He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, sending the car in a fierce forward thrust down the dual carriageway. The 30 m.p.h. speed limit ended here, and Michael shifted into top gear and let the Vauxhall's speedometer creep up steadily to the 65 mark.
The green verge and the evenly spaced trees flashed past, the flatness of the surrounding countryside blurring into a meaningless frozen landscape. He kept his eyes on the straight grey road ahead — watching as the bonnet of the car greedily swallowed up the tarmac.
Michael Cameron was a large man; but his muscular body, kept in shape by regular exercise and his twice weekly tennis workouts, still retained the angular lines and the even distribution of weight of his youth. His eyes were brown, his face — now twisted into a dark scowl — normally expressed the calm, cool confidence of a man who has found his niche in life and is contented with it.
The lines of middle age were prematurely showing on his forehead and around his rather full and sensuous lips. He was a man who had trained himself neither to feel or reveal emotion: he dealt with crises in his business and domestic life with calm, methodical deliberation, scarcely ever allowing himself to weaken and display signs of involvement with his associates.
In the environment of his office and in the close, inbred atmosphere of his club, he was recognised as an almost too typical example of the English businessman. Moderately successful, assured of a comfortable pension at the end of his working life, commuting by car each day from his semi-detached Surrey house to the firm of London stockbrokers in which he held a fairly responsible position; married with a quietly spoken daughter who lived most of the year in a reasonably-priced boarding school…
People scarcely gave him a second glance. With his rolled-up umbrella, his anonymous pin-striped suit and his dark bowler, Michael Cameron merged into his surroundings like a lizard which is coloured a desert-grey protect it from its enemies. He was outwardly the very epitome of placid, humdrum respectability.
But lately there had been a gradual change in his personality, a shift in his outlook on life. It was still scarcely apparent to his business colleagues, though people who knew him on a social level had remarked upon his abruptness, his frequent bad temper — and his highly changeable moods.
The simple reason for Michael's discontent was that he had reached the age of 35. In itself, the fact meant nothing. He still had many years of relative youth left to him; he had an assured, safe future ahead — and outwardly he had every reason to be satisfied with his life.
And yet the thought had struck him a few months ago that none of his secret dreams and ambitions as a boy had been realised. None of them. He had settled for an unimaginative, pedantic existence: burying himself in a small country town, letting his life revolve around church fetes, visits to the repertory company, whist drives and all the other narrow, time-consuming activities of the half-asleep minds around him.
That was the crux of the matter: he, too, had been half-asleep all these years, Michael saw. Doing all the “right” things like getting married and working hard at a boring and increasingly tedious job. For twenty years he had spent his life like a man in a dream, while the promises he had made to himself as a youth lay forgotten in the recesses of his mind: slumbering while he wasted his good years, his vital years…
He had wanted to travel, to write, to meet exciting and creative people. He had meant to learn several languages, extend his awareness of the world.
Bitterly, Michael took the car out to the centre of the highway and overtook a lorry. As he passed it and drew back into the nearside lane, a mad urge came over him to brake suddenly, to let the lorry smash into his car and put an end to his self-pity.
His hands were damp — he gripped the steering wheel tightly, forcing his foot to remain on the accelerator. A bead of sweat trickled from his forehead into the corner of one eye and Michael blinked it away, hating himself for being so cowardly an indecisive.
The moment had passed. The moment when he might have taken the quick way out of his misery was gone — perhaps never to return. Because, as his tension slowly evaporated, Michael realised how childish and neurotic he was to think of suicide. Killing himself was the very last resort — and he hadn't yet exhausted all the possibilities of redeeming his life. Not yet.
His affair with Shirley had proved a failure, but so what? There were plenty of other women who would be willing enough to become his mistress. And he might still be able to bring himself to leave Jean…
Michael was forced to smile wryly as he reflected once more that good old sex was at the bottom of it all. The deep, ancient biological urge to fornicate! That was the root of his problem. Give him the opportunity to fuck without remorse, without guilt — and he knew that his salvation would be in sight.
Because sex represented freedom to him. Freedom to prove himself, freedom to show the world that he was an individual, a cut above the mediocre level of his snobbish, insipid neighbours. And yet, for reasons he didn't understand, Jean was unable to fulfil his need in this direction. It may have been simply that she was his lawful wife; there was no element of surprise, of titivation in their relationship. There never had been, Michael recalled. From the very first, Jean and he had been the most perfunctory of lovers — rather wooden, unimaginative in their sex-play.
