“Bye darling, have fun.” I called to my son Simon, as he and his father walked out of our gate, on their way to his weekly football match. My Simon was now eleven years old, and he'd recently been picked to play for a local football team, in a junior league. And so as my husband Robert, the proud father went along with him, I recall the occurrence that made Simon's birth possible. And yes, the occurrence was obviously sexual intercourse, but not with my husband Robert.

I'm sure almost everyone has heard the expression, ‘God moves in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform'.

Well, being as I started off my adult life being a devout Christian, maybe I should attribute Simon's birth to one of his mysterious wonders. But long before Simon's birth, I'd lost my faith in God.

You see, I'd gone to church regularly from a very early age, and been confirmed as a Christian in my mid-teens. At nineteen, I'd met Robert, a twenty-two year old, and he courted me in the then traditional way. We married when I turned twenty-one, and two years later, we actively began trying for a family.

Two years after that, we then started consulting doctors; and within eighteen months, they'd concluded that as they couldn't pinpoint a problem with my reproductive system, the fault must lie with my husband. Apparently, it wasn't that it was impossible for him to get me pregnant, but it was highly unlikely. He'd not only got an extremely low sperm count, but also, what sperm were present, were categorized as ‘lethargic'.

But undaunted, we actively pursued our goal, well actively for maybe another four or five years. But part of the advice we'd been given, was that after lovemaking, I should then lay for at least an hour, with my bottom on a pillow; this was supposed to assist the sperm on their journey. And so after about five years of this, we decided that if God wanted me to have a child, it would happen, pillow or no pillow. So we still made love, but without the pillow, at what I'd assumed was quite a regular time period, on average about three times a week; but I don't think either of us undertook this lovemaking expecting it to result in a pregnancy. And so, I guess we'd both resigned ourselves to a marriage without children. But fourteen years into our marriage, with me now thirty-five years old, something happened that changed our lives.

It was on a very hot summer's day, about two weeks into a heat-wave, I was driving home mid-morning, from a shopping trip to a nearby village, when I saw a tramp lying in the middle of the single-track country lane; I had no option but to stop.

I was of course, very nervous about getting out of the car, being a woman on her own. But as I couldn't get past him, and obviously wouldn't drive over him, I had only two other options. It was either to try and reverse I don't know how far back along this narrow twisty lane, or get out and see if I could help him in some way.

So I cautiously approached him, and as I got close, I could see he was relatively young; I'd guess early twenties. And although dirty and disheveled, I didn't get a feeling of threat from his appearance. As I knelt down, and took a hold of his arm, he suddenly sort of turned so he was facing me. And then he instantly turned away, and began reaching, but coughing up nothing but saliva.

And then he looked my way and in a croaky almost undecipherable voice, he said, “Water. Please water.”

I guess several things would be different if this had happen to a modern woman today. She'd probably have a mobile phone; but they hadn't been invented back in the sixties. A modern woman would probably have bottled water in amongst her shopping; but back then if someone had suggested buying water in bottles, they'd have been looked on as an eccentric. And I also guess most women today would probably think nothing of reversing their cars, no matter the narrowness of the lane; and they wouldn't even have got out of their car.

But I had, and tramp or not, he just looked like a young man who'd fallen on hard times, and needed my help. “I haven't got water with me. But I've got Lucozade, it's supposed to be an energy drink. I'll go and get some.”

So after he'd taken a few mouthfuls, and more or less used it to washout his mouth and throat, I gleaned from him, that he'd been so dry and thirsty, he'd drank water from the dregs of a shallow ditch. And I guess the filth he drawn in with what little water he'd got, must have just clogged an already parched throat.

So after a few sips that he was now able to keep down, I helped him into my car, and set off for home. It was a Tuesday, so my Robert was at work, and I obviously realised the risk of taking a total stranger into my home. But as I've already said, I didn't get a feeling of threat or danger, just a feeling of someone in need. And as it says in the bible, ‘not passing by on the other side'.

And thinking back, I'm not totally sure it's relevant, but our house wasn't in a town or village. Ours was a single house a few hundred yards up a private track, off the narrow lane I'd been driving on. And so, it wasn't as if any nosy or prying neighbors would see me taking him in, and rumors could start. But at the time, that wasn't something that was consciously in my reckoning.

