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More Annals of the Friday Flower

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Although Jo took Ann to the same area several more times following their encounter with the voyeur, the man never reappeared. At least, not physically. But he remained vivid in Ann’s imagination. At home, Roger’s attentions continued to be spasmodic and unsatisfying, and while meetings of the Friday Flower Club, supplemented by private sessions with Jo, delivered orgasms of varied intensity, Ann was growing conscious of something missing.

Eventually she raised the subject during a period of rest and recuperation at the Club. When she was reticent to provide detailed answers to questions from her friends, Jo took over. She had no hang-ups about describing the way the man had peered into the car,going on to ejaculate into the silk knickers Jo handed out of the window. Jo’s theory, she explained, was that Ann had been reminded that there was more to sex than could be generated by six middle-aged, middle class women in a suburban drawing room, immensely enjoyable though that was.

“What you mean,” said Marjorie, “is she needs a proper fuck.”

The word was not unfamiliar to the women. After all, it had become virtually commonplace in books and films; but it was not a part of their daily vocabulary, and this was the first time it had been spoken at a Club meeting. Now it had come from a sleek, sophisticated, fifty-something blonde who was reclining in an armchair with one hand inside the waistband of an expensive pair of black knickers. Around the room, her friends were in similar states of post-orgasmic wind-down. This was no gathering of prudes. Just as Marjorie’s forthright frankness many weeks earlier had started them on their current path, so it now challenged their individual boundaries. As before, and emboldened now by accumulated experiences with tongues and fingers and more mechanical aids, no one was prepared to be the first to back away.

“She needs a man who will shag her senseless, get her on her back and give her what she’s been missing.” Marjorie was warming to her theme.

“But isn’t that why we’ve been getting together?” asked Helen. “Besides, sometimes a woman can offer something – not just different, but special.”

“You mean we’ve become a club for lesbians?” The question, from Sylvia, provoked a sharp response from Ann.

“No. I am certainly not a Lesbian. It’s just that Roger doesn’t offer me the fulfilment I need and desire. But I haven’t got the courage to look for a guy to help with sex on the side. Not with all the problems that could bring with it.”

Marjorie summed up. “In short she needs a good fuck but she’s not going to get it here.”

“Perhaps she could.”

The speaker was Cynthia, a petite brunette whose small, pointed breasts and compact buttocks encased in flimsy lime-green had been subjected to intimate attention only minutes earlier. At forty-three, Cynthia was the youngest member of the Club by almost a decade. She was also unique among them in that she was a divorcee; her original reason for joining was not the shortcomings of a husband but the complete absence of any man in her private life. Recently, that had changed in unexpected circumstances. Hence her intervention. She was aware it could make her the most popular member of the Friday Flower Club.

Marjorie’s eyes gleamed. She spoke for them all. “How?”

Cynthia pondered how to continue.

“How?” Marjorie prompted. “Just tell us.”




When Cynthia’s husband wanted to trade her in for a younger model with bigger breasts and dextrous agility in the back seat of a Jaguar, the court awarded Cynthia control of the chain of hairdressing salons and beauty parlours they had owned jointly. Overnight she became a businesswoman. Over the next few months she became a remarkably successful business woman.

Her strength was in recognising what she could not do, and solving it by delegation. One of the first areas to take her attention was finance. The company ticked over reasonably efficiently but she detected a lack of drive. Tony had built it to the point that it delivered an income that paid the bills and left a surplus for his hobbies: sailing, golf and travel. Tony’s departure removed from the equation the substantial cost of his boat together with a weakness for flying first class.

For the time being the newly created balance was sitting on the books, earning modest interest and overseen by the company’s Finance Director, a fancy title bestowed by Tony. In reality, Cynthia concluded, he was an overpriced bookkeeper who needed to be replaced. Which was how Dariusz came into her life.

The quarterly audit was done by a firm from Leeds. An accountant would travel over to the company offices, spend a day-and-a half with the books and report any problems. Cynthia resented having to pay his overnight hotel bill. She resolved to do something about it but wasn’t sure how. In the event, she was pre-empted.

