A COFFEE BREAK TALE.......(written from male perspective)

It was only when Rose pulled down her panties and handed them to me in the back of the darkened cab, about halfway home from the restaurant, that I first began to feel reasonably confident about my prospects of having sex that night.

It was part of her charm, I think, that she often withheld her favors for no apparent reason and then, just as unexpectedly, sometimes flung herself at you, her legs stretched open, her whole body in a pose of a woman fast reaching a sexual climax.

In general, she wasn’t one for the middle course in life. I’d known her for about six months at this time, which was the mid-Nineties in London. Rose had been born in California, grew up in various parts of the States and overseas – her father had been in the army – and eventually settled in my home town when she was in her middle 20s.

Now, ten years later, she was still an exquisitely attractive woman, dark haired, with a finely tuned body, a narrow waist, rather short legs, and, it has to be said, wonderfully full and firm breasts. Maybe she wasn’t model-beautiful if you looked at her feature by feature. It was the whole thing put together that was so gorgeous. Rose earned a vast amount of money practicing as a high-powered lawyer, and it was possibly this fact that strengthened the impression she was really two women.

There was the sober-minded professional who strode off to work each morning dressed in a tweed skirt and a jacket, an umbrella often furled under her arm. And there was the ‘free-spirited hippie sexpot’, as she teasingly called herself, who sometimes liked to fall naked on her hands and knees and tell me to bury my nose in her from behind, or who walked back and forth in her bedroom undressing in front of me, unselfconsciously removing her panties and sliding her hand between her legs, filling the room with that unmistakable sexual musk. That was the thing about Rose. You just never knew which one of her you were getting.

Anyway, it was a classic London autumn night – cold, dark, and wet – and Rose and I had been out to dinner near her house. She then lived in a big, Edwardian villa on the edge of a park, which she shared with another American woman, named Amy, a fellow lawyer and a would-be artist.

They were both divorced. For that matter, so was I. Amy was also in her mid-30s. She had long blonde hair, a pale face, slightly slanted blue eyes, and a classically sculpted body.

If you want the truth, I was slightly in awe of her.

She lived in her own apartment in the basement of the house. When I visited I only rarely saw her, since she was either downstairs or out and about in London attending an art lecture or looking at pictures somewhere.

From Monday to Friday I was in my own tiny flat with a fold-down couch a couple of miles away, and at the weekends I was almost always at Rose and Amy’s place, where there were thick oriental rugs, velvet curtains, and oak-paneled rooms with silk-covered armchairs and a canopied,four-poster bed. I made a thin living providing copy for an ad agency, was writing an unpublished novel, and I lived for Friday nights.



So on this particular evening, Rose and I were in the back of the cab, we’d both had a good meal and a lot of wine, and she stuffed her panties into my fist. She removed them very elegantly, with a practiced and graceful sweep of her leg.

I remember the item in question as being damp, small, and lacy, like a spider web, really, and even as I pocketed it Rose silently took my free hand and firmly introduced it up into her sex. There was a brief caress of pubic hair, and then a soft feeling as if I were pushing at a ripe fruit that gave to the touch, at which point Rose sighed slightly and squeezed my hand hard between her thighs.

A moment or two after that we pulled up at the door of her house. In one of those fast-changes that constituted the basic core of her personality, Rose exited the car with a smart, businesslike step, slightly shaking her hair, her skirt neatly smoothed, for all the world a perfectly comported young lady on a decorous night out.

Perhaps her actions had not gone entirely unobserved, however, because when I leant forward to pay the cabbie – unusually for London in those days, a woman of about my own age – I had the definite impression that she winked at me immediately before driving off.

By the time I got out of the rain and into the house, Rose was already prone there, stretched out flat on her back. You went straight in off the street into the combined living and dining room. She had wasted no time in adopting a position of extreme repose.

There was a heavy wooden table in the middle of the room, two or three armchairs, and a wonderfully deep and heavy antique sofa in the corner. Rose was lying on this, waiting for me. In the few seconds before I’d come in, she’d removed all her remaining clothes except her black stockings and shoes.

There was just enough light in the room to savor the sight. She was smiling.

