The Dinner Party

The Professor was an interesting guy when addressing his own subject, forensic pathology, but otherwise, thought Richard, he was as stimulating as a dry hump in Halifax on a wet Whit-Sunday. But because Queenie, Richard's wife, was the Prof's colleague, she had dragged him along to this dinner party in the big house near Regent's Park. Richard's battered old Jag was now parked outside, rubbing shoulders with shiny Mercs and sleek Porsches. Richard was parked inside, at the table, rubbing shoulders with a totally resistible, redheaded, 50-ish lecturer on tropical diseases.

"And I could be in the Plough right now," he thought, "watching Juicy Janey's big tits bouncing over the beer pumps...and wondering if there's a lucky guy she'll decide to blow tonight..." And his cock twitched in his boxer shorts as he remembered being the chosen one a week before...("Richard, darlin', will you come down to the cellar and help me change a barrel?" And hardly had the cellar trap closed above them when she was on her knees and grabbing for his crotch)...and he began to harden as he remembered her tongue teasing his swollen knob; her wide, wet mouth closing on him; the slurping sounds of enjoyment from her as she greedily gobbled his shaft; and, at the end, the way she had grinned up at him, with a thick thread of cum drooling from the corner of her mouth...

"Ah...er...sorry...didn't quite catch you..." (and neither will any other man who can run fast enough in the opposite direction); his ginger haired neighbour had asked him a question. She repeated it. Hastily rearranging his napkin to hide the bulge at his groin, he explained as politely as possible that, no, he didn't actually watch

Brookside

, and thus could not say whether or not it presented an accurate picture of hygienic practices on Merseyside c.1987. She subsided.

Really, thought Richard, the only women worth looking at here are Queenie—and she's my wife, and so doesn't count—and the Prof's wife. And how a guy as dry as a ten-year-old turd landed a looker like that is beyond me...although I suppose a life peerage, even if does date from the Callaghan years, and a shit-load of money from his dad's poison-gas works—or Chinese knocking shops, or whatever the family business was—helped a lot. Emma B-------, the Prof's wife, was not a type he usually fancied: tiny, fragile, no hips or bum...but her tits look promising in that low-cut dress, he mused...

Dinner was over; coffee arrived. Automatically he reached for a cigar, forgetting that this was trendy North London in the late 80s, where ashtrays were as popular as holy water stoups in an Orange Lodge. Queenie glared at him across the table as he fidgeted, daring him to ask if he could light up. Emma, the perfect hostess, rescued him. "Poor Richard," she cooed, "he wants a smoke. It will have to be in the conservatory, I fear. Come, I'll take you there..." He rose and followed her from the room.

The house was enormous...a whole Nash mansion housing just two people. One of whom now took Richard's hand in a friendly manner to guide him through the maze of passages. They reached the conservatory: a glassed-in extension, lit only by moonlight. Emma did not switch on the lights. Nor did she let go of his hand. Instead, she took hold of his other hand and, looking him steadily in the eye, raised both his hands and pressed them firmly against her breasts. Quite matter-of-factly she said: "Richard, I've wanted to fuck you from the moment we were introduced!"

He needed only to slip the two narrow supporting straps of her dress from her shoulders and she was bare to the waist. She wore no bra. Her breasts were high, firm and, although quite small, were tipped by very large nipples: maraschino cherries on raised, dark pink aureoles. Even as he bent his head to taste that fruit, he was manoeuvring her backwards towards the wall. Although almost groggy with surprise, he retained sufficient wit to back her up against the solid party wall, not a fragile glass one.

He pressed hard against her, fondling her breasts with one hand as he hoisted her skirt with the other. Deftly, she unzipped his trousers, slipped in her hand, stroked his cock, ringing it with her fingers as if to show what she would soon do with her quim, and cupped and weighed his balls. He tugged down her knickers, already soaked by her love juice; she stepped out of them. His jeans were around his ankles. She flung both arms round his neck.

Slipping his hands beneath her buttocks, he lifted her up, positioning her so that the swollen head of his cock, already creamy with pre-cum, rested against the lips of her wet and waiting slit. Her legs encircled his waist. Very slowly, savouring every moment, every gasp from her as he penetrated, he lowered her onto his shaft. Slowly, slowly, until every throbbing inch was buried deep inside her.

He began to move, bending his knees to threaten withdrawal, then straightening up again to ram the full length up her. His mouth found her hard, erect nipples and sucked, then bit gently: he felt her cunt contract in time with the movements of his mouth. She was riding hard on his cock now, bearing down to take it as deep as she could. One of his hands moved across her buttocks, parted the cleft; he ran a finger into the tight ring of muscle there, feeling it pulse in rhythm with her convulsing cunt .

She groaned, bit on his shoulder, and, as she approached orgasm, whispered urgently, even fiercely, to him: "ccchrist, yesss...you big bastard...yes, I'd let you take me there, too...let you put that cock wherever you want... fuck my butt...fuck my mouth...take your cum over my face...my hair...ohhh, fuck me, you bastard, fucccckkkkk meeeee!" As she began to come, with cries she muffled by crushing her face against his chest, the force of his thrusts was such that he felt the entire house should be shaking. Her noises now were all he needed to set him off: as he shot his load, her pulsating cunt seemed intent on wringing every last drop from him.