Amy Learns A Secret. free porn video

He takes her by the hand and leads her to the far corner, a place where shadows will screen them from the eyes of smokers who come outside to sit at wooden picnic tables. It will be a place of half-darkness. They will not be disturbed.

She watches him glance back, checking no one has noticed them slip away. He is a married man, his wife an old friend of her Aunt Ruth. Her eyes follow his and she sees people coming and going, but nobody she knows. She is anonymous. The knowledge releases her from her fears.

He says her name: "Amy."  She turns to him, and he says, "You're really up for this, aren't you?"

He does not wait for an answer, pulls her close. She is dumbstruck, her lips ambushed by the quick dash of his tongue. She is slow to respond, even though she has waited all night. She reaches out, her palm cupping the back of his skull confirming her need, drawing him to her as if afraid he might discard her. Her lips part and she gives his tongue free passage, allows it to slip over hers.

One of his hands is between her legs lifting the hem of her party dress, his fingers manoeuvring inside her panties. His other hand takes her free hand and guides it down to his cock already threatening to erupt from his chinos. His size and firmness cause her to hesitate. She gauges him carefully —  and then her fingers are a blind girl's, sliding over his encased shaft mapping its outline. When she is sure it is not just wishful thinking, she draws her long nails back and forth along its straining length, hardly daring to believe this might be a fact.

His insistence is subtle, hardly an urging at all. All the same, Amy knows what he requires, is way ahead of him, is already half-stooping. She has discovered just how versatile her legs are; capable of collapsing in an instant whenever a cock needs sucking. She kneels for his blessing, her knees cushioned by the chilled softness of mowed turf.

She has given head once before — her only time, coaxed into it last November by a boy her age named Adam when they were babysitting his kid sister. When he had asked her to come over the following week she had refused him, determined never to endure the taste of cum on her tongue ever again.

But now she unzips Frank's fly without hesitation, peels the material away as if it were the skin of ripe fruit. His unwrapped body heat reaches her cheeks, his body's scent not quite pungent beneath the sweetness of his shower time fragrance. She is determined now, tugs at his garments so that his heavy cock falls free. For a moment it seems to hover deliciously raw and plump — so much so that the sight of it changes everything. She can hardly wait to taste him.

Before she takes him in her mouth, she looks up and into his eyes with a, "must I?" pleading. She is hoping for a smile of encouragement, his gratitude, his saying she must.

He strokes her head, brushes wayward strands from her eyes. His bravado has drained away, his eyes momentarily guileless. She relishes a newfound power, savours it. One word from her and it will all come tumbling down. She wonders how long she can keep him straining at his tether, wonders how soon before something snaps. But her patience will not stretch like his. She can no longer wait to taste him. She lets her tongue slip the confines of her lips to tentatively taste the tip of his cock.

She becomes bolder, taking half of him deep into her mouth while she continues to tug at his trousers, bringing them down around his knees. She wants every inch; she is going to lick his balls from top to underside, and then send her tongue skidding from root to glans.

Her pussy is jealous, resents her mouth, is kicking up such a fuss and initiating a hormone stew that runs riot in her veins. Only his entire cock in her cunt will allay the visceral yearning that has taken hold of her, body and mind.  

Time out, get it together, Amy. She looks up into his eyes again, says his name: "Frank..."

From over by the picnic tables, she hears her Aunt Ruth calling her name, "Amy!"

                                                            *********

"Amy!"

Her mother at the foot of the stairs calling her down to a meal she will not stomach. She forces herself out of her childhood bed, slips on her robe and scans the room for the purse she used the night before. She sees it, retrieves it from the dresser top.

Sitting on her bed with her purse in her lap, she tries to remember if she still has what he gave her. The clasp snaps open and she pulls out his card, sees his business details all in magenta. On the back, the number he had scribbled. His handwriting is not the best. It had been dark, and she had not kept still when he had used her back for support. The nib of his pen had made her flesh tingle.

She wishes she hadn't drunk so much; wishes she had not been so free with her body; and wishes more than anything that she hadn't sucked his cock and swallowed all that cum. She remembers her knees, the grass stains and soil. She remembers her dress, its sleeve and his cum.

Before that, they had chatted easily at the bar. From the beginning, she had not minded how close he stood, had found his invasion of her space daring, flattering. When he had rested his hand in the small of her back, she had not objected. She had decided she wanted him.   

