Seychelle's Stories
Driven by Seychelle
Driven
It had seemed straightforward enough, when Larry had first thought of it. It was Friday, the beginning of the Bank Holiday weekend. Sheila and he had planned to leave straight from work and head up the coast to Portrush, to the hotel room they had booked. Of course, the weather had begun to turn sour from early that morning, but he was determined to get away and spend some quality time with his wife.
Then Bronagh, his co-worker and fellow passenger in the morning, needed his help. They had arranged that she would make her own way home, but then informed him that she, too, was going to Portrush to meet a lover, and could Larry and Sheila possibly take her along as well?
It wasn't that Larry wanted to be unhelpful. But Bronagh, well... he fancied her. Oh, he joked with her whenever they were in the car, told her to wear short skirts and that, yes, it was safe for her to fall asleep and leave her blouse half-undone; it was the talk of the office. But for Larry, it was a shield, to mask his true feelings. If she thought he was being serious, what would she say?
Further, neither Sheila nor Bronagh had ever met, only heard about each other through him. What if they didn't like each other? What if Larry let slip something he shouldn't, something that made either angry or suspicious?
As it turned out, they got on like a house on fire. Somehow that made him feel even more guilty: an adulterer by thought, and a breaker of an instant friendship. Then he dismissed his thoughts and feelings as so much crap.
It was bucketing when Sheila had met them in town, and the traffic was bumper to bumper and temper to temper when they were finally on their way out. They sat in the rear seats, chatting away and starting into the bottles of wine Sheila had secured beneath the seats that morning. Larry stared and burned his gaze through the fogged-up, water-beaded windscreen, as dusk became darkness, and the squeak of the wipers drowned out the pap on the radio.
And more often than he should, he'd glance at his passengers in the rear view mirror, watch and listen to them giggle and joke to each other like long-lost schoolfriends, and he'd suddenly feel pangs of jealousy. Why should he, though? they were having a good time back there, even if he did have to play chauffeur. He tugged at the collar of his shirt; it felt stuffy and warm in here.
Traffic and the weather both seemed to lessen by the time he turned on the lights, and the noise in the rear seats had died down into a relaxed, jovial atmosphere, like those times in a crowd when everyone takes a break to recover from those jokes and jibes they'd thrown to each other. He glanced at their reflection again; they were near-silhouettes, half-enshrouded by the darkness, but sometimes illuminated for only a second by the lights of a passing car in the opposite direction. Larry had avoided the larger roads and the expected traffic, but now had to acknowledge to himself that they would have been better off still on the motorway. At least the women hadn't said anything about his choice of direction. They just sat there, finishing off the bottle of wine and whispering to each other like children-
There was a sound, rough yet smooth, in the rear of the car, the stroke of flesh on, what- fabric? Sheila still wore her raincoat, though it was open, revealing underneath a silk blouse, skirt and- yes, tights, that was it. Flesh- a hand- stroking the nylon of her tights. Her own hand?
Larry watched the silhouette of his wife stiffen, rise in its seat, head arched, while Bronagh leaned closer, as if falling asleep on Sheila's shoulder. One of them sighed.
Then their heads met, face to face, and their shadows blended together like inkspots, joined at the lips.
Larry turned his gaze back to the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel as if for dear life, his mouth dry, a rapidly-growing erection in his trousers making him squirm in place. This wasn't happening; they were merely whispering to each other, only much more closely so he wouldn't hear.
Then he heard the sound of their lips, moist, sliding, grinding against each other. His breath caught in his throat, and he purposely reduced his velocity - ostensibly in case he grew too distracted, but in reality to prolong the spectacle he was indirectly watching.
He watched their arms move around, capturing the other and drawing themselves more closely together, if such a thing was possible. This definitely wasn't happening; Sheila had never shown any such inclinations before, or had even talked about. And Bronagh, Bronagh was a mother, for goodness sake!
He drew in a deep breath, and smelled something - it was musk, the musk of a woman's arousal. Sheila's? Or Bronagh's?
They finally, regretfully (for all concerned!) parted before they arrived at Portrush. The radio had lost its station, and Larry was too worked up to find another, so he tried to fill in the heavy silence that had settled in the car. 'Well, Bronagh, tell us about this lover of yours. You haven't mentioned him before.'
He heard rather than saw the smile that lifted her the, firm cheeks of her face. 'Who said it was a man?'
Larry gasped. Then the women laughed, as if all that had occurred between them hadn't. Perhaps it really hadn't; perhaps Larry had imagined it all?
He didn't like to think so.
They dropped Bronagh off at the Westview Hotel where she said she was meeting her lover, while Larry and Sheila went next door to the Triad. They didn't seem to have been in their room more than five minutes, Larry drawing her to the bed to quell his aching loins, when there was a knock on the door.
It was Bronagh, looking both embarrassed and tearful. 'You're not going to believe this: he didn't show up. He didn't even book the room. And there's no vacancies anywhere.'
