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© Bad Hobbit 2018
“Stop staring at her tits!” I hissed.
Graham turned to me with an exasperated expression on his face. “I am not staring at her tits!” he hissed back, emphatically. “Even though she’s encouraging it,” he added, sotto voce.
And it was true. Chloe had a spectacular bosom, which she seemed determined to flaunt. Tonight she was in – or mostly out of – a skimpy white halter-necked dress to accentuate her deep tan. The clingy garment plunged toward her navel, leaving an impressive (and probably silicone) valley open at the front, while the narrow strips that covered not a lot more than her nipples left plenty of space at the side to admire the curve of her golden globes. Obviously, given that the dress was backless, there was no sign of – or need for – a bra. And just to make sure that everyone got the picture, the sides of the clingy, short skirt were just a set of elastic cords, opening several inches and providing clear evidence, through the strip of tanned flesh visible from her waist to the hem, a few inches below her taut bottom, that she wasn’t wearing panties either.
But it was her party, and she was free to make herself the centre of attention. I suppose I couldn’t blame Graham; Chloe seemed to be saying that it was all on offer, to whoever was man enough to claim it. I just wished he wasn’t being so blatant about it.
Chloe had been happy to use her looks to pay her way through college, through ad-hoc modelling jobs; we suspected glamour, rather than fashion. We had the impression, no actual evidence, that she’d also earned a lot of the cash that she always seemed to have through – shall we say – more intimate services. Chloe was always the one who stood out in our group, even before the implants that Adam had paid for after they were married, though the rest of us – Rachel, Jess, Tara and me – were all pretty enough in our own right. But put Chloe in our midst and guys seemed to flood in from every direction, like moths around a 200-watt lightbulb.
I guess I can’t really complain, because the ones that bounced off the atmosphere of planet Chloe often ended up in orbit around one or other of her satellites. Graham was one such. Very good looking in a rather angular and lean fashion, he and I had met in the final year, became an item within a week or two, and got married when we’d both landed decent jobs and were able to afford our first mortgage. Ten years on from graduation – the ostensible reason for tonight’s party – and we were doing OK. We were both earning good money, living in a nice house – though not on the level of Chloe’s place – and were happy enough together.
But Graham had never seemed comfortable around my girlfriends, or even with their partners. He would occasionally come to reunions, but he usually sat, nursing a drink and looking sullen. I was surprised that he’d agreed to come along tonight, but I guessed it may just have been to check out Chloe’s amazing house – or perhaps just ogle its amazing owner.
The house had come as the divorce settlement from Chloe’s marriage to a hedge-fund manager ten years older than her. The relationship had lasted only a little over three years, and Chloe and Adam seemed to have spent barely half of that actually together, but the house – a big six-bedroom place in about an acre – was now hers. Rachel, who worked at an estate agent’s, once said, rather bitchily “A million pound house for less than two years actually together. I hope that Adam thought the sex was worth it. Even if they did it every night, that would work out at well over a grand a fuck.”
I guess I shared Rachel’s resentment of my rather larger-than-life friend. At 32 she owned a house most people would have been delighted to have at retirement. She had a high-powered job in HR with (apparently) enough cash to support an appropriately-plush lifestyle, and she still had the men swarming around her like ants circling a beautiful but deadly mantis. Perhaps I was just jealous, or maybe it was because I felt that my husband was behaving like a complete tosser in her company.
“Close your mouth,” I shot back at Graham, “you’re drooling.”
He gave me a withering look, and then said “Look, Abi, I’ve had enough of this fucking show. I’m going home.”
“But we’ve only just got here,” I protested. I looked at my watch; it was barely half nine. “I’ve not even had a chance to talk to Tara yet. Or Rachel, for that matter.”
“Look, if I stay here, with you in this fucking mood, I’m just going to drink and I won’t be able to drive back, so I’m going now and I’ll resume the drinking when I get home. Frankly I’d rather watch Match of the Day than Chloe flaunting her fake tits at everyone.”
“Look, Graham, please. I don’t get to see my old mates very often. I can’t leave now.”
He pulled his wallet from his pocket and handed me two £20 notes. “When you’re ready to come home, get a cab. Or if Chloe has a spare room, crash out here and call me in the morning; I’ll come out and pick you up.” He smiled – a rather forced expression. “You enjoy cevizli escort it, love. It’s just not my scene. See you later, or in the morning. Up to you.” He kissed me and walked out to where the car was parked.
