Undressing For Dinner

Here’s a Christmas treat for you – a story I originally wrote for the All Romance E-books newsletter, in the long-ago days when that was a thing. Enjoy!

I really don’t want to go tonight. If I had the choice, I’d take the much-needed opportunity to have a quiet evening in with Mark, just snuggled on the sofa watching a trashy film and eating popcorn. Work’s been so hectic recently, it’s been almost impossible for us to spend any quality time together. But instead, it’s the company’s annual dinner, attendance as good as compulsory if I want to keep on track for that promotion I’ve been working all year to achieve. With Mark by my side, supporting me every step of the way, of course.

Photo by Gary Bahra, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Stepping out of the bath, I wrap a towel around myself and walk into the bedroom to dress. Before I’m halfway across the room, I’m halted by the unexpectedly gorgeous sight awaiting me.

While I’ve been cooped up in the office, Mark’s been out running errands, the most important of which involved picking up the tuxedo he’s rented for the event. He’s been working from home for so long now, I can’t remember the last time I saw him in an ordinary suit, let alone the sleek, well-cut black number that adorns his long, lean frame. An air of quiet sophistication radiates from him; an aura that makes me think of secret agents and millionaire playboys. Maybe my mouth drops open for a moment as I gaze at the view he presents: thick, blond hair brushed back from his face to show off cheekbones a male model might envy and a chin that for once has been shaved clean of stubble. How have I managed to forget just how good-looking my husband is?

Desire bubbles in me; maybe not the most appropriate reaction when we’re supposed to be at the Mayweather Hotel for cocktails at eight, but I can’t help myself. A pulse beats between my legs, strong and insistent, and my pussy flushes with sticky heat. The ferocity with which I want him startles me, and I can’t help but act on it.

A woman possessed, I push Mark up against the wall, pressing my lips hard against his. Surprise flickers in his eyes, and I’m sure he’d ask what’s got into me, if only he wasn’t melting into the kiss, opening his mouth so my tongue can flicker inside. Beneath those smart dinner trousers, his cock is an all-too-obvious bulge, waiting to be freed. I don’t often take control in the bedroom, but his reaction proves how much he likes it when I do.

When we finally break the kiss, he’s torn between amusement and stating the obvious. “Hey, Nina, we’ve got a do to go to, you know.”

“I know, but it’s just you, in that suit. It – it does things to me.”

“What kind of things?” His tone is low, lascivious. Seems if I’m not bothered about the time, neither is he.

“It makes me wild – wicked.” I lick my lips, throat suddenly dry. “Makes me want to tie you to the bed and fuck you till you can’t stand it.” Where that last part came from I’m not entirely sure. It’s one of the fantasies I’ve kept hidden away, scared to voice for fear Mark might not like it. The look on his face, and the way he pulls me on to his suit-clad groin, letting me feel just how hard and excited he is, makes me wonder if I shouldn’t have shared it with him earlier.

“Oh, yeah?” His tone is cocky, like he’s taunting me in the hope I’ll turn my dirty words into actions.

“Yeah.” My cocktail dress is laid out alongside my underwear and a pair of silk stockings I’ve been saving for a formal occasion like tonight. With a shove, I propel Mark backward so he lands on the bed, pouncing on him before he has a chance to sit up. An inner wildcat I never knew I possessed has been unleashed, and again I’m kissing my husband with fierce hunger.

He reaches for the knot that holds my towel secure, trying to tug it open to reveal my naked body, but I slap his hand away. “You know what happens to naughty boys who try to peek,” I tell him, and with that I take one of the stockings, and wrap it round his wrist. He makes a token attempt to prevent me tying him to the bed rail, but we both want this far too much. The knot is an amateur effort, making it easy enough for him to wriggle free if he wanted, but he lies there like a good boy as I bind his other wrist in place.

“Now, let’s do something about these…” Unzipping his fly, I yank down his trousers, along with the tight black shorts that already bear a damp spot, more evidence of just how turned on he is. Freed from the clinging underwear, his cock points upward, almost inviting me to stroke it. The absolute picture of elegance above the waist and pure aroused male below, Mark waits for me to make my next move.

Straddling his thighs, I can feel the heat coming from him, smell the musk that is his alone. He jerks his hips, hoping I’ll get the hint and guide his length inside me, but I’m in charge now and I’ll decide when he gets his pleasure.

“Enjoying yourself, sweetheart?” I ask.

Mark just nods. His hazel eyes shine with lust and adoration as I gaze down on him, before unwrapping the towel and throwing it to the floor. My nipples are tight, ripe to the touch as I run a finger slowly over first one bud, then the other, feeling my pussy flutter in response.

“God, Nina, you look magnificent.” Those are the last words he utters before I start kissing him again, nibbling his lower lip and placing a hot trail of kisses along his throat. Our mouths are locked together as I guide him inside me, feeling his thick cock pushing up as far as it will go. I don’t move, don’t speak, just revel in the sensation of all that gloriously solid male flesh filling me to the limit.

It’s almost like the first time all over again, and once more I find myself wondering why we haven’t tried this before. Having Mark at my mercy is such a delicious thrill, and the next time we play this game I’ll make sure to tease him for as long as I can before he finally gets to fuck me. But that boring, formal dinner at the Mayweather is waiting, whether we like it or not, and so I start to shift up and down his length, rocking in a rhythm that compels him to buck his hips, trying to push himself even deeper into my hot, slick core. He tugs at his bonds, straining up to try and take a nipple in his mouth, but the stockings hold him fast, and that hint of frustration must be adding something to his pleasure. I know it’s doing the same for mine; I’m closer to the brink than simply having his cock in my pussy usually takes me, and when I drop a hand down to touch my clit, I’m lost. My breathing quickens, the tension coils in my belly, then breaks in a glorious, shattering explosion that has me calling out Mark’s name over and over, sobbing and telling him how much I love him. He comes seconds after me, the steady grip of my inner muscles milking every last drop from him.

It’s a wrench to pull myself off him, but it has to be done. We can’t stay here all night, much as we’d both like to. One last, lingering kiss, then I free Mark from his impromptu bondage.

Surveying my reflection in the dressing table mirror, I see that the hair I pinned in a careful chignon before I took my bath has come loose, dark strands tumbling around my flushed, satisfied face. And my stockings, when I examine them, are laddered, torn by the exertions of our lovemaking.

“I can’t wear these, they’re ruined.” I sigh.

Mark pauses in the act of doing up his fly. “Don’t worry about it. Your legs will look great without them.” He grins. “And don’t bother with any panties, either. We’ve played out one of your fantasies, and when we get to the hotel we’re going to play one of mine. It all starts when I reach under the tablecloth and start playing with your bare pussy…”

He doesn’t need to go any further. Looks like dinner might not be so boring, after all.


Summoning Milo

It’s Halloween, and here’s a spooky short story for all those of you who love things that go bump in the night…

Two minutes to midnight. The lights are extinguished, a candle gutters on the table before me. I’ve surrounded myself with all I have left of him. A detective novel I borrowed from the teetering pile in his bedroom and never had the chance to return. A string of friendship beads he tied around my wrist the summer before we went away to college. A photo, creased and dog-eared from being carried in my wallet. His parents took it on some family vacation, right after he graduated. He’s in board shorts, his chest bare, his hair sun-bleached. He looks so ridiculously handsome, laughing and carefree. Unaware that he only had another three months to live.

I wish I had more, but the fire claimed almost all our possessions, as well as his life. If I hadn’t been on shift that evening, one year ago to the day, I’d be dead, too. The guilt and pain I carry haven’t lessened. I know there’s nothing I could have done to save him, but I let the sun go down on my anger and I need to put this right. To say the words I left unspoken when I stormed out of the apartment, late for work and angry at him for not hanging the laundry out to dry.

The clock chimes. It’s time. I speak the words, culled from the pages of a book so old it threatened to crumble to dust when I opened it. They’re hard to pronounce, so many guttural syllables to wrap my tongue around, but I do my best. I have to get this right, for the sake of my sanity.

For the longest time, it seems nothing’s going to happen. Foolish of me to believe it might, really. Then the air shimmers, as if I’m looking through a smoky haze. Peering through it, I see the outline of a figure. It grows more solid, till I’m looking at a full-grown man.

“Milo?” My voice cracks around his name.

“Jen.” He comes a step closer. I fight the urge to scream. His skin is blistered and burned; most of his hair is gone. The pajama pants he wears are charred shreds of fabric. I should be terrified, but I’m not. He’s still my gorgeous Milo, for all that. “It’s so good to see you. But I don’t have long…”

“Oh, Milo. The spell worked. It’s really you.” Tears course down my cheek and I swipe them away, determined not to let him see me so upset.

“Hey, babe. Don’t cry.” When he puts his arms out, I stumble into them. I’m almost afraid to touch his ruined body, but he smiles. “It’s okay. You’re not going to hurt me. Nothing can any more.”

There’s so much I want to ask him, but the words won’t come. Glancing up, I see his blue eyes shining, the depth of emotion obvious. When he bends his head and presses his lips to mine, I don’t resist. Returning the kiss with all the passion I possess, I let him guide me to the floor.

He kisses my cheeks, my eyelids, the tip of my nose. I run my hands down his back, all the way to the cheeks of his ass. Our bodies grind together. His erection is a thick bar, trapped against my belly. Without thinking, I reach to hold it, surprised to feel it warm and pulsing in my grasp.

“I want you,” he murmurs.

“Me, too. I’ve never stopped wanting you.”

Milo tears open my shirt, sending the buttons flying. He takes my nipple between his rough lips, sucking hard. Desire courses through me, fierce and urgent. I tug down my underwear, desperate to feel him inside me one last time.

He slides home in one long thrust. I’d almost forgotten how well he fits, like he was made for me. We move together, quickly finding a rhythm that suits us both. Milo’s eyes never leave mine as our pleasure mounts in unison.

My pussy convulses around him in the moment before he comes deep within me. I cling on tight to him, riding the waves.

“Milo, I’m so sorry for fighting with you about nothing,” I whisper, when I can find my voice again. “I love you. I always will.”

“And I…”

He’s fading before my eyes. The candle flame sputters and dies. All that remains is an acrid smell of smoke and his voice, lingering in the air like the Cheshire Cat’s grin.

“…love you too.”

Tall Story

Here’s another story I wrote in my early days on Forum, where one of our unofficial office mottos was ‘we like short men, because they get there faster…’

‘Let’s face it, it’s obvious why women chase after Joe,’ Mike Gallagher said, raising his voice to be heard above the noise of the party. ‘It’s because he’s tall.’

I was tempted  to reply, ‘No, it isn’t. It’s because he’s got gorgeous brown eyes and immense charisma,’ but I didn’t. Mike seemed like a nice bloke, at least from the twenty minutes or so I’d spent talking to him, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He wasn’t bad looking, with his curly chestnut hair and cheeky grin; he just wasn’t my type. And, to be honest, he was short. In my high heels, I just scrape over five feet. Mike was only a few inches taller than me. Whereas Joe…

Joe Walsh was every woman’s dream despatch rider. Tall and lean, with a body that was built to wear leathers. Dark hair tied back in a ponytail and a permanently stubbled chin. He was often the only bright spot in my dreary day. Hilditch and Grieve aren’t a bad firm to work for, but chartered accountants aren’t the world’s most exciting people. Anyway, working as their receptionist is only a temporary move until I find someone who’s looking for a recently qualified zoologist – or so I’ve been saying for the past eight months.

Still, it was through working at Hilditch and Grieve that I’d met Joe. I can still remember the jolt that went through me when he first slapped a parcel down on the reception desk and took off his helmet – it was like a bolt of lightning straight to the groin. I must have managed to stammer out some coherent sentence and since then we’d chatted every time he’d come in with a delivery – or rather, he’d chatted and I’d drooled. A couple of the secretaries knew about my infatuation and giggled about it whenever they passed the desk and he was there, much to my annoyance. Infatuation was all that it seemed destined to remain, until the afternoon when he’d wandered in and casually announced that he was throwing a party that weekend.

‘I’d really like you to come along, Zoe,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a few eligible men there. Do you know my mate Mike? Short geezer, curly hair, rides a Yamaha? No? Well, I’ll introduce you. You’ll like him, he’s a good laugh.’ Then he winked at me. ‘I might even drag you into the room with all the coats, if you’re lucky.’

‘Won’t your girlfriend object?’ I asked.

‘Nah, we split up a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, but inside my heart was backflipping for joy.

‘Don’t be. I’m not. The party’s to celebrate the fact.’ For a moment, I almost believed him, until I saw the grin that was threatening to split his face. He scribbled his address on a docket sheet and handed it to me. ‘It doesn’t really matter what time you get there. I intend to party all night.’