And although he wanted the challenge of another, younger girl, Michael had been unable to seriously contemplate leaving his wife. Perhaps she represented the bonds which still tied him to his present environment. Or maybe it went deeper than that: he couldn't be sure.
But now that Shirley had left him, he knew that he simply had to make some sort of break from Jean, even if it was only a temporary estrangement. The pressures were again building up in his mind, he could feel his head beginning to ache with the taunting of his newly-awakened ambitions, insistent and demanding.
As he drove, having to slow down now as the homeward-bound commuters caused delays at the roundabouts, Michael thought back to the previous evening and his last encounter with Shirley. She was a girl he'd met one lunch hour; a pretty, if only moderately intelligent young typist whom he picked up in a snack bar without quite realising what he was doing.
He had asked her to pass the sugar bowl and a few minutes later they were in conversation: Michael had never been able to pinpoint the exact moment when his pleasantries turned into flirtation. But when they'd finished their coffee and left together, he knew that for the first time in his life he had calmly and in a public place asked a strange girl to have dinner with him.
The event was so out of character that Michael, during the rest of the afternoon, half-believed he had imagined the meeting. But Shirley was waiting for him that evening in the saloon bar of a pub where they'd arranged to rendezvous and he found himself chatting quite easily to her, as if he'd been doing this sort of thing for years.
The irony was that Michael had frequently spent weekends away from home, letting Jean think that he was sleeping with other women, for years! Now his pretence had suddenly become a reality…
For a week or two they were very happy together. He took her to the theatre, to some of the best restaurants in London and she took him back to her bed-sitting-room in the Fulham Road: a rather dingy, untidy dwelling in one of those ugly and vast houses which abound in Chelsea's “wrong side”.
He grew to love the room, though, because to him it represented the kind of disorderly chaos for which his soul yearned: the complete antithesis to his usual surroundings. He liked to sit on the shabby, Victorian sofa which she'd bought cheaply at a junk shop. He liked to climb the uncarpeted stairs to her room on the third floor and pretend that he lived in the house permanently; that the stockbrokers' and Jean and Cathy and his house in Surrey didn't exist.
And most of all, Michael liked to take Shirley to bed with the sounds of a party reverberating overhead. The music and the voices added an atmosphere of orgy-like daring to their love-making, making him feel that he was at last catching up with the missed opportunities of his youth.
But last night he had seen the room for the cheap, unattractive slum which it really was. The peeling wallpaper, the smell of cooking wafting down the hall, the pathetic attempts Shirley had made to brighten it up…
“How can you stand it here?” he heard himself asking her. “It's so dirty, so sordid — and the people all around you: they're nothing more than a bunch of beatniks and layabouts! You've got quite a good job, you can afford something better than this, surely?”
Shirley had looked at him in surprise. His criticism had come right out of the blue and it shocked her to hear so much supercilious distaste in his voice. She felt at home here; more than that — she wanted to belong in this neighbourhood. It gave her a sense of living in a bohemian community and although she worked as a typist in the City, Shirley entertained hopes of one day throwing up her job and trying to make the grade as an artist.
She had been to art school but so far hadn't been able to summon the courage to show her work to a gallery. Michael had seen some of her pictures; they were modern abstracts and he professed a polite admiration for them while suppressing his private opinion that they were hideous daubs scarcely worth the canvas they were painted on.
Poor Shirley… Michael allowed himself to feel a momentary regret for the sad, lost little girl who would probably never leave her office desk. She would type invoices for the rest of her life (or until she married and settled down in a terraced house somewhere in the suburbs). Her brief artistic flowering would die a painful death, strangled by her own lack of talent and the pressures of the mass media — which exhorted her and thousands of girls like her to live a “normal, healthy, everyday life”.
As soon as he'd voiced his opinion of her home, Michael wanted to bite the words back. Shirley wasn't so very far removed from him after all, he realised. She, too, was struggling to escape from her background — and, like him, she seemed doomed to an early failure.
Before she could reply, he reached out quickly for her hand and pressed her fingers gently. “I'm sorry", he said quietly. “I didn't mean to say that, Shirley. Honestly — I apologise”.
Shirley had shrugged both his remarks away as if they didn't concern her. “What do I care?” she told him. “If you don't think much of it, that's up to you!