‘Oh well,’ I thought, ‘at least I can stop worrying about him making an exhibition of himself,’ and went off in search of my old college buddies. Rachel was – predictably – in the kitchen, glass in one hand, half-full bottle of Pinot Grigio in the other. When she saw me, she smiled. We kissed, as old friends do these days.
“Hi Rach. How’s things?”
“Great to see you, Abi. Not bad, not bad at all. Work’s improving – I’m actually getting some decent properties with good commissions, and a bit of respect from my colleagues. The way it was at the previous place you’d think I was either the tea-girl or the local tart.”
“Great. And how are Mark and the kids?”
Her smile faded a little. “Mark – he’s okay. He’s spending a lot of time abroad on business at the moment. Still, he’s earning good money – he’s just got himself a new Audi – and we’re thinking of moving to a bigger place closer to Alice’s school. You heard she got in at St. Matthew’s?”
I nodded. “Yes. A very bright girl. And Aidan?”
“Oh, quite a handful, but he’s fun – always coming out with things that make us laugh, a bit like his dad used to be. It’s a relief that he’s at school now; he was becoming exhausting. Now his teachers can take on the challenge of wearing him out!” Despite her smile I could see a shadow cross her face, and guessed that two kids and two high-powered jobs were not totally compatible with a loving relationship with her husband.
Now Graham and me, we decided really early on that we never wanted kids. It was very much a conscious decision, and I’ve never regretted it, though I’m not sure that Graham always feels the same. Still, it’s given us a lot of extra freedom, not to mention disposable income. Other people’s kids were of passing interest to me, but not so much that I thought I should be competing with them in the regular “hasn’t my kid done well?” fest that was often the nature of meetings with my female friends.
“Have you seen Jess or Tara yet?” I asked.
“Oh, Jess can’t make it. Little Joshua is ill and she has to stay home with him. Shame, really. I did see Tara a while back, with Sean in the kitchen.”
Just then, a group of girls who’d been on Rachel’s course arrived. She’d been in our hall of residence, but doing sociology, while Tara, Jess and me were on the Economics and Management course. I didn’t really know any of the newcomers except to smile at and say hello, so after a little more small-talk, I left Rachel to go in search of someone else I knew.
The kitchen was, I have to admit, one of the more spectacular rooms in Chloe’s spectacular house. It was huge, with a big, lantern ceiling and very expensive units. There were bi-fold doors leading out in three directions – into the garden, the huge lounge and a big dining room. The resulting enormous entertaining space was quite busy with people, but I caught sight of Sean, Tara’s husband, propped up in a corner, looking a bit lonely and holding a glass of wine.
“Hi Sean! How are you?”
He smiled back, apparently genuinely pleased to see me. He leaned close, kissing me on both cheeks.
“I’m good thanks. Yourself? Haven’t seen you in months!”
“Oh, I’m fine, thanks. Yeah, we’ve been pretty busy. Where’s Tara?”
He gave what could best be described as a rueful smile, and looked at his watch. “Well, let’s see. Probably by now she’s down between our hostess’s legs, although it could be the other way round. Tara likes to get down to oral pretty quickly.”
The shock on my face must have shown, because he suddenly laughed. “Oh, I see you didn’t realise that my wife was bi? Or Chloe, for that matter?”
“I – no, I had no idea. How – how long…?”
“Since college, possibly before in Tara’s case. Maybe Chloe’s also. They were certainly experimenting back then, even before I met Tara.” He took a sip of his wine and seemed to watch for my reaction.
“But – but they’re both married; or at least, Chloe was.”
“I said ‘bi,’ I didn’t say ‘lesbian.’ Tara – and Chloe, so I’m told – fortunately still likes a bit of cock now and then.” He looked to see whether he was shocking or embarrassing me with what he was saying. Then he seemed to decide that he was too drunk or annoyed to care anyway. “No, I guess Tara is sort of 50-50, girls and blokes. Chloe’s more 70-30, which is why Adam got so frustrated, I guess.”
“Oh, Sean, I had no idea. How, er, difficult for you.”
“It has its compensations, I suppose. Every now and then, when Tara brings a girlfriend home, I get a chance to join in. Haven’t had the pleasure of Chloe, yet, though. Maybe after tonight…”
I was still trying to absorb the bombshell that Sean had just dropped when he changed the subject. “How’s Graham? Is he here tonight?”
“Er, yes, he’s erenköy escort – er, fine. Fine. In fact, he was here earlier, but he got bored and has gone home again. You know Graham; never really enjoys parties.”
