I Say Ass, You Say Arse: Brighton

Tags: anal sex, rimming, anal cleaning, friends with benefits, science, enema, British, pretend prostitution, role-play, Pink Orchid 2022

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This is the third story in the I Say Ass sequence: tales of scientists and transatlantic anal sex. It's what science calls 'international collaboration'.

For readers from the Pink Orchid list, I'd recommend going to the first story (I Say Ass, You Say Arse), which probably fits the brief better and introduces the characters in more detail.

If you've come via the Anal category, then I hope this story will interest you whether you've read previous episodes with Emily and Bradley, or not. This one has less science and more filth!

Rachel previously starred in my story 'Gas Station Guy', another story fitting the Pink Orchid brief.

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I Say Ass: You Say Arse: Brighton

A text message: 'Can you make it over here, to come to the ICI conference?'

Bradley cursed, viciously. In his desperate rush to complete his PhD thesis, he'd missed the deadline to apply to the Cell Interactions conference in England.

No results submitted to the conference organizers: no chance of his travel being funded by his university. Not that he had much funding left anyway -- he'd looked at hotel costs and already decided it probably wasn't feasible to make the trip across the Atlantic.

'I didn't send anything in, I'm afraid.'

He got another succinct message from his English friend Emily. 'Apply anyway. They won't have organised all the abstracts for printing yet. Here's the email.'

'You think?' Bradley edited his doctorate abstract down to the required 150 words, as he awaited her answer.

'Trust me. I know some of the organisers. Richie's on the panel, for example. It would be lovely to see you again.'

In Emily-speak, that was code for "I want you to come back to England so you can fuck me again, as well as spend five days talking about science and meeting everyone we ought to know. And my fuck-buddy Rich will help get you here, because he's weird but likes making me happy."

'OK, I've sent them the email.' 'Oh, auto-reply... Says it will be considered, but may not make it into the printed catalog if there's not space.'

'That'll do. Everyone reads the up-to-date one online now, anyway. Book your flight.'

Bradley did like how she got bossy, sometimes. He checked his funds. $200 remaining of his travel grant was not going to get him across the Atlantic, let alone from the airport to Brighton, nor cover anywhere to stay.

He phoned her the next morning, which was mid-afternoon for her. "I don't see how I can do it. The flight alone would be pushing it. And Brighton hotels cost a fortune!"

"Oh, don't be so defeatist!" Emily spoke crossly, not giving up a visit from her friend-with-benefits so readily. "For starters, you can stay in my room. I'll probably end up in Richie's room one or two nights, if you want, ahem, privacy. He's got a suite, the jammy sod."

"Really? Huh. That might work. Thank you so much!"

"The British Airways sale is about to start. Get yourself a cheap ticket to Gatwick, then it's only half an hour by train to Brighton. Then, you know how to spot other people to share a taxi -- though actually it's only a short walk down to the sea and the Grand..."

The idea of staying in the actual conference hotel, the famous Regency-era Grand Hotel on the seafront, with his beautiful sexy friend who kept encouraging him to fuck her up the ass whenever they were on the same continent, was not something Brad was going to let slip by him.

But three days later he had to force down his embarrassment and phone Emily again, to break it to her. "I'm too broke! The flights are $400, I'll need a couple more hundreds for train and food and all..."

"Brad, Brad, Bradley! Shut up. Let me cover this! You get the plane ticket before the prices go up, I can send you some money for your credit card bill. We'll all look after you. Verity and Dev and Marion all say hi."

"You'd give me a place to stay and pay for me while I'm there? I mean, thank you, but really?"

He felt guilty.

"Assuming things go like previous times I've met you, I'll be thanking you soon enough! So." He could hear the smile on his tall elegant friend. "Are you happy to be a kept man for a few days?"

"Seriously? You want to cover me, so I can stay with you?"

"Sure! Paying for a good-looking sexy guy to come to my hotel room? Sounds like a good use of my salary to me." She laughed. "It could be misinterpreted, couldn't it? What do you call a guy who's paid to come to your bedroom and you shag them?"

"Your gigolo?"

"My sweet American rent-boy? You could pass as a blond jock, right? You've got those stocky shoulders, that all-American clean cut look! But secretly, Bradley the scientist, is in fact, Brad the hooker..."

