by Leo Barton
Boy, was she irresistible! I would defy any red-blooded male to deny himself the pleasure she could bring with her lips, and tongue, and teeth.
In no time her handiwork had produced an erection that speared proudly up from my groin. And now I was actually being asked to bugger her virgin hole. I had died and gone to heaven!
Claudia smiled at me, and then turned and knelt on the bed, presenting her rounded bottom to me expectantly. Suddenly I felt a little surge of panic; I didn't want to hurt her, and I didn't want to disappoint her.
Again the clever girl seemed to understand my predicament, for she peered over her shoulder and said softly, 'I am ready for you.'
I stroked her smooth buttocks, and then noticed for the first time that she had already anointed them with some kind of cream. She must have visited the bathroom and prepared herself before waking me.
This was a young lady who knew what she wanted! And how to get it!
The springs of the little bed strained as I positioned myself and it took our full combined weight.
'Are you ready?' I asked, and saw her nod, her shoulders hunched and her head hanging down slightly. I pushed a finger into her bottom without any resistance. It was definitely tighter than Andrea's. I could wait no longer. I prised her buttocks apart and replaced my finger with my cock. Her back arched and I could feel the extra girth stretching her rectum as I plugged her. I could tell she was in some discomfort, but she made no complaint. I began to pull out of her to give some respite, but she bravely stopped me.
'No... please...' she begged. 'Mas...'
I halted my retreat, and instead pushed against her again until I filled her to the hilt. I paused, allowing her time to grow accustomed to the new sensations, and gradually her little moans of uncertainty became little moans of delight.
When I thought she was okay I started to move. The springs squeaked as my hips drove back and forth with increasing vigour. Claudia squirmed with pleasure and pushed her buttocks back against me, meeting my forward thrusts and making our flesh slap together in the silence of the early morning. I watched her sink her mouth into the pillow to stifle her sobs of delight, and I knew she didn't want to alert Andrea; she didn't want to share this new experience with her dance tutor.
Her arms tensed and she gripped the bed covers tightly.
I spread her buttocks wide and gazed down at my greased cock pounding into her poor stretched bottom. Claudia grunted and her hanging breasts jerked every time my balls swung against her tensed thighs. We were both perspiring heavily with the effort of our coupling.
At the last moment I pulled Claudia back up against my chest. The action deepened my penetration even further and her head lolled back onto my shoulder. Her mouth opened in a silent scream and she shuddered in my arms. I cupped her breasts and pinched her nipples as my sperm flooded her tight rear passage.
I held Claudia like that for a long time, gently rocking her and kissing her temple and cheek. Her fringe was damp on her forehead, and she quietly mumbled words I didn't understand. Her soft buttocks molded themselves tightly into my lap, and the glove of her rear passage hugged my spent cock affectionately.
As I knelt there in the crisp dawn, with such a beauty enfolded in my arms, I thanked God or fortune or whatever it was that had led me to such delights, such a realisation of half-imagined fantasies, such exquisite joy. In short, that had led me to Buenos Aires.
Chapter 7
What a difference sexual satiation can make to ones surroundings! Before I left London and Marie I had despaired of the place, of its congestion of cars and people, its dirt, its aggression; of its shoddy streets and the coldness of its winters; of the depressing morning faces that greeted me on the inevitably delayed tube. Buenos Aires was no less dirty. It had its squalor and its gloomy Monday faces, but here I felt alive, liberated. I loved the city. I could not but help feel a sympathy, which I had never done for the people of London, for the washed-out faces that often passed me by on the streets: the chronically disappointed. Most of the time I didn't even notice them, so frequently was my head turned by a beautiful face, a pert rump, a slender leg.
How could I feel anything but warmth or sympathy for a place that had given me so much in such a short space of time, that had offered me Andrea, Beatrice, and Andrea with Claudia, and that maybe offered me so much more? How could it not compare favourably to the dismal city where I had spent so long repressing my lust for the sake of supposed monogamous bliss, releasing myself with a mechanical conjugal fuck or a lazy bathroom wank? It was easy to conclude that at last I had found home.
