I screwed them all up in my hand and tossed the creative mound at the small waste basket in the corner, missing it by about two feet.
I discovered my laptop underneath a pile of washing on my bedroom floor, flipped the screen open with the intention of surfing YouPorn.com and momentarily answering the calling in my loins but I got distracted by emails, looking for the new Queen Adreena video, and a slew of Facebook updates to attend to. I’m frustrated about why so many men in Turkey and Israel want to be my friend. As cute as some of them are, I’m in London and they are not. On the flipside, the men in my general vicinity that do try to get through (prompted I suspect by the fact I am single and am in a group called ‘Facebook Fuck Buddies’) are either ugly, about to draw their pension or wearing a baseball cap and a sneer. The majority of all of the above seem to be in Essex too, which I am not.
I soon realised that the moment and an hour had passed, so I took a shower and headed out for some fresh air. The sun was beating down on the capital and heating all of those post-modernist buildings and Norman Foster constructions, making the city humid, so I opted for my denim shorts and a bikini top with my wedge sandals. I grabbed my big sun hat, shades and a well-loved Jilly Cooper from the bookcase on the way out.
I came to the end of my street and turned onto the Portobello Road. There’s a Post Office on the corner, where the infirm and generally useless queue for government handouts every Monday morning. You can set your watches by the agitated looks on their faces as the minutes tick closer and closer to 8 a.m. Before this hour on a weekday, the street is deserted, save for the stink from the night before. The subtle smell of urine catches the back of your throat and mixes there with the warm smell of baked goods from Greggs. When I am down or have my monthly cramps, I nip in for a sausage roll (just for comfort, mind) and bask in the feeling of the delicate pastry melting on my tongue and the crumbs falling onto my chest.
I predictably came across a few of the regular sights. The Marlboro Light-smoking, salt of the earths setting up their fruit and veg stalls. There’s that rough-looking blonde girl outside Tesco with the foul mouth. She has her dark roots tied up with a pink scrunchie, attempting valiantly to compete with the ‘low, low prices’, and pours scornful looks upon the trendy girls in their ballet flats waiting for their boss outside the American Apparel store, looking blank at the prospect of starting their working day. I caught them discussing hedge funds and how their portfolios are doing on the market.
Film producers are perusing scripts outside Progresso, sipping their lattes. They occasionally glance up, hoping to discover the next Kate Beckinsale, or suitable English rose, and blink in bemusement when I glide past with my shocking red hair and exposed tattoos.
When I do go as far as the tube at Notting Hill Gate, I like to stop at the Edwardian butchers to look at the skinned game and award-winning homemade sausages. Occasionally, when I am feeling flushed, I will treat myself to a few, rounded off with my infamous spring onion and Cheddar mashed potato. That day I noticed that they have rare breed beef and salt marsh lamb from Suffolk, whatever that is.
Then there’s the imported coffee percolating at the Café Garcia, the heartland of the Spanish community in North Kensington. I could hear the girls yip-yapping in their mother tongue as I approached the sprawling business, which originated from a small grocery store and now also comprises a plush, takeaway emporium. I caught the eye of a rugged Latin in a fitted grey sweater studying a jar of pimentos as I glided past. Our eyes locked for a second. There’s a haunted sense behind the eyes that I recognised as a man’s split-moment nonchalance and imagined him kicking himself, especially as I was quick enough to cast a smile in his direction and look down coyly, before I disappeared from view.
About forty feet down the road, I glanced back to see him (sans purchase) step out into the street. A second glance ensured that he was, indeed, following me as I secretly had hoped. He had changed his mind about his groceries, it seemed, and was now in hot pursuit of something tastier. I didn’t want to panic him or have him worry that he was being a pest, so I turned and gave him an encouraging smile.
