Chapter 1

I pulled the cord open, lifted the robe self-consciously from my shoulders, and stood in the circle with the others, facing the fire, with the darkness to our backs. But perhaps I should explain...

Despite the best of intentions I had fallen asleep waiting for Michael to arrive, and the rhythmic pounding on the door confused me further. By the time I reached the front of the house to shut the noise down I remembered what was going on, and I opened the door and dragged him in.

Michael and I were comfortable in a good way. Six months we'd been seeing each other, and we just loved each other's company. He was a cuddler, and I didn't get far back from the door before he had me in a bear-hug.

"Charlotte, do you do these things on purpose?" He whispered in my ear as his hands roamed over my back. "Do you have any idea how long I was out there?"

"Uh uh. I must have fallen asleep."

"While you were waiting for me?"

"Uh huh. Say, what time is it?"

"Never mind that. Upstairs, wench." He turned me around and patted my ass in encouragement. Or something. "Move it."

"God, no need to shove." I grinned back at him.

"I'm horny."

"You're always horny."

"Oh, you're a fine one to talk, Charlie."

"Hey, you promised not to blab about that."

"Yeah, not to anyone else. I can discuss it with you, surely?"

We had reached the top of the stairs, and I ran slightly ahead of him to my bedroom door before turning. "You," I said before poking my tongue out at him, "had better have better plans than just my fingers."

"I don't make plans," he said to me as I walked backwards and he stalked me into the room. "I'm spontaneous. My girlfriend likes it that way."

"Does she just?"

"So she says."

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear." I sat on the bed, and he stood in front of me. We were much the same height, but sitting here he looked like a god. A somewhat unkempt one, admittedly. His jeans had a tell-tale bulge with which I was well familiar. His white t-shirt featured an old-school etching of a skeleton. I'd given him the shirt, and it looked good on him.

"You know what I think?" His hands kneaded my shoulders.

"I'm always scared to know."

"I think..."

"And see, no need for me to make the effort."

"I think ... you should just lie back there. Perhaps you need a little more sleep." He pushed gently with his hands until I was flat on the bed, lower legs hanging over the edge from the knees. "Hey, before you nod off..."

"Yes?" I lifted my head and grinned at him.

"How long until your parents come home and catch us again?"

"Hours."

"Yeah?"

"Uh huh. Anyway, Mum said she approves of you."

"Shit."

"Yeah. I knew that would please you. She says that you're a good influence..."

"Hah! Charlie, I am so not." He bent over me, and caressed my breasts through my tank-top. It was hardly his fault that I had forgotten to wear a bra. Again.

"Oh, I know that! Michael, I told her you're a brute, and that you beat me regularly."

"You promised not to tell. What did she think of that?"

"Not telling. Hey, don't stop!"

"Oh, you'll tell, or I'll have to beat you."

"See?"

"Well?"

"Michael, she said I probably deserve it."

"I like her."

"You would."

He stopped then for a moment, and looked me in the eye. "Enough talk, wench. Lift your hips."

"See what I mean? I have no say."

He grinned again, and then stopped talking. He bent and kissed me slowly, making the most of it, then knelt at the side of the bed. See what I mean? Comfortable.

I was wearing a loose summer skirt, and he slid his hands up underneath it, on the outside of my thighs, and hooked my panties in his fingers. I lifted my feet and planted them on the edge of the bed so I could lift my ass. Michael pulled the panties slowly down off my hips, then I relaxed my legs again, and let my feet fall. He dragged the panties down to my knees and let them fall to the floor. I don't know if he could tell, but they were rather damp already. I kicked them off.

Michael was always gentle. My clothing was never in fear of being torn with him. I liked that. He was my third, and I was his second. In both cases we felt we had upgraded significantly from previous partners, and we had learned enough not to take things for granted. We had also overcome that initial fear of saying what we wanted. I wasn't really reluctant to tell him how I got myself off, and he knew it. I knew how he liked to beat-off in the shower too, and my only reaction was to get him to show me.

That gentleness showed now. He pushed my skirt up just enough to give himself access to what he was looking for. His thumbs slid against my skin as his hands pushed the cloth up. He applied a little pressure to part my knees, and started to plant little kisses on my legs. Absolutely no pressure was required for my knees to part further, and I really did relax, though there was no way I was going to fall asleep.

Inevitably his kisses got closer to my now drenched pussy, and then he lifted his head from under my skirt, and looked up at me.

"You shaved."

I lifted my head from the bed, smiling broadly at him. "You asked nicely."

"God!"

"You like?"

"I love!" He lifted my skirt further to get a proper look. There was no shortage of light in the room. He got an eyeful. "I thought you said..."

"I know. It's a bitch when the itching sets in."

