Clare And James, Part Three: All Those Men! free porn video
At this hour, the hotel bar is almost deserted, has the air of a third world airport V.I.P. lounge. Its lingering weekend clientele consisting of couples bored with the night, bored with each other. They are refugees from their rooms awaiting an intervention, some miracle to airlift them from the tragedy of their lives.
Clare eases herself onto the barstool and tries to settle her bum. But it still hurts down there, the aching a nagging reminder of James's cock and the protracted pounding she has just endured.
She dips her fingers into her purse, pulls out and holds up her debit card, waves it to attract the barman's attention.
"Your rings are back," the barman says when he places her white wine spritzer on the bar. "You've had a change of heart?"
"Change of heart?"
His words make no sense. Previously he'd been a fixture. Invisible in his role; faceless, generic. Now she pays attention, sees how he is young and tall and blonde, perhaps muscular beneath that starched white shirt. Maybe he has a body like Adam. Much younger than Adam, though. Still a boy —nineteen if a day. She thinks how nice a boy like him would be right now.
"Your wedding and engagement rings; you weren't wearing them earlier," the boy says.
"A game my husband likes to play."
"And you're not so keen?"
"I'm still learning the rules."
"You aren't the first couple to play that particular game."
"Are we not?"
"Usually, hubby comes in first to find a discreet vantage point, buys his drink and settles down to watch the fun."
"We're not at that stage yet," she says.
"So what stage are you at?"
"None of your business."
Another customer calls to him, and Clare turns and looks around the room. No sign of Phil or his friends. Room Nine-three-zero, she repeats to herself, a mantra to soothe her frayed nerves.
A middle-aged couple at a table are checking her out; discreet glances, she and him. Clare knows that other game. She has been that couple. Playing make-believe, pretending you'll find a girl like her to take back to your room. She holds the guy's eyes, just long enough to give him hope — only to trash it with the subtlest of sneers before turning away and gifting him a vision of her backless-dress framed flesh.
God forbid it should come to that.
The barmen returns. She asks him, "Is the guy who bought me a drink about?"
"You mean Phil Quinberry."
"He never said his second name."
"The tall, distinguished-looking older guy?"
"Yeah, him."
"Like I said: Phil Quinberry — the Record company boss."
"If you say so."
"You're a lucky lady."
"Why is that?"
"Some girls would do weird shit to get Phil Quinberry to notice them."
"I'm not some girls."
"No, you're not. I was thinking, perhaps someone like me could help you and your husband out, be a player in your game."
She studies him, thinks he'd do nicely — any other time. But for now, she has an appointment to keep in room nine-three-zero.
"Perhaps another time," she says, smiles and holds his gaze to let him know she means it. "What's your name?"
"Jack. I'm on most nights," he says, his tone hopeful.
"I'll keep that in mind, Jack," she says before draining her glass. She picks up her bag, slides from off her stool and walks swiftly to the lift.
Her gait is odd. Surely everyone can tell what James did.
Outside room nine-three-zero. It's The Penthouse Suite. Clare knows it from the net, had cooed in envy when they made their booking. Nervous now, her breathing fast is in some mad dash with her heart. She takes charge of herself, five deep breaths that fill her lungs. She exhales like the north wind. Her ringed fingers become a fist when she raps on the door.
No one comes. But there's music seeping from the room. She knocks again.
She waits now, does not want to show her need. When Phil answers, his surprised expression morphs into the warmest of smiles. "I hoped you'd come," he says. He reaches out his hand and she takes it. His palm is warm and dry, unlike her pussy already anticipating what might happen next.
*****
Three-thirty a.m. Feeling skinned alive, Clare slinks back to their room, to James fetus-curl in bed, rendered insentient by mini-bar Jack Daniels. She does not shower, slides naked beneath the sheets and moulds herself to him. Her sleep is like death.
The next morning they skip breakfast, will have lunch out.
It is as if nothing has happened. He has asked no questions about last night, conducted no interrogation. No talk of Adam, either. He had made love to her, waking her with his rampant cock, drawing her back from fitful dreams as the morning sunlight bleached the room. And when he kissed her body, licked it over and over, she wondered did he taste them on her: the crystalised cum of all those men. She had not showered, wanted the gift of other men's excitement to stain her, brand her, mark her out as unique, despoiled.
But he has said nothing.
She is astonished by his denial, how he affects the joie de vivre of a sight-seeing tourist anticipating his coming day. He says he wants to treat her. They'll spend the day on Princes Street, do all the shops. Fuck the expense.
