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Bridge with the Stauntons

By: shaunreagh



This was bizarre! 

I had thirteen cards in my hand. I was dressed in my favourite little black dress, wore my best silk stockings and sheerest thong, no bra -- Brian's idea, ( fabulous idea that turned out to be!) -- and the man on my right, whom I had met for the first time tonight, and whom Brian was hoping would offer him a job if all goes well (tonight), had his hand up my skirt.

'Do you play much bridge, dear?' asked his wife, across the table, waiting for my husband to lead a card. It was girls against boys: her idea.

'Plays pretty well, as far as I can tell,' said the big man, whom Brian hoped would offer him a job, with a wink at me, arms hidden beneath the green felt table-cloth, index finger of his right hand absently stroking the bulge of my clitoris in the paper thin silk of my thong. 

'She's good at cards,' said Brian, my husband, absently, eyes on dummy, trying to figure out which card to lead. 

For mercy's sake, just lead! I thought. I waited, hands up, elbows in, cards high, knees apart. My husband, Brian, is lousy at cards. Why he ever agreed to 'a rubber or two' with the Stauntons, I shall never understand. Most of dinner was spent with me trying to keep my various bits and pieces away from his wandering hands beneath the table-cloth. But this table was a tenth the size of the dining table. Under here there was no escape! I'd covered the card-table with a felt blanket. It hung down on all four sides. Bad idea, as it entirely concealed Staunton's hands. His nose was an inch from dummy, chair pushed back, elbows on knees, arms beneath the blanket, fingers up my dress. 

'Spades might be worth a look,' says Staunton, to Brian, who is hesitating, one of Staunton's hands gently stroking the underside of my leg, the other caressing my clitoris, and starting to cause me distress.

'Nghhhh...' I gasp, internally. 

I take a deep breath. Brian, for God's sake get on with it! I scream in my head at my husband, for the sooner we have finished playing cards, the sooner I can move out of range of Staunton's hands.

'Nice house,' says Mrs Staunton, waiting for Brian to play.

My feet slips out of my heels as both knee lifts high. 

The fingers are driving me nuts. 

'I'm glad you like it,' I say, giving her a smile, hands held perfectly still.

Brian plays, at last. 

'Two of spades,' says Staunton, as if we hadn't noticed. It is not a good lead. My partner plays a ten. Brian plays a jack from dummy. I take the trick with the king then lead the two of hearts and wonder, after I've played it, if that was sensible. I really can't tell. All I can focus on are the fingers between my legs and what they're doing to me. They give a last soft circle of my throbbing clitoris, then start to move lower. 

It is proving very hard to keep still. I hold my cards out in front, both hands, just over the line of the table as I'd always been taught -- my parents are keen, we all learned at home. I feel my pelvis slowly squirm, then spasm suddenly. A finger is burrowing beneath my thong where it runs between my legs.

'Your play, my dear,' says Mrs Staunton.

I try to concentrate on what's just been played, but all I am aware of is the finger now inside my thong, softly stroking skin. The skin of my labia major. It is moist, and swollen, and warm ... and getting hotter and moister by the moment!

'The Queen,' notes Staunton, nose near the table, finger spreading my very moist labia lips. I try not to swallow again. My focus is there, deep in the labia, sensing the masculine drive that eggs on the finger that now slips into the gulley between plump lips. The movement is eased by the honey slickness that he's been encouraging since dinner -- about the first course! My hips do a lazy roll. Nothing to do with me! He moves his finger to and fro in the moisture and warmth. My hips roll again. Very slowly. Deliberately. As if they have a life of their own. 

'You again, Judy dear,' says my partner, gently, as if I am a child. 

I try to concentrate on the cards. Staunton's other hand is pushing the hem of my short black dress to the top of my legs. The skin between stockings and panties is tingling in the movement of air beneath the table, and the infuriating movement of his fingers between my legs. I let my knees drift even further apart. What else can I do? A warm palm closes around my naked thigh. The crotch of my panties is eased away from my skin, as if he doesn't want to get them sticky, or is about to pull them off! 

'Are you sure you want to play the seven, dear,' Mrs Staunton asks.

'She's played it now,' says Staunton. 

(Typical male.)

'He'll let you change it, won't you dear,' says Mrs Staunton, looking at her husband.

'What's in it for us?' he asks, looking at his wife as his finger softly circles the tender and sensitive mouth of my vagina. Invasion territory. Out of bounds. 

As if all the rest of me isn't?

'Go on. Let the sweet girl change her lead,' says Staunton's wife.

He turns to me. I should have played the jack, of course. I think to change it. I look at him. His eyes are starting to lick my irises, I sense. 'Can I change?' I whisper, though should know better than this -- but his wife, my partner, you understand ...

'What's in it for me,' he says again. 

I have opened my legs even wider than before and angled my pelvis towards him. I am practically inviting him in. 'Oh well,' he says, as the tip of his thick broad finger accepts my apparent invitation, and slips inside my pussy, 'I suppose ...' and the rest of the thick finger follows. And I find I have closed my eyelids, and my chin has tilted upwards, and my lips have fallen open ...

'Go on then, Judy dear,' says my partner. 'Alan says you can.' 

I manage to open my eyes. She leans over the table, picks up the eight, and slides it back into my hand. I take out the jack and put it down instead.

What would may parents have said? That is so not-done!

(And having her husband's finger inside me -- is done?)

Brian, who knows nothing of cards, thinks nothing of this. He is too busy figuring out what he should play next. I swallow, more noisily than intended.

'Are you alright, my dear?' says Mrs Staunton, leaning forward again. Her husband's finger, now deep inside me, is slowly rotating first one way then the other, then it curls up, ever so gently, still deep inside, causing me to bear down -- ever so slightly -- on the pressure he exerts. And then the other way, curling again. I bear down again. 

'I'm fine,' I say, with a slight smile, baring down a third time on her husband's probing finger.

'Ah,' says Staunton, 'my partner plays a King.' 

We all look at Brian, but just as we do, Staunton jerks my panties. Hard. They slip down my hips some inches, then hold. My weight is on top. My buttocks are holding them against the chair. 'Is that wise?' he asks my husband. 

Brian is confused. He looks from the card, to the man who he wants to give him a job, back to the cards, then at me. But what can I do? I bear down as unobtrusively as I can on the invasive finger, the tip of it curling deep inside me. I shrug to my husband, as if to say: 'Don't look at me,' for in truth I don't want him to look at me. I don't want anyone to look at me. I fear if they do they will not have to be particularly perceptive to know I am becoming (unwittingly, even unwillingly) aroused, which always brings on a deep flush, starting at the tips of my nipples and extending all the way up my neck, and ending up all over my face.

'Take it back,' says Mrs Staunton. 'We don't mind. Do we my dear?' she looks at me.

'No,' I say. 'Of course not,' I say, trying not to look at her.

'Go on,' urges Staunton, loudly. Causing us all to look at Brian.

Tug! My thong slips down two inches more. 

'Do it, man!' he says, to Brian.

Then Tug! at me. 

I ease my hips off the chair. I can't think what else to do -- other than risk the thong being ripped. The sound alone could be embarrassing.

My panties are round my knees, knees spread, panties drawn tight. Staunton moves my knees together -- why do I let him move me so? He eases them over my knees, past my calves, down to my ankles, onto the floor ... What do I do with them now? I close my eyes. Two hands are wandering my pudenda. My clitoris. The moisture of my lips. The sensitive edge of my vagina -- empty for the moment of invaders. Easing towards the cleft. Threatening the path towards my anus. Softly up and over my mons. Cupping me there. A gentle caress. 

'You next, sweet thing,' breathes my partner.

I open my eyes. Her eyes are on mine. 

Does she guess what her husband is doing to me?

I pull out a card from the fan in my hand. I place it on the table. She leans over and covers my hand with her own. 'Good card,' she whispers, approvingly, stroking my hand. Three of the couple's four hands are now on me. All of them stroking or fondling. My eyes drift closed. Again. I open my lips so a sigh may escape without notice. He toys with my clitoris. It is hard, fit to burst. It is ... 

I bear down again. 

Last thing I noticed before my lids closed was Brian frowning at his cards. He doesn't know what to play next, poor dear. I struggle to open my eyes. The view of the table appears, albeit weakly. My partner has her hand on my husband, around his neck, urging him to play a card. Any card at all, I almost plead. The hem of my dress is round my waist. Staunton's hands are all over the skin of my hips and my thighs. My knees are flaying loosely, one minute together, the next wide apart, as his hands wander softly all around my private parts. I gasp. My face angles up towards the ceiling. 

'How about a seven of clubs,' says Brian, plaintively. I don't reply. He isn't asking me, I think. 

Or don't. 

A large hand cups my buttock. I've somehow lifted from the chair and the hand has slipped beneath me. It cups me intimately. His fingers stroke the cleft, slip in, fingertips seeking my anus. My mind slips further into neutral and my buttocks rise, his fingers slip deeper in the cleft.

'Are you sure?' says Staunton, to Brian. 

Both Stauntons look at him now. 

I turn my head, pretend to do the same. Brian looks ill at ease. Which is how I feel, I must confess. Though I hope I am concealing it better than he. I squirm my hips beneath the table, turning them this way and that as Staunton explores and strokes and caresses every naked inch between my waist and thighs, all the way down to my knees ... then back up and in between, and even ... 

'Ngaar!' I gasp, as he enters me again. My pelvis bucks this time, quite hard. It reverberates right up my spine. My eyes snap open, alarmed. But everyone's looking at Brian. Brian is staring at cards. 'Ngaar!' I gasp again, as my pelvis jumps then bucks. My face leaps up towards the ceiling, and just as it gets there, my eyes snap closed. 'Ngaaar!' I gasp a third time. 

'Don't worry, Brian, you just take your time, ' I hear my partner say, seemingly oblivious to my jumps, and jerks, and squirming in my chair. Brian, clearly focussed on not disappointing Staunton, appears oblivious to all that's going on. Although it is I who should be focussed on that! I, after all, am the one who seems to be ensuring the big man is not disappointed -- and judging from the hunger of the hands that explore me, Staunton is far from disappointed! 

I force my eyes open again; force my head straight on my shoulders. I lower my buttocks, gently, into the chair. His hand still cups me there so I don't sit down with all my weight. (It wouldn't do to hurt his hand.) I lean my elbows on the table, bearing some weight on that. (Breaking Staunton's hand will hardly get Brian his job.) Which is when it strikes me: Were a card to fall on the floor about now, and one of the players bend to retrieve it, the sight beneath the table might surprise, or stun, or outrage deeply ... depending, I suppose, whose card it was. 

What might they see? Brian's neat polished shoes, heals together, the crease on the trousers, one of the knees bouncing nervously up and down every now and then. Then settling, still. On his left, the prim print frock of Mrs Staunton, hem reaching down to mid calf, thick formless ankles, sturdy-healed 'sensible shoes'. Opposite Brian's neat trousers the broad powerful calves of Staunton, bulging under the creased grey slacks. Knees wide apart, elbows and forearms extending from the knees, broad shoes scuffed, bobbing up and down every now and then. 