"Hey, I could play that. Role-play." He made his voice go deep, husky and slow. "What can I do for you, ma'am?"

He heard Emily inhale. "You know what I need. How to make me satisfied..."

Brad tried to sound subservient to an older female client. "I aim to please, ma'am. Work to satisfy your desires? Oral sex and anal satisfaction are all included as part of my service."

She was actually one year younger than him, albeit a few years older in career terms thanks to the shorter English degree programs, but with her stable income he could pretend the earnings gap was significant.

It was an undeniable fact that Emily loved being fucked in the ass. It was also a confirmed fact that Bradley loved doing it.

"Good, good. Just what I ordered! Would it be good or bad if I told you, you make a really cute whore? You sound so convincing, swearing you'll enjoy fucking me up the arse when I pay you."

Bradley gasped, surprised. He'd never thought in such terms about himself. He was a regular guy. Respectable. Even went to church, sometimes. Not a guy who put out for money.

But the way Emily said dirty words in her sexy English accent -- it always made him want to do anything she wanted. Even though it was always stuff he actually wanted to, anyway.

Like fucking her adorable rounded ass.

"I... I'll be your whore."

She got his hesitation. "Only in the bedroom, sweetie! Proper professional by day, filthy whore by night, you and me both, sweetheart. Though maybe I'll have to whisper some filthy ideas into your ear, in the bar, as I give you money to go buy us both drinks..."

Bradley laughed in relief. "You know, I think I can cope with that. Okay, now I have a patron, I'll go back to searching for cheap flights. Wish me luck."

"Having a patron is just a nicer way of saying you do sex for money, isn't it? Whatever. Off you go, cute boy. Let me know when you've booked it."

Bradley tapped away, cursing airlines' habits of disguising 10-hour layovers as 'direct' flights, feeling a mixture of guilt and arousal at being beholden to Emily.

Finally he confirmed a red-eye flight from Newark, arriving at 7.30 am, which he hoped would be okay for the conference starting at lunchtime.

"Well done, darling." The strange endearment reminded him of their agreement. Over the phone, not recorded in any email, they'd agreed a 'contract', mainly for their own amusement. At least two trysts of at least 90 minutes, at least once fucking that great ass, and at least once bringing her off with his mouth. In exchange, Emily would ensure his transfers and food and half his flight were covered -- her old lab had chipped in a few pounds each -- and of course, he'd have a bed for the night...

It wasn't like he was going to suffer in the least -- it was just a shame he couldn't double or treble the money by getting her to sign up for more!

In reality, she and he might well both be up for more 'services', but even Emily's post-doc salary wouldn't run to reimbursing him for what he'd happily provide for free!

Six weeks later, Brad rode the bus to Newark airport, took a cheap European airline to London -- no meals offered and little in-flight entertainment, but he'd gone straight to sleep anyhow -- collected his check-in bag, balanced his carry-on upon it, and, poster canister slung over his shoulder, blearily navigated himself into Gatwick Airport railway station. Emily had sent him a code, which apparently with waving any credit card would give him a paid ticket for the train.

An official seemed delighted that Bradley both spoke English and had a ticket to collect. He was steered to the correct platform, where he spotted a dozen more scientists. There was always something recognisable about groups of them, even without their tubes carrying their precious presentation posters and these ones' conversation about constituents of the extracellular matrix to give it away. Hovering near and joining in, he happily accepted some British cash, in exchange for his performing the purchase of coffees and pastries from the platform kiosk.

"Where are you staying?" asked an Italian woman, who had been most relieved the coffee was drinkable.

"Me? The conference hotel," Bradley answered.

"The Grand?" An older man suddenly became much more interested in Bradley's work.

Brad had mentioned he was about to start a post-doc position in Canada, but not that it was his first one. If this guy was impressed -- the hotel was prioritised for speakers, but he didn't need to know that Brad hadn't qualified for the room on his own merits -- Brad wasn't going to disillusion him! Besides, Bradley thought defensively, he had done some good work recently. It might even be published in Cell.

A younger Australian couple interrupted, asking if Brad knew about particular reagents which could highlight a certain molecule in certain situations. He knew enough to make some suggestions, and listened as they explained their work.

"D'you know anyone working on those receptors, who might be here?"

"I'm not sure who's going to be here -- I only sorted out coming at all, kinda last minute. Oh -- Richard Pardoe, of course -- he's speaking. Talk to him."

