Absolute Threesomes

by Sommer Marsden

  I worried Claire might not be enjoying this, might feel used, abused somehow by all this. I looked to her face. She was licking her fingers, wetting the tip of the professor’s penis with her saliva, stroking upward with her thumb the sensitive V-shaped cleft on the underside of its bulbous head, watching him pump with each stroke. I could find no sign of displeasure.

  Now G. had pushed her finger all the way into Claire. She then turned to me, pulled me by my penis and began pushing the flat side of its head against the round muscle of Claire’s anus. It seemed pliable, relaxed. The lower margin cupped slightly with each nod of my tip, the upper margin almost reached over to envelope the little slit at the end. G. spit into her hand and rubbed saliva into the little clasp where Claire and I were joined. My tip disappeared. G pushed me down, down, Claire following along, until I was direct on her hole.

  I peeked again at Claire’s face to see if she was still okay.

  She was working the professor’s tip just inside her lips, rolling her head side to side.

  G. pushed me further into Claire with four gentle thrusts of her fist, then came around behind me. Finding my silver photo case on the floor of the closet she kicked it around behind me and stood on it so her pelvis cupped mine, in curved parallels.

  She began thrusting from behind, pushing me deeper into Claire. I was aware of a great tightness around my penis, greater friction than I had ever experienced, so much so that Claire seemed both to move with me and remain stationary at the same time.

  G. reached around me with both arms and fastened her hands on Claire, her fingers hooked into the little angle the body makes with the thighs when it is bent over, and pulled her further on to me, bringing her into our thrusts a synchronous motion of penetration.

  Claire had gone down on the professor. He was in her half way, her hands positioned, palms against the wall, the tips of her thumbs and forefingers forming a little diamond through which the professor projected. This graceful gesture cushioned her against the impact of her face against the wall when we thrust her down on the professor and added a resilient, spring-like recoil that let her bounce back.

  G. was pumping harder. Claire appeared to be opening comfortably. I realized, G. was the one fucking Claire, using my penis to do it. I added a little push of my own.

  I thought perhaps G. might need a little something, isolated, as she was, working the engine back there without direct stimulation of her own. I reached around to grab her buttocks, digging my fingertips into the hard, contracting meat of her muscle. She cried out and bit my back, firmly, picking up her pace, issuing, for the first time, little cooing sounds each time she thrust her pelvis against mine.

  I moved my hand between her legs and closed within my fist, the mossy wetness of hair and soft ridges. I squeezed her tight enough to let her really know that I was there. Then, slipping and slathering and kneading and probing, I found the bump of her clitoris, rubbing it and pinching it. I set my finger on top of it, so that with each motion of her pelvis she would get a direct pulse of pressure. Good, I thought. But one thing more: I thought she should feel fucked just as she was fucking Claire. So I rolled two fingers over the lip of her entry deep inside and felt the ridges of her tubular sex slide over me. Now she had a prick to ride.

  The professor could not possibly know what was going on over here, isolated, as he was by the anonymity of the wall, feeling only with his penis and his imagination. Playful, quirky, he had, without hesitation, placed his penis in the dark hole of uncertainty, apparently trusting that the ethos of pleasure-making would be kind and just. It took great courage I thought, to give up any indicators by which he could anticipate what was about to happen to him, or even know who was touching him. Nothing could be certain beyond the tender layer of flesh that connected us.

  This wall, this membrane that partly concealed and partly revealed, had given us the freedom to make up a creative fiction, a healing fiction for the malady of reality in our lives. Oh, shut up, Claire would certainly have said if she were listening in on my brain. Just like a psychologist, analyzing life while the rest of us are enjoying it.

  On this side of the wall a great rhythm had been established, initiated by the incantatory thrusts of G, transmitted through me to Claire, then on to the Professor. The intensity was picking up. And as it did, the ascending ladder of G’s utterances became the music by which each of us judged our place on the crescendo. She was the command that would bring us together to the brink.

