A Risky Foursome

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Her husband looks scary, but they can't resist her.
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Author's note: Although events follow on from "Three in a Tent Made for Two" this is a stand-alone story.

*****

Greg and Tim were sniggering like school kids at the open sash window. They were tearing off sheets from the notepad headed Hoppingmaid Holiday Flats, folding them over and over till they were tight packets and throwing them down obliquely into the back yard next door.

'So immature,' I said, wearily. We were in the bedroom and I was sitting in the hard utilitarian chair, leafing through What's On in Palstow. Not much, I'd concluded. I made a note of the address of the gym. That afternoon, even the beach under the beating sun had proved a disappointment. One or two girls had looked promising but the odd bit of flirting had fizzled out and maybe Tim, Greg and I are a touch intimidating en masse and it takes a special kind of girl to handle the three of us.

'Dam—nearly,' Tim said. I got up and went to join them.

The flats occupied an address in a Georgian terrace otherwise taken up by private residences. Ours was on the third floor, the bedroom window almost directly above the dividing wall between the flats' back yard and the narrow rear garden to the right. Immediately on the other side of the wall, the girl lay on her front on a sun lounger opened out flat; her head was turned away from us and resting on the backs of her hands. In her brief black bikini she was tanning nicely in the hot sun. Little packets of paper surrounded her.

'Must be asleep,' Greg said. 'Two or three of our missiles have made contact as you can see. If she'd just look lively, roll over had let us see what her front looks like then our work would be done—for now at least.'

'You could go around on some pretext, knock on the door and say "hello",' I said, feeling waspish. Pathetic that we were reduced to this after that scorching time with the girl up in the Lake District.

'That'd be too easy,' Greg said. He wrote his mobile phone number onto another sheet and folded it to the size of a postage stamp. He nudged me, 'Hey Alex, she's stirring.'

Greg threw with a sharp flick of his wrist and the packet sailed out and then plummeted. Down, down, straight into the crack between her peachy and satisfyingly large arse cheeks, missing the cris-crossing of black strings.

'Bullseye,' Tim said, grudging in his admiration.

'Yes, my aim was true,' Greg said, staring down intently.

Reaching back, her fingers delicately took hold of the packet. Flipping onto her side, a formidable rack swung into view supported in small black cups. We all audibly caught our breaths. A strong, fine-boned face; hoop earrings, a gold necklace—finely wrought. Leaning on one elbow she flicked back a long strand of raven black hair and opened out the packet and was on the point of checking out the windows above when a voice rumbled and something bulked into view.

We backed away from the window, vistas of possibility withering in our expressions. I edged forward again and cautiously peered over the windowsill.

He was like an old-school Russian weightlifter with his massive torso set on his comparatively under-developed legs. There was rather too much jewellery in the form of a necklace of thumbnail-sized gold links, a thick wrist band and signet rings on his fingers. Dark blue tattoos covered his massive biceps. His head was large and shaved to baldness.

She was on her front again while he rubbed sun tan lotion into her shoulders.

I said, 'What's she going to do with your little billet doux, Greg, I wonder?'

He looked a little pale.

'A guy like that could tear us limb from limb,' Tim said helpfully.

'Fit though, isn't she,' I said.

When the man entered the gym later that afternoon, we thought the game was up until it became clear the place was where he got himself to the size he was. We didn't linger.

The next day we were in the Sandy View Cafe when Greg's phone rang. He listened, his expression flickering between wariness and excitement. 'Sorry,' he said after a moment. 'We were a bit bored.'

We? I mouthed. More words into Greg's ear. He hissed an aside at us, 'Says I'm a good shot.' He spoke into the phone, 'Oh, we're just travelling.' Questioning inflections in the squeaks from the phone. 'Oh, we've been all over.' After more listening he said, 'Sandy View Cafe,' followed by 'Yes, we can wait . . . bye then.'

'Yes we can,' he said, with a downward pull of his clenched fist, his lower teeth bared.

She was fashionably late by five minutes. 'Statuesque' summed her up. Her black hair was abundant, shiny as crude oil. Necklace and bracelets looked good on her—and she knew where to stop, unlike her husband. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses, tight, knee-length jeans, a cheesecloth top.

We made a space for her at the table. 'Greg,' I said. He stopped looking agog, ascertained what she would like to drink and went to the counter and returned with iced tea. We forgot to get anything more for ourselves.

