 27 December 1822 at what is now 43 rue de Pasteur; he died 1895). The church had Gothic elements, flying buttresses and an ambiguous squarish tower suggesting that it was at least part Norman. Inside were quite good stained-glass windows (but not as good as at Metz) and large, old religious paintings.

We didn't much care for Dijon and the rooms at Hotel La Cloche were too dear for the quality they offered. (I wanted a big king-size bed on which I could fuck her in comfort – half a dozen times a night if I could manage it.)

So we went on to Nuits St. Georges where we took a room at the pleasant Hotel de la Croix Blanche.

It was from there that, uncharacteristically, we took a bus in the afternoon – a sort of tourist bus that took people to see some of the finest vineyards in the world. We tasted some of the vintages and it may be that helped stir our passions – although those passions were always so robust that they never needed much encouragement at any time.

We let a last group of passengers off when we were coming to the end of our tour, conveniently leaving us alone on the bus to complete our tour, with just the rather elderly driver in attendance.

I remember we were coming down a hill, the roadway was poor and the bus was going a bit too fast. Sara was thrown against me. Her hand fell – quite accidentally, in absolute fact - on my crotch and she looked at me wickedly.

She quickly realised what a lucky break it was.

Slowly, she began to pull down my zip, watching me with a smile to see how I warmed to what she was doing.

She was pleased with what she saw so, through the open zip, she poked her hand inside my pants. Still smiling wickedly and looking into my eyes, she groped around adventurously to find - and give a little tickle to - my eager instrument of love which, at her touch, was immediately, though not at full stretch, rapidly enlarging.

I looked towards the driver. He seemed not to be taking any interest in what was going on but, still, you could never tell. On the positive side, we were towards the back of the bus so we weren't misbehaving exactly under his nose. (He might have liked it, of course, if we had been! It could have made his day.)

With my swelling member halfway out of the open zip, she started kneading the sensitive flesh at the end of my foreskin, in a gentle motion, between her thumb and forefinger and rubbing it – quite expertly I thought - against the glans.

It sent shivers of delight through my whole body.

"Oh, yes, yes, please..."

I tried to keep my voice down but she still thought it wise to breathe a gentle, "Shhh..."

I was, so to speak, in her hands, so I "shushed" very quickly.

In a way, I wasn't sure what I wanted to do – every option seemed so good. Above all, I suppose I wanted to fuck her, even then and there – on the bus – bugger the driver, bugger anyone who might see us.

Or did I just want her to continue doing what she was doing...?

She saw the look in my eyes – and there she read the future.

"Give me your handkerchief," she whispered.

As she took it, she gave a special sort of rolling squeeze to the foreskin tip, holding it deftly between thumb and forefinger. Then she clasped the stem of my pleasure-trove in her palm – it was a sort of Mrs Palmer-and-her-five-lovely-daughters hug - and gently ran the fingers of her other hand across the tip. I wondered where she had acquired such expertise. Then she drew the foreskin down over the tip of my prick – exposing the glans - and finally squeezed it back up to complete the cycle of joy...

I was over the moon – several moons and then some...

"Oh, darling," I whispered, trying to hold her hand – because it was becoming so delicious it was more than I could bear – but, at the same time, praying she wouldn't stop.

Then suddenly, she did stop.

She lifted her bottom slightly off the bus seat, put her hands inside her mini-skirt and took off her dainty little knickers. She dropped them on the bus floor. They were a lovely shade of girlish pink.

She turned towards me, with her knees apart and tugged her skirt a little higher. I looked at her lovely little dooverlackie, exposed to view, ready for action, and apparently at my disposal....

"Is she nice?" she whispered. "Would you like to poke him in her? ...Darling, would you like to...poke him....in and out ...in and out...Oh, wouldn't it be lovely...so deeee-licious...Do you feel him going in?.....Now he's in her, right in...and then out a little...Then all the way in ...Feel him?... Right in until his lovely little tickly bits can't stand it any more...Would you like that, darling..."

All the time, she was rolling my foreskin tip between her thumb and fingers and gently rubbing the skin up and down over the head of my prick.

My brain was whirling. I was in ecstasy... and then...

"I know what you'd like," she whispered again, very softly, so only I could hear.

She took my hand and guided it between her legs to touch her little dooverlackie, wet and waiting impatiently for him.

