Bridge with the Stauntons

This was bizarre!

I had thirteen cards in my hand. I was dressed in my favourite little black dress, wore my best silk stockings and sheerest thong, no bra -- Brian's idea, ( fabulous idea that turned out to be!) -- and the man on my right, whom I had met for the first time tonight, and whom Brian was hoping would offer him a job if all goes well (tonight), had his hand up my skirt.

'Do you play much bridge, dear?' asked his wife, across the table, waiting for my husband to lead a card. It was girls against boys: her idea.

'Plays pretty well, as far as I can tell,' said the big man, whom Brian hoped would offer him a job, with a wink at me, arms hidden beneath the green felt table-cloth, index finger of his right hand absently stroking the bulge of my clitoris in the paper thin silk of my thong.

'She's good at cards,' said Brian, my husband, absently, eyes on dummy, trying to figure out which card to lead.

For mercy's sake, just lead! I thought. I waited, hands up, elbows in, cards high, knees apart. My husband, Brian, is lousy at cards. Why he ever agreed to 'a rubber or two' with the Stauntons, I shall never understand. Most of dinner was spent with me trying to keep my various bits and pieces away from his wandering hands beneath the table-cloth. But this table was a tenth the size of the dining table. Under here there was no escape! I'd covered the card-table with a felt blanket. It hung down on all four sides. Bad idea, as it entirely concealed Staunton's hands. His nose was an inch from dummy, chair pushed back, elbows on knees, arms beneath the blanket, fingers up my dress.

'Spades might be worth a look,' says Staunton, to Brian, who is hesitating, one of Staunton's hands gently stroking the underside of my leg, the other caressing my clitoris, and starting to cause me distress.

'Nghhhh...' I gasp, internally.

I take a deep breath. Brian, for God's sake get on with it! I scream in my head at my husband, for the sooner we have finished playing cards, the sooner I can move out of range of Staunton's hands.

'Nice house,' says Mrs Staunton, waiting for Brian to play.

My feet slips out of my heels as both knee lifts high.

The fingers are driving me nuts.

'I'm glad you like it,' I say, giving her a smile, hands held perfectly still.

Brian plays, at last.

'Two of spades,' says Staunton, as if we hadn't noticed. It is not a good lead. My partner plays a ten. Brian plays a jack from dummy. I take the trick with the king then lead the two of hearts and wonder, after I've played it, if that was sensible. I really can't tell. All I can focus on are the fingers between my legs and what they're doing to me. They give a last soft circle of my throbbing clitoris, then start to move lower.

It is proving very hard to keep still. I hold my cards out in front, both hands, just over the line of the table as I'd always been taught -- my parents are keen, we all learned at home. I feel my pelvis slowly squirm, then spasm suddenly. A finger is burrowing beneath my thong where it runs between my legs.

'Your play, my dear,' says Mrs Staunton.

I try to concentrate on what's just been played, but all I am aware of is the finger now inside my thong, softly stroking skin. The skin of my labia major. It is moist, and swollen, and warm ... and getting hotter and moister by the moment!

'The Queen,' notes Staunton, nose near the table, finger spreading my very moist labia lips. I try not to swallow again. My focus is there, deep in the labia, sensing the masculine drive that eggs on the finger that now slips into the gulley between plump lips. The movement is eased by the honey slickness that he's been encouraging since dinner -- about the first course! My hips do a lazy roll. Nothing to do with me! He moves his finger to and fro in the moisture and warmth. My hips roll again. Very slowly. Deliberately. As if they have a life of their own.

'You again, Judy dear,' says my partner, gently, as if I am a child.

I try to concentrate on the cards. Staunton's other hand is pushing the hem of my short black dress to the top of my legs. The skin between stockings and panties is tingling in the movement of air beneath the table, and the infuriating movement of his fingers between my legs. I let my knees drift even further apart. What else can I do? A warm palm closes around my naked thigh. The crotch of my panties is eased away from my skin, as if he doesn't want to get them sticky, or is about to pull them off!

'Are you sure you want to play the seven, dear,' Mrs Staunton asks.

'She's played it now,' says Staunton.

(Typical male.)

'He'll let you change it, won't you dear,' says Mrs Staunton, looking at her husband.

'What's in it for us?' he asks, looking at his wife as his finger softly circles the tender and sensitive mouth of my vagina. Invasion territory. Out of bounds.

As if all the rest of me isn't?

'Go on. Let the sweet girl change her lead,' says Staunton's wife.

