Confluence of Hedonists #4

The cursor hovers over the red ‘X’ in the top right corner of the screen. Eventually, he clicks the left mouse button, and the Excel spreadsheet disappears from view.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, unaware that he’s spoken the word aloud.

He pushes himself back from the desk and swivels his chair towards the window. To the east, the city skyline stretches out towards the obelisk that is One Canada Square. His eyes wander across the myriads forms of concrete and steel that fill the foreground from his office to Canary Wharf. The buildings look blunt, purposeful beneath the flat, slate sky.

He resists the cry of his conscience to turn back to the computer. He knows that he has to persevere with the data, but the analytical part of his mind is unable to force its way to the surface. It’s submerged beneath the memories of yesterday.

He closes his eyes.

Laura looks back at him, waiting patiently. Her eyes are liquid jade, her crimson mouth still wet from her feast. Her hands rest lightly upon Catherine’s inner thighs. As Laura waits for his response, her fingers begin to trail lightly up and down the smooth, ivory skin. Each flowing movement elicits another contented gasp from her new lover. The intensity of his wife’s gaze has never seemed as powerful, as beguiling. And now Catherine’s eyes have found his as well. They are languid, dreamy, drowned in pleasure. Her gaze tells him more than words ever could.

The ringing telephone jerks him back to the real world. Once again, the briefest recollection has inspired a swift, physical response. He sits up, surreptitiously adjusting the front of his trousers as he reaches for the telephone.

“Hello?”

The call is from Williams. He listens to the man drone on in his keening, nasal tone about tomorrow’s meeting. A query with the function cost analysis figures. Mr Brand wants to know if the report be ready in time?

He tells Williams not to worry and hangs up without waiting for the goodbye.

Maggot.

He gazes out across the city again. If he concentrates, he doesn’t even have to close his eyes to conjure the images. It’s as though the night’s events have been singed into the backs of his eyeballs.

He sees himself undressing with controlled haste while he stares down admiringly at both women. Giver and receiver. Pleasurer and pleasured. He remembers the way he carefully knelt down so that he and Laura were both between Catherine’s splayed thighs; the way his wife had looked at him, and then said, “Taste her from my lips first”, before kissing him with such sweet deliberation, the familiar flavour of her mouth and the exciting newness of Catherine’s sex combining more evocatively than he could ever have imagined. And then Laura had broken the kiss, gently turning his head towards Catherine’s glistening cunt, and as he had leant forward, his wife had grasped his hard cock, stroking him as she whispered, “Now drink deeply from the fucking fountain, my love.”

And so he had. Each time he thinks of this part, his mouth waters. The way his tongue had traced a path along the length of Catherine’s cleft, the warm juices coating over his lips, spilling over his taste buds. She had tasted so sweet, so ripe. Oh, her gasps of delight. So much more rewarding when it was his touch that brought them forth from her lips.

Then Laura’s face had been beside his, and as his tongue had painted a wet line across Catherine’s plump labia, Laura’s tongue had latched onto her clitoris once more, the tip flickering over it with the feathery rapidity of a butterfly’s wings. He reversed his path, too tempted to resist, and for delicious seconds, their tongues had swooped and collided over Catherine’s swollen bud. He could hardly hear her cries of pleasure for the roaring of the blood in his ears. Laura had turned her face a fraction towards his, and they were kissing again, frantically, more passionately than he could ever remember, mouths dripping with Catherine’s lust.

He stared out of the window, not seeing the vista. He was fully hard now. His cock ached to be touched. He contemplated walking down to the men’s room, but his erection was much too obvious to risk the corridor. Here? Lock the door, and stroke yourself until the frustration is purged, until you explode? He shook his head. Bound to be disturbed.

He wills himself to close his mind to the memories. The after-images are so vivid, he wonders if they’ll ever fade.

Behind him, the computer beeps to let him know that a new email has arrived.

