A Night At The Manor House free porn video

When Angie and I received the invitation to the fundraiser up at Mere Manor, there is no way I could have anticipated the impact our attending would have on our marriage. I was already nursing suspicions, half-formed fears that she and her boss James were up to no good. But I had nothing concrete to go on, no facts to call on, no stick to wield.

Even though it was not her first visit to the house, Angie was inordinately excited by the prospect of being an actual guest at such a prestigious social event. The hours she had previously spent at the house had been merely professional, an essential aspect of her new position. When James had returned from London six months before, to oversee the running of his father's old company, he had taken an instant shine to Angie. Impressed by her conscientious diligence, her flair for minutia, he had made her his P.A. — and the fact Angie was a gorgeous and flirtatious nineteen-year-old may also have aided her cause.

When I asked her questions about her new role, she would never elaborate on precisely what her tasks were when away from the warehouse, her usual day to day office routine. Evading the question, she would say, "Just accounting stuff. James is training me up, wants me to handle the estate finances."

I did not press her. Angie was happier than I had ever known her. She brimmed with a fresh certainty, had that glow about her only a newfound self-confidence can bring to a person.

The invitation we received through the post had surprised her just as much as it had me, both our names clear as day on the formal, gold inlaid invitation card.

I knew what these social events could be like. It was the world of my parents, a world of aspiration and greed, the rush to self-betterment, the epitome of everything the seventies counter-cultural-me despised. The thought of spending four hours pretending to be better than I was had no appeal. But Angie insisted, said it was essential we both attend. When I pressed her, asked her why it was so important, she became evasive, said I should trust her, that everything would soon make sense.

 And so that Saturday evening we drove out to Mere Manor in my old Cortina. A servant in tails met us at the door. He wanted to take my jacket, but I would not give it up. The house, built in Elizabethan times, was full of paintings and armour. 

All the civic worthies were in attendance: people from the council, the Rotary Club, Freemasons, trustees of local charities, and some thespian-type seeking backing for the building of a new theatre-in-the-round.

Dressed in a short party dress, I thought Angie out of place. She moved among the other guests like an exotic fish winding through a bed of dead coral. Most were middle-aged, older, married couples, the men in tuxedos and bow-ties, the women all elegant in long evening gowns, their necks and wrists decked in gold and gems. With my collar-length hair, my casual jacket and opened-necked shirt, black Wranglers and desert boots, I felt miss-assigned, an oddity.

It was to be my first meeting with James Harrison, Angie's boss, the man she was forever banging on about. What can I say? He was everything I thought he would be. Yes, he was charming; yes, he made me welcome and showed an interest in me. He even asked me what I was in to, where did I work — blah-blah-blah. But I knew it was all feigned, my presence suffered only because of Angie. It only took two minutes in his company to realise I could easily come to despise him.

But that night, my eyes were opened to the broad sweep of people Angie had dealings with each day, how highly she was regarded. Men and women would come over to say hello, hug her warmly and kiss her cheek, all genuinely pleased to see her. Looking back now, I understand how all the attention she received made me jealous. Not in a sexual way, more that I was afraid she was leaving me behind, out-growing me, changing from the sweet girl I had married and becoming a grown-up, independent woman.

James's wife, Natasha, saw my discomfort and went out of her way to put me at ease. She stayed by my side, continued chatting with me even when James led Angie away by the hand to show her off to some influential local toff. A guy from the planning department of the local council named Colin Worther. 

So Natasha and I chatted while I kept one eye on Angie and James. When Natasha learned I was a musician, played bass guitar in a band, she asked what kind of stuff did we perform, had we cut a disc? The conversation moved on to her days as a model in London, her features growing animated as she told stories about the musicians she had met back in the mid-sixties. She had been just sixteen when she left home and headed down London. I admired her audacity in leaving her family with no idea how her life might unfold.

"I've been so lucky," she said, "I've met everyone who is anyone: Twiggy, Mick Jagger, George Harrison, John Lennon — and Yoko too. And now I'm with James," she said with a strained smile.

I smiled and nodded as she continued to drop names, eyed her sophisticated beauty and wondered what it would be like to be married to such a tall and beautiful, elegant woman. 

