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Fuck and Lick

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‘You have to ask Luke to fuck me, to fuck me and date me I mean’ Camille said. She blinked. Her look was entirely serious and Webster stared into her perfectly beautiful, almost elfin face in a state of awe. His wife had mentioned polyamory. She had said how refreshing the idea had seemed and now there just happened to be Luke.

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‘You have to ask Luke to fuck me, to fuck me and date me I mean’ Camille said. She blinked. Her look was entirely serious and Webster stared into her perfectly beautiful, almost elfin face in a state of awe. His wife had mentioned polyamory. She had said how refreshing the idea had seemed and now there just happened to be Luke.

‘You want an affair, with Luke’ Webster whispered. He was alreeady calculating the risk of betrayal. As far as he could tell polyamory was simply a way for some people, in this case his wife, to cheat on their partners. It was the soft landimng before you finally got dumped. 

Camille shook her head. Her lush green eyes seemed to register annoyance now and she stared at her husband beneath the fringe of strawberry blonde hair. 

‘Affairs are sordid…they are so….I don’t know, 1980s, or something’ she protested searching for images, ‘I want a relationship with Luke, an open, intimate and sustained relationship with him. I want you to encourage and nurture that…for us, foer the three of us.’ She kissed him briefly on the brow as if he had just fallen down and bruised his head. She kissed him like he was a frightened little boy.

‘You fancy Luke?’ Webster checked, although surely, now, the matter was quite obvious. 

‘Yes’ she said. 

‘You want him…in your bed?’

Another stupid question. That was obvious too, wasn’t it?

‘Yes….’ she answered and after a moment’s thought added, ‘fuck and lick. He fucks you lick.’ 

Webster flinched. Their friend Cassie had a fuck and lick relationship with a guy called Raoul and her husband Richard. Why was it that the lover always did the fucking and the husband did the licking? Webster could feel his face colouring. This was embarrassing, shocking, something out of the blue and yet something too that had simmered as a possibilty for ages as well. 

‘I could fuck, he could lick’ Webster said, ‘then you wouldn’t have to use a sheath.’

Camille smiled. 

‘Don’t be silly. He’s masculine, of course he fucks and no, I would never use a sheath with him’ she said, shaking her head and even laughing a little. 

There, she had said it. Webster was not entirely masculine. He wasn’t entirely a man and for at least some interludes in her life now, his wife, Camille, needed to go with a man. She stroked his arm and encouraged his hand down between her legs and up beneath the hem of her tiny pleated lini skirt. Webster felt how wet her sex was. It was like touching raw liver and he winced again. She started to kiss his mouth slowly, sensuously, as he felt the flesh of her labia, slipping across the balls of his fingers, anointing them with her juices. They had married because he was lovely, funny, a good earner, someone who would be an interesting companion, but never because he was sexy, masculine, you know, in that kind of way. 

‘Ask him to date me…make it easy for him, be humble’ she coaxed, moving against his hand so that her clitty slid on the hell of his hand. ‘Make it sweet and simple and sensuous…I want him, I love you, the two aren’t a bar on each other.’ 

Webster shivered against her lips, her mouth searching his. She was disarmingly beautiful. She was so well bred and he, well he had felt privileged to be so close. 

‘I want him. You have to give me to him’ she breathed in his ear. Her voice was catching now and she wa rubbing her sex softly and rhythmically against his hand. Her cunt was lathering. 

‘Capitulate to him….(she gasped), show me, your love is selfless’ she moaned. 

‘OK’ he breathed back. His head was swimming now and her sex had hardened. It was like an octupus’s beak rubbing, grinding againast his hand. 

‘Ask in front of me’ she demanded. 

‘Yes’ he promised and felt her climax. 

It was over a week later that Webster invited Luke over for drinks. They played men’s doubles tennis together, Luke superbly and he badly. Luke had joked that together they were a pretty useful partnership. He smiled tolerantly as Webster fluffed the volleys and sighed…again and again. Now, now he had a plan. He would ask Luke to partner Camille in mixed pairs tennis and of course to enter touranments, to travel as necessary, to socialise on the ammateur circuit. Camille was an aggressive and athletic tennis player. They would do very well together. That the idea lof them seeing each other sickened Webster was not in doubt. But Camille had made her demands clear. If he wasn’t willing to explore the polyamory option, then a sordid affair was inevitable. It was likely to end in tears. That evening Webster gave her the watch. It was the ladies version of the Cartier tank Americain that Luke wore. It was quite manifestly a signal. It had cost Webster nearly nine thousand pounds from a jewellers omn Bond Street. The watch looked perfect on her slim wrist and she smiled shyly. 

‘You’re ready for this aren’t you….you know that it’s inevitable’ she said as if uttering a catechism. 

‘Yes’ he said, letting the air go from him. He felt himself deflate, his eyes drop as he answered her. 

‘I’m sure that he will be nice to you, when he knows that he does all the fucking’ she said and stroke away a strand of hair from his face. 

‘Yes’ answered Webster limply. 

‘Kiss me’ she ordered and he did as she told him. At first his lips were dry but has her tongue moved in his mouth nhe responded gratefully, tenderly. 

