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I suggest that I should go first, as I open the vacuum flask and pour us both a coffee.
The dog sits down, exhausted after chasing rabbits unsuccessfully across the fields. The hot coffee steams comfortingly in the cool, autumnal air.
This is going to be difficult. Very difficult. We should’ve had this conversation years ago, but talking about this isn’t easy for someone like me. Conservative parents. Boys-only school. You get the idea.
It doesn’t come naturally to her, either. Single child. Overbearing mother. Catholic girls’ school, run by nuns.
We’re quite a pair really. But don’t get me wrong, we get on well. Really well. We laugh a lot. And we can readily talk about other important issues—houses, kids… getting a dog.
Shortly after it happened we agreed that it might be a good idea to talk and I guess this seems like the right moment.
And no surprises on the subject of the conversation. You’ll probably laugh. We refer to as it. Such an inconsequential, dismissive word to describe the most intense, fun, intimate, delicate, raw of activities—sex.
I bet we aren’t alone and across the world there are millions of people who dodge the word, referring to il, es, el, esso.
Talking about sex is something we’ve never really done. Ever. We just do it. Usually at weekends. Sunday mornings, mainly. And it works all right. Most of the time. Though if I’m honest I can find it a bit bland and repetitive. I’d like to do it more. And spice it up a bit. But the very fact that we are still doing it at our age is a bonus, I suppose.
That’s why I like a little—how shall I put it—visual stimulation. Accompanied by the occasional, cheeky wank.
I don’t’ feel guilty about this—the wank and the images that is. I’m totally comfortable with both.
Well, I was, until she came home from work a bit early last week. I didn’t hear her close the door. She walked into the bedroom to see me pouring lube on my cock while watching a film.
I’ll call it a film rather than a porno. I hate that word. And this is way, way classier than any second-rate porn flick.
It’s a brilliant film—intensely erotic and cleverly crafted. I remember every detail. One man, with three girls in the back of a limo. And those girls are so fucking sexy. Thigh boots. Skimpy underwear. Kissing each other as much as him. Sharing his cock between them. Two mouths licking his helmet at the same time—lucky bastard. Sizzling hot and classy. Hollywood classy. You should look it up—it’s called After Party.
She didn’t say anything when she saw me with the laptop open and cock in my hand. She just reversed out of the room in silence. Neither of us mentioned it until this morning on our walk when she said, “Perhaps we should talk. About it.”
The it word again.
Now all credit to her. She said it in a calm, non-judgemental, almost empathetic way.
So, here we are, sitting somewhat awkwardly on a bench on the edge of a patch of wood and we’re about to talk about IT, and I’m worried that things could go very pear-shaped from here, as I’m not too sure where it might lead us. Because I sense that the moment of acute embarrassment in the bedroom could just possibly be a game-changer.
For me, perhaps it has to be a game-changer. Last chance saloon and all that. Now or never… especially at my age.
Sure, I could just excuse the wank and say it was a one-off. But that’s not being true to myself. I play with myself once a week. At least. And if I’m honest, it does me good. You know, I actually think it does us both good, because my libido is way higher than hers. It always has been. I’m way more adventurous than she is, and this is my way of coping.
My glasses steam up as I take a sip of coffee. I can’t see her face. This seems to help.
And so I dive in and begin the conversation by confessing that I was watching a hot film while masturbating. That rather clinical word jars. I stumble over my words, expecting a sharp rebuke or some comment about her not being enough for me in bed.
But all she says, quietly, is, “Sure.”
That word seemed to give me encouragement to continue. My glasses clear and I look down at her walking boots. I point to a loose lace. She struggles to retie it with her stiff fingers, then says: “Go on.”
I tell her that I simply like holding my own cock in my hand. I really love the way it changes from being something soft, floppy and almost comical to a warm, pulsating, rigid expression of me. It breathes life into me, turning me into someone bold, strong, and—yes—fucking hot. And I particularly enjoy pressing play on a seriously hot sex scene in a film and just letting go, indulging in it, and being part of it.
