Foreign Affairs

by Antonia Adams

  FOREIGN AFFAIRS

  A collection of twenty erotic stories

  Edited by Antonia Adams

  Published by Xcite Books Ltd – 2012

  ISBN 9781908086594

  Copyright © Xcite Books Ltd 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

  The stories contained within this book are works of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the authors’ imaginations and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  No Running, No Petting Janine Ashbless

  Comrades On A Train Z Ferguson

  Lucky Lucy Jenna Bright

  New Orleans When It Rains Maxim Jakubowski

  Gulliver On Lillipussia John McKeown

  The Warmth Of His Touch Viva Jones

  The Invitation Maria Lloyd

  The Oregon Trail Landon Dixon

  Escape Clarice Clique

  Burning Woman L A Fields

  French Kissing Josie Jordan

  An Argentinean Tango Troy Seate

  Romanesque O’Neil De Noux

  From Bradford To Bollywood Victoria Blisse

  Only In Vegas Elizabeth Coldwell

  Local Delicacy Mariella Fairhead

  Maya Gold Catelyn Cash

  The Liberation Of Paris Sylvia Lowry

  Après-Ski Adventure Peter Baltensperger

  Reunion Kate J Cameron

  No Running, No Petting by Janine Ashbless

  ‘I’ve got one,’ says Vittor as I pause at the breakfast bar to collect the glasses he’s polishing. ‘Room 406. Over there – the blue shirt, by the window.’

  I look across the hotel dining room, which is mostly empty now that the second sitting have finished their breakfasts. The man Vittor has indicated is drinking coffee. He’s tall, and a bit older than our usual type. Late forties maybe, with swept-back silvery hair and gold-rimmed glasses. Older, but really handsome and trim. He’s with a blond woman of a similar age.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask.

  ‘Swedish. He’s here with his wife, but she goes out all day on the coach tours while he sits and reads. I spoke with him yesterday. Gave him the old wink-and-grin. He was jumpy, but flattered.’

  So he should be. Vittor is simply gorgeous: tall and broad and built, with big dark fuck-me eyes you could just fall into. His immaculately mowed stubble starts at his neck and ends at the crown of his head. He’s mostly gay, and I’m mostly not, and we both go for straight guys.

  Which is why I’m the bait.

  I nod. ‘He’s cute.’

  I check our man out later on, lingering near Room 406 with my trolley full of sugar sachets and coffee cups and tiny bottles of shampoo. As he comes out of the lift and heads my way I bend over to root around in the bottom tray, my arse in the air. The hotel uniform has a tight skirt, at least the way I wear mine, with a split up the back that shows a surprising amount of thigh if you get it right. A glance over my shoulder tells me that he’s looking. Staring, actually. I give him a cheeky smile and a bit of a wiggle, and he nearly collides with his doorframe.

  But Vittor plans that we make our real move on the hotel roof garden. The hunter has been studying his prey. Room 406 goes up there every day after his wife’s left on the coach to see another bit of Malta. He swims twenty lengths of the pool, then sits under the vine trellis and looks through papers. He makes a lot of notes and corrections. I’ve seen the books in his room: they look like engineering texts to me. Every couple of hours he gets up, swims some more, orders a light beer or a juice at the bar, then does some more work. That’s his day until his wife gets back.

  The really great thing about the roof garden is that there’s almost no one there. The pool dates from before the hotel expanded and there’s a much bigger one now, with whirlpools and slides, down on the terrace. And we’re on the beachfront anyway: plenty of golden sand and blue Mediterranean. Who’d want to hang out by that small pool up top, all alone?

  The other great thing about the roof is that no one can see in.

  When I go up that day, Room 406 is already on his sun-lounger, tapping a pencil against his upper lip as he reads his papers. Vittor is waiting behind the bar, ready to lock the stair door as I put on a distraction. I do my best: I’m wearing only a tiny bikini of brilliant yellow lycra. I know how it draws the eye. I’m short, but there are deep curves to my hips and arse and waist. I shake out my long dark hair and stride over to the pool, my breasts jiggling enticingly with every step.

