A Most Unwanted Present

When that happened I would get a lift in to work, her desire satisfied for the time being while I saved on the bus fare.

One weekend, one Sunday night early on in the relationship she left me with an empty bottle and, like Rod Stewart's Maggie May, a broken bed. As well as breaking that bed she'd also ruined my sheets, her squirting ardour blotting the cotton in a crazy pattern.

A particular favourite of hers, one of the things she enjoyed most -- oh, her myriad pleasures -- a technique she taught me and for which I have been thankful on more than several occasions since, was for me to use two fingers inside her. That woman would wince and gasp and mutter words in a language I couldn't understand. I knew I was doing all right by her expression and tone of her voice, her squeaks and grunts and tensing muscles adding further clues when I couldn't understand a word she was muttering. I had to rub at her in a particular place, easy to find once she'd shown me the first time.

When she first introduced me to her particular pleasure, that woman held my wrist in a grip like a vice and urged me through gritted teeth to probe deeper, to use my fingertips against her body, to rub at her while she grunted and squawked and whined.

Pressure on that secret part of her brought forth a vehement and much unexpected response, with the woman writhing and grunting, either all bulging eyes or with the lids squeezed tight depending on how she was feeling in the moment.

Garbled nonsense in Italian and English rushed from her mouth, a jibber-jabber of inane babble peppered with some profanity. She would snarl at me to go at her harder, stiff fingers fucking into her, the ends finding that odd little patch inside her. My touch made her claw at the bed -- or me, as often as not. My forearms were constantly criss-crossed with welts and scratches from her scarlet nails that summer. During those times, in the wild precursor to her climax, her whole body would judder and tremble, her limbs thrashing as she wailed and carried on like I was setting about her with an axe.

What took me by surprise the first time it happened, as well as the sheer ... violence of her climax, was the stuff that squirted out of her. At first, with my mature Italian lover in a fit of writhing and squirming, bestial grunts of sheer joy exploding from her, I thought she'd pissed all over my arm. I was working at her pussy, marvelling and awed at the physicality of her enjoyment when, before my eyes, her cunt yawed, literally gaped like a hungry mouth, the surprising physical manifestation accompanied by a loud liquid squelch. Then I felt something splash against my arm, a clear yet viscous jet that squirted from the woman's body with some force. While I boggled at the sight in sheer disbelief she grunted and swore again, another spurt splashing against my forearm and wrist.

At the same time, with those three or four jets hosing out of her, my lover's thighs shivered in nerveless spasm. It was like she'd been wired to mains electricity and someone had just flicked the switch. She juddered and jerked, thigh muscles rippling, yelps of absolute delight bursting out of her while her body convulsed.

"Fucking hell!" I yipped in response, certain the dirty bitch had peed on me.

But she just held me tight at the wrist and kept my fingers inside her, grunting at me to carry on rubbing at her.

That was just one trick that delightful lady taught me, a technique I'd used with varying results ever since, and which I was about to try on the blonde temptress who'd appeared unbidden at my door.

I had the blonde right where I wanted her, my fingers working at her, the muscles in her tummy tensing while she sucked in deep breaths and stared at my face in awe.

"Oh fuck," the girl squeaked, trying to rise up on her elbows so she could see what I was doing. She struggled in vain for a few seconds, finally slumping back down, defeated. "That feels really fuckin' good," she gasped, blinking at me.

She shook her head from side-to-side, slowly, like she couldn't believe my fingers could bring forth such sensations. The blonde gave a little cough, an ugh of pleasure at the back of her throat, jaw going slack, her look and entire demeanour telling me she was going to be a squirter.

I wondered if she knew what her body was capable of. Had anyone tickled her in just the right way in just the right spot before? "Feels good, eh?" I asked.

A squeak and her throat working quickly supplied the answer.

"Oh," she whined, nodding, hips coming up off the settee.

She bucked up at me, pelvis thrusting while my hand got busy, wrist a goose neck while I tickled her insides. "What are you doing here?" I breathed, more to myself and any deity listening than directly to her. "I don't believe it."

"I was so fucking horny," the blonde mewled. She writhed and gasped and clenched her teeth, a spasm rippling through her. "I've seen you about," she gasped. "I knew you were home and I got thinking a few mucky thoughts." She grunted then, bottom lip going between her teeth as her eyes beseeched me to keep on doing whatever it was I was doing. "Fuck," she spat, "don't fuckin' stop...