By the time we'd reached my house, he now seemed able to get himself from the car, and walk, if somewhat unsteadily into the house. The first thing I did was pour him a glass of water, which he drank down in almost one gulp. But then I put the kettle on, and made us both a cup of tea. But as I passed him a small plate with biscuits on, he devoured them at such a rate, I had to ask, “How long has it been since you've eaten?”

“I'm not sure, well not proper food. I've had blackberries and about four days ago, some apples; but they weren't ripe.”

The thing was, what I'd really gone shopping for today, was some steak; my Robert likes steak, and every so often, I'd go into the village to the local butcher. And today I'd bought two steaks, that's one for me and one for Robert. But on seeing the condition of this poor man, I asked, “Do you like steak?”

“Beef steak? I don't know. I've never had one.”

“But you do eat meat? I mean everybody has eaten meat at some time in their life.”

“We had meat stew when I was at the orphanage, but that was years ago. I can't remember the last time I had meat.” Then excitedly, he said, “I've had fish. About a month ago, a family were eating fish and chips in the park. And when they'd finished, they wrapped up their papers and threw them in the bin. As soon as they'd gone I fished them out. D'you like that, that's funny isn't it; fished them out. Well anyway, their two kids had hardly eaten anything; and they were still warm. That was a good meal, that was.”

“So you like chips as well?”

“Oh yes, when I can get them.”

“And onions?”

“Fried, oh they always make me feel hungry when you smell them cooking.”

“And mushrooms?”

“I'm not sure. You can sometimes mistake toadstools or other fungus for mushrooms; I've done that, and that makes you sick. And they don't taste good uncooked.”

“Well I won't be serving them to you uncooked.”

“Serving to me? Are you saying you're going to cook me a meal?”

“Would you like me to?”

“Oh God yes, I'd love a cooked meal.”

“Well okay. But I don't like you using that language.”

“Language? What language?”

“Taking God's name in vein. This is a Christian house, even if my faith is waning.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. It's just an expression people use.”

“Not in this house they don't. Right, now whilst I'm cooking your food, you can get yourself cleaned-up.”

So then I took him up to the bathroom, and provided him with soap, towels, and my husband's shaving kit, plus his toweling dressing gown. Then I said, “You can borrow this to come down in; you don't want to put your old dirty clothes back on. And then whilst you're eating your steak, I'll sort out some clean clothes for you to wear. You're about the same build as my husband, and I've got a pile of clothes that he's put to one side for the local scouts rummage-sale. I'm sure I'll find something suitable for you to wear.” And with that, I went down and began cooking his meal.

When he re-appeared downstairs, not only clean, but also clean-shaven, I was taken aback by his resemblance to my husband. Not as my husband is now, but as my husband was in his early twenties. The same physical build and height. And very similar facial characteristics. Even the same colour hair; but this man's was long and unkempt.

So anyway, whilst he sat down for his steak meal, I did as I'd said I'd do, I sorted him out some clothes. Mind you, as I normally throw out any underclothes that my husband deems to be past usable, the underpants and vest, I found for this young man, came straight from my husband's underwear draw.

Well once I'd collected together what I thought was a comprehensive selection, I returned to the kitchen to find he'd finished his meal, and his head was resting in his hands on the table; he was dosing. As quietly as possible I put the clothes at the other end of the table. But not liking them up there, I attempted to pull a chair from under the table to put them on. And as I did, one of the chair legs let out a screech, as I'd inadvertently let it drag on the quarry-tile floor.

He instantly woke, and as he shook his head to clear his hair from his eyes, it was a surreal moment. It was as if I'd stepped out of a time machine, and gone back fifteen years and visited my husband.

He obviously picked-up on my look, because he asked, “What is it?”

I snapped out of my trance, “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare. It's just. Oh wait there, I'll get a photo and show you.”

Moments later, clutching a photo of my husband, well my Robert before he became my husband, I returned and passed it to this young man, saying, “That's my husband Robert.”

“He looks about the same age as me.”

“Oh no. That was taken years ago. What d'you think?”

“He's very hansom.”

“I know that. But don't you see the resemblance?”

“To who?”

“Yourself of course. Your resemblance is uncanny.”

