Parlour Tricks

Author's notes:

This is my first, and maybe last - gosh, deadlines! - contribution for one of Literotica's contests: the 2025 National Nude Day. In the best spirit of the day, this story features bare skin and an audience as well, but also pushy characters and sometimes subtle, sometimes crude humour, too. Yes, you read correctly, this little fantasy plays on the side of The Pond where the pants are underwear.

Thanks to everyone who helped Brit-picking the words and phrases I erroneously borrowed from the cousins' dictionary, and pushing for more details and scenes. Special thanks go out to Inkent for both kicking off this story and staying the course with more ideas and live advice.

Now, please enjoy this naughty summer tale.

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Parlour Tricks

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✿❀  Act I: In the Campbells' garden  ✿❀

• Matthew Campbell •

"You're such a prude, Matt, you know," Francine said, looking at the privacy netting I had started to put around the very last corner of the garden not yet taken by her to grow all those vegetables she would torture me with later, "what will the neighbours say?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe, 'Thank God, Frannie, I don't have to see those whiteout legs of your spouse again'?" I tried to imitate Mrs. Lionheart's grating voice.

Every time I spent the summer evenings watering Francine's ambitious gardening projects, the little old lady from next door complained about my untanned calves sticking out from my khaki shorts. Now, how does she think I, a highly qualified tax officer working hard for eight hours or more each day with three hours of commuting on top, could possibly squeeze in hours of lazy sunbathing into my demanding daily routine?

But since Francine had booked a summer vacation to Morocco, the tedious task of baking in the sun had become a must. Articles in the latest issue of The 9-2-5 Times helped forging a strategy. One recommended that the upholders of British bureaucracy should pre-tan before going to any intense-sun vacation destination south of The Channel. Another one highlighted a little-noticed government scheme that allowed public sector employees five days of absence per year for continuous training. As the fineprint of the law didn't lay out any details for the Where, What and When, it didn't take long to come up with a plan to combine the mandatory with the pleasant: combining precautionary skin care with learning about the pitfalls and loopholes of the Double Taxation Treaty Passport Scheme.

You can't imagine how taxing my previous experiences of baking in the sun had been. I was either ending up a well-done lobster within no time or had to be coated thumb-thick in suntan lotion.

So, today, the fourteenth of July of the year twenty twenty-five, would be the first of five classes on consecutive Mondays to brush up my fading knowledge in how applying for that tax passport via DTTP1 worked and how to make a claim using DTTP2.

The online course was held from 2 to 6 pm. Each half-hour session would be composed of a ten minute audio lecture, ten minutes of an interactive visual recapitulation including a quick test at the end, followed by a ten minutes break for, air quotes, individual purposes. Enough time to sunbathe, first front, then back, and finally reapply the sunscreen for the next round.

Maybe I shouldn't have gone into that much detail when I told Francine about my very, very cunning plan.

"The Lion's so going to eyefuck your butt, darling."

"God, Fran," I made a face. "She's like eighty?!" Heaven forbid that our ever-curious neighbour might take a liking to my legs, slow-baked without end in the Mid-English sunshine. Time had proven she could outlast Death himself.

"Eighty-two, to be precise."

"Eighty-two!" Goosebumps ran down my back.

"Yeah! And she's still got the hots for some fresh meat."

"What are you talk--"

"Not an hour ago, I saw Stuart Allen ringing her bell."

"The early retiree from number 16?" I wondered out loud.

"Mmm, that's him," Francine purred. "Fat pension, happy widower, a full head of hair. What more can a girl ask for?"

"Girl? She's a great-granny, Fran!" I snapped, trying to raise my shoulders to cover my ears somehow, my hands too occupied with stretching the panel, pulling the corner post straight, and aligning the screw and the cordless screwdriver. Apparently, I needed help. "Oh, be a darling, lend me a hand here?"

"No."

"No?" I looked over my shoulder, finding her cross-armed. "Why not?"

"Because it's absurd."

I could feel the screw, and the conversation too, slipping from my fingers' grip. "Absurd?"

"I mean the panel," Francine said. "The neighbours will still be able to see you. Either from their upper floors," she pointed to one of Mrs. Lionheart's windows, where the curtains moved suspiciously, "or just from the other side. God, I've got lace pants that are less see-through."

"Oh, will you stop talking about your unmentionables before anyone hears!" I hushed her.

She didn't stop and never looked back on her way into the house.

☁☀☁

As the clock's hands moved closer to two in the afternoon, I was preparing for my first lesson: tea and biscuits put on a side table, I slathered myself with sun cream. Cursing Francine for telling me my secluded spot wasn't as private as I'd hoped it to be, I stood in the corner that seemed to offer the highest level of decency. The boxer shorts would come off the moment I'd dive for the towel. I had figured once I was on the ground, I could go unnoticed, my office-conserved complexion would blend in with the hay-coloured grass.

And somehow it worked. If I couldn't see the neighbours' windows, then, by logical deduction, they couldn't see me. Right? And so far, no hysterical screams were penetrating the visual barrier either. I deemed myself safe enough to remove my hands from my lap. I didn't want to end up with funny arm-shaped tan lines on my belly. Time to focus on the course.

The instructor, one Baird, meandered through the introduction of the course in a voice that promised nothing good, the dull and monotone timbre would surely have me fall asleep long before tea time. Seemingly reading it from a manuscript, the course instructor rattled off the ad-talk about how lifelong learning benefits society, in which way the participants were expected to interact when they had questions, and what 'most expedient' certificate everybody would receive.

Fearing the worst, I waited for him to go into great lengths about follow-up advanced courses, but no. As if a switch had been flipped, his refined Oxford English changed to a clipped Edinburgh accent as he moved on to the topic of the class. At times, he sounded like the elder Sean Connery, colouring highly bureaucratic affairs with the semblance of a spy story. It fell upon us, the Crown's dutiful guardians of His Majesty's Treasury, to monitor suspicious cross-border financial flows and tax them appropriately.

With the world outside my walled-off solitude slowing down, I felt untroubled and lost myself in the fantasy of becoming the latest agent of the FI6, Financial Intelligence Section 6 for the next few hours. I was briefed to identify and neutralise scheming foreign tax offenders threatening the British Empire.

