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Swan's Way Ch. 01

By: clayboy



We called them ‘Sanitary Sundays', the one day we'd devote a leisurely hour to grooming ourselves. First, the necessary ablutions; teeth, toilet, shower.

Then, we'd fill the tub and soak. And shave. I've kept myself bare down there, since I first began to study dance. I'm hairy, and I thought the bulge in my tights unsightly. Then, too, the sweat; well- I'll leave it to your imagination.

I love the look of my naked sex, all the complex folds and fissures revealed. And so did he. Not to mention the sensation of smooth skin sliding against his organ. After the first time I persuaded him to also ‘go bare' he was a convert.

We would take turns doing each other; me first- by the time he had lathered and shaved all around my sex and my bottom he was firm and ready. Shaving the male organ is so much easier when it is erect! I'd keep him that way with occasional tongue flicks and kisses, until his member and his twin eggs in their velvet sack were smooth and sleek.

Sometimes I would toss him off into my hand, lick my palm, and kiss him deeply, sharing his gift to me.

I was nineteen, had studied modern and classical dance for five years. Our little company traveled to a small town to put on a performance of Swan Lake, a benefit for some obscure charity. 

Marcel was an impresario, much much older, and was taken with little me. He'd traveled through Europe, spoke both French and Italian with enough fluency to book a room and order dinner.

He told me what I already knew; I'd never make it to the top in the world of ballet. He called me his little swan, enrolled me in a small private college, and paid my tuition. I was naive and infatuated. I lived with him and attended classes. He travelled often, away for days at a time. Being an impresario. I continued to endure endless hours at the bar, keeping my body as he liked it. Lithe and trim. I am small and slender, with cupcake breasts and a pert backside. At nineteen I could pass for twelve. And, often in our fantasies, would.

After our Sanitary Sunday ministrations we would repair to the bedroom. While I changed the sheets for clean, starched linen, he would prepare breakfast. Mimosas, French toast; or, perhaps, omlets with an exotic filling. And the special coffee that he made with a mysterious machine which filled the apartment with an indescribable aroma. All of this done, of course, in the nude.

The useful length of his penis is a bit less than six inches, measured, as I have, from tip to base at the top of the organ. Below, it is much, much more; the root plunges deep into his body and I can grasp its firmness with my hand, but alas! Those extra inches will never enter me. 

His girth, he tells me, is larger than most men. How he knows this I do not wish to learn. He is circumcised, and what he calls his helmet is a great deal wider than his shaft and makes up a full third of his length. Sometimes, getting that first part into the tunnel is a struggle. 

A sweet struggle; often accompanied with giggles, kisses and inventive lubrications. We once accomplished the insertion with the aid of the thick, sweet syrup from a can of peaches! Of course we have other, patented lubricants, for other operations.

One of my favorite Sunday pastimes was to kneel and take him, flaccid, into my mouth. Penis, scrotum, testes. My lips are full, "pouty" he calls them, and very soft. And sensitive; the slightest touch sends shivers down. . . Well, down. As I took him in my cheeks would bulge, distended by the contents of my mouth. There were many mirrors, placed about the bedroom. I would lock my lips around the base of his manhood, and use my tongue to caress his nuts, his sack, his prick. It was Marcel who introduced me to raw oysters.

Too soon he expands, until his tumescent cock and balls slowly erupt from my mouth; hard, glistening, ready to pleasure me. A pearly rope of my saliva briefly connects us. At this moment I feel as though I am giving birth to my lover. I lie back on the bed, my feet on the floor, arms stretched above my head on the crisp, clean sheets.

He kneels between my legs, parts them, spreads them wide, and returns the favor with his mouth, his lips, his tongue. He explores the complexity of my various parts until I am loose and wet and ready. He stands, lifts my legs, rests them on his shoulders, and places the head of his organ at the entrance to my cunt.

I love to use, to say, to write, the word. It makes me feel so nasty. I adore the slutty feel of the word cunt as it rolls from my wanton lips. I like to say aloud, "fuck my cunt." "Stick your cock up my cunt." "Stretch my cunt."

He eases himself into me, waiting, while I engulf his engorged cock, letting me accomodate him. Sanitary Sundays are always leisurely.

My breasts are small, but my nipples are large. It was embarrassing when I danced; I had to put band aids across them to conceal their distracting presence from the audience. As I become excited, sexually, my nipples harden and turn a ruby red.

Minutes pass, and, finally buried to the hilt within me, my lover leans forward, so that his shaft rides against my clitoris, and he drives into me. More up and down than in and out. The friction too soon brings me over the edge, and I plunge into the black abyss of orgasm. My heart thuds, my ears ring, my inner muscles spasm, gripping his cock, milking it, as he spews a flood of semen into me.

It was my first experience of the ‘little death', a phrase I later learned in a freshman course in English Lit- taught, I was to discover, by a lesbian grad student. But that's another story.

Swan's Way Ch. 02



Marcel and I had small, intimate, public and private codes, phrases that we would use to communicate our special needs and desires. 

On occasion, seated across from him at a restaurant, I would say, "Is it me, or is it a bit chilly in here?" Which meant that I had slipped off my panties beneath the tablecloth. 

He would then remove his shoe, and raise his foot between my legs. I would grasp it, press it against me. He always wore silk hose, and the feeling was incredible! He would wiggle his toes as I guided his foot here and there. He would take my other hand in his, run his thumb across my palm, and study my face as I reacted to my ministrations below the table. Sometimes this brought me to orgasm, and he would have to endure a damp sock until we returned to the apartment. Oh, how I would have to pay for that bit of mischief!

In the privacy our boudoir there was an equally provocative message that I would occasionally deliver. There came a point in our relationship when my cunt-there's that word again! I get wet just making these few keystokes! Anyway, my-you-know-what- became a bit too accomodating to his cock. I'd been thoroughly stretched by his thickness, and his prick began to slip in with more ease than I desired. So I took charge of the physical situation, so to speak.

When he returns, after days of doing his impresario thing, I appear, backlit from the bathroom, light shining between my legs from behind, outlining my sex. My shoulders, breasts, face are dimly illumined by reflected light. I say to him, very softly, with just the faintest hint of a catch in my voice, "Are you going to f-fuck me, Daddy?"

This, of course, preceeded by the following: The room is lit by a myriad of candles that I have arranged before he enters. The soft, flickering lights rebound from the many mirrors that are strategically placed about the room. The French doors are open to the small wrought iron balcony that overlooks the harbor. The scent of jasmine is thick in the summer night. I have rouged my nipples.

As I said, my sex had become used to his invasions; slackened, relaxed, too easily accommodating his increasingly frequent invasions.

So I corrected the problem by employing an alum douche. I rummaged through the kitchen spice cabinet, mixed a small amount of alum with a litre of warm water, and repaired to the bathroom. A solution that, once infused into my most private regions, served to tighten, constrict, and shrink my internal passages, until I could barely penetrate myself with a slim forefinger.

You may recall that I said at an earlier point, I could pass for 12. And, at this moment, I do.

Part of my "Are you going to fuck me, Daddy?" role is to stand, knock kneed, pigeon toed, leaning slightly forward, lower lip sucked into my mouth. Eyes wide, scared. I am naked, save for a black velvet ribbon encircling my slender neck.

Marcel casually removes his suit, hangs it in the closet. The remainder of his clothes go in the hamper. He takes his time. Ignores me, walks past me, into the bathroom. He urinates. "Wash me." he calls.

I run the water, scalding hot. Soap him, clean him with a washcloth. He begins to swell. Good. Tonight I need him very, very hard. 

