8 comments/ 22060 views/ 9 favorites Cycle By: Erich_Norden The author would like to give special thanks to KillerRomance and teresawrites2u for proofreading and feedback. Callista was distraught. Her mind was too busy to allow her to fall asleep. She hated to see otherwise good days ruined by bad news, and today was such a day. She found out while visiting her mother that, beginning in two days, much of the forest near her childhood home was going to be cleared by loggers. Fond memories of exploring those woods came to her. A deep love of the natural world manifested itself early in her life, and her family thought her a tomboy for the amount of time she chose to spend in the thick woods down the road from her home. Often entire days would be spent walking along the old paths her feet had made previously, searching for new hidden and enchanted places where no other person had yet explored. Callista's favorite place of all was a large clearing deep in the woods which surrounded part of a small creek, where she would go swimming on hot days and try to catch the minnows and tadpoles in her hands. She also remembered Moort, who lived next to the creek. That was what she missed most of all, visiting Moort. She named him that when she first found the clearing at age seven. He was the only one of his kind she had ever seen — he seemed like a giant snail or squid, or perhaps something in between. Since he never moved out of that clearing, she often went there to visit, talking to him about her days. Callista remembered the strange sight of a big, purple flower that seemed to sprout right out of his skin, which made a liquid that smelled and tasted like honey. Most children would have been afraid of the creature, but not her. She adored him as a pet of sorts, albeit an unusual one. She always felt happy and peaceful around him, which is why the clearing was always her refuge whenever she felt sad or angry. Her mother had warned her more than once to stay away from Moort and out of the woods because it was dangerous, but Callista never listened. The forest was her second home, and her friend always had a gentle nature. She had made many memories in that place, but it had been an entire seven years since she had to move away with her parents to the city. She was eighteen now, and a biology student, with more important things to do than spend hours idling among the trees. And now, very soon, the forest would be gone, leaving behind only her remembrance of their special times. As she thought about it, Callista realized she was crying, and wiped the tears away with her bed sheet. She needed to make one last visit there, tomorrow, before it was gone forever. Eventually, she found sleep. Cycle Cycles At the time I was 31 and a hair-on-fire hot shot high tech manager, leading a department full of other bright people, happily married, or at least I thought so, and living a full and rich life. I never thought of parties as great fun and didn't especially like going to them anymore. This one was a little different. It was only for team members to celebrate finishing an important project. This team was small: there were a dozen of us, so Jack, one of the engineers in my group, decided he'd like to have it at his house. Jack had been divorced for three years; he was an easygoing and charming guy and making the most of being a bachelor. "Not married, but I'm going through the motions (wink wink)" was how he described his life style. His weekend parties were regular affairs: my wife Lois and I had attended some but stopped going about a half year ago. Besides, since I supervised these people maintaining a little distance socially was a good idea. Who wants to fire a friend? The party was comfortable: we drank, talked, and were pleased with our accomplishments. Even though it was a Friday people began drifting off to their homes early. There wasn't enough drinking going on – most limited themselves to a couple of beers – for me to be concerned about their safety. Finally only Jack, Suzie and Marsha, both of whom were programmers, and I were left. Jack was in a quietly intense conversation with Suzie, and I was having a great time talking with Marsha, learning more about her as a person than I knew about most of the staff. She was married, no kids, a degree in German of all things, and trained in programming. She told me her husband was a bit of a nerd but a really good programmer. That, she explained, was why she understood computers far better than most people with as little experience as she had. There was more to this soft spoken and lovely woman than I realized. And she learned about me. "Sounds like your life is centered around your work, and your wife's is centered around hers," she said. I thought for a moment then nodded agreement. "Yeah, Lois and I are career driven." "You should let your hair down more often; life is too short not to enjoy it." I agreed. "It looks like you do that," I suggested. "Pretty much," she said. "The bad news is, my husband is a lot like you. He's really career centered. Even if this party was for team members and their partners, I'd be here alone. What about you, would you be here alone, too?" The fact was I would have been. Lois had been adamant in not coming to parties any more. "We've come to a few parties here, and Jack had been to our house a couple of times, but we stopped doing that a while ago." "Too bad," Marsha said. "I guess I started coming about the time you stopped. There's a time for work and a time for play. My husband did come a few times, but he stopped too." "Maybe I should come more often," I said, thinking I'd have met this charming woman in a relaxed social setting months sooner. About then Jack, who was sitting across the living room, stood up, and held out his hand to Suzie. "Tom, Suzie and I are going up to my room. We want some privacy, and if we're up there, you'll have privacy too. Just pull the door closed when you leave, OK? It'll lock by itself." I was this naive: my mouth fell open as they went up the stairs. Marsha smiled at my expression. "I guess Jack and Suzie don't think all work and no play is a good idea." "Uh, I guess not," I said. My whole set of beliefs about Jack had just changed. I mean, Suzie worked for him! This could be big trouble. "I guess you didn't see the chemistry going on between the two of them." I confessed I did not. "That's funny," Marsha said with a little smile on her face. "A little while ago, when I went to the bathroom Suzie was there and she asked if something was going on between you and me. She thought she saw some sparks looking at our body language. I sure knew something was going on between her and Jack: he can be the most charming and sexy man. . ." "Oh? What did you say when she asked you about us? I mean, I like sitting here and talking with you, but I don't know about sparks or anything. I mean, we're each married and all that." "Well," Marsha said, "I told Suzie you were being a perfect gentleman. . ." "Thanks for saying that," I interrupted. ". . . but I had hopes that would change," she continued. "Wh. . . wh. . .what?" "Oh, come on, Tom. We're sitting here in a room that's really romantically lit, and I think you're a special guy, just as smart as anyone I've known, and I wondered what it would be like to kiss a man like you. I hoped you wouldn't be a perfect gentleman. Am I being too bold? I guess I shouldn't have said that, but it's the truth." I was dumbstruck – this was all new to me. Marsha saw my confusion and mistook it for rejection. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that," she said. "No, no," I started to say, but somehow when she heard my protest she moved toward me, and I toward her, and lips met. Oh, they were so soft, so gentle, so wonderful. And they opened, it wasn't just her lips against mine, there was a tongue there too, then two tongues and the intensity went way up, the kiss went from soft and sexy to straight passion, and somehow she turned so she was in my arms, almost sitting my lap. I hadn't kissed a woman like this except for my wife in years. But wait: I haven't kissed my wife like this for a long time, either. This was wonderful. Why weren't kisses at home as good? It was easy to kiss at her ear and hear her gasp, then kiss at her neck and feel her lift up against my lips. She was reacting to my kisses – that was new, it wasn't pro-forma, it was real! It was a human response to my clumsy kisses, a positive human response! I hadn't experienced that in it seemed like forever. One part of my mind was wondering just what Marsha meant about Jack being such a sexy charming man, then my intellect turned off and more basic instincts, on. Our lips parted. "Your husband. . ." I started to say. "He doesn't mind if I go out alone like this, it gives him time to do what he likes." "He doesn't mind?" My question wasn't answered right then, lips got in the way. A while later she explained: "we agreed we could each do what we wanted, our marriage is just, well, convenient. But, he always asks me what I was doing when I'm out, I think he's a little bit of a voyeur." "You tell him?" "Yes, sure, I tell him: I don't sneak around behind his back, and besides, it excites him," she said. "But stop talking, kiss me again. I've kissed other men, but none were as exciting as you are." So our lips met again, but one part of my brain was still considering what I just heard. She tells him? It turns him on? I couldn't imagine telling my wife I was kissing another woman tonight, I couldn't do that in a million . . . . . .but the kiss was too distracting for me to think about that now. I promised myself I'd think about it later, but for now . . . ah, the kiss, the kiss, I was lost in the kiss. I was supporting her with one arm behind her back, my other one was on her waist. Marsha was making small sounds, small delicious sounds, and probably so was I, and moments passed, those time warped moments, distorted moments. "Oh, I love this," she said and as lost as I was in her kiss I felt her hand close on my wrist and move my hand. She moved it across her hip, then guided it across her groin, over her skirt up to her knee, and down along her lower leg until my palm was on skin. I had wanted to do that or something like it but didn't know how, and didn't want to face rejection, or have her feel compelled to let me do what I wanted because I supervised her direct boss. But it wasn't me, it was her, she was leading me! She moved somehow, and my fingers were on the inside of her leg, being moved upward to her knee, her skirt bunching around our wrists. She bridged a little, freeing up the full skirt just enough, and then helped me move my fingers over an incredibly soft and warm thigh, and closer, until I could feel moist heat as I cupped her there. I didn't understand what I was feeling, but loved every sensation, every part of me felt alive in a new way: lips were more than lips, fingers more than fingers, all were connected, all were filling me with new sensations. Our lips parted, and Marsha moved a little more and her eyes opened, and looked into mine, and she moved closer. "I love the way you're touching me, it's so sexy, so erotic." I was having a problem with a weird idea. "You wouldn't tell your husband about this, would you?" "I tell him everything," she said, and then her lips sealed against mine. I was never in a place like this before, and didn't know what to do. It would be best to stop. She pulled me closer and was hand against her, pressing it into that warmth. "Tom, I'm wearing a teddy," she said, both of her arms were around me now: my hand on her center didn't need guidance any more. I took advantage of her closeness, wanting her lips against mine, not understanding what or why she was telling me about what she was wearing. She pulled away from the kiss a little, and I saw that her pupils were as large as any I had seen, they were fully dilated. The intellectual side of me noted the room wasn't that dark, so that was most likely a pleasure response. She whispered "It has snaps down there." Our lips met again, and I could feel the snaps under my fingers. Another moment passed and I heard her whisper, "Tom, it's OK, you can unsnap them if you want. I hope you want to, I want to feel you touch me. . ." It was instinctive: there were two little clicks as the garment opened, and then she said ". . . oh, like that!" She arched against my hand and my fingers were in the softest and sexiest place they had even been, the most welcoming and warmest and lubricated place, and she was moving against me, her body against my fingers, and her lips against my lips. I always hated not being able to take my wife to orgasm: "it's a reflex, like a sneeze," she told me more than once. "It's not a big deal." Marsha orgasmed against my fingers, and my wife was wrong, it's a very big deal. "So good," Marsha said after a second one, or a third. "Better than I imagined it would be." She pulled away a little. "But I'm being selfish. Now it's your turn." She moved so that her head was in my lap, and her hands worked on my belt, then the clasp