A Close Match - Author's Notes

A Close Match
Have you ever met your doppelganger? Your double? I’ve met several people who have. And it’s happened to me, too. But the difference in my case was that the double was a man, not another woman. We were the same height, but his hair was shorter and, of course, he shaved.

Everyone remarked how similar we were, and began to wonder if we were related in some way. I checked: we weren’t. There was no sexual attraction between us; I was already married, anyway, and he had a girlfriend.

I met this guy over thirty years ago, and I often had a fantasy about what might have happened if we had been related, and if we had both been single when we met.

Here's the storyline:

Paula is just leaving a bar with her sister one evening, and glances at herself in a dark mirror. But it isn't a mirror, and she's not looking at herself; it's a window, and she's looking at her double. Paula looks again: she's wearing lipstick, but her double has stubble. He's a guy.

When she meets him again, people comment on their close resemblance. She's sexually inexperienced, but she falls for him big-time.

Why does her control-freak father prevent her from seeing him? And what is the dark family secret held by her grandmother? How can she escape from her miserable home life to be happy with this gorgeous man, her soul-mate?

So that you don’t get confused, I compiled a Family Tree associated with this story, and you can see it at this link.

And if you should ever meet your double, you must write and tell me about it!

SAMPLE EXTRACT

Gemma, Tony’s girlfriend and co-host at the party, had drawn the curtains in one of the other downstairs rooms and put on some slow music on a CD player. This had obviously been planned, for she had already prepared a printed sign which she stuck on the door: “Smooch Room”. And she began trying to encourage couples to enter her newly-established dance floor. She was trying to make the noisy drinks reception room less crowded.
One couple had already availed themselves of this new facility and began dancing slowly in the darkened room.
“It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?” I asked. “It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon.”
Just then, the second track was starting on the CD player. It was The Mamas and The Papas singing their old sixties hit, California Dreamin’.
“I just love that, don’t you?” he turned to me.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” And I wasn’t just saying that. I meant it. “Shall we? Just this one?”
We put our drinks on a tray at the side.
“O.K., then,” he said, grasping my hand and leading me into the centre of the room. The rugs and carpet had already been taken up ready for dancing.
He held me at the waist, and our cheeks touched. Our bodies swayed and our feet shuffled back and forth in time with the slow tempo. My arms rested on his, my hands on his shoulders. I had never been so close to a man for a long time.
“Do you enjoy dancing?” he asked.
“I never get the chance.”
“We can dance as long as you like in here.”
And we continued until the end of the track. The other couple left the room; without thinking, we remained and danced through the next track.
“Are you all right with this?” he asked.
“I’m very all right with this, thanks,” I whispered and, spontaneously, I kissed his cheek.
“Good.” And he moved his face away, and our lips met. His tongue explored inside my mouth; my hands moved to the back of his neck, and I felt my body close against his. When his tongue withdrew, I took this as an invitation for mine to push its way in between his lips.
We continued rocking lightly, side to side, as our faces were locked together.
It was gorgeous. I didn’t want it to end. He said we could stay here as long as we wanted.
And then it happened. I felt him growing, hardening, in his groin. I pushed myself against it, encouraging it. It thrilled me.
Instinctively, he moved away. “Sorry,” he said.
“What for?” I asked. “Come back. Please.”
He obeyed, and our hands returned to their places on each other.
I kissed him. “I should be flattered that I can do that to you.”
“Don’t tease me, please,” he said.
“I’m not teasing you,” I whispered. “Aren’t you enjoying it?”
“Yes, of course I am.”
“Well, then....” I sensed that I had complete control of the situation.
“I don’t want to have an accident. You understand?”
If he wanted to rub himself against me, I certainly wouldn’t object. But there might be other people around. “All right, Dan. Shall we go outside for a while? We can always come back here later. Is that O.K.?”

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Jack and Me... and His Lodger - Author's Notes

I have to admit that, among my early titles, Lucy was one of my favorite characters. I’m not saying that I’d have liked to have her as a friend, but I thought she was interesting and unconventional. She knew a lot about ancient Roman and Greek penises. And she had to say plenty about erotic art.

Just in case you want to do any more research on Sheela Na Gigs, I would recommend you click here. Incidentally, I did make one mistake in the story and I hereby issue a formal retraction: I suggested the Lady Abbess of Romsey was depicted as a Sheela Na Gig. Recent scholarship has decided pretty firmly that the Lady Abbess was posing next to her potty – just to prove she was human and, like the rest of us, had to pee sometime.

Here's the storyline:
Sarah is broke, and makes a crazy decision to supplement her income by offering her body to a stranger one evening. She is rescued by a former co-worker, who provides her with a route out of her financial problems - and, at the same time, becomes her lover. Things get out-of-hand when she meets his larger-than-life house-guest, who wants a menage with her and her hero. How can she get rid of this cuckoo in the love-nest she wants to build?

