Sweet Life 1

by Violet Blue

  Too shy, that is, until tonight.

  When Hunter told me that he knew where we could play like this, I thought he was kidding. Smiling, he teased me. “Are you up for it, Dara? Are you?” Hunter’s a joker, though. I’ve always known that about him. So maybe this isn’t that sort of party after all, I decide. Maybe he was simply testing me to see whether I’d truly be up for some similar event in the future. Ah, but why the sudden feeling of let-down within me? Where is the expected wave of relief?

  Before I can psychoanalyze myself any further, Mica motions for us to follow her down the hall. “They’re here, the stragglers,” she announces in a voice rich with humor. “Let the games begin.” Hunter and I trail behind her, and we are standing in the doorway watching as Mica glides easily to the very center of the room. The conversation stops as if on cue and all the guests turn to watch her.

  Something is going to happen—something exciting. I sense it in the same way I can tell a rainstorm is approaching by the charge of electricity in the air. My heart races, and Hunter tugs on my hand, pulling me so that I’m standing directly in front of him and I can feel the delicious promise of his sudden hard-on pressing against my ass through my silky dress.

  Oh, yes, I find myself thinking. This is that sort of party.

  Hunter wasn’t kidding, wasn’t playing around. I wonder how I could have questioned the man who likes to talk dirty to me on his cell phone from the most public places. “I want to fuck you out on the balcony,” he’ll say while in line at a grocery store. “Be ready for me when I get home, baby. Be naked and ready.” How could I have doubted a lover who always takes my worn pair of panties away with him in his pocket when he leaves me? A man who has gone down on me when our car was stopped in rush hour traffic, just trying to see how far he could get me to go before my nerves took over. Before I flushed a deep scarlet and insisted we waited until we could find a more private setting.

  Now things are different, and I find myself thrilled at the prospect of being a part of whatever is about to take place. Magic accompanies a fantasy on the verge of coming true. This intense sensation works not only to thrill me, but to calm me. I feel as if I am being given an extravagant present, and I find myself so excited that when Hunter reaches one hand around and places his palm against the front of my dress, his fingers splayed to gently touch my pussy through the silk, I don’t move his hand away.

  The room hums with sexual promise. I can almost hear people’s heartbeats resounding around me like exotic drums. When I glance quickly at the other guests, I see the rose-colored flush in the women’s cheeks, the lustful heat reflected in the men’s eyes. Our hostess is surrounded by a bevy of beautiful people, and I am grateful to be part of the crowd.

  Then Mica takes off her panties, instantly setting the atmosphere for the rest of the evening. Yet, because she’s Mica Malone, former fashion model and hostess extraordinaire, she doesn’t simply take them off. There is art in her movements, theater in every gesture. This evening, she is clad in a floor-length shiny gray dress. More slip than dress, now that I look at it carefully, a piece of carefully crafted lingerie, made to look like outerwear until the sheer, fine lace panel at the top is noticed. Too fine to be worn outdoors. Meant only for the boudoir, or for naughty parties such as this.

  With finesse, she hikes the creamy fabric up to her tiny waist and lets us all have a good long look at her lean, toned thighs. Only when she is absolutely certain that our attention is at the tightest possible level does she slip her manicured fingertips beneath the waistband of her all-lace panties and drag them down her legs.

  We lean forward, as if one being, as if to hear the sound that gossamer-light fabric makes on skin. It is no sound at all, but I imagine the noise to be like the faintest whisper of music caught through an open window on a hot summer day.

  At this moment, something even stranger happens to me. I have an inexplicably uncontrollable urge to go forward, part the circle of people, and help her step out of the undergarments. But I am apparently not the only guest who wants to help. A pretty, raven-haired girl wearing a short, sapphire-blue nightie-style dress beats me to the prize, moving quickly forward, then dropping in front of Mica and reaching for the panties. Mica is gracious as she bestows them on the lovely guest. Then, turning, she raises her arms over her head, and whispers, “Who will help with this?”

  Now, I feel Hunter’s hands on me, pushing me forward, as if he has read my desires and knows that I am desperate to be the one chosen. A true and gracious hostess to the end, Mica obviously senses my need as well.

