Supper à Quatre

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

We have made up our minds. Or, to be more precise, Jennifer has made up our minds. The plug is to be pulled. The marriage is to be dissolved.

‘I’ve decided,’ she tells me. ‘I’ve decided that I don’t want to be married. I just don’t think that I’m the marrying kind.’

I have just returned from Rome. The magazine sent me out to interview Andrew Hammersley. It was also an opportunity for me to catch up with Mia, an old girlfriend who is now the Rome correspondent for Les Beaux Arts.

‘Is there a marrying kind?’ I ask.

Jennifer nods. ‘I think there must be. Lots of people get married. And many of them seem to really enjoy it. But it’s just not for me.’

I am tempted to suggest that it might have been helpful if she had had this revelation a couple of years ago. Before we had tied the knot. Before we bought a house together. But I realise that that wouldn’t change anything, and so I say nothing.

‘I had a drink with Stuart last night,’ Jennifer tells me.

‘Stuart?’

‘Stuart,’ she confirms.

‘Oh. Yes. The chap out in Spain.’

‘Not anymore,’ Jennifer says. ‘He’s back. We went to Dover Street. The wine bar.’

I wait. I’ve never actually met Stuart. But I don’t think that Jennifer would have told me that she had had a drink with him if there wasn’t more to it than that.

‘He has been offered a job. In Manchester.’

Jennifer quite likes Manchester. I’m not sure why. She says that Manchester has good nightlife. But then so does London. So do most big cities.

‘Manchester has good bars and restaurants,’ Jennifer says, as if she has been reading my thoughts.

‘Did you fuck him?’ I ask. ‘Did he fuck you?’

‘Stuart?’

‘Stuart.’

Jennifer smiles. ‘What do you think?’

‘Yeah. I think you probably did,’ I say.

‘Why do you need to know?’

‘I don’t need to know,’ I tell her. ‘I just … wondered.’

‘As a matter of fact, yes I did. Yes he did. Do you have a problem with that?’

‘No,’ I tell her. And then, because I can’t resist, I say: ‘And was the fornication good?’

For a moment or two, Jennifer doesn’t say anything. And then she says: ‘No. Not really. Certainly not as good as I thought that it would be.’

I just nod.

‘Still,’ she says, ‘we’ve done it now. Yes.’ And she nods. ‘What about you? Did you fuck Mia?’

‘She’s trying to get pregnant,’ I tell Jennifer. ‘So I kept my cock well out of it. I did give her a bit of a finger fuck though. I’m not sure if that counts.’

‘Did you like it?’

‘I did. Yes.’

‘And did she like it?’

‘I think so. She made all the right noises.’

We’re standing in the kitchen. Wine glasses in our hands. Jennifer is wearing high-heeled boots and a short skirt. I can see that, with the boots on, she’s just the right height for the kitchen table. ‘Those boots,’ I say, ‘are they new?’

‘Not new new. But newish. I’ve had them for about three weeks. Why?’

Three weeks? I’d say that three weeks is new. But then I tend to buy a pair of shoes and keep them for years. ‘I just couldn’t remember seeing them,’ I tell her. ‘Also, they’re just the right height for the table.’

‘The table?’

‘Yes. Turn around,’ I tell her. She turns around. ‘Now bend over. Oh, and you might want to drop your knickers.’

‘Are you going to fuck me?’

‘I am,’ I tell her. ‘But first I’m going to finger you. Get you nice and wet.’

Jennifer bends over the table. I was right: the boots have her at exactly the right height. She shuffles her feet slightly so that I can get to where I want to be. ‘Did Stuart finger you?’ I ask.

‘Not really,’ she says.

‘Perhaps you should have given him better instructions,’ I tell her.

‘Yeah. Maybe. But if I’m going to have to explain everything, I may as well just fuck myself.’

I laugh. It’s typical Jennifer. She always expects everyone to know what she wants. And, to be fair, sometimes they do. But not always.

‘Do you think I’m selfish?’ she asks.

‘Selfish? I suppose it depends on what you mean by selfish. You do have a bit of a tendency to focus on what’s in it for you. But then lots of people are like that, aren’t they? Why? Did Stuart say that you were selfish?’

‘Not in so many words.’

‘Perhaps you were expecting too much,’ I tell her. ‘Perhaps, after all this time wondering what it would be like, your expectations were a bit on the high side. Perhaps you should have taken him for a test drive when you first had the opportunity. When you first met him. Two years ago. Three years ago. Whatever.’

‘Maybe,’ she says. And she adjusts her position to give me even better access.

When I was growing up, some of the best conversations I had with my father were when we were working on restoring one of his vintage motorbikes. We both knew what we were doing, so we didn’t need to talk about what we were doing. We just did what we needed to do, and we talked about other things. It was a bit like that with Jennifer.

