Three Way, page 10
“Shit,” she moaned, sounding shocked. “Jesus, fucking Jesus!”
I kept doing that, and her fingers snaked into my hair, pushing me harder against her crotch. I had to prop one knee up on the foot of the bed to keep from sliding off, and that pushed my crotch against the edge, making me realize how hard I was. I started sucking Gina’s clit in earnest, and she moaned, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, just like that, just like that, Zach, just like that,” as I did. Feeling her smooth thighs and pussy against my lips, cheeks and chin made my cock throb even more. I heard the bathroom door open, but when I tried to look up, Gina’s firm hand on my head kept me from moving, which only turned me on more.
Tim jumped onto the bed next to Gina and said, “Is this the guy? What’s his name again?”
“Zach,” she told him.
“Nice,” said Tim, appraising me. I caught a glance of his gorgeous, muscled body stretched next to Gina’s. He had his hard cock in his hand. He looked even bigger from this angle than he had in the photo. Tim reached down and grabbed my hair, guiding my face off of Gina’s pussy and down onto his cock.
“Hey!” Gina snapped. “Don’t be a pig.”
“Just a little suck,” said Tim. “I want to see how good he is.”
I was good, from the sound of Tim’s moaning as I took his cock in my mouth and began to slide up and down on him. Much as I loved his cock, though, I missed Gina’s pussy, and I found myself sliding my fingers into her as she squirmed. That felt even stranger than eating her, especially since I had Tim’s big cock down my throat. My cock was really throbbing now, and I knew if I just stroked it a little I would probably shoot. I swallowed Tim’s cock all the way as Gina grabbed my hair.
“Gimme,” she insisted, and dragged me back between her thighs. Something about having this happy suburban pervert couple fighting over me was making me even hotter. I started sucking on Gina’s clit again, tonguing it rhythmically as I wrapped my hand around Tim’s cock and started to stroke it. He moaned, kissing Gina and playing with her tits as I ate her out. Soon she was clamping her thighs so tightly around my face that even with my lack of experience I could tell she was going to come. God, I wanted to stroke my cock. I reached down and started to undo my pants.
“Don’t come on the bedspread!” said Gina through the hoarse voice of near-orgasm.
“All right, Martha Stewart,” I said, my mouth a millimeter off of her pussy. Oh, shit. That was a gay comment, wasn’t it? As if to counter, I eased up my grip on Tim’s cock and started eating Gina’s pussy fervently.
“Jesus!” she moaned into Tim’s face as she squirmed and writhed against him. He bent down and started sucking her tits as I went back to jerking his cock. When Gina came, she screamed at the top of her lungs, clawing at her husband and at the bedspread I wasn’t supposed to come on. I had to stop stroking my cock to keep from doing exactly that.
When Gina finally pushed my face away from her pussy, shuddering with the remnants of her orgasm, she seemed more ravenous than ever. She dragged me onto the bed and yanked off my shirt, then pulled my jeans all the way open and began to suck my cock as Tim pushed his mouth to mine.
Again, I felt the curious lack of stubble as her face bobbed up and down on my shaft. But even stranger was the feeling of Tim kissing me—totally unexpected, since I’d figured he was straight, or thought he was. His hand curved around the base of my cock and fed it to Gina as we kissed. Then he got up on his knees and crouched over me, holding my head to guide his cock into my mouth.
In this position I couldn’t do the thrilling job of cocksucking I was used to, but I managed just fine. Putting my hands up to play with Tim’s nipples, I sucked on the head of his cock and, when I heard him moaning like he was going to come, reached down again to stroke the base of his shaft. Feeling Gina’s mouth glide up and down on my shaft made me want all of Tim’s come more than I’d ever wanted anything. He clutched the headboard, swearing at the top of his lungs as he shot his load into my mouth and I eagerly gulped. When he finished coming, he slid off of me in an instant and, to my surprise, I felt his mouth joining Gina’s on my cock.