Larry didn't believe it. But he didn't much care. Of course you can stay in our room, Sheila had reassured her, putting an arm around her when she seemed ready to burst into a crying fit. Larry watched them, examined every look they gave each other, every touch, every word and gesture, searching for hidden or overt meanings. But it appeared to be no more than the expected show of emotion women could have for each other.
They stayed in the room, finishing off the wine and beer. Larry switched on the hotel radio and pulled his wife up for a dance, certain she could feel his erection pressing into her as they drew closer. Sheila looked flushed; but that could have been from the wine. And there was those glances she gave Bronagh, who stared up from the chair and watched them with a silly grin on her face. Concern for her new friend, perhaps?
Then Bronagh rose to her feet, swaying slightly from the wine. She was a good-looking woman, Larry had to admit, with her long black hair and curvy figure - especially in the thigh-length black party minidress she now wore, minus the high heels kicked off from after she'd entered the room. She stared at the dancing couple and announced, 'It's my turn.'
Larry smiled and parted from Sheila, holding out his arms. 'Sure -'
But Bronagh dived into Sheila's waiting, willing arms instead. Larry laughed it off, then took Bronagh's place in the seat. he was rapt as he concentrated on the sight of his wife and the woman he secretly desired, dancing together. But this wasn't the distant, dance-around-the-handbag disco numbers that girls normally engaged in, no. Sheila held Bronagh by the waist, and Bronagh had her arms up around his wife's neck. he watched them whisper in each other's ear, then glance at him and giggle. He twisted in his seat, his erection threatening to burst through his trousers. They were teasing him, damn it! This was all a game to them!
Finally, unexpectedly he rose, kicking aside empty bottles as his hands balled into fists. 'Damn it, just what do you think you're doing? My wife and my co-worker, behaving like... like tarts!'
They stared at him as if he'd thrown a bucket of ice water over them. Finally Bronagh turned away, as if to cry. Sheila moved to her, sparing Larry one final, withering glance, then a nod towards the bathroom door. The meaning was obvious: get out of the room, you stupid asshole, until I can apologise to Bronagh for your unbelievable behaviour.
Larry did so, mentally kicking himself over and over again. Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could he have read the wrong signals like that? he must have imagined what he'd seen in the car, what he thought he saw in the room before him. It had all been innocent after all.
Breathing in deeply, then again, he readied a quick apology - better to get it over with as soon as possible - then re-entered the room. 'Bronagh, I'm -'
He was silent, struck by what he now saw.
They still stood together, as if dancing once more. But they were naked, and kissing each other. Larry's jaw dropped as he took it all in, as best he could. Bronagh was, as he had expected, as striking nude as she was clothed, her breasts firm and pale and budded with dark pink nipples that stood, seeking attention. Her pubic hair, deep mahogany, was trimmed and matted, though the lips of her sex were still visible.
And though he'd seen his wife nude many times before, now, beside this other woman, it was like the first time all over again: the deep eyes, pink cheeks, pale skin, small round white breasts, a nice waist, round hips, a delta of dark untrimmed hair between her firm thighs. She was taller than Bronagh, but seemed passive beside the other woman; was Bronagh the aggressor in this relationship?
As if having read his mind, they stopped to look at Larry once, smile knowingly. Then Bronagh laughed as she drew Sheila back to her, pressing her lips against Sheila's. Their breasts also pressed against each other as if in imitation, and Larry could swear his heart had stopped, just as he saw Bronagh's tongue slip between her parted lips and thrust into Sheila's mouth. Shards of pleasure spread through him. Their arms clasped each other, refusing to let go, as Larry had refused to let go of the incredible sight before him.
Bronagh's hands rested on Sheila's shoulders. Now Sheila descended, slowly, dramatically, as if to tease Larry further, until she was on her knees, and Bronagh lifted her right thigh to rest on the other woman's shoulder.
Larry moved closer, viewing as his wife did the sight of Bronagh's open, waiting sex, an exquisite oval shape of delicately frilled flesh that had parted itself with the separation of Bronagh's thighs. Her inner sex was deep pink, shadowed only by the secret folds leading to her vagina, moist with milky dew, and now both Sheila and Larry could drink in the sweet and heady fragrance - the fragrance he had smelled in the car. It hadn't been Bronagh's hands on Sheila's body, but the other way around!.
Sheila didn't keep Bronagh waiting long either, burying her face into the other woman. Bronagh moaned and clutched Sheila's head; Larry felt himself reacting, too, almost gasping as he saw his wife reach around to clasp Bronagh's fleshy buttocks, which wavered between anticipated tautness and supple submission to the bliss flowing through her.
Bronagh was going wild, the cries from her mouth inarticulate pleas and demands for Sheila to stop and continue and stop, her fingernails digging into the sides of Sheila's head. Suddenly Bronagh stiffened, her muscles contracting sharply against Sheila's face, indeed her whole body shaking with release. Larry could hear Sheila sigh against her female lover with deep satisfaction, stroking the smooth flesh of her buttocks.