We move to the bed. I lie back at the edge, hook my arms under the knees of my long dancer's legs, pull them up, until my ankles are beside my ears. I am open, vulnerable, exposed. He has yet to touch me since his return home. He studies my lithe form displayed before him, and his cock leaps, twitches. I need him harder, yet.

"Don't hurt me, Daddy. Are you going to make me bleed?"

Suddenly he is rigid, an iron rod standing straight and stiff against his belly. "Lube," I plead.

He takes a tube from the bedside table, anoints us both. Grasps his slippery shaft and bends it down, presses it into me. I gasp. "So tight," he says. "Oh, little girl, you are so tight." Sweat glistens on his chest. My pulse throbs at my temples. 

He slowly, slowly enters me, stretching me, my passage yielding to his invasion. I struggle to accomodate him. Was that douche a fatal mistake?

His broad head if firmly lodged within my entrance. He waits for what seems to be an eternity, then presses in another inch. Withdraws. Applies more lube to me, touching the magic button with his slippery fingers. I catch my breath. He re-enters my channel, forcing the tight walls to yield to his invasive organ. I swallow him. He is in!

I raise my head, look down, past my erect nipples, watch him thrust into me. As he withdraws his cock it glistens with my fluids. The blue veins bulge, circle his shaft like writhing snakes. My cunt muscles constrict about him, loathe to let his thick cock slip free. I feel as though I am turning inside out. 

He pushes back in. A drop of sweat falls from his face to my breast. He begins to piston. I blush; the red flush starts at my chest, spreads, rises to my neck, my face. My ears tingle, burn. "AH, AH, AH," I cry in time to his thrusts. My eyes roll up in my head. I begin to sob; I weep, tears roll down my cheeks. My nose runs, I thrash my head from side to side.

"Oh, sweet Jesus!" he moans, and floods me with his nectar. He falls forward, collapses onto me. I release my legs, wrap them around his hips, circle his neck with my arms, pull him close, hold him within me, as the tide surges over both of us.

I thrust my tongue into his mouth, suck him in, above and below. He rolls me over on my side, curls into me from behind. Two spoons. His cock still captured by my tighness, we drift off to sleep.

Sometime later he stirs, reaches down, removes himself. Slides a finger into my stickiness, caresses my outer lips, still engorged with blood from my explosive orgasm. I awaken. "mmmm," I say softly.

I roll to face him. The candles have guttered. He puts his finger in my mouth; I suck it in. My hand goes to his cock, damp and soft. He removes it. "Later", he says, rising from the bed. "Shower. Dress. We are going out to your favorite restaurant. First course: a dozen raw oysters."

I climb out of bed, smile. "Oh, Daddy," I say, "You're so good to me." 



Swan's Way Ch. 03



After a night of wanton debauchery I rid my body of foreign intrusions with a strong emetic (tincture of ipecac), douche myself with a spermicide, and hoist the red rubber bag to cleanse my bowels of the final invasion.

Preparation H works wonders for the pouches beneath the eyes. I've also swiped a dab across my puss a time or two. Sunglasses and a head scarf are a must, when a lady of a certain age must venture into the world.

Which I was forced to do one morning, so many, many years ago. Marcel's last instruction, before he left for London, was for me to call at the local bookseller, and pick up something that he had ordered. 

The proprietor gave me a knowing look, and a brief smile flickered across his wizened lips as he handed me the small parcel. Wrapped and taped, concealing the contents.

Marcel had said nothing about the book, so I tore the paper from it upon returning to the apartment. A slim volume, first edition, bound in red calf. Gold letters on the spine. 

The Story of O.

Marcel had a wooden basket, the kind one finds on farms, filled with potatos and such. Only this one, sitting in a corner of the bedroom, overflowed with cash. Bills of all denominations. I never saw him add to or take from the contents. I once counted and arranged them in stacks on the bed; nearly fifteen thousand. I hesitated to ask its purpose, fearing retribution.

I was late for class and wanted nothing so much as to crawl back beneath the duvet. Marcel could be cruel; I knew he would want chapter and verse of my weekly studies. Freshman English Lit. European History. French 1. Geometry. I enjoyed that one; calculating angles, determining how big something was, with just a few measurements. The logic appealed to me. How tall is that flagpole?

I returned from class, finished the dregs of the wine we'd shared the night before, fell across the bed, and slept.

Hours later I awoke. Dusk had fallen, the night air was chilly. I closed the French doors to our little balcony; stripped, went into the bath. Showered, shampooed my hair, wrapped it in a towel. I'd always kept it cropped short when I danced. Used a mousse, spiked it with my fingers. Now it was shoulder length, and I thought it unbecoming. Marcel wanted it long long long. Shimmering raven locks, cascading down my back, to the swell of my buttocks. What Marcel wants, Marcel gets.

I studied myself in the triple tailor's mirror he had installed in the bedroom. Three different views of his Little Swan stare at me. Pale skin, black hair, proud nipples capping small breasts. Bare, shaved sex; complex, protruding. Muscular thighs; a product of hours at the bar, hours on the smooth, polished hardwood. Leaping, twirling, en point in toe shoes and a tutu.

I threw on a robe, threw arugula, sliced plum tomatoes, ripe olives, crumbled feta into a majolica bowl he'd brought from Spain. Drizzled on virgin olive oil and a dash of hedonistically expensive balsamic vinegar. I sat, I ate, I opened the book.

I tossed the bowl in the sink, unwashed. Took the book into the bedroom. Climbed beneath the covers, plumped big, downy pillows behind my back. And read and read and read.

Her man introduced successively larger devices into her backside. Made her wear them in her bottom, throughout the day. Then shared her with his friends. Passed her from man to man. I finished the god damn book, threw it against the wall. Wailed. Hugged myself, curled into a fetal coil beneath the sheets. After endless hours, sleep finally descended, blessedly releasing me from my pain.

Only to replace reality with tortured dreams. I awoke at dawn, drenched in sweat, less rested than the night before. I crawled from bed, stumbled into the bathroom, stood beneath a scalding shower for an eternity.

I did not hear the door open, did not see the silhouette of him watching me. I turned off the water, pulled the curtain aside. I thought my heart would stop. Marcel, fully clothed, topcoat caped across his shoulders, held the book in his hands against his chest. He smiled at me.

"You BASTARD!" I screamed. Smacked the book from his hands. Tears blinded me. Lunging forward, I stepped on it, staining its red leather binding. "You want to share me with your friends, now that you are tired of my pleasures? Is that how you feel about me? Oh, you pig, you fucking fucking fucking pig!" I forgot my nakedness; I failed at him, beat his chest, his face.

He enveloped me, pulled me against him, my wet, naked body soiling his suit. "No, no, no," he crooned in my ear. "That was the last thought in my mind, when I ordered that book for you."

I snuffled, let him hold me against his chest. "What, then?" I softly asked. And suddenly it dawned on me.

I pushed him away, looked into his eyes. "You want to put it in my bottom?"

Marcel picked up the book, put it on the edge of the sink. "No, my Little Swan; I am quite content to wait until YOU to want me to put it in your bottom."

I dried and dressed myself, and Marcel exchanged his damp suit for a silk dressing gown. He sat at the kitchen table and read the morning's paper while I prepared breakfast. In tenth grade a friend of mine had let her brother stick it in her backside. She said it hurt and he got an infection.

"Marcel," I said, sliding two coddled eggs onto his plate, "Have you ever done it?"

He lowered the newspaper and looked at me over the tops of his reading glasses. "Done what, Swan?"

"You know. . .Put it in someone's backside."

He disappeared behind the paper. "Mm hm," he said.

"Doesn't it . . .hurt?"

He folded the paper and picked up his fork. "It can, if it's not done properly." He broke the yolks; yellow slowly flowed across milky albumen. "But, so can straight sex, if you're not prepared, not wet, not receptive. Why the sudden curiosity?"

