Christmas Present Delivery

Wednesday morning. The big day. But it didn’t feel like it, and in fact I was chatting on MSN till about 9am and then I thought I better get ready. I did the full routine, shower and shave, and as usual I found my pussy warm and wet, but I didn’t have that desperate urge to play with myself I normally have when I’m expecting to get a really big fuck, and there was no urgent need for fingers as there usually is. I did it anyway, because it’s nice, but I didn’t HAVE to do it like I usually do.

But I went to my dressing-room glowing with natural moisturiser and a fair helping of Nivea, my pussy looking plump and pink and shiny in the mirror, with only the tiniest triangle of fuzz above it. I tried to do a Christmas tree shape and failed dismally, so I was left with just a dark smudge. Different, but better suited to 25 than 35, never mind 40.

Next, the all-important clothing choice. I started with undies in white, sheer, see through, outrageously expensive and very, very sexy. On top, a simple white dress, short-ish, and with a flared skirt. It was long enough for stockings, so I chose tan holdups, and white heels. All I needed was a bunch of flowers and I’d look like a bride.

Hmm. So I thought, lose the dress and shoes, and slip on a dressing-gown, also white, see through, and a bit of a cliché. Now I looked like a mistress waiting for a lover, which is what I was, I guess, but it didn’t feel right.

So I had a think, and finally chose a simple grey cashmere t-shirt dress with long sleeves and a pretty little scoop neck. I felt instantly comfortable, and it looked great in the mirror, proving once again that looking this good while at the same time looking like you haven’t really bothered costs an arm and a leg, and one of the reasons I’d chosen this was because you see most of my legs most of the time. It’s so short it’s meant to be worn with leggings, but obviously I didn’t bother. In fact I took off the pretty white knickers as well, and decided to let him see the goods in broad daylight for the first time.

Walking about the house, getting the coffee things ready as if he was just a polite visitor, I was more and more convinced it was the right choice. I’ve always liked the feel of air between my legs, a tiny change from how it feels when I have knickers on that makes me constantly aware of my pussy and the way it feels, the way it moves when I walk.

Mid-morning, we’d said, and I’d sent the children off making snowmen in the gardens where the snow hadn’t melted and having lunch with friends, so the coast was clear. But when is mid-morning? I was ready by ten, just after, and decided to wait in the sun-room so Rog could see I was in place and not shagging madly in a different room. We’d talked about what ifs, and one one of them was just that. What if he jumped on me as soon as he was through the front door and fucked me madly in the hallway? Not likely on the tiled floor, we decided, but he might just try to bundle me through the nearest door and into the living-room. Previous experience suggested he liked it fast and rough, but that was the whole point of this morning – so he could take his time. That and so Roger could enjoy watching. I quite liked the idea of being taken roughly on the carpet, as it happens, but I knew I’d just have to make a run for it down the hallway, and try to get him into the sun-room before he threw me to the floor. If I was that lucky.

Eleven. Is eleven mid-morning? I would have thought so, but I was still alone. Either he wasn’t coming at all, or he thought that making me wait was an amusing little trick that would make me more desperate and more grateful when he did finally show up, and I’ve got to admit that on any other day he would have been dead right, and I’d have been jumping around with a raging fire between my legs. But not today.

I sat listening to Classic FM, waiting, strangely calm. This time of day, on another Wednesday a couple of weeks ago, waiting for a man I don’t like and didn’t want to have sex with, I spent the morning with my hand up my skirt working myself into a frenzy. Today I was reading Philip French in The Guardian and guessing we’ll have to go and see Avatar even though it sounds like exactly the kind of film I hate, when the doorbell rang, and my heart actually skipped a little beat, but that was all. No hot flush, no little tremor. No swelling. Most unusual. Before I got up I ran a finger between my lips, softly opening to my touch with their usual mild wetness. All working normally, I thought, just not that thrilled about the wine bar’s Italian Stallion. Must be because it’s his third visit.

I didn’t have to try very hard to make myself look and feel calm and unruffled as I smoothed my grey dress down as far as it would go and padded off in bare feet to the front door and let it swing open, and you know, the sight of his smug, confident smile was rather irritating. I could see him looking at me and thinking “just another silly housewife who doesn’t get enough from her husband and can’t get enough of my cock instead”, and I wanted to slap his face, or at the very least tell him what I’d done in his wine bar with the golfers. Which he’d seen, sort of, and suspected, but I’d love to give him the details. And tell him he was not the first man to be staring up my skirt like that.

Because he was staring. I’d ushered him through the house quickly and got us both positioned in front of Roger’s hidden cameras before he started anything as planned, but on top of that, I didn’t want him looking around too much: a house is so personal, isn’t it, and says so much about the people who live there, and I didn’t want him to have time to form any opinions or see too deeply into our lives. In the sun-room I sat him in the chair facing me as I perched on the sofa with my feet tucked under me and all three cameras beaming down on me, and I hardly needed to part my knees the dress was so short. I let him drool a bit, and wittered about the snow and ice, enjoying the feeling that the balance of power was shifting back my way, and he might be wanting me rather more than I wanted him. I made a small joke about snowmen and using carrots for something other than noses, and under cover of the laughter moved my knees wider apart, and I could tell by his expression that the view had improved.

This was the first time he’d actually seen my pussy, and even I have to say I think it’s quite cute as pussies go, especially when its all freshly shaved and moisturised, and even more so when you’re sitting politely in my lounge drinking coffee and looking at it up my skirt. It’s just so unusual, you see, that it gets people’s attention, and right now it had got Marco’s. He was on his way to work, even though Wednesday is normally his day off. Christmas rush, he said as he came in, so I have to be at work by four, which explained why he was wearing those tight black trousers that got every pair of knickers in the place twitching in time as he walked, because they showed off his attributes all too clearly. Often a tight crutch can have a magnifying effect on a man, but in Marco’s case it was all real, and what you see is what you get. I should know, I’d got it twice already. And if any more proof was needed it was happening now, and even while he was sitting down I could see the bulge expanding as he stared up my skirt at the promised land.

Interestingly, being stared at was making me wet, and for the first time I started to feel a little burning sensation between my thighs as my pussy puffed up, and I hoped Roger’s cameras were catching the little wet sparkles as I began to ooze gently. One of them was, in fact, and I should bloody well think so after spending hours and hours at the weekend, standing, sitting and lying around, following orders from 007 on the phone from the study ten feet away, getting the angles just right.

Actually, I enjoyed it. I’ve always loved showing off, even to my husband of 12 years, but a lot more so to the gawping Italian waiter opposite me. Huge cock or not, he was entranced by a wet pussy, just another guy with a hard-on hoping for the chance to use it. I shifted my position, showed him a little more, and with his eyes remained riveted between my legs I decided it was time to start.

‘So, four pm’, I said. He smiled as he put his cup down and started to get out of his chair. I held up my hand, palm forward. ‘That gives us at least 3 hours’ I said, ‘no need to rush.’

I physically couldnt get my knees any further apart than they were while I was sitting on my feet so I shifted, one foot flat on the sofa beside me, lifted the knee upright, my skirt bunched up high, so exposed, I felt it’s the way you might sit after you’ve had sex with a man, not before. His jaw was hanging slack. I don’t know what he’d expected from this morning, but it wasn’t this.

‘Like it?’ I asked, waggling my knee so he knew I meant my pussy, He just nodded, caught off balance by direct action and even more direct talking. I gave myself a little stroke between the legs, tracing the shape of my lips with one finger. ‘I’ll let you do this yourself in a while’ I promised, ‘but first, talk to me.’ It had only just come to me this idea, but it was a good one.

It’s beautiful, he said, and I’m gonna lick it, just starting with the tip of my tongue.

Now that sounded like a nice idea – him telling me what he was going to do (and actually doing it later of course) but it wasn’t quite what I had in mind for this conversation. ‘No, no,’ I said, and used two fingers to spread myself a little, ‘I want to talk about all your other women.’

You mean the others?

‘Yes, the others’, and I went back to teasing myself with one fingertip, glad I’d chosen the black nail polish and not purple. Little things, but so important. ‘I want to know details’, I said, settling back and lifting the other foot from under me, so I was sat in front of him (and an electronically distant Roger) with my feet wide apart on the edge of the cushion and my pussy exposed and vulnerable. Marco blinked. Clearly his wasn’t going the way he’d planned, which was good, I thought. ‘So tell me about them. I mean, I know you’ve had…’ and I reeled off a list of names, all the ones who had gone cold on him or vice versa that we girls thought was a sign of a completed mission when we discussed it one lunchtime. He just nodded, watching my finger slithering around as I got wetter and wetter talking about all the wives and girlfriends he’d fucked. Suddenly knowing, rather than suspecting, was rather exciting, in a curious sort of way.

‘But there are others, aren’t there’, I was going, as I let half a finger disappear from view. He didn’t say anything, because he wasn’t sure if telling me the truth would make me angry and lose him the fuck, or if it would make me want to try harder and outdo all the others. He was smart enough to realise that a woman can go either way. I added a second finger inside myself, so he’d get the idea and he nodded yes. ‘Tell me’, I breathed, as throaty as I could, which is quite a lot, on the right occasion.

He shook his head. It wouldn’t be right.

‘Okay, not all, then. Just one or two.’

Louise, he said, but that’s hardly a surprise. Find me a man in a fifty-mile radius who she hasn’t had and THAT would be a shock, especially one she can get a favour from. ‘Good?’ I asked, pushing in past the knuckle, feeling myself hot and slippery, and he shrugged. Okay, he said, but regular.

‘Ah,’ I smiled, but then he shocked me. Once a month. For her account. We all run accounts and pay at the end of the month. Louise obviously had a slightly different arrangement and I wondered if he could see my pussy opening and the hot juice starting to ooze. He smiled a bit sheepishly. If you want he said, and I felt the warm gush around my fingers as I realised what he was suggesting, and in the same instant started to think about paying my bar bill by fucking Marco once a month. I hadn’t said no, but then he went on, of course, I don’t own the place... he looked at me steadily, and it took me a second, but I got there in the end. ‘She has to fuck Enzo as well?’

Yes, she does.

‘And so would I?

You and me once a month Enzo, every time the account reaches £100.

It was, I must admit, a tempting arrangement. Not because we need the money, but because the idea was so thrilling. ‘So can we think of this as a down payment?’ I was half serious, and you know what? I’m kind of glad he said we couldn’t, partly because he was back to that almost gloating smile again as he said No, we arranged this first, so it has nothing to do with the accounts, and second because if he’d said yes I might well have ended up doing it just to see what it felt like, and I might well have got stuck in that rut again. Remind me to tell you about that some time.

‘So this is just for fun then?’, and I slipped my fingers out and spread myself open, his eyes getting as wide as my slippery lips and for a moment I thought he might actually dribble.

Yes, he said, just fun.

‘Then I’d better start having some’ I said and as he tensed himself to rise I stopped him, lifting my left palm up again “like a bloody policeman”, Rog said later. ‘Wait’, I told him, ‘I said me, not you.’

It doesn’t take long, with two fingers curled inside and my thumb rubbing softly round my clit, but I left the thumb raised out of the way, and gently fucked myself with two fingers, which works, but can take a good ten minutes. Five, if someone’s watching, I discovered, since i could see the clock very clearly from where I was sitting, which meant Roger would be able to see me very clearly as well, thanks to the tiny camera hidden inside. My face gets all scrunched up when I cum, but apart from that it’s quite a horny sight, lots of gasping, heaving shoulders,and little pink lips squeezing wetly around my fingers once, twice, three times, on and on six, seven and a little tiny eighth one to finish off.

Marco was just sitting stock still staring, and now we knew who wanted who the most I started to feel a bit more like my usual self. ‘Your turn’ I said, and he started to get up again, and again I stopped him. ‘No, I mean it’s your turn, and I’ll watch.’ But he didn’t like the idea, and eventually said he didn’t want to waste it. Meaning, he explained, that he could fuck for hours, but only cum once. ‘Okay, that’s fine. Just rub it for a short while then. I’ll even keep you company’, and I let my hand drop between my legs again, where pussy was definitely ready for more.

He had to stand up to unbutton and unzip, that’s how tight his trousers are, and then he unfurled it, that’s the only word that covers it, and left it sticking out of his boxers, standing lazily to attention as he sat down in his chair. The camera on the wall behind me, disguised as a bit of burglar alarm, saw that chair almost as clearly as it saw the sofa I was sitting on, feet on the floor, legs wide, fingers busy as he started to rub himself. It was massively long, his cock, easily longer than two of his hands, never mind two of mine, but not very thick. Shame, because girls like thick, but if it had been in proportion he probably would have passed clean out every time he saw a pretty girl.

‘Very nice’, I breathed, and he preened himself in the light of my obvious honesty. It was a very impressive sight as it straightened in his hand and stood its full 28 centimeters. ‘So, does anyone else settle their account that way?’ I asked, and pushed a second finger inside with the one that had somehow slipped inside when he started rubbing his cock. I knew right away the answer was yes, just from the look on his face. ‘More than one?’

No, he shook his head, just one other lady.

‘Tell me?’

No, I couldn’t. But he was rubbing himself faster and the idea of telling me was obviously turning him on.

‘Someone I know then?’, and he looked a bit cross, as if I wasn’t supposed to have guessed. But he wouldn’t tell me, though I could see that thinking about it was good for him, because his casual rubbing was getting a bit firmer and faster all the time. ‘So tell me someone you’ve had who I know, but haven’t already guessed.’

I can’t, he said, it’s not fair to any of them.

‘True. But fun, so tell me.’ And he did. She’s not my best friend, but she’s been round the table lunchtimes often enough for me to believe she’s Mrs Prim and Proper, which just goes to show how wrong you can be. I mean, she doesn’t go to church every Sunday but she does go sometimes. I always thought it was all part of the act and now I know. Quite exciting really, and I told Marco that just to reward him, and keep his interest, and said I was almost cumming again just thinking about her stuck on the end of that great long cock, and the I just couldn’t help asking if she was noisy.

She scream a lot, bring the house down, he said, and she bite and scratch too. He frowned, and said he didn’t like that because he didn’t like his ladies to see the evidence of the others.

‘Oh, so there’s more than one a day then.’

He nodded. Mostly regulars, he said, but sometimes they just walk in off the street and they have to have it. He smiled at his cock and so did I, and at the idea of women just out shopping who stop by for lunch and end up pinned to the wall in the ladies at my local wine bar made me very much wetter than I was already.

‘Regulars?’ I asked. Oh yes, he said, some ladies come in for lunch two or three times a week, and then I did cum, and scream the house down too.

‘Better bring that over here’ I said in between gasps, and I got him standing in front of me, and though he had his back to the clock and completely blotted me out, we were both in profile on both of the wall cameras as I plopped the end of it into my mouth and began to do the ice-cream routine, licking all around, then sucking, then just teasing it with the tip of my tongue. ‘It’s no wonder you only cum once – you’re saving the rest for later, aren’t you?’ and I swallowed him deep to encourage his answer, but he just smiled.

I had my feet wide apart either side of his, I was holding his cock in one hand to steady it while I sucked it, and that left my right hand free to cup his balls. I squeezed them gently and swallowed some more centimetres, and when I let it slither back out in the open more than half of it was still dry. It is a monster, but I love sucking cock. Just before I popped it back in I asked again if he was seeing someone later and he beamed an affirmative before I lost sight of his face.

There was honestly no point in trying to get all of it in, but equally no way I was letting him hold back with me so that Mrs Unknown could have the benefit later. I concentrated on the end of it, the wet round head wetter still as I slobbered and dribbled all over it, sliding my hand right up to the top, making my fingers wet and slithering it down to the base, making it as soft and sensuous and wet as possible. He liked that, and he liked having his balls gently squeezed as well.

