What Karen And Milly Did Next free porn video

It's the Friday before Christmas and our friends Karl and Milly are holding a party in their home. Karen and I drive over early to help with the preparations. We have not visited since Milly and Karen kissed for the first time, nearly a month ago now.

The two girls are preparing a buffet. They work side by side in the kitchen, busy as bees. I sense the electric current of sexual anticipation surging between them as they butter bread for sandwiches, bake pastries, and prepare the salad. They are unable to take their eyes away from each other, are forever exchanging fond glances, sending each other knowing smiles of secret anticipation.  The kitchen is quite small and they continually brush past each other as they work. Sometimes they linger close, whisper secrets to each other and giggle.

At six, Karl and I will drive out to buy alcohol, see a guy about a dog and score some dope. Before we leave, I go into the kitchen and find Karen alone. Milly is upstairs getting ready for the coming evening.

But Karen has changed already, wears a short, light grey suede skirt fastened by seven metal studs running down its front. Her silver-coloured, leather knee-length boots draw your eyes to thighs eroticised by the sheerest of black tights. Her makeup is understated, and each item of her jewellery clean-lined. There are her silver loop earrings, and a platinum band necklace, her wrists cuffed by fine silver loops that jingle as they slither back and forth, disturbed as she moves. Her minimal top is pale-cream with occasional swirls of black embroidery. It is cut like a bodice to reveal the length of her bare arms from shoulders to wrists, her C-cup cleavage housed nicely beneath the lightness of its fabric.

I ask her if there is anything she wants from the shop. She looks about, assesses what else we might need, decides fresh orange juice for the spirits. I kiss her cheek before I leave.

Finally, the front door closes. Karl and I have left the house. I imagine how Karen and Milly listen for the sound of his motor starting up, the crunch of tyres on gravel as we pull away from the drive and into the rush hour traffic.

                   *****

Karen is putting the finishing touches to the spread, covering platters of food in cling-film when Milly appears at the door. The girl is half-fitted into her new black velvet dress, cut just as low as Karen's skimpy top. It shows her large and smooth pale breasts in a manner she has never dared to until now, though it has long sleeves that swaddle her arms.

"Would you do me up?" she asks as she steps into the kitchen, turning and presenting her bare shoulders to Karen. Her unfastened zipper reveals the pale smoothness of her entire back, cut by the white of her bra-strap.

"You look beautiful," Karen says as she steps forward to oblige.  Before she begins, she breathes in the scent of the girl's recent shower time, the aroma of her shampoo and deodorant already becoming diffused by her body's heat. She takes wispy strands of Milly's one-o-clock hair and lets it fall through her fingers like fairy-gold, gathering it again one last time before sending it over her shoulders to cascade down her upper chest.

But Karen is no lady's maid here to dress her mistress: this will be an undoing, a revealing, the first advances of a shy lover. Slowly, she peels back the velvet from each of Milly's shoulders and encourages both her arms out of their sleeves like legs from stockings, then peeling the luxurious fabric down over the girl's breasts.

"Is this what you want?" Karen asks.

"Oh-god, yes." It is a gasp of compliance, not an affirmation.

Karen unhooks Milly's bra, takes it from her and lets it fall to the ground. Soon her arms have encircled her, each palm finding a breast to cup, to squeeze, weigh and asses with feminine discernment. The two girls stand motionless for a fraction of eternity, each aware of only the other. And then Milly eases herself from Karen's containment, lifts both of her hands from her breasts and turns to face her. They look at each other with something between self-satisfaction and nervous anticipation. But when they kiss, it is as if they are the only two people who have ever mattered in this world.

"I can't believe I have you to myself?" Milly says as they break from their kiss. "Will you come upstairs to bed?" She does not wait for an answer, takes Karen's hand and leads her away. As they go, the top half of Milly's unpeeled dress slips down, its long sleeves dangling untidily from her hips.

They go through to the lounge. But no further. Karen pulls at Milly's hand to stall her, encourages her to turn so she can kiss her again. As they kiss, Karen hurriedly tugs velvet from Milly's hips, sending it to the ground all of a crumple where it lies plush at her feet. And then two thumbs snag Milly's knickers, take them down indecently. The two girls tumble on to the enormous beanbag that leans against the bottom edge of the sofa. Milly is entirely naked now, half reclining as Karen looms over her,  brushes the hair from her eyes before kissing her, using her tongue to goad a response from lips and tongue.