She was cool, poised, relaxed in her questioning. What did we do? Where were we from? She batted her thick eyelashes as if our dull answers were sparkling bon mots, leaning forward, chin in hand, her breasts pressing out the thin close weave of the cheesecloth top. Tim looked dazed, as if she were some porn star. Greg wore a stiff grin. Despite being stiff myself, the part in question being out of sight below the table, I wasn't such a pushover.

'Was that your husband?' I said.

'Oh, don't mind him,' she said, accurately cottoning on that the chap might give us pause. The fact she was keen to reassure us was promising in itself—and I liked the way her lioness gaze raked over my shoulders.

She said she had some shopping to do and would 'drop round later'. A final quick glance over the three of us, a smile of her red lipsticked lips, and she was rising from her chair and telling us she was looking forward to a really good chat, and her spin on the word 'chat' sent a wave of heat through my groin.

After she'd gone, I said, 'So long as it's not her husband paying us a visit.'

Greg looked at me with mock gravity, 'Well, that's a risk we'll have to take.'

We nervously paced the floor of the flat later. Hearing hard tapping steps on the wooden staircase, we froze. She knocked and was inside before we'd finished our chorus of 'Come in.' I locked the door behind her.

An inch or two taller than me in her lethal three-inch spike heels. A relief when she sat on the edge of the double bed we'd stipulated, in addition to the two singles, when we'd made the booking. She made a token visual examination of the room, placed her mobile phone on the bedside cabinet and began to unbutton her cheesecloth top. All very businesslike.

'That chap of yours looks quite a geezer,' I said. Greg had uncertainly started plucking at the hem of his tee shirt, looking at Tim and me to follow suit.

'Oh he's a pussy cat—most of the time,' she said, shrugging off her top. That distantly registered as I took in a more than ample amount of breast flesh, all firm and high-mounted in a lacy black bra. The biological imperative kicking in, we caught up quickly, pumped and primed as the cotton and denim fell away, teeth bared and wet, balls tightening as we got onto the big arena of the bed, not wearing a stitch, she pulling her jeans out from under her bottom and off over her heels before flinging them with force across the room.

She stretched out her long legs, tipped her face sideways in consideration of them before a hundred-watt smile and a mock-submissive downward glance asked us what we thought. Copping a feel, we let her know her confidence was justified. It didn't really need three pairs of hands to drag her lacy black panties off the generous width of her loins, revealing a neatly trimmed black landing strip, but it was more fun to. Down, down those endless legs they went, and then they were over and off her red-painted toenails poking out of the open-toed stilettos. The latter she made no attempt to remove—and we were as one with her on that. Jostling her boobs out of her lacy bra next, then weighing the big warm globes in our hands. All the while her expression had been controlled and lustful as she took in the male flesh surrounding her, the three hard-as-nails cocks, a look that said, Yes, I've chosen well—and of course she had.

Greg's a bit empty-headed at times, apt to speak out of turn but girls forgive him as he's bodacious from his black close-cropped hair to his toes. Muscle definition all over despite being a lazy arse gym-wise. Tom's smooth as a marble statue. Clever, boyish, rather earnest at times—and a bit of a novice in our company. Me, just a dazzling archangel with my dirty blond hair, dark-blue eyes, pec-appeal and the rest—and modest withal. The three of us randy as rabbits, with maybe something equine in our ancient ancestry that informed the oft-noted and above average size of our equipage, or "tackle" as Greg liked to put it.

She let us manhandle her onto her back, lengthways on the bed, always a good start to proceedings. She spoke while we kissed and fondled. 'Take . . . your time boys—we should have well over half an hour.'

I drew back a little at that, while noting the way the filigree fine gold links of her neck chain hugged the upper contours of her tits.

She cupped my balls as if to reassure me. Greg licked the red-nailed fingers of her other hand.

'He's doing some business in town,' she said, casually. Drug dealer? Gangster? The seedy seaside town was notable for its criminal element. 'A finger in every pie.'

Suggesting some new sexual move, I thought, until she went on to say her husband had various business interests and was 'stinking rich'. 'I mean, why else would I put up with him?'

None of us sought for her to expand on her marital problems—it wasn't the time or the place. Tim went from nibbling her ear to going for her lips which opened for him. His tongue went in until she shook him off with the gentle admonishment, 'Easy tiger.'