But I needed to see him properly, so I let go and pulled his trousers down below his knees (definitely Lycra, they were like ski pants) and then his boxers. His cock really is a magnificent length, straight as a wooden pole. As I went back to sucking and squeezing I suddenly had a thought. No idea where it came from, but there it was, fully-formed, straight out of nowhere.

I let him plop into the open, but continued to rub him one-handed, looked up at him and said ’so when John decides it’s time for bed and goes home early ‘ (he only lives across the road and this happens often on the basis that he has an early start or is tired or whatever) ‘he leaves Anne behind and he knows you’re going to fuck her?’ It was a guess but a good one, because his eyes gave it away. He smiled his answer anyway.

They’re a tiny couple, well suited. He’s no more than five foot six, but very slight, probably about ten stone (Roger says to tell you 65 kilos) and she’s not much more than five foot, and probably less than eight stone, if that. But pretty? Dark hair and eyes, beautiful even white teeth, and a silvery little laugh that makes you think of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, of home baking and the Good Fairy. Until now, anyway. I could easily see why Marco would want her, but of course he had no idea just how interested I might be in the idea that John leaves her behind to get fucked

‘Does he do that often?’ I asked, and slid my fingers back inside a pussy that was coming to the boil judging by the hot wetness I found inside. ‘I mean she’, I corrected, ‘does she stay behind often?’ He looked down between my legs, saw my fingers sliding gently around, in and out, and watched my hand stroking his long, long and very hard cock, so hard it was almost quivering with tension. Most weekends he said and I hear myself gasp, felt my pussy clench round my fingers. ‘How long has this been going on?’ I asked, and dipped my head to take his cock back in my mouth.

Six months, maybe. Since her birthday.

April. Her birthday’s in April. I remember the party. Or it might have been May. I know it was warm because Roger and I had stopped for a shag on the way home. It was the first time Rog had got lucky because I’d got my knickers all hot and wet watching Marco. Up till then I thought he was just another Italian waiter. Pretty, pantomime accent, a devil with the ladies. Then he’d worn the ski pants and clearly he was in a class of his own. I remember watching it as he walked and being fascinated that anyone could walk around with something that huge in their pants.

They both stayed behind, he said, and I could hear his breathing was fast, his voice tight in his throat. He said it was her birthday present.

‘He watched you fuck his wife?’ I asked, fingers now in and out very fast, matching time with my left hand going from base to tip and back and my mouth, sucking, licking and slurping (when I wasn’t talking) and I was making as much noise with my fingers in a pussy suddenly wide and wetter than ever, and he said yes, he held her hand

‘While you fucked her?’

He bent her over the big table and lifted up her dress for me. Then he sat in front and held her hand while I I … — fucking hell!, and he was filling my mouth, thick hot splashes on my tongue and my lips as he tried to pull it out and stop himself, but it was too late, jets of it lashing my face flying over my shoulders and disappearing onto the carpet behind me and I was trying to get it back in my mouth to get the last drops but I only had one hand to spare because my pussy was gripping the fingers of my right hand in a big squeeze, and I was cumming too, picturing little Anne with her skirt up, her knickers round her ankles and her tiny little bum stuck up backwards while Marco fucked with something so long it must have been up in her throat at the end when he fell on top of her and filled her with those long, hot sprays.

‘Mmmm’ I said licking my lips afterwards, ‘that was rather lovely, wasn’t it?’

I didn’t want to, he said sulkily, I was saving it for .. for… and he gestured between my legs where my fingers were still up to the knuckle in hot pussy.

‘You still can. I’ll get it back for you’, I promised, softly stroking his drooping cock, slimy with his cum , still truly massive even as it deflated. I mean, no word of a lie, but completely soft it’s bigger than most are when they’re hard. ‘Whoever you were seeing later will have to go without’ I said as I pulled him down to lie beside me, heads and feet together, so I could see his cock as I stroked it, and my pussy was under his nose. He’d seen it, but not touched it, and it was time for that to change. In fact it was after one o’clock, I noticed, smiling at a distant Roger and bending the long floppy cock back into my mouth for a little lick and a suck.

I raised one knee, offering him my pussy, and he used his hands first, fingers playing and spreading the wetness, and then wiggling in. ‘So has he watched her since then?’ Ii asked, opening my thighs wider and raising my hips towards him, pushing his fingers deeper.

A couple of times he said, and I moaned at the thought of John sat there in a dark corner while Marco fucked his wife with something longer than her own forearm. And probably thicker too. Do you always get like this? he asked, fingers squelching around inside me.

‘Always’, I said, ‘I’m a very lubricious girl.’

A doctor told me that years ago, when I was still young and embarrassed about making a mess on his paper towels. You’re just naturally lubricious, he said, when he saw I was embarrassed about being so wet, Think yourself lucky, he told me, this is just an examination. It was far more than that, actually, but I was too young (18 or 19) to tell him that so I just lay there with my legs apart dribbling warm juice and wishing he’d use his fingers instead of the lolly-stick, or better still, get his cock out and do me right there with my legs in the air.

Anyway.

I sucked in silence for a while, and I could see Marco watching his fingers slipping in and out of me. Boys never seem to get tired of watching things go in and out of a pussy, I’m delighted to say, and as he watched I could feel the first thickening in his shaft as his cock began to grow, and I thought it doesn’t even need to be hard, there must be seven inches of floppy cock he could stick inside me and it would still be bigger than most, and when he said a lot of women say it’s bigger than their husband while it’s like that, I realised I’d spoken myself, that I’d taken it out of my mouth and was holding it one hand while I watched it as if it was alive – and then said ‘it’s big enough already’ with a sort of disbelief, even though I’d seen it, held it, sucked it and fucked it when it was fully-grown and fully-hard.

He was back in macho mode right away, him and his 28 centimetres, which was a pity because it coincided exactly with the moment I decided I wanted him in me, soft and limp, and feel him growing hard inside me, so I was back to being a silly little housewife mesmerised by a giant cock again as I said ‘come on’, and shifted round onto my knees in front of the sofa so he could get behind me and feed it in, easily of course because I was so wet and swollen open, and it felt lovely, all that softness just slipping inside and it was large and filling but he had to go and spoil it all by saying see, bigger than your husband already, which was true, but not really what was on my mind

I mean, I don’t go around fucking guys and waiting for them to put it in and then the first thought on my mind is whether its bigger than Rog or not. I might think that when i first see it, but I probably already know. That’s why I choose them, because they’re bigger. I mean no-one goes looking for little ones, do they? So comparing their cock with Roger is the LAST thing on my mind when they start to fuck me for the first time. And I’ll tell you something else that’s odd. It’s always the lads with the big cocks who want me to compare them to Roger, like they need to be told it’s bigger and therefore feels better, as if they’re the ones with the inferiority complex. I don’t know.

But you can’t have conversations like that when a complete stranger is fucking you for the first time, or at least I can’t. I just want them to get on with it, and that’s what I wanted now. Yes it was lovely and big even soft, and it felt really nice, and what I wanted was to enjoy feeling him get hard in my pussy, grow thick and strong because he wanted to fuck me, not because he’s got a bigger cock than my husband. But because this wasn’t the moment to tell him that, I did the traditional thing and agreed with him and told him it was much bigger soft than Roger is hard (true, but so what, at this moment) and he immediately started to stiffen up, and said something like your husband never gave you anything like this, eh? and stabbed it inwards, making me squeal and gasp, and agree that he never had, and in fact no-one ever had, because though I’ve had one larger one in me, I never let the guy use it in case he killed me, so this was definitely the biggest cock I’ve ever been fucked by and I told him that between gasps as he began to ride me with something that was more than half hard but not really ready yet and was STILL making me yell and moan

But instead of concentrating on me and how much I was liking it (and I most certainly was, loving it, in fact) he kept going on about how much better than Rog it was and how all his ladies told him it was better than their husband. I wish I’d never mentioned the other ladies now. I mean, it’s as big as a family-size box of Cornflakes, for heaven’s sake, so how could it not be better, even if only once for the novelty value.

I just buried my face in the cushions and let him carry on until he’d made me cum, which didn’t take long, I have to say, and is almost certainly the first time I’ve been fucked to orgasm by a half-hard cock. Normally they need to get hard, but I wasn’t telling him that. ‘Slowly’, I said to him, ‘fuck me really slowly’, and it was a really weird feeling, having something that big and soft inside, and of course it flopped out a couple of times, but he put it back in straight away, and I could have stayed like that for hours, to be honest, but he was off again, asking if hubby makes me cum four times a day, and it was all getting a bit wearing now that we’d found out he was a hubby fetishist, and I almost told him Rog was watching, but decided against it. Pity though, because Rog likes the ones who get like this, all chatty and show-offy.

But he’d be listening anyway, I realised, maybe not now in the office, but later tonight when he comes home and can turn the sound up, so he’ll get the full benefit anyway. And once I’d got the important business of cumming out of the way (for the time being at least) I spread my knees wide and tilted my bum up to give him (and Marco) the best view of his cock kind of wobbling into me, and I realised it wasn’t properly hard even though when it was in as far as he could get it I felt as full as I normally want to feel. Lovely.

And as it’s Christmas, I joined in, telling him how good he felt inside me (not a word of a lie that) and how much nicer it felt than my husband’s cock (also perfectly true, but find me a random cock that doesn’t) and how much I wanted him to get fully hard and give me twice as much as hubby and make me cum again and again (which was all true but sounds silly when you say it cold like that, like reading a porno script) and how much I wanted to feel him cum in me again (true once more, but also different to the rest because it made me tremble a bit, and made my pussy wet again, which Marco noticed right away, which was odd because up until now he hadn’t given a thought to me, except to make me say how big his cock is and how much bigger than Roger’s it is, and so on, and so on.

But he must have felt this sudden little extra gush of hotness around his half-hard cock and it got his attention, and I felt him straightening almost immediately, and he started asking me how much I wanted him to cum in me which is difficult to answer at the best of times but when 99 per cent of your brain activity is focused on a cock like a donkey’s growing inside you, dribbly mumbles are the best you can hope for. Fact is, out of ten I wanted it 99, and his cock was hard enough now for me to start moving too, sliding along it back and forwards, as I said ‘yes I want you to cum in me, cum now’ and so on, but he was holding my bum in both hands, slowing me down, forcing me to be fucked at the same slow pace he’d been going when he was soft and I knew he was going to talk about it some more, but luckily he didn’t ask me if I thought his cum would be better than Roger’s, but instead wanted me to tell him I wanted his cum in me where only a husband should cum, and this time I agreed with him completely, and so joined in a hundred per cent, telling him to cum right up inside me and do it now.

But he wasn’t ready for that, and instead he pulled himself out, lifted me onto the sofa properly and buried his head between my legs and started lapping away like a thirsty terrier, which is rubbish as foreplay but after I’ve been fucked and made to cum a good hard licking is absolutely the right thing to do, and I had my feet practically horizontal each side of me so my thighs were as wide as they can go and his tongue could reach as deeply as possible, and given another 60 seconds I would have cum loudly enough to be heard at Old Trafford, except that just then the postman peered in through the window.

He often brings parcels round the back when there’s no-one home, and leaves them on the step, and that’s just what he was doing now, a big brown Amazon box in his hands and a totally gobsmacked look on his face as he looked through the French windows and saw me with my legs apart and man on his knees between them, quite obviously licking me out. He raised the box up a few inches, pulled an apologetic face and placed it gently on the ground by the doors, and started to back away, still staring at the back of Marco’s head, or maybe at his naked arse. I forgot we’d taken his trousers off. Almost like a cartoon, it was, and I made it worse, lifting one hand from Marco’s bobbing head, and waving goodbye as he vanished from view. Hopefully he’d just assume it was Roger.

I’d quite lost the thread of the moment now, and so I slowed Marco’s head bobs, the fingers of my left hand twined in his hair, and slid my right down under his nose, holding myself open and guiding his head to lick me slower, and much higher, and together we teased my clit for a while, until I asked ‘who’s your naughtiest wife then, and don’t say it’s me because you know perfectly well I didn’t mean that’, and I tugged his head back so he couldn’t reach me, and just dipped two fingers into myself while he watched with greedy eyes. ‘I meant out of all the others, as you know’. He reached up and slipped a finger in underneath mine and I do like that very much. Two fingers from two people feel like one thing with a life of its own, as if there’s an animal inside me, fighting to get deeper and deeper. That was working already when he said without hesitation, I can’t say her name because you know her too well, and as more hotness oozed around our fingers we had a brief yes you can no I can’t argument, but in the end I settled for the details instead of a name.

She invited him round, he said and when he got there she was in black PVC teddy and spiked thigh-high boots, with a range of toys and equipment spread out on the bed in readiness. She made him tie her down and then paddle, whip and spank her before using the two biggest vibrators in her collection one after the other until she was begging for mercy. Then he fucked her brains out like this, he said and rose up on his knees, pushed himself back into my pussy and proceeded to fuck mine out as well, which was very nice and ended with me screaming and yelling and sitting up with my arms wrapped round him trying to force myself down on his cock.

It doesn’t matter how big they are and how much is in you already, at times like that you need to feel bone on bone, you need to know there’s no more left to have, you need the solid thump of body against body. I do, I want to know I’ve got it all. After I’d finished cumming I let myself slide forwards and pushed him flat back on the carpet, and rode him long and slow, concentrating on the feel of all that hard flesh sliding in and out.

The first touch, where it nudged my pussy lips open, is often the one I like the best, and I sat there above him, making it as slow as I could, prolonging the moment, but then as I let my weight carry me down, it spread the opening wide as well and that felt good too. Then the round head of it popped inside me, and I could feel all of it in me, gripped by my pussy like a luscious fat ping-pong ball. Then as I slid down a little further I could feel it rising up inside me, but the nerve-endings there aren’t as delicate. I could feel it going higher, and I could feel the length of it, hard and heavy and warm, but most of all I could feel more of it slipping into me at the very entrance, more and more and more. It was a high up as I can comfortably go and I still wasn’t resting my weight on him. There must have been a couple more inches still to go and as I relaxed my muscles and eased further down I could feel the tip of it right up inside me, reaching a dead end. ‘I’m full’, I said happily, and I was. There was no more room inside.

He was watching me quite carefully as he said you don’t need no toys, not a question, and I said ‘no, not really’. And you don’t want to pay no bills. ‘No’, I answered, ‘I don’t’. You just want the fuck. ‘Yes’, I said, ‘I just want the fuck’, and I started to ride him again, slowly because I wanted to go on relishing all 28 of his centimetres, and because I wanted him to last as long as possible. I made myself last as long as I could, but it wasn’t easy with all that cock going in and out, and when I sat down and pressed my lips around the base of it and started to cum I looked up at the clock and saw that ten minutes had been the best I could manage, but I didn’t care, and I tipped my head back and howled.

When it was over he rolled me on my face, lay between my widespread legs, slid it back inside and fucked me about as hard as anyone has ever fucked me, and I lost the plot completely, thrashing about and moaning pathetically, sometimes shouting fuck me harder over and over again, cumming twice more before he stopped. It was after two, and we didn’t have long left, I realised, as I was asking him where he wanted to cum. In your pussy, he said and I knew that. ‘I mean where’, and I waved an arm around. In your bed where your husband fucks you he said, and I’ll be honest, my pussy twitched and I felt a little ooze of wetness at the idea. But I said no, and he said here then, patting the sofa, so every time you watch TV together you’ll remember it.

He obviously hadn’t noticed the lounge door on the way in, and I didn’t tell him. No point spoiling the moment. I lay back and spread my legs, and he clambered between them and slid half of it inside. Palms down flat, arms straight, head bent down to watch himself going in and out, there was still more cock inside me than most guys have got when they’re pressed up against you, and I have to say it was a very erotic sight, all those inches poised above me about to slide in, and feeling the same amount of cock already inside me as well.

