Victorian sex. Now there are some who might say this is artificial, that it’s not spontaneous. And that’s true. I am talking about artfully delayed seduction. Perhaps it might be better if people put up more resistance to seduction “naturally”—if their resistance was sincere.
And perhaps with the return of repression in the 80s, with the shadow of herpes hanging over everyone, women will make it more difficult for men to get into their pants, and vice versa. And then I’ll probably be lamenting the loss of the Golden Age of Easy Sex.
But I don’t think so. I think both men and women should put up more resistance to seduction, not out of fear, but because of the pleasure principle. The longer people take, by the time they finally get around to actually doing it, the more they will have eroticized every sensory nerve, every look, every glance, every touch, every signature of the other’s being.
And so when they finally do it, the sex will be not only less impersonal, but more exciting. Impersonal sex has gotten a kind of down-and-dirty reputation for being more exciting than genuinely intimate sex. If people would only learn to take longer to seduce each other, that first fuck—so often anticlimactic—would be infinitely hotter and more personal.
OUR FIRST VIBRATOR
When I asked Liz what she wanted for her birthday, I expected her to say perfume or jewelry. But she had something else in mind.
“A vibrator? Are you serious?” I said. She giggled nervously, but I knew that she meant it.
Liz was easily embarrassed and almost virginal in style. But her lascivious streak never failed to surprise me. She could charm dinner guests while playing with my cock under the table. I looked forward to shopping.
A few days later I visited a store called the Pleasure Chest, a 7-Eleven of sex toys and paraphernalia. Men in three-piece suits with blond, manicured girlfriends perused cock rings and crotchless panties. A gay couple in black leather and studded chokers examined a giant two-headed dildo with “lifelike veins.”
The vibrators on display ranged in size and color from monstrous flesh-colored models to butt plugs that resembled night lights. Some were expensive semi-orthopedic devices with sponge-covered balls affixed. Others were strap-on affairs that promised stunning orgasms for the woman daring enough to wear one. Options included variable speeds and intensities, hand crank, AC-DC adaptors, kits with lubricants and spikey rubber sleeves.
I eventually decided on two sleek, white missile-shaped models like the ones that turn up occasionally in drugstores. Each package portrayed a woman smiling beatifically as she held the little bullet to her cheek. “Eases muscle tension,” the copy proclaimed. The big one, about ten inches long, was an inch-and-a-half in diameter near the ridged bottom and tapered to a point. The other was no longer than four inches and nearly the same thickness.
When I handed the boxes to a clerk in black leather and crew cut, he looked up in mock horror. “Two?” he intoned. “Aren’t we being a little piggy?” I mumbled something out of embarrassment, but he paid no attention. With the nonchalance of someone who had tested vibrators a thousand times, he threw batteries into each one, twisted them with a flick of the wrist, then flipped them back into the box. Like a waiter reciting the specials of the day, he then advised: “Remove the batteries after each use. Keep them clean. Don’t use them in the tub. Have a nice day.”
Liz tore the wrapping paper away like a kid. “You really did it?” she cried. Then she started giggling “Two! Oh, my God.”
I slipped the big one out of the box and turned it on. Liz gasped. “Jesus, it’s loud, isn’t it?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “The neighbors will just think it’s an electric toothbrush.”
With the thing still buzzing in my hand I put my arms around her and lifted her skirt from behind. I slid it down her ass and between her legs. The sound was muffled as it disappeared beneath her skirt and touched her pantyhose. I drove it between her thighs and poked it through to the front. Liz’s mouth dropped open with pleasure. I kissed her deeply while lifting her gently to her toes with the vibrator pressing against her cunt. She was moaning now as her weight brought the buzzing bullet into direct contact with her clitoris.
I put it between us and we held it with our crotches while embracing. Liz began to grind against me. I pulled down her pantyhose and took off my shirt and tie. We kissed deeply. My hand played with her cunt. It was open and wet as her outer lips gave way to my fingers.
