A Game of Consequences

Chapter 14. Trying it for Size

May is a particularly attractive time in Britain. The trees are in blossom, the spring flowers are out, everything is green and there's sunshine most days. We'd finished our first-year exams and were working on our end-of-year assignments; challenging dissertations that were designed to show that we'd earned our places at the college, learned a lot and were worthy of moving on to the next year.

We'd also thrown ourselves into the Debating Society, which was probably the best training I received at Oxford for my future career. It made me learn and apply skills that I may not have realised were important until much later in life. Quite apart from the obvious need to read up on your allotted topic, understand the facts and present them in a cogent and compelling manner, it required a subtler understanding; finding ways to 'spin' your arguments and find slogans and catch-phrases that would resonate with your audience, and the ability to 'think on your feet.'

But beyond that, the Society allocated topics and selected those who would propose or oppose the motion at random, so you could find yourself having to defend something you didn't agree with, or attacking something you held dear. In these cases, you needed to work hard to understand the reasons other people might take a view opposite to your own. It forced you to have an open mind, find the positive - or, at least, potentially attractive to some people - aspects of something you might personally find repulsive, and understand the potential weaknesses in your own position. From here, you could construct an argument that carefully glosses over or minimises the negative while spinning and maximising the elements that your audience might find persuasive. And that could take you a long way.

On one occasion, I found myself proposing the motion (against Phoebe, as it happened) that "Margaret Thatcher is the greatest Prime Minister since Churchill." Now, personally, I rate Clem Attlee, who did a fantastic job of transforming British society in spite of severe shortages, deep financial debt and ruined infrastructure after World War 2. In addition to launching the NHS and the Welfare State, his government created the 'social consensus' that had persisted until the late 1970s, by which governments, Labour and Conservative, had agreed that their primary purpose was to care for the population at large, enhance social mobility and tackle inequality and injustice.

Margaret Thatcher swept all that away. Yes, she curbed the power of the unions, which had at first protected the workers from exploitation by wealthy business owners but, during the 1970s, had become a destructive alternative power base. In the process, she euthanised moribund industries - coal, steel and shipbuilding - that, arguably, needed to die. But she replaced them withnothing.Nothing, that is, but London-centric gambling with other people's money; the "Financial Services Industry." By failing to plan for or invest in alternative employment sources, she destroyed communities across the more deprived parts of the country, especially the North and Wales, while ushering in a culture based on greed. She was instrumental in founding the Single European Market, which helped Europe become a world power, but later became 'Eurosceptic.' She also sold off critical national infrastructure, ostensibly to small investors but in practice usually to vulture capitalists, who eventually asset-stripped. Many things that people had taken for granted, from adult education to repertory theatre, disappeared as she slashed government spending while cutting taxes for the wealthiest, and channelling much of our North Sea Oil revenues to corporates. (Norway put theirs into a sovereign wealth fund that supports a huge range of free, top-quality services for the people to this day, and is still growing). And then there was the Falklands fiasco that her idiot Defence Secretary, John Nott, essentially helped bring about, that killed hundreds of British troops and hapless Argentinian conscripts, and then propelled her to a landslide election victory. So, as you can see, arguing on her behalf wasn't something I was eager to do.

But to propose this motion successfully, I had to look past my own feelings and focus on maximising Thatcher's achievements that were - or that others might consider - broadly positive, while trying to minimise the negative aspects I've just summarised. It was tough, but a great exercise in learning to 'sell' something unpalatable.

Phoebe, who shared my low opinion of Thatcher, was gleeful that she could advocate for a topic she felt passionate about. Despite her privileged upbringing, her sensibilities were very much about supporting the disadvantaged; something Thatcher seemed to abhor. The friendly rivalry between my girlfriend and I helped drive us to improve and excel, just as we'd sought to outdo each other in essays and assignments throughout the year.

