0 comments/ 16320 views/ 0 favorites A Proper Frame of Mind By: LionelMarkham I am not now nor was I ever a true suburban sexual revolutionary. But before I grow too old and antique to still get a bit wet between my thighs in the telling of this story, I'd like to get in down on paper. Perhaps someday, some yet unborn descendant will come across it in Granny's ancient computer files, will read it with shock and wide-eyed amazement that even way back then, women were wanton. As I said, never was, not even back in the sexually unrestrained days in the 1970's, back when AIDS was still a weight-reduction pill, when active membership in the sexual revolution was almost a must, particularly for chic young marrieds who, if they turned down a friendly little fondle on a Saturday evening over a bubbling fondue, risked being branded by contemporaries as hopelessly passé, even worst-of-all, reactionary Republicans. It wasn't because we ... Richard and I ... weren't tempted. We were, hundreds of times. Richard ... nobody calls him Dick ... had a sexual appetite which can best be described as avaricious, even on its off-days. And my own glandular secretions could hold up to the best of them. It was just that we had to be so careful. Richard was the Director for the Department of Properties Management of the Board of Education of a small, none-too-prosperous upstate Pennsylvania school district where any taint of scandal, any suggestion of lascivious living would have been viewed by the Superintendent of School as negatively as a charter membership in Hell's Angels. And with our suburban split-level mortgaged for thirty years and a car with a bigger monthly payment than the total cost of my first 1947 clunker, we had to maintain our conventional image at all costs. Directors of Departments of Property Management don't even have the job security and tenure of a teacher. They're just hired year-to-year by the school board. So like it or not, we had to conform. And it wasn't because our up-tight neighborhood and the Lutheran-Evangelical-dominated school board had driven sex to some dim and obscure corner of our minds. Far from it. Sex was up there boldly in front every day. By conservative count, Richard and I had orgasmed in virtually every possible spot in every room of the house including the top of my Steinway grand piano before we'd lived there through our first year. And sometimes, a passionate roll around the living room floor on a hot, stormy August evening when all of our friends were at the beach or taking themselves off to the mountains was about all we could afford. Cash was tight. Which was really the reason that this story came about. For reasons which I could never understand, an elderly aunt had offered to pay my college costs if I'd major in music. I did and even became rather a good pianist, not good enough to perform, you understand, but certainly, as the cliche goes, good enough to teach. I'd applied to the County for a position as a music teacher at the same time that Richard, freshly degreed in Business Administration, applied for his job. He got his and the county figured they'd done enough for the two of us. The man ought to earn the wages. So a few years back I'd placed an advertisement on the bulletin board of our supermarket. The furnace blower which had never really worked since we moved in decided to die in January just as the holiday bills were coming in, leaving our bank account embarrassingly low. "Wanted", my ad said, "piano students, beginners or advanced, for lessons in my home." I might as well, I thought, turn my expensive degree into some sort of income. The phone wasn't long in ringing and within a few months I'd managed to take on a dozen or so pupils. It was fun and I enjoyed it. They ran the gamut from the little six-year old Zabriski twins, to the Baptist minister's wife who had an exasperating proclivity to improvise on Bach, to old Mr. Kennerly who waited until he was sixty-seven to uncover an amazing musical talent. But there was one above everyone else. Joyce. Joyce was the only one with an innate feel for the piano. Joyce worked part time as a computer graphics specialist for the town's single architectural firm and attended the local liberal arts college in the evenings. She was working toward a music major just as I had done. The difference was that, while I was certainly more experienced, she played with a born-in talent and had a technique that turned me green with envy every time she touched the keyboard. I liked her the first time she came in, a tall, slender, strong- jawed angular girl with dark eyes that flashed with animation when she looked at you and straight darkish hair cropped close as though she scissored it herself in a moment of total absentmindedness. She was dressed in a nondescript shapeless dark blue pullover sweater and a grubby pair of Addidas sneakers. The jeans she wore weren't designer, not by any means. All in all, Joyce was the sort you'd not notice twice if you passed her in the supermarket unless you had an opportunity to talk to her. Then she'd emerge as a warm, purposeful, self-contained, and very communicative person, the little trifle of superficial stiffness and formality melting away as soon as someone opened up and was outgoing with her. And after a few sessions at the piano with her, I felt as though I'd known her for ages. Joyce had that almost studied informality and plain-as-grass honesty that reminded me of the girls in my college dorm back in the 'seventies. She was a refreshing change from some of the O-so-very-proper Yuppies of the up-tight Eighties who, for God's sake, started to wear white gloves on a movie date all over again, if you can believe it. And she liked me. I could tell. Unlike many of my other students, Joyce would find some excuse or another to stay and talk for an extra few minutes after our session. She had two passions, the first being the piano. I wasn't surprised. Given her native talent I could sense that she poured a lot of suppressed creativity into the keyboard. After