Chapter 5

The town in which Mike worked and outside of which he lived was quite large, about 200,000 people, on the outskirts of the City of Manchester. It had long since been assimilated to become a satellite town within the greater Manchester area. When Tom was out looking for women, it was to Manchester City Centre he would go, and it was to Manchester Mike now went to meet Tom in a club.

It was a large club, with a very good restaurant, a bar and a large dance area, and it was known as a pickup joint. Many girls went there to get drunk without paying anything – in money. They expected and usually seemed to enjoy getting laid later in the evening by whoever paid for the drinks.

Tom had made reservations for dinner there, and was already at their table when Mike arrived. Mike made his apologies and Tom immediately picked up his mood.

"Someone get up your nose?" he asked as they perused the menu.

"Women!" Mike said with feeling, "or rather, a woman."

"Not Cheryl?"

"No," Mike laughed. "Haven't seen Cheryl in ages."

"Claire?" Tom looked shocked, which surprised Mike. Mike didn't think Tom would ever be surprised by a woman.

Mike nodded.

"Tell all," Tom ordered. So he did.

"I just think it was most ungrateful on her part not to tell me about getting the Decree Nisi," he finished, "and thoughtless in the extreme to leave me waiting for a call all night."

Tom looked up at him and smiled. "You have got it bad haven't you?"

"Um?"

"God, Mike," he expostulated. "You're thick sometimes."

"What?"

"You're in love with the woman," Tom patiently explained. "I told you when you started with Cheryl she was a good fuck but not to get emotionally involved, but you did.

"Now you're doing the same thing with Claire. If you were miffed at her staying out late you'd be over it by now, but you were miffed as well by her not telling you about her Decree. You didn't try to find out why, did you? You were too uptight! Face it matey you're in love with the woman."

Mike shook his head but began to wonder. Tom cut that short.

"Let's order, and then you need some pussy. You've not had a shag since Claire arrived – significant? You're frustrated old son. Time for some good old fashioned no strings rumpy-pumpy."

They ordered. As always, the food was superb and they conversed in grunts and moans of satisfaction. Once they had finished, Tom paid.

"My treat," he said. "In return you can do as you're told, and take the girl I select for you to bed for the night. Then see how you feel in the morning. Let's face it, if you are in love with Claire and she's fucking someone else, you need to get her out of your system."

Mike shrugged in resignation.

Tom, Mike had to acknowledge, was a babe magnet. What it was about him Mike didn't know. Perhaps he had a nose for available pussy, perhaps he exuded the right pheromones, perhaps it was because he was six foot three and blond, had a cheeky boyish face and a body that repaid the hours of the gym work he did. Whatever the reason, it was true: he was a babe magnet.

Now Mike would also acknowledge that while he wouldn't know how to use a pick-up line, Tom had the gift of the gab. However because Mike was a personable kind of bloke, had the gentlest of Scottish accents and perhaps also because he was loaded and willing to splash the cash, it was true that of any pair of women Tom charmed, the one who didn't get Tom usually ended the night more than happy that she got Mike.

Now there is a common joke in films and folklore that when girls are in pairs, you always get a really pretty girl with a rather plain (or even ugly) best friend. Not with Tom. He always made sure both girls were fit. Mike always got a good deal out of being his 'best friend'.

That Friday was no exception. They went into the bar area looking for their mates; none were there that night, but there were two absolute stunners sitting at a table for four. Mike got the drinks in and Tom's antennae were active. The women eyed Tom; he eyed them. They smiled; Tom smiled. It would seem that that was all it took.

This was reinforced when a couple of other lads went to the women's table and got the brush off. As the two wandered off, tails between their legs, the women gave Tom another brilliant smile. Yes, that really was all that it took.

Mike and Tom went over, Tom asked to join them and was accepted, of course. Mike and Tom bought them drinks; they drank them. Mike and Tom flirted; they flirted. Both women were wearing the minimally legal party wear, low cut crop-tops, clearly bra-less, the shortest of short pleated skirts and very high heels. No stockings or tights. Knickers? Who knew?

Gentlemen prefer blondes. Not blond Tom. He was a dark hair man, so Mike got the honey blonde. At first he could tell she was disappointed her friend got Tom, but by the second drink she had got over it. Mike said something humorous, she laughed and touched his arm. She flirted; he stroked her hand. She moved closer; he put his arm round her. She lifted her face for a kiss; they kissed. And again.