I moved down to kiss her breasts and suddenly jumped. The vibrator was between my legs. Liz was rubbing it over my ass and against my balls. I felt a boiling sensation against my peritoneum, a buzzing throughout my testicles and inside me. “That feels weird,” I shuddered, “but wonderful.”
Liz smiled lewdly as she roamed with it all over my thighs and crotch. “A cock of my own,” she giggled. “How do you like that?”
I was fully erect. I knew I would come in seconds if I entered her. So I took the vibrator and used it to caress her breasts and stomach. She closed her eyes and slowly parted her legs, pushing a pillow beneath her. “I’m the birthday girl,” she whispered. “And I want my present now.”
I felt like spurting my come all over her stomach. But I wanted to climax with her. So instead I knelt beside her on my haunches. I stroked her face with one hand and nuzzled the buzzing vibrator into her opening. Its quivering tip just barely nudged her cunt open. Liz moaned and whimpered and finally pleaded, “Oh, please, don’t tease me.”
Our lovemaking always had an element of taunting. When she was excited, I made her admit that she was a hungry little whore. That admission caused her last inhibition to snap and she would grow even wilder, bucking her hips and in a low guttural voice begging to be fucked.
So I teased her with the dildo, pushing it in slightly and withdrawing it. “We have a hungry little cunt tonight,” I murmured.
“Please don’t do this,” she sighed. “Stick it in me. Please.”
Bringing her knees up she swallowed three fourths of the vibrator. I pulled it out and slowly slid it back and forth again and again. It made wet smacking noises as it parted her pussy. She moaned softly, lost in the pleasure coming from between her legs. Then I began pumping her with a steady rhythm. I watched her buck to meet every thrust. The buzzing went from loud to soft as the shiny white cylinder slithered deeply in and out of her.
My voyeurism became rampant now. Wanting to see her pleasure herself, I placed her hand over my own on the vibrator. She grabbed it without hesitation and then she began plunging it into herself even faster than before.
While Liz was fucking herself furiously with the ten-inch dildo, I leaned over to retrieve the little one from the bedside table. My cock brushed her face. With her eyes still closed, Liz parted her lips and stuck out her tongue to find me. In a moment I was inside her warm mouth and her cheeks were contracting feverishly while she kept the big dildo tight in her fist.
She sucked me with groans of pleasure, arching her head and neck from the pillow. I snapped the little vibrator on and moved it down her stomach, toward her clit. When I penetrated her with it her jaw went slack and her body stiffened. My cock fell still shiny with saliva from her mouth.
“Oh, honey, keep it there. Please don’t stop,” she begged. I held the little vibrator lightly against her exposed clitoris and knelt back to watch.
It was a view I had never been privy to before. Liz’s body was stiffening as if taking an electric charge. Her hands fell limply to her sides, but the big vibrator still jutted from her thick pubic thatch, held only by her muscles. From the look on her face, I knew we were in the countdown stage.
Suddenly her torso arched upward and a low, breathy “Ohhhh” came from her lips. She shook and quivered and gasped for nearly a full minute. I was voyeur and participant, feeling something close to wonder to see her in that state. She was so out of control, so abandoned to the pleasure coursing through her cunt, that I felt a small pang of jealousy. When her breathing returned to normal, I fought back my
own greed and whispered in her ear, “Happy birthday.”
I knew Liz would soon get horny again, but I was anxious. I reached over for a bottle of baby oil on the bedstand and dripped some onto my cock till it glistened. With one hand I lubricated myself until the oil made a popping sound. With the other I parted her cunt.
Kneeling between her legs, I pumped my erection, waiting for her eyes to open. I knew she loved to watch me do this. It reminded her of porno movies we had seen. When she finally looked at me a smile spread across her face and she raised her legs in the air. I slid into her with ease. She squeezed her cunt muscles in welcome.
“You feel so warm and big,” she said. “Just let me lie here and get fucked by that big thick cock.” She bit my lips, sucked my tongue and begged me to fuck her. “I’m so open, I’m so wet,” she groaned as I slid in and out of her.