The memory of her night is eating her alive. Why doesn't he ask?
That evening her shopping bags lie unopened on the bed. She is too exhausted to consider her purchases so soon, confront her fear of buyer remorse.
She asks, "You okay, James?"
"Why shouldn't I be?"
"Me staying out... You know, nearly all night."
"That's who you are now."
"You mean who we are. What we have become is down to both of us."
"The cuckold and his slut wife."
"This is only a tiny part of our lives. Just a game. We're still James and Clare."
"We've become monsters."
"Don't you want to know what happened?"
"I'm sure you're about to tell me. You enjoy this, don't you: the telling, the hurting?"
"We both know how this works."
"So tell me then, did they all fuck you? They must have, judging by how long you were gone."
She will not be distracted by his suppositions, begins at the beginning. "When I left you, I went down to the bar."
"You couldn't have spent very long in there. There was no sign of you when I came down. You went straight to their room, didn't you?"
"After a drink. There was a party. I wasn't the only girl, you know?"
"I bet that was such a letdown for you, Clare. You never could stand competition."
"— are we doing this now, James, or do you want to eat first?" she asks. "You seem tetchy."
"I'm not hungry. Are you hungry?"
"Not particularly."
"So keep talking."
"Okay, I will. When Phil answered the door... He's Phil Quinberry, you know, the guy who managed all those bands in the eighties." She reels off a list of boy-band names.
"I'm impressed, Clare. Quite a step up from the delivery boy."
She can relax. There's fight in him yet. It's no fun kicking a man when he's flat on his face in the gutter, though what she has to tell might yet send him there.
"He asked about you, said he could have found you some company."
"Awww, that's so thoughtful of him. Were his buddies there too?"
"Do you mean John and Alex? Yes, they were there. And some other people from the industry."
"Just listen to yourself, will you. 'The industry!'"
"The music industry."
"I was being facetious."
"— And I sarcastic."
"How many people?"
"Twelve. Maybe, sixteen. I didn't do a headcount."
"How many were girls?"
Six or seven, if you count me."
"Did you put a show on for them — you and some other girl?"
"You wish."
"So did you?"
"You're spoiling it. I have to tell it just as it happened."
"Okay, so this guy — Phil — he lets you into his room."
"It was a suite of rooms, actually. The one we saw online when we booked ours. Anyhow, Phil said he was pleased to see me."
"Had a hard-on, did he?"
"Haha. He might have, but I didn't get to touch it just then."
"But you did later?"
She ignores him, does not want to lose the thread, wants to keep it chronological. "He asked if I knew why he'd invited me. I said, probably because he wanted to make love to me. And he said that was only part of it, but that I would have to wait and see, and that he had something special in mind.
"He had hold of my hand, led me into one of the rooms where some couples were dancing to some sleazy jazz music. There were two girls on the sofa making out with each other. The guys were watching. Such young girls. Nineteen at the most."
"Were they escorts — the girls?"
"I don't think any of them were escorts. Anyhow, I said to Phil that I hadn't expected so many people—"
"— Did you make out with any of the girls later?"
"James, I'm not a lesbian — so either keep quiet or else I'm going down to the bar again. Okay?
"Phil stood with me for a moment and asked if there was anyone there I liked. I told him I was very attracted to him. He thanked me, asked if there was anyone else, male or female. I told him I didn't go in for girls, and he asked if I'd ever been with one, and I told him no I hadn't. And he said, then how did I know if I liked girls or not when I'd never tried it, and I said I just knew.
"Then he said, 'Okay, Clare. Out of just the guys, is there anyone you particularly like — beside me?' After looking around, I said I had no preferences, that they all looked like decent blokes. He said I was a good girl, and that it made everything a lot simpler. He got me a drink and then said I was to go through that door — he pointed — and that I was to undress and get into bed. I asked, 'wasn't he going to kiss me?' Because, you see James, all night I'd imagined kissing him. And he said it was good that I was so keen. And then he took me in his arms and kissed me, just like I had wanted him to."
She looks at James and says, "Is this what you imagined it would be like?"
"How could I have imagined something like this?"
"Does it turn you on to know I went to a stranger's hotel room — an older, wealthy man's room? Tell me, James. I need to know how much it turns you on."
"I still can't get my head around how much it does. I know its pathetic, but it does. Just knowing what you are capable of... Even that turns me on. I'm in a constant state of arousal. A year ago, I would never have believed this side of you existed."
"It's as much a voyage of discovery for me."
