Afterwards I help you into the negligee I bought you in the hotel shop – not as trashy as I’d like but as provocative as they had, and in any case you look sexy in it. You model it for me, sit in the chair, take the glass of champagne I pour for you.
I leave you alone while I go into the bedroom and get into my robe. On my way back there’s a soft knock at the door. I cross to the door, open it.
The man steps inside with his wife.
Her expression is cold, set, but her eyes are slightly swollen, her cheeks a little streaked. Not long before, we can tell, she was crying. Now there’s hardness in her face. She is going to do what he wants her to do. (I wonder why. Because he begged? Because he bullied her? Or was there something he had to get even with her for – an affair, perhaps – and this was his chance? No way of knowing.)
I look at you. Your expression is not a lot more revealing than hers, except that yours projects no hostility. You like the way he looks at you, the way he crosses to you so slowly, never taking his eyes off you. He looks like a knight who’s just found the holy grail. I’d thought he’d be more desperate-looking than this, maybe a little pitiful in his desperation, but, to his credit, his bearing, while nearly worshipful, is dignified, confident. He stands above you, looking down, extends his hands. You take them and stand up, look at me.
I lead the wife to the sofa. She won’t let me take her arm but goes where I show her. I offer her champagne. She refuses. I put the glass on the table next to the sofa.
You won’t have to do anything, I tell her. Just watch.
What? she asks, surprised.
It was just my way, I explain, of making sure he wants her enough. My wife for his.
Oh, he wants her enough, she says.
I know, I say. But . . . this is for her, not me. For them. You and I will just watch.
The wife nods, sits, still livid, but she reaches for, takes the glass of champagne. In spite of her anger, what I have just told her makes her feel better.
After we sit, you return your attention to the man. You offer him your glass of champagne. He drinks what’s left, puts the glass down, takes you in his arms, kisses you. It is strange for you at first, I can tell: it has been a long time since you’ve been kissed so deeply and romantically by another man, and it catches you off guard, unsure. But there is so much passion in the kiss, so much depth of feeling, that you can’t help but respond. Your arms slide around him, your hand on the back of his neck, and you kiss him with as much fervour as he kisses you.
When the kiss ends he steps back, takes your hands in his. You glance at the bathroom door, and he gets the message. He lets go of your hands, crosses to the bathroom. While he’s inside you refill your glass of champagne, refill the wife’s, smile at her. She does not smile back, but she doesn’t glare at you, either. She lowers her eyes.
Her husband is in the bathroom for a minute, then he comes back into the sitting room, wearing a hotel robe. He crosses to you, takes another taste of your champagne. Then he unties the tie at the neck of your peignoir, takes it off, leaving you in a small nightie. He caresses your arms with his fingertips, your shoulders, your neck. He kisses you again. He lowers a shoulder strap, puts his hand inside, takes hold of a breast. He holds it, feels its heft and shape, then releases it, removes his hand to slide the strap down your arm, turn back the fabric, expose your breast. He looks at it, touches the nipple with his fingertip, then – quickly but not hurriedly – he slips off the other strap, lets the nightie drop to the floor a puddle at your feet. He steps back, looks at you naked.
You untie his robe; it, too, drops to the floor.
He takes you in his arms and kisses you, feels your naked body against his. His hands caress your back and buttocks, yours caress his, and kiss follows kiss as the two of you drop down to your knees, then to the floor. He kisses your mouth and neck, your tits, one, then the other; when his tongue finds your nipple his hand settles on your pussy. His fingers play with the lips until they give way, and as his fingers slide between them your hand wraps around his hard cock and slides gently up and down.
Foreplay is brief: he is hard, you are wet. He climbs over you, kisses your mouth and breasts. His torso raised on his hands and stiffened arms, he lowers his middle – you lift your hips and turn your cunt upwards to meet him – and rests his shaft lengthwise along your pussy-lips. He moves slowly, remaining outside, the underside of his shaft sliding in your channel. You caress his buttocks with little grabby pinches, match his movements with hiprolls. Any second now: you will open and he will enter.
