Night With Mommy

by Sofia Connor

  One deeply pink night, after Christine had taken delight in her numerous orgasms, she declared, "Adrian we have to talk." To me, this sounded like the beginning of the end.

  "Remember when we first met?"

  "How could I ever forget."

  "Don't be flippant! When we met at first it was my friend Angela who looked after my kids for the afternoon. Well, in two weeks' time it's her birthday: I've always wanted to give her a truly valuable present, one that she would never forget."

  "So?"

  "Now I have something really precious that I might be able to give away, well lend actually: I want to lend you to her."

  "What?"

  "I want you to tease her and then please her: just like you do to me. She hasn't had a man in ages; I mean years, and she's really jealous of me."

  "You want me to rodger your best friend, for her birthday present?"

  "Yes and I'm going to watch: but you're not to say anything and you must not come, because I will be absolutely desperate by the time you've finished."

  "You want to watch me screwing -- no fucking, let's call a spade a spade -- you want to watch me fucking your best friend and you are anticipating that you are going to enjoy this?"

  "What an excellent precis: agree right this instant, my little sex-pot, and..." she considered this, for a second or two, "I'll suck you off before you go." Christine was, normally, less than enthusiastic about me spurting into her mouth; so she was offering a generous treat. Usually, in order to obtain this particular favour, I had to torment her to the point where she begged me to permit her to be complicit with any of my sexual foibles: and even then her consent was inevitably subject to the proviso that I first guaranteed her a long succession of orgasms.

  "OK," I replied, dubiously. I had already come once but Christine honoured her promise: she not only licked and sucked upon my helmet but also gently stroked my shaft with those deft fingers of hers. All too soon I was pumping thick white seed into her mouth.

  The date of Angela's birthday arrived. I turned up bang on time and as Christine admitted me she reminded me that I was not even allowed to utter a single syllable, whatever I might encounter, even if I found myself totally shocked.

  "Just what the hell have you got planned," I enquired; beginning to have serious reservations about the evening ahead.

  "Wait and see. Now get undressed down here." As I disrobed Christine told me, "Angela has just had a lovely long bath and I soaped her thoroughly, so everywhere is perfectly clean, although some bits of her do seem to remain persistently moist".

  When we entered Christine's pink love nest I almost broke my promise. There was certainly an unfamiliar woman sat in her pink chair, but she was not only stark naked but tightly lashed to it. Her legs were split wide apart, spread over the arms, with her ankles firmly bound to the legs. Her arms were immobilised equally thoroughly, around the back of the chair. Moreover, she was blindfolded: Angela was older than Christine, her hair was black and she had a rather grey, more lined complexion. She was a good bit plumper than Christine, but not excessively fat; she was, all-in-all, rather less attractive. Whatever her looks, I was already becoming painfully stiff.

  "Ready for your present Angela?"

  "Yes, definitely; whatever it is."

  "It's the best sex toy ever: now, you are absolutely convinced that you want this?"

  "Of course I do."

  I went across and kissed her hard on the mouth. She responded with unbridled enthusiasm. When we were done Angela exclaimed excitedly, "It's a man; it's a man... God, is it Adrian?"

  "You'll never know who it is, and you are now asking too many questions." Christine came across with a ball on a rope and proceeded to use it to gag Angela.

  I started with Angela's nipples. They were smaller than Christine's, not so dark but they still puckered up nicely when sucked upon. Now, unless Angela protested violently -- which is difficult when you are gagged --, for some teasing. I licked Angela's palms, then the crooks of her elbows and finally her armpits. She squirmed delightfully. After this I paid a great deal of attention to her ear lobes and neck; her breathing deepened and slowed: she was enjoying my attentions with undisguised abandon.

  After a quick return to her nipples, I indulged in some serious toe sucking and foot licking. I had to be very careful; she was far more ticklish than Christine, but she was soon sighing contentedly. Now, first lick the backs of her knees and subsequently nibble the flesh inside of her plump, soft, white, thighs, occasionally brushing the extremities of her dark bush with the tongue. This sequence of actions extracted a series of increasingly rhythmic moans from Angela.

  She was ready, and I squatted back on my haunches to admire my handiwork: she was, already, intolerably randy; perfect for a trial of teasing. Initiating a really good pussy tease is always facilitated by a little, light, humiliation. I very slowly slid two fingers into her exceptionally moist fanny. I rotated them, gently, to give them a thorough coating with her natural juices. I withdrew them, pulled her gag aside and forced those two well lubricated digits between her lips; drawing them, gradually, across her tongue so that she was forced to savour the full extent of her own desires. Success, she blushed; not just her cheeks but her neck, followed by the top half of her chest, they all lit up crimson. She rapidly regained her composure, however, clamping my fingers between her teeth and then swirling her tongue around them.

  A single flick of my tongue across her clit was sufficient to draw a gigantean half-sigh, half-moan, from Angela. This was, clearly, a very intense sensation; one that I was going to repeat frequently, for a while. The trick is in the timing, keeping the intervals long enough to prevent orgasm and sufficiently irregular so that the unfortunate subject of your attentions never knows when the next one will be. Unbound Christine could take five minutes of this but poor Angela; I glanced at the bedside clock -- a pink clock, of course -- Angela was going to endure at, the very least, one half of one whole hour.

