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A Gipsy at the Door

It was way back in the early 1950's, but the memory remains so strong. As it should. Surely no one ever forgets their first sexual experience, whether it be with shame, disappointment or pure joy it has to fix itself into the memory bank. After all those decades, I can still classify that time as a mix of all three, with perhaps the addition of shock and surprise.

It was summer and I had a long break before taking a place at university, where, I was informed there would be willing girls galore, all longing to experience “their first stiff cock up them.” Those were the words of Lenny Canning, who, weeks earlier, told me how he'd had Betty Danton in the long grass in Byker Park.

“Everybody's had Betty Danton,” I told him, knowing I should have kept my mouth shut.

“You haven't.”

Truth was I had no real experience of any girl, save a quick grope at Jenny Logan's left breast through her woolen cardigan at a party, before she had knocked my hand away.

Lenny Canning, I knew would make the most of my ignorance, “In fact, you've never had it with any girl, have you?” He never stopped rubbing it in about how 'slow' I was. But it was he who told me how university girls were available, because his brother was there, and he knew.

You have to remember that this was still a time when the majority of young women believed in keeping it until they were married. The trick seemed to be to find somebody like Betty Danton, a girl who was “easy”, but for some crazy reason I just feared failure, even with them.

In those days the only chance a young man without a woman, had of learning about a woman's body was in magazines like 'Health and Efficiency', which somehow got away with showing photographs of bare breasted women being active, but always with their thighs lifted to shield their lower regions. This made Lenny Canning's added taunt, sadly true, when he sneered, “I'll bet you don't even know that women have a moustache, a bush, down there.”

So here came this particular summer, and as I looked forward to the easy days ahead, I was also faced with the prospect of having our two bed-roomed flat to myself for the very first time. My parents had decided to take their first continental holiday, and my mother was nervous of her first experience of flying. But my father had enthused, “Seven days on the Costa Brava. What could be better? Sun, sand and ssss-” He deliberately spun it out as my mother nudged him, “-ssangria!”

On the morning they left my mother was full of warnings and advice, “Don't just live on fish and chips. I've left plenty of food in the fridge. And keep the place tidy. No wild parties.”

“And no loose women,” my father had laughed.

“Be careful who you open the door to,” was my mother's final advice.

“Oh, mother, I'm eighteen years old.”

“And he's big enough to look after himself,” my father added.

For the first two days I had no bother looking after myself. Late night at the local pubs with some pals, late mornings after. Eating when I felt like it. Going to the pictures, and keeping my eye open for a chance with a girl. I had hopes of losing my cherry before I even got to university. Trouble was, I didn't know how. None of the girls I had tried to get 'into the long grass' would have any of it.

Then came that morning. It was a Wednesday, and there was no sun. I remember that so exactly. I had got out of bed before ten, and that was early for me. In my thin summer pants and an unbuttoned shirt I was down in the kitchen making myself coffee and toast, trying to decide how to spend the day, when there was a knock at the front door.

Not expecting anybody I went through into the front room and peered through the curtains. A figure with a long red and black shawl, that covered her head and reached down over the top half of her body, was standing there.

A gipsy. Of course it was the fortnight of the summer fair, when several caravans and an assortment of stalls and rides were set up in the field just two streets away. At such times we could always expect gipsies calling at the door as they did their rounds selling lucky white heather or clothes pegs. My mother always used to say, “I'll give them short shrift. One once said she'd put a curse on me.” She would laugh then and add, “That was the year you were born. Funny that.”

My mother loved her little joke, but now I went to the door, mug of coffee still in my hand, and ready to give this visitor “short shrift.” But the moment I opened the door, the world turned around, my breath caught in my throat, my heart pounded inside my chest and the mug shook in my hand.

I had been expecting some old crone. In front of me, framed by the shawl was a young, bright face, with wide green eyes that strayed from my own face and down the opening in my shirt. This was a face, with full moist lips, high cheek bones and such delicate skin, so stunning that it was as though I had never seen a woman before.

The full lips parted as she said in a voice that, to my befuddled mind made her words sound like a song, “Tell your fortune for half a crown?”