He turns to me. I should have played the jack, of course. I think to change it. I look at him. His eyes are starting to lick my irises, I sense. 'Can I change?' I whisper, though should know better than this -- but his wife, my partner, you understand ...

'What's in it for me,' he says again.

I have opened my legs even wider than before and angled my pelvis towards him. I am practically inviting him in. 'Oh well,' he says, as the tip of his thick broad finger accepts my apparent invitation, and slips inside my pussy, 'I suppose ...' and the rest of the thick finger follows. And I find I have closed my eyelids, and my chin has tilted upwards, and my lips have fallen open ...

'Go on then, Judy dear,' says my partner. 'Alan says you can.'

I manage to open my eyes. She leans over the table, picks up the eight, and slides it back into my hand. I take out the jack and put it down instead.

What would may parents have said? That is so not-done!

(And having her husband's finger inside me -- is done?)

Brian, who knows nothing of cards, thinks nothing of this. He is too busy figuring out what he should play next. I swallow, more noisily than intended.

'Are you alright, my dear?' says Mrs Staunton, leaning forward again. Her husband's finger, now deep inside me, is slowly rotating first one way then the other, then it curls up, ever so gently, still deep inside, causing me to bear down -- ever so slightly -- on the pressure he exerts. And then the other way, curling again. I bear down again.

'I'm fine,' I say, with a slight smile, baring down a third time on her husband's probing finger.

'Ah,' says Staunton, 'my partner plays a King.'

We all look at Brian, but just as we do, Staunton jerks my panties. Hard. They slip down my hips some inches, then hold. My weight is on top. My buttocks are holding them against the chair. 'Is that wise?' he asks my husband.

Brian is confused. He looks from the card, to the man who he wants to give him a job, back to the cards, then at me. But what can I do? I bear down as unobtrusively as I can on the invasive finger, the tip of it curling deep inside me. I shrug to my husband, as if to say: 'Don't look at me,' for in truth I don't want him to look at me. I don't want anyone to look at me. I fear if they do they will not have to be particularly perceptive to know I am becoming (unwittingly, even unwillingly) aroused, which always brings on a deep flush, starting at the tips of my nipples and extending all the way up my neck, and ending up all over my face.

'Take it back,' says Mrs Staunton. 'We don't mind. Do we my dear?' she looks at me.

'No,' I say. 'Of course not,' I say, trying not to look at her.

'Go on,' urges Staunton, loudly. Causing us all to look at Brian.

Tug! My thong slips down two inches more.

'Do it, man!' he says, to Brian.

Then Tug! at me.

I ease my hips off the chair. I can't think what else to do -- other than risk the thong being ripped. The sound alone could be embarrassing.

My panties are round my knees, knees spread, panties drawn tight. Staunton moves my knees together -- why do I let him move me so? He eases them over my knees, past my calves, down to my ankles, onto the floor ... What do I do with them now? I close my eyes. Two hands are wandering my pudenda. My clitoris. The moisture of my lips. The sensitive edge of my vagina -- empty for the moment of invaders. Easing towards the cleft. Threatening the path towards my anus. Softly up and over my mons. Cupping me there. A gentle caress.

'You next, sweet thing,' breathes my partner.

I open my eyes. Her eyes are on mine.

Does she guess what her husband is doing to me?

I pull out a card from the fan in my hand. I place it on the table. She leans over and covers my hand with her own. 'Good card,' she whispers, approvingly, stroking my hand. Three of the couple's four hands are now on me. All of them stroking or fondling. My eyes drift closed. Again. I open my lips so a sigh may escape without notice. He toys with my clitoris. It is hard, fit to burst. It is ...

I bear down again.

Last thing I noticed before my lids closed was Brian frowning at his cards. He doesn't know what to play next, poor dear. I struggle to open my eyes. The view of the table appears, albeit weakly. My partner has her hand on my husband, around his neck, urging him to play a card. Any card at all, I almost plead. The hem of my dress is round my waist. Staunton's hands are all over the skin of my hips and my thighs. My knees are flaying loosely, one minute together, the next wide apart, as his hands wander softly all around my private parts. I gasp. My face angles up towards the ceiling.

'How about a seven of clubs,' says Brian, plaintively. I don't reply. He isn't asking me, I think.

Or don't.

A large hand cups my buttock. I've somehow lifted from the chair and the hand has slipped beneath me. It cups me intimately. His fingers stroke the cleft, slip in, fingertips seeking my anus. My mind slips further into neutral and my buttocks rise, his fingers slip deeper in the cleft.

