A Glass of Chablis Ch. 05

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They sat at the dark oak dining table; two candles set between them; outside beyond the panes of glass in the window it was not yet quite dark. George Crombie seated at the head of the table, young Ivy Reid at the other, a little formal in their placing but so was the setting out of cutlery, glassware and china. Between them a bottle of wine in an ice bucket, a well-chilled bottle of Chablis – a Mont de Milieu – a premier cru though Ivy was not, perhaps, to know that though it did say Chablis Premier Cru on the buff coloured label. Fine wines were not her ‘thing.’ Certainly, she thought it very good: though whether her description would have gone beyond ‘nice’ or, rather better, ‘refreshing,’ to ‘steely’ or ‘elegant, floral and racy’ as George Crombie would have described the wine, was another matter. She took another sip from the crystal glass in front of her.

“I’ve been here a week… a whole week.”

“Indeed! And it has been a pleasure.”

Ivy raised an eyebrow.

“Well, in many ways.” He smiled and began talking about the contrast with going to help Doris and others. How refreshing it had been to have a young person around; hearing each day how her work was progressing; listening to her observations from a different and young perspective.

Ivy had meant to raise the question about moving on. Would he mind her staying for a few more days? She had already been looking in the ‘Evening Standard,’ had put feelers out at work. She did not want to overstay her welcome. No doubt the old man was enjoying the sex, but he would want his home back and not have a young person disrupting his routine. Did he really want her knickers and bras hanging up over the bath to dry? It seemed though this was not the time to raise it. George seemed very comfortable in his little dinner party for two. It was clear he had been at work on it most of the day what with shopping and preparing and cooking. She watched him swirl the greenish yellow wine in his glass and savour its bouquet. It was very nice. Ivy settled deeper into the comfort of George Crombie’s dining room and let him talk.

Not really a week, it was Friday after all, and she had made that dreadful journey on the Sunday, but it was a whole working week, though it had seemed much, much longer. New experiences slow down time. The regularity of routine speeds it up. Time does not really march at a constant pace. To live longer you need to do new things!

Good, with the meal over and the dishes cleared away, to move into the front room by the fire. It was a cosy domestic scene. George Crombie and his young lodger or, someone might well have thought, Uncle George and his niece Ivy. They talked quietly finishing the bottle of Chablis and then, without George mentioning it, Ivy hopped up to get the cocoa. She knew some of George’s habits after a week with him. He did not like coffee before bed, even after a good dinner.

He smiled as he watched her disappear for the kitchen. How charming she had look as she had leapt up, the hem of her dress that had been a little raised whilst she sat, falling down around her knees. Ivy had seen how he had set the table and had dressed rather more formally than for a mere supper at ‘home,’ she had bathed on return from work, had taken trouble with her hair and even put a gold chain around her neck. It was her best dress, a cotton print from ‘East’ which she had managed to buy in the sale back in the summer. A pretty green that she thought, and so had the shop assistant, set off her hair rather well.

George appreciated women looking like women. He was not over keen on seeing them in jeans or trousers. Old fashioned maybe, but probably Doris and many others of his friends would have agreed. He took a last sip of his Chablis and set down the glass. It had been a rather fine week. He would not push his luck, but he rather hoped young Ivy might humour him again, perhaps ask to read from a book, perhaps get the old penis out of his trousers and do things with it.

Again, they sat talking, cocoa mugs on their knees; tweed clad in George’s case, nylon clad in Ivy’s.

Ivy put her mug down, “Would you like me to read to you?”

“It is a pleasure to hear you. There is something rather special about being read to, I think. The words slow down the progress; instead of almost skim reading, our rapid scanning of pages even missing out works when reading in our heads, each word is vocalised, and the prose enjoyed the more. Might I suggest ‘Three Men in a Boat’ by Jerome K. Jerome. A most perfect comic novel of Edwardian times – you have read?”

It seemed Ivy had not read and, actually, a comic novel was not quite what she had in mind (though she found only the next day that George had searched out a copy and placed it on her bedside table. She had not wanted to read the book, but once started she read it all… it was very amusing. Evocative of a different age yet so modern in many ways. The toothbrush, Uncle Podger hanging a picture, the cheese in the railway carriage… and the maze). güvenilir canlı bahis siteleri

“I was thinking of something like Beatrice.”