I began to envy James, his marriage to such an articulate and attractive female. But even as we chatted, I continued to watch every move Angie made, surreptitiously tracking her as James led her from one chatting group to another. Natasha saw my distraction and followed my eyes over to where James was introducing Angie to a distinguished-looking middle-aged man and his wife. The man, who was in his early fifties, I guessed, took Angie's hand and kissed it in an ostentatiously old-fashioned, gentlemanly sort of way.

His wife looked to be in her mid-forties. She still had her figure, but time had begun to etch its tale into her features. While her husband charmed Angie, the woman scrutinised her. It was as if she were trying to ascertain her suitability for a position as a parlour maid. Angie would turn to look at her from time to time, and the older woman would give her a polite, tight smile.

I thought the man's florid face looked familiar. And then it came to me who he was: our local Tory member of parliament, the Right Honourable Galen Montague Tonks. His wife was a local magistrate, Dr Phillipa Tonks.

Natasha took two drinks from the tray of a passing waiter and handed one to me. I hardly noticed it in my hand, sipped absently while still angling for a better view of what Angie was up to.

When Natasha saw how I followed Angie's every move, she said, "Don't worry about that old lecher Galen. He wouldn't know what to do with a beautiful young creature like your Angie."

Her words did not reassure me, especially when James was called away, leaving Angie stranded with the couple. Tonks was standing uncomfortably close to Angie — too close for my liking. I could see the discomfort that the invasion of her body space caused her. Soon his arm had slid around her waist, his palm coming to rest in the small of her back. From time to time, he would lean in to whisper intimacies into her ear as if taking her into his confidence and imparting some choice item of scandal.

For me, this was an intimacy too far. I watched his lips moving as he laughed, thought them inordinately lush for an ageing man. I imagined them hissing a salacious proposition, his breath warm and muggy on her flesh. I tried to read Angie's expression, searching for clues to what he might be saying as she nodded her head oh-so earnestly.

Even though I could not hear what Tonks was saying to my wife, there was a fierce insistence in his demeanour. Suddenly a squall of alarm swept Angie's features as Tonks's wife reached out and gently brushed a lock of unruly hair away from her face, hooking it behind her right ear.

I decided it was time for me to rescue my wife. And so I excused myself to Natasha and started off in their direction. Immediately she grabbed my arm to prevent me from leaving her side.

"Don't make a scene, Paul. Your wife will be fine. They're harmless enough. And besides, James is forever singing Angie's praises. She sounds a capable young lady. I'm sure she can look after herself." Then she took my hand and said, "Come with me. There's someone I want you to meet."

Ignoring my reluctance, she led me in the opposite direction from where Angie and the Tonks couple were standing. As I turned away, the sound of Angie's laughter rose fleetingly above the background chatter, and I turned and gave her one last look and saw her smiling easily, warming to the attention she was receiving. I found it hard to believe she was enjoying the interest this geriatric couple was lavishing on her.

We moved through the crowded room hand in hand, slipping between the laughing and chattering cliques. Natasha was saying something about someone called Maggie. I wasn't really listening, my thoughts still with my wife and the Tonks couple. I kept asking myself what did they want with her? Angie would have nothing in common with either of them.

We came to a standstill at the foot of the large mullioned window that filled one wall of the main hall. Natasha was still holding my hand when she absently said, "Now where can that girl be? I saw her only five minutes ago. Ah! There she is." And then she waved, called out, "Maggie, darling. Over here! I have a lovely person I want you to meet." And then to me, "Maggie is in a band too," said in a voice so confident that we would immediately click because of it. "She's the singer in Peterloo — you might have heard about them. Apparently, they are set for great things. Maggie is just back from their first tour."

Yes, I'd heard of Peterloo. Meeting Maggie Tavener, their lead singer, would be a memory-making moment. Seeing the alternative rock scene's new darling in the flesh took my breath away. The black and white photos I'd seen in the New Musical Express hardly did her strange allure justice. Her mass of sun-bright hair was an explosion of gold falling over her shoulders, a living tangle of gilded curls. The low cut of her top revealed nothing at all. She had no cleavage worth mentioning, only pale flesh girlishly daubed with freckles.

Although in her early twenties, she had the willowy gracelessness of a self-consciously tall adolescent. She was wearing a tiny white cotton embroidered waistcoat-type top with a matching maxi skirt of red and cream made of the same material. Dressed like that, she looked more out of place than even Angie in her mini dress. 

