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Looking Back Ch. 01

By: leahcarr



Alan Garret had just started in the criminal justice program at the community college when he ran into Ray Ferris for the first time since graduation.

Ray had started a business program at the state university. He looked smug, leaning casually against a wall in the hallways near the doors to the building Alan was currently exiting.

Ray stood waiting for his girlfriend, Sarah, not paying particular attention to the passing students. Then he noticed Alan Garret coming in his direction, looking straight at him with ill disguised disdain. 

Alan never liked him, he knew that much from their time in high school, but he never understood why. 

Alan redirected his glare several yards from the doors, clearly dismissing Ray and leaving the other man feeling a mixture of annoyance and confusion.

Sarah Stevens approached her boyfriend and noticed his expression and the uncharacteristic tension on his stance. Concern crashed through her as she ran through possibilities of what could be wrong. She briefly considered Ray may be there to break up with her, but quickly dismissed it; she was sure her and Ray were forever. Then he noticed her and visibly relaxed, smiling his mega watt smile, making Sarah's heart swell.

Yep, she could see forever in his eyes.

20 Years Later

James Ferris glows. He radiates light like the sun. Fucking radiates. He is so godamned beautiful it's ridiculous. 5 foot 9ish, not really muscular, but toned from running track; perfect. Sandy blonde hair, eyes the color of deep ocean waters, and his lips... God, his lips, so kissable! Deep pink, full, a perfect little dip on the top one. When he smiles it's like a freakin' sunrise; my heart and stomach flip and flutter. Freakin' flutter! And my dick twitches, every time. I would do pretty much anything for one of his smiles to be directed at me.

Though I'm half sure I'd faint. Or be blinded by its brilliance. Or just lose my cool and jump him.

Christ, what that boy does to me. He makes me think things like 

"he radiates," like some lovesick girl. It's so cliched, and guys are not supposed to think things like "he glows." And I know that that's a stupid, stereotypical comment, but really, when was the last time you heard a dude say something like that? I'm so hopelessly infatuated.

And it is definitely hopeless. I think I catch him looking at me sometimes, but I'm pretty sure it's just wishful thinking.

But I'll keep wishing. Maybe one day I'll get to experience that smile of his... Sigh...

***

Ryan Garret is looking at me again. I catch him just before he quickly looks away; I was watching him too or I'd have missed it. He's adorable. Maybe an inch shorter than me, deep brown hair, nearly black really, and clear, icy blue eyes. Broad shoulders and lightly defined muscles. I've seem him after gym, and the image has provided more than one fantasy.

We have a few classes together, but aside from occasionally sitting near him and passing papers to each other we've never really talked. I'm not sure why. We have some overlap in our social circles, and those shared classes.

I've tried to find excuses, but it almost seems he avoids me; it drives me crazy. But then I catch him staring, and sometimes I think I see wanting in his gaze, but it's probably my imagination. 

God, I just wish he would look at me for real, so I could look back, really look, and try to decipher him.

***

We have a substitute in English, which means we sit alphabetically. Which means I'm right behind James, which is like sweet torture.

When he walked in, my brain stuttered, as usual. He approached his newly assigned desk and I looked anywhere but at him. He caught me staring this morning and I was nervous he'd tell me off. Part of me hoped he would, just to hear his voice.

Ugh, I'm so pathetic!

As he settled in, his pencil rolled off his desk and stopped under my feet. I picked it up and moved to hand it to him, praying my hands would remain steady. He turned and reached for it and my breath caught. He grabbed for it and our fingers touched, he dragged his pointer across my palm as he lifted it, it almost seemed intentional, but I'm sure that's just more wishful thinking.

"Thanks Ry."

His voice caressed me; I could practically feel his breath on me. And the shortened version of my name was music. Fucking Mozart or something. 

And then it happened; he smiled at me. I released a shuddering breath and his smile seemed to get brighter.

He lingered a moment longer, then turned back as the sub cleared her throat. Our too brief moment of gazing at each other over, I resumed staring at the back of his head; my fingers itched to run through it. Actually fucking itched.

Ridiculous.

***

We have a sub today, which means I get to sit right in front of Ryan. It's too bad the number of people fills the seats like they do, or I might get to sit nearer. I feel his eyes on me and decide to make a move to say something to him. I ever so slightly nudge a pencil in front of me with a finger, it rolls and lands at his feet. 

Perfect!

I turn to take it and our eyes lock for the first time. Amazing. His eyes are amazing. I can't quite look away, and I wonder if he feels as frozen as me. He seems equally transfixed and I let out an internal victory "whoop."

I realize I have probably taken a few seconds too long and reach for the pencil that was my co-conspirator. I make sure our fingers brush and I drag one across his palm. I hear his breath hiccup and feel my pants get a little tighter.

I thank him and his heavy exhale causes a dangerous stirring in my jeans. I grin at him and am rewarded with a slight blush.

It's freaking beautiful.

The substitute calls our attention with an "ahem" and I'm forced to look ahead; it's hard, and so am I. The image of his blushing cheeks I totally worth the possible embarrassment.

I don't know how I'm going to make it through math, the equations the sub puts up are like a foreign language today.



***

More to come soon! I hope you enjoyed the start of Ryan and James' story, and the hints of their fathers secrets. Please comment, rate or message me with feedback; it can only help me get better!

-R

Looking Back Ch. 02



This is the second in a long series of stories in which our heroine, Kate, looks back on some of her more memorable sexual adventures as she tries to decide whether she is a slut. 

***** 

It had been a long day of meetings in Chicago followed by a four hour flight back to San Francisco, so it was late, perhaps 11:00 p.m., when I walked in the door of my home in San Francisco. I had refrained from drinking on the return flight, as I was reading a new piece of fiction that one of the agents I dealt with regularly wanted me to publish. My publishing house was still small enough so that I could read everything we decided to publish. Control of that final decision to accept a property for publication was a prerogative I jealously guarded. I delegated most of the editing these days, but it was my house, and I wanted the final say about what we put our name on. 

I set my bag and briefcase down in the kitchen, and I had just barely removed the cork from a nice little bottle of Sonoma Zinfandel when my cell phone rang. 

"Hello?" 

"Hi lover." It was Henry. 

"Oh hi. Didn't expect to hear from you tonight." 

"Well, a crisis came up in Palm Beach, and nothing would satisfy the nabobs except for me to get on a plane and go over there to deal with it personally. Honestly, sometimes I think they don't know what telephones are for." 

"So you're in Palm Beach tonight?" 

"Right-o, and thrilled to be here. Where are you by the way? Cell phones are marvelous toys, but they don't tell you where someone you're talking to is." 

"I'm at home. Just got in from Chicago. I was just opening a nice little bottle of Sonoma Zin. I worked on the plane, so I thought I'd earned a drink." 

"Exactly," he said. "I worked also, so I'm enjoying one of those tasty little rum concoctions they like to serve up here in Florida. They're one of the few things I like about the place." 

"Yes, that and the scantily clad women and the generally raunchy atmosphere of that West Palm Beach neighborhood you like to stay in," I said sarcastically. "I'm surprised you could find time to call." 

"Kate, Kate, Kate. You have so little faith in me. I admit there are some distractions here, but I was really hoping to hear another installment of your tales of your former lovers, like the one about the Pool Boy you told me last week." 

I ignored his comments about my lack of faith. What I really had faith in was his willingness to fuck anything he came across that he found attractive. However, I was no better, and he knew it. That was a part of our marriage accepted—in fact endorsed—by each of us from the beginning. 

"Oh, you liked that story, did you?" I responded. 

"Mmm. Very much. You really were being a nasty little slut with him." 

"What! He was the grown man who was screwing an 18-year-old girl every week for most of the summer." 

"Oh, bullshit, my dear. You seduced him, and you were proud of it." 

I laughed in response. "Okay. You're right about that. I seduced him. He really was a remarkably good lover, although I was getting a little tired of the school girl costume by the end of the summer." 

"So pour yourself a glass of that Zinfandel and tell me about another of your lovers. Who was next after the Pool Boy?" 

I poured a generous glass of wine as I thought about the question. "Next, after the Pool Boy probably wouldn't be that interesting. There were a number of guys my own age who I slept with during my first couple of years of college, but they were far from memorable—better than doing without, mind you, but there was nothing with any of them that you would find particularly arousing or entertaining. In fact, while I remember them as a group, I really can't remember which one was "next' after the Pool Boy. Now that I think about it, "next," might have been two or three of them at once. I did some of that when I was younger." 

"So who was your next lover 'of interest'?" he asked. "I certainly don't want to hear about boring sex. By the way," he said digressing before I could respond, "boring sex. Isn't that an oxymoron? I mean if it's sex, how can it be boring?" 

"Good sex is always in the eye of the fuckor and the fuckee. You know that. But let's not dwell on that. I want to tell you about Professor Smythe. He was a Brit, like you, and he had a dirty mind, just like you, maybe dirtier even than yours." 

"Really? Most women I have known, I mean known in a carnal sense, have said I have the dirtiest mind they have ever known." 

"Well, I don't want to be judgmental, but Smythe would have given you a run for your money. Listen and decide for yourself: 

It was getting late in the spring quarter of my junior year, and I realized that I hadn't been keeping up with the work in a seminar on 19th century English literature I was taking from Professor Smythe. I had skipped most of the lectures as well. Now, I could have taken a weekend and spent it catching up on the course reading and still possibly squeezed a C out of the class, but my friend Louise had told me about how she improved her grade in a math class from an F to a B by giving the T.A. a blowjob every week for the last five weeks of the quarter. There was no T.A. in this class, so it would have to be old Professor Smythe. I wondered if he even cared about a blowjob at his age? What the hell, I thought. I'll give it a try. 

I put on the shortest denim skirt I owned and a worn tied dyed T-shirt, deliberately leaving my bra at home. My tits were bouncing nicely under the soft cloth of the old T-shirt as I walked across Sproul Plaza. Thinking about what I was going to do, that is, if I really had the courage to go through with it, was making me very horny. I looked down and could see that my nipples had stiffened and were very obvious through the thin cloth of the old shirt. I had thought about leaving my panties at home also, but at the last minute decided to wear a nice clean pair of white panties. Maybe Smythe would be like the Pool Boy and be turned on by them. 

I sat for a while on a bench at the upper end of Sproul Plaza thinking about what I was about to do. I was unsure if I really had the courage to go through with it. I know I had seduced the Pool Boy, but now I was thinking about seducing a full professor who had formerly held an endowed chair at Oxford. Really, could I do this? But the more I thought about what I was trying to do and how I might go about it, the hornier I got, and the hormones released in my brain soon overcame my misgivings. I didn't really have a plan as to how I was going to go about this, but what the fuck, I would think of something when I got into his office. 

Eventually I got up and walked, my tits bouncing under the soft T-shirt, over to that old Victorian pile, Wheeler Hall. I was late for Smythe's office hours by a few minutes, partly because of my indecision and partly because I was late for everything in those days, but I figured I would still catch him, and it would cut down on the risk of some other student walking in on us while I was giving the Professor a blowjob. 

The door was closed when I got there, but I knocked firmly. 

A distinctly British "Come in," emanated in response, so I pushed the door open and walked in, carefully closing it behind me. Professor Smythe was standing at a bookcase on one sidewall of his office. He was a tall, skinny fellow with awkward limbs and a mass of unkempt fraying hair atop a face dominated by an aquiline nose that had a decided twist to it. He was in his fifties and not at all handsome. As I looked at him I again wondered if someone that old was even interested in sex. Boy, did I have a lot to learn about that. 

"Professor Smythe," I said. "I'm Kate O'Riley. I'm taking your seminar on 19th century English literature." 

"Yes, yes. I know who you are, but I'm not sure why, given how rarely I see you in class." His tone was clipped and abrupt. Not a propitious start for what I had in mind. 

"Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." I said, plowing forward, notwithstanding Smythe's apparent bad attitude toward me. As I sat in the armchair facing his desk, I realized that giving some bullshit excuse about my absences was not likely to succeed, so I just decided then and there to abandon the story I had made up about my mother's cancer, and move on to Plan B—sex. 

He responded with silence, which easily translated to, "Okay, let's hear your bullshit excuse, so I can say no, then you can leave, and I can I get back to my research." 

The silence hung painfully in the air for too long. Finally I realized the ball was still in my court. Lacking the courage to fully plunge ahead, I said, "I was wondering if there was something extra I could do to make up for my absences and my poor mid-term grades?" As I spoke I nervously crossed and re-crossed my legs and let my already short skirt ride further up my thighs. 

"Oh. There's a problem with midterm grades is there?" He said. He stepped away from the bookcase and moved toward me, picking up a notebook from his desk. Now he stood in front of the desk, just before me, as he consulted the notebook. He leaned back against the desk, silently flipping pages. "Oh my, yes. I can see we do have a bit of a problem here," he said without looking up. After a moment he flipped the notebook shut with a snap. He looked up at me, tapping the notebook against his palm, and said, "Well, do you have some thoughts as to how we should address this problem?" 

"Uhh . . . well . . ." God, I hadn't expected him to be this direct. "Well, I thought maybe I could . . ." 

"Come over here and sit on the couch and let's talk about what the problem is," he said as he flipped the notebook back onto the desk. 

He walked across the office and reclined in a corner of the couch, his long tweed-clad legs crossed, and stared at me. 

I felt frozen in my chair. This was a lot harder than I had imagined. It was nothing like dealing with the Pool Boy. 

Smythe patted the seat on the couch and said, "Come on Miss O'Riley. Have a seat and let's discuss the problem." 

I arose and walked timidly across the room, taking a seat on the couch as far from Smythe as I could. 

"Now dear," he said. "Tell me what it is about my class on 19th Century English Literature that you find so unpalatable so as to attend only every fourth lecture?" 

I was silent, but I knew it was put up or shut up time, and just coming out and offering him a blowjob, didn't seem like a good approach. So, by some fluke of the firing of the synapses of my brain, I decided to tell him the truth, or at least something close to it. 

"Your lectures are fine, Professor," I said. "It's the subject matter that's a problem." 

"Oh," he said. "You mean you find Dickens boring?" 

"Yes," I said meekly, "and Jane Austin, and Louisa May Alcott, and Hawthorne, and even Melville." I was getting into it now. "I mean why do all the famous ones have to be the boring ones?" 

"Oh, so that's the problem is it? You find the material boring?" 

"Yes, yes!" I said. "I mean Hemingway could take one of their 600-page novels and boil it down to a 20-page short story without leaving out anything that mattered to the plot. I admit some of them have pretty good plot lines, but I just want to scream, 'get on with it' when I am reading, that is if I can stay awake." I was getting into it now and without thinking about what I was doing I turned towards Smythe and pulled one knee up on the couch. It never occurred to me that as I did that I was pushing my short skirt up my thighs and exposing my so carefully chosen white panties to him. I mean, I know I had set out to seduce him, but now that I was getting into the substance of the discussion, I actually wasn't thinking about sex. 

"Has it ever occurred to you that the predominate mode of publication for these authors you find so wordy and boring was serialization in the newspapers of the day? They were getting paid by the word, my dear, and once they got their audience hooked, it was worth their while to stretch the story out as long as they could." 

"Oh." As I spoke, I not only realized that he had a point, but I also noticed that he was staring at my exposed white panties. A shot of lust flew straight from my brain to my sexual core. Now what should I do? We're talking serious literature, and he's staring at my panties. Well, I came here to trade sex for a grade, so I better pursue it. God, what a dirty old man! 

"So," I continued, "a Dickens novel was kinda like a soap opera." 

"Yeah, 'kinda'," he said, mocking my grammar. 

"I mean," I said, ignoring his cheap shot at my speaking skills, "he got a plot started, got readers hooked on his characters, and then he just kept spinning out a new twist on the plot every week, careful never to bring his gravy train to an end." As I spoke, I pulled up my knee that was on the couch, hooking the heel of my shoe on the edge of the couch. My skirt slid down to my hip joint, exposing even more of my panties. Somehow I was managing to keep thinking about literature while simultaneously focusing on sex and seduction. 

The Professor was silent for a moment staring at my panties. Finally he spoke, "Uhh, . . . yes, exactly." I had him! 

"Well," I said as I toyed with the edge of my dress, "I can see how that might have worked in a soap opera mode, but it is dull as hell to read all 600 pages of it at once." I let go of the edge of my dress and slid my hand down the inside of my thigh until it reached my knee. I pushed my knee to the side, making my exposure of my panty clad pussy even more obvious. 

The Professor continued his stare in silence, pulling on his chin as though he was thinking of something other than my white panties. Finally he spoke, "You know," he said, "There is another category of 19th century literature, well, some people wouldn't call it literature, but I suspect you would find more to your liking." As he finished he dropped his hands to his lap in a nervous motion. 

Is he stroking his erect cock, I wondered? I looked at him, my hand still on my knee and pushing it from side to side to make it obvious that I was showing my panties to him. Finally I asked, "What would that be?" 

"I'll show you. Go over to that bookcase on the far side of the room and get that red bound book on the third shelf. I hopped up and walked across the room, making a point of swinging my ass as I walked. I pulled the book and as I walked back I put a little bounce in my step to make sure my tits were bouncing. It was working. His eyes were glued to my chest. 

I started to hand him the book, but he said, "No, no. Why don't you sit down as you were and read it aloud? Then we can discuss it." 

"Sure." I made sure my hips swung as I walked back to the end of the couch, and when I sat, I again pulled a leg up on the couch and fully exposed my panty-clad crotch. I saw him nervously lick his lips as I sat pushing my knee back and forth. 

"Just open anywhere in the book and read it aloud," he said. His hands were still in his lap, and I was sure I could see a noticeable bulge beneath them. 

I opened the book and began reading from the top of the page: 

"Sister pulled her petticoats up exposing her down-covered sex. It was seeping cunt juices. 'Well come on older brother. Don't tell me you've never seen a slippery tempting cunt before.' I ripped my trousers away as my cock leapt to life and then I stood before my sister, stroking my engorged cock, my trousers pooled around my boots while she slid two fingers in and out of her dripping cunt. We looked at each other in silence as we masturbated. Finally she silently mouthed the words, 'Fuck me.' I dropped to my knees on the bed between her legs and plunged my cock into her cunt . . ." 

I looked over the top of the book at the Professor. He was now openly stroking his erection through the tweed of his suit. "Why Professor," I said, "Is this Victorian porn?" 

As I spoke I reached down and began to rub my pussy through the soft white cotton of my panties. 

"Yes," he said. "That is exactly what it is. I thought given your aversion to Dickens and Jane Austin, you might like it better." 

"Umm, I do," I said, continuing to rub my sex through my panties. "Shall I keep reading?" 

"By all means" he said, continuing to rub his crotch. 

As I continued to read, I pushed my panties aside so the Professor had a view of my pussy, uninhibited by the white panties. The material was graphic, and in the mood I was in, very erotic. My pussy was very wet. 

Periodically I looked up from my reading to confirm that the Professor was continuing to masturbate through his trousers. Finally, I took pity on him. I interrupted my reading and said, "You know Professor, I'm sure that would feel a lot better if you pulled your cock out." 

The Professor said nothing in response, and I returned to my reading, not looking for another page or two at what he did in response. But when I looked up at the end of a page, he had opened his trousers and he was stroking a long, thin, hard dick. 

I paused in my reading and lifted my hips off the couch, sliding my panties off my hips and down over my feet. As I resumed reading, my skirt was pulled up around my waist like a broad belt, and I had one leg stretched out on the back of the couch and the other on the floor. I shoved two fingers into my pussy and began to finger-fuck myself. 

I read another page or so and then looked up at Smythe, who was continuing to slowly masturbate while he stared at me doing the same. "I think I should suck your cock," I said. I set the book on the couch and pulled my T-shirt over my head. He was silent, staring at my tits and continuing to stroke his cock. I lifted my tits and held them out to him in silence as I waited for a response. 

"Fuck yes," he said almost in a whisper. 

I stood and walked to his end of the couch and dropped to my knees between his legs. Smythe groaned as I began using both hands to jack his cock. It wasn't too terribly thick, but it was long—at least eight inches and maybe more. It was a lot more cock than I had expected from a man as unimpressive looking as he was. I pulled my hands away from his cock, and it pointed straight at me, occasionally twitching on its own. We both remained silent. 

I leaned forward and began to lick the head while I returned my hands to his shaft and resumed jacking. 

After a long silence, punctuated only by heavy breathing, he spoke. Two words, spoken softly, "Suck it." 

I pulled as much of his long cock into my mouth as I could handle and then began to pump it in and out, with plenty of suction. I made sure I spilled lots of saliva on to the remainder of the shaft so that it was well lubed for the jacking I continued while I sucked on the upper part. 

Smythe gripped the couch with both hands and leaned his upper body back while he pushed his hips and his cock toward me in rhythm with my cock sucking. I could hear his breathing speed up, and after a few minutes of sucking I felt his cock harden either further. He was about to cum. 

"Fuck. I'm close," he said. He pulled his dick out of my mouth and said, "Titty fuck me." 

I moved closer to him and sat up straight, still on my knees. Then I grabbed his cock, which was slippery from my sucking, laid it against my chest, and used my hands to squeeze my tits around it. He responded by using his legs and hips to slide his prick up and down between my tits. We didn't last long. After just a few strokes he groaned and I felt a spurt of hot cum hit the underside of my chin. Two more followed which hit my cheeks. The rest of his climax dribbled from his cock onto my tits. 




Looking Back Ch. 02



I walked back to my end of the couch, cum dripping from my face, my throat, and my tits and looked at him as he panted. 

Finally he spoke, "I think that may help your grade a bit, Miss O'Riley, but if you want an A, there is some more work you will have to do. I think we will have to do some private tutoring at my home." 

I looked up at him and scooped up a smear of cum from my face. I inserted the cum coated finger my mouth and slowly sucked. Eventually I spoke, "I think some tutoring would be good." 

"Good," he said as he pulled up his boxers and his trousers and fastened them, "Shall we say this Thursday at 6:00 p.m.?" He scribbled an address on a scrap of paper and threw it at me. 

Then he straightened his tie and took a moment to look carefully at his clothes. Satisfied that there were no cum stains, he said abruptly, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late for a faculty meeting. You might want to tidy up a bit before you leave," referring to the fact I was mostly naked and still had globs of cum on my face and tits. "Just turn the lock on the knob on your way out and shut the door firmly. Oh, and before you come over on Thursday evening, read this." He reached into his bookcase and pulled out another slim bound volume, which appeared to be something bound late in the 19th century. 

I was not surprised to find that it was another volume of Victorian porn, but unlike Dickens, I read it all. It was much more interesting than the regular class assignments. 

***** 

More of Kate's adventures with the Professor to come.



Looking Back Ch. 03



In Chapter one our heroine, Kate, a successful business woman turning 60, has asked herself a troubling question. Is she a slut? Thus began a series of chapters in which she describes to her husband Henry (her fourth husband) her life beginning with her late teen years and her sexual activities at each stage. The portion in italics in each story is her recollection of some memorable sexual experience from her past. In this chapter she describes more of her efforts to use sex to better her grades in a college English class.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! Don't stop. Fuuuuuck! Oh shit that's good! That's it. Fuck me! Oh fuck me! Oh fuck this is good!"

I was in our loft in New York in my favorite position—on my back with my legs spread as wide as possible, and my knees pulled as far towards my head as I could. Henry was on top of me pounding my pussy with his rock-hard cock.

"Is that what you want slut? You like that big hard cock in your cunt?"

"Oh fuck! Fuck yes! You know that's what I like."

"Am I as good as that guy you've been fucking in San Francisco? Am I, slut?"

"Ohhh. Ohhh. Oh Fuck yes. Fuck you're way better. Fuck, that hard dick of yours is filling me up. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You're so much bigger and so much harder!"

"Ohh fuck. I'm going to cum. Arrrrrgh!" He always came when I admitted I had been fucking someone else. I don't know why, but it always just set him off. Sometimes it was true and sometimes it wasn't. If I didn't have a story about someone I had recently fucked to tell him, I made one up.

I could feel Henry's hot cum filling my cunt and it set me off for the third time that night. I screamed as my cunt clamped down on his rigid cock. We collapsed into each other's arms, both spent for the evening. As we rolled to the side, still wrapped in each other's arms, I murmured, "God, you're good. How do you keep it up like that at your age?"

"It was that story you told me over dinner," Henry responded. "It made me so fucking horny I felt like I could fuck all evening."

"I think we did. It's 3:00 A.M."

The story I had told him over dinner was a description of the first time I visited Professor Smyth's home. As you may recall, I was taking a seminar in 19th century English literature from Professor Smyth in spring quarter of my junior year at Cal, and I had gotten woefully behind in my reading and class attendance. I had made only one class in the first five weeks. 19th century English literature is basically pretty dull stuff, or at least the part of 19th century English literature they teach in colleges and universities is dull. Actually, there was some pretty interesting material written during the 19th century, but it is still not socially acceptable today, nor was it then. And just like porn today, it sold well. As I subsequently learned from Professor Smyth, Victorian porn is far more interesting than Dickens.

I had gone to Professor Smyth's office with the intention of giving him a blowjob in an effort to avoid flunking the class. It took a little work on my part to seduce him, but we ultimately got there. When he finally came he quickly tidied himself up and ran off to a faculty meeting without so much as a thank you, or a "fuck you're good." As he hurried out of his office he handed me a slim volume of Victorian porn and told me the blowjob would get me a passing grade, but if I wanted an A, I should read the book and come to his home a few days later. Not very fucking romantic, I thought, but then again, I hadn't come to his office looking for romance, just a better grade than the D or F I was earning.

"So, my dear, did you take the Professor up on his offer of "private tutoring?" Henry asked.

"Oh yes. Grades were important to me in college. I may have been a horny little slut who partied hard, but I made sure I got the grades too. I must admit, however, that this was the first time I ever had to resort to sex to get the grade I wanted."

"And so, Kate, how was the private tutoring? Did you learn anything you didn't already know?"

"Surprisingly yes. I learned a hell of a lot about sex I didn't know, and I learned a lot about literature that I didn't know. Let me tell you about it.

I wasn't particularly enthused about going any further with a relationship with the Professor, given that he had left me sitting in his office essentially naked with his cum spattered on my hair, my face, and my tits while he ran off to a faculty meeting. To make matters worse, I was horny as hell, and he hadn't even thought of satisfying me. Not really a gentleman, I thought.

But later that day, after fucking another college kid I barely knew, I started to read the book the Professor had given me, and I found it fascinating. It wasn't just the kinky sex. There really was a story in it about a young gentleman and his struggles with his gradual decline into depravity. If that was what 19th century English literature was really like, I wanted to know more. So the following Thursday I showed up at his house near Walnut Creek with the book in my knapsack, assuming I was going to get fucked by his long skinny dick, but wanting to know more about Victorian porn.

The house was in the hills east of Walnut Creek towards Mount Diablo, isolated from anything else. I had some difficulties finding it, but I eventually got there, my usual 15 minutes late. I knocked on the door and the Professor opened it. He looked at me (well more at my T-shirt-covered tits than my face) and said rather coolly, "Oh, you did decide to show up."

I mumbled something about having gotten lost, but I really wasn't very articulate because I was surprised by the Professor's appearance. When he was at the University he always dressed in the most impeccable tweed suits. Today he was wearing a silk robe, loosely tied at the waist, which came only half way down to his knees. His legs that showed below it were skinny and bony. I guess that shouldn't have come as a surprise given I had his trousers in a pool around his feet when I had been blowing him a few days ago. Too focused on his dick, I guess. You have to do that to give a good blowjob.

I could also see a good deal of gray chest hair that started at his throat and extended to where the robe came together just above his waist. The tweed suit was better, much better. Okay, he wasn't pretty, but I wanted an A, and I wanted to know more about Victorian porn. And I knew from the prior week that he had a decent dick, so I figured I could put up with the fact that he wasn't a young hard-bodied stud.

"All right, all right. Come in my dear. We're out back by the pool." He turned and led me through the house and out to a patio and pool.

"We're?" I thought. Who else is here? I was prepared to have more sex with the Professor to get my A, but I hadn't planned on other people being involved. I was not at all expecting what I found when I stepped out onto his patio.

"Halili, come meet Ms. O'Riley," said the Professor as he strode to a bar and poured three glasses of wine.

Halili was a tall, slender African woman (at least six feet) who was swimming in the pool. She pulled herself out of the pool on the ladder, and I realized several things immediately—she was stunningly beautiful, at least thirty years younger than the Professor, and quite naked. Her skin color was a pale chocolate, but her nearly black areolas and nipples shown in stark contrast to the tawny color of the remainder of her skin. The hair on her head had been clipped very short. Were it not for its darker tone than her skin color, I might have thought it shaved. Her bush, however, was thick, dark, and curly. Droplets of water from the pool sparkled on it. Her dark brown eyes were large and round and her teeth, exposed when she smiled at me in response to the Professor's introduction, were a brilliant white. Her breasts were small, so small that she clearly had no need for a bra, except perhaps to prevent her nipples from protruding through an outer garment when engorged, as they were now from the cold water of the pool. Her legs were long and lean, but well muscled, and like many black women her butt stuck out sharply from her lower back.

Halili grabbed a towel from the back of a chair and casually dried herself as she walked towards me, her teeth gleaming in the bright California sun. As she reached me she dropped the towel on the back of another chair and stood naked before me, her hand extended. "How do you do," she said in perfect upper class English. Her diction was, if anything, better than the Professor's.

"Kate O'Riley," I said, completing the Professor's introduction (he probably couldn't remember my first name, even though I was sure he could remember the blowjob I had given him). I took her hand. It was smooth and soft. She shook hands firmly. As we shook hands I could see her eyes roaming the length of my body and when the handshake, which seemed just a bit longer than normal, broke she withdrew her hand in a way that allowed her to softly stroke my palm. It was very sensual.

Meanwhile the Professor had arrived bearing glasses of white wine, which he held out to us. "It's a Sancerre from the Loire Valley in France," he said. "Very nice for a sunny California afternoon."

As I took a sip I could see that Halili's gorgeous brown eyes were still focused on me as though I were a Christmas gift the Professor had just brought her. I was fascinated and a bit scared at the same time. I was also feeling a stir in my groin that I usually didn't experience when introduced to an attractive woman.

The Professor had returned to the bar and picked up his own glass of wine. As he walked back, I'm sure he noticed Halili's and my preoccupation with each other and our silence. He sat in one of the chairs and finally spoke up, breaking the pregnant silence. "Miss O'Riley, Halili is my wife. We've been married now for, what is it my dear?" he said, looking at his naked wife. "Oh yes, ten years now. We met in Kenya when I spent a six month sabbatical from Oxford there."

God, I thought. She doesn't look a day over twenty-five, okay thirty at the outside. He's even more of a dirty old man than I thought.

"Yes, I thought I was going to freeze to death when he brought me back to Oxford. I'm not sure how I lived through that first winter. Thank God Berkeley wooed him away so we could live here." As she spoke her eyes continued to stare at me. I was finding the whole experience incredibly erotic. I was used to drunken frat boys undressing me with their eyes, but never a naked, six-foot tall, black woman.

There was more silence as Halili and I continued to stare at each other, more or less ignoring the Professor's presence. I could see the Professor in my peripheral vision, and he was watching the two of us with a bit of a smirk on his face, as though he had fully expected our reactions to each other.

"And Miss O'Riley," the Professor said, breaking a silence run far too long, "is a student in my seminar on 19th century English literature. Or at least I think she is. Her attendance has been, shall we say, less than stellar."

"I see," said Halili, "and what brings you out to see us this afternoon?" Her eyes remained focused on my body.

"I . . . ah . . ." God it was getting to be difficult to be coherent as I sat before this stunning naked woman who appeared to want to tear my clothes off.

"I told her that if she wanted an A in the class she should come out here for some private tutoring," the Professor interrupted, saving me from my inability to answer.

"Oh," said Halili softly and slowly. She paused just for a moment. "You must be the one who gave him the marvelous blow job last week. Well, I should warn you about his private tutoring. That's how I met him and wound up married to him and living in Oxford freezing my tail off."

I stared at her thinking, "Oh shit! His wife knows."

"Really Halili my dear," the Professor responded. "Oxford would have been much nicer if you had been willing to wear clothes." Turning to me, he said, "She insisted on wandering around our house, and even our garden, stark naked in the dead of winter. English homes just aren't built for that."

"It doesn't seem to be a problem here," I said, finally regaining control of my tongue.

Halili smiled in response. She was sitting in the sun and now the moisture from the pool had been replaced by a sheen of perspiration. Her skin was gorgeous.

"Actually Professor," I continued, deciding there was nothing to hide, "I can probably live with the C you promised me in return for the blowjob. My other grades are good enough so that I will graduate, unless I screw up another class or two as badly I have yours. The reason I decided to come out here is that I want to know more about the book you loaned me." As I spoke I retrieved the book from my knapsack and set it on the table in front of us.

"Ah, so perhaps there is hope for you yet, young lady. So what did you find in the book that was of such interest? Something more than just the sex, I hope?"

With that, we launched into a discussion of the literary merits of Victorian porn and how it compared to the straight prose and poetry of the period. Halili leaned back in her chair, her eyes closed, ostensibly ignoring our "shop talk" and soaking up the sun.

Professor Smythe and I continued our discussion for the better part of an hour, and I was pretty much fully engaged, although I couldn't help but take a peek now and then at the naked black goddess in the chair opposite me. I noticed that although she purported to be sleeping, she was periodically sneaking a look at me. We both thought we were being discreet, but I am sure the Professor was fully aware of what we were doing.

Finally we had exhausted our discussion, and the Professor said, "Listen my dear, if you want to pursue this further, there are a couple of additional books like this one I would like to have you read. Why don't you stop my office next Monday afternoon and pick them up. In fact, perhaps we should just plan on a regular Monday afternoon schedule for the rest of the quarter. We can meet in my office, and since I don't have office hours on Monday, we won't be disturbed. I see no reason for you to bother coming to class for the rest of the quarter. Let's just have our regular Monday sessions, and I am confident you'll get your A."

That's six more blowjobs, I thought, counting off the weeks left in the quarter.

"Now if you ladies don't mind, the wine has made me a bit sleepy so I am going to retire for a nap, but I suggest you take advantage of the pool." With that he rose and retreated into the house.

Halili was "awake" again looking at me like she wanted to devour me. "Shall we?" she said, extending a somewhat ambiguous invitation.

"But I don't have a swim suit."

Halili, who was standing by now, laughed, a lovely lilting laugh. "Oh my dear," she said, "we never use swim suits in this pool and, for what I have in mind, a swim suit would just get in the way." She turned and walked toward the pool, her ass swinging sexily.

I stood, stripped off my clothes, and followed her. I wasn't sure where this was going, but I was too horny to care, after spending an hour discussing Victorian porn with the Professor while being mentally undressed by a gorgeous black Amazon, I didn't care about much of anything except how I was going to get myself off.

I walked down the steps into the pool. The water was cool, but not cold, and when I reached waist deep I dived forward and down, feeling the coolness surround my body. The one place it didn't seem to cool was the low heat in my pussy that had been building since I first met Halili. I came to the surface and swam a leisurely crawl across the pool, did a diving turn when I touched the end as I had been taught in high school swim team, and then flipped over on my back to re-cross the pool in a back stroke. The sun felt lovely on my naked breasts and belly. The water was slightly more than waist deep at this end of the pool, so I let my legs sink to the bottom and then simply stood up.

