by Nicole Dere
In spite of my professed reluctance, I was an eager participant in the diversions which took place in the steam-shrouded shower room, as our bodies, first generously lathered with the scented foam we spread over each other, then gleaming under the hissing fall of the water which washed it from us, turned and twisted, stroked and finally folded onto the wet, pattering tiles in a tangle of writhing limbs, softly rubbing flesh, hair wet and streaming like seaweed, and mouths searching in ever more urgent need.
We moved, dried and dusted and perfumed, to the bedroom, and still naked, fell across the wide bed. My natural timidity was pushed aside at Mags’s assurances of her husband’s continued absence, though her light-hearted addendum – ‘he wouldn’t mind even if he did catch us like this. He knows how I swing – I’ve never tried to hide it from him’ – should have sounded as a warning of the danger ahead. I didsqueal in outrage, largely assumed, for the shocking thought added to the excitement already pulsing through me, even as I comforted myself with the reflection that it was just her typical way of getting a rise out of me and my hypocritical prudery. And I had to admit she had a point, consumed as I was with hunger to feel her lips, and her tongue, and those wickedly expert fingers penetrating to my core that was even now once more lubricated with the juice of my fierce desire.
Given the recent history of my eventful life, I should have listened to that fear my hungry body displaced. I was well into the final hectic stages of our loving: sprawled on my back, legs splayed, drawn up knees falling slackly in gaping surrender, lost to the exquisite build up to the climax. Mags’s rooting face worried at the exposed fissure of my vulva. My eyes were closed, my long neck stretched, my chin jutting sharply towards the unseen ceiling, and my fingers wrapped in the thick bronze, damp hair of my lover at my belly–
‘Well, what do you know? What have we here? Our sweet little star-is-born Jan being muffed by my lovely wife!’
I was too shocked to utter anything more than a choked little gasp. My eyes opened wide. They were the only part of me that moved. Even my fingers remained hooked in the wild, sun-burnished blonde hair that was spilling over my belly and the insides of my thighs. I stared dumbfounded at the flushed features of Dave Evans, revealed over the shoulders and curved back, and the glorious eyebrow curves of those lifted buttocks of the woman with her slobbering face buried deep in my sex. The fact that she never for an instant hesitated or flinched in her ministrations simply added to the surreal nature of the next weirdly suspended moments. Her elbows jutted, her arms were still wrapped tightly about my widely parted thighs, holding me open. The slurping and grunting went on, and weirdly, the excitement continued to mount right through me, like buzzing wires, as I watched Dave, his shining red face lit up with lecherous delight, rip off his clothes in one or two seconds, flinging them away from him. Then his face loomed closer, he folded over his wife’s bowed form, his darkly tanned hands gripping her paler hips. He drove himself into that uplifted rear – for the merest instant I glimpsed that long, rigid prick ready to plunge deep into its goal. I felt the shock of his locking in to Mags’s juicy and fully welcoming cunt. Her shoulders rammed into my own raised behind, her devouring mouth smote painfully against the soft tissue of my labia. Then it became a frenetic tattoo, her face beating into my yielding fleshiness, her body taking on the rhythm of the furious assault Dave unleashed, hammering more and more rapidly to his climax. His hoarse cries were in rhythm too, as were Mags’s muffled grunts and gasps, and my own moans and shrill yelps, until we came in a savage clamorous union, Dave, Mags and myself, like a jumping jack exploding. Bang! Bang! Bang! A triumphant triad of orgasms before we collapsed, a heap of flesh, with me smothered and crushed beneath their combined bodies; Mags the filling and Dave, pale bum aloft, the upper slice of our sexual sandwich.
Chapter Fifteen
MY LIFE NOW BECAME even more unreal, a mix of wet dream and nightmare. I begged Mags not to share me with her husband, but of course my plea was in vain. I think she was as turned on by our trio as he was. Worst of all, sick as it was, I too felt that extra degree of deviant thrill our perverse three-way split gave me, though I could hardly bear to admit it, even to myself. And there was no doubt that my weepy protestations of reluctance to partake in our sexual triangle merely added to the intense pleasure they derived from my helpless objections. Who knows? They probably added to mysexual excitation as well, so confused and twisted was my kinky nature. I was – am– a victim, no matter how much I hated coming to terms with myself.