But this morning she feels cheap, ashamed for encouraging him. She wishes she had said, "Do you mind!" when he had first laid his hand on her butt. But how could she have done other than she had, her thoughts unravelled as they were by the compelling aura of his quintessential masculinity, his heartthrob, razor looks? She recalls his moist breath on her ear when he leaned close to speak to her over the din of music.

His mouth so close, she had wanted to turn to him and snog him there and then. But she did not dare, and it had thrown nerves into a tantrum of nicotine craving. She imagined inhaling long and deep to dispel the erotic thrill of his immediate presence. Her attraction to him was total, inexplicable. A visceral claw of desire had grabbed her and would not let go.  

When she had gone outside to smoke he had followed her out to the tables laid out for summertime drinking, used by smokers year-round. Imagine that, had followed her outside even though he no longer smoked, said he had just given up. He stood and watched her light a cigarette under the hanging Chinese lanterns, and she had reached out with the pack to offer him one, hoping to test his resolve, wanting to delight in his downfall.

He had passed the test. Then it had unnerved her to have him quietly observe her as she inhaled and exhaled, sat perched high on one of the wooden picnic tables with her feet dangling. The chill of the night air made her conscious of her long, bare legs. The sight of her smooth thighs had provoked his glances, fixing on them as if they were stolen property of his he wanted her to return.

He was much older than the boys she usually dated. It flattered her to know that someone so handsome — this married man, a man in the full blossom of his maturity — found her so compelling.

When she had seen him stood at the bar looking her way, she had gone up alone to buy drinks, positioned herself as close as she dared while shamelessly trying to catch his eye. He had spoken to her almost immediately. They had been getting on so well before Aunt Ruth hurried over.

She remembers Ruth's forced jollity, her jaunty need to keep the conversation in her court while explaining how this was Frank Garside, a family friend and that Amy had met him once before, at their barbecue two years ago. But Amy couldn't remember him at all, though she was sure she would have — a man like Frank. But that was a time in her life when a fully grown male had no appeal.

Frank had asked her what she did, had smiled when she said she was a student. He had told her he was looking for someone. A summer job, he said.

As they chatted, it came back to Amy how her mother played tennis with Carol Garside. Yes, that was Frank's wife, she remembered now. She had heard Frank Garside mentioned loads of times. There was a photo of her mother with other club members in their tennis whites. Carol was the petite brunette, lithe and tanned. Not much older than herself, Amy had guessed. It had irked her to learn that Carol Garside is this man's wife. Him being married to such an inordinately attractive woman robbed her of her self certainty. Why would a man with such a beautiful, sophisticated wife pay her, a mere girl, any attention? As the chatted, Amy had imagined meeting Carol, walking up to her and slapping her hard for being quite so pretty.

Later, after she had sucked his cock and they had come back inside, he'd fleshed out the promise of a summer job, explained how he needed someone bright in the sales office of The Pastures. She must know of it? The new housing estate his firm was building two miles from her home. Up Bradleigh way, he'd said. She had smiled and nodded as she remembered her father's rant about the development company who'd set up the project, reading out loud letters of objection in the local paper, the unholy fuss stirred up when planning permission granted for the proposed new housing development on greenbelt land.

He had spoken to her about his plans while she sat smoking, how she could be part of them. It was as if every word he said could make a difference, yet this morning she can't remember half of it. When she had finished her cigarette, he had held out his hand for her to take as she shuffled her bum to the edge of the picnic table. When her feet found the ground her heel had twisted. He had caught her fall and put his arm about her.

A sublime moment. She had thought he might kiss her right then, others watching or not. But he only smiled, asked if she were okay and then said, "I know a place," before leading her off by the hand and into the shadows, across a lawn to a spot shielded from the world by dark shrubbery. In the half-light, his muscular arms had altogether enveloped her and she had become happy, content to allow whatever he had in mind.

He was taller than her, and it thrilled her to have to look up and tilt her head back to receive his kiss. Most boys her age hardly measured up, especially when she wore heels, which she loved to do when out on dates. Even without them, she is a tall girl, and until recently had found little ease in her own body, her lithe elegance not yet wholly her own, still a new garment tight at the seams. But his kiss had completed her, made her feel utterly grown. At that moment she was the woman she had once thought she might never become.