She gestured at the wall. 'On the other side is our bedroom. Did we keep you awake last night?'

We shook our heads.

'Course you didn't. We sleep like babies. He's not interested. It's maybe the steroids he takes. And he's forty. I'm twenty-five. I like fresh young meat—and am I getting it.'

Easy to forget that she was more mature than our usual partners as we headed into top gear. Tim and I chowed down and suckled on a breast each. My tongue traced over a nubbly aureole, then onto the heat of the softer-skinned substantive surround. Greg had got himself downstairs and was gorging on her gash, his hands palm down on the open flat plain of her abdomen. She closed her eyes and wound her fingers into her hair.

The jaunty ringtone surprised us. Her phone in reach on the bedside table, she picked up. It seemed only good manners to moderate our attentions while she answered with, 'Hello Trixie here.' A blurring low voice reached us, to which she relied, 'Oh . . . babe—how you doing?' An incongruously bright greeting given the circumstances.

The rumbled reply on the other end she answered with, 'Getting some retail therapy. Got my eye on some interesting antiques right now.' She winked at us, the antithesis of antiques clothed in muscle as we were, all three of our dicks lead-solid lengths leaking juice clear as spring water. She listened a while more before saying, 'Okay babe, see ya.' She rang-off, blowing out contemptuously, said,

'He is so needy. I could switch it off but then he would be suspicious.' Trixie looked to one side, considering the options. 'Maybe it's better left on—unless it's putting you off your stride—and er . . .' She considered our respective rods, coughed delicately. 'That doesn't appear to be the case.'

We made various sounds of demurral regarding the phone then carried on where we'd left off, I with a slight pensiveness. I wondered if the wickedness in her eyes was more than enjoyment of Greg's re-buried tongue, at Tim's doing ring-a-ring-roses around one nipple then the other. I hitched one thigh over her face. She reached up and her fingers delicately brushed the golden fuzz on my pecs as my cock entered her smeary lipsticked smile.

Not long after, all this was curtailed when she rolled onto her side and caught hold of Tim's elegantly shaped dong and manipulated it in such a way that he had no choice but to lie on his back. Greg and I were surplus to requirements for the moment as she straddled Tim. With finger and thumb he levered his cock to point ceiling-wards and with perfect aim she sank down and consumed it. There was a duo of satisfied moans.

'You're as good a shot as I am,' Greg said to Trixie.

'But he's going to be doing the shooting, aren't you Tim, eh?' she said. Tim nodded like a kid receiving encouragement from a teacher.

She rode him as he lay, his smooth musculature in sinuous motion, his eyes misting as he looked up admiringly at her bouncing rack. He began to respond in kind, thrusting upwards. Greg and I watched and jerked off for what seemed a good moment or two until suddenly she fell forward, her face locking onto Tim's, her black hair in a curtain around his head, her nipples bending against his compact bunches of chest muscle. Then she was up again, bouncing up and down like a jockey. She stroked his shoulders, tweaked his nipples. Tim's thighs tensed. His balls, coated in her gel, were visibly churning in their sac. Something of the female warrior in her grimly grinning face. Pleasure in Tim's, but even so, I thought he needed a little help.

I got behind her, kneeling with my well-muscled thighs on each side of Tim's. I reached around and grabbed her mobile knockers and she slowed somewhat, assisting my fondling with her hands on mine. Greg leaned in to nibble at her neck and her head fell back on my shoulder. With one hand she reached back and ruffled my hair to further gorgeous unruliness, while with the other she gear-sticked Greg's cock. Tim looked happy and in control, his chopper in a slower rhythm inside her, his hands running up her long thighs. We were really rocking—

And her fucking phone rang again. More or less stuck in the position she was in, she pointed at it, and Tim, like an obedient son, reached a toned arm to the bedside cabinet, picked up the phone and passed it to her.

'Hi sweet,' she said, the slightest edge in her voice. I felt impatient as once again we had to drop down a couple of gears. Giving our all to this woman with all these interruptions—well, it was a bit much.

'Pasta tonight?' she was saying. 'Yes, suits me—and you prepare it so well.' He said some more to which she replied, 'Having a coffee in Starbucks. Then I'll head back. You okay? You sound tense.'

More banalities before she rang off. 'He's so insecure. Just doesn't trust me at all.' Odd the tone of incomprehension in her voice as hubby was so right to be insecure. 'I'm his trophy you see. Money's how he got me in the first place—and I'm happy to spend it. But I like sex too. That's why you three are just the ticket.'

