Temptation Close Page 5

  So, which skirt? She had the make-up on, the crop top on, even her boots on. It seemed such a pity to cover her new look. She thought she looked so sexy like this she had to clutch herself between her legs and give herself a damn good squeeze. So why cover it? Why not just brazenly go there bare-fannied just like this? She would have to go right across the street, right out in the open and under one of the two street lights. Still, the nights were drawing in fast and it would be good and dark out there. No strangers ever strayed into the close and non-residents were prohibited from driving into it. Once the curtains closed and the blinds came down that was that. Anyway, the dangerous half of the residents were all out and thus not even there to see her.

  The thought that she could actually do it gave her a little flutter of excitement and she wiggled her hips and blew her reflection a big kiss. No, it wasn’t right like this, she couldn’t. She crossed back to the wardrobe over the strewn piles of potential bottom-half options and came back with the ideal one. She fastened the buckle and gave her reflection a big, mischievous wink at the result. There it was: a thick black leather belt with a chrome buckle that hung loosely at her wide, otherwise naked hips. Perfect! She checked her phone. It was nine o’clock. It was time. She went downstairs, made a final check through the window, and then went for it. The noise of her heels echoed around the stillness and she attempted to walk on her toes for a few steps before she thought: fuck it - let them hear. The air was cold on her bare skin but the inner warmth of excitement made her immune to it. She strode down the driveway feeling hot as hell and wrapped her knuckles twice upon his front door.

  She saw movement in the hall and then the door swung open to bathe her in light. He stood there stock still and open-mouthed as he surveyed her partial nudity, his eyes almost out on stalks.

  ‘God! Fuck! I mean, Jesus!’ he gasped. ‘Christ on a fucking... Jesus!’

  ‘Well,’ she said with a cool smile, ‘are you going to stand there talking religion or are you going to invite me in?’

  He ushered her into the lounge, his hands clutching at his head in partial panic, although he couldn’t keep his eyes off her exposed crotch.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ he gabbled. ‘I didn’t know, I mean, God that looks so fucking sexy!’

  ‘You like the belt then?’

  ‘And what’s below it! And what’s above it too - I didn’t mean I didn’t like that bit!’

  ‘Good, because that’s the bit that wants to suck your cock.’

  Flustered he might be but she could already see the bulge in his jeans. A lamb to the slaughter, he had absolutely no chance, nor did he want one. She surveyed the untidy front room, the floor and seats covered with the usual crap.

  ‘Let’s adjourn to the kitchen,’ she said, leading him out so that he could get a good view of her bare behind. The kitchen-diner was fully lit but in this house it was sited at the rear, not overlooked, and therefore safe. The sound and potential damaging effects of her heels on his wooden floor were clearly making him wince but that was just tough shit. She sat herself down on the edge of the chunky oak dining table and pushed a chair aside with her leg. He gritted his teeth and scrunched his shoulders at the scraping noise and hastily moved in to aid in getting the chair out the way.

  She parted her thighs and ran her fingers teasingly up between them. He watched her intently, his cheeks flushed and his mouth hanging open. He looked ravenous.

  ‘You had better get on with it,’ she said.

  He moved in and clamped his lips to hers. She didn’t want this clumsy wet kiss but she knew he probably thought it rude not to give at least some pretence of romance. His hand was already down at her crotch, the middle finger stroking up her slit to find a way in. Her lips felt swollen and sensitive. She knew her lovers adored the way they plumped so when she was this aroused. His digit slid in and stirred around inside her. She moaned her delight and pushed her hips forward. Her busy fingers quickly had his jeans undone and the zip down. She pulled at his underwear and his erect prick sprang out against her palm. He sighed into her mouth as she encircled and grasped him. She smiled. She liked this prick a lot. It was long and slender, the skin wonderfully smooth. It was very straight too, compared to some. It was perfect, in fact, for what she had in mind for it.

