In the Days of Disco

Back in the days when your mother was young (but not mine, bless her, still going strong at ninety) liberation spread across the dancefloors, first of America, and then on to the world. It could be inclusive or elitist, or both at the same time, but sex and drugs and

'Love to Love You, Baby'

took over the world for a brief period, and even young, rich, white trust fund snobs could be found beneath the glitter ball in full-length halter necks and tailored flares. By 1978 London loved to boogie, too, but this was in the days when entertainment was still regulated -- clubs had to close at 3 a.m., on pain of death or something similar, whilst the pubs had to close at the eye-wateringly early hour of 11.

Anyone of a certain age will remember the rush to stock up with beers at ten to eleven, followed by the relative silence as the dedicated drinkers sought to work their way through their supply before the last drinkers had to leave at 11.20. Aaah, happy days... But some pubs were open, if you were in the know, and Charlie Townsend certainly was. After the door staff at Tramp on Jermyn Street gently ushered them out Sarah and Angela were still buzzing from a night on the dancefloor, didn't want it to end, and Charlie grinned.

"Fancy slumming it?" he drawled, glancing over the small group he unofficially 'led'.

"Not south of the river, surely?" said Sarah, and her expensive blonde tresses quivered a little.

"You're such a snob," laughed Archie Drake.

"Look who's talking, Mr My-Dad's-In-The-Government," Sarah shot back giggling.

"Look, I know a place for a drink," said Charlie, a little impatient, his eyes rolling at Sarah and Archie -- damn it, why couldn't they just fuck each other instead of this endless flirting -- "no dancing though. Sorry. Are you in or out?"

"I'm in for a couple," said Archie, "my boss is on holiday this week so I can roll in whenever I want."

Charlie glanced over at Angela who simply shrugged, non-committal, and he wondered about her again. Or more to the point, he wondered whether she'd ever do the decent thing and take her panties off for him. She was slender and graceful and she danced like an angel -- apt, given her name -- but when the music went away she was distant and he'd tried everything to get a little closer. He'd evinced an interest in her work at the private gallery, in her life when she retreated to her parent's estate in the country, he'd talked about the clothes she preferred, he'd joked and bought her drinks and she'd been infuriatingly polite, and had spoken quietly with Sarah when the boys were away (he knew that from his surreptitious studies of her in both club and pub), but he could get nothing more than a superficial acquaintance with her. And that sort of thing is exasperating for the average alpha male.

Everyone seemed up for another drink, though, so Charlie flagged down a black cab and they tumbled into the back, Archie and Sarah giggling away and Angela carefully arranging her skirt as she perched on the fold-down chair behind the driver. Charlie called out, "Smithfield Market," and they were off, Sarah pretending indignation as they turned into a side street and Archie tumbled momentarily against her. And still Angela kept her own counsel, though if you'd studied her closely (and soberly, something beyond her friends) you might have noticed a certain repressed interest once Charlie mentioned their destination, which you might even have ascribed to excitement.

"Smithfield Market," drawled Sarah in her elitist tones, fostered by the best education money could buy, "isn't that where they cut up slabs of meat?"

"It's where they sell meat wholesale," said Angela, quietly, her first contribution in more than half-an-hour.

"Ugh! How plebeian!" laughed Sarah.

"Perhaps," said Charlie, trying to regain some control over events, "but they won't thank you for pointing it out. Anyway, there's a watering hole for the market porters and so on, and it's open when everything else is shut because those chaps work at night."

The brief drive came to an end, and as Archie passed the cabbie the relevant fare plus tip Charlie sprang out and held the door for Angela, who flashed him the briefest smile, and then Sarah stepped out behind her. And she gave him a smile that showed she knew exactly what he was after. Oh well, he was hardly hiding his intentions, and perhaps she might chivvy Angela along, best friend style.

The friends looked at the market building, a vast brick cathedral of carnivorous death, extending away in each direction, and looking like one of the huge main railway stations from the golden age of steam. The entrance to the pub was unremarkable; a simple door in the side of the market building, but the sign above it immediately drew Sarah's attention.

"Ooh, look," said Sarah, tugging on Angela's arm with a lascivious grin, "the Cock Tavern. Angela likes the Cock, Charlie, don't you darling?"