Next to these, and at times coiled around one, my own lady-like legs. Twenty-two years old, smooth in sleek stay-up stockings, both shoes off, knickers round one ankle like a garter, slipped low. One foot on tiptoes, the other curled under my chair. Knees one moment apart, then spread, then lifting up, tight against each other. Naked thighs, naked hips, naked mons, naked pudenda -- glistening with moisture -- intertwined with hands. Moved and positioned and caressed as the smooth naked buttocks rolled and squirmed on the front of the chair, looking at times to edge off altogether as yet another spasm drives the pelvis forward. Then a squirm sends it gliding to the side. Then a catch and a tweak of the fingers send it spinning towards the back before yet another spasm kicks in, lurching it back towards the front yet again, spreading it wide towards the waiting hands, eating out the palm of first one, then the other, nuzzling at the thick invading fingers ...

I couldn't keep my eyes on the cards. Below the waist my nakedness was sliding out of control. Staunton's hands were at war with me, invading every sensitive inch of my private parts. Probing places where the hands of strangers had never been before. Battling defences, weakening will, driving my emotions to the wall. 

'Ngaaaah,' I gasped aloud, as my partner said again -- how many times had she said it, 'Your turn, Judy, my pet.' I was now this woman's 'pet'. From the way her husband was petting me too, I was clearly becoming the family pet!

'Sorry,' I look at my hand. A heart was led. I have a heart. I pull it out, and as I place it on the table Brian, watching the card -- not seeming to see me at all -- Staunton pulls my leg toward him. I slip even further down my chair, threatening to slip off altogether. To slide ignominiously, half-naked, under the table itself, (only the grip of my elbows on the table top stops that from happening). 

The edge of the chair is now against the top of my buttocks. All the lower parts are electrifyingly aware of his touch. The hungry hands exploring their shape. Hard firm globes, I think to myself, absently, as his hands stroke both, then slip between, then stroke me there. Fingertips easing more deeply between. I feel my cleft grow large, like a hungry mouth. Gaping, affording entry.

'A heart,' I say to Brian, drawing his attention to the card I've just played. 

My head is now low, my shoulders lifted, my elbows on the table holding me up, my pelvis and thighs and private parts open to the hands of Staunton, taking advantage of my hopelessness. And how much advantage he takes! His fingertip stands at my anus. What do I do to prevent it?

'A heart?' asks Brian, clearly bemused by the need to follow suit.

'You need to follow suit,' said Staunton, to Brian. Then he leans forward -- to me -- and into my ear, as one of his hands cups my buttock and his other goes over my mons, a finger stroking my clitoris (and practically closing my eyes). While his other fingertip lingers, ominously close, to the puckered little bulge of the entrance to my anus ... and nothing has ever been there! 'You need to open,' he says. 

He is clearly talking to me.

'A heart,' says Mrs Staunton, to Brian. Then looking at me with a smile, she says, 'Alan's being silly, Judy my pet, he doesn't know that you've opened already,' she nods at my card. 

I have opened. 

I don't know why, or how -- nor even why -- but I have ...

Staunton's thick finger is easing its way up my butt... And no-one has been there before!

This has now gone away past bizarre -- this is now thoroughly weird. 

What the heck am I doing? I ask myself, eyes on the card I've just played, almost off my chair, naked parts of me thrust towards this man as he uses what I offer how he wants. The feeling of the thick finger moving slowly up my butt -- like a turd going the other way -- is so strangely insulting, so deeply offensive, so utterly impolite, that I find myself turning to the man, and studying him. He stares right back at me. My eyes, I know, are wide on his. He opens his on mine as if we are the only two people in the room, me effectively offering all my sensitive feminine parts to him to do with as he pleases, while he does precisely that. 

He is looking at me with unusual ... what is that look? 

Hunger? Lust? Arrogance? Confidence ... What is that look?

'Urgh!' my eyes snap shut. He has pushed the tip of his finger into my anus. My pelvis lifts beneath the table and then, as my eyes snap open -- on his -- I find I am sinking back down ... onto him. My pelvis, under it's weight and deprived of the pressure of my sphincter, slides gently down his finger. Very soon it's length is deep inside me. He leans towards me and before I know what I'm doing, I lean towards him. The next thing I know his lips are on mine, and his tongue is in my mouth. 

Alarmed, I rear away. Our lips break apart. Tightening my grip on the invasive finger, flexing my thighs, pressing my feet on the floor and using my elbows as levers, I thrust myself upright. 

'She deserved it, don't you think,' says Staunton, to Brian (I think) . 

I guiltily glance in his direction. His eyes are down on the cards in his hand, two fingers closed over one, trying to decide. I don't think the klutz even noticed the kiss. 

The huge brute is kissing his wife now. She playfully pushes him away.

'Take you time,' says Mrs Staunton, smiling at her husband, then at me, then at Brian, adding with her eyes on him, 'Poor dear doesn't know what to do.'

'Don't you think Judy deserves a kiss, playing such a good lead?' says Staunton to his wife, as his hand between my legs slowly circles my clitoris, and the one with my ass impaled, massages me gently. For reasons I cannot explain, I have my ass relaxed. Entirely relaxed.

'Whatever you say, my dear,' says Mrs Staunton, accommodatingly, to her husband. 

'You agree too?' he asks Brian. 

Brian nods, vaguely, still studying his cards. Next I know, Staunton has leant towards me, brought a hand from under the baize tablecloth to the back of my neck and is bending my head towards his. Before I've had a chance to get my thoughts back in order, I have allowed my lips to close on Staunton's lips. And this time his tongue does a thorough job! When we break, I am gasping for air and have a finger up both the apertures between my legs. Then I have Staunton's lips running down my neck, and am stretching my neck as if I want them there ... and Brian is playing a seven of hearts. 

My partner wins the trick. I straighten. 

At least above the waist I look normal. I think. My shoulder straps are still on my shoulder, my hair is still in place, my breasts -- albeit with nipples elaborately hard -- are still inside my dress. Sort of normal, anyway. But down below all hell is breaking loose. How can I stay still? The sexual flush to which I am prone has risen to my neck. I feel it there. His finger is up my ass. I feel that there. Another is snug in my pussy, and I certainly feel that there! I try to keep my breathing calm. I try to keep my cards still. I spasm again as his thumb tweaks my clit ... then again ... and again ... and again! 'Ngaaar!' I gasp.

'You all right, my petikins?' croons Mrs Staunton.

'Just a bit parched,' I say, words pulled out the air, given little thought. 'A drink of water,' I look down at the table, shaking my head. Then I decide, 'Would you excuse me?' I say, determined to leave this table of utter and impossible anxiety, at least for a minute. I have to 'regroup', pull myself together, get a bloody grip! 


Bridge with the Stauntons Ch. 02



Note to gentle reader: This is a follow-on from Bridge With The Stauntons. A number of readers seemed to think it might be a good idea to do a sequel. The more I thought about it the more I came round to agreeing. But the fun with dealing with Judy is as much what goes on in her mind, as what she does, and others do, with her body. This part, Part II, deals with her mind, and the situation she finds herself inveigled into. It is also the set-up for part III. Those of you who lack the patience to join her in her mind, and thereby more fully appreciate what happens next, well ... sorry, this may be slow going. But it may be worth it.

*

Here we are again, with Judy.

Some months later ...

Brian got the job. In some ways I felt it would have been better had he not, but he did, so that was that. My problem, if that was a fair way to describe it, was that I could think of no way of explaining to Brian what it was about his job that concerned me, either in terms of concerned, as in being involved in the process, or concerned, as in being worried about what the process had involved. I failed to see how I could explain either, without also explaining what happened beneath the card table, and in the kitchen afterwards. And I didn't think I could do that. So I held my tongue. 

Brian, of course, was over the moon about the job. It was an exceptionally job for someone of his limited experience. And as for me, well, I would heal with time, I thought. And true enough, over time, as the attractions of the job sunk home, (and the Stauntons kept their distance, so to speak,) I started to feel that, on balance, I was glad we got the job -- or rather, Brian got the job. After all, I rationalised to myself in the shower some days after the event, my having giving myself over (briefly) to Mr Staunton, as my part in persuading him that Brian would be a good person to have on his team, was hardly excessive in the circumstance. 

As I say, it was a very good job. 

I had lost nothing, after all. Nothing concrete, at least. Nothing you could place on a table and say: 'I lost that'. I wasn't injured by what had taken place, or physically disfigured or disabled in any way. When the 'downside' and the 'upside' were compared, in fact, I think we had come out on top! There were considerable advantages in the job, after all. Immediate advantages. It allowed us to pay off the mortgage on our house for one thing, thanks to the Home Loan facility Staunton offered Brian on his first day at work. And the firm provided Brian with a car, which we hadn't expected. And which meant our beat up old VW Beetle could now be MY car, rather than 'ours'. (I'd always wanted a car of my own.) And the pay ... Well, the pay was spectacular! 

After two months passed, uneventfully, I was feeling pretty good about life. So what if I had been 'encouraged', if that was the word, to give up some part of myself for the cause? The cause of Brian and me and our home and our future together. If a husband couldn't rely, just a little bit, on a wife's help in this dog-eat-dog world of business, and career advancement, and all that other corporate stuff ... then what good was a wife? It was surely the least I could do. It would remain my little secret. 

But then ... Sophie phoned. 

Sophie, with a plumy English accent, who announced that she was Staunton's PA, phoning on behalf of Mr Staunton, and that arrangements had been made for this Friday.

"Ah ... ah ...um, " I stammered at the phone.

"Friday the 18th," she elaborated, feeling, perhaps, that I needed it explained.

Arrangement? 

"For ... what," I stuttered incoherently. 

Sophie had one of these sophisticated, highly efficient sounding voices that makes one feel inadequate. It made me feel inadequate, at least. I'd just come in the kitchen door with the shopping. The door was still open. My foot was snaked behind me to kick it closed. My armful of foodstuffs in three paper bags was threatened to tip on the floor. I had the telephone clamped between cheek and shoulder at an angle that threatened to drop that as well. 

"Bridge," Sophie said/announced/declared, as if it were the name of a very expensive wine, or a member of the British royal family. "Mr Staunton terms it a 'rematch'," she added, almost distastefully, as if the very idea of something as proletarian as cards was somehow beneath her.

"I don't ..." I started, as a can of anchovies slipped from one of the bags and hit the kitchen floor with a sound like a shotgun going off.

"What was that?" asked the phone.

"Anchovies," I said. "But they're okay," I added. At least I hoped they were. 

Silence the other end of the line. 

"It was a can," I went on to explain, for some reason feeling that Sophie, with the plumy English accent, who was PA to Staunton, Chairman of the Board, and generally very important person -- where Brian and I were concerned; Sophie as well I imagined -- needed to be kept in the picture where my anchovies were concerned. But judging from the silence the other end of the line, Sophie didn't share this view. 

There was an audible sigh at the other end, and then, "The details are as follows," she announced, in a clipped efficient manner, clearly deciding I was not to be trusted with any part of this conversation. "Next Friday, the eighteenth, at eight pee em." (That's how she said it, 'Eight Pee Em,'). "Mr Staunton and his partner will arrive at your home to play bridge. The 'rematch' he talked of. Mr Staunton will be prompt. He does not like impromptitude."

Impromptitude? 

Was there such a word?