Halili was sitting on the edge of the pool a few feet away, and I walked toward her until I was standing with my breasts almost touching her knees.

"You are really very beautiful," she said to me. "I can see why he chose to bring you home."

"Really?" I said. "I thought he just wanted another blow job. But now he's gone off to take a nap."

"He brought you home for me," Halili said, "and he's not napping. He's watching. He loves to watch." As she spoke she casually spread her legs apart so her sex was becoming visible through her dark curly hair. Her pussy lips were large and dark and I could just see the barest hint of the pink of the inner lips hiding behind them.

"Oh." I didn't quite know what to think. I had only intended to exchange a blowjob for a grade. Now I appeared to be becoming involved in a kinky threesome between a dirty old man and his young trophy wife.

"Have you ever been with a woman before?" she asked. As she spoke she dropped into the pool and stepped behind me.

"No."

Now she had those soft hands on my shoulders giving me just about the most sensual massage I could imagine.

She pulled my raven hair away from my neck and ear on one side, leaned forward, and whispered in my ear, "Does it scare you?"

I was quiet for a moment. Then I said, "No."

As I spoke she caressed my ear with her long tongue, while her fingertips traced a sensual path down both sides of my back until they reached the beginning of the swell of my hips.

"Does it excite you?" Her fingertips continued on down into the water caressing both sides of my ass.

I was silent as her hands begin to fondle both globes of my ass. "Yes, it excites me," I said, "but what about your husband. What if he sees us?"

"I told you, he's watching us right now. He gets off on watching me with girls he brings home. He wants to see me do you." She slid her hands back up my body and around to the front until they were cupping my tits. "You have beautiful breasts," she said as she began to slowly massage them.

Fuck, this was erotic. I couldn't decide which was more exciting—the things Halili was doing to my body or the fact that the Professor was watching us from somewhere.

"So he's not going to be mad if he sees us having sex?" Now she was lightly pinching my nipples and tugging on them.

"No."

"And you're not mad because I sucked him off in his office on Tuesday?"

Her tongue probed the inside of my ear and then she blew on it while she continued to twist and pull on my nipples. I was on fire. "Do I seem mad?"

I groaned in response. Then I spread my footing a bit and started to reach down to fondle my pussy.

"No, no, little girl. That's for me to do," she said a bit sternly as she pulled a hand from a breast and used it to pull my hand away from my pussy. I'm going to eat you until you scream for mercy. That's what he wants to see and, oh yes, that's what I want to see, too."

She grabbed my shoulders and turned me around so we were facing. "Have you ever kissed a girl before?" she asked. Now she had those oh-so-soft hands holding either side of my face as she looked down into my eyes.




Looking Back Ch. 03



"Uhh, well, once," I said.

"Did you like it?"

"I didn't dislike it. But we were pretty drunk."

"Are you drunk now?"

I was drunk, I thought, but it wasn't the one glass of wine. I was drunk on lust.

"No, but, I'm really, really horny," I said with force.

Halili said nothing in response. She just leaned in and kissed me. Lightly at first and then with more force, her long tongue parting my lips and beginning a duel with mine. We kissed for a long time and then she pulled away and began to trail light kisses down my neck and chest until she reached my tits. At first she just licked my engorged nipples while her hands resumed a massage of my breasts. Then she took one nipple and then the other between her lips and began to suck on them. My cunt was on fire. Oh God, how I wanted, no I needed, to cum.

I reached between us and began to massage her dark hard nipples, but she pushed my hand away and said, "No, this is about you."

I rotated so that I was leaning back against the edge of the pool with my arms and legs spread to the sides totally open to Halili. Now she was cupping each breast with both her hands, holding it up to her mouth like a chalice as she sucked its nipple. At the same time she stepped between my lewdly spread thighs with one leg forward that she was using to rub my mound.

"Oh . . . God, that's good. So fucking good," I groaned.

"Don't cum yet," she whispered.

"Fuck," I said. "I'm not in control."

She pulled back and said, "Let's move to that couch under the porch cover," pointing with nod of her head. "He can see us better there."

In a moment we were standing dripping before the couch, not having bothered with towels, and Halili was again leaning down to kiss me. But this time she was using her hands to cup my ass rather than my head and one of her legs was again between mine rubbing my mound. I was lost in the kiss.

After the kiss, which was another long one, I asked her, "Are you going to eat me? I need to cum so bad."

"Louder," she whispered. "He likes to hear what is said."

"Fuck, I want you to eat me," I said, more loudly this time.

"Is that what you want? Do you want me to eat you, Kate?"

"Oh God, yes." I'm so fucking horny." We were both playing to our audience now. I had this image in my head of the Professor standing behind the shades, his robe hanging open and his hand stroking that long skinny dick of his as he peeked at us through a slot in the shades. It was a really dirty thought.

"Good," she said as she pushed me softly down on the couch. She followed me down, dropping to her knees and inserting herself between my legs, which spread apart without me giving it any thought whatsoever. Fuck the audience, I thought. Now this is about me . . . about us!

She began by trailing a line of soft kisses up the inside of each leg, from the knee to just below the junction of my legs and my dripping pussy. Each time she reached my pussy, I was disappointed when she didn't dive into it. Instead she just used her fingers to spread my outer lips and then blew softly on the flesh revealed by her fingers. Just that was enough to make me gasp.

After going up the insides of my thighs twice each, she went all the way down to my feet and carefully sucked on each toe. I had never had anyone suck on my toes before, and I was surprised at how sensual it was. But it was too late. I needed to cum and sucking on my toes wasn't going to get the job done. I pulled my feet away and said loudly, "God damn it! Quit teasing me and get to my pussy. Fuck. You're driving me crazy!"

Halilli looked at me with a really nasty smile and said softly, "Okay, Katy girl. That's what he wanted to hear." Then she leaned forward and slid three fingers into my sloppy wet cunt. Her thumb was lying in the crack between my lips, not quite reaching my clit. She began finger-fucking me with plenty of force, her thumb occasionally just grazing my engorged clit.

I was lying back in the chair groaning loudly with each thrust of Halili's fingers. I occasionally looked down at her, and I could see she was watching my face intently, apparently enjoying my rapture.

"Is that what you wanted baby girl," she said with force. "Is Halili giving you what you wanted now?"

"Oh, fuck. Yes, that's it. Fuck, fuck fuck! Don't stop. Just please don't stop." I was hanging on the edge of a climax.

Then she pulled her fingers out of my cunt. "Wait, don't stop!" I yelled, "I'm so close." Immediately she began to lick between my pussy lips with long slow strokes while she used her hands on my tits, pulling and twisting the nipples much harder than she had before. It hurt, but it hurt so good!

"Oh fuck! That's it. Just keep doing that," I said.

Then she lifted her head just enough so that her tongue reached my clit. It sent a jolt throughout my groin. Now she really began to work on my clit, first swirling her tongue around it and then sucking it between her lips.

Then just as I thought I was about to cum, she pulled her head back and returned to licking between my pussy lips.

After bringing me right to the edge two more times, she had me crying. It was a good thing the Professor had no immediate neighbors because I could have been heard swearing and crying a couple of blocks away.

Finally, after leading me up to the edge about three times, she pulled her right hand way from my tit and inserted three fingers in my cunt again. Instead of just thrusting them as she had before, she curled them back and began to press on a spot on the front face of my vagina that I would later learn was my G-spot. Meanwhile her tongue and lips went to work on my clit again.

I hung on for just a moment or two and then totally lost it. "Ehiiiii!" I screamed as I felt a rush of fluid leap from my cunt to Halili's face. Then I think I passed out. When I next opened my eyes, Halili was sitting back on her haunches between my legs, her face covered with girl cum and a beatific smile on her face. I was crying.

She leaned forward and up and covered my upper body with hers in a hug.

Finally, when I stopped weeping, she leaned back on her haunches again, still smiling and said, "Oh my, Katy girl, you really are something."

I laughed a little and said, "I don't think I ever came like that before."

Halili stood and turned as though to leave.

"Wait, now it's my turn to do you."

"Not today girl. He'll be waiting for me now. I'll get what I need from him." She spoke very softly, her words for me only. "But I'll see you again. You're too good to let get away."

"But when?"

"Don't know, but soon. You should go now," she said over her shoulder as she turned and walked into the house.

These people have a habit of leaving at the most awkward times, I thought. I stood and walked to the pool, where I swam one quick lap to clear my head. Then I dried off, put my clothes on, and walked out to my car thinking about what a strange afternoon the last couple of hours had been.



Looking Back Ch. 04



This is the fourth in a series of stories in which a successful businesswoman, Kate, looking back on her life from the vantage point of sixty years recounts some of her more interesting sexual exploits to her husband Henry. Here Kate continues her tale of debauchery with her much older college English professor and his young bi-sexual Kenyan wife. As with the other chapters, the shift to Italics connotes the beginning of Kate's story from her past.

*

It was Tuesday morning in New York, and my husband, Henry, and I were having breakfast at a little café near our loft in Tribeca. We had been up late the night before screwing, so it was a late breakfast. Neither of us had any commitments for the day so we could afford a late start. It is our practice when we're together in New York to clear our schedules as best we can. When you live half a planet apart, you need to schedule some "us time" on those occasions when you are going to be in the same city.

"That was quite a story you told me last night," he said.

"That was quite a screwing you gave me last night," I responded, looking at him over my coffee cup with a smile that showed in the way my eyes looked.

"Liked that, did you?"

"Mmmm, very much."

"So tell me," he asked, "Did you ever see the lovely black Amazon who seduced you again?"

"Oh yes," I replied. "More than once. She became my lover for a while."

"What did the Professor think of that?"

"It was fine, as far as I know. Sometimes he watched us or made it a threesome. Other times, he just wasn't around. Do you want to hear more?"

"Oh yes."

"Now?"

"Yes."

I looked around and satisfied myself that we were close enough to being alone to tell Henry the story about my second meeting with the Professor and Halili. By mid-morning in Tribeca most people had gone off to work, and the lunch crowd was still an hour or more from showing up.

The first of our regular Monday meetings was, compared to the prior two times I had been with the Professor, something of a letdown. There was no sex involved. I came to his office in Wheeler Hall expecting, at a minimum, to give him a blowjob and hoping I could see how good he was with that long skinny cock he had displayed to me. It's not that I found him attractive. Actually it was quite the contrary. I hadn't really developed a taste for dirty old men then. That came later. But he and Halili were just such an unusual combination of intellectualism and kinky sex that I had to see more of them. Saving my grade had become secondary to curiosity at this point.

Instead of sex we spent another hour discussing the literary merits of the book he had loaned me on my first visit. Our conversation focused on the emotional stresses suffered by the lead character in the novel as he delved deeper and deeper into the depraved world of underground Victorian London. The Professor was intrigued by my suggestion that the underlying structure of the novel, i.e., the psychological deterioration of the lead character, was borrowed from the then novel study of the internal psychology of Raskolnikov in Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment. I thought I was pretty much just slinging bullshit, but he seemed to be impressed, at least that I had thought that deeply about the non-prurient aspects of the novel.

In any case, he made no effort to seduce me or demand a blowjob, and no mention was made of my activities with Halili during my visit to their home. He just gave me two more books to read before our meeting on the following Monday. They were, as I expected, more Victorian porn. This time they focused on sado-masochistic relationships, but again there was an underlying focus on the psychology of the participants—not simply who was whipping who with what.

As I approached Wheeler Hall for my third meeting with the Professor, I was expecting, as had occurred in our last session, another intellectual discussion of the lurid reading materials, with no physical sex involved. That is not at all what happened.

I knocked on the door and was, as usual, invited to enter by the Professor's deep baritone voice, but when I stepped through the door, I was surprised to see that not only was the Professor present, but so was his much younger Kenyan wife, Halili. She was sitting in one of the armchairs fronting alongside his desk, wearing a periwinkle blue dress that buttoned down the front from the scooped neck all the way to the hem. When she stood and walked forward to greet me, I saw that the dress, though not tight, still revealed the shape of her lovely hips and did nothing to hide the contour of her protruding, and I assume braless, nipples. The dress stopped at mid-thigh, exposing much of her long lean legs. Her stunning stature was accentuated by a pair of tall spiky high heels. She was every bit as beautiful clothed as she had been naked at the Professor's home. Still a black goddess.

I was thrilled to see Halili. The sex I'd had with her during my visit to the Professor's home had been so different from anything I had ever experienced and so spectacular that I had thought of little else since. Not that I was ready to give up men, mind you, but I also wanted more of what Halili had to offer. At the same time, the presence of the Professor instilled a damping emotion—almost fear. I wanted to rush to Halili, pull her clothes off and attack her body to give her the pleasure she had given me, but how could I do that here, with the Professor in the room. What would he do? Yes, I knew that he had been watching us from hiding before, or at least Halili had told me he was watching. But that was far from having him in the same small room with us.

"Come in dear," said the Professor. "You know my wife, Halili, of course, and Halili, I'm sure you remember Miss O'Riley."

What, I thought? Of course I know her. I haven't thought about anyone else for the last ten days. Did he really not know what we had done that afternoon out by the pool? If he did know, why would he act like this? Were they playing with me?

"Oh, of course," I said. "Nice to see you again." I held out my hand for Halili to shake as she approached me.

Her hand was soft and warm. She looked deep into my eyes for a moment and said, "Yes, of course. So nice to see you again." Then she pulled me toward her and bent to kiss my cheeks, but before she drew back she whispered in my ear, "He loved watching us and he wants more." Then she quickly snaked her tongue briefly into my ear. As she withdrew she raised one of her hands so that it just grazed my breast.

"And did we do our reading Miss O'Riley?"

"Ah . . . yes," I said, struggling to reconcile the dramatic conflict between Halili's erotic greeting and the Professor's business-like, almost chilling demeanor. Halili's greeting had certainly unleashed my libido. I wanted to devour her, but the Professor's demeanor continued to intimidate me.

"Well then, let's sit down and discuss it." As he spoke he perched on the edge of his desk, while Halili walked, her hips swinging, to a couch across the room. I took a seat in an armchair near the end of the desk away from the Professor so I was facing both him and Halili. Somehow, I didn't feel comfortable being too close to him.

"And how would you characterize these books?" he asked.

"Dirty," I said without a moment's pause.

The Professor smiled—almost a chuckle. "Yes, yes. That's obvious. But you must have something more to say about them than just that they were dirty books?" As he spoke I noticed that Halili had, when she sat down on the couch, allowed (caused?) her dress to ride much higher on her long firm thighs than it had been when she was seated in another chair as I came in. Her legs were crossed, and she was flexing the foot of the top leg, a pump dangling from her toe, as she looked intently at me. I could see it was going to be much more difficult to maintain my concentration this week than it had the week before when only the Professor and I were in the room.

"Well, yes. They were both about sado-masochism." Halili winked at me.

"Hmm, and did you notice any difference between the two books." Halili was toying with the top button on her dress.

I tried to pull my concentration back to the Professor and his questions, but as I did so I saw Halili had released the first button on her dress and was now languidly sucking on a finger. God this was going to be hard. I could feel my pussy beginning to weep. Halili could see my discomfort and smiled, communicating her enjoyment of the situation .

"Oh . . . I see," I said with a super-human effort to devote my attention to the Professor. "The sado-masochistic scenarios in the books were very similar. No real difference there. But the book titled, "Descent into Depravity", had an underlying focus on the psychological stress of the protagonist who couldn't reconcile his enjoyment of being a practicing masochist with his strict religious upbringing. Rather like the other book you had me read, except the depravity in that book wasn't focused solely on sado-masochism as was the case here."

"I see. And was he able to reconcile this conflict in the end?" As the Professor spoke I could see that Halili was toying with the second button on her dress, while she watched with apparent satisfaction my struggle to remain on task with the Professor.

"Ahh . . . no, . . . I guess I would have to say he didn't." As I spoke Halili released the second button on her dress and smiled devilishly at me. This was really fucking hard. She was doing her best to seduce me, and there was nothing I could do in response. I needed to think about the books, and my mind wanted to think about eating her pussy.

"And why would you say he didn't reconcile his conflict?"

Halili slid a hand into her dress and pulled it aside so I could see her twist one of her dark engorged nipples. As she did so she closed her eyes and leaned back in the couch. The contrast between her dark, almost black nipples and large aureoles and her creamy chocolate colored skin was stunning.

I was silent for too long as I watched Halili continue to pull and twist on her nipple. Finally, I realized the Professor was expecting an answer.

"He killed himself in the end," I said. "Used a pistol issued to him by his military regiment to blow his brains out."

My answer apparently shocked Halili, who to my surprise must have been following the conversation. Her head snapped forward off the couch and she removed her hand from her nipple. She had a somewhat shocked look on her face, as if to ask, why would someone kill himself over an addictive deviant sex practice?

"Yes," I continued without waiting for a response from the Professor. "He left a suicide note saying that he couldn't continue to live in a society that demanded he deny a lifestyle that gave him his only real pleasure." I was speaking as much to Halilli now as I was to the Professor.

"So would you classify this story as a tragedy?" Halili was watching me attentively now.

"You mean like Hamlet?" I asked.

"Well, yes that's an example of a tragedy," he responded.

"But in Hamlet they all died by the acts of others. Not their own hands."

"Not quite true. There was Ophelia, who apparently drowned herself when Hamlet denied her."

"I would argue that her suicide was a direct result of the way Hamlet treated her. If he hadn't been such a neurotic shit, she would have lived."

Halili had apparently lost interest in our conversation, for as I thought (or tried to think) about a further response, she released one more button and was now pulling and twisting on both her nipples hard enough so that her face was twisted in a grimace. I was so focused on her that I was at a loss for a follow-up to my argument.

"Tut, tut my dear," said the Professor, ignoring my response. "Think about the Greek tragedies. Frequently the death of the protagonist is not by his own hand but by an act of the Gods, whose actions cannot be anticipated or avoided by the protagonist." The Professor launched into a relatively lengthy discussion of a number of classical Greek tragedies that he felt supported his point. While he spoke, Halili released the buttons on the lower part of her dress and moved the leg formerly crossed over a knee so that her spike heel was hooked into the edge of the couch, fully exposing her sex. I was not surprised that she wasn't wearing underwear. Her lustful smile had returned. She clearly knew she was driving me crazy. I wanted so badly to touch my breasts or my pussy. Even better, her breasts and pussy. Fuck!

Finally, when he wound down, which I almost missed because I was so focused on Halili, who was now casually stroking the inside of her thighs and whose tits were fully exposed to me, I said, "I see your point. I guess 'Descent into Depravity' is a classic tragedy."

"Exactly. So you see that even though most would characterize it as pornographic, it actually conforms to a classic literary form that any educated 19th century reader would have recognized. Now what about the second book, "Life of a Courtesan." How did you find it?"

"Dirty," I said. Halili was now openly stroking herself with her legs spread obscenely. One hand held her labia wide apart while two fingers of the other hand stroked the sensitive tissue below them. She was being dirty too, I thought. Delightfully dirty.

"Now there must have been more to the book than just the sex?" the Professor said. Fuck, I wanted to stop this and rip the last couple of buttons off Halili's dress so I could plant my face in her pussy.

"Did the protagonist die?" he asked.

"Uhh . . . No," I said. It was then that I noticed that the professor clearly had an erection beneath his tweed suit trousers. How could he get that horny based on this conversation? It was then that I remembered that there was a mirror behind me. Those two perverts had set me up. He and Halili had agreed on this from the beginning and he had been watching Halili's seduction from the outset, enjoying my struggle.

Suddenly it became much easier to concentrate and enjoy Halili's show at the same time.

"So it wasn't a tragedy?" he asked.

"Oh hardly," I said. "It was more like a pornographic Horatio Alger story."

"Really?" the Professor said, looking mildly surprised. "I wouldn't have thought of that. How so?"

"Here's how I get there," I said, my focus now restored. "Our protagonist is a young girl, early twenties as near as I could tell, raised in a rich family. She is seduced by a madam in a London house of ill repute who teaches her the skills of a high-class English courtesan. Unlike the protagonist in the first book, she not only enjoys the sex, but feels no guilt about it whatsoever."

"Early on in the story her family learns of her new 'hobby,' and her father throws her out of the family home. When her father disowns her, she feels no regrets about that either, viewing it as a convenient exit from a sexless arranged marriage that she disliked intensely (she and her 'husband' were living in a wing of the family mansion)."

"Subsequently her husband turns up as a customer at the whorehouse she has taken refuge in and makes a scene. She arranges for a pair of street toughs to beat him to death, thereby ending any connection she might have with her prior life. Again she feels no guilt."

"The Madam takes her under her wing as her protégé, and she becomes a very successful dominatrix. Eventually she inherits the house and becomes one of the leading courtesans of Victorian London and a very rich madam. No regrets, no guilt, and lots of money. She becomes an advisor to members of parliament and ministers of the government (and even their wives on occasion), but only in very private sessions."

"And so what do we learn from a contrast of the two works?" he asked

"It's better to be a dom than a sub?" I asked. As I spoke I began massaging my tits with my hands through the T-shirt and bra I had on.

The Professor winced a bit, and Halili struggled to avoid bursting out laughing.

Now the room was silent. Halili had shed her dress completely and was slowly sliding a couple of fingers in and out of her dripping pussy as she watched me massage my tits. The Professor was silently watching me (and I assume Halili in the mirror) and stroking his engorged cock through his pants. As the silence continued I pulled the T-shirt I was wearing over my head and dropped it on the floor along with my bra. I also hiked the short skirt I was wearing up around my waist and began to massage my squishy pussy through my soaked panties.

Finally Halili spoke up, "It looks like the lesson is about over for the day. I think we would all be a good deal more comfortable if we removed the rest of our clothing, don't you agree, Richard."

"Yes, I think we've covered enough literature for today," he said. As he spoke, he pulled his zipper down and released his fully erect cock from its imprisonment. He gave it a couple of strokes and then used his fingers to smear the drop of pre-cum that had appeared at the tip over the angry looking head. "Remind me though, when we finish, to give you another book to read in preparation for our session for next week."

"When we finish?" I asked. "Finish what?" As I spoke I had pushed my soggy panties aside and was now openly finger fucking myself.

The Professor stroked his cock silently for a moment finally responding, "Why, when you finish eating Halili, and I finish fucking you."

I certainly wanted to eat Halili, but I hadn't really given much thought to fucking the Professor. But as I watched him stroke his dick, I decided that his proposal was starting to sound better all the time. I stood up and shed the remainder of my clothes and then walked naked to Halili. As I passed the Professor, I reached down and firmly stroked his erect dick. There was no pause in my stride and I didn't look at him; just one quick stroke of his rigid dick. I heard him gasp.

Halili was reclining against the back of the couch waiting for me, one leg splayed to the side and the other hooked by the spike heel she was still wearing on the edge of the couch. I stood between her legs and bent over until I neared her face. I pulled her to me by her shoulders and kissed her full open lips. As I kissed her I pushed my tongue as far into her mouth as I could get it. We held the kiss for a long time, tongues dueling. I let my hands slide down off her shoulders and began to toy with her nipples. They were hard as rocks.

Eventually she reached up with her arms to my shoulders and pulled me down and sideways so I was sitting next to her on the couch. Now she was using her hands to massage my tits and pull on my nipples. Oh God! She was so good at that. It was just like the way she had done it at their home a couple of weeks earlier; but the kiss continued through all of these motions. So fucking erotic!

Eventually we broke off the kiss, and I leaned back against the couch, my legs spread lewdly, and looked up to see what the Professor was doing. He was now sitting naked in the chair I had been in. His erection was standing tall and straight and he was slowly stroking it as he watched Halili and me. As I watched him stroke, I slid my hand slowly up the inside of Halili's thigh until it reached her pussy. She gasped and spread her legs farther apart allowing me to slide a finger between her outer lips and up towards her clit. Then I bent my head forward and took one of her nipples between my lips and began to suck on it. She cried out softly. I alternated between nipples and each time she cried out. At the same time I slipped two fingers into her cunt. It was sloppy wet, and warm, almost hot.




Looking Back Ch. 04



"Oh, Fuck!" she said. "Shit, that's good, but I want you to eat me. Oh God, I need you to eat me. Now!"

I pulled my head away from her tits and asked loudly enough so everyone could hear, "What about the Professor? How is he going to fit into this? Is he going to just sit there and jack his cock?" Meanwhile I continued to stroke two fingers in and out of her cunt.

I was looking directly at the Professor as I spoke, and he was staring hard back at me. The question was addressed to him and he knew it.

"Oh, fuck!" groaned Halili. "I don't care. I just need you to eat . . ."

"He wants to fuck you," the Professor interrupted. "He wants to take this big long dick and shove it up your cunt and fuck you until you scream. You need to get down on your knees between Halili's legs and eat her and I'm going to fuck you from behind while you eat her."

I looked hard at him, without a trace of a smile. "Good," I said.

I stood up, stepped between Halili's legs, and dropped to my knees, my ass pointed at the Professor across the room. Then I pulled her hips towards me and began to nibble at the insides of her thighs working closer and closer to her pussy. Instead of letting my butt sink to my heels, I kept it in the air and spread my knees apart to facilitate the Professor's access to my sex. Just as I began to lap at Halili's pussy, I felt the Professor grab my ass with both hands. Then I felt his cock sliding up and down my slit, in preparation for penetration. Fuck. On every stroke his prick flicked my clit and I felt like I had just received a jolt of electricity.

Now I was finger-fucking Halili while I continued to lick her pussy. Such a fucking sexy thing to do. She was crying and groaning. I felt the Professor's cock probe at the entrance to my cunt. Then it began to penetrate. It was slow and not particularly tight. But, oh God! It felt so good and he just kept pushing in, deeper and deeper. My God, Just how long was his cock after all? Eventually I felt it bump up against the end of my cunt. He stopped then and just held it there. Oh that felt so good. I wiggled my ass to get some movement, and he took the hint and began to thrust into me.

"That's it! Oh Shit! That's it!" moaned Halili. "Keep that up. Don't stop, damn, don't stop what you're doing."

The Professor began stroking me harder and faster. That made it difficult to maintain the pace I had established with Halili. She reached down and grabbed my head with both hands. I knew I had to get her to a climax before I got too wound up with the Professor, so I began to flick her clit on every third stroke. Each time I did that she screamed.

I could feel the Professor's balls slapping my clit on each of his strokes. It felt so good, and I could feel myself approaching a climax. I pushed my head a bit higher and sucked Halili's hard little clit into my mouth so I could lash it with my tongue. I also slipped a third finger into her cunt and began to ram her hard with my hand. After only a few moments of this I heard her scream and felt the muscles in her cunt clamp down on my hand. Her climax went on forever.

Halili pushed my head away as soon as her climax ended, unable to take any more stimulation. I dropped my head to the floor and began to push back hard against the Professor's thrusts. How could such a skinny dick be so good? He continued to pound while I met him with thrusts from my hips.

Halili, her climax finally finished, sunk down over my back and reached under my chest to begin playing with my tits. That just about pushed me over the edge. "Fuck her Richard! Fuck her harder, Richard!" she said. As she spoke she was twisting both of my nipples and pulling on them. Just then I felt him stiffen and begin to squirt rivers of cream into my cunt. That set me off.

"Oh, Fuuuuuuck. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" I screamed. It seemed like my climax lasted forever.

Just then we heard a knock at the door. "Is everything all right in there, Professor Smyth?" It was one of the faculty secretaries who worked down the hall.

"Oh yes," he said in his deep voice. "We were just rehearsing one of Shakespeare's plays. When the women in Julius Caesar learn of his death they do a good bit of wailing. We'll try to keep it down."

"Well, okay, we just wanted to be sure everything was okay."

We could hear her shoes clicking on the old the hardwood floors as she walked away.

Then we all collapsed giggling.

"Oh my," said Halili. "What if she had come in?"

"She might have died of the shock," said the Professor. "Or she might . . . "

"Or she might have wanted to join us," I said, interrupting. That caused a round of explosive laughter.

Finally the Professor said, "All right ladies, let's get cleaned up and dressed and get out of here before someone else gets curious." He was all business again.

Once we dressed and I was heading for the door, the Professor handed me another book, saying, "Reading for next week's session."

Then Halili grabbed me and we kissed for a long time, as we had when I first approached her on the couch. Finally I opened the door, peaked down the hallways to see that they were clear, and then hurried out of the building and into the crowds of Sproul Plaza. Once there I took a seat on a bench to consider just how incredible the last hour had been. Really, what was I learning in college? 



Looking Back Ch. 05



In Chapter one our heroine, Kate, a successful business woman turning 60, has asked herself a troubling question. Is she a slut? Thus began a series of chapters in which she describes to her husband Henry (her fourth husband) her life beginning with her late teen years and her sexual activities at each stage. The portion in italics in each story is her recollection of some memorable sexual experience from her past. In this chapter she tells how she met and seduced the first of her husbands. 

***** 

"Hmm. That sounds like a most unusual literature class you were taking," my husband, Henry said as I signed the check for our brunch. 

I looked up at him and thought for a moment. "Yeah, I guess it was. For years I just thought of the whole thing as a rather strange affair I had with a professor and his wife, but eventually I was able to think about how much I learned beyond the subject of sex." 

Henry gave me a quizzical look, his head tipped to one side, asking implicitly but clearly, "What else had I learned from those perverts besides sex?" 

"Okay, I learned a lot about sex from the Professor and Halilli," I said laughing. "My God, those were my first experiences with lesbian sex, threesomes, anal sex (a skinny dick like the Professor's is the right way to start), mutual masturbation, dominance and submission, the use of sex toys, and, oh God a host of other perversions. Their imagination was not only perverse, but unlimited. But, believe it or not, those sessions out by his pool and in his office taught me skills about analyzing an author's work that I still use today. Sure, you can do the same thing with Dickens or Melville, but it is so much easier to bring yourself to read and think about the material if it is pornographic. 

"I guess it helped," I continued, "that the Professor had such an extensive collection of Victorian porn. The books he gave me to read weren't necessarily typical. Just like today, most of what was written in the genre was purely prurient with no underlying story or moral. But the ones that the Professor gave me to read had some substance that you could focus on once you got past the sex." 

"I see and how did you get past the sex to focus on the 'literary merit'?" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

"I'll leave that to your nasty imagination." 

"Hmm," he said. "That's a pretty thought." 

It was noisy on the street, so we dropped the subject as we walked back to our loft. As we stood alone in the industrial style lift taking us up, I felt his hand begin to fondle my ass. "Didn't get enough last night?" I asked. 

"It's your stories." 

"Make you jealous?" 

"No, just randy." 

"Good. Want to hear another while I sit on your cock?" 

"Yes," he responded eagerly. "Do you have more about the Professor and Halili?" 

"Oh, there's lots more about them. I screwed the Professor on a nearly weekly basis for the rest of that quarter and on a more random basis for the rest of the time I was studying at Cal, and Halili was my occasional lesbian lover throughout that period." 

"Always with the Professor in attendance?" 

Sometimes, and sometimes not. I was never sure whether he understood the extent of my relationship with Halili. Of course, he's dead now, so I guess it doesn't matter." 

"What about Halili? What's she doing these days?" 

"I don't know. She eventually got a Masters degree in English and the last time I saw her, she was teaching freshman English at a junior college in the South Bay—some place in San Jose, I think. You know though, she is enough older than me that she is likely retired someplace by now." 

"No longer seducing coeds, you think?" 

"Who knows? She was pretty randy." 

Changing the subject slightly, I said, "I have another story I was thinking about that I want to tell you. . . but first I want to fuck." As I spoke I reached down and stroked his rapidly hardening cock through his trousers. He opened the lift door and we went straight to the bed. 

Three-quarters of an hour later, we were sitting naked at our kitchen table, feeling very satisfied as we sipped freshly brewed coffee. 

"So what was this other story you were going to tell me?" Henry asked. 

"Oh yes. I was, wasn't I. Someone with a very hard cock distracted me, but now I think I can focus on it. It goes like this: 

It was a warm early fall day in my senior year at Cal. I had just finished a not-so-satisfying session with the Professor (I took a "Special Projects" class from him all three quarters of my Senior Year). It was one of those sessions when Halili didn't show up, and all the Professor wanted to do was talk literature. He was odd about that. Some days he was randy as hell, and other days you would have thought his libido had died. Believe me, it is hard as hell to spend two hours deconstructing pornographic novels and not get any following the discussion. 

Anyhow, I was walking across the campus back to where I had parked my car. Just in front of the law school there is a small grove of trees. When I was a child and my mother was working at the University I spent a good deal of time climbing in the very same trees. They were perfect for climbing. 

As I approached I noticed a guy stretched out on the lawn beneath the trees, reading a thick tome I assumed was a law book. I had seen this guy near the law school several times before. He was gorgeous. His medium brown hair was thick and long with a soft wave and a shine to it that women spend fortunes trying to recreate for themselves; and he was just born with it, the lucky bastard. His face was clean-shaven with even features and dark brown eyes. God, those eyes. They could look straight into your soul. His build was what you would call slight—perhaps five-ten and lean, narrow at both the hips and shoulders. I later learned that notwithstanding his slight build, the muscles under his clothing were hard and chiseled. 

Each time I had seen him, he had caused me to pause and take a second look. When he had caught me looking a couple of days earlier, he had smiled, as if to say, "caught you looking, and I know what you're thinking." But then he had turned and gone on his way. 

This was a guy I definitely wanted to meet and, as I said, I was randy from my just completed, or perhaps incomplete, session with the Professor, so my willingness to do the unreasonable in an effort to meet this guy was way up there. 

Instead of simply walking on by or walking up to him and saying hello, my randy brain came up with a more extreme approach. I walked quickly into a shadowed area alongside the law school and then pulled my short skirt up, yanked my panties down to my knees and kicked them off (I never did get that pair of panties back, but that was neither the first, nor the last, pair of panties I have lost to lust). I hadn't worn a bra to my session with the Professor, so that left me with only two garments, a T-shirt and a very short skirt. 

Now that I was appropriately attired, I walked down to the grove of trees, a pornographic novel loaned me by the Professor tucked under my arm. As I walked up to the trees, my target, whom I later learned was named Howard, looked up, but I ignored him, and he smoothly returned his attention to his law book. I hadn't climbed in these trees for several years, but I quickly scurried up into the branches until I was perched about ten feet directly above him, leaning against a trunk with my feet on a branch. He looked up briefly, but then went back to his book. 

I next took one foot off the branch and placed it on an adjoining branch, so that my legs were spread wide apart and anyone below could easily see my sex. The problem was, he wasn't looking. How to get him to look up? I deliberately dropped my book so it landed a few feet from him. 

He looked up, his eyes quickly focused on my pussy. "You dropped your book," he said, staring at my pussy rather than my face. Now I had his attention. 

"I know. I'll come down and get it." He continued to stare at my naked pussy and I took my time getting out of my position. I wanted him to get a good long look and be quite sure that I was naked under my skirt. I waited, considerably longer than was decent before I climbed down out of the tree. 

While I was climbing down, he had picked up my book and taken a quick look at a page or two. "Your book looks a good deal more interesting than my book," he said, as I sat down near his feet. I pulled my knees up against my chest but held them tightly together, exposing most of the underside of my thighs, but probably not much more. He was facing me lying on his back, with his legs stretched out and his upper body propped up on his elbows. 

I ignored his comment and looked sternly at him. "Were you looking at my pussy?" 

I expected him to blush, but he was cool as can be. He just smiled that devastating smile of his and asked innocently, "When?" His eyes were focused on mine and the effect was mesmerizing. 

