A Favour For Abbi free porn video

It didn't begin as a torrid affair. At first, we were just two friends, each with long-term partners. We came together organically through little things: rock climbing, our love of literature and the arts — our arrogant, sly shared sense of humour.

The subtlest of inuendos, the dawning of what was happening beneath the veneer of constructed lies, our social selves. Before I consciously admitted I wanted to fuck Cora, I would dream about her, waking in the early hours with my iron-rod-of-a-cock pressed hard into my wife Pam's spooning buttocks. That first dream! A moment of the most sublime phantasmagoria, the Cora of my nighttime inner world superimposed upon the flesh and bones of my unmistakably corporeal wife.  

Cora and I did not hurry to the ultimate, the luxury of unclaimed hours naked in a bed together. For many months, just to be in each other's company was enough. We would meet for lunch; the magic carpet ride of a snatched hour sharing laughter and gossip, art talk and ideas.

Our relationship became sexual a couple of months after our weekly lunches began. Even then, it never progressed beyond a snatched half-hour on the leather of my Range Rover's back seat. We'd park up in some corner of Hadmans Country Park where we would kiss and kiss while I caressed her breasts. Soon her hands would find my trouser zip, rummage for my cock which she would extract to tease and lick, and finally suck with enthusiastic aplomb. And even though I later learned she hated even the thought of jizz in her mouth, she would swallow it all, every gooey drop. 

Much later in our relationship, she confessed how she hated the taste of sperm, only gulping it down so ardently so as not to get it in her hair — or soil the leatherwork "... of your darling fucking motor," she would snark. I would arrive home later that night, her having left not a drop to seep and stain my boxers.

The voraciousness of her mouth could overwhelm me— emotionally and physically. As the weeks went by, the loving assuredness with which she administered those blowjobs became the only moment of light in my otherwise tedious and bankrupt life. Afterwards, we would talk. I think I loved our conversations almost as much as the blow jobs, came to love her because of them.

I'd ask her to let me fuck her on the leatherwork of my motor. But she would refuse, say she wanted our first time to be unhurried, a moment to horde for future years. And so the ultimate was kept on ice like expensive champagne, the rarest of vintages saved for that special occasion.

And so when we learned that her husband, Kev, was to spend two nights out of town, a new project in Edinburgh, it was a moment we could not let go to waste. After months of mere snatched meetings, the looming of this ultimate had me in a fever pitch of sexual anticipation.

But that night turned out to be a first in more ways than I could have ever foreseen.

The very first time we undressed at the foot of her marital bed, she ventured, "I have a favour to ask." She spoke quietly, casually, so much so that I expected something trite, like her asking me to go down on her before fucking her. I had only received oral from her, never given. It was as if about to ask for the big light to be left on during our lovemaking. I never expected the particular combination of words that eventually tumbled from her lips.

 "What is it?" I asked while watching her remove her party dress as a small lizard might shuffle of its old skin.

"You'll think me such a slut," she said now gathering her hair and twisting it into a ponytail, holding it in place with one hand while with the other reaching for a bobble from a dish of nick-nacks on the bedside table next to the lamp. She executed this subjugation of her hair with ruthless efficiency, the wild rage of her dark curls corralled with long-practised ease. "It's just something I've always wanted to try. But Kev won't even talk about it, says it's disgusting." 

"Go on..." I said, still not sure where she was going with this.

"I need you to fuck me from behind."

"And Kev won't?" I asked. I knew Kev was a bit staid, but this seemed a form of prudery even beyond him.

"You don't understand," she said as she walked towards me, her beautiful features no longer semi obscured by the bulk of her ever-shifting tresses. 

She took my right hand, isolated two fingers and licked them slowly, sensually. Then still holding them, she turned her back to me and said. "I mean fuck me here," guiding the digits between her plump arse cheeks, plunging them into the icky stitched-tight circle of her anus, wiggling her hips to settle them there. And then she let go of my hand and allowed her buttocks to close about my fingers like a carnivorous plant trapping a fly. And all the while, my cock screamed its need to be gobbled up too.

This request was the last thing in the world I had expected from Cora. I had always thought her such a well brought up young lady. Her father was a surgeon; her mother a Church of England cleric, the vicar of St Margaret's on the Hill. 

But that night, when she asked me to fuck her up the arse, she saw how I baulked. Thinking me fastidious or squeamish, she explained how she'd prepared herself, was clean back there, had douched thoroughly before my arrival and then soaked languorously in a steaming, scented bath for an hour.

But it was not the thought of the act that unsettled me. Washed or unwashed, I would have been more than happy to oblige. What turned my world topsy-turvy was that Cora, the girl I had come to idealise, had requested it without qualms or a hunt of embarrassment. 

Did she know it was the one sexual act I had never experienced, wanted to try more than any other? I had never mentioned that particular yearning. Never once!

"How could you even contemplate such a disgusting thing?" my wife Pam would respond whenever I even broached the matter. I had surmised all women thought the same way.

And as I stood with my fingers resting at that most unfrequented of bodily orifices, she turned her head and looked over her shoulder, her eyes seeking signs of my acquiescence. But words would not come. I couldn't even say a simple okay. I was at the edge of my ability to endure the intense arousal her request had elicited. All I could do was nod.

