I have my head in Helen’s lap. She smells of sunshine and cotton. I relax, content to listen to her telling Barbara stories about the people in her office. I have never visited Helen’s office. I am reluctant to have reality superimposed on the vivid images I have of her colleagues. Barbara and Helen used to work together, and Helen introduced Barbara to Mark.
When Barbara laughs at the punchline of Helen’s story, it is a raucous laugh that seems to escape from her. I turn my head slightly, knowing that Barbara will have one hand in front of her face. Helen feels me move, recognizes the reason and, unseen by the others, pinches my earlobe as she pulls me back to my original position. I look up at her. She mouths the word “later” and I shiver at the thought.
Despite Helen’s admonition, I find myself wondering about Barbara’s laugh. It reminds me of Miss Honeychurch in Room With a View, whose passionate nature is discernible only by the way in which she plays piano. With a stab of guilt, accompanied by a sudden erection, I have a flash of Barbara coming as raucously as she laughs.
On our second year out here, we almost got into a group thing. We’d stopped talking and started kissing, still in couples but with each couple acutely aware of the presence of the other. I left the decision to Helen, who in turn looked to Barbara. Mark was thinking with his cock and pushed up Barbara’s T-shirt to take her nipple into his mouth. The discomfort on Barbara’s face was obvious.
Helen grabbed me by the belt and said, more loudly than she needed to, “Come on Peter, I need a bed to tie you to.”
I was happy to leave. Barbara smiled her gratitude while trying to keep Mark’s fingers out of her shorts. Civilized man that I am, I still could not erase the sight of Barbara’s stiff nipple topping a small neat breast that just demanded to be taken into my mouth. Helen knew what I was thinking. When she rode me she held my nipples between her fingernails and used them like a bridle. I was sore for a week but my cock was made of ivory that night.
The scene was never repeated. Barbara confided in Helen her embarrassment at how Mark fucks her. I was puzzled when Helen passed on the remark. She just laughed and said, “Well, you’ve seen him dance haven’t you?” Mark thinks he dances like John Travolta, but he looks more like Fred Flintstone. He dances vigorously, with his eyes closed, paying little attention to either his partner or the rhythm of the music. The magnitude of the criticism made my balls retract.
I am constantly amazed at what women tell each other. Men brag, women tell the truth. It’s a frightening thought.
A tinny rendition of the James Bond theme fractures the silence. Mark has brought his cellphone, even on Memorial Day. Barbara glares at him, but he turns his back on her and takes the call. Mark uses an earpiece on his phone. He says he doesn’t want to fry the brain cells that survived the drugs. He looks demented as he paces in a circle, apparently talking to himself.
We overhear enough of the conversation to know that he has been summoned back to the city by some European emergency that he must respond to at once. I wonder at that – it’s 9 p.m. in Berlin right now. It occurs to me that I have just seen a piece of performance art. Maybe Mark doesn’t make his adventures up. Perhaps there is someone waiting for him even now in a city center hotel room.
To my surprise, Barbara lets Mark go without complaint – she just sits and watches as he takes the car, leaving her behind like luggage that we will forward to him later.
“I’m going to lie down in the cabin for a while,” Barbara says once the car is out of sight.
“Are you OK?” I say. Dumb question. Helen digs her fingers into my side to tell me to shut up.
“No Peter, I’m not OK, but I’m trying to get used to it. Not everyone has a marriage like yours. I live with a man who never touches me, but who tries to fuck anything female that can move without a zimmer frame. He doesn’t even have the tact not to embarrass me in front of my friends. So I’m trying to preserve my dignity by not letting myself cry until I get back to my room.”
Barbara’s eyes are wet, but she is standing straight and her voice is strong and clear. She holds my gaze until I look away, then she picks up a bottle of wine and heads back to the cabin. Helen follows her. They talk quietly but passionately. I can’t hear what is said. Then they hug in that way that women do, halfway between a caress and a handshake.