Their kiss deepened and her arms had encircled him, her hands exploring the muscularity beneath his shirt, his shoulders and biceps. The paving slab solidity of his torso aroused a need she could hardly begin to articulate even to herself. He had an overbearing way about him that epitomised to Amy everything a male should be. It took her way beyond herself, to a place from which she never wanted to return.

But it was she who, as their kissing deepened, had taken his hand and guided it between her legs. He had quickly lifted the hem of her dress to slide his fingers deep into her panties. With his free hand, he had taken the hand that dangled at her side and had piloted it onto his crotch.  

And after she had got the measure of him, traced his cock's outlines with her fingers back and forth, on her knees she had sucked his cock with profound enthusiasm, all the time craving to be fucked by him, to be laid out by him and fucked there and then — damp grass or not. But when she had heard Ruth calling for her, she had thought better of it, had resumed sucking him, increasing her tempo to hurry him to completion. She found it thrilling to think that Ruth might discover her in such an act, the thought exciting her almost as much as his fingers had.

When he had cum into her mouth, in her hurry to swallow she had gagged, coughing uncontrollably, wiping away the sperm that trickled from her mouth with the cuff of her dress, her excitement then ebbing, bitterly afraid that Ruth might hear her gagging and come over and find her on her knees, abjectly and regretful.

She had composed herself but had then found only silence. Ruth had given up her search and gone back indoors. Frank helped her to her feet and they had kissed again until she broke from him anxious about being missed, saying they had been away for longer than was decent, that everyone would be wondering about her.

In her bedroom, her mother's voice calls her down to lunch again. How similar the two sisters voices sound when calling her name. "Amy!" Insistent now, like Aunt Ruth's voice had been when calling to her from the depths of the night. She looks at Frank's card while touching herself in the same place where he had worked her before she'd sucked his cock. Those determined fingers of his had stirred her to self-abandon, his touch egging her on to do the previously unthinkable.  

"Amy!" Is it Ruth or Miriam calling her? For a moment she is bi-located, back in the beer garden simultaneously as her room. And then she does not know where she is. Her name repeated, yet again, brings her back to the day. She stands up and fastens her robe, looks at the card one more time before tearing it in two and dropping both halves into the bedroom bin.  

Downstairs. Her mother's lunchtime magazine programme is on the telly. Miriam is in her uniform, just home from a twelve-hour shift at the hospital. Her eyes are half on the screen as she greets her daughter.

 "Oh, there you are. I was just about to send a search party. Did you have a nice time with Ruth, sweetheart?"

"It was okay."

"Did your aunt enjoy herself?"

"I think so. She went home early, though."

"Oh?" Miriam now gives her daughter her full attention. "She promised me she would see you home safe. You two didn't fall out did you?" Miriam studies her daughter, sees her wan complexion, her sleepy eyes. She raises an eyebrow that asks for a thousand answers.

"Don't fret, mother-dear," Amy says. "Ruth made sure I got a lift off one of the others. As you can see, I arrived home Virginitas Intacta." She has the habit of slipping "A" level Latin into her conversation, relishing her delivery with a faux-Oxford panache. As she speaks, she wonders if she should mention that her aunt went off with Frank Garside.

"She's not been herself lately," Miriam says.

"Mum... Is everything okay between Ruth and Paul?"

"I think so, darling. Has Ruth said something to make you ask?"

"She seemed preoccupied, somehow, not her usual self." Amy doesn't say what is on her mind, will not open that can of worms, but still, she has to draw attention to her aunt's odd behaviour. "It was just her going home early, that's all."

"I'm sure Ruth and Paul are fine. Now look at this one, won't you," Miriam says, her eyes compelled by the tv. A Paris catwalk, sashaying models, the avant-garde of the fashion world.

"Is she for real?" Amy asks.

"That should be you up there, Amy. You have the perfect build — And you have become quite beautiful," says Miriam, her voice embarrassingly wistful.
               
                                                   ****************

A week later.

It's Amy's last day of term at Sixth Form. She and her friends gather to share exam results posted in the college concourse. She has the grades. Erica has done well too. They embrace, congratulate each other as tears of happiness flow. Come September Amy will be in Durham.

Later, at the end of an afternoon in the pub with her friends, there are more tears, sad embraces, gushing goodbyes, and too many promises never to forget.

Afterwards, she waits for the bus with Erica.