The debate was hotly contested. My seconder was an avid Tory from a background no less privileged than Phoebe's, who disagreed with me on what I considered were Thatcher's main failings, so we almost came to blows in deciding how best to present our arguments. Phoebe and her seconder, a rather cute oriental final year student, did a sterling job of focusing on all of the things we despised about Thatcher's record. But the thing that clinched the debate, and only by a narrow margin, wasn't the despised 'poll tax' that Thatcher had tried to introduce, further shifting the tax burden from the wealthier to the poorer members of society (as she'd already done by almost doubling the rate of VAT while cutting higher-rate income tax), but her decision to end student grants and replace them with loans. That issue struck at our very being as students, despite many of the group not needing or receiving one because of their parents' relative wealth. It swung the vote in Phoebe's favour, as I'd expected, but I was pleased that I'd acquitted myself well enough to almost salvage the reputation of someone that I, and many of my fellow students, loathed. And I had no idea at the time how valuable this exercise would turn out to be later on.

Phoebe and I celebrated what we felt was a mutual triumph with a bottle of cheap French fizz and some energetic fucking. I'd jokingly suggested Phoebe should bring her cute oriental friend into our bed, receiving a sharp rebuke - and narrowly avoiding a sharp knee in the groin. After I'd put the bottle ofCrèmantinto the fridge, Phoebe dragged me into our bedroom and pushed me onto the edge of the bed, straddling my lap and kneeling astride me with her mouth firmly glued to mine. As she removed my tie and unbuttoned my shirt, I slipped the shoulder straps of her smart cocktail dress down her arms and began to palm and tease her sensitive nipples. My shirt undone, she worked lower, unfastening my belt and waistband, all the while with our mouths joined like some creature from Alien and its victim.

Finally, I broke the kiss as my girlfriend's hand snaked inside my pants and found my hardening cock. I sucked and nibbled at her neck and earlobes as my hand slid down her back, under the skirt of her dress, and I insinuated a finger into the back of her panties to probe her rapidly-moistening slit. A brief period of mutual masturbation ensued, me bending as low as my relatively stiff spine would allow, to lick, suck and nibble her prominent, conical nipples.

Then she unceremoniously shoved me back onto the bed, wriggled around until her panties were off and deposited her open pussy onto my waiting face. I love it when Phoebe face-sits me. Her pussy lips are smooth and silky, and I relish the feeling of her spreading her copious juices around my mouth and all over my face as she becomes more passionate. With the skirt of her dress draped around my head, I was licking and nibbling in darkness, groping blindly up to tweak those perky nipples, then sliding a hand down to again slip a finger into the back of her pussy slit to tease her perineum and her tight, puckered arsehole.

She squealed when I inserted a finger up her bum, and ground her clit down harder on my extended tongue. I tried to change position, to circle her little bud with my lips, suck it and strum the tip with my tongue, but I heard her moan "No!" and felt her push down harder. My tongue resumed its see-saw action on her sensitive button, as she writhed and moaned and came - and rapidly came again.

All the while, she'd been giving me a more-than-adequate hand-job, with occasional oral forays; and, as I've said, Phoebe's oral forays can be quite something. So I was hard and partly lubricated when she slid down my body, shuffled my trousers and pants down to my knees and lowered her juicy, open cunt onto my hard and throbbing cock. Again, the skirt prevented me from admiring the action, the erotic sight of her smooth, hairless, wide-open pussy lips effectively deep-throating my eager dick, but the sensation was fabulous. She put her hands on my chest to steady herself as she rode me, swinging her hips to increase the contact.

Thanks to first Jill and then Phoebe, I'd developed pretty decent control. I no longer relied on distractions from the intense sensations that Phoebe's cunt - or, often, her skilled and very naughty mouth - gave me. I didn't need English monarchs or Latin verbs; I could have conjugal relations without conjugating. But Phoebe often seemed determined to make me come as quickly as possible, sometimes gripping me with the muscular, silky walls of her delicious cunt and trying to squeeze the cum out of me. When she started that action this time, almost as if she was trying to prove something, I could only respond by sliding a hand under her spread skirt, finding her clit with my thumb and punishing it in return. I could see the look of concentration on her face as she tried to stave off a third orgasm - and failed. The pulsing in that hot, delicious cunt was enough to tip me over into my own delirium. Thank God for the contraceptive pill!

She collapsed onto my chest, I wrapped my arms around her, and after a few moments, she looked at me with a blissed-out smile. And kissed me again, this time softly, romantically.

"I fucking love you, Richard Watson," she said, almost as if drunk.