  I don’t remember what happened after that. Details melt into the dissolving interfaces between us. I do know that as we moved more as one, our pleasures also moved more as one, until the lines of separation dissolved.

  And I don’t remember who came first. But I remember that deafening silence that preceded our undoing, a silence in which everything paused, right down to the high-pitched ringing in my ears. Even the urgent motions of G. lulled like the luffing of jib sails in slow wind. And there was a sense of spreading, as if in windless flight out over an alluvial plane, a lifting that lasted and lasted and lasted...

  Then, collapse.

  The two women and I huddle on the floor in a catatonic, passive embrace where we stay for an indeterminate time, caressing whatever we, by happenstance, were touching.

  At last I rose, turned on the shower in the narrow stall and waited until the water was warm.

  G. was stirring. I lifted and half-carried her to the shower where, using my favorite Lapi de Provance - a lavender soap from the South of France - I washed her carefully. All over, careful with each prominence and fold, the slipperiness on her skin the residue of lovemaking departing down the drain.

  I left her leaning against the shower wall and went to get Claire. And with an affectionate, companionable, almost reverent sense of respect, I washed her too.

  I enjoyed, in a different way, the gift of washing. There was a peacefulness to it and it felt like acceptance had been granted into a private realm of friendship, passage to a room in the house where no words were spoken.

  Nor did we speak during the drying-off period, nor during the putting on of robe and clothes. The physicality that remained, fleetingly, during bathing was diminishing as it wanted to. We were returning to ourselves. We did not resist.

  Breakfast was continental. People came and went at will, sampling from the modest buffet of croissant and jellies, corn flakes, and fruit. None of our group showed.

  During the time that remained the professor and G became more part of the academic proceedings in the village and drifted away from us, even from dinnertime at the ancient table.

  Claire’s boyfriend showed up after all. On schedule. Thursday, as she said he would. I was shocked. She spent the rest of the week with him doing I don’t know what. I spent the days snowboarding like the mad bomber, hurling myself in a projectile of dangerous and reckless abandonment down the hill. Didn’t matter. I could die that day and have absolutely no regrets.

  I did catch Claire’s eye. Though only once. It was when she looked back over her shoulder as she and her boyfriend were leaving for an evening out. I glimpsed there a brief opening of tenderness, a melting forth, then, freezing up again.

  I returned to school, finished my degree in psychology. Changed my thesis title from “Archetypes of Schizophrenia” to “Behavioral Differences Between Love and That Which Has The Appearance of Love.” Claire came to my campus once during my senior year, attending a conference on Advances in Library Science. I saw her standing in the cafeteria line and without hesitation, went up to her. The tenderness that had come and gone from her eyes before, came again, though it flashed just briefly. “Be well,” she said, and walked away.

  When I discovered I couldn’t make a living trying to understand human nature I went back to get a MBA. These days I do what everybody else does - trade stocks on Wall Street and live with my wife and twin three-year-old daughters in t
he suburbs.

  Over the years I have wondered what would have happened if Claire and I had stopped at the love kiss. Stopped right there and not gone any further. Would we be together now, would we be a “thing,” a couple, cohorts in highrise and coffee.

  I don’t know.

  But sometimes when I am making love to my wife I think of Claire, bending over the professor, G pulling her on to me. It makes me come sooner. And harder. And I get a twinge that feels a little like unfaithfulness. But for all I know my wife is thinking about the linebacker’s hand up her dress in the middle of Casablanca or the sou chef fucking her standing up in cold storage. It’s all right with me, as long as we don’t share the details - her pleasures mixing with my pleasures to lift us both.

  Aren’t we, after all, the pleasures and sorrows we offer to each other? Even the love kiss, and the fading cone of possibility it opens briefly into the future.

