The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Were you a good girl with Mr Canning?”

“Yes, Mum. Mr Lovell was there too.”

A knowing twitch of the eyebrows, “Thought he might be. Did you do what they told you.”

“Yes, Mum, of course, Mum.” Three bags full, Mum. She could be so annoying.

“Were you frightened by the thunder and lightning?”

“No, I’m not a little girl.” I’m eighteen Mum, a young woman!

“Mr Canning said you were.” Huh?

“A little girl?”

“No, you silly, frightened.”

Susan’s brow furrowed. She could not remember that.

Mrs Settle’s eyes opened in the moonlight. Beside her Mr Settle was sleeping soundly, there was barely the sound of his breathing. It was all very quiet. She looked at the clock. Midnight. She had only slept for about an hour. She got up and looked out of the window. A peaceful moonlit scene in monochrome with not a breath of wind. After the rain earlier in the week it was good to see not a cloud in the sky. She stood looking, puzzled why she had woken and now felt so wide awake. It was not like her. She had woken almost as if an alarm clock had told her to rise.

The moonlight gave an ethereal dreamlike quality to her garden and the neighbouring gardens. She could almost imagine fairies out there, dancing on the frosted grass. Fairies in shimmering gauzy costumes, balletic in their dances. Perhaps half naked fairies. Mrs Settle was not an unsexual or asexual woman. She had her desires and, indeed, had Mr Settle’s semen inside her from a tumble in bed before she had gone to sleep. It had not been fully satisfying—she had not had an orgasm before he had pumped into her and promptly fell asleep. Her thoughts turned to the fairies being male and female and their dance becoming more sexual as it went on out in the moonlit garden. From cold impervious frost fairies to thoughts of real ballet dancers both female and male. Thoughts of a naked ballet. She shook her head. Male dancers with engorged cocks lifting the petite female dancers and settling them down upon their upstanding knobs. She hoped her daughter, Susan, did not have such thoughts. Such a sweet girl, so innocent at her age, sound asleep in the next bedroom.

She looked back at the bed and her sleeping husband. Annoying he was not awake and wanting to engage in ‘marital relations.’ But they had done that earlier and he would not be up for it now at all. A pity. Her hand lifted her nightdress and touched her sex, her fingers playing for a few moments very like she had when younger. She did not do that much these days. Her thoughts upon ballet dancers or fairies dancing; dancing beautifully but erotically.

Frost fairies indeed! What an idea, but it did look an enchanted garden. Next door at Mr Canning’s a light went on. Up for a call of nature perhaps or just going to bed. A couple of right male fairies there! Sweet old gentlemen but ‘bent as a nine-bob note’—as her mother used to say. She smoothed her palms over her hard nipples and then lifted her large breasts. Age had let them fall a little: age and breast feeding. Womanly curves, nonetheless. Still attractive to men—certainly, Mr Settle had sucked and then rubbed his cock across her nipples that very night. He had been appreciative! But had come too soon for her. She wished he would not do that. Wished his penis was less ready to come all the time. She looked back at Mr Canning’s house thinking of the two old men as she stroked her large breasts and hard nipples. Neither would have any idea what to do with those! She looked back at the bed and could just make out her husband. Fast asleep and unlikely he could get it up again so soon. She bit her lip. She did want a cock! Outside the light next door was still on. Was Mr Canning shaking it; or was Mr Lewell shaking it; or were they shaking each other!

Dear oh, dear! Thinking of Mr Canning’s cock—and Mr Lewell’s. Who knew where they had been—though she could guess. Were they big? She shook her head. What was she thinking? Big or not they were not for her and would not be big if she were there! No getting to sleep now. She walked out of the bedroom with a vague idea of sitting downstairs and looking at the moonlit garden. It did look very pretty. As she descended the stairs it seemed to her, she was descending into mist. It floated around her and she stood puzzled at the bottom of the stairs. She walked slowly towards the back of the house; it was as if up to her knees there was a blanket of cloud or fog; wisps floated up to her as she undid the patio doors and stepped out into the moonlit night. No mist there but she was now sure she was dreaming. A lovely dream as she stepped out into the moonlit monochrome and so still garden.

And she danced, danced as if an orchestra was playing, round and round she went with her nightie swirling around her. In her mind the thought of the frost fairies, yes female and male. Between her thighs a further running of hot wetness, she was imagining dancing with the fairies and the male fairies having the most perfect, nay beautiful, erect penises. She closed her eyes imagining a dance, a close dance, a dance where partners were exchanged again and again. Penis after penis for her. Touching her. The mist seemed to creep out of her house and flow out into the garden and around her feet.

A sudden feeling of cold and she opened her eyes. The men next door were watching her. She could see them looking out of the window. Two men, Mr Canning and Mr Lovell—of course. Mr Canning beckoned.

Mrs Settle walked back in and through her house, out of the front door and into the street in her nightdress. The mist floated around her knees and then up to her thighs as she approached Mr Canning’s door. It was unlocked. Her dream had taken an unexpected twist. The two old men were waiting for her.

