Sunday Day of Rest

This is the fourth day of sexual adventures, reminiscences and fantasies for Pamela and I. Three days of being just as we were when we first met with sex at all hours, but now with the added excitement of other girls. Now day four dawns, Sunday, and we have to take leave of the charms of Gemma Woodbourne.

For those who have followed my account of the last three days, I am so pleased you did and invite you to continue with this chapter. For those who are coming to this for the first time, may I suggest you revert to Chapter One.

Oh yes, I nearly forgot! If any lady readers would like to 'star' in this story, or if any gentlemen readers would enjoy hearing about their own lady's adventures, do please get in touch - I'm sure Pamela will make them feel very welcome ... if you understand me!

As before, your scores and comments are much appreciated - please do continue.

Frank

****

I thought I was dreaming when I awoke the next morning. At first I didn't know where I was, then I remembered we were still in the Grand hotel and it was Sunday. My usual 'morning glory' had been somewhat diluted, not only by cumming in Gemma Woodbourne's panties but also afterwards in Pamela's mouth while we were in the shower. Nevertheless, I was as hard as iron.

"Good morning, baby," she greeted with a whisper in my ear, placing her right hand around the shaft, starting to move it slowly up and down as I lay flat on my back with the duvet pushed back.

I couldn't seem to find any words.

"It's OK," she added. "You go back to sleep."

This time I was properly awake.

"With you doing that?" I challenged. "Some hope."

"Do you want me to stop?" she purred, adjusting her position into lying on her left side alongside me with her head edging onto my pillow so she could whisper into my ear.

"What do you think?" I retorted, prompting a quiet giggle from her.

Silence prevailed for a few seconds as she gently but deliciously kept up the movement of her right hand wrapped around my cock.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked at last. "Gemma, her panties or both?"

I shook my head in the semi-darkness of the room.

"Neither," I replied. "I was wondering how you ever learned to be so good at wanking my cock."

She giggled again, gripping the shaft a little more firmly.

"Am I as good as you are?" she asked, knowing the answer.

"I've had more practice than you," I acknowledged, "but you're a quick learner."

There was silence for a few more seconds.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" she said. "I won't mind if you don't want to answer."

"Sure," I replied, wondering what was coming. "Go ahead."

"When you're away on business, you know, staying in a hotel," she began, "do you jack off when you're in your hotel bed?"

"Well," I replied, surprised at the question and feeling strangely uncomfortable as a result however anxious to overcome it, "if I've bought a girlie magazine to read then ..."

"Mr McMahon!" she interjected with mock horror. "Do I understand you like to look at pictures of naked ladies when you're alone in a hotel room? I had no idea ..."

"Do you mind?" I asked, wondering if I had said the wrong thing.

She went quiet for a few seconds before laughing and kissing my cheek.

"Of course not, baby," she replied. "I would have been surprised if you hadn't taken advantage of being alone and uninterrupted."

I laughed.

"Tell me what you do," she pressed. "If you don't want to talk about it, then it's fine but I'm just interested."

"Well, if I'm giving up all my secrets for a good cause," I said, with a sense of foreboding, "what I like to do is to pull back the duvet and put a towel on the sheet that I lie on, or at least from my waist down to my thighs."

"For when you cum?" she interjected. "I thought you would cum all over one of the girls?"

"No," I retorted. "The towel is to catch any of the baby oil I put on my cock."

"Ah, I see," cried Pamela. "Just like I use when I give you a show to stop my pussy lips getting sore if I'm using a vibrator. Sorry for interrupting. Please go on."

"Next I would put two pillows in a heap about a foot and a half away and positioned where I could see them when lying on my left hand side," I went on, "with the girlie magazine leaning against it standing up."

"OK, let's see if I get the picture," she commented. "You use your left hand, which you keep away from the baby oil, to turn the pages and use your right hand to play with your baby-oiled cock under the duvet. Right?"

"Yes, but as to the duvet, it depends how hot the room is," I explained. "Even in summer, if I've had the air conditioning on all evening when I've been out having dinner or meeting people, it's cool so I would keep it on. It varies."

"So you keep turning the pages and playing," she went on, "presumably until the end. Then what?"

"Well," I replied, after a moment," I would flick back to decide which girl was the hottest and find the sexiest picture of her and position it against the pillows ..."