Despite my fear that he would cut and run, I couldn’t help but tease him a little. I stopped to look at some shoes in a window and out of the corner of my eye I saw him stop. I smirked inside as he looked as if he didn’t know what to do with himself, before innocently carrying on down the road. He was putty in my hands. I darted into The Coffee Plant, my regular stop and, soon enough, I felt his presence behind me as I queued for my organic tea with Soya milk.
“It’s all fair trade … and really good,” I purred, turning my head slightly in his direction.
“I saw you back there …” he started.
“I noticed.” I interrupted, playfully. He offered to pay for my tea as I pulled a note from my wallet. He ordered some Arabica and looked down at my leg. He commented on my tattoo.
“It’s new …” I told him, looking down at the Celtic scrawl on my ankle. There was a pause.
“I have lots …” I said, as I sipped and blew the heat from the edge of my cup. We stood awkwardly and he smiled down at me. His well-built frame towered over me, as I wondered if he was the moody, silent type. I also caught myself wondering what he looked like without that sweater on. He looked as though he always appreciated his mother’s cooking, like most sons from the Mediterranean do, but then I like a little weight on a guy.
“I’m Siobhan …” I announced, holding out my hand to him. He reciprocated.
“Ruben …”
I asked what he did. Boring, I know. I had to get this off the ground with something though. He told me that he and his brother are architects and told me about the local development they were overseeing.
“I pass that every day. It’s noisy.” I kidded. Ruben laughed.
He spent an acceptable amount of time talking to my chest (but not too much) and looked as though he was undressing me in his head as I flirted and touched his arm. As he talked about his family in Madrid, he placed his hand on the small of my back a few times. He asked if I was on my way to work and I shook my head innocently, my eyes looking into his.
As we were down to the dregs of our beverages, he asked in his broken English if I wanted to come and see his studio, as it was nearby and has a nice roof terrace. He suggested that we could get a little sun, and I wondered if this translated into Spanish as ‘let me fuck you on my sun lounger’, but I could be wrong. My mind wandered back to my flat and the comforts of my bed, but the prospect of seeing this guy strip was too tempting.
“Won’t your brother be around?” I asked him, as he took hold of my hand.
“No, he’s on-site this afternoon …” he announced, guiding me down the street. He walked me five minutes to his building off Ladbroke Grove. The office space they had was fairly small. It was the top floor of a townhouse, which was otherwise converted into flats. They had two rooms, a desk in each, and a bathroom. Filing cabinets appeared overstuffed and there seemed to be more files on top than inside. But then, the whole place could have done with some organising, but there was a distinctly impressive and intricate array of design talent on display. I walked over to an easel to see the evidence for myself. It was definitely technical.
“Is this what you are working on now?” I asked. Ruben appeared, brandishing two bottles of ice tea.
“That is your noisy buildings, yes …” he joked. He pulled aside the curtain and swished open the patio door on to the roof, presenting the terrace with a flourish.
“Nice,” I said, with nodding approval. I ditched my hat and my purse and stepped back out into the sun. I put on my shades and lost my top, exposing my boobs to the neighbouring office buildings and, more importantly, Ruben. He seemed to approve. I looked back across to the doorway as I lay back and got myself comfortable on one of the deck chairs.
“Are you going to remove some clothes and join me?”
He pondered on that thought, casually sipping at his drink, before setting it
aside and dropping his pants, stepping out of them and kicking off his straw loafers. He peeled off his sweater and tossed it into the shade as he climbed on top of me. I grabbed his bum cheeks and ground each of them in my hands, digging my nails into his hairy flesh as he pushed his mouth onto mine. There was a distinct and musky cigar taste, but his lips were deliciously cool in the heat. He gnawed at each of my breasts like he hadn’t eaten lunch as I pulled the hair at the back of his head. I pushed him further down and he took the hint about what I had in mind. He unbuttoned my shorts and left them around my knees, as he flipped me over and pulled my hips back onto his face. I pushed my bum back into him as he lapped away at my scent. I held on to the back of the chair in front of me as he nibbled the base of my spine and thrust three fingers in and out of my hole, making me squelch and squirm.