She asks if I get hard before I watch or whether I need the film to get me going.
I reply that it helps. A lot.
Bloody hell, it’s tough talking about this stuff. About what I want, and need, and do—sexually. Especially to the one I love most.
I continue and tell her that masturbation—I use the M word again—adds a welcome touch of… well… I pause. I know exactly the word I want to use, I’m just frightened to say it.
She strokes the dog while sipping her coffee. She’s almost finished her drink. I’ve just started mine.
I give up and succumb to the word I’d been avoiding—naughtiness.
Then I realise that I might have hurt her, so I quickly added that she shouldn’t get me wrong and I really, really enjoy having sex with her. It’s good. It’s tender. It’s lovely.
She repeats, “Lovely.” Her tone is flat and understated.
She twists the lid onto the empty flask, places it on the bench and shifts her position. I notice that she has moved fractionally closer to me, then asks if wanking is important for me. It’s interesting that she opts for the W word, but I sense she’s not using it in a pejorative way.
I tell her that it’s part of my sexual being. Just as she is very much part of the sexual me, too.
I feel a mixture of pride and fear as I finish my adult fantasy. I’ve said what I wanted to say and not dodged the difficult stuff and await her response.
She stares into the distance, over rolling hills covered with trees resplendent in end-of-season golds, yellows and reds. One last, spectacular flourish of colour before the darkness of winter. She clears her throat and asks me about what I really like, sexually.
I’m not sure if she means how I like to touch myself, what I’d like to do or what films I like to watch.
I drink the rest of my coffee and say I’m not too sure what she means, to which she replies: “If it would be easier, try sharing a sexual fantasy with me.”
I can’t think of a fantasy to summon and clam up.
“If that’s difficult, how about starting with that film you were watching the other day?” she suggests.
I’m silent. Speechless. But then I notice she’s unzipping her fleece. Her favourite gold necklace nestles in her cleavage. I see a hint of her blue bra poking out of the V-neck of her sweater. She reties her hair in a pony-tail. Her fair locks match the trio of gold bracelets, which jangle as she twists her hair into an elastic tie. Not only does she look beautiful, but there are hints of the erotic about her right here and now.
Something clicks in my brain, triggered perhaps by that very last thought. My wishes, needs, and desires finally seem to be coming together and I’m ready to speak again.
I explain that I’m not watching the film in our bedroom, as before. I tell her that I imagine that I am in the house we looked at the other month—the one we loved but couldn’t afford—and am in the luxurious cinema room. I tell her that I am pouring myself an imaginary gin and tonic at the bar. I take a sip, press PLAY on the movie, and find a seat.
The fantasy kicks into gear. I tell that my gaze is suddenly and unexpectedly drawn to two female figures walking past the seats in the cinema room. The pair stand in front of the screen, blocking my view to After Party. They have glasses in their hand and they are carrying a bottle of bubbly.
I pause for a moment, bringing myself back to the reality of sitting on a bench in the countryside, to check in with my wife. I ask whether I should carry on, and she says I should, and reminds me that the two women in my mind were about to drink some fizz.
I continue and tell her that a cork pops and the two women laugh as they catch wayward spurts of champagne as the bottle explodes. They lick the bubbles off their fingers, move closer together and then kiss each other’s lips.
I explain that they are lit up by the projector, and images from the film wrap themselves indulgently around both their bodies. Breasts cover breasts; legs entwine with legs.
I describe how the two women strike a pouty pose and look right at me. One starts to swing her hips, the other joins in. They laugh, kiss and as they begin to dance, their jewellery sparkles in the beam of light.
I am interrupted, “Tell me about their jewellery.”
The details come to me readily. Imagining it on two stunning women is easy. So, I tell her that the first thing you notice is that they are both wearing a lot of gold, especially around their necks. One has chains of fine, delicate links. The other has a long, bold necklace that hangs between her breasts.
Again, she interrupts, “Rather like mine?”
I agree that it’s strikingly similar and catch the hint of a smile on her face.
