Mrs Gray’s pussy was still hot and wet, and Jules circled her opening, flicking her tongue in and out. She groaned, and Jules smiled, crawling further onto the bed, hovering above her, adjusting the belt ever so slightly. Mrs Gray raised her hips and threw her head back. Jules felt to her own pussy and wet the dick with her own come. She pushed in, and heard her own moan. She started to fuck Mrs Gray, in and out, in and out. Balancing on her hands, her hips rocked back and forth and she bent to suck on her tits. She felt powerful, she felt strong and her excitement grew with each thrust. Mrs Gray was building; Jules could feel it – she could feel it in her mouth, in her arms and legs, and she started to fuck her faster and harder.
Lost in her task, she had forgotten about Mr Gray, he was so quiet, but then he was behind her. His palm smacked hard across her ass, and she screamed. Surprise and excitement caught her breath and she realised only after it had come out of her mouth how loud the scream had actually been. He smacked her again and again and, standing behind her, his hands reached down and under her, grabbing for her tits. He pulled her up so she was kneeling and she pulled Mrs Gray with her. They shifted to the edge of the bed, Jules still fucking Mrs Gray with her huge, ribbed purple dick, waiting for Mrs Gray to climax, so they could come together.
Mr Gray was hard yet again, she could feel him, and her stomach surged, God yes, if he started fucking her, she might not be able to hold on – it may be just too much. But that’s exactly what he did; he pushed into her ass with his re-lubed dick, and the cherry odour hit her forcefully. But he was more forceful, ripping into her ass, grabbing her hair. Jules was precariously posed, taking it up the ass, while pushing into the pussy splayed out before her. She felt lightheaded, unbalanced, and she opened her eyes. But somehow they found a rhythm; it was unbelievable – fucking while being fucked. Their groans combined into a singing sex choir, loud, pitchy and in unison.
It was becoming too much. Her body heaved. Sweat against sweat, skin against skin, teeth on bodies, fingers in hair – it was building, she could feel it; they could all feel it. Jules was going to explode. She was going to come hard and she was going to come fast, and she did, all three of them at the same time exploded together. Their bodies crumpled into balls on the bed, chests rising and falling, dry mouths, wet legs, sticky thighs, burning asses and bruised pussies. Jules wanted to lie there for ever, basking in the intense emotions – satisfaction combined with a burning sensation she had never experienced; she wondered how she would get by without feeling it every time from now on.
Her legs ached, her stomach muscles felt tight and the muscles in her arms quivered. Her eyes had been closed and now she opened them. The couple were off the bed, both half dressed, red faced and hair everywhere. Walking to the bed, Mr Gray ran his hand down Jules’s chest, and grabbed hold of the purple dick. Jules rolled over and let him unclip the belt at her back. She couldn’t bring herself to stand; she didn’t trust her legs just yet.
Turning over she just lay there, watching them. Dressed, hair brushed, the black bag once more zipped tight and presenting an abyss of mystery, they looked at her. She met their eyes, and let them fall across each one of them, their prim and perfect suits, their office attire, their now combed hair. The rosy flush had left their cheeks; they looked like anyone else, everyone else. They looked as if they had just returned from a meeting, not a fuelled afternoon of hot three-way sex. They smiled, before he bent down and picked up the bag. And with that they left the room. No words exchanged; nothing had been said the entire time save a quick ‘hello’. Then again what words would they have used? They all seemed trite. They each of them had known instinctively what the others had wanted. Words would have been useless. And now they were gone, Jules didn’t even know their real names, nor where they lived, what they did ... She doubted she would ever see them again. Chills ran across her body as she rolled up and sat on the edge of the bed. She heard their car pull away and rose to her feet.
Her clothes were ripped, and she hadn’t brought others. Quickly glancing around the room, it was as if they had never been there; nothing had been left behind other than the smell the three of them had added to the pre-existing stench of sex and cigarettes that now lingered more heavily in the air. She locked the door with the rusted key and walked to the reception.