"Presumably one taken from between her spread thighs?" she put in. "So you could cum all over it."

"No, on both counts," I corrected. "I would usually go back to the first picture of the girl where she is usually fully clothed. The contrast between that one and the one you are describing is the best part. Then I would get a tissue and wrap it around my cock, looking at the girl and then rub myself just enough to push me over the edge to start to cum in the tissue, all the time imagining being in our bedroom watching the girl and you having sex."

"With me?" she asked, sounding surprised. "I'd have thought you would have wanted to imagine you were with her."

"No, I always find it the biggest turn on is imagining her with you," I explained. "There's something about picturing you with another girl that drives me crazy."

"Well, last night with Gemma must have been something," she said, the underestimate of the year. I laughed.

There was another few moments of silence.

"So, in your mind's eye, how many girls, do you suppose, have I had sex with while you've been filling your handkerchief with cum?" she whispered, licking my earlobe. "Hundreds?"

"Oh no way," I quipped. "More than that!"

"Interesting," observed Pamela, surprising me by changing the subject. "For what it's worth, I nearly always play with myself in bed when you're away."

"Really?" I retorted. "I always wondered whether you did or not."

"Does the thought of me doing it turn you on?" she asked, in an inquisitive tone.

"Yes it does. A lot," I replied, honestly. "If I haven't bought a magazine, sometimes I would just turn out the light and play with myself thinking about you playing with yourself."

"What do you picture me doing?" she asked, sounding fascinated. "When you're doing it."

I reflected for a few seconds, not quite sure what to say and how to say it.

"It depends," I cautioned before deciding to answer honestly. "Sometimes, I would picture you in our bed, playing with your red vibrator and watching yourself in the mirror."

"You like watching me play with that one, don't you?" she observed, knowingly. "Especially on the top step of the stairs in my black and red corset with black stockings and heels, waiting for you to get home from work."

"Yeah," I admitted, "especially when you wear your glasses."

Pamela giggled again as I conjured up an image of her on the top step as I slowly climb the stairs, pushing the vibrator inside herself and moaning with the sensation.

"What else do you picture me doing, you know, when you've turned out the light?" she urged, after a few seconds. "Tell me."

I hesitated.

"Go on," she encouraged, easing off the pressure on my cock as she sensed I was getting a little too close to cumming. "I'm fascinated, honestly. I wouldn't have asked you otherwise."

I still hesitated so she kissed my earlobe.

"You know you want to tell me, really," she contrived, purring into my ear. "Don't you?"

"OK," I replied, exhaling slowly. "Sometimes, when I've turned off the lights, I picture you in bed ... having sex with Eugenie Bouchard."

Pamela kissed my earlobe once again.

"You've got a thing about Eugenie, haven't you?" she purred. "Are there any other tennis players that have the same effect on you?"

"No, not really," I replied. "Just her. Ever since I first saw her at Wimbledon, a few years ago."

"And what would the lovely Canadian and I be doing?" she pressed. "In your mind's eye, of course?"

This time I laughed out loud.

"That would be telling," I retorted, rather evasively, wishing I hadn't been so honest.

Pamela kissed my earlobe again as she increased the pace of her hand moving up and down the shaft of my cock.

"Let me guess," she whispered. "Eugenie is in black stockings and stilettos, on her knees with her tits hanging ..."

I groaned.

"And I'm lying on my back," she went on, "wearing the same but in red, with my knees up and thighs spread ..."

I groaned again but louder as the imagery took over my senses.

"And she's fingering and licking me slowly, sometimes pushing her tongue inside my cunt," she continued, jacking up the eroticism, "and all the time you're holding onto her hips and fucking her from behind with your cock buried inside her shaven cunt ..."

My groan told her I was going crazy, just crazy.

"And then you tell her to push the backs of my thighs up so my knees are up to my tits," she went on, intermittently kissing my earlobe, "and then you tell her to lick my arsehole ..."

"Oh!" I gasped, losing control. "I can't ... oh, I'm going to cum!"

"So Eugenie lowers her head," whispered Pamela, slowing the pace again on my cock, "and pushes out her tongue and ..."