"I ... ah," I started, clasping my hand around the bottom of a bag as a box of cheese crackers fell out the top. I was suddenly determined to stamp my authority on matters. There was simply no way I was going to play bridge with the Stauntons! Not again. 

But the voice on the phone cut me off. "I have been instructed to arrange food. Italian Okay?"

Italian? 

I wasn't sure. 

"I... ah," I started, as two cans of baked beans fell from the outermost bag to the floor, and were immediately joined by a bag of spaghetti for a nearer paper bag.

"I understand you work on Friday afternoons?" said the phone. 

My eyes were darting nervously over the foodstuff that was starting to litter my kitchen floor. This was true, I did work on Friday afternoons. I had a teacher position in an afternoon play school across town, and didn't get home until seven three nights a week. One of them was Friday. "I ah," I started, about to confirm this, wondering who had told her. 

"One last thing," came back down the line as if I hadn't spoken; which I suppose I hadn't, not intelligibly at least. "Mr Staunton has a special request." She gave a 'harrumph' down the line after this, as if she found the conversation growing more and more distasteful by the moment. "And I quote, 'Would you please humour an old man and wear what you wore the last time you played'." Pause. "Do you know what that means?"

Do I know what WHAT means? 

How we played, or what we played at?

Or what I was wearing before he took most of it off! 

"Regrettably," I started to say, ad libbing like mad, about to point out that my husband, Brian, did not enjoy cards. And was hopeless at them anyway -- even Snap. Plus, I was intending to add, I believed we had another engagement that night. Also, I thought, Brian's mother was planning to visit. (She was always threatening to.) So, accordingly, and unfortunately, we would not be able to host this ... 'rematch,' ... as Staunton chose to term it. But before I could get it out, before I even started in fact, I was interrupted again, by the woman on the other end of the line.

"Brian has approved this, by the way," said the woman on the other end of the line.

"I ... ah ...oh, " I said, feeling a bit like a gold fish. (Gutted.)

"Shall we say Italian?" she said, as if checking off points on a list.

I really wasn't sure if it was. 

Italian what?

"May I take that as a Yes?" she pressed.

"I ... ah ...em," I stammered. 

But she had gone. The line was dead.

On Tuesday afternoon Brian had to go upstate to check on something or other at a plant the firm was planning to buy. 'Massive Expansion' was in the air, apparently, Brian informed me. Expansion that, 'could do him no harm,' he also advised, touching the side of his nose in a dramatically secretive manner as if it were highly confidential. Like a state secret. Who exactly would I tell, I wondered, saying nothing. (You know what men are like.) The four year olds at playschool? The check-out clerk at the supermarket? Maybe the gas station attendant, Jimmy, who was all of eighty years old! 

Brian was still away, on Thursday. On the phone, late Thursday night, me in bed at home, him in a drab motel room upstate, I brought up the subject of Friday's bridge. I wondered, airily, if he could perhaps stay up there another day or two so that the bridge would be cancelled. I suggested it was something he wouldn't enjoy. It did not go down well! 

"Judy. How could you suggest such a thing!" he gasped, aghast. "Being asked to play Bridge with the Stauntons is the pinnacle of acceptance in the firm. There is no greater kudos. No greater honour. Do you have any idea how jealous my colleagues were when they found out." I may have hummed and hahed a bit at this. "That Mr Staunton likes to spend leisure time with us is a great feather in my cap. In your cap too, my angel."

It wasn't the feather I was worried about. Nor where it might be put.

"It's just that ..." I said, vaguely.

"I need your support in this," said Brian, cutting across me, sounding like a harassed accountant.

"Of course, my pet. You have it. You have it," I said hurriedly, back-pedalling fast, changing the subject. "Have your read the book I packed?" I asked. 

I'd given him a book on the ACOL bidding system. One I got from my father when bridge at home was mandatory, every Friday night. 

"Yes, yes, yes," he said, still sounding harassed. Still accountant-like. 

But I knew he hadn't opened it. 

We exchanged a few whispered sweet nothings over the line. Then a few kisses. Then replaced the phones, laid our heads on our respective pillows -- two hundred lousy miles apart -- and contented ourselves, with ourselves. (As a couple, since our marriage -- since a few months before it, in fact -- we have tended to be active in bed. On a nightly basis, one might say. Sometimes more. Quite often more, in fact. Not to put too fine a point on it, sexually, we appear to be 'imaginatively demonstrative', as I once read it described in a magazine. This was now Brian's third night away and his absence was making me just a tad fidgety in that department, if you catch my drift.)

Friday.

I would not do it. I simply would not! 

I was in my bedroom. It was seven fifteen 'pee em' on Friday evening, and the matter of dress had preyed on my mind all day. A good bit of yesterday too. If Mr High-and-Mighty Staunton, Chairman of the Board and CEO of the Firm where my husband worked, thought he could invite himself round to my home to play bridge and dictate what I should wear when he came, then Mr High and Mighty Staunton had another think coming. I would show him. I would show them all. 

(And where the hell was Brian?)

A pair of floppy jeans and a thick fleece jumper were laid out on my bed. I intended to wear my full length Velcro work-out suit beneath the jeans and fleece. I would also wear a sanitary pad between my legs to protect my crotch. I'd even bought a substantially sized one. It was backed with plastic sheeting -- but the more I examined it now the more I wondered if in fact I'd bought an incontinence pad by mistake. Which is when the phone rang.

"Sophie Sandringham," said the phone.

"Who?" I asked, still looking at the large incontinence pad in my hand. 

"Sophie Sandringham, PA to the CEO."

Oh, THAT Sophie! 

"Yes?" I said, tossing the pad on the bed as if it were a cockroach.

"Slight change of plan," said the phone.

"Yes?" I said, all ears.

"Your husband's held up at the plant." 

HALLELUYA! I thought, punching the air. "Oh, what a shame," I said, relief flooding through me. "Well, never mind. We can do it some other time." The words gushed forth like water from a faucet. I punched the air again.

"That's not what I meant," said the plumy English accent on the phone. "As Brian can't come, we've had to get a fourth."

"Who has?" I asked, fist frozen in the air.

"We have."

"Who?"

"Me."

"I'm sorry," I said, eyes screwed shut, fist now banging my brow. "I don't understand what you're saying." 

There was another sigh from down the line. (This wasn't her first.) I managed to bite back the threatened retort! 

"As your husband is still at the plant, and the plant is two hundred miles away, we, meaning me on behalf of the CEO, have had to enlist the services of a fourth for bridge."

"Oh?" I said, sinking onto my bed, shoulders drooping.

"And the fourth is me," said Sophie, sounding as pissed off as I felt.

"You," I said, head down. 

"Yes," the voice said softly. Almost sadly. Sophie was clearly upset. 

"And you had something else on," I guessed, out loud, suddenly feeling an affinity for this plumy voiced PA to the Emperor. 

"Yes," she said. 

Hot date, I surmised, taking a deep breath and reaching beneath me for the lump of sanitary pad/incontinence whatsit I was sitting on. "So we're in this together?" I glared at the large lump of white plastic backed gauze that I'd brought from beneath me, and now held up to the light. How could you walk with something this size jammed down your pants?

"Looks like it, doesn't it," said the phone, quietly. There was hesitation from the other end, after which she continued in the same quieter, more personal voice she seemed to adopt when not being the hot-shot PA. "Anyway. I was asked to inform you about your husband, Brian, being held up. I'm sorry about that."

"Not your fault," I conceded, realising there would now be two unwilling players in the game. But then I figured, another woman would be present, Staunton's PA. If Stauntons wife AND his PA couldn't keep the randy old bastard in line, then who the heck could? "What will you wear?" I asked, staring at the thick jeans and Velcro suit, and fleece, that lay next to me on the bed.

"My boss has this theory about covering up in the evenings," said Sophie, plumy accent put away for now. "The more you have to show the more you show. The less you have to show the more you cover up." I didn't respond to that, but I did wonder which category she fell into. Midway between the two, perhaps? How old were PA's with plumy English accents these days?

"We'll be there at eight," she said, a little sullenly, ringing off. 

I decided, half way through my shower, that I would do things by the book. Three women to one man, after all -- even if the one man was bloody Staunton -- would surely make matters safe. I would, therefore, go along with what Brian, and Staunton, had asked. I would wear what I wore the last time. That way Brian could never accuse me of 'not supporting him'. Nor could I be accused of refusing to do what his boss had asked. 

I dressed myself in my little black dress, my little black thong, no bra, charcoal self-supporting stockings, black dress pumps with the three inch heel, silver stud earrings, a dab or two of Chanel, and a hair thin silver chain around my waist. (This last was an affectation I sometimes adopt, when I'm feeling particularly pleased at how I look after my shower!) 

But it wasn't three women, after all. 

It was going to be, I discovered as I opened the front door in response to the chimes, two women and two men. Mrs Staunton was missing. In her place was a grey-haired patrician sort of gentleman with the softest handshake imaginable, and Sophie Sandringham, in a wrap that Staunton removed as she came through the door. 

But Sophie ... Wow! ... Sophie was simply stunning! Where I wore a black dress with high hem and spaghetti straps, hers was red. Where my stockings were charcoal hers were oxblood. Where my pumps with heels were patent black, hers were patent red. And where my hair was black and cut short like a boy's, hers was silky blonde and worn long, like a girl's. How could anyone possibly work with a PA who looked that good?

The Italian food was brought in by a uniformed chauffeur, I'm not sure whose. 

It was eaten around the kitchen table, despite the fact all four of us were dressed well enough to have dined with considerable aplomb at the main table in Viccenzo's, the most fashionable restaurant in town. I suggested we eat in our dining room -- it is actually an alcove off the sitting room -- but as I had already set up the card table there, Staunton decided we'd eat in the kitchen. The other gentleman agreed. I didn't argue. (I don't think Sophie cared!) So the kitchen it was. 

Elgar Marone, EM as Staunton called him, our fourth at bridge, not merely had a handshake that almost wasn't there, he wouldn't look me in the eye when he spoke. And had a voice so soft most of the time I didn't catch what he was saying. I had no idea who he was, other than 'a financier', whatever that was. But as nobody seemed to want to talk about him, or even to him, come to that, I took the hint, and did the same. 

I had cleverly -- well, sort of cleverly -- arranged seating for dinner so that Staunton was at one end of the kitchen table, and I was at the other. I had made the excuse, having allocated him his seat at one end, and the others the sides, that I had to be near the kitchen sink. Don't ask me why. (Fortunately the others didn't either.) 

The food was delicious. In fact, it was more than that. It was probably the best Italian food I have ever tasted. And with two bottles of Barolo wine (that's what it said on the label) to wash it down, it was more of a feast than a supper. After we had finished I didn't want to play bridge. I wanted to go to bed. Preferably with a warm husband! (Good food and wine always has this effect on me!)

"Had a blanket last time," said Staunton. 

He was nodding at the card table I'd set up in the alcove off the sitting room. I'd bought it specially. It was a proper card table with a green baize surface. It didn't need a blanket. 

"Prefer it with a blanket," said Staunton, glowering at Sophie, his PA, as if the lack of a blanket was somehow her fault. She looked at me enquiringly. 

