Tuesday, 29 November 2016

That time of night


Revisiting my older themes. This is an old  FMM story, and it has bit of not-quite-self-aware female dominance flavour, but it was intended as neither a cuckold or a forced-bi fantasy. Instead, it worked my own levers. 


We were both pissed and tired, sitting bleary eyed and fuzzy minded by the bar, in a bar, not to far from the seafront and the pier. It was quite obviously but not dramatically a gay place, but with many mixed groups as well as couples, none of them very scene. I am not sure how we ended up there, it might have been my latent fag-haggery talking, and Andy, I think, simply didn't notice at first or was past the point, and past the pint, of caring. Incidentally, I also wasn't sure - I still am not - how I ended up with that straightest-ever and ever-slightly homophobic boyfriend, but let's just say it wasn't one of my priorities when we met and it kinda rolled on from then.

We had been drinking in this place for a while now, and Andy was sliding from the happy-drunk into the rambling-drunk phase now. The lesbian couple we had been having a Serious Conversation had gone and he turned away from me on his barstool, animatedly talking to some young and obviously dumb guy in a tight polo (yes, I know, I know), almost grabbing him by the collar, trying to persuade him that surely he must, deep down in his soul, fancy women. The guy shrugged and tried to disengage Andy's hands, and I saw the barman eyeing them cautiously and  glancing at the bouncer by the door. He was a nice cheerful guy, young and pretty if a little too cherubic to be my type - lucky, really, as he was obviously also very cheerfully gay - and happy to serve us drinks before, but now I thought we, or at least Andy, might be getting close to being chucked out.

I pulled on his free hand, made him turn away from the guy he was hassling, gave him a cigarette and suggested we leave. He declined, as I knew he would - it was that time of the night - and I shrugged and got myself another vodka and Red Bull, as a concession to the quickly approaching 2 a.m.

Andy managed to obtain another pint and occupied himself with it quietly for a minute. Then he leaned across my lap to the guy standing next to me, nursing what appeared to be a Martini - and yes, I know a Martini at 2a.m., never mind nursing one, is a concept difficult to wrap one's mind around but he really was - who turned up there at some point in the previous five minutes.

“Are you gay too, then?” Andy slurred.

The answer took some time coming and I turned sideways to have a better look. A slim bloke, clean shaven, maybe in his mid thirties, maybe older, maybe younger; shortish, but a little taller than me, in flats anyway; short light brown hair with a slight curl, green eyes, a hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth. Stupid shoes, semi-decent jeans just this side of Jeremy Clarkson, a nondescript shirt, stupidly expensive watch.

“No, I am not,” he answered eventually. American accent, but of the nice type that glides softly and sweetly into your ears instead of grating and panting on every vowel and consonant like most of them do.

Andy seemed surprised and interested, with that kind of irrational interest drunks can develop.

“You fancy women, mate? That's great! I thought it was all fucking poofters in this place,” he announced to the world.

I cringed inwardly, despite my drunkenness, wondering not for the first time what levels of political incorrectness constituted reasonable grounds for splitting up. The guy shrugged, possibly put out by this line of questioning.

“Yea, of course I fancy women,” he said eventually. I didn't think it was that obvious where we were, but didn't say a thing.

“Like my woman, then? Fancy her?” Andy continued his drilling.

The guy looked put out, I thought he was significantly more sober than Andy, or even me, and possibly not yet at the stage when you can entertain such questions from strangers in bars. Or maybe just wary of what consequences giving either a yes or no answer could have.

“Oh c'mon, do you fancy her? Would you give her one? I won't get offended!” declared my boyfriend, placing his hand on my thigh in a proprietary manner and giving it a squeeze.

The guy looked at me as if he was actually seriously considering an honest answer to the question, his eyes fixing on my face, my boobs, my ass and my legs in a quick sequence. I couldn't help laughing. The guy flushed red and for some reason, that cut my laugh short. Instead I looked at him for a second longer than I normally would and smiled. He licked his lips, a quick dart of a tongue, looked at me, then at Andy, then at me again.

