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As the gentle reader may know, to date these stories have focused on the increasingly exotic and exhilarating sex life enjoyed by my beautiful wife Margaret and myself. While there will, undoubtedly, be more exciting adventures to share with Margaret’s fans, this present story is quite different.
Some years ago, Margaret and I were tasked with the disposal of the deceased estate of a distant male relative. He had died intestate and a bachelor, after a lengthy career at sea. There was little of value, other than the cottage he owned, and little, too, of interest, apart from some oriental knick knacks and a steamer trunk of papers. They included documents charting his progressive rise through the ranks from apprentice to captain, along with copies of logbooks from the ships he had commanded. Among them was a journal.
I opened it, expecting to find the professional and personal record that aspiring ships’ officers were required to maintain. What I read was something very, very different. The journal covers a period of the several months following his twentieth birthday, which coincided with an extended period of leave during which he studied for, and sat, the professional examination for promotion to junior ship’s officer.
The handwriting, while neat, was hard to decipher and it took me months to transcribe it to print. It was obviously written some years after the events described. Some readers might find those events a little disturbing.
It is impossible, now, to verify the veracity of its contents but, if true, the journal offers a fascinating, and at times highly arousing record, of the sexual proclivities of what must have been an extraordinary family.
I leave you to be the judge.
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If you must know, my name is Martin and this record starts in the middle of that long hot British summer of the mid-1970s.
I had just returned from the final voyage of my cadetship, to undertake a six-month course of tuition to prepare me for examination for the Second Mate’s Certificate. I arrived home to find that my parents had moved house. This was not unusual. My father was among that small army of expatriates engaged to provided technical expertise to the developing industries of Britain’s former colonies. In between extended postings abroad, he and my mother lived in a succession of residencies in England. They were hardly homes, as they were seldom there, and neither was I. Packed off to boarding school as soon as I passed the Eleven Plus examination, I only ever saw them during school holidays. At sixteen I went to a sea school for apprentices, and then spent almost all of the subsequent four years at sea, on voyages to the Far East and Australia.
I arrived home, then, for what would, for the first time in many years, be an extended period in the company of my parents, who were themselves, coincidentally, between postings. I won’t say they were strangers to me but, having spent nearly all of the previous decade living away from them, there was much to discover, or re-discover, about the arcs of our lives. Just how much there was to discover is the subject of this journal.
The house at which the taxi dropped me, was in the home counties. A modern, spacious four-bedroomed residence with the latest amenities. My parents met me at the door with typical English effusion. A hearty handshake from my father, a brief hug and a peck on the lips from my mother and the usual, ‘When are you going back to sea?’
In appearance, my parents were unremarkable, and they seemed to have changed little over the years I had been away. My father was about five-foot-eight and wiry, he often boasted that he wore the same waist size in trousers that he had at twenty-one. His dark hair was thinning and there were creases around his eyes, but he had a cheeky grin and a dry sense of humour. My mother was no slender English rose. Not much over five feet tall, she had a large bosom and a well-padded bottom. But, despite years in tropical climes, she had managed to preserve her flawless complexion and, expertly made up, I imagined she could still attract admiring glances.
After a cup of tea and a tour of the house, I was left to unpack and stow my kit in the fourth bedroom, at the opposite end of the house to that of my parents. A returning prodigal son dinner of fattened lamb chops, was followed by a celebratory pint at the local pub. And so, to bed.
The following day, I caught the train to London to enroll at the John Cass Nautical School at Tower Hill, and later returned home to an empty house. No matter, I made a mug of tea and set off for a second exploration. It was not that I was especially nosey but, after many years of living away from them, I was interested to see what it might reveal about my parents’ personalities, and whatever pastimes and hobbies they enjoyed.
Pushing open the door to their bedroom, I felt the anticipation of discovery. Four years at sea had been an eye-opening education into the ofise gelen gaziantep escort mysteries and delights of sex. My parents were in their forties. As a boy, the idea of ones’ parents engaging in sexual intercourse was almost incomprehensible. Now, as I looked upon their marital bed, I could easily imagine what they might get up to within it. Did my mother suck my father’s cock, the way an Auckland girlfriend had done mine? Was she as noisy and unrestrained in her coupling as the Japanese girl I had bedded in Yokohama, after a shipboard party? Could she shoot ping pong balls from her vagina, like the bar girls did in Manila? Or could she milk a cock with her pelvic muscles, like the mature hostess from the Bottom’s Up Club in Hong Kong?