‘Would you have minded?’ Jennifer asks.

‘Minded what?’

‘If I had … taken Stuart for a test drive, as you put it.’

‘I eryaman genç escort don’t think so,’ I tell her. ‘If that was what you needed to do.’

‘You’re funny like that, aren’t you?’ Jennifer says.

‘In what way?’

‘Most men would be jealous,’ she says.

‘Women perhaps,’ I tell her. ‘I think men tend to see things through a more practical lens. Of course, I could be wrong.’

For a while Jennifer says nothing. I’m not sure if she is thinking about what I have just said. Or perhaps she is concentrating on what my fingers are doing. She is certainly starting to get wet. And she is beginning to squirm a little.

I am using my left hand to spread her outer labia, and my right hand is preparing the ground for my seed drill. I get ready for the next stage. My left hand takes over agrarian duties down in the valley (or up in the valley, thanks to her position), and my right hand unbuckles my belt and lowers my zip. I am past the age when the first whiff of cunt would have had my cock standing on tiptoes, but it’s beginning to show a bit of interest. I take it in hand and squeeze and then stretch it.

‘Stuart’s very good looking,’ Jennifer tells me. ‘He’s just a bit dull.’

I am almost beginning to feel sorry for Jennifer. I’ve never even met Stuart and yet I can somehow tell that he’s dull. He runs a business – Jennifer tells me that it is a very successful business – shipping Spanish produce to UK supermarkets. Except there are no ships. Just big articulated lorries filled with oranges and lemons and pumpkins.

‘Perhaps you just need a big colour photograph of him and a dildo or two,’ I tell Jennifer. ‘In the meantime, here’s a real cock.’ And I position my pale purple helmet at her waiting entrance.

I guess one of the things about taking Jennifer from behind is that she doesn’t have to worry about whether I’m good looking or not. She can’t see me. I’m behind her. She can just feel me. Feel my hands on her hips. Feel my cock in her cunt. Feel my pleasure finger pleasuring her clit. And, sometimes, feel my cock nudging into her arse.

‘Oh, fuck, yes,’ she says.

Actually, if I had to rank the women of whom I have had carnal knowledge, Jennifer wouldn’t even make the top five. I’m not saying that sex with Jennifer is bad. It’s OK. It’s just not great. Sex with Jennifer is all about Jennifer.

‘Oh, yes,’ she says, as I start to massage her arsehole with the ball of my thumb.

‘Did Stuart fuck your arse?’ I ask.

Jennifer laughs. ‘I told you: he’s a bit dull. Not every man is a dirty fucker like you.’

‘Perhaps you could train him,’ I suggest. ‘Take him on as a project.’

‘It shouldn’t be my job,’ Jennifer says. ‘I didn’t have to train you, did I?’

Later, when Jennifer has had three orgasms (but, hey, who’s counting?), and I have pumped her full of cum, I refill our wine glasses. ‘So … what are we going to do with the house?’ I ask.

‘I was thinking that you could buy out my share,’ she says.

I could. But, as I point out to her, we bought the house because she really wanted it. Had it been up to me, we probably would have ended up with the flat in Connaught ‘village’.

Jennifer frowns. ‘I quite liked the Connaught Street place too,’ she says.

It’s not the way that I remember it. But, as they say, the past is another country. ‘Perhaps you’d like to buy me out,’ I suggest.

Jennifer shakes her head. ‘I think I’m going to go and live in Italy for a while,’ she says.

‘Italy?’

‘I like Italians. They’re so …’ So exactly what, Jennifer doesn’t say. Perhaps Jennifer doesn’t know. Perhaps that’s why she’s thinking about going out there. Perhaps she’s going to Italy to find out what it is that Italians are, in her words, so …

The following morning, I start sorting out my notes from my sessions with Andrew Hammersley.

I must confess that, prior to spending a couple of afternoons with Hammer (as he signs himself), I thought that he was a bit of a slick trickster, making over-sized (and over-priced) postcards for American tourists. But then, after spending some time with him, I revised my view. Like David Hockney and Peter Max, and Peter Blake and a few others, he is essentially a Pop-era artist who has just kept developing.

‘How many times can you paint pictures of the Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain, and the Spanish Steps?’ I ask him.

‘How many times can I sign my name?’ he replies. ‘That’s what the punters are buying: my name.’

It has been a couple of weeks since Jennifer expressed her disappointment with Stuart as a lover. She has been doing more thinking. She has decided that, since we are getting divorced, she and I should no longer share the same bed. We should not even share the same bedroom. Jennifer has decamped to the guest bedroom. I confess (to myself, at least) that this new arrangement is a bit of a blessing. Jennifer is a late-to-bed late-to-rise kind of girl. I am the complete opposite.