  She broke the embrace and pulled back clear of his finger so that she could drop to her knees. She kissed his tip softly and then slowly sank her mouth down upon him. His thin girth allowed her to swirl her tongue about the glans whilst still keeping her lips closed around the shaft. His knees weakened and he grasped her hair in both hands. Her fingers moved up and down upon him but only lightly, avoiding too much stimulation too soon. Her other hand reached out for the chair seat to help give her support but it moved and gave a loud scrape across the floor, making him jump.

  ‘For fuck’s sake be careful!’ he implored. ‘You’ll wake the kids.’

  She stopped her sucking and glowered up at him.

  ‘Do you know how massively unsexy it is to hear you talking of your pain in the arse offspring at this precise moment?’

  ‘About as sexy as it would be if my four year old came down and saw someone other than his mummy on her knees with my cock in her mouth.’

  ‘I could always stop visiting,’ she said tersely.

  ‘Come on, you know I couldn’t stand that.’

  He pushed at her head to encourage her back into action and she complied. It wasn’t quite true. This one fought the guilt of her visits and never encouraged them, which was a shame. She had to force the issue, although once she got him where she wanted him it was easy as pie because men are just so predictably easy. The risk was right there, hanging over him, but still he couldn’t say no. As soon as sex was in the offing everything else went flying out the window. It was their ability to act with such utter impunity when their blood was up that so endlessly delighted and encouraged her. She teased a little more with her tongue-tip and then stood, turning towards the worktop by the cooker. She reached for the bottle of olive oil, the one with the chrome pouring nozzle. She poured a little out onto her right palm and then clutched his prick, rubbing her hand up and down his shaft to give it a light all-over greasing.

  ‘You know where I most love to feel your gorgeous long cock,’ she said, handing him the bottle, ‘so why don’t you fill me full of oil and give me what I want?’

  She bent herself over the dining table and reached back to lewdly prise her fleshy cheeks apart and expose her rudeness. Imagine how dirty she looked. There weren’t many girls who could perform such an act. There weren’t many who could say the lewd things she did with consummate ease, even those who had others as intimately known as husbands to say them to. This man’s wife never said such dirty, prick-stiffening things. His frigid missus wouldn’t ever take his cock there despite its slender girth and the joy that being fucked in that tight passage could bring. There was no way this man was ever going to refuse such invitations. She doubted he could even be blamed if the wife did unexpectedly return from her girls’ night out and catch him in this filthy act. What Eva put on a plate for him was just way, way too tempting not to be lapped right up.

  She felt the coldness of the nozzle at her little entrance and then the ooze of the unctuous liquid inside her. He would press into her and open her up, going carefully, stretching her gently. She would relax and allow the scintillating slide. He would bury himself until his balls were at her soaking sex. Then he would fuck her slowly, all the way out then all the way back in again, and it would be lusciously dirty. At the very end he would speed up, slapping against her now that she was so slippery and relaxed, and he would come hard and freely inside her, something else he could not do with his wife. She would leave him while he was still panting for breath, before his cock had even softened, walking her bare, brazen, just-fucked arse back across the street and home to bed. There she would masturbate gleef
ully and repeatedly to the video sent to her phone, thinking about how much she adored her sexy, pink-haired lesbian lover, and how hopelessly addicted she was to fucking other girl’s husbands.

  The Gathering

  Sunday arrived, six whole days after he had, the first time available to give him an official welcome to the close. Nesta had tried to stay level-headed about the whole thing but at times she felt like a child counting down the dragging days until Christmas. The gathering was to be held at Number One, since it had originally been Shelley’s idea. Plus her kitchen handily opened out via French doors onto her front lawn, so they could set up a drinks table there, and if the weather turned inclement they could all squeeze inside without ruining lounge carpets. Most of the girls had contributed in some form, with cakes or nibbles and suchlike, although generous Shelley had provided nearly all the alcohol.