“I guess... I guess I would, if she wasn't unavailable,” the American declared.

“I'm a jammy bastard, I know,” Andy said, “And you are a good man, mate, a good man,” he leaned over again, presumably to pat the guys shoulders in his infuriatingly patronizing manner.

“But darling, I think he would also happily suck your cock,”' I said, not too loudly, into Andy's ear, making sure the other guy could hear that too. I am not sure what gave me the idea, and even less sure why I actually expressed it. Andy stopped mid-move on one side of me, the guy on the other seemed frozen as well.

“Wouldn't you?” I turned to him, asking innocently.

A scarlet blush covering his face, visible even in the low light of the bar, was enough of an answer. I glanced down, and there was a slight hint of a bulge in his jeans. Whatever it was in me that provoked my previous statement must have been onto something.

“I...I'm not... I never...” he stammered into his pint.

This was also, in its way, an answer; neither joking it away, straightforwardly denying or being offended. I felt a twinge between my legs, a wave of tension knotting somewhere in the lower belly and spreading down to my pussy and upper thighs, a hot spasm inside my cunt. An image of the two of them together, my man and a bar-met stranger, Andy's big dick sliding inside the other guy's mouth, his pretty whore's lips in a tight circle over the shaft.

My mind reeled, and it took a bit of effort to rein it back. Andy looked a little shell-shocked, and wasn't saying anything. I put my right hand on his, still on my knee, but leaned towards the other guy, steadying myself on his shoulder and whispering my repeated question, by now a largely rhetorical one, into his ear, quietly, so only he could hear.

“But you would, wouldn't you?”

He didn't say anything. I straightened myself and slid off the barstool.

“C'mon. I'm fucking bored here. Let's go.”

Andy followed without making much fuss, which surprised me no end. Maybe he had ideas brewing in his addled brain too, just as I did. I looked pointedly at the American guy.

“And you?”

I didn't REALLY think he would come with us. But he did. We walked out into the cold outside. I wasn't sure where to go now, I didn't fancy a club full of eighteen and twenty year olds e-d up to the
gills, and I didn't really want to continue drinking anyway.

My head was spinning enough as it was, and I wanted sex. I wanted a cock in my cunt, getting progressively wetter and hotter, I wanted hands on my breasts; my nipples were hard and tingly now. I was, basically, horny as fuck and I felt quite serious, in a drunken way, about trying to wangle a threesome, even if without any boy-on-boy action, out of this situation.

It had been years since the last time anything like that happened with me and Andy, though that was with another girl. It had been even longer since the last time I had fun with two men playing together as well as with me. I wasn't even sure if Andy knew I had ever done anything like that. I had told him, but he had always had that amazing talent for forgetting anything that wasn't quite to his liking.

“You staying where?”

The guy pointed vaguely to the large monolith of the Sheraton on the other side of the main square.

“Wanna come... over?” he asked, hesitantly.

Bingo. I didn't even had to make any suggestions. I smiled at him encouragingly and we all walked across the square and into the warm, well lit lobby. Andy looked a bit unsure.

“I'm sure there is a mini-bar in his room,” I said encouragingly.

The American confirmed, and as we waited for the elevator, I gave Andy a kiss, sucking in his tongue, sliding mine deep into his mouth, ravenous and horny. He ground his hips into me, his erection appearing noticeable, his hands eager on my hips, cupping my ass, pulling me in.

We didn't do anything on the way up, it was only a short ride anyway, and by the time we got to his room I started to have a sort of wave of second thoughts about all this. Had I been sober, I would have probably bailed out now, but as it was, it was more of a in for a penny, in for a pound scenario.

In the room, Andy leaned against the desk, while the American guy busied himself extracting booze from the mini bar. I didn't want a drink, though, I wanted cock and thus dropped to the floor by Andy's feet and reached to his belt. He didn't protest when I undid it and unzipped his pants and pulled out his dick.

It wasn't fully erect yet, but even not quite hard, it was a lovely thing to behold, well above average in girth, at least as far as my sample of cocks had gone, and I really love a thick cock, length isn't really
that important, but I do like something to stretch my cunt. It was quite possible I had stayed with him because of his cock, actually.

