Watchers

Sally sits between them, her skirt an inch above her knee, her blouse buttoned to her chin, her hair neatly combed to either side of her parting. At first there is slight concern at how they might be seen; Paul glances around, scanning onlookers, and then looks at Sally. She smiles seriously and calms his concern. No one who saw so genuine a smile could doubt her enjoyment. William places a rough hand on her knee. It could be comforting, protective, even paternal, but it isn’t. His fingers clasp her leg as he laughs and she leans gently into him, her smile slipping to a light giggle. On her left Paul reaches his meaty arm around her shoulders and squeezes her, crushing her shoulder into his chest.

It is firm, toned, well kept against her. But it is the sight of hair, at the collar of his shirt, that causes her sharp teeth to catch on her pouting lip. She likes the marks of age scattered across her two companions. Hair flecked across Paul’s knuckles, and streaks of silver in William’s hair, and the lines that make maps across their lustful expressions. Sally slides a hand to her collar and unbuttons twice, out of habit more than intention. It allows Paul and William to take turns leaning in, glancing between her smooth, milky cleavage.

A woman, a mother, takes note of how they handle her, how they touch. She feels her face wrinkle with distaste. At first she assumed they were related; daughter, father, uncle, perhaps. But they are tactile with her, and shamelessly so. She wonders if they think the people around don’t notice how his hand lingers on the girl’s shoulder, how the other licks his lips as he gazes at hers. She returns to her tea and keeps her eyes lowered, not wanting to make eye contact with their disgusting display.

On the other side of the room a man shifts, trying to make friends of his jealousy and his discomfort  at the same time. He feels he ought to be more dismayed by the sight, but a part of him can’t help but want the girl. Somewhere inside, in the way of rough talking, beer drinking friends, he holds great respect for these two men.

Paul whispers. As Sally guessed, this could-be innocent meeting between the trio was not the end of their plans for her. Her sense of decency argues a little with her lust, but as usual the latter begins to win. They want to take her to the park.

Paul calls her ‘little girl’ and it makes her frown and it makes her wet. Knowing her well, William grows hard at the sight of her conflict.

They want to take her to the park. Past the playground. To the little concrete underpass. They want to take turns. One will keep watch while the other fucks her. And then they’ll swap. And swap again. They’ll push her up against the concrete, and lay her on the ground, and bend her over. And then they’ll share, holding her for each other, keeping her where they want her. Sally can see the outline of William’s cock in his trousers and she wants to say no, go home, curl up, but she can’t. Her desire, her lust, her kinks, her cunt all demand that she does as they say.

Paul wants this ‘little girl’ to suck his dick. And he doesn’t want to wait.

Sally notices glances passed between her two companions. Her two protectors. Her two masters. They are conspiratorial in their wanting. They tell her and she obeys. It was always going to be this way.

The uncertainty is stronger than she had anticipated. Here now, in the middle, with nothing between herself and her deepest fantasies, she wonders if she wants them. But Paul and William have no such queries. They are older. They know their desires. They know this is an unlikely chance. They know they have to seize it. Seize her. They want it more.

Their wanting makes her wet. Back and forth and back and forth. Between them. Between uncertainty and lust. And, inevitably, lust wins. One chance.

She nods and William growls, Paul taking her hand. They lead her out of the café, more tactile, more intimate as they walk, and twenty curious eyes watch their retreating figures, left only to judge and wonder.