More Annals of the Friday Flower

Although Jo took Ann to the same area several more times following their encounter with the voyeur, the man never reappeared. At least, not physically. But he remained vivid in Ann's imagination. At home, Roger's attentions continued to be spasmodic and unsatisfying, and while meetings of the Friday Flower Club, supplemented by private sessions with Jo, delivered orgasms of varied intensity, Ann was growing conscious of something missing.

Eventually she raised the subject during a period of rest and recuperation at the Club. When she was reticent to provide detailed answers to questions from her friends, Jo took over. She had no hang-ups about describing the way the man had peered into the car,going on to ejaculate into the silk knickers Jo handed out of the window. Jo's theory, she explained, was that Ann had been reminded that there was more to sex than could be generated by six middle-aged, middle class women in a suburban drawing room, immensely enjoyable though that was.

"What you mean," said Marjorie, "is she needs a proper fuck."

The word was not unfamiliar to the women. After all, it had become virtually commonplace in books and films; but it was not a part of their daily vocabulary, and this was the first time it had been spoken at a Club meeting. Now it had come from a sleek, sophisticated, fifty-something blonde who was reclining in an armchair with one hand inside the waistband of an expensive pair of black knickers. Around the room, her friends were in similar states of post-orgasmic wind-down. This was no gathering of prudes. Just as Marjorie's forthright frankness many weeks earlier had started them on their current path, so it now challenged their individual boundaries. As before, and emboldened now by accumulated experiences with tongues and fingers and more mechanical aids, no one was prepared to be the first to back away.

"She needs a man who will shag her senseless, get her on her back and give her what she's been missing." Marjorie was warming to her theme.

"But isn't that why we've been getting together?" asked Helen. "Besides, sometimes a woman can offer something - not just different, but special."

"You mean we've become a club for lesbians?" The question, from Sylvia, provoked a sharp response from Ann.

"No. I am certainly not a Lesbian. It's just that Roger doesn't offer me the fulfilment I need and desire. But I haven't got the courage to look for a guy to help with sex on the side. Not with all the problems that could bring with it."

Marjorie summed up. "In short she needs a good fuck but she's not going to get it here."

"Perhaps she could."

The speaker was Cynthia, a petite brunette whose small, pointed breasts and compact buttocks encased in flimsy lime-green had been subjected to intimate attention only minutes earlier. At forty-three, Cynthia was the youngest member of the Club by almost a decade. She was also unique among them in that she was a divorcee; her original reason for joining was not the shortcomings of a husband but the complete absence of any man in her private life. Recently, that had changed in unexpected circumstances. Hence her intervention. She was aware it could make her the most popular member of the Friday Flower Club.

Marjorie's eyes gleamed. She spoke for them all. "How?"

Cynthia pondered how to continue.

"How?" Marjorie prompted. "Just tell us."

"Dariusz."

"Dariusz?"

***********************************

When Cynthia's husband wanted to trade her in for a younger model with bigger breasts and dextrous agility in the back seat of a Jaguar, the court awarded Cynthia control of the chain of hairdressing salons and beauty parlours they had owned jointly. Overnight she became a businesswoman. Over the next few months she became a remarkably successful business woman.

Her strength was in recognising what she could not do, and solving it by delegation. One of the first areas to take her attention was finance. The company ticked over reasonably efficiently but she detected a lack of drive. Tony had built it to the point that it delivered an income that paid the bills and left a surplus for his hobbies: sailing, golf and travel. Tony's departure removed from the equation the substantial cost of his boat together with a weakness for flying first class.

For the time being the newly created balance was sitting on the books, earning modest interest and overseen by the company's Finance Director, a fancy title bestowed by Tony. In reality, Cynthia concluded, he was an overpriced bookkeeper who needed to be replaced. Which was how Dariusz came into her life.

The quarterly audit was done by a firm from Leeds. An accountant would travel over to the company offices, spend a day-and-a half with the books and report any problems. Cynthia resented having to pay his overnight hotel bill. She resolved to do something about it but wasn't sure how. In the event, she was pre-empted.

