33 comments/ 127116 views/ 61 favorites The Wooden Deck By: shaunreagh Request to readers, Once you've read it, comment. * "We'll go outside," he said. I nodded, glancing at Jim, 'We're going outside,' my look said. Jim shrugged as if to say, 'If Fletcher wants you to go outside and talk to him, honey pie, then go outside and talk to him'. Okay, I thought. Fletcher was reaching for my hand. I let him have it. With a glance back at Jim -- who had turned and was talking to Fletcher's wife, who was taking her coffee to the fire -- Fletcher and I went out to the deck. We live in the hills. View of the city. Wide wooden deck. Once outside Fletcher steered me to an end of the deck. The darker end. "... one big happy family," he was saying. The Fletchers were our dinner guests. Dinner to impress the new boss. Fletcher, new boss. He was in his forties. Heavy build, big chest, lots of hair. Jim and I are twenties. Jim's an engineer, just moved to a great new job with Fletcher's firm. "Come over here, sweet thing," said Fletcher, to me, a tad to my surprise. But I went, for he's Jim's boss. He had lodged himself in the corner, butt against the rail, legs spread. Where was I to come to, I wondered, seeing how he was set. But I soon found out. A second broad hand reached for the second of mine, took it -- bigger hands than I'm used to -- and drew me into the angle between his outstretched legs. I felt them, either side of my thighs. "We like all our people to be close," he said, having just ensured we were. He lent towards me and -- again, to my surprise -- lightly kissed me. I let my lips soften into his. I felt I must. I could hardly be rude, after all. Although I did think to myself, as his thick lips pressed, quite softly, into mine, that I wasn't usually regarded as dessert. Besides, we'd already had dessert: a difficult-to-make pavlova, one of my specialities. His lips lifted gently off but his arms stayed around me, my thighs against his lewdly open groin. I didn't draw attention to this, however. "We have a great view from here," I said instead, stomachs and private parts conjoined, looking over his shoulder at the city. "Sure do," he said, his eyes staying on me. I didn't respond. I am regarded as fairly attractive, but keep it to myself as a rule. His hands around the back of me pulled me even closer than before. "So tell me about yourself," he said, spreading a hand over my left buttock. "What would you like to know?" I asked, trying to ignore where his hand was, and what it had just done -- gently squeezed me. "Who kissed you first?" he asked, and as he asked inclined his lips again. He didn't kiss this time, merely moved his lips towards mine. I assumed he wanted another kiss so leaned my lips to his and gently kissed him. His lips were softer than I'd imagined they might be. I had briefly wondered, at dinner, as his hand closed over my knee beneath the tablecloth, and when I glanced at him to see if he realised it was me and not the table leg his fingers were around, he smiled, and I noticed how thick his lips were. Our lips gently parted. "An uncle," I found myself saying, not giving it thought, telling the truth. "Your uncle kissed you first?" he said, our lips playing lightly against each other's, hardly touching, more like the touch of a butterfly wing. "On the mouth, I mean," I said, explaining, not sure that's what he'd meant. I'd been kissed on the cheek before that. And the top of the head. But I don't think he meant that. "How old were you?" he asked. Both his hands now cupped a buttock. One buttock each, being softly felt. I made myself relax, feeling it was best. Feeling that to clench might send the wrong message ... about how much we liked working in his firm -- Jim, at least, liked working in his firm. "Early teens, I guess," I guessed. "Did he put his tongue in you mouth?" he asked, giving me a nod. I wondered at the nod, then figured it meant I should kiss him again. So I leaned into him, and this time putting my hands either side of his face, I kissed him. He put his tongue against my lips and I remembered, as he did, that he'd asked about my uncle, and whether or not my uncle had put his tongue in my mouth. So I let my lips open so that he might. It seemed to be what he wanted. In order to help, I suppose, I ran a hand from his cheek round the back of his neck. I cupped him there. Surprised how thick it was (his neck) and how strong it seemed (his tongue). It ran along the length of my own. It tasted of tobacco. My husband, Jim, doesn't smoke. His tongue seemed bigger than Jim's. We kissed a little longer this time. I let my tongue move against his as it seemed to be what he wanted. His hands gently wandered my