SAMPLE EXTRACT

“I’m so pleased that everything is working out all right for you now,” Jack said.
“Everything... apart from trying to get rid of that pervert Tom,” I replied.
“Pervert?” Lucy looked up from her menu. “That sounds interesting. What is all this about?”
In a low voice, so that nobody on a neighbouring table could listen, I took a deep breath and told her about Tom - how we first met, what he had made me do, and how he had continued to pester me.
Lucy broke into hysterical laughter; she did try to muffle her noise behind her hand.
“My dear Sarah, that’s a fantastic tale! I’ve never heard anything so funny!”
“It’s not funny. He keeps coming round the bank. If I don’t go and perform for him on Monday evening, he’ll be round at the bank the following morning to humiliate me in front of everybody.”
“So you need to humiliate him on Monday night. That will put an end to it. I have an idea. I’d like to help you.” She grew excited. “Can I help? Please? What time does he want to see you?”
“What do you have you in mind, Lucy?” Jack asked, and then turned to warn me. “Sarah, beware of Lucy. She’s devious.”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Jack. I want to help Sarah. To make up for this morning. I was horrid to you.”
“All right, Lucy. I’m listening.”
“You meet this Tom character, and take him to where you went last time – your performance area, if you like – and I shall be there in the dark, pretending to walk my dog.”
“You don’t have a dog,” said Jack. “Are you going to get someone to lend you one?”
“I don’t need one, silly. I have a dog collar in my sex toy collection, and a lead, and I can pretend that I’ve taken it off my dog so he can have a run in the park.”
“And then?”
“Enter Lucy, Stage Right, calling my dog, and I catch him pleasuring himself. I am so disgusted and appalled at his action that I get out my digital camera and take pictures - making sure that his genitals are clear enough in the shots. And I have to make sure that you’re not in camera range, Sarah. So you’ll have to climb off him pretty quickly. Then I tell him to stop harassing you, or we take the pictures to the newspapers.”
Jack and I smiled at each other. “Well, Lucy, we have to give you full marks for imagination!”
“But how can we be sure it’ll work?” I asked.
“Trust me. I shall not fail you.”
-------------------------
More again soon!

Best,

Rachel

email: rc (at) rachelcray (dot) com
Twitter: @RachelCray1

Interview For Love – Author’s Notes

When I first became an “Indie” writer, Interview For Love was the first of the initial three books that I wrote. I worked in the London office of a U.S. law firm for many years, and had a wealth of experience to draw upon for writing romances. Now I enjoy sex – yes, even at my age – and I enjoy writing about it. That’s why I decided to write erotic romances centred round law firms. And you may well wonder whether people who work in organizations like this behave the way I’ve written. To borrow a couple of lines from a conversation in The New Client, a more recent book I wrote, “People [working all hours in law firms] find it relatively easy to find themselves falling in love with co-workers. This might sound silly to you now but, trust me, it does happen.” I can certainly vouch for that. No, it never happened to me (I was happily married already) but it was going on around me all the time.

This book is set in London; I wasn’t sure whether my subsequent stories would be located somewhere else. But readers seem to like the idea of Americans working in London – and there are plenty of them, believe me! – and, although there aren’t too many American characters in this book, there are plenty in other subsequent titles…

Barbara Edwards goes for an interview for a position at a prestigious law firm, and finds herself face-to-face with her former lover. How can she win him back? Complications arise when her former boss seduces her and gives her the best sex she's had in years. What's a girl to do? Is a man in the hand worth two in the bush? Or should she take a wild risk to manipulate her first love into returning to her? And how can she do it without hurting anyone?


Here's the first chapter.  Please note that the paragraphs here are double-spaced; I'm fussy, and I don't like that format but it's out of my control in this blog.  Grrr!  When you read this in any ebook format, the text is formatted so that paragraphs are single-spaced, as I had originally designed.

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Interview For Love

by Rachel Cray

Copyright 2011 Rachel Cray

CHAPTER 1

“Hello.  I’m Barbara Edwards, and I’m here to see Mr. Andrews.  We have a meeting scheduled for 6 p.m.”

I had walked confidently into the reception area, deserted except for a pretty clerk, half-hidden behind an array of shelving on her long desk.  I guessed she was wearing the law firm’s standard uniform for receptionists, a dark blue nondescript cotton dress; probably in her early 30s, and wearing a headphone and microphone, she looked at her monitor and smiled back at me.

“Yes, Ms. Edwards.  You’re expected.  I’ll just ring him to let him know that you’re here.  Would you like to take a seat?”

“Thank you.”  I sat in an armchair and watched the receptionist pressing some buttons on her console.

“I have Barbara Edwards in Reception for you,” she announced, and paused.  “Very good.  I’ll tell her.” She turned to me and smiled again.  “He’ll only be a couple of moments.”

I looked round, soaking in the ambience of the place; I particularly liked the fine oak panelling and the royal blue upholstery of the plush seating.   Evans and Carlisle had a very good reputation in the international legal community, and I would love to work here.  My skills as a legal secretary had been honed at one of their smaller competitors, and a situation here could be seen as a logical progression in my career path.  Obviously the Reception area was designed to give visitors a good impression, especially to clients; the standard of decor in the offices behind this facade could be entirely different.  I turned my head to peer through an open door in the far corner, leading to what could be a conference room.

“Barbara!  How lovely to see you again!”

I turned to face Mr. Andrews, a dark-haired 30 year-old who stood smiling in front of me; his whole aura oozed a warm, professional charm, and I was astounded to see this gorgeous face from my past suddenly reappear in my life.

“Peter –” I gasped.  I struggled for words when I realised I was being prematurely familiar with a potential employer.  I rose to my feet and mechanically shook his proffered hand. 

“Come through to my office – this way.”

Feeling a little bewildered, I stepped in the direction he indicated, down a short corridor, and soon found myself sitting in his office; although it looked businesslike, the furnishings still reflected something of the grandeur of the reception area.  Still reeling from surprise, I waited for him to begin.

“So you’ve come about the secretarial position.” He sat down behind his desk. 

“Yes.  But I had no idea that the Mr. Andrews I’d be seeing would be you.”

