Flesh and Spirit

I wasn't at all sure about her theology and biblical interpretation, but I was sure I was trembling with overstretched emotions and croaked, "Yes, I suppose it is." I failed to point out that priests, monks and nuns were supposed to deny certain aspects of the flesh.

Martha seemed to pick up on my train of thought saying, "There are some people who are destined to deny the flesh, to be celibate, but not me; how about you?"

"No...no...I'm sure I'm not destined to be celibate M-M-Martha."

I could feel her, like me, trembling, and I was not blind to what was going on inside her. The dilated pupils of her eyes, and now the obviously hardened nipples that pressed against the cloth of her dress, and that indefinable but almost physically tangible female sensuality she exuded were sending out clear signals.

I wanted to kiss her, to reach out and touch her breasts, but we were at that pivotal point where only the boldest dare to risk rejection and make the move that might or might not lead to bliss.

My penis was erect, my body at screaming point in its need to find release from what Martha would no doubt call, "The demands of the flesh." Everything about both of us was clearly in readiness for the great act of physical union between man and woman, and there we were, hanging between heaven and hell. One of us had to make a move, and I frankly admit I hadn't the courage.

It was Martha who said and did what was needed. She was looking at me intently; her tongue flickered across her lips and she laid her hand on my thigh.

"I don't think we should deny the flesh, do you," she asked in a hoarse voice.

"N-n-no."

She waited no longer. She kissed me, and such a kiss; hungrily, her lips warm, soft and moist, tongue probing, thrusting and exploring. Then in a voice husky with emotion she said, "For God's sake make love with me, Greg."

There was no foreplay apart from the kiss, no waiting. She lay back pulling up her dress and spread her legs wide to expose her gateway to heaven. I saw that she was not only braless, but was wearing no panties. It only occurred to me later that Martha must have planned this moment even before we had gone to church.

I pulled down the zip of my slacks and without waiting to remove them I lay over her and guided by her hand entered that place of sweet joy.

At the first touch of her warm moistness I groaned with ecstasy. Martha whimpered, "Oh Greg...Greg."

She was very soft and wet as I thrust down into her and when my full length was in her she flexed her vaginal muscle, wrenching another groan from me.

"Do it to me hard, Greg, hard..."

Even before I entered her I had been on the verge of ejaculating, and once in her I hadn't the strength to hold back. Within seconds of entering that warm, sucking paradise, I ejaculated.

The storm that still raged outside the house was lost to my consciousness as the storm of my outpouring took command. I pumped weeks of frustration into Martha along with my seed, and as I was nearing completion Martha gave a sudden convulsive heave, cried out, "Oh my God...Greg...oh darling...no...no...oh no...aaah...yes...yes...oh God...yeooh..."

She pulsated under me, her legs wound round me, her fingers digging into my back as she gave way to an outburst of weeping. I had got my wish to have her "Crying on the end of my prick."

The tension was flowing out of my limbs as I felt Martha relax under me. I became conscious of the world around me again. The lightening and thunder seemed to have passed into the distance, but the rain still drummed down on the roof.

Martha looked up at me and whispered, "The drought is over my love."

Whether she was referring to the drought that had gripped the countryside for some time, or the drought that had been my sex life, and hers too apparently, I didn't know, and at that moment didn't care.

She went on talking dreamily; "I usually feel like this after attending the service in the church, it gets me so worked up and excited."

I didn't know what to respond to that so I said nothing as she went on, "It's the way I like to spend Sunday afternoons."

I found my voice and asked, "Do you mean you often do this on Sunday afternoons?"

"I used to when young Fletcher was here."

"Oh, really," then deciding to push a bit further I asked, "What about Foster?"

She laughed, causing my penis to jerk her vagina; "Him? God no, that was the trouble you see, he's gay. That's one of the reasons why we never really got on well."

"Is...is that why you take in lodgers?" I asked.

"It wasn't at first. What I wanted was someone around the place for a bit of company, but when I saw young Fletcher was interested...well, 'Why not?' I thought. 'There's no harm in it.' Yes, Foster was a great disappointment, but when you came along and I could see you wanted me, well...now suppose we stop talking for a while and go and shower and then we might be more comfortable in bed."

