1 comments/ 41373 views/ 7 favorites Christmas in Boulder Ch. 01 By: Bluepen451 It was two days before Christmas, and we were trying our best to get home to San Francisco from New York. It just happened that we were both in New York on business and were able to schedule our return flight together. It's something that rarely happens, given the way our schedules work. It's not like we were trying to get to a big family celebration, because my family lives in Sweden and Gina's in Italy. We have a tradition of visiting both families at one big get-together in the Caribbean that is always scheduled for mid-February, when travel is cheaper and easier. But it's always nice to be back in our place in Mill Valley for Christmas, even if we weren't having a big family gathering. I was waiting for Gina in the United Red Carpet Room at JFK. She was driving down from a meeting in Connecticut, and I had arrived from a court hearing in the City an hour ahead of her. I'd already sent her a good news/bad news message. Gina, Good news and bad news. Our non-stop to SFO is cancelled. Something about the plane or the crew being stuck in Chicago due to a blizzard. Apparently it's snowing most of the way across the country. The sort of good news is that I have us booked on a flight to DIA, but it is going to get in there too late to catch the last flight to SFO, so United is going to put us up in a hotel in Denver. I figured getting to Denver was better than staying here, given that the storm is headed our way. It appears there is no way to get home tonight. Not clear about tomorrow either, but we will tackle that when we get to Denver. One step at a time in these situations. The good news is we will be stuck in a hotel in Denver together instead of by ourselves. Could have been worse. Love, Leif. Her response was about what I expected: Sigh! But, okay, I am glad I'll be stranded in Denver with you. Better if it was Majorca. But better Denver with you than Majorca by myself. Ciao, Gina As she walked into the Red Carpet Room, I was, as always, stunned. She is average height, 5'5", and has a voluptuous Italian figure—nice round bottom and tits, bigger than an apple, but smaller than a melon, and her legs, oh! her legs are to die for. If she had just been three or four inches taller, she could have been a model for a nylon manufacturer instead of a marketing executive. She has the sexiest legs in the world. And her eyes—dark brown with the longest lashes in the world. Her hair is raven and cut into a pageboy, easier to care for with her travel schedule, she always says. Of course, I couldn't really see all of these features as she came into the Red Carpet Club towing her roller bag, because she was dressed in a dark conservative business suit that came down to just below the knees and included a jacket that pretty thoroughly hid those wonderful breasts of hers, plus she was wearing a dark wool overcoat, because, well because it was winter in New York, and everyone wears a coat like that if they can afford it. We made a somewhat unusual couple because her smallish stature and smoldering looks are a strong contrast to mine. I am 6'5" and have blonde hair and blue eyes. My build is tall and lanky. When I was in college and still had hair down to my shoulders and a red beard, my friends called me "the Viking." She greeted me with a peck on the cheek that required me to lean forward and her to stand on her toes, a technique we mastered years ago. "How was your meeting?" I asked. "Boring. Could have been done by video conference, especially given the little that we accomplished. How was your meeting?" "Well, it was a court hearing, but otherwise the same. Boring and very little accomplished. The judge just kind of kicked the can down the road for another six months." "So, we're stuck in Denver for the night?" she asked. "Yep," I replied in my best Swedish accent. "Did you use those Swedish charms of yours on the ticketing agent?" "Of course." "But they didn't work?" "Nope." "Why not? They always work on me. Was she gay?" "Well, based on the big black guy I saw her walk out of here with when her shift ended, my guess is definitely not gay. I think the real problem is that there just isn't another plane to San Francisco tonight. I did get us upgraded to first, however," I said as I handed Gina her boarding pass, "So I wasn't a total failure. Let me get you a drink. We have an hour before we board." "Sigh. . . okay. Scotch, straight up. McCallum, if they have it." As I returned with the drinks, I noticed that another couple was settling into a pair of seats opposite us. He was short and swarthy with about three day's beard and black hair that would have hung to his shoulders were it not tied in a pony tail. Not fat though. Very trim. She was quite a bit taller than him and fair skinned with long blonde hair. She was what one would describe as lithe, perhaps even skinny, except for the better-than-average size boobs on her thin chest. Almost no hips, and you could tell that she was not carrying any flab by the way her tight, torn jeans fit her. He was dressed like her—torn jeans, t-shirt, and a leather coat. Actually they were an amusing contrast to Gina and me, in our conservative dark blue business suits. As I set the drinks down, I could tell that Gina was ogling the new arrivals—both of them. Gina wasn't gay, but she always appreciated a sexy build, be it man or woman. "Well the scenery has improved," I said to her in Swedish as I sat down. "Shhhh! They may understand," she responded in Italian. We had both made a significant effort to learn the other's native tongue, mostly as a concession to our families at home. It came in handy in situations like this. "Well, they are certainly going to understand your ogling," I continued in Swedish. He went to get drinks, and she grabbed her carry-on and headed for the washroom, leaving the rest of their gear to tie down the seats. I guess we looked trustworthy. People in dark blue suits usually do look trustworthy. At least they won't steal your luggage--but your money in a financial deal, well, not so clear that the dark blue suit, white shirt, conservative tie, and short haircut is a guarantee of reliability. The investment banker I had been defending in court earlier in the day was a classic case of deceit in a dark blue suit. We both ogled her ass as she walked away. "She has a cute ass," Gina said to me in Swedish. "Bellissima," I responded. Gina giggled in response. "Ah, the Scotch is helping your attitude," I said in English. She smiled at me. "No, its just you being here. This would really suck if I was going to be stuck by myself in Denver trying to get home to you for Christmas . . . and it helps that there are two intriguingly hot people who just sat down across from us. I know we'll never see them again, but it is better to fantasize about them than it is to sit here and feel sorry for ourselves about how screwed up this trip is." We had switched back to English, since the objects of our conversation were absent. "Skål," I said as I held up my glass in a toast to her statement. She laughed and responded with "Evviva," the Italian equivalent of skål or cheers in English. "So, what makes him sexy?" I asked her. "A lot of things, but especially his eyes. Blue eyes with that olive complexion are unusual, and his eyes are sexy. When he looks at me I can tell he is undressing me." "What about her?" she asked. "Besides her boobs." I laughed. "So you noticed." "Duh! You know I always notice other women." "Well, she has a cute ass, too," I said. "Oh, what do you like about it? It's not round like mine." I switched back to Swedish. "Yeah, but she has a bubble butt. I can't help but imagine her leaning over one of these couches while he strokes his cock in and out of her and those big tits of hers are hanging down and swinging back and forth." In Italian, "My God, you have a dirty mind. We have only seen those people for five minutes and you are imagining them fucking. Are you sure it's him fucking her that you are imagining?" In English, "Tut, Tut. Me thinks the pot is calling the kettle black," I said. Then in Swedish, "So how big do you think his dick is?" Gina laughed and had to struggle not to splutter a gulp of Scotch she had just taken. "Eight and a half inches and curved," she said in Italian. "Bellissimo!" "Gotcha!" I said. "You're mind's just as dirty as mine. Your turn to get the next round of drinks. That's wishful thinking, by the way," I continued. "You have no way of knowing how big his dick is," switching back to Swedish. As she hopped from her chair smiling, she said, "Oh no? He has big hands, and