“You’re cold, let’s us rub you to make you warmer. Come into the lounge it’ll be warmer there.”

Their hands were upon her, rubbing her body through her nightdress and not just her hands and feet. They were taking what her mother would have called ‘liberties.’

“I’m a married woman,” she said rather pointlessly in protest. Dreams did not worry about such things.

“We can see that.” Mr Lovell had taken more of a ‘liberty’ than Mr Canning. He had rubbed her between her legs and upon his fingers was stickiness, evidence of her earlier sexual intercourse with her husband.

“Mine,” she said and playfully sucked upon his fingers. It was a dream after all. She could do what she liked. And so, also, it seemed could the old men as Mr Lovell whisked off her nightie, up and over her head. It made it easier to rub and warm her body. Flushed and enlivened by her dancing but nonetheless cold. Her feet were a little blue.

“I was dancing,” she said.

“We could see.” Mr Canning turned and reached for a plastic bottle.

Mrs Settle could see the label, even in her dream she could read—‘Ed McCaffrey’s Enervating Lotion.’ The logo upon the bottle was stylised, yet it seemed to her as if the upright penile shape at its bottom and the upwards ‘Y’ of ‘McCaffrey’s’ immediately above looked remarkably like the sort of ejaculation she had coaxed from Mr Settle in their courtship, a fountaining up from the rounded shape below. Dreams are such strange things. Nonsensical, absurd or strangely warped things from reality abound. The bottle read, ‘Ed McCaffrey’s enervating lotion—finger lickin’ good. Semen flavour.’ What nonsense!

A squeeze upon the plastic bottle from Mr Canning, right between her breasts, the contents came out like the sexual squirting of an erect penis, a rope of lotion and then another. What? The plastic neck so reminiscent of a cock and the now unsheathed knob at its top so rounded and bulbous like… the knob of a cock. Another squirt and another and hands were rubbing it all over her, spreading the creamy lotion over her breasts making her nipples tingle. They had been hard from the cold—or had they already been hard? He smoothed the lotion down her body, over her hips and down her legs before two pairs of hands stroked upwards, gliding upon the lotion towards the junction of her legs.

The lotion was soothing, the finger rubbing warming, she could feel her skin reacting, a spreading warmth. A warming in her dream.

“Come dance again. It’ll warm you the more.”

Indeed, warm carpet beneath her toes, a warm room, and a waltz upon the record player, Mrs Settle really began to feel warm again. Very warm. Hot even. And it was not just she who danced. Mr Lovell proved a more than competent dancer. Just as well as he had shoes on his feet and her toes were vulnerable and bare—very much like her whole body. She frowned as they whirled around the room to the strains of a Viennese waltz, had Mr Lovell expected to dance—he seemed very formally dressed. The peculiarity of her being stark naked, not in a dress at all, and Mr Lovell in dinner suit confused her. But, of course, it was only a dream. She smiled for Mr Canning’s camera. She hoped Mr Lovell did not mind her unrestrained breasts wobbling all over the place: such a contrast to his neat and controlled body clad in his dinner suit. Another waltz and then another. “I feel exhausted,” she said, “I need to lie down.”

The two men smiled at each other.

Without her nightie, naked as sin, she was ushered up the stairs and into a bedroom. She threw herself on the bed and turned. Across the room a mirror and she could see herself. What did she look like! A trollop! Her dark hair dishevelled and spread out, her skin shining with lotion and perspiration and her thighs lolling open revealing the thick and swollen lips of her sex, more than poking out through her dark curls. Her slightly ‘rolly polly’ body looking more like a courtesan than the respectable wife of Mr Settle. That she was his wife was very clearly evidenced by the white stuff she could see leaking out of her. Her husband’s semen.

Wonderful to feel so sexual in her dream. But the frustration. A sexual dream with a couple of old queers for company and she so in need of a cock or two. Mr Canning and Mr Lovell came back into her dream, came into the bedroom and, all at once, they did not look so gay anymore. Clothing removed they stood there, very much men, two lovely cocks at the ready looking down at her. Was she about to be well and truly fucked after all, in her dream? Or was it going to be one of those so frustrating dreams where what she wanted did not happen or she could not make it happen. Would they have sex together and leave her out of it?

Mrs Settle licked her lips and opened her thighs further, in invitation. She wanted cock—and plenty of it. She needed to entice them in—and she most definitely meant ‘in.’

Not frustration after all, as the two old queers seemed happy to oblige. Perhaps they were a little ‘bi’ after all. Happy to oblige her with a continuously hard cock in her vagina—not like Mr Settle who had dribbled and gone soft in her. And Mr Canning and Mr Lovell were good with their hands, keeping various erogenous zones nicely touched and stroked. Mr Settle had certainly sucked upon her nipples but only one at a time. Together Mr Canning and Mr Lovell could attend to right and left at the very same time.