of my waistband, and her hand moved against my belly. I had never felt a touch like that, not ever. Only my wife had touched me there, but this sensation was so different, so special, so good. Would she do more than touch my stomach? I wanted her to. She moved again, whispered something about me lifting up, and I did, and somehow my slacks and briefs were at my ankles. I never thought there was anything the least bit sexy about having one's pants down like that, but her touch, oh that touch, and then her hand was on my erection, and her head was in my lap again, and I looked down and saw those lips touch the underside of my cock while she looked up at me. My wife hadn't done that in years! She smiled the most lovely smile, and moved her head away a little, so that my cock traced down her cheek, towards her lips. "I want you in my mouth this time," she said. "Some other time I'll want you in me, you can be in me, that's a promise, but now, right now, I want this. . ." And her mouth opened and took me in. I remembered masturbating in the shower before I came to the party, just a quick automatic ejaculation – I did that a lot, it was more efficient than having sex with my wife. Now I was hoping that would increase my endurance. Earlier when we kissed I found her lips were exciting past what I had ever experienced. Then when I masturbated her, her orgasms set an even higher level of exotica for me. Nothing could have been sexier, I thought, but she proved me wrong. Her touch, the softness of her fingers caressing my cock drove the bar still higher. But her mouth on my cock – it was more intense than I can describe. After too short a time I was out of control, and she knew it. She pulled away a little bit and said "Don't be afraid, let go. Let it go. I want to be so exciting for you that you can't control yourself. Give it to me, let it go, let me satisfy you for the way you satisfied me." Then she took me in again, I could feel that deep throbbing, and heard her mutter "Yes, like that," and I was in her mouth and she was stroking me, masturbating me, and I was ejaculating! Later she smiled, wiping a little from her lips. "You were so gentle, my husband is so rough I don't like doing that to him. Thank you, I loved it." A few minutes later we were lying beside each other in the warmest and most comforting embrace I had ever experienced. I heard her whisper "This is special. Tom, I hope there is a next time. I want to feel you in me next time." It was without thinking when I said "I want more than just one next time." Somehow we parted, and I drove home that night confused. What had happened? "It was just a party, things got out of hand," I told myself. But I didn't believe it. There was a chemistry that was past anything I had ever experienced before. I wanted more, it was the single most addictive thing I had ever experienced. It was a confusing weekend. What was happening to me? At least my home life kept to its usual weekend schedule: I went to the lab, my wife took to her at-home office to edit some paper she was submitting. It shouldn't be like this: we were room mates, not life mates. This was a marriage? I went to work early the next Monday, still confused. Marsha was there already, that was early for her. "Tom? Can I have a couple of minutes?" It wasn't unusual for me to have conversations with team members. We got coffee, then went into the lab. "About Friday night," she started. There are times when I learned it was best to be quiet, and decided this was one of those times. "Tom, don't think badly of me because of what happened Friday night." "Think badly of you? I thought about you all weekend, but not badly." "I'm glad, but what happened there, we should probably leave there. It will only cause us problems otherwise. Let's do it like they say in Las Vegas: 'What happened there stays there.'" It wasn't what I wanted, but agreed that was the way it should be. "Good. I want to go to work now, I don't want people to see us together." I didn't even think of that! It wasn't my most productive day at work, at least not professionally. I did spend time thinking bout how my life was going, and decided I wanted to change that right now. I sent an email note to my wife. "Lois, we need to talk. Reserve tonight for that." It took the better part of a bottle of wine that evening to get things on track. She knew we didn't have much of a marriage lately, and was afraid I'd want to leave it. "No, I didn't want a divorce, at least not now," I told her, resolving her biggest fear. "No, I'm not having an affair," took care of another concern, "but it could happen to me unless something changes. For that matter, it could happen to you." I saw something, an expression, on her face when I said that. "Wait a minute. Has it happened to you? Are you having an affair?" There was something wrong with the way she responded, something about the timing, or tone: "An affair? No, of course not." "Well, there's something going on, Lois. What is it?" "There's absolutely nothing going on!" "Let me change the question. Was there something that had gone on?" We may not have had much of a marriage, but we didn't lie to each other. "No, not really," she said, hedging. "I never had an affair. Have you?" "Never," I said. That was technically true, wasn't it? "But you said 'not really.' What does 'not really' mean?" She took a deep sigh. "I should tell you, it's been bothering me for months." Oh oh, this looked like it was going to be trouble. I learned a long time ago to not react to what someone was saying. That way everything comes out, and when the 'data dump' is complete that's the time to figure out your reaction. It's too late for anyone to pull back then. It's like they say in court, "Once the bell has been rung you can't unring it." "We haven't had a serious conversation for a long time, so go ahead. You know you can talk to me, Lois." "Remember when we were going pretty regularly to those parties at Jack's house?" "Sure, we went to a few, but that was a lot of months ago." "Do you remember how Jack would often disappear for a while?" "No, can't say that I do." "Well, I was watching pretty closely. What would happen is he'd take one of the women upstairs for maybe 45 minutes, then they'd come down separately. He always looked cool and in control, but the ladies would have that "I've just had sex" look on them. I could smell sex on them, too." That got my attention. How could I have missed it? "Uh, I never saw that. Like, who would he take up? There weren't that many single women around." "I