It was now in my hand, close to my lips, warm and alive, with the gorgeous shiny head covered with that lovely, tightly stretched skin that feels so fantastic on your lips and under your tongue. Or under mine, anyway.

I licked all around and used my tongue to play with it, each lick and stroke sending jolts of excitement into my pussy. I am so fucking oral that I think there is a direct line of communication between my mouth and my cunt that more or less bypasses my brain.

I moaned as I took him into my mouth, sucking some before getting it out again to run it around my lips. I love that, like a grotesque lipstick. Or maybe I love lipstick because it reminds me of cock.

I heard a gasp, a groan and looked up and behind from my preoccupation. The other guy was standing there, the door to the mini bar open, a can of beer and a miniature of Jack Daniels in his hands, a transfixed look on his face, his teeth closing on his lower lip, the bulge in his jeans now totally obvious.

It turned me on, big way. I wasn't sure what he wanted, or wanted more; to swap places with me or with Andy. I suspected both, but it didn't matter. I was sure what I wanted and by now I was pretty sure I was going to get it.

“Come here,” I called.

He didn't react immediately, but when he did, he was very quick putting the drinks down and making the few steps over. I was wanking Andy's cock with my hand, stroking slowly, occasionally giving him a lick around the crown. His precum was flowing now and he closed his eyes, rocking his hips slightly against my touch. I held his cock out to the guy who approached us.

“Down here.”

Andy's dick was now between us, in my hand, hot and hard.

“On you go bitch. You know you want it,” I didn't know why I was saying those things, apart from the simple fact that it ramped my arousal somehow but it seemed to work for the American guy too because he moaned again, louder, then reached out with his hand, locked his fingers with mine. I let go and he started to stroke, his fingers enveloping Andy's shaft, caressing, squeezing, grabbing harder.

It looked fucking hot, especially with the look on the American's face, a mixture of  rapture and dejection, dizzy desire and some sort of inner pain; altogether I found it strangely but hugely exciting. I think it was more the look in his eyes than the action, though let's be honest here, the action was pretty juicy too. My pussy was throbbing, soaking wet, and as I watched him masturbate my boyfriend's cock I stroked my breasts and pulled my nipples with one hand and I pulled my skirt up, sticking my hand between my legs. My clit was hard and hot, and my cunt was throbbing.

“Suck him, cockslut,” I moaned and he eagerly opened his mouth, leaned towards Andy's crotch, took his cock in.

I moaned more, the image of his mouth filled with the hard cock unbelievably arousing, my cunt dripping. His fingers were dancing at the base of Andy's shaft, stroking his balls, his full lips stretched by the rigid meat, his eyes closed, his head bobbing up and down as he sucked and slurped.

Andy's hips were moving now, he pulled the guy's head in, grabbed his hair and ears to direct him. I heard gagging gasps, and then saw he adjusted his angle, opened wider, used his own hands to hold on to my boyfriend's ass. He was making much better job of deep-throating him than I ever had done and frankly I started to seriously, very seriously indeed, doubt what he said about never having sucked dick before. Or maybe he was just a natural cock-whore at heart. I could empathise, to a certain level, but with nowhere near as deep a commitment as he was showing.

Andy looked surprisingly close to orgasm now, he normally took ages to come when so drunk but obviously that little Yank whore was doing something quite right there. I loved it all right, but I didn't want him to shoot his load down that ravenous mouth, so I pushed the American away, grabbing his shoulders. He let go with a bit of a yelp but no major protest, and I pulled Andy on top of me, onto the Sheraton hotel bed, my legs spread wide open, my cunt drenched and wanting.

His cock felt great, thick and hot and filling; his movement inside me just right, hitting all the spots, stretching all the areas that needed to be stretched. I knew I was probably to drunk to come, but it didn't stop the exquisite waves of pleasure, like miniature orgasms exploding inside me, contractions in my belly and high inside my cunt, spreading down to my legs, my clit, my erect nipples, the backs of my knees, the soles of my feet, my hands, my lips, my spinning head.