I slid into the chair across from him. "You know. . .that book. In some parts she seemed to like having that done to her bottom. Is that really true, or was it just made up?" At nineteen, I was such a stupe.

"What? The story? Yes, of course; it's fiction. But, from my admittedly limited experience, there is also pleasure for the woman. It is, I understand, an orgasm of a different sort, but no less pleasant."

"Can. . .we try it?"

Marcel turned his wrist and glanced at his watch, laughed. "Well, that was fast! Twenty minutes ago you were trying to kill me!"

"I'm sorry, my love, I just thought-"

"I know, I know, Swan, darling. It is I who should appologize. And yes, of course we can try it. But not now. I have business to transact in town, and I will have to pick up a few supplies, if we are to attempt this new endeavor."

The day dragged as I forced myself from class to class. I took no notes, did not participate, remembered nothing. All I could think about was how he could possibly fit himself into me, back there.

Marcel surprised me by arriving at my college in a taxi cab. We dined at our local bistro, and walked home. An apertif, a glass of wine, a small cognac; I was a little tipsy.

He sent me into the bathroom with instructions and the enema, while he prepared the bedroom for this final invasion of my body. In the shower, the hard black tip connected to the rubber hose slipped into me with surprising ease. But, then, it was only a half inch across. Marcel is more than two. I emptied my bowels of the cleansing solution into the toilet.

He is naked. He has lit several of our candles, and re-positioned the mirrors. A small table at the foot of the bed holds a container of a viscous fluid and a clear glass dildo that swells along its length from a quarter inch to three. I stare at it, petrified. No way can I take that in my bottom!

There is a carved rosewood Victorian settee, uphostered in dusty pink velvet, that Marcel has placed beside the table. The mattress is too soft and yielding for this operation, he explains, as he has me kneel on the seat, my arms across the padded back, my chin resting on my forearms. Looking ahead, I stare into a big mirror, angled so that the equally large mirror behind gives me a view everything!

My bottom is raised slightly above my shoulders, and my legs are spread, giving the two of us a view of both my cunt and the object of his imminent intentions. He runs his hands over my buttocks, down the cleft, lightly stoking the puckered pink star centered between the twin mounds of my cheeks. 

I start at the strange tingle of his touch. I watch him bend, bring his face close, blocking my view. I feel his breath, warm, then his tongue, warmer, wet.

He licks me, probes me, teases me. I squirm, breath out a sound that I shall transcribe as "Ooooooo." Suck in the sound of "Uhhhhhh." The tip of his tongue pentrates me. My cunt is wet. I reach for it. He grasps my wrist, pulls me away. "Not yet," he orders. 

His tongue is replaced by his thumb, and I feel a cool fluid slowly creep down from the top of my buttocks. Slippery slippery slippery. He moves to one side, so I can watch. Which I do.

He watches me, watching him. Mirror, mirror, on the wall; mirror, mirror, everywhere! He rims the entrance, slides in, just past his thumbnail. Pauses. Flexes his digit up and down, side to side. Withdraws. "Oh!" I say. Dissappointed; it had started to feel good with him in there.

I feel the hard smooth tip of the glass dildo slowly enter me. An inch. Another inch. And yet another. I am being stretched. More lubricant. More dildo. "My God!" I cry. "How far is that thing into me?"

"Half way," he quietly answers, slowly pushing it further up my bottom.

I pant. Huff. Huff. Huff. "Marcel," I manage, "It HURTS!" He releases his grip on the base; I expell it. I feel I have gained a modicum of power over the procedure. I am relieved, but curiously empty. New sensations; I am simultaneously thrilled and terrified. Aroused.

"No. Pu-put it back in," I say, and he does. The pain is replaced by a tingle, an itch. My cunt aches for the thickness of his cock. I watch as hours, days, centuries pass; suddenly my stretched hole closes around the base of the device. It is all the way in! He smiles as I gaze at the results of this incredible penetration of my body. He comes to the front of the settee, stoops, kisses me tenderly.

"My brave, brave Little Swan," he says. He grasps his thick organ. "Now, pleasure yourself with your hand," he commands. "And suck my cock."

I take him in and strum my button. I am very, very wet. And, very, very close. I can feel the glass dildo on the other side of my passage. He quickly erupts into my mouth; I swallow, drool. My cunt spasms, I come, I cry, "Hnn! Hnn! Hnn!" around his cock. He withdraws from my mouth. He is still quite erect.

He moves behind me, places yet another mirror, this time on the floor, so I can look down and watch as he positions himself at the entrance to my cunt. "No! No way; it'll never fit!"

He ignores my pleas, enters me, slides home with a long, single thrust. I yield to him, and it does, it does, it fits! It fits! I am packed, front and rear. Deliciously. I bite the velvet back of the seat as he goes in and out in and out in. . .

Oh dear Lord! I come again; shake my head, rip the uphostery with my teeth. I feel him shoot once more, this time deep within my cunt.

He deflates and I eject him with contracting muscles. He removes the dildo. My eyes fall to the mirror. Both of my openings are agape. My crotch, from top to bottom, is shiny with lube, our fluids. His semen runs down my legs. He lifts me, places me on the bed, lies beside me, rolls me atop him, holds me close. Runs his hand slowly up and down my spine, again and again. Kisses my eyelids.

"Marcel?" I open my eyes, look into his. "We never did it; put your cock in my bottom."

He smiles, touches my lips with his finger. "We will, my Little Swan, we will."

And so we did.



Swan's Way Ch. 04



On Tuesday and Thursday mornings I have an hour between classes, and I use the time in the gymnasium, doing floor exercises, working up a sweat.

I tossed my tights and singlet in my bag, grabbed a towel, and went into the shower room. Damp and dark; 20x20, tiled from floor to ceiling, with shower heads spaced every five feet or so. I was just rinsing off, when someone entered the room.

She selected the space beside me, which I thought somewhat unusual. Generally, if the place isn't filled to capacity after some team event, people give each other a bit more space. I wiped the water from my eyes, and looked at her.

"Ms. Larsen," I said, surprised. "Hello." Ms. Larsen, I should say, is a grad student, and teaches my English Lit class. She is bigger than I am- who isn't- with plump breasts and a bit of a belly. I'd guess she was in her mid twenties. A pretty face and red hair, which I could see was her natural color.

"I was watching you," she said. "You've had formal training."

"Years and years," I replied, reaching for my towel. I was uneasy about the way she was studying me.

"Magnificent," she said, puzzling me as to just what she thought was so great. She quickly cleared that up. She took a step closer to me, reached out, touched my lower lip with her thumb. Traced it slowly down my chin, my throat, my chest, my-

I recoiled and snatched for my towel. "I-I have a class. Gotta run!" And I did, treating her to a flash of butt as I skittered across the wet tile floor, and back to my locker. Dressed in a trice, and got the hell out of Dodge.

That afternoon, listening to her drone on about 19th Century poetry, my nasty little mind drifted back to that shower room. I felt a tingle of the sort that Marcel can induce with a certain look. Only, Marcel was nowhere in sight.

Ms. Larsen seemed to be looking directly at me, as she said, " 'The mur-mur-ing pines and the hem-locks. This is the for-est prim-e-val.' Iambic pentameter." 

After class I lingered until the other students left. I approached the front of the room as she gathered her materials. "Uh, Ms. Larsen? About what happened in the shower-"

She smiled, raised her palms in front of her. "Oops, sorry! Hey, no harm, no foul, O.K.?"

"Yeah, sure, O.K." I unlocked my bike and pedalled the mile and a half back to the apartment. Put a casserole on the stove to heat, and started conjugating French verbs at the kitchen table. Je suis, vous etes, nous sommes. What a screwy language.