Jennifer has gone to some ‘Italian event’ which sounds (to me) like a thinly-veiled ploy to sell Mediterranean cruises. I have taken ankara escort bayan advantage of my new-found freedom to sneak off to bed just before ten. I am just nodding off when Jennifer gets home and starts crashing about downstairs. I turn on the bedside light and start reading. Eventually, things downstairs quieten down. I turn off the light and mentally prepare myself for Sleep: Take Two.

I am just nodding off for the second time when I become aware of Jennifer standing next to the bed. She is wearing dark pink satin-look pyjamas. ‘God, it’s cold,’ she says. ‘The other bedroom is like a fucking refrigerator. I’m going to have to get in with you.’

I move over slightly and flip back the corner of the duvet. Jennifer drops her pyjama pants and crawls into bed next to me.

‘How was your Italian thing?’ I ask.

‘A total waste of time.’

‘Oh?’

‘They just wanted to sell expensive cruise packages. I don’t want a cruise package. Bastards.’

‘What did you think they were going to be selling?’ I ask.

‘I didn’t think they would be selling anything. I thought that it was just going to be about goodwill. Food. Wine. Culture. That sort of thing. “Get to know Italy”, that’s what they said on the flyer.’

I’m lying on my back. Jennifer is lying on her side beside me. And then she straddles me, positioning her naked, cool, damp cunt on top of my limp cock.

‘Misleading advertising,’ she says. I am not sure whether she is referring to me or to the ‘Italian event’. For my own benefit, I choose to assume it’s the ‘Italian event’.

It’s clear that I am not going to get any sleep for a moment or two, and so I surreptitiously reach down and re-align my growing cock so that it better sits in Jennifer’s cuntal valley. Jennifer assumes a cowgirl position and begins a slow trot. Something is working. Her cool cunt is definitely getting warmer. I slide my hands under her pyjama top and begin caressing her boobs. And then I drop one hand down and, using my thumb, I begin to work the furry area just above her clit.

‘Oh, fuck, yes,’ she says.

After a few more minutes, I reach around and separate her globes of arse. Jennifer adjusts her position so that her arsehole is touching my balls.

‘Oh, fuck, yes,’ she says.

‘Maybe time to give the dog a bone,’ I suggest. And Jennifer raises up slightly so that I can feed my now-hard cock into her warm, slippery fuckhole.

‘Oh, fuck, yes.’

Jennifer comes first. Jennifer always comes first. It’s a sort of unwritten rule. But we ride on. And then Jennifer changes to a reverse cowgirl position, and she leans forwards so that I can work her arsehole.

‘Fuck, yes,’ she says. ‘I do so fucking like it when you do that.’ And then, a couple of minutes later, she comes again. ‘Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, yes!’

And then it’s my turn.

‘Oh … we may have sold the house,’ I tell her when she has returned to her position beside me.

‘When?’

‘Today.’

‘That was a bit quick.’

‘The couple who came around on Tuesday,’ I tell her. ‘They made a sporting offer. I said no. And then they came back with the full asking. There’s no chain or anything. So it could be done and dusted within six weeks.’

‘Hmm.’

‘You wanted a quick sale,’ I remind her.

‘There’s quick and there’s quick,’ she tells me.

A few days later, I am in the kitchen, preparing supper, when Jennifer announces that she has invited David and Marion to join us.

‘What? Tonight?’ I say, with just a hint of panic. I have only bought two steaks.

‘No, no. On Saturday.’

‘Oh … right.’

Jennifer has never made any secret of the fact that she quite fancies David. And I must confess, Marion is good company. ‘So,’ I say, ‘are we still a couple?’

‘Well … yeah … sort of,’ Jennifer says. ‘And you like David and Marion.’

I nod.

‘And it might be our last opportunity,’ Jennifer says. ‘In our current incarnation.’

‘Opportunity for what?’

‘I don’t know. Let’s see how things play out, shall we?’

David is a luthier. He builds – and rebuilds – guitars. Well, mainly guitars. For music’s A-listers. Marion advises the stars on how to get the most from social media. I first met David about four years ago when I wrote a piece on him for an in-flight magazine.

David come and joins me in the kitchen. ‘Jennifer tells us that you two are …’ And he makes a gesture like Moses parting the Red Sea.

‘So it would seem,’ I say.

David looks suitably grave. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I thought you two were …’ And he hooks his forefingers in a gesture that implies an almost unbreakable link. ‘You always seem to be such good friends.’

‘In a funny sort of way, I think we are,’ I tell him. ‘But Jennifer has decided that she is not the marrying kind.’

David nods. But he continues to frown.

‘Also,’ I tell David, ‘Jennifer has decided that she wants to go and live in Italy for a while.’

‘Italy?’

‘Italy.’

‘Why Italy?’

‘She likes Italians. They are so … so something.’

‘Something?’

‘Apparently,’ sincan escort I tell him. ‘I’m not sure that she has decided quite what yet.’

