A Love Game

by Nicole Dere

  ‘Come on, Marty! Your turn now! I’m getting past all this sort of thing. We need some young blood. Away you go!’ And I was literally dragged by her husband into Mags’s open arms, and suddenly all that desirable flesh was pressing smotheringly against me: breasts thrusting under my nose, belly and loins rubbing against mine, the front of those delightfully generous thighs, my hand encouraged to rest on the upper slopes of the glorious bottom, and, indeed, to explore the further contours and the impressive cleft between, should I so desire.

  I did and didn’t – the story of my life. The libidinous urge was there all right, but my prick, assaulted so indecently closely through a few millimetres of silk by Mags’s grinding groin, was as diminutively limp as was its wont in such intimecircumstances, greasily soaked though it was in its snug cover, a condition of which I was mortifyingly sure my partner was all too aware.

  Suddenly a distracting thought occurred. Despite the dismissive shortness of Clio’s memory span, the lush figure so closely wrapped about me might well be still deeply concerned about her homo-erotic attempt on my wife. Maybe the idea behind this whole invitation was an effort at denial – a blatant attempt to demonstrate just how conventionally hetero Mags was.

  My suspicion was by no means allayed when I was summarily dismissed a moment later, as she thrust me bodily back onto the settee cushions and peremptorily ordered Dave to take my place once more. ‘Help yourself to a drink,’ he grinned, as he rose to obey, and I took his advice, smarting under the keen sense of my failure to measure as a man. Minutes later my shame was forgotten as I gaped at the spectacle of his dextrous hands slowly drawing down the zip at the back of his wife’s dress, down to the jut of that outstanding arse, then drawing the silky material over her head and tossing it carelessly aside, never for one instant interrupting the hypnotic sway to the sensuous music’s soft background.

  She wasn’t wearing tights or stockings, and those admirable buttocks showed in almost full splendour, only the pronounced cleft hidden by the thinnest of black strips of silk whose thin lace edges ran high up on the undulating hips. The thin straps of her bra, also black, divided the smooth perfection of her upper body.

  ‘I’ll go ... should I ...?’ I croaked belatedly.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Dave’s tone was as unequivocal as any sergeant-major, and I sank back on the cushions, my eyes fixed on that alluring figure. Her flesh was uniformly tanned, that coffee-with-milk colour, even when his expert fingers unhooked the bra from between her shoulders and removed it with masterful aplomb, before tossing it with a flourish to join the dress. I almost reached out to catch it, as though in a Soho strip club. Seconds later – and this time they didhave to pause, though even that was done in an erotically chic way – she lifted one foot and then the other and he slipped the tiny pants off without removing her heeled evening shoes. The black briefs fluttered to join the rest of her things beside me on the cushion.

  The nude body continued to sway on those slender-spiked heels, presenting its rear view only towards me, hugged close in Dave’s arms. He grinned diabolically at me over her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you join us?’ He raised his left hand and beckoned me.

  My heart was going crazy. Part of me wanted to run – a large part of me! But I felt helpless, gazing at that brown, hypnotic form, and when I didmove, I rose slowly and advanced towards them as though in a trance. He lifted his left arm, waving me in, and Mags half turned, smiling, and I saw the jut of her right breast, and the dark thrust of its large nipple, with its generous surround. The belly curved alluringly, and at its base was the abundant triangle of dark curls, nestling between those rhythmically shifting upper thighs. Her arm came round my shoulder, pulled me in, and we stood in a hugging circle. She dragged my head forward, my face buried itself in the sweet, damp neck and shoulder, then her own face came round, and suddenly those plump, softly devouring lips were all over, her mouth was open, seizing mine, her live wet tongue penetrating, searching, possessing me.

