I began to attend live shows with some frequency, and thus slipped into a state of highly charged sexuality. I was also reminded of my youth. I’m fifty-two, and though I have gained a little weight and lost a little hair, I haven’t forever abandoned any of the frivolity of my twenties. Amsterdam helped me relive it. In many ways it reminded me of a college town in 1960s America—longhaired youths strumming guitars and wearing tie-dyed fashions, the unmistakable aroma of cannabis permeating the cavernlike basements of coffee shops. I felt as though I had walked through a time tunnel.
It was Mirjam who reconciled the nostalgia for Ann Arbor, 1960, with the Amsterdam of 1990. I first saw her across a crowded nightclub filled with Dutch university students hopping and flailing to discordant music I had no taste for. Still, I relaxed with a mug of ale and vicariously enjoyed their youthful energy.
She was easily the most beautiful girl in the room. Not much older than twenty, in a black leather jacket, tight blue jeans ripped strategically at the knees, and red high-top sneakers, she danced zealously, limbs seemingly without joints, long, golden-blonde hair whipping in arcs to the beat of the Europop music. Watching her bop was an injection of youth serum.
I never dreamed I would end up spending the night in her apartment. I had not even fantasized talking to her. I was a middle-aged American academic; she was a bright ray of sunshine who had not yet experienced a cloudy day. But there she was, skipping toward me with a glowing smile on her face.
“Hello,” she said in her delightfully accented English. “I can guess you are an American. Am I right?”
“Does it show all the way across the room?” I laughed.
“I can tell.” She laughed back. She introduced herself as Mirjam. I introduced myself, and she told me that she was always eager to talk to Americans, for she had long wanted to visit the land of the free and the home of the brave. “You must tell me all about New York City,” she insisted. “And have you been to San Francisco? Or Dallas? How about New Orleans?” We passed the evening in happy fashion as she listened to my tales of America. At one point she pulled me out onto the dance floor for a hot number. I had put away my dancing shoes when the Watusi was popular, but I guess I didn’t make a complete ass of myself, because she invited me back to her apartment.
I practically held my breath the entire way there. I had fallen a little bit in love with the beautiful Mirjam, and I was sure that she was not experiencing the same feelings toward me. After all, I was more than twice her age. She couldn’t possibly be interested in a fling with a guy like me.
“I live with my sister,” she said as we climbed the narrow stairway to her room, “but she is away visiting relatives this weekend. We will be undisturbed.” I was really sweating now.
Her place made me smile: posters of rock stars adorning the walls, stuffed animals covering the bed and the latest fashions scattered across the floor. “I am so sloppy sometimes,” Mirjam said, straightening up her room.
I was offered and accepted a beer, and we sat and talked on her little bed. The conversation gradually turned more intimate, and I asked Mirjam if she had a boyfriend.
“Well, there’s this guy who lives in Germany. I see him now and again. He’s a musician.” She turned the tables on me. “And you? Are you married?”
I explained that I had been divorced for about five years and at present had no one special in my life, no “sweetheart,” as she put it. We both fell silent for a spell. I sensed that she was making a decision. She nervously bit her lower lip. I remained passive. She would have to make the first move.
And she did. Mirjam stood and stretched, making a profoundly phony yawning sound. “I’m a bit tired. Are you? It’s so late. You don’t have to go back to your place this late. You can stay in my sister’s bed.”
I acquiesced to this arrangement. She went into the bathroom to change for bed. I stripped to my underwear and slid under the covers of the second bed. When she came out, she was wearing an oversized T-shirt. Her feet and legs were bare. My gaze unabashedly lingered on them. She blushed and got into bed, turning out the light.
A few minutes went by before her soft whisper floated across the darkness and she asked me if I was comfortable. I assured her that I was. The next thing I knew, she was standing at the side of my bed. “Any room for me in there, you think?” she asked, her voice barely audible. I answered her by throwing back the covers and moving over. She slid in beside me, and I held her tight as she laid her head on my chest.
