The Professors

Abygail needed love and affection, even recognition, but it came from an unexpected source.




An unexpected turn of events led me to a two-day shopping adventure through the lively streets of Manhattan, a desperate attempt to distract myself from the deep disappointment I felt regarding William.
I had hoped for a thrilling bond filled with chemistry and passion on this long weekend visit from England, but instead, I was left grappling with unfulfilled expectations.
My visit here had been arranged months before, and my greeting at JFK airport was only a peck on the cheek, followed by, “Hello, Abigail. Did you have a good flight?”
I felt frustrated by the lack of warmth in his greeting.
“No, I did not! The turbulence was rather disturbing and occasionally frightening.”
It was not until my last evening in New York that he revealed why he had ended our relationship. He had not been man enough to do it before. I discovered she was 38 years old, twice my age, and held the prestigious title of CEO at the company where he was employed.
The revelation of her age and professional status only added to the situation’s absurdity. Did he not see the vulnerable position he had placed himself in?
The following day, after he had left for work, I finished packing and was ready to go when I noticed a little box on the coffee table with a note beside it.
The note read, "One of these little pills will help you ‘relax and sleep’ through the turbulence."
+ + +
Disappointed and frustrated, I walked into the airport and realised that the second chapter of my life had ended, but not like the first one, which was filled with hate.
Those horrible memories of my childhood flooded back to the time I spent in the care of my aunt and uncle following the tragic car accident that claimed the lives of my parents.
Those ten years were devoid of any affection or warmth, leaving me in a state of vulnerability.
I yearned to be cherished and valued, to feel wanted, and to experience the embrace of love that seemed to elude me; even now, that feeling raises its ugly head once more.
At seventeen, I discovered an opportunity to escape my depressing family situation. Without hesitation, I seized it like a lifeline, offering me a way out of the constraints that had defined my life. I embraced my new life wholeheartedly, driven by a sense of urgency and hope.
The check-in and bag drop at JFK went smoothly, just like it was through security. Now, I look forward to grabbing a bite to eat and a drink, anticipating that many services will be unavailable during the overnight flight.
As I attempted to navigate through the bustling airport cafeteria, balancing my hand luggage and a tray filled with coffee, a sandwich, and a delectable strawberry tart topped with a generous amount of cream, disaster struck just as I reached the only empty table.
My shoulder bag slipped from my shoulder, and my cream tart splattered on the floor. Crouching while balancing everything else, I could not avoid showing a considerable amount of white thigh above my stay-up stockings while trying to clear the mess.
Amidst the incredible noise surrounding me, a gentle Irish lilt cut through the chaos. “Allow me to assist you?”
As I straighten up, a gentle hand lifts my bag back onto my shoulder.
Standing before me is a man of medium height with an inviting smile. His muscular physique exudes strength and confidence, his freckled skin and pale complexion give him an air of wisdom and resilience, and his greying hair is neatly cropped, framing his head with a touch of attractive maturity. But his deep blue eyes were something else, holding me captive, demanding attention.
He smiles, “May we have the pleasure of joining you?”
Another man accompanied him and finished cleaning up the mess I had made.
The first man smiled again. His voice was mesmerising, combining a respectful demeanour with a confident edge that naturally commanded attention. “There are no tables vacant.”
With a warm smile, I gesture towards the available seats, subtly indicating my interest and openness to engage in conversation by sharing a table.
As I watched them slide their chairs out, a wave of unexpected astonishment washed over me. To my utter amazement, they appeared to be perfect mirror images of each other. My eyes eagerly darted back and forth, searching for any minuscule difference that might set them apart. And then, the one who had extended a helping hand to me earlier flashed me a warm smile. “Allow me to introduce my twin brother. Professor Rohan Murphy. I am Cormac Murphy.”
As soon as Cormac’s hand make contact, I feel a rush of warmth and an instant connection that is impossible to describe, leaving me ultimately at a loss for words. It is as though powerful energy flows from him, creating a profound sense of closeness and understanding without verbal communication. The sensation is so intense that it is almost overwhelming, like an unspoken bond that words could not capture.
I recalled a similarly powerful force I felt after sharing my secrets with a priest when I was young. I had confessed that my uncle had touched me. The priest put an arm around me and said. “Go home, my child; it was not your fault.”
The brothers sat opposite me, and Cormac’s compelling blue eyes effortlessly pierced my defences with an overwhelming sense of authority. He speaks with a magnetic charm that resonates deeply: “We are returning home from an international conference in the lively city of New Jersey, and now we are heading back to our beloved Dublin.”
His mesmerising gaze captivates me. Its enchanting allure seems to invite me into a world I have not discovered and transports me to places beyond my imagination.
He smiles gently, knowing I am intrigued. He asks. “How long have you been in America, and if you do not mind me asking, what is your name?”
I smile. “Abigail Greyson, I am heading home, too, after visiting a friend in New York.”
With each subtle movement, I become more aware of his eyes, heightening my sense of vulnerability. The moment feels intimate and exposed, a delicate balance I navigate as I settle and tug my skirt to cover a bit of white thigh above my stocking.
Then, playfully, with a charming smile, he inquires, “How young are you?”
“Nineteen and still at art college.”
They are in their fifties and look reasonably fit. Their approach is relatively modern, and their exciting conversation makes time fly. But sadly, they excuse themselves and say goodbye, as they intend to visit the duty-free shop.
It is only minutes before my gate is called, and moments later, I settle into my window seat in the second row. The first two rows, with three seats on either side, are separated by curtains and were probably designated for first class when the plane was new.
The front row is complete, leaving two empty seats next to me and three across the aisle. I am getting excited. I may have all three seats to myself and could use them as a bed to escape my tedious journey.
A wave of unease sweeps over me. With a seven-hour overnight journey looming, I nervously watch every newcomer who steps through the door, curious about which unfamiliar face will accompany me.
As I looked around the cabin, it was clear that everyone had already made themselves comfortable for the flight, and we were all set to take off. Just then, the flight dispatcher manoeuvred past the attendant, who was on the verge of closing the door, and shouted, “Hurry!”
Two passengers emerged in the doorway, clutching duty-free bags and small suitcases. They were the twin brothers, looking breathless and a bit flustered. I was surprised to see them getting on the plane, but after thinking it over, it made sense that they likely had a connection from Heathrow to Dublin.
I attempted to catch their attention as they stowed their small cases and bags in the opposite overhead locker when the attendant indicated their seats were next to mine. I could not help but feel a surge of joy as they turned around and recognised me, greeting me with warm smiles and a friendly, “How lovely to see you again.”
The flight attendant swiftly shuts the door and proceeds to carry out the customary procedures. The three unoccupied seats on the other side are promptly utilised for various items required by the flight attendants.
I appreciate not being seated next to someone who could have nonsensical chatter or who takes up more than their fair share of space, and I make no effort to hide my happiness in the presence of the brothers who accompany me.
My only concern now is possible turbulence, which I find incredibly terrifying. Still, now I can unwind and enjoy a tranquil and soothing journey with such relaxing company.
The pills William gave me might deliver their promise of inducing a state of relaxation, allowing peaceful slumber, and without a hint of travel sickness.
The plane rattles down the taxiway, the cabin lights fading to a soft glow that heightens the sense of excitement. Everything feels like a whirlwind as the flight attendants secure themselves in their seats.
We halt, and the engines ignite with a thunderous growl, enveloping us in their roar. With a sudden surge, the plane lunges forward, the force propelling us down the runway.
I grip the armrest, with exhilaration and trepidation coursing through me. Cormac, seated beside me, notices my grip and covers my hand. His reassuring words and presence provide comfort. Together, we are lifted into the air, embarking on a journey where I will experience new horizons of sensitivity never experienced before.
We level off, and Cormac turns to me. “Are you comfortable now?”
I smile. “Yes, thank you so much.” He lets go of my hand.
The cabin staff get up from their seats, and one closes the curtains, cutting us off from others behind. We get served first, not that I want anything more than a bottle of orange juice to take a pill.
Cormac paid for it and said, “It is good to be in these seats; it was worth the extra for the legroom.”
I smiled. “I did not know; my friend paid for my ticket.”
“He must be a good friend, and I couldn’t help but notice you taking a pill.”
I chuckled and flashed him a smile. “My friend gave me them to help with my anxiety about flying and motion sickness. He said it would certainly relax me.”
I twist excitedly in my seat to see the twinkling lights below as the plane banks, but the city fades as we head towards the sea. I noticed my white thigh was showing above my stocking top, and I saw Cormac glancing down from the corner of my eye. I could not help but wonder if his expression held disapproval, but William always wanted me to look this way. I think he was hooked on black stockings and a twinkle of thigh.
After serving refreshments, the cabin crew tidied up before turning the lights off, which was perfect for passengers to unwind and get some sleep. The crew members retreat to the back of the plane, most likely to engage in friendly conversation.
The closed curtains behind us made our area rather cosy, and cabin staff would only pass if the flight crew required refreshments.
As my eyes became accustomed to the directional floor lights, everyone in front of us began to settle down for a peaceful slumber. I leaned my head against the window, seeking a small measure of comfort, and found myself relaxing, drifting in and out of sleep. The gentle hum of the aircraft and the soft darkness enveloped me, creating a serene atmosphere that allowed my mind to wander and dream.
But there is a jolt of the plane that nobody else seems to feel. Perhaps I am a little oversensitive, but looking down at myself, I see my skirt has rucked up to show a considerable amount of white thigh. One thing is for sure: I am cold and regret stashing my coat in the overhead compartment. The cold envelops me, a stark reminder of the very low temperatures outside. It seeps into my bones and makes my nipples quite prominent under my thin dress.
Cormac, who I thought was dosing, caught me looking at myself and spoke. “Come, sit in the middle; it is too cold for you there.”
After raising the armrest, I stood as his hands gently held my waist, moving me sideways as he shuffled into the window seat. This subtle interaction created an undeniable awareness, igniting a spark that hinted at something more profound.
The public address system comes to life as the seat belt light sign illuminates. The captain speaks. “Unfortunately, we are approaching some bad weather. We will be skirting around the storm the best we can, but there will still be turbulence. Please remain seated with your seat belt fastened; it could be bumpy.”
Cormac reached past me to shake Rohan, who was sleeping. “Your seat belt.”
As he drew back his hand, it brushed the front of my dress, and with that rare clarity that only settles on mere mortals every once in a blue moon, I realised he had purposely grazed my erect nipples under my dress, sending a little shock through my body.
As the turbulent bumps are more pronounced, I search the seat pocket for a “sick bag.” The turbulence will undoubtedly affect me, although I feel very relaxed. Going out to New York was bumpy, and we did not even get a warning then, so I feared this would not be good. I ease the bag up a little for quick use if needed.
I think another pill is a good idea, and as I take it, Cormac comments. “Should you have taken another one?”
“Perhaps not.” I smile.
