Chapter 90: Youthful Enthusiasm
Margot watched Jamie’s eyes, wide and dark, as they dropped from her face to the coral-pink silk cinching her waist. Elizabeth’s question hung, a poised crystal note, and then shattered into motion.
It was Henrietta who laughed first, a deep, welcoming sound, as she reached out and hooked a finger into the waistband of the bulky lad’s boxers. “Don’t be shy now, Timothy Turner. I remember you stealing pork scratchings from the bar.” With a gentle tug, she brought him to the edge of the circular bed.
The permission was universal. The room dissolved into a shift of skin, a rustle of expensive lingerie, and the first, shocked gasps of contact.
Margot closed the distance between herself and Jamie. His hands were at his sides, clenched. She took one and placed it on the swell of her hip, the silk slick under his palm. “Alright?” she murmured. He nodded, dumb, then bent his head to kiss her. It was sweet, tentative. She opened her mouth, tasting the champagne on his tongue, and let her own hands slide down the taut plane of his stomach, under the elastic. He was hard, hot, velvety. His groan vibrated into her mouth.
Around them, the studio filled with a symphony of stifled moans and soft, wet sounds. The tall one, the one who’d sworn, was already on his knees before Dolores, his face buried between her thighs as she leaned back against the cantilevered bench, one strong leg hooked over his shoulder, her crimson silk pushed aside. Her eyes were closed, a serene, regal smile on her lips as her fingers teased through his hair.
“Right then, Ben,” Henrietta’s voice carried, thick with amusement. “Let’s see if you can handle a proper pint.” She’d laid back, her leopard print a riot around her, and guided the rugby player’s head down with a firm hand. His muffled eagerness was answer enough.
Elizabeth had selected the most classically handsome of the group, a boy with a jawline that belonged in a period drama. She now reclined on the plum velvet lounger, her architectural lingerie stark against her skin, watching him undress her with his mouth. His movements were clumsy but earnest. She arched a single, plucked eyebrow, her hand resting on the back of his head not with passion, but with detached approval, as if he were a particularly well-trained hound.
Charlie and her lad, a slender boy with floppy brown hair, had migrated to a pile of cushions near the mirrored wall. They were a tangle of limbs in a hesitant sixty-nine, her black lace gone, his boxers kicked aside. Her sharp, bird-like cries were new, unfamiliar even to herself.
Margot broke the kiss with Jamie, her own breath coming faster. The sight and sound of the others, the sheer carnality of it, was a drug. “Stay there,” she whispered, and sank to her knees.
His body jerked as she took him into her mouth. He was clean, tasting of soap and salt. She worked him with a deliberate, hungry rhythm, one hand cupping the tight heat of his balls. Her other hand crept under her own body, finding the damp seam of the coral silk. As her head bobbed, she rubbed slow, tight circles against herself, the dual sensations building a fire low in her belly. This was for her. This pulsing, youthful heat in her mouth, this voyeuristic thrill, this secret. A flash of Rupert’s distracted face over breakfast appeared behind her eyelids, and she redoubled her efforts, swallowing Jamie down until he shook and cried out a warning she ignored.
The pleasure was a gathered storm in the room, thickening the air. Dolores, having finished with her first, was now guiding another lad onto the bench, positioning him, sinking onto him with a ground-out sigh of deep satisfaction. The mirrors reflected their multiplied forms, a Botticelli tangle of mature flesh and young limbs.
“Condoms, children!” Elizabeth’s voice cut through the haze, clear and practical. She pointed to a large glass bowl on the drinks trolley, filled with a rainbow of foil squares. “No exceptions.”
The movement to the bowl was a brief, comic interlude. Naked boys and near-naked women, all flushed and gleaming, queuing politely like they were at the village fete cake stall. The tearing of foil packets became a new layer of sound.
Margot took two. She led Jamie, still dazed, to a vacant space on the circular bed beside Henrietta and Timothy. She sheathed him with efficient hands, then straddled him, lowering herself with a slow, conscious roll of her hips. He filled her achingly, perfectly. She rode him, her curls stuck to her forehead, the coral silk bra the last scrap of her decorum. Across from her, Henrietta was on her hands and knees, Timothy pounding into her from behind with the fervent energy of youth, her magnificent breasts swaying with each thrust.
But Margot’s eyes were already roaming. She saw Elizabeth, finally, on the velvet lounger. Her chosen lad was above her, his muscles straining as he drove into her. Elizabeth’s legs were locked around his back, her heels digging in, but her face was a mask of serene, almost analytical concentration. She met Margot's gaze and gave a tiny, triumphant smirk. This was what she’d wanted. A proper fucking. No whispers, no excuses. Just force and rhythm.
Jamie was clutching her hips, his thrusts growing erratic. She leaned down, kissed him to muffle his climax, felt him shudder inside her. She rose, peeled off the condom, and walked, legs unsteady, to the bowl for another.
Charlie was in the center of the room now, on all fours, her pert bottom high in the air. Her glasses were askew on her nose. The slender lad knelt behind her, one hand gripping her hip, the other braced on the floor as he slipped into her. Her face, visible in the mirror, was a revelation of abandoned shock, her mouth a perfect ‘O’ of feeling. “Oh!” she cried out, a sharp, punctuating sound with each drive. “Oh! Yes!”
A hand touched Margot’s shoulder. It was the floppy-haired lad from the door, the one who’d sworn. He was hard again, a fresh condom on. “My turn?” he asked, his voice rough.
Margot smiled, the mischievous glint fully alight. “Absolutely.”
She bent over the back of the crescent lounger, presenting herself to him. As he entered her from behind, a different angle, a different thrill, she watched the room in the mirrored wall. She saw Dolores now with two, one kissing her breasts while the other took her from behind. She saw Elizabeth switching positions, mounting her lad with imperial control. She saw Henrietta laughing breathlessly as she urged Timothy on.
And she saw, in her own reflection, a woman she hadn’t seen in years. Wild-eyed, victorious, ferociously alive. The guilt was a distant island, barely visible through the fog of sweat and sensation.
One more, she thought, as the lad behind her grunted and found his pace. I’ll have that one next. The storm showed no sign of breaking; it was building, mirror to mirror, body to body, into something immense and utterly, shamelessly theirs.