Love Never Dies Pt. 01

This series is based on fact but I am indebted to Caroline Covington and her masterful creation "Vera" for the inspiration to write it. If you read my Big Cock Fantasy, you will recognise the character of Gaynor. As always, I hope you have an enjoyable read and comments are appreciated.

~~~~~~~

I BLINKED, leaned forward to peer at the message on my computer screen and then settled back into my chair. I shook my head and muttered: "Well I never."

I'd been quite stunned when I saw the name in my inbox, didn't really believe it was true. Then I clicked on it and the familiar 'Facebook' panel came up. 'Gaynor sent you a message' was the heading over the sender's thumbnail picture. It read:

Hi Richard, spotted you on Facebook and was shocked to see you looking so thin and unwell. Are you OK? Gaynor.

Okay, I knew my Facebook portrait wasn't the best. Agreed, I appeared drawn and serious and I had been told it would frighten children. I had previously pledged to change it and this was probably the push I needed. But ill? Not me, I was fit and couldn't remember the last time I'd been to the doctor's surgery.

Now I looked at Gaynor's portrait. Yes, it was definitely her: Gaynor Reid. A little plumper in the face but I couldn't mistake those chocolate-drop eyes, the caramel-coloured skin tone and black curls. Though the hair did seem tighter to her scalp than I remembered. It seemed the years had been kind to her beauty. And how many years is it? I calculated, thinking back. More than 30, maybe even 35, since we last met.

I studied the face some more. A playful smile creased the corners of her mouth, the full lips a pale pink. I could sense the softness of her kiss even now, after all these years. Then I smiled, noticing the gold hooped rings which dangled from her earlobes. Had she never stopped wearing them?

"To reply to this message, follow the link below . . ."

I clicked and typed in the reply panel: "Well, hello there. What a surprise after all these years. You're right about my pic, horrid. But I'm not ill, just ugly and older. I'll try to improve things with a less stern photo soon. Anyway, trust you're well. You certainly look it. Always were a beauty. Let me know if the new pic works. Richard."

I pressed send and sent the original message to my saved box.

A scan through my picture files came up with one slightly less hideous and I replaced it on my page. Funny this, I thought, I was contemplating leaving Facebook and then a blast from the past drops onto my screen.

Reclining in my chair, I cast my mind back to younger more vibrant days. Foolish and headstrong, stubborn days, too. Times when I could have done with an older head on young shoulders, more patience and understanding, less selfishness, more consideration. In retrospect, I wonder how many men, and women, would say the same about their lives. The majority? Everybody?

I brought Gaynor's message back up and stared again at her photograph. Oh Gaynor, Gaynor, what a waste. What might have been, eh?

She was only 22, three years younger than me, when we parted. Oh, we saw each a few times for another year or so but, really, once I moved north, that was it. I was chasing a career: ambitious, determined, strong-willed and ready to rule the world. The move north was for a better position, higher pay and another step up the career ladder.

"Come with me, Gaynor," I said. At least three times I asked. I really wanted her with me but I wasn't going to beg. Three times was more than enough. I took her refusal as a sign that she didn't really love me. Or, at least, not as much as I loved her.

Now, looking at her face on my screen, I refreshed my thoughts on why she'd rejected me? Over the years, I frequently thought about Gaynor and our parting, until I finally saw sense, recognising that she had been justified. In hindsight, her refusal was perfectly reasonable. She had been in the middle of nursing training and sitting examinations and I remember her saying that we needed to consider her career, not just mine. But, back then, I was stubborn and selfish and didn't begin to consider her needs. It was, foolishly, all about me, me, me . . .

I removed my spectacles and, with thumb and forefinger, rubbed the bridge of my nose. I needed specs for reading and working on the computer but, otherwise, my eyesight was okay. If only my foresight had been as good back then. Perhaps I wouldn't have rushed into marriage with Veronica.

I married barely two years after I'd walked away from Gaynor. I was 27. Truthfully, apart from the birth of twin daughters, the marriage provided little joy for either of us. Veronica was ecstatic with the twins. It meant she'd got two children and she didn't want any more. Importantly for her, it also meant she didn't need to have sex with me.