"When I was up in the tree." As I spoke, I let one knee fall to the side so my pussy was again exposed to his view. 

"Oh, I thought you meant now," he said, staring at my pussy. 

"No, I know you are looking at my pussy now, and I mean for you to be doing it now, but not when I was in the tree." 

He laughed, and tried to subtly adjust his clothing to make room for his obviously rapidly-swelling cock. 

"So really," he said. "You expect me to believe that you didn't deliberately expose yourself to me when you moved your left foot to the second branch even though you are doing the same thing now," . . . he looked at his watch . . . "a mere one minute and 35 seconds later?" 

"Yup." 

We were both silent while he continued to stare at my pussy, and I continued to watch the lump in his trousers grow. 

"You seem to be enjoying the situation," I said, with a nod towards his growing cock. 

"Yes," he said softly. He reached down with his hand and adjusted his pants further to accommodate his growing cock, never taking his eyes off my pussy. 

"Well," I said. "I've shown you mine, so it only seems fair that you show me yours." 

"You mean here? Now?" he asked with a mildly desperate tone in his voice. I was getting to him, and he looked so cute. I could feel my pussy starting to leak. 

"Yes," I said. "Fair's fair, or are you just a voyeur?" 

"Fuck," he said softly. 

Now I was really getting to him, but I didn't want to scare him off. Instead of pushing him further about exposing himself, I looked deliberately around and then began to massage my tits through my T-shirt. "I'll bet you'd like to see these too," I said. 

"Yes," he croaked. 

"No, I can't do that," I said. 

"Why not?" 

"Someone might see me!" 

"Uh, is that a problem . . . I mean given what we've done so far." 

I smiled, more or less admitting that I was jerking him around, and asked, "Do you know someplace we could go that is a bit more . . . private?" 

He thought or a moment and then got this devilish twinkle in his eye (so sexy). "Well, as a matter of fact, I do. Follow me." He jumped to his feet and pulled me up, copping a quick feel of my boobs as we rose. 

"Oh, you are so bad," I said. 

"You haven't seen anything yet," he said, as he turned and headed for the law school, once more adjusting his trousers to accommodate his erection. 

We walked down a long hallway past classrooms and offices and then up a set of stairs, past the administration office and into the law library. It was late in the afternoon and the place was pretty empty, except for a handful of students grinding it out over books in the main reading room. From the reading room we continued through a small door on one side that led to the stacks—several stories of nothing but law books, mostly obscure. The place was silent as a tomb and had that musty smell of old books. It had floors made of metal grating that allowed you to look straight through to the floor below (or above). It occurred to me that someone below us could look up my short skirt at my exposed pussy, but the place was empty and pretty dark. 

We went up several floors and then through a labyrinth of twisting hallways defined by bookshelves. 

"You could get lost up here and never find your way out," I said. 

"Legend has it that several students have done just that. Their ghosts haunt the place, but still can't find their way out." 

"Creepy," I said. 

He led me back to a remote corner of the fifth or sixth floor (I had lost count of the stairs we had climbed). The bookshelves in this corner were surrounded by a locked cage. "This is Professor Sander's private collection," he said as he fished a key from his pocket and unlocked the door that allowed access to the cage. 

"How come you have a key?" 

"Oh, I'm his research assistant," he responded, as we stepped into the cage. He re-locked the door behind us and slipped the key back into the pocket of his jeans. 

It was dark and a bit spooky as he led me through a pathway between a series of bookcases. In the back there was a small work area. As we entered, he flipped a light switch on the side of a bookcase and the place lit up dimly, disclosing a small work area with a table, a couple of hard chairs and a couch. The iron grate floor was covered with a well-worn piece of carpet. 

Then he turned to me, saying softly, "Now let me see that pussy again." 

I stepped into him and we kissed, a long erotically-charged, aggressive kiss. I could feel his erection pressing against me, and his hands fondling my ass. He had pulled my skirt up around my waist and his touch was so soft. I wanted it to go on forever. But as Hemingway allegedly once said, no man can make love to a woman standing up for more than a minute or two. I think that is largely true. He dragged me over to the couch and, without breaking the kiss, we both managed to disrobe the other and fall on to the couch. I am really not sure how it happened, but when I realized the kiss had ended, he was lying naked on his back, his cock sticking straight up, and I was naked on my knees between his legs. 

I reached out and touched his erection. It jumped when I touched it. It was about the same length as most cocks I had seen, but a good bit thicker. At first I just stroked it softly with my hand. Then I leaned forward and touched the tip of his erection with the end of my tongue, tasting the slightly bitter flavor of the drop of pre-cum perched there. His cock jumped again and he groaned softly. 

I pulled my hair to one side and looked at him. He was lying with his head propped against the arm of the couch watching me. I kept my eyes on his as I leaned forward and used my tongue, first on the head of his cock, then on the shaft, and then back to the head. 

"Oh fuck, that feels good," he said. 

Just as he spoke, I leaned farther forward and sucked the head of his cock into my mouth, continuing to swirl my tongue about it. I heard a sharp intake of breath from him. I kept it up as I began to jack the shaft with one of my hands, deliberately letting saliva spill from my mouth to lube it. His dick was so big around I could barely get my fingers around it. 

After a moment I pulled my head back, sucking on him as I did so until his cock was clear of my mouth. I sat back, continuing to stroke the shaft, now using both hands and a twisting motion, and staring at him. 

"You like that don't you?" 

"Oh fuck, yes!" he responded softly. "More, more." 

I pushed my hair back again so I could continue to watch his face. I like to watch a man as I suck his cock. It's so much more erotic if I can see his reaction. This time I pushed his cock farther into my mouth, as far as I could get it. I began to pump it back and forth sucking hard each time I pulled my head back. His eyes were closed and he had let his head fall back as he savored the cock sucking. 

After several minutes, he spoke up, "Oh, fuck. I'm going to cum." I pulled back, continuing to slowly stroke his prick with one hand. I wasn't ready for him to cum, but I wanted to keep him on the edge. 

"How long will it take you get hard again, if I let you cum now?" 

"Not long," he said. 

"Good," I said. "I want you to cum on my tits." 

We changed positions so I was on my back on the couch, and he was straddling my hips. I reached out and grabbed his cock and began to stroke it with both hands. It was hard and slick from the cock sucking. He leaned forward, one arm resting on the back of the couch. "Fuck, oh fuck! That's it. Just keep that up," he said. I felt his cock go even more rigid than it had been, and then I saw the first spurt of his cum eject. It missed my tits completely and went all the way to my face, landing in a hot wet stripe from my right temple down to my chin. The next three spurts and the dribble that followed were better aimed, landing on my tits and my belly. 

He collapsed sideways on the back of the couch while I wiped the cum off my face and smeared it along with the rest of his cum across my tits and belly. 

Sitting up, he said, "It's my turn now." He hopped down off the couch and pulled me around by the legs so that I reclined against the back of the couch with my ass hanging off, supported by my legs draped over his shoulders. He began by kissing the inside of my thighs but quickly progressed to my pussy. First he slid two fingers into me. They penetrated without difficulty since I was wet and slippery. Really, between our little seduction routine downstairs under the trees, and the session discussing porn with the Professor, I hadn't thought about much of anything but sex for several hours. Then while he continued to finger fuck me, he began to run his tongue between my lips, stopping on each stroke just short of my clit. 

"Fuck! Oh fuck! So good," I moaned softly. He pulled his head up to look at me, and I starred into his brooding dark eyes for just a moment and then used both hands to press his face back into my sex. 

He finger-fucked me and tongued me for a long time (several minutes? Who the fuck knows?) It was heavenly. I didn't think I was close to cumming, but I was so lost in the sex. I groaned and mewed like a kitten. 

Then it happened. No warning whatsoever. I just tripped into a violent orgasm. It surprised me so that I screamed. Then I slammed my thighs together crushing his head. He stopped licking me but he kept his fingers working in my spasming cunt. What a climax. No buildup. It just went from nothing to balls out instantaneously, and once it started, I kept cumming, and cumming, and cumming. Oh, so fucking good! 

I pushed him away, and he hopped up on the couch next to me. I leaned against him for a long time. Eventually I opened my eyes and saw that his cock had recovered. It wasn't as rigid as it had been before, but it was hardly what one would call soft. 

"Ooh, he's back," I said, reaching down to stroke his prick. When I touched it, it jumped so it was now fully erect, standing straight up instead of lying on his leg as it had before. I swung myself around so that I was straddling him with my knees sinking into the couch on either side of his legs, and began to sink down onto his cock. My cunt was still tight from the intense climax of a few moments before, and it didn't want to allow the intruder, but I was wet and with just a little effort I felt the big head began to slowly penetrate me. He began to slowly flex his hips, and on each flex his prick sunk more deeply into my cunt. 




Looking Back Ch. 05



"Oh God!" I said. "You're so big." His prick was stretching my cunt farther than it had ever been stretched, and it kind of hurt a little, but it hurt so good, so fucking good! I felt his balls press up against me, so I knew he was in as far in as he was going to get, not anywhere near what the Professor's long prick would do, but I was so full. 

"Yes, that's it. Now fuck me. Fuck me hard with that big fat cock of yours!" He was silent, looking deep into my eyes as he began to stroke his prick in and out of me, never coming completely out before he rammed it back in. 

We fucked like that for several minutes, neither of us feeling any urgency to cum again, just enjoying the sensations. He began to massage my tits and then began to suck on them, as he continued to slowly stroke his oversized prick in and out of my cunt. He sucked on the nipples and nibbled softly on them with his teeth. Each time he did that it sent a jolt straight to my pussy, and I began to get more and more aroused. Now I was groaning and whimpering. 

"Let's try another position," I said. "I want to see if I can get you even deeper inside me." 

"What?" he asked. He was zoned out. Just focused on the rhythmic fucking and sucking on my nipples. 

"Fuck me from behind," I said. 

"Oh yeah," he responded. "That always makes me cum." 

"Good," I said as I climbed off of him and got down on my hands and knees on the carpeted floor. 

I stuck my ass in the air while he positioned himself on his knees between my legs. I always felt so obscene in this position. So exposed. We had to adjust our position a bit so that my cunt was at the right height for him, but then I felt his fat prick slide back into my now well-stretched cunt. Oh fuck! It felt so good and he did seem to go in further before I felt his balls bang against my clit. 

"Oh yeah! That's it! Now just start fucking me with everything you've got." As I spoke I pushed my ass back and, unbelievably, it felt like his fat cock penetrated me even further. 

I felt his hands grab my ass on each side and he began to fuck me with hard short strokes. Each time he banged against my ass so that I rocked forward. I could feel my tits swaying beneath my chest. This was fucking at its dirtiest. 

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck!" I said. "That's it, just keep that up." His thighs were now making a slapping sound each time they hit my ass. "Oh yes, yes, yes. Fuck yes!" 

He was silent and clearly focused on pounding my ass and cunt with everything he had. 

Finally he spoke, softly, "Fuck I'm getting close. Play with your clit, so we cum together." 

I reached back with my hand and began to stroke my clitty. Now he was groaning with each stroke, and then I felt the heat of his cum at the end of my cunt. He quit stroking and just held himself as deep in my cunt as he could as his cock sent stream after stream of his hot cum into me. The first shot I felt set me off, and I screamed again as my cunt spasmed around his cock. 

After we came we climbed up on the couch and collapsed into each other's arms. I think we slept for half and hour or so. I awoke when I felt him stir. 

"Hi," he said. "That was wonderful." 

"Yes, it was." 

"Oh, my name is Howard." 

"Really," I said still sleepy. "Somehow I didn't take you for a Howard. Oh well, my name is Kate." 

We were there all night talking and fucking. He fucked me twice more that night and spent a lot of time sucking on my tits and eating my pussy. I bet I came half a dozen times before the night was over (at six the next morning, when they opened the library). I really was in love with him by the next morning. I guess I fall in love easily.



Looking Back Ch. 06



In Chapter one our heroine, Kate, a successful businesswoman turning 60, has asked herself a troubling question. Is she a slut? Thus began a series of chapters in which she describes to her husband Henry (her fourth husband) her life beginning with her late teen years and her sexual activities at each stage. The portion in italics in each story is her recollection of some memorable sexual experience from her past. In this chapter Kate, now employed in an entry-level position with a major publisher, takes an author to a book signing and they squeeze in a nooner before the signing. 

"So what did the Professor and Halili think of your new love? Or was it a one time thing?" asked Henry. 

I stood and walked naked over to the counter in our loft to refill our coffee cups. "Oh, I never told them about Howard, and I never told Howard about them." 

I laughed as I walked back. "I just fucked all three of them for the whole school year. I was a very busy girl. It was a miracle I graduated." 

"Now, correct me if I'm wrong," Henry asked, but didn't this Howard fellow become your first husband? How did that work out with the Professor and Halilli?" 

"Oh, they left for Harvard about the time I got married, so they never knew. The Professor was a really big deal in English literary circles, and lots of universities were willing to bid for him. "Besides," I laughed, "I have to admit, getting married was a bit of an accident. It certainly wasn't the great white wedding. I don't think my mother ever forgave me for the way I got married the first time." 

"What? Were you pregnant? I thought you told me you couldn't get pregnant?" There was a tone of panic in his voice. 

"Relax Henry. There is zero chance that I was pregnant then and less than zero chance that I am going to get pregnant now. For God's sake, I'm sixty-two years old. It was the marriage that was an accident." 

"So how did that work?" 

"Well, Howard liked to gamble, and he fancied himself a card counter. One day about six months into our relationship, he announced that he and some friends were going to Las Vegas for a long weekend and that they were going to make a fortune playing blackjack by counting the cards. One of his buddies had a big Cadillac convertible—you know the ones with tail fins that had as much metal in them as a Mini-Cooper has in the whole body today. I had never been to Las Vegas, so I thought, what the hell and agreed to go. 

As it turned out, they wanted me along as the designated driver. The guy who owned the Caddie had a baggie of drugs that would have made a pharmaceuticals salesman feel inadequate. So I found myself behind the wheel of a '68 Caddie convertible tearing across the Nevada desert at something slightly in excess of 100 mph, with three guys in the back seat who were hallucinating. 

Sounds like "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," said Henry, referring to Hunter Thompson's best-selling book about a drug-addled trip to Vegas. 

"Exactly," I said. "The first time I read that book, I wondered if Hunter Thompson had been one of the three amigos with me in the Cadillac. I never could remember who the other two were besides Howard." 

"So you were partaking from the magic drug baggie, too?" 

"No, no. But I drank a shit load of beer as we rolled across the desert, and once we got to Vegas I pretty much killed a fifth of good Scotch. No drugs, but enough booze to make my memory at best highly unreliable and, for some parts of the trip, non-existent." 

"So okay, you went to Las Vegas and tied one on. Hardly an original strategy. But how did the marriage thing work?" 

"Well, the guys were so fucked up that they could hardly play blackjack, much less count cards effectively, so they didn't take long to run out of money. But somehow, on what should have been his last few hands, Howard scored big. He raked the chips off the table and announced to the world that he was going to marry me." 

"The rest of what happened is a bit of blur, but when I woke up late the next afternoon, I had a gigantic fake diamond on the third finger of my left hand and a fully signed and apparently valid and enforceable wedding license and certificate of marriage in my purse. The honeymoon consisted of a painfully hung over drive back to Berkeley with three guys in the back seat who were slowly reconnecting with reality. Howard didn't figure out he was married until we got back to Berkeley." 

"I don't think Howard was quite ready for marriage. He just got heavier into drugs, and about six months after the Las Vegas trip he announced he was quitting law school and going to India to join an Ashram. I never heard from him again, so after a couple of years of waiting, I divorced him. Even in those days California had lovely no-fault divorce laws. There weren't any assets to divide, and asking for alimony would have been silly, so it was a pretty simple procedure. One of Howard's law school buddies handled the whole thing for me." 

"Wow," Henry said. "Everyone says you should have an interesting story about your wedding, but that one tops any that I have heard. So what did you do for sex after Howard bugged out to the Ashram?" 

I looked at him over the top of my coffee cup with a smirk and said, "Oh, I learned to do without." 

Henry laughed and said, "Oh bullshit. I can't imagine you going a week without having sex with someone." 

I smiled and said, "You know me too well, lover. Let's just say that I returned to my pre-Howard habits. After all, it was Berkeley before the AIDS scare. If you couldn't get laid, you just weren't trying." 

"So have you got any good stories you want to tell me about your sex life after Howard left?" 

I took a long sip of coffee and thought for a moment. "Yes, one especially good one, but first I have to get dressed and go to a meeting. As far as my accountant is concerned, I am here in New York to do some work, not just tell you lewd stories about my past and let you fuck me until my ears ring. Time to go earn some money." 

When I returned at around 7:00 that evening, Henry had prepared a marvelous Provençale-style beef sauté that we enjoyed along with a good bottle of vintage Burgundy I had picked up from a nice little wine store located a couple of blocks from our loft. It as a remarkable Gevrey-Chambertin, a Clos Saint-Jacques, as I recall. 

The beef and the accompanying vegetables were gone, and we were nearing the bottom of the wine bottle when Henry asked, "So what can you tell me about your post-Howard love life?" 

I smiled and thought for a moment or two. "Okay," I said, "let me tell you about the Anderson twins:" 

A few months before Howard left, I had graduated and, by some miracle (helped I'm sure by the Professor's recommendation), landed a job in the San Francisco office of a major publishing house, A.H. Robards & Co. I was, of course, at the absolute bottom of the food chain in their San Francisco office, getting coffee, cleaning up meeting rooms, making copies. You know, all the menial shit. But it was a job in the publishing industry. I was sure that Truman Capote was going to walk into the office any day and demand that I be his editor (I think the house did publish his books, but I'm sure he never saw the inside of their offices except maybe in New York). 

One day, the managing editor for San Francisco called me into his office and told me he had a job for me that didn't involve coffee or making copies. There was an author, Lars Anderson from Minneapolis, coming to town the next day and he wanted me to take him to a meet and greet (book signing) at a bookstore out in Orinda. I guess he figured that since my mother lived out there I could get the author out there and back without getting lost. My job was to pick him up at the airport drive him out to the bookstore and then back to his hotel in the City. The signing copies for him had already been delivered to the bookstore. 

"What's his book about?" I asked, assuming it was a murder mystery or some such. 

"Uhh, . . . I'm not sure. Let me look for a minute." He shuffled around in some papers on his desk and finally pulled up a sheet of paper. "Yes, here it is, 'The Art of Woodworking.' His plane gets in at 10:30, and the signing is scheduled for 2:00. Make sure he gets there on time. Oh, and I guess you can buy him lunch on the way over there, but don't spend too much." 

Oh shit. A manual, I thought. Well, I knew I was starting at the bottom of the heap, but woodworking, really? I'll bet he's about 70 years old. 

None the less, he was a real author, and the company was going to let me represent it, so I grabbed the sheet of paper with the details of where and when and got out of the boss' office before he changed his mind. 

The next morning, I put on a nice dress and blouse with a wool blazer and headed down to SFO in my little Volkswagen. I had even made a little sign that said "Mr. Anderson." 

I stood waiting at the gate (yes, you could still go out to the gate in those days) with my little sign, focusing on the older gentlemen getting off the plane, when I suddenly heard a deep sexy voice asking, "Excuse me. I'm Lars Anderson. Are you from Robards?" 

I turned and was left momentarily speechless. He was a tall blonde Minnesota Swede, maybe thirty years old, and breathtaking, absolutely one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen. 

"Oh yes!" I finally said after I finished staring at him. "I'm Kate O'Riley and I'm from Robards. I'm supposed to take you out to Brandon Books in Orinda for your book signing this afternoon. Have you been to San Francisco before? You picked a perfect day. There's no fog today. We have a lot of fog in the summer and it's kind of cold, but I guess not like it is in Minnesota. It won't take us long to get over there so we can get you a bite of lunch on the way." I realized I was talking too much and way too fast, but I was so fixated on his sparkling blue eyes I couldn't seem to stop. 

Lars just smiled in response to my monolog, obviously enjoying my reaction to him. I suspect it happened to him on a regular basis. God only knows how long I would have kept talking if he hadn't interrupted to ask where the baggage claim was. 

"Oh yes. I guess you will want your bag, won't you. Right this way." 

As we walked to the baggage claim, I continued to chatter. I hadn't been this way with a man since I was 12 years old. 

By the time we collected his bag and got to my car, I had decided I had to have this man. I was still talking a blue streak, but behind it I was scheming. How was I going to seduce him? As it turned out, it wasn't too difficult. If I hadn't been talking so much I might have noticed how much of the time he was spending staring at my tits. He told me about it later. 

As we drove up the Bay Shore Freeway and then through the City and across the Bay Bridge, I let my dress gradually creep up my legs. Well, actually I helped it along a bit. I was paying attention to his reaction, and it was just what I had been hoping for. While I was continuing to talk and give him a detailed description of the sights we were passing, he was totally ignoring everything but my legs. By the time we neared the end of the Bay Bridge, my skirt had crept up so that it was above the top of my hose (I could never bring myself to wear panty hose). 

Finally Lars interrupted. "You know you really have lovely legs," he said. 

"I turned and smiled at him, looking deep into his blue eyes, as I said, "Thank you." Then I reached over and picked up his left hand and put it on my thigh, just below the top of my hem. His hand was warm, and he immediately began to massage my thigh. I pushed his hand down toward the inside of my thigh and then pulled it up higher on my leg. He immediately got the idea and begin working his hand up towards my pussy. By the time we got to the Caldecott Tunnel that cuts through the Oakland hills to Orinda and Walnut Creek he had pushed my panties aside and had two fingers inserted into my sopping wet cunt. I was really having to work to focus on the driving. 

Fortunately, we got to the Orinda turn-off from the freeway before I climaxed or crashed the car, and I pulled the VW into the first lawful parking place I could find. 

"Oh fuck, that feels good," I told him as he continued to finger fuck me. 

He smiled and said, "I could make it feel a lot better, but we need to go somewhere a bit more private. We still have a couple of hours before the book signing, and right now the only thing I want to eat is you." 

"It just so happens," I said, "that my mother's house is about a mile from here and I know for a fact that she is away on vacation, so I think we should go there." As I spoke I reached over and began to stroke the lump in his trousers. "But you know," I continued, if we are going to get there without a wreck you are going to have to stop finger fucking me. The road is twisty and I have to pay attention." 

"Okay," he said as he slowly pulled his fingers from my cunt. "But let's hurry. I really want you." As I pulled away from the curb, he slid his fingers into his mouth savoring the flavor of my pussy. 

Five minutes later we pulled up in front of my mother's house. I didn't have a key with me, but I knew there was one under the mat by the back door. Lars and I walked around to the back by the pool. As soon as we closed the gate behind us, he spun me around and began a long, sloppy, sensual kiss. His hands started around my back but quickly slid down so they were massaging my ass, pulling it up into his crotch. 

Finally I pulled back from the kiss and said, "Wait, let's go inside and take our clothes off." 

I walked to the back door and deliberately bent from the waist to retrieve the key from beneath the mat. Lars took the hint and grabbed my hips, pulling them into his crotch and dry humping me. I pushed back and swiveled my hips against him. I could feel a large, hard, erect cock pushing against my ass. 

Once we got inside, I told him to lean against the back of the couch so I could do a striptease for him. He followed my instructions, and I slowly peeled off one garment after another until I was naked, except for a string of pearls and the sling-back pumps I had worn that day. I walked towards him, and when he reached for me, I softly said, "No," as I pushed his hands back to the couch. Then I dropped to my knees and began to massage his erection through his trousers. I quickly followed that up by releasing his belt and the fastener on his trousers along with his zipper. His pants fell to the floor and I pushed his boxers after them. Now his erect cock was right in front of my face. I reached out with my tongue and began to lick the head. 

"Oh fuck!" he said. 

"Shhh," I responded. "It gets better." Then I sucked his cock as far into my mouth as I could take it while I massaged it with my tongue. 

This brought a groan. 

For several minutes I sucked and stroked his cock, spilling plenty of saliva for lube, and as I occasionally looked up I saw that he was quickly stripping off the rest of his clothes. Now we were both naked. 

Finally he said, "Oh fuck. That's enough. I want to cum inside you, and if you keep this up I'll cum in your mouth." 

I pulled back and then crouched down to untie his shoes and pull them and his socks off so like me he was completely naked. I don't usually do submissive, but this felt kind of good for the brief time it took to get his shoes and socks off. 

"Are you going to eat me," I asked as I stood and walked around to the front of the couch. I sat leaning back against the back of the couch with my legs spread wide in invitation and now it was his turn to drop to his knees. He moved his face immediately to my pussy and began to use his tongue to lap long slow strokes from just above the entry to my cunt to just short of my clit. One hand was holding my outer lips apart so he could lick my sensitive inner lips and the two fingers of his other hand were slowly sliding in and out of my cunt. 

"Oh God. So good, so good, so fucking good! Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop! Please don't stop!" Then I was moaning and crying as he continued to eat me. 

I was using my hands to massage my tits and then to pull on my nipples. 

My clit, my clit," I said. "Suck on my clit!" He looked up at me with a wicked grin and then began to finish each of his tongue strokes with a flick of my clit. Not much. Just a quick touch, and each time he did it I screamed. 

Now I was twisting my nipples hard and he had taken my clit between his lips and was sucking on it with an occasional light nip with his teeth. 

"Oh fuck. I'm cumming. Now. Now, Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuuuuuuck! I screamed as an orgasm ripped through me. 

As I came down from the peak, I couldn't stand him continuing to maul my clit, so I pushed his head away. 

He was leaning back on his heels looking at me as I came down. I wiped the tears from my eyes and when I finally could speak, I said, "Oh fuck that was so good. You are really good at that." I paused for a moment and then I said, "Now I want to fuck that hard dick of yours." 

I lay back on the couch, threw one leg up on the back of the couch, and let the other reach for the floor, inviting him to mount me. Lars quickly climbed between my legs and began to force his cock into my still tight pussy. 

He groaned as it sunk all the way in. Then he just held it there filling my cunt all the way to its end. 

"Oh god!" I said. "I'm so full. So good . . . But now fuck me!" I growled and screamed at him, "Fuck me! Use that big hard thing to fuck me!" 

He began fucking me with long slow strokes. "Faster!" I yelled at him. Soon he was pumping his cock in and out of me as hard and fast as he could and I was levering my hips up to meet each thrust. I could feel another orgasm approaching, and then it was there, suddenly and sharply turning my nervous system into a body-wide lightning bolt. I screamed as the orgasm tore through me. 

Lars hadn't cum. He pulled out of me and dragged me off the couch and onto the carpet. Then he turned me over and pulled my hips up so my head was on the ground and my ass was in the air. Suddenly his cock was in me again and he was pounding me. My tits were swinging beneath me and I was groaning and crying. Oh shit, it felt so good. Even though I had just cum, I wanted him to fuck me and keep fucking me and fucking me and fucking me. 

He was grunting with every thrust, and I figured he would cum soon. I reached back and began to play with my clit. We held that position, Lars pounding my ass from behind, while I diddled my clit for a short period, and then he paused. I felt his prick stiffen inside me and then he made a final thrust so his cock was up against the end of my cunt. He groaned and I felt his hot jism flood my pussy as he pumped shot after shot of his cum into me. That set me off with another screaming climax. 

Once his cock had shrunk down and slid from my cunt, we climbed onto the couch and fell asleep in each others' arms, almost missing the time for his presentation at the book store. 

About a dozen people showed up and we sold maybe ten books, tops. Not very exciting as far as book marketing goes, but the sex was marvelous. After we completed the meet and greet, I took him back over to the City. He had a room reserved in the Mark Hopkins (electronic publishing hadn't set in yet, so we still had a great budget for author road shows). Lars and I had dinner at a big deal restaurant, and then I spent the night with him and took him down to the airport to catch his plane back to Minneapolis. We spent most of the night screwing, so I wasn't exactly on top of my game when I showed up in the office later that morning. No one said anything about the fact that I was still wearing yesterday's clothes. 




Looking Back Ch. 06



Somewhere in the course of the evening I learned two things about Lars: First, he had a wife, which was of no consequence to me since I didn't think it likely I would see him again; and second, he had an identical twin brother who was a naval fighter pilot. I didn't think that mattered much either, but it turned out to be important.



Looking Back Ch. 07



In Chapter one our heroine, Kate, a successful businesswoman turning 60, has asked herself a troubling question. Is she a slut? Thus began a series of chapters in which she describes to her husband Henry (her fourth husband) her life beginning with her late teen years and her sexual activities at each stage. The portion in italics in each story is her recollection of some memorable sexual experience from her past. In this chapter Kate, now in her mid-20s, and her friend Cherie attend an orgy at Kate's aunt's home in San Francisco. 

***** 

I didn't tell Henry any more about my past love life during our stay in New York. We were only there for a couple of additional days, and we both had things to do besides tell dirty stories and screw (although we somehow squeezed a bit more of the latter into our busy schedule). The main reason I didn't tell him any more was I hadn't decided which of my experiences should be next. I had concluded early on in the process that I was going to have to pick my stories selectively or I would have trouble getting past my college years. So much great sex; so little time to recall it all. 

I was fixing breakfast on a dreary foggy day (typical of a San Francisco summer) a week or so later when next I heard from Henry. 

"Hello lover," he said when I answered the phone. 

Recognizing his voice I said, "Oh, I'm so glad you called. It's all gray and dreary here. You're just what I need to brighten up my day." 

"At your service, my dear. It's warm and sunny here. The sun is bright, the waves are sparkling, the temperature is, oh, I would say about 75 on your scale." 

"Mmmm. How nice." 

"The only thing that could make life better is if you were here. I'm sitting in a café overlooking a beautiful beach, having a late afternoon snack. The Rosé is chilled perfectly, and the cold shrimp plate is succulent. These people don't do dinner until 10:00 o'clock at the earliest. I'll starve if I don't get something to eat before then." 

"I wish I were there. I'd help you finish off the Rosé, and then drag you off to bed and . . . Uhh, where are you are by the way? I thought you were staying in London this week. That doesn't sound like London." 

"No, it doesn't, does it? I can tell you it has almost nothing in common with the damp, gray London I left on an early flight this morning. I'm in Barcelona actually. Well, in a little town up the Costa Brava from Barcelona really. Got a day's business to do here and then it's back to dreary old London. 

"Can I ask what you are doing in a lovely little town on the Costa Brava, besides sipping nicely chilled Rosé and nibbling shrimp?" 

"Sorry dear, that's need-to-know only." 

"Hmm, well either there's a woman involved, or it's more of your spy work." 

"Spy work? You know I'm not a spy darling. I just collect up odd bits of information from time to time, which Her Majesty's government is either most appreciative of, or bored to death with. Spies work for agencies with names like MI6, KGB, or CIA or other such organizations. I wouldn't dream of actually being employed by one of those organizations. I freelance, and when I find something of interest I pass it along, and the masters can sometimes be quite appreciative. Basically, I'm retired, and I like to travel and meet interesting people." 

"Oh, and if there was a woman involved," he continued, "I mean involved in the way you meant with your question, you know I would tell you all about her." 

"Yes, I'm sure you would, unless of course you were collecting your 'tidbits' as pillow talk." 

"Oh, you're so suspicious. Tsk, tsk. I'm just down here to meet a man about a dog—so to speak. He is due in from France, which is just a few miles away, in time to meet me for a typical middle of the night Spanish dinner. Apparently he didn't want to meet in France. Curious. Dinner here will be nice, but dinner in Paris would have been oh so very much nicer." 

"But I'm talking too much. Enough about me. I want to know more about you. When we were in New York last year you told me that delightfully nasty tale about the woodworking chap you seduced on the way to deliver him to a book signing. Anderson—that was his name, wasn't it?" 

"Yes, it was Anderson, and he was a marvelous fuck, but pretty much a one night stand, if you recall." 

"Yes, yes. I recall that, but here is what I want to know. At some point you said you were going to tell me about the 'Anderson twins,' so what I want to know is about your relationship with Mr. Anderson's twin brother. Did you have a fling with him, too?" 

"Ah, the other Mr. Anderson. Would you believe me if I said I didn't screw him?" 

"Of course I would, but I would be very surprised you didn't have sex with him, given how handsome his twin was. And, you said he was very important. I have trouble conceiving of an important man in your life that you didn't have sex with, other than perhaps your father." 

I laughed. "Oh, the other Anderson was important, and no I didn't have sex with him. His name was Kyle Anderson, and he didn't turn up in my life for several years after my afternoon and evening with his brother Lars. When I met Lars, Kyle was a Navy pilot on a carrier someplace in the China Sea, flying F-4s off into places that no one wanted to admit they had sent him." 

"Several years later I had progressed up to the point where I was a junior editor, working with new and minor authors, nothing major you understand, just whatever the boss gave me to work on. It was better than making copies and getting coffee, but hardly glamorous. Then one day the receptionist called and told me there was a Mr. Anderson in the lobby to see me. I walked out front and there was Lars, only, of course it wasn't Lars, it was Kyle, but I couldn't tell." 

"Once I unwrapped myself from around his neck, and Kyle managed to convince me he wasn't Lars, I learned that he had been discharged from the Navy and had written a book that he wanted me, on his brother's recommendation, to shepherd through the publication process. Now, we had a process for evaluating new books, and although I did some of the reading, someone senior to me usually made the reading assignments and certainly made the decisions about what we would publish. I decided to ignore the process and agreed to read his manuscript. I figured that if Kyle was anything like his brother Lars, I needed to get to know him better, much better." 

"Two days later I was convinced I had a hot property. I took it to the West Coast Managing Editor and, after he chewed me out for not following procedure, he agreed to read it. A couple of weeks later he walked into my cubicle and wanted to know how to find the author. He was ready to publish the book and, by the way, he wanted me to edit it. Long story short, Kyle published eight novels through our shop, all of which were best sellers and all of which I edited. He was a huge boost for my career."  

"And you didn't sleep with him? I thought you slept with all of your authors, even the women, or at least most of them." 

"I tried . . . but he was gay, and there was no converting him, even to bi." 

"Ah, your great success on one side of your life was a failure on the other." 

"Yeah, I suppose you're right, but Kyle and I became great friends in spite of my frustration with his sexual orientation. I would have published more of his work, but he died of AIDs in the early 90s." 

"Sad. But I didn't call you to dredge up old tales of death and failure. I've got several hours to kill before my dinner appointment, so tell me a cheery story, preferably involving some really nasty sex." 

I laughed at him. "I love you," I said. "Sure, I'll tell you a really nasty story. That's the best request I've had this week." 

How about one about your second husband—say, maybe the first time you had sex with him?" 

"Hmm, I guess I never have told you how I met him." 

No, you didn't, come to think of it. How did you meet him? This was the guy with money, right? 

"No, the guy with money was my third husband. I met him at an orgy—my very first orgy at that. Actually, that is a much better story than telling you about my second husband. Let me tell you about the orgy where I met my third husband." 

"Wait, what about your trysts with the Professor and his wife?" 

"Oh, that was just group sex, and a very small group at that. Not even close to a full-blown orgy. The orgy I'm talking about was a party involving twenty or thirty very horny people at my aunt's house in Pacific Heights. That's where I first met the man who would become my third husband, but, and here's the odd part, I didn't see him again after that night for another . . . oh twenty years or so." 

"I can't wait to hear about this." 

Well I had been working at Robards for several years. My first husband and the marriage were long gone, and I wasn't particularly attached to anyone. I had a friend from the office, Cherie, who I used to have a drink with after work most nights that I was in town. Okay, sometimes it was more than one drink. 