“I guess he looks a bit like me, but he's a lot smarter.”

“Would you think I was being cheeky if I asked if you want your hair cutting? I mean it is a little long. And as I used to be a hairdresser, I always cut my husband's hair.”

“No, it wouldn't be cheeky, and yes, it needs cutting. But you've been so kind already, are you sure it isn't too much trouble.”

So ten minutes later, with his chair now moved away from the table, I was busily working my way around Bob's head, snipping happily away at his hair. Yes, when he'd accepted my offer to cut his hair, I'd asked him his name. He'd said Bob, and I'd asked, “Don't you mean Robert?” I was completely dumbfounded at the coincidence of him not just looking like my husband's double, but finding out, he even had the same name.

“I guess so. But I've always been called Bob, ever since I can remember.”

Well anyway, I guess I'd been circling my way around him, for ten or so minutes, and I was now just putting the finishing touches to his hair. And in doing so, I must have been leaning in close to him without realising it.

And then at a point when I was standing directly in front of him, without warning, I felt hands encircling my waist, and lifting me; and the hands were on naked flesh! Well as my white summer blouse was tucked into my white flared summer skirt, this meant that if the hands were on naked flesh, he must have slipped them up under my skirt. As I felt the hands lifting me, and realised my feet were no longer touching the floor, I exclaimed, “Stop it! What d'you think you're doing?”

And as he pulled me in towards himself, he wedged his knees in between my legs, forcing them to splay open, and I felt the bell-end of his cock gliding in the wetness of my slit. Until this happened, I hadn't realised the heightened level of my arousal.

Nor had I been consciously aware of the two facts he was about to point out in his answer, as he said, “Don't pretend you're not ready, your nipples are standing out like chapel hat pegs.”

And even as he was saying this, his cock had located my hole, and he'd begun to lower me down onto it.

“Stop it. If you don't, I'll stab your eyes out.” Bearing in mind that I'd still got two free hands. Okay, one had got a comb in it. But in the other, I'd got a lethally pointed sharp pair of scissors.

“I can't stop; if you're gonna stab me, just do it.”

But as the biggest cock I'd ever known, plunged deeper and deeper up inside me, I released my hold on both scissors and comb, and my hands gripped the back of his head. “Oh Bob no. Please don't. I'm a married woman."

But there was an urgency in his thrusting, and almost right from the off, I knew verbal protests would be useless. And as some unfathomable force had either allowed, or do I mean caused me to drop the deadly weapon that could possibly have stopped him; then physical force was no longer an option. So clinging onto his head, as he thrust himself in and out, I just kept repeating, a sort of plaintive cry, “Ehhh, ehhh, ehhh.” Each squeaky breath being emitted as his massive cock repeatedly plunged its way up into what was effectively virgin territory. And as he thrust on, I gradually became aware that I was no longer passively accepting his intrusion, but that my loins were now actively working in unison with his thrusting. And even conscious efforts on my part, could not halt my wanton reaction.

But Bob halted it.

As his cock began spraying out copious quantities of his spunk, it triggered my first ever real orgasm. And from that moment, until my orgasm had run its course, I was to all intents and purposes, an automated sex doll; sitting with my legs straddling his, and my hips jerking spasmodically. Whereas, he'd finished his spunk delivery, and his mighty cock, job now done, had melted down and slipped away from the scene of the crime.

So when I eventually recovered my wits, and I opened my eyes, the reality of what I'd just taken part in, hit me. And as our eyes focused on each other's, as I pushed myself from his knee, I said, “Oh Robert! How could you?” And then standing there in front of him, holding my arms out, palms facing him to fend him off, “After all I've done to help you. Don't you feel ashamed of yourself?”

“I'm sorry. It wasn't something I planned. But it's not all my fault. You were the one who was sending out all the signals. And don't pretend you weren't ready; I've never met a more wet and willing fanny.”

“But you heard me say no, surely you know what no means.”

“All girls say no at first; that's just so you don't think they're easy. I mean you had those scissors; you could have used them if you'd seriously wanted to stop me.”

“How could I? I might have threatened you with them, but I've never so much as squatted a fly. I abhor killing or any kind of violence. Oh there's no point in me talking to you, I'm going up to have a bath and wash away the filthy mess you've left me in.”