"You'd know more about that, sweetie," said Angela, clearly not wildly keen on the joke, "you've tried so many, after all."

And with that Archie held open the door and Charlie led the way down the stairs into the basement pub. It was a world away from their experience, busy with workers taking a break with a pint of mild, bloodied hats and aprons from the market above, and a fog of cigarette smoke hovering beneath the low ceiling. The workers cast them the briefest of glances and immediately wrote them off as tourists, and whilst they weren't hostile, exactly, the cold shoulder emanated from them in waves. Even Sarah felt it, and as Charlie secured a corner table they walked quietly over and took their seats.

Angela slipped off her satin jacket before she sat, and caught the eye of two of the younger porters, likely looking lads pushing at thirty sitting across from them at the other corner table and smarter than their co-workers, with no obvious blood in sight as if they'd finished for the night already and changed their clothes. She made a little play of hanging her jacket over the seat back, and hanging her small purse over it, giving them some time to take in her bare arms and back, shown off by her coffee-coloured halter neck dress, and register that she was braless. And then she sat, ostentatiously ignoring them as Archie procured gin and tonics.

"No bloody champagne," he grumbled as he manoeuvred the tray of drinks onto the small table, edging the ashtray away to make space.

"What did you expect?" said Charlie, "you think they swig Moet between off-loading sides of beef?"

And the friends were silent for a moment, taking in their proletarian surroundings; Sarah quietly horrified (nothing like this ever featured in the Liberty catalogue) and Archie quietly wondering when a large working class thug might take exception to their presence. Charlie was mildly amused at his friends' barely concealed reactions -- they thought they were living on the wild side but they were merely pretenders, posers only really at home in Knightsbridge and the West End.

What the locals saw, on the other hand, were four young twenty-something arseholes from the bright lights, treating their workplace like a human zoo with disdain etched on their faces. Of course, they were beautiful, in their way; Charlie cool in flowered shirt and rose-coloured shades and Archie clearly a rugby player, big enough to be off-putting in his black suit with wide lapels. The girls were worth a second look -- Sarah, blonde, her pale blue wraparound dress showing off tits and arse as she laughed a little too loudly, and Angela, the quiet one, the one really worth looking at, auburn hair and legs up to there, glancing back at the two men she'd briefly locked eyes with before, with a look that said that a) she thought her friends were dumb and, b) slumming it meant something more intimate to her.

"Another?" said Archie, punishing his G&T and looking around at the others.

"Go on then," said Sarah, and Charlie nodded.

"Not for me," said Angela, getting to her feet, "I've got a headache and I think I'll head home."

"I'll make sure..." began Charlie, pushing his chair back.

"No need," said Angela, swiftly pulling her purse and jacket off the back of the chair, "I'll jump in a cab. I'll probably be home before you've finished your drinks. And if necessary, I'm sure I'll find someone to help me."

With that she glanced over at the two younger porters at the side table again, and if Charlie and co were several drinks slow on the uptake, these two weren't. Angela slid past their table with a swish of her hips and ascended the stairs, giving them only the slightest glance as she swanned past, Charlie looking after her, frustrated and pondering whether to ever give the bitch another chance. The two young men needed no second invitation but they waited a few seconds before finishing their beers and standing. They looked quizzically at each other, the sense being that each thought the invitation was for him alone, but they walked to the stairs and climbed them before speaking.

"I think it's me," said Tony, darker and broader, and certainly cockier than his friend.

"We'll see, won't we?" answered Paul, taller and quietly self-assured.

Angela had already flagged down a passing black cab as they stepped out into the bustling market, the August dawn already well advanced, and she left the door open as she climbed into the back, arranging her jacket next to her then looking calmly back at the men. Paul and Tony stopped; which one of them was being requested? Or was it both of them?

"There's room for two in the back, if you're wondering," said Angela, solving their dilemma.

Paul and Tony looked at each other; were they really going to? They'd been out trying (and succeeding fairly often) to pick up girls, but they had never been faced with the option of a devil's threesome before. Paul shrugged -- why not? He was comfortable with his sexuality, and if Tony didn't get in the taxi then he'd have the girl all to himself. That thought obviously occurred to Tony, too, but though Paul had finished his early shift Tony was still nominally meant to be at work. Ah screw it! He hated his boss, and McLaren's had already promised him a job in the poultry hall. He followed Paul into the back of the taxi.

