The room was silent with only Gillian’s moan of acceptance and satisfaction. Soon Antoine was rising and settling, his dancer’s rear-end contracting and releasing in controlled movements, and Gillian was lost in a forest of sexual pleasure. Antoine pressed his hands into the bed and arched his back, his beautiful chest and nipples inches from Gillian’s. Gerard let his hand roam between the two, while licking Gillian’s breasts.
Gillian realized she was in the grip of some new kind of orgasm, something she had complete control over that would go on and on. Every part of her tingled with sensation; her lips were on fire and her skin was covered in pin-pricks. Soon she was moaning and finally she let Robert’s cock pop from her mouth. Gerard continued to stroke her chest and took Robert’s cock in his own mouth. Robert sighed in pleasure, and soon, as Antoine fucked Gillian, he too shared Robert’s cock. Gillian watched, as Antoine worked his way in and out of her, while the men, making sure she watched, sucked Robert’s cock. She had never seen anything like it: three such masculine men managing to pleasure each other. Then, as quickly as it happened, Gerard and Antoine were kissing Gillian and breathing heavily to keep up.
Robert slowly came around the front and Antoine slowly pulled out, and Robert whispered, “May I? I’ll be gentle.”
“Please do, Robert.” And soon Robert was coaxing the end of his cock into Gillian while she cried in pleasure. He gave short quick thrusts, leaving Gillian breathless. Robert glanced a Gerard and Antoine, motioning for them to come around front, and they placed their cocks in his face where he was able to suck them, together and separately. Again the sight of men’s penises in other men’s mouths drove Gillian crazy, she squirmed, let out a scream, but was completely drowning in pleasure. The men put on a show for Gillian, knowing it would drive her crazy. They kissed each other, then they kissed Robert, then they kissed Gillian.
“Let’s see how flexible you dancers are,” she said. And Robert took the cue to withdraw, while Gerard slipped under Gillian, lifting his leg into a wide stretch and curving to insert his cock inside her. Then Antoine came around the front and lunged over her and Gerard and lowered his cock gently into her hole as well, so that both men were now sharing. “Oh my God, I think that is just a tad too much, even for me, but I think you found my g-spot. Oh my, that’s good, but I can’t last. Pull out someone. Antoine withdrew his cock and Gerard stayed to take his turn in and out and in and out, while Robert fell on Antoine and stroked his chest and then sucked his cock, beside Gillian.
Soon the men had switched their positions and Robert was on his knees again, this time in front of Gillian and she sucked on his balls, like she knew he loved, while he pulled on his cock. Gerard and Antoine were on their knees at opposite sides, and Gillian’s hands meandered out and slowly found their way to Antoine’s and Gerard’s waiting asses. The men, on their knees, were taking turns kissing Robert as he had his balls sucked, and jerked and manipulated his shaft, his free hand roaming over Gillian’s breasts, tickling her nipples and cupping each breast, and soon enough the two dancers were kneeling over Gillian’s hands while she teased their holes with her fingers. She remembered what Randy had said about the sensitivity, and gently tickled their soft holes, and then felt the men’s asses respond, becoming more and more relaxed. As she fingered them, Robert put his thick hands on the men’s cocks, squeezing them hard, forcing them to moan in pleasure, while Gillian took Robert once again into her mouth, and Antoine and Gerard leaned down to suck on Gillian’s breasts again. In the half-light, the three beautiful men all before her reminded her of a Da Vinci sculpture.
As the snow fell outside the four soon entwined in series of kisses to each other, their mouths finding mouths, pussy, cocks, toes, bums, and time for the occasional sip of Dom. Soon the men were pleasuring Gillian, Gerard slowly fucking her, while Robert kissed her deep and long, their tongues entwined. And Antoine sucked Robert’s cock, slurping it so Gillian could hear, while he let his dick fondle the outside of Gerard’s hole. All the while, Gillian felt she had to remember this dream. She had stepped out of the sexual scene when things were pretty much boy meets girl, but now, these men seemed to be completely relaxed in the sensations and sensuality of it all.
