I Say Ass, You Say Arse: Brighton

"Thanks." He smiled as he sank into the pillows. "That was on the house."

Emily laughed. "Good! Would you like me to make you a coffee, before I go?" She gestured to the kettle, obligatory in all British hotel rooms.

"Instant?"

He shuddered, more for effect, but he certainly wasn't going to slum it that far by drinking the stuff. "No thanks. I'll wait until I can get a proper one downstairs."

"Sure?"

"Certain. I'd rather drink more cum from your ass!" Which was only a mild exaggeration. He decided the receptacle made all the difference in how he felt about accidental imbibing..."

"This is England. You don't get free refills! But there's money in the top drawer there -- grab a tenner or two so you can buy any drinks or lunch you need. Call it a tip..."

"A boy could get used to this." He watched her get dressed again, while he snuggled under the heavy bed-covers.

"So could a woman. In fact, my boy, I intend to! Night-night."

After the opening ceremony and lunch buffet, keynote speeches and various short talks and poster presentations, Bradley had sought out people he recognised, keeping himself upright with constant -- and freshly-espressed -- coffees. When the hotel bar became crowded, many of the non-elderly scientists sought out local pubs and stores selling booze. As usual, this turned into a party which took over the entire area outside.

By 9 pm, delegates had acquired take-out food and the party had extended onto the pebbled beach. The spring evening was unexpectedly warm. Some campfires helped. He guessed that was legal here.

Bradley tucked into pizza with Emily and Marion. Other delegates strolled up with fish-and-chips and sat down nearby

He recognised Richie, and the head of his future department at McGill, and another senior researcher who had lectured him once. He and Emily murmured hello, hoping to gain kudos from knowing Richie, but given Richie's general incompetence at schmoozing, didn't expect him to indicate that he knew them at all. Richie himself wasn't speaking to anyone, though intermittently grunted as if listening to the pair next to him, animatedly discussing their breakthroughs.

The senior and junior groups might be seated round the same fire, but no interaction happened until Rachel and Emma wandered over. The gorgeous statuesque Emma was always an opening for conversation, though sarcastic Rachel was always a bit defensive, presumably nervous of people's reactions to her having a girlfriend.

Richie silently poured a fifth salt packet over his chips, carefully weighing all the torn paper under a large chip before ripping open a vinegar sachet with his teeth and making the malt vinegar pool near his battered fish fillet.

"Want some chips with your salt, do you?" Emily observed.

Richie hadn't completely gone into a world of his own; he didn't look at her, only at his meal, but he held up a middle finger and rotated it meaningfully. People laughed, and continued eating.

Getting up to put his empty pizza box in a trash can, Bradley thought of something. Exactly the sort of thing Richie would say. And, sauce for the goose...

He bent down to Richie's ear, Richie's dangling earrings swaying in the sea breeze.

"Who? Oh, you're Brad, right. Hey."

Brad remembered Richie was terrible at recognising people. Em said it was one reason the guy had his various piercings -- at least if people recognised him easily, they had a chance to continue a conversation. He noticed Richie was still wearing his conference name badge, probably for the same reason. At least Cellular Interactions events didn't attract the nut-jobs which meant having to remove all ID for security reasons, upon leaving the building.

Bradley recalled one Neuroscience convention where his supervisor had hissed, 'That's Colin Blankney. Don't stand too close to him, in case he explodes!' Blankney had appeared in the media defending use of animals in research, and become the target of an assassination campaign.

Bradley himself had chosen to stick to cell cultures and slime moulds and worms. Animal rights types didn't care about worms. It was hard even for him to care about an organism with only 959 cells, precious few of them brain.

Bradley couldn't resist, watching Richie dip a salt-laden chip into vinegar and eat it. He hissed into the man's ear.

"No wonder your cum tastes so salty!"

Richie glanced up, confused. Almost immediately, though, he figured out precisely what Bradley's comment implied.

Bradley avoided eye contact as he stamped over the sliding pebbles to the waste bin. He disposed of his trash, then started to stumble back to the group. By the time he'd turned around, he was surprised to see Richie doubled over laughing, first refusing to give any explanation -- thank God for that -- then being passed drinks as he choked on a mouthful of breaded fish.

Richie glowered at Bradley as he calmed himself, but without any malice.

"What did you say to him, Brad?" Emily exclaimed.