So, I dedicated my time and energies to my career and was successful. Veronica appreciated the finer things my money could buy - the cars, the clothes, the houses and holidays in far-flung exotic places. In return, she played the role of a supportive wife. She was a fine hostess at dinner parties and always attentive to my needs, except in the bedroom. Forced to be celibate at home, I had a few discreet dalliances and, if she did know about them, Veronica chose to ignore my occasional unfaithful moments.

Once the twins had married and left the nest, Veronica and I simply carried on our comfortable lifestyle: a couple of close friends following our own hobbies and interests but never sharing any bedroom antics. Divorce was never mentioned or wanted. We had become experts at presenting a loving public image for our acquaintances and family and, behind closed doors, settled for a quiet, undemanding life.

So, that was the situation when Gaynor's unexpected message arrived via cyberspace. At the age of 57, I was enjoying early retirement - and staring at the photograph of an old flame. No, that's not right. Gaynor was not an old flame, she was the love of my life. Our time together was 16 months of my best and most satisfying relationship with a woman. She was bright, funny, energetic, caring and daring. She was also beautiful with a great body, warm and enticing and so very, very sexy.

I again rocked back in my chair, closed my eyes and let my thoughts wander . . .

±±±±±±±±

THEN

IT was a typical February night, windy and cold but, thankfully, dry. I stood at the bar with friends, chatting about mundane men things: you know, sex, sports, beer, sex, music, sex and sex in movies.

I can't remember the exact topic under debate, probably sex, when the door opened and a blast of cold air whipped through the bar. I automatically turned my head and watched the group of new customers enter. They were young, three girls and a lanky boy, but my eyes locked on the tallest girl. She scanned the room and caught me staring at her. Before I could avert my gaze, her lips parted in a tentative smile, showing tips of brilliant white teeth. I smiled back and she turned away when one of the other girls said: "Let's sit over in that corner."

The bar wasn't busy and I watched the group spread themselves around the corner table, removing their winter coats and placing them on unoccupied chairs and stools. The tall girl shrugged off her mid-calf black coat, folded it neatly, and bent to place it on a low stool. Her black mini skirt stretched tight across generous hips and the hem rode high but still preserved her modesty. She wore white knee-length boots, black tights, and a purple wool sweater which strained to contain a huge bust.

"You're drooling," said Mick, nudging me in the ribs.

"What? Yeah, well. . ." I mumbled, still looking at the girl. "She's gorgeous."

"Which one?"

"The tall one," I whispered, "in the white boots."

"White boots? You mean big tits," said Mick. "They're enormous."

As he spoke, the latest object of my desire, accompanied by the lanky guy, walked towards where I was standing. She didn't as much walk as flow, long strides setting her hips gently swaying and breasts trembling within the confines of her tight sweater. Curly black hair framed a stunning face. Skin the colour of caramel, she had chocolate-button eyes, a dainty nose and full pink lips. I was smitten.

I breathed in her warmth and scent, light yet heady, as she stood at my side, offering me a small smile. I smiled back and nodded, unable to resist a quick peek at the swell of her two orbs. The V-neck of her sweater dipped low enough to offer a teasing glimpse of her spectacular cleavage.

From the other side of the counter, looking at the girl's big bust, old Arthur asked:"What can I get you?"

She greeted him with: "Hi, I'm up here," and flashed her dazzling Hollywood teeth in a big smile. She had a sultry, husky voice. I melted. "We'd like three dry white wines and a beer, please."

"Which one?" asked Arthur, indicating with a sweep of his gnarled hand the five pumps which offered different beers. He struggled to keep his gaze on her face.

"Oh, I don't really know." She looked along the counter at the line of pumps and then turned to me. "What would you recommend?"

I looked into her eyes. They were sparkling, roaming over my features and I'm sure she was amused. Probably because my mouth was gaping.

"Oh, which one? Well, depends on your friend's taste really," I said, nodding at the silent lanky guy by her side. "Strong or light?"

"It's for me," she throated quietly and looked at the glass in my hand. "What's that you're drinking?" Before I could reply, she added: "Can I have a taste?"

"Sure." I proffered the pint pot.

"Thanks," she said and reached out with both hands, grasping it before I could release my hold. Her soft palm was warm on the cool back of my hand. She raised the glass to her lips, eyes looking over the rim at me. She sipped, withdrew her mouth and swallowed, hands still gripping. She waited a second or two, shook her head and said: "No, ugh, too strong, too bitter," and removed her hands.