big hands mean a big dick." "Really," I said, with all the skepticism I could muster in my voice. "I thought that was an old wives' tale." "No, it's true," she said. "Just look at your hands, and we both know how big your dick is. You are living proof," she said in Italian. As she walked to the bar, I was sure that I could see a little extra swing of her hips. Truth be told, I really like her broad round ass better than the blonde's narrow hipped ass . . . but they both had their attractions. Just then, the blonde returned. She had changed from her torn jeans to a very short leather skirt. Great legs—almost as nice as Gina's. She still had on the t-shirt she had been wearing when she came in, but now she was wearing a blue blazer over it. When she sat down, she unbuttoned the blazer as she reached forward for a magazine on the table between us, and I concluded that the function of the blazer was to hide the fact she was no longer wearing a bra. As she sat back, she smiled at me, which I dutifully returned. Then, as she buried her attention in the magazine, she crossed her legs, knowing full well that I would be watching carefully. Her skirt was so short, that I was sure I would see her panties, but no sign of panties. "Was that because she wasn't wearing any?" I wondered. "Enjoying the show?" I heard in Swedish over my shoulder. "Busted," I thought. Gina had been walking up behind me with the drinks. "Sì," I responded. When you are in a hole, don't keep digging. "Well, she does have nice legs," Gina said in Swedish, more or less forgiving me for my sin, or at least acknowledging it was inevitable. "Yes, but does she have panties on?" I asked in Italian. "Hmmm. Good question. I hadn't thought of that, but I should have expected you to think of it," Gina responded in Swedish. "I think it will help my outlook on life to believe she doesn't. It certainly would have helped that meeting I went to today, if I had convinced myself that everyone was going commando," still in Swedish. I laughed. "Well, for what it's worth, I think she lost her brassiere in the washroom," I said in Italian. "My how nice for you," she said, in English, as she put a drink in my hand and used her other hand to sensually, and somewhat possessively, massage the back of my neck. About this time the blonde's companion arrived with the long-delayed drinks. They began to chat in what I eventually concluded was Russian—totally unintelligible to me, and I knew, to Gina. "What do you think they are saying," I asked in Italian. "Haven't a clue. I hope he isn't telling her that he wants to fuck me. She looks like the jealous type to me," Gina said in Swedish. "Really, I thought she just looked like the randy type," I responded in Italian. "You wish!" Gina said in English. "Better finish that drink soon. We have to board in about ten minutes." "Besides," I said in Italian. "You wouldn't really fuck him, would you?" "Depends," Gina responded coyly. I looked at her with my eyebrows raised, "On what?" "Whether you've been naughty or nice," Gina responded with a laugh. "You know I am always nice and never naughty." "That is not true and not necessarily the answer I was looking for. I like you when you are nice and naughty . . . with me, that is," she said in Swedish, continuing to smile at me. "Uff da!" I exclaimed. "Life is so complicated. I have to be nice and then I have to be naughty, and if I get confused about which girl I am naughty with and which girl I am nice with, I'm in trouble." I took a long drink of Scotch and looked woebegone. "Oh, you poor baby," Gina laughed at me in English. For the next ten minutes we sipped our drinks and pretended not to watch the couple across from us, while they did the same. Gina was molesting the back of my neck, which she knew would give me about half an erection in just a few minutes, while the fellow across from me fondled the blonde's knee. I was really hoping he would let his hand slide higher on her thigh, but presumably because there were a couple of hundred additional people sitting around us, he restrained himself. Finally he said something in Russian or Croatian, or whatever the hell language it was that they were speaking, and they began to gather up their belongings. As she uncrossed her legs in preparation to stand up, I was sure she had no panties on. We stayed seated as they walked away. "You're right, I think she lost her brassiere, poor girl," said Gina in Italian. "I think she lost her panties, too," I said in Swedish. "Maybe she never had any," Gina said in English. "Intriguing thought." I said as we rose to leave. "I think it will occupy me as far as Omaha. Fortunately, I brought a magazine for the rest of the flight." "Hah!" responded Gina. "I brought a Kindle, loaded with the last three stories that you posted to the Literotica site." "Oh, you naughty girl," I said. "I'm naughty? No, I don't think so. You're the perv who writes these stories." "Yes, but you are my best customer." "Besides a lot of teenage boys masturbating as they read them on the family computer in the basement," she said, continuing the conversation in Swedish. "I prefer to think of my readers as sexually sophisticated middle-aged divorcees. I like to believe I am writing for the MILFs of the world." "Dreamer!" Gina laughed at me, as we walked to the gate. It turned out that the plane was delayed for another hour, but we eventually boarded it about 9:30 p.m. We were just getting settled in our seats when who should board, but the couple who had been sitting across from us in the Red Carpet Club. She smiled at me again, and I dutifully returned the smile again. This time, it was noticed by our partners. He said something to her in Russian, clearly indicating me with a nod of her head, and she responded in Russian. Gina said, in her best sarcastic Swedish, "I see you have a new friend." "I doubt it," I responded in Italian, "especially if her companion has anything to say about it." "How do you know what he said?" Gina responded in Swedish. "It was the way he looked at me as he spoke," I said in Italian. "I hope he's not a Russian mobster." "Not a chance. Remember, I grew up around mobsters in Italy. I know one when I see one. My uncle was in Cosa Nostra." "Are you sure about him?" I said, with a subtle nod toward the couple across the aisle. "You have a ridiculous imagination. Keep applying it to sex. It works better there," she responded in Swedish. "Just enjoy those luscious tits of hers that are barely concealed by that thin t-shirt, now that she has put her blazer in the overhead." "Okay," but as I spoke, the blonde settled into the window seat opposite us and spread a blanket out, pulling it up to her chin. "Too bad," Gina said in Swedish. Funny thing about sarcasm, it works in any language. Within half an hour we were all organized, and the flight had commenced. Once the flight crew had served drinks, they dimmed the cabin lights, and Gina also snuggled under a blanket and began to read the Kindle with my erotic stories on it. There were only two couples in first class, but the back was full, so the flight attendants were spending their time back there, tending to the needs of the masses. "Fine with me," I thought. I tried to do some work, but I really couldn't focus on it. I was busy wondering whether my stories were turning Gina on. They usually did. "Okay," I thought, "if I can't focus on work, I'll spend some time working on another sex story. I got out my laptop and opened it. I didn't really have a new story to write, but I knew one would come, if I just spun out a bunch of ideas. After a while one would click and a story would emerge. Funny thing about writing sex stories—it was infinitely more satisfying than practicing law. It was just that law paid so much better. After an hour or so, Gina surfaced from her reading. "Hmm. That was a good story," she whispered in my ear. "You write such great porn." "Good. That is the whole point—to write something that will make you so horny you just have to fuck me," I said in Swedish. She giggled. "Well, I can't fuck you here, so the story is wasted," she replied in Swedish. "Not necessarily," I said, as I slid my hand under the blanket. I ran my hand along her thigh until it reached her crotch, and I rubbed her pussy through her panties. "No, not here!" she said. "Someone will see us!" "Who?" I asked. "The flight attendants are all busy in the back, and it looks to me like our Russian friends are way ahead of us. They are doing the same thing." Each of them was under a blanket and you couldn't really tell where one of them stopped and the other started. Just a blue lump stretched across