They traded off sucking me, and the sight of both of them opening wide for my shaft turned me on more than anything. Especially since I’d fully expected to leave without even getting a cursory hand job. I was moaning so loud and thrashing back and forth so wildly that I couldn’t even begin to tell you who finally got my load in their mouth, but I could definitely feel the clamp of someone’s firm lips halfway down my shaft, his or her tongue eagerly working the underside to milk my come. I couldn’t tell you definitely which one of them swallowed my come, but I like to think it was Tim.
There was no cuddling afterward, no “you give great head,” just a quick, “Thanks,” from Gina and a nervous, “You know we never do that,” from Tim.
“Me either,” I told them, and dabbed my spit-covered cock and pussy-slick face with the same white hotel towel.
So what does it all mean? Bisexual is such a strange word, and however much I love pussy I still feel gayer than Liza Minnelli in a leotard and fishnets.
I still love sex with guys more than anything. But you’d be amazed at how easy it is to pick up chicks in San Francisco when all you can think of doing is eating their pussies and sucking their boyfriends’ cocks. Maybe they know that I’ve got a lot of time to make up for. Very few of them look like Pamela Anderson, but then, very few of them insist that I not be bisexual. So I don’t bother telling them one way or another, and if anyone asks, I’m the world’s gayest pussyhound. Call Guinness if you want. Or, better yet, just call my cell phone.
If You Can Make It There, You Can Make It Anywhere
A. J. STONE
For Wyatt
It’s an early fall night when the weather hovers between thoughts of summer, hot and sticky, and then changes its mind and whips into the frenzy of fall. My skin reacts, stands away from bone, supported by fine hairs, and my nipples grow hard, as if touched by a finger or a tongue. It’s late. A girls’ night out—my friend Nathalie and I have splurged on a new and fashionable restaurant downtown just above Wall Street, a neighborhood as sly and mysterious as the weather. Nathalie and I have known each other for years. We roomed together briefly when Nathalie first came to New York; now she lives uptown in an apartment which, until recently, she shared with Mark, her boyfriend of five years. The restaurant is thick with businessmen on expense accounts, pungent with testosterone, cocks at attention and ready to pounce. Nathalie and I gossip and drink round balloons of red wine that pop down our throats and make us as giggly as if we had sniffed helium. Two women in a room full of men, the first women most of them have seen all day apart from their dowdy secretaries or their female colleagues. Two women dressed in revealing clothing—low-cut dresses that slip and tease. A glimpse of nipple, a thigh unconsciously rubbed. Dresses of thin silk that slips into the cracks of our asses as we walk. Dresses clearly worn over no underwear. Dresses to frustrate. A few men buy us drinks but we’re not biting. I have another goal in mind: the blonde sitting across the table from me. Curiosity has been an unspoken dance between us for years, frustrated by our other obligations. Suddenly, we are single at the same time.
We skirt around the tension between us, pumping it up by discussing sex, the first time, the best time, the craziest time. Nathalie puts down her fork in the middle of the main course—medallions of black cod—and runs a hand through her blonde hair. There is a moment of silence before she speaks.
“Remember the week Mark was away on business and we went out to that sushi place and got drunk on sake?” she begins.
I remember that, and passing out on Nathalie’s bed.
“When I woke up, sometime around dawn, I had a terrible headache. I downed a couple of aspirin but I threw them right up. There was this… well… trick I’d learned in college. You were sound asleep…,” Nathalie falters, embarrassed, the color rising in her cheeks.
“Go on,” I urge her, one hand beneath my napkin, playing with my dress.
Nathalie plunges onward. She had pulled up her nightgown and masturbated while I slept soundly beside her.
“I was so afraid you’d wake up,” she says and looks at me, then adds nervously, “I have to use the ladies’ room.”
When she is gone, I signal for the check. I’m not wearing any underwear and I can feel a trail of liquid snaking down my thigh. Nathalie catches my eye as she makes her way across the room but I can’t tell if her eyes are large with fear or desire. The eyes of the other diners follow us as we leave, their cocks thick and swollen. I can bet there’ll be a lot of pounced-on wives tonight, visions of Nathalie and me beckoning forward more than one orgasm. The streets are dark and deserted and shadowed. I weave down the street, dancing to too many glasses of wine echoing in my head, my dark hair as wild as a tussle beneath the sheets. A tune goes off in Nathalie’s head. She spins me and the world with me and I am thrown against a wall. A brief moment and then her tongue is in my mouth, tentative, slight, a drunken experiment, and when she backs away, amazed at her boldness, she leaves me hungry, my nipples reaching out. We walk down the street laughing and I tease her about it.
