The Teaser

Marion clung to Jon, holding his cock inside her during the risky move. "Fuck me through it," she urged him, squirming. Marion moved up to meet the downstroke while she mauled at one breast, pinching a nipple between forefinger and thumb, her hot-eyed glare fixed on Jon's face. She rubbed at herself, the climax rolling on and on, snarling at Jon to use her.

"Punish that pussy," Marion grunted, the last coherent sentence to come out of her before the juddering paroxysm struck. It hit hard, with every tendon straining, muscles taut while her body squelched around the piston of male gristle.

Jon stared down, intimidated by the sheer physicality of Marion's climax. She writhed and groaned, fingers clawing at the ground, her nails sometimes raking his flesh. One moment Marion's eyes were open, glittering jewels of apparent hatred, her look of spite really conveying intense delight while the next second saw the lids squeezed tight, mouth gaping, bestial grunts bursting forth.

With that going on, Jon got to the edge. He moved hard and deep, probing at Marion, his own face going slack when he squirted all he had left into her.

It took some time for them to recover, with both of them lying sprawled, gasping like spent wrestlers, expressions as shocked as soldiers' in the aftermath of battle.

Marion and Jon looked at each other, both apparently wondering what had just happened, like it was the last thing in the world they both expected.

"Shit," Jon breathed on a long exhalation.

Beside him, Marion nodded, a forearm covering her eyes. "God yes," she gasped, the arm dropping away. She turned her head to regard the man. "That was..."

She gulped and blinked.

"Jesus," Marion finished, unable to articulate her thoughts and feelings. Everything was still a jumble.

Slowly, with Jon moving first, they rose to their feet, legs shaky.

Patches of dirt and bits of grass were swept from bare skin. Marion's hand came away smeared with semen, Jon's diminished second climax seeping from her.

"Can I see you again?" Jon asked, not looking at Marion, the wobble in his voice an indication of his concern at rejection.

Marion looked at him, bra in her hand. She paused in the gathering up of scattered clothing.

Following a lengthening silence, she moved to Jon, her stare fixed on his anxious visage.

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't," Marion murmured.

Eight

It's a Friday night. I'm outside the White Lion pub. I've been sitting in the Land Cruiser for ten minutes, which is how long we said I'd wait.

I haven't been inside the pub since Cassandra. It's where I used to go every Friday and Saturday.

It's where they'll be.

There's a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's dense, like a cannonball sitting there, a mass of anxiety and excitement, something fissile.

I force the fear aside – after all, what do I have to be afraid of?

Nothing.

When I pull the door open and step inside and see a few regulars, faces like spoons as they shift around to look, their focus going from me to Gary to Cassandra and back to me.

Marion is at the bar a few feet from the pair of them. She, inevitably, has a knot of admirers vying for her attention.

I look at her and the amazement comes again. I still can't quite believe, three weeks after the interlude in the glade, that I'm actually a regular presence in her bed. I'm under no illusions this is a permanent deal. The affair will run its course, and I'm prepared for that. But, for now, looking at her holding forth, sipping gently from a tall glass – gin and tonic is my guess – those slobbering men surrounding her, well, I'm feeling pretty smug.

Marion's wearing a sweater. It's tight, moulded to her torso to show off every contour. Nobody can miss her breasts, which is why she's such a hit. I can see the outline of her nipples, those prominent points dangerous enough to have someone's eye out. Marion is looking delicious, absolutely jaw-dropping. Her hair and make-up are immaculate. She has a triple-strand of pearls around her neck, the drop of which draws the eyes to her bosom, the necklace dangling there between the twin protuberances.

She's in heels, naturally, her skirt, which is tight at her waist, falls to her ankles. Marion is covered, feet to neck, yet still manages to exude a potent sexual allure. She's a magnet for randy blokes with a roving eye.

There's a shift in atmosphere when I walk in. It's just a subtle drop in the murmur of conversation, a few folk shifting in their seats to take a look.

Cassandra catches it, her eyes finding me. Gary, typically, is a few seconds behind.

It's a puerile little plan, petty in the extreme, but I decide I'm going to enjoy it.

I wander up to the bar and order a pint. I'm served immediately, with Jenny the Friday night barmaid agog at the potential for drama. I think there are a few of them in there that imagine it's going to kick off.

Nodding to a few of the faces I pay for the drink and sip the head off it. Then, as though noticing her for the first time, I smile at Marion.

We play the game for twenty minutes as the pub slowly, perhaps a little disappointed with the anti-climax, settles down once more.

I pick up a conversation with a couple of the boys. They make noises about me not having been around. We shift on to football and work, all of us hugely aware of the elephant in the room. Gary and Cassandra, with him no doubt led by her example, ignore me. Marion talks and laughs and generally entertains the knot of goggle-eyed Romeos, flirting but not leading them on too much.

She deftly declines offers of drinks, easily batting away more inappropriate suggestions with an easy smile and a laugh.

Then, in her own time, she excuses herself and comes to me.

To all intents and purposes it's a casual pick-up. Marion buys me a pint, inveigles herself into the group, separates me from the herd and then offers to take me home.

Yeah, childish and so obvious, and perhaps a few of them will figure it out.

But the looks on their faces when I left the pub with Marion, our intent obvious...