Mags at least understood something of my convoluted personality. She wouldn’t let Dave fuck me. We still had our lesbian assignations. She insisted that she and I should share a bed at times when Dave was absent, missing either by choice or persuasion. He joined us, as he had that fateful night when he had first surprised us, after a lengthy, loving interlude a deux, and pursued his rampant role by mounting Mags and shafting her with great fury. I soon realised that his fucking and their mutual coming were as fiercely pleasurable for her as for him. I had always been the passive one in our loving. Mags took the greatest pleasure in her dominant butch role, and bringing me to eventual orgasm. Only on rare occasions had she allowed me to play an active role, to use fingers and mouth to make love to her. When I had, on one or two occasions, actually made her come, it was clear that it was almost against her will. Afterwards she had been particularly abrupt, and even rough with me, seeking an excuse to assert her physical and mental superiority over me once more. Now that we were a sexual trio, she seemed genuinely ambivalent about the ways in which Dave and I should relate. At first I was simply relieved that I would not be required to partake in any direct heterosexual activity, but then, as it became more and more obvious that Mags was ruling the roost as far as our triumvirate was concerned, as she had in our exclusive pairing, obtuse little pervert that I was – am– I began to feel a secret resentment, and even a wayward edge of desire to find some degree of physical contact with him, instead of just lying there, everything gaping and open to Mags’s greedy attentions, staring up at him, watching andfeeling the secondhand effects of his wild rutting.
Then, one afternoon I was sitting with Mags on her veranda, enjoying a cold beer before we sneaked away to the bedroom for even headier pleasure. We were able to enjoy such private rendezvousquite frequently, generally without her husband’s knowledge. I had a light enough teaching load, only a third of the number of classes Patrick taught. I would borrow “his” car, on the pretext of shopping or some other plausible excuse. As long as I was back in time to organise the evening meal, or when he might require the car for his own use, he was quite prepared to let me loose. So extreme was the “ice age” which had enveloped our relationship that he couldn’t care less where I was, or what I was doing. Which was just as well.
Mags and I were just draining our beers, eager to head off for the bedroom, when Dave suddenly appeared on the veranda totally unexpectedly to judge by Mags’s expression and exclamation. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Lovely to see you too!’ he chortled. He stooped to kiss her on the cheek, then moved to greet me in the same manner, except that he let his lips slide down behind my ear, his nose buried in my hair. I shivered as he very swiftly nipped the soft lobe with his teeth. ‘Sneaked over for a bit of jiggery-pokery behind my back, have you? You lezzes can never get enough, can you? Well! This time you’ll have to do it in front of my nose – as well as my darling wife’s!’
Yet this time was different, and clearly could only have been so with the collusion of husband and wife. There was none of the almost rough urgency which characterised the usual opening gambits. Instead, on this occasion they both joined in undressing me, but with a deliberate, slow tenderness that startled and excited me even more. Their movements were gentle, erotically synchronised, as they drew down the zipper, slipped my dress over my head. Dave’s fingers were light, grazing my skin as he unhooked my bra, eased the thin straps down my arms and the flimsy cups from my breasts. Meanwhi
le, Mags was peeling down my tiny pink briefs. And that was it. My light sandals had already gone, and I was naked, and the inner muscles of my sex were throbbing with hunger.
But still the urgency was absent. Mags did not launch herself at me and pin me down on the coverlet, opening my legs and ravening voraciously at my belly. Neither of them undressed, but stationed themselves either side of me, as I sat with my shoulders resting against the headboard, my knees drawn up, pressed together in ironic modesty. Their lips, like their hands, were gentle in their caresses, on my face, my shoulders and my breasts, then my thighs. There was almost a balletic eroticism about their movements. I turned my head one way, then the other, in response to their kisses, their strokes on my sensitive flesh. Soon I was breathing heavily, and moaning softly, a reflection of my body’s melting eagerness.