George Crombie smiled, “something risqué?”

“A bit more than that!”

“You are a naughty girl, Ivy, and what happens to naughty girls?”

“They get spanked, Mr Crombie.”

“Why so they do! And what else?”

Seeing Ivy’s eyes go suddenly downcast as if she was contrite and sorry for some naughtiness sent a shiver through the old man.”

“They suck cock.”

The scene so domestic, so almost Victorian in the cosiness of the fireside and the decorations and furniture, yet the words from the young girl so at odds with the popular conception of the Victorian era.”

“Ivy, you really are a very naughty girl.”

“I know, I know. I want to read something about sucking cock.”

George stood, despite his thick tweed trousers Ivy could discern his male organ had expanded. She smiled; her words were having the right effect. He reached for a book and turned the pages.

“How about this?”

Ivy took it from him. The book was simply titled ‘G,’ a book by John Berger. She read the paragraphs he had indicated:

‘The feeling of tenderness wells over and makes it impossible for Camille to imagine anything viewed from a distance; the idea of the dryad is momentarily obliterated. Gradually such moments become longer and longer until the dryad disappears into the smell of the crushed grass and the surrounding silence, never to return, and Camille becomes entirely concentrated in the act of following with her tongue the underseam of the penis of the man over whose thigh her head is hanging.

He is there under her, above her, beside her. He has no claims on her; he has made none. He is there like the trellis with the vine overgrowing it. He is there like a wall against which she could repeatedly bang her head. He is there, outside herself, like everything else in the world which has not claimed a second residence in her consciousness. She has not said to herself that she loves him. He has convinced her of only one thing. Unlike any other man she has ever encountered, he has convinced her that his desire for her—her alone—is absolute, that it is her existence which has created this desire. Formerly she has been aware of men wanting to choose her to satisfy desires already rooted in them, her and not another, because among the women available she has approximated the closest to what they need. Whereas he appears to have no needs. He has convinced her that the penis twitching in the air above her face is the size and colour and warmth that it is entirely because of what he has recognized in her.’

“Oh,” said Ivy, looking up, “yes! I can imagine. The penis twitching in the air above her face. The smell of the crushed grass. I like the idea; him hanging above her and letting his cock descend down onto her tongue – the underseam of his penis dropping onto her outstretched tongue. Yes!”

‘When he enters her, when this throbbing, cyclamen-headed, silken, apoplectic fifth limb of his reaches as near to her centre as her pelvis will allow, he, in it, will be returning, she believes, to the origin of his desire. The taste of his foreskin and of a single tear of transparent first sperm which has broken over the cyclamen head making its surface even softer to the touch than before, is the taste of herself made flesh in another.’

“Strong imagery.” Ivy put the book down and went over to George Crombie. Without asking she unbuttoned his fly and brought his penis out. It was hard. She smiled at it and then returned to her chair and re-read the paragraph. “There, George, ‘throbbing, cyclamen-headed, silken’ – isn’t the knob so like that – a ‘fifth limb’ indeed to men.” Ivy looked at him directly, “How would you like me to taste your foreskin, burrow my tongue under it? Do you think there might be a ‘single tear of transparent first sperm’ breaking over the ‘cyclamen head’ washing down it?”

She saw the old man swallow, relished the effect she was having and returned to her reading:

‘This can never stop, she whispers, slowly and calmly. My love, my love.

They were fucking in the grass. Both half believed that they were no longer lying down but standing up and walking as they fucked; towards the end they began to run through tall wet grass. He had the further illusion that others were running towards him.’

“Why is that? The imagery is so strong, George, so sexual but confusing. They fuck, yes, though that came all a sudden; but why do they imagine they are standing up and walking, then running through tall wet grass and why he, particularly, imagines others running towards him? Naked women, boobs bounding – erotic imagery? Men with naked penises bouncing, balls swinging? I don’t understand, but it makes me all wet. Is the idea of the wet grass brushing against their naked bodies as they run meant as some sort of sensory comparison to sexual intercourse? Their bodies wetly stroked?” güvenilir illegal bahis siteleri

