Party time. Candlemass.

Published by Gossipmonger in the blog Gossipmonger's blog. Views: 96

The other morning I’m in this very familiar place, just after dawn. Don’t ask. I see these two girls on their way home. They don’t look like they’re shot. But not like they’ve slept, either. They look like they’ve only just dressed, again, and the outfits are cool. No, not cool. The opposite. Lotta leather, lotta hints of flesh. They’re not on the way to work. Almost like vamps, who have found they can keep going into the sunlight. I wish, I wish. We could find some dark little corner. It could have been two guys. It wasn’t. Right now, pretty much anything will set me off. I didn’t quite know it would happen this way. Maybe the guy who wanted someone to step on his beloved England team might still find the odd crumb. Or maybe he could get his wish at a Bjork concert. In Rejkjavik.

To be honest, I really hope so. He’s a great fuck. He’s even given a few pairs of my peep-toes a pretty good seeing to. Thing is, hun - do it in front of me. Do it as a proper tribute. I’d wear them just the same. All over my tights. I could stand in them, and get fucked by some other guy? Which I probably did.

Football. Cowboy boot girl would just grab the remote off him and turn it over. Even while they were all lining up, for a live game. He goes to get another beer, and comes back and she’s watching Eastenders. Playing with her phone again, more’s the truth, while Eastenders plays out in the background. Some bit of moving wallpaper. Maybe after 10 minutes she’d get bored with that, and piss off upstairs. This time, I’ll follow. Her turn, to be down below - I think!. She has serious boots on. Right to the thigh. Ripped jeans, almost completely hidden by the boots, and an old top which shows plenty. A lot of people would imagine boots like that along with PVC, and a whip, and all sorts. Clean, shiny. Nothing about her is clean and shiny. She’s a dirty bitch. Her dirty bitch tongue goes dirty bitch places. Don’t like to think it could ever be too dry, when there’s so much fun to be had… She’s never the hardest worker. Could do better. Try harder. But I don’t care. We choose his bed, not hers. She don’t undress, and neither do I. I have this short little skirt, denim, no knicks. Wedges, but no chance of a wedgie. Probably ok, the shoes, though there's sometimes a few mucky pups round our way. If I’d had the knicks I’d have waited a bit before taking them off, soaked them a bit, then left them on his bed after. Like she would have, but she’d have done it by accident.

That outfit is like something she’s just thrown on, like she got up and just picked up the first things from the piles on the floor. It looks like that, because that’s how it is. She’d go down Tesco in well worn four inch heel thigh highs and ripped jeans and some old top Or meet some guy for coffee.

She gets plenty of offers. Shove her phone up her pussy, stick it on vibrate. She’d be set.

So he’s down there trying to watch his game, and we’re up on his bed making a fucking royal mess of it, and of each other, and it creaks and I’m moaning even louder than usual. I’m on her face and loving it and then I pull away… I’m standing now, my back against his wall, my purple painted toes, in my mucky puppy, strappy shoes, almost lost in his pillows, either side of her surprised looking face, her eyes almost angry… but she turns. Moves round, so now she’s kneeling. And her tongue is back where it specially ought to be. Shit, that’s so good. Leaking, leaking. Into where she can taste it. More, and then more, and then… OOOOOh, shiiit!

I grab her fucking hair. Pull her up. Face to face. My lips to hers, my hands tight on her ass. Digging my fingernails in. I turn her round. Her back to the wall now. If I had a cock she’d be in so much trouble. I’d go all the way in, right up. I’d cum so fucking hard. It would be pissing out everywhere. I’d bore straight through the jeans… My lips are so hard against hers it hurts... Her head’s against his wall.

Oh God, with her almost more than with anyone else. Sport. On telly. Jesus. That’s why I just had her, myself.

But this bit isn’t so much about her. Because my mind’s gone rampant. All those things you see, and think about, and never say.

She’s someone's mum, some pussywhipped fucker, with a blue badge in her Jag. Also someone else’s. She sits on one chair, and her mate sits on another. Mum has really wide cut trousers and Prada heels. I don’t actually know that they are Prada. But I know that her mate’s are not. Her mate’s are just very, very thin, and getting thinner, all the way down to the tip. Maybe only £200. I can’t see the price, and I can’t see the metal. But I know that I’m right about both. Fit, and sound. Mum’s outfit is a grand. I don’t know the labels, but I recognise the extravagance and she is well aware. The mate’s dress is tight, black, slit leg and low cut. Bare legs. I’m never sure about that, on an older girl - but she makes it work. No problem.

I’m on the couch, but in my head I’m shackled to a wooden chair. Naked. Legs chained apart. One of those chairs you get in a church, with a little place for the prayer books.

He’s not here, and neither is cowboy boot girl. So we’re just hanging about, waiting. They’re due. With more wine. Or maybe they’re not. There’s plenty here. Her mate gets up and refills with what the three of us still have. They’re in a cab, today. I do admit, this room always had a stunning floor. Not all of it is rugs. Lovely old polished wood, underneath, and in the parts where they don’t cover. Soft, and then harsh. The sounds, as our forty year old trying not to be Essex girl visitor makes her way round the room. No rug where that wine bottle was. He’d have his cock out if he could replay those couple of minutes. All of that woman, every inch of her. Every pound, earrings to cunt and then on down, delivered in full onto the tips of those heels. If you wanted a really, really good fuck with him…. That floor’s no virgin to it. But that’s gonna be bad.

The conversation’s not what I might have expected. How can that be possible?

My old man used to use a strap on me, she says. Mum. Almost to no one in particular. But doing the action. Fuck, you can believe how much it would have hurt, if she’d actually been holding a strip of leather. The look in her eyes. She fucking means it. I’m not exactly sure what pays for all of those rings and baubles but it’s pretty clear what direction the strapping took her to. She looks like it’s a pretty damned fond memory. I don’t think she gives a fuck about the flat. Pay a few boys to come in, when the time comes. Not pay them, even. She probably knows that there’s cum on the boards, and on the rugs. Dried. Where we all just walk on it.

Yadda, yadda, yadda. For a bit.

Then I went and married the one he told me not to. Poor cunt.

That little Filipino mixed a cake for him once. She said. She waited a bit more.

I thought, fuck it. Put some wine in the mix. So that’s what I did.

Yeah, say’s her mate. But you need to tell her the important bit. She turns to me. She drank it, first. Turns back. Didn’t you, darling?

Yes, well. I was taught never to waste. Another of the old man’s maxims. And it did give me a nice buzz. Well, anyway, she baked it all up for him and we made sure we got some cunt to ice it….

Never been the same since then. Cake. She says. Always thought different about it.

That’s true. Mate says. Found out what type you really liked.

Black Forest Gateau. She nods. Smiles, wicked. Reaches out with her hand.

Likes it with a cherry on top. The mate says.

And I can see her point. They look at each other. And at me. Like, is it my birthday? Will I need candles?

Oh fuck, oh fuck. That’s how bad it is.
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