Chaperoning Matthew

Note: this story contains British English, bisexual behaviour, and lots of booze. If any of those offend you, other authors are available.

*****

Matthew's voice on the phone pleaded, "I really, really, need a favour."

"What is it?"

"Make sure I don't fuck Steve."

I thought for a moment, an achievement in itself at 8 am, and recalled the relevant context.

I'd gone out with Matthew for over a year while at university. He was very tall, lean to the point of skinny, curly black hair and small wire glasses; quiet, with an amazing sneaky smile that lit up his whole face. His smiles were rare but worth the wait. When he grinned at me, it was clear I was exactly what he wanted to be seeing.

I'd been your typical nineteen-year-old: white female student version, with long, straight, brown hair. Average-looking. Mistaken daily for someone else. Or, as Matthew put it, lovely face, gorgeous arse, and a whole body of curves including absolutely lush, fantastic, wonderful, beautiful tits. Which was also true. I was far from overweight, but my breasts were larger than you'd expect from the rest of me. They were nice breasts I supposed, but they did bulge out of clothes that fit elsewhere, buttons straining across my chest if I didn't just put a baggy top over them, making me feel too fat. I'd confessed this once to him after a drunken evening - we were undergrads; almost every evening was a feat of intoxication visiting American exchanges would boggle at - and he'd snorted at me.

"Karina, love. You've got curves. You've got fabulous tits. I love 'em, and so do half of Chemistry One, when you wear something that let's them see. Just because you're a skint student and can't afford more flattering clothes doesn't make you bad-looking. Cos you ain't, petal. Blame the cheapskate clothes designers that can't cope with variation in size. It's not you, love!"

This was possibly the longest speech I extracted from him during our whole relationship.

He continued, "Let's face it, if you were skinny like me," - he gestured self-deprecatingly up and down - "and we got it together, sex would hurt!"

"Huh?"

"Imagine all the bones! Crunch, clunk. Be like elbows, everywhere. See? It'd hurt, in a bad way."

He had me there. Basically, the sex between us had started good, and with much practice and youthful energy had become fucking brilliant. Especially after that time when he'd proved that my being a stone heavier than him didn't prevent him giving me a fireman's lift up the stairs.

I'd screamed blue murder, much to the entertainment of the other students in my hall, but he had carted me up three flights without injury, my hair falling loose and trailing along the cork floor tiles, a perfect damsel in distress if damsels had ever worn jeans, before he'd flung my helpless body - I'd kept rigidly still, desperate not to over balance him - down proudly on his bed. That incident had led to discovery of a whole wide new range of scenarios that turned me on, after the determined ravishment had proved more successful than we'd imagined.

Even before engaging parts of my brain that previous sex had never reached, the act of sex itself had been most satisfactory. I'd been concerned about that at first - his cock was long and thin, matching the rest of him. Very comfortable to suck for ages, admittedly. A perfect size for fitting between my jaws and slurping and sucking for an hour or two - or speeding things up, depending on what we were in the mood for. And had time for. A ten-minute break between lectures reduced to five minutes of actual privacy in the theatre before more students came in and might come down our row, for example. Despite the temptation, we were very good at paying attention in lectures. Except for that particularly boring Phys week where half the students had vanished by half an hour in... Anyway, I built up a good repertoire of cock-sucking skills practiced on that cock! I needn't have feared it not being enough to satisfy - from the first time, he effectively ensured my pleasure, getting me practically shaking from everything he did with his mouth first, before sliding in frustratingly slowly, then supplementing his cock with a couple fingers.

A thick dick is great in its place, don't get me wrong, but any guy who thinks about giving pleasure to his partner, that's a jewel beyond price. And maybe it turns out I have a thing for knuckles pressing into my cunt... As well as for being swept up and romantically ravished. There was another bonus activity where a slimline cock scored, sliding into my other hole in a most satisfying way... And many other things we experimented with, not all successfully - don't mention the yoghurt and the cleaning after - but I digress.

