Leaving Annie's Party free porn video

Annie came over when I was at the watercooler and invited me to her house party, "It's secret agent themed," she said.

 I must have looked puzzled because then she launched into a monologue about what she expected from her guests. I told her that spy films were not my thing. But she ignored me, said I would make a beautiful Bond Girl. But I wasn't so sure: I'm more Bridget Jones than The Spy Who Loved Me. 

She said she'd be gutted if I didn't come, then casually added, "Karl Peterson will be there. He asked about you — wanted to know if I'd invited Lauren."  

That's when I said okay, that I'd be there. But when I saw Annie's smile go all smug, I knew I'd agreed far too quickly. After she'd wandered away, I began to frett about my costume, what a pain-in-the-arse kitting myself was going to be. 

But a chance to get to know Karl Peterson would be worth all the trouble. I'd seen him looking at me whenever I was over in accounts, had hoped he'd seen me looking at him too. Last week, he'd gazed away from his monitor and given me the most perfect of smiles and asked, "Will I see you at to Annie's party, Lauren?"

I said I wasn't sure, even though I certainly was now.

It was mid-October, and I had just turned twenty-two. I'd completed my economics degree earlier in the year and had decided to stay in Manchester instead of going home to Devon. I reasoned I stood more of a chance of landing a job in the city. In no time at all, I was offered a placement at a top-notch recruitment agency, Smudge, Bunch and Tatters, their offices overlooking Piccadilly Gardens.   

On the morning of the party, I caught the tram into town, then made a beeline for Affleck's Palace hoping to find something suitably retro hidden away among three fabulous floors of Vintage clothing and fetish attire. The establishment is a wonderland. Rack after rack of the outlandish and bizarre, antique garments, kitsch, and plain old tatt. It took me the best part of the morning to come to a decision, settling on a pale white mini shift dress and matching calf-high white boots. 

That evening back in my apartment, having done everything possible to acclimatise to my chosen costume, I still couldn't see myself as a Bond Girl. I'd managed to coax my hair into something resembling a beehive, even though I wasn't sure if any of the Bond Girls ever had their hair arranged quite like the half-finished hornet's nest that mine had become.

But I was proud of my eyes: big false lashes and heavily pencilled spider legs beneath a gamut of pale blue and silver shading. When I finally sat and looked at the completed me in the mirror, I thought: all that effort for this. Rather than some hot babe from Goldfinger looking back at me, I saw a go-go-dancer from Austen Powers. 

Annie's house was impressive. A sizeable victorian villa up by the park. It had four receptions rooms between which guest migrated, forming temporary cliques that congealed and dissolved without apparent purpose. Laughter and chatter filled the house. I went from room to room hoping to spot Karl Peterson.

It wasn't until Annie asked me if I'd lost something, that I realised just how obvious I was being.

"Oh, just mingling," I said, even though I'd not spoken more than a sentence to anyone since arriving half an hour earlier.

"Gaynor and Jane are in the parlour," she said, taking my hand and leading me on. Being stuck with two people who I spent most of my working day with was the last thing I needed, but I traipsed after her down the hall and on into the enormous front room where a fire was blazing merrily in the hearth.

But after a half-hour of nursing a white-wine spritzer and enduring office gossip with Gaynor and Jane, I casually broached the matter of Karl Peterson.

"I haven't seen Karl," I said, addressing neither woman in particular while trying to sound casual.

"Oh, sweetheart!" Gaynor said, her voice now consoling the bereaved. "Didn't Annie say?"

"Say what?"

"Karl has other plans."

"But this party has been the talk of the office for weeks. Karl told me he was looking forward to it."

"According to Annie, he's had a better offer. She was quite pissed about it." 

As if the pair were responsible for Karl's absence, I stood up and marched off to find Annie. Why-the-fuck had she not told me Karl had bailed?

The other living room was a sea of meaningless faces. People I'd smile for at work, exchange pleasantries with while sipping coffee from Styrofoam. I cast my eyes around in search of our host, desperate for assurance that Karl had a genuine reason for not showing. But now she was a busy butterfly, flitting from guest to guest, most of whom had brought their partner. Even Marcia from accounts, a singleton like me, was the centre of Franciso Scaramanga's attention. For a moment, the sight of him unnerved me. I had to reassure myself she'd be okay, that he was not an actual evil genius, just a guy from Annie's tennis club. 

I returned to the parlour crestfallen. After another half hour of smiles and tittle-tattle, I was considering my options — one being calling a cab and heading back to my flat where a bottle of Shiraz pined for my lips.

That's when I spotted the bloke I would later learn was called Tom. 

His costume was not the usual effort, far from makeshift, not cobbled together that Saturday afternoon like my own. He had obviously visited a theatrical outfitter, could have just that minute walked off a Bond set, a refugee from an ambassador's cocktail party in From Russia With Love. Mind-you. I'd never seen From Russia With Love, did not know if Mr Bond ever attended such a function. It's just what I imagined when I saw him over by the bookcase table chatting to Pussy Galore.

Over six foot tall, he had such a handsome swagger, a movie idol suaveness. His physique, features and demeanour, ticked all my boxes. His actuality at that moment gathered into one place all the attributes I had ever fantasised about in a bloke. But what appealed the most was the way he carried himself, his stance, how he was at entirely at home in those clothes, the authentic costume he had chosen to wear for such a prosaic evening. Immaculate in a tuxedo and black bow tie, his hair freshly clipped, combined to endow him with an authentic 1960s chic. He was a vision straight from the set of Madmen.

There and then, I decided the evening was salvageable. And after another drink to give me courage, waiting for Pussy Galore to exit stage left, I made my approach. I stood up and took a deep breath before sashaying over to him, hoping the roll of my hips would catch his eye.

