Chapter 1

“What do you think about this one?” Tom asked.

Penny shifted uncomfortably. “She’s cute. I like her hair.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “What else do you like about her?” he pressed.

Penny knew what he wanted to hear. “She has nice breasts. They look natural, not enhanced like the last girl. I like her eyes too. And her lips. She has very kissable lips.” She reached for her wine, a preparatory treat. Tom had a half-empty glass on his side, along with their half-smoked joint. Penny’s pupils were marginally dilated.

“They’re bigger than mine, too. Her breasts, I mean.” When she wore one, a size 34C treasured her fine breasts. She was 37 years old, and presented the sag she had at 20, effectively, none. Penny possessed the most fetching breasts Tom had ever fondled, and fondled one lovingly now, and then the other. Penny wore a satin yellow tank top, with running shorts, and no brassiere. No knickers, either, hopefully.

“I wonder if you’d like to feel them,” Tom suggested. “I can imagine you with one in your mouth. She has lovely nipples.”

“She does,” Penny agreed, sipping her wine. It was Zinfandel, and she was feeling quite fine. “She might like holding mine, too. Do I have nice nipples, Tom?”

He laughed, picking up his wine.

Penny sat on her husband’s lap. She’d been on it long enough to need to get off, but Tom liked her perched on his cock. It was semi-erect, a constant presence, however she moved. She’d get that thing tonight, after the nightclub, and more than once, maybe. It was Saturday evening, the time, 6:41 p.m.

Tom flipped the page. “I like this one’s shaved crotch. She has a perfect crotch, wouldn’t you say?”

Tom wouldn’t say cunt, or pussy, or any slang or derogatory term for Penny’s or any woman’s vulva. He wouldn’t use that word either, and usually just called it a crotch, nook, or another Penny-approved term. Penny preferred cookie or nook, for the nookie it brought her. Especially on Saturday nights.

“Do you like mine shaved?” she asked, sipping.

“You shave?”

Tom easily shifted her 121 lbs to a more comfortable position in his lap. Penny weighed exactly what she had in college; she stood a modest 5’4” tall in her bare feet, and had excellent legs. Her measurements, as Tom quizzed her about twice a week, were 34C-24-35. She was brunette with thick hair to her shoulder blades, and hazel eyes with flecks of gold. Tom insisted her mouth was the finest fellatio orifice in the United Kingdom. Penny didn’t believe that at all. She suspected it might not even be the best in her household, but she didn’t share that with Tom.

Tom flipped to the next girl, then flipped back. “Do you think she’s really blonde?”

“There’s no way to tell, is there,” Penny pointed out. “Am I a real brunette?”

“I can look and see.” She was wearing knickers, he confirmed, though it made no difference in his quest for hair. “I can’t tell. Are you really brunette, Mrs. Doyle?”

Penny kissed him a peck on his lips. “Only a cad would ask a woman something like that, Mr. Doyle. Are you a cad?”

“I’m bloody horny, is what I am.” He captured her mouth and gave it a bloody real kiss, not some peck that wouldn’t jump start a Matchbox car. He also went inside her shirt and captured a nicely formed breast, startling her small round nipple awake. She moaned into his mouth, then whispered breathlessly: “I’m brunette, Tom. I promise I am. But I’ll be whatever colour you want if you kiss me like that again.” Instead, he slid his hand down the front of her shorts into her underwear, and found her cookie. Penny really moaned, now, writhing in his lap.

“God, Tom. I want to suck you so bad.”

“More than you want to lick this blonde girl’s cookie?”

“I want to lick her cookie too, Tom, but please let me suck your cock. Please let me suck your cock,” she pleaded. Tom’s finger was in danger of drowning inside her sopping vagina. She was so wet as to be nearly humiliating. After 17 years of marriage, Tom still did this to her.

“Would you like to lick her, Penny?”

“Would you like to watch me?” she countered. “At FreeStyle tonight?”

This started two weeks ago when Penny confessed to being bi-curious. Tom was 40 years old, an architect, a partner with Brighton Development. Penny taught English at the town’s only girl’s high school, All Saints Catholic High. Her students called her Ms. Prim, mostly in fondness. Penny was nothing, if not prim.

(Saturday, May 28, 2016) On the Saturday evening in question as Penny prepared dinner in one of Tom’s baggy tee shirts, an apron and nothing else, she brought up the new teacher, Ms. Garvey.

“She’s nice, Tom. Came out of Kitrick two years ago, and taught KS4 at Porter Lands.” Penny taught KS5. “She only switched in two weeks ago.”

