Although Ballybunion had its fair share of tourists, Earle and Lorreli were objects of curiosity wherever they went (although to be fair the interest was always extremely friendly and polite). This was hardly surprising. At five feet nine inches, of slim build, with long, straight blonde hair and a transatlantic accent, Lorreli was hardly your average “colleen”. While Earle’s muscular six feet and 195 lbs, short dark hair and hazel eyes, hardly made him your average “mick” either.
As they were on their way out of reception one morning they noticed a new poster that read:
Traditional Irish Ceilidh
here in the club room this evening
with our resident Black Velvet Band
And so just for the craic they decided to go.
They ate in the hotel restaurant that evening: a wonderful meal of Dublin Bay prawns for starters, prime Irish beef steaks and salad, and a syllabub of summer fruits all washed down with a crisp bottle of white wine. So by the time they got into the club room it was already almost full and the atmosphere electric.
Nevertheless they managed to get a small table near the front and Earle got a couple of drinks from the bar just as the band warmed up.
It was traditional Irish folk: pipes, tabor, fiddles and acoustic guitar. Of course Earle and Lorreli had heard folk music before, but never like this, live and in front of such a noisily enthusiastic audience.
Soon they were swept along with the wild, almost pagan rhythm of the jigs and reels, the sudden, dramatic changes in tempo, the haunting ballads and were clapping and whooping with best of them.
But it was the lead singer who really captured Lorreli’s attention. He was around twenty-eight, tall, well over six foot, well built, blue-eyed with light-brown curly hair. He was wearing a faded green Irish rugby jersey over tight blue jeans – with an almost ludicrously impressive bulge at the crotch.
“Hey do you think that thing’s for real?” Lorreli whispered in Earle’s ear.
“How the hell should I know, why don’t you ask him,” he replied.
At the end of the set the singer came down off the small makeshift stage and, wandering amongst the crowd, launched into “The Black Velvet Band”. This was obviously their final number and a firm favorite with the crowd judging by their reaction and the way they all joined in after the opening few bars.
He stopped at their table and made a great show of serenading Lorreli:
Her eyes they shone like diamonds
I thought her the Queen of the land
And her hair it hung over her shoulders
Tied up with a black velvet band.
As he was singing he reached into his pocket and pulled an inch or so of material and then invited Lorreli to continue. It was a long length of black velvet ribbon, which he then took from her and bound into her already ponytailed hair, tying it off with a bow and a flourish as the song finished to rapturous applause.
“Thank you that was great,” said Earle. “Would you join us for a drink?”
“Sure, great, I’ll have a lager,” said the singer, pulling up a chair and swinging it round so he was sitting with legs either side of the back rest. “I’m William, William O’Romeo.”
Seeing their puzzled expressions he explained: “Here in the Republic you don’t find too many Williams since William of Orange. But my parents are Italian and so the O’Romeo’s just what the locals call me as a bit of fun.”
Over the lager William proved to be extremely entertaining company, with a fund of stories and gossip about Ballybunion, and he flirted outrageously with Lorreli in his lilting Irish brogue.
“I’ll get de next round,” he said and then disappeared to the bar.
Lorreli whispered urgently in Earle’s ear: “You know we’ve talked about a threesome? Well, he’s the one. I want him, in fact I’m practically creaming my jeans as it is.”
“Whoah, whoah,” he replied. “When I said ‘threesome’ I meant another woman . . .”
“Spoilsport,” she hissed. “I agreed to come with you to your ‘Old Country’. Now it’s my turn to have some fun. It’s perfect, the other side of the world and no one will ever know. It’s now or never, this or nothing. Please, darling.”
William returned carrying a tray and gave a huge conspiratorial wink to another member of the band as he placed it on the table. It contained three large glasses almost full with Guinness and a bottle of champagne, which he made a great show of opening and topping off the pints with.