I wanted him to come inside me, feel it drip down my slit, my thighs, to the crack of my ass. I grabbed his butt with more strength, pulled him in again, spread his ass cheeks apart, wrapped my legs around his hips, put one of my feet in the small of his back. I wanted him to come in me.

“Lick him for me you dirty bitch!” I yelled, remembering suddenly whose room were were fucking in, and soon I could feel  more weight on me, a head, soft hair and a breath, near my hands, then more pressure as the little cockwhore we'd picked up started licking Andy's balls, then I could feel that his tongue rimmed his ass, slid in.

Andy's thrusts got faster and deeper now and when he came, it was with a deep, growly moan, his cock at his full length in my pussy, his warm jizz spilling inside me. He stopped for a while, flopped onto me, hugged me tightly if somewhat unexpectedly, then got up, shaking the other guy off; dug out a packet of cigarettes from his trousers and walked out onto the balcony nearly closing the door behind him. 

The American was on the floor by the bed, sitting on his heels, looking utterly dazed, still completely dressed, the bulge of his obviously stupendous hard-on clearly visible.

I sat up, my skirt crumpled up around my waist and hips, my stockings still on, as were my boots, my shirt opened up to expose my breasts, the cups of my bra pulled down. My hair was all messed up, I could feel the make-up smeared and smarting in my eyes, but what I was mostly focused on was the pulsating need in my cunt. I was so wired up, so hot and horny and wanting to cum by then that I was acting completely on autopilot, driven more by my raging lust than any rational thought. I knew I was too drunk to come but I thought, as much as I was capable of thinking, that I might as well pass out trying.

I shuffled to the edge of the bed and reached out to the guy on the floor, looked into his eyes. he looked away at first but then let me catch his gaze, and even in my drunken, sexed up daze I saw something there that made me shiver, not just lust but something that went beyond it, a desperate want, a gaping hollow in which a need to be wanted and to be used tumbled; twisted around each other and seemingly inseparable.

Or maybe I was just making up things, pulling them up like slurred words from the recesses of my own blurry mind, looking for complexity where there was nothing more but simple desire.

I grabbed his shoulder, pulled him closer, between my knees, pushed his head down, his face landed on my sodden crotch. I could feel his breath and the touch of his lips and tongue when he started licking me, each touch and stroke adding to the irresistible pressure that had been building up inside me.

He ate me out like nobody ever had done before, as if he knew exactly where and how to lick, suck and nibble; how quickly and how slowly, how gentle and how rough to be. He licked out my pussy, dripping with Andy's cum; cleaned me out until I was moaning and shaking somewhere on the edge; his tongue sliding briefly into my cunt, then slowly and stiffly into my ass, his lips on my labia, then on my clit; licking up, then sucking it as if it was a miniature cock.

I held him between my thighs, my knees squeezed together, my cunt rubbing on his face, his cheeks, nose and chin; I was virtually face-fucking him just like Andy had face-fucked him before; my juice covering his face with a slick, sticky layer.

Despite all the anaesthetic effects of the booze, I realised that I was going to come, that this greedy little slut was going to give me an orgasm of earth-shattering proportions. When it started, it was somewhere high inside my belly, a series of contractions vibrating and reverberating down to my cunt, a gush of  liquid flooding out, my clit suddenly feeling huge and so hard it felt about to explode, then splintering into tiny fragments of pleasure.

It spread out, my legs opening and closing involuntarily, my whole skin hot, burning, then covered in sweat, and then I was not just moaning and panting but crying out, screaming.

Andy must have noticed what was going on, but he remained on the balcony,  and I was vaguely grateful to him.  I didn't need him there and then, I was riding this crest, thinking of nothing but the
sensations crashing through my body, the aliveness of my skin, the pulsing of the blood.

The man that gave me that pleasure was a mere instrument of it, a conduit of my desire, like a toy I might have used; I almost forgot he was there, and yet he couldn't be MORE there, welded to me, held tight between my legs, eating out my cunt, firing up those eruptions of delight.