I thought to object that we didn't need a blanket. I was willing, even, if push came to shove, to say that the blanket made it hotter under the table, and we didn't want that. I was even prepared, (at least I was kidding myself that I was,) to mention the unfortunate way knees and legs might touch if the under-table area was covered. But not being too sure about the other gentleman present -- who he was, why he was here, whether or not he was important, (he seemed to be important) -- I probably didn't defend the lack of a blanket with sufficient verve to sway the Stoughton juggernaut. Perhaps the Barolo didn't help much either. Whatever ... we ended up draping the blanket over the table just like last time. 

But then I played my trump card! 

I had planned it during my shower, when deciding to go along with Staunton's dress code requirement. No matter how many women were there -- and at the time I had thought there would be three -- I was determined to usurp any under-table plans that I was sure he harboured, (cosseted hotly in his grubby little mind!). So, as we hovered around the newly covered card table, Sophie straightening the overhang to ensure it was uniform all round while I removed the foil covers from two packs of cards I'd bought for the evening, I looked at Staunton with my most devastating 'come hither' look, and said, with enough innuendo to sink a sizeable aircraft carrier, "I'd love to play with you." 




Bridge with the Stauntons Ch. 02



The broad chested reprobate, of course, as I had rightly surmised he would, positively swelled. I noted the rotten glint in his rotten eyes as he digested what I'd just said. And then, prompted no doubt by the galaxy-sized ego I knew he possessed, he retorted, "And I would love to play with you, too, Judy my dear." (Yet another innuendo-worth of aircraft carrier slipped beneath the waves). Sophie was glaring at me as if I'd lost my sanity. But I was ready to pounce. And pounce I did! 

"Right, that's decided," I said, at ninety miles an hour. "Mr Staunton and I are partners. Against Sophie and Mr Marone. As hostess I will take this seat, nearest the kitchen. Partner, you sit opposite. Sophie, why don't you sit on my right. Mr Marone, here on my left. Excellent. Fine. Right." I sat down. "High card to deal." I dealt. 

I was positively tingling, I was so proud of myself. I had said it so firmly, so decisively, so quickly, that when I'd finished and pulled back my chair and sat down, and started to deal four cards to decide who would deal the first hand, EM and Sophie were already in theirs, and Staunton was left with no option but to pull out his chair and sit down. Way over there. Out of arms reach! Of me! So proud! 

Elgar to deal.

Ten minutes later, or so, we were one game up -- playing rubber bridge -- when my partner opened one no trump. I responded two spades, showing strength, and length in spades. A little to my surprise he raised to three spades, (rather than three no trumps, which would have given us a painless game, and a two game rubber). I didn't think we had the points for a slam, and assumed he felt four spades was an easier game than three no trumps, so accordingly raised it to four. He nodded, approvingly. But when he laid down his cards (face up, the dummy hand for me to play,) it was clear that three no trumps was an easier contract than the four spades he'd left me in. 

I glanced at him, but his eyes were down. He had pushed his chair back and his forehead was inches above dummy. His elbows were on his knees and his hands beneath the table. For a brief (alarming) moment I wondered if he could reach me from there? I eased my seat back, just in case. No contact made. I relaxed. EM had led a diamond. I played a high diamond from table. Sophie played low. I won the trick from table. Dummy's lead. 

Four spades wasn't easy to make. I needed a finesse to work. But I played assuredly, confidently, keeping the whereabouts of all the cards in my mind as my parents had taught me. With eight cards played from my hand I was ready to spring the finesse. But Sophie kept holding us up. She knew how to play, but was not very good. Now she was taking an age. She was starting to play so slowly it was making it difficult for me to remember the cards. I glanced at her. Then stared. 

I suddenly knew what her problem was. And why my partner had left me in spades. He wanted me to play the hand so that he could do other things with his. I stared at him. Sure enough, from his hunched posture and the angle he was sitting, (aimed towards Sophie,) and the way his shoulders dipped and weaved, it was clear he was playing with his PA beneath the table, in much the same way he had played with me the last time he was here. 

No wonder the girl was distracted! 

Her already shaky memory of what cards had been played, and what card she should play, and when, was being hopelessly confounded by what he was doing to her under the table. Her eyes were on her cards, but they were glazed. She clearly wasn't focussed on the game. Her mind was elsewhere. Suddenly she tensed and wrinkled her nose as if something had hurt her. Then her shoulders rose as her head sunk between them, yawed softly backward and she gasped, then caught herself. Sitting suddenly straight she glancing at me, sharply, guilt all over her face. 

"I'm sorry," she stammered, eyes back on her cards. 

"Take your time," I said softly, supportively. I knew what she was going through. I knew what it was like having this man's fingers toying with your sensitive parts. It wasn't easy. The glaze drifted back to her eyes. I let my own swing left, to EM. But his were on Sophie, his partner. He showed no sign of impatience. No sign of anything, really. Just watching her, it seemed. "No hurry," I said, studying my own cards before looking back at the girl. Our eyes met. She gave me a wan smile as if appreciating my concern for her. I returned her my most supportive look. 'Chin up. Be brave,' my look encouraged. 

Her eyes dropped back to her cards. She swallowed. Her left hand lifted to her hair and she started to twirl some strands. All the while my partner's shoulders weaved and curled as he worked interference on the girl. She stretched her head, almost languidly around the cradle of her shoulders, as if it might help her return to earth -- from wherever Staunton's fingering was sending her. (I knew how distracting the damn man's hands could be.) But just as it seemed she might be reasserting some semblance of control, her shoulders shot round her ears and her face -- what a beauty she was -- voided of wrinkles and concern, angled to the ceiling as her eyes drifted closed. Eyes closed, lips open, face ceilingward ... she let out a low-pitched groan. 

My eyes slipped left, then straight ahead, then back to her. I was concerned at this response. This unequivocal signal, for all of us to see, that all was not well with the girl. But the men's reaction was zero. Zilch. Not a flicker of concern from either one. As if the groan was expected. As if there was nothing surprising in something in this, even if it seemed like an overflowing of womanly emotion. Maybe even climax, of a sort. 

Sophie recovered her wits at about the same time as she recovered a realisation of where she was -- and who else was here -- and what we were meant to be doing. Her hand dropped the tresses of her hair and suddenly pecked, like the beak of a bird, at the cards in her other hand. They grabbed the first one they found. Flipped it to the table. Her eyes, full of guilt, embarrassment, and mild alarm, swept past the men's and alighted on mine. 

"That's a club, Sophie," I said to her softly, sympathetically, reaching out and touching her wrist. "You have to play a diamond." 

With mumbled apologies the poor girl recovered her card, put it back in her hand, and hesitated some more. I turned my eyes on my partner. If he hadn't been Brian's boss, my expression would have been accusing. Maybe even damning. But he was Brian's boss. It was perhaps no surprise to find his eyes on me. As if this whole display was somehow in my honour. 

He was leaning so far forward on his seat all I could see was the top of his shoulders, and his bull like head ... and his eyes on mine. His shoulders continued to move as if this was his way of informing me that his hands were in at work beneath the table. Working on his Personal Assistant's more personal parts. Informing me that he was arousing her just as he had, me. That he could, or so the subtext seemed to read, arouse anyone he desired, whenever he chose, such was his power. 

I looked away. 

Sophie played the seven of diamond. I took it with the nine. Leaving me the high card queen in dummy. The finesse had worked. Sophie gave a lurch in her chair and her neck snapped back and her face showed pain. (But not the nasty kind.) She groaned again. A deep down guttural sound: animal desperation. I laid my remaining cards face up on the table. "Four spades, made," I announced, conceding one last trick to the opposition. Winning the hand, and rubber. I quickly collected up the cards and pushed them at my partner. "You to shuffle," I said to my partner, intent on getting his hands back to where they belonged. 

As Staunton straightened, and his hands came from under the table, I couldn't help noticing how his middle fingers glistened. 

"Ladies break," I announced, pushing my chair back, reaching out a hand to Sophie. 

Her face was suddenly suffused with a look of pure gratitude.

"Fill me in," I said, once I had her in my bathroom. "Sorry about the mess," I added, noticing her eyes take in the clutter of my stuff all over the marble counter. 

Sophie shook her head, as if embarrassed to have noticed in the first place. 

Girls clutter. I shrugged. "What's happening here?" I said, staring at the mirror as I automatically started to straighten my face. 

She shrugged, starting to do the same. 

Here we were, two young, prettily built and good looking ladies, making ourselves even more presentable -- dare I say, even more appetising -- than we already were, for two older men, neither of whom were our husbands. 

Why were we doing this? 

I stopped, and looked at my companion in the mirror. 

"Sophie." I reached out and stopped her from continuing her work on her already damn near perfect looks. "What is happening here?"

She looked at me, then reached into her purse for lip gloss.

"Sophie," I interrupted, closing my hand over hers. "I need you to answer."

Her head and shoulders drooped. She stared at my hand, over hers. Then she disengaged her hand, turned from the mirror, put her pert little butt against the marble counter top, and stared at the towel in the rack on the opposite wall. She was chewing her lip.

"Sophie?" I pressed.

She stopped chewing, breathed in, then blew out long and slow, the way you fill a balloon. 

"He's sometimes ... demanding," she said, and left it there.

"Go on."

"Well ... you know."

"I don't."

"I have a boyfriend," she said to the towels. "Weekends he knows is mine. My boyfriend and mine, I mean."

"Staunton?"

"Yes."

"So?" I queried.

"It includes Friday night. He knows that. We agreed." Still she seemed to be addressing the towels. "But I think, as I'm here, Mr Staunton feels I'm his tonight." 

"What does that mean?"

She blew another long gasp of air, filling another balloon. Started to twiddle her hair. "Mondays," she said, gazing vacantly at her reflection in the mirror.

"Mondays," I repeated, without understanding a word she was saying. 

She shook her head, found some focus and put it into her eyes, then caught my eye in the mirror. "I'm paid very well," she explained.

I waited. Nothing. "Well?" I asked. Then added, "So?"

She raised her eyebrows, and what may have been a condecending smile slipped over these lovely lips of hers. She had the most beautiful lips. Plump and full and gorgeously shaped. Expressive too. "How old are you, Judy?" she asked.

Not a question I'd expected. "Twenty two," I said.

"Two years younger than me. But so innocent." 

What was that supposed to mean?

"Let me explain how it works," she said, gazing back at the towels. "I am paid as well as I am not merely because I am good at my job." Her eyes wandered down to the floor and looked at whatever she fount there. "But also because I look reasonably good."

"Sophie, you look spectacular," I had to correct her. 

"Whatever," she said, unimpressed by the correction. "It is because I look reasonably good, or however you wish to describe it, and behave ... let us say, 'appropriately' ... that I command the salary I do." Her eyes left the floor. Met mine. "There are a lot of people out there who could do the job as well as me. Better than me, in fact. But few of them ..." she let it trail off to nothing.

"Look like you ... and behave, 'appropriately'" I said, astonished at what I was saying, and realising that in fact I had little right to be astonished, as I had done much the same thing!

"Yes." She left it at that. Her eyes went back to studying whatever it was she had found on the floor.

"Who is EM?" I asked.

The line of her lips tightened, then one side climbed, pushing the other side towards her chin. "Staunton's Uncle," she confided, eyes still on the floor, as if this was something she'd rather not share. Before I could tell her that didn't help, she went on, "He controls the money in the family. He is a financier. He is thinking about investing in the company."