remember a couple. One might have been, uh, Sharon, something like that." "We don't have a Sharon – there's Suzie: shoulder length brown hair, nice figure." "That's the name. You introduced me to her, and to the other one I remember, the last time we went, was some married woman, her husband wasn't there. Really pretty girl, slender, sort of red hair but not really, half way between reddish and blond, I guess. Uh, Marie, Mary, something like – oh yeah, Marsha." A knife just went into my stomach. "Marsha? Are you sure?" "Tom, you look like you were just kicked in the belly. Yes, it was Marsha, I'm sure of – wait a minute: are you having an affair with her? Is that way you seem so upset?" So much for my poker face. But I had this image of Jack standing up, taking Marsha's hand . . . my Marsha's hand, for God's sake, and taking her up those stairs. "No, no. She works in my group, even if I was going to have an affair it wouldn't be with someone from work, that would be stupid." Jack WAS being stupid! It was high risk behavior, having sex with women he supervised. But we were getting away from the subject. "What has any of that to do with you having something you wanted to tell me, something that had been bothering you for a while?" "Well, at that last party Jack was flirting with me a lot, there was even some kisses, Tom, kisses in the kitchen and in the hallway. He is a very sexy guy, and he asked me if I would go up to his room with him. I told him I wouldn't, and even if I wanted to you were there, you'd notice. He said you never paid attention to things like that, but if his timing was bad that night maybe he would call me some other time, and asked if that would be OK with me. Before I could answer that other woman – Marsha – came by, and they went off together, I thought about what it would be like to be with him like that, I mean sexually. I was raised Catholic and we were taught the thought was as bad as the deed. If that's true, I had an affair because I thought about it. I shouldn't tell you this, but he called a couple of times to invite me over there. He said he needed to borrow a cup of sugar, could I bring it over, or some corny line like that. I knew what he wanted a cup of, all right. He even joked about it, saying he promised although he might use the cup, he wouldn't wear it out. And to be honest, I thought about it a lot. I never went, but I thought about it, about going up those stairs with him, and it excited me, a lot. I was afraid to go to any more parties there, because if he asked me again, I might have gone with him. Do you hate me for telling you?" Now I had two images in my mind, of Marsha going up with Jack, and Lois going up. Oh God, they were sexy thoughts. Cycles I had to deal with the here and how, though: "No, I don't hate you for telling me. I'm glad you did. I can admit this weekend I was thinking about the party I went to at Jack's house, and that Marsha woman was there. I wondered what it would be like to have some kind of a fling with a woman like her. Not that I would, of course, but I thought about it, I guess like you did about Jack." We both felt unburdened after our talk, and closer than before. So close we actually had sex for the first time in a long time. I don't often go down on Lois, but wanted to, maybe as a kind of compensation for what I did with Marsha. I did a lot of teasing, lots of soft touching, and Lois was twitching, enjoying herself, enjoying me enjoying her. And I was as erect as could be, for that matter. I decided to be a little trashy. Marsha was holding my head to herself, and I lifted up. "Stop holding me. I want you to listen to me now, and do as I say." There was a quiet "OK" although it sounded as if it should have had a question mark, not a period, at the end. "Put your hands above your head, stretch out tall!" She did that. "Legs wider apart!" She did that too. I moved closer to her, and felt really wicked, really perverted. "Now, when you first feel me touch you, I want you to start thinking about going up those stairs with Jack, the way you said you were fantasizing about, a little while ago. Think about what he would have done, and what you would have done, if that happened." I heard a small gasp, but then I lowered my head over her, began caressing her with my tongue. "Be thinking now," I reminded her, then continued. In a couple of minutes I said "Think what it would be like to have him touch you, to put his tongue here. . ." She was reacting in a way she never had before! And that was causing a big reaction in me, too – this was great! "If he was going down on you, what would you do?" I asked, and then pleasured her more. I was lying sort of across the bed, my feet were almost on my pillow, and her head was near hers, arms against the head board. She moved toward me, stopped being stretched out but instead reached for me and pulled my hips closer, and in a moment my cock was in her mouth. She hadn't done that in years! I had to ask: "You'd go down on him?" She didn't answer in words, but her actions spoke loudly. "Good!" I told her, "I'd want you to." I was close to losing control, so I changed positions and entered her while our lips met. I could taste me on her lips, and she, herself on mine! Orgasms! For both of us, orgasms! Somewhere in the middle of her panting as we recovered she said "So that's what a vaginal orgasm feels like. Honey, it is a big deal." Much later she asked if I thought we needed a crisis in our marriage for us to feel that free and uninhibited. "I don't know if I could take the stress," I answered. Over the next few days, and they were sexy ones at home, I began appreciating why Marsha's husband liked to hear about what she did when she was out alone. I was getting off just thinking about what Lois fantasized about! On Friday Jack stopped by. "Going to have a couple of people over tonight, Thai take out for dinner, drinks and talking after. Wanna come?" "Sounds good: can I bring Lois?" He was speechless for a few seconds: "Uh, Marsha is coming." "Is Suzie?" "I didn't ask her yet." "Maybe you shouldn't invite her." He thought for a moment, obviously he had getting Marsha and me together again on his mind and my suggestions had changed everything. "Yeah, you're right, maybe I shouldn't. Come around 8?" "Done," I agreed. "We're going to Jack's tonight," I emailed Lois. "Just a few people. Dress is casual but nice. I have to work late, but I'll pick you up at 7:30. We'll eat there. Should be fun." Lois was ready, looking wonderful in a skirt and blouse. "Looking