I continue with my description and talk about the big gold bangles on their wrists, which jingle as they move. And they both have big, gold earrings.
Thinking that I have sufficiently described their jewels, I continue to relay the action unfolding in my mind.
As the guy’s cock in the film is freed from the constraints of his trousers, the duo in front of the screen share a grin. They look at me and snigger. It seems they have a plan, and it looks as if I’m going to be the lucky bastard this time.
Ending their dance, the women walk provocatively towards me, hand in hand. I notice the gold fasteners on their gorgeous blue lingerie catching the beam of light.
“What’s so gorgeous about their lingerie?” my wife asks.
I say that for starters they are in matching outfits—exactly the same blue, same style, with subtle differences. I admit that I find all this incredibly hot.
“You mean the jewellery? The underwear?”
I reply that it’s all that, but perhaps it’s the fact that they are into the same thing sexually that appeals most.
I move on as the fantasy in my mind evolves. The unbelievably hot duo approach my cinema seat and take the glass from my hand. They are right over me, and I see more. Lots of blue straps. Lace cups to their bras. Skimpy knickers exposing bare bottoms. One wears hold-ups and the other stockings with suspenders.
“Suspenders…” she repeats.
I can smell their perfume. Both wear the same scent. I breathe it in as they bend over me. The cold gold of a necklace strokes my skin. Locks of their long hair tease my cheeks.
“You didn’t say they had long hair before.”
I say that they are both blondes, with hair that cascades onto their shoulders, then continue with the narrative. The two girls start to kiss me, and then each other as they climb onto the chairs on either side of me. A hand seeks out my cock and holds it through my trousers. A naughty little squeeze and it starts to grow.
Fingers undo the buttons of my shirt, hands slide down my chest and tug at my belt, and my prick is liberated from my trousers. One of the women asks if I am in heaven, with two beautiful blonde girls paying such close attention to me, and then she takes my member in her mouth, closes her lips around it and sucks me. She says she wants to see how big I am.
“Well, she won’t be disappointed,” my wife chips in.
That does it and my own prick pushes against my trousers, eager to join in and a blub of pre-come seeps out.
“Please go on,” she encourages. “Has she made you hard?”
I tell her that the woman in my mind passes my stiffening cock to her partner in crime who eagerly takes me into her mouth and that I am rising, fast, to the occasion.
So much is happening to me at the same time, I tell my wife. I’m kissed by one and our tongues touch, then roll over and around as if in a dance.
The girls swap and I kiss the one who has been giving me head and I can taste my early juices on her lips. Oh fuck, I so love that.
“Tasting yourself?” my wife checks, as if making a mental note.
I concur with a quick yes, then continue with the description. One of the girls is right next to me and my hand seeks out her panties. I trace the outline of her lips through the material, then slip my fingers beneath to feel a smooth, moist and oh-so-welcoming pussy. I start to tease her folds apart, easing the tips of my fingers inside just a little and she gets wetter. She throws her head back and moans.
The other girl is bobbing up and down on my cock while cupping my balls, creating a delicious pressure around my nib and a sliding tightness around my shaft.
My wife asks how she is holding my balls, and I show her with my own hand, by gently squeezing my own sac through my trousers, pulling it down a little, and then massaging my eggs as if I were kneading dough. My wife’s eyes seem to open a touch wider and her tongue runs along the ridge of her top lip. I then add that the woman giving me the most delicious blow job has a tiny tattoo on her shoulder. She asks if I find that a turn-on. I tell her, of course. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be there.
I return to the scene in my mind, where my cock is now being licked by the two sensational women at the same time. Tongues combine, working as one, covering my dick with their saliva.
I’m now fully rigid and the girls decide that I need to be fucked. One eases herself on top of me. Holding the base of my prick, she guides my shaft between her wet lips and slowly sinks down on me, her pussy eagerly eating up every inch of my prick. I am deep inside this sex goddess.
The other lowers her cunt to my face and I bury my tongue in her folds. The three of us have effectively formed a triangle, with both girls face-to-face at the apex. They cuddle as they start kissing each other.