"Hi, I'm Lauren. You really have pulled off the spy thing," I said, curbing the impulse to reach out and run a finger along his chiselled jawline.

He smiled and then studied me for a moment before saying, "Tiffany Chase."

"If you say so," I said, accepting what I assumed was a compliment but having no idea who Tiffany Chase was. I just liked his voice, how he laced the name Chase with a barely concealed sexual garnish.

And then he wanted to know about me, and I was happy to talk. He smiled and nodded at all the right moments, even laughed when I did my dizzy-blonde routine.

When he said he was going outside for a smoke, I said I smoked too and said I would join him. So I followed him into the garden, even though I didn't' smoke, never had. I despised the filthy habit. That's how much I fancied this guy.

He talked about some of the people at the party while I listened and pretended to smoke, sucking stupidly at the Marlborough he'd handed me after shielding the flame with palms either side of my uncertain fingers. When he'd stood back after lighting my cigarette, I pretended to inhale and then sent the blue smoke high into the night as if expelled from my lungs while trying my best to stifle a cough.

I was trying too hard, and I knew it, really laying it on by going over the top with my come-to-bed looks and coy pouts. I touched his arm and laughed at some daft quip he made, and he put his hand over mine to keep it in place. It was then I knew I'd got a bite. 

Throwing all of my female wiles at him had paid off. When he finished his cigarette, tossed it to the floor and ground it into the paving as if squatting an armoured thing that crawls, he took me in his arms and kissed me. Half stunned by this welcome but unexpected turn of events, I also dropped my half-smoked Marlborough, though I did not have time to give it the heel. I opened my mouth wide like the good girl that I'm always trying to become, gave his tongue the keys to the city. 

God! It felt so good to be kissed by a man again. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to be all wrapped up in muscular arms, how a man's brawn and bones can untangle me, make me believe that everything can be okay again. 

As we kissed, that illusion of finding a safe harbour gave way to my body's other needs, that initial sense of coming home that his hard, muscular body had engendered was morphing into a spring-tide of pure lust. It welled up from some sleepy place to become a currant beyond my control that rattled the lid on the pot of my decorum. Every nerve ending in my body began to fizz like sparklers, every iota of my neurotic self-doubt swept away by the play of his tongue. It was such a perfect moment.

There was a lot of self-doubt in my life just then. The main one being I'd split with my then live-in boyfriend Kenny just a month before, and so was missing my daily fix of cock. And now this guy's cock was blatantly promoting itself by pressing into my abdomen from inside his pants. That felt good too, as did his palms on my buttocks pulling me hard against him.

I was so getting into that kiss when I heard a soft and husky female voice saying, "Tom! I hate to interrupt, but can I have the car keys? We forgot to bring that book indoors. The one Annie asked if she could borrow. We left it on the back seat."

She spoke so matter of factly, wearily even. It was as if her voice was incapable of bearing her ennui, suggesting a person for whom the world no longer held any surprises. 

His reluctance as he released me from his arms was as unmistakable as the disappointment that probably soured my features. He turned to face the newcomer while reaching into his pocket. As he handed his keys to her, even I — dumb blonde that I was back then — immediately realised this beautiful and elegant woman was his wife. 

If he was Sean Connery, she had to be Liz Taylor. Her eyes, although as heavily mascaraed as my own, were a work of perfection. And in complete contrast to the weariness in her voice, they shone with intelligence and focus. Someone at Merchant Ivory productions had arranged her raven black hair into an authentically sixties-perm, full-bodied, lustrous and curled at the shoulders. No self-inflicted pinned atrocity for her: it was an extravaganza of authenticity. A string of giant pearls tightly girdled her neck. They glowed like tiny full moons, reflecting light from the high garden lamp under which we stood. 

She took the keys from her husband, turned and began to walk away. But after only three paces she suddenly stopped and turned, as if remembering something. She looked directly at me, scanning me up and down with those densely mascaraed, enormous brown eyes of hers. They sparkled as they took me in, glinting with the light of her secret amusement. And I swear, she raised the subtlest of smiles with the corners of her sumptuous tart-red lips. It might be just my imagination, the storytelling of hindsight, but I did feel appraised, weighed up. In those fleeting seconds that seemed like minutes before she smartly turned and walked away, the look this woman gave to me stirred something that I had no idea could be a part of me.

When she had gone, I said to Tom in the voice of a long-haul but now betrayed lover, "Your wife?"

I looked into his eyes, waiting to hear what he had to say for himself. I would enjoy this — witnessing him crawl. But he said nothing, merely returned my gaze with amused disregard. Neither was his demeanour giving out clues. And so I prompted him, "Doesn't your wife mind you kissing girls old enough to be your daughter?"

"Never mind her," he said, his arms reaching out for my hips to draw me to him again. 

I raised my arms, using my palms as buffers flat against his broad chest, and I heard myself saying, "What if she comes back? I don't want a scene."

"Oh, she'll definitely come back. But there won't be a scene." 

"Why's that?"

"She trusts me," he said.

His smug grin annoyed me. Why did he suddenly think I was amusing?

"How does that work, then?" 

"She values my judgement."

He was talking in riddles, and I was losing my patience. His arms reached for me again, and I had to stop him from kissing me, even though at that moment I wanted him to kiss me more than anything else in the world — wife or no wife. In fact, I wanted him to do more than just kiss me.

"You're not making sense." The irritation in my voice surprised me.

"It's simple: I can read people."

"Like Darren Brown?" I said, sarcasm gatecrashing my tone. 

"Derren. You pronounce it, Derren."

