Holiday Love Affair

Prologue

The following is not a tale of the imagination, although it probably ranks alongside fictional accounts you may read

in

Literotica. Of course you are at liberty to decide if the subsequent narrative is true or not after you have read it; no assurances from me that it is true would make any difference to how you come to your verdict, you will judge for yourself.

If you are inclined, however

, to deem it a work of fiction, I ask you to consider the era that it is set in is the 1970's, the decade following the promiscuous sixties with

that period's

attempt to shape a society that didn't censure a more sexual openness or diversity. The question

, 'Could this happen?

' should be

posed

with this in mind.

Fiction I suppose, outside that of science fiction (although a great deal of

that

is now fact

),

has to have some factual content based on what people could or would do under certain circumstances to make the story believable, but it still remains fiction; whilst factual based stories like the following narrative may appear as a tale of fiction, and yet is true. It is not a tale of the imagination. It happened. Anyway why should fiction writers have all the fun?

I/we were motivated to set out the following account about our erotic adventures after reading

'The Kings of the Valley"

by Victoria John, a terrific tale of erotica set in North Wales and published on the website of Literotica. The following account starts in North Wales, where my wife and I met a fellow holidaymaker who introduced us to a world of erotica way beyond anything we could have imagined. As this happened 30 years ago the dialogue is not verbatim but correct in the round.

No

matter how outrageous and crude you may think it is, it is much as I/we remember it. We are now enjoying life in our mid sixties.

Both Ruth and I will share our experiences in the following account

-

mine from a watcher's standpoint, hers from a participant.

Chester England, May1976. An introduction to the players in this drama.

Paul - myself. Working as a security guard at the local car factory. Age 35

Ruth - wife. A very staunch and practising catholic pillar of the local church. Age 34

Cornelius. Retired from his business making ladies lingerie, we meet on holiday, introduces Ruth to the joy of sex and submission. Founder member of the 8"x 6" club. Age 55

Alexandra. Mother of Ruth. Introduced to Cornelius after our holiday was over by Ruth. Age 54

Isaac. Jewish business friend of Cornelius. Escaped to this country from Hitler's Nazi Germany. Set up extremely successful ladies haute couture business, member of the 8"x 6" club. Age 66

Peter Patel. Business friend of Cornelius and Isaac, chief designer for Cornelius' former business of ladies lingerie. Member of the 8x 6 club. Age 57.

Two catholic priests, Father John and Father Thomas - not their real names. Age 42 and 63 respectively.

Anita - cousin of Ruth, peripheral part at this stage, beautiful young lady, extremely shy, recently married, a tiny bit slow on understanding things, slight stutter. Age 19

*

Chapter 1

It is early

May 1976, at home near the city of Chester U.K

Sunday morning, my day of rest, was interrupted by the doorbell chimes. I mutter darkly as I go to answer the door; this is my day off

and

I don't feel like entertaining anyone. However it's my wife's young cousin Anita calling, a lovely looking 19 year old, which stops me feeling grumpy!

" Oh hi Anita come in, what can I do for you?"

"I-I-I-Is Ruth home from ch-ch-church yet

?"

she enquired as she stepped into the house.

"Not yet," I grumbled, "she lives in that bloody church

. You

would think the world would end if there

weren't

a catholic church nearby. So what do you need to see Ruth about?"

"Well me and R-R-Rob (Anita's husband) had a holiday boo-boo-booked by Towyn in North Wales which starts next Saturday, a-a-a- and now he finds with his job of being a long distance lorry driver he ca-ca-can't get the time off beeecause an order from the con-con-con-continent has to be delivered during the period we had booked for this ho-ho-holiday. And as we've al-al-al-al-ready paid for it, we-we-we-we wondered if you and R-R-R-Ruth would like to go in our place

?

"

"Hmmm," I murmured, " I'm pretty sure I can get the time off from work, and Ruth's waitressing job is a bit slack at the moment, so she shouldn't have a problem either, and it might just get her off her knees."

Anita was a lovely girl, she always smelled of female freshness, a very shy and retiring type, her stutter was quite endearing. I put the kettle on and made a cup of tea.

