What is the ultimate heterosexual male fantasy? To be able to have sex with any woman you choose. And for a few amazing, dizzy, years in the 1970s, I was able to do just that. Yes, really. The secret? Pheromones. Or, rather, fake pheromones. Created in the 1960s, after long research, by my friend Phil, a brilliant biochemist.
Before I say more about the preparation, the magic juice, the ‘sexlixir,’ I’ll describe the first time I made use of the finalised product, a little phial of oily greenish liquid he gave me, to test ‘in the field.’ I was twenty-two, recently graduated in an arts subject and beginning a teaching career. Phil was doing a doctorate in some arcane aspect of biochemistry. Not the development of the sexlixir. That was a sideline.
As I dabbed a little under my arms I rehearsed his instructions. Allow half an hour to be absorbed, ‘priming the pores,’ as he put it. Ensure that only ‘the target’ came close enough to pick up the broadcast. Otherwise there was the risk that all the nearby females between thirteen and ninety-three would be ‘fired up.’
The plan was to pick my partners. If the first one was not ‘triggered’ the next one might be. There was even the possibility of scoring more than once at the dance, a local hop, fund-raising for a charity, in the primary school.
So I already had targets in mind, starting with Brenda, a short, plump red-head in her thirties, with an impressive bosom and shapely bottom. I had lusted after her for several years. I was especially keen to see a ginger pussy.
The first indication the stuff might work came at the door, for the middle-aged lady who sold me my ticket became slightly flustered. She made little movements towards me, held onto my hand when giving me the ticket, kept clearing her throat and pulling at the front of her dress. As I went into the school hall she strode past me, heading for the girls’ toilets. Aha! I diagnosed, wet gusset. Encouraging.
Inside I spotted Brenda’s husband, propped against the temporary bar, glass in hand. Brenda herself was dancing with one of the local GPs, a thin, elderly man whom everyone liked, but who was unlikely to hit on his partner.
One of the delights of this annual event was its being both ballroom and disco, the former allowing the closeness needed, and it was not too long before I had Brenda tight in my arms and waltzing round the floor. It was also not too long before, as we chatted of village matters, she began to exhibit signs of disturbance. I fancied that her large breasts, pressed against me, were spilling a little further out of the top of her low-cut green dress. She was also pressing her pelvis against me one moment and then, as if embarrassed, pulling away.
‘Is it me, or is it hot in here?’ she asked.
‘Would you like to go out and cool off?’ I suggested.
She said nothing, but she understood and was struggling with the conflict, of the urge to comply and the fear of detection.
‘If you go out past the girls’ toilets,’ I murmured into that appealing red hair, ‘You can slip out by the outside door.’
She began to tremble as we continued to dance, and I knew she would do it, in all senses. So I went on, ‘If you turn left across the playground there’s a gate into the field. I’ll meet you in the wood just across that.’
As we passed the door out of the hall she parted from me and went through it. I went to the bar and ordered a lemonade – no boozy-breath for me tonight. Her husband was absorbing another lager and regaling a small group of men with one of his tedious stories.
Without hurrying, I made my way out of the main door and walked round the building. There was no sign of Brenda, but when I reached the trees she was there, the green dress blending nicely into the foliage. She was shaking and panting.
I took her in my arms and our mouths came together with a clashing of teeth, tongues instantly probing in a prolonged, sucking, squelching kiss. At the end of which she pulled her lips aside and gasped, ‘What am I doing? What am I doing? I must go in.’
My hand slid down the front of the dress into the bra, fingers finding hardened nipple. Which brought an even more violent shudder and a groan. Sure now the die was cast I found and worked the zip at the side of the dress and reached down with both hands for the hem. For a moment as I lifted it she put her hands down to stop its upward progress. ‘No, no, you mustn’t, you mustn’t.’ But then she took her hands away, till there was the slightly awkward moment of getting it over her bust. But over her head it came, and I hung it carefully over a branch.
And there she was in her bra and a waist-slip, which I soon also pulled off over her head and hung with the dress. There was a slight delay as I reached round for the bra-catch, so tight with the swelling of the breasts, but then they were free, sagging a little under their weight, but no less beautiful for that. The big, pale pink nipples were swollen and asking atakent escort to be sucked, so I clamped my mouth onto the right one and mashed it with my tongue. She trembled so hard I thought she would fall and I flung an arm round her waist to hold her up.
