Part four: In Too Deep. Things take a turn towards the al fresco in the fiery four-way relationship
Last time, Lyla’s jealousy demons were threatening to overwhelm her, Blake’s blackmailer was turning the screws and Claire was more concerned with her other boy next door.
“Oh, Lyla, Lyla, you have to come and see.” And Lyla really did have to, after an invite like that. Claire barely spoke to Lyla most of the time – let alone invited her to be part of something. Most of the time Lyla had tried to be rational about it. In a group of four people there were bound to be one pair that didn’t quite see eye to eye. So while Lyla had a great relationship with her own partner, the burly Adonis Max, and was head over heels in her new breathless relationship with Claire’s smart-talking, smart-dressing husband Blake (and Max had Blake had a pretty hot thing going together too) Lyla and Claire had just never quite…
But Lyla had long ago decided she would put up with snobby, flighty, self-obsessed Claire’s charmless charms. And she could only guess Claire had decided the same, because usually Claire made no real attempt to be friends with Lyla, although she knew Claire simply adored Max and his industrial thrust of a cock.
“I’ll be right there,” Lyla called as she bounced down one of the two flights of stairs of their converted house – two semis with the master bedrooms knocked through into one big shag palace – into Claire and Blake’s living room. Claire looked up. She was sitting on the living room floor.
Claire and Blake’s side of the house was always so perfect. Not like Lyla and Max’s – they’d bought it as a doer upper and the doing up was not really getting done. And Claire looked as immaculate as her cream carpet. Her blonde hair was tied back in a neat and simple pony tail. Her blue jeans and white T-shirt were daisy-fresh and perfectly pressed. And on the floor, dancing for her as she dangled a little toy mouse through her fingers, was the most perfect grey tabby kitten.
“Oh my God!” Lyla took the last few stairs in double time and almost threw herself across the floor to land on her stomach next to Claire and the kitten. “So adorable! Is it a boy or a girl?”
“A boy. A little boy kitty.”
“God, we should call it Tom. Like Tom Kitten.”
Claire shook her head. “That’s cute, but no. I thought I’d call him Dan.”
Lyla shrugged and looked at the ball of silvery fluff still jumping and twisting after the toy mouse. Funny name for a cat, she thought.
Kitchen Confidential
While this was going on upstairs, Blake and Max were next door, downstairs in the kitchen on Max and Lyla’s side of the house. And they had some plans that didn’t involve playing with any pussy.
Max was leaning against the scuffed up in-sore-need-of-replacement units. He let his head fall back and turned so he could see one of his arms draped across the work surface. He was wearing a white singlet. His skin was tanned dark gold against it. His muscles just nicely shaped. Just big enough to look natural. From work, not pumping at the gym. He liked that look. Max liked to give off an air of not caring about how very, very good looking he was. But he did care, at least a bit; he certainly liked the benefits it brought. One of those being Blake, his next-door-neighbour’s husband, on his knees on the floor with Max’s dick in his mouth. Max pulled back a little and rubbed the head of his cock across Blake’s lips. Blake gasped and squirmed. Max grabbed a handful of his hair.
“You like that, huh?”
Blake nodded, looking up at Max, wide-eyed with want.
“Say it then. Say you want my fucking cock.”
“I want your fucking cock, Max.”
“Heh,” Max said and slapped Blake lightly across the face. “Sir, call me sir… No, call me Master.”
Blake’s face twisted into something a little defiant for a second, but Max saw how his hips had jerked. “Master,” Blake said, breathless. “I want your fucking cock, Master.” He opened his mouth.
