Perverse Pleasures
by Jonathan Andrews - Printed in Issue 14of In The Buff

    Being a bricklayer was hard work, but Dave enjoyed it - he liked the lads, he liked seeing something he was working on coming to completion, knowing it would be there for years to come, a home, and one day was never the same as the last. Like this job he was on now, a small private estate, expensive three/four bedroomed houses, each one individual. You had to be loaded to have one of these. Maybe one day he would be able to afford such a place. He was ambitious, and planned to start his own firm as soon as possible. Another couple of years, and then he was off.
     "Aye, never mind day-dreaming!" Bob was a laugh. Fifty-eight, still single, still in someone else's employ.
     "Off again," answered Dave, wiping a hand across a sweat and plaster streaked brow.
     "Cor, look at that!"
     Dave did. She was smart, young, and bloody attractive, and she knew it, smiling as she sauntered past, briefcase in hand. She had the one they'd finished a few months ago, the corner plot with its large garden and little piece of woodland, the pick of the best. He had heard she was a secretary of some sort - he had no idea what her fella did. Anyway, they could afford a one hundred grand house.
     "Hello."
     "Er," he hesitated,
     "Lovely day."
     He couldn't argue on that. It had been 'lovely days' for going on a month or so, that was why he had the deep brown tan.
     "I'm making a drink, if you would like one."
     "Nice place," he said, following her into the kitchen with its up-to-date appliances, light oak furniture.
     "I thought a cold one would be best."
     The orange was cold, straight from the refrigerator, refreshing too. Dave slaked a rabid thirst, pouring it down almost in one.
     She refilled the glass. "The garden's still a bit of a mess, but we are getting there." It wasn't bad, considering the tip that had been left behind once the house itself had been completed. As the end plot, it had been used as something of a rubbish dump for all the others. The turf was bedding in, a potting shed at the near end, greenhouse at the far, with plants along all sides - clematis starting to clamber their intricate designs through trellis, phlox and penstamon finding their space, a conglomerate of species brightening baskets and tubs, containers and nets.
     The French door slid open, a bee buzzed by, Dave followed her through. Those denim cut-off shorts were a bit brief, a strip of blue between the cheeks of her rounded arse, the top baring a midriff, hanging over unencumbered tits; you could see pointed nipples against thin white.
     "Do you know anything about plants?" Leaning over, top hanging away, denim stretched to its limit, she palmed a brightly flushed dahlia.
     He didn't know much about gardening, but he thought he knew about women, he thought she was giving him the come-on. "I know about furrowing." His cock was stiff inside jeans. "And how to put seed in." Oh yes, he knew about putting in seed, his seed.
     "Oh!" As she turned, they bumped. She must have been able to feel him, what she was doing.
     He gazed into her eyes - pale blue. She gazed into his - hazel. He rested his hands on her hips, she opened her lips. They kissed, slowly, gently. He drew her into his arms. Both mouths opened, tongues searching.
     Sod the job! The grass was dry, warm. They sank onto its springy surface. Dave pushed a hand under her top, squeezed a tit. She gasped, slid down his zip. He pulled off her shorts, pressed his fingers against her tiny lemon nylon panties, felt the juices begin to moisten, intrigued himself inside.
     The gasps became ranging moans, the fingers stretching out her pussy lips, finding the clitoris.
     "Ah!" she cried, Dave rubbing the apex of her clit. She was so sensitive down there, especially her clitoris. It didn't take much to make her come, like she was now, pushing onto his hand, screwing his fingers, riding up and down.
     A thrust and he was in, pushing her legs further apart, poising and plunging his hard length into her slippery chasm, putting most of his weight on his hands as he lunged forward, drew back, lunged again.
     She dug her nails into tanned flesh, a broad back, wrapping her legs around his bum, promoting Dave's deep boring rams, biting his right shoulder, face against face side.
     Withdrawing from her cunt, he turned her around and pointed at her nether hole, slowly inveigling himself into the other, tighter, less flexible challenge. Her eyes opened wide, her mouth the same. It was painful, then pleasant, different. She had always stopped at this juncture, told them "No!" Dave had assumed, she had surrendered - there was always a first time. He was in, fully in, filling, dilating, moving cautiously, rocking his hips, holding her breasts, cradling them in his big, strong, powerful but gentle hands.