buttocks, the top of my legs, my hips. I was wearing a long wrap-around skirt. The bit that wrapped around, was round the back. One of his hands had slipped inside the overlap. Our lips came away from each other's. "Yes," I said, eventually, once I had my breath back, and remembered what the question was -- and managed to focus my eyes! "So as a teenager your uncle kissed you and put his tongue in your mouth?" he said, looking at me with interest. As if this set of circumstances was somehow a mark in my favour. I'd never really thought of it like that. But I suppose it was a little daring. Uncle Ted had always done these sort of things with my sister and me. My sister was older, of course. "Did you like it when he put his tongue in your mouth?" asked Fletcher, his head now angled to one side ... we remained joined at the front, around the thighs, me between his legs, his hands around the back of me, one inside my wrap-around skirt, fondling my backside. I wondered how Jim was getting on with Mrs Fletcher. She looked to be something of a Harridan. "I'm sorry," I said, forgetting what he'd asked. His fingertips had dipped into the cleft of my behind, a part of me that tends to be sensitive. "Did you like it when your uncle put his tongue in your mouth?" he asked, not at all annoyed at the need to repeat. Then his finger was back in the cleft, and I smiled. I wasn't sure what else to do. "Initially surprised," I said, thinking back, smile drifting from my face. "And after that?" "I didn't mind, I suppose,' I said, and shrugged. One of his hands, the one not engaged beneath my skirt, came round the front and touched my face. He stroked my cheek, and then my ear. He started to play with the ear-lobe. "What else did your uncle like to do to you?" he asked, softly lifting the lobe of my ear and running a square finger-tip beneath it. I angled my head to the side, to make it easier for him. "What do you mean?" I asked as I moved my chin. His fingers were practiced. Our eyes were level. His were dark, a little smutty I suppose. But I didn't mind that. As long as they weren't annoyed. With me. Or Jim. He dropped his eyes and then his hand to my throat. "Did he do anything else to you? Touch you other places, things like that?' he asked, as his fingers slipped round my neck, and gently caressed me there. "No," I said, for I felt it was safe. I stretched my neck to accommodate his fingers. "No?" he repeated, eyes wide on mine, as if he knew that wasn't true. His fingers on my neck were very light. Lighter than I'd thought they'd be. He was broadly built. Much broader than Jim. So were his hands. I dropped my eyes. "Well ..." I left it there. In fact Uncle Ted was always touching me. Stroking me. Caressing me. Anywhere he could, every chance he got. Often coming into my room when I was asleep -- or meant to be asleep, though I'd always pretend that I was, even when he touched me. "Go on," he said, easing my face to his and kissing me again. Our mouths opened this time. Our tongues gently played. His lips were soft. When he finished I replied, noncommittally, "He liked to touch me," which seemed to cover it. "I'm not surprised," he said, stroking the skin of my buttock within the pleats of my skirt. He made to kiss me again. I let him, but wondered if there wasn't something I should be saying to him, or pointing out at least, for what he was doing was starting to affect me. It was quite a long kiss. My tongue rolled right around his. More than once. I sucked on it softly. He kissed very gently for a big man. Quite well too, I suppose. The hand inside my skirt was into my thong, fingers beneath the vertical strip round the back, stroking skin, exploring the cleft. Letting me know he'd found the little private puckered hole of my anus, and that he liked it ... moving on. The hand round my neck was playing with an ear. For a big man his touch was gentle. It would be easy to sink under their spell, I thought, as his mouth moved away. I closed my own. "Do you think Jim will like working with us?" he asked, changing the subject. His fingers left my ear, slipped around my throat and dropped to my chest. "I think," I said ... then stopped, looked down. His fingers had found the V at the front of my blouse and calmly slipped inside. I lifted my eyes back to his. I didn't know what I should do; I didn't know how to react. His other hand, the one round the back at my thong, we both knew was there, but as we couldn't see it, we could sort of pretend it wasn't there. But this was different. This was unmissable, undeniable. Out in the open as it were. "Yes?" he said, apparently expecting me to continue. "I think he will," I finished, once I'd recalled where we were -- meaning I thought Jim would like working for his firm. "My husband likes what you do," I added, hoping that sounded right, trying not to appear as if I objected to his hand in my blouse. "Your husband has what I'm looking for," he said, in a way that made me wonder what it was he was looking for ... precisely. His fingers were stroking the skin that the bra didn't cover at the top of my breast. His eyes dropped down, to watch. I found my own doing the same. We noted the movement inside my blouse. As if a small animal was inside, playing. "Does he mind hard work?" he asked, as our two pairs of eyes watched the movement in my blouse. As if it were some sort of test. "Grngggg ..." I groaned, then caught my breath. A fingertip had slipped inside my bra, and brushed a nipple. Ludicrously sensitive! He lifted his eyes with a smile on his face. "What does that mean?" he asked. I hadn't a clue, so gave a weak smile instead. He cupped my breast, bra and all, and gently squeezed. My back arched. I tried not to gasp. This was not good. My breasts were starting to flush -- warm up -- get hot! I knew the signs. "He's a very hard worker," I said, doing my best to keep worry from my eyes. Although I didn't want it to happen my attention was on his hand inside my blouse, arousing me -- as I, for reasons I was having trouble figuring out, did nothing to prevent it. I had started to worry about what I might feel ... if he kept this up. "He seems very diligent," he observed, hands inside my clothing, fondling front and rear. "Very," I agreed, as it seemed to fit. At least, I hoped it did. Our eyes rose together from my breast ... and his hand, and what it was doing to my breast. He looked at me. I looked at him. His expression was ... senior, important, something like that. Mine was more ... accommodating, slightly frightened, something like that. As our eyes seemed to 'plug in' to each others he continued to fondle and caress. I wasn't quite sure what I should do. I was the hostess after all. But more than that I was the wife of his employee. A new one at that. Jim had a three month probation to perform. His employment was seven days old, that's all. I tried a modest smile -- 'demure' perhaps a better word -- a smile I felt might display the self-assurance of an efficient hostess, despite what the hands of guests were doing elsewhere. His eyes appeared to take it in their stride. He didn't smile back. Just looked me in the eye. And played with my breast. And my bare buttock inside my knickers. And pressed his groin against mine. I made my eyes grow friendly. "How long have you been running the company?" I asked. Merely making conversation. He started to undo a button of my blouse. I made no move to stop him. "It seems very large," I went on, meaning the company, but aware of the growing erection now starting to nuzzle my groin. He pulled on another blouse button. I felt that give as well. "The company, I mean," I said, eyes filled with interest -- I hope. Another blouse button was loosed. "Three years," he said, as his hand went into my blouse and calmly unfastened the front of my bra. "Really," I said, showing interest. In fact I thought he'd been running the company longer than that. I gave a nervous smile. He didn't smile back. His hand felt large and broad, almost commanding, on the skin of my breast. I had to lean forward into the pressure as he'd started to knead, quite hard. Not hard as in hurt, but hard as in cause for concern. Demanding attention as it was. I did my best to hold still. His other hand inside my thong had dipped between my legs. Fingertips slipped over labia lips. He was playing with me gently below ... more roughly above ... how did he know I liked it like that? Jim didn't even knew that! "Did you like it when your uncle played with you?" he asked, back with Uncle Jim, as he played with me. Intimately now. Fingers sliding deep inside my thong. "I didn't mind," I replied, truthfully. I hadn't at the time. "Did he touch you as I am doing now?" he asked. Surprising me. I hadn't thought we were meant to acknowledge that this was taking place. I certainly didn't think we would talk about it. "Sometimes," I replied, not really wanting to talk about it -- although willing, I suppose, to talk about Uncle Jim, who had, in fact, done this. I tried not to groan as a finger-tip, extended between my legs from behind, brushed my clitoris. "And did you like it?" I hesitated. "I didn't mind," I said, staying honest, keeping my eyes on his. He looked straight back as if I was unusual. I tried to keep my expression blank but bit my lower lip as his finger ran across my clitoris again. "Did he play with your pussy?" he asked, as if he were asking my