A Game Of Consequences Ch 08

Chapter 8. Show Me What You've Got

"So, posh boy; how was it? Did you pull?" Sharon appeared by my side almost as soon as I'd taken my place at the pens counter.

"No, it wasn't really that kind of event."

"

'Not that kind of event'

? Ooh! Very formal! Anyway, I thought it was a school dance. Aren't they all cattle markets?"

"Not this one. Most of my classmates had already paired up. I just danced with a few of the girls, snogged one of my teachers, gave chat-up lessons to some nerdy friends and came home."

"You snogged a teacher? That never happened at my school."

"Well, this one was brilliant, hot - and leaving."

"Was it something you said?"

"No. Her husband is moving jobs, to Edinburgh. Neither of us will be at the school in two weeks, so I grabbed the opportunity to give her a kiss to tell her how much I appreciated everything she'd done for me."

"And what was that? Did she give you a blowjob?"

"Sharon, do you talk about anything other than sex?"

She shrugged. "Not often. And yesterday I made you an offer you couldn't refuse - and you refused it. So I'm annoyed, and I might go and offer it somewhere else." She put on an expression implying faux disappointment.

"As you know, it wasn't a clear offer - just a hint of an offer. And I didn't refuse, I simply said I had a prior arrangement and offered an alternative date, to which you answered 'We'll see'. Well, can we see?"

"Ooh! Are you doing law, then? Seems you think it was some kind of contract."

Just then, Darren, the assistant manager, came up to us. "Richard, some kids have made a mess in the stationery section. Go and tidy it up. And Sharon, we need you on the tills."

So for most of the morning, we saw little of each other apart from a knowing look as I went by carrying boxes and she rang up another customer's purchases. We were even on different lunch breaks, so it wasn't until after tea that we took our places behind the pens counter. Sometime after five pm, it was getting quiet in the shop, when she came and stood very close to me, the side of her body pressed against mine. Then she reached behind and stroked my bum.

"Nice arse," she said quietly. "Feels like it has some good muscles. For thrusting and stuff."

I reached behind her and surreptitiously stroked her arse. It was quite large, but firm. We stood like that for about a couple of minutes, gently stroking each other's bums, the sexual tension rising.

"Like what you feel?" she asked.

"Hmm. Could do with a smack, though."

"A smack? Why?"

"Well, you're obviously a naughty girl."

"Really? You think I'm naughty because I'm feeling your arse."

"Well, yes..." I replied. And then she bent a little lower over the counter on one elbow and slid her other hand around from my bum to cup my crotch. I had to restrain myself from jumping back.

"

Now

I'm being naughty." She turned to smirk at me. "Oh, and notice anything?"

In Smiths, back in those days, the guys wore suits with badges to show they were staff, while the women all had these standard, short-sleeved blue blouses with the W H Smith logo embroidered on them. (Yeah, it was sexist like that back then). Sharon was wearing hers but, as I could now see, nothing underneath. The fabric was being stretched by her large breasts - and dimpled by two quite prominent nipples that were very evident at this range.

"Oh yes. Naughty

and

nice. You're quite a lady, Sharon."

"Ah, well, I may be a lot of things, but a lady I'm not."

I was just considering if there was anywhere we might go where she could show me her un-ladylike skills - and I could demonstrate my ungentlemanly ones - when an announcement came over the Tannoy that the store would be closing in five minutes.

"Shit!" I breathed. "Is there anywhere we can go?"

"Well, you could go to the gents and have a wank. My boyfriend is picking me up from work. He's going to take me away for a few days, treat me like a princess - oh, and he'll probably also treat me like a slut and shag my arse off."

"It is a very nice arse. It'd be a shame to lose it," I replied, instantly jealous.

"Oh, I'm sure it'll recover in time for next week. I won't be back in 'til Wednesday." She glanced around, then leaned in and kissed me on the lips. "Try to keep it hard 'til then," she smirked. And then she walked away, as I admired the curve of her well-rounded buttocks in her short, tight black skirt.

That sight haunted me for several days. Sundays in the late 1980s were s-l-o-w. Sunday shopping didn't come in until 1994, so I went swimming, doing fifty lengths, and then some press-ups and planks for good measure, to try to distract myself from my pent-up horniness. I dived from the springboard and the highboard a few times, which attracted the attention of some cute girls around the pool. One of the things my instructor was trying to get me to do was a handstand on the high board, flipping into a complex dive. I still hadn't mastered it, so I tried a few handstands by the poolside. I was getting the hang of it, but I was disappointed to see that the girls on the other side of the pool were leaving, as the pool closed at four. By the time I'd showered, dried off and dressed, they'd disappeared, so all I could do was catch the bus back home.

