If Only

A hesitant pause an awkward shuffle and a moment of caution, the intimacy unexpectedly broken, the acquaintance of an unfamiliar obstacle greeting his finger, the barrier of virtue forcing him into a quick retreat.

Hormonal chaos running wild inside a young inexperienced body, a heart beating frantically inside her chest, a choking lump inside her throat threatening to stop her breathing, the reality of knowing it was about to happen flooding her head with a mixture of caution, uncertainty and excitement, any thoughts of ending the initiation evaporating in the fire.

He stood up and casually removed his pants.

"Oh," she gasped, as the monstrous piece of flesh sprang free from its cotton prison, swaying and bobbing in front of her face, blinking her eyes a couple of times to focus, staring in disbelief, the expression on her face a mixture of shock, surprise and curiosity.

A tentative pause, a nervous shuffle, a frustrated sigh, a subtle suggestion of acquiescence, a reserved compliance of impending uncertainty, her innocent eyes tracing his with consenting apprehension, a bashful face watching and waiting, as if seeking his permission to respond to intimate foreplay.

The fearsome limb filled her hand, her fingers struggling to accommodate the formidable girth, an insistent pulse between her fingers and a persistent throb between her legs, a body overcome with submissive expectation, seduced by an invitation of intimacy, a heart flirting with curiosity, frustration, caution, uncertainty and forbidden thoughts melting away in the heat of passion, gripping the gruesome flesh firmly in her hand, moving to the persuasion of touch, working the length in slow measured strokes, pulling and tugging, squeezing and releasing, feeling the web of veins and bulges pulsing beneath her fingers, exploring and touching, stoking and learning, an untried body responding to the inevitable forces of evolution, a body embracing the phenomenon of human sexual response.

A vulva burning, wet and aching with desire, a searing heat pulsing between her legs, a frustrated young woman yearning for penetration, reality sweeping away morality, fading principles and virtue cast aside, no words were necessary, a welcoming smile and a nod of her head was all that was needed to let him know that she wanted him inside.

Climbing between her legs and parting her thighs with his knee, gripping the throbbing muscle firmly in his hand, pushing the swollen head against her tight entrance, the silky flaps and velvet folds giving way to the force, the thick shaft stretching the inner walls and opening her body, the treasured sanctuary between her legs welcoming him inside.

A breathless sigh and a begging-him-to-be-gentle whisper hissed through tight lips and gritted teeth, the threatening limb coming in contact with the thin membrane momentarily interrupting their moment of pleasure. A hesitant pause, an anxious few seconds, eyes meeting in a tender moment of promising intimacy, a reflexive movement, a gentle push, the hymen yielding, surrendering to the unexpected acquaintance, the gates of paradise opening, her most sacred place capturing his flesh in submissive acceptance.

The engagement of intimate connection held momentarily in captured silence and a subtle exchange of reassuring gestures, withdrawing slightly, waiting for her lost membrane to dissipate and letting her get used to the unfamiliar object breaching her body, the bleeding fluids spilling down his swollen cock betraying the evidence of her former purity.

Calming gestures of endearment and a brief moment of virtuous silence broken by the next record dropping onto the turntable, the static and crackle of the needle finding the Queen song, Freddie Mercury's fingers dancing over black and white keys, melodious high octaves interrupting Roxy's sleep for the second time, raising his head in silent protest, the glow of the fire captured in his lifeless eyes.

'Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see....'

The lubricating warmth of coital connection, an untried body welcoming the strange object into her tight entrance, the courtship of swollen genitalia overcoming pain, the influence of persuasion, the promise of expectation responding to the intimacy of union, easing in and easing out, a couple of inches at a time, breaking and entering, soft and slow, pulling back, prolonging the moment, rejoicing in the euphoric sensation, taking her to heights she could only have imagined before bringing her slowly back from the edge.

Sent shivers down my spine, body's aching all the time....