He did it like that for a few minutes, then had a breather. Soon he panted, but not yet, and then started to fuck me again, just lifting his bum in the air and pushing it down, moving eight inches of cock in and out of me with each thrust, slowly, then steady, then fast, the faster and finally going gangbusters while I thrashed around screaming and cumming and then he stopped again, gasping for breath and getting more than a bit sweaty.

Now he said, now I cum in you, and it was exciting being told, even when you already know, and for the umpteenth time that day my pussy just got wetter than it had been and as the warm ooze seeped round the edges he went back to the press-up position again and watched himself moving inside me, not slow, but not fast, and then he said you want me to cum now, which was a silly question seeing as I’d got my arms and legs wrapped around him and was telling him alternately to fuck me and to cum now, but he was asking if I was ready and I was shouting ‘yes, yes, yes’, and he was asking it’s good, yes? and I said ‘yes it’s good, better than my husband’ and that did it for both of us. He just erupted, hot gushes right up inside one after the other and that was me cumming as well, hips jerking, heels drumming on his back and squealing as my pussy squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.

Rog did the sums that evening, and delighted in telling me that Marco was in the house just less than four hours and he was in me for rather more than two and a half of them. The rest of the time I was playing with myself or him, or he was. Rog thinks I managed to cum at least ten times, which is nowhere near my record (tell you later) but it’s hard to say, because all the stuff we did down on the carpet is off camera. Out of shot, Rog said in secret agent mode. You were supposed to be on the sofa not under it. All you can see is the occasional head or feet, though there is one long bit where you can see my face while I’m riding him, ten minutes from start to orgasm, and Rog says it’s one of his favourite moments from the day, though obviously he liked all the cock in pussy shots as well, and the side view of me sucking it. Bloody hell, he said, it’s enormous. Are you sure you’ll survive? I laughed, but I can tell you I ache today, high up inside, like you often do after you’ve fucked a really big cock. Just one of the reasons why they’re all right to play with once in a while, but you wouldn’t want to have it in you every night. That really WOULD hurt.

Christmas Present!

Today’s the day I get my special Christmas present. My hugely-endowed Italian waiter is coming round this morning on his way to work, and I shall have an hour or two of his undivided attention.

He thinks he’ll be getting mine as well, but the truth is i shall be thinking about the little cameras Rog has hidden, and the fact that he’ll be watching me on his laptop in the office.. We did this once before and it was easy to forget all the places I have to stand and sit and which way to face. Once someone gets their hand in my knickers and a finger in my pussy I find it hard to concentrate on anything else. So we had a practice run yesterday, me on the couch amusing myself, Rog watching on his PC and giving me instructions down the phone, and trying to work out where I should be and complaining because it’s hard to visualise where the guy might stand at any moment, or kneel, or put his head. It was all getting a bit wearing to be honest, and if it hadn’t been so snowy I would have gone out and dragged someone off the street. But he probably would have loved that.

Anyway, I’ve told him, it’s up to him to put his cameras where he thinks best, and leave the dirty work to me. He can do all the James Bond stuff and I’ll be Mata Hari and just get on with what I’m best at.

Although I’m still not sure I’m at my best right now. Normally I’d be dripping while I walked, and never out of the bathroom, or the bedroom if I’m alone, and just on tiptoe waiting for the doorbell, and gagging for a fuck. But not this time. Maybe because I’ve already had the pleasure, but I’m not feeling all the anticipation and excitement I usually do. That’s odd, because for days after we did it the first time all I could think of was doing it again, and then I definitely WAS in and out of the bathroom, dashing into the Ladies room all over town. So maybe I’ve used it all up. Or maybe it will all come gushing back when I start choosing my Christmas knickers for him to take off. That ’s always a wettening experience.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Christmas Presents/2

It was, I’ve got to say, Roger’s idea to to go to the wine bar last night.

I’d have been quite happy to stay home with a glass of wine and a box of chocolates. It was cold, apart from anything else, and as I said before, I’ve been oddly disinterested in Italian waiters for a couple of weeks now. But Rog said that if we don’t arrange it now, there’ll be no Christmas present. I wasn’t planning on having it with a big bow tied round it, so I don’t mind if it doesn’t happen until January. But Rog was determined. After all, he said, you’ve had it. I haven’t even seen it.

Which is true. He was in Germany at the time, and I was let off the lead to play alone. Maybe that’s why he was so keen, in case it was so big it was different. Either way, at 8 o’clock last night he was a lot more interested in it than I was. Not for the first time it was clear that he wanted to see me fuck someone rather more than I actually wanted to do it. I’ve always gone along with him in the past, on the basis that in general I think I get the better part of the deal so it’s the least I can do. And I must admit that I always end up enjoying it. I don’t have to close my eyes and think of England for the feel of fingers, tongues and cocks to make me start cumming, and I’ve had some really good fucks with people I wouldn’t buy the Big Issue from if I passed them in the street.

Partly I think it was because of the cameras. He’s always been a bit of a gadget-freak (well, he’s a man, and they are, aren’t they) and he was really excited by his new toys. And also he really enjoyed watching me and Mr Blackmail. He says he can see that I’m different on my own (I don’t know why, because half the time I forget he’s watching just as easily as I forgot about the cameras) but he also thinks the men are different. Not showing off, not on their best behaviour, and a bit more cavalier in the way they talk to me beforehand and push me around when we’re having sex. All this psychology on the basis of one man, mind, and him a blackmailer with an agenda so it’s hardly a representative sample. Exactly why we need to do it again, he said triumphantly, and waggled his car keys under my nose.

I was a bit worried about this. The plan was simple. Go to the wine bar, get Marco’s attention, invite him round on Tuesday or Wednesday, and let him do his best work while Roger’s little cameras record all the action and Roger watches on his laptop at work in real time as well. The hard part of that for me was the beginning. Getting Marco’s attention. He’s already been in my underwear, remember, and fucked me on the back seat of my car. As far as he’s concerned I think that’s just another box ticked, and he’ll move on to the next one. And he was getting through them at quite a speed, I can’t help thinking. Not that I know for sure, but girls pick up on lots of subtle things, and I did notice that one or two of the ladies who were enthusiastic oglers at his massive package, and giggled and simpered like schoolgirls whenever he leaned over them attentively refilling their glasses have stopped being so silly. There’s usually a very obvious reason for that.

And being a man it’s not possible for him to be subtle in any way, and we girls used to sit in there at lunchtimes and make lists of women he’d been with because he was all over the ones he hadn’t and practically ignored others who were just as pretty, if not more so. And then he’d stop being nice to the others, one by one. That’s her box well and truly ticked, laughed Georgie when he practically ignored a woman he’d been all over the previous week, and I felt my knickers heat up as I wondered what it would be like to have my box ticked by something the size of Blackpool Tower. I know now, of course, and I’ll admit it was rather good. Oh, all right then, fantastic. But, been there, done that, rather move on. So this one’s for Rog.

But I still have to get his attention. Rog reckoned that the fact Marco had seen me misbehaving with the golfers might have damaged his ego a little. Up until then, I’d been the model of good behaviour in there, it being on our own doorstep, etc, and so Marco would have assumed that it was his charm and personality that had wooed me, his accent that had seduced me and the enormous bulge in his tight black trousers that had persuaded me to drop my knickers for him. The fact that I’d later done it for others might mean he’s got something left to prove. That’s Roger’s theory, anyway.

I wasn’t too sure about that and I thought I needed something a bit more dependable, or no Christmas prezzy for Rog. Trouble is, he’d seen some of my usual, surefire, guaranteed to work, fuck me ploys, so I didn’t think there was much chance of them working on him a second time. I needed something hat would make a Wednesday morning visit to me more attractive than calling on whichever one he was working on at the moment. But I couldn’t think of anything on the spur of the moment, and neither could Rog. Let’s go down there and size up the opposition, he said in the end, and maybe if you give him another little look up your skirt and quick fondle out the back by the ladies he’ll get all fired up and promote you back to the top of his list. Bullseye by my clever husband, I think. I don’t like playing second fiddle to another woman, and although there was nothing personal in the very methodical way he was working his way through the clientèle, I still wasn’t happy about not being his number one target, but I was even more concerned that he’d turn me down flat in the interests of devoting time to someone he hadn’t already fucked, and without too much bother. I hadn’t exactly made it difficult for him.

In the end, I didn’t need a cunning plan. The winter weather that had crippled the south of England was moving North, and now we have snow, and it’s likely to last until Christmas, which is all very pretty, but meant that a lot of people stayed at home last night. There were less people in the wine bar than you’d normally find there on a Wednesday lunchtime, and there weren’t many women with skirts short enough for the bar staff to see their knickers. It was the only big drawback really. Marco could see, as planned, but so could the rest of them, and they were making the most of the opportunity. Oh well. I just smiled at them, pretended it was accidental, and I was unaware that if the lighting was only slightly brighter they’d have been able to read my lips under the table.

Rog did a head count of the enemy, as he described all the other women there. Six, including me. Three at least had been ticked off, or so I believed, and it seemed to me that Marco was completely ignoring Angie, while I think her coolness towards him was caused by rather more than the fact that her husband was with her. Another box crossed off the list. I’ll ask her next time we have lunch, but girls don’t give away secrets like that. If we were men we’d boast and compare notes. I know. Rog tells me, remember. But girls will lust after someone quite openly, and then never tell you when they get his clothes off, not even to say they have.

So just two left, unknown quantities, except one was old enough to be my Mum, never mind his, so I don’t think she’d be on the list in the first place. Not unless we get snowed in and he gets desperate for a fuck, Rog laughed, and we both realised at that same moment that Marco was indeed going to be short of a fuck this week thanks to the snow, unless someone volunteered to fill the gap. That’s when I realised a little flash of underwear might be enough to start him thinking. So I gave him a big one, wide and non-stop, while we examined our last remaining enemy. She was doing stuff with her eyes that hinted at future promise and had got his interest all right, but I was doing something with my knickers that guaranteed success, and I think it was working better than her fluttering eyelashes.

Better still, her husband was aware of her interest without really noticing it. If she stopped now it would drift to the back of his mind and maybe never re-surface, but if she carried on he was going to realise she was flirting with the waiter. I told Rog, and he sort of saw what I meant, but boys are so rubbish at reading signs like that. But he understood what I was saying and pointed out that I had the advantage because my hubby wouldn’t mind at all if I started flirting. ‘I’m showing the entire kitchen staff my knickers’ I said, ‘how much flirtier can I get?’

With so few people around, the kitchen was almost without work, and the three guys who work there were lounging behind the bar pretending to look out of the window at the snow while peering intently up my skirt.

However, that wasn’t the point. Marco had no idea that my hubby would be any more relaxed about all this than anyone else’s. In fact he wasn’t supposed to know anything of the sort. Rog was ahead of me on that, and almost out of his chair on his way to the gents before I’d finished thinking it, still less spoken. It’s a good job there weren’t may customers last night, or they’d all have thought Rog was incontinent. He was in and out of the toilet more often than your granny on a coach trip, and he was gone for long periods of time as well. Wish I’d brought a book, he complained when he came back from one lengthy absence. How’s it going?

Quite well, was the answer. Marco had been over and let me have a good look at the snake hips walk, the bubble butt and God’s gift to women all coiled up in his trousers. They must be made from Lycra, I thought while he was peaking, and then realised I was staring at his crutch like all the other dopey wives dreaming about a bit of midweek excitement. Which was probably not a bad thing, since that’s what I’d come here for, and probably not too far from the truth, I realised as I felt myself getting all puffy and wet inside my own little Lycra covering. Except mine was white, of course. And now really quite wet. It was a lovely feeling, to be honest, like meeting an old friend, and I realised I’d missed the thrill, these past few weeks. Oh, I’m not saying I haven’t had my nightly fuck with Rog and my morning play with myself. But the toybox has been firmly locked for a good long while now, which means I haven’t felt the urge for a really hard big-cock fuck. Until now. Looking at it, curled up in his pants, I was really feeling the urge quite strongly. ‘Roger’s in the gents’ I said quietly to Marco, not that he’d asked me at all, but it was a good start, ‘and when he comes back I think I might need to visit the ladies.’ I smiled my sweetest smile and then looked down and stared at his cock for a few seconds. His gloating smile lasted for less than a second before he put back his sex god doing you a favour by saying hello face, but it was enough, and I knew he was mine, now and on Wednesday, and the little trickle in my knickers was suddenly more of a flood.

He gave me the full walk on his way back to the bar, swivelling his tight little ass in a way that would have made me think he was gay if I hadn’t already had proof to the contrary almost twelve inches up inside me, and the memory brought another little gush. ‘Much more of this and I’ll be stuck to my seat’, I said to Rog, when I told him about the conversation and my mission. He tried to look bored while I was talking, and had to look out of the window at the falling snow as I walked away in case his burning stare gave the game away. He’s very obvious when he goes into pervert mode, even though he thinks he’s being subtle.

Marco was lounging in the corridor outside the washrooms, waiting for me, which was a very good sign. As I got near, he grabbed me, and kissed me, hard, which was even better, not least because kissing always makes me wet and horny. Especially when a guy is gripping my bum, pulling my pussy wide and pressing his cock against me, and Marco was doing all of that. His tongue was wiggling around in my mouth and I let my legs open as wide as I could without falling over, just so he’d know it was working, and he didn’t need asking twice. His right hand was up my skirt, cupping me as his fingers scrabbled my wet knickers aside, and then they were in me, hard and deep, and he practically picked me up on two fingers and carried me through the door into the ladies, which was good, and bad.

I didn’t want him to fuck me in the ladies (well I did, to be honest, because all of a sudden I was more than ready for him, but that wasn’t the mission) but that seemed to be his plan. He locked the door one-handed behind him, and I remember thinking he’s done that before, and wondering about how many women he’d bent over the basin got me even hotter, and I could hear his fingers squishing inside me. He said some stuff in Italian which I think was meant to be getting me all carried away (he did that last time as well) but to be honest, if someone’s going to talk dirty to me then I want to know what they’re saying in case it turns me on.

So I hushed him and said I wanted him naked, and what about coming to the house on Wednesday, but he just said what about now, and started unzipping himself, and I thought it was all going horribly wrong, but I was pulling my skirt up so I could get my feet apart and lean back against the basin, and saying ‘No, no, I want you properly, naked, so come to the house’ which was difficult while chewing his ear and helping him uncoil that great big thing from his pants, and he was saying I’ll come on Wednesday as well, and I was thinking I know men, you won’t do anything of the sort you bastard, and holding the base of it with one hand while he spread me with his fingers and started pushing it in, and it was slipping so easily into the wet but it just kept on coming, more and more and more, like it was going on for ever, and there was big knock on the door, and a woman shouting hurry up, I can’t wait for ever, and Marco saying tell her to use the gents and pushing himself deeper, and I knew who it was, the cow who’d been making eyes at him earlier, and when I started to speak, to tell her all the girls go next door when this one is busy, I suddenly realised why it was always busy, and that I was just another stupid middle-class wife with my skirt up round my waist, bouncing on his cock in the ladies toilet like all the others he’d fucked in here and I felt so unbelievably slutty that I couldn’t stop myself and instead of speaking or shouting I just screamed and started cumming, my heels drumming on the woodwork, and then I was losing my balance, slipping sideways and falling, and Marco was toppling as well. We fell with a crash against the door, and though his cock was so big it didn’t slip out, there was no way to get up without disentangling from each other, and that sort of spoiled the moment. Which was just what I needed, but not exactly what I wanted. I mean, once you’ve started…

I must have been a bit bright-eyed and breathless when I got back to Rog, because he guessed at once what had happened, but was delighted with the way it had worked out. Couldn’t have been better if we’d planned it, he said. Wish I’d thought of banging on the door myself. That would have stopped him in his tracks.

Personally I think it might have made him cum. It certainly would have spurred him on. But we’ll never know, because he won’t know Rog is watching us on Wednesday. Unless I tell him, of course.

getting back into the swing

I’ve had a couple of weeks to myself you may have noticed, and that’s partly because I thought things were getting a bit out of hand and partly because yahoo deleted my profile.

