Part Three: No Regrets. The suburban sexpots deal with a virgin, a blackmailer and double penetration
Our two couples are struggling to keep their filthy four-way alive. Lyla was fighting jealousy over her husband Max’s involvement, flighty Claire was more interested in a young gardener across the road, and her boyfriend, Blake, received a blackmail letter…
Blake was a quiet, dependable man. He dressed in quiet, dependable clothes and held down a quiet, dependable job. Today he drove his quiet, dependable car to the place where he was meeting his blackmailer. It was nearly four o’clock in the morning. Not really getting light, but there was a whisper of something in the sky. Something like night being almost over. For the hundredth time on the short journey Blake glanced over at the crumpled Sainsbury’s carrier bag on the passenger seat, relieved to confirm it was still there. Just out of town and off a slip road from the dual carriageway, he parked up behind a small clump of trees and got out of the car.
“Blake Oberlander.”
“Yes,” Blake said, answering the statement like a question as he turned around. On the other side of the road, out of reach of his car’s headlights, stood a tall figure in a hoodie.
“Got my money?”
“I’ve got five grand.” Blake raised the carrier bag he’d taken from the passenger seat. “That’s all I could get.”
The stranger shifted. “All you could get? You’re a bank manager.” His voice was deep, not as deep as Max’s, but plenty macho.
Blake let the silence run for slow seconds. “So?”
“Dur. You work in a bank. Can’t you, like, get the money out of the safe or something?”
“Not without people finding out.”
“That’s your problem, mate.” Blake shivered inside his pin-striped suit. He should have worn a coat. It might be summer, but 4am was cold even in August.
“Well, that’s true, but you’re my problem too. You’re blackmailing me because I don’t want to get involved in some stupid sex scandal that will ruin my reputation and possibly lose me my job, and yeah, fine, but fifty grand? That’s just greedy. And expecting me to put my job on the line to get it – well, that makes no logical sense.” There was part of Blake that felt genuinely insulted that his blackmailer wasn’t more mentally agile.
“Tell you what,” said the shadowy figure across the road, “get me another five and we’ll call it even.”
“I don’t have another five thousand pounds.” Blake almost stamped his foot. “I just told you.”
“Well maybe you’ll have to ask one of your fuck buddies, huh? He-man, perhaps? Or the skinny girl? Or the blonde chick? One of ‘em must have some more readies.”
“I’m not going to ask them…”
“Oh yes you are, Blake. Let me tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to drop that bag on the ground and get back in your car and drive away. Then, this time next week, you’re going to come back here and do the exact same thing again, unless you want everyone to know what you’ve been doing. I can see it now: ‘Local Bank Manager’s Wife Swap Love Nest’…”
“Next week? Another five grand? And how do I know that will be an end to it?”
In the dark, Blake could just make out a shrug from the man.
“Well you don’t. Not really.”
Blake sighed as he drove away back down the slip road. He’d been right earlier – this guy really wasn’t as mentally agile as his blackmailing gig demanded. The road where they had met was a dead end, for a start. It went up through the trees a little further but finished up in impassable farmland. The guy would have to come back this way. Blake waited, parked in a lay-by on the dual carriageway, far enough away from the junction with the tiny slip road but near enough see clearly. He was hoping to follow his blackmailer when he emerged, but Blake’s plan didn’t quite come off. The sky was lightening up and the traffic getting a little heavier on this busy artery out of town. He tried to pull out as soon as he saw him emerge, but the road was suddenly choked with early morning lorries and he couldn’t find an opening. All he could do was watch the white boxy Bedford van disappear into the flow of traffic heading up, over the hill.
