I followed the sound of gasps and knew I would not be disappointed. The brass handle to the room was cold to the touch; I was grateful it opened without a creak but silently against the noisy pleasure that widened my eyes. Bathed in sunlight, the plump fresh linen indented, she is prone, knees bent, toes pointed, and his pumping glutes force the air from her naked body.
This was inevitable, sunshine, alcohol, scant dresses, and sexual desire. Divorcees always make for eager lovers, they have so much to catch up on, and she had her prize between her legs. Thrusting as his athletic body flexed, driving deep with snakish hips and those fat balls wet with her arousal.
It was about time he got his cock wet; I never thought it would be with Camille. Yet, I suppose old habits die hard. Her lover pawing her breast is Remi, the son of mutual acquaintances. One of my oldest friends bays for him, and I know it is a feint. She is the one that lost it first at seventeen. The experimental one, the one that dipped her hand into my panties as we camped out under the stars on holiday. The third person I ever kissed and the first person to fuck me. The one that taught me I was bisexual, the one that fixed me up with an ex for a skilled introduction to fucking men. She still had it at thirty-eight, slender, energetic, and clasping his behind, teaching another young lover all the right places to hit.
Her flowing locks rest as a flaxen puddle on the brilliant white sheets as they desecrate my martial bed. Yes, divorcees make fine lovers, as do neglected women at the apex of their wiles. Her narrowed eyes smile into mine. She pulls him close so I am not a distraction, and I can see the sheen of sweat down the canyon of his spine. Muted words reward him, providing confidence as his youthful body flexes under her tutelage. I bet he does not get anything like this at University.
Doing as he is told, she presses on him. Half-in, half-out, sawing, making Camille groan, tightening her body, bringing her hips to life. How my dress falls is silent, as do my panties and the breaching of tawdry heat between my legs. I am determined, and this was our conspiracy. We both caught him admiring us. It was not a competition but nostalgia fomented by one glass of wine too many.
Pressing on his taut behind, I know what Camille wants as she rasps it into his ear. A solitary finger beckons, and then it joins the others that press into his pumping flesh. We have done this before, and adrenaline adds spice to their overwhelming need to ejaculate. From his thrusts and his ragged gasps, he is close. Of course, he is young, everything is so sensitive, and the sheer novelty of an impromptu fuck is too much. Camille has him with undulating hips, feet planted onto the bed, writhing and smearing her cunt against his purposeful member.
He flinches with shock as my knee makes an indentation on the bed. The sinews in Camille’s hands tighten to fix him in place, and my warm hand makes a direct plea to his predicament. She shushes him and mutters the dirtiest words into his malleable mind. The caress of my thumb on his taint, the temptation of my hand grazing the tight smooth sac of his balls.
He croaks, and his once fluid movements seize like drying concrete.
“Cum, Remi,” she purrs, “Ines is here to help us both.”
“Yes,” I surmise, “to help you both. Fill her up, put it inside her. I want to eat it out.”
We grin at his groan of defeat.
“Have you ever seen two women having sex?” I whisper, “You can watch, Remi, and when you are hard again, you will fuck me too.
Pulling him down into her breasts, he stutters, and the livid pulses of his orgasm are captured in my softly squeezing hand.
“Empty them,” I murmur as a coquettish punctuation to his effortless orgasm, “Nice and deep… yes, good boy, push it all the way in.”
The flush of his cheeks matches the blotchy pink of his athletic body. It is four hands and two lips, and they roam over his panting body. Camille always tastes good as I lick his shaft, enjoying the faint twitches as the hinterland from climax towards a second arousal. Her pointed tongue draws a teasing, swirling line from my breast, flicking at my nipple, and edges down my midriff. Temptress fingers graze, linger, and edge closer to the tawdry heat of my loins. A pulse of blood follows, and he is swelling in my mouth.
I can see Remi’s eyes glued to Camille, and I understand when she prises open my legs. I want him to witness the moment she dives in to lick my smooth cunt. I will show him its pleasure in my obedient and lascivious eyes as his personal pornography. I know he approves, hard in my worshipping mouth; such is the good fortune of youth.
