A YOUNG MARIE SEX STORY

KNOCKING ON HEAVEN’S DOOR

BY AUNT CLIMAX

A Twitter thread about places that touch one’s soul had me reminiscing about Edinburgh, Scotland – the place that shaped the person I am today. This is the first in a series of posts about my love affair with the city. And the men. Oh those Scottish men.

It all started with a nasty case of bronchitis I picked up hiking in the Lake District. I was in my early 20s, and I wasn’t prepared for any hiking or much physical exertion at all to start my 3 month, post-university backpacking trip through the UK and Europe. I was focused on drinking, partying, and putting off serious what-to-do-with-my-life questions until I stumbled over the answers in successive drunken stupors in different cities. Seriously – I packed a hairdryer! After 3 weeks, my friend felt so sorry for me while I was struggling through hiking in Wales that he offered to carry it for me. Yes I admit, I was *that* girl. But unlike the west coast of Wales which was sunny a week earlier, the Lake District was rainy and miserable. I spent 3 days hiking in the rain with a couple that alternated between fighting and make-up fucking. I was a water-logged mess. I had blisters on blisters on my feet. And by the time we arrived in Edinburgh I was about to lose a lung. Bronchitis had set in.

I camped out in the lounge at the High Street Hostel on Blackfriars Street to recover. I didn’t know much about it before we arrived other than it was an independent hostel. And it was a short walk from the train station and had rooms available. We had stayed in the official IYHA hostels through Wales and England, but the curfews and cleaning requirements didn’t suit my party-girl lifestyle. I loved High Street’s funky rundown decor and laid-back vibe. It seemed, at first glance, full of people nursing nasty hangovers while figuring out the evening’s pub crawl route through the Cowgate. This was the hostel experience I had craved.

My two friends stuck to their 3-day itinerary of all the recommended sites. I hung out with my new American and Aussie friends, chased down my antibiotics with beer, and continued to smoke purple Silk Cut cigarettes despite a hacking cough. And I fell in love with an American grad student studying at the University of Edinburgh. Derek, from St. Louis, was smart, sarcastic, and a Scorpio. He had a shock of strawberry blond hair and vaguely looked and talked like Nicholas Cage, my high school Valley Girl crush. He was very proud of his unique hair colour and considered it an insult whenever he was asked if he dyed it.

“It looks kinda fake. How do I know it’s real?” I taunted him, just to get a reaction.

“I can show you it’s my real colour,” he laughed and grabbed his crotch. I met him in the hostel lounge with Simon and Jen. They were all long-term residents. Simon, like many Aussies, was on a year-long trip around the world. But he fell in love with the gray desolate beauty of Scotland and bagpipe music. Jen was a sassy Midwestern girl in pursuit of romance away from the stiflingly claustrophobic cornfields and attitudes back home. I was the party-hearty Canadian girl always up for an adventure. They quickly became my closest hostel friends.

Over the next few weeks, I ate nothing but stuffed jacket potatoes with cheese, onion and pineapple from the shop up the street, milk chocolate Hobnobs, and chicken and onion crisps. “Are you just going to eat that crap? There’s a kitchen downstairs, you know. You could cook.” Simon observed. “I’ve got some extra vegemite if you want.”

“Don’t eat that shit,” Jen grimaced. “That stuff is vile.”

“Uh, yeah. I’ll stick to the potatoes. Thanks anyways Simon.”

We chatted about our home towns and made fun of each other’s accents.  “C’mon Marie, say it. Say it like a Canadian. It’s so cute. Oooout and aboooout.” Derek teased incessantly. I grudgingly humored them and said “out and about” and “eh” like a Canadian. I learned from Jen that Miami University is in Ohio and not Florida. I also learned that people learning to play acoustic guitar always try Bob Dylan songs. Gabriel from Spain was determined to master Knocking on Heaven’s Door and it became the theme song to our afternoon lounge gatherings. I staked out my favourite chair after a week. It was an orange vinyl swivel chair that could have been rescued from a 1970s garage sale, but I loved it. I sat there and listened to stories from wanna-be activists returning from poll tax rallies in London. We were all in search of something. Maybe each other. Maybe to change the world. But not before finding a cheap lager to mull it all over.

Derek took it upon himself to introduce me to the Edinburgh that most tourists don’t see. “I went to an all-boys school here. One of those posh schools that my parents thought would be good for me,” he sighed. “They were both from here too. So I guess they figured some time in the old country would straighten me out.”

“How did that work out for you?” I questioned. He shrugged, took a drag from his cigarette, and stared across the lounge. A certain sadness crossed his face. He took another long puff and changed the subject.

“You feeling better? You haven’t seen much of the city yet. I’ll show you some cool shit. Tonight’s good.” His face brightened as he switched into tour guide mode.

