The Point of No Return… Pt Ten

Once upon a time there was a scribbler who had an idea for a story. Maybe a wee Goblin lives in his head tapping away at a tiny typewriter throwing away discarded pages which become Bogies that fill the scribblers’ nose.

…. maybe not!

Still this story never, at least initially, had the intention as being this long. And if you think because I’m writing this spiel now that this is the last chapter, I’m sorry but you’re in for a disappointment. But, when I was scribbling these few pages a funny thing happened on the way to the padded room. About halfway through, the scene is set and the plot is in motion when a good friend posting on her blog the second part to a story she had been writing ‘Confession of the Heartless’ and part two had the same setting as this here chapter.

This appealed to me and so I asked her if i could plagurise a little and happily she said yes. Now my story takes hers by the hand and walks a short ways with it, I had to just place her Night Club in London and  Bob’s your uncle or Aunty Roberta if he’s wearing a dress!! It really appeals to me having a couple of universes that exist in seperate minds cross paths, so there you go!

Want me to get on with the story?

Okay then here we go…now are you sitting comfortably… now where were we….?

FtF

_________________________________

I was down in London for a conference, the hotel was very plush and the meeting incredibly boring. Of course sometimes I would use the opportunity for a little extra-extra-curricular activity. I was never bothered if I failed to bring someone back to the hotel room, although sometimes it did mean using my ‘other’ credit card to watch some pay-per-view. This time however Mike was also in attendance so I would be on my best behaviour. Probably!

The two of us had a couple of drinks in the hotel bar. Mike wasn’t ‘necking’ the pints like he did in days of old and I commented upon it. “Well, the little lady laid the law down a few weeks ago!”

“Mike!” I exclaimed, “You’re under the thumb?” I pulled his head forward and checked for a thumb sized bald patch upon his head.

He shook me off, “I guess I am a little… funny… I don’t mind. And it does have its rewards!”

I fixed him with a quizzical stare, “Tell me more!”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell!” I stayed silent sure that he was dying to carry on. It took almost twenty seconds, “If I’ve been a good boy…well… you know…”

“I don’t, I don’t!” I protested jokingly.

Mike grinned and blushed, “Let me just say… I had no idea what a horny vixen I married…and, well…”

“And?” I prompted.

“I guess it’s okay… we’re going to announce it soon…” Mike’s grin was almost splitting his face, “We’re pregnant!”

“Congratulations! You old dog, you!” I said slapping him on the back. “I knew you had it in you!” I raised my glass to his, “Cheers!”

“Cheers!” he replied, “Thanks Pete… keep it quite will you… and try an’ act surprised when she tell you and Elena?”

“I will and I won’t tell Elena, I promise!” Act surprised I thought, well it seems I can manage that quite well.

After another celebratory drink we headed in search of a Night club.

****

The music was loud and shook my internal organs. The two of us again are sitting at the bar watching the coming and goings of the crowd. Our conversation somewhat stunted even though it was quieter by the bar. I often wondered in places like this how the bar staff managed to hear a single order. Mike nudges my elbow and indicates with an exaggerated leer and finger a woman approaching the bar. To give him his due he does seem to have the eye for the ‘hotties’. She’s not the tallest woman in the world, but by no means short, which is slightly obvious as she almost has to climb up onto a vacant stool. Still it gives me plenty of time to appreciate her legs just fine as the black mid-length skirt slides up to the top of her thigh and all in all she presents a very fine package. Mike says something to me, a slightly nervous look about his face.

I lean my ear towards him and he repeats his question, “What goes on tour stays on tour?” I looked up at him as he stood, he waited and I gave him a nod and he turned and headed for the ‘prey’. I wasn’t bothered, I wouldn’t stray in front of witnesses myself, just the way I am I guess and if Mike was to ‘play away’ it might make any future revelation turn more in my favour. Although of course I never ever planned on being caught but it helps to have a plan B!

She turns to face him and I slip to the next stool just behind her curious about her and also about Mike’s chat-up style. She has no issues with inspecting the merchandise and Mike has no problem being inspected. To give him is due although it is a long time since he turned out for a rugby match he has kept himself in shape. Now that I look a little closer I can see that Angela’s recently enforced regime seems to have paid dividends as well. The slight paunch he had been developing has disappeared. Watching in the mirror behind the bar I see her eyes flick up to his hair and a smile play about her lips as she replies “You’re very welcome.”

Mike taps their glasses together and introduces himself as Andrew. A lie I generally wouldn’t bother with so I figure that Mike/Andrew doesn’t play away too much or else he has been caught out before. I wonder about his previous marriage, we never did get too many details except for the innocuous ‘irreconcilable differences’.

“Cheers Andrew. So how long have you been in town for?” Smart as well!

He pauses for a moment but takes it in his stride. “Just today, am heading back home tomorrow morning. It was a complete waste of time really.” He looks me up and down again. “Well, maybe not completely.” A corny cliché but that’s why they are called clichés. Most of the time they work!

She laughs, maybe a little forced or maybe genuinely amused. Mike/Andrew asks her how her night is going and she replies with a similar corny cliché, “Oh, it’s good… getting better by the minute.” I like this woman more and more, a shame that Mike is here and spotted her first. I know that I probably wouldn’t have made a move in front of him although I am enjoying this risk free vicarious entertainment.