Karen later told me how making love with Milly had affected her. Something like this — though of course, I cannot repeat it verbatim, so please forgive me for having to paraphrase what she said like this.

"She didn't excite me in the same way a man would excite me — not like she'd excited me when we had our drunken snog. It was her softness that affected me, her animal femininity, her strange and fraught excited actuality. There was something sublime about her. It was in her certainty, her determination that we should happen. I wanted her because I sensed how deeply she desired me, ached for me. 

"As I held her in my arms for that very first time, it was as if I had taken possession of a mystery, something so unfamiliar and ultimately unknowable that I feared what the implications of what followed might be. It was such an exquisite moment of uncertainty. I was standing on the threshold — Shit, I don't have the words. Whatever it was that I saw in her at that moment, it thrilled me to the core. But not because it was sex — sex with another female: it was in spite of it being sex."

I never did learn how long they lay together like that, neither moving, each enjoying the comfort of the other's body, both of them utterly caught up and lost to the thrill of this new intimacy. 

                      *****

And then it begins, Karen gorging on Milly's breasts, her tongue and lips alternating left and right, coaxing Milly's nipples to come out and play, nipping gently, one and then the other. Her surveying hands noting every landmark, no detail overlooked, every contour mapped.

With disappointment in her voice, as if Karen might flee the scene at any moment, Milly asks, "Aren't you going to undress? I want to touch you, taste you too."

And so Karen surfaces from her sensuous reverie and removes her top and bra while Milly waits and watches. But she does not remove her skirt. It is as if she cannot bear to be parted from Milly for more than mere seconds. She is not inclined to struggle with her boots and tights, skirt and knickers. Only half-naked, she hurries to embrace Milly again, is frantic to experience the delicious crush of breasts against breasts. They lie together on their sides, facing each other as their hands go exploring, their mouths tasting, their breathing racing, their hearts pounding. Then her face lost between the plush squeeze of her exquisite breasts, freshly washed, dried and powdered, their soft density cushioning, enfolding each side of her face, 

"Please be naked too," gasps Milly as Karen nuzzles deep into her cleavage.

And so reluctantly, Karen sits up and makes a start on the studs of her skirt. As she does so, there is the crunch of tyres on gravel that startles her into stillness. The two girls look at each other, each unwilling to accept what this might mean. Milly's wide eyes tell he horror, her realising the implication of what discovery could bring.

Karen later told me how, for a moment, fear had shredded her nerves, how they had both expected the door to open and Karl to walk in on them. But when the bell rang she realised it must be guests, early arrivals.

 Milly snatches her dress from the floor, rushes to gather her underwear and hurries away in a panic. It is as if Death and his scythe have tracked her down. Karen scrambles back into her bra and top, straightens her hair in the hall mirror before she goes to the door — only to find Chrissy and Steve loaded down with bottles and cans, there to help with the final touches. 

Poor Karen! Her second foray into girl on girl rudely interrupted, once again abandoned by her would-be lover before they have even begun. 

                                                    ******

Later that night, the party well on its way, Chrissy and I are chatting. 

"I hope we didn't interrupt anything when we arrived.," she asks with a saucy glint in her eyes. 

At this point, I have no idea of what has happened between Milly and Karen earlier. And so I look at her blankly and say, "Why do you ask that?"

"Just that it took a while for Karen to come to the door. Sometimes I wonder about our Milly..."

"What do you mean — wonder about her?"

 "We were all shocked when she married Karl. I never thought she was the marrying kind — " She looks at me so curiously, her eyes questioning me, prompting me to share some juicy scandal.

"Your kid-sister is strange, alright. Stranger than The Twilight Zone." 

And then Steve comes and joins us, and we talk about The Clash and their latest album, London Calling, and how its cover is the epitome of all they stand for. You-know? That kind of crap. Now I'll always wonder if Chrissy might have said anything further if we had not been interrupted.

Towards midnight, I pass through the kitchen. I am on my way to fetch a can of beer from the lean-to where I have stored a six-pack to cool. Milly is sitting on Malcolm's knee on a chair by the side of the table. She looks flushed. It is as I've interrupted her while performing the filthiest of vices.

Malcolm greets me, "Hey, Luca. You know Milly, don't you?" There something off in his voice, as if he knows something I should know but don't.

 I decide they have been kissing, maybe more. The hem of Milly's skirt is pushed way above her knee, with Malcolm's hand half-way up her thigh. It rests neither here nor there as if still undecided whether to proceed or withdraw. I try not to whimper when I see she is wearing tights! I have to look hard because they are quite pale, so cock-hardening ethereal. And then every mental device I have constructed so laboriously to protect myself from her allure are brought down by Malcolm's palm on her thigh, jealousy's explosive charge detonated by him as her clueless patsy.

