Our First Time: Anthology of a Menage Book 2

by Jennifer O'Donnell

  When their cocks came out of my body, I was dripping streams of semen; Rick and my new friend began to touch my whole body, kissing everywhere. To my surprise, our companion seemed very inspired. He licked me all over very tenderly. I had my back against Rick’s chest and he started kissing me as well, and touching me all over with his hands.

  My employee made his way down to my pussy and once there, accomplished his job to perfection. When his big, thick lips began to touch my pussy, it was thrilling, I felt small explosions of pleasure, and I started to get chills. My moans began with the very first brush of this mouth against my clit.

  He kissed my inner thighs from my knees up to my pussy. Then he gave me little nips, slowly and gently and rubbed his face against my groin. At one point, he decided to lick me hard, and cleaned up all the juices dripping out of my cunt. His tongue played and danced in every corner of my vagina, sucking my clit hard. He was in a state of extreme excitement, and I started to cum again and suddenly, I felt like a huge, strong jet of liquid spurt out of me and cover his mask; he looked pretty sexy tucked between my legs dripping with my juices.

  That escapade with the handsome gentleman lasted the entire three that we had contracted. I could not have been more pleased with his work. I got everything I had been dreaming for years, in the space of three memorable hours.

  STORY 2

  Old Flames, New Games

  My nipples were swollen and ready for his lips. A shiver ran through me, culminating in a quaking breath. For once, it wasn’t because he was about to satisfy the longing of my body. It was freezing cold outside, and hubby had opened a window and was peering through it at something next door.

  “Get back over here,” I yelled at him. “You can’t just leave me hanging here like this!” I cupped my breasts in my hands, protecting them from the cold November chill seeping into the room through the open window. A bottle of wine and two empty glasses sat on a small coffee table, the bottle half empty and a fire roared on the hearth next to me. My clothes though few, lay discarded and scattered over the furniture. Frank was still wearing his jeans, but if I was to have my way, not for much longer.

  This was our weekend. This was our break from the monotonous slog of corporate slavery. This was us attempting to keep our sex life exciting. Things weren’t exactly going to plan though. Frank was more interested in whatever was happening next door, and all I wanted was for him to move on me.

  “Someone’s moving in next door.” Frank turned from the window, and his eyes fell on my breasts, searching to see what flesh was visible between my fingers. “Well, at least I hope they are,” he continued.

  Time was taking its toll in many ways. We were both almost thirty; it seemed our body clocks had sped up. Whereas Frank’s body had once been solid, yet flexible like a young tree, it was now soft, especially around the midriff. He was more like a cuddly bear than the energy filled twenty four year-old with whom I had fallen in love. As for me; well, let’s just say that what I saw in the mirror certainly differed from what my colleagues saw, and not in a good way. The unused gym membership that I paid for monthly was beginning to make sense. I was quietly desperate for something to happen, for some change to occur to make things better. However, the choices were limited. As for the patter of little feet, that wasn’t an option, we had both agreed to postpone that discussion until a future, as yet unknown date.

  I removed my hands. “Is that more interesting than these?” I taunted, taking a step toward him, my eyes latching on to the hard bulge pressing against his jeans. It was comforting to know that after almost eight years of marriage, I could still garner such a response without even touching him.

  The curtains were only partially drawn on the neighbour’s window behind him; just enough for him to peer through. I was curious too because the house had been empty since the Harrisons moved out. The Harrisons---they had provided so much of the kind of delicious gossip that couples like Frank and I found exciting. The Harrisons had afforded Frank the chance to satisfy his voyeurism that is the urge to watch others. When they left, Frank took it harder than me. It no longer did him any good to linger at the living room window, adjusting the curtain, so he could secretly watch as they acted out another row on their neatly trimmed lawn. I wondered if another couple had arrived to satisfy his voyeuristic tendencies.

  Frank looked me up and down, sucking in a slow breath. “Most definitely not,” he answered before spinning around and slamming the window shut. “Anyway, I think it’s a guy. That means you win my attention, hands down.” Moving fast, he began removing his jeans.

