Loading...“What is the point of my being up here?” I asked, the whistles I’d got as I climbed the stairs still ringing in my ears. Should I have changed into slacks?
“It’s better,” said Sam, host of the party, showing me into his parents bedroom.
Wow, this was something else. Twice the size of ours. A bed three times as large. And it was round! I started to rethink the Jones’s private life, beyond their just being neighbours!
“How exactly do I keep you guys in order if I am up here and the party’s downstairs?” I asked, playing the adult — playing the neighbour-in-charge.
“Look Emily,” said Sam. My neighbour’s son. A jock at college, so they said. He was certainly muscular enough. “Mom and Dad said there had to be someone responsible in the house for us to have the party. We agreed to you because you’re cool, much younger than Mom, and a lot more hip.” (Compliments would get him everywhere!) “Last time Mom stayed and it was a disaster. Everyone went home early because she sat downstairs, knitting. Which kinda put a damper on the dancing.”
“Lot more beside,” I said, as much to myself as to Sam and Penny, his twin sister who was up here with him, settling in the ‘party-sitter’. Looking at Penny now maybe the whistles as we climbed the stairs were meant for her. Her dress was very short, and Penny had great legs. “Besides, I don’t knit,” I added, looking round the bedroom, big chair by the window, shelf of books, TV set. It could be worse.
“We’ll bring you a drink. Wander down whenever you want,” said Penny, all legs and party dress and boobs in a neckline so plunging I’m not even sure that I would have dared. (I’m ‘hip’, I do these things.)
“But remember to whistle a tune as you come,” added Sam with a smile on his face, sensing I was going to agree.
“Every half hour,” I warned them, giving in, in a way almost happy to stay out the way.
Penny give me a hug and a peck on the cheek and said thanks. Sam did the same though his peck missed my cheek, got my lips. No big deal. They’re nice kids.
I grabbed a book, curled up in the chair by the window and true to their word they brought me a drink and some nibbles. True to my word, thirty minutes later — having decided I would whistle Dixie — I sauntered down the stairs whistling Dixie. In through the darkened sitting room, all the way through to the kitchen, and back.
I have to say when I got back to the bedroom I was feeling kinda uncomfortable. Not as in yucky uncomfortable. More in a sense of a lot going on around me that could very well turn me on, uncomfortable, if you know what I mean. Like wandering through one of the hot-houses for exotic plants and coming out feeling exotic, and hot.
The party was twenty strong, or so. I guess. Most I didn’t know. College friends of Penny and Sam. But when kids danced these days they danced pretty close. And if the girl was up for it, and the guy was too then they’d find a chair or a corner of a room and get close, make out. I guess that’s what all kids do. Me too, a few years back. But now I was the adult — the neighbour-in-charge.
As I went back up stairs, feeling exotic and just a tad hot, I got some more wolf whistles. As I was the only one on the stairs at the time — some shadows crouched on the bottom step — I had to figure it was aimed at my legs, or maybe my ass. Both are good enough to have landed me one of the prime catches of my year in college — is how my mother puts it. I stopped at the full length mirror just inside the door of the bedroom and gave myself a quick once-over. Flat pumps. Thin summer dress. Buttons down the front. Bikini underwear. You’ll do, I decided, turning away. My hair is cut short, like a boy.
Vince was his name. Penny brought him up.
The only light on in the bedroom was a soft glow reading lamp next to the chair I was in. I was reading Anais Nin, don’t ask me why. Because it was there, I suppose. I’d started on something different but after the hot-house effect of wandering through a room of petting couples and the sounds, and perfumes, of arousal I did an exchange. Penny knocked and opened the door.
“Hi Penny,” I said when I saw who it was.
“Emily, this is Vince. Vince, this is Mrs Lewis, our luscious next door neighbour.” I ignored the adjective but was kinda surprised she used it. Penny was pretty luscious looking herself — in a bikini she looked stunning — but we had never exchanged views on how we thought each other looked even though we often dropped in on each other’s pools. Barbecues, long summer lunches, stuff like that. But maybe tonight it was drink talking. Not that I wasn’t drinking. I was. A Chenin Blanc. They’d delivered a bottle and glass for me to have while reading. I guess I was half way through it.