I am a lost man again, trembling with suppressed anger as I pour beer into a glass at the sink side worktop. I have my back to them now, have to swallow and swallow to suppress the upwelling emotion that I fear may soon overwhelm me. I would give a year of my life to touch her leg like Malcolm is doing at this very moment.

Karen comes into the kitchen to asks me to get her a can. I go back into the lean-to, stoop down to search among the cans and bottles for the brand she prefers. From the kitchen, I hear their voices and laughter. 

I wander back, just in time to hear Milly ask Malcolm, "Would you like to try two girls?" Her voice is vodka slurred, and I wonder if she even understands the implications of what she is offering him.

Malcolm looks from Karen to Milly, an expression of gob-smacked disbelief distorting his usually smugly handsome features.

My wife is standing right by Malcolm's side. I see his free hand casually stroking the back of her right thigh. His other hand has vanished under the velvet of Milly's dress.

I go to Karen and say. "We have to talk." I reach for her hand.

"Can't it wait?" she says, pulling her fingers free of my grasp. She reaches behind herself, stalling Malc's fingers as they begin to disappear underneath her skirt. "Malcolm, Please!" she says — not to deter him, more as if to say, Please, just wait a minute!

Milly has her lips at Malcolm's throat, lips pecking, tongue sliding to his earlobe. Karen is watching, and I can see how eager she is to join in. Her hands come back into view, allowing Malcolm's hand free rein. Soon it has taken up an uncertain residency beneath her short skirt.

"No! It can't wait," I tell her. "It has to be now!" My voice is louder than is seemly.

I take her hand and urge her to follow me. She does so reluctantly, and Malc's hand falls from her as I pull her away. We go outside, into the breath-robbing cold of a December midnight.

I ask her, "What the fuck are you playing at?"

"Just a little fun, Luca. You don't begrudge a girl a little fun, do you?" She is drunker than I thought. 

And I am more jealous than I could ever have believed. But I still possess a modicum of self-control. I do not say, what the fuck are you two doing fooling around with Malcolm when you know a threesome is my dream come true? And there is no way it's going to happen for you if I'm not involved.

What I do say is: "Do you think messing around with Malcolm is such a good idea?" I am the model of rationality. We had previously both agreed not to go there again — with Gemma and Malcolm, that is.

"Why don't you fuck off and mind your own business, Luca? Go and find Chrissy. She's been eyeing you up all night. I bet she's just dying to suck your cock." 

She pulls away from me and storms back inside. I'm at a loss what to do next. I roll a joint and smoke it while contemplating the diamond-sharp pricks of starlight scattered over the winter sky. When I go back inside, Karen is standing next to where Milly still sits on Malcolm's knee. The girl has both arms around his neck, looking quite the sweetheart. The hem of her dress has ridden even higher than before. I see the pale seam of her tights cutting into her crotch, the white of her panties all hazy below. 

The three are thick as thieves, but I find their childish giggles and burst of laughter  - pathetic. 

Karen leans in close and whispers in Milly's ear. When she has said what she needs to say, she kisses her lips. Only briefly. A message sent to Malcolm. I steel myself for the inevitable. If she kisses him too, there will be no going back.

But I have to give Karen her due, even though I see how much she wants to join the pair, she eases herself free and quickly walks away, ignoring the cries from Milly, "Oh, Karen, please don't go."

When Karen has left the room, Milly is on her feet and chasing after her. Malcolm is left quite bewildered, and he turns to me with a look of stunned incredulity.

"Jeez. Luca. That Milly! You should have heard the stuff she was saying to me earlier!"

"What stuff?" I ask him.

"Stuff about her and me." he hesitates, unsure whether to continue. "And your wife. stuff about her and your wife — and me joining in."

I could not believe what I was hearing, was hardly able to string words together. Finally, I managed, "Listen, mate, you should know better than to pay attention to a girl like her. Milly is sweet but she lives in a world of her own." 

"So tell me, Luca: is Karen is into chicks now?"

"You can ask her yourself when three of you get together. Oh! And why not ask Gemma along for good measure, make it a foursome." 

Poor Malc. It wasn't his fault Karen and Milly had chosen him to be the subject of their experiments — or whatever-the-fuck it was they were cooking up between themselves. Perhaps my snark was undeserved.