"I've never seen Richie laugh like that!" Rachel said. "Never!"

The senior guys Richie had been speaking to looked inquisitive at Bradley. Oh, shit.

Finally able to speak, Richie said merely, "Doesn't matter. None of your business. Good man, Bradley." Bradley tried to look unsurprised at the compliment, as his guts unclenched in relief.

Richie continued, "Hey, Mike, was it McGill you said you worked at? Bradley's about to start a post-doc there, you should talk. Get advice from him."

Bradley was also relieved to see the confusion in this Mike's eyes, which was most people's usual response to any conversation with Richie. The suggestion that middle-aged Mike, a group leader, should take advice from a young junior postdoc in his twenties, was ridiculous. But Bradley knew an opening when he saw one, so he sat down next to Mike and spent the next hour picking the prof's brain, trying to make a good impression, before Bradley began working in a building with the guy.

Curiosity burned the older man, though. Eventually Mike asked. "How did you impress Richard Pardoe?"

There were several answers now, none of which Bradley was going to give.

Not freaking out when he walked in on me fucking his girlfriend up the ass?

Learning fast how to go down on said girlfriend?

Generally, helping keep his girlfriend's ass happy?

Not being too weirded out about tasting his cum in said girlfriend's ass this morning?

Bradley increasingly suspected 'not freaking' was the key to gaining Richie's respect. Making Emily and her asshole happy -- Bradley stifled a snort at the double meaning of 'asshole' there -- was a bonus.

But in answer to Mike, Bradley said lamely, "He read a few drafts of my thesis. It was really kind of him."

Mike attempted to add 'kind' to his mental box containing Richie, currently labelled 'that psycho genius asshole at the LMB who doesn't seem actually that psycho asshole by biologist standards', and nodded. "Cool. I look forward to having you on board." They ambled after the group, back to the warm hotel bar across the road. "Do you know Montreal? How's your French?"

Emily turned back and grinned at them. "Do I need to start speaking only in French to you, cheri?" After a year in Montpelier, on the French Mediterranean coast, she'd upped her school basics to being reasonably fluent.

"Don't worry," Mike assured him. "Montréal is bilingual -- no-one expects foreigners to know French." Bradley remembered that yes, despite being just over the border, he would be the foreign immigrant. "Even French people struggle with Quebeçois! Just, if you can use the basics and respond to simple questions, it makes a much better impression."

"And making friends with lab techs and everyone is crucial? I know. I... I know a few words?"

Emily shuffled closer to Bradley. "I'll teach you a bit." She smiled. "You wanted to catch up, didn't you? Let's go round the corner to where it's quiet. Apprends-toi bien! Listen up!"

"Merci," he mumbled. "Great to meet you, Mike." They shook hands, then Bradley scurried after Emily, hoping to apprend everything he could.

Once out of sight of the bar, Emily grinned, that wicked sexy face which meant she was no longer on duty as a respectable scientist. She held out a £20 note.

"You still happy to provide services in exchange for board and lodging? For you, then. Tu est content? Bien. Allons-y!"

He knew the last meant 'lets go!', and nodded, taking the money. "Mais oui. Enchanté," he added, remembering some cheesy movie.

"Ooh, a sophisticated rent-boy," she simpered. "No, I don't know how to say that in French! It's not a phrase I've ever needed, and no, I'm not asking my boss nor Gilbert!"

She giggled, then sighed. "Gilbert's a lovely man. Such a beautiful decoration for the lab -- six feet of slim fit body, practically real black skin, gravelly voice, mostly speaking his native French in his Cameroon accent. Phwoar! But so, so traditional Christian! He truly struggles with anyone who has sex outside marriage. If he knew about my life... it'd blow his top off."

"Speaking of blowing, and tops off..."

"You think you get a blow job when you're serving me? Oh, sure -- but my needs first, yeah?"

Given that Emily's needs always involved his cock inside her, or demanding he get his face in her sweet pussy, Bradley wasn't going to complain. Being treated like a purchase rather turned him on, he realised. It was a sort of approval: bought, no receipt required, no thought of a refund...

"Come along. I don't want to be ripped off, boy."

"I'll only rip your clothes off, ma'am. Your satisfaction is my top priority."

"I like you. I could get used to this! Come on, upstairs."

In the privacy of the mirrored elevator, Emily stroked Bradley's face possessively, then down his neck, and hugged him in a way that mere friends did not hug.