A sports car speeding past. Its brake lights flare, abruptly it comes to a halt. The two girls stare when it reverses towards them. "What does this creep want," Erica says, more to herself than to Amy. The car is spectacular in its whiteness, its brash ostentation. When level with the two girls, the driver leans across the shift-stick to get a better view through the passenger window. The glass descends. His eyes are on a mission.

"Amy? I thought it was you." Frank sees her uncertainty: "You've not forgotten me already, have you?"

She hasn't forgotten him — though she wishes she could. The delicious horror of his presence clutches at her belly. She feels herself flush; her chest is prickly hot, her nipples growing hard in the confines of her bra. When she tries to speak his name, it sticks in her mouth.

"Frank," he prompts.

 "Yeah. Of course. Sorry..."  She still can't say it. The memory of his cum has glued her tongue.

"I'm about to call in on Ruth and Paul. Do you live close?"

"No."

"Where then?"

"Medhurst." She has lost the ability to string words together.

"Of course you do. You're Miriam's daughter, aren't you? That's fine. I can drop you off after."

"Erica too?"  Two words. That was better.

Frank looks at Erica, considers the sturdy brunette for a moment, his eyes lingering over her breasts. "It's a squeeze back there, but I'm sure we can fit her in."  He has loaded the word squeeze with salacious innuendo.

Amy looks at Erica, sees her friend's apprehension, "You okay with Frank giving us a lift?"

 "I don't think it's a good idea," Erica says.

"Erica!" she hisses. "Don't be so rude. Frank is a friend of my aunt. You've met Ruth and Paul, haven't you? Well then, it'll be okay."

"I'd rather not. We should wait for the bus."

"Don't be so silly." She stares hard at her friend, gives her a look that says don't you dare show me up!

Frank is speaking now, his voice drawing Amy's eyes away from Erica. "Your friend is right to be cautious . . ."  And then he's out of the car, his tone reassuring, his words plausible as he comes around to their side. He opens the door and tilts the seat forward."Hop in, luv, there's a good girl," he says to Erica.

But Erica is not a good girl, is not named, "luv,"  and certainly will not hop in. Amy scowls, embarrassed to have a friend who is acting like a little kid. "For-fuck's-sake!" she hisses with real spite, forcing herself to swear but thinking how hollow her voice sounds.

Erica leans close, whispers, "He gives me the creeps —the way he looks at — "

"— You're just being ridiculous!" Amy almost stamps her foot. Stay and wait for the bus, then, because I'm going to my aunt's house with Frank.

"Please don't!" Erica says, grabbing hold of her friend's arm.

Amy brushes her aside, stoops and slides into the passenger seat of Frank's fabulous motor.

Erica gets her phone out. "I'm going to text your mum and let her know you're getting a lift from a man."

"Whatever!" Amy says through the open window.

As the car pulls away, neither Frank nor Amy hears Erica's parting words. "I've texted Miriam," she calls out after taking a photo of his number plate. As she watches the car speed away, Erica clicks and sends the image to Amy's mother.

Five minutes into the ride, Amy's phone burst into tune.

"This will be my mother." She casts an exasperated glance over to Frank before answering. "Hi, Mum." She listens and then speaks: "He's a friend of Ruth's." She listens again and then speaks: "Frank," she says, exasperated by her mother's failure to know such a basic fact. She listens again. "Frank Garside," she says, her patience near exhausted.

She puts the phone on speaker and holds it up, says. "She wants a word."

"Frank, is that you?" Her mother's voice echoes around the car.

"Hi, Miriam. You don't mind me giving her a lift, do you? I was on the way to your Ruth's," he says.

Miriam's voice says, "... I do worry about her."

"You're her mother. Of course you do. But no need this time. Your lovely daughter could not be in safer hands."

"She can be such a headstrong girl."

"I can imagine!" he says.

"Give my love to Carol."

"I will."

Amy switches the phone off speaker and puts it to her ear. "Bye, Mum... Yes, I will," she says curtly before hanging up. Then turning to Frank: "God, that was SO embarrassing."

"You mother is just looking out for you — just like your friend was."

"I don't need anyone to look out for me."

They are silent for a moment as they wait at the lights.

"I drive this road most days. Pretty much this time, but I've never noticed you before," Frank says.

"We got our results today. We've been to the pub all afternoon with everyone else. Usually, we catch the four o'clock bus."

"How did you do?"

