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UKL

By Norma Jane

At times like this, closed-down by the coronavirus, we are the more dependent on online entertainment, so I will contribute some short narratives with a common theme.

In the early 1990s, when I was engaged in, collecting and making available erotic artworks and participating in language conferences. I became acquainted with a wonderful man, whom I'll call Michel. He was serving in the French Médecins Sans Frontières organisation, and spent most of his time abroad, often in remote areas where doctors were unavailable. He was fluent in English, which enabled him to operate in areas of Africa and Asia where that was the lingua franca (nice irony, that meant French language, of course),

He was in his forties and just the male physical type I find most attractive. About five feet nine, smooth, slim and tight-bottomed. But his most compelling feature was his eyes. They were hazel and seemed to glitter, and his gaze was so warm and affectionate you felt he was not just seeing you but understanding you, sending you his humanity. You were receiving his whole attention and concern. I imagined that just looking into his patients' eyes would at once make them feel better. The less ill females would probably start to moisten.

His leave-times were always brief, because there was always another emergency to deal with and he was, anyway, always eager to get back into the field. When he was away he was celibate, but when in Europe he needed to discharge a huge amount of sexual tension. And there was a procedure for initiating an interlude of intense sex.

In order to set this interlude in train he needed to come immediately, and a pattern was established of how this was achieved. The dialogue went like this:

'Norma, I am full, so full.'

'Michel, I'm ready.'

'There is no impediment?'

'No, dear doctor, the way is clear.'

'UKL?'

'Of course. Already flowing.'

We are standing facing each other, fully dressed. He takes off his trouser and pants and reveals his rigid cock. He moves to me, pats his arms round me, looking into my eyes,. He slides his cock up my thigh, lifting my skirt, and with a suitable wriggling jab he slips under my knicker-leg and probes into my fernery in search of my vestibule, which is well glazed for his entry. I slightly bend my knees and tilt my pelvis forward a little, and with a sigh of joy he glides into me, starting to come as soon as his glans is between my labia. He pushes on home and I feel his penis pulsing with his ejaculations. His eyes close a moment in ecstasy, then open again and engage mine once more. Often, I come, too, trembling so that he holds me tightly as his own spasms shake us both.

Why does he want to begin our love-making like this? Well, I have reflected before on the significance of knickers in sexual activity. They add a dimension, a step, an extra intimacy. Michel explained, the first time, that finding his way into my knickers on the way to my

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made for a sort of home-coming. And he liked to fill my gusset with his cream. I loved to receive him like that, to give him that preliminary easing of his need.

It is often a joy to give someone that easement, to give yourself, your cunt for such satisfaction. Sometimes I suck someone off, man, woman, transwoman, if that is the first need. Sometimes, though not often, I give my anus, if that is the urgent desire.

2

Having mentioned a Frenchman, I am reminded of an occasion a little later in that decade, when I was en route to France, to visit an artist and join a language seminar in the same area.

Travelling by ferry, I was standing at the rail near the stern, enjoying the fine summer afternoon when I felt someone was watching me. When I turned my head I saw a tall, slim woman, probably in her fifties, studying me intently. Evidently she had some expectation of me. I gave her a smile and she moved to stand beside me. She was six inches taller than me, and rather stiff in her movements. I realised that this was because she was painfully tense. When I looked up into her face I was startled to see the look of naked hunger in her staring blue eyes.

'English?' she said.

'Yes.'

'I don't know how to say...'

'Madame, vous n'avez pas besoin expliquer,' I said (you don't need to explain).

'You know? But where...?'

She was asking where we could go, but this was a day ferry, without cabins. The saloons and café were busy, of course. A cubicle in the ladies room? No, too liable to disturbance. Then she said, 'I am vite.' She was quick, so not much time was needed.

Then I realised there was actually no-one else on this part of the deck, perhaps because it was windy and liable to smoke from the funnel, and nearby there was a stack of life-rafts which could provide some cover. I took her hand and led her behind this obstacle.

As soon as we were there she began to shake and tears ran down her cheeks. 'Please, please...' she said, reaching towards me, but not taking hold yet, as if afraid she had not read me aright and hesitated to touch me.

I put an arm round her waist, and with an exhalation of relief she threw her arms round my shoulders.

She was wearing a sweater and skirt, so there was nothing to impede my hand moving up her thigh. At my touch she began to shake ever harder and sob. I knew this was not from some deep sorrow but because the flood of longing was issuing from her eyes.