  Nesta had got the name badges as per his request, although she told herself this was only because it was easy to do so, her being able to commandeer the blank tags from work. She didn’t want to seem all melty and compliant around him but it was undeniably a good idea of his and one she should have thought of herself. She toyed with the idea of writing his name as Munter, thinking he would enjoy the joke. Then she reminded herself that she didn’t really know him at all, or what he was capable of. It was one thing to convince yourself that he didn’t have strange powers to make your legs quake, but another altogether to do anything that could be construed as leading him on.

  The funny badge idea had the potential to be misinterpreted by the other girls, a thought that almost made her abandon the idea completely. It was not so much because it might have been seen as obvious fawning over the dishy new guy - since trying to make people laugh should always be seen as a good thing - it was more because they might take it as her subtle way of making them aware that she already knew him a little more intimately than they did. She didn’t want them getting any such impressions. Today was to be “Operation Melt into the Background”. In truth this was generally her default position, but she needed to be careful about getting drawn into situations where she looked like a lash-batting floozy vying for his attentions, as she had when Eva butted in that first day he came. The badges were about to be left on the table but just at the last moment she put hers on and then scooped up the rest and put them in her cardigan pocket.

  The start time was loosely set for 3:30, although the girls all gravitated to Number One in the half hour prior to help with preparations. There was no set plan, merely to allow introductions and show the newcomer how friendly the street could be. All but one of the husbands could make it, so in one hit Hunter could properly meet nearly all of them face to face. There were other roads where you might not speak to some of your neighbours ever, even though they lived within fifty yards of you. That just seemed a bit odd.

  Come half-past most had already gathered in readiness for his arrival. Eva was noticeable by her absence but she habitually liked to make a grand late entrance and steal the show. The kids were thankfully in the background, entertaining themselves at the far end of the close up by Nesta’s driveway. The adults were as chatty as always, some tongues already loosened from the quick tipsiness that afternoon alcohol can induce. Nesta herself was already most of the way through her second glass of wine. She could still feel butterflies, as stupid as this seemed. However, she sensed an edge to the whole proceedings, the chat louder than normal, the laughs maybe a little more raucous. It was just the smallest hint at a touch of hysteria running through the females of the group, no doubt caused by tingling tummies. It was usual to feel some excitement when meeting a new neighbour and potential friend. However, she wondered if they would be quite so edgy if this newcomer had a face like a monkey’s arse, rather than one of a potential auditionee for the lead role in the next Bond movie.

  When ten minutes later he still hadn’t showed, Nesta began to wonder whether he had forgotten about it entirely, or hadn’t actually realised the date was set in stone. Maybe it hadn’t been made clear it was specifically in his honour, and he didn’t want to mosey on over without being called for in case he was interrupting something private. She was mulling over the potential embarrassment of going to his door and dragging him over to something he didn’t actually want to be a part of when he emerged and headed up his drive towards them.

  The get-up today was a pink shirt: an expensive, slim-fitted one, long-sleeved, untucked, and open at the collar. His jeans were narrow like the ones she had seen him in a couple of days before, although darker. How could she remember such trifles? The shoes were another new pair, black this time, slightly pointed, again expensive-looking. How many pairs of shoes did he own - one for every next occasion? Was he trying to show off his wealth or being nothing more than habitually smart and careful about his appearance? Perhaps he had once been bitten by a radioactive centipede and was thereafter compelled by strange internal forces to maintain a collection above fifty pairs.

  Nesta knew such flighty thoughts were down to nervous anticipation. Her chest stuck out suddenly from a sharp involuntary drawing in of air. She looked around sheepishly hoping it hadn’t been noticed, hiding the heavy exhalation behind her hand. She was glad that the larger group had spread out into mini ones, so her husband wasn’t standing next to her to see these unaccountable jitters. She felt for Hunter’s vulnerability, coming alone into this group of friends. Even on his short journey she found herself wondering what the hell a person like him was doing alone at all, let alone in this place.