“Throw my old clothes down, and I'll put them on and go.”

“There's no point in that. I've sorted those clean ones out for you, so you might as well have them. And if you know what's good for you, once you've put them on, you'll wait around until I come back down.”

“But I thought you'd want me gone?”

“I haven't yet decided whether I'm going to take you to the police.”

“What for?”

“Raping me of course.”

“But I didn't. I wasn't holding you down or forcing you. And anyway, if you're gonna do that, they won't want you having a bath. They'll want to get you on your back with your legs spread open, so they can get a good look at your snatch; and then supposedly for evidence, they'll want to photograph it.”

I hadn't thought that far ahead about a police examination. But regardless, I said, “You've admitted you heard me say no, and I'm sure you're not going to pretend you didn't just have sex with me. So that's all the evidence I need. So you wait here until I come back down, otherwise you'll be on a police wanted poster.”

And with that I went up and had a bath. And whilst in the warm soothing water, a weird kind of mellowness came over me. At first it was re-living the sex we'd just been involved in, and in doing so, examining my own culpability. But before I'd hardly started to search into my own feelings at the instant I'd felt his hands on my waist, my pelvis made such a pronounced lunge, it caused a tidal-wave in the bath, which almost splashed up over the end of the tub.

And then, as I lay back and arched my back, lifting my hips clear of the water, my fingers began to work my fanny in a frenzy. And so there in the bath, I re-lived the shagging that Bob and I had just had together. It didn't finish with the mind-blowing orgasm, but the wonderful afterglow as my fanny throbbed wildly, was as good as any that I'd previously had. Afterglows, that up until that shag with Bob, I'd thought were orgasms.

So anyway, as that subsided, I began to think about what comes next. Firstly, and I guess stupidly, I started worrying about that single steak that was now left over (how could something as trivial as a single steak be the first pressing thing on my mind).

I'd originally thought that when my Robert came home, I'd tell him all about my day, and about giving my steak to the needy traveler, and I'd tell him that I'd make-do with an omelet instead. But now, I was beginning to think whether this whole event shouldn't be hidden away. You see the things Bob had said were hitting home. He was probably right, the police would probably want to examine me; and I could imagine just how embarrassing that would be. And being as our police station is just the local bobbies house in a nearby village, I could also imagine that news of the whole event would spread through the local villages like wildfire.

So if I wasn't going to report the rape, nor tell my husband, what should I do? Well as silly as it sounds now, I restarted examining my own culpability. First of all, what I was wearing. As I've said, it was a hot summer’s day, in the middle of a heat-wave. So my skirt was lightweight cotton, not a mini, but the hem was maybe three or four inches above the knee. My blouse was also lightweight cotton, buttoned up the front, with a ‘V' neck; not over revealing bust wise, and tucked inside my skirt. So far perfectly respectable.

But due to the hot weather, and very out of character for me, I wasn't wearing a bra, and my knickers were of the French style. Just simple plain white silk, not frilly or fancy, but more like a pair of shorts with very large leg openings; and I'm sure it was the openness of these leg openings, that aided his access. So with no bra and thin cotton blouse, I guess any kind of arousal, nipple-wise, would be blatantly obvious.

And then there was the way he devoured the plate-full of biscuits and then that steak meal; he was ravenously hungry because he'd not eaten for so long. So if I was giving him sexual signals, which from the ease with which he entered me, I have to accept, I must have been. Well then is it any wonder that he lost control and couldn't stop himself?

So redressed in proper underwear, and a full length dress, I went back downstairs. He was sitting in the chair, and now, with my husband's old clothes and the haircut I'd given him, he looked even more of a double for my Robert. As I walked into the kitchen, he asked, “So, am I going to the police station with you?”

“No, I've reconsidered what happened, and I accept I maybe could have given you the wrong signals. So providing I have your word that nothing of that sort will happen again, I just want to forget it ever happened.”

He got up from his chair, and holding out his hand, as if to shake mine, he said, “I really am sorry. I can't say I'm sorry I shagged you, because I'm not, in fact, if you were willing, I'd shag you again now. But I'm really sorry that shagging you, upset you, I honestly thought you were as horny as me. So if you don't want me to go to the police station with you, I'll go now. Oh, and thank you for all your kindnesses, the clothes, the food, but mostly the shag.”