After about ten thrusts I was ready to come. I wanted to hold back, but Liz was milking me with her cunt. I slowed down, and began to lick her breasts when I heard one of the vibrators snap on. Liz was pressing the small one—still wet with her juices—against my ass. The buzzing tip suddenly slipped all the way in. I started thrusting furiously, feeling nothing but that churning inside me and my come coursing up through my cock.
“Shoot it,” she cried. “Shoot it into me, make me take it.” I pushed my cock deep inside her. Liz was moaning—for me, for my pleasure—while holding the vibrator against my ass. With my last spasm I fell on top of her and we shared a deep, wet, tired kiss.
The two vibrators became a part of our sex lives. We named them Ho and Joe and even took them with us on weekends to the country. It was on one of those weekends that I raised the subject of her Christmas gift. She mused for a moment, then looked up at me with an innocent smile and said, “Batteries.”
THE INDELIBLE AFFAIR
Max Perry owned a Greenwich Village jazz club and had made a lot of money. But the time we spent together wasn’t in the city. He loved to fish. That’s what he was doing the first time I saw him on Fire Island on a hot July day while I was still married. With my fourteen-month-old son slung on my hip I walked to the shoreline.
“What do you catch doing that?” I inquired.
“Usually not much,” he answered.
His mouth was full and sensual, and behind his aviator sunglasses I knew his eyes were traveling my body. The baby pulled at the bra strap on my bikini, exposing the white flesh below the tan line and the outer ring of my nipple. Max examined the breast coolly. His detachment excited me, and I waited until he had finished looking before slowly pulling up the strap. I am tall with long legs, a flat belly, narrow hips and straight dark hair.
Max flung the rod over his shoulder and the line whistled past me beyond the low-breaking waves.
“I don’t fish because of what I can catch,” he continued. “I fish because I like standing here.”
He reeled in the line and smiled at me.
“Can I try?” I asked.
His arm grazed mine as he put my index finger through the line and showed me how to release it. I handed the baby to him and cast the line in a perfect arc above the water. Max raised his eyebrows in approval.
“Not bad,” he admitted.
“I have an older brother,” I told him. “He taught me to throw a ball. It’s the same motion.”
I returned the rod to him and grasped the baby under his chubby arms. His mouth sucked at my shoulder.
“I have to go now,” I murmured. “It’s time for lunch.”
“I’ll walk you back,” he said. We walked across the dunes to the house my husband and I had rented for the summer. I put the baby in his crib and, knowing what was going to happen next, returned to the shaded deck in back. Wordlessly Max positioned my shoulders against the siding and untied my bikini top so that my breasts fell free.
After examining them for a moment with the same detachment I had noticed on the beach he grasped the nipples and rolled them between his thumbs and index fingers. They hardened instantly and a rush of wetness dampened the crotch of my bathing suit. Then he ran his hands over my belly and pulled the bottom of my bikini down around my thighs. He passed his hand between my legs and then withdrew it. “Open your mouth,” he commanded. I did and he inserted his wet index finger inside.
“Suck,” he ordered.
I was weak with excitement, but knew what I had to do.
With leaden arms I reached up and removed his finger. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Not now. I can’t.”
A flicker of contempt crossed his face, but then he shrugged. “Are you sure?” he persisted.
“Yes,” I replied.
He picked up the rod and walked off the deck and I went inside. I threw myself face down on the bed, put my fingers between my legs and masturbated.
I was on the beach with my husband the next time I saw Max Perry. I introduced them and we became friends. Max and my husband even began fishing together. Neither Max nor I ever mentioned what had happened between us on the back deck. Not until five years later, after I had ended my marriage and spent a summer in Europe, did Max and I become lovers. But by that time I was ready for him.
I arranged that trip to Europe very carefully, having sent my son to stay with my mother. I wanted to feel free to do as I pleased for the entire two months. I was thirty-one years old and had been married ten years. But I was a virgin when I got married, I had remained monogamous during the years my husband and I were together and I knew very little about sex. I intended to educate myself that summer, and I wasn’t about to let anything get in my way.
