by Various
I want to touch myself down there. Oh, hell, I really, really do. And I want to do it with delicious Doctor Perry watching me do it. My mind more or less blanks out the Honda adulterers or whatever they are and presents a picture, in high definition, of me and him in the back of that car. We’re both naked, as they are, but to me we’re a much more attractive proposition, our physical shortcomings notwithstanding.
If it were us, I’d be looking down into his chocolatey brown eyes as I twist and gallop, getting off on the wicked smile in them just as much as his cock in my pussy. And instead of holding my hips and just using me as some kind of masturbation aid, as the guy in the car is, he’d be touching me in lovely ways as I fuck him.
Talking of touching, as the woman ups her pace to a frantic thrash and the man shouts ‘Oh fuck’ so loud it echoes out into the copse we’re lurking in, I feel a warm sure hand settle on my back, urging me forwards to lean against the wall.
The touch is light, but there’s a definite sense of command about it. I comply, spreading my arms out across the uneven surface of the top layer of stones. My breasts press against the hard lumpy blocks and I nearly yelp because they’re so tender and sensitised, the nipples like swollen foci of sensation. Perry’s fingers slide slowly up and down my back, stroking me gently through the cotton of my T-shirt, in a way that’s as reassuring as it is intensely arousing. I shimmy – my appreciation expressing itself automatically – and, before I can bite my lip, a little moan escapes from my mouth.
I’m lost. I’m burning. If a simple, almost-chaste caress through the fabric of my T-shirt can send me soaring, how the hell am I going to be if he really touches me?
In the car, the man suddenly seems to take control too. He says something harsh that I can’t quite make out, and his fingers gouge the hips of his paramour. He holds her hard and he holds her still. She’s obviously rushing towards her climax, but he wants her to go slow so he can hold out a bit longer, make it last.
My ex was a bit that way. It was all ‘do that’, ‘do this’, ‘slow down’, ‘speed up’ with him. All about his experience, rather than mine – the selfish git.
But, without knowing why, I know it wouldn’t be like that with Perry. With him, it would be all about my pleasure. As I acknowledge that, it’s like he’s heard my thoughts, and the stroking of my back takes on a different quality. His fingers dip lower, and slide beneath the waistband of my jeans. They just probe and flutter, working in the confined space then, a moment later, he reaches around the front, undoes the button and eases down the zip.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
All that fantasising and now something’s really going to happen. My pussy flutters wildly, even though he’s nowhere actually near it yet. A gush of lubrication oozes out and anoints my panties. I literally sob I’m so turned on, so full of desire. My eyes close but, as they do, Perry whispers in my ear, ‘Watch them, Katie. There’s a good girl.’
I moan again, my clit throbbing as if his words had actually touched it.
The woman in the car is still now, her face tense where I can see it from this angle. I bet my face is tense too, but it’s the tension of yearning and excitement and a sudden inexplicable adoration of the man who’s standing behind me.
I watch as the woman submits to being handled, the man’s hands roving over her now like those of a greedy boy grabbing at sweet things in a candy store. He snatches at her nipples and twists them this way and that in a way that looks quite cruel, although somehow I sense his partner really gets off on it. I send up a silent prayer that Perry isn’t too gentle when he gets to mine. Something that might well happen soon as he’s plucking at the hem of my T-shirt now.
The feel of his fingers against my bare skin is like a spiritual communion. I wonder if the woman in the car feels like this? I doubt it, but I could be wrong. Why should Perry and I be the only ones who can go transcendental?
But I love the way his hand sneaks up my back, then slides round to cup my breast through my simple cotton bra. He just holds me, as if weighing the flesh, then lightly squeezes. Then he abandons my tit and I somehow sense that he likes playing below the waist much better. Or at least that’s what he’s in the mood for right now.
While the woman in the car continues to get manhandled, I get some of that too, but with considerably more finesse. Moving his hands inside my jeans, Perry slides them down my thighs and then pushes them right down to my ankles. Briefly he embraces the rounds of my bottom through my panties, then they follow, sliding right down the whole length of my legs to settle on the denim bunch of my jeans.