"Whatever! Is that what you do... Read people like Derren Brown?" I said, emphasising the Derren.

"If you like."

"Have I been read then?"

"Just the preface."

I was annoyed, but just then his wife returned and I became self-conscious, afraid the moment would become too awkward. 

Turning and looking at his wife, "Mandy, this is..."

I stood in silence, horrified that he had forgotten my name. Then after seconds that seem like minutes, I spat the words, "I did say earlier — when I first came over to you! Lauren. My name is Lauren." 

My annoyance was an irrelevance as he continued with his introductions: "Mandy, this is Lauren. Lauren, meet Mandy. Oh, and I'm Tom."

"Yes, you did say. And I remembered."

Mandy held out her palm and we shook hands. But when I tried to take my hand back, she leaned close and kissed my cheek. It was no quick peck. She allowed her lips to rest on my cheek, lingering there fractionally longer than really necessary. When she pulled away the night air chilled my cheek where her saliva, a patina of lip-gloss, had moistened my skin. Being a well brought up young lady, I returned her kiss with a clumsy peck. Her scent was dark and giddying. It urged me to kiss her again. Its fragrance was a rumour of occult wantonness, simultaneously subtle and yet blatantly suggestive. Expensive, I imagined. It stayed with me as I moved away, clung to the air about me, contaminated me. 

 "Lovely to meet you, Mandy," I said "... about earlier... I didn't realise he was married. He doesn't' have a ring — and he never said..." 

 "He never does. Won't wear a ring, either. He never has. Says he hates jewellery on me, doesn't even wear a watch." She released my hand before finishing with, "But don't mind me. Fill your boots, kiss him all you like, sweetheart. You looked as if you were enjoying yourself. I'm sure he was enjoying you too. You're exactly his type."

And then I knew what this was all about. I'd learned all about swingers from a previous boyfriend, back when I was nineteen. Adam had shown me one of those sites where people advertise for like-minded people. At that tender age, I'd thought it all a bit pathetic and told him no way when he'd suggested we might go to a club, or place an ad online. He wanted to bring another tall blond, just like me, he said, into our bed. He had this thing about twins, you see. But I was more into the idea of some rugby union scrum-half pounding me senseless until full time. But no, it had to be a tall, pretty blonde, he said. 

The tall, pretty blonde never happened.

And because Mandy had said I should carry on kissing her husband, that is exactly what I did. There was something extraordinarily sexy about this guy. So much so, I was more than willing to step off my hillock of morality and get as much of him as I could while I still could. Married or not married, I was still buzzing from his lips, was becoming ever-more stir-fry-crazy for him with each moment in his presence.

And Mandy, quite the vamp, stirred feelings in me no other female had ever had. She appeared to be the same age as her husband, was a tall brunette, her legs showing long and shapely in an elegant, just above the knees mid-sixties style party dress that clung to her body everywhere it should, and other places that it shouldn't. 

It was Mandy and Tom being married that gave the whole moment its exquisite risqué undercurrent. So I went to him, went up on tiptoes and circled him with my arms and kissed him. And what can I say about kissing Tom? Again, he made me feel so wanted, safe, protected. And while I kissed him, I thought of Mandy's eyes on my back, smug and feeling ever-so outrageous by kissing another woman's husband right in front of her eyes. Mandy was gorgeous, yet here was her husband getting just as crazy for me as I already was for him. The evening had taken on a definite frisson of decadence that I could never, ever, have anticipated when I was sitting in front of my mirror three hours before. 

His kiss robbed me of time.

Then Mandy's voice, soft but insistent, "Tom. We really must go. I told Clare we would be back for midnight. Her dad will be picking her up at ten-past. It's nearly quarter to now."

But he ignored her. His palms clenched both my buttock cheeks, drawing me to him, his cock the essence of swollen petrification 

Mandy's voice again, reaching me from a place I did not want to return to, "Tom, darling. If you like Lauren so much, you may as well bring her home with you. But we really do have to go —now!"

We continued kissing, I imagined the pair of then bundling me up in a giant party-doggy-baggy, taking me home with them to enjoy later.

I sensed his resolve, the effort it cost him to allow our kissing to subside. "How about it, Lauren? You'd love to come home with us, wouldn't you?

I nodded my head and said, "Only if you promise run me back to my apartment in the morning?"

"You may not want to go home in the morning," he said.

Mandy drove, and I sat in the back with Tom. During the fifteen-minute ride, Tom and I resumed our kissing. Halfway to their house, he broke from me and in a breathy whisper asked me to take my off my panties, said wanted to finger my pussy. I did not hesitate, hitched up my dress and wriggled free of my thong, the gusset of which was already moist. His fingers were large and beastly, and they made me wetter than the Lake District. I must have stained the upholstery. 

When the car pulled onto their driveway and Mandy killed the engine, Tom grudgingly relinquished my body, handed it back over to my control. But by then, I was no longer unable to function. I just sat there with my legs drawn apart like early morning drapes. When Tom abandoned me, opened his door and got out of the car, I was bereft. The chill of the night air spilling into the car was an awakening kiss calling me to attend to reality. I tried to focus, but the need Tom had stoked inside my pussy demanded my fingers' attention. I began to touch myself with one hand, found myself on a mission to bring my cunt famine relief.

Mandy turned around to face me, was about to say something, but instead called to her husband, "Tom! Just look what you've done to the poor girl. How could you think of leaving her in such a state?"

He came around to my side of the car and opened the door and eased himself in and sat beside me, encouraging me gently to the side, my buttocks finding a new home on the chilled leather. With solicitous care, he guided the collapsed strands of hair from my face while telling me, "Easy, girl. There'll be time for much more of that soon enough," 

 Mandy began saying something about waiting before I go inside, that she did not want to spin Clare a story about who I was. When the coast was clear, she would come for me. But Tom wanted to stay with me.