“Cheers,” he said. “It’s our national drink, Black Velvet . . . like the band. And, as we say in Ireland, may you be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows you’re dead.”
Exactly half an hour later and ever so slightly tipsy, Lorreli stood up, picked up the room key from the table, swung it ostentatiously so everyone concerned couldn’t miss the number and announced: “Right I’m off to bed. Who’s coming?” Then she flounced out.
There was a long silence and William was suddenly very sober and serious. “I guess dat’ll be you then, pal?”
“Nooo,” Earle replied slowly, “I think she means both of us. You go up, I’ll give it ten minutes . . . and if you’re gone when I get there I’ll know I’ve made a terrible mistake, but I don’t think I have.”
Pausing outside his room, Earle took a long, deep breath and stepped inside . . . and the sight that met him stopped him in his tracks.
The room was lit only by a few candles, but the curtains were open and light from a bright, full moon streamed in through the windows, gilding everything with silver, while outside, across the golf course, he could see it glinting off the ocean.
Lorreli, his wife, was sitting on one side of the vast bed clad only in her bra and knickers. Completely naked, William stood between her parted thighs. She had his cock in both hands and was sliding them slowly up and down his shaft, head bent forward and mouth stretched wide around his glans.
“Hi, honey, what kept you? We were trying not to start without you,” she said, pausing for breath, and with a start Earle realized that the huge bulge in the front of William’s jeans earlier in the evening had been entirely genuine.
Lorreli lay William down on his back and stripped off her underwear. She straddled his groin, facing Earle and gently eased just the first thick inch or two of his prick inside herself – Earle could clearly see it disappearing into her pussy.
She gasped, almost in pain, and stopped, allowing her body to accommodate his girth, then settled a little deeper, and again, and again, until finally William was fully sheathed inside her. She closed her eyes, crooned to herself in pleasure, and relaxed, allowing her full weight to settle onto his groin.
Gradually, she began to undulate her hips, moving up and down in time to some accelerating drumbeat only she could hear. Faster and faster and longer and longer until finally she came with a fierce suddenness and a single shriek that shocked them all.
She was shaking so violently that she clung on to William for support and he simply held her until the aftershocks had passed.
Then he laid her on the bed, unwound the black velvet ribbon from her hair and rewound it around her eyes until it formed an effective blindfold.
Turning to Earle, William put a finger to his lips and silently motioned for him to get undressed and join them. He rolled Lorreli onto her stomach and gave her buttocks a playful slap – although the “crack” echoed like a gunshot in the silent room and a pink palm print was etched into the whiteness of her flesh.
“Up!” he commanded and waited until she was on all fours, expectant and exquisite, posed in the center of the huge bed. He motioned Earle to the head of the bed. Back propped against the headboard, Earle settled himself, legs spread wide on either side of his wife’s shoulders.
William put a hand on the back of Lorreli’s neck and gently but firmly forced her head down until the velvet smooth skin on the tip of Earle’s cock just brushed her cheek. Lorreli gasped, her mouth opened wide and Earle slipped inside her.
She
began to suck on his cock – something she did but rarely at home – slurping almost greedily.
William went to the foot of the bed, knelt between Lorreli’s parted thighs and drove himself back into her with a single powerful thrust, which forced her deeper onto Earle’s prick until she felt it hit the back of her throat.
William instantly hit a steady rhythm, long deep strokes, rubbing up and down the length of Lorreli’s cunt, and they fucked like this for a long time.
Then they changed places, so Lorreli was being fucked by her husband, while she sucked and licked at William’s mighty cock until her jaw muscles ached.
They switched again and again and again, until finally, still deprived of sight, almost exhausted and more than half-crazed with lust, she lost count of the number of orgasms she’d had and whose cock was inside her cunt and mouth.
Then finally they came, all three of them together. And such was her ultra-sensitive state that she could feel each individual pulse and spasm and her body’s own answering contractions.
Lorreli passed out.
