by Avery Aster
“Do you want to be with other men?” Luigi asked.
For the first time since meeting my amore, I sensed uncertainty, almost as if he was doubting me… or us, for that matter.
My eyes traced his facial features. Forehead high, a Mediterranean tan matched his cheeks. So handsome, utterly masculine. His ears didn’t stick out like Rocco’s. They were rather hidden by his wavy brown hair.
Then I glanced over at Rocco. More exotic and wild, his almond-shaped eyes still eluded the same sentiments. He was unsure about us, as well.
This was killing me. I had no clue how my own demise had affected them. I replied with the truth, “No. I only want to be with you two.”
“Bueno,” Rocco said. “Then from here on out, we’re exclusive.”
“What else?”
“We’ll talk about us again, later. Right now, we need to buckle up. We’re landing.” Luigi kissed me on the lips.
They returned to their seats.
Closing my eyes, I had no clue what was in store. Regardless, I trusted my boyfriends, and I loved them both so very much. I just didn’t want to see either of them get hurt. What if I got sick again?
I could do this easily for the next six weeks. Right? How hard could it be?
Into The Labyrinth We Play
Luigi
The Circus Bazaar Night Club
Gerichtstrasse, Berlin, Germany
Utterly mind-blowing and brutally forward, Berlin’s night scene—especially the sex clubs—was like nothing we had back home.
From the church of techno club, Berghane, to the Alice’s Wonderland of Sislphos, we started to forget what the past few months had been like between us and let the music take control over our bodies. We danced.
The media not only bought into our sexual safari, they ate it up. Paparazzi followed us from one hot spot to the next.
“Over here, Jemma!” shouted a photographer.
Click. Pop. Flash.
“Is Lex Easton going to be taking over your designs going forward?” asked a reporter in an antagonistic tone.
Jemma didn’t stop walking. Instead, she just gave him her famous smile.
“With this kind of inspiration, your next collection is going to be insane,” stated a reporter who’d been on our tail since we’d gotten off the plane. The girl wore one of Jemma’s shorter dresses from two seasons before. Clearly a Jemma Couture groupie. “Tell us, why Berlin?”
She’d told me once that to get the press to hang on her every word, she’d often ignored the first question, gave more consideration to the second, and answered the third.
My dolce had it down to a science.
“Care to tell consumers what they’ll be in store for with your next line?” asked a blonde journalist who hadn’t attended the initial press conference.
She stopped walking and faced the reporter. “Contrary to what Debauchery magazine and the rest of the press wrote about my sense of style, I’m very down to Earth. Sometimes it may appear to be not from this planet—totally out of this world, my darling—but I promise you that next season will be hauntingly romantic.” She tossed her black hair back from her face and continued, “As a model, I knew the key to being successful was to not be perfect. Rather, it was to have a face people can engage with and a sense of being which is understandable, and I do. Therefore, with my fashion line, I promise to make my next collection a lot more relatable to my retailers.”
In awe, I stood there, watching her.
She was magnifico when she wanted to be.
Glaring at me with an expressive gaze, Rocco mouthed, “Relatable.”
Had Jemma related to me or Rocco in recent months? I didn’t mean with her body, but her mind. During her treatment, we’d worked to the point of exhaustion to try and understand what she was going through. Was it selfish of us to want her to do the same for us? If she could make her fashion more approachable for the following season, then there was a glimmer of hope that she could also be more empathetic in our relationships. I prayed for us to be able to relate to each other more. We needed to talk, but I wasn’t very good at that, and her cold shoulder was killing us.
“Brill, Inc. did a favoloso job in getting the buzz going,” Jemma whispered in my ear, picking up her stride. “Now the rest is up to us…”
We’d found our salvation in Circus Bazaar. The neon pink sign at the entrance read in German, “Remove Clothing. No Flash Photography. Pick Your Floor. Free Condoms.”
“Arrivederci, fellas.” Jemma waved goodbye to the press as we went past the velvet ropes. “We’ll see you in Moscow.”
