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Chapter Two

Charles Dickens was frowning from his painted perch above the fireplace. Little Nell was gazing down with wide, frightened eyes from an antique print on one wall, sundry souls from “Pickwick Papers” were scampering around in their frames on the other. I was lying on a four-poster bed, in a four star English hotel, holding the first uncut penis I had ever seen.

I hadn’t noticed it at first…the fact it was uncut, that is. After all, we had already made love once, and it didn’t feel any different than any other cock I’d had inside me. Moreover, when Martin stepped…or, more accurately, leaped…out of his trousers once we got up to my room, I really didn’t feel the need to study it.

It was only as he moved up my body, his face glistening with pussy juice and my heart still hammering from the orgasm he sent shimmering through me, only as I reached between his legs to pull him up further, as I smiled at his galloping return to semi-stiffness, did I notice a difference.  A little extra “give” in the way it felt. On the other hand, it could have been the thin flap of skin clinging stubbornly to the fat purple helmet, a network of tiny veins dark against its opaque sheen.

I held him in one hand, gently massaging his shaft, while I wondered how to phrase my next question. In the end, the silence and stillness felt embarrassing. “Okay, I’m sorry, but… is it meant to do that?”

Martin glanced down with a little more panic in his eyes than he realized. “Do what?”

“Um, I’ve never seen…” I indicated the bridge of skin. “What is it?”

“My foreskin?” He sounded confused for a moment. And then, “Is it true about American guys, then? They’re all circumcised?”

“Well, I don’t know about all of them, but most, are I think.”

“Not over here, luv. We like to keep our men intact. After all, you never know when you’re going to wake up in a blackberry bush.”

Eh? I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. (I figured it out later… don’t bother asking). “But does it stay like that?”

Again, I touched the curious flap, and then let out a little “oh” as it slowly retracted onto his shaft.

“Just gets a bit sticky, I guess,” he concluded, and I stroked some more, watching in fascination as a thick wave of skin coiled up with my fist, to tap the rim of his helmet.

I looked up at him, he was watching me curiously. “It’s alright, isn’t it? You don’t mind?”

“Of course I don’t mind. I’ve just never seen one before.”  Then, to shatter the growing awareness of the fact I was treating him like a laboratory specimen, I leaned my head forward and let my mouth slip over his helmet. He sighed and an inexplicable sense of relief washed over me. Well, at least that’s the same.

His foreskin continued to fascinate me. His prick was thick, his helmet thicker. However, when I rolled the extra layer of skin up over it, it became thicker still, my lips strained to engulf it. The taste changed, too; sharp and salty when I pulled his skin back, markedly less so as I drew it forward. I loved the contrast, loved the sensation of the flesh folding back against my lips, and then rudely bumping them on its way forward…back and forth, back and forth.

He gasped. “Please, don’t wank me so fast.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t wank me so fast. There’s a lot of spunk down there.”

What? I have heard of packing phrasebooks when you travel abroad, but even after my linguistic mix-up with Melissa last week, going to bed with someone never struck me as an occasion when you would need one. Still jerking him, I asked, “What’s wank?”

“It’s what you’re doing now.”

Oh, right. My hand stopped moving. “And spunk?”

I knew he didn’t mean courage. “That’s what’ll happen if you don’t stop the wanking.” He smiled. “Sorry, I forgot you don’t speak English.”

I pulled his skin back as far as I could and licked hard up his shaft, following the thick vein running its full length. “No, I speak in tongues.”

Holding him upright with just two fingers, I twirled and swirled across his flesh, streams of saliva flowing down his length, to disappear into his pubes. I snatched one testicle between my lips and sucked it into my mouth as far as I could, released it, then repeated the trick with the other one.

Kneeling over me, Martin’s head was pressing against the wall, his hands gripping the headboard of the bed. The headboard swayed as I returned his cock to my mouth and his hips began gently to move. There was a tap-tap as it touched the wall. I clamped my hands on his hips, rocking them in a slow rhythm. He started moving with me, sliding his length in and out of my mouth, then picked up speed on his own accord. The headboard began banging hard.