  “Dara,” she says, turning my name not only into a statement, but into a command. I make my way forward, and it feels as if I am in a waking dream as I bring my hands to Mica’s slender waist and lift, lift, lift her filmy slip over her head. As I do, she sighs and closes her eyes, and it is gratifying to be responsible for a little bit of her pleasure.

  But now Mica is naked, and the rest of us are behind her in the games. We can’t let her win so soon, can we? From the corner of my eye, I see the partyers quickly catching up. Men peel off their suit jackets, hurry to lose the shirts, slacks, boxers or briefs. Women, with less to remove, assist each other with any hard-to-reach buttons and zippers, tugging, pulling until I sense that I am surrounded by nude guests and that I am the only one left clothed.

  The only one, but for Hunter.

  He comes forward now, joining me in the center of the room. Slowly, he puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me so that I am facing him. He kisses me once, long and slow, his tongue meeting mine and further igniting my sense of dangerous desire. When we part, his eyes tell me secrets, make me promises. Deep within them, they ask me questions. Is this OK? Am I all right? Do I want to stop?

  I answer with actions rather than words. Putting my arms over my head, I close my own eyes and let him undress me. To the chorus of soft moans that surround us, Hunter undoes the ties at the top of my dress and slides the crimson satin sheath over my head. Beneath I have nothing on, and this makes him hesitate. He understands that I chose not to wear panties as a way of shocking him. And I have managed to do just that. Do I win? Am I now in charge of surprising him?

  When I open my eyes again, he is smiling at me in a brand-new way. The expression remains on his face as he removes his own clothes, and I warm at the sight of his fine, muscular body. It is a body I have admired many times before, but now is different. Now he is on display not only for me, but for the masses. Then I feel Mica’s fingers on my shoulder blades from behind, and the three of us move to a gold-covered velvet chaise longue that seems to have been perfectly positioned for our pleasure.

  “You’re OK with this?” Hunter asks me softly once we reach our destination, his lips warm against the skin of my neck, his arms around my waist. I nod, fascinated by the activities around us, but Hunter wants more information from me. “You understand what I’m asking?”

  Now I turn and look into his sterling-gray eyes, and I realize that he wants a verbal response. Am I willing to turn our solid twosome into a temporary threesome? Will it change what we have? I know that answer instantly: undoubtedly, yes. But will it change us for the better, or for the worse? I have a split second to deal with all the standard feelings of jealousy, of insecurity, of fear that any normal woman would possess at the concept of watching her boyfriend make love to another. Hunter is waiting for my answer, and I realize that if I want to leave, he will take my hand and lead me away.

  Around the room, groups of guests have found each other and entwined themselves in new and unusual positions. I get different images each time I move my head. Flickers of fantasies come to life as I see women going down on women while men help by holding open slippery pussy lips or slicking back a partner’s hair. People interlock like sexual puzzle pieces, and I find myself getting even more turned on as I see the raven-haired girl who took off Mica’s panties sliding back into them herself. She sprawls out on the floor, and a well-built young man begins to eat her through the
expensive lace.

  When I turn back to our little trio, I know that I can’t leave now. I have waited forever to play like this. To be in a safe situation where I can do exactly what it said on that invitation: Check my inhibitions at the door. Yes, I feel a pang when I see Mica place her hand on Hunter’s inner thigh. But that pang is quickly replaced by a different, more urgent sensation. One of lust, both hungry and demanding. And perhaps the emotions of jealousy, of insecurity, are what raise my excitement to a previously unreached height.

  “We stay,” I tell my boyfriend. “Please, let’s stay.”

  Hunter kisses me again, and then we create our own new positions on the chaise longue. At my words, Mica is the one to smile and make the first move, to sink to her knees and part her full lips around Hunter’s cock. He is in instant ecstasy, sighing and running his hands through Mica’s long blonde hair, now down from its carefully constructed upsweep, but I feel slightly unsure of what to do. Should I just watch, becoming once again an audience member as I am in most of my dealings in life?