They didn’t say why but I think it was because I kept hitting the limit on the number of contacts you’tre allowed. You know me. Never say no to anyone.

And also it’s nearly Christmas, which is a family time for us, so I always drop off the radar at this time of year.

However, when Rog and I started talking about Christmas presents, I’ve got to say that I immediately thought of something I wanted and now that the idea is in my mind I just don’t seem to be able to think of anything else.

I’m talking about a certain Italian waiter of course, or more particularly, his massive cock. Forget what it was in centimetres, but Rog said it’s just over eleven inches in old money, and I’ve got tp say it certainly felt like it when I managed to get it in me, but that was only on the back seat of the car, and I’ve been wanting to get him somewhere warm and comfortable so we can get naked and I can get more than ten minutes of his time.

Plus Roger was away and needs to see this, so we’ve been planning to invite him round while Rog is at work and film everything on the little cameras we used for Mr Blackmail’s undoing. Not heard a peep out of him, incidentally, not since Rog went to lunch and showed him a couple of stills from the moview, with his face all screwe3d up and ugly. A cum face is ever there was one, and Rog said he went white as a sheet at the idea that his wife might find the whole movie in her letterbox one morning.

Anyway, we’ve adjusted the cameras a bit and made our own movie just to check, and technically speaking we’re ready for action. Personally speaking, I think I am, although I’m strangely unmoved by the whole idea. I mean, I do want to try it again properly, but the idea of going to the wine bar and making arrangements and pretending I like him, all seems a bit too much. Funny how easy it is to go off someone once you’ve had him in your knickers. Only a few weeks ago he was a proper lust object, and any time I wanted to cum I just had to think about getting that thing out of his trousers. Now, it’s a nice idea. I just wish it wasn’t him. If you see what I mean.

Meeting Mr Blackmail

As you know if you read any of my blogs over the past few days, and especially this morning, I’ve been getting ever so worked up about today’s visit from Mr Blackmail, and by the time I woke this morning I was stupidly excited, God knows why.

It’s not as if it’s the first man I ever met for sex, nor even the first one I didn’t like but chose to fuck anyway. And just recently I’ve met a few men on my own, without the comfort (and added excitement) of having Roger watching me, so it’s not that either.

On the whole, I think it was the planning that was different, the fact that we’ve been building up to it for a couple of weeks now, getting a step closer every day and with every exchange of text messages between us. And helping Rog to set up the cameras at the weekend, him telling me where to sit and stand and how to fuck him, that was very horny, as you may have read on here.

So by last night, when Rog and I went to bed and started talking through the plan for today (well, come on, what else were we going to discuss when I’m eight hours away from fucking a man I hate but is one of Roger’s friends?) Honestly, I was so wet thinking about it, even Roger noticed and said something, and he’s used to it by now. It’s the planning, I’m sure. And the details as well, even what knickers shall I let him see? He’d told me to wear my best lingerie, but no way. I didn’t want him mauling his way through almost a hundred pounds-worth of Janet Reger knickers, and I definitely didn’t want him in my bedroom, which was something else he’d demanded. But by the time I started getting ready to meet him this morning, I was more than ready to have him in my pussy.

Truthfully, reading that back just now, I’d have to say that right from the moment he suggested I might fuck him to shut him up, the heat in my pussy has been simmering away pretty constantly, because I always knew I’d be doing this. Being made to fuck someone I don’t like just makes me weak at the knees and wet between the legs.

School run accomplished, Roger off to work, and then it was a long shower, the usual careful shave to get rid of stubble on my legs and under my arms, followed by the careful exploration between my legs with a brand-new triple-bladed razor, a slow, luxurious moisturise with creamy, slippery fingertips, and shave again, so it was just like a baby. Why I was taking this much care for a man I actively dislike I don’t know, but I wanted me to be perfect so he could have nothing to complain about.

I couldn’t see anything wrong in the mirror that taking off twenty years wouldn’t fix, so then it was time to dress. Rog and I had been through my knicker-drawer together last night and this morning I could see no reason to change my mind, and put on a slightly fussy white bra and briefs set by Aubade, so we still aren’t talking cheap underwear, and pulling the knickers up between my legs I could feel myself open and wet.

I’d decided not to go silly with the top layer, and definitely not tarty, and opted for a white see-through top so he could admire my bra, and a full, mid-thigh black skirt. And Rog turned the heating up before he left for work so we wouldn’t be cold.

That was his idea, going to work as normal. He guessed that Mr Blackmail would call and check he was in the office, and that’s why all three cameras were plugged in and running from about 8 am this morning. Rog went into his study, made sure the computer was seeing all three and recording all three, and then watched them again on his laptop in the kitchen just to confirm the link was working. That meant he could sit at his desk in his office and watch us in real time, and study the recordings more closely when he gets in later.

He does like to study the recordings, does Rog.

And he sent me a text at about half-past nine saying he’d had a phone call from Mr Blackmail, about nothing in particular, but it was obviously a good call not to try hiding in the wardrobe. Clever boy.

I was a bundle of nerves and couldn’t understand why. If I smoked I’d have got through a whole pack since Roger left at 8.30, and I’d be halfway through the second. I was shivering all over, and my pussy was quivering, with what I don’t really know. Anticipation? A little. Excitement? Quite a lot, really. Desire? I don’t really think I’ve ever actually desired Mr Blackmail. But I was very anxious to get his cock in me. So want, perhaps? Or need, then?

All that conjecture came to an abrupt halt when the doorbell went about ten minutes early. Good job I was ready on time, and at least it stopped me biting the ends off my fingernails (black, to match shoes and skirt).

He was smirking like the cat with the cream times ten as I opened the door, but his smile faded a little when he saw how normally I was dressed. ‘Problem?’ was all I could manage to say without stammering. Rog said it would be clever to act nervous, but I wasn’t acting. I was terrified, and the effects were more than goosebumps and a little speech impediment. There was warm syrup oozing out of me, making my knickers wet and clingy. Fear always has this effect, as you know.

I was expecting something a little more, ah…

‘Slutty?’ I suggested.

Adventurous, he replied, seeming a lot more polite today than he ever has been before. Maybe he was nervous as well.

I let him inside and led him towards the garden room, well aware that he’d be watching my bum twitch under the flowing black skirt, feeling his gaze warming me still further between my legs, my pussy slithering against itself as I walked, the soft French linen of my knickers caressing me wetly. Is this the way to the bedroom?, he asked, suddenly a bit more like his usual unpleasantly arrogant self.

‘No’ I smiled back over my shoulder, ‘we aren’t going to the bedroom’

But you said... ‘No, I interrupted, being very firm about this bit right from the start like Rog told me, ‘YOU said. I decided not to take the chance of Rog noticing anything.’ It was Roger’s idea to remind him in this way that it was a secret meeting, of course, and yet more proof of how clever he can be. That little touch, reminding him that I was hiding it all from hubby, meant he’d never begin to suspect the cameras even existed, and he already knew Rog was at work. He paused for a moment and then smiled.

I suppose that’s a good idea, he acknowledged, when what he really meant was more like ‘if I cant fuck you unless we go in the garden room, I’m off to the garden room now as fast as I can go.’ And he followed me through the door.

‘Would you like coffee?’ I asked, and he shook his head, was still shaking it when I offered ‘Tea? Anything at all?’ The everyday conventional phrase had slipped out before I could stop it, but though I’d planned to make him ask for it, I suppose it was all for the best because it got us straight to the point.

Oh I’d like something all right he said, throaty and taut, I’d like you to lift up your skirt and show me the knickers I’ll be taking home with me today when we’ve finished, because i won’t be needing these any more, and he took a crumpled ball of white from his pocket and dropped it on a chair. I knew I should never have given him my knickers in the wine bar.

‘Ah, sorry about that. I think I was a bit tipsy. Did a few silly things.’

You certainly did, he growled. Everyone at the golf club knows you turned me down but let those other creeps… he couldnt say it, not out loud, that I had voluntarily fucked his friends but not him. Once again I wished I hadn’t, especially since they were now apparently boasting about it in the gold club bar. Still, Rog hates golf, so we’ll never go there, and now I’d got my knickers back, bar talk is just talk, isn’t it? Anyone can say they’ve fucked me, but how are they going to prove it? Rog and I have talked this one to death, and I know I shouldn’t worry. But Mr Blackmail was on a mission to complicate things. He wanted to take another pair of knickers to show them, like a trophy. I didn’t mind. He wouldn’t be doing anything of the sort after Rog showed him the movie he was currently starring in.

Show me, he commanded, and I I lifted my skirt, wondering if he could see wetness from where he stood. He could see through them, see the little dark triangle I had spent ages shaping so carefully this morning, and the thin dark line that divided my pussy, disappearing down beneath me. I could see it all myself in the mirror opposite. Pull them aside, and I knew he meant my knickers. With my heart hammering, blood actually rushing in my ears and warm wetness sparkling on my lips, I did as I was told. His eyes narrowed, glittering. Mmmmm, he breathed, and licked his teeth. Then his hand shot out, arm straight and level, and there was a blinding flash. I jumped back and dropped my skirt, but it was too late and I knew he’d have the picture on his phone, which he was already slipping into his jacket pocket.

Like that, he said, pointing at the white ones he’d dropped in a scrunchy ball on the chair beside him, they could be anyone’s. But not now.

I was mouthing little protests, but at the same time thinking it didn’t matter. He still wasn’t going to show it to anyone. Rog would make sure of that. ‘We didn’t agree anything about telling your friends’, I complained, ‘and especially not taking pictures.’

Picture, he said sharply. Proof of the pudding, and there was that snidey superior look down the nose that I’ve always detested. Now, take the skirt off. I was sure he could see my pussy spreading wider against the flimsy white knickers, and see the dark wet patch getting bigger as I unzipped the skirt, stepped out of it and put it on the chair. I felt ruder than naked, half dressed like that. And the blouse. Now I was wearing just my bra and knickers, and with heels as well I looked like a woman about to have sex with a lover, not her husband. Which was kind of true.

Sit down, he breathed, and play with yourself a little. I sat, opened my legs, seeing his gaze focus between them, knew he could see my knickers were wet, knew he could see my pussy through the shiny white fabric, and I was so aroused that I almost jumped in surprise when my fingers brushed across the tight covering. He watched, and I sat there, legs apart, stroking myself, feeling the material being pushed into a little furrow as I explored my way deeper. I love the feel of wet knickers clinging to an open pussy, especially my own. I made a soft sighing noise, and we both knew I was starting to like it.

Show me, he said, and I knew what he wanted. I wanted it too. I wanted him to see, and I pulled the knickers aside with one hand, and let the other tease and slide around against the wet pinkness. He watched, but was too impatient to wait for it to build up slowly. Put your fingers in, he ordered, and it wasn’t difficult, I was on fire, and more than ready for a big, hard cock to slide right in. But he wasn’t ready for that bit yet. Make yourself cum, like you did in the wine bar, he told me, and I speeded up, fingers in the warmth, thumb rubbing outside, then teasing with the tips of my fingernails, and plunging deep. Part of me was doing as instructed, part of me was doing what came naturally and part of me was showing it all off to him, loving him watching as my body took over from my brain and the release started coming from a long way back and then rushed between my legs, and he was staring slack-jawed between my legs as the lips of my pussy squeezed my fingers, clenching and releasing in time with the flexing of my hips.

He knew I wasn’t faking, and I was expecting him to jump on me there and then, which would have been good because I needed his face lower so he’d show up on camera, and would have been fantastic because what I really needed right then was his cock inside me, fucking me hard and fast.

Not taking his eyes off me, still dabbling two fingers in and out to keep it all going, he took off his jacket, knelt in front of me, pulled my hand aside and put his face between my legs. I froze, waiting a lifetime for his touch as his head dipped lower, his breath warm on my thighs and then on my pussy itself, and then it was there, and he let his tongue trace very softly over my lips tasting and teasing and separating, a gorgeous gentle thrill.

‘Nice’, I breathed aloud, ‘very, very nice’, and I settled back on the sofa, opening my legs wide as he began to lick me properly with a tongue so long and strong I thought it couldnt possibly be human. I was breathing hard and loudly almost at once as he licked more and more firmly, more and more deeply. None of this writing his name with the tip of his tongue stuff, he just plunged it further and further in, and I was bucking and yelling and it went on and on. No man had ever pushed his tongue into me so hard and so far, and he was apparently tireless, because it just went on and on and on.

After I’d cum, and my hips were just rocking gently, he added a finger inside me along with his tongue, and used both to produce a delightful effect, and then there was just the tip of his tongue on my clit and his probing finger circling and spreading, and I was yelling and yelling and cumming again.

He didn’t wait this time, just slipped a second finger inside while I was still heaving and jerking like a mad thing and started again, sometimes finger-fucking me hard and fast, sometimes wiggling his tongue into me instead, reaching high up inside, although even nicer than that was how widely the thick base of his tongue spread me open, and rubbed against my clit. It was the size of an average cock, I swear, but flexible and gentle and it was driving me mad, and I came again, and then again.

When I was finished with gasping incoherent rubbish, but still shaking all over, he rolled me onto my knees and I thought that he was finally going to give me the fucking I so desperately wanted, but he gave me two straight fingers instead, and then another tongue-lapping that was so different from behind that I was cumming again almost straight away.

I fell on my face on the sofa and I could feel him shifting around, heard him undo his trousers, and then he was pulling me back to my knees and my pussy was full of cock. Hot and hard, it was average in every way, but I can tell you I loved every millimetre and every movement, the ins and outs, the fast and the slow, because I didn’t really care after everything he’d done to me with that tongue, and I was flying so high I was on the far side of the moon.

When he went into that little frenzy of fucking near the end though, I was really ready for him to cum, I wanted to feel that fizzing in his cock just before he sprayed me and I wanted his cum inside me and not just because I love a man cumming in me after a good doggy fuck, but because he’d made me cum so many times and knew how much I’d enjoyed him that I wanted it to be good for him as well. He shouted something, not my name, and fired into me in three or four hot bursts, a lovely warm splatter that let me cum gently with him for a perfect ending, and when he collapsed on top of me, his face next to mine, I couldn’t help but turn and kiss him, and smile a thankyou.

Jesus Christ! Me, kissing Mr Blackmail.

But that’s the beauty of random fucks with people you’ve never had before. You just don’t know what you’re going to get and so it’s always better than someone you do know. Always. Especially when I know Roger is watching, even if it was in a different room.

I let him kiss me goodbye. Well, I encouraged him, really, partly out of curiosity. Amazing that I’d never noticed how long his tongue is before today. Ah well. He tried to suggest a repeat, but I soon put a stop to that. I’ve got these now, he said, waving a very expensive handful of damp underwear at me, and I’ve got the pictures to prove they’re yours.

Damn. Forgot about that. Then I remembered our movie pictures. As long as Roger acted fast, it would be okay. I pretended a defeated look. ‘Text me, then’, I said, picking my phone from the shelf and waving it in the air. ‘You’ve got the number.’ He nodded with a self-satisfied smirk, and I already hated him again, even though I was warm inside with his spunk and my pussy was swollen open where he had licked and fucked me.

As I closed the front door I opened the phone and saw a stream of texts from Roger. The pervert had been watching and texting encouragement.

He’s standing up. All I can see is your face and his waist, said the first, and I suddenly felt a cold shiver of panic. Now you’re fucking yourself and I still can’t see who he is, read the next, and I remembered how much I’d loved showing him the way I play with my pussy, and felt it quiver, just slightly. He’s got his face between your legs, was the third one, I can just see his arse and your face, but not his. God, I suddenly remembered how good that tongue was, my pussy twitched, and little blob of cum trickled onto my thigh. He’s stood up, and now I can see his naked arse said number four, and number five was worse. He’s fucking you and all I can see is his arse on 2 cams and your face on the other one. I’d really wanted that cock in me too.

