Gordon Lister tilted his head backwards as far as it would go and looked along his outstretched arms. His right wrist was stuck between the sole and the heel of a shiny black stiletto and pressed into the carpet by the woman wearing it, and his left wrist was pinned down in the same way, but under a shoe which was even shinier than the other one. “What are you doing?” he asked looking upwards at the two women sat either side of him as they chinked their glasses together above his head.
“Well that rather depends on you,” laughed the woman sat cross-legged on his shins as she drank the last of her mineral water and placed the empty glass delicately on the table to her left.
“It depends on me?” protested Gordon, “I’m lying on the floor with my arms stuck under your friends’ feet and you’re sat on my legs. All I can move is my head!”
“And your tongue,” said the woman above him to the right before she doubled over in a fit of laughter and dripped red wine over his crisp white tennis top. “Sorry about that,” she said in a voice which Gordon thought was only trying to sound sincere, “but your shirt wouldn’t be stained if you taken it off before you lay down there.”
Gordon looked up at the woman grinning down at him, and then glanced down his legs to the one sat on his ankles, and then up at the tall, thin woman to his left who was silently staring down at him and licking her lips. “The thought didn’t even occur to me!” he exclaimed, even more puzzled than he had been when the women sat either side of him had carefully placed their feet over his wrists. “I’m only down here because Mrs Booth said that it would help me to stretch out after she’d beaten me at tennis. That I’d to lie back on the floor, reach backwards as far as I could and then …”
“We’d discuss the forfeit you agreed to,” interrupted the woman sat on his legs, “that’s what we played tennis for isn’t it. Forfeits?
Gordon nodded his agreement, “Well yes, but you said we’d talk about my forfeit after stretching and I’m …”
“Stretched,” she laughed, interrupting him again, “so now we’ll talk about the way you just laughed when I suggested that we play for something to make it interesting , and then made some disparaging remark about no woman being able to beat you anyway so I could have anything I wanted. Well I want this.”
“This? what exactly is this?” replied Gordon, stressing his lack of understanding.
“This,” said Corinne Booth mimicking his emphasis, “Is me getting an arrogant young man to regret his sexist attitude.”
“By pinning me to the floor with the help of your friends?”
“Not exactly,” said Corinne, grinning, “More like getting you sweat, squirm, beg, plead and grovel.” Her grin widened as she nodded towards the two women whose feet were pressing on his wrists, and after a short pause for maximum effect: “With the help of my friends, obviously.”
Gordon looked up at the two women looking down at him, and then back towards Corinne Booth who had leant forward to unfasten the small button on his tennis shorts. He didn’t know what was going on, but his instant erection caused all three women to break out into fits of giggles. “Look! He likes it!” exclaimed a voice from somewhere above and behind him, “Lets see how much!”
Corinne Booth slowly unzipped his shorts and pulled the top of his boxers towards her so that the tip of penis protruded sprang free from the elasticated waistband. “You’re right Carol, he does like it”, she said without looking up, “Maybe doing this would have been my forfeit if he’d won.”
Gordon Lister didn’t speak. He moaned as his back arched upwards while Corinne Booth ran one her fingernails into the tip of his erection, and pushed her other hand up the inside of the left leg of his shorts. “Sorry Gordon, did you want to say something?” she said softly, “would you like me to stop?”
He started to protest about what was happening, but could only stammer “I, I, I, I…” as his yearning for Corinne Booth to stop mixed with his desperate need for her to go even further, and whatever pain he’d been feeling in his wrists was replaced by an intense pressure building up in the pit of his stomach.
“Sorry Gordon,” she said again, only this time it sounded far less conciliatory, “We couldn’t make out what you said so we’ll take it that you want us to carry on. But that was your last chance….”
Corinne Booth sat on his legs and, cheered on by her friends, tormented Gordon for far longer than it had taken her to beat him at tennis. He was taken to edge of orgasm more times than he could count, and expertly prevented from ever feeling as if any sort of climax was even a possibility, and as she’d promised: he sweated, squirmed, begged, pleaded and grovelled until Corinne Booth was sure of the answer to the question she’d spent over an hour getting ready to ask.
“We’ve got a proposal for you,” she said, trying not to laugh, “We’ll let you splurt all over the place if you agree to do something for us?”