We will make it easy for him, directing him behind me. We do not have a surplus of time, and I know Yvette will keep my errant husband occupied for not forever. Curling my spine, he will find this so difficult to resist, the soaked pillow of my sex, glistening and available, with its pink lips swollen. He finds that snug warmth, and when he plunges for it, Camille has the rasp of my long tongue wriggling in her folds. Bittersweet in taste and silky in texture, it lingers on the palette, and I am ravenous for more.
Just like in two-thousand-and-two, we seduced a stranger in a bar on a humid August evening. On the beach, remote in the dunes, Camille and I showed him how women liked to have sex. He might have been a three-minute wonder with us both; we made up for that later and all night. Our stud this afternoon is cut from the same cloth, thrusting harder, and I lose contact with Camille’s pronounced mons. The pure white sheets sullied to parchment grey, soaked with semen and her juices. Gripping it tight, I push back, squeeze, and it over-animates our young charge.
Oh, I distracted my husband with the effervescent Yvette. He was always susceptible to a flirtatious redhead, and his overfed ego will be his downfall. In the garden, there are sixty guests, and we have caterers attending to all their whims. I will not be missed for a while, and they are mostly his friends, except for a few of mine. I despise how they look down on me, and today, on our wedding anniversary.
Camille grins, and this is our conspiracy, the break-glass moment as my marriage lies wrecked on the rocks. This is my vengeance for my husband’s affair. Tonight, I will confront him, thanks to Yvette, my honeytrap.
The bed complains, suddenly talkative after months of neglect. I will not change the bed linen. I want my husband to know what happened here with his flaccid shaft sticky from Yvette’s attention. Remi is neither masterful nor in control, and he bucks with all the unalloyed enthusiasm of a novice. He is blessed with girth, clattering my behind, driving his swollen shaft forcefully up my married cunt. The scent of fucking carries on the sweet fresh air from the open windows. Camille clasps my hair from behind and hands it to Remi for his crash course on how to fuck a whore.
Oh, it is building; this is what I am denied by a deceitful vanilla husband who lacks the honesty to take what he wants. Yvette is doing that to him right now, probably in the summer house. Perching him on a chair, riding the essence from his balls with his face smothered by her voluminous breasts.
I lay on my back, musing on Remi’s handsome features contorted by ecstasy. Camille’s fingers are there. Fuck! I have missed those. The elegant circles, the zig and zag of skilled digits, and I must clamp onto him. My instinct is roused, and evolution demands it; Remi is helpless because he knows no better. Of course, she provides the perfect encouragement, her body to maul and her licentious words to appeal to his unrequited fantasies.
I am liquid with squishy sounds, and his low moans compete with my rising clamour for orgasm. Grateful to Camille, he does what he is told. The familiar sawing movement returns, and we find the symbiotic moment. I am still lithe enough to grip and convulse. It is not an explosion or the peals of thunder from a leaden sky storm. It is a climax, fierce enough to squeeze, undulate, and ripple on his shaft. As the hot glow of relief melts away my sexual frustration, I have the gift of speech to demand the same as Camille received. He delivers it as bounteous hard pulses and his creamy seed is shot deep enough inside to make it leak from me for hours.
I know I will still feel him there for the rest of the day, perfect for what I have in mind. Astride my husband tonight, it will froth like an emulsion around his tired shaft as I take him one last time. I will ride him to a heart-bursting oblivion, thanks to Yvette’s demands of his body. This is what we had, and this is what we could have had.
I will take him as if it was my last fuck… and it will be for him.
Remi will recover soon enough, and the party will continue into the small hours. Camille and I share silent words, and Yvette might be interested in our novice stud. Three different women in one day, he might show some promise for us yet. We help him dress and despatch him from my bedroom. Smiling with vacant eyes, he nods at our need for a secret.
We are there, in a close embrace, my bedroom door locked, and we retire to the en-suite shower.
Her lips on mine cannot be quenched easily, cool as we drink in the tepid water.
“Just like old times,” she muses.
“Yes, and for the many times to come.”
Under the frothy water, we have our excuses prepared on this tacky hot afternoon. We will freshen up, kissing, caressing, and eating cunt under the cool raindrops.
We will just omit the kissing, caressing, and eating cunt part to anyone that asks.
Everyone except Yvette…