A shift in posture, an uncomfortable shuffle, the thin carpet burning his knees, regaining his composure, lifting her legs and wrapping them around his back, flexing his buttocks and thrusting his hips, increasing the pace and gaining a momentum, a turbulence of give and take sweeping away calm, hot sweating flesh slapping against soft thighs, in and out, back and forth, deeper and deeper, all the way in and all the way out, banging and thrusting, penetrating deep, stretching and filling her body with hard flesh, the thick girth almost splitting her apart, a half-hearted whimpered protest and a painful cry escaping through tight lips, a tearful plea for tenderness lost in the echoes of Freddie's invitation.

Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the fandango? Thunderbolts and lightening, very, very frightening....

An innocent face glowing in the heat of passion, a cocktail of emotions swimming inside a confused young body, a head screaming caution in a blend of dance and song, a heart fluttering in time with the melodic beat, her virtue lingering on the precipice of an exotic place somewhere in heaven, every nerve in her body alive with euphoric sensation, waves of abdominal contractions combusting in a burning heat of virtuous passion, a vulnerable body responding to rapturous convulsions, shaking and shuddering, wriggling and thrusting, genitalia colliding, embracing in an orchestration of mutual engagement, an impulsive urge, the persuasion of movement, arching her back and thrusting her hips, bucking and pushing, rolling with the rhythm, rocking with the momentum, capturing the meaty force inside.

Easy come, easy go, will you let me go?

Bismilla! No, we will not let you go....

A subtle key change from major to minor, the tempo gathering speed, a concerto of sweeping arpeggios, a rock aria of sharps and flats, an opera of perfect harmony, the melodious interaction adding unity to their intimacy, the seduction of vocal persuasion orchestrating the rhythm of copulation, a union of genitalia pushing together, hips moving in a mutual momentum of give and take, giving and taking, pushing and pulling, squeezing and tugging, his legs stiffening, his balls tightening inside the scrotum, a storm of blissful energy, a crescendo of euphoria, an explosion of liquid passion erupting like an active volcano, a warm sea of seminal solution spilling from the open eye, coating the mouth of the cervix, flooding the vaginal vault in a tidal wave of liquid passion.

The engine still running, the reserves empty, the strings of passion inevitably subsiding, the chords fading, the opus easing into a calming coda, a compelling finale of seduction.

'Let him go.' Bishmillah! We will not let you go....

Never, never, never let me go. Ah....

No, no, no, no, no, no, no....

"Yes, yes, yes, yes.... Oh...Fuck. Oh...Ah...Fuck. Ahhh..." she screamed, her dignity lost in the heat of euphoric release. "Fucking hell, I'm coming," she cursed. "Ah...Oh...Ahhhh...." she hissed, twisting her face in a contorted mask of pleasure, meaningless words stumbling from an abandoned mouth, arching her back and tightening her legs, thrusting her hips and pushing back, responding to primal urges, rejoicing in the symphony of touch, the sonata of momentum, the crescendo of rhythmic pulses, wriggling and thrashing, embracing his deep penetration, her painful cries smothered in a chorus of harmonic melodies and a perpetual overture of resonating percussions.

An unfamiliar composition of provocative movement, euphoric tremors erupting from her feet, shaking her legs and stinging her eyes, sweeping through her body in a crescendo of thunderbolts and lightening, igniting her vulva and tingling her breasts, exploding inside her head and torturing her senses, a mind numbing orgasm, a powerful release of emotional passion consuming her body, a pulsing engagement of mutual climax wetting her inner thighs, the momentous release eventually fading into intermittent flutters of euphoria, the delightful confusion of a young girl forsaking virtue, the euphoric elation of a young woman rejoicing in overwhelming fulfilment.

'Nothing really matters....'

'Any way the wind blows.'

It felt more like a hanging than a disciplinary hearing, especially when he was told Councillor Martin Keane was a cold hearted individual who thought the term 'Going Clubbing' meant taking a boat out to the 'Farne Islands' and bashing grey seals over the head with a baseball bat.

He thought it prudent to bring his CV up to date.

Staring down onto the grey suburban street, watching the driving rain moving dirt from the Victorian window, smoking a cigarette and sipping coffee, catching a glimpse of a woman struggling to push a child in a buggy over wet cobbles, fighting with an umbrella against the wind, cursing to herself when one of the wheels on the buggy buckled and fell off.

Under normal circumstances he would have gone to her rescue, but he had problems of his own today and he was in no mood for gallantry.