I woke up again in mid-morning, back in the double bed with two delightful females looking up at me and giggling as they licked on my stirring cock. What had happened to me that fate, after slumbering for so long in my life, had given me this? If this was what Buenos Aires was going to be like, I never wanted to leave... never.
I made love to them again, alternating between the youthful Claudia and the more experienced Andrea. I screwed them, wondering when all this might be taken away from me; when the great god of chance, having given me so much pleasure, would suddenly withdraw his favours from me. It added intensity to every thrust of my cock.
I did everything that day; saw everything. I could do with them what I wanted, take them whichever way I pleased.
By the evening Claudia had to go home. She couldn't explain her absence from the family hearth any longer, and besides, she had a date with her boyfriend. Lucky man, I thought, knowing what Claudia now knew. I would have died for a woman at nineteen as experienced in carnal pleasures as Claudia had now become.
I knew that I too had to depart. Andrea had an evening meeting, although she wouldn't tell me much about it. I didn't want to go. Why would I want to leave that perfect paradise, that garden of earthly delight that San Isidro had been to me over the last twenty-four hours?
I couldn't have done anything else by that stage. Anyway, I was too exhausted, but that wasn't the point. Not the whole point. I liked Andrea. I liked her spirit, her attitude to life. I wanted to stay with her, to nestle my head between her breasts. San Isidro was like a cocoon for me, a refuge from everything bad that had ever happened to me. I did not want to sneak off back to my lonely hospedaje. But, with a vague promise that Andrea would call me in the next few days, I sloped back to Palermo.
I have prevaricated and procrastinated for long enough. Now the time has come. I must tell you what I haven't so far told you. I must struggle to find the words, to fill the gaps, to explain, as much to myself as to anybody else, what happened. I must write about Marie.
I met Marie, my wife of four and a half years and my lover of five, through David. She was his long-standing girlfriend. Not his only one, for David always had lots of 'entertainment' on the go at the same time, but Marie was the woman he always seemed to go back to, the woman that I - and everybody who knew David - thought he would eventually settle down with, maybe even marry.
In those days I thought she was such a beautiful woman: she had a stunning curvaceous figure, limpid green eyes, a delectable crop of cool blonde hair, a broad generous laugh and a smile that could send shivers down my spine. Marie was a wonderful combination of Celtic passion and English sang froid; she had a calm inner certainty that was so refreshing compared to many of those girls I knew, full of insecurity and repression. This, of course, was before her passion developed into a passionate obstinacy and her sang froid, to maintain the cod French, transmuted itself to a kind of careless ennui: from being feisty and free-spirited she became bored and bitterly angry, at least with me.
Victoria, vividly recalled in these pages, gave David and I our first taste of what David used to call 'extreme love', but she was not our only experience: not the only woman to savour the delights of a tanned backside or a gagged mouth, my prick in her quim while David rode her from behind. We developed a penchant for mutually thrashing and rogering accommo
dating women. There was Cynthia from the office, Isabel, a Spanish girl, Frederique from France, a couple of barmaids we favoured with our cocks and our whips and, when willing women were thin on the ground, a couple of East End tarts we picked up from my own locale.
Yes, I'm sure you know where this is heading: how one seemingly disconnected paragraph relates to another, the logical progression of C following B following A...
And how I loved Marie! How I dreamt of her, fantasised over her alluring body with my sad hands, and even sometimes in mid-hump as I screwed some office temp fresh from typing school. Yes, even as an Annabel or a Tracey or a Lucy sucked on my shaft, Marie would force her presence into my thoughts and, closing my eyes, I would dream it was her mouth on me, her lips milking me dry, her hands squeezing my aching balls.