He trotted after her as she strode towards their room. She was still wearing her "serious scientist outfit", having been running a seminar that afternoon. One of her pantyhose legs was now laddered, from sitting on the stone beach.

Pantyhose? Or, perhaps, stockings? She'd complained incessantly in Vegas about the heat, sweat, how unpleasant it made 'tights', and how she really ought to buy stockings to let her pussy breathe... He'd suspected half of that was true, with the rest just to gauge his reaction.

He salivated at the thought of Emily and her lingerie under that respectable exterior.

It was the same grey skirt suit as she'd worn to speak at the last conference, snug pencil skirt stopping above the knee, a back slit hinting at what was hidden underneath, short bolero jacket flaring out to highlight the contrast of her slim waist versus her curvaceous butt...

He discovered, reaching up, that -- yes! -- she was wearing stockings with a lacy garter belt. Or to put it the other way, she had the top half of each thigh uncovered, leaving so much warm soft flesh to get his hands into, bounded by lace above and below.

"It's a shame to take these off. You know, ma'am, the kind of woman who likes it in the ass would look even better still wearing her skirt and stockings. I'll just remove this, what we don't need..."

Bradley pulled down her panties -- more black with lace, matching the belt beneath. Then he patted her chest, indicating her top and her bra.

"Lady, you slip off these clothes and slide your jacket back on." He reached behind her and groped those breasts firmly, her jacket unable to protect them from him. They were delightful handfuls, but even better was that touching them made Emily grind her ass into his groin, as she moaned.

Hell, yes...

She seemed amused by his plight: another obvious erection. "Tell me what you want so bad?" she asked.

"You want to know what I want?" He feigned shock. "Lady, I aim to please, but your hole, it's so tight..."

She realised he had a point. Or even if he didn't, some tension and anticipation would surely make their sex better.

"Mm. Maybe we should go to the bar first? Keep socialising for an hour or two, until I'm more... relaxed?"

Being exhausted from all the travel and meeting people, Bradley could do with what the Brits always called 'a nice sit-down'. "I completely agree. Let's go."

"One minute. I'll just put new knickers on."

"Nah, you don't need panties to sit in the bar. You're a nasty sexy lady... Come on!"

"You do realise this is a rather short skirt? And what people might see if I sit in one of those low sofas?"

"I sure do! I noticed the first time I saw you in it, back in Vegas. I think all the straight men did! I was wondering if you had..."

"Right. Joy... Well, I suppose I should follow the advice of my charming gigolo."

"Precisely. On that note, you'll need to give me another tip if you want me to buy you drinks." He grinned. "It's awkward getting up from those squashy low couches. Actual tip, though -- have you wiped up our lube, so you don't drip?"

She went pink. Bradley liked that. "I did, a bit. Though actually, I know how to avoid that..."

She bent over to rummage in her suitcase. Presumably the sight of the lower half of her ass, pussy exposed, and those pale thighs bisected by black suspenders, was unintentional.

Bradley gazed happily, hoping Emily's suitcase was an untidy mess.

"Got it."

She was holding up a butt plug, matt black, wavy in shape, T-bar at the bottom. Very safe and sensible, while kinky as hell. Which rather summed up Emily.

"Oh, my." It seemed intimidating to Bradley, though it wasn't really any bigger than his own dick. He supposed it was the thought of owning one that seemed so confident and unnerving. If Emily had that, what did she need him for?

If nothing else, she clearly wanted him as a mirror, to gaze into as she slicked up the plug by feel. Then she turned around and bent over, her skirt folded up by her waist. Her legs were parted, showing off her puffy pussy lips perfectly. When she crouched, and pulled her ass cheeks apart, Brad could see her beautiful swollen asshole perfectly. He swallowed.

Emily gave him a quick wink over her shoulder, then started to work the plug into her ass. Her asshole which had already been plundered twice that day, by two different guys, no less.

Bradley felt the sudden need to run through tomorrow's conference program in his mind. He had a large bulge in his pants.

Embarrassing. On the other hand, around the mass of adults with adult attitudes to sex that most scientists had, proof of a sizeable cock was probably as good an impression as any. He inhaled and simply prayed his dick wouldn't leak.

Emily had pushed two-thirds of her big black dick into her arse. It had just reached the challenging point, coming up to its greatest girth. 'Girth'. That was an inherently sexy word. 'Circumference' was boring and scientific. Objects meant to go inside her had girth.

