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Nellie's Sketchpad

By: RandiTGreer



After Allen got sacked, she and I became cubicle mates.

It was such a change after sharing that small, sterile space with the man-boy whose shirttail wouldn't stay put in his trousers, billowing out by mid-morning and finally working free by noon. The half moon edge of it would hang over the seat of his pants and onto his arse, which was half as wide as his waist. 

The grim, smooth smiles of the face cards stared back at his acne-pocked face as he stared at the screen for hours, days, and weeks. His online gaming obsession reaped a lack of productivity that finally came to the attention of the firm's manager, Mr. Grisham. It broke Mr. Grisham's heart to do it, but Allen was sent packing. Our cubicle smelled like onions for a week after Allen left.

After a month or so I began toying with the idea of turning in my resignation, not out of protest at the removal of Allen, whose lack of productivity was only matched by his lack of humility. It was mostly for a lull in my own career, which had stagnated there in that little cubicle where I came up with small time ideas for small time companies, ads for rural weekly papers to be run on the back pages next to the supermarket specials. I couldn't help feeling that there was something more for me, that I should leave England and go back to Canada, maybe find Dad and learn how to install carpet. And maybe he could teach me the fine art of flirtation, when and how to raise an eyebrow, or when and where to deliver a light touch, or the subtle tilt of the head that meant meet me outside.

I had worked on my resignation letter over the weekend, and had even printed it out. I was proofreading it one more time, going over my reasons for leaving, and thanking Mr. Grisham for taking me on and giving me a chance. One more run-through and I would deliver it to him in his office. 

A throat cleared at the opening to my cubicle, and a girl with a satchel appeared. Her face was round and freckled, and when she smiled, her lips pulled across crooked teeth and her eyes glowed crystalline green. Her eyelashes radiated out from the green like the rays of a sun that a child might draw. Her hair was blonde and bobbed, parted on the side and swept down across black eyebrows. She had on a brown twill skirt with a chevron pattern and a yellow long sleeve blouse.

She was middle height, and Mr. Grisham's towering frame loomed behind her. His red face was rimmed by a graying blonde cloud that could only be referred to as facial hair, not a beard or sideburns or a mustache. He looked like an old-time sea captain who had been lifted up and transported across a century or two and dropped into a three piece suit at an advertising firm in London.

"Pete, this is Miss Bell, Penelope Bell. Goes by Nellie. Isn't that right?" He turned to her, and she smiled and nodded. "Nellie, Pete Beaufaire," he gestured with an upturned palm. I turned from my screen to shake her hand. It was as smooth as ivory and melted in mine. Faraway in other cubicles phones rang and were answered and conversations took place.

"How d'ya do?" she asked. Her accent suggested the Midlands.

"Hi," I returned. Our handshake lingered for a minute. Mr. Gresham clapped a hand on my shoulder and smiled. He likes me.

"See to it you make Miss Bell feel at home," he said. 

''Yes sir, certainly,'' I smiled and nodded and returned to my work as he disappeared down the corridor.

"Desk is there," I said gesturing but not looking up. She paused. "It's all yours," I told her, briefly looking up and acting like I was a busy man who had endured the introduction as a momentary sidetrack. She sat and pulled things out of her satchel in a steady stream like Mary Poppins. I pretended to work on a file, but instead I watched her in the reflection of my blank computer screen. Finally, I got up and took my resignation letter and ran it through the shredder. I decided to give the firm one more try. What a difference a few minutes' wait can make.

We were put together because our names were next to each other in the alphabet. Mr. Grisham was odd like that; it was important to keep order in things and things in order. The twenty or so employees of Corporate Concepts were arranged beginning with Asbury in the front corner all the way to Yancy in the far rear. And in our cubicle there we were, Beaufaire and Bell. I suspected it went beyond orderliness and was also an attempt by Mr. Grisham to play matchmaker. 

Like Allen, my new coworker ate constantly, but despite the steady parade of sweets past her ruby lipsticked lips, she never seemed to gain so much as a feather of weight. Her sketchbooks lounged about haphazardly over her desk space, all opened with drawings and notations in various stages of completeness while her mind flitted about from one idea to another like a tiny winged fairy. When given an assignment, however, she quickly got to it, so that within half an hour she had a dozen or so renderings, and within an hour she had another dozen and by the end of the morning they were all neatly organized. Mr. Grisham was pleased. I was fascinated.

I was fascinated by the way her hair changed colour from week to week like a moody chameleon, strawberry blonde to black to platinum blonde to copper red to magenta to blonde again. At the nape of her neck she had a tattoo of two crossed ballet slippers. There was a dark mole at the corner of her mouth that levitated a little when she bit her lower lip in concentration on the charcoal pencil tip and the paper. She was fond of light coloured blouses and darker coloured bras, and would usually leave several buttons undone to show off the lace. When she wore an especially sheer blouse, I could make out the tattoo of a vine ascending her right side with a bird nestled in it. And every time she leaned forward in her chair, the T of her thong would pull up above the zipper in the back of her skirt. More than once I was tempted to flip the tag of the washing instructions down, but I resisted.

I may have gotten my last name and my fluency in French from my French Canadian father, but I had not inherited his easy way with women. In him, it was something that had taken on a life of its own like a chain reaction in a lab, the eruption of a volcano, the flow of lava. His skirt chasing tendencies were as unstoppable as the force of geology. He was a renaissance man, a flooring installer whose specialty was laying carpet and women. He could flirt in five languages and announce 'I'm Coming' in three of them, It was a fact I learned when Mum yelled it at him during one of their last arguments, right before a plate shattered with a stellate echo against the wall. His indiscretions, as he called them, had finally driven my mother, with me in tow, back to her native Kent when I was thirteen. 

The last argument they had was on the back porch of our house in Montreal. Mum made a remark about Dad playing the field, and Dad made one about at least he played the game at all, as opposed to Mum, who just sat on the bench. Then Mum said that Dad treated sex like it was a buffet line. Dad threw down his cigarette; I had come to understand that whoever threw their cigarette butt down first declared themselves the winner. Then Dad said something.

An affair is the language of the unwanted, he said. He got up and I heard him stomp through the downstairs and out the front door. Below my window, Mum sat smoking and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. The orange ember of Dad's cigarette burned until the snow around it turned to water and the glow evaporated into wispy smoke.

The next week, Mum and I left to go to the airport. We drove down Pontiac Avenue one last time, past the vacant lot where my friends and I used to play football, North American football. It was on brittle-cold afternoons when the ground would slap you hard like cold marble and you got up and laughed off the pain. Then on the next play you took off with the ball under your arm like a loaf of bread and your breath heaving out into a vapor as you heard the drumming footsteps of your friends, some pursuing and some blocking the pursuers. And you scored and you were sure you would play for the Montreal Alouettes one day. 

But when we turned onto the freeway to the airport that day, I knew that I would never play for the Alouettes. Mum was going to make an Englishman out of me.

My mother and her friends would talk about me over tea in the afternoon. They sat in the downstairs parlour in velour workout suits that were all too tight and never used for exercise. The only sweating ever done in them was due to hot flashes. Mum held a plate of biscuits that orbited between them.

''So, your boy Pete, he's got a girlfriend, does he?''

''No, not that I know of. Keep's quiet, that one.''

''You don't think he's...'' her friend would lean in like someone else in another room was listening as mouthed the word, ''Gay...now do you?''

''Now why would you think that? Just hasn't found the right girl, that's all.''

Her friends would change the subject, disappointed at dipping into the gossip well and coming up empty. Mum never seemed worried.

She had a strong idea that I wasn't gay. Once, she printed out the browsing history of the computer we shared, with all the porn sites I had visited. She just printed it out and left it on my desk while I was out. It was sort of a warning shot across my bow, though there was never a word between us about it. There were no gay porn sites there, only straight ones. That was when I bought my own laptop and set up the wireless.

In our cubicle, Nellie and I settled in as coworkers. We said very little in the course of the first few weeks. Coming in from lunch one day, I found her sipping a coffee and scrolling through some of her pictures, mostly scenes of her and her friends. Her elbow was propped on her desk and her fingers were laced over the ballet slippers on the back of her neck. I paused at the opening to our space, watching her click through her memories. 

Three girls with faces half-hidden by large sunglasses crowded around each other at the seaside, identical brilliant suns in the lenses. In another there was a collection of boys and girls dressed in the red and white of Nottingham Forest FC with their arms around each other on a sidewalk. The next was a table ringed with Nellie and her friends, each with a pint before them. And then a very interesting photo took its turn.

It was a selfie of Nellie and another girl exchanging a tongue kiss. The other girl had her head tilted and her eyes closed, with her hands on Nellie's shoulders, but Nellie was looking into the camera she was holding at arm's length. The next picture scrolled up and the other girl's hand was in Nellie's shirt and bra and Nellie's eyes were closed. I held my breath and waited for the next photo.

It never came up. Nellie turned around and then turned back to the screen and promptly clicked it closed. I pretended that I had just walked up. My voice stuck in my throat and when it finally came up it was rough-edged.

''Have a good lunch?'' I asked.

''Yes,'' she said into her screen. Then she looked over her shoulder. ''You?''

''Sure.'' I set my paper bag on my desk and hung up my jacket.

We settled into an afternoon at work like nothing had happened. I'm sure we both knew, and no one wanted to say anything. From over in the adjoining cubicle someone's radio played the light tinkle of one of Schubert's piano pieces, like the fall of icicles off the eaves of a roof line, interspersed with the quiet explanation of a man's voice. Nellie and I worked silently, going out of our way to avoid eye contact. I brought something over to Yancy's desk and when I came back she was finishing a muffin and packing her satchel. It was about a five minutes to five.

We sat there waiting for the time clock to hit five. She was brushing crumbs from her hands over the bin we shared. She must have thought that the silence had lingered long enough. We had said very little in our first few weeks.

''You're American, then?'' She said as she swallowed the last bite and concentrated on her fingertips.