Her careless greeting, "Hi," was laced with absence and tedium. But her green eyes brimmed with glinting mischief that made nonsense of her affected ennui, never once wavering as she studied me. Then turning to Natasha, "You are such a darling to think of me like this, bringing me such a lovely person to play with. How on earth did you manage to excavate someone so gorgeous from among all these old fossils?"

And just for a moment, I thought she was taking the piss, that she would be like the alpha girls when I was still a fat kid back at school, quick to disembowel with glance or word.

"Paul is a musician too," Natasha said. "I thought the pair of you might entertain each other. Paul's wife has been waylaid by Galen and Phillipa."

"Oh, dear God! The poor girl," Maggie said with mock solemnity. Then putting on a sad little girl's face, she turned to me and said, "And I suppose your wife is outrageously pretty?"

Her words caused me to look anxiously about the room. A moment of panic when I realised I could no longer see Angie. "Exceptionally pretty," I said, remembering just how gorgeous Angie was.

"I would run off right now and find her before it's too late," Maggie said, going up on tip-toe as if to look over the heads of all the guests in a vain attempt to spot Angie.

"Should I?" I said, readying myself to dash away to her rescue.

Maggie linked my arm, speaking to me with a voice full of coy, girlish charm. "I was just teasing you, sweetheart. Natasha will make sure your lovely wife comes to no harm. Won't you, darling?" 

"Of course," Natasha said. "I'll leave you to each other — for now," the words 'for now' delivered to Maggie with conspiratorial relish.

"And besides, I'm bored with all these geriatrics," Maggie was now saying. "So you're in a band, are you...?" 

"I play bass." 

"And are you any good?"

I'd studied the double bass at school and later auditioned for the Halle Youth Orchestra. I told her all this in tedious detail, really bigging myself up. But I didn't mention I'd abandoned my music for the quick-fix of cash that working continental shifts on the production line of the local tyre factory brought. I only rehearsed bass guitar with our band once a week in the neighbourhood community centre.

We chatted about music while at the back of my mind I still fretted about Angie. Natasha kept banging on about the guys in her band, how there were creative issues. Why were blokes so egotistical? Appears they all resented the attention the music press lavished on her. She said she could see a split coming. "And just as we were about to get somewhere. Such a bummer!"

Then her mood brightened and she said, "You don't want to hear about my worries. Have you seen around the house yet?"

"Have you?" I asked

"Usually, I see it every day."

"Oh?"

"But I've been away on tour for seems an eternity. Did Natasha not explain about me?"

"You're Maggie Tavener. What more is there to say?"

"The fact that I live here."

My imagination ran through every improbable scenario that had brought this strangely beautiful girl to be a resident in a place such as Mere Manor.

"You live here with James and Natasha?"

"When I'm not touring. I only got back last night."

"So what brings you north, luv?" I said, hamming up the northern accent.

"Just a small thing, really."

"What small thing?

"James is my father?"

"Your father! But Natasha must be only ten years older than you."

"Eight actually. No, I'm from the previous marriage. Annabelle was my mother. She died when I was little."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I hardly remember her. I was only three when she died."

"Sad all the same," I said.

"Never mind all that. Now follow me," she said, taking my hand and leading me away.

Hand in hand, we wended our way through the other guests like two small children attempting to flee unnoticed from a stuffy room crammed with grown-ups. Outside of the main reception hall, the house was deathly quiet as Maggie led me from room to room. 

As we traipsed from one space to another, Natasha kept up a running commentary supplying background details to every room we visited. Her knowledge of the antiques and art that filled the house impressed me. And for her part, she seemed delighted to have someone to show off her expertise to.

"How come you know so much about the house?" I asked

"I was studying art history before the band signed the contract. I've always loved beautiful things."

I was becoming increasingly enchanted by Maggie's unique beauty, her wistful intelligence.

After half an hour we had moved upstairs having finished our tour of the ground floor.

"I've saved the best to last," she said. "Come on. I'm dying to show you." 

"And this is me," she said, leading me into a high-ceilinged room that was home to a monstrously large four-poster bed.