I bite my lip. I adjust the position of my arms on the wall so I can cram my fist against my mouth and stop myself groaning out loud at the sheer, raw, weakening vulnerability of being so completely exposed like this. It’s a form of shaming, yet at the same time an exaltation. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it in my life before.
‘Let’s watch them come,’ breathes Perry in my ear as he takes his position against the wall at my side.
I want to moan and sob I’m so excited. And I can barely breathe. My pussy feels swollen with blood and it seems to bloom like a flower. Another thick slithery rush of silky juice pours out of it and starts to slide down the insides of both my thighs. I’m saturated and my intimate flesh screams for contact, while Perry the Perverse quietly ignores it and watches another show.
Or does he? When I sneak another glance to the side, trying not to plead with my eyes, he’s looking at me again. He gives me an odd enigmatic little smile and then indicates that I should watch the other show too.
They’re bouncing again, going at each other wildly, the woman back in the ascendant, getting her own way. Distracted as I am, I still notice that the man’s face looks fiery and red in one particular spot. What’s happened? Has she slapped some sense into him to make him toe the line and think of her pleasure?
But as I watch them lurch up and down and slam on and into each other, thinking becomes something that’s slightly beyond me. And Perry doesn’t need telling or slapping, that’s for certain.
I’m staring at the car but, as his hand slithers between my legs, I’m not seeing it. I seem to see the two of us from the outside. Me leaning on the wall with my bottom on show, and him, leaning in, his face intent, his eyes dark as he fondles me.
His fingertips comb their way through my pubic hair and swoop into the swamp of my pussy. He finds my clit unerringly, and starts to run circles round it, brushing it lightly, first to one side, then the other, but not going in for the direct heavy manipulation. Which drives me crazy. Of their own accord my hips too begin to circle and weave; my clit follows his pattern as if magnetised and tries to get more action. Things get worse – or better, depending on how you look at it – when Perry starts to play with my bottom from behind, feathering up and down my anal crease with the fingers of his other hand.
He’s working me like some infernal puppeteer, using not strings but the electric zones of my pussy. I moan behind my own fist, my pelvis weaving like that of some kind of exotic dancer. I’ve never felt like this before. Never known I could be such a wanton lust-crazed trollop. But I’m glad I’ve found out now, because Perry seems to really, really like it.
He starts murmuring in my ear, using just those words – ‘trollop’, ‘slut’, ‘horny little raver’ – and the words sound doubly, trebly, quadruply arousing in his beautifully enunciated, Oxbridge-educated tones.
As if from a huge distance and through a veil of fuzz, I watch the couple in the car finally climax. It’s not a pretty sight. Their faces contort and their movements are jolting and ungainly; the woman’s breasts jiggle up and down in a way that’s hypnotically ugly. But, who cares? They’re getting off, and that’s what I want too.
‘Please,’ I whimper, my hips still following Perry’s plague-some fingers. I don’t know whether I want him to fuck me or bring me off manually and I don’t much care. I just want an orgasm. Right now or I think I’ll die.
‘Please what?’ he purrs in my ear, his mouth close to my skin. In fact, all of him is close. I can feel his heat. I can smell his really nice cologne all mixed up with a touch of foxy male perspiration that’s just as much of a turn-on. ‘Please what?’ he repeats when I’m too far gone in frustration to be able to form the English words to answer him.
I’m a vortex of frustration and confusion. Part of me wants to whine for pleasure at his hand. Part of me thinks, Who the fuck do you think you are, mister? Just give me what I want. Now. Because I want it. I think the woman in the car turning the tables has inspired me. ‘You know what I want, Doctor. Just get me off!’
He laughs, but it’s a merry sort of sound, and when I look over my shoulder at him he looks pleased, and excited, and even slightly awed. ‘Your wish is my command, Madam Katie. Nothing would give me more pleasure …’ He pauses. ‘Well, I know a few things, but first things first.’
