Imogen’s Perfect Bumhole

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The door was a minor work of art in itself; with three nearly opaque large glass panels, irregularly cut, in yellow, blue and red set into the door. I looked down the hall. All the doors in the block had a different arrangement of glass. In front of me, on the door frame, there was a much painted over brass doorbell, thick with matt black paint. Which my hand somehow did and didn’t want to push.

It was a bitter January, and I was in front of Imogen’s black front door, in the sharp-lined modernist block she was ridiculously proud of having secured a flat in. To each side stretched a whitewashed wall of 1960’s concrete, rough and boxy, open to the elements at each end. London’s little piece of the Bauhaus, they called it. God knows what it cost to rent.

I could hear the thrum of a party in motion; voices noisy with booze, the clang of glasses. In my hand was a bottle of average champagne, not quite cold enough, purchased minutes ago from the corner shop across the street. Moet the results were worth the extra effort, but I’d had to haul myself from Richmond to Hampstead. The party invite that had once seemed like a great idea — for God’s sake, you need to get out of the house and meet people again — now just seemed like an imposition, when I wanted to go home and flop in front of the TV, instead of meeting a bunch of brand new, drunk people with memories that wouldn’t last until breakfast.

But Imogen had texted and texted and insisted and insisted. You must, darling. Please. I need you there. You are important to me too. Don’t worry, Emma’s not coming. On and on, making it clear it wasn’t just some equal-opportunities obligation.

When me and Emma ruined each other’s Christmasses by breaking up (and a few other people’s too, in a drunken mess of infidelity), Imogen didn’t take long to get in touch. She’d previously described Emma as her best friend, although I’d never heard Emma say that about her. I suspected she might have stuck her oar in in various ways over the last few miserable months, and essentially, I trusted her about as far as I could throw her. But she could throw a party, I knew that. The excuse this time was her amazing new job. At least she had an excuse this time. She usually didn’t need one. I’d attended all the previous ones with Emma. Solo, I suddenly felt exposed again.

It was cold enough that just standing there any longer would see me freeze to death. The party noise continued. With a sense of weariness and inevitably, I hovered my hand above the bell, paused, drew it back purposefully, and stabbed at it with my middle finger.

An old fashioned electrical tinkling sounded. A second’s pause. A muffled “IMMY! DOOR!”. I stood there, breath misting.

The latch clicked, the door opened an inch or two, then was violently flung open. Imogen stood there, her left hand in the air with her wrist cocked downwards, like a showgirl, a glass of champagne almost spilling, her legs crossed, her toes pointed towards me. A performance. She blinked and stared at me, grinning like a cat, in the most ridiculous dress I had ever seen; woollen and electric blue. It barely covered her bum. Her legs dominated the door. It was hard to take it all in. Her fascinator that looked like several birds had died to create. The effect hit home. Complete knockout. She’d worked on this moment, for me, for every guest. It was what she did. She breathed in, and purposefully out, with a snort, locking her eyes on me. Then opened her mouth, licked her lips, and bellowed ‘JACK!’ so loud it almost blew me backwards.

At least I was welcome. “COME IN!”. And out of the cold. A squeeze and a spectacularly overfamiliar kiss. Dragging me through the throng that packed most of the one-and-a-half bedroom palace, a bunch of overdressed friends and hangers on, glittery clothes and faces, glasses raised and loud. Suddenly I was in the kitchen. “THIS IS JACK, EVERYBODY! HE TAKES PICTURES!’. A wave of introductions, as I dropped the heavy bag behind me. ‘What do you photograph, Jack?’. Imogen with her thin arm around my waist, Louboutin heels click clacking on the 1950s tiling, smelling of something fancy. Damn, I should have at least brought a change of shoes.

In amongst the posh, dressy publishing and fashion set that Imogen liked to call her friends; even if they might not give her what she needed as friends, the dread ebbed away as I started talking about my work — something I like doing, and everyone can think of an interesting question. Yes, a shoot in Richmond. For the Gentlewoman magazine. No, I don’t get to do that. Have I met? No. Sure, tell me about them. I can do this kind of chat on about 60% or less. Relax, and breathe, and sip this glass, and don’t feel alone.

Whatever the flat had cost her, it looked extraordinary, set-dressed and gleaming, showing off her modest collection of mid-century modern bits and pieces, 60s books and so on. It was well-chosen and and almost overbearingly tasteful. Like it was filling in for something kaçak iddaa else. The top mezzanine came complete with an only mildly dirty white shag pile carpet, like the owner of the place had deliberately reacted against the minimalism.

