Her sharp patchouli scent lingered in the hallway. Her lace brassiere hung in the shower. Yesterday morning he had pushed open the half-ajar bathroom door, thinking the room was empty. Instead, he found her clad in a screaming red satin kimono that clashed with her hair, with one foot perched on the toilet seat, shaving her legs.
She glanced up and smiled at him, obviously unfazed. He backed out of the room mumbling an apology. Later though, the scene haunted him. His momentary sensory impressions elaborated themselves into detailed images: the fine curve of her arch, the creamy skin of her thigh, the glimpses of rounded flesh where her robe fell open at the throat. The amused gleam in her sapphire eyes. The welcoming smile on her harlot-red lips.
Al cursed his imagination. He was becoming obsessed. Each time he lay on his bed stroking himself, the images became more vivid and intense. The release was fleeting. Before an hour was gone, he found himself wanting her again. He considered a quick visit to the girls at the Peacock Club, but he doubted that would help.
He hated himself for his weakness. His father wouldn’t approve. Richard would silently mock him. His inconvenient lust was starting to affect his music; during practice today, he had missed two cues in the Beethoven C minor. Deidre had given him a sympathetic look. He had simply wanted to drop dead. If he couldn’t even impress her with his playing, what was the point?
There was a soft knock at his door. Hurriedly, he replaced his cock in his trousers and sat up. “Come on in,” he called, expecting Harv. When the door swung open, though, he was face to face with the object of his fantasies.
She was dressed in her usual black. Rather than the form-fitting, Emma-Peel-like costumes she mostly favoured, tonight she wore something delicate and flowing, with a scooped neckline that showed off her exquisite shoulders. Her lipstick was softer, cherry instead of fire-engine red, and she was barefoot.
“Good evening, Albert.” He cringed. No one had called him by his full name since his mother died. “Can I come in? I need to talk to you.”
“Um, sure. Come on in, like I said. What’s up?”
She sat herself on his bed, her garment swirling gracefully around her. His nose twitched as the air filled with patchouli. “I know that I’m being nosy, but I’m concerned about you. You seem terribly tense. So tense that you’re making mistakes in your performance, mistakes that I know you wouldn’t normally make.”
“I’m really sorry about today. I don’t know what was wrong, but it won’t happen again.” Al felt as guilty and miserable as a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar.
“I’m not blaming you. I just want to help.” She gestured towards the entrance. “Why don’t you close the door, so that we don’t disturb Harvey? And then I have something here that I think might help you relax.”
Al recognized the earthy smell of marijuana before she even produced the joint. He hastened to follow her instructions. Harv didn’t approve of drugs.
He found a lighter in his bureau and applied it to the joint until the tip glowed red as Deidre’s hair. She inhaled a lungful of the sweetish smoke and held it for thirty seconds. At the same time, she held him with her gaze. Was she challenging or inviting him?
Al felt his cock swell uncomfortably inside his trousers. Deidre passed him the smouldering butt, her fingers brushing briefly against his in the process. It was only the slightest touch. He shouldn’t jump to conclusions, he told himself. It could be completely innocent.
Yeah, right. Here she was in his bedroom, sitting next to him on his bed, with the door closed, wearing something that looked more or less like a negligee. Innocent? Hardly. But she was the one in charge, that was clear. He didn’t dare to make the first move.
Trying to ignore his throbbing hard-on, he took a big hit of the pot. The harsh smoke seared his lungs. As he released it, he felt the drug rush through him, lifting him like a strong breeze. “Mmm. Good stuff. Thanks. But I wouldn’t have expected someone like you to – indulge.”
Deidre laughed, that low, sexy laugh that made his balls tighten to aching rocks. “There’s a lot that you don’t know about me, Albert. Here, take another toke.”
Al obeyed her. He figured that he would always obey her. The second lungful was more powerful than the first. He closed his eyes, floating on a cloud of lust and THC.
The next thing he knew, her hands were in his crotch. “What have we here?” She laughed again. “You seem to be already unzipped and ready for me.”
