Watching Isabella come was too much. Simon couldn’t take anymore and he buried himself fully in Emily, thrusting furiously, his balls smacking against her skin. Emily moaned loud enough to be heard over Isabella’s cries and she brought the other girl even closer, her tongue working furiously to keep Isabella’s orgasm going.
“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” Isabella screamed as Emily drove two fingers into her, still feverishly sucking her clit. Groaning, Simon’s pace picked up as well and he spanked Emily’s ass, the sound echoing in the trees, as he used her hips to bring himself even deeper into her slick pussy. Emily’s response was immediate and she drove down hard against him, her ass slapping his stomach as they fucked.
Suddenly, Emily began to come and her screams joined Isabella’s as Simon used the last of his energy, plunging frantically into Emily’s tight, quivering pussy, their slick bodies slapping together as, finally, moaning, he came too. As the last shudders of his orgasm faded, Simon sank forward with a groan, leaning his head against Emily’s back while she rested her head on Isabella’s stomach. The brunette lay back along the table, her knees drawn up, her feet still resting on Simon’s shoulders. “Holy shit,” she said.
Emily chuckled. “Do you think the salmon is done by now?”
“Oh crap!” said Simon. Pulling out of Emily, he staggered over to the grill, his legs nearly giving out on him. Supporting himself with one hand on the brick structure, he prodded the salmon with the tongs. “It’s perfect,” he said after a minute. “But the veggie kebabs are a pretty charred.”
The girls looked at each other then back at him. They shrugged in unison. “I think it was worth it,” said Isabella, and they all laughed.
Spreading out paper plates and napkins on the striped blanket where they’d just been pleasuring each other, they sat down to eat, letting the sun dry the sweat off their naked bodies. They ate with their hands, the girls licking their fingers when they were done. But the sight of the salmon’s hot, flavorful juices dripping down their hands and chins was too much for Simon and he felt his cock quiver and twitch.
“Come here,” he said roughly, bringing Isabella into his lap so that he could lick the flavorful oil from between her breasts. She hummed happily, arching her breasts towards his mouth.
“You think you can go again, Simon?” Emily asked, watching him lick her friend’s tits with heavy-lidded eyes and a wicked smile.
“If you two can,” he replied.
Isabella bent forward to kiss him and he felt the lips of her already wet pussy part, sliding along the length of his new erection. “Well, we’re free all day,” Isabella replied.
Simon suddenly remembered Jack. “Oh, just let me make a quick call,” he said. “Then I will be too.”
Gently removing Isabella from his lap, he rummaged in the pockets of his forgotten running shorts and pulled out his phone. He called Jack, grimacing, knowing the other man would be angry.
“Where the hell have you been, Simon?”
“I know, I know. I’m really sorry, Jack. Something… came…” he looked down to see the two girls kneeling in front of him. Emily had his balls in her hand, gently sucking on them each in turn, while Isabella had closed her pretty pink lips around the tip of his cock. “…up,” he finished weakly.
“Are you okay, Simon?”
“Yeah,” Simon responded hoarsely, one hand gripping Isabella’s hair as she took him deeper into her mouth. “Listen, just tell Jean he’s fired. Letitia is the new head chef. Don’t freak out… Oh God,” Simon groaned, “…just trust me, okay?” Simon closed his eyes as the girls began to work in earnest. “I’ve got a good feeling about this,” he finished. Before Jack could respond, he hung up, tossing his phone aside and joining the girls on the blanket.
THE END
A Very Sexy Voyage
Chapter 1
The white linen table cloth hugged the table top and flowed down in romantic cascades. The antique candelabra that Peter’s mother had passed down to us on our wedding day held six long, tapered candles, each alight and dancing in the light breeze provided by the open bay window. The table was set with our wedding china and good silver, each piece gleaming and placed with care. The lights were dim and romantic, the dining room glowing a rosy gold. A glass of red wine sat at each of our places, breathing, awaiting Peter’s arrival home from work. A greasy bucket of fried chicken and biscuits sat waiting in the wings of the kitchen, ready to be served-- an homage to our first date, 14 years ago today: A picnic in the park at sunset.
But Peter was late. Again.
Watching the clock, I thought back to that first day of our romance. It was a blind date made through mutual friends who insisted for months that we simply had to meet. Neither of us was keen on the idea--friends always think the best way to give you what you need is to give you what you absolutely don’t want. But when I finally agreed, when I finally saw Peter in the flesh, waiting for me under a big oak tree, lean, dark-haired, handsome, a bit over-dressed, nervously pulling at blades of grass and checking his watch, I found him immediately endearing, and couldn’t help but smile. He looked up, saw me, and smiled right back, taking me in. That moment of recognition had been electric. So this is what all the fuss was about…
It’s hard to remember the details of that first encounter--but the feeling is one I’ll never forget: hard to describe, but something akin to ecstatic. We talked fast, pouring over one another, wanting to take each other in as quickly as possible, both grinning like idiots and knocking over our wine glasses with excitement for each other. I had never before felt so in sync with someone.