Marcel came home, kissed the top of my head, went into the bedroom to change. "How was class today?" he called.

"Huh? oh; 'kay, I guess."

He reappeared in linen slacks and a silk pullover. Poured himself a glass of wine, stirred the casserole. Sat, watched me study. He reached out, took my hand. "You're awfully quite this evening."

I tried to ignore him; read, my lips moving as I worked my way through the next verb. I sighed, closed the book. "Marcel? Did you ever, uh, fool around with another guy?"

He sipped his wine and studied me across the top of his glass. "Tut, tut, Swan; aren't you the curious little bird. What makes you ask such a question?"

"Today. . . Back in seventh grade I was at a party, and we played Spin the Bottle. I had to kiss a couple of the girls. And, it was like: nothing. But, then, today. . ."

I told him about Ms. Larsen in the shower, how she'd touched me, how I felt odd, later, in her class.

"And what sort of 'odd' did you feel, ma petite oiseau?"

"It was weird; just thinking about the way she'd trailed her thumb, made me feel the way I do when YOU touch me. Tingley. Flushed. Like, I sort of wished I hadn't run out of the shower room. You think I'm, you know, a-"

"A lesbian? I doubt that, dear child. You like straight sex too much! But, depending upon how strong an attraction you have for this woman, it's quite possible that your are having bi-sexual urges. I believe that we all are, to some extent. I've always thought that the loudest homophobes were repressing latent tendencies."

He got up and checked the casserole, put plates and silverware on the table. I put my books away and washed my hands.

After dinner I hurriedly did the dishes, wrapped my arms around my lover, whispered, "I'm so confused! Take me to bed, Marcel; I need you to screw my brains out."

And we did; and then we talked and talked and talked.

The following week, as I entered the classroom, Ms. Larsen touched my elbow, said quickly, "Stay after class for a moment, please."

I did as I was told. I can be SUCH an obedient child!

She sat at the desk beside mine. "Look; I appologize for last week. I don't know what came over me. It's just that, since the beginning of the year, I've noticed you, the way you carry yourself with such grace. And, when I saw you, exercising in the gymn, I had to see you. . . in the alltogether. Please! It was so stupid of me; I'll lose my job, get bounced out of grad school, if anyone finds out!"

"Yes, I suppose you would. But then, it would be my word against yours, and I'm just a lowly Freshman, while you have your degree, are about to get your Masters. Who would they believe?"

"Is there any reason to carry it that far?"

I enjoyed toying with her. "No," I said after a long moment. "I suppose not. . . Still. . ." I gathered my books and stood. "No, never mind; everything is Jake." I smiled and headed for the door. "See you Thursday!"

Wicked, wicked me.

I told Marcel everything, and we shared a giggle.

Thursday I said, after class, "Let's try this; start over. Forget about what happened. Try to build a friendship. I think you're a terrific teacher, Ms. Larsen; you'll be a tenured PhD in nothing flat!"

"Oh, call me Greta," she gushed.

"Greta it is. Hey, I have an idea! I'm a fair to middling cook. How 'bout stopping by my place for dinner, tomorrow night?"

"Oh, how sweet of you! I'd love that." She took my hand in both of hers.

Great," I said. "I can't wait until you meet Marcel!" And smiled and smiled and smiled, all the way home on my little bikey bike. Sniff the seat, bitch!

Friday, after class, I shop the waterfront, assemble the ingredients for a boulliabaise. Shellfish, a big fat flailing lobster; prawns, seabass, squid. An eel. the usual assorted herbs and veggies. Fresh fresh fresh. The apartment fills with mingled aromas. Never been there (yet!), but I bet it smells like St. Tropez.

Marcel's apartment occupies the top floor of a fourth floor walk-up. Three rooms; big kitchen-cum-sitting room, big bath, bigger playpen. I set the table with majollica, mismatched antique sliverware, a trio of crystal flutes. He has splurged on a bottle of Tattinger for My Night. I light the candles.

Dusk. I am wearing a silk cheomsang-one of those high necked Chinese dresses that are slit from there to here; nothing underneath. Heels. I put something light and classical on the music machine. Marcel appears. Maroon silk smoking jacket, shawl collar. A fucking ascot! "Too much, he asks?"

"Hey, she's a GRAD student, Gomez! She'll probably jump YOU, instead of me!"

He clutches me, tight against his chest. He smells of Casablanca. Or so he says. "Are you sure about this?" he murmurs. "You can back out, you know."

The doorbell rings; one of those ancient things you twist, producing a sharp 'BRRRRRP!'

I kiss him quickly, deeply. "Oh,God; I'm so confused so hot so wet! Forward; into the valley!"

She is wearing a green, sleeveless dress that draws attention to her red hair. Lipstick. Freckles dust her cheeks. I introduce her to Marcel. She is cool, reserved. Confused. Is this guy my father? He's no help as he says, "You've made quite an impression on my Little Swan. Under your tutelage she has begun to write."

She warms, slightly. Turns to me. "Really? I didn't know! Can you show me anything?"

Can I ever! I attempt a blush. "Oh, no! Maybe sometime in the future, when I have more confidence." I ladle dinner into bowls. Marcel opens the champagne.

This is delicious," she says. "You are quite the chef, Swan."

"Hey; it's just fish stew with a fancy name.No big deal."

Marcel dips a clamshell into the broth, noisily slurps it. "I always considered bouillbaise a Tom Jones sort of meal."

"Henry Fielding." She too dips a shell and slurps. Buttery broth glistens on her lips. "I see what you mean. I'm currently reading She Stoops to Conquer, as part of my thesis, and-"

Marcel slurps again. "She Stoops to Conquer: or; The Mistakes of a Night. Oliver Goldsmith."

"My, you're well read!"

He refills our glasses. "I'm an impresario, I have to be. I'm currently exploring the idea of Moll Flanders as a musical. Not sure if that's going to work, though."

"Daniel Defoe. Moll Flanders is considered one of the earliest novels, you know."

"And SO naughty!"

What the fuck are these two up to? "More champagne?" I ask.

Marcel clears the table. I switch the music machine to slow and dreamy. "Dance with me," I say. He takes me in his arms and we swirl across the floor. 

We often dance, and know each other well. As dance partners, I mean. I break, turn to Greta. "He's good, isn't he?" I push him towards her. "Take him for a spin." Reluctantly, she settles into his arms. I dim the lights. Watch them for a minute, then tap him on the shoulder. Step between them. "Do you want to lead, or shall I?"

She hesitates, says, "well, I don't know; I've always thought I was a top, but-"

"Then lead you shall!" I say, and put my left hand on her shoulder. Play the female role. I nestle into her. Her full breasts are soft against my chest. Her hand circles my waist, slides to the swell of my bottom. I take her lower lip between mine. Suck. She breaks the kiss, look at Marcel, who sits and watches.

"Don't mind him, Greta," I whisper. "He's just an old poofter." The poor woman is SO confused! This is not what she expected, not at all. We dance a pas de deux, each wanting to seduce the other. Marcel has prepared me well. "Come," I say, taking her hand. "Let me me show you the bedroom."

"Lock the door," she says. "I don't trust men."

I kiss her, again. "I do," I say, and leave the door ajar. Enough of a view, from the kitchen, if the light is right, and a chair is placed just so. . .

We stand beside the bed. She pushes my dark hair back, behind my ears. Holds my head, kisses me. My lips yield, her tongue enters my mouth, runs beneath my upper lip, across my teeth. I suck her, our tongues duel. I parry, thrust, force her back. I breach her defenses, ram my tongue into her mouth. The duel continues. I am wet. I break free, I turn, I say, "Unzip me."

She catches her breath as my dress pools about my feet. High heels and nothing else. I turn and face her. 