Nothing in the bedroom suggested an answer either way. Apart from the large double bed, a built-in wardrobe extended almost the length of one wall and a mirrored door led a sizeable ensuite bathroom, whose fittings included a bidet and a large sunken bath. The wardrobe too, had floor to ceiling mirrored, sliding doors. The hanging spaces contained extensive collections of my father’s suits and my mother’s gowns and dresses. The shelving held stacks of neatly folded shirts, blouses and sweaters, and the drawers their underwear. My mother appeared to have a preference for lace and silk. I was very tempted to take some out for inspection. The thought of the bras and panties cradling her breasts and pussy was exciting. I resisted and continued my investigation.
A padded bench seat sat at the foot of the bed, and a comfortable looking armchair nestled in a corner. A dressing table stood against the shared wall with the second bedroom. Above it, a large, framed mirror was mounted on the wall. The drawers contained her make-up and other beautification accessories. It was all disappointingly ordinary. But what should I have expected?
The second bedroom, next door, was equally bland. Just another double bed, a smaller built-in wardrobe, a couple of chairs and a dressing table, similar to the one next door. Also similar, identical even, was the large, framed mirror above it. I pulled open the dressing table drawers. They were empty, and it struck me that the house seemed somewhat large for only two people, plus the occasional visit from a son home from sea, or at least until I found my own digs.
The framed mirror was interesting though. Seemingly identical to the one next door, the wooden frame was substantial, much thicker and wider than necessary to hold a mirror secured to the wall. Why? Crime novels often described wall-safes concealed behind paintings. Could the mirror be concealing something similar. I grasped the sides of the frame and attempted to lift it. No. It was secured to the wall. I ran my fingers all around the edges. At the top and bottom of the left-hand edge were metal fittings that looked like hinges. I tugged at the opposite edge, but nothing moved. Finally, my fingers located a small button on the underside. I pressed it. A soft click, and the frame, together with the mirror, opened a fraction. It was indeed hinged. I swung it back … and gaped. Behind the mirror, fitted neatly into the dividing wall was a large pane of glass. Clear glass. It was a window straight into my parent’s bedroom with a commanding view of their double bed.
I darted next door to check the wall on the other side and stared at my reflection in mounting amazement. The mirror above my mother’s dressing table was two-way. I could clearly see through it from the second bedroom, but my reflection stared back at me on their side. Why? I checked back in the second bedroom room. Yes, I could see straight through. Wow!
Further contemplation of the mystery was halted by the noise of a car pulling into the drive. My parents were home. I hurried downstairs to greet them, hoping my face did not betray the fact I had been snooping.
Dinner was an interesting affair, as I tried to maintain my end of the conversation, while silently wrestling with the questions my nosiness had uncovered.
‘You seem distracted, Martin,’ said my mother, after I failed to respond to her offer of more Brussels sprouts. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, Mum,’ I replied, scrambling for plausible cover. ‘I was just thinking about the course, the logistics and so on. I’ll be travelling up to the city every day. I’ll need season ticket. And I should be paying you board and lodging.’
‘Nonsense, son,’ said my father. ‘Save your money. It’s just good to have you home for a bit. Isn’t it, Moira?’
My mother nodded. ‘You’re too thin, Martin. Don’t they feed you well enough. Be nice to see you with some more meat on your bones.’
And so the evening progressed in an atmosphere of bourgeois gentility. We discussed the unusually warm weather, the water rationing in Wales and the western counties, the replacement of Harold Wilson by James Callaghan as Prime Minister, gaziantep ofise gelen bayan escort and how it would impact Mike Yarwood’s comedy impersonation act.
After watching the News at Ten and enjoying a nightcap of duty-free Black Label (the last of the dozen I had liberated from the cargo on the outbound voyage), my mother announced that she was off to bed. My father jumped up and followed her, clapping me on the shoulder on his way out of the lounge room.