I wondered who was in the room next to us, and what effect the sound of our lovemaking might be having on them. Raising my eyes to glance at him, there was no mistaking the effect it was having on Martin. His eyes were closed tightly, his face screwed up with effort, and his prick slamming into me, harder, faster…suddenly he cried out. At the same moment, he whipped himself out of my mouth, as a hot fountain of cum…or spunk as he called it… splashed against my lips, my cheek. Warm liquid reached as far as my ear.

illustration by Hammond, Ruthies Club

I licked my lips…he tasted sweet enough I really would not have objected to a mouthful. Nevertheless, as he cradled my head in his arms, still poised above me, I was happy to have shared this much with a stranger. Three thousand miles was a long way to go to give a blowjob. But I’d probably learned as many new words, new sensations, in one evening than I’ve picked up in a long time back home. If I don’t have sex again all vacation, tonight made it worthwhile regardless.

* * * *

I have been in England a week, and I’ve finally escaped the stifling capital, to the country town of Rochester where I am staying at a postcard perfect hotel in the shadow of the castle. After the mess of modernity, I discovered scarring London; this place looked practically prehistoric to me.

Why  Rochester? Because I love Charles Dickens.

He lived much of his life here, wrote a lot of his books here, and set even more of them in the surrounding countryside. Besides, with my trusty guidebook “Visiting Dickens-Land,” of course and a rented car, I’m going to visit every stop on the map! Just as soon as I get the hang of driving on the wrong side of the road that is.

Although most of the roads I’m intending to take are apparently so narrow it probably won’t make much difference.

I checked in at two this afternoon. It was raining then, and it was still coming down at five when, emboldened by an early dinner, I set out for a village called Cooling. Where I discovered was another castle, a tiny church and, if you’ve read Great Expectations, the cemetery where Pip goes to visit the graves of his family. What a perfect moment this is. The rain begins to let up as I get there, to be replaced by a billowing fog. All I need now is for the escaped convict to rise up from behind one of the other tombstones.

“Excuse me.”

I almost shrieked in fright! Instead, clutching my purse tightly to my chest, I turned around to see a man standing three or four feet away from me, in a mist so thick I hadn’t even heard his footsteps on the gravel path. “Hello?”

“I’m sorry, but the graveyard is closed.”

“Really?” I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a graveyard actually closing “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“You’re American.” It was a statement, not a question, and I nodded. Then, remembering he wouldn’t be able to see me any better than I could see him, I answered “Yes. I wanted to come out to see Pip’s folk.”

“Well, there they are.” He gestured towards the row of stone lozenges lying at my feet. “Or rather, they’re not, but,” he stepped forward and saw my guidebook. “You probably know that already.”

“Yes. It’s just such a thrill to know I’m standing in the same place Dickens stood when he was writing….” I shut up. I was beginning to feel like a giddy schoolgirl, tracking the footsteps of some pop music idol. I’d be asking if I could take home some of the grass next, in case the Great One once stepped on it.

“Are you staying locally?”

“Rochester. Maybe I should come back in the daylight.”

“No, it’s okay. If you want to look around you can, although the church is already locked for the night.”

A sad sign of the times, I thought. “Do you work here?”

“No, but my father’s in the choir. I was just heading down to the pub” The way he said it suggested it was the only one for miles. “If you want me to wait while you look around, maybe you’d like a drink?”

Again, I had to bite my tongue, and suppress an excited squeal. After a week in London, my long-held visions of an English pub had been rudely shattered by a succession of characterless plastic bars, festooned with Budweiser posters and jukeboxes filled with Spice Girls and rap. Nevertheless, the countryside would surely be different. “Actually, it’s getting a little damp and chilly out here. Is it far? My car’s over there.”

“It’s just around the corner. This way.” He motioned with his head.

He took my hand to guide me round gravestones already lost in the fog, caught my arm as I tripped on the decorative white chain strung ankle-high on the edge of the path, then released me once we were on the open road where I couldn’t blunder into any more obstacles. The ideal gentleman.