I ask myself if it is only in the mind; my body already feels incredibly relaxed. Rohan, who is in the aisle seat, notices the blankets and little pillows on the empty seats opposite, obviously left out for passengers to use. He gets a pillow and blanket for each of us.
Cormac pushes his pillow into the curve of the window, pulls his blanket over himself, and says, holding his hand out. “Come, lean against me.”
A wave of hesitation washed over me, yet I could not ignore the changing inclination towards his invitation with a beating heart. With the armrest raised, everything felt effortless. I nestled against his warm chest while drifting into sleep. I dreamt of William and how he woke me up in bed, his hand softly caressing my breast, so warm and gentle.
A jolt of the plane breaks the dream, and I realise that now I am entirely in Cormac’s arms but still half asleep with blurry eyes, my head still nestled on his chest. Only then do I realise it is Cormac’s warm hand caressing my breast under the blanket. He must have triggered the dream, and unbelievably, his brother's hand moves between my thighs gently, and for some inextricable reason. I willingly let him move my legs wider while realising the two pills must be making me passive.
I was confused by the perception that my body was no longer mine, although intense sensations coursed through me while I experienced profound relaxation under their warm touch. Waves of desire began to envelop me in a mist of serenity and tranquillity, my body somewhat immobilised but very responsive to heightened desire.
Rational tries to prevail by thinking the pills that William left me are not merely sedatives but probably his party pills, and have I made a huge mistake by taking two of them?
I try lifting my head off Cormac’s chest but somehow cannot do so, let alone gain control. My body feels so relaxed and indolent, except for all the sensations they impose on it. Every touch they make is somehow incredibly arousing; it must be the pills, as I have never felt like this before.
Trying to think is difficult, so I succumb to my incredible feeling of a weightless, warm body, which they must have found impossible to resist. My eyes meet his steely blue as he gently cradles my head in his arm, drawing me into his comforting embrace.
I attempt to shift, yet I find myself unable to do so. However, the warmth of his reassuring gaze envelops me in a comforting embrace, instilling a profound sense of safety. The gentle brush of their hands sends waves of electrifying sensations through me, drawing me deeper into the sincerity of our connection, where unspoken words create a sanctuary of understanding.
I nestle my head deeper with a contented little sigh of pleasure as he pulls the blanket over us. He unfastens the top two buttons of my dress to free my breasts with only a murmur from me.
They are not rushing; we have hours.
He caresses my breasts so tenderly, even cups them as though he is weighing them against each other. It feels so lovely, so warm, so comforting in my haze of surging stimulation, his hand so tactile, gently moving from one to the other while brushing engorged nipples.
Now, I feel the bottom buttons of my dress being unfastened. I tense a little in his arms.
He whispers in a messianic tone, “Go back to sleep.”
I cannot deny the overwhelming urge to sleep, but sensorial stimulation rises through my spine and into my neck before spreading over my breasts. The sound of the jet engines is comforting, covering my little moans. I see only blurry objects and shapes. Closing my eyes brings comfort as my legs are gently pushed wider, and I do not remember my bikini briefs being taken off.
A sense of calm washes over me as thoughts drift effortlessly in my mind. The soft, gentle caresses comfort me, and I feel wonderfully secure nestled in his arms. The tendrils of craving start to build as fingers between my legs work slowly and purposefully, stroking me, bringing blood to my outer lips until they plump up to make their passage easier. Now they plunge and scoop fluidly, making my clit stand proud from under its hood, seeking recognition.
My body is starting to float in a haze of sensual pleasure as fingers manipulate my rigid nipples, others scoop between swollen lips below. A finger and thumb cruelly crush an engorged nipple, and my muffled, strangulated cries vibrate under the palm of his hand. Rohan follows his cue, flicking my clit sideways against its rigidity before returning to my soddened depths.
Opening my eyes, I look up at him again. He smiles and whispers, “Everybody is sleeping. Close your eyes, let it happen.”
Their approach changes as though they are silently communicating with each other.
Cormac's hand covers my mouth before he squeezes each nipple in turn. Many other fingers below play skilfully, scoop fluidly, making it trickle onto my thigh. A new awareness of a wriggling wet thumb teasingly plays over my perineum; an interchange takes place. The thumb pushes on my rose once, twice, before my body capitulates, eliciting a prolonged moan as it finds its depth without a murmur of dissent.
Cormac's hand leaves my breasts and brushes down over my belly and over my pubes to join the hand already there. More animated fingers plunged noisily into my soddened depths, ludicrously stretching me. It seems surreal as fingers compete for space until some leave, going further under my body.
Exquisite feelings and sensations dart up my spine from a fiery groin, and my legs tremble uncontrollably as my back arches. His firm hand covers my mouth as my body shudders convulsively through a spasmodic orgasm.
His hands hold my head so lovingly as he whispers, “Good girl.”
I fall asleep once more. Perhaps I am still sleeping; it has all been a mystical dream. But my throbbing hot body disputes that thought.
Slowly, I become aware of my hand being moved up and down. It feels hot and a little gelatinous, wrapped around a stiffening hardness that can only be one thing. I open my eyes. Everything is still hazy, including his erection. I look up at him. His lips are parted, and his breathing is increasing as it starts to throb, urging my hand demandingly.
He says with bated breath. “Slow and easy, and a little more underneath.” All this is happening as Rohan wipes between my legs, my thighs, and my cheeks, making me wonder if he has released himself.
Are my perceptions false or real? It is all deliciously confusing when Cormac whispers, “Give me your hand.”
It is also a little frightening to realise how submissive I have become by giving him my hand. He salivates copiously into it before guiding it back onto himself.
My physical awareness gradually returns, and I am increasingly tuned to my surroundings. Those in front of us are sound asleep; one is gently snoring. The remaining three in the front row across the aisle also seem to be sleeping. A quick look over my shoulder brings relief, seeing the curtains still tightly drawn.
I begin with long, smooth, slippery strokes, listening to his murmurs of pleasure. It feels surreal to be masturbating a man in a haze of whirling confusion with this mesmeric encounter. My long, slow, loving strokes are increasing his breathing, and he is becoming more rigid. His body stiffens, and the first hot gush spurts into his covering hand while he stifles his groans. I was so intent and fascinated by watching his other releases that I failed to notice his slithering wet hand over my breast until it caught a rigid nipple. He was massaging copious amounts of his cum all over my breast.
Cormac heads off to the WC, likely to freshen up, and Rohan passes me for the window seat, his fingers passing under my noise with my bodily scent. He smiles without uttering a word.
Cormac returns, and I start to button my dress. His hand stops me. “Nobody can see, and it excites us.”
It is Rohan who draws me into his arms now and says. “You need some sleep.”
It is somewhat surreal waking up again to feel sensations flying around my body once more, legs open, and scooping fingers between my sore and swollen lips. It is only moments before they start to feed the fire building within. A thumb underneath thrusts through my partially open rose, but only to be withdrawn so slowly, so tenderly, giving such incredible sensations.
Rohan plays with my breasts as Cormac’s fingers and thumb delve deeper, sending my body wild with his spirited thrusts, working, stretching, demanding a way to unimaginable depths.
They know that I am coming again. My back arches as my orgasm rips through my shuddering body, my legs trembling, gasping for breath so intensely that I swoon.
I slowly regained myself from the intensity and furore of this second encounter, still resting in Rohan’s arms. Then, to my disbelief, he says. “Now, just relax with me a little before you go to sleep again,” he said, unzipping his trousers.
Rohan’s hand pulls my head into his lap, pushing his erection into my face and whispers. “Please.”
He pushes through my lips, which wrap around him tightly, making him groan. It gives me a sense of power over him, although his considerable girth stretches me to the limit. It smells so sensual and tastes salty as he groans quietly with each deepening thrust, pushing my head further down. I enjoy his little groans as my tongue flicks his frenulum, reflected in his excitable breathing, but when I rub my teeth over it, his whole body jerks.
Cormac, unbelievably, is kneeling between my legs, sucking, tugging, and sending me wild. My lips feel so swollen and sore as he sucks them deep into his mouth, then pushes them out again with his tongue. It is so surreal and hard to believe this is happening.
Rohan distracts me from that, holding my head firmly down, wanting deeper sensations. Slowly he moves in and out of my mouth as I suck, taking him a little deeper each time, but he wants me to take more. He bends right over me, and his lips touch my ear. “Swallow, dam it, swallow.”
But my jaw is stretched to the limit and aching, and his length is impossible, but now my groin is in the ascendancy, fired up, and Cormac is getting me there again. Rohan’s helmet is pushed into my throat as my nose nestled into the fabric of his trousers. A sense of being trapped and engulfed washed over me with my head held down.
Cormac was making me come again; my thighs shook as my back arched with such vibrant pleasure, its total energy bursting from my groin, tingling up my back and over my breasts.
My body flops into total relaxation, which is when Rohan seizes his opportunity. He expertly inclines my head a little before thrusting decisively, making me swallow the entirety of his throbbing hardness. He groans with pleasure, feeling the tightness of my throat.
His first gush races up to spurt down my throat, and his second and third sultry releases are surprisingly strong. His hand releases the pressure on my head but insists on me staying there as his size diminishes, and when he withdraws, my lips gently close around him to clean.
His hand caresses my face so lovingly as he speaks. “That was so wonderful.”
Rohan lifts my head onto his heaving chest, still breathless from his release. He holds me close, and I feel the tremors running through his body.
It is Cormac who wipes me this time, gently and carefully. My orgasm was so different, a little quirky, a missed step, a missed heartbeat, then calm.
My shoulder is gently shaken, and I hear Cormac repeat himself. “Wake up, Abigail, it is nearly morning. Go to the WC before the rush starts.”
I must have slept for hours, and everything became focused, even the unbelievable thoughts of what happened. I anxiously looked to see that all those in the front row were still sleeping. One was snoring. The curtains behind us were still closed, giving me immense relief from not having to bear any embarrassment.
My dress is buttoned up, and I am wearing my pants. I felt a little shaky standing up; my dress rubbed over inflamed nipples, and my pants were too tight over my sore labia.
After ensuring the door was securely locked, I turned to the plastic mirror, bracing myself for the worst. I anticipated a dishevelled and chaotic image that would mirror my inner turmoil. Surprisingly, the face staring back at me was not as disastrous as I had imagined. I wondered again if it had been a dream, but undressing, which was not easy, and washing the smelly and swollen labia refuted that notion.
It is hard to understand how it happened so convivially and without a word of protest, but it is becoming increasingly clear how much they had satisfied me. I leaned on the hand basin with my hands, looking into the mirror, bisecting my feelings. Those weird and beautiful sensations keep remerging in my mind, and my total involvement cannot be denied.
I touch my jaw and am immediately aware of my tender throat, never imagining that would be possible. My nipples look incredibly red and sore. But there is relief that I have managed to get clean and smell presentable in such a confined area, and I am now ready to emerge confidently into the cabin.