He reconfigures his hold on me, adjusting the position of his hands and his digits until they’re in exactly the right places to give me pleasure. Then he goes to it, as if it’s a science. Maybe it is to him? But I don’t care. He’s just too good!
Swirling, pressing, squeezing and teasing, he assaults my clit, and with his other hand he plays around my entire pussy, stroking and exploring. And as he does this with tender skill, he also kisses me, covering the back of my neck and my shoulder with peppering little pecks, then more elaborate caresses with his lips and tongue.
Pleasure gathers, glowing between my legs like an expanding sphere of heat, like a science-fiction star globe of energy and intensity. I start to wiggle and wriggle again, but he doesn’t miss a beat. He just goes on touching me, and basting me with delightful kisses. And it’s that which tips me over. The kissing as much as the touching. Despite the raunchy, naughty nature of what we’re doing together, it’s the fugitive quality of tenderness that turns just sex into the unforgettable.
I almost scream when I come, but at the last millisecond I remember that, if we can hear the couple in the car, they’ll be able to hear me if I howl and shout. So, as I nearly faint, I stifle my cries with my fist.
My pussy clenches, my sex ripples, my knees turn to water and I slump against the wall. Perry persists and drives me through the barrier again and again, still kissing, and also whispering much sweeter nothings into my ear this time. I’m not sure what he says, but I’ve a feeling that, when I regain the use of my brain, I’ll be surprised.
The next thing I do perceive clearly, and completely compos mentis, is him and me sitting in the grass by the wall, cuddling. My pants and jeans are still around my ankles but it doesn’t seem to matter.
At least it doesn’t at first and then, suddenly, real life kicks in, as opposed to some sort of sexual fantasy state, and I’m thinking, Oh, God, Oh, God, what have I done? And experiencing an overpowering compulsion to cover myself up.
I start dragging at my knickers and jeans and manage to get myself in total twisted muddle with them. To my horror, tears of embarrassment and frustration – the bad kind – spring to my eyes. I can’t look at Perry but, before I know what’s happening, he’s helping me in a gentle, careful manner. Working as a team, we manage to get me decent again.
I still can’t look at him. ‘God, you must think I’m a nightmarish slut. We barely know each other and not only do I lead you to the most notorious place in Kissley, but I let you get my knickers off me without as much as a murmur of protest.’ I fish in my pocket for a tissue, but Perry beats me to it, handing me a white handkerchief perfectly laundered by my mother. That makes me feel even worse. I’m just the worthless, no-good trollop I often fear Mother thinks I am. I know she loves me, but I’ve also ‘let her down’.
‘Of course you’re not a slut. Far from it.’
I wish I could believe he meant it. ‘But you said I was one … when you were touching me. You said I was all sorts of dirty things.’
He slides his arm around me in an almost fraternal way and gives my shoulders a squeeze. ‘But that was just sex talk, Katie. Just fun. A game. Part of the pleasure. For both of us.’
Speaking of his pleasure, I note that the bulge in his jeans is very much at odds with his current mode of brotherly solicitousness. Which makes me feel even more guilty.
‘Never mind that,’ he says almost casually, as if his own body and its reactions are of no consequence. He takes me by the shoulders, his grip firm yet compassionate and he makes me look into his eyes not at his groin.
‘You shouldn’t be ashamed of being sexy, Katie. Why would anyone think any less of you because you’re a beautiful desirable woman? I don’t. I like you and I respect you.’ He leans in and kisses me softly on the lips. I nearly swoon it’s so sweet, and as longed for as the caresses and the orgasms. ‘I’d like us to be friends. Spend time together. Go out, you know?’
I can’t speak.
‘What’s wrong, Katie? What have I said?’
I give myself a little shake, but still he holds me. I like his strength and, amazingly, I feel desire begin to stir all over again. ‘Nothing. Nothing wrong at all. It’s just me, I’m a bit screwed up at the moment.’
He takes a deep breath, then reaches to brush my hair out of my eyes. ‘Tell me about it. What can I do? How can I help?’
