Sex with a Sting: Six Erotic Fantasies with a Kink in the Tail (8 page)

“Two… hundred… pounds. To fuck me. Was
that it, Harry?” she jerked her head as if she was going to attack him again.

“Y-yes. Yes, I’m sorry. I-I’ve been
having a tough time-”

But she cut him off. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.
These are tough financial times. But two hundred quid? Is that all I’m worth?
After the fuck I gave you? Just £200?” She leaned right into his face. “Don’t
worry,
Hazza
. I won’t ask for my money. For my
cut
,” her voice
seethed at the final word, as if the word itself was a threat. She backed away
again. “I have more class than that. But you two do need to pay,” she waggled
her finger in the air. “You must pay for this. Because I am not your whore, nor
am I anyone’s whore to be bought and sold, and especially not by two posh
fuckwits like you.”

She went back to the case and produced a
huge carving knife, at least two inches wide and eight inches long. She held it
up in the air and studied it.

“Oh my God Nicole, I’m sorry! Jesus
Christ I’m sorry!” pled Harry, pathetically.

“Nicole, I had no idea! He told me it
would be okay! He said you wouldn’t mind! I’m sorry, please!” sobbed Toby.

“Way to sell your best mate out, Toby.
But relax guys, I’m only joking!” She cackled and replaced the knife. “I just
wanted to shit you up a bit! All part of the role play!”

“Thank God,” whispered Harry.

“No, I’m not going to hurt you. Look, in
fact, I’ve got you gifts! She held two items in her hand. She walked to Toby
first. “Yes, they’re special sort of, well, tags, I suppose.” She placed
something around Toby’s neck. It was a sign, and, in thick black marker, it
read: ‘HOOKER.’

“And I got one for you of course, Harry,
darling. I wouldn’t want to leave you out.” She placed his sign round his neck.
It read: ‘PIMP.’

She stepped back, took out her iPhone
from the case and snapped a couple of photos, just for fun. Then she stood in
silence for a moment. “Could put these on Facebook,” she mused. “So, what time
does the match start tomorrow? Sorry, later today, I should say.”

“11am,” mumbled Harry.

“11am?” she blew out her cheeks and
looked at her phone once more. “So, only about nine and half hours until people
start arriving. You’ll be fine. It’s a nice night!”

She clicked the case shut and walked off
the field, ignoring their desperate shouts.

Matt was smiling. Olivia, who was
driving, was smiling too. They turned left, then right and then took the third
exit on a roundabout, before zooming down a slip road towards the motorway. Matt
held up an open hand. Olivia, without even looking, high-fived him and then turned
the volume up on the car stereo. Together they sang along, loudly and out of
tune, to Pulp’s 1995 hit,
Disco 2000
.

A casual observer might have wondered if
they had just won the lottery. Or perhaps one of them had just received a promotion.
Or maybe they had just closed a fantastic property deal. But none of those
things had happened. No, what had just happened was that Olivia and Matt had
just dropped their three kids off at Olivia’s Mum’s place.

They were free.

Free, for a whole weekend.

Free.

They were off to Brighton to stay in a
hotel. The plan was as follows: eat, drink, make love. Not necessarily in that
order. And if they had time they might go to the beach. But only if they had
time. They had been planning this for a long time and nothing less than a
Sexual Olympics was going to satisfy them. A ‘Sexlympics’, they had called it,
when whispering to each other at about 9pm, both of them too tired to do
anything except fall asleep. Yes, a Sexlympics. A weekend of rampant sexual
catch-up after weeks, even months, of not having the time or the energy to make
love.

“It’s what they’ve all been waiting for!”
shouted Matt above the music.

“The biggest event of the year!” she
yelled.

“THE SEXLYMPIIIIIIICS!” they cried in
unison. She put her foot down on the accelerator and moved into the fast lane.
It was only midday. They wouldn’t be tired for ages yet. Perhaps there would be
time for a quickie at the hotel, then lunch, then an afternoon nap before more sexual
fireworks in the evening. She pushed their speed another five miles per hour
faster.

Matt and Olivia had met in the mid-90s.
In fact, they had met at a Pulp gig, which was why Olivia had chosen Pulp’s
Different
Class
album as their soundtrack for their race to the coast. They hit it
off straight away, got married after five years, had a blissful period in a
comfortable home just the two of them and then, after much unsubtle prodding
and prompting from friends and family, decided to have a baby. They tried
casually at first, but when nothing happened for a few months they took it a
bit more seriously. Out came the modern gadgets that help to pinpoint the
specific second where conception is most likely.

Almost immediately, she fell pregnant.

Nora was a good baby. She didn’t cry too
much and she slept through the night from an early age. It was a big transition
for them as it is for all parents, but Nora was so calm, so happy, that it had
been almost easy. Their friends with louder, less sleepy babies were all a
little envious.

Their lives continued along this idyllic
route for three more years. Soon, Nora would occasionally ask when she was
going to get a baby brother or sister. Matt and Olivia had discussed it, of
course. Both of them were not entirely sold on having just the one kid, but at
the same time the equilibrium seemed just right. Another child would mean
having to move, if not straight away, then certainly within a few years.
Financially, that was not going to be easy, even with both their incomes.
Clothes, food, an increased mortgage, childcare costs. It would be tough.

Still, both of them wanted a boy, too
– one of each, as everyone always says.

Eventually, they stopped using
contraception and, even before they had truly decided to try properly for a
second child, Olivia fell pregnant again. They took a deep breath. It would be
a stretch, but after reviewing everything, they thought they could manage.

And so, they rejoiced. Their parents were
delighted. Nora was delighted. A baby brother or sister at last.