In a frenzy, I shut out outside distractions by closing my eyes, and listened to my personal M, outlining my mission, giving me examples of what was at risk, and warning me of the consequences for whoever got caught. I imagined that I, Tames Bonds, was celebrating each denied claim application with another offshore haven angel, in our own little sex, umm, tax oasis. I was so lost in that fantasy I almost forgot to turn the grillables.

The hours flew by, the tea got cold, the biscuits remained untouched. I worked through the questionnaires like a madman -- for King and Country, thou shall not fail -- never forgetting to put more suncream on my body every half hour, following the instructions on the back of the bottle, correct to a dot.

I was only three questions shy of completing the last test, when the messenger app on my tablet signaled a new message from Francine. She very likely was telling me supper was waiting and I should hurry up to get my things done. Opening the message, I found my guess had missed by a mile:

FrankieLove: Today's titbit: a mouth-watering roast.

Expecting one of Francine's signature food porn photos, I froze as the slowly loading picture finally revealed the complete subject: myself, very nude, lying on my belly, legs slightly spread and feet leisurely up in the air. In the centre of the picture was my pale bottom, stark naked and glistening from lotion and perspiration.

Shocked, I turned to look over my shoulder. Without my glasses, I could only make out a blurred entity on the edge of my field of vision - twenty-five years of permanent screen work had turned me into a short-sighted bat. I rolled onto my side to focus both eyes on the person. Francine. Who else could it have been!?

I was about to protest about her phone's camera being aimed at me when I heard the digital equivalent of a camera's shutter. It clicked three times while I quickly rolled back around. It was instantly followed by the tablet's sound of incoming messages, dee-ding, dee-ding, dee-ding.

As even more explicit pictures started to unfold, I turned my head, and only my head, to voice my discomfort. "Fran, how many times do I have to beg you not to send any naughty pics of us? Even if Big Tech says it's all safe and private, you never know who has access to their servers."

"Damnit, Matt, don't be such a spoilsport. It's all for fun, and no one gets hu--"

Dee-ding. Both her phone and my tablet announced a new post. Her eyes dropped to scan the message.

"Oops."

"Oops?" I repeated. Dread spreading through me.

In our marriage, I had heard that specific tone twice. Each time it had spelled total disaster. First, when her little red racer literally crashed the dinner celebrating Francine's newly obtained driving license -- to make it clear, I was a passenger that night and had nothing to do with the handbrake not being engaged. The second time put an end to a spontaneous romantic moment on the sofa when her look toward the door stopped at the bath she'd been running that had started to run, from the bathroom across the whole length of the corridor under the door into the living room. I can tell you the wet dreams that situation caused were on the very disturbing end of the spectrum.

Despite what chaos would greet me this time, I turned to look at my screen and froze.

Romy87: Damn, Frannie, that's some fine delicacy

I looked at Francine, but my raised eyebrow

"Who's Ro--"

"Rosemary."

"Which Rosemary?" I drilled down.

"Of my Bridge squad."

"Your Monday Bridge Club?"

"I was about to write them a message when I came out to tell you--"

Dee-ding.

HotNButtered: Mmh. Yummy! Snack!

Attached was the first picture of my bare backside with an animated smiley licking my cheek.

I turned my head, the obvious question in my eyes.

"Olena," Francine revealed.

I remembered only one friend of hers with that name, "Shy Olena?"

Francine's smile tilted to the side, "Olena Not-so-shy, as we discovered."

Apparently, I had been automatically added to their chat group when they'd started replying.

Dee-ding, dee-ding, dee-ding.

Romy87: C'mon, Sweetie, appetizers? Give us some real meat.

VenusOffSlough: Fran, hope it's ur part-time lover, not that hubby u said was prim as Queen Vee

Francine answered my interrogating look, "Kareena, our skipper this season. She's rather direct."

"Queen Victoria! Why do you say such a thing? I'm not that prudish."

She tutted. "You'd wear your pinstripe suit to the sauna," Francine said, not blinking once, "with a double Windsor tie knot."

I fumed. Did the fact I was lying undressed in the open not contradict her accusation?

HotNButtered: Don't you think you can get away with cheap Champagne and canapés this time, hiding THAT! from us

Another manipulated picture appeared, of my profile rolled around halfways with a huge aubergine emoji sitting in my lap.

I could hear Francine grinning.

Dee-ding.

FrankieLove: You shouldn't dream that big, girls.

Romy87: LOL, how laaaarge instead?

HotNButtered: Yep, what to expect? Tell us!

VenusOffSlough: No, show us!

Romy87: Yes, we want to see what you denied us forever and a day

HotNButtered: me@home, make it NSFW

FrankieLove: Dream on, Ladies. Mr. Thatcher won't turn for you.

For the record, at that very moment, I was in a fragile emotional state, torn between demanding this charade to end and proving them all wrong. To my utter shame, the devil on my shoulder won.

Dee-ding.

me: Satisfied?

Unnoticed by Francine who was typing away, probably private messages to her Bridge friends, I had turned and taken a picture of the unspeakable that now would pop up on their tiny screens... making me look tiny too, but I never had reasons to complain about that body part, plus I had a chat log to prove this was likely the first mass-solicited dick pic in human history, ever.

VenusOffSlough: unimpressed, isn't there more to see?

My hope to get out of their virtual grip was shattered, they all teamed up and were cheering each other on to request more explicit hip portraits.

me: No, you've seen enough. Delete pics immediately!

Romy87: Oh, c'mon, you can't leave us high&dry

HotNButtered: Dry? Speak for yourself, Saint Mary ???? ???? ☔

VenusOffSlough: ha, once slut, always slut. Where are ur hands?

My eyes went wide when the next picture message arrived: Half of Olena's left hand pushed inside the waistband of her jeans.

VenusOffSlough: classic Olli!

FrankieLove: From my POV he liked it too. Got some more motivation, Ladies? ???? ????

Soon the tablet was ringing with new messages.

There were Olena's fingers on her ruby-red lips, then stuck inside her mouth, first halfway, then fully in, and finally her tongue touching the top of her upper lip, glistening wet.

Kareena had sent a set of pics of her upper torso, pushing her business jacket open on the first pic which, at the second glance, revealed she wasn't wearing a bra underneath her silk blouse.