I shimmer on the edge of tears again, and it’s all mixed up with that new rush of lust.
‘It’s all mixed up, and crap. I did something, well, a bit questionable and now my mum’s disappointed in me. She’s old school, she had me late in life, and she believes in traditional values and stuff.’
Perry’s expression is almost serene. He seems like a therapist more than a mathematician. He’s waiting, apparently without judgement to listen to my woes. Why the hell does that make me want him more?
‘I split from my husband.’
‘Is that so bad?’
‘Well, I was unhappy, I went with another bloke. I didn’t even like him all that much, but it gave my husband grounds for divorce.’ I drag in breath, and let it out gustily, trying not to start crying again. ‘And now my mum is so disappointed with me. But, while I’m saving for a place of my own, she still offered me a home back with her.’
I lose the fight against tears and collapse even deeper into Perry’s comforting arms. I’ve been holding this in for so long, holding it from myself in a way, and even to let some of it out now is so sweet a relief.
He makes a lot of quiet, soothing sounds and mutterings, along with pattings and strokings of my back. The voice is the same one that called me a ‘naughty slut’ and all that and, in its way, just as exciting. I feel a great rush of something more than desire, but also tangled up with it. A sort of momentum towards Perry from my heart. I barely know the man but I feel a glimmering of something special, or maybe just the potential of it. Which is enough for now.
Patting and stroking gently morphs into hugging and rocking against each other, and kisses. Actual kisses this time, our mouths pressing, savouring, opening, so our tongues can explore. It’s sexy and still naughty, I suppose, to be snogging and making out with my mother’s lodger in the undergrowth down the side of Adultery Alley but, somehow, it also feels clean and healthy and right, even though we’re rolling about in the grass and dust in a hedgerow.
When Perry slides his hand beneath my T-shirt again, it feels as if he’s sweeping away the bad and replacing it with the good. I respond by rocking against him, smiling in the kiss. When I reach down and cup his groin, he laughs in his throat, the sound raw and happy.
‘I haven’t got a condom with me, you know,’ he mutters against my lips, but he doesn’t sound too worried about it.
I am worried, though, and I pull back to look at him. I so dearly want to fuck this sweet imp of a man and this is a serious obstacle.
He touches my cheek. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart.’ He gives me the quirkiest little smile that sets my pussy fluttering without it even being touched. ‘There are plenty of nice things to do without penetration. A
nd I know you like being fondled, don’t you?’
Fondle? What a word. Sort of old-fashioned, but I like it.
‘But what about you?’
He shrugs. ‘Oh, a little spurt into the bushes will do me, as long as you have a hand in it.’
‘Or on it.’
‘Exactly.’
Perry slides his hand right under my top this time, and flips my bra off my breasts with a suspicious deftness. He’s certainly done this plenty of times before, but who cares? Who cares when his fingertip is so light and clever in the way it circles first one nipple then the other, ‘fondling’ them both to stiffness, to a new sensitivity. He pays them extended attention, stroking and playing, the pressure there a perfect conduit to the even-more-responsive zone between my legs.
After ten minutes of this I’m beside myself, pushing my crotch against his thigh. It feels solid and warm and perfect to rock against. I set up a rhythm and Perry helps, cupping my bottom, adding momentum, increasing the pressure.
I want him to touch my pussy, but he keeps rocking me, sliding against me in a syncopated dance, arousing me through my clothes and his. Heat and wetness and excitement gather and gather and gather until critical mass is reached.
I climax furiously, burying my face in his shoulder, my head full of his cologne and his foxy male sweat as he holds my bottom and my back, clasping him close. I want to cry out, but I just sob against his T-shirt. The car we were watching drove away some time ago, but who knows who else might be around and listening.
Shuddering, I come down again, a bit weepy, but happy with it. I have good feelings about this. Better than I’ve ever had, even in the first days of my marriage.
With a sigh, Perry kisses me, as if setting a seal on my thoughts and my hopes. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispers, still holding me. ‘So beautiful … I love to see you come.’