Helen waits, head on one side, hands on her hips, for my questions. I don’t ask any. She looks at me for the longest time. I seldom know what she is thinking. She moves to stand in front of me, tilts my head down towards hers and says, “I love you, Peter Brader.”
We give Barbara an hour before we return to the cabin. I head into the kitchen to clear away the debris of our meal. Helen goes to check on Barbara. I have just loaded the dishwasher when I hear Helen say, “Come here, Peter.”
I know from her tone that we have started to play. I am surprised, but out of long habit I go to her and wait, eyes downcast, for her instructions. I love surrendering to her like this. My cock is already thickening and my heartbeat is elevated. It is so exciting not to know what will happen next. Even so, I am concerned. Surely she’s not going to take me here, in the main room. The thought worries and thrills me at the same time.
“Strip, Peter.”
Helen has never done this before. On our Memorial Day weekends she has always used the bedroom for our fucking.
I don’t look at her or speak as I strip. I feel exposed standing there, my cock sending semaphore signals of desire to my mistress.
“Put your hands behind your back,” Helen says.
The steel cuffs Helen produces from her bag are cold against my wrists. They make me feel pleasantly helpless.
“Peter, I want you to stay hard as long as you can. Let me help you,” She ties a soft leather strap around my balls. My cock trembles at her touch. She grins and plants a chaste little kiss just underneath the head.
I wait for her to undress. She doesn’t. Instead she reaches into her bag and pulls out a scarf. Standing behind me she blindfolds me with the scarf. I feel her breath on my neck. Her teeth sink into my earlobe as her fist closes around my cock. I groan.
“You wanted Barbara today, didn’t you,” she says.
I nod.
“Say it. Tell me what you were thinking”
“I wanted to know how she sounds when she comes,” I say.
She lets go of my cock. A cool finger probes my anus.
“So you prefer her to me?”
“No. I love you. I need you.”
“But . . . ?”
“But I like Barbara.”
“Would you like her to fuck you?”
“Yes,” I say. I think I know where Helen is going with this but I can’t believe she really means it.
Helen kisses me; a deep, slow kiss, exploring my mouth with hers. Except it is not Helen. Helen is still behind me.
The kissing stops. Before I can speak Helen presses against my back and whispers, “It will be OK, Peter. Trust me.” I nod my head slightly and she whispers “Thank you.”
I understand the blindfold. It gives us the option to pretend that none of this has happened.
No one is touching me now. I wait. I assume the women are undressing. I wonder if they are touching. Suddenly it occurs to me that over the years they may have done more than just touch. My mind doubts that this is true, Helen would have told me, but my cock goes with the image and twitches ludicrously.
A hand, strong and purposeful, pushes on my shoulder, signalling for me to kneel. The floor is hard on my knees. I won’t be able to do this for long. I recognize the smell of Helen’s sex, seconds before it is pressed against my face. She holds my head and rubs herself against me. My tongue presents itself for use. She presses her labia against my mouth until my head is forced backwards. She rubs me in a figure of eight against her sex, then she is gone.
Seconds later another sex is pressed against my mouth. To my surprise it smells and tastes just like the first. Maybe I can’t tell the difference between Helen
and Barbara. Maybe Helen is returning to confuse me. The message is clear enough: stop trying to analyse, go with the flow, be the moment, let the sex flow through you. That message is at the heart of my sexuality, and I recognize it as their gift to me.
Hands guide me to lie first on my side and then on my back. Cushions are placed under my head and my butt. Care is taken to ensure that I am never touched by both women at the same time. I could let myself imagine that there is only Helen or only Barbara, but now is the time for feeling, not imagining.
A mouth suckles my nipple. The sound of it is loud against the eerie silence that possesses us like a spell. The tongue moves down my belly slowly, skilfully, until it reaches my pubic hair, then it goes away. A hand, warm, strong, grips my cock around the shaft. The palm of a second hand rubs my precum over the head of my cock, making me wriggle and moan. It takes effort not to come, but I control myself.