The second was pushing my constancy. Her left breast was now a less vague shape under the glossy textile as her right hand cupped her obviously pierced tit. And to my astonishment, it wasn't just a simple barbell or ring, but an intricate design pressing against the material.

VenusOffSlough: locked door, girls want out

The final picture left me devoid of breath and words. Sitting in an office chair, her bare dark-skinned upper half contrasted with the pearl-white leather against her back. But that was all secondary as my eyes were glued to the chocolate brown areolas decorated with golden jewellery. Held in place by a thick rod through each nipple, the weight of the elaborate craftsmanship was supported by chains interlinked with her necklace. The ensemble consisted of more gold and cut gems than any princess' crown.

HotNButtered: Priceless, babe!

If Olena's finger licking had started the race, Kareena had propelled me upwards through the troposphere.

Rosemary's contribution was the last to download and I found out why instantly.

"Hey Frankie's boy," her voice rang out of the speakers, sultry and hushed. Instead of

pictures she'd sent a video clip, "want to know how wet you've made me?"

She must have set her phone on the ground because the camera wasn't looking down her body anymore but upwards. Her jeans pushed down, Rosemary's fingers hooked into the straps of her knickers and moved them down bit by bit. While her sex needed some imagination to be spotted in the distance, her state of arousal was distinctive. Several of her fingers pushed into her love tunnel with ease.

"So, office boy, tell me, does my dripping wet pussy turn you on or not?" her recorded voice asked.

"He surely is, turned on by all of you," it was Francine speaking, apparently recording my erection for her friends from every angle.

"Don't be such a greedy bitch, Fran. Gimme a close up," Kareena's strong Manchester accent was unmistakable - this wasn't a recording, but a video-call!

Francine, standing at my feet, leaned down to bring her phone closer to my flagpole, swatting away my hand about to cover myself.

"Oh my god, did you see it twitch too?" Olena asked. "Whatever you did, do it again, Frannie."

She knew exactly what to do: allowing my eyes to wander beyond her generous neckline upon her breasts free from any shackles and shake her low-hanging fruits slightly. The effect on me was the same as before, something that didn't go unnoticed.

"Wow, it looks so huge on my TV," Olena exclaimed.

"You put it on your TV?" Rosemary inquired.

"I'm home alone and on the loose, girl."

"Oh, I wish I could do so as well," Rosemary's voice returned softly.

"What's keeping you, lovely?"

"The changing room at Victoria's Secret."

"Oh wow, it twitched again. Dare you," Kareena interjected, "show us what you've got, and make it throb."

Seconds passed, followed by an audible gasp from three throats.

"Attagirl, did I forget to mention that you put on some lingerie first?" Kareena joked.

Laughter came through the speaker.

"Oh, shut up, or I'll get caught," Rosemary complained.

"Are you okay, if I let Matt have a glance at your next shot?" Francine asked.

"Umm..." Rosemary seemed to be uncomfortable -- "I'll trade it for a stroke." -- or not.

"What?" Francine and I said simultaneously.

"Just a few strokes to remind me I can still spread the vibe." I didn't know her well, but there seemed to be an undertone sounding like a desperate plea. Was there something else going on inside her?

"Hey, a second ago it was one stroke only," Francine complained with a wink.

Despite her good-natured demeanour, I felt a bout of unease in the air, not just because of me, caught naked, like a fish out of water, in the open, but more because of the intensifying impression the whole group dynamic exerted an unsound pressure on some of us. I cursed myself and wished I could turn back time. I should have never sent that picture of myself. "I think that's enough. Let's all be adults here, and stop this childish game right now." I sat up and wished I had brought a second towel to cover my exposed groin, but my shorts were out of reach and the saucer of the teacup looked way too small to hide my excited organ.

"Oh, shut up, and let the girls enjoy the show," Francine bawled me out, pushing me back and grabbing the erect limb betraying my decorous intentions.

"No," I started to sit up again, "I'm in the middle of a training course, it's important for--" Francine's hand was pumping my hard shaft, that hadn't got the notice yet that this was a completely inappropriate workplace indiscretion, once, twice, stealing the words out of my mouth, out of my mind. "You can't... Oh, god--" Her hand did things to the top of my prick it hadn't lived to see in its entire existence yet. My last chance was to appeal to her moral conscience, "I'll be admonished for violating working hours!"

"Now, will you?" Francine asked, her hand stopped as she looked lost in thought.

"Yes, it's in the out-of-office work agreement, eight hours shar--" I started, but obviously she was a quicker thinker, back to stroking my second ego.

"A hard-working man," squeezing my erection tightly, "deserves a break now and then, don't you think so?" she said, closing her hand around the base of my rigid shaft for she knew what she was telling me next. "Why don't we ask that nice Betty girl who called not two hours ago asking about you? Give me a second, I'll add her to the call."

Nice girl? Pure panic took over my mind. "NO!" I screamed.

Elizabeth Chamberlain! Appointed as head of the directorate-general not two months ago, after our previous boss, figuratively speaking, had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. More specifically, in his secretary Milli Henderson's cookie jar.

"She degraded Lithgow to client communications for leaving the topmost shirt button undone. From senior assistant to licking stamps! He's licking stamps now, Fran! Lithgow's a bloody stamp-licker!"

"You're getting hysteric again, darling."

"This," I nodded toward Francine's hands, malapropos serving a respectable public servant, live on air, "will have me dangling from Tower Bridge!"

But instead of her sympathy, all I got from Francine was that hungry lioness grin whenever she spotted an opening in my heedfully guarded defence.

"Rest assured, dear husband of mine, if we can promise you one thing," she licked her lips, "it's we can keep a secret." She smiled that smile again, and it made not only my heart jump, "Remember, what happens at the Monday Bridge Club..." With that she leaned forward, mouth open.

"Stays at the Monday Bridge Club," the rest of her team chanted in unison.

An ice-cold shower ran over my back -- I had seen too many documentaries that followed cults committing human sacrifices to remain unaffected by their singsong -- while the blood in my aching cock got to its boiling point. My eyes were glued to Francine's head bobbing up and down, as she sucked dear life out of my fat meat-straw. The phone in her hand fed her friends with a close-up recording. As all the blood in my system seemed to pool in my nether regions, I lay back, feeling everything going black.