the lesson, we'd find ourselves lingering over a cup of coffee, comparing the keyboard chromatic progressions of Chopin to those of Schubert or some other equally obscure piece of musical esoterica. She had an good, sound, creative and first- rate mind. Her other overriding passion was sex. I found out about this during one of our first post-lesson coffee- klatsch sessions. It all started innocently enough ... a girl-to- girl question about, as I recall, spotting between periods or something equally glandular and innocuous. "Don't worry about it," I told her. "unless it gets persistent. It's not too uncommon, they say, if you're on the pill. Just try a little less strenuous sex during that part off your cycle." I don't know why I assumed it, but it seemed logical to me that Joyce was sexually quite active. She laughed a wry little laugh. "I wish it were that simple, Irene," she said and then looked at me straight on with those dark and serious eyes. "Truth to tell, living in this town for me is like living in a convent. I live by myself, I go to work, I come here twice a week in the afternoons, go over to class in the evenings. I go home. If I'm not too tired, I masturbate once, go to sleep and do the same thing the next day." I was surprised just a bit and I almost blushed. Our friends and acquaintances in town just don't talk to Richard and me about their masturbatory habits. But it was totally refreshing. Again, it took me back to my college days where absolutely no subject was off limits. Joyce told me a little of her life and it was a study in contrasting lifestyles. Two years after graduation from a dinky midwestern junior college with an associate in fine arts, she found herself living on the West Coast, writing reviews of heavy-metal rock concerts for pretentious little literary magazines and I-hate- industry exposés for starry-eyed ecological journals which paid her nothing but promises and a pat on the ass, passing judgement on the quality of the latest marijuana strains, swimming nude at night in the Pacific and participating in sex orgies involving, by her admittedly foggy estimate, as many as twenty-five men in the same evening. Not once in those two years had she encountered a piano worthy of the name. Everyone played guitars, an instrument which she, as a musician, found hopelessly declassé when played chords-only. After waking one morning with an incredible headache and a citation for possession of less than two grams of a Class II controlled substance, Joyce had said to hell with it all, took a job as a waitress and sent herself to computer programmer's school with an end-view of earning enough to send herself back to college for a bachelor's degree in music. She took the very first job the placement people had offered her ... here in town ... and resolved to leave in the past those things of the past. That is, everything but the sex part. She liked that too much. Now if Joyce had an outgoing, glamorous personal style which was half the equal of her musical ability, she'd have been mobbed with dinner invitations and would have been granted a complimentary membership in that local institution for the geriatric and incompetent which its inmates fondly refer to as "our country club." But she didn't. She was too gray looking, too colorless, too angular for the few younger studs in town to give her much more than an indifferent glance. But then, nobody ever believed that that bunch was overly bright. If they'd known Joyce as I did, this story would have had a different ending. By the next time Joyce came, a Tuesday afternoon, I felt that there wasn't much we couldn't talk about, given the intimate details of everything which she'd already discussed with perfect candor. And liking to hear a good first-person fuck story as much if not more than the next gal, I'd laid in a supply of bakery Danish to go with the coffee. That, I figured, would keep her for an extra hour or so. This time the subtleties of Chopin were left at the starting gate. Conversation-wise, they never were in the running compared to a graphic description of the time when Joyce had two men at once in the rear of a Volkswagen Microbus while crossing the desert just north of Devil's Playground. "It was insufferably hot in the rear and all of us were sweating but nobody cared ..." I could imagine how she felt, the stifling heat, the perspiration mixing with the hot loads of thick semen running down her chin and the inside of her thighs. I envied her. Nothing that wild, that spontaneous ever happened to me. I reflexively wiggled my rear on the chair, trying for an instant to imagine it all. Joyce caught the motion. "Just remembering the heat makes me feel hot all over again too," she said with a knowing little grin at her obvious double-entendre. Over the coffee refills she detailed a half-dozen masturbation techniques, one of which she swore she'd learned from an old Indian squaw at an Arizona trading post which involved a honey comb and a two-month old kid goat, and another of which was the now well- accepted shower technique with the flexible hose head held between the legs with the spray on coarse and the water just at body temperature, but which for some reason I hadn't tried at that time. Her description of her resulting continuing orgasms were things of creative beauty in themselves. "Oh, Irene, when I remember some of those times, I get sexually excited all over again. I literally throb between my legs and at times," and Joyce fixed me directly with those great dark eyes of hers and then she continued. "And at times, I'd let anyone touch me down there ... as much as they wanted." She accented the word "anyone" When its implied meaning sank in, I felt myself gush. After the second coffee, I had to excuse myself and relieve my kidneys like I always do after two cups and yes. My panties were soaking wet in the crotch as I pulled them down to piss. I held it back for a second and probed myself deep with my fingers. I was wet, soaking wet and I considered taking myself off quickly