I think they sense I am close to coming, so they pull back, pause and then the girl with the tattoo on her shoulder slips my cock into her drenched pussy and starts to grind on me. She grips me tight, while tracing tiny, exquisite circles with my cock. All I can think about is her wet cunt, and the hold it has on me.
As she gyrates more firmly a sudden, warm wetness drowns my prick, as if the bottle of bubbly is being poured all over it, and her glorious juices cascade out of our coupling and over my groin. My belly and thighs are quickly soaked.
“Holy moly,” interjects my wife, “she’s only fucking squirting.”
I tell her it’s awesome and that we continue a watery, slippery, slathery fuck, drenching and slurping and sliding around like sexy hot eels all covered in gallons of come.
The other girl takes over and they push and pull my body down the seat so that she can offer me her butt. I’m encouraged to take her from behind, and I ease my nub between her cheeks, find her pussy, and she pushes back, taking me deeper inside her cunt. As soon as I am fully inside, I instinctively start to thrust hard. I don’t feel in control and find myself picking up momentum. I want to slow down to enjoy every second, but am overwhelmed by an atavistic urge to pump. Her body stiffens. Hands grip my arms. Her cunt tightens. A faint moan turns into a growl as she returns each of my thrusts and then takes over the rhythm, pushing hard against me as her orgasm washes over us like a huge wave crashing onto a beach.
Silence. The wave dissipates. The waters are calm.
Realising that both blue-stocking sirens have come I feel that I can ask if it’s my turn.
“Ever the gentleman,” contributes my wife.
I tell her that the girls scoff at my question before taking it in turns to pump me. One of them spits on my prick, and the other eases a finger down my crack, seeking out my hole. She taps on it, asking a question and I answer by pushing back on her extended digit. She eases inside. I half pull away as she digs deeper. Relax and enjoy, she whispers and I let go, unclench by butt and open up. She probes further, dipping deeper into my arse as she seeks out my sweet spot. She finds it, strokes it gently at first, then more firmly, and as the pressure increases I am pushed beyond my tipping point. I grunt. Hands squeeze me tighter. They pump faster. My cock pulses. Spunk blasts out, splattering my torso, and spraying their faces. The explosion of a lifetime.
“One heck of a load of frustration being let off there,” says my wife.
My spunk is still pouring from my knob, as the tattooed one takes me into her mouth and starts to suck hard. Her throat tightens and my bellend is pulled in deeper. Her lips massage my shaft, teasing out every last drop of my come. A dribble seeps from her stuffed mouth and makes its way down her chin. She smiles as she swallows my entire load in one go.
The duo share a look and kiss—their lips glistening with my come.
Spent and exhausted, the three of us slump back into the cinema seats. The film is still playing, and we watch as the white-shirted guy in the limo reaches his own climax and comes into the waiting mouths of the three girls.
The actors on screen raise a glass to their act of hedonism. One of the girls next to me fetches our own bottle of bubbly and we toast the film, then ourselves.
And I tell my wife that I suppose that’s where my fantasy ends.
“Christ Almighty” she declares. “You had all that going on in your mind?”
I smile and nod.
“Fucking hell. Fucking bloody hell,” she mutters as she flicks a fallen leaf off the rucksack and packs our mugs away.
She pauses, turns to me and waits. I’ve been avoiding eye contact throughout all this, but now I let my gaze meet hers.
“But what if it wasn’t a fantasy?” she suggests as she slowly slots the vacuum flask into the side pocket of the bag. “What if those girls were for real?” she adds and then, cupping my bulging groin in her hand, asks: “What if I was one of them?”
Her face is inches from mine and she looks deep into my eyes, nods slightly, holds my chin in her free hand and kisses me firmly on the lips.
Fucking hell.
“You know I’ve always wanted a little tattoo,” she adds as she swings the rucksack onto her back. “I like the idea of a little heart on my butt… or perhaps some lips right next to my pussy.”
