Her breeding almost looked romantic

The towel was a pointless gesture in the end.

Anna held it clamped between her thighs, one hand pressed flat over it. Damp through in under a minute — a dark spreading patch on the grey cotton. She laughed at herself, balled it up, and dropped it on the floor besides the sofa.

"Right," she said, then sat up properly. Pulled her knees together, feet under her, hands in her lap — the way she does when she's about to deliver a report on something I've been avoiding. She was still naked. The lamp was behind her; the light came through the edges of her bob until it went amber. A halo like a badly stained-glass window. Narrow bony shoulders. Her tits sat heavy in her lap, still wet at the nipples from Mike's mouth, still creased where his chest had pressed them.

"About the pill," she said. "I stopped. In March."

I sat down on the arm of the sofa.

"March."

"March." Level look. She has never once in her life looked away from a thing she'd decided to say. Her jaw is sharp — it's the first thing anyone notices about her face, that little pointed chin, the line of it — sharper still when she's braced. "You didn't ask. I didn't think it mattered. It's not like we were wearing the things out."

Mike was in the armchair with a fresh beer, still naked, one ankle propped on his knee, good sense enough to keep quiet.

"What does that mean?" I said.

One shoulder went up. "It means we find out in a month. Or we buy a box of tests in the morning and find out in a fortnight. Or it means nothing at all, and it's the cheapest scare we've ever had." She tucked the loose side of her bob behind her ear; the halo went out; her face was just her face again — pale, flushed pink across the cheekbones, one small mole sitting high on her chest below the hollow of her throat. "It's not like the idea's horrible. Is it?"

It wasn't. That was the worst of it. Not horrible at all, sitting in that lamp-lit room with the smell of her still hanging in the air, the TV flickering on mute, my best friend's come going cold in my wife's lap.

"Fifteen minutes," Mike said.

Anna looked at him.

He drank and set the bottle down on the floor. "Fifteen minutes and I'll be ready again. Then we do it properly. On the bed. Lights on. You don't get off this sofa in between."

She smiled at him. Slow, crooked, entirely without shame.

"Fifteen minutes," she said. Reached down with her toes, dragged the towel up off the floor, and spread it over her lap like a napkin.

...

The fifteen minutes passed. That's the thing about them: they passed, they were not dull, and I have thought about them since more than almost anything else that night.

Mike drank his beer. Watched her. Didn't pretend not to. Sat back in the armchair with his ankles crossed, big shoulders loose against the cushion, eyes moving over her the way a man's eyes move over a car he's thinking of buying.

Anna didn't put anything on. Wandered the room with the towel held loosely in one hand, drank a glass of water at the sink, set the glass down, and went to the bookshelf with her back to us and her head tilted, reading spines. The lamp threw her shadow long across the rug. The small of her back was still shining. Four small red crescents on her left hip where his fingers had been — bruises by morning, shaped like his fingertips.

Her legs are long, pale, and very slightly bowed. Standing still like that, she had one hip cocked, the towel hanging down the front of one thigh, doing nothing. I watched Mike watch the dimples at the base of her spine. Watched him watch her shift her weight. Watched his cock lift where it lay against his thigh, the head drawing out of the skin, thickening, standing up from the root until it lay back against his belly.

She must have heard something in the quiet — his breathing, the shift of the chair — because she turned round from the bookshelf, looked at him, then down at his lap. Her eyebrows went up.

"Already?"

"You said fifteen minutes."

"I said fifteen minutes." She came back across the rug. "It's been twelve."

"So it's nearly done."

She stood over him; the towel dropped; she didn't pick it up. She looked down at it — all of it, standing up out of his lap, thick, pale, blunt-headed, and flushed darker at the tip — her lips parted, and she swallowed.

"Go on then," she said.

She turned over.

No instruction. No hand on her back, no negotiation, no – is this all right? She simply turned over onto her knees on the sofa, put her forearms down with her cheek on the cushion, and let her back sink into it. She had to arch; the height was wrong for anything else. She leant into the arch anyway — pushed down at the chest, up at the hips — her spine curving deep and long from the nape of her neck to the base of it. A good, honest bow being strung.

