A Question of Gender

(Chapter 14)

"A Question of Gender" (circa-1980)

If someone had told him that one day he would fuck a middle-aged woman with a broken leg, who would then persuade him to join a swingers club and participate in group sex in a room full of faceless strangers, he would have said they were on drugs or completely mad.

But there he was leaving the Cavendish Club with a fifty-year old woman with a leg in a plaster cast, clutching his arm as if her life depended on it, her crutches echoing in the narrow alleyway as they headed to his car.

From the moment he walked into the club Sarah Davison made her intentions very clear.

A flirtatious acquaintance at the bar was all it took. Without shame or decorum Sarah asked him if he had ever fucked a drunken woman with a broken leg.

Bold, brazen and cheap, too much makeup, too much mascara, false eyelashes, a skirt too short and explosive tits spilling out of a blouse featuring too many unfastened buttons, nipples that were hard to ignore and big teeth peering through bright red lipstick, for a woman who looked like she made a living from porn, Sarah Davison was still sexy enough to make his cock stir inside his pants.

The directions to her home were a little slurred and vague, her finger pointing west less convincing, nevertheless he started the car and headed east towards Ellington Village.

After a week of blistering temperatures souring into the high-seventies, the humidity of the early morning promised to be no different.

It was a journey of uneasy gestures and silent mutterings, Sarah staring into the darkness as if deep in thought, casually blowing cigarette smoke through a small gap in the window, shuffling uncomfortably in the seat, the occasional small talk giving her time to regain her composure, a summary of her life story gathering behind big teeth.

She told him that her husband was a successful businessman and they had been married for thirty years until he died from a massive heart attack two-years ago, at the age of fifty.

She said they met when they were both in their early-teens and during their time together he had been her only lover and she had never cheated on him.

In the ensuing silence she searched inside a handbag and pulled out a paper tissue, the sobering moment giving her time to pull on her cigarette and gather her thoughts, the venomous voice of a hurt and angry woman breaking the silence.

"He was a two-faced bastard," she barked, dropping her cigarette through the gap in the window and pulling another one from the packet. "He never hid the fact that he had other women in his life. In fact, he made it obvious to everyone, including me, that he was leading a double life with a woman half his fucking age," she growled, lighting the cigarette.

Listening to Sarah vent her anger made him a little uncomfortable and there were times when he found it difficult to concentrate on driving the car. He didn't really care about her husband's infidelity or her failed marriage, but with a guaranteed fuck on offer he just kept his eyes on the road and said nothing.

"He was a cruel and brutal monster," she confessed, her speech slightly slurred. "If I ever questioned him about his infidelity he would physically beat me until I was nearly unconscious," she sobbed, a cloud of white smoke masking her face.

A moment of calm, removing a compact mirror from her handbag, a cursory glance in the mirror to check her bruised mascara, knowing she might have said too much and was probably boring the pants off him, but mindful that she had also promised him a fuck.

She repaired her face and continued.

"I hated him so much there were times when I wished he was dead," she said, a wide grin pulling at the corners of her mouth. "I have to confess on the morning I discovered he was dead it was an amazing relief. In fact, I celebrated the occasion with a glass of wine before calling the emergency services," she said, her smile growing into laughter that quickly faded.

"I actually considered not going to his funeral because I knew I would have to present a sad persona to his family and friends and no doubt some of his faceless mistresses."

It was a question he immediately regretted asking, but the words had already left his mouth.

"Do I ever think of him," she laughed, flashing her eyes with amusement. "Only when I'm cutting sausages," she replied, with mocking sarcasm.

The headlights lit up the dark country road, infidelity, death and humour lost in a moment of sobering silence, shifting her weight in the seat, an unexpected hand squeezing his thigh, a motioning finger and an urgent voice asking him to take a left turn.

"We need to make a slight detour before we go to my place," she smiled mischievously, giving his thigh another squeeze as he changed down through the gears and turned left into a small car park next to the main entrance of Ellington Methodist Church.

"It's something I have to do," she insisted, taking her crutches from the back seat of the car. "Please come with me. This won't take long," she smiled, hobbling unsteadily on her feet, the metal gates to the cemetery creaking on rusty hinges.