He lifted her chin until her lips were in line with his and kissed her. Her body shivered slightly against him and he knew for certain that she had been hurt by his words. He squeezed her tightly, his hands on her backs of her shoulders, fingers feeling her flesh through the thin material of the girl's dress.
Her mouth slowly grew more responsive under the pressure of Michael's lips. She began to pant gently, thrusting her body forward until he felt the hardness of her crotch pushing against his prick.
“Darling!” he breathed when they at last broke for air. “Oh, my darling!” (Wanting to tell her that he loved her but finding the words obstinately sticking in his throat).
Her eyes were still closed, her lips moist from the kiss, Shirley's passion was easily aroused, no more than a sufficiently prolonged kiss serving to make the girl misty-eyed and eager for further intimacies.
Michael's cock stirred upwards as he looked down into her face. She was so very young, not much older than Cathy, in fact. He couldn't help thinking of her, all the same, as an object rather than a person. Shirley represented no more to him than a pliable, beautifully curved body which merged with his and brought him a sweet satisfaction.
Her identity as a separate individual, her existence outside her usefulness as an instrument of pleasure, was vague and lost to him. Small wonder, Michael thought, that the words “I love you” wouldn't come to his lips. They were meaningless… an empty phrase which merely seemed appropriate in this situation: much as “I beg your pardon” was obligatory if you bumped someone in the street.
However, this realisation, far from diminishing his lust, served to intensify it. He slipped his hands down until they encompassed Shirley's buttocks, then raised the girl off her feet — holding her tightly against his body, supporting her by pressing his fingers into the giving cheeks of her bottom.
She wound her arms about his neck, opening her mouth and beginning to nibble softly at his ear lobe as he carried her to the bed.
Michael set her down so that Shirley was standing on the sheets, her breasts level with his face. Keeping his hands on her buttocks — starting to massage the softness of her curves with wandering fingers — he rubbed his cheek against them, feeling the globes flatten slightly and press warmly into his nose. He could hear the girl's heartbeat, thudding with a muffled but distinct rhythm next to his ear.
Shirley was wearing one of her briefest mini-dresses. Its hem scarcely covered her stocking tops, and now that Michael had lifted her up onto the bed the girl's suspender studs were completely exposed — the taut retainers glittering metallically.
He could feel the clips on the inside of her thighs pressing against his stomach. Their pressure excited him, and he twitched her dress higher — hoisting the thin print around Shirley's waist.
Instead of returning his hands to their position on the girl's buttocks, Michael sidled them down a little until his fingers touched the bareness of her skin between her panties and stockings. They caressed the fullness of her thighs, fondling the sleek swell of flesh until Shirley tightened her grip around his neck and began to push her hips backwards and forwards: writhing herself passionately against him.
His fingers slipped further downwards, now touching the exciting silk of the girl's stocking tops. He rubbed them, his fingers tingling as they moved over and around the tightly stretched hose.
Slowly, Shirley let her thighs open, giving him access to the warm, sweet skin of her inner legs. Michael ran his hands firmly around her, stretching his fingertips upwards until they felt the tight swathe of Shirley's panties.
He poked them beneath the elastic and touched the deliciously soft flesh of the girl's bare bottom. The cheeks wobbled invitingly as he prodded them with his forefingers; and he knew that Shirley was deliberately keeping the muscles of her bottom untensed — so that he could enjoy the springy cushions in their sexiest, most relaxed condition.
Forcing himself not to hurry, Michael began to work both hands under Shirley's panties. The black-patterned briefs felt silky against his fingers as he thrust his way beneath them, reluctantly stretching away from their embrace of Shirley's bottom to make way for his caress.
At last his fingers closed fully on the cheeks themselves. Michael held them loosely, jiggling the supple orbs in his hands and beginning a methodical weighing action.
He worked his thumbs into the line which ran around Shirley's arse, that double crease which defined the girl's precious hemispheres, and critically examined the cheeks — using all his fingers to explore every square inch of her bottom.
Shirley's legs had widened even more and the girl was now standing with her thighs wide open. When Michael had for the time being exhausted the possibilities of her arse (stopping himself from actually fingering the hole itself; that was a pleasure he reserved for later), he kept his hands inside her panties and felt down her crotch until his fingers alighted upon Shirley's cunt.