  I can feel his eyes on me. But at first I ignore him. I slip into the aquamarine water and do some lazy widths on my back, rolling every so often to show off my bum in its yellow thong. Whenever I put a hand on the pool edge and look covertly in his direction, pretending to catch my breath, Room 406 is watching me.

  Then Vittor comes out and joins in, stripped down to his red trunks. We make a helluva contrast; him so big and me so little, but both of us bronzed and glistening, both young and beautiful. We giggle and play together, splashing and kissing. Maybe you remember those old signs they used to have around public poolsides – No running, no petting, no ducking –? Well, we break all those rules. I wriggle out of Vittor’s arms and haul myself out of the pool, squealing as he chases me to try and swat my arse.

  Ever seen a dog chase something past another dog? Dog number two can’t help but join in. I run in a little too close to our engineer and then stumble, tripping into him: he puts out his arms to catch me. Part of him thinks he’s saving me from a fall, but I know what his underlying instinct is.

  ‘Sorry!’ I gasp, landing in his lap. I’ve been told his English is good. ‘Oh, I’m sorry! I’ve got you all wet!’

  I’ve got him all hard too. It’s not subtle, I know, but what man likes subtle? He’s got shorts on and his legs are tanned and muscular – I just bet he cycles and skis to work at his factory or his university or whatever it is back home. But he’s got a stiffy under those shorts and it’s poking me.

  Vittor stands a few metres back, grinning.

  ‘That’s OK,’ Room 406 says hoarsely, his hands still on my waist.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Rolf.’

  ‘Hi, Rolf. I’m Lena. And that’s Vittor.’

  ‘He is your boyfriend?’ Rolf is a bit confused, and a bit nervous.

  I giggle and shrug, which is about as accurate as it gets. ‘Want to join us in the pool?’

  He hesitates, then nods. He can’t stop looking at the pool water beaded on my breasts, and my nipples poking up through the yellow bikini fabric. I give him a good flash of my arse as I stand, though, and lead the way to the water’s edge, barely giving him time to shed his shirt and glasses. ‘First one to catch me ...’ I call, and dive.

  They’re both in the water seconds after me: I hear the twin whumphs underwater as they strike. Then the chase begins. We’re all three good swimmers and it’s fast and fun; I twist and plunge, skimming past their fingertips and scooting between their legs. Vittor hardly has to hold back to make sure Rolf wins. But our man catches me at last and grabs me about the waist. I’m gasping and giggling. He’s suddenly self-conscious all over again, not sure what prize to claim, so I plant a kiss warmly upon his lips.

  Vittor steps up behind me. They’re both tall enough to stand on the bottom of the pool. As Rolf and I grin at each other, Vittor puts a hand to the nape of my neck. Lycra strings tug and my bikini top falls loose, baring my breasts. I shriek, trying
in vain to cover myself: it’s all part of the fun.

  At once, Vittor’s hands circle in from behind to cup my breasts, lifting my upper torso clear of the water to present me, like a gift. He’s got big hands but my tits are bigger, lush and dark-nippled. Rolf’s jaw drops.

  ‘You win,’ says Vittor. ‘Go on.’

  Rolf puts both hands on my breasts, rubbing his palms over my nipples, testing their resilience and firmness as a good engineer should. I squeak and coo in appreciation. Then he rolls them deliciously between his fingers and pinches them until he ascertains the point at which I cry out and wrap my thighs about his, underwater, sliding my skin over his.

  ‘Oh,’ he says in that cute Swedish accent. ‘You have very beautiful tits.’

  ‘Come over to the steps,’ I whisper, and as Vittor releases me I slip out from between the two of them and scull backward to the shallow end of the pool where broad tiled steps ascend. I sit on one that’s barely lapped by the water and pat it invitingly, shaking out my wet hair. They’ve followed me eagerly. Rolf sits himself down at my side; at once Vittor flanks him, grinning. To distract Rolf from feeling too nervous, I tug the bow at my hip and my bikini bottom falls away to reveal my perfectly shaved split.