Then he was gone through the revolving door. I clutched the sheet of paper he’d given me, already planning a knock-’em-dead outfit that would ensure Joe and I ended the night together.

And we still could, if I could prevent Mike from monopolising me all evening and Joe would turn his attention away from the tall, curvy brunette he was talking to on the other side of the kitchen. As if he’d read my thoughts, he glanced over and his dark, intense eyes met my grey ones. He raised his bottle of Newcastle Brown in a silent salute. I smiled back at him, my insides churning with lust.

‘Now,’ Mike was saying, warming to his theme, ‘if I could change anything about myself, it’d probably be my height, ’cos it’d make me more desirable. You, on the other hand, would probably want bigger breasts.’ Now who was mind-reading? I thought. ‘But they wouldn’t necessarily make you more desirable. I mean, I think they’re perfect as they are. And after all, the smaller they are, the more sensitive they are.’

That was certainly true. My nipples were already stiffening with the thought of Joe running his hands over them, pinching and teasing them.

‘Honestly, Mike, you’re perfectly desirable as you are,’ I assured him, slightly embarrassed by the directness of his compliments.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said, draining his can of lager.

I looked across the room and saw that Joe and the brunette were no longer standing by the fridge. Probably gone to dance, I thought. I’ll just finish my wine and then I’ll go and find them, see if I can get Joe to join me in a smoochy number.

I swallowed the last mouthful of wine and put the glass down.

‘Can I get you a refill?’ Mike asked.

‘No, thanks, I’ve had more than enough,’ I replied. ‘Can you point me in the direction of the bathroom?’

‘Yeah, it’s just down the hall.’

I left him and squeezed my way through the press of bodies into the hall. The party was beginning to warm up; a couple were kissing passionately in the kitchen doorway as I passed.

I pushed open what I thought was the right door, but I wasn’t in the bathroom. Instead, I was looking into Joe’s bedroom. In the semi-darkness, I could make out a couple on the bed. The girl’s top was pulled up, revealing her heavy breasts, and her legs were wrapped around the naked back of her partner, whose tight buttocks rose and fell as he thrust into her. There was no mistaking her partner’s familiar ponytail; she was making love with Joe.

They probably weren’t aware that there was someone else in the room, but I blurted out, ‘Sorry,’ picked up my coat from the pile on the floor, which they had obviously pushed aside in their exertions, and blundered out tearfully into the hall in search of Mike.

He was where I’d left him in the kitchen. ‘I’m going home,’ I announced. ‘Do you know the number of a taxi firm?’

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Why are you leaving?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I said. I couldn’t get the sight of them out of my mind.

‘Look, don’t worry about a taxi. I’ll take you home. My bike’s outside.’

I looked at Mike dubiously. ‘Is it safe?’

‘If you mean am I sober, the answer’s yes. Come on, I’ll make sure you get home in one piece.’ He took my hand, grabbed his leather jacket from where he’d slung it over the back of a kitchen chair then led me out of the flat.

Mike’s bike was parked on the road outside Joe’s flat. He took a crash helmet from the top-box and handed it to me, but before I could put it on, he caught my arm.

‘Look, why don’t you tell me what went on in there?’ He sounded genuinely concerned.

‘If you must know, I went into the bedroom by mistake, and I saw Joe and this girl…’ My voice trailed off miserably.

‘Zoe, I know how much you fancy him, but he’s just a flirt. It’s all a game to him; he can pick and choose who he wants. She’ll just be a one-night stand. He would have done the same to you, and you deserve more than that.’

‘Let’s get away from here,’ I said. I climbed up on the back of the bike behind Mike and he kicked the engine into life.

We seemed to fly through the deserted streets of the city, the night air plucking at my clothes. It was an exhilarating feeling and, with my skirt rucked up and my stocking-clad legs clinging on to Mike’s surprisingly muscular body, an arousing one, too.

The bike pulled up outside my house all too soon.

‘Thanks for the lift,’ I said.

‘Any time,’ Mike replied.

‘Why don’t you come in for a coffee?’ I suggested. ‘I know it’s late, but the girl I share with is away, so we won’t be disturbing anyone.’ I was aware of a pulse beating between my legs, more insistent than that of my heart.

The front door stuck as I tried to open it, as it has a tendency to do. Mike gave it a helpful push; I was still holding on to the handle, with the result that we fell into the hallway in a tangle of limbs. We burst out laughing, then our eyes met, closely followed by our lips. Mike pulled me to him, and our kiss became more passionate. Our tongues met, tasting the softness of each other’s mouth.

‘Come on, let’s go upstairs,’ I said. Mike needed no further prompting. I paused only to fling off my shoes and coat and then I dashed up to my room, Mike following closely behind.

Mike was kissing me again before I’d had the chance to turn on the bedroom light. As his lips traced the contours of my mouth, I was struck by how well our bodies fitted together. Normally, I either have to drag my partner down so we can kiss in a sitting position, or else stand on tiptoe and strain my neck, but with Mike there was no problem. You could almost say we were made for each other. I didn’t have much time for philosophising, though, as he was pushing the straps of my dress down over my shoulders, his mouth moving down to nibble at the nape of my neck. The heavy buckle of his belt was pressing uncomfortably into my skin and I wrenched it open. Mike paused in his exploration of my dress to heave off his boots and jeans. His erection, free of its confines, slowly grew to a respectable length.

I stepped out of my dress and stood before him in my stockings, suspenders and skimpy lace panties, originally chosen to impress Joe. Mike ran his hands over my breasts; his fingers were calloused from work and my nipples hardened at their rough feel.

‘I’ll say one thing,’ Mike murmured into my hair, ‘I was right about your breasts.’ His tongue replaced his fingers and I sighed with pleasure. One hand snaked down to touch my clitoris, rubbing the slippery bud in circles until I was more than ready for him to enter me.

Mike’s erection was warm and hard against my mound, not poking into my stomach as a taller man’s would have done. ‘Before we go any further…’ I whispered, breaking away from him. There was a packet of condoms in my bedside cabinet; I took one out and peeled back its foil wrapping.

‘Perhaps if you lay down on the bed…’ I suggested, to his obvious puzzlement. He was clearly expecting to fit it himself, but quickly realised I had other plans in mind.

I knelt over him and put my face very close to his cock, so that my hair brushed the tip. Then I planted a kiss on the glistening purple glans and carefully rolled the sheath down over his shaft.

He smiled up at me, a smile that widened to a Cheshire cat grin when I slowly lowered myself down on to his latex-clad cock. My muscles tightened around it and he gasped. I began to rock gently backwards and forwards, gyrating my hips in a rhythm that he had no choice other than to follow. He cupped my breasts in his hands, squeezing and twisting my nipples in a way that sent spasms of pure pleasure down to my womb. I moved my hips more urgently, feeling my orgasm beginning to build inside me. The fiery sensation spread through my nerve endings and I threw my head back and cried out as the feeling peaked within me and my vagina clutched and clutched again at Mike’s cock. As I struggled to regain my breath, I could feel the surge of his own climax, his heels dragging at the bedsheets as his body shook with pleasure.

We hugged each other tight, the taste of sweat on our lips as we kissed, and then he carefully slid out of me.

‘And to think I thought you were only interested in tall men,’ Mike said.

‘I told you, it doesn’t make any difference,’ I replied. ‘We’re all the same height lying down.’

‘Well, perhaps we can prove this if you lie down this time.’

And that’s when I knew that this relationship was going to be anything but short.

Trading Licks

Ask any man what it is he finds most sexy about the woman in his life and he’ll have an immediate answer. Her eyes, her breasts, maybe her sense of humour – something which is instantly apparent from the moment you meet her. Stuart was different. If you asked what turned him on the most about me, he’d tell you it was the way I suck cock.

Not that I ever knew that. I mean, I was aware he and his mates talked about sex on their boys’ nights out, but I always assumed it was more on the level of which celebrities they’d like to fuck, or how much they fancied the barmaid in the Rose and Crown, the one with the Scottish accent and the generous arse. I never dreamed they might actually be comparing their wives’ and girlfriends’ oral skills.

And it was hardly a topic I ever discussed at length. You wouldn’t exactly stick the fact you’re extremely adept at giving blowjobs on your CV next to your clean driving licence and your hundred words a minute shorthand, would you? The closest I ever came to talking about it was one drunken night when a friend started giggling about a letter she’d read in a  porn mag she’d borrowed from her boyfriend, from a man who said his wife wore dentures and would take them out to give him the most incredible gum jobs. When we’d finally stopped shrieking at how outrageous that was, the conversation turned to the fact Denise had just admitted to reading porn and the moment passed.

But the truth was that I did love sucking Stuart’s cock. I know a lot of women think there’s something too subservient about being down on their knees in front of a man, but I must be a little bit submissive, then, because I never had a problem with it. I liked it best when Stuart sat on the end of the bed and I could rest my elbows on his thick thighs. Settling comfortably on my haunches on the soft, cream-coloured carpet, I would bend my head so it was resting in his lap, my long, silky brown hair brushing against his groin. At first, I would gently nuzzle the insides of his thighs, or lick along them and then gently blow on the wet skin.

Next, I would turn my attention to his balls, gently playing with the little sacs with my fingers and tongue until they began to tighten. By now, his cock would also be noticeably firmer than when I started. But even then I would do little more than tease him, swiping my tongue over the head of his cock with broad licks, as though I was savouring an ice cream on a hot day by the beach. Finally, when he was practically begging me with his eyes to go further, give him the blowjob he was craving, I would engulf the head fully in my mouth and begin to suck.

I’ve never been one of these women who’s tried to master the art of deep-throating. To me, it’s always smacked a little of showing off, and Stuart’s never complained that I can’t take him all the way down my throat. He’s more than happy with the manner in which I lavish attention on his shaft, licking lovingly while using my hand to stroke and stimulate the bottom few inches. He’ll gently stroke my back, encouraging me and letting me feel more of a flesh-on-flesh connection than just the point at which his cockhead disappears between my lips.

If we’re both in the mood, I can string this out for ages, pacing myself so I don’t end up with an aching jaw and sore knees. Eventually, his increasingly urgent moans and little grunts tell me he’s on the verge of coming. That’s the point when I look up into his eyes and increase the suction. Only a minute of this is enough to trigger his climax, his come spilling into my mouth, salty and with that indefinable taste of man. He never seems to care whether I swallow it or not – unlike of lot of men, he doesn’t take it as a measure of my love for him – all that matters is the closeness we feel as he runs his hands through my hair, his breathing slowing and his body relaxing.


So all in all, I was entitled to be more than a little pleased about my oral abilities, particularly as I had female friends who openly admitted that they had never let their lover’s cock anywhere near their lips. And Stuart was pleased with them, too – I just didn’t realise how pleased until the night I came home from work to find that he had run a bath for me and had a bottle of champagne chilling in the fridge.

It wasn’t our anniversary. Indeed, our anniversary wasn’t for another four months,  my birthday for six, so it wasn’t as though he’d forgotten some important date and was treating me by way of apology. Instead, he waited till I had enjoyed my bath and was sitting in the living room, dressed in my silky Japanese-print robe and sipping my glass of champagne, that he dropped the bombshell.

“Leanne,’ he began. “I’ve got a really big favour to ask of you – or, rather, Jimmy has.”

Jimmy was Stuart’s closest friend. They’d grown up living next door to each other and had been practically inseparable for years.  After school, though, their lives had taken very different paths. Stuart had started working in his father’s garage, met me and settled down. Jimmy had joined the army, stayed single and seen the world. They’d stayed in touch, but now Stuart only saw Jimmy in the brief periods he was on leave. I’d met Jimmy a few times, including at our wedding, and I really liked him, but I had no idea why he would be asking me for a favour.

And then Stuart enlightened me.

“Jimmy’s back from Afghanistan in a couple of days. He sent me an e-mail saying things have been really rough out there, and I said if there was anything I could do to cheer him up when he got back, he only had to say.” He paused. “Well, he remembered a drunken conversation we had on my stag night, when I told him that about how you gave the best blowjobs in the world. And – what he’d really like to cheer him up, more than anything else, is one of those blowjobs.”

I didn’t speak for a moment; just pushed the champagne glass in Stuart’s direction, anxious for a refill.

“How could you?” I said finally.

“I’m sorry, Leanne,” he replied. “But it was just one of those conversations blokes have, you know? And it’s true, you do give the best blowjobs in the world.” He searched for the words which would convince me. “Think about it. Jimmy’s been over there, fighting. I don’t even want to think about what he might have seen or done. He won’t have had a fuck in God knows how long. He probably hasn’t even had the chance of sneaking one off the wrist. Can you blame him for asking for this?”

