Instead of the levadas walk, mum spent the afternoon helping wash and dry my hair, putting it up into a French twist which looked absolutely beautiful by the time she had finished. I know why she was doing this. She was desperate to see me married and at 31, she was worried I might be left ‘on the shelf’. We have to love our mothers, don’t we?
At ten to seven, I arrived in the Reid’s Palace lobby, checked my coat into the cloakroom and took a seat in the reception area. I waited.
“Good evening, Angela,” a voice said from behind me. I stood and gave Martin a peck on the cheek.
“Where’s your mum?”
“She was tired after the walking and decided to get an early night. Would you prefer to wait until another night?” I said, putting obvious hints of suspicion into the latter end of my reply.
“Well, we can always do it again, but I’d still like to buy you dinner tonight.”
He was good. No doubt about it. I was pleased, too.
He stood back, looked me up and down and said, “Angela, you look absolutely fabulous.”
“Thank you,” I replied and we walked off towards the more exclusive hotel restaurant rather than the event location, we’d been in the previous night.
We had tasty local seafood starters followed by traditional Portuguese suspended skewers of both chicken and fillet steak. For dessert, he chose ice cream, but I went straight on to coffee. Conversation was interesting. I really liked his personality and was now waiting for the request to return to his room. Would I say yes? Should I wait? I never had a problem with first date sex if everything seemed right and it certainly did this evening. After dinner, the question didn’t come. We walked out to reception, recovered my coat and strolled into the grounds.
“How far away is your apartment?” he enquired.
“Only a few hundred yards.”
“I’ll walk you home.”
Was he probing? I couldn’t make the initiative? I’d made up my mind if he’d asked me to go back to his room I would, but there was no way I would suggest it. I couldn’t do that? Wouldn’t do that? We wandered out of the hotel grounds and turned along the coastal road, chatting about nothing in particular. He asked a bit about my translation business and I discovered he was a freelance journalist. We were almost to our apartment complex.
At the concierge area, I turned and went onto tiptoe to kiss him. He quickly reciprocated. Yes, those lips were as kissable as I’d originally thought.
“Thank you for a lovely meal, Martin,” I said, holding his hand in both of mine.
“If you still have another week we could do it again.”
“That would be lovely.”
He turned to go and I remember a crushing feeling of disappointment coming over me. I stood in the doorway, about to close it and heard him speak again.
“Angela.”
“Yes.”
“Is your mother waiting up for you?”
“Not at any particular time.”
“I have a beautiful room which is far too large for one.”
“Oh, do you now?” I knew I could now be playful. He wanted to take me back to the hotel after all. My heart lifted.
“Yes.”
“And what? You want to play Scrabble or Pontoon?”
“Wouldn’t mind scrabbling, but not with the Scrabble bag.”
“Is your other affair truly over? I am certainly not one night stand material.”
“It’s over. Come back with me.”
I let the door swing shut, took his hand and we turned back towards Reid’s Palace.
– o O o –
We walked hand in hand back towards the hotel. Neither of us speaking, but plenty going on in the caresses of our hands. We both knew we would shortly be making love. For me it is always a nervous experience with a new lover, but also a great excitement, anticipating the thrill of sexual coupling, wondering about his naked body, hoping mine would please him. All of these thoughts ran through my mind as we approached the hotel entrance, cut across the reception area and awaited the lift.
We were the only people in the elevator. Martin pressed four and squeezed my hand tightly.
“You are all right with this, Angie?”
“Oh, yes. You?”
“Can’t wait. You’re so beautiful.”
He was growing on me with every minute we were together. I couldn’t wait, either. The lift stopped, doors opened and we walked along the plush carpeted corridor to the second door on the left. He materialised his key, the door to 403 opened and he ushered me inside.
The room was large with a balcony looking out over the sea and towards the Funchal promenade. There were two chairs, a built in dressing table, heavy floral drapes which matched the bedcover, two side tables and a full length mirror. A separate door led off to the bathroom and I made my excuse to step inside, handing him my coat.