'Are you sure?' says Staunton, to Brian.

Both Stauntons look at him now.

I turn my head, pretend to do the same. Brian looks ill at ease. Which is how I feel, I must confess. Though I hope I am concealing it better than he. I squirm my hips beneath the table, turning them this way and that as Staunton explores and strokes and caresses every naked inch between my waist and thighs, all the way down to my knees ... then back up and in between, and even ...

'Ngaar!' I gasp, as he enters me again. My pelvis bucks this time, quite hard. It reverberates right up my spine. My eyes snap open, alarmed. But everyone's looking at Brian. Brian is staring at cards. 'Ngaar!' I gasp again, as my pelvis jumps then bucks. My face leaps up towards the ceiling, and just as it gets there, my eyes snap closed. 'Ngaaar!' I gasp a third time.

'Don't worry, Brian, you just take your time, ' I hear my partner say, seemingly oblivious to my jumps, and jerks, and squirming in my chair. Brian, clearly focussed on not disappointing Staunton, appears oblivious to all that's going on. Although it is I who should be focussed on that! I, after all, am the one who seems to be ensuring the big man is not disappointed -- and judging from the hunger of the hands that explore me, Staunton is far from disappointed!

I force my eyes open again; force my head straight on my shoulders. I lower my buttocks, gently, into the chair. His hand still cups me there so I don't sit down with all my weight. (It wouldn't do to hurt his hand.) I lean my elbows on the table, bearing some weight on that. (Breaking Staunton's hand will hardly get Brian his job.) Which is when it strikes me: Were a card to fall on the floor about now, and one of the players bend to retrieve it, the sight beneath the table might surprise, or stun, or outrage deeply ... depending, I suppose, whose card it was.

What might they see? Brian's neat polished shoes, heals together, the crease on the trousers, one of the knees bouncing nervously up and down every now and then. Then settling, still. On his left, the prim print frock of Mrs Staunton, hem reaching down to mid calf, thick formless ankles, sturdy-healed 'sensible shoes'. Opposite Brian's neat trousers the broad powerful calves of Staunton, bulging under the creased grey slacks. Knees wide apart, elbows and forearms extending from the knees, broad shoes scuffed, bobbing up and down every now and then.

Next to these, and at times coiled around one, my own lady-like legs. Twenty-two years old, smooth in sleek stay-up stockings, both shoes off, knickers round one ankle like a garter, slipped low. One foot on tiptoes, the other curled under my chair. Knees one moment apart, then spread, then lifting up, tight against each other. Naked thighs, naked hips, naked mons, naked pudenda -- glistening with moisture -- intertwined with hands. Moved and positioned and caressed as the smooth naked buttocks rolled and squirmed on the front of the chair, looking at times to edge off altogether as yet another spasm drives the pelvis forward. Then a squirm sends it gliding to the side. Then a catch and a tweak of the fingers send it spinning towards the back before yet another spasm kicks in, lurching it back towards the front yet again, spreading it wide towards the waiting hands, eating out the palm of first one, then the other, nuzzling at the thick invading fingers ...

I couldn't keep my eyes on the cards. Below the waist my nakedness was sliding out of control. Staunton's hands were at war with me, invading every sensitive inch of my private parts. Probing places where the hands of strangers had never been before. Battling defences, weakening will, driving my emotions to the wall.

'Ngaaaah,' I gasped aloud, as my partner said again -- how many times had she said it, 'Your turn, Judy, my pet.' I was now this woman's 'pet'. From the way her husband was petting me too, I was clearly becoming the family pet!

'Sorry,' I look at my hand. A heart was led. I have a heart. I pull it out, and as I place it on the table Brian, watching the card -- not seeming to see me at all -- Staunton pulls my leg toward him. I slip even further down my chair, threatening to slip off altogether. To slide ignominiously, half-naked, under the table itself, (only the grip of my elbows on the table top stops that from happening).

The edge of the chair is now against the top of my buttocks. All the lower parts are electrifyingly aware of his touch. The hungry hands exploring their shape. Hard firm globes, I think to myself, absently, as his hands stroke both, then slip between, then stroke me there. Fingertips easing more deeply between. I feel my cleft grow large, like a hungry mouth. Gaping, affording entry.

'A heart,' I say to Brian, drawing his attention to the card I've just played.

My head is now low, my shoulders lifted, my elbows on the table holding me up, my pelvis and thighs and private parts open to the hands of Staunton, taking advantage of my hopelessness. And how much advantage he takes! His fingertip stands at my anus. What do I do to prevent it?

