West End Girls

When Karen was first diagnosed with cancer, I read an article by a leading oncologist suggesting that one of the few good things about cancer was that it gave people time to say goodbye. And I suppose that's true.

After the initial shock of the diagnosis, Karen and I turned our attention to her bucket list. Well, we ticked off several of the items anyway. The threat of Covid-19 combined with Karen's declining health ruled out a few things that might otherwise have been included. But we still managed to have a busy few months.

And then, inevitably, I was all on my own. At least, that's how it suddenly felt.

'You must come up to London,' Sandra Longley said as I farewelled her and her husband, Harry, after Karen's send-off. 'Come and have a little supper. Spend the night.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'Yes. That would be nice.'

It was about two weeks later that Sandra phoned. 'How are you?' she said. 'How are you managing.'

'Surprisingly well,' I told her. 'Yes. I miss Karen of course. But we knew what was coming. We had a bit of time to get used to the idea.'

'And are you remembering to eat?'

'I am,' I assured her.

'Good. And do you feel up to a little trip up to London?'

'I think I could manage that,' I told her.

'Good. Come up and spend a night,' she said. 'We promise to keep it suitably low key. Just the three of us. A glass of wine. A bit of supper. Nothing too... well... onerous.'

'Thank you. Yes. That would be nice,' I said.

'This coming Saturday, perhaps?' Sandra suggested.

'Saturday? Yes. Why not?'

Sandra and Harry had a semi-grand Victorian house in Notting Hill. Sandra's grandfather, a successful property developer, had bought the house years ago, just before Notting Hill had become trendy. According to Sandra, the house had been pretty run down when her grandfather had acquired it, but he had had all of the exterior weathertightness issues sorted. A new roof. New window sashes. That sort of thing. And then, after he had gifted the house to Sandra and Harry, they had set about restoring the interior to its former glory.

I caught an afternoon train up to London Marylebone and then, still not sure about the Tube and Covid, I got a cab across to Notting Hill.

Sandra and Harry always made me think of Pet Shop Boys' West End Girls. Sandra was a Chelsea girl. A West End girl. Through and through. And Harry was a Cockney lad made good. I had first met Sandra way back in pre-Karen days when I was having a brief fling with Sandra's cousin, Maree, another West End girl.

'How's business?' Harry asked as he mixed a round of gin and tonics. 'Is this lurgy causing you problems?'

'Not especially,' I said. 'We pretty much embraced remote working a couple of years ago. In fact, if anything, it has been a bit of a blessing. I now have an excuse not to make seemingly-endless train journeys just to attend a half-hour face-to-face meeting. Zoom meetings -- or whatever -- aren't perfect, but they get you ninety percent of the way there. How is it for you?'

'Well, I still have to go into the lab most days.' (Harry was a microbiologist working with one of the big pharma outfits.) 'I talked to my boss about getting an electron microscope installed in one of the spare rooms here, but he didn't think that there was enough headroom in the budget this year.'

'Oh well... maybe next year,' I suggested.

'Maybe,' Harry said.

Harry's gin and tonics were not for the faint-hearted.

'Granddad Tom,' he said.

'Granddad Tom?'

'The gin. I've only recently discovered it. It's made by a geezer who used to make ale. But then he switched to making gin. It's made to a secret recipe from his great-great-granddad. At least that's the story on the label. What do you think?'

'Well... it's... umm....' What did I think? It was certainly not unpleasant. In fact it was very nice. But I couldn't help but think that a couple would probably be enough to stop a bull elephant in its tracks. 'It certainly packs a punch,' I said.

Harry smiled and nodded. 'Fifty-two percent ABV. Most everyday gins are about 37 percent ABV.'

'ABV?'

'Alcohol by Volume. Also, I suspect that the recipe is pretty simple. Juniper. Obviously. Lemon peel. Probably from Andalucía. And maybe something else. Ginger perhaps? I'm not sure. But I don't think there's any coriander in it. Which, in my book, is no bad thing. I'm not really a fan of coriander.'

It was towards the end of our first G and T that Sandra asked me if I was circumcised. At least I thought that was what she asked me. But I wasn't sure. In fact, at first, I assumed that I had mis-heard her. 'Circumcised?' I said.

'Yes.'

So, no, I hadn't mis-heard her. 'Gosh... umm... a slight trim, I think,' I said, trying to make light of it.

'Not the full snip then,' she said.

How did I answer that? 'The full snip? Well, to be honest, I'm not sure how much I started with. I was rather young at the time.'

'Are you going to show me?' she said. 'I mean show me what you have now.'

'Show you? Oh. Would you... umm... like to see? For yourself?' I said.