She tells of her three A stars: Latin, English Language and English Lit. He nods and says the right things. But when she tells him about Durham, the day she and Miriam drove her up there to see the place to talk to the tutors, his apparent boredom curtails her enthusiasm.

The lager she drank earlier is making her sleepy. She looks at the dashboard clock, sees 17:30. Her legs are cramped, her tights taut over her bent knees, their opaqueness stretched to translucence. She absently strokes her thigh aware of the glances that sweep her legs.

"Not a lot of leg room is there?" he says, watching her fidget. "Carol is tiny compared to you. I should have adjusted the seat."

"I'm fine." She tugs at the hem of her skirt but fails to draw it lower. She catches his eye again, smiles sheepishly before turning from him to look ahead.

"We did our courting in a car like this, would you believe?" Frank says. "Carol and I, that is."

He sees a smile that is almost a snigger.

"What's so funny?"

She turns to face him, holds his gaze, her eyes so bright, so alive. "That word."

"What?"

"Courting!" It's like something out of Dickens," she concludes.

"You little bitch! I'm not that old," he says and laughs.

"I love Dickens." Her eyes sparkle as she eroticises the name of the long-dead author.

He drives in silence, and she wonders if he missed the joke. Maybe she's offended him, worries she has made him think she regards him as too old for her. But he is old — compared to Adam. Frank is more like a movies actor, a star, a man whose age is irrelevant. Fame irons out all lines and wrinkles. And besides, his mature, self-confidence makes her feel safe. Nothing in the world will hurt her with him at her side.

On the dual carriageway now, he puts his foot down. The shock of acceleration is like penetration: it makes her gasp. She clenches her fists in her lap. When they are cruising at speed, she imagines herself in his arms again, that he is kissing in a way that tells her only she matters.

"I'll phone to see if they're home," he says, his words snatching her away from herself.

"Aunt Ruth and Paul?"

"Yeah."

Hands-free, she hears the tone. It goes to voicemail: Aunt Ruth's voice is sweet as honey.

"Don't they know you'll be calling in?" she asks.

"I thought I'd catch them before they have their evening meal. I want to return something."

"What is it?"

"Never you mind."

"Is it a secret? I love secrets."

"You might not like this secret. Your mother definitely wouldn't."

"I'm not my mother," she says flatly.

She thinks about the evening she'd first spoken to him, remembers how when they had returned indoors after she had sucked his cock, how her aunt's eyes had never left him. Amy had gone off to dance and left them together at the bar, had watched how they were together as she danced. There had been an intimacy between them, subtle but unmistakable.

 At eleven-thirty, the pair had unexpectedly left together. Why so early? And besides, what the fuck was he even doing in the same venue on their girlie night out?

Of course, she had known all along but had refused to believe it. The reality is slow in coming, settles in her mind like guests who will outstay their welcome. God how stupid she was.

The words have flown her lips before she has time to clip their wings. "You're having an affair with Ruth, aren't you?" She feels delicious for saying it, wretched for realising it. Now he will see how smart she is, realise she is not just a kid. How clever of her to have uncovered such their sordid little secret.

She fixes him with her eyes, her gaze intent on revelation, now amazed by her own audacity. The silence between them swells. She hopes he is the man she imagines him to be, one who does not baulk when confronted by a woman who is not afraid to tell things as they are.

"Would that be a bad thing?" he asks, a smirk on his lips.

She had expected him to be amazed, dumbfounded by her insight. Now she is wary of his conceit, his arrogance, the edge it gives him. She becomes silent, wonders what her life would be like if for a little while it became entangled with his.

"So you admit it then?" she says.

"I never said that." He momentarily studies her before attending to the road. "Would it shock you if I was seeing your aunt?" he asks, his eyes fixed ahead. "After all, she is a very sexy woman."

"Yes, she is. A married one too!"

"She can't be much older than you."

"Five years."

"Aunt and niece. Now that would be something."

She does not get what he means, is silent while mentally chewing his words. "Does your wife know what you're really like behind her back."

"Carol?"

"That's your wife's name, isn't it?"

"She knows everything."

"And she doesn't mind?"

"Mind what?"

"You having an affair?"

"Which affair is that?"

"Why, how many affairs are you having?"

He is silent. It exasperates her.

"I'm talking about the affair you're having with my aunt — with Ruth."

"Your words not mine."