  Lust and Longing

  An Afternoon at the Library

  By Naomi Bellina

  Damn I’m horny. I forget how not having sex on a regular basis makes me feel. Irritable, crabby, stressed. But I suppose I should have thought of that before I broke up with Ted. He was pretty useless for most things, but that man had a libido like a randy teenager. Well, if I can’t have sex I might as well work. I can forget about my needy pussy for awhile when I’m at the library, immersed in my research project.

  Until that hot, delicious hunk with the tight t-shirt walks past and makes my knees go weak.

  What the hell is a gorgeous young thing like that doing working in the reference section of the library? Here, amidst the matronly women with their shapeless dresses and weary eyes. He’s a breath of fresh air for my tired lungs. Oh good, someone needs help with the copy machine. He comes out from behind his desk and I get a glimpse of his toned upper torso. If I lean a bit to one side, I can see his long legs too. Nice.

  Studly here is an extra little perk to hanging out at the library. I love this place! Just the smell of all these books makes my heart sing. I’ve always loved to read, and having a place where I can go and fill up a bag with precious treasure that doesn’t cost me a dime is my idea of heaven. I often have a break between clients, so I take the opportunity to work on my projects in this peaceful haven. I hang out on the second floor because it’s quiet, though today someone is singing along with whatever program he’s viewing on the public computer. But that’s okay, I’m happy too, let him sing.

  Though I try to focus on the computer screen in front of me, my eyes are drawn to Studly. I discreetly check out his ass as he walks past. It looks good. He’s a bit thinner than I like my men, but everything is toned and moving well. His buzz cut reminds me of a military guy, and listening to him assist patrons, I can tell he’s intelligent and patient. Perhaps a bit too mild-mannered to keep my passionate spirit interested for the long run, but good for a quick romp.

  I’ve been smiling at him for several weeks now, saying hello and goodbye. No ring on his finger, though that doesn’t mean anything these days. Since he’s not responding to my flirtation, I have to assume he’s either gay or very dedicated. I mean, come on, who would not want ME?

  Concentrate, focus, type! I slip in my ear buds and pull up a new-age station on Internet radio. There. Now maybe my mind will stay in place, and not go tripping off to la-la-lust-land. So engrossed am I in my project (finally!) I lose track of time and am startled when I feel a tap on my arm.

  “We’ll be closing shortly, ma’am,” Studly informs me.

  Ma’am. I’m not a ma’am, my mother is a ma’am. Well, maybe I do look like one today, with my hair up in a bun and my cozy jacket on. It’s cold in here. Still. I feel like he’s thrown down a gauntlet and I am not one to run from a challenge.

  There’s no one on this floor except the two of us, and still a good twenty minutes till closing time. I saunter over to the desk and clear my throat.

  “Excuse me, would you help me with something?” I inquire sweetly. Kind soul that he is, he ‘s smiling as he rises from his desk, not glaring at me the way the ladies downstairs do when I ask for assistance. I lead him back to a secluded corner and standing behind him, reach up to a top shelf. I press my body close to his, really close, leaving no doubt that it’s an intentional move. There’s no time to be coy today.

  “I can’t quite reach this book,” I breathe in his ear. I don’t move as he slowly stretches his arm to grab the book, then turns around. He tries to back up, but there’s no place to go. He reflexively hands the book to me, confusion on his face.

  “We’re closing in just a bit,” he says, taking a tentative step to one side. I follow, our bodies touching.

  “You know, I don’t think I know your name. I’m Trixie.” That’s a lie, of course. I always give a fun, fake name when I’m being bad.

  “I’m Josh,” he stammers, and finally looks into my eyes.

  “Hello Josh. I wonder, do you have a few minutes to help me with something else?” I trail my finger down his chest, then splay my fingers flat on his stomach. Damn, the feel of a hard, male body. Moisture forms between my legs.

  “I, I’m seeing someone, they work here too...” he begins.

  “That’s okay, I don’t want a call or a ring or a commitment. I just want a little time with you naked. Ask her to join us.”