"Well, then, why..."

"You asked."

Michael paused for a moment. "Would this work for other things?"

I answered quietly, suddenly shy. "Probably."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Love you."

"And you."

"Yeah. Now could we get back to ... the business?"

"Oh, you want to be paid?"

"Would you like that?"

"I'm not sure."

"Nor am I. Less talk!" I thrust my hips at him, and he remembered what he was supposed to be doing.

Okay, so I had an ulterior motive. Sure I liked to fuck him. To have him inside me. I liked his cock. A lot. But most of all I liked his lips and his tongue. I liked it when we kissed. I loved it when his mouth was between my legs. If less hair meant more tongue, I was quite prepared for the trade-off. Itch be damned!

The other thing about Michael was that he didn't multi-task terribly well. When he was doing something, all of him was doing it, and now was a good example. Everything he had seemed to be involved in massaging my pleasure-centre.

His hands were holding my legs, and his thumbs idly slid up and down my labia, making me tingle, while he kissed me everywhere, and his tongue slid in and out of me, cleaning up all that excess moisture.

He worked has way north, his tongue maddeningly slow on my skin, until I thrust myself at him in desperation. He finally started to flick his tongue across my clit while his thumbs did something indescribable further down. I felt spread and speared, despite there being nothing inside me.

I bucked and grunted beneath him, giving him unmistakeable indications that he had better fucking hurry up, and Michael didn't take any notice whatever, working methodically and getting me more and more excited.

"You know", I mumbled, "I could do that a whole lot quicker myself."

He lifted his face to respond, which was even more infuriating. "Quicker perhaps, but not nearly so thoroughly".

"Don't stop!"

"And anyway...", his tongue committed to a few more flicks. "You already did, right?"

"Uh..."

"When?"

"Just ... Ooh, God ... Like that ... Just before I went to sleep." I loved telling him, but I'm sure my whole body went red with embarrassment as well.

"I thought so," he mumbled without breaking contact. "Tastes like it."

Arousal isn't subject to logic, right? One of my friends can only get off in the back of a car. Another needs the lights out. Okay, and our mutual friend Dennis does something sick with ankles. Anyway, you can't judge. Everyone has secrets. One of mine is confessing to masturbation. I don't know why it is. There's no masturbation shame in our family. Nothing. Still, telling Michael that I had been strumming my clit with my fingers a few hours ago was enough. That and the current strumming it was getting from his tongue was more than sufficient.

I groaned, lifted my ass to get just a little more pressure, and then came. A few short breaths, and as I pressed hard against Michael's face I exploded, happy that the house was empty as I yelled and flexed my hips, my feet again on the edge of the bed, and aware of nothing but my sensitive, sopping-wet pulsing pussy. Nothing.

I tend to need a few moments to myself after orgasm. I don't switch off, but my normal faculties don't work right, so I lay there and let Michael remove the rest of my clothes before I crawled further back on the bed to watch him get undressed.

I'm not at all sure that my boyfriend would be thought of as gorgeous in any usual way, but I love the way he looks. We're both a little geeky, at least out of bed, and we could both do with a little less weight about the middle. Nothing that speaks of obesity, you understand. Just a little extra. On him, I like it.

After pushing his shoes off with his feet, which I might normally have words with him about, he hoisted his shirt over his head, and pushed his jeans south, leaving his briefs. He was my first briefs guy. The other two were scruffs with big baggy boxers. Nothing wrong with that, but Michael didn't seem to need any further packaging for his package.

He had black briefs today, and right now perhaps boxers would have been more comfortable. There was a significant bulge in the front, and a small damp patch where the head of his cock was not very well hidden.

He caught me staring just then, and swayed his hips a little as he lifted the black cotton off his cock and slid the briefs down his legs. He kicked the annoyance off and across the room before spinning around and falling back on the bed beside me.

Given the performance I'd just starred in, I thought it was only fair that I leave him lying down for a change. As usual I had just rediscovered my energy, so I climbed up and straddled his legs, below his cock, so I could get a good look at it.

When I first became sexually active I didn't think much of cocks. Hold on, that doesn't sound right. What I mean is that I thought a lot about being impaled, about being filled up, but that it seemed that cocks were just the ugliest thing around. For a start, a nice solid hairbrush handle was both handier and ... well, less random. However, my first boyfriend had taken steps to acquaint me more with the mystery that is the male sex weapon er ... tool, and now I was rather fond of them.

I was particularly entranced with Michael's. It was big, but not monstrous. Not quite straight, but gently curved in the best possible way. No knives had defaced the surface of it. His cock was surrounded by a nest of mousey brown hair. The same colour as that on his head, but curly and springy. Much more springy than the brunette thatch I had recently removed.