Luckily there were two people I remembered from Emma days, and the chat flowed and the tension I had felt started to melt away a little. I could do this. With the booze and coke still flowing, it wasn’t long before Imogen wobbled on a chair in front of the immense oval picture window that looked out onto the Heath and waved her arms for everyone to shut the hell up. They did, after the briefest of ovations. She was tall and ever so narrow, and squeezed into a the blue wool dress she looked like she had starved herself to make sure she fit into, to be ready, to be here. “Friends! Friends!. All, of you, just give me… a minute.” The sound of someone hoofing a line off a shelf at the back brought some teals of knowing, braying laughter.

“I have gathered you here… what the fuck am I saying? Thank you all for coming! [A slightly muted cheer]. You are all so, so special to me. All of you. Tonight is to celebrate me. Yes, me.” Another muted cheer, and a nervous bray. “This is about celebrating getting everything right, and perfect, and positive, and brilliant. Thanks for coming to my brilliant, brilliant flat, and looking at all my lovely things. Death to the past!” The last delivered to the middle distance, in that Rodean accent, like they were putting on Macbeth. A bigger cheer went up.

There was more in this self-regarding vein. Imogen had been through her own agonising break up around a year ago. I knew far more about it than I’d ever want to know. I disliked her vanity, even as I felt attracted to it. Most people here thought she had some powerful job in publishing, a player on the incestuous London scene staffed by dozens of Jacintas and Pollys and Amelias. I knew that she brought home less than most teachers and her parents were probably paying the rent on this place.

But I certainly wasn’t going to deny her her moment. She looked astonishing, even if the dress was probably borrowed and the flat would never be hers. Just the right side of 30, she’d put some serious effort in. Her legs looked like they had been chiselled down with the kind of tools a sculptor might use on mahogany, her hair was just right — even if that Gucci Alice band she’d now replaced the fascinator with was a bit OTT. If it had all brought her to this point, with drunken folk chanting her name, and lifting her off her (fake) Noguchi table, then why not. We’ll all be dead, someday.


A few hours later. God knows when. There’s five of us left. Imogen and her best friend Carrie sitting on the Chesterfield, roaring with laughter at each other, me and a random couple on the sofa, in front of the last bottle of champagne. The place was otherwise a shambles of glasses and party junk, cigarette butts and party poppers and someone’s forgotten shoes. The conversation had hit that weird elevated level where we might have been talking about something important, we might not, but whatever — no-one would remember a damn thing in the morning.

Carrie was kind of a sidekick cum assistant. The junior partner in this friendship for sure. I think she might have been late-twenties, but I wasn’t sure.

All night, Imogen had come back to me, over and over again, grabbing my arse, with sly rubs up and down the front of my trousers. A wink, then off again into the throng. It wasn’t the first time she had done it, but it was the first time she was doing it when single. I’d gone from bemused, to flattered, to horny, to weary, and back again in the space of a few hours. I mean, why? But also, why not.

I went for a piss, as I came back in, the random couple had their coats on and Imogen was busy with goodbyes. Now what? I sat back on the sofa. Carrie bounces in beside me, and wastes no time. “She really fancies you, you know. Imogen. She always has.” She curls up, knees facing me, and slugs at her champagne. Blonde, and posh. Like something from a mid-century novel. Short woollen A-line skirt — which was kind of hot. History of art at Magdalene. Jazz music tinkling in the background. The David Hockney print on the wall. Not the world I grew up in.

“Yeah, I know. It’s getting a bit late. Feel I’ve been… here before?”

“She’s never stopped talking about you for days, you know. “‘I’m going to get Jack here. Make sure he stays, afterwards. Do whatever you need to.'” She bit her bottom lip. I felt like I’d walked into some trap, but the ego was fed. My cock started to swell.

“What would you have done to keep me here?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She looked down and started to circle her finger around the edge of the champagne flute. A lick of the lips. “Whatever I needed to. This is her night. I’m here for her.” She tilted her head and grinned a slightly vacant grin. Carrie, you’re dedicated, I’ll give kaçak bahis you that.

“Yes it is.” Imogen walked back into the room, one foot carefully in front of the other. “It’s all about me. All of it.” In the heels, she suddenly looked taller than anyone or anything. A sudden vertical. She walked over to the sofa, sat down next to me, grabbed my arm, and hoisted it around her slim shoulders.