‘Sweet dreams, son.’
Sweet dreams be buggered! I tossed and turned for several hours wondering about the purpose behind the two-way mirror. Why on earth would my parents have such a thing? The only semi-plausible explanation was that it had been there when they bought the house. Perhaps they had no idea of its existence, or how it worked.
The following day, I started at nautical school, diving straight into the syllabus in navigation, and ship stability.
I returned home to find my parents in the kitchen, locked in an embrace. My father grinned when he caught sight of me and let go of my mother. She smoothed her hair, patted down her skirt and busied herself preparing dinner. It was not unusual for them to display affection, they often held hands in public, but that evening there seemed to be some form of additional connection between them. Their touching when they passed each other, the glances that seemed laden with meaning, the slight flush to my mother’s cheeks, it was as if invisible electrical sparks were jumping between them. I had enough sense and experience to know what it meant. A decent interval after dinner had been eaten and cleared away, I announced that I had had a tiring day getting my brain cells back into training and was heading off to bed.
I had hardly closed my bedroom door, when I heard their footsteps on the stairs and a suppressed giggle from my mother.
They were going to bed early, to make love. That much was obvious. The knowledge was exciting, arousing even. Some of their electrical charge had rubbed off on me. I stroked my growing cock under my jeans. I could masturbate while imagining them in bed together. Wait! I could do better than that. The two-way mirror!
Was it wrong, to spy on my parents during their most intimate act? Probably, but the impetuosity of youth, and the pleasurable throb at my groin, overrode any considerations of morality. I didn’t hesitate.
Switching out the light, I eased open the door and stepped into the hallway. The glow of a night-light provided sufficient illumination to see that their bedroom door was closed. I tiptoed along the corridor to the second bedroom. The door was open. I slipped inside and closed it silently behind me. With eyes adjusted to the dark, I quickly found the dressing table, felt for the release button, and pushed it. The same soft click and the mirror eased away from the wall. I swung it back on its hinges. Light flooded into the room, almost startling me with its intensity. Even more startling was the revealed tableau. My mother and father, already naked on the bed, were in the early stages of foreplay.
For a moment I had the panicky thought that if I could see them, surely they could see me. Was it really a mirror on their side of the wall? I swung the frame back. No, I’d seen for myself. I could see through the mirror from this side, but not from the other. I swung the mirror open again. Framed in the window, my parents continued to kiss and caress. They couldn’t see me. I relaxed. Well, not all of me did. My heart was beating ten to the dozen with excitement, and my cock was straining at the front of my jeans. I’d watched couples copulate before. There were plenty of bars in Panama where a few dollars bought admission to a room where a two-way mirror allowed the viewing of one of the bar girls being fucked by a usually oblivious patron.
This was different. My God was it different. It was my own parents on their own bed. And by their passionate embraces, by the magnificent erection sprouting from my father’s groin, from my mother’s stiff nipples and the arching of her back as my father’s fingers splayed her pussy lips and stroked her clitoris, I could see they were about to fuck; as abandonedly as any sailor blowing his load after a month or more’s ocean enforced abstinence.
What was more, I could hear them. The doors were closed, but the plaster walls did not totally block my mother’s moans and sighs, nor my father’s lewd description of the things he was going to do to her. Was this this normal? Did middle-class, middle-aged couples really do this, fuck like randy, foul-mouthed sailors with their whores. Should they not make love in quiet, in the dark, in secret? Apparently not.
When my father lay back on the bed, and my mother knelt beside him and opened her mouth to receive his penis, I could resist no longer. I undid my belt, unzipped my fly and dropped my jeans. There, in their gaziantep ofise gelen escort dressing room. In front of their mirror. Watching them in their own bedroom. While masturbating.
Masturbation is an art form only those who have been to boarding school have truly mastered. How to make oneself come in stealthy, total silence, so that the other dozen or so boys in the dormitory cannot hear. It requires a soft, delicate touch, almost a teasing of the glans with the fingertips, enjoying a long, slow, tantalizing build up, before the pulsating ecstasy of release. All without the single betraying creak of a bedspring, or a rustle of linen, or a stifled moan between clamped lips.
