The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Donna George Storey
Page 7
The three of us lay quietly for a moment, listening to the sounds of traffic rising twelve stories from the street below.
But history has its own momentum.
I nudged Chris to turn off the light.
The darkness made it easier for the show to begin. For Chris to reach over and cup my left breast gently. For Mario to trace my collarbone with his finger, then press his lips to my neck.
It tickled a little, and I laughed. They laughed too. Two male voices, one female, filling the room with the sound of pleasure entwined with disbelief.
Dreams Before Bedtime
Before I get to the good part, I have a confession to make. The truth is, I’m used to crowded beds. Just the week before, I’d treated myself to a group encounter. There’s nothing like it for a good night’s sleep.
I’d been making good progress on my paper for the conference with a close reading of the text for Sally’s Tru-Vue photo poster from 1933. The caption writer had indulged his own fantasies with a description of Sally’s “proud, arched body . . . floating among the moonbeams . . . gliding, turning, skimming.”
It got worse. “Bewitched by her own beauty,” Sally spread her feathery wings for the finale “fluttering wildly, heart racing madly – pulses pounding.” And then her joy was over, and she was serene again.
You don’t have to have a PhD to figure out we’re talking 1930s euphemisms for masturbation and orgasm, as if the male voyeur were observing her subjective pleasure and not merely projecting his own. This fantasy of orgasmic flight, I decided, would make the perfect conclusion to my talk. Couldn’t it be seen as a symbol of the audience’s desire to escape the grim realities of the Depression? That would explain why they gave Sally their money and their love, men and women alike.
Bewitched by my own cleverness, I shut down the computer and crawled into bed, my brain still flickering with images in vintage black-and-white.
It was then she came through my bedroom door, so lightly and gracefully, “skimming” might indeed be the right word. She perched herself on the edge of my bed and smiled. Her flesh gleamed white in the shadows. I smelled her powder and the faint musk of female sweat.
I should have been tongue-tied in the presence of my idol, but the words gushed through my lips like a fountain, the question no interviewer ever asked her, the question I longed to have her answer before she flew off again. What was sex like seventy years ago? Tell me. Make me feel how it was for you.
Sally’s smile widened, but her eyes looked sad. Of course she could no longer tell me. She hadn’t come to give me something. It was her turn to watch the show.
On cue, two more bodies climbed onto the bed. Male bodies, dressed in antique clothes. Slowly, their faces shifted into focus. They seemed like old friends.
The name of the sturdy young man in the worker’s cap changes, depending on the night – Stan or Paolo or Johann – as does his job, one he’s lucky to have – meat packer, baker, WPA construction worker. Maybe he helped build the fairgrounds. But he always lives in a boarding house. He’s in love with the landlady’s daughter and is saving every penny to marry her. He used to think of her white hands kneading bread when he lay on his narrow cot at night, pumping his cock in his fist, wiping himself guiltily afterward with a rough handkerchief.
But the summer of the World’s Fair, all he thinks of is Sally.
The young man stretches out beside me and holds me in his arms, pulling me into his skin, so that suddenly I’m with him – I am him – wandering through the midway at night. He saunters under the sixty-four-story towers of the Sky Ride, past the Toboggan Glide and the Slide for Life, a ticket to see Sally clutched in his calloused hand. He takes his place in the back of the club. The front tables are for the rich men and their fancy ladies, even a few society wives who come to be titillated. He hates these men who spoil themselves with luxuries while so many starve, but he likes this place, because here, he knows he is their equal. When Sally appears, every man here will feel the same liquid flame shoot straight down his spine, melting his kneecaps, turning his cock to aching wood. A poor young worker can never have her for his own, but neither can the bosses, try though they may to clutch at her with their pale, fat fingers. For Sally’s beauty, glowing with an opalescent sheen that reminds him of the drops of semen on his belly in the moonlight, belongs to everyone. To a future where all will enjoy her bounty in an endless feast of image and light.