"No way, mate: Gemma isn't into chicks." 

"All chicks are into chicks, mate. Just that some haven't realised it yet." 

I genuinely believed it back then. It took me a few more years for reality to disabuse of that cherished fantasy.

And with that I walk from the room, leaving Malcolm alone to deal with the consequences of entertaining Milly on his knee, the enormous erection I see poling inside his jeans.

                                     *****

After a Christmas spent with Karen's extended family, she and I finally have a chance to talk.

"At their party, what was all that shit about a threesome with Malcolm and Milly?"

"You've never fussed over Malcolm and me before."

"It's not that—" 

"— Oh! I get it. It's Milly, isn't it? God, Luca. That is so hurtful!"

"I'm not jealous of her and Malc. It's this threesome thing. You know how it's my fantasy — and then actually to know a girl willing to take part in one... for her not to want and do it with me. It just seems so unfair."

"Just listen to yourself. 'It's so unfair!'" Her mocking, spoilt teenager voice is a slap in the face. I know she is right, but it doesn't help. 

I tell her, "I still can't get my head around how she can lie so easily to Karl about you and her, but won't have anything to do with me — secret or otherwise," 

"Karl's jealousy means she doesn't have to play the bad guy. She's glad he's jealous of you, then she doesn't have any responsibility."

We sit quietly for a moment. Then she says," You do realise, all this about you and Milly is all because Karl envies you?"

"Envies me? Why should he envy me?"

"Until recently, you have been one step ahead of him. You own a bigger house, a faster car, not to mention your sex life —. He probably sees Milly as the one thing you can't have — have again, that is!"

"She once told me I was her hero — looked me in the eyes, said it straight-faced."

"Before all this, you used to come over as this really cool guy, Luca. I don't know what's happening to you. You're diminishing right in front of my eyes. There's no bigger passion killer than a needy man. You need to give up that crap you smoke. It's destroying you."

She does not have to say it. I already know I'm pathetic, and that I smoke too much weed. And I wonder if that's the reason — my obsession with Milly some kind of cannabis-induced psychosis. There and then, I vow to give it up. 

And so I try. But without its mind-numbing consolation, every day becomes a battle to control my thoughts. It becomes a war I wage against that rebellious part of myself that has placed Milly on her pedestal and declared her as empress, made her the sole focus of my life.

I begin to practice yoga in the hope of snatching back control of my thoughts. I rise an hour earlier than usual every day and go to the quiet of our spare room and assume half-lotus and let the mantra erase all thoughts of her away. Little by little, I begin to take back control of my mind.

During the early months of nineteen-eighty, I learn so much about Karen and Milly. Karen is my source. She says more than she should. And I glean more from gossip, the tittle-tattle of our friends. When out of a weekend, I sit within in earshot of Karen and Milly. The two of them always talking, forever talking.

To learn Karen is mentoring Milly — that's the only way I can describe it — comes as a revelation. She instructs the girl on how to make a husband feel secure in a marriage; cynically explains how she should demonstrate her love. And I feel quite stupid knowing my wife is telling Milly how to manage her husband. I begin to ask myself am I just a problem that Karen has had to oversee, one she has masterfully handled during our years together. I wonder if she has cynically manipulated me with loving reassurances, made me what I am today just to get her way, facilitated her need to take lovers whenever she fancies. I wonder if she ever loved me as deeply as I once imagined? All my old assumptions begin to slip away in a landslide of uncertainty. 

                                                                 *****

A Friday evening in June. It's seven months since Milly and Karen's first kiss. Karen and I have parked up across from the railway station waiting for Milly to arrive. She will be on her own, Karl off to some work-related bonding weekend in the heart of Wales.

Chatting as we watch passengers emerging from the station, hoping to pinpoint Milly among the travellers. We've been here half-an-hour longer than we anticipated, her train delayed by faulty points at Crewe. At least that is what the information board inside the station said when we went in to check the arrivals board.

I want to ask Karen about Milly and what they talked about the previous weekend. But these days she won't go there, tells me its none of my business when I angle for clues. She says what she and Milly have between them is none of my business. I can hardly blame her. She has grown sick of my constant questions, my craving for any scrap of insight into the workings of Milly's mind.

We listen to the six o'clock news on Radio Four with only an occasional word exchanged between us. And then I see Milly exiting the station, just her head at first, carried along shoal-like among her fellow passengers, the swarm of commuters spilling into the town. There are so many shoppers back from Manchester laden with bags and students with backpacks home for the weekend.