typing speed. (I worked as a secretary once. Maybe he knew.) "Sometimes," I admitted, but my mind was more on the finger that was brushing my clitoris than it was on Uncle Jim, or any of my uncles come to that, when similarly feeling that unfairly sensitively part of me. I arched my back as my pelvis kicked sharply in his hand. My eyes had closed. "Sensitive?" "Very," I gasped, teeth clenched. But it made no difference. He didn't let up as my pelvis, like an affectionate puppy, pulsed and kicked and squirmed as his fingers found my buttons and started to press them. "I don't ... Please. No ... Ngaaar," I groaned, hands flat on his chest, trying to push him away. "I like sensitive people," he said. Then stopped, and gently eased me from him. He allowed our bodies to draw apart. Took his hands from my clothing, front and back. "I like you," he said, as the space between us grew. I removed my hands from their defensive position on his chest to a more companionable spot on either shoulder. "Thank you," I mouthed, meaning Thank You for liking me -- as that surely could only be good for Jim -- and Thank You too for releasing me from where we'd been headed, as I wasn't sure what might have happened if he'd gone on like that. I didn't want to think about it now. I brushed some strands of hair from my cheek. Despite the evening air I found, to my surprise, that I was perspiring. My face and chest were burning up. I would be brightly flushed, I knew, suddenly thankful it was dark out here. His hands had settled on my waist. He was holding me lightly in the 'V' of his legs. I didn't mind. Concern had passed. Maybe I had passed, as well! He seemed to be twisting the waistband of my skirt. I dropped my eyes. He was, I saw. I lifted my head enquiringly, to see his eyes were also on the waist-band of my skirt. My own dropped back, a frown of confusion on my face. I could hear laughter, far off in the house. Jim and Fletcher's wife. I wondered what they were laughing at. I looked over the shoulder of Jim's boss, at the twinkling lights of the city. I wondered what he was doing. I didn't want to look. Then, all of a sudden, I had to plant my feet firmly on the deck, so as not to twist round with the waistband. Then the motion stopped. "There, that's better," said Fletcher, as if he'd just resolved some particularly knotty problem. What was he talking about? "Don't you think that's better?" he asked. I had no idea. "Go on," he said next. "What was I saying?" I asked, trying to smile. Which is when Jim called out from the house, "Mrs Fletcher asks if we can come out and join you?' "Damn the woman," he snapped, his response so sharp and venomous I didn't dare move. "Not finished yet," he hissed, under his breath. "Tell him to show her some photos, or something," he rabbitted on. I was at a loss. He clearly saw that. And what happened next explained the movement of the waistband of my skirt. The wrap-around part was now round the front, as I discovered when I felt the flap being lifted and his hand slip inside! As I tried to work out what to say to my husband I could feel his fingers on skin. The top of my leg, my groin, the lower tummy. Then I felt his fingers, slip inside my thong's meagre pouch. My back involuntarily arched, hard, and my pelvis kicked back out of range. But not far enough! Short of taking a step backwards I couldn't get distance between us. His hand merely came with my pelvis and all the rest that was inside my thong. But I couldn't step back! In case my husband was in range and wondered what was happening; because this guy was his boss, and would probably be pissed if I took away the toy I had suddenly become. So I stayed where I was, my back to the tall French windows of the sitting room, hoping they wouldn't come out. Hoping that if they were ALREADY out, then all they would see is my back, and the long black pleats of my skirt falling to my high-heeled pumps. "I think," I said hesitantly, angling my head so that Jim might hear -- if he was already out -- while at the same time leaving my hips and legs where they were -- between his boss's. I swallowed, raised my voice and went on, "We're not quite finished here, Jim dear." Then I stopped. I stopped because the sensation of a stranger's finger casually stirring my private parts while I tried to converse with my husband was unsettling and -- and this part I didn't like -- had started to arouse me in a major way. The next voice I heard was Fletcher's wife. She sounded slightly drunk. "I know you Dan Fletcher. You just want his cute little lady to yourself." In a quieter voice, clearly aimed at Jim, she added, "He can't keep his eyes off the lookers. Or his hands." She hiccupped. "We're