The lips of her sex were very small, scarcely protruding at all. They always excited Michael tremendously, seeming to accentuate the girl's innocence and extreme youth.
She was practically hairless, too; another factor which stimulated the man. A few strands of pubic hair grew on the mound itself, but the flat area around the girl's sex was as pink and unadorned as the day she was born.
Michael felt her flinch and tense as his fingers deliberately roved onto the sensitive place. She increased the pressure of her fingers around his neck, almost hurting him as she waited breathlessly for him to caress his way into her cunt.
He made her wait, delaying the moment when his fingers would ease their way into the warm slit.
Shirley moaned, her head going back and her eyes rolling helplessly.
“Please!” she sobbed at last. “Oh — please!”
He smiled, savouring his power over the girl. His hand rested comfortably on her thigh, his fingers rubbing up and down on her cunt-lips, still not entering the moist hole. His other hand continued to stroke the left cheek of her bottom, making the flesh ripple sexily.
“Oh God!” Shirley moaned. “I can't stand any more! Take me, Michael! Oh please, darling — take me!”
His prick was beating wildly against his trousers, surging upwards within the confines of his pants. Shirley suddenly broke free of his embrace and, falling to her knees on the bed, tore the zip down and ripped the buttons off.
She worked her fingers feverishly at the entrance to his underpants, fumbling his prick out. Gasping with desire, the girl pushed the hard crown between her lips, sucking furiously as soon as she had the tip of his cock in her mouth.
Michael let his hands fall to his side, content for the moment to stand there and allow the girl to enjoy the rich meat of his penis. Her wet lips closed tightly around it, her head going backwards and forwards as she urged more and more of the thick red prick between them.
Wildly, Shirley sucked and petted his cock. She held its base steady with her fingers, keeping the pulsing rod in position, while she ran her tongue over and over the sensitive crown — making it itch furiously with every velvet tickle.
He looked down. The girl was making frantic little noise, her eyes staring at the length of red veined maleness which kept disappearing between her lips and then slipping half out of her mouth again.
Shirley had opened her mouth as widely as possible, but it was still all she could do to contain the enormous width and length of Michael's prick inside the red-portalled orifice. The loose foreskin bulged around her lips, overflowing the pretty mouth, as the girl gobbled greedily on the man's potent and now spasmodically jerking tool.
With every inward draw of Shirley's lips, Michael felt himself getting hornier and harder. The tight pressure of the girl's mouth seemed to be trying to suck the spunk prematurely from his cock. He had, more and more frequently, to forcibly restrain himself from yielding to her lusty urgings…
Why not? Why don't you let her taste it? The idea came abruptly to his mind. Give it to her — go on, let her find out what it's like!
This was the very first time they'd practised this form of petting and Michael wondered for a moment how Shirley would react to having her mouth flooded with his spunk.
But it was increasingly difficult to hold himself back — and, seized by the novelty of the desire, Michael began to urge his prick further and further into the girl's mouth. He felt her trying to hold his cock away; the full length of it between her lips was gagging the girl and she fought against the man's efforts to jam it completely inside her.
Ruthlessly, he brought his hands up and drove his fingers through her hair. Then, holding her head in a vice-like grip, Michael kept her steady while he lunged his prick all the way in…
Right to the hilt it sank, until he could feel Shirley's hot, liquid mouth covering every inch of his straining cock.
He withdrew slightly, only to thrust it forwards again with an even greater determination. Shirley put her hands on his thighs, choking and trying vainly to push him away.
Her nails scrabbled at his legs… and then he felt her submission. Slowly, the girl's desire outgrew her initial fear of the immensity of his weapon and she began to lick her tongue sweetly along the underside of Michael's stiff and pulsing dick.
It quivered like an arrow in its target, the nerves feeling raw and vulnerable as Shirley extended her tongue as far as possible and repeated the caress.
Again and again the girl licked the very tip of her tongue along his length, curling it backwards so that Michael could feel it lapping insatiably around his crown. At the same time, Shirley worked her lips in a side-to-side movement — making them slither with wet fleshiness against the man's fast-jerking prick.
Now that she had herself under control, Shirley slipped her hands from Michael's thighs and caressed then around the backs of his legs. She imitated his earlier fondling: gently stealing her fingers beneath his underpants and massaging the cheeks of his arse.