It was not that I didn't have plenty of opportunity to see her. This was my problem: she was David's girlfriend, the real one, the one we thought that deep down, despite the carnal dalliances he frequently enjoyed, he loved. He even referred to the others as his 'bits on the side', a meaningless diversion from his true path, his real love. This was the problem because I suppose I was still his best friend, the one who shared his secrets, and was expected to keep them. I was the one who got to know the sordid details, the petty frustrations, the grand ambitions and, most agonisingly for me, the companionship of his girlfriend. My problem was that even before we became a threesome, we already were a threesome, so to speak.
Neither of them ever minded me tagging along. And Marie seemed to like me. It was often at her instigation that I found myself in their company. She would ring me at my office, inviting me to dinner, to pubs, to wine bars, to football matches, to autumnal parks and expensive restaurants. All the time, of course, with David there too. Sometimes I dreamt that it would just be me and her, but it never was - not then.
Apart from the fact that David had got to her before I did, he was more eligible than I. David was the high-flyer, not me. He was working for a national women's magazine, writing features about the rich and famous, running around the most chic restaurants, flying to the most exotic Caribbean islands. And all the time I still ambled around flower shows, reported the latest road fatality or dredged up the dreary statistics of juvenile crime from my East London poverty-stricken patch. The only features I got to write were not on the super-rich or the over-talented, but on some third-rate and mind-numbingly dull local historian or, worse, the retired park-keeper.
Maybe I digress a little, but this is how it was. David, always having greater confidence and drive than I, fêted screen stars and alternative comedians while I, standing on rain-sodden doorsteps, requested snaps of newly deceased sons and daughters from grieving parents. What did I have to offer Marie compared to what David could give her - apart from the tepidity of platonic friendship?
So we three became a gang of three, occasionally with an interchangeable fourth, one of the current women in my life who invariably, once screwed, would be forgotten. What would be the point of making any commitments when I loved Marie, loved her like an infatuated schoolboy, loved her to the point of obsession? By necessity, I obviously had to hide my feelings, but my love concealed, festered, grew, nurtured itself, became almost ridiculous.
David and I had not stopped our games. Only two weeks before the incident I am about to relate, a certain buxom Belinda had obliged our always eager cocks in the back of David's car, pulling us off simultaneously so we spurted onto her face. This was a secret we obviously kept from Marie. Nothing of our fondness for the ménage à trois was ever mentioned to her - until that night.
That night!
We rolled back to David's place in St John's Wood at about two in the morning. We were all quite drunk. We had been celebrating my thirtieth birthday. It was a mark of my affection, of the closeness of our relationship, that I should wish to pass my entry into my fourth decade with David and Marie.
We had had dinner in one of my favourite Soho restaurants. The evening had been lively, bright with our laughter, and we had polished off more wine than was good for us.
Back in the apartment, David had insisted upon opening a bottle of champagne that Marie had bought to mark the occasion. We guzzled the bubbly and giggled like schoolchildren.
Marie looked spectacular that night, her shining blonde hair caressing the small of her back, her make-up as expertly applied as always, delineating the naturally well-defined features of her face. She wore a short sequin dress, low-cut, her ample breasts crammed together, accenting every heave and undulation of her alabaster chest. She managed to look both elegant and sexy at the same time.
The conversation, as it often did, turned lightheartedly to sex, with David regaling us with half-true anecdotes of the sex lives of the celebrities he had brushed against. Marie, also decidedly in the know about the fashion world - she too was a high flyer, working as the deputy fashion editor on the same magazine as David - spun a more credible tale of one designer she knew who couldn't achieve orgasm unless she had sex with at least two men.
David and I both laughed, a little uneasily perhaps, thinking about our own shared fetish. David, although not exactly an expert in haute couture, made some barbed comment about how horrible the woman's designs were and the conversation turned to another topic, although related to sex, not specifically concerned with the fancies of the disparaged fashion designer.