Cora smiled and, barely audibly, mouthed, "Thank you." And then she went to her dresser and extracted a tube of lube from its bottom drawer, which she brought back to the bed and opened the seal with a twist. There was the crack of hard plastic loosening. She placed it on the bedside table. A box of tissues too. The matter-of-fact way she went about her errand left me quite dumbfounded. 

Satisfied with her arrangements, she slipped out of her underwear. When naked, she pirouetted three times in the lamplight. The liquid ease of her movements was a testament to the joy she experienced from being alive in her voluptuous body, her utter assurance that the sight of it would please me.

I watched her position herself on the bed, arching her torso over pillows piled beneath her belly. In the half-light, her bum crack had the darkness of an engraving or charcoal rendering. Lamplight reflected from the cleaved pale curves of her buttocks, their sumptuous convexity an invitation for my cock to sink into the rarest of blisses, and it became swollen beyond endurance. I had to clasp it defiantly to stem an impending rupture.

Cora lay arched over the cairn of pillows she had pilled up and fashioned, her head resting on her forearm, her delicate, manicured hands, fingers interlaced gripping one another.

I'd had wasted hours watching anal porn on Xhamster. And so as I smeared the length and mass of my cock with lube, taking care not to overexcite myself during its application, I was confident I could make this happen in a way we would both enjoy.

Kneeling between her parted legs and looking at the arch of her rump, its fissure of inviting darkness, the fact that I hadn't ever fucked Cora in the usual way only added to my excitement. There was a yearning I had never know before. It surged back and forth through the entire length of my cock. My average male functional appendage had become a blood-engorged monstrosity that would soon see no reason unless given what promised. 

I squeezed more lube into my already over-greased palm and laid it flat at the point at which Cora's two butt cheeks cushioned and sealed the way to my goal. Then my fingers pushed against her pliant flesh, parting and setting it aside, and came to rest between her deliciously cushioning butt cheeks. I gently massaged, loosening the resisting seal of her sphincter, dispelling all of its stubbornness. 

When I considered her ready, I took my cock and gently pushed. She moaned a little; a princess awoken from the deepest of sleep. Her buttocks rose, encouraging me to penetrate her to the maximum degree. Little by little, the mass of my cock progressed into her core, finally mired so thoroughly that I had no more length to give. I paused for a moment, my lower abdomen hard against her generous backside. Angry muscles constricted and loosened around my cock, evolution's fruits ill-adapted to this brute intrusion. 

Wanting to start, but her muscles held me fast. I had to steady myself with my hands on the side of her hips to gain traction, free myself from their clutch. Then I was in control again, my confidence growing, my pace increasing as the strange became familiar. I was considerate, fucked her arse gently with long slow strokes. Both my hands gripped either side of her haunches, manoeuvring her flesh, arranging her hips to my ever-shifting needs, lifting when required — any little thing I could do I would do to ease my way.

Oh, the tightness of her! Spasms so fierce I feared they might staunch my ejaculation. But I was so engorged, bursting with so much jizz, that when my climax arrived, spunk shot from me in a pulsating torrent while her muscles in frantic spasms contracted trying to expel me.

We lay together, limbs braided, and she told me that she loved me. It was the first time she had, even though I had said those words to her so many times before.

Later we made love like people usually do. There were tears in her eyes. Alarmed by this, I stopped and asked her what the matter was. She said nothing was wrong, that the moment was too beautiful.

But that was over eighteen months ago. Our affair abruptly ended five weeks later when Kev came home early and found us together in the marital bed. His rage was something monstrous. This unforeseen homecoming hit us like a sudden storm rolling in from the ocean, our first warning the bang of the front door below. He would have seen my car parked by the curb a little down the road and so was already angry, but not yet confident his suspicions were a reality — not yet apoplectic. As little as he already cared for me as he entered his home, he might have thought there a good reason for my visit. 

Then the thump of his feet as he bounded up the stairs, those fee-fi-fo-thumb footfalls gut-churning to hear. His roaring my name on bursting into the bedroom, all his fears confirmed. I became the focus of his utter hatred. He had come for me, unplaceable, heedless of my pleas for rationality. Five strides and he was pulling back the duvet and dragging me by the leg from the bed — Cora's pleading with him, a banshee's wailing in my mind. I landed on the carpet, looked up at him and realised it best I left without a word. He was a big, fit bloke, and I thought he might kill me. If he had known about my cock in his wife's lush arse, I am sure he would have.

I dressed in a hurry, Kev's voice roaring from the landing above me as I stumbled outdoors, then quickly along the path to my parked car. Him at his door making hysterical threats to tell Pam about my infidelity.

For the following days after our soap opera bedroom scene, I lived in fear of Kev's phone call, expecting the bombshell to fall at any moment. But by that Friday evening, Kev still had not called. I told myself Cora had talked him round, placated him with lies and specious reasoning. 