Again, she put the book down and stood. Across from her, the listening old man was seated; a man most clearly enjoying being read to and hearing Ivy’s erotic thoughts. His penis sticking strongly up from his fly demonstrated that so clearly. Slowly Ivy came across the room towards George, her dress moving around her hips. She knelt before him, her nylon clad knees on the carpet; parting his thighs, her hands upon the tweed, she leant forward and stared at his ‘fifth limb’ rising strongly from his tweed trousers; with her right hand she reached out and pulled his foreskin upwards, partially covering his – yes – ‘silken’ knob and was delighted to see the squeezing motion of her hand did indeed cause ‘a single tear of transparent first sperm’ to rise and break over the ‘cyclamen-head.’ Ivy leant further and tasted, her tongue mobile on and within the foreskin.

What it must have looked like from the door had someone been there – someone unexpected – perhaps Doris. Nothing fleshily inappropriate but the sight of the young girl kneeling, the hem of her dress resting upon the back of her knees and legs, her back bent forwards and her face down at the front of the old man’s trousers, would have looked exactly like what it was: a girl giving a ‘blow-job,’ her head nodding rhythmically as she sucked on the man’s penis.

“You are such a naughty girl. Oversexed, might be the word.”

“Are you going to spank it out of me.”

“I think I must. Come, over my knee.”

Again, George had the pleasure of lifting a young girl’s skirt as she lay across his knees. Both tights and knickers needed to be lowered to expose her bottom. Such smooth skin and, unlike the hard tightness of the buttocks of a boy, there before him the plump softness of a young girl’s bottom cheeks. Such a wonderful shape, the perfection of not just their rounded plumpness but the particular curve as their shape flowed down and round to the thighs. Upon them the lightest of downy hair; George reached and touched the delightful divide between the girl’s cheeks causing an instinctive clenching. His finger burrowed and touched – a shocking intimacy – her bottom hole. Somewhat unlikely the stern headmaster would do that to the errant schoolgirl before the chastisement. Just possibly, if the girl had been so very bad – but what would the more extreme punishment be?

“Would you want to fuck me there, George?”

“I… it’s what men seem to want – sometimes. Not today. I shall want to take you properly… if I may.” His white moustache quivered; did he not want to do that! He was surprised, had been surprised, just how aroused Ivy made him. How virile he felt. It was not that he had been in any way incapable. Many quiet evenings by the fireside had put paid to any idea of his reproductive equipment being ‘past it.’ But she re-awakened something within him.

“You may, you certainly may. Once you’ve spanked me.”

The hand slipped from Ivy’s bottom crack; the finger that had been gently circling Ivy’s anal orifice was withdrawn – reluctantly. Ivy tensed and then received the first slap down upon her right buttock. George was still a strong man. Years in the army, then the police and more recent steady activity including gardening and not just for himself – indeed Doris, and others – had kept his muscles in order.

George enjoyed the spanking. Aroused, his cock out in the open, the lovely girl across his knees with her bottom cheeks catching a little of the colour of the fire, all got to him and he spanked with enthusiasm, relishing the sound of flesh on flesh as well as the tactile sensation. It was more than ‘six of the best.’ He started quite gently but the slaps became stronger.

What it must be for the headmaster of a girls’ school in the perhaps imagined old days. A queue of uniformed girls, mature sixth-formers, waiting in line outside his study for their punishment. Pleated skirt after pleated skirt to be raised and tucked over their backs, uniform knickers to be carefully lowered and those plump, curvaceous, cheeks exposed. How hard would the headmaster have been after the session. Rising with his trousers straining as the last girl shuffled out holding her smarting bottom through her now fallen skirt, with his thoughts on fire he would need release. He would know the school secretary was waiting, bent over the desk in the next room, knowing the headmaster would be in desperate need to enter her from behind, thrust and release his pent up semen, emptying balls that had (maybe) grown fatter and fatter as he had spanked each girl. Girl after girl entering his study to have their knickers lowered. A necessary secretarial duty for the poor headmaster who had had to endure the eroticism of spanking naked virginal bottoms with fortitude and restraint, unable so much as to stroke a quivering cheek, still less grasp a breast in his hand. How the secretary would admire his ability not to lose control güvenilir bahis şirketleri and perhaps fuck one of the schoolgirls. It was only right the secretary should make herself available; to do her duty and allow the headmaster to release all that semen into her sexual channel. Her husband would understand if he knew. Would agree she did the right thing.