Her lips were still parted as the tip of her pink tongue licked lightly over them, and, filling my abject silence, she went on, “Tell your fortune for a cup of that delicious smelling coffee.” And she sniffed her delicate little nose in the direction of the mug I held in my trembling hand,

“Would you like one?” Was that my own shaky voice speaking out of the stupor I was in?

Her face lit up as she asked, “Is that okay?” And that lighting up sent a warm surge into my chest.

I tore my eyes away to glance nervously up and down the street, which appeared to be deserted, but unable to think straight I immediately said, “Better come through to the kitchen.”

“Are you sure?” she asked but immediately added, “Thanks,” and stepped over the threshold.

No, I wasn't at all sure. A voice in my head screamed to know what the hell I was doing? With my legs feeling as though they belonged to somebody else, I led the way to the kitchen. I waved vaguely at a chair, while thinking, 'My mother will go nuts.' A gipsy, loose in the house! But, this was the only way I could keep that wondrous face in view, even though it had me all a-tremble.

I was all fingers and thumbs as I fumbled with a mug and the coffee preparation, and again her voice wafted around me, “You don't live here alone, do you?”

Somehow I managed to stammer where my parents were.

“I imagine it's lovely there. So hot. No sugar, thank you.” She had seen me scoop into the bowl with the teaspoon. I turned towards her with the mug, and how could my trembling ever increase? She had sat down at the kitchen table, had shrugged her shawl off over the back of the chair, and what I found myself looking at was nothing less than a pure dream image.

Her hair, cascading to her shoulders, was not black as I had expected but was a light sandy colour. A vivid red blouse seemed to emphasise subtle curves underneath, but with two buttons undone I could see the tempting flesh tones of the beginning of those curves. The table obstructed any view I might have had lower down but I could well imagine a continued line of a very trim figure.

“Don't you want to give it to me?”

Was I hearing right? “I beg your pardon?” I asked dumbly.

“The coffee,” she said, a slight smile playing around those lovely lips.

God, I needed to get a grip on the situation. “Oh, sorry,” I said, placing the mug in front of her. “I thought gipsies always had black hair.”

“I was adopted by the Mantelas when I was a baby. My real parents were killed in a motor accident.”

“I'm sorry.”

She shrugged, “I never knew them. The Mantelas have been so good to me. It was good growing up with a travelling fair. They put me through university. This is good coffee,”

I had sat across the table from her, still slightly bewitched. “I'm glad you like it. University, you say?” I couldn't understand how she could be doing this door to door stuff. “How long ago?”

She grinned, “I'm still there now. Entering my final year at Edinburgh. Doing a relaxing two week stint with the show. My gipsy roots.”

That was a quick clarification of her situation, and her final year, that would make her twenty one. Three years older than me, but why did that matter? Managing to relax just a little, I told her I was starting at Loughborough in September. But that gap at the neckline of her blouse kept catching my eye.

A gentle smile played on her lips as she asked what I was studying.

“Mechanical engineering,” I told her, “with some sport.”

“Ah, yes,” she said, and didn't her eyes glance down at my open shirt once more? “I thought you looked–quite athletic. I'm doing psychology, with French and Spanish.”

Psychology? The way her green eyes lingered on me I wondered if she could read my mind at that moment as I wondered what it would be like to be kissed by those full lips. But I grappled to hang on to my composure as I observed, “A lot to cram into a three year course.”

“It's a four year course. I'll be an old woman of nearly twenty five when I qualify.” I voiced my puzzlement at her maths

“I didn't start until I was twenty,” She looked away, far away it seemed, before adding,” A romantic entanglement that-” She shrugged and her eyes fixed on mine as she pushed her empty mug away, “Anyway, thanks for the coffee. If you give me your hand I'll do your fortune.”

Not sure that it mattered that much I uncertainly held out my right hand, and the moment the fingers of her right hand nestled underneath it, keeping my palm upwards, darts of electricity shot up my arm. Those fingers were so smooth so gentle, so alive, my breath quickened.

“Now just relax.” she said, as she leaned forward to look down into my palm, before bringing her left hand to hover over it, and for the first time I noticed her long, unpolished finger nails. The next instant one of those nails on her left hand index finger was tracing a line up the centre of my palm, and what had been darts of electricity, became lasers that probed way beyond my arm and were felt deep down low in my belly where the twitch in my cock startled me.