''You mean my accent? No, Canadian.''

''Oh. Sounds American.''

''Yeah. I get that a lot. And you? Where from?''

''Nottinghamshire.''

''Oh.''

She reached for the jumper that hung from a peg. As she pulled back her shoulders to put her arms in the sleeves, her small breasts strained against her white blouse and the apparently flimsy-sheer fabric of her bra. Somewhere under the fabric the small mounds of her nipples pushed up and out. She caught me looking and smiled as she flipped the collar of her blouse out. I blushed.

''So what are you doing tonight?'' she asked.

''I don't know. See what's on the telly, suppose.''

''Fancy a drink?''

I hesitated.

''Not looking to get puddled,'' she added. ''Just a drink.''

Somewhere I knew my French Canadian father was shaking his head in disgust at my inertia with this pretty girl. In imagining what I could do to her with it, my tongue had gotten tied in a knot. She gave up waiting for my reply.

''Another time, then,'' she said, and she forced a smile. She must have thought she was letting me off the hook and that I wasn't interested. Far from it. She collected her oversize purse and her laptop case and left. I watched the shape of her waist and hips as they moved down the corridor between cubicles, kicking myself inside all the while.

I waited at the window until I saw her step from the curb onto the bus, and I opened her desk drawer. I'm ashamed to say I wanted to see if there were any more photos like the one I'd seen of her with her friend. The top drawer had odds and ends, paperclips, coloured drawing pencils, a few spiral notebooks. The bottom drawer had half dozen sketchpads; the top five had the beginnings of a number of ad campaigns.

The sixth, at the very rear, was a different story. Simply put, they were charcoal drawings of men having sex. The first few were of nude, muscular men kissing like the couple in Rodin's The Kiss. In one, a man kissed another man's muscular chest. In another a man stood as another knelt before him. The standing man's hands were in the hair of the kneeling man, whose hands were clasping the muscular buttocks of his standing lover. The kneeling man's head was at the level of the other man's cock and it didn't take much imagination to see that oral sex was taking place and that an orgasm was imminent.

I turned through the pages, one by one, looking over my shoulder from time to time. At one point I jumped when the cleaning lady turned on the vacuum a cubicle over. I swore under my breath and wished our cubicle had a door. The best I could do was to turn my back to the entrance and hunch over the sketchpad.

The next few were close-ups of cocks and mouths and tongues. Several of the cocks were drooling down onto open lips or arched tongues. I shifted in the seat. I was becoming aroused, though I'm not sure if it was because of the images or the thought that these were the things that interested Nellie. I always knew that guys like watching two girls. I never thought that a girl would like watching two guys. I kept flipping through the pad. The last drawing was arresting, titillating, disturbing, exhilarating. 

Two men were standing, one behind the other. The man in back embraced the one in front and had his face buried in the neck of the man in front. The man in back had a hand on the erect cock of the front man, whose face was agape and eyes were closed in a look of ecstasy. The picture was much like the ones on the preceding pages. There was only one difference.

The man in front was me. 

I was flattered that she thought me so ripped and well hung under my suit. I don't know how long I looked at it. But a familiar voice made me snap the sketchpad shut.

''Beaufaire, I should expect a young lion like you to be out on the prowl by now.''

''Yes, Mr. Grisham.'' I put the pad face down on my desk. ''Left something in my desk,'' I lied.

''Well, come on, then. I'll walk out with you. I've got something to propose to you, anyway.'' 

I gathered my things, and we walked out together. One hand held his briefcase, and the other was on my shoulder. I tried to listen but was distracted by the thought that I had left Nellie's sketchpad face down on my desk.

The next morning I rushed to get to the office before Nellie, but there was maintenance work on the Victoria Line, and she got there before me. The sketchpad was gone from my desk. My heart sank. I felt wretched that I had snooped into her desk, and more wretched that I had been caught.

She was cropping an image on her computer, preparing it as part of an idea for an account in Southampton. I said hello, and she said nothing. Then I said I'm sorry. Our cubicle was as cold as an igloo. She spoke into her computer screen. 

''If it's not enough to decline to have a drink with a girl, and I'll say a pretty girl as well, then you go off snooping through her desk when she's gone.'' Her jaw was set in anger.

I gulped. She was right. 

"I'm sorry," I said again. "Let me make it up to you." She sat facing away from me. I thought I could see a tear in her eye, but I couldn't tell for sure.

''Let me make it up to you,'' I said again, and then I added, ''Mr. Grisham made us an offer last night. You and me.''

''Really?'' She sniffed into the screen. She had been crying, or trying not to. 

''What kind of offer?''

''You ever been to France?'' I asked.

****************************************************** 

"Pete? Pee-tee!" My name soared on Mum's voice, up and through the house. "You've got a phone call, love."

She handed me the phone and smiled adoringly.

"Hello?"

"So it's Peetie, then is it?" I was surprised to hear Nellie's voice over the phone.

"My mum calls me that," I mumbled. Mum was watching me, still smiling with her arms crossed. Girls rarely called for me. Wait. Girls never call for me. Maybe this would be proof to her friends that I wasn't gay.

"Share a taxi tomorrow?" Nellie asked. She had an edge to her voice that suggested that she was excited and trying not to sound like she was.

"Sure," I said. I squinted at the hall clock, figuring the math. 

"Our flight's at nine thirty, so I'll be to your place at seven."

"Super," she said. 

I hung up, and Mum was still smiling.

**************************************************

A steel-gray English drizzle hung over the city and obscured a pitiful sun that could scarcely warm a cup of tea. The taxi driver pulled up to her flat just after seven. It was a nondescript building, part of a row of buildings on Prince George Road in Shacklewell. She was standing on the stoop waiting in the drizzle under an umbrella and an emerald green beret. Under her mid-thigh black skirt, her bare legs were pale and mottled against the cold. She had on black velvet pumps, not the kind of shoes a seasoned traveler would wear. The taxi stopped, and I got out to get her bag. She shook out her umbrella and got into the taxi with a smile.

"You've got the presentations?'' I asked.

''I've got the ideas Mr. Grisham liked, plus one or two more, just in case,'' she said.

''Show them to me on the plane. My French is just a little rusty, so I want to think how I want to put things.''

We sat facing each other in the back of the taxi with our bags on the floor between us. We rode silently for a while. She pulled her iPad out of her bag and turned it on. I did the same with my phone.

Dark rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of her nose as her finger tapped and stroked the screen of her iPad. I looked out the window at the misty, damp streets, and every time I looked across at her, her legs were a little wider apart. Her finger pulled across her iPad and then pushed a strand of wheat-blonde hair behind her ear.


Nellie's Sketchpad Ch. 02



Here's a drawback to braces: no fellatio.

She's tried. She likes sucking cock as much or more than I like her doing it, so believe me, she's tried. 

On Sunday afternoons when we lounge on the bed naked, she assumes the yoga 'child's pose' between my outstretched legs and drapes herself over me, her legs tucked under herself, her arms up on my chest so her hands can toy with my nipples, her face down on my groin with my cock in her mouth. But she can't last a minute.

"Sorry, Peetie," she says, holding her jaw. "Just can't." I get up and get her a glass of ice water, my cock swaying like a bandleader's baton.

I return from the kitchen to find her sitting on our bed, her legs under herself and leaning with one hand on the mattress. Her small breasts with pink nipples fall in slightly different directions. One hand is on her jaw.

She takes a few sips of the water and lies face down on the bed, frustrated. The tail feathers of the bird tattooed on her side are just visible under her arm. These days, even the facial grimacing of having an orgasm hurts her. She's miserable.

"It's okay, baby," I say.

She rolls over and nestles into my side. Her hand is on my chest. I wonder if she knows how stud-like that makes me feel.

"Play with your cock," she murmurs into my ear. "I want to see you stroke yourself."

"Tell me a fantasy. Tell me what you like to see," I say, though I already know.

"Let's see..." her finger traces up and down my chest. "...imagine that we're at a party right now, and we've gone upstairs to a bedroom...a bedroom, say, a lot like this one."

She wets a finger and rubs a small circle on the underside of my cock. It twitches into hardness again. There's a small drop of precum at the tip, and she puts her finger to it. It pulls away in a strand, and she puts it to my lips, slick and salty. I pull her finger into my mouth. My tongue flicks and circles the pad of her index finger. She closes her eyes and exhales a moan. Her wet finger pulls down my lower lip and then circles my nipple. Then I exhale a moan.

"So we're upstairs in this bed at this house at a party..." I prompt her.

"Yes," she picks up the cue. "You're on the bed, this very bed in fact, by yourself, and I'm watching you, standing with my clothes on...a short skirt and see-through blouse, no bra...you know...the one you like so much? I'm standing on the side of the bed, and I'm playing with my nipples absently, through my blouse. You're playing with your cock, like you're doing now, completely naked, like now, putting on a show for me."

I'm slowly stroking myself, imagining her standing and watching me.

"What else? What happens then?" I breathe.

"Well...suddenly there are others with me. People from downstairs at the party have come up to the bedroom. They're standing with me watching you play with yourself, completely naked on this very bed."

I slow my pace on myself as she reaches over to stroke my nipples in small circles, one and then the other. I don't want to cum yet, but I'm aching, and it could happen so easily. I want to hear the rest of the story. I know what happens next, but I want to hear her say it.

"They're holding drinks with cocktail napkins and little straws and taking sips as if they were in an art gallery or attending a recital. But after a while they set them down, one by one, and start rubbing themselves through their clothes."

"Are they men and women?" I ask breathlessly.

"Yes," she hisses into my ear. "They're all getting turned on by you stroking yourself. They've put down their drinks, and some of the men have let their cocks out of their trousers, and they're stroking themselves. The women have skirts pulled up and their hands in their knickers, the ones who are wearing knickers. Some of the girls are wearing blue jeans, and they unbutton them and slip their hands down in them. Can you see their fingers move in their pretty little knickers?"

I gulp and nod as I slowly stroke myself.

