Reluctance

He was pleased with the contrast between the girls. It was exciting; he felt a stirring, a developing hardness. This was not a good sign. He watched the two girls fondling, comparing, admiring and sucking wine from each other's breasts. Should he call them over now so he could run his hands over those smooth mounds: or should he wait, wait until panties were removed - as they would be. He could see that would happen as inevitable as night follows day and there was little to do to stop such a thing. It was not his fault.

It was pleasant watching them, bare breasted and naked from the waist up, little skirts covering their hips and those surprisingly long socks, rising above their knees. Now would it be skirts or would it be panties removed next? There was no need for the socks to go - none at all. He pondered as he watched. Removing panties first left anticipation, occasional glimpses might be had, assuming that is the girls cavorted together fingering each other, but it would be good to see them in just panties - whatever colour they were, and he was certainly very interested in that. There again, they could hardly pour wine over each other's pudenda - and that was in his mind as well - if they were wearing their skirts as the wine would stain and spoil the material. On balance, skirts would have to go first - a pity, but these decisions were not easy and so often a compromise between objectives was required.

"Do you mind me asking, but it's been bothering me because I do not know, what colour, what colour, that is, are your panties?"

The girls looked at each other and burst into a fit of giggles - what a question to ask!

"Guess," said the fair-haired girl. An invitation.

"Blue," he said wistfully, "french blue."

"Wrong!" She laughed, "quite wrong."

The dark haired girl though nodded slowly and looked down. "Yes," she said.

"Come here," he said and they were half surprised to find they obeyed straightway. They stood before him.

"Might I?" He said, "might I just pull them up a little to check?" He hooked his fingers through the front of first one waistband then the other of the skirts. His fingers slipped in down between skirt and smooth tummy flesh. He found the top of the dark haired girl's panties and pulled with just his finger tips and a glimpse of blue, french blue cotton appeared above the white skirt. It was an exquisite sight for him and he just looked not moving for quite a few moments. But he could not just leave her friend standing waiting his check. His finger tips quested beneath the denim skirt, he pushed then a little lower, a little lower. He could feel no material but then there was the gossamer touch of fine hairs on his fingertips - his fingers were in her secret fur! He looked up puzzled.

"I'm not wearing any!"

"You're not!" Her friend was really surprised. "Really?"

"I took them off. I was hot."

"But you could have been seen."

"So?"

He overcame a desire to remove his hand and lift it up under her skirt and verify her statement by slipping his fingers between those smooth creamy thighs until he touched just soft moist flesh. He knew in the end it would come to that. He was weak, he knew, and the temptation was just getting stronger. He went to heat the wine again.

"It tickles if she drinks from your tummy button," he said as he came back into the room. He said it matter of factly, just a statement, not a request. He was not trying to lead them.

They were interested. The idea caught their imagination.

"But I wouldn't want to spill it on your skirt. Quick before the wine cools."

He watched as the white skirt fell to the floor and the girl with the pale straw hair stood, naked but for those long white socks. Beautiful large breasts, soft flat tummy and pale straw curls between her thighs. She looked a little coy with one thigh pushed forward of the other.

"Lie down, lie down," said her friend.

The wine was poured from a glass, filling her navel, a dark red pool in an expanse of white.

"Ooh, it's hot!" she said. Her friend lapped, her wine stained tongue pushed in, ensuring none remained.

"It does tickle!"

The wine was poured again but with less care, the pool overfilled spilling out and into the pale straw curls, a trickle slipped down between thigh and pubis and disappeared between her legs.

The pool was emptied again but the damp hair and rivulet remained.

The dark haired girl looked uncertain.

"Not to be wasted," said the man quietly.

Her tongue ventured from the navel, it followed the trail into the hair and down the edge of the thigh. She paused and looked up.

"I shouldn't, I can't."

"You have gone so far, why stop now? Surely you cannot stop." His desire was getting the better of him. He rose and came over to her picking up the glass.

"But I'm not a lesbian!"

"No, no of course not. Nothing of the sort but the wine needs drinking."

Slowly he poured, the red wine leaving the glass and splashing down just at the junction of the fair-headed girl's thighs. The surprise caused them to open enough for the wine to splash onto the lips of the sex below, wetting them. The scent of the cinnamon and hot wine was strong in her friend's nostrils.

"Lap, you should lap," he encouraged rather than ordered. He saw himself more as a coach getting the best from people rather than a master.

He watched as slowly, eyes fastened on her friend's sex, she lowered her head, her tongue tentatively extended until its tip just touched the soft pink flesh. She began to lap and the legs, clad in long white socks, widened and wriggled. Her tongue sought the wine, pushing soft folds aside in search of the liquid, even searching right into her friend to see if some had trickled there. It was certainly wet there to the touch and her tongue and lips licked and sucked greedily.

