Random Acts of Lust

by Primula Bond

  Poppy kneels on the big armchair, watching them over the back of it. She wants to, she ought to, launch herself at Stella and scratch her eyes out, but she has no strength. She can’t move. Doesn’t want to move. Her body is frozen, yet buzzing. She’s totally transfixed by what she’s seeing. But she’s locked outside, looking in. This is Frank, her man, but he’s a stranger, a rough, sexy stranger tied up and loving it, with their hostess Stella sitting astride him, moaning with pleasure as she fingers her nipples, tweaking them so that they grow even bigger. They really are sensational. They are ripe for one thing. For the first time in her life Poppy wants to know what it’s like to suck another woman’s tits.

  ‘Now, Frankie, make me feel good. Suck them.’ Stella settles her haunches on top of Frank’s legs and puts her hands on either side of him so that her breasts are hanging over his face. His cock is bigger and harder than ever, standing up just in front of her pussy. ‘Oh, Poppy’s so going to thank me, darling. You’ll be horny as hell when I’ve finished with you.’

  Poppy is horribly jolted by the use of her name. She is ready to spring out of the armchair to stop the madness when a hand clamps itself over her mouth and pushes her back down on her knees. She struggles violently. She can’t breathe. Her breath burns against the hand gagging her. But as a second hand comes up between her legs and rips her knickers off, she recognises the salt taste on the skin.

  Ivan keeps his hand over her mouth. She tries to bite it. But he forces her head round to watch what’s happening on the bed. But they wouldn’t hear her anyway. The wind is howling like a woman in scary ecstasy. Stella is spreading her knees to lower herself over Frank, and there’s that greedy slash of pink again. It’s a cunt, same as Poppy’s, but it belongs to the enemy. Stella rubs herself against Frank’s balls like a mare scratching on a fence post.

  Ivan is up close behind Poppy now, his knees forcing hers apart, pressing her against the back of the chair so that her breasts scrape against the fabric, making her nipples burn. On the bed Stella has taken one of her enormous breasts and is rubbing the huge stiff nipple against Poppy’s husband’s mouth. Frank tries to stroke her breast with his free hand, but Stella smacks it down. He takes hold of one of her buttocks instead, and digs his nails in. Stella jerks, and smothers herself down on top of him and so he opens his mouth. His lips nibble up, Poppy knows how that feels, he used to do that for hours, his tongue flicks out and laps the hard point then he draws it in, sucking hard.

  ‘See? He’s not lost his mojo!’ Ivan grunts into her ear as his hand rams up Poppy’s cunt. ‘Just needed the right woman.’

  ‘You bastard!’ Poppy tries to scream behind his gagging hand, flings her arm out, tries to hit and scratch him, but he catches hold of her in a dead lock, squeezes her arms against her ribs. ‘Think you’re some fucking gangster –’

  ‘I’ve been in the army, if that’s what you mean. So. You disturb Stella’s work, and I have permission to gag you.’ He shoves something into her mouth, jams it behind her teeth, not choking, but enough to muffle her. She smells the gag before she tastes it. Salty sweet. Piss, and pussy juice. Her knickers.

  Poppy stops breathing. Her body goes steel-taut with excitement. Ivan’s arm is like a vice. He has his other hand ramming up her cunt, pinning her down. She can’t move. She can’t escape. She’s never been held fast like this, forced like this – it’s intoxicating.

  She nods her head. Now he has two hands he lifts her by the hips and tips her forwards over the arm of the chair. You’d think you could escape that position, if you wanted to, but again he’s got her out of breath because the arm of the chair is now jammed into her ribs, so all she can do is hang there like a rag doll.

  Frank is holding Stella’s breast like a teat, pulling it long and jamming it into his face, biting and sucking at her nipple as if he’s milking her. He’s always loved breasts, but Poppy has never seen this kind of feeding frenzy before. But then Stella is like some sort of nurturing goddess, one of those fat, naked statues that Johnny Floyd might sculpt, crooking her finger to all and sundry to come and worship and, well, suck.

  Stella is pulling and rubbing the other nipple, licking her lips with ravenous pleasure. Poppy reaches up to pinch her own nipples, hard, and they sing with delicious pain. Stella is swaying her big buttocks from side to side, her head tipped back with pleasure.

  Poppy can’t believe it’s her husband, making Stella ecstatic. Her husband. Her sex god.