My TWA flight was scheduled to leave for London at 10:30 on a June evening. I arrived at Kennedy Airport early, wearing a pair of blue jeans, sandals, a scoop-necked t-shirt and a slender gold chain around my neck. I carried only one bag. A friend in London had invited me to stay with her, but I hoped that would not be necessary. Before long, I saw what I wanted. He was in his late thirties, about five feet ten inches tall with thinning, reddish hair, pale, freckled skin and a sturdy, muscular body. I got behind him in the check-in line and tapped him on the shoulder. “Listen,” I said. “Would you mind if I sat next to you? I’m very anxious about flying, but I’ll be okay if I just have someone to talk to.”
He was an ex-trumpet player turned songwriter on his way to London to write the musical score for a film. That morning, when the flight landed, I checked into the Hilton with him. While he made his telephone calls I took a scented pine bath and then sat naked in his lap in an armchair with a view of Park Lane and Hyde Park. He kissed me, fondled my breasts and stroked my thighs. Then, after I had stretched out on cool sheets, he unbuckled his thick leather belt and dropped his jeans to reveal a healthy erection. Lying down beside me he gathered me to him.
I whispered, “Please, let me do this my way.”
“Sure, baby,” he murmured. “Anything you want.”
I flung my leg over him and pounded my clitoris against his muscled thigh, moving slowly at first and then gaining momentum. It took a long while. Sweat ran from between my breasts and under my armpits before the tiny organ exploded and a feeling of relaxation flooded my thighs. Although I had virtually masturbated myself to orgasm, this was the first time I had ever come with a man. I felt exhilarated. “I did it,” I cried as I fell back panting.
“Good for you,” he laughed as he turned me on my back. Opening my legs, he put his cock inside me and galloped until he came.
The musician was the first of many men I knew that summer. My experience with him freed me. I became regularly orgasmic and my appetite for experiment sharpened as I wandered through Europe. In Rome, in the elevator of a hotel, I got off on the same floor with an American doctor and returned to his room with him. Straddled above me with his cock deep in my throat, he gently peeled back my labia and licked me to orgasm.
In Milan I showered with a Italian financier who had me bend over the sink while he inserted a soaped index finger into my anus and massaged my clitoris until I came. I l
earned to come in every position with a French poet (who could stay erect for long periods) simply by rubbing my clitoris against the base of his cock. By the time I left Europe I was a different person—no longer the unskilled housewife I had been when I arrived. But even though I liked all the men I knew that summer, I didn’t want to continue seeing any of them. I had done what I needed to do and wanted to take a break from sex for a while. But that September, a week after I returned from Europe, Max Perry began calling me.
In the beginning I told him I wasn’t interested. Over the years I’d seen him with dozens of women, never with any one for very long. The detachment that made him so sexually exciting carried over into the rest of his life and made him an unreliable lover. In an affair with Max Perry two things would be certain: it would be good, and it would be short.
“Max,” I repeated in November, “I’m really not interested.” I said the same thing in January and then, on an evening in February, he answered me back.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he exclaimed, “I’m not interested in you either. But we’re old friends. I’ve known you for years. Why can’t we have dinner?”
I hesitated for a moment and then decided he was right.
“Okay,” I shrugged. “Why not?”
I met him at a small French restaurant not far from his club in the Village. We sat side by side in a banquette. The sleeve of his velour shirt brushed my arm, and beneath my silk skirt I could feel his thigh pressed against mine. He had just returned from a week of fishing in the Caribbean and his face was deeply tanned. Involuntarily I began to wonder who he had taken with him. After dinner, outside in the cold air of Bleecker Street, I did not want to leave him. With a wet snow falling I leaned toward him with my fur coat unbuttoned and my mouth open, but he hailed a cab and kissed me chastely on the forehead. “Just friends,” he gloated as he paid the driver and gave him my uptown address.
Penthouse Uncensored VI Page 2