“Oh yeah. Nice.” Max rolled his hips so his erection smeared pre-come over Blake’s wide spread lips. Max waited a beat. And Blake groaned. Then Max shoved his cock roughly into Blake’s face, fast and deep. Blake moaned again, this time in shock, as he suddenly found himself having to take it all. He struggled to control his throat. Max was big. He felt sure his eyes were actually watering. He wasn’t surprised how much it turned him on to have Max be rough with him. It was – of all the many and wonderful activities he enjoyed these days – possibly his favourite. But he was surprised how much he enjoyed the feelings of risk and exposure. The kitchen had a wide, bright set of French windows that ran all the way across the back of the house. They were grubby and two of the panes were boarded up with thick card, but, essentially, they were completely on display. Here. In broad daylight. Blake knew he was being blackmailed about his personal life. He knew that his blackmailer must have found out about him somehow. But he didn’t think it could be that simple. The garden itself wasn’t overlooked, meaning that it was possible someone could see them, but unlikely anyone was actually standing there who could. But the grass and bushes were overgrown, straggly and summer-lush. And as Max pulled his cock from Blake’s throat just in time to let his come splatter Blake’s face and chest, Blake thought he might have seen something move out in the bushes.
Tree Hugging
Two days later Lyla came home from work. She was tired and her feet hurt from standing on the shop floor in the cheap, pinchy courts she had to wear because it was apparently “imperative” that all employees wore the shop’s own merchandise. And the only shoes they made were on the cheap end of nasty and the nasty end of cheap. And they hurt. It was the hottest day of the year so far, and Lyla was wilting.
The biggest surprise wasn’t the horny, work-worn hand over her mouth, or the hard, ready body at her back. Or even the primed erection she could feel distinctly at the top of the swell of her arse. It was the way the lust-thickened voice in her ear said, “I want to fuck you in the garden, you hot bitch.” ‘Cause when did Max ever want to fuck in the garden? Even on a day like this? Especially on a day like this. Max worked outdoors on building sites. Shirtless, hanging off scaffolding, letting the sun burn his shoulders. In summer, he always liked the cool of indoors when he was off duty. Max pushed her out of the French windows into the blazing afternoon heat of the garden. He wasn’t holding his hand over her mouth any more and she giggled.
“Max, seriously? The garden?” He was holding her left upper arm firmly and with his right hand he reached around and pinched her nipple through her dress. Hard.
“Ow!” Lyla moaned. But her moan was half a gasp and he let his fingers trail back and forth over the place he’d sensitised. Right at the back of the overgrown garden was a pear tree.It was here that Max manoeuvred Lyla, pressing her to the rough bite of the bark. She sighed as Max’s head dipped then, using his mouth to continue the work of his fingers, teasing her right nipple through the thin fabric of her flowery tea dress. His thick fingers were quick on the buttons that ran all the way down the dress. It was a hot day, but shadier under the tree canopy. Lyla gasped as her dress fell open and Max lifted both of her breasts free of her bra. Her spit-moistened nipple twisted into a tight little peak. Max spent a couple of moments rousing the other before he whirled her round to face the tree. She cried out in confusing pleasure as he shoved her hard against it, her exposed nipples grating against the unforgiving trunk. And then there were just a few seconds left to brace herself before she took hold of her hips and jerked herself backwards onto his waiting, wanting cock. As he fucked her he slipped his forearm like a brace across her waist, holding her at his preferred angle, and with his free hand he played with her. He slapped her arse a couple of times where he could reach enough of it to give it a hearty spank and then he stretched around and found her clit. She sighed. Finally. He fucked her harder. All she was was skin. Nerves. Sensations. The tree’s bark on her face and tits. His arm across her body, so firm and taut. And his rough fingers on her clit. Taking her there. Making her. Making her come.
It was over with a grunt, a gasp, a fall to the ground. And it was then, opening her eyes, coming to on the scrubbly earth under the tree, that Lyla noticed something. The garden, the overgrown wasteland that she’d known, had changed. It wasn’t visible from the house, but clearly here right at the back of the garden someone had been clearing the ground, cutting back, digging and planting. There was a little Eden back here, with brightly coloured flowers in bloom, swaying Technicolor in the bright sun outside the shade of the tree-line.
“Max?”
“Yeah, babe. That’s why I brought you out here. Well, one reason. Thought you’d like to see it. I know you’re down on me for not fancifying our place more. And, well, I know I’m not delivering what I promised, but God, you know, since all this shag-happy hippy-commune stuff started up I’ve had so much less free time.” He grinned as he said that and Lyla couldn’t help but think that – no matter how many reservations she might have about their sex-happy set up – nothing had ever made Max happier.