"If you...

"Oh, fuck ... If you keep on fucking me with your fingers I'll come."

Desire for her was hot inside me, and I did consider leaving it for the moment, just hauling down my jeans to free my erection so I could plunge my cock into her scarlet cunt. I could go at her until the blessed relief of my own spitting orgasm rolled over me.

But, somehow I swallowed down the near irresistible urge to plunder that sodden pussy with my dick. Instead I used my fingers on her, knowing my reward would come later, the pleasure I gave her in the meantime only making that time all the sweeter when my moment arrived.

It took a few minutes to get her close, her movements growing ever more urgent, her moans and squeaks and little yips of delight more emphatic.

"You've got to stop," she eventually gasped, eyes wide, a scared look on her face. "I'm gonna pee if you keep doing it."

"Let it go," I urged, working harder, rubbing at her.

"I can't!" she wailed, one hand pushing at my chest. "Please, don't, I'll piss meself."

Anticipating her struggles I maintained the pressure, relentless fingers squirming inside her while the girl writhed and yelped at me again, fighting against her body's urges.

"It'll be okay," I said, the words strained between my teeth. It was difficult to keep at her the way she was squirming. If I could only convince her to give it up. "Just go with it. It's my sofa anyway."

By then she was really anxious, chewing on her bottom lip, doe-eyed and fearful. But I'd seen it before, had witnessed the same anxiety in the past, with a woman so concerned that she was about to humiliate herself she fought against the tide.

Then, as I'd hoped, the blonde succumbed. She glared at me, glazing over as the feeling hit her, eye-lids heavy when she uttered a mumbling, gravel-throated, "I warned you ... I'm gonna pee..."

What happened next was just like I'd experienced with my former lover. The blonde tensed, every muscle clenching, sinews strained, jaw tight as she stared at me with eyes like boiled eggs. She grunted and spat obscenities, then let out a bestial grunt when the orgasmic bliss hit her. She juddered and writhed and tensed up again, everything wired tight until a sob burst out of her in a huge liquid blurt that told me she was there, right on the edge.

"Oh my God!" she cried, eyes wide and fixed on my face. "Oh Fuck. Oh God. Oh you fucking...!"

The first gush erupted and she jack-knifed at the waist, the second vehement squirt splashing over my wrist when she collapsed back again. Then the spasms hit her, her thighs doing that nerveless dance, muscles twitching. More of the stuff squelched out, accompanied by a snuffling from the blonde, a snort of urgency that brought my attention to her face. I looked at her and saw features so twisted with effort it seemed she was giving birth.

"Come," I hissed at her. "Let it all out." I kept my fingers going, rubbing at her while she grunted and groaned and writhed. "That's it," I added, enthralled. "That's it. You just come, you gorgeous thing."

"Jesus," the woman gasped, awe struck and limp as I left her to the aftermath. She gulped and blinked, expression amazed while I stood and stripped out of my clothes. "What the fucking hell did you do to me?" she mumbled at me, the words clotted, all thick as if having to move past swollen lips.

I didn't answer, just cranked my cock with one fist, my eyes soaking up the detail of her physical appeal.

"That's a nice big cock," she said, sucking in air as she eyed the jib of my hard on. "I was hoping you'd have a big one." Then she moaned when I clambered onto the sofa, hauled her about bodily so her legs were hooked around my arms, her pussy tilted and vulnerable, the length of me sliding into her unopposed. It was just one easy glide until my balls nudged the crease of her arse.

***

It has to be said, that first coupling was nothing less than me plundering the girl. I went at her hard and fast and deep, her own delight evident in her squealing and mewling, her potty-mouthed exhortations to, "Fuck my pussy. Fucking smash me. Give me all of that lovely cock," pouring like a corruption from rosebud lips.

If she wanted smashing, I was more than happy to comply. I had no thought at all for the consequences of what we were doing. Her husband was nothing to me, using a condom didn't register -- not that I had any in the flat, and I certainly wasn't making the trip to Budgens. No matter that the shop was a minute's walk away.

I went at her with vigour, the blonde coming up to meet every robust downstroke. I pummelled and pounded, probing deep, squawks and yelps bursting out of her while she glared at me with eyes flashing with lust, pelvis thrusting, my hands around her torso beneath her surprisingly large breasts.

