Tom watched, jealousy and surprise making his thick eyebrows rumba, as his friend Andy pulled the girl by the hand, towards the hoarding at the side of the road. Stumbling in her tipsy shoes, her mane of blonde-streaked hair whirled as the girl turned and blew a kiss from that firm mouth and winked a very come-follow wink from her dark flashing eyes.
It was the first time Tom had actually seen flashing eyes and he was suitably impressed. As his feet began to follow that well-worn path he realised just how impressed.
A far streetlight was the only illumination behind the advertising space, which made Tom suddenly wary as he squinted past "Huge Melons: Only £1.29 That's ASDA price", into the murky area behind. Tom wasn't actually afraid of the dark. He was afraid of the 'things' which occupied the dark. In the rational forefront of his mind he knew that the 'things' were given shape only by his imagination, but it was the fertile, rearward part of his mind which gave them life.
Tom's mood brightened, slaved to the waxing moonlight, revealing much that was hidden but secretly making darker shadows where his lusty shoes led him.
- - -
All through the latter hours of their drink fuelled sojourn, this lioness on stiletto padded feet had regaled Tom and Andy with a storm of sensuous stories, had led them dancing, with her words to the sweat-body strewn dance-floors and to each and severally promised, both figuratively and literally: rape and rapture.
"I just love taking it up the arse." Purred Abby. Tom and Andy exchanged flickering, hopeful glances as this dream-in-a-short-skirt turned her back to them and under eyelash covered vantage gauged reaction, whilst smoothing that skirt around that very neat but broad expanse of arse. "I hate panty line." She demurred. Turning again to face the boys, with her generous lips she pouted: "That's why I don't wear any."
It was Tom that had offered to buy the drink for the girls when they had strolled casually into the bar, dressed perfunctorily as witches: Silken pointy hats, silken skirts, shirts and thighs. All black. Abby preferred vodka. Neat. Julie was Rum and Coke and Ann wanted the same. For an hour and a half the five of them had fenced and fought, jockeyed and manoeuvred, flirted and flattered. It was the boys who broke down first.
As was usual in meetings like this, the boys had tried to steer the conversation toward sex at the first opportunity, almost alarmingly; the girls had grabbed the steering wheel and pressed the accelerator to the floor. Flooding the carb. and almost stalling the boys, they flooded them with questions. "Did you get any last night?", "Did you wake up with a hangover and a dog on your dick?", "Could you fuck that piece with the tits?", "I know I could." Giggling and guffawing and with voices pitched so that all within 15 feet could hear, the girls synchromeshed their gears and pushed the needle over the red danger line.
With expanses of creamy, tanned or pale, punctured and pierced bellies, Abby, Julie and Anne tortured their prey with ingenuous innuendo, deathly double-entendre and outright dirty tongues, which they freely admitted they also used to lick their boy/girl friends. Every single time that the group returned from the 'Ladies' Andy and Tom's discomfiture rose as each and every girl proudly displayed tantalisingly erect and often damp, silk folded nipples. As the witching hour approached Julie and Anne enquired of Abby "Clubbing or fucking?" Tom gaped. Andy gaped wider. Hooked.
Abby raked her eyes across Tom and Andy's crotches. "Looks like I'm fucking."
"Well we're clubbing first." Announced Anne.
"Fucking after." Julie chimed in.
"Each other." Anne dared the two boys with her eyes. "Clubbing?" she asked "or fucking?"
"We, we're, er, we're…" stuttered Tom.
"Having another drink." Interrupted Andy.
"Laters then Abby." Farewelled Julie, then began chanting "Andy and Abby, sitting in a tree…"
The two silk laden witches crossed to the exit with backward glances and voices trailing "F.U.C.K.I.N.G."
- - -
A sudden breeze riffled Tom's shirt, making tense muscles writhe, bringing throaty female laughter, making relaxed stomach muscles clench, a punch to the jaw: pulling his slow-motion head, back and to the left. Pupil-wide eyes searched the confines between the brick and wood lover's alley gaining only blackness: beasties. Imagination fed his fear, adrenaline, his blood. Involuntary reaction made voluntary retreat a welcome thought. Grunts, sighs and moans fuelled engorgement. Fright hardened his resolve, stiffened his sinews.
A hand clutched the thigh of his trousers another clutched his heart. "Fffuck". Tom grasped thin, sharp-nailed fingers in his fist. The anonymous hand pulled, urgently.
Giggling and laughter. "Down here lover. Kit off. You know what to do. What I want." With swift decision and rising anticipation Tom unbuckled his belt and pulled off one shoe and one pants leg. Grateful for the night, realising the spectacle he must be making, he leaned forward, hands led, towards that unseen waiting pleasure. "I'm wet and ready lover. Andy's been giving some good solid finger. First one, then in my pussy, then two and back to my cunt and when you heard me laughing just now, he had three fingers in the hole, now it's ready for some cock." Tom moved forward eagerly. "Wait." Commanded the black hidden, silk and velvet voice. "Suck first."