There was an urgent knock on the door, and I did not have time to put my stockings on—not that I really wanted to—because they were soiled around the tops.
Opening the door, I see an old man hopping from one foot to the other. I smile.
Passengers are starting to stir; their blinds are being pushed up, and cabin staff have pulled back the curtains. They prepare to serve drinks and roll as the sun blazes through the windows, announcing another day.
Sitting with soreness but also contentment that I have never experienced before asks many questions about pain before pleasure. However, I am uncertain if I belong to that category of individuals one often reads about but never encounters in real life.
Both the brothers look very concerned and ask in unison. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, and no! I feel wonderful but very sore.”
As we prepare to part ways in the bustling arrival concourse, we share a handshake as they kiss my cheek, bringing a light-hearted chuckle to my lips. It has been such an intimate experience, encapsulating our time together.
Cormac says, “Our paths may never cross again unless you give us your telephone number. You were delightfully acquiescent. We will never forget you.”
Further contact is out of the question, and they look over their shoulders to wave.
Reflecting on my journey, I thought about it in the harsh light of day. I could not help musing that the surreal experience had only been a dream-filled fantasy, but my body refuted that as I flopped down on a seat to wait for my friend. Gemma, tired and sore. I had to adjust my sitting position for a little more comfort.
I see Gemma weaving through the jostling crowd as others look for loved ones and relatives. She rushes and embraces me, saying, “I have missed you.”
I laugh. “I have only been away on a long weekend.”
Looking at me a little strangely. “Was the flight not too good?”
A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips as I say. “‘It was wonderful.”
As we made our way to the car with all my extra luggage, she looked closely at me to say.
“You seem buoyant and alive despite appearing tired.”
As we left the airport, a torrent of thoughts and memories surged uncontrollably through my mind. I was lost in a labyrinth of contemplation, consumed by the vivid and exhilarating experiences I had encountered. The thrills and sensations replayed in my consciousness like a captivating film, evoking a profound sense of awe and wonder.


Chapter Two
My disastrous weekend in New York with William was buried and has been off my radar for the past few months, but the return journey is undoubtedly constantly in my mind. Sometimes, I find it hard to believe that it all happened, but the greater significance is, without a doubt, that I encouraged the two brothers with little moans and whimpers.
Now, I must admit that life has become a tad monotonous. However, amidst this mundane routine, the art college injects much-needed vitality into my days. What truly captivates me is the unwavering passion and admiration that one of my fellow students has for me, which always uplifts my spirits.
Many of my classmates view him as quite the prize. He has all the appealing qualities: wealth, attractiveness, and a captivating charm. However, I perceive his lack of experience as somewhat juvenile and not particularly thrilling in a physical sense.
His growing tendency to dominate the circumstances and people in my life becomes increasingly disconcerting as time goes on. Throughout my thoughts, I have consistently conveyed my firm conviction that nurturing any connection with this student would not flourish. The main reason behind this belief stems from my perception of him as lacking in sensual stimulus. Considering the vibrant nature of my current lifestyle and my inclination towards older men, compatibility with the student is impossible.
Chloé, another friend who once regularly participated in my weekend plans, has become scarce lately due to her new boyfriend taking complete control of her. Her absence is keenly felt, especially since she was my closest friend when I moved away from my family.
Fortunately, I met Greg; he truly transformed into my hero. He allowed me to do freelance artwork for his business and achieve financial independence while sharing an apartment with Gemma.
He is a family man with an adorable wife and children. I am occasionally invited over for a meal.
Just now, I am engrossed in a myriad of projects alongside Greg. It is incredible how we always manage to stumble upon intriguing ideas together, and witnessing his remarkable achievements in the business sphere is nothing short of inspiring. The beauty of assisting him is that I gain valuable experience, improve my financial stability, and acquire knowledge.
I was having a weekend meal at his home when he suddenly mentioned that he needed assistance with a project, and it would require me to stay over for two nights and take a day out of college. Janis could not suppress a playful smile, her eyebrows arching in curiosity as she inquired, “Should I be feeling jealous?”
Laughter bubbled between us as Greg shook his head in amusement. He had intentionally brought it up in her presence, knowing full well that jealousy was unwarranted. He possessed a heart full of generosity, and his unwavering kindness opened the door to a new beginning for me, reflecting his deep admiration for his wife.
I felt an overwhelming urge to jump up and embrace him, but that wouldn’t have been appropriate as he detailed the artwork he needed. The thrill was almost too much to handle, and it would help me maintain my financial independence at such a young age.
He connected with a well-known Irish writer who, tired of the conventional book covers typically used for his works, approached Greg’s company in search of fresh ideas. The author is looking for initial designs that incorporate straightforward yet striking typography.
I will be there to rough sketch any of the client’s changes to my artwork if they arise. They would only be in pencil and charcoal but could move the proposed lucrative contract forward. The author has also raised an interest with his publishing company, which has excited Greg.
I ask, “Where in Ireland will we meet the author?”
“Dublin.”
A surge of apprehension courses through me, while at the same time, my groin sends shivers up my spine that leave me flushed and abashed. It is as if an unseen force has taken hold of my being, demanding complete submission that is unescapable from sensual thoughts.
My body language makes Janis’s hand touch mine. “Are you okay? I thought you were so enthusiastic, but now I can see you have reservations. Why?”
I lied. “I am not good at flying. I cannot go, although I would love to help Greg and need the rent money.”
They both laugh, and she says, “You have even flown the Atlantic? " She raises her hands enquiringly. “I don’t understand.”
I felt like saying, “God, I just cannot go there!”
Others would think it was childish and premature. Dublin is a capital city with over a million people. But that thought does not alleviate the snake uncoiling in my stomach or stop those tendrils of extraordinary feelings from creating a rather damp patch. The memories of that encounter still send shivers up and down my spine, filling me with exhilarating excitement, knowing how wrong it was. The insane thought of another encounter is terrifying while strangely enrapturing.
Greg continues, quizzically looking at me with a crinkled forehead, “The flight is just over an hour.” He laughs. I will hold your hand if you would like. You will be fine, and it will not be all work.”
His enthusiasm erupts about Trinity College, Ireland's oldest university and home to the famous Book of Kells, a must-see for anyone visiting Dublin. He explains that intricately decorated manuscripts dating back to the 9th century are stunning examples of medieval art displayed in the college's old library. He has read that the library is a sight to behold, with its towering bookshelves and impressive collection of rare books and manuscripts.
Janis covers my hand once more. “Please help. He thinks your imaginative work is invaluable.”
I nod. “Okay.”
They smile, and I realise my initial reactions to Dublin were hasty and lacked thorough consideration. They failed to acknowledge the city’s vastness and the absurdity of accidentally meeting the brothers.
Returning to my apartment filled with the thought of an exciting weekend away was beautiful and financially beneficial, as Greg was always generous when I produced good work.
At bedtime, I was filled with an undeniable restlessness, thinking about Dublin and the brothers. A whirlwind of energy had taken hold of me; my hand slipped between my legs, and my fingers parted my lips to slide into a deluge, but I knew how much better it would be when I arched my back before flopping in total satisfaction.
+ + +
When we arrived at our hotel in Dublin, it was pretty late, so we decided to eat in, which was disastrous. The food, albeit good quality, was tasteless and somewhat disappointing. During the rest of the time at the table, we discussed where to eat the following night. I went to my room early, leaving Greg to look at various restaurants in the city and possibly run through his presentation once more. This one is crucial, and I know the weight of expectation presses hard on him.
On our first morning in Dublin, we visited Ireland’s number one attraction, “The Guinness Storehouse” – a gleaming multimedia exhibition on everything from retro advertising to the craft of brewing. After our Guinness lunch, which included savoury stew and chocolate pudding, not to mention dark stout, it took quite a while to restart our sightseeing day.
Now we stand to look at the Book of Kells, preciously protected under glass. Seeing the craft and design of the ornate Latin text and intricate illustrations is unique. The book’s artistry envelops us, but behind me, a voice captures my attention. I listen intently as that distinctive voice gets louder. It drifts over my shoulder from behind with its melodic tone and distinctive drawl. It sends shivers down my spine, causing my heart to race with excitement and trepidation.
With a gritty determination, I glance over my shoulder, scanning the bustling crowd in search of the source of the captivating voice that reached my ears. Unbelievably, and to my astonishment, I see Professor Cormac. I feel weak, dizzy, and close to losing consciousness, watching his figure exuding authority and wisdom, standing amidst a group of six young individuals who could easily be university students. The air surrounding them appears to crackle with an electric intensity as Cormac passionately imparts his message, effortlessly holding their undivided attention in the palm of his hand.
When his attention turns to a particular student, he sees me, our eyes lock, and in that instant, a profound and intense reconnection is rekindled.
It is as if time stands still.
Our eye contact becomes so mesmerising that it transcends me. An overwhelming surge of emotions chaotically surges through me. I instinctively reach out unquestioningly to a nearby display case, seeking support as a whirlwind of feelings rush through my body.
Our eyes do not waver. A student speaks to him, but he does not hear. She repeats her words, but our eyes and minds are locked, and it is only when Greg touches my arm and asks, “Are you feeling faint? You look so white.”
The spell is broken, but I still clutch the display cabinet.
I stutter some semblance of words to Greg, not recognising my voice. But wild horses cannot prevent me from looking over my shoulder again. Cormac excuses himself from the students and starts walking towards me, and a furore of sensations races around my body again, and my legs feel like jelly.
He smiles and stands at my side.
I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “What are you doing here?”
He smiles benevolently as his blue eyes penetrate my soul and seem to elevate me above the ground I stand on. “Do you not think that should have been my question? I live here.”
He laughs, lightly touching my shoulder, sending an extraordinary sensation to every sinew of my body; he has no idea what that little connection does as I try to smile. “Of course, how stupid of me.”
“You are far from stupid, and even I cannot express what a delight it is to meet you once more.”
Greg is interested now that he sees him speaking with me, and I have no option but to introduce them.
I turn to Greg. “This gentleman, Greg, accompanied me on my journey back from the States. ‘Professor Cormac Murphy—Greg Mason.’”
They shake hands warmly, and he asks about his visit to Dublin before discussing the finer points of the Kells book, leaving me in a dithering state. His eyes lock on me again while he holds my hand, “It is such a pleasure bumping into you again.”
His firm hand immediately sends exhilaration through my hot, quivering body; my armpits feel tacky, even knowing that the temperature in this room is strictly under control.
Cormac says to Greg, squeezing my hand. “I was truly fortunate to meet Abigail with my brother; it was an eventful and interesting flight, and I learnt so much.”
My brow furrowed as I looked at him. I did not know what he was up to, nor did Greg, until he said, “Her Catholic upbringing was genuinely fascinating.” He knows he is stirring my senses by making me uncertain, but he continues to chat with Greg, which worries me.
I intercede. “Perhaps you students require your input?”