"Ohhhhhhhhh!" I gasped, pressing my head back into the pillows as the first spurt of cum shoots up onto my chest, followed by another that managed to hit me on the face, coating my cheek with the third and fourth slowly losing their intensity until the remainder of it seeped out over Pamela's hand and I was able to slowly relax.

"I think you enjoyed that," she whispered after a couple of minutes' silence, kissing my earlobe for the last time. "Right, I'm going for a shower!"

By now the room was filled with light, despite the curtains still being closed. I glanced at the clock on the wall.

"We'll need to be quick if we want breakfast," I observed. "It's nearly nine o'clock now and they stop doing it at ten.

"No problem," retorted Pamela, throwing the duvet off and sliding out of bed to head for the bathroom in a hurry.

Forty minutes later, I followed Pamela downstairs to the hotel lobby and on into the dining room where breakfast was being served. Sadly, there was no sign of Gemma. We found ourselves on the same table as we had the previous evening. I went to the self-service area for orange juice for both of us and was rewarded to return and find Pamela chatting to Yuma at our table.

"Hello again," I greeted, taking my seat, prompting Pamela to laugh.

"Frank," she said, her shining eyes on me as I placed her juice in front of her, "this is Maya, Yuma's twin sister. Maya, this is Frank McMahon and, for my sins, he's with me."

"Charming!" I cried, smiling at Maya who, apart from her hair being of a different length, was identical to her sister. "Lovely to meet you, and sorry for mistaking you."

"Please do not apologise, sir," replied Maya with a smile as she bowed. "Everyone gets us mixed up so we answer to either name."

"I was just telling Maya how well her sister looked after us over dinner last evening," observed Pamela, as I sipped my juice, "and how that we live in the same village."

"Yes," I agreed, not sure what else to say as I failed to stop myself mentally undressing the lovely Japanese from her classic black and white uniform.

"May I ask where your residence is in Little Pissington, madam," said Maya, interested.

"Harlot Hall," replied Pamela. "It's on the road south of the railway bridge on the right hand side, not very far out of the village."

"Oh, you mean that lovely large property in the trees, set back from the road?" gushed Maya, her eyes wide open. "Yuma and I have walked past there several times and wondered who might live there."

"Well, we've only been there for a few weeks," I put in. "It's quite a big place and there's a lot to be done to it to get it how we want it but we'll get there in time."

"I imagine you must have to have several staff to help you," mused Maya, the wheels going around in her head before correcting herself. "I am sorry, I should not have asked you that."

Her smile gone, Maya stood with her head down and hands together as if in penance.

"No, no, no!" cried Pamela, reaching out a hand to take Maya's to give them a squeeze. "You said nothing wrong at all. Yes, it is a big place and yes, we do need help, and yes, if you and your sister want any part-time work or whatever, we would be glad to consider it, wouldn't we, Frank?"

"Too right," I supported, already picturing them wearing uniform as maids.

Suddenly, Pamela reached into her bag for a pen.

"Give me one of your business cards," she said, looking up at me and reaching out a hand to await it while I went into my jacket pocket.

"Look, I'll give you my email address," she said, starting to scribble on the back of the card. "Why don't you speak to your sister and if either or both of you want to talk about the possibility, let us know and maybe you could pop up one evening and we could see how it might work?"

She handed the business card to Maya who stared at it, her head still down.

"Thank you," she said. "You are both very kind. I will speak to Yuma."

"That's great," said Pamela. "Now, can we both have tea, please?"

Maya, pulling herself together, smiled.

"Of course, madam," she replied. "One moment, please."

With that, she retired and I found my eyes burning the same hole in the back of her skirt as they had done endlessly to that of her sister over dinner the previous night. What an arse!

"Deja vu?" quipped Pamela, smiling.

I took up my juice and laughed.

"Do you think they'll bite?" I asked, straightening my cutlery.

"You mean will they want a job," she whispered, "or are you talking about something more intimate?"

"Well, I was thinking about the former," I retorted, "but I'll take the risk if we get to the latter!"

"They're really lovely girls," observed Pamela, musing. "I know we've talked about the possibility of taking on some support. Would you be happy if they wanted to do a few hours a week to support their university funding?"

"Sure," I replied, seriously for once. "We've always said that, with us both working, having a house as big as Harlot Hall isn't practical without support. Joking aside, having Yuma and Maya to help would be a start but we will need more."

