With a Sunday afternoon unexpectedly free – many thanks to Richard’s rabble of students, to a man seemingly unable to cope with the dual pressures of actually doing work and handing it in on time, leaving Richard with piles of marking to do – I decided to hit the bookshops. Sounds sad, I know, but I find little to compare with the simple pleasure afforded by wrapping myself in a good book! Internet sites are all terribly convenient, but for me book shopping should be a tactile, sensual experience. I need to pick up and flick through fifty books before I decide. Thus, opting for the tram over the car in case I fancied a glass of wine with lunch, I set off after a long lie-in, feeling distinctly smug that I was enjoying such a laid back Sunday whilst Richard slaved over a pile of hot books.
By two, and with five confirmed purchases already painted on the side of my shopping bag (making me officially a shopping ace) I trained my sights on my favourite Italians – a good red wine and a mushroom pizza! There’s a little place that I like to go for lunch, with the girls sometimes but more usually when I’m on my own, where there are some private little booths, and it was here I aimed to get through a couple of chapters/glasses at my own leisurely pace. The waiter smiled with recognition and, talking and laughing far too rapidly for any comprehension on my part as he showed me to a corner booth, with a single continuous semicircular sofa. I understood through his failure to bring me a menu that he would simply bring my normal order, and when he quickly reappeared with the actual ark that Noah built and begin filling it with red wine I knew he and I were in sync.(XXX Stories)
I was only three or four pages into my chosen first read when the world ended. Well, not ended as such, but certainly the thunderous banging on the window was enough to convince any god-fearing lapsed Catholic like me that it was at least nigh. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised to see Ben banging on the window. He was with a friend, and there followed an elaborate miming game, in which Ben I think pretended to be a long distance lorry driving chipmunk with a chainsaw. Soon however they were seated across the table from me, so upon reflection I imagine they were in some way asking if it was okay to join me for lunch.
“Caitlin, this is my friend Christian. We were at university together.” Can’t honestly say I was paying attention at this point. Once again I was struck just how gorgeous Ben really was, and similarly struck by how much my girly crush on him was growing. Not that his friend was a moose, you understand, far from it.
“Bon après-midi, Caitlin, it is nice to meet you.” His accent sounded to these uneducated ears like French. He was slightly taller and broader than Ben, with close-cropped hair and small dark eyes that were exactly the right distance apart.
“How do you do, Christian,” I said, aware that it seemed a very old-fashioned thing to say. “Is that a French accent?”
“Mais oui, Madame. I was born on the island of Corsica, in a small village near the town of Bastia.”
“How do you come to find yourself so far from what must be a much more pleasant Mediterranean climate?”
“I work with computers, writing software. My company has recently opened an office over here, so I thought it would be fun to look my friend Benjamin up again!” They laughed, looking at each other, and it wasn’t difficult to guess where Ben’s distinctive laugh had come from. It was that sort of shared laugh that makes other parties feel paranoid and excluded, so I broke it up with another question.
“So you and Ben were in the same classes?” I asked, sipping wine and closing my book reluctantly. Not sipping wine reluctantly – that’s never a problem for me, you understand – just having to close my book. Could be worse, I reasoned, it’s not as though either of them were terribly hard on the eyes. The question actually made them laugh more.
“No,” Christian giggled, “Ben and I like to fuck the same girls!” Again I silently deplored the decline in morals in public speaking. When did it become okay to speak like that with strangers? Did I miss a memo? Something of my feelings must have seeped through to my expression, because Ben stopped laughing momentarily in order to clear up the mis-understanding.
“Whilst we were first years, we discovered we were both seeing the same girl. We were innocent enough, she was leading both of us on. We arranged it so that I walked in on her whilst she was with Christian, and that way we could confront her.”
“And what happened?” I asked, fearing the answer but unable to stop myself. Christian spoke first, laughing loudly.