He grinned.  “I had the advantage there, being able to read your resume.  And when I noticed you graduated at Nottingham University, I just knew it had to be you and I wanted to see you again.” He chuckled.  “Five years is a long time.  And we’ve got a lot to talk about.  But first, let’s get down to business.  I don’t want you to think that I dragged you in here under false pretences.  There is an opening here, and you certainly seem well-qualified to fill it.  So let’s do the interview and then we can catch up with each other.  Is that O.K.?”

I nodded.

“My standard interviews last around 40 minutes,” he began.  “First, I tell candidates about the firm.  Then they tell me about themselves.  Then I go into more detail about the job they’ll be doing here, the benefits, and so on, and then you get the chance to tell me why you are the right person to fill the vacancy.  Finally, we round off with any other questions you might have.  I rather suspect that we just might take a little less than 40 minutes this time.  All right?  So let’s get started....”

*     *     *

I had already prepared for the interview and had most of my answers ready.  Peter Andrews had not presented me with any surprises; he asked me fewer questions about myself than I expected – since we were already acquainted – and, within 30 minutes, it seemed as if everything was drawing to a conclusion.

“How soon can you start?” he asked.

“Does that mean –”

“Yes, you’ve got the job.  If you still want it, that is.  And provided you can give us the commitment.  Remember that I told you we sometimes have to work crazy hours here when the pressure is on – 70 or 80 hours a week – but mercifully not every week.  Much the same demands as your present employers are making on you, I daresay.”

I heard myself sigh with relief.  “Thank you! But won’t there be a second interview?”

“No.  Only if I needed a second opinion.  But this time, I don’t.  So...  are you tied to a notice period with your present firm?”

“One month normally.  But I expect you’ve heard that they’re presently going through a difficult patch and they might be prepared to release me sooner if you wanted.”

“Yes, that would be good.  Let me know when you’ve spoken to them.  Here’s my card.”

He handed me a business card, which I put away in my handbag.

“Now I did say my interviews last 40 minutes and, by my reckoning, we’ve still got ten minutes left.” He stood up and walked across to sit in an armchair on the other side of his desk, so there were no barriers standing between us.

I turned my chair slightly to face him.

“I seem to remember that you stood me up after we’d been going out for seven months.  No message, no explanation.  Your exams were finished, and you went home a couple of days later.  I never saw you again.  You didn’t return my phone calls, and you never replied to my letters or emails.  And I thought our relationship was going places.”

Throughout my meticulous preparation for the interview, I hadn’t prepared myself to answer this question.  Indeed, I hadn’t expected to be interviewed by a former lover.

“Or had I misread all the signals?” He was pressing me now.

“No.  You know we were close.  And I wanted us to get even closer.  Truly, I did.  But I got cold feet.” I looked anxiously around the office as I struggled for words to explain.  “I was just 21, remember.  I was terrified that everything was going too fast.  I’m not sure whether you’ll remember my telling you about a relationship I’d had when I was 18.  He let me down very badly.  If you want the truth, I had fallen in love with you, and I didn’t want to risk losing you.  But something even worse for me was the fear of going through all the pain of a breakup again, in case things didn’t work out between us.  So I panicked; it was easier for me to run away from you.  I’d suddenly lost all my self-esteem.  I know it sounds crazy now, but I was younger then, remember, and my brain was all mixed up.”

He nodded thoughtfully.  “And have you found anyone else since?”

“No.  There’s been nobody.  I’ve immersed myself in work, making a pile of money.  And that’s what I was hoping to continue doing, working here.”

“Perhaps this isn’t the place to continue this conversation,” he smiled.  “I’m just about done here, so may I take you for a drink down the road? Just for old time’s sake?”

“I’m not sure...”

“No strings attached.  I promise.  Just two old friends together, talking about old times.  And, if you’re interested, I can tell you what’s happened to me since I left university too.”

“All right, then.  But I can’t stay too long.  I have an early start tomorrow morning - my firm has a client flying in for an early breakfast meeting and I’ll be very busy.”

“Good.  I’ll walk you back to our Reception.  I won’t keep you more than a couple of minutes while I lock up here.  There’s a cosy bar down the road where we can talk.”

I sat in the same chair that I had used when I first arrived, but I now felt so much more relaxed; I had secured my new job.  But there was a new and unexpected hurdle facing me: Peter might want to ask me some soul-searching questions about our former relationship – questions that I had never even asked myself – and I was unsure whether I could answer them.  The receptionist was still there, typing at her desk and quite oblivious to my return.

True to his word, he came along quickly and took me out for the drink.

*     *     *

When we entered the bar, Peter chose a table at the far end of the room; the lighting was dimmed, and soft, slow music was playing in the background.  This seemed an ideal place to come and unwind after a hectic day before going home.  I asked for a dry white wine, and he soon appeared with two full glasses.

“Cheers!” he smiled, and we clashed our glasses gently together.

“So what happened to you after university?” I asked after I had taken a sip.

“I got my Masters’ degree and, just a few weeks after you left, I was offered this post.  And I’ve been here ever since.”

“You were doing International Business, I seem to remember?”

“Yes, that’s right.  And you got yourself a BA in History, didn’t you?”

“Much good that it did me,” I smiled.  “Landing me a job as a humble legal secretary.”

“But the world needs legal secretaries! And we have one legal secretary working here who is a fully qualified civil engineer, for instance.  Yes, the world needs civil engineers too, but the lady we have says she’s more satisfied doing this job than designing bridges.  And I’m all in favour of people enjoying their work.”

“And you obviously enjoy what you do too.”

