"Fuck it," Lorna decides, blowing out a ribbon of pale blue smoke. She turns to me, eyes glinting beneath her unruly blonde fringe: "Where are you going when this place shuts?"
"I don't know," I tell her, truthfully. "Home, I suppose."
"Come back to ours," Paul urges. "I've got some beers in the fridge."
"Yeah," says Lorna. "Come back for a drink."
"Okay," I reply.
I don't know if I knew what I was going back to theirs for or not, on reflection. It could be that I entertained a notion, a fantasy, but when it happened it was at once surprising and surprisingly low-key. It almost seemed like a dream, not as significant as a moment like that should, not at all.
My next coherent memory of that night is of kneeling in the middle of Paul and Lorna's cluttered living room, a beer in my hand and my mouth clamped around one of Lorna's nipples. Her body is pale and fleshy; big arse, big tits. She's wearing nothing but a pair of pink briefs, her hand busy down the front of them as I make a meal of her breasts.
"Oh yes," she breathes as I push my hand in there too, grasping at hot, wet, hairy flesh. "Oh, fuck yes..." She isn't looking at me; her eyes are closed. Her tits bounce and wobble as I roughly wank her off, fingers tangled with hers.
Paul watches from the couch, jeans around his ankles, a bottle of Grolsch in one hand and his erect cock grasped in the other.
I push Lorna's panties down past her hips then get down the task of masturbating her with both hands. She opens her eyes, lips glistening, laughing breathlessly as I go back to suckling on her nipples. She arches her back, head back, and I kiss her gleaming neck, making her gasp. Paul wanks slowly and takes a pull on his beer, seemingly content to watch me push the sighing, groaning Lorna face down on the carpet, clumsily pushing one of her knees up into her stomach to create enough room for me to take her from behind.
My memories grow blurry again for a bit after that. I don't remember how my cock gets from her cunt to her arse, it just happens. She does not seem to mind; quite the opposite. The main thing I remember about the next half an hour or so are the sound effects:
"Oh, God..." Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap-slap! "Oh...God..." Slap-slap-slap! "Oh..." Slap! "Oh..." Slap! "Guh," Slap! "Guh-God..." Slap! "Oh," Slap! "oh..." Slap-slap-slap-slapslapslapslapslapslapslapslapslap!
The next thing I remember clearly is pulling out of her, dribbling a long, gluey string of semen over the carpet as I rise to my feet. Lorna's gaping black arsehole contracts reflexively behind me, her whole body shuddering in what might be ecstasy or possibly disgust. Above the pink underwear that is still tangled, sodden, around her thighs, her big, round buttocks are dead white, like a fish's underbelly, glistening with sweat and spit and spunk. I can still taste her arse, even if I don't remember licking it. There is a large red handprint emblazoned across the right bum-cheek, where I slapped her while I was bum-fucking her. It glows rosily in the middle of all that pale, wet skin.
Paul takes his turn while I watch from the chair, sliding his engorged prick easily into the hole I've already lubricated for him. Lorna moans and sobs as he vigorously buggers her, taking no prisoners. One of her arms is pinned beneath her body as she continues to masturbate furiously. Paul has hold of the other one, bending the arm painfully behind her back.
I watch him scream obscenities at her, calling her a whore and a slut and a bitch. Lorna orgasms loudly, momentarily drowning out his shouts; he puts a hand on each buttock and pushes her bodily away from him, unsheathing his shiny, sticky cock. He stands there proudly, squirting white gouts of spunk that splatter and trickle over Lorna's back.