Nice penises to be sucked, even if they tasted so very much of her! Firm, meaty knobs for her to suck. She allowed herself to become rather abandoned. It was a dream after all. In reality she had never had sex with two men. Indeed, only had sex with Mr Settle and one other man—and that was, of course, before she had met her future husband. Never in reality had she had one man inside her whilst she sucked upon another cock—but she did that a lot in her dream upon Mr Canning’s bed.

What a dream. What an orgasm or two. And she really felt both Mr Canning and Mr Lovell ejaculating inside her. Dream comings. The idea!

Mrs Settle ascended her stairs feeling tired. She blinked wondering how long she had sat downstairs staring at the garden. She had been dreaming. She could remember some of it. Some of it very clearly. It had been very odd, but dreams were like that. Not at all something to relate to Mr Settle in the morning. Frost fairies indeed—and other fairies—as if!

A trickle down her inner right thigh and then her left. Mr Settle must have produced a lot when he came. She was running with the stuff. It did not matter. She was going to change the sheets in the morning anyway.

Her skin felt lovely and soft but she could not recall putting any lotion on it yet, it seemed as if she had rubbed her whole body with a smooth lotion. A nice smell; she licked her arm, but a funny taste. It reminded her of when Mr Settle came in her mouth. Something he liked to do. The taste of semen. She could not remember putting on the lotion but no sooner had her head touched the pillow than she was asleep. Down between her thighs, semen seeped from her. Mr Settle’s, Mr Lovell’s and Mr Canning’s. She had been well fucked that evening.

It was one of those stupid things—one of those really stupid things; and Mrs Doreen Settle just so knew it, at the very moment the latch clicked. She had known moments before, had known as she did it that it was foolish, but it was one of those things you do despite knowing it is stupid. It won’t matter that the safety guard is not in the right position on the chain saw or it won’t matter not wearing gauntlets because it is just a small task you want to do with the chain saw… just a quick one—and indeed it was—and, as you see a couple of fingers lying there on the ground, you know very well it was not sensible, not even foolish but down right stupid. Well, it was nothing so serious for Mrs Settle, no fingers were sawn off or anything horrible like that but… well, it really had not been a good idea to just nip out with the rubbish bag and put it in the wheely bin behind the house, mere feet from the back door, without a stitch of clothing on. The wind had blown the door to, and the Yale latch had clicked.

Doreen Settle was outside in the early morning light, a little after seeing Susan and her husband off at the front door and half-way through having a shower and getting dressed. She had had the shower and had been in a dressing gown, only she had put that in the washing machine (now into its cycle) and had seen the rubbish needed emptying. Her idea just to get the rubbish out of the way and then go upstairs and put knickers and brassiere on and other things—warm things! Instead she was outside in the cold in bare feet—well, bare everything. A cold day and she was stark naked behind her house.

What could she do? There was only one thing to do. She could not go out in the street like that—she would die of embarrassment; no way was she going to reveal her stupidity to Elspeth Sargent the other side of her house and garden—not to her; the only recourse was to call out to Mr Canning for help.

It was, of course, embarrassing. Not as much as if Alf Sargent had seen her. He of the roving eye and equally wandering hands. Doreen Settle shivered. No, she would not want that neighbour helping: better gay Mr Canning saw her.

“Coo-ee!” Doreen Settle called across the fence but there was no response. She tried again but no. Yet, there was a light on in the kitchen and clearly Mr Canning was up and about. Could she perhaps get over the fence into his garden and knock on the door? It was a low fence. Not a six-foot panelled fence, but quite a modest wooden fence with a painted top rail. If she hooked one foot over and then slowly let it down the other side she could probably, sort of, step over it. It was, she found, rather taller than her inside leg measurement, she could not just rock over it, momentarily sitting astride, but perhaps she could if she balanced herself with one foot upon an upended brick her side and then let herself down the other.

There was a brick lying there, by the fence. An upended brick, resting on its ‘header’ end is nine inches high and that gave Mrs Settle enough extra height to swing her leg over, momentarily rest upon the top of the fence and then let herself down the other side—or would have done had she not done another stupid thing—the second of the morning—she managed to push the upended brick over with her foot. Suddenly she found herself not just naked outside on a cold morning but astride a fence with the cold rail running right between her thighs—very much resting upon her labia, her sex squashed by her weight beneath her, her pubic hair giving very little cushioning to her ‘bits.’ It was rather uncomfortable, the wood cold, indeed the air around cold—and she was stuck.

Doreen Settle might not have known anything about such things, but Mr Canning certainly did. His surprise on opening his back door was considerable. The sight that met his eyes was of his neighbour strangely astride the fence rather as if it was a wooden ‘pony’ used in BDSM sex play with the woman or girl bound and riding a bar, or even a tapering, triangular shaped ‘horse,’ a mock punishment with the bar or edge very much pushed by the woman or girl’s weight against her soft sex. Apparently sexually arousing for women who like that sort of thing.