Attention shifts from my cock to my mouth. Swift butterfly kisses that make me smile. Then tickling. Tickling that goes on until I am giggling helplessly with tears wetting my blindfold.
I am allowed to get my breath back, then I am mounted. My cock slides into ripe wetness that grabs at me eagerly. Hands on my chest. Thighs around my legs. Deep forceful strokes, followed, after the shortest of times, by a tremor of passion that passes through to my bones. She falls forward onto me, sweat-slick breasts sliding over me, teeth nipping at my neck.
Then she rolls off me, leaving my cock straining for relief, my body demanding stimulus. Both are granted by the mouth that envelops my cock and the swollen labia that descend upon my face. I lick eagerly at first, then become distracted by the play of teeth and tongue and lips upon my cock.
I break the spell of silence, begging to be allowed to come. The mouth releases me as she slides down my body and impales herself on my cock. She does not move, but she squeezes me with her cunt, milking me irresistibly. She is moaning now, but quietly, as if she were gagged. Her hands are on my ankles; her cunt is pressed hard against my pubis. When I start to come, her grip on my ankles tightens and I hear a groan that starts in the back of her throat and becomes an explosive “Fuck!” She stays on me until my cock softens, then she lets it slide out.
I am exhausted. Cool fingers undo the leather around my balls. My cock is patted gently, like a Labrador being rewarded for performing a favorite trick. I find it hard to focus. My awareness always ebbs after I come.
I am being helped up and led somewhere. A bed. Fresh clean linen. The bed feels so comforting after the hardness of the floor. My hands are uncuffed. My arms are massaged vigorously and asexually. Scarves are used to tie my wrists to the headboard.
I am ready to give way to sleep when I hear that unmistakable buzz followed by the smell of lubricated latex. My asshole clenches in anticipation.
“Spread, Peter,” Helen’s voice. A calm command she knows will be obeyed.
The vibrator is slim and has a slight curve. It is perfect for stimulating the prostate. I relax and let it slide in, wondering who is holding it. My tired cock starts to rally. I think I hear a giggle from beside the bed, but I am distracted by having my balls sucked one after the other.
My brain is fuzzy. I want to sleep. I want to fuck for ever. I turn down the noise in my mind and focus on the cunt that is now raising and lowering itself on my cock. I have no control over the pace. I am a flesh dildo. I am happy.
With the vibrator in place I manage to stay hard until after she comes. I am rewarded with a skilful handjob that drains my balls and takes the last of my energy.
I hear Helen say, “You can sleep now Peter,” and I know the game is over. As sleep washes over me, I think I hear a different voice say, very quietly, “Thank you.”
I sleep late. When I awake my hands are free, the blindfold is gone, my ass is sore and my memory is confused. Before I can get out of bed, Helen and Barbara, both fully dressed and looking refreshed and relaxed, bring me breakfast on a tray.
“Good morning sleepyhead,” Helen says. “We’ve brought you something to build up your strength.”
“Do I need building up?” I ask.
Helen ignores the question and hands me a glass of cold OJ. Barbara is standing at the foot of the bed. She is smiling, not broadly, but persistently. I doubt she is aware of it.
“Barbara is going to come and stay with us for a while,” Helen says.
I look at both of them. Helen posed it as a statement, but we all know it was a question. The silence continues while I think about it.
“It’s only until I decide what to do about Mark,” Barbara says, “Helen thought I could stay in the guest room for a while.”
I think about how long I have known Mark and yet how little I really like him. I consider how comfortable Helen and Barbara are together. I remember the carefully anonymous passion we shared last night. I know that if I say yes, it will change things for ever in ways that I can’t yet predict.
“I’m sorry about you and Mark,” I say to Barbara, “but I’m glad you’re coming to stay. I’m sure we’ll work something out.”
The look on Helen’s face tells me I’ve done the right thing. I don’t know if last night will be repeated. I trust Helen to work that out. I do know that I am still naked under the bedclothes and that I desperately need to use the bathroom.