“We’re having an argument. Need your help,” said Penny. But not in a bad-assed, upset sort of way; more a playful fun way.
“Okay.” I put down the book.
“Vince says you grope while you kiss. I say no, it’s insulting to the girl. What do you think?”
What did I think?
First off I was surprised at the question. Sure there was only five years difference in our ages, Penny and me, but I was her Mom and Dad’s friend. I was their neighbour, my husband a house owner. She was just the neighbour’s kid.
“I don’t … I mean … well …” I sort of stumbled my reaction to the question as my eyes went to her — two buttons loosed on the bodice of her top, the waistband of her miniskirt askew — then him — the shoulders, the height, the size of his chest. Another jock.
Wherever he came from, they sure bred ’em big!
“I suppose if you focus on the kiss more there’ll be less of an urge to fondle too,” I found myself saying, like some sort of expert on the subject. My husband’s a first officer on a container ship. He hasn’t been home in a while. I’m suddenly wondering how I would react to a kiss and two wandering hands from someone the size of Vince at the door.
He’s almost too big to fit on a ship!
Maybe Penny sees the way I’m all at sea with this and decides I need to be rescued. “Let me show you,” she says and next thing I know big Vince is backed up against the door and cute little Penny from next door to where I live is pressed against him, arms around his neck, mouth over his. Their groins start to work on each other and pretty soon one of Vince’s large hams of hands is on her butt, cupping it softly and starting to move. Penny’s hand reaches behind her, gives his a tiny slap, stills it on her ass but leaves it where it is. Lesson learned, I guess. It cups her ass but nothing more.
I am standing by my chair over at the window, soft focus on the couple at the door, noticing how their cheeks move from the action of the tongues inside their mouths as they get into a bout of pretty hot French kissing. Vince’s other hand is on one of Penny’s breasts pressed pancake flat between them, but pancake flat in the palm of his hand. I suppose if it’s on her breast and it’s the breast that’s moving not the hand then that’s okay — doesn’t count as detracting from the kiss. (I’ve never really thought about it much.)
Somebody knocked on the door and the clinch broke apart and the door eased open and a mumbled conversation takes place between Penny and whoever’s on the other side of the door and the next thing I know she is through it with a mumbled apology — though whether to me or to Vince I can’t tell — and the door’s banged closed, Vince against it, staring at me like a bear that’s just lost its fish.
“What was that all about?” I ask, concerned, wondering if the house is on fire.
“Betsie and Marv,” he says, and shrugs.
“They do something wrong?”
“Betsie and Derek are an item. So are Marv and Mary-Lew.”
“I see,” I say, not sure that I do but deciding to leave it there.
No fire at least.
“I don’t get it,” says Vince, looking confused like a bear that can’t understand where it’s fish has gone.
I don’t either, I want to tell him, but decide to say nothing. As one probably does when faced with a bear.
“What does she mean, don’t grope?”
“Who?”
“Penny. Says I mustn’t grope. But I’m only caressing. When is a caress, a grope?”
Good question. And one to which I do not have the answer.
“Mrs Lewis,” he says, all deference, politeness, and decorum, looking at me with large eyes I now see are blue. “Can you please show me what she means?”
When is Penny coming back, I wonder, as I try to put the reason, why I cannot possibly do what he asks, into something polite, that will not make it sound as if I am rejecting the unfortunate young man. “I really …” I start.
“Please, Mrs Lewis,” says the polite young man, beseeching me with pretty eyes and muscular arms.
“It’ll have to be quick,” I say, explaining, moving towards him, deciding it may be quicker to show him what I mean than it might be to find the words to say it.
My … but his arms are strong.
Ooops … and he has these big soft lips that settle … sooooo gently.
