11 comments/ 43557 views/ 5 favorites Going Dutch By: Arthfawr Ailsa The British tax system got really hostile to free-lance computer dudes, like myself, so I went contracting in Amsterdam doing disaster recovery. We made sure that people's computer systems didn't go down, or if they did, it didn't lose too much information or money, and sink the company. There's a bit more to it than than but suffice to say, in crossing the North Sea, I also crossed the line between very well paid, and stupidly well paid. After about a month my Manager decided that I'd made the apparently impossible happen a couple of times, and my shit didn't stink. He offered me a 12 month contract and I, metaphorically speaking, bit his hand off at the shoulder. There were four of us contractors who had the knowledge and experience to do the job; one Australian; one Yank; another Brit; and me. We were travelling about Europe doing the annual visits to ensure as far as we could that nothing would go wrong for one week in four. We were on call for one week in four. This required the bags be packed and waiting at the door, and as nominated recipient of the midnight phone call, one would catch the taxi waiting outside the flat, pick up the ticket at Schipol Airport, and supervisor the recovery from disaster. This was usually in a very nice city somewhere in Western Europe (flights, acomodation, and living expenses all covered). It was expected that we hang around and make outselves seen for a couple of days when bedding in a newly recovered system. It's a tough job,but someone has to do it. People get tired and emotional when their business looks like its going to go “Tits Up”, so you are the man they call 24 hours a day for status reports until its all running smoothly again. Like a lot of technical support jobs, it's mostly emotional support. I'd get double-time 24 hours a day, and then time off to recover after a job. The better we got, the fewer of these system crashes we had to deal with. It was probably the best job I'd ever had. I was treated with great respect at work, and the technical part was easy once you knew how. We spent the other two weeks on light duties, training ourselves, training other staff, and doing as much advanced work and contingency planning as possible. They even got us a couple of interrns each year, who were newly graduated Dutch Computer Scientists. We would generally get the brightest kids we could, and show them the ways of the Force – there were a lot of Star Wars reference in the department, including naming servers Obi-Wan, Obi-Two, and Obi-Three. I was accused of being a waste of space by my friends from home because I didn't take advantage of the local facilities in Amsterdam. I have only ever paid for sex emotionally, and I have never smoked anything. I made very good money from having reasonably stable brain chemistry, a quick mind, and high motivation. I've never taken anything I couldn't buy over a bar or Pharmacist's counter, and at 33, I didn't think it was worth torpedoing a record I'm quite proud of. Besides, it was theoretically possible that I be used as backup if a second site crashed and the on call dude went to the first. One's rates would be astronomical, but one's contract would be terminated if one were stoned. I notice that my mates didn't heckle too loudly, became they all started coming out to visit for long weekends, or in a few cases a whole week on a cheap flights. They would all get the standard “Here's the spare keys. Here's the fridge. Me Casa, you Jane” speech, the spare “pay as you go” guest's mobile phone on the Dutch mobil phone network, be asked not to make too much noise coming in late on a school night, and if bringing whores back to the flat, please launder their own bed-linen. I had a small covered balcony overlooking the canal, and guests were asked to smoke outside on it. I take my air quality seriously. Time spent in reconnaisance is never wasted, so one finds one's way around the Oudekirk Red Light district because it's the sort of tourist attraction my friends would express an interested in seeing, and knowing the various attractions like the Banana Bar (use your imagination), etc. allowed one to save one's visitors valuable time, and just show them the edited highlights. I got a little two bedroom flat on one of the smaller cross canals close to one of the faster tram routes to Schipol Airport, and a very pleasant three quarters of a mile walk to work. It was bijou, or as the Dutch say, hezelig, but it was very tastefully decorated, and just what I needed. For the Dutch, living on a canal in Amsterdam is as good as it gets, because it's a very nice place to live. Unfortunately for the Dutch, everyone else wants to live on a canal in Amsterdam, especially all of the well paid foreigners, for the same reasons. The prices have gone up out of their price range, causing resentment from the locals. This meant that it was very cosmopolitan, and everyone in the area is quite prosperous. There was an Albert Heijn supermarket round the corner, and the KLM stewardesses had their hotel and watering hole about 300 yards from my front door. I was blindingly lucky to find a garage for my Vintage maroon 1960s MGA through my boss. One of his mates was living away from the 'Dam for a year, and had a parking space in a private multi-storey car park which was guarded 24-hours a day. It was cheaper than paying for a parking meter – just - but it was close by, and it's only worth trying to go round the Amsterdam one way system in a car if it's a nice day, you have lots of time, and plenty of spare coins for parking meters. I had gone through the “eyes out on stalks” phase - if you like tall, elegant, classically beautiful women, with a sense of humour, an animated face, a warm friendly sociable disposition, and a potty mouth, then Amsterdam has a lot to offer over, say for instance, London. I'm not saying British women are short, undignified, plain, humourless, fail to make eye contact, have a shitty attitude, and prudish. I'm just saying that when I went back for a weekend in Britain after about two months, and asked when all the girls had gotten so short, fat, and ugly I was greeted with blank stares of incomprehension. I suppose it's all just what you're used to. I'd done partner dancing when I was working in London, and had enjoyed taking Tango classes. Some say it's “the vertical expression of horizontal desire”. Some say it's “date-rape set to music by a Latin American dictator”. In my opinion, it's a little from collum A, and a little from collum B. I found a dance school teaching Tango classes. My Dutch was fairly primitive, and I only caught a small part of what was probably a very funny class, but I progressed fairly well. One Friday night, I decided to go to one of the social dances having nothing else on. I am 5'6”, broad, fair, a little over-weight, quite a kinetic personality, but a little intense. After the class, came the social dance. I asked myself who I would look most ridiculous dancing with. There was a tall slim girl with freckles, and ginger hair pinned up and back. She was in her early 20s, about 5'10” or so, standing in a corner hiding behind what were evidently rather unfashionable, very strong prescription glasses. She was really pretty in an understated “I'm trying to blend into the background” sort of way. The worst she could do was to tell me to fuck off, and besides, I had seen some fairly mismatched couples - frankly marginal looking men walking down the streets of Amsterdam with a Goddesses on their arm. I went up to her and said in my best Amsterdamse-accented Dutch “Guud me t'dag”. She turned to me, shyly, smiled, and came back with a flow of chatty Dutch, ending, by the sound of it and the timing, in a joke. I chuckled, nodded my head sagely, made as if to reply, paused, shook my head sorrowfully, and said “I'm sorry. I didn't get a word of that. I'm afraid I've only been in Amsterdam three months. All I know is 'Guud met'dag'. Would you care to dance?” She started at me in surprise, then laughed, and said “Sure”. We started dancing, which was completely painless from my point of view. I needed to look round her to steer, but her nipples were at eye-level, and she looked straight over my head. She was goofing around and laughing for the first track, when I stopped her, and lead her