An audible pop brought me back to the here and now. My vision returned, blurry at first, then focusing on the wide grin on Francine's face.

"Good enough for a starter, Rosie?" she asked, her phone still on speaker, while leisurely working my pulsing manhood.

If Rosemary's incoherent mumblings weren't a clear positive confirmation, the livestream from the lingerie shop's changing room was. In the centre of Francine's smartphone screen, a mostly unclad female torso was touched, rubbed and squeezed. Alternatively, her left breast, hanging out of an elegant bra, was pinched and groped or her hand was busy in the neatly trimmed bush shown off over a half pulled-down G-string. The price tag on it swung back and forth, provoked by the headless woman manipulating her body in dubious privacy. A never-resting bean-counting part of my brain dared to ask if the three-digit figure on the label would even cover half of the amusement tax that should be levied from me.

The two smaller video feeds on the right side showed the rest of the pack.

Kareena had set down her phone on her office desk and was pulling on her chains, calling my attention with a firework of her glittering jewellery and the hypnotic pull of her two dark nipples dancing in harmony with Rosemary's melodic moans.

In the lower corner, Olena's face was the only thing to see. But what a sight it was. Pleasure and lust was written all over it, with her eyes closed, her mouth hung open, twitching in lewd agony time and again.

"Let me see his hand," Rosemary's strained voice came over, hushed, likely due to her buzzing surroundings.

"You got some strange kinks, Mrs. Miller," Francine said and pointed the camera towards my right hand.

"No, silly, hands on himself," Rosemary stipulated sharply, but then, getting to grips, turned down her loud organ, "getting it on with his cock."

"Rosie, Rosie, Rosie, you're one naughty wench, you know that?"

"Whatever, whore, just show me that fucking--" Rosie whisper-shrieked into her microphone

From the off, likely muffled by the door between them, a soft voice joined the chamber concert. "Miss, are you OK in there?"

"Yeah, I'm... fine... it's just the... clasps..."

"Do you need help?" The shop assistant asked, more pointedly.

"No, no," Rosemary replied quickly, her hand holding the door shut, "I'll get it, in a second."

"Ma'am, will you take much longer? There are other customers waiting here."

"A minute... or two, OK?"

The silent acknowledgement slash admonishment that could, or actually not, be heard through the speaker was met with the barely stifled giggles of three female interlocutors.

"Shi..." Rosemary hissed, "I want his hand wrapped around and tugging his tug. Now!"

"No, I'm out, this is so bonkers." I held my hands up in surrender, rejecting those evil women's call for such a depraved act.

Francine turned her phone around. As she tapped and swiped, she muttered under her breath, "Betty, Betty, where did I put you?"

For a second our eyes met, locked and fought a silent battle. Guess who lost.

"You all. Are evil!" Grinding my teeth and swallowing my pride, I gave in, laying my hand on what should only be known to a devoted wife - but, as I saw it, there was none within sight! The phone's unblinking eye was pointed at me again as the magnetic song of the Sirens, playing the instruments of their bodies with great virtuosity, lured me back into their circle. I was their maestro, put on a semi-public pedestal, conducting their intimate play to go fortissimo.

"Work it, lad, work it well for me!" Rosemary growled, along the exhibition of not only her mostly naked form but also her urgent sexual need, it was so contrary to the intent of the changing room she was in. Privacy? An antiquated concept from the pre-transparent-citizen era.

Speaking of hand-held distractions, my frustration having been caught with my pants down and blackmailed into submission by my own wife only fuelled the furious rise and fall of my hand. Without any finesse and emotion, this whole act of self-love felt more like self-flagellation. No, they had just pushed me too far, this was about to become reverse revenge porn. Want to see me humiliating myself in public, watching from your virtually safe space? Think again, I can bring the public to you too.

"Oh, yes, Rose, I love your dirty talk, it turns me on so much. The louder, the better." For dramatic effect, I grabbed my shaft right beneath the little head to open and close the eyelid of my trouser snake, eliciting the desired reaction from my remote audience. "Your moans drive me so wild, Rosemary," I groaned, drawing out the second 'R', making it sound like 'Rose, marry.' Was I playing with fire, having learned from Francine, in private, that it was Rosemary's deepest wish to make her long-term fiancé ask her the one and only important question. A wish that had turned into an obsession lately, and seemingly a fetish as her body started shaking when my subtle message came through to her subconscious.

Her feral sounds were music in my ears, and not only fed the sardonic inner demon my anger had set free, but also stimulated my arousal. I wanted more of that.

In the background of her transmission a polite but insisting knocking against her door and that same shop assistant's voice from before could be heard, "Ma'am, would you please stop and leave this room. Our store disapproves of your behaviour within our premises. You're most welcome to enjoy our products to your full satisfaction at home." The reprimand from the off was met with a hectic whirlwind of clothes shed and slipped on. In the chaos the connection broke when Rosemary's smartphone crashed to the ground which brought Olena into focus on the screen.

My smug smile earned me a look of my wife that was usually reserved for the moments I kicked out her best chance to win our Thursdays' game of Ludo. She was about to let me know what kind of vengeance she would dish out later, but two elderly voices from beyond my newly erected veil of privacy silenced her. Well, look who's shy now!

In hindsight I have to say I lived up to the cliché of a typical! man, I would take what wasn't mine to have. But the impression that it was my doing that had brought Rosemary to an attention-grabbing orgasm and as a result an even hornier Olena cheered me on further. In my mind I, the plain pedantic pencil pusher, painted her red lips with a different kind of decoration.

"Oh, Lena, I wished your plush lips were over here," I exhaled dangerously loud, flexing my disrobed cock down so it was pointed at Francine and her phone.

When I met her eyes, I couldn't say for sure what was that emotion showing on Francine's face. It looked like nothing I'd seen before. No clear sign of disgust or, worse, hate toward the man who had sworn unconditional love to her nineteen years ago. More so, neither surprise nor disbelief about what even to myself felt out of character, so unlike my usually behaved self. It looked like a mix of different feelings, a blend of pride, happiness and unbound lust.

An unmistakable wink of Francine's eye was all the permission and encouragement I needed to go on, seducing Olena, this damsel in heat, with action and words so she'd give in to her sexual craving right in the middle of the bright daylight.