“Sounds like you fancy her,” Tom joked.

“Don’t be silly, no!” she responded, dragging out the “no!” in the way popularized by American teens. “She’s just a nice girl, that’s all. Always nicely dressed, well-spoken; I like her hair, even though she’s blonde.”

Tom looked up, curious. Did Penny sound embarrassed, was she red-faced and standing a little defensively hunch-shouldered? What was this about?

Shrugging, he dropped the subject and went back to his spreadsheet.

(Monday, May 30, 2016) On Monday Tom dropped by school for lunch. He met Ms. Garvey, who was indeed young and blonde, and walked both women next door to Harry’s Pub on Quarterfield Street. Penny and Ms. Garvey ordered salads, Tom the fish, chips and mushy peas special with his favourite lager. The women drank pink lemonade and tea, Penny preferring Earl Grey. A half hour’s conversation with Ms. Garvey was sufficient to understand Penny’s innocent infatuation.

“Wow. That’s a pretty young girl,” Tom said as Ms. Garvey, whose first name neither woman had as yet divulged, entered the archway leading to the Men’s and Ladies rest rooms.

“I told you so,” Penny said, smiling. “I suppose you want her phone number now. Shall I get it?”

Tom snorted and rolled his eyes. Penny revealed her first name was Lucinda, Cindy for short.

(Monday, May 30, 2016) Home later that night, the kids put to bed and the lights safely out, Penny observed: “I found this just laying around, Mr. Doyle. May I keep it?”

The object in question was Tom’s unqualified hard-on, gripped in Penny’s right hand. She lay beneath the covers, on her left side, Tom facing her a foot away. He caressed her bare right breast. His erection was incredibly hard.

“I hope you’re nice and wet,” he responded, deciding to find out. In a practised move, Penny lifted her right leg just so, allowing him to prove her nice and wet, all right. She gasped lightly as his finger moved effortlessly inside.

“God, I love you, Mr. Doyle.” Tom kissed her, finding her tongue. A moment later, her pyjama top was off, leaving her bare-breasted with a dominant, extremely virile male. She was gripped tightly in his arms, rolled onto her back, deprived of her powder blue pyjama bottoms, naked and completely at his mercy. Moments later, the 8” long erection she craved so badly slipped between her legs.

“Oh, God ... Tom.” She was incapable of saying anything else. 17 years, almost 20, counting their high school years, and Penny still lived to have Tom inside her. Smooth as a new-born between her legs as Tom liked, she wrapped his neck with her arms, his waist with her slender legs, locking ankles at the small of his back. She was naked, Tom in a grey tee shirt and grey and black camouflage shirts, erection protruding into her through his flap. Penny had fucked Tom this way a thousand times, knowing it was submissive, accepting that, by choice a loving and obedient wife. She also had a sense of fair play, and let Tom take advantage of her only within reason. Her reason. Tom respected her bounds, and never pressed her past them. It’s why she loved him so much. She groaned his name.

“Fuck me slow, Tom. I want a nice slow fuck, tonight.” No one slow-fucked like Thomas Doyle. “Is Cindy pretty Tom?”

“Cindy?” Tom unshackled her feet and spread her full width on the bed. No one butterflied quite like Penny Doyle, even at 37. He drove her deep into the mattress and made her shudder deeply and gasp. “Your blonde teacher’s pet?” he asked.

Penny moaned as though gored by a bull. She nodded against Tom’s neck, gasping as he bored again. Thank God, the children were at the far end of hall. She’d thought this a thousand times, also.

“She’s definitely pretty. If you like young blondes, right out of teacher’s college.”

“She’s 27, Tom,” she croaked against his neck. “God. How do I survive this torture? Why is your cock so big? How do you get it inside me so deep? I can’t believe I even have a cervix left!” she complained. It was a common complaint: no one bored his wife quite like Thomas Doyle.

“Would you fuck her, Tom?”

His unexpectedly deep trust made her cry out in pain. “I’d like to see you fuck her,” he retorted, driving deep again.

He obviously wanted to fuck Cindy, she thought distractedly. But he obviously wanted her to fuck Cindy as well, a hopeful sign, considering she wanted just that. Her back arched, meeting his next thrust. It still hurt wonderfully.

“I can’t fuck her,” she quipped. “I don’t have your cock, Tom.”

Tom laughed. “No, but you could frig her and lick her delicious cunt.”

“Tom!” She laughed hoarsely. “You did that on purpose!”