Fucking bloody hell.
The End
The dog sits down, exhausted after chasing rabbits unsuccessfully across the fields. The hot coffee steams comfortingly in the cool, autumnal air.
This is going to be difficult. Very difficult. We should’ve had this conversation years ago, but talking about this isn’t easy for someone like me. Conservative parents. Boys-only school. You get the idea.
It doesn’t come naturally to her, either. Single child. Overbearing mother. Catholic girls’ school, run by nuns.
We’re quite a pair really. But don’t get me wrong, we get on well. Really well. We laugh a lot. And we can readily talk about other important issues—houses, kids… getting a dog.
Shortly after it happened we agreed that it might be a good idea to talk and I guess this seems like the right moment.
And no surprises on the subject of the conversation. You’ll probably laugh. We refer to as it. Such an inconsequential, dismissive word to describe the most intense, fun, intimate, delicate, raw of activities—sex.
I bet we aren’t alone and across the world there are millions of people who dodge the word, referring to il, es, el, esso.
Talking about sex is something we’ve never really done. Ever. We just do it. Usually at weekends. Sunday mornings, mainly. And it works all right. Most of the time. Though if I’m honest I can find it a bit bland and repetitive. I’d like to do it more. And spice it up a bit. But the very fact that we are still doing it at our age is a bonus, I suppose.
That’s why I like a little—how shall I put it—visual stimulation. Accompanied by the occasional, cheeky wank.
I don’t’ feel guilty about this—the wank and the images that is. I’m totally comfortable with both.
Well, I was, until she came home from work a bit early last week. I didn’t hear her close the door. She walked into the bedroom to see me pouring lube on my cock while watching a film.
I’ll call it a film rather than a porno. I hate that word. And this is way, way classier than any second-rate porn flick.
It’s a brilliant film—intensely erotic and cleverly crafted. I remember every detail. One man, with three girls in the back of a limo. And those girls are so fucking sexy. Thigh boots. Skimpy underwear. Kissing each other as much as him. Sharing his cock between them. Two mouths licking his helmet at the same time—lucky bastard. Sizzling hot and classy. Hollywood classy. You should look it up—it’s called After Party.
She didn’t say anything when she saw me with the laptop open and cock in my hand. She just reversed out of the room in silence. Neither of us mentioned it until this morning on our walk when she said, “Perhaps we should talk. About it.”
The it word again.
Now all credit to her. She said it in a calm, non-judgemental, almost empathetic way.
So, here we are, sitting somewhat awkwardly on a bench on the edge of a patch of wood and we’re about to talk about IT, and I’m worried that things could go very pear-shaped from here, as I’m not too sure where it might lead us. Because I sense that the moment of acute embarrassment in the bedroom could just possibly be a game-changer.
For me, perhaps it has to be a game-changer. Last chance saloon and all that. Now or never… especially at my age.
Sure, I could just excuse the wank and say it was a one-off. But that’s not being true to myself. I play with myself once a week. At least. And if I’m honest, it does me good. You know, I actually think it does us both good, because my libido is way higher than hers. It always has been. I’m way more adventurous than she is, and this is my way of coping.
My glasses steam up as I take a sip of coffee. I can’t see her face. This seems to help.
And so I dive in and begin the conversation by confessing that I was watching a hot film while masturbating. That rather clinical word jars. I stumble over my words, expecting a sharp rebuke or some comment about her not being enough for me in bed.
But all she says, quietly, is, “Sure.”
That word seemed to give me encouragement to continue. My glasses clear and I look down at her walking boots. I point to a loose lace. She struggles to retie it with her stiff fingers, then says: “Go on.”
I tell her that I simply like holding my own cock in my hand. I really love the way it changes from being something soft, floppy and almost comical to a warm, pulsating, rigid expression of me. It breathes life into me, turning me into someone bold, strong, and—yes—fucking hot. And I particularly enjoy pressing play on a seriously hot sex scene in a film and just letting go, indulging in it, and being part of it.
