Learner Driver and Other Stories

Leigh Clark

Description

If stories of frantic, sensual lovemaking excite you, Learner Driver is guaranteed to grab your attention. These four short stories explore the sensual delights of sex, with particular emphasis on outdoor loving. Whether it is a quick romp in a hallway or a furtive public holiday experience, arousing accounts and unabashed tales of kinky sex await!

Sujets

• Erotic literature

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 23 février 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781781661062
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page

LEARNER DRIVER
AND OTHER STORIES
Four Sexy Short Stories











By
Leigh Clark




Publisher Information

Learner Driver And Other Stories
published in 2012 by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Leigh Clark 2012

The right of Leigh Clark to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.




Learner Driver

My boyfriend Kevin dumped me two weeks before my driving test. Bad enough, but then I couldn’t use his car to take the test in. Dad knew somebody with the same make of car, and asked him if I could borrow it for the test. So this friend of Dad’s dropped it off at their house and I took my test, passed, and drove back to Mom and Dad’s, all shaky and chuffed to bits. Should have been the end of it. Really should have been the end of it. Thing is, Mom and Dad had gone out shopping, leaving this note saying ‘Please hang on till Jeff gets there, so you can give his keys back.’ It was Jeff’s car I’d borrowed. So when he turned up, rang the doorbell, I was expecting some old geezer in a cardigan. I opened the door and he was like Steve McQueen. And he knew it, did that whole look up and down thing with a half smile, like he understood what I was thinking. I said something half-witted and dropped the bloody keys on the mat.
I bent to grab them and as I straightened up he put his hand out, like he was going to steady me, and put it straight on my left breast! Which was the moment for him to apologise – but he just grinned at me. And half of me was thinking ‘there’s no way you’re as old as my dad,’ and the other half thought ‘this would burn Kevin to a crisp, if he knew’ and the next thing was, I had my hands on his waistband (no elasticated jeans, thank God) and he was shoving me back down the hall until I hit the stairs. So I kissed him and he tasted really nice, and that was it, I never stood a chance once he’d got his thigh between my legs and I was snogging and wriggling around on him like a pole dancer. I didn’t even notice when he slipped his hands round my back and undid my bra. I suppose an older man has a lot more experience, smoother action, that kind of thing. But once he’d lowered his head to my nipples and was tonguing away I realised that this was going to have to go all the way, so I pushed him away a bit and just laid myself down on the hall carpet, hitching up my best skirt which I’d worn to impress the examiner and he went down on me like he was famished, really going for it. And with the adrenaline of passing the test and the fear of Mom and Dad turning up any second, I came like an express, I really did.
And I thought that was going to be the end of it, but I sat up and he was still grinning and I was blushing like a red light, so I reached forward and put my hand in his hair, which did have quite a lot of grey in it, I noticed, and pulled him down on top of me. When he slid inside me I sort of came round and thought ‘I’m screwing my dad’s mate in my parents’ hall at eleven o’clock on a Friday morning’ and so it wasn’t the most exciting sex in the world, to be honest, not right then, anyway.
The thing is, he came and we straightened ourselves up and that was it. By the time Mom and Dad got back, I was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea. Ever since though, I’ve been thinking about what we did, every time I pass some bloke with fair greying hair, I feel myself getting hot, and I never go round to Mom and Dad’s until I’m absolutely sure there’s no chance of bumping into Jeff because I don’t trust myself around him, I really don’t.




Honeymoon Island

Do you know what they call our island? Honeymoon Island, that’s its new name—it’s what they call a marketing angle. I can understand why—there’s nothing more beautiful than the place I call home, nowhere more suited to making love either, but it’s dangerous too.
And I know what they say about me too— Marania, the bride of the Island, as if it’s a big joke. Of course I’m a tribal chief now, and the first woman every to hold that title, and I’ve never been married, and above all, I look like the archetypal Honeymoon Islander, so it’s a joke that makes some sense, but the truth is much stranger.
Start with the looks—mine I mean, I’m tall and broad, skin the colour of a coconut husk, long curling black hair—you think I look just right for an Islander? But the place has been a ‘honeymoon’ island for centuries. The Chinese came here to trade and left behind babies, the neighbouring tribes came to barter for brides and once white people turned up in their big wooden ships, any Islander was as likely to have red hair and epithetic eye-folds or blue eyes and golden skin as they were to look like me.
Then the missionary societies got to hear about us, and for a long time the honeymoon was over. Oh yes—we Islanders had to pay for all the sins of our ancestors. They made us wear clothes, sing hymns, get married before enjoying the natural pleasures of each others bodies—they made us suffer.
There was one thing the missionaries had a blind spot about though. They were so focused on barstardy and fornication that they missed one major part of Honeymoon Islands native culture, and that’s where my story really begins. You see, young men and young women live separately here. Between leaving home and settling down to raise a family, they move into the Youths’ House or the Maidens’ House—long huts where each sex learns the skills necessary to survive. Boys fish and hunt, girls cook and harvest fruits and nuts. Boys tan leather, girls weave cloth. Boys learn to swim and dive in salty mother ocean and girls do the same at the freshwater falls in the interior of the Island.