Now the second man moves behind me, pressing his hard-on against my ass. His hands encircle my waist, and he tugs, tugs me out of the young workman’s skin, into his own body, sprawled on a café chair, half-drunk on champagne, close enough to Sally to touch her. His name? Usually something like William B. Worthalot III, son of one of the city’s most prominent men of business. Young Worthalot was at the opening gala, one of the first to spring a woody at the sight of Sally as Lady Godiva.
He’s been to the Streets of Paris many times since. Once he brought his favorite mistress, a shop girl so lovely she needs no corset to mold her body to perfection. Afterward, William convinced her to pose for him like Sally, wearing nothing but feather fans, and later nothing at all. At first he had to coax her to show herself – You have such natural beauty, my dear, you’re a born star. Show me. Let me see you as you really are. In the end, he could tell it aroused her, those rosy nipples standing up so stiff against the creamy white of her breasts. It made him hard too, very hard, a condition he could no longer rely on as he once did.
Tonight he has brought college friends from Denver. More than the fan dance, he enjoys their discomposure when Sally swishes by the table, as well as their moist-lipped gratitude when he offers to guide them to his favorite brothel after the show.
He himself observes Sally with a cool eye. On the face of it, she’s no different from Chicago’s other favorite daughters who bare all – Margie Hart, Ann Corio, Sunya “Smiles” Slane. How has Sally put herself above the rest? A certain twinkle in her eye, a secret swivel of the hips? The answer eludes him, which is why he keeps coming back, to grasp that thing and understand her strange power. And as much as I dislike him, I recognize myself in him, a man of untold riches who will never be satisfied.
I looked to Sally, watching us watching her.
Did I get it right? I asked.
She bobbed her head lightly – in assent or farewell – then vanished into air.
How These Things Really Happen
In dirty stories, threesomes are always the same: three sets of mouths and hands and asses and whatever combination of cocks and cunts joining in every possible way so you’re no longer sure what belongs to whom, which is probably the idea.
In fact, I wouldn’t have minded seeing Mario bend Chris over the bed, then vice versa, or picking up a few insider tips as they sucked each other’s cocks, or being witness to the most forbidden turn-on of all: a slow, loving, man-to-man soul kiss.
But it would have taken a lot more wine – and a lot more honesty – for us to go there.
Not that I should complain with a man on each side focused solely on my pleasure, an abundance of hands and lips and the heady scent of male flesh. But it wasn’t at all like the fantasies in one crucial respect. My friends had divided my body in two, North and South Korea, and stretching from my neck to my clit was a DMZ that neither would cross. So far, our frolic was less a threesome than two one-and-a-halves on the same bed.
I would have to be the one to get the peace talks moving.
I sat up and turned, positioning myself between them, studying their cocks openly for the first time. Mario’s rose red and thick against the dark curls. Chris’s dick was longer and curved, reminding me oddly of the parking brake in my car, smooth and pale golden, eternally erect.
“What beautiful cocks,” I murmured and leaned over to suck Chris. He filled my mouth with heat, the spices of male crotch. I started to hum. At first he laughed, then sighed.
For Mario I showed off some tongue tricks. Quick little figure eights just bel
ow the head, long gliding ice cream licks from root to tip. I saw Chris watching with narrowed, glittering eyes. Lust made him a stranger. It scared me. And it turned me on.
“Elizabeth, please stop now,” Mario begged. He tugged me down and rolled me over to face Chris to make a nice Elizabeth sandwich. I heard a condom wrapper tearing, the snap of latex. He pushed himself inside me so quickly I cried out.
“You’re on breast duty, Hansen,” Mario called over my shoulder.
“With pleasure,” Chris replied and scooted lower to take a nipple in his lips.
Mario pulled my leg up and over his thighs and began to thrust, all the while whispering in my ear. About how beautiful I was, so beautiful and smart he’d been in love with me forever. There was no woman in the world like me, with a pussy so hot and wet.
I closed my eyes and let the sensations flow through me, Mario filling my cunt, Chris flicking his tongue over one nipple, stroking the other with the pad of his thumb. But best of all were those words, so soothing and sweet.