to the side of the room. “Look, Ginge, you've probably noticed that there is a fairly entertaining difference in our heights. I make you look like a Giraffe, and you make me look like an Orangutan. Now you evidently have a sense of humour, or you wouldn't be dancing with me in the first place, but I think we want to look smart memorable and ironic, not absurd and ridiculous. The only way I know to make this a world class sight-gag is to play it totally straight. No goofing around. Make it look almost like you're taking it seriously, and think Latin American intensity. Groucho Marx and Margaret Dumont. What do you say?” She looked at me as if for the first time, considered for a moment, and said in an imperious voice “This is a Gala Day for you.” “Well a gal a day is enough for me. I don't think I could handle any more.” Her face lit up with delight, and we spent the next hour and a half swapping Groucho Marx one liners, and basically making love with our clothes on. Tango is one of the most intellectually demanding forms of dance I've come across. You have to completely tune into the other person, and the sort of attention and energy flowing between two people is very flattering. The man is in control, and makes the woman move to his will. She was a really good dancer, did exactly what I wanted, and was an absolute pleasure to dance with. There were not enough men to go around, and the women around the edge of the class were not sure what to make of us. Any time a man is with a woman, other women automatically assume that he is acceptable company, and that they are together. When you are in your own little world of just the two of you, it is very intimate, and people looking in on it feel like voyeurs. They are usually far less ready to make jokes at your expense, and from sniggering about the mismatched couple, they began to want to dance with me, and envied my partner. I found her aroma just incredible. It made me simultaneously horny, interested, light-headed, protective, and feel like taking risks. When the dance finished at 12:30am, and the dancers began filing out. I couldn't let the night to end there, so I turned to my partner and said, “We haven't been introduced. My name is Richard. You are a delight to dance with.” “Thank you very much. You are a good dancer as well. My name is Ailsa. I am please to meet you.” “Ailsa, I'm hungry, and I was going to go and get something to eat. Would you care to join me?” “Oh. I'm a student, and I haven't got the money for eating out.” “Ah. Sorry. Cultural misunderstanding. Allow me put it a different way; I'm hungry; I prefer not to eat alone; I enjoy your company; and in Britain if I ask you to come and eat with me, it means I'm buying. Easy misunderstanding to make. I know a nice little spot round the corner that's quite good.” “Oh. Err... thank you. Yes, I will.” I had done my reading. The Dutch invented “going Dutch”, because the men are NOT tight, just very very good at both getting and keeping money. Spontaneous financial generousity is so unusual in the culture that it would be met with suspicion, though being a foreigner, you can get away with it. Women are, of course, evolved to be attracted to men who have resources, are generous with them, and are prepared to commit them. So the theory goes. The rule is; Netherlands for Money, Cannabis and Prostitution; Belgium for Food and Wine. Most restaurant food in the Netherlands is irredeemably awful, but I'd found, and eaten at what the guide books described as a the only passably good restaurant in Central Amsterdam. The service was pretty good, and I'd tipped the waiter quite generously when I went there before. It was the only place within striking distance of the Leidseplein that I could think of to take her, which would create the tone I wanted to create. Fortunately the same waiter was on duty. He smiled and greeted me by name, saw that I was with a lady, and steered us to a quiet table for two. We ordered drinks, and the waiter left us looking at the menu. I thought she might well respond to candour, rather than my English indirectness, so I bit the bullet and said, “Ailsa. How can I tackle this delicately? Please don't feel the need to order the cheapest thing on the menu, or I shall feel like the cheapest thing on the menu. Money is a secondary concern to your enjoying the meal. I'd rather any choice of food you make was based on what you'd like to eat. Completely independant of any decision about sleeping with me. OK?” She looked up sharply, and saw me smiling back mischeviously “Well obviously I take all factors into account, but I'll certainly bare that in mind. Thank you” she replied completely flatly, as if she was answering a normal question. Her body language, however, shouted approval as I felt her rub her bare foot gently up my leg, coming to rest in my lap under the table. She spent the meal emphasising her point in the conversation by rubbing her foot against my cock, trying to make me lose concentration. I massaged her foot as I listened, trying to do likewise. Mmmm. Brain games. I like it. As she began to feel a little more comfortable with me, and came out of her shell, I found Ailsa was rather more direct than I was used to. There was, however an unsettlingly strong chemistry at the table. It turned out that she was 21, studying English and Business Studies at the University of Amsterdam, and living in the suburbs with her parents. Her father was a Professor of Physics, and her mother was a Professor of Botany, also both at the University of Amsterdam. I asked her about herself, the first time she fell in love, and what was good about her last relationship. She answered intimately and animatedly, rubbing her foot in my lap for emphasis, giving me the basic roadmap of how she had been successfully seduced in the past. I gathered from what she said that she had only had three boyfriends. With one, she found his intelligence highly attractive. The second young man had a sense of humour that frankly aroused her - she used the phrase “Whisper intelligent nothings in my ear” twice. The third man was wealthy with a very strong and dominating personality, but it had all come unstuck because he felt inadequate about her intellect, and became abusive. She had a jealous streak, a high sex drive, and her family had been very poor when she was young, so she was acutely aware of money, and male generousity. She was intelligent to the point of nerdy, having been teased at school for being flat chested (no longer an issue), gangly, ginger, and freckle faced. She had a dry sense of humour similar to mine, though in my opinion a great deal funnier, and loved the Marx bothers with a passion. Behind the extremely pretty face, which was behind the milk bottle thick glasses, she was a shy, thoughtful, wordy, self-aware, literate young woman with integrity, stuborness, strong opinions, ambition, and high morals, which apparently crumbled under the first contact with pheramones. She had many suitors, but had only accepted, and fallen hard for men when her primal reaction to their personal musk made her hornier than a bitch in heat, at which point, she threw herself at them. She said that when they got out of bed, she would roll over to their side, and nuzzle her face into the sheets where they had been sleeping. Her sex drive turned off when she didn't have someone in her life, and she lived unattached, lonely, and celebate. She enjoyed male company, but unless they floated her boat, they got precisely nowhere. If she had been much more homely, this still would have been my best night in Amsterdam yet. As it was, she was heart rendingly sweet, personally sympathetic, very physically appealing, shy, and had red hair, glasses, a great body, and a thing for intelligent funny dominant men. Now I wonder where we're going to find one of those at this time of night. We had a bottle of very good wine with dinner, and coffee at the end of the meal. The waiter passed me the bill. I passed him back my AmEx Gold Card without looking at the bill, then when he bought it back, I signed the receipt with a 20% tip. American Expres never ran an advert saying “Gold Card. It impresses the chicks.” I think this was a mistake. We were both in a very happy mood, and as we left the restaurant I took her hand, and put her arm in mine, as we strolled along the street