“Of course, I did. I know it excites you.” And it did, always, when drilling for gold between her legs. Splayed so wonderfully, like a Monarch butterfly.

“Fuck me, you shit. Fuck me hard as you can.”

Tom did, secretly imagining the new hire in Penny’s place beneath him, 8” of cock in her delicious cunt. He imagined her also atop his wife, doing her with a strap-on dildo, a huge phallus twice the size of his, splitting his Penny bloodlessly in two. That was it for Tom. Convulsing violently, he nearly split Penny in two himself, and not bloodlessly. She cried out sharply in pain, his thrust causing a tear in her vaginal tissues, also one in her bruised cervix. Like any wife, she knew exactly what Tom was up to. She also had imagined herself beneath the 27-year-old blonde, though, the same giant phallus ruthlessly assaulting her cervix. Tom was not the only Doyle suffering a cataclysmic orgasm. It took abnormally long for both to wind down.

Nothing more was said about Lucinda Garvey for days.

(Thursday, June 2, 2016) “Is it just Cindy?” Tom asked. This was Thursday night (Thursday, April 14, 2016), an hour before midnight. The kids were in bed, Martin certainly asleep. Melanie, Penny wasn’t sure about.

“I’m sorry, what?” Penny removed her reading glasses and gazed at her husband. Both lay against thick corduroy bed-rests, Tom’s forest green, Penny’s a more feminine purple. She closed her book with a finger to hold the page. It was the new John Grisham thriller.

Tom pretended the question was perfectly normal. Turning his head, he eyed her over his ugly hornrims, one eyebrow raised.

“You mean do I fancy anyone else? Other than Cindy Garvey?”

Tom nodded slyly.

“You know nothing, Mr. Doyle. You assume things. I do not fancy my fellow teacher.” Replacing her glasses, she feigned interest in her reading. Eventually, she progressed past the same, constantly read passage, Tom gazing at her silently.

“Will you stop that.”

“What?” he said innocently.

“Attempting to read my mind. It won’t work, Tom.” Tom watched her fight a smile.

“I know what’s on your mind right now,” he bet.

“I’m sure you do,” she said, turning the page. She lay beneath the bedclothes to her waist. Her bed-wear tonight was a simple, blue, and white-striped nightshirt, which she hoped Tom might remove at some point and cuddle her to him for sex. The light material sculpted partly around her breasts, nipples vaguely protruding. Tom had continually eyed them since bedtime, a hopeful sign. She liked the nightshirt, for exactly that reason. She never wore it in the presence of Martin without a robe. Martin was 12.

“Do you fancy Cindy?” she asked.

“I asked you first.”

“What you asked,” she corrected, “was whether I fancied anyone else but her.” She was no longer able to process the written word, though she kept her eyes on the page. “She’s very nice. Do I fancy her sexually? I’ve never had sex with another woman, never so much as kissed one with anything but good will, Tom. Could I?” She eyed him over her glasses. “I don’t know.” She closed the book on her finger again. “Do I want to?” Tom watched her shiver lightly. “It can’t be her, regardless. Never someone from school, Tom, that would be professional suicide.” She removed her glasses; Tom eyed her breasts, and then returned to her face. Unless she became angry or upset—or both—Tom planned taking her tonight, she thought, regardless of Cindy Garvey.

“The question, I think, is do you want me to, Mr. Doyle.”

Tom removed her glasses, set them aside, and then placed her book beside them on his table. Leaning over, he cupped her left breast and then captured her lips with a kiss. “Mmmm,” she moaned, moulding against him and placing her hands on his chest. His hand stole around to capture her backside and press her tightly against him. They kissed passionately, Tom enacting a powerful erection, Penny beginning to self-lubricate. My God, how she desired this.

No more was said about Cindy Garvey while Tom removed her nightshirt, then his tee shirt and underwear. It was an unbroken rule in the household that Mrs. Doyle never removed her clothing for lovemaking, or any form of sexual encounter. It was the province of Mr. Doyle, at his pace and pleasure, back to their wedding night and beyond. Whether it be an unbuttoned top, removal of her outer clothing and intimates, or a nightshirt in bed, Mrs. Doyle was at the mercy of Mr. Doyle, and faced a good bare-bottomed paddling lest she forget. Penny received paddlings for those transgressions only when wanted, however; she loved provoking Tom sometimes. Otherwise, Mrs. Doyle lived to be undressed, especially having her breasts freed of a bra, and her lower half made nude. Penny thought her natural state of being was naked, or having her clothes removed.