But she went much further. Her skilful hands eased the straining spheres apart and she coaxed her forefinger slowly and provocatively into his anus.
Insistently and steadily, the girl penetrated his back passage, sticking her finger as deeply into his small orifice as it would reach; and using the remainder of her fingers to softly caress his tender scrotum.
Michael felt himself shivering and trembling with desire. Jean would never, never have done such things to him! This beautiful girl! This wonderful, beautiful, thrilling Shirley!
He panted harshly as her finger wiggled around inside the tightness of his arse. Though it was the never-ceasing gentleness of her fondling at his scrotum which brought him to orgasm finally. Her finger would tickle its way from the hanging sacks of his balls, stroke lovingly and breathtakingly slowly down the hard ridge of flesh… then pause for a moment around the raised bump of his anus before returning by the same route to his testicles again.
And all the time, with her saliva continually moistening his prick, Shirley was sucking and sucking on his fully embedded penis. Sucking as if she wanted to savour the taste of his manhood for ever!
The combination of her attentions was too much to bear for very long. Michael was forced to close his eyes; the room had started to spin helplessly before them and he could scarcely keep his legs from crumpling him to the floor.
A more insistent itching than he had ever experienced welled up in his cock. It seemed to generate from the pit of his stomach and streak like an electric current through his balls. With a muffled shout, he launched his spunk — contracting his arse muscles and urging the thick fluid into Shirley's mouth.
There was one long gushing: immediately followed by several shorter ones. The spunk jetted with manic power, as if it had lain dormant for years inside his testicles.
Michael's fingers clenched into the girl's hair, unable to release her until every drop of his precious sperm had been shed.
And she obediently drew steadily on his prick until she was sure that the last bitter globule had been wrung from its tiny hole. The fluid rushed down the girl's throat, heady nectar which she swallowed with mounting enthusiasm — knowing that she was drinking from the most secret spring of all…
Only when Michael's cock started to wane did he withdraw it from Shirley's lips. Then he half-fell onto the bed, pulling her down beside him. He cuddled the girl tightly, kissing her and tasting the strange but not unpleasant juices on her mouth.
While he rested, waiting for his breathing to become less labored, Shirley completed her task of undressing him. When she had finished, he lay on the bed totally naked. Shirley ran her eyes slowly over his body. He was still a complete stranger to her really, despite the intimacy of their bodies. Perhaps that was all he had wanted from her: uncomplicated sex — with no strings or emotional involvement attached to their relationship.
She sighed. How could it be possible to do what she'd just done to a man and still feel so cold towards him?
Maybe it was her own fault for going to bed with someone so much older than herself, Shirley reflected. He wasn't really her type at all. His eyes were dead. His conversation was stilted. And he had made not the slightest attempt to get close to her — for all their physical knowledge of each other, she felt more remote from him than the newspaper seller on the corner.
At least he hadn't lied to her, though. He hadn't sworn that he loved her when it was transparent to her that he didn't. That was something, she supposed.
All the same, she was clearly wasting her time with him. That was obvious. He was presumably having a few final flings before resigning himself to a dull marriage. She meant nothing to him other than as a symbol of his virility.
And Shirley wanted much more from a man than that. She wanted — .
Michael opened his eyes and immediately noticed the troubled expression in her eyes. He held out his arms and Shirley moved close to him, snuggling up to his body, her stockinged legs crisp against his bare thighs.
She didn't know why she was so complaisant when he reached out for her. She enjoyed their love-making, but the periods in between were growing increasingly flat and tedious. Surely it would be better simply to tell him they were through? End their affair before it was killed by mutual indifference?
Out of indifference, she let her body lie passively against his as Michael began silently to undress her. She moved from time to time to assist him but found no excitement in the ritual.
Michael drew down the small zipper at her hip and released the hook and eye. He pulled the dress up over the girl's thighs, the sight of Shirley's tiny black scanties pasted so tightly to her crotch reawakening his desire.
The panties formed a very sharp vee, coming almost to a point at the slight swelling of her sex. Their sides were cut away to nothing but a flimsy half-inch strip of material — exposing her long thighs and the fleshy curve of her hip.
Shirley helped him to take her arms out of the straps and Michael tugged the dress off completely. She wore a conventional bra which contained her medium-sized breasts in twin cups of black silk.