On the first audit day of her independence, Cynthia was away interviewing potential staff recruits at a salon that had been under-performing. Returning to her office at the end of the afternoon, she found a message on her desk to say that the accountant had completed the audit. If she had a moment to spare, he would like to introduce himself before returning to Leeds.

Intrigued as well as pleasantly surprised, she asked for him to be sent in. The surprise continued when a tall young man entered, shook hands with just the hint of a bow, and introduced himself as Dariusz Piotczynski. He told her he had worked at the accountancy firm’s London headquarters for two years; recently he had been transferred to Leeds. Examining Cynthia’s books had been straightforward. Everything was in order and had been signed off. However …

While Dariusz had been speaking, Cynthia had listened with only half her mind. Predominantly, she found herself assessing Mr Piotczynski, however he pronounced it. Or spelt it for that matter. She was taking in a man she guessed to be not much older than thirty, wearing a dark suit that suggested rather more style than went with her image of accountants, his hands folded calmly in his lap. Regular features and a strong jaw line. Clean shaven. Jet black hair neatly cut. And dark, intense eyes.

Startled, Cynthia suddenly became aware of the unfinished sentence. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You were saying?”

“I was saying there are no problems with your books. I have certified them. We will invoice you in due course. And in future if you would kindly cancel the hotel booking, it will not be necessary.”

“Thank you. But is that all? I thought you were feeling there was something else you wanted to say.”

“I have to be careful not to exceed my duty.” Cynthia smiled inwardly at his formal language but didn’t discourage him from continuing. “My function is to confirm your books, not to tell you how to run your business.” He paused.

“I wouldn’t expect you to. But I will always listen to advice.”

“Well then. You are paying too much Corporation Tax. That can be changed. Quite legally. You have no cash flow problems. On the contrary, you have sums available that could be more profitably deployed.”

“And you say this after looking at our books for a few hours.”

“I work quickly. And I understand what I see. For example, the investment portfolio.”

He had touched a raw nerve. Cynthia knew that Tony had enjoyed playing the market but it hadn’t interested her. Since taking over she had simply left things as they were.

“The Investments,” the accountant went on, “are a muddle. Some are serious – good, keep them. Many are frivolous. You should sell.”

In time Cynthia would discover that Serious and Frivolous served him as all-purpose adjectives. She said, “And you could advise me?”

“If you wish.”

What Cynthia wished, she was coming to realise, had nothing to do with learning about her investments; she wanted to know more about Mr Piotczynski. She said, “Would you like to tell me over dinner? I mean, if you have time.” Why did she feel so ridiculously schoolgirlish and nervous?

He consulted his watch and agreed. Cynthia chose the restaurant and once they had ordered – Mr Piotczynski asking for mineral water as he did not drink alcohol – the investment review was resumed. In detail and at length. Sheep and goats, serious and frivolous. He spoke quietly but firmly. Cynthia nodded in what she hoped were the right places. She knew she should be bored but something about the person across the table demanded clarification.

When, finally, she was able to steer the conversation into more personal areas, Mr Piotczynski answered her questions with the same earnestness he had applied to matters financial. His mother and father were both dentists in London. His grandparents fled Poland in the 1930s. Some time in the 19th Century an earlier ancestor had been created a Count of the Kingdom of Poland and Count of Galicia. Dariusz – he told her his Christian name would be easier for her, and taught her how to pronounce it – saw no reason why the title should not in time descend through the unbroken male line on to his own shoulders. That his father disdained it was frivolous. Dariusz was serious. His intention was to return to Poland and set up his own business. No doubt the great estate near Wroclaw no longer existed, but Poland would once again have a Count Piotczynski.

But what, she wanted to know, about Dariusz today? He proved to be even younger than she had assumed – only a few weeks past twenty-seven. A masters degree at London School of Economics opened the doors to a long-established City accountancy firm. Two years of rapid promotion led to the transfer to Leeds with a mission to shake up an outfit that had grown moribund.

Brothers or sisters? Neither. Girl friends? No. Dariusz found London women of his own age frivolous. They wanted sex but had no sophistication. They were not serious. Relationships with older women had been much more satisfactory. He imparted this information with the same quiet certainty he had applied to his assessment of the stock market.

