Their Last Long Hot Summer

"Gaah fuck yeah," Margaret moaned. "Fucking slap me again!"

"Shut the fuck up, bitch," he said, spanking her again with such force it left a bright red handprint on her cheek. He felt her pussy clench around his cock with each slap, could smell as much as hear her pleasure as he continued to take her as roughly as she needed.

"Fuck yeah, like that," she moaned, burying her face in the pillows and presenting her fat arse to his ministrations. Her thighs started to tremble as he plunged balls deep inside her. Not for the first time, he thanked God for the circumstances that had brought him and Paul's mum together.

Derek was so glad that Margaret was free this evening and could have a bit of her-time away from Paul, or his friends. Much as he'd have liked to watch his star performers rocking out at the festival, he wasn't going to let an evening devoid of interruptions go to waste. At least here, in his own house of real brick rather than the papier-mache walls of her council flat, they could be as loud as they liked. He grabbed her arse cheeks and pushed them apart as he slammed into her, again and again.

"Uuuuuughhh you're fucking tearing me open! More! Fucking end me, you shithead!"

Derek reached down with his thumb, dragging it down the small of her back between her cheeks, then pressing against her bud.

"Don't you fucking dare," she warned. But he knew she didn't mean it. Knew she would let him do whatever the fuck he wanted to her. This was all part of the game. If she really wanted him to stop, she'd have called the safe word.

"You're my whore, and I'll do what I fucking want to you," he growled, plunging his thumb into the tight warm confines of her arse. Her neck snapped up as she yelled out in pain and pleasure, her pussy clamping hard round his cock as he invaded her arsehole. He felt her reach underneath, flicking at her clit, as he alternated his thrusts with the movement of his hand, fucking both her holes, feeling himself move inside her through the thin wall between her pussy and arse.

She cast a look over her shoulder, her face flushed. "Where the fuck have you been all my fucking life", she mused, as her eyes rolled back and she came thunderously all over the bedsheets, sliding off his huge cock as her legs gave way. Derek grabbed his dick, his own orgasm frustratingly close, and stroked himself over the edge, pumping load after thick load across her quivering arse and back.

///

Paul peered around the edge of the curtained wings on the temporary scaffold stage. Fuck, there were a lot of people out there. A LOT. And most of them had been drinking all day. It was a Bank Holiday, after all, and nobody would have work to go to for a couple of days.

Maybe they're drunk enough not to notice our mistakes, he hoped. If I fluff an opening, I'll just style it out.

Picture them all naked - that was the secret, wasn't it? The problem was most of them were well on the way there already. A field of babes in bikinis and daisy dukes, and guys in sleeveless T-shirts and ripped jeans. He really didn't need to distract himself with thoughts of naked chicks and big cocks flapping about. Not helpful.

Arms wrapped round his waist, and he turned within them. There she was. The reason he could do any of this. His inspiration, his muse, the wind beneath his wings. Samantha tilted her head, and he leant down to take her lips in his. He ran his hand up the back of her fishnet-clad thigh, under the hardly-worth-wearing plaid skirt, and cupped her bountiful arse.

"Mmmm, you look so fuckable," he said. She and the twins had decided to double-down on the naughty schoolgirl look for this gig. The Wonderbra pushed Samantha's already large boobs up and together in the most incredible display of cleavage Paul had ever seen; she was in real danger of trapping her chin if she tried to look down. The white cotton school blouse, completely unbuttoned, was tied in a knot under the bra which added much needed extra support. The school tie added that extra something. The girls didn't wear ties at his school, so the only mental association Paul had for girls in ties was from porn magazines. Some kind of bondage fetish, perhaps. It was disturbingly hot.

"I thought that was the idea," she said, brushing her hand over his hardening dick. "Sex sells," she purred. They had a lot of their hastily recorded cassettes to try and shift after the show.

"Well, I'm buying," he said, pulling her towards the shadows.

"Uh-huh, not yet" she teased, pulling away. All that managed was to reveal the full outfit in all its glory. Paul's eyes nearly fell out.

"Fuck me," he breathed in admiration.

"Later, after the gig," she promised. She knew that making him super horny would put a certain edge into his performance. A little sexual tension to put that extra sparkle in his eyes, sway in his hips, and tone in his voice.