“Oh, Tom,” she moaned. She remembered her first encounter with his penis, already thudding and hard, and how terrified she was. It was immense, thickly veined and a frightening bruised purple, engorged with blood. His huge testicles (horse balls, she’d thought in panic at the time), impossibly low in his scrotal sack. They swayed scandalously with every movement; how much would they pump into her poor vagina, she wondered. Would she overflow like an overfilled cup? She nearly backed out of having sex. It was her 18th birthday. (Sun, April 06, 1997)

“My fragile teacup adores you,” she whispered in his ear.

“I intend to fracture that precious teacup,” he threatened.

“Please don’t.” It wasn’t often she bled, but she did Monday night, and every step the following day brought a wince of pain. The tear occurred at the juncture of her labia and perineum, a delicately thin and vulnerable membrane. Her insides, meaning her cervix, took the brunt of the pounding she got, and had bled as well. She felt as she had that night in December ‘95, after surrendering her hymen.

“If you could, and Cindy was equally fond of you...” He helped lock her ankles behind his back, and settled into her deeply, placing her face between his hands to be kissed.

“If Cindy was equally fond of me... ?” she repeated. Then groaned, thinking, what a fabulous penis her man possessed.

“Would you like to lick her cunt while I fuck you?”

She snickered explosively. “You prig! Take that back, right now!”

“Cunt, cunt, cunt, Mrs. Doyle. While you lick her delicious cunt.”

“Please stop saying that,” she pleaded.

“I’ll say anything I like when I’m fucking you, Mrs Doyle.” And he did, constantly. “Say it with me now...”

“No,” she refused. Penny Doyle was nothing, if not obstinate. Also, incredibly aroused, as her priggish husband had intended. Nothing got her going like being taunted with filthy language during sex.

“I will bugger your ass, if you don’t,” he warned.

“Oh, no, you will not, Thomas Doyle!”

“Think you can stop me?” he questioned, kissing her fiercely and mauling her tongue. His cock felt like a shaft of hardened steel, direct from the curing oven. Going like this, she might not walk at all tomorrow. It seemed to keep growing, both in thickness and length--his magical cock.

“I’ll scream rape!”

“You bet you will.”

Penny imagined being flipped on her stomach, or doggie on her knees. Tom loved taking her doggie, her chest on the mattress, breasts mostly flattened, dutifully reaching back to expose herself for him...

With a jagged intake of breath, Penny wrapped him crushingly with her arms and legs and began to shudder with orgasm. In desperation, she bit his right ear, and then his neck, as wave upon wave of orgasm flooded from her clitoris, and crashed through the rest of her. Tom exploded an instant later, flooding her cervix with sperm, pounding it with his glorious head, insuring millions of tiny Tom Doyle’s invaded and conquered her subterranean fortress. How many times had he emptied in her exactly this way, twice producing child? They should produce one tonight, she thought frantically as he came, going at it as they were. Penny erratically hoped they would; Martin needed a little brother, or sister.

(Saturday, June 4, 2016) Saturday night (Saturday, June 4, 2016), and Penny was on his lap in the family room. She ached inside, taking two horrible poundings, only days apart. Her cervix felt like the end of a newly excavated tunnel, the site of blasting and drilling. Tom had drilled her, all right--with his tungsten carbide bit.

“Sorry about the other night,” he apologized. He could not fail to notice her discomfort.

“Don’t ever be sorry for making a woman of me, Thomas Doyle. You have to be gentle with me tonight, though,” she cautioned. “We don’t need a visit to the gynaecologist, do we?”

“God forbid. I’ll take it easy on you, never worry, love.”

She touched the screen of his iPad, increasing the volume. It was a website devoted to amateur bi-curious women, bisexuals, and lesbians. The blonde student was now atop her brunette room-mate, performing 69. The camera was stationary, 10’ from the bed, viewing the girls from a 45-degree angle. And they were girls, no more than 19 years old. It was a cramped dorm room, with painted cinderblock walls and the two small beds, barely walking distance apart. Clothing lay scattered about the floor, furniture and the empty bed. Penny remembered her dorm room at Chelsea College of Arts, nearly identical. She’d had a crush on her room-mate, Anna.

Penny sipped her wine. She wore only his camouflage tee shirt, and a pair of Tom’s boxer shorts. Her legs and feet were bare. Tom loved her beautiful legs. They spread so well upon demand, and encircled him so tightly when needed. His back stung where Penny had dug in her nails, not the only casualty of lovemaking this week.