"Staunton's company?"

"Yes."

"David mentioned an investment," I said. "Is this the guy?"

She nodded.

I looked at the floor to see if I could find what she found so compelling. 

But couldn't.

"Does he want a piece of us too?" I asked, suddenly finding the blunt approach the only one that made sense -- as we seemed to be in this together. 

"He likes to watch," she said, joining in my bluntness.

"How the hell do you know that?" I exploded, finding the bluntness embarrassing.

She shrugged.

Damn her! What did that explain! "Sophie!" I tried to keep my cool, but this was becoming absurd. "Your boss feels he can do what he likes with you because of the salary he pays you." I suddenly felt uncomfortable putting it like that. "Despite the fact it's Friday night, which it was agreed is yours." Even that didn't help a whole lot. "And now you have been ... (what the hell was the word) ... inveigled, into assisting him ... (was I right in this?) ... obtain the financing he needs for his expansion ... (the expansion David was talking about) ... by -- what? -- letting him watch you be pawed by your boss?" How absurd was that?

All she damn well did, was shrug.

"How absurd is that?" I demanded of the woman.

Her eyes lifted up from the floor and she turned, and looked in the mirror, and caught my eyes.

"I think he expects you to help," she said.

*

(The author would like to hear from any people out there who have experiences, or ideas, or fantasies that would make good erotic stories. Viewpoint: female perspective. Please contact me through my profile.) 



Bridge with the Stauntons Ch. 03



"I think he expects you to help," she said. What the heck was that supposed to mean? The question was about to explode from my mouth when Staunton's voice called out, 

"Get these two pretty asses down here. Pronto. Or I'll come up and get 'em!"

"We gotta go," hissed Sophie, swinging to the mirror and shooting her damn near perfect face a final glance as she reached for the handle of the door. 

"Hey ...I'm not ..." I stammered, for some reason giving my own looks a final once over, wanting to know what her comment meant. 

Why was I hurrying from the bathroom?

I noticed her freckles on the way down the stairs. Sophie had a light peppering of golden freckles over the top of her shoulders. I'd noticed a scattering over her nose as we spoke in the bathroom. As she had explained -- and how intense she looked when she had -- that she allowed her boss, 'access to her person', on 'predetermined days of the week'. What might 'access to her person' be called in the better Human Resource Management tracts? 'Licence to roam the intimate regions of her staggeringly good-looking body?' 'Toy with her troublesome treasures?' Troublesome on me, at least. Why would they not be on her? Weren't they on most girls? 

Staunton was standing at the foot of the stairs, his face turned upwards, staring up our fluttering skirts at our legs and making no effort to disguise it. As if it was part of some game. Two spades ... three hearts ... four legs. I almost reached for the silk around my hips to hold it tighter, but noted Sophie didn't. And as she was nearer the receiving-end of the bulk of the double barrelled stare, I felt it would somehow be letting her down if I didn't show similar courage. Courage under fire, or something. (Isn't that what guys called it.) I left my dress aflutter, and my legs available for scrutiny.

"Sorry," said Sophie, reaching her boss, allowing his hand to snake round her waist, and draw her into his chest, and spot a soft kiss on her lips. 

"You can make it up to me later, honey," he said, darkly, angling his head from hers but holding their groins together. I noted the way his hand had closed possessively over Sophie's perky butt and cupped a cheek. Sophie didn't react. Did nothing. Said nothing. Let herself be held like that. Waited -- it seemed to me -- for him to be finished with her. His glance flipped over the shoulder with pretty golden freckles, caught mine. I was one step away from the foot of the stairs. "And you," he said, releasing his PA, moving her around him, giving her buttocks a familiar pat as he dismissed her. She moved passed him to the room where the cards were. "Why were you keeping these bodies away from we men?" he said to me, holding out his arms.

Shouldn't that be 'us men?' I wondered, absently, as for some obscure reason I allowed myself to be moved into the circle of his arms, and let him hold me as he had Sophie ... then ease me closer to him, just as he had Sophie. His arms around my middle brought our groins together, pulling mine into his in a way that let me know he was there -- soft, but there, if you know what I mean. I let him peck my lips. 

It seemed as if I was to be a carbon copy of his more malleable PA, I thought to myself, pecking back at his, and tasting Sophie. When he was done with me, and released me, and I moved past him towards the sitting room, and cards, his hand, I noted, stayed on my butt. I let him do that too -- though I can't think why. Who did I think he was? Who did HE think he was?

Sophie and I were partners this time. They'd moved the cards to the fire. Spread the blanket over the low coffee table that stood before it. Two easy chairs on either side, a two seater sofa on the other, low poof (foot stool) at an angle to the fire. The men had a snifter of brandy each, (they'd helped themselves,) and had taken the two easy chairs. I didn't know which seat was mine but offered the sofa to Sophie. No sooner had I, than I wished I hadn't. It was low, very low, and with legs that length, and a dress that short, it was impossible for Sophie to prevent the entire length of both her legs, being (almost lewdly) exposed. 

"Let me sit there?" I offered as soon as she sat, trying to be noble, trying to do something with my own legs. The stool was just as low! 

"I'll be fine, thanks," said Sophie, starting to blush. EM's eyes were wandering the impressive length of her impressive legs like a hungry insect examining a particularly succulent flower. Sophie had lovely legs, but the way EM's expressionless eyes were stroking their length you felt his eyes had tongues, and the tongues were slurping her skin all the way up to the top of her legs. The poor girl was helpless. There was nothing she could do. I was about to say something, though hadn't worked out what, when EM's eyes suddenly turned on MY legs. (Which kinda shut me up.) I reached for the cards. 

The first few hands went fine. Fine, that us, unless you happened to notice the way EM moved in his seat for a better view up Sophie's legs -- and mine. Fine, if you ignored the speed with which Staunton was refilling their glasses with cognac. Fine, so long as you ignored the way Staunton reached out and cupped the knees of either of his short-hemmed opponents in a friendly sort of way, after a particularly good lead, or a particularly bad one, then left his hand where it was to roam the knee, sometimes to run up the leg aways, and back. Fine, as long as you ignored the curious fact that you were letting him do this, without complaint. And letting EM watch, without demur. Fine, if you ignored how uncomfortable Sophie was becoming with it all -- as if she knew something I didn't. 

Then I had a slam to play. A small slam we bid -- I bid. I went up through Blackwood as Staunton explained to Sophie, with generous patience -- a little to my surprise -- what response was required of her. (Her knowledge of bridge was sketchy.) He advised her to show him her hand so that he could help her count the aces, then kings, (for that's what Blackwood is about). I couldn't object, as it was a friendly game, and it was clear by this stage that I would play the hand. Besides, it would not be Staunton's lead, but EM's, so he was gaining no particular advantage. It was a pleasant, almost caring interlude, in which I began to think that I may have been doing Staunton an injustice. He only wanted her to learn. 

That's what I thought, at least!

EM led a low club. Sophie laid her cards on the table for me to play. I selected the queen from her hand. The king and the ace were in my hand. Staunton, patience and consideration still (apparently) to the fore, said softly to Sophie, "Come, Sophie. Watch how I play my hand. It will help you learn." I was working my way through the hand, in my mind, when I suddenly became aware of tension building up around the table. No-one was speaking. No-one was moving. Everything was suddenly graveyard quiet. Only the crackle of fire in the grate, and the sound of EM's snifter being replaced (nervously it seemed) on the table. 

I lifted my head from my cards, and my mind from its chore. Staunton was gazing at Sophie, his arms held out. Sophie had started to chew on her lower lip. Her eyes, on Staunton's, were like those of a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. EM was staring at Sophie's legs; his tongue came out and he licked his lips. Sexual melt-down. I forgot what the contract was.

"See how I play. You will learn a lot," Staunton repeated, to Sophie, even more softly this time. But the patience and consideration had drained from his voice. Now it was quiet and you knew -- you just knew -- it was no longer cards he was talking about. It was her. It was playing with HER that he meant. My eyes flipped nervously from Sophie to EM. He continued to eye Sophie's legs and lick his lips. 

My eyes moved on, to the mantelpiece over the fire. At one end was a photo of me and my family holidaying in Asia. Visiting Angkor Wat. My Mom, kid brother and sister and I were standing by a dilapidated part of a temple that the roots of an ancient tree had coiled themselves around. I was wearing a silly T-shirt. 'Girl' in pink across my boobs. I was eighteen, and pretty damn proud of my figure back then. Now -- especially tonight -- good figures and looks were more of a hindrance than something to flaunt! I could hear the sofa groan as Sophie got up. 

I felt I should tell her, 'Don't go,' but how could I do such a thing? I couldn't bear to look at her. At the other end of the mantelpiece was a studio shot of Brian and me, dressed as we were for our wedding. Just the two of us. Brian in grey tails and striped trousers with a blue cravat and pin, looking quite the handsome groom. I was in white. My mother's dress, but altered. I wanted my boobs to show. At least a bit, I'd said. 

I could sense, as much as see out the corner of my eye, that Sophie was up and standing by the arm of Staunton's chair. The big stuffed chair to my right. "Sit in my lap, sweetie pie. You can see the cards better from there," said Staunton, with a tickle of innuendo in the tone. Why was I being so cowardly? Why could I not put a stop to this? Why could I not defend the girl? This was my home, after all. 

"Maybe if we ALL lay our cards down, we can talk Sophie through the hand?" I suggested, my eyes coming back (from my wedding) to the table. 

Why could I not even look her in the eye? 

"And deprive you of a chance of making a slam? Wouldn't dream of it," said Staunton dismissively, as Sophie lowered herself slowly and carefully, and I'd have to guess unwillingly, into the big man's lap. "The ten of clubs, third player plays high," said Staunton, to Sophie, inadvertently telling me where the jack was. But I didn't think cards were uppermost in his mind any more. Not with someone who looked like Sophie sitting in his lap. All legs and curves, soft skin, and little golden freckles. But what could I do? I looked at the table. No, not looked, I STARED at the table. Three cards were there, all clubs. I played the four from hand, winning the trick in dummy. 

Next, Staunton let Sophie hold the cards. He told her to. I didn't look. I heard the cards change hands. The merest sigh of card against card. After the third trick Staunton suggested she play the cards as well. On the fourth, she did. Her slender fingers delivering a diamond to the blanket surface of the table. I kept my head down, focussed on the table, focussed on the cards, focussed almost anywhere but the large leather chair on my right. 

It was a button Chesterfield. Ox blood red. A wedding present from my folks. Now it had a large man in it. Brian's boss -- my husband, Brian's boss. In his lap was a girl only two years older than me. Who had a boyfriend who on Friday evenings was normally with her. Dinner, perhaps, just the two of them. Talking about their hopes, their dreams. Their future together, perhaps? But tonight she was here, with her boss. And he was ... I just KNEW he would be, (though didn't dare look to confirm it) ... stroking parts of her that perhaps she would have preferred her boyfriend to be stroking. Arousing parts of her (against her will?) that perhaps she would prefer her boyfriend to be arousing, instead of this odious man.