"If you must, darling, but make sure you save some of her for me," Mandy said.

Then another car pulled into the drive, headlight illuminating the front of their house, showing it to be ultra-modern, larger than I had anticipated. I thought of Grand Designs and all those narcissistic egotists.

While his wife had been talking, Tom's hand remained between my legs. Now she had gone into the house his head went down between my legs on a mission to complete with his tongue what he'd begun with his hand. As he lapped at me, I absently stared through the side window of the car and watched a teenage girl quickly leave the house and get into the newly arrived vehicle. Mandy stood on the step and waved as she drove away. A moment later, Tom brought me to orgasm. 

I'd hardly recovered when the car door opened. "You can bring her inside now," Mandy said.

When I stepped out of the car into the cool midnight air, I had not quite recovered from the lashing of Tom's tongue. As I swung my legs out and stood up straight, the heel of my boot twisted in the gravel and I almost stumbled. Those boots were second-hand and fitted poorly, purchased just to complete my look. Mandy was quick to support me, her arm about my waist taking my weight and steadying me until I regained my balance.

"You okay?" she asked, looking me directly in the eyes, not with a sexual sparkle but with genuine concern. It was the look a medic might give a patient whose condition was in doubt.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said. And I was. 

Quickly she took my hand and led me towards the house. At the porch, I turned and looked back over my shoulder for Tom, saw him getting into the driving seat of the car. My belly did a backward roll. The thought of him going off and leaving me had the same effect telling a seven-year-old on Christmas Eve that Christmas Day was cancelled this year.

When the engine started up, I stopped and turned fully around, letting Mandy's hand slip from mine. 

"Don't worry. He's only settling his precious Merc down for the night. He has to garage it come rain or shine. After he's kissed her goodnight he'll be hurrying straight back to you, I promise," she said.

Reassured, I allowed her to retake my hand, and she led me into their home. My impression on entering for the first time are vague. I do remember it feeling warm, inviting. But just then, I did not have time to take in my surroundings as more pressing things had my attention. But the next day, I was free to wander as I pleased.

The rooms were all large and high ceilinged, designed to Tom and Mandy's specifications. I suppose the couple were quite wealthy, their I.T. business's success meteoric.

And although both she and he were from lower-middle-class backgrounds, they were an oddity; not only did they have new money, they also had exquisite taste. Every item of furniture looked carefully chosen, the pictures on their walls aesthetic statements about who they aspired to be. No, that's not quite it: their "things" told me who they had become. Mandy said to me the next day that nearly all the paintings that graced the walls throughout their house were originals. The ornaments and objet d'art were beyond my ability to judge, but I surmised them unique. I won't bore you with the details - only to say everything appeared chosen with great consideration, positioned just-so. T

And it was the same impeccable thoughtfulness that they showed me throughout that night. Both would shower my body with such sensuous attention, concerning themselves solely with pleasing me. And it was when I experienced the pleasure they gave me so freely that I understood the joy they both experienced from my giving myself so freely. 

Alone with Mandy, I was not sure how I should behave. I could handle men, had never once in my life been fazed by one. I knew what made them tick: a need to touch my pussy, my butt and tits, mainly. But another female! Where did I begin? To be alone with this sophisticated older woman... Well, to be honest, I was floundering. What was the etiquette for a young girl when brought back to a couple's home for a threesome; were she and I supposed to wait until Tom turned up, or would she want to begin without him? Was I supposed to await her advances, or test the water by making a tentative foray of my own? Because let there be no mistake, by then I was desperate to hold her curvaceous body in my arms, have her womanliness soft and warm against me. 

My nerves fizzing with apprehension, I found myself reverting to an earlier me, that wet behind the ears ingénue, the girl I had been when fresh out of sixth form college. I wished Tom would hurry back. I'd been on familiar ground with him. He'd made me feel that no matter what the night had in store he would be there to take care of me.

Mandy and I were in the lounge, and I must have been looking around when she came to me and stood so that we were face to face. She was as tall as me in her heels, and we faced each other eye to eye. She smiled and reached out her hand and took a lock of my wayward hair and set it in place with one of the defeated pins.

"Did it take you long to get it like that?" she said. Her large eyes were bright as they scrutinised me. It was if she were searching for something, trying to discern who I might be.

"It was a bit of a tussle," I said.

She picked at strands, rearranging them. After my romp in the back seat of their car, I was probably looking very dishevelled. I also became aware that I was now minus my knickers. Without them, I suddenly felt deliciously vulnerable.

She seemed thoughtful, said, "Do you mind? I'd like to see your hair down. You have such an abundance."

"I never know what to do with it, I said. "I'd thought of getting it styled."

 "No, don't!" She was emphatic. Then more softly, "You mustn't. It's what makes you unique." Already her fingers were undoing all my painstaking work. 

She slowly unwrapped my beehive, and it quickly collapsed about my shoulders, where her fingers began straightening, setting strands in place. 

She stood back to admire the results. "There's one thing about Tom," she said, "He has impeccable taste. You are a stunning young woman. So tall too. Here let me get you a drink." She turned and walked over to a cabinet while still talking, "Vodka, okay? Ice? Mixer?" 

"Just a coke, please — if you have it?" I said. I'd need to be clear-headed for sex. It's hard for me to orgasm if I'm pissed.

 When she went off to fetch ice, I stood wondering what was taking Tom so long.

The sound of her heels on the parquet flooring and she was back. Then ice clinking in a glass. 

