Groomsman
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Double-Room free porn video
“Double-Room” (circa-1970)
After the death of Victoria, and his brother Frank away most of the time with the British Armed Forces and his younger sister Eve in those unbearable teenage years, living at home with his parents was never going to be the same. So when Gary Fowler offered him the opportunity to move into his flat, it didn’t take him long to make up his mind.
In the beginning their loyalty and friendship towards each other worked quite well, but over time, with one glass half-empty and one glass half-full and two completely different personalities, the cracks were beginning to show. So when Stella Mason asked Gary to move into her two bedroom house, he jumped at the chance.
But although they weren’t living together they still remained good friends, especially when Gary sustains major injuries in a head-on car accident.
It took most of the day and all his energy to help Gary move his belongings out of the flat they had shared for the last eighteen-months and into his new home with Stella Mason.
He was tired and exhausted and he wasn’t really in the mood for going out. But with only a couple of cigarettes left in the packet, he knew he would have to visit the off-licence at the end of the street.
Grabbing his leather jacket from a chair and picking up his door key and wallet from a table, taking the stairs two at a time, heading along the narrow street, glancing at his watch, trying to remember if Laura Beckett closed her shop at eight or nine o’clock.
He hadn’t got very far when it started to rain.
Lifting his collar and pulling the zip up on his jacket he ran from the storm.
“Fucking rain,” he cursed, wiping water from his eyes, cursing again and quickening the pace when the lights inside the shop faded into darkness, eventually reaching the front door and stepping into a small entrance lobby to shelter from the rain.
Brushing his hand across the murky glass, blinking his eyes and peering into the darkness, catching sight of a shadowy figure climbing a step ladder behind the counter, a shapely bottom inside a short skirt and flashes of white thighs blossoming from a pair of knee length leather boots keeping his interest long enough to take in the vision of feminine delights and to make an adjustment inside his pants.
The unexpected sound of fingers tapping gently over the glass and the haunting silhouette of a faceless shadow at the door startled her and she almost lost her balance at the top of the ladder. After regaining her composure and recognising the familiar face looking through the glass, a welcoming smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
Staring out through the misty glass, narrowing her eyes and pointing a finger at the sign on the door, lifting her eyes and pouting her lips in a motioning gesture of apologetic words… “We’re closed.”
Placing the palms of his hands together in that common sign for begging, pursing his lips and mimicking a smoking gesture with two fingers, silently mouthing back… “Please.”
As the deadlock disengaged from the latch and the fluorescent lamps pinged and buzzed bringing the room back to life, he entered the solitude of the shop.
“Thanks Laura. I owe you one,” he smiled. “I need a packet of cigarettes” he added, shaking water from his jacket onto the vinyl floor.
“I couldn’t leave you in the rain,” she replied, with a hint of amusement. “And I wouldn’t do it for anyone else,” she added, a thin smile showing a small gap between her two front teeth.
“I know your brand,” she announced, picking a pack of twenty cigarettes from the fixture.
“I was just about to pour myself a drink before taking a shower. If you follow me into the kitchen I’ve got a spare umbrella you can borrow. It’s a little girlish, but it’ll keep you dry.”
In all the time he had known Laura he couldn’t remember ever seeing her with a man, which he thought was strange, because although she wasn’t stunningly attractive, for a woman in her late-thirties, she had a fantastic body.
“I drink alone far too often, so if you’re not in a hurry.....” she said, her voice fading, the presumptuous invitation slipping from her mouth before she realised what she’d said.
A long frustrated sigh concealed a trace of submissiveness, the very thought of spending another lonely night in bed with her fingers and a phallic friend her only companion forcing another shameless invitation.
“You’re welcome to join me,” she invited, hiding her embarrassment behind a smile, placing a bottle of vodka and two glasses on the kitchen table, taking a yellow umbrella from a recess beneath the stairs, her smile persuasive, her eyes optimistic, her voice hopeful.
“I’m just going to take a quick shower. If you’re not here and the umbrellas gone when I return.... I’ll understand.”
His lips had hardly touched the glass when she walked back into the kitchen wearing nothing but a flimsy white bathrobe tied loosely at the waist, brushing wet hair from her face, her fingers playing with a silver cross hanging from a chain around her neck.
“Say when,” he grinned, almost filling her glass with vodka.
“That’s how I like them,” she mockingly replied, pushing her tongue between the small gap in her front teeth. “The bigger the better,” she added, with a suggestive smile, ignoring the commotion between her legs.
During two very large vodka’s Laura did most of the talking, mainly about her dull and lonely social life due to the endless nocturnal hours working in the shop.
He smiled and nodded his head a couple of times trying to look interested, but his eyes were fixed on the growing nipples hardening beneath the fabric and below the table there was a familiar stirring inside his pants.
She was hot wet and impatient. He was hard and ready. Meaningless small-talk or any attempts at foreplay brushed aside in the promise of coital expectation.
Eyes met eyes. Lips met lips. Mouths crashed together. Hands searched impatiently.
He almost ripped the bathrobe from her body. The overwhelming desire to fuck fuelling the fire between her thighs, her fingers fumbling impatiently with the zip on his trousers, pulling and tugging, arousal and expectation forcing frustrated curses, a triumphant sigh spilling from her mouth as she pulled his pants to the floor.
After almost throwing her across the kitchen table the sound of her hands slapping against the timber surface spooked a cat that had been sleeping in a basket beneath the stairs.
As the cat disappeared through a small flap in the door she opened her legs.
She was wet. Too wet. It had been too long.
As the slippery flaps and folds peeled apart he eased the formidable length inside her body. Inch-by-inch he opened her up, penetrating and stretching, filling her body with hard flesh.
“Oh my God,” she blasphemed, the threatening force, the massive girth almost splitting her apart. “Oh yes,” she screamed, through gritted teeth. “Oh yes. ‘Oh yes,’ her words repeating in fading echoes off the kitchen walls.