It was a Friday evening in late October, and Cherie and I working on our second or third cocktail, when she asked if I had plans for the weekend. 

"Well, I'm invited to a Halloween party tomorrow night, but I don't know if I want to go." 

"Why not?" 

"Well, I don't know these people very well, and I don't have anyone to go with me. I mean, I know the hostess. She's my aunt. But I doubt if I will have met anyone else she's invited." 

"I'll go with you. Always love a party. Is it a costume party? Will they object if I come with you even though I wasn't invited?" 

"No, this is a group that isn't that fussy about that sort of thing, and yes, it's a costume party." 

"Oh, fun. What shall we wear?" 

"I don't know," I responded almost whining. "I can never decide what to wear to a costume party." 

"Yeah, I know what you mean," respond Cherie. We were both sitting with a glum look, like we had lost our best friend. Then I had an inspiration. 

"I know!" I said, drawing an inspiration from a couple of working girls leaning against the bar. "We could go as hookers," nodding my head as I spoke towards the two hookers leaning on the bar. 

Cherie broke out laughing at the idea, and we spent the next couple of hours shopping for skanky clothes for the party. I wound up with a really short, tight skirt, a stretchy pullover top that left nothing about my boobs to the imagination, especially since I skipped the detail of a bra, and some killer high heels. Cherie's costume was along the same lines—just different colors. 

The next evening as I got into Cherie's car, she was feeling a little insecure about our somewhat over-the-top hooker costumes. "Are there likely to be people at this party who might be offended by our costumes?" she asked. 

I laughed. "Not this group," I said. "We may be overdressed. In fact, there's a good chance that most of them will be naked before the evening is half over." 

"You didn't tell me we were going to an orgy!" 

"Well, the invitation didn't say it was going to be an orgy, but if these people are typical of my aunt's friends, they can turn a Bar Mitzvah into an orgy." 

"Really? I've never been to an orgy before." 

"Well, this could be your night. I've never been to one either." 

She thought for a minute and apparently decided she liked the idea. "Good thing I decided to skip the bra and panties for this evening." 

"Oh Cherie, you're going to fit right in with this group." 

The party was in my aunt's big house on Green Street in Pacific Heights. They even had valet parking. We just drove up, got out of the car, exchanged the keys for a tag, and walked up the steps. 

As I got out of the car, I made sure my very short skirt was pushed up on my hips and my legs spread so the car park guy could get a good view of my pussy (Like Cherie, I had skipped my bra and panties for the evening). 

"Did you flash him?" Cherie asked me as we were walking up the stairs. 

"Yes." 

"You're so naughty." 

"Well, I'm just trying to get in character for my costume." 

"By the way," she continued. "Who do you know who can afford to live up here?" 

"Oh, it's my Aunt Chloe. She inherited a fortune from her first husband. I'll introduce you, but be careful of her. She'll have you out of your clothes and in bed in a New York minute." 

"I can think of worse fates," she said. Her response made me think of Halili. 

"Okay. Don't say I didn't warn you." 

We rang the doorbell and were admitted to the house by a guy in a tux, which was not a costume for him. He was a part of the help. 

He led us into a room full of people in every variety of costume you can imagine. They were all broken up in the usual groups of two to five people engaged in cocktail party chit-chat. I noticed two things that didn't quite match my image of a Pacific Heights cocktail party. First, there was a strong aroma of marijuana. Second, quite a few of the women were wearing see-through tops or other garments (or non-garments) that prominently displayed their tits. I also noticed that there was a fair bit of fondling going on. It was kind of non-discriminatory fondling. Men's hands on women's asses or tits, women's hands on men's asses or the fronts of their trousers. Men on men, women on women, or any other combination anyone could dream up. I can't say there was an aroma of sex in the air. It was more like a vibration. 

"Oh I think I'm going to like this party," Cherie said as we surveyed the room. 

"I told you, you would fit right in. Lets find my aunt." 

"Can we get a drink on the way?" she asked. 

"Of course. There's the bar over there. Follow me." 

As we tottered across the room on our hooker high heels, both men and women tore their attention away from whomever they were conversing with (or fondling) to survey us as we passed. At least two men lightly fondled my ass as we passed, and one woman, dressed in motorcycle leathers that were open to the waist, exposing most of her breasts, stared straight at me and licked her lips as though she couldn't wait to get that tongue on the lips beneath my short skirt. 

We got our drinks from the bartender and turned, leaning against the bar, to survey the crowd again. 

"This is like a predators' ball," I said. "I've never seen this many horny people in one room since I quit going to college fraternity parties." 

Cherie laughed. "Yes, it appears to be quite the social circle your aunt runs in." 

I laughed, "My mother won't even come to her parties, and she would have a fit if she knew I was here. That's odd, really, because Mom is hardly a saint. Ever since Dad left there has been a parade of men flowing through her life." 

"Maybe she just doesn't want to be this public about it," Cherie speculated. 

"Whatever, let's go find Aunt Chloe and the source of that delicious marijuana smell." 

As we nursed our drinks, we wandered out of the main room, down a long hall, and into a kitchen. In the kitchen we found a tall silver-haired man screwing a young woman in a maid's outfit. She was was leaning forward over a kitchen counter, her short black dress pushed atop her hips and her tits hanging out of the top of the outfit. She was groaning softly as he drove his cock into her cunt repeatedly. 

"Uncle Charles!" I exclaimed. "I didn't know you were back in town." Uncle Charles was my Aunt Chloe's sometimes husband. I mean he was probably always her legal husband, but he was only around periodically, and the whole family regarded him as a libertine. Given his current posture, I had to say the characterization was an accurate one. 

Uncle Charles looked over his shoulder at us without altering his pace as he fucked the girl in the maid's outfit. 

"Oh, Kate. So good to see you. Hang on for just a moment while I finish something here." He began banging the young woman with as much energy as he could muster and she, obviously enjoying the increase in intensity, became much louder. 

"Oh fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh yes, that's it! Yes! Fuck my cunt! Oh this is so fucking good!" 

Watching Uncle Charles ram his cock in and out of this young lady was incredibly erotic to me. I could feel my pussy starting to weep, and I badly wanted to reach under my dress and play with it. 

"Rub your clitty, little girl," he said to the maid as he grabbed one of her tits and began to maul it. The maid, still groaning and crying from the fucking she was getting, reached around with one arm, the other continuing to hold herself up on the kitchen counter, and began to rub her clit. After only a moment of this she screamed as her climax took her and then collapsed on the counter. Charles slowly withdrew his still rigid cock and then leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek, and said, "Oh you were wonderful as always darling. Please cleanup and go serve some canapés, and you know mum's the word with the missus." 

He looked at me over his shoulder with a devilish smile and said, "Chloe gets so uptight about me fucking the help." Then he turned and strode across the kitchen to us, his still engorged and erect cock bobbing as he came. He looked to be perhaps in his late fifties or maybe sixty, but in good physical condition and devilishly handsome. 

"Kate, my darling," he said in a booming voice as he wrapped his arms around me, smashing his glistening erection against my belly as he hugged me. I could feel his still hard prick sandwiched against my belly and he smelled of sex, alcohol, and marijuana, all in one delicious mélange of sinful aromas. Fuck, I was getting horny. Down girl, I told myself. He's your uncle. 

"Let me look at you," he said pulling back. "What has it been, ten years since I last saw you? My you have grown. Where did these come from," he said as he lifted each of my boobs in a hand. 

"Remember, you bought me a boob job on my 18th birthday," I said. "Nice aren't they?" 

"Oh yes, I remember. These are Doctor Howard's work aren't they? I can always recognize his style. God yes, I remember now. I thought your mother was going to kill me for buying her daughter a boob job for her birthday." 

I didn't tell him that the boobs were all mine and all natural. I had used his money for college tuition since my boobs had seemed perfectly adequate to me and to the guys I was screwing when I turned eighteen. The Pool Boy certainly hadn't complained. 

Then he turned and looked at Cherie. "And who is this lovely lass you have brought with you?" Without waiting for a response he stepped forward and hugged her as he had me. Then he pulled back, both hands still on her shoulders and stared at her tits. He pulled his hands down from her shoulders and carefully massaged her tits through the light-weight knit top she was wearing. "Oh yes, these are marvelous," he said, "and all natural if I'm not mistaken." He continued to massage her tits. "Yes, just lovely. Just like Ingrid Bergman." What BS. I knew for a fact that Cherie's tits were mostly silicone. 

"Cherie, you'll have to excuse my Uncle Charles. He is a plastic surgeon, and for him boobs are a matter of professional interest." Just as I said that he pinched both of her already erect nipples through the thin material of the top. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she groaned as he held her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. 




Looking Back Ch. 07



Charles relinquished his grip on her nipples and backed down to a soft sensual message of her breasts through the thin knit top she was wearing. 

"Hmmm," Cherie said after a deep breath. "I think maybe his interest is a bit more than just professional." 

Looking at me he asked, "Have you girls had any of the tasty dope your aunt has provided for this party?" 

"No, do you have some?" I responded. It was a good thing I answered, because Cherie's ability to reply coherently was seriously compromised by Uncle Charles' erotic massage of her tits. First he had been fucking the maid and now he was damn near assaulting my friend. But somehow, I did not find him as reprehensible as the rest of my family did. To me he was, well . . . charming, in a twisted, perverted, and erotic sense. 

"Well," he said, "I did have another joint in my pants, but I'm not at all sure where I left them. Mark of a good party, eh? Let's just breeze back through the main room and then go out by the pool. There is a stash behind the bar. I'll get a another joint and we can savor it by the pool. That's easier than trying to figure out where I left my pants." 

Cherie stepped back from his massage to leave the kitchen, but before either Cherie or I could get to the door, Charles spoke up. "Wait girls, we can't go back to the main room with the two of you dressed like that. After all, I do have a reputation to maintain." 

Oh, oh, I thought! Our costumes are too skanky, but wait, he's naked? How can we be overdressed? Cherie, being the slut-in-training that she was, was already pulling her top over her head. I followed suit and then the three of us, Uncle Charles naked and sporting a stiffy, and Cherie and I topless, walked back into the main room. 

The crowd had thinned out a bit during our absence, but those who had stayed behind, had moved well beyond the casual groping that had occupied them when we passed through earlier. Cherie and I leaned, half naked, against the bar surveying the activities in the room while Uncle Charles rooted around behind the bar seeking a joint. 

On the floor in the center of the room there was a naked threesome. He was lying on his back while a woman rode his cock for all she was worth. She was facing another woman who was sitting on the man's face, presumably getting her pussy licked. The two women were sucking tongues and playing with each other's nipples. 

There was a more or less dressed couple sitting on the couch watching the threesome on the floor. His trousers were open and a very stiff dick was jutting upright from them. His partner was naked from the waist up and had pulled her dress up around her hips and spread her legs as wide as she could get them. She was using one hand to jerk the guy's cock and the other was stroking her wet pussy while he reached across with one hand to maul her large, soft tits. 

At the end of the same couch, the maid we had seen Uncle Charles fucking in the kitchen was now completely naked and bent over the couch while one of the guests plowed her cunt from behind, much as Charles had been doing earlier in the kitchen. Apparently she had decided that the canapés could serve themselves. Probably a good call, because it looked to me like no one in this room was interested in eating anything except each other. 

There was another couch on the other side of the room where two women were locked in a sixty-nine position lapping furiously at each other, while a pair of guys lay next to them on the floor in more or less the same position sucking noisily on each other's cocks. I recognized all four of them as friends of my mother, but I had always been under the impression that they were married to each other. Men to women—well you know what I mean. Who knew? San Francisco in the late 1970s was a wild place. 

A blonde woman, maybe in her late forties or early fifties, sat naked in a wing chair looking well and thoroughly fucked, her large soft tits covered with more cum than could possibly have originated from a single or even two cocks. She just had this so relaxed smile on her face as she leisurely stroked her pussy and watched the action. I couldn't tell if she was relaxed from the sex she had obviously had shortly before our entry into the room or from the dope that Charles was digging for behind the counter. Probably both, I thought. 

There were several other combinations of naked or nearly-naked people in various carnal groupings scattered around the room, but before I could focus on them in detail, Charles popped up from behind the bar holding one of the fattest joints I have ever seen. 

"Got it," he announced in triumph. . . . "Let's go to the pool." He stepped around the bar, slid between Cherie and me, and, with an arm around each of us, his fingertips kneading our tits, steered us rapidly out of the room. Cherie and I were looking back over our shoulders at the orgy we were leaving behind. Cherie, was mildly protesting, "But, but, but, Charlie . . ." 

"Not to worry my dears; the night is young yet. Come with me to the pool, and we will partake of this most delightful Jamaican Red Kate's aunt has provided." 

The pool was an indoor lap pool, which was under a glass and iron dome at the back of the house. There were lights, but it was darker than in the house. Cherie and I doffed the remainder of our clothes, so we were naked like Charles. It seemed appropriate to strip down by the pool. We pulled up three chairs and sat, Charles between us, and enjoyed the mega-joint Charles had procured, quickly becoming thoroughly stoned. 

At some point another couple wandered into the pool area. They stripped off their clothes and jumped into the pool. After swimming to the far end he hoisted her up onto the deck and proceeded to lap slowly and languorously at her pussy. Dope can seriously mess with your sense of time, so I'm not sure how long they went at it, but it seemed like a deliciously long time to me. Cherie, Charles, and I just sat there silently watching them in our marijuana haze. 

The girl wasn't a screamer. We could just barely hear her whimpering as her lover massaged her pussy with his tongue. Eventually her whole body stiffened and she let out a slightly louder whimper as she reached a climax. Then she slipped back into the pool and the two of them swam back to our end of the pool. As they climbed out of the pool and walked towards us, the woman recognized Charles. 

"Charlie, I didn't know you were here. She walked directly to him, ignoring Cherie and me. She leaned forward over Charles, her breasts swinging as they hung down, and kissed him. After what seemed like a long kiss, she reached down with one hand and began to stroke his cock, without breaking the kiss. It had been pretty rigid throughout the evening, but it now jumped as she began to stroke it. Then as her companion, Cherie, and I watched, she sank to her knees and engulfed his cock in her mouth, beginning an energetic blowjob. 

Her companion at first just stood watching and stroking his erect cock. Then he sank to his knees between Cherie's legs, saying, "Puis-je?" and without waiting for an answer began to eat her with the same skill he had displayed earlier. (I learned later that he was French and spoke not a word of English. Given his sexual skills, his language deficiency was irrelevant). 

I sat and masturbated slowly as I watched the two couples next to me engage in oral sex. They kept at it for some time, but all good things must "cum" to an end. Eventually Charles began to groan and fuck the woman's face. She pulled back and finished him with a hand job, letting his cum splash over her face and tits at just about the time the Frenchman brought Cherie to a screaming climax. 

He then stood and turned to me, again saying "Puis-je?" I responded, "Oui," and he ate me to the same screaming climax as Cherie had experienced. But then he laid me out on a cushion from a chaise longue and proceeded to fuck me almost senseless. I don't know how many times that man had already cum that evening, but his hard dick had amazing staying power. We fucked, and fucked, and fucked. I've no idea how many times I came before he finally exploded inside me, but it had to be at least the five or six that Cherie claimed. Besides she was busy having sex with the Frenchman's partner, most of the time, so anything she reports about that part of the evening has to be taken skeptically. Really, how much could she see with her head planted firmly between the woman's thighs? 

Eventually the Frenchman and his friend moved on, leaving Charles, Cherie and me on our own. Charles was sporting a big erection again, after watching the Frenchman fuck me for what seemed me to be an eternity. I wouldn't see him again for another twenty years when he would become my third husband, but that's a story for another day. 

We wandered back into the house and somehow I seemed to lose track of Cherie and Charles. I was pretty stoned, so I wasn't really processing things. She told me later that she had gone to a bedroom with Charles, where he had fucked her silly for at least two hours. I believe he fucked her, fucked her well and thoroughly, but two hours? I think her time perceptions weren't in any better shape than mine. 

I remember at some point in the evening hearing my Aunt Chloe giggling from a room off a hallway I was in. The door was slightly ajar, and I looked discreetly in. I saw my Aunt Chloe standing naked before a tall, extremely dark, devastatingly handsome, black man. He was very muscular, a man who obviously spent a good deal of time working his muscles. I later learned he was a longshoreman who had recently immigrated to San Francisco from Marseille. I also noticed that he had a very erect, long, thick dick, which my Aunt Chloe was slowly stroking with both hands. 

Chloe was leaning against a wall and the man was massaging my Aunt's large soft breasts. Her areolas were swollen and her nipples were as hard as his cock. They were speaking softly in French that I couldn't quite follow, and she was looking up into his eyes. He suddenly reached down, scooped her up in his arms, and carried her to the bed in the center of the room. 

I made brief eye contact with Chloe as he carried her to the bed, but she said nothing and remained focused on her lover of the moment. I thought maybe I should move on and let them be, but after all, they had left the door ajar, so maybe they wanted to be watched. Besides, the idea of watching my mother's sister being fucked by this beautiful, huge, black man was just too erotic to walk away from, so I stayed put and began to slowly caress my sex. Even though the Frenchman had fucked me until I was exhausted an hour or two before, I could feel the slow burn in my groin beginning that means only one thing—a need to have some form of sex that leads to a climax. 

Chloe's lover dropped her hips onto the bed, and then he dropped to his knees, her legs over his shoulders with Chloe on her back. He began by kissing the inside of her thighs, gently and slowly working down one leg and then the other towards her core. Chloe lay calmly on her back massaging her large soft tits. 

Eventually he reached her core, and it looked like he was slowly stroking her sex with his tongue. When he picked his head up at one point I saw that he had an obscenely long tongue. I could see his long dick, still very erect swinging beneath him. God, he was hung like a horse. They were clearly in no hurry, but watching them was making me hotter and hotter. 

Eventually, he brought an arm up to her crotch from below and appeared to be using his long thin fingers to massage the inside of her pussy. I couldn't tell how many fingers he had in her or how far into her they were, but I let my imagination fill in those details. I could see that he was alternating between simply holding his fingers up in her cunt (perhaps massaging her g-spot?) and using them to actively finger fuck her as his arm pumped them in and out. By now Chloe was moaning and throwing her head back and forth. Her massage of her tits had progressed to pinching and pulling on her nipples. 

For my part I had two fingers in my pussy and one hand was massaging one of my tits. It was so fucking erotic, watching my aunt and this gorgeous black man. I was telling myself she didn't know I was there, but really, I knew she had seen me and probably recognized me, and the fact that I was watching was making it just that much hotter for her. So nasty. So erotic. 

I heard her say something to him in French. I didn't know what the words meant, but there was clearly an urgency to it. He stood up, the muscles in his back and hips rippling as he grabbed her by the hips and turned her over. Then, as he held her by the hips I saw him plunge his huge cock into my aunt. No preliminaries. He just slammed it into her and she screamed, "Oh, fuuuuuuuck!" 

Then he began to really pound her, ramming his big cock into her again and again. Chloe was crying and groaning, sometimes in words, maybe French, maybe English and often not really words. "Oh fuck! Yes, yes, yes. Fuck me. Yes that's it. Ram that cock into me. Faster! Harder! Ohhhhh, arrrrrrrrrgh!" 

She lasted a surprisingly long time, but eventually, as the sweat on her lover's back began to glisten and run down him in rivulets, she climaxed with a piercing scream. I had my legs spread widely and four fingers jammed into my cunt at this point. When Chloe climaxed, I reached down with the hand that had been twisting my nipples and twisted my clit, triggering my own climax. "Oh fuuuuuck!" I yelled, giving up on any pretense of secrecy. 

The black man looked briefly over his shoulder at me as Chloe sagged away from him. We made eye contact for a moment, but then he turned back to Chloe. His still hard dick was bobbing before him and he was stroking it. 

Chloe rolled over onto her back, her legs still spread on either side of the black man's hips and, holding out her big tits, said softly, "Cum on my tits. I want you to. Now!" 

Her lover began stroking his big cock, still shiny from the juices of Chloe's cunt. I was spent, leaning against the wall, but unable to take my eyes off the erotic scene within—Chloe on her back, her legs still spread obscenely, holding out her large soft tits to her lover, who stood between her thighs leaning forward and stroking his long hard cock. 

It didn't take him long. He groaned and began shooting stream after stream of cum at my aunt. The first stream hit her in the face, but the subsequent streams, several of them, sprayed her tits, and the last dribbles fell on her belly. Chloe held up her arms in invitation and her lover gently let himself down on top of her, both of them spent, the gobs of cum he had ejaculated now smeared across both of them. 

I moved on with my ramble through the house, fucking a couple of men I met and at least one woman and eventually finding Cherie. She and I wandered about until we found enough of our clothes to allow us to leave without risking an indecent exposure arrest and somehow managed to drive safely back to Berkeley. 

It was the first of several orgies I was to attend at my Aunt Chloe's home.



Looking Back Ch. 08



In Chapter one our heroine, Kate, a successful businesswoman turning 60, has asked herself a troubling question. Is she a slut? Thus began a series of chapters in which she describes to her husband Henry (her fourth husband) her life beginning with her late teen years and her sexual activities at each stage. The portion in italics in each story is her recollection of some memorable sexual experience from her past. In this chapter Kate tells her husband of a night of debauchery that marked the beginning of her affair with the CEO and owner of her publishing company and his wife. 

It was a Tuesday afternoon. I had just returned from work and, after making myself a gin and tonic, I was changing out of my work clothes into something more relaxed. I was standing naked in my bedroom holding the finished drink when the doorbell rang. I grabbed an apron as I walked through my kitchen, threw it loosely around me, and walked to the front door, wondering who it might be. Setting my drink on the front hall table, I looked through the security window to see my husband Henry standing before me, a bottle of wine in each hand. 

"Henry! What are you doing here?" I said loudly as I threw open the door. Before he could take a step forward I threw myself at him, starting a long passionate kiss. 

Then, breaking the kiss, I turned and yelled over my shoulder, "Simon, it's my husband. You'll have to leave. Use the back door and hurry!" There was no Simon, of course. I was just pulling Henry's chain. 

"No need to leave Simon. Just pull your boxers back on, and I'll cook for you, too," Henry yelled, calling my bluff. 

We laughed at our little charade, and he handed me the two bottles of wine, excellent premier cru Burgundies, I noted. His taste in wine had improved in the years since we married. Then he turned and picked up a box of fresh foodstuffs that he had set on porch step before ringing. He had come equipped to cook me one of his gourmet meals. As I leaned forward to inspect the food box in Henry's arms, the apron, which I had loosely tied behind my neck, fell off so I was standing naked on my front porch holding a bottle of wine in each hand. 

"Oh, so we are dressing formally for dinner?" Henry said. 

Kicking the apron out of the way, I took a step back so he could see me in full and did a little pirouette, still holding a bottle of wine in each hand. "I wouldn't have it any other way," I said. 

"But, by the way, what are you doing here? Last time we talked you were doing your spy stuff on the Costa Brava." 

"Well, I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I would drop in and cook you dinner." 

"The neighborhood?" 

"Langley. It seems that the Cousins at Langley were more interested in the information I acquired on the Costa Brava than my friends in London were, so I had to make a quick trip to D.C. It's much quicker to fly from Dulles to San Francisco than to London, so I picked up a few things, and here I am. Besides, you promised to tell me how you met your second husband, and I thought I would like to hear it in person. 

"I'll be happy to, but would you prefer to wait until after dinner so I can tell you the story in bed?" 

"No need to wait. But perhaps we should move off your front porch before your rather stuffy neighbors file a public nudity report with the police." 

"This is San Francisco dear, not London. Public nudity hardly merits a police report. I'm not sure it's even a crime." 

'That's the price you pay for living in the center of decadence." 

"What price?" I asked, unable to figure out what he was talking about. 

"You see, in London if you nip out onto your front porch in the buff to greet your lover, you feel like you are really doing something wicked. Here your only concern is that you not become hypothermic." 

I laughed at him, pointing out that it had been almost 90 degrees today, a heat wave by San Francisco standards. 

We walked toward my kitchen, closing the front door behind us. Henry, following along behind me carrying the box of food, said, "Just uncork that bottle in your left hand and pour us each a glass. Yes, that one, the Morey Saint Denis. We can save the Chambolle-Musigny for later." After a pause he continued, "My god you have a lovely ass, woman." My gin on the front hall table was forgotten. 

I did as instructed and, after handing him a glass, took a seat at the kitchen table, still naked, and sat sipping the wine, watching as he laid out the cooking tools and food stuffs needed to prepare dinner. 

After a bit he spoke up. "Woman, are you just going to sit there naked, or are you going to tell me a dirty story about your second husband? It's not that I don't like to see you naked, but I've been wanting to hear this story for a couple of weeks now." 

"Well, I met him at a wedding, but there was nothing dirty about it. I just met him, and then he called me for a date a few days later. Eventually we wound up in a very dull marriage that lasted ten years, which was at least eleven years longer than it should have. It's really hard to come up with a dirty story about my second husband. Sex just wasn't his thing. Thank god for the institution of the extra marital affair. I would have gone nuts without it. I guess I have to confess, marrying him was a mistake." 

"So, let me get this straight: Your first marriage was an accident, the product of your personal version of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas . . ." 

"Right," I interrupted. 

"And your second marriage was a mistake?" He continued. 

"Right again." 

"Wow. You weren't very good at this marriage thing, were you? It's a miracle you weren't killed on your third try." 

"Oh, the third marriage was great. He was the one who was killed, not me. He loved to fuck, had a really twisted imagination, left me boatloads of money when he died, and he was just such fun to be around. I really was in love with him. I'll tell you all about it some day." 

"Okay, but we're focusing on how you met your second husband tonight." 

"I just told you all there was to tell. We met at a wedding. I think my boss' wife introduced us, but I'm not sure, given what went on during the rest of the evening. He called up and asked me out the next week, and we were married six months later. It was all really a big mistake on my part, and his too, now that I think about it. A guy with little or no sex drive should not marry a slut, and vice-versa." 

"Really, no wedding sex with your spouse-to-be the evening you met? Nothing? That doesn't sound like you." 

"You're right. It should have been a warning about how dull the relationship would turn out to be, but it was a signal I missed." 

I swirled my finger in my wine and then slid it into my mouth, sucking it lasciviously as I thought back to the wedding in question. "Well, I didn't say there wasn't any wedding sex that night. It just didn't happen to involve my husband-to-be. Oh, what I did that night was so nasty. I get horny just thinking about it all these years later." 

Henry stood holding a ten-inch chef's knife in the air. "Aha, I knew you had a good story, so tell it to me." As he spoke, he began energetically reducing an onion to the tiny bits he needed for his recipe. 

I refilled my wine glass and began my tale: 

It was one of those weddings that you dread from the moment you open the invitation. The kind being thrown by your boss for his really plain, unimaginative daughter who has somehow snagged herself a man, or something that approximates a man. He really was very nerdy looking, skinny and gangly, too—the groom, not my boss. (My boss was short, fat, and unimaginative). You know you'll have to dedicate one of your precious Saturdays to the event, because after all, the bride's father is your boss, and you also know that the only people you will know there will be the same boring people you work with every day. 

At this point in my career, I was still buying the "don't fuck your co-workers" line, so I wasn't expecting to have a lot of fun at this event. To make matters worse, it meant that I was going to miss one of Chloe's orgies. I had become more or less a regular at her parties by this time, and each one seemed an effort to outdo the last for debauchery. But duty calls, and I went to the wedding. 

I was so wrong about this wedding. I mean, yes, it was a dull affair, the ceremony in San Francisco's biggest Episcopalian cathedral, and the reception in a ballroom at the Mark Hopkins. Must have cost a fortune. And yes, my co-workers were just as dull at the wedding and reception as they were at work, but . . . and this is a big but, there was one couple I met there who didn't fit the mold. 

I was sitting by myself, dressed in a conservative beige suit that pretty successfully hid any feature of my body that a man (or a woman) might find of interest, nearing the bottom of my third or fourth glass of Champagne, when this tall, handsome, silver-haired gentleman in what was obviously a very expensive Italian suit slid into the seat next to me. He had an open bottle of Champagne in his hand, in addition to the flute the waiters were handing out and, before speaking a word, he leaned over and filled my nearly empty glass. As he did so, I felt that lightest touch of his upper arm against my breast. 

Assuming he was a bit drunk and his grope was unintentional, I said, "Thank you. I was about to go in search of a waiter. They seem to be getting scarce all of a sudden. I was afraid we were running out of Champagne, but you seem to have found a source." 

"I have over the years found that to be an essential wedding skill. Know where the source of the booze is and make sure you have access to it." 

I laughed and turned my head to look more closely at him. He really was handsome and looked vaguely familiar. 

"You sound like you have a good deal of experience with weddings?" 

"Unfortunately so," he said as he refilled his own glass. "I mean I have nothing against marriage. Been married myself, several times. In fact I'm even married now." 

"And is your wife here?" I asked in a tone intended to convey to him my hopes that she was at least a thousand miles away. I was really finding this man sexy. It's amazing how you can have that kind of reaction to a person in just a moment or two after meeting him or her. 

"Oh yes, that's her just over there chatting up the father of the bride," he said, indicating an attractive woman perhaps ten years younger than him. Like me, she wore a conservative and unflattering dress, maybe as bad or worse than mine, I thought. It looked like it probably cost a lot more than mine though. 

"He's also my boss," I said. "She looks very pretty," I continued, returning to the unfortunate topic of the presence of his wife. 

"Oh, she is, not that you can tell from that dress," he responded. 

"Well, that 's a social requirement for these kinds of affairs," I said. "The first rule is never upstage the bride or the mother of the bride. It's their day and they must be the center of attention. The rest of us are just here to drink their booze and, if we can stomach it, ooh and awe about how gorgeous they look." I wanted to add, "and perhaps get laid by some handsome prematurely gray stranger we meet," but I thought that might be pushing it less than five minutes after meeting him. 

"Yes, yes, I understand. But just imagine," and he leaned toward me for a conspiratorial whisper, "Wouldn't it be so much more fun if we were all naked?" It was the kind of thing you could say out loud in a group and no one would think anything of it, other than perhaps it was a bit silly, but when said to a woman in a manner obviously intended to be private, for her ears only, it was tantamount to a proposition. 

I looked sideways at him, thinking, with a few more years he is going to make a really good dirty old man. 

"Actually, I went to one once," I said. 

"One what?" 

"A naked wedding." 

"Really. Tell me more." 

It was all bullshit, but he was fun to play, so I began to spin out a story of a naked wedding. Before I could get any further into it than telling him it had been at a Point Reyes hippy commune, and the bride wore white flowers in her hair and nothing else, he said, "Wait, wait, my wife will want to hear this." 

He jumped up, topped off both glasses of Champagne, and strode over to his wife, who was still chatting up my boss. He interrupted them, saying who knows what as he pointed to me. He then trotted off to the back of the ballroom carrying his empty Champagne bottle, hopefully in search of a full replacement. His wife exchanged a few more pleasantries with my boss and then excused herself, walked slowly over to my table, and eased herself into the chair next to me formerly occupied by her husband. 

"Hi, I'm Sandy, Sandy Worthington. My husband Jim told me I just had to come over here and meet you. He told me you had a story I had to hear. Something about a naked wedding? Usually when Jim is that excited about something, it must involve sex." 

Oh Shit, I thought! Jim Worthington is the CEO of our publishing company. He's come out from New York for this wedding, and now he expects me to tell him and his wife about a nude wedding. He's the dean of the publishing industry and his picture is in damn near every industry trade rag I pick up. Why didn't I recognize him? A few phone calls from him can get me fired, and blackballed from the industry for life. How dumb can I be to start flirting with the CEO without knowing who he is! My god, what did he tell my boss about me? 

"Ahh . . . Hi, I'm Kate O'Riley. I guess I work for your husband, somewhat indirectly. He's the CEO of Robards isn't he?" 

"Oh, yes indeedy he is, and that gets us the privilege of attending more of these exciting affairs than I can count," she said with mild sarcasm, her elbow on the table, her chin resting in her hand. I couldn't tell if she was really that bored, a little drunk, or both. 

I laughed. "Well, that was my boss you were talking to, and as I'm sure you know, father of the bride. I'm a senior editor here in our San Francisco office." 

Just then Jim arrived bearing two more uncorked bottles of Champagne. "Darling," Sandy said, "This is Kate O'Riley. It turns out she works for you. She's a senior editor, here in San Francisco. Did you know that?" 

"Well, I kind of suspected something like that when she told me that the old geezer you were chatting up was her boss, but we won't hold it against her." He leaned in front of me to refill Sandy's glass, once again giving my boob a rub with his shoulder, much firmer this time. Sandy was watching and winked at me. "Actually," he continued, "I recognize the name. This young lady is one of our rising stars. I have been trying to attract her back to New York, but I'm told that she is committed to San Francisco. Is that right Ms. O'Riley?" 

"Ahh, . . . yes, my boss has asked if I wanted to go to New York several times, but I really do prefer San Francisco." 

"Enough business. We want to hear about this nude wedding you started to tell me about. Was the reception an orgy?" 

"Really, a nude wedding? And an orgy?" Sandy asked with a sparkle in her eye that had been missing a moment earlier as she sat with her chin in her hand. The idea of an orgy seemed to bring her back to life. 

Oh shit, I thought. How did I get myself into this. It was going to take more Champagne than I had consumed so far to get comfortable telling our CEO and his wife about a wedding/orgy at Point Reyes, a lot more Champagne. I drained the full flute in front of me and reached in front of Sandy for the bottle Jim had left on the other side of her. As I did so, my shoulder inadvertently grazed her boob, just as Jim had done to me. I hadn't finished filling my glass with Champagne before I felt Sandy's hand on my thigh. She wasn't offended, just horny. 

As I looked at her over my glass of Champagne, she said, "Well, I hope this story has a lot of sex in it." 

"I agree," Jim added. 

"Oh, it does, but I'm not sure that this is the best place to tell it." I could feel Sandy's hand stroking my thigh and working up it as I spoke. 

"You know Jim, I think Kate's got a point. This may not be the best place for her to tell this story. Let's adjourn to that lovely apartment we have upstairs." 

Sandy continued to stroke my thigh as I looked over my shoulder at Jim. He smiled and said, "Great idea. You girls take these two bottles and head on up while I say my goodbyes to the people who need them. There are several, but I'll be brief. It appears, Sandy, that you have just contracted a bit of indigestion or some such, so we're leaving a little early tonight. I should be up about ten minutes behind you. Don't start without me." 

"It's amazing how often that happens at these dull affairs," she said, giving my thigh a last squeeze before she rose from her chair. 

As we stood I was wondering if Jim meant don't start the story, or if he had something else in mind that he didn't want us to start. Oh well, I would find out soon enough. So much for my policy of not screwing the people I worked with (or in this case, for). 

Sandy and I each grabbed a bottle of Champagne and gracefully exited the back of the ballroom. "Follow me. I know a back route to the elevators," she said. En route we came upon Jim's Champagne stash and grabbed another bottle each. A couple of the waiters gave us an odd look, but our escape was totally unnoticed by the hosts and the guests. 

As soon as the door to the 21st floor apartment closed behind us, Sandy said, "Thank god were out of that party. I can't wait to get out of these clothes." As she spoke, she walked across the living room dropping garments until she was naked except for a very expensive string of pearls and her black pumps. Sandy was tall, maybe five-ten with a nice round ass and a pair of large soft tits that were beginning to sag just a bit, but would still attract most men. She had thick long dark hair and a lush, but neatly trimmed, bush that matched her hair color. Her eyes were a sparkling, almost icy, blue. 