two seats that moved and wiggled occasionally. "Really?" Gina said as she leaned forward. She watched the couple for a moment and then said, "Oh, those naughty people!" I love it when she pretends to be shocked. "Are you disapproving or jealous of them?" I asked. She giggled again. "Hmmm. I guess sometimes I would be outraged, but given it's almost midnight, our cabin is mostly empty, and I just read two of your nasty stories, . . . ummm, yes I think it is mostly jealousy." "What do you think they are doing?" I asked. When she didn't respond, I said, "Use your imagination. Why do think she changed into that short skirt back at JFK?" "Oooh, really? You think she is masturbating? How nasty." "Nastier than that," I said. "Really. What?" "I think he is fucking her with his fingers, and she is jerking his cock." "Here, on the airplane. This is like one of your stories." She thought for a minute and said, "You are right, I'm jealous of them." All that time I had been stroking her thigh and her mound through her panties. Now I reached over and tipped her head up so she was looking right at me. "Gina, here is what I want you to do. I want you to get up and take your purse to the lav . . ." "But I don't need to pee," she interrupted. "Shhh, let me finish," I said. "While you are in there, I want you to take off your bra and panties and stuff them in your purse so that when you come back, you are naked under that conservative blue suit you are wearing." "Oh, Leif. I couldn't!" "Yes, you can. If you can't do that, my stories aren't good enough." Another giggle. "Oh your stories are plenty good enough. My panties are soaked from reading them." "Good, then you should go get naked under that blue suit and we can play under the blanket, just like our Russian friends." Her eyes glittered as she thought about my indecent proposal. "Okay, I'll do it, but we better not get caught. If we do, I'll say you made me do it." "That's what the girls always say," I responded as she slid past me to the aisle. I made a point of fondling her ass as she went by. She was only gone for a couple of minutes. I could see her tits bouncing under her conservative white blouse as she came walking back, so I knew she hadn't talked herself out of my scheme. As she slid past me, I noticed that the zipper on the side of her skirt was down. The only thing that was keeping the skirt from sliding off her ass was a single button at the top. I also could see a narrow slice of her olive toned skin where the zipper should have been. No panties! Christmas in Boulder Ch. 01 "Good girl," I said as she slid into her seat and pulled the blanket over her. Once she was under the blanket I could see her fumbling with her clothes some more. A moment later her skirt dropped in a dark blue pool around her feet. "Now, have your way with me, you lecherous Swedish bastard!" she whispered. First, I unwrapped another blanket and draped it over myself, carefully releasing the zipper on my trousers and my cock from its confinement. Fuck, did that ever feel better. It had been getting painful. Once I was organized, I slid a hand under her blanket and began to explore. As I expected, she was naked from the waist down, and her blouse was fully unbuttoned. I began by slowly caressing one breast after another, taking my time on each one. Her nipples were hard little pebbles and I pinched each in turn gently between my thumb and forefinger. "Ohhh, that feels so good." "Are you playing with your pussy," I asked. "Shhh. Someone will hear you." "That wasn't an answer," I said as I continued to caress her breasts and tweak her nipples. "Are you playing with your pussy?" I asked again more firmly. "Duh!" she responded. I could tell from the shape of the blanket that she had her legs spread to provide access to her sex. "I think you are, you nasty girl, and I think you are enjoying it, especially because all of those stuffed shirts you work with would seriously disapprove." "Oh yeah," she responded as she continued to play with herself. "Would they ever disapprove! A couple of them would have a stroke." She giggled some more at the thought of her co-workers reaction and then she gasped as I pulled especially hard on one of her nipples. "Hey," she asked, "where is your other hand?" "It's busy," I said. It was busy—busy stroking my cock. I was turned sideways towards Gina in my seat. Otherwise, it would have looked like I had a tent pole under the blanket. "Leif, you're masturbating!" she accused, with mock outrage. "You lecherous Swede! Right here at 35,000 feet over . . . Oh fuck, wherever we are . . ." "Iowa," I interrupted. "You're jerking on that big nasty cock of yours, and it's going to squirt a big load of cum all over something." "Where would you like it to squirt that big load of cum?" I whispered. "Well . . ." she said. "I like it a lot when you squirt it way up into my pussy. It feels so good when I can feel you shoot your cum into me." "Anywhere else?" "Ohh, yes. It's so nasty when you spray it all over my tits. It's so hot and slippery and I like to smear it around while you eat my pussy." "Anywhere else?" "No, either of those will do. Compared to those two, anything else is a waste." "Let's trade," she said. "I want to jerk your cock. I don't think we can spray it on my tits or in my pussy, but I have an idea." We adjusted our positions a bit so she could put both hands on my cock and I could massage her pussy with one hand while I kept playing with her tits with the other. God I love to play with her tits. That sounds simple, but it turns out to be complicated, especially when you want to avoid having one or both of the blankets slide off. But, . . . we got it done. "Now just put a couple of fingers in my cunt, but hold still. I don't want to cum yet. And be careful what you are doing with my tits, because you have made me cum just playing with them before." "I remember. It was our first date." "Yes, I was naive. Back then I didn't know how lecherous and corrupt Swedish men are." "But now you do?" I asked, as I slid two fingers into her pussy. My god, she was wet. I decided to just follow her instructions, because I wanted to know where she was going with this. "Oh yes," she said in response to my question, as she began to stroke the shaft of my cock with one hand and to massage my precum around the head with her other hand. Fuck, it wasn't going to take long for her to make me cum if she kept that up. "Is that a complaint?" I asked. She giggled again as she continued to stroke my cock. "Well, it might have been once, but now I think it's a compliment. I really do love your nasty mind." I stopped talking and concentrated on the sensations in my cock and upstream. I could feel my balls tightening up. "Oh fuck!" I whispered not necessarily to anyone. "Getting ready to cum big guy?" Gina asked with that really nasty twinkle she gets in her eye sometimes. "Fuck yes." "Should I stop?" "No, no. Don't stop. Oh God that feels good." She was still swirling the precum around the head of my prick while her other hand stroked the shaft with just the right pressure. "Do you have a big load for me, a big load of Svenska cum?" "Yes," I croaked. "Now, arrrrrgh!" I groaned softly, as I felt the first spurt rocket up the shaft of my prick. Then I felt the muscles around my prostrate spasm as they sent three more loads up my prick. "Oh, you really had a lot, big boy," Gina said, "and I caught most of it right here in my hands. Now I'm going to smear it on my tits." She pushed my hand away as she smeared my spunk across her chest. "Ummm. Not as good as when you spray it on me, but almost. Now I want you to get busy with those magic fingers of yours and make me cum, while I rub this into my tits." Always willing to take direction, I added a third finger to the two already in her cunt and began to rhythmically fuck her with my hand. "Just use your middle finger," she said breathlessly, "and see if you can hit my g-spot." She had dropped one hand down and was rubbing her clit with a circular motion, by this time. Again, I followed instructions and began to probe for her G-spot with my middle finger. I knew when I hit it because she jumped like she had been shocked. "Oh yes! That's it. Now just press hard on it while I rub my clit." It only took a moment before her whole body stiffened and she levered her self out of her seat as a climax ripped through her. It seemed like it was going to last forever, but of course it didn't. When it relented, she sagged and snuggled up next to me. Keeping the blankets in place was a challenge we barely managed as she thrashed around in ecstasy. After a few minutes, she said, "I