The momentum gathered speed, strokes long, deep and aggressive, powerful and urgent, wheezes inviting grunts, sucking in air through his nose, in and out, hard and fast, plunging into her depths, letting her feel the power, the force, the energy of youth.
In a commentary of verbal filth he fucked her across the kitchen table like a man possessed, a breathless voice and motioning gestures pleading for gentleness, begging for calm, the legs on the table squeaking in helpless protest, letting him know that if he didn’t slow down the table might collapse.
But with her shapely bottom perched in the air, her legs spread apart and his gruesome length sliding seamlessly in and out of her wet opening and her tits squashed flat against the table, he had given up worrying about a tired piece of furniture.
He fucked her fast. He fucked her hard. He fucked the air from her lungs.
Balls deep inside her warm receptive entrance, buttocks clenching and relaxing, moving back and forth, pushing in and pulling out, a physical and merciless demonstration of table-top sex, a satisfied woman left slumped over the table, groaning out her pleasure in a pool of perspiration, a knee-trembling orgasm sucking the last breath of air from her lungs.
A body battered and bruised, a heart fluttering with expectation, a head dizzy with passion and arousal, wheezes chasing breathless pants, short gasps of air sucked through tight lips, her heavy legs shaking and wobbling, her laboured footfalls pleading in quiet sympathy on the creaking stairs.
Her legs were almost giving way by the time they reached the top of the stairs and there was a moment when she thought she might collapse if she didn’t get into bed. But after his performance in the kitchen she didn’t really care about her legs. Laura had experienced an awakening. Laura was going to make up for lost time. As soon as she had him between the sheets she didn’t care if she never walked straight again.
Her vagina was still burning by the time she hit the mattress.
With a single thrust of his hips he was inside her body, feeling her wetness flooding down his meaty cock and pooling on the bed sheet, his balls slapping urgently against her bottom, the bed bouncing, the headboard banging and the springs squeaking under their weight, opening her body, stretching and penetrating, filling her tight opening without mercy.
“Fuck, that’s good,” she cursed, pushing back to meet the force, feeling his swollen limb going deeper and deeper inside her body, swelling as it completed its journey, wriggling and twisting her hips, moving her bottom from side to side, making sure she had it all inside.
“Fucking hell....Oh Fuck....Oh Fuck,” was her last declaration.
A breathless gasp and a piercing scream of encouragement, a moment of sexual combustion, the waves of convulsions beginning their irreversible tidal surge, a wild thrashing of limbs, and a monologue of repeated obscenities, arching her body off the bed, tightening her legs and curling her toes, soaking him in a sea of orgasm, coming once and then twice.
Breathing in short gasps through her nose and blowing air through her mouth, a battered and bruised body lying motionless on the bed, settling into silence, trying to calm from the unrelenting after-shocks of a spine-tingling release.
No words were needed as he gathered his clothes from the floor. The sex had said it all.
The long-awaited cries of euphoria spilling from a helpless mouth were all signs that Laura Beckett had slept alone far too often.
It was still raining heavily when he stepped out into the dark street.
Pulling up the zip on his jacket and opening the yellow umbrella, ignoring a shrieking cat showing sharp teeth before disappearing through the flap in the door, sprinting like an athlete down the dark street, squeezing his body through a gap between two parked cars, cursing at the local kids who found it necessary to throw stones at the street lights.
He didn’t see, or hear the black BMW speeding up the road without lights, but he certainly felt the force of the impact against his right leg and the inevitable flight over the car bonnet before crashing to the ground in a pool of water.
The woman’s voice was responsive and full of sympathy.
“I’m sorry,” she uttered, apologetically, taking his arm and helping him to his feet.
“I didn’t see you. The street is so dark,” she said, stooping to pick up the umbrella.
“That’s why cars are given lights,” he retorted, limping to the safety of the footpath.
Curtains started to move in windows of nearby houses as curious neighbour’s peeked out.
“Let’s get out of the rain,” she said, opening the car door. “Are you injured?” she asked, shuffling nervously in her handbag, cursing a couple of times until she found her cigarettes.
“Aren’t you supposed to offer the wounded a cigarette?” he said, forcing a smile.
“Sorry, of course,” she said, apologetically, pulling another cigarette from the pack.
“You’re not going to call the police?” she enquired, exaggerating puppy-dog-eyes.
“I’ve just come from a sales conference at the Five Bridges Hotel a couple of streets away,” she said, pointing a finger in the wrong direction. “I’ve had a lot to drink, so the last thing I want to see is a copper,” she added, pursing her bottom lip.
“No police,” he said, clutching his thigh and stretching out in the comfort of the front seat.
A gasping sigh of relief lifted the corners of her mouth, suggestive words dancing behind a comforting smile.
“In that case, if I’m going to drive you home and nurse your wounds, I need to know your name?” She smiled and handed him the umbrella.
“Couldn’t you get one in black?” She mocked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
“I like to carry the yellow one on dark nights just in case I happen to bump into idiots driving without lights,” he retorted.
“Touché,” she snorted, turning the key in the ignition, a subservient smile growing into a girlish-giggle, the type of giggle that most teenagers reserve for their first date.
It took less than five minutes to reach his flat, just enough time to find out that her name was Amanda King who had fantastic legs, big tits, figure hugging curves and a wedding ring.
“Are you capable of climbing the stairs,” she offered, her words betraying a hint of sarcasm, placing a comforting arm around his waist as they climbed the creaking stairs to his flat, the soft whisper of nylon stockings brushing over thighs bringing a smile to his face.
“I can offer you a drink but I can’t give you one of these,” he said, dropping a crushed packet of cigarettes on the coffee table.
“You look in pain,” she said, sipping her drink. “Let me take a look, it might be more serious than you think,” she offered, moving nearer.
“Don’t be shy,” she smiled. “You can show me. I’m your nurse, remember.”
“Shy,” he laughed, putting his drink on the table.