  ‘So. You watch your husband fucking Stella and you still want to be a good girl?’ Ivan hisses, opening her legs wider. His hand is still up inside her, probing, moving, promising more. ‘Before, you push me off –’

  Poppy groans behind the gag, the lack of air making her dizzy. She shakes her head and presses back against him. She can feel the long shape of Ivan’s cock. The action on the bed is changing. Frank is trying to jerk upwards to catch Stella on his cock. But she smacks at him, yanks her nipple out of his mouth, and wriggles down his legs. She’s pushing them apart, cupping his balls, and Poppy’s stomach coils with shock as Stella takes his cock and starts licking it.

  Frank falls back, totally surrendered. Poppy goes hot. She hasn’t sucked his cock since they were courting.

  ‘I fuck you now, if you want it or not.’ Ivan tips Poppy roughly over the arm of the chair, and pushes his cock up into her cunt.

  It’s anger and jealousy and lust mashing inside Poppy as Stella sucks her husband’s cock. Frank’s yanking her hair up into his fist, lifting it off her face so that he, so that everyone, can see how her mouth looks working on him. But Stella pushes his cock out of her mouth with her tongue, clambers back up, grabs his cock, wet with her licking, then she aims it towards her pussy, lets it rest, how does she control herself like that? Poppy is trying to push herself back onto Ivan’s cock but he holds her in mid air. She gets it now. He’s waiting for the signal.

  The tension is ecstasy. But as Stella slides down on Frank’s cock, so Ivan pushes his up Poppy and, boy, was Stella right. He’s hung like a donkey. It goes sliding in for ever, making her squeal and shudder as it fills her and she wants to scream with excitement.

  The storm is dying away a little, and the air is darker, so all the sounds in the room are clearer now. Stella starts to rock on top of Frank, and they set up an extraordinary sensuous, stately rhythm. That’s when Poppy realises how fucking sexy her husband still is. She hears their flesh slap together, the wetness of Stella’s juicy cunt gripping and releasing Frank’s cock, their breath rasping, the bed creaking, as her buttocks squash down on top of his legs, the base of his cock visible as she lifts and falls, it’s so huge and hard, thrusting up inside her.

  So Poppy’s riding Ivan, too, or rather he’s mounting her, oh yes, she likes the horse analogies, as he takes her from behind, jacking up the rhythm as he yanks her hips and she rocks up and down his cock. The urge to come is so intense now. Poppy’s cunt is getting tighter and tighter, his cock ramming till it hurts, she’s sure her body will split with each big thrust.

  Stella is flying up and down now. Poppy has forgotten how strong Frank is. She remembers now, on their first honeymoon, they fucked so hard they broke the bed. She was on top that time, just like Stella is now, she was so slim and wild on all the retsina they’d drunk at lunch time. They were staying in a cheap hotel room but it opened straight onto the Greek beach and they had scrambled in covered in gritty sand and oil, left the door hanging open in the hot, still afternoon because they’d been groping each other in the sea and had run straight up the beach into their room because they couldn’t wait to get to it and later the hotel manager had a quiet word about the open door of their room and what people saw.

  Frank may be tied up with one hand, but his buttocks are strong enough to toss Stella’s curvy, solid body into the air like a shuttlecock. Her breasts wobble and bounce and as Frank gives one last almighty thrust, Ivan pumps rapidly into Poppy, shuddering as he comes, pulling her by the hips backwards, back onto him, skewering
her until she comes too and then he pulls the knickers out of her mouth and lets her cry out, very loud.

  Stella and Frank turn, but slowly. Stella is euphoric. She eases Frank’s cock lazily out of her bushy cunt and lets it flop, still hard and wet, onto his stomach.

  ‘He’s all yours, honey,’ she says, bending to pick up her black corset off the floor.

  Frank takes one look at Poppy, out of breath, tits hanging down, wild eyed, still rammed from behind by the Aryan gigolo. Then he falls back and closes his eyes.

  Poppy pushes Ivan off her and tries to stand, but her legs are weak as spaghetti.

  ‘Oh, God, Stella, what have we done? He won’t look at me!’

  Stella just walks towards the door and beckons him to follow.

  ‘See you at breakfast, lovers,’ she laughs.

  Poppy starts silently to peel off her black stockings. She’s sore, and aching, and has nothing to say.