The pub was small, noisy, smoky – and perfect. When he offered me a drink, I let him recommend me an ale I’d never heard of. When he found us a table, it was beneath a pair of local prints, which looked as though they’d hung there forever. I checked the index in my guidebook. Yes, the pub was listed. I folded over the corner of the page, to read when I got back to my hotel. There was so much more to look at here, after all, beginning with my host, no, my escaped convict.

“I’m Chrissie,” I introduced myself. He was Martin and, when he said it, I had to smirk. When he ordered our drinks, I discovered the barmaid’s name was Nancy. Within moments he’d already said “hi” to his friends, David and Jacob. No Ebenezer, though. “Is everybody round here named for characters out of Dickens?”

“Oh you know, it’s good for the tourist trade.” He slipped into what I imagined was some kind of local accent. “An’ oi be your guide ‘ere in Dickens country,” he laughed. “Chuzzlewit boi name, but not boi nature.”

“I’m sorry, you must get it all the time.” I patted his arm, and he placed his other hand on mine. “It’s okay. If I didn’t like it, I’d move, or change my name to Magwitch. Sorry if I startled you back there.”

“You did a little.” Magwitch was the convict who appeared to Pip in the graveyard, escaping from one of the old prison ships that used to be moored on the river. “I don’t suppose the ships are still there?”

I asked hopefully. He shook his head. “No. But I was serious, if you do need a guide this weekend…”

“I’d love one,” I said, “but I’d better be getting back. One beer is more than enough for someone who’s still not used to driving in this country.” We arranged to meet up the following lunchtime at the pub, and I headed back into Rochester, up to my room to sleep like the dead.

The following morning, a Sunday, dawned brilliantly bright and sunny. It was as though the last evening’s rain never happened. My drive out to Cooling was the same as before, but this time I couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of the Kentish countryside.  At the same time, I was flinching in horror from the signs of “progress” littering the roads and lanes. It was a relief to pull up at the pub, to find myself surrounded by a landscape that probably had not changed in a couple of centuries.

Martin was waiting for me with his own handful of maps and guides. “There’s a few interesting things around here. They don’t get onto the usual routes,” he explained.

I found myself thinking I was standing in front of one of them right now. A good head taller than me, he was at least six foot three inches tall. He had a head of blonde hair that mashed curls with flyaway straggles. A build hanging on the skinny side of muscular, a face, which placed him somewhere around his mid-twenties, and of course, an accent to die for.

The afternoon flew past.

My head was spinning with forts and churches, islets and mud flats. The iron carcasses of wartime submarines left to rot in the inlets, the island where victims of one plague or another were buried, places even Martin had not visited in years.

Now we sat on a deserted towpath, the scent of the River Medway heavy in our nostrils, the hum of passing insects loud in our ears, the sun beating down. It was the most natural thing in the world when Martin’s arm folded around my waist, and I leaned into his chest.

“Thanks for a wonderful afternoon,” I told him, and his other arm came up to hold me to him.

“Pleased you enjoyed it.” I lifted my head to graze his lips with mine. “I’d never have seen any of this without you.” I kissed him again, and his lips parted a little, his tongue flicking out to tease the tip of mine.

“Do you have to be getting back any time soon?” he asked.

“Not…” I paused and raised my head, looked around. “Not if this place really is as deserted as it looks.”

He pressed his weight against me, pushing me back onto the carpet of clover. I lay back, parting my legs so his body fell between them, the weight of his loins pressing against mine, as his kisses grew more urgent. He raised himself slightly, leaned on one arm so his other hand could take possession of my breast, squeezing it through my T-shirt, edging the nipple over the half-cup of my bra, brushing it with the base of his palm.

My hands, far up inside his own T, massaged their way across his broad back, paused to scrape the sides of his abdomen, scratched harder as a flick of his thumb gave my nipple an extra tingle, and he began tugging at my shirt, raising it over my chest and lowering his head to touch his tongue to my flesh.