"That Phoebe called for you again. She's keen, isn't she?" Dad's prurient interest irritated me, and I was annoyed that we didn't have an extension in my bedroom so I could talk privately; our only phone was, like most people's, in the hall, and everyone in the house could hear your end of the conversation. I put down my bag, grabbed a glass of water and dialled her number.

"Hey, you! How

are

you?" she asked.

"Oh, not bad. I've just been swimming." I reached out and closed the lounge door. "I needed a cold bath, thinking about you."

"You may need another tomorrow. I've sent you a letter. Make sure you open it when you're on your own. And try to reply in kind."

Then Dad opened the lounge door, on the pretext of getting a cup of tea.

"So how are you and what have you been up to?" I asked.

"Oh, not much. Mostly masturbating, thinking about you," she replied.

"Er, do you have a phone...?"

"...in my bedroom? Yes, I do. I'm guessing you don't."

"No more's the pity. So it's - it's kind of hard..."

"Oh, I bet it is!" she giggled from the other end. "And poor wickle Wichard can't do anything about it apart fwom wanking. So sad." She giggled again.

"You know what you are, Phoebe?" I said with a smile.

"Yes, I do. And so do you, Richard. I told you what I was on Monday night, and you believed me and took full advantage of it - and of me. Frankly, I don't know what's got into me, but I know what

hasn't

got into me since Tuesday, and I would very much like some more of it. So when are you going to come up here and remedy that?"

"Come up where?" I replied, saucily.

"Well yes, you should come up here and then come up me, you filthy boy."

"It takes one to know one," I replied.

"I'm not a boy, Richard, in case you hadn't noticed. But then I think you did notice on Monday. And Tuesday. Come on, Richard, how about next weekend? My parents are dying to meet you and I'm dying for you to meat me again. That's 'meat', with an 'a'."

"Phoebe, you're..."

"Amazing? Yes, I know. But Richard, if you don't get your delectable tight arse up here soon, I fear that little hole between my legs might seal up and never open again. Now you wouldn't want that on your conscience, would you?"

"I can't do next weekend, but how about the weekend after?"

"Richard! I have to wait nearly two whole weeks! That's cruelty!"

"Sorry, baby, it's the earliest I can do."

"Baby, eh? Well, you'd better be good when you get here. And if you can't do that, then at least be very, very naughty."

"I may have to come on Saturday after work, but I can stay until Tuesday morning if that would work."

"I'll let my folks know the dates and get back to you. And I'll make sure you do come on Saturday - and on Sunday, and Monday and even Tuesday if there's time. And don't you dare cancel!"

By the time I'd put the phone down, I had an uncomfortable boner - and a plan.

"Hey, Dad. Phoebe's just talked about stuff for the next two weekends. You didn't have any plans for me, did you?"

"

Two

weekends?"

"Yeah, she says that there's a party being given by this girl called Yolanda, for her birthday on Monday week. We met at the interview, and she thinks she has a place and would like to celebrate with her new friends. She wants people to take the train up to - " I thought quickly "Er, Northampton and stay at her parents' place. I think we'll have to doss on the floor, but it'll be OK, and then there's a party on the Monday, which'll be her birthday, so I'll get the train back on Tuesday morning and go straight to work. And then the weekend after, Phoebe has invited me to her house in Leamington Spa to meet her parents."

"Wow!" said Mum. "Things seem to be moving fast for you, don't they? And when will this Phoebe come to visit us so we can meet her?"

"Oh, I'm sure we can arrange something before the end of the summer. So is that all OK with you?"

So I'd concocted a story that allowed me to explain my absence the following weekend so I could shag my delightful teacher, followed by another weekend of (I hoped) energetic and possibly acrobatic sex with my new ballet-slut girlfriend. And that made me think;

was

Phoebe now my girlfriend? She seemed very keen. She'd called me twice and cock-teased me over the phone, which was almost as bad (or good) as getting the in-person treatment from Sharon. But it seemed I was going to have to wait a week before I could get any realistic in-person treatment for my almost-permanent stiffy.