"You will want to drink from your friend too?" He was asking the fair head girl, the girl lying across the settee, the girl with her eyes closed absorbed in the sensations from her friend's busy tongue and lips. She would not have imagined herself allowing such a thing let alone enjoying it the day before but now things were different. Her thoughts were muddled and foggy but, yes, she must repay her friend her kindness and, yes, she did want to drink.

"It is your turn," he said taking hold of the dark girl's shoulders and lifting her up from between her friend's thighs. She looked a trifle dazed and her face was wet.

It was time for the other skirt to be removed; the brass zip was lowered, the button undone. The denim skirt dropped to the floor and panties of the purest french blue were revealed moulding her buttocks, clinging to her hips and lightly mounded by the push of her secret curls.

"What pretty panties," he said. He was, after all, a connoisseur.

She came to herself and rotated to show him their entirety, "you like them?"

"Yes, indeed, might I...?" He was unsure quite how to phrase this, "might I help you with them." He wanted to roll them down, slip them across her skin, gradually revealing what they contained, slowly pulling them past the smooth skin of her thighs and then sliding cotton to cotton the flimsy garment down her legs.

It was not that he wished to push her or order her into their removal, and the exposure of her sex, but he wished to help, to offer his assistance to her, aid in their removal. They would have to come off, be removed, if her friend was to taste her - and the wine.

"They need to come down if your friend is to..."

"Of course." She understood.

His delight in helping was genuine. His fingers took hold of the material, the french blue cotton just at the waistband and gave a little tug, not enough to pull them far but enough to reveal the cleft of her buttocks and a sprinkling of dark hairs in a fan shape at the top of the mound of her pubis. He paused admiring, noting where the elastic had dug a little in and left a mark. He had been waiting for this moment - though he knew he should not be doing this. One thing would lead to another and... He began to roll the material rather than simply tug it to her knees. The rolling was more pleasing, a gradual revelation of form, of soft round buttocks, of short dark hairs fanning out from the valley of her pubis, the valley itself, the separation of the material from the soft pinkness between her legs and the steady exposure of her sex. The panties rolled on down her soft thighs, a strip of blue cotton - french blue cotton - until they were lying discarded on the floor.

Her friend was still lying on the settee but she rose to help her friend take her place. He had not expected it but it was the fair-haired girl who parted the thighs, opening them so her sex was exposed to his view and ready to receive some of the contents of the glass. He poured carefully. The still warm wine splashed onto the dark smooth hairs and ran down between the legs. The fair-haired girl did not hesitate and immediately bent to lap with enthusiasm. Her friend bucked and wriggled at the sensual onslaught upon her sex. The rough tongue seeking wine, its tip burrowing around her clitoris, running along the folds and slipping inside her vagina.

It was inevitable that when she surfaced they would kiss. Mouths that had kissed and sucked other lips were no longer coy about the mutual caress of tongues. They settled together on the settee. He watched happy in their enjoyment, happy that he had promoted this without really seeking the satisfaction of his own desires. He felt almost virtuous for a moment.

Hands now sought more than just breasts, they went where tongues had recently ventured and found warmth and wetness. They were used to arousing, used to pleasuring themselves in the secrecy of their own beds and they knew what each other needed: so very different from being in bed with a boy.

He was certainly enjoying seeing the girls cross legged and facing each other, each with one hand around the others shoulder for support as they sat on each other's hands, hands whose fingers were inserted into the other and upon which each was bouncing causing the fingers to move up and down in their respective vaginas. Their bobbing, bouncing movements caused the springs of the old sofa to creek but it was not unused to rigorous movement and could have told many a merry tale of the past. Their eyes held the other watching the small changes in facial expression, the widening of the eye, the biting of the lip, the flicker of a muscle denoting particular enjoyment. They were concentrating on achieving the other's pleasure.

Despite their strenuous efforts they seemed unable, either of them, to reach orgasm. Their bodies shone with the sweat of their exertion, the scent of their sex, their very wet sex, strong on the air but they could not bring themselves over the top. There was, of course, a reason and he was the reason. There was to be no lesbian orgasm, no climax resulting from the application of female fingers or tongues: he was a good man he did not want to change their nature, change their sexuality. No, that would not have been fair, would not have been kind, would not have been the action of a gentleman. Therefore he made sure they needed something more substantial to achieve their release, something in keeping with their own sexuality, something he could offer - to help.

The girls groaned and fell apart, lying back on the sofa, their legs wantonly apart and wet sex exposed.

"I can't come, I've got to come," complained the dark haired girl. She pulled the hard brown cones of her own breasts; her hands went to her sex and stroked her standing clitoris. But it was no good, neither on her own or with her friend was she reaching what she so desired. Her friend, fingers inside herself, was faring no better.

"I need a man, I need a penis, a cock, a prick, so badly."

He nodded. That was true. The girls looked across to him. He was old, he was greying but he was a man and would have a penis. They looked at each other. Really they needed one each but they would have to share. Would one be enough for two? How could they ask him? How should they ask him?