“Well, I’ve been able to immerse myself in work, just like you.  Maybe for the same reason.”  He raised his eyebrows, anticipating my reaction.

“You think we’ve both been working to forget each other?” I asked.  “Or, at least, to drown any feelings of regret about breaking up?”

He chuckled.  “I wonder which psychology books you’ve been reading?”

“For what it’s worth,” I continued, “I did really regret breaking up with you.  But I couldn’t bring myself to write to you to explain.  I couldn’t put it into words.  When I spoke about it in your office a few moments ago, it all tumbled out of my brain incoherently.  I knew I’d hurt you, but I didn’t want to prolong the pain with lengthy exchanges of long-distance correspondence.”

He nodded thoughtfully.  “We’ll be seeing each other every day when you start working here.  How do you feel about that?”

I shrugged my shoulders.  “It wouldn’t bother me.  And obviously you’re relaxed about it, otherwise you wouldn’t have offered me the job.”

We continued reminiscing about our time together at Nottingham University, and stayed for a second drink.  The more animated our conversation became, the more I found herself looking forward to the prospect of being near Peter again, even though there was no thought of resuming our relationship.

The time came for me to leave; he walked me to the station and, in parting, shook my hand with the same distant professionalism.  He walked off, and I boarded my train home.

*     *     *

When I arrived home at my flat, I began to prepare dinner and, while waiting for it to cook, I turned on the television.  It was too early for the ten o’clock news broadcast, and nothing attracted my attention on any of the main channels, so I turned it off again.  I reached for an old photograph album on the shelf of a bookcase, and put it on the coffee table.  After dinner, I decided, I would explore my old memories of the months I had together with Peter.

I ate somewhat mechanically, hardly able to wait to get it finished so that I could delve into my photograph album.  When I had finished, I put the plate in the kitchen sink, rinsed it, and sat on the sofa to look at the pictures.

The memories quickly came in a flood.  Peter looked younger, certainly, but he still retained that self-assured maturity that had attracted me to him in the first place.  I pored over the scenes, trying to remember the occasions on which the photographs had been taken; in one, we were dressed for dinner together - he in black tie, I in a long flowing evening dress - where was that? And when? In another, he posed on the beach in his swimming trunks, smiling at the camera; I had not previously noticed his semi-erect penis and bulging testicles under his close-fitting attire.

My mind turned to the times when we had made love together in his bed.  He had been such a kind, understanding and patient lover, but all I had left now were memories of the intense pleasures we had shared - not only his absorbing, intellectual conversation, but the most exquisite orgasms he had given me.  He had treated me as an equal in all things.

And now there was so little that remained of him in my life.  True, I was going to re-enter a world where he occupied centre stage, and in a strange, new capacity, but it would never be the same again.  All that I had in front of me as a memory of his closeness was these photographs.

I felt a sudden twitch between my legs.  It was as if the photograph of Peter on the beach had stimulated a primitive desire within.  I felt my crotch; my sex had lubricated itself quite unexpectedly. 

I looked at his picture again.  His private parts appeared about to explode.  I began to rub myself, and felt ashamed.  I had not masturbated for years, it seemed, and now - out of the blue - I felt the urge for a climax.  My selfish, inner being demanded it.  Right now.

I rubbed harder this time.  Furiously, with my middle finger.  And then with two fingers, and they slid into my vagina.  I pulled my panties to one side so that my fingers would be in direct contact with my sex.

I remembered how Peter had done this to me.  We had stood against the doorway in his room when he had first entertained me there.  In the middle of a violent kiss, he had put his tongue deep into my mouth, and I had willingly given way to him; he had then put his hand up my skirt - and I had not resisted.  Reaching the top of my thigh, his fingers had found their way through one leg of my panties and had caressed my damp public hair before descending into my secret crevice and discovering my clit, stiffening with an urgent desire for him to take me. 

I had felt his erection pressing against my thigh, and had pressed my hand against it, and round its thickness, through his trousers, encouraging it to grow even bigger and to harden into steel.  It would not be denied its fulfilment, I had promised myself.

Then Peter had got on his knees and pulled my panties down; holding up my skirt, his head had reached forward and begun to give me oral sex.  Nobody had ever done this to me before; of course, I had fantasised about it, but it had brought a new private delight to me and I had no desire for it to stop.

But this had not been the only “first” for me, I remembered now.  When I climaxed - in the doorway, before we had reached his bed - I had actually ejaculated.  My very first time.  And I had felt totally bewildered and embarassed, but Peter had been very kind and understanding about it.

I could not continue this reverie here on the sofa.  I needed to go somewhere more comfortable, and decided to go to the bedroom, where I immediately pulled down my panties and, laying on the bed with a pillow between my thighs, began to writhe.  I put one corner of the pillow inside my moist vagina, and rubbed the side of the pillow against my clitoris.  It was as if he, Peter, had re-entered into my body once more.  I longed to have him, to hold him, to explore his body, to share his innermost thoughts and, most of all, to share his life again.

In my mind, Peter was thrusting into me; I wished I could have stretched my arm between my legs to cup his testicles.  I used to run two fingers gently over his balls while we were making love - that made him climax so much faster, he said.  But he always held back for me to come first.

And I was not going to take long now, I thought.  I was nearly there.  I pushed harder and harder against the pillow and then...  the excitement reached its peak, I felt a gush of joy overwhelm me, and I collapsed on my back on the bed.  I had forgotten what it had been like.  Sidestepping all approaches from potential suitors, and deliberately avoiding any temptations to pleasure myself, I had never bothered with the Pill or purchased a vibrator.  All thoughts of sex had been banished from my mind ever since Peter left my life.