He made some dumb joke I don’t recall, but that we both found hysterical at the time, and we cried with laughter, our cheeks hurting from expressing so much sheer happiness. And then we looked at each other as the laughing subsided, having nothing else to say except sentiments that would be too much too soon--were simply too big to express with words. And so, I let him take me in an embrace instead. I let him kiss me deeply, let his big hands grab at my flesh roughly, let him lift my skirt and feel the expression of my excitement between my legs, let him tear my panties in his haste to remove them, let him enter me right there on the grass as the sun went down, voicing my pleasure loudly in a strange, primitive language. He buried himself deep inside of me, filling me up, making me whole, without a care for what should happen if anyone were to walk by. It was so utterly right, and neither of us could deny it.
That was fourteen years ago. Over the years, Peter had continued to be a good man, a caring partner, a dear friend. But as the years wore on and the banalities of keeping up a house, a marriage, a life wore on us, we somehow lost hold of the vital spark that brought us together in the first place.
I wondered if he even remembered how he used to need my body, how he would sneak up on me from behind as I chopped vegetables for dinner, would make me aware of his presence with a throaty whisper in my ear, “My God, what are you doing to me in those pants?” would slide his hands between my legs and press into me, saying, “I have to have you…” as he dug his hands into my flesh, and made love to me on the kitchen floor, our dinner ruining as it sat on the table for the hours we took to explore each other fully.
Did he ever think about it? Did he miss it like I did? Was I still the woman he loved--or was I just his wife?
I heard a key in the door and sat up, coming out of my trance. Peter was home. He threw his key on the entryway hutch and stomped heavily past the dining room and into the living room, clutching his briefcase, talking loudly at me from the other room.
“So now Johnson is restructuring our commission, which means we’ll all be working twice as hard to get the same rates!” he yelled as a greeting, continuing what had been a week long tirade against his boss. “Dammit, why the hell is your quilting material still all over the coffee table?”
“Because I did more quilting today, that’s why.” This was not how I wanted our anniversary to begin.
“I’m sorry--I’m still worked up from work. I’m not trying to yell at you. But can you please move it? I have to go over my contract and see if there’s anything I can do about this,” he said, clearing my fabric scraps and materials into a pile, making room for him to pop open his briefcase.
“How about I clean it up after dinner? I have the table all set for us.”
“Thanks, Hon, but I’ll just make myself a plate when I’m done with this.”
“No, that can wait. You’ll have dinner now.”
“I know you went to a lot of trouble, Hon, but this really can’t wait. It’s not like your job--I can’t just move my responsibilities around according to my whims--”
“Excuse me?”
“Olivia, please!” he cried out. “Please don’t fight with me right now. Please--this is important.”
“I know. I know how important it is. Your job has been more important than your marriage for quite some time.”
***
There was a time when Olivia was turned on by my ambition.
There was a time when she wasn’t resentful of being a housewife but relished it. She stayed home at her own insistence, wanting to focus on her crafting business, on making the home she’d always dreamt of. Olivia had a talent for the sensual, and she knew it: The right fabrics, the right fragrances, the right ambiance.
My house became a home when she came into it--it was her domain and she ruled it proudly. And when I would come home at the end of the work day, told her my troubles, she would say, “I know what will make it better…” She’d put on just the right music, she’d adjust the lighting to a soft and sensual glow. She would kneel before me, smile, cock an eyebrow and unbutton my pants.
She would manipulate my body until all of my stress and work troubles came tearing out of me in a rushing stream, which she swallowed down to prove they were no match for her healing powers. She was turned on to see me in the heat of battle--to see me working hard to provide for her. She gave me a reason to fight the good fight. She was my Helen of Troy.
She still was--she was a wonderful partner, a wonderful wife, and she kept a wonderful home for me. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to give her the best. But somewhere along the way, the burning desire she had for me had dissipated.
Our home was lovely, but no longer electric.
Somehow, some way, I didn’t seem to have the same effect on her. I wondered if she even remembered how things used to be--how she couldn’t get enough of me. I wondered if she missed me the way I missed her. I wondered if I simply wasn’t what she wanted anymore.
“You’re right,” I conceded. I’d been fighting all day. I didn’t want to fight with her. “This can wait--let’s eat.”
I sat down at the table, my eyes still drawn to my briefcase across the hall. We had plans for retirement--I was determined to get us there comfortably. This recent change in policy at work had to be dealt with. But I tried with all of my might to focus on the moment. My wife has slaved over a delicious meal.