"Just like the shower room," she says, as her eyes cruise my body.

"No, not really." She looks at me, puzzled. "You're still fully clothed." She pulls the dress up, over her head, tosses it on the bed. Lacy bra and scanty panties. They join the dress. We stand and look at each other. She lightly touches my cunt. My very, very favorite word. It makes me feel so slutty. 

"So smooth and soft," she says. "I've often considered doing that, but never had the nerve."

"I'm really furry, down there, and it bothered me, when I danced. You have a lovely muff.Leave it the way it is. More fun to explore, that way. Hidden treasures."

"Can we. . .get on the bed?"

"Go slow, Greta. This is the first time I've ever done this."

"You seem so experienced."

"No, Greta. Just wicked."

We lie on our sides, facing each other, gazing into each others eyes. Hers travel down. "God, you're beautiful," she says. "What a body. I'm such a fatty."

"I'm too skinny," I parry. "And you're not fat, you're full." I touch a breast, squeeze, brush the nipple with my thumb. There are freckles on her chest. "I wish I had tits."

She returns the favor; my nipples harden. She takes one in her mouth, and lets her hand rove slowly down my belly, opens me, dips inside. Brings her hand back up. Sucks the finger. I return the favor. She tastes different than I do. I inhale her scent. Stronger than mine, musky. Quite pleasant. Marcel has changed the music machine back to classical. A fugue.

She rolls me on my back, parts my legs. Rises to her knees, looms over me, moves down between my legs. "May I?" she asks. Begs.

"Please, yes, God, yes! I'm so hot."

Her tongue is well ahead of her, education wise. Already has its doctorate in Advanced Stimulation. My clitoris succumbs to her ministrations all too soon. I buck, flail my legs, reach down, and pull her face into me as we ride the tide.

She crawls back up, kisses me, lets me taste my self. "My turn?" I ask.

"Only if you want to. Don't feel that you have to reciprocate."

"You and your big words," I say, slithering down between her ample thighs. I search through her soft red bush, checking what is where. Same equipment I have-surprise-surprise! Just different in size, shape, smell. Her lips are engorged; full, long. I part them with my fingers, run my tongue up, open the hood, start her engine. 

"Finger me," she moans. I slide my middle finger inside, beneath my busy tongue. "More," she groans. I add a second finger. "More more more!"

I now have four fingers in her, up to my second knuckles. My thumb brushes against her other opening, and I feel it spasm. As I consider whether or not to slip it in there she makes the decision for me. "Fist me!" she whispers.

I twist my hand sideways and introduce my thumb into her cunt. She's sloppy wet with her juices and my slobber. I push against her, she grunts. Suddenly, I slide in. Not the first time for my Greta! Her vaginal muscles grip my wrist, hold me prisoner.

"Pump me hard!" she cries. "Use your other hand, do my clit. Bust me up! Rough! I like it rough!" She pulls her knees up, spreads her legs. I torment her clit with my right hand, twist the left from side to side, deep in her cunt. She grabs her breasts, squeezes them, pulls the nipples with her fingers until they pop free, does it again and again and again.

Wow! This is such a turn on; I wish I had a third hand. I bet this bitch likes to be tied up, likes to be beaten. 

Greta thrashes, crashes, deflates like a balloon the morning after. She lies, boneless on the bed, all soft soft soft. I nestle beside her. "Wow!" I say.

She turns her head toward me, smiles. "Yeah. Wow."



Swan's Way Ch. 05



Dance is an elective at my college, but, after spending five solid years immersed in both modern and classical, I had less than zero interest in the course. The room, however, was most useful; large and well lit, with mirrored walls and practice bars. Three times a week I would make use of the facility when no class was in session. Quiet and alone; able to concentrate on keeping my body at its youthful peak.

The room was separated from the gymnasium by a plate glass wall, and on occasion passers by would stop and watch me.

The gym was often occupied by students doing floor routines, or using the equipment, under the tutelage of a male and female instructor. Taking a break one afternoon, a fellow student caught my attention. His specialty was the rings, and, to my untutored eye, he appeared to be of Olympic quality. He would slowly descend into an Iron Cross, hold it for an eternity, then flip up into a handstand, and execute a triple dismount. The rings would appear to be welded in place.

It was not just his expertise that attracted my attention. He was slim, ripped, and had a most intriguing bulge beneath his tights. Close cropped dark hair and a Roman nose.

At the start of the second semester I found him seated beside me in European History. "You're the dancer babe, aren't you?"

"Swan. And you're Tarzan, swingin' through the trees."

He laughed, flashing big white teeth, held out his hand. A spark zapped from his bod to mine. Oooh; what am I gonna say to Marcel? "Nuke. Short for nuclear, ‘cause I had a temper when I was little. After getting my butt kicked a bunch of times, I learned to mostly control myself. You're really good."

"Well, YEAH. I studied forever, danced semipro for two years, before quitting to start college." The professor pulled down a big roll-up map of Europe and got going on the Hapsburgs.

A week later he asked me out, I turned him down. Same thing the next class. Third time he asked me if I was a lez. "No; what I am, is in a relationship. A pretty special one. But I tell you, Nuke, if I wasn't, I'd jump your bones!"

I told Marcel about Nuke, how he'd been coming on to me, how I liked his bod. We were in bed, had just done the deed, were languishing in post-coital bliss. "Do you ever look at other women?"

"All the time!"

"Do you. . .fantasize about them?"

"Is the Marquis a Sadist?"

"Prick!" I poked him in the ribs.

"Fantasy, my dear Little Swan, and reality are two different worlds. In my fantasies I peel them like a grape, ravish them, leave them wet and breathless, begging for an encore. In reality, I get a stiffy, and hurry home to you."

I snuggled against him, "Oh, Marcel; you'll make me weep!" I touched his sticky dickie, sucked my finger, kissed him, and we fell all over each other a second time. Marcel is slow to rise, deliciously slow to erupt, but, alas! All too languid on the recovery. Sometimes, a girl needs a second inning without the wait. 

It's unusual for Marcel to get another erection that quickly; generally a half hour or so is required. The wait is worth it; at his age (he's sensitive about how much older he is, says he's only twenty seventeen), Marcel lasts much much longer than the kids I'd balled in high school. Pump pump squirt squirt slam bam thank you ma'am. I wondered at his speedy recovery. Could it have been Nuke? Oh, how delicious! 

That Sunday, in the bath, doing our weekly ritual, lazing against the back end of the big claw foot tub, my arms and legs hooked over the edges, I broached the subject from a different angle. "Marcel? You ever do it with two women at the same time?"

He rinsed the razor in the suds, cleaned the excess lather from my freshly shaved cunt, and stood, so that I could give him the same treatment. "Ah, ma petite oiseau! So; you want to add this young gymnast to our games!"

I locked my lips around his soapy cock, stiffening him for his shave. God, this man knows me so well! That's why I never, ever keep anything from him. As to whether he reciprocates, I am still not sure. . .

Later, in the bed, breakfast dishes on the floor, Sunday papers strewn across the duvet, passions momentarily slaked, I turn and hold him against my breast. "Straighten me out, Marcel; like you did with my lezzie lover. I'm so so so confused; lead me, teach me, tell me what to do!"

He kisses my forehead, touches my cheek. "It is you heart that must tell you what to do." He rises, shrugs into a robe. "However, I will do this: write a note, for you to deliver. The next step will be his, then mine, and finally yours. Trust me?"

"Marcel, Marcel! Je suis enchante, mon amour, mon amour!"

"Swan, I think you need to pay more attention to your homework. . ."