Accompanying the trail of her finger nail she was speaking in lowered tones, “I don't know your name.” When I told her she went on, “Mark's a manly name. Call me Melita. It's from the Spanish. Ah, you have a very long life line. That's good.”

Her nail changed direction slightly, and she whispered, “And you are going to be very successful, oh, yes, all very positive.” Another movement and each trail of that fingernail sent a fresh surge through my body. God, this was just her touch on the palm of my hand. What might it be like if–I buried the thought and watched that face brighten and then darken.

When she spoke again there was a surprised tone in her voice, “Strange I cannot find a trace for your romance line.” Her green eyes were wide as she looked up into my face, “Is there no girl friend?”

When I told her that there wasn't, she leaned forward to look more closely, before her finger nail seemed to be scratching at one section of my palm. “Oh, I'm sorry, Mark, am I reading this correctly? You've never experienced a woman's body?”

How had that probing finger nail revealed that worrying fact? Now there was an intensity in her eyes as they fixed on my face Those eyes were so green, and I was sure my face must be so red. Hell, she had discovered my basic immaturity. All I could manage was a despairing shake of my head.

At this point she gave a little tug on my hand and said, “This is uncomfortable across your wide table. It's too strained. Could you come round and sit in this chair alongside me?”

I could, but I was very aware of the pressure that had developed in my pants, and worried she would notice. As I edged around the side of the table I got to see that below a trim waist this woman called Melita was wearing a wide summer skirt of mixed colours. As I took that in I was pretty sure her eyes glanced down to where my pants had to be bulging.

Sitting down just a few feet from her so that my knees were almost touching hers, I kept my left hand across m y lap in a vain attempt to disguise my lack of physical control. I was just wondering whether it would be sensible to end this whole business immediately to save me further embarrassment, when she gave a kindly smile, reached for my right hand, and that magical finger nail began to trace once more..

Again electronic spasms ran through my body. How, from such a small surface area, could this happen? But her face, that smile,even her voice seemed to have alerted my skin to receive messages that my wild imagination fed on.

“There's no doubt, Mark,” her voice was low and haunting, “that your course is set for good fortune.”

Her eyes came up to hold mine and her brow furrowed as she said, “But no female experience, that is unacceptable for a handsome man like you.”

Why should that bother her? I could only let out a stammering, “Y-y-es,” as her hand pulled mine gently towards her.

“You have kissed girls and women, I hope?”

“Of course, ” I said with a positivity I wasn't feeling.

“Touched a bare female breast?”

My God, what was she asking that for? Involuntarily my head shook and my whole arm trembled as she placed her right hand against her blouse front, bringing my fingers to rest on the smooth skin where the buttons were unfastened and the subtle rise of her breasts began. Had she made that move on purpose? I didn't dare let myself think that. Heat filled my face, and a less subtle rise was increasing in my pants, but her next question left little doubt about where this might be leading. .

“Would you consider kissing me?”

Breath shuddered in my throat. Raw anxiety filled my mind. Was I supposed to act with confidence? Was she just teasing me, seeing how inept I was? Or had she just simply read my mind? Whichever it was, lying about it seemed pointless.

“That might be nice,” I mumbled. God, how dumb did that sound?

“Then move closer,” she whispered, leaning forward herself.

My fingers were trembling against the warm skin of her upper chest, and the moment our lips touched, her hand released mine for just a second, made some vague movement and returned to grip my wrist. As my mouth relished the sweet softness of her lips, they parted slightly and her tongue probed to set my whole mouth tingling.

Such warm, sweet moistness, but at the same moment the hand gripping my wrist dragged my heated fingers under her blouse to slide over the incredible smoothness of her left breast. She guided my fingers over a firm nipple, before releasing my hand , and some instinct beyond my own experience had my hand closing completely over that glorious globe. I was touching a real live breast!