In the morning the four slept, each woven into the other, their naked bodies lying uncovered while the snow continued to blanket the city and create a backdrop of soft, silent, cosiness. Gillian stirred first, gently unlatching herself from the arms of Gerard and Antoine. She slipped to the bathroom and brushed her teeth––first things first––and then called room service from the bathroom, to bring a pitcher of mimosas and four full American breakfasts. She was sure her guests would be hungry after last night’s exercise. She checked herself in the mirror and wound her hair back up on her head, held a cool washcloth on her face for a long moment and then returned to the men. She sat by the bed to take in the view, something she couldn’t have had painted for her or bought at an auction. It was incredible to see these three lovely men gently braided into each other––the bottoms of their feet were soft and large, with signs of wear from dance and work. The legs were shaped as if rendered by a painter with a simple piece of charcoal. Their bums were what made them seem so innocent. If there is one part of a man that bears the truth of his boyishness, of the fact that he can never really grow up, it is his bum, a soft bum whether covered in fine or coarse hair or peach fuzz. The bum is the great humbler. The men’s bodies rose and fell, someone’s nose whistled, someone snored lightly. Arms draped innocently across shoulders and backs, at intervals someone would get closer and cuddle for more warmth. All was well on the 45th floor.
Soon there was a knock at the door and Gillian rolled a cart from the waiter, into the room, quietly. She poured herself a coffee and sat back in her chair, marvelling at the peace, and the circumstances. She never thought that two days ago, during the walk of shame to the first class lounge at Heathrow, that she would soon be playing host to three of Manhattan’s highlights. She had gone from zero to one-twenty in a matter of seconds. Where she once felt lost, and abandoned, not only by Edgar, but by the world, she felt embraced. The pilots had expressed a need and she had responded with her own. Robert and these men had offered themselves and she had welcomed them with open arms and legs and mind. It all reminded her of the feeling she’d had with Spokes those many years ago. It was as if Spokes and her encounter with him was a metaphor, or a message, that good sex would be there, she deserved it, and that she didn’t have to go far to find what was her birthright. How did all of this happen in such a brief slice of time? She thought of Randy and Val and how they had always been her biggest cheerleaders and fans, and how she had never really given them, or rather, their compliments, the credit they deserved. She never really believed there was something better waiting for her. There was indeed something about this moment that she didn’t want to end, so she sipped her coffee and watched the men.
Soon enough the room phone rang, and Gillian dashed to answer before the men woke. On the phone came the decidedly Baritone voice that meant business, “Gillian Pritchard?”
“Speaking.”
“Sergeant McMullon of NYPD, missing persons unit. We’d like to see you at the precinct office sometime this morning if you can make it through the snow.
“Have you found my husband?”
“Not at liberty to talk about the matter over the phone. When can we expect you?”
Gillian glanced over at the three gods in slumber on the King sized bed, covered the receiver and sighed out loud, then whispered an oh shit. “Can you give me about two hours?”
“Two hours?”
“With this snow? I haven’t eaten, I’m still on London time. And I am traveling internationally.”
“Yeah the weather. Two hours.”
The bodies slowly stirred on the bed, one then another creating a slow motion wave effect. Each one revealing some morning wood, as they rolled onto their backs and sides. Robert’s cock seem to have the most distance to cover as he went
from left to right. Antoine’s was definitely the hardest. And Gerard’s lay wedged under Robert’s just shifted thigh. All three seemed to have a life of their own as they swelled and released and became tumescent once again.
Gillian poured mimosas for the men and brought them to the bedside table. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked out at the blowing snow. She felt a slight movement behind her and then a hand creeping across her belly, fingers slowly inching downward. Antoine kept his head buried in his pillow while he let his hand wander the soon to be explored territory. Gillian lay back on the men’s legs and slowly they stirred more, hands reaching down and touching her stomach, her breasts, her crotch. She reached up and grabbed a cock and played. “Oooh gotta pee,” came Robert’s voice. “Pee sounds good,” said Gerard, “besides, you’re lying on my dick.”