On the first audit day of her independence, Cynthia was away interviewing potential staff recruits at a salon that had been under-performing. Returning to her office at the end of the afternoon, she found a message on her desk to say that the accountant had completed the audit. If she had a moment to spare, he would like to introduce himself before returning to Leeds.

Intrigued as well as pleasantly surprised, she asked for him to be sent in. The surprise continued when a tall young man entered, shook hands with just the hint of a bow, and introduced himself as Dariusz Piotczynski. He told her he had worked at the accountancy firm's London headquarters for two years; recently he had been transferred to Leeds. Examining Cynthia's books had been straightforward. Everything was in order and had been signed off. However ...

While Dariusz had been speaking, Cynthia had listened with only half her mind. Predominantly, she found herself assessing Mr Piotczynski, however he pronounced it. Or spelt it for that matter. She was taking in a man she guessed to be not much older than thirty, wearing a dark suit that suggested rather more style than went with her image of accountants, his hands folded calmly in his lap. Regular features and a strong jaw line. Clean shaven. Jet black hair neatly cut. And dark, intense eyes.

Startled, Cynthia suddenly became aware of the unfinished sentence. "I'm sorry," she said. "You were saying?"

"I was saying there are no problems with your books. I have certified them. We will invoice you in due course. And in future if you would kindly cancel the hotel booking, it will not be necessary."

"Thank you. But is that all? I thought you were feeling there was something else you wanted to say."

"I have to be careful not to exceed my duty." Cynthia smiled inwardly at his formal language but didn't discourage him from continuing. "My function is to confirm your books, not to tell you how to run your business." He paused.

"I wouldn't expect you to. But I will always listen to advice."

"Well then. You are paying too much Corporation Tax. That can be changed. Quite legally. You have no cash flow problems. On the contrary, you have sums available that could be more profitably deployed."

"And you say this after looking at our books for a few hours."

"I work quickly. And I understand what I see. For example, the investment portfolio."

He had touched a raw nerve. Cynthia knew that Tony had enjoyed playing the market but it hadn't interested her. Since taking over she had simply left things as they were.

"The Investments," the accountant went on, "are a muddle. Some are serious - good, keep them. Many are frivolous. You should sell."

In time Cynthia would discover that Serious and Frivolous served him as all-purpose adjectives. She said, "And you could advise me?"

"If you wish."

What Cynthia wished, she was coming to realise, had nothing to do with learning about her investments; she wanted to know more about Mr Piotczynski. She said, "Would you like to tell me over dinner? I mean, if you have time." Why did she feel so ridiculously schoolgirlish and nervous?

He consulted his watch and agreed. Cynthia chose the restaurant and once they had ordered - Mr Piotczynski asking for mineral water as he did not drink alcohol - the investment review was resumed. In detail and at length. Sheep and goats, serious and frivolous. He spoke quietly but firmly. Cynthia nodded in what she hoped were the right places. She knew she should be bored but something about the person across the table demanded clarification.

When, finally, she was able to steer the conversation into more personal areas, Mr Piotczynski answered her questions with the same earnestness he had applied to matters financial. His mother and father were both dentists in London. His grandparents fled Poland in the 1930s. Some time in the 19th Century an earlier ancestor had been created a Count of the Kingdom of Poland and Count of Galicia. Dariusz - he told her his Christian name would be easier for her, and taught her how to pronounce it - saw no reason why the title should not in time descend through the unbroken male line on to his own shoulders. That his father disdained it was frivolous. Dariusz was serious. His intention was to return to Poland and set up his own business. No doubt the great estate near Wroclaw no longer existed, but Poland would once again have a Count Piotczynski.

But what, she wanted to know, about Dariusz today? He proved to be even younger than she had assumed - only a few weeks past twenty-seven. A masters degree at London School of Economics opened the doors to a long-established City accountancy firm. Two years of rapid promotion led to the transfer to Leeds with a mission to shake up an outfit that had grown moribund.

Brothers or sisters? Neither. Girl friends? No. Dariusz found London women of his own age frivolous. They wanted sex but had no sophistication. They were not serious. Relationships with older women had been much more satisfactory. He imparted this information with the same quiet certainty he had applied to his assessment of the stock market.