When she came to it was morning, almost ten o’clock and she squeezed her eyes shut against the brightness of the light.
Muzzily, she actually felt as if she hadn’t slept for days. She was stiff and sore all over and her body felt grubby and gritty. Damn, she thought, Black Velvet kicks like a mule . . . and the memories came flooding back.
With a start she realized that she was all alone in bed, although she could hear a shower running in the bathroom.
God, oh God, had it all been just a drunken dream? she wondered, hope against hope.
Lorreli threw back the covers, leaped out of bed and raced to the dressing table. She looked at her tousled reflection in the mirror and her eyes widened with shock as she noticed something black wound around her neck.
Her eyes they shone like diamonds
I thought her the Queen of the land
And her hair it hung over her shoulders
Tied up with a black velvet band.
PARTY PIECE
P. J. Rosier
I really did not want to attend the party to which my wife was intent on dragging me; a birthday celebration for the husband of a woman she knew slightly. Now, in case you think I am a miserable devil, my main reasons are first, I would know virtually no one there; second, I have a slight hearing impediment that makes no difference talking one-to-one in a quiet room but is hopeless when trying to chat when a dozen or more others are shouting away and music is blaring. Smiling, nodding and muttering “jolly good” is only of so much use and particularly unhelpful if the person turns out to be relating how they have just lost their dog, cat or mother in terrible circumstances.
Anyway, we went, I couldn’t think of a valid reason to stay at home, and it was as I had feared: crowded and noisy. After chatting to our hosts, we wandered into the sitting room and had grabbed a drink and a sausage on a stick each when my wife was whisked away by some other female with whom she had been to school. Judging by the appearance of the other woman, it was back in the days when miscreants were nailed to the school wall and bears were set on them for not doing their homework (the children not the bears, of course). I didn’t miss my wife too much as my attention was drawn to a tall and pretty blonde in her, I surmised, mid-thirties accompanied by a sour-faced man who looked about as pleased to be there as I was. The woman was dressed all in white, a flowing summery dress appropriate to the time of year, which fell to just above the knee. It had a scoop top and cutaway sleeves, altogether a fitting complement to her elegant good looks.
As I stared, trying not to be obvious about it, the man she was with wandered off toward the table with the beer tins on it and she sauntered over to the buffet. Seeing me clutching my sausage on a stick, she said, “Those look good, I hope there are some left.”
I was so surprised by her suddenly chatting to me that I nearly choked but, recovering as soon as I could, I muttered that, yes, I could recommend them.
After loading up a plate, she asked if I knew the birthday couple well. I explained that it was my wife who really knew them and that I had just been dragged along as ballast. She laughed at that, a tinkling sort of sound. It was an attractive addition to her soft, Scottish accent. I asked her which part of Scotland she came from and when she said Edinburgh I was able to say I had been to college there and we started to swap tales of parts of Edinburgh that we both knew.
A seat became vacant in the far corner of the lounge and she suggested we sit down. It was quieter over there. I stood aside to let her sit on the couch but she insisted that I did and sat instead on the floor at my feet, her long legs curled up under her skirt. We carried on chatting about things Scottish, including many happy holiday trips I had taken there.
I was, however, rather distracted as I could clearly see straight down the front of her dress, its scoop neck allowing an intimate view of a white bra cupping twin delights and, beyond that, her flat belly. I wondered if she was aware of the effect she had created by insisting on sitting on the floor close up against me, and a flutter of excitement ran through my veins as I contemplated the notion that it was perhaps not entirely by accident.
Having finished our drinks, I suggested she might like to take a walk in the garden. It was a warm summer’s night, other guests were outside drinking and chatting and the omnipresent music would be a little less overpowering. Of my wife, and of her husband, I could see no trace.
As we wandered through the throng to the back door, I asked her name.
She giggled. “It’s Mona, now please don’t make any jokes, I’ve heard them all.”
“I think that’s a very pleasant name, very Scottish,” I said insincerely.