"Pardoe? Isn't he that arrogant twat who recently went to the LMB, who thinks everyone else is an idiot?"

Bradley chucked. "His bark is worse than his bite! Really. Half the time he doesn't actually mean to be be rude. The rest of the time, he respects anyone who argues with him. He just isn't good at small talk. Any talk, actually, unless it's purely blunt facts. Don't take it personally. Tell him I said to ask him, if you like."

The group all looked impressed. Which was nice. Bradley was reminded that science really was about who you knew...

He wasn't, however, going to tell anyone how he'd met Richie: the man had wandered in while Brad was in the middle of fucking Emily, who had become Richie's sort-of girlfriend. Richie had accepted this with the same impassive face as he did everything else, followed by teaching Brad what Emily really liked from oral sex.

"Richie likes to be helpful when he can," Bradley explained truthfully. "He edited my PhD thesis, for example."

More eyebrows raised in awe; something Bradley could get used to. He exchanged terse emails with Richie every couple of weeks, mainly about Bradley's work, but more recently, checking to ensure Brad could have another rendezvous with Emily, this time without Richie moseying in. The previous time had turned out well, but Bradley swore the shock had had a long-term effect on his blood pressure!

The last email had read, 'I'm not her keeper. Enjoy Em in your room. How did that 3H15 antibody work? R.'

Succinct and to the point, as ever. The guy might be tactless and frequently offhand, but he had zero jealousy or possessiveness. Even if he had thought of Emily as a possession, he'd likely be generous with her! She'd be the jewel in any harem...

The train reached Brighton station, a Victorian wrought-iron shed where white-painted curlicues juxtaposed with a shiny modern terminus interior, all nestled into the side of a cliff. Outside, a very long line of scientists and tourists queued for lurid turquoise-and-cream taxis.

Bradley realised only four passengers would fit in each car. In any case, it was a beautiful sunny March morning. A stroll might alleviate his jet-lag.

Emily had said to walk straight down the hill to the sea. It was obvious which road that was, the glinting sky reflecting glimmers of reflections from the water even at this distance. He pulled his case along the sidewalk -- pavement, they called sidewalks, confusingly -- past small cafés and sandwich shops, stores selling hippy clothing reeking of patchouli, rental agencies, and oddly, multiple shops specialising in stamps and coins.

Soon the small businesses gave way to larger ones selling the kinds of beach crap he was familiar with, and then larger white-plaster buildings yielded to High Street chain stores as he reached the ornate Clock Tower standing proud in the center of a crossroads.

Fast-food joints proliferated, adding grease and vinegar to the sea air. Cawing seagulls swarmed as he approached the seafront, the Palace Pier and Sea Life centre to his left, and to the right, many restaurants and hotels. A dozen brown stumps stuck out of the sea in that direction. Bradley recalled Emily's instruction: if you get to the ruins of the West Pier, you've gone too far.

The facade of the Victorian building was impressive. Eight floors, six of which had beautiful balconies with ornate railings, belonging to the suites. Emily had warned him they wouldn't have a sea view from their standard room, but on the other hand, it should be quieter.

Bradley checked in, and was assured his 'companion' had claimed her key already.

"Could you call up and tell her -- he lowered his voice, so no-one would hear his embarrassing lack of doctoral title -- Mr Owens is on his way? Thank you." He fretted over whether he should tip someone, realised that all the uniformed doormen and porters were assisting elderly guests, recalled Emily and friends assuring him you only tipped waitstaff and non-racist taxi drivers, and hauled his wheelie case over impractical deep plush carpet to the discreet brass elevators. A plaque mentioned that when installed,they had been the first UK lifts outside London, known back then as 'vertical omnibuses!'

On the fifth floor, Bradley took a deep breath. He was looking forward to seeing Emily, whether she was playing the sensible scientist or the sex siren. But meeting again after six months, knowing they were going to have sex, always triggered his nerves.

Anticipation, he reminded himself.

Besides, he was pretending to be that confident sexy dude Emily had ordered, right?

He put his key back in his pocket and rapped on the door.

Emily answered, in a silky blue bathrobe that complemented both her skin and the luxurious decor. Her wavy honey-coloured hair spilled over her shoulder, not restrained in the demure braid she usually wore during the day. Bradley couldn't wait to get his hands on her.