"So tell me what would Carol say if she knew you'd kissed me, knew I'd... ?"

"Do you want to find out?"

"Not really."

"You can ask her if you like."

"Ask her! Why would I want to ask her?"

"You might be that type of girl."

"What type of girl is that?"

"One who likes to torture the wives of her lovers."

"So we're lovers now, are we?"

"If you want us to be."

"Wouldn't Carol be angry if we were?"

"How could anyone be angry with someone as beautiful as you?"

None of this makes sense. Nothing feels the same anymore. Amy has to think hard.

He continues: "Carol and I are individuals. We each have our needs — though we have been known to share certain pleasures..."

She is thrashing in deep water. "Pleasures?"

"The kind of pleasure only beautiful people bring you. And you, sweet, Amy, are a beautiful pleasure. I think Carol would like you a great deal. I see you two being great friends."

She turns away and watches the road ahead. Why is he spoiling everything with all this talk about his wife? And then she gets it.

 "I don't think so!"

"Come on, sweetheart. You're eighteen. Don't tell me you've never kissed another girl? One of your friends... in the secrecy of your bedroom, maybe. A gorgeous stranger when out clubbing?.

He is slowing down, the indicator ticking. "— Where are you taking me?" Amy asks. He has turned off the carriageway. The alarm in her voice is shocking. "Frank!"

"We need to have a little chat."

"But where are we going? Frank!"

"Calm down, won't you. I've already said: somewhere we can talk. I want you to see my latest project." There," he says nodding directly ahead, encouraging her to look too.

It's The Pastures, his new development. He'd promised her a summer job in sales. She remembers what her father had said about more precious green belt land snatched by greedy developers, money changing hands behind closed doors.

At this hour the site is quiet, the heavy machinery abandoned, the scaffolding deserted. On a hoarding she sees written in large letters: Welcome to the Pastures. It is the only greeting this ghost town of half-completed shells will extend to her. Apart from the three show houses, that is, finished and ready to move in to. She imagines their garish interiors, the aspirational furnishing, the pretentious decor.

 He slips the key into the lock of the door of the largest house. "This is our Chatsworth. Five bedrooms, two en-suite," he says proudly. "Looks like we missed them."

"Missed who?" she asks.

"My sales staff. I could have introduced you."

She follows him through to a bright lounge, imagines her family living in such a home, wonders how long before the gloss would fade, the trying too hard decor a background noise hardly ever noticed.

She is wandering, examing the furnishing, picking up items of strategically placed bric-a-brac. He comes to her and takes a moulded glass statuette from her hand and puts it back on the sideboard from which she has lifted it. He turns her to face him and says, "Would you like me to kiss you again?"

"I thought you wanted to talk." She is looking into his eyes, daring him.

"We can talk after."

"It's that time of the month," she lies, feeling grubby from her day. She doesn't want to be touched down there, isn't dressed-for-a-fucking.

"I'm sure you can manage one of your wonderful blow-jobs?"

He pulls her to him and begins to kiss her. Soon she is on her knees again, history repeating itself. But now she is sober; alcohol no longer blurs the edges of his all too real cock. She kneels for him again but this time it is a shag-pile rug that cushions her knees. He has the same smell, his body cosmetics unvarying. The smell of him kindles her wantonness.
 
Soon the comfort of his cock in her mouth dissolves her self-consciousness. She has that feeling again, is hollowed out by desire, her womb calling for penetration. She senses her cunt readying itself, its wetness soaking her knickers. She breaks off and looks up into his eyes and says his name.

"Frank."

He grunts his acknowledgement, places his hand on her skull to urge back to the job in hand.

But she stands her ground, is determined to confess. "When I said it was my time of the month..."

"Yeah."

"I was lying."

He says nothing, reaches down and pulls her to her feet, kisses her as deep as his tongue will allow. His cock is a vertical shaft that she feels hard against the soft pudge of her belly. He licks her cheeks, her chin, her neck, before turning her so that her back is against him. He bunches her hair, shifting the mass of her free-flowing strawberry curls from off her shoulders, casting great strands of it to cascade down her left breast in a torrent of silken strands. He smothers the nape of her neck in reckless kisses, gorging on her flesh while undoing the buttons of her little-girl cardigan as swiftly as if it were his own.

He slides both hands into the cups of her bra. Her pliant nipples are engorged, have long anticipated his touch. He pinches them spitefully to make her gasp out loud. And then he turns her to face him again, tells her, "I've made a note: You owe me a blow job."