have to go clean up." She struggled back into her skirt, without crawling out from under the blanket to do it, and buttoned up her blouse. Then she climbed across me and tottered off to the lavatory holding her dress closed with her shirttail hanging out. For my part, I tucked my wilted cock back into my boxers and zipped up my slacks, before pulling the blanket off. "Nice work, Gina," I thought. There wasn't a drop of cum on my trousers. Gina was gone a long time. When she returned, she was totally presentable, although I noticed that she still didn't have a bra on. "You were gone awhile," I asked. "I met a new friend, Lisa, and now we have a much better place to stay tonight than the Marriot at the end of the runway at DIA." "Oh really, and who is Lisa?" I asked. "The blonde in 2A," referring to the seat occupied by the feminine half of the Russian couple. "I see," I said, "and where might we be staying?" "Lisa and Mikhail have a condo in Boulder, and she wants us to spend Christmas with them. We can have a White Christmas instead of a dreary Northern California grey one." Gina was excited about the whole thing. "And you determined that he is not a Russian mobster?" I asked. "Of course not, silly." Lisa is an actress, and Misha is a chef. "And how are we getting to Boulder? Its about 50 miles from DIA and there is a blizzard going on." "Not to worry. Lisa tells me that they have a Humvee parked at the airport, and Misha grew up driving in Siberia, so he feels right at home in a Colorado blizzard." "Uhh, do you have clothes with you for a White Christmas?" "You silly Swede. I've been to Boulder before. The shopping there is fabulous. Lisa and I have already planned an expedition for tomorrow." I looked over at the couple across from us, and I could see Lisa giving Misha the same excited sales pitch that I had just heard from Gina. "Our fates are sealed," I thought, "Christmas in Boulder." "Okay, Gina," I laughed. "I have never been to Boulder, but I hear it's nice, in a yuppie, hippy sort of way, so let's have a Boulder White Christmas." As I said that, I felt the pilot ease back on the power to the engines and start his descent into DIA. Christmas in Boulder Ch. 02 It was past midnight when we landed in Denver, but the airport was surprisingly full of people for the late hour. Apparently we weren't the only ones stranded in Denver on what was now officially Christmas Eve. We moved through the airport efficiently, and twenty minutes later my wife and I, and her newfound friend Lisa, were standing outside the terminal with our two roller bags and briefcases and a mountain of luggage belonging to Lisa and her husband, Misha, waiting for Misha to bring up the car to take us to their place in Boulder. Since we couldn't get home to San Francisco, Gina and I had agreed to be Lisa and Misha's guests for Christmas at their Boulder condo. It was cold, and the wind was blowing hard. Thank God we weren't waiting upstairs on the departures deck. Mercifully, Misha showed up promptly, and he and I loaded the bags into the back of a shiny black Hummer while the girls hopped in the back seat. I never cared much for the look of a Hummer, but I was feeling more charitable towards the vehicle as we drove out from under the cover of the departures deck and were hit by a wall of blowing snow. The area around the terminal was well lit, so the visibility wasn't too bad, but I expected things to get worse quickly, and they did. DIA is built out on the plains, well to the east of urban Denver, so when a snowstorm like this one hits, there is nothing to soften the force of the wind. I could hear the girls giggling in the back seat. After a minute or two Lisa spoke up. "Misha, is this like driving a sleigh in the winter in Siberia, when you were young? It feels like we are in a Russian novel—like Doctor Zhivago." "No. This Hummer is a lot warmer than a sleigh, but the weather is very similar." I could detect a Russian accent beneath Misha's cultivated English. Fifteen minutes later, we were grinding our way up the toll road, E-470, that gets you from DIA to Boulder without having to go through urban Denver. The back seat was silent, as the girls had fallen asleep. The wind was blowing hard from the west, pushing a wall of snow across the headlights. When we turned to the west as we crossed I-76, the snow was blowing straight into our face. Everything to the sides was darkness and the headlights illuminated a white wall before us. We just tried to follow a track made by a snowplow sometime in the last half hour or so. "Tough ride," I said after about twenty minutes of silence from Misha. "Lisa's right. I've seen worse. I grew up near Arkhangelsk, the big Russian naval base in Northern Russia. The port may have been ice free, but nothing else was. My father was a naval officer. Submarines." "It's a small world," I said. "My mother was Swedish, but my father was an American naval officer. I grew up in Trømso, in northern Norway, where the Americans listened to your father as he drove his submarine out into the North Atlantic, but that's all history," I said. "Do you miss Scandinavia?" he asked, changing the subject somewhat. "Hah. What's to miss? Lutefisk and Aquavit? Ice and snow?" I laughed. "When my father was recalled to duty at the Pentagon, I finished high school in Virginia and then went to Stanford for college and stayed for law school. California is just fine with me." "Tell me that you at least miss the Norwegian blondes?" he asked. "California has plenty of blondes," I responded. "You know what the Beach Boys had to say about that." In case he didn't immediately get the reference, I whistled a few bars from California Girls. He laughed. "How about you?" I asked. "How did you get out of Arkhangelsk?" "Well, by the time I was finishing high school, the Soviet Union was falling apart, literally. I had an uncle who was, how do you say in English, an oligarch. Not a gangster, just a very successful businessman, although I must say, I had some doubts about some of his associates. Apparently he did too, because he used some of his money to get me, and the rest of my family, to Paris. I tried college, but I wasn't very good at it—too busy chasing French girls and drinking French wine, I think. Eventually, my father and my uncle explained that I better find a useful skill. My uncle can be very persuasive, you understand, so for no particularly good reason, I chose to go to the cooking school at Cordon Bleu." "So you learned to cook?" "Yes, I learned to cook, and it's something I still enjoy doing at home. More importantly, I learned to run a restaurant. Now I own five of them, including one in New York, where we live most of the time, and one here in Boulder. I haven't cooked in a restaurant kitchen in five years." "And Lisa, did she come from Russia too?" "God no," he laughed. "She was born and raised in Connecticut. I think her family arrived in America with the pilgrims. She is as close as America comes to a blue blood, without being named Kennedy. I met her when I opened my first restaurant in New York. Now we've sold the restaurants in Paris and London, and we just own the ones I started in the States." Just then the road veered a bit to the north, and we caught a blast of wind that wanted to push us off the side of the road. God, it was a damnable night out. We finally rolled into Boulder about 3:00 a.m. Their condo was on the third and fourth floors of a building in the heart of Boulder, near its commercial center. It took awhile to haul their mountain of luggage up to the third floor and, by the time I got to our room, Gina was in bed and sound asleep. I shucked off my clothes and joined her. She felt so warm as I spooned against her naked back, and then I quickly drifted off to sleep. The next thing I knew, it was late morning, and Gina was gone. She always rose before me unless our wake-up was being dictated by the tyranny of an airplane departure schedule. It was warm beneath the down comforter, and I wasn't in any particular hurry to rise, especially since a glance out the window to my left told me that it was still snowing hard outside. "Yep, it is going to be a White Christmas," I thought. But after a few minutes, I decided that sleep was done for the night, so I stretched my lanky frame and then tossed off the blanket. There was a bath to my left, that, it turned out, had a luxurious shower that quickly killed the chill that came from crawling naked from beneath the down comforter. I shaved and dressed in a pair of jeans and old Stanford T-shirt I had in my carry-on. Then I walked barefoot down the stairs and into the main part of the