Eventually Ruth arrived back from church clutching as usual her rosary beads, and full of the sermon the priest had given out that morning. I turned a deaf ear to her proselytising (she hadn't given up on converting me) and told her what Anita had come around for.

"Yes, I think I could get the time off.

Mum

could stand in my place, but I will have to clear it with the parish priest before I can say for definite; there are the flowers to arrange on the altar, the brasses to be done, and it's my turn to cook for the priests."

"Look Ruth," I said, " I would like to get away for a couple of weeks, do a spot of sea fishing and bird watching and relax a little. We couldn't afford a holiday this year with all the house renovation costs, so if Anita and Rob are prepared to let us use the chalet they've booked for a couple of weeks,

let's

go."

Ruth pondered about what I

had

said and mused, "Well I suppose it is quite near being just outside Rhyll in North Wales, and I suppose if the church needed me I could get home pretty quick, and mum, (Alexandra another religious fanatic

),

will look after the needs of the church and priests. And by the way, I hope you haven't forgotten but we will be 15 years married on the day after the holiday starts. Is there a church near the camp?" she asked Anita.

" Y-Y-Y-Yes, I think so," Anita replied.

"O.K then, providing I can attend mass we'll go."

Anita was pleased we could go and they hadn't wasted their money.

Here I think I should give a brief outline account of our everyday life.

Ruth and I had been married 15 years. She was 20 and I was 21 when we got hitched. I always knew she loved her church and coming from a devout home where everything revolved around catholic teachings, I could not really, I suppose, have expected her to act like ordinary females of her age, and enjoy the fruits of married life. Both her mother's house and ours had images of Our Lady and Jesus, and pictures of the Pope in every room but the toilet; they were known humorously by neighbours as St Alex and St Ruth. Ruth was always up to do 'good works', was pious, devout, virtuous, and moral all rolled into one, but not self-righteous. She was teetotal although she smoked the occasional cigarette. If she had been a plain girl I could have

accepted

or understood this love of church, but she was a really good looking woman; 5'6" with a figure many women would kill for, blue eyes, natural blonde hair and a clear complexion that needed little or no make up and long shapely legs. However, don't get the idea that Ruth was a prude, she was not. She dressed well in the 70's style of the day, without being flamboyant, she enjoyed socialising and partying although she only drank fruit juice, and loved to dance, at which I am a complete dunce. She went to the gym twice a week, so was very fit, keeping her very feminine figure well toned up.

The very emotional side to her personality became evident whenever we saw a love picture and the female leads

and

scenes put her in a position of unrequited love.

She

would identify very strongly with

the heroine

, and be miserable for days after. She was an avid reader of the Mills &

Boon's

series of silly love stories, and loved reading Barbara Cartland's 'bodice ripper' novels; the only time she read a book of substance was when she was reading Emily Bronte's

"

Wuthering Heights

".

Perhaps this fantasy romantic side of her explained the dark lurking secretive and suppressed Mr Hyde, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say the Mrs Hyde element in her character, which manifested itself in every aspect during our holiday.

Our married sex life was a disaster, no wonder we had no kids! On our wedding night she was very apprehensive; on the advice of her mother she wore a long heavy flannelette nighty, and was on her knees praying for 10 minutes before she climbed into bed. While we were courting she would never allow me above her knee, and certainly never above where her stocking top ended. Her tits also were out of bounds, so her apprehension on the night of the wedding was, I thought, natural for Ruth. When I tried to finger her cunt she shrank away from me; however after a lot of persuasion I managed to get her legs apart and mount her. Her cunt was dry as a bone and almost skinned my cock as I edged it

into

her hole. The breaking of her hymen caused more loss of blood than I thought possible for such a delicate membrane; a little forethought would have saved the sheets and the stain in the mattress that was always a reminder to Ruth of our disastrous wedding night whenever she changed the bed linen.

Her mother was a malign influence on Ruth's attitude towards sex, teaching her that it was unclean and that men were only after one thing. I learned later that her mother had been fucked no more than about three times in her entire

life

, one of them producing Ruth. Later in our marriage I tried to introduce Ruth to fellatio and cunnilingus

.

Big mistake!