She is about to reply, promise him a lifetime's supply of blow-jobs. But his tongue quickly fills her mouth again, begins slipping and sliding, at play with hers. He kisses her with determination and she responds with all the ardour she can summons, tries to show the kind of mistress she will make. She wants him to understand how she will be more than the girl he imagines her to be, not knowing a girl is what he wants her forever to remain.

His kiss thrills her like nothing ever has and she cannot breathe fast enough. When she draws in air through her nose, can hear its hiss.  She thinks his kiss will kill her, is on the edge of dizzying darkness.  

He senses the extremity of her arousal and breaks of their kiss. "There are beds upstairs," he tells her.

"I don't care. Down here or up there: I just want your cock inside me." She relishes the word, wants to say cock, over and over: Cock! Cock! Cock! Say it to her friends, say it to anyone who might listen: "Frank's cock!" The thought of its dense mass fills her mind as she mentally repeats the word.

He adjusts his trousers, stows his cock away to fight another day. He takes her hand and leads her up the stairs.

She wants to shower but there is no water. "People take liberties when they view," he tells her, "Folk piss in the bog. You wouldn't believe..."

They undress facing each other. Amy frets about being icky. He tells her he doesn't care, her sweat will add spice to the stew. Her body shyness is soon gone, seeing his cock sweeping away her primness. He walks towards her and she watches how his cock sways in time to his steps. It has become something almost independent of its owner. Seeing its substance in the starkness of daylight only reinforces her need.

 His head between her legs tells how much he relishes her, how even her pungency thrills him, the seasoning of her sex an intoxicant. His probing tongue skirts the opening of her pussy before it slides back and forth along the crease of her sex. He lifts her buttocks a little and parts them gently,  holds them still raised, his tongue making long slow passes before lapping a course to a dark singularity, homing in on her nerve-loaded pucker.

No one has ever kissed her like this — touched her even. The thrill of it is nothing she could have imagined, the filthy wrongness of it astounding. And yet It satisfies her to know how completely he desires her. She thinks that to perform this act so enthusiastically, he must find her body more than beautiful.

And then his mouth is on her lips, sent back to, "Go". She loves how kisses her, but it will not be enough today.

He turns her onto her belly, lavishes every scrap of his attention on her arse. "Your arse is the best," he tells her between dives.

"Do you... do you really like it?" She is barely able to ask, almost gasps the words.

Back and forth over her flesh, he casts kisses over the length of her back. His hands are his tongue's auxiliaries; they will subdue the land, bring her bliss.

He is on her now, the length of his cock absorbed by the fissure of her buttocks. He takes two halves of her sumptuousness in hand, splits them as soft fruit to be shared and then rubs his cock along the gorge he has created, occasionally pushing at the seal of her sphincter. The sensation of it, the danger of his cock straying beyond her limits, makes her groan. Her pleasure is immeasurable, the noises she makes are a protest, yet a plea she doesn't mean.  But as he works her more insistently, she becomes apprehensive, fears he might abuse her in a way she has heard about but never believed any decent bloke would want experience.

And then it is his tongue again, while from her underside two fingers find her clit and rub steadily as his tongue laps deep between her opened cheeks. It flickers and darts as quickly as his fingers. His name no longer sticks to her tongue. She cannot help but call it: "Oh, Frank! Oh, Fuck! Frank please!"

Lost in the pleasure, she senses the approach of her orgasm, fears its arrival will bring the edifice of her joy crashing down. She wonders if she will ever feel the same when it has finally washed over her, swept her clean of need and passed her by forever. But her hips have an agenda of their own. They undulate and rise to smother his chin, nose and tongue with her clashing plump softness. She squirms and shudders from the stubble of his enfolded face, a rasp that adds to her pleasure. Reverberations shoot up her spine, set coursing by the hum of his appreciation. And when at last her bliss arrives, her orgasm is like no other she has ever known. It is physically all-encompassing, no nerve end left uninvited to this synaptic carnival of completion.

She has flown, transported to a place within herself she has never visited. An inundation has lifted her, picked up and carried her far inland. She is left high and dry with little hope of seeing the ocean again. He caresses the length and expanse of her back, her shoulders and her arms. His touch will bring her home. She lies still as she gathers herself, her face pressed flat against the bed-linen.