And on Monday, it got worse. I'd gone in to work to make up for the day I'd taken off for my interview. When I got home, I saw there was a letter for me, postmarked Leamington Spa. I took it to my room and opened it. Inside was a page of expensive notepaper with beautiful handwriting and some photos. Photos that could best be described as pornographic.

"Hello, Mr Swimmer. I thought that, as you like to be wet, I'd send you a picture of a place where you've already performed a few lengths, and where you might like to take another dip - though you'll need a wetsuit." The first photo was a close-up of Phoebe's bald pussy. She was holding the lips apart, and she was very moist. "Daddy bought a Polaroid camera a couple of years ago. He and Mummy have used it a lot, and they seem to get through quite a lot of film, though I never get to see the prints! But then I never show them mine when I borrow it."

By the mid-1980s, Polaroid cameras were becoming rather passé. VHS cameras were beginning to emerge, and for the home porn enthusiast, these were the way to go. Otherwise, if you wanted to take salacious pictures, you needed your own darkroom; film was all there was, and typically had to be processed by someone else. But there were still some Polaroid cameras around, and it seemed that Phoebe's father was an enthusiast - and that Phoebe was putting it to good (or possibly naughty) use. Her father's device must have had a self-timer, because here was a photo of my putative girlfriend in a ballet outfit. I say 'in', but it was mostly 'out of'. She was wearing ballet shoes and leg-warmers up to her knees. She had on a net tutu that stuck out at right angles from her skinny waist. On her head was a tiara, and she wore quite heavy make-up.

Otherwise, she was naked. And more than that, she was posing on one 'pointe' - the tip of her ballet shoe - while the other leg was hugged against her body, vertically upwards, as she held on to the barre with her other hand. She was also reflected in the large mirror behind it. Her tiny breasts, with their alluring puffy nipples, were fully exposed, as were her alluring puffy pussy lips, split wide open and exposing the wet pinkness and shy little opening within. Her face bore a serene expression, as if this blatantly sexual pose was completely normal.

I turned the photo over. On the back was written, "Remind you of anything?" The image had already superimposed itself on my memory of fucking Phoebe up against a tree in a very similar position. And I'm not ashamed to say that, at that point, I unzipped my jeans, pulled out my by-now-hard cock and started wanking. Because the third photo was perhaps even more blatant; same outfit, but doing the splits over the camera, its lens pointed straight into that crevice into which I longed to insert the organ currently in my hand, as her face smiled down from above. On the back was written, "Wish you were here?"

Long before the days of the 'naked selfie', my girlfriend - if that's what she'd decided she was - was sending me some pretty-blatant pussy pics. And some of the text of the letter would probably have been considered a bit too ripe even for one of Sharon's 'Black Lace' books.

"You might like to know that there's a young woman in Leamington Spa who desperately needs to get fucked. Ever since Tuesday, there's been a continual stream of moisture flowing out of her cunt. Her panties are constantly wet, as she dreams about a fit young man who bored a holed between her legs THREE TIMES this week - AND gave her TWO delicious tongue-lashings. She remembers the taste of his cock, and of his spunk, as it spurted into her mouth. SHE WANTS SOME MORE!!! Get that tight little bum of yours up here SOON, and that nice hard cock of yours up HER as soon afterwards as possible.

I'm sure Mummy and Daddy won't mind if you fuck me over the dinner table - just as long as you do it between courses!!!"

I idly wondered whether Yolanda, if I'd connected with her as planned, would have sent me such an obscene and frankly dick-stiffening letter as that.

And underneath, she'd written a limerick.

'The ballet girl said "Let's be blunt,

If you take me downstream in your punt

With my back to a tree

You can lift up my knee

And stick your cock right up my cunt."'

I marvelled at the incongruous nature of her letter and photos, given Phoebe's background. Seeing her slightly geeky appearance and hearing her accent, nobody could ever guess that she could behave - and write - in such a slutty manner. I wondered whether, for all her genuine earthiness, Sharon could've penned something like that. If Phoebe had intended to make me as horny as fuck about her, she had succeeded. But what had converted Phoebe, the nerdy-looking, upper-class ballerina, into Phoebe, the potty-mouthed apparent nymphomaniac? Surely there had to be more to that apparent transition than reading a dirty book and being fucked by a naughty tutor?

At this point, my mind involuntarily switched to my own naughty tutor. She'd never looked like an archetypal, prim-and-proper schoolteacher. From day one, she'd shown us that she was different. She wasn't there to fill our heads with facts but to make us think. And she didn't seem to have a problem with the fact that most of her male students seemed to think about little except getting inside her knickers.