“Sure. So are you staying tonight or is he picking you up later?”
“I’m probably going to get a cab. Chloe hasn’t invited me to stay, and Graham will probably have had a few pints while he watches the footie.”
“I see,” he said. “And what do you think of the house?”
“It’s – it’s amazing.” I was still trying to cope with the fact that two of my closest friends had strong lesbian tendencies that I had naively never noticed, and that even now were sharing a bed, while Sean seemed to be happy to make small-talk.
“I designed most of the alterations for them, you know.”
I’d forgotten that Sean was an architect. Of all of my friends’ partners, he was always the one I’d found it easiest to talk to. Adam had been all bravado, gloss, status symbols – of which a big-breasted trophy wife must have been one – and continually hinting at how rich he was. There were the flights to Australia – first class, of course – just to watch the cricket. There was the chartered yacht for their honeymoon; the Lamborghini in the drive of the impressive house; the designer labels plastered all over both him and Chloe. By contrast, Jess’s husband Sam was rather dour and down-to-earth. He was a builder, wealthy enough to support Jess and her steadily-expanding brood – three so far and a fourth on the way – but he had little by way of conversation – at least not on any subjects that interested me.
Sean was different. He seemed to actively seek out the company of women, apparently just for friendly and stimulating conversation. If he flirted with any of his wife’s friends, it was pretty subtle; the few times Graham had tried that, he’d been embarrassingly gauche. Sean just seemed to be pleasant company, able to talk about politics, the environment, the Arts – anything but bloody football, which so many of the other men seemed obsessed with. He and Tara had always seemed such a close and devoted couple that it never seemed strange or disloyal to spend an evening largely in conversation with Sean. He was just a good friend.
“The lantern ceiling is the largest I’ve done. Quite a feat, getting the loading right and making sure that the angle allowed the sun to light the room properly.”
“It’s very impressive,” I replied, still reeling from the information he’d so casually tossed my way. “I also love the way it’s laid out. I’m envious.”
“Well, you know what Adam was like; only the best, preferably with lots of quality labels sticking out so people can see how much cash he’d splashed. I had to tone him down a bit several times or he’d have spent twice as much as he needed and made the place look rather vulgar. However, Chloe got exactly what she wanted, and I think the result’s pretty good.”
“‘Pretty good’? As usual, Sean, you’re being too modest. It looks fabulous.”
“Thanks, Abi. Have you seen the other alterations? In fact, have you seen the rest of the house?”
“No, I’ve only been downstairs. Are we allowed to snoop around?”
“Sure. I helped build – or rebuild – half of the place, I’m an overnight guest, and anyway, our hostess is otherwise engaged. Let me refill our glasses and I’ll give you the guided tour.”
He led the way upstairs, and we came out on a galleried landing looking down on the huge entertaining space. “I pushed the front wall out by about six metres and built this atrium. Of course, Adam wanted lots of marble and a big chandelier, but taste finally overcame his proposed extravagances and we ended up with something more understated and minimalist. I’d like to show you the master suite, but I don’t think my wife and her lover would appreciate the intrusion, so let’s look at some of the other rooms.”
As we strolled along the passage leading from the atrium, Sean pointed out the rooms on either side; three bedrooms, all en-suite, plus a huge ‘family’ bathroom. “Why they wanted this I have no idea. Every room has its own bathroom, so why an extra one? But Adam insisted. It’s all Villeroy and Boch, Jacuzzi bath, lots of marble. No idea why.”
“What’s the picture?” I asked, looking at a large abstract on the wall opposite the bathroom door.
“A Vasarely. Not original – just a signed print, but still worth quite a bit. Adam took all the original artworks with him when he moved out. He appreciated their financial value, even if he didn’t understand their artistic merit. And here,” he said, pushing open the last door, “is the main guest suite. It was hard to stop Adam going berserk with the décor. Chloe restrained him, but we still ended up with the super-king four-poster. There’s a dressing room through there big enough to store all of Imelda Marcos’s shoes, and a bathroom bigger than your average squash court. With a lot of marble. Want a look?”
I followed him through, and the dressing room esenyurt escort and en-suite were both almost as big as he’d said, and opulently finished. Back in the bedroom, a large picture on the wall beside the door caught my eye – a rather explicit nude study of a young and attractive couple, in quite a lot of detail. You could call it erotic. Or you could call in pornographic.