At last they released me, to remove their own clothing, but even that was done without any frantic haste, and I began to tremble. I realised I had never been so intimately close to a naked Dave in this softly teasing anticipation. I stared at the engorged state of his cock, its brown head rearing, the column thickly rampant, almost touching my thigh, which his hands were gently caressing, moving slowly down from my raised knee to the fullness leading to the crease of belly, and the curve of my buttock against the yielding bed. At my other side, Mags was replicating his movements. Now I was running with need, my nerves screaming, like agonisingly tight wires right through me. Mags’s open devouring mouth covered mine, imprisoned me, her tongue driving in, deep, so that my heartbeat thundered in my ears, and my nostrils flared to suck in desperately needed air. Her hand clamped like steel round my wrist, I felt the unique warm hardness of her husband’s cock pressing against me, the wet, spongy softness of his huge glans smearing his juice over the backs of my fingers, then his throbbing shaft was in my palm, I was clasping it, as Mags put me to him. The wiry hairs of his pubes brushed my curling fingers. He thrust his belly vigorously into me – the first extreme indication of the height of desire which bound all three of us.
Mags’s fingers prised open my labia, slid into the mouth of my vagina. It was running now, thickly lubricated with my sex juice. I felt its spasming welcome of the invader, which so expertly occupied and sought out the fierce core of pulsing need that possessed me. I groaned, and they moved in perfect accord, turning me, opening my limbs as Dave rolled over my thigh, and hands – I didn’t know or care whose – manipulated his prick into my eager cunt. And he was in me, to the hilt, his belly on mine, driving down as I lifted in glorious surrender, buttocks clenching, the muscles hardening at the backs of my spread thighs, my heels digging into the yielding mattress beneath the silken cover, absorbing his spearing drive to my fullest depth.
Mags was beside me. I could feel her more generously proportioned form pressed against me, nuzzling, her tongue and lips searching for my erect nipple, her face turned in, trapped between our cleaving bodies. At last the splendid abandon seized us, we rocked in that weird, beautiful mix of writhing bodies, and I came, screaming until I was smothered by Dave’s sealing mouth as he fired his sperm deep within, and seconds – eternal seconds – later I felt the wave of my own climax mounting, then exploding, and fragmenting through me, from the sweat-limp curl of hair plastered on my brow to my curling toes.
I was close to hysteria as I drove back out to our bush home in the long-shadowed mellow sunlight of the early evening, which would soon be obliterated by the sudden descent of darkness. My hair was still damp. I could feel it resting coolly on the back of my neck, reminding me of the last three-way love romp in the confines of the shower room, and that novel meld of gentleness and passion, as did the ache of violently exercised muscles and the stinging soreness of secret flesh. Even the car seat’s enfolding hug, into which my weary body slumped and sagged, reminded me of the way my lovers had spooned and supported me, held my totally surrendered frame.
It had to stop. It could not go on. How could I go back to Patrick, with my body battered and bruised from such decadent loving, my vagina sore from the plunges of Dave Evans’s cock, my labia swollen with surfeit of hectic sex? Back to that utter sterility, the atmosphere that hung over our relationship. Yet how couldI end it? Me, who courted disaster, whose need to be loved up, to be fucked by Mags Evans, and – yes, admit it, this sick, latest twist – by her husband, was every bit as addictive as snorting “the lines” of coke which had become so trendy back home when Patrick and I were at college? I hadn’t the guts then to try even a sniff. Now had I the guts to break this even sicker habit?
I was so desperate I had to try. I even thought of making my confession to my husband, but found I definitely didn’t have the guts for that. He would either kill me or fling me out on my ass, after only halfkilling me. There could be no other outcome. I stayed away from Kengui – hid out on our little bush compound, terrified that Mags would come and seek me out, drag me back with her, and the whole sordid affair would be discovered, after all. And Patrick would kill me anyway.
