Tell Me More (7 page)

“Nice?” he said, grinning up at me as I opened my eyes.

“Ecstatic,” I said, trying to get my breathing under control.

He stood and reached for my hand, drawing it to the front of his jeans. “I’ve never seen a woman so comfortable with being naked. With being watched.”

“I was a dance major.”

“Yeah. You’ve got great muscle tone.” He groaned a little as I squeezed his erection. He put his other hand on my hip, stroking, assessing.

“What would you like me to do?”

He blinked and looked at my mouth. “Uh…”

I dropped to my knees and undid his jeans to reach his cock, and darted my tongue out to catch the drop of liquid that welled from the slit. He groaned again, and put his hands to my head, and I breathed him in and took him as deep as I could. His fingers dug into my shoulders, moved to grip my head, to guide me. This time it was he whose legs shook and who cried out, his hips jerking as he spilled warm and salty into my mouth.

I released him and wiped a dribble of semen from my chin.

“Wow,” he said. “It’s great in the open air.”

“Like salami sandwiches,” I said as we strolled back to the blanket.

“What?”

“When you get up to a high altitude—higher than this, the top of a mountain, maybe—terrible food tastes great. Salami on white bread, for instance.”

“You’re a funny girl. Woman.” He picked up and handed me the bottle of mineral water that he’d abandoned by the picnic gear. It was a polite gesture, I suspected, that I might want to rinse out, but I took a large swallow and suppressed a belch.

“Was that better than a salami sandwich?” I asked.

“Never even thought about a sandwich of any kind,” he said. “Not once.”

A small breeze raised goose bumps on my arms. “Maybe I’d better put some clothes on.”

He looked at me with appreciation as he fastened his jeans. “Don’t want you catching cold, but it’s a pity. I like looking at you. I think you like it, too.”

I made a noncommittal noise as I dressed. There was a speculative quality to his voice and I wondered what he was going to suggest—a strip show at the next Realtors’ Association breakfast perhaps. Generally I found that once I’d admitted to my time as a dance student all sorts of odd things went through guys’ minds, the first being speculation as to whether I could put my feet behind my head (easily) or what I could do with a pole (nothing out of the ordinary).

Willis, looking thoughtful, packed up the picnic basket. He tossed me another orange, which I caught with a minimum of fumbling and stowed into my purse for later, and then I finished off the champagne. Pretty soon I’d need a nap, relaxed by sunshine and good sex and good food.

“So,” he said with a studied air of nonchalance as we walked back to the jeep, “I wondered if you’d like to do something on Saturday. Something special.”

“He said
what?
” Mr. D. sounded, well, shocked.

“Isn’t it more to the point what I said after?” I cued up my next CD. “I think you’re rather like me. You’ve had a lot of sex but it’s been fairly conventional. Vanilla. Nothing kinky. And one thing I’ve realized since meeting you is that there are all sorts of possibilities open to me, and maybe this is the time for a little exploration. I’m not saying I’ll never fall in love again, because that’s plain dumb. But I’m single and it’s a good time for me to experiment. Didn’t you tell me once this is one of the kinkiest things you’ve done? I’m sure you’ve done other stuff, too.”

“Well, when I was younger…”

“Yes? I think you owe me a story.”

“We don’t know that the king told Scheherazade any stories.”

“Afterward, I’m sure he did. He’d proved his point, and she would have demanded it. Three years of stories without even maternity leave? She would have wanted a story and a foot rub when she’d had a really tough day with the kids.”

“I’ll tell you a story another time, I promise.” He paused. “And what did you say to his proposition?”

“What do you think?”

“So tell me all about it,” Kimberly said. “Did you make this coffee? It’s god-awful.”

“He’s nicer than I thought.”

“Details. Details.” She tapped me on the hand with a plastic spoon.

“No foreskin. How are you managing with yours?”

“It’s not mine, and I’m woman enough for it. Come into my office and give me the dirt.” She led the way, swaying on cowboy boots that were far sexier than mine, scarlet leather with black embroidery.

“No, you give me the dirt.” I closed the office door and sat in my usual place. Her office was the only one in the station that had a decorative quality to its mess.

“Patrick’s real sweet,” she said. “Never thought I’d go for sweet, but he’s just that. And the foreskin is actually sort of useful. Adds bulk. Never a bad thing, not that he needs bulk, but it’s a nice little bonus. He’s funny, too.”

“I’ve always thought he’s depressed, but I don’t see much of him.”

“You can be funny and depressed. A lot of people are. Did Willis take you somewhere nice yesterday?”

“We had a picnic.”

“A picnic?” She stared at me. “That doesn’t sound like him. Will you see him again?”