  Everything seemed to happen at once. My head spun, I felt as though I was about to faint. Her hand dropped, seized my crotch and clamped on the soft pouch of my prick beneath its tight cover, and I jerked my hips away as though I had been burnt by her invasive clutch. Then I was on my knees, sobbing, and my face was buried in that splendid spread of belly, and the wiry mat of her pubic hair, my own tongue searching for the pungent confluence of her sex. For a few endless seconds, her hand cupped around the back of my skull, and pressed me smotheringly into her thrusting flesh, then I was on my back, staring up at that statuesque, towering nakedness. She raised her right foot, still encased in the delicate sandal with its stiletto heel and I tensed, ready to scream at the agony of that wicked point driving deep into the squirming softness of my genitals, yet utterly powerless to defend myself. Instead, to my shock, and shame, she placed the narrow sole quite gently between my spread legs and pressed against the soft swell of my impotent penis and my shrinking balls.

  ‘I think you’d better go home. I guess Dave will have to be man enough for two of you.’ Though her voice was quiet, it was rich with contempt. I gave a smothered sob and scrambled up. Dave was already tearing off his shirt and slacks as I half ran, half stumbled to the door.

  Chapter Four

  CLIO WAS IN BED, awake and smelling of perfumed fresh sweetness underlain with gin, and looking desirable in her usual nightwear of cotton briefs. She had not been in long herself, from the club, she told me, turning away dismissively. ‘Hurry up and get to bed. I’m knackered!’

  Not a single question about how my evening had gone, but I suddenly found I was glad. I did not want to tell her of my final humiliation, nor of the amazing events which had led up to it. In fact, as I lay in the dark beside her restlessly twisting body and carelessly flailing limbs, I grew increasingly alarmed at the thought of her finding out. But surely the Evans wouldn’t want to disclose anything? My anxieties became purely personal once more, as I worried about how on earth we could even face each other, what on earth we could say.

  Of course, as I might have guessed, it was not even referred to by Dave. His manner towards me changed. He was curt, his veneer of friendliness dropped, especially around the school compound, but he was even more unctuously friendly towards Clio, and in her presence treated me with a familiar contempt disguised as jovial banter. ‘I think he fancies me,’ Clio grinned. But then she said that about most of the menfolk, and she was probably right.

  I was even more troubled as to what Mags’s reaction would be, but again I was surprised when, after avoiding her as long as I could, we met in brief privacy, and she said, with a lightness belied by the increased colour in her already tanned face, ‘By the way. Sorry about the other night. You know. I’m bloody hopeless when I’ve had too much. Can’t remember much about it, but Dave told me I made a right arse of myself!’

  Arse is the word! I reflected, and reran the mental image branded on my brain. Meanwhile, I made all the dutiful right noises. ‘Don’t remember much about it either, to be honest. I’ve a feeling I was a bit of a prat myself.’ Haw-haw!

  She seemed relieved. And funnily enough, it led to a greater level of rather exclusive intimacy between the two of us, all perfectly innocent, of course. A few days after our little chat, Mags approached me again. I taught English Language and Literature, and also did some Drama with the students. Amateur dramatics was one of Mags’s keen interests, as well as sport, and she enlisted my help in starting a play reading circle among the small expat community. I was keen, and the group soon became quite large, 20 members or so. Ambition grew, until we decided to put on a play, and perhaps, if we were good enough, take it “on tour” to various other upcountry clubs, maybe even for a performance up in the purpose-built theatre in the capital, 200 miles away.

  ‘You’ll be at home with all the other lovies, dahling!’ Clio teased. She of course refused to have anything to do with it. ‘It’s good for you to have some interest. I’m all in favour. After all, you’re not at al
l sporty, are you?’ Nearly everyone, male and female, seemed to be mad on golf, or tennis, or hockey, and the hearty, hairy guys travelled hundreds of miles each weekend to play rugger or soccer. ‘You do your thing and I’ll do mine!’ Clio teased maliciously. And I was beginning to realise, from all the smirks and sniggers and innuendo, the risquéremarks and knowing looks, just what her thing was. So I flung myself into “am dram” with a vengeance, glad of the distraction from private angst it provided, and, as such, developed my own little special relationship with Mags. It never reverted to the closeness of the dinner party night: my face driven worshipfully between her thighs, pressed to her bared pubis, or her resplendent nakedness rearing over me with her foot on my palpitating bollocks. But it was intimate enough, in its own innocent way. It was she who first introduced me to Jan.