My fingers arrived, a little way above mid-thigh, at the hem of her knickers. It was not elasticated, so more of a cuff, and my hand slid under it easily and headed up into her forest. The knickers were of some soft fabric, like velvet or velour, and that cuff was now round my wrist. The shaking became an involuntary thrusting back and forth of her pelvis, making it quite difficult to keep my fingers amidst the hair, seeking her entrance. It was, indeed, hidden within that hirsute mat and I had to part it to find her vulva.

When my finger-tips touched her labia she began to come, gasping and wriggling in my grasp. She said, 'Dans le vagin, le vagin' (into the vagina -- strange that 'vagina' is masculine in French). And I was able to thrust my forefinger in.

'Deux doigts,' she hissed (two fingers).

I withdrew the one digit, pushed in two and squirmed them in and out, round and round, until she went rigid, pulled me hard against her and squeezed my hand between her thighs. She drew in a deep breath and held it so long I became a little worried. She was in the throes of her orgasm. Finally, she let out a great gust and went limp. She relaxed her thighs and I withdrew my fingers from her scalding cunt and my hand from the gentle grasp of those velvety knickers.

'Oh, madame,' she said, 'Parfait. Vous êtes une ange.'

'Mon plaisir,' I said.

'Perhaps I can do for you?' she said.

'Unfortunately,' I had to tell her, 'That's not possible at present.'

We stepped apart and walked back to the rail. She said, 'De temps en temps, j'ai grand besoin de l'orgasme, malgré que je suis vierge.' (from time to time I have great need of orgasm, even though I'm a virgin). This seemed to derive from a rather limited definition of virginity, but I made no comment. I never learned her name.

3

The point about that reminiscence is that though removing the knickers would have made fingering her off a little easier, there was a hurry and taking them off would be awkward. But for my next encounter the retention of knickers was crucial for answering a young man's need. And they weren't my own knickers.

About fifteen years ago I was involved in an intensive week-long English language course at a hotel in the Scottish Borders, chosen for its out-of-season rates. It was intended for immigrants already capable in English but needing to upgrade their skills to improve their prospects. Or, in the case of Dileep, further their studies, because he was a potentially brilliant physicist who wanted to ensure he gained the degree he was capable of obtaining.

In appearance he was slight in build, and positively girlish, with his smooth complexion, warm brown eyes surrounded by long curving lashes, and long dark hair. His expression was one of eager innocence. Altogether he was appealing, and he evidently found me attractive, for he tended to gaze at me during the lessons and to follow me about and try to sit near me between-whiles. It was obvious he had some pressing need and felt that I might be able to satisfy it.

On the fourth day at lunch he said, 'Norma-ji, I would like much to ask you about something, but not about English language. Well, a little bit about it.'

'Dileep,' I said. 'I do know there is something troubling you. Come to my room after the evening session and tell me about it.'

However, when he arrived and had sat in the one armchair he didn't know how to begin. Clearly the subject was difficult in some way, and I suspected it was a sexual matter. So, I asked him to tell me about himself.

'There's just my mother and me,' he said. 'I never knew my father. We've always been very...close together. We slept in the same bed when I was younger, you know. We have great love, but it is...difficult love for me.'

'You have sexual feelings about your mother?'

He was relieved to have it said for him. 'Yes. I know this is common for boys. They say they want to marry their mother when they grow. But it is not like that for me.'

'Tell me about your mother.'

'She is beautiful woman. Always I call her Pushpa-ji, not Mata-ji, like she is not my mother but is a lady who loves me and takes care.'

'Does she know about your feelings towards her?'

'I don't know, but I think she does, because of things she says and does.'

'What does she say and do, Dileep?'

'Often she is bare, before she is dressing or when she undresses or changes her clothes. She has beautiful body. I know because I have seen many paintings and photographs of women.'

'Do you think she is deliberately showing herself to you?'

'I don't know. Sometimes I think she is.'

'Does she have any partners?'

'Sometimes she does. I know she has men, because they come to our house and go into her bedroom, and I hear them.'

'But no-one permanent?'

'No. She says she does not need any other men all the time, just me.'

He stopped, became uncomfortable, with embarrassment, I guessed. I said, 'There's other things she does which you want to tell me about but find it difficult?'

'Yes. I know she touches herself in a special way, because when we were in the same bed I could feel her doing it and hear her getting excited. She was...'

