The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes (25 page)

“Oh, far away,” she replied vaguely. “Lots of ice and snow, you know, that sort of place.”

“And what did you do there?”

“A little of what you do here, I should think.”

“Here, as in America? Or here, as in our apartment?”

She looked up at me. “Your apartment,” she said coyly.

I leaned over and kissed her, just a quick kiss, on the side of her face. Her skin was soft. She smelled pretty. “Fascinating,” I said.

“What is?”

“You, your secret world.”

She shrugged. “And you don’t have any secrets?”

“None,” I said quietly. “There’s been nothing that’s been that important.”

“What about him?”

“Bertrand?”

“Yes.”

“An open book – ask him anything, you get an answer. Not always the answer you’re hoping for, but an answer, an honest one.”

“And he likes to cook?”

“We both do. We love food – the pleasure of it. There was a time when we didn’t have much.”

“Pleasure or food?” she asked.

“Food,” I said decisively. “Between us, there has been no lack of pleasure.”

“And yet you’re both so thin. The hedonists I knew in my country were always on the fleshy side, and, sadly, always in such a hurry to get undressed and show it off.”

Hedonists? The word made me laugh. “Your vocabulary is certainly impressive, Paulina.”

One of her perfectly manicured hands reached up and lightly stroked my cheek. “And you’re pretty, too,” she said. “They aren’t always as pretty as you.”

Bertrand came into the room carrying a pitcher and some glasses. “We’ve a rum punch for starters,” he announced. “Is that festive enough?”

“Rum punch!” I enthused. “It goes perfect with Christmas fudge. I’ll go get a tray from the kitchen and bring some in.”

In the mere moments it took me to arrange the fudge on a glass tray and bring it into the living area, Bertrand had managed to remove Paulina’s pretty Italian shoes and was gently massaging her feet through her stockings down there on the floor by the fire. Her stockings were black with a pretty, all-over lacy pattern.

“Wolford,” I said, sitting down next to them with the tray of fudge in hand. I set it down on the floor.

Paulina said dreamily, “Pardon me?”

“Your stockings – I recognize the pattern – Wolford hosiery. I saw those at Bergdorf’s.” Bertrand had filled our glasses with the rum punch and they were lined up in a neat little row on the elevated hearth in front of us. I leaned over Paulina and reached for a glass. I added, “Being a coat check girl must pay
very
handsomely to afford Wolford.”

She said slyly, “You’d be surprised.”

“Nothing surprises us any more, does it, dear?”

Bertrand, content for the moment to be rubbing Paulina’s feet and driving her quietly into ecstasy, said, “No. Nothing does. Not any more.”

Moaning softly, Paulina barely left her reverie when she mused, “I would have liked to have known you both then.”

“When’s that?” I said. I was the only one among us who was not immediately heading into some type of swoon. I helped myself to a piece of fudge.

“Back when things surprised you,” she said.

Bertrand smiled at the remark. He parted Paulina’s legs and stared at whatever it was he could see up under her skirt.

“I was right, you know,” I said, though no one seemed to be noticing me. “About the fudge, I mean. It goes great with the rum punch, if anyone’s interested: sugar on top of sugar, you know. They complement each other. Of course, a little goes a long way.”

Bertrand leaned over and grabbed Paulina by her hips and slid her down the rug closer to him, her skirt sliding up around her waist as he did so, revealing that her expensive stockings were the stay-put kind. She was not wearing garters. But she was wearing a tiny pair of silk panties, ruby red with a black lace pattern overlay. They looked stunning against her bone-white skin. A half-moon-shaped scar on her pelvis peeked out at the top of her panties. I ran my finger lightly along the scar.

“I had a baby once,” Paulina said. “They took it out of me there.” The scar did not look new. She said, “Are you surprised?”

I looked at Bertrand and said, “A little – how about you?”

“Actually, yes,” he agreed, sitting now with Paulina’s legs spread before him and practically wrapped around him. She had draped her legs over each of his arms. “I am a little surprised by that news. You’re so young.”

“I was even younger then. I wanted to give birth the real way, but the doctor wouldn’t let me. Things became complicated. He was afraid I was going to die. But I was looking forward to childbirth; now, I won’t have any more babies.”