The audience across the visual barrier didn't stop to whinge about the youth in general and their decadent sex lifes in particular. Better choose my words carefully! "Wouldn't you love to wrap your lips around this big strawberry?" I insinuated to her, spreading the evidence of my arousal across the pink seed head.

She gasped, hesitated for a moment and then, knowingly, took the bait. "Yes."

The two old fellows were still unfazed by our talk on this side of the screen. Good. Actually, they didn't mind who was overhearing them as they got louder and louder, discussing their latest encounters with foul language and obscene gestures. Well, let me see...

"Imagine how good it would feel... if I'd thrust my thick throbbing tool between your needy wet lips, Lena." My thumb pressed into the engorged spire, pushing more blood inside so the colour changed to a deep purple.

"Mmmmh, let me swallow you whole. Can you feel my tongue swirling over your... Fat... Hard... Cock?" She seemed to have completely immersed herself in this fantasy. Her camera was focused on her lips alone, so none of us could tell what the rest of her body was into right now, but she seemed to enjoy herself. The smacking sounds, obviously not produced by her mouth, were a telltale sign for what was going on beyond our sight.

"You can't wait for it, can you? Can't wait for me to thrust it in so far inside you can feel it halfway down your throat." My hips were pushing up, squeezing the mushroom head back and forth through the tight ring my thumb and trigger finger formed. I had lost track of our audience, they couldn't be heard, but I couldn't care less if they were eavesdropping or had taken flight.

"Yes! Fuck my mouth until it hurts. Thrust in hard and gimme all your lovin... Aaaahhhh!" All of sudden, her picture became shaky and unstable as she panted hard. It was a sight to see as the camera finally allowed us glances upon a mess of a woman. Her hair had partially gone loose from a once tight bun, several buttons hung by a mere thread, testament of how desperately Olena had torn her dress open. The pushed up bra and her lacy knickers pulled to the side had the imaginary little devil upon my shoulder jump in joy: another lady left in ruins! Then, out of nowhere, heavenly music, a myriad of harp sounds, flowed from the speaker - but it wasn't a divine intervention about to strike down upon me, but her phone. "Nikolai, shit--" As she hung up, her image was instantly replaced by the last and most composed of Francine's three friends.

"Such a bad, bad boy you are, Mr. Campbell." Kareena purred, shaking her head. "Who would have thought that in such an unimposing man, a warm-blooded gent was hiding?"

Compliment or insult? I couldn't care less as my eyes were drawn to her fingers idly pulling on her long nipples that made the heavy pendant piercing her nub dance from side to side. I guess, I was losing the battle of wills as the sensations in my rod were too good to stop now.

She was aware of my state, of course, taking over the teasing with a smile. "By the way, boy, how close are you? Ready to shoot your cream, huh? You would love to spread it all over my gorgeous tits, wouldn't you?" Her hand let the nipple fall and started upwards. "Can you envision the pearl necklace you make me wear. But, so sad..." Like deep in thought her hand moved up to rest on her chin.

Moments passed by and I could feel my arousal deflating bit by bit, the missing stimulation of her motions and the lack of further comments pushed me back from the edge I was about to fall from just a minute ago. "So sad...?" I implored, hoping to reignite her pep talk.

"So sad your time is up." Her free hand ruthlessly closed the curtains to her burlesque show and with that the blood in my veins started to cool quickly as well. "Francine?"

"Still here," my wife announced herself.

"While sadly a late afternoon meeting is begging for my attention soon, I have one proposition to make that you might find passable..."

Francine waited for the rest of the sentence, but in vain. "Yes...?"

Closing the last button on her blouse, Kareena looked decent again as if the last minutes had never happened. The serious business woman she was, she made it quick, "Mutatio scaenae."

I could see the blood draining from my wife's face, the smile on her lips froze in shock. "No?!"

Unmoved by the flurry of emotions on Francine's face, who had turned the screen and camera back to herself, Karenna said, calm and composed, "As tonight's original host I make use of my one-time right and call for it." A vicious grin crept on her lips. "Opposition is futile."

Seconds filled with silence passed by.

"I'll let them know," Francine finally said, her voice uninflected.

What had been a hot juicy banger in my hand a mere minute ago, was now a flaccid worm, drained of energy by their inscrutable oral exchange.

When their call ended, I asked, "What was that all about?"

"Hurry up, there's things to be done before the ladies arrive." Francine had taken hold of a corner of the towel, pulling at it.

I scrambled to my feet, picking up the tablet and stealing one of the biscuits before Francine could snatch them away together with the towel. Left with the bottle of sunscreen and the tea cup, I had no other option but to rely on my new-found self-confidence and let it dangle. As desperately as I wanted to know what was so important, I couldn't make myself hurry but thought, 'Enjoy the view, Mrs. Lionheart.'

☙ ―――――――――――― ❧

♡♠  Act II: In the Campbells' shared bedroom  ♢♣

• Francine Campbell •

"And you think we can host about 20 women in our living room? We don't even have a dozen chairs. Where do we seat them all?" Matthew asks, dripping on the carpet on my side of the bed. I hope this is not his usual nitpicking self raising its awful head now. That other self, from the afternoon, was a lot more interesting to argue with.

Earlier when we'd returned from the garden, he was the most effective little helper outside any Disney movie. Having a front row seat in the kitchen to watch him move the furniture in the living room, I'm lucky to still have all ten fingers on my hands. While cutting carrots, long cucumbers and zucchinis for salad had felt like sacrilege, it gave me an idea how he's going to help with the chores from now on: undressed.

Now, showered and squeaky clean again, he still has me full of dirty thoughts, squirming on my chair.

"Oh, don't worry, we're fine. All we need is a pillow to sit on." I better tread lightly and add 'or lie on' in my head alone. Who knows if disclosing too much at once will scare away this new version of Matthew. Without the accident in the garden, I wouldn't even know he could perform with the lights on and with eyes on him. For sure, like any other guy, he masturbates, and denies it. That one time I asked him to let me watch? It had him screaming like a little girl. I'm certain if I ask any of the other close to two dozen Monday Bridge Club members, they all will tell me about their private peep shows.

"Okay," he says.