You’re enjoying it so much you can’t remember what I told you shouted the next angry text, and of course I was on my knees staring straight into the clock camera, so Rog would have a perfect view of my face and ‘that goofy look’, as he calls it, the one I get when I’m getting fucked silly. And of course I was, and I was loving it, and he was right. Within minutes of him starting with the tongue in my pussy I couldnt remember my own name, never mind complicated instructions about camera angles.

Thinking that now I’d have to go through it all again, I was wide open again, and dripping wet, and that plus gravity meant Mr Blackmail’s cum was running down the inside of my thigh, turning cold as it trickled downwards, and then came the last but one text. Got him. Perfect face shot at the end and of course he’d collapsed on top of me when he’d cum, and that had brought his face into camera shot. Job done, said the last message, luckily, or you’d have to do it all again.

I wish.

Anyway, Rog and I looked at the pictures just now, and he made a short DVD with all Mr Blackmail’s best bits in close-up and as few of mine as possible. He’s having lunch with him tomorrow, and that should be the end of that.

Dirty Rat/2

 

I was reading my Saturday blog back again, mostly because I’d thought twice about writing it in the first place, and also because I wondered it it would read as badly as it felt afterwards and when I was writing.

It’s another one of those occasions when I really wish I’d done something else, like get drunk and pass out, anything rather than fuck the Brummy rat in the cloakroom.

He’s not the first person I haven’t liked but have dropped my knickers for anyway, and he’s not the first person to get me in a position I didn’t really want to be in, either, but it was just another occasion when i had planned to be on my best behaviour and ended up on my worst without choosing to, but just letting it happen.

Drink is partly to blame, I suppose, but it’s a bit of a cop-out just blaming it on the wine.

But as so often happens there comes a moment when you have a choice, or I do, and you can do the right thing, or not. In that position I always allow myself to be led down the path of slutty behaviour, like Saturday. When Brummy took my hand and led me into the cloakroom I could easily have broken loose and walked away, and nothing would have happened. Even muddled by red wine I knew that option existed and that it was the proper thing to do. And I knew that not doing it inevitably meant I was going to let him fuck me.

And horrid as he was, I wanted him to do that. My pulse was up, my breath was short, my knickers were hot and runny and I wanted him to fuck me in the cloakroom, wanted that as much as I’ve ever wanted any of the good-looking lads I’ve met and bedded over the years.

He didn’ty force me, or talk me into it, or any of that. I encouraged him, and when the moment came, I made my choice and let him fuck me, handsome but weaselly, thin-fingered and slightly sweaty, I wanted his cock, and got it.

Rog says I shouldn’t keep being surprised by my own nature. I’ve been this way since long before we met and it’s not likely to suddenly change overnight, is it. He’s right of course, and all the time I’m sat here regretting what I did I know I’d do it again if you were allowed replays in real life.

And how about this. I’m also looking at my phone, open in front of me with a text from Mr Blackmail, reminding me that he’ll be here tomorrow morning with his rod of iron (stupid thing to say) expecting to help me out of my best underwear and fuck me across the bed I share with Roger as I promised. I didn’t actually, and the cameras are all hidden somewhere else, so that’s not going to happen, but I almost certainly will choose my best knickers, and have a careful shave, and I’ll cum when he fucks me even though this is just a way of getting him under control.

But the sheer black knickers i have on right now are hot and wet and I know if I put my hand in my jeans my finger will just plop straight into my pussy, because I’m already wet for him and there’s still 24 hours to wait.

 

 

 

Dirty Rat Saturday

Saturday morning, very tired, and really not looking forward to travelling to London, and definitely dreading another black-tie-and-posh-frocks dinner, doubtless with speeches and all manner of added boredom, plus sitting where the table-plan puts us, with no control over what kind of old git will end up sitting next to me.

The drive down the motorway wasn’t too bad though, because we went in Roger’s car and while he drove I told him about my Friday night out, and the combination of those memories with the rumbling buzz of the car soon had me rumbling as well. Long car journeys always make me slightly damp and ready, and as i talked i was soon uncomfortable in my jeans and slipped them off so I could stretch out more comfortably and reach the parts that needed teaching.

It was Roger’s idea not to shower, and to keep the same pair of knickers I’d been wearing last night, and the car was lovely and warm, so in no time at all there was a tangy rasp of sex in the air, mixing with the smell of new leather. And it was sex I could smell, not just myself. It’s a mix of pussy and sweat and the coppery flat smell of spunk. Plus I had his aftershave on my skin, my hands and my face, and it was almost like being back there with him. Rog could smell the sex too, and he could feel it in me, the thicker, greasier ooze of spunk that’s so different to what a girl produces alone.

I told him everything I could remember and once again I was reminded of how much I missed him watching me last night, not least because he sees so much that I miss and remembers things I forget. I did my best not to leave anything important out though, and I couldn’t have been doing too badly because I made myself cum quite quickly even though my fingers were slow and gentle between my lips.

There was still a long way to go, so I dipped my head in Roger’s lap (which isn’t easy in his car, let me tell you) and it didn’t take very long to make him cum as well. Holding him in one hand left me able to reach myself with the other, and with two fingers slipping in and out I made myself all horny all over again, especially when I felt him jetting into the back of my throat, so we started looking for lorries, slowing down beside them so the drivers could look down into the car and see me with my legs apart feet up on the dashboard, holding my knickers aside with one hand and dipping into my pussy with the other.

We got level with one in a roadworks zone, driving slower and slower, me looking up at the window, watching the driver’s face, disbelieving at first, then smiling, then waving and giving me the thumbs-up, which would have been nice if he could have done it in reality. But I came quite nicely while he was watching me, and I hope he realised that’s what all the thrashing about meant.

I had a text from Mr Blackmail about then, asking me again about what I’d be wearing, so I sent back you choose, and then made myself cum again reading his reply aloud to Roger, about him wanting a dress and stockings and my most expensive underwear (so you’ll look good lying on the bed playing for me) and because he wanted me to undress myself slowly after that before I suck him wearing stockings and heels and then he’s going to fuck me in the bed I share with Roger. He thinks. However, it passed the time quite well, and almost made up for the disappointment of hearing nothing from my American friend, who I thought might have cracked by now and sent me a message. As we got near the end of the motorway I rather reluctantly put my jeans back on, but when we stopped outside the hotel and the porter opened the door for me his expression said he could smell the sex wafting out of the car, so I gave him my sweetest smile and let Roger get the bags.

Checked in, we had a nice slow fuck with Roger’s cock feeling slippery in the warm ooze, not as noticeable as it would have been at three am this morning, but it was still there, a little, or maybe I just imagined it was, because I love the feel of his cock stirring another man’s spunk around inside me. When it was over we had a little snooze, and then we showered, and began to prepare for the evening.

Doesn’t take Rog long shower, shave and to slip into his DJ and bow tie, so he always goes second. I shave my legs and pussy as carefully as if I was getting ready for a big date, because you just never know who you’re going to meet, do you? And I don’t want to find myself too embarrassed to let someone desperately fanciable get his hand in my knickers just because I’m all stubbly and horrid. So a careful shave and a big handful of moisturiser, and I’m all ready, clean, pink and shiny, and a little bit pouty and dribbly, looking in the mirror, Horny enough to make a Catholic priest give up children and start on grown-ups, said Rog, being topical but not as funny as he thought he was.

My dress was perfect for this sort of function. White, floor length, very figure-hugging, with a little bit of cleavage and a lot of back, and just this side of TOO revealing. It costs a fortune to get everything this right, as I keep telling Rog when he grumbles at my credit card bills, but when he sees it on, he always agrees that it’s worth every penny.

As usual I discussed underwear with him, and though it was easy to justify going knickerless on the basis of VPL spoiling the line, you know that there’s a kind of psychological barrier that just disappears when I go out without knickers, and I end up in all sorts of bother. Rog says it’s like Gurkhas, who MUST draw blood every time they draw their knife, so if they haven’t killed anyone they have to cut themselves. But it’s not quite the same, because if I take my knickers off I HAVE to fuck someone, and fucking myself isn’t an option.

So I chose a lovely pair of white knickers, sheer and see-through but just a touch of frills to make sure they could be seen from behind. I like people to see my knickers, as you know, and this gave them just a hint and showed off my bum nicely, especially when I put on my heels and it all got a lift, pulled tight and high.

And knickers are quite practical, because I can get quite wet for no reason at all, and if I get even slightly excited I have to either stay on my feet or keep on going to the Ladies to dry off. I’ve learnt that the hard way, I can tell you, especially the importance of knickers when you least expect it it. I was reading about Franz Liszt not long ago, the Robbie Williams of his era, standing-room only when he gave a concert (he was a pianist) and it was said that after the performances gentlemen connoisseurs toured the room for entertainment, because you could tell which seats the ladies had been sitting on. Glad it’s not just me, then.

I was in no real danger on Saturday, I didn’t think, with Rog on one side and a rather dopey old bloke of about 90 on the other, although things started to look up as the table filled with other people and I found myself opposite a really nice-looking guy, in his late twenties, dark hair and eyes, quite dreamy, in fact, and he made me think of my silent American friend. So I made eyes at him over my wineglass all through dinner, and during the speeches (told you there would be) I was sufficiently merry to stroke his thigh with a stockinged foot and eventually let it rest on his cock. No shoe, of course.

He seemed quite happy with that, probably because he was unmarried and at the do with his business partner, the near-death old boy next to me, which made it quite clear which one was the money and which one had the ideas. Anyway, I was obviously going to say yes when he asked me to dance as soon as the band started up, and we started the whole what do you do for a living my word how interesting fencing match you have to go through at the beginning. Well you do in polite company. As you know, I much prefer it when the first question is are you wearing knickers? and the second one is fancy a fuck?, but I like a change as well.

And a good thing it was too, because the more we talked the more it turned out that although he had a nice smile and good arse (I decided i was allowed a little feel while dancing. After all, I’d already had my foot on his cock), anyway despite that, he was ignorant and arrogant, and for some reason took my little bit of cock-teasing under the table as a sign that I was his to command, and spoke to me like he’d just bought me in a job lot with half a dozen others and couldn’t make up his mind whether to fuck me or put me to work cleaning his kitchen.

And he was from Birmingham, which isn’t a bad thing, but his voice was high and whiny, and I always think voices and accents are so important. Rog was watching from the table and I knew he could tell I’d gone off the guy despite his good looks, but he caught me giving Rog a meaningful look and started asking about where he worked, and then he was all superior about that as well and spinning me the oldest line about maybe I could put a bit of business his way, as if I’d never heard that one before. If I wanted to, he said meaningfully, and I smiled vaguely, letting him press up against me as much as he wanted.

Would you like that?, he asked, would you like to help your husband’s business? and his hand was on my bum, squeezing quite roughly. Subtle in all things then, I thought, and almost said so aloud.

‘Of course I’d like to help him’ I said as sweetly as I could manage . Well let’s go and sit down and have a chat about it, he said, and led me to an empty table in the corner of the room, away from Rog and all the dancing, saying He won’t mind us chatting if he knows it’s good for business will he? I managed not to laugh, because it was just so predictably awful, like some dreadful seventies porno script. Though to be fair I never noticed the scripts and they made me so wet it wasn’t true, but that ’s another story.

He positioned two chairs next to each other and sat us down behind the table, facing the nearby dancers and Rog across the room, and my Brummy tycoon leaned across and started talking in that nasal whine about how he could do business with Rog and do the business with me, and at the same time ran his hand along my thigh and started gathering the material of my skirt, lifting it and bunching it in his right hand as he spoke, droning on about fixed assets or something, and I was making frantic eye-signals to Rog while trying not to laugh.

But for some reason he seemed convinced it was working and the reason I didn’t stop him was because I actually believed him, or at the very least was taking him seriously. But he was making progress and was finally touching skin, his hand clammy on my knee, long bony fingers curling underneath my leg as he pulled back, and it was out of sight under my dress, the material collapsing floorwards, the palm mid-thigh, just a couple of inches away from what was suddenly a very wet pussy sheathed in slick, wet Lycra.

To be honest I wasn’t sure if I minded him thinking it was him that had made me wet or not, but then it was academic anyway, because his hand slid the last few inches and I opened my legs in reflex (Rog says it’s one of my more attractive habits) and his thing fingers were wiggling my lips apart inside my knickers, rubbing up and down between them, and now it WAS him making me wet as a sudden warm ooze soaked my knickers in response to his touch and I opened my legs wider still.

Ridiculously he was still blathering away about Profit and Loss as he prised my knickers aside and wiggled a finger inside me, and if he wasn’t producing such an intense response I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself laughing. He had a big ugly gold ring, very bad-taste seventies, and I could feel it slide between my lips, cold and lumpy, and I leaned back to give him as much access as I could, easing my bum forward to the edge of the seat so that he could reach deeper.

Having fun? asked Rog, suddenly beside us and beaming happily. I do love his smile, especially when it’s got that perverted edge to it. He knew, obviously. Brummy’s arm went still, but his fingers were still right inside me, the gold ring still not body temperature. He started to tell Rog what he’d been trying to explain to me, and I could see Rog was starting to laugh instead of smile, and he said I’d best leave you to get on with it then, especially since you’re in such capable hands. This last to me, with a huge grin, and he went back to our table, far enough away not to scare Brummy but close enough for me to feel safe, and to enjoy what was happening with him instead of without him. I like that so much better. It was good to be a team again.

Clever man, your husband, Brummy sneered through his sinuses, he knows what’s good for him, and I almost got up and walked away from him there and then. But he pushed his fingers into me hard and deep, and my thighs just dropped wide open, my hips flexed up and I couldn’t stand up, never mind walk. Why don’t we go up to my room, he asked, and instead of saying why don’t we then or yes, let’s go, which my pussy wanted me to say, I very sensibly said ‘I may be blonde, but I’m not stupid.’ He looked at me, surprised, almost stopped the slow, steady pumping of his fingers, that ring driving me crazy as it went in and out. ‘I never go into a room alone with a strange man’ I told him, absolutely knowing what he was going to say next. He didn’t let me down. I’m not strange, he whined, trying to laugh but sounding more like a horse, but then he got suddenly better by leaning towards me and pushing his fingers hard into my pussy. You like this though, don’t you? he asked, which was a bit academic since the evidence was leaking out around his fingers and dribbling down my thighs. ‘Oh yes’, I gasped in a bit of a feeble voice, ‘I certainly do.’

Well what about we go for a stroll, find a quiet spot, he suggested, wiggling his fingers around for emphasis, and while I was thinking of a way to refuse I looked down into his lap and saw his trousers tented upwards, and I thought whatever he’s got in there looks hard enough to make a girl happy, and for a moment I thought about it, I really did. His fingers were long and reached a high up inside, wiggling around like fish, a rather nice feeling that made me wonder what his cock would feel like, and you know I’m almost as embarrassed to have actually considered letting him fuck me as I was by letting all those stag party guys take it in turns, that’s how creepy he was. And he looked so good, too.

So I told him it was too early, and we had people to see, important occasion for Rog, etc, etc, blah, blah and I could tell he didn’t really believe what he was hearing. Not about the networking, but that I was turning him down. Amazing self-confidence, some men, especially the stupid ones. He grudgingly accepted we could talk about it later, maybe because I sounded genuine. I really was thinking that if all else fails, he was a dead cert, and perhaps the little extra trickle of wet made him believe me.

Two things. One, I do get really wet and it often makes men think I’m either so gagging for cock in general I can’t possible refuse (okay, okay, not TOO far from the truth, I know) or worse still that it’s their smile, their personality, their aftershave or their own individual magic touch that’s turned my knickers to goo, and that I’m now burning up with desire for their body, which is only half true. Anybody will do, when it gets like that. But that never occurs to them, and they’re always the hardest to get rid of. Brummy was one of them.