He opens the inbox. The message is from Catherine’s Gmail account. The subject line is empty, and when he opens the message, he sees that the message field is empty too. There’s a text attachment though. He saves it to his hard drive and then uses the key Catherine sent him weeks ago to decrypt the message.

Hello.

I wanted to say more to you last night when it came time for us to part, but I couldn’t find the words, or the opportunity to say them.

Can we meet again today?

Catherine x

He thinks. The message is addressed to him, but there’s sufficient room for ambiguity. Does she mean for it to be read by them both, or is the message intended solely for his eyes?

He picks up the telephone. Catherine had decided to remain at the Russell until the morning, and then transfer to the hotel she’d reserved when she booked her flight. She’d planned on staying in England for a fortnight, visiting family, taking the opportunity to see sights she’d missed on previous visits.

When they’d parted, Catherine had scribbled her mobile phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Laura. His wife didn’t share it with him, simply slipped it into her bag. As far as he knows, it’s still there. He mentally shrugs, then dials the number for the Russell’s reception desk from memory. He asks for Catherine’s room.

Their room.

The thought starts the images flickering in his head again.

The phone rings for a long time, and he’s about to hang up when the line clicks open.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Catherine.”

“Hi.” He hears the smile in her voice. “Sorry, I was taking a shower. You got my message then?”

“Yes. What time did you have in mind?”

“I thought I might buy you some lunch. A friend told me about a good restaurant near Soho.”

“Sounds lovely.” He hesitates. “I’m not sure if Laura will be able to make it though. I think she already has plans for lunch.”

“Good.” Again he hears the smile in her voice. “The invitation was only meant for you.”

It’s even more difficult to concentrate on the damned report, but he somehow manages to complete it before escaping from the sterile confines of the office. He tells his secretary that he’s meeting a potential client, and not to expect him back before two. He’ll ring if he’s going to be any longer.

He takes the Northern Line to Leicester Square, then doubles back on himself. There’s a definite spring in his step as he strides along the pavements. The narcissist inside him turns his attention to the right so that he can regard his reflection in the passing windows. The charcoal suit looks crisp and professional. No one looking at him would ever guess that twelve hours ago, his wife had been guiding his hard cock into another woman as she herself writhed over the woman’s face.

He looks to the front again. So many completely normal people passing by, expressions inscrutable, each of them focused upon their own worlds. He wonders how many of them had been tangled in a threesome last night, perhaps even in a veritable orgy of sensation? It occurs to him that he has become part of a secret sect, a decadent underground, and yet he knows hardly any of its myriad members.

After ten minutes and two wrong turns, he finds himself outside the restaurant. There are half a dozen other people already eating. A waiter saunters across to him as he stands looking around from the doorway.

“Can I help, sir?”

There’s no sign of Catherine.

“A table for lunch, please.”

“For one?”

He smiles. “Two.”

The waiter holds out an arm to indicate a table close to the window. His expression suggests that he won’t be surprised if the customer requested something a little more discreet, perhaps the free table towards the back of the restaurant.

“That’ll be fine.” He glances at the wine list, asks the waiter for a glass of Côte de Nuits, and then sits down in the furthest chair so that he can watch the door.

His wine is half-drunk when Catherine walks in. She’s wearing a dark blue dress, buttoned along the entirety of its front. The single string of pearls at her throat is in brilliant contrast. The matching high-heels stretch her calves deliciously. Her face is fresh, glowing. Though he knows it’s utterly unfair, even despicable, his mind can’t help but make the comparison with Laura’s considerably more fatigued appearance when they left the house together a few hours earlier.

A few of the male diners in the restaurant look up at Catherine’s entrance, watching her attentively as she makes her way towards him. He fancies that a few of the looks directed towards him are tinted green.

He stands up to greet her. “Hello again.”

She smiles, turns her cheek for him to kiss. Her skin is very soft, her scent something crisp and clean. Givenchy’s Eau Torride, or something similar.

“What would you like to drink?” he asks.

She nods at his glass. “What’s that?”

He slides the glass across the stark whiteness of the tablecloth. “Feel free.”

