Time Once More for Marilyn: Captivated & Rekindled Romance





This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language. It may be considered offensive to some readers. This book is for sale to adults ONLY.


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Copyright © 2015 Kerry James

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Please don’t be stupid and kill yourself. This book is a work of FICTION.
Do not try any new sexual practice that you find in this book. It is fiction and not to be confused with reality. Neither the author nor the publisher or its associates assume any responsibility for any loss, injury, death or legal consequences resulting from acting on the contents in this book. Every character in this book is over 18 years of age. The author’s opinions are not to be construed as the opinions of the publisher. The material in this book is for entertainment purposes ONLY. Enjoy.





Time Once More

For Marilyn

Captivated & Rekindled Romance
















By: Kerry James



Kerry James 2015

ISBN: 978-1-68030-234-9





              Nineteen fifty seven was not a particularly notable year for the world, or for the inhabitants of the United Kingdom. Of course, there were quite a few people who would look back and say. “That was a good year, a very good year.” But for many it was just another year. There were births, quite a few into poverty and starvation and the law of averages dictated that an equal number died possibly from that same poverty and starvation. In October the Soviets would launch the first orbiting satellite and the word 'Sputnik' became part of every language. This was a shock for every developed nation, particularly the Americans, as no one thought that the Russians had the technology to achieve that feat. We all got a year older, although some, like my mother celebrated her birthday and resolutely remained thirty five, ignoring  the fact that she was born in nineteen eleven. The Spartan existence, we had known in these isles during WW2 and immediately after had relaxed and our family along with many others was enjoying a more comfortable life.


              Our Prime Minister had told us we were never having it so good. At that time, in our innocence we tended to believe the politicians; later the scales would drop from our eyes. For the moment we went along with this fantasy. Most families had a television now and a refrigerator and if those were the yardstick by which to judge then we were indeed better off. There were jobs for all those who wanted to work and State Benefits for those who declined that activity. The Unions flexed their muscles to introduce socialist principles into Industry. They battled for those whom they called 'the workers' implying by inference that anyone who wasn't unionized was a shirker or a parasite or both. The 'workers' ironically spent more time not working; as their shop stewards frequently called them out on strike for the flimsiest of reasons. The Unions espoused democracy yet rarely let their members vote on strike action. The conflict between the workers and the management was a running battle that went on and on, ensuring years later the almost complete demise of British industry. If we were having it so good, it was a Fool's Paradise. However, for the moment we basked in the sunshine.


              It was a surprise, therefore when my dad announced that the family was going away for a week’s holiday. The surprise was that I was included. When I was young, we had family holidays. A week or two in the West Country, travelling there by train with accommodation provided by the euphemistically described ‘Guest House’. A Guest House was one very small step above a boarding house. The furnishings were better, but the rules were the same, whatever the weather you had to leave during the day and not return before five o’clock. You were provided with bed, breakfast, and an evening meal, no early morning or afternoon tea. For me, the journey by train was the highlight. We travelled by ‘The Cornish Riviera Express’, the crack train of the Great Western, which, in nineteen forty-eight became the Western Region of British Railways. In those days it was still hauled by a steam engine, either a 'King' or 'Castle', gleaming in Brunswick Green with brass trim and copper burnished all glittering in the light.  It was supposed to run non-stop to Truro in Cornwall, but it did stop at Plymouth. Not in the station, but just outside so the engine could be changed. The 'Kings' and 'Castles' were too heavy for the Royal Albert Bridge over the Tamar so they were changed for another, lighter locomotive.  It was only later that I understood that during the holiday season there were at least three or four trains that left Paddington in the space of an hour and a half, all called 'The Cornish Riviera Express’. That did mar a little the pride in travelling on that special train. In the mid-fifties, my dad took a new job; moving the whole family from the London area to the Midlands. His position also allowed him a company car for private as well as business use. So the romance of the Cornish Riviera was now history.