I was in the doghouse until the day of this holiday.

The church of course didn't help; these women thought they were observing

God's

commandments by keeping sex to an absolute minimum; procreation not recreation was their maxim, and of course French Letters were against the teaching of the church. I got my leg over once or twice during the first 12 months of married life, but eventually gave up trying, relieving myself on a diet of a regular wanking session accompanied by a men's magazine. However I never thought about getting it on with another woman.

I suppose you could say on the day we set out on the holiday that she was still literally the virgin I married 15 years ago. At the age of 35 her cunt was still more or less brand new.

The one tragedy in her life was the death of her dad when she was just nine years of age, which left her with chronic constipation. Her dad's death still affected her whenever the anniversary of his death came around with a depression than

could

last for days. The date of his death would unfortunately fall during our coming holiday, something I was not looking forward to.

We both worked; I in the local car factory and she with her mother as waitresses in a high-class hotel restaurant in nearby Chester. We were in the process of buying our own house, and ran an old Ford Cortina Mark 1 car.

Chapter 2

Hi. My

name is Ruth, I am the wife of Paul who is writing up the narrative of our past exploits or experiences with other people, which began in May 1976.

In May 1976 I was 34 years of age, and I had been married to Paul for just on 15 years. To add a little towards how Paul has described me at the time we are reminiscing about

how

I weighed just over 9 stone; my figure was 36-25-38, maybe not perfect but my curves were in all the right places, while even today 30 years later I still have a really nice shapely pair of legs (no varicose veins). I attended the gym twice or more a week, and went dancing with my mum on a regular basis, so I was very fit and kept the spare tyre away.

I worked as a silver waitress with my mum in a first class restaurant serving top people; the wage was pretty poor but the tips made up for it. My mum was also my best mate; I for some reason never had many girl friends although I could have had the pick of the

boys

. We were staunch Catholics who took our religious obligations very seriously.

We

attended mass every morning and Holy Communion every Sunday. We carried out unpaid voluntary work for the church and several charities that the church supported. We admired the hard working priests and respected their vow of celibacy. I found the confidentially of the confessional box gave me peace. When my dad died, the church was very supportive of us two and did everything it could to ease our pain of bereavement; we were grateful to the church for this support and from the time of dad's death, the church became the centre of our little enclosed world.

My dad died in an accident in the nearby chemical works when I was nine years old. I remember a teacher calling me out from the class and saying I must go home with a neighbour. When I arrived home mum was crying her poor heart out. I knew something serious was wrong but never imagined that it was dad. When I was told I fell to the floor in a faint; when I was brought round I had a terrible knot in my stomach which proved to be the start of chronic constipation, a problem I suffered from for the next 25 years. I had no relief from it other than a harsh purgative that emptied my bowels once every three or four weeks. Only during the second week of the holiday did I find permanent relief. Anybody who has suffered from this complaint knows how miserable it can make you, and at times how sickly you feel. It also left me with a problem of wind, wind that would make itself evident at inappropriate times and places

-

a sudden trump, a 'parp' brought hilarity amongst my young school chums but frowns from teachers.

The

boy's being boy's started to call me 'stinky

bum.' It

was a deeply embarrassing and depressing time. Eventually I learned to control the outburst and allow the wind to escape quietly. Constipation is not a case for sniggering, nor an item of conversation

sufferers

enjoy.

I married Paul, a childhood sweetheart at the age of 20; we had a beautiful white wedding held in our local church. Although Paul was a

Catholic

he did not attend church on a regular basis. I thought once we were married I could talk him into becoming a regular, and maybe getting him to do odd jobs around the church. However he steadfastly refused, saying the church had its place but not in his home.

Before we were married I asked mum about men, as I had no experience of them; she told me that

although

she felt we were encouraged to have children, sex for its own sake was sinful. She told me in strict confidence and much hesitation that dad couldn't get a proper erection, that he had her no more than three times during the lifetime of their marriage but this to her showed how righteous he was.