Almost crazy, I had to turn for help to someone. And I thought of Marty Dixon. Of course! We were so much alike, had so much in common. Shy, easily shouted down, ruled roughshod by our partners. Clio treated him like dirt – was blatant about her affair with the South African, Ant Van Reis. I could tell Marty. Tell him (perhaps not all) the sordid secret of my involvement with Mags and Dave, my estrangement from Patrick. I found the courage to drive into Kengui, and out to the school compound, even though I was shaking with the fear of seeing Mags or Dave, as well as the shame of having to confess to poor, sweet Marty. Would he really understand, or would he be appalled (as I was myself) at my behaviour?
Instead, I found another tragedy – or more of a mystery. The Dixons’ bungalow was empty, packing cases on the veranda. The giggling house girl came running from the quarters at the rear, told me with great relish that memsa’abhad gone – ‘She stay with BwanaVan Reis, play sex with him. Husband gone – leave school, no more work here.’
Was the whole world going mad? I suppose I could have taken some comfort in the thought that not all the disasters that fate had to throw had been dumped on mysinful head. Perhaps I wasn’t entirely selfish, wrapped up in my own misfortunes, for I actually shed tears, not for myself for once, but for poor lost Marty. What had happened to him? Had he left altogether, gone back to England, having lost the woman he had devoted his life to? I was taken aback by the desolation of these thoughts. All at once, my concern, and my need to find out what had happened to him, possessed me completely. It even drove me back down the hill to the Evans’ home, and the couple I had vowed I would have nothing more to do with.
Neither of them was in. It was just after lunch. Dave would be at school, and Mags would doubtless be down at the club, racing furiously about the tennis court, thrashing some poor victim game-love as usual. I was all too familiar with that sensation, of being utterly powerless, in complete subjection. And once more I felt that strange closeness, the parallelism with Marty, which made our situations so weirdly alike. It made me even more determined to discover what had happened.
I told the Evans’s houseboy I would wait, and he brought me a coffee out onto the veranda. To my deep discomfort, it wasn’t Mags but Dave who arrived first.
‘Well, hello, stranger! We’ve been wondering what on earth we’ve done to you. Thought maybe that miserable sod of a husband had put the ball and chain on you at last!’ He noticed the pretty obvious expression of strain I was wearing, and I saw, and felt, the sudden tension in him. ‘What’s up?’ he asked sharply. I knew damned well that his anxiety was not primarily on my behalf. When I gabbled out the alarming news I had just learnt about Marty, it sickened me to observe the immediate relief, and the malicious pleasure which lit up his face. ‘You’re way behind the times, stuck out there in the bush, sugar. Thought you’d have heard. Your little chum’s been given the order of the boot. I guess the goings-on of the randy Clio got a bit much even for our free and easy neck of the woods. He was supposed to be tra
nsferred up to the capital. The delectable Mrs D meanwhile has moved in permanently with her latest lover, the rutting Boer ...’
He stared at me with increased delight, teasing me with the long pause. I felt an imperceptible (I hoped!) shiver. Suddenly I felt my face colour up, as I vividly recollected that last time the three of us had made love, those wickedly languorous embraces, the feathery strokes of his fingers, and my clamorous response.
‘And,’ he continued, after an interval that seemed an age, ‘the very latest, hot off the press, as it were, is that our little limp dick Marty has jacked in altogether, chucked his job and gone off to live with his wife and her lover. What’s that line in Virginia Woolf? “Do you want to be a houseboy or a stud?” I guess we know which one our Marty is, eh?’ He gave an ugly, deep laugh, reverberating with testosterone. ‘But what the hell are you worrying yourself about your little nancy friend for? We’ve got far more important matters to discuss – like why the fuck you’ve been avoiding us, you little tease! And I know just the place to have our in-depth discussion. Mags won’t be home for ages yet. She’s got a full afternoon booked on the courts. Thrashing some little tart who loves nothing better than a good licking – and fuck the tennis!’ Another laugh. Followed by a quick grab at my wrist, which he squeezed in his strong golfer’s grasp. I was halfway down the corridor to the bedroom before I could begin to resist. It was a miserable little effort. I whimpered in protest as he tugged me the rest of the way and through into the bedroom. The bed was neatly made, there was a faint aroma of Mags’s distinctive perfume lingering in the air. ‘She’ll be over the moon to find you here. We were getting desperate. We even had to make do with each other last night.’