  She took a step towards him, realising it might be down to her to make the introductions. She kept her welcoming smile brief, not wanting to beam from ear to ear as if she had been waiting what seemed like years just to see him again. She stood in his path, cutting off his progress so she could stand alone with him. It was merely to give him his name-badge before he entered the fray, but again she felt some background guilt that this might be construed by others as a deliberate sign of some established familiarity between the two of them, a kind of hands off, he’s mine warning signal.

  ‘Here is your name badge as demanded,’ she said. ‘It will save you the embarrassment of having to tell each of them one by one that your Christian name is, in fact, Malteaser.’

  He smirked. ‘You are not far from the truth. This is very kind of you.’

  She didn’t know if he meant the badges per se, or the laying on of a welcoming party as a whole. She had obtained two versions of name tag: either with a safety pin attachment or with a little chrome clip, depending on what best fitted the wearer’s garment. She had written each out just prior to handing it over, having gauged the best version for the recipient. His she had pre-done, using the clip version, sure he would be wearing something smart enough to have a breast pocket. She was rather proud of her correct guesswork and in the flush of this she reached out and clipped it in place for him.

  It was a rash thing to do and her hands came away quickly. It was like she had been caught giving one of those instinctive signs of intimacy that tells furtive onlookers of a secret affair. She felt a little heat in her cheeks and turned quickly, stepping away to allow him to be absorbed by the bosom of the main crowd, particularly Shelley’s large, half-exposed one. He handed his host a bottle of wine, a gift that showed a generous nature. Shelley was thankful as always but too distracted by him to do anything other than put the bottle down with all the others, without even looking at it. Nesta made a pretence of moving it back away from the edge and snuck a look at the label. It was a red, from New Zealand. She was no expert on the subject but she knew it was better than a bog-standard supermarket wine, and possibly quite expensive. Maybe it was another sign of his efforts to signify his wealth, except that he had shown no signs of caring when it was unceremoniously put with all the others. He hadn’t pointed out that it should be treated with a little more respect.

  Greetings were made all round. There were smiles and witticisms, some little
prods to extract information and find potential areas of common ground. He was polite and amiable, if a little reserved. Most of the talking was being done by others but then, Nesta noted, he was being more talked at rather than with by some - the wine and the occasion getting to them. All the girls seemed a little on edge although he remained composed. He was quiet and held eye-contact when spoken to. He smiled in the right places which meant he was at least vaguely listening. He didn’t flirt. When the innuendos started popping up - which was standard practice for their group - he would raise his eyebrows and give a little laugh but not come back with something bawdy of his own.

  The sun came out and generally it was all very pleasant. Nesta began to relax and become ever less paranoid that he would say ‘utterly delicious’ to one of the other girls, and floor her with his remotely sent tingly-on-your-whatsit powers. Shelley did a good job of keeping the conversation flowing, helped by Maria, who was obviously enjoying the freedom of being able to chat with him in the absence of her jealous and often overbearing husband. Nesta was content in the main to stand back and observe. Some people just have an aura of being somehow above others; indeterminately special. It is not an image they give themselves. It is more one that is created for them, like their persona is made up of the invisible regard of others collecting around them. You could see the way the girls looked at him and hung upon his every word that they thought him divine.

  This kind of aura is usually only reserved for the like of famous actors, clean-cut pop stars, or certain rare sportsmen. It comes from every little thing about them: their looks and style and movement; how they listen and engage; how when they smile and laugh you can see it in their eyes. It comes from true humility, from being obviously viewed as one of the Beautiful People but never thinking so what am I doing with this gaggle of half-pissed, swooning mumsy-types? Although he never became that animated, he genuinely looked like he was enjoying their company. Nesta waited for any mistake - a drop of spilled wine down the chin perhaps, or an uncaught sneeze that sent visible spray everywhere - anything that might prove he was fallible, or even just slightly less than perfect. None came.