While they were all chatting, Mike saw Tom stiffen, lose track of the conversation and then relax.

"What's up doc?" Mike quipped, failing in his Bugs Bunny impression. "Seen someone?"

"It's all right," Tom muttered. "I think it was Cheryl and a man; she's gone now."

Mike looked round but couldn't see her, and promptly forgot about her.

His golden blonde was called Bryony, and Tom's brunette was Sharon. It turned out that Tom knew both of them a little. Mike needed the lavatory, and when he returned there was a look of compassion on Bryony's face.

"Tom tells us your wife walked out on you," she said.

"That's right," he said with some acidity. The acidity came from the fact that Tom had told things he didn't want to share. "You need to know I'm a boring person."

Tom looked briefly uncomfortable, but they all took the hint and they went on to talk of other things.

Bryony was a generously endowed young woman. Her breasts were large and firm but well shaped and in proportion, and she assured Mike without any prompting when she caught him looking, that they were natural. Her waist was narrow, and she had a wonderful hour-glass shape. As she repaired to the ladies with her friend, her bottom was rounded, neat and full, swaying under the pleated skirt which swung to and fro, and her legs were long and perfectly formed. Mind you, four or five inch heels help any girl's legs.

"Sorry, Mike," said Tom when the two women were out of earshot. "Bryony doesn't do married men, so I had to tell her you were divorced."

"You had to say she walked out on me?"

"Sorry," he repeated. "Stupid of me. I know how sensitive you are about it, but she might not have liked it if she thought you had dumped your wife instead of the other way round."

When the women returned, Tom suggested going to his place. Mike suggested to Bryony that he book a hotel room. She looked uncertain, until he took out his mobile and booked a four-poster room in one of the largest (and most expensive) hotels in the city. No uncertainty then, especially as he gave his name, knew the receptionist by name, passed the time of day and asked for his 'usual' room.

They parted from Tom and Sharon, who now looked a little disappointed she was not getting the hotel treatment as well, got a taxi and had a drink in the hotel bar before the lift took them to their floor. She loved the room. She squealed, and bounced onto the bed, showing her purple lacy boy-shorts, looking behind her and grinning at Mike's appreciation of her underwear and rounded backside.

Mike was hard. It had been a while since he had had a woman, and Bryony's enthusiasm showed she would be a satisfying lay. He went to the living area and beckoned her over.

She came over and went to sit on his knee. He shook his head. She stood before him. He leant forward and traced a finger up the outside of each of her legs at once. She leant forward and put her hands on his shoulders. As he passed her knees he strayed behind them, and she shivered, her head back and her eyes closed.

His fingers traced her thighs, still on the outside, under her skirt until they reached her knickers. Then it was round the twin orbs of her bottom, round and round, until she began to squirm. Quickly he hooked her panties at the waist and began to pull them down until they reached her knees, where he left them at the top of her calves and again caressed her knees. She buckled and fell onto him, then went down on her knees before him. He slipped off her top.

You're tits are brilliant," he whispered, "so firm and natural, and your nips are to die for."

The girl was actually blushing!

"What's the matter?" he asked, laughing.

She shook her head, but thrust her tits out, and giggled.

He lifted her, and unclipped her skirt, allowing it to fall to the floor, and then pushed her knickers down from their place on her calves, until she delicately stepped out of them. Now she was naked except for her high heels. She opened her stance so he could see her sex. Not shaven, though it might as well have been; her downy blonde pubic hair, already sparse, was trimmed short.

"You like?" she asked.

"I like," he said, pulling her towards him. Thanks to her heels, her pubic mound was at tongue height and she widened her legs even further, taking his right hand and putting it to her sex. He allowed his third finger to slide under her to her anus, parting her cheeks while he traced through the cleft over her rosebud and perineum, then with the lightest touch over her outer lips, feather-light over where her clitoris lay hidden.

"Yes," she groaned in frustration. "Touch me baby."

"I have," he said, straight faced.

"You know what I mean."

"I know exactly what you mean my sweet, but I have other plans. Bed." He wondered if she liked being dominated.

She turned and walked away from him, swaying those agonisingly wonderful buns, while he followed.

She kicked off her heels, lay down missionary style, legs wide open inviting him. Her hand strayed towards her mound.

