Penthouse Uncensored VI

by Penthouse International

  Sex in the morning shower is next to Godliness. My wife and I regularly enjoy standing intercourse while lathering each other. We don’t plan such trysts. But I always hope they take place. It will begin innocently enough. “I’m gonna shower, honey. Wanna join me?” I’ll ask, climbing out of bed. “Okay, be there in a minute,” she’ll answer.

  I get the water running lukewarm to warm and the bathroom steams up good and cloudy. My love climbs in after me, pulls the curtains closed and asks for her half of the bar of soap. We begin by rubbing the Dial on each other’s backs. We then turn and massage the lather with slow deliberate strokes onto our bodies. I circle her breasts with my fingers and cup her nipples with my palms. She strokes my penis. I put a finger between her lips and squeeze her clit. And she strokes my penis. I begin to kiss her neck. She strokes my penis. I begin to suck her breasts, kiss her stomach and push her back against the wall. She strokes my penis.

  As the shower spray shoots into my face and shoulders, I enter her while pushing her buttocks against the wet tile walls. Her legs circle my waist, her hands grab my neck and then the shower curtains. I pump and pump and she places her tongue in my mouth and bites my ear. The soap halves are now on the floor, shrinking in the drain.

  Sometimes the action will cause the shower curtains to be torn away from the hooks that keep them in place. As we furiously fuck, the room fills with water. Finally, after a few moments, I come, and she pulls herself closer to me. Sometimes she will even come. Then we unhook ourselves and stand under the spray.

  “I wonder who’s talking with Jane Pauley today,” my lover will say as she turns off the water.

  “I don’t know. Let’s check it out,” I answer as my penis shrivels up.

  The days that I start with a sex act or two are my favorites. For no matter how bad things get, I know that I’ve already gotten laid. That always cheers me up.

  DIAL “S” FOR SEX

  We called it our dinner-and-Dynasty date. Every Wednesday Patrick and I prepared a meal together at his Brooklyn apartment. Then we would curl up on the couch to eat, drink and watch the latest episode of our favorite TV program. On this particular evening, I deposited the lasagna fixings next to the chianti, greeted Patrick with a kiss and headed for the stove. The phone rang and he answered it. Clamping his hand over the receiver, he exclaimed, “It’s Shelly! Should I talk to her or tell her to call back?”

  For a second I drew a blank. Patrick made an obscene gesture with the phone between his legs. Then I remembered. Patrick has never met Shelly. She discovered him by dialing numbers at random one day, looking for a phone sex partner. Since then she had called him a half-dozen times. Then he learned that she was a seventeen-year-old high-school student and discouraged her calls.

  For a year he didn’t hear from her. Now she had phoned him again. “Talk to her,” I urged.

  Patrick smiled. “Hold on a minute, Shelly,” he murmured into the phone. “I’m going to take this call in the bedroom.” He handed me the receiver and I listened, holding my breath. The next moment he picked up the bedroom extension. “Hi,” he said.

  “How’ve you been?” she replied. I recognized her voice from a tape Patrick had made of one of their telephone trysts. It was low and husky, just short of breathless, with a homely Bronx accent.

  “I haven’t heard from you in a long time.”

  “I know,” she stated flatly. “I’m in my mother’s bedroom. I was looking through some of her magazines and I started thinking about you.”

  “What kind of magazines?”

  “Playgirl. What are you wearing?”

  Quietly I filled two glasses with wine and made myself comfortable. Shelly was not wasting any time.

  “I’m wearing jeans and no shirt.” There was a pause. “Are you still seeing your boyfriend?”

  “Sometimes. But he’s off at college, so mostly I spend time with my girlfriend.”

  “Does she ever sleep over?” Patrick asked, lowering his voice suggestively.

  “We hold each other in the dark, or lie on top of one another.”

  “How did that feel?”

  “It felt good.”

  “Hold on a second,” said Patrick. “I left a cigarette burning in the other room.”