A large bath with shower over, the usual WC and I could see his toiletries. Old Spice. It was Peter’s fragrance, too. I thought I’d recognised it. I used the loo, took a minute to freshen my nether regions and rubbed a finger over my teeth with a smidgen of his toothpaste, swirling some water afterwards to rinse away any flavour. A final look in the mirror and I was ready.
Back in the bedroom he had removed his jacket, tie and shoes, gave me a swift kiss on the lips—yes, really kissable—and disappeared into the bathroom. While I waited, I stepped out onto the balcony, undid the grips in my French roll allowing my hair to hang freely. It was becoming cooler in the clear sky, but was not cold even with my bare shoulders and arms.
The Atlantic sparkled with the light of the moon and the city of Funchal lit up with myriad lights—amber, white, blue and all colours in between. Far to the left, the main coast road was fringed by the Jacaranda trees whose blossom was just magnificent and clearly visible, even in the street lighting, as a blue haze. I’d seen these trees before, but never in such profusion as they could be seen in Funchal.
I sensed him standing behind me before feeling his breath on my shoulder as he leaned down to part my hair and kiss my neck, his hands gently moving to grip the tops of my arms. His lips were warm on my skin. The Old Spice smelled stronger now—he’d obviously added a refreshing dab.
“Your hair is beautiful and even outshines the view of the city in loveliness,” he said softly in my ear.
“Thanks, but the view is amazing. Look at the moon’s reflection.”
“Stunning,” he agreed, his warm hands moved up and down my upper arms.
I turned, looked into his smiling brown eyes, stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Suddenly his lips were alive with tender motion, savouring and pressing against mine with moistness and incredible warmth. I felt his tongue very tentatively brush my top lip, sent mine out to surrender to it and we tasted each other.
“Wow, Angela,” he said breathily, “you taste wonderful.”
“And you.”
Although a feminist, I was always uncertain about being first to instigate sex with a new partner. I preferred to be ‘wooed and taken’ which is a little old fashioned, I know.
“It’s a shame to leave the view,” he said, turning me around so we could both look at the necklace of lights along the shoreline and the isolated sparkle from the homes on the distant hills towards the airport.
He kissed my neck again, his hands moving from my shoulders and so, so softly cupping my breasts. I leaned backwards into him to let him know I approved. He began to caress them more deliberately and I could feel my nipples stiffening into his palms.
“Would you like to come inside?” he whispered.
“Please,” I said and turned, ran my hand over his back, feeling his strength through his shirt as we stepped over the aluminium slide for the balcony door.
Once inside, Martin closed the door and was about to close the drapes.
“No, leave them open. I love the view,” I said.
He stopped his action and turned towards me, reaching behind my back and fumbling with the clasp on my dress. I pulled his shirt from his trousers and ran my hands over his lower back. He felt so warm and muscular, his skin soft yet firm beneath. I felt my dress sliding to the floor, temporarily removing my arms from his body to let it fall.
“God, you’re lovely,” he said as his hands caressed my back, found my bra clasp and expertly undid it.
I unthreaded his cufflinks and helped him shed his shirt. This man was in fabulous condition for someone of his age.
“You’re fit,” I commented. [This is in 1982 when the word ‘fit’ meant healthy rather than the more modern meanings of ‘sexy’ or ‘hot’.]
“Used to play rugby for London Irish.”
“I’m impressed,” I said. I didn’t follow rugby, but had heard of London Irish.
I leaned into his chest, turning my cheek to rest against its warmth. His hands descended to my behind and lowered my slip over my hips where it, too, joined the pile of my clothing on the floor. I looked up at him and kissed him again. His hands returned to my breasts and quickly teased my nipples into erectness once more. I leaned encouragingly into him and kissed his upper chest, my hands still massaging his back.