good, babe. Flirt with Jack, maybe we'll get more ammunition for sex at home if you do." She laughed that off. The surprising thing is that Marsha and Lois really liked each other! They spent time giggling over whatever women giggle about. It turns out they were talking about how handsome Jack was. And sexy. Lois said Marsha told her she could verify that from personal experience, and Lois added that made her really hot. And jealous. As often happens, Jack's other guests left early, leaving just the four of us. It was a very comfortable foursome. Jack put on some music, we began dancing: Jack and Marsha, Lois and me. For a while, at least. Then Jack said "Let's change partners." Lois laughed and said that although she liked Marsha she didn't want to dance with her, but it was OK if Jack and I partnered up. "Not what I had in mind," Jack said, taking Lois into his arms. She didn't object. Marsha glided into mine. Close dancing, fireplace, sexy woman – make that women – and it was getting hot. I took a moment to see Jack stroking Lois's back: Lois saw me notice and smiled. She was happy and enjoying the attention. Two could play: I did to Marsha what Jack was doing to Lois. Marsha stiffened: "Oh! I didn't expect that, not with your wife here." She moved much closer to me. There's a term for it: welded into formation! There was a lot of unspoken communication going on. When we stopped dancing and sat down, it was Jack with Lois, and Marsha with me. Then there was a tentative kiss between the new pair-ups, and when we came up for air we checked with the person we assumed were our partners. Lois smiled at me, Jack at Marsha, and then a second kiss started. I could hear my heart beating in my ears as I tasted Marsha's lips again, knowing that my wife was tasting Jack's. A few moments passed, and then Jack asked "Just how liberal are the two of you, anyway?" I didn't answer at first, but Lois looked at me and said "Uh, pretty liberal, I guess. I mean, look at us here. We're all mostly married, but the person we're sitting with isn't our spouse." She looked as though she needed some kind of verification from me. "You know, we could pretend we're in Las Vegas," I said. Marsha looked at me, understanding. "You mean, what happens here, stays here?" "Yeah, I like the sound of that," I said, "What do you think, Lois?" She looked at me, at Jack, and at Marsha. She took a deep breath, and then said "So long as we come back to reality in Rochester in the morning, it sounds good to me." "And me," Marsha agreed. I saw Jack start a serious kiss with my wife, but then I got distracted because I got involved with one, too. There were all kinds of sensations going on, the immediate sexy ones because the body language I was sharing with Marsha was making all kinds of promises, and other ones, because there was another body language conversation going on ten feet across the room. Jack began whispering to Lois, he was stoking her hip, and her hand drifted across his crotch, and paused there! A minute or two went by, then Jack stood up. "Without objection, boys and girls, this lovely lady and I are going upstairs. And to be fair, Tom and Marsha, there's a guest room right next to mine if you want a different playground." I pulled away from Marsha for a moment, and saw Lois look at me, then stand, and take Jack's hand. I'll never forget the sight of the two of them going up the stairs. Or the sensation a moment later when Marsha led me up the same stairway. "I was here before," she said, "and I know the way." Jack's bedroom door wasn't closed, I saw two forms on the bed, still clothed, but wrapped around each other. We went into the guest room. I started to close the door, but Marsha smiled, and pushed it open. We found a bed of our own. I was hearing sighs, then other night noises coming across the hall then we began making night noises of our own. Somehow I was erect; somehow I was getting and giving pleasure. There was that moment when my cock was about to enter Marsha, and I thought about Lois and Jack, and then with one easy moment completed our coupling. "So this is what adultery feels like," my mind said. The rest of me said it felt pretty good. But I knew there was something else happening just a hall width away, another adultery. Marsha sensed what I was feeling, and after a half hour whispered "I know Jack has a king size bed, Tom. I think there's room for four on it. Shall we see if I'm right?" A knock on the open door led to a giggle then we heard Jack say "Come on in, we wondered what was taking you so long to get here." Marsha was right. Moments later I saw my wife accept another penis. She saw mine accepted by another woman. We saw Marsha get Jack hard again, then ride him until he was soft, while we were moving together too. We all slept there all tangled together. During the night I awoke, feeling movement on the bed. It was too dark to see, but I touched a body and Marsha moved closer to me. "I'm glad you're awake. They're doing it again, and I want to, too." So did I. There's bad news. Just saying it was Las Vegas Rules – what happens there stays there – doesn't make it so. It wasn't Las Vegas after all, it happened in Rochester. Stories got around, we think through Suzie, and they invaded our lives. A job change, a divorce, and two years went by. I was working hard at a new job with even more pressure and more demands on my time. Still, it was the best time of my life. Then it happened. A couple of nights ago, my new 'significant other' (I didn't want to get married on the rebound) told me we were invited out to some new friend's place and we had to leave right now. "I just can't make it, we have a meeting with the venture capital guys in two days and I need three days of work to get ready, honey." Betty was not happy about that. "You're being a nerd. I don't want to sit at home alone." "Look, they're your friends, you go and have a good time. I'll see you later on, I have to work on this until midnight or so." "OK, I will go, and I'll be home by then," she said. I finished what I had to by 11:30, and not more than a couple of minutes later, Betty came in, looking happy. "Have a good time?" "Very good. And, you know, you're not spending enough time enjoying yourself, and that's not good for you or me." "I know. This pressure cooker will be off in two days, then we'll have more time together, I promise." "OK, but come over here, and sit on the sofa," Betty said. "I'll get us a couple of drinks, and we can relax. Maybe I'll even distract you and take your mind off of your