“Hold on, let me get out of this thing,” I murmured, sitting up and unhooking my bra. It fell away and his mouth fastened firmly over my tit, sucking both the nipple and a good proportion of the surrounding flesh into his mouth.

I wriggled, trying to pull my shirt off altogether, but succeeded only in raising it further, but it was enough to remind him I had two breasts, and the other one was getting jealous. He transferred his attentions, compensating the abandoned orb with his firm hand. I pressed my palms to the back of his head, encouraging him to suck harder, and wondered just how much further we could go. It was broad daylight, a public place and, though there wasn’t a soul in sight, I could hear the light chug of a barge coming down the river.

He felt me tense.

“It’s okay, they won’t see us,” he whispered, as his hand began scraping across my stomach, nudging the waistband of my skirt, then bypassing it completely, to clamp around my thigh. I wriggled a little, nudged my crotch closer to his fingers, wondered if he could feel the wetness sopping into my tights. He could. Raising his hand while his eyes fixed onto mine, he ran his thumb beneath his nose, then licked it slowly. I replied with my own hand, laying it over the front of his jeans, my fingers squeezing the width of the wedge I discovered there.

His hand was down the front of my tights, one finger burrowing firmly into my vagina. It felt good, but I wanted more. I wanted to feel my lips stretch around something thicker than a single finger. Moving his hand, I squirmed out of my underwear. Then, unbuttoning his trousers and tugging them down just enough, I guided his cock inside me.  I bucked against the hard ground to draw him in all the way, then bolted my legs around his waist, my pussy spread wide against his spiky pubes, his balls heavy against me.

He moved slowly, his grinding hips doing more work than his penis, as though he was content simply burying himself deep inside me. I had no complaints. The lush pressure was sending the most heavenly shudders through my body, while his very weight, pushing me into the unyielding earth, so restricted my own movements I could do little more than lie there, feeling his thickness pushing deeper as those drawn-out grinding motions perceptibly slowed.

He spoke. “I’m sorry. I think I’m going to cum any minute now.”

“What are you sorry for? I thought that was the idea.” I held him tight, waiting. Then, whispering deep into his ear, I said, “come on, let it go.”

He replied with a grunt, a swift withdrawal, an almost violent plunge forward, and exploded, a superheated slap of wet against my vagina walls.

I flexed my muscles, wringing the last drops out of him as he shuddered to a halt, and bit his ear gently. “That was fantastic.”

“Sorry it didn’t last any longer.”

“It lasted as long as it needed to,” I reassured him. Why do men always think every time has to go on for hours and be accompanied by fireworks? Some times it’s the mood, not the motion that matters the most. Flat on my back beneath a blue English sky, hearing the waves on the river and the birds overhead–the mood was perfect. Besides, with luck, there would be plenty of time later.

We lay silently for a while. Then I asked, “are you hungry?”

He nodded. “Getting there.”

“Well, if you’ve not got plans for this evening, I’d like to buy you dinner as a thank you for driving me round all day.”

Which kind of brings me back to where I came in. I dropped him back at his place. He had a few things he needed to do. I drove back to the hotel to change and bathe before he came to pick me up. And, back here, after we’d eaten, it was time for afters, or as he, very Englishly, might have put it, “pudding”.

Hmmm, no, I think this is one occasion when I prefer the American term.

Now, I was lying with my head propped on the pillows, the last flecks of his ejaculation drying on my cheek while he hung drained above me, his sweat dripping into my face. His thighs still clamped tight around my chest, his softening cock–he called it his pecker–relaxing into its foreskin just a few inches from my face. “Hey up there?”

He breathed an exhausted “yeah?”

“Look, I know I promised not to get all touristy, and start quoting Charles Dickens at you, but I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t say it.”

He groaned aloud. “Go on, then.”

I pulled a line from Oliver Twist of course. “Please sir, can I have some more?”

He flopped onto the mattress beside me. “Sorry, Chrissie, but that isn’t going to work. After all, I’m hardly going to say no, am I?”