Her tits hung under her. That's the thing you can't get from a photograph, however good the photograph. The weight of them. The way they pulled, settled, and swayed even when she was still; the dark nipples dragging across the cushion cover; and the small crease where each one met her ribs. The line of her belly fell away into the dip of her waist. Her ass lifted, separated, round, pale, going pink at the tops of the cheeks where she'd been sat on.

Between them her cunt was open, pink, puffed from the first round, still slick, still holding a shine that wasn't all hers. The smell came up off her into the warm room and got into the back of my throat.

Mike came round the rug behind her. Didn't hurry. Stood a moment, both palms flat on the small of her back — the whole span of it, his hands nearly meeting — just looked down at her.

Anna made a small, impatient noise into the cushion and pushed her hips back an inch.

"Needy," he said.

"Shut up and —"

He set the head of it against her and pushed. She stopped talking.

It went in far easier this time. Not easy — she was still tight, still narrow, still had to concede an inch at a time — but there was no fight in her now. Only give. The whole of her was wet with what he'd left in there. He sank half of himself in one long, steady push; the sound was thick, wet, and squelching, and a hand pulled out of deep mud. Anna's hands closed hard on the cushion cover, her shoulders came up round her ears, and her breath went out of her in a rush.

"Ohh," she said. "Oh, that's — oh."

He drew back, pushed again, and took the rest. Flush. All the way — hips to her ass, balls settling against her. She grunted low in her throat, toes curling under, head going down, teeth in the cushion.

"Good girl," Mike said.

Then he started.

...

Slow at first, the way he'd done it before. Long, deep strokes out of her, long, deep strokes back in, the sofa rocking with each one. Her tits swung under her in a heavy pendulum, forward, back, forward, back. Her cheek rubbed the cushion. Her breath came out of her in time with it — a huff, a huff, a huff — and she pushed her hips back to meet him, taking every stroke early, wanting it deeper than he was giving.

"More," she said, muffled into the fabric. "Mike. More."

He gave her more.

Harder. The strokes shortened and drove. The wet sound came apart into separate wet slaps. The sofa leg began to lift off the floor on one side and come down again — thump, thump, thump — the shadow of the two of them jumping, jerking on the far wall. Her back arched further. Her mouth came open and stayed open; the sounds she made stopped being shaped and became noise, pure rhythm — huff, slap, thump.

Her bob had fallen forward, hanging in the cushion. I could see the back of her neck, where it was shaved close and soft, the sweat standing on it.

"You're going to make her come," I said. Don't know why I said it. Mike grinned at me over her back.

"I know," he said. Put a hand flat between her shoulder blades, pressed her down into the sofa, and fucked her harder still.

She came the first time with her face crushed sideways into the cushion. A long, rising wail, muffled, torn. Her whole body went into a shudder from her shoulders to her heels; her cunt clamped hard around him; I could see the flesh of her ass and her inner thighs flutter with it. Mike groaned and rode straight through it without slowing.

Her knees came apart on the cushion. One foot kicked up, hanging in the air.

"Ah—ah—ah—" in time with him. Then the wail broke into panting, and she dropped her forehead back down.

She barely got a breath before he did it again. Got a fistful of her hip and pulled her up off the cushion onto her hands. She hung there, head down, bob falling in her face, arms shaking, while he took her with quick hard punches of his hips, no patience left in it at all. Her tits swung violently under her. Drool ran from the corner of her mouth, hung in a thread, and broke. Her fingers splayed, scrabbling at the cushion.

Then she came again — the second time, on his cock, the second time in ninety seconds — and she shouted. A real shout, high, ragged, Ah — God — ah! Her arms gave out entirely. She went back down flat, ass still up, cheek grinding into the cushion, whole body trembling.

"God," she panted. "God, God, don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

He didn't.

...

He put his knees up onto the sofa behind her, got over her properly, with one hand planted by her shoulder, and really went at her.

The sofa shook hard enough to rattle the lampshade. Each stroke landed with a wet flat smack; her ass rippled with it, one cheek, then the other. Her back was shining with sweat from her shoulders to her dimples. Her hands stretched out in front of her, clawing at the cushion cover. Her voice had gone completely to pieces.