He got to his feet and stood back to admire the sight before him. Cheeky bugger, he left me panting and in need of so much more. I righted myself and flipped over on to my back. Ruben stood before me, naked and cock in hand. He tore into a condom packet with his teeth and spat the tab to one side. I peeled off the shorts over my ankles and sandals and spread my legs for him. I flicked my button as he pulled the rubber over his fat cock. He wasted no time at all and penetrated me with it, sitting snugly inside me. He eased it in and out of me and buried his tanned face in my neck.
“Let me ride you …” I whispered in his ear. He gallantly leapt to his feet and held out his hand, helping me up. We swapped positions and I sank down onto him. He bounced me up and down for a bit, massaging my boobs and controlling my action on him by grabbing at my hips until I heard a door click and the sound of keys hitting a table.
“Ola Hermano. Que tal?”
I stopped, mid-grind and gasped. I turned to see a man standing in the patio doorway with a handful of maps. He didn’t look perturbed or offended and just raised an eyebrow. I did that predictably English thing and tried my hardest to cover my modesty in front of this stranger. I shot my arms around my chest and slid Ruben’s cock out of me.
“Oh, don’t mind me. You two carry on,” he said, disappearing.
I looked down at Ruben, who seemed completely unfazed at his sibling’s presence. He shrugged and asked, “Are you OK?”
“Yeah,” I said, clocking the whereabouts of my skirt. “Don’t you mind him being there?”
He shook his head and announced, “We’ve seen a lot worse of each other. We’re family.”
I cupped his wilting cock in my hand and lay next to him.
“In fact,” he continued, “we often share …”
“Oh.” I realised. “Cool.”
He laughed and put an arm around me. We fell silent for a second as I attended to his erection. As soon as I got rid of the rubber, he seemed to respond to the idea of me going down on him.
“Would you like him too?” he moaned with pleasure.
I looked up, with his cock still in my mouth. His eyebrows were raised waiting for an answer. It was something I had always desired, but had never fulfilled. The idea of taking two brothers on was very attractive also. Luis’s looks matched his brothers. They were almost identical, if it were not for the height difference. I guess he sensed my curious approval, and enjoyment of the moment, because he called out, “Luis, come … Join us.”
Luis appeared at the doorway. He watched me suck his brother’s cock and seemed to be looking for my approval.
“Don’t be shy, brother,” taunted Ruben, lying back and enjoying the attention I was giving him. I stopped and signalled him over. Luis stripped by the door and walked over to the edge of the sun lounger where I was perched. I grabbed Ruben by the arm and made him stand in front of me. Luis quickly joined him and took his place next to his brother. I put a hand on each of their cocks as they stood politely erect for me. I alternated between them for a while, as they wittered away above me in Spanish, about God only knows what.
I shooed Ruben away to get more protection as his brother buried his face in my crotch. He darted his tongue into me and rubbed my clit with his thumb. He sensed my arousal and didn’t relent until my hips bucked. I shuddered as I cocked a leg around his neck.
They carried on in their native language as they both moved and positioned me. We moved to a nearby wall which Ruben leant against and had me bend over to suck him off. Luis got behind me and buried his cock into me. They took me at each end for my first spit roast. It felt great. I knew it wouldn’t be my last. I had them at my beck and call and they let me playfully guide them all around their flat, having them take me in every possible way, until they gave me their basting and left me with my face covered in their mess.
I staggered back to my flat and soaked my weary, satisfied bones in a hot bath and looked back on my experience with glee and pride. I was certainly back out there now and nothing was going to stop me having fun.
My fling with the Spanish brothers didn’t end there either. The Summer is still here, as I write this, and if either Ruben or Luis pass my flat, they call in for a morning wake up call or I meet them both at their office. But only to give my expert opinion on their intricate plans, of course.