Catherine lifts it gently to her mouth and takes a sip. Her eyes never leave his for a moment. She pushes the drink back towards him, a trace of her crimson lipstick left upon the lip of the glass. “I like it,” she says.

The waiter has returned to the table. He hands them both a menu, then leaves, returning a minute or so later with a bottle of the de Nuits.

“Would you like me to pour, sir?”

“We can manage, thanks.”

He waits until the waiter leaves before he fills Catherine’s glass, then his own. He raises his drink.

“To new friends.”

Catherine smiles with a touch of wantonness. “To last night.” She drinks deeply. “How’s Laura today?”

“She’s fine.”

“No … after-effects?”

“None I’m aware of.” He watches her face, but there’s no sign of artifice. “How about you? Any regrets?”

“None at all.” She runs a fingertip along the line of her bottom lip. “I enjoyed every single moment. Couldn’t you tell?”

He smiles, more awkwardly than he might have expected. “You did appear to find the experience … pleasurable.”

“You’re so proper,” she says, laughing. She leans a fraction closer. “Actually, I found the experience extremely pleasurable.”

He feels the instep of her bare foot press against the back of his calf. His mind time-jumps back to the memory of Catherine’s foot against his leg in the restaurant at the Russell, to the sight of Laura’s foot stroking Catherine’s leg in turn. For an instant, he’s gripped by the certainty that she’s a predator; that she’s already slaked some of her hunger in her pursuit of them as a couple his wife, and now she’s stalking him in isolation, waiting for the right moment to bring him to ground. It’s unnerving and exciting all at once. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. Their table is square on to the most of the restaurant, the table cloth nowhere near long enough to hide her ministrations. Anyone looking in their direction will see. And then he remembers: no one knows them. No one has reason to suspect them of subterfuge. They’re both wearing wedding rings: why should anyone think that they’re married to anyone but each other?

He leans closer as well. “Catherine, are you trying to seduce me?”

“I didn’t think I’d need to.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d want to.”

She smiles wryly. “Why ever would you think that?”

Another backwards flick-flack through time, to himself between Catherine’s thighs, thrusting into her vigorously as she groans with satisfaction against Laura’s sodden sex, and then instantly, a memory of kneeling behind Catherine, fucking her slowly while Laura’s tongue explores her clitoris, and the soft ring of flesh where her cunt becomes his cock.

“Because you’ve already had me.”

She traces the rim of her glass with her index finger. “Not in the way that I really want you.”

“And how’s that?”

“Alone. Just the two of us. No interruptions. No diversions.” Her eyes burn into him. “Just us.”

He swallows some wine. “You don’t want much, do you?”

Her foot moves higher on his leg, her toes stroking the back of his knee. The spot seems to enjoy a direct connection to his loins; his cock is swelling rapidly.

“I want you,” she says, sotto voice.

“Do you?”

“Yes. Now.” She empties her glass. “I hope you’re not going to make me wait. Or beg.”

As though summoned by some hedonistic magic, the waiter reappears at the side of their table. “Are you both ready to order now?”

He glances up at their attendant. “Just the bill, please.”

Catherine has moved herself into the Best Western in Shaftesbury Avenue. Close enough to walk to from the restaurant, even though it’s pouring as they leave. Neither of them has an umbrella, so they dodge their way in and out of doorways as they cut a path through the drenched crowds. Catherine collects her key from the reception desk, and walks purposefully toward the elevators.

The car begins its ascent. Yet another flashback, to the three of them riding silently upwards, the warm air rich with nervous energy. Was it really only yesterday? He glances at his watch. Not much more than twelve hours ago. He looks up to find Catherine watching him, an enigmatic smile upon her face. He thinks of all the messenger conversations, how they talked about riding in a lift together inside some anonymous hotel room, clutching, tearing at each other as soon as the doors slid closed.

Perhaps much of that urgency has already been expended.

