WickedWednesday: All things considered

On consideration, it was a bad idea.

The lawyer to my right, the magistrates in front of me and the handcuffs around my wrist told me that.

It was a mistake. I had fucked up, dropped a clanger, made not just an arse, but also a tit of myself. That afternoon was a good choice-free zone. And I had my wife and family looking at me, listening to my sordid misdemeanors with stony faces and shocked expressions, while a packed gallery of local journalists frantically jotted in their notebooks.

By rights I should have two co-defendants too, but as the police officers descended upon our location, they sprinted into the bushes and I, the gentleman, used my strength and nudity to delay the four coppers long enough for my co-conspirators to make their escape.

The prosecution read out the charges with a wry smirk: two women and a man converged on a tennis court at the exclusive tennis club, dressed in white sportswear. The younger of the two women scratched her arse while the female photographer took an abundance of pictures, before she was fondled and groped by her male co-star: me.

As the outline was read out, I remembered the soft curve of her breasts under her rough cotton. The cool breeze swirled against our skin as I fingered her crotch free of her unnecessary garment and discarded it with a flourish over her bosom.

She pouted for the camera, but she moistened for my fingers, sliding into her loins and pressing against her clit. I’d worked with the young Barbara enough times to know how she liked to be touched: firmly.

It was the years of going to a good Catholic school and growing up in a strict household; her father was a civic dignitary and she was governed with a firm hand, causing her to rebel. The sex-related school expulsion was the first act, the arson to the headteacher’s car was the second. But Barbara had matured into a consummate performer: sexier than a cast of Burlesque dancers with far more flair and was brighter than anyone else I know.

She knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it: the University student groaned as I circled her clit: both of us smiling broadly at the camerawoman snapping away with endless enthusiasm.

It was part of the thrill: photographed during the action. As my fingers swiped her flimsy clothes away from her breasts, and my own costume formed a white spot on the tarmac, she groaned in anticipation. She knew what was coming, she knew I would be knuckle deep in her snatch, pressing against her G-Spot as my thumb swirled her wetness around her clit.

She knew this: we had done it before. Many times.

But every time felt better: we were in public, grabbing a twenty minute slot to take our Wimbledon-themed porn. Only five minutes previous, Mr and Mrs Daily Mail were hammering their balls against the grass on the court adjacent to ours and at any moment someone could come over the brow of the hillock and see me hammering mine against Barbara on one of the “top courts.”

That added to the allure of the event. That added to the attraction. It was taboo, it was dangerous, and it was damn sexy.

My hard dick pressed against her moistness, sliding into her, as she grabbed hold of the netting, staring at the clicking camera. I reached for her breast, squeezing it through the bunched up fabric as my cock bounced against her cunt.

It felt heavenly; a delightful array of euphoric sensations. After all, what could be better than fucking a sizzling hot nineteen year old in the British Summer sun, while the gorgeous beauty writhed under my touch?

And it would have been a delightful afternoon: I was going to come over her back. We were going to sneak in a 69 on the court, and you don’t need much imagination to know where the handle end of the racket was destined.

But someone had seen us. And that person had called the police. And the rozzers had descended upon the court, yelling at us to freeze. I pushed Barbara towards our camerawoman, who was already climbing through a gap in the fence to tumble into the thicket of trees, while I ran for the gate to the court, ready to stop the police with a bolt.

They got there first, and I was arrested.

The judge was unimpressed by my behaviour. I got seven days in jail, and I winked at Barbara shaking her head as she listened to the judge deliver his verdict.

I think part of his problem was that they were the tennis courts at his exclusive tennis club. I had six previous convictions, and that we both knew that it was his daughter I was fucking that day. She hadn’t been named, and the photographs supplied by the Police from the CCTV were grainy, but it was Judge Waugh’s daughter that I was giving the benefit to, and no father likes the idea of his little girl being banged in pornography.

So all things considered, it was a bad idea to be caught by the Fuzz. But then, Barbara had promised me an almighty getting out of jail present, that involved a Latvian contortionist and a Burlesque stripper. All going to be on film. So perhaps, good things and all that …

Featured image from here and used under a CC-license.

Wicked Wednesday

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