In the warm morning air and under the bright glow of a full moon he followed on her heels, weaving through a sea of headstones, eventually stopping when they came to a grave with her husband's name engraved on a low piece of white marble.

"He often said that he had to get oral stimulation from his other women because I wouldn't suck-him-off, she whispered, under a chorus of chirping crickets. "That's why I've brought you here tonight," she smiled, the full moon casting a twinkle in her wicked eyes, dropping her crutches to the ground, lifting her leg onto the gravel stones, ignoring the decomposing wreath of a loved one crushed beneath her plaster cast, hovering precariously with both feet on the grave, a motioning hand guiding him behind the headstone.

From somewhere inside her dark subconscious an inner demon suddenly unleashed itself.

"Take your cock out," she insisted, her words breathed in a surreptitious whisper.

The untimely hooting of an owl somewhere in the darkness startled him. Glancing nervously over his shoulders, pulling his zip down and lowering his pants to his knees, unfolding the gruesome piece of flesh from the warm confines of his briefs, the long white column bobbing and swaying in the moonlight, casting sinister shadows over the dead and forgotten.

"Fuck me," she gasped. "Another monster in my life," she smiled, triumphantly. "I hope you've got that registered as a dangerous weapon" she mockingly teased, her eyes widening, her lips parting, easing him into her warm mouth, sucking the swollen limb with eagerness on the way in, dragging her big teeth over the long length on the way out, never once taking her eyes off her husband's headstone.

The blow-job was given with the well-practiced skill and creative longevity that you would expect from a scorned and bitter woman, although the running commentary of filth at her husband's headstone wasn't really necessary.

"I don't want to finish you here," she smiled reassuringly, the suggestive implication in her voice now taking on a sober and more sensible tone.

"Take me home."

The untimely death of her husband and the final resolution of his business affairs must have left Sarah Davison financially at ease. The five-bedroom detached house on a small residential estate in the leafy hamlet of Ellington village was truly outstanding.

It was never going to be easy. The plaster cast was always going to make it awkward and complicated. Just removing her clothes and getting her into bed was a libido deflating task.

A painful adjustment and a cautious manoeuvre, hovering precariously over the end of the bed, half on the floor and half on the bed, one leg straight and one leg bent, her arms outstretched with both hands flat on the mattress supporting her weight, shuffling uncomfortably, opening her legs and reaching back, a guiding hand easing the threatening limb between the slippery flaps and folds.

The entry from the rear was unexpectedly effortless, the penetration deep, the swollen muscle filling her body, the carnal connection compelling and possessive, moving his hips back and forth with ruthless determination, a brutal and uncompromising demonstration of persuasive interaction, a responsive expression of unquenchable virility, battering her broken body into painful submission, a tireless and unforgiving bed squeaking fuck given with no concern or respect for her condition.

She screamed. She pleaded. She cursed. She panted. She moaned and groaned. Two people groaning out their pleasure in a blast of filthy curses, the crucial point of climax explosive, his balls erupting, the dam breaking, the sweating mass of a mature woman swimming in a torrent of euphoric bliss, the outpouring of communal fluids wet, sticky, messy, sustained and momentous, a tit wobbling, toe-curling, leg-shaking release sucking the last breath of air from her lungs.

Sarah's persistent snoring kept him awake most of the night but it was the sound of a car pulling onto the driveway that got him to his feet.

Peering through a small gap in the curtains, blinking his eyes a couple of times, trying to focus in the darkness, the shadowy silhouette of a uniformed man stepping from a police car and walking towards the front door, the unexpected visitor throwing him into a retreating panic and bringing a nervous lump in his throat.

"Wake up Sarah," he grunted, pulling the duvet back and shaking her arm, trying to interrupt her snoring slumber. "There's a fucking policeman at your door," he croaked, his voice melodramatic and a little too high, pacing nervously across the room, a touch of OCD forcing him to straighten a tilted picture frame hanging on the wall, peering through the curtains again, staring into the darkness, waiting for a knock at the door that never came.

"Don't worry," she sighed, catching a glimpse of her naked body. "It's only 'Speed' coming home from his shift," she added, pulling the duvet back, decency demanding that she covered her middle-aged spread and an unsightly caesarean scar.