He instigated another kiss and I brought my hands around to his front, found the waist belt on his trousers, undid one clasp, found a button and slipped it through its hole. I discovered the zip and slowly lowered it so his trousers slipped to the floor. We both stepped out of our clothes and moved closer to the bed. He stood back and looked at me in my sexy briefs, suspender belt and stockings.
“Like what you see?” I asked, tongue in cheek.
“Amazing.”
He looked pretty good, too, in his socks and boxers. I dropped to my knees and got him to lift each foot so I could remove his socks. I hate seeing men’s legs in short or ankle socks. They look comedic. His legs were hairy, but not overly so. His boxers were plain blue, one of my favourite colours for men’s underwear. I could see they were bulging outwards. I stood back up and closed the gap between us, using my right hand to slide in through the top of his boxers and encircle his erection. I guessed between six and seven inches, could feel foreskin and gave him a gentle squeeze while looking at his face, noticing his eyes close in pleasure, his hands squeezing my breasts more tightly in response.
He stood back, found my suspender belt clasp and released it. Bending down, I stood still while he rolled each of my stockings down my legs, spending plenty of time caressing them, leaving me wearing only my fancy new briefs. I was so glad I’d bought them. I felt his lips press against my mons as he began to lower them inch by inch while I opened my thighs to allow them to fall unhindered.
Once he was standing again, I slid his boxers over his hips and they fell to the floor as I, once again, held his penis in my right hand and his testes in my left. I massaged him slowly and deliberately.
“I’ve got a condom in the bedside drawer,” he advised in a soft spoken voice.
“No need. On the pill,” I told him, squeezing his erection tighter. [In the early eighties STDs were not taken so seriously as they are today.]
“Wow, that’s lovely Angela.”
I lay down and he lay beside me, his hand opening my thighs and caressing my vulva, squeezing and tenderly massaging. It felt lovely and very shortly afterwards, his palm started to massage in small circles over my clitoris. I sensed one of his fingers pressing against the entrance to my vagina, opening me and sliding easily inside. Such a delicious feeling. I never had difficulty become aroused and knew I was ready for him. All of this time, I was gently masturbating him with long firm strokes.
His finger began to press against my g-spot. It was so good, causing my whole vulva to ache as my clitoris began to heat and tingle.
He climbed on top of me as I opened my thighs to welcome his body, his penis quickly finding my moist entrance. My anticipation was now growing rapidly. I have always found the first entry of a penis into my vagina the most delightful and awe inspiring sensation and as Martin’s slid smoothly and deeply into me, I closed my eyes and gave a long drawn out groan of sheer pleasure.
“Oh, Martin. So good.”
He came completely out of me and entered me again. The filling, the internal expanding, the rubbing against my internal sexual ache was all so wonderful. I groaned again and used my kegels to squeeze him tightly.
He began to thrust. Each time, at the furthest extent I enjoyed the compression of my labia against his body, his testes hitting my perineum, his pubic bone caressing my clit. Each thrust the same, so delectable, the progress of his glans along the ribbing of my vagina, the end reached, the impact on my vulva, then the slow withdrawal and again and again. This has to be the most delicious and satisfying experience any woman can ever have. The oneness, closeness, affection, warmth and sheer sexual excitement.
Resting upon his elbows, his arms caressed mine and lifted gradually to hold each of my cheeks. He ceased his lovemaking and delivered the most passionate kiss, taking my breath away with overwhelming pleasure. I wanted more. I moved my hips against him. I didn’t like stationary, I wanted movement, thrusting, stroking, rocking. Anything but stationary.
Encouraged by my own body motions he began moving again, accelerating his thrusts, not only deeper, but harder and faster. Amazing. The hardest I’ve ever had intercourse. So frantic, exciting and after a few minutes I knew I was already close to orgasm. Sexual aches flooded through my body from breasts to thighs with everything centered on those few inches of another loving human being inside my body, taking me, wanting me, possessing me, making love to me.
I came. I gripped him tightly, shouted out in joy and he ceased his motion to experience my explosive orgasm.
“Oh, wow, Angela. You’re amazing.”