When the crush thins, she is left washed up at the roadside. But there is no mistaking Milly for a student. She has the air of one of the beautiful people, a society girl vexed to be away from the capital's buzz and promise. I imagine her as a glamour model sent up-north-luv for some agency shoot, hardly knowing what to expect. Her eyes are alert but becoming uncertain, fretful even as she hopefully scans the faces of people who are waiting to greet friends or family. She wears an expression of where-the-fuck are my people, the posse from the agency, wardrobe and makeup. The photographer? What has gone wrong?

At least that is what I imagine as I watch her. This evening, she is so startlingly gorgeous, has the glamour of an actress emerging stage right in a Broadway spectacular.

She looks around, her head turning this way and that hoping to spot us. Still unsure what to do next, she wanders over to the taxi rank and stands clueless for a moment clutching her overnight bag. Her impatience is slipping into annoyance.

Six or so cabbies are out of their vehicles chatting while waiting for fares. It is the young Asian one who answers her question, points west along the main road that leads the five miles to our home. Her uncertain eyes follow his extended finger, and she brushes strands of hair from her eyes as she listens. He turns to face her and she gifts him her smile. A few words pass between them before she wanders away. The group of men are silent as they watch her go. I can hardly blame them for staring; I see how confident she has become in her own flesh, now a master of balance in her high heels. How good her legs look as the hem of her short summer dress dances about her knees all-of-a-swirl as she sashays away. The heads of both men and women turn when she passes them by.

One of the cabbies must have cracked a lude joke because I hear the sudden uproar of their laughter above the drone of the tea-time traffic, and Milly quickens her pace.

There is a queue at the red phone box, the one back near the station entrance. Milly joins it and takes out her purse, her fingers feeling for coins, the right change she does not have for the call.

"Poor Milly, " I say to Karen. "You should go and rescue her, put her out of her misery."

"Let her stew a minute," Karen tells me. "I hate how adorable she looks tonight."

"And I love it when you play the bitch."

"That little madam is becoming too gorgeous for her own good."

And Karen is right. The transformation in Milly over the last year is hardly credible. She is a different girl now from the one I first kissed — no, a different species altogether. Now she wears her newly donned beauty as her birthright, not some gaudy costume recently plundered from a dressing up box courtesy of Vogue. These days, Karl is doing well for himself, his business about to go stratospheric. He pays for her clothes and she no longer shops at Dorothy Perkins and Chelsea Girl on a Saturday afternoon. Now it's the designer boutiques in Manchester,  London once a month, the right labels to be seen in have become her fetish of choice.

Milly looks up the road one last time before heading towards the station entrance.

"She's going home," I say. "You'd better go after her."

 Karen gets out of the car and hurries off calling her name. "Milly! Milly! Wait!"  

She turns, confused for a moment, unable to see the source of the cry through the traffic. And then she spots Karan waiting to cross the road. She waves with real joy, so grateful to have been found, her smile that of a child saved from tears at the last minute. Her previous chagrin is not even a memory.

When Karen reaches her, the two of them embrace. I want them to kiss, to show the world what they are to each other. I anticipate it, want everyone to stare in wonder, for the world to be amazed by the conflux of their beauty.

 But they don't. Milly has asked something, and Karen points to the car. She turns and sees me, smiles and waves. For a moment I imagine her visit is not just to be with Karen, that the crisis has passed and the three of us will make love together later tonight beneath the newly changed sheets of our bed. Why else would Karl allow her to come and visit us on her own and permit her to stay the night? Why would he do that unless gifting us his wife?

But the illusion is fleeting. I know I am fooling myself, that I have become insignificant. I am no longer a threat to Karl, or of significance to Milly. She has told her husband she despises me — implied it to my face too. Once she told me I was pathetic, that she wished I would leave her alone. She said it out loud quite pointedly knowing Karl was in earshot. Karen later said the girl had not meant it, a performance for Karl, merely done to reassure him of her fidelity, play-acting that would one day lead to freedom from the shackles of his mistrust.

To Milly, the pain she has caused me is justifiable, the bombed landscape of my mind collateral damage sustained in the closing weeks of a campaign she has fought to bring about this day.

                                                               *****

We drive to our local pub, the Black Horse. We find seats in the dining area and order fish and chips. We have wine with the meal, which to Karen and me was still a novelty back then. We chat, and I can tell that Milly wishes I was elsewhere. Little by little, I am sidelined and stop trying to engage either of them in chat. I withdraw into my own thoughts, watch the comings and goings of the pub's patrons while nursing my bruised ego.