I was suddenly in trouble. I didn't see how I could make the contract. Eight cards played but a problem I hadn't anticipated, had arisen. I could only assume that EM had bid wrongly at the start. The missing king should be with him, but now I wasn't sure it was. And Sophie had started breathing so heavily, and raggedly, that it was starting to drown out the sounds of the fire. And effect my ability to concentrate. Now she was groaning as well. I kept my head bowed. I thought back through the cards I'd played -- the king that I lacked was a spade -- when Sophie's foot kicked my knee. My head jerked up. 

Sophie was sprawled in Staunton's lap, side on to the table, cards held over its edge. The cards were clutched in both her hands so tightly they were curled, and the knuckles of both her hands showed white. The leg that had kicked me was stretched out, rigid as an oar. The foot now sat in my lap. The other was bent, the knee at Staunton's chin, the side against his chest. His hands were in between the two, stroking and toying with all that was there. The hem of her dress was around her waist. Her neck was bared and stretched. Her head was on his shoulder, face to the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut. As I watched, a tad aghast, her lips opened and a series of guttural mewing sounds came out of her mouth. I dropped my head, flustered and embarrassed, to note the red silk thong around the ankle that sat in my lap. What did I do? What COULD I do. 

I tried a finesse. 

It worked. I didn't think it would. But it still didn't tell me where the damn king was! "Please. Please don't. No more. Not here," Sophie whimpered, interrupting my thoughts, sounding strained and suddenly, miserably, exhausted. Staunton's fingers, working their questionable magic in and around her glistening pussy -- yes, even in the firelight I had seen that she was hopelessly moist -- would easily disarm, disable, tire, and yes, arouse the girl to a state of deepest desperation. I remembered his touch. It was skilled. If you couldn't put a stop to it ... if you had to let it go on, forced to let the fingers play, and stroke, caress, excite, continue on, and on, and on ... what else could possibly happen? 

We weren't automatons, after all! We weren't programmed robots who could turn it off, or on, at will. We couldn't simply decide it wouldn't happen now, with this man, here, doing what he was doing, when someone else, last week, doing the same thing, had us climbing the bedroom wall! Our brains may differentiate one set of toying fingers from another, but our bodies aren't nearly so particular. Not if we allow them to go on. Not if we are unable to prevent them from going on. Groping on, and on, working their dubious magic. 

"Ngaaar!" moaned Sophie, her pretty stockinged foot in my lap snapping right, then left, then right, like a windscreen wiper on a car. "Please, no. Aaargh!" Her foot whipped about in my lap as her pelvis curled and writhed in Staunton's. Her anguished knee rolled once, then twice across his chin, as if that leg too sought to straighten. To ease the pain perhaps. That exquisite agony that even now was peeking out atop the horizon of my own unforgivably suggestive senses. I hushed it away. I didn't need that now. 

"Whoooorgh," then, "Graaaaagh" gurgled up from Sophie's throat. Sounds of high arousal, deepest torment. Groans and moans and ragged breathing; catches of breath, huge intakes of air; the sounds all rushing and melding together in a hopeless orchestration of deepest despair. 

"Please," she gasped. "No more. Not here," she groaned.

I had to lift my head to look, and when I did, I found that Staunton's eyes were fixed on mine, his arms around his trembling prey. Her pretty breast in one broad hand, her naked pudenda the other, while she hung onto his cards. Four cards. Four lousy cards. His eyes snuck into mine. They were vulgar eyes. Gateway to a vulgar mind. It was a vulgarity you could almost feel, practically touch. A vulgarity that rendered Sophie's hands mere pacifist onlookers. Unfighting hands, unbattling hands, unresisting hands. As her mouth begged, and her back arched, and her pelvis squirmed, and her legs strained, and her senses reeled ... her hands did nothing. They merely hung onto his cards, as if they were her talisman, but with all that was happening, she couldn't hold them still. They waved and fanned and flurried like a flag in a gale. 

"Have you ever felt a woman like this?" Staunton asked me, as if he were asking whether I took milk and sugar with my tea, or preferred it plain. 

I noted the missing king of spades flash before my eyes, like a wave of a flag, as the holder's spine arched taught and then she gasped, 

"Please, No. No more. Please, Dick ... Ngaaaargh!"

So that's what she called him. Dick. (How apt.)

"Well?" he pressed. "Have you?" 

The slender windscreen wiper foot in my lap flipped suddenly left and she groaned, then right, and she moaned. He had three fingers gently pushing into her. Her thighs gaped wide. He made no attempt to conceal what he was doing to her. Neither did she. He was putting on a show, for us all. So was she, in truth, although a lot less willingly than he. The fingers that slowly moved in and out of her glistened bright, right up their length. Although not particularly wishing to, I found my eyes take note of the way his thumb played with her clitoris, and how her clitoris stood out from its hood, almost like a miniature penis. Her clit was much larger than mine. I wondered where this was going. And why I had stopped being disgusted by it all. And what I had become. 

What would Brian want me to do? I wondered, denying the flurry of feeling I was starting to feel in ... places I'd rather not. "Would you like to feel her?" Staunton whispered, loud enough for all to hear. Sophie was gasping like a steam train. EM moved in his chair, crossing his legs first one way, then uncrossing them, then crossing them the other. Reaching for his brandy, finding that he'd finished it, putting the glass on the table again.

"Another, EM?" said Staunton, ever the gentleman. My next lead should have been the ace of Spades, but before I could play it I had Sophie deposited in my lap. I was perched on this silly foot-stool. I fell over backwards to the carpet with an almost naked Sophie in my arms. (The top of her dress, by now, had joined the skirts around her waist.) I lay there, staring at the ceiling. Not sore -- more surprised, and a little bit shaken. Sophie was on top, one leg between my own, her naked chest against my dress, her face cheek to cheek with my own. She was dishevelled, distraught, aroused, embarrassed, out of breath. I put my arms around her. 

"It's all right, Sophie," I whispered in her hair, stroking her back with one hand and her long silky hair with my other. 

"You are almost out of brandy," called the bastard from the kitchen.

"There, there. It's all right now," I crooned to Sophie, stroking her hair down her back. Her bare back. Her dress, was a rumpled belt around her waist. I imagined her naked rump sticking up in the air. EM's eyes devouring it. Licking it with his eyes. If he liked to watch, as Sophie said, then he was having plenty to watch tonight. Plenty of Sophie to watch, that is. I resisted the temptation to rearrange Sophie's dress to cover her butt. If he was the financier, after all, what harm could it do? If it was important that he invest in the company, an investment that Brian had confided would do the company no harm -- and him no harm -- then ... what harm could his looking at her naked butt, possibly do?

"I said, you're almost out of brandy," said Staunton, back in the room, handing one to EM, and still (I noted) with a fairly generous measure in his own. I ignored them. I coddled and caressed my exhausted charge. "Feel her," said Staunton, coming down on the carpet beside us, tucking his fat calves beneath his thighs. The carpet was a Bokhara. Not a particularly expensive one, but a nice one. It was our celebratory present to ourselves, Brian and mine, for him getting the job. 

"Go on," said Staunton, reaching for my hand on Sophie's hair, taking it to her buttocks, placing it over one. I lifted it away. He put it back, spread the fingers, clamped his hand on top of mine. "I said, feel it," he said, with just a dash of insistence in his tone. So I did. (What harm could it do?) He raised his hand to see if mine would flee. But I didn't think that would achieve anything, so I continued to caress what I had in my hand. "Well," he enquired, his face over mine. 




Bridge with the Stauntons Ch. 03



"Very nice," I said non-committally. He looked from me, to EM, still in his chair. Still with his legs crossed. Licking his lips with his tongue now and then. As if it were a nervous tick, which maybe it was. He continued to caress Sophie's legs with his eyes. And her buttocks. Naked. One of them with my hand now running softly over it. Over the curve of it. She had beautiful skin. It may have been softer than mine. We both had pretty good butts. 

"She says it feels, 'very nice'," said Staunton, to his uncle, imitating me. At least I think that's what he was doing. I wondered how long I should caress Sophie's backside. She didn't react to what I was doing, but nor did she object. As far as I could tell she was happy to let me caress her like this. Perhaps it was preferable to having Staunton caress her like this. (Probably was, in fact.) I kept on with what I was doing. 

"Use the other hand as well," said Staunton. So I did. "Properly," he urged, his hand closing over mind and squeezing hard. So I started to squeeze her as well, figuring that way he'd leave us alone. And he did, for a time, and I started to get a pretty good impression of this part of Sophie. It was the first woman I'd ever handled this way and although not under the best of circumstances, I had to say it was none too unpleasant. She felt gentle on top of me. Undemanding. There was no threat to her being there. And her leg, between mine, had an innocent pressure I liked. 

I started to become conscious of her clitoris. It was large and engorged and unusually prominent. I felt it plainly on the top of my leg. Right over the point of the curve. At first I wasn't sure, and then I was, it was gently thrusting into me. Very unobtrusive, yet ... definitely nuzzling. I pondered where we were, and what we were doing. The two of us, mere girls, spread out on a modest Bokhara carpet. The two older men, unrelated to us, who watched. The photos on the mantelpiece. Brian still away. EM with money. Staunton the boss. What harm could it do? To hold her like this, and caress her. For the good of the firm. What harm would it do?

"Kiss her," said Staunton, out of nowhere. I'd closed my eyes. I'd almost forgotten where we were. Having a warm acquiescent body in one's arms tends to do this, I suppose. Especially one as warm and acquiescent as Sophie was proving to be. The movement of her clit against my leg had become rhythmic and hard. "Kiss her, Sophie. Go on," said Staunton, an edge of command in his tone. 

I should have stopped it then. Should have objected, somehow. Should have said it was late. That the driver, the one who brought food, (the one I assumed, though had no idea in fact,) was waiting outside in his car. Or was it their cars? Might they each have brought a car? I was half way through figuring this out when Sophie's lips came over mine. They were so unexpectedly soft and pleasant tasting I melted. Simply melted. With a groan. I have never been kissed so gently before. I never knew you COULD kiss as gently as she kissed me then. With lips so much fuller than a man's. So much plumper and softer than Brian's. They seemed to wrap themselves around my own and stay there, nestled close, as if to tempt my own to life.

The first thing that swept through my mind, as the effect sunk home, and I groaned, was alarm. Alarm at what, and who, and where we were. But this was followed almost immediately by a wave of reassurance. Reassurance that no one else could see. Could see the place -- the exact spot -- where our lips met. No one could tell that against the surface of our lips was a contact and pressure that calmed, by its lack of demand, and soothed, by the trusting way they held together, and intrigued, by their warmth and moistness, and that gently aroused ... by the knowledge that beyond these lips was a private mouth and tongue. But of even greater significance was the knowledge that what I was feeling through the surface of my lips, Sophie too was feeling through the surface of hers. Our secret. Between the two of us, Sophie and me. 

(A secret that others needn't know.)

But as I was starting to relax into the kiss I cautioned myself, How could there be personal space for us, in this? What were be both, after all, here and now, but -- what might we call it -- entertaining seals? Rubbing against each other to titillate our audience of two. Putting our mouths together to see what might develop. To further the audience's titillation. Would it titillate Brian as well, I found myself wondering, had he been here? Would he have permitted it? Well ... would he?