  ‘Keep those sexy stockings on, and come over here so I can fuck you,’ says Frank quietly, patting the bed. ‘This is supposed to be a second honeymoon, after all!’

  Poppy totters over and he pulls her down beside him, slides his fingers inside her wet cunt. She doesn’t think she can, but she daren’t say no, not after all this, and then he’s hard again and up inside her and he’s the sexiest man alive again, her very own George Clooney, and, oh yes, she can.

  Later, when the storm has died down, Frank murmurs, ‘Let’s stay here a little longer, Pops. Let’s stay for the Murder Mystery party? How about Stella as Miss Marple, all tweed cape, magnifying glass, Black Russian cigarette, teasing confessions out of us – oh ho, yes –’

  Poppy slaps his leg, but half-heartedly.

  ‘Ivan’s an actor, apparently.’

  ‘Actor? Sculptor. Gigolo. Whatever –’

  ‘He’d make a good sinister chauffeur. Or spy. Or –’

  ‘Yes, let’s stay on,’ sighs Poppy, shivering as the cold air blasts off the sea and her husband takes her hand. ‘With Stella as mistress of ceremonies, it won’t just be a classy party. It’ll be one hell of an orgy!’

  Frank falls asleep, and starts to snore.

  Immaculata

  IT WASN’T UNTIL THE leavers’ midnight feast that Olivia learned what the other girls really thought of her.

  Given Dutch courage by candlelight, joss sticks and the smuggled Spanish aniseed liqueur donated by Regina Sanchez, everyone was sprawled about in Olivia’s room in their quilted dressing gowns, playing truth or dare.

  ‘We never thought you could be such a laugh, Livvie,’ Suzanne piped up, always the first. ‘We thought you were always so haughty and aloof. A perfect head girl, in fact.’

  ‘Yeah. An ice queen,’ Chloe added. ‘Always looking down your nose.’

  ‘It’s because I’m tall.’ Olivia drawled hazily. ‘And short sighted. Can’t see a dickie bird without my specs.’

  ‘Or even a dick!’

  They all giggled, happy to be making friends, but she didn’t give a shit. She wanted to leave them all to it, follow her more exciting friends up to their attic bedrooms for a last smoke before they disappeared back to their glittering lives. If only she could stand up. The thick, sticky liqueur, colourless but lethal, had gone straight to her head. Suzanne and Chloe and the rest of the pathetic ‘netball team’ sat cross-legged on the floor at her feet as if they were waiting for her to make announcements in assembly while she tried to stay upright, seeing double.

  ‘Or maybe because you’re all at sea when the Princesses have bigger fish to fry.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a boring little cow, Suzanne!’

  Chloe nudged Suzanne with her elbow. ‘Livvie’s not such a laugh when she’s pissed off, is she?’

  ‘So where’s Royal Regina now? And Salome? And Mimi Breeze? Too cool even to stay for prize day? All packed and ready to jet back to Madrid, or Buenos Aires, or wherever, without you?’

  Olivia felt sick and fell back against the pillows. ‘Thish, thish is why we’re not friends. All thish catty stuff.’

  ‘Olivia, you’re so blind,’ said Suzanne. ‘You come on all high and mighty, but those bitches treated you like one of their maids.’

  Boy, does the truth hurt. No way could she keep up with the posse of pouting Latinas from rich Catholic families who came and went on private jets as if boarding school was rehab. But she was mesmerised by their sophistication. They all were. The Princesses were fully fledged sirens long past their fat, beetle-browed, downy-lipped adolescence. By the time they arrived at school in their chauffeur-driven limousines they all had perfectly arched eyebrows, permanently glossy mouths, diamond earrings and shaved armpits. Maybe it was the hot weather back home or the oily food or the black-eyed, randy men, but they developed curves and knowing glances long before the gawky, pasty-faced English girls.

  ‘They got bored, that’s all, of you and your infantile chattering,’ Olivia slurred, swallowing and gulping to get rid of the nausea.

  ‘OK, come on, Suzanne, it’s truth or dare,’ said Chloe, ripping open a packet of custard creams. ‘So tell everyone what you saw.’

  ‘I think it’s those amazing cheekbones.’ Suzanne knelt up shakily and stroked Olivia’s face. ‘They make you look stuck up.’

  ‘Oh, you’re all so wrong,’ Olivia moaned, brushing her hand away. ‘I’m marshmallow, pure mush, inside.’