Later on she'd tell me her boobs were enhanced, a fact I marvelled over since they seemed so natural, so real. I like big tits on slim girls so, of course, I spent some time weighing her breasts with my palms, testing their texture with my fingertips, sucking the elongated points of her nipples and, at other times, fucking my cock between her boobs, the flesh slick with pre-cum, me going at her until spunk arced out of me and into her hair, splashes of my goo sliding over her cheek, a pool of it at her throat.

Inevitably, after a few minutes of such vigorous action, not to mention the pleasing aspect of seeing such a gorgeous young woman clearly enjoying herself, I felt the vortex of my orgasm surge through my core.

It hit me, hard, my climax bursting from me on a bellow and a final lunge. I actually felt my cock pulse, girth expanding and contracting like a snake swallowing a frog, semen flooding the blonde. She, in her turn, was groaning and mumbling on about me filling her with cum, about how good it felt to feel me pumping inside her and how she was coming ... again.

After that, when I withdrew and witnessed the lewd sight of cum dribbling out of her, the woman's labia slick and battered, I slumped down onto the settee while she smeared my outpouring over her sex, diddling her swollen clit with the tip of her middle finger. Then, without even telling me her name she leaned over to pluck the torn scrap of her underwear from the floor, wiped herself between the legs, dropped her ruined knickers into my lap, and then stood up.

A shimmy later and the skirt covered her modesty -- just. She plucked the gypsy blouse from where it had fallen and pulled it on and, with no attempt to tidy the tangle of her hair, waggled her fingers at me. "Ta-ra," she trilled, beaming a Cameron Diaz smile in my direction, her cheeks dimpling.

All I could do in response was gawp at her hip-swaying strut when she strode away like a stripper leaving the stage.

"I'll pop round again tomorrow, should I?" the blonde asked, pausing at the door to turn and fling the question at me, a glint in her eye. "See ya," she added when I didn't refuse.

***

Terri, as she introduced herself, returned the next day.

She knocked at my door, which I nearly didn't answer. I'd been thinking -- a lot.

"Yeah, hello, well--" I began, meaning to keep her in the hall. I didn't want her in my flat again.

All through the previous afternoon and evening, and during a very uncomfortable night as well, my mind gnawed at the problem of what I'd done. I cursed myself for being so weak as to allow it to happen. In the minutes following her departure, while I lay on the couch, spent, the fires of physical desire cooling, the embers smoking like a campfire at dawn, that was when the full impact of my actions hit me.

Like a train the awful realisation slammed into me: she was someone's wife, a married woman who had to be half my age. Nothing good could come of it -- and in that prescient assumption I'd prove to be correct.

The blonde was most definitely a dangerous flirt, a tease, although in her case she didn't just leave it with a bit of banter, or even just a kiss and a cuddle. No, this woman took it to the extreme. After all, hadn't she simply swanned into my flat and basically asked me to fuck her?

I spent the morning dreading her knock. I even considered making the short walk along the hall to her door but was put off because: a) I wasn't sure she would be alone; her husband might be home for some reason; and b) because I didn't have the guts for the confrontation on her doorstep. I had no idea of her temperament and didn't fancy her shouting and yelling and attracting all kinds of unwanted neighbourly attention. Despite it being a workday midweek, someone was bound to be home to witness any drama. And that kind of shit was very likely to stink so foul her husband would get a sniff.

During the hours between me finally capitulating and crawling out of my tousled bed and her knock at the door, the ruin of the sheets testimony to a very disturbed night, I slurped black coffee and prevaricated between outright rejection or merely fleeing my home. Looking for another place to live was actually the more attractive notion at some points of the morning. It all depended on where my imagination took me while I considered the moment of confrontation.

So, there it was, decision made when the woman eventually rapped at the front door. I'd decided it was over before it really started. There would be no repeat. The affair, brief as it was, was finished. Done. It had been extremely pleasant, absolutely fantastic in fact, but couldn't be allowed to continue.

However, when I opened the door and went to utter my prepared speech she was quickly past me again.

"Shit," I muttered, frustrated, but then it occurred to me that perhaps it might be better to have her inside my flat. If she started to rant and rave I had more of a chance to calm her down before -- gently and very kindly -- aiming her down the hall.