The consequences of his sexual relationships over the last four-years and the most recent event when he was caught shagging June Chambers in the riverside show-house, which led to his disciplinary meeting with Councillor Martin Keane today, was enough to think about.

Pacing the floor and looking at his watch for the millionth time, the crippling silence affording him the time to search inside the dark room of his subconscious, opening the memory files of deceit and infidelity, reflecting on faces and places over the years.

The day of the Christmas party and the reckless night in the cellar with Emma Charlton, and how their relationship continued into the New Year, when they would meet in the file store and have hurried sex.

And then in early February when he arranged to meet Debbie Chambers for a drink in the town centre and then drove to a secluded spot in the riverside park and fucked her in the back seat of his car. In the winter months their sexual relationship was always infrequent and rather casual, but when the warm summer nights arrived they became a little more daring.

They fucked on the grass. They fucked over the bonnet of the car. They had screaming knee-trembling fucks up against a tree.

And even when she told him she was getting engaged, their time together slowly diminished but never really ended.

Claire Simpson continued her love for clubbing and shopping, but after losing her virginity she had now added sex and orgasms to her list of teenage interests. It might have been her first time but Claire was going to make sure it wasn't her last.

He sighed into the black cooling liquid in his cup, mindful of the time when an attractive nineteen year old girl with big brown eyes and a shapely figure called Lucy Hamilton came to work in the office.

In the final stages of a year-out and about to take a degree in Architecture and Town Planning at Newcastle University, out of friendship and loyalty to her father, Hugh Thomas offered her a job in the office for a period of six weeks.

Lucy Hamilton looked too old to be a girl and too young to be a woman, but she had a fresh-faced cheeky innocence that he instantly found appealing. But after spending a couple of nights at his flat he quickly discovered that she was nothing more than a complicated and tormented nose-in-the-air individual with plenty of attitude.

Nevertheless, when Lucy Hamilton started to fuck, it was almost impossible to get her to stop. And with a chain of metal braces filling her mouth the cock-sucking little vixen's ability to give fellatio was always a mind-blowing experience.

Brushing his hand over the misty window, removing a layer of condensation, looking through a clear part in the glass, catching sight of Jane Anderson heading up the footpath, her Royal Mail uniform soaked through from the torrential rain, always managing a friendly wave and a smile, her gesture acknowledged with an unconvincing smile, their scheduled rendezvous for later that day inevitably broken by circumstances beyond his control.

The consumption of coffee running dry, cigarette butts overflowing in the ashtray, pacing back and forth across the floor, sitting down and standing up, glancing at his watch, wishing the minutes and hours away, wishing he was somewhere else, furious with himself for not being more responsible.

If only he hadn't taken his car to June Chambers auto-repair garage to get a new thermostat. If only she hadn't encouraged his advances. If only that chemistry thing hadn't sparked between them. If only he didn't have an attraction to older women, especially those who looked sexy in dirty overalls. If only he hadn't taken her to the show-house.

It seemed a good idea at the time. It offered a combination of excitement, exhilaration and danger, and there was always that thrill of doing it in a semi-public place.

In his remit as project manager he had a key for the new show-house on the riverside residential site, so what better opportunity would they have, locked inside the show-house, fucking on the living room floor like two dogs on heat.

His memory files still held the furtive images of his untimely misgivings.

How could he forget the startled and enraged expression on the councillor's face and the sniggers and titters from the delegation of local residents viewing the new show-house?

If only.....if only, he sighed, helpless to the consequences of his actions.

The meeting room was thick with silence and a claustrophobic fog of cigarette smoke, the apprehension eventually broken by the secretary pouring coffee into cups.

He was offered a chair conveniently positioned between Hugh Thomas and Richard Lee. Three sour faced individuals sat facing him on the opposite side of the table.

One of the sour faces was Councillor Martin Keane.

A younger man sitting next to him was there to represent the trade union.

The third person was an attractive woman in her late thirties from personnel.

As soon as their eyes met her face flushed slightly and she nervously looked away.

It was clear that Paula Harman was embarrassed to see him again.

