My name is Jenny.
Everyone in my story is a consenting adult, over the age of 18. My story is also rather long, so please feel free to skip ahead to the good bits.
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By the third day of our honeymoon I knew I'd made a big mistake when I married Ian.
But first, some background.
I was born and grew up in Hereford in the English Midlands. In 1970, when I was 19, I went to work for the British government as a purchasing clerk.
I wanted to be fashionable and modern in the Era of Free Love -- at least when it came to clothing and make-up. But then it came to The Big Thing --
sex
-- I couldn't be bothered. I was a virgin, not because of any commitment to abstinence but because I was lazy. I came from a good home and knew if I went to my GP for a prescription for the pill the doctor would tell my Mother. And she'd kill me.
My social life revolved around pubs. Different groups of patrons frequented different pubs: hunting-shooting people went to one pub, folks interested in rock music to another. My friend Cathy and I were interested in fashion, hair styles, and cosmetics and there was no pub for that -- so frequented different pubs. We wore miniskirts, slinky Biba-inspired blouses, and teased our hair. We displayed a lot of our creamy white English flesh, and often went braless. Our perky young boobs would attract the young men, much to our amusement. They'd buy us drinks and stare at our tits when chatting to us. We thought them foolish -- captivated by two small mounds of our soft flesh.
I would, when the man was keen and I found him attractive, go on a date. This normally consisted of a pub meal (or, if he was stingy, fish and chips) and a movie. We'd sit at the back of the Odeon and my date would kiss me and fumble around with my breasts and occasionally my crotch. This was all done strictly
above
my clothing, and I'd stop my date short if he attempted to venture further. On one occasion my date clumsily removed his erect penis from his trousers and (I think) wanted me to do something with it. I didn't touch the thing, despite my date pleading that I do so, and it soon shriveled and receded back into his pants.
After six months of pub crawls and fumbling young men, mutual friends introduced me to Ian.
Ian was different.
He was mature -- six years older than me. He was muscular and self-assured. He smelled clean. His hair was black, long, and wavy. He had long bushy sideburns, a black mustache, hairy forearms. He was a licensed electrician -- and when he took me to dinner it was to a restaurant, not a pub. He had a car, so the fumbling took place in relative privacy, rather than back row of the cinema.
Ian was more persistent than the younger men about getting beneath my clothing, but I remained steadfast.
We dated for about a month, seeing each other two times or so each week. And then he stopped calling.
After a week or so I called him to see if he was alright. He said that he thought we should date other people. I told him that was fine but expressed my disappointment that he hadn't simply called to let me know.
Post Ian I didn't fancy returning to more fumbling. I thought it was time for me to think about
sex
, but if I shagged any of the young men In Hereford word would quickly spread that I was a slag. Everyone would want to ride Jenny, the new bicycle.
I hatched a plan to lose my virginity further afield.
The first part of my plan was to register with a different GP. At my first visit to the new practice the middle-aged doctor -- who smelled like cigarettes -- gave me a perfunctory exam (heart, lungs, temperature). I told him I wanted to be sexually active and asked for a prescription for the pill. He wrote one out and asked if I had any questions about sex. I told him I knew a little about the mechanics of intercourse from our sex education class at school. The girls were taught that our virginity was a blessing, and that we shouldn't give it to some guy no matter how much he begged. Once given there was no getting it back.
The doctor timidly explained how Part A fit into Part B. It was clearly painful for him to discuss such matters, particularly with a young lady not wearing a bra, so I assured him I was already knowledgeable of the correct procedures. (I lied.)
The second part of my plan involved Giles.
Giles lived in London. I spoke with him several times a week as part of my Governmental purchasing duties. He sold laboratory tools and chemicals. He was single, almost 30, and had his own small flat in Kensington. He frequently chatted me up, frequently inviting me to London for the weekend. He was pleasantly surprised when one day he asked, and I accepted. I explained, however, that I would like to bring my friend Cathy.
"The more the merrier," Giles replied.
I told my mother that I'd be spending the three-day Summer Bank Holiday with Cathy and her family. Cathy told her mother she'd be staying with me and my family.