condo. It was what designers call a great room I guess—kind of like a Soho loft, but with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. One side looked to the northeast towards the plains. It was more or less a wall of white, unless you looked down at the town three stories below us. Even much of that shifted in and out of focus as the snow swirled by. The view to the southwest was of a piece of the Front Range known to the locals as the Flatirons—a series of steep parallel rock faces that jutted up from the earth at an angle about fifteen to twenty degrees off vertical. The swirling snow made them look a little like an impressionist painting. In front of the window facing the Flatirons there was a long, rough, farmhouse style table that could probably seat at least twelve. The room included a large fireplace in which a wood fire burned merrily. The floor was wood planking of some exotic species (teak, I wondered?) covered with thick throw rugs here and there, including a large one immediately before the fireplace. There were a couple of couches and several armchairs strategically scattered about the room. There wasn't a lot of room for artwork, but on each side of the fireplace there was a nice tapestry. They were abstracts in muted colors and soft yarns that did not distract from the rest of the room and the view. What really grabbed my attention was on the back side of the room. There I found an extremely well-appointed kitchen, with pots and pans hanging from an overhead rack, a variety of knives glued to a magnetic rack and an oversized refrigerator. The pots and pans were clean but showed stains from regular use. There was an island with a large food prep area, including a butcher block and a professional grade gas range and oven with a hood above it. Four stools were lined up on my side of the island. The sinks, dishwasher, and more counter space were against the wall behind the counter, along with a Cuisinart and a couple of other appliances. Misha's kitchen away from home, I assumed. "Ah, you're finally up," I heard Misha say as he stepped out from behind the open door of the refrigerator. "The girls have gone shopping, but I am charged with fixing you breakfast. Gina said you get cranky if you don't eat. As it happens, there are few things I enjoy as much in life as fixing breakfast for myself or others." "I believe that Gina said something about a shopping trip last night," I said as I padded across the floor and pulled up a stool to sit on. Notwithstanding the shower, I was still sleepy. I am one of those people who really don't function well without their first cup of coffee in the morning. "Coffee?" he asked, handing me a steaming mug, presuming my answer. "Yes, thanks," I said warming my hands on the mug. "Are you warm enough?" he asked as I took a sip from the mug. "Oh, fine," I said. "Hmmmm. That's good coffee." "Good, we try to keep the heat up when we are here. Lisa likes to wander around naked or near naked a lot." "Interesting," I thought, as I continued to sip the coffee in silence. "Something she has in common with Gina. No wonder those two hit it off so well last night." It really was good coffee. "Now, breakfast. What'll it be? You're a Californian. Is it granola and fruit? But you were raised a Scan, so is it meat and eggs? Unfortunately we don't have any herring." I laughed. "You certainly do have your stereotypes down. Eggs sound good." "Okay. Got it," he said as he reached for a big chef's knife from the magnetic strip on the back wall. Here's what I can do. I've got a bit of pork sausage from a local farm—at least I don't think the girls ate it all this morning, and I can put together an omelet with a bit of Gruyere and some minced shallots. Simple, but tasty." "Great," I said as I finished another sip of the coffee. I stood and wandered about the room as Misha puttered in the kitchen. It really was a beautiful room. Some serious money had been spent on it. I could hear Misha's knife banging at the butcher block as he minced a shallot. Then I heard the pop of a burner igniting on the gas stove. I looked back and saw him ladle a tablespoon or two of oil into an omelet pan to warm on the burner. As I turned to study one of the tapestries, I heard eggs crack, followed promptly by the sound of a whisk banging against a metal bowl. "No luck on the sausage," I heard him say. "The girls really did eat it all up, so I put an extra egg in your omelet." "Fine. This coffee is really good," I said. "Oh, thanks. We buy it from a local roaster for our restaurant here. Whenever, we are coming out, our head chef makes sure my kitchen is freshly stocked with the basics, plus anything special I have requested. I always eat a meal or two at the restaurant, of course, but I do like to use this kitchen while I'm here. By the way, you and I are charged with cooking dinner tonight." "Really," I said. "How nice that the girls have our day planned out for us before I even got out of bed," I laughed. "I am not sure I am in your league as a cook. They don't teach anything more sophisticated at Stanford than how to open a Top Ramen package." "Can you run a cork screw?" "Yes," I smiled. "The two most valuable things I learned at Stanford were enough law to pass a bar exam and how to run a cork screw. At Harvard, I don't think you get the part about the cork screw, but Stanford is in California, and that's wine country." "Good," he said as he slid a plate with a steaming omelet on it in front of me. "We're going to need that skill tonight. I'll take you downstairs and show you the wine cellar after you finish eating." He poured himself a cup of coffee, refreshed mine, and pulled up a stool next to me as I ate. "So how come the two of you aren't in Connecticut with Lisa's family?" I asked. "Well, her Dad passed away a few years back, and her Mum remarried and let's just say we don't get along with that branch of the family since her stepdad arrived on the scene. He doesn't approve of her acting career, and he doesn't approve of Lisa's decision to marry a 'Russian cook,' as he calls me." "That's too bad," I said. "He sounds a little narrow minded." He laughed. "That's an understatement, but we make it work. Lisa sees her mother regularly. She comes down to the City, and they have lunch in our restaurant and see a play or go shopping." "I understand from Gina that you gather all your European relatives in the Caribbean for a February Christmas each year?" Misha asked, changing the subject. "Yep. We'll be at St. Kits in February," I laughed. "It's utter chaos. The Italians all talk like mad, right over the top of each other and anyone else who tries to get a word in, while the Swedes just stand there and watch in silence, awed by the noise. Then we all go to the beach, and the Swedes get naked and the Italians go 'tsk, tsk' or however you say that in Italian. It's hilarious. I used to think my Swedish relatives would be upset by all of it, but when I occasionally see them alone, they just laugh about it. I think it is the most entertaining thing that happens to them all year." "Well, they come from a culture that produced Ibsen and Munch. No wonder they are entertained by Italians." I laughed. "Those guys were Norwegians, I'll note for the record, as we say in court." "Thin distinction to the rest of the world." I laughed again. "What about the Italians?" he asked. "Well, I don't think they even notice the Swedes are there until we get to the beach and they take off their clothes. They pretend, among themselves, to be scandalized by that, but Gina reminds me that there is nothing Italians love more than a scandal, and I have noticed that they all keep showing up every year, so . . . it works." "What about your family?" I asked. "Well, they all live in Paris now, except for my oligarch uncle, who is still in Moscow doing God knows what. Lisa and I decided that we would visit them once a year in May. Paris is so much nicer in the spring. It works. Hell, even Uncle Oligarch flies out from Moscow for that gathering. No nudity though. Russians are damn near as puritanical about that as the Yanks." Misha refilled our coffees from the bottom of the pot, and we went downstairs to see the wine cellar. It was a room in the basement of the condo project that was maybe twelve by twelve with a climate control that appeared to be set at about fifty-five degrees. Brrrrrr. There were floor to ceiling racks on all of the walls, filled with bottles, and wooden boxes stacked everywhere containing more wine. I looked at a few bottles and was more than a little impressed. Some of the best names from California were represented as were the Grand Cru wines of Burgundy and Bordeaux. Not just recent vintages either. Some of these bottles were ten and fifteen year old vintages. 