"Then let's get on with this," he said, leaping up the steps into the wings.

///

For all his nervousness beforehand, his stage fright, the gig went superbly. They threw out a few crowd-pleasers - classic rock, and some more modern stuff - and he could watch them drinking and signing, then further back there were couples and families having their picnics on tartan blankets by the long grass. The whole audience were lit by the honeyed glow of the sun as it started to edge towards the horizon. There were a few groans when Izzy started to play the Bryan Adams track on the keyboard - he'd been number one practically all summer - but they'd all agreed they couldn't ignore such a mega song that fit right into their style. It had gone down so well in the pub, after all.

Paul sang the whole song to Samantha, as if nobody else was there. I do it for you, he told her. Can you see what you mean to me? He watched her float that electric violin into a dreamy solo, an echo of the one from the record yet totally unique, totally her. This is the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. So, so talented. He was so lost in her playing that he almost forgot to come back in for the climax of the song. I'd die for you.

Their last number was a bit more of a risky choice - but the crows had been happy with the Adams, and November Rain had a similar feel. It felt fitting; a song about endings, to draw the curtain on their performances together. It showcased Izzy's piano skills just as much as Samantha, alternating between lead guitar and electric violin, bouncing the vocals back and forth with him.

As the coda of the song began, Paul introduced the band as their instruments came back in. "Ladies and gentlemen, we've been Pussy Galore! I'm Paul, and I give you Izzy on keys!" A huge cheer. "Emma on cello!" A slightly more muted cheer, which was unfair - that thing took a lot of plucking, let alone carrying. "Immy on drums!" She threw a stick into the air, caught it spinning and crashed it down on the cymbals right on the beat. "And of course, Samantha on lead guitar and violin!" The biggest cheer.

Good. They crowd are in a good mood, that's going to help with this final act. The box had been painfully digging into his thigh. Just a few moments now. As the song came to a close, that last "everybody needs somebody" echoing across the common, Samantha looked round at her bandmates to congratulate them, and saw Paul on his knees, looking up at her. He had a small black velvet box in his outstretched hand.

The world stopped.

The cheers from the crows became deafening. Immy screamed, hands flashing to her face. "Oh my god!" she shouted.

Samantha just stared at him, dumbstruck. You can't be serious, she was thinking.

"Do it! Do it!" chanted the crowd. "Yes! Yes! Yes" they were shouting.

"Samantha," Paul started saying, barely audible over the noise from the audience. "Would you do me the great honour..." he continued, but then he looked up at her face. He'd expected to see delight, surprise, shock even. But not terror turning to anger.

"I..." she managed, face flushing a deep red, before she abruptly turned on her heels and ran to the back of the stage, to the gasps of the crowd.

"Samantha, wait!" he shouted, running off after her, leaving a dazed Immy, Izzy and Emma behind to clear away their stuff ready for the next band to come on.

///

He caught her just as she was leaving the backstage area, managed to gently place his hand on her shoulder, intending to turn her around so he could talk to her. But she flinched, as if his very touch burned her skin.

"How dare you!" she screamed at him. "How could you embarrass me like that, in front of so many people!"

"But I thought..."

"No, you didn't think," she raged. "You didn't think for one moment about how I'd feel. About the pressure you'd put on me. You're so fucking selfish. You thought that the weight of expectation would mean that I couldn't say no with all those people watching? You bastard, how dare you try to manipulate me like that! We've only been going out for a few weeks, for fuck's sake!"

"But... But that's all the time I need! I love you," he objected, weakly. "Don't you love me?"

"Love you?" she laughed. "I can't even look at you right now." And she stormed off, into the crowd. Paul collapsed to his knees, winded, having lost even the strength to chase after her.

That was it. She said she didn't love him any more. The bubble had finally, inevitably, burst. Just like that, as suddenly as this romance had started, it was over.

///

She slammed another shot glass down on the bar, knocked a few of the empties flying across the wood to crash to the floor. The booze wasn't working yet, but maybe if she just kept going then eventually it would drown out the thoughts echoing round her head.

Thoughts of Paul, looking so soppy on his knees. The crowd laughing and jeering. Of Immy and Izzy's shocked faces. Of those spiteful words she'd spat at him before she'd stormed away.