I shrugged. “Possibly.”

She gave me a long searching look. “What’s up with you, Jo?”

I resisted the urge to squirm in my chair. “Nothing, other than taking your advice and trying to learn how to date.”

“You’re different these days. Secretive. I don’t mean in dick details, but you seem distracted. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She frowned. “Maybe it’s too soon. You were with Hugh for a long time.”

“No, it’s time.” I hastened to reassure her. “I know I was resistant to the idea at first but I think you were right.”

She leaned forward and patted my hand. “I’m saying this because I’m your friend, honey. I think you’re keeping something from me and I don’t want you to be hurt. Anytime you want to talk, I’ll listen. Okay?”

“Thanks. You’re a good friend.” I was touched by her concern but there was no way I would tell her about Mr. D. or what Willis and I would be doing this weekend.

“I have an idea,” she said. “Let’s double-date. Patrick’s taking me to the Shamrock Club Saturday night—it’s some sort of Irish place with traditional music and Guinness. Why don’t you and Willis join us there?”

“I’ll ask him, but we’re probably doing something in the evening and I’m not sure how long it will last.”

“You have fun.”

What an opportunity I was missing. I was badly in need of fashion advice.
Kimberly, what should I wear to an orgy?

SO WHAT DO YOU WEAR TO AN ORGY? ALTHOUGH,
Willis assured me, it wasn’t an orgy. Oh, no, no, no. Just sex among friends.

His friends. Another couple. Great folks. I’d love them. One way or another.

The cowboy boots had been quite a hit with Willis but they were awkward to get in and out of. Not that I’d necessarily take them off. I eventually settled on kitten heels and jeans— I looked good in them and I didn’t want to look as though I were dressing for an orgy even if I was. Jeans with cowboy boots, as Willis had so amply demonstrated, were not great for spontaneous sex, and I didn’t want to picture myself sitting on the floor, undignified, wrenching off my boots with my jeans around my knees, and holding up the activities. (“There in a second!”)

Maybe it would be the sort of house where you shucked your shoes in the hall, or, more likely, your panties.

I topped the jeans with a scoop-neck black T-shirt, and beneath everything was some of my good underwear. I was sure Mr. D. would approve. I toyed for a moment with tidying up my pubic hair, but why bother? I didn’t think, if all went according to Plan A, that I’d have the panties on for long, or, if I chose Plan B—“If you like, you can watch. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” I had been assured—it wouldn’t matter anyway.

Sparkly earrings, yes. Perfume, definitely; I hoped our hosts would not have an allergic reaction.

Willis eyed my living room as I grabbed my black suede jacket and a small clutch purse. “Very nice. And a cash flow with the apartment. Great neighborhood. How much equity do you have? Have you considered—”

I stopped him with a kiss. “Stop being such a Realtor.”

His hands closed on my butt. “Yeah, it’s time to play. Let’s go.”

I guessed from his hyper attitude and the slight dusting of stubble on his jaw that he’d been at work that day. His tie was loosened and shirt sleeves rolled up despite the chill of the evening, and when we got to his car, a shiny BMW this time, I saw his suit jacket folded neatly on the backseat.

The house we drove to was in the suburbs, where too many people tried to live their dream of a house in the mountains. Although the lots had pine trees you could see the neighbors’ lights and hear their dogs bark.

Willis put the car in Park and turned to me. “Don’t be nervous, babe.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You are. Body language. I’m an expert.” He leaned to kiss me and I slid down in my seat, wanting the moment to last, the sweetness of his mouth and scrape of his chin.

“Okay.” Ever businesslike, he slipped off his tie, folded it and laid it on top of his jacket on the backseat. “Let’s go. Relax. They’re great folks. They’ll make you feel right at home.”

The woman who answered the doorbell was wearing jeans and a T-shirt like I was, but her breasts were probably twice the size of mine. “Willis, honey, great to see you. We’ve really been looking forward to this, haven’t we, Jake? Jake?” she called over her shoulder and pouted. “He’s watching the game. I’m Cathy. May I take your jacket?”

To my relief she didn’t recognize my voice, but led us downstairs to a basement with a huge flat-screen TV and expensive-looking leather furniture.

“Hey, Willis. We’re in overtime,” the guy hunkered in front of the TV said without looking at us. Willis sat beside him on the couch.

Cathy made a cute face at me, the females in exile from sports, and provided the guys with beers from a bar at one end of the basement, and poured white wine for me.

“You have a lovely home,” I said, since we seemed to be deep in a suburban dream rather than any sort of naked sweaty activities.