  Before I can decide, Mica bobs her head off Hunter and instructs me, “You lick his balls while I do this.” It’s as if she understands that I need instruction, and that sense of peace I felt earlier returns to me again. Because this is something I can definitely do. I move to join Mica at her side, and Hunter seems deliriously happy at the prospect of having two women playing him simultaneously. “Oh, my girls,” he moans as Mica sucks his cock and I get between his legs and begin to lick and kiss his balls. “My lovely girls.”

  In the candlelight, the room takes on a hedonistic aura, as if our little trio has been transported back in time to Roman orgies, where decadence was not only encouraged but rewarded. But after a few minutes of being treated to such fabulous sucking, Hunter wants more action. He moves up on the sofa and, with a look divided evenly between me and Mica, he gets behind her. As he slips his cock between her thighs, he murmurs to her, “Go down on Dara while I fuck you. I want to watch her face change as you make her come.”

  Mica motions for me to move closer, and as Hunter thrusts inside her, she gives me my first tongue-lapping ever from a woman. She senses just what I want, even before I truly know myself. With a powerful movement, she slides two fingers into my sticky pussy and then begins to tease my clit with her lips. She works slowly and gently, giving me just the right amount of tension when she locks her lips around my pearl and begins to suck.

  As Hunter drives into her, Mica starts to moan, and the noises she makes reverberate within me. We are in rhythm together, the three of us in perfect synch, Hunter choosing our course and keeping us steadily moving forward. I open my eyes to see him looking down at me, and he tilts his head and then whispers for me to watch. I obey, staring as he blows out a nearby candle, wets the larger end with his mouth, and then parts Mica’s heart-shaped rear cheeks with his free hand. I know what is going to happen before Mica is aware of it. Hunter slides the spit-lubed candle end inside her, and Mica suddenly makes even more desperate, mewing noises against my cunt.

  Watching her get filled in two holes makes me climax, creaming against Mica’s mouth as Hunter leans forward and grabs hold of me. The electricity between the three of us is connected in a circle of flesh, and as I come, and Hunter comes, Mica climaxes between us.

  It is an awakening for me. Pure and simple. And in a hazy, dreamy way, I recall the image on the cover of the invitation. In my mind, that closed door swings open and an unimaginable range of pleasures floods free.

  Roaming Charges

  CHARLOTTE POPE

  I had been planning it for weeks, had even had several false starts. Not because I was afraid—hell, I wasn’t the one about to be embarrassed in public—but because I wanted to do it early, before Aaron had gotten used to the little wearable cell phone he’d bought. If I did it to him while the device was still a novelty, I figured he’d be less surprised, less shocked…and it would be a hell of a lot less exciting. That’s why I waited a full three weeks.

  I had given him endless shit about the device, just as I had when he’d bought his first cellular phone. I’d teasingly called him a yuppie, a sell-out; told him he wasn’t punk rock anymore. As if I hadn’t noticed that neither of us had been particularly punk rock for about five years—but never mind about that. I thought the idea of wearing your cell phone on your face like some bastard spawn of Madonna’s microphone was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard of. You can see these things anytime you walk around the financial district—it’s probably the same in any big city, really. They’re these little headsets that attach to a device that you keep in your pocket, allowing you to make phone calls with your hands free—or, more to the point, to walk the streets appearing to talk to yourself like a maniac. I razzed Aaron mercilessly about it.

  It was fun to tease him, but I think I hurt his feelings a little bit. Which is why I felt doubly compelled to give him and his phone a little make-up gift to show that there were no hard feelings.

  Then again, maybe it was just being “between jobs” that gave me such filthy ideas. Sitting around on the couch naked all day, savoring the knowledge of all that severance pay in our bank account. That, not to mention refraining from showering and eating half a pint of Ben & Jerry’s for lunch, all have a way of working positively surreal magic on your libido, I’ve found.

  And it could have just been the automatic association—the last time I’d spent any length of time at home had been right after college. Then, I’d been home because I was doing phone sex, sometimes as many as twenty calls a day. Being home all day, I couldn’t help but remember those times with fondness. And maybe I just couldn’t control myself.