But that Sunday morning, Pam received his text. When it came, and she had read it, she said not one word to me, just got her coat and left the house, drove to Cora and Kev's and confronted Cora and demanded the truth, the minutiae. And Kev gave her that blow by blow account, extracted from Cora over five dreadful nights. And in her pain, her anger and despair, Pam demanded to view the scene of the crime. And Kev more than happy to oblige.

I won't describe our days of Pam's rage, my pathetic excuses. I thought I loved my wife. But when she had gone, packed her bags and returned to her mother in York, I realised the love I had felt for my wife was a make-do affair, one born of familiarity and habit. In comparison, the love I felt for Cora was life and death itself.

The irony! Only moments before Kev arrived at the scene of the crime, Cora had told me she wanted our affair to end. She said that even though what we had was special, she loved Kev and no longer wanted to deceive him. The next day she was going to confess, and it would be a new beginning for them. The desperate guilt of living a lie would be over.

Perhaps it was as well that Kev arrived just at that moment. Who knows what I might have said — or done in the dawning despair of rejection.

Then last week, along with Amanda and Archie's housewarming invitation, news arrived of Cora and Kev separating. They had been apart six months, and no one had thought to tell me. But that did not matter. My mind soared when I learned she was free and that I would see her again so soon. I told myself it would be a new beginning for us. I could sell up, give Pam the divorce she wanted, her share of the sale of the house. Then Cora and I could be together again. All the months of emotional pain now seemed a light load to carry. 

But still, I wondered why Cora had not contacted me. Just a text, even, to say, "Hi, I'm a free agent now."

                                                                         ******

At the party, I spot Cora almost immediately. She is sharing an oversized armchair with an ethereal blonde girl who looks familiar. I try to give the girl some context, place her in my life, in Cora's. My mind fishes the stream of memory for a name. But it won't come. Then, as soon as I stop trying, it surfaces like a returning freediver. 

Abbi! Her name is Abbi.

I met her once before, two years ago, a month before my affair with Cora began. Then I'd thought her childish and flighty, barely a woman at all. She had just turned eighteen but hardly looked it. Though still slight and blonde, she's come on a lot since then. Now she's a girl transiting the last cusp of her teenage years. But what transforms her is her hair. Gone is the shoulder-length, centre-parted peasant girl look. Instead, she sports a pixie cut that, with her negligible cleavage, gives her a mischievous, Peter Pan androgyny. 

Even so, she's hardly the kind of person I could ever imagine the twenty-seven-year-old Cora cultivating as a friend. As I watch them talking, my thoughts return to that first meeting. Out with my wife, Pam, and our usual circle of married friends, I'd found myself sitting next to Abbi. When I tried to engage her in conversation, I found her hard going. My jokes never seemed to hit their mark, my attempts to engage her on varying topics eliciting the sparsest of replies. We talked past each other, never once connecting. A fish out of water I'd thought her. 

Her accent didn't help. It verged on the aristocratic, all Oxbridge and clipped, some precious darling of minor royals. Even when she smiled, did try to engage with me, it was as if she despised me, suffered my presence for quite inscrutable reasons. I asked myself, how the fuck had this throwback to the nineteen-fifties, this upper-class refugee from God-only-knows what continental finishing school, washed up at our table? 

It turns out Abbi was a pupil of Cora's brother, Tom. Then aged twenty-three, he taught English at the grammar school sixth form. Tom considered Abbi something of a literary genius, had mentored her, his tutoring the reason she had won a place at Trinity College Cambridge. But why he had invited Abbi along on one of our nights out? Well, I never did fathom that one. 

I did my best to strike up a conversation, genuinely interested to learn who she was. I wanted to get to know the reality of her life, what made her tick. I smiled and charmed, lavished her with my usual panache, making her the sole focus of my attention in the way that has never failed to uncoil the most reluctant of women. But I quickly came to understand that her thoughts were elsewhere, her responses to my probing questions casually tossed to me like leftovers to a hungry pet. And so I changed tack, began telling her about my new motor. I had taken possession of it just that week and was still in the first flush of self-satisfaction. It didn't take long for her eyes to glaze over. Suddenly, she turned away from me and began a conversation with Cora, who was sitting to her other side.

To be abandoned halfway through a sentence had floored me. I was just not used to people cutting me off in mid-flow. As regional manager of Pharma Co, I was used to being listened to, was not a man to be ignored.                                         

Tonight at the party, I am desperate to go over and say hi to Cora, but the intensity of the two girls' conversation deters me from interrupting. Their faces brim with earnest consideration for each other, and so I bide my time, nurse a beer by the french windows waiting for an opportunity to get Cora alone.

I study every nuance of their facial expression as they chat. They sit kind of side-saddle facing each other, a mirror image. Their legs are pulled up on to the seat cushion and tucked beneath their haunches, their heads and bodies facing each other, glass in one hand, their bare arms resting on the back of the chair, fingertips almost touching. Both in short party dresses, only Cora wears the sheerest of black tights. Her knees push against Abbi's knees, pale and boney. They reach out and touch each other reassuringly from time to time, especially when they laugh. 

During a lull in their conversation, Cora turns and scans the room. When she sees me watching, she does not smile, acknowledge me in any way. She just turns back to Abbi, leans in close and says words I have no hope of hearing.   