Nellie is whispering her fantasy right in my ear, so close I can feel her hot breath and the squeak of the rubber bands in her mouth. My cock has drooled quite a clear little puddle. She scoops it. It takes two of her fingers, and she feeds it to me. I clean her fingers with my tongue.

"And so..."

"So..." she says. "The people are taking off their clothes. There are ten or twenty, all sorts of people. Cocks are all up, getting stroked. Trousers and jeans and underwear are down on the floor around ankles and shoes. Some of the women have put one foot on the edge of the bed. Their pussy lips are gaping and swollen, dark pink. Can you see them, Peetie?"

"Yes," I whisper raggedly, pulling on myself slowly and trying to resist the urge to speed up and finish. "What else?"

"The men and women lean over the bed and kiss you, each taking a turn, deep passionate kisses with swirling tongues as they stroke their cocks and pussies."

Nellie is stroking my chest and nipples with her fingers as if she's moving them across the surface of the water of the Serpentine on a lazy Sunday afternoon boat ride. Her fingers dally back and forth across my skin. Her other hand is wedged between her thighs, and I know that she's stroking herself. 

"So what do they do next?" I gulp. My chest is beginning to rise and fall like the ocean. Precum is leaking clear, down onto my hand and the smooth mound at the base of my cock.

"One of the women takes off her wrap skirt, a short little linen number, pale yellow. She gives it to her husband with her thong panties and her blouse and bra, and she settles over your face, naked head to toe except for her heels. She has a neat black landing strip of hair on her trim little pussy. The lips are swollen, and they drape firmly over your mouth, and your tongue explores her folds, taut, rigid from her excitement."

"You don't mind?" I ask in a whisper, though I know the answer.

"Of course not, love. You know it turns me on to watch you. The woman is pretty, middle aged, shoulder length dark hair, fair skin-very attractive. She starts shaking her hips in small movements as she rides your face, your lips, your tongue. Her tits are jiggling, long sloping tits with upturned nipples. She pulls on them with her thumbs and forefingers, pinching them and making them long. The bed frame is shaking, knocking against the wall. Her clit bumps your nose with each forward stroke. People are throwing their heads back and closing their eyes, and then opening them again to watch the two of you. Their hands are working themselves."

Nellie drags a finger through her slit and then puts it to my lips. I lick her finger. She gets more slick, sticky wetness from her pussy and circles my hard little nipples with her fingers. They're shining, my nipples and her fingers, and then she licks her wet arousal from them. I have to stop stroking. One more stroke would make me erupt.

She resumes her story, stopping and starting as she tries to keep her composure through her excitement. Her legs are open now, and she's rubbing her pussy with two fingers. Her other hand continues pinching and stroking my nipples.

"Her rutting hips go in smaller, more insistent movements. You feel her clit jerk against your tongue, twitching as she cums on your face and soaks your nose and cheeks and mouth and chin and tongue and...oh..."

Nellie has to take a deep breath before she can continue.

"You have one hand on her firm, pale arse, pushing her down into your face, one hand on your cock. She only stops when her clit's spasms slow, and her pussy lips stop contracting around your tongue, and then she dismounts your shining face."

My orgasm has backed off, and I can grasp my cock again.

"What are doing when she cums?"

"I'm still playing with my pussy, watching you please her. I've already cum once by this time. My blouse is open, and a man and a woman are tonguing my nipples."

"Mmm..." I murmur approval. "What next?" 

"Her husband drops his wife's pale yellow skirt and comes up to you. He puts his cock to your mouth and a clear strand of precum dangles down onto your lips. Your tongue reaches up to take it. He drags the undersurface of his cock against your lips and the tip of your tongue that's poking out between them. 

"Someone in the room exclaims as they cum at the sight, a couple of the women. And me, too. I cum watching the two of you. You feel the head of his cock enter your mouth, the ridge of it on your tongue, in your mouth, leaking sweet, salty, musky fluid, warm, thick like syrup. You lift your head from the pillow to work him feverishly, still pulling on your cock. You feel him tense, and you open your eyes, and he closes his as he erupts in your mouth, heaving, twitching, a rhythmic bumping. You swallow, there's no other choice but to swallow, until he's limp and swollen."

Nellie rolls onto her side so that we're stretched out side by side next to each other. Her fingers are waggling over her pussy. I can see down her trim torso and navel and over her bare mound where her pussy lips are stretching, oscillating as she presses against herself.

"Then?" My breathing makes it hard to even say one word.

"I'm playing with myself, just like now, watching you put on a show for all the people in the room. They're all in a tight circle now, crowded around you, men pulling on themselves, women rubbing themselves. One by one, they cum on your face and your chest, the men do. Some of the women are lying on the bed next to you; the rest are on their knees, their legs wide apart, fingers on and in their pussies. I'm in a chair at the foot of the bed with my legs wide open, feet on the armrests, my eyes locked on what you're doing to yourself and to them."

"Ohh," I exclaim hoarsely, "I can't hold off much longer..."

"They can't either," Nellie whispers, "neither can I...they... throw their heads forward...their hips grind against their fingers...that grind against their pussies...and then...and then..."

We both cum. Pearly white jets of cum leap onto my stomach and chest and chin. She buries her face into my neck as her legs straighten all the way down to her feet, and her fingers press into her clit. She exclaims a coarse cry like something stretching, right under my chin and into my neck as her whole body contracts.

And then we're side by side, heaving out breath. Her palm is on her forehead, and her fingers are in her hair as she pants. Platinum blonde sprigs shoot out from between her fingers. She kisses my neck and then my jaw just above it. It's a different kiss, one with braces, almost a middle school sort of kiss.

My front is soaked with myself, turning clear now. She lifts a finger of cum from my chest and puts it to my mouth, and then another. There's certainly a lot of it.

She takes a little for herself, and grimaces when she tries to suck it off her finger. 

I hand her the glass of ice water. It's still cold, but the ice is melted.



Nellie's Sketchpad Ch. 03



When I was a boy, Saturday mornings in the winter were for ice fishing on Lac Renaud. My dad and I huddled in parkas in our ice hut over the hole we'd cut with the power auger and watched our lines disappear into it. Dad would always tell the same corny jokes, such as:

"Pete, do you know how to fish with a can of peas? Well, you open up a can of peas and leave it by the hole. When the fish comes up to take a pea, you grab him."

And so forth. I laughed the first dozen times he told it, then politely chuckled, then I just groaned.

"What do you want to do when you grow up, then?" he would ask between sips of coffee or beer, depending on what time of day it was. Walleye were stacked on the ice in the corner looking up with dead, milky eyes at the roof of our ice hut. A French language radio station would be playing in the background of that small cold space.

"I want to play for the Alouettes. Or the Canadiens. Maybe both," I would say. I was a boy, and it was all still possible then.

"Well, wouldn't that be something, eh?" he would say.

When Mum and I moved to England, Puberty was there to greet me. Then Saturdays were for sleeping late, watching the telly, then a little studying and then a nap. And if Mum left for any length of time, surfing porn and wanking. 

These days Saturdays are spent being active. Nellie gets me up early and drags me to yoga, spin class, the gym. It varies from week to week, but we always cap it off with a run in Hyde Park. She's fitter, quicker than I am, and she's always ahead of me when we run, which suits me fine. 

I like the way she fills out her running tights, and I like the bounce of her hair, which has stopped changing colours and has settled for a platinum blonde. When we're done, her hair is sweaty-wet against her head, and her tights are clinging to her figure, curving tightly over buttocks that are sleek and round and firm. We stop in the Starbucks on Brompton Road to get a bottle of water and a coffee. She seems to enjoy the attention her camel toe gets as she sprawls out on a stool to display it, the little bulge with a cleft in it. She turns her head to talk to me as she slouches back on the stool so that the neatly indented mound seems to greet people: Hello, everyone! I'm Nellie's pussy!

Beneath her loose tank top the vine-and-bird tattoo winds up her side under the hot pink sports bra. The cold air has her nipples nudging against the pink fabric. She knows everyone is stealing glimpses. Oh, she knows, all right. I've seen her nonchalantly put an iced latte to them to get them to nudge harder at the fabric.

After our post-run coffees, we return to our flat and shower (together), soaping each other (naughty bits need extra attention), until she's bent forward with the spray pattering on the smooth skin between her shoulder blades, water cascading over the vine-and-bird on her side and down the small of her back between the smooth white cheeks of her bum and down to the tub like a rainspout. The pouting vertical lips are gaping pink and ready for me. She puts a foot on the side of the bathtub to open herself up, and from behind I slide my cock into her smooth pussy. That first slow shove makes her head lift, and she moans above the spray of the shower. Her white-blonde hair is plastered down, parted over the ballet slippers tattoo on the nape of her neck, and the mist clings to her eyelashes and makes them mat together. My hands are around her sides and on her front, and her tits, perfect handfuls, fill my palms just so. She puts one hand on the tiled wall and reaches down to feel where I enter her, fondling my swaying balls and rubbing her clit. We slap together in the spray, and when I feel her pussy clinch and contract and clinch and release and clinch again, I grab her hips and pull myself deep into her and let go. Our exclamations are hollow and muted by the falling water and the tile.

And then it's only the tinkle of the shower and our panting. I ease out of her, and she turns to me with a soggy grin and eyes like little green suns with misty rays. She rises on the balls of her feet just a little to kiss me, and then she melts into me with her cheek against my chest.

"Oh, Peetie," she coos.

It certainly beats ice fishing.

Then it's time for a healthy lunch (she insists, easy on the crisps, love), and we're off to the museum. The National Gallery is her favorite. She sits on a bench in one of the quiet rooms in a short skirt and a blouse with the top button open, or maybe the top two, sketching one of the masters, usually one of the impressionists like The Ballet Dancers by Degas. I've noticed she likes art that she can perceive movement in. She sits in a position that growing up we called Indian style, and she's unconcerned that her pretty knickers are showing, whether they be lacy or sheer or both, white, black, plum coloured, aquamarine, thong, bikini. She has quite a collection, and she always wears a matching bra whose lacy cups just cover her pink nipples. If I could draw, I would sketch her.