right then and there but decided it wouldn't be fair to Joyce sitting there in the kitchen waiting for me to come back. Besides, it felt too good to rush it. Feeling as sexually aroused as I did, with my head swimming just as it had when I'd first seen an illustrated fuck book when I was a senior in high school, I decided to swap a few of my own experiences with Joyce, telling her how Richard had gotten me on top of the piano after we'd been watching a triple-X tape on the VCR when I'd made a run for the bedroom but how he couldn't wait, had caught me mid-living room and finished both of us off with me flat on my back on the polished mahogany lid, my hair hanging down over the keyboard and my legs clasped 'round him, trying to kick his cut- offs down over his hips with my toes. Joyce sighed, looked vaguely far away, smiled and asked me quite forthrightly if Richard was really hung. I assured her he was. "I'm glad for you," she answered I couldn't believe how late it had grown until I heard the thud of the front door as Richard closed it. Ten of six already. Joyce and I had explored every sexual theme I could have imagined, spending two hours by the clock but time slips by when you're enjoying yourself. Feeling almost embarrassed, I managed to call to him in the front hall in a reasonably calm and collected voice. "C'mon back in the kitchen, Richard. I want you to meet someone." "I'm glad he's home," I said to Joyce. "Don't be nervous. You'll like him. He's super!" Richard fell into the spirit of the afternoon just like he'd been there from the beginning. After a few little perfunctory comments and politenesses on his and Joyce's part, the conversation somehow swung back to sex again and Richard's interest picked up rapidly. While we were playing around with vague generalities, Richard excused himself and went back to change out of his three-piece gray pinstripe, emerging again in a moment in some nicely worn dungarees and a soft flannel sport shirt, sans undershirt open half-way to his belt. Getting himself out of uniform and into something which showed off his broad shoulders, good thighs, and well-muscled arms was the first step in turning himself into my Richard, my kind of man. He poured himself the last cup of coffee from the Mr. Coffee and sat down at the table next to me. Richard charmed Joyce just as I knew he would and within bare minutes she was as free and relaxed as she'd been before he came in. "It's not so important where you put your mouth," she would say, looking at Richard as forthrightly and as innocently as if she were explaining the advantages of a new mutual funds program, "as the precise way you use your tongue". And if she shocked Richard, he never gave a hint and with a colossal sang-froid, he'd grin and wiggle his right eyebrow at her in that devilishly cute way of his and counter with his own rather unique ways of oral gratification. But it was a coolness which I knew he was faking for all he was worth. I cut my eyes down to his lap and his cock was quite, quite visible down the inseam of his jeans. I slipped my hand under the table and brushed my fingers down the length. Beneath the softness of the cotton denim it felt as though he'd jammed a two-cell flashlight between flesh and fabric. We could have gone on. Indeed I had no intention of even starting dinner until Richard glanced up at the clock over the stove. It was a quarter-after-seven. "How about staying for dinner, Joyce?" he asked. "I'm sure we can muster up something to eat." Joyce glanced at her wristwatch and her face fell. "Oh, my God, where has the afternoon gone? Golly, Irene," she said looking over at me with what was obvious disappointment, "I'd love to stay but I've got classes Tuesday through Thursday evenings." I was sorry too. As turned on as I was, I was having a great time and I hated to see it come to an end. Besides, I knew neither of us would be long in orgasming after she would finally leave. "Well, our next session is Friday at three. Are you free that evening?" "I'm always free," she said, laughing at the expressed implication "...And I'd love to." She gathered her coat and music portfolio and gave both of us a light kiss on the cheek as she opened the door. "I don't know when I've had such a ... such a stimulating evening." The door closed and we heard her feet on the gravel driveway and then the sound of her little Toyota coughing to life in the cool fall air. Richard turned and looked at me and then he grabbed me roughly and pulled me close. His voice was husky in my ear and his light evening's stubble of beard rubbed deliciously against my cheek. "For a solid hour, that girl talked solid pornography and I'm about ready to come in my shorts. For God's sake, skinny out of those pants and let's get ourselves in bed! His hand was almost trembling as he fumbled with the over-tight crotch of my jeans. I kissed him passionately, thrilling to the solid mass of his body as he pushed me back against the wall, his hips grinding against me so that I could feel the pressure and weight of his cock through his pants. "Lover," I breathed, "I was ready to get mine off an hour ago, while you were still out on the damned freeway. I can't feel sorry for you. No pity at all!" Somehow we made it back to the bedroom, grappling with each other all the way. Shedding my panties and bra and kicking off my loafers as I hit the bed, I sprawled backwards, my legs flung open for him, my hands and fingers massaging and probing the liquid of my cunt. Richard stood over me at the side of the bed, slowly and deliberately stripping off his shirt and unzipping his pants, pulling out his huge cock before his pants were down. His looked hotly at me as he stroked the skin of his rigid prick slowly and sensuously back and forth. He was close to orgasming. I could tell by the silvery wetness which had already spread itself over his entire length, from glistening crest down to the pubic hair. "I want you so damned bad, 'Rene," he breathed. I probed myself sensuously, my fingers exhaustively