Pamela Ch. 08: Two Titless Fuckers

"I'm cumming!" cried Pamela in a voice I knew was no fabrication. Trying to see her face with sweat pouring from my temples with the salt stinging my eyes, I could sense her back starting to arch. A moan from Charlotte told me she was nearly there so I let everything go, pounding into her as hard and fast as I could until it pushed her over and she screamed, shaking her head from side to side, exactly the point when I roared, spurting the first jet deep inside her cunt, followed by a second, then another before subsiding to smaller offerings, pressing as far inside her as I could.

I was shattered. Charlotte was shattered. But Pamela wanted more. Using her hands on Charlotte's shoulders, she twisted her onto her back, forcing my cock to slip out as I stood at the end of the bed. It took her less than a second for her to move around between Charlotte's legs and bury her tongue between her cunt lips, just as cum started to seep out of her. She licked it into her mouth, taking as much as she could as it flowed out. Then, Pamela suddenly lifted herself up on her hands and knees, edging forward to where Charlotte's open mouth was waiting. With my eyes on stalks, she looked down at the blonde from about three inches as she let it flow from her mouth, snowballing it inside. Charlotte, readily accepting it, waited until Pamela closed her mouth and lowered her head, feverishly kissing as they shared cum, finally swallowing it between them. At this, Pamela rolled over on her back as I staggered back to my chair, remnants of cum still seeping from my cock. We were done. Absolutely.

Thirty minutes later, we all stood at the bottom of the stairs: Charlotte in a black satin dressing gown but Pamela and I having dressed after accepting the offer to shower. I had stood under the water without feeling anything other than being shattered beyond belief. Charlotte had taken everything I had and more.

"Now, Miss Ellis," said Pamela as Charlotte led the way to the outside door, unlocking it, "I don't need to tell you that this never happened, especially to Miss Dreem."

"Of course not, Mistress," replied Charlotte dutifully.

"Good," said Pamela, looking Charlotte straight in the eyes. "I'm glad we understand each other. I shall be in touch. Good evening."

And with that, Charlotte opened the door to allow us to escape before closing and relocking it as we made our way to Pamela's car.

It's only three or four miles from Fucton to home in Little Pissington but, given what had happened with Charlotte Ellis, it was surprising it passed in silence. One thing that bothered me was, other than bidding Charlotte goodnight, I had not spoken to her, not a word, despite fucking her from behind and filling her with my cum. It didn't seem quite what a gentleman should do.

As we entered the village, Pamela rested a hand on my thigh.

"How about fish and chips for dinner?" she asked. "I don't really feel like cooking."

"Suits me," I replied. "If you drive home I'll pop out and get them. It won't take long."

"It will if you go via the pub," she retorted, accurately enough, glancing at the clock in the car. "OK, I've got a few things to sort out so you've got an hour. We'll eat them on our knees at seven."

She turned off along the gravel drive to Harlot House and parked up. Dispensing a kiss on Pamela's cheek, I strolled back to the road and turned left towards the village. I passed under the railway bridge and crossed the river, glancing left to where Basque Cottage was, the home of Gail Lawrence, the lady with the amazing blonde ringlets that Pamela and I were looking forward to enjoying Sunday lunch with and possibly more afterwards in three days' time. The house looked quiet and there was no car parked outside so I assumed she wasn't at home.

I continued along The Street where the fish and chip shop was situated about half-way to the Rampant Boner pub, just opposite the drive to St Brassiere's church. Passing two cottages on the left, the next property was what used to be a tobacconist but was now 'Gussets', a lingerie shop that had only opened a few days earlier. I recalled seeing a splash in the weekly village newspaper that it was the brainchild of Laetitia Strap, commonly known as Titty, who, after divorcing her ex-husband Jock for fooling around with the lady next door, had moved to the village for a new start. The photograph accompanying the newspaper article suggested that Titty, in her forties, was something of a looker but, as yet, I hadn't had the pleasure of seeing her in the flesh, as it were.

I walked straight past the fish and chip shop, 'Vinegar Joe's', intending to pick up dinner on the way back after a swift pint at the pub. Next door was the newsagents run by the redoubtable Jenny Tull so I popped in to buy my Daily Telegraph that I would have normally bought in town but with Hayley and Gemma taking up my lunchtime I hadn't the opportunity.