Oh God! He must have forgotten to zip up after he jerked off. Embarrassment welled up briefly, but the drug soothed it away. Her hands were precise and knowing. Her fingers danced along the length of his shaft with the same power and skill that he had noted when she fingered the neck of her cello. She plucked a pizzicato rhythm on the sensitive ridge underneath the head of his cock, then played him with long lingering strokes that arched up his spine. His groans were a new kind of music, as she brought him ever closer to crescendo.
Dimly, Al smelled scorched cloth, where the forgotten roach was burning itself out on the bed. He concentrated instead on the odours of his sweat and her musk. He could smell her true scent now, oceany and dark, overpowering her herbal perfume. She’s excited, too, he realized. She’s not just doing this out of charity, or for the benefit of the trio. His cock leaped in her hands at the thought.
Marijuana alters the experience of time. He could appreciate every detail, every sensation: the rough callouses on her fingertips, the soothing warmth of her palm, the rustling of her garments, the rush of her ever-quickening breathing. Blood pounded in his swollen penis. His heart pounded in his ears. Her fingers drummed against his flesh, a primitive jungle rhythm that drove him wild.
At any moment, he was sure, he would explode, and yet it went on and on, an endless rise and fall, eternal as a Beethoven sonata.
Suddenly, there were new sensations, wetness and heat, organic and irresistible. Al’s eyes flew open. Deidre’s head of tangled purple locks was buried in his lap. Her painted mouth engulfed his cock. She sucked at him as though to consume him.
Al had a raw, hyper-clear image of scarlet lipstick smeared all over his penis. A choked scream tore itself from his throat as he emptied himself into his colleague’s welcoming mouth.
As the vibrations died away, he smiled to himself, feeling both silly and self-satisfied. Perhaps having her on the premises had been a good idea after all.
Deidre brushed her sticky lips against his. “Now, Albert,” she purred, “why don’t you help me to relax?”
Harvey had never considered himself to be highly sexed. He would go weeks or even months without masturbating. He found images of half-naked nubile girls selling blue jeans embarrassing and in poor taste. He knew that Al visited “gentlemen’s clubs” occasionally, but personally he had no interest. Harvey’s diversions tended to be on a different plane: music, art, literature, the occasional movie.
Since Deidre had joined the trio, though, Harvey had been feeling like a randy eighteen-year-old. Her mere presence was enough to harden his cock to the point of pain. When she spoke to him, her sultry voice full of soft Russian vowels, he felt his own power to speak escaping him. Her always assertive gaze was a ray gun that froze him in his tracks, or perhaps more appropriately, melted him into a featureless lump of swollen, aching flesh.
It wasn’t just the aura of blatant sexuality that surrounded her. It had something to do with her music, her cool, controlled technique that contrasted so strongly with the passion flowing from her instrument. It was intense, visceral. Each vibrant note penetrated his flesh to settle in his groin.
Most of the time when they played together, Harvey managed to concentrate on the score and execute his part in a manner that was competent if not inspired. If he happened to glance over at her, though, he was lost. He saw the way she clasped the belly of her cello between her thighs, and imagined himself in its place. He watched her fingers travel over the sounding board and saw them dancing across his flesh.
This morning
he had messed up the second movement of the Schubert B flat so badly that they had to start over.
Al hadn’t made any comment. Harvey had been surprised to find sympathy in his brother’s look, rather than the expected scorn. On the other hand, Al seemed to be playing exceptionally well today. His blunders of yesterday did not repeat themselves. His solo passages soared with a new lyricism. Harvey noticed that Deidre was smiling at Al, her face alive with pleasure and approval.
For the first time that he could remember, Harvey felt jealous of his brother.
Al was not generally the perceptive type. Still, he couldn’t miss the fact that Harv was turned on by Deidre. The moment Harvey walked into the practice room this morning, Al had noticed the swelling in the crotch of his brother’s baggy trousers.
When Harvey stumbled over one of his passages, Al could identify. Poor guy was probably having the devil’s time focusing on the music, with Deidre’s lush body and spicy scent so close by.
Al was aroused himself, but now that he was confident that he’d get relief, the erotic tension seemed to elevate his playing to a new level. The phrases flowed effortlessly from his violin, immaculate, sublime. In her presence, he felt possessed by genius.