Other men she said had only one thing in mind and pointed to the times that I and even she had been approached by men while serving in

the restaurant. Sometimes

the dirty things had tried but not succeeded in putting their hands up our skirts or

pinching

our bottoms, and so I should treat men with a great deal of caution. Although it was true, as I can attest, that this did happen in our line of work, it was not what I wanted

to hear. I

wanted the benefit of an older woman's experience although mum was, as it turned out, almost as inexperienced as myself.

Protests

to the manager over the harassment from customers he dismissed

with a, "Ladies

take it as a compliment, you are both very attractive each in your own way, and no harm has come to you has it?"

We

could have left but, outside of the odd attempts at touching us up, we enjoyed the job and the convenient hours so decided to stay.

Therefore

without the benefit of mum's advice, I entered our marriage confused and fearful.

Paul was and is a loving husband but a lousy lover. He never came in late or drunk, turned his wages over, never gave me any doubt over his fidelity, I loved him for that alone, but now love him for what he is.

Our wedding night was a disaster; mum's warning rang in my ears that sex was sinful unless in the pursuit of children, which at that time neither of us wanted. French Letters within the rules of the church were out of the question. Paul's technique in lovemaking was that of a 10-year-old schoolboy; I was petrified and on my knees at the side of the marriage bed asking the Blessed Virgin for guidance and protection. I at last got into bed and finally allowed Paul to mount me.

My

pussy was dry, mainly through fear, but also because my new husband, who pushed what I thought at that time was a huge cock straight up my pussy, hadn't prepared me properly. The pain was awful but the amount of blood I shed from the tearing of my hymen frightened the life out of me and turned me off sex until I met and was fucked into a state of bliss by Cornelius. After a couple of fruitless and to him at least frustrating months, he gave up, although I remember vividly how one night he tried to go down on me. This I found at that time abhorrent; it was dirty and animalistic.

If

only I had let him proceed everything might have been different, but

mum's

warning again was in my head and I shoved him away calling him names I am not now proud

of. The

poor dear was trying his best.

I didn't realise it at the time but my lack of a sex life with a man started me into reading romantic novels. I couldn't get enough of Barbara Cartland or the Mills &

Boon

series of love stories. I found them exciting, the heroine at the end always getting her very masculine man, a man to whom she was prepared to surrender

herself body

and soul.

'

If only I had married such a

man,'

I'd sigh every time I read a story and all I had was Paul. I was filling my head with romantic slush and putting myself into

harm's

way if ever someone came along who had the qualities of the hero in the novels. It was during the early part of this time that I found how to masturbate. Paul did a week about on nights and days. During his week on nights I used to

tuck myself up in bed with a cup of hot

milk after I had come from work.

I would

prop myself up against the pillows and with the book resting upon my knees,

which

were

tucked up towards my chin, I would then enter the world of fantasy love through the novel.

One day I borrowed Emily Bronte's novel

'

Wuthering Heights' from the library and as usual took it up to bed to read. I soon fell under the spell of Heathcliffe, a young orphan boy who won my heart. However his vengeful attack on Catherine and her brother and his cruel treatment of his wife Isabella Hinton strangely attracted me, but his brutal treatment of young Cathy, making her act as a common servant, put such a tingly itch in my fanny that on putting my hand down to scratch my slit I brushed my clitoris, which was peeping through the lips of my cunt; touching it sent a shiver through me. I experimented by rubbing it gently and soon I felt my toes starting to curl, and felt shivers run up my spine. I continued to gently rub away until with a groan I climaxed for the first time in my life, my cunt juices running down between my arse cheeks and staining the sheet.

Soon I was dreaming of Heathcliffe, his dark overpowering personality had me longing for his presence. My masturbation session became a regular feature when Paul was on night shift, but always with a book to fire my imagination. During these sessions I would put a towel under my bottom to prevent any staining and found that every time I now climaxed my bum hole would pulse with every contraction in my cunt. I would fire on occasion a string of 'parps' in unison with the fanny contractions depending on the intensity of my climax, sometimes but not often accompanied by an obnoxious smell the result of my constipation. For the next 12 or 13 years this was my sex life. By 21 you would have thought that I should have by then discovered the pleasure of masturbation, but I was a 21-year-old woman with the sex education of a 12 year old, it just didn't enter my head until Heathcliffe came along, and then I only discovered it by accident.