Her legs were cold, her ripped stockings were tucked away in her purse, and she pulled down on her miniskirt. Dropping the key onto the desk, she lingered, staring at the man who hours before had gladly taken her note. Her blood had resumed to pumping normally through her veins, but she still had that great post-sex, faint-headed feeling. There was only one thing she now craved. A cigarette. It would be the perfect end to a perfect afternoon.
She leant across the desk, ‘Do you have a smoke?’
He looked at her, her hair pulled back into a makeshift ponytail, her ripped bustier, her legs still faintly quivering. He opened his mouth to say something to her, but thinking better of it he closed his mouth, stood, and pulled a pack from his back pocket. He opened the squished packet, pulled one out and tossed it on the counter.
Her reflexes were dulled, her body in a state of relaxation and utter satisfaction, so she didn’t even reach for the smoke as it rolled across the counter and bounced onto the floor by her stiletto. She watched him as he slowly put the pack back in his pocket and sat down. She bent down and picked up the smoke. Grasping it tight in her hand, she stood, attempted to straighten herself by pulling down on her skirt and smoothing her hair. She nodded to him and left.
Jules had no idea how much time had passed, but outside the air was getting cold – the afternoon was quickly turning to evening – and the cold air circled her mostly bare body, tingling her skin and raising the hair on her arms. She walked through the parking lot of the GoodNight Motel and stood on the sidewalk, eyeing the road for a cab.
Placing the smoke between her lips, she scrambled in her bag for a light. Finding a book of matches, she struck one and the cigarette crinkled to life; she took a long, hard drag. The inhale filled her lungs and burned. She stepped forward, steadying herself, closing her eyes as she exhaled. The buzz had caught her offguard – much like this afternoon’s events – but once again she savoured the feeling. She took another drag, smiled and raised her thumb. She had a hot shower waiting for her at home, and tomorrow, well tomorrow was back to work, for it was such a rarity to have an afternoon off in her profession. But for right now she was completely in the present, and the smoke tasted better than any she had ever had.
An Up-and-Coming Area
by Elizabeth Coldwell
We hooked up with Jordan through an advert in a pub toilet, which makes the whole thing sound so much sleazier than it actually was. He was someone we already knew, he was legitimately offering his services, and we took him up on that offer. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
It started when they sold the Prince Henry. Jim and I weren’t sorry to see the notice on the door announcing the pub would be closing at the end of the month. We had been living along the street from it for the best part of seven years and had only gone for a drink there once. That visit had been enough to persuade us not to bother going back. It was the archetypal backstreet boozer, run down and unwelcoming. The customers looked as though they stepped through the door at opening time and didn’t leave until they were thrown out come last orders. A couple of old codgers nursed halves of bitter in the corner and a middle-aged man sat on a stool at the bar, three or four carrier bags of shopping at his feet, discussing his ex-wife in loud, unflattering terms. From the expressions on the faces of those around him, it obviously wasn’t the first time they had heard this particular rant. The landlord gave the impression he was doing us a favour by serving us, and when I asked him for a Bloody Mary he told me curtly, ‘It’s not that kind of pub.’
Friday night was karaoke night at the Prince Henry. We would walk past on the way back from somewhere nicer to hear someone belting out an off-key version of Angels or My Way. We were neve
r tempted to wander inside and join in.
When the “sold” sign went up, Jim became convinced the pub would be turned into luxury apartments. A slow but steady process of gentrification was taking place in this pocket of London close to King’s Cross, with the old businesses moving out as rents became too high for them to afford. They were replaced with sushi bars and little boutiques where a dress could cost as much as I earned in a week, or else the buildings were snapped up by property developers.
So it came as something as a surprise when the Prince Henry instead received a facelift. We walked past one Saturday lunchtime and saw through the open door that the brass rails surrounding the bar were being polished ’til they gleamed, and the old carpet with its arresting pattern of cigarette burns had been pulled up to reveal the floorboards below. ‘They’ll be turning it into a gastropub,’ Jim predicted.