Hearts And Tongues
Lyla was in several kinds of turmoil. She was naked and sprawled across the great double-double bed. The quilts were mussed and the pillows were everywhere. In bed with her, similarly libidinously sprawled, were her boyfriend Max and her lover Blake. She knew in her heart and in her head that she loved Max completely. He was utterly beautiful – like a statue of a Greek god that had joined a boy band – and utterly uncomplicated, living for food and fucking. And she loved Blake too. She had fallen for Blake hard. That wasn’t the problem in itself – Lyla was enough of a modern girl to go with the poly-whatever spirit of it. She was happy to let her heart lead her. Oh, she could handle being in love with two men, but wasn’t so relaxed about her men – and Blake in particular – being on a timeshare basis. Lyla was fine about being shared, but not with doing the sharing. In short, Lyla was jealous. Jealous of Blake’s wife Claire. But while her head was full, Lyla had her mouth full too. That was the other kind of turmoil she was having to deal with. The pure beat of the best sex she had ever had.
She was kneeling on the floor in her underwear. Not fancy underwear, just white knickers and a white cotton bra. They didn’t really match, even. The bra had a deep pink ribbon rosebud where the two cups joined, while the knickers were plain and quite bobbled and old. It didn’t really matter. Lyla knew she had good skin. Depending on the time of year and how much sun she had had, it moved from dirty gold to light praline. And anywhere in her personal spectrum looked good set off with pure white. She was kneeling on the floor in front of the bed. Blake sat in front of her, his legs spread a little. He was naked and his big long cock was hard in front of her face. She couldn’t wait; she darted her head forward and slid her lipsticked mouth down over it, taking it as deep as she could bear.
Lyla’s boyfriend Max sat across the room in a chair he had personally positioned for the best view, after telling Lyla that he “fucking loved seeing her with a cock in her mouth”. Lyla slid her mouth back up again and let a little saliva seep out to make Blake’s cock wetter and slippier. He moaned.
Across the room Max growled, “C’mon, babe, take it deeper than that. Show him how much you love cock. I know you do. I know you love cock.” Lyla did as she was told. Blake moaned again and, behind her, she could hear the slick rhythm of Max taking his own cock in a tight fist. She kept going, taking him deeper with every descent of her lips. As she got closer and closer to the point where she knew he was going to come he began to wind his fists in her hair, holding her skull tight and still. He began to lift his hips up, fucking her face. She felt something behind her. Max. She couldn’t move her head to look and he didn’t speak, but the air changed. Something made her sure he was there, even before she caught the cinnamon-lemon-peat scent of his sweat and arousal. Blake yanked her head back as he began to come, holding her so that as his cock erupted, blue-white semen blurred before her eyes, hitting her face in warm wet ribbons. At the same time, still behind her, Max began to come too, his wetness splattering her back. She was still reeling when Max took her hand and whirled her around. He was crouching in front of her on the floor now. He took her face in his hands, palms flat on her hot cheeks, and leaned close to lick up some of Blake’s come.
“Oh God, Max.” Something about being covered in two men’s come was making Lyla’s head spin.
“I know, baby,” Max said quietly, between long licks of Blake’s come. “Like your own mini bukkake.”
Lyla laughed. Behind her she felt Blake start to kiss away Max’s semen where it covered her back. “You sick fuck.”
“Yeah, yeah. Well, actually, it’s funny you should say that. I did just get really turned on watching my girlfriend suck off the next door neighbour.”
Lyla’s heart felt stony again even through the taut heat of sex. This was all so wrong. So upside down. But as Max and Blake drew her up onto the bed together and began working her c**t with both their tongues, it became harder and harder for her to think that this wasn’t everything she wanted.
Piercing promises
Meanwhile Claire was once again in bed with Dan, the 18-year-old gardener from across the road. Tonight, she’d decided, had to be the night – time that she and Dan finally consummated their relationship properly. She had dressed in a way that she hoped would turn him on, but not push him too far. That had been the problem the last time they’d tried to fuck. Claire was used to trying to be as damn sexy as possible, but then, the last time Claire had had to deal with the tricky sexuality of a teenager she’d been one herself. She’d taken off her jeans and was wearing a tight T-shirt with some plain white cotton underwear that was probably Lyla’s (nothing like partner swapping to cause totally laundry chaos). Dan was sitting on the single bed next to where she was sprawled. He still wore his jeans, but his top was scrunched on the floor. He was looking at her lustily, but was talking about, of all things, compost.