“Do you want to feel my wet pussy?” I ask her, looking at her out of the corner of my eye, challenging her. She’s unable to answer but I can feel the lump in her throat. She’s never done this before and frankly, neither have I, but the wine, the attention of the men in the restaurant, and her confession have made me horny and curious. I need to be touched, even if I do it myself. And, exhibitionist that I am, I want to be watched.
I lift my dress. Underneath I am wearing stay-up stockings. I circle my clit with my finger, beckoning her forward. First with my eyes and then, “Nathalie,” I beg, my throat as thick and swollen as my cunt. She touches me tentatively, her fingers brushing my hard clit. I moan and close my eyes, then will them open. I want to see her desire, her curiosity, as she sinks her fingers into me. Does she know that I’ve been wet all evening, willing her to do this? Does she know how many times my finger circled my clit at dinner, my eyes creamy not from candlelight but the look down the long slide toward orgasm? Her face is closed to my scrutiny.
I want her to sink her face into my pussy and I tell her so. But she is hesitant. She has not yet found the audacity of desire. I won’t push her yet, although I’m eager to have her mouth on my clit, her tongue deep inside me. I can feel an orgasm barreling down my body. I want to hear my screams echo off the canyons made by the buildings. I want windows wide open and neighbors’ heads thrust out, an audience to my cries. I reach out to touch her and she backs away, but not before I have cupped my hand between her legs. Her cunt beneath her dress is swollen and ripe. She is as wet as I am and I wonder if she stroked herself in the bathroom, bringing herself just to the brink of orgasm. Nervous, she wiggles her hips from my slender hand, but not before I have pushed the front of her dress, light armor that only barely shields her naked cunt from my hand, into her. Her juices leave an imprint on the thin fabric.
I suggest a cab but they are difficult to find at this time of night and we begin to walk. She sucks on her fingers, tasting me for the first time, and I play with my nipple, hard through my dress as she watches me, unable to look away. I tell her I want her tongue on me, rough and strong. I can see that her defenses are beginning to drop and beneath her dress, her nipples are as tight as mine. At the corner, a taxi with its off-duty sign slows down for a red light and I step down from the curb.
I roll my window down reluctantly. Instantly I know these two girls are drunk; their eyes are too bright. But I’m going uptown anyway and I figure I might as well make a decent fare off it. They scramble into the back and give me two addresses.
It’s late and I’m tired and I’m gunning for home and a few clicks across the porn channels before I pass out, my spent cock in my hand. The thought is enticing and I drive fast. It’s strangely quiet in the backseat. And then I catch moaning. Damn, I think, two drunk girls. That’s all I need, one of them sick in the backseat and an extra half hour while I have to clean it out, not to mention a little something less in my paycheck when they’ve got to take the whole car in for a shampoo. I glance up at the rearview mirror to check the backseat. The dark-haired girl, in a thin dress, coat off her shoulders, lies against one window, eyes half-mast, her hand lazily circling her nipple. The moans are coming from her mouth. I slow down, my cock suddenly hard and pulsing, straining to catch a glimpse of the other girl. I find her blonde head bobbing up and down, buried between the legs of the dark-haired one. I can’t really see what’s going on but I begin to guess, my imagination racing, as the dark-haired girl’s moans direct her friend’s movements. I raise my eyes and we catch each other in the mirror for a brief moment before she turns away. She must know I’m watching, listening, because she keeps looking up, her eyes seeking mine. I strain to catch her words as she begins narrating, her voice thick with lust. Lick me, suck my clit, she says. She pulls her dress down a little further and her nipple, pink and taut, springs free. Oh, a little sigh escapes from my mouth. I want my mouth on that nipple, to circle it with my tongue and bite on it and feel her clit jump against my swollen cock. Oh, yes, she moans, and every promise leaps out from her eyes. I’m imagining her, slick and tight, riding my cock. The cab slows as I stroke myself, pumping my cock in my fist, trying to keep my mind on driving. A red light up ahead brings my eyes back to the road. The light is green too quickly and I wish for another excuse to stop so I can use my other hand to pull at my balls, stretching the skin tightly over my cock. I search the rearview mirror for the black eyes of the dark-haired girl.