"Hi Jenny," I greeted, pushing open the door and seeing the smiling buxom middle-aged brunette standing behind the counter. "Still got a Telegraph?"

"I think so, Frank," she replied with a smile as I headed for the bottom shelf of the magazine rack.

I picked up my paper and instinctively glanced up at the top-shelf magazines being immediately rewarded by the sight of a gorgeous young lady with long dark hair hiding her naked breasts on the cover of 'Fantasy Babes'. Tearing my eyes away, I looked down at the row of sports magazines and my heart started beating in overdrive as I fixated on a picture of Eugenie Bouchard on the cover of 'First Service' magazine dressed in white tennis gear. Instantly, I gathered up a copy and made my way over to Jenny to pay.

"She a favourite of yours?" she mused, looking for the price of the magazine. I laughed.

"I couldn't possibly comment," I replied, handing over a note and slipping the magazine inside my newspaper as if it was a porn mag.

"You've a tennis court at your place, haven't you?" she asked, handing over the change.

"Yes," I replied. "A grass court. Why? Do you play?"

Jenny laughed.

"I used to but not any longer," she replied before raising a finger as an idea struck her. "I know, maybe you should suggest to the vicar that he invite that girl, Eugenie whatever-she's-called, to open the Village Fete? He's supposed to be struggling to think of someone suitable. She could play an exhibition match on your court. How about having a village ladies championship with the winner playing Eugenie? It would be fun."

The thought of Eugenie Bouchard playing Pamela on our court sent all my other fantasies out of the window.

"But she's from Canada and plays all around the world," I objected, being practical. "Besides, the Fete committee wouldn't be able to cover her expenses and I'm pretty certain she would want an appearance fee."

Jenny shrugged her shoulders.

"Well, if the Fete was timed when she would be likely to be over here in the U.K. playing a tournament, say," she observed, "then it could be good publicity for her. It would certainly get her into the Pissington Press."

I laughed at the thought of the attractions of being seen in the village weekly newspaper.

"Anyway, there are a lot of well-heeled folks in the village who might be persuaded to put up to cover her expenses," she went on, doggedly. "In fact, to minimise her expenses, you could put her up at your place. I'm a firm believer in if you don't ask, you don't get. Why not speak to the vicar?"

"It's a good idea, Jenny," I replied, a thought hitting me. "I'll see what I can do. Thanks for this."

I stepped out of the shop and turned left to continue up to the pub. Eugenie Bouchard playing on our tennis court and sharing the Playroom bed with Pamela and I? Yeah, and if pigs had wings there would be bacon flying. Some chance. I shook my head and smiled but then again ... I made a mental note to get Pamela to contact Lilac Hunt, the vicar's granddaughter. Nothing lost, nothing gained!

I passed two more cottages, then crossed a small access road leading to a nice place down by the river that I knew was owned by Randolph B'stard and his wife with their six children. I had met Randolph, or Randy as he was known to everybody, on my first trip to the pub after moving into the village. He liked a pint and was the organiser of the Sunday night pub quiz which was always popular.

Two more cottages, the second of which was increasingly earning something of an unsaid reputation in the village for being a house of ill-gotten gains. I glanced at the window as I passed but saw nothing through the closed blinds. The baker's shop was next which had a sign on the locked front door telling customers to use the rear entrance that was down an adjacent narrow alleyway separating it from the dubious alleged activities taking place next door. Despite the apparent inconvenience, 'Spanker' and 'Slapper' Butt as Mr and Mrs Butt were affectionally known, seemed to be doing very well, particularly with sales of 'Slapper's Buns' going down a storm.

I walked on and soon reached the left turn onto the Pissington Road which represents the end of The Street as it turns into the Suckerton Road from that point. I crossed over to where the Rampant Boner is situated and went around the back where the little bar that the locals mostly used. I entered and found the place empty apart from two old guys playing chess. I went to the bar and waited for service. I was just at the point of ringing the bell when I was staggered when Gail Lawrence suddenly appeared, full of smiles and wearing a blue pinafore dress over a white blouse.

"What ...," I stammered. "What are you doing behind the bar?"

"I've bought the pub," she replied. "I couldn't tell you about it the other day but it's now been finalised. I wanted a new interest that was part of the community and, some weeks ago, when I heard the place was going to be put up for sale I made some enquiries and, well, meet your new landlady."