and properly trained not to take me over the top before I'd planned to let it happen. "Well, come get it, you beautiful stud," I purred up at him, "or I'm jolly well going to start without you." * * * He fucked me twice that night but it didn't take. Instead of being satisfied, it just seemed to get both of us more and more turned on. I thanked goodness that the next day was, fortunately, a state legal holiday with all state and local offices closed. He'd have been in no shape to work after what we were doing at three AM. We had a big breakfast around eleven and talked, mostly about Joyce and what we'd already said and heard during the previous evening but it was still fun to go over it again in our minds. After we'd cleaned up the house from the night before and showered, Richard pulled out a stack of VCR cassettes, the X-rated kind which he always rented in lots of three or four from our local Video emporium with a John Wayne prominent at the top of his stack so that any local worthy who was browsing the racks at the same time wouldn't be able to see the meat of what he'd selected. We'd copy them at home in marathon sessions and after a year, had enough so that even if the county puritans closed the place down, we'd have a lifetime supply of sexy screenings. He pulled out one which we'd not seen. It was passably good if a little contrived and in a few minutes it had the anticipated effect on Richard who, by now, was sprawled naked on the day bed, back against the wall, idly and half- heartedly masturbating while the action on the screen proceeded apace. And it affected me too, a bit more urgently. I didn't want to wait any longer before he entered me so I slipped aside my bathrobe, faced away from him and gingerly straddling him, lowered myself down to take him up inside of me. It was our accepted way to watch these cassettes, not particularly comfortable and generally Richard had to peep around my rear end to see what was happening on the screen, but it was the best technique we'd been able to devise. The person who invents a set of mirrors so that two people can screw comfortably and satisfyingly and watch TV at the same time can write his own check to wealth and fame. A Proper Frame of Mind But it was a warm and sexy way to spend a gusty, overcast day, warm and snug in our rec room, the phone set to busy and his warm penis snugged up deep inside of me. It was one of those long, loving indolent sex sessions which invariably end up with orgasms but not the immediate kind. A particular orgy scene was turning Richard on. I could tell because his cock began to grow urgently hard inside of me and I had to shift position and he began to murmur wild and sexy things into my ear which had more effect on me than the video action. We've always been great fantasizers and some of my best comes have arrived simultaneously with a particularly lewd image forming in my brain. "Look at that, 'Rene, the two girls. That drives me wild ..." I looked. It was the usual low-budget girl-on-girl thing with forced moans which had more in common with the noises I'd make with a stomach ache more than with an orgasm. It was not a high-grade turn-on for me. "I'd like to see Joyce grab those beautiful tits of yours like that," he whispered huskily. "She's probably creaming in her panties every time she thinks about them. Playing with your nipples would probably drive that little minx out of her mind." I looked at the screen again. One of the girls was indeed sensually licking and tongueing the breasts of her partner who did in fact have beautiful mammary development. I wiggled delightfully on Richard's now fully arched and hard cock while he dropped one hand down to stroke my clit and placed the other over my breast, catching my now erect nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "I'll bet you'd like to feel Joyce play with them too, wouldn't you, Hon?" His voice was soft and deep and his breath tickled my ear as he brought his cheek closer to mine. "Can't you imagine how it would feel?" He tugged at my hard nipple, "Can you imagine Joyce making you come." Suddenly the vision of Joyce hit me with a crystal clearness. It all came into focus. Moments before, I'd fantasized about how it would be in a three-way, with Richard fucking both of us ... and indeed he's quite capable of doing precisely that. But now my own body was telling me that the roles were reversed and my whole being was centered directly on Joyce and her body. And even more suddenly, surprisingly, my eyes flew wide open, my back arched and I drew in my breath in a gasp just at the instant that my vaginal muscles tightened vise-like around his cock and forced him to orgasm deep within me. The thought of Joyce, of Richard offering me his permission, had acted like a trigger for my own orgasm. It hit from out of nowhere and was over with the suddenness of a thunderclap and it left me gasping for air. We collapsed, tumbled together on the day bed, with each of us laughing joyously and wickedly at the other. I had too much time on my hands the next day. Mrs. Overholtz canceled in the morning and my only other scheduled student, little Barry Sclar with his galloping acne canceled out in the afternoon. I couldn't get my head clear. While trying to clean up breakfast dishes, images of Joyce, the urgent fuck on the bed when she left, the VCR and Richard's insistent fingers on my nipples and best of all the violent, completely foreign orgasm the echoes of which still rang in my skull and the strain of which still ached vaguely in my pelvis. By ten o'clock I'd had to change my panties which were drenched. I still flowed as though I'd had no sex in two weeks. I tried to sit down at the piano and play, concentrating my mind on the Schubert Opus 90 Number Four, a delightful rippling composition which, I suddenly remembered, was a piece that Joyce excelled in playing ... not like a music box, but fluid, and then I thought of my own fluids which seemed to gush. Fleetingly I wondered if I had somehow become a nymphomaniac. I swallowed