  ‘Wow,’ he says, which makes me giggle. I kiss him and lay my hand on the front of his swimming shorts. His erection makes a big lump under the khaki fabric, and as I find and grasp it Vittor undoes the knot of the drawstring holding those pants up. We’ve gone much quieter all of a sudden: less laughing and more hungry, anticipatory glances. Rolf’s breath is coming short and shallow. I work his cock out into the open.

  Now that is a fine engineering erection. ‘Wow yourself,’ I say, impressed, and kneel up, stroking his length. ‘Do you want to touch my pussy, Rolf?’

  ‘I think you will get into trouble,’ he says, but he slips a hand between my legs. He’s a gentleman: he doesn’t plunge in but strokes gently instead, and I purr.

  ‘No trouble,’ Vittor laughs. ‘My father owns this hotel.’ Which is why we’ve been getting away with this all summer, of course. Vittor is supposed to be learning the hotel trade. I’m not sure that was supposed to include fondling the guests’ ball-sacs, but Rolf only quivers and makes no protest.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ he says.

  ‘You want to see?’ Vittor pulls down the front of his own trunks, manhandling his cock and balls into view. They’re as beautifully built and groomed as the rest of his body. Biting his upper lip, Rolf gamely takes that thick length in his palm. I’m guessing it’s the first time he’s groped another man’s cock. Or had a guy and a girl stroke him together – my hand is on his shaft and Vittor is caressing his balls.

  ‘Oh this is nice.’ I kiss Rolf again, squirming my tongue into his mouth. He’s so well-mannered and submissive that I want to bite him, but I hold back. ‘Now kiss Vittor.’

  ‘Oh but I don’t kiss–’ he protests weakly. But I feel the surge in his cock.

  ‘Kiss him and I’ll suck your dick.’

  He practically lunges at Vittor’s mouth.

  I don’t want to lose Rolf’s hand on my pussy, which is warming up nicely now and getting no drier despite being out of the pool. So I back my arse up the stairs and crouch down with my head low. The guys are chasing each other’s tongues very nicely as I drop to take Rolf’s lovely stiff cock between my lips. He tastes of chlorine at first, then precome. I can see Vittor’s hand rolling his balls just beyond my nose. I’m starting to ache with lust. My bum is pointed at the beautiful blue sky and Rolf is patting and spreading my pussy lips. Out of the corner of my eye I can see his other hand squeezing Vittor’s swollen shaft.

  Then Vittor comes down, grinning, to join me. Our tongues chase each other all over Rolf’s cock, up and down, kissing and sucking, and he makes a noise like he’s just discovered paradise. His fingers slip inside me.

  I lift my head, breathless, allowing Vittor to grab the bouncing shaft all for himself. ‘Will you lick my pussy for me, Rolf?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes!’

  I shift astride him as he lies back on the steps. It’s not comfortable for any of us, but who the hell cares? I’m still facing down his body as I settle my pussy over his mouth, so I get the best possible view: Rolf’s legs splayed in the turquoise pool water and Vittor’s mouth working hard on his cock.

  This is what Vittor wants. He loves to suck other guys. He’s better than me, I have to admit, and judging by the muffled noises Rolf is making, our engineer is likely to blow his head gasket very soon. I wriggle harder onto his face, mashing my pussy onto his lips and his thrusting tongue. I pinch my own nipples. Pleasure is building inside me. My arse-cheeks shake. Rolf eats me with great skill and I’m glad now we’ve picked a man of experience because he’s so good that suddenly I’ve stopped worrying about suffocating the poor guy and I’m just grinding down on his face and squealing and coming and coming and coming ...

  And he’s coming too because I see his hips buck and his cock ram right up into Vittor’s open throat and I hear the big man choking it all down.

  As soon as my legs work I get off Rolf’s face and move down to meet Vittor. His lips are swollen and I kiss him greedily, searching out the flavour of the other man’s semen. Vittor’s cock is nearly purple with need. I wrap my fingers round his girth and stroke him off, slow and hard. He looks down at Rolf with his smouldering dark eyes as he comes, though, spraying my belly and thighs with his lovely jizz.