Cynthia was now fully alert. Older women? What did Dariusz consider "older"? He was not specific. It was the twenty-somethings he dismissed as frivolous. She told him she was forty-three. Did that qualify her? He acknowledged that it did. Theoretically. Suppose she was not speaking theoretically? Would he be interested practically? Certainly. His answer somehow suggested that he had been expecting to be asked.

Later Cynthia told herself that separation from Tony and subsequent abstinence from sex had weakened her defences but that wasn't entirely true. Any seduction had been done by her not by Dariusz. There was a magnetism she had been unable to resist. Her only token caution was to decide not to take Dariusz home. The hotel booking was still valid; why not take advantage? Would Dariusz consider sex at the company's expense frivolous? Probably. She was past caring.

They went straight to his room. Once the door was closed, they hardly spoke. They both knew why they were there. The understanding was physical not emotional; no need for endearments. As they undressed they watched each other. When Dariusz was reduced to pinstriped boxer shorts (My God, Cynthia thought, accountants' underwear), they paused. He came to her, walked round her, inspecting her from all angles. He looked approvingly at her unsupported breasts, small and slightly pointed. He carefully stimulated the nipples with finger and thumb. He stroked the pale blue knickers that emphasised the compact roundness of her bottom. Then he removed her knickers, ran his fingers through the triangle of fine dark hair, parted the lips and encountered moisture within.

It was impossible for Cynthia to remain passive. She tugged at Dariusz's shorts and was pleased to reveal, below a mop of black pubic hair, a most acceptable penis: six or seven inches, she guessed, quite slim, circumcised, prominent head. She was gratified to note that it was already erect, in need of no further stimulation from her. But she wasn't thinking now of his needs. She wanted to taste him. Dropping to her knees, she gently grasped the shaft and guided the head into her mouth.

Tempted though she was to begin sucking immediately, Cynthia hesitated. She knew nothing of Dariusz in a sexual context. Too much too soon might mean a premature conclusion. No what she wanted at all. However, initial signs were promising. As she tightened her lips round the base of his cock, she felt a small answering push. Then stillness. As if to let her know she could continue for their mutual pleasure. And there was plenty.

Having taken him in fully, she carefully began to move releasing him almost to the head, then drawing him almost to the back of her throat. She allowed him to withdraw completely so that her tongue could traverse from balls to tip and back again, flicking provocatively as she progressed. Dariusz stayed passive but defiantly erect. Her next thought was to resume mouth-fucking him but a give-away leak of precum warned her it was time to move on.

Cynthia rose to her feet and stood back, a gesture that invited Dariusz to take the initiative. Nothing was said, nor needed to be. Intuitively, Dariusz gathered her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. She lay back, spread her legs and raised her knees. When he crouched between them, she was instantly aware that his oral technique needed no coaching. Parting her lips with two fingers, he investigated the dark interior with a firm tongue. The probe gave way to a languorous licking motion that eased her clitoris out from beneath its hood. The lightest of pressure on the bud's quivering antenna elicited from Cynthia an involuntary sound of pleasure, a deep, husky moan that somehow conveyed both approval and encouragement to go on.

More than once, Dariusz led her tenderly, subtly, carefully to the brink of orgasm. Each time he kept her suspended in delicious expectation, then held off until she was ready to start the ascent once more.

Finally, Cynthia broke the silence. "Do it now, Dariusz," she pleaded. "Do it now. I can't wait any more."

He understood. The preliminaries, exciting though they had been in themselves, had served their purpose, now required their fulfilment. He rose from between her thighs, ran his hand lightly along his cock as though reassuring himself that it retained its rigidity. Satisfied, he positioned Cynthia so that her bottom was slightly raised. For a few tantalising seconds she felt his knob resting against her opening. Then he was inside her.

Penetration was achieved so smoothly she almost missed the moment of being opened. Partially this was due to the extravagant internal lubrication aroused by Dariusz's tongue; partially it was due to the conformation of his cock, making up in firmness for its relatively slender girth. Above all, though, it was a tribute to his skill as a lover. Dariusz had entered her with a single flowing movement of his thighs, coming to rest on her pubic mound without force.