In a heartbeat he was standing in his briefs with his trousers around his ankles, a smile on his face and an impressive bulge resting at an angle at the top of his thigh.
Curiosity forced a breathless gasp and a raised eyebrow. “Wow that looks swollen,” she teased, never once taking her eyes off the straining object growing inside his briefs.
“You need some therapeutic treatment,” she smiled, pushing him onto the sofa and kneeling on the floor, an eager hand reaching into his pants, impatient fingers curling around the meaty length, unfolding the weighty limb from the warm confines of his briefs.
The dark mystical eyes of a temptress looked up from the floor, a hungry mouth taking the full length deep into her throat, moving her head in a seductive rhythm of pleasure, easing him in and easing him out, swallowing deep and sucking him hard, licking and probing, a well-practiced tongue gliding in a timeless dance of erotic pleasure, sweeping over the sensitive glans, coating the bulbous head in a wash of saliva, pushing the tip of her lizard long tongue into the oozing eye.
After fifteen minutes of the most intense fellatio she stood up from the floor.
Unzipping her dress and letting it pool at her feet, both hands on her hips, posing like a lingerie model in black stockings and suspenders, an aching vulva hidden beneath a pair of snug fitting knickers, the unmistakable shape of a bulging camel-toe easily visible through the tight fabric.
His eyes opened wide, glaring like two full moons. “Wow. I want to....I want to....”
“Fuck me,” she finished for him.
Flashing her eyes and twisting the gold wedding ring around her finger, her smile widening, her words breathed in a seductive whisper. “Take me to the bedroom.”
He waited until Amanda had switched the lights on her BMW before closing the front door.
A familiar rumble informed him that his stomach was trying to eat itself.
He opened the fridge door and stared blankly at the flickering light, expecting some kind of delicacy to jump out. There wasn’t much. Some tired looking cheese, the wilted leftovers of a half-eaten take-away and some unrecognizable thing that had acquired a green covering.
Such was the life of a sleepless bachelor , he thought, as he proceeded to eat the remains of the previous night’s take-away.
After he had finished the oriental delicacy he took a bottle of malt whiskey from the drinks cabinet and after pouring himself a large measure into a cut-glass tumbler he slumped wearily into a chair by the fire. After nursing the whiskey for ten minutes he picked up a book from the table and started to read it for the millionth time.
Masters and Johnson. Human Sexual Response.
He read the inscription on the inside front cover. ‘To my dearest Mark…. You will always be in my thoughts. All my love Ruth’
Below Ruth’s inscription he had made a list of sexual protocols under the title, ‘The seducers code of conduct.’
Be pleasant and courteous - show her kindness and understanding – gain her trust and respect - charm her with intelligent conversation - be patient - be sympathetic - compliment her - tell her how attractive she looks - compliment her perfume - her hair - her clothes - remind her that her previous men have all taken her for granted – watch her body language – explore and stimulate her erogenous zones during the arousal stage – ensure she reaches increased stimulation during the plateau stage – be thoughtful and caring during the resolution stage – when her body moves into the orgasmic phase, bring her to orgasm before you.
It was almost two in the morning when he put the half empty bottle back into the cabinet and stumbled unsteadily into bed.
He hated Monday mornings. It signalled that the week-end had come to a close and ahead of him lay five working days.
It was almost six in the morning. The two cups of black coffee, three cigarettes and too many
paracetamol tablets didn’t make him feel any better.
The drive to Lancashire would usually take around four hours. But with the rain driving against the windscreen and the ache in his right leg a painful reminder of his encounter with Amanda King he knew the journey would take him a little longer.
His employer, Mather, Simmons and Williams, an established firm of architects and building surveyors had just been awarded a lucrative contract with a Multi-National Banking Organisation who had recently acquired over five-hundred properties in the Lancashire area. Most of the acquisitions were located in the centre or on the outskirts of Manchester and Liverpool. The conditions of the contract involved the re-signing and re-branding the bank’s new asset incorporating their new corporate name, image and logo. The contract period was expected to be somewhere in the region of three years.
He was travelling to Lancashire to acquaint himself with the area and to consider a methodology and logistics appraisal for the contract. His remit for the project involved spending a week in Lancashire, carrying out detailed surveys, taking photographs and gathering corporate information. At the end of the week he would travel back to Newcastle with his surveys and brief the design and manufacturing team.
One of the directors, George Logan had flown to Ireland the previous day to attend a meeting with the Multi-National Bank’s corporate clients. George said he would arrange to meet him the following day and asked him to book a hotel with a double room in a convenient location near Manchester city centre.
Dropping through the gears and pulling onto the A1 motorway, lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke through a small gap in the side window, yawning into a clenched fist and shifting his weight in the seat, fiddling with the buttons on the radio and scanning the music stations, pausing at The Beatles singing ‘Let it Be.’
A green motorway sign with a white arrow pointing left to Manchester signalled his departure from the A1 motorway. Throwing his cigarette out the window and dropping through a gear he pulled off the motorway and headed for Stockport.
Wellington Road was predominantly a tree lined avenue of mainly semi-detached houses on both sides, interrupted by the occasional playing field or public house. After driving aimlessly through traffic for a couple of miles he came to a set of traffic lights.
Pulling to a halt at a red light and brushing condensation from the windscreen, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, staring at a sign with a maze of arrows shooting off in different directions, cursing when the lights turned to green and he had to pull away.
A red bricked Victorian building about fifty yards up the road with a red neon sign above the door forced him to make a quick manoeuvre into another line of traffic. After a few honking horns and finger gestures from disapproving motorists he pulled into the car park, stepped out of the car and walked into the premises.
‘The Royal Belvedere Arms Hotel,’ had a warm and informal atmosphere.
White painted walls and a myriad of horizontal and vertical black stained beams decorated the main entrance foyer and lounge. Colourful rugs formed islands over hardwood floors and a range of antique tables and chairs were placed with a comfortable ease.
Behind the bar a mahogany cabinet displayed an assortment of golfing paraphernalia and photographs of men holding silver trophies.