"So did they form a queue? All the blokes, did they line up to take their turn with you?"
"You'll have to wait and see. It's my story, and I'll tell it my way."
"So it's all just a story. Thank God!"
"Just hear me out, then you can decide if it's real or not when I've finished."
He's calmer now, ready to listen again.
"I undressed alone, put my undies on the chair in the corner, draped my dress over its back. Then I dimmed the lights and got into bed. The bed had satin sheets, and they felt delicious against my bare skin as I slipped between them. While I lay waiting, I could hear everyone enjoying themselves in the next room, and I thought of all those men, imagined which one it might be coming through the door at any moment. It was taking ages, so I began touching myself."
"Were you thinking of the old geezer — this Phil bloke?"
"Yes, I was, James. I was already wet down there, from him kissing me, and now I began imagining him naked, picturing what his cock might feel like, how big it might be. I wondered how it would be making love to a much older man.
"Not very. The door quietly opened, and for a moment there was light from the other room, a beam cutting through the near darkness. Then I saw two figures. Silhouettes. One of them I recognised as being Phil because he is unmistakable. So lean, so tall.
"Phil said he needed the light on, that he wanted me to see. And when he flicked the switch, I was so shocked." She pauses while remembering that first moment of recognition.
"Was Phil's cock so big that it shocked you then?"
"No. It was the other man — who he was. That's what shocked me."
"So it was him that had the giant cock?"
Neither had a giant cock, James. You're obsessed! I was shocked because I recognised him. This other bloke was Amaris Cougan."
"You mean that kid from the boy band?"
She looks James in the eyes and nods a solemn affirmation.
"Jeez, Clare. He's just a kid."
"Nineteen, last month."
"Why would a boy like him want a woman like you."
"Thanks, mate!"
"But that's how you must seem to someone like him. He could choose from God-knows how many willing teenage girls."
"I asked Phil the same question later."
"What did he say?"
"He said Amaris had seen me earlier and told him he liked the look of me, that I was exactly his type."
"And what type are you?"
"You know. Just me. Mid-twenties, small tits, brunette and pretty. Phil said that Amaris had pointed me out, was the reason he had come and spoken to me."
"I suppose it's one way of keeping your artists happy."
"Phil pulled back the sheets so that Amaris could see me. You should have seen the look on his pretty face when he saw me lying there naked. I thought he was going to cum in his pants.
"Then Amaris came to me and sat on the bed by my head and said, 'Hey, there, you. I saw you earlier. What's your name?' And I said, 'I'm Clare. You're Amaris Cougan, aren't you?' And he said, 'Yes, I am,' and then he kissed me on the lips before standing up and going back to Phil."
"This is fucking outrageous!"
"Not as outrageous as what came next. Are you ready to hear this?"
"Oh, God. What now?"
"Phil only went and took Amaris in his arms and kissed him passionately."
"That old guy and a boy? That's sick!"
"They wanted me to watch, and so I did. It was so hot, James! After they'd kissed, they both got naked. Then Amaris went down on his knees and sucked Phil's cock. But not enough to make him cum. He was just getting Phil hard, readying him for me."
"I thought he'd invited you there for the boy?"
"He had... But there was more to it than that. Some thing Phil had about Amaris. He never did make it clear. But no one made anyone do anything they didn't want to."
"You don't know about the boy."
"I do, James. Amaris was so into it. All of it. Not just me. Phil too."
"He might feel different about it all in ten years time."
"Maybe, but when I watched him giving Phil his blow job, I could see he was putting his heart and soul into it."
"Just like on that television contest, eh? They all put their fucking-heart-and-souls into it."
"Well, this was a performance I will never forget. All the while the boy sucked his cock, Phil held my gaze. I could see that me watching, it excited him. And then he coaxed the boy to his feet, and they both came to me, their cocks leading them. Phil's was all glossy from the lamplight."
"Which one fucked you first?"
"Guess."
"The boy. I bet he couldn't wait."
"I turned onto my back and they lay down with me, one each side of me, and began kissing my nipples. Feeling their cocks pressing against my sides made me want to hold them both. When my hands found them, I squeezed and squeezed, wanking them both at once. I closed my eyes and imagined which one would get to fuck me first, which cock I would get to suck first. And while I thought about their cocks, they were kissing and stroking me everywhere, and I couldn't tell whose hands were whose, couldn't tell who was doing what where. See, James, as well as their hands, their lips and tongues were moving over me, kissing me everywhere. Each took turns kissing my mouth. Sometimes our three tongues were twisting around each other at the same time. Then they took turns licking my pussy.