to the canal. “I am really enjoying your company. I would hate for this evening to end unnecessarily early. I only live a short walk away – would you like to come up and have a night-cap?” She nuzzled my neck and whispered breathlessly “Mmmm. I'd like that.” I had a strong suspicion that my musk was pushing her buttons, so I said “I'm afraid I'll have to take a shower when we get in. I'm afraid you probably noticed while we were dancing that my shirt was getting a bit sweaty.” She lowered her head to my neck again, put her arms around me, and drew in a full breath. She whispered in a husky voice “Not necessary.” Her eyes had a glazed distant look, and she brushed her breast against my chest as she pulled away. “You know you have a very strong lead when you dance.” “Not too strong I hope?” “ I like a man to lead me strongly when I'm dancing. Most of the Dutch men at the dance class, they are like dancing with a wet cabbage.” “I assume that's a Dutch phrase you just cut and pasted straight into English.” My hand slid down to her waist, and I pulled her closer. She squeezed my shoulder in return, and drew me in closer. We walked back to my building chatting quietly, and as we got to the front door I reached for the keys in my pocket. She stood behind me, and her hands stroked me shoulders. “Nice appartment. Is it rent controlled?” “No.” “Oh.” I could almost hear the gears whirring in her head. We stepped inside, and I closed the glass door. I walked to the stairs, turned on the first step, drew her towards me, and took her in my arms. I moved my face towards hers, and when she didn't pull away, I kissed her lightly on the lips. I held the kiss for a few seconds, withdrew, then returned pressing more firmly. My lips parted and hers followed. Our tongues touched, and I felt what seemed like a jolt of electricity. I pushed my tongue into her mouth urgently, and she pushed hers back even more forcefully. She ran her fingers through my hair, and melted into me. Point to note; letter to my uncle Hywel thanking him for the advice about 'Watch out for the quiet ones'. “Forget the stairs, lets take the lift. I just needed something to stand on.” She snorted trying to stiffle a laugh. “Are you reading my mind?” “You were thinking very loudly.” I put my arm back round her waist as we waited for the lift. I guided her into the lift, pressed the button, and as soon as the doors closed and it began to go up, I reached out, and kissed me hard again. She wrapped herself around me, running both hands wildly back and forth through my hair. The lift arrived, and I lead her by the hand to the door of my flat. She stood behind me, slipped her hand down the waistband of my trousers, and wrapped her fingers around my semi-hard cock. “Ooh. That's nice. Did you know your scrotum is nearly full.” The cheekiness, the accent, the matter of factness, and the literal turn of phrase had been turning me on all night. Now the cold hand gently squeezing my nuts made my speech falter as I gasped and swooned in pleasure. “So you're the Scrotum Police now are you? By the way, any time you ever need a hand warmer, feel absolutely free to use me as you wish.” Going Dutch I was expecting a normal shift when I arrived at the police station. I'd just changed into my uniform, checked my make-up and was on my way to report to the desk sergeant, when Dougie Wilson, one of my colleagues and a complete arsehole, intercepted me with a grin. "Hey, Fraser, Chief Inspector McFarlane wants you to report to his office as soon as you get in. Been a bad girl have you?" Pausing only long enough to tell him to piss off, I made my way along to 'Super Mac's' office. He greeted me with his usual taciturn grunt, then told me to take a seat, which was unusual to say the least. It was only then that I noticed the other three people in the room. I took them in in a second or so. The first was Detective Inspector Peter Leslie from the Drugs Squad. Immediately I started to take more notice: clearly there was nothing routine about this. The second guy was a stranger in his 40s, short, dark and rotund, hunched in a crumpled business suit it looked like he'd slept in -- an impression reinforced by the dark sheen of overnight stubble around his chin. The last person I registered was the one I really noticed. She was maybe 10 years older than me (I'm 24), long-legged, slim with very short reddish-blonde hair, alabaster skin, a wide smiling mouth and wide but narrow green eyes that put me in mind of a cat. Unlike the guy who I guessed was her companion, she was wearing what was clearly an expensive, tailored black trouser suit, with sandals displaying purple-painted toenails - not exactly standard dress in Edinburgh Central Police Office. A little older and classier than the sort of women I usually go for, but drop dead gorgeous. McFarlane made the introductions. "This is WPC Fraser. Fraser, this is Inspector Estelle van Sluiter of the Amsterdam Police, and her colleague Sergeant Piet van der Gaal." The bloke didn't react at all, but Inspector van Sluiter's smile widened even more and she reached out to shake my hand. "Please, call me Stelle." I had no idea what I was doing there, but I smiled back and told her to call me Izzie. As we shook she held onto my hand for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary, which made me wonder about her. I noticed that her long slim fingers were topped with manicured nails, also glossy purple. And she wasn't wearing a wedding ring. I also noticed as she leaned towards me that her white V-neck jumper was sufficiently low-cut to give me a nice view of her cleavage. I was eager to find out what was going on, and McFarlane, clearly slightly offended by the informality of the senior Dutch officer, enlightened me. "You applied recently for transfer to the detective branch didn't you, er, Isobel. Well, we need a bright young female officer to work with our Dutch colleagues for a few days, and Inspector Leslie was quite impressed with your work on Operation Ferret, so we thought this would be an ideal opportunity to see how you get on." Ferret had been an op where I'd been one of the uniformed cops attached to the Drugs Squad and done a quite a lot of intel work, plus one evening 'under cover' sitting in a rather nasty Edinburgh ale house pretending to be Leslie's girlfriend. McFarlane was offended again as Stelle, with her throaty, sexy accent, interrupted him. "Perhaps I could explain Donald. (The Chief Inspector was mildly apoplectic with outrage at her use of his first name, much to D.I. Leslie's barely concealed amusement.) "You see Izzie, we're after one of our local drug dealers, a small time crook but nasty, you know? We've lost sight of him recently, but we've had a tip that he's arranged a meeting with one of your local dealers in the next couple of days and, for reasons I can't go into, we're very anxious to speak to him back in the Netherlands. So your authorities have kindly agreed that we can come over and keep a watch on your man, with support from the local force. Are you interested?" I began to see why I'd been offered this 'chance', especially when Pete Leslie said he'd be assigning one of his D.C.s to accompany van der Gaal and I'd be keeping Stelle company. It sounded like scut work, simply playing chaperone and chauffeur to Stelle on what would be for the most part a dull surveillance op. Drugs didn't have that many female officers, and they couldn't spare them for such a menial, tedious task. No doubt they'd sweep in and grab the glory, as usual, when it came time to start making arrests. Still, Stelle was pleasant eye candy and, if my initial hunch about her had been correct, who knew what I might get out of it? So I gave her my most winning smile and said I'd be glad to help. She smiled warmly at me in return and, her eyebrows arching for a fraction of a second, she said, "Good. I'd really like to see you out of that uniform of yours." She left the sentence hanging for a second. Bloody hell, she wasn't flirting with me was she? Right in front of these guys? I don't think I look particularly dykey, even in my uniform, but maybe she'd picked up some vibes from me, and noticed the way my eyes took in her body when I first saw her. She finally added, "Have you got any other clothes you could change into?" I told her only the rather grubby jeans and