The chamber was bathed in a honeyed light cast by the setting sun, still clearly visible over the hilly horizon through the two eight-foot mullioned windows set in the far wall. I walked over and gazed out and saw that this aspect overlooked the front of the house. Below me, the guest's cars were parked up in neat lines on the gravel drive. Beyond this were extensive formal gardens, and then richly green pasture falling away to a river which swept around dog's leg of a bend before straightening and continuing on to Badback Falls, a half-mile away. On the far side of the river rose the shadow bulk of Whitterton Downs.

"Best view in the house," Maggie said, coming to stand by my side. Then she placed her arm about my waist and rested her head against my upper arm. "Make love to me," she whispered.

I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly and so turned my head to the side and saw her eyes looking up at me, full of such sad need. I turned to her fully, so that we stood face to face, and she went up on her toes while encircling my neck with both arms to kiss me with compelling urgency.

I was taken by surprise, frozen to the spot while a cascade of thoughts about Angie and Galen Tonks began tumbling over themselves. "Maggie. I'm sorry, but I'm happily married."

"How sure are you about that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Does Angie love you as much as you do her?"

"Things are not great at the moment, but we're working it out."

Even though Angie and I had discussed taking lovers, now that the moment was here I wanted to run her and talk it over before taking the plunge.

"I think its time you got to know your wife better," Maggie was saying.

"What do you mean?"

"Come with me."

I followed her out of the room, my mind in utter turmoil. She set a brisk pace hurrying along the landing, so unlike how we had meandered from room to room earlier. "Maggie! Please wait!" I called to her. "Where are we going?"

Down passageways, turning corners, soon we were passing through a doorway into a long gallery. Ancient paintings in ornate gilded frames lined the walls: landscapes and hunting scenes, an abundance of ancestral portraits of the Tregarted family, the previous owners of the manor Maggie had explained on our earlier tour.

She walked directly to a gap among the paintings where a small plaque was set in the wall. She moved it aside to reveal a small window that resembled the porthole of a ship.

"This used to be a spy hole from where the residents could look down on the entrance hall of the original house," she informed me. "The Lord of the manor could spy on visitors before deciding on whether to put in an appearance. The house was remodelled in the seventeenth century, an upper floor added. Now it looks into one of the guest chambers. Would you like to see?"

"What is there to see?" I asked, really puzzled now.

"You won't know until you look, will you?"

She moved aside, and I took her place and gazed through the glass. It was semi-dark on the other side of the wall, and I could just make out a four-poster bed like the one in Maggie's room. As my eyes acclimatised, I could make out movement. A naked girl was kneeling on the mattress. She was facing away from me, her long dark hair trailing down her back as her body undulated slowly back and forth. It was as she were a rider controlling a horse performing dressage.

Another figure came into view, and I recognised Phillipa Tonks immediately from her permed hair, gown and jewels. She stood at the side of the bed with a champagne flute in hand watching the girl. The woman reached out with her free hand to cradle the girl's right breast. And then I knew who the people on the bed were, what the girl's rhythmic movements implied. That was my Angie riding the cock of The Right Honourable Galen Montague Tonks, reverse cowgirl.

The blood in my bones froze, and I felt my legs abandoning their post. When I turned to Maggie I saw she was smiling.

"I thought it only right that you know. So do you still think you're happily married?" Maggie said in a voice that suggested a tedious chore had at last been completed.

I turned back to face her. "You've known all along — haven't you!"

"Dear Galen has taken quite a shine to your Angie. Daddy needs him. He has a vital role on some parliamentary committee. Without your wife's — shall we say — participation in the transaction, Daddy might have lost millions.

"Oh, Jesus!" 

My world was crashing down. All my suspicions about what Angie was getting up to since working for James were now confirmed. But, in a way, it was a release. I felt unburdened. I turned to Maggie and took her in my arms.

No girl had ever kissed me the way Maggie did that first time. Her lips moved in sensuous undulations, her tongue continually flickering and darting. While below, her willowy body pressed against me, the feather-waft of her skirt clinging to her legs as she stood with them parted enough so that her mons settled against my upper thigh.

While we kissed, her actuality seemed to fade in and out of focus. A kind of alternating between materiality and something almost imaginary. It was as if she had become no longer substantial, half-dreamlike. Even though she held herself against me passionately, it was a nearly frictionless contact as if she were a viscous fluid that ebbed and flowed in my arms, the tide of her flesh drawn by the gravity of my lust. I did not open my eyes until the kiss had ended because I was so afraid that if I did she might vanish.