She walked away from me toward the kitchen, saying, "I'll get some glasses. Please take off the dreadfully conservative suit you are wearing. It looks as uncomfortable as mine was." 

"What about Jim?" I asked. 

"What about him?" she echoed from the kitchen. "He loves naked women. It's one of his better features." 

"But I work for him." 

Sandy looked over her shoulder and laughed, "So did I, until I showed him how much better I was at fucking than at being a secretary. He has rules for the company that don't always apply to him and, based on the way he was groping your tit with his shoulder earlier, I am sure they won't apply to you." 

Normally it is reasonably easy to get me out of my clothes, but I felt uncertain about this situation. When Sandy came back out, I had gotten only as far as shedding my jacket. 

"Come on dear. You can do more than that," she said as she set the glasses on a table and then walked over to me. She reached forward with her hands and, holding both sides of my head, kissed me—a long, wet, sloppy, forceful kiss. I felt a fire start in my pussy. 

We continued kissing as Sandy slowly undressed me. She unbuttoned my blouse and reached inside the cups of my bra to fondle my tits. Oh so good! The kiss just kept on and on while she somehow managed to strip me until I was down to the rather sexy under garments I had chosen to wear—thigh high stockings, a garter belt, and a very flimsy bra that barely constrained my breasts. I had skipped panties for the evening. 




Looking Back Ch. 08



She stepped back and looked at me, instructing me to turn around. "Oh my, you are lovely. Jim is going to be thrilled. I know I am." She paused for a moment staring and smiling lecherously at me. 

"But Kate darling, where are your panties?" 

I blushed a little and smiled. (Yes, I could still blush even after attending a half-dozen of Chloe's orgies) . . . "Well . . . you see I never wear panties to a wedding. Wedding sex is one of my favorite things, and it always helps to be prepared." As I spoke I released the catch on my bra and tossed it to the pile containing the rest of my clothes. 

She stepped up to me and cupped my mound, whispering, "Oh I'm so glad we found you tonight. This is going to be fun." My tits, now released from the confinement of my bra, were mashed against hers, and I could feel her fingers searching for the source of the slippery wetness leaking from my outer pussy lips. 

"Oh," I groaned. "That feels so good. But wait," I gasped. "Don't we have to wait for Jim? He told us not to start without him." 

"Don't worry about Jim," she said as she slipped two fingers into my cunt. "He can catch up. He always does." 

I groaned and spread my legs to allow her better access, which she immediately took advantage of, sliding a third finger into my cunt. All three fingers were deep within me now and curled to hit my G-spot. 

Just then we heard the lock click, and then the door opened. Jim stepped in carrying yet two more bottles of Champagne. "Oh, you naughty girls. You started without me." 

He set the Champagne down on a table and begin yanking at his necktie and shedding his coat. "Sandy," he said, "you're such a slut. I knew you wouldn't be able to wait for me." 

Meanwhile I had placed one foot on the end of the couch and was balanced mostly on the other foot while Sandy continued to finger fuck me. All I could manage for a response was a gasp followed by, "Oh fuck this is good. Fuck!" 

Sandy said, "Well, Jimmy," (who the hell called our CEO, the dean of the publishing industry, Jimmy? Well, I guess his former secretary did). "You just took too long saying your goodbyes," she continued. "I told you before we went downstairs that I was horny and wanted to fuck tonight. Now get your clothes off and join us." 

By this time Jim was pretty much naked. He had a beautiful dick which was standing tall and strong. Not huge, but long enough and big enough to be a really beautiful erect cock. "No," he said. "I think I'll just watch for now," as he reclined in a large armchair and began to stroke his beautiful dick. 

"Suit yourself," Sandy said to him. Then she leaned forward and whispered in my ear, "Not to worry. He likes to fuck, too, and I promise you he'll fuck you good and hard before the evening is out." 

She was still jamming her fingers in and out of my cunt. Oh, I was so horny. God I needed to cum. When she pulled back from my ear, I stared directly into her eyes, ignoring Jim completely. "Oh," I gasped. "Sandy, I need you to eat me. Now!" 

Her icy blue eyes brightened. "Oh, good girl. Fuck yes, I'll eat you! Lie back on the couch and spread your legs." 

I did as instructed, staring directly at Jim stroking his cock opposite me as Sandy dropped to her knees between my legs. I gasped as Sandy's tongue began to stroke my sex from my puckered asshole to just short of my very needy clit, but I remained locked in eye contact with Jim. Fuck, what Sandy was doing felt so good, but my mind was locked in with Jim, masturbating in the chair opposite me. Oh fuck, so good and so nasty—with Sandy licking my cunt while I watched her husband and our CEO masturbating. 

Sandy began using one hand to spread my outer lips so she could use her tongue to stroke the inner lips of my cunt. Three fingers of her other hand began finger fucking me again. I was surprised when she resumed the finger fucking, and I cried out loudly. Jim smiled thinly at my outcry, maintaining our visual contact. I flicked my eyes down to his rigid cock and saw him capture a shiny drop of pre-cum in his palm and use it to coat the knob of his cock. I looked back to his eyes as he slid his fist over his newly lubed knob. They rolled briefly back in his head as he savored the sensation and then returned to their penetrating focus on my eyes. He continued to slowly stroke his rigid cock. 

At one level, I was totally preoccupied with the tongue-lashing Sandy was giving me. Oh, she was good. Fuck! So fucking good! But at another level, my locked-in visual contact with Jim was something I had never experienced before. The only phrase I could think of was a "mind fuck." Neither of us was close to cumming, but we were both savoring the sensations coursing through our sex organs and the non-physical sexual contact we were maintaining with each other. 

I put a hand below each of my breasts and held them up and out towards Jim, offering them to him, "Really, don't you want to suck on these rigid nipples and fondle these big soft tits." I didn't say anything aloud, but that was the message, and he silently mouthed, "Yes," in response. I let my boobs drop, having obtained the response I wanted and began to rub them and their hard nipples slowly and lovingly, no longer a show for Jim so much as for my own pleasure, but my eyes remained focused on Jim, and Sandy continued to lap at my pussy and finger fuck me. 

This mutual mind fuck went on for several minutes until I began to feel myself building to the edge of my first climax. I hadn't had any sex, not even masturbation, for several days, so I expected a big one. I took my hands off of my breasts and put one on either side of Sandy's head, curling my fingers through her hair. "My clit," I said gasping. "My clit. Yes, do my clit!" I used my hands in her hair to pull her head closer and just a bit higher. Jim continued to slowly stroke his cock, obviously not in a hurry to climax, as his eyes remained locked with mine. 

Sandy began to flick my engorged clit with short, light strokes of her tongue, while her fingers in my cunt continued to probe my depths. Oh, fuck. I was in heaven. I couldn't continue to focus on Jim. I let my head fall back on the couch back and closed my eyes as I felt my orgasm building. I was so close, but not there—just in that exquisite moment when you are perched on edge of the precipice, not wanting the buildup, so exciting and so erotic, to end, but still wanting and needing, yes needing so badly, the release that you know is coming. 

And then it was there! The climax started in my sex organs and tore through what felt like the remainder of my body in wave after wave of release. I screamed loudly and repeatedly, my feet cramped, and I felt sex liquid gush from my cunt onto Sandy's hand and face. Yes, Jim was still there someplace in my mind, but where or why I didn't know. He was just there, barely in the background, while my body and most of my brain focused on one of the loudest orgasms I had ever had. Fuck! 

I pushed Sandy's head away. She was still lapping at me, and I couldn't take any more. "No, no. No more," I said still lying back against the couch with my eyes closed. 

'Oh, there is going to be more," I heard a male voice say from somewhere across the room. "Lots more," he repeated. 

It was Jim speaking, I realized, as I picked my head up off the couch and opened my eyes slowly returning to the world. Sandy was still sitting between my legs, now leaning back on her haunches with this big shit-eating grin on her face that said, "Look what I did to you." She reached over and grabbed her expensive looking dress and used it to wipe my ejaculate from her hands and face. She ignored the drops that had fallen from her chin on to her tits. 

Now I was fully awake and suddenly feeling the beginning, just the very beginning, of arousal again, and the fact that I felt it and recognized it immediately brought it into full bloom. "So which one of these beautiful people was I going to fuck next?" I asked myself. 

Jim was still sitting in the chair casually stroking himself, but there was Sandy right between my legs, so I sat upright and reached out with both hands and began to stroke her boobs, her nice, soft, full boobs. I soon moved to her nipples, gripping them between my thumb and forefinger, pinching them softly and pulling on them. 

Sandy whimpered softly, and I was staring into Jim's eyes again. "Eat her," he mouthed. I leaned forward, dropping to my knees, and pushed Sandy backward. Now she was laying on her back before me, her legs spread wide, her knees bent, and her fingers spreading her lips in anticipation of my assault on her pussy. I reached forward and began to finger fuck her with my right hand, while my left continued to stroke one of her tits. 

"Oh, fuck! So good," she said softly. "Don't stop, oh please don't stop." Her long dark hair lay in a swirl of wildness beneath and alongside her head and her eyes were tightly shut. 

I inserted a third finger into Sandy, but my eyes remained fixed on Jim and his stare into the depths of my soul. Really, that's what it felt like. If you had asked me an hour before this if I had a soul, I would have given you some smart ass super-hip response suggesting I was beyond such silliness, but now I was sure I had a soul and he was peering into it. 

"Eat her," he repeated, still mouthing his words silently. 

I dropped to my knees between Sandy's long lovely legs, leaned forward, and began to stroke her pussy lips with my tongue using the hand formerly on her tit to support myself. I dropped further to my elbows and found that I could lick her cunt while looking over the top of her at Jim, maintaining this twisted eye contact with my masturbating CEO. He mouthed, "Good." 

After several minutes, I looked away and began to really focus on Sandy. I curled my fingers of the hand that had remained in her cunt and began to search for her g-spot, knowing I had found it when she groaned. I used my fingers to maintain a steady pressure there while I kept licking her inner lips and occasionally flicking her clit. Every time my tongue grazed her clit she gasped. 

I looked up at Jim again. He was still watching us closely and still jerking his cock, slowly and methodically. "Make her cum," he mouthed, still in silence. "Now!" 

I returned my attention to Sandy. She was shaking her head and mewing like a kitten as the continued pressure of my fingers on her g-spot built the sexual tension in her towards a peak. Keeping up that pressure with my fingers I began to give her clit a tongue-lashing. It was continuous, with no breaks or return to my former lapping at her pussy lips. 

"Oh fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! So good. Don't stop, don't stop!" Then she stiffened her hips, arching up into my face, her whole body going rigid in the beginnings of her orgasm. She held that position for a few moments that seemed like forever to me. Then she tipped over as the orgasm streamed in waves through her body and she screamed, unintelligibly, but still, clearly communicating the bliss she was experiencing. 

Suddenly, she was pushing my head away, just as I had done, her need satisfied, for now, and her organs too sensitive for continued stimulation. 

I rose to a sitting position on the edge of the couch, returning my attention to Jim, as Sandy pulled away, rolling to her side and curling into a fetal position. I ignored the obviously spent Sandy and stared into Jim's soul (later I was to question whether he had one) and silently mouthed the words, "Fuck me." My legs were spread widely and my fingers were spreading my outer pussy lips to show him that I was wet and waiting for him. 

Jim rose from his chair and walked towards me, his rigid cock bobbing, his eyes still locked on mine. I lay down on the couch and threw one leg over the back of the furniture piece while dropping my other foot to the floor to provide him ready access. He stepped over the still curled Sandy, his eyes focused on mine. Then he dropped between my legs and quickly slid his prick into my cunt. Oh so good, so full! I realized I had been wanting this ever since his shoulder first brushed my tit while we were just meeting in the ballroom below. 

Now he spoke aloud for the first time since I had been assaulted by Sandy. "Is this what you wanted? It is, isn't it?" He spoke with a harsh tone and with force. 

Jim began to slowly stroke his dick in and out of my cunt. When I failed to respond to his question, he said, "Really, admit it, you little slut. This is what you wanted, wasn't it? You wanted my big hard cock in your hot little cunt? You wanted it even when we were talking in the ballroom downstairs. Didn't you?" 

"Yes, oh yes. So good. So fucking good!" I was lost in his eyes as I spoke. "But harder, I want it harder and faster." 

"Oh, is that right, you slut?" You want it harder?" 

"Yes, oh yes. Fuck me. Fuck me harder, deeper, faster!" 

"Do you hear that, Sandy?" he said, looking back over his shoulder towards Sandy, who was now recovered and sitting in the chair Jim had formerly occupied, her legs lewdly spread and her fingers idly diddling her pussy. "She wants me to fuck her harder. The little slut wants me to fuck her harder!" As he spoke he began to pick up his pace, pounding my cunt with his cock. 

When Jim looked at Sandy, my eyes had followed his gaze and now, as he began to really pound my pussy, now it was Sandy's eyes my gaze was locked upon. 

"Oh fuck! That's it!" I said. Don't stop, don't stop! Oh Fuck! Don't stop!" I could feel my next orgasm beginning to build, and as it built I continued to watch Sandy, who had accelerated the pace of her masturbation as though she wanted to match my orgasm. 

"Oh, fuck! I'm getting close. Are you going to cum? Are you close?" I said to Jim. "I want you to cum in me. I want you to cum when I do. Oh Fuck!" I was speaking through gritted teeth now as I tried to hold back. 

"Yes," he groaned as he continued to pound me. There was a faintly echoed, "Yes," from Sandy. Then I felt the world fall away, and I arched my hips into Jim as my orgasm started. It seemed like it went on forever, and maybe it was really a series of smaller orgasms, but it was amazing. Shortly after I started, I felt Jim stiffen, and then I could feel his hot his hot cum spurting in waves into the depths of my cunt. At the same time faintly, but still there, I heard Sandy crying out from the other side of the room, as she tripped into her second climax of the evening. 

Once we all recovered just a bit, Jim rose and poured a fresh glass of bubbly for each of us, and we sat naked in his richly appointed apartment and toasted the bride and groom who had brought us together. As we killed a bottle or two of Champagne, I told them some bullshit story I made up on the fly about a nude wedding in Pt. Reyes and by the time we finished we were ready to resume screwing, which we did with gusto. It was a good thing I didn't have to work in the morning, because I didn't get much sleep that night.



Looking Back Ch. 09



In Chapter one our heroine, Kate, a successful businesswoman turning 60, has asked herself a troubling question. Is she a slut? Thus began a series of chapters in which she describes to her husband Henry (her fourth husband) her life beginning with her late teen years and her sexual activities at each stage. The portion in italics in each story is her recollection of some memorable sexual experience from her past. In this chapter Kate seduces a nun who has written a book advocating celibacy. 

"So that's how you met the infamous Jim Worthington, CEO and majority owner of A. H. Robards and dean of the publishing industry," my husband Henry said.

"Oh yes indeedy," I said in response. "Within half an hour after I met him I was in his San Francisco apartment with his wife Sandy, fucking the both of them until we were exhausted. A fast worker, our Jimmy boy. Too bad he turned out to be such a bastard when he sold out."

"You're sure the fast worker was Jimmy?" Henry asked.

I cocked my head, responding with my body language to his question with another question, implying I couldn't begin to understand who else could be to blame for the evening's debauchery and all that followed from it.

"I mean," he said. "There were two other parties to the little menage à trois you just described. Are you sure you have been totally candid about who seduced whom?"

I laughed, "Okay, I have to admit there probably wasn't a lot of seduction that went on that evening among the three of us. We all wanted exactly what we got."

Henry and I were sitting naked on the back porch of my Pacific Heights home in San Francisco on a lovely fall evening enjoying the beginning of a second bottle of fine French Burgundy. We had just eaten one of Henry's gourmet meals, washing it down with a first bottle of equally outstanding Burgundy. He was asking me about a tale I had told him of one my sexual exploits from midway through my publishing career, the seduction of the CEO of the publishing company I worked for and his wife. The question of who seduced whom was a fair one, although largely a moot point given the proclivities of the three parties involved. You can't really seduce someone who wants you so badly he or she is practically drooling, and in all honesty, I think that is the condition all three of us were in that night.

Changing the subject as I refilled both our wine glasses, I said, "Henry dear, I'm so glad you came out here tonight instead of just heading back to dreary old London." 

"Hmmm, as am I my dear. As am I. Our little after dinner romp in bed was so much better than a redeye from Dulles to London."

"God, I hope you think so," I said. "If fucking me after dinner and a good bottle of wine isn't better than an airplane ride from Dulles to Heathrow, I'm going to give up on sex, sell my erotic publishing company, and join a nunnery."

"Somehow my dear, I can't see you giving up on sex, and I certainly can't imagine you lasting for more than a week in a nunnery. Within a week, I dare say, all of the nuns would have abandoned their pledges of chastity and, after an introductory seduction by you, be romping with each other in new-found ecstasy."

My eyes gleamed as I took a sip of my wine. "I did that once you know."

"Did what?"

"Seduced a nun."

"Really. While you were attending that Catholic girls school, I assume?"

"Oh no, it was much later than that."

"Okay, I'll bite. Tell me about the time you seduced a nun, and I want all the 'juicy' details."

I smiled as I set my wine glass down and lifted both my breasts toward Henry. It had been years since I had thought of my seduction of Sister Mary Margaret.

"It was about halfway through my second marriage. As I've told you, my second husband simply wasn't very interested in sex and ignored virtually any effort I made to change him. As a result, I was horny for most of ten years and engaged in shameless and repeated extramarital sex with a variety of partners—male and female. At the same time, I was climbing rapidly up the ladder at Robards and not just because I was screwing Jim Worthington and his wife Sandy." 

"Oh, so you kept at them after your first meeting did you?" Henry interrupted. 

"Oh yes. He and Sandy would come to the West Coast two or three times a year and each time the three of us would have dinner in his apartment and then we would do our best to replicate the debauchery of our first meeting. I dare say we more than replicated it a number of times."

"All fucking and no business?"

"No, of course not. Do you think I'm stupid? Jim and I always found time to talk a bit of business, usually while he was recovering for another round. That was an essential part of it. He was grooming me to run the San Francisco office. After all, contrary to popular belief, you can't sleep your way to the top, if all you do is fuck. You have to be useful to your mentor for things beyond merely relieving sexual tension."

"Is that so?" Henry said. "I never thought about it that way, but we're digressing. I want to hear about how you seduced a nun."

"Oh yes, Mary Margaret. Well, Jim had this idea that I needed exposure to the full range of works the company published, so he kept moving me to different editing and product development assignments. A few years into this training regime, he and Sandy got the idea one night, as we were lying naked in their big bed in the San Francisco apartment, that, since I seemed to have murder mysteries down pat (my last five properties in that genre had all been best sellers), I should try my hand with a religious publication. I think it was Sandy's idea. She was sure I was screwing my mystery novel authors (which was true, even though I never admitted it to her or Jim) and I just think she wanted Jim to give me an assignment that couldn't possibly be helped along with carnal relations." 

"Somehow, dear, I have difficulty seeing you as the editor of a religious work. I just can't see you making a significant contribution."

Well, you're basically right about that. Surprisingly, the book sold reasonably well for a publication addressed to a narrow audience like that. I wasn't sure it was going to work out well for Sister Mary Margaret. But now that I think about it, things seem to have also turned out well for everyone involved, although that took some time for Sister Mary Margaret. As for me, well, I learned a few things and moved on to the next project."

"So what was the 'unwell' part. The firm made some money on it. No one got hurt. What else matters?"

Let me tell you what happened and you can decide for yourself:

I had dismissed my discussion with Jim and Sandy about being assigned a religious publication to edit as nonsense—just the two of them teasing me when we were all so worn out they had no energy left for more sex. But, a week or two later my boss wandered into my office and dropped a manuscript on my desk. "Good luck with this one, dearie," he said. "The publication schedule calls for this to be out the door and on the street in four months, so get crack'n'."

I opened the envelope and pulled out the manuscript. The title alone made me quietly gasp—"The Benefits of a Life of Chastity," by Sister Mary Margret Wilson of the Holy Order of Dominican Nuns. Was this some kind of twisted joke on Jim Worthington's part? What on earth would make him think I could edit a book on chastity without having a nervous breakdown?

But I was a trooper in those days, so I took it home with me that evening. My usual approach to a new editing project was to read the book straight through with no effort to note problems and issues to address. I just like to get the overall picture of what the author is trying to accomplish. Of course, if that is not readily apparent, I'm in trouble, but usually, I can figure out where she wants to go and then in my next pass I can get to work on how to help her get there.

By the time I got thirty pages into the book, which was mercifully short, I could see two things—first, Sister Mary Margaret could write tolerably well. Sentence structure was technically correct, all the usual commas, sometimes even a semi-colon or a colon, paragraph breaks in logical places, no spelling errors. The prose just had that nice readable flow to it that some people find elusive. Yes, someone had taught the lady to write.

Secondly, it was readily apparent that Sister Mary Margaret knew absolutely nothing about sex, and how someone can write a book about the advantages of celibacy without understanding the pluses and minuses of sex was, and remains to this day, totally beyond me. 

As I read it, I became emotionally overwrought. How could anyone write such nonsense! Now I normally don't let myself get emotionally involved in the books I'm editing. I've found over the years that the ability to maintain a cool emotional detachment from the material I'm editing helps immensely in the process of trying to tweak the words to enhance the effects the author is trying to create. This time I just couldn't do it. The book was such drivel that I wanted to immediately phone Sister Mary Margaret and scream at her over the phone, "What the fuck are you trying to say? This is nonsense!"

After I got over my initial reaction I plowed on, finishing all 175 pages and two stiff shots of single malt Scotch by midnight. Instead of stressing further, I told myself I would deal with it in the morning and went to bed. During the night, I dreamed of a life without sex and awoke sweating in fear. It was a short night for sleep.

In the morning, I took the manuscript back to the office and gave it one more read-through. Then I went to my boss and tried to get him to take me off the project.

"Len, I'm not the right person for this project," I said.

He looked at me and smiled. "So chastity's not your thing, huh? Jim told me you might have trouble with this one."

"Len, I'll do anything else. Give me a half a dozen books on wood working, auto mechanics, fly fishing, something, anything but this."

Now he was chuckling, and ominously shaking his head. "No such luck Kate. This one's for you. The boss said so, and he told me to be firm about it."

"Fuck!" I said as I turned and started out of the room.

"Come on, Kate," Len said, calling me back. "You know how to do this. Get on a plane and go see the author. Get her to tell you what she is trying to say and then help her say it the best way you can."

"Where is she?"

"A convent in Quebec."

"Quebec! It'll be colder than shit up there this time of year." My normal office demeanor was slipping seriously. "At least tell me it's in Montreal," I said, thinking that Montreal might be tolerable—good restaurants, and a pretty decadent nightlife, or so I had heard.

"No, the convent is in some little town up the St. Lawrence River from Montreal, a couple of hundred miles or so. Called . . ." he paused while he thought . . . "Port-Cartier." 

"Fuck! Sounds like it's halfway to Greenland!"

"Kate," he said, putting on his stern voice. "Just go up there and get the job done. This doesn't have to win a Pulitzer Prize. It just has to be something we can publish without embarrassing ourselves and hopefully make a buck or two on."

"Okay, okay," I said resigning myself to my fate. "Just one thing," I said with equal sternness. "I don't want to see my name on this book with an editor credit."

That did it for Len. He burst out laughing and said, "Get the fuck out of here and do your job."

I walked away with my shoulders slumped.

Ten days later I was standing on the doorstep of an old stone pile of a building waiting for someone to answer the door of the St. Pauline convent. There was a freezing wind driving a nasty snowstorm from somewhere in the vicinity of the North Pole, I guessed. God it was cold! Why did I ever leave San Francisco? I knew why—because I'm stubborn, and I refuse to admit failure. I could have called Jim and gotten him to take me off the project, but then I would have owed him big time. I wasn't about to let him think there was something I couldn't handle.

Eventually the door opened, and an ancient nun in an all white habit opened the door. After I explained I was here to see Sister Mary Margaret Wilson, she let me in. It was a good thing I speak tolerable French, because this was a part of Quebec where English is rarely heard. She showed me to a waiting room, saying that Sister Mary Margaret would be along shortly. Shortly turned out to be half an hour, and while it was warmer than outside on the front doorstep, I felt no need to take my coat off. Gloves off, okay, but not my coat.

Eventually Sister Mary Margaret arrived and burst all my expectations about my author. I was expecting a dried up old crone who had been living in this convent for forty-plus years. What I got instead was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman (perhaps in her early to mid-twenties). She was of medium height, and, in spite of the cloaking effect of the habit, appeared to have an ample bosom. Her face was truly beautiful, and I could see just a wisp of blonde hair peaking from beneath her habit.

"You must be Kate," she said in perfect English as she extended her hand. "I'm Sister Mary Margaret Wilson. Welcome to St. Pauline.

Yes, I'm Kate O'Riley, from Robards," I said, as I grasped her hand. It was warm and soft. "I'm here to help you with your book." I was really taken by her appearance, even though ninety-plus percent of her was hidden by her habit. Not in a sexual sense, mind you. That would come later. I was just struck by her beauty and dumbfounded by the question of how someone of her beauty could have wound up here, in a convent as near the end of the earth as I had ever been. Was there a tragedy in her life? How did she get here and why?

So we sat, and I gave her my basic description of the publication process, as I would with any new author. She listened politely, asked a few intelligent clarifying questions, and finally said, "Yes, yes, that all sounds great. So do you have some suggestions about my book? When can I see them?"

I started to reach for my briefcase to get out the manuscript, but I paused. I was so taken by her I didn't want to start into the manuscript yet. 

"Before we start, Mary Margaret, please tell me a little about yourself. Where did you grow up? How did you come to be here? Your writing is technically quite good. I'm curious about where you learned to write—in college or someplace else? I just think I do a better job if I understand my author's background." What I really wanted to know is how she could write a book on celibacy with obviously no experience with sex, and now that I had met her, how someone as beautiful as her could have lived to her age with no experience with sex. Outside the walls of this convent, there would have been droves of men following her around. But of course, I couldn't come right out and ask those questions.

She paused for a moment, thinking. "Well, I was born and raised in a little town in northern Ontario, Timmins. I'm sure you've never heard of it." 

She was right about that. I nodded my head.

"Timmins is a pretty rough town. It's a mining town, and they are that way. My father was killed in a mine accident when I was very small. My mother was very religious. She was determined to protect me from the Timmins environment, so I was home schooled. Mother and I lived with my grandmother until she passed when I was about ten. After that it was just my mother and me."

"Where did you go to college?" I asked.

"I didn't," she said. I came here as a novitiate when I was seventeen, right after my mother died. That was five years ago.

Wow, I thought! 

"So you've never lived anywhere except at home with your mother who home schooled you and here in the convent?"

"Yes."

"And do you ever get away from here for vacation or the like?"

"Well, the more senior sisters do go to Quebec City and even Montreal occasionally for convocations, but I haven't been able to do that yet. I suppose I could take some leave time, but I really have no family or friends outside the convent to visit. This is my world."

Unbelievable, I thought. I was almost at a loss for words. I sat just staring at her, overcome by her beauty and her naiveté. She is a virgin's virgin, was the odd thought running through my head. My task looked even more daunting than I had expected.

I pulled out the manuscript and we spent the next two hours going through my questions, comments and suggestions. I was so surprised by her innocence that I sidestepped completely any issue of a need to compare chastity with the alternative of a healthy, happy, normal sex life. She took careful notes on her copy of the manuscript.

When we finished, she volunteered to do a rewrite and to send it to me in San Francisco in a couple of weeks. Normally, I am happy to do that mark-up for my author, but she seemed to feel strongly that she needed to do this work herself. 

Two weeks later I received the revised manuscript. All the grammatical and style issues I had pointed out had been meticulously corrected and aside from the glaring problem of no comparison to the real world, it was damn near ready to print. But I couldn't, I just couldn't, let myself pull the trigger on the book, without one more try to get Mary Margaret to put some acknowledgement of the real world in it. But how, that was the question? I couldn't even imagine how I would I do this if I were the one writing the book, and I was even farther from having an idea as to how I would go about raising the issue with Mary Margaret, much less tell her how to do it.

I took the manuscript to Len and explained my problem. He took it home and read it. When he came back the next morning, in typical managing editor form, he said, "I see your problem, but fuck it. I told you this wasn't going to win a Pulitzer Prize, but my gut tells me it will sell, not a lot, but enough to cover the printing and distribution costs and put a few bucks in the bank. Let's run with it. Besides, I've got another project for you to work on that you will like, and this one will make us some serious money." 

"Let me think about it," I said, as I walked away holding the manuscript. "I think I may need to make one more trip to Quebec." 

If I had been anyone else, Len would have just told me no and sent the manuscript to the Production Department, but as Jim Worthington's pet rising star, I could get away with some liberties that other editors could not, so I called Mary Margaret and told her we needed to go over some more issues. I just couldn't face trekking up to the convent again, so I asked her if would be possible for her to get a few days leave and come down to Montreal to meet with me. She vacillated a little but eventually agreed to ask the Mother Superior, and a day later she called me back and said she could meet me. Mother Superior, it seemed, was very supportive of Mary Margaret's book. Yeah, I'll bet, I thought. 

I arranged hotel rooms in Montreal and made travel arrangements for each of us. A week later I was ensconced in a suite at the Ritz-Carlton Montreal waiting for Mary Margaret. I was determined to raise the question of how you can talk about celibacy without addressing the alternative of sex, but I didn't have the faintest clue how I was going to go about it.

Eventually there was a timid knock at the door. When I opened it there stood Mary Margaret, bag in hand. I almost did a double take because she wasn't dressed in her habit. Instead she wore a pair of jeans, a white blouse, and a pair of very practical shoes. Her long blonde hair, which was thick and lustrous, was tied in a ponytail. I knew she was a beauty when I had met her in the convent, but she was way more spectacular than I had expected after our first meeting, a softer, less-chiseled Grace Kelly with an ear-to-ear grin.




Looking Back Ch. 09



"Oh, Kate, this is amazing," she said.

"What?"

"Montreal! The streets, the buildings, the lobby downstairs! I've never seen anything like any of it!"

The only thing I could think of was, "You're not in Kansas any more, Toto," which would have just confused her, so I just kept my mouth shut. 

We talked about her trip and her impressions of Montreal for a while, and then I took her to her hotel room and told her to meet me in the lobby in an hour so we could go to dinner.

When the waiter arrived, he asked if we wanted wine with dinner. I paused, badly wanting a glass or two of good wine, but not sure how Mary Margaret would feel about it.

She surprised me when she spoke up. "Oh yes, we should," Then, turning to me, a grin on her face and her eyes scrunched up like she was about to get away with something, said, "I'm not in the convent now. I've never had wine, and I've always wanted to try it."

I ordered a good bottle of white Burgundy. After it arrived, Mary Margaret took her first sip of wine (other than sacramental wine) and smiled as though discovering a new aspect of the world. "Oh that's good," she said. Restraint wasn't her style, and by the time we were half way through dinner, the bottle was empty. 

She looked at me with a hopeful smile and asked if we could have another bottle. She's going to have a headache in the morning, I thought. What the hell, I'll give her some Ibuprofen before I send her off to bed for the night. It always helps. Besides the wine was a tasty Chassagne Montrachet, and I wanted more myself, so I flagged the waiter and ordered another bottle. After all, that's what expense accounts are for.

The second bottle disappeared like the first and by the time we returned to the hotel, I was feeling a bit of a buzz, and Mary Margaret was probably feeling more, although she was walking steadily. 

The wine did one good thing for me. It killed my inhibitions enough so that I was ready to talk to Mary Margaret about the "problem" with her book. I invited her up to my suite and we sat down on the couch. I said, "Mary Margaret, there's a problem with your book, we need to talk about."

"Oh," she said. "Didn't I do the rewrites correctly?" she looked downcast, still gorgeous, but downcast. 

"No, no. The rewrites were fine. In fact my boss wanted to send the book off to the production department to get it printed."

She looked at me, her beautiful face tipped to one side asking what the problem was?

I paused. Even with a full bottle of wine under my belt, I was having trouble screwing up my courage for this one. Then I just went ahead and asked. "Mary Margaret, have you ever had sex?"

Her eyes got wide. "What?"

"I said, have you ever had sex?"

She blinked and then said, "Oh no, never." She looked downcast. "Is that a problem?"

"Well," I said. "It's seems to me that it's hard to write about the advantages of celibacy if you don't have any experience with the alternative."

"The alternative?"

"Sex, fucking, screwing, and all the other perversions mankind so dearly enjoys." The wine was clearly getting to me.

She leaned back and her eyes widened a bit, clearly surprised by my strong language. "Well no. It never occurred to me that would be a problem for writing the book."

"That shows. I mean it shows in the book. You have a good book. Like I said, my boss wants to print it, but it could be so much better if you had the perspective of having had sex."

She stared at me, but I was on a roll now. "I'll bet you've never even kissed someone have you?"

She visibly brightened. "Oh, sure I have. I'll show you." She leaned towards me and gave me the softest peck on the cheek. 

"That's not quite what I meant, Mary Margaret. Let me show you." Now the alcohol was really taking control, and I could feel plain old-fashioned lust rising in my loins. I leaned forward, taking her head between my hands and placed a soft chaste kiss on her lips, her oh-so-soft lips. She didn't pull away, and I held it longer than I planned. When I pulled away, I was staring into her eyes only a few inches from mine. 

All she said was, "Oh," slowly and softly. Her voice was beautiful.

Then I leaned in and kissed her again. The lust that was building in me was taking control. Her lips were so soft and she smelled just beautiful. This time I let my tongue out of its cage and pushed it gently against her pursed lips. She let them open and my tongue slid inside and began to duel with hers. I heard a sharp intake of breath from her as she felt the entry of my tongue. 

The kiss was a long one, and when I pulled back, we both had that fogged look induced by a combination of wine and lust. "That's sex, Mary Margaret," I said.

"I assume there is more to it than just that. I mean that was good, but there is more, isn't there?"

"Oh yes," I said. I leaned into her again, only this time I dropped my face down the curve of her neck, and pushing her long blonde hair aside, I nibbled slowly and softly at that sensitive portion of a woman's neck that lies just where it meets her shoulder. 

She groaned softly and used a hand to pull my head in to keep me from pulling back.

When she finally let me go and I pulled back, she was smiling. "Ummmm . . . and is there more than that?"

"Oh yes," I said. "Do you want more?"

"Yes, I think I do."

"Are you sure?"

"Very." And this time she leaned in and kissed me, her tongue exploring my mouth and caressing my teeth, her lips nibbling at mine. It was a long sensuous kiss and somewhere in the middle of it, I cupped one of her generous breasts in my hand. Wine and lust were firmly in control of my mind now. She gasped when I did that and used a hand to press mine more firmly to her breast.

When we broke the kiss, I continued to fondle her breast through her clothes as she lay back against the couch, but now I was using a hand on each of her breasts. She lay back, her eyes closed, and said, "Oh yes. That feels so good. Is there more?"