Just as he had moved cautiously from exploration to excitation with his tongue, so Dariusz proceeded with his cock. Every movement was calculated to deepen Cynthia's gratification, to increase her desire by tiny degrees. As she moved with him, he seemed able to read from the smallest muscle contraction whether she was seeking faster rhythm, harder insertion, or just a few seconds of respite. His own control was absolute. Unperturbed by a sudden convulsion that accompanied the first orgasm unleashed beneath him, Dariusz simply steadied himself with his weight on his hands, waited for her to recover and then fucked her again.

They changed position, Cynthia kneeling, Dariusz easing into her from behind, spreading her buttocks with his hands to facilitate entry. The sounds were of flesh meeting flesh and slurping wetness at the point of withdrawal. Reverting to missionary style, she absorbed his rampant manhood greedily, wantonly, conscious that she was being fucked as never before, at the same time striving to give back with interest.

The finish came when she turned him on to his back. They had sucked and fucked virtually without pause for most of an hour and still his cock stood upright from his groin. Cynthia lowered herself on to it, felt it reach into her innermost depths. While she rode him she saw his eyes concentrate on her breasts. She teased the dark prominent nipples for him. And then it was time. Their eyes locked, reading each other's lust. She nodded, releasing him from any obligation to consider her. She rose and fell, forcing herself onto the instrument of her own euphoria until a solitary responding upward thrust accompanied his ejaculation into her.

This was the Dariusz that Cynthia impulsively offered to the members of the Friday Flower Club.

***********************************

"She needs a good fuck but she's not going to get it here," had been Marjorie's blunt summing up.

"Perhaps she could."

Marjorie's eyes gleamed. She spoke for them all. "How?"

Cynthia, having spoken without thinking, pondered how to continue.

"How?" Marjorie prompted. "Just tell us."

"Dariusz."

"Dariusz?"

Gradually, Cynthia told them the story she felt she owed them. When she was first introduced to the Club she had been the only one without a man of any kind in her life, whereas the others all had husbands for sex, however occasional or desultory. The group sessions had been involving and enjoyable. But now she had Dariusz. Since their first meeting he had been driving over from Leeds weekly. Their ardour had not diminished. And now she seemed, guiltily, but almost inadvertently, to have offered to share him.

"Have you asked him?" Marjorie, straight to the point as usual.

"No."

"So he might not want to," suggested Sylvia.

"I think he will. He thinks older women are - serious."

"But six of us all together?" This was Ann, who had first raised the issue of male involvement. Difficult to say whether she was apprehensive or excited.

The friends were undeniably enthused by the portrait Cynthia had painted of this strange Pole, a young man so certain of his destiny, and seemingly so incredibly in control of his sexual ability. After lengthy discussion, agreement was reached on several points.

Firstly, Cynthia would put the proposal to Dariusz, which she fully expected he would accept. Secondly, tempting though it was to see how many of them he could satisfy in one afternoon, they didn't want a circus of an endurance test which might not ultimately reward anyone. So it was resolved that Dariusz should be offered them one at a time. Assuming, of course, he was prepared to attend regularly. Cynthia said she believed he would either agree to multiple visits or none at all. On that basis, they drew lots to decide the order in which they hoped to be exposed to this iron-willed stud. The result: Sylvia, Jo, Marjorie, Helen, Ann. Cynthia magnanimously decided to abstain all the while she and Dariusz had their own rendezvous.

Just as they were about to break up, Helen said, "Hold on a minute. We haven't thought about the others. Those who won't be - you know, the star attraction. What do we do? Just leave them to it?"

That wasn't what anyone wanted. Consensus was quickly reached. Events would proceed as normal, Dariusz would be invited to watch and then, when the temperature was right, play his part with the chosen one, leaving the others to choose between their own activities or becoming spectators at the main event.

All that remained was for Cynthia to consult Dariusz. After brief consideration he decided that it was a serious idea. He freed his diary for the following Friday.

***********************************

The atmosphere was understandably highly charged. Five expensively dressed women, all into middle age, sitting sedately in a provincial drawing room waiting for the arrival of a young foreigner who will fuck one of them. When the doorbell rang, Marjorie, whose house it was, ushered in the pair who would complete the gathering.