After Hours: Black Lace Classics (15 page)

Micky firmly took hold of Neil’s turgid flesh and pushed the swollen head down between Venny’s soaking-wet
slit. She arched up instinctively, but at a warning look from Micky she grew still again. Venny felt the big organ slip over her clitoris in its little hood, nudging hard at her most tender part. She gasped. Then Micky, taking extreme care and far too much time, she thought irritably, sought out her vagina and with the greatest care pushed the reddened glans up and into her.

‘That’s it,’ he said conversationally. ‘Now, Neil, push further up and into her.’

Neil obliged, and Venny was treated to the sensation of his lovely, naked, pink cock filling her completely.

‘Now back out again,’ said Micky, not relinquishing his control over proceedings.

Obediently, but clearly not willingly, Neil moved his hips back so that the shaft of his thick wet cock emerged from Venny’s body. The pink helmet at its tip was still trapped inside her.

‘No, right out,’ ordered Micky.

With a groan of reluctance Neil obeyed; his penis sprang up against his belly as it came free of Venny’s slit with a slurp.

‘Now in again,’ said Micky softly, and eagerly Neil pushed his big organ back down. In one swift movement he was once more lodged inside the woman sprawled across the desk.

‘Good?’ Micky asked Venny, his hand going again to her hungry and swollen little bud to stroke it.

Venny swallowed convulsively, almost beyond speech. This was torture, but torture of the most erotic and enjoyable kind. ‘Mm,’ she managed, biting her lip
as his hand smoothed over her damp clitoris; aroused almost beyond bearing, Neil pushed eagerly forwards, raring to go, but again Micky was determined to dominate the situation.

‘Out now, Neil,’ whispered Micky, concentrating fiercely on stimulating Venny’s clit with firm pressure from his questing fingers. Groaning as if in pain, Neil complied. Venny let out a half-stifled scream of frustration and longing.

‘Patience, Venny, patience,’ chuckled Micky, keeping one hand busy at her clitoris while the other now stroked admiringly up and down over Neil’s quivering penis. ‘Now let’s put this back in,’ he murmured, and using his hand he guided Neil’s member to Venny’s vagina, easing it in with assistance from Neil. The instant Micky had pushed Neil’s glans inside her, Neil started to thrust up in desperation.

‘No, let’s take this steady,’ soothed Micky, and Venny thought that it was as if he were talking to a horse, a big horny stallion with a jutting prick and an insatiable eagerness to get on with covering the filly before him.

Again, Neil was commanded to withdraw. Now the frustration was almost pain, and the pressure of Micky’s hand held constantly at her clit was teasing the edges of orgasm for Venny. Oh, she wanted,
needed
, to be filled, and filled right now. ‘Micky,’ she wailed hopelessly.

‘In,’ said Micky, and Neil pushed into her almost brutally, battering at her; but she was wet, so frantically wet and ready, that there was only satisfaction in his
roughness, only pleasure where there might otherwise have been pain.

‘Out,’ snapped Micky, working her clit with his fingers while Neil fucked her.

Neil withdrew.

‘In!’ said Micky, and Neil pushed in mightily.

‘Out!’

‘Oh God,’ screamed Venny as the first hot wave of pleasure hit her with all the force of a bomb-blast.

‘In! In! In!’ yelled Micky, and Neil pushed, pushed, pushed, while Venny cried out wildly and scrabbled at the leather-tooled top of her desk, her thighs trembling, her nipples engorged with her arousal.

Her orgasm engulfed her totally then, her back arching, her legs suddenly stiffening around Neil’s body before clutching madly at him. Micky’s hand worked and worked at her clit; Venny’s eyes opened dazedly and she saw Micky frowning, hesitating, before he ordered Neil out of her once again.

But this time the stimulation provided by Venny had proved too much for the stallion, however willing; and in four hard spurts Neil came, pumping out his come over Venny’s heaving belly. At last, the lovers were still. Micky looked into Venny’s eyes; she saw that he was still frowning. But he turned to Neil, whose now wilting penis was being tucked back into his boxer shorts, and said: ‘Well done. Let’s get back to work, shall we?’

‘So how is it going with the boss lady?’ Caspar asked Micky as he helped carry boxes of Micky’s belongings – and there weren’t very many – up the stairs to the now empty little stockroom beside Venny’s office. Micky had asked her if he could move in there; there was already a little sink in the corner, and now all the large catering tins of this and that had been relocated downstairs, it was easy to see what a nice little room it could be. A small leaded window with bulbous bits of ancient glass in it gave a view onto a street that hadn’t changed much since the days of Charles the Second. Caspar was looking out, admiring the location, thinking what a clever sod his older brother was to land on his feet like this. But then, where women were concerned, Micky always landed on his feet. And Micky was single, free – and Caspar envied him that very much. He sighed, and turned. Micky was dumping shirts and jackets onto the floor.