'Very impressive," I said. "Hell, we'll never drink all of this in two lifetimes, but I rotate this stock out into our Boulder restaurant. When we're here, we have a nice stock to choose from." He handed me his coffee mug and began to put bottles into an empty box. "We won't drink this much, but Lisa will want to have some input. She hates to come down here because it's too cold. I think that may have something to do with how close to naked she frequently is," he said with a laugh. "This may be an interesting dinner," I thought to myself. Misha looked at his watch as he finished filling the case. "Two o'clock. Let's get back upstairs and start cooking," he said. He hustled up the stairs with a case of wine under his arm. I followed with the empty coffee cups. When we got back upstairs he set the case of wine down in an out of the way spot and rubbed his hands together as if to say, "Ahhhh, now I get to cook." I smiled to myself. It was always nice to watch someone who was enjoying his work—as long as it wasn't another trial lawyer picking my witness apart on cross examination. So what's on the menu?" I asked. "Right. Here is what we are going to do," he said, as he turned to the fridge. First the protein—a beef tenderloin. Local and grass fed, of course, but it will be good, I promise. There is grass fed and there is grass fed. You need to know who your supplier is and what he is doing. The tenderloin will be easy, we just grill it on the big Weber on the deck out there," he said, referring to a grill on the deck out side the window facing east, ignoring four inches of snow that had accumulated on top of the grill and the deck. Of course, we are going to need a really good reduction sauce to go with that, but I am going to fudge a bit on that, since I don't have two days to make it starting with the bones and meat scraps. My guys from the restaurant have given me a sauce that is about half way there. You know you can buy this completely pre-made, but that is just not the right way to run a restaurant—a pathway to McDonalds," he said as he trailed off into mumbling. I couldn't resist. I said, "They make a lot of money at McDonalds." It was hard to do with a straight face. He grabbed a ten-inch chef's knife off the wall and waived it at me in a threatening fashion. "McDonald's is a feed lot, not a restaurant!" "Okay, just joking," I said, holding up both hands. "What else is for dinner?" Honor restored, he returned to the menu. "Well for a starch, I think, potatoes Gruyere. It is basically a gratin recipe made with a lot of really tasty Gruyere cheese, and of course heavy cream. We serve it at our New York restaurant. If the mayor ever tasted it, he would call it 'potatoes cardiac' and start a campaign against us. Fortunately he is focused on the 'Big Gulp,' instead of us." I laughed and said, "And . . .?" "Well, fresh string beans, of course." Not exactly a locavore dish, since they are flown in from Chile. Locavore string beans in Colorado in December is a joke among chefs, but we all serve these Chilean beans. These are really nice, too, he said as he tossed a string bean at me. See, small. Snap it." Which I did. "See really fresh." Which it was. "And . . .?" Oh yes, for an hors d'oeuvre, we have the best triple creme cheese I can get from all of France. I don't even serve this in my restaurants. Too hard to get." He paused for a minute and looked around the room as if someone might be listening. Then he looked at me with a smirk and said, "I'll tell you, the really best way to eat it, is to smear it on Lisa's tits and then lick it off." I totally lost it. This guy was manic. When I finally stopped laughing, I said, "Okay, I believe you, but I think I should try it on Gina's tits, if that is okay with you." "Oh, yeah, sure, sure," he said. "And for dessert . . ." he said followed, by a long theatrical pause. I raised my eyebrows and looked at him expectantly. "Nothing!" he said. "If we have done a good job with the rest of the meal, we eat the girls." I laughed until my sides hurt. Finally, I said with tears running from my eyes, "Oh, I like your style, Misha. I like your style." "What?" he asked. "Sex and cooking! Can you think of a better combination?" Still laughing, I said "No. Now what can I do to help . . . besides run a cork screw?" "What?" he said. "I told you, the screwing comes after dinner." I was in hysterics. I could tell this was going to be a memorable Christmas. Christmas in Boulder Ch. 02 "I said cork-screw," I repeated to him. He thought for a minute and said, "Oh, oh, yes. . . . " Looking around, he said, "Well, peel these potatoes and put them in a bowl of water. The potato peeler is in that drawer and you can find a bowl over there. It's too early to slice them, but if you put them under water they will be okay. And since you insist on screwing, get a cork screw out of that drawer over there and open a bottle of wine for us." With that we went to work. As the afternoon wore on, I screwed (or more precisely, unscrewed), peeled, sliced, and chopped—all under the careful tutelage of Chef Misha. I also poured wine, as needed, to lubricate the entire process. He worried over the sauce like a mother hen with a brood of chicks. Just so much wine, just so much heat as it reduced, on and on. The whole experience was like being an associate in a big law firm again, but more interesting. Strictly look but don't touch. Oh, and I also shoveled off the deck and cleaned off the Weber, so we would have a place to cook the tenderloin. About four-thirty, the girls returned. That changed everything. Fortunately, most of the prep work was done. All we had to do was actually cook the dinner, which was good, because our chef became very distracted by the girls, not that I blamed him. When they first came in, they were seriously bundled up—very stylishly, but bundled up and snow covered (it was still snowing hard outside) and they seemed to be burdened by a multitude of bags and packages. As they stood there and begin to peel off their snow-covered outer garments, I said, "Oh my, it looks like you ladies did some serious damage today," thinking of our VISA bill. "Oh yeah," Gina said. "You are going to be impressed. This is as much fun as shopping in New York or Palo Alto." "Did you spend more than I earned in New York this week?" "What were you billing at?" $875 an hour." "Hmmm. Maybe." I heard a low whistle from Misha. "You charge $875 an hour? He asked. "Glad I don't have to pay that for a sous chef." "What the traffic will bear my good man. I was defending an investment banker charged with insider trading." By this time the girls had shed their outer garments and I could see that each was wearing a whole new outfit. Both had on tights that literally molded to their legs, which was nice I thought, given the really fine legs each of them had, and some kind of sweater dress or tunic that just barely came below their bottoms, which was also nice. Different dress and different tights on each girl, but same effect. How can you look almost naked with opaque clothing on? It can be done if it is tight enough. Lisa said, "Ooh, its nice and warm in here." "Just as you like it, my dear," responded her husband, as she quickly pulled her top over her head. She wasn't naked beneath it, but the form fitting thinly knit top she had on, combined with the absence of a bra, got the same net effect. She had our undivided attention. I don't know whether it was the attention she was getting from Misha and me or just because she had been out in the cold, but her nipples were rock hard and looked like they were in danger of poking holes in her top, what there was of it. The other nice thing about losing the sweater dress was that we could now see how the tights fit her ass, which was as though they had been painted on. There was very little left to the imagination. Being a good actress, she was fully aware of the effect she was having on Misha and me, so she did a slow pirouette before us, just to make sure we weren't missing anything. I looked over at Gina, hoping I wasn't going to be in trouble for having been mesmerized by her shopping partner. She was smiling broadly, and when I smiled back, she pulled her dress over her head revealing a similar thinly knit top, and did the same pirouette as Lisa. I wanted to grab her and carry her off the bedroom right then. When she finished the pirouette, she put her hands beneath her ample breasts and lifted them and then let them fall back into place, as though to make