But the second thing, it wasn’t supposed to be that sort of an evening. This WAS meant to be about work, and though Rog didn’t know more than three or four people in a room of 500, he was trying to get to know a few more, and didn’t need them to discover his wife on her back with some strange tax specialist between her legs. Tax specialists are all weird, Rog says. And never trust an Actuary, but that’s something else again.

So I went back to work, networking with Rog, chatting with the wives I was introduced to, all in black like their husbands, as if it was a uniform, and all very jealous of my long white dress. They didn’t say so, just tried to rip holes in it with their eyes, and I could see them holding their breath every time I took a sip of red wine, hoping I’d spill it all over myself and ruin it. I mentioned it to Rog later, just reminding him that once you get over four figures it’s an investment, not a party frock.

Because the reason they hated it so much was that their husbands loved it, all trying to look at my tits and spot nipple without being caught staring, and all looking at the little see-through glimpses of lace that said the slinky knickers came out of the same price bracket. And they were very slinky, thanks to the searching fingers of my Brummy friend, but of course you can’t tell by looking. I’d asked Rog to check, naturally, and the back of the dress was unmarked.

I danced with all the husbands who asked, over a dozen, all over 50, mentally if not in reality, and of that group I’d say only a couple failed to have an accidental squeeze of my bum, and when they found out I didn’t resist a little bit of dancing close, and let them rub against me, feeling for the hard lump of my pussy with their hardening cocks, they mostly forgot accidental and went for the proper squeezing, fingers digging into my cheeks, pulling me close and separating my pussy in my knickers so I could feel myself , swollen, wet and open, the soft silky knickers tickling and pressing gently.

Only three of them actually propositioned me, all wanting to meet “for coffee” at a later date when I came to London shopping, and a fourth one tried to buy me, not with cash, but with a guided tour of the best shops in London to find a dress as pretty as the one I was wearing. I’ve heard all that before, and done it too, so I think I handled it well enough, no actual rejections, but no acceptance either. Not that different to the Brummy weasel, I thought, when one of them suggested he invite Roger down next week for some vital business chatter with his lower-level executives and he and I could meet for a private conference of our own. My job, as always, is to smile, hint gently at the knicker-dropping opportunities, get the meeting arranged but not show up for the conference.

Although Rog says it’s very commonly done, it’s usually secretaries they bring, not wives, and the shopping trip is their reward. The world never changes, really, and women have used their bodies to gain money or power for their husbands or children ever since so-called civilisation came along. Look at Royal marriages, for heaven’s sake.

So it was after one am when we decided we’d networked enough, I’d been propositioned enough, and my bum had been squeezed enough. I didn’t want grubby hand-prints on my lovely white dress. Plus I was getting more than a bit fuzzy round the edges. Polite drinking can be vicious if you do it long enough.

We went to the bathrooms before riding up in the lift, Rog cos he was desperate, me cos I’m a girl and I’ll go if I get the chance. Always good to look in the mirror, check the lippy and the liner. And the hair, natch. There’s a sort of cloakroom, rows of hooks, coats dangling, and a door to the Ladies, which were trashed, as they always are at these dos, paper towels all over the place, water everywhere, the attendants long gone, and no-one looking after the coats. Except Brummy boy, lounging against the counter with that superior smile.

This’ll do, he said, waving an arm into the cloakroom, no longer full but still a few coats swinging on their racks. I raised an eyebrow, stalling for time because I was completely lost for words. Probably because of all that wine. ‘My husband’s waiting for me’ I said and waved an arm vaguely at the door.

Let him wait, he said. I had to wait all evening for you, and he grabbed my waving hand and pulled me towards himself.

Why did I let myself be led like that, close up to him and then through the opening, so we were the other side of the counter? How could I have been so stupid? Three bottles of red wine might have done the trick, Rog says now, and maybe he’s right. I was a bit wobbly on my feet.

‘Someone’s bound to come for their coats’ I said, trying to laugh it off, ‘and you don’t want to be caught with your pants down’. But he just grabbed the back of my head and kissed me, coffee and cigarettes on his breath, a foul combination. But kissing always gets me excited, and no amount of badger-breath can change that. I felt the warmth in my knickers almost straight away. Rog knew a girl who could cum from kissing, and I’ve always been jealous, and I can see how she could, but it just makes me wet and needy. Especially when they hold my head. Two hands is brill, but one will do.

So when he started that bunching up my skirt with his other hand, lifting the hem high and higher, my feet just moved apart and made a space between my thighs, and then his hand was between my legs, fingers burrowing into my knickers, and as I tried to open my legs wider we fell, bringing down a rack of coats on top of us and all around us, and somehow he managed to keep his grip, one hand at the back of my neck and the other cool and damp between my legs.

Top marks for that, I thought, as he pulled my knickers aside and I felt the ring slide through my lips and those long bony fingers wiggling into me and as he felt the hot wetness all around he said God you want it bad, don’t you, and I realised he’d been thinking about it all evening. Here we go again, I thought, my wet pussy getting me into trouble and making a sneery little Brummy rat think he’s a sex God I’m unable to resist.

Which I almost was by now, and I thought I better put a stop to this before it was all too late, and I hissed in his ear. Someone will come’, and immediately wished I hadn’t.

I’ll make sure you do, he said in my ear in that whiny voice and as his fingers slipped out of my pussy and started rummaging between us I realised that no-one would get here quick enough, because it was already almost too late. I was on my back in a pile of coats, skirt round my waist, knickers pulled aside, legs wide apart, and the man lying between them had just unzipped and pulled his cock out. Anyone who DID come in would have seen me dancing around all night being felt up and assume I was just a dirty little slapper getting what I wanted.

And now it was too late, because I was getting it, his cock going straight into me as easily as they always do, wet and wide and waiting, not large, but hard, and I thought please be quick so we can get out of here, but he started to fuck me slow and steady, shoving his cock into me with hard, aggressive thrusts, and I thought this might go on a while, and then the door banged open and there were feet and voices as a group of two or three women clattered and tittered past the cloakroom into the Ladies.

If they’d looked over the counter they couldn’t have missed seeing us and what we were doing, because Brummy’s fucking had scattered the coats and we were out in the open now. I just hoped they weren’t going to finish in the Ladies and come looking for their things, or we were busted.

Notice the “we”.

I was already cast in the role of accomplice just because of the way it would look to anyone seeing us like that, but when the women came in, Brummy had frozen on top of me, not moving or breathing.

I hadn’t, because it was working. I’d been afraid it would, and now it had, I wanted him to fuck me, so I’d kept on moving, fucking myself on his cock, because once I’ve started I can’t stop until I’ve finished. When the door banged closed behind them and their voices were a distant echo off the tiles, he smiled down triumphantly and went back to those savage little thrusts, jerking his cock into me as if he hated it, or me, or both.

I was loving it, spreading wider, lifting knees and pelvis, pulling him in. If you’re going to be fucked by someone you don’t like it’s better if they don’t come over all soppy and romantic. That can be disgusting. But a hard animal fuck is just right for the occasion, and suddenly I was having that huge screaming orgasm that had been building up all night, and his hand was clamped over my mouth to shut me up as he pressed down with all his weight trying to keep me pinned to the floor with his cock still inside me and ride out the storm.

The women came out of the ladies while it was still going on, but silently now, though my pussy was still squeezing his cock while they paused and slagged off some other girl who wasn’t there but was apparently no better than she ought to be. Then they were gone, and Brummy went back to fucking me again, and embarrassingly enough I started to love it, and was whispering in his ear to fuck me, come on, just fuck me, and then later on to cum now, cum now, which he duly did, a long warm splatter that made me cum gently as well, and then I hated him for fucking me, but not as much as I hated myself for liking it, and I couldn’t get him out quick enough, which was silly, because he trailed long blobs of spunk all over the place, especially my dress.

I made it worse, not better in the Ladies, and i was considering a deliberate red wine spill to cover up what was obviously cum all over the front of my dress and a bit of a mixture at the back. In the end I texted Rog to meet me right outside the door, and be ready to go straight upstairs, but between my slightly tipsy fingers and predictive text what I sent was mostly garbage, and I had to work my way across the room alone, hoping no-one would connect my exit from the ladies and the smears on my clothing with the Brummy rat.

Who was now talking to Rog, of all things, the bastard. He’d just zipped up and walked away, no problems, no mess. And not a thought about helping a lady in distress. I can’t believe I actually smiled at him, and when he said to Rog that we’d just been having a really interesting chat I nearly fell over in disbelief. But, strangely enough, he gave Rog a card and said to call him, which he did, and Brummy has actually delivered on his promise, and a business relationship has been formed, born from another kind of relationship altogether. Amazing. But, like I said, hardly a new idea.

I didn’t know that was going to happen when I told Rog what had happened as soon as we were in bed and getting down to it, and he apologised for not noticing I was gone a long time and coming to my rescue, but he also said that the way it was sort of forced on me made the feel of his cum inside me strangely arousing, and I was sharply aware of that very different feel of a cock in my pussy when it’s slippery with cum, and that the Brummy rat who’d had his cock in me moments earlier and squirted all that hot juice into me, and then Roger and I were both shouting and cumming, clinging together like shipwreck survivors on a raft.

DIRTY DANCING

If you saw me on Yahoo then you know what time I got in after my Friday night out with the girls. 3.30am on Saturday morning. I was too wired to sleep, but I didn’t want to wake Rog, so I was chatting on Yahoo with other insomniacs, sex maniacs and assorted perverts,which was very nice, and with trickles of cum oozing into my knickers, which was even nicer. And for a while I was talking to one guy in particular, and in the course of conversation along came the title for today’s blog.

Because that’s what I did last Friday night, even though Id been out with the girls, and being on my own without Roger normally means I can fool around as much as I want but I can’t really fuck anyone. Just lately, though, we’ve let that rule slip to see what it was like and if you’ve been reading these you’ll know I’ve had some fun on my own. So on Friday we agreed that there would be no rules, and if I found someone who I desperately wanted to fuck, I could go ahead and do it. Which was yet another new experience for both of us, and I left Rog with his cock already getting hard again after I’d sucked him dry and me with my tight white thong already drenched as the taxi bumped me into town, thinking about whether or not I’d be misbehaving later. I think we both knew what the decision would be, and you do too, probably.

Met up with the girls, had a little dinner and a few drinks, went to a couple of bars for more drinks, and then went clubbing, by which time we were half a dozen half-pissed, half-horny women with money to spend, exactly what the management and the male customers dream of having on a Friday night.

The first place we went to was heaving with young talent and my pussy was burning a hole in my knickers as I looked round and thought of all those fully-packed boxer shorts straining with hard young cocks, and we hit the floor together, the girls having fun and flirting a little, me doing no more than the same so as not to look like I was on a mission, but really making mental notes for later.

I kept talking about bedtime, but the girls didn’t get the hint, but we were slowly splitting up. Some were dancing, some were being bought drinks and chatting with adventurous young men, and a couple had lads well and truly in tow, heads together, whispering and laughing. They seemed to be having a bit more than just a laugh, but really I don’t think they do any more than a bit of kissing and some minor fondling. Then they go home and fuck hubby silly without him ever knowing why, or they sneak into the spare room with a vibrator and finish off their fantasies like that. I know, because we do talk about it, and I know we’ve all done both of those things on different occasions. I’ve done some other things, as you know, but I don’t mention it to them.

So I danced and flirted, and pressed myself up against a few hard bodes and made them harder, even managed a surreptitious stroke here and there, but eventually, thank God, they decided to leave. Not for the first time I mislaid myself waiting for a taxi and counted on the fact that because we needed two cabs, each group of girls would assume I was with the others, while really I was back on the dancefloor getting up to no good.

Well, when they started their journeys I was sat near the edge of it, letting the dancing boys have a long enough and good enough of a look at my knickers to realise it was deliberate, and spotting a few bulges myself, and I must say, I saw quite a few interesting ones, danced with a couple of them, and by the time their cab ride came to an end I’d had a good feel round one of them and been fingered very hard and clumsily buy one guy who wasn’t rough, but just didnt have the technique. Big cock though, but I think it would have been wasted,so I let him go. At least I hadn’t needed to buy any drinks yet, and I sat back on the edge of the dancing again, feeling great, surrounded by so many fit young lads, all bursting with hormones and bursting out of their pants as well. That’s one of the best things about them, they just get hard all the time. You can make a 20-year-old lad hard just by looking at him, and if you’re lucky enough to get him inside you,their recovery time is amazing too, and I’ve hardly had time to mop my brow and give them a little suck and they’re rock hard and ready to cum again. So it’s quite brilliant, being in a room full of stiff cocks with my knickers soaking and my pussy swelling open and wondering which one to have.

But boys can be annoying in bunches, showing off to each other and just getting rowdy. They think hello is a chat-up line, asking do you want a drink? is making conversation and what’s your mobile number? is foreplay. Thank God. Don’t get me wrong, I like a lot of foreplay in the right situation. But bent over a car bonnet isn’t the right moment for it and I don’t want all that. I just want to be fucked. And they’re really good at that, and usually so impatient they don’t have time for more than kissing. Which I love.

But I bet less than one in ten of the younger ones (under 25) has even tried to lick me, never mind insisted and gone ahead and done it. Most will let me suck them if I want to, and I do love sucking cock, especially a fresh new one. But even while I’m doing it I I can tell that a lot of them are impatient, and they just want to get on with it. I love that, the urgency and the need for sped. Maybe it’s the situation, and they’re afraid I’ll change my mind, so they want to get on with the fucking as quickly as possible. I don’t care why, I just love it.

But this group was a bit different and in fact they were being a bit of a pain, though they were okay individually when I was dancing with them one by one. I even had a little feel around to see if there was anything I might be interested in, and to be fair there were one or two that filled my hand quite nicely as hey firmed up in their pants. And there were one or two that filled my pussy with their fingers in return, which was very nice.

Very, very nice in fact, and I was just getting near to cumming, and I think one more dance with a helping hand between my legs would have done it. I was just finishing my drink and waiting for an invitation to dance, wondering which one would ask me to dance without knowing it meant he’d be the one to make me cum, when the tall blonde one said they were all off now and would I like to go back to their place for more drinks ?

I did think about it, because I could have done with a fuck and he was one of the better-looking ones, and he was one of the biggest as well, but Rog wasn’t there, and although we’d agreed that if getting fucked was unavoidable then it was unavoidable, I wasn’t really no turning back desperate yet and more to the point neither were they. And there was something odd about the way they gathered round me, strangely still and watchful.

I’ve been in this position lots of times before, and normally the lads are very animated, very excited, on tiptoe almost, waiting to see if they’re going to get what they want. Their eyes are bright their voices loud, they talk too fast, there’s an atmosphere, and it was missing with this lot. And there were lot, six or seven of them, looking at me now to see if I would say yes or no.

At the time they reminded me of something and as I was writing it own just now I realised what it was. We have three cats, and when they see a spider they surround it and then just sit round it, watching and waiting. They don’t get excited, they’re very still and attentive, and the only thing that’s certain is that the spider is going to die.

I hadn’t thought of that at the time, but I said no thanks anyway, and they sort of drifted away. And I was right to say no, because they didn’t leave. They stayed. They weren’t on their way home, they’d just wanted to get me outside and in a car, or worse still a house. If Rog had been there I might have agreed to go with them, but they probably wouldn’t have suggested it if I hadn’t been on my own.

It was almost 1.00am, and although I hadn’t fucked anyone, I’d been finger-fucked and I’d stroked a few hard cocks. I’d had a bit of fun and then a narrow escape, and I had just decided to finish this last drink and go home when four black guys pushed away from the bar heading in my direction, all young, maybe no more than 21, shaved heads, smattering of gold, but nicely dressed. They looked good, and I felt a little warm trickle in my knickers when I realised that I was thinking size, and that aggressive rhythm black guys have when they fuck a married white woman in front of her husband, and then I realised again that Rog wasn’t here. But size would do.