A wide staircase from the bar led up to the bedrooms on the upper floors and in a recess at the end of the bar a log burning fire crackled on an open grate, the smell of smoke mingling with burning embers adding to the character of the room.
The melodic chimes from an ornate clock on the white painted wall above the bar informed him that it was twelve o’clock.
Apart from the voice of a commentator discussing a game of golf on a large television screen fixed on a wall opposite the bar the place was quiet.
He lit a cigarette and approached the bar.
A middle-aged overweight man with a huge stomach and a newspaper spread open on the counter stared at the television screen, oblivious to anything going on around him.
He cleared his throat to get the fat man’s attention.
“Yes sir,” replied the landlord, never once taking his eyes from the television. “What can I get you?” he asked, his heavy lidded eyes taking a temporary detour from the screen.
He forced a smile at the landlord. “Have you got a double-room for.....?”
Before he had time to finish the landlord turned quickly on his heels, picked up a glass from a shelf and held it to the Lambs Navy Rum optic, allowing the contents to flow into the glass.
After repeating the action he placed the large glass of dark rum on the counter.
“One Double Rum,” he said, mumbling something at the television screen before punching the cash register to ring up the price of the drink.
He stared at the drink. He looked at the landlord. He feigned a cough, the misunderstanding forcing him to reach for his wallet. After fumbling nervously with the contents of his wallet and handing the landlord a single one pound note he quickly drained the glass.
“Just what I needed after a long drive,” he smiled, placing the empty glass on the counter.
In the ensuing silence, broken occasionally by the landlord muttering at the TV, they talked briefly, mainly trivia and golf, the recent bad weather and more golf.
Seeing no better opportunity he attempted the request once again, only this time he made sure he overstated his diction and gave longevity to the syllables Bed and Room.
“Have…You...Got...A...Double-BED-ROOM...I...Can...Have...For...The...Next...Five-Nights?”
The landlord forced a smile. “Sorry sir, you have a very strong North East accent,” he confirmed, pointing a finger at his mouth which wasn’t really necessary. “Please accept my apologies,” he added, offering his outstretched hand in the way of introduction.
Charles Henderson was probably only in his mid-fifties, but he had the look of a man who carried a further ten years on his back.
In short strenuous gasps, intermittent grunts and breathless sighs, they climbed the stairs to the bedrooms on the first-floor, a motioning finger pointing in the direction of a door was all Charles could manage when they finally reached the top of the stairs.
The room was spacious, immaculately clean with a fragrance of apples and air-freshener. There were two single beds either side of a tall window which overlooked the street below. After giving him a brief description of the hotel protocols, Charles left the room.
He quickly transferred the contents of his suitcase into a wardrobe and left the hotel to see what the streets had to offer. After walking aimlessly through a myriad of endless streets for more than an hour he discovered a large whitewashed building at the junction of Denby Lane and Manchester Road. A sign at the main entrance read, ‘The Poco-a-Poco Club.’
He peered through the tinted glass doors, trying to focus his eyes in the dark interior, catching a glimpse of faceless people cleaning floors and arranging tables for the evening’s entertainment. It looked promising and certainly worthy of a visit.
It was approaching five o’clock when he arrived back at The Royal Belvedere Arms Hotel.
A group of smartly dressed businessmen all wearing dark suits and identical blue ties with a yellow golfing motif and all making a lot of noise at the bar wasn’t something he expected to see so early in the evening.
Ignoring the commotion, lighting a cigarette and pulling up a stool at the opposite end of the bar, catching sight of a beautiful woman serving drinks behind the bar, whispers of blonde hair falling gently over sleepy bedroom eyes, shapely breasts bouncing inside a pink blouse and tight trousers flaunting a delightful curvy bottom, a hint of bare flesh around her waist just enough to make your imagination run wild with torment.
The businessmen crowded her space, challenging each other for position at the bar, flashing smiles and bulging wallets, ordering champagne and throwing money on the counter as if it was wedding confetti, interrupting each other with meaningless corporate trivia, boasting about their earnings, their bonuses and expensive cars, openly bragging about their conquests with women , their language arrogant, abusive and derogatory .
She returned their smiles with a confident sexuality, flirting at every opportunity, joining in their juvenile games, teasing their minds with erotic fantasies and laughing inwardly at their futile attempts of seduction.
He pulled on his cigarette at the end of the bar, watching the performance of grown men making fools of themselves, smiling with admiration at the way this beautiful creature subtly dealt with this bunch of self-important imbeciles that were typical of most corporate ladders.
She shuffled on her feet and glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of a stranger at the end of the bar, gliding across the room in a whisper of movement, swaying her hips with an alluring fascination, her shapely breasts jiggling with the capture of movement, her cute little naval winking invitingly, a heart-melting smile flirting with the most striking blue eyes he had ever seen.
‘Surely this is not the woman who shares a bed each night with Charles Henderson .’
His heart beat accelerated inside his throat, his eyes growing wider and wider, staring at the vision of beauty before him, her fingers brushing away a loose strand of hair that had fallen over her face, her smile showing perfect white teeth, her lips pursing, starting to form words.
“What can I get you?” she asked, with a seductive confidence.
He almost fell off the stool. He was floating somewhere in heaven. He was swimming in a sea of testosterone, erotic images forming a queue inside his head.
‘You can take your panties off and sit on my face until it turns blue.’
Dismissing the sinful thoughts corrupting his mind, he just asked for a drink.
A high-pitched and overexcited voice broke his lustful thoughts. He turned on his heels.
“Double Rum for this gentleman,” Charles Henderson announced, in a burst of snorting laughter, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder.
“Have you met my beautiful Beverley and my golfing friends?” He asked, dropping his voice an octave and taking a deep intake of breath, his huge stomach wobbling in unison with each word as he proceeded to tell the story about their first meeting today and the misunderstanding over a double-room.
The suits laughed hysterically. Their laughter a little too loud and a little too forced.