  I knew Aaron would leave the office right at five; he always did on Fridays. Besides, we had theater tickets, so he’d want to get en route as fast as possible, even though the play wasn’t until eight. I knew I could count on his being right where I wanted him.

  I undressed, put on my garter belt and stockings, the white ones, my little white silk robe—no bra. I even put on my white spike heels, because Aaron was so partial to them. I sat down in the big easy chair, though; no way am I standing around in spike heels for anyone.

  I put on my favorite Dance Thrust CD—throbbing, thumping industrial-house, loud enough to give me some rhythm but not so loud as to drown out what I knew would be the delicious sounds of Aaron squirming.

  I waited until the clock said 5:14, then I called him.

  “Hello?”

  “You’re on the bus.”

  “I decided to take the train, actually.”

  “Ooooh, even better. Trains are long and thick, and they go fast through tight little holes deeeeeep in the ground. You know what I’m wearing?”

  “Excuse me?” Aaron’s voice sounded nervous.

  I cuddled up in the chair, letting my robe fall open, feeling the hot summer air on my bare thighs, belly, breasts.

  “I asked you if you knew what I was wearing. I’ll give you a hint: not much.”

  “That’s…uh…very interesting.” Now he sounded really nervous. “What’s that music?”

  “Dance Thrust,” I said. “ ‘Bound to the Throb.’ My very favorite disk to fuck to. Remember when you fucked me to this last week?”

  “I remember,” said Aaron, obviously trying to sound casual and conversational.

  “Every time I hear this music I want to touch myself. I’m touching myself now. I’m playing with my clit. This music makes my clit throb. Is it crowded on the train?”

  “Very crowded, actually,” he said. “Standing room only.”

  I giggled gleefully, pulled my robe further open to reveal my breasts. “Oh, so if you were to get, say, a big raging hard-on, everyone would be able to see?”

  “Uh…yes,” he said. “Definitely.”

  “Well, then, it probably wouldn’t be very nice for me to tell you that I’ve got my big black dick sitting out on the coffee table, just waiting for me to shove it inside me. And I’m thinking about h
ow it could be your dick.”

  I began to play with myself in earnest.

  “That’s…um…very interesting.”

  “Now I’m rubbing my pussy. I didn’t realize how wet it was. I could just shove that dick right in there. I wouldn’t need any lube. It’s the big one.”

  “The bigger of the two,” he said flatly.

  “Careful! You don’t want the people around you to know you’re having phone sex with your wife! Or can they already see your big hard-on?”

  “Not sure about that,” he said tersely.

  “But you are hard.”

  “That’s affirmative.”

  “Then they can probably see you. Don’t you let any of those bus-riding whores start sucking your dick, understand?”

  “Oh, no,” he said. “I don’t think that’s a danger.”

  “Well, if you’re standing up, your dick’s probably at face level, right?”

  “Kind of,” he said.

  “Gooood. Just imagine it’s me in that seat in front of you. I’d start sucking you off, no matter how many people were watching. Would you like that?”

  “Not sure it’d be appropriate,” said Aaron uncomfortably. “But yes.”

  I giggled. “Come on, I know what an exhibitionist you are. You’d love it. I’d love it, too. I’d take your dick out of your suit pants and run my mouth all the way up it to the head…you think you’re leaking some pre-cum?”

  “Not sure,” said Aaron.

  “Leaking a little pre-cum for your girl? Think I could lick it off?”

  “Probably.”

  “Oh, I think you are. I’d suck it right off the head of your cock. Lick it off, run my tongue all over you. Would that feel good?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Think I would look good doing it?”

  “No doubt.”

  “Want me to tell you what I’m wearing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, not yet. Why don’t you just make some guesses in your mind while I slip my fingers inside me…oooooooh.” I eased two fingers into my pussy and found it slick with desire. I pressed them in easily, as deep as they would go, and began to pump my fingers into my pussy while rubbing my clit with my thumb. I was really close to a climax already—whether from the forced exhibitionism or just the pleasure of talking dirty after so many hours of technical terms, I couldn’t begin to speculate.