I looked at my champagne glass. I seemed to have almost emptied it in only a couple of swigs. “But you’ve agreed that he can do this? You don’t have a problem with me sucking off another man?”

“I haven’t actually said yes to him yet, but I don’t have a problem with it. In fact, I really want you to do it. And I want to watch. Nothing would turn me on more than to see my beautiful, sexy wife with my best friend’s cock in her mouth.”

That was when it all came tumbling out: Stuart had fantasies he’d never been able to admit to me until now. Fantasies in which he shared me with another man. Just looking at him as he explained them to me, I realised how happy it would make him if I agreed to his plan, but I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about it. Though I’d always assumed I would be utterly faithful to Stuart, I had to admit there was a wicked little part of me which was turned on by the thought of going down on Jimmy. He was a good-looking boy; big and brawny as a result of his years in the army, with dirty-blond hair cropped closed to his skull and brown eyes which gave the impression they had been undressing you from the moment they saw you. The thought of him naked, cock hard and ready for me, was a deliciously dirty one. And through it all, Stuart would be there – watching me, encouraging me, loving me.

Eventually, when Stuart had finished spilling out all his secrets, he looked at me and said, “So, will you do it?”

I waited just long enough for him to start thinking that he’d blown his chances completely, then decided it was cruel to tease him any further. “Yes,” I said.


Once Jimmy was back in the country, things moved swiftly. Stuart invited him to stay for the weekend, and though I intended to treat him to some decent home-cooked meals after months existing on army rations, I had the feeling food would be the last thing on his mind.

I was out shopping when he actually arrived, and came home to find the two men sitting on the sofa, drinking beer and watching the horse racing. Jimmy got up to greet me, enfolding me in a huge hug and dwarfing me with his broad, six-foot frame. We made all the usual pleasantries, but I found it hard to think of anything other than the moment when I would fulfil my husband’s fantasies by sucking Jimmy’s cock.

The atmosphere as the three of us sat down to dinner was like nothing I had ever experienced. The air seemed to crackle with erotic tension and anticipation. I had chosen a dress which I knew was one of Stuart’s favourites – a flimsy, pale-blue number with thin straps – and had deliberately gone without a bra beneath it. I knew that both men would be able to see the twin points of my nipples, sticking out as evidence of my excitement.

I barely tasted my food and hardly paid attention to the conversation between Stuart and Jimmy. My stomach was churning with nerves and anticipation, and when the two men finally decided it was time to get down from the table I followed them in a daze.

There was no longer any pretence that this was just a pleasant social evening; we made our way straight to the bedroom, where Stuart lit candles as Jimmy used the en suite bathroom.

“How do you want me to do this?” I whispered to Stuart.

“Just do whatever feels best,” he replied. “Do what you’d do to me.”

So when Jimmy came out of the bathroom, I shyly took him by the hand and led him to the bed. Stuart had kicked off his shoes and settled in the chair in the corner of the room, our keen and appreciative audience of one.

I kissed him, pressing my tongue against his lips insistently until he parted them to let it enter. I wanted him to imagine how it would feel when that tongue moved lower, to tease the head of his cock. Jimmy responded by tugging the straps of my dress down off my shoulders, smiling at the sight of my bare breasts. As his thumbs rubbed over my nipples, I glanced over to see how Stuart was reacting. He seemed to be enjoying himself, judging by the way he was caressing his cock almost absent-mindedly through his jeans.

While I was busy looking at my husband, Jimmy took the opportunity to pull the dress of me fully. This, I thought, seemed a little one-sided. Here I was, wearing only an indecently tiny pair of lace knickers, while the two men were still completely clothed. I made to push Jimmy back on the bed, which wasn’t the easiest thing to do, given the relative difference in our sizes, but he was compliant enough, anticipating the pleasure to come once I had him undressed. Quickly and efficiently, I undressed him from the waist down; there seemed something much ruder about the way his erection bobbed up above the hem of his faded black teeshirt than having him completely naked.

And now the show could really begin, I thought, as I slithered off the bed, parting Jimmy’s thick thighs wide to give me better access to his luscious cock.

Aware of Stuart’s eyes on me from across the bedroom, I bent close and nuzzled Jimmy’s groin, noticing all the little differences between him and my husband. Though they were fairly similar in size, Jimmy’s cock bent slightly to the right, and his balls were a little looser, a little more pouchy. His sandy coloured pubes were trimmed short, and he smelled more earthy than Stuart, somehow, though definitely not unpleasant. For a moment I thought how nice it would be to have the two men side by side, so I could compare them more closely, but that wasn’t what tonight was about.

I licked the soft skin on the inside of Jimmy’s thighs, feeling him give a quick little intake of breath as my teeth nipped at him, just for a moment. Lost in concentration as I was, I still heard the unmistakable sound of a zip coming down, and realised Stuart must be making himself more comfortable.

It was time to stop teasing Jimmy and get down to the serious business of giving him pleasure. “Relax,” I murmured. “I want you to enjoy this.”

I took a firm hold of his cock, pushing back the foreskin a little way, then lovingly took head into my mouth. Jimmy made a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a whisper, and I wondered just how long it had been since he’d last experienced the friction and pressure around his cock of anything other than his own fist.

“That’s it, suck him,” I heard Stuart say. I couldn’t see my husband, but I could imagine exactly what he was doing. Indeed, when I paused in my suction, I could distinctly hear the soft slap of Stuart’s hand working up and down the length of his own hard-on.

Turning my attention completely back to the big, half-naked soldier who was so wonderfully mine for the moment, I lavished even more attention on his cock, twirling my tongue over the head while my hand rhythmically pumped the shaft.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Jimmy muttered. “You’re everything Stuart said you were, truly, Leanne.”

His words spurred me on, but the real compliment I wanted from him was to feel his come gushing forth thanks to my ministrations. I increased my pace, bobbing my head to take in as much of his length as I could. Both Jimmy and Stuart were moaning now, each deep in their own world of pleasure. I cupped Jimmy’s balls, feeling them warm and vital in my hand, and knew it wouldn’t be long before they gave up their seed.

Stuart groaned and announced to no one in particular that he was coming. Jimmy’s hands tangled in my hair, and as he gave one last, strangled groan, I felt his spunk pulsing out into my mouth, its tang lingering on my taste buds for a moment before I let his cock slip from between my lips.

He flopped back on the bed, chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to catch his breath. He couldn’t speak; he just gazed at me with an adoring grin plastered across his face.

I glanced over to Stuart, who seemed a little more composed. He mouthed the words, “Thank you,” at me, and I knew I had managed to make two men very happy.


As for my own pleasure – well, let’s just say both men spent an awful lot of time that night showing me just how grateful they were that I’d agreed to give Jimmy such a special welcome home. And Jimmy isn’t the only one of Stuart’s friends who I’d admit, if pressed, to finding attractive enough to get down on my knees and suck. Perhaps my husband should be encouraged to share the secret of my oral prowess more widely. After all, I’ve proved that if he’s prepared to open his mouth about it, then so am I…

An Unsuitable Man

Here’s a real blast from the past – the first erotic story I ever had published, when I was a young whippersnapper on the staff of Forum magazine, back in 1988. Luckily it hasn’t dated too badly, which is pretty ironic considering there are some very bad dates at its heart…

The worst thing about living with Laura Montgomery was not her tuneless singing in the bath, which woke me up at quarter to seven every morning and prevented me from going back to sleep. It was not the fact that she would borrow my mohair sweater and return it to the drawer covered with make-up stains, nor was it her attempts to cook, which left the inside of the cooker covered in an unidentifiable black gunk and the kitchen looking like a bomb-site. No, these and a hundred general other thoughtlessnesses I could tolerate. The one thing that annoyed me beyond all belief was her habit of bringing home unsuitable men.

There had been a constant stream of these during the five months I had been living with Laura. Each one’s arrival was prefaced with a general announcement that he was the most gorgeous man alive, and no, he was nothing like the last one, who had been a mistake, and yes, this was it. At the most, they lasted six weeks.

The first one I remembered had been Gerry, who Laura had been in the process of disposing of when I moved in; he had passed in a blur of late-night screaming matches and Turkish cigarette smoke.

Then had come Charles, who was something in the City, the something apparently being loud and obnoxious. Conversations with Charles revolved around money, usually how much he had made and how much his Docklands penthouse had gained in value that week. Laura had managed to ignore his overbearing arrogance and egocentricity, but had grown tired of his habit of making date which were then broken at the first hint of a Stock Market slump. We still had half a packet of the expensive coffee beans which Charles drank exclusively mouldering at the back of a cupboard.

Charles had been followed by the charming, boyish Jan, who was of Eastern European extraction. He had brought to their relationship a wicked sense of fun, small cuddly toys which he would leave dotted round the flat for Laura to find, and all the attendant neuroses which went with having an overbearing mother who was only waiting for the day when he brought his blushing bride under the family roof and blessed the union with half a dozen little Jans.

However, the most unsuitable of all Laura’s unsuitable men was the current one, Marcus Barrymore. His family were so rich that he didn’t need to work and he seemed to divide his time between various men’s clubs in Piccadilly and the more exclusive of the Virgin Islands. He had the kind of voice that could grate cheese and a jacket which looked as though it had spent most of its life as a Ford Escort seat cover.

Whatever Marcus did with his money, he did not spend it on Laura. Meals were strictly at-home affairs, and as Laura was terrified of Marcus discovering that she could barely boil an egg, my help was unwillingly enlisted; I had got used to scribbled notes asking me if I could whip up a Chicken Kiev and leave it in the freezer.

Marcus’ most disgusting traits were reserved for the bedroom, although there was a slight overspill, as I had on more than one occasion staggered into the bathroom in the early hours to discover a discarded condom floating in the toilet.

He went at sex with the kind of passion country gents usually reserve for the hunt, even to the point of shouting “Tally-ho!” at the moment of orgasm. The tortured shrieks of the bedsprings were only matched by Laura’s non-stop gasps for mercy, and I found that only listening to loud rock music through headphones would block out the noise. Even today, I still can’t listen to Pink Floyd without falling asleep, although many people who’ve never lived with Laura have also said the same.

But now, finally, my months of passive resistance were about to come to an end. Tonight I was bringing my own unsuitable man home…


Geoff Palmer was head of physics at the local comprehensive school where I taught English. He had been the one member of staff out of the sixty or so who’d really made an impression on me in my first confusing week. We’d been on dinner duty together, and he had listened as I moaned about my class of third-year horrors whose idea of decent literature was Page Three of the Sun and who thought Milton was something you cleaned up after babies with.

As well as being sympathetic, he was also extremely attractive: tall, with sandy hair which he continually pushed out his deep grey eyes, and a full, almost pouting mouth. The general consensus among the more gossipy element in the staff room was that he was definitely interested in me, but there was one slight impediment to our getting to know each other a little better – Geoff’s wife, Cathy.

An early, hasty marriage had degenerated into a trial separation. Geoff rarely spoke about Cathy, and I never brought the subject up, but privately I wondered about the wisdom of getting involved with a man who, technically, was still married.

However, as the weeks had passed, our train journeys had ended with gentle pecks on the cheeks which had evolved into more passionate kisses and I had decided to take my chance. I knew that Laura was taking Marcus out to celebrate his birthday, so I made an assignation with Geoff for that evening.

Leaving school that evening, we could have been two of the kids, holding hands and giggling over nothing on our way to the Tube station. Every word, every gesture that passed between us had a sexual meaning, and I could feel myself getting wet between the legs.

At Geoff’s insistence, we stopped at the nearest off-licence to buy a bottle of sweet, fizzy wine. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’ I asked.

‘Not so much drunk, more… lubricated,’ Geoff replied knowingly.

By the time we reached the flat, the sexual tension was becoming unbearable. I could have quite cheerfully begun ripping Geoff’s clothes off on the stairs if it hadn’t been for the fact that our neighbour’s cat was sitting on the landing, regarding us with a critical, unbalancing stare.

I fumbled with the key, afraid for a moment that I would open the door to be greeted by Laura. She had gone, but evidence of her hasty departure was everywhere: a discarded pair of tights hanging over the back of a chair; lipstick-smeared tissues on the table, and dirty plates in the sink.

While Geoff uncorked the wine, I slid my hands into his shirt, feeling his warm, taut body. He half-turned and pulled me to him, our soft mouths meeting in a hungry kiss, tongues pressing against each other. I could feel his hand cupping my breast through my sweater and my one thought was to feel that same hand underneath the sweater.