Mr Canning had heard Mrs Settle’s call, had peeped from an upstairs window and seen the unexpected sight of his neighbour naked in the garden. It was not something he had caused, it had not been a suggestion he had implanted in her mind but that did not mean advantage could not be taken. He made a very quick telephone call and then, to his surprise and delight had found Doreen Settle in a bit more of a predicament. Sexual pleasure could and would be taken by him and Mr Lovell.

“Doreen, what on Earth are you doing?”

Mr Canning’s sudden appearance left Doreen Settle speechless with just her mouth opening and closing. She was so conscious just what Mr Canning was seeing, not least her dark bush pressed down against the white fence rail, her ample thighs spread and her feet dangling. Instinctively she covered her ample breasts with her arms, feeling the rush of blood to her face. Utter embarrassment—even though she knew Mr Canning was not at all interested in her rather roly-poly female body.

“Do you like doing that?”

It was worse, Mr Canning seemed to think she was doing what she was doing as some sort of sexual thing. The idea!

“It’s cold,” she said, and it was, the wooden bar could not have been that much above freezing temperature. She dropped her other hand to cover her bush, leaving an arm across her breasts. “I’m stuck,” she added.

“So I see, but why? Why are you there—like that?”

Mrs Settle rather thought the old gentleman should offer help rather than ask how she had got into that situation, but she explained about the rubbish and being locked out; about her calling out and then seeing the brick and it overbalancing and her becoming stuck.

“It must be very uncomfortable. I mean, you ladies…” He did not elaborate on the differences between men and women.

“It’s a little like riding a bicycle with a rather thin saddle but a very cold one!” She explained, “Can you help me down?”

“I don’t know, Doreen, Mr Lovell will be here in a mo and I’m sure together…”

It was worse. Doreen Settle swallowed. Mr Lovell would see her as well. The rail was cold and the air was cold; under her protective arm she could feel her nipples were hard like dried peas or even beans. They were not that small. They were as hard as they had been with Mr Settle in bed the night before when they had had sexual intercourse.

“Couldn’t you just… support my weight or find something to put under my foot?”

Mr Canning looked at the foot dangling his side of the fence. Mrs Settle had painted her toes with red nail varnish. He looked around his neat garden for something to put under her foot but he did not have a low stool or a brick. Further up the garden a set of chairs but they would be too high.

“My back, Doreen, I wouldn’t want to strain it and slip something. Not that I’m saying you’re too heavy or something. Far from it. I would say the same to Susan. Best to wait for Mr Lovell. He won’t be long.” Behind him he heard Mr Lovell. He must have pretty much run to have got there so quickly.

“Oh,” said Mr Lovell, “Oh!”

“Mrs Settle is rather stuck,”

“That must be very uncomfortable, I mean you ladies…”

It was awful. A second person, a second man, seeing her naked and perhaps even in a sexual situation. Mr Canning had asked if she ‘liked’ doing that. She was well aware many years before, when she was Susan’s age, she had had a bicycle with a narrow, rather racing saddle. It had been very firm—hard—between her thighs and she could well remember how sometimes on country bike rides she had found herself rubbing against it as she cycled along. Leaning forward, clenching a little and pedalling hard up a hill seemed to bring on a pleasing wetness. At first, she had thought the feeling was cramp, but then realised it was something very different. She had made herself come, and the feeling, then, of freewheeling down the other side of the hill after orgasm, letting her knees part and feeling the rush of wind up into her cotton skirt and over her now rather wet knickers had been glorious—it had been a hot day, after all. And when she had done the same the weekend after, and had come, pedalling hard on the same hill, she had rather daringly, hopped off her bike and taken her knickers off. Freewheeling down the other side she had opened her legs and felt the air rushing directly against her exposed sex without any intervening cotton. Whether the male bicycle rider pulling up the hill the other side of the road had seen much she did not know! She had been having a second orgasm at the time! An orgasm at speed.

The wooden rail did remind her of the leather saddle, only that had not been cold. It had been very warm! She might have been happy for the man on the bicycle toiling up the hill to have caught a glimpse but that was years before and her present predicament was very different.

“Now, how are we to lift Mrs Settle, Mr Lovell?”

“If I got the other side we could lift her under her arms and knees.”

Mr Lovell seemed to find it quite easy to roll over the bar a little further down the garden, despite his overcoat he did the manoeuvre not as she had done by trying to get over vertically, but rather horizontally. He had sort of lain down on the bar and just rolled over.

“Now listen carefully, Doreen, and just do as I say.”

She had looked into Mr Canning’s eyes and nodded. She was pleased he was not looking at her body. It was all so embarrassing. She listened to his instructions, her eyes not leaving his. She found herself blinking and momentarily disorientated when he had finished.

“Now, hands away, Doreen, we need to hold you under your armpits and then your knees.”

And there she was, fully exposed to Mr Canning again but now also to Mr Lovell. And it got worse. As they reached under her arms and the crook of her knees she found herself being lifted up. That exposed not just her black triangle of pubic hair but much of what lay between her legs, the wet hairs matted from the condensation on the rail, her open pinkness and even her vaginal opening. Fleetingly, she thought that might be the first time the two old gentlemen had seen such a thing.