I thought she had a good idea since we were both drenched in sweat, and our groins were displaying all the results of our exchanged bodily fluids.

I rolled off her and she got up, and on slightly unsteady legs made her way to the shower. I heard the hiss of the shower and lay back on the divan contemplating the situation.

"Greg, my boy," I told myself, "I think you've struck gold here – or more in keeping with the local scene, silver. She's quite a bit older than you, but she's got all the necessary qualities and equipment, plus I get a bit of motherly care and some useful information for the newspaper. This, I told myself, is about as ideal as it gets."

I felt a sense of gratitude to Fletcher for having broken the ground for me in advance, and in some ways even felt grateful to Foster since I suspected that he had raised Martha's frustration level to the point where it had been easy for me.

Another thought occurred to me; "I didn't realise that religion could have this effect, I'll have to take it more seriously in future."

Martha came back into the room stark naked and looking absolutely delectable.

"I could eat you," I said.

"Don't worry, you will," she replied. "Now go and have a shower and we can spend the rest of the afternoon in bed. I can't think of a better place to spend a wet Sunday afternoon."

We spent not only a wet Sunday afternoon in bed, but Sunday evening and night. By the early hours of Monday morning exhaustion had set in and we slept.

The afternoon began as Martha had promised, with me eating her – or at least part of her. Once in bed and with me lying luxuriously on my back, Martha opened the game by saying, "We'd better get to know each other properly."

She began by sitting astride me, my length wedged between the lips of her vulva. I could feel the wetness as she rubbed herself against me. The she proceeded to work her way along my body, wriggling her sex organ over me leaving a trail of lubricant. Then she was lowering her vagina to my mouth murmuring, "You'd better get used to the taste because you'll be getting a lot of it."

I'd experienced giving oral sex to women before – in fact most of them insist on it – but had never really enjoyed the taste and smell. With Martha it was different. She smelt of roses and tasted like a mixture of vinegar and honey, a mixture my mother used to give me because she said, "It's good for you."

Martha's mixture did me a lot of good since despite my already horny condition she aroused me to fever pitch. For a while she went wild, clutching my head to her and screaming and weeping, and then, almost before I knew it, she had my penis in her mouth, sucking hard.

She didn't really need to suck because I was at explosion point, and let go a flood of sperm into her mouth. After that there was kissing, and yet another way of exchanging bodily fluids, but in reverse order since I tasted myself and she tasted her self.

Once that was over I contended myself with sucking on her ripe nipples until I got horny again. They tasted good too.

Now apart from mythological sexual athletes it must be generally conceded that the male has a limited range, whereas many females seem to be able to go on interminably. Martha was one of those types, but she did have some degree of compassion. When my supply of semen seemed to dry up she was content if I fondled her breasts, sucked her nipples and/or played with her clitoris.

By these means she seemed capable of having endless orgasms whereas over the ten hours of our actual contact I was only able to ejaculate into her four times. She literally set up a mental scoreboard and announced around midnight, "Greg four, Fletcher three and Foster nil."

I don't often win at games, but I seem to have won that game.

Chapter 7. Spanner in the Works.

I had the further satisfaction that on waking up I managed to give her another dose of semen. She said she liked to start the day properly, but Fletcher had not been a morning type, so I was yet another one up on him.

Yes, I had struck it lucky. All the home comforts at very little cost and I hardly ever had to make my bed since I spent my nights in Martha's comfortable bed and her equally comfortable embraces.

The weeks and months passed and Sundays at church in the morning and in bed with Martha in the afternoons became a never wearisome ritual. I even began to find that the Sunday morning services had a very positive effect on my sexual appetite, effectively enabling me to keep up with Martha's seemingly limitless desire for gratification.

I read a book recently in which the writer claimed there is a strong link between religious fervour and sexual drive. Strange that, because I'd always thought the opposite was the case, but now practical experience had demonstrated the truth of the writer's claims.

Despite my initial negative feelings about The Hill and the Weekly I now felt as if I had arrived in a comfortable harbour.

As far as the Weekly was concerned my access to information via Martha gave me a constant stream of material. I also established a good relationship with Old Snoop; this was done by the purchase of beer for him. He had a fund of the more sleazy rumours that went around – always grist to a journalist's mill - and acted as a supplement to Martha's more polite information.