She broke from me and said, "Not here." And then she took my hand like she had earlier, led me back to her room

At the foot of her four-poster bed, she went down on her knees and undid my belt and zip, and then tugged my jeans down to my ankles. And then she took my cock in her mouth with practised aplomb and did those things that all good girls know how to do.

When she was satisfied that I was primed, she stood and removed her top, slowly undoing each button while holding my gaze. She tugged with her fingers and wriggled her hips to lose her skirt, quickly stepped out of the discarded cotton at her feet. The sun had yet to fully set. In the declining light, Maggie's flesh, in daylight the hue of ripe pear-flesh, appeared rosy pink as if illuminated by unseen stage lighting.

I stood and gaped at the wonder of her. In her flat sandals, she was four inches shorter than I. About five-eight, I'd say. Her hips looked ripe and softly curved, exaggerated and enhanced by the narrowness of her waist. Her breasts were small, in fact nearly something not at all, her nipples just dark smears printed on her chest.

I kissed her again, and then I let my tongue travel over her neck and on down. Her skin was all scented sandalwood; her soap I supposed. Its taste and fragrance made my mind spin. Though her upper body was boyish, she was utterly female in her manner, her movements so fluid, so graceful. 

My tongue went to her chest searching for contours that could never be found. But her nipples were a nursing mother's, became stiff and pliant. I nipped them gently, and she cooed her delight in a tone full of her songs. The feathery down of hair between her legs was so different than Angie's dark scrub. She widened her legs for me as my palm sealed her cunt, the ball of my hand massaging her mons. She was unctuous down there, what she seeped slathering the cupped palm of my hand.

My fingers well greased, I sent the middle two tractionless between her butt cheeks, pressed them deep until their tentative probing found that darkest point of female tightness. I had imagined she would stall me for such brash overfamiliarity. But no! God, how she moaned her pleasure when I pressed the matter home, my forefinger breaking the tight seal of her sphincter, sinking inside her, knuckle deep. The coming and going of my arse-sunk finger heated her passion. Air hissed through her nostrils as I continued to finger her, becoming loud in my ear from the depth of our kissing.

"I want you to finger me like this while you fuck me," she gasped before breaking from me and going to lie on the bed.

Now the sun had all but set, and the deepening gloam the room filled with shadows. I undressed in the half-darkness as Maggie watched from the canopied gloom of the bed. I came to her a cock-driven beast, my humanity usurped by base animal lust. All I knew was an overwhelming need to push my cock into her flesh, sink into her and lose myself in her enveloping softness, her lush and oily depths. When I knelt on the mattress between her arched and spread legs, I was lion-rampant with excited expectation.

I gripped my cock fist-tight, squeezed gently, repeatedly, savouring its girth, so self-satisfied with its dimensions, its tested reliability. Proudly, gleefully, I anticipated how much it would please her. Holding the shaft like that, poised and about to take her, lent me the same certainty the grip of a broadsword between pommel and crossguard might give a warrior before the charge.

I began to massage the length of Maggie's pussy with the bulb of my cock, daubing and spreading my pre-cum hither and thither with bold and daring strokes, and then finer points made with the revealed raw tip quite gently. While I worked, drawing the shaft back and forth from mons to perineum, I looked down at her face to discern her response. The half-darkness kept her expression a secret, but when I pushed into her gently, she moaned as if coaxed to join with others in some unheard harmony. The gently understated pleasure in her tone soothed me, regulating my thrusts into statements of elegance, expressions of my gratitude. Her cunt had my full attention, the squeeze of its walls closing warmly around my cock in glorious participation.

I became giddy from her lithe, faux peasant girl strangeness. In the exotic atmosphere of the manor house bed-chamber, she became otherworldly, no longer a contemporary girl and the singer in a cool, acid-folk-rock group, more someone transported from the past of the house, maybe the youngest daughter of the household, a governess or scullery maid. 