Despite their gayness it was just so embarrassing. Two men had her in their arms, cradled there with her legs apart, lifting her up and then rotating her so her foot on her side of the fence came over the rail and joined the other on the other side; and soon she was sitting upon the rail and able to slip off and down onto Mr Canning’s side of the fence to join him.

“You must be freezing. Come inside for a cup of tea.”

It was a pat on her bottom. It really was. Mr Canning encouraging her through his open back door and into his kitchen and out of the cold. It was not at all what she would have expected from him. Indeed, much more what she would expect from Alf Sargent. In a way it was worse in the kitchen. She was standing there stark naked in her neighbour’s kitchen with him in pyjamas and dressing gown and Mr Lovell in an overcoat. It was, though, lovely and warm in there. It was so good to be out of the cold. So good not to have that cold rail against her sex.

She looked at Mr Lovell’s overcoat thinking perhaps he might offer that to her to cover her nakedness and to get warm but seemingly not a bit of it. He was putting the kettle on.

“I wonder, Mr Lovell, if I might borrow your coat for a bit?”

It was her third mistake, perhaps not a stupid one, not as stupid as the first two but perhaps it showed a lack of attention. Mr Lovell undid the belt of his coat and then the buttons. It was somewhat—or very like—the action of a ‘dirty old man’ towards a schoolgirl in the park. Mr Lovell as a ‘flasher.’ He had nothing on under the overcoat; he had hurried from his flat at Mr Canning’s call and just grabbed the overcoat; Doreen Settle had missed his bare legs under his coat. All at once, there was Mr Lovell as stark naked as she; and where she had a dark triangle of hair, Mr Lovell had grey curls and masculine genitalia.

Her hand flew to her mouth, “Oh,” she said, “Oh.” She was even more embarrassed now. “I didn’t mean… I didn’t know…” But Mr Lovell had taken his coat off and was offering it to her. It was not quite like Sir Walter Raleigh and his cloak for Good Queen Bess, but she could not see it as anything but gallant. Her embarrassed blush spread.

“I feel a little overdressed,” smiled Mr Canning, “perhaps you’d like my dressing gown?” He took that off, leaving him in striped pyjamas. “But, I think, Doreen, it’d be better if we rubbed you down rather than just wrapping you up.” He spread the dressing gown on the kitchen table. “Up you hop.”

Rubbed down? She was cold but… what did he mean?

“A bit of a massage to stimulate the skin, bring the warm blood into the capillaries and make you feel better. Mr Lovell, could you get…?”

Doreen Settle found herself doing just what she was told, ample bottom on the table’s edge and then her lifting herself up and moving backwards across the table, her legs tight shut.

She saw Mr Lovell come back into the kitchen with a plastic bottle in its hand. It had a long neck and she could read the label

‘Ed McCaffrey’s Enervating Lotion.’ There was a stylised logo on the bottle that reminded her of, well, a man’s erect penis. Worse the penile shape seemed as if ejaculating as the upwards ‘Y’ of the ‘McCaffrey’s’ name. What a fancy! Mr Lovell unscrewed the top and the long neck too looked remarkably phallic, the rounded top so like the knob end of an erect penis. She gasped when Mr Lovell squeezed the bottle, not from the sudden touch of the lotion upon her skin but from just how it fitted in with her thoughts—it so looked like an ejaculation.

The enervating lotion was across her stomach. How had Mrs Settle got herself into this position? One moment she was pottering around in her kitchen, tidying up after husband and daughter had left: the next she was lying on her neighbour’s kitchen table, stark naked about to be rubbed down by two old gentlemen, one as naked as she and the other not a lot better—in his pyjamas—about to be rubbed down with what looked so like… well, semen.

The two gentlemen were good. Their rubbing was not amateurish, perhaps they had practised massage on each other. Doreen Settle closed her eyes and let herself be warmed by the energetic and slippery rubbing of hands across skin, muscles were kneaded, and she warmed. They had her roll over and she felt yet more lotion squirted. It landed on her bottom cheeks. She could feel it running down into her crack. Firm hands began to massage her buttocks, drawing them up and down and from side to side. Awfully they might be able to see her bottom hole. A disturbing, embarrassing thought, but she found she could do very little about it. The massage seemed to have removed her ability to move very much. She felt relaxed and rather sleepy and mostly nice and warm. Only her sex still felt cold from that smooth but very cold painted rail. Her shoulders were massaged, strong fingers working upon her.