"Filthy whore!" If she knelt on the chair, craned her neck a little to the left, she could just see into the garden. If she used the powerful binoculars, she could get a wonderful view. Helen had moved in not long ago, and had quickly realised the advantage of having this property: it afforded views of half a dozen back gardens, and one disgusting young woman. Not to say that Helen wasn't young - twenty-four going on eighty. "Absolutely disgusting!" She saw Dave turn Hannah, watched closely, adjusting the depth of field as he mounted her.
     Her nipples were tender, there was an ache in her crotch. Unfastening the blouse wouldn't hurt, would it, for relief That's better. And undoing her bra - not a sin, surely? Touching down below, that couldn't be wrong, not when it was for the purpose of alleviating discomfort. She removed her knickers, tracked a finger along the line, gave a slight jerk; the binoculars wavered.
     "Oh yes, yes, oh yes!"
     Licking, slaking his thirst for snatch, Dave lapped into Hannah's sopping quim, her syrupy flavour trickling into his mouth, dripping onto his tongue.
     "Mmmm!" Moaning above the sound of mowers, Hannah shivered, shaking her head.
     She was delicious, piquant, sweet and spicy, legs bent, opened to feast on. Dave wallowed in the sparse curls, strayed along, around, over the palatable crack. Helen slid the blouse from her shoulders - her teats longed to feel a touch; she squeezed.
     "Yes, yessss!" The powerful spurt of jism sending her into paroxysms, offering herself to the tongue savaging her cunt, Dave holding onto her waist, trying to hold her still, but failing to curb the strength of her climax.
"Oh my!" Helen unable to keep her fingers from doing their dirty deed, spearing her gash, frigging hurriedly to pleasure. That slut, it was all her fault!

"Gaffer's been looking for you."
     Ignoring Bob, Dave whistled, smiling to himself, making plans for another session. Bricks weren't the only thing he was proficient at laying.

"Good morning."
     Helen held the bottle of milk to her chest. She didn't return the greeting. She would not give that hussy the satisfaction of a reply. The estate had lost its pride when Miss Tarty Face moved in. The husband, if he was her husband, seemed fine enough, but what, she wondered, went on behind closed curtains? All kinds of wicked, immoral acts, if you asked her - wife swapping, orgies and the like. When she and Malcolm indulged in carnal activities, and she saw anything to do with bodily functions as offensive, it was once a month at the most, with the lights out, under the covers, and over and done with as quickly as possible. It was only to keep her husband happy that she permitted him to touch her body. Mother had been right, sex was for procreation only, and, as she had no intention of bearing children - they were all noisy, nasty, filthy brats - she could see no reason for doing it at all. But Malcolm would insist.

"I had one of those lovely builders today."
     "Did you, darling?" Patrick was kneeling, the leather jockstrap tight, tiny pins on the inner lining gently pricking his cock and balls.
     "We were being watched." The chain was taut in a gloved hand, Hannah idly caressing a stockinged leg. She knew they had been watched, had noticed flashes of light on a lens. She wasn't bothered - if that was how they got their kicks, good luck to them. She got hers other ways.
     She pulled on the chain, the chain pulled on the leather collar, Patrick touched fishnet, gazed up at a leather crotch, leather sleeves, strap encircled breasts, pierced, hooped nipples. He adored his wife. He adored her even more when she placated him with the riding crop, crossed his flesh with her trademark lacerations. He needed to know that she was in charge, his Mistress.
     "Pass the milk." Hannah yanked the chain. "Looks like another nice day."