After the death of Victoria, and his brother Frank away most of the time with the British Armed Forces and his younger sister Eve in those unbearable teenage years, living at home with his parents was never going to be the same. So when Gary Fowler offered him the opportunity to move into his flat, it didn’t take him long to make up his mind.
In the beginning their loyalty and friendship towards each other worked quite well, but over time, with one glass half-empty and one glass half-full and two completely different personalities, the cracks were beginning to show. So when Stella Mason asked Gary to move into her two bedroom house, he jumped at the chance.
But although they weren’t living together they still remained good friends, especially when Gary sustains major injuries in a head-on car accident.
It took most of the day and all his energy to help Gary move his belongings out of the flat they had shared for the last eighteen-months and into his new home with Stella Mason.
He was tired and exhausted and he wasn’t really in the mood for going out. But with only a couple of cigarettes left in the packet, he knew he would have to visit the off-licence at the end of the street.
Grabbing his leather jacket from a chair and picking up his door key and wallet from a table, taking the stairs two at a time, heading along the narrow street, glancing at his watch, trying to remember if Laura Beckett closed her shop at eight or nine o’clock.
He hadn’t got very far when it started to rain.
Lifting his collar and pulling the zip up on his jacket he ran from the storm.
“Fucking rain,” he cursed, wiping water from his eyes, cursing again and quickening the pace when the lights inside the shop faded into darkness, eventually reaching the front door and stepping into a small entrance lobby to shelter from the rain.
Brushing his hand across the murky glass, blinking his eyes and peering into the darkness, catching sight of a shadowy figure climbing a step ladder behind the counter, a shapely bottom inside a short skirt and flashes of white thighs blossoming from a pair of knee length leather boots keeping his interest long enough to take in the vision of feminine delights and to make an adjustment inside his pants.
The unexpected sound of fingers tapping gently over the glass and the haunting silhouette of a faceless shadow at the door startled her and she almost lost her balance at the top of the ladder. After regaining her composure and recognising the familiar face looking through the glass, a welcoming smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
Staring out through the misty glass, narrowing her eyes and pointing a finger at the sign on the door, lifting her eyes and pouting her lips in a motioning gesture of apologetic words… “We’re closed.”
Placing the palms of his hands together in that common sign for begging, pursing his lips and mimicking a smoking gesture with two fingers, silently mouthing back… “Please.”
As the deadlock disengaged from the latch and the fluorescent lamps pinged and buzzed bringing the room back to life, he entered the solitude of the shop.
“Thanks Laura. I owe you one,” he smiled. “I need a packet of cigarettes” he added, shaking water from his jacket onto the vinyl floor.
“I couldn’t leave you in the rain,” she replied, with a hint of amusement. “And I wouldn’t do it for anyone else,” she added, a thin smile showing a small gap between her two front teeth.
“I know your brand,” she announced, picking a pack of twenty cigarettes from the fixture.
“I was just about to pour myself a drink before taking a shower. If you follow me into the kitchen I’ve got a spare umbrella you can borrow. It’s a little girlish, but it’ll keep you dry.”
In all the time he had known Laura he couldn’t remember ever seeing her with a man, which he thought was strange, because although she wasn’t stunningly attractive, for a woman in her late-thirties, she had a fantastic body.
“I drink alone far too often, so if you’re not in a hurry.....” she said, her voice fading, the presumptuous invitation slipping from her mouth before she realised what she’d said.
A long frustrated sigh concealed a trace of submissiveness, the very thought of spending another lonely night in bed with her fingers and a phallic friend her only companion forcing another shameless invitation.
“You’re welcome to join me,” she invited, hiding her embarrassment behind a smile, placing a bottle of vodka and two glasses on the kitchen table, taking a yellow umbrella from a recess beneath the stairs, her smile persuasive, her eyes optimistic, her voice hopeful.
“I’m just going to take a quick shower. If you’re not here and the umbrellas gone when I return.... I’ll understand.”
His lips had hardly touched the glass when she walked back into the kitchen wearing nothing but a flimsy white bathrobe tied loosely at the waist, brushing wet hair from her face, her fingers playing with a silver cross hanging from a chain around her neck.
“Say when,” he grinned, almost filling her glass with vodka.
“That’s how I like them,” she mockingly replied, pushing her tongue between the small gap in her front teeth. “The bigger the better,” she added, with a suggestive smile, ignoring the commotion between her legs.
During two very large vodka’s Laura did most of the talking, mainly about her dull and lonely social life due to the endless nocturnal hours working in the shop.
He smiled and nodded his head a couple of times trying to look interested, but his eyes were fixed on the growing nipples hardening beneath the fabric and below the table there was a familiar stirring inside his pants.
She was hot wet and impatient. He was hard and ready. Meaningless small-talk or any attempts at foreplay brushed aside in the promise of coital expectation.
Eyes met eyes. Lips met lips. Mouths crashed together. Hands searched impatiently.
He almost ripped the bathrobe from her body. The overwhelming desire to fuck fuelling the fire between her thighs, her fingers fumbling impatiently with the zip on his trousers, pulling and tugging, arousal and expectation forcing frustrated curses, a triumphant sigh spilling from her mouth as she pulled his pants to the floor.
After almost throwing her across the kitchen table the sound of her hands slapping against the timber surface spooked a cat that had been sleeping in a basket beneath the stairs.
As the cat disappeared through a small flap in the door she opened her legs.
She was wet. Too wet. It had been too long.
As the slippery flaps and folds peeled apart he eased the formidable length inside her body. Inch-by-inch he opened her up, penetrating and stretching, filling her body with hard flesh.
“Oh my God,” she blasphemed, the threatening force, the massive girth almost splitting her apart. “Oh yes,” she screamed, through gritted teeth. “Oh yes. ‘Oh yes,’ her words repeating in fading echoes off the kitchen walls.
