My muscles turned to putty as she washed me, massaging the tension from every inch of my body. At her insistence, I leaned back and concentrated on nothing but my breathing, the warmth of the water, and the incredible sensuality of her touch. She kissed her way down my breast and tenderly sucked my nipple into her mouth.
“Nasrin,” I moaned, unsure if I wanted to pull away or arch towards her. “Is th–this also traditional?”
“No, love,” she murmured. “But I want to do it.” She peppered me with kisses. “You will appreciate Jawid’s ministrations more if your nipples are already swollen with passion when you enter his bed. Now hush, and let me prepare you, so this is a night of most exquisite pleasures.”
Her lips moved to my other breast, and I leaned back and let the warm, scented water surround me. Nasrin’s lips were pure, luscious torment. I shuddered each time I looked down and saw her full painted lips surrounding my areola, slowly and deliberately suckling the light cream of my breast. She sucked me until I was tender to even the lightest flick of her tongue. Then her fingers stroked down over my belly, and rested on my newly denuded and exquisitely sensitive mound.
“Grab the bars above your head, so I can prepare the rest of you.”
I obeyed without thinking, letting myself float on the water as Nasrin moved between my legs and her strong, warm hands lifted my hips. I felt the heat of her breath on my pubes. Then I gripped the bars and held on for dear life as Nasrin lowered herself into the water, neck deep, placed my open thighs on her shoulders, and slowly swiped her tongue up the length of my slit.
“Oh, God!” I groaned.
“You taste sweet,” she said.
I cried out as her tongue flicked my clit. My newly shaved skin registered even the lightest of touches. I writhed as she licked and sucked and probed.
“This nub, too, should be tender and swollen.” She sucked me into her mouth, dipping her fingers deep into my cunt. “Your juices are sweet, Amanda. Jawid loves the taste of a woman’s passion. He will be so hard and hungry when he pleasures you.”
An orgasm was building deep within me. It had been so long since I had made love with Jawid. I’d been too depressed to even masturbate. I arched up into Nasrin’s face, groaning with need and frustration. She sat back.
“Please,” I begged, squirming in the water. Memories of Jawid licking between my legs blurred into the desire for more of the flailing female tongue that had also sucked him to orgasm. “Do it more, Nasrin.”
“No,” she laughed, shaking her head. “My task is to prepare you. Your orgasm is your gift to Jawid.” She massaged my legs and took my foot in her hands. “I will relax you for a while, then I will prepare you some more.”
When my body had calmed, Nasrin helped me from the tub and towelled me dry. Then she took my shaking hands and led me to the bed. Three more times she brought me to the brink of orgasm. I was almost insane with lust when I looked up to see Jawid watching us. He had changed into traditional garb and was leaning against the wall, smiling at us, his dark eyes glittering with desire. His erection tented out the front of his loose cotton pants.
Our eyes met and I reached for him, trembling as he took my hand and gently sucked my fingertips. He climbed on to the bed and pulled us both up to him, kissing first me, then Nasrin, until the cunt juices glistening on her face were sticky on all of us. Jawid smiled as he carefully licked her lips. When he was satisfied, he pulled free of Nasrin, licked his finger, and slid it between my swollen pussy lips. I shook at the exquisite torment of his thumb on my engorged and tender clit. Nasrin had done her job exceptionally well. Still, when I heard her gentle, approving laugh, I flushed and looked away.
“Don’t, Amanda,” Jawid whispered, sliding another long, slender finger into my hungry cunt. “I have told Nasrin how much you like my hands in you. Let her see you take your pleasure.” He kissed me deeply, and I tasted my juices on his tongue.
“If you say his lips don’t feel good, I won’t believe you.”
Nasrin’s hand cupped my breast, kneading gently, then holding it on her palm for her husband to play with. Their hands clasped together, holding each other, as Jawid stroked his thumb over my nipple. My skin was so tender and engorged, even that light touch was a mixture of pleasure and pain.