  Jan Thoroughgood. Raven-haired beauty, best and loveliest woman in the township, in the province, in the country, and in the whole world! In my unbiased opinion. I hadseen her before, at some of the special formal dances at the club, or on the occasional Saturday night in the crowded bar, but not often, and never to talk to beyond a smiling, nodding acknowledgement. In any case, I could never have got near for the crowd of eager blokes, tongues hanging out as they surrounded her, when she and her husband, Patrick, made one of their rare appearances. They both taught at a Roman Catholic Mission school, a good 30 miles away from the township, hence the infrequency of their appearance in town. They were both young, in their early 20s, and the story was they were childhood sweethearts – first and only boyfriend and girlfriend, married after they both graduated. And straight to their isolated posting out in the bush. ‘What a waste!’ bachelors and husbands sighed, and dreamed libidinously.

  Patrick Thoroughgood was good looking too. Tall, athletically built, dark and brooding; a sort of Heathcliff character, with a personality to match. So rumour had it. ‘God knows why he’s such a miserable sod, married to a cracker like that!’ But maybe that was why, I thought, with all these Lothario characters sniffing about. He certainly didn’t seem keen to bring his bride into town, and I could empathise with him. Clio was giving me more than enough cause to feel an affinity with him.

  But the fair and demure-looking Jan must have put her dainty foot down with some measure, unlikely as that might seem (and the more I got to know her the unlikelier it appeared!). She turned up one evening at one of our Dram Soc Meetings, literally arm in arm with a proudly beaming Mags, who introduced her as our latest recruit. And a damned fine one too! She rapidly gained the status of star of our little show, and, to my unconfined, dizzy rapture, I found myself sharing a leading romantic role with her in a Look Back in Angerlookalike, kitchen sink, angry young man drama steamy enough to be considered daring. Mags Evans was the producer, and took Jan under her wing – in fact, once rehearsals got underway seriously, Jan seemed to be spending half the week and most of the weekend on our compound, staying with the Evans. I felt I ought to offer to share the burden of putting her up, but chickened out when I contemplated facing Clio with such a request. Besides, Mags seemed in raptures over having Jan as a semi-permanent guest, and Jan was like a kid at Christmas.

  In some ways I got to know her pretty well. ‘For God’s sake!’ Mags exploded one night, in her living room, when we were getting down to the nitty-gritty with the passionate scenes Jan and I had to enact. ‘You’re madly in love! You’re kissing like a curate and his maiden aunt. Get to grips with it! You’re going to be banging away like fury as soon as you get off stage! That’s what the audience must think. Get stuck in! Get your bellies grinding away. Open your mouths, snog each other. A bit of tongues! Get your hand on her cute little arse, Marty! Act, for Christ’s sake! You should have a stiffy to hang a towel on!’

  I giggled hysterically. We both crimsoned, and Jan looked as if she would burst into tears. But like true troupers we girded, and ground, our loins together, and clamped our mouths together, open, lips scraping and even a timorous little flickering effort (though more of a pretence) at “tongues”. I even got my hand timidly on her left hip and extended my fingers to the top of her tight little buttock clad snugly in her jeans. It was a great effort, and we broke finally, gasping, sighing, our faces still blazing red. Jan looked close to crying, in spite of the embarrassed, unsteady laughter.

  Mags’s dark eyes shone. I couldn’t quite place the look on her face. Anger? Jealousy? But jealous of whom? Suddenly I recalled Clio’s laughing description of the assault in the club showers, and my fecund, deviant imagination worked overtime. Could this possessive friendship Mags displayed towards Jan mean something more? Then my dark fancy got to work again, replaying the scene in this very room, the light a lot dimmer, Dave stripping his wife in front of me, me kneeling with my face driven between her thighs, her naked form poised over me, like a triumphant gladiator, foot on my infirm prick. Which was it? Mags and this beautiful young girl in a lesbian liaison, or poor Jan caught in the midst of a triangular attachment, getting the best (or the worst?) of both worlds? Both these scenarios, real or unreal, fed my fantasy and my libido in the increasing solitude which I endured, or enjoyed, as my wife grew ever more blatant in her determination to seek solace or excitement with others more capable of supplying it.