coming out!" came next. My blouse was open. Damn it, and so was my bra! My hands flew to that. I stayed as I was facing him. Our groins close, my legs between his, his hand between mine as I searched for the sides of my bra ... to fasten the thing. "Leave it!" he hissed. How the hell could I! "I can't," I hissed back. "Stay as you are facing me, they won't see a thing." I didn't see how that could possibly work! "What am I supposed to be doing, this close?" I hissed, needing a reason for Jim. "Something in my eye." "What are you two hatching up?" slurred Vivian Fletcher, not sounding as if she was a million miles away. "Some damn thing in my eye, Tracy's blowing on the lid to dislodge it," said the guy with his hands in my pants, and a finger agonizingly at work not a million miles from a tingling clit. The Wooden Deck "Oh," came the tones of a concerned-sounding Jim, also not a million miles away. "Hey Jim," said the owner of the agonizing finger, "Why don't you show Mrs Fletcher the sights ... until we've got this done." By now I had cottoned on to what we were supposed to be doing. My elbows had lifted up to Fletcher's shoulders. I had spread my fingers around an eye. Adding to the realism I eased out an eye-lid, lowered my head, and blew gently under the lid and as I did I heard Jim, behind me, start to point out the various illuminated landmarks off in the distance. From his voice, and Mrs Fletcher's grunts in reply, I guessed the two of them were against the railing a few paces back along the deck. My back was to them. My blouse (I hoped) not too obviously open. My long black skirt (I prayed) giving no hint of what was going on round the front. "You can see the lights of city hall." "Where?" "Off there." "I don see any city hall." I stopped blowing in Fletcher's eye. As Jim was trying to direct a slightly-the-worse-for-wear Mrs Fletcher's attention to the lights of City Hall, her husband was stroking my pussy in a way that wasn't good. I have never quite figured out if it is my generally laid back attitude to people wanting to fondle and touch me that tends to get me into this sort of situation more often than I probably want, or the fact that once I am in this sort of situation I tend to get very turned on (regardless of who's doing the fondling). But whichever was the chicken and whichever was the egg, right now my pussy felt as if it was being languidly cooked. That bad part inside me was starting to buzz. When the tip of his middle finger, then the first joint, then the second, slipped with embarrassing ease all the way into that part of me that was now, I suspect, properly meant to be Jim's, I couldn't for the life of me think of anything to do but relax -- and I mean RELAX. There is something about a hand, that belongs to someone else, being between my legs, and as gentle and clever as this hand was being, that takes me away from the standards and norms that my parents always told me I should follow. But then, I have to guess, these same standards and norms were probably drummed into Fletcher when he was a boy, and he wasn't doing too damn well either! My pubis pulsed into his hand once -- twice -- three times, hard, and my back arched tight as a bow. "We should stop," I whispered into an ear that had somehow got close to my lips. "You mean by the right of that tall thing?" Mrs Fletcher's voice grated. "That tall thing's the Baptist church spire," provided Jim. "I know what that is," she assured my husband in a way that suggested she didn't. "So whassat next to it?" she asked, or rather slurred. As Jim started to tell her what was next to it -- I suppose it must have been the public library, but right now I wasn't too sure of anything particularly concrete -- I felt a second wandering hand between our groins ... and it felt like it was trying to ... 'Surely he wouldn't," I thought with alarm. 'Not here! Not like this! Not now! Not with who is behind us, just along the rail! Surely ...' But Fletcher clearly figured I wasn't about to make a fuss. And in that he was probably right. What would I have done, after all? Other than ... I don't know ... lost Jim his job, perhaps; lost us our lovely house in the hills -- the mortgage payments were crippling, Fletcher's firm had taken them over as part of Jim's deal; embarrassed myself, perhaps -- although I had already been pretty accommodating in terms of the liberties I'd allowed the big man; probably a whole slew of other things too, things that right now I couldn't articulate well. So I didn't object. And when I felt what he had released, and how hard and hot it was, and the way I was being re-arranged so that he could fuck me, I didn't make a sound. I merely let the air out my mouth