At about ten o clock, two local lads we know come into the pub. They are both young blokes in their early twenties that Karen and I have recently struck up conversations with. They come over to say hi, and Karen invites them, Paul and John, to join us at our table. She thinks they will be some company for me.

But my heart soon sinks as they monopolise the girls with their easy banter, wit and sly humour. They are both half decent blokes, are respectful to Karen and me but compete unashamedly for Milly's attention. I watch her play one off against the other, her feature's flushed from the inuendos and looks they throw her way.

My presence is superfluous, so I wander off to play the video machine. Then I go outside and smoke a joint in the beer garden at the back of the building, weeks of good intentions fucked by Milly's visit. When I go back inside, I do not return to our table, the girls and their suitors. Instead, I go into the public bar and talk to the old guys about soccer, which I hate. But anything is better than watching blokes hitting on Milly.

It is a men-only bar and women are not allowed inside. After the last orders bell, Karen comes to look for me. She does not give a shit about the house rules, takes delight in a chance to flaunt them. When she opens the door and steps inside the bar, she is greeted with heckling and boos, shouts of, "Close the door on your way out will you, luv!" And, "The ladies are next door, sweetheart!"

I go to her before some other bloke takes her in hand and sends her packing. I have her arm, am about to hurry her away. But she shakes me off quite brusquely, turns to face the room and ostentatiously curtsies. We exit together, arm in arm to cries of, "You need to get that one under control, fellah!" And, "Buy her a kennel and chain."  Northern blokes in their natural habitat; almost extinct even back in then.

Outside there is no sign of Milly. Karen calls out her name. Then I see her and Paul kissing in a dark corner, her back resting against the wall of the pub as Paul presses his mass against her. John stands watching, smoking a cigarette, and I wonder if he's waiting for his turn with her.

I remember how she had looked when she arrived at the station earlier. Her haughty beauty had been quite startling. She had worn her self-regard so naturally.  What a contrast that moment of fabulous display was to this sordid closing time grope. Could anyone who saw her earlier have imagined that such a sublime creature would end her night in the arms of a lad from the local pub, his tongue down her throat, his hands clutching her arse?

And Karen seems annoyed too. She asks Milly sharply if she's coming with us or has other plans. Milly breaks from her kissing to answer. "Yeah, I'm here now," she says as she brushes down her dress that has risen up and snagged in her knickers, where his hands have been groping her butt cheeks.

She turns back to Paul and kisses him one last time as Karen says, "For God's sake. Milly!" I wonder if she is as jealous, like me.

When she has done with Paull, she walks towards us unsteadily, links Karen's arm. As the pair start for home, her free arm beckons for me to take up a position on her vacant side. We walk along commanding the pavement three abreast. Having her on my arm gives me fresh hope for the coming hours.

The house is chilly, so I light the gas fire to warm the air. Karen scatters cushions on the floor, and we lounge on them together. The girls have kicked off their shoes, Milly's bare toes brushing Karen's stockinged soles as I roll another joint. I offer it to Milly, but she declines. Karen does too. So I smoke alone, scheming improbabilities, my mind in contortions about how I might be a part of what is about to happen between them.

More talking: He said-she said-they-said-does-she... Blah, blah, blah. I close my eyes for a moment and listen to the music. Then Milly begins to ply Karen with questions about Malcolm.

"Do you think he could handle us both?" she asks conspiratorially as she steals a glance at me. She has become cruel again, her words spoken to torment me.

"I'm sure he'd risk making a fool of himself trying," Karen says. The pair burst into laughter as if she and uttered the funniest thing ever.

"What was he like as a lover?" Milly asks.

"... Oh, you know."

"— No, I don't know, but I'd like to be forewarned. Is his cock really as enormous as you say."

"It is compared to Karl's," Karen says. "Oh, God Milly, Did I actually say that. I am so sorry."

"No, it's okay. I have no illusions about Karl." She seems far from offended.

"Malcolm can be quite sweet," Karen continues, looking at me, gauging my mood, deciding whether to continue. "Don't let that hard-boiled act of his fool you. He was always so considerate with me."

"But was he any good in bed?"

"That's between Malc and me," Karen says, her tone indicating she doesn't want to talk about it any more.

"Do you think he'd be up for that thing we talked about?"

"Listen, Milly. That chat we had... It was just drunken talk, fooling about. A bit of fun. I'm not interested in going back with Malc. We're history, water under the bridge."