And now he was returning into my world.  But that return did not signify that we were taking up the strands of the relationship where we had left off. 

Or did it? He, too, had not taken a lover since we parted. 

Surely this was some kind of sign?

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I do hope you enjoyed that!

Best,
Rachel


email: rc (at) rachelcray (dot) com
Twitter: @RachelCray1

A Stranger in my Bed - Author's Notes

Hello!

Here's a situation that some women dream about: Alex wakes up in her bed one morning with a stranger... but he isn't a stranger. He's her first love from thirty years ago. How did he get into her bed? And why is he there? Has he come back into her life forever? Can she keep him? (And does she want to?) What is the secret he seems to be keeping from her?

When I began as an “Indie”, I had three titles published: Interview For Love (which was the first story I wrote), Jack, Me… and His Lodger (based on a delicious sexual fantasy I had some time back), and A Stranger In My Bed. Of those three, A Stranger In My Bed is the one I enjoyed writing the most. Why? Well, I could probably identify more closely with the heroine because she was almost as old as I am now, and I wanted to give her a sexual re-awakening. Most romances in the market-place today – especially erotic romances – have a twenty-something or maybe a thirty-something as the heroine. But Alex, the heroine here, is a widow in her fifties.

Some years ago, when the Internet wasn’t anywhere near as old as it is now, there was a popular website in UK called  friendsreunited.co.uk  – it still exists today, but it hasn’t been able to sustain itself amongst all the competition that has arisen since those early days. Anyway, once people in their 50s and 60s were able to touch base with schoolfriends who they hadn’t seen or heard from for over thirty years, some crazy things happened. On at least three occasions, middle-aged women were getting tired of their relationship with the middle-aged husband and, once they were able to get in touch with the boys with whom they had a school romance – back in the 1960s and 1970s – they packed their suitcase and went round to knock on their front door, hoping to rekindle the spark they had when they were less than half their current age.

If you were a middle-aged professional, opening your front door to a tearful lady who threw her arms round your neck and said she’d left her husband for you, how do you react? Especially if you hadn’t seen her for thirty years or more?

Perhaps that could be the start of another story in the future (if I can find enough readers who want more stories about 50 year-old heroines). But A Stranger In My Bed starts off as the result of a school reunion which could easily have been organised by someone after doing some research on a website like friendsreunited.co.uk And did we have school romances in the chemistry lab during lunchtimes? I certainly did when I was at school – and so did several others. We had organized some kind of rota. The headmistress wasn’t happy about it when she found out, and she had something to say about it to us girls. As far as I know, nothing was said to the boys. But life is never fair, is it?



Here's the first chapter.  Please note that the paragraphs here are double-spaced; I'm fussy, and I don't like that format but it's out of my control in this blog.  Grrr!  When you read this in any ebook format, the text is formatted so that paragraphs are single-spaced, as I had originally designed
.

A Stranger In My Bed

by Rachel Cray

Copyright Rachel Cray, 2011

CHAPTER ONE

I awoke with a sore head.  I had been out at a reunion party with several old friends the previous evening, but my memory was empty now.  I cursed myself for having forgotten most of what should have been a very memorable occasion.  My brain was thumping in my forehead, and my mouth was bone dry.  At least I was in my own bed.   I was still wearing my bra; this was odd, as I never slept in my bra, no matter what condition I was in when I retired to bed.  Then I realised the bra was all I had on.

I felt something brush lightly against my thigh.  I turned and saw the top of a head on a pillow next to me.  It was a man’s head, slightly balding, and his hair was as grey as my own.

I shuddered.  Instinctively, my hand rushed to my crotch to determine whether I’d had sex... and my fingers returned to my nose before I could think why I had done it.  Then I relaxed.  No, I couldn’t smell anything strange that might resemble semen.  So I probably hadn’t been raped.  But if I had been so drunk last night, I might have had consensual sex with this man, and he might have used a condom.  Who was he?  Should I wake him now?

A hundred questions flooded my mind.  I’m naked; should I get dressed while he’s asleep?  Did he see me naked last night?  And did I see him naked, too?  But more than anything else, I pondered, I needed to know what the hell he was doing in my bed.

I carefully lifted the quilt and looked across at his body.  He still wore his shirt and his trunks.

My skirt and blouse were on the carpet beside my bed.  I quickly sat round on the edge and put them back on, trying not to disturb my unknown sleeping partner.  Then I rose and walked round to his side of the bed.

Taking a deep breath, I slowly pulled back the cover to reveal his sleeping face.

He was aged around 50, was clean shaven with a tanned skin.  I could even describe him as handsome.  But I didn’t recognise him.

I had to wake him up.  There was nothing else I could do.  I reached out and shook his shoulder gently.  I had to shake him five or six times before his eyes opened.

He grunted.  Then he greeted me with a pained growl.  “Hi, Alex!”

“Who are you, and how do you know my name?” I asked.

“Don’t you remember?  Last night?”  His voice came a little more alive now.

“No.  I don’t know you.”

“Alan Foot,” he said.  “We were at school together.  And I was at the reunion last night.  It’s been a very long time.”

Alan Foot.  Yes, we had been in the same class.  We had fallen in love, in a juvenile fashion, a third of a century ago; he was easily the best-looking guy around, and I was considered so lucky to have him.  I couldn’t remember having seen him since then.  We had been separated on our separate ways to university: he to York, and I to Exeter.  But hardly a week passed by since then that I hadn’t had a fanciful thought about him.

