For years of ceaseless efforts and endeavour; to show my appreciation of all that he has done for our little family, the following story is true. I am a loving wife who did these things... to please him.
It has been twelve full years since we pledged our troth, and made our vows in the quietest church we could find. Way out amongst the Blackdown Hills in Devon we had discovered a wartime reservoir added onto the ornamental lake of a minor 'country pile' covered in a profusion of pale pink water lilies at the head of the River Otter. It was idyllic with a million wild flowers and sedges and barely another soul for as far as we could see; we drove on our exploring and found, hidden amongst the gnarled trees of an ancient wood, a tiny Norman church with a square tower from the days before steeples were the rage when a church was built. The notice board outside had given us the phone number of the vicar and informed us that there was a service held there on the second Sunday of the month.
Marty had arranged everything; we met the vicar for Sunday lunch at the pub in a little village called Culmstock - where the food was so good that our nervousness about what could go wrong and kybosh our dreams and plans disappeared in our mutual appreciation of the sublime food. We feasted on rare roast beef, still bloody in the middle, with homemade horseradish sauce and Yorkshire puddings bigger than a man's fist, light enough to float away on a breeze. I remember there were thirteen vegetables with our meal, an unexpected taste of heaven served in this quiet backwater.
The vicar, who said, "Call me Colin, please", was jolly with a good appetite, overjoyed to hear that it was our plan to move down permanently to our holiday cottage sitting on the hill outside Upottery. That address made us parishioners so that we complied with local church guidelines which frowned upon outsiders coming down from the cities and using their churches.
These last twelve years have charged by and it seems just a few seasons ago that we stood side by side in the aisle, star struck, and proclaimed our everlasting devotion to each other with the whole world as our witnesses. Now our lives revolved around running Mum and Dad's taxi service for the two youngsters: swim club, drama club, pony club, football, cricket, rugby, athletics, gymnastics, friends' birthdays and sleepovers. It sometimes seemed like months between the times that we had a moment to ourselves, but our kids are worth it... shining examples of good citizenship: kind, polite, helpful and thoughtful. They're the cause of the gleam ever-present in both their parent's eyes.
This year they have both begged to be allowed to attend the summer school on Dartmoor: two weeks living in Nissan huts at an old army training camp, studying Neolithic archaeology through involvement in an actual dig and learning to make drystone walls, along with a host of other subjects based around natural history and country crafts.
Two weeks centred on our wedding anniversary.
Marty and I discussed our feelings about them being away on their own for the first time; he kissed away my tears at the sadness of this first sign of my babies attaining what would eventually be their independence.
"Would you like to do something really special for our anniversary?" he asked.
Most years we gave each other cards and a gift; on our tenth we'd held something resembling a family party at my parent's place in Hertfordshire. But our youngest, Emily, had taken ill on the long drive there and we'd had to take turns sitting with her in bed whilst trying to meet and greet with a smile downstairs. My family thought that it was Emily just seeking attention - the doctor back at home in Devon told us that she'd had gastric flu and that it was a horrible condition that often laid adults low for a fortnight.
"As long as I'm with you I don't mind what we do."
"How about a sex weekend in Amsterdam?" he smiled. "We always said that we were going to try it before we got married."
He went to his desk across the room and switched his computer on. Three or four clicks on his mouse later and the large screen was filled with a list on Google. I got up in my nightdress and sat down on the arm of his chair. The search had been for 'sex holidays in Amsterdam'; he glanced up at me before selecting a heading halfway down the page.
"It was always your idea, so what do you think? This might be our last chance for years."
The page came up. Hotel Paradise... couples or groups only. Below the title a line of photographs down the side of the page. As he scrolled down the page there were fewer views of the hotels' interior and more pictures of what went on. Some were more suggestive than raunchy, but there were plenty of sex scenes, mostly of groups. My pulse quickened and I could feel the most obvious of signs that I was becoming aroused. But I wasn't confident enough in myself to agree without eliciting a satisfactory reply from him to a question first.
"Am I becoming too haggard and wrinkly to keep your interest then?"
His reply was perfect. He turned and pulled up my nightgown before lifting me onto the edge of his desk, he stood and in one smooth movement I was sitting naked in front of him and my gown was lying on the bed. He kissed my forehead, my nose, then my mouth... lingering for seconds which drew into timeless moments of unspoken passion before making his way to one side of my throat. Again he paused to apply more kisses, each one a little rougher and harder in a line down onto my shoulder. It took him ten minutes to work his way down via my nipples and pierced belly button to my pussy which was by then eagerly awaiting its turn for his attention. Our lovemaking lasted way beyond a sensible time - into the early hours -considering that he had to get up early for work in the morning.