I sorta lost it for a second after that. I cannot be kissed softly like this and not sorta melt. Especially if the chest is broad and the arms are muscular and the muscles at the top of the leg bulge and press against my pubic mound the way his started to do as soon as we started to kiss. One of his hands was at the small of my back and the other cupped around the back of my head. His approach was all softness and tender respect.
How can a woman resist such treatment at the hands of a gentleman — a physically fit, emotionally healthy, heterosexually inclined twenty-five year old woman who has drunk a little wine, read a little Nin, and not seen her husband for forty-six days? After all, it was only a lesson. Having that in mind, and remembering the syllabus was not groping while kissing, and paying attention to see that he wasn’t, groping, which he wasn’t, I let him proceed. How else might he learn? But, I suppose in the end even gentlemanly resolve, like ice, must melt if appropriate heat is applied, in an adequate manner. And I sorta got the feeling that it was. Though whether by him, or by me, or a combination of both of us, is difficult to say. Who apportions blame at such a time?
But there came a time when I had to take stock of our position. And when I did, I discovered that a lot more was happening now, than had been at the start. Our lips had spread for one thing. Our mouths were now wide open against each others’. His tongue was in my mouth and soon after that, mine was in his, wrestling in a way with each other … into my mouth, a dance, then into his, another dance, then wandering the hotness of the cavity and teeth, then back into mine for another little tryst.
Wow, Fresh mouths these youngsters have!
The hand at my waist, round the back, was now at my butt, grabbing gently, squeezing nicely, pulling the soft bits of me against the harder bits of him. The other hand was seeking to find a way between our chests but having trouble as most of my weight was on mine as I pinned the big man to the door.
I do gym work. I can pin!
But then it did … ease between our thrusting chests and as I found my breast come captive in another large hand round the front, as my buttock was being worked on round the back, I melted some more because I have the most sensitive breasts. Merely thinking about touching them sets me off. Even thinking about somebody thinking about touching them, and I melt like chocolate on a stove. They are wired direct to my inner core. All you need do is cup my breast and it feels as if you’ve plucked every nerve in my body. Hot. There is no heat to describe how hot it makes me feel. Which is when the alarm bells started going off.
My eager student, Vince, unbeknownst to him, was inadvertently plucking the strings of my arousal to a degree it was not safe for him to do. I had to take action — disaster containment — before I started climbing up the guy! So I dived instead. Right hand. Slithering between him and me. South, where people are happy and smiles are broad and life is simple. Man — He was huge!
But didn’t object.
So I got the zip and slipped it down and eased my hand inside and stroked what I found there as our tongues and my breast exploded like fireworks and my eyes squeezed tight and my legs squeezed tighter and I worked on the king-pin, hard. God but they bred them big these days! I dwelt on that, with what little of my mind was still my own, as the big brown bear started grunting and growling and gasping in my mouth. I may be the cutie in this little bout, I found myself thinking as he started to lurch and thrust to the tune my fingers were playing on his thing, but there was little doubt as to who was in charge. Cute little me!
It was hot and sticky and clammy to the touch and as it started pumping out of him his mouth flew clear of mine. He groaned like a seal as he jack-knifed like a clothes peg, scooting me clear. I lurched to the door alongside him, leaned with my forehead against it. My hand inside his fly continued to pump him and the hot and sticky clamminess increased. His hand still at my breasts gently but firmly encouraging me in my task … of encouraging him. Him with his back to the door, me with my front, one hand engaged on the other, keeping arousal going.
Streuth! But these young men are full of it!
Slowing matters down — breathing up, feelings hot — I lifted out of myself as I sometimes do in moments of heightened excitement that are coming to an end. The young married woman with her forehead against the inside of the door of her next door neighbour’s bedroom, right arm stretched to the right, hand inside the front trouser zip of a young college student who leans with his back to the self same door, fingers round his penis continue to gently pump him as he faces into the room that is the bedroom of a couple who’ve gone out and whose son and daughter are downstairs having a party as his right hand, bent and angled to his right, softly fondles the breast of the young married woman who leans at his side. Both have their eyes closed, mouths open, lips glistening with saliva from the other person’s mouth.