              For three or four years prior to this, my parents had taken advantage of the burgeoning package holiday offers, and would go off to Spain or Italy with my younger sister. I was left at home with a cash bribe from my father to ensure that I would eat properly for the two weeks they were away. I didn’t think they were rejecting me; it was probably because they didn’t know what to do with an early teenager at the time. Now it would seem that at eighteen, I was acceptable company once more. Those last three years had transformed me from a gangling strip of a boy at five feet six, into a relatively decent looking man of five foot ten with dark brown hair and a face that could be described as reasonable rather than handsome.


              The hotel was quite large with most of the amenities that you would expect. It was situated on a promontory called Daddyhole Plain and overlooked the sweep of the bay and the town. I assumed from the look of the place that it had once been the palatial home of some rich man and had been converted into a hotel with extensions for bedrooms and function rooms. The conversion had been done piecemeal so finding your way about was somewhat difficult as corridors seemingly leading in the right direction would take a sudden turn and take you to a place you didn’t want to be.  My parents and my sister had rooms on the first floor where the best rooms were. My sister got one of those so they could keep an eye on her she was only eleven at the time. I had a single room on the third floor. I got there by taking the main staircase up to the first floor, walking down the long corridor, then climbing another, less grand staircase to the second where I had to reverse the walk on the first floor to yet another, even smaller staircase that would take me to my floor. The room had a quaint ceiling, sloping within the confines of a gable. From the window I had an interesting view over the roofs and back gardens, but not a glimpse of anything remotely like a beach or sea. There was a wash basin with hot and cold running in the room, but for any other needs I would have to go down the corridor. The concept of en-suite facilities was unknown to the majority of hotels in the UK. That changed eventually with dire consequences for those hotels that didn't adapt.  I didn’t mind the disparity in accommodation; I got some privacy to indulge whatever my teenage hormones could discover for me. As it happened, I didn’t have to go looking; adventure in the shape of the female variety came looking for me.


              We had not been booked in more than three hours when I decided to explore the hotel. It was then as I explored that I was approached by two young, good-looking girls. One was I suppose in her early twenties, dark haired, slim, and dressed in the uniform of a hotel maid. She had a mischievous manner about her, flirty and teasing. The other was younger, more my age, still carrying a little puppy fat, but nonetheless very attractive. Her hair was quite long and that shade that was sometimes referred to as dirty blonde. Whilst lacking the wiles of the maid, her smile was very agreeable. The older girl addressed me. “Hello, you have just booked in. How old are you?” 

              I was startled by the direct question so much that I answered without thought. “I am eighteen.”

              Did I see disappointment in her eyes? Probably not, but the younger girl looked pleased. It was the older one who told me my fate. “Oh. Well, you are hers.” She told me bluntly. I was taken aback by this bold statement yet not given time to consider. Over the next few hours, I came to understand that they had an arrangement concerning any young, single man who came to the hotel. This was unusual for that time when young ladies were a lot shyer than now. I learned later the watershed was twenty. Older than that and it was the maid, twenty two year old Lisa, who would become your friend; younger than twenty and it would be Marilyn who kept you company.  So it was that I was left in the care of Marilyn for the duration of my stay. I was quite happy with the arrangement. Initially, there was hesitancy on both our parts as we fumbled through the first steps of getting to know each other, she didn't have the bold attitude of Lisa, neither did I, but once the tremulous first steps had been completed we would chat happily and plan our times together. It was then that she told me that they didn't approach every single young man who came to the hotel; only the good looking ones. Lisa it appeared was the leader and Marilyn followed.  I was flattered.


              One of the first things she wanted to know was my name. "I heard your dad call you Dal, but surely that's not your real name?"

              "It isn't." I replied. "My name is spelt  D a l z e i l.  It is pronounced Dayeel with a very soft 'Y' and Mum chose it because it couldn't be shortened easily. Surprisingly,  she was the first one to shorten it calling me just Dal. That's what everyone calls me now."