Okay? No discussion for hours without end? Wow! I'm fine with that. Applying the moisturizer on my cheeks, then primer and foundation, the lack of our usual back and forth about vanities feels strange. This void of conversation is unnerving me. I need to say something. "It's very cozy, umm, more in--"

"--triguing?"

Not what I wanted to say, but I agree, applying the blusher. "Yes, more down to earth. And, more at eye level with--"

"--each other, you mean?" he says.

Again not exactly what I had on my tongue, but for a minute I manage to keep my mouth shut, and rather just watch. I'm fascinated with how Matthew rubs the after sun lotion, I handed him after the shower, into his skin. He's saying something about busy friends, moving down from his chest. How to make amities last, when his hands are on his abs. And some more blah, blah.

I don't listen but think, 'Gosh, go lower.' My eyes wander back and forth between the mirror, as I try to add more masses to my eyelashes, and time-spending on what could be his night's happy ending.

"More or less, a girls' night out staying in another home each Monday?" he wonders.

Dyeing my lips claret, I hum 'Mmmhmm' -- it sounds like 'almost', doesn't it?

The velvet of my dress rustles at my feet as I put the straps upon my shoulders. I reach for the silver earrings I've inherited from my grandmother.

"So it's not about Bridge at all?" Matthew asks for about the fourth time.

I sigh. "No, yes, well, it is, it is." I fumble with the earring's backing. "Absolutely." Matt's reflection in the mirror, drying his hair, doesn't help me concentrate. Somewhere on the way from the garden into the house he must have lost his usual shyness, and I feel my eyes drawn to his casual way of not covering any of his delicious body parts. For sure, he's not Adonis, not by far. Not one of the husbands, boyfriends or current lovers of our club members is. But they all have in common that they rather have to be reined in than be encouraged. This is what makes me anxious the most. Will he chicken out when things get more real than a 6 inch screen?

So, what have I been hiding from the girls for all those years? Was it his childish embarrassment whenever some skin showed between his shirt collar and his ankles? Or was it the green-eyed monster in me that didn't like to share my personal eye-candy while I, on the other hand, always enjoyed my piece of the cake when I've been to my club meetings?

"But you neither play in an official league, for a charity, or even for a good cause. Or, do you just play the pennies."

"True, but there's so much more to it. Over a glass of Sherry we can share gossip, we can dress up without anyone judging, it keeps the mind at work and we do get away from our nosy husbands for the evening," I kiss him on his cheek, before adding, "Actually, we quite often play for Penny's. She seems to like that part quite a lot." My gaze drops down to tonight's prize which will need a little more motivation later on. "You'll love to meet her, trust me."

Ignoring both my stare and my last comment, he says, "A social getaway, except for the host."

"Well, you can't have everything, can you?" I counter, fixing the second earring. I watch Matt's mental cogs whirring. "You couldn't have it all as well. Earlier. In the afternoon."

His eyes find mine. He still looks a bit crestfallen, not having yet stomached his final defeat, and so he admits, "Kareena's a tough nut to crack, isn't she?"

"More than you can imagine. She knows her game well."

"That's why she played that mutant something card?"

"You mean mutatio scaenae." I chuckle. "It means scene change. Jennifer, our wannabe thespian," she has played in two or three amateur plays, "introduced that option. It's like a get out of jail free card. The host of a Monday event can opt out of her role of providing the venue and the night's prize. But only once. So she should consider really hard why she picks someone else as host."

"You didn't seem too happy when Kareena made that choice and picked you."

"Well, more accurately, us."

"Us?"

"You've now been roped into this as well."

And that's just amazing. And astonishing. And I still can't believe that after years of hinting, tactful questions and chance vacations close to nude beaches, I finally found a crack in the nutshell of his uptightness. I hope this is not a one-time happenstance, but becomes more regular. Actually, having him join the club tonight will be a big win for me.

"Why?" Matthew asks.

"Because you, Matt Campbell, until this very fine afternoon, seemed like the least likely prize by far."

Let me be honest, accepting personal offence is one of Matthew's weak spots, so I brace myself for the coming pouting and shouting.

"I'm the prize?" he says, cool as a cucumber.

I'm positively surprised. "Yes, you're the prize."

"So the winner gets what exactly? A picture with me, having me kiss her feet or do I need to wash her dishes for a week before the next poor guy takes over?"

"Damn," I giggle. "We should have thought of this. But no, it's just you, the unadulterated you. The winner gets, umm," I need a moment to think about how to say this, but when I see that Matthew is going through his underwear drawer, I stop him, "You won't need that."

"I don't?"

"No... as per tradition, the prize only wears a bow-tie." I say matter-of-factly and watch his mouth fall open. Better make that quick, "Just not today."

"No?"

Okay, let's shatter that spark of hope I see in his eyes, "Cindy from the States wants to celebrate National Nude Day or so, so you and her will go all the way. We decided to promote it to International Nude Day."

He looks like contemplating what's on the table, "So, no...?" He holds up his sock suspenders.

I cringe. Hadn't I gotten rid of that whole lot in the early noughties? "Especially not those."

"What about the rest of you girls?"

I state the obvious, "Oh, we're British, we keep calm and carry on."

"Let me get this straight," he says, "Regardless of my nationality, I'm going to sit around all night long, with nothing on?"

"Oh, no, silly," I turn around and smile at him with my full attention, "you'll be a darling and refill the glasses and the snacks!" I hesitate for a second, but time is becoming sparse, "and entertain game winners like this..."

I walk over to him, go down on my knees and start to caress his cock, already a little excited from our conversation. When I have him treated to full size, he says, his voice shaky, "And the night's overall winner carries off what?"

I stand again to look into his warm brown eyes, time for the harsh truth, "The winner gets all the time she wants to carry you away so you blow your cream onto the night's loser - wherever the winner chooses it to land." I can feel him twitch in my hand and think, 'Please don't pull out at the last minute.'

"That's what happens on each Monday?"

"Yes."

"How many times did you lose?"

I can't decipher his look, but decide this is not the time for games, the ladies will be over here any minute, "Never. Kareena and I have never lost yet. And while she might hope to end my purple patch tonight, I don't plan to let this happen."

"But she's on your team, why would she want you to lose?"

I take a breath and explain it in as few details as possible, "The loser not only gets the humiliation of being sprayed with all eyes on her and has to wear it with pride till she returns home, no, in addition a pic will be taken for Cheaters' Hell."