Martha added yet another dimension to my work at the Weekly in that she knew far more about art, music and drama than I did, and most of the reviews on these matters really came from Martha.

Ned, who rarely gave praise, declared himself on a number of occasions as satisfied with my work, so I seemed to be sailing along very nicely.

Perhaps you have noticed that God, gods, nature or whatever it is seems to have built something into the human situation. What I mean is that just when everything is going along nicely, someone of something drops a spanner into the works.

One such spanner had been Celia, but of course, I had long overcome that disruption. Now, just at the moment when I thought all was well, the unknown force, power or whatever it is decided to drop not one, but two spanners into my works.

I had been with the Weekly for about fourteen months when these spanners – one non-adjustable the other adjustable, fell from on high.

The non-adjustable one came via Martha. It was during one of our times of Sunday afternoon conviviality.

Martha, in a state of apparent euphoria said, "Well you've done it, Greg."

"What?"

"You've done what Harry and Fletcher couldn't do."

"Ah." I thought she was referring to some superlative act of sexual acrobatics I had unknowingly performed. I was quite pleased with myself at being not only ahead of Fletcher on points, but even the beloved Harry.

Not sure exactly what this feat of sexual gymnastics had been I asked, "What is it that you liked?"

"You've made me pregnant."

I thought at first she was joking, so I said in jocular fashion, "Well I've tried hard enough."

Martha did not seem to pick up my jocose tone and went on, "Yes, I'd hoped but didn't really expect it to happen."

It was then I realised she was being serious.

"You mean you really are pregnant...that you're going to have a baby?"

"Yes."

My world seemed to go into a spin for a couple of minutes. This was a spanner alright, and a non-adjustable one.

When I started to come out of the gyrations Martha was talking.

"What's the matter, Greg, you've gone quite pale, aren't you feeling well?"

"Martha...baby...pregnant...bit of shock."

"Ah, so that's it, you didn't expect to be a daddy." She laughed and went on, "Silly boy, I'm not asking you to take any responsibility. I know that you won't be here for ever and having the baby is what I want. I'm just grateful it's happened."

"You are? But you can't...I mean...not on your own..."

"Don't be so stupid, Greg, I managed before you came on the scene and I'll manage after you've gone, so cheer up and let's get on and enjoy ourselves."

I wasn't in the mood to "enjoy" myself in the way Martha meant. I was bewildered, never thinking that Martha could get pregnant. My sole consolation was that Martha seemed to be happy about it, but it wasn't consolation enough. Our Sunday high jinks were over for the day because despite Martha's best efforts I couldn't get another erection.

Over the next few days I continued in a state of temporary impotence as I tried to come to terms with the situation. I'm not trying to present myself as a virtuous male, but I had the feeling I couldn't just walk away from Martha and what was on the way.

It was just over a week when the next spanner dropped. On the Tuesday morning Ned called me into the office.

"I've 'ad enquiry from the Daily about you," he said.

"Oh?"

"Yes; they've just sacked young Foster."

"Ah."

"Mmm; they want ter know how you've been gettin' along 'ere."

"I see."

"Do yer? Point is, young Greg, if I tell 'em you're doin' okay yer know what they'll want."

"No, what?"

"They'll want yer back at the Daily."

"Will they?"

"Yers, so what der you want son?"

This was the adjustable spanner. "Er...what do you want, Ned?"

"Don't piss me about, Greg. If I tell 'em yer doin' fine they'll have yer back in the city. Is that what yer want?"

"I don't know, Ned."

He raised his eyes heavenwards; "Gawd, young blokes never know what they do want. I can put off tellin' 'em fer a couple of days, so for Gawd's sake make up yer mind. Now clear off and do some work."

Martha pregnant, and now this; I didn't know what to do. I used the only recourse that seemed to be open to me and that evening talked to Martha about it. She was about as helpful as Ned.

I opened up the subject saying, "Martha, they might be wanting me back in the city, on the Weekly."

"Well that's wonderful for you Greg."

"What about you, Martha?"

"Me...what about me."

"Well...you're pregnant and I'm..."