  ‘Meaning that underneath it all you’re a pussy cat?’ piped up Annie, the smallest girl in the sixth form. ‘

  The others tittered, their bare legs squeaking on the lino flooring. There was safety in numbers after all. Annie was all golden curls and round blue eyes, but she was far scarier than Olivia. The idiots couldn’t see it. She had, has, what Olivia called Little Person Syndrome. The monstrous ego in the undercooked frame. She’s one of the most powerful women in the City now.

  ‘Oh, you know exactly what I am underneath, Annie baby.’ Olivia felt a surge of power as the toxic liqueur loosened its grip. She licked her lips, and started to hitch her shell-pink antique dressing gown up her thigh. ‘Remember when we were new girls and I showed you my fanny, like this?’

  There was a silence in the room as the silk wrinkled up to her crotch. The candle flame bent sideways in the constant draught, as if it was eavesdropping.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Annie, voice hard with venom. ‘You said, ooh, Annie, my neck’s all stiff after that netball match. Give me a massage.’

  Another silence. Downstairs they could hear the big wooden door leading to the nuns’ cloisters banging in the wind.

  ‘And did you, Annie?’ Chloe, as ever, wanted to know everything. ‘Give Olivia a massage?’

  ‘Yes, she did,’ answered Olivia, pointing her fingernail, which Regina had painted sapphire blue earlier that evening. ‘And to do it she turned me over, and straddled me, rubbing her pussy on my bottom.’

  There was an audible gasp. Just then, out in the quadrangle, the clock tower bell tolled. The nuns had a code, like the dead who give one knock for yes, two knocks for no. Three dings and a dong for Sister Benedicta, two dongs and two dings for Sister Mary. One hard dong for Sister Ant, we used to giggle – that rumour about her and Mr Soames the music master never quite died, that he’d found her in the chapel one evening, clearing up after the procession and service for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception and he chose that moment, as she was bending to pick up the discarded hymn books and lily leaves and candles, to lift up her heavy black skirt and slide his piano-playing fingers in between her virginal, milky-white, opening thighs …

  ‘Oh yes,’ Olivia chattered on, exhilarated by the attention. ‘I liked it. It was the first time I really felt turned on. So, yeah.’ She shuddered suggestively. ‘Pussy’s the word.’

  There was a ripple of shocked amusement.

  ‘Go on, Suzanne, truth or dare,’ urged Chloe, pushing her mate so that she fell forwards onto her hands and knees. ‘Tell how you saw Regina touching Olivia.’

  ‘So?’ Olivia’s nausea had been repl
aced by a kind of shivering cold and she closed her eyes. ‘We’re bezzie mates.’

  ‘Lezzie mates, more like.’ Suzanne folded her arms round her knees. Olivia could see the other girl’s knickers. White, sprigged with pink buds. ‘Regina’s definitely a lesbian, because she kissed me, once, with her tongue.’

  The others tittered. ‘So that makes you a lezzie, Suzanne,’ declared Annie.

  ‘No. Give me a boy to snog any day,’ snorted Suzanne, pouring more vodka into her Coke can. ‘It was just a kiss, right in front of Mr Soames and the whole choir. But Livvie’s a serious lezzie, aren’t you, girl? Cos Regina was doing a hell of a lot more than that, and you weren’t smacking her off. In fact you were both in lezzie heaven.’

  Olivia and Suzanne were staring at each other now, some kind of unspoken battle going on. ‘Yeah,’ whispered Olivia. ‘Maybe I am.’

  Suzanne went on, ‘I had to take some pins or thread or something up to their room, because Regina was sewing Olivia’s wedding dress for Trial by Jury. She had Olivia’s shirt off so she could pin the satin round her, and Mimi was doing the make-up, saying we were all such hideous little English scrubbers, it would take masks to make us look good, and Salome was fiddling with her hair –’

  ‘They made me feel like a goddess,’ Olivia butted in. ‘Salome called me a pre-Raphaelite. A butterfly out of the chrysalis.’

  ‘Ugly duckling, more like,’ snapped Annie.

  ‘You did look like a swan, Livvie, in that wedding dress,’ said Suzanne softly. ‘And you did get a standing ovation on the night –’

  ‘Yeah, but what was Regina doing to her?’ Chloe wriggled impatiently.

  Downstairs the cloister door banged again and their eyes grew huge in the darkness.