We didn’t ask about the fate of the one baby she’d had. If she were a mother, it would come out in good time. If she wasn’t, well . . . her private world wasn’t really our business yet; we barely knew her.

Bertrand slipped a roving finger inside the crotch of Paulina’s silk panties and gently stroked the hidden lips. “Will you be with any of your family at Christmas?” he asked her.

“No. I’m alone in America.”

“Do you miss your family?”

“Not much,” she said. She pulled aside the crotch of her panties to give Bertrand better access to her lips.

“Wow,” he said quietly. “You’re beautiful.”

She looked at me. “Does he say that about every girl?”

“No,” I assured her.

“Have there been many?”

“A few,” I said. Bertrand pushed a finger into Paulina’s vagina. Her eyes gleamed when he did it. She looked intoxicated – in that amorous way. I added, “But none of the others were as pretty as you are.”

She moaned contentedly and rocked on Bertrand’s probing finger. She was a girl who liked being told she was pretty, even though there was likely no doubt about it in her own mind. I leaned down and kissed her on her mouth.

“You taste like sugar,” she said.

I smiled at her. I broke off a tiny corner of the fudge and fed it to her. She didn’t so much eat it as let it melt in her mouth. Then her eyes sparked. “That
is
good. Did you make it yourself?”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I made it this morning.”

Bertrand, having lost Paulina’s undivided attention for now, reached for his cocktail and scooted closer to us. He helped himself to a piece of fudge. He said, “What would we like for dinner tonight?”

I was too busy feeding Paulina, and kissing her neck, kissing her across her collarbone, to answer him right away. I was on all fours, leaning down to her. Bertrand rested a hand on my rear end then let his hand roam all over my tight slacks. He said quietly, “I’m thinking ratatouille; something with something else, and then ratatouille on the side.”

“But that’s a summer dish,” I said distractedly. “And it takes hours.”

“We’ve got hours . . . haven’t we? Paulina, do you have to be anywhere?”

By this time, Paulina and I were kissing, our lips pressed together, our tongues meeting. She moaned something guttural that sounded like “no”. Her reply reverberated in my mouth. The thought of having hours with her further excited me. I felt my way down between her legs while we kissed. Her legs were still parted, the lips down there still exposed – and they were slick. She was already aroused. I stopped kissing her and said softly, “Do you want to play with us in our kitchen?” Two of my fingers pushed into her hole and felt the tight, slippery walls push open to accept me. I wanted to pull her panties down, get them all the way off and out of my way. But she planted her feet on the rug and pushed her hole down hard on my fingers; she wanted to stay connected. She took my fingers past the knuckles; her canal was deep and it gave me so many ideas. “Yes,” she finally said, a little breathlessly. “Let’s play in your kitchen – whatever that entails.”

We’re fond of the baby eggplant, Bertrand and I: its perfect shape, its deep purple colour; the substantial heft it has when one holds it in the palm of one’s hand. In the vegetable world, they are small works of art. Baby eggplants are always in our kitchen, along with every colour of bell pepper, and yellow squash, zucchini, onions, tomatoes, potatoes, garlic. We never run out of carrots, or celery, or cucumbers. In the spring and summer, there is no shortage of asparagus, green beans, or broccoli in our kitchen, or fresh fennel bulbs, chard, or leeks. And fresh herbs – we love herbs, and sea salt, both fine and coarse. We love peppercorns of every colour and, of course, olive oil.

Bertrand dons his chef ’s apron. It is pure cotton and bleached white. We are on to the wine now, a Font-Mars, for starters; it is deep red. The colour of it excites me when Bertrand pours it into our glasses. But it is not a wine to be hurried; in an hour or two, it will taste even more intoxicating than it would now. Since we have all evening, I concentrate instead on seducing Paulina out of her clothes, right there in our kitchen.

“In front of all these windows?” She is disinclined to do it – at first; until she sees that we do have window shades. Enormous ones: the windows are tall and wide and comprise one entire kitchen wall. Bertrand, with his glass of Font-Mars in hand, tugs the cord that brings the shades gliding down. We are now completely alone in a city of so many millions.

Bertrand is over his initial idea of preparing ratatouille. I have no idea, yet, what he has decided upon instead, but as Paulina steps out of her skirt and pulls her sweater off over her head, Bertrand prepares to concoct a simple
amuse-bouche
to have with our wine.

