Tom hadn't changed a bit since the last time we'd had one of Rob's family garden barbecues. It's not often we get the chance with British weather being what it is. You can't plan anything as you can pretty much guarantee it will bucket down with rain if you do, and if you try and arrange things on the spur of the moment after a positive weather forecast then chances are that everybody you invite will have already buggered off to the beach to make the most of the rare sunshine. This was our second attempt at a barbecue this year ( the first having been rained off) but this one fortunately had a reasonably good turnout. And Tom was here again. Thank fuck it wasn't a grand prix weekend or he'd have been a no show and, speaking quite selfishly, that would have been gutting. I probably shouldn't have drunk as much as I had, but I couldn't help myself. Hot day, cool beer, the frustrations of an undersexed woman drowned in alcohol that made the object of my unrequited lust - my husband's own younger brother - even more alluring than he had been the last time I had nearly unleashed myself upon him.
That had been a close call. Then I had been perhaps not quite so drunk but a little more desperate after another month without any sexual attention whatsoever from my own goddamn husband, and a careless brush past in the kitchen on the way to the bathroom had started this fire burning. I had been bent down leaning into the freezer for more sausages for the barbecue, and when I stepped back I bumped into him, almost fell, and it was only his reflexes and his strong arms that saved me from falling on my ass. Instead I felt his groin pressing against my curvy butt and one of his hands was accidentally gripping my left tit. Had he felt the nipple harden? I had been asking myself that question at least three nights a week ever since as my fingers silently diddled my clit while my husband snored beside me, his brother's face haunting my increasingly lewd erotic dreams. Had I felt Tom stiffen in arousal against my ass, had his fingers lingered just a heartbeat longer than was necessary against my breast, or was it all just wishful thinking coloured by the passage of time and the increased longing that I felt as my pent up sexual frustrations reached a lifetime peak?
The drink definitely was not helping. While my husband happily tossed burgers over on the grill, laughing with family members I could barely remember the names of, I was sat alone under a sunbrella shading myself from the heat while the rest of the sun worshippers soaked it up. Rob wore his baggy white t-shirt as defence against the spits and spurts of fat from the barbecue, but I could barely take my eyes off his bare chested brother, all glistening muscle and sinew as he wound his way through family and friends. He moved with an effortless grace, an economy of motion that was almost balletic, but unmistakeably masculine. Biceps flexed as he raised a bottle to his lips, pectorals tightened as he tipped back his head, his 'six-pack' rippling as he gulped down an ice cold Magners. My sex dampened just looking at him.
What made it worse was that Rob knew. Me and my big fucking mouth! Another pillow time argument escalated into impotence accusations, tearful demands to know if I no longer turned on my own husband, and a blurted confession that the most exciting sexual experience I'd had all year was his brother's hands inadvertently groping my tits. Then silence. Days of it. And nothing had improved. Things were still just as bad between the sheets but now I knew better and kept my mouth shut and fingered myself with my back turned, a guilty tear rolling down a cheek after a muted, bit-lipped half climax. God how I needed a good, hard, ass wobbling pounding with a cock that could go the distance, and then maybe go another distance again. And then wake me up in the morning hard between my cum soaked butt cheeks ready for another dive into the pit of my lusts. Fat chance in this marriage. I sensed Rob's eyes on me as I slowly drowned my sorrows, alert to my fragile state of mind and wary of me making some drunken accusation that would only embarrass and humiliate him in front of his own family. And his brother. I sensed his eyes on me, too. Too many times he'd caught me gazing at his sculpted body as if in another world and I'd had to avert my gaze reflexively. I've no class at all. I make everything so fucking obvious.
So there I sat, a sexually frustrated thirty-something housewife desperate to feel her brother-in-law's thick, hard meat in her belly. Well, anybodies meat to be perfectly frank, but Tom just made those juices flow so easily. Rob knew that I ached to be fucked silly by his kid brother and after my display today I was pretty sure that Tom knew, too. Maybe that's what they were laughing at, I thought miserably as another slug of lager sloshed down my throat. Poor Tracy. Getting older, carrying perhaps a coupla pounds more than she should do, sagging a fraction with age, the beginnings of lines and creases forming in the usual places, dressed in a short denim skirt for the fleeting summer and a bikini top that hid more than it revealed. Poor Tracy. Fire between her legs that burned hotter than the mid-day son and nobody willing to stick the hose in and quench the flames with floods of semen.