I couldn’t tell if she was acting the part or starting to get into it. Having a former model for a girlfriend made it hard to tell if she was ‘working it’ for the cameras or truly being herself. Observing her, I’d hoped the latter. Mood lighter, her spirits seemed to be lifting.
Naturally, I had doubts about her having fun. It had been so long since I’d heard dolce laugh, I’d almost forgotten what it sounded like...
When she did laugh, it was a cheerful, flirty giggle. Often, she’d close her eyes, shaking her head so strands of dark hair hid her face. Embarrassed, she’d cover her mouth, trying to be delicate, and then all of a sudden release a faint snort.
Adorable. Sì, even sounds made by her nose I found endearing.
Usually the snort would cause Rocco and me to laugh alongside her.
Before she got sick, her brown eyes, like chocolate diamonds, had this brilliance to them. I’d give anything to see that twinkle again. Anything!
The name of the club alone should’ve told us the place would be out of the ordinary.
At the checkpoint, the final inner doorway, a man standing shorter than Rocco and myself was dressed as some kind of Minotaur and sported a bull mask over his face. Other than the two shiny horns jutting off the top of his head, he didn’t have anything else on. He had a nice body. Not as fit as Rocco’s, but then again no one was.
“Give me your clothes, please. Keep your cell phones with you at all times. If you get lost you may text each other,” instructed the attendant. He also gave us a map of the place, a small piece of paper illustrating the layout of the club. “Once you’re ready to leave, show me your claim number and I’ll retrieve your items.”
“Grazie,” I said as he gave us each a thin, metallic gold wristband with a number on it. Mine read ‘1,001’. I wondered if that was the number of people who’d gone into the labyrinth that night. This place seemed popular enough to have over a thousand visitors.
Stripping down, Jemma kept her shoes and panties on and strapped her cell phone around her wrist with a strap.
“You look beautiful, dolce.” My mouth curved wide into a smile.
“My darling, would it be okay if I kept my foundation garments on?” she asked the Minotaur and turned herself around for his approval.
“Sure,” he replied, eyeing her enthusiastically.
Since her treatment, Jemma had become self-conscious. I couldn’t blame her, but she always appeared perfect. At least to me.
Silhouetted against the amber lights, she appeared striking. With legs which went for miles and to-die-for abs, it was easy to see why they called her ‘Tono’ after her toned figure, back when she’d modeled.
She adjusted the straps on her bra, and for the first time in ages gazed up at me with a sexual wanting on her face, right before demanding, “Get naked, amore.”
In approval, I laughed and stripped down to a pair of sandals the Minotaur had given me. I had no problem showing off my assets. Whether at the gym or perhaps even there at Circus Bazaar, I enjoyed the attention. I worked out, ate right, and took care of myself, so why shouldn’t I?
Friends say I did it to keep Jemma and Rocco interested, and maybe there was some truth to that. But I also did it for myself. Looking good is feeling good.
Jemma approached, her dark eyes intent and focused. It reminded me of earlier when we were on the plane and her nipples had become erect. I was
happy to think that maybe, just maybe, she was coming around again. Cupping my nuts in her hands, she kissed me. “I want you to stay nice and hard all night, amore.” Gently, she stroked my shaft.
A tremble rocketed through my body. I couldn’t remember the last time Jemma had touched me. It took all of my might to resist the urge to bend her over the Minotaur’s podium and fuck her, right there and then. But on the plane ride over to Berlin, Rocco and I had agreed we’d make Jemma beg for our sex that time.
That’s right. We’d hatched a plan to make her crave us as never before.
Rocco had said, “They call it reverse psychology. We’ll sex Jemma up, then right when she gets all moaning and groaning, we turn it off.”
“Bello, that’s cruel,” I’d argued. “And who is they?”
“My nonno.”
“You discuss us with your grandfather?”
“Sì, I talk to my nonno about everything. He says the more we resist her, the more she’ll want us.”
Rocco’s grandfather is a ‘head’ doctor. You know, a shrink. My boyfriend quotes his words of wisdom as if the man was Confucius or something.