The two men rolled her back onto her back and then surprised her by squirting more lotion right over her breasts. Momentarily she opened her eyes. The lotion was there across her breasts, even a strand trailing across one hard nipple. Touching her left breast the top of the lotion bottle, its rounded end so like the knob of a penis, even where the top screwed on looking like the folds of a retracted foreskin; the opening at the top too was a slit rather than rounded, again recalling the sight of a penis. It reminded her of seeing Mr Settle’s penis freshly ejaculated over her breasts and lying there upon one mound. Mr Settle sometimes did that when she was not ‘in the mood.’ He seemed to like coming across her ‘tits’ (as he would say); he liked her to wank him over them, liked to touch her breasts with his cock; liked her to rub her nipples with his spermy knob.

“Your nipples feel rather cold, Doreen.” Mr Canning had both of them twixt his fingers and was gently rolling them; his fingers sticky with the lotion. It was strangely pleasant—sexual even. Again, the thought of her arousal on her bicycle and how she had sometimes tweaked her own nipples as she rode, not that they would have been exposed, rather the tweaking was through blouse and brassiere. Well, except that one time.

Doreen closed her eyes and remembered. A lonely road, more of a track and she had hopped off her bicycle and looked both ways. A long straight track and gorse bushes either side to hide behind if need be; easy to ride straight off the track and disappear should anyone have appeared along the track. It had taken some courage, but she had done it. Knickers down, blouse off, brassiere off and then skirt undone and all stuffed in her saddle bag. She had been naked, but for her plimsolls, on the track with her bicycle. It had been strangely exciting. The sun on her exposed skin had been pleasant; the feeling of freedom; and it had been sexual. Swinging her leg and mounting the saddle—the hard leather against her sensitive skin—and then riding away, legs working; a naked girl on a bicycle. And, of course, her thoughts as a young girl, were on boys, a couple she fancied, and her thoughts were of them riding naked, or at least exposed. She imagined them coming towards her along the track and, of course, riding erect with their cocks sticking up from their saddles. She had rubbed the hard saddle between her lips as she rode thinking of the boys and what she would have liked to have done with them.

“We’re a little worried you might have hurt yourself riding the rail like that.”

The two rather mature gentlemen had their hands upon her legs and were trying to ease them apart. Her head swam a little, perhaps it was all the shock of her ordeal, perhaps it was the massage and getting warm. She felt a little confused between her very clear memory of bicycling and where she was on Mr Canning’s table. She thought she heard Mr Lovell say, “So, this is where babies come from.” There seemed genuine interest from the old gentleman. Poor old poof, she thought.

An ejaculation or two from the bottle right upon her now exposed sex and then the feel of fingers, many fingers stroking her as Mr Settle had briefly done the night before. The fingers were intimate, running not just along the outer lips, where she had rested upon the rail, but inwards. The lotion was warming, a hot feeling building between her legs as she lay there with her eyes closed, half dreaming, caught between the present and the past. Her feet were planted upon the table and her thighs wide-spread. Fingers were indeed feeling ‘where babies come from,’ were even venturing into the ‘birth canal’—quite a few of them.

“Doreen does not seem to have hurt herself.”

“No, Mr Canning, as far as I can judge everything is fine. Oh, look, this must be her clitoris! How like a miniature knob it is. Look it even has a sort of foreskin.”

The two old gentlemen seemed to think she had dropped off to sleep. And she had, she knew—almost—or was she asleep and dreaming?

“Does it move? Oh, yes!”

“Mr Lovell—you’re wanking Mrs Settle!”

It was a nice feeling, gentler than Mr Settle was. She let her knees spread a little wider and thought of the gentle rub of the leather saddle upon her sex when she was a girl. Perhaps she should take up bicycling again. Buy a new bike. She would have to choose the saddle carefully.

“And this must be where she wees; funny it’s not positioned at the end of her clitoris.” The two gentlemen were touching her there now. It was all a bit like a gynaecological examination, only not by two doctors but rather two inexperienced—or ignorant—schoolboys discovering just what ‘little girls are made of;’ only she was hardly little and they hardly young—two overgrown schoolboys, perhaps—certainly, a couple of old queers suddenly learning about women. It was a funny dream to have. If it was a dream.

“I wonder what it’s like when Mr Settle puts his penis in.”

“Let’s see with the lotion bottle.”

“Or a cucumber. I see there’s one in your vegetable rack.”

“The Jolly Green Giant’s cock!”

“Mr |Lovell! Really! But it is rather large and curving. It is somewhat like an erection. Like yours.”

“Do you think she could take such a large one?”

“It is quite a substantial vegetable. We don’t know how large Mr Settle is.”

From Doreen Settle’s lips came a single word, ‘Small.’ The word was barely a whisper.

The touch of the lotion bottle was welcome; the way its rounded end pushed at her was more than a little pleasing. In Doreen’s mind thoughts of those two imagined boys on bicycles stopping and she braking as well, she coming to a halt just beyond them. She imagined her looking back at them and they looking back at her and all dismounting. The two lads with their so fine cocks sticking up, peeled and so right for a suck or a fuck. Walking towards them and grasping, pulling them into the roadside and behind gorse bushes onto the cropped grass; choosing the smaller to start with and, as the lotion bottle, pushed into her she felt wonderfully filled. Something Mr Settle just did not manage. What lovely boys.

