Loading...Thinking back on it now, I guess it was because I was pissed off with Jeff that I let it happen. We’d argued that morning. I can’t even remember what about. He wasn’t my favourite person right then.
“Bedrooms upstairs,” the assistant estate agent said – the older of the two, clearly the junior of the team. Dick Glover, of Glover and Glover Real Estate Agents, looked the part: sharp creases, white teeth, lot of bowing, sparkling eyes.
His assistant, Ted Frith, was older and heavier … and duller … and a little less trim around the waist. His shave in the morning showed less zeal the Dick Glover’s.
“Up there?” I asked, my eyes on Jeff and Glover, heading off towards ‘the conservator’, somewhere round the back.
“Yeh,’ said Glover, taking an interest in my hips.
Let him.
I made my way up the stairs. I was wearing a short pleated shirt, white blouse, black heals. My legs would catch his interest when I mounted the stairs, I knew. But that was Okay. My legs were okay. So was by butt. He wasn’t far behind me. Just far enough to have a good look. White Sluggies underneath – had he caught a glimpse of these? But really, feeling the way I was about Jeff, I couldn’t care less. Let the sluggish Ted have his eyeful. I reached the top of the stairs: small hall. I poked my nose into the first room I came to: big bed, big window. ‘Master bedroom,’ said a voice at my ear. He was close behind. His hip against my butt. I stayed where I was. He started telling me about the appointments in the room, all the while easing closer still. I listened to his spiel but heard not a word. Within five or six hesitant sentences his body was moulded to the back of mine. I think he liked it. His hand brushed my hip. I let it. It wandered round the back. I let it do that too, and then it cupped my buttocks. Enough … I shrugged him off and walked into the room.
The bed was an ancient four poster. I stroked the old stained wood. It was lightly carved and smelled of … mahogany. Is that what that was? (What did mahogany smell like?)
I could kill Jeff. When he was like he’d been this morning, I could happily kill the klutz.
‘Bed of a famous courtesan,’ said Ted Frith, surprising me a little. Surprising me, because he was back against me again. Surprising me too, that he knew what a courtesan was. He didn’t look the type who read past the racing results, certainly not all the way back to the days of courtesans. His left hand covered mine on the bedpost. ‘Where she had her conquests,’ he added, showing he knew what a courtesan was while at the same time he cupped my buttocks. A second time this afternoon. I let it be. He was feeling the shape of my butt … and being felt there, like that, even if only to establish the shape, was not an unpleasant experience. My way of getting back at Jeff! Especially a stranger. Even if a stout one. Not really knowing each other from Adam, or Eve, added an element I liked. There was an urge to move.
Not away, just move.
But I didn’t.
‘Great lover, she was,’ he said, as the hand on my hand gently stoked me.
‘What was her name?’ I asked, for something to say.
‘Gwendeline,’ he retorted, quickly, gruffly, moving his fingers gently around the lower curve of my buttocks. I am young, and work out. I have a good butt. He seemed to approve. His fingers softly squeezed. I didn’t react. ‘Because she was so tight,’ said Sid. I hadn’t a clue what he meant. ‘And her tits were so full and round,’ he added, in little more than a whisper. This was absurd! One of his hands was stroking my hand, the other my bottom, and I was standing here talking allowing him to prattle on about Gwendeline’s ‘tits’. Absurd!
But I didn’t move away.
The hand at my bottom was wandering down the back of my leg. It returned with the hem of my skirt, but still I didn’t respond. ‘Liked to he felt,’ he whispered, ill-kempt moustache tickling the lobe of my ear. My hair is cut short, like a boy’s, so access is easily made. The hand slipped beneath my skirt and started to feel the back of my legs. I didn’t object. I thought of Jeff, and what an asshole he could be. We’d only been married eight months but he could be such an asshole at times. ‘Do you like to be touched?’ the voice in my ear asked. Such impertinence! ‘Do you?’ he persisted. Then he kissed my ear. My head angled left as if to make it easier. Then his hand left mine around the bedpost, went to my legs, gripped the hem of my short suit skirt, and lifted it up to my waist.
It was skilfully done.
His hands were feeling my white cotton sluggies.
‘Mr Frith,’ I started, about to put him down. Me with my hem around my waist, was about to put him down? I don’t do very well. Teach Jeff right, of course, I think – though why I am none too sure.