“How can you be so certain?” I’d asked.
“Because women are not like men. The minute you give them what they want, they don’t want it anymore. They’re fickle. They change their minds. That’s the whole problem, amore—we’ve been too available, too much at her disposable. We’ve done too many of the things she’s wanted us to do. But if we’re going to save this relationship, we must do what we have to do, and that means psyching her out.”
I was starting to agree with him and his grandfather’s insights. Since puberty, I’d thought I’d had women all figured out. Just give them what they want: love, devotion, faithfulness. Right? But after a few years with Jemma, I’d realized I didn’t have a clue what women wanted.
Ironically, Rocco did. He listened to her. Not just what she said, but he also observed how she acted and reacted to us. His insights were what had prompted us to propose to her in the first place, but we’d been way off the mark on that one. Rocco said her refusal to marry us was because of her cancer. Because of what she’d gone through. But she’d beat it, and she was cancer-free. We had to move on. Didn’t we?
Well, if we were going to do what Rocco’s grandfather had suggested for the trip, Jemma would need to prove to us she wanted our relationship to work as much as we did. Otherwise, it was finite.
On that note…
“Don’t tell me what to do, dolce.” To remind her she wasn’t the one in charge, I slid my thumb, pointer, and middle finger into Rocco’s mouth as he stood next to me.
Getting my three fingers nice and wet, he sucked.
“You like that, Bello?”
He nodded. Reaching down in his pants, he whipped out his dick. A nice, pretty mushroom head at the tip followed by a long shaft. Rocco wasn’t as hung as me, but his penis suited him. It was nearly perfect.
Not that I’d seen many dicks in my day, because I definitely hadn’t.
His was the only one I’d ever sucked, and I loved the way he tasted in my mouth. Musky and salty, there was nothing like giving Rocco head, watching his eyes flicker frantically as he came. The dude was a shooter. Man, he could jizz across the room. It always seemed to hit the back of my throat like pellets of rain.
Under the club lights, it glistened as he stroked himself.
I withdrew my hand. Taking Jemma in my arms, I pulled the panties over to one side and found her clit.
Giving her juicy pussy lips a tight squeeze, she pulsated as if I held her heart in my hands.
“Luigi, amore,” she whimpered in my ear as she started to wiggle her cute ass.
Rocco came up behind her.
Jemma’s breath hitched as her breasts pressed against my chest. I could get drunk on this feeling: her clinging to me, begging for more.
Hungry, she wanted us, and I’d certainly been starved for her. For how long? I wasn’t quite sure. Days. Weeks. Months. We hadn’t made love since Isola di Girasoli.
“My cock will stay hard. Just as your cunt shall remain wet.” I reached down and kissed her gently at first. Then to give her a taste of what was to come, I tongue-fucked her mouth. Her lips, just like her pussy, were pink and warm. But unlike her mouth, her pussy never sassed back to me. Her pussy always welcomed me. That was until when I’d asked her to marry us. “Capiche?”
“Sì,” she muttered into the well of my mouth, grabbing onto my forearm.
“You want me to stop?” I asked.
“No, amore. I want more.” Shoving my hand deeper inside her, she moaned, “There. That’s better. Right there.”
The blood rushed to her face, washing a cherry-colored hue over her cheeks. Between her folds of aroused flesh, I…fingered…on. The heat from her skin told me she enjoyed it as her arms came up over my shoulders.
“You’re burning up, amore. Do you want to come?”
Her cunt muscles tightened around my finger as she panted, “Sì, my darling. Flick my clit.”
She was close to climaxing. I could tell by the way she stood up on her tippy toes, posture erect and perfect. She often straightened her back right before she’d come.
“Dolce, during the rest of our trip, and especially for tonight, you will do whatever Rocco and I want. Say yes.”
“Sì, my darling.
“You will not deny us.”
“Sì. Sì.”
“Your body will be ours to take as we please. Make love as we like, and fuck however we feel like it. Those are our rules for this trip. Can you handle them?”