  Oh my, where did that come from? How daring of me. But what the heck, another perky, tight, young body in the mix would be fun. She was probably one of those cute little things that work in the children’s section. We would blow her mind, both of us doing her at once.

  “You’re open to a threesome?” Josh grins, and a flare of passion sparks in his eyes.

  Sure, why not, I would share. There’s plenty of Josh to go around.

  He whips out his phone and sends a quick text. These kids, so fast with their fingers. I hope they move slower on me. He flips a switch to dim the lights, so only a few sunbeams illuminate our shadowed corner. Perfect.

  “While we’re waiting...” he trails two fingers starting at my temple, down my cheek, tracing my collar bone, down to my breast. Rubbing the already protruding nipple brings a moan from deep in my throat.

  “You’re so beautiful. I’ve been watching you. I can tell by the way you move you’re a hot-blooded girl.”

  Ah, now I’m a ‘girl’. Much better.

  The ding of the elevator interrupts us. Josh peers out from our hidden nook and grins.

  “Now the real fun starts.”

  A blond Viking strides towards us. A male Viking. Um, what?

  “Trixie, this is Theo, he works in the books-on-tape section. They keep him locked away, so you probably don’t see him much.”

  Hell no, I guess not. I would remember if I saw this gorgeous hunk of man. What was going on here? Librarians were supposed to be old and frumpy, not hot and sexy.

  “This is your ‘someone’?” I ask Josh, though anyone can see from his goofy grin he’s madly in love with Theo. “But wait, if you’re gay...”

  “We’re a little everything, sweet Trixie,” Theo says with a British accent that sends chills down my spine. He slowly removes his belt. “We just love sex, and we love to play. How about you?”

  My heart skips a beat as his belt thuds to the floor. I’ve never been with two men. Will I be able to handle this? They both continue to undress and condoms fall like candy from Theo’s pocket. I stand with my mouth hanging open. My own private strip show. Theo obviously spends some time in the gym, though Josh is toned and in good shape too. Well, well. My sweet, adorable fantasy man has turned into a mighty stallion, complete with a raging hard-on. Theo is ready for action too, by the looks of his stiff tool. My temperature soars and now, not only am I drenched between my legs, drops of sweat have formed between my breasts. I pull my shirt over my head, thankful I wore a pretty bra today.

  Josh
grabs a stool out and perches on it.

  “Theo, grab a few books for Trixie to stand on. That’s it, now, just bring your lovely self in front of me, straddle my legs...”

  As I spread my legs in front of Josh, Theo reaches under my skirt and pulls down my panties. I step out them, enjoying the rush of cool air that hits my pussy lips. Josh hikes my skirt up around my waist, pulls my hips in towards him, and impales my body onto his hard cock. We moan together. Such bliss, to have a solid piece of male inside me again.

  I gasp as Theo’s fingers probe my asshole.

  “I don’t know if I can fit you. I don’t do that too often,” I tell him.

  “I’ll go nice and easy. I brought a pat of butter from our break room to slick you up.”

  His finger slides into my rear hole and I instinctively clench my pussy. Josh unfastens my bra and lowers his head to suck my breast.

  Totally distracted by the warm and tingly sensations coming from my nipple, I relax as Theo rubs the head of his cock around my hole, then slides it all the way into my ass. He begins to move slowly, gently stroking in and out. Josh soon picks up the rhythm and the three of us rock together. Theo and Josh caress each other and me, hands everywhere. Having both openings filled, and a hard, sweaty body at my back and front is like dancing with a storm. Thunder and lightning, electricity building.

  An announcement blares over the speaker, interrupting our bliss. Five minutes till closing. Much as I would like this to go on forever, I know we need to wrap it up. I position myself just right on Josh, rubbing my clit against his pubic bone. My moans escalate in volume, and the two men pick up the pace. With a yelp of pleasure, I arch my back and come. Theo follows quickly with a stifled groan, and Josh is right behind him, throwing his head back as he lets out a yell.