He reached behind her and unfastened it, lifting the undergarment away from the girl's bosom. Michael stared for a moment at the naked challenge of Shirley's breasts: the orbs wobbling gently as they came free of their restraining bra-cups.
The aureoles around her nipples were larger than usual; brown circles which strongly emphasised the hard red centres. Although Michael had studied them on several previous occasions, he always found Shirley's breasts the most fascinating part of the girl's body.
He left her panties, stockings and suspender belt on — bending his face nearer and nearer to the heart of the girl's right breast. The nipple swung sweetly against his teeth. He opened his mouth and the pearl slipped neatly between his lips, growing stiffer as it came into contact with his exploring tongue.
Michael licked across it tentatively. The teat tasted warm and intimate; a delicious drowsiness began to steal over him as he gently sucked it right into his mouth. He drew it firmly in, taking a generous portion of Shirley's breast between his lips at the same time.
Then his teeth sank in a possessive bite around the soft white flesh, trapping the nipple and its surrounding area of titty. He chewed into the globe, relishing the succulence of the girl's breast with his lips and worrying the fragile orb to and fro.
Meanwhile, Michael's hands wandered leisurely over the rest of Shirley's charms. They fondled slowly down her chest to the flatness of her midriff. He paused there, running his fingers across the girl's tautly nipped-in suspender belt which scored elastically into her skin, just below the curl of her navel.
Michael lifted it up gently, then let it fall with a faint but exciting thwack onto Shirley's flesh again. Still busying his mouth at her breast, he petted his way over her abdomen and caressed the extra-smooth fleshiness of the girl's belly.
She stirred slightly, turning her hips in an exciting though momentary wriggling. Michael's fingers touched the top of her panties; he lifted them away from her stomach tenderly, just enough to slip his fingers beneath the elasticated waistband and feel downwards towards her sex.
They felt the marvellous flatness of Shirley's mons veneris — scarcely a mound at all, so gently did it taper off into nothingness.
He stretched his fingers a little further below the tight fit of her panties. There it was! The tender opening of her precious little quim! Michael rubbed at the tiny opening to Shirley's slit, coaxing the lips apart; urging them to yield and permit his finger to enter the moist honeypot which lay behind the sleek petals.
Shirley trembled again — and gradually raised her buttocks up off the bed, spreading her legs at the same time so that Michael could have the easiest possible access to her cunt.
Once more she felt excited by his clinical detachement as Michael gently opened her and began to insert his forefinger into the hot itchiness of her quim. Before slipping into a blissful enjoyment of what he was doing to her, Shirley realised that it was possible to be aroused sexually by the very treatment which repelled her emotionally.
She was mildly shocked to think that she was lying here, enjoying Michael's extremely subjective caressing of her body. It seemed more immoral, somehow, than the fact that she was committing adultery!
There wasn't the slightest doubt in her mind that this man was thinking exclusively of his own pleasure.
He betrayed the fact with every gesture he made. With every movement of his lips, every caress of his fingers he showed her that he regarded her as a living, breathing, responsive — model!
A figurine on which to practise his lust: that was all she meant to him. And yet Shirley, despising and loathing him for this when they were fully dressed, admitted secretly to herself that she got quite a kick out of the sheer perversity of the situation once they were naked and in bed together.
And now Michael's actions were rendering her quite incapable of introspection and analysis. She felt a rising pleasure at her cunt and nipple which intensified rapidly and relaxed herself to savour the delights.
He was rubbing his finger with the slowest possible movement up and down her slit, not yet penetrating it but giving the girl as much excitement as if the digit was sinking rapidly into her quim and frigging her wildly.
And the teeth had closed even more tightly around the base of her nipple, nibbling with a mock-ferocity on the tender rosebud; causing a throbbing to pass through Shirley's breast which was exciting her almost as much as the ruthless teasing of her ticklish pussy. Her teat was being sucked as it had never been sucked before! She longed to tear it from his mouth, to put an end to the torment which he was subjecting her nipple to. But those sharp teeth! If she dared to snatch it from their tight grasp, surely they would tear her poor, dear little nip right off…
Instead, Shirley reached between Michael's thighs for his prick — determined to make him suffer as sexily as she was.
To her surprise she found that his cock was already stiff and thick again! Her fingers closed around its middle and the hard prick pulsed once more against the palm of her hand.