hard and picked up the phone and dialed, my hands shaking ever so slightly. "Joyce?" I heard her soft voice on the other end of the line: "Wait ... let me close the office door." I swallowed again. "I just called to confirm that you'll be ... coming over for dinner tomorrow night." I tried to effect a light, breezy tone. But her voice was heavy and sultry on the other end: "Of course I will Irene. Ever since I left Tuesday night I've been counting the minutes." I relaxed. Somehow in the paranoia which has always marked me in moments of crisis and stress, I could imagine Joyce taking everything all wrong. "You and Richard are such wonderful people. I don't open up like that to everybody." ...and I guess I'm in need real friends since I left the Coast last year. I hope," she added, "that you don't think I have a one-track mind when it comes to sex." I tried to make a joke of it. "Hell no. Richard and I enjoyed it. We were in bed fucking each other silly the minute you were out of the door." She paused. I could hear her breath against the mouthpiece. "I could imagine! I had to make myself come as soon as I was clear of the lights on your street. I couldn't even wait until I was home in bed." I thought of how chilly the night was. "You poor thing. You didn't have to," I said, getting caught up in myself, sounding like a tolerant parent. "You could have done it here before you left. We'd have understood." I caught my breath when I realized exactly what I'd said. She laughed. "If that's a promise, then I'll take you up on it Friday night." Friday was worse. Richard and I had decided not to try to force anything to happen. After all, none of us had promised anything more than dinner and a social evening after Joyce's normal music lesson. But I knew in my bones there'd be more than that. Given my condition on Friday morning, I couldn't have resisted anything. Late Thursday night he and I had talked about it, taken the whole idea apart. "It may be that nothing will happen, Sweetheart," I told him as we settled into bed to sleep after a fuck which had served to arouse me more than to satisfy my cravings. "I don't want you to be disappointed." He reached across the pillow and smoothed my hair. "No ... You want it and she wants it and God knows I want it." The thought hit me. I hadn't asked Richard. "Do you want her too, to .. to make love to?" He nodded his head. "Yeah. I do. If that's all right with you." "Then tell me you do, Richard. In so many words. I want this to be up and above board. No surprises. I'm so unglued I couldn't stand surprises. Tell me you want to fuck her. Say it!" "I want to fuck her." Suddenly it was all clear in my own mind and any lingering guilt which I may have had was resolved. I gave him an impish little kiss on his nose. "Not any more than I want to fuck her," I answered. * * * I looked at the clock in the kitchen. Nine! Six more hours. If things went as I suspected, Richard and I would be in our first open-sex session with another partner. But something was vaguely troubling me. All morning I'd been fantasizing about it. But it wasn't the three-way part that had gotten me so excited that I could hardly keep my hands out of my pants. I had come honestly to terms with myself; it was Joyce, plain and simple. I wouldn't have been half so out of control if it were another man. And this was the part that had worried me for days. In all my life, the half-dozen or so partners I'd had before Richard had always been men. In my mind no woman could substitute for a good, hard, horny man. A female sex partner wouldn't have been in the running. In spite of the liberal attitudes which seemed universal in my high school and college days, I'd just never been seriously approached by a woman. I must have fended them off by some subtle subliminal radiation. I'd been crazy about little boys ever since I realized they weren't little girls. Once in college a close girl friend let herself into my dorm room without knocking and caught me directly in the middle of an urgent session of self-gratification induced by an explicit set of eight-by-ten color glossies which a photographer friend had lent me, pants down, legs spread. I remember how she closed the door and stood there for a minute watching me until finally she walked over and quietly sat down on my bed. "Would you like me to help you?" she asked softly. And without missing a single rotation of my middle finger, I looked up at her and gave her an angelic, proper little smile. "No, thank you, Dear", I said primly. "I'm doing just fine by myself." But now I found myself fantasizing about what a woman would be like. Not Richard humping me furiously, but Joyce exchanging delicate female caresses with me. My God, I thought to myself, if she were here this minute, she could masturbate me or do anything she wanted. I pulled my bathrobe open and looked down at my breasts. My nipples were already erect and I brushed the palm of my hand lightly across them, feeling the familiar little shock and tingle that's only there at the first caress. She could suck them, I thought to myself. All she'd have to do is ask. If that's perverted by anybody's standards, then I frankly don't give a damn. How would she look with no clothes on? I realized I had never seen Joyce in anything approaching the form-fitting so I could only speculate. And although I knew I'd soon find out, it was still fun to wonder. "Pretty, I imagine," I whispered to myself, "with a trim little waist, smooth, tight breasts, not large but with big nipples, maybe thirty-six-B, maybe even C, flat stomach..." I'd never touched another woman's breasts in passion and I wondered how it would feel. It was hard to tell from squeezing and rubbing my own. Besides it wasn't the same. And down there, I wonder what that's like. I wonder if Joyce will be as wet tonight as I am right now. My fingers wandered down into the waistband of my panties. If she's this wet, I thought, I'll make her come right away and then take her again in a few minutes. Suddenly I shuddered as I