I have to turn this over to Marcel; I'm too too F'd up to deal with it; besides, he really took control of the whole deal, at least for the first act. . . ----------------------------------------------

‘Young Mr. Nuke', I began, scratching the broad italic nib of my Mont Blanc across the hand laid note paper that I order from London. First impressions are often the difference between access and denial. ‘Swan informs me that she is intrigued by you; and, as her guardian, I wish for us to meet, so as to ascertain your suitability. Forgive my directness; I am obsessively protective of the child.' I added a date, time, and location as a postscript, signed the short note ‘Marcel P.,' and tucked it, unsealed, into an envelope. A small temptation for my Swan.

That afternoon I am seated at a curbside table outside the local bistro, a script and the dregs of an espresso before me. He approaches, apprehensive, eyes darting. I rise, smile, extend my hand. "Nuke," I say. "Swans description hardly does you justice." I gesture to the other chair, turn to the hovering waiter. "Felix. Noilly Prat; And, for the gentleman. . .?"

"Uh, a beer. . ."

Seated, I come directly to the point. L'audace, toujours l'audace! "Nuke, I lied. I'm not her guardian. Swan is my mistress, and I am very, very protective, of both her and our relationship. However, I am also an aficionado of dangerous situations. The life unexperienced is not worth living. . . You'll learn that, when you study classical philosophy."

Nuke tosses down half his beer, refills the glass. "Uh, Sir, I'm like totally clueless, here. I mean, I ask her out; she's a hot chick, and then she triple blows me off, but today she hands me this note. . .Hey, Sir; I think I'm way, WAY out of my league!


I reach across the table, touch his hand. He jerks it away. I see a young colt, shy at the first approach of the halter.

"Nuke," I say. "Swan has shown an interest in you, would like to take it further. Our relationship is one of pupil and teacher, master and student. I am guiding her through her sexual awakening, as she explores the options spread before her. She is in charge, but I am always there to ensure that no lasting harm befalls her. Do you understand?"

Nuke finishes his beer, and I motion for another. He is wired, ready to bolt. "N-no. I'm totally fucked up! I mean, I'm nervous as hell, never done anything like this before; shit, I've only fucked a girl twice."

Well, that certainly reduces the chances of STD. 

"Let me give you a few ground rules, Nuke, should you choose to participate in her experiment. First, lose the gutter talk. Swan is rather free with the words ‘cunt' and ‘cock', but otherwise, she's a young lady. Second, always remember that she is in charge; ‘no' means no, and ‘let's try...' is a command. You and I are there to assist her on this journey. Keep that in mind, young man, and you will also embark on voyages you have never dreamed of." I placed a card in front of him. "Here's the address. Eight o'clock, tomorrow night." I slipped the script into my leather folder, dropped a few bills on the table, and left him with his confusion.

------------------------------------------------- Me again. Marcel sits at the kitchen table, reading that script. I am trying to study for next week's history exam. It's nearly eight thirty. I guess he chickened out. I jump at the sound of the doorbell.

"I got lost," he says. "Sorry."

I stand on tiptoe, kiss his cheek. "It's O.K. Come on in. Would you like a glass of wine?"

"Sure. Good evening, Sir."

"My name's Marcel, not Sir, Nuke," my lover says with a smile. "Are you as worried as Swan is, about this history exam?"

"Yeah, sorta. I can't keep all those kings and emperors straight."

"Plus," I chime in,"The countries keep changing their names!"

We sit and gab about school; Marcel ignores us. I refill Nuke's glass, take his hand. "Come on, I want to show you something." I lead him into the bedroom, close the door. He takes in his surroundings, the big four poster bed, the many mirrors.

He gives me a puzzled look. "What? This what you want to show me?"

"No, Nuke. I want to show you ME. Take off my clothes."

My blouse has many, many tiny buttons. He fumbles at first, picks up speed at the halfway point. A quick study. Good. Has less trouble with my bra. But then, of course, I am not wearing one.

A quick zip and my skirt pools around my feet. I kick off my flats. He hooks my panties with his thumbs, slowly, slowly peels them off. He stands back and feasts on me; his eyes devour my proud, shaved sex, all its folds and convolutions laid bare before his gaze.

"My turn," I finally say, and get to work. In less time than it takes to write ‘I strip him', I strip him. I gasp. He is completely hairless.

He blushes. "Weird, huh? I was on the swim team, in prep school; body hair can add a half second to a hundred meters. Most of us shaved. I got used to the feeling; even though we don't have a swim team here, I still do it. Does it bother you?"

"BOTHER me? It's an incredible turn on!" I flash on Michelangelo's statue of David as I run my hands down his chest, down, down. His brown sack is large, his testicles hang below a disappointingly small penis.

"Uh, Swan, I don't know if your, if Marcel told you, but I've only done it twice. I'm kind of nervous."

"Hey, you think I'm not! Come on, let's climb on the bed, and I'll tell you a story." We did and I did.

"Back in high school, I was dating this guy, pretty steady. One Saturday he'd scored a six pack and his old man's car. We were in the back seat, making out.Two beers, and I had a buzz on. He had one hand under my sweater, the other up my skirt. 

Next thing I know, he's got a raging boner in one hand, and my panties in the other. Without preamble, he sticks it in me. Three thrusts; he comes and I bleed. It was two years before I attempted sex again." I lean over and give Nuke a brief kiss. "Your turn," I say.

"My first time was about as bad. I dropped by my buddy's house. He wasn't home, but his big sister was. Four or five years older than me; a college senior. I guess beer must be part of the ritual, because I got kinda wasted, in her kitchen. Next thing I know, I'm kissing her, feeling her tits, er, breasts, through her shirt. Her hand is on my crotch, and I came. Man! Talk about embarrassing. Not to mention having to walk home with a big wet stain in my pants."

"That's it? One the two times you did it?" I was beginning to wonder if I had a virgin on my hands.

"No, it gets worse! She took me upstairs to her bedroom, got us naked. Swiped one of her dads rubbers. Sucked me hard again, rolled it on my di- my penis, and lay back on her bed. I got between her legs, she guided it in; I leaned forward, sucked one of her breasts. And shot my wad!" Nuke picked up his glass and finished the wine. "Second time, later that year, wasn't much better. That's a problem for guys; they come too fast."

"Me too!"

"Yeah, but you're a girl. You can do it again and again."

I kiss him once more, longer, deeper. "So can guys," I whisper, "If the girl helps." I reach down, and find he grown me a pleasant surprise. He's one of those men who show you nothing limp, and turn into the Washington Monument when hard. Nuke reminds me of a large carrot; about eight inches or so in length, and slender. Perfect for a few experiments I've been dying to try.

"OUR First Time," I say, rolling onto my back, spreading my legs, "We're gonna do straight, missionary sex. Don't worry about me; I already came once, a mini orgasm, while I was stripping you. And, go as fast as you want; I'm nice and wet and ready. We have to get this one out of the way, and then we can play!" I don't have the clock running, but I'd guess it's about thirty seconds when he falls over the edge.

"Uhhh!" he groans, collapses onto me. I wrap my legs around him, hold him in, as he surges. Grip him with my muscles as he pumps me full. Finally he rolls off me, spent. "Sorry," he says.

"Not at all! I felt you in places no one's been before." His cock, still long, but now flaccid, lies against his thigh. I French his mouth, stroke his sleek body. Rise, turn, take him all the way in. Lock my lips, slowly withdraw, cleansing him. I French him again, surprising him with a taste of both of us. I feel his heart thud beneath my palm. He is hard again. "See?" I say. "Told ya so!"

Nuke wants to go a second round, but I tell him no. "The night's young, and there are miles to go, before we sleep." Oh, the benefits of a college education! "Right now, we are going to get a shower, clean ourselves up for Marcel."