I slipped out of my shoes; the kitchen floor was cold beneath my stockinged feet. ‘Come into the living room,’ I murmured. ‘This is fun, but I don’t want to catch hypothermia as a result’

We stumbled into the living room. ‘Let’s get some of this nonsense off,’ Geoff muttered. He nuzzled my neck gently as he pulled at my sweater. I could feel his slowly-growing erection pressing against me.

Encouraged, I tugged off his shirt and began unbuckling his belt. He slid his lips gently down to the soft flesh at the top of my breast and his tongue flickered teasingly over my nipple. I moaned gently, feeling an insistent throbbing between my legs and needing his touch to ease the itch.

Our hands were roaming over each other’s bodies, greedily exploring every inch of flesh as it was revealed, listening for the sounds that would tell us we had found a sensitive and pleasurable spot.

I pulled down Geoff’s briefs to reveal his swelling cock. I glanced at it quickly, then looked away, half-embarrassed by the sight of this beautiful organ, bluish-purple against the sandy hair on his belly.

He sank to his knees, teasing my body with gentle nips and tugs. One finger hovered for a moment, achingly close to my hairy mound, then slipped ever so gently between my lips. His touch was like a soothing balm to my aching clitoris and I sighed, my eyes half-closed with pleasure.

Sensing my obvious enjoyment, Geoff replaced his fingers with his lips. The sensation of his tongue moving with long-practised ease coupled with hot breath at the entrance to my vagina was ecstatic. I twined my fingers in his hair, ground my hips against his face, wanting to impale myself on that tongue and die. My breath caught in my throat and my voice was thick; the words “Yes” and “Geoff” had become interchangeable.

Too soon, it seemed, the sensation became almost unbearably painful, before all sensation seemed suspended for a moment, then gave way to the warm pleasure of orgasm.

Weak at the knees, I clutched at Geoff’s head and hugged him to me, then ran one hand down to meet his cock, hard under its film of slippery juice. Suddenly, I wanted more than anything to repay his compliment and kiss his cock in love and gratitude. Tentative at first, my tongue grew more confident as I gently circled the tip, so reminiscent of a bruised mushroom. I chased the drips of salty liquid, explored under the rim and ran my tongue down the length of it, drawing one finger across his balls with a feather-light touch that made him moan. There was a look of childish wonderment on his face.

‘Oh God, Kim, you’re beautiful,’ he breathed. ‘Kiss me, honey.’

Reluctantly, I broke off from my task and our mouths met, each tasting the salt-sweet flavour of the other. I could feel his erection nosing hopefully at my entrance/

‘Yes?’ he asked softly.

‘Oh, yes!’ He gently parted the ragged flower of my lips and entered me with infinitesimal slowness, as if mindful of my relative inexperience. His movements, careful at first, gradually built to a peak of thrusting as my hips rose to meet his. My hands raked his back as I cried out with the beginnings of my orgasm; lost in my own sensations, I was still aware of Geoff’s own spasms and the trickle of lukewarm liquid down my thighs.

Seconds later, I was aware of other sounds: a key turning in the lock and voices raised in mid-argument dying away as Laura and Marcus were confronted by the sight of two bodies on the carpet, tangled together in the aftermath of orgasm.

I’m putting a card in the newsagent’s window for a new flatmate this afternoon…


Intimate Correspondence

Wednesday, 12th August, 1992

Dear Box No 248 – or may I call you 248 for short?

I’m not normally the type of guy who reads the lonely hearts column, let alone replies to ads, but when I saw yours, I thought, that’s a girl I’d like to know more about.

Before you start to think this is all far too corny and throw this letter in the bin, let me tell you a bit about myself. My name’s Steve, I’m 28 and I work for a firm of computer analysts in the City. But I’m not a typical ‘computer programmer’, by any means; I don’t wear glasses, I don’t possess an anorak and I’ve never been trainspotting in my life. I’ve enclosed a photo so you can get some idea of how I look; I don’t usually look that startled in real life, but then photo booths have a tendency to make everyone look like a criminal.

In my spare time, I like going to the cinema, and I read a lot of books, preferably anything by Clive Barker. I have been known to venture into the kitchen, and my chilli is legendary among those who’ve tasted it. Musicwise, I’ve got catholic tastes – I like Mary O’Hara! No, seriously, I love AC/DC, Faith No More and Yes, but nothing after the Drama album, because they really went downhill after that. Oh, and I support West Ham, but you wouldn’t hold that against a man you’ve never met, would you?

Why, you may be asking, if I’m so well-rounded and interesting, am I looking to meet someone through a personal ad? I really don’t know, I suppose I’m just bored of trying to meet someone through a pub or club, and the computer programmerettes at work are really looking for guys with anoraks.

Well, I can’t think of anything else to say, so I’ll sign off here and hope that you write back soon.

Yours in anticipation,


Friday 21st August, 1992

Dear Suzanne,

How much less formal that seems than a box number! It was really nice to hear back from you so soon. I thought after all that rambling nonsense I wrote that you’d probably think I was a complete idiot, but perhaps I’ve managed to convince you that I’m only a partial idiot.

Thanks for the photo. Not nearly half as scary as mine. I’ve never been to Barcelona myself, but from that shot it looks absolutely beautiful – and so do you. I’ve must say I’ve always liked brunettes, and you’ve got a particularly wicked smile. (Sorry if that was too forward – it wasn’t meant to be.) How flattering of you to say I bear a resemblance to Keanu Reeves; most people would say I look more like Jim Reeves!

I’m enclosing my phone number so you can give me a ring if you want. It would be really nice to meet up soon, and maybe I can persuade you to stop listening to Simply Red.



Tuesday 25th August

Dear Suzanne,

Yes, it’s me again! Just a quick note to say how much I enjoyed talking to you on the phone. You have a lovely voice, very rich and warm, just the sort of voice a brunette should have. It’s funny, but somehow it’s a lot easier to write something like that down, rather than say it face to face. Perhaps you don’t have that problem, I don’t know.

Anyway, this is just to confirm that I’ll meet you outside Tottenham Court Road tube station at 7.30 on Friday night – bomb scares permitting. I’ll be the one wearing a rolled-up copy of The Times in my buttonhole and reading a pink carnation

See you Friday,


Saturday 29th August

Dear Suzanne,

Wow! What an evening! Okay, so maybe Aliens 3 wasn’t the mind-boggling experience I thought it was going to be, but you weren’t too bored, were you? Next time we’ll go and see something a little more intellectual, like Freddie The Frog Detective, or whatever it was called. Well, the trailer looked good, and  I’ve always been a sucker for a good cartoon!

Oh, and you should have told me you didn’t like pepperoni on your pizza. I noticed you pushing it discreetly to the side of your plate when you thought I wasn’t looking. Ask for what you want next time; I won’t be offended.

Hope you I didn’t embarrass you too much when I asked the waiter whether his bow tie lit up and spun round, but he was such a surly git, he deserved it.

Anyway, the film and the food might not have been a success, but you certainly were. You looked absolutely beautiful in that blue dress; I was so tongue-tied I can’t remember whether I complemented you on it or not. Well, if I didn’t then, I am now.

And the way you kiss! You have the softest mouth… I had to buy this morning’s paper on the way home, just so I could conceal my excitement or they’d have thrown me off the tube. You can tell how dazed by your charm I was; I bought the Daily Mirror, and I hate the Daily Mirror!

Sorry if I’m behaving like a love-struck adolescent, but it’s just the effect you have on me.

Can’t wait to see you again. Ring me soonest.



Monday 7th September,

Dear Suzanne,

Would you believe I thought you were never going to get in touch with me again? I kept ringing your flat, but no one answered, and then when I did get hold of your flatmate, she said you had really bad flu and were staying at your parents’ house. There’s a lot of flu going round at work at the moment, so I’ll have to wear a surgeon’s mask between now and the weekend, so I don’t catch it myself. I’d hate to re-infect you, but I can think of some interesting ways to do it.

Is there any chance of your wearing that blue dress again? It really does show your legs off to perfection.



Sunday 13th September,

Dear Suzanne,

This is another of those letters to tell you the things I couldn’t say to your face. When I said, ‘Thanks for a wonderful evening. I’ll give you a ring in the week,’ what I really meant to say was, ‘Why don’t you come back to my place? I’ll cook you breakfast tomorrow morning.’

I wanted to continue that cuddle at the station so much. Well, I say cuddle; I suppose by the time your train arrived it was more of a full-blown grope. I was so excited to find out you were wearing suspenders; they’ve always been my favourite turn-on.

I know our letters and phone calls have got a lot more intimate since we met, but somehow telling you about my taste in music, or what I like to do in the evenings, doesn’t seem so relevant any more, now there are so many other things we could be discovering about each other.

Yours, about to take a cold shower,


Wednesday 16th September,

Dear Suzanne,

I hope this isn’t the letter that finishes our friendship. I think after what we said last night, you’re open-minded enough to read what I have to say without being shocked. You said we should be able to share our secrets and desires, so here goes.

When I got home last night, I was so excited from seeing you that I stripped off and lay on my bed, touching myself and thinking about you. I couldn’t stop myself; I wanked myself with long, deliberate strokes until I came all over my stomach and chest, great gouts of it, all the time thinking of how you looked, and how you laughed, and how you kissed, and how much I just wanted to bury my head between those fabulous legs of yours and give you a good tonguing. God, I’m getting excited just thinking about it again.

What would really excite me would be the thought that you lie there and play with yourself thinking about me. I’d love to think that you were going home after you’d seen me and making yourself come. But I’d love it more if I could be there to make you come.



Friday 18th September,

Dear Suzanne,

God, that was the most exciting thing I’ve ever done, talking to you on the phone and wanking at the same time, knowing that you were playing with yourself, too. You sound gorgeous when you come; I’d really like to see it happen. I’m sure I will, soon.

But that’s not really why I’m writing. I’ve got to tell you about this dream I had last night, after we’d put the phone down.

Have you ever had a dream that was so vivid you thought it was actually happening? Well, this was like this. Maybe I’ve caught flu, I don’t know, but I was lying in bed feeling really feverish, and I dreamed that you walked into the room, except it was as though you really had walked into the room. You were there: I could touch you, taste you, smell you… Ysatis, lingering on the air; if I breathe hard enough, I can still smell it now.

Anyway, I was lying there, and you came and stood before me. You were in your blue dress, and the moon shining in the window cast shadows on your face and the swell of your breasts. And as I watched, you began to dance, to some music only you could hear, swaying your hips slowly and rhythmically.

You reached up to the neck of your dress, and you unbuttoned the top button. The material fell away slightly, so I could see just a little more of your breasts, just enough to know that you weren’t wearing a bra underneath.

Then you undid the second button, and this time your tits fell free. Not as full as I’d expected, but they had the most exquisite chocolate aureoles, and I couldn’t help thinking how much I wanted to take them in my mouth, to see if they would taste of chocolate.

You just carried on, dancing and unbuttoning your dress, until all the buttons were undone and the dress was completely open. All you had on underneath was a tiny little pair of white knickers, and they were slightly see-through, so I could get a glimpse of your pubic hair through them. I could tell how excited you were, because the knickers were already damp.

You threw the dress to the ground, and began to rub your tits, turning yourself on. Then you ran your hands over your body, until you came to your mound, and you slipped just one finger down inside your knickers and began to rub there. You sucked on the fingers of your other hand, and it was the most erotic thing I’d ever seen.

And then you ripped your knickers off – literally ripped them in two – and you fell to your knees, one hand still touching your clit, and two fingers of the other hand buried deep inside your love channel. You rubbed faster and faster, and then you threw your head back as you came, crying out in ecstasy, shattered.

I thought the dream would end there, but it carried on. You weren’t satisfied, you wanted me. You came over to the bed, and pulled the sheets off me. I was erect, harder than I’d ever been, from watching you, and you never said a word, you just took my rigid dick and straddled me. Then you slid down on me, your muscles clenching tight around me, and you started to fuck me – that’s the only word for it. It was like you didn’t care whether I came or not, although it was pretty obvious after a minute or so that I was going to; you were just using me like some living vibrator to bring me to orgasm. You carried on pumping me, until you came again, crying out in pleasure, and I followed you, jerking helplessly in my orgasm.

When you’d finished, you just climbed off me, picked up your fallen dress and put it back on, then you simply left, without a word. In fact, you didn’t speak to me throughout the whole event. All you did was throw your sodden, ripped knickers at me as you left.

Then I woke up, and I thought if I ran down the stairs, I’d catch you before you left, but then, you were never there, were you?