Something Cora says to her causes Abbi to look my way like a meerkat warned of a leopard's approach by the matriarch of the troop. Her gaze tracks across the room, and when she finally picks me out from among the other guests, she studies me with radiant eyes as if hardly able to contain some private pleasure. It takes her a moment to realise I am staring right back, which causes her to come over all coy and drop her gaze. Then Cora leans and whispers in her ear again, and Abbi laughs, studies me now, before turning back to Cora. More words pass between them, and then as if of one mind, they both simultaneously look directly at me. But this time, Abbi does not lower her eyes; it is me that has to turn away, reach for my drink and take a sip. To be the focus of two such gorgeous females is impossible for me to endure.

Other guests come and stand in my line of sight. Before I know it, Emma and Pete have cornered me. They launch into a gushing narrative of holiday talk, each trying to outdo the other with minutiae. They're just back from Egypt, pyramids and diving on the Red Sea. I'm polite, listen and nod. But seven minutes is enough, and I can bear it no more. So I make an excuse and go upstairs to the bathroom, where I fill the basin with water and open a window and then pull down the toilet lid, sit down and smoke a fag while I figure out a way to get Cora on her own.

Later, back downstairs with my drink refreshed, I slip back into the lounge while keeping a lookout for Emma and Pete. No need to worry, they have found fresh victims, cornered Mavis and Greg. I relax, find a vantage point by the French Windows, from where I can inconspicuously watch Cora and Abbi, still talking.

But they've already spotted me. Abbi nudges Cora and surreptitiously points me out. There's a new blatancy in the looks they throw me, the assessing intensity of their eyes again unnerves me. 

At last, Cora acknowledges me. She nods, smiles, her eyes shining with a lover's limitless affection. It is the same look that made me first fall in love with her, a look full of what I imagined to be love for me. Or is it a woman's look of satisfaction from knowing they have captured a man's heart? I tell myself she still has feelings for me, remembers what we once shared. But when she turns again to Abbi, I am resentful of the attention she lavishes on the girl, jealous of the tenderness she bestows in her smile, her gentle reaching out to take her hand. It cuts me not to be a part of their girlish affectation. And just for one moment, I feel utter despair. Now I am sure I will never have her again. Who'd have thought whispers and sniggers could crush one's soul.

Their eyes are full of conspiracy, and they look towards me again before once again turning back to face each other. And when Cora leans in yet again to whisper, her lips brush the perfect peach flesh of Abbi's cheek, her candytuft skin. I imagine her flesh being warm and provoking, am sure a kiss is imminent. But that doesn't happen: only whispers followed by laughter. They take a sip from their drinks before both turn their heads to me and unleash their eyes. Their come-to-bed insistence torments me. 

But I have no interest in Abbi. Her presence threatens to derail my plans. Until I saw Cora with this posh little tart, I'd had it all worked out, had rehearsed all afternoon the words I would say to her. I will tell her I still love her, that my love for her exists on a higher level: a profound and timeless level. 

But now my simmering resentments evaporates. The two girls are on their feet, are hand in hand walking towards me. They position themselves before me like two teasing sixth form school girls trying to embarrass the young and dishy male supply teacher. Neither is tall, and they stare up at me expectantly as if about to coax from sir some outrageously risque favour.

"Abbi and I are off now," Cora tells me as she holds my gaze. It is as if she is daring me to say all the things I've rehearsed in my mind throughout the day before she leaves. And that is what I want to do — am desperate to do. I need to unburden myself, let all those crazy words come somersaulting from my mouth.

But all I can manage is, "Oh. I thought we might talk."

Abbi relinquishes Cora's hand, steps to the side and says, "I can see you two need space. Let me have your keys, Cora. I'll wait in the car."

As soon as Abbi has gone, Cora says, "We can talk if you like, Luke. But can it be another time? Just now, Abbi and I are off to have sex. You can tag along and watch if you like."

This statement derails me almost as much as when she told me she wanted my cock in her arse. 

"Only watch?" I ask, hardly daring believe I've heard her correctly.

"That's up to you."

"Are you two an item now?"

"Let's just say that we understand each other."

"She's hardly your type."

"What is my type, Luke?"

"Someone with a bit more... Substance."

"That's the point of Abbi and me: she makes me feel so friggin grounded. And she adores me, Luke. She really fucking does. It turns me on so much just knowing just how much she wants me. She makes me laugh, makes me cry, makes me want to care again — you have heard about Kev doing one with that fat-cow Kerry Copeland?" 

"I only heard last week," I say, hoping to bring some normality back to the conversation.

"She's welcome to him. Do you need a lift? Or are you in that tractor of yours?"

"Don't call it that. We had some good times in it."

"I've been telling Abbi about our good times."

"I never had you down as kiss and tell."

"She likes it best when I tell her about your favourite thing." She reaches out and plays with the lapel of my jacket and puts on her best daddy's little princess voice. "A little bird tells me she'd like to try it herself." She looks up at me all doe-eyed. "Don't look so alarmed, Lukey. She's not who you think she is. She's ever so obliging. Not stuck up at all."