Taking this as an invitation, I kissed her legs, and my hands ran over the seams of the stockings, feeling the milky pale flesh up the thighs to the borders of her luxuriantly full bush. Things started moving with a certain momentum. Then suddenly Rose stood up and walked across the room, telling me she would be right back.

‘Don’t go away,’ she added, rather unnecessarily.

I remained on the couch. It was still warm and scented from her body. When Rose returned she took my place there, but this time she lay down on her stomach. It exposed her in the way we both enjoyed, her classically round and smooth bottom thrown full up against my face.

Is there anything odd about finding yourself with your nose buried deep in your lover’s backside, while your tongue snakes out through the rivulet between her legs and over the hot rim of her cunt to her clitoris, seeking every sensitive part of her body?

I don’t know. It worked for us.

As well as the erotic Rose and the business Rose, there was also another side of her that sometimes emerged during sex, the virile Rose. Although she didn’t wear men’s clothes, go in for role-play, or strap on a dildo, there was a spiritually masculine Rose, who called out gruffly, ‘Suck me. Suck me, you fucker’, and ground her sex hard into my face. It was all part of the attraction.

Another challenging and, on the whole, positive side of the experience was that, from where we lay on the downstairs sofa, we were only a few feet away from people walking by on the street outside.

You’d be busily attending to Rose’s sex, and yet still clearly hear, say, a man and a woman strolling by on the other side of the front window, talking calmly about the weather or something.

I admit to an extra frisson of excitement knowing that even as I diligently attended to Rose’s languidly posed body, lapping at the wavelike edge of her lips and her wet cunt, normal life went on all around us. There might be four or five people passing by within a few moments of each other, and then there’d be silence except for the steady sound of the rain on the window for another minute or two. You got used to it.

So when I heard a pair of high heels clicking away on the pavement outside, getting louder and louder, I thought nothing about it – until, suddenly, they stopped, and an instant later the front door swung open.

A woman stood on the threshold. She was in a big, fur-collared coat. She appeared to be frozen there for a moment, a silent, shocked figure, appraising the scene in front of her. It was Amy.

‘Good evening,’ she said.

A kind of twitch had passed through Rose’s body when she heard her roommate’s voice. Apart from this brief, scarcely perceptible convulsion, and a sudden, vice-like squeeze of her legs, which gripped me hard around the ears, she expressed no further welcome. However, she did not leave her place on the couch.

Craning my neck, I saw Amy close the door and remove her coat. It fell down before her and exposed her in a pose I admit I’d pictured once or twice in my mind, if not quite under those exact circumstances. She was dressed in a not-long but still formal white skirt and matching jacket, the latter of which she also removed. Her rather full cleavage had the golden color and delicate texture of her face. She was wearing a string of pearls, and a heavy wave of expensive scent came off her.


Amy kicked off her shoes. She said, ‘Well, don’t let me stop you.’

She took a step forward, half-smiling at us, and sank down into a chair a few feet away from Rose’s face. She was rather careless about her own posture, I noticed, sprawled back, her legs parted, with a wisp of something dark visible between them.

She continued to watch us. No one said anything to the contrary, so I gave it a moment and then continued about my business with Rose.

From where I lay I could glance up and see Amy in the corner of the room, which was lit only by the street lamp outside, sitting there, observant, perhaps a little drunk or perhaps just caught up in the spirit of the thing.

I was as much affected by the perfume, which rolled towards me and mingled with the room’s other smells, as by Rose’s sexual musk. All in all, the place seemed agreeably different to the standard London living room. Even stretched out as I was, my legs felt unsteady, my head was foggy. But I did my best.

Rose was on her back again, and her breasts swelled and fell with her shouts of ‘Yes!’, and the deep breaths she took. She came not long after that.

When I looked up, panting a bit, Rose’s face expressed a pleasure so open that it seemed like an act of exhibitionism. Her eyes were half-closed, her mouth was wide open. Her body was taut.