We broke up after fifteen months, but stayed close friends, almost forced to by sharing lectures and seminars and our mutual friends. Despite the sex being great and imaginative, his being a strong silent type, combined with my own issues, forced us to conclude we didn't work as a couple. He couldn't explain when anything was bothering him; I wasn't nice enough - I needed someone who would talk back at me, not shrink back, going more taciturn when sad or offended. We had ourselves a special splitting-up meal, with many hugs and a few tears and an excellent last shag that had nearly defeated our resolve to part. I'd still end up in his room after nights drinking, though, and we'd chat long into the night.

One night, when he'd drunk enough to actually be on speaking terms with his emotions, I was the first person he ever told he was bisexual - somewhat unfortunately, I'd been similarly plastered at the time, and merely replied, "No shit, Sherlock!"

Well, if you're going to lend your girlfriend your paperbacks of sexual fantasies when she's staying at your parents, her in your single bed, you on the couch, then it becomes fairly obvious where the books fall open, and even more so if there's yellowing spatter marks on the pages. Clearly he'd never noticed my turning down corners on many of the same pages, the unobservant twit.

Actually, what he'd technically confessed that night was, "I've always wanted to be fucked up the arse," and I suspect my follow-up question was in fact helpful to him, as I'd asked, for clarification you understand, not only prurient interest, "So, do you want to be fucked up the arse by a man, or do you just want to be fucked up the arse?" He'd said nothing - exasperating git! - but looked very thoughtful.

Over the next few months I extracted from him the data that yes, a man was certainly the first option to be considered, and that there was a reason he'd been able to teach me so much about sucking cock. I had wondered, but now could legitimately picture Matthew on his knees, some hot guy's prick in his hand, bringing it to his lips...

The next summer, I enticed Matt to come attend a bisexual convention with me. We stayed off-site to save money; a dire B&B, with nylon sheets and many mystery stains, but we dropped our bags anyway. As it turned out, I didn't come back for two nights until it was time to check out - I'd got better offers elsewhere. But that's another story. It was only then I found out that Matthew hadn't been back at all either since checking in, much to the huge confusion of the landlord. Matt never told me the details of what - or who - he'd been up to, but had a huge smile. I was very happy for him, but I wanted the gory details! Ideally, actually, I'd have been there. Pretty boys are an interest of mine...

Shortly after that, he told me that his old school friend Steve, whom I'd met, was gay, and they'd got together. It had been implied previously there'd been the odd sixth-form helping-hand experience, so this was little surprise to me. I really wished I could be a fly on the wall, watching. Steve was one of those guys you look at and think they should be a front man for a band - gorgeous, yes, but knowing how to move with it, oozing charisma, every pose showing off their body, making anyone under their gaze ooze a bit themselves... They'd looked lovely even when I'd seen them just standing together, Matt so tall, six-four, Steve six inches shorter, average height, slim, with smooth straight blond hair, almost feminine in length, contrasting with Matthew's close-cropped black curls, coquettishly looking up at Matthew and running a finger over his lips. They'd be stunning together naked, and unbelievably hot fucking. If only video cameras had been portable and cheap in those days, I'd have promised almost anything for a film of them together.

It didn't last more than six months - 'drama queen' was all Matthew would say, taciturn as ever but clearly gutted - but after some time, Matt got together with a friend of a friend, a pleasant lass called Kathy. Nine months later, Matt told me they'd got engaged. I was delighted for him.

It was a couple weeks after that, when Matthew had phoned and asked if I could do him a huge favour. And what it was.

"You what?" I responded gormlessly, and not just confused by the early hour in the morning.

"I need you to come have dinner with me and Steve, and make sure I don't shag him."

I got him to explain.

It had turned out that Steve was under pressure from family to find a nice girl to settle down with. They'd often threatened to beat up queers, in that lovely insular medium-size town tradition, so he'd understandably never come out to them. It was pretty damn obvious, though. He also wanted to live in America for a while, which would require a visa.

His solution: to use this newfangled Internet thing to find someone who wanted to marry an English man, also for visa reasons. Back then, a marriage between people from first-world countries was all that was required. So Steve had acquired himself one of the first e-mail-order brides, a lesbian called Gail, from Seattle.

Or, depending on your point of view, she'd acquired him.

Apparently, it had been an enormous - if not unpleasant - shock to both of them to find they actually somewhat fancied each other. So their planned token consummation of the marriage, 'in case the Home Office ask questions', had turned into an enthusiastic honeymoon and beyond. As you do.

