I am a First Secretary at our Embassy, one of several
such diplomats who are next rank down from the
Ambassador himself. That means I have to tread the
cocktail circuit a fair bit, which frankly is a bore. It
sounds great to be out partying as a profession, but
unfortunately you have to stay fairly sober, mind what
you say to people, and listen to all their bullshit. After
you’ve been for a while posted in one place, it gets to be
the same old people talking the same old bullshit. But I
have to do it, as “networking” goes with the territory.
And you do pick up some interesting gossip from those
for whom the novelty of unlimited free drinks has not
yet worn off.

The one oasis in this social desert was the functions
held at the Residence of the new British Ambassador.
He was an old fart, but his wife Samantha was
smashing. Smashing to look at, I mean. When in his
forties, he had wed a young show-biz type in her early
twenties. Since he was now around sixty, that made her
almost forty. She was about 5’5″ and built along Teri
Hatcher lines, but a wee bit plumper with the onset of
mid-life. This made her breasts a tad bigger, her arse
fuller and her tummy a bit more rounded. All of which,
Monroe-fashion, simply added more dangerous curves.

And she liked to dress up for functions. Not ornately,
but simply and sexily. Her favourite was backless
gowns of elegant cut with the hem just above the knee.
Great legs. He obviously liked her to show off her
figure with clinging outfits of thin fabric, and he
always seemed to beam with pride when she was on his
arm. Yes, well chosen, Harry.

So there we all were, the diplomatic corps regulars plus
the usual sprinkling of social climbers who always put
their names on Embassy resident-nationals lists. We
were quaffing wine and finger-food in honour of some
state occasion. It really was the type of dreary little
nation where there was nothing interesting to do except
drink and fornicate. More on the latter later.

It was getting toward the end of the evening, and I had
just finished listening to a local politician griping
away about this and that. I got away from him and joined
a colleague over in a corner. He had just finished being
chatted to by Samantha.

She had joined another group and now had her back to
us. As usual she looked great. Tonight her volup-
tuousness was clad in a matt-black dress that stopped
above her knees and had splits partway up the sides.
It left her shoulder-blades bare, except for thin
straps which ran over and secured (not all that tightly)
the two triangles of fabric in front which covered her
chest. The width of these was only just adequate to
conceal her breasts, and her nipples were easily
discernable under the thin covering. Each breast would
wobble pleasingly as she moved about. Her long dark
hair was piled up in an elegant coiffure, and she had a
single short strand of pearls around her neck, worn like
a “choker”. Gazing at her derriere, I could not see even
a hint of a panty line to mar the shape of each arse
cheek (curious, I thought). The dress fabric fell across
the curve of her bum so faithfully that it even hugged
into the cleft in between.

“So, what did she have to say for herself?” I said to my
colleague.

“She talks about nothing very much, but in an
entertaining way.”

“Well, if you don’t want to listen I guess you can always
just look.”

“Actually, I could hardly tear my eyes away from her
tits,” he murmured. “And there may be hope for
somebody. I have heard some scuttlebutt that she may
not just be a case of Can See Can’t Touch.”

“Yeah, right; when we finally get a spunky-looking Mrs
Ambassador over here, someone’s bound to go and say
that.”

“No, I have it on good authority. It could well be that
she likes a young stallion now and again. My source
says that young Martin from the French Embassy was
noticably absent near the end of last month’s do, for
about half an hour. And so was she.”

“I didn’t notice, and I was there.”

“You should be more observant, then.”

“So you think he went up to view her etchings?”

“Unless it was coincidence, but my informant thinks
not.”

I filed this away in my brain under “I” for “Intriguing”,
and we separated to circulate some more.

I gravitated toward her group, and ended up in
conversation with her for about a minute. It was just
the usual politely-interested “Who are you, and how
long have you been in this place” sort of stuff from her,
pitched at a professional level but with a twinkle in her
eye all the same. She held a glass of white wine, and
seemed to be just a little bit tipsy. Her accent was very
proper BBC English, probably calculatedly so, as the
occasional word would betray slightly more provincial
origins.