She's changed her hair and wears it up like a pixie, and I've begun calling her Tinker Bell instead of Nellie Bell. She didn't like it at first, but she sees the affection in it now and has begun calling me Peetie Pan. She'll even pose like Tinkerbell, pouting with her arms crossed or sitting with one leg pulled up while she clutches her knee.

So when the office has a costume party, we naturally go as Tinkerbell and Peter Pan. Where did she find the little green dress with the short hem cut in triangles? Her toned legs are perfect for it. And I guess pixies don't wear knickers. 

According to Nellie, Peetie Pan only wears tights under his costume, no underwear. During the course of the night, Tinker Bell keeps reaching under my costume to feel my cock and balls through the stretchy green fabric. And that makes Peetie Pan as hard as Captain Hook's hand.

The marquis at the door says "Morrison Wedding Reception" so we go down a separate hall and there it is:

"Corporate Concepts, Quarterly Celebration Party".

The music behind the door seems to push it open the way a strong wind might, and there's Mr. Grisham to greet us.

He's dressed as a sea captain, of course, in a double breasted blue suit with gold piping on the sleeve. With his whiskers, there's no need for a mask or makeup. He's arranged a reception hall at this fancy hotel in Knightsbridge for the occasion. It's all possible now that the firm is going great guns, in large part due to Nellie and me. We've even made the cover of London Business Matters, have you seen it? 

In it, Mr. Grisham is leaning back against his desk with his arms folded, and he's sporting a grim, businesslike smile. I'm on one corner of the desk in a suit and tie, sitting with one thigh resting on the edge. Nellie's on the other side of him in a pose that's a mirror image to mine, wearing a smart little pinstriped business suit with low heels, a knee-length skirt and white striped blouse, smiling a metal-bracketed smile. Only I know that underneath she's wearing a garter and stockings and nothing else. Shhh. Don't tell anyone, just enjoy the picture if you see it. It's on the newsstands now and should be there through the end of the month.

Captain Grisham greets us at the door of the party.

"Well, I'd say the young lion Pete has been domesticated," he laughs as he shakes with one hand and claps the other on my back. Nellie gives him a kiss on his whiskered cheek.

The braces are no longer hurting her, though oral is still on the back burner. Her bisexual fantasies are most certainly not, however. I don't mind them, and in fact I enjoy how aroused she gets from them as long as they stay just that, fantasies. To act on them would make them realities, now, wouldn't it?

At least once I've come home to find her wearing one of my dress shirts and slacks and a tie, all hanging too large on her. My dress shoes swallow her little feet. Her hair is slicked back, her breasts bound down with a wrap.

"There you are," she says in a theatrically deep voice. "My wife would divorce me if she found out about me fucking another man," she says, trying to make her voice husky. "Get on your knees and suck my cock, I'm aching for your mouth and tongue."

She lets the trousers fall, and then my boxers that she's wearing follow them. I fall to my knees and reach behind her to squeeze her arse. She pulls back on the hood of her clit to make it stand out and become more cock-like. Then I lick her engorged little clit, swollen and small, and move my lips on it as if it were bigger and swirl my tongue over it. Her hand presses into the back of my bobbing head. I'm on my knees before her, sucking her little cock, feeling it jerk and spasm when she cums, feeling her knees weaken, feeling as if I'm holding her up with my wet face pressed into her crotch.

Nothing gets her wetter. It's as if she really does cum on my face.

At the party, Nellie is making the rounds in her short green triangle-bordered skirt. She gathers and tosses pixie dust (glitter, actually) at everyone from a small pouch at her hip. The music is pulsating vigorously, and the lights of the venue shimmer purple and red and blue off her wings. She grabs my hand, and we're the first on the dance floor. Everyone else follows us. 

Mr. Grisham is out there with us, doing some dance that I can only describe as a barefoot sailor on a hot deck, some sort of maritime reel. Mrs. Grisham, massive and matronly, dances near him though much more conservatively. She reminds me of Mrs. Doubtfire.

The drinks flow and the night does, too, loud music pumping over us and through us, every joke is hilarious, every voice gravelly from shouting over the noise. The music stops for a moment, and my ears ring. Mr. Grisham makes a slurred announcement over the microphone. No one understands it, but everyone raises their glass with him. He makes another toast, and everyone turns to Nellie and me, and glasses are lifted to us.

He calls me up to the front of the room, and I'm embarrassed as I look out at all the policemen and schoolgirls and gorillas and clowns sipping drinks. Mr. Grisham puts his arm around my neck and sings his school song. I pull my head out of his headlock and smile and straighten my hair. He gets involved in another drunken conversation with the gorilla whose muffled voice is Asbury's, I think. The music resumes, and I walk around the reception hall. It's filled with sound; "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough" is playing at the level of a jet taking off.

I find Nellie talking with Janice, our dour chief accountant and a lesbian who's chronically 'in between relationships.' She's not bad looking, really, pale in that English way, with dark hair and blue eyes that seem gray behind her glasses. She's a little heavy, but not bad. I'll have to admit, I've wanked off thinking about her, particularly thinking about her and the trim little intern from Bristol we had a couple of summers ago. Nothing ever happened between them in real life, not even close; my imagination just put them together rather randomly. I bet they have no idea what a hot time the three of us had up in my room, up there in my imagination. 

Tonight Janice is wearing a simple pair of cat's ears, the kind on a strap that you just push down on your head. She's otherwise dressed in everyday clothes, gray trousers, faintly lined by her sensible knickers, a white blouse faintly lined by her sensible bra, both straining against her considerable bosom.

Nellie's in rare form thanks to the open bar, and Janice is actually smiling, possibly for the same reason. She can be a little prickly, which might account for her always being 'in between relationships.'

"I love your ears," Nellie says as she rubs the fake fur between her thumb and fingers. "Tell me, is it a strap-on?"

Janice pats them as if she's forgotten about them. "They're not my real ears, of course."

Hahahahaha.

Janice should laugh more often, I think to myself, it's really a nice laugh. Perhaps she's drunk enough to conceive that she really might have cat's ears. Janice begins going on and on about her cat, who has some fanciful mythological name like Minerva or Mercury or something like that. Nellie keeps referring to the cat as Janice's pussy. 

"So tell me about your pussy," Nellie says. "Is its fur coarse, or is it soft?"

It goes right over Janice's head, right over her pussy ears.

"Yes, quite soft, really," Janice says, shouting over the thumping music.

"Do you like to stroke it?" Nellie asks with a straight face but heavy-lidded eyes.

"Oh yes," Janice shouts.

"Every day? Do you stroke it every day?" Nellie shouts back into Janice's ear. The music thumps on. Blue and purple and magenta lights swirl over their faces. I'm sure it swirls over mine, too. 

"Well...yes," Janice says.

"It must like that. I bet it feels good."

"What?" Janice shouts again.

"I bet that makes your pussy feel really good," Nellie yells. 

People at the next table, a pirate (Yancy) and a merry, Caribbean-looking hooker ((his wife) turn from their conversation and look at us. Nellie looks serenely at Janice. How can Nellie keep such a straight face? 

"You know, I haven't stroked someone else's pussy in quite a long time," Nellie says a little lower but still above the music.

Janice finally gets it and even laughs.

Hahahahaha.

"Neither have I," Janice chuckles a little wistfully, and then she tilts her head and her eyelids lower and she runs a fingertip over the circular rim of her wine glass as she looks at Nellie without speaking. Her gesture is clearly an overture, and I presume Janice is thinking about having her pussy stroked. And I presume she would like Nellie to do it.

A new song plays, and then Nellie's off again, grabbing a swift sip from her drink and leaving Janice simmering in her own juices, I'm sure. Nellie steps up on a chair, and then she's dancing on one of the long tables, her green slippers leaving footprints on the white table cloth amongst the decorations and glitter. She waves her arms side to side to James Brown's "I Feel Good" and squats down from time to time and then struts down the table and back again like a runway model. People break from their conversations, and some clap. The ones next to the table can look up and see the truth about pixies and their underclothing habits. 

I coax her down from the table, embarrassed for her, and she falls forward into my arms and slurs, "Say, there's my boy." She gives me a metal kiss and reaches under my costume.

"Nellie!" I exclaim as I look around, but no one seems to be watching. Perhaps they've looked away quickly and politely. She pulls me under the table. We can hear conversations close enough to comment if we wanted to. 

She kisses my neck and drags her tongue over it while she pulls my tights down around my ankles and pulls me on top of her. She guides my cock, and I slide into her. It takes me a while to cum, but not Nellie. I suppose she enjoys the thrill of being caught, but I don't. At one point she shouts with her orgasm, and I put a finger over her lips, lips that are stretched over her braces. I think I hear the conversation pause, but then it resumes, and I resume my thrusting in and out of her. Her eyes squint in ecstasy again, and her fingers clinch into my back. My Peter Pan hat falls off onto her face, and she pushes it off absently. I think of the view someone might have if they were to lift up the table cloth, my white arse working like a seesaw, my tights gathered around my ankles. I shake off the image and focus on Nellie when she whispers to me.

"Fuck me, Peetie, fuck my pussy, fuck me under the table. Cum in me, baby," she breathes into my ear, and then her lips pull my earlobe. Her hand drapes over my pumping arse, a soft, slender finger finding the center.

I cum, shooting deep inside her, groaning loudly, forgetting where I am, only focused on how good it is to be inside her, releasing inside her, filling her. She giggles and mockingly puts a finger over my lips and shushes me. The music and conversation, which seem to have faded out, fade back in. I put my wet cock back in my tights for its last few twitches. Nellie pushes my head down.