"Oh," Milly says. I see she is disappointed, almost hurt that Karen will not play her game. A dark silence follows, and I think the mood ruined. Then: "Please, Karen. Is it okay if I hold you?" Milly finally asks.

She does not wait for a reply. She shuffles over to Karen, and they embrace while sitting upright. Milly has her calves under her haunches, just like that time when we saw her on the bed with Karl, the night of our little orgy, while Karen sits kind of side-saddle. I expect things to kick off now, but the pair stay like that for ages, just savouring the presence of each other, their warmth and fragrance mingling.

I adjust myself so that I lie on my side, head propped up by my arm. Little by little, I curl my body around Milly. I feel her toes jutting from under her backside against my thigh. She turns and looks down at me, then whispers something to Karen.

"Listen, Luca. Milly doesn't want you to be part of this," Karen says.

I still don't get it. I remain utterly still, determined to stay where I am. If I keep quiet, I make myself believe I can become part of their lovemaking, if only by osmosis.

Milly, more grown-up than I have ever known her, breaks from Karen and says to me, "Listen, Luca, if I let you kiss me will you sod off and leave us alone?"

"Only if I can watch you both." But I think it's a start, that once she has kissed me I'll be doing more than just watching.

So I sit up straight, and she comes to me and we begin to kiss. And all the time I am kissing her I'm thinking how ironic it is that whores will let you fuck them but not let you kiss them, whereas Milly will let me kiss her but not allow me to fuck her. But there is no passion — on my part or hers. This is kissing as a transaction. An under the table payoff. If only Karl knew!

I ease myself from her and up off the floor, settle myself down on the sofa to watch what happens next. It takes me a moment to realise I don't even have an erection.

They undress each other, alternately removing items of clothing until they are down to their panties. With eyes soporific with longing, they descend as one and stretch out on the floor, where they lie on their sides facing each other limb-pleached, their faces buried in the fragrant tussling strands of one another's hair. There must be kneck-pecking going on among all those locks and tresses, but I see nothing. While they nuzzle into each other, I wonder if Karen will wake up tomorrow with her neck love-bite-bruised.

And there they lie parallel to the sofa beneath me, an interminable tangle of stillness that I begin to fear will never become animate again. They have become like those plaster casts unearthed at Pompei, those images I have seen in books of the ancient dead, two lovers captured for posterity in the final instant of their life.

It is such a disappointment, their lovemaking not what I had imagined at all. I want to arrange them, be a movie director for the lens of my memory.

It is Milly who takes up the slack. She breaks off from her neck-snuggling and begins kissing Karen's chest, her lips and nose sometimes visible through the luna strands of her hair as she slowly traverses Karen's flesh. When she reaches her right breast, she spends moment teasing its nipple into life, then moves to the left, soon taking each nipple in turn as Karen moans her appreciation. It becomes such a languorous tasting, her mouth and moving on, searching out all the new places.

Then there is a jockeying for position, neither sure where they or the other should be. I don't know how it is decided, maybe by the subtlest of bodily cues I am not a  party to, but now Karen lays Milly out before her and strokes her from neck to knees as if straightening an undersheet on our bed. When she has Milly just so, knees arched and legs parted, she pauses while kneeling between Milly's legs. Is she contemplating what is expected of her? And I wonder if she has the guts to do this, this thing we have imagined together so many times. It is an act she has imagined many times, has described to me in delicious detail to get me in the mood for our fucking.

There is uncertainty in Karen's eyes — as if she is preparing herself for some distasteful task. All at once, she seems to find her resolve, gathers and lifts her hair with both hands and sends it tumbling down her back. But still, she does nothing.

 I stare, spellbound by Milly's gash, trying to see it as Karen now sees it. Its hue is that of freshly butchered venison; and above its raw display, the pudge of her mons and it's silky down. I gawk, allow the recollection of its taste, its spice and seasoning to return. The memory of her cunt's tissue has a poignancy that erases all other thoughts. Now, more than anything in the world, I want to taste her again. My mouth is preparing for her tang, that copper-penny zest, the unctuous sap that will slather my tongue. My cock tugs at my sleeve like an impatient child for candy. It craves the enveloping sweet tightness of her cunt. But the shop is closed today; the clutch of Milly's snatch will forever remain just a memory. The thought her pussy, its welcoming grasp sends my mind off-kilter, makes a liability of my cock.