"It's so long since we brought anyone home. We haven't since before I had Jake," she said, coming over and handing me my drink.

"Your son?"

"Yes, he's two now." 

I didn't know what to say. I wasn't exactly maternal back then. I think I must have just smiled sweetly.

She went on, "I never thought I'd be a mum..." As she was about to continue, she saw my lack of interest and her entire demeanour changed. "I'm sorry, Lauren, I'm boring you." She reached out and allowed her fingertips to slide down my cheek and on to my neck while saying. "I'm so glad you decided to take a chance on us. You're a brave girl. I could never have been doing what you're doing now when I was your age."

"Did you often bring girls back here before you had your son?" I asked, immediately unable to believe I'd blurted out such an inane line. I felt my chest begin to flush and prickle.

"Oh-God-no. A girl on her own is rarer than hen's teeth. That's what makes tonight so special. No, usually we entertained couples — and once a gorgeous young man. He was an exceptional specimen."

"I think Tom is exceptional," I said

"Isn't he just," she said, the ennui I'd heard earlier again tainting her tone.

We seemed to be inching slowly towards each other as talked spoke. Her body heat was tangible, the all-pervading effusion of her fragrance cloying. I was inhaling the essence of her femininity. It impelled, goaded me on to do what I did next.

I moved closer, pressing my meagre breast against her more substantial offering, mine soon totally overshadowed by her bounteousness that made me feel almost boyish, lacking in that most basic of feminine attributes. But I did not let my sense of inadequacy stop me. I reached down to her side and took the hand I found dangling and slowly guided it between my legs.

And I still can't believe I did that. Lauren! How outrageous were you that night?

On the first contact with my moist pussy, her fingers hesitated, and I wondered if finding me minus my undies came as a shock. Her momentum certainly suggested it did.

Then, matter-of-factly she said: "He's fucked you already, hasn't he?"

It took me a moment to realise what she meant. And then I blurted out, Oh! Of course not. That's just me. He excited me so much." 

"Are you still excited?" she asked, while two fingers began to make slide up and down the length of my crack, smearing my trickling cum wherever her fingers explored.

"Very!" I said with a sharp exclamation when she found the spot that only a woman could have located so quickly, executed with marksman like precision. 

"Do you always shave," she asked.

"My last boyfriend liked me like that. I have ever since." 

I no longer had a boyfriend but did believe men expected a shaven pussy. It's all that porn they watch. It gives them unrealistic expectations.

I could hear her breathing, sensed the rise and full of her breasts like boats at rest just offshore in a gentle swell. Her eyes looked directly into mine, unflinching. "Is this right for you?" she asked.

"You know it is." My breath now began to race hers.

Her lips went to my neck, her extended tongue commencing a long smooth pass from my throat up and over my chin, only breaking off at the corner of my mouth and coming to a halt on reaching the fullness of my lips.

Her voice was hushed, full of the private pleasure that having me gave her. "You taste absolutely delicious." 

I sensed the dark need for me coursing through her veins, perceived how she hoped I might return something she had lost a long, long time ago. For a moment, I thought she might bite my neck and rob me of my life.

She seemed to collect herself, broke from my embrace, took from me the glass that my hand still held limply at my thigh and placed it on an occasional table. 

"Now, where were we?" she said when she turned to face me again.

Her arms took me hostage, going around me and drawing me to her as if for keeps this time. Once more, with our breasts pressing together, she repeated the previous manoeuvre she had performed with her tongue, leaving in its wake a glaze of moistness on my neck as it journeyed to my lips. But this time, she did not break off when she reached my mouth. No, this time her lips covered mine. And oh how her tongue went-a-courting, two tongues in a dashing waltz around the dance floor of my mouth.

I'd exchanged drunken kisses with girls before, usually in clubs in the small hours of the morning. Nothing ever came of those encounters. Ships in the night, as they say.

But kissing Mandy was not a careless statement of my latent bisexuality, a brazen act of "look at me". When we kissed something inside of me burst open, a seedpod scattering possibilities to the wind. I found my self holding her to me as if trying to squeeze meaning from her, the secrets and answers I was sure she must possess.

A palm between my shoulders, and the other flat in the small of my back drawing me full against her wonderful, cushioning breasts. I rested both my hands low on her waist in the place where her buttocks began, where her flesh becomes ample. She was so womanly, so abundant in curves, heavy laden with feminine appeal. Her tongue curled and slid around my lips, probed deep in my mouth, hustling my tongue into giving its all. Her lips with gloss were sumptuous and sticky. Our saliva was copious. I had to swallow continually.

Just then, Tom returned. I'd forgotten all about him, his return almost a surprise. I disengaged myself from Mandy and turned to watch his entrance. He had taken off his jacket and bow-tie, rolled up his sleeves, and was heading for the drinks cabinet. For some reason, I felt he'd caught us doing something forbidden, that a dark secret had been exposed.

"Don't mind me," he said, hardly paying us any attention, pouring himself a scotch. 

Mandy and I now stood side by side, her arm around my waist, pulling me to her so that our hips touched. She said to Tom, "Lauren and I were just getting acquainted."

"So I can see," he said. Then looking directly at me, he asked, "And what do you think of my Mandy, Lauren?"

Even though I thought Mandy gorgeous, had loved kissing her and loved being in her arms, saying out loud that I found her sexy and that I wanted more of her was impossible.

She saw my reluctance. "Don't embarrass her, Tom. Can't you see this is all new to her?" 

Next thing I knew I was in her arms again and looking into her eyes and telling her I thought she was beautiful. Then we were kissing, and I felt myself growing limp and breathless like some silly heroine in an old romantic novel. Her softness pressing against me took my breath away, both through sheer excitement and also because of the physical manner in which she embraced me, her arms about me drawing me to her so insistently that I imagined my body merging with hers. 