I didn't take the hand he'd been offering, but just said, “I really wish you wouldn't mention that. I told you I want to forget it.”

He dropped his hand, and said, “Okay, I'll just go now with no more said.”

“No wait. I've just said, that providing I have your word that nothing of that sort will happen again, we can just forget it ever happened at all.”

“Are you saying you don't want me to go?”

“You can go whenever you want. But as I'm not now going to tell my husband about you being here, and I don't want to tell him lies, I won't be able to explain why there is only one steak. And I don't like waste. So if you're still hungry, I'll cook it for you.”

“Are you sure. I thought from what you were saying earlier, that you hated me?”

“I never said that. I was angry with you. But as I've said, maybe I was partly to blame.”

He stood directly in front of me, and said, “I've never met anyone like you. Am I dreaming, or are you an angel?”

I gave a half laugh, “No neither, I just don't like seeing people hungry and I don't like waste.”

“Please, can I kiss you?”

“No, I've told you. Nothing like that must ever happen again.”

“I don't mean shag. It's just; well I just want to feel the warmth of your love. Not shagging. Just holding you in my arms, and feeling you holding me.”

“I don't think that would be wise. I wouldn't want to stir up your feelings again. I know how difficult it must be for you to control them once you're aroused.”

In an angry tone, he snapped, “In that case I'll go, you obviously don't trust me anymore. No, don't say you do. Anyway, I can't blame you, not after what I did.” And then calmer, and in a more conciliatory tone, as he turned and began to walk away, “I'll say goodbye, but thank you for everything you've done for me; I won't forget it.”

“No don't go like that. Honestly, I do trust you. Look, if you're still hungry, let me cook the steak. I'd rather do that than it go to waste. And then afterwards, maybe I might just give you a little hug, just to show you I do trust you.”

So he re-sat, and I cooked him his second steak. And whilst I cooked, and then later as he ate, we talked. I told him about my home life, and that included our trials and difficulties regarding starting a family. And then he told me about the tragic circumstances that had led to him being orphaned at the age of ten. And when I say tragic, I do mean horrifically tragic.

I'll only go into them briefly, but apparently his mother never terminated his breast feeding at the appropriate time. Even though there was no requirements for him to suckle her breasts for nourishment, she had continued to comfort him in this manner, any time he'd been in need of a comforting cuddle. And this had continued right up until her demise. And in fact, it was due to this, that she was killed by her own husband. He, the husband, had been unaware of his wife's comforting technique, and when he'd arrived home unexpectedly, and caught her with him suckling, he'd flown into a rage. Apparently Bob himself had escaped upstairs, but not before he'd witnessed his father bludgeoning his mother to death. And then as his father turned his rage towards his son, Bob had ran at full pelt up the stairs, he'd then climbed out of the bedroom window, and shimmied down the drainpipe. But as his father had attempted to do likewise, the pipe had come loose from the wall, and he fell, cracking his skull open on the concrete slabs. So within minutes, Bob had witnessed the violent deaths of both his mother and father. But after their deaths, he was taken to a council children's home, which he ran away from at the age of twelve.

But comforting him by allowing him to suckle her breasts wasn't her only vice. He says that from around the age of five, he remembers this as the age he started junior school, she'd taken to fondling his cock whilst he was suckling on her breasts. Of course, he had no idea that what they were doing wasn't normal mother child behavior. He also swears that within no time of her including the cock fondling into her comfort routine, his cock began to respond, and he'd get an erection; although he says that no matter how long she pursued this, what was now basically wanking, he never produced any spunk.

And so anyway after we'd both told each other our relative life stories, and he'd finished eating, he again got to his feet, and proffered his hand for me to shake, saying, “You lied. You really are an angel. And angels are too exulted to be kissed by mere mortals like me. So I'll just shake hands and say goodbye and thank you?”

After hearing the tragic horror story of his early life, I was more than just sorry for him; I positively felt like I wanted to comfort him. But definitely not like his mother had done. So this time, I shook his hand, and as I did, I said, “Thank you for not mentioning what took place earlier. And being as you didn't mention it, I will give you the little hug you asked for.” And as I held my arms open, in anticipation of wrapping them around his back, I said, “Come-on.”