"Marcel? Hey; I'm not into that gay stuff-"

"Not to worry; neither is he-unless he's been leading a secret life!" We frolic in the bath, explore each other. I give him a crash course in female anatomy, for which he will be eternally grateful for the rest of his life.

Back in the bedroom, door now open, I call, "Marcel! Join us." He enters, slowly disrobes, while I light the candles. 

My two guys examine each others equipment; My lover quite frankly, Nuke a bit more circumspect.

Marcel is thick, but not long enough to really get down my throat. I've been wanting to try that. Practiced with candles. Nuke will fill the bill; long and slender. Only, at the moment, he has deflated. "I'm going to perform a magic trick, Nuke; actually, two. But first I have to make a few preparations."

Marcel and I have an exercise bench; the kind with adjustable legs at both ends. It can be used for leg lifts, bench presses, crunches. We use it for altogether different exercises. Marcel's favorite position is to take me standing-you may have noticed that in past chapters! The bench is set at a height where I can lie on it, feet flat on the floor, my cunt at the perfect elevation for him to penetrate me.

"Nuke, stand here," I order, and raise the other end of the bench a few inches to compensate for his greater height. "Now; the magic! Nuke, I am going to make Marcel's limp equipment disappear, then, abracadabra, reappear, at full erection. And," I wink, "I am going to make you hard as a rock without touching you!"

I kneel before Marcel and take him entirely into my mouth; engulf his flaccid penis, his sack, his balls. He loves this almost as much as I. My cheeks bulge like a squirrel preparing for winter. Under the hidden ministrations of my busy busy tongue Marcel soon grows, expands, erupts from my mouth, glistening with my saliva. I also rise and turn to Nuke, who, as I predicted, is diamond hard. "See," I say, "Magic!"

I sit on the bench, face Marcel, my bottom at the edge. Then I lie back, letting my head hang over the other end. "Nuke, wait until Marcel is in me, then I want you in my mouth."

Marcel kneels and pleasures me with his darting tongue for a moment or two, finds me already wet and ready, stands between my legs. Nuke watches, his cock twitching. I pray the damned thing doesn't go off too soon. "Look how thick he is, Nuke. How can that monster ever possibly fit into my tiny cunt? But it does, it does!"

Marcel grasps his shaft and slowly enters me; leans forward, lets gravity help. He sets up a steady rhythm. We haven't made love today, and I know I have four glorious minutes before his first eruption. "Nuke? Put it in my mouth."

He takes a step forward and places his cock between my lips. I lavish the tip with my tongue, then put my hand on it, remove it."What I want, Nuke, is to try and take you all the way in, down my throat. With my head at this angle, you have a straight shot at the promised land. Only, I've never done this before, so if I give your jewels a light squeeze like this, I want you to pull out. I promise I won't hurt you, as long as you don't hurt me. O.K.?"

I look up, past his stiff cock, into his eyes, see candles reflected in his pupils. "O.K.," he whispers, and I take him back in. Marcel has me deliciously stretched at the other end, and I once more inhale Nuke. He slides past my lips and I let my tongue ride the top of his cock. I feel him at the back of my mouth, and I open wider, so that my lips no longer touch him. He plunges in, withdraws, plumbs my depths again. My nose bumps his balls. I can feel him in my throat!

Several centuries later Marcel slows his pace, drawing the moment out; I know he is about to pull into the station. I close my lips around Nuke, increasing the friction. God, I feel so penetrated; fear a head-on collision in the tunnel!

Marcel knows the subtle signs, grips my hips and pounds me. "Pinch her nipples, son! She's almost there; let's all try to go together!" I let my teeth drag lightly along his cock, caress his balls as he comes to a boil. A hundred thousand volts of lightning arc between my nipples and my cunt.

I feel him pulse in my throat as Marcel empties himself into my cunt. I simply explode, shatter the world record for megatons of orgasm. Nuke withdraws, staggers, lands on his butt with a thump. "Holy shit!" he says.

"Nuke," I admonish. "Such language!"

The following week we both passed our history exam. Marcel treated us to a celebratory dinner at my favorite restaurant, and we then returned to the apartment to complete my journey. But that, Gentle Reader, is Chapter Six. 



Swan's Way Ch. 05 Pt. 02



Marcel wanted to celebrate Nuke's and my success in passing the dreaded history exam, and he booked a private room at my favorite restaurant.

Tonight I'm gonna blow up the planet. Maybe the entire universe. I shower, fix my hair; as much as I can-I hate hate hate its current length. How many years is it going to take to reach my butt? 

Marcel has seated himself just outside the doorway, observing my ablutions. As I wrap a towel around me he rises to answer the door bell. Marcel has selected one of his London made three piece suits and a truly hideous necktie that I had given him for his birthday. God, I love that man; I could eat him with a spoon!

Marcel returns with Nuke, who is actually wearing grown-up clothing; slacks, a sports jacket, and a tie. Polished shoes, made of real leather! They sit on the opposite side of the room, and watch the show.

I don skimpy black lace panties, thigh high black stockings with lacy tops and a seam running down the back. Push up bra in matching lace; not that there is much to push up. It does, however, have little cutouts that let my nipples roam free. Black silk dress with spaghetti straps, and fuck-me pumps. I watch them in the mirror, let the image burn into their brains, as I brush a dusting of powder across my cheeks and slowly apply blood red lipstick.

Marcel calls, "Maybe we should just stay home!"

"Gets my vote!" Nuke answers.

"Down, boys; the night is young." A horn sounds; the taxi cab has arrived. The restaurant, as always, is crowded; on weekends reservations well in advance are mandatory. I receive a number of frank appraisals, from both men and women, as we head for the staircase. I ascend first, treat my men to a preview with my bottom; I read somewhere that a movie critic once wrote that watching Sophia Loren walk reminded him of two boys wrestling under a blanket!

A round table is set for three; crisp linen napkins and a snowy tablecloth. Silver, china, crystal goblets in three shapes. An oriental carpet covers the hardwood floor, flocked red wallpaper gives the flickering candlelight a rosy hue. Our waiter seats us, me flanked by my men, and serves the first course. 

Champagne and caviar on toast points. Marcel has ordered the menu in advance, and I have no idea of what to expect. Except, of course for one item that I KNOW will be on the bill of fare, and I have planned a little surprise of my own.

"Wow," Nuke says, "I've never had caviar. It's salty!"

I give him a glance, a smile, reply, "As are all good things in life!" The waiter clears, and I prepare, knowing what the next course must be.

One of my private signs with Marcel is to say, "Did you remember to lock the door when we left?" Which means I want to play with him, beneath the table. He will then slide his zipper down, and let me fumble him into the world. Tonight he expects that I have some devious scheme in mind, and he readily cooperates, as I continue to chat with Nuke. I know I have to get a good head start with Marcel, before I engage my young companion. 

With my left hand I caress Marcel beneath the table cloth, whisper, "Tonight, all the way!" The waiter places a large silver tray in the center of the table. A bed of crushed ice cradles two dozen raw oysters on the half shell. He refills our champagne flutes.

We slurp several oysters, commenting on their taste. My right hand disappears under the tablecloth, strokes Nuke's crotch. "Unzip," I whisper. He's hard before I touch him. After several stokes I bring my hand back up. He looks forlorn. "Patience, my precious," I say, and put a double pat of butter in my mouth, letting my heat soften it. I lean and give Marcel, then Nuke, a creamy kiss, before letting it slide from my tongue onto my palm. My hand once more submerges. I lubricate both cocks. Marcel swells; he's close. Thank God for cows. . .

I tongue Nuke's ear, whisper, "You know, I've been doing the same thing, to Marcel, for the last ten minutes!"

He groans, thrusts, spends himself into my palm. Marcel follows. Dripping, I select two large oysters, put them on my plate. Let stringy ropes of semen fall from my fingers, dressing the succulent shellfish. Their eyes shine, anticipating.