What struck me later, looking back, was how casual it had all been. Maybe it was just my uptight male sensibility, but the whole voyeur thing seemed almost unnaturally relaxed. Nobody jumped up or shrieked with surprise – even when Rose had been on the point of climax, no longer able to defend herself against pleasure, and the two of us were bucking up and down on the couch like a couple of rodeo performers, you got the strange impression that it was all somehow part of a previously rehearsed act, as much a visual spectacle as it was a wild passion. I mean, had this sort of thing happened before?

About five minutes and a glass of wine later, the three of us were up in Rose’s bedroom. The two women wasted no time in adopting much the same posture as downstairs: the lovers on a bed, the third party watching from a chair.

An intriguing difference was that, for the first time, I was about to expose myself in front of Amy – and while I mulled over that simultaneously exciting and intimidating prospect, Rose took matters into her own hands, as it were, by leaning forward to briskly unfasten my belt, unbutton my trousers, grab my pants, and pull them down.

At that point she took out my penis, shook it slightly and held it thoughtfully for a moment, as though weighing something in her palm. At some stage in this appraisal I heard a woman’s voice speaking quietly and yet firmly somewhere off in the shadows, almost like a dream, saying, ‘It’s a beautiful cock, you’re right, the biggest I’ve seen in London. It’s so smooth and hard.’

There was a moment’s pause.

‘OK,’ she allowed, ‘the balls aren’t perfect. They’re out of proportion. I give you that. But I love the fine center line of the prick – the little bead of cum, and, for God’s sake, the shaft looks like a cannon ready to explode’.

(An accurate prognosis.)

‘It’s huge.’

Somewhere in all this it dawned on me that I was being assessed as much as an artist might size up a model as by a woman in a transport of sexual ecstasy. All the time Amy was speaking, Rose was still holding the base of my penis and squeezing it lightly between her thumb and forefinger.

I admit it: there’s no pleasure quite like having a beautiful woman you happen to be in love with caress your erect cock while a second female party bends over to admire it.

Perhaps not surprisingly, the full sex followed in short order. We were on the big, brass-framed bed, there was still the half-light from the street, Amy was watching. Rose parted her legs as if she wanted to break them open. Her nails were in my back. Digging them in, she must have felt my orgasm coming because she called out to increase my thrusts in order to achieve a rapid mutual gratification – or, as she actually put it, ‘Fuck me! Fuck me!’

When I came I was aware of the dark room and lying in it, stark naked, quite still, with the two women. I know this sounds corny, but it wasn’t just a sexual thing. I can’t tell you exactly what it was like.

But the feeling it gave me was of security. It was wonderful to be shut in there with the rain falling outside, in a warm, shadowy room full of the smell of sex and perfume. It was almost as good as being inside Rose’s cunt.

As I lay there in a sort of daze, I heard a rustling sound above me and then Amy reached down to my face with her hand – it was wringing wet and sticky from her vagina. Standing there above the bed, without speaking, she passed her fingers briskly along my mouth so that I could smell them.

Then I saw her lean over Rose and kiss her on the face. Somewhere in all of this Amy’s hair had become disheveled, and the shirt had fallen off her shoulders and partly exposed her breasts. I began to wonder what might happen next, but even as my prick, inside Rose, gave an involuntary twitch of anticipation, Amy murmured, ‘Goodnight, lovers’, and closed the door behind her.

The next Saturday night when I went up to the house I’d just finished drinking champagne from Rose’s vagina and was lying next to her in the big warm bed, when she said, ‘You know, Amy wants to draw you.’

‘Draw me?’

‘In the raw,’ said Rose, I don’t know why, but somehow a bit superfluously. ‘She’s very gifted,’ she added primly. ‘I’ll be there to keep an eye on you.’

I don’t know if it was just the familiar hard-on I seemed to carry around most of the time I was in that house, or the specific prospect of what lay ahead, but I woke up the next morning with the erection of a stallion.

Rose took one look at the - those were the days - brick-hard tool protruding in front of her face, once again deftly removed her shell-pink knickers, and without a word began to rub them up and down my shaft while with her free hand giving a practiced squeeze of my balls.



