by Amy Brent
There it was, the answer to my question. Jude’s happiness was all that mattered.
“Hey, as long as Jude is happy, I’m happy,” I said with a smile that I hoped backed up the sentiment of my words. “I told you her nymphomania theories.”
Wynn’s head bobbed. “You did. And my limited time with her tells me that your diagnosis was one-hundred-percent correct. Nymphomania is simply an old school term for hypersexuality. There is absolutely nothing wrong with Jude Allen. To the contrary, she is young and healthy, with a sex drive most women would die for. And most men would die to experience.”
“Exactly,” I said. We pulled up to a red light and I took the opportunity to take a sip of my coffee, which had been riding in the cup holder on the dash. I took a careful slurp—why is McDonald’s coffee so fucking hot??—and set the cup back in the holder and popped on the lid just as the light turned green.
A new thought came to mind as I worked my way through the sparse morning traffic. It was Saturday. There were no classes today, so most of the students at Midwestern were still asleep. I said, “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask, tell me more about your conversation with Lane Curtis.”
“Ah, good old Dr. Lane Curtis,” Wynn said, sighing the words. “Hang on. He sent a text sometime last night I didn’t see till this morning. Let me read it to you.”
Wynn worked the lid back onto his coffee cup and set it in the cup holder next to mine. He fished his cell phone from inside his jacket and tapped open the text messaging program. He read the message from Lane.
“Trip confirmed. Coming to see you this evening at MW. Will rent a car and drive to Holden’s place. Looking forward to meeting Holden and Jude.”
I frowned at him, a little taken aback that he had taken the liberty to mention Jude to someone I didn’t even know. “Seriously? You told him about Jude? What the fuck, man?”
Wynn shot me a defensive look, then rolled his eyes. “He asked if there were any hot girls at Midwestern and I mentioned Jude,” he said. “Don’t get your panties in a wad. I did not promise him anything.”
“That’s fine,” I said, huffing a little. “She’s not yours to promise.”
“You have a problem with Jude having a go with Lane?” he asked. “Or a problem with Lane joining our little party?”
I should have been offended by the way he was talking about Jude, like she was some ride at an amusement park, but that was just Wynn’s way. He could be a dick—an insensitive asshole, even—but at the end of the day, he had Jude’s best interest at heart. He knew Jude enjoyed sex with two men, and would probably enjoy it with three. She loved to experiment and experience new things. He was simply talking out loud.
“Whether or not Jude has a go with Lane is totally Jude’s call,” I said, giving him a stern look. “I just think it’s a little presumptuous of either of us to decide what she should and should not do. And who she should or should not fuck.”
“Is that what you told her about me before I came to town?” Wynn asked, eyebrows up. “That it was up to her whether or not she and I had a go?”
“That is exactly what I told her,” I said. “Jude is the boss of Jude. She’s not our plaything, Wynn, and she’s not some pawn in a sex game. This isn’t Fifty Fucking Shades of Grey, you know.”
“I realize that,” he said as he slid the phone back inside his jacket and reached for his coffee cup. “I just get the idea that Jude is enjoying herself immensely, and might enjoy a foursome if given the chance.”
“Again, that is Jude’s call,” I said.
“So, if Jude is okay with Lane joining our little game…” He asked the question and let the words hang in the air for a moment.
“If Jude is okay with it, so am I,” I said, shrugging. I slowed the car to pull into the parking lot of Conner Hall. There were already several dozen cars in the lot, and early attendees milling around. I parked at the end of the row and switched off the key.
“Looks like a good turnout for the morning session,” Wynn said, picking up his cup and reaching for the door handle.
“We still have a couple of minutes,” I said, holding up a hand. “Finish your breakfast. And tell me more about this book idea you had with Lane.”
He popped the last bite of Egg McMuffin in his mouth, then pulled the lid off the cup and dropped the trash in the floorboard, then leaned back with the coffee resting on his knee.
“Well, Lane called me to ask if I would be interested in coauthoring a book with him. As you know, he’s written six New York Times bestsellers on psychology, sexuality, relationships, and such. And has parlayed that into an empire worth a fortune. The guy must be worth at least ten or twenty million bucks now if he’s worth a dime.”
“Marsha Clarkson calls him ‘the sexy Dr. Phil’,” I said with a smile.
“Yeah, if Dr. Phil was six-foot-four, with all muscles, and perfect teeth, and movie star good looks,” Wynn said, chuckling. “I love the guy, but I hate him, too.”
I could not argue with Wynn’s assessment. I had seen Dr. Lane Curtis many times on book covers, in magazines, on videos, and TV. He was tall, broad-shouldered, muscular build, with short dark hair and dancing blue eyes (Marsha’s words, not mine).
Dr. Lane Curtis was the latest psychobabble slash self-help star who rubbed elbows with the likes of Oprah and Deepak Chopra and Tony Robbins. He was a former football start at UCLA who blew out his right knee before he could make it to the pros. So, he focused on academics, went on to get his doctorate in clinical psychology, practiced psychiatry for a few years in his hometown of Encino, California, then wrote a book called Is It Me or Is It Me, which explored the topic of narcissism and its negative effects on the relationship between men and women. The book was an instant hit, Lane became an instant star, and the rest was history.