My belly was on fire, and I was dying for Chris to rub my clit, but I sensed they’d drawn that boundary again. Still, I wouldn’t give up my dreams of world peace. I reached down and took Chris’s cock in my hand. It felt good, good to hold him and stroke him, and for that moment, we were like the fantasies, all of us connected, cock to cunt, breast to lips, hand to cock again, in one pulsing circle.
Suddenly Mario grunted and pushed into me with gliding, rhythmic strokes.
Chris looked up and met my eyes with a frown, my question mirrored in his eyes.
Did he just come – already?
We both smiled. Mario always managed to cross the finish line before we did.
Climax
But Chris and I were never far behind. While Mario disposed of the condom, Chris coaxed my body across the bed so my hips rested at the edge and then knelt between my legs.
“I believe it’s your turn to take the top half, Mario, my friend.” He grinned to let me know it was a joke.
But that is exactly what happened. While Mario fed me slow kisses and tweaked my nipples in a steady rhythm, Chris began to make love to me with his mouth.
I could tell right away he had a knack for it.
First he kissed his way around my swollen lips, then treated me to long, flat tongue strokes that felt like rolls of hot, wet silk rippling over my vulva. Then he teased and dallied, carefully avoiding my sweet spot until I pushed up against him and groaned in frustration. It didn’t take him long to find the right rhythm, quick up-and-down flicks in the little groove to the side of my clit. Except he’d stop now and then, just to make me squirm and moan my disappointment into Mario’s mouth. When he started up again, I moaned louder, because it was magic the way our mouths were joined in a column of flame running straight through me. By sucking my juices through my red lips, one pair for each, they were kissing each other too.
Chris pushed one leg up to my belly and held it there, opening me, stretching me so tight my ass seemed to lift off the bed. My thighs were trembling, and I knew I would make it. Relentless now, Chris’s tongue lashed at my clit, and I sucked Mario’s tongue like a cock until I couldn’t anymore, I could only roll my head back and forth, sobbing my pleasure to Mario’s soft coos – Come for us, Elizabeth; that’s right, let us watch you come – and that’s exactly what I did.
I looked down at Chris, still kneeling at the edge of the bed. He smiled up at me, his chin dripping. For the first time that evening, he looked truly happy. The golden boy of old.
“Let me do something for you,” I said.
Something in his eyes clicked shut again. The gold faded to gray. He shook his head.
Under the circumstances, it didn’t feel right to press the matter.
Curtain Call
Again, Mario did just the right thing. As we pulled on our pants and buttoned our shirts in mildly uncomfortable silence, he suggested we meet for breakfast the next morning, a final celebration before he caught his plane.
It was smart, the only thing to do really: make everything the way it was before as best we could.
At the door, Mario tilted my chin up and kissed me gallantly. Chris and I hugged, our usual goodbye, but he added an extra reassuring squeeze. It struck me then that we still hadn’t ever kissed on the mouth, the old-fashioned way.
Once they were gone, I turned and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored closet door.
To my surprise, I looked pretty. My eyes shone, my skin glowed with a twentysomething bloom. I gave myself a victorious smile. I’d done it. I’d become an adventures, a breaker of taboos. It didn’t happen quite the way I thought it would, but it never does.
On impulse I yanked the rumpled sheet off the bed and draped it around my shoulders, the best approximation of a “white heron in the moonlight” costume I could manage.
I wondered what Sally would do to ease herself to sleep if she’d just had sex with a man – or two – that satisfied her flesh but not her heart. I wondered if she’d be a little sad to finally understand why Mario’s relationships never lasted too long. Or if she’d struggle with her own fantasy that Chris really was The One, and though we’d both married the wrong people the first time around, we had plenty of hot times ahead if only he could wean himself from those antidepressants.
What would Sally do?
Of course she was a realist. She knew fantasies were powerful. They could push the boundaries, change your life so it would never be the same, make you richer than you ever dreamed possible. But you never let them catch you or hold you down.
At the end of the show, there was only one thing to do.
I stretched my arms out and turned slowly, then faster – gliding, turning, skimming, whirling – around and around, my white wings outstretched, until I swear I was flying up and away.
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