So was she. I lifted her off Tim's cock and she laid back against me. I whispered in her ear then stuck my tongue in the hoop of her earring and tugged gently. Oh, she liked that, liked me fondling her big jugs, the flesh pressing between my fingers, moaned for me to pinch her nipples, which I did—and we all did whatever she asked us to do.

Greg's fingers were working their delicate way into her pussy. She flung her legs wide as Tim got down, his tongue wet and long. He got it inside the space the moment Greg's fingers vacated it and Greg indicated to me with the well-practiced short-hand we have that it really was time we laid her out flat, or as flat as she was ever going to be allowing for her prominent breasts.

Down she came, until her head was on the sheet and wedged between my thighs, my cock immersed in her shiny black hair. Greg got up close, began a deep probing kiss as he massaged her tits. Feeling a little extraneous, I got up to join Tim and we spent a companionable moment double-tonguing her slippery folds then her clit which soon stood distinctly proud, like a tiny Egyptian fez. She cried out then, clearly at the tongue action in her pussy more than the kissing. The bed creaked as Greg manoeuvred until he was facing away from us, his legs on each side of her shoulders, his purple cock-head glossing her lips with pre-cum.

Tim and I were speckling the sheet with a rainfall of our own as we finger-thumbing our cocks like crazy. Cruel to deny her the hard lengths she was vociferously demanding around the cock halfway in her mouth. Tim went first.

Almost animal-quick his action between her widely spread thighs, supporting himself on his elbows, shoulders quivering a little with the effort, his face bowing low over Greg's perky arse cheeks which were moving in time to his slower servicing of her mouth. Tim's vigorous pumping of his eight incher into her clinging tunnel eliciting a mirroring sequence of creaks from the bed. Her long fingers cupped Greg's buttocks, then curled into the crevasse until her red-painted nails disappeared.

'God, that's nice,' he gasped; she was sucking him in deep, his balls touching her dribbling lower lip. She wrapped her thighs around Tim's back, her stilettos digging into him and tempering his thrusts a little. He'd settled for staying deep inside where I guess some merciless squeezes of her cunt got him pumping hard again and with no going back as he cried out, spending his cum as freely as she no doubt spent her husband's money. A wet sucking sound as he pulled himself free and lay back to one side, his forearm across his forehead, his face slack and untroubled, his dick juiced up and softening rapidly .

A five second gap before I took up residence for slippery sloppy seconds. I recall a heated debate as to the efficacy of spunk as a lube. Tim's was serving well now. She was hot and tight, muscles around her slick tube contracting deliciously around my cock. I could see the muscles in her throat at work too as she sucked Greg's dick right down to his pubes. Her nipples were burning holes in my pecs—and of course the damned phone rang again.

A relay, Tim to me to her. She must have mistakenly pressed the speaker button because the voice rang forth. 'Hello, crazy girl, it's me.' Greg extracted his steaming wet cock just in time for her to greet her husband, 'Hi Trev, I'll be fifteen minutes.' 'Yeah, right then, honey.' She switched off. 'We'll be longer than fifteen minutes. He can start the cooking.'

We'd resumed when I heard steps, slow and deliberate as they rose up the wooden stairs. My rutting slowed, stopped. Greg was looking at the door, his concentration not on the matter in hand, or rather in her mouth. Tim sat up, the upmost gravity in his expression, looking to me to put his mind at rest.

A key rattled in the lock. 'Oh, fuck.' I said. Only the holiday firm's owners, agents or a cleaner would have access other than us. The girl seemed not to have noticed that we'd come to a standstill and continued to suck and squeeze the cocks occupying her at either end—even when the door swung in and he entered.

'Hi babe,' she said, the words only minimally discommoded by Greg's probably wilting prick.

'Hi sugar plum,' he said.

Greg and I dismounted from her, our cocks wet and semi-tumescent.

'We own the flats,' she said, matter-of factly, by way of explanation. 'I took your phone booking.'

Her husband sank weightily onto the utilitarian chair, his face expressionless. She wiped a lock of damp hair off her forehead, smiled at him in a wifely fashion as if she'd just broken off from knitting his scarf. His scary lack of expression suddenly ended with a crinkling at his eye-corners, a wide grin.

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