I laughed. It was the sort of unbelievable, over-the-top story that would happen to Steve.

Back to the present: Steve's work had brought him to London for a week, with Gail in tow. They were having dinner with Steve's boss, who was now a close friend, plus some of the rest of the company, and Steve wanted Matthew along, ostensibly because they might be interested in offering Matt a job, but mostly because Steve hadn't seen Matt in months, wanted to introduce Gail to him, and it was going to be a grand evening out on Steve's firm's most generous expenses.

Which meant lots to drink. And lots to drink, plus Steve trying it on, plus a five-star hotel room to go back to, equalled an amount of temptation Matthew wasn't sure he could withstand.

"But his wife will be there...?" I asked, confused.

"Yes. His wife, who married him, knowing he was gay. Or whatever you want to call it... And who knows he went out with me. And is sad never to have had the chance to 'see us together'."

"She's not the only one, pretty boy! But got it. So, why don't you ask Kathy along? She's your fiancée..."

Matthew sighed. "She doesn't want to see him. Basically he's an ex of mine; she doesn't want to know. Being so obviously queer and that tendency to wear swishy skirts and make-up probably doesn't help."

Personally, I found Steve's confident androgyny attractive, rather like a young blond David Bowie. "And, she doesn't want to go out anywhere for a couple weeks, until her thesis is done, anyway." I figured that was probably the clincher. "So if I go, it's alone, or with you. It's free dinner - three courses at least, a good place, and unlimited booze, what's not to like, eh?"

He knew my weakness for restaurants way above what I could sensibly afford - especially given my disposable income, like his, wasn't much more than when I'd been a broke student.

"OK. I'll come, soon as I finish work."

"And you'll make sure I don't do anything stupid like get Steve to fuck me? Promise? Or even just let him snog me?" It was almost a wail; I'd never heard Matthew's voice so worried.

I sighed. "I'm only human! You're a big boy - you could pick me up and toss me aside if you wanted, you know." He knew. "I couldn't stop you, but I can remind you you didn't want to, and to think of Kathy. That's all I can promise. OK?" And I couldn't be there for 5.30 - I'd aim for 6 and that would be lucky.

So about half an hour after the others, I arrived in a private dining room upstairs above an upmarket Belgravia Italian. I was greeted by Matthew with a huge hug. He'd had a few, and was the witty fascinating chap I'd loved. And still as good-looking, long limbs in tight jeans and well-fitting shirt.

Steve was the beautiful charming gobshite as I'd remembered, and the mascara and long flowing suit - technically trousers, but not at all masculine - suited him. I've always appreciated queering gender and could see why Matthew was worried about temptation. Steve's colleagues clearly didn't give a toss - one good thing about techies is they are pretty unobservant about anything lacking microchips, and care less. I recalled being tempted to come to work naked or in a bikini when I'd worked for an IT firm, just to see if anyone noticed. Though these black-clad techies were a nice bunch who could and did chat about all sorts of stuff, with more scurrilous anecdotes as the meal went on.

Steve stood up to introduce me to Gail. I admit I'd been vaguely expecting a butch lesbian, possibly plump and plain, what with her being not only American but also trying out Internet dating years before most people had heard of it. I shouldn't have had preconceptions.

The woman next to him had long dark hair, thick and wavy, held off her face with a couple slides. A round face and full red lips complemented her curves. She wore eclectic expensive clothes with style, a silk jacket I longed to touch, over a stretch ribbed top that flowed over her generous breasts. In short, she was amazingly gorgeous, and that mouth pouting at me was pure sex.

She stood and smiled, looking me up and down with sultry eyes, clearly liking what she saw, and I grinned back at her, likewise. Wow. I had not expected that - her beauty nor the way she was gazing at me lustfully. I felt mentally undressed already.

"Siddown, hon! Here, we got appetizers for everybody - try some of these." The roasted peppers with ham were delicious, as was the bread and olive oil, and I was handed a large glass of the wine. A fine red, though I couldn't have identified it with any more accuracy.