“She really is cute,” Tom said. “A younger version of Ms. Garvey.”

“The blonde girl, you mean. I sorta fancy the brunette.”

Tom beheld her with interest. “I thought your preference was blondes.”

“I have no preference,” she corrected him. “That’s you. I like the blonde, too, though,” she admitted, sipping her Zinfandel. “What was her name again?”

“Anna?” he quipped.

She slapped his thigh. “Stop that! You know that’s not right. Wasn’t it Maureen? Sounds like an American name, to me,” she quipped.

“She’s Irish,” Tom challenged, missing her facetious tone. “From Cork, I’d bet. I haven’t heard the brunette talk loud enough to tell about her, though.”

Secretly, Penny liked the dark-haired girl’s small breasts. They were nicely shaped, with small dark nipples, like her own. Miniature versions of hers, in fact; they could be sisters.

“I’d love to see you and Ms. Garvey do that,” Tom sighed.

“You have a better chance of winning the lottery, love. I’d possible do it with someone not associated with my job ... a chance encounter in a pub, maybe? They have a number of gay bars in Leeds, though I don’t believe they call them gay bars any more, do they. LGBT establishments?” she questioned.

Tom shook his head. “I have no idea. Not a bad suggestion, though ... would you be willing to look at it?”

Penny swished wine in her glass. “Possibly, if you really could share me with another woman, Tom.”

“That’s the question, isn’t it,” Tom acknowledged. Tom was extremely territorial; Penny was his property by marriage, his chattel, for want of a better word. Penny accepted that, never seriously looking at another man. Why would she, with Tom? No one could replace Tom. That was nonsensical.

“I know a place,” she ventured.

Toms eyebrows raised.

“I heard chatter about it in school, lately. Evidently, a number of young teachers have been spotted going in there. It’s called FreeStyle. FreeStyle Nightclub, if I remember right.” She winced at a stab from her battered cervix. Tom grinned; she glowered at him. “You should be my wife, even for one night,” she grumbled. “Let you experience an 8” long erection between your legs, flogging your bottom; you wouldn’t grin so quickly, Thomas Doyle.” She grimaced as her cervix protested loudly again. Such fun sometimes, being a woman.

“What if someone sees us, though?” she complained. Tom helped her shift to a more comfortable position. She wasn’t sure such a thing existed, tonight. “They’d be whispering about me in school, then.”

Tom quipped. “We just tell them it was me. I’d be the fruit in the family.”

She eyed him desultorily. “So that’s what I am if I do this? A fruit? I thought my fruit-bowl was between my legs, Mr. Doyle.”

“Don’t mistake that for your fish-bowl, love.”

He fended off her outraged attack. The sudden struggle went on, Penny struggling not to laugh, Tom managing to get his iPad safely onto the table before it ended on the floor. Despite her struggles, he easily arranged her on his lap, facing him, straddling his thighs. Her eyes flashed with outraged passion.

“You won’t have me tonight, Thomas Doyle!” Her look of haughty triumph became one of alarm as Tom slipped his hand up the front of his tee shirt and captured a warm breast. She squirmed ineffectually against his grip, his other hand capturing her wrists behind her back.

“You release my breast this instant!” she threatened indignantly. Tom roughly twirled her small nipple to instant awareness. She squirmed with arousal, her wetness factory, already on alert, going into production overtime.

“Prig!” she spat.

“Cunt.”

“Don’t you call me that, Thomas Doyle!”

He grinned at her outraged expression. Wilfully, grinning wolfishly, he said, one word at a time: “You. Are. My. Cunt. Mrs. Doyle.”

“Not in your lifetime, I’m not!” In counter-point, she attacked his lips with her mouth, kissing him fiercely, every tendon in her upper body straining with effort. No one attacked her man in a sexual frenzy like Mrs. Doyle.

“Be grateful I love you!” she hissed. A moment later she was on the lounge floor on her back, a moment later violently stripped of her clothes, the moment following, spread roughly and speared by cock. She was fucked as no wife was fucked that night on Butterfly Lane, Howarth, Yorkshire, UK.

(Saturday, June 11, 2016) “Bucket Lane,” Penny said distastefully. It was the Armley area of Leeds, not the finest neighbourhood, certainly not a place she’d go shopping for clothes, if indeed, any retailers were available. Still, as seedy areas went, she’d been to worse. Just, not since marrying Tom.