I knew that Lane and Wynn had become fast friends, especially since Wynn’s book What’s Your Vagina Thinking had become a bestseller in its own right. It didn’t surprise me in the least when Wynn told me that Lane shared our interest in swinging and alternative lifestyles. A lot of people in our profession leaned toward the non-monogamous style of life. Maybe because when you studied the human brain for years and came to understand how it worked, you realized that monogamy and love are just illusions, probably created by women to keep men in line, just as Hallmark kept inventing new holidays on which to sell cards.
I know, what a chauvinistic, asshole thing to say…
Oh well, I’m a dude.
Sue me.
“Yes, he is the sexy Dr. Phil,” Wynn said, still chuckling. “Though I’m not sure he’d appreciate the comparison. Anyway, he thinks there is a synergy between the stuff that he writes about and the stuff that I write about.”
I gave him a quick sideways frown. “So… how do I fit into that picture?”
Wynn huffed and held out his hands. “Dude, you have written some really great shit on the topic of human sexuality and the myth of monogamy,” he said.
“How the fuck would you know that?” I asked, a little confused, and a little flattered. I had never written a book like him and Lane, but I had written dozens of articles for various psychology magazines and journals over the years. I never expected Wynn to read any of my stuff.
“I still have a subscription to the Psychology Monthly Journal,” he said. “I read your shit all the time. In fact, it’s the only thing worth reading in that dated old rag. When you stop writing for them, that’s when I’ll cancel my subscription.”
“Wow, I guess I should be flattered,” I said, shaking my head with my eyes on the road. “You read my shit in a dated old rag. How fucking flattering is that?”
“Ah, don’t let it go to your head, my friend. I still have a subscription to Big Tittie Monthly, as well,” he said with a grin.
“Fuck you,” I growled.
He laughed and held up his coffee cup. “No, seriously, man, your theories are cutting edge. Really great shit—I mean—great stuff. Imagine how great a book you, me, and Lane
could write if we joined forces? We each could cover a different angle of one common theme. It would fucking knock the world of psychology off its fucking axis.”
“It could be interesting,” I said thoughtfully, suddenly imagining the world that might open up if I became a bestselling author like Wynn and Lane Curtis.
I could see myself leaving Midwestern to move to Malibu with Wynn.
I could see myself traveling the country signing books and speaking to thousands of adoring fans. And fucking my fair share of them.
And the money… Jesus, what could I do with a little bit of cash in my pocket? I loved teaching, but the pay was shit, and the benefits were nil. I’d probably make more co-authoring a book with Lane and Wynn than I’d made the entire ten years of teaching at Midwestern.
“It could be interesting and profitable,” Wynn said, nodding, giving words to my thoughts. “I pitched the idea to Lane and he was intrigued. Part of the reason he’s coming here is to talk about doing something together, all three of us.”
“That’s just part of the reason,” I said resolutely, my mind circling back around to Jude. “What’s the rest of the reason.”
“He’s coming here for the same reason I did,” Wynn said, poking me with his elbow as he opened the door with his other hand. “To meet Jude.”
To meet Jude…
As I watched Wynn get out of the car and hurry toward the building to greet a few of his fans who must have heard he was in town, I started to wonder if introducing Lane Curtis to Jude was the right thing to do.
I wanted Jude to be happy.
And to experience every pleasure that life had to offer.
But I wondered how much of my enthusiasm for Lane’s visit was for Jude’s benefit and how much was for my own.
Chapter Eight: Jude
Izzy and I took our time finishing off our breakfast in the MU cafeteria. One of the perks of being a student at Midwestern University was that the cafeteria was open for breakfast, lunch, and dinner on the weekends to keep us poor students with food passes but no cash from starving.
I was in no rush to hurry home. It was relaxing, sitting there with my best friend forever talking like two horny high school girls that had just discovered the joys of sex.
Holden and Wynn were at the conference and wouldn’t be home till later in the afternoon. So, I took my time regaling Izzy with the dirty play-by-play of my night with Holden and Wynn. She had a thousand questions and I had a thousand tawdry answers. She sat wide-eyed with her mouth hanging open through most of it. Occasionally, she’d lick her lips and say something like, “Dang, girl…” or “Didn’t that hurt?”. Mostly, she sat listening quietly, enraptured by my filthy tale of the Teacher’s Pet with her two well-hung and highly-qualified instructors. Beauty and her Beasts.
“Whew, I swear, girl I’m gonna need a cold shower when we get home,” Izzy said, falling back in her chair with her tongue hanging out, dramatically fanning herself with a napkin. “I don’t see how you’re even walking today! My poor twat would be sitting in a bathtub full of ice.”
“I’m a little stiff and sore,” I admitted with a happy sigh. “But it’s a good kind of sore. Nothing I can’t handle.”
Izzy narrowed her eyes at me. “So, you’re going to be doing that all weekend long? Fucking those two studs?” She shook her head and whistled. “Lordy, you’re gonna be worn completely out by Monday. Be careful you don’t fuck yourself to death.”