"Open your mouths," I heard in the distance. Staunton the ringmaster, making his seals jump through hoops. We did, although why I'm not sure. It was as if one of us did, then the other would merely go along. So I went along -- or Sophie went along -- one or the other of us, I cannot say which. 

I wondered whose tongue would be first to explore, for the tongues always did. (I knew this from kissing the men in my life. Not that there had been that many.) Would Sophie's come visiting my mouth, or mine go to Sophie's. As if to extend an invitation, our heads gently angled left, and right, to bring our mouths more easily together. (Obedient seals.) Our lips spread and our mouths opened wider than before, and our tongues met on their way into each other's mouth. No sooner did they than our lips closed protectively around them, as if affectionately holding them together. 

I think it was her gentleness that softened us both. That helped us relax. The cautious and respectful way her tongue examined mine, then let mine examine hers. That allowed her teeth and tongue to be toured by the tip of my tongue as it probed, patiently waiting its turn, and then doing the same in my mouth, to mine, when I was through. There was a studied patience to it all. As if we both acknowledged our roles, as seals, but had our curiosity to satisfy. Our own lives to lead, as it were. The flat of her hand was lightly held against my cheek. The other cupped around the point of my shoulder. The grip of both was soft; as unthreatening as her lips. I suspect my hold on her, one hand still cupped around her buttock, the other slipped around her waist, were equally tender and unthreatening. As if we seals felt this interlude was ours. That we should enjoy it when we could, for knew not what came next. (Set the hoops on fire, perhaps?)

We were being rearranged, I felt. I opened my eyes. Staunton was kneeling on the carpet, leaning over our midsections, spreading Sophie's legs on either side of mine. Through her mouth I could sense her concern. A sudden alertness infused her tongue. Like a small animal hearing a warning, suddenly freezing. Stiffened and ready to flee. The fight or flight response where, (in this case, we being seals,) fleedom was all we could think of. But where was there to flee to? 

Her tongue came cautiously back to life, as if passing a message, 'Try to ignore what is happening.' My ankles were next to be moved; spread apart on the carpet. I closed my eyes. What to do now? What to allow? Which is when I realised my tongue and lips were stilled, like hers. Hers moved again. 'Act as if nothing is happening' -- was that the message here? 

I gingerly eased my tongue against hers to show that I understood, that I supported her in this. I felt a hand between my legs. His hand. Staunton's hand. (I recognised the touch.) What would the seals be asked to do now, I wondered. And just as I did, her whole body jolted on top of mine as if an electric shock had suddenly been administered, somewhere tender. A long low groan crept from her mouth into mine and just as I wondered what had happened to make her behave like that -- he did the same to me, and I jolted ceilingward! Our lips were dislodged. Our mouths spun apart. Our eyes shot wide. The questioning look in our eyes was the same, 'We know what is happening, of course -- to us, by him, with the other guy there -- but what can we do about it?' 

Neither of us answered the unspoken question in our eyes. It was as if our eyes didn't know what to do, nor even, what to suggestion. All that filled Sophie's eyes was a discouraging cloud that seemed to drift across them, and perhaps across mine as well. We both -- I was guessing here, but it seemed to make sense -- had one of Staunton's broad hands between our legs, and his fingers had gone to work with what he found there. 

Sophie had nothing to protect her private parts but her resolve -- and the discouraging cloud that was growing in her eyes suggested that was weakening fast -- and all I had was the flimsiest strip of silk which, now that his fingers were there, was already proving to be a hopelessly ineffective form of defence. We could reach our hands down, of course, and bring this activity to an end. But neither of us did. Perhaps we were waiting for the other to take the lead? Me, waiting for Sophie, as she was older, and his PA. Sophie, waiting for me, as this was my house. And carpet. 

Then Sophie seemed to wilt. She lightly shook her head, then closed her eyes, and lowered her pretty mouth back onto mine. What could I do? I accepted it. Soon her lips and open mouth and tongue were back with mine ... but I was uncomfortable. Uncomfortable at where this was going, and how fast it appeared to be getting there. This was my home, after all. Brian's and mine. A place to which my brother and sister ... I arched my back as my pelvis kicked hard into Staunton's right hand. The bastard really knew how to arouse a girl. I started thinking -- do not ask me why -- about the size of Sophie's clit compared to mine. Would Staunton arouse Sophie a different way from me? Did the size of the clitoris dictate the sort of arousal you wanted. Or needed -- or desperately strove for, in moments of heightened excitement? 

I sucked on Sophie's tongue as she tried to force it down my throat. Her pelvis lurched. I held her tight as if aiding her pain, and she mine. Each of us milking unwanted arousal from the other. And it was unwanted, this arousal that had us in its thrall. It was there, yes. It was real, certainly. It was growing, without doubt. It was even exciting and enjoyable in its own selfish way, if one wanted to be honest about it. (My pelvis lurched.) But it wasn't what was wanted. Not here, not now. And especially not with this man. Both of our pelvises lurched off the carpet, driven by fingers and aided by pubes thrusting hard. Me into Sophie, Sophie into me, both of us up off the carpet. Both in the throes of our own very personal demons. Sexual demons. Staunton the ringmaster, doing clever things. 

I wrenched my face from Sophie's. 

"I think that's ..." I started to say, then the bastard did it again and my pelvis shot up in the air. "Ngaaar!" I groaned. Then "Ngaaar," again. As he did it again.

"Relax, my pet," keened Sophie, grabbing my face with her hands and thrusting her mouth back on mine. I felt it run down my legs, catch an ankle, pulled off that -- my hopelessly ineffectual black silk thong. The hem of my dress was pushed to my waist. Our legs were levered apart, all four, the female legs, or so it seemed. Staunton climbed between them. A cushion from the sofa was eased beneath my hips. Sophie lifted off. The cushion was a thick one. I seemed to be angled to the ceiling. I opened my eyes and stared at Sophie's legs. The pretty band of scarlet flowers around her stocking tops. The luscious white of thighs spread wide. The curls of moistened, matted pubic hair was at my chin. 

"Sit on her face," was the fleeting instruction from Staunton, before the thighs engulfed my cheeks and ears, her private parts my nose and mouth, and the pungent aroma of female arousal filled every nook and cranny of my brain. 

It's funny the way the mind works. Here I was, newly married, to Brian, who was somewhere upstate, part of a hotly escalating sexual floor show apparently put on for a man I'd never met before tonight, (to help in getting funding for the firm, or so it seemed,) tasting the private regions of a female for the first time in my life -- and finding the experience more arousing than I somehow felt I should -- being entered (albeit considerately) by a much larger penis than my husband's, for the second time since we got married, and all I could think of, was that he wanted to fuck me before his unbelievably gorgeous PA! 

Could he possibly prefer me to her? Was I even in her league? I clenched my fingers on the carpet. Sophie's shins were over my arms. Her crotch, in a lazy circular motion, was softly grinding into my face. Staunton was pushing his manly largesse, if I may call it that, into me. Stretching me as he went, encouraging me to open up as I, accommodatingly, manufactured juices to lubricate this questionable venture. 

How accurately did we judge ourselves, I wondered, vaguely, in sexual auto-pilot mode, still slightly dazed at being preferred to Sophie for the opening bars of this, the major event of the evening; intimate observer to the progress of her boss as he nudged and nosed and thrust the bulbous head of the oversized penis I remembered so well, (to my lingering shame,) from the last time he did this to me. As I coaxed him in, and further up, and ever further into me I asked (myself), as I squirmed from the combined effect of what the two of them were doing to me, (Sophie's hands had snaked behind her and she was fondling my breasts,) if we underestimated our qualities? Did we always think we were less good than we were? Especially where attractiveness to the opposite sex was concerned? 

I arched my back and thrust my pelvis towards the ceiling. Angling it wantonly into the path of this hoary entrant to my place of intimate lust, most private bower, most hungry of mouths. I forced myself onto his thrusts. I wanted this ... thing ... this man ... this bastard ... deep ... and deeper yet ... and deeper still ... INSIDE of me! 

I felt him drawing out. A scream inside my head: Don't leave! Not yet! Stay there! But then ... the dawning realisation that this was but a temporary thing. A move, a change, no more. Adjustment, if you will. An 'out', before another 'in'. As sweet anticipation tip-toed lightly through my being, so he thrust, back into me. Not fast, not hurried, not rushed. But big, and strong, authoritative ... HARD! I groaned with the pleasure it gave me, while hating the man, and guiltily hating that part of myself. Then ... I groaned again -- a long self-centred expulsion of feeling into the honey-slick labia lips of my smooth legged partner in crime. This crime we were committing. On my best Bokhara carpet. 

(He's slithering out of me again. Such exquisite lust, wanting him in, but wanting him out as well, for that way he'll HAVE to push back inside me, with all the luscious feelings that accompany such manly advance. That manly advance into a battle so much more complete, so much more demanding, so much more rewarding in so many ways than the commonplace of life. More fun, more excitement, more arousal, more ... want!) 

(How dare this man do these awful things to me. This thing that he is doing to me now. This is my husband's place. Brian's place. My husband's bower, his property. How can he do this to me?) 

(I have her clit inside my mouth. My lips are drawn round it like lips at the head of a lollipop. Sucking it softly, then sucking it hard, then licking all around it, then sucking it again. God, how her juices keep gushing! Little spurts of tarter taste. Stronger thrusts as she rides my face, groaning so loudly I can hear her clearly even though her thighs are clamped around my ears. Her clitoris is amazing. Quite different from mine. Such feelings it can generate in her. I am groaning too now. Groaning and gasping into this sweet blond pussy of hers. My friend. My new friend. My girl friend. Made this evening. Fellow seals.) 

The seal master, now well into his stride, was thrusting and grunting in unison with me, wife of his latest employee. Brian, his man. Brian, mine too. Making me what? A plaything for both? 

I arched my back and lurched, cried out. I lifted Sophie in the air with a heave of my arms beneath her knees. She toppled forward, caught her weight with her arms on the carpet. I thrust my pelvis high, lifting my ringmaster up off the floor, legs clamped round him like a vice. 

I froze as it rose. A rapid, rising tidal wave of white hot technicolor feeling that imploded to my innermost core, and erupted from there to the outermost reaches of my being. Orgasmic wave towered over orgasmic wave driven forward in a sea of feeling that strummed the very ties of my sanity. Reverberating wildly through my consciousness. Oscillating wickedly. A molten flow of pleasure that exploded to the surface and settled over all, with a power that threatened to strip away the pinnings of reality, leaving only heat, base throbbing, and deepest satisfaction. Satisfied arousal. That sensual, essential, primeval need. 

... Time passed. 

A count of seven ... eight... nine. (It is usually three, maybe four at a pinch, but this was very different from the norm.) Nobody moved. My eyes stayed closed, tight closed. I felt the heat of Sophie's thighs either side of my face. I smelled the pungency of her heated sex, held off, just overhead. I smelled the carpet I was lying on. Felt the muscles of the man against my inner thighs, the fullness of erection seated deep ... as we waited ... he waited. Waited for some indication, from me, that he might start again. Build my arousal once more. Bring me to the boil a second time, as it were. For ... I knew it is what he would want to do to me. 