Suzanne, I want you so much. Make my dream come true. Please.

I love you.




Thanks for last night. I knew you’d taste as sweet as I thought. Come round and fuck me again soon. I’ll pay for the new knickers.


Point of Departure

No matter how many times I fly, I will never enjoy sitting in a departure lounge. When I was a kid, and foreign travel was a novelty, the moment when you parked yourself on an uncomfortable plastic seat, making sure you had a view of the runway through a pane of glass so thick you could barely hear the planes taking off, was the moment which signified the holiday was really, truly over. Now they just bore and depress me, those plastic seats give me back pains for a couple of days and there’s no longer the cheap thrill of duty-free shopping to soften the blow.

We’re in Málaga, though in truth all airports merge into one after a while. Same selection of passengers: the nervous flyers calming their fears with tranquillisers or too much booze; the seasoned travellers with their feet up on their battered, over-filled rucksacks, bragging about barely noticing turbulence. Same smell of floor polish and sweaty, too-tanned flesh. Same stale air, heated past the point of comfort by the midday sun. Same tannoy announcements, barely audible over pointless chatter and the screaming and fighting of fractious kids. Same arguments, same tears, same delays.

I shift my position, feeling the backs of my thighs sticking to the plastic of the seat on which I’m perched. I’m still dressed for the heat of southern Spain, in khaki-coloured vest top and denim skirt with a fashionably frayed hem. When we get back to Luton, it’s bound to be twelve degrees cooler and raining. If we get back to Luton.

I’m sure Ewan thought he was getting a bargain when he booked with one of those no-frills airline. The only trouble is one of those frills, at this precise moment, appears to be the actual plane. The last piece of slightly garbled information we were given is that the one scheduled to take us home is currently sitting on the tarmac at Paris Charles de Gaulle, suffering from an unspecified mechanical failure. A replacement has been found and will be with us in some equally unspecified amount of time, by which stage we may well be too old to care.

What Ewan also didn’t realise is that to get from Málaga to the coastal resort where we were staying involved a bus journey of a couple of hours. We should really have flown to Almería airport, which was only a matter of miles away. But that would have more than doubled the cost of the air tickets, so it was never seriously considered. Like everything Ewan gets involved in organising, the whole thing was half-arsed, half-hearted….


The thing which saved the holiday from being the last nail in the coffin of our fragile relationship was the villa. Again, Ewan had settled on it because it was the cheap option, so I was expecting very little from it. I had visions of neighbouring building works that started at eight in the morning, cockroaches in the shower, and a fridge that didn’t work. I was wrong. It was beautiful. Set up in the hills, it was just far enough away from the concrete sprawl of new-looking hotels which had sprung up along the shoreline to give us some privacy without making the trek into town a chore. The tiled floors and blinds at every window made it cool and dark in the surprising heat of the September day. Pink and purple bougainvilleas grew in clusters round the door, and there was a pool at the back which was secluded enough for us to swim and sunbathe naked, if we chose.


Indeed, the first morning I woke at about eight, slightly disorientated as you always are having spent a night in a strange bed, to the sound of water splashing. I wrapped a robe around my body and padded out to find Ewan in the pool, his lean body cutting through the water in a slow breaststroke. I watched him, admiring the play of the muscles in his back and arms as he moved lazily. It was only when he levered himself up on the edge of the pool and reached for a towel to dry himself that I realised I had caught him skinny-dipping. Not only that, but he had the beginnings of an erection, his cock looking thick and tempting between his thighs. He caught me glancing down at it and smiled.

Back in London, we would have been getting ourselves ready for the Monday morning struggle to work, shovelling down toast and coffee before heading out to cram ourselves on to the Northern Line. If Ewan had been standing in front of me naked, and clearly aroused, I certainly wouldn’t have been thinking about taking his cock in my hand and stroking it to full hardness, as I was now. I would have been making some excuse to put the sex off until the evening, when I would come home grumpy, stressed and too tired to even think about keeping the promise I’d made earlier. I couldn’t remember the last time I had gone without breakfast in favour of swallowing a mouthful of Ewan’s salty cream, or been late for work because we had been in the shower together, exploring every inch of the other’s body with soapy fingers. No wonder things had become so rocky between us.


But here, we had all the time in the world. No rush, no pressure, nothing to think about but our own pleasure. It was too much to resist. I almost shoved Ewan’s still-damp body on to the sun lounger by the side of the pool. He sprawled there, watching as I unfastened the robe and let it slither to the ground, then got to my knees at the side of the lounger and reached for his erection. Bending my head, I took the tip of his cock between my lips; the earthy, early-morning smell of him was overlaid with chlorine from the pool, little drops of water shining in his blond pubes, but it didn’t stop me from swallowing more of his length. It felt strangely like the first time I had done this; the greed to taste him mixed with the need to take time to study and admire the way he was put together. He felt hot and alive in my hand, that column of dusk-pink flesh straining to touch the back of my throat. My fingers found their way between my legs almost of their own volition, rubbing with a mindless intensity that matched my mood. If he was startled by the enthusiasm I was showing for what, over the last few months, I had increasingly treated as just another on the list of chores that kept our household ticking over, he didn’t show it; he just lay back and went with the flow. I sucked him till he was thrusting his hips at me, begging to come in my mouth, and then I climbed on top of him and rode him for the few moments it took to reduce us to a sweaty, gasping mass of orgasm. Then I led him by the hand into the shower and we started the whole process of touching, teasing and getting to know each other sexually all over again.

That seemed to set the pattern for the rest of the holiday. We had made vague plans to explore the area, based on a couple of pages of local tourist information Ewan had printed out from some website he had accessed one lunch break. The fisherman’s quarter of Almería, where gypsy families still lived in caves and you could watch flamenco dancing and browse in the street market, sounded like it was worth a visit, even if you were advised to hang on to your handbag if you did, while Ewan fancied taking a guided tour out to the town known as Mini Hollywood, where all the old spaghetti Westerns had been shot, and living out his Clint Eastwood fantasies. But in the end, A Fistful Of Dollars was replaced in our interest by a fistful of cock. Sightseeing, shopping, sending postcards back to our families – all seemed less important than our sudden, overwhelming need to catch up on all the sex we had been missing out on.

We stocked up on supplies in the nearest supermercado, buying fruit, cooked meats, cheese and bottles of the best white Rioja they stocked, giggling like a couple of kids when we discovered the local bread was a brand called Bimbo and the coffee was the appropriately named Bonka. Everything we bought was designed for snacking, something simple to refuel us before we headed back to bed, or the poolside, or the front porch, or wherever else the mood had taken us for a quick fuck.

Of course, it didn’t take long before we realised we could combine the two; the first time Ewan tasted a strawberry after he had dipped it in my juices, he called it the food of the gods. And I responded by drizzling thick acacia honey over his cock and slowly, languorously licking him clean.

We began to experiment in ways we had never considered: vanilla sex was off the menu; raspberry ripple was the flavour of the day. Ewan had tried to get me to take his cock up my arse a few times in the early days of our relationship, usually when he judged I was just drunk enough to go for it, but I had always refused. Lying on the sun lounger naked one afternoon and feeling Ewan’s fingers straying nonchalantly down my crack, I hadn’t guided them back in the direction of my pussy, as I usually did. Instead, I let him touch me, rubbing and pressing against my anal hole until I began to relax into the feeling. The afternoon air was still; apart from the occasional snatch of birdsong, there could have been nothing else but the two of us in the entire world. I felt safe enough to let Ewan push me past my limits, and when his finger worked its way through the little ring of muscle, lodging itself in my arse, I didn’t object. To tell the truth, I had no reason to: what he was doing felt dirty, but so good, particularly when he pushed another finger up my cunt, stimulating both holes at the same time. I responded by thrusting my bum back at him, urging him on.

‘Do you want something bigger up there?’ he had asked me, and I’d just made some noise of encouragement, not sure how it would feel to have his thick cock forcing apart the walls of that tight passage, but willing to take the risk. And then his finger had slipped out and something thicker was replacing it. But it wasn’t Ewan’s cock; it was something cool and strangely rigid. Craning my head over my shoulder to see what the hell he was playing at, I realised he was thrusting a gnarly carrot he must have scavenged from the bottom of the fridge in and out of me. It was so unexpected and the sight was so depraved, it was almost enough to make me come on the spot.

Needless to say, I did take his cock there, though not on that occasion. That was a couple of nights later, when we had ventured out of our self-imposed exile down into town for dinner at one of the little restaurants on the beach front. Walking back to the villa, hand in hand, our whole conversation had been about all the deliciously filthy things we were going to do to each other when we got there. Ewan had told me how he was going to make me beg him to fuck my arse, and I had told him he could dream on, but my head was filled with thoughts I had never thought I could share with him. Perhaps tonight would be the night when I admitted I had fantasies in which I was tied to the bed, face down, while Ewan spanked my bottom and I pleaded with him to use my body in whichever way he wanted.

By the time we unlocked the door of the villa, we had got ourselves so horny there was only one way the evening was going to end. We stripped each other, leaving items of clothing strewn in a haphazard trail that led down the hallway to the master bedroom. Ewan practically threw me on the bed, hoisted my legs over his shoulders and started licking my pussy with almost manic enthusiasm, his tongue moving in long, slick sweeps from my clit all the way to my arsehole. When he started concentrating on my rosebud, I knew all his dirty talk hadn’t been just for effect; he really did intend to fuck me there. For once the thought neither alarmed nor repelled me; now I knew how fantastic it could feel to have something in my arse, I was willing to let him try.

There was a bottle of after-sun lotion on the night stand, and Ewan handed it to me. ‘Grease me up,’ he ordered, and I squeezed a dollop of the cool, white lotion into my palm before rubbing it along the length of his already hard cock. He used more of the lotion to lubricate my bum, thrusting his finger in far enough to get me squirming with pleasure and anticipation. Then I lay prone on the bed, limp and relaxed as I could be given how excited the situation had got me, and let him gently push his cock into me.

At first it was the slowest, most tentative fuck we’d ever had, Ewan desperately mindful of not hurting me. But as I got used to the unaccustomed fullness, the feeling of being stretched where I had never been stretched before, I urged him to thrust harder, faster. ‘Told you I’d get you to beg,’ Ewan said smugly, as his rhythm speeded up until he finally, inevitably, came inside my arse.

And so it went on: more sex, better sex than any we had had even in the first weeks of our relationship, when everything had been new and exciting and it had been impossible to keep our hands off each other. The bikini wax I had invested in before we came here, ludicrously painful though it was, had an unexpected side effect. All the beautician had left, at my request, was a little tuft of hair on my mound. At first, I had been shocked by the result, feeling it made me look like a porn star, but Ewan showed his appreciation for my smooth new look with his lips and tongue, spending hours licking the hairless flesh till I lost count of how often I came in his mouth.

In return, Ewan confessed he had always wanted to be sucked off while he was wearing a pair of my knickers, so we tried that. The pink panties were a tight fit, even with his slim hips, but he looked so horny with the shiny fabric clinging to his tackle, outlining every contour, that I couldn’t stop myself from licking him through the silk, getting him almost to bursting point before pulling down the panties so I could take the head of his cock in my mouth and swallow his spunk.

We were talking more, too, and not the monotonous conversations we had after a day at work, when all we did was complain about the impossible deadlines we had to meet or bitch about our colleagues in the office. Instead, we were talking about us, finding out about the other’s dreams and desires. I still hadn’t revealed all my fantasies to Ewan: I felt I had to keep something back for when we were in rainy old London, tempted just to slump in front of the TV and settle back into our mundane routine. All the things we had discovered about each other, here in the villa, were too good to forget about once we were back home, and I was sure I could find ways of keeping this Mediterranean spark alive. When the time was right, I would let him know about the blindfolds and the handcuffs and let him take it from there…


I look up, suddenly aware that Ewan had said he was going to get soft drinks for the two of us with the last of our euros and that was ages ago, maybe even before they announced that our flight might be with us some time between now and the end of the decade. And that’s when I notice the bloke in the seat opposite me is staring at me – or, more accurately, he is staring between my legs – with undisguised lust.

I follow his gaze, as discreetly as I can, and realise that when I’ve shifted in my seat, trying to get comfortable against the hard, injection-moulded plastic, my already short skirt has ridden up a little further than might be considered decent. The wisp of white nylon that passes for my underwear is clearly on display, and not only that, I have got myself so turned on thinking about all the sex Ewan and I have been having over the past few days that I can feel my juices soaking through them. I don’t want to think about what that will have done to the material, how the inner lips of my pussy, so neat on other girls and yet so big on me that they always bulge against my knickers, will be as good as exposed to the world. No wonder the bloke opposite is practically fucking me with his gaze.