She asks if I get hard before I watch or whether I need the film to get me going.
I reply that it helps. A lot.
Bloody hell, it’s tough talking about this stuff. About what I want, and need, and do—sexually. Especially to the one I love most.
I continue and tell her that masturbation—I use the M word again—adds a welcome touch of… well… I pause. I know exactly the word I want to use, I’m just frightened to say it.
She strokes the dog while sipping her coffee. She’s almost finished her drink. I’ve just started mine.
I give up and succumb to the word I’d been avoiding—naughtiness.
Then I realise that I might have hurt her, so I quickly added that she shouldn’t get me wrong and I really, really enjoy having sex with her. It’s good. It’s tender. It’s lovely.
She repeats, “Lovely.” Her tone is flat and understated.
She twists the lid onto the empty flask, places it on the bench and shifts her position. I notice that she has moved fractionally closer to me, then asks if wanking is important for me. It’s interesting that she opts for the W word, but I sense she’s not using it in a pejorative way.
I tell her that it’s part of my sexual being. Just as she is very much part of the sexual me, too.
I feel a mixture of pride and fear as I finish my adult fantasy. I’ve said what I wanted to say and not dodged the difficult stuff and await her response.
She stares into the distance, over rolling hills covered with trees resplendent in end-of-season golds, yellows and reds. One last, spectacular flourish of colour before the darkness of winter. She clears her throat and asks me about what I really like, sexually.
I’m not sure if she means how I like to touch myself, what I’d like to do or what films I like to watch.
I drink the rest of my coffee and say I’m not too sure what she means, to which she replies: “If it would be easier, try sharing a sexual fantasy with me.”
I can’t think of a fantasy to summon and clam up.
“If that’s difficult, how about starting with that film you were watching the other day?” she suggests.
I’m silent. Speechless. But then I notice she’s unzipping her fleece. Her favourite gold necklace nestles in her cleavage. I see a hint of her blue bra poking out of the V-neck of her sweater. She reties her hair in a pony-tail. Her fair locks match the trio of gold bracelets, which jangle as she twists her hair into an elastic tie. Not only does she look beautiful, but there are hints of the erotic about her right here and now.
Something clicks in my brain, triggered perhaps by that very last thought. My wishes, needs, and desires finally seem to be coming together and I’m ready to speak again.
I explain that I’m not watching the film in our bedroom, as before. I tell her that I imagine that I am in the house we looked at the other month—the one we loved but couldn’t afford—and am in the luxurious cinema room. I tell her that I am pouring myself an imaginary gin and tonic at the bar. I take a sip, press PLAY on the movie, and find a seat.
The fantasy kicks into gear. I tell that my gaze is suddenly and unexpectedly drawn to two female figures walking past the seats in the cinema room. The pair stand in front of the screen, blocking my view to After Party. They have glasses in their hand and they are carrying a bottle of bubbly.
I pause for a moment, bringing myself back to the reality of sitting on a bench in the countryside, to check in with my wife. I ask whether I should carry on, and she says I should, and reminds me that the two women in my mind were about to drink some fizz.
I continue and tell her that a cork pops and the two women laugh as they catch wayward spurts of champagne as the bottle explodes. They lick the bubbles off their fingers, move closer together and then kiss each other’s lips.
I explain that they are lit up by the projector, and images from the film wrap themselves indulgently around both their bodies. Breasts cover breasts; legs entwine with legs.
I describe how the two women strike a pouty pose and look right at me. One starts to swing her hips, the other joins in. They laugh, kiss and as they begin to dance, their jewellery sparkles in the beam of light.
I am interrupted, “Tell me about their jewellery.”
The details come to me readily. Imagining it on two stunning women is easy. So, I tell her that the first thing you notice is that they are both wearing a lot of gold, especially around their necks. One has chains of fine, delicate links. The other has a long, bold necklace that hangs between her breasts.
Again, she interrupts, “Rather like mine?”
I agree that it’s strikingly similar and catch the hint of a smile on her face.
