Bridge with the Stauntons

I lay my cards face down on the table.

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

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

DAMN THE MAN!

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

I hold the tumblers in the cupboard up above.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nrgaaaaagh...!

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

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

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

'Ngggraaaap!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Yes please, dear,' says his wife.

'No thank you, Alan,' says Brian.

"Alan?" I wonder at that.

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

'Er, three please,' says Staunton.

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

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

So I cut the cards.

To her husband.

The End

*

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