Cynthia was now fully alert. Older women? What did Dariusz consider “older”? He was not specific. It was the twenty-somethings he dismissed as frivolous. She told him she was forty-three. Did that qualify her? He acknowledged that it did. Theoretically. Suppose she was not speaking theoretically? Would he be interested practically? Certainly. His answer somehow suggested that he had been expecting to be asked.

Later Cynthia told herself that separation from Tony and subsequent abstinence from sex had weakened her defences but that wasn’t entirely true. Any seduction had been done by her not by Dariusz. There was a magnetism she had been unable to resist. Her only token caution was to decide not to take Dariusz home. The hotel booking was still valid; why not take advantage? Would Dariusz consider sex at the company’s expense frivolous? Probably. She was past caring.

They went straight to his room. Once the door was closed, they hardly spoke. They both knew why they were there. The understanding was physical not emotional; no need for endearments. As they undressed they watched each other. When Dariusz was reduced to pinstriped boxer shorts (My God, Cynthia thought, accountants’ underwear), they paused. He came to her, walked round her, inspecting her from all angles. He looked approvingly at her unsupported breasts, small and slightly pointed. He carefully stimulated the nipples with finger and thumb. He stroked the pale blue knickers that emphasised the compact roundness of her bottom. Then he removed her knickers, ran his fingers through the triangle of fine dark hair, parted the lips and encountered moisture within.

It was impossible for Cynthia to remain passive. She tugged at Dariusz’s shorts and was pleased to reveal, below a mop of black pubic hair, a most acceptable penis: six or seven inches, she guessed, quite slim, circumcised, prominent head. She was gratified to note that it was already erect, in need of no further stimulation from her. But she wasn’t thinking now of his needs. She wanted to taste him. Dropping to her knees, she gently grasped the shaft and guided the head into her mouth.

Tempted though she was to begin sucking immediately, Cynthia hesitated. She knew nothing of Dariusz in a sexual context. Too much too soon might mean a premature conclusion. No what she wanted at all. However, initial signs were promising. As she tightened her lips round the base of his cock, she felt a small answering push. Then stillness. As if to let her know she could continue for their mutual pleasure. And there was plenty.

Having taken him in fully, she carefully began to move releasing him almost to the head, then drawing him almost to the back of her throat. She allowed him to withdraw completely so that her tongue could traverse from balls to tip and back again, flicking provocatively as she progressed. Dariusz stayed passive but defiantly erect. Her next thought was to resume mouth-fucking him but a give-away leak of precum warned her it was time to move on.

Cynthia rose to her feet and stood back, a gesture that invited Dariusz to take the initiative. Nothing was said, nor needed to be. Intuitively, Dariusz gathered her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. She lay back, spread her legs and raised her knees. When he crouched between them, she was instantly aware that his oral technique needed no coaching. Parting her lips with two fingers, he investigated the dark interior with a firm tongue. The probe gave way to a languorous licking motion that eased her clitoris out from beneath its hood. The lightest of pressure on the bud’s quivering antenna elicited from Cynthia an involuntary sound of pleasure, a deep, husky moan that somehow conveyed both approval and encouragement to go on.

More than once, Dariusz led her tenderly, subtly, carefully to the brink of orgasm. Each time he kept her suspended in delicious expectation, then held off until she was ready to start the ascent once more.

Finally, Cynthia broke the silence. “Do it now, Dariusz,” she pleaded. “Do it now. I can’t wait any more.”

He understood. The preliminaries, exciting though they had been in themselves, had served their purpose, now required their fulfilment. He rose from between her thighs, ran his hand lightly along his cock as though reassuring himself that it retained its rigidity. Satisfied, he positioned Cynthia so that her bottom was slightly raised. For a few tantalising seconds she felt his knob resting against her opening. Then he was inside her.

Penetration was achieved so smoothly she almost missed the moment of being opened. Partially this was due to the extravagant internal lubrication aroused by Dariusz’s tongue; partially it was due to the conformation of his cock, making up in firmness for its relatively slender girth. Above all, though, it was a tribute to his skill as a lover. Dariusz had entered her with a single flowing movement of his thighs, coming to rest on her pubic mound without force.

