“Look, I have a colleague I need to meet. She’s in town for a regional meeting, and I promised her a drink,” she said as she leaned across the table towards me.
“Well, you must meet then,” I replied, finishing off the last of a very good seafood linguine.
“If you want to call round later, you know I’ll be in and up till around midnight; got to finish the papers on that case I’m looking at.”
“Knew you wouldn’t mind, and I will call later.”
“Where are you meeting? Just in case I need to come and get you.”
“Oh, Fifty Thousand Postcards, it’s near her hotel.”
“Have a good time, pet,” she leaned in again and kissed me, her tongue invading me, making my cock twitch in unison to her tongue thrusting.
I just loved that place. They sold Weston’s organic cider on draught as well as Friuli fruit beer; the food was great as well. I paid the bill and left the restaurant, then walked through to my place on the avenue above the Chine. The house was in a very select haven of six others, but very private, despite being a sort of courtyard setting. This was as good a base as any. No one can see their neighbors’ doors and no one has noise issues either. I was very surprised at that, considering how vocal Jules was when we fucked and played.
I got straight into my work and settled down to read the new case papers for Peru and the Philippines. It’s interesting that countries like that have heard of what we do. The business of national security is smaller, and closer knit than you can imagine, it’s like a village now we have the net, and recommendations are everything.
By midnight, my eyes were starting to feel gritty, so I packed the papers into my safe and made ready for bed. I was asleep for around ten minutes when I heard the key in the lock. I stayed where I was because Jules has her own key; she comes and goes as she pleases.
After another few minutes, I heard the Bose being turned on, and the sound of the kettle boiling. My living space was large and open, with light oak floors and genuine Afghan carpets, a large leather suite and a light oak refectory table, and chairs that divided the kitchen from the rest of the room. I shifted position in bed and got comfortable again, then slid away to a light sleep.
After thirty minutes or so, I stirred, got up, used the loo, and then opened the window. The music was still on, and I could hear noises; not talk, but noises in the living room. I wandered through to see if Jules had fallen asleep on the sofa after her boozy evening. They were her noises, guttural and deep. I pushed open the door and there they were, Jules sprawled on the sofa, legs wide apart, skirt round her waist, her firm luscious breasts out of their usual quarter cup bra, and her nipples hugely swollen and aroused.
Another woman was between her legs, and obviously using a half bottle of champagne to fuck Jules’s soaking pussy. Her tongue was busy too. No wonder her nipples looked so swollen, with the attention from that other mouth.
I could see the other woman was in her very early forties, shortish, with heavy, thick and lustrous blonde hair, and obviously having the time of her life. She was also half-naked, hold ups, very high heels, and wearing some sort of sharp designer suit, with nothing at all in the way of underwear anywhere. The skirt had ridden over her thighs, and bunched just on her buttocks. I could see she was smooth and very wet, and pierced with several heavy gold rings on her swollen pussy lips.
I swallowed hard. There was something else too. A little bell. No wonder the music playing didn’t match the sounds I was hearing. She had a pussy bell.
Well fuck me. I’d heard about it but never seen one. I grinned at my little secret but stayed quiet, and moved to the big leather chair and curled up on it.
“Only trying to learn and broaden my horizons, Your Honour,” I thought.
The girls were engrossed in each other and didn’t even register my presence. Jules got very vocal when she was being fucked, and she did love different means and methods of achieving her multiple orgasms.
She also got excessively wet, but as I looked at the floor, I thought that the champagne bottle obviously wasn’t empty when they had started playing with each other. Fortunately I oiled the oak floor once a month, so I knew it wouldn’t stain or watermark.
I could tell Jules was approaching orgasm by her frenzied thrashing and disjointed shouts. She sounded like someone with Tourette’s when she was going to have a big cum, I kid you not; and so it started…
“Fuck, fuck, cum, fuck me, cunt, bastard, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck…”
Then she blew.
No! Definitely not champagne, it was all Jules’s cum juices jetting out of her pussy, straight into the face of the woman fucking her. Really hard hot spurts, and I should know, I’ve been on the receiving end more than a few times. The fuck juices spurted out of her open pussy and straight onto the face of the woman like water from a garden hose.
She reacted unexpectedly; she leaned into the stream and opened her mouth so it cascaded in. She swallowed and kept swallowing, while bucking her own body to Jules’s spastic movements.
The bell started tinkling furiously as the woman’s left hand plunged into her own pussy. At least three fingers were working overtime, and the gold labia rings were jangling too. Jules was thrashing around on the sofa as the woman continued to fuck her with the champagne bottle.
I could tell this was far from over, so I did the only thing I could. I settled back into the chair and just started caressing my erection gently…