I have a thick tongue in my ear. ‘What is it, pet,’ he asks. Meaning me I suppose, his pet. His hands are between my legs. Fondling my sluggies. Making me hot. Moist? I try to turn. He stops me. ‘Like to be touched?’ It didn’t sound much like a question. His fingertips have met between my legs – which, I note, I’ve parted. Ten digits hard at work. Me, bearing down. ‘Mr Frith,’ I try again, but my eyes have closed. God, but these fingers are invasive! The fingers of a stranger, where only my husbands should be. Perhaps this isn’t an awfully good idea, I decide, eyes closed, both hands around the bedpost.
‘I think,’ I start. He was opening the buttons of my blouse. ‘Mr Frith,’ I sought to catch his attention but it seemed, as a broad hand ducked inside my blouse and closed none too gently round my breast, that he had other things on his mind. I have my head angled backwards and his thick lips are over mine. This has gone too far. His tongue, deep in my mouth, tastes of a tobacco I don’t know at all. My arms stretch over my head and encircle a thick male neck. By bra is pushed out the way and a thick man’s hand has one of my breasts in its hot sweaty grasp. My mouth wide open my neck stretched back.
‘I think …’ I said, my hands going for his, one on my boob and the other between my legs. Busy hands they were too! ‘… that we’d better leave it there, I think,’ I gasped, and managed to pull off his hands. I twisted myself round the bed post. Left him watching. Stretched. Looked at my blouse.
Damn it, he’d ripped off a button.
‘I think you like it, sweetheart,’ he said, hand at his crotch.
Vulgar fellow.
I ignored him, went to the window. Looked out.
‘You know you like it,’ I heard him say, shuffling after me, and then I could feel him behind me again. But I’d had enough of the guy. I turned around and faced him. He was starting to piss me off.
‘I said enough, cowboy,’ I said, as I caught his broad hands and turned them away. But his open mouth hit my neck just below my chin, and he started slavering over my neck.
Jesus. This was a pain.
‘Enough,’ I hissed at the slug. His hands were back around my butt, then pulling up my skirt, in amongst my stocking tops, trying to pry my legs apart. ‘Enough!’ I said, more loudly this time, just as I heard Jeff’s voice from downstairs.
‘How are you doing up there?’ called Jeff.
‘Just fine,’ I called back, trying to sound up-beat. Trying to push this great bear offa me. His hands were clutching my buttocks, his knee being forced between mine.
‘Is it big enough for us?’ called Jeff.
‘Yeh,’ I called back, as the big guy’s thigh parted my knees and headed north, and my pelvis spread to receive it. I closed my eyes as my thighs eased apart and I found myself bearing down hard. There is something about pressure, there, between my legs. Broad unasked for pressure. Hard and fat between my legs. It was the reason I once rode a horse. Later a motor bike. I just love the … pressure.
There!
‘I’m coming up,’ called Jeff.
Which opened my eyes in a hurry. Lover boy had moved his lips to my breasts and I was pushing a nipple in his mouth. ‘Give us a second, sweetie pie,’ I shouted, growing alarmed. This lug head was making me hot!
‘On our way down,’ the lug head called out, lifting his mouth off my nipple, then taking it back in his mouth and forcing me wantonly to push the whole breast in his face. This wasn’t going well.
Worse still, it was becoming arousing.
I thought I heard my husband on the stairs, then he called, ‘We’re going to take a look in the garden.’
‘Fine,’ I called, as fingers found entry to a leg band of my knickers.
“Look out the window, you’ll see us round the back,” called Glover, the boss, as his underling’s fingers found what I’d been hoping they might not, a rather aroused little pussy in the sluggies he’d so cavalierly entered.
‘Enough,’ I tried to say. He merely laughed, rolled my nipple round his tongue, then licked me from there, over my breast, upper chest, neck and over chin … to find my mouth, open and gasping, awaiting his pleasure. French kissing is something my husband doesn’t do much. Ted Frith, however, did. And rather well, I found, as I squirmed against his heavy frame, one leg coiled around his thick calf, his tongue well into my mouth, my own slithering hotly up and down it. Then, disconcertingly, I noticed a peripheral view of my husband coming round the corner of the house into our field of view – and we, I suppose, into his, out the window that my shoulder was against. The dapper Dick Glover came after him, pointing to a hedge along the back. Which is when it struck me, here I was not twenty feet above them, with the least attractive of the three currently causing me problems of a sort I didn’t usually get myself into. And if they care to glance up at us, they will see what I mean.