work." "A distraction would be welcome," I said as she handed me a drink and cuddled next to me. "OK, Tom, I'll distract you. I'll get your attention, I promise." "Good." I was ready, and Betty was imaginative: this should be fun. "Do you remember how we told each other about things we did, unusual life experiences, that sort of thing?" she asked. Of course I remembered, but didn't understand how this was going to be a distraction. "Remember you told me how that woman – Marsha? – would go out, then tell her husband what she did?" I sure remembered that. "And how, when you and your wife went to that party, you finally understood how a guy could get really aroused if he knew his woman might be intimate with another guy?" I remembered that, too. "Good. Now kiss me, you silly man." I did, and it was distracting. It got my attention, all right, and I wanted to take her to bed right now! "Not so fast, big guy," she said, and took my hand and guided it over her hip, and down her leg. "Do you like that?" "You bet!" "Honey," she said, as my hand reached her calf and began moving up along her leg, "honey, I'm wearing a teddy." My hand was at her mid thigh now, I thought I was the one teasing her. I was wrong. "It has snaps down there," she reminded me, as my fingers went higher. I could sense warmth and moisture. She was ready to be touched, but I'd tease her a little more. "Good, I know how to deal with snaps." I wasn't the one being teased. "You don't have to. Someone already did. Now kiss me, you animal." Oh god! A moment later she told me more. "You know about degrees of freedom, I know you do. Well, honey, when you kiss me, you're only one degree of freedom away from kissing another guy's cock. Is that distracting enough for you?" Oh god!! "And there's another party next weekend. I'm going, I want you to come too. If you don't, I'll have another story to tell you, but for now, take me to bed. I want you to finish what someone else has started." About an hour later I asked what I had to: "You said I should finish what someone else has started. Did you fuck the guy who unsnapped you?" "Not yet, honey, not yet. Maybe that'll never happen, it depends on you. Will you be going to the party next weekend?" I was thinking about conflicted emotions. I wanted to go to the party, but I wanted another story, too. Who knows, maybe I'd get both. It's happened before. Cycles I was surprised to see Frank Zimmerman at Mario's memorial service—not because there was anything surprising in a old-time powerful movie mogul appearing in Hollywood at services for a major motion picture producer, but because Zimmerman was as old as the Cascades and had been a recluse for a couple of decades. I would have been less surprised to hear that he had predeceased Mario by several years. And then I was more surprised when he stopped beside me on his way to being wheeled to his limousine and asked me if I would go for a drink with him, and, having been told I was actually on my way straight to the airport to fly back to New York, volunteered to give me a lift to LAX. "It was good to see you at Mario's service," Zimmerman said when we were nestled in the backseat of his limo and on our way to the airport. "I almost didn't come," I said. "But then I thought 'what the hell.'" "It must have been painful to have to stay in the background as you did," Zimmerman said. "You were so much a part of Mario's life." So, he knew, I thought. It seemed like half of the movie industry knew that Mario and I had been lovers for fifteen years. But that was some time ago. "His family," I said tersely. And I would normally have left it like that, but Zimmerman seemed to want more and I hadn't figured out why he was paying this special attention to me—the offer of a social meeting from such a lofty recluse and the ride to the airport. So I finished it off. "Family had become very important to Mario. That's what ended us and sent me to New York." "But you ended it amicably and Mario was instrumental in establishing your career, wasn't he?" Zimmerman said. He didn't say it accusingly, though, and there was a sparkle in his eye when he said it. "Yes, yes, he did," I admitted. And that was the basic truth. I probably would not have become a major Broadway producer without Mario DiLane in my life. I'd been just another hunky small-town wonder seeking fame in Hollywood when Mario picked me out of an audition dance line for an eminently forgettable musical he was filming in the years where the big band musicals were the bread and butter of the movie industry. I didn't get cast, but I did get fucked on the casting couch and then got so much more. I was young and naïve and blond and the typical Midwest small town hunk whose head had been turned by constant comments that "you should be in films." I was so narcissistic and taken with myself in those days that I hadn't come in tune with my sexuality at all—my eyes were turned to the floodlights, and it was only later, thinking back on it, that I realized I had blithely passed by hundreds of offers and passes by male and female alike. They seemed to think I was holding myself aloof, which they found all the more alluring, when, in fact, I just was oblivious to the possibilities. I didn't wake up until Mario had me in his studio lot trailer, bright eyed at having been singled out of the dance line and invited for a private interview, and stripped down in what I thought was a normal part of the process to determine my suitability for a role in his film. Before I knew it, I was on my back on his studio couch, and he was sucking my cock to my quick, nervous ejaculation and then covered my body with his nakedness and rocked me, his hard cock rubbing up and down on my belly, while he put his lips to my ears and whispered how nice I was. All of this I was interpreting as my opening to being cast in his movie, and I wanted it so badly, that I gave no objections when he forced my thighs apart and started fingering my ass. He had his dick inside my rim before he realized, from my reaction, that I was a virgin. After that he took it slowly and was gentle with me. But he fucked me nonetheless. I hardly remember the pain of the first breaching. What I remember is how he worshipped my body as he stripped my innocence away. Upon learning I was a virgin, he had pulled away from his half sheathing inside me and told me that my first time would be all the better for what he was going to do—that he trusted that I was clean and was declaring that he was, and that he wanted what we were doing to be based on