realized I was rubbing my own clit furiously without realizing what I was doing. "Oh, God," I moaned to the empty kitchen. "I'm gone, totally, totally gone. I just want her so bad ..." * * * I heard Joyce's car in the driveway a few minutes before three and my heart leapt up into my throat. At last, I said, almost aloud. But if she was planning a sex orgy I couldn't tell from her clothes, the same basic baggie she always wore but as she sat next to me on the piano bench and worked expertly through a piano transcription of DeFala's El Amor Brujo, I caught a wisp of perfume, some dark, heavy musk-based scent. Joyce had never worn perfume since I'd known her. It told me worlds. Something inside of me relaxed. Dinner was gourmet-frozen crepes stuffed with crab. With my mind swimming in ten directions at once, I couldn't have taken home cooking aboard for the eleventh. Strangely enough the evening started out with light laughter and smiles all around in contrast to the heavy discussions of the last time the three of us were together. But when Richard doffed his "work" clothes for a short terry-cloth shirt and a pair of perfectly outrageous cut-offs, Joyce looked first at him as he walked into the kitchen and then approvingly over at me. "That," she told Richard darkly, gesturing at him, "... that I like." Then, over the crepes, she told him her standards for a good pair of men's cut-offs: Skinny enough and worn-out enough so that a woman can see the outline of a good healthy bulge. "Like that," she said, smiling over at Richard who was seated next to her and then obviously dropping her eyes to his lap. The bulge of which she spoke was starkly evident. With that, any residual ice was broken and the conversation picked up where we'd left it on Tuesday just as I knew it would. I found myself telling frankly intimate things about my own sex life that I couldn't imagine telling anyone but Richard, and scarcely even him. That I'd made myself come only that afternoon seemed to have been forgotten by my sex organs. The more Joyce talked, the more my mind seared me between my legs. I couldn't help it; the details of my Joyce-fantasy of the afternoon came back strong and I finally got the courage to do what I knew I wanted desperately to do. I slipped my hand under the table over to where Joyce sat and, in the blind, felt for her thigh. It was hard for me to believe, that I was grappling for the leg of another woman. But at the moment, it seemed wonderfully abandoned and wicked and delicious. And then there was his hand. My fingers touched his as we both massaged her thigh. As in a comedy, we both looked up into each other's eyes, surprised and suddenly laughing. "C'mon 'Rene," he said. "Set over here on the other side of Joyce." He patted the single vacant chair on their side of the table. "Let's coordinate our efforts." As I got up, Richard leaned over toward Joyce and gave her a long, exploring kiss which she returned with partly open mouth, her tongue flicking lightly over Richard's lips. Rather than being jealous as I had secretly feared, the sight of Joyce, her eyes closed in sensuous pleasure, aroused me. I could see Richard's cock, now swelled hard, pressing against the soft fabric of his cut-offs and I wondered how long the worn old things could take the strain before they split. I sat next to her and slipped an arm around her shoulder and dropped the other to her lap where Richard and I softly massaged her thighs and crotch. She moaned softly. "Don't stop, Irene. It feels like heaven." Richard broke away from the kiss. "Let's go in the living room," he said, his voice thick and husky. "I'll light the gas log in the fire place and pour us some wine." The two of us followed him, each fondling the softness of other's rear ends, leaning close against each other as though for support. The die was cast and we both were reconciled to what we intended to do. The living room was darkened except for the flare of the gas log as Richard left us alone to go find the Chablis which was in the cabinet downstairs in the rec room. Joyce faced me. "Irene, please don't think I'm just a little slut, but you ... you and Richard are both so magnetic. You both turn me on so much. You did yourself, you know, the first time I came into this house. I remember sitting next to you on the piano bench and looking at your skin and wanting so desperately bad to touch you somewhere where I knew you wanted to be touched." She paused, dropped her eyes downward, uncertain, as if she feared saying too much. "But I was afraid to say so. If that's wrong ..." I nodded. The smell of her perfume seemed somehow stronger than it had only bare moments before. "No, no! Don't feel guilty about it. We're adult women. I felt exactly the same way." I tried to reassure her, to sound light, cavalier, and sophisticated, forcing a laugh which came hard. "You can't believe from the little that I told you on the phone yesterday just how aroused I was." I confess all. I had to make myself cum just as soon as we hung up. The laugh caught in my throat without any humor and I whispered to her in a voice that seemed not really my own. "My God, Joyce. My pants have been just sopping wet since you were here on Tuesday. And then the impulse struck: "Here, feel ... down here," I unzipped my jeans and dropped them to give her a fraction of an inch to slip her hand between them and my totally saturated underpants. She slipped her hand inside and I drew in my breath sharply as I felt her agile fingers slip past the last barrier of my panties and into my fully opened lips. Caught up in a wave of sensuality I, like an obscene burlesque dancer, spread my legs apart and thrust my hips forward over her fingers to increase the intensity of the sensation. For a moment I was afraid I'd spend. I was almost out of control. Her dark eyes were focused directly into mine, close and larger than life, it seemed. "Oh, Irene," she whispered. "I had no idea." And then I became aware of Richard, standing behind me, a tray with three glasses of wine in his