  He appeared in the kitchen doorway. I held the receiver against my stomach to muffle our voices. “Is this grossing you out?” he asked. “Should I hang up?” I shook my head no. “Do you want me to talk her into an orgasm?” I nodded. Patrick smiled, then gave me a long, wet kiss—my reward for so eagerly agreeing to be his accomplice in this game of sexual subterfuge. I gave him the other glass of wine and we toasted before he disappeared once again into the bedroom.

  He told Shelly that he had taken advantage of the break to remove his jeans.

  “Are you wearing anything?” she demanded.

  “Just my underwear.”

  “What kind of underwear? Bikini underwear?”

  “That’s right,” he lied.

  “The see-through kind?”

  “How did you know?”

  I almost laughed out loud. Patrick only wears ordinary white briefs.

  “Why don’t you take them off?” Shelly suggested. “I’m all naked. My pubic hair has gotten really thick. Do you want to hear me run my fingers through it?”

  Patrick answered yes. Then I heard a rasping noise.

  “Did you take off your underwear?” she inquired. “Let me hear yours.”

  “Okay,” Patrick agreed. I had been mid-sip and tried not to choke. There was a silence. “Can you hear that?”

  “No, do it again.”

  This time I heard a faint scratching. “Can you hear that?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you like to touch your girlfriend,” Patrick observed. “What would you do if she was there now?”

  “Tell me what to do.”

  “Imagine she’s lying on the bed beside you. She’s completely naked, too. You bend over and take one of her nipples in your mouth. It’s hard against your tongue and her breast is soft against your lips. Do you like that?”

  “Oh yes. What do I do next? Where are you?”

  “I’m on the bed behind you. You can feel my big hard dick against your ass, just pushing against your crack. How does it feel?”

  “I’m pressing back against it. It feels so big. It would fill me up. Do you want me to suck it? Or lick your balls and ass? Tell me what to do.”

  I unbuttoned the fly of my jeans and slipped my hand between my legs. The scene the two had described was tantalizingly vivid.

  “Lie on your back. I’m kneeling over your face. I want to feel your tongue around my cock. Now I’m pushing it in and out of your mouth.” I could almost imagine the familiar taste and texture of Patrick’s rigid cock on my lips.

  “Your girlfriend’s hands are on your ankles,” Patrick went on. “She’s spreading your legs apart. She’s sucking you, flicking her tongue over your clit, and then pushing into your hot, wet cunt. She’s fucking you with her tongue. You like that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, just barely audible. I began to finger myself through my panties, trying to keep quiet. I was afraid she might hear me and hang up.

  “I want you to slow down,” Patrick continued. “So I take my dick out of your mouth and push your girlfriend away from you.” I knew Patrick was also talking to me, orchestrating both of our rhythms.

  “Oh no!” she protested.

  “Yes. I want you to get on your hands and knees. I’m lying underneath you and my dick is pointing straight up at you. I want you to lower yourself onto it until you feel the head just beginning to enter you. I have my hands on your hips. Now tell me what you want.”

  “I want you to fuck me.” Her voice was wavering. I increased the pressure on my clitoris and felt a heavy warmth spreading down the inside of my thighs.

  “Say it again,” Patrick insisted.

  “I want you to fuck me. Hard.”

  “Now I’m letting you
drop your cunt onto my cock. You can feel it go deep inside you inch by inch until you’re all pried apart. But I’m not ready to fuck you just yet. Hold very still.”

  I stopped massaging my clitoris, anticipating her orgasm. I wanted to come with her. Shelly and I both groaned. “Don’t be a selfish bitch,” Patrick chided. “You forgot your girlfriend.”

  “Just tell me what to do,” she gasped.

  “She’s kneeling behind us,” he directed, “taking my balls into her mouth very gently and licking them. You can feel her breath on your thighs and ass.”

  I pleaded silently for Patrick to hurry. The sound of Shelly’s moans made it difficult to hold back.

  “Now you can feel the tip of her tongue against your cunt. She’s licking around where my cock goes into you, trying to reach your clit.”

  “Fuck me. Please,” she begged breathlessly.