That night was the first night we fooled around. He wanted to take me to the top of Calton Hill to see Edinburgh’s embarrassment. The monument was supposed to be a replica of the Parthenon in Athens, but was never finished. Still, it was a short walk from the hostel and offered a great view down Princes Street to Edinburgh Castle. But before we left, we needed to get something from his room. He grabbed a duvet off an unoccupied bed and tossed it out the window from the 5th floor landing down to the street.

“It’ll get cold out there. We’ll need it.” he said. And he was right. Late October nights in Edinburgh are damp and cold. We picked up the duvet from the street and strolled down the High Street. I felt deliciously devious with Derek. He was rebel. Too smart for his own good. He had a reputation among some long-termers at the hostel as another crass arrogant American. A know-it-all. But he exuded a confident sexuality that floored me. He swaggered around with a cigarette hanging from his lips, his laconic quips seducing some (like me) and alienating others. And he wanted to be with me. We threw the duvet over our shoulders and turned on to North Bridge. The wind picked up as we crossed the bridge – a wet stinging cold worse than Vancouver in the winter. I wore the only skirt I’d packed for the trip. But my legs, even encased in thick black tights, couldn’t protect me from the cold.

“What is that awful smell? It’s like … baked beans. Burnt baked beans or something. It’s foul!” I pressed my face against his sleeve.

“It’s the brewery,” Derek explained, “Scottish and Newcastle. It’s huge here. But most nights the city stinks.” He shrugged, “You’ll get used to it. You won’t notice after a while.” He looked down at me and pulled me closer.

We encountered empty beer cans and evidence of partying through the park but that night we were the only people there. “Let’s climb up here. You get the best view of the city,” he explained, as he scrambled up to the monument’s platform with the duvet around his neck. I wasn’t quite as nimble and definitely not as tall, so he grabbed my arms and hauled me up to the top. Thick mist from the Forth had settled over the new town and left a beautiful mysterious glow around the castle.

Derek tossed the duvet on the cold concrete, tipped my face up toward his, and kissed me gently. It wasn’t forceful or passionate. He was exploring my lips with his. Tasting and experimenting, then staring at me intently with his results. “Your lips are cold,” he deduced. “We need to get you under the duvet. That’s why I brought it with us.”

The thin duvet offered more warmth but little padding on the concrete monument. I laid on my side, facing the city, while we kissed again. His tongue pushed against my lips, my teeth. I stroked his face and his hair, too nervous to make the first move. He smelled like Drakkar Noir, a scent that will always remind me of him. He made the first move and unzipped my red Gortex jacket and slipped his hand beneath my shirt. I wasn’t wearing a bra. At 22 years old I still had a figure that more closely resembled a teenage boy and didn’t have the curves to warrant buying one. He pulled up my shirt but the cold metal zipper from his brown leather jacket rubbed against my nipples and startled me.

“This isn’t working. We’re too exposed to the wind up here.” Derek sat up and pulled my jacket around me. Then picked up the duvet and jumped down to the ground with ease. I hesitated and looked down doubtfully. I wasn’t sure if there was a way to jump down gracefully, or at least without breaking a bone. “C’mon, just jump Marie. I’ll catch you. Seriously, it’s OK.” I stepped off the ledge and fell clumsily against him, his athletic 6’2″ frame absorbing my impact. We laid out the duvet on the coarse scratchy grass beside the monument to block us from the wind. He positioned me on my side as he continued to explore my body.

“You’ve got nice hard nipples. Small breasts, but I like your nipples. Then again, I’m not really a boob guy,” he laughed. His hands traveled up my legs, under my short fleece skirt, and pulled down my thick black tights and underwear. “You’re making me work for this, aren’t you?” he laughed. He cupped my pussy with his palm and squeezed, before sliding his fingers up to tease my clit. “Nice and furry. Very au naturel.”

I pulled back, embarrassed that he noticed my scraggly backpacker bush. “I haven’t had much of a change to, you know, groom and shave since I’ve been here.”

“I don’t care.” He pulled me forward and looked at me quizzically, almost analytically. “Do you like it here? Or here?” Derek parted my labia and pushed a cold finger into my pussy. I wriggled against his finger and tried to rub my clit against his palm. I pushed myself against him trying to find that spot. That spot around my clit that triggered fast orgasms when I played with myself.

“Uh, kind of there. Up a bit more. There … or … yeah, just … uh OK.” I squeezed my pussy as his fingers traced my clit then pushed back into my pussy. Despite his probing eager fingers, I couldn’t relax enough to enjoy the moment. I looked up, hoping he wouldn’t give up on me.