Jawid pulled his clothes free and lifted me on to his lap, turning me so the heat of his erection pressed into my back. He kissed the side of my neck, licking and sucking and biting. I couldn’t stop my tears. I sank back against him, into the touch I’d been certain I’d never feel again.
“Shhh, love, don’t cry,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around me. I was vaguely aware of Nasrin stuffing pillows behind him, so he could lie back against the headboard. Then he spread my legs wide and lifted me. I cried out, high and keening, as the hot, thick flesh of his swollen, unsheathed shaft slid into me, filling me, deeper and deeper. When he was inside me, naked and hot and unprotected, when I was so full of him I throbbed at the exquisite, unrelenting pressure of his cock against the centre deep inside my cunt, he again took my breasts into his hands and slowly, deliberately, milked my swollen nipples until I was writhing in his arms, desperate for the climax that was building inexorably.
Nasrin opened my thighs and moved between my legs. I mewled as she licked her way up my slit.
“You are so beautiful, beloved.” Jawid’s voice was thick with passion. “Will you come like this for me? Will you pull the seed from me, with just the walls of your wifely woman sex, until we are one in our orgasms and my semen bathes your womb?” The tip of his penis twitched deep inside my cunt. I trembled uncontrollably.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please . . .” I wasn’t sure what I was asking for, I only knew that I needed their touch more than I needed to breathe. Jawid rocked me against him, groaning as my pussy walls spasmed around him. Nasrin laughed and flicked her tongue over me, then sucked my clit into her mouth. I shrieked as the orgasm gushed from me, clenching my cunt muscles as tightly around Jawid as I could, leaning into him. He arched into me and cried out, his body shaking as warm rivers of semen spurted into me and ran down his shaft. Nasrin licked us clean while I shook in Jawid’s arms.
I collapsed on to the bed, rolling on to my side, rousing myself only to suck the beautiful, dusky rose nipple that brushed hungrily against my lips. Nasrin held herself above me and cried out her pleasure as Jawid buried his face in her vulva and brought her to climax after climax.
That night, I slept like I’d never wake up again, wrapped in both their arms, warm and safe and happy.
I don’t know why I feel so married now. I mean, it’s still not legal. And even if it were, I have no interest in converting – given the rights I’d have as a woman in Jawid’s home country, I’d certainly never go back there with him. With them. But some time between that day and now, I’ve gradually moved most of my things into the house. The three of us eventually had a feast with our closest friends and colleagues and Jawid’s family. My family came, too, though they don’t even pretend to understand. But my mother says that as long as I’m happy, she can live with the scandal.
“After all,” she said loudly, clucking her tongue as she dabbed ceremonial henna on my hand, “if it’s OK with God, who am I to argue? Just keep the condo, dearie, for you and Nasrin. Any man who can live with two wives bears watching. Keep him on his toes.”
From the other room, I heard a muttered comment about mule-headed and non-traditional women. Nasrin and I laughed. My mother shook her head and joined us.
The Minyan
Lawrence Schimel
Simon felt self-conscious as he walked down East 10th Street. He wondered if everyone could tell that he was going to a sex party, which was a ridiculous thought since it was a private party being held at someone’s apartment. It wasn’t as if he were going to one of those clubs where anyone watching him enter or leave would know what he was up to.
Still, he felt like it was obvious. Which may have simply been because he was nervous. H
e didn’t usually go to sex parties, but one of the guys from Congregation, Uri, had invited him. Simon had spent the rest of the service wondering which of the other guys Uri had invited as well. He found himself mentally undressing the men around him, wondering what they would look like naked, how big their dicks were, if Isaac was hairy all over, thick mats of fur covering his body. He’d imagined them in all sorts of sexual poses and situations.