"So you're ...," I blustered. "What about the staff?

The thought of losing what was a good team, especially Charlie the sex bomb with the most fantastic natural red hair I had ever seen, not to mention her tight arse in jeans, was a potential nightmare.

"No, don't worry," replied Gail. "Everyone is staying on and I'm taking two of them on full-time as I have plans for the future but, first of all, what can I get you? It's on the house."

"Well, you're my favourite pub landlady by far if you're standing me a drink," I stated with a sincere nod which prompted her to break out into a smile. "A pint of Pissington Bitter."

Gail reached under the bar counter for a pint glass and positioned it at almost ninety degrees to the vertical tap on the hand pump.

"I can see you've done that before," I observed admiringly. "Pulling a good pint is the second most important attribute for a landlord or landlady. I'm impressed."

"So what's the most important, then?" she asked, slowly standing the glass up as it filled.

"Keeping the beer properly," I replied. "Bad beer is bad beer, however it is pulled.

"Well, try this," she challenged, placing the glass on the counter with just the right amount of head.

I picked it up gravely and inspected it carefully before bringing it to my nose to inhale and then to taste.

"Perfection," I reported, taking another mouthful. "I'll be proud to be your best customer!"

Gail laughed.

"So, are you still OK for Sunday?" I asked, replacing my glass on the counter. "I mean ..."

"Well, if I'm honest, Sunday lunchtime isn't the best time for me, given what's happened," she replied, confirming my fears. "I could really do with being around then as it's my first Sunday and it's obviously an important time."

"That's why I asked," I accepted. "I completely understand. Another time, maybe?"

Gail approached a little closer.

"You said you were away from Saturday morning, staying overnight," she said in a low voice, "so how about ..."

"Not anymore," I interjected, with a burst of enthusiasm. "It had to be cancelled. Pamela and I are free on Saturday if it works for you."

Gail reflected a moment.

"Then why don't you both come to lunch?" she suggested. "At my place, Basque Cottage, say at one o'clock. It will give me chance to check everything is fine here first and if I'm back here again by six then I'll be on hand in the evening."

"Sounds like a plan," I replied. "I'll just check with Pamela when I get back but take it as a date."

"I had hoped it would be more than a date," she quipped whispered with a knowing smile which prompted a lurch in my trousers. Now, I mustn't let you keep me as I've a pub to run."

"You go ahead," I urged, taking another slug of my pint with a glance at the clock telling me I needed to be getting on my way, especially if there was still a queue at Vinegar Joe's.

"Until Sunday," she whispered. "I'm looking forward to it."

"So am I," I replied, "and so is Pamela."

"Good," she mouthed silently, returning to the lounge bar.

A couple of minutes later, I drained my glass and placed it on the bar counter before making my way out of the pub and began to replace my steps. The queue at the fish and chips shop was small so I was relieved. Five minutes later I unlocked the outer door at Harlot House and closed it behind me as I stood in the hall.

"Dinner has arrived," I called out, taking off my jacket and making my way into the small dining room without reviving any answer. Once inside, I could hear Pamela's voice in the adjacent room, the bar which we referred to as The Pub. She was talking on the telephone. Not knowing how long she would be I took the take-away down to the kitchen to slip in into the warming oven of the AGA before returning to the small dining room to meet Pamela coming back into the room.

"Everything OK?" I asked, noting her serious expression.

"That was Gemma," she said, holding up her phone.

"Oh, she's not pulling out of tomorrow's tennis evening is she?" I asked earnestly. "I was looking forward to ..."

"She wants to bring along Hayley Francis, your new recruit and her new lover," she interjected. "I said I assume Hayley knows the evening isn't just a game of tennis and a few drinks. She said Hayley knows exactly what it's all about and she's fine about it if we are. I said it was up to you for obvious reasons and also as I know nothing about Hayley."

"You mean ...," I began. "They must have spent the afternoon getting to know each other pretty well after I left the hotel to get back to the office."

"So it would seem," mused Pamela.

"But, suppose we or I aren't happy about it, then what?" I reflected, "I assume Gemma wouldn't come on her own."

"What!" retorted Pamela, disbelieving. "You don't seriously think ...

"No, no, no," I interjected quickly. "Of course not, but I wonder what Gemma must have said to Hayley to even make her aware of the evening?"

Pamela smiled.