“No,” he said. “I told them I needed to speak with someone important and gave them an early finish.”
Greg looked a little confused at me, realising my demeanour had changed. My legs started to tremble while I still sought support.
Even though I keep reflecting on the incredible events of that unforgettable night in the sky, I find it challenging to grasp its profound influence on me. The memories are etched in my mind, but the complete understanding of what transpired continues to evade me.
They chat away as sensations race around my body, still remembering. Cormac inquires why we are here. I stare at the glass case in front of me, speechless and in a haze of uncertainty. They return to Kell’s book to discuss its merits. Cormac stands close behind me, not touching me but making me quiver. He speaks melodiously to Greg as my mind plays tricks on me.
Their conversation fades as I bring back the memories of him touching me, his fingers in my mouth, his warm hand on my breast, so gentle and comforting. His hand massaging cum on my breast, and oh yes! His hands, front and back, between my legs, sending me wild.
I feel lightheaded and nauseous, with a visual “grey out “ and a gathering dampness. Their conversation is so distant, and my vibrations make me feel weak and sweaty.
Greg’s voice sounded distant as he repeated his question, “Are you not well, Abigail?”
I mustered a smile and replied, “I am okay, thanks,” nodding in affirmation. However, deep down, I felt like I was on the verge of fainting, and my legs were trembling as if they were about to give out beneath me.
Cormac’s grey-blue eyes penetrate mine so knowingly. “Come, Abigail, a coffee shop is just around the corner.”
His kind but authoritative voice cannot be denied, even by Greg.
Sitting in a haze beside him, I barely registered the animated conversation with Greg at the table, still in disbelief that we had met him. I am one person out of the 1.5 million people who live here. It must be fate, and it is undoubtedly blasphemous to call it “divine intervention.”
The conversation flowed smoothly, but unfortunately, my panic attack affected my hearing, causing me to grasp only bits and pieces of what they were discussing.
My whole body is having a strange reaction, and feeling the disgusting wetness gathering between my legs is a testament to that. When I vaguely hear Greg recounting our dreadful dinner from the previous night, my attention sharpens when Cormac enthusiastically interjects: “You simply must join us tonight! I will not accept a refusal. I can introduce you to my esteemed brother; and our housekeeper is a remarkable chef. Mrs. O’Brian truly excels in both her cooking and her warm hospitality.”
Immediately, my mind whirls desperately, finding a suitable excuse as I join the conversation coherently and address Cormac. “Thank you so much, but unfortunately, we cannot. Greg has already booked a table for us at a restaurant for this evening. It is indeed a generous invitation, which we truly appreciate.”
Greg puts his hands together in a holy gesture. “I am sorry, Abigail. I completely forgot to book a table.”
Cormac’s hand glides onto my thigh under the table, finding its place just above my stay-up stockings. With a firm grip, he holds onto my bare, clammy skin, exerting a pressure that commands my silence.
He leans across the table, still holding my thigh, but a little higher, to say.
“What is your favourite meal, Greg?”
Greg smiles wilfully. “Beef Stroganoff.”
“Sobeit. I will ring Mrs O’Brian immediately. She is a fine cook, and you will not be disappointed. Also, I have a Nuits Saint George 2017. You might know it as a hearty red wine with substantial tannins, a distinct earthy note, and a long, fruity finish, which I am sure you both will enjoy.”
Greg’s lips are practically perceptible, and he is excited at the mere idea of savouring the rich flavours of such a fine wine. It probably makes his mouth water. “Thank you, Cormac, for your generous invitation.“
Cormac fixed his gaze on me with his deep blue eyes, renewing that tingling feeling up my spine, and there was another little movement of his hand on my bare thigh. His little finger stretched out and slipped under my panties, making me conceal my gasp with a cough. I am a trembling mass of memories, but I conclude with some relief that there is no possible way he can extend his lustful activities while Greg is present.
I vaguely hear Cormac say. “Good, that is settled.”
He turns to me. “I have a little request, Abigail.”
My heart skips a beat.
“Please bring your sketching equipment. I have a little project if you have time.”
My heart races with panic as my eyes dart back and forth, searching desperately for any sign of an alternative arrangement. I catch a glimpse of Greg, but his smile only adds to my anxiety. I can see the anticipation building in both men, but for entirely different reasons. My apprehension rises considerably.
I desperately make another last-ditch attempt by addressing Greg. “We should not impose on the generosity; such short notice might annoy Mrs O’Brian!”
Cormac’s warm hand moves over my labia under the table. “Nonsense, my child. It will be a pleasure for me and brother Rohan.”
His calm, confident voice is so definitive, his soft lilt seems hypnotic, and memories of his brother are just as acute for me.
I feel like I am melting into my seat when Cormac says to Greg. “Shall we say 7 for 7.30? I must go now. Just ask the driver to take you to the ‘Woodlands’; it is not far from your hotel.”
+ + +
Going up in the hotel lift, I say to Greg. “I think I will wear trousers tonight.”
He looks at me, astonished. “Have you brought any?”
My inner turmoil seems to go unnoticed once more; he appears entirely unaware of my doubts and hesitations. His focus is consumed by anticipating his favourite dish, emphasising Cormac’s remarkable insight and intelligence. The way Greg savours the thought of that meal highlights a certain obliviousness to its complexities, leaving me even more isolated in my uncertainty.
Greg touches my shoulder. “You said you would wear the burnt yellow short dress with the buttons, the one you bought in America, and black stockings with black high heels, which would be fantastic. It gives me a buzz accompanied by a beautiful girl.”
I should have laughed and been pleased, but I groaned inwardly. That is just what the brothers would want, but I reprimand myself with my immature thoughts.
Nothing could happen. Greg will be there.
Revengeful satisfaction emerges in my thoughts as I shower, I will be untouchable with Greg at my side. I intend to look my teasing best, tie my hair to one side, and apply my perfume to my neck, my wrists, and the backs of my knees. I slip on silk lace pants in Jade Aqua and stay-up black stockings, then button up my dress over my naked breasts. I have only worn the dress once before, but I remember it was not too revealing, even being braless begs the question.
A knock echoes from my hotel room door. When I open it, Greg is there, his mouth agape and his gaze fixed on me. "You look breathtaking, Abygail," he breathes, clearly taken aback.
As Greg and I rode down in the lift, I noticed his gaze lingering on me with admiration. I had utterly entranced him, yet my sole aim was to tease the distinguished brothers with a taste of enticing forbidden allure.
The porter summons a cab for us.
Revenge in my heart, I cannot stop myself from secretly undoing the top button of my dress, even knowing I am braless.
The cab driver was somewhat surprised when Greg asked for ‘Woodlands.’
He asks. “Do you mean Professor Murphy's house?”
I answer nonchalantly. “Yes.”
He still looks in his mirror, which worries me, although there is not much traffic, and he speaks. “The word is that Professor Cormac will soon be Chancellor.”
Driving through the tall stone gate pillars, we are greeted by the breathtaking view of their house. Its grandeur is such that it could easily rival the estates of an English Lord or Duke, exuding an air of elegance and sophistication that captivates me completely.
A maid answers the door as Cormac rushes to greet us. I have already told Greg that the brothers are nearly identical twins, but I pointed out that Cormac has a little scar over his right eye.
Rohan arrives. “Please come this way. We have a nice fire for you in the drawing room.”
As I cross the threshold, an immediate sense of alertness envelops me, creating an almost mystical atmosphere that plays with my mind and emotions. The environment seems to breathe an energising confinement, as though one is leaving behind the chaos of the outside world and entering an ambience of sensuality.
The space exudes a gentle warmth, encouraging you to pause and reflect, allowing your thoughts to wander like leaves moving softly on the ground.
The magnificent fireplace commands attention, adorned with a grand mantelpiece with intricate designs. The warm glow of the flickering flames casts a captivating dance of light, beckoning me to draw nearer. I cannot resist sitting carefully on a low footstool at the side of the fire with my legs sideways, managing any sight of white thighs above my stocking tops.
Cormac touches my shoulder. “What can I get you to drink?”
Just an insignificant touch of his hand ignites a fluttering in my stomach. My heart races unprecedentedly as I try to say it calmly. “A Campari would be wonderful, thank you.”
He turns. “And you, Greg, perhaps a whiskey
to start. I have something rather special. A Jack Daniels Sinatra.”
Greg says. “Thank you, that sounds rather good.”
Rohan may be the quieter of the two brothers, but his contribution during the overnight flight was just as significant as his brother’s. It was evident that despite his reserved nature, he played his part effectively during our journey.
He comes back with my drink, hovering above me. He extends it while keeping it out of my reach intentionally, forcing me to lean in, making my cleavage deeper.
Greg’s drink is undoubtedly significant, as is mine, and we chat about various things. Cormac suggests how much we would enjoy Dublin with a more extended stay.
While I leisurely sip my drink, the flames dance before me, casting a fascinating glow that adds to the room's cosy ambience. The combination of the comfy fire and the delicious Campari creates a perfect moment of contentment as the men chat and drink their whiskey.
A maid in black with a white apron appears around the door.
“Ten minutes, Professor.”
Cormac nods and picks up Greg's empty glass. “Another one, Greg. We can take them through with us.”
As we entered the dining room, I was surprised to find Rohan beside me. He launched into an elaborate tale about the house's history, emphasising his father's impressive success in the real estate business.
The arrival of the large lady carrying trays of mouthwatering food breaks his somewhat monotonous conversation. They introduce her as Mrs. O’Brian, who attentively serves us throughout the meal.
Mrs O’Brian’s strong connection with the family is visible through her nurturing and motherly demeanour, hinting at a long history of tight-knit relationships with the professors. Given her compassionate attitude towards them, she may have worked as a nanny before. She brings a comforting atmosphere to the dining room.
The wine flowed, and Greg was having a wonderful time with Cormac; they were getting on like a house on fire.
With each taste of the delectable food, I cannot help but marvel at its tenderness and the explosion of flavours that dance on my palate. The aromatic herbs in the beef stroganoff are exquisite, complemented by a rich red wine, which has heightened my appetite. As I savour this gastronomic pleasure, I see the delight on Greg’s face, enjoying his favourite meal.
Rohan leans closer to me, his hand resting lightly on my thigh and inquires with a mischievous grin. “Does the food satisfy your appetite?”
I laugh, touching my stomach. “Yes, I love it. But perhaps a little too much!”
He looks down to see my skirt has risen, showing my bare thighs. He glances across the table to see them in earnest conversation, encouraging his hand to slip onto my bare thigh. “You love this too?”
I try to restrict his warm hand as it moves higher, but I do not want to draw Greg’s attention, which would be very embarrassing as he sees me as an innocent angel.
I continue to finish my meal, even when his hand moves higher.
He asks. “Have you still got those pills?”