I wrenched away from the window with such a powerful surge of panic it had the two of us tottering over the carpet. I told him to unhand me but he ignored me, got a better grip of me, put his tongue back in my mouth, stuck his fingers further into my pants, squeezed my left breast (excitingly) hard, and started to goose-step me towards the four poster bed.
The last thing I saw, as I was goose-stepped away from the window, was Jeff, looking up. His eyes were about to swing along to the part of the house where our window was, which caused me to hurry things along! The back of the bed caught my legs just above the knee. Next thing I know I have a large male bearing down on me, and my legs are spread apart, my arms are round his neck, my pubis and a breast in his control. His hands are working hungrily, causing me to squirm and think of things to do to him in return. Retaliation, if you like. Like find out how big the guy is. And whether or not it would be fun to have that bigness inside me. To help me forget just how pissed I am at Jeff.
“Come and see this,” I hear from outside the window.
But the big guy on top of me isn’t paying attention.
“Hey!” I hiss at him. “Let me go, you oaf.” But he doesn’t do a thing, other than fondle my breast, and caress my pussy in a hot sort of way. “I gotta go to the window,” I hiss at him, pushing with all my might, just as the voice comes again from outside,
“Laura. Come, look at this.”
I was starting to get worried. “You have to let me go.”
“I keep my hand in your knickers.”
“No!”
“Then you can’t go.”
“Laura!” Shouted now, from the garden outside. “Laura, are you all right.”
“See,” I hiss at my attacker. “I have to go. NOW!”
“My hand stays in your knickers.”
“NO!”
“Then you don’t …”
“OKAY!” I shout at the huge ox, giving him his way.
I am sidling towards the window like a crab, the big ox’s fingers in my knickers, his other hand still around my boob. I’m not sure what was negotiated about my boob, but would rather get my head out the window first. I can start negotiations on my mammary glands later.
“Hi Honey!” I call out the window, keeping the rest of me hidden from sight. My attacker sits on the carpet, back against the wall, me leaning over him, talking out the window to my husband, as he caresses the bits of me he wants. It is difficult to remain still. When I make eye contact with Jeff I am smiling and angling my head to the right, which soon becomes a nodding head, and then swings to the left. “What?” I ask him, I hope with less impatience than I feel, for I find I’m still pissed at the guy.
“There’s a cute little pool down here,” shouts Jeff. So what? I think, as the fingers at my pussy gently encourage more juices to pump. Damn, the guy is good. I feel my pelvis pulse. “See it? Just back here,” shouts Jeff, as a fat-lipped mouth closed over my nipple and teeth take the tip. Sure, I see it, nodding, though in truth I don’t see a thing. The garden’s a haze. My chest bucks hard as the teeth start annoying my nipple. Then a tweak, and Whump! another buck, and roll. I am drawing my breath through clenched teeth. My focus is here, all here, around what he’s doing to my nipple and puss, not there in the garden with Jeff. I try to push him away. Jeff starts to talk about the pool. How ‘cute’ it is. How ‘great’ we can make it. How ‘worth-while- it will all be … as I squirm and uneasily pulse at the ministrations of the estate agent’s hands and lips and mouth and tongue. How do such slugs get so good at this?
My panties are run down my legs. Sure, I tried to prevent it, curled myself away, pushed with the flats of one hand as the other tried to curl around the waistband of my panties and hold them up, covering to my tush. But my efforts were to no avail. In fact, while striving to keep up my panties the rest of me was rendered undefended, openings immediately attacked and brought to mouth or fingers or both. Soon I have given up the panties, and most other bits of me too. His lips around my clit were more than magic. They stripped my defences entirely. I became mere putty in his hands.
As Jeff prattled on about the pond, and the garden, and pointed out the state of the luscious looking hedge along the back, my eyes did their best to keep up, did their utmost to point the right way, but my knees, now jelly, had long since gone. My breath was hot and ragged. My hands more apt to pull than push away the cause of my distress. A distress out of sight of the garden, I hoped, unless it started playing on my face. His busy tongue fluttered round my clit like an angry dragonfly. Hands caressed my pubis like fondling paws. Fingers probed my labia lips, honey moist and thick with juices. Two already thrust inside. Moving slowly, eagerly … beguilingly, in … and softly, out … then slowly eased far … in … then curl and … Ngaaaaargh! I gasp and groan. It is somewhere between an agreeing nod, about the pool, and a horrified shake of the head that Jeff can see what’s going on. I open my eyes wide. A force of will. A show of strength. But Jeff doesn’t seemed to sense there is anything amiss with his wife, upstairs, with the other man. “We could do so much,” he enthuses.