T-shirt I'd worn into the office that morning, but she said that would be fine. We stood and she walked me down to the locker room. As we walked I let my hand casually brush against Stelle's. She gave me one of her huge cat smiles and, resting her hand on my back for a moment, said "I think you and I are going to really enjoy doing it together." Christ, she really was flirting with me! It had been three months since I'd split with my last girlfriend, and with the pressures of work and post-relationship fed-upness I hadn't really got around to getting back on the dating scene. My nipples stiffened just at the thought that this beautiful Dutch officer might want to get into my knickers! In the locker room she sat on one of the wooden benches and briefed me further about the op. All the while I was changing I could feel her eyes boring into my back. When I was down just to my bra and my sensible Marks and Spencers knicks I turned to face her, pretending a question had just occurred to me. Sure enough, as she answered, Stelle's eyes roamed down my body, pausing at my ample boobs and the dark patch which showed through the front of my pants. She appeared to like what she saw. Whereas Stelle was tall and fair, I'm short -- five-three -- and dark, with big boobs, wide hips, an ample bum and, I admit, a few pounds overweight. I checked an unmarked car out of the pool, got the canteen to do us a big flask of coffee and some sandwiches, and we set off for the target's home, in Edinburgh's Old Town. Although we were alone Stelle didn't make the slightest sexual reference or move, unless you count a comment that I'd like Holland -- "lots of pretty canals, pretty windmills and pretty dykes." I was too nervous to make a move. I was sure I couldn't have mis-read her: maybe it was simply her foreign ways, and she didn't realise what she was saying, but I didn't think so. Anyway, we sat there all day, at the end of the guy's street so as not to arouse his suspicion, and the most we saw him do was go to the corner shop for a bottle of milk and some tea bags. We saw a few people who looked like addicts go into his tenement block, and emerge again a few minutes later, but there was no other activity to speak of. Mid-afternoon I sprinted a hundred yards down the road to get us a couple of burgers and some chips, and that was about as exciting as it got. To pass the time we talked about ourselves. I told Stelle how I'd grown up in this area, in a tenement just like the one we were watching, leaving school at 16 to help support my mother and kid sister, our dad having run out on us five years before. Stelle's background was totally different: her father had been a senior police officer, a minor star of the Amsterdam force, and her mother was a highly successful commercial artist. Stelle had grown up in one of the richest suburbs of the city, and been privately educated. I had casually mentioned that I lived alone, and although Stelle didn't say she also did I noticed that there was no reference to any husband or partner or whatever. About six in the evening the Dutch sergeant, van der Gaal, rolled up with one of the Drugs Squad D.C.s to relieve us. He and Stelle spoke briefly in Dutch, and I got the impression there wasn't much love lost between them. I greeted him but he completely ignored me. As I drove away, to take Stelle back to her hotel in trendy Leith, the old, now yuppified, port of Edinburgh, she sighed and said, "Sorry about that. The man's an asshole, and a pig." As we drove Stelle casually asked me if I had any plans for the evening. Without thinking I said I intended to go for a short run in The Meadows -- a green space in the heart of the city - then have a nice long relaxing bath and wash my hair. She shrugged and said, "Okay, only I'm going to have a drink in the hotel bar, and I wondered if you might like to join me; but that's fine." Mentally kicking myself, I hurriedly said, "Oh no, I'm sorry, what sort of host am I being leaving you all alone in a foreign city where you don't even know anyone! I'd be glad to have a drink with you, I'll just need to nip home and change first." We agreed to meet in the bar at eight. The moment I had dropped Stelle off I raced back into town, hurtled into my flat, ripped off my clothes and threw myself into the shower. I wasted a few minutes debating whether or not to shave my armpits for the first time in more than a week then, deciding I didn't have time, I pulled on a thong so brief it rode up into my pussy, a black push-up bra and a short black dress with a deep V which emphasised my substantial cleavage. Finishing the ensemble off with a pair of black strappy sandals and a short white jacket I rushed down the stairs of the building brushing my long, black hair as I went. Fortunately I had to wait for only a few minutes for a cab, and I arrived at Stelle's ultra-modern hotel with ten minutes to spare. I used the time to brush my hair again and fix my make-up, and entered the bar one minute early. Stelle was already there, perched on a bar stool and looked stunning. She'd changed into a floaty black blouse and white slacks, with gold sandals. As I approached I realised that the blouse was semi-transparent, and I could clearly see her unsheathed conical boobs and the slight swell of her nipples. I felt my own nips stiffen again as I sat nervously on the stool adjacent to hers. She was drinking whiskey and offered me one, which I gladly accepted to try and calm the nerves in my suddenly knotting stomach. I had a feeling of certainty that I was going to end up in bed with Stelle, and normally I simply don't attract women that gorgeous. As we sipped our drinks some sort of manager of the hotel came over and cleared his throat apologetically. "I'm sorry ladies, but we don't allow..." I grabbed my warrant card out of my handbag and flashed it at him, my mouth open in disbelief that he could have taken us for a couple of whores touting for punters. As he retreated in apologetic confusion Stelle and I collapsed in giggles, which relaxed me a bit. Giving me a seductive smile she stroked my face with her fingertips, pretending to brush away a loose strand of hair, and asked, "So, apart from running and bathing, what does Miss Isobel Fraser like to do for fun?" Letting my mouth run before I'd put my brain into gear again, I told her I liked reading about Scottish history, clubbing and screwing girls. Instantly I felt my face burning crimson; oh my God, I couldn't believe I'd just said that, out loud and in public, to a woman I was hoping to impress enough to sleep with me! Stelle wasn't in the least put out though: her smile broadened and she said "Mmm, I like the third one especially." As she said it I felt her fingernails grazing the inside of my knee. I slipped forward on my stool, causing her hand to move up to my thigh, under my dress. The smile now on full beam, Stelle raised her glass and said, "Why don't we finish these and go and open the bottle of schnapps I have in my room." The moment the lift doors closed her arms were around me and we were locked in a deep kiss, her tongue exploring my mouth. I felt my pussy start to dampen, but as the lift drew to a halt and the doors opened we sprung apart, trying to look as innocent as the two small Italian children who bolted past us into the lift, closely followed by their parents. Taking my hand in hers, Stelle raced me along the corridor to her room. The moment we were inside we resumed the kiss, Stelle's hands rubbing up and down my back as we leaned against the door. After a minute or so she broke off, saying "I'll be back in a moment, why don't you get into bed?" With that she ducked into the bathroom. I stripped quickly and slipped into the bed, regretting not taking the time to shave my pits. I left the covers folded down below my thighs to give Stelle a clear view of what she was getting. I'm hairier than any other woman I've ever known. My pubes start with a line of hair which runs from my belly button down to a thick tangled thatch on my mound, extending right past my pussy lips to my bum and thighs. Some girls love it, others find it a turn off, so I was a bit nervous of Stelle's reaction. When she emerged from the bathroom, however, she stared straight at my pussy and literally growled, her eyes widening with arousal. She was completely naked too, and I