And even though I now know what she is talking about, I have to hear her say it out loud. "Are you talking about —"

 "— Do I really have to spell it out for you, draw you a picture?"

"What's her address?"

Cora dips her fingers into her bag and pulls out a mini note pad that has a pencil secured by spine loops and a ribbon to its spine. "Here, I'll jot it down. I know how you get when you're excited." She tears the sheet from the pad and hands it to me. "It's only a twenty-minute drive."

"Does she live alone?"

"She's back home from uni for the summer. It's her parents' place, but they're away on some yoga retreat in India — or was it trekking up to Machu Picchu? Anyway, some empty-nester crisis. So we have the house all to ourselves. Her parents own the old Dammartin estate — what's left of it. Did you know her great-grandfather on her mother's side was a lord? Her grandmother is a famous artist. Penny Dammartin. You'll have heard of her."

"I thought Tom was bullshitting me."

"Oh, it's all true — the rumours. Of course, they sold off most of the estate to pay debtors. Abbi's parents commissioned a smaller house in the grounds of the hall — what remains of it, that is. It burned down, you know."

I remembered the fire. The papers were full of the scandal of such an ancient family involved in insurance fraud. But that was over ten years ago.

I follow Cora out to her car. Abbi is waiting, window down, her hand holding a spliff resting on the sill of the open passenger door window. She does not speak to me, regards me — a glimmer of secret amusement sparkling in her eyes.      

"So you know where you're going?" Cora asks.

"I'll follow you," I tell her.

"See you there, then." She leans in and kisses my cheeks. "Try to keep up."

By the time I have walked to my motor and driven back, Cora and Abbi have driven away. I put my foot down, accelerate after them, cathing catch up just before the bypass. I flash my light to let the girls know I'm there.                                       

                                             *****

I follow Cora's old Golf in my Range Rover. I could overtake, go on ahead, but I like to have the pair in my sight while I imagine their conversation — which I'm sure will be about me. I picture them side by side chatting excitedly, their bodies girlishly heated, their breasts beneath their party dress soft and warm. More than those things, my mind conjures their warm backsides: Abbi's almost gamine; Cora's ample, deliciously rounded. I wonder whose I'll get to fuck first. It's hard for me to imagine how things will unravel in the coming hours. Will they make love to each other to get me in the mood? Cora all curves, her mothering flesh overwhelming such a delicate waif, her darling girl. I will stroke their legs as they kiss, one hand on each; the contrast of bare skin and the sheerest micro-mesh. 

But the act itself? Will Cora want me and her to put on a show for Abbi, demonstrate the act? Or am I here solely for Abbi's induction? I imagine how this spoilt daddy's girl will be so very-fucking-tight back there.

The road winds up into the hills, the lights of the city spread out below to my left. Sodium orange entrances me as I drive, and I nearly miss the turn that they've suddenly taken. I have to brake hard and back up. 

We're off the main road now and I have to concentrate on my driving. The old carriageway leading to the house is neglected, strewn with potholes, has shrubbery encroaching from both sides. Laurel and Rhododendrons rear up from the darkness as I speed along. Way back from the track, Ash and oak yearn for the star dashed sky, their overhanging bows momentarily illuminated by headlights. Beneath them, our two cars speed by, the pitch of night collapsing back in on itself when we have passed.

I follow the rear lights of Cora's Golf, its spinning tyres sending gravel flying in its wake. She's driving recklessly on purpose; she always was the jealous sort, knows how I fret over scratches and chips to the paintwork. The Range Rover is my pride and joy, the only serious rival Cora ever had for my affections. I slow down, give her distance.

When I emerge from the dense darkness of the driveway, there is no sign of the Golf. And so I follow the now gravelled, cared for, drive as it circumvents a broad lawn laid out before the illuminated plate glass of an architect's wet dream.

At the side of the house, I see their car parked beneath a stretch of towering brickwork whose length disappears into the darkness. It surrounds an ancient walled garden, a relic from the old Dammartin estate, learn the next day. I park beneath its looming brickwork.

There is a side entrance to the house: a small porch, the doorway illuminated by an interior light. As I walk toward it, I see Abbi in silhouette beckoning me to her.

"Hello you," she says when I step over the threshold. Her upper-class voice renders her flirtatious welcome into sheer smut. "Long time no see. Was I ever-so cruel to you back then, Lukey?"

She does not give me time to reply, encircles me with her arms and pulls me to her. It is the most sublime of ambushes, and for a moment my arms dangle at my side as she goes up on tip-toe and seals my mouth with her lips. Her tongue tip breaks cover, insinuates itself between my lips, becoming a wild thing, moving without symmetry or purpose. This is a greeting that brims with the chaos of lust. 

My hands are slow of the mark, the sensuality of her lips, the skill of her tongue's manoeuvres sabotaging my mind's centre of operations. But orders arrive, and my hands come into play; my right palm between her shoulder blades, the left mapping out the curve of her rump beneath the thin sliding cotton of her dress. My fingers and palm perform a hurried mapping of the terrain, a necessary intelligence operation for my cock's coming expedition.