Sean saw where I was looking, and laughed. “Oh yes, another one of Adam’s. He commissioned at least four of them. I’d suggest that this is the least blatant of them. One’s in the master suite, and he took the other two with him.”
“It is a little – er – intimidating,” I said.
“Obviously Adam liked it. I guess some people would find it arousing. I’m guessing he was trying to show off to his visitors. I think the two subjects are meant to look rather like Adam and Chloe, and he was trying to say something like ‘look how I fuck my wife.’ Although I guess that he soon discovered that he didn’t get to fuck her as often as he’d have liked, and that quite a few women had had that privilege. I guess he’d have commissioned some different pictures if he’d realised.”
I looked again at the picture, though it was a bit embarrassing, examining an image that was so blatantly erotic in the presence – and indeed in the bedroom – of a friend’s husband. I could see what Sean meant. The woman definitely looked a lot like Chloe, though her face was obscured by her hair. The male was lying on his back, his head also turned away, while the woman was on top, as if they were about to indulge in, or had just been interrupted in, a bout of soixante-neuf. The woman’s leg was raised so you could clearly see her pussy, directly over the man’s face, while she held his rather exaggerated (I thought) penis upright as she prepared to take it into her mouth. Clearly Adam’s taste in art more than bordered on the pornographic.
“So, Abi, that concludes the tour. I’m sorry I couldn’t show you the other guest rooms – I guess they’re all occupied. Do you want to go back to the party? Or would you like to stay here for a while?”
I looked at him, saw him looking at me with a quizzical expression, and suddenly realised what he was suggesting.
“Am I right in thinking that you’re suggesting something of a – sexual nature?”
He laughed. “Well yes, Abi, that’s one way of putting it. Look, my wife’s fucking our hostess. Your husband has fucked off. And you’re fucking gorgeous. I don’t know if you realise just how attractive you are, or how much I’ve always fancied you, but frankly, Abi, there’s a very big and empty bed over there. I’m looking at you, and I’m looking at this picture and thinking ‘that could be me and you.’ You’re sexier than Chloe and a far nicer person. I’ve probably had too much to drink and should shut the fuck up, but as I see it, you have three choices; go back to the party, go back to what passes for your husband, or take up my offer of a bed for the night.”
I confess I was flattered. Sean was a good-looking guy; tall, lean but not skinny, bright blue eyes, nicely chiselled features, thick, blond hair. I’d often thought that he and Tara, who I’d thought of as my second-prettiest friend (Chloe always held the first place) made an attractive couple. But really, this was a bit bizarre. Sean was asking me to be unfaithful to my husband for the first time in our eight-year marriage, even our ten-year relationship. I could see that infidelity was a part of their relationship, but it wasn’t part of mine.
“Sean, I’m flattered, really I am, but no. I can’t be unfaithful to Graham.” I smiled at him and headed toward the door.
“He’s a lucky man, Abi. He’s also a wanker to prefer Match of the Day to you. You’re gorgeous, and he doesn’t deserve you.”
I stopped in the doorway. Then I closed the door, turned round and walked back to Sean. As he looked at me expectantly, I suddenly slapped his face.
“What?” he gasped.
“That’s for calling my husband a wanker.”
Then I put my hand on the back of his neck, pulled his face down to meet mine, and kissed him. It wasn’t the sort of kiss we usually exchanged when we met. It wasn’t the sort of kiss that I would usually give to anyone except my husband.
When we finally broke, his arms now holding me tightly, he said “And what was that for?”
“That’s for calling me gorgeous.” I glanced at the picture again. “And for suggesting that I’m prettier than Chloe, you flattering bastard.”
“No flattery intended. You are. Empirical fact. She’s half plastic. You’re real – and so sexy it hurts.”
When I finally felt Sean’s cock sliding into me, I knew I’d gone too far. Our clothes were in a heap on the floor, and he’d spent at least twenty minutes eating my pussy – about twice as long as Graham could ever manage. He made me come at least twice, the second time mostly with his fingers inside me – two in my vagina and one up my bum.
I began to realise that maybe, just maybe, Sean was right about Graham; he was a wanker, in that he couldn’t do the things to me that Sean could. Admittedly, Sean was rather more classically attractive; his shoulders were broad, his skin smooth – he’d even removed his pubic hair – and his technique with his fingers and mouth were pretty spectacular. I’d never really sat on a guy’s face before and felt his mouth and fingers on my pussy in the way that Sean encouraged me to do.
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