And here, I admit, I begin to have a problem. Yes, I want this man to fuck you. Yes, I all but planned it. Yes, I want you to experience this display of your own sexual power. Yes, I want to watch it all. But what I am watching is not happening exactly as I had expected it would. I had expected to see an obsessed man achieving his longed-for goal with a virtual seizure of your body, followed by an eruption of sexual energy and an ecstatic explosion. That’s certainly how I would have reacted.
The man who is about to fuck you, however, does not react as I would. Confronted with imminent realization of the holy grail, he becomes patient, deliberate. A serenity comes over him. He is determined to savour the experience. He wants you to feel it as intensely as he feels it.
And, for a moment or two, this does bother me. I watch the two of you playing each other’s bodies like virtuosi playing their instruments, and something deep inside me tells me to intervene, to stop it now, to take you away. It’s strange: I am willing – no, eager – to have this man fuck my wife – really fuck her, give it to her, fuck her to kingdom come – but the prospect of his making love to her in a practised, deliberate, loving way makes me feel uncomfortable.
The man’s wife, too, seated beside me, is changed by the imminence of the event. Her change, however, is the opposite of mine: while I have grown jealous, she has become more sanguine. The anger and most of the sorrow leave her face, and she can’t take her eyes from her husband and you. She is intrigued by what she is watching and surprised by her measured, curious response to it.
But if I feel an impulse to stop the event, the example set by the man’s wife forces me to think more clearly. I did not, after all, set terms for this encounter; I did not say, Here, fuck my wife but don’t be good at it. That his performance is more expressive than I expected, I have to tell myself, is a positive element. Once I accept this, I return my attention to the two of you on the floor, glad that he will be a worthy lover.
He raises his hips back; his cock dangles, points downwards; he lowers himself and finds your outer cunt-lips with the dome of his cock. He pushes; resistance is negligible; your lips give way; the head of his cock enters and blazes the trail for the slow entry of his whole long shaft.
We watch it, his wife and I. We see that dangling moment, and the positioning, and the entry. While his cock sinks in, the man’s wife catches her breath, holds it until the whole pink shaft disappears inside you and out of sight. Then she exhales.
When he is fully impaled you cry out, a half-sob, and slide your hands up from his ass, across his back, down to his ass again. Your cry is like a prod to him; he pulls his prick out, shoves it back in, each thrust faster and faster, until soon he is a pile driver pile driving into your juicy cunt, making your whole supple body quiver all around it.
His wife is saying, Do it to her. Do it to her, Do it to her! very softly but in rhythm with his thrusts.
I wish she would say: Fuck her!
You thrash beneath him, slide your hands wherever they’ll reach, clutch him to you. You plant your heels in the carpet and push, raising your ass up off the floor and pressing your pelvis against his so you can savour every thrust, feel the full length of every plunge. You and the man interlock limbs, meld all flesh, share every spasm and tick, rotate your hips together, lift and sink together, and as you begin your climb you cry out again.
This time the sound of your cry has the opposite effect on him. He continues
pumping into you but more slowly, each thrust slower than the one before. You get right into the slower rhythm, substituting intensity for speed, lifting your hips higher, pressing against him harder, intensifying every aspect of the act. It’s a beautiful sight to see, a magnificent fuck, and yet there’s something gloriously off-kilter about it. It’s clear you’re climbing towards your peaks; the closer to it you get, the slower you fuck. And when you finally climax, you’re jammed together almost immobile, his shaft fully buried in the wet, clingy inner walls of your cunt. He freezes for a moment, then shoots his cream into you; you take it with spasms that I can barely perceive – but I know from having been there what’s happening inside your cunt. You both collapse, still interlocked, embracing, very still.
His wife gets up, stands above you, looking down at his body sprawled on yours, locked against yours. If he feels her watching, he doesn’t respond. You do, though, and look up and her and smile. She turns away, not knowing how to react, looks at me. I shake my head, as if to say no, no, leave them alone. I know you’re not through.