Shirley started to toy with it, making the ripe, reddened penis jerk madly from side to side. She rubbed it meaningfully against his thighs — first one, then the other — turning the sharply pointed arrowhead so that it pressed painfully downwards and was tickled by the dark hairs on the man's upper leg.
Next, the girl manipulated the foreskin. She drew it up gradually until the loose prepuce completely covered the top of Michael's prick. She held it there for a few moments, then slowly released it. As it slid back into position, Shirley traced her finger right across the very tip of the cock: at the same time turning it rapidly in a tight twirling movement.
She felt Michael shudder with pleasure at this exquisite torment. Carefully, Shirley repeated the caress; now keeping the tip of her finger softly on the tiny piss-hole and working it teasingly over and over the tender spot.
She showed no sign of stopping and Michael was being driven almost insane by this sweetly agonising petting. He could also feel, furthermore, Shirley's other hand reaching across and taking the lower half of his cock loosely between the fingers.
They lazily encircled his raging tool, forming an “O” around the thick stem and frigging slowly up and down his length.
Almost unwittingly, Michael slipped his finger between the wet folds of Shirley's cunt-lips and let it sink to its hilt. The hot, clinging meatiness of her cunt stuck urgently around the digit; she felt so tight, so very tight! Michael thought. Experimentally, he twisted the finger slightly. The plump inner flesh yielded immediately to his gentle thrust — letting him move it about in whichever direction he chose.
His thumb, which had been resting on the very hard bone above Shirley's quim, now edged a half inch downwards. It slipped into the open lips, found the girl's distended clitoris, and began to fondle the gristly protuberance.
At once, Shirley's cunt grew wetter and he realised that he had started a preliminary flow of love-juice. The fluid bathed his fingers in sticky warmth, helplessly seeping from the girl's well-provoked quim.
Michael held the finger steady, waiting until Shirley had spent herself. When he judged that she was over her first orgasm, he allowed her breast to escape the tight hold of his teeth. The fiercely-sucked globe now had a circular weal running around it, making a second aureole where Michael's teeth had done their work. Shirley's breast bobbed sexily as he released it, swaying for a moment or two on the girl's chest — the nipple incredibly large and swollen.
Shirley opened her eyes, fingers still playing tormentingly with his prick.
“Fuck me!” she urged him hoarsely. “Oh, darling, fuck me now! Please!”
He pulled his finger slowly out of her cunt. But before moving it completely away, Michael let it stray deliciously up over the girl's clitoris, giving the sensitive organ a final caress.
Then he rolled his body on top of hers, maneouvering his hands beneath Shirley's bottom and gripping the cheeks tightly. She steered his cock to the lips of her quim; cursed as she had difficulty guiding it into her hole — then gave a heartfelt sigh of relief and pleasure as Michael's prick sank deliriously to its hilt, cramming its horny way up the tight, liquid passageway.
She brought her hands free and he felt her fingers on his back, moving urgently up and down, nails digging frantically into the base of his spine. As his cock began its fierce, thrusting drive in and out of Shirley's cunt, Michael opened the cheeks of the girl's bottom and inserted his forefinger rudely into her rear hole.
She flinched and her haunches stiffened momentarily. But as Michael's finger wormed past the first tightness, the girl relaxed and bravely kept her buttocks supple and loose.
The sleek shanks lifted as Shirley arched her body to make him penetrate her more deeply. Michael could feel the silky rustling of her stockings as she wound her legs around him — and he thrust himself forward and into her willing hole with renewed lust.
Shirley fastened her teeth on his ear-lobe and alternately chewed it and darted her tongue sexily into the tiny, sensitive crevice. Michael's prick seemed to be spurring the girl on to previously unattempted love ploys: she squirmed like a bitch in heat, lunging her crotch upwards with as much force as she could muster.
Her fingers again found his arsehole, played briefly around the nut, then impertinently thrust the sharp-taloned forefinger once more into his orifice — frigging him as if she were wiggling her finger into her own quim…
Together, the man and the girl fondled their respective arses and fucked with demanding, powerful strokes on the bed. Once — and once only — their eyes met and exchanged a brief look of mutual understanding. Then they glanced away again, moving into their private worlds of sexual reverie.
Much too quickly, Michael felt his orgasm welling up. He tried desperately to hold the imminent spunk back, but Shirley was goading him into a state of terrible, overpowering voluptuousness and her loins meshed so frantically against his that to delay the outpouring for more than a few moments proved impossible.