I continue with my description and talk about the big gold bangles on their wrists, which jingle as they move. And they both have big, gold earrings.
Thinking that I have sufficiently described their jewels, I continue to relay the action unfolding in my mind.
As the guy’s cock in the film is freed from the constraints of his trousers, the duo in front of the screen share a grin. They look at me and snigger. It seems they have a plan, and it looks as if I’m going to be the lucky bastard this time.
Ending their dance, the women walk provocatively towards me, hand in hand. I notice the gold fasteners on their gorgeous blue lingerie catching the beam of light.
“What’s so gorgeous about their lingerie?” my wife asks.
I say that for starters they are in matching outfits—exactly the same blue, same style, with subtle differences. I admit that I find all this incredibly hot.
“You mean the jewellery? The underwear?”
I reply that it’s all that, but perhaps it’s the fact that they are into the same thing sexually that appeals most.
I move on as the fantasy in my mind evolves. The unbelievably hot duo approach my cinema seat and take the glass from my hand. They are right over me, and I see more. Lots of blue straps. Lace cups to their bras. Skimpy knickers exposing bare bottoms. One wears hold-ups and the other stockings with suspenders.
“Suspenders…” she repeats.
I can smell their perfume. Both wear the same scent. I breathe it in as they bend over me. The cold gold of a necklace strokes my skin. Locks of their long hair tease my cheeks.
“You didn’t say they had long hair before.”
I say that they are both blondes, with hair that cascades onto their shoulders, then continue with the narrative. The two girls start to kiss me, and then each other as they climb onto the chairs on either side of me. A hand seeks out my cock and holds it through my trousers. A naughty little squeeze and it starts to grow.
Fingers undo the buttons of my shirt, hands slide down my chest and tug at my belt, and my prick is liberated from my trousers. One of the women asks if I am in heaven, with two beautiful blonde girls paying such close attention to me, and then she takes my member in her mouth, closes her lips around it and sucks me. She says she wants to see how big I am.
“Well, she won’t be disappointed,” my wife chips in.
That does it and my own prick pushes against my trousers, eager to join in and a blub of pre-come seeps out.
“Please go on,” she encourages. “Has she made you hard?”
I tell her that the woman in my mind passes my stiffening cock to her partner in crime who eagerly takes me into her mouth and that I am rising, fast, to the occasion.
So much is happening to me at the same time, I tell my wife. I’m kissed by one and our tongues touch, then roll over and around as if in a dance.
The girls swap and I kiss the one who has been giving me head and I can taste my early juices on her lips. Oh fuck, I so love that.
“Tasting yourself?” my wife checks, as if making a mental note.
I concur with a quick yes, then continue with the description. One of the girls is right next to me and my hand seeks out her panties. I trace the outline of her lips through the material, then slip my fingers beneath to feel a smooth, moist and oh-so-welcoming pussy. I start to tease her folds apart, easing the tips of my fingers inside just a little and she gets wetter. She throws her head back and moans.
The other girl is bobbing up and down on my cock while cupping my balls, creating a delicious pressure around my nib and a sliding tightness around my shaft.
My wife asks how she is holding my balls, and I show her with my own hand, by gently squeezing my own sac through my trousers, pulling it down a little, and then massaging my eggs as if I were kneading dough. My wife’s eyes seem to open a touch wider and her tongue runs along the ridge of her top lip. I then add that the woman giving me the most delicious blow job has a tiny tattoo on her shoulder. She asks if I find that a turn-on. I tell her, of course. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be there.
I return to the scene in my mind, where my cock is now being licked by the two sensational women at the same time. Tongues combine, working as one, covering my dick with their saliva.
I’m now fully rigid and the girls decide that I need to be fucked. One eases herself on top of me. Holding the base of my prick, she guides my shaft between her wet lips and slowly sinks down on me, her pussy eagerly eating up every inch of my prick. I am deep inside this sex goddess.
The other lowers her cunt to my face and I bury my tongue in her folds. The three of us have effectively formed a triangle, with both girls face-to-face at the apex. They cuddle as they start kissing each other.