But instead of stepping into my open arms and hugging me, each of his hands took hold of mine, and as he dropped down onto his knees, he begged, “Please, not that kind of hug. You know what I really want.”

“Yes, I guess I do. But I'm sorry, none of us gets everything we want.”

“But I know what you want, and I can give it to you.”

“You know nothing about me. All I wanted to do was to make sure you were okay, and then see you safely on your way.”

“That's not true. What you really want is a baby; and so does your husband. I can give you one. Think about it, he'll never know it isn't his, and you know he'll be over the moon. If you won't do it for yourself, do it for him.”

“No, I'm sorry, if that is all you can think about, you'd better go now.”

And then as he slowly began to rise to his feet, a sudden pull from one of his hands, spun me around. And as I was taken unawares, and lost my balance, a split second later, he was standing with me cradled in his arms. And so with one arm under my knees, and the other under my shoulder blades he began to walk rapidly towards my living-room.

“No Bob stop. You promised me you wouldn't.”

But despite my pleas and protests, I was carried into my living-room, and as he lay me down along the sofa, he went down on his knees at the side of me. So although I was now lying down, I still had him up close and in my face, with his hands initially holding onto my shoulders.

And although I'd been pleading and protesting as he'd carried me in here, now he'd put me down, and he was just calmly restraining me, I said, “Okay, now what? Are you going to rape me again?”

“I thought we'd agreed, that wasn't rape. But never mind that now. I've got a proposition for you.”

“Well in that case let me get up, and then we can go back in the kitchen and discuss it.”

“If you agree to just lay still, I'll let go of your shoulders.”

“Okay, but I don't see why you want me in here, and I don't see why I need to be lying down?”

He released his hold on me, and as he sat back, still kneeling on the floor, he said, “We're in here so you can be more comfortable. And you're lying down, because if you really want to get pregnant, I'm told this is the best position to be shagged in.”

As he was talking, I edged myself up slightly, so that I was no longer totally flat on the sofa. And then I said, “You're not going to have sex with me again. And this time, I really mean it; I'll scream and kick like a wild cat.”

“Didn't you hear me? You've just been telling me about your greatest desire in the world, and I'm offering to make it possible for you.”

“Oh no, I've told you, not again.”

“Hear me out. You say I'm a dead-ringer for your husband. You both want kids. He still shags you, and apparently it's not impossible for him to father a child. So why wouldn't you want me to shag you now. I mean, we've done it once, so it's not like you're pure and innocent.”

“Never mind all that. If going with you was going to make me pregnant, then the die is already cast.”

“Not really. Everybody knows an uphill shag is less likely to result in a pregnancy.”

And I'm not sure if he was lying, as this was a popularly held view at the time. Girls would regularly be told that being shagged whilst they were standing up, was totally safe.

He continued, “So being as you want a child, I'll shag you now, while you're lying on your back. And being as you've been so good to me, I'll hang around in this local area, and come back in two days’ time to shag you again. And keep coming back every two days, until the date your period is due. And then, when you miss your period, and you know you're pregnant, I'll resume my wandering. You'll never have to see me again.”

When he'd first started with this line, I wasn't hardly listening, feeling this was just him wanting to have sex with me again. But by the time he'd finished, the thought of actually being pregnant was buzzing around in my head. And a lot of what he was saying was making sense, especially as the number of days that I was into my cycle, meant that from the information we'd been given in those early years, whilst trying earnestly for a child, that I was now coming up to my most fertile period.

So I asked, “How do you know that you're able to father a child?”

“Because I've done it.”

“What? You've got a son?”

“A son, and two daughters.”

“So where does your wife live?”

“I'm not married.”

“Oh. Well where does the woman and your children live?”

“My son and his mother live in York. I've got one daughter in Manchester, and one in Birmingham.”

“Are you saying your children were all born to different women?”

“Yes, I'm not fit to be a father. I can't even support myself.”

“Don't you think it's irresponsible having children and not being around to support them?”

“That's not down to me. Each of those women wanted me to shag them, and I'm only human; so I obliged.”

“Do you ever see any of your children?”

“No, I've never even hung around until they were born.”

