by Michael Rupert
Anyone who is tired of London is tired of life (isn’t that what they say?), but it was certainly the way Alison and I felt, shaking our heads as we waved good-bye to Tim. He was on his way to Africa for six months and glad to be going, and Alison and I were subletting his house in London for the nicest part of the year. Alison was taking a much-needed sabbatical from teaching while my camera and I probed the neighborhood pubs of London—the “locals” that tourists rarely see. I love the detached view that the distance of the lens gives as I peep into private lives and places. It’s a toss-up whether I became a photographer because of my voyeuristic streak or whether my profession developed that latent tendency.
Also, I love the variety of English beers, and Tim had already introduced us to the pub at the corner of his street. The Swan was a mishmash of aged oak and chipped Formica that attracted the whole range of its neighbors. Artists of various sorts—working men and women, eccentric professors, and an assortment of old-age pensioners—made it a colorful collage and reminded us that London is really less a city than an assortment of villages.
Alison and I closed the door and drew each other close there in Tim’s hallway, in a kiss that promised this was going to be more than just another job. It was a second honeymoon, and we were going to enjoy it to the fullest. Inspired by that thought, I swept Alison off her feet and carried her up to the master bedroom, setting her down at the foot of the bed while I leaned back against the pillows. I love to watch her undress, and she did so slowly, removing each garment as if it were the wrapping around a prized gem. Her long tawny hair tossed from side to side as she danced her way out of her skirt and blouse, her slender arms reaching back to undo the fastening of her bra.
Her breasts are a source of endless delight to me, and I can never find exactly the right words to describe their voluptuous curve, the petal-like flesh, her eager nipples. Maybe that’s one reason why I’ve chosen a visual art. With my camera I can catch all these things and give them a lyrical touch that my words cannot. Alison ran her hands up the length of her inner thighs and over the dampening silk covering her pussy, then hooked her fingers into the waistband of her panties and slid them down. Parting her thighs, she delved between her nether lips and caressed her clit, sending a shudder of pleasure through her body. Normally I would have waited and watched while she pleasured herself, but today I was too aroused. I pulled her to the bed and let her undress me.
Naked, we fell back, limbs twining and mouths searching, on fire with a lust we had not felt in too long a while. Alison guided my steel-hard shaft into her core and we rocked together for a long, luxurious moment. Then I was driving into her faster and harder, bringing her to a shattering climax just seconds before I shot my load into her. Both of us grinned, having just reestablished our old custom of inaugurating a new bed with a fierce fuck. Our London sojourn was off to a good start.
Some time later, Alison emerged from the bath, all rosy from the hot water and smelling of some elusive garden scent. She wandered over to the window clad only in a towel, and I thought again how lucky I was that this lithe former dancer was my wife and lover. She picked up my favorite camera with its telescopic lens and used it as a quizzing glass, idly perusing the view.
Immediately to our left was the wall of the next house, its upstairs window uncurtained and revealing a sparsely furnished bedroom. Across the road were more anonymous brick houses, close to the sidewalk in front, their gardens behind, walled away from prying eyes. Walled away, that is, unless you happened to overlook your next-door neighbor’s, which led Alison to a delicious discovery.
Tim had mentioned that Alison might like to get to know his closest neighbor. She too was a dancer, now a featured ballerina in one of London’s most famous troupes. Alison had nodded and filed the information for future reference. Now she gave an excited cry of recognition. “It’s Marie!” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe it!” I looked over her shoulder and saw a gorgeous strawberry blonde, attired in a well-worn leotard, doing stretches in the back garden next door. A glance through the lens told me she was right. We had fetched up next door to the same dancer with whom Alison had carried on a torrid affair back when they were both in the corps, before we were married.
Marie’s reputation had grown over the years, both on pointe and in the boudoir. She was said to be as flamboyantly diverse in her sexual tastes as she was dramatic on the stage. Alison and I looked at each other, and a wicked spark leaped from her eyes to mine. We had arranged for me to watch Alison with other lovers before, but never with a woman. I tried to look serious when I said, “It would only be neighborly to look up an old lover, wouldn’t it?” Alison biffed me on the shoulder and then nodded.