After a moment of rapt attention to the job, she began to offer some verbal encouragement to the outcome: it was all about her wet cunt and my monster prick and how she wanted to see it spurt, oh my God, it’s huge isn’t it – that sort of thing – along with a breathy review whispered close to my ear of one or two apparent sexual fantasies of her own.

Quite rich stuff like, ‘I want you to go out and get me a handsome young guy so I can suck him in front of you, and then when I fuck you he’ll stand above me with his balls hanging down and his big red cock and cream all over my tits while you’re inside me … I want you to fuck me while a lot of other women are sitting there with their skirts pulled up and all of them are playing with themselves between their legs and they wet themselves and the room smells of pussy, and after you come out of me you push into all their cunts while I watch you … You come into a dark room and there’s these wet, hot girls lying face down on the bed wearing just their underwear and one by one you pull down their panties and put your face deep in their cracks and smell them and lick them all over and you have to tell from the taste of their snatches which one is me …’

All this in a husky, panting voice from the woman who went off in her tweed two-piece suit and debated contract law all day – I mean, who would have thought it?

Anyway, with one thing and another nature took its course and within a minute or so of this I was jacking off with huge, piston-like thrusts and contractions, and Rose was expertly holding the panties back a few inches so that I came freely into them without them smothering me – she was good like that. Then she rolled them up and held them aloft for a moment. They were stained from her cunt and wet from my ejaculation. She didn’t put on another pair. ‘Let’s go downstairs,’ she said.

So, freshly relieved, wearing only a dressing gown and a sheepish grin, I went down with Rose to the studio in the basement, otherwise known as the spare room of Amy’s flat. It was surprisingly low-lit and cluttered, and examples of the artist’s previous work hung on the walls and lay propped up in chairs.

As far as I could see she specialized in the erotic depiction of women in various guises, everything from soft pastels of milky-skinned young things dreamily contemplating their breasts, down to a rather more graphic rendering of a nude lying back, legs wide apart, in the general style of Courbet’s The Origin of the World.

There was something vaguely familiar about the crease of the model’s spread labia, though I couldn’t be absolutely sure as to their provenance. There were no equivalent images of naked males, although I saw one arresting little canvas in which a woman of thirty or so appeared to be exposing herself to a group of younger boys. She had lifted her skirt up and was apparently touching herself between her legs with her hand, and her audience was passively watching. The artist herself was waiting for us, in jeans and a starchy shirt, very businesslike, and asked me to stand still in the dressing gown while she made an initial sketch.

Amy worked quickly. When she gave the signal, I turned a bit to the left or right and went through the usual routine artists seem to ask of you, looking up all the while at the pouting vulva on the wall, not at the woman sketching.

During this time Rose herself was sitting silently in the corner, apparently indifferent.

After half an hour or so, Amy paused in her work, seeming to review the scene, and said, ‘So much for the abstract. Can we do a life figure?’

She nodded towards the far corner of the room where there was a screen placed presumably for her models to change, rather a quaint formality given the right to observe that’s the painter’s prerogative.

Anyway, to respect the convention I went behind the screen, dropped the dressing gown, took a breath, and walked back out again. I was completely stark in front of Rose and Amy, though thanks to the former’s pre-game attentions, still not in a state of rampant sexual excitement.

When I took up my position in the middle of the room, now lit by a rather harsh arc light, there was a moment of suspense. I know it’s all aesthetically pristine and in a long tradition of artistic representation and all that, but the fact remains, even so, you’re standing naked in the middle of a brightly lit room with two decorously clothed women necessarily staring at you, and your penis is involuntarily at least at half-mast, smooth, polished, firm, and – oh yes – with a drop of cum irresistibly rising up on its head.

Amy sketched for about another half-an-hour, sometimes moving in a little, frowning with concentration, her otherwise impassive face only a matter of inches from my bared midriff.

And she in turn was watched by Rose, I could see that.

Once Amy invited me to turn around and I stood like that, my bare rump to them both and my balls twitching up and down for what seemed like about an hour, but was probably only a few minutes, and then after a heavy silence I heard Amy say, ‘I’ve got all I need for now. I’m going to finish later. Do you mind if I take a couple of polaroids to help me work?’

Well, why not, I thought.