“Come on, get your arm round Caz too.” So there I was, with both arms around the two youngest, slimmest, hottest, poshest girls I’d ever had… arms on, anyway. I instinctively pulled them a bit closer. Imogen’s legs stretched out forever in front of mine, her Louboutin tapping on my Chelsea boot. “Perfect!” shouted Imogen.

“Why me?” I said, out loud — surprising myself.

Imogen winked, like she’d been expecting the question. “Well, Jack.” She burst out laughing. “Jack.” Carrie murmured something. “It’s perfect! It’s all perfect.” said Imogen. “Everyone came. Well, everyone I cared about, anyway. And it was perfect. The dress was perfect! My hair was perfect! That’s what matters.” Carrie giggled, drunkenly. “The flat is perfect, my job is perfect. The only thing is, I don’t have a boyfriend anymore. I don’t know if I even fucking want one, actually. But you, right… I’ve heard..”

“Heard what?”

“You know Emma talked about you a lot, right?” Oh yeah. I knew. Couldn’t keep her mouth shut if she tried. Suddenly, Imogen’s hand snaked across from my left, and came to rest on my crotch. “She never shut up about your dick, you know. It was one of her favourite topics of conversation.”

“Oh, I bet it was.” And all sorts of other embarrassing crap, no doubt.

“She was very complimentary, you know. Said it was perfect. Perfect! The perfect size, the perfect weight.” She gave me a gentle squeeze. “Oooh, yes. I’m hoping she was right.”

Carrie started to stroke my thigh. “I want everything perfect, Jack. The best friends, the best wine, the best job, and the best cock to finish the night.” said Imogen.

“That’s being rather assuming of you.”

“I’ve heard sooo much about it, Jack. Jeez, sometimes when Emma went on I thought I knew more about your cock than my own boyfriend’s. I was really hoping she was going to show me a picture, but no.”

Yeah, that sounds like my ex.

“Oh come on. I’m seen the way you’ve looked at me. For years. ” Carrie squeezed my bum. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about fucking me.”

“Probably every man here tonight has thought about fucking you. Well, maybe apart from the gay ones.”

Imogen grabbed a glass and took a swig, and locked her eyes back on me. “I mean, you’re not getting out of this flat tonight before you’ve at least… ” she looked over at Carrie – “…shown it to us.”

With an invitation like that? Well I suppose I’ll have to. I stood up, kicked my shoes off and turned to face the pair of them; painfully slim, drunk and horny.

I unbuckled my jeans and slipped them off. Imogen licked her lips. I shrugged. With one motion, I took my underwear off. It’s good to have a bit of a flourish, right?

“Oh, my.” said Imogen. My cock stuck out at half-mast. It suddenly looked so rude, so prominent in the room. I knew it was bigger than most, but it suddenly looked like something ridiculous had loomed into view, like a yacht.

“Carrie, would you do the honours?” Carrie dropped to her knees in front of me, and looked up, beaming. “Ummm, would you mind terribly if I put it in my mouth?” she said, in the sort of cut-glass accent that made it twitch just a little higher. Rodean as well? Probably.

“That’s the biggest one she’s ever seen, Jack.” said Imogen. “Hey! You don’t know!” Carrie stretched out a tiny hand with lilac nails and delicately touched my shaft. Imogen purred: “It’s in the Goldilocks zone. Big but not ridiculous. Just right. Perfect. It’s all perfect.”

Carrie raised herself off her knees and gently took me into her mouth. The familiar soft, warm feeling, made just a little more erotic by the fact she didn’t seem too experienced. Was mine the first cock she’d ever sucked? Surely not. But she was doing a good impression if it wasn’t.

“Let’s see if we can get him rock hard. You’re a bum man, aren’t you? Yes, you are. I know you are. I know all kinds of shit about you. ” Imogen turned around and leaned over the sofa, pulling the blue wool dress up as she did so. “Go on. Take a good look at my arse. Not for the first time, I’ll bet.” Imogen’s taut little bum was clad in soft light blue, lacy panties. “Agent Provocateur. I’ve been saving them for today. They are perfect for the dress. And perfect for my arse.” She wiggled a little.

I was at full attention now, with Carrie’s blue eyes looking up at me and the filthy sight of her shade of lipstick on my eight inch shaft, and Imogen’s hot little arse waving back and forth on the sofa. She started to bounced up and down, looking round at me as she did so. “Can you see my calves, Jack?” They illegal bahis looked firm and long, like the rest of her legs. “I’ve been doing them with the best trainer in Hampstead. He worked me like a dog in that bloody gym to get them as tight as this. I had to suck him off in the sauna a few times, but it was worth it.”