Over the next few days we began to follow Marie’s movements as she went to and from classes, rehearsals, errands, and performances. To watch her onstage was to be caught up in sheer beauty, but the tracing of her daily routine was more titillating since we had an intricate seduction planned. After a week or so, Alison “bumped into” Marie at the neighborhood green grocer’s, and as she told me later, it was a schoolgirl reunion full of squeals and hugs and invitations to tea. Alison had mentioned to Marie that she was in London with me, but I deliberately kept in the background at first. It also became clear that Marie thought Alison had lost none of her charm, and would be eager to resume their affair if she were willing. Of course I gave her the go-ahead. That was part of our plan, after all.
Meanwhile I was busy scoping out photo locations and sitting in corners nursing pints of excellent bitter, trying to become a relatively unobtrusive part of the landscape in each pub I shot. It was going well, but my mind was a little preoccupied by how Alison’s affair was progressing. Then one night I came home to find a note telling me to keep watch at the bedroom window later. My cock stirred to life as I folded the paper, and I waited impatiently for the evening to unfold. The girls were in Marie’s garden, dining on salads and white wine, and it seemed like forever before they went inside. My own lights off, I tracked their progress upstairs by the winking out of Marie’s lamps, until I saw the two women enter her bedroom.
They had obviously been kissing and fondling each other on the way, since both of them had that slightly flushed and disheveled look that said clothes were superfluous to the coming activities. I got my camera and set up my tripod, less to take pictures than to utilize the lens to bring the action closer, though the tripod did ensure that my shaking hands wouldn’t spoil any shots I might be moved to take.
Oh, these two, they were lovely together, both slender and graceful, Marie’s breasts smaller but sweetly rounded, her hair glowing in the lamplight. They kissed again, hands roaming over familiar curves and hollows, reacquainting themselves with each other’s body. My own hand fell to my lap and loosened my trousers. Alison sank to her knees and Marie bent over her, my wife sucking gently on her nipples before her lips and tongue began to explore further. Marie tossed her head back as Alison’s tongue parted her labia, and her hands clutched my wife’s hair as her body responded to that talented mouth I know so well.
I opened my fly and pulled my cock out of my briefs. I was rock-hard already, and my hand began to move in my favorite rhythm as Marie pulled Alison to her feet and then over to the bed. They lay side by side, Marie looking at my wife with rapt eyes as Alison bent again to her interrupted pleasure. Marie spread her legs wide in that turnout only a lifelong dancer can achieve. I saw her begin to rise to Alison’s ministrations, and I sucked in my breath as Alison’s hand moved up and she inserted two fingers into Marie’s vagina. They moved faster, perfectly in sync, until Marie dissolved into the throes of an orgasm that seemed to go on for ages.
It was hard to restrain myself from coming, but I wanted to prolong my pleasure. Marie pulled Alison up and kissed her while stroking her hair. Suddenly rolling them both over, Marie mounted her fiercely, driving her thumb deep into Alison’s wet pussy and fucking her hard. The strength of my wife’s response amazed me, and my own hand was flying as I watched her being fucked into spasm after spasm.
Just as she threw her legs up around Marie’s waist and bucked harder, I exploded, spurting come all over my hand. While they rested, I mopped myself off with a handful of tissues and realized I had not taken a single frame. Oh well, the images of their lovemaking were engraved in my memory, and something told me this was not going to be the last time the two made love. When I looked up again they were kissing good-night, and Alison was on her way back to me, leaving Marie spread out languidly on the big bed, playing softly with her pussy.
Alison’s key clicked in the lock and seconds later she came up behind me and kissed the back of my neck, whispering seductive things in my ear. As I turned and took her in my arms, she said that Marie wanted to meet me. Something in her voice said that wasn’t all, and I was right. Alison had told Marie I was watching, and she had asked if I would like a box seat for the next performance. My cock was nudging against my wife’s belly as she spoke, and my affirmative response was slightly garbled from my eagerness to get her into bed and fuck her senseless. As I plunged into her I smelled the unfamiliar and exciting scent of Marie’s arousal lingering on her skin, which drove me to a ferocity that rivaled Marie’s own. Alison melted beneath me and, mirroring her earlier response, flung her legs around my hips as I brought us both to orgasm.
The planned rendezvous was to be a few days hence, and we heightened the suspense by keeping watch together at our bedroom window. Marie, knowing exactly what we were up to, never once closed her curtains, and often did her stretches naked and then masturbated for her unseen but well-known audience. The night before we were to get together, she blew us a kiss as she turned out the light and pulled up her duvet. Alison and I made love late into the night and slept late the next morning.