hand, his naked prick jutting through his open fly. "Just put the wine on the buffet," I managed to gasp. "I don't think I need any right now!" "I'll help you finishing undressing her, Joyce," he said. And then I felt his hands roughly unbuttoning my blouse and tugging at the catch on my brassiere. My knees grew weak and I found I didn't really want to stand anymore as I found myself melting down to the floor. Joyce was somehow pulling my jeans down over my hips and I was vaguely helping her and then I felt her fingers probing me gently, not heavily as Richard sometimes does, but lightly and delicately. A soft moan came from somewhere inside of me. "Stop ... stop, please, Joyce. I don't want to come until you do." My breath came roughly and I realized I was panting, something I hadn't done under sexual stimulation since I was a junior in high school and a date had sucked my tits until I came. "Undress Joyce, Richard. I ... I want to see you undress her." Joyce rose and leaned heavily against Richard, tentatively touching her fingers to his rigid cock which was pressed heavily against her stomach. In the dim light I thought I could see, but perhaps I only imagined the flush of color which rushed to her cheeks and neck as he tugged the bulky sweater over her head and struggled momentarily with the buckle to her jeans. I heard her muffled moan as they finally slipped to the floor and she kicked free of them. The sweater fell on top of the jeans. There was no bra. She slipped into Richard's now-naked arms and he gave her another long kiss. I heard their voices, muffled and indistinct as Richard held her close. "No, later ... in a few minutes," she said. "I want to go to Irene first." He grunted something which I couldn't make out. Here it comes, I thought to myself, my lips parted in anticipation. The first time. She wants me too, I remember thinking as she slipped out of his arms and turned toward me. "MY GOD!" The words almost erupted but I caught myself. It hit me. Oh, God, how it hit me! "Holy shit, she's flat chested. She's built like a ... like a God-damned fucking adolescent boy!" An adolescent boy, all hands and feet and protruding shoulder blades - a young boy who badly needed a haircut. The fantasies, the soft and sensual and exquisitely feminine Joyce whose body I had mentally constructed for my own use as the epitome of the erotic female-on-female dalliance, she, damn it, existed only in my mind and in my endocrine glands. Here was the real Joyce now ... dropping herself to the carpet in front of me in front of my open thighs. I caught my breath up short, feeling as though some master secretion meter had run out of nickels and had totally cut off all lubrication. I knew I was drying up. It was all so unfair, so damned unfair. I hadn't even wanted a goddamned woman in the first place and somehow my body had played a cruel trick on my mind or vice-versa and betrayed me into thinking I did, and now this is what I get. Oh, shit! Absolute double shit! I wanted to run away. Only truly heroic measures kept me from bursting into tears. But more important was Joyce. I couldn't hurt her. She was too kind, too good. It wouldn't be morally right to reject her only because nature had treated her miserly in the mammary and buttocks development, that it had given her a physique as straight as a nail and with no more padding. She must have been rejected time and time again. I couldn't reject her but my mind wouldn't let me enjoy what she was doing to me. I faked the first orgasm of my life. Before I felt called upon to repeat my performance a second time, good luck brought Richard to my rescue, Richard whose sense of sexual aesthetics seems considerably less choosy and more eclectic than mine. He leaned forward over Joyce, nuzzling and biting the back of her neck. And within seconds, Joyce had turned her attention from me to his cock. It didn't take long; in less than a minute his eyes glazed over in that familiar half-closed look which I've gotten to love. Joyce, kneeling in front of him, her left arm clasped around his hips, made him climax in her mouth, swallowing deeply while she brought herself to her own convulsive climax with her free right hand. Richard sank to his knees next to her exhausted and gave her a hug. A Proper Frame of Mind "Now that I'm less distracted, Richard, you may serve the wine," I finally said, smiling at him lovingly. "And while you're at it, bring some of the good crackers from the kitchen." Since it appeared there'd be no great sex for me, I felt I might as well enjoy myself as best I could. The evening was young. Joyce excused herself and paddled off naked to the potty. As soon as we heard her close the door, Richard turned and looked back at me. "'Rene?" "Huh?" I was subdued. "'Rene. You didn't come. You faked it, didn't you? What's the trouble, Sweetheart?" "Nothing, nothing at all, Richard," I lied. "I guess I was just a little nervous and all. I ... I really liked it. Really!" It was a pointless explanation. After our years together, Richard could read me like the proverbial book. "I'll cool it then. Nothing more too heavy until I see you're taking it OK. And I'll scrounge up some cheese to go with the crackers." We sat quietly, the three of us, in the glow of the fireplace, sipping wine and nibbling cheese and crackers and talking about the little relaxed and inconsequential things people always talk about after sex. Richard told one of his favorite stories about his one evening in a bordello in Hamburg and how all of the girls applauded and cheered him in six different languages and the Madam-in-Charge had refused to accept a cent of money. Joyce laughed until tears came to her eyes. "Speaking of that evening " he added, "let me show you a souvenir that the Madam insisted I bring home to 'Rene. 