"What's Chea...?" he asks.

"Think of it as a kind of insurance. You cheat, your picture goes out to family, friends, colleagues, whoever..."

"Do you?" His eyes drill into mine. "Cheat?"

"I..." this is getting so out of hand, "interpret the rules," I reply, and add to move on, "The real problem tonight is the scene change. Of course, it would be too tempting to allow this carte blanche to be used if there wasn't any penalty. Therefore the original host gets a disadvantage of 2000 points, the rest of her team 1000 each. And since the host gets a standard setback of 1000 points anyway, it will be a tough night for Reena and me."

He slowly sees the big picture. "Anything else?"

"It would be terribly nice if you couldn't blow your load prematurely."

His vague smile melts like butter in a volcano. Another of his weak spots: gets easily excited, too fast. "More penalties?"

"Kind of. The game winner who gets you out of control, in the minute she has with you, is rewarded with additional 200 points. But it's the opposite, I'm afraid, that will cost us. Whenever you fail to stand your man for a game winner," I gesture with my index finger crooked, "100 points will be stripped from the host's score."

"Who knows?" He points very suggestively at his nether regions.

I give him a wry smile. "Reena!?"

"Of course." He rolls his eyes and then lets his male gaze roam all over my body, stopping where two pointed bumps push against the velvet, "So I'm primed to ruin your best dress?"

"Maybe just my makeup," I try to make it sound hopeful.

One more thought hits him, "How many times did you win?"

"Let me thi--"

Ding-dong. The doorbell saves me from embarrassment.

"Wish me luck."

"Good luck that I shoot someone else."

"You're such a drama queen!"

☙ ―――――――――――― ❧

????????????  Act III: In the Campbells' living room  ????????????

• Kareena Pillai •

Who would have guessed, I'm late. As much as the Monday club meetings are fun, business comes first, even though my love life is a close second. So here I am, 30 minutes past official doors open at 7:30 pm, with my best apology: two bottles of something from the top shelf that has cost me several days of income. I go to put them in the makeshift bar Fran has set up on the other side of the living room. I grab an empty glass from the bar and look around at what's on offer, but actually all I want is to drink in the view of Fran's hubby as he's pouring several shot glasses for the girls.

I let my eyes wander over his body, trying to find a spot where I can place my welcoming kiss. Looks like all the best ones have already been claimed. There's Fran's deep purple lipstick all over his cock down to its base. So she's not just a possessive cow but a show-off too. His nipples are encircled by an apricot and a mean green lipstick print, Linda and Ivy's! Craning my neck, I see his buttocks have seen a dozen pairs of lips, the whole spectrum of red hues you can think of. Short of breaking the not-on-the-lips rule, there's a huge smudged smoochie just above his chin, likely Bimborella Jacqueline cleverly stating, 'I was here'.

OK, where else? Neck? Both sides are already a blood red battleground. His back? Strangely, there's only one, just below his neck. I guess she whispered some naughty words in his ear too; another one would look like a cheap copy, so... Wow, the one on his foot, that must have been a sight to see!

Now, where to...? Eureka, yes! Why try to outshine the stars if you can be the bright daylight? I step closer and rise to my tippy toes. I still can't close the distance and beckon him down.

"Hello, boy. Missed me?" I smile. "I've heard we've got unfinished business." How cute, he can blush, and a lot. I raise my hands and pull his head down to add my personal mark on him. The room goes silent. I think it's Fran who gasps when I pull back to peer at my creation. The midnight blue of my lipstick looks good on him.

"A black eye, Reena, for real?"

I turn around and grin. Pointing a finger at myself, I say, "Guess who stays undefeated tonight!"

"My, my, what a big mouth you have, sweetie." Disappointingly, Fran doesn't look as hangdog as she should be, sitting with three players that are at the top of our internal Club ranking. But I'm sure her mood will sour in the next hours, she doesn't stand a chance against them. Let's see who's laughing last.

Aisha's -- our topnotch nerd girl -- app didn't work in Fran's favour, did it? Nope, it didn't, just as planned. As much as I hate to spoil that really nifty tool of Aisha's that turned all the hours-long headaches of manually creating fair seating among the Club's players into a simple button click, it was worth it. Even considering the favour I had to call in to mess with her algorithms. It will cost me dearly soon. A whole night of debauchery with Zahir and his gang of number crunchers. Sounds sexy to you? Well, imagine five geeks being offered an all-you-can-eat buffet, but all they ever ask for is the chocolate strawberry. Yeah, not very filling.

At least, I will have a glorious time tonight, because not only did I ask for Fran to be seated with the crème de la crème of the Club, but I did take the liberty to have myself seated with the other end of the ranking list. Pushing my luck? Gods be damned, yes, after yesterday, I deserve the best.

Yesterday was a shemozzle. I had expected to meet with my current affair of Albert Livingston in the Carlington Inn and fuck each other's brain out before he would crawl back to the cold homestead of his marriage. But instead of priming him to be the Club's playdate for tonight, I met his furious wife in room number 205. I didn't stay for the finger-pointing and the accusations, more than once I've heard it all before. The little homewrecker I am, I just move on. So, turning on my heels and returning to the elevator, what bothered me much more in that moment was the question of how to explain the loss of the Monday prize to the girls? The same girls that had no trouble sharing their willing long-term boyfriends and husbands. It was so frustrating, they just don't seem to understand the hardships of poaching some decent looking man-meat who won't go running around telling about the Club's not so traditional game night activities.

That's why today's afternoon proved to be the silver lining on a dark horizon. Passing on the hot potato of hosting the Club to Fran avoided being named and shamed, but furthermore the one-time opportunity to humiliate the spoiled rich girl. And I had made sure, my chances to see her on her knees were good.

Or so I thought. Sitting down, I look at the score tab and almost faint. Since I was late, Matt took over for me... and lost, heavily, each and every game. Does he even know how to play? My score is so in the red that it might be my blouse that will be tainted in the end. The very same piece of garment I've worn in the afternoon, both because I had no time to change and because of the afflatus that it might spur on Matt's arousal tremendously. A trigger. Some Pavel's dog as Fran had tried to explain once, not that I understand any of her trick cyclist witterings.