Aargghhh I seethed inwardly as that lewd image flickered through my mind. Bastards. Both of them. Still laughing, both offering me nothing more than fleeting glances of disdain as Rob tossed his burgers and Tom dropped his empty bottle into the overflowing recycling bucket with a clinkety racket that made me wince. Mine was empty, too I realised, so I got up and strode past them to the fridge in the kitchen for another, studiously avoiding even looking at them. "Okay, Trace?" Rob asked, but I just waved him away. Things would be a little better after another beer or two. Or maybe even three. I felt like getting pissed and bollocks to what his family thought of that. If they needed to ask why I had turned to drink then perhaps I'd tell them.
The kitchen was cool, dark, the sun not yet having burned through the window and warmed the place to a level that competed with the outdoors. I flung the fridge door open with a bang and drew another bottle of Becks from the dozens that remained, hearing the back door to the garden close behind me. I turned, picking up the bottle opener from the kitchen worktop and cracking the sixth of the day open, not realising in my tipsy state that I was not alone. A body silently brushed past me on the way to the fridge and I jumped.
"Sorry Tracy, didn't mean to startle you." Tom apologised. It would be Tom, wouldn't it. Come to taunt me at Rob's encouragement, perhaps. Poor Tracy. Go wind her up, see if her spring snaps. I didn't bother to answer, just stared out the window at the garden party in progress, sneering as Rob jumped back from a sudden gout of flame as a burger discharged some greasy fat into the hot coals. Tom's Irish cider cracked open with a half second hiss and I expected to hear the back door creak open and clunk shut but instead heard Tom's voice by my side over the sink unit. "Nice and cool in here." he murmured.
God, even his voice was arousing. Deep, yet almost musical with his thick accent. Like a Welsh baritone. "Nice and cool." I nodded. Yeah, right. Slide your hand between my legs buster and you won't think it's so fucking cool. With that thought I felt my face flush. Too much, too fast I considered as I put my untouched beer on the worktop.
"Looks like Rob's got things nicely under control out there." Tom continued, making polite conversation. "Always nice to have a barbecue and let the man do the cooking for a change."
"Yep, one thing about Rob you can never take away is that he's a fuckin' expert at burning beef burgers." I smiled, then apologised for letting the swear word slip past my lips. Tom just laughed it off, claimed he hadn't even noticed, that he heard much worse in work every thirty seconds as a builder. "Still, not very pleasant coming out of a ladies mouth." I continued, blushing further.
"Oh, I don't know about that..." He murmured, letting the statement hang there between us.
"True," I conceded after a while. "There's a place and a time for that language, though." I heard the sounds of half a bottle of Magners being necked back behind me, then felt a tap on my rump as he said. "See you outside." I half spun at the touch. How dare he! My face was aflame with indignation.
Tom went white, well as white as you can through a builder's tan. "Fuck, sorry Trace. Bad habit. Didn't mean nuthin'" he offered. I turned away, the small palm sized spot where he had merely tapped me sending signals to my pussy and my brain that turned both to a fiery liquid. The door clunked shut behind me, and I watched him through the window as he returned to the busy garden. He shot a sideways glance at me through the window, then sat next to his father on a bench seat. Didn't mean nuthin? Like that made it better. I took a long pull on the bottle of Becks and went back outside, slumping beneath the parasol all by myself, bottle in hand, while the rest of the pale skinned crowd soaked up as much sun as they could before the clouds drew in and marked an end to another British summer of no more than four days at best, if the law of averages ruled. After a couple of minutes Tom came over and sat himself opposite me. I looked up from the greying brown wood of the round table.
"Sorry about earlier." he smiled lamely.
"Relax. Forgotten already. Just a little touchy at the moment, that's all."
"Everything okay?"