What a show I had to masturbate to.
I had seen a woman deep throat a man in a sex club in Amsterdam. All the way, until his balls jammed against her chin, his hands clamped behind her head to hold her there. Wow! My mother could do that … to my father … without gagging. Each time she raised her head, his cock emerged slowly between her lips, inch by inch, until the head slipped free trailing strings of drool. Down again, forcing it back in, like a piston ramming into a cylinder until it bottomed out. Holding it there. Cheeks hollowed with sucking. My father’s hands clawing into her hair.
The woman in the club had face fucked her partner until he climaxed, allowing him to ejaculate into her mouth. She opened it wide to show those close enough in the front row that it was filled with sperm, before gulping it down. Would my mother do that? Would she swallow?
Not yet, anyway. A word from my father and they switched places. My mother lay back, raised her legs and spread them wide. At their apex, pink, puffy, glistening lips pushed their way through the dark, thatch of her pubic hair. Keeling astride her chest, my father dived into her groin, burying his tongue deep into her snatch. I couldn’t see what my mother was doing to him, but what he was doing to her was thrilling enough. Cunnilingus was not something I had seen a man do to a woman. The closest had been two women sixty-nineing one another in a club in Hamburg. Their writhes and moans had seemed faked. The jerking of my mother’s hips and the sounds from her lips were not.
Had I ever brought a woman to climax? I wasn’t sure. The bar girls, those that could be bothered, sometimes pretended to finish with loud vocal appreciation of my performance. The girlfriend in Auckland? The nurse in Yokohama? Their throes and cries seemed real enough but had the brief fumbling of my fingers and the all too short, frenzied strokes of my coupling, been sufficient to give them the pleasure they deserved. I had the guilty feeling they had not. As for going down on a woman, it had never seemed a reasonable option. The company medical officer had dinned into us the need to wear a condom, not so much as a precaution against fatherhood, but as a protective layer against the diseases so vividly and dreadfully illustrated in the Ships Captain’s Medical Guide. And where you wouldn’t put your cock without a condom, would you put your tongue?
My father, with no such worries, was showing exactly how to put a tongue to use in the service of a woman’s pleasure. My mother’s pleasure. It would have been easier to see if her pubic hair hadn’t concealed so much of the pleasure zone — very few women, even among the bar and sex-club girls — shaved or waxed back then, but I could see enough to know that, as well as tongue fucking her, he was licking and sucking and nibbling away at her entire sex. And she was loving it. Her moans and cries grew louder, the bucking of her hips more frenzied. When he clamped his mouth down where I knew her clitoris must be, there was an eye-opening transformation. That was what a woman in the throes of orgasm looked like. That was what she sounded like. That was what my mother looked like when my father made her come. That was my mother in rapture. Writhing, shouting, arching, thrusting, clamping her thighs against my father’s head.
It was wrong, wasn’t it? To watch your own mother climax. It was wrong, and because it was wrong it was that much more exciting. No sex club could ever put on a show like this.
I had never had the balls to wank in public at a sex club. Nothing was inhibiting me now. The stroking had brought me close, and it was only those years of boarding school training that stopped me cumming when my mother had. But oh, how sweet it would have been to have climaxed together.
I’d get there though. The show wasn’t over yet.
As the final throes of the orgasm coursed through her, my mother cried out, ‘Fuck me, Trevor! Fuck me.’
The instruction was unnecessary. My father was already between her thighs. He lowered his body and, with one swift thrust, buried his cock into my mother’s pussy. Her cries sounded triumphant, as he began to thrust back and forth into her.
With the impatience of youth, and with appetite whetted by denial, my own couplings had never lasted more than a few minutes, even with sensation dulled by alcohol. The sex shows ran to a timetable and, unless the results were obvious, which they rarely were, who knew whether both parties had faked their climaxes.
Here, between my mother and father, nothing was being faked. With years of experience of the responses of both his body and hers, my father fucked my mother with a blend of vigour and control that left me in awe.
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