I do not answer, knowing they nearly burned a hole in my new asymmetric shoulder bag. Twice, I almost flushed them away, but the memories of those fantastic feelings kept flooding back. Unwittingly, I turned on my seat to whisper words of restraint to him, but that only made it so easy for him with my wide-legged French knickers. Unbelievably, he gently plays in my flood, eliciting little sighs of pleasure.
Cormac looks across the large table and sees the signs of my slightly increased breathing through parted lips, and he gives his brother a thunderous look, knowing the game will be over if Greg sees his indiscretion. His eyes are like a whiplash to him, making Rohan remove his hand.
I do not share his concern, although it is a relief. Greg has had two very large whiskies and a good deal of red wine, and the snake within me has started to uncoil.
He turns back to Greg to continue their conversation, intentionally drawing Greg into his warm persona by trying to make his visit delightful. This deliberate course creates a soothing and enjoyable atmosphere for Greg, fostering camaraderie while they converse.
Rohan’s fingers returned, unable to resist, sliding between my drenched labia to find it stiff and engorged. As I gasp, I pretend to wipe my lips with the napkin, but he desists quickly as Mrs O’Brian comes in with the sweets.
Mrs O’Brian announces coffee in the drawing room and asks if we need anything else.
Cormac says. “No, that was excellent, Mrs O’Brian.”
We all thank her.
The maid is standing by her side when she says. “We will leave, professor, if you don’t require anything more.”
He acknowledges her words with an inclination of his head, and just as they are about to walk out the door, he says, “When you pass the lodge, will you tell George that I might need the car and his services later?”
“I will. Good night.”
It was a fine meal, and the sweet was exceptionally yummy, but I had been careful with the wine, although it was an exceptional full-blooded red.
We retire back to the drawing room through the large hall. Rohan walks with Greg, and Cormac walks by my side. He asks if I have enjoyed everything.
Were there double entendres there?
Walking into the drawing room, I see a considerable log that has replenished the fire and will probably last the remainder of the night. While Greg is in the loo, Cormac lifts the piano stool onto the thick-piled rug on the opposite side of the flickering fire and asks me to sit there, only to realise his lascivious intention. Greg, in his high-backed armchair, will not be able to see me, but they will sit opposite on the sofa. Greg returns, and his glass is replenished with more whiskey. He sinks into his chair with a satisfied sigh as though it were his own, enjoying his evening immensely.
The wine had gone to my head, and I consciously crossed my legs, showing my bare thigh above my stockings.
I smiled teasingly, trying to exert some control over them, knowing they could not touch me and we would be leaving within the hour. It felt like it was a retaliatory act after his fondling that I could not stop. It amused me when their eyes left Greg’s conversation with an uninterrupted view as I recrossed them again on the low stool.
Cormac was concerned that Greg might get a hint of what had happened between us, but thoughts of renewing their salacious desires tore his mind. He even whispered to me, coming out of the dining room, “You have been missed, my child, so very much.”
The height of the stool forces me to let go of my inhibitions, disregarding any sense of modesty as I sit by the fire, enjoying the flickering flames as they gracefully ascend the chimney. The low piano stool leaves me feeling exposed. Still, the warmth of the fire plays between my open knees, and the smell of wood smoke and the heavy meal is causing me to be mesmerised by the flickering flames so contentedly; my apartment would never get near the ambience that envelopes me here.
The room exudes a captivating ambience, casting a spell of charm and simply irresistible warmth and friendliness. The dialogue among the men rises and falls like a soothing tide, producing a soft murmur that enhances the serene ambience of the evening, gradually wrapping me in a cocoon of blissful tranquillity.
Rohan is supposedly getting more drinks behind Greg’s chair but is shamelessly looking in my shoulder bag, and there is no way I can stop him without drawing Greg’s attention. He finds the little pill box and shakes it to confirm it is not empty. He smiles broadly at Cormac over Greg’s head, knowing I cannot protest.
Rohan asks if I would like another drink.
I shake my head to say. “It is getting late, but a glass of water would be nice.”
Rohan holds out the glass of water, just as last time, necessitating me to lean forward again. I retaliate, letting him see my breasts. We will be leaving soon. I look up expecting to see a grinning face, but no, his smile is sincere as he mouths. “You look so beautiful.”
All these interactions between us go entirely unnoticed by Greg; he is enjoying the whiskey and wine too much and has had far too many, just what the professors wanted.
Cormac’s eyes lock on mine; they are positively mesmerising. He is not now looking at a sensual figure in the flickering firelight but straight into my eyes, demanding my attention as he says to Greg.
“Perhaps you would both like to stay tonight? It is cold outside, and I am sure you would be more comfortable here than in the hotel. Mrs O’Brian has made up two rooms just in case.”
The moment his words reached my ears, my heart skipped a beat as if it had been touched by a controlling hand. His eyes possessed instrumental power with the ability to persuade and convince.
Greg immediately says, “It is very kind of you, but I have a working breakfast with my clients early tomorrow in the city. But if you need that sketch you mentioned earlier, Abigail could stay and save travelling tomorrow morning.”
Instantly, all my senses are heightened and fully engaged. It is as if a switch has been flipped, awakening a profound awareness that allows me to absorb the consequences of such a suggestion, my narcissistic confidence shattered. I am beginning to realise how astute Cormac is. Had he planned to sneak into my room?
I can easily picture him seated at the head of the Board of Governors meeting, keenly surveying the attendees as though he possesses an uncanny ability to decipher their thoughts.
I panic and say, with great emphasis, “I am so sorry, Cormac, I could not stay behind, Greg will need me if alterations are required to the artwork.”
Greg’s assertive and compelling words make me shudder. “No! I will not need you in the morning, Abigail. I think it is a done deal already after your exceptional artwork, and we cannot disappoint hosts after such a splendid night. Can we?”
Cormac pulls Greg aside, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He leans into him, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you, Greg. She is in safe hands.”
Greg is utterly oblivious to the clever ploy and interplay of the professors, of trying to keep me here for their secret indulgence in sexual games. The atmosphere is heavy with their anticipation and eager expectations. Cormac's piercing blue gaze seems to hold me captive once more as if he possesses the power to control my will and instil desire. There appears to be no escape, and I subconsciously cross my legs in some defence.
He says. “There is some stonework in the university chapel that must be repaired, but it is hard to capture the relief by camera; the light and shade are not defined enough. Abigail would be ideal for capturing the details, but it will be an early start.
His tone is deliberately casual, yet I can sense his energetic enthusiasm bubbling beneath the surface. Unsurprisingly, they are pouring whiskey for Greg, eager to pursue what was unattainable during that flight from America. They want to fuck me.
Rohan offers me water as though he knows my throat is dry. I gulped greedily, but as I peered into the glass, I became alarmed, noticing a slight white residue. A sudden surge of unease washed over me, igniting a stirring sensation deep within that resonated with all those sensations they gave me on the plane.
Rohan saw my reaction, contemplating the empty glass. He smiled and whispered, “Just one of your lovely little pills.”
My God, they do not stop trying.
His gentle fingers lightly brushed against my cheek and hair. I must stay with Greg at all costs so that nothing can happen, no matter how much the pill makes my ardour fly.
With great effort, I summon all my level-headedness, controlling my voice as my body tries to fight the sensual feelings that are starting to rise.
“I am so sorry about the sketching, as Greg will need my assistance tomorrow. He has put so much effort into securing this contract that I cannot abandon him now. Of course, I would love to help, but unfortunately, I cannot.”
Greg slurs his words slightly as he says, “I owe you an apology, Cormac, for her unexpected hesitance. It’s quite puzzling; she’s typically so agreeable, and drawing for you would be a lovely way to express gratitude after such a delightful meal.”
He turns to me. “Abigail, you must help Cormac, and I can manage everything, providing you are back late afternoon. We are going out with our client for a meal in the evening.”
An overwhelming silence envelops us, creating a heavy, almost tangible atmosphere as if the air is laden with unspoken words and desires. The stillness stretches, thick and suffocating, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket as the wet warmth gathers between my legs.
Why, oh why, didn’t I flush the pills away?
Now, I must rise above the pill’s effect amidst this quiet but tense moment. I notice the corners of Cormac’s mouth twitch slightly, hinting at the beginnings of a smile of triumph. My heart thuds loudly in my chest, the sound reverberating in my ears as my skin grows clammy and tense, but it is not the pill causing those tingling feelings, but the snake uncoiling in my stomach.
Cormac senses it and emphatically puts a surreptitious finger over his lips, demanding my silence. The tension I decipher in the air is of guilt and deceit, but Cormac remains stoic and composed, as if nothing out of the ordinary is about to occur after Greg’s departure.
Despite my best efforts, Greg has consistently failed to grasp the subtle nuances embedded within my words or even the slightest hints conveyed through my expressions. The thick fog of alcohol constantly shrouds his perception, preventing them from truly comprehending the depth and complexity of my communication.
At that moment, I felt an unsettling tremor coursing through my legs, a sensation that was both alarming and inexplicable. Their blue eyes were locked onto me, a silent promise of their intent to thwart any attempt I might make to escape. The tension in the air was palpable, as if they were weaving an invisible net, ready to ensnare me at the slightest hint of flight.
Cormac calls for the car to take Greg back to the hotel.
He has unwittingly and unknowingly handed my body to the professors, leaving them free to do whatever they can imagine.
As Greg turns away to put on his coat.
Cormac's piercing blue gaze fixed on me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. He leaned in, his breath warm against my skin, and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur that felt electric in the charged air between us. “Show me your tongue,” the command laced with an unspoken challenge that made my heart race. He placed another heart-shaped pill on it before giving me a glass of water, his eyes penetrating mine as I swallowed.
I shake my head in despair and look to Rohan for compassionate support, but he is sitting opposite me with a massive bulge in his trousers.
Cormac’s eyes never leave me as he leans close again. “Good girl.”
I involuntarily recross my legs, still sitting on this low piano stool, gazing into the fire, enveloped by its heat on my legs. I move on the stool as though I am uncomfortable, but he knows that is not the reason. The snake has uncurled in my stomach and is stirring the tendrils of desire in my groin.
I look over my shoulder, his eyes reading mine, knowing the tablets are starting their salacious demands, stiffening my nipples, engorging my labia and clit, bringing it out from underneath its hood.
The doorbell rings; it must be the driver who is going to take Greg back to the hotel.
We walk to the door with Greg. He gets into the car and puts the back window down to wish me good night. I must look at the sight from behind, bending through his window. This is my last chance of salvation. I whisper, “Surely you need me in the morning, please, Greg. Please!”
His hand gently rests on mine, a warm smile spreading generously. “Do not worry. I will handle everything just fine. Enjoy their hospitality and cosy atmosphere—much better than a dull hotel room.”
Cormac must have heard my pleading words, but he would not let me escape now. His big hands circle my waist to draw me away from the car. I try to wriggle free, but he pulls me back onto his excitable body. He moans quietly as my soft body presses against him.