Naturally she beamed and offered to show me the rest of the house and I admired the master bathroom with the his-and-hers sinks and listened to the story of how the marble countertop had arrived cracked and the hassle of getting a replacement. The bedroom featured a huge bed with a velvet cover. Cathy darted forward, giggling, and whisked something from the bedside table and into a drawer—I think it might have been a vibrator, but I wasn’t sure.

“Where do you keep your books?” I asked.

“Books? Oh, some over there—” she gestured at a cabinet that held knickknacks and a couple of books “—and some in the study.” She gave me an odd look.

Several rooms later—after viewing bathrooms, spare bedrooms, a study (housing a scant half-dozen more books but many sports trophies), family room and dining room—we ended up in the kitchen, a masterpiece of granite counters, stainless-steel appliances and a beautifully polished hardwood floor, a room I truly envied. She bent to retrieve a tray of crudités from the refrigerator, treating me to an impressive display of cleavage.

As she straightened up she caught me looking and grinned. “Aren’t they great? Jake’s birthday present for me, but I think they’re a present for him.”

What was she talking about? She giggled and placed the tray on the counter. “Boob job,” she explained, and hoisted up her T-shirt.

I stared at her breasts, round and solid with large pink nipples. I’d thought she was wearing a bra, but they were a masterpiece of technology, needing no support.

“Great,” I said. “Were they really small before?”

“About your size,” she said. “Willis is really into boobs. He’ll probably want you to get yours done.”

“We haven’t known each other that long,” I said, wanting to cross my arms protectively over my small and untouched breasts.

“It’s so worth it. Jake loves them and it makes me feel so sexy.” She pulled her top back over her breasts and opened the dishwasher door. At that point I realized I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. She unloaded a handful of brightly colored dildos and butt-plugs into a plastic bowl—I was relieved to see they were the only items in the dishwasher, and that I wouldn’t have to ditch my wineglass and switch to beer.

“Can I do anything?” I asked and immediately regretted my question. What if she asked me to get busy with a dildo?

Fortunately she took my offer at face value and set me to work arranging chips on a serving tray while she scooped various dips into bowls. Then we took the snacks down to the basement, and so far, other than the breast display and the dildos rattling around in the plastic bowl on Cathy’s tray, it was just any weekend afternoon in suburbia.

“Oh, that’s gross, guys,” Cathy said.

The game had ended and the guys sprawled on the couch, beer bottles in hand, while on the screen a blonde with breasts even bigger and more rigid than Cathy’s divided her time between sucking a huge torpedo of a penis and glancing flirtatiously at the camera. The owner of the penis was a large hairy guy with a slight potbelly.

“That is so unreal,” Cathy said, grabbing the remote from Jake and switching the set off. “Jake, this is Jo. I showed her my boobs.”

“Hi,” I said.

Jake, a bulkier version of Willis—clean-cut, middle-class—lurched to his feet and leered. “Hey, little lady. Does my wife have great tits, or what?”

I was so dumbfounded at being addressed as “little lady” I only managed to mutter something along the lines of “Yes, she sure does,” before gulping the remains of my wine.

Willis ambled over and put his arm over my shoulders, letting his fingers fall onto my breast. “Jo’s are pretty nice, too. Small, though.”

“Show us your tits, honey,” Jake said to me.

“What’s the magic word?” I snapped at him and shook Willis’s hand and arm away.

Jake stared at me.

“Oh, honey, you are such a big, bad boy,” Cathy cooed and placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Where are your manners?”

Jake grinned in a way that might have been irresistibly boyish and mischievous and mumbled something apologetic in my direction. He then stuck his hand down his wife’s top.

I marched over to the bar and poured myself another glass of wine. I was feeling very Puritan and uptight, instead of sexually liberated and daring, and I didn’t like it. And now I could see how this room was set up for what was about to happen: the bowl of condoms on the low table near the television, another on the bar along with the dildos, a pile of soft towels, tubes of lube, the sturdy sofa, a collection of ottomans for various positions.

Willis followed me over to the bar. “You okay, Jo?”

“Yeah. Fine.” I was not being the life and soul of the party, that was for sure. I glanced over at the sofa where Jake and Cathy sat, he now nuzzling between her breasts, her T-shirt up to her chin. She gave me an encouraging smile. I wondered if Jake was concerned that her breasts could snap back and injure his nose when he emerged.

“Hey,” Willis said in a whisper. He kissed me, wet and tender. “You don’t have to do this. Like I said, you seem an adventurous sort of woman and you have a lot of confidence in your body and I thought you might get off on it. No pressure. If you’re not comfortable, well…” He stopped to leer at Cathy’s breasts.

“Jerk,” I said, half-meaning it, and pulled my T-shirt off.