As if he didn’t feel that these thoughts – so improper in shul – were sacrilege enough, Simon had been embarrassed by his body’s behaviour, by the fact that he’d had a hard-on pressing its way outwards in his pants every time he stood. He’d felt like he was back in high school, getting a woody on the way to class and holding his schoolbooks in front of his crotch, as if everyone – especially all the other guys – didn’t know what that meant. The instinct to shut the siddur and hold it protectively in front of his crotch, to shield his erection from view, was still strong, but Simon resisted. He recited the responses from memory, his vision blurring as he nervously glanced to his left and his right, trying to see from the corners of his eyes if anyone had noticed his arousal. He was grateful for the fringe of his tallis, which hid his boner behind its white veil, although he was afraid that his hard-on was making the fringe stand out as well.
Although he was not certain who among the congregation was also invited – the way one did not know who exactly the lamed vavnik were – Simon had skipped services two nights ago because he felt too ashamed about seeing those men there and knowing what they planned to do this evening. Or what he imagined they planned to do; Simon wasn’t quite sure what it would be like, since he didn’t often go to this sort of party. In fact, he’d never been to one like this, although he had once been to a “sauna” when he was down in Puerto Rico on vacation. He’d been fascinated to be in the presence of sex, to watch men around him sucking and fucking in public, but he was too nervous to let anyone touch him, let alone do anything more. Men did touch him sometimes – the rules seemed to be touch first, ask later – but Simon always shied away from the groping hands, and the men who tried to sink to their knees before him. He’d fingered his own dick behind the protective curtain of his towel, too afraid to show it off in public despite the naked bodies all around him, and he came almost immediately, shooting into the terrycloth fabric. He went back to his little cubicle and turned the towel inside out, so that the come-stained side was not against his skin, all sticky.
But he did not leave.
He had felt a compulsion to stay as long as his time would permit and to watch as much sex as he could. It had taken days of rationalizations and justifications to talk himself into coming to the sauna, and he’d done it only because he was so far from home – practically in another country, though it was technically a territory of the United States. He’d always been curious about the sex clubs back home in New York, but he was always afraid that if he went to one he’d run into someone he knew. It didn’t matter that they would both be there for the same reason; Simon would just die of embarrassment if that were to happen.
So now that he’d convinced himself to finally visit one, he stayed in the bathhouse in Old San Juan for hours, pacing the halls, exploring every room and alcove, always watching, silent, not talking to anyone – whether they spoke English or not. He just wanted to be there.
Hours later, in a back room that was pitch black, Simon did let them touch him. He didn’t know how many men there were – he couldn’t see them, couldn’t see anything. Somehow, as long as he couldn’t see them, it was OK. It was like his friend Eric who talked faster and faster whenever he lied, as if he hoped that somehow God wouldn’t hear his falsehood if he spoke so quickly.
It didn’t make any sense, Simon knew, but he stopped thinking about it. When a hand had touched him in the darkness, he did not jump back. He let it explore, slowly working its way down his chest to the barrier of his towel, tightly wrapped around his waist. The fingers pulled on the flap tucked away, and Simon grabbed the towel before it fell to the floor, clenching it in his hands – to give him something safe to hold on to as the fingers continued to explore, and touched his cock.
Because he couldn’t see anything, Simon was able to imagine whatever and whoever he wanted. He was too afraid to do anything to anyone else, although he did from time to time reach out with one hand to feel the bodies of the men around him, the invisible men whose hands and mouths were touching his body, and there were always too many hands or mouths on him, always more than one man. His fingers would venture forth (the other hand still tightly clutching the towel like his own version of Linus’ blue security blanket) and touch flesh, drop down to feel the man’s cock, then retreat back to the safety of the towel, wiping off the droplets of pre-come that clung to his palm.
Simon had wanted to pull back, before he came in someone’s mouth – he didn’t know whose – thinking, This is unsafe, you shouldn’t do this, you don’t know who I am. But it was too late. Before he knew it, he had crested over into orgasm, his hips bucking his cock deeper into the stranger’s mouth, and the man grabbed his ass, pulling Simon towards him, not letting go until his body had quieted again and his cock had begun to grow soft in the guy’s mouth.