"Anna," Mike said, through his teeth. "Anna. Fuck."

She couldn't answer. Cheek flat on the cushion, eyes shut, mouth open, making a sound like she was crying. She might have been. She does that sometimes, when it's very good — it comes out of her like grief, sounds like grief, and is not grief at all.

I came round the side of the sofa, down on one knee behind them, so I could see.

And what I could see was everything.

His balls. Heavy, drawn up already, high, tight against the base of him, swinging with every drive, slapping up against her when he bottomed out. Underneath them the tube of his cock — the shaft, the whole underside of it — running from his body up into her, visibly changing. Thickening. Tightening. A pulse in it, a slow, strong beat running up the length of the tube, up, up, his whole cock jumping with it.

Anna's voice had gone to a thin, high ribbon of sound.

"Mike," she moaned. "Mike, Mike, Mike —"

"Close," he said, strangled. "Christ, Anna —"

His rhythm broke apart. Three hard, short driving strokes. Then he shoved in deep and held, and the whole of him went rigid — shoulders, back, jaw, the cords standing out in his neck — and the pulse in the tube became something else entirely. A clench. A convulsion. The length of it jumping under his skin.

His balls moved.

They drew up tight, tucked in, and lifted, and then they pulsed. Actually pulsed. Swelling, contracting against her, hard, slow, once, twice, three times, the tube beneath his cock contracting with every one — squeezing, driving, milking it up into her.

Anna's mouth came wide open.

"Ah—ah—oh God —"

The warmth of it. She must have felt it arrive. Felt it hit her, deep, where he was pressed right up against the mouth of her, flooding out around him. Her hips bucked back against him; she cried out, a broken, grateful, helpless cry; her cunt clamped down in a hard rolling wave, and she came again. Third time. From the heat of it. From being filled.

"MIKE," she yelled. "Mike — Mike — oh —"

Fourth pulse. Fifth. His hips ground in little circles against her, working himself as deep as he could possibly get, and she kept coming around him and crying his name into the cushion — "Mike, Mike, Mike" — her voice cracking in the middle of it, her legs shaking, one of them coming up off the floor entirely, hanging there.

Sixth. Seventh. Groaning steadily now, long, low, through his teeth; the pulses coming slower; she going limp under him. He pushed in one last time, held, a hard shiver running the whole length of his back.

Eighth. The last one, weak, with a twitch. His balls dropped slowly back down, loose, heavy again. His forehead came down onto the back of her neck.

The lamp buzzed. The TV flickered blue over the three of us.

Anna lay under him, breathing in short, broken little gulps. Eyes open, fixed on nothing. Face wet. Her bob stuck flat to her cheek with sweat, her mouth still hanging open, a small soft sound with each breath — the sound of a woman who has been running and has only just stopped.

She turned her head, just enough to find me, and smiled. Wrecked. Glassy. Radiant.

"Twice," she said, hoarse. "Babe. He made me come three times."

"I know."

She reached out, took my hand where it hung by my knee, pulled it in under her cheek, and held it there, both her hands wrapped round it, her fingers sticky and hot.

"Don't be cross," she said into my palm. "Look what he did to me."

...

Mike stayed in her longer than the first time. Long enough that his cock softened, slipped out of her on its own. Anna winced, pressed her thighs together fast, and lay still.

"Don't move," she said to me this time. "I mean it. This one's not going anywhere."

She got her knees under her eventually and sat back on her heels, and the towel found its way back under her. She leant her head against the back cushion, eyes closed, one hand low on her belly, pressing, the way she had the first time.

A little of it escaped anyway — a slow pale thread working down the inside of her thigh, unhurried, until it reached the towel, spread in a patch.

The room smelled of her, of him, and of the gin from earlier. The lamp buzzed. The ice in Mike's beer had melted down to water.

"Fifteen minutes," Anna said, to no one, without opening her eyes. "That's all you get. Then you're doing it again."

She reached out blindly with her foot, found his knee with her toes, and left it there.

To be continued.