That night his wife dressed in a figure hugging short black cocktail dress. Webster watched her roll up the sheer silk stockings with the single suggestive seam running up the back of each leg, clipping each in turn to the suspender belt straps. He watched her paint her nails perfectly, with sweeps of red lacquer across her perfectly manicured nails. 

‘You’re staring’ she told him softly. 

‘Sorry’ he said and his face coloured. Staring…he felt stupid. 

‘Lick me whilst I do my nails’ she instructed firmly. 

Webster got awkwardlhy down onto his knees. He felt an utter fool. Camille shifted forward on the vanity stool and he started to lick her bare sex. Soon it would be Luke’s to feel and to fuck. Soon it would be filled with his semen. Webster shuddered. 

‘I love that….the way you lick me’ she told him. He guessed that she wanted to run her fingers through his hair but her nails were yet wet. 

‘Your cunt….its perfect’ he said, without irony or mirth. His voice sounded hoarse, dry and yet his mouth was full of her wetness. 

‘That’s because I’m well bred’ she answered equally seriously. It didn’t sound redicullous, it didn’t sound rediculous at all. 

‘I know’ he breathed into her curlhy haired perfect, perfect muff.

‘Cunny deserves the best’ she told him soothingly, ‘that’s why you’re stepping aside for Luke.’ 

When an hour later the front door bell rang Webster made a point of answering it. He had dreaded the moment but it had to be dealt with. He had to welcome Luke over the threshold. Of course there had been conversations long ago. Locker room talk or may be something said over a beer. Camille, well Camille was not only beautiful but discerning too. Webster had inferrred that keeping up with her was something of a breathless trot. 

Luke smiled and handed him the bottle of rather fine burgundy. Webster smiled and found his gaze dropping. The man wore immaculate brogue shoes, pristine and highly polished. Their guest wore no tie but the slacks and jacket were well cut and had the air of fresh press with a scented iron. There was a smell of sandalwood Webster noted. 

‘Camille will be down in a second’ Webster said. Her entrance. The look, with her blonde hair up, the watch that Luke also wore. He shivered afresh. 

‘You’re cooking right…Camille said that you did that sort of stuff?’ 

Webster nodded. Yes, he did ‘that sort of stuff.’ 

Camille appeared. At the top of the stairs, sweeping down them gracefully and advancing towards Luke. He noticed everything her dress, her hair, the watch. Webster watched their guest soak every detail down like he was an eagle surveying the moorland. 

‘Love the Cartier’ Luke said as they kissed greeting. 

Camille’s eyes danced. 

‘I told my husband I wanted it’ she said airily. 

Webster waited with the bottle of wine in hand. He felt like a fucking goat on stage at a nativity play. 

‘Fetch Luke a drink will you’ Camille told him irritably. The usual, a ice clinking gin and tonic. 

Webster departed, dry mouthed, his head aching with the start of a tension migraine. 

The meal progressed. They started with quail’s eggs dressed in a sauce that Webster had found in a French recipe book. Perhaps the sauce was a little over seasoned, Camille challenged him. ‘Yes….yes, I think so’ he stammered. Then they moved to fillets of lemon sole, something that Webster cooked all the time. No fault this time, no fault. He sucked down a breathe of utter relief. 

‘ I was thinking’ he began his fingers rubbing anxiously againast the napklin, ‘I was thinking that this summer Luke you might partner Camille at tennis. It’s time for me to stop pretending that I’m anything but a hindrance on court.’ 

Luke started to be kind, professing that it didn’t matter so very much…

‘I wouldn’t be ashamed of feeling competitive so very much…he’s not very good at tennis Luke’ Camille observed. She glanced at her husband the judgement made. It was delivered calmly and decisively. 

‘I think that you should do the circuit, the tournaments, socialise, do the tennis thing’ Webnster hurried on. Fuck, that sounded lame. He looked at his wife expecting to see embarrassment, that she had pushed him to this. There was none. 

‘Webster has stopped pretending Luke, that he is good enough anymore’ she observed. Tennis, life, marriage, serving as a husband? Webster trembled. She rarely if ever called him ian, but ‘Webnster’ sounded strange and terribly dismissive. 

Luke nodded. He wasn’t sure what to say, but when Camille moved forward to him, he kissed her, he kissed her on the lips. 

‘Webster won’t be a problem’ she told him and kissed him lightly back. 

Fuck. Webster wanted to ball up like a hedgehog and roll away. He felt a lemon an intrusion. Sweeping up the dishes he retreated to the kitchen and leant against the worktop, sucking down breathes. The oven timer pinged. Beef wellington. Fuck! He had to prepare the vegetables, and the red wine sauce. None of that was quite ready. Furtively, anxiously, he glanced back into thde dining room imagining what he might see. They would be in a clinch. They would be necking. 

But the room was empty. 

The room was empty. 

Empty. 

Bare……

Upstairs the sound of the master bedroom door clunking shut reached his ears.

The meal was abandoned.

He had been abandoned.

Webster switched everything on the range off and stifled a tear. It had welled up in his eye and ran without direction lor purpose down his cheek. He tried to take a drink of wine but the glass shook uncontrollably. Minutes passed as he tried to compose himself and then….then upstairs the bedhead began to knock rhythmically against the wall. 

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