"You've made a mess down there, Peetie Pan. Be a good lad and clean up Miss Tinkerbell," she slurs. Her hands firmly push me all the way down, and I do it. Her fingers weave in my hair as my tongue feels her tautness, her firmness, her rigid lips and clit, smelling my musky scent, tasting her, tasting me. She cums again and I can't shush her, I can only hang on while her thighs squeeze my head and roll us around in half-circles.

Afterwards, I need a serviette to wipe my face. I look for one that might have fallen under the table, but there's not one.

My face is crusted and flaky when I wake up from a vague dream that has its roots in the fantasy of Janice and the Bristol intern. I stare up at the underside of the folding table where written in marker is "Ballroom." I realize that I'm horny, but when I move my head I find I'm hungover as well. Nellie is next to me, still asleep. She's missing a green slipper. 

The table lifts up with a rush of light, and there towering above us is one of the hotel's custodial staff. Nellie's skirt is lifted up, and her bare mound and cleft are exposed. We both shade our eyes against the bright lights. I pull Nellie's skirt down when I notice the man staring.

"What's this, then?" the man says in a Yorkshire accent. "It must've been some party, I'd say."

Nellie and I stand up, first on our knees, then slowly to our feet. Her other slipper is under a chair, and I give it to her. She balances against me to slip it on. The lights are up, a vacuum blares over the carpet somewhere, glasses and dishes rattle and tinkle as they get loaded into trays. Everyone else has gone home. We shuffle to the door and when it opens, the light hits us like a blast furnace.

And then we go home, too.

In the back of the taxi, she falls asleep again, curled up next to me, clutching my arm. I watch the shops on Oxford Street pass by, bright, eager people looking in their windows, coming in and out of their doors, people with clear heads and no hangovers. People who I imagine have happily mundane sex lives in which rear entry is as daring as it gets, and then only on holiday in the summer after some fruity cocktail or two. People who are happily used to missionary man-on-top sex the rest of the year, twice a week, Tuesday and Saturday. Hop on, hop off, and be quick about it, then, now there's a good lad. There must be some comfort in that. 

I 'm beginning to envy them.



Nellie's Sketchpad Ch. 04



Curiosity is a powerful thing. I imagine her, Curiosity, as a beautiful woman, ethereal and transparent. She beckons men (and women, too, but mostly men, for some reason I think) with her curling finger. We follow her, those of us who hear her call. She smiles over her shoulder at us as she sheds her clothes, and we go with her, never minding our footsteps, keeping our gazes on the luxurious gossamer tresses that fall down her naked back, watching intently as she keeps leading, turning her head from time to time to tether us to her smile as we head who-knows-where.

Curiosity sat up nights with Gallileo by candlelight and urged him to gaze at the heavens through a telescope, and with DaVinci as she directed him to dissect bodies behind closed doors by a lamplight.

She's led men to smash atoms, go to the moon and back, sail seas that might have ended in watery cliffs. She's granted satisfaction. She's killed cats.

Marco Polo followed her east, Columbus followed her west, she drew Stanley and Livingston into the jungle, Lewis and Clark into the Rockies. Henry Hudson followed her up the river that now bears his name, Amerigo Vespucci to the new world that bears his. 

Cartier followed her up the St. Lawrence and founded Montreal, and the first Canadian Beaufaires followed him.

And she, Curiosity, has led people to strange beds, dismal hotel rooms, under bushes in the moonlight, onto the haystacks of secluded stables.

And now she's tempting me, and she's asking me about Janice's body and how it looks when it's naked and in the act of love. Are her nipples broad and flat with pea-sized pink-nubs, like I suppose? Or are they large and pouting with tan surfaces that cringe into wrinkles when a finger or a tongue touches them? 

What do you think, Peter? Curiosity asks.

Is her pubic hair wild, or a trimmed triangle, or in a landing strip, or bare? Are the lips of her sex tight and understated or full, long, prone to being pulled in and out by a toy? Does she use a toy? A vibrator? Does she moan and shake when she has an orgasm, do her legs stiffen? Tell me, Curiosity, tell me.

Shhh, Curiosity says in a hollow, breathy, reverberating whisper. You'll have to find out for yourself, Peter. Or just stay curious like me.

Curiosity has slipped herself into my psyche in the form of a fantasy of seeing Nellie, my Nellie, and Janice together. Perhaps that seductress, Curiosity, tucked it into my pocket at the party, when Nellie and I were asleep under the table.

The fantasy occurs involuntarily, at night when I sleep. It's fleeting, a fading hint when I wake with only a dim idea of the contents of the dream, but I wake hard and slide Nellie's hand onto my erection.

"Aren't we a tiger this morning, then," she purrs as she smiles and opens one eye.

"I was having a dream about you," I say.

"Were you?" she asks coyly as she slowly slides her hand up and down on me through my pajama bottoms. The pressure on my shaft is just right. She knows me.

I lift her over and up on top of me, and she whoops and giggles at the suddenness. She jerks my pajama bottoms down, and she takes her nightgown off over her head. It's rather plain, a short, thin white linen, but it's my favorite.

"What was your..." her question falls into a gasp as I enter her "...your dream about?" she exhales.

"It was about you," it feels so good inside her, anything but the truth is impossible, "and...another woman."

"Mmm...naughty boy," she grins and groans as she closes her eyes. She's leaning back and working her hips to and fro in long, fluid movements.

Then Curiosity is on the bed with us. She's lying on her side next to us, head propped on her hand, reclining, watching us, transparent curls falling along her forearm. Her voice is far away. Nellie doesn't see or hear her; this is, after all, my Curiosity. Maybe Nellie has her own that I can't see or hear.

Ask her, Peter, Curiosity says. You want to know, don't you? You've wanted to find out since you saw those pictures on her computer, haven't you? Isn't Finding Out the most important thing?

So I ask.

"Have you ever...been with a woman?" I murmur up to Nellie. Her hips are moving back and forth slowly. My cock fills her, and she rubs her clit across the bare base of it. Her eyes are closed, and her chin is lifted.

"Yes," she breathes. Her answer is quick, preoccupied.

"Was it good? Did you enjoy it?" I ask.

Nellie seems suddenly amused by these questions. Her movements on me stop, and she leans over me. Her face is right above mine, and her bemused smile is framed by platinum blonde hair falling around her face. She raises her eyebrows and nods in small movements, the gesture that sometimes accompanies a frank answer.

"Yes. Yes I did."

For me, insecurity creeps in.

"More than me?"

She tilts her head to the side and grins at me. Then she puts her fingertip to my lips and shakes her head no in small shakes.

"No, no, no, love, no. I never loved any of them like I love you."

Any of them? Them, as in more than one? I think to myself. Curiosity makes an O with her lips and smiles. She raises her chin and eyebrows, and lowers her eyelids. 

Nellie's hips slowly grind again, and I lift up to tongue her nipples and the pink flesh of them puckers and crinkles. She's slowly pushing herself into me, into the base of my cock, I can feel the rubbery pebble of her clit pressing into me. Her eyes are closed, her mouth open, her forward strokes are quick and jabbing. Her tits are swaying, quivering. I'm bucking now, lifting my hips to her, pushing up against her pushing down against me, pushing up into one last movement that spills me into her and then I'm still except for that part of me inside her, spewing and pulsating.

I press my pubis into her, I know she's close now, and I want to stay inside of her even if I'm soft and spent. I want her to cum with my cock inside her this time, not dripping me onto my lips or my fingers or my tongue. Her head pitches forward, platinum-blonde hair recoiling, a toss of the head, another, another, another, braces bared in her grimace, and then she's on my chest, our bare chests rising and falling together. My soft cock slips out of her with my seed. 

The sound of distant traffic floats through our bedroom window, traffic a block over on Queen's Gate.

We lay there in the Saturday morning light, her head on my chest, her finger drawing hearts on my stomach in the puddle of me that's leaked out of her.

"Tell me about your dream," she says as she suddenly rises up onto her elbows. "Who was I with?"

I'm totally relaxed. Lying is impossible.

"Janice."

"Ooh, really. Janice, is it, then?" She seems pleased somehow. "What were we doing?"

"You know, the usual."

"The usual?" Nellie asks playfully.

"Kissing, licking, sucking."

"What do you think her tits look like, her nipples, I mean?" Nellie asks. She's stroking the inside of my thigh, right by my balls. My sack is slick with the juices from our fucking.

"I imagine them round and flat and wide with little nubs on them."

"Mmm," Nellie whispers. "I do too."

"You do?" I turn my head down to ask.

"Girls think about these things, too. We're curious, too. What else? Do I eat her pussy?"

"Yes."

"Do I lick her clit, like this, perhaps?" Nellie licks my nipples as if they're clits. Her tongue flicks them, and my wet cock twitches.

"Mmm," I close my eyes. "Yes."

"Does she cum on my face?"

"Yes," I moan.

"And then does she suck my nipples and eat my pussy?"

"Mm-hmm," my answer is little more than a breath. I'm hard again, and I swing on top of her. 

"Does she put a toy in me? A dildo, like this?" she says as she guides my cock into her. 

I groan, and Nellie continues.

"Does she stroke me with it? Does it go in and out of my pussy, like now?"

I give her a breathless yes.

"Lick my nipples, Peetie. Show me how she would lick my clit."

I take Nellie's nipple in my mouth. It's hard, about the same size as her clit. I tease it and suck it like I would do her clit. Like Janice would do her clit. 

"I'm so close, Peetie, so close to cumming on her tongue..."

I erupt into Nellie's pussy when she wraps her arms around my neck tightly, burying her face into my shoulder, pushing a muffled cry into it. I feel her pussy squeeze my cock, both pulsating, one against the other.

I fall to her side, and she drapes herself over my side. She lays there with her ear to my heart, drawing things on my stomach until at last she looks up at the clock.

"Yoga in an hour, Peetie. Let's get moving, love."



Looking back, that was the moment.

Nellie can be like the whispy-tailed genie that floats out of a bottle with crossed arms and a turban:

Oh master, your wish is my command.