He calls out loudly over my shoulder as the car moves off. “Do not worry, Greg, she is in safe hands.” The tail lights disappear down the drive.
With his powerful grip holding me firmly, I find myself leaning into him, capitulating to his expectant warmth, which envelops me. I realise that I am entirely at their mercy.
As he leads me back into the drawing room, he dimes the lights, leaving the warm glow of the log fire to illuminate the room. I can sense the anticipation radiating from him as he tightly grips my hand, knowing that this time, they will have me captive for 20 hours, a significant increase from the mere 7 hours spent on the plane returning home.
He whispers, “I cannot believe you are in my arms once more.”
The heavy and conflicting emotions race within me and cannot be ignored. They surge and rush through my body, making me quiver while filled with trepidation that seems to be addictive. I never thought I would embark on such a journey again, and now they are free of any outside restrictions.
The flickering flames of the fire playfully illuminate the walls, casting enchanting shadows that sway and shift, transforming the space into a cosy and mesmerising sanctuary.
His voice stirs within me an overwhelming feeling of complete submission, and they are not going to rush but take delight in watching me dissolve into a wanton mass of immorality. One thing that they unanimously agreed upon last time was their delight in watching me come.
Cormac says. “Kneel on the stool facing the fire, and unbutton your dress. You will get warm quickly.”
The padded stool is comfortable for kneeling, but my fingers tremble, button by button. The pills have had the usual effect of abandonment, as though I am free of my body but retain all the senses as my breasts do now, feeling the heat of the fire. Now, only wearing silky lace knickers and black stay-up stockings, contrasting with creamy white skin. It must make me look so desirable to them.
A moment or two later, Cormac says, taking the initiative. “Turn and slip the dress off.”
I shuffle around on my knees and allow it to slide off my shoulders as he looks intently at my body but refrains from touching it. Gently, he cradles my face with his warm hands against his body. “You are warm now,” he says as he presses my cheek against his steel-like erection in his trousers while gazing deeply into my eyes, conveying his emotions. His soft voice resonates with sincerity. “My heart was filled with hope as I left you this afternoon, wishing this moment could come true. You hold a unique place in our hearts, and I wanted to express that sentiment through a thoughtful gift. I bought it after you graciously accepted my invitation to join us for dinner.”
He caught me off guard, and I could not help but feel excitement and curiosity as he gave me a long jewellery box. Even the box looked expensive, with a silver crest.
As I cautiously open the box, my fingers tremble with anticipation. Inside, a stunning gold Celtic Cross with a sparkling diamond at its centre and a delicate gold infinity necklace far exceeds my imagination. Perhaps I would not have received it if I had gone back with Greg.
I lift it out and sigh with pleasure, looking up at him. “It is so beautiful!”
He looked into my eyes. “Not as beautiful as you.” I press my face into his body affectionately as he fastens it around my neck, but now I feel he has taken possession of my soul.
Nothing could have prepared me for his sincerity or even the sight of Rohan, naked and stroking himself, looking at me.
Kneeling on the stool in the warmth of the fire with only my Jade Aqua lace knickers and black stay-ups feels so acceptable as they both look at me with lust.
Cormac tells me to stand on the stool as he undresses.
They kneel on the rug on either side of me, their heads holding my quaking body between them, one between my breasts and the other pressed into my back. They pull down my silk pants, and my scent permeates the room as each rolls a stocking down, taking my scent.
They looked closely at what they could not see under the blanket on the aircraft. My breasts are undulating with heavy breathing, engorged nipples begging to be touched, and my quivering thighs must delight them.
Now, I hunger for them to take their pleasures and fulfilment, which took me to such extraordinary heights of exhilarating traversals, then crashing into the abyss of gratification on the flight.
Rohan is the one who enjoys watching. Cormac takes a breast in each hand before his finger and thumb squeeze my nipples hard, making me gasp louder with the ever-increasing pressure.
“Open your mouth, and put your tongue out.”
I tilt my head back, thrusting my tongue out in defiance before his piercing eyes. A sense of vulnerability dances over me, as do the flickering flames of the fire. Two fingers pressed my tongue down, and then I realised he was looking into my throat, the one that gave Rohan unfettered access. My entire body quivers uncontrollably with that thought, wondering if it could be his inclination.
Cormac turns me around to face the fire. The warmth and flickering fire over my body is so welcomed. Now, they have privacy, seclusion, and no restrictions, with no interruptions to whatever they desire. Unknown to me then, it would affect me in ways I have never experienced before.
Deep immersion enveloped me as if I were caught in a mesmerising spell. My surroundings faded into a blur while my mind drifted into a state of serene detachment, adding to the captivating, magical display of smoke curling up the chimney.
My eyes do not see; they are only mirrors reflecting the light of my desires. They only see a sensual girl who is willing to join them for the sexual games of gratification. The snake in my stomach has left, leaving the tendrils of fire and desire surging around my body. I only hear muffled words between them as they rest their heads against my back and belly.
Cormac’s hand goes up to my breast, and Rohan places his hand on my back to steady me. Time seems to be in slow motion, waiting for the first cruel, exquisite squeeze of my nipple. I cry out, shock shooting down my spine repeatedly as Rohan grips the other one. Are they competing, trying to make me cry out the loudest? It had to be so muffled on the night of the flight, but not tonight. I look down at two ghost-like hands cupping my breasts. They feel warm and luxurious as they fondle, but the screaming pain arrives once again.
They bite, suck, and tug tortured nipples; their pleasure is my painful cries before a hand makes comforting circles on my belly. It descends over my bushy mound but agonisingly pauses before its fingers thrust deep through my flood. I moan lasciviously.
Each time I catch my breath with such exquisite pleasure, I now feel quite the opposite of my thoughts an hour ago. I want them to tear me apart, make my heart hammer, make me cry out and gasp for breath as though it might be my last. My breathing is now coming in short gasps through an open mouth. Rohan thrusts his fingers in, slipping over my tongue, which reminds me of when he thrust my head down on himself. His salivated fingers leave to part my cheeks, they search to find my rose and push, then harder, until my body capitulates, allowing them slowly and smoothly to sink deep.
Now they match Cormac’s rhythm in my flood, and my ardour flies wild.
Standing on the stool, my body wants to flop with the sensations they are imposing on it, but their heads are pressed tightly against my body, holding me up while their fingers plunder my body. A mysticism of ecstasy and consciousness of self-surrender elevates me to a tremendous sexual height. They take turns using both hands and then share with me once again. One turns his head to bite my nipple, and my scream resonates through the flickering shadows of the room.
The intermittences of their voices are rather strange as they exchange hushed comments. I feel I am drifting and swirling in a haze of sensuality as they speak lewdly, arousing their sexual desire.
Cormac tells Rohan, “She needs to come; then she can have a lingering one later.”
Cormac is in front and Rohan behind, their fingers thrust deep, their fervour so great that their knuckles are hitting each other. But now they are in unison, and my heart is thumping uncontrollably. My orgasm is just about to erupt when Rohan shouts, “Now!”
Their embedded fingers lift me clean off my feet. My legs dangle, feet twitching, and Cormac ludicrously says. “Wriggle your body if you want to come. We want to watch.”
They watch my incredulous and frantic gyrations with my hands on their heads. I wriggle, squirm and twist, just like a snake, breathlessly on their fingers while those surges of ecstasy fly from my groin up my spine to spin my head before that glorious moment arrives. I moan and shout as one last desperate gyration starts my orgasm. It surges fast and furious, and my body shudders violently as I climax while feeling like a rag doll wedged on their fingers; even the aftershocks tingle down my trembling legs as I faint.
I find myself lying on the rug in front of the log fire, and they are standing over me, naked and masturbating.
When they see my eyes open, I catch a little of their conversation as they move their eager hands like a bad flickering movie. They hold my head up to plunge their fingers into my mouth for saliva, then resume their moans of contentment.
Cormac lies on the rug and pulls me over to straddle him. He feels so hot slipping through my drenched labia, and I hear his long groan of pleasure, but I still have a hazy, light-headedness. His hands on my hips lift me on his steel-like erection, groaning each time he lets me fall on himself. Rohan sits in an armchair, watching and stroking himself, and I see droplets and hope he will ejaculate so I can then rest. Cormac growls, thrusting up into my body with a very physical jerk, and holds me tight as he comes.
Immediately, Rohan springs to his feet and slips his hands under my arms to lift me off Cormac, who groans as I leave him. Rohan carries me to his armchair and makes me kneel in front. He is highly charged. The firelight highlights the escaping droplets glistening, and his prominent veins indicate his impatience for satisfaction.
He urgently slips into my depths that still contain Cormac’s release, and being so fluid, he complains and pulls out. He shocks me, pressing against my rose. My hands shoot behind me to protect myself. I do not mind fingers, but not his monster!
He cannot control both my hands besides holding himself in position. He calls out for Cormac, who I am sure will dissuade him, but no, to my horror, he reaches for my stockings and ties my wrists together, but not only that, he forces my mouth open to stuff the other one in.
There is a resolute, deep sigh of pleasure from Rohan while pressing my rose repeatedly, each time forcing it a little wider before one determined thrust stretches it wide open, bidding him to sink deep into my body as my muffled scream reverberates around the room.
He slaps my cheeks. “Shush, my child, it is wonderful, tight, and grippy.”
With one hand on my neck, forcing it into the back of the chair, the other moves my hip to align himself for his deep penetrating strokes.
My mind whirls, and I have another “white out” approaching as he savages my body. He shouts, which instinctively tightens my muscles; he groans lasciviously, breathlessly jerking in my depths as everything else seems to fade away.
Moments later, I return, still confused and dizzy, as they gently wipe my thighs and everything else; their voices drift back and forth through my haze.
Rohen says to Cormac. “Do you think she will tell Greg?”
“No, at least I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure? Can we trust her?”
“Yes, and I think she will return repeatedly, with a little persuasion.”
Their voices fade again, and the satisfying euphoria still envelopes me, but there is one last thought: “What would Greg think of me if he had seen all that has happened in this room?”
The air is thick and heavy with sexual scents as I struggle to break through this warm and fuzzy feeling. I feel as though I am floating until I realise that one of them is carrying my limp body. His breathlessness is loud as he traverses many stairs, and it adds only intrigue when I hear one say. “The blue room.”
Their tenderness as they shower me after savaging my body is touching, but my nipples are still erect and very sore, as is everything else is below. My labia still engorged and swollen like last time, and further back, I still feel stretched and open.
I vaguely hear Cormac say. “Hold her. The pills are trying to make her sleep.”
Their hands make me jump as they bathe my tender body, but remembering that unbelievable orgasm surmounts everything. It was incredibly long, distracting all the discomfort into a blissful rapture.
Cormac’s piercing blue eyes seemed to hold my consciousness; his nose touched mine like a window to my soul. His voice rose and fell like a wave, revealing the complexities and vulnerabilities beneath. “You are completely in our hands, just as we are in yours.”