They introduced themselves in turn, a little deferential given the obvious class difference (and in 1978 it still really meant something), but Angela only nodded and gave the taxi driver her Belgravia address. The taxi driver sensed that speed was of the essence but fortunately there was still a good hour and a half before the morning traffic really picked up. And as they drove Angela sat aloof, and Paul and Tony sat uncomfortably, Paul producing a light for Tony when he fished out a cigarette but no conversation between them -- certainly one of the stranger preludes to a threesome.

Angela lived in a flat Daddy paid for, in an art deco block called Wilmslow Mansions between the National Portrait Gallery and Sloane Square. On catching sight of it as the taxi pulled up the boys knew they'd struck it rich -- unless Angela was an au pair or something, and the family were away; no, she practically dripped enough breeding to fill the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. Paul reached into his pocket to pay the cabbie but Angela stopped him.

"My invitation," she said, pulling out a fiver, "so I'll pay."

And she stepped lightly out of the cab, fishing in her bag for her keys as the young men followed, Tony catching the taxi driver's eye and returning his knowing smirk. Angela pushed open the door into the hallway and led Paul and Tony across the elegant foyer to the cramped lift, sliding open the scissor gate and letting them in before she followed and closed the gate behind her. And now, at last, she looked like the cat that had got the cream as she pressed the button for the third floor.

She reached out to the men as the lift slowly cranked itself up past the first floor, brushed her fingers across their crotches and breathed in deeply. Paul was fine with this, liking 'his' girls to be forward and definite about what they wanted, but Tony hesitated a little, intimidated, but whether that was due to her sexual openness or to the gulf in their social status even he wouldn't have been able to say.

"You know," Angela murmured, "I like being told what to do, sometimes."

Well, that suited Paul and Tony both, and they slid closer to her as she softly stroked the bulges that grew until the lift shuddered to a halt and Angela grinned and opened the scissor gate. She led along her thickly carpeted hallway, their feet making no sound, and then she stopped at her apartment door and unlocked it, stepping in with a toss of her head, theatrically popping her foot as she did so. Paul and Tony followed her in circumspectly, as if they were always a little careful on entering a strange place.

The apartment was quite small, the hallway traversed with a single stride. The living room was well appointed; the furniture was best quality with a discreet floral pattern on the soft furnishings, and there was a Bang and Olufsen next to the TV. Paul and Tony hovered in the doorway as Angela dropped her purse and jacket on a chair by the door.

"Drinks there," she said, pointing to a sideboard, "or if you prefer something recreational..." and here she pointed to a small carved box on the glass coffee table, next to a book of Man Ray prints. Tony wandered over to the table and casually lifted the lid of the box. The smell that came out was pungent, in keeping with the ground green leaves, and he raised his eyebrows, while Paul kept his eyes firmly on Angela.

"Perhaps bring it into the bedroom, after we shower. Could you help me with this?" And this was addressed to Paul as she turned her back to him, lifting her hair so he could untie her halter neck. He obliged, not hurrying despite his wish to -- this girl was too cool for anyone who appeared eager. The fabric was tied in a simple double knot and he was glad to be able to simply flick the knot open as she held the top to her chest rather than need to struggle and look like a dunce.

"You will join me, won't you?" said Angela, glancing back at him, and then she let the fabric drop to her waist, revealing small tits with prominent pink nipples.

Tony swallowed and nodded whilst Paul smiled lazily, both of them watching as she slipped the dress over her hips and let it fall to the floor. She was unselfconsciously standing in just light tan tights and pale blue panties beneath them, and her silver high-heeled sandals, knowing that Paul and Tony liked what they saw. Then she lifted up one foot, and then the other, flicking open the buckles on her shoes and slipping them off before walking confidently past Tony, so close she almost touched him, to the door leading through her small dining room back into her hallway. Paul grinned at Tony and followed her, his friend only a half-step behind, and they let her lead them into her bathroom where she rolled her tights and panties down and off, then leant into her shower cubicle and turned on the water.

"It'll be a bit of a squeeze," she smiled, "I hope you don't mind."