Once when we were eating in a French restaurant, I commented how much I liked the coq-au-vin. The next week, Nellie made it for me, as a surprise, and it was just as good or better. I spent a minute or two longer than usual looking at a shirt and tie at Harrod's. I found it wrapped up for me the next day. A magazine left folded over to an advertisement leads to new shoes, an offhand comment leads to tickets to the theater.

She'll do anything to show her love for me. I would do it for her, too, if I were as thoughtful and creative. Men just aren't made that way and frankly it sucks for both of us. I wish I were.

The next Saturday we wake early to a text on Nellie's phone.

"Who is it so early?" I say with one eye open.

But she's in the bathroom already. I hear the rushing water of the shower, and then I hear her brushing her teeth. She emerges from the bathroom in her lovely naked trot, small, lovely tits jiggling.

"I have a surprise for you, it's a little risqué, a little over the top, but I hope you like it," she says as she slips her red kimono over her naked body. "In about fifteen minutes. A surprise," she repeats.

"What kind of surprise?" I ask.

"You'll see," she says.

I get up to go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. When I return, I find that she's made the bed and put her hair up in a ponytail.

"What is it?" I wonder out loud again. I think, what can she be having delivered? A new suit? Shoes? Do they deliver that kind of thing? Breakfast? I am hungry, after all.

"Just keep quiet," she says as she pushes me in the closet and closes the doors on me. They have a louvered top, so I can see when she goes to answer the doorbell. 

"Tell me, what is it?" I ask through the slats.

"Shhh," she says as the doorbell rings, and I hear her hop-step onto the stairs and patter down them.

Then I hear a woman's voice and heavier footsteps up the stairs.

"Pete won't be home for another half hour at least," Nellie says. "But we'll have to be quick about it."

She leads someone into the bedroom. 

It's Janice.

"Not a word to anyone about this," Nellie says, "I love him more than anything, I just have certain needs."

I didn't catch Janice's response. Maybe it was a gesture. Maybe she didn't have one.

At first it was very uncomfortable, being there, watching them. I wanted to burst out of the closet before anything happened, to save us all from embarrassment, though I knew it was probably too late for all that. But then Curiosity appeared in the closet with me.

Shhh, Peter. Keep quiet. It's important to find out, and you're about to. Finding Out is so very important, isn't it? The most important thing, I always say.

Nellie and Janice pause for a moment and then embrace. Nellie holds up Janice's chin and kisses her, a kiss that makes a smacking sound. Their eyes are closed, but Nellie opens hers and looks at the closet doors and winks.

Nellie's red kimono falls smoothly over her naked body to the floor as she hurriedly lifts Janice's beige cashmere jumper up and over her head. Janice looks down at her hands as they scoop up Nellie's tits in between the thumbs and index fingers. She puts her lips to Nellie's nipples. Nellie pauses to sigh, but then undoes Janice's bra. Large tits spill out of the cups.

Your first guess was correct, Peter, Curiosity says as she peeks through the slats with me. Broad, flat areolas with small nubs. They're very lovely, aren't they? Aren't you glad you finally know?

I am. It is good to know. But I want to know more.

Nellie palms Janice's mound, and this time it's Janice who sighs. She recovers to kick off her shoes, low heels, and then she pushes her blue jeans and knickers down together.

Yes, a plush black bush. 

Nellie's hand is on it and her fingers are under it, under Janice, who steps apart to allow more access to her pussy. She kisses Nellie's vine-and-bird tattoo.

"I've always wanted to kiss you there," Janice says. I can barely hear her. She moves around to Nellie's front and licks and sucks the pert nipples on her small tits. I can hear the smacking sounds.

Nellie takes Janice's hand. They move to the bed and sit side by side, kissing and stroking, hands and lips roving over each other's bodies, legs parting. Janice kisses Nellie's neck, and Nellie smiles at me, or really, at the closet doors.

Janice straightens up and pushes Nellie back on the bed. When Janice bends over, I get a momentary glimpse of her black bush framing a set of swollen pink lips. I can only imagine how turned on she is. I know how turned on I am.

Janice gets on her knees and puts her head between Nellie's legs. I get an idea of her movements on Nellie's pussy. Janice's head tilts up and down, and Nellie moans behind closed eyes. Janice shakes her head side to side, and Nellie gasps and drapes her heels on Janice's pale back and runs her fingers through Janice's wavy black hair. 

Nellie opens her eyes in mid-ecstasy and mouths a kiss to me and the closet doors. Then she closes her eyes again and lifts her chin to the ceiling. Janice's hands reach up to palm Nellie's small breasts, nipples being pulled and stretched through the Vs of Janice's fingers. 

Nellie pushes Janice's head into her pussy so hard that Janice can't move it side to side as well. Nellie squints with an open mouth and then tosses her head rhythmically over and over, blonde hair shaking, tossing, as she grunts with each wave of her orgasm.

And then she's still, just panting. She casts a sheepish smile to the closet door and blows an upward breath that lifts the blonde hair that's fallen in her eyes.

Janice walks up on her knees. She settles her bush over Nellie's face, and all I can see of Nellie is the angle of her jaw. Within Janice's black carpet of hair, I can see the pink lips, shining and engorged as if they might burst.

Well, you were right, Peter, they really are rather long and full, Curiosity says. She's side by side and looking with me through the slats. Such an intuitive boy you are.

Those swollen, pink lips pierce themselves on Nellie's tongue, and Janice throws her head back. Long wavy black hair falls down her back, over the scattered moles on creamy skin. Nellie's arms reach straight up, and her hands are cupping Janice's rather large swaying tits, pinching the small specks of nipples on the broad pink areolas. Nellie's hands switch to Janice's arse, large and a little flabby, really, but at this point with Curiosity by my side, fascinating nonetheless.

Nellie spreads Janice's cheeks so I can see her tongue work Janice's pussy, so wet now I can see and hear it, wet, slopping sounds.

Suddenly, they stop. Nellie is holding her jaw.

"Sorry," I hear her say to Janice.

Janice seems perturbed, and I want to call her a selfish bitch. Can't you see she's hurting? I want to tell her.

Instead Nellie turns Janice around on the bed into a sitting position and gets behind her so that Janice's body is completely open to me. And to Curiosity, of course.

There you have it, Peter. Isn't it worth everything, just to know?

Within the black tangle, Janice's pussy is gaping pink, glistening moist, Nellie is sliding one finger up and down it, another in and out of it. Janice has her face pressed into the side of Nellie's head. Nellie's eyes are turned up to me, and she's smiling at the closet doors. Her toned legs flank Janice's bigger ones. Janice's melon-like breasts hang, the nipples are large and round as if they're two surprised pink eyes. 

Janice puts one arm back around Nellie's head and draws it forward. Nellie's chin is resting on Janice's collarbone, and she has two fingers going in and out of Janice now, and two fingers swirling over Janice's clit, which is large and pink, like her pussy lips.

I can see it building, Janice's breasts quaking, her thighs trembling like the start of an earthquake. Janice opens her mouth into a silent shout. She cringes, her legs straighten.

Right again, Peter, Curiosity whispers to me.

Janice pants and kisses the side of Nellie's head. Her sex is moist and winking, collapsing and expanding around Nellie's fingers. Janice kisses Nellie on the lips, but I notice that it's only a dismissive peck from Nellie, less than what Janice wanted.

Nellie jumps up and off the bed from behind Janice and begins looking around the floor for Janice's clothes.

"He'll be home soon. Best you be getting on, then. Thank you, it was wonderful, and just what I needed," Nellie says.

Janice stands and engages Nellie in a naked embrace, but Nellie only gives her a perfunctory hug back, the sort of hug you would give an old aunt. Then she breaks from it and practically begins dressing Janice.

She hands Janice her knickers and Janice steps into them and then shakes them up. Nellie hands Janice her bra and when Janice slides her arms in the straps, Nellie fastens it for her. Janice tries to give Nellie a kiss, but instead Nellie gives Janice her jeans and jumper, and then looks for Janice's shoes.

When Janice is dressed, they kiss once more, a little more passionate this time, but still it's a shorter version from the one Janice wants.

"He'll be home any moment," Nellie says to hurry Janice along.

I look for Curiosity, and I find myself alone in my closet.

Nellie slips on her kimono, red with an Asian print, and wraps the tie around her waist. The kimono barely covers her arse, and shows off her exquisite legs. She looks fantastic in it. 

She walks Janice down the stairs and to the door, then returns and opens the closet door.

"Well?" She says with her finger hooked and hanging from her lower lip.

I'm still in pajama bottoms. Her finger feels the wet spot my arousal has left. She sheds her kimono again, and I shed my bottoms.

She sits in my lap and impales herself on me, her arms are around my neck as we cling together.

"How did you like it, love?" she gasps. "Did you like watching me fuck another woman?"

"Yes," I whisper. "Yes," I groan. I can taste Janice on her lips.

We make love all morning, until we're so sore we have to miss our Saturday exercise. As we lay again in the early afternoon light, she asks me, "Would you like to see it again? Would you like for me to perform for you again?"

My answer is yes, but a qualified one. 

"It's just...Janice," I say. "I think she's smitten with you."



Nellie's Sketchpad



Her leg was smooth white now that she was out of the cold. The black skirt had ridden up, and I could see a hint of her knickers. I looked out the window and back again, and there was more of them. They were lacy white and spare. I turned my face down to my phone, but my eyes turned up to peer up her skirt, hoping that somehow the white lace would dissolve, and I would be able to see everything. Her gaze never broke from the screen of her iPad.

We unloaded at Heathrow and processed through security. She seemed bewildered by the process, and I had to show her how. Laptop out of the case. Shoes off. Have your boarding pass ready.

When we were boarded and the plane taxied to the runway, she took my hand. As the plane rumbled along and then thrust itself into the air, I thought she would squeeze my hand to the size of a single finger. I gave her a piece of chewing gum, and she smiled and put it in her mouth, then looked out at the landscape of white clouds under intense blue sunshine. 