It shouldn’t excite me; I should sit up straight, adjust my skirt, block his view. Instead, fired up by the thought that this is probably the sleaziest, riskiest thing I will ever do, I find myself wanting more.

I slump back in my seat, let my thighs loll apart just a little further. I know that if I wriggle ever so slightly, the thin gusset of my knickers will slip into the groove of my sex. I like the thought of that: the way the fabric will press more tightly against my gently pulsing flesh; the view this stranger will have of my smooth pussy lips, bisected by a strip of damp nylon. I want him to see how wet and ready to be fucked I am.

The stupid part is he’s is not even worth the show I’m putting on for him. In his fifties, probably, balding, paunch hanging over the belt of his trousers. On his own and likely to remain so. I see desperate blokes like him on the Tube all the time; indeed, I’ve had them press up against me in a crowded carriage, letting the stubby length of their cock push against my backside, ‘accidentally’ touching my breast as they reach for something to hang on to. My usual reaction is to oh so casually stand on their foot, feigning surprise at how sharp a kitten heel can actually be. It’s certainly not to invite them to look, to spread myself wide as I am doing now.

Ewan should be back at any moment, but when I risk a quick glance around the departure lounge to see whether anyone else has noticed my shameless display, he is nowhere to be seen. Part of me even suspects that, if he were to return with a couple of cans of pop in his hands and catch me flashing at an ugly stranger, he would be as turned on as I am. There would be more than enough time for him to drag me into the toilets and fuck me up against the cistern, with my skirt hiked up and my soaking wet panties pulled down round my ankles. I can see us staggering back out into the main departure area, flushed and feeling too satisfied to care how much longer we will have to wait for our flight.

But Ewan isn’t here, and I have reached the point where I am so desperate to feel fingers on my pussy that my own will do. Another check, to make sure there are no curious security guards patrolling, and then I move my bag so the view of anyone passing in the aisle is obscured. Ewan and I had bagged corner seats when we first sat down, however many hours ago it was now, and I’m pretty confident the only person who will see what I do next is my admirer opposite.

I glance across at him, establish eye contact for the briefest of moments. A more furtive voyeur would look away at this point, embarrassed to have been caught looking, but this guy doesn’t even blink. But this is still my game, my rules. I will go as far as I want to, and no further.

Almost as if I am not aware of what I’m doing, I let my hand stray down between my legs, let my index finger rest lightly against the apex of my sex. Another glance at him: his gaze is riveted to that finger, but his expression tells me he can hardly believe that I am doing this. When I casually run my finger along the point where my pussy lips touch each other, I could swear a bead of sweat breaks out on his brow. If I were to look at his crotch, I am certain I would see the bulge pressing against his fly; the bulge I have caused. I have him exactly where I want him.

My nipples press stiffly against the thin sun top. My finger works its teasing way back to my clit. I would love to string this out, but a pulse is throbbing madly somewhere deep in my cunt and I have to make myself come before anyone cottons on to what I’m actually doing.

My finger slips beneath the edge of my knickers, touching the slippery flesh there. It only takes the merest pressure against my clit for me realise that my orgasm is only a few strokes away. My eyes are half-closed as I begin to rub in earnest, but I am still aware of my audience of one, watching every movement avidly. I can’t make any noise, or it will immediately alert everyone in the immediate vicinity to what I’m doing, so as my hand moves faster, I bite on the fleshy mound beneath my other thumb. Hot, fierce spasms of pleasure shoot through me, and I arch my back against the hard plastic seat as I come and come.

When I finally open my eyes, I see the man opposite is studying the small print on his airline ticket, as though it is infinitely more interesting than what he has just watched me do. No one else seems to have noticed a thing. I give a satisfied little sigh and ease my skirt back down to a respectable position, just as Ewan comes wandering back towards me.

‘Good news,’ he says, handing me a cold can of fizzy orange. ‘I’ve spoken to someone from the airline and they say the plane’s on its way. They’re reckon they’re going to be calling us to the gate in about fifteen minutes.’

I smile, pop the ring pull on the can and take a long swig, slaking my sudden thirst. When we are finally in mid-air, I think I might have to tell Ewan what I’ve been getting up to in his absence. When we get home, I think he might have to punish me for having a naughty holiday adventure without him. And I think I might like it.

The Buchan Strategy

The handcuffs were Carol’s idea. The one, sure-fire way to make sure that I really had a memorable night down at The Spider’s Web.

It had also been her idea that we go there in the first place, and that we should invite the most gorgeous man in the world, Greg Watson.

I’d been more than a little dubious. True, my lust for Greg Watson was probably the worst-kept secret at Mainline recording studio. I’d fallen for him the moment he’d wandered into reception and deposited his beaten-up guitar case on the floor. He was my idea of perfection: in his early thirties, a little over average height, with a lean figure, fine blond hair that hung down past his shoulders and eyes the soft grey of the sky over Lake Windermere. The silence in the reception area had been so profound, if you’d listened closely, you would have heard me drooling.

That had been four months ago. Four long months in which I’d performed all the tasks for Greg’s band that were an integral part of my job as a receptionist. Not only did I take messages and fend unwanted phone calls, I made endless cups of tea and coffee, I fetched takeaways when recording sessions stretched out late into the night and I provided plasters for bruised and bleeding fingers. My proudest moment had been stopping a fist fight between the drummer and the producer, both of whom towered a good foot over me.

Throughout all this, Greg had invariably been charming towards me, and the nicer he was, the more I pined over him. There was now a swear box on my desk, to which I was forced to contribute ten pence every time I mentioned Greg’s name. One memorable morning, at the height of a mini-heatwave, when he’d turned up in a pair of cycling shorts, I’d had to cough up the grand total of one pound forty – seventy pence for each thigh.

And still he was nice to me, and still I lusted after him, and still absolutely nothing happened between us.

It was Carol, the owner of the studio and my long-suffering boss, who eventually decided that the situation needed to be manipulated to bring Greg and I together. Her fortieth birthday was in a week’s time, the same day as the next Spider’s Web, and she suggested we go there to celebrate.

Carol was very much into the fetish scene, and she would often stagger in mid-morning after a wild night at one or another club, regaling me with tales of outrageous debauchery while I plied her hangover with black coffee and analgesic tablets. I’ve never been turned on by the thought of pain and all the little rituals that go on in a place like that, but part of me secretly hankered after the idea of dressing up in some fabulously kinky outfit. The Spider’s Web, Carol assured me, was far more a rock club with fetish overtones than an all-out whipping and spanking parlour, and I’d love it.

‘But I don’t have anything to wear,’ I said, wondering how I was going to afford a new outfit the same month that my TV licence was due for renewal and my elderly Fiat Panda was about to attempt to struggle through its MOT.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve got loads of stuff you can borrow,’ Carol replied. ‘I’ll hunt through and find something that used to fit me when I was thin.’

It all sounded very tempting; she’d almost got me to agree to go, and then she dropped the bombshell.

‘By the way, I was thinking of asking Greg and the others along,’ she said casually.

‘I’d have thought they’d be too busy,’ I replied. The deadline for delivery of the finished tapes to their record company was fast approaching, and they were spending more and more time in the studio and less and less time socialising.

She smiled. ‘Well, I’ll tell them if they don’t come along, they’ll just have to go somewhere else to finish the album.’

‘Even if they do go,’ I said doubtfully, ‘it won’t be as though I’ll even see Greg for most of the evening. You know what he’s like around women. He’s just a professional flirt. And with all those beautiful girls there in their skimpy outfits, he won’t even look at me.’

‘I’ve thought of that, too. I’m going to get a pair of handcuffs and lock you both together. And then he’ll have no choice in the matter.’

At the time, I thought Carol was joking. I continued to think so when we met up with Greg, Paul, the band’s lead singer and Andy, the bass player, in a little pub in Greenwich. The Spider’s Web was a moveable feast, and this month it had settled in an old warehouse on the Isle of Dogs. Carol and I were causing quite a stir among the pub’s rather sedate clientele in our fetish gear. She was wearing a red latex catsuit which appeared to have been varnished on to her curvy figure, and was balanced confidently on high heels which would have given me altitude sickness. She’d load me an ornate basque which had miraculously given me a cleavage, and a tiny PVC miniskirt which had had all the male eyes in the pub glued to my slender legs as we walked in.

Paul and Andy were dressed in their usual rock ‘n’ roll flash, all snakeskin trousers, fringed suede jackets and hats which made them look as though they were auditioning for a part in Young Guns. Greg, who was normally fairly conservative in his dress – apart from the cycling shorts – was wearing skintight leather trousers and a sleeveless leather jacket underneath which he was bare-chested. I could have taken him into a quiet corner and devoured him inch by inch.

Carol, already slightly the worse for drink, greeted them with a noisy kiss. ‘I didn’t think you were going to make it,’ she said. ‘We’ve just got time for a swift pint and then it’s off to dance the night away.’

In the twenty minutes it took to order a round and drain our glasses, it became fairly obvious that my worst fears about Greg’s behaviour would be proved right. While Carol and I chatted to Paul and Andy, he roamed the bar, flirting with every available woman in the place.

Carol noticed my worried expression. ‘It’s okay, Lorna, he’s not going to go off with any of them.’

‘I know,’ I replied with more conviction than I felt, ‘but this does nothing for my ego.’

‘Poor Lorna, you’ve really got it bad, haven’t you? Never mind, your Aunty Carol will see you right.’ And with that, she smiled enigmatically and rattled her handbag. Something clanked ominously in its depths and I suddenly realised what she was planning. This was not going to be a night I would forget in a hurry.

* * * *

The Spider’s Web was a revelation. What was normally a derelict warehouse had been transformed into a vibrant club, loud rock music pounding out into the deserted Docklands night. A couple of hundred partygoers were already displaying their fetish plumage; leather-clad dominatrix types mingled alongside men dressed much like Greg and the boys in their rock ‘n’ roll finery. I could see Greg’s eyes were virtually out on stalks at the sight of so many women in underwear that would make the average Marks and Spencer lingerie department mannequin look positively overdressed.

Carol ushered us to the bar, carefully steering Greg away from a statuesque blonde in a fishnet body stocking and suspenders. She attempted to ask him what he wanted to drink, but his whole body language suggested a greyhound about to leap from his trap in pursuit of the mechanical rabbit. We’d only been in the place five minutes and his behaviour was already beginning to wind me up. There were too many distractions for me to ever have a serious conversation with him, and my lust seemed destined to remain unrequited.

Then Carol took charge.

‘I’ve got to go to the powder room,’ she announced. ‘You will be here when I get back, won’t you, Greg?’ Without waiting for him to answer, she continued, ‘Of course you will. This will make sure.’

Before Greg had realised what she was doing, she’d whipped the handcuffs from her bag and fastened one of the bracelets round his right wrist. The other, she clipped round my left.

‘Look after him, Lorna,’ she said. ‘I don’t want him getting into any trouble.’

Then she was gone, sashaying elegantly through the crowd, leaving Greg and I staring at her departing latex-clad back open-mouthed. He looked down at the handcuffs in disbelief.

‘Did you know anything about this?’he asked.

‘She did threaten,’ I replied, ‘but I really thought she was joking. She thought you and I should spend more time together.’ I tugged at the manacles hopefully, but they were secure. ‘Are you going to kill her, or shall I?’

‘Not until we’ve got the key off her. Come on.’ With that, Greg set off in the general direction that Carol had taken. This was the moment that we discovered the drawback of being chained together in the middle of a crowd; no one looks down at your hands, so they have no idea that you’re joined at the wrist. Therefore, they simply attempt to walk through the gap you appear to be able to make for them. We couldn’t move more than three or four yards without either Greg or I walking slap-bang into some solid expanse of chest or another. By the time I’d got my nose wedged between a pair of fiercely realistic silicone breasts and Greg had mealy lost a contact lens on the end of a dangling earring, we decided the best thing to do was make out we were actually holding hands and progress in Indian file.

There was no sign of Carol; after two slow circuits of the dancefloor, we realised she had done a more comprehensive vanishing act than Lord Lucan. We saw Pete and Andy languishing by the bar; the moment we decided not to alert them to our presence was the the exact moment they ambled over, pints in hand.

Greg whipped his hand behind his back, dragging mine with it, but he was not quite quick enough. Andy peered round to see what we were hiding.

‘What’s this?’ he snorted. ‘Have the police caught up with you at last, eh, Greg? Got you for being in possession of offensive dress sense?’

‘Nah,’ Pete said, ‘I reckon they’re auditioning for a remake of The Thirty-nine Steps.’