“Ben decided he would rather watch us two fuck than split up!” Ben and I simultaneously wished Christian could master the art of speaking discreetly in public, but apparently for different reasons. I just wanted him to stop shouting the F-word at the top of his voice, but by Ben’s grimace I could tell his friend had exposed a raw nerve. “Ben has not spoken of this with you, no?”
“Our acquaintance has been rather brief.” I rejoindered prissily.
“But you two are fucking, non?”
“Most certainly not!” I huffed. “Ben’s father and I are… involved,” I added, seeking a word that would add gravitas to our relationship. Christian looked serious for a moment, his countenance radically different when he was not laughing. He lowered his head in silence.
“Madame, I am truly sorry. I did not realise this was so, you are Ben’s (French for step-mum), his… ah, his step-mother, non? Again I am very sorry!” Actually, I think the suggestion that I was in some capacity Ben’s mother was worse than the suggestion that we were sl**ping together.
“That’s no problem Christian, you weren’t to know, and clearly Ben had failed to apprise you of this situation.”
“Oui Madame, during our brief conversation on the way into the restaurant this was not what Ben told me.” Wondering and worrying precisely what it had been that Ben had told his friend of me, I tried to change the subject back to something more light-hearted.
“So tell me how you resolved the situation with the young lady you were sharing?” I asked, hoping this would lead only to laughter and not more swearing. There was a look that passed between them, lasting only for an instant, but clearly something important was communicated in that time. I longed to ask what it was supposed to be, but without being rude I couldn’t very well demand to know.
“Well, as I said before,” Christian offered, mercifully lowering his voice, “Ben was supposed to storm into the room whilst I was, you know, ‘with’ her, cause a scene and expose her little fun.”
“Supposed to?” I asked, looking at Ben whilst draining my glass. In turn he had found something very interesting across the street to watch amongst a group of pigeons. Christian paused, and I was left with the feeling that he was waiting for Ben to interject, but as Ben remained motionless, Christian took it as permission to continue with the story.
“I arranged my rendezvous with the young lady, in her room, and as agreed I made sure the door remained unlocked, in order for Ben to enter and catch us at it, as you say.” Watching him, listening to him tell the story, left me in no doubt as to how Christian was able to get the unnamed young girl into bed. Just his presence was mesmeric.
“Ben never entered. I had to, uh, keep going for as long as possible, thinking Ben must have been held up, but Ben never arrived.”
“And where was our mutual friend? I assume he must have been delayed.” I asked as Christian refreshed my glass again.
“Pardon Madame, but non. I should have been more precise. Ben entered the room, but did not interrupt.” With a look that my late husband always said made me look at my most stupid, I indicated that I wasn’t following the story. Again he looked at Ben, but this time they held each other’s gaze. This time the interlude ended with quiet grins from each man. “Well, as agreed I was entertaining our girlfriend. She was in a particularly, umm, imaginative, exotic mood and took some satisfying. I was…” There was a brief whispered conversation in French between them as I waited for the story to continue. “Pardonnez-moi, Madame. I was pacing myself, believing Ben to be on his way. The young lady in question took this to be a game on my part, some way to delay her climax. Accordingly our love-making became quite a battle”. That was something I could identify with, although not quite in the way that Christian meant. Getting Richard to make love was the battle for me. I’ve never considered myself to be particularly highly sexed, but then in truth I’ve never really had chance to find out. My late husband was devoted to the restaurant, working late and very hard, with little energy left over for me. It does make me wonder if there’s something wrong with me, although I suppose if I’d dared to ask either of them they tell me not to be silly and stop taking it so personally. Always easier to blame yourself though, isn’t it?
“Caitlin?” Snapping from my reverie, I looked up and smiled at the sound of the French accent. This was a particular favourite spiral descent for my thoughts, and always left me maudlin. Red wire and maudlin thoughts were not a combination I yearned for at this time. I had these two gorgeous young men for company, and red wine always goes better with hot men!
“Sorry! I was miles away.”
“I thought we had offended you with our story, that was not my intention.”