Paulina’s bra matches her panties; it is the same ruby red silk with a black lace overlay. It pushes her ample breasts together, offers them up enticingly. She is stunning. Her dark hair frames her face angelically. Her dark eyes are quite large and expertly made up to appear as if she were wearing no make-up at all. I reach behind her to unclasp her bra, but I wait for the unveiling of her tits. I let her do that part by herself. I reach for my wine and I glance at Bertrand. I know how much he loves to see a woman’s tits spill out of a lacy bra. He’s eyeing Paulina with rapt attention, but I notice also that he’s eating Brie! And he hasn’t offered
us
any. What happened to our
amuse-bouche?
I catch his eye and he shrugs, smiling sheepishly. He takes a sip of wine and then his attention goes back to his chopping block. He’s chopping away at herbs. For now, I am more interested in Paulina’s breasts – which are luscious, perfectly formed – than in chiding Bertrand over his hoarding the Brie. After all, there will always be Brie, but how often does a gorgeous foreigner strip out of her expensive underthings in one’s kitchen?

Paulina is now clad in just her panties and those expensive stockings from Bergdorf’s. She scoots up on to one of the kitchen counters. Since she is not tall, this height is perfect for having her lovely tits almost even with my face. Her legs part as she reaches for my hair, pulling me gently to her, encouraging me to latch on to one of her nipples. They are the plump kind, meant for suckling, or for tugging on. My mouth sucks one of her nipples in eagerly and I am surprised by how intensely she moans, by how her hips writhe on the countertop, by how insistently she pulls me closer to her, pressing my head flush against her breast. I wrap my arms around her then, I hold her and let the full power of those erotic sounds she is making wash over me while I suck on her tit. It is a primal feeling, and it happened so quickly. I am very aroused myself. I can feel her nipple swell against my tongue from the pressure of my mouth and, as the nipple swells, her moans become urgent whimpers. It fascinates me; how sensitive she is. It’s as if I ’d never sucked a nipple before. Certainly never one that was this responsive. The act of suckling her and listening to her ecstasy becomes my entire world; I am lost in it. My pussy is soaking inside my slacks. Soon Paulina is writhing against the counter so much that I am beginning to wonder if she is going to come. I let her set the pace of it; when she wants me to stop, we’ll stop. If she wants me to keep at it until she comes, I will do my best to keep up with her rhythm. I’ve yet to make a woman come without touching her clit, though. It would be a challenge; still, it was one I was willing to take.

It’s not long, however, before I realize that Bertrand is standing right next to us. He nudges me over so that he can have one of her tits, too. I release my hold on Paulina; I make room for Bertrand. Paulina leans back a little, enough to give us room. We each suck on a nipple and it is almost more pleasure than she can stand – judging strictly by the whimpering that issues from her then.

I am trying to keep up the pressure on Paulina’s nipple, thinking that this is going to make her come; that this is the object of our foreplay. But Bertrand is overcome with lust. Pushing me aside completely, he picks Paulina up in his arms and moves her over to our kitchen island, shoving aside the many canisters of utensils and baskets of vegetables and fruits to make room for her to lie down. He tugs her panties off her, pushes her legs open wide and plants his mouth right on her pussy. Bertrand is usually the type of man who is the first to have his cock out of his trousers, sticking it wherever a woman is willing to take it. But with Paulina, his mouth did not seem able get enough of her.

I watched the two of them, locked in their lusty syncopation. It aroused me to see them like that. Paulina, naked except for her black stockings, writhing, tugging on her own nipples, lost in a swoon, her knees hiked high while Bertrand had his face buried between her legs, his sizeable hands pushing down on her slender thighs, holding her open.

Just then, Paulina’s eyes opened; she focused on me. She looked drunk with lust. Almost inaudibly, she pleaded, “Find something to stuff up me.”

It was jarring. I looked at her, momentarily confused. “What do you want?” I asked her. “Do you want Bertrand to fuck you now?”

“No,” she said, trying to catch her breath but still pulling like mad on her nipples. “Stick something up me. Something big, that I can really feel, you know?”

I thought I knew. I looked around at our countertops; there was food everywhere. I wondered: what would I want to fuck if I were in Paulina’s position, out of my mind with lust and needing to really
feel
something?