"I asked her that," she replied. "It seems that Hayley was asking Gemma what I was like and she told her I was incredible in bed."

"Well, I couldn't possible disagree with that, could I?" I retorted. "So Gemma told Hayley about last Saturday night and Hayley wants to experience some of your magic between the sheets."

"Seemingly," replied Pamela, "but it's up to you. It comes down to whether it might make things difficult for you or Hayley in the office if she did. Don't let me influence you. Remember, I haven't even seen the girl."

"But you'll be willing to have her here, all the same?" I pressed. "Yes?"

"Only if you are," she confirmed. "It's your decision."

I thought about Hayley and her not inconsiderable charms for at least a couple of seconds.

"OK, let Gemma know that she's partnering you at tennis against Hayley and me, with Yuma and Maya as ball girls," I said, "and I'll go down and get our fish and chips from the kitchen. I'm starving!"

"Who's going to umpire?" she asked as I was already half-way out of the room.

"Eugenie Bouchard!" I called out, shuddering at the thought as I crossed the hall floor. "In a white tennis skirt with her tits out!"

Two minutes later, I returned with dinner to find Pamela had texted Gemma with our decision. We tucked in, just using the polystyrene cartons as plates and using our fingers to eat it with. It didn't take long before I was stuffing the empty cartons into the carrier bag.

"Tea?" I suggested as I rose to take it to the bin. "I have something to tell you when I get back."

"So have I for you," she replied. "Yes, please. I'll be in the drawing room."

Wondering what she had to tell me, I went off to make the tea and returned before passing into the drawing room which took up the entire east side of the house. Entering, I saw her seated at an armchair in front of a coffee table alongside one of the floor to ceiling windows. I took the opposite armchair and placed the mugs of tea on the table.

"OK, you first," she urged, taking up her mug with both hands.

"Well, it's two things actually," I began. "On the way to the pub I stopped in at Jenny Tull's place for my newspaper ..."

"I know," she interjected, throwing me completely off my stride. "She called me, or rather you, but you were still out. She had been thinking about her suggestion about who might open the Village Fete but didn't want anyone else to know it was hers and that if you were to do anything about it would you leave her name out of it. I said I would speak to you about it and she shouldn't worry."

"That's alright, then," I said, rather deflated. "Anyway, I think it's a good idea."

"Well you would," she teased before smiling. "OK, what's your other news? Not about Gail Lawrence taking over the pub?"

"That's not fair!" I groaned. "How the hell do you know? Not Jenny, surely, she never said anything to me?"

"She didn't know about it when you were in the shop," she explained, smiling. "By the time she called me someone else had been in and told her and so she told me. Simple."

"Ah, but there's one thing she definitely didn't know," I cried, leaning forward in my chair after remembering my conversation with Gail. "Sunday lunch is no good for her any more so I've agreed we'll make it Saturday lunch at her place, Basque Cottage, instead as we'll be free. Is that OK for you?"

"Interesting," mused Pamela. "She's brought it forward. She must be keen."

"Well, what of it?" I retorted, thinking about Gail wrapping those long white ringlets around my cock while she jacked me off all over her enormous tits. "Is there a problem?"

Pamela shook her head and I breathed out in relief.

"OK, what's your news then?" I asked, relaxing back in my chair with my tea.

"Well," she mused, leaning over the arm of her chair to pick up her iPad that I hadn't observed, "I might have got the fourth out of four!"

"You mean the last applicant for your lady's maid?" I cried excitedly. "Go on, let's hear what she's got to say."

She opened her IPad and soon found the relevant email as I closed my eyes to listen.

"I haven't read this myself yet as I thought I'd wait for you," she began. "OK, it's from a Sunny Mendelssohn, sounds German, wants the lady's maid job ... ah, here's her photograph ... oh!"

"What's up?" I asked, opening my eyes to see her staring at the screen.

"She's ... she's just beautiful," she replied, shaking her head slowly in amazement. "Her hair ... oh, and her breasts ... incredible!"

"Let me see," I urged and she turned around her iPad so I could see. Sunny Mendelssohn looked in her thirties, had a really pretty face but it was her auburn hair that caught the eye, but even that couldn't compete with the magnificence of her bosom. Big tits didn't even come part way to describe her breasts: they were enormous but beautifully shaped. She was sitting on a sofa wearing an open top and grey tracksuit bottoms.