The Witness Programme

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We all remember our ‘first time’. I don’t. I do remember going to Brighton with a group of friends during a school weekend exeat towards the end of my final term. What happened next remains fuzzy. What I do remember was queueing outside a rather sleazy doorway and, when it was my turn, being welcomed by a nice lady. I’m not sure how much I paid, can’t have been much because if I was being charged by the minute I probably saved a fortune. I came exactly on time. Seconds not minutes. Frugal. All I can remember is that I wasn’t proud of the experience or the performance. But it was done.

I also remember that, in my last year at school, while magazines provided great solace I developed a need to see moving pictures. Some action. How was it done? What were the moves? The technique? In the summer holidays I always used to scan the local paper excitedly to see when there was a film that I wanted to see showing at the local cinema. My pocket money allowed me access and my mum approved. Little did she know that there was always an ‘X’ film showing at one of the adjoining screens in the multiplex. This was soft porn at its worst. Often German with subtitles. Grainy third generation prints. Low grade with contrived music suitable for lifts in Hamburg. Men with unkempt moustaches and hairy chests. Women with lots of make-up and short skirts. Lots of heavy breathing and fictitious orgasms. Unlike in the cinema where eruptions were real. Often into handkerchiefs subtly inserted inside trousers. Pocket money didn’t stretch to condoms. Nor did the courage to buy them.

I left school full of hope. I went to a minor university in West London and took a 4-year Business Studies degree, mainly because I hadn’t got a clue what I wanted to do with my life. But I had an arrangement with a well-known food and drink company whereby they employed me for six months of each year and I studied for the other six. I still had acne and concentrated on my studies. There were many parties, many evenings where alcohol was my host and many opportunities to chat up girls. But I remained unable to do myself justice. It felt easier not to start a process where I knew I’d drown and I had no lifebelt.

In the second year I moved out of the college halls of residence and into a very small flat in a trendy part of West London. My second six month work experience was spent in a very plush office in Marble Arch learning about marketing. At the end of this period I invited a lovely girl from the office to rent the very small spare room in the flat. I secretly fancied her. She had very large breasts, was very glamorous and I found her extremely sexy. A couple of grades above me. Clearly. It was immensely exciting to live at such close quarters with someone so feminine and alluring. Her perfume filled the flat and her breasts remained a constant source of wonder to a fledgling 19 year old. They constantly strained against the thin fabric that she insisted on wearing, my hormonal libido was never anything other than on red alert. My self-control was tested. I felt raw lust at close quarters for the first time in my life. Daily. But I knew she didn’t fancy me. I also had no idea how to make a move. A tortured soul.

My infatuation with her was to be tested in a way I hadn’t expected. A succession of dark skinned men visited the flat. Often late at night. Under cover of darkness. Surreptitious. Late night manoeuvres. I knew they were there, I heard them. I also heard her. Often for hours on end. Gasping, squealing, urging, moaning, screaming. The bed banging against the wall, the springs of the mattress being pounded into submission. Her submission to men of power who made her surrender. I was frequently woken by the sounds of hot sex urgently invading my whole being. I was a voyeur with no pictures. Though my mind was full of vivid imagery. Instead of being annoyed at this intrusion into my need for sleep I became fixated by the sexual intensity that presented itself. I masturbated to the sound of Erica being vigorously used and her moaning convulsions and frantic urgings. It became the soundtrack of the year that took me beyond being a teenager. The sheer sexual intensity branded my libido and made me impatient to join this elite. Those that had sex. Vigorously.

Perhaps the thing that aroused me most was that she never ever referred to it. Silence. As if it never happened. I think she thought I slept through the entire copulation, so words were rendered unnecessary. Or she knew very well that I could hear and liked the fact that she had a secret vigilante. It turned her on to know that I was witness to her vigorous de-flowering. It certainly turned me on to think that she liked me to bear witness to her being fucked. The following morning the only evidence was a couple of very flushed cheeks and I swore she walked rather differently……but she always had a glint in her eye.

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