I would not betray the professors under any circumstances, they would be crucified, and I would be seen as a slut, enticing eminent men.
Their faces seem blurred with adjudicated smiles when they laugh, as Rohan says. “Clean and good enough to eat.”
My tired and sore body cringed at his words. They lay me on the bed and sat on either side, asking questions about my life. I tried to concentrate hard, but I only wanted to sleep. They seemed curious about my sexual encounters, and when I told them there had been only one boyfriend, it surprised them.
They start with their threat of trying to eat me, and my body screams out in protest, but their persistence gradually ignites the stirrings in my groin once more. I do not think my body can stand another assault, but that is ignored as they stir lubricious thoughts. Their lips pull, suck and tug everywhere one could imagine before their tongues start to penetrate. Rohan, behind, makes me instinctively jump, penetrating my open rose.
As Cormac’s steel-like erection brushes my cheek, he says hoarsely, “Wet your lips. It always makes you look so exquisitely unrestrained.”
That is not surprising, with Rohan’s head between my legs, teasing my body to distraction. He makes it twist and turn with such pleasure. My breasts undulate with heavy breathing through open mouth, my nipples are invitingly rock hard, and now I am starting to gasp as Rohan sucks my engorged clit.
It is a little strange seeing Cormac’s erection upside down; my lips wrap around him, making him groan with infinite pleasure. Usually, he takes the lead, but not this time, as Rohan has watched and now instructs him.
“Hold her head firmly, down a bit, more.”
My concentration is with Cormac, except when Rohan does something different between my legs. He sucks all my labia in, then pushes it out with his tongue, and so excruciatingly delicious, sometimes taking my engorged clit too. Cormac distracts me, thrusting deeper, seeking my throat. I respond by running my tongue around his frenulum, and his great gasps of joy are rewarding when I gently trail my teeth with a little more pressure over it.
But now I am distracted as Rohan’s scooping fingers are in the perfect place, just inside. He knows I am approaching that climatic moment as my legs quiver and my gasps are strident. The scooping fingers and the thumb through my rose are getting me there fast, and when his fingers turn and twist, I open like a morning flower.
Cormac’s pushing excitement makes me gag a little.
He is enjoying my stretched lips and waiting for his time for my relaxation after orgasm, which comes hard and fast, just like a car bucking and twisting around a fast corner to the finish line. He takes his opportunity, pushing all the way, throbbing so excitedly, holding my head firmly and stretching my throat. He comes immediately with fierce jerks and shouts, gasping with pleasure while still cradling my head as it spurts down my throat.
It is a few moments before his throbbing subsides, and he withdraws slowly as my lips compress around his flaccid member, cleaning him as he withdraws, murmuring with satisfaction. “My sweet child.”
They help me into the bed properly and tuck me in after declining the bathroom as there is no mess to clear up, and all I want is sleep. Rohan wishes me a comfortable night with such a loving kiss on my cheek and says, “You are astonishingly lovely. It was so beautiful watching you come,” but he has no idea how swollen my labia is or how my nipples feel.
+ + +
Waking up in this strange but comfortable bed was a little disorientating at first. I should not be here and certainly not acquiesced to their insatiable demands, but so easy to be resolute in the cold light of day with a clear head.
The professors must have left early, there is a note on my pillow.
We have left for a lecture, but we plan to have a light lunch with you before you go. George will take you back to your hotel at three.
Mrs O’Brian will make you breakfast if you go into the kitchen.
Be careful; she is intelligent and nosy.
Take a walk around the extensive gardens. The grounds are very private, and the gardener, Chub Rouge, only works Mondays and Tuesdays.
Wallowing in the shower, I find it strange that my labia is still swollen and sensitive, and my nipples surprisingly are like acorns. I vaguely remembered Cormac lifting my head off the pillow while half asleep. He gave me a sip of water and a kiss on my cheek before leaving.
As I touch my rock-hard nipple, a thought crosses my mind. Oh, No!!
I rush into the bedroom, dripping wet, pick up my bag and open the pill box. It looks significantly depleted; only two are left.
Panicking, I rush around the bed and pick the glass up to see a slight trace of sediment. Why, oh why, did I finish the water when I got up? How stupid!
Cormac has given me another pill, maybe two, preparing me for their return and likened to a bitch on heat waiting so they can continue their unrestrained activity, but I must confess that their lewdly whispered words heightened my orgasm last night.
They discussed what it would be like to take me simultaneously, but then I reasoned it was only a little ‘man talk’ after the wine and whiskey.
The water cascaded down once more as I stepped back under the shower, my fingers trailing the path of the showerhead across my skin. A wave of heightened sensitivity washed over me, igniting a flurry of thoughts in my mind, weighing the benefits and drawbacks of this unexpected sensation.
Holding my dress out, I see an unsightly stain, but with this unexpected stay, I have nothing else to wear. I rummaged through the drawers in the bedroom, desperately searching for a solution, and there it was: a man’s oversized T-shirt tucked away, waiting to be discovered. Searching desperately for my Jade Aqua lace pants, I began to wonder if one of them must have pocketed them, but I found them under my pillow.
Although the t-shirt is far too large for me, it would serve comfortably as a makeshift short dress and hide my erect nipples, also saving me from the embarrassment of the stained dress which I have left to soak.
Before lifting the T-shirt over my head, I looked at myself in the floor-length mirror and thought I would like an all-over tan. A holiday would be acceptable now, and I can afford it if we secure the contract.
As I descended the grand staircase that a breathless professor carried up last night, I became entranced by its history. I was captivated by the rich history captured in the stern portraits lining the walls. Each painting depicted an influential figure, their faces sculpted with an air of command. The lavishness of the staircase sharply contrasted with the serious demeanour of the portraits, creating a striking visual experience.
Mrs O’Brian, who was in the kitchen, greeted me with a smile that did not hide her imposing authority. She must have been prominent in the lives of the professors earlier in life, as that was evident when she served our dinner last night.
She asks. “Will your colleague require breakfast?”
“No, Mrs O’Brian, thank you. He had to leave last night due to an early morning working breakfast with clients. Cormac asked if I would stay and sketch parts of the garden for him, as I am a student artist.”
Sketching the garden was the only excuse I could think of, and my brilliant, unscripted reply made her happy. Otherwise, she would have seen my stay over as inconsequential, drawing more of her thoughts.
The allure of ancient houses, especially those with priest holes, has always captivated my imagination. I imagined them cowering in the hide while Cromwell's soldiers searched the house.
Despite her large size, Mrs O’Brian exudes a vibrant energy that captivates me. Her curiosity in seeking facts is insatiable while I savour the delightful toast with homemade jam. I could not help but notice her graceful dance with words as if she were delicately tiptoeing around the valid reason for my presence. It seemed that my youthful appearance had sparked curiosity within her, leading her to inquire about the circumstances of my initial encounter with the professors.
I captured her interest by sharing stories about my experiences in art college and my part-time job in graphic design. She seemed delighted to hear that I planned to stroll through the garden and sketch. With that, she joined me as we stepped out through the back door.
The way she discusses the professors implies a deep connection and familiarity that can only come from a long, intimate association. She has probably witnessed their triumphs, tribulations, joys, and sorrows and has become integral to their lives. Her words paint a picture of a woman dedicated to their well-being, nurturing them with love and care, and standing by their side through thick and thin.
She gestures toward a steep incline, its surface adorned with lush, dancing grass. Her eyes sparkle with memories of her past, lingering on the hilltop. She enlightens me of her younger days, when her figure was more delicate. She would frequently climb that rise carrying drinks for the children, captivated by the breathtaking scene.
She smiles at me. “You will find it an interesting and attractive area with a summer house and the perfect place for boys to enjoy themselves. But sadly, I became unable to negotiate the hill anymore.”
She reached up and rang a large bell attached to the wall above her head. I covered my ears, and she laughed, saying, “If you hear this, you must return immediately.” She assured me that the sound of the bell could be heard throughout the estate.
Even now, it seems that the professors hold a fondness for her that has endured through the years. They chose to keep her as their cook, a testament to their bond.
Putting my sketching bag over my shoulder, I walked up the slippery grass bank in an oversized T-shirt and French silk knickers. My bare feet slipped on the dewy grass. High heels would have been ridiculous.
It is simply breathtaking as the scene unfolds. Nestled in the heart of the small coppice, a stunning pond is adorned with colourful water lilies in full bloom. Ducks serenely swim across its shimmering surface.
A picnic table looks over the vast pond, alongside an old brick barbecue. It is a remnant of the past, its stories long forgotten and probably undisturbed for many years.
On the left side, elevated a little higher facing south, stands a charming old summer house. It exudes a sense of prosperity, although it looks rustic now. Peering through a clean window confirms my suspicions that it has been used recently. It is furnished with a bamboo suite, and one or two rugs are scattered around. At the back, a door stands ajar, hinting at a restroom beyond.
On the opposite bank of the pond, a swing sways gently from a strong tree limb, its lengthy ropes fluttering like ribbons in the breeze. Another striking feature nearby—a thick, knotted rope that dangles invitingly—spikes my intrigue. Above and tucked away in the foliage of a giant tree is a charming treehouse, its allure irresistible, and the knotted rope appears to challenge me, even urges me.
Memories of my childhood come flooding back, reminding me of the days I was known as the adventurous tomboy. I tested the rope with a mischievous grin, giving it a few firm tugs and pulling on it with all my might. I cannot help but chuckle at the thought of my younger self. The rope feels sturdy and reliable, and it is made of durable nylon that can effortlessly withstand my weight. Looking up, I wonder if I could make it.
The climb is arduous, and I have to pause once or twice. I smile to myself. How ridiculous, only wearing a baggy T-shirt and French silk knickers.
To my surprise, the tree house is filled with various items, including catapults, a homemade bow and arrow, and all the gear adventurous boys would have. It was a treasure trove of excitement and curiosity, making me feel like I had stumbled upon the professors' secret world of adventure. The roof looked okay and had been preserved relatively well. As I grabbed the knotted rope to leave, I noticed something tucked under an old, upside-down tea chest, possibly used as a table. I climb back in and lift the chest to find a glamour magazine.
I smile, flicking through the well-thumbed glamour photos of what must have been very risqué many years ago. Every page features a topless girl or one with a very short skirt bending over. The magazine must be forty years old, and I expect that boys do what boys do in their inaccessible hideout.
My descent was much easier while bringing a sense of accomplishment.
Next is the swing. I take a moment to ensure that no one is watching, relishing the moment of privacy and embracing a wave of impulsiveness. I release my hair to cascade freely around my shoulders and take another quick look around before slipping off my panties. It is an exhilarating and spontaneous decision that ignites a sense of freedom within me.
I remember in the park when I was very young, a girl was dared to do it for a man who rewarded her with a bar of chocolate; she did it many times, and later, I found out it was her uncle.