The doors slide open again, and now it’s Catherine that leads the way to the room. From shepherd to sheep, he thinks. The ubiquitous key-card is inserted with nonchalance. Inside, she pushes the door closed and locks it behind him.

“I just need to make a call,” he says, pulling out his mobile phone.

“Fine.” She walks across the room to the window and draws the net curtain aside as he dials. He tells his secretary that lunch is running on, that he won’t be back before she leaves for the day. He’ll see her in the morning.

“Mr Williams called to see if you were back in the office yet.”

“What did you say to him?”

“That you were meeting a client for lunch.”

“Did he say if it was urgent?”

“No. He said that it was important though.”

He thinks. “Important will keep until tomorrow,” he says, and ends the call.

Catherine turns back from the window as he slips the phone back inside his jacket.

“You sound like a man in demand.”

“Hardly.”

“Trust me,” she says, walking slowly towards him. “You’re in demand.”

Her mouth is warm and soft and tastes faintly of red grape. It’s the first time they’ve kissed like this, real passion, real lust. He’d placed a lingering kiss against her cheek as he and Laura had left the Russell, but it had been chaste, inconspicuous. Laura hadn’t countenanced them kissing any other way, not even in the most fervent heat of their encounter. That had been decided on the drive to the airport. “It’s too intimate,” was all she would say on the subject. She could permit another woman to suck his cock, had allowed him to fuck her while she watched, participated, encouraged him both vocally and physically … and yet the prospect of her husband kissing another woman was “too intimate” for her to behold. It makes sense to him, and yet it makes no sense at all.

Thoughts of Laura bring his guilt bubbling to the surface, bitter and potent. The prospect of being alone with Catherine has always been there, through all of the emails and the Messenger conversations and the phone calls. And yet that potential - that desire - for deceit was somehow glossed over, concealed behind an opaque veneer by the act of their threesome. Now it’s back. And even though he’s already experienced this woman - touched her, tasted her, even fucked her - he craves her like this is the first time they’ve met. He wants her alone now. No requirement to share or divide his attention. No one to distract him from her touch, her desire. He feels like a thief, and yet the prospect of finally having this woman to himself excites the very blackest parts of his soul.

As the kiss deepens, his fingers find their way to the buttons on her dress. Quickly, the fastenings are all released, and the dress hisses down the slender length of her body, pooling at her feet. He breaks the kiss, takes a pace backwards so that he can regard her. Her lingerie is the same shade of blue as her dress, the colour of sapphire against her creamy skin. The hold-up stockings excite him, sheer black, thick bands of embroidered lace cleaved to her thighs. Her stiffening nipples are brazenly obvious through the lace that envelops her full breasts. He reaches out, cups her left breast in his right hand, lightly brushes the pad of his thumb across the peak. She gasps, her body trembling at his touch.

They kiss again, and now her fingers play over his clothes. She slips his jacket from his shoulders, unbuttons his shirt, feeds the tongue of his belt back through its golden buckle. Her movements are languid, yet precise. Soon he is naked to the waist, and she dips her head to press her lips against his chest, her hands finding their way to his loins, artfully gripping his erection through his trousers. He groans against her hair, shuddering himself as the tip of her tongue finds his nipple, feeling his cock growing harder still as she strokes him through two layers of fabric.

Her mouth comes back to his, tantalising him for a few brief seconds. She pauses, smiles, her eyes gleaming in the light of the grey afternoon.

“I find myself wanting to be on my knees before you,” she murmurs. “Would you like that?”

He nods, unable to speak.

She slowly lowers herself to the floor. Her mouth is level with his groin as she unzips his trousers and slides them down his legs. She traces the outline of his cock through his shorts, then pulls them down to. His cock springs forth, and she licks her lips.

“Oh my,” she says in her best school teacher tone. “You are pleased to see me.”

Before he can muster any sort of reply, she’s slipped his glans between her pouting lips, and his knees almost give as her soft tongue rakes the underside of his shaft.

“Oh God,” he gasps, even though he stopped believing twenty years ago. “Oh fuck, yes.”