I think they sense I am close to coming, so they pull back, pause and then the girl with the tattoo on her shoulder slips my cock into her drenched pussy and starts to grind on me. She grips me tight, while tracing tiny, exquisite circles with my cock. All I can think about is her wet cunt, and the hold it has on me.
As she gyrates more firmly a sudden, warm wetness drowns my prick, as if the bottle of bubbly is being poured all over it, and her glorious juices cascade out of our coupling and over my groin. My belly and thighs are quickly soaked.
“Holy moly,” interjects my wife, “she’s only fucking squirting.”
I tell her it’s awesome and that we continue a watery, slippery, slathery fuck, drenching and slurping and sliding around like sexy hot eels all covered in gallons of come.
The other girl takes over and they push and pull my body down the seat so that she can offer me her butt. I’m encouraged to take her from behind, and I ease my nub between her cheeks, find her pussy, and she pushes back, taking me deeper inside her cunt. As soon as I am fully inside, I instinctively start to thrust hard. I don’t feel in control and find myself picking up momentum. I want to slow down to enjoy every second, but am overwhelmed by an atavistic urge to pump. Her body stiffens. Hands grip my arms. Her cunt tightens. A faint moan turns into a growl as she returns each of my thrusts and then takes over the rhythm, pushing hard against me as her orgasm washes over us like a huge wave crashing onto a beach.
Silence. The wave dissipates. The waters are calm.
Realising that both blue-stocking sirens have come I feel that I can ask if it’s my turn.
“Ever the gentleman,” contributes my wife.
I tell her that the girls scoff at my question before taking it in turns to pump me. One of them spits on my prick, and the other eases a finger down my crack, seeking out my hole. She taps on it, asking a question and I answer by pushing back on her extended digit. She eases inside. I half pull away as she digs deeper. Relax and enjoy, she whispers and I let go, unclench by butt and open up. She probes further, dipping deeper into my arse as she seeks out my sweet spot. She finds it, strokes it gently at first, then more firmly, and as the pressure increases I am pushed beyond my tipping point. I grunt. Hands squeeze me tighter. They pump faster. My cock pulses. Spunk blasts out, splattering my torso, and spraying their faces. The explosion of a lifetime.
“One heck of a load of frustration being let off there,” says my wife.
My spunk is still pouring from my knob, as the tattooed one takes me into her mouth and starts to suck hard. Her throat tightens and my bellend is pulled in deeper. Her lips massage my shaft, teasing out every last drop of my come. A dribble seeps from her stuffed mouth and makes its way down her chin. She smiles as she swallows my entire load in one go.
The duo share a look and kiss—their lips glistening with my come.
Spent and exhausted, the three of us slump back into the cinema seats. The film is still playing, and we watch as the white-shirted guy in the limo reaches his own climax and comes into the waiting mouths of the three girls.
The actors on screen raise a glass to their act of hedonism. One of the girls next to me fetches our own bottle of bubbly and we toast the film, then ourselves.
And I tell my wife that I suppose that’s where my fantasy ends.
“Christ Almighty” she declares. “You had all that going on in your mind?”
I smile and nod.
“Fucking hell. Fucking bloody hell,” she mutters as she flicks a fallen leaf off the rucksack and packs our mugs away.
She pauses, turns to me and waits. I’ve been avoiding eye contact throughout all this, but now I let my gaze meet hers.
“But what if it wasn’t a fantasy?” she suggests as she slowly slots the vacuum flask into the side pocket of the bag. “What if those girls were for real?” she adds and then, cupping my bulging groin in her hand, asks: “What if I was one of them?”
Her face is inches from mine and she looks deep into my eyes, nods slightly, holds my chin in her free hand and kisses me firmly on the lips.
Fucking hell.
“You know I’ve always wanted a little tattoo,” she adds as she swings the rucksack onto her back. “I like the idea of a little heart on my butt… or perhaps some lips right next to my pussy.”
Fucking bloody hell.
The End