was equally pleased with what I saw. Her long slim body was ghostly white, and her pussy was shaved bald. Her nipples were small pink berries, with areola hardly wider than the nips; very different to my huge buttons with their areola spreading halfway across my enormous knockers. I was surprised to see a tiny gold ring in Stelle's navel. She posed for me for a second then moved forward and lay on top of me, pressing her lips hard to mine as our tongues fought a duel for supremacy. As her small tits rubbed against mine, and her lower thigh caressed my slit, I couldn't remember ever feeling more turned on. She broke the kiss and smiled glassy-eyed at me, murmuring "You are one sexy lady, Isobel Fraser; I just love your furry pussy; and these." She buried her nose in my armpit, nuzzling the hair. For myself I could scarcely believe I was in bed with such a beautiful, alluring woman, and I desperately wanted to get my mouth on her pussy, and savour for the first time in months my favourite taste in all the world. Rolling her onto her back I squirmed down to her little boobs and took one between my lips, sucking on the breast meat and flicking the nip with my tongue. As I began to kiss lower Stelle tweaked her other nipple with her fingers and lay back with her eyes closed, whispering "Ja, oh God ja." I tickled in her belly button with my tongue, gently tugging at the gold ring with my teeth, and as my lips contacted her bald mons pubis she gasped "Oh God, neuken me." I didn't know what that meant, but as her hand gently pressed against the top of my head, pushing me lower, I got the general idea. I got a bit of a shock as I lowered myself between Stelle's legs -- she had easily the biggest clit I'd ever seen, more like a small prick, just begging to be sucked. I applied my lips to it and flicked my tongue across the head. She gave a sharp gasp and her thighs twitched. I carried on sucking and nibbling her clit as I pushed three fingers into her and twiddled them around. I had to break off from kissing her clit occasionally just to get the sweet taste of pussy on my tongue, but each time I just swapped over, my fingers stroking and nipping her bud while my tongue lapped at her slit. After a few minutes she was writhing under me, her knees raised and her heels beating a steady rhythm on the bed. She gave a series of long breathy cries and I felt a surge in her pussy as her cum flooded onto my tongue. I started to wind down, licking her clit more gently and stroking my fingers around her labia, to help Stelle get her breath back, but after a few moments she started squirming around underneath me, gasping "Tezamen! Together!" I realised what she meant and helped her get into position, with her head between my legs. She clasped my hips in her hands and pulled me onto her. I felt a surge of electricity pass through my pussy and up my spine as Stelle pressed her face into me, her tongue lapping my slit as fingers tweaked and pressed my clit. Of course I was now approaching her from a different angle to previously, and I was falling in love with that huge clit of hers. I sucked it into my mouth and pressed half of one hand into her pussy, stroking the crack of her bum with the fingers of my other hand, gradually working them deeper into her. As she lapped at me I heard Stelle mumble, "Wow, dus harig." (She told me later, slightly embarrassed, that it meant 'so hairy'.) I tried to give Stelle as good as I was getting, but she'd already come once whereas I hadn't. I was gasping and struggling for breath so much I couldn't keep up my attention to her pussy. In the end I just sat up, riding her face as she continued to lap, suck and finger me. I suddenly felt a tremendous pressure on my anus, then the most glorious feeling as Stelle started fisting my bum, her entire slim hand squeezed into me. I knew I couldn't take for long the combination of that, her sweet tongue in my pussy and her fingers twiddling my clitty, and within seconds I had a howling, shaking orgasm, which left me totally drained of energy. Stelle lay behind me and hugged me to her, her tits pressing into my back and her soft lips pressed to my neck. We made love half the night, and as I sucked on Stelle's amazing clit for the third time she groaned hoarsely, "Fuck Izzie, you are such a pussy monster!" I finally left at 4.30am to go home and change, and to try and get a couple of hours sleep. That was a struggle, as I started dreaming of Stelle suspended above me, fucking me with her own huge penis! The next couple of days were pretty repetitious. Our guy basically spent the day doing the sort of stuff any normal person might do: going to the bookies, going shopping, being visited by dozens of painfully thin young men and women with sunken, haunted eyes...D.I. Leslie's team couldn't wait to get their hands on him once the Dutch bloke finally turned up. Stelle actually frigged me once in the car, her hand stealing down into my knickers and her fingers playing beautifully around my clit, and another time she suddenly whipped my T-shirt up, dragged a bra cup down and started chewing on one of my nipples. We were lucky not to get arrested! God knows what would have happened if our man had done anything just then. I spent every night in Stelle's bed at the hotel, and I got into the habit of taking my next day's clothes over there with me. We sucked, nibbled and licked each other dry; we fisted each other; we tribadised, locking our pussies together, her huge clit giving me tremors of ecstasy. One night she even licked out my arse. I was a bit reluctant when she started doing it, but her long, silky tongue reaming my bum felt amazing, she had me squirming and whimpering in no time. Afterwards, as I sucked on her tongue, I told her she was a filthy cow, and she giggled. "I just can't help it Izzie, I love all your fur. I've never had a hairy lover, and your pussy and your bum are both wonderful." Later that night, Stelle told me about her rape. I lay listening in horrified astonishment. I've spoken to a few rape victims, and Stelle told her story much the same way: matter-of-factly, so she didn't have to get too deep into it, put herself mentally back in that position. "I was in uniform then, just 20 and only been in the job a few months. I was patrolling an industrial area one night and I saw a light in a warehouse that shouldn't have been there. I went in and called 'Police' but I couldn't see the light anymore. Then he jumped me -- he'd been on some boxes or something and he knocked all the wind out of me. He pressed a knife against my throat and told me if I made a sound or resisted him he'd slit me from ear to ear. After that he just pulled my trousers and pants down and stuck his thing in me from behind. He was a big heavy man and I couldn't move, I was pinned to the ground with him pushing and grunting on top of me, and the cold concrete floor scratching my thighs. When he finished he turned me over and made me suck him, with his sperm still on his dick. He kept the knife at my throat in case I got any ideas about biting. He'd just finished with me when another patrolman found us and beat the guy half to death with his night stick. I couldn't help, I just lay there staring at them with my pants round my ankles and my legs wide open. It was three years before I could let another person touch me, let alone make love to anyone else. That's not why I'm a dyke -- I knew I was when I was 14. But it's one reason I've worked so hard to get where I am." Afterwards we made love tenderly then clung to each other, both crying softly. Going Dutch By the fourth day of observation D.I. Leslie was all for calling it off. He was convinced the Dutch had been given a false lead, but Stelle was adamant their guy would turn up. We were both a bit sombre in the car, realising our short time together was about to end. Then, shortly after noon, our man made a move on foot. Stelle followed him and I kept contact with her in the car, in case we needed to drive somewhere in a hurry. The guy took a seat in one of the many cafés on the Royal Mile. I got a parking space nearby and joined Stelle in the coffee bar across the road to our target. He sat in the café for two hours, looking in increasing frustration at his watch, then returned to his flat, clearly not happy. We were due to knock off at 6 o'clock, but 10 minutes