She fell asleep with her head against the small porthole of the airplane window and I studied her peaceful face, a wisp of blonde hair drooping over the bridge of her nose, her lips slack over her crooked teeth. Against the backdrop of clouds outside the window, she reminded me of an angel on a cloud.

The tone announced our descent, and she woke with a start. She ran her fingers through her hair and looked about. We were down at the level of the clouds again. This time I reached for her hand and found her grasp was looser. We landed, and the announcements were made first in French and then in English. Welcome to Paris Charles de Gaulle, the local time is ten fifteen. 

The hotel was a budget affair near the airport, and we took the shuttle. We checked into our rooms and ordered room service, separately, too nervous for conversation. We spent the afternoon looking over the presentation in our separate rooms and waiting, waiting, waiting.

Our rooms were adjoining, and that evening through the thin walls, I heard the sounds of the television in her room. I became curious and used the old trick of putting a glass to the wall. I could vaguely make out cheesy jazz music and then the pantomime cooing and grunting of porn. And then I heard a voice separate from the telly, a series of ah-ah-ah and then a prolonged aah and then the squeak of cheap mattress springs and then just the telly again. My mind worked to put together the pieces of the auditory puzzle, trying to convert what I had heard into a visual.

The television went off, and I put the glass down and settled into bed, on edge about the presentation for the next day and discombobulated about what I had heard from Nellie's room. Sleep toyed with me, and then I finally did sleep. 

I dreamed there was a dock outside our building and a tall-masted sailing ship tied up to it. In the bow was Mr. Grisham in an admiral's uniform. There was water all up and down Tottenham Court Lane. He took me aboard. Two sailors went down in the ship's hold and were bringing something up. One of the sailors was Mum, I think, and I understood that the ship was a slave ship. I kept waiting for someone to emerge from the hold, but no one ever did and then the scene shifted. I was disappointed in that way you get when a dream departs from the script you're expecting.

I woke to a pounding on the door. It was Nellie. I had overslept. Thank goodness she hadn't.

"Come on, Pete, let's be gettin' on." I opened the door, and she followed me into my room and went into the bathroom. She came out with a towel and threw it at me.

"Get in the shower, I'll lay out your clothes."

I did as she said and as the warm water revived me I thought of her rummaging through my suitcase, especially my underwear. When I was finished I pulled the shower curtain open and instinctively covered myself when the door opened. It was just her arm with my underwear and pants. I dressed in the bathroom, and we took the Metro into the city.

She was dressed for success, much more conservatively than usual, with a longer skirt and a blouse with a blazer. The metro rattled under, over and through Paris as it shook us. French murmured around us, and I struggled to listen to the conversations. I was relieved to find that I understood most of what I heard.

The idea we had was to be pitched to a flooring retailer headquartered in Paris with branches in Lille, LeHavre, and Brest. Thanks to dad, flooring was something I knew a little about. The owner had seen some of Nellie's sketches on the Internet and liked her style. I had come up with an idea and Nellie took it and made it bloom. We spent the better part of a week and finally came up with about half a dozen workable proposals. Our star idea was one that centered on the exotic feel of an Arab bazaar, one where vivid red and gold rugs were sold. Area rugs were the specialty of the retailer. 

This could be the big break Mr. Grisham and the firm was waiting for, our beachhead on the continent, our international debut. And Nellie and I were wading onto the beach.

In sharp contrast to the rest of my life, when I had an idea in front of a client I became fearless, extroverted, quick thinking. In a conference room at the client's office Nellie sat at the head of the table while I pitched the idea to those assembled. From the looks of it, half of those in the room were related to the owner, all sporting the same Gallic nose. I could feel the adoration radiate off Nellie as I took our idea and explained it in French. I'm sure she understood very little of it. At the proper time I had her flip through a giant pad on an easel at the ideas she had. I measured the facial expressions in the room and found smiles on all but Mr. Frere, the boss. I nodded to Nellie, and she doused the lights and the screen lit up with a PowerPoint presentation that was the climax of our pitch.

When the lights came on, we all stood up together, and there was applause and then handshakes all around. Mr. Frere was no longer frowning, but he wasn't smiling either. He shook my hand last, and in English said, "Thank you, Mr. Beaufaire. Will you excuse us now? We will be back with your firm by Friday. The secretary will see you to the door."

The door shut behind Nellie and me, and we crossed our fingers to each other. It was raining, so we splurged and took a taxi back to our hotel. That's when we got Mr. Grisham's text:

Clients loved it! Look for the ad in Paris Match, Vogue, Home and Garden, Elle Decor. Congratulations you two. Biggest account in firm history by TENFOLD.

I looked at my phone and then realized that Nellie was looking at her phone at the same text and with the same expression as me, but with her fingers over her mouth. We hugged each other, and that's when we kissed. It was a simple kiss at first, but evolved into a soul-searching, probing kiss. We kissed until I heard from far away, 

Monsieur?

The shaggy haired driver's face looked back at me with Parisian exasperation. I gave him a ten pound note. He frowned and pushed it back at me, and I remembered and gave him a ten Euro note. When Nellie and I got in the lobby, we got another text from Mr. Grisham:

Everyone ecstatic in London office. You two spend a few more days in Paris. All expenses on firm. Great going.

Young lion Pete and young lioness Nellie had just taken down an elephant, and the rest of the pride was proud.

A moment later my phone rang, and it was Mr. Grisham himself.

"Beaufaire, check out and take a taxi down into the city. I've made different arrangements for you two." There was a pop in the background and the cheer of twenty people.

"What's that noise?" I asked.

"Champagne, of course!" he said, and there was another cheer.

We checked out of the hotel that huddled under the umbrella of jet-fire of Charles De Gaulle and took a taxi into the city to the Hotel des Deux Jardins. The marquis reached out and formed a square room with walls of falling rain. Under it a tall man in a top hat, royal blue vest and a black swallow tail coat opened our door and greeted us with a bow and a courteous, ''Bonjour, madame, monsieur."

''Bonjour,'' I said. We checked in at the white marble counter under the sounds of classical music and the bare breasted statues flanking the clocks of ten time zones. Across the lobby were a white marble mantle and a gas fire.

The man behind the counter asked for our reservation, and I said Beaufaire, but he couldn't find it. Then I said Grisham, and he said of course. He explained in French where the elevators were, and then I asked him if there was one room or two.

''Une seule chambre, monsieur.''

I smiled, and said, ''Merci, monsieur."

Grisham, you old rascal, I thought.

Nellie was in the lobby waiting by our luggage.

''Apparently the firm would only spring for one room,'' I told her as we took the handles of our suitcases.

She didn't say anything. She only smiled a crooked-tooth smile.

We were two young fish out of water in the large suite. The four poster bed was piled high with expensive sheets and duvets. A sitting room adjoined the bedroom. Expensive paintings of landscapes hung on the wall behind a finely upholstered couch.

From the bathroom, Nellie exclaimed with an echo, "This loo's as big as my flat!"

I stumbled in and admired the black marbled tile, the large mirror, the toilet and a bidet. I looked in the mirror and saw her reflection and then I felt her hand take mine and then her reflection looked up at mine and it kissed mine and I felt it and then her hands were unfastening my reflection's pants and pushing them down and she dropped to her knees and took my cock which was surprised and only half erect and she admired it for a second and then she took it in her mouth and I watched in the mirror as she pushed down and pulled her mouth back and it was erect, the head purple and shining wet now.

She stroked it with her hand and licked it and then sucked it and then stroked it again. I could only exhale and hope that my knees would hold me when my moment came. She stood up and kissed me and I could taste myself on her breath. I stood there ridiculous with my trousers around my ankles and my jacket on. She pushed my suit jacket back off my shoulders and roughly loosened my tie and undid the buttons on my shirt. When my chest was bare, she tongued my nipples, and I thought I would explode. I'd never had anyone do that to me before. Her hands squeezed my arse cheeks and they felt to me, from the inside, like pure muscle.

She led me by the hand, and my shoes clopped on the marble floor in the comic shuffle of feet tethered by trousers. I stopped, and her arm lengthened as I fought out of my shoes and trousers. She smiled and led me again in my stocking feet.

She sat on the big bed facing me, and my trembling hands fumbled with the buttons on her blouse and then she smiled at me and undid them herself. Her bra was lacy and white, a conservative, hidden colour for our presentation earlier. She kept it on as she shimmied down her pencil skirt. Her thong matched the lacy white of her bra. 

I leaned her back onto the bed and kissed her neck, and she smiled and gave me more of it. Her perfume was an understated fragrance with citrus notes. I pulled a strap off her shoulder and flipped down a cup of her bra and there it was, the mounded pink nipple with circular crinkles, the tip like a pencil eraser, small and firm and elongated, reaching, begging for my lips and tongue. When I took it in my mouth, she moaned and lifted her hips. I felt the lacy brush of her thong against the front of my thighs as she slipped it off. Her heels dug into my arse and pulled my hips down. Her hand guided my shaft into her. My cock slipped inside her, and the smooth wet walls squeezed it. I heard myself exclaim as I sank into her and then looked down at her smiling face studying mine. When I reached the bottom of her she closed her eyes, and she echoed my exclamation.

It was over for both of us almost as soon as it started, like a sudden summer rainstorm that comes up and departs so fast it would be hard for you to imagine it rained at all were it not for the wet ground under the sun and trees. I leaned onto her, and she panted into my chest. I was still standing in my black socks. Her bra had ridden up into a white lace necklace. Outside the cold rain fell on Paris. We fell to the bed side by side. It had been a long, trying, satisfying day, and we were exhausted.

I woke up later, and she was wrapped in a sheet looking out the rain beaded window at the cold dense mist and the sights of Paris. I shifted on one elbow. My cock was shrunken, our passion dried in the cloud of hair at the base. Her finger traced the outline of the Eiffel Tower on the condensation of the window. She looked over and smiled. Her blonde hair was still tousled. The sheet hugged the curve of her bottom as she turned to face me and braced herself with her hands on the window sill. Her body was backlit by the dim light of a rainy Paris twilight. The sheet fell over her shoulders and exposed her small pert breasts. 