The Wardrobe Mistress
by J Manx
I’m very close to Aunt Polly, she’s my mother’s youngest sister. They’re totally different. Polly is outgoing, vivacious, fun-loving and glamorous, while Mum is a home bod, likes cooking and quiet nights in. People have often compared me to my auntie which probably explains why we’re so close. So, it came as a bit of a shock when Polly suddenly announced she was emigrating. It was a bit of a whirlwind thing. Her husband died several years ago. She was devoted to him and I never thought she’d re marry. Then, after several brief affairs, she’d met an Australian and, impulsive as ever, had decided to move down under.
‘I expect you to visit me,’ she said, when I’d expressed my disappointment, ‘we’ve got e-mail and web cams, it’ll seem as though I’m living next door.’
There was an upside. I’d always loved Aunt Polly’s house and she only lived three miles from us. After a long talk with my husband, Mathew, we decided to make an offer. To our delight, Polly accepted and she invited me round to see if there were any bits of furniture I’d like to keep.
When I visited, Polly answered the door with a bottle of wine in her hand. She was dressed in a scruffy shirt and dungarees.
‘Hi sweetheart, I’ve been going through the house, deciding what to take, what to give away and what to throw away. Come on in, I could do with a break.’
The break lasted about two hours as we polished off one bottle of wine and opened another. We discussed the history of the house, Polly’s past relationships and her new Australian boyfriend. I must have sounded a little envious. She turned the conversation to me.
‘So, how are you and Mathew getting on?’
‘Oh, you know, OK, we’ve settled into a sort of comfortable domesticity.’
‘Sex still good?’
‘Polly!’
‘Oh come on love, you can tell me, I’ll be on the other side of the world soon,’ she laughed.
‘Well, what can you expect after five years …? It’s OK.’
‘But it could be a lot better?’
‘Yeah, but I suppose, if I’m honest, things have become a little stale lately, a bit predictable. We don’t get out much any more, we’re both so knackered from work, we just come home and slump in front of the telly.’
Polly smiled. ‘Dangerous times love, dangerous times. Do you still love him?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘The reason I ask is the same thing happened when I was married to your uncle. Without us really noticing, things gradually got very boring. Fortunately, I read a magazine article that described my situation perfectly. It acted as a bit of a wake-up call and I suddenly discovered an unknown erogenous zone that changed everything.’
‘And where’s that?’ I said, intrigued.
‘In here,’ she said, pointing to her head, ‘your brain.’
She smiled.
‘If you learn to use your imagination, you can keep your sex life scintillating. Come on, grab the wine, I want to show you something.’
We went upstairs and she led me to the end of the landing.
‘I call this my wardrobe room,’ she said, opening the door of a large bedroom. Along each wall was an enormous Victorian wardrobe. There were racks of clothes and numerous shoes and boots neatly stacked on the floor.
‘I didn’t know you had so many clothes.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t have seen me in any of these, sweetheart. These clothes are used entirely for sex. I’ve never had so much fun and excitement, dressing up and being fucked.’
I must have looked shocked. Polly looked amused.
‘I promise you, it’s great fun and all men love it … that would include Mathew. Let me show you some of the outfits, I’ll let the clothes do the talking.’
Over the next few hours Polly put on various costumes and outfits, demonstrating the part she played, the way she moved and the effect this had on her lovers. I was amazed at the way she transformed both her character and her personal appearance. Burlesque dancer, maid, teacher, secretary, queen, nurse, doctor, she had numerous outfits and accessories. She looked different in each one.
‘It’s not just about the clothes giving you a different appearance, you take on a different personality as well.’
We’re the same size and Polly got me to try on a few outfits. I felt like a different person with each outfit; powerful, subservient, superior, arrogant, meek. It was great fun and exciting.
‘I’m going to take my favourite pieces with me but if you’re interested I’ll leave you the bulk. If it doesn’t work out you can send the clothes on to me, but I promise you, sweetheart, once you start, it’ll become a lifestyle.’
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