The momentum gathered speed, strokes long, deep and aggressive, powerful and urgent, wheezes inviting grunts, sucking in air through his nose, in and out, hard and fast, plunging into her depths, letting her feel the power, the force, the energy of youth.
In a commentary of verbal filth he fucked her across the kitchen table like a man possessed, a breathless voice and motioning gestures pleading for gentleness, begging for calm, the legs on the table squeaking in helpless protest, letting him know that if he didn’t slow down the table might collapse.
But with her shapely bottom perched in the air, her legs spread apart and his gruesome length sliding seamlessly in and out of her wet opening and her tits squashed flat against the table, he had given up worrying about a tired piece of furniture.
He fucked her fast. He fucked her hard. He fucked the air from her lungs.
Balls deep inside her warm receptive entrance, buttocks clenching and relaxing, moving back and forth, pushing in and pulling out, a physical and merciless demonstration of table-top sex, a satisfied woman left slumped over the table, groaning out her pleasure in a pool of perspiration, a knee-trembling orgasm sucking the last breath of air from her lungs.
A body battered and bruised, a heart fluttering with expectation, a head dizzy with passion and arousal, wheezes chasing breathless pants, short gasps of air sucked through tight lips, her heavy legs shaking and wobbling, her laboured footfalls pleading in quiet sympathy on the creaking stairs.
Her legs were almost giving way by the time they reached the top of the stairs and there was a moment when she thought she might collapse if she didn’t get into bed. But after his performance in the kitchen she didn’t really care about her legs. Laura had experienced an awakening. Laura was going to make up for lost time. As soon as she had him between the sheets she didn’t care if she never walked straight again.
Her vagina was still burning by the time she hit the mattress.
With a single thrust of his hips he was inside her body, feeling her wetness flooding down his meaty cock and pooling on the bed sheet, his balls slapping urgently against her bottom, the bed bouncing, the headboard banging and the springs squeaking under their weight, opening her body, stretching and penetrating, filling her tight opening without mercy.
“Fuck, that’s good,” she cursed, pushing back to meet the force, feeling his swollen limb going deeper and deeper inside her body, swelling as it completed its journey, wriggling and twisting her hips, moving her bottom from side to side, making sure she had it all inside.
“Fucking hell....Oh Fuck....Oh Fuck,” was her last declaration.
A breathless gasp and a piercing scream of encouragement, a moment of sexual combustion, the waves of convulsions beginning their irreversible tidal surge, a wild thrashing of limbs, and a monologue of repeated obscenities, arching her body off the bed, tightening her legs and curling her toes, soaking him in a sea of orgasm, coming once and then twice.
Breathing in short gasps through her nose and blowing air through her mouth, a battered and bruised body lying motionless on the bed, settling into silence, trying to calm from the unrelenting after-shocks of a spine-tingling release.
No words were needed as he gathered his clothes from the floor. The sex had said it all.
The long-awaited cries of euphoria spilling from a helpless mouth were all signs that Laura Beckett had slept alone far too often.
It was still raining heavily when he stepped out into the dark street.
Pulling up the zip on his jacket and opening the yellow umbrella, ignoring a shrieking cat showing sharp teeth before disappearing through the flap in the door, sprinting like an athlete down the dark street, squeezing his body through a gap between two parked cars, cursing at the local kids who found it necessary to throw stones at the street lights.
He didn’t see, or hear the black BMW speeding up the road without lights, but he certainly felt the force of the impact against his right leg and the inevitable flight over the car bonnet before crashing to the ground in a pool of water.
The woman’s voice was responsive and full of sympathy.
“I’m sorry,” she uttered, apologetically, taking his arm and helping him to his feet.
“I didn’t see you. The street is so dark,” she said, stooping to pick up the umbrella.
“That’s why cars are given lights,” he retorted, limping to the safety of the footpath.
Curtains started to move in windows of nearby houses as curious neighbour’s peeked out.
“Let’s get out of the rain,” she said, opening the car door. “Are you injured?” she asked, shuffling nervously in her handbag, cursing a couple of times until she found her cigarettes.
“Aren’t you supposed to offer the wounded a cigarette?” he said, forcing a smile.
“Sorry, of course,” she said, apologetically, pulling another cigarette from the pack.
“You’re not going to call the police?” she enquired, exaggerating puppy-dog-eyes.
“I’ve just come from a sales conference at the Five Bridges Hotel a couple of streets away,” she said, pointing a finger in the wrong direction. “I’ve had a lot to drink, so the last thing I want to see is a copper,” she added, pursing her bottom lip.
“No police,” he said, clutching his thigh and stretching out in the comfort of the front seat.
A gasping sigh of relief lifted the corners of her mouth, suggestive words dancing behind a comforting smile.
“In that case, if I’m going to drive you home and nurse your wounds, I need to know your name?” She smiled and handed him the umbrella.
“Couldn’t you get one in black?” She mocked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
“I like to carry the yellow one on dark nights just in case I happen to bump into idiots driving without lights,” he retorted.
“Touché,” she snorted, turning the key in the ignition, a subservient smile growing into a girlish-giggle, the type of giggle that most teenagers reserve for their first date.
It took less than five minutes to reach his flat, just enough time to find out that her name was Amanda King who had fantastic legs, big tits, figure hugging curves and a wedding ring.
“Are you capable of climbing the stairs,” she offered, her words betraying a hint of sarcasm, placing a comforting arm around his waist as they climbed the creaking stairs to his flat, the soft whisper of nylon stockings brushing over thighs bringing a smile to his face.
“I can offer you a drink but I can’t give you one of these,” he said, dropping a crushed packet of cigarettes on the coffee table.
“You look in pain,” she said, sipping her drink. “Let me take a look, it might be more serious than you think,” she offered, moving nearer.
“Don’t be shy,” she smiled. “You can show me. I’m your nurse, remember.”
“Shy,” he laughed, putting his drink on the table.
In a heartbeat he was standing in his briefs with his trousers around his ankles, a smile on his face and an impressive bulge resting at an angle at the top of his thigh.