We were drunk, it is true. It is also true that, in my booze-clouded frame of mind, I wanted something to happen. I could not spend the rest of my life in unrequited love. Sooner or later the situation would have to come to a head, even if it meant disgracing myself, or losing David's friendship for ever.
There was a slight lull in the conversation as David, rather unwisely, opened a fresh bottle of wine. Marie sat on the sofa beside him, her knees pulled up to her chest. I could see the marble white of her thighs. She was never shy with me, often conducting conversations with both of us as she lay in the bath, the door ajar. Or sometimes she would flounce into the room in her underwear, asking either of us for advice about what dress she should wear.
'I'd like to try it, sometime. Why not? I've done most other things, but I've never done that,' Marie said, slightly slurring her words, as David passed us each a full glass of white wine.
'What? What are you talking about, my little peach?' David asked, having half-forgotten the topic that she had earlier raised.
'You know, I'd like to have sex with two men.'
'Oh, we're back to that, are we?'
'Well, you know, it could be interesting in the right circumstance. And with the right men, of course.'
'I don't know whether I would really like to do it with another man,' David said rather hypocritically. I raised my eyebrow, knowing only he could see.
'We're not talking about you doing it with another man, numbskull. We are talking about two men doing it with one woman.'
'No, that's what I meant. I don't think I could do it with another man there.'
'But you have, darling.'
David looked at me, fleetingly, unobtrusively. He was obviously thinking the same thing as me, wondering if Marie had somehow learnt about our little secrets. Liberal and liberated though Marie might be, neither of us, I am sure, thought then that Marie would have approved of what we did. She must have known about the occasional dalliances David had, but she never pushed it, never forced him to confession. But furtive shags with secretaries or the occasional willing starlet was of a completely different order.
'What do you mean?' David asked, rather defensively.
'Izmir, David. Don't you remember Izmir?'
'What's the secret?' I interpolated. I knew the story - David had already told me - but I wanted to hear Marie's version.
'We screwed at twilight in Izmir, on what David assured me was a secluded beach. After we finished my bottom was covered with sand. Sand gets everywhere, you wouldn't imagine, so I d
on't recommend the great al fresco fuck. Anyway, when we finished we turned around and there, on the not so distant sand dunes, silhouetted by one of the most fantastic sunsets I have ever seen, were ten or more inbred locals staring down at us. I wondered whether they were going to give us a round of applause.' During her little story, a little glazed though they might have been by the consummation of so much booze, her eyes peered straight into mine.
'Exactly,' David said conclusively. 'This is my point. Do you think I enjoyed all those geeks staring at me? And if I didn't enjoy it then, why do you think I would enjoy it now?'
'I don't believe you, my man. You're telling porkies about your porky.'
'Rubbish!'
'Remember Charlotte's survey? Remember how many men fantasised about seeing a woman with a full mouth and a stuffed pussy? Men love that sort of thing.'
'I'm not "men" dear, I'm only one man. And anyway, the problem with Charlotte's little sex surveys, though national she may claim them to be, is that not only does the frustrated girl make up all the questions, she also makes up half the answers too.'
'No, no, that was bona fide and you know it. You're hiding something. Come on, you can tell me. You're not normally so coy.'
'I'm not coy, you daft tart, but give me one man - me - and two women any day of the week. You forget how greedy I am.'
'Do you remember that party we went to last year? Do you remember the scene in the bedroom with Louise Fisher and those two models? You didn't exactly turn away then.'
'I never do for a free show.'
'So, you prefer to watch, you sad bastard.'
'Maybe, maybe not.'
'I saw how greedy you looked, especially when the CP began.'
'I was curious.'
Marie gave him a long, hard, disbelieving look. 'And what about you, Jonathan?' Marie asked, elegantly rising to her feet. She retrieved the bottle of wine and poured more of it into my fluted glass, spilling almost as much again on the carpet. 'Surely you're not going to be as obstreperous as that lying sanctimonious bastard?' she said, laughing.