“Well if it wasn’t so long.”
“That can be a problem.”
Gillian sighed, “Gentlemen, I have to go to the police station, but perhaps before I do we can convene in the bathroom, and I can get you all cleaned up for the day. Lots of snow out there, by the way.”
Gillian could have hosted fifteen men in the bathroom, but was busy enough with three in the walk-in shower. What started out innocently enough as a circle of back scrubbing and a group shampoo, soon became a grope-fest with the men’s hands in Gillian over and over, then onto their knees to lick her clean, and then Gillian soaping up each man and bringing him to ejaculation one after the other, each one arching his back in pleasure and shooting his load onto the glass pane between the bath and the shower. Not surprisingly, it didn’t take long for any of them. She lathered, bums, balls, shafts, let one hand slip into the anus and by man number three, Antoine, she felt like an old pro. The next step in her education would be to find the famous prostate. But for now, this was enough. She felt as though she had some newfound power in her own ability to bring a man to orgasm, she had always felt like the object, rather than the subject, of the encounter. Now she had at least three notches in her belt to say she was quite capable and independent and powerful as well as, dare she think it, desirable?
As Gillian finished off her last man, they then took her, all six hands, and gave her the massage of her life, while she stood amidst the men like Botticelli’s Venus, her red hair once again flowing down her pale smooth body. The men rubbed bath oil over her entire form, gently at moments and with controlled strength and vigour at others. Again they found their way between her legs, her thighs, her bum, and strong masculine hands prodded all of her holes, tongues tickled her breasts, while her knees went soft and she felt like the men’s strength and passion was carrying her on a cloud. With all the hands on her she wasn’t sure if what she felt was an orgasm or the biggest climax of her life, but she was almost ready to blast through the roof in absolute unquestionable pleasure.
“God, you guys are good,” she signed. “Let’s get dried off and have some breakfast. You must all be starved.
“Starved no more,” Robert added.
“Have worked up an appetite,” said Gerard. May never be the same in fact, now that I’ve seen the light. The men got dressed with Gillian’s help, tucking each one back into their respective underwear, gently taking Robert’s cock, “’til we meet again,” and running her hands over Antoine’s beautiful chest before pulling his t-shirt over his head, and then kissing Gerard one last long and hard one, before zipping up his jeans. “Keep that thing out of trouble,” she squeezed his basket.
Alright. Time for me to get put back together. I may never be the same. The men all departed, in a group, Robert presumably to head back to work, or home, and the two dancers to revive before a matinee.
As a precaution Gillian packed most of her stuff, and left it in the room for a quick departure. She bundled up and headed for the lobby to catch a cab to the station. She feared the worst.
Chapter Seven – Handcuffs and Billyclubs
The cab ride to the precinct office seemed to take forever although Gillian had little to do for the day, other than see her mother, which might be impossible now that the snow was tying up the city. It seemed ages since she’d stared up at the buildings, and now they disappeared into the snow. New York and London, such distant and distinct cousins. But in the past twenty-four hours she felt as though a lifetime had transpired. Her resolve to change certain aspects of her life had startled her, and at the same time made perfect sense. Though there was an element of revenge to her actions, it was minimal. There was however an element of making up for lost time, making up for years of wondering what other people were doing behind closed doors, making up for being the wife who slipped her arm through that of a man she felt compassion and pity for, for not being able to enjoy the simple pleasures of life. She had tried, over the years to enrich those moments when they were both at home, by donning some sexy apparel, a lace negligee, a sheer bathrobe that flattered her lines. But the only one she ended up turning on was herself. And that was no good. She couldn’t spend her time in a state of anticipatory desperation. It wasn’t fair to her, mostly. And there had been times when she decided to take the bull by the horns and confront Edgar, but all too often she felt like the unreasonable one, bullying him, the poor impotent one. Pity had been her downfall for all those years; poor Edgar, not being able to get it up, and how she had to show that true love ignores such trivialities as a healthy sex life. She saw herself as making her bed and having to sleep in it for eternity. But finally she saw, though, on that walk to the plane, days earlier, that not only was she a caged bird, which she already knew, but that she was an aging caged bird, and that no collector of caged birds would ever let such a thing happen to such a colourful and delicate being. For the first time in her life she was exhibiting some compassion for herself.