I pressed the end of my cock against the entrance of her cum-steeped pussy, pausing again in a moment of anticipation before I let it sink into her waiting succulence. And despite her wetness, I found her tighter than any girl I'd known. One determined push and her cunt accepted me, its molly-coddling greeting gripping me and drawing me deeper, swaddling my shaft while its visceral desperation for gratification egged me on. The buck of her hips encouraged me, and I exerted myself until my pubic hairs grated against hers, the rasping of our clashing mons lewdly whispering the news that my cock had reached the limits of her knowable depths.

When I paused again, this time to savour the moment of maximum penetration, the reality of her delicious female otherness. 

She gazed up at me and said, "Remember what I told you?" 

Just for a moment, I did not understand — and then did. And so I sent my hands under Maggies sumptuous, silken buttocks and returned my probing finger to its new haunt. Her cum had trickled into the crevice of her arse, and my index finger slipped home without complaint. 

As I fucked her, finding my pace, establishing a steady rhythm, I barely registered the click of heels on ancient floorboards, Natasha's voice quietly saying, "Oh, darling, you promised you'd wait." 

Natasha's sudden arrival at such a critical moment in my rutting unnerved me, and my cunt-locked cock began to dwindle. I rolled from Maggie and looked at Natasha, convinced the sound of her voice would prove to be some weird hallucination, one in keeping with the bizarreness of the evening.

Maggie sat up and said to Natasha, "Just warming him up for you, darling. Why don't you get undressed and join us?" 

I watched Natasha discard her clothes, my brain barely comprehending what was happening. Even in the way she disrobed, she retained the grace and elegance of her modelling days, shedding each item as tree lazily shedding autumn fruit on warm September evening, each garment becoming inconsequential as it fell to the floor.

Her tall, lithe beauty entranced me; such mystery in her movements. And when she made her way towards the bed, it was as if her long legs took no part in the easy sashay of her hips. As she approached me, her eyes never once left me, were bright with a satisfied, secret conceit.  

But it was Maggie she went and lay down beside, saying, "I'm sorry I didn't have time for you earlier, sweetheart. I missed you terribly while you were away." 

Their lips met in a warm long-anticipated greeting while their limbs and torsos entwined like two lamias, pale and sleek in the gloomed cloister of the bed. Maggie reclined, drawing Natasha down with her. The confluence of their torrential hair fell before them to mingle and pool around their heads. As I looked on, their individuality became vague, diminished by the shadow cast by the bed's canopy. I became no longer sure which of the two girls I had earlier been fucking.

As she settled with Maggie, Natasha asked, "Does he know?"

Both girls turned and looked at me. "He knows," Maggies said. All the devious self-serving of the female sex burned bight in both their eyes.

"Once your father gets something into his head, there's no dissuading him. And then it's me who has to sort it all out," Natasha said.

"He used to drive me potty as a child," Maggie said.

"We'll have lots of us time later."

"Promise?"

"I promise," Natasha said. And then she kissed Maggie on the lips with the passion of lovers long apart now reunited.

And throughout this female reacquainting, all I could think of was Angie, and how perhaps it was not only she who being used by these people. I stood up and began to gather my clothes, thinking about how we were both mere sexual fodder for the depraved needs of these people. Then I put those thoughts aside, realising the opportunity to be with two women as beautiful as Maggie and Natasha rarely came a man's way.

And so I stood and stared as the two women kissed long and deep. And when their kiss ended, Natasha seemed to remember me. It was as if she had just recalled an item of shopping recently purchased and carried home for tea, a slice of succulent meat left forgotten at the bottom of her shopping bag.

"Oh, Paul! Don't be sad; we've not forgotten you — have we, Maggie?"

Maggie was already on her feet, came to me and took my hand and led me back to the bed. I lay down between them and allowed their soft, svelt bodies to hem me in. They turned on their sides to face me, positioning themselves as womanly bookends to hold my desperate libido firmly in place, each easing a leg over one of mine.

They selflessly shared me, each kissing me for a moment before allowing the other to appropriate my lips. I became quite passive while first one and then the other's tongues came and went. And while one kissed me, the other would send her lips to my neck, throat, ears, and chin until it was her time with my mouth again. There was a rivalry in their kissing. And as they swapped, I sensed each trying to outdo the other in sheer sensuality.

The sweetest female lips each side of me travelling down my body, tongues flickering, teeth nipping, every move synchronised to perfection. Four hands moving over my flesh like free and scurrying creatures let loose over my body, quite whimsical in where they would linger. Soon they began to share my cock in the same way as they had my lips only minutes earlier, Natasha going first and licking the length of it from balls to tip.