And first Tony, and then Paul, began to strip; jeans and t-shirts piling up on the floor tiles. Angela watched, blatantly, enjoying their bodies as they'd enjoyed hers. Tony was well-muscled, but despite his work he was a little out of tone -- too much beer and chips. Paul was in great shape, however, a legacy of his six-year stint in the Royal Green Jackets. He'd loved his time in the army, but a looming deployment to Northern Ireland had persuaded him that his future lay elsewhere. Still, he kept his hair military short in contrast to Tony's collar length locks. What Angela wanted to see, however, were cocks. And neither man disappointed: Tony was perhaps a touch shorter and Paul had an intriguing bend, but most importantly both were somewhat bigger than average, and both men were clearly ready to go. She wound up her hair then stepped into the cubicle, letting the warm water cascade off her.

Tony glanced over at Paul, religiously avoiding looking at his cock, his hesitancy clear once more. Paul glanced back and grinned, then deliberately looked down his body, theatrically opening his eyes wide as he stared at Tony's dick. Tony snorted with suppressed laughter -- yep, there really was no need to take this all too seriously. And with that he stepped into the cubicle to join Angela.

"Will you soap my back, please," she said, her voice artfully innocent as she passed him the bottle of shower gel. Tony took the bottle and Angela turned her back to him as Paul stepped into the cubicle, and yes, it was a little cramped but not so much that three people couldn't move around, though they might just get pressed against each other...

Angela murmured as she reached out for Paul, brushing her fingertips across his chest. And she liked that chest, liked the hardness of his muscles, and as she let her fingers trail down over his stomach she gasped softly and shivered as Tony let the soap dribble over her shoulders. Then she reached up with her left hand, putting it around the back of Paul's neck, and reached out just as definitely with her other hand, grasping his cock as she pulled him down into a passionate kiss, pressing herself against him as she slowly stroked him, feeling wet as he grew hard in her hand.

Tony wasn't idle, caressing the soap over Angela's back and down to her arse. She whimpered softly as he ran his hands over her sensitive butt, and she let her hand fall from the back of Paul's head, reaching around to grip Tony's cock, just as she had Paul's. Tony grunted and Angela broke from Paul's kiss, looking down over her shoulder to watch herself wanking Tony, then back to watch herself wanking Paul. And if she seemed to be taking it all in her stride, well, it wasn't her first time...

She stopped for a moment and took the shower gel from Tony's unresisting hand, pouring some in each palm before resuming her ministrations, and now the boys were at another level. Paul let his head fall back, groaning with lubricated pleasure and Tony found himself having to concentrate -- if she carried on too long he would be coming all over her bathroom. He put his hand on hers, slowing her down, and she grinned as their eyes met, pride in her skills written all over her face.

"Clean and ready, I think," she said, her tone teasing, and she was past them and out of the shower, grabbing a large towel from the rack, "do you think you could dry me off, then?"

Paul and Tony almost fell over each other to join her, Tony grabbing the towel from her hands and standing close in front of her, leaving Paul to grab another towel from the rack and concentrate on her back. Tony was soft for a moment, brushing the towel against her tits, but as she sucked in a breath and her nipples rose he pressed himself against her and they kissed deeply. He slid the towel down her, over her stomach as she reached around him, grabbing his wet arse and pulling him closer to her, her tits now pressed against his chest.

And Paul had the second towel against her back, moving it down over her arse and making little attempt to actually dry her. In a moment he simply sandwiched her between himself and Tony, his hard cock in the small of her back as she let out a little whimper of pleasure that grew stronger, louder, as Tony reached down between her legs and his questing finger found her pussy.

"Oh fuck, yeah!" she gasped as she broke the kiss and threw an arm back around Paul's head, pulling him down so he could eat her neck.

Tony surged a little as he discovered how wet she was, circling his finger around her and feeling her legs tremble slightly. Then he recoiled a little, feeling Paul probing with his own finger, but soon returned, now moving up and brushing against her clit as Paul dipped a finger into her. Angela gasped again, the pleasure getting intense, and it was her turn to feel an orgasm on the horizon as Tony caressed her clit and Paul slowly finger fucked her, the feel of their stiff cocks against her smooth skin an added bonus.