‘It was Carol’s idea of a joke,’ Greg replied, tight-lipped, knowing as well as I did that this would be all round Mainline the following morning. Pete and Andy looked at each other, then burst into an a capella rendition of Chain Of Fools.

‘We’ll see you later,’ Greg muttered, and hauled me off into the crowd.

‘I hate to tell you this,’ I said as we shuffled through the throng, ‘but I really have to go to the ladies’.’

Greg said nothing, but allowed me to drag him in search of the loo.

‘They’ll never let me in here,’ he said, as I bundled him inside.

‘There are so many drag queens around tonight, this place will be heaving with them,’ I replied.

Fortunately, there was no queue; just a stack-heeled transvestite doing a quick make-up repair job. I made for the nearest cubicle, and then the logistics of the situation hit me. The handcuff chain was far too short to allow Greg to stand outside while I used the loo. Either I took him in with me, or I crossed my legs for the rest of the evening.

He looked at me; I looked at him. We both knew exactly what the other was thinking. Eventually, I said, ‘Look, just close your eyes or something,’ and hauled him into the cubicle.

He compromised by turning his back on me, but all the time I sat there, my face flushing scarlet, I contemplated interesting ways in which I was going to murder Carol when we finally got our hands on her.

‘Perhaps we should find out if anyone’s got the number of a good locksmith,’ I suggested as we left the ladies’. ‘Or access to an oxy-acetylene torch.’

‘I think we should just go and have a word with the girl in the cloakroom,’ Greg replied. ‘I get the awful feeling that she may well have buggered off and left us to it.’

This indeed proved to be the case. The gum-chewing, Gothic-haired cloakroom assistant informed us that, yes, a brunette in a red catsuit had left about thirty-five minutes earlier and no, she did not know where she had gone. She glanced down, her attention riveted by our chained wrists, chomped thoughtfully for a few seconds, then announced, ‘You must be the two. She said I was to give you this.’

‘This’ was not the hoped-for key, but a message in Carol’s distinctive copperplate handwriting. ‘Told you I’d bring you closer together. I’ll be at the studio with the key.’

‘Okay, let’s go,’ Greg said.

I reclaimed my jacket from the cloakroom girl and we headed out of the warehouse. A black cab was dropping off a fare as we emerged into the warm July night and we flagged it down. Greg gave the driver the address of the studio and we shuffled awkwardly into the back of the cab. If the driver noticed that we were handcuffed together, he made no comment.

It was a good twenty-minute journey to the studio. Twenty more minutes to spend shackled together like fugitives from a chain gang. So much for Carol’s attempts to bring us closer; Greg and I were sitting as far apart on the smooth leather seat as the handcuffs would allow. After ten minutes of stony silence punctuated only by the chattering of the taxi driver’s radio, I could take it no more.

‘Look, this really isn’t my fault, you know,’ I said. ‘I know you’ve probably had a lousy evening, but I didn’t agree to any of this. It’s not like Carol suggested putting handcuffs on us both and I said, “Oh, goody, yes please!”.’

A fat tear welled up in the corner of my eye and trickled down my carefully made-up cheek. I sniffed and turned my head, but Greg had seen that I was crying.

‘Oh, Lorna, come here.’ He pulled me to him – not that I had much distance to go – and I found my head pressed against his shoulder. The faint smell of leather from his jacket, mingled with the musky aftershave he was wearing, was intoxicating, and I breathed deeply. I had wanted to end the evening in his arms, but not weeping like a silly child.

He was smoothing my hair with his free hand; I looked up and our eyes met, and that was all it took. Suddenly, his mouth was on mine in a heavy, powerful kiss that I had no desire to break away from and his hand was moving down through my tangled curls to stroke the hollow at the base of my throat before snaking down to cup my breast.

By the time the taxi pulled up outside the studio, Greg and I were both breathing heavily and the long outline of his erection was visible against the leather that clung so tautly to his crotch. He paid the driver, then we went to knock on the main door. There was no answer, and the door was firmly locked.

‘What now?’ Greg asked, his voice still smoky with desire.

‘I’ve got a spare key,’ I said, and proceeded to hunt for it while Greg attempted to insinuate his hand into the fabric of my borrowed basque.

We made it no further than the grey suede settee in the reception area before Greg’s hands were on me again, unfastening the front of my basque a little clumsily, hampered by the restriction of the handcuffs and my vague attempts to stop him.

‘What if Carol comes in and sees us?’ I protested.

‘I don’t think it’ll come as a shock to her,’ Greg replied, between kissing my bare breasts enthusiastically. ‘Isn’t this what she wanted, after all? Don’t worry, if she turns up, I won’t ask her to join in.’

Then he pushed me down fully on to the settee, and his mouth was on my breasts again, more insistently this time, his tongue playing across my rapidly-hardening nipples, the warm, wet sensation triggering off a wanting in me lower down, a need I knew would be satisfied before too long.

Greg unzipped my miniskirt and we manoeuvred carefully until I was left lying beside him in my hold-up stockings and a lacy black G-string. He bent his head, his long hair brushing sensuously across the tops of my thighs, and kissed me through the G-string. The tiny scrap of lace worked its way further between my lips as I writhed and squirmed under Greg’s touch, setting up a pleasurable friction against my clitoris.

I could feel his cock, rock-hard against me, and I wanted to return the compliment and take him in my mouth, but I knew the chain on the handcuffs was too short to allow us to get into any fancy positions.

Instead, I broke the clinch long enough to prise Greg out of his trousers. Removing his jacket was out of the question, thanks to the chain again, but I had plenty of access to his lightly furred chest and its flat pink nipples. I took one in my mouth, chewing and teasing the tender flesh, and he grimaced for a moment, then relaxed to the sensation. His clever guitarist’s fingers were suddenly inside my G-string, stroking my wet, delicate lips which were already beginning to open for him, and then he found my clit again and it was all too much. His thumb was deep inside my vagina and I bucked and ground against the pressure of his fingers on my little bud, coming in a short spasm of fierce pleasure.

I let him pull the G-string completely from me, clinging to his jacket while my head cleared, and before I quite knew what was happening, the head of his cock was nudging to enter where his thumb had been. I wrapped my legs tight around him as he inched inside me, then we were moving together, setting up an urgent, vital rhythm as our bodies meshed. He pulled out almost all the way before plunging back inside me again, and I caught a glimpse of his cock, slippery with his own lubrication and mine. I cold hear the handcuff chain clinking as we moved, and it was no longer a restraint to my pleasure at all; it simply added to the feeling that Greg and I were bound together for the duration of this glorious fuck.

This was good, this was better than good. Greg knew exactly what he was doing and I was more turned on than I had ever been, reaching my peak against surprisingly quickly. Greg was close to coming, too; I could hear the change in his breathing and feel the light film of sweat that sheened on his chest and thighs. He called my name as he spasmed inside me, and pressed his head between my breasts.

Somewhere behind us, there was a small clink. We looked up to see a vague shape moving away from the main door, and shuffled over to find out what was going on. Lying on the inner doormat was a small, silver key.

Greg tried it experimentally in the handcuffs. Carol had been as good as her word; it was a perfect fit and we finally slid apart from each other.

‘I was just getting used to those.’ I grinned, adjusting to the unaccustomed lightness of my wrist. ‘Couldn’t we have kept them on for a repeat performance?’

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Greg replied, slipping his sweat-stained jacket off his shoulders. ‘How about we take turns in chaining each other to the mixing desk in the studio?’

‘I think that’s the best idea you’ve had all night,’ I said, clasping the handcuffs round his wrists and leading him off to further debauchery.


Julia picked their advert out of the phone book because it made her laugh. Skimming her finger down the page, she came to a line that stood out in bold type: ‘RED INDIAN PAINTERS AND DECORATORS — WE’RE NOT COWBOYS’. She reached for the phone and dialled their number; whether or not their price was cheaper than the firm Miles had suggested, she would offer them the job. She was sick of always doing what Miles wanted: it was more than time she made a few decisions of her own.

The two of them arrived the following Monday morning, in a white Transit van which had seen better days. Even their names seemed suited to a comedy double act: Darren and Des. Julia eyed them as they sat in her kitchen in their overalls stained with the faded remnants of previous decorating jobs, drinking tea: brash Darren the younger of the two, somewhere in his late twenties, with messy blond hair which she suspected he dyed himself and an Estuary accent; Des a little older and from the north, short and wiry, with a permanently worried expression. They were exactly the sort of people Miles hated having around the house, and whatever the standard of their work, if they simply spent the next couple of weeks pissing her husband off, they would more than earn their money.

She had discussed with them exactly what needed doing in the dining room, lounge and hallway, and was eager to leave them alone to get on with the job. A manuscript was sitting two-thirds finished on her PC, the biography of an obscure 19th-century poet, Florence Gascoigne. The deadline was less than a month away, and Julia was struggling to meet it.

‘You’re a writer?’ Des had said, sounding genuinely interested. ‘Would I have read any of your stuff?’

‘Not unless she’s ever written anything for the back page of the Sun,’ Darren had replied scornfully, and gone to lay out his brushes in the dining room.

Though she was normally a stickler for peace and quiet when she was working, Julia felt compelled to keep the door of her study open. She told herself it was so she could hear if Darren and Des started slacking, but she knew that the sounds of their voices and the paint-splattered radio they kept tuned to Capital were a connection to the outside world. Writing was a lonely business, especially when Miles was consistently scornful of her efforts.

She turned back to her screen and re-read the last couple of paragraphs. Florence Gascoigne had died at the age of thirty-two from consumption, a spinster. Many of her poems dealt, in suitably discreet language, with sexual frustration and unrequited love. Julia could certainly understand the frustration side; since Miles had become involved in his latest project at work, he had spent increasingly long hours in the office and seemed to have lost all interest in sex. Like many women in their late thirties, Julia had taken this as a sign she was losing her allure. In an effort to re-kindle Miles’ desire, she had gone out one weekend and had her short, coppery hair cut into a fashionable shag cut, and invested in a new scarlet lipstick and a set of expensive lingerie in that same dramatic hue. She had paraded in front of Miles in the skimpy bra and panties as he sat in the lounge; he had glanced up briefly from his copy of the Telegraph, then grunted and turned back to the financial pages.

It was all too depressing to contemplate, and the weather was not helping. It was unseasonably hot for June, making Julia’s teeshirt cling stickily to her body. She went down to the kitchen to get a cool drink from the fridge.

The decorators had the French windows open as they sanded away the old paint, and Julia wandered into the dining room to check on their progress. Darren had stripped to the waist, and Julia stood for a moment, watching him work. He had a good body, what she could see of it, his chest smooth and lightly tanned. Miles had the beginnings of a paunch, from too many expensive lunches with clients, and Julia found herself wondering how it would feel to run her hands over Darren’s taut pectorals and down the length of his back to cup his small, firm buttocks…

‘Admiring the view?’ a voice behind her asked.

She turned, guiltily, to see Des smiling at her. ‘I was just..,’ she began, aware that she was wearing no bra beneath her teeshirt and that he must have realised that fact.

‘You don’t have to explain to me,’ Des replied. ‘I’m not that tight-arsed husband of yours. If I was, I wouldn’t be so keen to dash off to work. Not when I’d got a cracker like you around the place.’

For a moment, Julia just gaped at him. Perhaps he was testing her out, wanting to see if she would play the offended lady of the house and go running off to Miles to complain. There were enough stuck-up bitches in this part of Surrey who would react in exactly that fashion, but she wasn’t one of them. Deep down, she was secretly basking in Des’ unexpected compliment; it was more of a reaction than she’d got from Miles in months.

When she went back upstairs, she shut the study door firmly, and hitched her skirt up round her waist. Spreading her legs wide, she began to stroke herself, first through the cotton gusset of her panties and then on her naked sex, feeling the juice flow strongly from her as her fingers danced lightly over her clit. Julia closed her eyes, picturing in her mind Darren’s half-naked body and the look of frank admiration in Des’ eyes as his gaze had flickered towards her unfettered breasts. Her orgasm came easily, sending sharp spasms of pleasure through her, and she made more progress on her manuscript that afternoon than she had in the previous two weeks.


By the end of the week, Darren and Des were like two old friends. She had got into the habit of taking her lunch break at the same time as theirs, the three of them sitting on the patio and gossiping. It wasn’t the way one was supposed to treat one’s hired help, but Julia was growing tired of behaving in a manner which was socially acceptable to the neighbours. Miles had always left her in no doubt that it was his money which had enabled them to move into the stockbroker belt and let her stay at home writing, and he expected her to remain eternally grateful for that fact, as if changing the colour of the dining room walls once a year and having a multi-disc CD player in your top-of-the-range BMW was something to aspire to.