Willis’s attention shot back to my breasts as I’d intended. He examined the red satin and black lace—one of my sluttier bras—but from the expression on his face it worked. Jake withdrew his face from Cathy’s cleavage without evident injury and took a good look.

“My panties match,” I said.

“Right on,” said Jake. He leaned back on the sofa and Cathy wriggled between his legs. I found myself staring at them, and had to remind myself that that was why I was here; we were audience, for the moment, Willis and I, but soon we’d be participants. Cathy undid Jake’s pants and hoisted his semi-erect penis out, but he was looking at me, and at Willis’s hands, which now moved to unfasten my bra and toss it aside.

Jake licked his lips. Cathy, her hand moving up and down his cock, looked over and smiled. “Cute,” she said.

Willis took one of my nipples into his mouth and I watched Cathy bend to Jake’s cock and run her tongue from balls to tip. He rolled his head back, his hands in her hair, while she deftly removed her jeans. Underneath she wore a thong—I could see it disappear into the crack of her ass.

“I want you naked,” Willis said. I couldn’t figure out the undercurrent here. I had a strong sense that the men had some sort of competition going—the biggest tits, the best underwear, the most compliant woman. I wasn’t really sure what it was. I liked being on display, being watched, and moaned when Willis fingered the crotch of my underwear, and liked it even more when both Jake and Cathy paused to assess my half-naked state.

She released Jake’s cock, shiny from her saliva, and sat back on her heels, thighs spread. The thong was tiny and sequined and she appeared to have no pubic hair.

She smiled as she saw me looking and stood to slide her thong down. A narrow strip of pubic hair, trimmed close, remained, her pubis smooth and curved.

“Didn’t that hurt?” I blurted out.

“Jake likes it. So do I.” She ran her hands down her belly, and passed them lightly over her crotch. Of course, everything to please Jake. “It makes me very sensitive while we’re fucking.”

She was naked now, and Jake sat admiring his penis and her while she turned slowly, arms raised and hands behind her head.

“Damn, you’re hot,” Willis said. I don’t think he said it to me. He rubbed one of my nipples between his finger and thumb, but his attention was mostly on Cathy.

“Aren’t you boys overdressed?” I asked, partly in revenge for the “little lady” crack earlier, and partly because I wanted to see the two men together, to compare erections and physique.

A flurry of undressing occurred as soon as I’d spoken, shirts and jeans and underpants dropped onto the floor, both men kicking their clothes away, and grinning. Willis was erect, his penis curved up, longer and more slender than Jake’s, which, like his physique, was broad and powerful. Jake had more body hair; next to him Willis looked boyish and pretty.

It seemed, by some unspoken agreement, that Cathy and Jake were to perform first. I wondered if their scant collections of books included one on orgy etiquette and this is what good hosts did.

I was interested. I’d never seen people fuck before, or seen a couple so absorbed in each other and at the same time so absorbed in the impression they made. Willis stood behind me, caressing my breasts, his cock rubbing against my butt. He lowered one hand to slide down my belly and into my panties. “I’m going to make you come,” he whispered.

Jake sat on the sofa, Cathy astride him, both facing us. She ground herself against his cock, while his hands pinched and squeezed her breasts. I could see her pussy shine wet with excitement, her clitoris swelled erect, everything revealed beneath that little strip of fur.

She raised herself to slide down onto his cock, steadying herself with her hands on his knees, sliding. She took Jake’s fingers into her mouth and then lowered his wet hand to rub her clit. Both of them moaned.

I wondered if they’d rehearsed the routine that followed, a seamless switch from one position to another, moving from floor to sofa, from kneeling to standing, and back. They employed subtle variations of speed and intensity, both of them beautiful and absorbed, performing. They ended up on the sofa in their initial position, a nice touch, and looked at me and Willis, challenging us.

I wanted to hold up a scorecard.

“Lie down,” I said to Willis.

I flexed my legs a little and kicked my panties aside as Willis eased a condom onto his penis, from the bowl our hosts had provided on the bar. When he was on the floor, I performed for them, sliding into the splits, impaling myself.

“Damn,” said Jake.

Willis moaned.

I steadied myself with my hands. I couldn’t really move, and neither could he; it was all for show. I bent one leg forward and planted my foot near his shoulder. I had some leverage now, some slide, all the control.

Cathy and Jake were moving faster now, noisy, their faces red.

Willis and I went into an urgent scramble, separating briefly, and then he arranged me on all fours on an ottoman so we could watch the other couple, he standing behind me, his hands on my hips. This was not performance now, this was fucking, hot and urgent, his hips slapping against mine, his balls rolling at my inner thighs, both of us groaning.