At first we hugged and explored each other. Her hands crept under my T-shirt and lightly scratched my stomach and chest. I pulled my shirt off, and she began kissing my nipples. My hands circled her body, massaging her back and cupping her spherical ass cheeks. I daringly slid one hand between her panties and the flesh of her ass, and she responded by pressing herself closer to me, one thigh rubbing against my stiff erection.
We stripped entirely. I asked her to turn on a bedside lamp because I wanted to see her. She did, and giddily I basked in her beauty. Slowly I began to kiss her entire body, starting with each little pink toe and working my way up, not stopping until I nibbled on her earlobes. I then returned to the splendid patch of auburn curls between her legs. She surrendered to me and moaned deliriously as I lapped at her glistening pussy. One thing age brings is experience, and my skill at cunnilingus has improved with time. Before long she was sighing, her pungent juices coating my tongue.
In a flash she climbed atop me and told me she was going to return the favor. I crossed my arms behind my head and relaxed as she took my cock in her mouth. Up and down and all around, her tongue swabbed my hardness, making my mind reel with happiness.
Her impetuosity was markedly different from the calmer fellatio I had received from women nearer my own age. I ran my fingers through her golden tresses as I shot my seed down her throat. She threw her arms around my neck and lovingly held me tight, telling me that I was wonderful. “Not as wonderful as you are,” I assured her.
We continued our amour well into the wee hours. I did not have a condom, so we did not have intercourse that night. The next night we did, though, and many nights after that. Mirjam was my companion all through my stay in Holland, making it a time I’ll always remember. She was like a tonic for me, reviving my spirits and brightening my outlook. I have her pledge that she’ll visit me when she makes her long-awaited trip to the States, but for now I have only the memory of her, although it is as vivid as any photograph.
—Mr. K.H., Concord, New Hampshire
NYC Resident Watches Flaming Lesbian Sex Light Up the Night
When I enrolled in the graduate psychology program at a university in New York City, I sublet an apartment in upper Manhattan just off the campus. I saw an ad in a popular downtown weekly for a spacious room with a view. However, the view advertised—a modest glimpse of the Harlem River—was by no means as diverting as was the view I had of several of my neighbors across the way.
I lived opposite one of those mammoth apartment complexes commonly found in the city. Consequently, I was faced with the spectacle of wall-to-wall windows peopled with a virtual cross-section of the urban population. But this simply enhanced the already exotic environment and added to my urban education.
I was both surprised and excited to find that many, if not most, of the residents either chose not to have, or were simply unable to afford, draperies for their windows. As a result, I was privileged to witness an array of bawdy affairs whenever I was home. But, of course, the most titillating encounters occurred in the evening, when people shed their clothes and retired to their beds.
I suppose I was always most fascinated by a young female couple, lesbians I was soon to discover, who waltzed shamelessly around their apartment in the nude. It was apparent to me that both young women were aware that they were on view, making perhaps a few too many trips to the open window to display their delectable bodies for my wistful gaze.
One woman was black, tall and light-skinned, with long, flowing brown ha
ir that stopped short of her waist. She was so thin her ribs were visible, and while her breasts were inordinately hefty compared to the rest of her body, which gave her a seductive, womanly allure, from behind she often appeared to be a longhaired boy because her hips were so slight.
Her lover was, I believe, Hispanic, a diminutive, compact bundle of energy that translated into some rather stunning sexual episodes in their bedroom, from what I could see. She was, in my judgment, the more dominant of the two and, with her take-charge personality and powerful body and character, the more interesting as well.