“Oh, I’ll be careful,” I said, wiggling my eyebrows playfully. “But boy, what a way to go.”
Izzy and I gathered our trash and giggled as we left the cafeteria and went to our cars. I followed her back to our tiny off-campus apartment to shower and change, and to let my batteries recharge a little. And maybe sit for a bit with an icepack between my legs.
It was one of those rare Saturday mornings when I didn’t have anything I had to do. I was a grad student now, with just a couple of classes, so the long weekends of burning the midnight oil doing homework and writing papers were behind me for the most part. Plus, Holden and Wynn would be tied up at the psyche conference most of the day, so rather than sit at Holden’s house pining away for hours until my men got home and the fun began, I decided to have a little me time.
Izzy was at the apartment just long enough to shower and change, then she was out the door to meet Earl for a little pre-game fun. Earl was the star of the MU Trojans, and Izzy had convinced him that it was good luck to have sex before every home game. Granted, the Trojans lost more games than they won, but that fact never seemed to bother Earl, who would gladly service his woman anytime she pleased.
So, I had the place all to myself. I ran a hot bath, lit a few candles, pulled down the shades, put on some soft music, and locked the bathroom door in case Izzy and Earl came back home. Earl had a habit of bursting into our only bathroom to take a leak without bothering to knock. And usually he didn’t care who else was in the dinky little bathroom or what they were doing at the time. He would just nudge his way to the toilet, whip out his large black cock, and hum happily to himself as he let it fly, creating a sound that sounded like a firehose blasting into a pond.
It bothered me the first few times it happened. I would be naked in the shower or in my bra and panties leaning into the sink doing my makeup, and here would come Earl just bursting through the door like a little kid that had to pee so badly his knees were knocking. He wouldn’t even bother to close the door.
“What the fuck, Earl?” I screamed the first time it happened, cowering behind the clear, plastic shower curtain.
He glanced over casually and kept right on pissing. He shrugged and said, “Hey, Jude.” Like everyone did, he sang the words and giggled to himself, like I’d never heard that shit before. “Whatcha doin’?”
“I’m taking a shower!” I said again. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
He shrugged and pissed. “Just leakin’ Little Earl. What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?”
His response made me grin, though I bit into my lip to keep from showing it. “I’m sorry, did you just say you were leaking Little Earl?”
He nodded his head without looking at me. He stared straight ahead at the wall and continued to hum. I glanced down and got my first look at what he called “Little Earl”. If that was Little Earl, I could only wonder what Big Earl would look like.
“Well, I’m taking a shower, you can’t just kick open the door and come in here,” I said, trying to cover my private parts with my hands and arms. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of my body. To the contrary, I someday hoped to practice psychiatry in a nudist camp. The point was, Earl was Izzy’s man and Little Earl was Izzy’s cock. I had no business even being in the same room when that thing was out of Earl’s pants. The fact that we were in the same room virtually naked, was not all right in my book. I might be a hyperactive nymphomaniac, but I would never think about fucking my best friend’s boyfriend, at least not without her invitation to do so.
Before I could scream at him again, Izzy stuck her head in the door and yelled at him on behalf. “Goddammit, Earl, hurry up so we can leave! I’m fucking starving.” Izzy looked at me, cowering behind the shower curtain like nothing was out of the ordinary. She asked, “We’re going to Arby’s, Juju. You want anything?”
“Uh, a little privacy would be nice,” I said, frowning at her boyfriend who was still standing at the toilet with his cock out, humming, pissing like a racehorse. Jeez, how much had he had to drink?
“Don’t think they sell that at Arby’s,” Earl said.
“For fuck sake, Earl, come on!” Izzy roared. “Can’t you see Jude wants to shower without you pissing all over the place.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Earl shook off Little Earl and tucked him back inside his jeans. He took the time to wash his hands, then wiped his hands on his shirt as he lumbered out of the bathroom like it was no big deal.
The same thing happened the next week and the next. Soon, it became no big deal. Now, Earl
can whip out Little Earl and pee right next to me without me even noticing. Weird what you can get desensitized to.
I filled the tub with steaming hot water and lavender bubble bath. I had already showered earlier before meeting Izzy, but I still felt icky, mainly because my pussy was continuing to ooze out the juicy remnants of things that had been deposited deep inside it during the night before. I had lost count of the number of orgasms I had had, and I knew Holden and Wynn had each cum inside me a couple of times. I was a squishy mess. And I freakin’ loved it!
I took off my clothes and stood naked in front of the mirror to look at myself for a moment. I was sure that my body would be covered with handprints and bruises from the night before with Holden and Wynn. Some of the sex got a little rough, but rough is what makes it fun for me.
Think about it. When there are just two people fucking, things can get pretty wild. When there are three of you, and two of those are huge, muscular men, pretty wild can quickly become freakin’ insane. I was manhandled and tossed around and bent into positions I didn’t know I could get into. They treated me like a human pretzel, but I gave as good as I got. I rode them both like a buckaroo at a rodeo and was pretty sure they both bore long scratches on their chests, backs, and asses from my sharp nails. I had probably left my teeth marks in them as well.