Then she would move aside for Maggie, who opened wide and took the mass deep into the back of her throat. They passed my cock back and forth like that until I had to stay their enthusiasm by pushing them both aside. I was so scared I would lose what they had stoked up in me.

But too late. "Oh, God!" My cock in spasms, sending a jet of cum that filled Maggie's mouth that caused her to gulp greedily, trying her best not to lose not a drop.

But she was not up to the task, and my copious cum dribbled from between her lips.

"Don't waste it!" Natasha said, moving closer. And with that, she leaned into Maggie and began to gently lick away the trickling cum from her lips and chin.

I stood up and walked over to the window and stared out at the gardens still berating myself for getting so excited. When I turned and looked back, someone had turned on the bedside lamp. On the bed, I saw Maggie on her back and alone. She touched her cunt absently, the fine down of her pubic hair as fairy-fluff in the lamplight. And beneath it, the pink of her gash all of a glisten from her seeping cum. 

I looked for Natasha, saw her over by an antique chest of drawers.

"Try the bottom one," Maggie called to her.

"Are you sure?"

"It should be there."

Natasha stooped to open the bottom drawer and began hurriedly rummaging through its contents. Finally, she stood up with her prize: an enormous dildo set in latex pants.

She came over to the bed and stepped into the new garment, stretching the material over her hips. After a few adjustments, she stood proudly at the foot of the bed with the dildo jutting, swaying from side to side before her.

"It's been a while," Natasha said while looking down curiously at the unwieldy contraption jutting from her hips.

The anticipation of seeing Maggie fucked by Natasha had me well on the way to resurrection. Natasha knelt on the bed, positioned herself between Maggie's parted legs.

At first, Natasha's thrusts were uncertain, considerate of Maggie's comfort. Little by little, the girl's response reassured her by the way she sent her hips to welcome each new encroachment of the tunnelling strap-on. Natasha's growing excitement instilled her with careless confidence, and she began to fuck her step-daughter with a kind of masculine, selfish disregard.

While Natasha fucked her the girl with increasing athleticism, I went to the side of the bed and sat down on mattress edge and let my hand stroke the length of Natasha's back, it rising and falling with each thrust she made. I adjusted myself, kneeled by their side and let both my arms caress where they wanted. I moved aside her hair to reveal her shoulders, marvelling at her fine, almost athletic sinews. Such tension in her upper arms as she supported herself above her lover.

Watching the two women making love to each other at such close quarters soon had my cock hard again. They sang their pleasure to each other in every exhale, the hum of their mingled gratification became a duet of quiet tenderness. 

 Natasha, tired of using her dildo, slid down the bed and began to attend to Maggie's cunt with her tongue. I decided it was time for me to once again take part in the action. As Natasha continued to gobble and slurp at Maggie's pussy, I removed her dildo. And then I rubbed my reawakened cock back and forth along the crevice of her plump, soft buttocks, sometimes pushing aside both cheeks and then letting then collapse along the length of my cock's shaft.

I considered fucking her in the arse, then thought perhaps I would be pushing my luck. I slid my cock down to the mouth of her pussy and pushed it into her effortlessly. She was like over-ripe blended exotic soft fruit in there, and I plunged inside her deep and fast until my lower abdomen was buffeting her buttocks. I set a pace, gripping either side of her hips with my flanking palms. They became twin vice jaws to steady her while I pounded her. I wanted to prove a point, wanted them both to know it was not for any lack of libido on my part that my wife had become their pimping father/husband's whore.

I will not catalogue the combinations and configuration of our bodies that night. It would sound improbable if I tried to describe them in detail, the depth and number of our orgasms would implausible. But I know what I experienced, the passion I swam in with two beautiful two females.

In the morning, I found Angie sitting at an enormous table in the manor house dining room eating cereal from a silver bowl.

"So now I know you," I said.

"Best that you do," she replied. "Are we still okay?" 

"As okay as any two degenerates can be."

I went to the sideboard where an array of cereal awaited my choice. I chose shreddies and poured milk into a silver bowl. Then I went and sat beside Angie, kissed her cheeks lightly, and began to eat my breakfast.

THE END