I’m going to enjoy it with her.
Olivia disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared, smiling, with a bucket of chicken.
A bucket of chicken. Our future was a ticking time bomb, waiting to be diffused in the next room, and she had demanded I put it aside for a bucket of chicken?
“Are you serious?” I couldn’t contain myself. “You’re making your big stand with me over a bucket of chicken you just picked up from the store? Do you think my job is a joke? Do you really think when I say that what I’m doing is important, that I’m just spouting bullshit? Jesus, Olivia--do you appreciate what I do at all?”
“It’s what we had on our first date fourteen-years ago. Happy anniversary.” She sat down angrily and grabbed a leg out of the bucket, biting into it like a cat with a kill.
The blood drained out of my face as the situation dawned on me.
She hadn’t sprung this on me--she’d mentioned our upcoming anniversary in passing all week. I simply hadn’t listened. And now her eyes were lethal.
“I...I’m sorry, honey, I forgot.”
“Why don’t you want me anymore?” her angry eyes were tearing up.
“Of course, I want you--why do you think I’m working so hard for you, for our future?”
“Why don’t you want me anymore? Used to be, if Johnson was giving you a hard time at work, do you know what you’d do? You’d come home to me. You’d come home and be with me. You’d let me make it better. What you would do is bend me over this table and fuck me until you felt better!”
She was crying now, tears streaming down her face, every one of them a knife in my heart.
“I didn’t know that was still an option,” I said, blindsided, trying not to look at her--it was too painful. “I didn’t think you wanted me anywhere near you.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because I’m not the only one who’s pulled away!” I cried out. “You used to….you used to seduce me. That hasn’t happened in a long time.”
“How am I supposed to seduce you when I feel so unattractive--”
“Unattractive? Honey, you’re still a knockout--”
“Don’t say that when you don’t mean it. Don’t try to make me feel better.”
We sat in silence for a moment. How the hell did we get here?
“I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to fix this,” I said. And I really didn’t. “I still want you. Of course, I do.”
“I still want you,” she whispered to her plate, unable to look up at me.
“Then come here,” I pleaded.
“No, no... my face is all puffy, I have to clean up--I don’t feel very good…” she stammered, standing up and gathering up our plates hurriedly, the food still untouched.
I stood up and walked towards her, hoping to draw her into a hug, but she cut me off with, “Actually, I think I’ll clean up in the morning. I just want to go to bed.” She set the plates she held in the sink, went into our bedroom, and closed the door.
I wandered into the living room, bewildered by the whole, ugly scene. I sat on the couch and looked at my briefcase, completely unmotivated to go over the contracts I was so desperate to dig into just minutes before. It seemed unimportant now.
I picked up the newspaper sitting in the magazine stand next to the couch, and tried to read, though the words made no sense, my mind occupied as it was. My eyes simply scanned, moving from line to line, taking in nothing, until an advertisement caught my eye:
DR. THOMAS LOVEJOY
MARRIAGE COUNSELOR
Specializing in sex therapy
Rekindle your passion in just one session.
Make your love brand new again!
(862) 555-5921
Was this what we needed? I thought of Olivia, alone in our bedroom, and wondered if the tears were still streaming down her face. Her words were still ringing in my ears: How can I seduce you when I feel so unattractive? My guts turned inside out at the prospect that I had made her feel that way. I didn’t know how to bring her back. I didn’t know how to bring myself back.
I picked up my phone and called the number. I was directed to leave a message.
“Hi, my name is Peter Warren. My wife and I would like to book a session.”
Chapter 2
I wasn’t sure I wanted to be here. I didn’t want some stranger judging our marriage, asking us about our insecurities, digging at our wounds. But Peter seemed so sincere about wanting to fix things between us when he presented the idea. I was touched to find that he cared enough about our marriage to try something like this. So I agreed. But still, I was nervous as we sat outside of Dr. Lovejoy’s office, waiting for our appointment. Who knew what kind of tortured conversation awaited us inside.
“You can go in now,” the plump secretary informed us. Peter took my hand in his, looked me in the eye, and smiled encouragingly. We opened the door and stepped inside.
His office was seri
ous and austere: Dark wood, lush ferns, diplomas on the wall, a handsome and tasteful couch for us to sit on. He stood from his chair to shake our hands. “Hello, I’m Dr. Lovejoy. Have a seat.”
We did as we were told.
“Now,” he continued, returning to his chair. “What brings you in to see me today?”
“We can’t seem to...we don’t…” Peter couldn’t find the words.
“We haven’t had sex in a long time,” I said.
“With each other? Or at all?” asked Dr. Lovejoy.
Sexy Addiction Page 19