'Masturbating? Did she want you to know she was doing it?'

'I think so. When I was older she said I should not be worried if I heard her making strange noises in her bed at night. It was just Mata-ji giving herself some happiness.'

There's more that she does, though, isn't there?'

Yes. Sometimes she stands in front of me in just her panty. She says, "Shall I draw the curtain, darling?" I have to say yes, and she pulls the panty to the side to show one side of her...behind. She says, "I'm being cheeky for Dileep, aren't I?. Naughty Pushpa." I have to say, "Yes, yes, darling. Shall I slap naughty Pushpa?" She says, "Yes, darling. Smack-smack." So, I slap her behind. She says, "Oh, darling, hurting poor Pushpa. Kiss cheek better." And I kiss her behind, but she says, "Oh, no, darling, you mustn't kiss Pushpa cheek there." She turns round for me to kiss her face. "That's better," she says, "Kiss cheek." So I do and she hugs me tight and I feel her...against me.'

'Her breasts. And what does all this make you feel? You are aroused?'

'Yes. I am...hard, and she says, "Oh dear, naughty Pushpa has made her darling Dileep excited. You know what to do if I go away now." And she goes.'

'But you don't want her to go. She is telling you to get yourself off, but you want her to do it?'

This was too much. He burst into tears. I said, 'Come here, Dileep,' and I patted the bed beside me.

He obeyed and I put an arm round him. 'You want so much to have sex with Pushpa, one way or another, but you think it would be wrong. You feel ashamed to want that.'

He turned towards me, thrust his face into my bosom and muttered, 'Yes.'

'Dileep,' I said 'I suspect she wants to have sex with you, too, but she can't bring herself to go that far. She is displaying to you, hoping you will take the initiative.'

'But that isn't right. Mothers and sons are not to do that. It is forbidden.'

'I know,' I said. 'But suppose they both want to do it? Would that be different?'

'I don't know. Do you think it's wrong, Norma-ji?'

'Well, I have known quite a few people who have had sex like that, and no great harm came to them. I think it's commoner than most people believe.'

'But I don't know what to do.' Still talking into my bosom.

'If you did know, do you think Pushpa would want you to go ahead?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'But there's more to tell me, isn't there? When she goes away leaving you erect what else does she do?'

'She takes off her panty and gives me.'

'So you can use it to help you. What do you do?'

'I put it on, I take it off, I rub myself until I...go into it.'

'You use her panty to masturbate. She wants you to do that. But you want to have proper sex. You want to go into her.'

'Yes.'

'Well, dear Dileep,' I said, 'We'd better help you towards that. Would you like that? I think you would, because you're hard now, aren't you? You've been hoping I could help.'

'I'm sorry, Norma-ji.'

'Nothing to be sorry about, my dear boy. Let's be happy. Let's get you ready for Pushpa. Stand up and I'll be your Mata-ji, getting you ready for bed.'

He stood and I stripped him. His smooth, firm young body was lovely. He was too excited to be shy that his cute little cock was rigid. I stroked his charming, firm little bottom and he shuddered. I said, 'There's one more thing, though, isn't there? I think you have it with you.'

He picked up his trousers and from a pocket drew out a panty. Pushpa's panty. Terry-towelling knickers. 'It's clean,' he said, 'I brought from India. I have other one for...'

I undressed. 'You've seen Pushpa naked. Here is another woman naked for you to study. Look everywhere, Dileep. You need to know what a woman's body is like. Touch me where you like.' I lay on the bed.

'Norma-ji, you are beautiful so. You are bigger with your...breasts than Pushpa, and you have more hair on your...'

'Many words for it. "Pussy" is common. You need to see it opened up, like this.' I parted my labia. Have you seen Pushpa like this?'

'No, she has not shown me like you, but I have seen many pornographs, too.'

'The important part is this,' I said, exposing my clitoris. 'That's what Pushpa is touching to bring her pleasure.'

'In Bengali it is bhagankura.'

'And where you want to go is here. Put a finger inside. That's right. It has many names, too. The common one is "vagina," you probably know.'

'Yes, the yoni. I know that is where men want to be. It is where I want to be.'

'You want to be inside Pushpa, showing her your love and desire.'

He sat on the edge of the bed and burst into tears again. 'Oh, Norma-ji, I want so much. I want so much she will want me inside her yoni.'