“Shall I give you a clue...?”

“I don’t need any clues now.  I remember you.  Alan Foot.  Well, after all these years....”

“We didn’t have much of a chance to talk last night.  I arrived later than planned, and by that time you’d already had quite a lot to drink.”

“How come you finished up in my bed?”

“If I told you, you might not believe me.  I think you should ring Jane Gold.  She’ll tell you everything.  She invited me to the party, and she made some arrangements for a bed for me... because I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Jane Gold was an old, trusted friend.  She was with me at school, too, with Alan.  I left him in the bedroom while I telephoned her.

“I thought it would be a lovely surprise for you,” she explained, as soon as I told her he was in my bed.  “I got back in touch with him a couple of weeks ago, as soon as I heard he had returned to England.  In view of all that you’ve been through lately, we kept it a big secret.  But you’d had a skinful of drinks by the time he got to the party last night.  He hadn’t had time to find anywhere to sleep and we got him quite drunk.  Remembering how close you used to be, we had this brainwave to put the two of you to bed together.  Sounds like you didn’t like the bombshell we planned?”

“I don’t like surprises, Jane.  You should know that by now.  We’re mature people, and I’m a respectable widow.”

“Oh, come on.  Aren’t you pleased to see him?  Just a little?”

I paused.  “I just don’t know, Jane.  I need to think.” 

“Take it easy, Alex.  Enjoy yourself.  It’s Saturday, and you’ve got the whole weekend to unwind.”

I hung up and returned to the bedroom.  Alan was sitting up in bed.  I looked at him carefully now; although he had aged and his greying hair was dishevelled, I could see some resemblance with the young man I had known nearly half a lifetime ago.

“Right,” I began.  “Before anything else, I need to know what happened in here last night – did we have sex?”

He smiled.  “No.  I’d never take advantage of a lady after a few drinks.”

“What did happen, then?”

“We were both intoxicated.  I think someone might have slipped a few extras in my drink.  Yours too, maybe.  I didn’t have anywhere to stay, and Jane and the other guys decided you could put me up; she said you had a spare bedroom, and the guys were surprised to find you hadn’t when they carried me in here.  I had no idea they were going to put us in bed together like this.”

I sat down on the stool by my dressing table, relieved that his story matched Jane’s to some extent.  “OK, I said.  “I’d better fix us some breakfast.”

“And we’ve got some catching up to do.  Can I get a shower first?”

I directed him to the bathroom, where he escaped clutching an airline bag he had brought with him, and I laid two places at table for breakfast.  Realising he appeared to have nowhere to go, I wondered how long it would have to take before I could throw him out of my house without appearing ungracious.  I am a very private person, and do not welcome strangers to my home; as a middle-aged widow, I felt vulnerable.

“Thanks for that, Alex.  I feel so much better now.”

I turned round.  I had forgotten how tall he was.  He had dressed and appeared well groomed, carrying an airline travel bag which he must have placed under the bed.  In a new white T-shirt and dark trousers, he stood as a mature Greek god before me; his worn face gave him a distinguished air, suggesting that he had seen so much of the world and had absorbed all its wisdom.  Now this gorgeous man was a guest in my home.  I pulled a chair back for him to sit.

“You have a hangover?” I asked.  “You want anything for it?”

“No, I’m O.K., thanks.  But I don’t want to outstay my welcome.  Just let me know when you want to be rid of me.”

“As you said, we have some talking to do.”  I dropped a couple of Alka-Seltzer in a glass and started drinking.

He helped himself to a slice of toast.  “You never wrote.”

“We were young.  There were new experiences every day.  Time was very tight.  I expect it was the same for you, too.”

“So what happened after Exeter?”

“I went into teaching.  Got married at 25, and we had three children.  Husband died a couple of years ago.  I haven’t worked for a while.  Still grieving, I suppose.”

“I really am so sorry to hear that, Alex.  I stayed in the world of academia, and worked my way up.  I didn’t stay in one place too long.  I got a chair in philosophy at Melbourne some time ago, and took early retirement last year.  I thought it was time to come back to my roots in England and see what’s left.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Professor Foot,” I smiled.  “You have a family?”

“A son and daughter somewhere.  I haven’t seen them in years.  I divorced my wife ten years ago.  She’s still kicking around with her second husband in Australia somewhere.  They’re doing very well for themselves, apparently.”

“Anyone else in your life?”

“I wish I could say Yes, but there’s nobody.  How about you?”

“No.  I can’t imagine life with anyone else now.”

“Alex, you must not cut yourself off.  Don’t finish your life like a hermit.  There’s a huge world out there.”

“So you’re lecturing me in philosophy now?”

“Funny how things turn out.  I’m surprised you became a teacher.  I didn’t think you liked school very much, and couldn’t wait to leave.  Now it sounds like you couldn’t wait to get back.”

I smiled.  “Do you remember some of the crazy things we used to get up to?  When we thought old Mr. Jones was teaching in the classroom underneath us, and we wanted to rile him, one of the girls lowered her bra on a piece of string so he could see it out of his window.”

“But Mr. Jones wasn’t teaching in that classroom.  There had been a switch in the timetable, and the nasty Mrs Adams was taking geography there instead.  That caused a lot of trouble.”

We both laughed.

“I seem to remember it was Mrs Adams who caught the two of us together in one of the science labs, when we thought everyone had left.”

“We had both turned eighteen by then.” I remarked.  “So we were both consenting adults.”

“But we were in a pretty compromising position!”  

“What would have happened if she hadn’t caught us?”