  At least I got to get to grips with Jan, even if it was only in simulation. I was excited by it, encouraged as we were by Mags choreographing our every clinch. She seemed to get as big a thrill out of it as either of us; more, in Jan’s case, who, despite her valiant efforts to portray unbridled passion in our embraces, with considerable success, looked mightily embarrassed when we broke, huffing and puffing, and stepped out of our characters. My secret thoughts grew ever more lewd. Was Mags getting her kicks because she knew it was all sham? That she was the puppeteer, pulling all our strings, whipping us on to excess – and all the time revelling in the knowledge that in reality shewas the lover and possessor of all that beauty she put into my arms and allowed me to play with? All pure, prurient speculation on my devious part, but, spurred on by my fancy, I began to keep even closer surreptitious watch on them, and found food to stimulate my perverse inventions. It wasn’t until much later, long after their sapphic affaire du coeur had ended, that I discovered just how close to the mark my speculations had been.

  Meanwhile, I had my own private torments to bear. Leaving with the taste of Jan’s divine lips on mine, the feel of her body in my arms, the fragrant scent of her filling my head, I would return to an empty hearth, and bed. Clio would be out late more and more frequently, returning in the early hours, often in the very lateearly hours, after I had spent those lonely hours tossing, and turning, in our bed. Sometimes I would summon enough courage to make half-hearted, bleating enquiry of her whereabouts, and she would round on me, all guns blazing, and blow me out of the water. ‘What the hell do you thinkI’ve been doing? You expect me to sit in night after night, while you and that prissy little cunt Jan Thoroughgood wrap yourselves round each other pretending to shag? Don’t worry! I’ve heard all about it. The sad thing is, neither one of you has a fuck in you, decent or otherwise! How sick can you get?’

  I was convinced I knewwhat she was doing, if not the complete list of who she was doing it with. The trouble was, I didn’t know how to stop it. I couldn’t stand up to her. I never had. I tormented myself with visions of her infidelity (it seemed such a ludicrously old-fashioned and inappropriate word), and the mocking contempt in which our fellow expats, of both sexes, must hold me. I was particularly aware of my increasing discomfort in Mags’s presence, with the painful memory of the night in her living room, her nude body so blatantly proffered and my inadequacy to pursue it literally under her contemptuous foot.

  So I clung ever more fervently to my precious, innocent assignations with Jan, and the joys of our publicly staged love affair. It meant so much to me that I couldn’t help stumblingly trying to tell her. She blushed as much as I did, but those beautiful dark eyes gazed so sympathetically, and with such unspoken tenderness, that I hoped
she would understand. ‘I don’t mean – I’m not trying – you know, chat you up, or anything.’

  ‘No, of course not!’ she murmured, colouring up yet again. ‘I know that. It’s great. I enjoy it too.’

  I was used to necking, to pressing her to me, to feeling her mouth open against mine, my arms hugging her close, always under public scrutiny. But now, alone in a corner, I found her warm hand holding mine and we both sprang apart as though shocked, our faces crimson with guilt. Yet that instant of spontaneous contact was treasured in my heart. To hell with all those sniggering, evil-minded bastards, grinning away at the metaphoric horns they saw adorning my feeble head, and Clio’s cruelty that had put them there. Jan was my one true friend, she had held my hand, and there was still good in the world. And then, along came Ant.

  Such a ludicrous diminutive: Ant! Short for Anton – and not quite so ridiculous when paired with Clio, not in my tortured mind. The Shakespeare connection: Antony and Cleopatra, two larger-than-life, heroic characters, sexual love personified: My salad days when I was green in judgement ... Oh, happy horse, that bears the weight of Antony ... and all that jazz!

  The play was no longer the thing. Our revels had ended, at least for the present. We had taken our offering to two other upcountry stations, after performing it on our home ground, and now the Dram Soc was in temporary abeyance. The show had gone down extremely well. On the strength of it I ventured out in public again, even daring to put in appearances at the club, my status elevated somewhat by our make-believe effort. Blokes actually hailed me, with a nudge-nudge fellowship. ‘Bloody good show! You lucky sod! Getting stuck in to Jan Thoroughgood like that! Christ, never thought you had it in you!’