Larry's cock was erect and ready for bursting; his hands shook as he undressed, uncaring if they didn't want him to intrude on their fun. As he freed his erection - standing proud from a cluster of dark curls at its base, its damask tip flaring, glistening - he approached them both, then stopped - he didn't know which one he wanted more, just then.
Sheila rose to her feet and settled that, grinding her mouth onto his, her tongue pirouetting with his own; he could taste Bronagh on his wife's lips, a sweet, succulent taste like cling peaches. They clung to each other, holding, kissing, caressing, his hand closing around one of her breasts, approving of the perfect fit in his hand as he massaged it.
He stroked the silky curls of her pubes, smiling against her mouth as he felt her surge against his touch, her sex tense, puffy, pulsing as if in time to the distant music. She didn't wait for him to part her thighs, offering him the moist and engorged folds of her sex. He found the velvet hood of her clitoris, and she withdrew from his mouth long enough to gasp aloud, as his fingers gathered her dew like a bee collecting pollen.
Then there were the hands around his waist, from behind, gently but firmly pulling him from his wife's embrace. He faced Bronagh, almost shuddering as she dropped to her knees before him, and took his cock in her hot, willing mouth. He groaned, much like Bronagh had done, as she ran her tongue around the hot velvet rim of the head of his cock, then along the whole length of him, further than he expected she could. Sheila moved behind him now, reaching up to take his mouth against hers again. Bronagh pulled back again, keeping just the throbbing head within, sucking strongly at it. He was near, so near-
He ground his teeth as Bronagh withdrew entirely. But when she smacked her lips and said, 'Let's go to bed.'
He didn't have to be told twice. Once there, he drew Bronagh into an embrace, fulfilling months of fantasies by kissing and stroking her, relishing her eager responses. He moved downwards, to her firm, full, swollen breasts, finally burying his face between her thighs, lapping at the soaking folds of her moist pocket, finally delighting in the exquisite taste of the woman. Bronagh's thighs reflexively closed against the sides of his head, and her hands balled into fists, impotent to fight the exquisite sensations running through her like wires, the same sensations he suspected he now felt.
"Come on, come on," she panted hungrily, clutching the skin on his shoulders, drawing him back up to eye level.
He looked at his wife once more, as if for permission. but she was busy now herself, climbing up, then positioning herself over Bronagh's face. Beneath her, Bronagh was parting her thighs further, a silent invitation Larry simply could not turn down. He entered her easily, gently, Larry gasping as her vagina enveloped him, refusing to let go. His rhythm was slow at first, considerate, able to support himself without disturbing Sheila and Bronagh's own lovemaking. Larry and Sheila were facing each other, each over a part of their new lover. Their eyes met, spoke volumes, their hands reaching out to support each other.
But Bronagh would not be ignored; as her lips parted from Sheila's hot, wet crotch, she grunted, 'Harder! Faster!'
He gladly obliged, his breathing heavy and increasing in tempo with his thrusts. Sheila reached down between her legs as if to touch herself further, instead reaching for Bronagh's breasts, roughly kneading and squeezing them. They'd all found a mutual rhythm, once which quickened like the heart of a trapped bird. Larry reached Sheila's lips for a hot, raw kiss, just in time for Sheila's orgasm. Sheila cried into Larry's mouth, feeling her body catch fire and curl up into itself; he barely felt Bronagh's own orgasm tremble around his pumping, pounding shaft. Finally, he too came in third, letting himself succumb to that release of pleasure-pain, tensing as he climaxed within Bronagh, fraught at first, then diminishing until he was fully spent, then collapsing onto her. Sheila remained on Bronagh's face a while longer before helping herself down.
They lay together on the bed, Larry between the two women, resting the side of his face against Bronagh's breasts, drinking in the sweet scent of her body, the beat of her heart against his cheekbone, while Sheila curled up like spoons against his back, her breasts pressing into his sweaty skin, her legs wrapped up and around his own. They remained like that for an uncountable time, silent, none willing to break the spell.
Finally Larry had to ask, 'You planned all this, didn't you? Both of you?' He looked at Bronagh. 'You lied to me.'
Neither said anything.
Larry turned and looked into his wife's eyes. 'Well?'
She gazed knowingly back at him. 'Tonight wasn't the first time Bronagh and I had met. I arranged a meeting with her long ago, to confront her. I thought you two had been having an affair.' At his expression, she added, 'Well, I heard the way you talked to her, what you said - and what you tried to keep from saying.'
'We weren't having an affair, obviously,' Bronagh now chipped in. 'But Sheila and I met again, in secret; Sheila was too embarrassed to have to explain to you how she and I first got together. Things sort of progressed from there between us.'
'So you see, dear,' Sheila now finished. 'Bronagh didn't lie to you; she did have to meet a lover in Portrush. It just happened to be me.'
'And now,' Bronagh annexed. 'You.'
END
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