“If you ladies will excuse me,” I say, “I have some urgent business to attend to, privately.”
Helen grins and leads Barbara by the elbow, saying, “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” in a terrible John Wayne accent.
Barbara picks up the theme and says, “Yep, and there are some things a man must do alone.” They are both laughing as they leave the room.
I’m still not sure what I’ve just agreed to, but however it turns out, it won’t be dull. I head off to the bathroom, whistling happily.
2. Independence Day
“So how often do you fuck my soon to be ex-wife, Peter?”
Peter looks the way he always looks, calm to the point of not being there. I wonder if he even sees me.
“Is she good? Does she moan for you? Or does the frigid bitch freeze your dick off?”
I don’t want to be saying this. I don’t plan it. It just comes.
“Or maybe it’s your bull-dyke wife that she has between her legs?” I hear myself say.
My mouth fills with blood, my jaw is on fire and the floor of the bar is much closer than it was. The bastard hit me.
By the time I make it to my feet he’s gone. People are trying not to look at me. No one offers to help.
Who would have thought Peter would know how to punch? I knew he was the silent type, but I didn’t think he was the violent silent type. Shit, this is a man who lets his wife tie him to the bed before they fuck – not exactly Mr Macho. I haven’t seen him hit anyone since grade school. And then he just walks away like he’s John Wayne and I’m a bit part player from central casting.
So much for trying to arrange a meeting with Barbara for tomorrow. Just once I wish I could keep my smart mouth shut. My wife’s been living at Peter and Helen’s since she left me on Memorial Day. Great sense of timing she has. We’ve all been friends for years, Peter, Helen, Barbara and I. At least I thought we had. Now I wonder when I became the odd one out; an unfortunate addition that arrived whenever they invited Barbara anywhere.
I’m sure there’s nothing going on, Barbara is just staying with them while she sorts herself out. At least she hasn’t tried to throw me out of our house. I should be grateful, but you know how it is in the dark hours of the night. I keep imagining them in a continuous three-way. If Peter wasn’t so terminally monogamous and Helen wasn’t such a control freak, I could almost believe it.
All I’d wanted out of the meeting today was to arrange to see Barbara face to face. She won’t talk to me on the phone, but Peter agreed to meet me here. We used to do a lot of drinking here once. Well, I did. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Peter really shitfaced. So I get him here and insult him badly enoug
h that Peter the placid actually hits me. Good job!
I decide to stop being the bar-room floorshow and go to the restroom to clean myself up. The man in the mirror looks older than me, he hasn’t had enough sleep, and his bottom lip is split just below the left incisor. My shirt is history, blood all over the collar. I’m meeting Kirsten for lunch in an hour. “Welcome to the fucked up life of Mark Grady,” I say. Even my reflection in the mirror doesn’t smile.
My cellphone goes off and the “Mission Impossible” theme tune, my latest choice of ring tone, bounces around the restroom. This strikes me as absurdly appropriate. “Your mission Mr Grady, should you decide to accept it, is to get a life.” I start to laugh, way too loudly. I’m still laughing when I answer the call.
“Well, you sound like you’re having a good time,” Kirsten says, “did you start to party without me?”
“Not exactly.”
“Listen Mark, I know it’s a bummer but I’m going to have to blow you off for lunch today.”
“Why?” I say, sounding petulant even to my own ears. I hate the but-mom-you-PROMISED whine in my voice.
“I’ve got to work, Mark. To get things done before the holiday tomorrow.”
I hear a male voice I almost recognize calling out impatiently, “Come on Kirsten or we’ll lose our table.”
I pretend I didn’t hear that and put a leer into my voice to say, “I’d rather you were blowing me than just blowing me off.”
“So would I,” Kirsten said, “in fact, didn’t I do that this morning?” I don’t know if she’s being humorous or genuinely can’t remember.
We always have sex in the mornings. In seven years of marriage with Barbara she never once woke up wanting to fuck. Kirsten does it like it’s part of her morning exercise routine; a warm up before she goes jogging.
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