She giggled again.
The warm garden air was quite intoxicating after the smoky heat indoors and the night perfume of the various flowers added an almost tropical feeling to our stroll. The garden was not huge but, at the far end, there was an L-shaped extension reached by a rather overgrown gate in a wall. By some gentle tugging, I got the gate open and we went through. Inside, it was a secret place, remote and mysterious, lit only by the waxing moon. No other guests had penetrated this far. The very thought of that word, “penetration”, gave me another shivery feeling throughout my body.
I suddenly felt a soft hand touching mine and she said, “I hope you don’t mind. I just feel so relaxed with you, you’re much easier to talk to than my husband.”
I was flattered.
Coming to the end of the garden, we saw a shed tucked away in a shadowy corner. The door stood invitingly open and, aside from a few garden tools, there were just some old blankets left piled on a box. Mona went over and picked one up, sneezing as the dust rose in the air.
“Mmm, these need a shake.” She carefully shook each one at arm’s length, the dust hovering in the still night air.
Putting them carefully on the ground, she said, “It’s such a nice night, wouldn’t you just like to lie here with me and look at the stars? But not in a white dress! I’ll take it off first.”
She held the dress by the hem and lifted it up and over her head in one bold movement. Instantly, a well-dressed and demure young woman was transformed into a bold and sexy nymph, modesty saved only by her white bra and equally white and very skimpy bikini pants.
She knelt down gracefully and extended her hand to me. I needed no second bidding and slipped down beside her.
“Oh,” she said in a teasing tone, “now you’re overdressed.” And with nimble fingers my shirt and trousers were swiftly undone.
Shucking off my clothes, my body was only too well aware of her near-naked proximity. Without thinking, I turned toward her for a first, gentle kiss. My heart was racing and my hands sweaty; I couldn’t really believe this was happening to me. Her lips met mine and our tongues gently explored each other’s mouth. With one hand I held her shoulder, with the other I began to caress her neck slowly and as sensuously as I could. When I moved up to her ear lobes, she began to writh
e and stretch with erotic, catlike movements. We kissed more ardently and my fingers moved down to her bra to undo it and release her creamy breasts. As they fell free into my waiting hand, I dropped my lips to her nipples, a beautiful pink in the moonlight, and began to suck them, first one then the other. It was very gentle; I didn’t want to make her sore.
She had been busy as well and her free hand had crept down to my belly where, after toying briefly with my bush, she began to fondle my balls. Unlike some men who don’t like those being touched, I was entirely happy for her to hold and squeeze me there.
“Do you like this, darling?” I heard her whisper. “Do you want it stronger?”
The demure miss I had met earlier seemed to have vanished in that wonderful conjuring trick that females have: the ability to transform from virginal bride to passion-soaked Delilah in the blink of an eye – or the dropping of their clothes, at least.
Her fingers squeezed me more, her hold tightened on my sac until I felt like crying out, it was almost too much to bear. But my cock was about as hard as it had ever been; I was going to come any minute if she wasn’t distracted soon. My hand, almost of its own accord, dropped down from tits to panties and began to stroke and fondle her slit through the undeniably wet material. I stroked and squeezed harder, and she began to ride my hand, pressing against me, forcing my fingers inside her pants and then between her wet and engorged labia. As she heard me pant and groan, her female instincts must have alerted her that I was about to come and she suddenly squeezed the tip of my glans very hard, almost a pinch. The pain was intense yet somehow satisfying; if I were to be punished by a lover, she was the one I would have chosen. And it immediately prevented my ejaculation. I could feel myself growing limper, at least for the moment, but in no way was I less randy. Her mouth lip-locked to mine, her breasts flattened against my chest, I rammed, withdrew and rammed again my fingers, first one then two, into her wanton slit. And she moaned (how apt was her name now), writhed, groaned and shuddered, faster and faster, until she came.
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Stories Page 8