"My leg hurts, you animal," she croaked, ignoring his anxiety, leaning over the bed and turning the table light on, yawning into her hand and checking the time on the clock.

A head spinning in confusion, his heart beat increasing by the minute, his voice growing into a cursing bark, "Speed...Who the fuck is Speed?"

"That's his nickname. We live together," she said, with casual ease.

The ominous sound of heavy footfalls thudding across the timber floor of the living room suddenly fed his panic. He quickly gathered his clothes from the bedroom floor pulled up his pants and slipped into his shoes, nervously scanning the room, tracing the availability of opening windows should he need to make a quick exit.

"Relax, Mark. Speed's not a jealous or violent man," she said defensively, smiling through big teeth and a long throaty yawn.

"A fucking copper, who takes fucking speed, is not something I find amusing," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, tying his shoe laces and slipping into his shirt, lost for any rational words, a claustrophobic quiet descending on the room. Watching and waiting.

A polite voice echoing up the stairs broke the silence.

"Sarah, sweetheart... I'm making coffee. Would you like me to bring you one up?"

He shuffled nervously on the bed, his eyes open like saucers, staring at Sarah, his facial expression steadfast and uncompromising, moving his head from side-to-side, a motioning gesture and wordless mouth signalling that her answer should definitely be no.

"Yes please, Speed...And will you bring one up for my friend, Mark?" she answered, in a calm voice with no emotion.

"How does Mark take his coffee...?" he enquired, his echoing voice fading into silence as he waited anxiously for confirmation.

"He wants to know how I like my fucking coffee," he repeated, almost losing control of the volume of his voice, choking back a lump in his throat. "Laced with a dozen paracetomol tablets, if I was a betting man," he muttered silently.

"Well, how do you like it?" Sarah teased, smiling at his nervousness, her face smeared with black mascara and red lipstick, nonchalantly patting a hand on the pillow and adjusting her weight on the bed.

He stood up. He sighed. He sat back down. He stared into the face of a circus clown smiling with comical amusement. He lowered his voice to a furtive whisper, his questioning eyes demanding answers.

"What the fucks going on. He must know I've been shagging his woman and all he wants to do is make me fucking coffee?"

The funny face of the clown looked back with a teasing smile, a throaty chuckle making her tits wobble, lifting her shoulders in playful defiance, a question forming behind her teeth.

"He wants to know how you like your coffee."

"Strong and black with no sugar," he sighed.

The haunting sound of footfalls echoed up the creaking stairs with agonising slowness, the cold reality of confrontation hanging in the air, shuffling nervously on the bed, clenching and unclenching his fists, scanning the room for a weapon, catching sight of Sarah's crutches lying on the floor next to the bed, staring at the door, watching and waiting, the cold chill of fear washing over him, hairs standing on the back of his neck, goose pimples on every part of his body, his brain radiating assertive hostility, his mind conjuring images of a violent man with the build of a gladiator carrying an axe with only one thing on his mind.

A gentle tap on the door got him to his feet.

"Come in," Sarah invited, sitting up in bed and pulling the duvet up, aware of the scratch marks on her tits and a couple of large hickeys developing on her inner thighs.

"Speed, this is my friend Mark," she announced with a sweeping hand. "We met last night in the Cavendish Club. He's been a complete gentleman."

There was an eerie silence for a few seconds with both men locked in eye-to-eye contact until the short skinny man with enormous ears and big feet eventually placed the coffee cups on the bedside table and offered a friendly hand.

Speed left the room to take a shower. He breathed a sigh of relief. Sarah confessed.

"My relationship with Speed is extremely flexible," she said, interrupting the coffee cup touching his lips. "We have no secrets or hidden agendas. We both have other sexual partners, and we both like to indulge in group-swapping. Swinging, we like to call it, or social interaction with like-minded people who want to engage in sexual activities with other couples. We are both committed swingers," she said confidently, forcing a smile and lifting the cup to her mouth.

He sipped his coffee, searching for responsive words, but there wasn't a lot he could say. "Really," was all he offered

"We are members of a private swingers club in Sunderland, 'The Brandling Club.' Have you heard of it?" she enquired, removing a smear of red lipstick from the rim of her cup.