She hadn't meant it, not really. Lashing out was her defence mechanism. She'd tried to find him afterwards, to apologise and explain, but he'd moped off somewhere. She sighed, frustrated. In what universe did he think sulking would make him more attractive?

Fuck him, I'm gonna dance, she decided. She stumbled towards the crowds at the stage, bands replaced by a DJ for the after-dark after-party. Music blared and lights flashed, and she lost herself to the rhythm. Arms over her head, lifting her boobs, she shook her arse and just let herself go. The short skirt flapped as she moved, flashing the crowd, but she was beyond caring.

She felt him behind her, felt his eyes on her body, peeling away the remaining clothes and burning into her skin. I knew you'd come crawling back, she thought. She backed into him, pressing her body against his as they moved, felt him good and hard against her arse cheeks.

"Hey babe," he said, barely audible over the drum and bass. "Guess I'm sorry about before, I was stupid. Forgive me?"

She didn't speak in response, just ground her arse against his groin, felt him reach for her hips so he could pull himself tight against her. Fuck, she was so horny. She needed him inside her.

She felt his hands reach round to her bare stomach, then part, one down to grope at her pussy while the other went up and grabbed at her breast. She leant into him, let him do what he wanted. She didn't give a shit about the crowd round them. Most of them were getting felt up anyway. His large, calloused hand squeezed her heavy tit, nicotine-stained nails scratching over her rock-hard nipple, as the fingers of his other hand worked at the crease in her knickers. She was so wet, desperate for him to take her.

Wait a fucking minute, a barely sober corner of her brain objected. Calloused hands? Paul had never done a day's manual labour in his life. And nicotine? He hated smoking; that's what had killed his father.

He spun her round, took her mouth in his before she could object, shoving his tongue down her throat, holding her face to his with his strong hand while fondling her arse with the other.

Mick.

By the time her brain had processed what was happening, her body had already responded to his familiar touch. The alcohol had scrubbed away her inhibitions, and endorphins flooded her mind, the craving for sweet pleasure making her surrender to his will. She collapsed into him, letting him have his way with her. By the time he effortlessly lifted her in his arms and took her from the dance floor, she was hopelessly lost.

"I need you, now," he insisted, pushing out the back of the tented dance area, hunting for somewhere semi-private. He carried her round the back of the pub, into the keg store. "This'll do," he said, dumping her on top of a barrel then pushing up her skirt and pulling her soaked underwear to the side before sliding his fingers easily into her pussy, which was dripping wet and ready for him.

She'd missed his thick fingers; with just two inside her she was more full than Paul had made her. With Mick, sex was all they'd had, but it was fucking great sex for those few months. He knew just how to touch her, knew where all her buttons were. And he was pushing them now.

So close. "Finish me", she begged.

Paul, who'd finally plucked up the courage to talk to her again and found her on the dance floor then followed them outside, looked on in horror. He watched through the slats of the beer garden fence until he could no longer bear it. He ran away, weeping tears of anger, betrayal and rage.

But Samantha was in a daze. His cock in her hand, thicker than Paul's wrist. How her pussy remembered that cock tearing her open, filling her deep inside, bringing her over and over, all evening and all night, until the sheets of his bed were drenched in her sweat and cum. Paul had never done that to her.

No, her brain said. That's because he cares about you. He wouldn't hurt you, like Mick. He doesn't force you to keep cumming until you pass out, intent only on getting himself off, using your body to masturbate himself with.

But her lust was in control, now, and didn't care about that. "Finish me, arsehole!" she demanded.

I thought you'd never ask, Mick thought, sliding his fingers down from her slick pussy towards her slippery back passage. He'd known the slut would give up her arse to him eventually. He angled his cock and slid it home, not caring whether her screams were in pleasure or in pain.

///

Izzy watched Paul run away. She felt strangely conflicted. Wouldn't a man worth having have stood up for himself, gone over and punched Mick in the face, fought for Samantha? So much for those karate lessons. On the other hand, this was her chance to act. If he was pissed off with Samantha, then maybe - just maybe - this was a golden opportunity for her to get what (she now admitted to herself) she wanted.

But first, she had to prepare. She followed him from a distance, to be sure he was heading back to his flat, then went home herself to get changed.