It was indeed a body to die for. “Don’t suck him too hard, Carrie. I want him to save a bit for me. Maybe you’ll get the honours with the contents of his balls. Perfect cock, so I’m sure he’ll have enough spunk for both of us.”

It was time for me to speak. I was feeling a little like a piece of meat; not too unpleasant, a sensation, but I wasn’t going to let Imogen take charge all night. “I’m not standing here like a water fountain. Get in the bedroom, both of you.”

All three of us, the girls giggling a little, quickly made for Imogen’s bedroom. Cream painted, expensive sheets, warm bedside lighting. The colour of money. I got my socks and shirt off and flopped back onto her pillows, my cock sticking out obscenely.

“Carrie, over here. Take your skirt off.” Carrie squealed and didn’t hesitate to remove her skirt, revealing sheer-ish tights over a tiny pair of black panties. “Lay here and stroke my cock. Immy… stand up there and take that expensive dress off.”

“Look at you, all taking charge.” But Imogen locked eyes again with me as she reached over her shoulder and unzipped the wool dress, slowly. Like she’d practiced it. “The perfect dress. I’ve had my eye on if for a fucking YEAR. They all loved it, didn’t they. I just fitted it, too. I haven’t eaten anything for two weeks, but I fit. In. The. Fucking. Dress.”

It came off to reveal a matching bra, in two colours; expensive looking, that pushed her small boobs up high. She ran her hands down her body, caressing her stomach, which was flat and so taut, she almost had the hint of a six pack. Ripped to shreds and looking like a lingerie model. It was an incredible sight. “Where did you get that body?” ‘Worked it, dear. Worked it hard.” Carrie was ever so gently wanking my shaft up and down. It wouldn’t take me long at this rate.

Imogen put her hand on her head, so her boobs looked even better. “I mean, you know you’re not getting out of here without sticking that thing in my twat, right?” She got on the end of her own bed on her knees, and this time slipped a hand inside the expensive underwear.

“Correct. I will be sticking this thing in your twat very shortly.”

“This is the perfect night, I wore the perfect dress, and now I am going to finish with the perfect cock inside my perfect little cunny hole. Yes! Yes I am. She spread her arms out like a conjuror.

Carrie, perkily, spoke up while looking at me. “You should do her bumhole, too!” A giggle.

Imogen licked her lips, but said: “No, Carrie. There is no way in hell he’s going to put that thing up there. Not sure it would even fit. Anyway, I don’t allow boys to fuck my bum. They all want to, but they’re not allowed. You’ve got to keep some things to yourself. I mean, I have a few things in that drawer there that have been up my bumhole, but not.. that.” She glanced at my cock, being enthusiastically pumped by Carrie, who then started chanting: “Do her bum! Do her bum!” before collapsing into a brief fit of drunken giggles.”

“She’s right, you know.” I said, looking at Imogen’s taut, fit body. “I’m a two hole man. If you start in the cunt, you must finish in the arsehole. A wise man once said that.” That wise man being me, just a second ago.

“No way, Jose.” But there was something in the way she said it that now sounded unsure.

“Take that bra off and let me watch you stroke your nipples for a minute,” I said, assertively. Imogen nodded, and without taking her eyes off me, reached behind her and removed her bra, then eagerly pawed at her tits, pinching one nipple and grunting a little. I was enjoying the show so much, and didn’t need to ask her to get her panties off.

“Carrie! Watch and learn.” Imogen clambered on top of me, legs astride my chest, her pussy almost in my face; pink and trim, shaved almost clean, glistening, her powerful legs stretched obscenely wide. The scent of her delicious twat, with a hint of Sana Jardin. “There you go. I know you’ve wanted to see this for a long time, Jack, you dirty dirty bastard. I know how many times you must have wanked over me. Did you think about finishing in my twat, or in my arse? Or on my face. Most boys, it’s just on the face. But I’d actually like it up my twat today.”

“Carrie, put his cock inside me.” What an assistant. As Imogen clambered onto me, Carrie manoeuvred the shaft at her entrance. I could feel the tip of my cock nudging at her moist pink pussy. “Now you’re gonna get my legs! Feel the control!” Imogen sank herself ever so slowly onto me, and I felt my length gradually fill her up, as her mouth started to form an ‘O’. She breathed in hard, before using all that thigh strength to ride my cock, slowly squeezing up and down, looking at me. “Ohhh, yes, THAT’s it. Every inch of it in my cunt. Look at me, you bastard. Look at me. Look at my body. It’s quite special, isn’t it? I worked for it. Every inch.”

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