Just as he had moved cautiously from exploration to excitation with his tongue, so Dariusz proceeded with his cock. Every movement was calculated to deepen Cynthia’s gratification, to increase her desire by tiny degrees. As she moved with him, he seemed able to read from the smallest muscle contraction whether she was seeking faster rhythm, harder insertion, or just a few seconds of respite. His own control was absolute. Unperturbed by a sudden convulsion that accompanied the first orgasm unleashed beneath him, Dariusz simply steadied himself with his weight on his hands, waited for her to recover and then fucked her again.

They changed position, Cynthia kneeling, Dariusz easing into her from behind, spreading her buttocks with his hands to facilitate entry. The sounds were of flesh meeting flesh and slurping wetness at the point of withdrawal. Reverting to missionary style, she absorbed his rampant manhood greedily, wantonly, conscious that she was being fucked as never before, at the same time striving to give back with interest.

The finish came when she turned him on to his back. They had sucked and fucked virtually without pause for most of an hour and still his cock stood upright from his groin. Cynthia lowered herself on to it, felt it reach into her innermost depths. While she rode him she saw his eyes concentrate on her breasts. She teased the dark prominent nipples for him. And then it was time. Their eyes locked, reading each other’s lust. She nodded, releasing him from any obligation to consider her. She rose and fell, forcing herself onto the instrument of her own euphoria until a solitary responding upward thrust accompanied his ejaculation into her.

This was the Dariusz that Cynthia impulsively offered to the members of the Friday Flower Club.


“She needs a good fuck but she’s not going to get it here,” had been Marjorie’s blunt summing up.

“Perhaps she could.”

Marjorie’s eyes gleamed. She spoke for them all. “How?”

Cynthia, having spoken without thinking, pondered how to continue.

“How?” Marjorie prompted. “Just tell us.”



Gradually, Cynthia told them the story she felt she owed them. When she was first introduced to the Club she had been the only one without a man of any kind in her life, whereas the others all had husbands for sex, however occasional or desultory. The group sessions had been involving and enjoyable. But now she had Dariusz. Since their first meeting he had been driving over from Leeds weekly. Their ardour had not diminished. And now she seemed, guiltily, but almost inadvertently, to have offered to share him.

“Have you asked him?” Marjorie, straight to the point as usual.


“So he might not want to,” suggested Sylvia.

“I think he will. He thinks older women are – serious.”

“But six of us all together?” This was Ann, who had first raised the issue of male involvement. Difficult to say whether she was apprehensive or excited.

The friends were undeniably enthused by the portrait Cynthia had painted of this strange Pole, a young man so certain of his destiny, and seemingly so incredibly in control of his sexual ability. After lengthy discussion, agreement was reached on several points.

Firstly, Cynthia would put the proposal to Dariusz, which she fully expected he would accept. Secondly, tempting though it was to see how many of them he could satisfy in one afternoon, they didn’t want a circus of an endurance test which might not ultimately reward anyone. So it was resolved that Dariusz should be offered them one at a time. Assuming, of course, he was prepared to attend regularly. Cynthia said she believed he would either agree to multiple visits or none at all. On that basis, they drew lots to decide the order in which they hoped to be exposed to this iron-willed stud. The result: Sylvia, Jo, Marjorie, Helen, Ann. Cynthia magnanimously decided to abstain all the while she and Dariusz had their own rendezvous.

Just as they were about to break up, Helen said, “Hold on a minute. We haven’t thought about the others. Those who won’t be – you know, the star attraction. What do we do? Just leave them to it?”

That wasn’t what anyone wanted. Consensus was quickly reached. Events would proceed as normal, Dariusz would be invited to watch and then, when the temperature was right, play his part with the chosen one, leaving the others to choose between their own activities or becoming spectators at the main event.

All that remained was for Cynthia to consult Dariusz. After brief consideration he decided that it was a serious idea. He freed his diary for the following Friday.


The atmosphere was understandably highly charged. Five expensively dressed women, all into middle age, sitting sedately in a provincial drawing room waiting for the arrival of a young foreigner who will fuck one of them. When the doorbell rang, Marjorie, whose house it was, ushered in the pair who would complete the gathering.

“Hello,” said Cynthia, hoping she sounded less nervous than she felt. The coming minutes would demonstrate whether her protégé would live up to the image she had projected. Of course she believed he wouldn’t falter – but she just didn’t know. She said, “This is Dariusz. I told you about him.”