in a well controlled stream and looked over his shoulder at the light-spangled night. Ah yes, there was the city hall -- I thought to point it out, but needed my arms to keep his shoulders from moving too much, and all of me from moving at all. He guided his penis into me. Into that part already so embarrassingly well-lubricated it received him if not with outright welcome, certainly with a modicum of ease. And Wow! Had he a presence? Startling! Do men know what it's like to be filled this way? Expanded in this fashion? Stuffed like this? (Their loss.) He wasn't moving much. It was just there. Sunk pretty damn deep by the feel of it -- but just as I thought that, more smooched in. Something told me to keep my eyes open. Like these explorers in the Antarctic. Or on the top of Everest. 'Don't close your eyes or you'll never wake up.' It was something like that. Don't close my eyes or I'm done for. I'd start to squirm and whimper and moan. To act the way I always do when someone starts to mess with me like this. Starts to screw me is what I mean. There is no other activity on the planet that fills me with so much dread, and pleasure, and excitement, all at the same damn time, than being roundly fucked by someone who REALLY wants to fuck me. I stared vacantly, and hard as hell, at a bunch of distant stars. I breathed with a steady rhythm. I even manage to arch my head and angle my face and say, in a voice I thought a nurse might use when tending a patient, "Damn it, that sand's stuck hard in your eye." But I don't think anyone heard. "That's the road you drove up to house," said my husband. "Well I'll be darned," said Mrs Fletcher. "So how does it ..." she seemed to be walking away. "There's a small copse in front of the deck. It twists around that." They WERE walking away! As far as I could tell they were walking in the direction of the other corner of the deck. Perhaps to see where the road came out on the other side of the copse. "We need to finish," I whispered urgently into the ear against which my gasping mouth had clamped itself. But, Boy, I felt relief! And exhaustion at the effort of keeping the lid on a state of affairs I normally surrender to, with such wanton abandon I sound like a dying cat! "Ngaaargh!" I gasped as he thrust what suddenly felt like another couple of very thick inches into me. "Where the hell did that come from?" I grunted. "Bit more," he groaned, and pushed some more, then back, and eased more in. "Jesus Christ!" I blasphemed, biting my lip, easing my pelvis forward, and up ... then languidly down as I felt him do something the same, and ever more of this great bloody monster of his, eased its way into my pulsing snatch. Why does evolution equip us so well to fuck, yet so poorly to figure out where and when it's best to? "Gngaaaah ..." I mouthed in his ear. "That's why the lights disappeared," I heard Jim say from far off down the deck. About as far as he could go, I guessed. "Gngunt," the bastard grunted as he thrust wildly into me. Both of us starting to mount the lustful climb that leads to ... fucking sin perhaps, or sinful fucking maybe. "No," said my far off husband. "That's the light from the gate. The bell push is round the other side." "Howdya know?" 'For Christ sake woman,' I thought to myself, eyes shut, chin pointing to the heavens, 'if he tells you its round the other side, believe him. He fixed it himself, for heaven's sake!' I screamed this redundantly inside my head, to the dumb damn wife of this big pushy bastard who was fucking me here at our end of the deck. "Graaah!" I gasped then bit the sound and drove my pelvis onto him. Would this become a regular affair, I wondered almost absently as my right leg bent at the knee and curled around his leg. God but his legs were big! Bout the size of an oak tree's trunk. "Ngaaaargh!" I gasped as he upped the thrusts some more -- not 'more' to the extent that our dark silhouette against the forest beyond our end of the deck would be quaking and shuddering or anything like that, but enough to cause my innards to pulse and squeeze ... then pulse and gasp ... and grasp and inwardly groan ... then drool! My eyes were squeezed tight shut. A second more. No ... "Ngaaaargh!" ... two seconds more. Fingers found my clit and started working that as others found a nipple, tweaked it hard. "They're coming back," he whispered in my ear, as if it should excite me. His eyes were clearly down the deck, watching my husband -- and his wife -- who even as he said it were obviously strolling back to join us! 