He was almost right. A story in the local free paper, which was pushed through our letterbox every Friday, revealed the pub had been bought by Finn and Liza Buxton, a husband-and-wife team who had started up a micro-brewery on the Caledonian Road. They saw this as an up-and-coming area, and intended to make the place their brewery tap, with half-a-dozen of their own ales always available. Eventually, they would be offering “meet the brewer” evenings and tutored tastings for those who wanted to learn more about beer appreciation. It was a big step up from sticky carpets and tuneless karaoke.
Within a couple of weeks of the grand reopening, Jim and I had stopped walking past in search of somewhere nicer. We found ourselves very much at home in the refurbished surroundings. The bare floorboards and mismatched tables and chairs, which looked as though they had been rescued from a skip, gave the place a lived-in feel. A bar billiard table had been set up, along with a jukebox whose eclectic mixture of CDs took Jim back to his student days. They served superior bar snacks: homemade pork pies and scotch eggs, and bowls of cockles and muscles accompanied by little salty crackers. The beer was, according to my husband, full of flavour and perfectly kept, and when I ordered a Bloody Mary, instead of being laughed out of the pub I was asked whether I wanted Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco or both.
But those weren’t the only attractions the Prince Henry had to offer – at least, not for me. I soon struck up a rapport with one of the bar staff, Jordan. He was studying economic history at the nearby university, and he had a quick sense of humour I warmed to immediately. Though I didn’t care to admit it to anyone, I also found him rather horny. He had shaggy black hair, pale blue eyes and the kind of complexion my mother would have described as roses blooming in his skin. His left eyebrow was pierced with a little silver barbell, and he dressed in black combat pants and two T-shirts – a black one bearing the name of some band I didn’t recognise over a long-sleeved khaki one.
I didn’t make a habit of eyeing up men so much younger than me, and certainly not ones who gave the impression they would be more at home in a skate park than a lecture hall. But whenever I spoke to Jordan I picked up a definite vibe. He might have made the same cheeky quips to everyone whose orders he took, but he seemed to take a definite delight in getting into some verbal sparring with me. He would hold eye contact with me just a little longer than was socially polite, and once or twice he trailed his fingers along my palm when he handed me my change. Little signs I couldn’t easily ignore – signs indicating my attraction to him was very much reciprocated.
I found myself watching him as he moved between tables, collecting glasses, wondering how he would look stripped of his emo wardrobe, his cock hard and craving my touch. Sometimes, when I was in bed with Jim, his blond head buried between my thighs and his tongue dancing over my clit, I would fantasise it was Jordan down there instead. He wouldn’t have the experience my husband had gained over the years, and so I would have the delicious task of teaching him all the things I liked best. I would tell him just where to apply his eager tongue, and when to switch from slow sweeps to furious little licks around the head of my clit, until the moment came when I no longer had the power to shape words and my blissful gasps and whimpers would let him know just what a good job he was doing.
But the fantasy wasn’t just about teaching Jordan how to make me come. It also included Jim, sitting in a chair by the side of the bed, wanking his cock and telling me how good I looked as I writhed on my toyboy lover’s tongue.
I would have kept all this to myself, if it hadn’t been for the evening when Jim came back from the gents’ to see me contemplating Jordan’s firm arse as he bent over a table, reaching for an empty crisp packet.
‘Enjoying the view?’ he asked, chuckling when I started in my seat as though I’d been shot.
I didn’t need to say anything. My burning cheeks were evidence enough of my guilt.
‘It’s not the first time you’ve been staring at him, either,’ Jim continued. ‘You might not think I notice these things, but I do.’
‘You’re not angry, are you?’ I asked.