"And I fucking love you, Phoebe Barrington. And, of course, I love fucking you."

"Ha! This time I fucked you, you arrogant twat!" she snarled back, grinning impishly. I kissed her again and, with my arm behind her, rolled us over so I was on top. My cock slid out of her. She yelped.

"Get off me, you tosser! You'll get cum all over my dress!"

We scrambled apart, and she rushed to the bathroom to sponge the spunk off. When she came back to bed, this time naked and - in my eyes - gorgeously erotic with her long dancer's legs and her hair still in a tight, ballerina-stylecoiffeur, I'd opened the fizz and poured two glasses.

Having cold sparkling wine poured over my cock and then licked and sucked off was a novel sensation. I reciprocated on her nipples, alternating with kisses on her mouth, then slid lower, over her taut belly and prominent hip-bones, before settling my mouth into the smooth cleft between her legs. I'd barely started when she pulled my hair.

"Fuck me, please, baby. Gently, slowly. Make it last."

I did. She spread those long, long legs, I slid between them, and once I'd buried my cock deep inside her and her ankles crossed behind my bum, we kissed. And kept kissing as I made long, slow, lazy thrusts. Her nails gently skimmed my back, leaving tingling sensations. I leaned on my elbows and used my fingers to tease and squeeze those sensitive nipples.

When we broke our kiss, we gazed, smiling, into each other's eyes.

"I love you," she breathed, as my thrusts increased a little in tempo, and her legs rode my hips.

"I love you too, baby," I replied, and arched my back so I could suck a nipple and then tug it with my teeth. We kissed again.

"Harder, faster," she breathed into my ear as I moved to lick her neck.

I went to move one hand between us, to bring my thumb into contact with her clit again, but she stopped me, grabbing my arm and whispering hoarsely, "No! I just - I just want to - to feel it in my cunt. Fuck me to orgasm. Use your cock - to make me come. I'm close."

So I carefully adjusted my angle of thrust for maximum G-spot contact, increasing the pace and force of each insertion. I couldn't go any deeper - as I've said before, I don't possess a particularly big cock - but I tried to maximise the length of each stroke, from the sensitive entrance to as deep as I could reach inside her silky, liquid cunt. In missionary, that meant the upper surface of my cock was making contact with her most sensitive areas, which helped to delay my own climax. I thrust, I jiggled, I shimmied my hips - all to give her as much stimulation as I could. My back and thighs started to ache with the exertion, but I had an important task that I needed to fulfil - to fuck the girl I loved to the best orgasm I could give her. She wasn't as close as she'd claimed, so it took longer than either of us had anticipated, but when it came - when she came - it was glorious.

Any woman in the throes of orgasm is at her most beautiful. I've fucked a few, and no matter how pretty or plain she is when you start, by the time she's coming, there's a radiance about her that makes her the most gorgeous thing in the world - in your world - in that moment. This may be something to do with your own state of arousal, but I maintain that a woman is always utterly beguiling as she writhes and bucks in that moment of extreme sensation.

Phoebe, as I've said, is striking rather than conventionally beautiful, but looking into her face at that peak of her passion, I couldn't help but adore her. I'd delayed my own orgasm so much that it took me nearly another minute before my throbbing cock emptied my seed into my lover's vagina, but it was a blissful minute as I looked down at the radiant object of my adoration. Yes, I was truly in love.

*****

"Are you rowing again tomorrow?" We were working on our respective assignments, trying hard to ensure we secured maximum marks to carry us into the next academic year in line for a First Class Honours.

"Yeah," I replied. There were crews in Oxford from all over for an inter-varsity rowing competition. I'd rowed in a couple of heats earlier in the day, and my crew were doing well. "Tomorrow, we're racing a crew from Bristol. If that's successful, we then take on another from Sheffield."

"Do you want me to come along and watch?"

"If you want to. I know it can be pretty dull if you're not taking part."

The weather on the Sunday was good. And the Bristol crew were also good; they pipped us by barely a second, but then they lost to the Sheffield crew in the next heat. I was rather gutted about our defeat - we knew we were good enough and should have won. But we met up with the Bristol crew at the club afterwards, and I got chatting with Travis, a friendly black guy who towered above me. He was a second-year History student, had a great sense of humour and was an impressive rower.