We kiss for a minute, maybe two as both my hands slide beneath the hem of her dress. Up the back her thighs they go, finally coming to rest, cupping and weighing buttocks soft as calf boxing gloves. I squeeze and knead both simultaneously, like a baker on speed. I send my fingers to delve for the silk of her thong in the crack of her arse, extract it and snatch it down until the spread of her calves hinders its descent. I finger her pussy from behind, fore and index fingers delving deep and mired by her excitement. The heel of my hand presses hard into the cleave of her buttocks.

Cora's voice: "You two didn't waste any time."

Abbi is startled. It's as if caught with a secret lover, not warming up the bloke who is here to fuck her in the arse. She breaks from me and goes to Cora, who is standing two yards from us, way back in the vestibule. 

Abbi takes Cora by the hand and brings her to me, and then she reaches out with her free hand for mine. I take it, and she leads us into the lounge. 

We trail behind Abbi, and I notice the decor and furnishing, see how the house is minimally furnished. What ornament it does have are displayed tastefully, each object quite exquisite. There is modern art: vast canvasses on each wall. I grow envious. We move on through and out into a spacious hall that has a broad, glass, steel and teak stairway ascending to the upper floor. 

Abbi says the room we enter is called The Mauve Room. "It's the guest room," she adds. As well as pillows, scattered fancy cushions litter an inordinately large bed, the head of its duvet folded back in anticipation of our arrival. We stand at its foot all in a huddle as the two girls take turns to kiss me, their tongues vying to please me, occasionally breaking from me to kiss each other, share girlish reassurances.

Cora breaks away from us, kneels and undoes my jeans while Abbi continues to kiss me. I step out of my boxers absently, my mind spellbound by the skill and complexity Abbi brings to our tongue-play. 

Cora tugs at Abbi's hand, encouraging her to leave off kissing me. She kneels at her friend's side, where each take turns licking and sucking my cock. They pass it to and fro, one sucking while the other patiently waits her turn. I close my eyes, try to guess which girl has it between her lips in any given moment. Their techniques are distinctive: Abbi furious and determined; Cora, unhurried, no part of my cock so insignificant that she will not venture to taste it.

It can't continue: I'll cum unless they stop right now. So when the pair begin to swop shifts, between the change over it is Abbi's head I take between my palms and encourage to rise.

"I thought you two were going to make love?" I say, wishing to shift their focus from my cock.

They are both standing, and it is as if they see each other for the first time, and I am not even a memory. Cora's eyes sparkle with anticipation. She smiles for Abbi, and I grow jealous of the love I see she holds for Abbi, who now plays the part of a young girl seduced, her coy theatrics convincing me of the role as she demurely allows Cora to undress her.

The sight of Abbi naked in the still clothed Cora's arms revives my subsiding cock. She looks so delicate, has a previously unnoticed vulnerability. Previously I had thought her arrogant, quite self-regarding and stuck up. Her frailness fills me with absurd erotic compassion.

A lull in their kissing in which they pair exchange smiles that brim with self-satisfaction, their eyes all-of-a-sparkle from the pleasure they find in each other. Then Abbi slips from her lover's arms and lies down on the bed leaving Cora to undress. The girl lies with legs parted, knees a little arched. I try to see between Abbi's thighs — catch a snatch of her snatch — but from where I stand, it is all shadows and vagueness. There is a pale ethereality to Abbi as she reclines propped by pillows. She is half in darkness, half in rose-hued lamplight. It is as if she is still undecided whether to remain in this world or pass over to another, more rarefied, plane.

I turn to Cora. She is reaching around herself and undoing her bras. While below, the sheerest of nude-look tights remain pulled high over her waist, the haze of black silk panties beneath. I can't help myself: the draw of my fetish drives me to her. I stand behind her softly pawing her butt cheeks beneath the stretched, fey material. She turns her head and tells me, "You can take them off for me if you like, Lukey."

I do as she asks, hooking my fingers in the hosiery's waistband and peeling the stretching fabric down. She is shedding a protective skin, and I kiss the exposed, buttery flesh, swopping from leg to leg as my lips and tongue follow in the wake of the skimpy garment's departure.

She steps out of her tights, and I pick up the tangle of nothingness, bunching the compressed material to my face and inhaling the sweetness of Cora: her signature fragrance, Daisy by Marc Jacobs mingling with her female-animal essence. 

I step away and walk to a small chair set to one side of the room, sit and nurse my trophy.

When Cora climbs onto the bed, all tenderness abandons the room. She straddles the girl's head and lowers her hips onto her face. The last I see of Abbi's features are her eyes ablaze with expectancy at the moment before Cora's astonishingly thighs subsume her entirely. 

There's no hurry for Cora. Her hips rise and fall with selfish disregard for Abbi's comfort. I imagine how Cora's cunt must shed its passion, ooze its slick secretion, spreading it over the girl's nose, cheeks and lips. I wonder if Abbi's tongue can emerge, or whether it is imprisoned in its den by the pressure of Cora's ubiquitous haunches as they now slide back and forth over her face. And when at last Cora's dead weight settles upon her features, Abbi's arms rise from the bed, her palms giving pushback against Cora's all-consuming buttocks, no longer able to endure the near suffocating ardour of their grind.