Now it was time for the nylon knickers, which were stuck to the vulva with the sharp-scented puss-juice. I drew them down her legs and she lifted her feet one by one and I slid them over her shoes and hung them up. Then we resumed kissing for some while.
I had dressed, of course, to be quickly undressed, and was naked in no time, my finger sliding into the ginger-edged slippery slit. She was now making little incoherent noises, clicks of the tongue and throaty murmurs, and I could sense she would come any moment, the clitoris erect and ready to go. But I wanted to savour that ginger bush more closely and knelt before her and applied tongue to vulva. The puss-fur blazed in my eyes, despite the shadows under the trees. And then she came for the first time. I had her bottom-cheeks in my hands as they clenched and unclenched to the rhythm of the orgasm, and I nearly ejaculated.
That was not the plan at all, though. I was going to come in that wonderfully hot, hot, slippery vagina, going in under that lovely, rounded bottom. So I turned her and gently drew her down to the ground on her hands and knees and felt for the entry. And what a moment it was as I eased my tumescent tool inwards and upwards, deeper and deeper into that sweet, heavenly haven.
‘Can you come again, darling?’ I asked her.
For a moment she didn’t understand, then she said, ‘I think so, yes.’
‘Come on, then,’ I said, ‘Feel me inside you. Grip me, if you can. That’s right, that’s lovely. Clever girl.’
Those magnificent globes nestled into my stomach as I reached further in, glided almost out and slid in again, till I could feel inside the beginnings of the orgspasm.
‘Are you coming, darling?’ I asked.
‘Yes, yes,’ she gasped.
‘Come then, come!’ I bade her and as the cunny rippled around me I jetted my jism in five huge spurts.
Sometimes the post-coital moments are awkward or embarrassing, but this encounter stayed sweet, as I drew her to her feet. I had packed my pockets with tissues, so I could wipe away the sperm-stream from her thighs. Then I dressed her, except for the knickers, which were too wet to put on. I put them in my pocket. We kissed tenderly and I asked that we might do this again. She didn’t say anything, but I knew it could and would happen. Then I went back into the school, calling at my car, and in through the front door, showing my ticket again, as if I had had to deal with some urgent business elsewhere, which explained the briefcase in my hand. But I did not go too near her. I marched through the hall and went out to the toilets. In the case I had flannel, soap, talcum powder and clean pants, and I was quickly cleaned up, storing the Brenda-bloomers with the toiletries. I assumed the sexlixir had evaporated and its emanations were probably blotted with the talc.
Brenda returned in due time, as if from the toilets. Her husband hardly noticed her come in. She and I ignored each other from then on, apart from the occasional covert smile, which confirmed that, with or without the chemical miasma, she would again be available. Meantime I enjoyed reflecting that she was knickerless.
As I danced with other ladies I rehearsed my report to my perfumery maestro. The stuff was dynamite, obviously. But maybe Brenda was too easy. She knew I desired her and had clearly entertained the idea of our copulation. But what about a more resistant target?
There was the ticket lady, Marjorie, already a little stimulated, but not conscious, I guessed, of the potential of the arousal. I knew she was a widow in her fifties, about whom there was no whiff of scandal. In appearance she was the picture of propriety, dressed in a calf-length, high-necked summer frock, with tights and court shoes. Her iron-grey hair was permed into total control. Though nothing like as spectacular as Brenda’s her figure was attractive, as she was quite slim but with a little matronly padding.
As the last set of dances began, I slipped into the gents and applied more of the potion in a cubicle. Then I made sure I was the last to leave the hall, to be left alone with Marjorie, offering to help her tidy, put out the lights and lock up. As we approached the external door, about to leave the darkened building, I closed with her, noting that she was becoming a little agitated, breathing harder and swallowing. I took the hand without the keys.
She was startled, but not frightened. ‘What’s that for?’ she asked.
I drew her towards me and embraced her. ‘This,’ I said, and bent to place my lips on hers gently. She did not resist, and after the kiss, ‘This is unexpected.’
‘Not entirely,’ I said, ‘If you remember how you ataköy escort felt when you sold me my ticket.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A little damp in the knicker-department?’