Ah, such a simple plan.

I followed her into the living room, the scene of the crime, DNA spattered all over the sofa cushions.

I started in again with, "Okay, look, it's like this--" Then I crumbled when the blonde lifted her skirt -- another of the very brief variety; this one in black.

"I've been thinking about what we did yesterday," she breathed, flaunting her depilated pudendum at me, showing off dark hold-up stockings. "I was just wonderin' if you'd do that fingerin' on me pussy again." Her eyes rolled with apparent pleasure at the memory before she fixed me with a look of twinkle-eyed mischief, her little finger actually held at the corner of her mouth, so falsely coy but an action that suited her. "I fuckin' loved it. It was so nice comin' like that. I came so hard. I had no idea I could..."

Her neck flushed pink and she blinked, her intense gaze slipping away from my face.

"...Well," she added, shrugging, "I didn't imagine I could squirt cum like that." Her full attention came back up to me. "I wanna do it again."

I glanced down and gulped when I saw labia peeping in that delicate place between her legs. I took a few seconds to gape at her before I forced my eyes north to where I was confronted by her pulling a white tee-shirt over her head. I could have cried with the joy of seeing her lovely tits because, of course, she was naked beneath the tee-shirt.

"Come on," she urged, sweeping an arm at the sofa. "Lick my pussy. Finger it. Make me squirt cum again." Her eyes flashed with devilment when she smirked at me, those Diaz dimples in her cheeks. "I'll suck your big cock," the woman added, "and you can smash my tight little pussy some more."

I liked the way she kept on saying I had a big cock, a trick that worked on my ego.

No words came from me as she gave that shimmy and the skirt fell to her shoes. The blonde stepped out of it lithe and graceful as a dancer and then turned to show off the delights of her derriere, taunting me with the feminine sweep of her body when she pranced to the settee.

"I've been fingering myself all mornin'," she muttered, eyes glazed, legs wide, cunt scarlet and glistening. "Come and lick me..."

***

It went on for another couple of months, the balmy Indian summer cooling to autumnal wet overnight. As winter approached, the inevitability of Christmas trumpeted in television adverts as early as November, some days, most days -- except weekends for fairly obvious reasons -- Terri would knock at my door. I was addicted, she was in my blood, narcotic, insidious as a virus.

I hated and craved her simultaneously.

Every morning I vowed abstinence. Or to be more precise, during the dark hours I lay awake I'd turn her over in my mind and swear I wouldn't do it again. I would tumble from my tormented bed, shower and sip coffee certain in the knowledge that the day had dawned when I would resist the blonde's advances. Determination was in my head and my heart: I would not succumb.

I would stand fast.

I would be resolute.

But who was I kidding? Even as I muttered about "today being the day" part of me knew that when the knock came the excitement would course through me, blood thrumming. My cock would stiffen in Pavlovian response. I would literally jog to the door, eager for my fix. I couldn't resist her chirpy, cheeky charm. All she had to do was throw that impish smirk at me and dimple those cheeks, flaunt her breasts or flash her succulent pussy and I would drop to my knees and slurp at her.

She loved it when I fingered her to a noisy, squirting climax. With the season of goodwill weeks away we'd moved from the sofa to the bed, with me even buying a special underlay to protect the mattress from long-term damage. I learned to keep a towel handy for Terri to use between her legs. She would be so wet afterwards that when she begged me to fuck into her it was impossible to find any friction at all.

As well as all that, the blonde seemed to adore semen. She was fascinated by the way the stuff flicked out of my cock. Terri would use her hand to tug at me, goading me on to orgasm in her usual lewdly vocal manner, eyes fixed on the eye of my cock.

It didn't matter to her if she got plastered in spunk. She could tug me until my dick squirted jizm, aiming the gush at her breasts or tummy, even sometimes gurgling at me to splash her face with the "hot stuff" -- to use her eloquent turn of phrase.

And she didn't seem to mind me filling her pussy either.

One night she surprised me by turning up, her husband at home just down the hall watching football on television. It was a frantic and extremely urgent coupling, me thrusting at Terri from behind, my hands on her hipbones, her buttocks thwack-thwack-smacking against my thighs as we fucked.

Terri braced herself against the wall, resting on her forearms as she angled her pelvis to take me as deep as she needed me to be.