Cora gets the message, stretches out both arms and rests her palms against the partition wall just above the headboard. Her weight dispersed, she brings a new subtlety to her frottage. The small of her back; the half shadowed half-light enhancing its subtle concavity as she angles her torso towards the wall. She rests her forearms flat against it, her forehead between them as her fingernails claw flocked paper. 

And when Cora finally brings herself to completion, the length of her back glistening with the sweat of her passion, my eyes are drawn away from her hips as they judder in orgasm, to the yawn of Abbi's cunt, neglected and waiting between her chalk-white thighs.

Exhausted, Cora manoeuvres herself from the wall, twisting herself as she unsaddles herself from Abbi's face and lies down by her side.

I decide I've had enough of playing the voyeur, Still clothed, I hurry to the bed, my aim set on Abbi's cunt. My face up close, I sniff her before I taste her. The natural redolence of her pussy mingles with her soapy scent. The Camay richness of my childhood is a heady shock to my arousal. But still, I lick out my tongue and take a tentative taste. Then I'm a pig at a trough, lapping and gobbling with no thought for her pleasure. It is a selfish imbibing, nothing more than purest male chauvinistic sexual gluttony.

I sense how Abbi loves it when, in my rabid depravity, I flip her over onto her belly and spread her legs, done in a single masterful movement. I split the two halves of her buttock; a honey melon cracked and pulled into halves to give my tongue access to what this evening is all about. Soon my saliva is everywhere, a mire of tropical succulence that coats her usually hidden flesh. I lap her like a mistress's pooch, my breathing frantic. I can hardly contain my excitement when I sense how she responds to my tongue's attention. She moans her appreciation, is a girl in the grips of incomprehensible pleasure, and my mind gloats over how life has brought me to this moment.

My mouth alternates between each bum-cheek, while the fingers of each hand keep the two halves from smothering my face. And when my tongue eventually finds the pulled-stitch tightness of her tiny arse-hole, she lets out an incontinent squeal of delight. It flickers there as my hands relax their grip allowing her two butt-cheeks collapse against each side of my face. It is the sublimest of moments as the dense flesh of her dimpled haunches softly squeeze in the most erotic of clinches. I nuzzle and slurp to my heart's content, and she wriggles her hips, raises them and pushes hard against my face. My tongue gives push back, and she wails with pleasure.

Cora sanding over me, says, "I have lube."

I break from Abbi, get up and undress. When I am naked, Cora comes to me, the palm of her hand slathered with lube, which she applies to my cock, gently covering the entire length with a viscous, chilled, goo.

Abbi has turned to watch the preparations. Her eyes twinkle with shy curiosity — and, I suppose, nervous anticipation. I move towards her, but Cora takes my hand and says, "No, Luke. Wait here while I prepare her for you."

She goes to Abbi and coaxes her down onto her back. I expect her to lay down pillows that will go under her belly. Instead, Cora arranges Abbi so that she is lying with her torso is propped slightly by the pillows as if awaiting a regular fucking — or is ready to deliver her child. When Cora has the girl just so, legs apart and knees arched, she prepares Abbi's sphincter for the coming of my cock.

Cora kneels on the bed to the left of Abbi's hips while squeezing lube into the palm of her right hand, then spreads it between the girl's legs. At first, she smears only Abbi's mons — and I think she has missed her mark. But when I watch her hand rotating over her silky pubic tangle, its subtle plumpness beneath, I understand how she is teasing us by taking the scenic route. Then down over Abbi's pussy slides her massaging hand, her fingers soon sliding between labia lips. She spends time there, and then gradually moves lower, her fingers transit Abbi's perineum, the curl of her hand running back and forth along the fissure of her buttocks. With each forward motion, Cora's three fingers sink a little deeper into the cleft. Soon they have vanished from sight. 

Cora does not hurry, takes pleasure in her task of massaging between Abbi's butt cheeks. Abbi has closed her eyes, a look of contentment has replaced that of excited apprehension. Occasionally she encourages Cora with a hushed, "Oh, yeah," or, "Mmmm." Then, "Ow," said quietly, "Your nails." This gives Abbi ideas, and she scores her own breasts with painted fingers nails, sometimes pinching herself and gasping from self-inflicted peeve.

"She's ready for you," Cora calls to me. I hear her arousal in the otherwise soft tone of her call.

I kneel on the mattress between Abbi's legs and look at her pussy glistening, reach out and insert two fingers into her cunt. Her vagina's muscles greet me in lush welcome, yet tight as a friend's welcoming handshake. I savour its clutch, imbibing every detail so I can compare her cunt's tightness to her rear passage. A moment soon to come. God, she is a tight little thing.