She looked back at the waiting Arthur, smiled again and said: "I'll stick to the wine but Barry here will have a pint of what he's drinking, thanks."

It was my turn to chuckle. I raised my glass to drink but the cheeky girl put a hand on my forearm, stopping me. "Sorry, I've left some lipstick on your glass."

I glanced down, saw deposits of lip-shaped pink on the far rim and smiled. "It might improve the taste," I said and turned the glass. I took a swallow, lightly smacked my lips and said: "Yep, much better thanks."

Her husky, low laugh was accompanied by a widening of her brilliant eyes and a quivering under her sweater. She offered her hand, the nails painted pale pink to match her lips. "I'm Gaynor," she said as I tried not to grip too tight.

"Richard," I said. "Pleased to meet you."

"Mmm, likewise," she said. "You a regular here?"

"Pretty much, three or four times a week. This your first time? Haven't seen you before."

She nodded and gently, slowly freed her hand as Arthur put their drinks on the counter. Lanky guy Barry paid. "Yes, first time in here. But I don't think it'll be the last." She gave a fleeting smile and turned to pick up two of the wine glasses.

"Right, that's good," I said.

She looked directly into my eyes. Fleshy lips parted, this time for a full headlights-on smile which uncovered her perfect white teeth. Gaynor paused, as if considering her next comment, then nodded her head a couple of times. "Hmmm. Must get back to the girls," she said. "C'mon Barry."

After a few steps, she looked over a shoulder at me and said: "Byeee."

"Bye, Gaynor," I muttered as firm buttocks swung their way back to the corner table.

"Bloody hell, Richard," said Mick. "Reckon you're in there, boy."

I didn't comment but leaned back against the bar, looked down at the lipstick smudges on my glass and then back up at Gaynor, sitting in the corner. She was looking at me and raised her full wine glass in salutation. I nodded, raised my nearly-empty glass . . .

±±±±±±±±

NOW

In my office upstairs at home, two days after Gaynor's surprise contact, I opened up my computer. Gaynor's name was in my inbox again. My heart thumped in my chest. Hang on, Richard, I thought, it's only a messsage from an old friend. Calm down.

Eagerly, I clicked on her name and the Facebook panel appeared.

Subject: Picture change

Well, yes, picture is a bit better. Not so scary now! As for being old and ugly, it doesn't really matter what the subject looks like. If they are a good person that's what really counts. I've always thought that men look better than women as they age. Are you still planning to retire to the coast when the time comes. Or has that ideal changed over the years? Nice to 'talk' again, Gaynor.

I read it through three times. A couple of things bothered me.

Being a good person, not looks, is what really counts. Is that some sort of reproach? Or does she think, after all, that I'm ugly but a good person?

And retire to the coast? I couldn't remember that plan but, then again, it's some 35 years since Gaynor and I last talked. Did we really discuss such things way back then?

I thought for a few minutes, mentally composing a reply. When I'd decided on my message, I suddenly wondered whether I should wait a few days before sending it. Don't appear too eager to correspond. But why not? I argued with myself. Enough wasted years have gone by. Ah, there you have it: wasted years. What are you expecting to happen? Hoping to happen?

I slumped back in my chair, staring at the few words on the screen. From somewhere out there, Gaynor had sat, typed and sent me two messages. Something had prompted her to get in touch after all these years. Surely it wasn't just because I looked ill on my Facebook picture. Anyway, in the first place, why would she be looking for me on Facebook?

I put on my spectacles, pulled the keyboard towards me and started to type in the reply box:

"Hi again, glad you find latest pic not too scary. I never did take a good pic but you, on the other hand, always did. I take your point about looks being secondary to what a person is like - but, in the mating game, appearances get a head start. You must know that. And, as for the ageing process favouring men, just compare our two pictures! I honestly cannot remember discussing retiring to the sea. Anyway, no it's not happening. In fact, I've already retired (early I know). What about you? Are you still working? Still nursing? Or are you a married lady of leisure? Nice to catch up. Look forward to hearing from you soon. Richard."

Satisfied that I'd said enough to encourage a reply, I clicked "send" and off it went into cyberspace. A little bit of my heart went with it, too. . .

±±±±±±±±

THEN

I turned down the volume on the television and answered the telephone on the fourth ring. My "Hello" was met by a husky voice: "Hello Richard, thought I'd give you a quick call before I go to bed. I'm knackered. It's been one hell of a week but at least I've got three days off now."