When Karen begins, there is little for me to see. Just Milly's knees as arches of pale marble, Karen's dark hair curtaining a mystery. I concentrate on Milly, engrave her every response on my memory. I watch how her fingernails, little by little, begin clawing at the carpet's pile. She becomes a girl lost to fever, her head never still, turning left and right as if denying some awful truth. And as the culmination and appeasement of her need approaches, I wonder if she will abandon ship at the last minute like she did with me — that failure of nerve she suffered on the threshold of her very first orgasm the one time we slept together.

But  Karen has schooled Milly well, has explained and promised her an orgasm. Their long talks concerned more than just gossip and suggestions for wifely etiquette.

 Milly's hips rise to greet Karen's lips in nascent levitation. This is Karen as magician, and I wonder if when Milly's back finally leaves the floor if there be hoops, and will I applaud. Milly's head incessantly turning from side to side, eyes tightly closed as if delirious, snarled up in some unacceptable dream. Then the bucking of her body. Her gritted teeth do not stymie her screams of shocked rapture. I watch in awe as her first-ever orgasm lifts her beyond herself.

Her bliss is protracted, its intensity something she could not have imagined. She cannot bear its intensity any longer, and she breaks from Karen's thrashing tongue and rolls onto her side to lie, legs clamped, body fetus-curled and gasping, her arms and hands binding her knees tight against her torso.

When the surge has passed, receded back to the mystery of its origin, Karen coaxes her to unwind her limb, scatters sweet kisses on her brow, cheeks and lips. Milly's mouth accepts Karen's pussy-tainted-tongue-as-pacifier, little by little lets its gentle slosh calm her.

No! I see now that I'm wrong. Karen's tongue is not sent to calm: it is there only to prompt and coax Milly into repaying her debt. Karen easing herself back, her hand tight around Milly's wrist urges her to follow. Karen assumes the position, legs splayed, knees arched. Milly kneels, her breasts just inches from where I recline and watch. I could reach out and take each one in my hands. But she pays me no heed, her eyes and thoughts are fixed on the cunt of my wife. I wonder if she remembers what she once promised Karen if ever this moment should arrive.

She kisses Karen's belly first. Tiny pursed-lip-pecks, her mouth wending its way into the curl of her pubes where she nips gently and makes odd noises, not quite a playful puppy's growl.

And then it happens. Karen draws her knees way back so that her feet dangle expectantly. Milly's tongue a seal over Karen's cunt so that I can not see her tongue at work. Then both hands reaching up for Karen's feet, her thumbs massaging her soles. At that first touch, she lets out a profound moan of gratitude as Milly's tongue begins to work conscientiously on her clit. She so wants to please her friend-cum-lover. As she does so, Karen alternates the pitch of her appreciative cries to let the girl know when she has got it just right.

I watch the storm of my wife's orgasm come rolling in, see how its leading squall lifts her. Its approach sends both of Karen's hands dashing to take Milly's head, her palm placed either side so she can subtly calibrate the closing moments. There is no apology in her crying out when completion subsumes her.  I have no doubt our next-door neighbours will hear her cries. And for the seconds that are an eternity, I fear they might think murder is being done. I want to kneel by her face and shush her, place one finger to her lips. But as quickly as it has blown up, the storm of her orgasm has passed.

When they are done, they lie together in silence. I close my eyes and replay in my mind what I have just witnessed. My cock is still demanding satisfaction, and I clutch it tightly almost out of my mind with need.

They are whispering, Milly saying, "Will you stay with me, hold me all night."

"If you, like." Then turning to me. "Is it okay if we use our bed, Luca? You can take the spare. I made it up earlier.

I tell her, "Please yourself."

She whispers to Milly, "Go on — our bed. I'll follow you soon." She sees the girl's doubt. "I promise."

Milly stands up, but before she leaves the room, she looks down on where I'm lying. Our eyes meet, and she smiles the sweetest smile. It breaks my heart. Then she is gone from sight, and I hear the thump of her feet as she ascends the open-plan stairs at quite a pace. From the landing, I hear the creak of our bedroom door as it opens, the familiar hiss of its bottom edge as it drags over the carpet.

Karen comes and kneels at the side of the sofa, strokes my brow as she says. "Poor Luca," Then, "Here let me..."  She undoes my fly and extracts my cock and takes it between her lips. With great love and skill, she brings me quickly to orgasm. And I think to myself: thanks a lot —  the least you could do.

When she has left me, gone off to enjoy her long night of passion with Milly, I imagine Milly's tongue curling with Karen's, my cum a spice she will be unable to name.
                                                      *****

A conclusion will follow.