"There, feel her, darling...Wouldn't you like to poke him in," she whispered again. "Wouldn't you like to...poke him, slide him, plunge him into her ...Isn't she nice – so soft and cuddly. You could stick him in darling....Stick him right in...Stick him in and she'd hold him and squeeze him and pet and caress him...Would you like that, darling...Oh-ho, something's happening, darling, I think you're ....."

She hurriedly put the handkerchief in place. I was jerking and thrusting and she was squeezing, squeezing the head of my prick with the handkerchief and whispering...

"There, there, isn't that delicious...?..."

I just kept coming and coming and coming.

I said something like, "Oh, dear Jesus...." - which perhaps the driver could have heard if he'd been paying attention but I managed not to scream.

Squeezing my cock firmly and rhythmically to get every last drop, she continued to hold the handkerchief over the top of my penis and caught my love-juice as it flooded out –.

"There, there," she whispered at the end, looking at me, "that was VERY nice, wasn't it?"

"Nice, darling, no it wasn't," I told her when I got back my capacity to speak. "It was unbelievably marvellous..."

She looked pleased with herself.

She threw the soggy handkerchief on the floor.

"We'll leave that for the driver...He can have it as a memento..."

"Was it more scrumptious," she asked, "than doing it inside my little dooverlackie?"

It was a trick question and I wasn't going to fall for it. "Nothing's nicer than that," I assured her.

Then she had another thought. "It'll be my turn when we get home."

"Won't it," I thought. "Just won't it!!"

She reached for her dainty little knickers.

But I beat her to them.

"Oh, no you don't," I told her. "I'll take care of those."

We were now only a few minutes drive away from our hotel. Just time, I thought, for my heartbreaker to recover – I hoped.

When the bus stopped in front of our hotel, I took her arm and hustled her off the bus. On the way, I thanked the driver and tipped him generously for his careful attention to our needs – or his careful lack of attention to what we'd been up to. I hoped he'd perve over the handkerchief and imagine – to climax - what we'd been doing with it...

Other than that, I wasted no time. I grabbed our key at reception and rushed her up the stairs to the second floor.

I opened the door, slammed it shut and almost threw her on the bed.

There she lay stretched out, with her mini-skirt up, her dainty little panties missing and her trembling little dooverlackie exposed to full and delightful inspection..

Just as it had been on the bus...

Only now...

Now there was no one to watch us, disturb us or stop me doing just exactly what I wanted to do: to get up her, right up her, fuck her, screw her, get it in her, never mind Mrs Palmer and her five lovely daughters...

I got my prick out, just as it had been in the bus, and, as she'd invited me to do, I poked him in, I stuck him in, I plunged him in - in and out, in and out - right in so deeply that all my tickly bits went crazy and, as I climaxed, I screamed with pleasure so loudly that her husband must have heard me in West Africa and her mother in Buckinghamshire.

With that, I pulled him out, kissed her gratefully and collapsed.

"Was it nice - really nice?" she asked me. "Am I a really truly good fuck?"

"Darling, you're a tease – a dreadful tease – but the loveliest tease that ever was. Are you a good fuck? Sweetheart, you fuck even more marvellously than you tease – and I adore you for it."

Dinner that night was paté, sole in an extremely rich sauce, veal steak in an equally rich but different sauce, and fruit. We had to drink Nuits St. Georges wine, reputed by many to be the finest Burgundy in the world, and it wasn't hard to do.

I made love to her – as a sort of appetiser - before dinner. After we'd wined and dined so well, I still managed to make love to her after dinner. Then, it must have been about four o'clock in the morning, I woke up and looked at her by my side.

It was a warm night and she had thrown off the bedclothes. She was wearing no nightie; only a pair of her dainty little panties. They were coloured – appropriately - a burgundy red.

In her sleep, her arm had fallen across my body and her hand was resting – without explicit intent - on my naked penis.

I thought again how her hand had accidentally fallen on my crotch in the bus.

I slipped my hand under the triangle of silky material in front of her dainty panties and kneaded her lovely little dooverlackie as she had kneaded me on the bus.

She didn't wake. She just – almost reflexively - spread her legs and, as I entered her, began to move her body harmoniously to my motion.

We mounted rapidly to our climax. When I came, she sighed and seemed to climax quietly too. Then she went off to sleep again – if she'd ever really been awake.

When I told her about it in the morning, she said she couldn't remember anything.

"I remember dreaming though," she added.

"About what?"

"About my husband."

I couldn't work out whether that was good or bad but anyway, it worried me....