“Don't you ever get a longing to just see them, and maybe hold them?”

“Not really. Mind you, I wouldn't mind going back and shagging that woman who lives in Manchester. She could shag all day and all night, she couldn't get enough.”

I think that at one point, that is before I knew how callas he'd been, that I'd actually started to warm to the idea of him impregnating me. But now, it just didn't seem right. “You sound so cold and uncaring about it all.”

“Isn't that what you want? You wouldn't want me hanging around once you were pregnant. And you certainly wouldn't want me coming back to claim the sprog once you'd dropped it.”

And as uncaring and cold as his statement was, he was right. If I was going to entertain his idea, his was really the attitude I'd need the father to adopt. So I said, “Okay, you can have sex with me again, but only on my terms.”

“I could just have you now on my terms.” And at this point, his hand thrust up under my skirt, and as he grabbed my crotch, he said, “I knew you would be. Your fanny is dripping wet, it's soaking your knickers.” And then his other hand cupped my right breasts, and he continued, “And bra or no bra, I can feel your nipples through all your respectable clothing. So don't pretend you've got the whip-hand. You're getting another shagging terms or no terms.”

“Please Bob, listen.”

“Okay, I'm listening. But before you start laying down terms, I want you to concede defeat. Say, ‘Yes Bob, you can shag me.’“

“Okay, I concede. Yes Bob, you can shag me, but not down here.”

“Here is as good as anywhere.”

“No, listen. I want to be able to lie in my husband's arms in our own bed, and as he puts his hand on my heavily pregnant swollen belly, be able to say to him, isn't it wonderful to know our beautiful child was conceived in this bed.”

“So get him to shag you on this sofa, it'll be the same illusion.”

“No please Bob. Take me upstairs and you can shag me all afternoon. So long as you're gone by half past four.”

Very little more was said, until with us both completely naked, and me lying on my back, legs spread high and wide, he climbed above me, and I saw the mighty cock that I'd been impaled on earlier, whereupon I exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, I never realised it was that big.”

“Don't worry, you took it with ease last time, so this time should be plain sailing.”

And then it was located, and on its way up, “Oh Bob, ohhhhh, oh my, oh yes Bob. Ohhhhhhhhh.”

And from then until he unloaded his spunk somewhere way deep up inside me, we actively shagged each other. But then after it was over, and the euphoria had died down, the guilt and dirtiness of our sordid act hit home.

I know we'd been involved in the very same act no more than an hour ago, and I'd somehow managed to absolve myself mentally of any complicity or guilt. But this time, I'd cold calculated my actions and somehow convinced myself I was doing it for moral reasons. But now, with my hidden sub-conscious lustful desires sated, I could see the fornication in its true light.

“Why are you crying? Is it because I've now made your deepest wish a possibility?”

Through my tears, I sobbed out, “Please go. Take the clothes I've sorted out for you. But please, promise you'll go back to wherever you come from, never return. I don't want anybody in the village seeing you, they'd be bound to see your resemblance to my Robert, especially with you wearing his clothes.”

“But I need to shag you more times, you can't expect to get pregnant with just a couple of shags.”

“Please. I'm begging you, go, and never come back; I mean never ever.”

“But you wanted a baby?”

“I still do, and I stupidly convinced myself that our coming together was God's will. But now I realise I was wrong. I knew your reason was motivated by lust, but I mistakenly convinced myself that I was different. But I'm as guilty as you, and I can see that now you've sated my lustful craving. If our coming together was instigated by God, I'm sure that just that first planting of your seed, would make me pregnant; uphill shag, or not. So even what we've just done now, as wonderful as it was, and as much as I reveled in your glorious body, it was wrong, wicked and evil. So please, get dressed and go.”

He slid from under the covers, and without a sign of embarrassment, re-dressed. As he left the bedroom, he said, “I won't forget you. You were an even better shag than the woman in Manchester.”

“You won't come back, will you?”

“No. And I hope you have my baby, cos I know you'll be a good mum, and you'll make sure your husband will be a good dad. Bye, and thank you for your kindness, especially the shagging.”

And with that, he disappeared from my life; that was nearly twelve years ago.

Thanks for reading, and please feel free to email me at Lord_John_Thomas@hotmail.com