The cabdriver agrees to take us both uptown with a first stop at my house and then on to Nathalie’s and we scramble into the back. I have a goal that doesn’t involve a second stop but I don’t argue when Nathalie pipes in with her address. I get in first and Nathalie hangs back for a moment, as shy and eager as the new girl in school who dreams of being a cheerleader, before she scoots in beside me. Then she slams the door and by the time she has settled herself beside me I’ve pulled my skirt up and have begun playing with myself in earnest, my head leaning against the window, one hand manipulating my clit, the other hand pulling my nipples into hard points. For a moment, Nathalie can only watch in fascination, her mouth open. And then I see her tongue, moving quickly back and forth against her front teeth, debating. I push back the lips of my pussy, my clit swollen and red between them, as an offering.
“Please…,” my voice begs.
I want her kneeling between my legs, sucking at my clit—I want her so badly that I almost begin to weep. I know that I could bring myself to orgasm quickly. I also know how unsatisfying that would be.
“What do I…,” Nathalie’s voice falters, confused, worried about what to do in this unfamiliar, familiar territory.
I plunge my fingers into my cunt, hitting my G-spot, and for a moment there is nothing but my cunt, my fingers. I will myself reluctantly back to the present, back to the goal. My fingers are luminescent with my own juice and I reach over, slipping them into Nathalie. Her hips press into my hand. She looks at me, then down at my fingers moving in and out of her cunt and then back at me and I can see the astonishment on her face. Nothing in her experience has prepared her for this—not Mark, three nights a week, not Joe, the best-sex-ever, not even Ian, the one-night stand who introduced her to anal sex. Her hips move in circles and her clit retreats and I can feel, from the way her muscles tighten, how fast her orgasm is building. But I don’t want her to come just yet. That will be later, when I have time to explore her, tease her, stretched out on my bed. Right now I want to pull her to the edge of desire, the place where all of her inhibitions disappear and there is nothing but body and want and need and hunger. She grabs my retreating hand and forces my fingers to her mouth, sucking each one slowly, telling me in silent language how much she wants me. I moan, pulsing in time to the motion of her mouth. With her other hand she begins to explore me, first tentatively, then more insistently, her fingers parting my pubic hair, pulling at the curls. Her head bends forward to examine me and I can feel her hot breath and I rise to meet her mouth. I groan, my eyes rising, and briefly meet the eyes of the cabdriver in the rearview mirror. His eyes are large and dark and I recognize the look in them and know that his cock is hard in his fist. Another moan escapes my lips. Nathalie’s tongue darts out, hard and pointy, and laps at my cunt, following my fingers’ lead, my pleas. My moans give her courage and she rakes at my clit with her teeth, pulling the lips down, her tongue exploring the crevices, my clit in her mouth being sucked like a small cock. She teases me, stopping and starting, knowing the rhythms of my cunt as she knows her own. I break the gaze of the cabdriver and watch Nathalie’s movements intently as she inserts two fingers into me and I begin the slide into orgasm. I have only come like this a few times in my life, hovering between life and death, and when the explosions have ended, I pull Nathalie’s head up and kiss her on the lips, tasting myself on her. When the cab jerks suddenly, I know that our driver has not been far behind….
I try to keep focused on the road, periodically glancing into the backseat where the dark-haired girl has locked her gaze on mine. My hand moves with her friend’s head bobbing up and down and I know how warm and wet that blonde’s mouth would be, wrapped around my cock. The dark-haired girl looks away and I’m frantic, trying to catch her eye. My rhythm falters for a moment. But the growing series of moans from the backseat is a command my cock cannot resist. My hips buck upward, my foot jerking on the gas pedal and I empty myself into my hand, the dark-haired girl’s screams a call that pulls my orgasm from me in violent spasms as I turn the corner to the first stop….