“Absolutely not,” I said, laughing with slightly f***ed gaiety, “in fact, let’s hear more of them! How does this story end?”
“Well, Ben was nowhere to be seen, so I availed myself of our young lady. In fact, he was there the whole time, watching us. Ben was discovering that he liked to watch, perhaps more than he actually liked to screw!” I smiled demurely at Christian as he told the story, but my thoughts were with Ben. As they slipped easily into other stories of shared escapades – most of which seemed to feature Ben as director and audience simultaneously – my thought continually strayed until I found I had cast myself in our own little productions, thinking that if he were in the room I don’t know how I would keep myself away from him no matter who my co-star should have been.
They ordered pasta and we ate together, as they seemed to have no other plans for the afternoon. Christian ensured that no-one’s glass ever emptied, and here I admit that I should have been attentive, for I was become well lubricated in more ways than one. Each story seemed more ribald than the last and Christian grew more animated in the telling, and we all laughed together at each one. Desserts were ordered and I caught myself thinking that it was a shame we would all have to leave soon. I’m not at all a morose or introspective person but it was a long time since I had laughed this hard for this long. The waiter brought over three servings of strawberries and cream, setting them down with a flourish and collecting empty wine bottles in the same movement.
“So Caitlin, you have no stories to share with us?” Christian, clearly the unofficial spokesman for the group, asked upon his return from the bathroom. I wasn’t too far gone to notice that Christian had sat on the opposite side on his return so that I was effectively captive, with one on either side of me.
“I don’t Christian, nothing like yours anyway.”
“But you are a beautiful woman, sexy (no, the sun didn’t just go supernova, that’s just me blushing), some man somewhere must have been inspired to do any number of depraved acts?”
“Well, I married straight out of university myself, that’s where I met my late husband. We were together until he died, four years ago. I had known Ben’s father for some time. He asked me out, we have been together the last year or so. That’s it, really.”
“That’s it? Two lovers?” Christian asked, with, it has to be said, remarkably little tact, for which he received a thump on the arm from Ben. “My apologies, Madame,” he continued, bowing his head graciously, “but you are beautiful, you are intelligent and you are very sexy. How have you had only two men in your bed, it is all wrong! Quelle scandale! You should be, pardonnez-moi, what is Ben’s saying? Shitting them with a stick?” There was a pause while we tried to understand what Christian meant. Suddenly Ben slapped the tabletop with his palm, laughing.
“The phrase is, ‘beating them off with a shitty stick’!” We laughed as Christian blushed at his mistake.
“Yes, yes, ca va,” he smiled at his friend, “but my point is the same. It is not right for Caitlin to only have had two men in her life, even I have had more men than that!” He shrugged as Ben looked at him with incredulity. “Hey, I experiment a little here and there, there is much yet you do not know about me, mon ami!”
His point was rammed home with f***e with this last revelation. He was a beautiful young man, no doubt, but if he has had sex with more men than me I should pack up and become a nun now. Seriously.
“Well, there’s little I can do about it now. I can’t go back in time and I’m with Ben’s father now.” I should have seen Christian’s trap, I fell into it quick enough and it was clearly very well signposted.
“Ah Madame, what Monsieur ??? Does not know, cannot bring him any harm.” I looked at Ben, expecting an outcry, but his countenance remained unchanged. I watched him constantly even though Christian was the one speaking.
“Let us just speak, ah, with the imagination?”
“Hypothetically.” Ben corrected gently.
“Let us speak hypothetically, je tu remercie Ben. Let us say that you were to have sex with someone else. It’s just the sex, no hearts, no minds. Everyone has sex and no one gets hurt because only people who need to know do. Where is the harm in that?”
“Because I would know, and I think that I could not help but feel guilty.”
“The guilt only comes with hurting someone, someone you care about. Perhaps it would hurt less if you were to tell that someone that they were inadequate, a bad lover, and you were going to leave them for someone who wanted to have sex.” His argument was flimsy, but it made me think, particularly when combined when with his jibe about having slept with more men than me.