‘You are a very rude young man, and I’m old enough to be your mother.’ She made a token attempt to free herself from my embrace.
I held on. ‘That does not actually stop my wanting to remove those very knickers.’
‘And you want to do that here, when everyone knows I should be locked up and out of here by now?’
‘No-one will know whether you are here or gone.’
She was trembling violently by this time, and I was holding her tight to keep her stable. She made a last, token, protest, her voice shaking. ‘Supposing I don’t want you to?’
‘But you do.’ And I began to undo the buttons down the front of her summer frock, to enable me to take it off. She raised her arms to let me, as if unaware she was doing it.
Underneath she was wearing a full length white petticoat, which quickly came off. Beneath were a white bra and cotton pants, which gleamed in the gloom of the entrance hall.
‘You are so neat and lovely,’ I told her. ‘Burt even lovelier without this,’ as I unhooked and removed the bra. The breasts were, indeed, neat, with long, dark nipples. I love long nipples and bent at once to take one between my lips.
She summoned tremendous, even desperate, resolution, tearing the nipple away and pushing at me. ‘This is wrong! You’ve got to stop. Stop now!’
In answer I bent again and sucked the other nipple, and reached round her and down to her bum-crack. I ran my fingers down it and hooked them under, sliding them past her anus and into the rear of the soaking crevice. ‘No!’ she said, clenching her buttocks, as if to close the entryway, but at the same time she began to shudder and loosened the cheeks.
I slid the fingers forward and found the little bud, and she was at once on the verge of climax. But I wanted to be inside to feel that, so I removed my mouth, cupped her bottom with both hands and hoisted her onto the table on which she kept the tickets.
Laying her down on her back, I whipped off my jacket and shirt, dropped my trousers and pants and took possession of her thighs, one on each hand. The cunny was now presented to me and I rested my tool-tip against. At the same time, I applied a finger to the clit. ‘I want to come into you, sweet Marjorie,’ I said. ‘Can I come into you?’
She made a little sound, which was not No, and I caressed the clitty. She shook her head side to side and thrust her pelvis towards me. ‘I think you can come, can’t you?’ I asked. ‘The feeling is growing, isn’t it? The tide is rising.’
She made another sound, almost a whimper. It began an explosive gasp as I thrust my cock deep into that completely open cunt, and after a few slidings in and out, the orgasm began. I felt the vagina change its shape and she moaned as her thighs gripped my hips. Then she sucked in a deep breath and held it for a long moment as the ecstasy peaked and ebbed.
‘Beautiful,’ I told her.
I feared that she would be embarrassed or upset after the feeling reduced, but she continued to hold me with her legs and reached up with her hands. I bent into her embrace and we kissed long and tenderly. She seemed untroubled by the pool of semen gathering under her bottom, and when our mouths finally parted, she said, ‘I haven’t done that for years.’
‘Was it good?’ I asked her.
‘It was lovely,’ she said, ‘But now I must go. It’s getting late and I don’t want anyone seeing me walking home so long after the dance ended.’
‘I’ll run you home,’ I said, ‘So no one will see you.’ And I bent to kiss her again, and after a moment’s hesitation she seemed to agree to this and sucked eagerly at my tongue, until I began to feel the stirrings of renewed desire and my cock began to stiffen against her crack, and I detached my mouth to say, ‘Let’s go again.’
‘You can?’ she asked, apparently surprised. ‘I don’t know if I can. I’ve only ever done it once at a time.’
‘Let’s see,’ I said, easing my tool-tip into the slippery folds of vulva. ‘Oh, that is delicious.’ I took her nipples between my fingers and thumbs and she winced at their sensitivity, but wriggled with pleasure when I gathered some slime from her crack to lubricate the manipulation.
My penis slid easily into that receptive vagina. I felt it welcome me, all the way to the cervix and I stayed still a while, or making tiny movements within, to relish the sensation. Then we began to kiss again, almost calmly, while her nipples hardened and she began to push her bottom at me, as if seeking to take in every inch.
It was time to take one hand from her breast and finger-tip her clitoris. She gave a deep sigh, as though satisfaction was certain, and I pushed slowly into her and out again, finding the rhythm. She showed it to me, rocking towards me and away, sliding in the pool of atalar escort our juices. There was no hurrying, just a slow and steady build-up of the movement as I drew my cock to the point of almost being out, and I registered that her labia were wonderfully long, so that even when out of her cunt I was still within the folds of those luscious lips.