The formal manner of the young man in a dark business suit wasn’t exactly conducive to relaxation; he circled the room, shaking hands, the hint of a bow for each woman in turn. One by one they looked into his intense, dark eyes and wondered. Now what?

There was the briefest of awkward pauses. It was broken by Dariusz himself. “No doubt you find this strange. But there is no need. Cynthia has explained everything. You are not frivolous people. I understand that you propose to act normally.” He seemed to think the phrase might have incorrect implications; six women indulging in group sex might not be construed as normal behaviour. He corrected himself. “To act, that is, as you usually do when you meet. And that I shall have one of you later. Well, that is fine. Serious.” With that, Dariusz began to undress.

It seemed more surreal than serious, the contrast between the cool, almost stilted manner of this opening speech and the actions to which it referred. But the calm disrobing that was taking place in front of them was beyond ambiguity. Although Dariusz stopped when he was down to his boxer shorts, the bulge at the front diverted attention from the heavy-lidded dark eyes. “Please,” he said, seating himself in an empty armchair, “don’t be embarrassed.”

Jo took the lead. She and Ann had already discussed how they would approach the occasion – Ann with uncertainty, Jo with enthusiasm. But not by holding aloof. What would be the point? Their now established experience of each other would help. Jo slid one hand under Ann’s skirt while unbuttoning her own blouse with the other. Her ample breasts, full, round and pink-tipped, came into view. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Helen moved over to join them; another hand to help Jo to remove Ann’s knickers; a pool of pale lilac silk on the floor. Jo’s tongue was soon active.

Cynthia, satisfied that Dariusz would wait for an invitation to join in, turned her attention to Marjorie; the youngest and the oldest of the women in an open-mouthed kiss, uninhibited by an age gap of nearly twenty years. Their hands fumbled to deal with buttons and zips, opening the way to fondling and fingering.

That left Sylvia. Taking a deep breath, she went to stand in front of Dariusz and lifted her navy knee-length skirt. She wore a black pair of Starlet panties, lace with a mesh band, from Victoria’s Secret. Designed no doubt for a younger woman, but she was comfortable with the high waist and confident that aerobic classes and the tennis club kept her figure in good shape. Slowly she removed the flimsy knickers and handed them to Dariusz. This had been Ann’s idea: that the day’s lucky one should indicate her availability with this gesture.

Dariusz nodded his thanks, removed his boxer shorts to reveal a cock that stood proud and ready to serve. He wrapped the panties round the stem, leaving the circumcised head uncovered, and began to masturbate. While he did so, Sylvia stripped. Garment by garment with pauses between. The dark blouse. The navy skirt. The black lace bra. When all that remained were a skein of pearls falling between heavy breasts with prematurely inflamed nipples, and black stockings supported by an insubstantial suspender belt, she rotated to let Dariusz appreciate a bottom whose taut orbs were wasted on her husband. Without turning, she dropped to her knees, supported herself on her arms and looked back over her shoulder. During the past days she had played this scene in her mind many times. All nervousness had been dispelled. She was ready for him.

Unhurried, Dariusz stood looking down at Sylvia, her knickers still sending silken messages to his cock. He knew she would be wet; waiting could only enhance the internal lubrication. A minute passed. Two. Movement in the room was stilled. The other women abandoned their pleasuring of each other to form a circle of onlookers, fingers moving only in response to what was about to unfold in front of them.

A tiny gasp of excitement escaped Helen’s lips when Dariusz finally set the warm black knickers to one side and knelt behind Sylvia. A quick test with his fingers confirmed his expectation. His hand steered his cock between the inflamed labia and continued in one fluent flourish to bury itself to the hilt. Soon he was moving inside her, gripping her hips for stability, building the tempo. The women sitting facing Sylvia saw her bite her lip and close her eyes, internalising the ecstasy, storing it in memory. They knew, as she did, that Sylvia was being fucked with a relentless authority her husband hadn’t given her for many years. Possibly never. Already it was obvious that Cynthia’s claims for Dariusz’s ability as a machinelike stud were no exaggeration.