The first time I noticed them, I was glancing out my window at my river view. They arrived home late together and turned on all the lights in their apartment. At first I thought nothing of them, though admittedly, it registered in my head that they were both highly attractive women. But after a moment I looked back to find them embracing and slowly undressing each other. I was suddenly caught in a serendipitous moment of numbing sensuality. My body grew tight; I stopped breathing; my eyes, riveted on this picture of lesbian mystique, ached slightly and began to tear. My legs grew weak as I stood watching them disrobe. Soon my cock was erect, throbbing helplessly, as I was drawn in, captured by their unabashed display of lust.
So taken by the moment was I that I unzipped my trousers and, before long, was actually standing at my window, my cock grasped firmly in my hand, stroking my shaft as I watched my two beautiful neighbors disappear into a blissful, passionate union.
I could hardly contain myself as the smaller of the two handled her mate, guiding her onto the mattress, showering her tanned flesh with kisses, her fingers kneading her thighs and calves, before she pressed her mouth to the sweet flower beneath. Her lover’s back arched, her face donning an expression of total abandon, release, as she lost herself in the skilled ministrations of her partner.
I, too, was swept away, and surging heat was quick to sweep up within me, prompting a bold orgasm. A steady stream of come spewed forth as I stroked my cock and continued to indulge in my neighbors’ inviting display.
After watching several episodes of these two young women, I felt compelled to bring my new hobby a step further. This I did by purchasing both a rather sophisticated pair of field glasses and a top-of-the-line camera with a wide-angle zoom lens. The excitement their lovemaking brought to my evenings was like nothing I’d ever before experienced. I was, as they say, hooked, addicted. There was no turning back.
In good time I was able to make a rather impressive portfolio of my new subjects, photographing their heated rounds of cunnilingus, breast licking, and oil massage.
One night in particular stands out in my mind. It was an uncharacteristically steamy October evening, quite muggy, and without an air conditioner, one was prone to sweat profusely, even sitting still.
My neighbors were not still. The young Hispanic girl was acting as if she were on a mission. She began slowly, moving up behind her lover and rubbing her hands over her shoulders and back. Gracefully she knelt behind her and pressed her face in between her legs, no doubt delving with her tongue into the sweet crevice of her cunt, teasing her lover’s ass with her wet lips. Then, without notice, she stood, reached back behind her and produced a rope. She tied her lover’s hands behind her back, then sat her on the edge of the bed. She left the room for a moment, but when she returned, she had a length of black silk, which she used to blindfold the other woman.
She maneuvered her lover back up onto the bed, propping her up on a few pillows, then began caressing her, playing with her large breasts and pinching her full, succulent nipples. I could tell that they were both enjoying themselves. They were perfect for their roles. I snapped away as a hard-on raged in my crotch.
Before long the young bundle of energy crept down between her lover’s lithe thighs to taste a cunt as red as steak and seemingly protected by a dense thicket of black pubes. As she licked her lover’s meaty cunt, she hoisted her own ass into the air, granting me a splendid view of her slick tunnel. Her cunt was a fainter shade of pink, a glossy coat of feminine ooze seeping from her dainty crevice.
Casually the Hispanic girl slid a finger beneath her and presumably slipped it inside. The sight was most enchanting and inspired me to join in the fun. With haste, I put my camera to the side. Lowering my trousers, I began stroking my cock while I peered through my binoculars, capturing their every move, every nuance. If only I could hear their lustful murmurs, I thought. If only I could smell their arousal.
I couldn’t help but notice that both women were sweating, their bodies glistening with a slick allure. I, too, had worked myself into a rather intense sweat, and I felt as if I were an integral part of their scene.
The sight of these women writhing on their bed, overwhelmed by the pains of passion, shook me to my very foundations. With stunning simplicity, I, too, came, leaving a hot puddle of come between my feet.
While I no longer live in Harlem, I still get some use out of my sophisticated camera equipment and continue to refer, when the moment feels right, to my albums of memories.