Now Tom was behind me, unzipping my dress and sliding it from my shoulders. Mandy stepped back and allowed it to fall to the ground. Soon the dress was followed by my bra.

On seeing my exposed breasts, a beam of delight lit up Mandy's face. She reached out and drew the backs of her knuckles gently down my chest until they passed over my nipples. She flipped over her hands and placed her warm palms there, covering both my breasts completely. 

"Oh, sweetheart, you are adorably lacking." She spent a moment just staring. "Just divine. So fucking divine." 

She tried to lift them appraisingly, but there was very little of me to support. My nipples grew hard, becoming pert and eager, plucky little fellahs determined not to let the side down. She stooped a little and took them between her lips in turn, leaving behind a lipstick smear like some gaudy ring of Saturn. I gasped out loud as she nipped and sucked. Behind me, Tom gathered my newly released hair into a ponytail and held it to one side so he could kiss my neck, biting with gentle hungry snaps.

With marital synchronisation, the mouths of the couple began their slow descent of my body, she to my front and he behind. Mandy's lips pecked their way over my belly as Tom's mouth savoured every inch of my shoulders, back and buttocks. 

With Mandy fully clothed on her knees before me, her lips at the topmost point of my slit, I looked down and saw her wide, dark eyes looking up at me before her tongue found its niche and did what only tongues can do. Her palms stroked the backs of my thighs up and down as she lapped my cunt. She made such a happy pet.

When Tom reached my buttocks, he kissed each cheek in turn, and then his tongue licked along the entire length of the fissure in sloppy-slow sweeps. At first, I was afraid he might try to part my cheeks and send his tongue probing for my arse-button. I wondered if he would try to lick between my butt cheeks. The thought sent a shiver coursing through my nerves.

If he does: what the hell. 

I remember thinking: So this is what it is like to be ravished. Not just everyday ravished but ravished by a sensationally good looking married couple. My cunt was humming like a flying saucer, and something electro-magnetic sparked along every nerve. It was fiesta time inside Lauren, and every ganglion and their synapses had joined the celebrations.

That second orgasm frightened me. It just went on and on. My body jerked and twisted, and they had to support me where I stood, even as they continued to please me. While I shivered and gasped, Tom remained on his knees behind me, his tongue skimming lightly between my buttock cheeks. Mandy on her knees too, still fully dressed, flickering her tongue all about my cunt, her arms stretching high for my nipples. She and he gave and gave. I was overwhelmed by their selfless, opulent attention. 

And when it had happened, when the thunderheads of orgasms had rolled over the expectant landscape of my body, I cried out loud. I'm not usually an "Oh-my-god" kind of girl - but oh-my fucking-god! The sounds I made were just that: sounds. Even to my own ears, they were the cries of an animal in distress. They certainly weren't the of moans of pleasure a nice girl like me usually makes during lovemaking. 

Afterwards, they eased me onto the sofa where Mandy sat beside me and gently stroked my hair. 

"Sorry if things became a little... Impromptu," she said, "We just couldn't help ourselves, we really couldn't, sweetheart. That's how gorgeous you are. But I suppose you know that already, don't you, princess?" Then she stooped and began to remove my white boots. "Here, let me take these," she said. "Much better. Your legs are stunning. So long. So smooth." She caressed my calves, then gently up over my thighs, back down again.

"We should go upstairs," Tom said.

"Would you like that, sweetheart? To spend the night with Tom and me," she asked gently — though there was no need. As a woman, she would know how much I now needed Tom's cock inside me.

"You take her up to the guest room, while I take a peep at Jake. I want to make sure he's sound asleep."

And with that, she left the room. Tom came to me and reached out with both arms, and I took both hands. He pulled me up on my feet, my bare soles sticky on parquet.

 When we were alone again, I remembered how much I fancied him.

"You okay?" he asked. 

"This is all so intense." 

"We like to look after our guests, make them welcome."

He lifted me up and into his arms in one swift action, and I became a sleepy child cradled in his arms as he carried me from the lounge and through to the hall and up their sweeping, elegant staircase. The ease with which he did this astonished me, his core strength more than even his muscular body suggested. I thought of a male dancer and the ease with which he might lift a prima ballerina. I hadn't been carried in such a way since by my father all those years ago. I rested my head against his shoulder and breathed in the newly washed fragrance of his crisp white dress-shirt mixing with fading after-shave, and beneath those, his male-animal aroma. I closed my eyes and became content. I wanted to stay with him in his house forever.

The bedroom was large and had a double bed loaded with elaborately decorated cushions and a sumptuous quilt that chilled my backside when Tom placed me gently down. 

I watched him undress. His shirt removed and then his trousers, which he folded neatly and placed on the empty dresser top. After those, his boxers gone to reveal a cock already primed, its engorged bulk weighing it horizontal, swinging a little with each step. I lay back on the bed anticipating his arrival, parting my legs for him in anticipation of receiving his cock's blessing, the thing I had craved ever since kissing him back at Annie's garden.

He lay down on his side beside me and I turned to him. We kissed again, and my hand went to his cock, cherished its bulk, Then I kissed my way down his abdomen, mapping his muscles beneath a veneer of skin rippled like drying sand on a beach left ridged by a gently retreating tide. When I was where I intended, I greedily stuffed what I could of him into my mouth — as much as I could accommodate. Oh god, the taste of him. That first time his flesh filled my mouth was something special. Then I caressed his balls while my lips slid from off him to allow my tongue to circle the exposed raw tip. Then I traced a wet line with my tongue back down the length of the underside of him and back again. Repeat.