The coupling was little short of perfection, a master class in fucking. Dariusz turned her onto her back, lifted her so that her weight was supported only on her shoulders, her ankles crossed behind his neck while he pounded into her. Some extraordinary sixth sense had told him that Sylvia could absorb this all-out assault. Not only could, but fervently wanted it. The others, their own arousal matching the intensity of the exhibition in their midst, fingering engorged clitorises, wondered if this was how it would be when their turn came. The Club that had been founded for flower-arranging had come a long way via fantasy and wishful thinking to this. It had changed their lives and on this climactic afternoon behind closed curtains in a suburban drawing room none of them regretted a minute of it.

Somehow, despite the contorted position they had adopted, Dariusz contrived that each withdrawal and insertion of his long, thin cock provided the clitoral friction that sent Sylvia soaring out of control. Even as she came, as the roaring wave or orgasm spread throughout her body, Dariusz didn’t falter. His only concession was to let her rest more squarely on her back, her cunt more readily accepting the apparently tireless cock.

The first words spoken for a long while were quiet and almost inaudible from Marjorie. She had profited from the unlocking of Sylvia’s passionate appetites at earlier meetings. “Come on, dear. Again.”

The spell of silence broken, her encouragement was echoed by others.

“Oh yes,” from Ann.

“Do it again!” Jo joining in urgently, her hand driving herself on.

“It’s good. Please don’t stop.” Helen, also on the brink.

The cumulative sexual hysteria that had been a feature of previous gatherings had seized them again. They were intelligent, respectable women belatedly liberated from their upbringing. Had they ever been shy, held back by genteel exteriors, conditioned by a society that hid its innermost thoughts? Later they would reassume that mantle and return to the husbands whose inattention had fertilised this delectable delirium. But not just yet.

Sylvia’s second orgasm may have owed something to the verbal exhortations of her friends but mainly it was due the the fact that she had abandoned herself totally to every thrust and caress from Dariusz’s endlessly proficient cock. Only when he felt the slackening of her vaginal muscles did Dariusz withdraw, his erection unaffected. He intended a finale for the benefit of everyone.

Kneeling astride Sylvia’s torso and sweeping her pearls to one side, he indicated that she should squeeze her breasts together. His cock slid between the smooth mounds, recapitulating the sensation started by her knickers and brought to boiling point by her liquid interior. Even now, Dariusz was able to impose his will upon the climax. Rocking metronomically back and forth he prolonged the inevitable until all the others had closed round them, craning forward to watch. Then, drawing back and circling the base of his cock with thumb and forefinger, he released an arc of sperm. Silvery drops spattered Sylvia’s breasts and stomach.

Whatever Cynthia had led them to anticipate, the reality had exceeded it. It was the first time any of them had watched two people fuck. They should have been scandalised. But instead, while watching, they had all with their own personal techniques, reached their own satiety.

When Dariusz, dressed again, the serious accountant again, went round the room shaking hands, making his almost imperceptible bow, every one was counting days until the next time.


The weeks came and went. Dariusz came and went (in every sense). No two Fridays were quite the same. No woman whose turn it was to be serviced was left unfulfilled. And new ideas were fomenting. Curiously, it was Ann, often the most reticent of them, who proposed the most dramatic innovation. She whispered the idea during one of her private sessions with Jo. Jo discreetly mentioned it to Cynthia. Cynthia, intrigued by this latest development in something she had begun with an unguarded word, tried it out on Dariusz. Dariusz pronounced it unquestionably serious.

When Ann’s next turn was due, everyone was aware of what was intended. Suitable preparations had been made. The preliminaries were conducted in their usual fashion, except that there was no caressing and fondling among the other Club members. Fully expecting to be aroused in due course, they were determined to watch first, act later.

Dariusz arrived, went through the formal greetings, undressed and took his seat. Ann stood in front of him unbuttoned the front of her cream linen dress and shrugged it from her shoulders. After she had taken off cream silk knickers and presented them to Dariusz for his cock she was completely naked. Her next move took her to her knees, adopting the posture chosen by Sylvia on the very first occasion and subsequently followed by them all. The difference now was that Jo sat cross-legged at her side.