“But even if I were to start having sex behind Richard’s back, it would be difficult for me to find someone compatible, someone I could trust. Still speaking hypothetically, of course.” Yeah, right. There was nothing hypothetical about this conversation any more, somehow it had become very serious.
“Why do you want someone compatible?” Christian asked. “It sounds to me more like you need someone who can show you what you’ve been missing.”
“And even if that were true, which I doubt, who would I -” Like Road Runner, the trap in front of me was obvious to everyone else and should have been to me, and yet still I blundered into it. “You? Why? How, more to the point? You wouldn’t be interested in an old housewife twice your age.” Sounds harsh, but what was worse was that I actually believed what I said. I think it was a legacy of largely being ignored in the bedroom for so long. Christian opened his mouth to answer me, but stopped.
Instead he smiled, first at Ben, then at me. He shuffled his bum a little until he was sat a little closer to me. Removing his hands from the table top, he fumbled around in his lap until it struck me precisely what he meant to do. In horror I stretched out a hand, intending to stop him, but instead I put my hand straight onto the shaft of his cock and before I could move it he took hold of my wrist.
I counted them later and I remember feeling about twenty different things at that point. Horror at the fact he was exposing himself in public (although no one inside the restaurant could see anything, not even close), shock at having my hand on his, or indeed any, cock; incredulous at his sheer temerity, loads of other things. Holding my hand in place at the wrist, with his other hand he curled my fingers around his shaft and began playing with himself, using my hand. He grinned, slyly.
“You see, Madame Caitlin, the effect you have on me. Since we came to sit with you I have thought about nothing else but fucking you.” His voice was low and hypnotic, and I half-expected him to start singing ‘trust in me’ with googly eyes. “I could take you now; throw you over this table here, pull your skirt up and rip off your knickers. I would thrust hard, make you make a lot of noise. Hold your head down so you couldn’t move, slap your ass and leave bright red handprints on your skin. When I was done fucking you, I would turn you round and make you kneel and front of me. Then, I would wank myself off so that when I come, I come all down your tits.” Leaning in all the time he was talking, I could smell the wine on his breath. His lips were almost touching my cheek. “And you know what? Ben here would like to watch while I do it to you.”
Shaken a little from my trance, I looked at Ben. Still his face had changed little, as though he was used to his friend propositioning his father’s girlfriends. He probably was used to in fact, but that did little to help me. Head spinning, I don’t think the things that were happening to me were fully internalised. My thoughts seemed to come incredibly slowly. For example, it was several seconds since Christian had released my left hand, yet I was still playing with him under the table. Slowly, what had been a promising start was becoming fully realised as his erection became fully formed in my hand. I looked down at my hand, still wrapped around the shaft, as though it were someone else’s. Finally managing to loose my eyes – if not my hand – from his prick, I looked Christian in the eye, looking for a hint of motive. His eyes seemed black and dead, like a shark’s. I was dimly aware he was talking again, casting a new spell on me.
“Caitlin, I think you’re being very selfish. I think that Ben would also like to show you that he feels the same way about you.” I felt my head nodding as though controlled by someone else. Turning slowly to face Ben, I thought that he seemed to be sat closer than before. Whatever controlled my body at that point moved my hand into Ben’s lap, set my fingers fumbling at his zip. I started at the sensation of red hot flesh on the back of my fingers before realising that Ben had no shorts on under his jeans. In a flash – how appropriate – Ben’s prick was out too, and I was massaging it with my right hand as I looked after Christian with my left. Like a spectator at Wimbledon my head went back and forth, looking at first one then the other. Christian’s penis was like the two others I’d seen, veined and hairy around the balls, but slightly longer and wider. Ben’s, on the other hand, was overriding proof that God was a woman. Hairless and smooth, and longer than Christian’s by more than an inch, it was truly a joy to be holding and for the first time I consciously contemplated having it inside me, in my mouth, in my poor, soaking little vagina.