They came right up close and one leaned close to whisper in my ear. I could smell his aftershave, sharp and tangy, and his breath was warm on my face, fresh and minty Can you settle a bet for us? he asked, and I said ‘did you vote yes or no?’ He leaned away to get a look at my face, saw I was smiling, and laughed, a flash of beautifully even white teeth. I voted yes, but I’m hoping no, he said.

It was a good answer and made me smile again. Well? he asked, eyebrows raised. ‘Well why don’t you find out for yourself’ I told him, holding his eyes with mine. He didn’t say anything and for a moment I thought he was going to disappoint me, but then I felt his hand between my legs and without breaking eye contact I moved my feet apart and he was cupping my pussy, fingers bending round into the warm squishy wetness. His eyes widened, and his tongue darted out, licking his lips. It’s a yes then, he said, but I’m fine with everything just the way it is. His finger was pressing into me, pushing my knickers deeper between my lips. ‘So it seems’ I replied, stroking the front of his trousers lightly, feeling his cock hardening swiftly, and so warm I guessed he was a bit of a commando himself.

His three friends were watching us carefully, chattering among themselves, bright-eyed and excited. This was the way it’s meant to be, this is what I’m used. ‘Better tell them’ I said, finding the tip of his cock through the thin material and rolling it between my finger and thumb, big and round. I thought it might look like a lollipop if I took it out of his trousers and started thinking about unzipping him.

His mind was obviously moving in the same direction, because he lifted my knickers and parked them on one side, leaving my pussy bare and open to his touch. Which was very nice and already beginning to be a lot nicer. I’ll tell them yes then, he said in my ear, and I heard my voice saying ‘oh it’s definitely a yes’, and we both knew I wasn’t talking about knickers. Only I knew I was seconds away from screaming the place down and falling on the floor in a runny heap. I let go of his cock, and eased myself off his busy finger, and thought the dancefloor would be the safest place to make a bit of noise.

We danced as a group, and I let them pass me around, rubbing myself against them, my wetness scraping on the fabric covering their thighs and leaving little sparkly smears, which they all seemed to find very funny and very arousing in equal quantities. I grabbed their cocks whenever I was in a clinch, and they slipped fingers inside me in return, but I kept on dancing and moving, keeping myself on the edge but never letting it go too far, trying to put off cumming as long as possible so it would be as big as possible, not quite out of control, but close.

But it couldn’t go on for much longer and I was close up against one of them, holding the strength of his cock as he slipped a second finger inside and made me gasp, and I was gripping his cock so hard it must have hurt him, when the first one, with all the nice teeth, danced up close behind me, put his hands on my waist and started to rock himself against me. I’ve seen a lot of the kids doing that (have a look here) and I know why. It feels like you’re fucking, with a hard cock pressed between the cheeks of your bum, and with two fingers in my pussy as well it was a sensational feeling, and I danced back hard, only I wasn’t dancing, I was fucking, and now I was cumming, big spasms that shook my body and gripped the fingers inside me, squeezing and squeezing, and I looked into his eyes, watched them widen in surprise as my mouth went slack and I started making all those stupid noises, on and on, hoping it would never stop, draped on his shoulders with his cock still in my hand and the other one pressed hard against me from behind.

I was just thinking how much Roger would have enjoyed that, drifting back down to earth like you do, rocking myself onto his fingers and thinking about starting again, when the Teeth behind me sort of wriggled away from me, and I felt his hand between us. With hindsight, of course it was easy to know what he was doing, but at the time I was really concentrating on the fingers inside me. But suddenly there was a hand between my legs from behind, and as soon as they touched him the lad I was leaning on slipped out, leaving my hips rolling on alone, fucking air, as Roger always says, and I looked up angrily, saying ‘hey. Where do you think you’re going?’ when I felt a cock, naked and hard between my legs, and spreading me with his fingers, white-teeth boy just slipped it up inside me, and suddenly I was dancing and being fucked and that felt amazing.

I really needed the lad in front to cling on to because it wasn’t easy, dancing like a frog, trying to get my feet wider apart and get him higher, but it was in as far as it would go, thick and filling. You liking the black cock in you? asked my dancing partner in my ear, and the other two were still there as well, watching, bright-eyed and eager, close around us to mask what was happening, one of them grabbing himself, holding his cock inside his trousers, saying she’s loving it, aren’t you baby, and I gasped out something incoherent that made them laugh because I was obviously unable to speak properly, and it was weird because the way I was bent forward meant I was too far away to talk to the boy whose cock was filling my pussy, and I instead of that I was discussing it with his friends as they stood round us watching,

And filling is the right word. Quite apart from being a useful size, because of the way we were positioned, he wasn’t really fucking me, he was just in me, and his cock wasn’t really moving in and out. It was just like I was riding him with all my weight pressing down, circling and rolling my hips without bobbing up and down, and it’s always a fantastic feeling. But with another guy holding me up and talking to me softly about being fucked by his mate, and looking round the room where people were laughing and dancing and drinking just feet away from us, that was even more amazing.

And there was an extra excitement because I had to keep movement to a minimum, to make it look as if I was only dancing, sitting still on his cock and just letting it happen. The closest I can think of is it’s like secretly playing with yourself under your desk at work, or on a plane or train, not able to move very much or very fast, and just letting continual small movements build it up and build it up, and when it happens it’s so intense because of the wait and the infuriating, exquisite slowness and secrecy, and you bite your lip and cum silently, trying not to let your shoulders heave and jerk and give the game away. I always sneeze if I think I might have been a bit too obvious.

And of course you concentrate on the physical sensations, and tonight I could feel him, long and hard inside me, with that big round end I’d held in my fingertips earlier, and though it was doing amazing things high up, I couldn’t help thinking how nice it would feel spreading me wide as it slithered in and out of the very opening, all fat and round and wet, and I was so close anyway that I started to cum, grabbed the shoulders of the boy in front, who was still holding me up, and realising that I’d still got his cock in my fingers as my legs went funny and I just sat there with this big black cock inside me and had another screaming orgasm that I managed to stifle, at least in the most part.

When it was over, and my body wasn’t jerking about all over the place, white teeth boy started to fuck me, as if he’d been holding back, and I was right about how luscious that fat bell end made my pussy feel, but I just as i was getting to like it he gave a big push right up inside and i could feel the teeth of his zip scratching my bum as his cock quivered and began to spurt once, twice, three times and then four, delicious hot stinging sprays that gave me another small orgasm of my own, as always.

When it was over, I stood up and pulled my skirt down, and as his mates clustered round to shield him from view as he zipped his shiny wet cock back in his trousers (I was right about the commando thing I noticed) I kissed him on the cheek, said ‘thank you, that was a lovely surprise’ and walked off across the club and straight out through the doors leaving behind me one happy young lad and three others not so happy, stood there wondering about getting their turn.

Luckily there was a cab outside waiting, and as I sat down I could feel hot spunk oozing between my still-open pussy lips, which made me a bit guilty but then I bet it’s not the first DNA that’s leaked onto the back seat. I’ve done it before loads of times, I mean I can make a wet patch on the way out to a club, never mind on the way home when I’m properly excited, and sometimes full of cum as well.

And I could so easily have been full. It would have been simple, and fun, to let the guys swap places behind me as they were so clearly planning to do, and if I’m honest I’d have to say Iwas only a finger-snap away from letting them. I wanted it, if you want to know, wanted to be a proper slut and let them take turns in me, and if Rog had been there i would have done it too, But he wasn’t, and it felt different. Not wrong, but different. So I came home instead.

When I got there, Rog was asleep. So asleep that I couldn’t wake him with a little shake, like I usually do, so I ended up on Yahoo telling everyone else what I’d been doing, and you know what? He loved that. Absolutely loved it.

A cunning plan

Started to write this on Yahoo, but it was getting too long, so I moved it here.

Apolgies if you’ve read the first bit before, but the rest is new to WordPress.

So Mr Blackmail made his move last night. A text arrived,  just saying have a nice evening.

I was at a friend’s house for our book club, once a month, about a dozen of us. We take in in turns to suggest a book and we’re all supposed to read it and then have a discussion at the next meeting.

Amazingly we do all pretty much do that, but afterwards it’s more a chance to have a few glasses of wine, some idle gossip and a all the latest speculation and rumour. It works, sometimes. It’s how Louise found out about her Barry and his secretary, which ended in divorce and a big payout for her and the kids. She’s the one in the village all the other wives are scared of now, and never invite to anything. Rich, single, good-looking and thin as a whippet. And greedy. Good job Barry didn’t come to the book club as well, otherwise he’d have found out about Louise and just about all of his mates. Plus every tradesman for miles. Everyone knows she decorated their house for “free”, and apparently she’s still getting the same level of service from the builders, plumbers and electricians. Hasn’t paid for a taxi in years, Katie was saying. But she’s cruel. And exaggerates a bit.

But you can see why I don’t want them talking about me like that.

Which still makes me cringe every time I think about what I did on Saturday night, though no-one has said anything so I think it was only really obvious around our table. Maybe I shouldn’t have done it under Blackmail’s nose like that, but what I really regret is giving him my knickers. It’s physical evidence, although he’s not going to show them to his wife, or she’ll be asking how he came to get them. But what if he just walks up to a table in the wine bar one lunchtime and drops them between me and the girls, and says his golfing buddies say thanks for a great time and would I like these back now?

I’m not enough of an actress to get through that straight-faced, and I’d be caught, busted, and shown up.

Terrifying. Sooo scary it makes me wet, which is how I got into this situation in the first place. Partly, anyway.

But at the book club last night, Mrs Blackmail said my husband told me you had a good time on Saturday then and I almost froze in my seat, managed to mumble something, and now she’d got everyone’s attention, she was off running with it. Yes, he said you didn’t seem to be missing Roger that much, and beamed her acid smile, nodding, so all the women would know what she meant. I knew what she meant, and I knew what he’d meant in his text. He’d told her, and now she was about to execute me in front of all my friends.  I gave nothing away, just made vague noises and answered her questions with questions, feeling more and more relieved as the situation got better instead of worse.

I managed to brush it off, but the only reason Iwas able to talk my way out of it was because he clearly hadn’t told her anything very much, and that first opening was a bluff intended to trick me into telling her what she didn’t know but hoped I might think she knew. Women. Devious bitches, the lot of them. No wonder I prefer men.

As soon as I got home  I told Rog about the text, and what she’d said. He had a plan, as he always does, and it’s not bad.

We’ll have to fuck him, he said, meaning me, of course.

And in order to get pictures of that we’re going to have to do it here, meaning at home.  We don’t have visitors like that ever, and I don’t want him to be the first. In fact I don’t want him in the house at all. But I can see that Rog is right, and there’s nowhere else.  But it will have to be in the week, and during the day as well.  I don’t want him mingling with my friends and especially not my family.

So we agreed, and I sent a text. I give in, was all it said.  Next week? he replied at once,  and I think Rog was at least as excited as me.  But as I was typing it will have to be in the daytime, my hands were shaking and my pussy was burning up, so no, on second thoughts, he probably wasn’t.

Wednesday, he sent back, and I said OK. Lunchtime? thinking he’d be able to get off work for a while then, but he was smarter than that. Morning, he replied. I want to make it last. Rog didn’t need to hear my little gasp as I read that. He  knew from my face that my pussy had twitched and there was a sudden warm gush in my knickers as I realised that Mr Blackmail didn’t just want a quick fuck, he wanted the full three-course meal with all the trimmings.

Tell him he’d better be up to it then, suggested Rog, which I did, adding for myself I hate it when a man can’t deliver on a promise.

I’ll deliver, he said and that IS a promise. So make sure you’re ready.

I’m ready, I sent back, and it was no word of a lie. I was ready right then, so wet and hot I could take on the Household Cavalry. Roger was ready too, I could tell, and not just by his face. He’d got a big lump to go with that serious, distant look he gets when he’s about to say or do something really bad.

And he’s been on the internet, too, bought three tiny little cameras the size of a matchbox. Remember them? Matchboxes? Anyway, two have covers that make them look like  a burglar alarm,  and the other one fits in a clock.

We couldn’t hide them in the bedroom, because there’s nothing in it except a bed, and I don’t want Mr Blackmail in my bed.  I’d have to burn it and buy another one if I thought I was sleeping with his DNA every night.

We went through the possibilities, room by room, and there’s really only once choice,  so over the weekend Rog is going to put the cameras in the garden room. Half brick,  half conservatory, it’s got pillars and pot plants and all sorts, and two big sofas. The burglar-alarm cameras will be high up and see everything (one for each sofa) but the clock one will be low down, and that’s the one to remember.  This is the one that will see his face, Rog said, and it can only really look at one settee. So he put it on the bookshelf, looking along the biggest and most comfortable of the two choices. Make sure you get him here, he told me, and make sure he faces the clock as much as possible.  I suggest you sit here and suck him for a bit, and then lie down and let him do his worst.

My knickers were dribbling liquid fire at the prospect of sucking the hateful bastard on camera, but of course Rog knew that.

Ideally, you’d be lying here, he continued, lying me back on the sofa with my head at the clock end,  and he”ll be on top of you like this…

He demonstrated the position, getting between my legs and unzipping himself, cock out and hard, lifting my skirt and pulling my knickers aside so he could sink it into me, all  without any foreplqay or even touching. He knew how wet I’d be, and was smirking as he felt my pussy swallow him up, all wet and soft and swollen thinking about having Mr Blackmail iniside me just like this.

Rog started telling me how to move so that he’d lift his head and look at the camera, and that his expression was most important so make sure he knows you’re loving it, though you’ll probably be wetter than this, he said, so there won’t be much doubt… and he went on and on, telling me what would happen, what I would think and feel, and when I  closed my eyes  I was there, right there on the couch with Mr Blackmail,  another time, another place, another person.

I  swear that when I came it was with the feel of  Mr Blackmail’s cock in my pussy.

Clever man, my Rog.

Bad behaviour Saturday

Wow.

Talking to Roger on the phone, he agreed I was so despreate for a fuck it classed as an emergency and needed immediate action. He loved the idea of me going out on the street but convinced me it’s not safe unless he’s there, and made me promise not to.

In the end he reckoned tonight’s wine bar appointment that I’d brought forward 24 hours to yesterday when I was desperate the first time might be the best option. On the other hand he’d miss it again because he’s not back till Tuesday, and what if Marco decided I was too easy and didn’t want me a third time?
Not likely, says Rog, but we both think he’s not short of offers, and I wonder how many times he’s been out the back of the bar with local women who’ve got their knickers all soggy looking at the monster in his trousers. What with that, the fantastic arse, the big eyes and the accent, he must have more offers than he knows what to do with.

Rog said he thinks that a lot of local wives must have offered him their pussy, and the rest of the staff must be used to him just popping out for a few minutes to let them have the benefit of the equipment. I bet the other two waiters and the owner could give you a list of women he’s fucked, and it would be a long one.

Suddenly the thought of them knowing he’s spread me as well was very horny. Very, very horny. I’m wet again sat here writing it. I wish they could have seen. Now that IS very wettening. For a while I thought about doing that, going back and letting him fuck me in the kitchen with the rest watching, or taking turns with all of them and saving him for last (of course). Suddenly very wet, I decided it was not a good idea. Then I thought about the ways I could just talk to the other waiters and casually let it drop that I’d also dropped my knickers for him, and watch their faces. More wet, but really not on. Damn.

So I texted my American friend and told him I was ready now, and you know what? He came back at once with I don’t think so. Text me again when you’re REALLY ready, and I was halfway through typing ‘believe me, I’m REALLY ready right now’ when I realised what his game was and that I’d almost been caught, and stopped before I pressed send and changed it, saying ‘don’t worry, I’ll tell someone else’, but he didn’t answer. Hmm.