I gently eased my hand from inside his trousers keeping the fingers away from clothes, not wanting stickiness to get spread around. His hand around my breast inside my dress continues to caress it with respect, so I let him. Besides, it feels nice. Not true. It feels arousing, appetising, satisfying, hot. And no-one’s touched me like that for a while. It is a lesson, after all. I am helping the young. The student body.
“Hello?”
The hail is from the other side of the door. It is a man’s voice. I don’t know whose. I do not reply.
I don’t need another Vince. I’ve kinda done with lessons for the day.
“Vince? You in there?” comes with a knock.
“Penny?” It sounded like Penny’s voice.
“Mrs Lewis. Is Vince still inside? There seems to be something blocking the door.”
“A second, Penny,” I call out, looking at Vince who leans against the door with a look on his face like a bear that’s just found the honey pot. Found it and scoffed the lot. I give him a push. ‘Vince, get away from the door,” I urge, voice low.
He looks at me, dazed eyes to go with the dumb-looking grin on his face. He rolls down the wall away from the door. I shake my head and open it — with Vince behind — three guys outside, and Penny. I stand aside to let them in. I am very aware of the way their eyes run down me … then back up. My face and chest go cherry red when I’m aroused; my eyes get twice their normal size, and my lips, already plump, swell as much as other bits. “We’ve been …” I start to say, then stop. (There is no point, they’ve guessed.)
“Sheeeee… sus!” groans Vince, my bear, coming out from behind the door, looking a lot like one that’s just head-butted a truck. “She is …so HOT.” He rolls his eyes and vulgarly pumps his fist up and down. “Penny, hon, you were spot on with this. This neighbour of yours is a hottie all right.”
My eyes go from Vince to my neighbour’s kid, a query within.
“He’s drunk,” she smiles at me.
“How hot?” asks one of the guys, of Vince.
“Try, and you’ll find out,” says Vince then closes his eyes. “So hot, you’ve no idea.” He starts to whistle some dumb-ass tune.
“I was wondering …” says one of the new boys, squaring off in front of me, reaching a hand to my arm and gently running the fingers up and down the skin. “If you could teach us.”
“Teach you what?” I ask, too surprised at the approach to take his fingers from my arm.
“We don’t learn it at college,” he goes on.
“Learn what?”
“They just ignore us when we ask,” says another of the new boys.
I hold up my hands in front of me. “Hey, hey. Both of you. All of you in fact. I don’t know what it is you want me to teach you, but I’m not a college professor, I’m just the lady next door.”
“They need to learn,” says Penny, looking at me as if I’m Santa Claus.
“Penny …” I start to put her in her place.
“Just one. To show us,” says the third of the new intake.
“Please, Mrs Lewis,” says the first.
“Then we’ll leave you in peace,” adds the second.
“What do you say?” says Penny.
I shake my head. “Penny. Honey,” I try to gather my thoughts. Three young and good looking guys in a semi-circle around you when you know that each one of them has the hots for you is something of a turn-on even when you know you have to turn them off. “This is not a good idea.”
“I think they just want to learn, Mrs Lewis,” said Penny, looking demure, looking away, studying her pumps. “We’re all just starting out … in life,” she added, sounding sad.
Now I know Penny pretty well. She’s a bright and lively girl who always looks you in the eye and listens when you speak. This was not like her. I reached out and touched her shoulder. “Penny, sweetheart, I don’t know what you all think I can teach you …”
“Just a kiss,” she said, her eyes coming up from the floor like a pair of cuddly toys. She shrugged and her shoulders softly curled around her ears adding to the pathos of the look. “Just one. It would mean so much. To all of us.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was suddenly the cookie jar and everyone wanted a cookie — what greater compliment can you pay the baker than wanting to eat what she bakes?