I take a sip of my drink as I watch Mike reach for her chest. Damn but the boy has balls! He takes hold of the necklace hanging there and goes for the ‘definitive’ question, “This is really nice. Did your boyfriend get it for you?”

“Nope, I got it for me. I’m very generous.” I look at his hand pointedly. “That’s a nice tan line. Did your wife get it for you?” I stare hard into the mirror for a moment wondering what she means and then I realise he has slipped off his wedding ring. I thumb my own around my finger. Personally I rarely remove it, partly because I’ll get in so much more trouble if I lose it or forget to put it back on and I know from years of experience that it attracts those ladies who are after ‘no-strings’ assignations which is just fine by me. Of course there is always the recently bereaved gambit, far more successful than recently divorced and your ‘prey’ is less likely to question it and more likely to sympathise. Sorry but I like a sympathy fuck as much as an ordinary one!

I miss her next question but I see by Mike’s face it’s not going too well but he perseveres. “Come on baby, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her!” I probably would have cut my losses by now and I’d never use such a blatantly misogynist line. He brushes her hair away from her face and her hand comes up to push it away.

“Oh, but it might hurt you in a minute, sunshine. Step off.” I almost laugh behind her. Wipe out, I think to myself. He catches my eye as he turns away and heads off into the crowd.

I sit behind her as she finishes her drink thinking about using Mike’s failure to my advantage. I’m running a few lines through my head, thumbing my wedding ring as I construct my approach. I’m about to mutter (just loud enough) that some men don’t know what they’ve got till it’s gone when she downs her drink and heads for the dance floor. I curse under my breath figuring that the ‘bereaved’ could have worked. Few people are willing to question the loss of a loved one as opposed to a divorce. I watch her disappear into the throng and realise my chance is lost.

I’m not a fool and realise that ‘life’ on the dance floor is for the ‘Young Turks’ and even though I wear a smart suit it’ll won’t make me look younger out there, quite the opposite. I order another drink from the barman and resign myself to being a good boy tonight. I grin to myself as I think how close I came to misbehaving in front of a witness. Through a gap in the teeming throng I see the recent object of my desire grinding her crotch onto the thigh of a ‘Young(er) Turk’ with enthusiasm. I wonder if she is faking her passion or if it’s real. “Looks damn convincing to me” I mutter to no-one as the crowd once again ebbs and flows and she disappears from view.

I finish my drink and head for the amenities, on the way I see Mike having more success with a young thing barely old enough to legally gain entry to the club. I can see that she isn’t as fine as his last choice and I imagine she’s not nearly as intelligent.

****

I step out into the refreshingly cool night air taking a great lungful deep into my chest after the hot sticky atmosphere inside the club. I’m about to head for the hotel when I sense movement in the small parking lot. The street lights struggle to shine in to the far corner but I can just make out some movement. My curiosity and my general horniness get the better of me and I move closer sticking to the shadows.

It’s the woman from the bar and I’m pretty sure it’s the Young Turk from the dance floor. I’m only twenty yards away but I can see his forearm moving rapidly between her thighs as she lies back on the bonnet of a car her hands outstretched fumbling with his belt. “Bollocks!” I whisper and turn away. Before I’m out of earshot I hear a low groan escape from her lips. Time to get out my ‘other’ credit card I think.

****

It’s less than a half mile to the hotel but I head north veering deeper into Soho than I need too. I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t know why especially after I visit a cash point. Just off Frith Street I find what I’m pretending I’m not looking for. She’s black and skinny with apparently no track marks on her bare arms (not a great indicator) and after the deal is struck leads me up a stairway in desperate need of a coat of paint. Her room could also do with some decoration but I don’t care as I drop my trousers and boxers around my ankles and sheath my hard-on with a condom and begin vigorously fucking her from behind bent over the end of a much used wrought iron bed. She had started to moan half-heartedly and I’d simply said to not bother. If anything it seemed to make her happier and she began to thrust a little harder against me.

It’s not enough and I ask her mid-fucking how much it is for anal. Without a pause she tells me and I reach awkwardly down to my trousers and pull the required amount from my wallet dropping the notes onto the mattress in front of her. It almost disappears before it touches the threadbare covers and from within her clothing she pulls a small jar and scoops up a lubricant on her fingers and smears it over my sheathed cock.

Eventually I shoot my seed into the condom deep inside her ass. Almost before the last jet has emptied from my sac she has slipped out from beneath me and is holding the door open as I hurriedly pull up my trousers.

****

Back in the hotel the ‘other’ credit card gets put to use again.

 

****

****

To be continued…

~ by ftfagos on September 21, 2011.

4 Responses to “The Point of No Return… Pt Ten”

  1. Wow, I’ve been quoted! I feel quite special, actually. All warm and … wet. *Smiles.*

    Love it. And thanks for the promo. It’s an honour to be credited by someone whose writing I enjoy as much as I do yours. xo

  2. I think it was more of a paraphrase but still quite fun working mine along side yours! But you knew I always liked doing that!!!!

    FtF

    xx

  3. Well, if you want to get technical, a paraphrase. But there were *some* direct quotes, so I shall carry on feeling special and daydreaming.

    Did I mention I love your writing?

  4. Okay… I’m as guilty as a recidivist! And don’t daydream, you are special.

    xxx

    Did i mention I also… err… love your writing but it’s hell on the forests!

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