'Scuse." I knew what he was going to get and I almost blushed. "It's nothing special, Joyce. Just something silly." "Indeed it isn't silly," Joyce said as Richard returned and handed it to her. "That's the most realistic dildo I've ever seen. She turned it over in her hands and examined in the dim light. "My God, Richard, veins and everything and it even feels like a real one. Most of them are so hard they give me cramps. Fantastic!" "Want to try it on? I brought the halter." "May I?", she asked politely. It's amazing how our social morés hold firm even in the most unconventional situations. Joyce fussed with the leather strap and then looked down at herself with an air of approval. "Formidable," she said. She finally had it adjusted to her satisfaction and took a few tentative steps across the rug. Suddenly she flashed a broad surprised smile at me. "It even feels good. That little bump in the strap hits right up against my clitoris." "Why do you think they put it there in the first place?" Richard said, laughing at her surprise. I looked at her. The fit was truly amazing. In the fitful glow of the gas log she looked more the part of the adolescent boy than ever. I squinted my eyes purposely. The effect was breathtakingly realistic. On an impulse, I swung myself up from the floor, and leaned forward. "C'mere, Joyce" I said laughing. Let me grab hold of that thing and see if it feels as real as it looks on you." I reached up and gave it a gentle tug and Joyce made a little obscene wiggle with her hips. It was pure curiosity on my part, nothing more. When I'd worn it myself I couldn't enjoy the effect. "Unbelievable! It does feel real." Suddenly I felt or sensed Richard standing directly behind me. I looked up and met his eyes. It was like dynamite. I caught my breath. The meter which had cut me off cold only a short while before began to slowly reopen. "Ooh!" Joyce sighed. "Do that again. That feels good. With that little protrusion on the strap I think I can appreciate how Richard feels." My God, I thought to myself, it's unbelievable ... I can almost imagine ... and I turned back and looked up at Richard, large, massive, solidly built, standing behind me and Joyce ... like a ... yes! Just as he and I had fantasized so often ... I, the captive Carthaginian slave girl, and he, the senior General of the Roman Legion, who had commanded his young Greek slave boy to bring me to his tent and I, having fought, was now subdued and totally submissive, resigned that both of them should have their way with me. I was prepared for any indignity. My liquids, cut off in mid- passion, began to surge. Behind me I heard Richard mutter something and I looked over my shoulder. His cock was hard again. I didn't catch what he said but it made no matter. I heard him clearly in my mind: Come, Slave Girl. Suck me or I shall lay waste to all of Carthage. And obediently I knelt, turned, faced him and took his heavy penis into my mouth. I felt hands on my buttocks, light, young slave-boy hands touching my bare flesh. Yes! His slave was already taking his pleasure with me too. I felt myself being penetrated. Somewhere back in the recesses of my rational mind I knew it was Joyce but it made no difference. Joyce, the tall, angular slave boy with the sensual brown eyes, skin browned by the sun, the high Romanesque bridge of her nose and her firm jaw, more at home on the face of a handsome and sensitive man than on any woman, and the coarse thatch of dark uncut hair, sinews tight and firm belly and slender hips driving that huge thing deep inside of me, rubbing against my raging clitoris. I became a thing detached, rocking forward and backwards in a slow, undulating rhythm, forcing first one intruder and then the other deep into my body and I tasted the first salty trace of what was happening to Richard and then he flooded, groaning and thrusting as I swallowed because I couldn't do anything else. Somewhere behind me I heard Joyce screaming in an ecstasy, her nails clawing into the sensitive skin on my rear end and then ... I opened up completely and totally, my vagina an open pit until I exploded, contracted, released, contracted twice again, and collapsed in a heap on the floor. The purple and green lights kept going on and off in my head and I was concerned that I get my heart to stop racing and then, well, I just drifted off into a gentle little sleep, curled up on the rug between Joyce and Richard. * * * Later that night, Richard and I exchanged sleepy good nights, snug away from the world in bed. He kissed me gently. 'Rene?" "Huh?" I was almost asleep. "I'm so glad you really enjoyed it. I was so worried about you Hon. I know you never were turned on by making it with another woman until Joyce came along. And then I was afraid you were having second thoughts when the two of you finally got down to cases. But there on the last you enjoyed it so much with her. I knew that you'd like having another girl make love to you if you ever tried it." I couldn't fool Richard. He knew my little ones from my big ones. And I had enjoyed the evening. I'd had one of the biggest climaxes I can ever remember. He kissed me again lightly. "You know, I guess it proves that it's all in the frame of mind you have when you're doing it." "It does, Darling. It depends so much on your mind-set. I didn't enjoy it when she first went down on me. But that last time? Wow! It was an absolutely fantastic climax! And you're absolutely right. All I needed to do was to get myself in the proper frame of mind." I'd just let Richard believe as he wanted, interpret my climax as he wanted. Still, what I told him was the truth and I smiled a smug little smile which he couldn't see in the dark. "I know," he murmured in my ear. But he didn't know. And I wouldn't tell him, my big, wonderful, lovable Richard. I'd just let him think anything he wished to think and if he wanted to belive that my bi-sexual bash was a wild and wonderful turn-on for me, then so be it. I was, I was sure, a convinced, practicing heterosexual and try as I might, I'd never be really too good at switch hitting. But Richard didn't have to know it, not if it made him happier. But the time for words had passed. Instead, I just snuggled my head over against his great, hairy chest and went to sleep.