Jo looked up and held out an arm. Helen opened her handbag, took out a small silver vibrator and a tube of lubricant, passed them down. Jo placed them on the carpet beside her before leaning across to plant a series of kisses on Ann’s bottom. Her head moved in decreasing circles until, holding the cheeks apart with two hands, her tongue nuzzled against the pink anal aperture.

At Friday Club meetings members had grown accustomed to a slow build-up of erotic tension. This was different. Within minutes of Dariusz’s arrival the air of unspoken excitement had become hardly bearable. Sylvia had opened her blouse and was massaging a breast. Cynthia, usually only an observer, had stepped out of her skirt and her hand was searching inside cinnamon knickers. Self-stimulation took hold but it was largely subconscious; Jo and Ann were the focus of each pair of eyes.

After Jo’s tongue, the lubricant, squeezed generously round the general area before it was worked into Ann’s bottom with a manicured finger. Then the vibrator, not three inches long and hardly more round than a pencil. Jo inserted it with scrupulous care. The buzzing of the battery was accompanied by the sound of deep palpitating breathing by the onlookers.

This far Jo and Ann’s relationship had already reached in their private encounters, stemming from a tentative finger in Ann’s bottom at the height of a passionate embrace. Ann was surprised but not fazed. It was new and stimulating, and she wanted it again. The vibrator was the natural follow-up. And then Dariusz had appeared. Dariusz with the long, slim cock. Would he? How would it feel? Not vibrating stainless steel but pulsating flesh.

At the age of forty-seven, she was about to find out.

But not as quickly as she thought. For a long few minutes, Dariusz stood behind her, stroking himself with her knickers, making her wait. Until, unable to suppress the urge, Ann reached back to deal with the need herself. Immediately, Dariusz asked Jo to turn Ann on to her back. Once she was fully exposed, he knelt and entered her. Full, deep penetration, but careful to avoid being too forceful.

Whatever was to follow, he took no short cuts, no swift shagging simply intended to let her know she had a real man between her legs. Dariusz fucked with the same intuitive consideration they had learned to expect from him, no matter who his partner might be.

They had already changed positions three times before he assisted her back on to knees and forearms. While Jo applied more lubricant to Ann’s bottom, Dariusz took the tube from her and smeared his cock, still glistening with Ann’s own juices, with a liberal coating of gel. They were ready.

His first move was to place the head of his cock against the aperture, allowing it to rest there; he was whispering to Ann to relax the anal muscles as much as possible. He understood that she might be nervous, but she shouldn’t worry. He promised to stop at any point that she didn’t feel able to continue.

For once, his intuition had failed him. Ann had been preparing herself for this experience. She was on heat with no thought of retreat. With her husband, the very idea would have been unthinkable. But she had seen Dariusz with others, had experienced him herself. What she wanted now – she told herself in so many words – was to feel his cock up her arse.

Dariusz pressed gently against the lubricated orifice. There was a brief reflex tightening on Ann’s part but then she relaxed and eased herself back to meet the invading shaft. So subtle and so aware was Darisuz’s response, the crucial breakthrough, the distending of the sphincter, was achieved virtually painlessly. Centimetre by centimetre, the cock slipped into the passage Jo had prepared for it.

The next test was to start moving. Again, Dariusz took his time until it was apparent that Ann could accommodate this new sensation not only with ease but with pleasure, with avidity. It was what she had wanted and she was not disappointed. Inevitably, this uninhibited desire communicated itself to Dariusz. He could read the signs. He began to ride, crouching on bent legs to achieve the best angle of entry, the smoothest rhythm, never withdrawing completely, always controlling the strength of thrust. The other women had to take turns to enjoy the best viewing position, to see the way his balls swung through at the end of each insertion. More than one of them was imagining herself in Ann’s position on another Friday.

This time, though, there was to be no pulling out, no arc of sperm for the benefit of the non-participants. Ann wanted him to come inside her and had made that part of the scenario. So Dariusz reached his own point of no return. His whole body stiffened, he clung to Ann’s hips, his cock pressed inside her, the discharge emptying from him in a series of exquisite spurts. When finally he withdrew a flaccid cock, there were murmurs of approval from all.

The Friday Flower Club had moved on again. Ann had experienced her first anal fuck. What was more, it had been administered by the future Count Dariusz Piotczynski of the Kingdom of Poland, Count of Galicia.

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