Jim shook his head and reached for his pint glass. ‘Why should I be? I look at women all the time. If you must know, I was checking out the tits on the blonde over there while you were at the bar.’ He gestured to where a group of three girls were chatting animatedly and laughing, a distinct Scandinavian edge to their accents. I realised immediately which one he’d been ogling. She was wearing her hair in schoolgirl-style plaits, something Jim always found a turn-on, and her plump breasts were almost spilling over the hem of her scoop-necked top. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘in that outfit you can hardly miss them.’
He drained the dregs of his Buxton’s Best, and went to get another round in. I assumed that was the end of the conversation. I was wrong. As he set a fresh glass of Cabernet Sauvignon in front of me, he said, ‘I can’t help feeling with you and Jordan it’s a little bit more serious than just liking the way he looks.’
Wondering where this was leading, I replied, ‘OK, so I fancy him and I’m pretty sure he fancies me too. But it’s not like I’m going to do anything about it.’
In my head, I was preparing a little speech about how it was all just a fantasy. How, apart from the thrill of being with a new body, there was really nothing a 20-year-old boy could give me I couldn’t get from my weathered but still handsome 40-year-old husband. How I always used the image of Jordan to add to the enjoyment I was receiving from Jim, not replace it. I never got to say any of it, because Jim’s next words rendered me speechless.
‘That’s a real shame. Because I would love you to do something about it.’
‘I’m sorry?’ I couldn’t have heard him right. Was he suggesting I should have an affair?
Jim took hold of my hand. ‘I’d love to see it. It’s something I’ve thought about so many times. Bringing someone else into our bed ...’
‘You mean have a threesome?’ I asked, keeping my voice low even though the rock music pumping out of the pub’s speakers was loud enough to drown our conversation. Jim nodded.
I didn’t know how to respond. I glanced round. Everything was exactly the same as a moment ago. The three Scandinavian girls were shrieking with laughter as they picked their bags up to leave. A burly, shaven-headed bloke was racking up a break on the bar billiard table. Jordan, oblivious to the fact he was the subject of our discussion, was still gathering empty glasses. So why did it feel as though my world had changed?
Why had Jim and I never talked about this before? Our sex life had never exactly been dull: the toys in my bedside cabinet, the DVDs we watched to get us in the mood and the occasional spanked bottom I received as I squirmed on my husband’s lap were proof of that. But those were things we did with – and to – each other, for our private enjoyment. Inviting a third party to join in was something else again. While it excited me to think we both fantasised about the fun we could have with a hot young stud, acting on that fantasy would be strange, scary new territory.
‘So what do you say, Robyn?’ Jim asked.
‘Give me the chance to think about it,’ I told him, ‘and then I’l
l let you know.’
The more I thought about it, the more I began to believe we should give it a try. Jim did his best to encourage me in that direction. When we got home that night, we were barely through the door before he had pinned me up against the wall and was kissing me so hard I thought he would suck all the breath from me. As his body pressed against mine I could feel his cock, rigid and promising behind the zip of his fly.
‘Come on,’ he murmured urgently. ‘Let’s get you upstairs so I can really fuck that gorgeous cunt of yours.’
As he spoke, he reached between my legs, cupping my pussy through my tight-fitting jeans as though to emphasise the point. His dirty talk, combined with the way his fingers were pressing the seam of my jeans up between my sex lips, was getting me unbearably excited.
In the bedroom, we stripped in seconds. Jim urged me to get on all fours, then pulled the cheeks of my arse apart and began to lick between them, nuzzling into my pussy.
When he’d got me so wet my juices were coating the insides of my thighs, I heard him moving behind me and assumed he was getting into position to fuck me. Something nudged at the entrance to my cunt, but it wasn’t Jim’s cock. I recognised it immediately as the rainbow-patterned silicon dildo we’d bought from a sex shop in Shoreditch, thinner in girth than Jim so I could take it in my arse without difficulty.
‘Pretend it’s Jordan’s cock,’ Jim told me. ‘Imagine him sliding into you, going deeper and deeper. Think how good it would feel, and how horny he’d be at the sight of you, all wet and open for him ...’
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