Soon I was back facing her again, and she came over to measure me with an instrument. Studiously, she wrote down her findings in a notebook. Then I felt Rose’s hand brush lightly against my thigh - the first hint of a breach of protocol - and she helpfully posed my cock and balls in a variety of attitudes while Amy took the necessary pictures.

Even then, a degree of professional etiquette prevailed, and I remember Amy rather clinically requesting that her helper ‘Move the testicles slightly in a counter-clockwise direction’, or, ‘Hold the penis straight up, in three-quarter light, pointing about an inch above horizontal’, among other technical esoteria.


It was all over in a minute.

Then I was in the dressing gown again and Rose and I were suddenly upstairs in her bedroom where, without further ado, she took her own clothes off and fell on me. She slipped her hands around my waist and lifted me up slightly so that I could feel her. She was soaking wet. She smelt so good there I wanted to go down on her and drink, but she wouldn’t let me.

Instead she immediately took hold of my penis and placed it inside her cunt. It was so wet and hot. I know I’ve said it before, but in the midst of all the bouncing and heaving around, I remember thinking again how wonderful it was to be shut in so securely in that big paneled room with Rose. It was almost as wonderful as being inside her.

After she came, I lay there in her arms, in the best place of all in the world, a womb, warm and soft and shutting us in from everything else. My cock was still hard inside her.

About twelve hours later, after dinner, we were at it again. I mean, I don’t want to give the impression that it was all about fucking in that house – we got out and about a bit, too, but when you’re youngish and in love and it’s raining the whole time, as seemed to be the case in those days, nature tends to have its way.

So once again I was up to my nose in Rose’s delectable sauces, a honey that smelled of seashell with a faint and aromatic whiff of the nether regions, and after that I was inside her, her legs thrashing wildly in the air.

Luckily, there were good thick walls in that house, unlike at my place. Between the two of us our shouts would have woken the dead.

Anyway, then I must have checked out, because the next thing I knew I came to to see a glimmer of light from the door and hear a hushed female conference in progress somewhere up above me.

Amy had come in the room. The street light was still filtering in through the window, so I turned and half watched as she removed her clothes and slid in the warm bed between us. ‘God, I’m horny,’ she said. I was wide awake now. Amy noticed me noticing her, and smiled. ‘Now it’s your turn,’ she said.

After a bit, I said, ‘Your nipples are unusually dark.’

She said, ‘I’m a quarter Sioux Indian.’

I said, ‘Wow’.

And then everything seemed to be happening, if not quite at random, then all at once. A hand was between someone’s thighs and slipping up an inquisitive finger. A mouth was on someone else’s breast. Another mouth was devouring a cock still reddened and moist from Rose’s cunt. Faces were covered by falling hair or buried deep in a wide open glistening snatch. Amy kicked off the sheets and for a second I saw her lying there, stretched out in a pose, and was able to properly admire her for the first time – she had high, round breasts that pointed upwards, a perfectly flat waist, a neatly-clipped landing strip of hair left vertically on her pubis. Appraising her roommate and now sexual sparring partner, Rose gave a quick snort and giggled slightly.

‘You look like Charlie Chaplin down there,’ she said. I mention it just to capture the general spirit of the thing: everyone was going at it full tilt, sure enough, but there was still enough time left over for a laugh and a hug.

Anyway, things went on from there: I remember Rose kissing me and saying she wanted to do all the things in bed I’d ever dreamt a woman could do – as though she hadn’t already – and not long after that she was kneeling on the bed naked, only in high black boots, lapping between Amy’s legs, and after that Amy herself was sucking my cock and Rose was saying, ‘Don’t come. Not yet! I want you in me back there’, and at that Amy was spreading the dark-brown flesh of Rose’s buttocks so I could slip my cock in and as I did so she gave a jerk like that of a horse kicking but then yelled, ‘Yes! More!’

In the morning, Amy was gone. For once, sunshine was streaming through the window and Rose was lying beside me with a smile on her face.

'Hello, lazybones,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ll be fit for duty tonight. Meanwhile, I’ve got to go,’ she said, abruptly throwing back the bedsheet.

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