CHAPTER FOUR - ESTRANGED

Paul knelt on the bathroom floor, dry retching into the toilet, screaming along with Axl to that haunting last phrase from November Rain. Everybody needs somebody, he wailed. You're not the only one.

His brain was on fire; he just couldn't cope with all the emotions at the same time. Shame; having tried to rush such a momentous decision, spoiling their last gig and Samantha's early birthday celebrations. Jealousy; watching Mick prowl towards her, gaining her trust. Despair; seeing him win her back. Anger; that Samantha had responded - to spite me?

How could I have believed she'd stay with me. I'm pathetic; just look at me! Puking my guts up. Phil Collins haunted him; he was an empty space, and her coming back to him surely was against all odds. Samantha's dad had been right. This was the first real test of their relationship, and he'd failed dismally. He didn't deserve her. He didn't deserve anyone. He was a miserable piece of slime that nobody would ever love. Better all round for everyone if he just... wasn't around any more.

He looked over to the table. To the kitchen knife he'd left there, beside the box containing the engagement ring. He took a step towards it.

There was a knock at the door. Paul flinched, and hid, despite being locked securely in the flat. He couldn't cope with anyone right now.

"Paul?"

Perhaps he could pretend to be out. But Axl and the guys betrayed him. Don't you know that you need somebody? they taunted.

Mum was out for the night, with her new boyfriend. Paul was glad; he couldn't deal with the fact of her dating his music teacher. Not right now.

"Paul? It's Immy. I just wanted to check you were okay?"

Would anyone really have cared if he'd just slashed his wrists and bled out here in the flat? But if he were being honest with himself, death scared him far more than being sad and lonely - or he'd have ended things years ago.

"I know you're in there, I can hear the music. I'm going to need to see you, or I'll have to break the door down."

Fuck's sake, I just want to be left alone. But Mum wouldn't forgive him for letting anyone damage the flat. "I'm here. I just don't want to be around people right now."

"Well, I don't think you should be alone. Please, come and let me in. Talk to me. Maybe I can help?"

He doubted that. But he realised he couldn't leave her out there, shouting through the letterbox. Better argue the matter in here, in private. He wiped his arm across his eyes, blew his nose, and went to let her in.

She must have come straight from the gig, he thought; she was still in her stage outfit. A little inappropriately revealing for the mood, but he supposed it was kind of her to come straight here. He opened up - the door, and his heart - pouring out his doubts, his insecurities, his disappointment in himself.

She comforted him, let him cry on her shoulder, and just listened, occasionally patting his back or stroking his arm. She assured him there was nothing wrong with him, that it was sad that Samantha had gone back to her ex, but that this wasn't a reflection on him - just on how fickle Samantha was.

She brushed her hand over his face, wiped a tear away. "Why don't you go freshen up? Go wash your face, make yourself feel better. Maybe we could go grab a drink, or something?" Delicately she brushed her lips over his cheek, and he rose to head back into the bathroom.

///

As soon as the bathroom door closed, she quickly disrobed, and lay on his bed in her lacy blue lingerie - a matching plunge bra and thong set, practically sheer, very little left to the imagination. She was determined to make him feel better.

She smiled inwardly as she watched his eyes go wide when he came back into the bedroom.

Then she watched him shake his head. "Izzy. I should have realised."

Rumbled. "What gave me away?"

"You went too far, too fast. Would you have gone through with it? Slept with me, to make the betrayal and humiliation complete?"

He turned his back on her, started fiddling with the Hi-Fi. Axl cut off, singing something about one bad apple spoiling the whole damn bunch.

She rolled off the bed, stalked towards him. "I'm still gonna fuck you," she growled. "That bitch doesn't deserve you. Let me show you what a real slut can do."

"She's not a bitch," he objected.

"But she is a slut. She's probably still fucking Mick right now. Why should she get some, and you go without?"

Or me, more importantly. She pressed her body against his, stroking her hand down to his groin, and was pleased to find him hard and ready. "See? You want me. We both know I'm much hotter than that fat cow. We only hang round with her 'cos she makes us look that much sexier. Come fuck me. I'll let you do things to me that she would never do with you."

Paul just smiled. She knew nothing about their relationship. His desires for her weren't just vanilla, and she'd never turned him down for anything. Most of the time, it was Samantha making the depraved suggestions...