I checked my wristwatch: it was just after 10 at night. "What time did you finish?"

"Oh, about 20 minutes ago. A couple of the girls have gone for a drink but I came straight home. I need my beauty sleep."

"You must sleep a lot to be that beautiful."

"Flatterer," she said and I could hear her stifling a yawn. "Sorry, Richard, but I really am tired."

"That's okay. I'm glad you rang. It's always nice to hear your voice, even between yawns."

The sound of another sharp intake of breath filled my ear. "Right, sorry, but I honestly don't think I can keep awake much longer. Anyway, what I rang for, have you still got the day off tomorrow? Am I gonna see you?"

"Yes and yes. Thought we might have a ride out to get some lunch in an out of the way romantic place. That okay?"

"Mmm, sounds like a plan. But let's wait until tomorrow, eh, see how I am? Can you come round about 11? That'll give me plenty of time to sleep and get myself presentable for you."

"Yep, 11's fine by me."

"Okay, honey. Sleep well and dream of me. Night, night."

I laughed. "Okay Gaynor, my love, see you in the morning."

The sound of a loud "pwah" kiss was followed by the click of disconnection. I smiled and replaced the receiver and looked forward to receiving a few proper kisses.

It was minutes before 11 when I tapped on the door of Gaynor's apartment. I couldn't hear any signs of life and was about to knock again when that husky voice said: "Just a moment, be right with you."

I heard a key turning in the lock. With the door slightly open, Gaynor peered round and looked through the gap."Oh, good, it is you," she said and stood back, opening the door wide to admit me. When she had closed it, I turned and my heart thumped against my chest and my eyes popped.

Gaynor was barefoot but what I noticed first was the pink satin negligee that clung to her body, highlighting every curve, hill and hollow. It was knee length, square-cut across the chest and somehow held up by the thinnest of straps. The delightful swell of Gaynor's proud bosom was mouth-watering, her nipples two jutting points barely contained within the soft material. As she came to me, her body warmth and scent wafted into my nostrils. We embraced and I tasted the peppermint of her toothpaste as our tongues danced and twirled together.

Gaynor broke off from our kiss, leaning back into my arms and turning her brown eyes up to gaze into my face. She wore no lipstick but her eyelids were lightly coated a pale blue, her long lashes and brows natural black. She smiled broadly, her teeth a brilliant white against her skin tone.

"I love you," she said in a throaty whisper which had my cock twitching.

"Love you, too," I managed, croaking and grinning.

She smiled again. "What's it been now, five months?"

Today was July 17 and I quickly did the calculation. "Yep, just over five months since you walked into the bar and my life."

"Hmmm," she said. "Well, I'm thinking if we're to carry on this relationship, there's something we need to know."

I frowned, my hands gripping her waist as she gently thrust her groin into my growing hardness. "What would that be?" I asked.

Gaynor studied my face, pecked my lips softly, and looked again into my eyes. "I can feel that you know," she said, wiggling against me. "But what we need to know is if we're compatible. At least," she smiled, "that's what I want to know. What about you?"

I swallowed, wrapped my arms around her back and pulled her into me. I nestled a cheek against her head, took a deep breath and inhaled the lingering aroma of her shampoo. "Do you mean what I think you mean?"

A chuckle rose up from somewhere near my shoulder blade. "I think we're on the same page," she said and a hand brushed across my trouser front before settling on my hip.

"Right," I said, clearing my throat. "But I've not come prepared."

"That's okay," she said. "We can do it the old-fashioned way."

"You mean . . ."

"Yes," she cut in, "I'll trust you to pull out." And she leaned back again and put both hands to the side of my face before planting her lips firmly on mine. "I'm going into the bedroom now. If you want the toilet, you know where it is."

I nodded and released my hold on her lower back. I watched her swaying hips cross the room and then went to the bathroom. My cock was quite firm as I peed. I wasn't a virgin but I sure felt like one at that point. I shook my penis and my head at the same time as I thought: How lucky can you be? A gorgeous girl like Gaynor is just a few feet away, waiting for you in her bed.

I swilled my hands under the warm water, dried them and looked into the mirror over the wash basin. I smoothed a hand through my fair hair and muttered to my reflection: "Lucky bastard," and set off for the bedroom.