Whenever his eyes met hers, electric sparks arced through the short distance that separated them. Everything about her demeanour was full of future promises.
Harvey went upstairs to get a glass of water. Deidre put aside her cello. “Come over here, Albert.” There was a clear invitation in her voice. Al ached to obey her, but he resisted.
“We’ve got to be careful, Deidre. We don’t want Harv to get suspicious.”
Deidre parted her legs more widely. A whiff of her scent rose in the basement practice room. Al grinned, realizing that she had probably omitted to put on panties this morning. In his honour, he assumed.
“Don’t worry about Harvey. He’ll be fine. I guarantee it.” The cellist stood and came to him, pulling him into a voluptuous kiss. Capturing his thigh between her own strong limbs, she began rubbing her crotch against his corduroy pants.
“Deidre, please! I can hear him on the stairs.”
They broke apart seconds before Harvey entered. He looked miserable, his round face pink and damp with sweat. “Do you mind if I open a window?” he asked. “It seems terribly hot in here.”
“Sure, Harvey, go ahead.” Al was feeling indulgent. “It is a bit close.”
Al figured that Harvey would get over his infatuation eventually. After all, his brother had never been that interested in sex. In the meantime, he didn’t want to cause Harvey any more pain than necessary. He and Deidre should try to be discreet.
Harvey found himself in the midst of a strange, vivid dream. He was dead, it seemed, lying on a satin-draped bier in a candlelit room. The air was heavy with the scent of roses.
No, thought Harvey, in confusion, it’s Richard who died, not me. He tried to sit up, but though he could breathe in the floral atmosphere and enjoy the smoothness of the satin against his skin, his limbs were cold and unresponsive. A seductive languor held him still. The room itself was pleasantly cool. He wondered vaguely if it was a crypt.
The only part of him that was warm and alive was his cock. It pointed straight up from his motionless body, straining towards the shadowy ceiling. Harvey didn’t wonder at this, or at the fact that he was naked. His cock had been a hot spear of swollen flesh for as long as he could remember.
He heard a rustling, of silk, or wings, or nameless creatures moving in the dark corners. Then he saw Deidre standing beside his couch. How he saw, through closed eyelids, was not clear. It didn’t matter. He sensed her presence, a concentration of heat vibrating near him.
She was naked as well. The candles painted gold motes on her alabaster skin. She held a scarlet rose in the hollow between her breasts. She brought it to her lips, which were painted the identical colour, then bent over him as though to place it in Harvey’s clasped hands.
Suddenly she drew a sharp breath. From some omniscient perspective that he couldn’t explain, he saw several drops of her blood, scattered over his mostly hairless chest.
“Oh, Harvey, I’m sorry,” she whispered. She sank to her knees, leaned over and gathered the ruby droplets with her tongue. The sensation was exquisite, her muscular warmth a shock to his passive coolness. His cock pulsed in time as she lapped at his skin, energetic as a mother cat cleaning her kitten.
The blood was gone, but she did not stop. She flicked at his nipples until the cold nubs woke into bright points of flame. She trailed her mouth wetly over his belly, leaving a path of fire in her wake. She took a mouthful of his grizzled pubic hair and gently pulled. His cock danced wildly, threatening to spray fire all over the immaculate bier.
“Harvey,” she murmured, her voice kindling him further. “Forgive me.” With the same economy of movement she used in handling her cello, she straddled him and sucked his rigid cock into her pussy.
Pleasure overwhelmed him, pleasure too acute to be endured. The dream world shattered into liquid fragments along with his cock, red as blood and roses, white as satin.
No, thought Harvey, panicked, fighting to wake. Please, I don’t want to have a wet dream. All the awkwardness and embarrassment of his youth came flooding back, pushing him up out of the well of sleep.
The chilly, rose-scented vault was gone. The candle glow was replaced by the wan light of dawn filtering through his old curtains. Yet the dream had not fled.
Deidre still rode him, clutching his plump hips between her long white thighs. She moved deliberately, giving him time to savour every inch of her slick heat sliding over the stretched skin of his cock. Blood surged into his swollen organ with every stroke, sending shudders of pleasure through his body.
