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By the time we got back to the rugby field the final whistle had already been blown. Venturing into the beer tent it was obvious that many ‘old boys’ were present and only a few had their wives and girlfriends with them. Beer was being consumed at an alarming rate and belly laughs punctuated bawdy jokes. Terry, the Bursar and I got to the bar without being recognised or acknowledged, though I did experience ‘that’ feeling of several pairs of eyes following me, concentrating on form and figure ‘stripping away’ the protective outer garments without ever touching, my tummy twisted an involuntary movement.
A drink in hand courtesy of the bursar, we made our way past those standing chatting by the bar, to one of the small trestle tables draped in a ‘plastic’ table cloth. Moving the empty glasses to one side we planted ourselves on the folding wooden chairs and engaged in further discussion about the school and its pupils, trying as we did so to put names from fifteen years ago to the somewhat more mature characters before us. This went on for several minutes, but all the time I was aware that both my suitors were concentrating just as much on my cleavage as they were on the main topic of our conversation. The bursar in particular seemed somewhat restless in his chair, moving around, jiffling, leaning forward then back. It was as he made one of these movements that I felt something touch my leg. Thinking at first that it was just a bumping together of knees I ignored it, then it happened again. This time it was not just a quick bump but more a prolonged touch, a touch that became a rub and not a knee, but a hand. Once again I knew I should be protesting, stopping what was going on, but my alter-ego was surfacing again. Checking that the table cloth was preventing others seeing what was happening; I became seduced by the moment, excited by the public situation, absorbed by appearing outwardly ‘normal’ whilst my body was fast becoming aroused. Somehow I managed to continue with the conversation, right up to the point I felt that old wrinkled hand touch the flesh above my stocking tops, I let out a quiet involuntary sigh. I thought hardly noticeable, but Terry had detected it, he questioned ‘Are you ok?’ But he only had to look my way to know the answer, he queried my red face, then looking toward the bursar observed his discreet wink. A broad grin broke out on Terry’s face as the realisation of what was happening before him, hit him like a steam train. Seconds later, his chair moved around the table a little, I felt another hand touch my knee, I shuddered, this was getting out of hand. ‘I need another drink’ I blurted out, and so the situation was diffused, at least for the moment. Leaving the table the Bursar once again volunteered to fill my glass, Terry meanwhile teased me mercilessly, suggesting that I was ‘rather more naughty’ than he had realised and ‘just the sort of married woman’ his dreams were made of. Every now and again he touched my knee, my thigh, my stocking top and suspender bump, as if testing to see if he met any resistance. He needn’t have worried, my alter-ego was firmly in charge, providing that table cloth afforded me some degree of modesty, I was there for the taking. On his return the Bursar stood a tall glass before me along with a pint for both himself and Terry. On tasting my lemonade I realised it tasted bitter, the unmistakable taste associated with vodka. I protested saying I was driving and mustn’t have too much, Terry quickly stopped me, saying he was sure I could share his taxi. A little more encouragement and half the glass was empty, ‘now where were we?’ the Bursar grinned and with that the two hands resting on my knees were slowly making their way ever further up my stocking clad legs. This time however they were not to be stopped as they reached the bare flesh above, their confidence increasing by the moment. I concentrated hard not to loose control as their fingers reached the moistness of my most private of places, the excitement heightened by the fact there were guys, all be they rather the worse for alcohol, not ten foot away from us. Ever so slowly, fingers were rubbing, probing, teasing, it was too much, I stiffened, my tummy twitching, I leaned forward to hide my face and the hands were withdrawn. I looked up, embarrassed beyond imagination, angry that I had allowed my alter-ego to get the better of me, praying that nobody had realised what had gone on, but there were no stares my way, no open mouths, I thought I had got-away with it.
I tried to resume more normal conversation but the guys were having none of it. Protesting that they were both ‘straining’ they encouraged me to repay the favour they had just provided me and so it was I found myself, hands under the table gently caressing the bulges in the front of their trousers, I almost hated myself for what I was doing but knew my innermost self, the slut within me, couldn’t resist taking that stiff flesh in hand. With gentle rhythm both men were turning as red as I had been moments earlier. Then, totally unexpectedly, Terry stopped me, the bursar looked up, puzzled by the interruption. ‘Time we went outside’ suggested Terry, the Bursar needed no more persuasion and with that I found myself pushing past the guys by the bar making my way out into the gloom beyond the exit. Barely through the doorway, hands were soon finding their way into my clothes, I said little to object, fully expecting to be guided back into the seclusion of the copse, but no, Terry had different ideas, pulling me by the blouse he guided me to the back of the beer tent, to within inches of the people talking inside, was this to be the place where I was to be taken? Both Terry and the bursar lowered their zips simultaneously, moving closer their breathing deep and differing somewhat from my own panting, but undoubtedly reflecting a similar degree of lust. Then, out of the darkness from a little further along the back of the marquee a voice, ‘What’s going on up there?’ I shuddered, had I been caught for the second time that day? ……………………..