Curiosity forced a breathless gasp and a raised eyebrow. “Wow that looks swollen,” she teased, never once taking her eyes off the straining object growing inside his briefs.
“You need some therapeutic treatment,” she smiled, pushing him onto the sofa and kneeling on the floor, an eager hand reaching into his pants, impatient fingers curling around the meaty length, unfolding the weighty limb from the warm confines of his briefs.
The dark mystical eyes of a temptress looked up from the floor, a hungry mouth taking the full length deep into her throat, moving her head in a seductive rhythm of pleasure, easing him in and easing him out, swallowing deep and sucking him hard, licking and probing, a well-practiced tongue gliding in a timeless dance of erotic pleasure, sweeping over the sensitive glans, coating the bulbous head in a wash of saliva, pushing the tip of her lizard long tongue into the oozing eye.
After fifteen minutes of the most intense fellatio she stood up from the floor.
Unzipping her dress and letting it pool at her feet, both hands on her hips, posing like a lingerie model in black stockings and suspenders, an aching vulva hidden beneath a pair of snug fitting knickers, the unmistakable shape of a bulging camel-toe easily visible through the tight fabric.
His eyes opened wide, glaring like two full moons. “Wow. I want to....I want to....”
“Fuck me,” she finished for him.
Flashing her eyes and twisting the gold wedding ring around her finger, her smile widening, her words breathed in a seductive whisper. “Take me to the bedroom.”
He waited until Amanda had switched the lights on her BMW before closing the front door.
A familiar rumble informed him that his stomach was trying to eat itself.
He opened the fridge door and stared blankly at the flickering light, expecting some kind of delicacy to jump out. There wasn’t much. Some tired looking cheese, the wilted leftovers of a half-eaten take-away and some unrecognizable thing that had acquired a green covering.
Such was the life of a sleepless bachelor , he thought, as he proceeded to eat the remains of the previous night’s take-away.
After he had finished the oriental delicacy he took a bottle of malt whiskey from the drinks cabinet and after pouring himself a large measure into a cut-glass tumbler he slumped wearily into a chair by the fire. After nursing the whiskey for ten minutes he picked up a book from the table and started to read it for the millionth time.
Masters and Johnson. Human Sexual Response.
He read the inscription on the inside front cover. ‘To my dearest Mark…. You will always be in my thoughts. All my love Ruth’
Below Ruth’s inscription he had made a list of sexual protocols under the title, ‘The seducers code of conduct.’
Be pleasant and courteous - show her kindness and understanding – gain her trust and respect - charm her with intelligent conversation - be patient - be sympathetic - compliment her - tell her how attractive she looks - compliment her perfume - her hair - her clothes - remind her that her previous men have all taken her for granted – watch her body language – explore and stimulate her erogenous zones during the arousal stage – ensure she reaches increased stimulation during the plateau stage – be thoughtful and caring during the resolution stage – when her body moves into the orgasmic phase, bring her to orgasm before you.
It was almost two in the morning when he put the half empty bottle back into the cabinet and stumbled unsteadily into bed.
He hated Monday mornings. It signalled that the week-end had come to a close and ahead of him lay five working days.
It was almost six in the morning. The two cups of black coffee, three cigarettes and too many
paracetamol tablets didn’t make him feel any better.
The drive to Lancashire would usually take around four hours. But with the rain driving against the windscreen and the ache in his right leg a painful reminder of his encounter with Amanda King he knew the journey would take him a little longer.
His employer, Mather, Simmons and Williams, an established firm of architects and building surveyors had just been awarded a lucrative contract with a Multi-National Banking Organisation who had recently acquired over five-hundred properties in the Lancashire area. Most of the acquisitions were located in the centre or on the outskirts of Manchester and Liverpool. The conditions of the contract involved the re-signing and re-branding the bank’s new asset incorporating their new corporate name, image and logo. The contract period was expected to be somewhere in the region of three years.
He was travelling to Lancashire to acquaint himself with the area and to consider a methodology and logistics appraisal for the contract. His remit for the project involved spending a week in Lancashire, carrying out detailed surveys, taking photographs and gathering corporate information. At the end of the week he would travel back to Newcastle with his surveys and brief the design and manufacturing team.
One of the directors, George Logan had flown to Ireland the previous day to attend a meeting with the Multi-National Bank’s corporate clients. George said he would arrange to meet him the following day and asked him to book a hotel with a double room in a convenient location near Manchester city centre.
Dropping through the gears and pulling onto the A1 motorway, lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke through a small gap in the side window, yawning into a clenched fist and shifting his weight in the seat, fiddling with the buttons on the radio and scanning the music stations, pausing at The Beatles singing ‘Let it Be.’
A green motorway sign with a white arrow pointing left to Manchester signalled his departure from the A1 motorway. Throwing his cigarette out the window and dropping through a gear he pulled off the motorway and headed for Stockport.
Wellington Road was predominantly a tree lined avenue of mainly semi-detached houses on both sides, interrupted by the occasional playing field or public house. After driving aimlessly through traffic for a couple of miles he came to a set of traffic lights.
Pulling to a halt at a red light and brushing condensation from the windscreen, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, staring at a sign with a maze of arrows shooting off in different directions, cursing when the lights turned to green and he had to pull away.
A red bricked Victorian building about fifty yards up the road with a red neon sign above the door forced him to make a quick manoeuvre into another line of traffic. After a few honking horns and finger gestures from disapproving motorists he pulled into the car park, stepped out of the car and walked into the premises.
‘The Royal Belvedere Arms Hotel,’ had a warm and informal atmosphere.
White painted walls and a myriad of horizontal and vertical black stained beams decorated the main entrance foyer and lounge. Colourful rugs formed islands over hardwood floors and a range of antique tables and chairs were placed with a comfortable ease.
Behind the bar a mahogany cabinet displayed an assortment of golfing paraphernalia and photographs of men holding silver trophies.