trust. Then he stripped the condom off his cock and reentered me and fucked me bareback. The difference was incredible. It was skin on skin now, the foreskin of his uncircumcised cock rippling across my innocent, undulating ass channel walls. I fell apart, and my hips started a rolling gyration and I was sobbing and moaning and groaning. And Mario lost control too and plunged to the depths and start pumping me in long, strong strokes. He fucked me for hours, resting between assaults and cuddling me and rocking me back and forth until he hardened again and then whispering that he was sorry but he couldn't help himself, he'd turn me to a new position and fuck me again. When we both were totally exhausted, he kissed me and then whispered that he loved me and never wanted to let me go. And he didn't let me go for the next decade and a half. I didn't get a role in his picture, but he made me one of his assistants and taught me the skills that enabled me, once he had molded me, to stand out in the profession. "And he loved you, I'm sure you know that," Zimmerman said in a low voice. "I never questioned that," I said. "And I respect his choice." "Well, he wanted me to make sure you realized that." "You?" I said in surprise. Why would Mario have asked Zimmerman to do this. Zimmerman smiled again. "I meant it when I told you I knew how hard it was for you to stay in the shadows back there at the memorial service," he said. "And I know it was hard for you, because it was equally hard for me." "For you?" "Yes. You see I loved Mario as well and as totally and for as long as he loved you." "You and Mario were lovers?" I was in shock. I never had suspected. "Yes, what Mario did for you I had already done for him." Zimmerman had his hand on my knee, and his eyes were glazed over with tears. "Could you do an old man a deep favor?" I was silent, my head hanging, the revelation of Mario's earlier life blowing me away. "Mario loved you and I loved Mario, and I need to feel close to Mario just now. Could you? . . . Would you? . . . let me make love to you just one time." I lifted my head, my shock deepening now. His mottled, wrinkled hand was nearly at my crotch. "Oh, I don't mean fuck you," he said and then he gave a dry laugh. "I'm years beyond being able to do that now. But I still can suck." I didn't realize I had been holding my breath as I was. But I let it out in one long, ragged release, and I just nodded and lay back in the cushy limousine seat, as Frank Zimmerman unzipped my pants, gently extracted my cock, and gave me one of the most expert, slow, arousing, and satisfying blow jobs that I'd ever received. The last thing Zimmerman said to me before I got out of his limo at the airport was, "Don't let the cycle end." I had no idea at the time what he meant by that. I was still mellow and thinking of how good a lover Mario had been while I was sitting in the departure lounge of my LAX flight back to New York. I think I sensed his presence before I saw him. I looked up and saw him gliding across the departure area and over to the window where he flipped open a cell phone and spoke to someone on it in hushed tones. I got the impression that the phone call hadn't ended well and had left him sad. He was achingly beautiful, and I immediately discerned in the erect way he carried himself and in the way that he seemed to glide across the room that he was a professional dancer. And from the slight swing in his hips as he moved, my impression was also that he was accessible. It was probably because of what I'd just been through during my short visit to Los Angeles that focused me on the young man. He was slightly over six feet, giving the impression he was even taller than he was because of the majestic why he carried himself. He was a designer's delight. His light brown hair with blond highlights was trim, and his clothes screamed of good design when most of the other passengers around him were flying sloven. He was so slim that there probably wasn't an ounce of fat on him, and although he had all of the right curves in his apparent muscle tone, he was by no means overdeveloped or even developed to a commanding presence. His presence was commanding in other, sensual ways, though—although my own impression of that might have been formed because I'd very recently been fully satisfyingly sucked dry—but it was not in the sense of male domination—more a sense of what he could give. His trousers were a trim gray-white cotton of perfect fit and he was wearing a gray and white horizontal strip designer T-shirt with a straight-line neckline. Even his loafers were slim and stylish. None of this was overstated; he was just the perfect clothes horse. His chin and lower cheeks were covered in a two-day stubbling that looked like it had been groomed just before he made his entrance in the departure lounge. He didn't smile, and the aura about him spoke of a melancholy that set me to speculating what possibly could be wrong. I lost track of him in the boarding process, but within a hour of being in the air, I couldn't control my mind, which had fixated on the young man, and I left my first-class seat and worked myself back into the coach section until I found him. He was sitting in a three-seat section all by himself, his legs pulled up on the seat beside him, which only a flexible dancer could do—and look as well as he did in doing it—and pull it off and his head set back into the seat back and his eyes closed. He looked as sad as he had in the departure lounge. "I'm sorry if I'm intruding," I said quietly so as not to disturb the passengers around him—and there were only a smattering of them on this day; the flight was miraculously underbooked. It was midweek, with no big crowd-gathering events apparently going on in either L.A. or New York. "I couldn't help but recognize another dancer." He opened his eyes in surprise. They were a fetching hazel in color. But the whites of his eyes had a red tinge to them, as if he'd been privately crying. "Yes, I'm a dancer," he said. "How could you tell?" "It was in the way you carry yourself," I said. "I've been a dancer and worked with them for years. I think I can pick one out of the crowd without a doubt. Do you mind if I sit here for a few moments." "No. That's OK, I guess," he said. But he said it more in a tone of politeness than a welcoming of the company. "You seem sad," I said after I sat down in the aisle seat. "And I'm a little sad myself. I came out from New York just to attend the memorial service of an old, dear friend. I hope you haven't had the same experience. You are much too young to start losing dear friends." "It's a loss. But of a dream, not of a friend," he answered. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," I responded. "I won't pry further. I'll go on back to my seat now. I think I'm just relieved that it wasn't caused by losing someone who meant a great deal to you." "Oh, no, nothing like that," he said, opening to me a bit now. "I came out to Hollywood with hopes of a career out here, and it hasn't happened. I ran out of funds and now have to return to New York with my tail between my legs. I made the mistake of burning bridges when I came out here. Now I don't think I can even reclaim what I had in New York." It must of have been the recent sex, but my first reaction to his remark was that he had a very nice tail indeed—not too bulbous and certainly not flat; nicely proportioned with fetching hollows at the hips—and held high on his body. And I further thought that I had something I'd like to insert between his legs. I hadn't felt this sexually attracted to anyone in years. I remained back there in coach for the remainder of the flight with no awkward pauses or silences—or further signals from the young man, whose name was Ben Brighton—that would prompt my leaving him. He slowly told me his whole life story and the shows he'd danced in in New York and all of the crappy temporary jobs he had taken in L.A. while waiting for his big break. In turn, he asked me about my family, but strangely he didn't ask me what I did for a living or pursue the opening I'd given him of having been a dancer and working with dancers. And I didn't volunteer the information—or even my last name, because, if he had worked in the New York theater, he would recognize my name instantly. I think even then I knew there was a possibility of something happening between us, and I didn't want it to be on the basis of what I could do for him professionally. Another reason I thought something was building was that when he asked about family, I told him I was gay. I certainly didn't usually trot that out voluntarily on my first meeting with strangers, although I didn't bother to try to hide it either. When we got to New York, our bags came down the chute in baggage claim almost simultaneously, and I impetuously asked him if he wanted a ride anywhere. I had a car waiting for me and I could see my driver standing by it in the taxi lane outside the terminal window. "Yes, thanks, that would be nice," he answered in a small voice. "Where can I take you?" I asked. "Anywhere you want," was his quiet response. I held him close to me in my bed, both of us naked, and him lying still. I was encircling his shoulders with one arm, him on his back and me stretched along his body on my side, one of my legs possessively covering one of his thighs, holding him down and close into me. I let my hand glide all over his beautiful, perfectly formed young body until I centered on his half-hard cock, and then I slowly stroked him to completion, as he sighed and undulated under my attentions, being held in close check by my encasing arm and leg. Then I turned him on his belly and prepared his ass and straddled his hips and slow fucked him until his second ejaculation and my first. I told him I was clean and that he had the option and he said he was clean too and wanted to feel me, so I didn't use a condom. I wanted this to be a matter of trust and commitment from the very beginning. And the act of sex on his sweet body dredged up the memory of my first taking by Mario DiLane, and the joy of filling this young man with my hot semen was as satisfying to me as when Mario first did that for me—and I could tell by Ben's sighs and moans that it was fully satisfying for him as well. * * * * Such were my memories twelve years later as I lay in the hospital under a death threat that I dare not tell my lover of. When Ben visited me, we discussed only the future and what he was doing as the head dance master for various Broadway musicals—a position he had attained with his talent, to be sure, but also through the mentoring I had given him over the dozen years of our life together. After he had told me that he wouldn't leave my bed after our first fucking unless I told him to do so, I let him know who I was and of the doors I could open if his talent was worthy. I told him he could live with me regardless, but that I would make a bald assessment of what he could do professionally and would help him attain his potential—but not push him beyond his potential. I had seen too many careers and lives collapse from overextension by some well-meaning mentor. It turned out that there were no upward limits to his talent and creativity and that, after my initial help and mentoring, he soared on his own flight. I knew that his future in the entertainment industry would far surpass what I had accomplished, and I didn't begrudge him that. Because I loved him. I loved him with every inch of my being. Perhaps he one day would realize just how much I had loved him, although I would not be the one who told him. In this vein, he not only told me of what he was working on and the gossip around Broadway that we both thrived on, but he also told me of the new, young male dancer he had discovered and who he was helping getting established. He waxed enthusiastically about Peter Crofton for some moments before he seemed to realize what he was revealing to me and changed the subject. But I already knew that he and Peter were lovers. I'd known he had turned to Peter for solace not long after my cancer had been revealed and I broke off our sexual intimacy because it was just too painful for me to endure. I knew of all of this and of how Ben was taking Peter under his wing and mentoring him in the theater arts. I knew this because it hadn't been Ben who had discovered Peter and his talent—it had been me. Peter was my gift to Ben, my attempt to continue the cycle of love and commitment and mentoring that I myself had been part of and had benefited from. It was the greatest parting gift I knew of that I could give not only to Ben but also to my art. I had been part of a long chain of extraordinary entertainment talent arising and nourished from the satisfaction of the sexual release and commitment of successive elements of the cycle. It didn't really matter to me if Ben realized it now. In time he would. And by then he would have already fulfilled his contribution to the cycle. And now I understood what Frank Zimmerman meant all those years ago when he told me to keep the cycle going.