“I really don’t think this …” I was saying but my eyes were back on the guys, studying their faces, wondering what it would be like to kiss one of them as the others looked on, then a second as the others looked on, then a third …
“She’s up for it,” said one of the three, very softly, eyes on my face, sensing the way I was going with this.
“She’s up for it all right,” chuckled Vince, now flat on his back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
“Just one each,” said one of the new boys as another softly closed the bedroom door.
My back was to the wall. One each. It wasn’t bad. Or not so bad, at least.
“Me first,” came the voice of the closest, and before I had time to object Penny’s lips were softly over mine and her fingers were round the back of my neck and her soft breasts were laid against mine and her knee had pushed its way between my legs and soon her thigh was up against my pubis easing right, then left, then right, then harder in … and up … and up …
As I thrust down to meet her I felt her mouth open wide over mine and opened my own. Why not? I never knew what it was like to kiss a girl, this was the first I had kissed. And now that our tongues were involved and I had a sense of the taste of her I couldn’t see why one was not encouraged to do this more, at school say. If we knew how gentle it could be to kiss another girl, who knew how gentle it would be to kiss another girl, we wouldn’t shy away from kissing other people quite so much. And wasn’t this better than shooting our fellow man? Kissing our fellow woman!
I had become hot chocolate in Penny’s arms. I was starting to relish every fragrant soft moment of having a young and bright and supremely healthy, and very attractive, young lady whom I had always admired from afar, as close as she was, doing what she wanted to do to me, and letting me do what I wanted to do to her. There was even, I have to confess, added heat in the knowledge of young men, strangers to me, watching the girls in the room as the two of us ‘worked on each other’ — as I am sure they would think of it as — working on each other with such obvious hunger and mutual delight as we were.
Why hadn’t Penny let me know how she felt about me earlier than this? Not that we could have done anything about it — or would have done anything about it, of course — but just to know. It would have been nice. I’ve always thought of her as lovely. If I had known how she’d felt I could have told her that. I would have loved for us both to know. How close we might then have become. It’s nice to be loved.
‘Ngaaar!’ I groaned. Her fingers had slithered between my legs and started to do things to me there as if they knew exactly what it was I liked having done to me there, and she was right, I did, and maybe, I thought to myself, she did these things to herself? The thought had my fingers travelling south intent on finding out, if she did … like, having these sort of things … done to herself. I am soon finding out that she does as we lovingly — selfishly, hungrily — play and toy, compete with the other, mounting arousal and moistening lips in face and groin and finding the motion of breasts against breasts and the growing discernable hardening nipples … the texture of lips and tongues against lips and tongues against equally urgent explorations of lips and tongues of the other.
Our bodies writhe and coil together like two competing pumas as our skilful girlish fingers go to secret private places and get up to mischief honed from years of practice on ourselves. Who can notice what is moving when the whole world seems to move. When everything around, arousal brings; and everything below, excitement gives. “Ngaar!” I growl and ‘Ngegh!’ I yelp as the youngster’s supple fingers do their damnedest unto me and she reacts the self same way as my own as busy finger do the same things back to her. But we move, and have moved, and are being moved as I am laid on my back and feel her female form come over mine. I sink into the bed and her softness covers me and we continue with the game but then. She’s gone.
Another mouth is over mine, another tongue at work, another hand, or two, or three, is struggling with the buttons of my dress. The tongue, no longer Penny’s, but a harder manly version of another in the room. Do I continue as I have been with the kiss? With the embrace? Am I extending my permission to the new hands, the broader hands, the rougher hands, the guys hands, to do to me as Penny’s just has done? Is there some unspoken rule here? Some understanding?
My pelvis kicks as a broad man’s hand curls around my pudenda and fingers stroke what’s in my pants. I grunt into the mouth over mine as my bikini top goes the way of the front of my dress and finger and thumb grasp a nipple and tweak it intensely. My chest lifts off the bed as I crush a now naked breast into the hand that torments it. I open my eyes, a slit, to see what is going on.