I couldn’t speak, could hardly breathe and just held him fiercely, knowing my nails were digging into his back.
He waited, my orgasm ended, my body relaxed and his thrusts began again. Slowly at first, but over several minutes he, almost imperceptively, increased the speed and depth until I felt my body reacting once more. Oh God, I was going to come again.
I cried out, tightened my hold on him anew and he ceased his motions to enjoy my orgasm with me.
“Martin, this is bliss.”
“Yes. Heavenly.”
He began afresh, the slow steady strokes increasing bit by bit to a pounding, almost violent thrusting. My vulva was hot once more, I ached all over my nether regions, my clit red hot, my vagina pulsing with pleasure as I tightened my kegels to try not to come too, soon, but it was a hopeless task. Again my whole being was racked by a third stunning orgasm.
Another huge cry of self gratification, my gripping and holding of him, his sudden stillness, his penis receiving my loving, involuntary squeezing as it rested temporarily from its exertions. Could I survive a fourth? I was totally exhausted, yet wanted more, more, more.
I felt his penis slide extremely slowly to my very entrance and back in tenderly and sensuously, repeatedly. I knew he was enjoying himself now. I was totally sated and desperately loved the feeling of his strokes into and out of me. So moving, so satisfying. This time his speed grew more slowly and didn’t reach the severe pounding I had experienced previously. This was more tender, more loving, slower, more sensitive, but nevertheless my vagina was aching again in the most luscious way, the pressure building anew, but I was determined, this time to hold off my orgasm until his arrived.
He began to moan with pleasure and I encouraged him with my own groans of support.
“Lovely, Martin, lovely, yes, yes,” I whispered.
“Oh, Angela,” he cried out as I felt the amazing sensations of his ejaculation forcing its way along his erection and being deposited deep within me. My own orgasm suddenly joining forces with his to squeeze and suck the last few drops of his semen into my body.
We both collapsed, totally exhausted, speaking short phrases of pleasure and satisfaction to each other, saying each other’s names and kissing tenderly between frantically recovering our breath. It was some time before we finally separated and lay side by side in post coital bliss, his hand on my mons, mine holding his still partially erect, very moist and hot penis.
So, so delightful. So special. God I liked this man. Could I maybe love him?
The glow in my vulva very slowly began to fade. What an experience? I’d never had such an energetic lovemaking before and four orgasms on a first date was certainly out of this world, but time was pushing on. The bedside clock said 1.30am.
“I think I ought to go, Martin,” I said quietly.
“Oh, no. Stay the night, Angela, please.”
“I’d love to, but my mother might worry. Maybe another time. When do you fly home?”
“A week tomorrow.”
“Oh. Afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Same flight as us.”
“Go on. Stay the night.”
I leaned over and kissed him tenderly and turned to sit on the side of the bed, removing the hastily grabbed tissues I’d needed after our sex and gripping some more between my thighs as I picked up my briefs and headed for the bathroom.
I stood by the bathroom door and said, “I really can’t Martin, but there’s plenty of time for us to get together again.”
When I returned to the bedroom Martin was up with his trousers on and pulling on a sweatshirt. He announced he was going to walk me back to the apartment.
“Oh, no. There’s no need,” I protested.
“Angela, there is great need. Firstly you could in danger walking these streets in the early hours of the morning in the dark. Secondly it would give the hotel the wrong impression if you were seen leaving on your own. Thirdly I want to see you safely back to your apartment and won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“Haha, you think they might think I am a lady of ill repute?”
“No, not at all. They might think I am the sort of man who would employ a lady of ill repute. I’m thinking of my reputation, not yours,” he laughed and we hugged each other for a minute before I started to find my clothes and get dressed.
– o O o –
So this story is how I met Martin. He was great fun and we went on to have an extended relationship. I’ll have more to say about him in later stories. He also features in my first story about meeting my abusive husband.
Angela Goodnight | www.angelagoodnight.com/sexblog
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