“Hmmm, maybe we need to try this too …” He withdrew his finger from my pussy, licked it and pressed it against my virgin asshole. I couldn’t hide my surprise and squeezed my sphincter tight. I wasn’t that sexually experienced, even after four years at university (and 2 years living on residence) and never met anyone interested in anal play. “Just breathe out. Exhale slowly and relax.” He wriggled his finger through my tight puckered hole and stopped just an inch or two inside me. “How is that? It’ll feel uncomfortable, maybe a bit painful for a bit, and then you’ll relax. Let me know when.”

I nodded and exhaled, surprised at how quickly the initial pain subsided. “Oh fuck. Oh my god that’s good. I’ve never felt that … no one has ever, you know, done that before.”

“I know. I can tell.” His blue eyes locked into mine. He circled his finger inside of me as an unknown warmth, a tingle, traveled to my pussy. “OK, now relax again, I’m going to try two fingers.” I had no time to prepare as he withdrew his forefinger an inch and pushed it back inside me with his middle finger. I felt a sharp sting as my anus stretched to accommodate his fingers. I winced, and gripped his arm until, as expected, the pain turned to pleasure.

“Derek. That hurts. No more, oh please. Just like that, oh fuck now that feels …” I squirmed and relaxed as his two fingers, now two knuckles deep, gingerly inched in further. I felt a delicious sort of discomfort. Not anything I’d experienced before. But not pain. I didn’t want him to stop.

“Hmmm, so you might be one of those women who like anal sex. Maybe more than vaginal. I read it’s about 30% of women.” He gently rotated both fingers inside me, before pulling out and rimming me, then inserting his fingers again. “It’s not uncommon you know, 30%. You’re not the first woman I’ve met who liked anal,” he commented.

“Just two fingers like that. That’s good … oh fuck …” I squeezed hard against his fingers, almost pushing them out, before relaxing and allowing him to insert them again. “Don’t stop. Please Derek, please.” I inched my knees up, giving him better access to my loosened asshole. His fingers rhythmically pushed further, deeper, with his knuckles pressing against my back of my pussy. I’d never felt anyone stimulate my pussy like that, from inside my asshole.

“Yeah, I can tell you like that. What if I push even deeper?” He shifted his weight so he was now almost directly on top of me. He withdrew his fingers again and wet them from juices from my swollen and aroused pussy. “Like this?” My asshole clenched in anticipation as he drove his two fingers as far as he could.

“Ooooohhh … oh my fucking god, oh fuck my ass!” I gripped his arms, tipping my head back against the cold dirt and grass. “You’re so deep,” I whimpered, “Aaaaaeeeehhh …” I gradually exhaled and thrust against his invading fingers. I didn’t have an orgasm. But I discovered a naughty, taboo desire lurking inside me. Maybe I was one of those women who liked anal. Who loved anal.

“This is just the start. I’m going to have so much fun with you …” Derek gently pulled his fingers out and held them in front of my face. “See them? They were all the way up your ass.” He chuckled. “And you loved it.” The edge of the duvet fluttered in the wind. “We should get out of here,” he said abruptly. He helped me inch my tights and underwear back up. Only then did I notice his cock pressing against his black track pants.

He pulled me to my feet and we gathered up the damp duvet. We held hands during the walk down the hill but didn’t say a word. I glanced over at him occasionally, trying to read some emotion from his face. Was this a one-night hostel fling? A roll around in the grass? I wasn’t sure how long I’d be at the hostel. At least until my finished my 2 week antibiotic prescription or stopped coughing up a lung. My friends were leaving in a day to go to York, and I would have to arrange a meeting place with them in southern England or France. I tried to push the swirling thoughts out of my head. I had a warm hand to hold on a cold night. The same hand that had played with my asshole for the first time. I felt a bit stretched out after my first time anal finger play, but not uncomfortable. He had piqued my curiosity and I wanted to experiment more.

The view from North Bridge west out to the Firth of Forth and east to the castle was unforgettable. The mist settled in the Princes Street gardens below, leaving the tops of the castle emerging from the darkness. I was falling in love with Edinburgh’s dark seductive beauty. As we turned down the High Street, Derek finally spoke. “Let’s look for a garbage bag for the duvet.” We found one down the alley from the Scandic Crown Hotel and stuffed the duvet inside. “You go ahead of me,” he whispered in my ear as we approached the hostel. I found my crumpled room slip in my pocket and walked in past Marco, the night porter, without looking back. Marco said nothing about the garbage bag Derek had casually over his shoulder. He’s seen far worse than that, I figured, at this time of night.

We held hands again briefly on the 4th floor landing. “Good night, Marie. Any plans tomorrow?”

“Nope. Just sleeping in and nursing my cough.”

“OK. I’m going to show you some more sights tomorrow.” He kissed me before running up the stairs two at a time to the 5th floor.