I sat on the edge of the bed, and we looked at each other, admiring each other's naked bodies in the light that only fell in gray and black and white. She stepped forward and took my hand. She drew me up off the bed and to the window, and we looked out over the city. She opened her sheet, and I stepped in. We huddled against each other side by side, the smoothness of the skin of our naked bodies touching, the moles of our bodies two halves of the same night sky. She put her head on my shoulder, and I smelled her shampoo, something light and sweet and vanilla.

"What's that building there? With the gold dome?" She asked softly.

"There?" I pointed. "The Hotel des Invalides. Napoleon's entombed there."

"And the Arc du Triomphe, where is it?" She asked.

"There," I said shifting my finger over to the right. "You can barely see it."

She looked down my finger and said, "I see it now." Then she planted a kiss in the hollow of my elbow. Her arms encircled my waist, and her hands clasped together on my hip. Her cheek nestled into my chest, and I kissed the top of her blonde head and breathed in the aroma of her hair again.

We showered and got dressed side by side, throwing glances at each other's routine. Me: shaving, brushing teeth, deodorant. Her: applying makeup, the faces she makes when she does it.

We stumbled out of the elevator into the opulence of the lobby and then into the cold of Paris. It had stopped raining, but the sky was starless and moonless above the mansard rooftops and spires. We found a bistro on the Rue du Cherche-midi, and she watched me with adoration as I ordered for us. My French had come back like a homing pigeon, like riding a bicycle. The thought crossed my mind that dad would be proud of me speaking French in the presence of a beautiful girl.

We walked along the Seine, where the reflections of the lights on the far bank bristled in the choppy water. A stiff wind rushed in from England and across the channel and stung our cheeks, and we bundled together under coats and scarves.

We wandered the streets. The wine we had at dinner led us to a bar where we had one of each of the potent cocktails. Blue. Green. Pink. That yellow one. Shall we try the blue one again? Let's.

We found ourselves in a disco whose theme that night was retro, the Eighties. We danced together in the cool neon blue and warm magenta lights. When the crowd thinned out, we were on the street again, laughing and staggering and bumping our sides as we tried to walk straight. We came across a tattoo parlour, and Nellie had an idea.

"Lesss..." she slurred. "Lesss getta ta-toooo."

My eyes tried to fix on her in the underwater sense of drunkenness. Her eyes were still bright green with a radiation of eyelashes, but her eyelids drooped. She put a finger in the air and made a proposition:

"You get..." her finger went to her lip and hung there and then pointed in the air. "You get Mr. Grisham...right here," her finger poked my bicep. "And I'll get CC on my arse for Corp-rit Connnnncepts." She didn't wait for an answer and instead pulled the slack out of my arm as she teetered into the light of the parlour.

The artist was a big bald man with a goatee and tattoos all over his bare chest and arms. He took one look at us and smiled. It was probably three in the morning somewhere in some other world where time was kept.

"Bon-joooor, Mizzure," she crooned. "We would like tattooooos. Two taaaatoos," Her finger oscillated between the two of us. "Him and me, me and him."

He looked at me, and I told him in French, she's drunk and he gave me a sarcastic look with raised eyebrows that answered, you don't say?

She took a blank sheet of paper and sketched out a picture of Mr. Grisham, but instead of Mr. G it looked like a Dr. Seuss character. She turned it around and pushed it at him, and then said, "And I want CC right here...right on my arse." She turned and pulled down her skirt and her lacy knickers and looked over her shoulder. The tattoo artist nodded as if this was surely the most mundane request he had ever gotten.

The alcohol in me ebbed for a moment, and I realized that as much as I liked and admired Mr. G, I didn't want him traveling with me wherever I went, to the loo, in the bath, to my grave. So I told the man what I'm sure would make him send us on our way without our commemorative tattoos:

We don't have any money.

He flicked us away with his hand. Nellie looked at me and said, "Wuz...wuzzee sayin'?" Her eyes were watery, and the lids hung on them like they were slowly sliding down.

"He said we're too drunk. Think about it and come back tomorrow."

I took her arm, and we headed back to the door. As we got to it, she turned and shouted at the artist, "Ffffffuck off!"

His reply was heavily accented, "Yuh fock uv!" and he pumped his fist in the air like an exclamation point. And then he added for good measure, "Yuh Ess-ull."

We staggered back to the hotel and clumsily undressed. We sucked and licked each other, never quite cumming. Hair from my cock kept getting in her mouth, so she staggered to the bathroom and returned with a towel, a razor and some shaving cream. The Sober Me would never have let the Drunken Her shave either the Drunken or Sober version of my cock, but I reclined as she pulled it this way and that, pausing to swish the razor in a glass of warm soapy water. She wanted to leave a little tuft, but I suppose she was enjoying grooming me, and the tuft kept getting smaller and smaller until I was completely bare. She had me spread my legs and did my balls and arsehole. The towel on the bed was a weave of coarse black hair. She rolled it up and threw it into the bathroom.

She turned at the door and raised her arms. Her remaining article of clothing, a ivory silk camisole, came over her head, and she pushed me back onto the bed.

It took longer this time, owing to the liquor. I found myself watching the vine-and-bird tattoo on her side where my hand rested. She leaned back and showed me where I entered her, pulling her lips open to reveal the pinkness that glimmered with her wet arousal. Her hips were sliding back and forth over me. Suddenly she stopped and put her finger on her clit. I watched as she touched herself in the most intimate way possible.

I came inside her, watching her finger herself. I felt my cock spend itself inside her, twitching, pumping until it was motionless. She eased herself off me, and my cock fell back to me. It was smooth and wet at the base. She wasn't done with me.

She walked on her knees up my torso, and I felt my cum drip out of her onto my stomach and chest. Her shins pinned my upper arms to the bed, and I was face to face with her sex, red and swollen from the friction of our fucking. A thick coating of shining, pearly fluid was perched between the lips of her pussy. Her clit was swollen into a tense pink nub.




Nellie's Sketchpad



"Oh Pete," she crooned. "Clean me up, love. Clean up my pussy." Her slurring had resolved a little. Just then a strand of cum cleaved away from her pussy lips, stretching out like the pod of an amoeba and falling on my cheek.

"Clean me up, Peetie," she said again, and she lowered her pussy onto my mouth. My face was instantly wet from our sex. Her erect clit bumped across my lips.

"Oh, Pete, my clit's hard and swollen, like a little cock. Oh, lick it, Pete, lick my little cock. Suck it, lick it. Oh, baby, I want to cum. I want to cum all over your face, all over your tongue. Suck my little clit-cock, baby."

She was getting breathless as her passion escalated and her arse jiggled and her hips shifted back and forth over my face. 

Her thighs were on either side of my head, but I heard her clearly:

"I want to shoot my cum all over your face. Wanna cum in your mouth, taste my cum, Pete. Taste me, Pete, taste me when I shoot my cum in your face."

I turned my head trying to avoid tasting myself, but her hands gently scooped my head up, her fingers weaving into my hair. Her hips were hurriedly shifting forward and back, her clit was bumping across my lips. I pushed out my tongue, and her hard clit rubbed against the tip of my tongue. I was gulping for air, air that smelled of my cum and her arousal. Her forehead pressed into the padded headboard and then she released my head and pressed her palms into the headboard and pressed her cheek there. She was gasping. Her pussy lips and clit were heaving and twitching like they were gasping, too.

She dismounted my face and then kissed me. She kissed my chest, licking up the pearly white strands of my pleasure, first in the middle and then on a nipple. Her head was on my chest as we fell asleep with the lights on.

That night I stayed up and watched her sleep, watched her twitch and smile and mumble and then shift. Her bare skin pressed into mine. I wanted to fuck again, but more than that I wanted her close, sleeping next to me. Finally I fell asleep.

When I woke up, I was sober and more than a little disgusted at having been fed cum, my own cum, which I guess is better than someone else's. When she woke up she smiled and said, "That was so amazing!" 

She put her cheek to my chest, and I let the matter go.

**************************************************

We returned to London with a new arrangement, one of boyfriend and girlfriend. Mum was happy and relieved, I'm sure, that I wasn't gay. She's relieved enough that she doesn't mind that Nellie and I have moved into together. It was inevitable that we would. 

We had some near misses at the house Mum and I had shared. Whenever Mum went to the grocers or to book club or just about anywhere else for any amount of time, Nellie and I got up from the telly we were pretending to watch. We checked the curtain to watch her turn the corner. Then we gave her fifteen agonizing minutes to make sure she wouldn't think of something she'd forgotten and return for it. 

And then Nellie and I would be on each other. Clothes would fly across the room, and we watched them in a halfhearted way, trying to remember where they went so Mum wouldn't come across a thong or a bra or a woman's sock later.

Sometimes we would lose track of time or fell asleep on my bed or go for our second or third round, hoping our raw sexes would hold up for one more gigantic bit of ecstasy. At times like those we were surprised to hear Mum's key in the door downstairs. We would jump up and put on just the essentials, outer clothes, just pants, shirt, skirt, blouse, no underwear or bra or socks. Mum would find us on my bed snuggling and pretending to read.

I liked the way Nellie's tits would bounce when she would run on her tiptoes for her clothes. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, being discovered in bed together, or to be honest, on the couch, or on the kitchen counter or in the alley way or with Nellie perched bottomless on the ironing board. But the fear of the embarrassment of getting caught was enough for us to get a flat together. It was almost a shame; I miss Nellie's naked trot.

Now that we're alone as much as we like, we can't get enough of each other. I love the way she kisses my chest after she cums, whispering between her panted breaths, "Oh, Peetie. Oh love." Then she kisses me on the lips and I know she tastes my cum there.

I would do anything to please her. I would do anything to thrill her.

And so now I'm in the kitchen. Frozen strawberries, bananas, milk, all in the blender. A smoothie for Nellie. The new braces are killing her.