As I ascended higher and higher with the swing’s arc, there was a transitional moment in time that made me feel weightless. However, as I swung down, I realised the thrill the girl in the park had experienced with the breeze between her open legs.
With my eyes closed and head tilted back, I succumbed to the illusion of flight, carried aloft by an invisible force. The rhythmic creaking of the ropes and the gentle rocking motion created a soothing symphony while the cool breeze caressed my legs and bushy hair, adding an element of refreshing freedom. It was a magical moment where the boundaries of reality blurred, and I felt an overwhelming sense of joy and liberation.
I hear Cormac’s breathless voice call out. “So, there you are.”
Rohan is just behind him, and they sit at the picnic table, looking at my sketching efforts.
Getting off the swing quickly, I crunch my panties in my hand and walk around to them barefoot.
Their praise is spontaneously appreciative of my sketches, bestowing their genuine praise on me as I lean between them to point out the Mallards’ curious paths across the water.
The professors say with all sincerity. “It is so beautiful. Can we keep it?”
“Of course! I did it for you both. You must have spent a lot of your young life here.”
“Yes, much to our parent’s pleasure, by not straying far away.”
“The swing was thrilling, especially seeing the Mallards gracefully fly past me high into the sky. However, climbing the rope to the tree house was quite demanding.”
Their faces were a picture; their incredulous expressions should have been caught on camera. They both caught their breath and looked at me in amazement before their heads turned to look at the tree house.
“Honestly, have you been up there?”
The house bell tolls, and its sound cascades through the atmosphere, enveloping the space in a harmonious blend of clarity and strength. I smile. “Lunch is probably ready.”
Cormac laughs. “How did you know that?”
“Mrs O’Brian and I had a long chat, and she told me that is how she got you to return to the house. But do you think she would let us picnic here?”
He kisses my cheek, “Of course she would. It is a lovely day.”
He turns to Fater Rohan. “Could you let Mrs O’Brian know? She will have to make a few changes.” As he leaves, Cormac shouts. “A bottle of wine, too.”
I touch Cormac’s shoulder. “Look what I found in the tree house,” I said, slipping the magazine out of my folder.
He is amazed, starts thumbing through the pages, and laughs. “Where on earth did you find it?”
“Under the tea chest. And I want to know which girl you lusted over?”
Cormac chuckles. He realises that I am playing a game, and no matter how sore they made me last night, I cannot deny the sensual feelings stirring in my groin.
Of course, he knows that, but perhaps he's not sure I do.
The tattered and worn magazine had been forgotten, hidden under the tea chest for all those years. He smiled, touching it as though confirming its validity. “You should not have climbed the rope. Look at this.”
He turned his head to show me the scar I had noticed on our first meeting.
With a hearty laugh, he says, “Come, my child, sit on my knees, and I will show you my favourite.”
I straddle him with my back against his chest as I flip through the pages of this somewhat fragile glamour mag.
I can feel him growing under me. He takes off his jacket and unzips his trousers, and one arm around my waist lifts me, fingers part my sticky, engorged lips. I caught a glimpse of his steel-like erection, pre-cum moistened over its helmet before it plunged through my wet folds into the deluge. His contact made me shudder, sending tingles up my spine and over my breasts.
I sink lower, enfolding him with such endearment. “I missed you this morning. You left very early.” He groans louder with my words.
He holds my waist as I turn the pages, and I deliberately wriggle and move every time. He moans as I lift before stretching to turn another page, occasionally making wet noises as he delves deeper. My legs are starting to quiver as he takes hold to lift me purposely. Every delicious thrust makes it challenging to focus on the pages, and my breathing has turned shallow and quick.
He shouts with breathless excitement. "Ah, there she is!" he exclaims. We gaze at a topless girl on a swing. “I always imagined her on our swing.”
The photographer has taken a side view of a naked girl on a tree swing, her thighs spread wide, but for the imagination only, making the viewer wish they were in front of her. I squeeze him and say. “I will swing naked for you.”
That floors him. “Would you, truly?”
“Yes, but only if you are good to me now.”
He stands, still embedded in me. “Put your hand down on the table.”
He pushes up my top so he can watch my breasts sway as he grips my hips with some force and thrusts deep, urgently.
I look over my shoulder and say. “You are making me come, and what if Mrs O’Brian could see you now.”
“She would forgive me; she always did.”
I am coming fast and furious, oblivious to how hard he tears into me. We both come together; I cry out with rapture as he growls with satisfaction and ejaculates with such emotion. We have only been separated a moment before Rohan arrives with a considerable picnic box and places it on the table. I must surreptitiously wipe my thigh, and it is incredible how many times I do so in the last two hours.
Rohan notices the magazine partially hidden beneath my folder, swiftly retrieves it, and exclaims, “You must have discovered this in the tree house!”
“Yes, and Cormac has already pointed out his favourite.”
He smiles. “My favourite is page sixteen.” He had remembered.
His instinct is like Cormac’s lifting me onto his knees as I turn the pages. His hands slip under my t-shirt to cup my breasts, nipples still hard from Cormac’s invasion, and the trickle down my inner thigh is a testament to his finish. Rohan’s page does not come as a surprise: a young woman touching her toes with feet apart, breasts dangling, and her bottom sticking out while she looks backwards with an open mouth. It is another teasing side shot, and I know he loves being behind me.
He laughs. “Not as good as you; you have a firmer bum,” he leans and whispers, “It makes you so tight.” He bends and bites me, making me shout out while I try to hit him behind.
We all burst into laughter so enthusiastically that my breasts jiggle with each laugh while his hand caresses my cheeks with a tender apology. He finds my wet inner thigh. He gazes deeply into my eyes and utters astonishment, “He took you while I was getting the picnic.”
I laugh. “You had plenty of energy yourself yesterday.”
He laughs loudly as Cormac pours the wine.
The lunch is an absolute delight, despite my initial reservations about its extravagance. The lobster rolls were a true highlight, with an irresistible blend of dill and lemon-infused mayonnaise that added a refreshing twist to these already superb sandwiches. As I sipped a refreshing glass of chilled white wine, the whole experience felt heavenly. How they looked at me with such intensity hinted at desires waiting to be explored, filling me with a delightful sense of being valued.
Cormac says to Rohan. “Abigail has promised to swing naked, just like I have always imagined the magazine girl does so many, many times.”
Rohan says. “But will she touch her toes for me?”
I touch his face. “Yes, but after the swing.”
They pull the t-shirt over my head as we walk towards the swing. Their eyes are full of desire, watching my breasts sway with each step I take, nipples erect with excitement.
Embracing a higher calling and tapping into my creative thoughts fuels my inner power. Realising that I can impact two individuals in such a profound way is genuinely exhilarating. I feel the sticky, wet warmth gathering once more, knowing they want me to tease them.
Sitting on the swing, Cormac edges me forward a little before pushing my knees wide to say. “Perfect!”
Rohan pushes my back to get me started as the ropes are very long, but it does give an exhilarating long arc over the pond. Undeterred by the scorching sun, I utilise my body weight to gain momentum and reach greater heights. The rhythmic whoosh of each swing going back and forth through the rushing air is primarily a new sensation between my open legs, so harmonious, comforting and cooling. It is very arduous at first, and the hot sun is making droplets of sweat run between my breasts. The comfort of the swing seat is fantastic, as though it had been designed for a naked bottom.
With each passing, the rushing air hits the soles of my feet and between my legs. I lean back, nipples like acorns, hair flowing behind, and the rhythmic whoosh of each swing arouses me exceptionally.
I laugh outrageously as they try to touch my breasts as I swing past. Cormac shouts, “Open your legs wider.” The breeze cooling my labia is a contrast to how I feel inside with such indescribable heat, and their intense curiosity gives me such stimulating pleasure. I lift my heels onto the seat, knees wide, feeling salacious while letting the swing gradually become slower. Their hands are in their trousers, and my body is starting to quiver; sweat is running between my breasts when they grab and pull me off, leaving a very wet seat behind.
They hurry me to the summer house; they strip before throwing the chair cushions on the floor.
Rohan says. “Turn around and touch your toes.” I bend, replicating the pose in the picture. They will see everything! My stretched rose, engorged lips, perhaps even droplets glistening from my hanging labia silhouetted by the sun’s rays behind me.
Rohan sighed profoundly as I looked back past my thigh, hair hanging, breasts dangling. I felt confident that I looked as good as the well-thumbed picture. He holds his pulsating rigidity and brushes pre cum droplets over my cheeks. Then he kneels behind me and buries his face, taking my scent, arms wrapped firmly around me.
Cormac becomes impatient and pushes me down onto the seat cushions. There is no hesitation in thrusting into my soddened body with hands wrapped around my bottom, urging me closer.
Rohan stands above us, rubbing saliva up and down himself.
His breathless voice betrays his passion, sounding so constricted and choked, “Roll over with her, Cormac.”
He does, and I am on top. Rohan falls on me as Cormac spreads my cheeks. I cannot believe they are going to try this. He pushes hard and cruelly, but my body does not yield as Cormac fills my space. My cries accompany more cruel thrusts when Rohan says. “You will have to pull out a moment, Cormac.”
Rohan presses my tortured rose again, but it suddenly opens like a morning flower. I cry out again as he sinks deep with a long lingering moan to say. “I love to hear those tormented cries.”
He lifts me a little, allowing Corma to rejoin the party. Now, they plunge together with everything they have, and I start to come immediately. It surges up my spine and explodes in my head, making me tingle all over.
Cormac breathlessly says, “Good girl, but we have not finished yet.”
Now, it is all passion and lust as they take my body shamefully without any regard for their ever-increasing deep thrusts.
He squeezes his hand between our compressed bodies to torment my sore nipples once more, pinching and tugging, making me plead with him, “Please, no more!” but that is brushed aside.
They push me onto my side to change positions. It is not long before the haze of sensual suspension grips me once more; their awakening desires make them thrust with no constraint, as are their noises of passion—a melee of three hot, sticky bodies pursuing gratification at any cost. Amazingly, it happened again. My orgasm is so rapturous and intense, making my head spin into a faint as they release deep into my body.
As I awaken to the sight of anxious expressions surrounding me. I reach out to gently touch their faces. The depth of their love and passion is unlike anything I have ever experienced. They embody selflessness, and a tremor courses through me as I whisper, “It was truly wonderful.”
The afternoon is passing quickly and we must leave for the house.
Cormac asks if he can watch me shower. I smile, and he follows me into the bathroom. He looks worried, seeing my swollen nipples and labia. I lean out with one hand to touch his face to say, “Stop worrying. Tomorrow, I will be fine.”
+ + +
On the flight home with a happy Greg and a new contract, my thoughts wandered to the professors as I gazed at the mountain range beneath, enveloped in clouds except for its peaks. I felt a sense of shame and guilt but with an unapparelled exhilaration of such an exciting encounter.
But I know my mind will say, ‘No, no and no,’ if they ring me, but my body will contradict that unreservedly.