She sits down next to me, very tense. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, folds, unfolds, refolds them in her lap. I reach for them, but when I touch one she pulls her hands back as if burned. I try to smile comfortingly at her, and it works. She extends her hands to me. I take them both in mine, hold them.
The room is very still, the only sounds the sounds of your breathing, his, mine, hers . . .
8
Eventually – it might have been minutes later, an hour later – the man rolls off you, gets to his feet to fetch the champagne. While he is gone you scamper to your knees, creep across to his wife and me, take her hands from mine, and undress her quickly. She does not resist; she does not cooperate. You open my robe, exposing my erection.
The husband returns, refills the glasses. He sits on the floor, you lie down with your head on his thigh; both of you watch his wife and me. You reach back for his flaccid cock, toy with it; she reaches for my hard cock, takes it in her fist, strokes it. You turn your head and kiss the tip of his cock. She drops her head into my lap and engulfs my cock with her mouth. She lacks your finesse, but I’m not complaining. She sucks me off and plays with her cunt at the same time; I like the way that looks. She’s not far away from a quick climax, I can tell, and so I make her stop, lift her face away. She’s confused but a moment later doesn’t care as I get her down to the floor on her back, climb between her legs, find, plunge, fuck.
She’s like a bucking bronco, just released, not yet broken, tossing and turning and thrashing. I try to stay with her.
Do it to me! she cries. Do it to me, Do it to me, Do it to me! I do it to her. I wish she’d say Fuck.
Do you turn the light out, or does he?
Your tits flatten on my back; I don’t need light to know what’s happening. You’re on your knees beside me, doubled over me, your arms on the far side of me, your ass in the air. The man is on his knees behind you, his cock under your buttocks, sliding in and out of your cunt.
He fucks you while I fuck her; your body is the conduit, the link that unites his fucking to mine, yours to hers.
Rolling now . . . me off her, he off you . . . and we weave limbs and hands and fingers, just flesh now, eight arms, eight legs, four asses, two cocks, two pussies, four mouths, four tongues, eight lips, four tits, slipsliding, fucking, sucking, whose is it? who cares? and she never says fuck.
I am buried inside her when she comes; she comes loudly, almost violently, clutching the skin of my back with her fingers, jerking her ass upwards with each spasm, and with the last spasms straightening her legs flat on the floor, closing her legs within mine, her cunt squeezing my cock and making me come with a series of explosive jerks. She is still trembling when I have given her all I have, her clamped thighs and tightened cunt holding my cock inside even as I subside and shrink until, finally, I’ve scarcely anything left for her cunt to hold on to, and I slip out.
Then she is negligible.
She was always negligible: she is neither obsessed nor the subject of obsession.
Exhausted, we drain together, all of us, just short of sleep, flesh against flesh, hands lazily stroking, not quite dozing, dozing . . .
9
Later – no way to tell how much later – I feel your cool ass against my hip, rolling gently, and I surmise that his hand is stroking your pussy. I turn to my side and press my front against your back, my cock nestling lengthwise in the crevice between your buttocks. I put my arms around you, reach for your breasts; one of my hands encounters his face as he suckles. He lifts his face away, takes my hand and places it on your tit. Then flattens himself against your front as I press against your back.
I’m not sure how I know, but I know that his wife is gone, and that’s fine, we are just us three, as it should be.
For only he and I are obsessed, and you are our obsession.
So we, the obsessed, close in on you, our grail, touch, feel, kiss, embrace, adore you, in perfect rhyme, he in front, I in back, head to toe, then turn you around and reverse the ritual, I facing your front, he your back, up, up . . . When I reach your face I kiss you as deeply and lovingly as I ever have, and know that he wants to kiss you, too, so I turn you yet again.