"Would you," said the dark haired girl looking downwards, "would you fuck us..."

"Fuck us both," finished her friend.

It was not well put but he began to undress. He could not really refuse such a request. It was good he had resisted forcing himself upon them. So much better to be invited, to be able to help.

It was not his body the girls had eyes for. They did not notice the aged skin, the less than flat stomach, the grey hair. It was the standing penis their eyes sought and standing it was. As one, tongues wet lips as they took in the smooth round head, the veined and rugged shaft, the balls hanging loose, the structure ready for its purpose.

But how should they begin? He had been present the whole time but as an onlooker, hardly part of their sexual activity. How should they bring him in? Would it be right to dip his penis in the wine, marinade it carefully before sucking the wine from it, passing it between them, first to one mouth then the other sucking and savouring? They looked at each other. How was a tumescent cock to be pushed into a wine glass? Flaccid it could be dipped, the wine glass brought up and under before it was lifted, dripping with wine, to be savoured: but this could not be done with a hard cock.

They stood naked, naked that is but for the long socks - a white pair and a black pair reaching up above their knees and clasped to creamy thighs, waiting for him to come to them.

Naked now, he came towards them, penis bobbing, hands reaching out to cup and fondle breasts. He had restrained himself until then but now he wanted to touch, feel and squeeze. The excitement for him was intense after the waiting, the restraint he had shown. For a moment they were unsure. The feel of a man's hands on their breasts was good, it gave them a tingle, a promise of the orgasm, they had been lacking.

The wine forgotten they sank to their knees ready to suck, to try and secure a sip of a different liquid, a very different liquid excepting perhaps the salty tang of a Manzanilla. It was the dark haired girl who took the first suck. Her friend watched patiently as lips slipped over the shiny head absorbing the penis into her mouth, the cheeks hollowed for a moment and then the lips began to slide back and forth, each time taking the shaft a little deeper. It glistened where it was moistened providing lubrication for the sliding lips. The cheeks hollowed again. The fair-haired girl could only imagine what her friend was doing within her mouth: but the man could feel it. He revelled in the sensation, the joy of having the young girl at his penis, the sight of her kneeling there with his shaft between her lips and the anticipation of her friend waiting to repeat the action - soon also to be kneeling before him. His regret was gone: he was of the moment. The feeling would return, the guilt, the remorse, the regret would be back the next day and the days after, but for now he was absorbed in pleasure. The dark girl's tongue gently lapped beneath the hidden head, at the most sensitive point - the fraenum. Younger men would have spurted at that, releasing their flood of semen into the girl's mouth, perhaps causing her to choke or be momentarily distressed but he had long learnt control and it would be many, many minutes before he would come. The girls could enjoy his penis; there was no need for them to hurry. He would not wish for them to be disappointed. The tongue continued to lap.

The dark haired girl awoke, her head thick from the wine, she blinked trying to pull herself together. Where was she? She knew she had been fucking, could feel that - but with whom? She opened her eyes and saw the man, an old man. Her involuntary movement back across the bed resulted in her feeling warm flesh the other side of her; she turned and saw her naked friend. Her disbelief was total. She was in bed with an old man and her friend.

Her alarm woke the man. He blinked as if achieving focus, "Well I never, pretty young girls in my bed. Now, how did that happen?" Her confusion did not last long. His power, after all, was strong and it would not do, simply would not do, to leave either of them with unhappy memories, or very much memory in fact, of what had happened the night before or, indeed, was still to happen that morning. Inevitably he was beginning to feel a certain guilt but to ignore, simply not to take the opportunity offered by two young girls in his bed before breakfast seemed ungrateful - even wrong.

He sat in his armchair later that morning feeling dejected, engaged in personal recrimination. He had seen them to the train, made sure they caught it; watched as the long socks, short skirts and bare thighs had climbed the step; thought of panties of the purest french blue and what had happened the night before and that very morning. He would punish himself for his lapse - there would be no wine for a fortnight and no brandy for a month. He must not use his power again; it was not right; he must guard against unexpected temptation. After all he was a good man at heart. He must re-immerse himself in his cultural and literary pursuits: but what lovely fresh girls - so sweet, so fun, so sexual. And, his brow knitted in worry, what was he to do in a fortnight's time when they would come knocking at his door? He should not have left that idea in their heads: but they had such a good time, had seemed to so like the mulled wine that it had seemed impolite not to invite them to return, to come back, for another drink... or two. Perhaps they would not come, perhaps they would stay on the train and not get off at his station - but he doubted it. He knew of old his power was strong. He was too kind, too generous, too inviting. That was his trouble. He should simply not have invited them. If they came he would have to resist their temptation but could he do that and, and... what if they brought their boyfriends? Could he resist the ensuing display of sex, the sight of proud penises pushing wetly into the girls, all of them trying so hard to come but unable - unable until he showed them how? He shook his head, it really was not his fault.