For supper, we start with a simple dish of penne with peas, shallots, smoked bacon, and a cream sauce. I include a good grating of nutmeg and finish with curls of parmesan. And then, for the main course, we have slow-roasted lamb with lots of garlic and rosemary, served with Italian roast potatoes and vine-roasted Tom Thumb tomatoes.

To go with the starter, there is a bottle of Verdicchio di Matelica. It’s one of the more interesting Verdicchios. With the lamb, there is a Brunello di Montalcino. And David and Marion have brought a bottle of Cloudy Bay Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc. We are making a start on that already.

‘One of the things that I like about Italian food,’ Jennifer says as we start on our starters, ‘is that it is all so simple to prepare.’

‘That’s because I cook it for you,’ I point out.

‘Oh, yes. Still … Perhaps I will take lessons when I go to live there.’

‘Or hire a nonna,’ David suggests.

‘What’s that? A cook?’

‘A grandmother,’ David tells her.

‘I should write some of these things down, shouldn’t I?’ Jennifer says.

As simple as it is, the pasta dish is very good. I think it’s the nutmeg that makes it stand out. Also, after several years of shopping around, I have finally found a reliable source of additive-free smoked bacon.

‘I can see why many bacon-makers don’t bother,’ Marion says. ‘Additives or not, most people are going to smother their bacon in brown sauce anyway, aren’t they?’

Marion has a good point. Still, I am pleased that I have found what I have found.

We have finished our starters, and I am just returning to the dining room with the lamb, when I hear Jennifer asking David if his is cut.

‘Cut?’

‘Your cock. Your penis.’

‘Oh,’ David says. ‘Yes. Well … trimmed anyway.’

‘Are you going to show us?’

David laughs. ‘Maybe later. I don’t think that Charlie would want the food to go cold. Not after all of the effort he has put in.’

Jennifer nods. ‘Yes. Charlie is trimmed. I think I prefer trimmed.’

The lamb is excellent – even if I say so myself. The outside is almost crunchy; the inside is still pink and succulent. And what seems like way too much garlic is just about right – providing that you are dining with friends.

‘I’ve tried to cook this a few times,’ Marion says. ‘Mine just comes out grey.’

‘Ferocious heat at the beginning,’ I tell her, ‘and then turn it right down for a couple of hours. And let it stand for about half an hour before carving.’

Marion nods. ‘In other words, I need to be more patient. I’m not sure that patience is my long suit.’

At one stage, Jennifer excuses herself and goes off to the loo. When she returns, I notice that she has removed her bra. Her breasts are not especially large, but they are very attractive. Jennifer is sitting across the table from David. I’m sure that he is getting more than an eyeful.

Later, when we have finished eating and we have taken the wine over to the couches, Jennifer ensures that we can all see that, not only is she braless, she is also knickerless.

‘Right. Are you going to show me your cock now?’ Jennifer asks David.

‘Am I?’

‘You said that you would.’

David grins. ‘I think that I said maybe,’ he tells Jennifer.

Jennifer pouts. ‘Aww. Just a little peep?’

‘Maybe later.’

‘But it’s already later,’ Jennifer says. And she looks to Marion for distaff support.

Marion smiles and shrugs her shoulders. ‘Perhaps he needs a little help,’ she suggests to Jennifer.

For a moment or two, Jennifer just sits there. But then she gets up and goes over to where David is sitting. When she has to be, Jennifer can be quite expert at unbuckling a belt and lowering a zip. ‘Trimmed,’ she says as she frees the object of her curiosity. ‘Nice.’ And then she looks across at Marion and gives her the slightest of nods, as if to say: ‘You were right. He just needed a little help.’ And then Jennifer gives David a little more help.

Marion looks across at me and smiles. ‘Oh, well … when in Rome,’ she says. And she stands up and unbuttons her blouse, and then completely removes her skirt. And then, now dressed in a bra, knickers, and a suspender belt with black stockings, she comes and sits beside me and begins unbuckling my belt. I am pleased to see that Marion knows that knickers go over the suspender belt. And, in Marion’s case, they do not remain there for long. As soon as Marion has freed my cock, her knickers make their way to the floor.

Over on the other couch, David is lying back with his hands behind his head, as if to say: ‘Nothing to do with me, officer. I’m just sitting here, minding my own business.’ Jennifer is minding his business too, gently massaging his balls while she treats his trimmed cock like a lollipop. I am tempted to tell David to enjoy it while he can. It will only be a matter of minutes – at most – before Jennifer expects to be on the receiving end.

Meanwhile, I slide my hand between Marion’s stocking tops, and then head higher, across her silky-smooth inner thighs, until I reach her downy nest. It is the first time that I have had my fingers in Marion’s honeypot. And I am already hoping that it will not be the last.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32