later Sergeant van der Gaal and his equally surly Drugs Squad minder still hadn't turned up. I agreed with Stelle's expressed view that they were "probably in some pub in town, getting pissed." Just as we were staring to get irritated, our guy raced out of his tenement block as if all the demons in hell were after him. He leapt into his battered old car and hared off. Stelle didn't need to say a word, I followed instantly. The idiot was pushing so far beyond the speed limit it was difficult to keep him in sight, but eventually we tracked him to a rather grand country house hotel somewhere on the edge of the city. Stelle was using my personal radio to try and get hold of our relief officers, but neither were answering. We waited a few minutes, then decided we'd have to take the risk of going in and seeing if we could see anything. As we discussed it, Stelle handed me something. It turned out to be a small, nasty looking automatic pistol. I stared at her in astonishment. "Stelle, I can't use this! In fact you shouldn't even have it, you're not allowed to carry a gun in Scotland. How the hell did you get it?" She muttered "A friend at the Dutch consulate." She didn't look at me as she spoke, as she was in the process of checking the pistol she also held. But she then glanced at me and asked, "Do you know how to use a gun?" As it happened I had done the firearms course a couple of months earlier, as part of my campaign to become a detective, but I wasn't an authorised user. I nodded dumbly. "Good; well, hopefully you won't have to. Let's go." I asked her, in a slightly dazed fashion, if we shouldn't call for back up. She shook her head. "This is probably nothing. And if something is going down in there we might miss it if we don't move quickly." Before I could argue any further Stelle was out of the car, tucking her gun into the waistband at the back of her designer denim trousers. I followed her, doing the same with my rather scruffy Tesco jeans. As soon as we entered the hotel we knew something was wrong. I showed my warrant card and asked if anyone had seen our man. Three members of staff started talking at once. When we'd quietened them, we established that he'd bolted through the lobby and up the big winding staircase to the upper floor. The hotel manager had followed, but neither had returned yet. Stelle leading, we made our way cautiously up the stairs, We found the manager on the first landing, semi-conscious, blood pouring from nasty wounds to his mouth and nose, where our target had kicked him. Stelle, suddenly very much the commanding police officer, ordered me to get him down to the lobby and call for back-up. She then disappeared around a turn in the stairs, drawing her gun as she went. I hesitated for a fatal second, then chased after her, slipping the safety catch off the gun still in my waist band. At the top of the stairs I heard a gasp, then a muffled scream. I was momentarily paralysed by the sight which met my eyes on the top floor. The bloke we'd been watching for the last few days lay in the corridor, clearly alive but not moving, a large patch of blood splayed across his chest. And a couple of yards further on, just ten feet or so away from me, stood a tall, rangy blond man in his 30s, one arm around Stelle's waist and the other holding a vicious looking blade to her throat. Stelle was even paler than usual, deathly white, and looked frankly terrified. Her eyes continually swivelled between me and the critically injured man on the floor in front of her. Her gun lay discarded between them. The man holding her spoke in a thick accent. "Get out of my way, or I'll cut her fucking throat. I mean it, move!" He increased the pressure of the knife on Stelle's throat, and she gasped and shuddered. I tried to bluff the guy. "Look, Ruud, that is your name, isn't it?" You're not going anywhere. There are going to be a dozen police cars here within five minutes. It's over, give it up now and you might get out of this without anyone actually dying." I indicated the prostrate drug dealer. Ruud spat contemptuously. The jerk of his body as he did so made Stelle quiver again. He snarled, "You say there are cops coming? Maybe, maybe not. But in two minutes I'm gonna be driving out of here with your friend here. Who knows, I might even give her a good time before I slit her up." He grinned horribly, and rubbed his groin suggestively against Stelle's bum. He half-whispered to her, in English for my benefit, "I'll bet you'd like a nice big fat cock up you, wouldn't you copper?" Stelle's head rocked back and her eyes closed in abject fear. I was terrified too: I had no idea what to do in this situation. Clearly I couldn't let the bastard walk out of here with Stelle. I didn't know what car he drove, and we were less than a mile from the motorway, within half an hour he could be anywhere. It would have been bad enough if it had been any colleague he was threatening, but this was a woman I was staring to fall in love with, who had already lived once through the ordeal this piece of shit was threatening her with. In desperation, not thinking clearly, trying anything to buy time, I said, "You don't want her, she's a fucking dyke. Take me instead Ruud, I love cock and I can suck you from here to paradise." Ruud laughed. "She's a dyke? I'll enjoy fucking her even more then, show her what she's been missing." He took a step forward, pushing Stelle in front of him. She appeared to be completely out of it. Only a tiny part of him could be seen behind her. The move forced me to step back, and as I did I felt the pistol Stelle had given me press into the small of my back. A grain of an idea developed in my head; what I needed was some kind of diversion. I cleared my throat nervously. "Ruud, listen..." My eyes flickered to his right. I screamed "Get back in your room!" He glanced away, only for a split second, but it was all I needed. I ripped the pistol out of my belt and, with barely any time to aim, I fired. The shot was deafening, and for a fraction of a second time seemed to stand still. They guy screamed and the hand which had been pressed against Stelle's midriff slapped against the side of his head. In the same instant Stelle came to life, as if reacting to a starter's pistol. She bit viciously into the hand in which Ruud held the knife and kicked back at him. The knife fell with a clatter, and Ruud dropped to the floor, curling into a ball and whimpering, still holding his head. Instantly Stelle was on him, kicking and stamping viciously and screaming "Smeerlap, smeerlap!" (Apparently that means swine or bastard, something like that.) It took all my strength to drag her off him. Finally she too fell to the floor, weeping. I quickly handcuffed the stunned man to the handy leg of a heavy table nearby, then snapped at a white-faced hotel employee who had arrived to call the police and an ambulance. After that I rushed over to Stelle, pulled her to her feet and hugged her to me. She was shivering and seemed as cold as the grave. A nearby door was open -- presumably Ruud's room. I shuffled Stelle through it and made her lie on the bed. Then I lay beside her and pressed my body to her, my arms around her, rubbing vigorously, trying to reintroduce some warmth to her. The adrenalin rush I'd experienced when I saw Stelle in that fucker's grip had now passed and I was starting to feel desperately tired. I started to tremble myself as I began to realise for the first time just how close I had come to taking another human being's life; and how if the shot had been two inches to the left it would have been Stelle I'd hit. She was hugging me back, and somehow my attempts to revive her started to turn into us kissing, at first gently then more vigorously, her tongue swirling around mine. Almost before I realised what was happening her lips were attached to my throat, and I felt her tugging at the belt of my jeans. I placed an urgent hand on hers. "Stelle, we can't. Half the cops in the Lothians'll be here any minute, and we're going to have to tell them exactly what's been going on." She paused and looked me earnestly in the eye. "Izzie, I nearly die out there just now. You saved my fucking life. I'm still fucking terrified inside, and I need this, right now." With that she slid down the bed, taking my jeans and pants with her. Bending my legs outwards at