She thought again about the one time with Spokes, and how that seemed the standard now. Spokes had been the naughty thrill––practically under Edgar’s turned up nose––for which she had felt nothing but guilt. And it was that guilt that had kept her from ever pursuing the kind-hearted Spokes again. She had to think of his job and his life and not her own selfish desires, and needs. Where was Spokes now? Was he scouring London for his employer? Looking under rocks? Being interrogated on Edgar’s disappearance? Take away the guilt, and what are you left with? That would take some thought, but she was left with a man who offered her a strong hand every time she stepped from the Rolls; a man who dashed out for emergency provisions, when no one else was available; a man who had taken her to the hospital when she had the flu, no questions; a man who had gotten to know every breath and every gasp and every word of delight as he drove her alone across the countryside or through the city, or home from a tiring luncheon, or heartbreaking opera as she wept quietly in the back seat, alone. He was the man who knew her. Dear Spokes. And she knew so little about him.
“Come into my office, Mrs. Pritchard,” came a voice from behind a pane of glass––a voice that could only be described as the baritone of Sean Connery. Gillian had been waiting on a bench, over a growing puddle of melting snow, after giving her name through a small hole in a pane of glass separating the waiting area from the other offices. She had grown tired and somewhat despondent by the heaviness of the day, the cab crawling for only a few blocks to get to the precinct office, the leaden silence as the snow absorbed every little sound, the lack of people on the sidewalks and the few people in the precinct office.
Gillian rose, flakes of snow had turned to droplets of water on her coat and on the strands of hair framing her face. She was wearing a Versace headband with a gold Roman motif, to cover her ears, something she picked up at Liberty’s and couldn’t take completely seriously, and her fur mitts, that Randy had described as Planet of the Apes. A woman behind the glass pane buzzed Gillian into the back offices.
Sergeant McMullon stood waiting for her at semi-attention. He was a big man. For one of those rare times Gillian felt dwarfed by a man’s size. He was balding, had a craggy complexion with a small scar running fr
om his right upper lip. He was one of those men who smiled by squinting his eyes, but not much else. The corners of his mouth turned up only slightly. He was, in Gillian’s mind, drop dead handsome, and everything about him was big, his nose, his lips, his brow that looked almost Neanderthal. “This way,” he said.
He led her past musty, dismal office furniture to a glassed in office. Everything smelled of “old,” to her––old leather, old wood, old cops.
“Have a seat.”
She took in his full view as he went around the desk to a filing cabinet. He was, as they say, one tall drink of water. Have a seat indeed. His seat seemed to fit incredibly well into his wool herringbone pants with no back pockets. As if the fabric were yielding to a force greater that its own. Did he know just how alluring his assets were? Did he understand that not everyone is born six feet and then some? Did he know that he was a steaming hot specimen of man? Over the past twenty years she had seen so many unique men and wondered if they knew of their, well, uniqueness. He opened a filing cabinet and flicked through several files, all the while Gillian enjoying the view, the curve of his ass and the thighs that pulled at the side seams. Why on earth, Gillian thought, must we all go through life like this––fully clothed. God knows there would be car, truck, plane and train accidents if they didn’t. Her neck would be in a brace from whiplash, looking at all the varieties of the human form, all day long. This was what Sergeant McMullon’s ass was stirring up in Gillian, and she hadn’t even gotten above his waist.
Sexual Solstice (First Class Woman) Page 10