On Saturday morning I packed a few clothes and my nighty in my backpack and met Cathy in town. We located the A419 heading south and began to hitchhike. As two miniskirted young ladies on the side of the road we had no problem stopping vehicles and eventually made our way the 140 miles to London. We knew nothing of the potential dangers of hitchhiking: we didn't read the papers or listen to news. The folks who picked us up were older truckers, and I think (as I look back) they were being protective of us.
The trip took all day. We met Giles at (where else?) a pub at about 7:30pm. As is often the case, he didn't look at all like what I expected. On the phone his voice was low and mellow, with an assured calmness. I expected a strong, quiet man with a dark complexion. But Giles was tall and gangly. He had a large forehead because his brown hair (which he combed straight back) was receding. He wore large eyeglasses (as was the fashion), a bright-colored Paisley shirt, and tight pants. And he was nice.
After a few pints we headed to Giles' flat, picking up our meals at the chippie along the way. Giles, a gentleman, paid for our drinks and meals.
He lived in an old building, up three flights. The stairway smelled like boiling mutton with an undertone of mold.
Giles' flat was small but tidy. There was a settee in the lounge, along with a coffee table, a small TV, and a single plastic chair. The small bathroom opened off the lounge, as did Giles' bedroom. He had a single bed -- neatly made up with a duvet -- and a dresser.
We enjoyed our fish and chips -- eaten out of the paper wrapping -- and discussed our sightseeing plans for Sunday. Giles brought out a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream. Neither Cathy nor I had ever heard of Irish Cream, and we each enjoyed several glasses.
My plan was to offer up Cathy as Giles' bedmate tonight. While not hugely experienced, Cathy was not a virgin. She'd also had her share of fumbling men, but on a few occasions -- mostly fogged by a few pints -- she'd let them slip off her pants and insert A into B. When Cathy got very drunk she grew licentious -- whereas when I got very drunk I simply fell asleep. (Both were potentially perilous.)
Cathy was to be my Quality Inspector. I didn't want to lose my virginity to someone who didn't have a clue. Cathy was enthusiastic to accept this mission.
Giles, of course, knew nothing about this. He was simply happy that a young lady would be sleeping with him in his single bed and didn't want to spoil things by asking questions. He'd pulled one girl tonight, and if he didn't make any mistakes he probably pulled a second for tomorrow.
I went into the small bathroom first and did my ablutions. I changed into my nightie -- essentially a long t-shirt -- and sat on the couch. Giles fetched me a blanket and some pillows while Cathy did her ablutions. She put on a similar long t-shirt, went into the small bedroom and sat on the side of the bed. Giles did his ablutions last, and he walked out of the bathroom proudly naked.
I could see his skin was pale and almost hairless. He had nice pecs, a flat abdomen, strong arms, and what I assumed was a decent sized penis nestled in curly brown pubes. His cock was not erect, but I knew this would happen soon. As he walked into his room I saw he had a nice, firm bum.
Giles shut off the ceiling light in his bedroom and I shut off the light in the lounge. I was happy that he only closed his bedroom door half-way. With no curtains on his windows the flat was illuminated by the streetlights. I could see him ask Cathy to stand, and he gently pulled her nightshirt over her head and stood there admiring her nice body. I have nice boobs, but Cathy's are larger with areola like puffy pink pillows. She's a natural blonde with pale wavy pubes.
They hugged and kissed and then got under the duvet: my view now largely blocked by the door. I found the ensuing moans and grunts quite interesting and wondered if Giles would be able to make me moan like that when it was my turn -- assuming, of course, he passed Cathy's inspection.
The noises grew louder, and then stopped. I fell asleep, only to be awoken a few hours later by the moans starting up again.
The next morning naked Cathy walked out of the bedroom and gave me the thumbs up. She was followed by naked Giles. His white skin was reddened by the exertion and I could see fresh scratches on his back. They went together into the bathroom. There was only a small bathtub, but he'd added a hose contraption so you could take a shower. They did so together, and then dried each other. Giles gave Cathy a kimono-like thing that was hanging on the back of the door, and he wrapped his towel around his waist. He walked over, sat on the chair, and said he'd enjoyed his evening with Cathy very much, and hoped he could spend tonight with me.
I enigmatically said, "We'll see."
