Thursday, 31 March 2011

Bringing a Hildabeest to Heel, Part One

One of the problems with writing memoirs as opposed to stories is the tiresome need to keep alive some relationship with the truth. Thus, although I have changed most of the names, the narrative concerns  events which actually happened and I don't want to tamper with that. So tempting though it is to invent a few outdoor spankings I have actually only ever administered two such corrections, and only one involved a spot of open air sex afterwards. That's the one that I want to tell you about now, so sit back and let's take a trip down Memory Lane to the Oxford of the 1980s.

The Hildabeest has now passed into legend since St. Hilda's College, her natural terrain, has started admitting men. However back in the day standing on Magdalen Bridge and watching the perfumed herd pass by on its way to the grazing grounds and watering holes of Oxford - or expensive restaurants and equally costly bars if you prefer - was a sight to gladden the heart of the most jaded male. After the Oxford Cowgirl the Hildabeest was the commonest prey in Oxford, because like the cowgirl she was relatively easy to catch. Once either or both had been suitably lubricated with cocktails, then the rest of the evening was relatively easy to predict. God knows why St. Hilda's was jocularly referred to as The Virgin Megastore because the idea that any member of the college hadn't wrapped her legs around any number of lusty males was, well, virgin on the ridiculous.

So it came to pass that one evening myself and a certain Hildabeest named Pippa were walking unsteadily along a road late one evening after the bar where we had spent the previous couple of hours had closed. This is England in the 1980s, people, and hostelries closed at 10.30pm except Friday and Saturday when they stayed open an extra 30 minutes. It was March, if memory serves me correctly, and the lady wore a long black overcoat over her undergraduate uniform of wool skirt and blue crew necked sweater. She was also one of the few women who wore glasses, large black-framed things that surprisingly complemented her pretty face which was framed with bubbly blonde hair to perfection.

We were strolling in the general direction of Christ Church, although why we should have done that has long since faced from memory. I do remember suggesting a walk over the bridge and down onto the bank of the River Isis, and that we did before strolling along for a while and then turning off to the left to follow a path that led to a rather nice bench where we sat down to smoke cigarettes.

We started to kiss and Pippa wrapped her arms around my neck and ran her tongue just inside my mouth. I opened her coat and gently stroked one of her breasts and was pleased to see that she arched her back so as to push more of her luscious mound into my hand. Without speaking we got up and as if by telepathic impulse we moved into the trees so that we were sheltered from the path. Not that anyone was around at that time of night but one can never be too careful.

We came to a wooden fence and I leaned Pippa against it and put my arms around her, and I found to my delight that madam was only too pleased to put her arms around my neck and gently nibble my right ear as a good Hildabeest should. She did not object as I put my arms around her rump and lifted her skirt to reveal to my delight that she wasn't wearing thick woollen tights as I had believed but long  dark blue socks that reached up to her thighs. Almost as nice as stockings and a damn sight warmer in the chill of an Oxford March. I placed the back of my hand over the magical zone that was still covered by her panties and was delighted to find that her heat pulsated onto my hand. That night was going to be easy-peasy I decided. On reflection I should have known even then not to count my chickens until they start going cluckety-cluck.

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