  “She’s running the tip of her tongue up the crack between your ass cheeks. You can feel her tongue in your ass. She’s fucking it just like it was another pussy.”

  “I’m coming now . . .” Her voice faded out as my own orgasm washed over me. When it subsided I reached over and quietly replaced the receiver in its cradle. Then I buttoned up my jeans and headed for the bedroom to get some firsthand attention myself.

  Patrick was sitting fully clothed on the bed, smoking a cigarette. He too had hung up.

  “She always hangs up as soon as she comes,” he said, shrugging.

  “That was great,” I exclaimed, stubbing out his cigarette. Straddling him, I pushed him down on the bed. He put his arms very gently around me.

  “You really didn’t think that was weird?” he asked.

  “I enjoyed it. Let me hear what your pubic hair sounds like,” I teased.

  “I was rubbing the hair on my head,” he confessed, smiling somewhat sheepishly.

  “No wonder we couldn’t hear anything,” I laughed. He smiled and flipped me over on my back. Slipping his hand under my jeans, he parted the still sensitive lips of my cunt.

  “You did like that, didn’t you?” he murmured, dropping his voice. “You’re already wet.”

  “I thought you’d go on with her forever,” I complained.

  He plunged a finger inside me and I bore down against it. “I think you need something bigger in there,” he observed. “Let’s get these clothes off you.”

  “Why are yours still on?” I asked, pulling my sweatshirt over my head.

  “I was saving myself for you. I would feel funny about jerking off while you were listening.”

  “Let me see your see-through bikini underwear,” I joked, unbuttoning and pulling off my jeans.

  Grinning, he stepped out of his jeans and then his white briefs. “Come here,” he ordered, pulling me down so that I was kneeling naked in front of him.

  “Tell me what to do,” I said, mimicking Shelly’s Bronx accent.

  He ran his fingers softly through my hair, then tightened his grip, pushing my face into his groin. “Suck me,” he commanded in the same low, menacing voice he had used with Shelly. I gripped his cock at the base and took as much of it as I could into my mouth. Then he placed me on my back and tormented me with the tip of his cock. “Do you want to feel it deep inside of you?”

  “Yes, please,” I begged, still attempting a Bronx accent.

  “Not yet.” He lowered his mouth to my breast and flicked his tongue across a nipple.

  “Imagine that one of my girlfriends were here now,” I suggested, picking up the thread of fantasy. “The one you like best.” I thought a minute. “But don’t tell me who.”

  “Mmmm, okay. She’d suck your breast like this. And then she’d pull your legs apart.” I felt his breath on the inside of my thighs. “She’d fuck you with her tongue like this.” He pushed his tongue inside me and I pressed down against it. He pulled away.

  “Where are you going?” I grabbed for his hair.

  “Not yet. Don’t be so selfish. Get on your hands and knees.”

  “Just tell me what to do,” I replied meekly. Patrick had never been so domineering before and I loved it. I loved it a lot.

  He positioned himself underneath me, holding me slightly aloft. I knew what he wanted to hear. “Let me go. I want to feel you in me.”

  “Say it right.”

  “Fuck me, Patrick. Please.”

  He allowed me to lower myself onto him. As he entered me I couldn’t resist mocking him in Shelly’s accent. “Ohhhh, I can feel you prying me apart . . .”

  The punishment I had been asking for was a swift upward thrust from Patrick’s penis. As he fucked me he reached around and slipped his finger into my ass.

  “Don’t forget your girlfriend,” he growled in my ear. “She’s fucking your ass with her tongue, just like it was another cunt, and you love it—right?”

  “Right,” I managed.

  Later, as Patrick enjoyed his ritual post-coital cigarette, he noticed the time glowing on the digital clock. “Honey,” he said, sounding not at all sorry, “I’m afraid we’ve missed Dynasty.”

  “Not to mention dinner,” I replied, sighing. “Do you think she’ll call again?”

  SEX IN THE DARK

  When the jaded poet in the film Reuben, Reuben falls in love with a college girl of nineteen, she asks him what he sees in her. Wistfully he replies, “Innocence is the ultimate aphrodisiac.” When I saw that scene I found myself nodding in agreement, remembering the delicious rush that comes when a trembling young thing exclaims in your arms, “I’ve never done that before.”