My colleague was right about her breasts. They were
magnificent. The black material of her dress might as
well have been spray-painted on, for all the good they
did at stopping you seeing exactly what her boobs
looked like. About a C cup, very full and round, and
slightly pendulous. When she moved, they moved too.
The two raised bumps caused by her nipples were
particularly enticing. I got the slight impression
that she was checking me out too, because she was
regarding me a bit more intently than our “sweet
nothings” level of conversation really warranted.

She turned and leaned forward a bit to pick up a
smoked-salmon tidbit from a passing tray, and the
movement created a bit of slack in one shoulder strap.
The fabric of her dress fell forward slightly and
afforded me an excellent profile view of the curve of
her upper breast, almost down to the fairly-prominent
nipple. It was just a glimpse, as she turned back and
popped the salmon between her lips.

“Mmmm … ” she said of the salmon, “truly sex-on-a-
plate …”

Before I could think of anything to say to that, some-
one else buttonholed her and I retreated.

I sat by myself on a sofa in a side alcove and nursed
my drink. The glimpse of her breast had caused a sudden
hot tingling all around the back of my neck, and I was
savouring those feelings. This woman excited me
beyond belief.

Next, to my surprise, she and a gentleman came and sat
on a sofa directly opposite me, about 15 feet away.
They were in conversation (don’t ask me what about!),
and she didn’t look my way at all. I could see
something of her smooth thighs, though her legs were
crossed and this stopped anyone looking right up her
skirt. But then, still talking to her companion, she
uncrossed her legs quite slowly and then recrossed
them the other way. Again it was just a glimpse, but
under the tent made by that momentarily-tightened
short skirt I saw what was practically a naked pussy.

I say practically naked, because the gusset of whatever
passed for panties was, across her vaginal area, really
just a loose strip of scallop-edged black lace no more
than about half an inch wide. It did not so much cover
the lips to her entrance as disappear into them, and
into the crack of her arse. She had very little pubic hair
in that area, just a dusting of fine black hairs on the
crest of those pale fleshy lips.

Of course this had to have been deliberate. One does
not succeed as a short-skirted socialite without
knowing exactly which way one’s pussy is pointing. Or
at whom, for that matter. Had my colleague been
thinking along the right track? If so, then she must be
quite a sexual opportunist to be wearing knickers like
that on a state occasion.

The gentleman opposite tore himself away from the
vision of her breasts to go and freshen his drink. She
stood up, and for the first time glanced briefly my way.
If I had blinked I would have missed it, but she jerked
her head very slightly in a silent “Follow me.” Then she
strolled toward the main staircase. Heading for the
stairs was not of itself unusual behaviour, since the
Ladies and Gents rooms were off the upstairs mezzanine.
But giving me the nod to follow was certainly unusual
for a Mrs Ambassador.

My better judgement was saying “Don’t even think
about it!” I didn’t know what she had in mind for us,
but it clearly involved going somewhere more private.
And for two people of our social standing, this was
taking a huge risk. For me, any scandal would get me
sent to a posting in Antarctica. But I found about a
minute later that I was indeed thinking about it, not
only that, I was up and my feet were moving.

Once upstairs she headed past the Ladies and on down
the long corridor. Twenty yards or so behind, I
admired the swaying of her arse as she stalked along on
her high heels. My brains had definitely moved to
regions south, because, having entranced me with
deliberately-revealed bits of herself, she was now
practically leading me along by my dick.

Only when she got to the far door did she turn and look
back to check if I was coming. She was waiting inside
the darkened room when I got there, and she closed the
door behind us.

“Glad you could make it.”

She stood close in front of me, and without further ado
she put her hand right on the front of my trousers. My
dick was only about a half-fat at the time, reflecting my
mix of anticipation yet uncertainty over the agenda for
this meeting. But when she started rubbing the palm of
her hand up and down it a few times, there was soon a
ridgepole making a tent in my fly.

“It was soooo boring listening to those old fossils. I
had to get away for at least a moment.”

“You’re not worried about us creating a diplomatic
incident?” I paid final lip-service to propriety.

“Darrrling! I adore diplomatic incidents! That’s why I
enticed you up here.”