His eyes glazed helplessly, his entire body thirsted for the release that only a violent climax could bring him.
With a roar of mingled rage and passion, Michael gave himself up to the cosmic forces which flooded his being. He thundered his spunk with every atom of his strength into Shirley's cunt: sending his seed in a mighty, single gushing up the deep, tight passage of the girl's vulva.
She came at almost the same instant — locking her body to his and making them one creature, a two backed beast of creaming, spunking lust… straining herself in every muscle, every nerve, to throb out her orgasm in rhythm with her partner…
Michael had been driving the car automatically, his mind reliving in painful detail his final night with Shirley. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, bring them back to the present.
But the too-recent memory of the recriminations and abuse which had followed their last sexing haunted him persistently. There was no way in which he could understand what had triggered it off. Probably Shirley herself didn't know. Perhaps it was simply a slow culmination of small, trivial details. Anyway, the actual cause wasn't important.
What mattered, ultimately, was the fact that she had rejected him. Had seen through his inadequately assumed role of attentive lover and ordered him out of her life. Would the pattern be repeated? That was the question which worried Michel intensely.
Could it be that he was totally incapable of giving and receiving love? That he used people — seeing in them nothing more than extensions of his own desires?
He slowed the car again and turned left down the secondary road which led to Farnham. After leaving Shirley's, he had spent the night in a hotel and then gone straight to the office. Jean would probably be waiting for him with that sad, pleading expression on her face; but he knew that she would never voice the fears which it concealed.
That wasn't done, old boy! Hardly the right thing to do, to bring delicate matters like that out into the open, is it? Simply not cricket!
Just what he was trying to do to her, Michael refused to contemplate. Possibly drive her away, though he knew she would never take the initiative and leave him. Not for the first time, he felt himself to be caught inextricably in a web of uncertainty; a maze of confusing and conflicting desires seemed to envelop him, leaving him empty and unable to take decisions.
Through the mood he managed to cling to the one idealistic wish which seemed to possess some substance: the fierce longing to break right away from the existence in which he was trapped and do all the things he had yearned for as a young man. Burst out of his enervating shell and live — for the first time in his life.
Michael was now entering his home town of Farnham. The rows of neat, semi-detached houses seemed to stretch to infinity; extending as far as the eye could see, only broken by a scattering of small shops and the occasional church.
He turned down Princes Road and parked the car outside his house. The spring evening was warm and pleasant. Elm trees planted at regular intervals on the sidewalk were beginning to burst into leaf, the grass from newly-mown gardens smelled sweet and fresh.
Michael paused for a moment after locking his car and stood on the pavement looking down the hill. From this vantage point he could see not only the town but the surrounding countryside. It looked rich and verdant in the slowly setting sun, a mixture of browns and greens which faded to the horizon in an even, regular pattern.
Everything was so peaceful, so well-planned, he thought. And it was easy to allow yourself to become a part of the landscape; to abandon the impossible dreams which haunted you and grow as unchanging and neatly ordered as your environment.
That was what happened to nearly everyone, he realised. The temptation to settle down in a comfortable rut was very strong. It absolved you from doing anything but ensuring that your routine was not interrupted. All you had to do was be competent at your work, polite to your neighbours, disguise your real feelings, attend the local functions — and lose your true identity in a regular, uninterrupted ritual of trivial, mind-consuming activities.
Michael straightened his shoulders and pushed the gate open. He walked up the path slowly, hearing his shoes crunch into the gravel.
There was still a chance for him to escape, he told himself. Gradually, he vowed he would learn how to break away completely from his present life. It might take time, but he would do it. It wasn't too late to start again — perhaps in another country…
The craving in him for excitement and novelty was too acute now to ever be suppressed again. Somehow, he would find the determination to free himself of these shackles.
Meanwhile, there was Jean — waiting in the house for him, her recriminations unspoken but slowly widening the gap which existed between them. Michael put his key in the lock and pushed the door open. Another hour or two of silent reproach… followed by his usual, halfhearted attempts to treat her sympathetically and kindly. Followed in turn by a quick, equally unrewarding session of love-making.
The knowledge that he would again repeat this stupid, meaningless ritual made him angry: both with himself and with Jean for not seeing through it. He slammed the door harshly behind him, the sudden noise resounding through the strangely quiet house…