He almost whispers: "Was it good for you?"

Is he taking the piss?  Can't he see how it was for her? She forces herself up, turns to face him. She looks into his eyes and can think of nothing to say.

"You look radiant," he says.

"I want your cock!" She reaches for it, feels its reassuring mass, nests it in her palm and allows her fingers close around it. She looks at what she holds and is amazed. She is barely able to circumscribe its girth.

When she lays back, she tugs at his cock and brings all of him to her. "Don't hold back," she tells him. No one has ever fucked her in the way she has always needed to be fucked. Fingers crossed it will be Frank.

"No worry of that," he says. "You deserve everything you're going to get."

She has him positioned just so, his swollen glans barely a presence at the cave entrance of her cunt. He pauses, imbibes her sodden readiness before he grunts and lunges, sending himself barreling inside her. He plunges until their mons collide. His cock stalls and there is stillness. She senses him settling into her like an iron pile driven into soft marle waiting to be hammered down. This will be the foundation of his lovemaking, where it begins and ends, the moment in time on which everything rests.

The sensation of his cock stationary so deep inside her fulfils her. It has never been this way before — those boys and their hurry, their pathetic ejaculations. She relishes his size as her muscles tighten around his shaft, release and tighten, until he raises himself on post-rigid arms, almost withdrawing it from her. He takes the lower stem in his hand and paints his pre-cum around the mouth of her cunt before sinking into her again.  

And this is how it is. He fucks her with slow and considered strokes that make her grunt like a herded beast. Amy thinks that his fucking her will be a joyous ordeal.

She senses how he is focused, is there for her, attuned to her every subtle response. His body is a tool he uses to please her alone, no thought of himself. He responds instantly to her body's cues, calibrates his rhythm to suit her need. She can see in his eyes that she is not just fuck-meat, not a job to be completed, a point made, another notch carved. With Frank, she does not sense the usual anxious male drive of, "I've got to get through this," the need to endure and live to fuck another day. Frank will go on and on, take her to the edge of something wonderful.

She knows she is a wonder to him; she feels it in his touch, in the way he leans down to kiss her lips as he fucks her. His words of appreciation confirm it between each deep kiss: "You are a wonder, Amy — a fucking beautiful wonder of a girl."

He is machinery designed for a single purpose, her very own meat machine created to fuck a girl named Amy. He is determined; will be unrelenting; inexhaustible.
                                                       
                                                   *********

An hour later and he still hasn't done with her, holds her and kisses her, strokes and caresses her. And for her part, she has repaid the debt, paid in full the promise of a blow job he'd said she owed him. His cock slick with her own cum, she'd completed him that way. It had been a reprieve from the second and interminable fucking she endured beneath him. Now he lies exhausted as her nails playfully scour his chest.

"Won't they mind the mess?" she asks.

"Who's this who?" he asks.

"The people from the building site."

"I am the building site. People jump when I say jump."

"WIll you tell Carol... When you get home tonight?

"Not tonight. She'd want what you've just had if I told her about you."

"You were saying earlier... about how she might like me."

"Not might."

"And she knows about Ruth?"

"They're great friends."

"You mean they're... " She hardly dares say it, afraid to believe it, the delicious salaciousness of Ruth's secret life.  "Lesbians?"

"Lesbians is perhaps an inadequate word for Ruth and Carol. You have to see it from the perspective of what all four of us have —

"— The four of you?"

" Didn't I mention your Uncle Paul?"

She is silent as she thinks about Ruth and Paul.

"You're all swingers?"

"Swingers is not a word Carol or Ruth would entertain. What the four of us share is something way beyond swinging, something quite beautiful."

"How often do you... you know?"

She thinks of Ruth, more an older sister than an aunt. She can't believe what he is telling her, can't accept this revelation. How will she ever be able to look them in the eye again?  No! It's all lies. Ruth isn't like that — she'd know if she was. Surely she would!

He is speaking again. "listen, Amy. We could have a little party... The five of us. how does that sound?"

"But I only want you. And I'm straight. And Ruth is my aunt!"

"And that is just the thing that'll make what I have in mind all the more special."

                                                *********************************

                                                         AUTHOR'S NOTE.

If you have not already done so, you can read more about, Ruth, Paul, Carol and Frank in my Cuckold or Twink series. I may write more about Amy's experiences with Frank at a future date.