She lay there on the table, feeling the neck of the lotion bottle pulled and pushed inside her.

“How interesting, Mr Canning, “Mrs Settle seems very accommodating—and doesn’t the neck go in such a distance. I wonder—the cucumber?”

Doreen felt the squirting of the lotion bottle—as if the first boy in her half dream had come too quickly. Perhaps the second would have more staying power—unlike Mr Settle.

In her mind the image of the first boy rising from her and she pulling the second down upon her. Such a big boy but, so filling.

Filling indeed, as Mr Lovell pushed a rather substantial, firm and, indeed, green cucumber at Mrs Doreen Settle’s opening. A slightly unnatural twisting motion helped its entry. He looked up at Mr Canning and winked. The two of them were very much enjoying playing with Mr Canning’s neighbour. The idea she had in her head that they were a couple of old ‘queens’ and not at all interested in women’s genitalia or curvaceous bodies was somewhat wide of the mark. On the contrary both were very much enjoying their retirement thanks to Mr Canning’s exceptional skill as a hypnotist. They very much had Mrs Settle where they wanted her; were very much enjoying their little game of pretend surprise at what ‘little girls are made of.’ Their enjoyment could very much have been seen by Mrs Settle had she turned her head and looked down below the level of the table. Mr Lovell was, of course, already naked and his own ‘cucumber’ was neither limp, nor, as it happened, green, but was very visible and upstanding. Mr Canning’s no less so, as it had poked its way out and up through his pyjama trouser fly. They were enjoying the sight and their feeling of her ample body, now interestingly aroused. It made a change and a contrast to Susan’s young and trim body. It was a delight to the two old gentlemen to have both women to play and have carnal relations with at not irregular intervals.

The large, and curving cucumber, some foot long, progressed into Mrs Settle, stretching her somewhat but, as the two old gentlemen could see by her reaction, very pleasurably for her. It went in a little over halfway before being drawn back out by Mr Lovell and then in again. Mrs Settle’s head was going from side to side, her eyes were closed and her mouth was opening and closing. Mr Canning looked at Mr Lovell—was Doreen’s opening and closing mouth perhaps seeking something?

Undoubtedly the lotion had helped the entry, but it was very clear Mrs Settle was naturally lubricating.

“I wonder what it’s like?” Mr Canning repeated his question.

“Perhaps we should find out.”

“Perhaps we should, Mr Lovell.”

Had Mr Settle or perhaps Susan come home unexpectedly and gone looking for the missing Mrs Settle what a sight they might have seen had they hopped over the fence and looked through Mr Canning’s kitchen window. The cucumber was substantial—and green.

A shock to Mr Settle or Susan but had the observer been a more independent person, say a tradesman or perhaps an aged window cleaner, would he have thought Mrs Settle was being abused? The observer could not have missed a most arousing shaking from Mrs Settle, nor that opening and closing mouth. Would he have rather thought she was being attended to and pleasured? A women with two gentlemen in attendance upon her, assisting her with a large ‘sex toy.’ Would he have thought she had more sought the penis Mr Canning was pushing into her mouth than it being thrust upon—or rather slipped into—her?

Cucumber working one end and Mrs Settle slurping on Mr Canning’s hard penis at the other, Doreen Settle was certainly being attended to—even if there was no elderly window cleaner wanking as he watched through the window. Mr Canning reached and began a rather direct manipulation of Doreen Settle’s clitoris. It was all too much for the barely conscious woman. Her shaking became more violent—as if she had caught a chill from her experience upon the cold, wet rail—as her orgasm came in waves. It was not something she had achieved the night before with Mr Settle.

“I think she’s passed out, Mr Canning.”

“So she has. You were saying something about that we should find out what sexual intercourse is like, Mr Lovell.”

Slowly Mr Lovell drew the cucumber out of Mrs Settle; he looked up at Mr Canning, “I think, actually, it’s coming back to me. I think I recall doing that before with Mrs Settle.”

“You know, Mr Lovell, so do I! Funny how you forget these things—must be age! A shame neither of us are quite the size of that cucumber.”

Mr Lovell held it alongside his own upright member and shook his head. “But it would not fit in Susan—if that big; neither would fit in Susan.”

“True, and that would be a shame. We did, after all, manage a double fit and a tight one at that! Shall I refresh my memory with Doreen here first.”

“Please, Mr Canning, after you!”

A drawing of Mrs Doreen Settle’s body down the table bringing her sex right to the edge. She was fast asleep. Mr Canning lifted up both legs, holding an ankle in each hand and then manoeuvred himself into position and the cucumber was replaced.

“Now how are we going to get Doreen back in her house without a key?”

A rather matter of fact conversation to have whilst having carnal relations with the sleeping Doreen Settle. Perhaps to prolong the pleasure of sliding his penis within her, slapping his balls against her—and he was certainly doing that as he talked.