  Shortly after seeing the film, though, I had the tables turned on me by a woman of twenty-two who would not make love with the lights on, not even the illumination from a TV screen. Her excuse was shyness, an acute embarrassment at having a man see her naked. But once we were plunged into total darkness, all her inhibitions dissolved and she became hot, wild and wanton. The affair lasted four months and not once during that time did I ever see what she looked like while we were having sex. The experience affected me powerfully and at the end of it I was the one left trembling and exclaiming, “I’ve never done that before.”

  I don’t have any principles or prejudice about whether sex takes place with the lights on or in the dark; each mode creates its own mood. But for the fifteen years prior to this affair, I’d been moving in the direction of greater and greater exposure, not only through describing my individual adventures in print, but also by getting involved in swinging, party scenes, and erotic performance art, reaching a state where I felt completely comfortable having sex in a crowd or for an audience.

  It was a heady period in my life, and in the history of the country, a period that came to be known as the Sexual Revolution. Like many others, I was swept up in the excitement and promise of a social movement and I lost sight of the price I was paying for pursuing idealistic visions, exotic sensations and a certain notoriety. As I became a cultic and even a public figure, my personal and private sexuality was sucked out of me and into the demands of the various scenes I was into, as well as into the lenses of many cameras. This left me without any organic sexual impulses, but rather with a highly stylized choreography that I could activate the way an actress can turn on tears. In short, I stopped enjoying sexual energy as a feeling and activity in itself and began using it only as a stage for mounting some erotic dance.

  This wasn’t so troubling when I was, say, at an orgy, but it worried me that I was no longer able to relax even when I was in bed with a lover. When a woman was giving me head, for example, I couldn’t lie back and enjoy it but spent the time adjusting my angle of penetration to produce the most appealing curves on her lips as they stretched around my shaft. I was aware of all of this as a process, but only abstractly. It wasn’t until I spent those four months making love in the dark that I realized how far I’d traveled from the ability to take a simple and uncomplicated pleasure in sex. One night, after we’d been together for almost two weeks, Becky went down on me for the first time, and I spent perhaps
half an hour staring at my crotch in the perfect blackness of the room before I snapped out of my trance and registered the fact that I wouldn’t see anything no matter how hard I looked.

  I caught myself at a number of such posturings. I often assumed positions that established a certain angle between our bodies which, had there been lights and a camera, would have provided the most interesting shots. I carried over the tensions of erotic flirtation into the physical and emotional exchanges of intercourse, maintaining the psychological distance essential to the theatre of sex even while bringing my body closer to someone who had already surrendered all her roles. Instead of being a man expressing his desire, I’d become a performer endlessly polishing his act. And it was only in the dark that I became fully aware of how thorough the transformation had been.

  I’m not at this point “denouncing” group sex or erotic performance art. These were extremely liberating activities for me and in a wider context they served the purpose of counterbalancing the repressive Puritan heritage of pushing everything into the closet. Taking part in an orgy frees one from the prejudice that two is some kind of sacred sexual number. Sex on stage makes one aware of the power of sex in commanding attention and even devotion.

  And making love in the light under any circumstances fosters both an acceptance of the body and its functions, and an absence of shame or guilt. It also allows people to look into one another’s eyes in which the transports of pleasure and joy shine through.

  However, everything must find its proper balance. Prior to the 1960s we, as a nation, tried to keep everything sexual a secret. Since then we have indulged in a mammoth show-and-tell. What is intelligent, as always, is the ability to be flexible, which means neither suppressing erotic expression nor exploiting it. In our culture, both extremes have been tied to the visual. My spell of sex in the dark, by removing that dimension altogether, restored balance and flexibility in two ways. The first was simple deconditioning. All my “pornographic” gestures and attitudes became ridiculous with no one to see them, and so just faded away. The second was a restitution of the other senses, as well as elements of sexuality that are more basic than sight.