  Rolf has gone into shock. He just lies there staring. I’m not finished, not by a long way. I want to fuck him, and watch Vittor fucking him too, but we’ve found it’s best to leave them wanting more, first time. I lean over to brush Rolf’s lips with my own.

  ‘Tomorrow, Rolf, same time. Not here, though. Tomorrow we give you room service.’

  Comrades On A Train by Z Ferguson

  We called each other Comrade Geek, an encapsulation of our mutual interest, no, passion, for Russia. We’ve been friends since junior high school and it was one night while watching old newsreels of the May Day Parade that we became smitten with Mother Russia. Not the thing you can pass along to fellow classmates, especially during those touchy periods of the 50s 60s and 70s, so we nursed it between ourselves, until college where we “came out” in true Geekistroika, taking language classes and making plans to visit this place that held us so.

  Our real names were Nick and Donny. Nick had Russian pen pals in Bratsk since high school, and it was his letters that got me excited about joining him, actually visiting. His friends lived on a farm just outside of the city near the Kuta River. They wrote, “Come on, bring Nick with you, too Donny. Beautiful here.”

  We saved money like fiends. Like two AA members keeping each other steady, we constantly reminded each other not to buy too many cheeseburgers, don’t buy too many T-shirts, ease off the magazines and comic books. When we went to the movies, it was always matinees. We saved a bundle. Our folks eased us across the line with surprise loving contributions.

  I packed like a Marx Brother trying to leave a hotel without paying. Kept my suitcase at the door. Nick lay across my bed thumbing through an old comic, taking in my glee. His suitcase was downstairs.

  Nick waited for a moment of descending emotion to wedge in a reminder.

  ‘No practical jokes, OK? Remember. This is serious. We’ll be on a commuter train. We’ll be in the country and a country, far from the US embassy. We’ll be Americans. We’ll be watched. Especially no jokes about I-Spy or Boris Badenov.’

  There went my best material. I-Spy was the TV show with Robert Culp and Bill Cosby that we latched on to via TV’s, Nick At Night. We immediately saw ourselves as the Kelly and Alexander of our high school, palling around, playing jokes on each other, and doing quasi-spy like stuff. Being black, I was the Bill Cosby figure (Alexander), and Nick, was Robert Culp (Kelly).

  Our pranks were private and relatively harmless.

  My favourite was the Playboy Pinup I affixed to the class map early, that unrolled with th
e map of Russia, when Nick gave his world report in class. My favourite prank he played on me was when he hid my jock just before gym, on the day the guys played the girls in softball. Well-developed girl athletes in tight white blouses, and tight blue shorts, and me with no jock, was a volatile combination. Especially when I batted, and my crush, Becky Brame, was in full squat, her shorts retreating between her thighs. Well, that did it. I responded in full. Linda was pitching away from me, anyway, throwing wild with one hand on her mouth. I had to take my base. The guys hooted and the girls gave appreciative applause. Bonnie on first base who looked like a young Penny Marshall with the wit to match, stood next to me saying nothing, then in perfect comedic timing whispered, ‘You’re supposed to leave the bat at home plate.’

  We kept at each other in stitches and on the lookout for each other all the time. Which was why Nick was insistent, ‘I swear we won’t be able to phone the US embassy for days or anything ...’

  I held a boy Scout pledge posture. ‘No jokes, no pranks. I promise.’ I even showed him both hands, fingers uncrossed.

  The train was, as I had envisioned, a huge, bellowing, lumbering giant with red barrel-sized, pistons on either side. Nick smiled looking her over. ‘This is the last of her breed. They’re going high-speed soon.’

  We entered and found seats in a compartment with sliding doors, the seats facing each other. ‘Cool,’ I said, ‘just like Dr No.’ I opened and closed the doors.

  ‘We won’t be alone in here,’ Nick said as he sat next to me, ‘this is a commuter train. We’ll be packed in after two stops.’ He leaned back. ‘Prepare to embrace the citizenry of Mother Russia.’

  Other people got on board, chattering in deep Russian, far beyond my remedial knowledge. I relied on Nick as I watched him listen and occasionally smile. Russian always sounded like voice tapes played backwards to me. I picked out different people as they took their seats.