Stumbling over the bodies around him in his hurry to get out of there, Simon had practically run to the showers and scrubbed his body pink, then went back to his hotel. That was all nearly two years ago now, and he had never been involved in any sort of group sex before or since. Until tonight.
Because he was nervous and had built up this moment in his mind for so many days now, Simon was sure that everyone could tell that he was on his way to have sex.
He was also horny. He hadn’t jerked off for the past two days, even though he normally jerked off at least once a day. But he had this sort of superstition about not jerking off on the night before he was going to have sex, or when there was the possibility of his having sex, such as if he were on a date. Or going to a sex party.
Part of it was simply performance anxiety. By “saving up” he felt more secure that he would get hard quickly, no matter how nervous he was, and also that he would have an impressively thick come.
He arrived at the building and stood before the door. This was his last chance to turn back.
But Simon wanted to be here tonight. For all his wanting a boyfriend, looking for a mate who’d be his life partner, for all his reticence at the sauna in Puerto Rico, Simon knew that he could easily become addicted to such promiscuous sex. There was a part of him that craved that wild abandon, to have sex with many men in a single night, to not know or care who they were or if he would ever see them again.
He hoped that tonight, among these men he knew and who, moreover, were his people in so many ways – fellow Jews, all with the same sexual desires he felt – that he’d be less nervous, more willing to let himself try things he’d only fantasized about. To be part of the groupings of bodies he had only witnessed last time.
Simon cleared his throat, hoping his voice wouldn’t crack when he had to say his name, then pressed the buzzer. After a moment of waiting, he heard the click of the door being electronically unlocked, without anyone asking him who he was.
This made Simon a little more nervous. Just how many men were invited to this party that they let anyone up? Or was he simply the last invitee left to arrive?
As he rode the elevator he wondered if men were already having sex or if they’d waited for him before starting. Staring at the floor numbers going up and up, he shifted his hard-on in his jeans, willing it to go down. He thought it would seem improper to have one before he arrived and disrobed, as if he were so hard up and desperate that he couldn’t control himself.
Arrows indicated which wing each set of apartments was in. He pulled the invite from his pocket and checked the number, then put it away again. He stood before the door and rang the buzzer. Simon could hear men’s voices inside, chatting. He wondered if soon the neighbours, anyone passing by the doorway, would be able to
hear their sounds of sex.
Simon heard the flap on the eyepiece being lifted. He smiled, although he always felt he looked ridiculous through those warped fisheye lenses. He took his hands out of his pockets. Uri opened the door.
It’s strange to be greeted at the door by someone you know only casually who’s wearing nothing but his BVDs. Especially when you’re not used to seeing the person in this state, such as if you went to the same gym and saw each other in the locker room all the time.
Simon couldn’t help looking him over, up and down, staring at Uri’s body. He was short but solid, with thickly muscled arms and legs. His skin shone like burnished bronze, and he had wiry black hairs in a line down his chest and covering his legs, like sparse grass poking up through desert sand. He’d grown up on a kibbutz in Israel before moving to the US five years ago.
“Shalom!” Uri cried, leaning forwards to kiss Simon on the lips in the typical gay greeting. “The party’s just getting started,” he continued, “come on in.”
Simon reached out and kissed the mezuzah on his way into the apartment. Uri lived in a nice one-bedroom condo. He had a large abstract painting over the living room couch, under which sat three men, also naked except for their underwear. They all looked sort of nervous, sitting separate from each other even though they were all on the same sofa; nowhere did skin touch skin. Simon nodded to Benji, who he knew, and then looked away, blushing because of how Benji was (un) dressed and what they were planning. He had to suppress a barely controllable urge to giggle.
There were other men, also in only their underwear, standing with their backs to Simon, looking at the books on Uri’s shelves. Two of them had kipahs on, pinned to their dark hair.
Uri led him into the kitchen. “Take your stuff off,” he said, pointing to the stacks of neatly folded clothes on the countertop. “What do you want to drink?”
The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes Page 15