We were discussing our respective courses when Phoebe joined us, looking geekily sexy in her big glasses and her hair in plaits. I introduced her, and Travis kindly bought her a glass of white wine.

"I was watching from the stands. It was a very good match. Both crews were on top form," she said, as usual trying to boost our deflated egos.

The three of us chatted happily, but I noticed, over the next few minutes, that she and Travis kept making eye contact, which got me slightly pissed off. We finished our drinks, and I offered another round. Travis accepted a half, but said he had to go for a leak. When I got back to the table with our order, Phoebe looked at me and said, "Him."

"Sorry?"

"You know I said I wanted another threesome, but this time with a boy? Well, I think Travis is the perfect choice."

I was nonplussed to say the least. "What? I mean, you've barely seen him. I only met him less than an hour ago, and he'll be heading back to Bristol tomorrow."

"And that's precisely why he's such a good fit. Look, you've explained that any of your other friends would be a bad idea, as they might get ideas and want a longer-term relationship."

"Or you might," I said, rather peevishly.

"No, I wouldn't, my darling," she said, patting my thigh. "But what we need is a hot boy that I fancy and who fancies me, but who'll be hundreds of miles away the day after he's fucked me. Travis's handsome, very fit..."

"And black."

"You say that like it's a bad thing, which you know it isn't," she replied, rather self-righteously. "I've never fucked a black guy. I hear they're..." She lowered her voice. "Big in the trouser department."

"Phoebe, if I'm to believe you, you've only ever fucked two guys - your tutor and me."

"Well, yes. And a few dildos and vibrators. Some of them are quite large," she replied with a faraway look.

"What makes you think he'd be interested?" I said. I was rather worried that Travis, who was, as Phoebe said, good-looking, fit and quite possibly well-hung, might turn my girlfriend's head.

"Are you saying I'm not attractive enough?" she pouted back. I pulled a face to imply that that wasn't what I meant, but she continued. "Well, we could ask him. He's coming back."

He was. He sat down again.

"So, Travis, where are you staying tonight?" Phoebe asked.

"Oh, it's some shitty hostel. I think we drew the short straw. Most of the other crews seem to have found somewhere better."

"You could come and stay at ours," she said, innocently.

"Well, that'd be kind. You have room for me?"

"Oh, I'm sure we could make room." She winked at me. "You see, the thing is..." Phoebe reached out and put her hand over Travis's. "The thing is, we'd like you to sleep - and do other things - in our bed."

"Er - what?" he replied, not unsurprisingly. I thought Phoebe was being very direct and precipitous - not entirely unusual, given our history, so I suppose I couldn't object. Travis looked slightly embarrassed. He gave me a questioning look, so I felt I had to explain.

"Look, let's cut to the chase," I interjected. "Phoebe fancies you, she and I have had a threesome with another girl, now she'd like a threesome with another bloke. You're the most promising candidate."

"That's - that's very flattering, Phoebe, but - but..."

She turned to look directly at him. "But what? Wouldn't you like to fuck me? I'm very tight."

"Jesus! Well, yes, of course I'd like to - to fuck you," he replied, lowering his voice. "But - but how is this meant to work?"

"Ah, so you've never had sex before?" I replied, somewhat sarcastically.

He gave me an exasperated look, but before he could respond, Phoebe interjected, looking him in the face and placing both hands on his arm.

"You come home with us," she said with a smile. "We all shower. You fuck me. You and Richard take turns on my cunt and my mouth. We can probably think of other variations. We sleep. Tomorrow morning, we have breakfast, and then you fuck off back to Bristol. Does that work for you?"

Travis shook his head in disbelief. "I - I can't believe you're saying this," he replied, looking at Phoebe as if she was weird - which she probably was.

"The point is, Travis - are you up for it? I'd love for you to fuck me, but would you like to be the one to own my cunt?"

I mean, guys - how would you react to something like that?

*****

Phoebe and I were already naked when Travis reappeared. Well, in her case, she wore a thin black choker - a fetish of mine that she seems delighted to indulge - white knee socks (her feet get cold), her big glasses and lipstick. With her hair in long plaits, and being so skinny, with her tiny tits and smooth pussy, she looked obscenely young.