—Mr. F.G., New York, New York
College Internship Leads to a Threesome with a Hot Coworker and Her Boyfriend
I met Erica when we both interned at the same office during our senior year of college. We’d been in a few classes together, but I’d never flirted with her because I knew she had a boyfriend. As I saw her every day in the legal office, I admired both her professionalism and the way her ass filled out her cute skirts. Sometimes I’d catch her smiling at me, and one night, over happy-hour drinks, I finally got to hear what she was all about. The more we talked, the more smitten by her I became, so I finally said, “Are you and your boyfriend happy? Because if you’re not, I’d be interested in going out with you.”
She smiled at me, and then leaned in closer. “Well, Dylan, there’s good news and bad news. The bad news is that yes, Mark and I are very happy together. The good news is that I’ve always had a fantasy about having a threesome with Mark and another guy. He knows about it, but we both agreed that it would have to be someone very special and, well, maybe you could be that someone special.” She took a long sip of her drink after she finished, while I sat there, stunned. Had I really just been propositioned for a threesome by a girl I’d been lusting after?
Yes, I had, and there was no way I was going to say no, even if it did involve her boyfriend. Plus, if she was into him, he couldn’t be too bad. I told her that my only request was for me to have at least one date alone with her first, to get to know her better before I shared her with another guy. She agreed, and a cute blush colored her cheeks as she took another sip of her drink.
After that day, we were busy with our jobs but found time to take coffee breaks together, and even had dinner. The prospect of our eventual tryst lent an air of excitement to an otherwise staid work environment. One coworker must have sensed the erotic tension because he asked me if she was my girlfriend. I didn’t divulge our secret, just smiled and said we were good friends.
We agreed that a Saturday night would be best for our threeway, and the more I thought about it, the more excited I became. I’d get the chance to see what Erica was like in bed, and maybe I could even learn a few pointers on how to get her off from her guy. I didn’t know what she had in mind, but I was flattered that she considered me the type of guy who’d go for something like this. She told me Mark’s last name, and I checked him out on Facebook. He was a good-looking guy, and the photos of them together showed they were really in love. I was happy about that; if I couldn’t be her main man, at least she had a good one.
Then I started to wonder about the size of his cock. Mine’s pretty good-sized, and I’ve gotten compliments on it, but I couldn’t help being intimidated by the unknown. Since there was nothing I could do to increase my length or girth, I concentrated on thinking about how I’d please her. I wanted Erica to appreciate me as a lover, not to regret letting me into her bed.
As it turned out, I had nothing to worry about. On the
appointed night, I went to their place. Mark opened the door. He was barefoot but wearing a crisp white-and-blue shirt and dark jeans. I could see why Erica was into him. When she appeared, though, the whole world stopped for me. She had on a low-cut dress that brought out all her beauty, and black heels that made her legs look even more stunning than usual. Her lips glistened and her hair was wet, looking like she’d just taken a shower. “Hey, baby,” she said, walking up and giving Mark a quick peck on the lips. “And hey there, office mate,” she said with a wink before leaning forward and giving me an even more sensual kiss. I thought it would be a short one as well, but it wasn’t. She kept kissing me, her lips sticking slightly to mine because of her gloss. For a second, I opened my eyes and saw Mark watching us. He gave me a quick smile, then moved behind her and kissed her neck. I felt his hands when he reached around to stroke her belly, and then the undersides of her breasts.
“Isn’t my girl beautiful?” he asked, his voice gruff. We finally broke our kiss, and he stood there as if presenting her to me. Then Mark opened her dress to reveal a lacy bra, through which I could see Erica’s pink nipples. I looked from her flushed face to his, then down to where he moved the lace aside to reveal one hard nipple. He tweaked it while we all watched, tugging it to make it even more erect. She dropped her head back against his shoulder, her red hair fanning out behind her.
Soon I was manhandling one of her breasts while Mark worked the other. This freed my other hand to slip up under her dress and find Erica pantyless.
“Does your girl usually skip her undies? Do you come to the office with your pussy bare, Erica?” I asked each of them a question, not really needing to know the answers. I just liked talking to her like that.
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