'They can't,' I screamed in silence, thrusting myself ever harder against him, drawing us together with arms, and hands, and fingernails ... and a single curled-round leg. "Tell them to wait," I begged, lowering my face to his neck. Breathing his scent. Opening my mouth and biting him. "Ouch!" he yelped, beneath his breath. "Can you bring some cotton wool?" he yelled, so loud it startled me! "Okay -- " called back from a distance away, I sucked on the bit of skin I'd bit. As soon as I felt they were back in the house, rummaging around for cotton wool -- it had to be up in our bathroom, top of my cupboard, behind a bunch of creams: it would take them ages to find it -- I started to urge him on. "Hurry," I hissed, letting my pelvis flare, driving it into the guy, feeling the bulk as it moved inside me and the pressure of our pubises, grinding lushly. Slutty abandon! "C'mon ... C'mon ... C'MON!" I grunted, though whether to him or myself I have no idea. "Enjoying yourself?" a slurred voice asked, right next to my ear. Oh ... shit! Whether Viv Fletcher was asking him, or me, I couldn't tell. Nor could I do a whole lot about it! "Where's he gone?" my partner asked his wife as if her joining us was of no particular importance, as one of his fingers strummed my clit and the other toyed with a nipple ... while the more impressionable part of him filled me up ... and thrust ... and thrust ... and continued to thrust, regardless of interested onlookers. I gasped. "Into the house. Coddon wool, I guess," his wife said heavily, then seemed to settle against the rail just behind me. "She any good?" she asked, as if she were asking about the weather. "You better believe it," he grunted, as he upped the tempo and I, without meaning to do anything at all, upped mine as well. "Can I feel?" came a dull enquiry from behind. "Shit, Viv. Can't you see I'm busy?" "Just a feel," she persisted. "You're always interfering," he grumbled/gasped, but in a way you felt had given her the option. Next thing I know I feel a hand wander my right butt, clenched tight as a drum, thrusting with all its might. Casual hands that wander me are nothing new. Over the years I've got used to them. But this one belonged to the boss's wife. And he was in the middle of fucking me. But -- and here's the thing -- it didn't feel nearly as invasive as I thought it should. Sometimes I find myself wondering where my morals really are. In my head or between my legs? Vivian Fletcher was clearly intent on 'feeling', as she put it. Feeling me, mainly, it seemed. Although now that her other hand was round my front easing into the gap between her husband and me, she would pretty soon be feeling both of us, in just about as private a part as there was. Fletcher's hand moved out the way and was quickly replaced by the woman's, and blow me if her fingers weren't every bit as skilled and eager as her husband's. I thought she sounded slurred, but there was nothing slurred about her fingers. "Ngungf!" I grunted in his ear when my clit was softly twirled then tweaked then stroked. His hands at my nipples moved up a gear as his wife's between my legs eagerly helping things along. "This is not ..." I started to explain, to either of the two, or both, or either one, looking, perhaps -- but it's a guess -- to explain that I was normally not this sort of girl. But half way through this hopeless endeavour some pyrotechnics started firing in the neural part of mind that deals with pleasure -- and I'm talking INTENSE pleasure here -- and the concept I'd started to expound -- about me, mainly, I think, but cannot be absolutely sure -- got lost in the soup of thrusting lust over which I had no control. Plaintively, while bouncing up and down around the centres of arousal all around me, I yelped, "Yeeee ... Yeeee ... Yeeee ... Yeeee!" And had an orgasm that nearly blew my brains out! "I couldn't find cotton wool," came the reasonable tones of my husband, who really was better kept out of the picture right now. "But I've got pads," he added, as he sounded as if he was taking the steps from the house to the deck, two at a time. Mag-fucking-nificent I thought, a little star-struckly, as my orgasm pulsed its mind-blowing tracer trail of devastation through the galaxy of purpled mind ... tuned in, turned up, wired out, blasted to all hell and back ... "Ah ... Jim ..." I said, melded as close to his boss as was possible without actually passing through him and coming out the other side. "I'm sure it will help," I added, voice sounding (to me) about as calm as a cacophony of crows. I reached a trembling hand for the tube of cotton pads in his hand as the remnants of my orgasm throbbed their tattered way through inner lines of high sensitivity like rodents amok on high voltage wires. "How can you see from so close?" Jim asked -- with some justification -- his face an inch from mine. His