The next night, after the kids were in bed, he turned to me as we sat in front of the television; I knew what he was going to ask and spoke first.
"Before the kids got home from school I went back to that list on your computer from last night; I think I've found somewhere better than the place that you pulled up. This one's outside the red light district, doesn't look seedy at all and only takes fifty guests at a time. I think that I would be less nervous with fewer people."
He looked awestruck that I had already decided to go and the two of us retired early to check out the list of facilities and again to make long passionate love. We'd always been open and forthright with each other and during the following days I remembered nights and early mornings at university lying naked with him, and discussing every subject that we had interest in. I remembered the first dirty video we had watched together during a weekend in which we never dressed for even one moment and our discussions over our feelings about our physical reactions to the various scenes therein. I hadn't had such thoughts in many years.
***
The school summer holidays arrived and it was a glorious time to be in rural Devon; the summer orchids and helleborines sat in jewelled clumps in the shade of fantastic hedgerows that buzzed with life and flourishing clouds of butterflies disturbed by our passing. We helped the kids to pack and drove them the thirty miles to the moor on a day that was so beautiful that you couldn't help but feel glad to be alive to witness its magnificence.
We had a day to pack for ourselves and to close up the house. Marty's kid brother was going to arrive from his home in London just after we were due to leave to look after the place, exercise the dog and Emily's pony and do some of the watercolour painting that he always claimed he wanted to do every time that he visited.
The journey to the airport was fraught with terrible traffic on the Heathrow spur due to a bomb scare; both of us were in a state of semi-panic, worried that at this late stage our holiday might be cancelled. It was only when we were on the ground at Schipol Airport that my trepidation completely disappeared and I began to feel excited again.
Hotel Chef Chueon was a little piece of Essaouira on the Atlantic coast of Morocco transported to the Netherlands. Brightly tiled hallways and walls in fabulous colours and geometric patterns, arched doorways leading to public rooms furnished with deep floor cushions and low tables. Each bedroom suite was a different decorator's study under the title boudoir. Ours had handmade rugs on the wall and the floor, a low bed under lilac covers with European style foot wide leather surrounds and the unexpected but pleasant surprise of a mirrored section of ceiling above the bed.
The manager was also one of four partners who shared the same duties spread over the twenty-four/seven that the hotel remained open and staffed. The place was fully booked for the entire ten days of our stay, although during that time she told us to expect to see three sets of fellow guests. Those who were finishing their stay, followed by those weekending it from France and Germany, and a fresh, more multi-national group from the following Monday; she wouldn't take a tip.
We decided to shower and change before stepping out to explore; the Rembrandt museum was open until six and the sex museum was open all night and was on the way back. The shower was in a huge wetroom big enough to party in - with a whole group of friends should one so wish; it made me horny as all hell as I washed myself, thinking of all that might have happened in that very room.
We each filled the plastic containers provided with a urine, hair and spit sample before signing a consent form allowing them to check us over for STDs. The form included a statement from each of us that we would wait the four hours required for the results to come through before indulging in unprotected sex with anybody. It was the way that the pretty young thing who worked behind the desk in the foyer took them without batting an eyelid that finally pushed home the fact that we'd arrived.
The Rembrandt museum was quite crowded for a Tuesday but still magical, especially the last self portrait of him wearing the flamboyant artists hat with that twinkle in his eye. The sex museum was by contrast as unemotional and modern as a hospital design, more an examination of the history of sex industries than anything to do with love. Don't get me wrong, I couldn't say that it wasn't panty dampening and that I wouldn't have minded if my husband had bent me over in front of some of the exhibits and taken me roughly from behind, even in public... it just seemed to me that there should have been at least a section of it dedicated to love. Marty said that he quite liked its lack of sordidness; everything matter of fact -- nearly clinical, and nothing was sensationalised.
We stopped at a hash cafe and had a fruit hookah with a sprinkling of brick red Lebanese hashish over the hot coals. The cold smoke was a bouquet of natural flavours on our taste buds before the high and onrush of slight muzziness that I always get when I smoke hash. We were both giggling at foolish things and thoughts as we made our way back through the narrow cobbled streets to our hotel.