'I would,' she said. 'Yes.' And she smiled.

I took another sip of my 52 percent ABV gin -- quite a large sip, if I'm honest -- and looked at Harry. But he just smiled too.

'I won't touch it,' Sandra said. 'Well... not if you don't want me to. Although, of course, you might like me to. Harry likes me to touch his cock -- don't you, dear?'

'I do,' Harry confirmed. And he smiled again.

What was a chap to do? Oh, well.... I undid my belt, lowered my zip, and produced my cock for inspection.

Sandra nodded. 'Yes. Nice,' she said. 'And you do still have some foreskin. May I touch it?'

What the hell? There we were, standing in a circle, drinks in hand, and me with my cock -- my

growing

cock -- out for Sandra to inspect.

'It's getting bigger,' Sandra said, with what I judged to be a mixture of surprise and delight.

'Yes. It sometimes does that,' I told her. 'Especially when someone is... well...

handling

it.'

Sandra nodded and ran her fingers along its length. Which only made it grow still more. 'Get yours out,' she told Harry. 'I want to see them both together.'

Harry paused for a moment. But only for a moment. And then he put his drink down and took out his cock.

Harry's cock was a little fatter than mine. And perhaps a little more severely trimmed. But I have to admit that there was something rather attractive about it.

'Come and stand by James,' Sandra said. 'I want to see you both together.' And she put down her glass so that she could take a cock in each hand. 'Yes. They're both nice,' she said. 'I can feel myself getting wet just looking at them. Would you like to see?'

'Why not?' Harry said. 'Now that you have made James get his cock out, I'm sure that he would like to see what you have to bring to the party.'

'Oh? Are we having a party?' Sandra asked. 'Yes. I suppose we are.' And she undid her skirt and let it fall to the floor. Her knickers followed in short order. And then, with a broad smile, she slipped a finger between her fur-covered outer labia and then held the now-glistening finger out for our inspection.

'I don't usually get wet so quickly these days,' she said. 'Well... not without a bit of help. That's what getting older does for you. We often need a squirt of magic lube to get things going, don't we, Harry?'

'We do,' Harry said. 'Although apparently not this evening.' And he smiled a wicked smile.

'No, not this evening,' Sandra said. 'Put your glass down for a minute and have a feel,' she said to me.

I looked at Harry who smiled and nodded. 'Chop, chop,' he said. 'Madam doesn't like to waste a slippery opportunity.' And, yes, she certainly was slippery.

I put my glass down (although not before taking another serious sip) and, tentatively, I placed my hand at the entrance to Sandra's honeypot. But Sandra was clearly not in the mood for tentative. She placed her own hand on top of mine and firmly pushed my fingers into her warm and wet cuntal valley. 'Yes. There,' she said. 'What do you think?'

'Very nice,' I said. 'Yes. Very nice indeed.'

And then Sandra turned and kissed Harry. It was a long, slow kiss -- but she kept my fingers firmly trapped in her slippery slot. 'Now?' she said to her husband. 'Or should we wait until later?'

Harry laughed. 'Well... up to you,' he said. 'In fact... up to James, really.'

Sandra frowned slightly. 'Oh, yes. I suppose it is, isn't it? Perhaps you should explain.'

Harry laughed again, picked up his glass, took another sip of the gin made to someone's great-great-grandfather's secret recipe, and then turned to me. 'Umm... in a nutshell, Sandra would like to fuck you. Or perhaps I should say Sandra would like you to fuck her. Either way... well... you get the drift.

'Anyway... it's one of those things that we have talked about from time to time -- usually when we ourselves are in mid fuck. I think it's one of those things that quite a few couples talk about, isn't it? Fucking someone else. Especially people of our age. And, recently, Sandra and I have talked about not just talking about it, but actually doing it. Well... about her

doing it

and me

watching

her doing it.' And then he gestured to his cock. 'See... even just talking about watching you two is stiffening up my stiffy.' And he laughed again.

'But it's up to you,' he said. 'You might not want to fuck Sandra. Although I can assure you that she is an excellent fuck. Well... I think so, anyway.'

'I see. And you just want to watch?' I said.

'Pretty much,' Harry said. 'Although I'd probably want to give myself a bit of a wank.'

'Yeah. Fair enough,' I said.

And that was how we came to do it the first time. Sandra knelt on the edge of the upholstered seat of a William IV mahogany elbow chair, right there in the living room, and I entered her from behind. It seems that Harry and Sandra had used the chair before. In fact, they later told me that, over the years, they had done it is every room of the house and used pretty much every piece of furniture. 'The downstairs cloakroom was rather interesting,' Harry said. 'There's not much room in there. But one whole wall is mirrored. So it was as if there were four of us, all in a tiny room. That was -- as I say -- quite interesting.' And he smiled and nodded.