"No!" he said sharply. "Leave yourself alone. Your pussy is mine tonight."

She laughed softly, pouted and stretched both arms over her head to grasp the bed-head. It did wonders for her tits.

"Come on then!" she invited, rather impatiently he thought.

He undressed slowly in front of her, turning his back as he slipped down his boxers. Then he turned to show her his erection.

She did not gasp in wonder. Mike was not hung like a horse, but he had often been told that his penis was well made and big enough. It was certainly thick.

Cheryl had always said it was the prettiest one she'd seen, and he suspected she'd seen quite a number even when they were married; she probably said that to all the guys. No. What Bryony did was to smile; it was a smile of anticipation, and her tongue lasciviously traced a pattern over her lips.

He crossed to her, crawled onto the bed and kissed her. Her arms went round him and she pulled his face against those wonderful tits, her hands roaming over his back and attempting to pull him over her for a coupling.

"Not yet." he said, sliding off the bed and pulling her with him.

She gave a puzzled cry, until he positioned her near the edge of the bed, spread her legs from his kneeling position and tasted her for the first time. Then she was quiet, with a look of concentration on her face.

He tongued her vaginal opening, swirling round and round, then the inner lips, finishing with the lightest touch of her clitoris. She jumped and then humped her pelvis to push against his tongue, but he pulled back keeping the light touch all the while.

So it continued. Hard licking at her vagina, feather touches on her clitoris, while her moaning became complaining, and eventually she gasped her plea.

"Please, Babe," she whimpered. "I can't stand anymore. Please – do it!"

At which he flattened his tongue and dragged it hard against her clitoris, with the desired result. She exploded. He continued with the treatment as far as he was able with her hips leaping and diving about on the bed. Eventually she began to quieten, she had been excessively vocal though wordless, her squeals and yelps being most expressive. Her final comment seemed to be 'erg'.

He crawled onto the bed and lay beside her, gently fingering her satisfied sex and then stroking her back as she came down. She snuggled into his arm, her head on his chest. He was hard, very hard, on edge and ready.

And she fell asleep! He always thought that that was what thoughtless men did after they orgasmed. He pulled the bedclothes over them and fell asleep in his turn ignoring his rock hard cock.

Mike was woken by the sun shining into the room and found there were the two of them in the bed, and they were back to back, at a distance: it was a very wide bed. He remembered Bryony and the night before. He got out of bed carefully and used the bathroom, before filling the kettle and going to the window to look out on the sparse traffic of early morning Saturday Manchester. The hotel opposite had all its curtains closed; no one up so early on a Saturday. Remembering he'd not shut the curtains the night before – he rarely did at this hotel – he wondered if he'd unwittingly given a show for folk across the road. Too late to change that now.

His next thought was of Claire. In the light of an already warm morning, the anger and jealousy of the previous day were muted. They were still there, but severely muted. Taking centre stage instead was a feeling of depression and defeat. Perhaps he was too reserved; perhaps he should have made a more of a play for her, though she displayed little more than gratitude and warm friendship, itself fuelled by gratitude.

He had to face it, he was not her type, she was just being nice to him. It didn't stop him finding her very attractive, and he had to agree with Tom that he had fallen for her. That was life.

Oh, well. At least he'd done her a good turn. His conscience was clear; he had never tried to take advantage of her gratitude, and he resolved he would remain reserved with her. They would have a friendly but strictly business arrangement; it was what he had promised her, no more than that.

He looked over at Bryony. She had seemed so glamorous the night before; now she seemed rather ordinary. It was a classic one-night-stand feeling.

He switched the kettle on. As is the fashion with hotel kettles, it took an age to take hold, but when it did, its loud noise was enough to wake her up. She turned over, a puzzled look on her face which resolved into recognition and then dawning guilt.

"Oh Mike I'm so sorry. Come back to bed."

He looked at her lying there and realised he didn't want to just take his pleasure. In fact he didn't feel like sex at all.

"I'm making tea," he said. "Want some?"

"Is there some coffee?"

He changed plan and made her a cup of coffee, then made himself some tea. He took it to the bed and sat on the edge.

They drank their drinks slowly: they were hot. He was obviously not going back to bed.

"Mike, are you upset with me?" she asked plaintively. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. You were so good; you wore me out. Come back to bed and I'll make you feel good. You deserve it."