"Oh yes. Let me show you." I said, as I began to unbutton her blouse. Then I reached behind her and released her bra and pushed it aside so I could fondle her naked tits. Her breasts were beautiful, big and soft with large pale colored areolas that swelled as she became aroused. Now I used my fingertips to slowly trace a track around her tits, coming closer and closer to their core. When I got to her nipples, I rubbed them softly with the palm of my hand until they rose like a small penis seeking always more stimulation. They were darker than her areolas and, once hardened, were quite large. Now I had each nipple between my fingers and was pulling and twisting. Mary Margaret was groaning and twisting in her seat as I continued to molest her hardened nipples. Now she began gasping, and I wondered if she was one of the few women who can reach an orgasm just from nipple stimulation.

Just as I thought that, she arched her back and cried out, clearly experiencing a powerful orgasm. I pulled her against me and held her as she regained her breath. When I pulled my head back, I could see tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Oh God. Is that what sex is about?" she asked still sobbing.

"Just the beginning," I said.

"More."

I couldn't decide if it was a question or a request, but I was seriously horny now, so I took it as a request.

"We need to get undressed," I said. As I released her belt and trousers, she peeled off her blouse and the bra that was no longer functioning. I knelt at her feet and removed her ever so practical shoes and socks, and after I pulled her trousers and plain white panties off, for some reason known only in the more perverted depths of my brain, I knelt again and took her feet to my mouth, sucking on her toes and licking them as sensuously as I could. She giggled. 

As I stood before her and stripped my clothes off, she asked, "Is that sex too, I mean sucking on my toes?" She had a big smile on her face.

"It is if you like it," I said. "But there are lots of other places to suck and kiss that I know you'll like. Let's go to the bedroom." 

The bedroom was dark, but I turned on a low light that illuminated her beauty stretched out on her back on the bed. "Oh, shouldn't it be dark?" she asked.

"No, you're beautiful, and I want to see you. That's part of sex. Seeing others and sometimes exposing yourself to others."

"Oh. Okay," she said stretching her arms behind her head so her tits rose from her chest. 

My God, she is beautiful I thought. Then I dropped to my knees pushing her legs apart. I fell forward smashing my tits against her hips and began to suck on her tits. Mary Margret put her hands on either side of my head pushing her fingers through my hair and holding my face tight to her breasts as she began her low moan again. 

I wanted her to cum from lower down this time, so I raised my head and began to slide down her chest, kissing as I went. When I got to her navel, I stuck my tongue in it and swirled about. She giggled again.

Then I moved lower. Her bush was the same blonde as her hair and thin. I pushed her legs apart and began to lick her outer lips. "Ohhhh!" she groaned. Again she used her hands to pull my face into her so I wouldn't pull myself away. My hands had been massaging her breasts, but I pulled them away and used them to spread her outer lips so I could tongue her deeper against her inner lips. I could see juice leaking from her pussy now, and I used my fingers to spread it up along her lips to her clit. As I licked her she moaned and cried, and now I slid two fingers into her cunt. She was so wet, and she tasted delicious.

I didn't want to push her into her second orgasm immediately, so I tongued her gently, stopping short of her clit, which was now peeking from beneath its hood, and I was finger-fucking her, but not with speed or any real force. Mary Margaret was responding by grinding her hips and forcing her pussy into my face.

I pulled my fingers from her cunt and reached for her tits. "Oh no!" she cried. Don't stop that. Please don't stop that!" But when I used my slippery fingertips to rub, pinch, pull, and twist on one of her nipples she gasped and pushed her chest up against my hand. "Oh yes, yes, yes!" she cried as I continued to tongue her pussy and play with her nipples. 

It was no longer necessary to hold her outer lips open. They were open on their own, and so I took the hand that had been doing that and began to use it to finger-fuck her again.

"Oh God, yes! Yes, yes, yes, that's it!" she cried. 

I pulled my head up and asked, "Are you going to going to cum again?"

"Oh fuck, yes, I mean I don't know, I mean" . . . and then bang, she fell over the edge into a huge orgasm that seem to come in waves and keep her hips pushed into my face forever and a flood of juice rushed out of her cunt soaking my face. I still hadn't gotten to her clit. This girl was on a hair trigger.

Then she was done, pulled into a fetal position and crying. I wrapped myself around her from behind, and we lay like that for the longest time, eventually falling asleep.

In the morning she was still sleeping soundly when I awoke. I covered her with a blanket, put on a robe and went into the outer room of the suite to order breakfast from room service. By the time Mary Margaret appeared, room service had delivered coffee and croissants and I had found my bottle of Ibuprofen, which I knew I needed, and I thought Mary Margaret would need after the wine we had consumed the night before. 

She had, like me, wrapped a hotel robe around herself. Her hair was a mess, what little make-up she had worn the night before was smeared across her features, and she still looked absolutely gorgeous.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," she replied, looking very insecure and in pain.

I handed her the Ibuprofen bottle and said, "Take three of these with the water on the table. Let's have some coffee and croissants, and then we should talk. Not before."

We sat silently sipping our coffee. As I looked at her over the top of my coffee cup, I was stunned by her beauty. Between the coffee and the Ibuprofen, I could feel the fog beginning to lift. It's funny how you never notice when a headache goes away. You just suddenly notice that it isn't there any more.

Eventually I asked her, "Feeling better?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"About what?"

"Last night,"

"What about last night?"

"I let you get drunk, and then I seduced you. I didn't intend to seduce you. I just wanted to talk to you about your book, but you are so beautiful and sexy, that after the first kiss . . . well, I should have stopped, but I didn't."

"Either one of us could of stopped, and we didn't. I mean, I could have told you to stop and you would have, but I didn't. I didn't because I was enjoying it. It was so good," she said.

"So you're not mad at me?" I asked.

"Hardly. My only question now is what to do about the book?"

"Fuck if I know," I said. "My boss still wants to publish it as is."

"Well, after last night, I have real doubts about what it says," she said, "but I sure don't know how to fix it."

I laughed. "Neither do I," I said.

"I need a shower," she said, changing the subject.

"Me too."

She looked at me for a long moment and then spoke, "Can we take one together?"

"You're really not mad at me for last night?"

"Oh no, I just want more, and I want to learn how to do that to you. And then I need to learn about men."

"Oh . . . Men. That's a whole 'nother subject," I said. "Let's start with a shower."

So we did, and wound up spending the rest of the day and the following night in bed while I tried to teach her as much of what Halili had taught me as I could before we were completely exhausted.

"That's quite a story," Henry said. "I have a couple of questions. "First, what happened to the book?"

"Oh we published it as it was. It made a little money, about average for a religious publication, which is not much. I never understood why Jim wanted to bother with that line. It never made enough money to cover its share of the overhead."

"And what happened to Sister Mary Margaret?"

She went back to the convent, but it really wasn't going to work for her once she had her wild night with me. Eventually she took a leave of absence and moved down to Montreal. She went a little nuts for a couple of years, working first as a stripper and then as a hooker, but she outgrew that, and she eventually married some nice guy, a doctor, I think, and they live in Calgary and have three beautiful kids. I always get a Christmas card from her. She is still very committed to the Church, but just as a member, rather than a sister.



Looking Back Ch. 10



In Chapter one our heroine, Kate, a successful businesswoman turning 60, has asked herself a troubling question. Is she a slut? Thus began a series of chapters in which she describes to her husband Henry (her fourth husband) her life beginning with her late teen years and her sexual activities at each stage. The portion in italics in each story is her recollection of some memorable sexual experience from her past. In this chapter Kate tells of the second time she met her third husband to be and the oral sex they enjoyed before he had to fly off to Paris. 

Since Henry was on the West Coast, with no immediate need to hurry back to London, we decided to run down to Carmel for a couple of days. There is no more beautiful time on the Northern California Coast than early October. We managed to get a room for a couple of days in a quiet little B&B I've known for years. It's just a couple of blocks off Ocean Avenue. Close enough to be convenient, but far enough to be free of the tourist hordes. 

Normally it would have been impossible to get a room on short notice in Carmel this time of year, but I knew the couple, Claude and Lorraine, that owned the B&B. I had met them at one of my aunt's orgies years ago. They had a separate cottage out behind their main facility that they reserved for friends like me. They were very good friends. 

As we drove down to Carmel, I told Henry about one wet stormy February weekend I had spent with them in the cottage fucking our brains out. The weather was wild, raining hard with the continuous background noise of a wild winter surf pounding against the beach a few blocks away—a perfect weekend to spend screwing in a cozy warm cottage near the beach. The sex was phenomenal. Claude had a dick that just never seemed to wear out, and when it did, his tongue took over where his dick left off. And then there was Lorraine. She just loved to suck on my tits while Claude was fucking me or eating me. Then we would switch roles—Claude fucking or eating Lorraine while I played with her tits. And, when Claude was truly spent, Lorraine and I engaged in some of the nastiest girl-on-girl sex. Marvelous weekend. 

"Mmm! I can't wait to meet this couple," Henry said, steering my BMW around a sharp curve as we dropped down out of the Santa Cruz Mountains. 

"Sorry. No such luck on this trip. When I talked to Claude on the phone, he told me that they were really busy with a full house in the rest of their facility. We can use the cottage, but we won't see much of them." 

"So it goes. I'm sure we can entertain ourselves." As he spoke he reached over and caressed the inside of my thigh with the hand not occupied with the steering wheel. "Perhaps you can tell me a bit about your third husband." 

"Absolutely, but if you keep that up, I'm just going to attack you as soon as we arrive, and I'll not take time for the story about my third husband." 

The road's curves got tighter, and Henry wisely decided that he needed both hands to drive, especially at the speed he was maintaining. However, once we got down on the flats among the artichoke and strawberry fields of Monterey County he continued to periodically molest me—just enough to keep my libido at a slow boil. Just to keep things even, I occasionally reached over and stroked his cock through his trousers. 

When we arrived in Carmel, Claude showed us to the cottage, helping with the luggage, and apologizing for not being able to spend more time with us. 

"There is an excellent bottle of Montrachet chilling in the cooler," he said. 

"Oh Claude, you haven't forgotten my tastes," I said. 

He smiled and winked, saying, "Wines are not your only tastes I remember. But now I must go. Henry will have to see to your other tastes." 

"Oh, he will," I responded 

After Claude closed the door Henry said, "Lecherous bastard." 

"See I told you, you would like him. He's a lot like you—only with a French accent." 

Henry laughed and wrapped his arms around me, letting his hands slide down to cup my ass as I rubbed my tits against his chest. 

"So which is it you want first—sex, or to hear about my third husband?" 

"Yes," he said with deliberate ambiguity as he began to nuzzle my neck. 

"Okay," I said. "Here's what we're going to do. You get undressed and get into bed, but take that picnic hamper with you. I'll open the bottle of Montrachet and then join you." 

"What? With your clothes on?" 

"Of course not, you silly man," I said pushing him away. "When have I ever gone to bed with you with my clothes on, although, now that you mention it, we could try the proverbial 'zipless fuck'." 

Within a few minutes we were snuggled naked under the covers sipping the Montrachet and munching on gourmet treats from the picnic hamper—chilled asparagus with thyme-infused mayonnaise that Henry had made from scratch, French goose liver pâté, sesame-covered English biscuits, and so on. 

"Let's see. If I recall correctly, you met your third husband at one of your aunt's orgies well before your second marriage. What was his name? He was a Frenchman, if I recall the story correctly." 

"His name was Yves. Yves Montagne, but I didn't learn that until many years after the first meeting. All that happened that night was that this tall, thin young Frenchman walked naked out of a swimming pool, dropped between my legs and licked my pussy until I was screaming for mercy. Next he moved me to a pool couch and fucked me to about four orgasms. Then he disappeared into the night. I would have done something about finding him then, but I fucked so many other people that night that it was all a little blurry the next day. I got a little carried away. It was my first orgy after all." 

"And so when and where did you next meet this French 'wonderfuck'?" 

"Wunderfuck? That's not a word." 

"Yes it is. I'm English, and I used it, so it must be a word." 

"No it's not. I'm a professional editor, and it's not a word." 

"Yes it is, and you know exactly what it means. But never mind. We're digressing. Tell me the story." As he spoke he ran his fingers lightly around the back and sides of my neck in such a delightful way. Further argument was out of the question. I moved to the story. 

It was in New York about twenty years after the first orgy I attended at my aunt's home. I was sitting in the bar at the Plaza Hotel in New York waiting for Jim and Sandy Worthington to meet me, when this very debonair Frenchman sat down on the bar stool next to me. He told the bartender he was waiting for a car to take him to the airport and ordered a drink. I was doing my best to ignore him, but I couldn't help but notice that, notwithstanding his long hair, which reached nearly to his shoulders, he was devastatingly handsome. I had no idea who he was, and I was really trying not to get involved with him, tempting as it might be, as my boss (I was running the West Coast office by then) and his horny slut of a wife were supposed to be arriving shortly. I could see he was looking at me intently in the mirror behind the bar. 

Finally he turned to me and said, "Excuse me, but I believe we have met." His accent was charming, and his baritone voice very sexy, but what really struck me were his sparkling blue eyes. They radiated sex and sent a jolt directly to my core. 

"Oh really," I said, thinking it a rather obvious pick-up line. "I can't recall the occasion." 

"Yes, yes. I'm sure of it now that I hear your voice. First it was just your eyes. I never forget a beautiful woman's eyes. But your voice is even more distinctive. I remember now. It was at a party in California. Mon Dieu! That had to be fifteen or twenty years ago. I was barely out of college, and a girl I knew dragged me to a party in a really plush neighborhood." He smiled. Well, it was more of a sheepish grin. "It was, how would you say, a really wild party. Wow! I hadn't thought of that night in years." 

I was giving him a very skeptical look, still clueless as to who he was. 

"Yes, perhaps you'll remember. There was a swimming pool, an indoor lap pool. My date and I were at one end and you and your girlfriend and an older gentleman were sitting at the other end. My date and I swam to your end, and that is when we became acquainted. However, I must admit that we were never properly introduced, so I never knew your name, nor I suppose did you know mine." 

I was thinking, party in Pacific Heights, with a swimming pool and a Frenchman who never introduced himself. It sounded like one of Aunt Chloe's parties, but which one? This was intriguing, and he was gorgeous, but who was he? 

I smiled at him and said, "That would have been the mid-to-late-1970s. I went to a lot of parties then, so I think you have me at a disadvantage. Can you tell me more about what we did?" 

He smiled, "Well, it might be indelicate to go into those details in such a public place as this." He gestured at the busy bar room around us as he spoke. "Let me just say that we both made each other very happy, but then a lot of people were making each other happy that evening." 

Oh yes! Had to be one of Aunt Chloe's orgies, I thought. But which one? Hmm, there was a Frenchman at the first orgy, and oh yes, he had made me very happy. So happy I was screaming. I looked at him with a slow smile. "Yes, I think I remember now. It wasn't what one would call a close personal relationship." 

He chuckled. "Well, most people would say it was highly personal but also perhaps a bit shallow, given that we never introduced ourselves." 

"Oh, on the contrary, I found what you did to be deep, very deep. Some would even say penetrating." What the hell was I doing having this conversation with a total stranger in a bar in the Plaza? 

He broke out in a laugh at my tawdry statement, barely able to avoid choking on his drink. Once he recovered his composure, he smiled and said, "Mais oui, you are the one. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Yves Montagne." 

He extended his hand as he spoke. "And I am Kate, Kate O'Neil," I said, as I took his hand. It was firm and warm. I shook it briefly and, as I started to release his hand, he retained a soft grip turning his palm up and leaned forward to kiss the back of my hand. 

"Enchanté," he said. 

Oh, this guy is very dangerous, I thought as he lifted his head from the kiss and stared with his sparkling blue eyes. 

Just then the bartender approached. "Excuse me, Ms. O'Neil. There is a call for you." As he put a house phone in front of me, I thought there are some privileges that come with being a regular in a New York bar. The call was from Jim Worthington, cancelling our dinner date. A disappointment. I had been looking forward to dinner with Jim and Sandy followed by an evening of uninhibited sex with the two of them. He claimed that an urgent business matter had come up. When I asked if it was anything I could help with, he declined. Later I learned that the urgent business matter was the sale of his company to a scorched earth private equity company that would subsequently dismantle it, the son of a bitch! 

As I put the phone down, I turned and looked at Yves with a smile and said, "Well, it appears that I am suddenly at loose ends for the evening. My dinner engagement has just cancelled." 

"His loss and my gain," Yves said with a grin. "Perhaps you could join me for dinner? We could catch up on what we have been doing during the twenty years since we last met." He signaled to the bartender and said, "Her bill and mine on my account please." 

"Of course Mr. Montagne." 

Turning to me he said, "I keep a suite on the top floor here. We can order dinner there if you would like." As he spoke he touched my shoulder, softly and sensually. 

"How nice," I responded. He used the house phone to push his departure schedule back. We finished the drinks and adjourned to his suite. 

I learned a great deal about Yves over dinner. It turned out that he was principal heir to one of France's great family fortunes. Since we had last met, his parents had died, leaving him with ownership and control of a wide range of French-based industrial companies, publishing companies, agricultural businesses and even a number of significant vineyards and a couple of wineries. He had cousins, aunts, uncles and any number of other shirt-tail relatives, but as the only child of Bernard Montagne, he had become the sole owner of Montagne Enterprises, an umbrella company that controlled a long list of subsidiaries in France and other parts of Europe. 

"I must admit, I was what you Americans would call a playboy when we met twenty years ago, but those days are past," he said, adding "I have responsibilities that never end today." 

"Well," I said looking over the top of my wine glass, "My brief impression of you twenty years ago was that you were a very competent playboy. Are you as good at running a conglomerate today as you were twenty years ago at . . . hmm, how shall I say this . . . at partying? I thought you were very good at that." 

He laughed and said, "Thank you, but as to your question about today, I have to say the verdict is not returned yet. Also all of my various relatives and my late father's associates seem to care deeply about that question, although I am not always clear as to which are rooting for me to succeed and which would prefer to see me fail. My father only passed away a year ago, and there is a lot to wrap my arms around." 

We enjoyed a sumptuous bottle of wine from one of his family vineyards as we ate and continued our conversation. By the time we reached the end of dinner and the bottom of the wine bottle, I felt as though we had known each other for all of the intervening twenty years since we had originally met, and I was frankly expecting him, no, wanting him, to propose that we go to bed. There was something about those twinkling blue eyes of his that had been lighting a fire in my core since we had started talking in the bar. By now, every time I shifted in my seat I could feel my wet pussy lips rubbing against each other. Because I had been expecting an evening of debauchery with Jim and Sandy, I had neglected to wear panties. But now as I sat looking into those twinkling blue eyes, Jim and Sandy were far from my mind. He had seduced me intellectually and emotionally. He just needed to finish the job. Fuck, I wanted Yves, now! 

Instead of propositioning me, he looked at his watch and said, "Mon Dieu, look at the time. We must leave now, or my pilots will be beyond their allowed working hours." 

"We?" I said. "And where are we going?" I asked. 

"Why, Paris, of course. I have an important meeting there tomorrow, and there is so much I want to show you. We must leave for Paris immediately. My plane awaits." 

I laughed. "Oh, you are tempting, Yves. So, so tempting. But no. Much as I would like to run off to Paris with you, I can't. Like you, I have grown up since the last time we met, and I too have an important meeting tomorrow, here in New York with an author who has written an interesting novel we want to publish. I couldn't possibly leave New York before tomorrow afternoon." 

"But can't you delegate that duty to one of your underlings? You are the Managing Editor. You must have people to do things for you." 

"Only the West Coast Managing Editor," I reminded him, "and yes, I have people who work for me, but some things I just have to do myself, just as you feel you must make your meeting in Paris tomorrow. Besides, you own your company, I merely work for mine." No need to tell him that I regularly sleep with the principal owner and his wife, I thought. 

We went back and forth like that for a couple of more rounds before he finally capitulated. "All right, I understand. So you can fly over tomorrow afternoon on the Concorde. It leaves just after lunch and will get you to Paris in time to join me for a late dinner." 

"No, my meeting with the prospect is a lunch meeting." 

"All right, so you can just fly overnight, and we will be together again on Saturday morning? I'll tell you what. I'll send my plane back for you. I can get a different crew, and they can pick you up at Teterboro at 5:00 p.m. tomorrow." Teterboro is a small airfield just across the river in Jersey—the airfield of choice for corporate aircraft. 

I was charmed and intrigued. And, I also remembered how good the sex had been with him twenty years ago. I leaned back in my chair, my legs crossed with one leg flipping a toe in the air, my pump dangling from it, as I thought about his proposition. I knew I needed to also have time to talk to Jim Worthington tomorrow. He had said we needed to talk business and it was important. That meant I could be tied up most of the afternoon. Jim was never available in the morning. 11:30 was an obscenely early start for him. Twenty years earlier I would have gone with Yves immediately without a thought about who I was committed to or for what on the next day, but damn, this business of being a grownup could be tough. 

Finally I said, "Five might be a little early. Can we make it seven? It can take awhile to get out to that little airport in Teterboro on a Friday evening, and I several things to do here in New York tomorrow afternoon." 

"Done! The plane will be waiting for you at Teterboro at seven tomorrow evening. If you are wheels up by 7:30 you will be in Paris by 9:30 on Saturday morning. I promise you I will show you Paris as you have never seen it." 

He stepped to the phone to call for a car to take him to Teterboro and to tell his pilots he was leaving mid-town shortly. He was still on the phone with the pilots when I stepped in behind him and began to nuzzle the back of his neck while I rubbed my tits against his back. "How much time until your car is here?" I whispered. As he finished his call with the pilot, I reached around with my hands and began to rub his prick through his pants. It became instantly erect. 

"Twenty minutes," he responded. 

"Good. That's plenty of time." 

Some wise person once told me, "Never let a man you care about leave home with a hard on." If I couldn't stop him from leaving so we could spend the night fucking, I was sure as hell going to give him a blowjob to remember me by. 

He turned in my arms so that my hands, which had been stroking his cock, were now cupping his ass and I could feel his erect cock against my belly. Yves slid a hand between us and began to massage one of my breasts through my clothes. It felt divine. I pulled his hips hard against me, and he kissed me, forcing a long nasty tongue into my mouth. It was a wet sloppy kiss that went on forever. Without breaking the kiss I pushed him back a couple of steps until the back of his knees hit a couch. Another light push dropped him onto the couch. I fell to my knees between his legs and began to slowly and sensually release his belt and zipper. I took my time and looked straight into those sexy blue eyes as I opened his trousers. He raised his hips and I pulled his pants and boxers off, letting them pool at his feet. He wasn't going to need to walk anywhere for the next few minutes. 

Then I leaned back and began to slowly unbutton my blouse. I didn't take it off, but I soon had it fully open, and then I released my front clasping bra so my naked breasts were exposed. I put a hand under each one and lifted them, holding them out to him in invitation and still staring at those so-sexy blue eyes. I could see that as I did this he had reached down with one hand and began stroking his cock. He didn't have the biggest cock I had ever seen, but I thought it was beautiful and, just like the rest of him, stunningly sexy. There was a shiny drop of precum on the head. 




Looking Back Ch. 10



Still holding my tits out towards him, I leaned forward and gently touched the head of his cock with the very erect nipple of my right tit, transferring the drop of precum from his cock to my nipple. Then I leaned back again, still holding up the breast that had touched his prick and using the fingertips of my other hand, began to massage the drop of precum into my nipple. So fucking sensual. I closed my eyes and let out a quiet gasp from the sensation. He continued to stare and softly stroke his cock. 

Opening my eyes, I saw that another drop of precum had emerged, and I repeated the process with my left breast. Then I leaned forward and begin to lick the head of his cock—slow sensual strokes that circled the glans and slowly approached the, oh-so-sensitive tip, just as a really good lover does with a woman's nipple. As I reached the tip, he gasped and said something in French I didn't understand. I spoke adequate French, but I didn't know any of the words lovers use (other than "fuck," which seems to be universal). Yves later saw to it that I became fluent in French obscenities. 

I pulled his hand away from his cock and took it as far into my mouth as I could, sucking hard as I pulled back. I began bobbing my head repeating the process. Yves was laying back with his head on the back of the couch, his hands behind his head, and his eyes closed, lost in the sensations my mouth was creating on his prick. I have never been able to swallow a cock without gagging, so there were still a couple of inches of his shaft exposed when the head of his prick hit the back of my throat. Each time I came to the top, I deliberately let saliva slip down the shaft so that the lower part was soon well lubricated, allowing me to use my hand to jack as much of his cock as was exposed at each stage of my rhythm. I used a twisting motion with my hand that I knew would bring most men to climax rapidly. 

I was using my other hand to massage his balls. I could tell he was getting close because I could feel them tightening and pulling up towards his prick. At the same time his prick was swelling and becoming even harder than it was when we had started. 

I pulled my head back and looked at him, "Are you close?" 

"Oh fuck! Oui!" followed by a string of French obscenities I didn't understand. 

I rubbed the now very slippery head of his prick against my tits again and then resumed my sucking and jacking. Now he had grabbed my head with both hands and was fucking my face. I felt him stiffen and then there was a blast of hot cum hitting the back of my mouth as he swore in French. It was followed by at least three or four more major eruptions that filled my mouth. I had planned on swallowing his cum, but there was so much that came so quickly. A large amount escaped, running down my chin and dripping onto my tits and my blouse. 

Yves lay back, recovering for a moment, as I just sat on my knees, cum dripping down my face and tits and staining my blouse, enjoying my success. 

He finally spoke. "Fuck! Oh fuck! Mon Dieu! You are really good at that." 

"Merci, Monsieur," I said with a smile on my cum-splattered face. 

Yves looked at his watch. "Yes, we have time! Change places with me and pull your dress up." 

Not one to argue in situations such as this, I hopped onto the couch, pulled my dress up around my hips, and spread my legs apart as he dropped between them, exposing my naked pussy. He paused when he saw that I was naked beneath the dress. 

"Oh, so this wasn't a business dinner you were planning tonight? Something more romantic perhaps?" 

"A little of both. I have an unorthodox relationship with my boss and his wife, although I would never use the word 'romance' to describe it. 'Erotic' would be more accurate, or perhaps just plain 'nasty'." 

"How convenient," he said. "And they don't object to you having, shall we say, other interests." 

"Oh no. They encourage it, and they like to hear all the sordid details when we are focused on the non-business side of our relationship, in a discreet manner of course. They aren't really interested in who—just what and how." 

"How nasty," he said. "You must introduce me sometime, but now, tempus fugit." 

He leaned forward and began using his long tongue to make slow soft strokes up the outer lips of my pussy, carefully avoiding my clit, which was already extended beyond its hood. Fuck, it felt good. Next he slid two fingers into my cunt and began to slowly stroke them in and out. He used his thumb to spread my outer lips so his tongue could work the sensitive tissue beneath them. 

As he had done, I laid my head back on the back of the couch, closed my eyes, and let the sensations he was causing wash through me. While I lay there, I massaged the cum that had spilled onto my tits into them and then began to pull and twist on my nipples. It was so fucking good. I could feel myself rapidly marching towards a climax. 

"Oh fuck," I moaned as he accelerated the pace of his finger-fucking. "Oh god, yes. That is so good! So, so, so fucking good." 

"I know you have to leave, so make me cum. Make me cum hard. Now!" I grabbed his head and pushed it against my crotch. 

Now his fingers were curled with their tips pressing on my g-spot. I could feel the pressure for a climax building. Then he flicked my clit with his tongue. Just once and lightly, but that pushed me over the edge. I screamed as my climax washed over me and then moaned and cried as it continued in waves. His fingers continued to fuck me and his lips were now sucking on my clit. The climax rolled through my body in waves until I had to push his head away, unable to stand any more stimulation. 

I lay back against the couch panting and trying to recover. Finally, I sat up and leaned forward, taking his head in my hands. "You're so, so good at that. Maybe better than you were twenty years ago." Then we kissed, a long, wet sloppy kiss in which our tongues dueled and we savored the taste of each other's ejaculate. 

Finally, I pushed him away and lay back against the couch as he stood, pulling his clothing back into place. My dress was still around my hips, my legs spread lewdly, and my breasts partially, but inadequately covered by my cum-stained blouse. I noticed as he dressed that his cock had recovered and was standing erect. I looked at it and thought how nice a long slow fuck would be, but when I spoke I said, "Now go. Pull up your pants and get to your plane. We both have to be adults now. I will see you Saturday in Paris, and we will fuck then." 

And I did and we did.



Looking Back Ch. 11



In Chapter one our heroine, Kate, a successful businesswoman turning 60, has asked herself a troubling question. Is she a slut? Thus began a series of chapters in which she describes to her husband Henry (her fourth husband) her life beginning with her late teen years and her sexual activities at each stage. The portion in italics in each story is her recollection of some memorable sexual experience from her past. In this chapter Kate recounts the story of a lost weekend in Paris with Yves, her third husband to be. 

It was midnight and cold in Carmel. Well, as cold as Carmel gets, which would be considered a heat wave in a Minnesota winter. It really didn't matter to Henry and me, given that we were sitting naked in a hot tub on the secluded back porch of the cottage behind my friends Carmel B&B. I was sitting on Henry's lap, my back to his chest, my legs spread wide, and his cock plugged firmly into my pussy. He was gently massaging my tits, both of us enjoying a long leisurely fuck as the completion of a marvelous day of "us time" in Carmel. 

We had started our day with a picnic in bed during which we consumed an excellent bottle of wine while I related to Henry my story of how I had met my third husband, Yves, for the second time, some twenty years after I had first met him, and then engaged in some delicious oral sex with him before he had to run off to Paris. The story inspired Henry to the point that he insisted that he and I replicate, there in our cozy rented Carmel cottage, the oral sex that Yves and I had engaged in that evening long ago in New York. Then Henry and I slept, curled naked in each other's arms, and followed that with a walk on a windswept beach at sunset. It was an absolutely perfect afternoon, followed by a stunning meal in one of Carmel's finer restaurants and now, a nightcap and a slow languorous fuck in the hot tub. I was thinking life couldn't get any better, when Henry interrupted my reverie. 

"Kate, my dear, you know you kind of left me hanging earlier this afternoon." 

"Really? As I recall, you flooded my mouth with your cum and then ate me to a screaming climax. I was under the impression that we were both satiated. I hardly think I left you hanging." 

"Oh no, no. The sex was great, as it always is with you, my dear. It was your story about your third husband I was referring to. As I recall, you picked up this fellow Yves up in the bar at the Plaza, let him buy you dinner, sucked him dry, and then he jumped in his private jet and ran off to Paris, leaving you with a promise of a jet to bring you up behind him the next evening. That's not like you to get left in the lurch like that." 

"Hmm, you're sweet Henry, but I really wasn't 'left in the lurch' as you say. First, it was me who declined to go to Paris with Yves. Second, after I sucked him dry, as you so charmingly put it, he returned the favor to me, just as you did this afternoon. And finally, he did in fact send his plane back for me the next day so I could join him in Paris for what I planned to be a lost weekend." 

"Okay, but I still want to hear about what happened in Paris. Some of the best sex I've ever had (present company excepted, of course) has been in Paris. It's so good there I sometimes am surprised that the French haven't claimed they invented sex." 

"Not just yet," I said as I stood, letting his cock slip from my pussy. "I can't really focus on telling you the story accurately until we finish what we have started here. Your cock is just too distracting." As I spoke, I leaned over the coaming of the hot tub, facing away from Henry with my legs spread just enough so that so my ass was fully out of the water, and my pussy readily accessible to him. "Well," I said, looking back at him, "Are you going to finish fucking me or not? It's the only way you are going to get the rest of the story about my trip to Paris with Yves." 

"You drive such a hard bargain," he said with a lewd chuckle as he stepped up behind me and grabbed my hips. "Oh God, you have such a sexy ass," he continued as he pulled me toward him. 

I could feel his still stiff cock probing the entrance to my cunt. He had pulled me far enough back from the edge of the tub so that I was leaning on my elbows, and my tits were swinging freely beneath me. I reached back with one hand and guided his prick into my waiting pussy. "Oh fuck! That's so good," I said with a groan. 

Henry groaned in response as he pushed forward with his hips and slid his hard dick to the end of my cunt. 

"Oh, oh! Oh fuck! Yes that's it. Now fuck me hard. I need to cum! Now, god damn it!" 

He paused, his cock half way into my pussy. "So if I do this, you horny slut, you promise you'll tell me about your weekend in Paris with your French lover?" 

"Oh fuck, yes. I'll tell you anything. Just don't stop. That feels so good. You've got the greatest cock in the world." 

I pushed back with my hips just as he rammed his hips forward. It felt like he was going to split me in half. "Yes! Oh fuck yes!" I yelled in surprise. 

Now he really got into it, fucking me with a steady rhythm that I knew would bring both of us to a climax soon. That was one of the best things about my relationship with Henry. We both had this uncanny ability to time our climaxes so they were in synch with the other. 

He took a hand off my hips and reached forward to grab one of my wildly swinging tits. Without a pause in the rhythm of his fucking he grabbed a nipple and began to pinch it and pull on it. It sent a shock straight to my pussy. 

I could feel his cock swelling. He was getting close to cumming, so I reached back with a free hand and began to rub my clit, softly at first and then with more force and speed. Oh fuck, yes I was getting so close to cumming. I could feel it building towards a climax. 

"Harder!" I yelled. "Fuck me harder. I'm almost there. Oh shit!" 

Henry returned both hands to my hips and began to pound me with everything he had. I knew he couldn't last long at that pace, and within about five strokes or so I felt him stop, his cock fully rammed to the end of my cunt. He groaned, "Oh shit!" and then I felt that first hot spurt of his cum in my cunt. 

That set me off, and I screamed as my cunt clamped down on his dick. I felt three or four more spurts of his cum while my own climax roared through my body in waves. And then we were spent, me collapsed on the deck along side the hot tub, my legs and hips still in the water, and Henry collapsed on top of me. 

Eventually he lifted himself off of me, saying softly, "Mmmmmm. That was nice." He paused, as he collected his wits, I suppose, finally saying, "Let's take the remainder of this bottle of Sancerre inside, and you can tell me the story you promised about your lost weekend in Paris." 

We bundled ourselves into the large fluffy robes we had brought out from the cottage with us and went inside where we poured ourselves another glass of the delicious Loire Valley white wine and snuggled together on a couch. 

"So you want to hear about my lost weekend in Paris with Yves?" 

"Oh, oui oui," he said in a mocking, badly executed, French accent. 

"Okay, but first a bit more background on what happened in New York before I left for Paris. It was one of the worst days of my career in the publishing industry. First I had my lunch meeting with the author I was trying to recruit. It did not go well. He showed up with his agent in tow, always a bad sign. I think they just let me buy lunch, even though they had already made up their mind to go with another publisher. Nothing I could say would dissuade him—the worthless bastard. I hate losing." 

"So I have noticed," Henry interjected. 

"Then I had my meeting with Jim Worthington. I wasn't looking forward to telling him I had failed to land the author I had lunched with, but oddly, he didn't seem to care. I soon found out why. He told me he had just inked a deal to sell the company to a leveraged buyout fund from Chicago. His story got worse. He and Sandy were going to retire to their horse ranch in Connecticut, and the buyer wanted me to run the company—from New York. They had already made up their mind they were going to close the San Francisco office and consolidate operations in New York. 'Cost cutting' is a holy mantra for those kind of guys." 

"I was shocked, so shocked I didn't know what to say. Jim thought I would be excited about moving to New York and getting to run the whole company, but I was dismayed at the idea that he and the new buyer wanted me to dismantle everything I had built over the last five years in San Francisco and move to New York to run a stripped down, over-levered company. 'No fucking way,' was what I was thinking, but I had the good sense not to say it. I simply told him that I was very surprised and that I had committed to go to Paris that evening to interview another author (a harmless lie). I told him I needed to think about his proposal, and I would be back the following week." 