A brief moment of crippling silence hung in the air as bodies settled into chairs, files opening and coffee cups touching lips, Paula Harman shifting uncomfortably in the chair, her mouth-watering tits a work of art, rising and falling with each intake of breath, the supple white flesh of a mature woman almost spilling out of her blouse.

Hugh Thomas and Richard Lee never missed an opportunity to grovel to council members, their forced smiles and shameless compliments lost in the twisted face of a man who looked like he was suffering from constipation, the brief pause giving him a moment to reflect on the night of the local council elections when he first met Paula Harman.

The Polling Station was a temporary pre-fabricated building erected in the car park of the civic centre. Paula was in charge of the electoral voting procedures and the supervision a couple of council staff.

Even before the ballet box had swallowed up the first vote he was flirting with chance, looking for any opportunity to get into her pants, his tireless efforts quickly halted when she raised her left hand, flaunting her wedding ring, as if to say, 'I'm a happily married woman so you can look but you can't touch,' although the evidence of her submissive body language seemed to say. 'Take me if you think you're man enough.'

As the evening gathered speed they shared more intimate details about each other, forcing smiles and making passes at each other, flirting and laughing at any opportunity, charisma and seductive charm fuelling a courtship of mutual attraction, a warm and responsive exchange of compliments melting away the pretence of innocence, the conversation stimulating aspects of sexual innuendo, both becoming a little more adventurous.

It was almost eleven o'clock when Paula allowed the staff to drift away.

The mischief that followed inside the pre-fabricated building was a clear sign that Paula's sex life with her husband must have lacked something.

He had intended to take the foreplay slow, a progressive courtship of seductive stimulation, a flirtatious engagement of pursuit, stealing her heart, heightening expectation and bringing her to a state of arousal before getting between her legs.

But Paula had no intentions of going through the preliminaries of foreplay and there would be no time for pretence or refinement. Paula just wanted a good fucking.

The key turned in the rusty lock, a quick flick of the light switch throwing the building into darkness, no words only gestures, grabbing his hand, her heels clicking across the vinyl floor as she led him into a small kitchen at the rear of the building.

Lips met, mouths melted together in a smouldering kiss, an eager hand quickly finding the growing lump inside his pants, fumbling in the darkness with the belt buckle and zip before dropping his pants to the floor, a startled gasp of disbelief, a soft whisper of approval blown between tight lips, nine-and-a-half-inch of swollen flesh filling her hand.

A familiar ache between her thighs, an urgent shuffle and a wiggle of her hips, her knickers gathering at her feet, stepping nonchalantly over the discarded fabric, pulling her skirt up to her waist, leaning over the kitchen sink and opening her legs, her hands trying to find purchase on the slippery worktop surface.

Paula had a husband to go home to. Her invitation came with two conditions.

She wanted fucked and it had to be quick.

A carnal connection of engagement, a turbulence of urgent expectation gathering speed, a mutual commitment of give and take, thrusting and pushing, grinding and banging, hard merciless strokes pounding her body into submission, in and out, hard and fast, fucking like a well-oiled machine, a perpetual piston of endless endurance, entering and retreating without remorse, stretching her tight entrance, filling her body with hard flesh.

A vocal exchange of curses and obscenities, a brief exchange of pledges and promises that would never be kept, breathless pants chasing choking gasps, moans accompanying groans, careless hands sweeping plates and cups across the worktop, her painful cries for mercy smothered under the haunting echoes of broken crockery crashing to the floor.

A chaotic thrashing of hips and a violent shudder, a bruised and tortured body reaching climax, a euphoric release of liquid passion, an earth-shattering orgasm lasting long enough to capture a generous amount of his warm seminal cargo inside her boiling depths.

The arrogance in Martin Kean's voice bringing the meeting to order interrupted his thoughts.

He skipped the pleasantries.

An unforgiving man with uncompromising values stared across the table, an outburst of verbal abuse dripping like acid off his lips, the carotid arteries and jugular veins pulsing in his neck betraying the seriousness of the situation.

Martin Keane was at the Farne Islands. He had his baseball bat. He wasn't taking prisoners. The verbal condemnation quickly gathered speed, details unfolding about his visit to the new show-house on the riverside estate with a delegation of residents and the unexpected encounter of two people fucking like rabbits on the living-room floor.