Her mouth carries him to the very edge of release, and then backs him off again. She looks up his body into his eyes. “You don’t get off that easily,” she says. She pushes him back towards the bed, and while he’s still trying to regain his composure, she’s standing over him, reaching behind herself to release the clasp on her bra, easing her panties down.

Naked but for the stockings, she climbs onto the bed and straddles his legs.

He looks up at her with some bewilderment. “Don’t you want me to….?”

Catherine shakes her head, takes his hand, guides it between her thighs. “Just feel how fucking wet I am already.”

And she’s true to her word. Her cunt is a dripping furnace, nought but fire and wetness and clinging, velvety flesh. He yearns to be inside her. Instead, he sinks a finger into her damp cleft, worms his way into the very centre of her heat, but even though she’s whimpering at his touch, she wrenches his hand away from her.

“I need more than fingers now,” she says huskily, settling over him, guiding his taut glans into the inferno. She sinks down, taking his length in one fluid descent.

“Oh fuck,” she cries out.

He’s inside her naked, no condoms like he wore for last night’s assignation. The sense of betrayal grows, and yet he can’t stop, won’t stop, not even if Laura walks into the room right now.

She rides him vocally to orgasm, her bountiful breasts bouncing wantonly above him. He’s hypnotised by their rhythm, and he reaches up to sample it, to memorise it with his palms. She rides him to a second, even more vociferous climax, then presses her legs out, stretching herself along his body, rolling off him onto the bed and pulling him with her until he’s between her outstretched thighs. He starts to thrust within her, urged on by her ceaseless gasps of pleasure, by the soft allure of her undulating body. He knows that he won’t last much longer if he doesn’t slow himself, doesn’t distract his mind from the naked excitement of their joining.

She seems to sense his reticence.

“No,” she gasps. “Don’t slow. Don’t stop. Let yourself go. I want to feel you. I want to feel you coming inside me. Please.”

Madness, he thinks. But he doesn’t try to dissuade her, doesn’t try to stop. He wants it as much as she does.

He wants to come with her, but in the end, she dips and beats him to the line. Her cunt spasms around him, and she clamps her forearm across her mouth to still her scream. Seeing her so lost to herself plunges him over the edge. The first pulse is electric, rippling from his balls to his glans in a wave of gratuitous sensation. Her hips lift to receive him, her legs entwined behind his thighs, locking him inside her. Her body convulses as each jet of seed splashes against her womb. He opens his mouth to cry out, but can make no sound at all. It’s as though every other response in his body has been suppressed to concentrate on fulfilling this one finite act.

Spent, they lie locked together for an age. He feels the beads of perspiration drying against the small of his back. He feels compelled to say something, wonders what words he ought to use. This is so familiar, and yet brand new. In the end, he says nothing. Instead, he eases himself from her, rolls onto his back, and draws her to him so that she rests her head against his chest. There’s guilt, and it burns brightly. But there’s a sense of fulfilment, a lingering afterglow of pleasure that soothes some of the ache.

He’s about to break the silence when a phone rings.

“Shit,” Catherine says after a few seconds. She rolls away from him, walks across the room to where she dropped her bag on the coffee table when they came in. He enjoys the way she moves when she walks. Her nakedness only adds to the pleasure of the view.

Catherine opens her phone. “Hello?” Her expression changes immediately, from mild annoyance to genuine surprise. She looks at him vacantly for a few seconds, then points towards the bathroom. He nods, not sure what else he can do in the circumstances, and she walks inside the tiled room, pushing the door shut once she’s inside. A thin border of light appears along the door’s bottom edge, and he hears the low thrum of the extractor fan kicking in, and then the murmur of Catherine’s voice.

The door opens after five minutes. Catherine walks over to the bed and sits down on the edge.

“Bad news?” he asks.

“No, not bad. Interesting.”

He props himself up on one arm. “Care to share?”

She smiles her wry, knowing smile again. “Your wife just invited me to your home for dinner tomorrow evening.”