"Wow, that was quite an afternoon," Henry interjected. 

"Yeah, it sucked, but as it turned out, my lost weekend in Paris was more like ten days, and somewhere early in that period, I sent Jim Worthington a brief cable that said, "Fuck you, strong letter to follow," or words to that effect. 

"So your good sense deserted you after a bit of time in bed with your new French lover?" Henry asked. 

"On the contrary, my good sense asserted itself with a good deal of force. I figured out that, with the option position I had in the company, which would be cashed out no matter what I decided to do about Jim's offer, some considerable resources I had inherited from my recently deceased Aunt Chloe, and the possibility of having a two-continent life with Yves based in San Francisco and Paris, I couldn't see a single reason why I should move to New York, a city I really never liked, to run a crippled version of the company I had helped Jim build. I could split my time between San Francisco and Paris, enjoying the resources I had accumulated, or I could live full time in New York working for a group of soulless financial guys. Duh! How hard was that choice? It was time to move on." 

"So now are you going to tell me about your weekend, or ten days, or whatever it was in Paris with Yves?" 

"Okay, if that's what you really want, you lecherous bastard." 

"Me, lecherous?" 

"You know you are. That's why I married you. You have one of the dirtiest minds I've ever come across." 

"Enough with the flattery. Get on with the story." 

"I smiled and told the story:" 

When I arrived at the private air terminal at Teterboro, there was a shiny new G-5 corporate jet waiting for me bearing the tail number given me by Yves the night before. We took off promptly and the crew efficiently served me an outstanding meal of Boeuf Bourguignon, side vegetables with a marvelous hollandaise sauce, flaky dinner rolls, and an outstanding Burgundy from one of Yves' family wineries. I drank a bit more of the wine than I probably should have, but it merely put me promptly to sleep. I got a good solid five hours sleep in the full-size bed that graced the back cabin of the aircraft. As I drifted off to sleep, I put Jim Worthington and his treachery out of my mind and dreamed of making love with Yves in the secluded back cabin of the aircraft—something that was to occur on numerous occasions in the future. 

Eight hours later we were landing at the private air terminal in Paris, Le Bourget. Customs was perfunctory, as it always is at an air terminal that caters exclusively to business travelers on private aircraft, and I was soon in a sleek black Mercedes headed for the heart of Paris. The driver handed me a note from Yves explaining that his directors' meeting had run over for an additional half a day and that the driver would take me to the apartment he kept in downtown Paris where he hoped to meet me by two p.m. Yves' delay was fine with me, as I felt I could use a couple of hours of additional sleep to ward off jet lag for the evening. 

Yves' apartment occupied the top floor of a 19th century building on the fashionable Boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Prés. I used the key given me by the driver to gain entry to the building and then the apartment itself. 

The apartment was an eye opener. The walls were decorated with very large pieces of what can only be described as erotic artwork. There were naked women, their legs lewdly spread, some openly masturbating and the remainder lewdly displaying themselves, naked men stroking rigid erections, couples of all gender mixes, and a variety of threesomes and foursomes, all engaged in a wide range of graphically depicted sex acts. Not everyone was nude. Women might be dressed in heels, stockings and various other under garments, men in anything from jockey shorts to business suits, but in all cases, the garments were arrayed in such a way that they were obscenely exposing the wearer's breasts or genitals. 

Most of it was photographic, but some pieces were drawings or paintings, fully as graphic as the photographic pieces. There were also pieces of sculpture, equally lewd in nature—typically a stone carved fragment of a human form such as an erect penis, or a female vagina, its outer lips spread lewdly with a carved hand fingering the top of the lips obviously stroking the clit. There was even a sculpture of male and female hips joined together by an erect cock two-thirds inserted into the woman's cunt. I suppose that some people might have been offended, but being my usual randy self, I found the whole thing highly erotic. 

As I browsed his bookshelves I found Yves had an extensive collection of erotic fiction in a wide range of languages, much of it illustrated with more erotic pictures and drawings. The thought of catching a nap was long gone by now and I sat in a comfortable armchair reading an illustrated piece of erotica. By the time Yves showed up a couple of hours later, there was nothing I wanted more than to pick up where we had left off when he left New York for Paris 48 hours earlier. The erotica had successfully pushed thoughts of that son-of-a-bitch Jim Worthington out of my mind. 

"Yves!" I exclaimed as he walked in the door. I jumped from my chair, strode quickly across the room and threw my arms around him. 

"I'm so sorry I couldn't meet you," he said. "Directors. Mon Dieu. They just love to hear themselves talk, on and on and on. As one of my English lawyers told me once, Board meetings are 'a great deal of sound and fury signifying nothing'." 

"It sounds like your day was not a great deal better than mine," I said. "But now I want to help you put it aside while we pick up where we left off 48 hours ago. I had a truly crappy day in New York on Friday, but I have put it all out of my mind and you should do the same." As I spoke I dropped my hands to his hips and pulled up on his ass so his rapidly swelling prick was pressing against my belly and I rubbed my tits against his chest. 

"Right now," I said, continuing my chatter. I want to get a quick shower to wash the filth of New York off me. I would have done it sooner, but I was distracted by this rather unique art collection you have here." 

"Oh, so you like it," Yves said pulling his upper body back to look at me, while still leaving our hips pressed together. 

"Umm, yes. Very much." I pulled one of his hands off my ass and put it on my tit, which he promptly began to massage. "I suppose some people might be put off by it, but I'm not that type," I said. As I spoke I unbuttoned my blouse and released the front clasp on my bra, allowing him to massage my tits. 

"And what type are you?" Yves asked. 

"Well, some people have said I'm a slut, but I don't think so." I slipped out of my blouse and the bra fell away so I was naked from the waist up. Yves dropped his head and began to nuzzle my tits, soon taking one nipple and then the other between his lips. 

I groaned in delight at what he was doing to me. "No, I've never thought of myself as a slut. I just like sex. A lot. A whole lot! And I've never been very good at saying no." As I spoke, I reached down and began to stroke his very erect dick through his trousers. 

"I certainly hope you aren't going to learn to say no this afternoon." 

"Hardly," I responded. "We still have unfinished business from Thursday night." Now I had his zipper down and his beautiful cock released from his boxers so I could stroke it more effectively, while he continued to suck on my nipples. 

He stood up looking down at me and used his hands to lift both of my tits while I continued to stroke his cock. "And what kind of unfinished business might that be?" he asked. 

I released his cock and stood on my toes trapping it against my bare stomach and whispered in his ear, "I want to fuck!" 

"Oh really," he said, his hands now cupping my ass and pulling me into him. "I wouldn't have guessed. I think perhaps we are overdressed, and perhaps we should go to the bedroom. I've always found it an excellent place for fucking," with forceful emphasis on the last word. 

We stumbled toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of shoes and clothing behind us. By the time we flopped down on top of the bed we were both naked. "You aren't one of those men who only like to do it under the covers in the dark are you?" I asked in a teasing tone. 

He laughed. "Certainly not, but right now we have unfinished business from Thursday night, and this bed seems the most convenient place to resume." 

I rolled to my back and spread my legs in invitation. "Oh yes we do. Let's fuck!" 

Yves crawled between my legs and soon had his rigid cock inserted in my slippery wet cunt. "Oh, you are very wet," he said as he began to pump his cock in an out of my cunt. 

"It's all that porn you left me alone with for two hours," I said. 

"Oh, and I thought it was just me," he said as he began to stroke his dick in and out. 

"Oh god. That's so good." He had the perfect sized dick—big enough to make me feel really full without being so big it was painful. 

Yves was on his knees with the remainder of his weight on his arms on either side of my shoulders, fucking me with a long, firm, rhythmic stroke. I reached down with my hands and grabbed my knees, pulling my legs back and rocking my hips up. Oh fuck, it felt like he was going to split me in half when I did that. So fucking good! 

I couldn't keep quiet now. I was babbling, "Yes, yes, yes . . . Oh yes, that's it. . . Oh fuck yes . . . fuck me . . . fuck me harder!" 

"Yes, you are a slut aren't you? You've been wanting this ever since I left you on Thursday. Didn't you? You horny slut!" 

"Oh, oh, oh. Fuck yes. Yes I'm your slut. I've been so horny, and this is what I wanted. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. That's it. So fucking good!" 

I knew I wasn't going to last much longer. I am usually able to resist a quick climax like the one I felt coming, but there was something about Yves that was rapidly causing me to lose control. 

"Oh fuck! God, I'm cumming. I'm cumming now. Aaaaahhh!" As I screamed, the muscles in my pussy clamped down on his cock. I felt him freeze deep in my cunt, fully extended as far into me as he could get, and then I felt the heat of his cum squirting deep within me, again and again, as I heard him groan in ecstasy and felt him ejaculate at the core of my being. 

Yves collapsed on top of me, and then we rolled on our sides, still coupled, but both satiated. Now, perhaps, the shower I wanted, I thought, but then we both fell asleep. 




Looking Back Ch. 11



When I awoke two hours later he was gone. I was still naked, but now covered by a blanket. I sat up and then stepped out of bed and walked naked into the bathroom, where I found a stack of fresh, warm, fluffy towels topped with a note from 

Yves: 

"Ma amant, 

I have to go out for a few hours for another meeting, this time with the lawyers. It never ends. I recommend the shower followed by a long soak in the bathtub. We have a dinner reservation at 9:00 tonight. There are several dresses on the right side of the closet that I believe will fit you. I will be back by 8:00. 

Je t'aime,, 

Yves 

I started with a lengthy session in his walk-in shower to wash the grime of New York and dealing with Jim Worthington off my skin and out of my hair, and then, following Yves advice, I moved on to a long delicious soak in his oversized claw-foot tub. I had really wanted to do this before I made love with Yves, but passion had gotten the better of us, as it always should. 

The tub was delicious. I think I fell asleep, because when I decided I had been soaking long enough the water was getting tepid, and my fingertips were getting wrinkled. I got out, dried myself with the oversized towel that was conveniently placed at my disposal and then walked naked to the closet to check out the dresses mentioned in his note. I sincerely hoped there was something that would fit me, as I had brought very few clothes with me, and most of them needed laundering after my time in New York. My meeting with Jim Worthington was so unpleasant I was considering burning the dress I had worn. The bastard! 

I picked out a lovely little black cocktail dress that fit me perfectly. I was naked when I tried it on, and after looking at how it thinly disguised my tits and hugged my butt, I decided it was the right dress and that I could get by without underwear for the evening. There was a strappy little pair of heels that fit divinely and made my ass look even better than it had before. Yves had clearly done some very effective clandestine research on me, or he had an ex whose body was an uncanny match for mine. 

I spent the next half hour fussing with my hair and make-up. As I stood before a full-length mirror and pirouetted on my toes, I decided that the overall effect was satisfactory, very satisfactory. It was an outfit that would make men think about what you looked like naked on their first look, yet no one could say that I wasn't fully clothed. The dress, especially without bra and panties, covered me fully (except for a generous exposure of cleavage) and still gave a strong suggestion of nudity. Perfect. I added a pair of gold earrings, a string of pearls. A girl should never leave home without her pearls and a simple pair of gold earrings. Finally, a modest hint of perfume behind my ears and between my breasts. 

Just as I was doing another turn before the mirror, I heard the key open the lock on the door to the living room, followed by Yves' voice, "Darling I'm home. I'm so sorry I had to rush off this afternoon, but the lawyers insisted . . ." 

He stopped in midsentence as I walked into the room. I love it when I have that effect on a man. 

"Oh my . . . you're stunning, simply stunning." 

"You like? Thank you. I followed your suggestions and looked through the closet to see if I could find something suitable to go out to dinner in." 

"But tell me, Yves dear, whose clothes are these? Is there another woman you haven't told me about?" 

"Ah well, yes, those belonged to my ex-wife. She didn't quite take everything with her when she left, and now that the divorce settlement is final they are mine to dispose of as I see fit . . . and I love the way they fit, on you that is." 

Nice answer, I thought, but I would bet a month's wages there are other women in his life beyond his ex-wife. But then again, who am I to complain about that? It's not like there aren't other men in my life. 

"I would love to peel you out of that dress and take you to bed immediately, but it will have to wait. We have a dinner reservation at a lovely little bistro over in the Marais in an hour, so I have just time enough to grab a quick shower and clean clothes. I have been with investment bankers and lawyers since I last saw you, and I need to wash them off before I take someone as lovely as you to dinner." He was peeling his jacket and tie off and striding toward the bedroom and bath as he talked. 

As we walked through the bedroom, he shed the rest of his clothes and tossed them at the bed, still unmade after our afternoon's romp. I followed him into the bath, listening to him chatter on about how annoying his meetings of the last two days had been. He was even more beautiful naked than he was clothed. I can't say that about every man I have loved. 

As he chattered on, venting his frustrations, I learned that while he was the sole shareholder of his father's company, Montagne Enterprises, there were a variety of his relatives and his father's former partners who owned minority interests in a number of the subsidiary companies controlled by the parent. All of them wanted something, mostly money, and were pressing him with various plans to sell the parts of the company that would generate cash for them, or in some cases to sell the entire company. It was, "a fucking mess," as Yves put it succinctly. 

He was still babbling on about specific individuals who were causing him problems as he emerged from the shower. I let him continue to vent, understanding that sometimes people just wanted someone to listen to them complain about problems without trying to suggest solutions. Eventually, as he finished toweling the water off his body, he paused for a moment. I stepped in close to his still naked body, warm from the hot shower he had just had. "Darling," I said as I caressed his dick, "it sounds like you've had a dreadful day. Now I want you to get dressed, and we are going to go out and have a lovely dinner, and I will help you forget about all of these problems for the rest of the evening. I could feel his dick swelling in my hand, but I knew we didn't have time to go any further now, so I stepped back and sat in a chair, my legs crossed and the dress casually pulled up to mid-thigh, while I watched him dress. 

Dinner that evening was marvelous. Yves seemed to know all of the wait staff and the chef-owner. The owner was apparently on old friend of his father. The only problem was that by the time dinner was completed, the jet lag had caught up with me, and I was struggling to keep from falling asleep. The wine we had consumed with dinner hadn't helped things any. 

When we returned to Yves' apartment I peeled off the dress and fell into bed naked. The stresses of the last couple of days appeared to have caught up with Yves also, as he did basically the same thing. We curled into a spoon position and both promptly crashed. 

When I awoke the next morning, the sun was streaming in the windows off the bedroom. It was a beautiful fall Sunday morning. Yves was lying next to me on his back, most of his naked body no longer covered by the blanket. I propped myself up on an elbow taking in the view of his body, and then I had the most deliciously nasty idea. It was something I had never done with a lover before. 

I sat up and leaned forward, using one hand to softly pick up Yves cock and guide it to my mouth. It was soft, but began to respond to my ministrations quickly. As it grew, I heard Yves begin to wake. Now he had his head up and was watching me with a sleepy dreamy-eyed look. His cock was fully erect now, and I was taking it as far in as I could and sucking hard on it as I withdrew. 

"Mon dieu! What a way to wake up." 

I released his cock from my mouth and looked at him with a lascivious smile over the top of his prick, which I continued to jack with my hand. "You like?" I asked. 

"Oh fuck, yes!" he responded. 

I continued to look at him and jack his cock, now with two hands. Then I swung a leg over him and arranged myself on my knees so I was poised over his prick. I had been dreaming about fucking him before I awoke, so I was good and wet and I simply let myself down onto his prick. I gasped a bit as I sank on to him and he filled my cunt. 

"Good morning lover," I said. "I wanted to do this last night, but the jet lag just did me in even before we finished dinner." 

I was sitting on him, his prick fully impaling me, but making no effort to begin really fucking. Then I felt his cock twitch inside me. He followed that by flexing his hips to drive his prick even further into me. 

"Oh fuck!" 

He did it again, and again. Not really fucking me hard, but establishing a rhythm of short thrusts of his prick further into me. I still didn't move my hips. I just let him continue his slow rhythmic pumping, while I began massaging my tits. It was a delicious low voltage fuck, but I knew it would lead to something stronger. 

Finally I leaned forward and began to rub my nipples across the light hair on his chest. God that feels good I thought. The light varying pressure of his chest hairs on my nipples was so erotic. I could feel my pussy warming up, getting ready for the climax to come, but not in any particular rush. 

When I leaned forward my hips had risen away from his, allowing his cock to come about half way out of my cunt. Now he began to use his hips more forcefully, energetically driving his rigid prick into my cunt, and then letting it withdraw to half or even mostly out as his hips sunk down. Each withdrawal was followed by a forceful thrust of his cock back to the limits my cunt could accept. I rose just a bit so my tits were swinging just over his chest and then I began to use my hips in rhythm with his thrusts, doubling the force with which he drove his cock into me on each thrust. 

Now we were seriously fucking, and I was becoming verbal about it. "Oh fuck! Fuuuuuuck! So good, yes, yes, yes! That's it, fuck me!" and a lot of unintelligible moaning. I wasn't really close, but we were in a good rhythm, and I was just enjoying the fuck. 

After a couple of minutes, I said, "Behind. Fuck me from behind." We repositioned ourselves with me on my elbows and knees, my ass lewdly in the air, and Yves on his knees behind me. He grabbed my ass with both hands and then I felt that delicious cock of his intrude into my cunt again. Oh god, it went so deep into me in this position. He began to fuck me slowly, and then faster and harder. 

I could hear him groaning now as his climax approached. I reached back with one hand and began to stroke my clit. "Oh fuck! I'm close! I'm going to cum!" 

He said something in French I couldn't follow, and then I felt him squirt his hot cum deep into my pussy as he groaned loudly. That did it. I screamed, an involuntary scream. I don't even know what I said. As I screamed my cunt cramped down on his spurting cock and the orgasm ripped through my entire body, or it at least felt like it. We held our position for what seemed like an eternity as our mutual climax wound down and then collapsed sideways, where we lay while our bodies recovered. 

Finally I said sleepily, "Bonjour. It's a beautiful Sunday morning." 

"Eh oui." He was silent for a moment. Then, "Sunday! What time is it?" 

I felt him move as he looked at his watch. "Oh, oui, oui, it's Sunday! If we hurry and get dressed, we will just have time for a coffee and croissant before Mass." 

Mass? He expected me to go to Mass with him? 

"Yves," I said. "I was raised a Catholic, but I haven't been to Mass for about twenty years or so." 

"Then don't you think it's about time? Come on, we will go to St. Germain-des-Prés. It is the oldest church in Paris. I have been going there since I was eight years old when my father first moved the family to Paris from Bourgogne." 

So I went to Mass for the first time in twenty years. I wore the clothes I had worn to dinner the night before with a black silk scarf over my head and draped down so that it covered my bare back. The décolletage was probably a bit much for church, but I seemed to get away with it. At least no one asked me to leave. The coffee and croissant at a near by café were delicious, but hurried, and the Mass, well, it might have been better if my French were better, but it still wasn't as bad as I remembered Mass being. Maybe it was the company I was keeping. 

As we emerged from the church, the elderly priest who had said the Mass greeted Yves effusively with a bear hug and a kiss on each cheek. They chattered in French for a moment as other parishioners slipped around us. Eventually Yves politely introduced me as his friend Kate from California, and the priest quickly switched to excellent English. It seemed that he had lived in the Bay Area for a few years as a young priest. He wanted to know if the Giants were going to win the World Series this year. 

Afterward Yves and I stood in the plaza before the church, his arm casually around my waist, joined together at the hips. I was thinking about how I would screw him this afternoon. Then Yves spoke up. 

"Today is the last day of the summer concert series in Jardins de Luxembourg. They will have a full symphony orchestra. We must go. Yes, yes, it is a day for a picnic!" 

So I went to a picnic in Luxembourg Gardens on a warm Paris fall afternoon, still wearing my slinky black cocktail dress and my strappy little black heels. We had a tasty vegetable quiche, a bean salad, rolls, sweet melon balls wrapped in prosciutto, and a delicate Rosé while we listened to the symphony. It was lovely. Afterwards we returned to Yves' flat and made love again. A truly marvelous day.



Looking Back Ch. 12



In Chapter one our heroine, Kate, a successful businesswoman turning 60, has asked herself a troubling question. Is she a slut? Thus began a series of chapters in which she describes to her husband Henry (her fourth husband) her life beginning with her late teen years and her sexual activities at each stage. The portion in italics in each story is her recollection of some memorable sexual experience from her past. In this chapter Kate tells Henry of a night of debauchery she enjoyed with her third husband and his licentious friends at a very private club in Paris. 

Henry and I awoke to a cold, gray Carmel dawn. Overnight the fog had rolled in off the Pacific. We were lying in bed comfortably warmed by each other and a lovely down comforter, when our bliss was interrupted by a soft knock at the cottage door.  

"Oh, I'll bet it's Claude with breakfast," I said, as I stood and walked across the room to answer the door. 

"My dear," Henry said, as I reached for the doorknob, "Aren't you forgetting something?" 

"What?" 

"You're naked." 

"It's only Claude. He's seen me naked lots of times before." 

"Oh, yes, of course," Henry responded in a dry tone implying that he still didn't totally approve. 

I turned and looked back at Henry, my hand still on the knob. "Since when did you become such a Puritan?" 

"Oh, never mind. You're right, of course. Just let him in. I'm starving." 

He still sounded a little put off, but I put it down to early morning low blood sugar. I had been with Henry enough to learn the beast in him had to be fed first thing each morning or he wasn't worth a damn. 

As I expected, it was Claude on the other side of the door, bearing a tray with just squeezed orange juice, freshly baked croissants from my favorite local bakery, unsalted butter, jelly, and a steaming pot of coffee. He brought the tray in and set it on a table. 

"My my! Don't you look lovely today," he said with a devilish gleam in his eye as he took his time enjoying my naked form. 

"Well, stay and join us for breakfast," I offered. 

"There is nothing I would rather do," he said with his charming French accent, "But duty calls. I have another fifteen or twenty hungry guests to feed back in the main house. Try not to get too many croissant crumbs in the bed clothes." With that he departed, fondling my ass and brushing my tit with his shoulder as he stepped past me to the door. 

"I was right. He is a lecherous bastard," Henry said as he poured coffee for us. "I think I like him." 

"Well it's good that you like him because you are just like him." 

Henry groaned at my play on words. 

I laughed. "Okay, I admit, that was pretty bad, especially for an English major. But what I meant is that you both have the most deliciously dirty minds." 

"I knew what you meant, and Claude and I both should appreciate the compliment. No one can recognize a dirty mind like a publisher of erotica." 

"Brrrrrr. It's chilly in here," he continued as he pulled a robe around himself. 

I likewise pulled on a robe and we sat, silent for a few minutes, enjoying our coffee and croissants. 

Finally Henry spoke up, totally changing the subject. "So, are you going to tell me more about your wild weekend in Paris with Yves?" 

"Ummmm, I said, as I downed a sip of coffee. "Well, as I told you, thanks to Jim Worthington's reprehensible conduct, it turned out to be quite a bit more than a weekend. More like ten days before I flew back to San Francisco, again on Yves' G-5." 

"So you flew off to Paris for a weekend with the Frenchman who picked you up in the bar in New York, stayed for ten days because Jim Worthington had pissed you off by selling the company, and then married the Frenchman after ten days of frenetic screwing? Does that about cover it?" 

"Hardly," I said. 

"What did I leave out, besides all of the juicy details about the sex, which, of course, I do want to hear?" 

"First, I didn't marry him on the first trip to France. That came about six months later. It turned out that marrying a French millionaire who is in a war with his family is a complicated process. 

"Furthermore, I didn't stay for ten days because I was pissed off at Jim Worthington. I got over that about twenty-four hours after I sent him the 'fuck you' cable. After all, it was his company, mostly, and as it turned out he sold pretty much at the peak of the market for traditional publishing companies. If we had hung around much longer, Jeff Bezos and his damnable Kindle would have eaten our lunch." 

"So why did you stay? Was the sex with Yves that good?" 

"Oh god, yes. Well, that was part of it. He was really good in bed. Great staying power and wildly creative. But the main reason I stayed and eventually fell in love and married him was that he was just so much fun. Dragging me off to Mass in the oldest church in Paris after barely finishing a morning fuck, the impromptu picnic in Luxembourg Gardens, a trip to Burgundy to visit one of his wineries, shopping in some of Paris' loveliest little boutique clothing stores, dinners in grand restaurants, and obscure little bistros, romantic walks along the Seine in the rain, wild rides in his Ferrari through the winding mountain roads of Provence. It went on and on." 

"I see. Pretty hard to match." He sounded a little sullen. 

"Now, now," I said. "Let's not be petulant. Remember that you're here with me, and he's gone, smashed up along with his Ferrari on that mountainside north of Nice." 

"Yes . . . Yes, that's right. I am indeed here and considering myself damn lucky to be here with you. I've had my dust-ups with sports cars, too. It's just that they were before I knew you, and I was lucky and walked away. Ruined a couple of damned nice cars though. 

"But enough of that," he continued. "How did you mend things up with Worthington after your, 'Fuck you. Strong letter to follow.' cable?" 

"That really wasn't too hard. He and his new friends from Chicago needed me to wind down the San Francisco office. When I got back to San Francisco they were all there, more or less on bended knee, with a proposal they hoped would keep me around. But that really was the end of my personal relationship with Jim and Sandy. After that it was just pure business. Well, not totally with Sandy, but that's another story." 

"Aha. A bribe. Money always talks, doesn't it my dear?" 

"Well, it does with me. Actually though, after a bit of negotiation, I got more out of the deal than just the bag of cash they were offering me." 

"Oh?" Henry said, raising an eyebrow. "What else did you extort out of them?" 

"There was this one little publishing line I had been nurturing out of the San Francisco office that the boys from Chicago didn't want to keep. I had to admit it wasn't doing very well, but I tried to convince them they should keep it instead of just closing it down. I was sure it was going to break even any day now, but those blue-nosed bastards objected on moral grounds as near as I could tell. Anyhow, I agreed to take that piece of the business off their hands at a very attractive price." 

"That's a very self-satisfied smile you are wearing Kate. Kind of a—how do you Yanks say—a 'cat that ate the canary' smile." 

"Well, it was the erotic publishing business, and . . ." I broke out laughing. "I got them to pay me $100,000 to take it. They were sure it would cost them more than that to shut it down." 

"And that, I take it, was the source of Dark Secrets Publishing?" he asked, naming my publishing business. 

I laughed some more. "Yes, and it has made money from day one. It really took off once I convinced Amazon to market the electronic copies for me. I still think Bezos takes too big a slice, but there isn't a really good alternative to him, and it sure makes money, even with Amazon's unconscionable skim. Electronic publishing is especially important to erotica because a lot of people will buy it over the net, but they won't walk into a book store and pay a clerk behind the counter for it." 

"But what about your relationship with Yves? How did that work while you were busy wheeling and dealing in San Francisco?" 

"For the next six months, Yves was even busier than I was. He and I both did next to nothing during the ten days I spent with him in France aside from sex and touring all his favorite places in Paris and a few parts of France that he loved. But by the time I went back to San Francisco, he had decided that fucking me silly and squiring me around his favorite parts of Paris and France was a lot more fun than running Montagne Industries and fighting with all his relatives and other minority shareholders, so he went back to his lawyers and bankers and told them to sell the company as a whole for the best price they could get and to negotiate a split of the proceeds with the various minority holders as compensation for their interests. 

"That let him deliver the company as a whole to the buyer, without the pesky minority interests his father had created. He told me that the increase in price he got by cleaning up the ownership structure more than paid for the cost of doing so. There were a couple of small pieces he kept for himself, like the plane and the winery and vineyards in Burgundy. It took him six months, but when it was done, he had $800 million in after-tax cash and no need to deal with pesky minority shareholders, customers, employees, and all those other troubling people who focus on you when you own and run a large business." 

"And the two of you got married on top of all of that?" 

"Yeah. It was crazy. It took six months to wind down the San Francisco office for Jim's buyers and it took Yves at least that long to complete his sale of Montagne Industries. About every other week, I would fly to New York, usually on the tail-end of a trip to Chicago to meet with my new masters. He would wind up his G-5 and fly over from Paris. Sometimes we stayed in New York, but lots of times we took the plane and went other places. We visited resorts all up and down the East Coast and in the Caribbean. Half the time we never got out of the hotel rooms we rented. We would spend time venting about our respective problems and then fall into bed and fuck our brains out. The sex wasn't always in the hotel rooms. We screwed on the 12th hole of some famous golf course in South Carolina once. It would have been better if the sprinklers hadn't come on," I said with a laugh. "Another time we spent a whole weekend naked on a yacht in the British Virgin Islands. After one of our weekends, we both felt like we could go back to work the following week. Didn't want to, but at least we felt we could face it." 

"It all sounds very glamorous. Kind of like one of the stories the romance section of your publishing company puts out." 

"Like a lot of things that sound glamorous, it really wasn't. It was mostly work and not near enough sex for my tastes. Once every two weeks doesn't cut it for me." 

"Are you trying to tell me that you were monogamous?" Henry asked with a look of mild astonishment. 

"Yes, but not so much by choice as it was simply that there wasn't time for much of anything but work." 

"Really? You? No time for sex? Not even a lunch hour quickie? Not even once?" 

"Oh, okay. There were a couple of times. One time Halili came up from San Jose where she was teaching, and we spent an evening together. It was nice, but I was woefully unprepared for the next day, and Halili had a steady thing going with another woman teacher at San Jose State at that time, so it was a one off." 

"And there was another time when I fucked a bicycle messenger in the woman's bathroom of an empty floor just below our offices in the Bank of America building." 

"What?" 

"Well, I hadn't seen Yves in three weeks, and I was really horny. I had been sitting in a really boring meeting and all I could think about was how much I would rather be fucking Yves—someone, anyone—instead of sitting in this meeting. I met the messenger in the elevator just after the meeting ended, and I just hit the 28th floor button, which I knew was unoccupied, and dragged him off. I think he was just as horny as me. As soon as he put his cock in me, we both just exploded. Then we buttoned up (we were in such a hurry we never really took our clothes off, just the parts that were in the way) and went back to our respective pieces of the world. I have no idea who he was, and I'm sure he doesn't know who I was. Neither of us even bothered to ask the other's name. Never seen him since. He was a pretty good quick fuck though." 

Henry was laughing hard now. "Really Kate? Are you sure you weren't raised by a bunch of guys in a fraternity house?" 

"Hey, hey! Be nice!" I said in my best pouty voice. "I can be very girly." 

"Yes, you can my dear, except when it comes to money or sex. On those issues you would fit right in on a trading floor on Wall Street." 

"Hmm," I said. "You're so not nice." What was really irritating was that I knew that he was essentially correct. 

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. But tell me," he said. "How did Yves propose? Was it on one knee with roses and violins?" 

Ouch. I didn't want to answer that question after the little exchange we had just had. Oh well, Henry is my husband. He's entitled to know, I decided. 

"Actually I proposed to him." 

Now he was in hysterics. It took him a good two minutes or so to regain enough composure so he could sort of speak. "Let me guess," . . . more laughing, . . . "Roses and violins? Were you down on one knee?" 

"Fuck you!" I said as I threw a half eaten croissant at him. Then I began to laugh as I realized how my response had confirmed everything he was saying. Finally I just looked at him and smiled. "You know," I said, "I learned years ago to accept myself for what I am. You can't spend your life wishing you were someone else. So yeah, you're right—I'm quite aggressive about money and sex. Now let's get in bed and fuck." 

"Okay, on one condition. You have to tell me one of your dirty stories from your past. 

"Absolutely," I said as I let my robe drop from my shoulders, "and I know just the one. Oh, but one thing Henry, . . . seriously. I didn't marry Yves for his money. I really was in love with him. He was just so damn much fun to be around. I was crushed when he was killed a year and a half after we were married." 

"I never thought you did my dear. Between what you inherited from your aunt and the money you made working for Worthington, you had all the money you needed by the time you met Yves. Now get in bed and tell me a sexy tale from your past." 

After Yves and I married we had two main homes—his flat on the Boulevard Saint Germain des Prés in Paris and my house in Pacific Heights in San Francisco, and we tried to spend roughly equal amounts of time in each, plus some time at his place in Provence and at a second home I owned at Lake Tahoe. Needless to say, wrapping up the loose ends of our respective business ventures tended to interfere with that schedule, but we tried. 

Late one Friday night I flew out of San Francisco to Paris on our jet, tired but anxious to see Yves after a tough week of dealing with the last issues remaining in winding up Robards' West Coast office. That project seemed to drag on forever. It was done now and I was through with them. There was still Dark Secrets Publishing that I owned, but my staff was more than capable of running things while I took a couple of weeks off in France. Yves met me at the private air terminal, Le Bourget, when our plane arrived shortly after noon, Paris time. 

I had slept on the plane until about an hour before landing. I spent much of that last hour of the flight fantasizing about the nasty things I was going to do to and with Yves over the next couple of weeks. I particularly wanted to fuck him out in the vineyard in Burgundy again, but that's another story. 

By the time we landed, I was anxious to see him and horny as hell. He picked me up in his Ferrari and as soon as we were out of the airport, I reached over and began to caress his dick through his trousers. 

"Darling," he said. "That feels marvelous, but we will want to pace ourselves this afternoon. We have a dinner party to go to tonight." 

"A dinner party?" I said, thinking of any number of dull family and business dinners he had dragged me to since I had met him. 

"Oh, not another family dinner," I complained using my best pouty voice. 

"Yves looked over at me and laughed. "You know dear, that tone of voice is so phony. Listening to you trying to be a pouty little girl is like watching a Russian oligarch trying to be diplomatic." 

I laughed. "All right you got me on that. But really, do we have to go to another family affair, where I have to dress in the most conservative clothes imaginable and make polite chit-chat with people I know you can't stand for good reasons?" A long pause, "Really, do we have to do that the first night we've been together in two weeks?" Another long pause, "Really dear, isn't there something else you would rather do?" As I spoke I was softly raking my nails up and down the inside of his right thigh, stopping just short of his now partially inflated cock. 

Putting my hand aside, he responded, "There's good news and bad news about this party. First, yes, we have to go. But, it's not family or business. This is the semi-annual gathering of the members of an organization I have participated in for many years now. My absence would be noted and not favorably. Furthermore, they all know I am recently married, and curiosity about the woman who finally managed to trap me is running high. The only thing worse than not showing up would be showing up without you." 

"Sounds like a country club?" 

"I guess you could call it a club. But it's not anything like the country clubs you have in America. It's very secretive. There is no status in being a member, because no one, other than the members, knows it even exists, much less who the members are. Everyone who comes to any of our dinners is sworn to never disclose anything they see or hear there. There are some very important members—heads of companies, cabinet ministers, diplomats, financiers, entertainment personalities, famous artists. 

"Does this club have a name?" 

He chuckled. "Well it's formal name is Amis de l'érotisme, but . . ." 

"Oh, it's that kind of club," I interrupted. "I think you neglected tell me about this club before we married." 

"Hmm. Perhaps I did. Of course, we never use its formal name. Even its billings come to me as bills from a plumber, an electrician, a doctor, a lawyer, and so on, but never anything that reflects the true name. Normally it is simply referred to among the members as 'Le Club.' I think I may have mentioned it to you under that name, but I confess, I didn't provide you with the details." 

"And?" I said. 

Yves briefly looked at me in confusion. 