  “Don’t forget the curtains,” I told him, lying down on the sheepskin rug, my hand slipping between my legs. I couldn’t wait any longer. I wanted so badly to feel something between my legs, his cock, his tongue, my fingers---whatever. Having just shaved, my pussy was ultra smooth and still slick when I ran my fingertips over it, and brought them back up to stroke my clit. With each tender flicking motion I tensed and shuddered, as my body charged up with desire and brought me closer to that which I sought.

  Still watching me, Frank clumsily pulled at the curtains almost tripping over himself in the process. He cursed, but I was already on my way. The warmth of the fire matched the warmth between my legs, and I had a head start on Frank. He needn’t have worried that I would leave him behind, however. He possessed the tools to lead me to the exact place I wanted, and I wanted to attain pure, blissful release.

  I bought the sheepskin rug to caress my skin as I lay on my back with Frank. We had joined our bodies together upon it on many a Saturday evening. Eight years is a long time, but we had managed to keep things fresh and exciting, adapting to the passage of time, but now it was almost time to adapt once again.

  “Wait for me, babe,” he begged as he pulled himself out of his jeans. I felt my eyes bulge as I spotted his bulbous dome bidding me a gentlemanly good evening, with a patch of his pre-cum coating the tip. I’d tasted his essence on many, many occasions, sticky and warm upon my tongue and sliding easily down my throat. I wanted that again this evening, I longed to feel the spray of his cum against the back of my throat and the heat as it oozed down into my stomach.

  Weekend sex differed from weekday sex. During the week, we were both so exhausted from work that sex was more of an afterthought than something to invigorate us. Even if we managed to get it on, it was never very good, but most weekends consisted of drinking, sucking, and fucking—in that order.

  I sucked at my bottom lip, pulling it down with an index finger before letting it slip back with a wet thud. I’m lucky enough to be graced with a set of very full lips, ripe for sucking cock and that is fine with me because deep throating is a hobby of mine. Frank groaned and came at me, his mouth ready to accommodate my aching pussy. I met him, rising up to meet his lips. Like velvet running over my skin, his tongue probed me, delving deep.

  He knew me, he knew my body, and soon I was twisting, thrusting and moaning freely. “That’s it you dirty animal,” I told him between breaths. “Eat my pussy…” I demanded, and he did. There’s one thing in particular that makes Frank stand out from other guys—his tongue. When he first showed me, a perfectly innocuous situation became unbearable. On our second date, over dinner Frank had purposely reached out with his tongue to grasp a strand of spaghetti from his fork. But it wasn’t just the action itself; it was the tool of the action.

  His tongue moved confidently, intent on its task, and my pussy pulsed with passion. I was no innocent, in fact I’d already had several sexual partners by that point, but Frank possessed a tongue that was so long and thick, it was almost like a second penis. It was a living organism all of its own, this thing, or at least its length, gave that impression. I couldn’t help it. I began to imagine how it would feel to have that leviathan of a tongue slide inside me.

  Though I haven’t ever been diagnosed, I’m certain I have an addiction to sex. The first time Frank and I made out, he took his time. He made out with me like he was watching what he
was doing, but I knew he was really watching me, as I mentally had an orgasm over his tongue. I’m not ashamed to admit that I masturbated for two weeks straight before I finally allowed myself to partake of Frank’s manly gifts. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the focus of my fantasy. By the time he finally flicked that weapon of desire over my clit, I’d already experienced it lashing my flesh over a dozen times—in my head. But the wandering images in my mind were no match for the real thing, When Frank finally reached inside me and made me cum with his tongue, I have to say that if I wasn’t already in love with him, I think I might have married him just for that spectacular talent. Never again would I ever have to worry about not coming during sex.