I must have blacked out momentarily, when I came to, I was on the bed, panting, my breath only just starting to slow, my clothes soaked in sweat,  my body suddenly heavy, aftershocks of pleasure coursing through me, my whole skin smiling.

And the American was still on the floor, on his knees, his head on the edge of the bed, supported by his left arm, his right hand between his legs, his jeans still on, unzipped.


I sat up, unsteadily, slid off the bed onto the carpet, reached down to his belt. I undid it and he helped me, our fingers met and his were trembling. His cock sprang up, unbelievably hard; he moaned when I touched it; got even harder, precum dripping along the shaft, the hot flesh throbbing against my hand. I stroked it some, played with my fingers around the head, reached down to his balls, run my thumbs along the top

“Oh god... ooh... please... yesss... oooh...” he moaned, his own hands joining mine, the stroking and tweaking now fast, almost furious.

I knew, really - somehow I was sure I knew what he wanted, it followed quite obviously from the whole scene we just took part in - but I wanted him to say it. No, not just say it - I wanted him to ask - to plead, even.

It was all rather strange, I shouldn't have felt like that - I had just came, my body was still glowing with that orgasm; I was happy, grateful even, for that gift of pleasure; but somehow, sitting on the floor inches away from the stranger who just ate me out to a screaming orgasm, who'd done it better than anybody else had ever done before, who'd licked out my  boyfriend's cum from my pussy; I still wanted him to beg and grovel.

And I felt - though it's easy to project own desires onto others - but I felt, very strongly, that he wanted it, too. And I was pretty sure, as much as one can be sure of one's own mind, that it was that wanting, reflected and mirrored in my own body, that was starting to turn me on, again, in a different way to that raging hunger of minutes before; recognizably sexual but going beyond that, or perhaps through that, to some bare, basic, raw reality of need; the realisation in my mind transforming into a heady spasm of arousal and desire raising in my body again.

His cock was throbbing, and it felt like he was on the very edge of orgasm, it felt like he should have came already; I didn't understand why he had not. And yet I, or something somewhere deep in my mind, knew.

“Oh, god, oooh... please... please...”

He was panting, moaning with every stroke and touch. I looked down at him, there on the floor, his trousers and pants around his knees, his cock raging hard, his face and lips still shiny with the
slickness of my pleasure, a pleading puppy look in his eyes.

“On your knees, ass up. Hands off your cock,” I hissed and he obeyed, placed himself in position.

I realised I could do anything with him just then – with him or to him - that for that brief moment he was utterly mine, his mind a playground to explore and enjoy, his body a toy to play with and use. It was exhilarating.

I slapped his ass with my bare hand, the sound reverberating in the room. It turned me on even more, and I spanked him again, red splotches appearing on his skin. I was marking him, even if very briefly, and with every slap my own excitement was growing.

“You like that? You do like that...what a fucking slut I got here.”

I spanked him again, kept my hand on his body. He ground back with his hips, moaned.

“Oh, yes, show me how you like being hit. Harder, slut?”

“Please... yes, harder... hit me harder...”

I did just that, with my left hand this time, the sound of slaps landing on his skin loud in the room, the heat of the reddened skin electric on my palm. I reached down around his waist with my right hand. His cock was rock hard and completely covered in a dripping layer of precum, in fact there was some cum there too already. He shivered, almost convulsed when I touched him.

“Please let me come… please, I need it so bad, please, please, god, ohhh god, please….” his moans became inarticulate whimpers. My cunt was throbbing. I tightened my hold on his cock and stroked. Once. Then again, up and down. 

“Come now, bitch. Come for me,” I whispered and before I even finished the second 'Come' he shot his load over my hand, his hips bucking, his eyes closed.

I pulled him back, somewhat roughly, to semi-sitting position. His lower lip was bitten and bleeding a little, his eyes still closed, and remained so as I raised my cum filled hand and cum covered fingers to his face, smeared it on his bloodied lips, held them out for his needy, ravenous tongue to lick it up.


And he did. 


No comments:

Post a Comment