"It was Phil who fucked me first. His cock was inside me before I even knew what was happening. One minute they were taking it in turns to kiss my lips and the next thing I knew, my legs were wide apart and Phil was pushing his cock against my pussy, easing it inside of me. I was so wet, it just slipped in — all the way in, so far in that his balls banged against my bum as he fucked me.
"And while Phil fucked me, Amaris came and stood by my head, turned it, so I was looking right at it. Then he began wiping his cock around my face — cheeks, nose, lips, forehead, chin and neck. The next time it returned to my lips, I opened my mouth and he pushed it right in. Can you imagine it, James? I was sucking him while Phil was fucking me. It was beautiful.
"You should have seen us, the three of us. That's what I want the next time. I never thought I would, but I want you by my side, watching it happen. I want you inches away as a man makes love to me. And, James, I've met someone else — someone as young as Amaris. His name is Jack. Young cock is my favourite. It's so delicious. When Amaris shot his load in my mouth, I swallowed it all."
"Oh, God, Clare. You never swallow for me. I'm so fucking hard — just from hearing about it. You're going to have to suck my cock now like you did his."
But she wants to get her story told, narrate the hours that followed. And not just for his pleasure. The re-telling is a re-living, and it utterly turns her on too. It is not just the poignancy of the telling but also because she wants to fix it in her mind, etch every second of that night into the electro-bio-chemical mass of her brain. She will make it unerasable. Her telling it all will inoculate its reality against hindsight's revisions, its face-saving rationalisations.
She wants to tell how, after Phil had emptied his cock into her, Amaris had immediately taken his place, how the boy had used her in a frenzied whirlwind of self-serving lust. She wants to narrate it all, how, in contrast to Amaris, Phil's lovemaking had been considerate, nuanced, geared to her pleasure alone, his pleasure achieved by assuring her satisfaction. He had been so mindful of her needs.
She goes to James, quickly tackles his zipper and yanks the legs of his trousers down to his ankles, his boxers too.
His cock is a roaring Bunson of scorching need. The first pass of her tongue. A tentative tasting. She had intended a re-enactment, wanted to show in full what her mouth lavished on those men but has misjudged.
The trawl of her lips along the underside of his cock is a straw too many for this camel's back. There are no seismic clues to give warning of an eruption — the suddenness of it leaves her choking, his cock a spat dummy, a child's pacifier refused. I will not swallow, am sick of swallowing, have had a bucketful of swallowing. Now the tepid goo is cooling on her cheek, her chin. She will not lick it from her lips, and she wipes quickly with her forearm. In the bathroom mirror later, she sees how his jizz has lugged her hair.
She wants to tell everything, but she knows he is satiated. It would be perverse to insist, to grind her heel into his face. So she does not say how, as Amaris made love to her, others entered the room to watch, stood around the bed like long-lost relations gathered to witness her passing.
She remembers those men and their cocks, how they came to her as Amaris fucked her, and how she had handled them and sucked them as they stood by her head. She had relished every moment, remembers how when Amaris had done, how he had groaned aloud his rapture as he emptied himself into her, another man only too quick to take his place.
She does not remember how many men she made love to that night, thinks that even one of the girls had joined her lover in licking her body. Had a girl really gone down on her as she lay star-fish sprawled, slipped in ticketless, unnoticed? She pushes that thought down. It was a man's tongue, surely only a man's tongue. Best not tell James, he'll expect the impossible.
She only remembers what she chooses to. It warms her heart to remember how Phil's returned just before dawn, how he had shooed the stragglers from the bed and lain down beside her, told her how she was beautiful, made even more desirable in her soiled abandon, her icky wantonness.
And so before she had dressed, she and Phil had made love like sweethearts, his cock frictionless in the mire of seeping cum. God! All those men! As he'd fucked her, she had realised he was much like James, that it was him knowing that so many had had her immediately before him that now excited him. It was this, she realised, that was the source of his passion. Far more so than her beauty, her female actuality.
When she had dressed, ready to steal away, he had asked for her number, said he would like her to visit him in his country home. Her husband too, if she wished it. And she had agreed, said even if James did not want to come, she would find a way to be with him again.
Later, In the bar with James, she thinks of how much she still has to confess, how in her next telling she will elevate his fantasy to a previously unimaginable level.
Just then, the barman comes to take their order.
"James," Clare says. "This is Jack. He's the young man I was telling you about."
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