  I waited and waited until we had our sixth date before I allowed myself to partake of him. That was my rule back then, as a twenty two year-old. Six dates before sex, and if I would have given myself any sooner; I would have felt like I was too easy. It was an old feminine tradition in my family—a family of feminists. My mother was no stranger to sex herself, much to my chagrin (I had to wear earmuffs at night). She always made sure that my sisters and I knew the rules. “Six before sex,” or “Sex after six,” she’d repeat over and over when one of us dated a guy. Somehow, it worked. All of that repetition had actually indoctrinated us, and not one of us broke with the tradition. I have to admit though, I came close several times. It’s hard to say no when the object of your desire is already in your mouth demonstrating its power.

  Sex with Frank was never boring. The warm glow of the fire, the wine, and his tongue buried deep inside me, and I became his prisoner, and his tongue was always the key to my eventual release. I liked to talk dirty, but soon wasn’t saying a thing. This time, we didn’t need any talk. Afterwards, as we lay by the fire, wrapped in a silent shroud of satisfaction, I asked, “So, did you get a look at the new neighbour?”

  “Not really. Pretty sure it’s a guy though.”

  “Darn it,” I commented. “That’s no fun.” Then I added hopefully, “Maybe his wife’s away on business, maybe she’ll show up tomorrow.”

  The fire crackled away beside us, like a third voice in the conversation.

  “I miss the Harrisons,” Frank said wistfully, his fingers tracing my hip. “It’s been a bit quiet since they left.”

  “That was a year ago, Frank,” I told him. “Are we really that boring?” I sat up, suddenly feeling the need for another glass of wine. “I’ve been thinking,” I said, with a feeling of foreboding settling in the pit of my stomach. “Maybe we need to get away or something, you know, just take off a weekend and—”

  Frank nipped my bum with his teeth, and I sucked in a sharp breath. “You mean for a naughty weekend, where all we do is sip champagne and make love by the sea?”

  I sipped some wine and nodded, staring at the curtains as if they were the screen of my mind. “Yeah, well, what else is there?” I’d been thinking things over a lot, and the more I thought, as I sought out the reasons for our boredom, the more I realized we had just about reached the precipice of some sort of decision. It was a time I had dreaded since hitting twenty-five. The “Big 30” was a number that scared the crap out of me. Just months away, and I was already worried. Had I done enough with my life? Would we have a family? Was there time? Actually these questions had bounced around my head for years. I don’t know why we do fret about things that haven’t happened yet, things that are part of our uncharted destiny.

  Frank must have detected the distress in my voice because he came up behind me and wrapped my body in his arms. He nuzzled my back and said, “Relax my little vixen.” That was his latest pet name for me. “How about we...” The sound of breaking glass stopped Frank from finishing his sentence. The noise had come from outside. We both turned toward the sound at once, our naked kneeling bodies shifting toward the window. A male voice cursed several times and each cuss word was louder and more reckless than the last. “Looks like someone’s just cost themselves seven years of bad luck.” Frank said, as he leapt up and darted for the window. I shifted over to sit beside the fire, preparing myself for a gust of cold air, but Frank didn’t touch the window. Instead he pressed a finger to the curtain edge, crouched low and moved the curtain just enough to see beyond it to the neighbours driveway.

  “You’re like an old woman,” I said, laughing. From outside came the rustle of broken glass and a scraping rasp as a cardboard box was slid along the path. “What’s happening?”

  Frank squinted into the darkness outside. “Looks like he dropped the box meant for the kitchen. It’ll be nothing but rubble now.”

  I sipped my wine, eyeing up the dimples in Frank’s ass cheeks as he clenched them against the cold. “Maybe you’d better give him a hand, you know, show a little neighbourly camaraderie,” I joked, before knocking back the rest of the glass. I leaned back and buried myself in the soft tufts of sheep’s wool at my back, feeling pleasantly warm and satiated.

  “Trust me babe, this guy doesn’t need my help.” Frank looked at me; his eyebrows snaking up his forehead. “He’s built like a linebacker! Seriously, come and see this dude,” he sounded like a kid celebrating Christmas morning. He turned back to the scene outside, moving slowly so as not to disturb the curtain.