Despite his fears, he hadn’t come. He was still hard, granite, steel, monumental, irresistible. He began to move with her, arching his back to drive his cock as deep into her as he could. He groaned as she tightened her cunt muscles around him.
Deidre smiled. “Good morning, Harvey,” she murmured, squeezing him again. He grunted and rammed his cock into her. She gave a little cry and stopped talking.
They rocked together, faster now, Deidre allowing him to set the pace. He grabbed her lush buttocks in both hands, seeking leverage to plunge still deeper. She moaned at the bite of his fingernails and ground her pelvis against him, lewd, abandoned, forgetting everything but her own pleasure.
Leaning forwards, she used her arms to brace herself against the bed. She slammed herself down on his cock, again and again. Her ripe breasts dangled inches from his face. Without his glasses, the world was fuzzy, but he could see that her mouth was a grimace of lust. Her eyes were squeezed closed. Her nipples were crinkled purple pebbles.
Straining his neck to reach, he took one of the tempting nuggets in his teeth. At the same time, he stabbed upwards, burying himself completely in the luxurious wetness of her flesh.
Deidre wailed like a cat. Fierce spasms shook her body. Her cunt contracted with terrific force. He yelped at the unexpected pressure, then yelled in triumph as her crisis infected him. Waves of come surged up his stalk, one after another, each one breaking into a froth of pleasure in the shallows of her still-shuddering cunt.
The explosion of his climax triggered a fresh round of spasms inside her. Harvey lay in helpless ecstasy as she twitched and trembled around his exhausted penis.
Gradually, the aftershocks died away. The delicious weight of Deidre’s body rested on his chest. His bedroom smelled of sex, mixed with essence of rose. Harvey buried his face in her neck, breathing in the remnants of perfume from her damp skin.
“Harvey,” said Deidre, turning her head to look him in the eye, “I hope you don’t mind. I don’t normally force myself on men.”
“Mind?” Harvey felt like giggling. “Do you know how much I’ve been wanting you?”
She grinned mischievously and gave his cock an affectionate squeeze. “Well, I had some idea. But you were so shy, I really
didn’t think I could seduce you while you were conscious. So I decided to take advantage of you when your guard was down.”
She paused to kiss him, her tongue dancing playfully in his mouth. He returned her kiss with an ardour that transformed play into passion. He could feel the heat beginning to build again where his crotch was close to hers.
“So am I forgiven?” she asked after a time, blue flame flickering in her eyes.
Filled with new confidence, Harvey rolled her over on to her back. He let his hands wander for a while over her lovely, cello-shaped body. Leaning over, he brought the tip of his tongue to the rose tattooed in the hollow of her throat. “Well, that depends . . .”
Two days to go. Al could tell they were ready. The timing, the phrasing, the harmonies, they were all perfect. Even the Borodin, so technically demanding, they had mastered. The music flowed from their instruments without any conscious effort. Their communication seemed instinctive. They could play for hours, without a word, without a mistake.
Al had never felt so inspired as when he played with Deidre. Somehow, even as they bowed and fingered their instruments, he felt that she was making love to him. With her beside me, he mused, I really could be great. For once the dream did not seem completely ridiculous to him.
He noticed gratefully that she was being especially kind to Harvey. His brother seemed more comfortable, too, less flustered and more serene. Probably he had grown out of his crush on Deidre, and could now relate to her as a colleague instead of an object of desire. The fact that their rehearsals were going so well had probably helped, too. Harv could be a worrier sometimes.
When the chips were down, though, you could always depend on him. After all, it was Harvey who had found Deidre. Al would have to remember to thank him someday, when the time came for Al and Deidre to share their secret with him.
Harvey couldn’t believe how good he felt. With Deidre’s morning visits, he should have been exhausted, but in fact he’d never had more energy. Not bad for an old geezer of fifty-two, he thought, as he tried on his tuxedo in preparation for the concert. The formal costume fitted him well. He looked taller, thinner, more distinguished than he remembered.
The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes Page 33