  Initially Angela simply sighed and moaned, then her eyes glazed and her lids drooped. Subsequently, her fanny began to dribble and pulsate quite audibly; the entrance to her vagina was making tiny fart-like noises, all of its own accord. Her bum glistened with the juices that had dribbled down them; juices which, subsequently, suffused into the seat of the pink chair.

  Next time a towel would be a good idea, a pink fluffy towel, and Christine would be my hapless victim. Angela began to swear, fluently: "Shag me, you sodding bastard, fuck my cunt you damned pig." I broke off and reintroduced her to the gag: now all we got was, "muuummfffff and ummmfff " and poor Angela began to drool. Having eliminated all resistance, I worked upon establishing a rhythm: lick to the clit; finger the fanny really slowly, just stimulating the very entrance of this particular orifice -- but then applying a very occasional deep stroke, exciting her G spot -- nip her nipples with fingers or teeth, and nibble those earlobes, oh yes, when teasing a woman don't ever forget to nibble those earlobes. Angela began to sweat, copiously. A towel really would have been a good idea, I reflected. Bring her to the very edge and then maintain her in that state: leave her constantly staring into a yawning abyss of ecstasy, but never allow her to tumble in. Sometimes break off for a few seconds and do something different: suck her fingers, lick her toes or inside the crook of an elbow. Just as she starts to relax return to the clit and recommence the cycle.

  I love teasing, but this had taken genius, Christine had offered me a totally helpless victim: my secret vision of nirvana. Christine remained seated upon the bed, watching, mesmerised. She must have realised that her turn would come, in due course: and I knew her anatomy much more intimately than Angela's, so I could push her even further and hold her peering over the edge for far longer. Now Christine began to peel off her clothes, her eyes never straying from the unfolding fate of her friend. Once naked Christine simply tweaked her nipples and rubbed her red, furry, bush, gently: her vision fixated upon the writhing and squirming of the, by now, almost delirious Angela.
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br />   Finally, time was up. Angela, all trussed up, had most plainly been made to endure far more than she could otherwise have tolerated. As an indicator of what was to come I hung my helmet in her vestibule, then I slid my rampant ram down her dark, damp, passage, ever-so gradually; although I did speed up at the very end to ensure that my pubic bone slammed into her clitoris. Angela screamed with lust, delight, satisfaction and relief: she had been induced to come, at last. I withdrew, completely, then gave her another of these long slow strokes capped with that violent finale: she came again. Angela soon deposed Christine from her throne of 'Queen of the orgasm': she allowed herself to enjoy climax after climax, for a full four minutes. Even after this I was able to coax small orgasms from her for another couple of minutes. Finally, she was utterly drained; she sagged, her chest heaving for breath. As soon as I withdrew Christine grabbed my hair, dragged me over to the bed and pulled me on top of her. She too was on fire, she slammed her pelvis into mine as she exploded with orgasmic joy over and over again. Of course I climaxed all too soon, jerking and squirting hot seed into her pulsating fanny. The smell in that room was now pure lust. Christine was plainly disappointed that I had not managed to hold out for longer, but it was probably just as well, Angela now really needed Christine to untie her. In order to ensure that Angela could never be certain just whom had first built, and subsequently extinguished, her phantasmagorical fires I slipped away from the room, dressed downstairs, and strolled away into the darkening evening.

  The night following Angela's birthday I popped round to Christine's. I thought she might desire some company and would, almost certainly, want to finish off from the previous night. Actually, I knew that she'd be as hot as a bitch in heat. She called me names for not managing to hold back for longer and, yes, she was exceptionally libidinous and unrelentingly demanding. Her response to my first climax was instantaneous and free of inhibition; she simply sucked me hard again and carried on like nothing had happened. She explained to me later that she had had no concept of what a turn on it would be for her to watch me making her friend so full of lust. "Angela says that you are the most horrid tease in history," oh and I took these. Christine had snapped polaroid photos of Angela before she untied her: her hair a total mess, her makeup streaked, a massive dark stain spreading down the chair below her yawning crack, and her tits all sweaty. "Does she know?" I asked.

  "Oh no that blindfold is really good and there was an airline sleep-mask underneath it, just in case. Anyway they're for you, a little souvenir."

  Christine was now positively enthusiastic about arranging another threesome. Angela was, she told me, equally keen, but then the pair of them had to locate a baby sitter prepared to take on all five of their kids: that was clearly tricky. Christine's final solution was to ask me if she could sound out some of her friends to see if any of them fancied exchanging baby-sitting for joining us in a, temporary, menage a trois. I was not convinced, but Christine coaxed me into this deal by offering a whole week of languid oral sex to complete each of our tempestuous tumbling's. Despite having come twice, already, I found that this final bid had returned me to a state where I could satisfy any lusts that Christine might have had. That evening her vigour was exceptional, she was absolutely insatiable. She demanded the 'six positions', sex in six different positions: spoons, missionary, on her tummy, woman on top (facing you), woman on top (back to you) and then doggy. In our variation, if I come before we get to doggy then, as a 'punishment', I have to lick Christine's fanny -- now dripping with my slithering seed, yech -- until I can get hard again and then I have to complete the sequence: not that that was going to be a problem that particular night.