"No, I can't say I have," he replied, catching a whiff of his fingers, the bitter smell reminding him of an old pair of shoes.

"Then I must take you there one evening, as my guest. You'll enjoy it. I know my female friends would enjoy you," she smiled, impishly. "Emily would like to meet you. She's a nymphomaniac who loves to fuck well-endowed men while her husband looks on. Her deep throat techniques are legendary," she giggled. "It's fun, you must promise to come one night. I'll ring you," she offered, pulling the duvet back, exposing a mass of middle-aged flesh, shuffling uncomfortably on the bed, narrowing her eyes and adjusting her plaster cast, lying on her side with her head resting on one elbow, waiting patiently for an answer.

"Sorry about the leg," he offered unconvincingly, casting an eye over her plump white body, the image bearing a remarkable likeness to one of Ruben's nudes.

"That's okay. I would do it all over again. If I had the chance..." she said, hiding her embarrassment behind a smile, aware that she might have been a little too presumptuous.

A deep sigh and a forced a smile, the cogs inside her head turning tirelessly, imagination flirting with curiosity, the corners of her mouth curling in an expression of feline calculation, a sexually neglected widow searching for the right words, looking for anything that would persuade him to come to the Brandling Club.

The wheels suddenly stopped turning. Inhibitions brushed aside.

"Can I ring you and arrange a threesome. In about two weeks. When my plaster cast is removed?" she brazenly asked, the shameless invitation making him cough into his cup.

The conspiratorial act of copulating with women whilst husbands and strangers or even weirdo's looked on with perverse intrigue certainly had a dark appeal, the precarious combination of deception and excitement enough to inspire an impetuous decision.

"How can I refuse such an offer," he replied with a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders, catching a glimpse of her stained knickers lying on the floor, placing his empty cup on the bedside table, anxious to be away.

"Rosebud," Sarah announced, confirming the password into the stainless steel voice box on a black painted door, the inquisitive eye of a security man peering through a viewer in the door, scanning their faces with the attention of a hawk, the sound of a buzzer and a lock disengaging from its housing giving them access into the main reception foyer.

Under the humming sound of a tropical fish tank a female receptionist dressed in a white tunic with eye-watering tits and a permanent smile, welcomed them to the Brandling Club.

A fat man in his mid-fifties with a young attractive woman in her early-twenties both wrapped in nothing but a towel greeted their guests in the foyer.

After giving Sarah and Speed a kiss on both cheeks and an overpowering bear hug the fat man smiled cautiously at their guest before extending his hand.

"Harold," he offered, holding the handshake long enough to introduce the gold-digger hanging on his arm.

"I'm the owner of the club," he added, pointing a finger at the beautiful model-like-creature standing next to him. "Tina," he smiled.

"Mark," he politely responded, pulling his hand away from his sweaty palm, staring wide eyed at the sex goddess young enough to be his daughter.

"I'll give you a quick tour of the facilities," Harold volunteered, punching a code number into a security controlled door, the red lights in the corridor beyond dimmed to a seductive ambience, the dreamy serenade of Haydn's violin string quartet filtering through overhead speakers, the tour accompanied by a brief narrative of the sexual interaction inside each room, a polished brass nameplate on the doors giving you more than a hint at the activity inside each room.

Dark Room. Sauna. Fun Room. Bondage Room. Massage Room. Spanking Room. TV-Porn Room. Most of the doors equipped with peep-holes, offering intimate examination for those with voyeuristic curiosity.

"That rooms my favourite," Sarah smiled, pointing a finger at the Dark Room. "We must visit the dark room or the 'Grope Room' as some like to call it, with my friend Emily. It'll be fun," she said, running her tongue over her upper lip.

"This is 'The Social Room,' or as some like to call it, 'The Playground of Sin.' It's where most people spend their time," Harold smiled as he opened another door.

Phallic symbols and images of men and women in different stages of copulation decorated the walls of a swimming pool and a huge circular hot-tub in a recess at the end of the room.

A gaggle of men and women groped and fondled in the pool and a cluster of people in the hot-tub were actively engaged in various stages of sexual arousal. A middle-aged man with a forest of grey hair on his chest fucked a woman from the rear as she casually practiced the art of fellatio on a younger man sitting on the side of the tub.