A wide staircase from the bar led up to the bedrooms on the upper floors and in a recess at the end of the bar a log burning fire crackled on an open grate, the smell of smoke mingling with burning embers adding to the character of the room.
The melodic chimes from an ornate clock on the white painted wall above the bar informed him that it was twelve o’clock.
Apart from the voice of a commentator discussing a game of golf on a large television screen fixed on a wall opposite the bar the place was quiet.
He lit a cigarette and approached the bar.
A middle-aged overweight man with a huge stomach and a newspaper spread open on the counter stared at the television screen, oblivious to anything going on around him.
He cleared his throat to get the fat man’s attention.
“Yes sir,” replied the landlord, never once taking his eyes from the television. “What can I get you?” he asked, his heavy lidded eyes taking a temporary detour from the screen.
He forced a smile at the landlord. “Have you got a double-room for.....?”
Before he had time to finish the landlord turned quickly on his heels, picked up a glass from a shelf and held it to the Lambs Navy Rum optic, allowing the contents to flow into the glass.
After repeating the action he placed the large glass of dark rum on the counter.
“One Double Rum,” he said, mumbling something at the television screen before punching the cash register to ring up the price of the drink.
He stared at the drink. He looked at the landlord. He feigned a cough, the misunderstanding forcing him to reach for his wallet. After fumbling nervously with the contents of his wallet and handing the landlord a single one pound note he quickly drained the glass.
“Just what I needed after a long drive,” he smiled, placing the empty glass on the counter.
In the ensuing silence, broken occasionally by the landlord muttering at the TV, they talked briefly, mainly trivia and golf, the recent bad weather and more golf.
Seeing no better opportunity he attempted the request once again, only this time he made sure he overstated his diction and gave longevity to the syllables Bed and Room.
“Have…You...Got...A...Double-BED-ROOM...I...Can...Have...For...The...Next...Five-Nights?”
The landlord forced a smile. “Sorry sir, you have a very strong North East accent,” he confirmed, pointing a finger at his mouth which wasn’t really necessary. “Please accept my apologies,” he added, offering his outstretched hand in the way of introduction.
Charles Henderson was probably only in his mid-fifties, but he had the look of a man who carried a further ten years on his back.
In short strenuous gasps, intermittent grunts and breathless sighs, they climbed the stairs to the bedrooms on the first-floor, a motioning finger pointing in the direction of a door was all Charles could manage when they finally reached the top of the stairs.
The room was spacious, immaculately clean with a fragrance of apples and air-freshener. There were two single beds either side of a tall window which overlooked the street below. After giving him a brief description of the hotel protocols, Charles left the room.
He quickly transferred the contents of his suitcase into a wardrobe and left the hotel to see what the streets had to offer. After walking aimlessly through a myriad of endless streets for more than an hour he discovered a large whitewashed building at the junction of Denby Lane and Manchester Road. A sign at the main entrance read, ‘The Poco-a-Poco Club.’
He peered through the tinted glass doors, trying to focus his eyes in the dark interior, catching a glimpse of faceless people cleaning floors and arranging tables for the evening’s entertainment. It looked promising and certainly worthy of a visit.
It was approaching five o’clock when he arrived back at The Royal Belvedere Arms Hotel.
A group of smartly dressed businessmen all wearing dark suits and identical blue ties with a yellow golfing motif and all making a lot of noise at the bar wasn’t something he expected to see so early in the evening.
Ignoring the commotion, lighting a cigarette and pulling up a stool at the opposite end of the bar, catching sight of a beautiful woman serving drinks behind the bar, whispers of blonde hair falling gently over sleepy bedroom eyes, shapely breasts bouncing inside a pink blouse and tight trousers flaunting a delightful curvy bottom, a hint of bare flesh around her waist just enough to make your imagination run wild with torment.
The businessmen crowded her space, challenging each other for position at the bar, flashing smiles and bulging wallets, ordering champagne and throwing money on the counter as if it was wedding confetti, interrupting each other with meaningless corporate trivia, boasting about their earnings, their bonuses and expensive cars, openly bragging about their conquests with women , their language arrogant, abusive and derogatory .
She returned their smiles with a confident sexuality, flirting at every opportunity, joining in their juvenile games, teasing their minds with erotic fantasies and laughing inwardly at their futile attempts of seduction.
He pulled on his cigarette at the end of the bar, watching the performance of grown men making fools of themselves, smiling with admiration at the way this beautiful creature subtly dealt with this bunch of self-important imbeciles that were typical of most corporate ladders.
She shuffled on her feet and glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of a stranger at the end of the bar, gliding across the room in a whisper of movement, swaying her hips with an alluring fascination, her shapely breasts jiggling with the capture of movement, her cute little naval winking invitingly, a heart-melting smile flirting with the most striking blue eyes he had ever seen.
‘Surely this is not the woman who shares a bed each night with Charles Henderson .’
His heart beat accelerated inside his throat, his eyes growing wider and wider, staring at the vision of beauty before him, her fingers brushing away a loose strand of hair that had fallen over her face, her smile showing perfect white teeth, her lips pursing, starting to form words.
“What can I get you?” she asked, with a seductive confidence.
He almost fell off the stool. He was floating somewhere in heaven. He was swimming in a sea of testosterone, erotic images forming a queue inside his head.
‘You can take your panties off and sit on my face until it turns blue.’
Dismissing the sinful thoughts corrupting his mind, he just asked for a drink.
A high-pitched and overexcited voice broke his lustful thoughts. He turned on his heels.
“Double Rum for this gentleman,” Charles Henderson announced, in a burst of snorting laughter, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder.
“Have you met my beautiful Beverley and my golfing friends?” He asked, dropping his voice an octave and taking a deep intake of breath, his huge stomach wobbling in unison with each word as he proceeded to tell the story about their first meeting today and the misunderstanding over a double-room.
The suits laughed hysterically. Their laughter a little too loud and a little too forced.
Libbie
- 20.12.2021
- 67
- 0
- Category:
- Mature