"The details?" 

"Eh oui. You want the details about Le Club." 

Men can be so dense, I thought. He married me, at least partly, because of my wild obsession with sex, and it doesn't occur to him to tell me about a club he belongs to called "Friends of Erotica." 

"Oui. I want the details." 

"Okay. We own an old mansion in the Trocadero. That's a neighborhood across the river from the Eiffel Tower in the 16th arrondissement. It's a very posh, conservative, neighborhood. Le Club is on a quiet side street a few blocks back from the Seine. Some say it once belonged to the Marquee de Sade, but I don't think it's old enough for that. Most of the Trocadero was razed in the 19th century during Baron Haussmann's renovation of Paris. In any case, Le Club has owned it since shortly after World War I." 




Looking Back Ch. 12



"Okay, enough history. Tell me what you boys do in your club?" 

"Oh, it isn't just men. We have women members too. I suspect you would qualify if you wanted to join. But to your question—what do we do there? Well first and foremost it serves as a very convenient and confidential place for a member to use for an assignation. When we want to spend a very private afternoon or evening with someone, it is so much better than one of the big hotels. Also a member may use it for a private party with his or her friends. The staff is wonderfully discreet about who attends such gatherings and what they do while they are there. Then, of course, there are our twice-a-year members' dinners like the one we will attend tonight." 

"And what goes on at these dinners?" 

"Everything and anything. I think you will love it. You will find it a lot like the parties your aunt used to throw in her home in San Francisco." 

"You mean an orgy," I said. 

"Oui." 

I was silent for a minute, as though I was deciding whether to be outraged by his disclosure, and then, as I raked my nails up the inside of his thigh again, I said, "I love it." 

"Good. Now we must shop for a suitable dress for you." 

"And what is suitable for a Parisian orgy?" I asked. 

"Oh something that makes you look beautiful, sexy, and glamorous, fully dressed, but still . . . indecent. Covered, but still . . . accessible." 

"Yum. Where shall we go?" 

"I know just the shop. I have been buying women's clothes there for years." 

"Hmmm, . . . I'll bet you have, and for a lot of different women too." 

He laughed. "Eh . . . oui, perhaps a few . . . or perhaps more than a few." He almost sounded embarrassed. 

I laughed. "Don't apologize. I knew what you were when I asked you to marry me." 

"And I knew what you were when I said yes." 

And so we shopped. I tried on dozens of dresses, and shoes, and hose, and undergarments (which we finally dispensed with entirely in deference to the drape of the dress we selected). And when we were done I had a very suitable dress, as Yves had defined it. I also had my hair done by a very chic hairdresser, my nails done, and even my make-up done. I couldn't believe it was me when I looked in the mirror at the end of the day. 

The dress was a medium blue with a top that consisted of two broad pieces of cloth fastened behind my neck and draped loosely over my breasts, crossing just above my navel. The top joined the lower part of the dress low on my hips providing a deeply plunging neckline and leaving my back completely bare down to my hips. I wore a string of pearls, simple gold studs in my ears, and strapped sandals with three-and-a-half-inch heels. The lower part of the dress fit snugly around my hips, displaying them nicely I thought. Below the hips it flared slightly and fell to floor length. There was a slit up the front that came to the upper part of my thighs. The cut of the dress was such that when I was standing the slit was always slightly open, exposing much of my legs to well above the knee. As Yves had specified, I was fully dressed but accessible and covered but indecent, especially given that I had nothing on beneath the dress. 

All thoughts of my difficult week in San Francisco had vanished. I felt pampered and entertained, and, when we slid into the limo to go to dinner, indecent. It was delicious, and I couldn't wait to meet the other members of Amis de l'érotisme. 

As we drove to Le Club, Yves opened a box lying on the seat of the limo between us. In it was a glamorous Venetian mask with colored feather trim and gold finish for me and a simple black eye mask for him. I forgot to mention he said, "This is a masked ball tonight, or at least it will start out that way." 

I tried on the mask and looked in the mirror on the back of the front seat. It was stunning. "Yes," I said. "Very decadent." 

All told there were about fifteen couples at Le Club that evening. Initially we assembled in a large open room with the furniture pulled back against the walls to permit a typical cocktail mingle. Excellent champagne and hors d'oeuvres were being served by male waiters in tails. The men were all dressed in conservative black tuxedos with the same simple black mask that Yves had retrieved from the box for himself. It was hard to estimate their ages, but I guessed they covered a wide range from early twenty (perhaps the guests of a woman member?) to well over sixty. The women were all wearing dresses that met Yves' criteria—sexy and glamorous, fully dressed, but indecent, covered, but accessible—and were masked in a similarly decadent style to my own. Some were young and beautiful, and when on the arm of a significantly older gentleman, apparently a trophy wife or simply a suitable date for a decadent evening, but a surprising number were of an age that appeared to match their partner. There were even a few pairs of same sex partners, male pairs and female pairs. 

"How will I know which are the members?" I whispered to Yves as we walked in. 

"You won't unless they choose to tell you. You can speculate, but you won't know for sure." 

"And you won't tell me?" 

"No. That's one of the rules." 

"Are there other rules?" 

"Beyond upmost secrecy?" 

"Yes." 

He thought for a moment and said, "Not really," followed by another pause. "Well, no means no, although people who are members or spouses rarely say no to much of anything. And pay your dues on time, I guess, although I remember there was one fellow who had fallen on hard times who we carried for years because he was just so much fun to have around. I think it was the wives that insisted we carry him." 

"Is he here tonight?" 

"No he passed away a few years ago. Rumor had it he died of a heart attack while having sex with three members' wives during a late afternoon assignation here in the club." 

"Really," I said drawing the word out as though I was scandalized. "I'm liking this club more all the time. Even being the spouse of a member appears to have fringe benefits." 

"That's why the spouses allow it. Most of them enjoy it as much as the members do." 

As a waiter handed us a champagne, Yves said, "Enough talk, there are a lot of people here who want to meet you." 

"How will that work with all your secrecy?" 

"Well, they all know who I am, and therefore who you are . . . " 

"But the introductions?" I interrupted. 

"They will likely choose to introduce themselves. That satisfies the rules. Of course you can't tell anyone else who you met here." 

"Oh God. This is complicated. When do we get to the fucking part?" 

"In time dear, in time. Just be patient." 

We spent the next hour engaged in typical idle cocktail party chit-chat. Yves was right. Everyone did want to meet me, and by and large they did introduce themselves. Since I wasn't really plugged into Paris society, their names meant little to me, but Yves assured me later that they were important people. The men were uniformly charming and a bit lecherous in the way they undressed me with their eyes. The women were warm and friendly although several of them were also undressing me with their eyes, a compliment I returned in a couple of cases. 

Eventually we adjourned to dinner at a large table in a long room. The food was delicious and the wine was even better, a world class Bordeaux and a stunning White Burgundy from one of Yves vineyards in Montrachet. But better than the food and the wine were the photos and drawings on the walls—larger than life erotica. 

"Nice decorations," I said to Yves as I stroked the inside of his thigh again, as I had been doing on our ride in from the airport. Yves returned the favor by brushing my split dress aside and placing his warm hand on the inside of my thigh nearly up to my pussy. He massaged it from time to time throughout dinner. 

At one point I realized that the woman seated across from me was fixated on my engorged nipples and the tent they were making in my dress. When she realized I had caught her staring, instead of looking away embarrassed, she continued to stare and licked her lips. I reached up with my hand and lifted one of my tits toward her and then quickly pinched the nipple through the cloth of the dress. She winked and then turned to whisper in her partner's ear, presumably telling him about the slut across from her. 

I looked down the table and saw that another woman had pushed the top of her dress down so that a bit more than half of each of her areolas and all of each nipple were now visible above the top of her dress. She was staring at someone across the table from her, but since he or she was on my side, I couldn't tell what they were doing. Then she reached up with one hand and delicately stroked her hardened nipple with a long fingernail. She smiled lasciviously, and I wondered what was going on across the table from her. Something equally indecent, I assumed. 

I looked towards the couple seated on my immediate right and saw that she had her hand under the gentleman's napkin and was obviously stroking an erection beneath the napkin. When I looked up at her she smiled, and I silently mouthed, "Let me see." She looked down with her eyes, which I took as a direction to do the same and saw that she had pulled the napkin aside allowing me to see his stiff cock and her stroking. I looked up at her and smiled my approval. 

As I looked around the table I could see that most people had finished eating or at least quit and had their hands under the table, presumably engaged in some form of illicit activity. When I looked back at Yves, I discovered that he was using one hand to stroke the cock of the man on his left. Just as I saw that, I felt the hand of the man on my right begin to stroke the inside of my right thigh while Yves continued to stroke my left. They seemed to have their timing down because each of them would lightly stroke my pussy at the top of their stroke of my thigh without bumping into each other. 

The woman across from me was still staring at my tits, so to demonstrate my appreciation of her interest I pulled one of the clothe straps of my dress aside so that most of my breast and certainly all of my nipple was readily visible to her and everyone else on that side of the table. I held it that way long enough so it was much more than a quick flash. Exposing myself to her while the men on either side of me molested my sex was causing the most delicious erotic fog in my brain. 

After more than a few minutes of this subtle or not so subtle eroticism, the head of the table announced that the party would be moving back to the main room where there would be entertainment. What the hell could be more entertaining than what was going on at this table, I wondered? He also pointed out trays of brownies by the door leading out of the room, encouraging us to try one. I soon discovered to my delight that they were laced with very potent marijuana. 

We all stood and filed out after having more or less buttoned up to something approaching decency, although I could see that most of the men were sporting very large tents in their trousers and I was hardly the only woman whose erect nipples were showing through her dress. The evening was off to a good start. Nearly everyone took a brownie or two as they filed out, not that anyone seemed to need to have anything to further loosen their inhibitions. 

There were a number of couches and chairs arranged around the outside of the room, and additional chairs had been brought in so there was enough seating for everyone. The seating was all arranged so that it faced the one side of the large room that was free of seating. There was a low, broad, padded bench on that side but nothing else. Lighting on the bench and the area immediately around it was considerably brighter than that in the rest of the room. Everyone seemed to understand that it was time to take a seat. The waiters brought around one more round of champagne on trays and then the lights were dimmed. Not really darkened. You could easily see everyone in the room, but the light remained noticeably brighter on the side of the room where the bench was located. 

Then the entertainment: Two very attractive women entered walking hand in hand into the room. They were both tall and wore long dresses that appeared to be composed purely of broad strips of cloth that flowed from a ring at their neck to just short of their feet. Each woman's dress was tied loosely at the waist by a sash, but as they walked the strips of cloth moved freely exposing virtually all of their bodies, both above and below the waist. It was readily apparent that they were naked beneath the dresses, but for tall-heeled strapped sandals. They both had exquisite figures—long shapely legs, well-shaped hips and beautiful tits, not really big, but so delightfully shaped. One was tall and blonde with her long hair done up in a knot and her face covered with a Venetian mask, even more exotic than the one I wore. The other was just as tall, but had dark red hair, which fell in a wild cascade of curls onto her shoulders and back. Like the blonde, she wore an exotic mask. 

They sat side by side on the bench facing us, their hips lightly touching and their legs crossed with the strips of cloth falling away to expose their long sexy legs. Each sat quietly trying to look at each other, but discreetly enough so that her interest would not be noticed by the other. It was obvious to the audience that the attempts at discretion were an utter failure. Each girl was very aware of the other's interest and inflamed by it. 

After engaging in this farce long enough to raise anticipation in the audience, the blonde reached across and put her hand on the redhead's knee. She looked sharply at the blonde and then away, as if uncertain how to respond. She didn't push the hand away or move away on the bench. After several moments of uncertainty, the redhead turned back towards the blonde, looking at her face for several long moments. The blonde pretended to ignore her, although it was obvious to all of us she was very aware of the redhead's stare. Then the redhead turned her attention to the blonde's body, staring lustfully at it with no pretense of discretion. Finally she leaned forward and kissed the blonde, softly and slowly, but she held it for what seemed like a minute or more. The blonde's hand remained on the redhead's knee throughout this seduction. 

When the blonde didn't object and obviously returned the kiss, the redhead, continuing the role of the aggressor, pushed a strip of cloth aside covering one of the blonde's beautiful breasts and began to fondle it. The girls were silent, but you could hear a sensual gasp from the audience. 

Now the blonde begin to slide the hand she had placed on her partner's knee slowly up the inside of her thigh. The redhead uncrossed her legs and spread them apart in an invitation to her partner. Her cleanly shaved pussy was readily apparent to the audience. I could see tents rising in men's trousers throughout the room, including Yves'. 

The kiss was abandoned as each of the girls began to freely fondle the other's body. Both had released their belts and the strips of cloth that made up the dress of each were easily pushed aside, so that the girls were essentially naked and exposed to the audience. I reached over and began to fondle Yves cock, which he had pulled free of his now open trousers. As I looked around the room I could see other people taking similar liberties with those sitting next to them. 

Now the girls had completely shed their clothing, including their masks. The redhead, continuing to play the aggressor, had dropped to her knees, her lovely ass pointed at the audience her legs spread just enough to insure a full exposure of her sex. Her face was firmly in the blonde's pussy. The blonde was leaning back on her hands, her eyes closed and her face twisted in ecstasy. 

It was then that I felt a warm hand slide under the side of my dress and firmly grasp my breast. The hand was large and the fingers rough, as though used in manual labor, but the touch was sensitive and erotic. The hand belonged to a gentleman sitting on the other side of me from Yves. I looked over my shoulder to see who was assaulting me. He was not handsome, a big man with a large head and rough features covered with an almost bushy mane of thick dark hair and a full unkempt beard. No, not classically handsome, but still so intensely masculine as to bring almost any woman's attention to focus fully on him. I looked over my shoulder and my glance became a long stare. After a moment I indicated my approval of his conduct by licking my lips as lewdly as I could. Then I turned my attention back to the evening's entertainment, but I was seriously enjoying what the giant was doing with his rough hands. God, he had a perfect touch. 

The blonde had climaxed loudly while I was staring at the man to my left. Perhaps it was her cries that pulled me away from the attraction of his rough-hewn face. Now the two women had exchanged places. The blonde had just begun to eat the redhead when the third member of the evening's entertainment strode into the room. He was a tall black man, naked from the waist up. His skin was a shining black, about as dark as a man could get, his shoulders broad and heavily muscled, with no apparent fat. He was wearing riding boots and a tight pair of trousers that disclosed a substantial package between his legs. God, he must be huge I thought. 

A substantial flow of pre-cum had emerged from Yves cock, and he gasped as I spread it around the head of his prick. I was leaning forward ministering to Yves cock with both hands, and that allowed the gentleman beside me to reach around my back and assault my other breast. Now he was massaging both of my tits and occasionally tweaking each of my nipples. Fuck, it felt so good. How had a man with hands that large and rough developed such a sensitive touch? I could feel my pussy beginning to weep. 

The blonde leaned forward and pulled the black man to the side. Her legs were still spread and the redhead, ignoring the new arrival continued to lap at the blonde's pussy. The blonde smoothly opened his trousers and extracted a huge, black, half-erect cock. It looked like a dark snake. There was an audible gasp from the audience. The guy was just fucking huge, but the girl seemed to easily suck his member into her mouth. As we watched the obscene entertainment, I reached back behind my neck and released the catch on my dress so that the top half fell away completely leaving me naked from the waist up. As I looked around the audience I saw that many other members were in various states of undress, including some who were now naked. 

After a minute or two of having his cock sucked, the black man stepped back. He sat on the couch, his huge cock bobbing obscenely before him and smoothly extracted himself from his boots and his pants, so he was as naked as the girls. He sat stroking his prick, still shining from the blonde's cock-sucking, while he watched the redhead slowly driving the blonde wild with her tongue. 

A woman who had been sitting in a chair next to Yves, watching my hand job with immense interest, now stood and released her dress, letting it fall to the floor. She dropped to her knees before Yves and looked up at me, whispering "Puis-je." She wanted to suck Yves cock, and I wanted to watch. I responded, "Oui." I leaned back against the couch and pulled the gentleman's head down in front of my chest so he could suck on my tits. Then, as I delighted in his tongue's abuse of my nipples, I shared my attention between the show on the padded bench and the woman sucking my husband's dick. Oh, I was so glad I had come to Paris! 




Looking Back Ch. 12



Back on the bench, the girls had moved so that blonde was lying on the bench her legs spread on either side of it, feet on the floor. The redhead was on her knees on the bench, face buried in the blonde's pussy and her butt in the air. The black man was on his knees behind the redhead's elevated butt stroking her pussy lips with his cock. Then he slowly pushed his black monster into her, pulling her hips back towards him to assist in getting it in. We heard a muffled scream from the redhead. Muffled because her face was still planted in the blonde's muff. I now had my own legs spread wide apart and two fingers jammed into my dripping pussy. I was finger fucking myself as I alternated between watching the black guy ram his cock into the girl and the slut next to me who was ferociously sucking Yves' cock. Yves was likewise splitting his attention between the blowjob he was receiving and the obscene activity on the bench before us, with an occasional glance at my masturbation. Meanwhile the giant next to me continued to make love to my tits. I was in heaven. 

On the bench the blonde on her back was fast approaching her climax as the redhead continued to eat her. She was throwing her head back and forth and crying loudly in some language I couldn't understand. I pushed the fellow who was sucking my tits away and, still holding his huge head and looking directly into his eyes, I said, "I want you to eat me." I quickly shed the remainder of my dress so I was naked and lay back against the couch, my legs spread lewdly as he dropped to his knees before me and began to lap at my pussy. Oh fuck I was so horny! "Put your fingers in me!" I snarled at him. He rapidly complied. His large, rough fingers felt wildly erotic, and what he was doing with his tongue was rapidly pushing me to a climax. 

Back on the bench, the black man had pulled his cock out of the girl he was fucking, while the two girls switched positions. Now the blonde was eating the redhead's pussy. The black man was fucking the blonde. He was really pounding her, but she somehow maintained enough composure to keep eating her partner's pussy. It was clear that neither girl was going to last long before her climax took her. I looked over at Yves and I could see he was fast approaching a climax. The woman who was sucking him must have sensed it too, because she pulled her face back and sat stroking his slippery cock with a twisting motion. "Spray your cum on my tits," she told him. "I want your hot slippery cum all over my tits!" Her dirty talk pushed Yves over the edge, and I watched as he squirted stream after stream at the girl—some on her face and hair, but most of it on her tits. 

Just as Yves sprayed the woman with his cum, both of the girls on the bench came with a scream that could probably be heard out on the street. Now I was close. "My clit, eat my clit, I yelled at the man on his knees between my legs. NOW!" And then I came with a groan. Fuck! What a climax. It went on forever. Neither Yves nor I had had any sex for a couple of weeks, so we both just exploded when we finally reached the end. 

The black man on the bench was sitting while someone from the audience eagerly sucked his cock. It didn't take her long. Within a few minutes he pulled back and shot a thick coating of sperm on the woman's face, hair, and tits. The man who had eaten me was sitting watching people fucking and sucking all over the room as he slowly stroked his cock. I looked over at him and said, "We can do better than that for you." I had recovered from my climax, so I stood and dropped to my knees between his legs and inhaled his cock. It didn't take more than a couple of minutes before he was filling my mouth with his sperm. I did my best to swallow it, but just a bit dribbled from the side of my mouth and landed on one of my tits. 

As I sat back on my heels, I scooped the stray bit of cum from my tit with a finger and placed it back in my mouth where it should have stayed. Then I pulled my husband up from the sofa and we walked naked through a room full of debauchery to a private room with a large bed. We lay on the bed kissing and fondling and then started a long languorous fuck that lasted for hours. Well, it seemed like hours. I must have cum four or five times that night, and Yves was an iron man. I was so happy to be back in Paris with my lover, my husband—and, of course, his raunchy friends. 

We spent the night on that bed, and in the morning the staff brought us a breakfast of fresh croissants and coffee. They had also somehow gathered up our clothes, and they were available on hangers, pressed and ready for our use. As we ate, Yves told me that the woman sucking his cock the night before was the wife of a cabinet minister, and the man I had been with was a famous sculptor. 

In the remaining year and a half of our marriage, we made frequent use of Le Club. It is something I miss about no longer living in Paris. After Yves died, some of the members encouraged me to apply for a membership of my own, but it would not have been the same without Yves.



Looking Back Ch. 13



This is the last in a series of chapters in which our heroine, Kate, tells of a few of her varied sexual escapades accumulated over a lifetime as a successful businesswoman and a sexually liberated woman. Kate began this series by asking herself whether she was a slut, but it no longer seems to be a question of concern and the reader is left to his or her own conclusions on the issue. Rest assured that at age 65 she has not given up sex. 

*****

I leaned back in the hot tub on the back porch of my Pacific Heights home in San Francisco and took a sip of the delicious wine I had specially selected for my 65th birthday. It was a lovely Burgundy grown in one of the premier cru vineyards I inherited from my third husband, Yves. I looked across the hot tub at three good friends from my past who had joined me to celebrate my birthday—Halili, the tall Kenyan beauty I had first met in my college years in Berkeley; Sandy, the trophy wife of my former boss at Robards Publishing; and Mary Margaret, the former nun I had seduced when she was still living in a convent in northern Quebec. 

It had been many years since I had seen any of them and, if you had asked me when I was celebrating my 60th birthday, I would have said it was unlikely that I would ever see any of them again. I had enjoyed marvelous sex with each of them at one time, but then our lives had moved on in different directions. 

When I was 60 and started this series, I was happily married to my fourth husband, Henry, an Englishman who owned a book store in London and as near as I could tell dabbled in various forms of espionage for several Western intelligence agencies. It was his freelancing that had eventually gotten him killed—shot execution style, one night a year ago, in an alley in Marseille. When a spy is killed, he may not have the kind of send off most folks have. I got a phone call from the Sûreté, telling me he had been shot and his body cremated. There was no explanation of who did it or why, and I was encouraged not to enquire further. Eventually they sent me his remains along with a death certificate, which allowed me to wind up his affairs, or at least those that I could find out about. I also received several visits from gentlemen in dark suits presumably representing various other espionage agencies he dealt with, or at least some of them. They mostly wanted to know if I had any papers or other records he created and to remind me that I really shouldn't discuss anything I knew about him with anyone. Best just to forgive and forget, they said. 

I never really knew what organizations his free-lance activities associated him with, beyond MI5 in Britain and the CIA in the US. There were likely others. Actually, given his lifestyle, it's not completely clear that he is actually dead. Who knows whose remains are in the urn I keep in my laundry room. I am sure the Sûreté is more than capable of whipping up a phony French death certificate and cremating the remains of some transient who died in a Marseille alley of a drug overdose. In any case, he is gone, and I'm single again and getting used to it.

So for my 65th, since there were no longer any men in my life, and after four husbands I wasn't seeking any more long term relationships with men, I decided to find the women who had been my most interesting lovers. Not my only female lovers by any means, but certainly the most interesting. It took a little work, but I had assembled them in San Francisco for the occasion and now, after a fine dinner out, we were sitting naked in my hot tub enjoying one of my winery's better Burgundies.

Halili was in her early seventies now, and while she had aged, of course, she would still have passed for a woman in her early fifties. Her skin was still the creamy pale chocolate I remembered from my introduction to lesbian sex with her at her then-husband's pool in Walnut Creek so many years ago. Her closely trimmed hair had gone to gray, but her body was still in great condition. She was still stunning. After the Professor died, she had never remarried. During her years teaching at a junior college in San Jose, she had gone from one lesbian relationship to another, with none lasting more than a year.

Sandy Worthington, now in her early fifties, still lived on the horse farm she and her husband Jim had bought after Jim's sale of Robards Publishing. Like Halili, she was a widow. Jim had been killed when a horse fell and rolled on him a couple of years after they bought the ranch. She also had a large home in Woodside, an upscale community just to the west of Palo Alto, where she kept additional horses. She basically looked like she had when I first met her and Jim in a debauched evening following a wedding in San Francisco. Maybe some minor crows feet around her eyes, but otherwise still the same glamorous woman. 

Mary Margaret, now in her late-forties, was as beautiful as she had been when I first met her at the convent in Port Cartier, Quebec—perhaps more. When I met her in Quebec she was barely into her early twenties, and she had the kind of beauty that deepened and grew as she aged. Like the others, she was also widowed. Her doctor husband had died of cancer leaving her to finish raising two children as a single mother in Calgary. The children were now off to college, but she still lived in Calgary, alone in the big house she had shared with her husband and children. She told us that it had been long enough so that the pain of her loss was gone and although she occasionally had "a fling," as she put it, she had no desire to enter into a permanent relationship with a man or a woman.

My friends were chatting quietly among themselves when I spoke up. I raised my glass in a toast and said, "Here's to widowhood." 

They all raised their glasses in response. After we were all widows. Then Sandy asked, "Is 'widowhood' really a word?"

"It is when you've had this much to drink," Mary Margaret said, "Besides, trust her, she's an editor. An editor with a golden tongue, I might add."

"Oh, so we're going there, are we?" said Halilli.

"Absolutely!" responded Mary Margaret. She raised her glass again and said, "Here's to Kate's golden tongue." We all knew she wasn't talking about my skills with the spoken English language.

The others laughed and raised their glasses. "To Kate's tongue," they said in a drunken unison. I laughed and stuck my tongue out as far as it would go and then lasciviously licked my lips. 

"Oh girl, you are so bad," Hallili said.

"Hmm," I responded. "I don't remember you ever complaining about my tongue before. Have you become a Puritan?"

"Hardly," she laughed. "I agree, your tongue is one of the most talented I have ever been fucked by. And by the way," she added, "Widowhood is a word. Trust me, I'm an English teacher." 

"She really does have a golden tongue," Sandy said, jumping into the conversation. "I remember the first time we met. She ate me to the most glorious climax I've ever had, before or since."

"Really," I said. "The first time was the best? I remember some other times that you seemed to seriously enjoy."

"Well, okay. You were always good. I so missed sex with you once that fool of a husband of mine sold the company and destroyed our relationship."

"Her golden tongue fucked me right out of my nunhood," Mary Margaret said slurring her words as she jumped back into the conversation.

"Whoa!" Sandy interjected. "I'll buy 'widowhood,' but 'nunhood.' That can't be a word."

We were all laughing hard now, even Mary Margaret. Once she recovered she said, "Okay, maybe it's not a word, but you all know what I mean. If it wasn't for what her golden tongue did to me that night in the Montreal Ritz-Carlton, I would be a dried up old crone scurrying around in my habit in St. Pauline's convent in the frozen north of Quebec."

"Oh, you naughty girl, Kate," Halili said. "You seduced a nun?"

I smiled and even chuckled a bit. "Yeah, I guess I did. I mean, I didn't set out to seduce her, but well, we both had a bit too much wine, and . . ."

"Like tonight?" interrupted Sandy.

"Yes," I laughed. "Like tonight, and," I said, picking up from where I was interrupted, "she was just so beautiful, and she wanted to learn about sex, so . . ."

"I did!" interrupted Mary Margaret.

As I looked across at my friends, I realized that Halili appeared to be fondling Mary Margaret's breasts just below the water level.

"Halili!" I exclaimed. "Who are you to be criticizing me for seducing a nun. It looks like that is exactly what you are doing right now."

"Ex-nun," said Mary Margaret. "And it feels great."

"Ummm," said Halili. "What Sandy is doing to my pussy with her hand feels great too."

"And what I am doing to my pussy with my other hand feels great," said Sandy.

"Why you horny sluts!" I said barely choking back a laugh.

"What else did you expect?" Sandy asked.

"Wait!" Mary Margaret exclaimed. "It's Kate's birthday. I think we should all do her."

"Oh yes," chimed in the other two.

"Kate, sit up on the edge of the hot tub and spread your legs," ordered Sandy. 

"Who can object to this," I said as I hoisted myself up on the side of the tub.

Halili slid in between my legs, her knees on the floor of the hot tub and her face positioned perfectly before my pussy. At first she just palmed my sex. The pressure sent the raunchiest sensations through my clit, even though it wasn't directly exposed. Meanwhile Sandy and Mary Margaret stood on either side of me, each groping one of my tits. Mary Margaret leaned in and kissed my lips. Her kiss was so soft and tender, just as I had remembered it from our night in Montreal.

Then, as I savored Mary Margaret's deft exploration of my mouth with her tongue, I got a sudden shock as Sandy sucked one of my nipples into her mouth and lightly raked her teeth across it's engorged surface. A moment later Mary Margaret pinched the nipple of my other tit. Oh fuck, I thought. I'm in heaven.

They kept it up and kept it up—all three of them: Halili licking my pussy with two fingers shoved deep into my cunt, Mary Margaret divinely sucking on a nipple while she massaged the rest of the breast, and Sandy doing the same. What was I doing? Moaning and crying. I came twice before they decided to switch roles. 

Now Mary Margaret was between my legs lapping away at my pussy. It was so good. She was staying away from my clit, so I was just kind of cruising, not really close to an orgasm, but so turned on. Sandy was sitting opposite me on the other side of the hot tub with her legs spread masturbating, slowly and calmly, not in a hurry to cum. It was so sexy to watch her while Mary Margaret lapped at my pussy, occasionally briefly inserting a couple of fingers into my cunt. 

But where had Halili gone? "Oh fuck, that's so hot watching you, Sandy." Halili's absence drifted out of my marginal consciousness as I spoke to Sandy. I pushed Mary Margaret's face into my pussy, holding her head in place with my fingers entwined in her long, thick, blonde hair.

"Is it turning you on, watching me?" Sandy softly asked me, her voice at least an octave lower than her normal speaking tone. She used the hand not busy masturbating to hold one of her tits out towards me. "Does it make you hot to watch me? I can tell you it's making me hot to watch Mary Margaret eating you. God, that's so fucking sexy. It's way better than when I used to watch Jim fuck you or eat your pussy." 

When she said that, I had a flashback to the first time I had partied with Sandy and Jim. Jim had been fucking me, and I was looking over his shoulder watching Sandy finger-fuck herself at the same pace as Jim was fucking me. Our eyes were locked, and when I finally came she did at the same time, or maybe it was her climax that triggered mine. Or maybe it was Jim. Fuck, who knew? We all three came pretty much at the same time.

"Are you getting close?" I asked Sandy as I continued to stare at her.

"I could."

"Yes. Let's do it. Make yourself cum right now." As I spoke I pushed harder on Mary Margaret's head. She got the hint and I felt her begin to lick my clit. Meanwhile Sandy was rubbing her clit furiously with one hand while she finger-fucked herself with the other hand. Her face was screwed up tight on the edge of ecstasy. I must have looked the same. I was hanging just on the edge of a climax.

Then Mary Margaret grabbed the hood over my clit and pulled back on it with her lips while her tongue stroked my clit. That did it. It was like a whole body explosion. I threw my head back and literally howled at the moon. 

As I came back down, still crying and whimpering, I heard Sandy scream as she tipped into her orgasm. "Oh fuck! Ohhhh fuuuuuuck!" Then she slid back into the pool and lay her head back on the edge, her long dark hair spread out behind her. 

A few moments later Halili reappeared, holding a large dildo she had apparently retrieved from her things in the house. "I thought we would need this," she said, "But it looks like I'm too late."

"Yeah, maybe," I said, barely able to talk. Sandy looked up and groaned. 

But Mary Margaret looked up from between my legs, "Oh no, you're not late. Just in time. Let me have that thing."

"Oh no, pretty girl," Halili said. "I want to do you. Trade places with Kate, and let me and my friend here between your legs.

"I've got a better idea," I said. "Let's go in the house and use the couch."

We all climbed out of the tub, toweled ourselves dry and walked into my living room. Sandy and I curled up together on one couch and Mary Margaret lay back on the other one, her legs spread invitingly for Halili. Halili dropped between Mary Margaret's legs and began to slowly lick her inner pussy lips, using her fingers of one hand to spread the outer lips to give her access to the more sensitive tissue below. Mary Margaret was slouched on the couch, almost reclining, using her hands to massage her large breasts. Two children had made them even larger than I remembered.

After several minutes of lapping at Mary Margaret's cunt, Halili pulled her head back and began to slowly force the big dildo into Mary Margaret.

Mary Margaret groaned and then speaking softly said, "Oh fuck that's good—so good. Put it all the way in. Fill me up. Oh god, that feels so good."

Now Halili shoved the dildo firmly and quickly into her and Mary Margaret's eyes flew open. "Oh fuck!" she yelled. "Yes, fuck me with it, fuck me!" 

Halili began fucking her firmly and quickly with the dildo, and Mary Margaret grabbed her knees and pulled them back almost beside her head. "Harder, god damn it! Harder!" she yelled. 

"Watch this," I whispered to Sandy, remembering how the first time I had made love to Mary Margaret I had made her cum just by fondling her breasts and nipples. I walked quickly and quietly behind the couch and leaned over Mary Margaret. I pinched a nipple hard with each of my hands. That tipped her over into a screaming climax.

Then I walked back and sat beside Sandy as she and Halili looked at me. Mary Margaret was still more or less out of it. She had curled up into a fetal position and was crying just like that first time in Montreal. 

"What did you do?" asked Halili.

"Just tweaked her nipples," I said. "She has very sensitive nipples."

By this time Mary Margaret was coming around. "Wow," she said softly. "Oh Kate, you remembered."

"Oh yes, I remembered," I said. "Haven't had much sex in awhile have you?" I asked.

She smiled as she cleared the tears from her eyes. "No it's been a little lean. After my husband, Arnie, died I certainly didn't want to go back to that crazy lifestyle I had in Montreal when I was stripping and hooking on the side, but I was so lost without Arnie, just couldn't get back into a social life. That's the first time someone other than me has made me cum in a long time." She shook her head, still trying to clear it. "Wow. That was incredible."

"That's ten years without sex?" Halile asked. 

"Yeah, I guess so. I haven't been counting though. Pretty much."

"Well, hang around with this group, and you will have a tough time some days going more than ten minutes."

We all laughed. 

"What about you Halili? I didn't see you get off. Don't we need to do you now?" Sandy asked.

"No, no Sandy, girl. I was test-driving the dildo while I watched you guys before I came out of the house. I guess that's a habit I learned from the Professor. I love getting myself off while I watch other people do it. I just didn't scream as loud as you guys did." 

We sat around and finished the last of bottle of wine we had opened and then crashed, exhausted. My birthday was a stunning success I decided as I drifted off to sleep.

Post Script—Two years later

A couple of years have passed since my 65th birthday party described above, and my life has changed a lot. This story would not be complete without a short summary of what has happened in the last couple of years. 

First Sandy decided she really preferred California to New Jersey. She sold the horse farm she and Jim had bought and all of the horses except her two favorites, which she trailered out to California. Now she lives full time in her big house in Woodside. 

Shortly after that, Mary Margaret and Sandy decided they were in love and got married. Mary Margaret sold her house in Calgary and moved in with her new spouse. She is still wrangling with the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, but she and Sandy have a good lawyer, and I am confident they will get it worked out. 

Sandy and Mary Margaret worked hard to get me to move in with them, and I eventually succumbed. I was really tired of San Francisco's cold fog. Woodside is so much warmer and nicer. I sold the big house in Pacific Heights and moved in with them. I also sold my publishing company, and I am now writing my own erotica instead of just publishing other peoples' work. 

Finally we have convinced Halili to move in with us. So there we are—four aging widows on a horse ranch in Woodside. The sex is still good, but we have pretty much learned to make do without men—most of the time.