I returned my focus to the letter and pictures in front of me. I needed to reply, but I didn't have a suitable camera. However, I'd done life drawing in 'O'-level Art (I got an A in it), so I found a small sketch pad and spent the hour before Mum called me to dinner creating several quite pornographic drawings: of Phoebe's pussy being penetrated by an anonymous cock (mine, obviously); a detailed portrait of my erect cock; and one of Phoebe and me, fucking up against the tree, in profile. (You could see her pussy and my cock. I think I got quite a good likeness of both of us, as I was able to refer to her 'selfie' in a very similar pose).

I then got out the writing pad and began composing a letter, starting with a mind-map to organise what I wanted to say. But I kept getting distracted, looking at the three slightly grainy but very explicit photos, spread out on my bed, alongside my own graphic reminiscences of our sexual adventures. I'd already squirted another load of cum into a tissue before I began to write.

"

Hi Phoebe

Thank you for your interesting and stimulating letter. The illustrations were very impressive. Unfortunately, I don't have a camera to be able to offer the same kind of response, but I've included some artistic illustrations of my own, drawn from memory. (See enclosures). I also loved your poetry, which I found highly evocative and deeply romantic; as deep as you're able to take.

I'm looking forward to coming to see you - and, indeed, to seeing you coming - the weekend after next. As I said on the phone, Saturday may be a problem, as I'm supposed to be working and I've already taken one day off because of the Oxford interview, but as I said, if your parents agree, I could arrive on Saturday evening and maybe stay through until Tuesday morning.

Let me know soon. And also, please tell me what you think of my artistic endeavours.

Yours

Richard"

*****

"I see you still have your arse - and it's a very nice one - so I guess it wasn't completely shagged off". It was Wednesday, and Sharon appeared as though she hadn't slept.

"Not completely, but it was a close-run thing." Sharon grinned at me. "How about you? Did you find somewhere to park your dick while I was away, or was it

'Not that kind of event'

? Maybe a couple of hand shandies?"

"If you must know, I'm saving myself for the next two weekends. I expect to be worked pretty hard, thanks."

"Oh really? So you're storing your spunk for someone special, are you? None for sweet little Sharon?"

The look we exchanged could probably be described as 'meaningful'.

Just before lunch, in the stock room, we were kissing. I had my hand up her skirt and inside her knickers, rubbing her clit with some enthusiasm. Meanwhile, she'd undone my flies, pulled my cock out and was giving me a pretty-skilful hand-job. I was about thirty seconds from coming when we heard the door open behind us, the other side of some shelves. I swallowed my moan of frustration as we separated and I picked up the clipboard I'd put down.

"So that's twelve boxes of A4 paper. Have you got that?" I said loudly, crouching down to hide the fact that my cock was still sticking out of my trousers.

"Did you say twelve?" Sharon replied from the end of the row of shelves where she'd moved - and pulled her skirt back into place - just before Darren appeared.

"Oh, that's where you've got to," he said.

"Sure. We're stocktaking. Did you need us?"

Darren looked at us as if to say 'Oh, is that what you were doing?' but didn't follow through. "Sharon, you're needed on the tills. Richard, carry on for now and I'll call you if I need you."

Sharon winked at me and flounced out behind Darren, giving me the opportunity to put my stiff cock back inside my trousers and groan again with frustration. And it was a frustration I felt for the rest of the day, as circumstances - or possibly Darren - kept us apart. But when I followed Sharon out of the shop at five thirty, she turned, smiled and said "Follow me."

She led me around the back of the shop, where there was a row of tall bins. She slipped between two of them, looking around to check that we hadn't been seen, and then crouched down and slipped her panties off.

"You got a rubber?"

"I - er - yes."

"Good. Get your finger in my pussy 'til I'm nice and juicy. Then put the rubber on and fuck me. And be quick about it. My boyfriend's picking me up in fifteen minutes."

I have to say that fucking Sharon from behind, with her leaning against a tall bin - and against a tight deadline - wasn't the sexual highlight of my life, but it was much better than going home and having a wank, which would have been the next best thing at the time. She held her skirt up while I beat about her ample bush, employing a finger technique I'd recently been perfecting with Jill and Phoebe. When I pushed deeper and slipped a finger inside her, she seemed pretty wet to me. She looked at her watch - not the most erotic thing that's happened to me when anticipating sex - and said "OK, do it now."