Sliding into Sandra that first time, was a bit of a surprise. I suppose that I sort of expected it to feel pretty much like sliding into Karen. But it didn't. Not really. There was something different. Not better. Not worse. Just different.

'Oh, yes, that feels

sooo

good,' Sandra said. 'How is it for you, Harry?'

Harry was standing to one side, working his cock with long, slow strokes. 'Pretty nice,' he said. 'Yeah, pretty fucking nice.'

And, yes, he was not wrong. It was pretty fucking nice.

'You can play with my arsehole if you like,' Sandra said. She said if

I

liked, but I got the distinct impression that it was something that she liked. I had barely touched her rosebud before it was winking at me, begging to accept my finger.

For supper, we had salmon quiche with steamed asparagus and sautéed potatoes. And, since the sex had taken the edge off the Granddad Tom gin, Harry produced a bottle of Dry Riesling. It balanced the oiliness of the salmon perfectly.

'That was even better than I expected,' Sandra said with a broad smile of satisfaction.

I had to agree. 'Salmon and asparagus does go together rather nicely, doesn't it?'

'No. I'm not talking about the quiche,' Sandra said. 'Although it is pretty nice. I meant the sex. I meant you fucking me. It was pretty exciting when it was just Harry and me talking about it. But doing it was even better. And watching you watching us, Harry.... I don't think I've even seen your cock looking so big.'

Harry just laughed. But, yes, he had seemed to enjoy himself.

After supper, we retired downstairs to Sandra and Harry's recently-created media room. Talk about all the bells and whistles. The high-definition screen had to be almost two metres from side to side. And I almost gave up trying to count all of the speakers. And then, facing the screen, there were three two-seater leather couches, perfect for three couples or nine good friends.

'Why don't you sit with Sandra on the centre couch?' Harry suggested, sharing out what was left of the Dry Riesling. And then the lights were dimmed and the show began.

Like all contemporary productions, it began with a succession of animated logos. It was A Knotty Hill Film. A Cock-Riser Production. In association with Sandy Shores. And so on. And yet it was as if someone was taking the piss. Elaborately. But taking the piss nevertheless.

And then the music began. Vaguely-familiar music. Nineteen-eighties dance music. Just a few bars in and already my brain was nodding along. And then it hit me. It wasn't actually

West End Girls

, but it was someone's

homage

to

West End Girls

. And it was surprisingly good.

And then we were shopping. In Agent Provocateur. Except you couldn't see

who

was shopping -- although it appeared to be a couple of well-dressed (and, occasionally, undressed) older women. And then the women, now carrying Agent Provocateur shopping bags, were hailing a cab. And, all the time, the hypnotic beat of the homage to

West End Girls

filled Sandra and Harry's media room.

And then a shadow passed across the screen -- as though a woman just walked across the room in front of the screen. The woman appeared to be removing her coat as she crossed the room. And then she was on screen. Tossing her coat onto a chair in a spacious bedroom. It was all very clever.

Beneath the coat, the woman (whose face was not shown) was dressed to seduce. I waited for the obligatory man to appear. And, after a while, a second person did appear. But it was not a man. It was a woman. Girl on girl. Yes. Of course. It all made sense.

When the identity of the first woman was eventually revealed, I realised what I should have realised from the start: it was Sandra. However, the identity of the second woman remained concealed for a few more minutes. And yet there was something strangely familiar about her. She, too, was a mature woman. And she had dark blonde hair. And then she turned to face us.

'Does Maree know that you are showing this to me?' I whispered to Sandra.

'Oh, yes. She thought that you might enjoy seeing her in action again after all these years.'

And then Harry joined them.

'So... who is doing the filming?' I asked. And then I wondered if I had perhaps over-stepped the mark.

'Maree's husband. Wolfe. He's rather good for another East End boy, isn't he?'

Yes. He was. He was very good.

'Wolfie's a bit shy though. He prefers to be behind the camera rather than in front of it.'

I just nodded.

Later, we retired to Harry and Sandra's bedroom. (It was the same room that had featured in the little video entertainment.) Sandra and I made ourselves comfortable on the king-sized bed; Harry drew up a chair from which he could observe proceedings. And proceed we did. For the second time that evening, I slipped my Tab A into Sandra's Slot B. Yes, in was definitely not like fucking Karen. It was not even -- so far as I could remember -- like fucking Maree. But it was very nice.

West End Girls, eh?