She liked the girth on both Bradley and Richie.

Emily gently wobbled the plug against her bumhole, in and out ever so slightly, letting it slip further in, so nearly reaching that point of maximum satisfaction (and near-pain), which would be followed by that gentle persistent satisfaction.

Remembering that Bradley was watching her every move, Emily made a bit more of a show of her movements and a few moans. She could hear a sharp intake of breath from the boy -- not actually younger, but he'd been a nice lad when she'd met him, who'd never got to fuck a girl's arse in his life.

Over a year on, he would happily admit he loved fucking women's asses, loved fucking women in general, and was way less nervous about it. He'd been quite good the first time, and rapidly learned what she liked, which made him much more of a catch than some men with way more sexual experience.

A drip of something trailed down her arse crack. It would need mopping up.

"Bradley, darling?"

The word 'darling' seemed to be her way of acting like a high-class client.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Could you come check I'm not dripping at all? I think you'll need to lick some up..."

"You need your stretched-out ring licked, ma'am. Of course."

All part of his enthusiastic service.

To do so, he had to hold the butt plug in place, so that it didn't fall out and lose all the progress she'd made towards getting it inside her. Around the unyielding plastic, he lapped and kissed at the crinkled bumpy stretched red-brown skin, so dark against her white ass. She moaned happily as he pushed the plug upward so he could get his face in beneath.

He just had to get this plug into Emily. If a little bit of pushing got her this reactive...

He copied how she'd moved it. Waggle, wobble, push with the flat of his hand. Unlike her, he could hold her asshole wide at the same time, adding spit and just gazing at this wondrous so-snug hole now gaping for him. Bradley had to go back to reciting facts in his head -- various MAP kinase pathways, gene families -- when he ran out of what he could remember of the next day's timetable.

And then the butt plug moved. Suddenly it was sucked in with a squelch, three inches of it vanishing, and its stalk still visible only because Bradley was still holding it.

Emily groaned from both suffering and pleasure.

Bradley knew he'd do anything to hear that sexy sound again. He realised that the widest part of the plug couldn't yet be right inside her, because of his fingertips clawed round the flange preventing it. So it must be splaying her open further, inside.

Carefully, he pulled the plug a quarter-inch out, which seemed to be the point of maximum stretch, then let it slide half an inch in. Her ass again seemed to slurp it in, greedily. He repeated that twice more.

Emily squealed each time. Underneath, her groans made a harmonious undercurrent.

He licked all round her reddened ring, soothing that responsive flesh. Then he returned to slowly fucking her ass with her own toy. She'd wanted it, he was serving her...

"Oh, god!" she cried.

He didn't want her coming, yet. Some cultural message told him that for best results all round, he needed to get her downstairs, having conversations with people she needed to impress, desperately trying to ignore that she had a sizeable artificial penis in her asshole.

And no panties on. Ah, yes, that was where he'd started.

Bradley let go of the butt plug, then pressed it firmly into place with his knuckles. The line of plastic which prevented the plug being lost inside her pushed her ass cheeks apart, showing off her beautiful curved booty, even more than simply bending over had done.

Emily panted, then sighed, as she and her butt reached a comfortable equilibrium.

Bradley massaged her butt-cheeks gently. He could feel when her soft flesh pushed against the hard plug. His hard cock stood up even more straight. Ras, Raf, MEK, MAP-K..., he told himself desperately. Smurf-1, Smurf-2, Mothers-against-decapentaplegic, decapentaplegic, Thickveins, Punt. Even the most basic receptor proteins sounded sexual, now.

A glistening spot caught his eye. He had to touch it. Or even better, taste it...

"Oh dear, there's another drip. Spread your legs further, ma'am."

The words reminded him of a cop checking out a speeding driver. Maybe another role-play with Emily, some time?

Before the drop of moisture could escape her pussy lips, Bradley got his finger there. Followed by his tongue, to give her a very thorough cleaning.

Emily leaned over the freshly-made bed, pushed her thighs further apart, and whined for him to do more. "Pleeeease?"

Bradley gazed at her ass, all perfectly framed by the luxurious blue coverlet on the bed, and aimed to imprint the image into his memory.

Then he asked, "Ma'am? Can I, may I, take a photo of your amazing ass?"