And so it was - too hot for Dave as he scraped away at the mortar, wondering if he would see her again, get another opportunity to sample that gorgeous body, if he could find an excuse to get away for an hour or so. By lunchtime, he was well into the latest job, could afford to let the others catch up. A cold pint beckoned, but so did an insatiable woman. It wasn't much of a competition to decide which should win.
     "Put kettle on."
     Hannah was in- another world, hadn't noticed the face at the open window. She was thinking of Patrick, at work, in his sharp suit, dealing with clients, with a strap of leather fixed around his balls, a cock cage organising a semi-erection. Dave made her jump.
     The door into the kitchen swung open. She was wearing those shorts again, a different top, still thin, still barely covering her deliciously pert boobs, succulent nips. Dave circled her waist with his hands, almost able to touch fingers; she was so slender.
     "Good, I needed that.... almost as much as I need this." He put down the empty mug, pushed his hands up her top, and pressed his palms into kneadable flesh, popping the nipples between his fingers.
     Hannah sighed, wriggling.
     Dave pulled the top off over her head, swinging her around, pressing his flesh into hers, mashing her tits into his chest, kissing hungri1y, devouring her mouth with his.
     She could feel him rise, the pressure against her mound. Snuckling down, unzipping his flies, emancipating his monstrous dong, she opened her lips and popped her gullet onto his salty fragranced shaft, pulling him in to the furthest extent. Settling onto the balls of her bare feet, she sucked, swallowed, slurped, vacuumed, enjoyed the distension of her cheeks by this prime manhood. She heard his groans, spurred on by his buttock motions, the encouragement for her to fellate his organ.
     She sucked like a champion; Dave didn't want her to stop. He tensed his butt muscles, strained his others. She had him in the power of her... no, not hand, Dave couldn't think, not with those lips doing what they were doing, definitely not with the spunk rolling through his knackers, surging up into his cock, jetting into her mouth, swirling around and down her throat.
     "Ya!" he yelled, pumping, bucking, rattling his gonads, emptying into her.

Malcolm hadn't asked her what she was doing, the spare room was her domain. She was happy when she was sowing, and when she was sowing she left him alone, and when she was happy she wasn't complaining.
     She looked at herself in the mirror. It was surprising what you could do with a few lengths of material, and a lot of know-how. Thank you, mother, for persevering, teaching me to sew, make do and mend. The idea had come from one of those magazines, those grubby magazines full of half-naked tarts, those he tried to hide from her in the attic.
     PVC was not the easiest of materials, but after a few mistakes, a few fragments sent to the waste basket, she had the knack. She was shocked at herself, how she looked, and, most importantly, how she felt - different. The top was merely two triangles supported by elastic, with a thin strip disappearing between her legs. Stepping into an old pair of heels, long dispatched to the back of a wardrobe, she could not resist a self-satisfied smirk.
     Pulling on the cord, opening the blinds, allowing the sun to infiltrate, she took the magazine into the bedroom, laying it open on the table, beside the binoculars. She was there again, with that man, wearing those tiny shorts, a red bikini top. He was shirtless, in tight jeans, a hand on her bottom. Helen wondered if he was big, what it would be like. She could not help herself, or the moistening in the crotch.

"Neighbours," Hannah warned.
     "Fuck the neighbours!"
     Hannah's laugh was acute. "Not that neighbour."
Massaging his groin into her behind, Dave hugged her tits. "I want you," he hissed. "I want to fuck you, here, now."
     Hannah shucked the shorts down her hips, down her legs, stepped out of them. She was decent, about decent; the bikini bottoms were a thong, cleaving the botty globes, screening her slit.
     Dave hung a finger in either side, and pulled the thong down, gaping at her smoothly pared snatch.
     Helen parted her legs, touched PVC.
     "What was that about fuck the neighbours?" Leaning forward, she saw Hannah holding the handles of the wheelbarrow, presenting her arse, and everything in between.
     Dave took his cock out of his jeans, grabbed Hannah's shoulders, and thrust.
     Helen gasped, from watching, from need. She needed something more than voyeurism, it was no longer enough.
When was Malcolm home?