My fly got unzipped, and she fished out my now-
hardened penis. She sank to her knees, and took the
head straight into her mouth. Soft lips closed around it
and her head started bobbing up and down. I gasped. It
felt great! Teeth well out of the way, just encircling
lips, swirling tongue, and velvety cheek linings clinging
to my pole as they sucked-in on each outstroke. She
was clearly well-practiced at the art of blowing.

I mellowed out and just enjoyed the sensations in my
prick. Adjusting to the light, I noticed for the first time
that we were in a large dining room. It was dimly lit
through the windows by the glow of some lamps out in
the grounds below. Expensively but tastefully furnished
in a Victorian style, with oil paintings on the walls,
antique sideboards of dark mahogany or walnut, a central
chandelier, and a substantial dining table that could
seat about a dozen. Its french-polished surface gleamed
in the twilight.

I looked down at Samantha’s expensively-coiffured head
as it bobbed up and down. One hand was pumping my
engorged prick as she sucked. Her other hand was
under the hem of her black gown, pressed between her
legs.

She pulled back from my cock and stood up.

“Okay, its good and hard. Now fuck me with it.”

Who could resist an invitation like that? My ears
seemed to burn at the hearing of it. At the same time,
why was she in such a hurry?

I backed her up against that huge table. She slipped
her bottom up onto it, and lay back on her elbows. I
grabbed each ankle and spread her legs out wide, so
that they formed a “vee” in the air. Parting them had
made her short dress ride up to the tops of her thighs,
so her scantily-clad fanny was now nicely displayed. I
leaned forward and licked my tongue down her inner
thighs then over her bulging sit-sac.

It was now possible to unravel the mystery of the
panties. They were basically a black G-string, made
from a narrow triangle of lace-edged silk which tried
but failed to adequately cover her mound. The lower
point of this triangle tapered off altogether just above
the clit area. This meant that the only thing covering
the entrance to her vagina was a narrow lacy ribbon; it
ran between her legs and up her arsecrack to join the
thin straps of the waistbands at the small of her back.
No wonder there was no panty line!

Since the lacy ribbon had a certain amount of slack in
it, I was able to just pull it to one side with my teeth.
My tongue glided over her bare lips, going from anus to
clitoral hood. She shuddered. I did it again, with the
same result. Her fine, straight black pussy hairs were a
stark contrast against the pale skin of her mound, like
little engraved lines all pointing inward toward the
pinkness at bottom dead centre. Poking one finger at
the soft, yielding vaginal lips, it was swallowed up in
a scalding wetness that seemed to give off heat like a
furnace.

“Fuck me.”

Thanks for reminding me. I stood and put one of her
legs straight up on my shoulder, the other I bent at
the knee and laid sideways on the table. Holding my
cockhead against her entrance and taking aim, I heaved
it in with a single thrust. Her head flew back and she
gasped with the suddenness of it. Pearls gleamed across
her throat. I felt encased in a hot moistness that
seemed to suck at my dick.

I reached forward and pulled the straps of her dress
down off her shoulders as I started my fuck-motion.
The hills made by her breasts rocked back up toward
her armpits in time to each thrust. I love to watch as
breasts are rolling around like that in response to my
humping. I grabbed one and squeezed it firmly, my
fingers digging in a bit. It completely filled my hand
with its softness, with some to spare. I held the stiff
little teat between thumb and forefinger and tugged it
in time with my fuck movements, lifting the whole
breast up into a pointed cone on each pull.

She was starting to make a little bit of noise, just soft-
ly going “Uuuuh! Uuuuh!” in time with my strokes. To me
her passage felt very pleasant indeed, being moderately
tight and well lubricated. I was just starting to get that
familiar feeling in the base of my cock which warrants
an increase in tempo, when suddenly the room’s lights
snapped on.

“Starting without me again, my dear?”

It was Harry!

He closed the door and stood there, in immaculate
evening dress, taking in the sight of his wife on her
back with legs wide apart, being thoroughly fucked by
one of his guests.

I froze. I was mortified. Luckily he was British, as they
don’t normally carry guns. But the next exchange of
remarks were not what I expected in a scene like this.

“Darrling! I was just getting it warmed up for you.”

Samantha’s expression was far from fearful, in fact she
had on a slight smirk, like the cat that ate the cream.
Or that was just about to.

“Well, come on man! Don’t keep the lady waiting!”

“Eh?”