'A heart?' asks Brian, clearly bemused by the need to follow suit.

'You need to follow suit,' said Staunton, to Brian. Then he leans forward -- to me -- and into my ear, as one of his hands cups my buttock and his other goes over my mons, a finger stroking my clitoris (and practically closing my eyes). While his other fingertip lingers, ominously close, to the puckered little bulge of the entrance to my anus ... and nothing has ever been there! 'You need to open,' he says.

He is clearly talking to me.

'A heart,' says Mrs Staunton, to Brian. Then looking at me with a smile, she says, 'Alan's being silly, Judy my pet, he doesn't know that you've opened already,' she nods at my card.

I have opened.

I don't know why, or how -- nor even why -- but I have ...

Staunton's thick finger is easing its way up my butt... And no-one has been there before!

This has now gone away past bizarre -- this is now thoroughly weird.

What the heck am I doing? I ask myself, eyes on the card I've just played, almost off my chair, naked parts of me thrust towards this man as he uses what I offer how he wants. The feeling of the thick finger moving slowly up my butt -- like a turd going the other way -- is so strangely insulting, so deeply offensive, so utterly impolite, that I find myself turning to the man, and studying him. He stares right back at me. My eyes, I know, are wide on his. He opens his on mine as if we are the only two people in the room, me effectively offering all my sensitive feminine parts to him to do with as he pleases, while he does precisely that.

He is looking at me with unusual ... what is that look?

Hunger? Lust? Arrogance? Confidence ... What is that look?

'Urgh!' my eyes snap shut. He has pushed the tip of his finger into my anus. My pelvis lifts beneath the table and then, as my eyes snap open -- on his -- I find I am sinking back down ... onto him. My pelvis, under it's weight and deprived of the pressure of my sphincter, slides gently down his finger. Very soon it's length is deep inside me. He leans towards me and before I know what I'm doing, I lean towards him. The next thing I know his lips are on mine, and his tongue is in my mouth.

Alarmed, I rear away. Our lips break apart. Tightening my grip on the invasive finger, flexing my thighs, pressing my feet on the floor and using my elbows as levers, I thrust myself upright.

'She deserved it, don't you think,' says Staunton, to Brian (I think) .

I guiltily glance in his direction. His eyes are down on the cards in his hand, two fingers closed over one, trying to decide. I don't think the klutz even noticed the kiss.

The huge brute is kissing his wife now. She playfully pushes him away.

'Take you time,' says Mrs Staunton, smiling at her husband, then at me, then at Brian, adding with her eyes on him, 'Poor dear doesn't know what to do.'

'Don't you think Judy deserves a kiss, playing such a good lead?' says Staunton to his wife, as his hand between my legs slowly circles my clitoris, and the one with my ass impaled, massages me gently. For reasons I cannot explain, I have my ass relaxed. Entirely relaxed.

'Whatever you say, my dear,' says Mrs Staunton, accommodatingly, to her husband.

'You agree too?' he asks Brian.

Brian nods, vaguely, still studying his cards. Next I know, Staunton has leant towards me, brought a hand from under the baize tablecloth to the back of my neck and is bending my head towards his. Before I've had a chance to get my thoughts back in order, I have allowed my lips to close on Staunton's lips. And this time his tongue does a thorough job! When we break, I am gasping for air and have a finger up both the apertures between my legs. Then I have Staunton's lips running down my neck, and am stretching my neck as if I want them there ... and Brian is playing a seven of hearts.

My partner wins the trick. I straighten.

At least above the waist I look normal. I think. My shoulder straps are still on my shoulder, my hair is still in place, my breasts -- albeit with nipples elaborately hard -- are still inside my dress. Sort of normal, anyway. But down below all hell is breaking loose. How can I stay still? The sexual flush to which I am prone has risen to my neck. I feel it there. His finger is up my ass. I feel that there. Another is snug in my pussy, and I certainly feel that there! I try to keep my breathing calm. I try to keep my cards still. I spasm again as his thumb tweaks my clit ... then again ... and again ... and again! 'Ngaaar!' I gasp.

'You all right, my petikins?' croons Mrs Staunton.

'Just a bit parched,' I say, words pulled out the air, given little thought. 'A drink of water,' I look down at the table, shaking my head. Then I decide, 'Would you excuse me?' I say, determined to leave this table of utter and impossible anxiety, at least for a minute. I have to 'regroup', pull myself together, get a bloody grip!