At just after 9 o’clock, Tom guided the Audi into one of the few available spots. The FreeStyle must be packed, she thought. At a glance, the building and its clientele were not immediately off-putting. The nightclub was not garishly lighted as some she’d frequented, even with Tom, yet cleanly lit with a small neon sign at both ends of the building, and a larger, rakishly angled sign above the door. The people milling about the entrance and scattered throughout the jammed parking lot, ranged in age from first-year college students, to couples older than Penny and Tom.

“Should we go in?” Tom suggested.

Nervous as the proverbial hen stalked by a fox in the hen house, Penny nodded. Would FreeStyle prove to be her particular hen house tonight? “That’s why we came here,” she muttered tensely. Unlocking her door, she climbed out.

To her relief, she was not alone wearing a sleeveless summer frock and flats. How to dress, had worried her greatly. Many outside, especially those of college age, were paired girls or women, with a smattering of paired males. Some boys and men presented as obviously gay; others, Penny would never expect as being gay or bisexual. It shocked her a bit, seeing a number of like-sex couples kissing, some clutched together in tight embrace. It brought back memories of high school and college, especially of Anna, her Chelsea room-mate. Anna was strongly bi-sexual, if not patently gay. Penny never saw her with a boy.

Penny often wondered whether if, had Anna made an advance, would she give in. Penny had been bi-curious since primary school, never once exploring this unwanted curiosity. Becoming seriously embroiled with Tom at 18 (Sun, April 6, 1997 first sex), the curiosity quickly faded; Tom and his erection were all that she wanted. Here she was, though, in the car park of a gay nightclub with her husband. Tom threaded her arm inside his.

“Relax. As far as anyone knows, we’re here for a drink and a night of dancing, love. I see other straight couples.”

In fact, there were a number, a wonderful sight. To their left could be the next-door neighbours, enjoying on a night out, kids safely home with the babysitter. Most likely, they were.

FreeStyle was one of the most frequented bars in Leeds, research had shown her during the week; the filled-to-capacity car park confirmed that. The faux neighbour, a pretty brunette in a sleeveless, strapless top over black slacks, appeared more anxious than Penny. The husband looked excited. Tom, facing the prospect of surrendering his wife to an unknown woman, was tense.

“One should take one’s own counsel, Mr. Doyle,” she said, patting his hand. “I see no reason not to make a night out of this, if we choose; God knows, we deserve a night out. Look how long it’s been?” A bit of prevarication on her part, as she much preferred nights spent in the company of her Tom, the sexual energy building throughout the night to reach a shattering climax in bed.

“I’m just fine,” he grunted, placing a hand over hers. “A drink will loosen us both.” She’d been aware of the driving, reverberating base line of the live band as she waited in line to enter the club. Inside, the decibel level jumped to an eardrum assaulting level, the loudest music since her club nights in college with Brandi, Marie, and Chloe. She’d forgotten how the music vibrated you right down to your bones. It was deja vu, this sudden feel of being almost separate from her clothes, as though her dress wanted to begin wild gyrations in response to the music. In college she’d experienced this time and again. A sexual response, she supposed, from the assault of music and desire to get wrapped tightly in its embrace. Nights out clubbing with a boy always ended in wild and frantic sex. Very often unprotected, and sometimes done in the club’s parking lot. Her second time having anal was in the back seat of a Ford Taurus. This was so unwise.

Every club was the same: garish flashing lights, gyrating couples, the bar packed three deep, everyone shouting to be heard. She’d not seen so many bare underarms since her last club night with Tom in 2001. Could it really be that long ago? Melanie was born in 2002, so yes.

“Let’s get a drink,” Tom advised. Incredibly, he seemed completely immune to the horde of provocatively and sometimes scantily dressed women and girls. That hadn’t changed at all, she thought; the provocatively and scantily part. Tom ignoring the fact certainly was. Like all males, Tom was irritatingly all-eyes in a club. Penny witnessed more nipple slips and crotch peeps in one night, than she otherwise would in a year. She’d given plenty of her own, back in the day, even with Tom. Once, she’d bounced her bare breasts right out of her top, and not been aware of it for some minutes. The boys around her certainly were, including her date, who’d bared them again in his car, directly after leaving the club. One of her more memorable nights.

Tom suddenly stopped.

“What,” Penny asked. As outside, most of the dancing couples were paired males and paired females, with the odd smattering of straight couples joining in. The clientele at the bar was the same, with many hands inside the rear pockets of the person’s date, be they male or female. Those wearing skirts and dresses had their bottoms cupped possessively. That had changed since her clubbing days. Did she like that, or not?