“A problem indeed, Mr Canning. I believe Mr Sherlock Holmes might call it a ‘three pipe problem.’ I do not favour the pipe myself nor the cigar or cigarette but there are other pleasures.”

Mr Canning took the hint and stepped back, his glistening and wet erection withdrawn. “Would you care for a…?” He passed Mrs Settle’s ankles to his friend as Mr Lovell took over.

“Very pleasant, Mr Canning, certainly conducive to clear thinking upon the problem. Hot and wet, though perhaps a little lacking in Susan’s tightness, don’t you think?

“Very true, Mr Lovell, perhaps our use of the cucumber did not help. Might even be room for two.”

“A proper double penetration. Now we haven’t done that have we? I would remember that!”

Mr Lovell made pleasing wet noises with Mrs Settle as they discussed the problem of how to get her back into her house.

“Is, perhaps an upstairs window open? We could borrow a ladder.”

For a few moments Mr Lovell was left alone with Mrs Settle. He did not pause in his steady strokes.

“Mr Canning, you went outside almost naked. Whatever next! You’re not Mrs Settle you know.”

“A vent light is open, I think with a ladder we might effect entry…”

Mr Lovell smiled back at his friend, “Yes, that would suit. Now who is the smaller?”

Mr Canning rather deliberately looked at Mr Lovell’s organ as it slid wetly in and out between Mrs Settle’s spread thighs.

“I meant in body, Mr Canning, not in our respective generative organs. Would you perhaps like another turn?”

“No hurry, Mr Lovell, no hurry.”

“Ah, but, Mr Canning, I feel myself quite close to an ejaculation. Perhaps a short respite will prolong the pleasure.”

“Of course, Mr Lovell, of course! I am more than happy to oblige.”

Mr Lovell stepped back from between Doreen Settle’s ample thighs in turn and for a moment or two the two elderly gentlemen stood with their twin erections looking down at the woman.

“She is very fine.”

“Indeed—ample. Such a pleasure to enjoy her. Perhaps, sometime, we might enjoy them together—mother and daughter.”

“That might be a bit greedy, Mr Canning, we are not that young. I think one between two is probably sufficient for us these days! Are you going to?”

“Of course, Mr Lovell, of course.” Mr Canning stepped forward and slid himself easily into Mrs Settle.

Mr Lovell watched, his own penis feeling very near to release. Nonetheless he could not resist a gentle stroking as he looked down at Mrs Settle’s sprawled form and watched Mr Canning at work. He reached and held both of her breasts.

“Suits you, Mr Canning, it really does. You look quite distinguished in your pyjamas and within Mrs Settle. A photograph perhaps?

“The fit could be better, Mr Lovell.”

“Does Mrs Settle feel a little ‘off the peg;’ you are seeking something bespoke?”

“Perhaps I might try a more tailored fit.”

“A slim fit, perhaps, but really that is for the younger gentleman. Our older clients usually prefer a more relaxed fit. It makes it easier to move—more roomy. You were perhaps thinking of Susan? A fresh new style for the season but a bit of a tight fit, but will loosen and ease a bit with wear. I don’t,” Mr Lovell looked around the kitchen, “have her in stock at the moment but perhaps, if you were to come back later in the week, we might try the fit…”

“I should be delighted to come…” The ribaldry ended as Mr Canning did just that. He came copiously and with a fair bit of thrusting and consequent wet noises. He stood for a few moments and then looked blearily at his friend. “That was good. An excellent spend. Really good. Would you care…?”

Mr Lovell would—and did.

Mrs Settle came to, sitting in Mr Canning’s sitting room in one of his armchairs. She blinked wondering why she was there and then remembered the locking out and being stuck upon the rail and Mr Canning coming to her rescue. But she was not sure what happened after that.

Mr Canning popped his head around the door. “Hallo, Doreen, you had a bit of a shock I think, being locked out and then stuck. Cup of tea?”

She was modestly clothed in a dressing gown, presumably Mr Canning’s. He must have put it upon her. She could not remember, but the thought embarrassed her. Still, it was all an accident, and the human body was, well, the human body and we are all naked under clothes and, in any case, Mr Canning—dear old stick, but a very bent one—was hardly likely to have ‘taken advantage.’ Had it been Susan locked out naked she would have had no worries with Mr Canning.

So well dressed, his hair so neat. So attentive and kind. Biscuits as well as tea. Rich Tea biscuits. She was so pleased to hear Mr Lovell and he—her embarrassment returned at the mention of Mr Lovell—she had forgotten he had been there as well—had been able to get into her house and the back door was now unlocked. All was well.

Tea finished, Mrs Settle stood, promising to bring the dressing gown back, when she felt a sudden trickle down the inside of her thighs. A start from her and a drawing together of legs. That was unexpected. Most unexpected. The run felt quite copious. Surely Mr Settle had not deposited so much within her the night before? Men! It was unlike him, very unlike Mr Settle, his ejaculations were not generous. She knew that well. It felt rather surprising. Perhaps he had been more excited than she had realised.