‘Oh, fine. It’ll be great when I’ve got the bed up here,’ said Micky. ‘It’s coming this afternoon.’

‘A double, I take it.’ Caspar’s expression was wry.

‘King-sized,’ said Micky with a grin.

‘Lucky bastard,’ said Caspar wistfully.

‘Hey, you’re a lucky bastard, too. You’ve got the delectable Flora.’

‘So I have.’ Caspar’s wry expression turned to bitterness. He looked around them at the sunny slant-floored little room. Even the ceiling was crooked, sloping down to the floor at a height of about three feet at one side of the room. There were beams bedded in the plaster on the walls, old and blackened beams that had weathered and taken on the texture of rock.

‘I don’t know that I should be helping you do this, Mick. They’re pussycats when you’re footloose, but move in with them and everything starts to change. It’s like a landslide. First a tiny bit of dirt falls on your shoe, and you think, hey, so what? What’s a little dirt between friends? And then suddenly a shitheap the size of Berkshire lands on your head, and you’re buried alive.’

Micky looked at his brother sceptically. Gawd, Caspar was miserable, for all his money. But then, even when Caspar had been plain old Charlie, in the days when they had been poor East End teenagers, even before Charlie had decided that he wanted to climb the social ladder and acquire a well-bred wife, he had still been a dour bugger. Charlie –
Caspar
, Micky reminded himself sternly – had always been the one lounging around
looking twisted and tortured and Byronic. While he, Micky, had always been up for a laugh.

Good old Micky Quinn, he thought, ladies’ man extraordinaire. Love ’em and leave ’em gasping for more, that had always been his motto. He frowned. So what was he doing, moving in over the restaurant, moving into a room which was right next door to his boss’s office, the boss he also just happened to be boffing right now?

Boffing, he thought.

Did that sound any better than fucking?

No, it sounded worse.

Making love, then. Was what they did making love? He thought of Venny Halliday – his boss, his lover too; thought of her prickly carapace of pride and rigidity, and underneath that tough shell was all that hot ripe womanly lust, just waiting for him to tap into it, to strike oil, so to speak, with his nodding donkey.

Damn! He wasn’t even being serious now. Nodding donkey, for God’s sake.

He thought of her now, her wild dark-blonde curls that frizzed in the heat of summer, her well-rounded body, her toffee-coloured snatch – and yes, his cock twitched with lust and lifted its head with unstoppable interest, but his mind – his heart, he supposed – flooded with another kind of sensation altogether, and it wasn’t anywhere near as pleasant.

He’d never felt guilty before with a woman. Not when he’d dumped them, not even when he’d treated them – on very rare occasions, because he adored most
women – quite badly. But now he acknowledged this horrible feeling of guilt, because he’d tricked his way into this job, and by so doing he had also, let’s be honest, tricked his way into her bed.

Not that she minded – or, at least, she didn’t seem to.

But he did. The deception, the trickery, gnawed at him. And that grumbling sense of guilt made him edgy. What the hell, after all, was going on here? He was moving in, and at his own request, not hers. And furthermore – oh, and here came another complete doozy of a realisation – he acknowledged now, almost a week after the event, that the cosy little threesome he and Venny had enjoyed with Neil in her office had caused him to feel something he had never really felt before.

He had felt jealous when Neil fucked her.

He felt so jealous that the only way he could deal with it was to take control of the entire situation, in some childish effort to control her.

Oh, Gawd.

Was he falling in love with Venny Halliday?

He really, really hoped not. After all, just look what love had done to poor old Charlie. Sorry – Caspar.

‘Earth to Micky, come in please,’ said Caspar, and he was jolted out of his reverie.

‘Sorry,’ said Micky, slumping onto the floor beside his meagre pile of belongings. ‘Miles away.’

‘I could tell.’ Caspar came over and slumped down beside his brother. He smiled twistedly. ‘Daydreaming about the delicious Venny Halliday?’

‘Sort of,’ said Micky guardedly, because he didn’t want to admit to Caspar what was churning around inside him. Bad enough to admit it to himself. And Caspar was so down on relationships at the moment that he would only pooh-pooh the whole thing and tell him to bale out while he still had his balls intact.

‘So it’s still bad, then? You and Flora?’ he asked, anxious to deflect the conversation from his own lovelife and onto Caspar’s instead.