The communication between us two men is wordless and perfect and wholly committed to you. Our hands meet at your juncture, share your juices, then depart, leaving our cocks to find their niches, and they do, and enter you in concert, his cock in your cunt, mine in your ass, both sliding slowly, surely inward until we are fully impaled, the domes of our cocks separated only by a thin membrane, and then we move in harmony, stroking within you, adoring you with our cocks, our length and hardness and endurance testament to the depth of our passionate obsession.
We stroke, we love, we fill you up together through the night, and when you come so do we, together, until we’re drained, and sleep.
When dawn breaks you and I are alone.
2 Pique & Melissa . . . & Doc
Doc’s Tale
Pique and Melissa met at the Mommy & Me playgroup; for a time they were inseparable. They were about the same height, just over five feet tall, and under a hundred pounds, and they both looked like teenagers, but everything else about them was different. Pique was dark, Melissa fair. Pique was quiet, tending to shy, and Melissa was the classic coquette, more than a bit of a tease. Pique was a mystery: you never knew what she was thinking until she told you, if she told you; Melissa never kept a secret thought in her life. Each was sexy on her own, but together they were sexier than the sum of their parts. You almost couldn’t look at them without thinking of the delights they promised together.
They were hands-on friends. They walked with their arms around each other’s waists, like young Italian women. They fussed with each other’s hair. They applied suntan lotion to each other, a treat to behold. But, physical though they were, they were never overtly sexual: their touching always had to have an innocent-seeming basis.
We were better off financially than Melissa and her husband, and Pique had a larger wardrobe, which Melissa would hit whenever she had someplace dressup to go. Then, or sometimes just for the fun of it, she would come over and she and Pique would try on Pique’s dresses. During those sessions Melissa would take every opportunity to handle Pique, holding Pique’s breasts as she admired them, running a hand down her own belly and then down Pique’s for a comparison test of flatness; touching, stroking anywhere, everywhere, as they discussed muscle tone and clarity of skin and roundness of tush. Though Melissa was the more aggressive, Pique was not totally passive, and they were not at all furtive about all this touching, which came across as quite natural.
I was attracted to Melissa and made no secret of it; the vision of a threesome with her, Pique, and me was so exquisite it gave me headaches. And, I was sure, it was eminently achievable. Melissa’s husband was a musician and their marriage off as often as on, with the off-periods providing opportunities. Pique never denied th
at it could happen. “If it can happen,” I’d say, “let’s make it happen.” And Pique would say, “Maybe,” or, “We’ll see,” or other nice things to string me along. Melissa knew I wanted it, too. So together they teased me; maybe “tortured” is a better word. For my birthday they gave me a videotape of the two of them modelling trashy lingerie. I loved that tape.
One night we took Melissa and her husband to a benefit dinner-dance.
While Melissa and I were dancing a slow dance, she could feel me getting a hard-on. This is a good way to characterize the difference between Pique and Melissa. If Pique were dancing with her friend’s husband and he got a hard-on, she probably would step back and pretend not to notice. It’s not that she wouldn’t like it; she was just more discreet than Melissa. But when Melissa felt my hard-on, she looked me straight in the eye, smiled, and pressed herself against it. “Oh, how wicked,” she said. “Your wife’s best friend, tsk tsk.” But as she said it she slipped her hand between our bodies and touched the bulge in my pants.
“Why shouldn’t I want to fuck my wife’s best friend,” I asked, “when my wife’s best friend wants to fuck my wife?” Melissa gave my cock a little squeeze and withdrew her hand.
“Do it,” I said.
“Do what?” she asked.
“Fuck her,” I said. “If you want to fuck her, fuck her. You do want to. And I want you to.”
Melissa didn’t say anything then, but a few days later – either coincidentally or because my encouragement emboldened her – she did take her relationship with Pique into a new realm.
We were renting a beach house at Malibu that summer, and it had a sauna. Melissa had come over late in the afternoon, and that night I asked Pique what they’d been up to. I should mention at this point that whenever I knew that Pique and Melissa had been together, I always asked Pique what they had done, and Pique would make up a sexy story just to get me hard and horny. This time was no exception.
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