'Let's prepare you, then, Dileep. We must make a special play now to help you make it happen. First, put on the panty.'

'But, Norma-ji, why I do that?'

'Dileep, darling, it's a step along the way to Pushpa's lovely yoni.'

He picked up and stepped into the knickers and pulled them up. I said, 'That's what you do when she leaves you with the panty, isn't it?'

'Yes. I do it because I'm making me be like her.'

'Yes, you are becoming Pushpa in her panty.'

I sat up, slid my hand under the right knicker-leg at the back and held his cheek. 'Now I am Pushpa holding your bottom,' I said. 'You'd like her to do that?'

'Yes, yes, I want her to pull me inside with her hands like that.'

'Then you usually rub yourself off, inside the panty, or your take it off and spill into it? Is that right?'

'Yes. I think Pushpa is doing it to me and that makes my sukranu come.'

'This time,' I said, 'You aren't going to come in Pushpa's panty. You are going to imagine you are coming inside Pushpa. Take off and give me the panty.'

I stood and drew on the knickers, which fitted perfectly. I turned my back to him. 'Does my bottom look like Pushpa's?'

'Yes. It is beautiful.'

'Dileep, darling,' I said, 'I'm drawing the curtain. I'm being cheeky. Stroke my cheek. That's lovely. Kiss my cheek. Sweet. I'm drawing the curtain, darling, but I'm not going away. I'm going to kneel on the bed, like this. Now I want you to draw the curtain.'

A little hesitantly he pulled the panty across my buttock, exposing my cheek again. 'You're moving Pushpa's panty. Imagine Pushpa's bottom. Your word for "penis." Tell me.'

'Sisna.'

'Put your finger inside the panty and into the yoni. That's right. Now take out the finger and put in your sisna.'

'You want? You want really?'

'Pushpa wants,' I said.

He was a little awkward, fumbling a little to get his slim sisna past the gusset and locate my entrance, but eventually he slid in. I said, 'You will want to move, but hold still a second. Where are you?'

'I am in yoni,' he whispered in wonder.

'Yes. You are in yoni. Now it is time for your sukranu to come into yoni. Move in and out a little, darling, and it will come.'

Again a little awkwardly he pushed in and out a few times and I knew he was coming. I said, 'Give me your sukranu, darling, give it for Pushpa.' And he did.

We stayed like that till he shrank and slipped out. I stood, adjusted the knickers and said, 'That is for the first time with Pushpa. After that she will show you many other ways with sisna and yoni, with bhagankura and lips.'

I took off Pushpa's panty and gave it to him. 'Your sukranu is on these, as you see, but this time it's passed through a yoni.'

'I will always keep,' he said, 'Because it is from your yoni, Norma-ji.'

'Just remember,' I said, 'You will need to make the move when Pushpa draws the curtain. She wants you to do it.'

When he went home at the end of the academic year he sent me an email. 'Pushpa and Dileep thank Norma-ji for showing the way.'

4

The next knickery adventure I'll write about, happened in France. I was engaged in researching old and new second-language teaching methodology, and had got on the trail of a Frenchman living in what was then called Cochin China in the 1860s. He had nine children with a local lady, and brought them all up not only to speak French but to become teachers of the language. He wrote an account of his teaching methods, which I was eager to read, but there were few copies of it. One of them was in a chateau in Poitou-Charente.

Having booked an appointment in this private library, I was greeted in the entrance-hall by the lady archivist who was cataloguing all the volumes and works of art there. She was in her forties I guessed, a little taller than me, with pepper-and-salt hair gathered into an elaborate coiffure secured with a bandeau. But there were two striking features to her. The first was an enormous bosom, which seemed to be emphasised by her clothing, for it was contained in a tight-fitting sleeveless brocade waistcoat over a long-sleeved white blouse. I managed to not to stare but of course she saw that I had noticed and smiled. She must have seen a million people notice. But my gaze had quickly been captured by hers. She was, I felt, searching into my eyes. And what followed was one of those rare but heart-stopping moments of complete understanding. She knew me.

She conducted me through various corridors and ante-chambers into the library full of floor-to-ceiling shelving packed with leather-bound volumes. She sat to her desk, searched the catalogue in her laptop for the location of my item. I left my briefcase at her desk and she led me to the appropriate area. When we arrived there she turned and looked into my eyes again. Again there was a shock of recognition. Something was impending.