They were moving all the junk out of the hall cupboards, ready to begin painting, when Darren dropped Miles’ old briefcase, sending paperwork flying everywhere. He began to apologise, and Julia was waving his explanation away when something caught her eye. It was a bill from a jeweller’s shop in Hatton Garden for a pair of diamond earrings. Miles had never bought her diamonds as long as they had been together. She glanced at another receipt, and another; Miles had been buying suspender belts, panties and camisoles, and she doubted that it was because he had developed a secret fetish for wearing women’s underwear. She grabbed the briefcase from a surprised Darren and took it upstairs, where she could study Miles’ secret spending in private.

It was all so predictable: credit card slips for restaurants she had never been to, on evenings when Miles was supposed to be working late; a booking for the honeymoon suite at a small hotel in the Cotswolds when he had told her he was at a sales conference in Yorkshire. He had covered his tracks so well that not once had Julia suspected that he might be having an affair. No wonder their sex life had withered and died; no wonder he had remained oblivious to her body clad in that seductive scarlet lingerie.

The lingerie… It was neatly folded between sheets of tissue in her underwear drawer, Julia having thought she could never bring herself to wear it again after its startling lack of impact.

She went into the bedroom and undressed rapidly. Glancing at herself in the mirror once she had changed, she registered the way the underwired bra pushed her breasts together, forming a deep cleavage. The high cut lace panties and black hold-up stockings she wore emphasised her long, slender legs. She brushed her hair till it shone, and applied the scarlet lipstick to her bee-stung lips. Then she went to find Des and Darren.

She could not have surprised them more if she had come downstairs naked. Darren was staring at her open-mouthed; Des was smiling the knowing smile she remembered from their first morning on the job.

‘I’ve just found out that my bastard of a husband has been having an affair for at least the past six months,’ she informed them matter-of-factly. ‘The only way I can get over the shock is if the pair of you fuck my brains out.’

For the space of a heartbeat, they seemed to think she was joking. Then Darren, the bolder of the two, caught her in an embrace, pulling her close so that she could feel the solid length of his erection beneath his baggy overalls. They kissed, his tongue pushing into her mouth to take possession of it, as Julia twined her fingers in his long, blond hair.

His hands cupped her breasts, fondling them through the scarlet lace of her bra. She felt her nipples peaking beneath his touch, and found herself wondering dizzily how it would feel if he took them between his lips.

Des was behind her now: she felt his fingers reach for the clasp of her bra and unfasten it. He eased the straps down off her shoulders and Darren helped him remove it. She shivered as Darren’s work-calloused hands caressed her soft, white breasts; groaned in pure erotic pleasure as Des began to ease down her panties. They would be damp with her musky juices when he took them off, and she imagined him putting them to his face and breathing in her intimate odour.

Obediently, she stepped out of the panties. Now all she wore was the lace-topped stockings and her black high heels, and she felt wanton and vulnerable at the same time. Des’ hands spanned her still-trim waist, moved down over her gently flaring hips till he was holding her bottom cheeks. His thumbs traced the cleft between them, brushing briefly over her anal opening. Darren’s mouth was on her breast, suckling her crinkled, apricot-hued nipple. She parted her legs wider, wanting to feel Des’ fingers in her sex. When he obliged, parting her ragged inner lips and slipping one finger into her moist, cavernously empty channel, she felt herself go limp. It had been far too long since fingers other than her own had touched her there.

Between them, the two men half-carried her into the dining room, the furniture still shrouded in dustsheets, and deposited her on all fours. She waited, legs lewdly parted, languorously fingering herself, as Des and Darren stripped off their overalls and underwear. Both men were already erect, Darren’s cock long and slender as it rose from its nest of sandy hair, Des’ shorter and fatter. She did not care which of those two beautiful members filled her, as long as they did it soon.

This time, Des stood before her, presenting his swollen prick to her mouth. She made an O of her scarlet-painted lips, and engulfed the head of his cock between them. He tasted clean and male, and she began to lap eagerly at the droplet of juice which oozed from the little weeping eye. As she sucked, she felt Darren’s hands parting the cheeks of her backside. His blunt glans nudged at the entrance to her sex, seeking entry. She felt him slip inside her, lodging himself in her warm, juicy sheath, and then he was thrusting into her, deeper than she had ever experienced with Miles. Every movement pushed her further on to Des’ cock, so that she was fully impaled at both ends. The radio was playing forgotten in the kitchen; a distant counterpoint to the soft sighing and slapping noises that filled the dining room.

Behind her, Darren was speeding up, his taut balls banging against her bottom with every stroke. Des, unable to resist the wet sucking pressure of Julia’s lips, groaned and filled her mouth with viscous, salty spunk. As Darren gave one last convulsive thrust, Julia felt his cock grow briefly larger within her. She pressed her own fingers hard to her clit, timing it so that they reached orgasm almost at the same time. The sensation was so strong, she almost lost consciousness.


When Miles returned home that evening, he would discover that a few things were missing: Julia’s clothes from the wardrobe, the PC from her study and every last trace of the two-man team from Red Indian Painters And Decorators. In their place, he would be greeted by the immaculately-worded statement, ‘FUCK YOU’, in eggshell emulsion on every wall of every room in the house. As with everything Darren and Des had done for Julia, it was a beautiful job and worth every penny she had paid them. She wished she could be there to see his face, she thought regretfully as she loaded the last of her possessions into the back of the Transit van, but she had other plans for the rest of her life. The two decorators had restored her faith in her own sexuality, and it was time to go out and paint the town red…

On Santa’s Lap

I put my head round the living room door on the way up to bed, wanting to take one last look at the Christmas tree. A pile of prettily wrapped presents stood beneath it. In a few hours, those wrappings would have been reduced to shreds of patterned paper and scrunched-up ribbon, as Chloe and Josh ripped into them, eager to get at the toys inside. Probably at six o’clock tomorrow morning, if last Christmas was anything to go by. On the table stood the plate of mince pies and glass of sherry for Santa and the carrots for his reindeer Chloe had insisted on leaving out before she and her brother had gone to bed.

And by the table, biting into one of those mince pies, was a bearded man in a bright red suit and polished black boots…

‘Santa…’ The word slipped from my lips before I could stop it. I tried to back out of the room quietly, hoping he hadn’t noticed me, but he put the half-eaten pie down and strode in my direction.

‘Who’s there? Who’s spying on me?’

He flung the door open, staring straight at me. I’d expected him to be angry at the fact I’d done what children all over the world dreamed of doing on Christmas Eve and caught him in the act of visiting my home. Instead, as he looked me up and down, dressed in my cream silk nightdress and matching robe, a very different emotion crossed his face.

‘So…’ His tone was jolly, his eyes twinkling above his thick white moustache. ‘Who do we have here?’

‘Molly, Santa.’ My tone was meek, overawed, just as it had been all those years ago when I’d visited the grotto at the biggest department store in town, to sit on his knee and tell him what I wanted for Christmas.

‘Well, Molly, I should have something for you, but first of all I need to know whether you’ve been naughty or nice this year.’

Quickly, I thought back over the last twelve months. It had been the best year I’d experienced since John had died . Bringing up the children on my own had been hard – until Dan came along.

Should I tell Santa about all the nice things that had happened since Dan had stopped being the cute blue-eyed stranger I sometimes sat opposite on the train into town and became the man I went for drinks and dinner with, and eventually the man who shared my bed and acted as a surrogate father to Chloe and Josh. Should I mention the trip to the seaside, where we’d gone hunting for crabs in rock pools and walked along the promenade eating enormous ice creams? Or the time Dan had pulled an all-nighter in the office, trying to meet a pressing deadline, and I’d gone over there with sandwiches and a flask of soup for him?

I wanted to list all the nice things I’d done – and had done for me in return – but the more I thought of Dan, and the more Santa watched me with a look of rising desire, the more my naughty side came to the fore. Persuading my mother to take the children for the weekend, so Dan and I could spend our time alone having sex in every room in the house. Using one of Dan’s sober work ties to fasten his wrists to the bed rail and teasing his bound body with a long, tickly feather. Turning up at his office on another occasion wearing nothing but lingerie under my coat and fucking Dan on his desk.

Weighing up the evidence, there was only one answer I could honestly give. ‘Santa, I’ve been naughty.’

Santa shook his head wearily, but his smile was still broad. ‘At your age, you really should know better, Molly. I said I had something for you – well, I regret to say it’s a spanking.’

He didn’t sound like he was regretting it at all, I thought as he took my hand and led me into the living room. If anything, he seemed to be looking forward to it.

‘Don’t you have other places to be?’ I asked. ‘Other presents to hand out?’

‘Only here, only handing out what you obviously richly deserve. Now come on, take off that robe and climb on my knee.’

He sat on the sofa, spreading his broad thighs slightly. Looking at him, I realised that for the first time in twenty years, I was going to find myself on Santa’s lap. I was surprised to realise the prospect of this big, strong man spanking my arse thrilled me as much as it alarmed me.

Even so, as I positioned my8self obediently over his knee, feeling the slightly scratchy wool of his red suit against my bare legs, I couldn’t help wondering whether this was going to hurt.

His hand stroked the curves of my bum as he murmured, ‘Oh, naughty Molly, what are we going to do with you?’ Then he smacked my left cheek, just hard enough to sting.

I gave a little yelp, wriggling on his lap. He ignored my reaction, swatting my other cheek. He’d obviously done this before, because he knew just how to vary the pace of my spanking. The sense of not knowing when the next smack was going to land, and how hard it would be, had my stomach knotted with tension. More importantly, it was causing my pussy to get wet. Of all the reactions I’d expected to have to being spanked, this was the last thing I’d imagined happening. How could it turn me on to have my bottom peppered with fierce, burning slaps? But it was. The sense of being so vulnerable, so deliciously submissive, was turning me on like never before.

When he lifted the hem of my nightdress, exposing my bare bottom, I didn’t object. I wanted him to do it, to take a good long look at the red marks his palm had left on my creamy skin before resuming my spanking. I tried to turn my head, to see his reaction, but he pressed me firmly into place.

‘Oh, no, Molly, this isn’t over yet. A naughty girl like you really needs to be reminded how to behave…’

With that, he swatted my bum again. Without the admittedly scant protection of my nightdress, I felt the blow all the more keenly. Another half-dozen hard slaps followed, but after each one, he rubbed the flesh of my arse, his hand slowly moving lower till he was playing with the juicy folds of my pussy. By now, I knew he was just as excited as I was; the hard bulge in his trousers was all the proof I needed of that.

‘You took that so well,’ he said, as he helped me off his knee.’Perhaps you do deserve a present, after all.’

As he unzipped his fly, I knew exactly what that present would be. He brought his cock out, letting me admire the mouthwateringly hard length for a moment.

Then he hauled me back on to his lap again. I guided the head of his cock into place and let the weight of my body pull me down on to him. He filled me like a well-stuffed Christmas stocking, almost taking my breath away. I held steady for a moment, adjusting to the feel of him inside me.

This really is the naughtiest thing I’ve ever done, I thought as I rode him. And I’m loving it. I had no concerns that Chloe and Josh might wake up and interrupt us. They would be sound asleep, dreaming of snowmen and reindeer and all the fun they were going to have with their own presents tomorrow.

Beneath me, Santa groaned and stiffened slightly. I knew he couldn’t be far from coming, and I speeded up my movements, grinding down hard on to the root of his cock. His finger sought out my clit, rubbing it swiftly in the moments before his orgasm hit him and he filled me with his seed. The sight of him, blue eyes half-closed, bearded face contorted in bliss, spurred me on. My fingers replaced his between my legs, and in moments I was coming, tiny snowflakes whirling behind my closed eyelids.

It took a while before I recovered enough to ease myself off his slowly wilting erection.

‘That was amazing,’ he said, as he unhooked the beard from behind his ears.

‘I told you it would be,’ I replied, kissing his soft, familiar mouth. That was one of the things I loved about Dan; his willingness to try new ways of spicing up our sex life. He’d initially been reluctant to try this game of Christmas discipline, certain he would feel silly in the role I wanted him to play, but the results had been well worth it. ‘We’ll just have to make sure to get the costume dry-cleaned before we take it back to the fancy dress shop.’

Dan made to remove the red jacket, obviously thinking the game was over for the night, but I stopped him.

‘Leave it on,’ I said, slithering slowly down till my mouth was on a level with his gorgeous cock. ‘They say Santa only comes once a year, but I intend to prove them wrong…’