As Christian inhaled to speak I stopped him with a kiss, short and chaste, but enough. I needed quiet for contemplation, and Ben seemed to understand that better. I hadn’t noticed his hand on my thigh, engrossed as I was in my own little feel-athon, but now it slipped quickly and easily further up my thigh, under my skirt, over the taut, damp material of my knickers. With a swift, practiced movement the material obscured my hole no longer, and deftly his digits sought my lips, my hole, my clit. Such was my soaring arousal I could not help but emit sounds, noises of pleasure, released in syncopation with the movements of his fingers around my sex. He concentrated on my clitoris, working it slowly and delicately, as though not wanting to rush. With teamwork that seemed too practiced to be off the cuff, Christian’s long and dextrous fingers replaced Ben’s in manipulating my hole. This was arousal as I had not experienced it since I was young woman in the throes of being a newlywed, and all it took was a prick in each hand and the feeling of being masturbated in public by my boyfriend’s son and a stranger I’d known for a couple of hours!
After a little squirming and wriggling on my part I managed to get my legs open wider to allow the boys better access. Christian now had two fingers inside me, working them in and out slowly, not quite in time with Ben’s massaging of my clitoris but certainly close enough to ensure that an orgasm – my first in so long that even an ascetic, celibate nun would advise me to get down to the toys department at Anne Summers – would not be long in arriving. We were safe in our little gropers’ corner, there being few other customers and our waiter amusing himself with two pretty young things on a table at the other side of the room. I looked down at my two cocks again. Christian’s was already leaking fluid, clear and glistening, and I had the impression from his snatched, hurried breathing that like me he might be close to coming. He was mumbling under his breath and often screwed his eyes shut tight. I wanted to go down in him, take him in my mouth, which was something I had done only once or twice in the last four years. Fumbling under the table was one thing; I doubt our luck would extend to oral sex on the sofa.
And then I felt my heart lurch as I entered the home straight. I could no longer masturbate my two beautiful boys as it took all my concentration not to scream out. Instead I followed Christian’s lead and closed my eyes, repeating yes, yes, yes under my breath and digging my heels into the floor. My ascent continued steadily yet unbearably slowly.
“Make me come, oh God make me come!” I hissed at them. It was too much for Christian, who lost all sense of timing and rhythm. He grabbed at his cock, effectively taking hold of my hand again, and began wanking in time with the thrust of his fingers in and out of my pussy. He starting kissing and gnawing at my neck as he too started to lose control, and it struck my how glorious it was to initiate such abandon in another. This gorgeous young man, who could surely take his pick of any girl when he stepped into a room, was on the verge of orgasm at the thought of me.
That was too much, my bridge too far. Catching my breath I thrust backwards into the sofa as my orgasm rocketed through me, and I did my best to maintain both decorum and silence. Christian fared worse, speeding up the manipulation of his shaft with a series of harsh, guttural grunts. Both stopped suddenly as he too reached his orgasm, and although he did his best to contain it a strangled jet of thick, white fluid shot forth and landed across my thigh, startling me with its heat.
As our orgasms subsided we sat back together, the sound of laboured breathing being brought under control the only sound. I still had hold of their penises, Christian’s rapidly subsiding, Ben’s still proud and tense. At that point I set off on a daydream of the restaurant being empty but for Ben and I, so that I could take care of Ben too in a much more leisurely way. This I felt was the essence of their teamwork. Christian was about carnal urges, fucking in it most base sense. Ben was about the build-up, the mood, and the execution rather than the act. Christian was the warm-up; Ben was the main act, and it was he whose prick I now coveted.
The slimy seeping of Christian’s semen onto the sweat-sticky leather sofa brought me about. Dropping their pricks like they’d suddenly become dead rats, the reality of what we had done hit home and I rose quickly and excused myself to the bathroom. When I emerged ten minutes, white and shaken, the two men were at the bar settling the bill. I grabbed my bags and quietly slipped out of the restaurant without them seeing.