Didn’t help, because I’m sitting there in a puddle of goo gasping for a fuck and no way of getting one except going out alone to find it, which Rog thinks is very scary, even if I don’t go to the red light area and try for a punter. Or two. Why stop at one? See? He’s right. Too scary, especially alone.

I thought about Mister Blackmail, and I still thought the idea of him thinking he was fucking me against my will was fantastically rude, especially when we get to the bit where he believes he’s made me like it. That made my pussy twitch, but if I did that now he’s have won and there’d be no fun. I’m not clever enough for secret filming, so that would have to wait until Rog gets back and hides in the wardrobe. Don’t want him in the house, actually, so Rog’ll have to hide in the woods. Or a car park or somewhere.

Car park. That’s when I became brilliant. What if Mr Blackmail was still in the wine bar with his golfing mates? I could go in there and flirt with all of them except him, and take one of them out to the car park. Or all of them, one at a time. All except Blackmail himself. That would really make him cross, and keep his interest until Roger gets back, and he’d follow me to the car park like a shot, never thinking Rog is lurking round the corner with his camera.

Sometimes I’m very nearly as clever as Rog, and I rang him to tell him about my brilliance but his phone was off. Too early for hooker bars, so it must be tax again. I texted instead, and said I’d let him know what I was wearing, and that I’d text again when I was safely home. But what to wear? I thought about that in the shower while I renewed my shave, and thought about all three golfers having me in the car, which was getting more and more exciting the more I thought about it, and quite made my legs buckle at the end, so much that I almost fell over while I was cumming.

It only took me about half an hour to choose my wardrobe, and I must say I looked demure, black boots, black knee-length skirt and black top with a jacket that’s just cut softly enough no to look like the top half of a business suit. And beautifully made too. Rog says he’s paid less for cars. When he was younger, of course. The boots cost twice as much, but I haven’t told him. Until now, I suppose.

But the skirt, though not the most expensive part of the ensemble, was the best part by far. Knee-length, it’s full and flared, very feminine, so Rog says, because it swirls when I walk, and makes my legs and bum look good. Better still, it flares when I dance, rising almost horizontal so people can see just about anything I want them to see. No dancing in wine bars, of course, but that wasn’t the point. The point is that when I bought it there was a modest black silk lining that kept it weighted down and stopped it being too see-through. I cut that out of course, so it does the flaring thing while dancing, but it is also now very see-through when you stand close enough and look carefully. With the light behind it, you can see right through it.

Our wine bar has some trendy low-level lighting round the bar ( Rog thinks Enzo, the owner, is a pervert) and I planned to be making good use of it to get the golfers to come over. When they did, they’d be able to see my knickers, white under the thin black material, and if I stood with my legs apart, I knew they’d see the shape of my pussy, split where my knickers pulled tight around it. Legs apart as much as possible then. The only downside of the skirt is that hold-up stockings are quite visible and look dreadful because they stand out so much, dark srtipes round my legs. So no stockings, no heels, just the boots. Men like boots, especially laced up and spike heeled.

I tried to keep my mind on my driving and not get too worked up, but the anticipation was adding to the need, so I arrived gagging and expectant, a dangerous combination, especially because this is our local wine bar and I didn’t want to start acting like the village bike. Stay aloof, stay classy, but rude and horny. That’s the key. The clothes helped. I know I looked professional and businesslike, but not like a working girl, so anyone who caught sight of my knickers would assume it was an accident. Except the golfers. They’d know it was deliberate, because I was going to tell them.

And those knickers were already soaking when I parked outside, as close to the back entrance as possibly, and right under a light. If there was anyone around to see me, I didn’t want them to miss anything because it was too dark. Deliberately choosing a parking place to be watched gave me a small twitch of arousal and another little bubble of wetness seeped between my lips as they swelled apart. Wish Roger was here. He’d love this. But it was a lot more daring doing it on my own, and so a lot hornier. More wet oozed at the thought.

When I saw the golfers through the window as I approached I wasn’t sure if I was scared, relieved or what. Pussy knew though, and opened, warm and wet. I was a boiling mixture of want and need between the legs as I walked in and I was so conscious of my pussy rubbing on its own slipperiness as I walked to the bar and took a position right in front of the lights so they could admire my legs and boots .And a lot of my bum, I hoped. When I’d got their attention I put a toe up on the footrail, a comfortable standing position that left my knees apart. Now they were looking properly. The mirror behind the bar, with all their faces in a row, was a picture.

Marco was across in a flash, glass of Pinot ready, big smile. He thought I’d come back for another helping of Italian sausage and I was quite looking forward to turning him down and making him want it a bit more keenly. If he was wanting me harder when Rog was watching that would be better for all of us.

There’s a big difference between want and need, so my friend Christine says. Some women want a fuck, some women need cock. Right now I was both, but normally I’m the second kind, as you know.

I changed feet, turned the other cheek, got my feet further apart. They could see the round swelling between my legs, I hoped, and perhaps the little divide between my lips. Pity they couldn’t see how wet I was. Later.

Mr Blackmail couldn’t sit still any longer and was beside me in two steps, offering a drink, and anything else I’d like. He thought I’d come for Marco and he was jealous, or greedy and wanted to get in first. Or both. I took his drink and deliberately raised my glass to the golfers at the table. I’d swivelled to face them but kept my foot on the rail so my legs were as wide apart as I could get them without actually putting my knees behind my ears.

There were about 20 other people in, clustered round tables in small groups, paying no attention. Great. Blackmail was talking, so I had to turn and face him, but I kept my feet apart and stuck my bum out. Wish Rog was here to tell me what it looked like.

Blackmail was asking if Rog knew I was here and I said no, he was in a meeting and so couldn’t answer his phone. He offered to keep it our little secret and I agreed, naturally. Now he was asking about doing something for him in return. ‘Like what?’ I asked, as if I didn’t know, and he actually struggled to come out with a sentence that said fuck me without asking me to fuck him. He ended up pathetically with I’m sure you can think of something and looked down at my groin, and almost dropped his glass, so I knew the skirt was working, and he could see my knickers about as clearly as if that was all I was wearing. Hot dribbles, sorry about that. Much as I dislike him, the fact that he was staring and getting hard made me wet all over again. Hated that, but liked it too. Time for reinforcements. ‘Introduce me to your friends while I think about it’ I said, so he had no choice but to wave them over.

This was good, because it meant that I had people round me, and when I put my foot back on the rail and was standing directly over the light, with what amounted to a spotlight shining up my skirt and making my knickers stand out as much as their eyes, their bodies were making it harder for anyone else to see through my skirt. Normally the more viewers I have the better, but that wasn’t what I wanted tonight. Not in here, anyway. If the golfers were too pissed, though, I might need to go on somewhere. Let’s not forget, the sole purpose of the expedition was to get fucked, and though the golfers were handy, it didn’t have to be them. I was so gagging I would have fucked a scabby donkey if that was the only option. Luckily, it wasn’t, at least not while the golfers were still standing.

One of them started getting very handy just then, admiring my skirt and brushing his hands over my bum. If you don’t slap them right away, they carry on, so I din’t and he did, and and in no time at all he was stroking and squeezing as if he owned it. Which he will do any time now, I thought. Grey hair, other side of 40, maybe a bit more, slim, not bad looking, and quite cheery. I made sure Blackmail had noticed, and smiled sweetly at him, before leaning over to my groper.

‘Is there any reason you’re touching my bum like that?’ I whispered in his ear, making sure he could see I was smiling so he knew he wasn’t getting the brush-off. Well it’s a very nice bum, he whispered back, and you didn’t seem to mind. He squeezed it harder so I didn’t miss the point. ‘Oh I don’t mind. I like it. Is there anything else you’d like to squeeze while you’re at it?’

That stumped him for a moment, and I watched his face, watching me, trying to see if it was a wind-up or not. ‘Alan’s just going to fix something for me’, I sad loudly to the others. ‘On the car. It is Alan, isn’t it?’ I asked as I put down my glass, took his and placed it on the bar and took his arm, heading for the door. He didn’t answer, and in fact didn’t say very much at all after that, not even when I got in the back seat and pulled him in with me.

It was all so fast he’d hardly had time to get hard, but as soon as he got his hand between my legs and slid his fingers into all that hot wetness he grew rigid in my palm. I love having that effect on a cock, and lay back flat, one leg on the floor, one dangling over the seat-back, legs as wide as possible so he could get between them and fuck me. His cock was average in size, but hard and fat and slipped in beautifully, and I was still guiding it in, feeling the wetness opeing around it when it began quivering in my hand and he said bloody hell quite angrily, and I knew what was happening so I pulled him as hard and deep as I could go, and that was it, four, maybe five sprays and I was cumming too, and it was all over, but that was fine. I didn’t have a lot of time, and we’d both cum in those few short minutes, so who’s complaining? Saying that seemed to make him happier, and it had given me release too. I still needed cock, but no longer had to have it NOW, this instant. I’d get it in a while, and that was okay now.
‘Thank you very much’ I said to him loudly when we were back inside, and he scurried off to the gents to clean up and tuck it all away properly. ‘Problem with the back seat’ I said to the others, ‘but Alan sorted me out. Now, where’s my drink?’

I was glowing with excitement, my pussy was hot and wet and tingling with being freshly-fucked, and I’d only just begun. My knickers were on fire, like molten lava. I stood directly above the light again, hoping they’d see how wet I was. They didn’t know what to say, really, so I asked about golf, and giggled a lot about birdies and a hole-in-one, and asked to see Greg’s nine-iron, all chirpy girlie stuff, while they tried not to get caught staring between my legs to see if they could tell by squinting whether or not I’d just been fucked by their friend. I let them stew for 10 minutes and then went to the Ladies so he could tell them.

I could tell he had when I came back. The atmosphere was different. They were tense, excited and eager. And familiar. Men treat you differently when they know you’re available, as opposed to hoping you are. They were all a lot more cocky, if you see what I mean, and a lot more eager to please and be the one talking to me. All except Blackmail, who was positively sulky. Perfect! I’ll show you what available really means, I thought. When I rearranged myself in the Ladies, I’d pulled my knickers nice and tight, so I hoped they could se the shape of my open pussy better than before, and the goggle eyes said they could.

After they’d all had a good look I decided I’d done enough with lights, so I suggested we sat at the table in the corner. They almost ran, and pushed each other aside to arrange the seats, and I ended up on the bench along the wall, facing the rest of the room, with a panting golfer on either side and Blackmail dead ahead. Better than ever.

The one on the left was faster than on the right, but not much, and I hand a warm hand on each knee. I opened wide, pressing a thigh against each of theirs, and waited. Left again, sliding up my thigh, waiting to see if I’d stop him, then moving again. My right-hand man was slower to start but went straight for gold, one smooth movement all the way up and his hand was deep between my legs, cupping me, fingers curling down to where I was so hot and wet and slippery.

Blackmail knew, I could tell, and smiled at him. If he’d been Roger he would have beamed back, but he wasn’t and just pouted. I was liking this more and more. And I was loving right-hand man, who’d managed to wiggle a finger into me and was now making quite breathtaking circling movements inside my pussy. It was so nice I reached down to hold the left-hand arm, stopping it just before there was a meeting of hands. ‘I don’t mind’, I whispered, ‘but he might.’ I nodded to the right and sat back against the wall, looking down under the table. Left-hand man followed my gaze and couldn’t not notice that his friend’s hand was already well up my skirt and working away.

And doing very nicely, thankyou. So nicely, that I decided not only to let him carry on but to let him finish. And to make sure everyone else knew what was happening. The idea was so horny I almost spoiled it and came on the spot, but I managed to get control, calmed myself, and then started talking to Alan, until he could tell my breathing was going funny and finally realised what right-hand man was doing. Blackmail was slightly ahead of him, so I had their full attention.

I opened my legs as wide as I could, exaggerating the movement for the benefit of the other thee, but mostly so right-hand man could get two fingers in me a bit deeper, though it was the extra thickness spreading me open that I really liked and wanted at this point. Make that needed.

Just so he didn’t feel left out, I searched around under the table and found the hard lump in left-hand man’s trousers, and held on to his cock for the ride as I started to cum.

It wasn’t Meg Ryan, and no-one else noticed, but my group of golfers went all wide-eyed and amazed as the top half on my body thrashed around a bit and I made a lot of deep breathing noises and some hopefully discreet squeaks, clutching the wrist between my legs and holding it still while I fucked his fingers and tipped myself over the edge, looking across the room at Marco, who was staring hard. He knew something was up, but luckily he couldn’t see what it was.

When I could breathe normally and speak again, I thanked right-hand man politely, told him it was lovely and he was very good (which I knew would piss off Blackmail no end) and he made some mumbling sounds and started to rise. ‘Oh, don’t waste it’ I said, and he knew I knew where he was going and what for. I also knew it would only take a second, so I locked us in the Ladies, unzipped him and squatted down. Whoosh!, he went, as soon as it was in my mouth, all fat and round and slippy, and a gallon of cum jetted out. In this situation it’s better further in than that, because it’s a thick gooey thing that can be hard to swallow from the front of your mouth.

Hard jets of it pumped around my tongue and teeth and I could feel it getting away round the edges of my mouth, and though I licked and swallowed as fast as I could, I still had it all running down my chin when I looked in the mirror. Lucky there was none on the jacket, and the rest mopped up okay, so I still looked neat and tidy when I went back to the table. It had all gone a bit quiet now, no-one knowing what to say or do. Except me. I was gagging for a cock in me, and it seemed only fair to mention it.

Except I didn’t. Quite. ‘Buy me a drink’, I said to left-hand man loud enough for the other three to hear, ‘and you can have your turn’. Olympic gold, all the way to the bar, he was, and he watched me drink with greedy eyes. I rummaged around under the table to keep him happy, and to confirm what I thought earlier. Of the three, this was eaily the biggest. I like a big cock, as you know, but it’s bad behaviour and outrage that really gets me hot. And THEN I want a big cock.

I stopped rummaging left-hand man and smiled at Marco, who’d been watching, wondering what was going on and whether I was waiting for my eleven o’cock appointment. To be honest, I wasn’t sure myself. Five sets of eyes were fastened on me as I put both my hands up my skirt. People can see what you’re doing, but they can’t see what you’ve got, especially under a table. I looked round. Still no-one else looking. I pulled my knickers down, let them drop to the floor, and bent to pick them up. I took Blackmail by the wrist and pressed the material into his open hand. They were still warm, and soaked of course, the juices hot from my body. ‘That’s all you’re getting’ I said with my sweetest smile, and added ‘tonght.’ I hate to lose nice knickers, but it was worth it.

Left-hand man was quite large, and though I wanted him from behind, it was too cold to have the door open, so I hooked one leg over the seat-back, put my other foot on the floor and let him cl,amber on top. Worth it though, because he filled me nicely and fucked me well for a surprisingly long few minutes, and I was still screaming from my own orgasm when he had his, and his long, long spurts finished me off just perfectly.

Marco was watching as I climbed out of the bak, pecked Leftie on the cheek, pulled my skirt down and got into the drving seat. I waved godbye, but he didn’t, and I’m not sure if I haven’t put him off. I’ll wait a couple of weeks and see.

I started to feel a bit regretful and guilty as I drove along, and more than a little bit slutty. Maybe I’ve gone too far again. I can’t help it though. It’s like chocolates. Buy me a box and I can look at it for days without touching or wanyting any. But as soon as the box is opened, I eat them all, non stop greed. But now I was thinking what if everyone WAS waching, and saw what happened under the table, and know what I did in the Ladies and the car park, twice?

I stopped and texted Roger for a bit of reassurance, and he was in his hotel room with an 18 year-old Russian called Natalya Angel, obviously not an accountant. He got her to suck him while I described the night in detail and we came pretty close together, probably because we’ve had a lot of practice. Then I drove home, playing all the way, and did the big pink vibe again, a good long hour of buzzing before I let myself cum and go to sleep.