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.