My tongue, as though already trained, wrestled madly with hers as my mouth became an oven of pulsing heat. All incredibly sensuous apart from the discomfort of my imprisoned erection

Melita broke the kiss, and I had a moment of disappointment, but when she drew back her head I could see immediately that this break was only temporary. The expression on her face had completely changed. From that fresh openness, her lustrous green eyes were clouded as they looked at me, her lips were parted , and when she spoke her voice no longer tinkled. It had become so husky, it was almost a growl as she grunted,.”You have a lovely touch. Finger my nipple, rub it. Oh, yes, just like that.”

Crazily, I almost had a sense of power as I drew my fingers together on that hard little bud, and I watched her face appear to melt, eyes closed, mouth agape, brow furrowed and pink tongue fluttering at her upper lip.

Melita's knee pushed along my inner thigh as she leaned forward, the constriction of my eagerly swollen cock became real pain. I could not recall ever having such an erection.

Her face came close to mine and I anticipated another kiss, but, with her eyelids lowered, her warm breath on my face, and the spicy scent of her storming into my head, she whispered huskily, “I like how I'm feeling with you, Mark. Would you like to learn more about a woman's body?”

Her words were so startling that despite what had happened up to this point, I could not let myself believe she would go further. One part of my brain was telling me to refuse, I wasn't ready for this. I would be like a blind man in a garden of delights. She could end up laughing at my ineptitude. At the same time, a crazed imp in my head was screaming, “Not ready? With an erection like that? Go on, man, grasp this nettle of sexual knowledge, squeeze out the sting, make yourself ready for the promised joys of university.”

My doubts made my broken responses sound as though I was a retard, “I don't—Can we-? It'll be-” Yet even while I was struggling with an answer, her left hand had trailed up my thigh, and was suddenly resting on my bulging pants. That touch had me jerking, and a gasping croak escaped my lips, so she was able to answer her own question.

“Oh, you would, wouldn't you?” A sensuous smile was lighting her, now, lust-filled face. “Is there anywhere a bit more comfortable?”

We both stood up, facing each other, and I immediately saw that she had, somehow unbuttoned all the buttons on her blouse, so it hung like a curtain tempting to be opened to reveal the already half visible twin mounds. My breathing had never been relaxed, now I felt I was gasping for air. Melita moved in close, saying, “You hesitate?” Putting her arms around me, she ground her lower belly against my bulge.

She was about six inches shorter than me, and her next instruction surprised me. “Bend your knees slightly. ” I did as I was told, and immediately knew what she was doing as my bulge pressed up between her parted thighs, and the sensation of that was hardly dulled by the thinness of her skirt.

She ground against me and sighed, “That's only the beginning.”

With the gap in my open shirt, against the gap in her blouse I was getting, apart from the hint of what lay between her thighs, the sensation of how amazing skin against skin might be. There could be little more resistance as my strained voice gasped, “My bedroom. My bed.”

She released me and said, “Good. Lead the way.” But as I half turned to move to my bedroom, she gripped my arm to hold me back. I looked again into the promise in those green eyes and that unbuttoned blouse, as she told me, “Mark, before we go ahead, I want you to know this kind of action is not normal for me. After near four years in university I have only had three brief, less than satisfying, liaisons. So I'm probably in need of this as much as you are. Understand?”

I understood but at that moment I wouldn't have cared if she was the biggest whore in the world. As I nodded my head and turned away, I saw her reach towards the roll of paper towels on the bench. Next instant I was pushing open my bedroom door, and hurrying to the window to draw the curtains, not that people on the street would be likely to see through my mother's essential netting.

When I turned to face her, my heart, already on a higher beat, pounded like some mad thing. Between the kitchen and my bedroom she had slid out of the red blouse, and under her lasciviously smiling face, her two perfectly formed breasts pointed pink nipples directly at me.

Before I could drink it all in she had moved in close, whispering, “You are overdressed.” Her two hands came up and with a flourish she pushed my shirt off my shoulders. Then those exquisite breasts were pressed against my bare chest, and I discovered how right I had been in anticipating the pleasure of skin against skin, as our lips and tongues went into a repeat overture.

Her hands roamed over my back, and I explored up and down hers, heaving at the circling of her belly against my bulge. Then she broke the kiss to move her lips to nuzzle close to my ear as she murmured, “If you just let your hands push under the waist band, my skirt is elasticated. It should go down quite easily.”

Updated: December 18, 2016 — 8:50 pm
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