I do not.
Enthuse.
I ooze.
But he doesn’t seem to notice. He doesn’t notice, but I do.
JEEES, BUT HOW I DO!
I feel like shrieking out. At both of them. for being so damn … whatever!
I am suddenly aware that big Ted Frith, his hands all over my body, my private part bared, has his head out the window as well. It is just behind my own.
“Used to be a duck pond!” he calls down, as I feel his hands at work behind me, raising my skirt raised to my waist, buttocks bared, my knickers round an ankle, my legs spread wide.
“Really,” Jeff calls back. His eyes have flipped to the man’s head, close to mine. I note the slight confusion in Jeff’s face. How can we both fit so tight in the dormier window that looks so small. Believe me, Jeff, it is small. And the answer is, we fit pretty tight.
“Mallard ducks, and a pair of mating pin tails,” says Frith. I don’t move a muscle. His belt buckle scraped across my naked butt. Next thing I feel are his trousers, also against the skin of my butt, as they fall to his ankles. He is leaning over me. He is surely not going to try to screw me, here, like this, while talking to my husband? Jeff has turned and is looking at a clump of straggly bushes. Somewhere in the midst of which must be his stupid pool. “Gettoff,” I hiss at my attacker, pushing with a hand, the other on the window jam.
Jeff turns around. “Where did they nest?” he asks, looking up.
Under his gaze I am stone again. Frozen. Not daring to move. I can feel the rough jowls of Frith against my cheek as his head comes even closer to my own. One big hand absently fondles my breasts, hanging pendulously underneath, held out of sight of the garden below, as the other hand caresses my naked bum. An erection presses hard, off to the right. I feel him guide the damn thing centrally, and there … You cannot be serious!
Perhaps it is just my luck, that the odious Ted Frith is hung like a proverbial bull. I feel this great thick tip, like a hot bolster, or the nose of a horse, easing cumbersomely against my pudenda. Then settling, resting almost, enjoying the feel and heat and the juiciness of what we’ve created before pressing on … as it were. “Don’t you dare,” I whisper out the side of my mouth through the vacant smile I have fixed to my face and resolved not to drop, not one inch, despite what this odious creature may intend.
“They nested just over to your left,” says Frith, as if we are chatting over the garden fence, rather than positioned as we are, my husband listening attentively, his wife with the tip of the estate agent’s erection gently nosing it’s unhurried way. into his wife’s vagina! “See the soft bits round the edge,” Frith goes on, as his fingers gently caress the soft bits round my edge, and cause me to shudder and bite off a groan. “And that stone just over the top,” he went on, as he tweaked the hard nub between my legs and damn nearly pushed me over the top. “They were in there,” he finished, as the bulbous tip eased into me.
“Really,” says Jeff, looking at the secret place, as Frith eases himself into my secret place.
The feelings that had starting to flow were not as unarousing as I’d hoped they might. Not as unarousing as they should have been were revenge or spite at Jeff the sum total of all that was fuelling this endeavour. There was clearly more at play. And some of it had little to do with Jeff! I groaned and pulsed and braced back my legs. A gloved fist was pummelling my innards. A soft velvet glove. While other fingers deep inside me plucking the strings of my arousal. Playing the web of my more purple feelings like some wild gypsy attacking his guitar. My eyes stayed on Jeff. The way his head went to and from among the bushes round his pond. I felt myself being filled by this great ox. What made me call out next, I cannot think. But I do.
“Is it deep?” I call out, my voice catching slightly on the ‘deep’.
The penis slipping into me goes deeper … deeper … deeper still.
How can it go in so deep?
“Used to be deeper,” called Frith, his cheek now blatantly pressed against mine, and mine, I note with horror, pressed equally hard against his. “Didn’t use it enough, so it silted up,” Frith adds, as he gives another thrust, pushing himself deeper inside me. “But if you use it,” another thrust, “more often,” yet another, “then it will soon,” a thrust that causes me to gasp and look suddenly skyward at cotton wool clouds in a deep azure sky, “deepen …” at which point both Jeff and Glover stare at the pool, “and deepen,” and bloody Ted Frith snaps his mighty thighs, lifts both my feet off the floor, and jack-hammers his tool inside me to the hilt, “and deepen,” he finishes. We hold steady as dancers caught in a game of ‘Don’t Move’
I start to analyse what is happening here. I am standing at this window, talking to my husband. Frith, the Real Estate Assistant is up here, with me, helping his boss, Glover, get us – my husband and I – interested in this property. Glover is giving Jeff, my husband, a guided tour of the garden. Frith, his assistant, is giving my husband some tid-bits of information about the pool in the garden which my husband likes. I have let Frith, the assistant, caress and fondle parts of my body that are rightly the sole property of my husband, and Frith has his penis as far inside me as it will go, and I am not myself as a result of this. So … what happens now? The situation has rather swamped me, I think it is fair to say. Sure, I am pissed off at Jeff. Granted, I think Frith’s a prick. And I don’t much care for either Glover, or this house. But to be idly talking, while aroused, and being excited to distraction by the size and situation of this huge male organ, that is starting, now, distressingly, to ease in and out of me with a deliberation that is starting to curl my toes, is causing me to hurtle … towards … orgasm.