the knees she dipped her head between them and I almost swooned with pleasure as her long tongue lapped the length of my pussy. I was vaguely aware of the sound of sirens, but they seemed irrelevant compared to the lips and tongue that were now applying themselves to my clit, and the fingers that were plunging into the centre of my pussy, swirling circles of sheer desire through me. I grabbed for Stelle's short hair and tried to pull her face further into me. Then I felt two of her fingers stroking along my bum crack. I think I must have needed it as well - making love, even with Stelle, had never felt quite this intense before. Even as I heard heavy footsteps racing up the hotel staircase Stelle flipped me over, and then that incredible, probing tongue was up my backside, driving me out of my mind with its velvet caresses. Suddenly I heard Sergeant van der Gaal's voice exclaim "Oh mijn God!" I couldn't hear whether he said anything else for my own wail of joyful release. As Ruud had been taken away Stelle had growled something to him in Dutch that had made the colour drain from his face. When I asked what it was she told me, "I said he'd better pray I never get five minutes alone with him, because if I do I'm going to cut off his prick and eat it before his eyes." My position in the force looked a bit precarious for a week or two, not because of the sex but because of the shooting. Fortunately I'd only grazed Ruud with my shot, and between them the Lothians and Amsterdam police magically came up with a prior agreement they'd forgotten to mention before that Stelle, and anyone assisting her, could use guns in arresting him, if necessary to defend life. In the event the enquiry cleared me of any wrongdoing. A few days later Peter Leslie 'phoned me to say he was looking for a new detective for the Drugs Squad, and would I be interested? A week after I'd been formally cleared I got a letter from the Royal Dutch Police Service informing me that they wanted me to travel to Amsterdam, at their expense naturally, to accept a bravery award for my part in Ruud's capture and in saving Stelle. The following day she e-mailed me, saying she'd pick me up at Schiphol Airport and put me up for the duration of my stay. It was her final words that most interested me: "Don't expect to get any sleep while you're with me -- pussy monster!" Going Dutch - Krysta Going Dutch -- Krysta My name is Brian. I had gone through an emotional period where I lost my job, got divorced and managed to make a small windfall on the stock market. Not a fortune, but enough that I could be something of a daytrader and be able to earn my living from anywhere in the world. I had an affinity for Holland, not Amsterdam which is everyone's mental picture of the Netherlands, but the smaller cities in the south of the country. Having made the move I was living in a small one bedroom apartment in the center of town but I was loving my new life. Weekdays were spent trying to make profitable trades on the London stockmarket in the morning and then the North American markets when they open later in the afternoon. The down side was a day that began at 9:00 a.m. and didn't end until 10:00 p.m. Weekends were spent having a few beers at one of my favourite café's and getting to know the locals. On Sunday evening I was enjoying myself chatting to a married couple that I'd met a number of times previously. Krysta was about 60 years old and I'd place her husband John, a few years older. Krysta was feeling rather merry that evening and insisted on dancing with me a couple of times even though there was no defined dance floor in the small café. Not a small lady but not huge either . I'd describe her as curvy or Rubenesque. She had long reddish brown hair that she wears tied up. John was a little taller than me , probably six feet tall, with a pepper and salt goatee. As the café started to clear out John asked me if I'd like to join them at their apartment for a drink. Their apartment was a 5 to 10 minute walk away so I quickly accepted providing they could give me a couple minutes to use the toilet and pay my bar tab. John said they would be waiting outside as Krysta was in need of a cigarette. A couple of minutes later I emerged from the café looking for the two of them and finally the flare from a lighter caught my attention and showed me where Krysta was waiting. As I approached Krysta there was no sign of John. I asked her where he was, she just smiled and said that he'd gone ahead to 'pour the drinks'. Krysta and I linked arms and made our way along the cobbled streets that were glistening from a recent sprinkle. The walk was good fun with Krysta enjoying two of her favourite pleasures, smoking and flirting. We had just crossed a bridge and were walking past a shoe store with its display window set back from the street under an overhang from the upper floors of the building. Krysta directed me past the support columns to the window , presumably to look at shoes. Taking a final deep drag on her cigarette and flicking the butt away she pulled my head to hers and plunged her tongue down my throat in a wild smoky kiss. Totally surprised I responded as passionately as I could considering this unexpected turn. Our kissing quickly became extremely hot and I started to move one of my hands to cup and squeeze her breast. She beat me to it, she'd already opened her coat and had managed to expose one of her tits. My mouth was redirected down to her nipple for some sucking. This seemed like a wild sexual adventure to me. Here I was sucking this sixty year old lady's tit after one of the wildest two minutes of kissing I'd ever had. I made up my mind I was going to somehow fuck this lady in this secluded storefront. Suddenly the clatter of a group of café goers on bicycles laughing and talking as they cycled past brought us back to reality. I was content to wait for them to ride past and then resume the fun but the moment was over for Krysta. She tucked her breast back into her bra and did up her dress and coat. She then took my arm and led me back to the street. As we continued our walk I was constantly on the lookout for a place to finally have my way with this lady. Imagine my disappointment when Krysta announced we were in front of her building. I wasn't sure I could face John with a face that I'm sure had telltale signs of Krysta's lipstick and trousers that were trying to hide a massive erection. Krysta told me not to worry and rang the intercom asking John to let us in. As the door opened we had some stairs to climb but Krysta took my hand and led the way. When we finally were standing in front of their door Krysta turned to me and kissed me again. Not the wild kiss that we'd shared before but still quite hot and passionate. Then she rang the doorbell. As the door opened John boomed 'What took you so long?' followed by a 'Welcome to our home Brian'. John was wearing what looked to be silk pajamas and a robe. Krysta and John spoke briefly together in Dutch and then she went off somewhere else in the apartment while John and I made small talk. He eventually mentioned that Krysta had told him that we'd kissed . I was mortified . Our eyes met and I thought he was going to kill me but he smiled and pointed to the couch while he chose to sit opposite in a wingback leather armchair. 'Don't worry about the kiss. It's just harmless good fun. Perhaps I should tell you a bit about our relationship but first let's have a drink. You could have coffee, tea or perhaps join Krysta and I in a brandy' . I quickly indicated brandy would be perfect. John returned a few minutes later with a tray holding three snifters and one nearly full bottle of brandy. I have to admit to being in desperate need of a strong drink to calm my nerves a bit. John poured the brandy and we had just clinked glasses when Krysta re-entered the room dressed in a silk nightie and robe like John's, smoking a small cigar. I glanced at John and he said That Krysta takes the term 'brandy and cigars', literally. Krysta joined me on the couch,John quickly poured her a drink. John took a sip of brandy and cleared his throat. 'I was mentioning that Krysta and I have an .....unconventional relationship at times'. I stole a glance to my right at Krysta. She gave a small smile and continued to concentrate on her exhales from her cigar that she was sending to the ceiling. She had also moved a little closer to me and her left thigh was rubbing against my right thigh. John continued. 