  The following Saturday, immediately after my last payment of oral gratification, Christine announced her good news; she had the whole of the next Saturday night free. I could come early, stay over and she would even allow me the privilege of cooking breakfast for her; to be served up in bed, obviously. Pink towel night I thought, I would tie Christine in the chair and tease the daylights out of her. She had, incidentally, re-covered her pink chair, naturally in pink. The conundrum was how to prevent her from having sex for a few days before hand? Teasing is tricky, it's no good with a well satisfied partner. I pondered upon this for ages until, dashing my daydreams, Angela phoned me at work to inform me that Christine had got a bug, was laid up in bed, and was, most decidedly, not layable up in bed. She was looking after Christine and her kids, so I did not have to worry and she would phone just as soon as Christine was up to having visitors up her, once more. Angela has a dirty sense of humour and our switchboard lady had a habit of listening in: she certainly gave me an odd look later on, but with telephonists who knows. I just hoped that Christine would be fully recovered as soon as was possible.

  The End.

  Sleeper

  On his way back into the building Vincent nods to Jeff, the security guard plowing his way through an over-filled sub, as if to say: hey, it's only me, as always this time of night, no need to extricate yourself from that mountain of beef and salami.

  As ever, the guard ignores or misinterprets the gesture. By the time he reaches the barrier the man is up - surprisingly fleet of foot for someone so portly and gray - waiting for Vincent to remove his jacket and put it through the metal detector along with his little box of Chinese takeout.

  Vincent sighs inwardly, thinking: Really? I'm a threat to this place?

  Employees as well as visitors have their belongings scanned at RCE Energy, ever since a disgruntled marketing exec passed comment concerning his being passed over for promotion by emptying a handgun into the third-floor photocopier.

  That photocopier had always been asking for it, though. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time. In recent years, though, there had been a rise in attempted invasions. Protestors, objecting to the Corporation's take on sustainable energy, running into the building armed with eggs, paint, other things not so pleasant.

  So Vincent doesn't make any comment to Jeff the security guard, just complies as usual. Vincent's not a security man, but he actually feels some sense of solidarity with the guy ever since the CEO came down to his office one night after hours, asking him to carry out a special intelligence project.

  "The major threat's not people throwing shit at our building, Vincent," the man had said. "This is the information age."

  Vincent had accepted the job, of course. The kudos of a personal visit from Mr Stanton had been far too much to turn down. His constant dedication and extensive record of overtime had finally been noticed, and he wasn't going to waste the opportunity now.

  He probably wouldn't know what to do if he ever did find a mole, of course. Vincent's not in corporate intelligence - Stanton no longer trusts the folks in corporate intelligence - he's just a lonely soul who doesn't have a life, coming back to the office with a little box from Wong's, just long enough after everyone's gone home so they can't see he's a sad workaholic.

  Sad that he gets a little thrill when the elevator doors slide open to confirm that the 33rd floor is now empty.

  Sad that when he reaches the fake walnut door to his office, he's buzzed to have some time to himself to get ahead on his work.

  Sad that there's nothing for him at home but a dark little hole of an apartment.

  He twists the doorknob and does a dorky little 360 as he slips inside, easing the door shut so that the latch clicks, sealing him inside his quiet sanctuary of gray, black and chrome.

  When he turns around again, Cassandra Mayer is right there, lying there on his desk, waiting for him, without a stitch on.

  "Hi, Vincent."

  *

  Vincent drops his box of sweet-and-sour, eyes wide, jaw dropping to the floor. The shapely brunette is lying on her side, propped on one elbow, her long hair draped over a shoulder to hide her breasts, the only part of her that is in any way concealed.

  To say it's a shock would be putting it mild.

  He's never even seen the corporation's senior planning policy offi
cer in casual clothes before, let alone stark naked, sprawling across his desk. And yet the very first wince of embarrassment that passes over his face is from realizing his beautiful, startlingly nude colleague just bore witness to his dorky little 360 as he entered the room.

  It takes a moment before it begins to sink in that his disturbingly bare colleague is lying on his desk, waiting for him to react.

  "C-C-Cassandra..." he stammers, wishing to the high heavens he could somehow channel Cary Grant just now.

  Just an ounce of cool, suave calm would be worth the world.

  Cassandra smiles as she traces a hand down the elegant curves of her body, from breasts to thighs, as though guiding his startled eyes to take in what he clearly can't quite believe is in front of him.

  The warm peachy glow of her skin is so out of place in the coldness of the office with its black leather, cool steel and stark white decor. God, he can even see a little smudge of dark hair pointing the way to the delights concealed between her thighs.

  "Why don't you close the door and come over here?" she says, seeming incredibly calm.

  He always thought she was pretty, but she'd always played it down. Frumpy suits, little if any make-up, glasses that did not make best use of the angles of her face. Right now, she's made up like a supermodel, dressed down to the maximum, there's no sign of any deficiencies in her eyesight.