Gordon nodded furiously. “Yes, yes, anything. I’ll do whatever you want. Just stop. Or rather don’t! You know what I mean!”
“I think so Gordon, but I don’t want anything now. Getting a young man like you in a state like this is all I’ve ever wanted, but my friends here would like to know what it’s like to have a toyboy, and as you’re about half their age, you fit the bill perfectly. So will you agree to provide both of them with some …umm…. services?”
He nodded again, even more vigorously than he had before. “Yes, yes, anything!” Just let me …..” He didn’t finish speaking as Corinne Booth released her grip from around the end of his erection, moved it down his throbbing shaft and sprayed his instant ejaculation up towards her friends, laughing as the liquid landed all over Gordon’s chest. “You heard him,” said Corinne Booth standing up and looking in turn at each of her friends, “he’s all yours.”
He lay exhausted as Corinne Booth straddled him with her feet either side of his knees and ran her hands down the pleats of her white tennis skirt in a vain attempt to remove the creases. He looked down at the little white socks protruding from the top of her expensive white tennis shoes, and then glanced up her lithe, muscular legs and past the crisp white tight-fitting tennis top where he silently watched as she pushed her shoulder-length greying hair back behind her ears. She grinned down at him: “You may have won some trophy in college, but I played professionally until about 15 years ago. Won a couple of tournaments. …. did a bit of modelling …… then got married ….. changed my name …. moved here where nobody knows what I used to do. And if you’ve not been so condescending about women and sport the other day, I’d have told you why I’m dressed like this in that picture on my wall. But then you followed up the sexist stupidity with that back-handed compliment about me still keeping my figure, despite it being a long time ago, and it made me determined to teach to you a lesson.”
Gordon smiled at the memory and didn’t even notice Carol Acaster get up out of her chair, lift her short black pencil skirt with one hand, and drag her underwear down her legs with the other. He only noticed that she’d moved when she bent down to wipe his chest, but even then he didn’t notice that what he thought was a damp cloth was the black satin lingerie she’d just taken off.
He was just about to thank her, when she turned completely round, lifted her skirt up by the hem with both hands and knelt down so that her inner things pressed against his ears and her shiny black stiletto heels pressed against his arms. Carol Acaster let go of her skirt and as it fell down put her hands behind Gordon’s head, interlocked her fingers, and pulled him forwards into her. “You’ve just agreed to this,” said a stern voice above him in the darkness, “and we’ve both got husbands to get back to, so get licking!”
Gordon Lister lay in the darkness and did exactly as he’d been told: he licked.
Within minutes, Carol Acaster’s shuddering multiple orgasms had left him exhaustedly gasping for air, and soaked from his head to his waist. She staggered upwards and kicked her sodden underwear towards him: “Dry yourself again. And you can keep them if you like. I can’t put them back on now.”
He grabbed hold of the flimsy, sodden material but didn’t move. He was more exhausted that he’d ever been before in his life so lay and stared at the ceiling listening as Carol Acaster left and wondered what was going to happen next.
“I know you promised Gordon,” said the other woman, “but I think we ought to leave it for now. How about you come round to my house tomorrow? It’s at the end of this block. Number 23 with the blue door. Say 1 pm? That’ll give me all morning to get the bedroom ready.”
He nodded as vigorously as he could and stood up very slowly. He stepped towards the door, turned towards the two women smiling politely back at him, picked up his sports bag and without speaking walked out of the door, closing it gently behind him.
Gordon Lister then knelt down, opened up the sports bag and dropped Carol Acaster’s underwear on top of the old glossy periodical he’d carried everywhere ever since he’d found it in his father’s shed three weeks previously. He’d read that 15 year-old copy of Playboy many times, but never got past the erotic pictures of an almost-naked professional tennis player and the interview where she said that short of wining a major, her ambition was “to make a man sweat, squirm, beg, plead and grovel” while her friends cheered her on.
He couldn’t help but grin as he started the long slow walk home, and congratulated himself on a plan that had worked out even better than he’d dreamt: none of his fantasies had included one of Corinne Booth’s friends joining in, never mind another insisting that he go to her house the following day.
The walk home took nearly twice as long as it should have done: not because he was tired, but because he kept taking detours and trying to control his excitement imagining what the tall skinny woman was planning to do with him which would need a whole morning to get a bedroom ready…