"Ah, Mr Owens! Thank you for coming. Come in!"

She leered at him, then collected herself. In her normal voice, she asked, "How are you doing? Exhausted from the trip?"

He shrugged. "Running on caffeine. I could use a nap." Though given Emily right in front of him, not wearing much, he added, "But I don't need that nap immediately. If you were wanting...?"

"Brad -- Mr Owens -- I'm wanting, all right!"

She let the robe slide to the floor, just like in a porno. Underneath, she really was naked.

"I was about to have a shower, but it would be efficient to get more dirty and sticky first, wouldn't it?"

She grinned at him. Her dialogue was just like a porn movie, too. "Come on. Remember what you're here for."

Bradley recalled the people he needed to meet, then blocked them out of his mind. No. His priority wasn't the science. He was here to fuck Emily!

"I washed before breakfast," she told him, sweetly, turning so her ass faced him.

God, he'd missed that ass since last having it, six months earlier in a stifling room in Vegas. He grabbed both those cute curved buns, pulled them apart and pushed his face in between them, with glee.

"Mmm," she purred as he got his face in there. Not as sweet as her pussy. But wet, and salty, more so than he remembered. The wonderful musky scent of aroused woman, not to mention how she breathed when his tongue touched her responsive little ring, hiding in the shadow of her ass.

She stretched to reach under the pillow, passed him a rubber. "Go on. Gently." Her ass was already sticky, seemingly wet and lubricated enough, though he added another handful from the lube pump, to keep a good tradition alive.

At last, he eased his cock into her. She was always amazing to squeeze into -- welcoming, unlike most girls -- but Emily seemed even more sensitive than usual. Not squeezing him quite as tight.

It dawned on him. "You've been fucked already, this morning, haven't you?"

"May-be..."

"So desperate, you needed another guy to take you up the ass..." He already knew Emily liked anal twice in a row, after all.

"Yeah," she panted, her gasps of happiness interspersed with odd whimpers of pain where it was too intense.

"Yeah. Slutty ass girl! I'm not going to ask who..."

"Richie. I only got my room for tonight onwards... oh, mmm, like that...please, don't stop..."

Brad kept going like that as long as he could, until he felt he could legitimately collapse.

"Man! I deserve my rest now!"

"Sure. I'll leave you, after my shower, wake you for lunch. That's in a bit over two hours."

"Thanks." Something occurred to him. "Do you think I can take the piss out of Rich now, for not being enough for you?"

She chuckled. "You could try it. But he'd claim it's not his failing, just that I'm insatiable. He'd be right, too!"

"Good point. I'd best not get into one-upmanship with him."

"I really wouldn't." Emily grinned, cheekily. "Or he might figure out that you actually enjoyed felching, and recommend you try it direct from the source. No force, no blackmail, you understand, just 'suggesting' it, with that deadpan face of his, in the middle of a crowded bar, you know what the bastard's like..."

"F...?"

A faint bell rang in his memory. His friend in ninth grade had discovered the Urban Dictionary back when it was new, and they'd spent an educational afternoon learning new words via his parents' dial-up internet. Which meant that unexpected taste of Emily's sweet asshole... was cum??

"Jesus H. fucking Christ!"

"Eh, it's mostly lube, I'm sure. Come on, man, don't fret! You can't turn gay by anything you do with a woman!"

"I'm not that hung up!" He tried to tell himself that, anyhow, but it now wasn't just the jet-lag that had him feeling a bit queasy.

"Nah. Chill out, love! Have some water, poppet. I forgot... Um, yeah, sorry about that..." She tried to change the subject, feeling they'd both appreciate the distraction. "You may have gathered, Richie will do anything once, or for a dare, but he isn't actually interested in men. Well, not enough to bother ever doing anything about it."

"If you say so. I bet he keeps offering to suck me off, though."

Emily shrugged. "He told me once -- quoting someone else -- but that lying back and enjoying a blow job, not caring if it's a man or woman, that isn't gay, it's just common sense."

Brad couldn't dispute the logic. "Rather him than me."

"Oh? You don't want to lie back and have me finish you off again before your nap?"

"I think I'm too tired. Just kiss me, so I have a much nicer taste in my mouth to think of?"

She obliged. Emily wasn't going as far as having her whore not doing kissing. Role-play was meant to be fun, not realistic, right?