That new day, after breakfast, we continued our exploration of the town; bought a wine-bottle holder made of Nuits St. Georges vine wood; some bottles of NSG wine; and patisseries to round out our prospective picnic lunch. We had coffee at Gévrey Chambertin (just beyond Morey St. Denis) and admired local pottery in a field near Dijon. Then a pleasant drive through Dijon and Langres to lunch in picnic style near Neufchâteau, mainly on cheese, paté and baguette, with Burgundy (Patriarch) wine. A German peasant couple settled there since 1948 – so they said, although they seemed to have worn well - talked to us while we picnicked, first in German because we had a German car, then in French. We drove on to Nancy to look at the big Gothic Cathedral, walk around Stanislas Square and through the park where a big crowd was listening to a band. In the late afternoon, we went on to Metz where we searched out and booked into the Hotel Royal where I'd stayed with a girlfriend a few years back. Excellent rooms; although we felt rather over-nourished and my stomach fragile.

The next day, a Monday, after oeufs brouillés for breakfast, we inspected Metz Cathedral and its stained-glass windows by Marc Chagall (and Jacques Villon). Drove to Luxembourg which we found unexciting so decided not to overnight there. Aimed at Echternach through "petite Suisse" country and lunched at a picturesque dam near the German border a few kilometres from Trier which disappointed us, lacking charm – Sara said - and atmosphere. We looked at the basilica and ruins in the Place Tigra and then drove along the bank of the Mosel through Wittlich towards Coblenz. 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 rococo-style church - looking very much like an intimate House of God. Ediger and a little village opposite Ellenz were especially charming.

I stopped the car by one of the little churches and we went inside.

All was still. The rays of the sun lit up the church like a celebration.

She edged closer to me. "It's like God is really present here – right here beside us," she whispered.

She kissed me, gently at first, then more passionately.

"I know it's awful; but I want you to fuck me," she said, "in the presence of God."

There was no one around but anyone could come in at any moment. She was wearing jeans which would have to come off entirely if we were to "do it properly," as she suggested.

"Let's go outside," I said, "and look around."

When we did, we found, just a hundred metres away, a little restaurant where we could lunch in the open air beside the Mosel.

"Come," I said. "I've got an idea."

We drove to the restaurant and she took a small overnight bag inside with her. While I was ordering lunch, she took herself and her bag to the rest-room.

"Don't put any panties on," I suggested, as she left me. "It'll be easier without them."

When she emerged, she was wearing a short skirt. She sat down opposite me.

"What about your panties?" I asked.

She looked around. The waiter had gone. No one was watching.

"Darling," she said, "would you mind getting me my handkerchief from under the table?"

I bent down and looked.

She moved her knees apart.

There it was - her bare, trembling little dooverlackie – trembling, I liked to imagine, in anticipation of the lovely, forbidden fuck it was shortly to enjoy.

Trembling now with anticipation too, I sat up with a horn that I desperately wanted to dismantle by poking it into the little nook I had just seen warm, wet and waiting across from me.

"Mine's a second-class love, isn't it? It's not pure like Christian love," she suddenly came out with, rather forlornly.

"That's not true. It's part of Christian love, darling, though some don't agree. There's the man who writes, 'it would not be right to imagine Him making love, as distinct from His being the fount of the most pure, all-encompassing, asexual love. That He should be entwined in the inelegant, not-very-comfortable toils of sexual congress is an image that revolts us, that we can't bring ourselves to contemplate. Even that He should see us in those shameful contortions is something from which we shrink. Thank God we do it mostly in the dark; although, we know, lust - even within the hallowed bounds of Christian wedlock - and sin can never be concealed from the Omniscient by the feeble and futile stratagem of creeping away to commit our obscenities where the light is dim.'"

She was surprised at my learned rendition of a philosopher's musings.

"That's well said; but do you agree with it?"

"When I make love to you, darling, I enter a heaven that is like nothing else I can imagine. You can't tell me it's a second-class love – something 'dirty' - that delivers an ecstasy of such intrinsic quality. It's not a second-class love; it's a love that only a kind and generous God – an infinitely creative God – could have bestowed on us – His children - whom we flatter ourselves He loves."

We did eat something; but it wasn't much.

Then I took her back to the church.

There was an elderly couple praying when we went in; but they soon left and we were alone. We went down to the right of the altar and, concealing ourselves as best we could, she stood with her back against the outer church wall.