The party’s youthful hostess lies on her parent’s large, round, custom-made bed with her top around her neck and her skirt around her waist and her panties round an ankle and the head of a young student guest face down between her legs as next to her, also on her back, is their next door neighbour’s wife with one young guest hotly French kissing her mouth with a hand on her breast and fingers toying brightly with a nipple, as another crouches between her widely spread legs and, with both hands, plays with her private parts, as a fourth hovers overhead them all, seemingly making up his mind which of the ladies he will join.
Vince is really huge, towering over us like this.
There is a point at which any responsible adult can tell when things have gone too far and matters must now end but these tend more to normal things. Like making cakes or cooking stew or putting petrol in the car. It is easy to see when the car is full of petrol. There is no objection whatsoever to releasing the device and stopping the flow. To do otherwise would risk smearing the paintwork, and waste the petrol, and run the risk of fire. But sex and its peripherals do not work like that. An overflow of petrol is unwelcome, smelly, dangerous and wasteful — especially at current prices — but an overflow of sex is very different. It’s called an orgasm, rather than overflow, for a start. And it doesn’t cost a cent — no matter who runs Iraq. And most of us cherish the feeling. Some of us can’t get enough of it — another thing my mother warned me of.
And … and here’s the thing … when you start to feel ready for the nozzle — to continue the petrol pump analogy — it is very DIFFICULT to simply call the whole thing off. It is no longer an every-day affair, like turning down the oven to save the cakes, or switching off the stove to protect the stew. There are other things involved here. Like hormones and urges and lust and desire. Like wanting more heat in the oven. Like needing to burn some rubber, and eat some cake. Like driving things onwards and upwards and wanting others to drive YOU onward and upwards, and the sooner and quicker and firmer and deeper that fat damn nozzle can be introduced into the bake, or stew, or whatever-you-want-to-call-it the better things are likely to go, as everything joins together in a glorious horizon-blinding flash, and heads towards that ultimate nirvana — the bliss of sexual overflow.
Which is kinda what happened to the objection inside me, when it became apparent that those around me had objections of their own, and that they wanted to put these objections … inside me. It wasn’t helped when my fingers curled around one such objection, with urges to ‘rub it up and down’. (Which I did.) And my objections finally disappeared entirely, swamped by a mood of rising excitement, in response to an objection pushed firmly in my mouth, in place of a tongue, and a tongue pushed equally firmly into my pussy, in place of finger. Both mouth and pussy, by now, slavering obscenely. (What can I say. Girls will be girls.)
I have no idea who fucked me first. Nor who fucked the daughter of my neighbour first. Nor who of the two came first. But both were fast and furious, and far too fast, if you take my meaning. I turned my head and glanced at Penny just as she rolled her head in my direction and looked at me. If I looked as dazed and bright and sparkling as she did, then that could explain how I felt, because that’s how I felt. But I wanted more — just I think as she did — and the way our eyes both suddenly went wide, and our heads flipped back to the ceiling, and our backs arched and our pelvises kicked and we groaned in perfect unison, you sorta got the feeling that as a synchronised fucking team, we weren’t half bad. ‘Olympics here we come!’ as they say, or may just have said.
My second fuck was Vince. I know this because it was also my last. The guy didn’t quit. He went on, and on, and on, and on. It was a trip to paradise on a round trip ticket, as long as it was round, and just as far around as it was long. It made me quiver and writhe and cringe and scream and beg for mercy as I came then quivered then came again then wept and shivered and came again and the piston of the guy went in and out and in and in and in and out and my pelvis lifted him off the bed and I came again and he kept on going and others started kissing me as we worked each other to yet another frenzy and hands came onto my breasts and played with them as I whimpered and gasped and came again and even Penny, bless her little heart started kissing me softly as I came again then started to kiss my breasts as I whimpered and yelped and bucked then came again.
They got some of it on film, near the end, so I’m told.
(By that time the party was all upstairs.)
Sam and Penny’s mother couldn’t believe the downstairs was in such good order when they got back. Asked me what my secret was.