But he eased me away from his cock, saying, "God, Lauren. I'd rather cum in your cunt."

I lay on my back and spread out my legs while arching my knees. I wanted him to see my cunt in all its shaved glory. I love men to look at me there. It gives me a sensual thrill of conceit to see what an enchantment something so commonplace, yet seldom seen, can cast on a man. How often has a new lover gaped at my cunt as if it held the secret of all secrets? And when they had seen enough of that spot, which obsesses men so much, I like to watch their faces as they lower themselves onto me with their expression determined not to disappoint, love to see their expressions as they resolve not to humiliate themselves.

Tom was no different. He kneeled on the bed, cock straining, his brow furrowed with concentration. For a moment, he just stared. Then: "I love shaved pussy," he said before taking his cock and directing it between my legs. I was so glad I did not have to guide him, so glad he did not fumble at the crucial point. So many men do, you know. And for me, it's a complete downer when that happens. Swollen cock-head fudging between my buttocks, pushing uselessly against my perineum. Clumsiness! Such a passion killer.

Only seconds after he had eased his cock into me, Mandy entered the room. She came and sat at the edge of the bed next to my head, watching intently as her husband settled down to seriously fucking me, studying the rise and fall of his implacable hips. 

After a moment, she turned and studied my face, my shifting expressions. I held her gaze, even as the mass of Tom's cock made me want to gasp, to grit my teeth. I wrapped my legs about him and drew my knees way back, cradled his head in my hands. And while I raised my hips and give pushback, Mandy stroked my hair and spoke to me gently.

"Sweetheart, please tell me how he makes you feel. I want to know how much you like it, how much his cock fills you. Is he enough for you, Lauren? Is he everything you thought he would be?" 

Her tone was low and sultry, over-laden with husky arousal. Seeing me beneath her husband was exciting her. Her fingers stroked my face, massaged my lips, my gums, my teeth, probing deep into my mouth. 

 I could not answer her questions when her lips covered mine, a return visit by her tongue to my lonely mouth. She kissed me with deep sensuous care while her husband, his arms as Doric Columns raising him above our kissing heads, fucked me in carefully metered thrusts. My palms left Tom and enfolded Mandy's cheeks, holding her head in place, not wanting her to abandon me.

I can't say for sure if he would have managed to bring me to orgasm on his own, because it was at this point that Mandy lent a hand — literally lent a hand. Her palm slid over my belly and, in an apt moment between Tom's rise and fall, guided it to my clit. His thrusting would press her hand against me when he descended, setting it free to me when he rose again.

My orgasm barreled over me at the same moment as Tom's, when his cock was at its deepest. He had forgone final release until certain of mine. When I felt my orgasm approach, I raised my hips and wrapped my legs about him to draw him tight into me, spurring my ankles into the small of his back, impelling him deeper. And even in the midst of this most sublime of shared climaxes, under which my body bucked and bucked, Mandy's tongue remained in place to gag my cries as her husband's jizz discharged into my core.

Both of us drenched in sweat as he eased himself from me. Mandy continued to kiss me until I had calmed. When we parted, I looked at her and was amazed to see her still fully clothed.

She stood and went to the dresser and removed her pearl necklace and earrings. She came to the foot of the bed, looked at me while saying, "It's time for Mandy to have a little attention. Be a real sweetheart, Lauren. Come and help me with my dress."

I went to her quickly, stood behind her and unfastened the zipper. It was a perfect fit. I had to peel the material from her body, let t fall to the floor. When she was free of its strictures, she seemed irritated that I had neglected to pick up the garment, gracefully stooped and retrieved it herself. She walked away with the dress and carefully draped it over the back of an occasional chair, one of three that were in the room.

When she returned minus her dress, I noticed for the first time that she wore flesh coloured nylon-stockings supported by short suspenders dangling from a black panty-girdle. Her legs were long and sturdy, her flesh showing tanned where her stockings failed to cover at the top.

She wore a front-fastening bra that required her to bunch her breast together to undo, emphasising her cleavage in the process. Then in a simple kata of two movements, it was gone, her prodigious flesh set free.

She pressed those wondrous naked breasts against me and held me to her, and I was overwhelmed by her curvaceousness, the infinite warm acceptance gifted me by her embrace. The softness of bare breasts against me was something I'd never experienced. I thought the moment magical. The way she enfolded me was all-consuming. Once again, I breathed her in and allowed her womanly fragrance to reassure me. In the strangest of ways, it made me feel as if I had come home, that she had taken me under her wing.

I wanted to taste her breasts, fill my mouth with as much of her as I could. I pushed my face between fragrant, soft flesh, pawing from each side with my palms in a pincer movement of enfoldment, squeezing them into each other, causing their soft mass to cushion softly against my nuzzling cheeks. Now I knew how men felt who so often went at my body as if it would be their only chance. I wanted her, wanted every inch of her instantaneously.

She gasped when I bit her gently, her nipples already engorged and pliant to my teeth. I rolled down her girdle and let my palms relish the fudge softness of her buttocks, kneading her flesh as if freshly proved dough, her panty-girdle now a tight band of Lycra binding her thighs. 

I wanted to please her, and as we kissed, I imagined how her cunt would taste, what its aroma would be. 

"I want to taste you," I whispered.

She disengaged from me and wriggled out of her panty-girdle. When she walked to the bed and lay down by Tom's side, he turned to her, propped himself up on one arm and watched what now unfolded. 