sure that I noticed the absence of a bra. Silly girl! "Leif, Leif!" I heard from Misha, trying to pull my attention away from Gina. "Pour the girls some wine. All three of you go over there by the fireplace while I finish getting dinner ready. I can't cook while those two are around. Your duty as sous chef is to keep them away from me." But the girls weren't done yet. "Not so fast, Misha," said Lisa. You have to see what we have for you two. We found these in that cooking store down on Pearl Street—you know the one." Gina came trotting over with one of their many bags and pulled out two green aprons. Each girl held one up. Printed on the front of each apron was:, Cook Nude It Adds Spice to Dinner. Lisa was jumping up and down, telling us to put them on immediately. Once I stopped laughing, I grabbed one and wrapped it around myself, leaving my jeans and t-shirt on beneath. "Oh, no!" Gina said. We want to see you guys as naked as we almost are," admitting just how revealing her outfit was. "Peel off those Levis and that ratty old Stanford t-shirt, Bub." I could see immediately that there was no way out of this one, but I gave it a try. I held out the bottle of wine and the three glasses I was holding and asked Gina, "Which do you want first, your wine or my Levis?" Lisa broke up laughing and Gina gave me this look that said, "Why are you making this complicated? Only a lawyer would ask that question." Once Lisa quit laughing, she said, "Okay wine first, but no stalling after that, as Gina and I have a bet about which of you has the cutest tush." So I poured the wine, stripped off my clothes and put on the apron. Misha did the same thing and we stood facing them, not showing much of anything. "Best Christmas I've ever had," I was thinking. All right you two, turn around and lean on the counter," Lisa said. Gina and I have a bet we have to settle. We stood there, leaning on the counter while the girls inspected our asses and sniggered behind us. There was a great deal of sniggering, giggling and whispering, and finally, Lisa said, "Okay, we give up, it's a tie. You both have a really cute ass." We turned back so we were facing the girls, and Misha looked at me and said, "Take them over by the fireplace and keep their wine glasses full, so I can finish dinner." So I did just that, putting an arm around each nearly nude, fully dressed girl and walking the two of them across the room. We sat by the fire and chatted as we sipped our wine and listened to Misha puttering in the kitchen behind us. Gina was making a point of sitting with her legs spread so I could see how her tights failed to conceal, or at least graphically outlined, her sex. I was glad I didn't have the Levis on, because they would have become uncomfortable by now, but I wasn't sure how I was going to stand up with the growing erection I was developing under my apron. Gina knew exactly what she was doing to me, and she was loving it. Then there was a crisis. Misha yelled, "Hey, sous chef, go out on the balcony and light the Weber." I sure as hell wasn't going out there in that snowstorm wearing just an apron. Vital parts freeze quickly. Well, sometimes there is no graceful way out of a problem, so I just stood up with a tent under my apron, and, following the lead of the girls' earlier performance, I stood there long enough so that neither had any doubt that she was seeing a very large erect prick under the apron. I smiled and turned and walked back to where I had left my Levis and t-shirt. I shed the apron with my back to Misha, but facing the girls so that they could see exactly what was causing the mound under the apron on the extremely remote possibility that they hadn't already figured it out. I even took time to put the T-shirt on first, before I pulled on my Levis and stuffed my overheated cock inside them. I felt like a Chippendales dancer. Lisa, looked at me and smiled, but Gina pushed her tits up again, as she had earlier. That made my now fully erect prick twitch, which finally made Gina look away in embarrassment. Having triumphed over Gina, I went out and fired up the Weber. Damn it was cold, even with a pair of pants on. Some shoes would have been a good idea. As I walked over to where I had left my wine, there was still a bulge under my Levis and it was uncomfortable enough, that I was kind of longing for the apron again. Gina gave me a look that said, "I'm not done with you buster," and then said to Lisa, "Come on Lisa, we have to dress for dinner." "I hope you don't expect us to dress for dinner," I said. "I didn't bring a tux." Lisa said, "Not to worry, Leif. You're a bit overdressed as you are, but I am sure you'll do fine before the evening is done, won't he Gina?" "He always does," said Gina, as the two of them picked up their various bags and boxes and headed up the stairs. I just stood and watched two beautiful barely-covered asses wiggle their way up the stairs." Misha and I puttered around the kitchen for half an hour until the girls reappeared. They came down separately. Either neither wanted the other to dilute her entrance, or they worried about causing a coronary if they both came down at once. I wasn't clear on their motivation. Lisa, came down first, wearing a gauzy dress that draped to the floor but concealed nothing from her waist, where it started, on down. It was hard to tear my eyes away from her thinly veiled naked pussy. Her top was a wide knit fishnet. The weave was big enough so her nipples easily protruded from the mesh. Okay, that helped me stop staring at her pussy. It was a good thing neither Misha nor I was holding a knife, because we might have dropped it and caused an injury. "Gina will be down in a minute," she said. "Misha, can we have some Champagne, and do you have any of that special triple creme cheese? After all it is Christmas." "Oh yes," he said, in the most lecherous tone I have ever heard. He turned and grabbed a plate from behind him with the cheese and told me to get the Champagne out of the refrigerator. "Will Gina be down soon?" he asked. "I need to put the tenderloin on the grill." "Right here," I heard her say from the stairs. We all three looked up and saw an erotic vision, or at least I did. She was wearing a long simple, silvery, floor-length sheath that clung to her like it had been painted on. Not to be outdone by Lisa, this dress was virtually transparent also. I couldn't take my eyes off her as she came down the stairs and across the room. Misha pulled his pants on and went on out to the grill to start the tenderloin, although he damn near missed the door as he was still looking over his shoulder at Gina. As Gina walked up to the counter, she asked, "Lisa, is this the special soft cheese you were telling me about at lunch?" What a set up that question was. Lisa stuck her finger in the cheese and then slowly inserted it in her mouth as she savored the flavor of the cheese and sucked on her finger like it was a cock. "Umm, yes. Here, try it," she said as she held her finger, still covered with a fair bit of cheese out to Gina. Gina pulled the finger into her mouth and moaned for effect as she sucked on it just like it was my cock. Just then Misha came in the door, swearing about the cold, and stopped speechless as he watched my wife sucking on Lisa's finger and moaning. "Look darling," Lisa said. "We found the cheese. But this really isn't the right way to eat it, is it?" "Uhh . . .no," Misha said. "Have some Champagne, Lisa," he said, "while I finish up dinner." The poor guy sounded like he was about to explode. I was pouring the Champagne. "Can't you let the sous chef spread the cheese?" Lisa asked, with a wink at Gina. Gina, was wearing a truly perverted smile, obviously having been briefed in advance by Lisa about the cheese ritual. "You can watch Misha," she said, as she looked at him over the top of her Champagne glass. "I know how much you like to watch." "Okay, okay," he said. "Leif, she wants you to . . ." "Leif knows what I want," she said interrupting him. While she was talking, she had reached around behind me and was fondling my ass through my Levis. Gina used her four-inch heels and a stretch to get to where she could whisper in my ear, "Smear some cheese on her nipples, and then we all get to suck it off." Lisa quickly pulled her top off over her head and held her tits out to me. It was all I could do not to bend over and began sucking on them immediately, but I refrained, fearing that Misha might have a knife in hand. I looked at Misha as Lisa, said "Please, Misha, you know how I like this." He nodded and I noticed that he didn't have a knife in his hand, so I grabbed Lisa's boob with