“That’s the one big regret in my life,” he said gravely.  “We never actually did get to make love, you and I.”

“We got pretty close.”  I recalled that day; I had held his dick, exposed through his fly, and felt it grow in my hand; he had had his hand up my skirt and had put a finger in my pussy.  Fate had decreed that that was the last time we were alone together where we had a chance to have any intimacy together.  It was towards the end of our last week at school; we went our separate ways on overseas trips with our respective families before starting our university education.  A few days after that scene in the science block, we bid our farewells and never saw each other again. 

He looked up at me now, and we exchanged smiles.

“I’d better get washed and dressed,” I said.  “Then I’ll eat my breakfast.”

I went to the bedroom, found myself some fresh clothes to wear and took them to the bathroom.  As I undressed, a vision returned in my mind of that far-off day in the school science lab, with his finger up inside me; my imagination stirred now as, unconsciously, I put a finger into my vagina while I waited for the water to run in the sink.  It felt strange, but good.  Very good.  I hadn’t had any thoughts of sex since I lost my husband.  The sink filled, I withdrew my finger and began washing.

I remembered the Friday evening when I had first hooked him.  We were both 16 then; I had sneaked out a couple of my father’s beers and drank them for Dutch courage, and then took the initiative of telephoning Alan at home.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got a crush on you,” I had blurted.

He had suggested we meet the following afternoon; we went for a walk in the park and spent much of the time sitting on a remote bench in each other’s arms.  There was very little said on that first date; there seemed to be no reason to speak.

We were together for nearly two years.  And, at the time, I had considered there was a good chance that we were going to be with each other forever.

*   *   *

“If I were not here this morning, what would you be doing right now?” he asked as I returned to the table to start my breakfast. 

I looked at my watch.  It was 10 a.m.  “Probably still in bed, nursing my hangover.”

“Is it still bad?”

“No, it’s gone off now.  Maybe it’s the shock of seeing you in my bed.”

“Sorry, but it really wasn’t my fault.”

I laughed.  “I know.  But now you’re here... do you fancy a walk in the park?”  I could hardly believe I had said that.  What was wrong with me today?

“That would be very nice.  And we can talk some more.”

After dealing with the breakfast dishes, we went out.  The park where we walked on our first date could have been two hundred miles from where we were today but, in my silly mind, I fancied this might be a new first date with my old flame.  This was certainly the first time I had stepped out with a man at my side for a very long while.

We exchanged snippets of our personal histories: my husband Bill had been a civil engineer and had had cancer; his wife was also an academic, a biologist; we discussed places where we had lived, places we had visited, children, our hobbies, and the common things that people might discuss when meeting for the first time.

“How long have you lived in your present home?” he asked as we strolled round the park.

“Around eighteen months.  After Bill died, each of the children invited me to live with them, but I didn’t want to get in their way.  But I had to move out of the old house.  There were too many ghosts there.”

“I know what you mean.  Houses have souls.  Whenever we had to move home and went house-hunting, I could walk into a place and know immediately whether it was going to be a happy place.  Something bounced off the walls.”

“And where are you going to live now?” I asked.  “Where are these roots that you want to return to?”

“I supposed it would be the town where I grew up.  Where we met.  But I took a look round there last week, when I first got back, and didn’t like it at all.  So much has changed.”

“Nothing stays the same.  You shouldn’t expect it to.”

“Not even people?”  He stopped and looked at me, searching my face.  “Have you changed, Alex?”

“I... I don’t know.  I still have the same genes, obviously, but it’s not for me to give an objective opinion, is it?  Of course, I have wrinkles, my hair is going grey, but I still have all my teeth.  And I don’t think my personality has changed too much over the years.”

“I don’t think you’ve changed very much at all.”

“Honestly?”

 “It’s amazing what you ladies can do with make-up to keep your looks,” he laughed, and we started walking again.

“I thought we were talking about personalities evolving over time.”

“I was just teasing.”

“Then you’re still the Alan I knew.  You were always teasing me.  But it could get you into trouble one day.”

We had a chuckle, and sat on a nearby seat.

“It’s nice to watch the world go by,” I remarked.  Being a Saturday, there were several people – couples, families and individuals – enjoying the park.

“Time passes so quickly.  Where has it all gone?”

“You can’t get it to come back.”

“I came back.”  He turned and looked at me closely.

I returned his look.  Our faces converged, and our lips touched gently, and parted.  I closed my eyes, and felt his lips clasp mine more firmly the second time.  Our hands met and held each other tight. 

“Your lips are as lovely as ever.  I’ve missed them for so long,” he whispered.

“Shall we go back?”  I looked at him straight in the eyes.  He knew what I craved to happen next.

We returned slowly, hand in hand, to my home.  I felt years younger.  I wanted to skip like a young girl, but restrained myself.  I had wanted this to happen over thirty years ago.  I could wait a few minutes longer.

I shut the front door and, taking his hand, led him into my living room.  He closed the door behind him and I pushed myself into his arms.

“Wait,” he whispered.  “Let’s start from where we left off.  Remember?”   He unzipped his fly and pulled out his dick.  Then he put his hand up my skirt.

I needed no prompting.  I clasped it in my hand and felt it growing again; at the same time, my crotch trembled as his finger began to explore my moist, excited hole.

Our lips met again and our tongues clashed violently, pushing into each other’s mouth and locking ourselves into a duel which had remained unfinished since the days of our youth.  His free hand pushed against my breast, stimulating my nipple.