"I told you Greg, it's got nothing to do with you; it was me who wanted the baby. Anyway, by the sound of it you might be gone soon."

"Martha, it has got something to do with me, I put it...I mean it was me who...anyway, do you want me to go?"

"It's not up to me, Greg; it has to be your choice."

"But Martha, if I decided to stay would we..."

"No Greg, it's your choice so don't ask me to decide for you."

"Martha I..."

"No, you're not a kid Greg, so be man enough to make your own decisions just as I made mine regarding the baby. I'm grateful to you for giving it to me, but I'm not your keeper or your mother to make decisions for you."

Blocked off by both Ned and Martha I felt angry and frustrated. In a pique I didn't join Martha in bed that night, but slept in my own room. When I say "sleep," I mean I lay there trying to work out what I was going to do.

The nub of the matter was not the Weekly or the Daily, but Martha, and by extension the baby.

It came down to two possibilities:

If I decided to go back to the Daily, and given what Martha had said, I would probably never see her again, and never see the baby at all.

If I decided to stay with the Weekly, there were still not guarantee that my relationship with Martha would continue indefinitely, or that she would acknowledge me as the father of her child.

There appeared to be all sorts of other questions and is seemed neither Ned nor Martha were going to help me decide.

There was of course the question of how I felt about Martha, quite apart from her pregnancy. What did I want with and from her? Life had been good with her; that mixture of her being my lover and informant with a dash of the maternal thrown in had suited me. Was there any more to it than that?

Chapter 8. Decision Time.

When at breakfast I met up with Martha I might have wanted to rethink the maternal aspect. She was remote, and I suspected that she was angry because I had absented my self from her bed.

The day had not started well, and it didn't get any better when I went into see Ned. Like Martha he seemed bent on not giving me any help in deciding on what after all was my future.

His face gave nothing away as he asked, "Well young Greg have yer made up yer mind?"

I'm not as convinced as Martha about divine inspiration, but in that moment something seemed to take hold of me. Very slowly and deliberately I said, "I want you to give them a negative report about me."

Ned's face broke into a grin. "Want to stay with the Weekly do you?"

"Yes, and The Hill."

He eyed me shrewdly for a few moments then said, "It wouldn't have anything to do with a certain city councillor as well, would it?"

I felt my face flush, and Ned, seeing this said, "You don't need to answer that, son. I'm glad you've decided to stay, and...and I hope it works out well for you."

He gave me a wicked looking wink, and said, "Go on, clear out and do something for the paper."

I left his office feeling that I'd come out of some dark cavern into the light. I knew what I wanted.

When I got home that evening I was in a forceful mood. Martha had just started to prepare the evening meal, but I said, "Martha, I've got something important to say to you, will you come and sit down?"

She left the preparations and sat in an armchair; I sat opposite her.

Like Ned in the morning her face gave nothing away about what she was thinking and feeling. There was no point in prevaricating so I came straight to the point.

"I'm staying with the Weekly, Martha."

"I see."

"I want to stay with you."

"Why?"

"Because I want to...and because I love you."

"You're sure of what you're saying?"

"I've never been surer of anything in my life. Do you want me to stay?"

"Yes."

"Then why the hell didn't you say so last night. You could have..."

"No I couldn't. It had to be your decision, Greg. I wasn't going to blackmail you over the baby or...or with sex, or anything else. I knew that what you had to decide was not only between the Weekly and the Daily; I knew it was also a decision about staying with me or leaving."

"So, I've decided to stay. Can we extend that to our getting married?"

"I'm a lot older than you."

"I didn't ask about your age, I asked if you'll marry me."

"Being very male and masterful, aren't you."

Taking a leaf out of Ned's book I said, "Don't piss me around, Martha, yes or no?"

"If you're going to use that sort of language then I've a good mind to say no."

"I'll reform."

"Then yes. Kiss me."

I kissed her and suggested that she didn't bother with any more preparation for a meal and that we went to a restaurant. "I'll choose the curry carefully," I promised.

Chapter 9. The Last Word.

It was about three months later and I was bribing Old Snoop in the pub with a beer when he asked, "Words out Martha Tregilgas has got a bun in the oven, you live with 'er; any idea who put it in 'er?"