Caspar’s face was suddenly full of unhappiness. ‘Christ, yes. Worse than bad, really. Bloody diabolical. She says she’s bored with the way things have become between us. I think – Mick, I think she’s screwing around.’

Micky digested this and although it was his policy not to interfere in Caspar’s tortured lovelife, he felt he ought to say something at this point.

‘I thought that you and Dani – Venny’s flatmate – were having a bit of a fling. So if it’s OK for you, why not for Flora?’

Caspar looked ruefully at his brother. ‘Well, it was certainly on offer,’ he admitted, ‘but I didn’t take Dani up on it, because I thought that if Flora found out, with everything being so tricky just at the moment, that it would probably be the end.’

Micky looked at Caspar in puzzlement. ‘Oh. Well, if you say so. Only Dani’s definitely having a bash at someone, and I thought it was you.’

‘Well, it isn’t, OK?’

‘Fair enough.’

‘She’s fucking that Scots guy who came to the vampire party in the grey Bram Stoker suit. What was his name? Jamie. So far as I know.’

Micky thought this over. Jamie hung around downstairs in the kitchens sometimes, chatting to the staff, just killing time in between completing commissions for his weird and wonderful artworks in his studio over in Shepherd’s Bush. But from what Venny said, Jamie and Dani had suffered a bit of a rift after the party because Dani had been making a pretty obvious play for Caspar. When he had been visiting Flora and Caspar, he had even seen Dani wandering in and out of their flat – but Caspar said, and Caspar wouldn’t lie to him, that there was nothing going on between him and Dani. Suddenly it was as if a bright light had been switched on above his head.

‘She’s not with Jamie at the moment but, Caspar, she’s certainly got the hots for someone and I think, Caspar,’ he said as delicately as he could, ‘that if you give it a bit of thought you’ll realise who it is.’

Caspar looked at Micky. Micky looked at Caspar.

‘Flora’s going over to Dani’s tomorrow evening,’ said Caspar, his face blank with realisation. He looked like he’d been sandbagged. ‘To see a girly video and have a takeaway, she said.’

‘And Venny’s going to be out,’ pointed out Micky. ‘Some restaurateurs’ dinner or other.’

‘The cheating cow,’ said Caspar.

Micky thought for a while. ‘Actually,’ he said at last, ‘this could be just what your marriage needs. Spice it up
a bit. Don’t you think? Maybe you should have taken up Dani’s offer. It looks as if Flora has, anyway.’

Caspar considered this. In fact it was quite a turn-on, imagining his red-haired and full-breasted wife being fucked to a standstill by the dark-haired and gorgeous Dani. A hell of a turn-on, actually. He was getting exceedingly hard just thinking about it.

‘Jamie has a key to their flat,’ said Micky, and grinned. Suddenly he and Caspar were teenagers again, colluding in mischief.

‘Let’s do it,’ said Caspar decisively.

‘Why not?’ grinned Micky, and watched his brother leave with real fondness and a hope that it would all work out well for him. With Caspar gone, Micky set about unpacking his small amount of belongings. Things that were dear to him, nothing of very much value really; keepsakes from his dead parents, clothes that were of good quality and skilful cut, but not designer, and – he paused over this – a small photo in a silver oval frame, a present from Venny. It was a photograph of her, snapped in the park, her hair flying in a bitter winter wind, her cheeks pinkened by the cold. She looked about fourteen, carefree, reckless. Dani had taken it, she had told him almost shyly when she gave it to him over dinner the other night – it had been a long, slow, sumptuous dinner and had ended with a night of languorous, blazingly erotic lovemaking. But if he didn’t want it, she said, worried that this was too soon, perhaps too intimate a gift, then of course she would understand. But he wanted it – of course he did.

He slumped down on the wide old elm floorboards in a patch of warm sunlight and leaned back on one elbow, gazing at her image. He thought that she was growing less cautious, more adventurous, and he was certainly working towards that end and was pleased with her progress as a lover. Thinking of that night of love now, of the way they had feasted on the food and then upon each other, like that bawdy scene from
Tom Jones
, made his cock twitch and fill. And why not? With leisurely movements he unbuckled his belt, freed the metal button on the waistband of his jeans, and slid the zip down, wriggling his hips forwards a little on the hard floor to let his nude penis protrude from the gap. He smiled down at it, rearing up all rosy and filled with lust. Then he looked back at the photo. The sort of photo he would really like of her was one where he could see her naked breasts, and the soft curves of her hips and belly, and her mound with its now thickening patch of toffee-toned hair that was always so soft beneath his fingers.