“Sì. Amore. Of course.”
“Bueno, dolce. Now you can come.”
Rocco knelt beside her. Lowering his face between her legs, he muttered, “Let me drink from you. I. Must. Taste.”
Watching her. Loving her. Jemma’s eyelids eclipsed into the back of her head. I held her tight to my body, enabling her to orgasm in my hands and on Rocco’s face.
“Sweet tiramisu.” Burying his face between her legs as she came, he tongued her.
When her tight body became limp and that raspy, begging voice suddenly went speechless, I gave my fingers a lick.
“Save some for me, you little pig,” Rocco pouted. He grabbed my hands, kissing them.
After he’d cleaned my hand, Rocco got to his feet and peeled off his shirt, revealing his smooth, sculpted chest. As if made from marble or clay, his pectoral muscles were perfectly sculpted. His washboard abs seemed more prominent against the shadows of the room.
Afraid of getting lost amongst the crowd of strangers, Jemma held my right hand with Rocco at my left as we stepped further into the club.
Layer upon layer, we found new and exciting entertainment.
Like its name, Circus Bazaar was a wild ride of varying dance floors with themes. On the outskirts of each level was a labyrinth. Some parts of the maze featured indoor mineral pools that glowed in the dark with phosphorescence. Couples frolicked about each floor which seemed themed based on one’s sexual interest.
The map we’d been given stated that the first level was dedicated to single men who wanted to meet single women. That would explain why I didn’t see any poly activity.
Floor two was for only couples. Floor three was men only. Polyamorous couples could be found on the fourth floor. Floor five, the top and final floor, was anything goes. Hmmm. Maybe that meant group orgy. We weren’t interested in that.
“I guess this is us.” We stopped at the fourth floor. The psychedelic lights reflected above us.
“Welcome to the Unicorn labyrinth, a special floor for polyamory lovers. Is this where you’d like to…play?” asked a voice coming from the dark corner.
A small woman stepped out. A dwarf, perhaps, dressed as a pixie.
“Ja. Danke.” Jemma said yes and thanked her in German.
“My name is Ludo. I’ll be guiding you ‘til you’ve reached a patch of the labyrinth you’d like to claim as your own for the night.
”
“You mean we can stay here ‘til the sun rises?” Rocco asked.
The pixie nodded. “Before we get started, do you have any special requests? Music? Beverage preferences? Toys? We’ll bring them to your area once you get situated.”
“We’d love to hear Birdie Easton’s Lucifer Mistress remix,” Rocco replied.
Lex’s mom, Birdie, was a rock star who’d had many number one hits in the early nineties. She’d recently sung at Lex and Massimo’s wedding. Rocco loved American pop culture. According to him, he’d been obsessed with Birdie since he was a teenager.
“A pitcher of Bellinis,” ordered Jemma.
“Okay.” The pixie walked up to me. The little thing came up to my waist. “And what would you like?”
“Scusi,” I said.
“What may I bring you to make your night more enjoyable? Something special you have mind? Just ask.”
“Anything?”
The pixie nodded agreeably, causing the fine, blonde hair which framed her face like angel-dust to bob about.
“Can you take us to your most private area of the labyrinth,” I replied. “We’d like to be alone. No onlookers.”
“Now we’re talking!” Rocco cheered. “We’d also like some vanilla candles.”
“Whatever for?” Jemma asked.
“The smell of vanilla bean will help with your apathy,” he replied.
The pixie laughed. So did I.
Apologies from Rehab
Jemma
Moments later
Floor Four, Circus Bazaar
Finding a bathroom located near the area my boyfriends had selected for us to have sex, I locked myself into the handicap stall. They always have more leg room. Yup. I needed to pee. More importantly, I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. On the dance floor, the music had been so loud I could barely hear myself think.
My brain was racing, sprinting actually, trying to figure out why I was having such reservations about our sexual safari. Before my cancer, I would’ve been all over this. Taddy Brill and her Manhattanites are rather genius. This excursion is brilliant, but I still have my doubts.