“Most people just get one of them bins from B&Q and start filling it with potato peelings and banana skins. Then, by summer, they got a house full of fruit flies. It’s stupid. Composting is tough. It’s an art. You can’t just start flinging stuff into a bin. You got to layer it. Craft it. Love it, even. All this craze for composting is doing is creating a bloody insect problem and barrel after barrel of sludge to be dealt with.”
“Dan,” Claire said suddenly, realising she’d be lying here listening to the Gardener’s World Party Political Broadcast all evening if she didn’t make her move, “why don’t you come here and kiss me?”
Dan grinned. “Shit, sorry. Was I boring you?”
Claire shrugged. “I just like kissing you.”
Dan shifted slightly awkwardly down the bed, then spread his body over Claire’s and began to kiss her. Claire inhaled. Dan always smelled slightly of fresh sweat even right from the shower. His skin was always sun-hot. He was like an outdoor spirit. A green man. As he kissed her his erection grew to ridiculous prominence under his jeans and she grabbed greedily at the bare skin on his back.Then she felt something in his mouth.
“What’s that?” she asked, pulling her mouth from his.
Dan looked smug. “A surprise.”
“What sort of surprise?” He poked out his tongue. Right in the middle was a twinkle of metal.
Claire gasped. “Ew. What did you do that for?”
Dan looked crestfallen. “For sex. It’s for sex.”
“Not for fucking. I thought we were going to fuck. I want you to fuck me.”
“I can still fuck you.”
“Yes but it’s not what you want, is it? You got that thing, thinking I would see it and want your mouth on my pussy all night.”
“Well is that such a bad thing? I just want to make you happy.” Claire twisted her mouth. He looked so upset. She shook her head.
“Guess not.” But as he grinned and started to yank off her knickers she found it hard to fathom why he seemed so determined not to give her his cherry.
Her Sweet Transvestite
Lyla was in the kitchen of her own house making coffee when she heard next door’s front door bang. Claire was home. Lyla knew that Blake and Max were in bed upstairs in the knocked-through master bedroom that joined their two houses. She heard Claire clatter up the stairs. Max’s deep growl was indeterminable, but Claire’s strident voice carried right down to Lyla.
“Okay you two, get your paws off each other. Which one of you wants to fuck me, very hard and very right this minute?” Max said something else impossible to make out over the sounds of scuffling and the bed creaking.
Then Claire said, “Where’s Lyla?”
Blake replied, “Making coffee. She’ll be up in a minute.” But, in the kitchen, Lyla knew she had no intention of being up in a minute. She couldn’t share her men with Claire any more. It was breaking her heart. Lyla wished hard that she was more cool with their arrangement, but she wasn’t. And she just couldn’t deal with Claire right now. Part of the problem was that Lyla had seen Claire fucked to her demand so many times. Lyla liked spit roast when she had the luxury of the ministrations of both men, but Claire favoured double penetration. Lyla couldn’t help imagining as she worked the plunger of the French press up and down. Claire’d be on top of Max, impaled on his big cock while his strength and piston-hips let him drive up into her. Max was very good at woman on top. It wasn’t Lyla’s favourite position, but Max liked it, so he’d made it his business to get very, very good at making it every bit as sensation-rich as any other arrangement of bodies in space. Claire would also have Blake behind her, sliding his long but slightly more slender cock into her arse, filling her so completely that she would be incoherent, her mouth moving wordlessly, other than the occasional plea for more.
Lyla took her lonely coffee-for-one to the back bedroom on her side of the house. She closed the door firmly, shutting out most of the sounds from the front of the house. As she slipped into bed she slid her fingers between her legs and thought of sucking Blake’s cock again. But this time he was in his full cross-dressing regalia. Fishnets and suspenders, the lot. As she took him deep, his slutty shoes raked at the sheet and his lipsticked mouth made desperate Os of arousal.
Blake never cross-dressed anymore. He said Max didn’t like it.
Read Part Four of Semi Detached II.