Speaking about triggers, Cindy, the Californian dream girl, sits opposite of me. Across from where Matt has sat before, very likely watching the tan lines on her undraped tits moving with every motion of her never-tiring hands. I curse myself. What a grand way to shoot oneself in the foot! I picked the lousiest player of the Club to make sure I would win the night, and forgot her ribald request to show it all on, what was it, Notional Lewd Day? Looking over at Matt I can see the effect of her distracting body is still showing. But I have to say she's completely missing the point of fair play. I mean we all want the night's guy's eyes glued to the plenty of cleavage we push out, his side glances when we absentmindedly cross our legs and his gaze following the moistened finger running over our lower lips. One day, she really needs to be taught a lesson about propriety.

Fortunately, with my hands at the wheel, the figures on my scorecard bounce back into centrefield. Nevertheless, at some point I have to admit there's simply no mathematical chance to win tonight, but at least the frustrated grunts out of Fran's mouth tell me she clearly seems on the losing end. Oh, I'm so looking forward to seeing her intolerably amazing gown get stained. Gosh, how many different luxury dresses does she have? I've never seen her wear anything twice on Monday nights.

But that might be because she's Fran-fucking-tastic at giving hand and has ruined almost anything she'd worn on Mondays in between games. That lucky bastard who's her dry cleaner! None of us other girls has ever found out what's her trick, but Fran has managed to shame every Monday's host by making their partners cum before the night's winner was crowned. So we all have called, metaphorically speaking, for her head to roll more than once.

My plan for tonight is to end that lucky streak. But when in history did any great design play out as planned? As much as I try, winning round after round at my table, his stubborn little friend seems to miss the point of spraying his cream onto my blouse. Not even exhibiting my Two Wonders of the World gets him over the cliff. So much for 'comes in his pants by a look alone'.

"Can't you just focus on the matter in hand?" I finally ask, frustrated.

"Sorry, I'm still thinking about that course in the afternoon you interrupted so rudely."

"You're thinking about accounting?" I can't believe it.

I have my pencil skirt almost pushed up to my hips to give him a special incentive when Fran calls me out, "You don't want to do that, you hear me? That is what the rules say is cheating."

"You..." I clench my teeth before I say anything dangerously stupid.

"Psycho bitch?" She laughs out loud and returns to her game.

I'm sure it's something of her mind-bending hanky-panky stuff she uses in her psychiatrist job that keeps Matt reined in. But try to prove that! Muttering, I play my cards, and I play them well. But in the end, it's not enough. I don't win by far, and what's worse, Fran doesn't lose either. To no one's surprise it's Cindy who's getting to be tonight's target practice. We've always suspected her to lose on purpose, given that her Portuguese lover boy has that weird kink of seeing her cummed on by other men. Like before, she demands all of us to take as many naughty pics as we can and send them Rodrigo's ways. At some point, I stop listening to what lewd thing the couple will do later on when she returns home, but stare at the pic I've taken. It's so good, and would be so bad in the wrong hands. I can feel an evil grin crawling onto my lips.

♕♔♛

The nice person I am, I help Fran cleaning up the Campbells' home. She's grateful for that. All the other horny girls have gone home to get it out of their system, and Matt, exhausted and sore, is already in bed.

"Something we should do again?" I ask her, wearing my most innocent smile.

"Sure."

"Next week?"

She bursts out laughing. "No, it's someone else's turn."

"I'll never get my revenge?"

"Nope."

"But you promised me."

"I did what?"

"Oh, don't you remember?" I utter. "The Monday after Valentine's when you milked my not-yet-ex-lover, you said my time would come."

"That was not a promise, Reena, but a threat. One day..." she comes close enough that the tip of our noses almost touch. "One day, I'm going to bust one of the guys' nuts all over your pretty face and have the picture of it put on every advertising board all over the town." She withdraws to a more comfortable distance. "Especially after the trick you pulled on Aisha tonight."

So she caught me, but who cares, there are more interesting matters to negotiate, "How about Thursday."

"Thursday?" Gosh, that face, the whole well-maintained facade crumbling to dust for half a second.

"Yeah, I was thinking now that Matt was miraculously healed from his chronic super-shyness, he might enjoy some other games, card games, as well." And, darn, I need some more inspired distraction before I pay Zahir and his lacklustre friends the visit that is my side of the deal on Friday night.

"Like what?"

"Oh, like Hearts or Spades? Perfect for a sporting ménage à trois, don't you think?"

She wrinkles her brow. "What's in the back of your dirty mind, hu?"

"We could play some variants." I shrug my shoulders, pretending to be pondering the options for a long moment. "How do you like Strip-Rummy or Stroke-Poker?"

"Since it's you, I'm afraid it will be Spank-Slapjack and Mate Crazy Eights."

She knows me so well!

"No, thank you, we'll be busy," she says and turns to carry off a tray of used glasses into the kitchen.

"Why don't we ask that Betty boss of Matt if he's free on Thursday?" I smile at her when she wheels around. "And every other day."

"You wouldn't dare..." Her face turns ashen.

I hold up my phone so she can see the pic I've taken, ready to be sent to a phone number she seems to recognize more and more the longer she stares at it.

"Where did you get that number?"

"The yellow pages?" I say, not disclosing my sources.

I watch all kinds of dark emotions racing across her pretty face, before she spits, "We'll weigh it up."

A triumphant smile on my lips, I turn to leave. "See you on Thursday," I say, but she already climbs the stairs.

Closing the front door, I open the photo ordering app and look for the biggest canvas size they can print. On the checkout page, I choose the express delivery, 'guaranteed to arrive on Wednesday'. It's going to look awesome in my game room: The camera looking down Cindy's body, lying on the floor, with Matt kneeling between her legs, splayed wide open. To his right sits Miranda, a sixty-something cougar and tonight's overall winner, with her mouth open in surprise as her hand aims Matt's cock high at Cindy's chest, sending ropes of sperm flying. But the most interesting detail sits to his left: Francine Campbell, not only watching the action, but seemingly happy with it, an enthralled expression on her face.

Before I press the order button I return to the basket and add two smaller copies complete with a gold-plated frame. One to go on her desk, and one for mine. I want her to feel at home if she ever visits me in my office.