I have a huge one as I gnaw my lower lip, and force my eyes to stay open, and no expression at all to dare to flit, even momentarily onto my face, as all the while Jeff, my klutz of a husband, and Frith, this lunk-head whose distressingly large, and hard, penis is currently doing baby-making things in my vagina – and it is doing everything to encourage it. Glover, the so called boss, is standing to one side (but looking at me strangely) looking on, saying nothing, letting his assistant take the stage while his assistant is rubbishing the oft-held theory that men can’t multi-task. This guy is doing two things pretty damn well. Jeff is fascinated. I am getting fucked!
I start to gasp, and buck.
(Glover is definitely frowning at me now.) As if this is all my fault. As if I should be standing quietly by as he prepares to fuck my husband over, and his partner gets over fucking me. (I’m sure he knows what Frith is doing. What I am doing. What we are doing.) It is the way he’s turned away and has taken my husband by the elbow, and is directing my husband’s attention to something beyond the damn pond. I am beyond caring, for I am about to come again. And I do, with both hands grasped around the window sill, hanging on for dear life while forcing myself hard into his thrusts. Helping him go DEEP! His thighs against my butt, his hands around my hips, his fingers scrabbling wildly at my flesh. As the two below turn away his face turns to mine and he kisses my cheek. I want to say to stop it, but don’t. I can’t. I lake the resolve. The next time he does it, we steal a frantic kiss. The third time his tongue is in my mouth. The danger inherent in this sets me off again. It snaps at my innards like tweezers with a current of electricity, ripping through me in a flash, making me cry out, grasping the window frame so hard it snaps a nail.
“Honey,” Jeff calls.
“Yeh!” I holler back, excitement and horror sharpening my response.
“You fine?”
“Great,” I shout back, then, “My bag has fallen.”
Why I say that, I have no idea. But I had to. I had to get away from the window. To get away from the gaze of those in the garden. My husband and that knowing-look of Glover’s.
We finished what we’d started, Frith and I, on the bed. The odious ox came, when he came, like a runaway steam-train. No piston worked harder, or faster, (or better,) so obviously his diet wasn’t all bad. He took me, as his steam train hit the summit, to yet another mind-blowing orgasm. Then there were sounds from downstairs. Back door closing. Steps across the kitchen. I was chivvied to the bathroom off the bedroom. I would have preferred to catch my breath, rest my aching muscles, cool my burning skin, dry out inside, a tad, but that was not to be. I was roughly chivvied off the bed. I let myself be rushed, for I too had heard footsteps on the stairs. I went into the bathroom, locked the door. Straightened some tendrils of sweat plastered hair from my cheek. A knock on the door.
Shit!
I opened it a crack. It was Frith, passing me my panties and a shoe. I took them in and locked the door again. Voices the other side of the door. Glover sounding pissed, Jeffrey sounding curious. But I didn’t want to know.
I stared at myself in the mirror. Dishevelled, flushed, out of breath, heavy-lidded, chest heaving, half naked. Is this what you do when you’re pissed at your husband? Or bored? Or is it for fun? I flushed the toilet. I stroked one or two excited bits of me, wondering when they would quieten. Not yet, that was clear. I did it again with my eyes closed. And again. May have sighed. I turned on the tap. The hot one. Let it run. No hot water, only cold. I ran my fingers under it. Stroked cooling water on a nipple. Then the other one. Getting myself back to earth, clearing the fields of appearance, softening the reaction from the most body-binding … mind-numbing … sexual bout I’d ever had!
We didn’t buy the house. But Dick Glover and Ted Frith of Glover and Glover Real Estate showed us more. Quite a number more.
I seem to be pissed of with Jeff a lot these days.