Just then, Maya returned with a tray.

"For you, madam," placing a shiny white teapot on the white damask, "and one for you sir."

"Thank you, Maya," said Pamela, as Maya placed a matching milk jug between us, then hesitated.

We waited in silence as Maya appeared to be wrestling with herself about saying something else.

"Yes?" breathed Pamela, gently. "Please."

Thus encouraged, Maya's hands stopped wringing each other.

"I would like to take up your kind invitation," she said at last, "and whilst I haven't had the opportunity of speaking to Yuma, I know she would feel the same ..."

"Then you must come up and see us," pressed Pamela. "Look, today is Sunday ..."

"Don't forget we're away next weekend," I interjected, recalling we were scheduled to be visiting Nico, Pamela's first lesbian lover.

"How could I forget that?" replied Pamela, with a glance at me. "Might you both be free on Wednesday? The weather is set fair, so we could take tea in the garden and show you around, and if you're happy to, we could talk about how you both might be able to help us. If nothing comes of it, then fine, but it might."

Maya looked overwhelmed.

"Yes, we are usually free late afternoon on Wednesday," she replied. "You are very kind."

"Perfect," observed Pamela with a smile. "How about six o'clock?"

"Thank you," answered Maya and bowed. "I don't know what to say."

"We'll see you both then," concluded Pamela, prompting Maya to retire, my eyes inevitably following her arse and legs.

"You know," mused Pamela as she poured milk into her cup before the tea, "I think I could get to enjoy Maya and Yuma around the place, don't you?"

"I think I could cope!" I quipped, pouring tea into the cup first.

Half an hour later, we emerged from the dining room and saw Gemma helping out at the reception desk as customers were checking out. We went upstairs and finished packing before returning to find the queue had disappeared but so had Gemma. We approached the desk.

"Room 223," I stated, placing the key-card on the counter.

"Thank you sir," replied the man on duty, checking his system and printing off the account before presenting it to me. I glanced at it before handing over a credit card for payment. Folding up my receipt, I saw the man glance down.

"Oh yes," he added, picking up a white envelope and placing it on the counter in front of Pamela, "Miss Woodbourne asked me to give you this personally, madam. Thank you."

Pamela took it, thanking him and we retired to one of the many armchairs in the lobby area, taking seats opposite each other. Without speaking, I waited as Pamela used her slim finger once more to slit the envelope and extract the enclosure, once more a folded sheet of paper. She unfolded it and read it to herself without expression or reaction. Glancing up, she refolded it and passed it over.

'Pamela,

Last night was an occasion I shall never, ever, forget. You have opened my eyes to a different world that I want to explore, starting on Friday next.

Thank you.

Gemma.

P.S. Please thank Frank and advise that I have assembled my tennis gear - I cannot wait!'

"Looks like she enjoyed herself," I observed, refolding the sheet and passing it back. "So did we."

"Come on," urged Pamela, taking it and rising. "We've a train to catch!"

Having set off at a smart pace for the station, we arrived to find a train stopping at Little Pissington was about to depart. We managed to find two window seats opposite each other and settled to get our breath back as the train pulled away from the platform. Pamela immediately reached for her iPhone while I looked out of the window, trying not to think too much about Gemma's lacy panties and from where I had rescued them.

After a few minutes, I felt the vibration of my iPhone in my trousers pocket and struggled to reach it to find notification of a text from Pamela. I looked up at her across the table between us and she was smiling. I clicked on the icon.

"Can I have a lady's maid?" I read, prompted, no doubt, by our earlier conversation with Maya about potential staff at home. I smiled.

"What does a lady's maid do?" I typed before sending, aware my cock had awoken suddenly.

I waited as Pamela typed. Suddenly a vibration hummed.

"Her role is to give satisfaction to her mistress at all times." I read, glancing up to see Pamela was still smiling. "She would look after my clothes, maintain my bathroom and help me to dress, be my companion, everything I need (apart from what you have that I need!)."

I mused, looking out of the window for inspiration.

"I like the idea of hearing someone refer to you as 'my mistress'." I replied, hitting send.

I watched as Pamela read the message before typing her response quickly.

"Of course, if she didn't give satisfaction to her mistress, then she would be disciplined" I read, prompting a significant movement in my trousers.

I mused again, my imagination in overdrive.