When the doorbell rang that evening, I was as nervous as if it were my first date, though I knew I had nothing to worry about. Marie had brought a bottle of wine and flowers, and she kissed me as if we were already old friends.
Introductions seemed superfluous. My nervousness dissolved with the impish wink she threw me as we went into the living room. Tim had knocked out the intervening walls in the lower floor, leaving only a structural arch between the front and back halves of the house. The rear portion had exposed brick walls and the bare floorboards were polished to a fare-thee-well. It had been equipped as a gourmet kitchen and dining area, and the front part of the room was full of deep chairs and a shabby but comfortable sofa. An oriental rug was the most brilliant spot of color, accented by Marie’s flowers over the mantel in a vase Alison had unearthed.
In all honesty, I don’t remember a lot about the conversation or the meal, though it seemed that Marie was better read than many dancers I had met, and far less self-absorbed. She was lively and funny, and soon the three of us were exchanging innuendo and outright flirtation, and the bulge in my trousers was beginning to show. As we went upstairs, Marie brushed past me with a smile and remarked, “I can tell you aren’t wearing a dance belt!” I was wildly pleased, and let the girls have a few minutes alone before I entered the bedroom and took my seat in the overstuffed chair.
My presence made no difference to their passion, unless it heightened the edge. For the first time in a long time, I was not looking through the eye of a camera, but was immediately present to the beauty that was before me. Soft flesh, muscles honed beneath the surface, glistening hair, opening thighs and mouths—this was a ballet unparalleled on any stage.
The two women seemed to flow into each other, sliding down into a sixty-nine position, Marie above my wife. Eagerly they sucked each other’s juices and pulled at each other’s nipples. I slipped out of my slacks and felt my cock leap to attention. With one hand cradling my balls and the other stroking my cock, I watched while the women moved as one being toward their mutual satisfaction. Slim hands wandered to penetrate already-wet pussies, and soon they collapsed in a quivering heap, neither one willing to let go.
Marie finally raised her head in triumph and looked over at me, licking her lips. Her eyes traced the lineament of my erection and she whispered huskily that I had better save some of that for them. That remark almost made me come on the spot, but I restrained myself as Alison mounted her friend and gave her a finger-fucking equal to the one I had watched her receive several nights before. Marie wailed as Alison leaned down and bit at her nipples, and no sooner had Marie come than she was on top of my wife, riding her to a memorable climax. I was about to come myself, but Alison’s voice warned me I’d better not.
“Come over here where we can keep an eye on you,” she called to me. I approached the bed, caressing the two of them with my eyes, almost unwilling to give up the visual pleasure for the tactile. Almost.
Alison and Marie pulled me down and arranged me on my back between them, and in the blink of an eye I was one raging erotic nerve ending. Their fingers and tongues stroked and licked my whole body as if they were preparing to devour me. Only my cock and balls were exempted from their attentions, and that increased the tension, or at least made it more acute. I was at the point Alison describes as being somewhere beyond coming, a kind of delirium of the senses, when one pair of lips closed over my balls and silken thighs straddled my face. The scent of arousal engulfed me as my balls started to contract. It was Alison riding my face, her taste familiar and beloved. Marie left off sucking my balls at the penultimate instant, giving my cock a squeeze in just the right place to hold me back.
Seconds later her mouth covered my cockhead, making me moan into the wet heat of my wife’s pussy. A sudden sense of cool air was replaced by the sensation of my glans sliding over a slick soft pussy and then the intense fire of Marie’s welcoming vagina. She held me tight and rode me with those dancer’s thighs until I forgot to breathe, and Alison had to tap me hard on the shoulder to remind me that she too wanted her pleasure. I heard them kissing, their movements synchronized. Then I lost control completely, sucking like crazy as Alison dissolved into orgasm, and shooting endless jets of come as Marie milked me with her pussy.
We hung suspended for a long moment, and then the pyramid of lust collapsed. As we lay there wet and panting, Alison murmured, “Mike, say thank you.”
In a miserably fake British accent, I protested: “But your friend and I have not been properly introduced.”
Both women howled with laughter and piled on top of my exhausted body, teasing and tickling me unmercifully. Finally, since I still refused to address Marie, my wife giggled an introduction. “Marie, I would like to introduce my husband, Michael, the voyeur I love who has just been fucking you.”
Marie, her face composed as though she were taking a curtain call, replied, “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Michael.” Her manner would have passed muster in the royal enclosure at Ascot had she not punctuated her good manners with an affectionate and naughty squeeze of my balls.