'We have an open marriage and Krysta is free to explore her sexuality with another man, a woman, a couple, it's entirely up to her. I'm in complete agreement with this arrangement and I particularly like to watch occasionally. Earlier tonight I could tell she was interested in you and I suggested that we invite you back for a drink. It was actually my idea to arrange for you to walk together. Do you have any questions?' 'Are you also free to 'explore' your sexuality?' 'Yes, of course.' 'Are you...... straight?' That question seemed to trip up John. He gave a nervous laugh and replied that he was perhaps bi-curious but had no immediate plans to be with a man . However , he loved performing oral sex on his wife after another man had deposited his load and he also loved the feeling of sloppy seconds. He admitted he was probably happiest as a cuckold. I again stole a glance at Krysta and she seemed to wink at me and leaned over to kiss my cheek. In spite of myself I was getting incredibly turned on and the excellent brandy definitely didn't hurt the mood. Krysta's hand on my thigh became more active and I was struggling not to respond. Krysta spoke to John in Dutch and in the end they seemed to come to some sort of understanding. Krysta rubbed my thigh with her hand and kissed me again on the cheek. I turned a little towards her and she kissed me passionately on the mouth. I glanced over at John as we were kissing and he seemed to be nodding his consent. Krysta paused for a minute and looked at John for final confirmation and then took a last puff on her cigar and motioned for John to take it from her. She then climbed on top of me straddling my hips and resumed kissing me. I was turned on by all this but continued to monitor John's reaction to his wife throwing herself at another man. His look indicated that he was enjoying himself. This was confirmed when he asked Krysta if she would like him to remove her robe. She paused long enough for John to take the robe away and to open her night dress and expose her tits. Her blue eyes met mine and all she said was 'Suck my tits'. Again I looked to John and he said simply, 'She's yours to enjoy'. With John's approval, Krysta and I threw ourselves into our combined lust. She was a toxic combination of smoke, alcohol, perfume and lust. John settled back into his chair and I switched my attention from her lips to her tits. For the second time that night I was sucking this lady's very responsive tits. She was encouraging me to be ever more aggressive with them and she truly had wonderfully responsive nipples. I was in heaven. After a couple of minutes of this Krysta pulled up her nightie so that she could run a finger along her vaginal slit and popped her finger in my mouth. She repeated this move and placed the finger in her own mouth. Our tongues met in what was probably the most memorable kiss of the night up to that point. Krysta suddenly got off me and started to pull my clothes off. I was reduced to underwear and socks very quickly and soon the underwear were also gone. Here I was in a strange apartment with a raging erection while a husband and wife were both looking at me approvingly. Krysta pointed out to John that I was circumcised. I guess it must have been fairly unusual in post-war Holland. She ran her hand along the shaft and played a little with the flared out purple head before she engulfed it in her mouth. I managed to move her body onto the couch so that I could finger her pussy while she sucked me. As my hand ran up her inner thigh I felt the heat increase and as I got closer to her pussy. I was pleasantly surprised that a lady of this age had a shaved pussy. My finger sought her clitoris while the rest of me was generally enjoying her oral skills. Lots of sucking, lots of tongue and just the right amount of hand action. Her pussy was wet and extremely sensitive. Within two minutes she was showing the early signs of an orgasm. John meanwhile seemed to be masturbating judging by the movement of his hand inside his robe. His eyes were nearly closed and he was making soft moaning sounds. Krysta suddenly stopped sucking and started directing my efforts to get her to cum. She wanted my hand to move faster with more pressure on her clitoris and within 30 seconds she exploded in wave after wave of pleasure. 'John he's making me cum......I'm coming so hard.' John took a short break in order to watch Krysta's obvious pleasure. We both gave Krysta a few minutes to compose herself then I blurted out, 'I've got to fuck you. Do you have any condoms?' John interjected, 'We'd both rather you fucked her bareback. She's completely disease free and if you're the same then we'd prefer no condoms' I was too far gone to care. I said nothing but helped her reposition on the couch and drove my cock into that pussy that I'd wanted since our first kiss. I probably got three quarters of the way in before Krysta gave a little gasp of pain and I waited for her to signal me to resume. By the third stroke I was all the way in and I began to fuck that woman as hard as I could. The entire time she was encouraging me to go harder, faster, deeper. She was definitely preaching to the choir I was totally enjoying this. John had been quiet through all this. I heard him clear his throat again and he asked me to take his wife doggy-style for the 'grand finale' as he put it. I was past caring and so was Krysta she rolled over on her knees and I penetrated her again. The change seemed to agree with both of us. Krysta's moans became louder and I felt I was deeper in her pussy. The room echoed with the rhythmic slapping of my hips against her ass. We were both close to orgasm. Krysta turned her head backwards and we kissed again. We both knew I wouldn't last another minute and I resumed my strokes at breakneck speed. Deep inside I could feel my orgasm coming and I gave Krysta three final mighty thrusts before I came and came in her pussy. She seemed to slowly go from being on all fours to lying on her stomach in order to keep my cock inside her. I was kissing the nape of her neck while thanking her and praising her for being part of one of the greatest sexual experiences of my life. This amazing moment was interrupted by John clearing his throat again and announcing, 'That looked wonderful but it's late and we've got to get to bed. The pullout couch in the spare bedroom is prepared for you and I've left some pajamas beside it. Krysta will make you breakfast in the morning.' Taking my queue I withdrew my cock from deep inside Krysta. She was a little annoyed with John and insisted on cleaning my cock with her mouth. It was so pleasurable that I briefly forgot about John and just enjoyed her ministrations. I noticed the entire time she was sucking me one of her hands was covering her vagina like she didn't want the cum to drip out and stain the carpet. Finally Krysta gave my cock one last swallow and kissed the head as got to her feet. John was very excited and he pretty much dragged her to the bedroom . Despite having one hand cupping her vagina Krysta blew me a kiss with the other and that was the last I saw of them that night. I had mixed feelings. I was so annoyed with John I felt like getting dressed and walking home despite the late hour. The sound of hail and sleet on the apartment windows made me rethink that plan and I went to the spare bedroom to check things out. As John promised the bed had been pulled out and the sheets turned down. Thoughtfully he'd provided a new toothbrush , the pajamas were neatly folded nearby. I quickly put on the pajamas and took the toothbrush with me to the bathroom. As I passed John and Krysta's bedroom I could hear some soft moaning and smelled cigarette smoke. My imagination went into overdrive as I was envisioning John either enjoying his sloppy seconds or more probably giving Krysta oral as she enjoyed a post-coital cigarette. He certainly seemed a lot more concerned about his own sexual privacy than anyone else's, I made a mental note to ask him about that the next time we spoke. As I was lying in bed my thoughts turned to what the morning would bring and about how we would all deal with the changes in our relationships. I closed my eyes and was asleep in minutes.