  Not wanting to be a killjoy I forced myself to rise from the warmth of the space beside the fire. Anticipating the chill that would seep through the window into my body, I snatched my sweater off the back of the sofa and pulled it on before sliding up to Frank. I perched on his back and peered over his head. “Ah, he’s not that big,” I murmured, though the longer I looked the bigger he seemed to become. Then I added, “I’ve seen bigger.”

  “So have I,” Frank said reaching behind him to grasp my ass in his hand as if to prove his point. I retorted “What can I say? I’m big all over, but only in the right places. “But now we have our very own Sasquatch living here, right next door,” Frank continued.

  I nibbled at his back. “Don’t say that,” I scolded. “Just because he’s big, doesn’t make him—” The stranger looked up suddenly as if he’d heard us talking. His face was in shadows, but those eyes---they honed in on me, locked me in place and bored into my soul. Our eyes made contact only for the time it takes to snap a picture, but that was enough. The shadow of the evening clung to his face, masking detail, and preventing me from seeing the colour of the eyes, but somehow he seemed familiar. In that fleeting moment, a thousand memories hit me at once, though I couldn’t make sense of any of them, at first. Then an explosion went off inside of me, setting off little bombs along each nerve. I knew that man—intimately.

  Frank ducked down out of sight, pulling me with him. The curtain fell back into place, just a slight wisp of a movement, but probably enough to engage the attention of the new neighbour. “Shit,” Frank cursed. “You think he saw us?” Frank crept across the living room in an awkward crouch, pulling me after him by the arm. When he reached the sheepskin rug, he collapsed onto it with a blast of breath, and laughed. “I swear he looked right at me. Did you see his face?”

  I heard Frank, but didn’t answer him. My eyes rested on the dying flames of the fire as they licked up, their orange tips containing memories I’d long since forgotten. Our neighbour hadn’t been looking at Frank. His gaze had fallen on me, and in that second, as fleeting as it had been, I realized I knew him. It was dark out there with only the light of our porch to see by, but that had been enough.

  “You look terrified,” Frank said pulling me toward him. “Get over here. I’ll protect you from the big bad neighbour.” I still didn’t respond as Frank wrapped me in his arms, his legs slipping around me. I was adrift in flashbacks flitting through my mind, like photographs appearing in a slideshow. “You’re not seriously frightened, are you?” Frank sounded incredulous.

  Then I snapped back to reality. “Why be scared when I’ve got a badass like you to protect me,” I said, jokingly while inwardly contemplating the horrors of the near future.

  Frank laughed, his breath felt l
ike a hot furnace along the back of my neck. “You got that right!”

  I forced a laugh too, as I faced the fire, but it lacked gaiety. The man outside was big—a pretty big deal from my past. I didn’t even have to think to remember his name. When I pictured those eyes, the whites glowing in the dark, the centres fiery and intense like the craters of twin volcanoes, the name appeared on the screen of my mind’s eye. Lawrence Carmichael had somehow found his way back into my life.

  I wasn’t afraid of him. I was afraid of what might happen once he realized that he had moved next door to his high school sweetheart. He was bigger than I remembered, and the long hair was gone. Lying there in Frank’s arms, I saw snapshots appear in my mind’s eye, scenes from long ago when I was different---and wild. These images weren’t of the romantic kind either; they were of raw moments of uncontrolled lust that Lawrence and I had shared on a regular basis.

  Emergency bells clanged madly in my brain. My raunchy past had inconveniently shown up in my life without invitation. There was only one thing to do. I needed to call upon the wisdom of my sophomore sister, Sophia.

  *****

  She wasn’t really my sophomore sister, at least not anymore. Those days had also been confined to a distant past. But as my best friend, and witness to my love affair with Lawrence, Sophia was the only person I could really trust. She was my second conscious, and often my touchstone when my own conscience failed to produce the answers I needed. This was exactly such an occasion.