Her legs wide, I stood for a moment to gaze at the exposed gash, how it glistened from her excitement, wondering if she received the same pleasure from being looked at as I did. She touched herself with determined fingers while staring back at me intently, her eyes expressing a yearning I worried I might not have the skill to satisfy.

With my head between her legs, her fingers clawed my scalp; the scent of her a meaty aphrodisiac. Her femininity feral with need. The taste of her, an electric tang like an almost spent battery on my tongue, a metallic hint of something that nearly wasn't. My copious saliva soaked her, running down to slather my jutting chin enfolded in by vulva flesh, her cunt-wetness like spare-rib grease. Her palms clamped my head, subtly piloting me to where she liked it just-so. My palms under her pulled the mass of her buttock flesh horizontal along the bed towards me so that my chin bored into rump's fissure, two sides cushioning my chin, the mass of cheeks against my upper chest and collarbone. 

The creaking of the bed as Tom alighted, gone for a moment. I gave him no thought until the mattress dipped behind me when he returned and I felt his hands widening my legs, him entering me with a single brusque lunge.

Flat on my belly, Tom fucked me slow, determined, his flesh slapping at my buttocks while the bed heaved beneath the three of us in time to his rise and fall. And as he fucked me, I grunted into Mandy's cunt while she moaned her thanks for my lashing tongue. It became as if the three of us were adrift on a raft swept beyond the breakers, a retreating tide moving us away from land. We became lost at sea on a rip-tide of lust, drifting out into the ocean on the waxing swell.

Mandy's inner thighs against my cheeks. Her bare ankles flat on my back while her husband pornographically fucked me from behind. His thrustings were mean and dangerous, administered as if I deserved it that way. I was an ungrateful slut, unthankful for the previous orgasms I'd snatched from him — as if I had belittled him in some way and now he was going to prove what a stud he was.

And prove it he did. It was relentless. But I was never going to cum positioned like that, but on and on it went. Eventually, Mandy eased herself from us and stood up. I heard her leave the room and close the door.

Tom had not faltered once. Such a man-machine! Then, as he pulled back, ready to thrust again, his cock slipped from me, and I heard him swear under his breath. But then he was holding his cock and sliding it up and down the crack of my arse. It slipped and skated between my cheeks, and I braced myself for what I was sure to follow. When he pressed his cock against my anus, I heard his moans and sensed the pulse of his cum as it travelled the length of his cock. An inundation of Jizz coursed between my cheeks, white water in a gorge filling the crevice of my arse. I considered myself lucky, relaxed again, was glad to have escaped what he thought I deserved.

"Lauren, you inspire me," he said as he stood and reached for a tissue from a box on the bedside table.

I did not answer. I remained flat on my belly, picturing his jizz trickling down from my arse and onto my cunt. He returned to me and stroked my back, then gently arranging my hair so that it trailed down my spine.

He asked, "You alright?" 

"You and Mandy make me happy," I said. "I never want to leave here." 

"Stay." He said. His morning stubble chaffed when he kissed my shoulder. 

"Stay as long as you want." 

"You would soon get bored with me."

"I'd never become bored with you, Lauren."

"I have things to do at home. Is the lift you promised me still on?"

"Only if you make love to us one more time," he said, then slapped my backside playfully.

Mandy returned. "Just checking on Jake. He had a bad dream," she said to Tom, but coming to me and lying down by my side. Our arms enfolded each other, our legs all helix. Soon Tom and Mandy were asleep each side of me. I lay awake between them, feeling special, cherished. Through half-closed lids, I watched the dawn start to back-light the window blinds. That's when I must have drifted off to sleep too. And even though I saw Mandy and Tom many times again, that night will always be special.

The next day I woke up alone in their guest bed. I showered in the en-suite and found that Mandy had left out fresh soap and a new toothbrush, still in its packaging. Clean towels too, also new. 

Someone had brought my clothes up and placed them on a chair. And thoughtfully, a pair of bamboo panties still in cellophane packaging. As I slipped into them, I thought about the previous evening when Tom had taken mine off. I made a mental memo to retrieve them when I next got in the car.

When I went downstairs, Tom was at the table reading his tablet. He smiled a warm, maybe even a bashful smile. I gave a sheepish, "hi," and went and sat at opposite him at the enormous table. 

I sat and watched Mandy busy and fussing over her son sat in his high chair. She was no longer the elegant beauty of the previous night, and she morphed into a yummy-mummy attending to her child full of maternal love. Her hair was up, and she wore a simple patterned summer frock, her feet bare but toes still glossed magenta. The heavy mascara and lip-gloss that had made her the vamp she had been the night before was now only a memory. I noticed that even without her makeup, her skin was still youthful and good, fresh and pliant. The only hints of her age were laughter lines, fine traceries at the corners of her eyes.

I thought her beautiful still.

She asked me if I wanted breakfast and I said tea and toast please would be fine.

Later that day, they showed me around the house. I loved to see Mandy's joy in telling me about the paintings that hung in every room. 

When we walked outside, I learned she was a keen gardener and had seen to the laying out of their garden from scratch. Even though it was not yet an established garden, I knew it would become something even extraordinarily beautiful in the years to come.

 During that day I spent with them when we told each other about our lives, and so I came to know the people Tom and Mandy were

They asked me to stay for another night of passion. I had nothing planned — thank god — and so immediately agreed.

It was during that evening they introduced me to ropes and crops. But that is another story.

The second day, stepping out into the morning air in my retro clothes of two nights before was surreal. My backside was sore from the lashing I endured throughout the previous night, and my old knickers were still somewhere in the back to Tom's Merc. When I got into his car, for him to drive home, I looked for my knickers, felt down the back of upholstery and under the seats, but there was no sign of them anywhere.

I wonder if Tom still has them.