one hand and used the other hand to pick up a gob of the soft creamy cheese that I smeared on and around her nipple. By this time, not only was Lisa fondling my ass, but Gina was rubbing my cock through my Levis. "Now what?" I asked, playing dumb, but trying to move things along so the tenderloin didn't burn. "I think Gina should suck it off, since she loaned us Leif to smear it on," said Lisa. Misha was now just leaning back against the counter with an obvious hard on beneath his Levis. His frown had been replaced by a lascivious smile, so I knew this was all a part of a game they had played before. Gina looked at me, and I gave her a smile that said, "Go for it," and she did, leaning in and taking Lisa's nipple in her mouth. She could have sucked it clean much more quickly, but she took her time, I was sure caressing the nipple with her tongue. Being a gentleman, I held Lisa's boob up so it was properly positioned for Gina. I sucked the cheese remaining on my fingers off the hand not engaged with Lisa's boob. Damn, it was good. No one was paying any attention to me. I just wanted to taste the cheese, without disturbing Lisa's little drama. After about thirty seconds of sucking cheese off Lisa's boob, Gina pulled back and licked her lips, saying, "Oh my, yes, that is good cheese." Then she stood on her toes and kissed me long and hard. She stuck her tongue way into my mouth. Since she had both arms around my neck, I had to presume it was Lisa who was now stroking my cock through my Levis. After the kiss, I paused for a second, and said, "Yep, that is good cheese." At that both girls broke out laughing and let go of me. Misha joined in the laugh and then grabbed a big fork and headed out to turn the tenderloin. I wasn't so sure about this game when he had sharp kitchen implements in his hands. When he came back in, we were all seated respectably on three stools, eating the cheese and the champagne in a civilized fashion (if you overlook the detail that both girls were taking turns massaging my dick through my Levis). I thought about replacing the Levis with my apron, but I had two reasons not to do that. First, Misha would get even by sending me out on the porch to check the meat, even if it didn't need checking. Second, I was afraid the girls would make me cum, like Gina had the night before. I said to the girls, "Okay ladies, no more fooling around until Misha gets dinner on the table. We don't want something to burn." "Okay," they moaned in unison, as they continued to take turns massaging my dick. A few minutes later, Misha stepped out and returned with the tenderloin. It looked luscious as he put it under a foil tent to hold while he got the remaining items ready to serve. He tasted the sauce a final time and pronounced it satisfactory. Then Lisa spoke up, "Misha, can you hold dinner for fifteen minutes? "Sure, but why?" "Well, you really didn't get to enjoy the cream cheese hors d'oeuvre, and I think we will enjoy your dinner a great deal more if we all have a quickie before dinner." "Really?" he asked. "You want me to hold dinner so you can fuck me?" By this time, she was standing in front of him stroking his cock through his trousers as he held a chef's knife in the air above her. "Yes, really," she said. "You know how much I love your cooking, and you know how much I love your cock," she said as she continued to stroke him. "The problem is that I can't focus on both at once and do either justice, and right now, I really want to focus on your cock." Gina was doing something similar to me under the counter as we watched the little family drama play out. Misha was doomed on this one. "All right!" he said, as he stabbed the knife down into the butcher block. It stood straight up vibrating, its tip imbedded in the wood. "But only fifteen minutes or everything will be ruined!" With that they fled up the stairs, leaving the knife standing in the butcher block quivering like an excited prick. Gina and I looked at each other in amazement and then she said softly, but intently, in Swedish, "I want you to fuck me right now!" "Upstairs?" I asked. "No right here, right now." "Umm. . ." I said in appreciation and agreement as she turned and let me release the catch and zipper holding her dress up. She let it fall to her feet, still facing away from me. "God she has a beautiful ass," I thought, as I pulled my t-shirt over my head and then released my jeans and let them fall to my feet. We both stepped clear of our fallen clothes, and she turned to me and put my hands on her breasts while she grabbed my prick. "I've been waiting all day for this," she said. Then she turned and walked to the dinner table, where she leaned over with her beautiful naked ass pointed at me and her legs spread. "Now fuck me, right here and right now," she continued in Swedish. I stepped in behind her and began to rub my prick along her sex. She was wet and slippery. "Quit teasing! Just fuck me!" again in Swedish, but louder. She didn't care who could hear us. We always fucked in Swedish or Italian. Never in English. I slid my cock into her, just the head. "Oh fuck, you're hot and wet," I said in Italian. She responded by pushing back with her hips so that my cock slowly slipped in until I could feel it pressing against the end of her cunt. I grabbed her hips and began to pump, slowly at first, but with an increasing rhythm. "Oh, fuck, that feels good," she said between whimpers. "I've been wanting this all afternoon." I was silent for a while as I just stood fucking her while she whimpered. We went on for a minute or two that way. Finally, I began to talk dirty to her. I knew it would make her cum. It always does. "You nasty little slut. I could tell you were horny when you came back from shopping," I said in Italian. The first thing we had done when we became a couple was to learn how to talk dirty in Swedish and Italian. "God, your cock is hard," she said in Swedish. "That's just how you like it isn't it, you horny little slut? I know how much you like my big hard cock. You like it rammed up your cunt, don't you?" in Italian. I had a good hold of both of her hips and was picking up the pace, so my thighs were slapping against her ass and my balls against her clit. "Oh fuck!" she said. "Yes, I am your horny little slut, and I have been wanting that cock of yours all afternoon. Oh, oh, oh, God, that feels so fucking good." "Are you ready to cum yet?" "Uhhh . . . yes. Yes. Yes. . . . Right now." She screamed something that wasn't a word in any language but was totally intelligible to anyone past puberty, and I felt her cunt muscles clamp down on my cock. That set me off and I pushed in with one hard flex of my hips and then just held myself in place, as far into her cunt as I could get, while I felt at least three or four streams of cum course up the shaft of my dick and then squirt into her. It was a very quick fuck, but the last two hours had essentially been foreplay. Christmas in Boulder Ch. 02 Then we collapsed, with her lying on the table and me lying on top of her. We could hear the other two screaming as they climaxed upstairs, but we ignored them. Finally Gina stirred, "Let me up. I have to go clean up before they come back down stairs." I reluctantly pulled my shrinking cock out of her and stood. Gina cleaned up in the downstairs bath and then I did. When I returned, we were both naked. "Are you going to dress for dinner?" I asked. "I am dressed," she answered. "This is what Lisa told me the dress code would be." As she spoke, the other two confirmed what she said, coming down the stairs naked and looking satiated, for now. "Good," I thought. "Misha can now concentrate on dinner. I was afraid he was going to blow up before." Lisa had selected two wines, which we had opened half an hour before. The first, which I poured for each of us, was a ten-year-old Grand Cru Gevrey Chambertin Burgundy. It was spectacular. The second wine, which came later, was a 1997 Caymus Cabernet, from the Rutherford district of Napa. Caymus had always been one of my favorite California wines, and it did not disappoint. There was more wine later, but who could taste it by then? The rest of the dinner matched the wines in quality. The beef was perfect, the potatoes sinfully rich, the string beans simple and tasty, and the sauce . . . ah, the sauce was to die for. On the beef it was amazing, but smeared across the girls tits, it was even better. As Misha had predicted, there was no need to prepare dessert. Oh, and I especially liked the fact that the girls came up with Santa caps to wear during dinner. Nothing else. Just, Santa caps. It was a most memorable Christmas Eve.