I was standing stock-still, with my cock buried deep
inside her. Somehow it seemed more polite to stay well
inserted, rather than flop my willy out to where old
Harry might see it.

“Finish her off. She wants to come. And I want to
watch.”

“Your guests … ?”

“… are leaving. My staff are showing them out. Now
get on with it.”

Well, I wanted to come too, despite the weirdness of
the situation. And it explained why Samantha had wanted
to cut right to the chase with me – she had WANTED
her husband to walk in and see her already fucking
with someone else!

I restarted the humping and picked up speed. Harry
walked around to the other side of the table, and
Samantha lay down full-length till her head nearly
reached right across. She was slithering about a bit on
the french-polished surface, and I had to grip her thighs
firmly so she didn’t skate away with each thrust.

Harry had his dick hanging out of his fly, and though
he was well hung, all it did was hang. That’s right, it
was completely limp. Not even a hint of an erection.
He didn’t bat an eyelid about it though, and, moving in
closer, Samantha was able to tip her head right back
and take it into her mouth. It still didn’t get hard,
though. My fuck motions were causing Harry’s flaccid
dick to stretch out thinner as Sam slid away from him,
then squash down fatter as she slid back again. It was
like watching the locomotion of a sea anenome.

Samantha’s vaginal walls started convulsively
tightening around my cock. She released her husbands
soft cock from her mouth, so that she could make noise
again. “Oh-fuck. Oh-fuck. Oh-fuck. Ooooohhhhhhh!”.
The cunt-squeezing was too much for me, my tempo
became frantic. Then she went all quiet, arched her
back and turned her head away with eyes tight shut in
concentration. Her breasts shook as her body gave lots
of little shudders.

I was now close to the edge myself, feeling stuff
welling up from my balls and not caring who might be
watching, I just wanted to get my cockend going in
harder and deeper.

“Come right in her. I want your spunk right up inside
her.”

Okay Harry, here goes!. Each spurt followed hard on
the heels of a huge thrust that buried my cockhead as
deeply as it could go. I forgot all about where I was,
who I was, who I was fucking, or even whether I could
be hurting her. I just got totally lost in that moment
when one’s prick becomes the centre of the Universe,
and you want it as far up into a warm Black Hole as is
physically possible.

But Harry had no time for Metaphysics, he wanted me
out of the way. Back on my side of the table now, he
steered me firmly aside the instant I came to a stop.

“Quick, I want to see what you’ve done in there.”

Samantha pulled her legs up till her feet were on the
tabletop with knees bent, like a woman in labour.
Harry bent down and looked right up her twat. I
looked over his shoulder to see what he was looking at.

“Yes! I can see his spunk right there in your hole!”

He used his hands to spread her pussy out until it was
gaping wide. Sure enough, a whitish glob of my semen
was sitting inside, a contrast against the pink, pulpy
vaginal walls. He dabbed it up with his fingertip and
smeared it out along the edges of her entrance.

I could see that his prick was now quite respectably
erect. Usably erect, in fact.

“Get up dear, I want you on top of me.”

Harry wriggled onto the table-top and lay on his back,
long fat dick held straight up out of his trouser front
like a pylon. Sam stood on the tabletop, hitched up her
skirt and crouched down onto him. From my vantage
point I saw Harry’s cock bend a bit as her pussy lips
took the strain of being parted by its huge head, but
in the next moment she had eased herself down onto it.

Putting her hands palmdown on the table behind her to
take her weight, she started raising and lowering her
pelvis rhythmically, sliding her twat up and down that
enormous rubbery cock. After a while my semen began
to seep down out of her and onto him. The shiny
translucent whiteness of it covered his prick in a thin
film, and got wiped off onto her where it formed a halo
around her tightly-stretched vaginal lips.

Her glass of white wine was still on the table where she
had left it. I picked it up and held it to her lips. She
sipped, but bumped the glass with her chin in mid-
hump and wine spilled down onto her breasts. It
soaked into the front of the black dress which was now
all bunched up around her waist. I stooped and licked
the rivulets of wine from the skin of the nearest soft
and undulating breast, paying particular attention to
the hard nipple. Harry lay back with his hands folded
behind his head to prop it up and improve his view of
us.