I lick my blood red lips, pick up the two shells, hold them for a moment in front of my open mouth. Then cross my hands, and place each oyster in front of Nuke and Marcel. BAD girl!

Beads of sweat grow on Nuke's forehead. Marcel hesitates, then throws his head back and roars. Tears roll down his cheeks; he picks up his oyster and noisily eats it."Oh, you little witch," he laughs.

Nuke gulps, opens, swallows. "Salty!" Nuke finally says with a laugh as I suck my fingers clean.

We finish the platter, amidst dreadful puns and gales of laughter. The waiter gives us a puzzled look as he serves grilled orange roughy and a chilled Chardonay.

Much, much later, we are all a bit tipsy as we tumble into a taxi. Back at the apartment, we take turns, using the facilities. Finally the three of us are standing in the bedroom. "What are we going to do now?" Nuke asks.

"Somehow, I think our Little Swan has taken care of that," Marcel replies.

"You know, that was such a turn on, with the oysters, I think I want to try a variation. Marcel, undress Nuke. And then, vice versa." Again, Nuke seems uncomfortable. "Oh, for God's sake, sweetie; he's not going to BLOW you!" No, not with that shriveled little dickie that's so comically trying to crawl back up into your body.

I admire my two naked lovers. "Oh, good job, guys! Now that you've had some practice, do me." Moments later were are naked, cuddling on the bed.

"I haven't had an orgasm tonight, and you men are one up on me." Not quite true; I'd quietly come twice during dinner, but it was all due to my efforts and my imagination, so by my somewhat biased accounting methods, they don't count. 

"Nuke, Marcel knows how play me like a violin, so I'm asking him to concentrate on my cunt. Meanwhile, I want to explore some really serious kissing with you." I kneel over Marcel's face, spread my thighs, lower myself. His hands massage my buttocks and his tongue lightly strums my banjo. Nuke also kneels, facing me, takes my head between his big hands, puts his mouth on mine. I wrap my arms around him. Our tongues entwine, we slurp each other. I think of raw oysters. We break for breath. 

"Raw oysters," he murmurs, dives back in. My nipples are hard against his pecs, his cock is hard against my belly. I suck his upper lip, then his lower. So does he. 

"MMMMF!" I say, break away, "Gonna come gonna come!" I pant. Suck his tongue, thrust against Marcel's face, grind my cunt against his mouth. Poor baby; I hope he can breath. I'm so wet, he's underwater!

I slump, collapse, separate from Nuke, push against his chest, and roll off Marcel, bounce once on the bed, arch my back and clutch my sopping cunt. I get the black whirlies; from wine or sex, I cannot say. Someone calls from a far off place, "Hey; earth to Swan. You still among the living?"

I swim back to consciousness, stir, say, "Now the score is tied-one to one to one." I open my eyes, eye my guys. "Batter up!" I notice that both batters are very definitely UP!

I sit erect on a straight back chair that is the perfect height for Marcel and me. Nuke will have to stoop a smidge. I take Marcel in my mouth, suck him hard. Spit him out to say, "Nuke. You too; put your cock in my mouth. I want you both at the same time!"

"Uh, I don't know. . ." He looks at Marcel's monster at the entrance to my mouth.

I command, "If you want a shot at my cunt, you'll do it!" I take Marcel back him, slide my lips over him, gaze up into Nuke's eyes. He sighs, steps forward, joins Marcel, presses in, stretching my lips into an obscene grin. 

I shake my head, ejecting them, say, "Talk to me! Tell me what it feels like." I suck them back in, wrestle with their two so very different cocks. 

"I was twelve," Marcel says. "My cousin and I were swimming, naked in the sea. We teased our Willies into stiffness, dueled with them in the surf. This feels way, way better!"

"Yeah," Nuke replies. "Your lips are so soft, and I look down at them, see the lipstick smeared on our dicks, and your mouth is so tight, stretched by both of us. Jesus, I can feel his big knob; I'm gonna shoot!"

No, no, Nanette! Not yet! Not yet! I spit them both out. "God, I'm so hot! I want the same thing, at the other end. I want you both in my cunt." I leap onto the bed, drag Marcel with me, push him on his back. The mattress bounces like a trampoline.

I straddle his legs, facing his feet. Lower myself onto him. I am drenched, ready. He wriggles in, a snug fit. I hook my feet under his knees, lie back on his chest. He cups my breasts. "Nuke. Now you; get inside, pack my cunt! Long, slow strokes; I want to feel your cock as it slides across my clit." He crouches, legs spread wide, outside mine and Marcel's. He bends his cock down with his thumb, forces it into my cunt, filling me as I have never been before. My lover's trapped; cannot thrust in this position. "Marcel? You O.K.?"

"Fine. the sensation of him sliding into you, over me is unbelievable! We're going to have to file a patent on this."

Nuke says, "I can feel the head of his cock as I pass it. can you guys feel that? "Oh, oh oh, man; I'm gonna come!"

"Nuke? Don't shoot in me! Pull out!"

"Aww, no; don't torture me!"

"I want you to come in my mouth." He knee walks up to my head, and I suck him in. Marcel teases my nipples. "Deep throat me again!" I say. Once again, I am in the position where he has a straight line between my lips and my throat. I feel him slide down, down, down. If I slip a finger into his bottom, he'll blow in nothing flat. I do and he does.

I swallow all he has to offer; he finally withdraws, slack dicked and glazed eyes. "Wow! That felt incredible, when you put your finger-"

"Well, then, be a good boy, and I'll let you return the favor. Go back to the other end, and help Marcel."

"What do you mean?" 

I know my Marcel needs some attention; I sit up, disengage, and turn around. I throw my legs over him again, this time facing my lover. I snuggle against his chest. "Nuke, help him get in. Pull his skin back, make him stiffer. Yeah, that's it. Now, guide him into my cunt. Oh, God, so delicious; oh, thank you both. Now get back to my mouth; I need you to shut me up!" 

Marcel is well ensconced, thrusting slowly up into me, and very, very hard. Soon Nuke is, too. I sit up, mouth now level with Nuke's terrible, swift sword. Which I swallow.

Second time around, Marcel can last for ever, if he wishes. Unless, of course. . . The mind is also a terrible swift sword, and I play with it at my peril. 

"Nuke, I say, "I want you in my bottom. Bedside table, a condom and the blue tube of lube. Quickly now, before it's too late!" I drop and crush my lips against Marcel, spread my legs wider, presenting a target for Nuke. "Lots of lube, Nuke!"

I feel the cold, thick jelly on my star. "Put your finger in," I rasp. "Yeah, that's it; oh, heaven! Quick, now, I need your cock!"

Marcel stops thrusting, holds still, waits to feel that long, slender cock ride against his on the other side of my thin membrane. Nuke slides home with one slow plunge, plumbing me to the depths. 

"Easy, now, Nuke," Marcel says. "Slowly, slowly, in and out. Set a steady rhythm, then I will pick it up. Me in, you out. Me out, you in. When Swan tells you, we'll switch to in and out together. That way she will be packed tight, increasing her pleasure. When she comes, you'll feel it; her cunt will squeeze my cock, and I'll shoot too. Then you're on your own!"

How does Marcel know all this stuff?

I feel the tsunami rise, crest, sweep over me, over us. It breaks; we are tossed, we tumble, ragged and drenched, in the roaring foam. 

An atomic explosion detonates, a hundred megaton blast, right in the apartment. I scream, babble incoherent sounds. We are vaporized in the mushroom cloud; nothing left but three shadows on a Hiroshima wall.

Much, much later we separate, crawl beneath the covers, drift off, into the arms of Morpheus.