“Enough!” cried Ivy rising, “just fuck me.”

Again, a sight that would have revealed very little flesh to an unexpected Doris at the doorway, but left the old lady in no doubt what was happening – animal like coitus on the hearthrug. No undressing for the two of them this time. Ivy on all fours, her dress raised up over her back, her knickers and tights down at her knees and George Crombie kneeling behind her, his trousers a little more undone but not lowered as he applied himself to Ivy close up behind her bottom. It would be obvious there was that male/female connection of organs; the male ‘covering’ the female. And if that was not enough, George’s hands insider Ivy’s dress, manipulating her breasts as he lay across her would have revealed this was most definitely man and woman engaged sexually.

George moved against Ivy, he could feel her soft bottom upon his thighs, as his penis slid, hard and capable, inside her smooth, wet, channel; in and out, that delightful motion of copulation.

“Fuck me harder.”

The erection slid; George’s hips banged against Ivy’s bottom – a slapping sound as if there had not already been enough slapping.

“Touch my clit, NOW!”

George moved his hand from inside Ivy’s dress and brought it down and delved, touching her soft pubic hair and then her wet flesh. He found and twirled his finger around the little button, as asked, bringing Ivy to her climax just as he released into her. One of those rare simultaneous climaxes, the ‘cyclamen-head’ releasing just as Ivy’s clitoris began to ‘spark.’

A period of rest, a time for breathing to return to normal and then George to reach out and use a chair to help himself to his feet, his knees, unsurprisingly, feeling their age – a little stiff (which was all that could now be said for his once proud penis – it too was only ‘a little stiff’ if that). Ivy too got up, and would have looked pretty much respectable, though her hair was a little tousled and her face rather flushed, if it was not for the knickers and tights around her knees under her dress.

George collapsed into his chair as Ivy pulled her underwear upwards.

“Shall I put that away? More cocoa perhaps. I’m a bit lively for bed yet.”

“Please and please.”

Ivy had got the penis out and it was Ivy who tucked it away again, even giving it a little kiss before she did so. George smiled and watched Ivy’s swaying hips leave the room for cocoa once more. What a lovely girl!

George lay in the warmth of his bed looking up at the ceiling. Occasionally patterns of light moved across as a car came down the street and its headlights made their way up over the top of the curtains, a faint light but a moving light across the ceiling. Beside him in the warmth, under the covers – not even beside but entwined about him – the young girl he had taken in was gently sleeping. He could hear her soft breathing and feel the rise and fall of her chest against him. A naked chest, a chest with young, perky female breasts so soft against his skin.

He thought back to that evening less than a week before when he had been sitting in his lounge expecting a quiet evening of masturbation with a selection of good books. Very much something he had grown used to and rather enjoyed in a perhaps somewhat lonely sort of way. He recalled thinking of Lady Chatterley and Oliver Mellors, delighting in the passionate enthusiasm of the young, the virility of the man and the readiness of the young woman. He had been like that once – young and virile. No longer young but he had still managed ‘the act’ with Ivy and had brought her off indeed – had made her come. That strength had not yet gone from him.

It was early in the morning, three o’clock by his bedside alarm clock. He recalled his thoughts of his garden and of the old stone statue, old but not really old, merely a copy of a classical work. As such works were, its or his, for it was a male statue, was small penised in the way that was strangely prized by the ancients. That evening by his fire with ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover,’ he had imagined the statue differently, with its penis erect and substantial, yet around it the garden unkempt. A metaphor for himself of course. His body perhaps not unkempt but certainly no longer spring like. He had imagined ivy growing up the statue. Ivy was a long-lived plant indeed, Hedera helix, a persistent plant. He had thought of it winding up the stone legs of the classical statue and very much curling around the erect organ, tendrils of ivy clasping it, encircling it. Yes, in DH Lawrence’s words creeping around where the stone ‘phallos rose thick and arching.’

He had seen himself like that, an old man with ivy climbing slowly up him, as if up his old penis, like up a fork or spade left by the gardener and not retrieved. He had imagined the young robin alighting upon the fork or spade handle, using it as a perch, its little dark beady eyes staring around before it flew off again.

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