“You worked on the garden?” she said dreamily, still post-orgasm hazy.
“Oh no babe, like I said, just don’t have the time. But I got that young lad from over the road to do it. He’s setting up his own little business as a gardener and I thought it’d be nice to help him out. Neighbourly.” Max winked. “Nice guy. Dan, his name is.”
“Dan? His name’s Dan?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Oh no, no reason. I just heard that name somewhere else recently, that’s all.”
The Gardener Of Eden
It was later that evening that Lyla saw Dan’s little white Bedford van pull up over the road. It was nearly 10, getting dark, as she slipped out into the street. She stumbled a little as she walked. She’d shoved her bare feet into Max’s oversized DMs that sat by the front door. The temperature had dropped and her arms were goose-bumpy in her thin dress. Dan was better looking than she’d thought from the passing glances she’d had of the son of the elderly couple who lived over the road. His body was tanned and muscled the way Max’s was, all built from hard labour and whatever the weather. Only half conscious of what she was doing, Lyla wetted her lips.
“Hi,” she said, attempting to sound light, and dismayed when her voice came out sounding a little strained and bitty.
“Oh, hey.”
This close up, Dan’s face was still a little bit teenager-puffy. Lyla tried to guess his age…18? 19?
“You’re Lyla, right? I know you. You live over the road.”
“Er, yeah,” said Lyla, a little surprised that Dan knew her name.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out,” said Dan. Lyla realised she must have let her surprise show on her face. “I just tend to end up watching what goes on in this street quite a lot. It gets boring living with the aged Ps and all that.”
Lyla nodded. A gust of cool air whooshed down the dark street. She shivered.
“Aw, hey now. You cold? You are, aren’t you? Can’t have that.” He reached back from where he stood in front of the gaping open maw of the back of his van and pulled out a thick grey cardigan.
Lyla paused as he held it out to her. “Maybe I should just get back.”
“I thought you wanted to ask me something?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, you’re the one who came over here. I just assumed…”
Lyla shrugged, reached out and took the woolly. It was a surprisingly soft, chunky Aran. She snuggled gratefully into it.
“Aw,” said Dan, “now doesn’t that look cu-ute! Very 90s Grunge.”
“I’m surprised you even know what 90s Grunge is.”
“C’mon. Kurt Cobain? The man’s a legend!” Dan took a half step, spreading his legs wider, and mimed a sudden and frantic burst of air guitar. Lyla spent a horrified moment thinking he’d break into song too, but he didn’t, just grinned like he’d done something clever.
“Right,” Lyla nodded vaguely, wondering when this conversation had taken on such a surreal tone.
“So, what did you want to ask me?” Dan said, leaning back against the van.
“What’s going on with you and Claire?”
“Claire? Your next-door neighbour Claire? Why would you care?”
Lyla looked down at her feet and Max’s big boots. “Just interested.”
“She your girlfriend or something?” said Dan, with all the gauche naivety of an 18-year-old boy who still couldn’t quite get over the fact that there were actual lesbians.
“No-o,” said Lyla, shifting her feet and her voice. “It’s just, me and my partner Max and her and her husband Blake, we’re kind of an item. Like, the four of us.”
Dan looked like he might laugh. And then he looked amazed. “God. For serious?”
Caught On Camera
It was the day after Blake was meant to’ve met up with his blackmailer and handed over another five grand. He hadn’t gone. There was no way he was giving that fucker any more of his money. But his heart still started pounding a mile a minute when he saw the familiar handwriting on the envelope at the top of his pile of post. It was a much bigger envelope than last time. Stiff too. And when he saw the words, ‘Photographs Do Not Bend’ written on it he stopped breathing. He slit it open with his letter-opener and onto his desk slithered five black and white, ten by eight photographs. Photographs of him, on his knees, a familiar fitted kitchen behind him and Max standing over him, sneering, holding a tight handful of Blake’s hair and with his cock quite clearly deep in Blake’s throat.
The thing that shocked Blake most of all was how hard his own cock got as soon as he saw the pictures.
Read Part Five of Semi Detached II.