He was a man, after all. With appetites. And I was a woman who had what his appetite craved. (I tried to ignore what a turn-on this had unwittingly become. To be wanted, so badly, by someone with such power. Power over Brian, at least. And Sophie too, I suppose. And me.) But it could not happen, of course. No more. That was enough. Staunton had no rights over me. I was not his. His toy. His plaything. My feelings were not his to please. Or to arouse. 

As I lay there on the carpet, aware of the man inside the circle of my legs, his member deep inside me, throbbing, annoyingly, (or was that me?), aware of the female crouched above me, her thighs lifted off, for now, and the money man sitting nearby, watching us ... everything started to clear. But as clarity threatened, something inside me caused me to move. 

I eased my legs around his girth and urged his larger size into the smaller but welcoming jacket of my continued arousal. I knew he was not done with me yet, and felt I could last, and sensed there was more. I started to urge him, again. Into me, then out, then in. As he started to thrust with more vigour I reached my hands above to soft thighs and eased her down on me again. l let my tongue and mouth take up their arousal of the girl. For she was next, I felt. I wanted her to be. But not before ...

I climaxed again. A harder, longer, more vibrant eruption this time. With time to look on, watch, admire, rejoice. Rejoice in a physical way. I held Sophie firmly in my mouth as I came, this time. Loving what she offered of herself, tasting what she was, thrusting my tongue into the opening she so willingly presented. As I climaxed a third time, my ringmaster -- though I sensed he didn't want to, as I felt he had another girl to please -- came as well. Sophie had already come once, and was urged to a second by the two of us so obviously climaxing together. I'd managed them both, I reflected, with a flickering of pride. Both of them: up to the top and over the edge! 

Bathed in the afterglow -- pleasure, contentment, competitive pride -- I lay on the carpet, exhausted, eyes closed, as those above me moved away. Sophie was soon back with a wash cloth and towel from my bathroom upstairs. She gently bathed my chin, and cheeks, and mouth, and nose -- embarrassed, perhaps, at her copious discharge. I licked some away from beneath my nose. Tasted it as she wiped, to let her know I didn't mind. That I had liked to taste her like that. I gave her my sweetest smile. She returned it with a sweet smile of her own. It was as if we were agreeing: The two of us, together, had beaten the odds. Derived some enjoyment for ourselves in the orgy of enjoyment intended for others. Beaten the system, I suppose. The power game of which we were a part.




Bridge with the Stauntons Ch. 03



We didn't play any more cards. They were knocked from the table to the carpet at some point. Probably when excitement was high, and limbs moving hard. Some of the cards were bent. Others stained. No good for a game. I would throw them away, I decided, examining some in my hand, watching Staunton help EM to a glass of something. (The brandy was finished.) Sophie and I straightened our clothes, wiped ourselves off where we had to. Bus both of us were dying -- I just knew -- to climb in a shower! And we did, a little later, once the men had gone. 

Sophie begged me to let her stay. It was either that or be driven home, and she didn't know who's home they'd drive her to, or what they'd want her to do once she got there. So I let her stay, even though Staunton objected. After all, what harm could it do? 



Bridge with the Stauntons



I lay my cards face down on the table. 

Staunton takes the hint. I feel his fingers draw out of my innards, and then I am straightening my skirt beneath the table, pushing back my chair, coming to my feet -- and noticing my panties round an ankle! 

'I'll just be a minute,' I say, kicking off the panties, moving my feet into shoes on the floor, straightening my hem down more, turning, and making for the kitchen. As I open the kitchen door I hear Mrs Staunton say, kindly, 'I can give you some pointers if you like, Brian.' And Brian, relieved, saying 'Would you, I'd like that, now?' 'Certainly, why not,' responds my partner, while Staunton himself says softly, 'Why don't I go and help Judy. I wouldn't mind some water myself.'

DAMN THE MAN!

I am by the fridge. I open it, waiting for the sound of him. I take out the water. Reach up for two glasses in the cupboard above and as I am stretched I hear the kitchen door open, and close ... and as I get my fingers round the tumblers I feel his large hands on me. There is no pretence at any accidental touch. He simply runs his hands around my front, pulls my bum into his crotch, the opens his big hands against me, over my tummy, held flat. 

I hold the tumblers in the cupboard up above. 

His hands run up my stomach towards my breasts. I arch my back. Not violently or suddenly, but gently, as if it is the proper thing to do. This presses my breasts even tighter against the thin silk of my dress, my little black dress. His hands run inexorably onwards, upwards, then onto my breasts themselves, then over my breasts, cupping them gently, taking them captive, filling his hands. I let out an unconscious sigh. My breasts are unbearably sensitive. My nipples outrageously so. His fingers are searching for nipples. 

I hang on to the tumblers above. My eyes drift closed and my knees feel week ... shit, this is not good at all! His fingers find my nipples and take them, lightly gripped, and roll them one way, two ways. I squirm, and twist, and arch my back some more. His hands flatten over my breasts, and flatten them into my ribs. I roll my chest against his eager hands. Not good. Not good. Not good!

'Kiss me, you little vixen,' he whispers in my ear, probing it next with his tongue, thrusting his groin in my butt, fondling my breasts and playing my nipples like a violin. Or guitar: neatly plucked. I growl and groan and turn in the circle of his arms and thrust my throbbing tits into the man's great hairy chest. I feel sure he will have hairs on his chest. Animals have hair on their chest. Staunton is animal. Everything about him is animal. My mouth is wide on his, my tongue deep at the back, probing for tonsils, searching for his throat. Then his own great brute of a tongue battles past, strides into my mouth, and does go down my throat. 

'Aaargh!' I groan, mouth opened into his, starting to suckle his tongue. 

His hand is at my butt, cupping a buttock, lifting me high. My arms are round his neck. My legs coil out and round him too, ankles closing tight around his buttocks as his hand on my butt lifts my dress, finds nakedness and moisture underneath. He whispers into my ear, 'I'm going to fuck you now, sweet thing,' as his hands burrow under my pussy -- exposed, open, gaping, slick with juices -- and with a sleight of hand that I can't quite fathom his prick, hard and long, is there. My pussy senses the big bad dog, runs up and down its long hard shaft sharing the wet damp heat, nuzzling it, egging it on. No longer anything to do with me -- this is no longer under my control. 

Crazy, I think, in one part of my mind, as the other gasps and slavers. My uncontrollable (animal) part is now indecently eager and wildly expectant as the hand with the large Staunton prick -- it is bound to be large, everything about him is large, and brutish -- seems to be fumbling between spread legs. What do I do about this? Not a damn thing! I am open and wide, almost willingly exposed, waiting for the inevitable ... deep, deep, deep, inside me.

Nrgaaaaagh...! 

I groan like a banshee, gasp and yelp as my pelvis kicks then thrusts, then flares. My thoughts drift hopelessly: Brian, outside, learning how to pay bridge with Mrs Staunton while here in the kitchen her husband probes deep in her pupil's wife. I rock then roll atop him. He is bigger by far than Brian. Deeper and further inside me, than Brian has ever been. What will we do if Brian walks in? Closing my eyes (just in case?) my arms pull him closer forcing our mouths tight together. Stretching my lips so the tongues both can play. Arching my back and spreading my thighs and clasping my ankles like steel ... as I ride up and down, moaning and gasping in his mouth punctuated by sharp little cries ... high pitched cries, plaintive cries, cries of exquisite pain.

What is Brian doing now? Has he learned how to lead, how to open -- as I open my mouth to its widest extent, sucking his tongue down my throat, bucking as his shaft plunges deep. My fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt. He has pulled the tiny spaghetti straps of my dress down my arms, exposing my breasts, and the breasts want his hair rough against them. Where did I get such an urge! The soft tender flesh of my breasts and the hard firm nubs of my nipples crush themselves into the hard wiry carpet of hair that covers the huge man's chest. (As I knew it would!) He drives in deep and hard. I gasp and cry out and my thighs crush hard as my breast pancake into his chest. 

'Aaargh!' I cry, then 'Ngaar ... Ngeee ... Eeee!' as an orgasm rips through my innards. Strange coloured dreams, light coloured thoughts, thick red and bright blue explosions. Violin strings to my innards pluck at the core of my being. My lips come from his and a loud cry erupts from the souls of my feet.

'Ngggraaaap!'

My cry is bitten off as the immensity inside me seems to grow and plunge even deeper than before. He has bent me over the counter, my back is arched backwards as he is bent forwards, bent like a bow over me. His wiry hair is crushed against my breasts. His tongue is half way down my throat. My feet are angled up into the air forcing my pelvis ever higher and harder into him ... as he forces himself ever deeper and harder into me ... 

'Whaaaaaagh!' It hits me again, a sweeping driving trembling surf of uncontrollable emotion. 'Aaaargh!' I cry, then 'Eeee!' as orgasm hits, again, like a bull charging right through the first, a series of jolts to my system. I no longer know what to make of it all. (Brian and I don't do this like this.)

'Are you two all right?' cries Mrs Staunton, from the sitting room.

'Just getting some water, my dear,' gasps her husband, thrusting himself inside me like a piston in the engine of a ship. 

'Won't be a moment,' I hear a voice say, trying to be calm, a catch at the top -- and suddenly realise the voice is mine. Why am I trying to calm things? 'Aaargh!' It ripples, then blooms, then erupts in a Technicolor blast that sweeps through my soul like a lava flow moving at the speed of sound. 'Just coming,' I hear myself say, as Staunton inside me erupts, and another in my series of orgasms, rears, thrashing my senses to tatters, hurling my emotions on their back -- legs spread, defences open, will surrendered, loyalty reverted to the enemy ... who shoots his heat in spurts, in me, again, and again, and again, and again.

My legs stay wrapped around the man who has laid me open so easily. Then the thick hard rod starts slowly to withdraw. My sexual slime comes too. His ejaculated sperm mixed in, in hot thick pockets. Intermingled pubic hair begins to unravels. The labia lips seem to pout, moodily, swollen and flushed and aroused and hot, at the end of the affair they were involved in. All the frenzied need for contact, pudenda and thigh and inner leg, drains of its desire. The hair of his chest leaves my soft flushed breasts. I try to keep my balance with my feet on the tiles of the kitchen. I re-adjust the straps of my little black dress, throbbing breasts back where they belong. I move my hair from the sweat on my cheek. I pull down the hem, covering the top of my legs. Decorum being restored. 

'Would either of you like some water,' asks Staunton, shirt buttoned, penis put away -- wiped casually, I noted, with a sheet of kitchen paper. Zip pulled up. He is at the kitchen door, looking out.

'Yes please, dear,' says his wife.

'No thank you, Alan,' says Brian.

"Alan?" I wonder at that.

'How many waters?' I ask him, seeming to think its important.

'Er, three please,' says Staunton.

So I get three tumblers from the cupboard, and straighten my hair a bit more, and check that my stockings are straight . I pour the water, and get out a tray. Staunton goes out in advance. I follow, and offer the water around, feeling a continuing discharge run down my inner thigh. I sit down. Primly. Cross my legs. The discharge flattens softly. Hot, slick, sticky, and sleek. Whose play is it now? I wonder, noticing the card pack in front of my place. My partner is looking at me. 

'You cut to the big boy,' she says. 

So I cut the cards.

To her husband.

The End

*

(Would like to communicate with others out there who have experiences/ideas/fantasies that would make good erotic stories. Viewpoint: female perspective. Please contact me via my profile.)