Chapter 3. Return Flight
Author's note: In the first part of this chapter, Gemma narrates her experiences to us, and to Dolly. Trying to make it all dialogue, with quotation marks, would be hard and messy, especially as she's also quoting things previously said between Greg and herself. Therefore I've rendered what Gemma says as narrative, with Dolly's interjections in italics and parentheses; kinda the reverse of what I did for Dolly's reminiscences.
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Yes, Dolly's glass was empty, despite the recent generous refill. I topped it up again, and she swigged thirstily. As for her other request, I didn't know what to say. I turned off the recording and put the microphone and phone away. She then produced another glass from her bag.
("
It's about time you joined me in a drink. Or do you stick to Prosecco?
")
I accepted the rather generous measure of scotch she passed me. I didn't usually drink spirits, but having listened to her story, I was very churned up inside. I was sitting next to a woman who was quite literally living on borrowed time, talking about adventures she'd had nearly seventy years earlier. I'd heard tales of love, loss and premature death, and some stories which would have been banned as pornographic if anyone had tried to video them. Just conjuring up some of the images in my head was creating emotions and physical responses that would have seemed completely inappropriate in this context with anyone except Dolly. Her tales were having a strange effect on me. I doubted whether I could use more than half of what she'd told me, but I most definitely didn't want to stop listening. And she'd intrigued me with hints at her broader life story, which was outside the scope of my thesis, but about which I was eager to hear.
("
Now come on girl, give an old lady a thrill. Tell me what young people get up to nowadays. Spill the beans. Does your boyfriend have a big cock? Does he fuck you until you scream? Do you like it up the arse? Can you take him in your throat? Have you had girlfriends? Have you ever had a threesome or an orgy? I'm not going to tell anyone, and no one would believe a senile old bat like me if I did. But I'd really like to know. Will you indulge me?
")
I took a big gulp of my whisky. I could feel it burning in my mouth and my throat. And so I began.
I met Greg at university. He was eight years older than me. He'd been with a firm of accountants and management consultants for three years and they'd picked him out for the 'fast track' and put him on a part-time MBA course. We'd met, I guess as you do, at the bar. I was working behind it to earn a bit of extra money, and he came in and ordered a Mojito. I'd never made one before, so he coached me through the process. He tasted it and pronounced it good, and then he had me make another for myself, which he paid for. We chatted for a while, and he asked for my phone number. Then he said he had to go to discuss something with his tutor. I was disappointed when he walked away, even though he smiled back at me and winked.
The next day, he phoned me around lunchtime and asked if I was working that evening. When I said no, he invited me to dinner. I was rather mesmerised by his confidence, his looks and the fact that he had money. He picked me up in a brand-new Golf GTi, which he said was his company car. He took me to a swanky Italian place, and we had a lovely meal. I did almost all the talking; he was good at listening, and I found myself telling him a lot about me, but not learning much about him in return.
Afterwards, we went back to his place 'for coffee'. Unlike the rather squalid student accommodation I was used to, his was a smart apartment in a modern block, about five minutes' drive from the campus. He had some great views over the city, with a private balcony, no less. Instead of coffee, he mixed Mojitos. They were better than the ones I'd made for him, and we stood on the balcony, admiring the lit-up city beneath our feet.
"Did you enjoy this evening?" he asked.
"Very much. A lot better than serving behind the bar in the student union." I smiled.
And then he leaned in and kissed me. I suppose I was half expecting him to do so because I responded without even thinking. He was fit, handsome, sophisticated and a lot better off than I was, so why not?
And I suppose 'why not?' was what I thought when, a little later, we went back inside and he held me, and then started to unzip my dress. He undressed me slowly, with lots of kisses and caresses, and I helped him out of his clothes. He was supremely fit, lean and with firm muscles. I enjoyed running my hands over his smooth skin and feeling the textures and the hard flesh underneath. And talking of hard flesh, when he helped me remove his boxers, he was hard and quite big. He was also hairless - the first, in fact the
only
guy I've ever known who removed his pubic hair. It made him look more attractive, more powerful.
I liked the look of him naked. I loved that he took his time, with lots of foreplay. I'm quite skin-sensitive, so I really enjoyed the way he ran his fingers and his tongue over some of my less-obvious erogenous zones. I like being licked and stroked on my neck, in the crook of my elbow, behind my knees, the backs of my arms, on my breasts, not just my nipples, and particularly the insides of my thighs. Greg seemed to understand this intuitively, and I just melted.
It never occurred to me to ask him to stop, or for me to call a cab and go home. I wasn't the kind of girl who would fuck on the first date, but with Greg, I felt that I didn't want him to stop and, perversely, that he wouldn't, even if I begged him. By that, I don't mean he would've raped me, or that he was in any way coercive. Everything he did to me, I wanted him to do to me, and I didn't have to verbalise it. But there was this air of authority about him, so that I felt I couldn't refuse him anything, even if I'd wanted to - and I most certainly didn't.
Soon he had his mouth on my nipples and his fingers between my legs. His finger-work was very good, stroking, probing, exploring and teasing, never quite touching my clitoris. And then he slid down the bed and parted my thighs and POW! - his mouth was on my clit and I was about ten seconds away from orgasm. And nine seconds later he stopped and moved his tongue back. He licked my bum-hole, and I almost came then, but then he worked his way forward until he was a centimetre away from my clit, and then drew a circle around it with his tongue.
I was almost howling in frustration. He'd got me so close to orgasm, but he kept teasing me closer and then backing off. I was trying to force my clit into his mouth. He slid a finger up inside me and found my G-spot instantly. Most guys I'd had sex with until then would've needed a satnav to locate it, but not Greg. And then he was doing it again, this time stroking my g-spot while just gently teasing my pussy lips, bringing me close again and then backing off a fraction of a second before I could get there.
When he finally lifted his head, he said "Do you prefer to come first or while you're being fucked?"
I didn't use the f-word much myself. I was twenty years old and I'd had sex with just three guys, all of them pretty unspectacular and rather useless in bed. Greg's assumption that he was going to fuck me, and wasn't at all afraid to say so, sent a little shiver through me. Of course, he was going to fuck me. Of course, that cock was going inside me. I mean, what else was I expecting? It was just that, when he said it out loud, it felt strangely forbidden, a little scary - because I seemed to have no say in the matter - and, perhaps as a result, surprisingly erotic. Other guys had said things like "How do you want it?" Greg was different in so many ways.
I was desperate for release, but sex always feels better for me if I haven't come first. I was in a sort of trance, and all I could say was "Please be gentle. Take it slow. You're - you're so big."
And he is. I guess Greg is the biggest guy I've had. Now I'm used to him, I wouldn't want anyone smaller, but back then, a shy girl who hadn't lost her virginity until she was nearly twenty, I was a bit nervous about having something so big inside me.
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