Eventually I said, ‘You can come again, can’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I think I can. Just keep going like that.’
‘Oh, I’m not going to stop,’ I said, ‘I could go on all night. I’m waiting for you, and there’s no hurry.’
A short time later I felt her orgasm gathering. Her bottom clenched, her back arched, she panted and made a loud humming, and as her cunt convulsed I came, thrusting deep, jabbing alongside the cervix. My sperm flowed rather than spurted, my penis swollen and pulsing slowly.
I fell forward into her embrace and we remained still while my tool slackened and slid out. We both sighed, and kissed again, tenderly. After a while we dressed and slipped out of the school, and I drove her home.
Although I many times invited her to come out with me, or away somewhere, so that we could enjoy each other again, she never would, and I did not make use of the sexlixir, because that somehow seemed wrong, though it had not seemed wrong when I did use it.
Brenda, on the other hand, needed no more stimulant than the making of an assignation, and the affair continued for several years, until I left the village, though I by no means restricted my attentions to her. Because the sexlixir brought me a seemingly ceaseless stream of partners, of all ages from barely legal to over seventy. Make no mistake, there are plenty of septuagenarian women who are ready, willing and able. Indeed, my experience was that they were quicker to climax than younger women, and I will shortly describe one especially delightful adventure with such a one.
Phil and I were friends at primary and secondary school, discovering long before we reached puberty that we shared an obsession with all things sexual. Our first shared experience, aged nine, was taking a girl from our class behind the bicycle sheds and removing her knickers, a liberty gained by bribing her with sweets. I recall us both marvelling at her delectable, rounded bottom, which we reverently stroked, a cheek each. He even tried to put his finger into her little, naked slit, but that was a liberty too far, and she pulled up her pants and ran away.
At grammar school we had some success, separately and together, in investigating the breasts of our class-mates, and achieved a good deal of fumbling in the bloomers. This was, of course, long before the internet could educate one and all in the intricacies of pussy.
And already Phil, whose progress in the sciences was spectacular, was starting to experiment with herbs, azides, solvents, resins, and tinctures, and such, initially hoping that sheer scent would be effective. His parents were not wealthy, but they were keen to supply him with anything they could manage to further his academic progress, and this included a shed at the end of their garden, a few yards from the house. Water and electricity were laid on, and within was a supply of standard laboratory equipment: test-tubes, retorts, scales, burettes, pipettes, and Bunsen burners drawing on bottled gas.
The hours we spent in that shed! Equalled only be the hours we spent in the woods and fields gathering samples, and the hours we spent scouring chemical catalogues for possible media or supplements. The training in titration, subliming, weighing, slide-preparation, evaporation, dilution, and a hundred other lab techniques, stood us in good stead for school science, and GCE O and A Level. But Phil had got the idea of smells as stimulants from his own experience, and I readily added mine.
This began on the day we, as fifteen-year-olds, fished his mother’s knickers out of the dirty linen basket and sniffed them. As a proto-scientist, Phil saw nothing amiss about this. Every phenomenon could and should be researched, but it was I who pointed out that the aroma was exciting. It was giving me a hard-on. As teenagers we were, naturally, super-alert to all sexual stimuli. And our first investigations of girls’ genitalia, a little later, simply confirmed our conclusion that if we were aroused by female exudations, females were probably aroused by male secretions. We also concluded that the whole vast, billion-dollar perfume industry was devoted, paradoxically, both to concealing the scents of sex, and imitating and enhancing them in the process. Those musky perfumes, especially, were surely meant to suggest pussy?
And now I have mentioned Phil’s mamma, I must introduce her properly, because she was my first sexual partner, an occurrence at least partly due to an early prototype of the sexlixir, which was not intended for field testing, but received it nonetheless.
Phil’s shed, or lab, was seldom visited by a parent, but there came the day when I was in there alone, clearing up after our latest experiments the day before. Phil was, unknown to his mother, absent. It was exam time and he was having a final, impromptu tutorial with our mathematics teacher, preparing for an A Level advanced mathematics paper, way beyond my modest abilities with number.