When his cock was fully erect, he pulled away and swept me off my feet, carrying me to my bed.  We quickly undressed, unable to bear the long foreplay of removing each other’s clothes one at a time;  when we had finished, we stood facing each other for a moment, and he knelt and put his tongue gently on my wet sex; I already hungered for him, but this touch intensified it further. 

Excited, I moved away and jumped on the bed, opening my legs wide, ready to receive him.  It slid inside me, pushing its full length immediately.  We quickly began to work together in a thrusting and pulling rhythm.  Our lips clashed together again, writhing in a crazed rage; I felt one of his fingers massaging my clit and, in return, I moved a hand down to caress his balls.

In these moments of reignited passion, I reflected on everything that I had missed in the long interim.  There was so much I wanted to grasp back that I thought had been lost forever.  And I wanted it now.  My clit had grown hard, as had my nipples; my entire being was quivering, ready for this climax.

I moved my head so that our cheeks touched.  “I’m nearly there,” I whispered.

Then it came crashing through me in a blinding flood; overwhelmed by its power, I cried out in an uncontrollable joy.  I held him tight as it passed through my core, and released my grip as the flood subsided.

He continued moving in and out, more gently now, his penis still stiff and his balls full of the seed he would squirt up into me.

“Can you take your hand away now, please?” he asked.  “I’m going to come.”

I moved my hand away from his testicles, and immediately felt him pulsating in the wall of my vagina, delivering his semen into the care of my body. 

 “Thank you, my dear,” he whispered.  “That was truly wonderful.”

“And so was mine,” I answered.

I felt his dick soften inside me, and gradually it withdrew.  I hoped it would harden soon so we could do this again.  It was in that moment that I realised that I craved him, his body, his mind, and I wanted all of him in my life.

“Thank you,” I whispered.  “Thank you for coming back to me.”

“I’m just glad you had a bed available.  I didn’t fancy sleeping on a hard bench in the bus station.”

“And you’d have been woken up earlier for breakfast by the police.”

We had not moved from the bed; we held each other and kissed again, rubbing our genitals lazily against each other’s thigh.  I wanted to make love again, but there was no hurry.  For the time being, it was good enough for me just to be in his company.

“Can I ask a question?  How many girlfriends did you have before you got married?”

“Three or four, including you.  You were the one that got away.”

“You mean you had sex with the others?”

“Yes.  Now how about you?”

“I had half a dozen at university.  I was a real whore.  Then I met Bill, and he turned me into a lady.”

“Life was like that in the seventies.  I lived through it too, remember.”

“Bill was very conventional.  Do you know, we never had oral sex?  He thought it was disgusting.  Now when you put your tongue in my pussy earlier, just for that brief moment before you came inside me, it was one of the most erotic things anyone has ever done to me.”

“I’d be very happy to do it to you again, Alex.  Any time.”

“Alan, can I ask you something else?”

“Go on.”

“I’d like to suck your cock.  I haven’t done fellatio on anyone for such a long time.”

“My dear lady, the pleasure would be all mine.  But there’s one rule I have.”

“What’s that?”

“I won’t come in your mouth.  It’s just a ‘thing’ I have.  I’m happy to jerk off over your breasts, or your face, but not in your mouth.”

He lay back on the bed, and I moved to put my head at his crotch and put his penis to my lips.  I felt his hand reach down to cup my breast and begin to caress my nipple, which grew hard quickly.  A new excitement approached, a welcome return of forgotten aspects of my womanhood.  My hand went down to massage my clit.

His dick was limp and fragile as I first took it in; my tongue caressed it slowly, bending it this way and that against the roof of my mouth and the inside of my cheeks.  It grew thicker and longer, and soon I could no longer accommodate all of it comfortably.  I then concentrated my attention on the velvet tip, protruding from its foreskin; my clit had expanded by now and my crotch was soaked.

“I’m ready,” he announced, and he pulled away, his hand taking control of his shaft.  He knelt on the bed, ready to ejaculate.

“On my boobs,” I said, holding my breasts up to him.

He groaned in pleasure as it sprang out of him, and dripped on to me.  It was warm and creamy, and I wanted to rub it all over my breasts.  His face was contorted with the ecstasy of his climax, and I moved to kiss him to comfort him in his moment of delicious pain.

My orgasm waited impatiently; holding myself against him, I rubbed my clit against his thigh and, very quickly, the veil descended and I was overwhelmed with a wave of joy that engulfed me once more.  Sex never used to be like this, I thought.

Exhausted, we lay back on the bed, naked, allowing the spring air to cool the sweat on our bodies.  I needed another shower, but wanted to wait while I enjoyed the smell of the animal lust we secreted.

After 20 minutes he broke our long, satisfied silence.  “I used to squirt a lot harder than that when I came.  I must be getting old.”

I squeezed his hand.  “Nonsense.  If you feel he needs a little more training, I’d be very happy to help.”

“I need a shower.”

“There’s room enough in there for two,” I remarked.  “Mind if I join you?”

He stood up, with his back to me; he still had the same tight arse that used to form the base of my fantasies.  “Come on, then,” he said, holding out his hand for me. 

I followed, and we stepped in together.  He turned on the tap, and the warm spray cascaded over our skin, as we soaped each other’s backs and butts, washing away the body fluids of our lovemaking; as we dried each other, I felt renewed with energy to make a fresh start to our relationship, cut short when you were so much younger.  Although I had only been with him for just four hours, and he had fallen into my world again so unexpectedly, I hoped Alan might feel we could try and make a fresh beginning together.

--------------------

That's it until next time.

Best,

Rachel

email: rc (at) rachelcray (dot) com
Twitter: @RachelCray1