It was twins – one of each, as
everyone always says.

“I haven’t got any twins in my family!”
cried Nora when the doctor told them after a scan. “Are you sure?”

“Definitely.”

“How can that be? We’ve never had twins
in our family. Never. None of my sisters, none of my cousins. And we’re a
big
family. We don’t produce litters! We do it one by one! Like
normal
people... Matt?” Matt had gone quiet. He was screwing his mouth to one side.
“Matt? What?”

“I’ve got twin cousins. On both sides.
Back in Trini,” he said, carefully.

“Matt, you never mentioned that before.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t see them very often,
do I? And they’re not
identical
twins. They don’t even look much alike
these days. They were at the wedding. I… I thought you knew.”

“No, Matt. There were about a million people
at the wedding, and my first question when I meet members of my new family is
not ‘Hi, how are you? Do you have a twin?’”

This may all sound a little harsh, but
this was how they talked to each other, and it was always done with a lot of
humour. The doctor grinned at their little routine. “So, twins, then. Great!”
she said, as brightly as she could.

“We’ll work it out, babe.”

“Yeah, it’ll be fine.”

Of course it was fine. It was more than
fine. It was brilliant. Exhausting, terrifying, impossible, but brilliant.
Nora, Eddie and Tara took up pretty much every second of their lives when they
weren’t at work. When the twins were babies they hoped things might get easier
when they got older, but they soon realised things were even tougher once they
started walking. Keeping an eye on the pair of them toddling around aimlessly
and apparently without fear while still gibing Nora the attention she needed was
a difficult task in itself. But they managed.

Two years flew past and gradually they
realised that time spent alone, talking about normal things, or lying together
in front of the TV, or making love, had all but vanished. They hadn’t even had
time to notice it, but their relationship had been boiled down to parenting and
little else.

Fortunately, they were a strong couple
and when Olivia pointed it out one day when they took the kids to the park,
Matt immediately suggested a weekend break. The kids were old enough to leave
with the grandparents for a couple of nights, after all. They deserved a bit of
time off.

That was four months earlier. It took a
lot of planning and a bit of saving and, to be honest, a kind offer from Matt’s
parents to foot the hotel bill (a joint birthday and Christmas present, they
said, which made Matt and Olivia feel like they were nine years old again), but
finally they were on their way. A weekend of peaceful, sexy bliss.

“Woohoo! Sexlympics!” yelled Olivia
again. And then, much quieter, “So, what
are
the Sexlympics, exactly?”

“Um. I’m not sure. Did we ever actually
discuss details?”

“You mean
discus
details? Get it?”

“Er, yeah.”

“Because the
discus
is in the
Olympics
,
and we’re talking about the
Sex
lympics and… oh forget it. Anyway, you
started it. You said we should have the Sexlympics. I assumed you knew what was
involved. I was just going with the flow. Woohoo! Sexlympics!” she howled.

“I thought
you
talked about it
first? You said you really fancied Tom Daley, even though he’s probably young
enough to be your son, and then you said something about us entering the
Sexlympics.”

“Did I?”

“I think so.”

“Maybe that was your other wife.”

“Could have been. I get you two mixed up
all the time.”

“Well, look, it doesn’t matter who said
it. The point is, we’ll be there in about 45 minutes and as I’m not going to
jerk you off while I’m driving we have plenty of time to decide what the
Sexlympics is going to be.”

“You’re right. We’re creative people. We
can think up some events. You start.”

“No, you start.”

“Okay. Umm. All right… how about…”

“Got one! Trampolining!”

“Trampolining?”

“Trampolining! So, we start making sweet,
sweet
lurve
, then we stand up on the bed, you inside me, and we jump
together and see how many times we can trampoline-fuck without either a.
Falling over; b. Dying; or c. Snapping your penis in half.”

“Excellent. If a little unsafe. What
about Event Two, then… Well, I guess the obvious one is the marathon.”

“You want us to run for 26 miles while your
thingy is inside my thingy?”

“Umm, no. I was thinking endurance. Once
we’re shagging, see how long we can last without either of us coming.”

“Well I’m going to win that, easily.”

“It’s not a race… what do you mean
anyway? That you’ll win by coming first or by lasting longer?”

“I think you know, Matty.”

“Right. Anyway, it’s a joint endurance
test. We have to last at least 26 minutes.”

“Excellent. What else? We need at least
seven events to make it like a heptathlon or something,” she said.

“I think we can rule throwing events
out.”

“Yeah, apart from me lying with my legs
open and you trying to lob a dildo into my pussy, I can’t see where we’d go
with that.”

“Painful.”

“Quite. Ooh! What about show-jumping?”

“Umm…?”

“Yeah! Well, not with horses, but we could
set up an obstacle course in the bedroom! Make little jumps with the pillows,
um… a sort of scramble net using the duvet… er…”

“Yeah, like that game I used to play when
I was a kid and you had to get round the whole room without touching the
floor.”

“Brilliant. Love that. How does it end?”

“We could make this one a race? Time each
other?” he suggested.

“Okay, but it’s not very
sexual
at
the moment, is it?”

“We could do it naked?”

“Well, that goes without saying.”

“Right. Got it. The other person has to be
totally honest and do their best for it to work, though.”

“Go on.”

“Right, so we do the course individually,
right? Scramble under the duvet, jump over the pillows, then climb round the
rest of the room without touching the floor. Then, back on the bed, the athlete
gets oral sex from the spectator. When they orgasm, that’s the end of the
round. We time it, and whoever finishes the round, including reaching orgasm,
in the quickest time, wins. But we both have to be honest and do our best when
doing the licking and sucking, or it’s not fair.”