The ‘spot’ was hers and Bob’s bed. ‘The sheets will be a mess,’ I said, trailing behind her, jelly sticking to my thighs.
‘Not to worry. Bob and I often eat in bed,’ she said and gave a bark of laughter. ‘Now lie down, but don’t get too comfortable. Can’t have you nodding off.’
As if. I lay back, instantly opening my legs, waiting impatiently as Tess peeled off her robe and let it drop. She stood still for a moment to let me look.
She was perfectly formed. Breasts as large as melons, nipples a creamy, satiny beige. Her belly was taut, her hips full. Her pussy – I licked my lips, because hers was smooth as well, her inner lips a pink fringe that protruded from between smallish outer labia.
‘Now, now, I know you barely touched your breakfast.’ Tess crawled onto the bed beside me, then tipped the jelly jar and stuck her fingers inside. This time, she smoothed it over her own bare pussy. When she side-stepped over me and settled her pussy above my mouth, I didn’t mind, because hers was already buried between my legs.
While she slathered my cunt with wet open-mouthed kisses and spike-tongued flutters, I munched on hers, finding her smallish lips a tasty treat as I licked her clean from clit to asshole, then settled in to suck that pretty pink fringe. I smoothed the jelly with a fingertip, working it upward until I rubbed it onto her small puckered hole. Her body quivered above me. Her knees widened, giving me greater access.
We were so in tune. Our mouths slowed and sipped, lashed and bit in unison, fingers plunging into ass and cunt with wild abandon.
Again, I approached the precipice, cunt clenching around her fingers, my hips pulsing up and down. ‘Tess?’
‘Go, already,’ she groaned, her voice muffled, her enunciation less than precise. ‘I’m holding on by a bloody thread here, girl,’ she gasped. ‘By all means, come!’
My hips popped, lifting her with my powerful swells.
Her pussy lowered, grinding against my mouth and tongue. I breathed noisily through my nostrils, but flicked my tongue at her clit as she was doing to mine, until the spiral broke, and I arched, fingers digging into her round ass.
Moments later, I recovered to find her body slumped atop mine, my chin cupped against her pussy. I laughed, and she stirred with a moan.
‘Do you think the boys enjoyed themselves half as much today?’ I asked, my voice lazy and happy because I was still riding a euphoric high.
Tess pushed up, then backed away, her pussy then the tender undersides of her large breasts disappearing from view. ‘If they’re lucky, they might find another jar of jam in the fridge when they return.’
My eyes widened.
Tess snickered. ‘It isn’t cheating if all they do is watch.’
* * *
Greg goose-stepped me up the stairs, a hand cupping my elbow to hurry me along. Once we passed the door, he kicked it shut.
I backed away, deliberately scuffling toward the bed, although I kept my eyes wide and my bottom lip quivering. ‘You’re frightening me,’ I said, although he really wasn’t. His arms were tangled in his short-sleeved shirt as he wrestled it over his head. When it cleared, he tossed it to the floor, then strode toward me, evil intent in his narrowed gaze. ‘She said I had to,’ I whined, ‘that your job was on the line.’
His hands reached for me, and he whirled me around and bent me over the side of the bed. ‘Imagine my shock and disgust – my wife with her ass in the air, her nasty pussy exposed for my employer to see – and covered in strawberry jelly!’
A slap landed on my buttocks, and I groaned and tried to twist away, but he held me down with a hand at the centre of my back as he spanked me several more times.
My ass warmed as he punished me with firm swats across both buttocks before centring sharper, quicker slaps on my hot pussy. ‘I was humiliated,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I don’t know how I’ll hold up my head.’
I giggled, but the next swat landed so hard against my wet flesh that my gaping hole suctioned on his palm as he pulled away. His hand rubbed me there, then fingers thrust straight into my sticky pussy. ‘And worse, there’s no jam left for tomorrow’s breakfast.’
I’d have laughed, but didn’t have the breath. Fingers worked in and out, and his other hand moved from my back. I came up on my elbows and glanced behind me just as he knelt and burrowed his face into my sopping folds.
‘Tess enjoyed herself,’ I said. ‘She’s got quite the appetite … for mahrm-a-lahd,’ I said, stretching my vowels to mimic her accent.
‘I’ve got quite an appetite myself,’ Greg growled. Then he thrust three fingers inside my dripping channel and twisted his hand, screwing them in deeper.
I tilted my ass higher, the scent of apples, strawberries, and the lingering tease of Tess’s lovely sea-fresh pussy wafting in the air. ‘Tell me. Did Bob see me?’
‘Mmmm?’ Greg vibrated, but didn’t lift his head to say more.
‘Do you think he liked seeing me eating his muffin?’
Greg bit my clit, then thrust a fourth finger inside me, pushing in and pulling out. ‘He likes your appetite. I fear we’ll be spending many more dreadfully boring weekends here on the lake.’
I smiled, laying my face on the coverlet and enjoying the pull of the fabric on the jam stuck to my cheeks. When Greg replaced his hand with his cock, I floated in a happy, lusty haze, imagining the next time Tess and I would munch on each others’ goodies … savouring the taste of muffins and marmalade.
Barmaids
Lara Lancey
The rooftop bar overlooked Madison Avenue but inside it was done out like the library of a stately home. Bottle-green book-lined walls, beaten-up leather Chesterfield sofas and chairs, low-lit lamps and candles, and, to top it all, a roaring log fire. The best of both worlds, really. It may have been fake, but it was still a corner of good old England tucked above the glittering streets of New York.
And best of all my business here was all done. I was free to relax. Yes, it was a slight nuisance that my flight back to London was delayed for a couple of days by the worst snow the east coast had experienced in decades, but hey. Other people were paying for my time, let alone my air fare, so what was the rush? There was no one waiting at Heathrow waving a placard. The office were eager to fête my successful snaring of an interview with the new Brad Pitt on the block, but we’d already communicated most of the excitement over Skype.
And where better to be stranded than in the city that never sleeps?
I found a big armchair by the fire and crossed one leg over the other with a swish of stocking. My legs looked too long, and exposed, in the firelight. I still wasn’t used to wearing this working uniform. I felt like I was playing dress-up. They’d all warned me that women in New York were impeccably dressed and groomed, especially in the publicity business, and they were right. The jeans and biker jackets had been left behind in my flat in Long Acre and here I was, zipped into a grey Chanel suit and a flimsy pussy-bow blouse.
I was sitting too close to the fire, and my skin was prickling up with the heat. I ran my finger round the collar of my blouse to cool myself. The creamy lace of my camisole tickled the surface of my skin as I fanned myself, and was swallowed into my deep cleavage as I sighed. I took a long swallow of my white wine, glanced down and noticed that my skirt had ridden up too high, exposing an inch or so of flesh above the stocking top. I was about to tug at my skirt when I thought better of it. The sight of my own pale thigh had stirred me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have ordered a second glass. I liked seeing the firm white skin exposed there. It made my stomach sizzle.
I left the lace stocking top showing.