              Marilyn thought about that. "Well I quite like Dalzeil, it sounds quite romantic, and so if you don't mind I will call you that. I quite like my boyfriend having a romantic name." Boyfriend? We had only just been introduced!  If I thought that this was an unusual way to arrange things it didn’t occur to me, what I did think was that as her boyfriend, although temporary, I would have rights of exploration and discovering or even uncovering her breasts was the object of that exploration. Yes, I was eighteen and my priorities then were of a very basic nature. Marilyn, it turned out, was also eighteen, the daughter of the owner of the hotel, and had lived in Torquay all her life, consequently she knew the area well. We went to the cinema a couple of times, walked the front hand in hand, drank dubious cups of coffee in various cafés and even went swimming in the sea one exceptional warm day. Viewing her in a bathing costume, particularly when it was wet was very arousing necessitating another dip in the cold water. It wasn’t too long before I was allowed a kiss and we both found that to be a very pleasant occupation, therefore we kissed a lot and those kisses became quite heated. I am sure that most young men then would remember the first time they caressed a breast, I certainly did when Marilyn allowed me the liberty. It was a heady experience and my body reacted as you would expect. It was always outside her clothes, though. Well brought up girls in those days were indoctrinated with warnings about being ‘fast‘ or ‘loose‘ and the terrible consequences of letting a boy go too far. I didn't stop to ask if this was normal for her 'friendships' I was too busy enjoying the experience.


              As the days went by, our kisses and intimacy became more intense until at last I was able to insinuate my hand inside her bra and feel those wonderful, warm soft globes. I was so overcome with having finally managed to feel a girl’s naked breasts that any thought of making the experience good for her, went out of my mind. Marilyn subtly reminded me that this exploration was intended for both of us to enjoy. I quickly learned that her nipples were particularly responsive, and my manipulation of those would bring gasps of delight from her. Marilyn was too timid though, to explore the burgeoning lump in my trousers.


              Being the daughter of the owner, Marilyn had access to rooms not normally open except for functions. She wouldn't come to my room no matter how I pleaded. Thus it was that we were able to make use of a small dining room used only occasionally. It was not large enough to accommodate all the patrons except as an overflow for very busy times. In this room we could be together and undisturbed. Here I managed to persuade Marilyn to unbutton her blouse and lift her brassiere and for the first time I could see in the flesh those wonderful protuberances that would keep me enthralled for the rest of my life. I handled them and caressed them, kissed and sucked on them. This was heaven! I was intrigued that Marilyn also enjoyed the experience learning a lesson that would stand me in good stead. Girls liked to be caressed without hurry. I also learned another lesson, that for a man too much sensation over too long a period would lead to a pain in the groin. We were young and learning together, but under no circumstances would I be allowed to take my erection out of my trousers. Nor would I be allowed to move my hand up her leg any further than the top of her stockings. (It was 1957, panty hose had not been invented then.)


              Most nights I would return to my room in a state of discomfort in the area of the groin. Years later, I would hear this ache referred to as 'Blue Balls' Very apt I thought. I needed to relieve this discomfort sometimes two or even three times during the night as my memory recalled the wonders of Marilyn’s breasts. Even so, I would wake with yet another throbbing erection which would still assail me even after emptying my bladder. I took to using the sink in the room for that purpose, fearful of the embarrassment I would suffer should I be seen walking down the corridor with an obvious bulge at the front of my dressing gown.


              It really started as two young people taking advantage one of the other to explore the wonderful world that a man and a woman could create together. Yet whilst this was happening another emotion crept into the situation. I got to like her and she got to like me. Thus it was that our kisses were now given and received with an emotion neither of us really understood. Even so the fact that emotion was present made the kisses sweeter. In the words of the hit song by Jimmy Rodgers that year ’Kisses sweeter than Wine’. I drank of the wine, it was sweet and I loved the heady effect.


              Our time together was quickly coming to an end. The day before my departure Marilyn was very upset, as was I. From time to time her eyes would become very moist and small tears would gather in the corners and I too got emotional, but young men don’t cry. We were in the little dining room and our cuddling and kissing had become very passionate. I was allowed to move my hand beyond her stocking tops to caress the soft, warm flesh just below heaven. The devil in me urged me to go further, the good angel cautioned. I listened to the good angel not without many misgivings though. The angel reminded me that what I was doing was becoming close to dangerous. This was further than I had ever gone with a girl. As a parting gift, Marilyn gave me a little locket with a photo of herself. It was a cheap plastic locket, but the thought behind it filled me with warm feelings.

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