With my cock gripped firmly, I use it as a painter might a brush, sending long sweeps up and down her pussy. As I pass the maw of her cunt, the temptation to slip into her is compelling. But my willpower is strong. I have a more prestigious prize in mind. And so I send my cock coasting on down until it comes full stop at her deliciously greased butt cheeks. I push gently, and the two halves quickly absorb the end of my cock, coddling it with its sumptuous warmth. I prop myself up on one arm, a vertical beam of support as I look down at Abbi, guiding my cock by line of sight. Positioned just so, I prod gently, my body and mind alert for her sphincter's acceptance. And even though gel now coats every inch between her legs, and Cora has previously massaged her flesh into utter compliance, I still have to push harder than I anticipated to dissipate her tightness.

When she is almost breached, and I am ready to begin a tentative advance, she reaches up with both arms and places her palms each side of my face, applying pressure that urges me to meet her gaze. I see such intensity in her eyes. And yet I cannot read her. Does she want me to stop, to progress no further? I ask her, "Are you okay?" She smiles and nods. And then all her filthy prettiness, the guileless debauchery of her smile makes me cruel. I shift position, allow my knees to take my weight as I slip both my hand beneath her rump and lift her, her back arching as her hips rise. And then, with one harsh lunge, I propel my cock into her arse, filling the entrance with all of my passion-engorged flesh. The harshness of penetration robs her of breath like a sudden immersion in icy water. As I pause, she inhales, the sudden tension caused by my cock's presence dispersing. But when I being to slowly fuck her, she groans like a birthing mother enduring the heaviest of contractions.

My hips power my cock with steady, considered energy. My cock penetrating only fractionally deeper at first. But her sex-sounds have altered, become mere whimpers. Soon I find my rhythm, a sustained and gentle andante to which Abbi's hips respond. Se lifts them to draw me deeper. I sense how her bodies reluctance diminishes, allowing her to enjoy the feeling of enormity that my cock generates buried deep in a place ill-designed for such an intrusion. I sense how she loves every inch that threatens to rupture her. 

As if summoned by my thoughts, Cora's hand slips under me and settles son Abbi's clit and begins stirring her gently as my abdomen rises, stalling her rhythm when it falls against it. Her other hand on my back, massaging purposefully. Soon her fingers skate further down, sliding into the clenched crack of my bum. And as I fuck Abbi's arse, I sense the chilled application of lube filling my bum-crack, then Cora's fingers slipping into my anus unopposed. 

It is if Cora is an orchestral conductor leading her players to some tempestuous finale. I become aware of something stupendous building in Abbi. It has taken hold of her muscles and bones. It is a force that suffuses every cell in her body. She stiffens beneath me, her fingers as talons clutching my shoulders. Her legs come right back, the camber of her buttocks transformed into a capital letter C. Her change of position gives my cock new focus, and I find a fresh impetus as I push deeper than ever before. A constrictor closes around my cock, fixing it in place. Progress is slow, my cock now hardly budging. If I force it, I will suffer pain.

I push again, and something gives and the going is easier as I regain my rhythm. Soon we are both cumming, and my jizz is copious, pumping from me like blood from a severed artery. I groan like a husband unexpectedly bereaved. Abbi's noises of completion are the inarticulate pleading of a girl unburdened from a bliss she is unable to ride. Her body buckles beneath me, rising and falling as if possessed by devils. And so it should: my cock has become Beelzebub incarnate. The power that our aberrant lovemaking has conjured, unleashed in the abandon of our synchronised climax, is all-consuming. It sweeps our rational minds away. When the storm of orgasm has passed, I collapse onto her. We cling to each other like two shipwrecked souls.

I am exhausted. I try to ease my cock from her, but my erection has not subsided. Her rectum has captured it and will not give it up. I lie awaiting the collapse of my passion, feeling how her muscles still grip and relax around me. Finally, my cock slips from her and I roll on to my back. Sweat covers my torso, and I feel in my chest how my heart races my lungs. 

I am lying between Abbi and Cora. Cora kisses me sweetly, long and deep. I sense her utter excitement, one that I am unable at this moment to in any way appease. Abbi watches us for a moment and then leans in and ads her tongue to the mix. Our three tongues mingle. 

I ask Abbi if I can smoke. She says it's okay — as long as it's by the window. I get off the bed and sit on a chair by the open window and watch the two girls, see the affection between them as I take the first drag of my fag. Then Abbi is licking her way over Cora's body, down between her legs, bringing Cora the release she so desperately needs.

And it is Cora who now occupies my thoughts. Will I get to make love to her tonight? The usual way will be just fine. Or have they used me? Am I dispensable now?

A little later, their limbs and tongues untangle as Abbi eases herself from the bed to slink off to the bathroom. I ask Cora, "When can we talk?"

"We'll talk soon enough, Lukey," she replies,

"I have so much I want to say to you."

 "Okay. Let's say we'll talk." She regards me, her eyes still full of some an insatiable sexual need. "We'll talk when you've fucked me like you fucked Abbi — if I think you deserve it afterwards."

So many emotions washed over me on hearing her words. The extent of her prurient appetite in no way diminished the esteem I held her in. It did dampen the love I had for her. But it did make me consider what my life would be with a woman driven by such an all-consuming sexual drive. 

And as I considered these things, I felt my cock stirring again. A good soldier eager to be back in the fray. And in that moment of my cock resurrection, I knew my life with Cora was going to be a wondrous thing.

THE END