eyes were screwed up with concern. But the concern was directed at his boss. Directed, you had to think, with about as much single-minded focus, as his boss's penis. In the case of the former, at his boss's dodgy eye; in the case of the latter, at the deepest recesses of his wife's seemingly not quite so dodgy vagina -- where it continued, unapologetically, to eek out her slathering juices and base desires. "It's okay," I replied, shakily, in orgasm's continuing thrall, elbows back up on his shoulders, head angled back from his face, fingers with a pad -- or maybe two, extracted over-eagerly from the plastic tube, (that had since fallen onto the deck and rolled some distance away) -- as I commenced ministration to the eye that was the problem. Or was it the other? I couldn't remember which had started out as the problem eye. Other things had come up, as it were. I had to keep my body pressed close -- strained close, thrust close -- to Jim's boss, lest the hands in my blouse and the gap at the front of my skirt become apparent, to Jim. Not to mention the hands of the wife who was crowding my back, while fingering my front. Not to mention either, the other involvement that was quietly taking place. Even I stood there, cotton pads in hand, Mrs Fletcher continued -- as if the circumstances pleased her -- to toy with me. "Should I have brought some warm water?" Jim enquired, filled with concern for his boss. "Smart thinking, son," said his boss. And off he trotted, yet again, to do his boss's bidding. They turned me so that my back was now against the railing of our dark and shaded corner of the deck. My eyes could wander the lights from the windows at the front of our house; the disappearing figure of my husband up the steps to the open French windows; the way he took the steps two at a time, then hurried inside. He would bring the water in a bowl from the kitchen, I imagined. Would he ensure it was warm? I still held the cotton pads in my right hand, my forearm on a shoulder. My left hand was round his boss's neck, holding on as the thrusts increased in passion and strength and, as far as I was concerned -- though this is not something of which I am particularly proud-- eagerness of response. My butt was on the railing, pelvis held wide and angled up, one leg curled around a buttock, the other round a thigh, both clutching hard as the thrusts and grunts rose piston fast. It was as if we were all working to a deadline. Vivian Fletcher, no longer able to crowd my behind, now crowded our sides. She tried to get her mouth onto mine but there wasn't time. Besides, I needed my mouth to breath. This was energetic stuff we were involve in. Especially with the urgency factor Jim's intermittent attendance at the scene had introduced. Whether urgency, freneticism, and a sense or risk adds to the intensity of orgasmic release through some idiosyncratic hormonal cocktail, or a mishmash of brain stem inconsistencies, or by virtue of something else entirely, I didn't know enough to know. But it sure as heck did something! My second orgasm of the evening, with a woman's finger up my ass doing clever things as another somehow insinuated its way between two thrusting pubic bones, exerted electrifying pressures on my clitoris. The resultant climax practically caused me to faint. It was so powerful it silenced my usual keening yelps, and long drawn-out final cry. I lacked the focus to yelp; or the energy to cry! I could do nothing but be there. There. At the seat of where things sexual were happening. I was at one with the pressures, and movement, and heat. The thrusting contractions, blinding excitement, the burning urge. The lustful climb. The heady, dreamlike, brain expanding final assault on the peak ... then the BLAST ... Heaven in all its glory, here on earth. "I hope this isn't too hot?" "What took you so long?" "I couldn't find the metal bowl." Jim had brought warm water out in a kidney shaped metal bowl that was used for sterilising surgical instruments. My father -- a vet -- used to use it. Jim had clearly decided if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. I tested the temperature of the water. Elbow perfect. His boss, and the boss's wife, were pointing out the various landmark lights of the city. I was there, ready to help with identification if called upon.. My blouse was buttoned to the neck. The gap of my skirt was round the back where it belonged. I had no idea where my thong was. Somewhere in the undergrowth beyond the railing. I would look for it tomorrow. The boss said, "No need for the water, Jim. This lovely lady did the trick." He smiled. I waited. He added, "Next week you must come for dinner at our place." How do you say no?