A waiter swooped to bend down next to my ear, and suggested which main courses could be served at the same time as those ordered already. I assured him the shared platters would make an adequate starter for me. Starters appeared for most of the men, while I caught up with Matt and Steve and got to know Gail, as well as Steve's boss, Michael, sitting on my other side, who welcomed me warmly - I got the impression I'd been explained as a friend whom the firm might be interested in for the future for technical writing or some such - I'm no programmer. It didn't matter - work wasn't really a topic of discussion, while anecdotes and jokes and all sorts of other things were. At some point, around dessert, it became obvious Michael knew that Matthew was Steve's ex, and I must have blinked in surprise. This was the Nineties; employees could still be fired for being gay, and Michael had come across as a traditional Irish man in his sixties, so I'd expected social conservatism. Second reason that night not to jump to conclusions.

"Sure, nothing would surprise me about young Steven. But as I figure it, he's a nice young lad and good coders are hard to come by. I haven't yet persuaded the top brass to pay him what he's worth, so for sure I'm not complaining about what he looks like or who he's doin' in his spare time. Part of t'reason of this dinner is to keep him happy. Which it looks like your friend is doing. Steve!"

Steve looked up from across the table, startled. He'd been flirting all round - I think he'd been stroking Matthew's leg with his foot, getting me a few times.

"Mike?"

"I'm going to ask for double receipts, and I'm going to authorise yours. Get more wine in. And coffees and liqueurs, all right?"

After Michael had some subdued discussion with the waiter, I figured it out: two receipts would be provided for three-course meals, meaning both Michael and Steve could claim the cost on expenses, but the restaurant benefited as we could spend nearly twice as much as would have happened otherwise, and mostly on wine which had the highest mark-up for them. My ethics didn't rest easy, but Michael assured me it was between him and their company; reducing the bonuses or value of share options of people wealthy enough not to need it was hardly a bad thing, and this way the restaurant got more takings and the waitstaff - who did need it - would be receiving a larger tip.

"And you can't be stopping me anyway, love, so you try some of this Syrah and tell me whether you want a glass of that, or else another of the Muscat."

I obeyed. After a few glasses of quality red, and two of the dessert wines, my brain really wasn't up to arguing. Michael and some of the other men had cigars, a few had a whisky, and then Michael came to us to confirm the bill was settled, and Matthew, Steve, Gail and I should enjoy the rest of the bottles on the table at our leisure, or take them home. The rest of the room exited.

The four of us chatted, flirted and drank for another hour or so, getting to know each other but in a very civilised fashion, me and Matthew on one side of the long table, Gail and Steve across from us, and sadly we concluded we would never manage to drink everything. Steve, in particular, was getting especially uncoordinated.

Then the attentive waiter magically reappeared and offered to pack three nearly-full bottles for us, returning with a plastic bag in which the bottles had been efficiently wrapped in newspaper, avoiding any clinking nor being barred from anywhere where own booze might be unwelcome. We knocked back the rest of our glasses, added some shrapnel to Michael's generous tip, and staggered carefully down the stairs.

The cold night air startled me and Gail into being less drunk - more like just tipsy. Nearly. Matthew was always hard to read, but probably in a similar condition. Steve, however, was a merry, raucous drunk and very happy about it.

"Where do we go now, guys?" Gail asked. "I don't know downtown London."

It was around ten. I decided if someone wanted English experiences at that time of night, given we were off Oxford Street, Soho was the way to go. We went down unpublicised steps next to a huge clothes store into a small alleyway, and thus to Soho Square and Brewer Street. I was right that, unlike mainstream shopping areas, it was still bustling here; art shops and crowded pubs and gay cafes mixed with sex shops and red-lit staircases with cheap carpet.

Steve shouted out, "Look! A strip club! Let's go!"

A sandwich board with censored photos suggested what we might see inside.

"It's kinda expensive," I demurred at the £15 a head entry.

"I'm paying! Come on!"

Gail shrugged at me and took my hand. I'd never been to a strip club, but I do like naked women, and porn always puts in too much gynaecology and not enough whole-body lingering shots for my taste. A stage show should be good enough entertainment.

We followed Steve, who was being supported to remain upright by Matthew.

"Thirty quid," stated the gruff bouncer.