Absolute Threesomes Page 2

  “Fuck her, daddy,” Paula giggled from the sofa and Jeremiah groaned. I groaned too when his hands perched on my hips, anchored me tight so he could fuck me harder. My body already teased and tasted into a high state of arousal took every thrust and greedily wanted more.

  “Good?” He reached under me and stroked my clit with a firm touch.

  I gasped, nodded, moved back to meet his touch.

  “Say it,” he growled in my ear.

  “He likes a cheerleader,” Paula interjected.

  “Good, good, good,” I chanted, feeling that tell-tale tightening in my cunt.

  “Yeah. It is good,” Jeremiah sighed and his fingers sank deeper into the flesh of my hips. He’d leave fingerprints on me for sure. Again he reached under me and pinched my clit hard and my head flew back and I came. Long wet spasms around that driving cock, his hot breath feathering over the back of my tee. I was still clothed from the waist up which I found both odd and endearing.

  “Enough of that,” Paula said. He obliged her by pulling out.

  “But....what? You‘re not going to...” I struggled here, blushing. “Come?”

  “Oh the grand finale is mine,” she said.

  “Always hers,” he said.

  “Now it’s time for daddy to take care of me,” she said and winked. Paula handed me my jeans. “Eleven.”

  “Holes?”

  “Yep. Thank you for being our appetizer, Amy,” she said.

  My body hummed and thumped from being used by the Gundersons. And I secretly thrilled at having been their little toy for the night. “We’re here for three more days,” Jeremiah whispered, catching me woolgathering.

  “We’d love it if you’d come back. You’re very sweet,” Paula said and to prove her point she licked her fingers and smiled.

  I gave a startled laugh and blushed hotter. “I might take you up on that,” I admitted.

  “We hope.” Paula pulled me in for a slow, warm kiss and I let her. Then Jeremiah did the same, his big arms engulfing me. The tattoos on his big bicep and forearm dancing with the embrace.

  “We really do hope, kid.”

  “Just don’t tell Jory,” I said, slipping my jeans on.

  “Why? Will we get you in trouble?” Paula looked mortified.

  “No, nothing like that. It’s just...he gloats when he’s right.”

  The Seeing Wall

  A Whimsical Fantasy Ending in an Unapologetic Romp

  By Rigel Madsong

  The experiences we chose makes us predictable, the experience that chooses us changes us in unpredictable ways.

  In the middle of my junior year in college I took a short vacation to the Austrian Alps, a ski chalet high in the mountains, Drachenhalle - Hall of the Dragons - one of those traditional European places operating on the pension plan: a room for the week, dinners served in a central dining room, the kind of place Americans patronize because it covers their own inability to deal in a foreign country. Me, I just wanted to get away from Clairmont, California as far as I could. I’d just lost my girlfriend to a young math professor and I was trying hard not to look back.

  Dinner was served precisely at seven thirty. Everyone sat at the same table, an old grove hardwood structure that might have been made out of some spiritual oak from King Author’s forest, toted a thousand miles by knights eager to please royalty. Linen tablecloth, very serviceable pottery place settings with two wine glasses, an adornment that gave us all a rather formal feeling.

  There were place cards. I was seated next to an attractive young woman who turned out to be a college student from Italy on her way to spend a semester abroad in the USA. Things were looking up. Across from her was a professor from a Midwest college, about 50 years of age, outdoors type, a bit gray at the temples and a natty manner of dress that artistically concealed a slight middle-age bulge here and there.

  Directly across from me was the wife of an elderly pair from Canada returning for their yearly visit in time for some cross-country skiing. To my right was a young married couple - they would be of no use to anyone - and at the far end of the table next to the second member of the Canadian reunionists was a thin girlish woman with blond-silver hair cuffed severely in a bun, wearing delicate gold rimmed glasses. Studious type, it appeared to me. Librarian.

  I concentrated on Giovanna. Turns out she was from Vernazza, one of the charming Cinque Terre towns of the Italian West Coast, a part I knew something about having vacationed there with my parents the summer before college.

  We chatted about the trail from Riomaggiore to Monterosso and the ferries that even in rough seas area able to come perilously close to the concrete dock to load and unload their passengers. “Captains with the precision of a hand surgeon,” I observed.

  We were doing well. The professor was engaged in conversation with the couple across from me, the married couple were talking to the studious type at the end of the table. G noticed I brought in a “silver suitcase” as she called it. I explained I was an amateur photographer.

  “Portraits?” she asked.

  “I’m a rocks and trees man,” I said. “And around here, snow. More like Ansel Adams than Ruth Bernhard.” I began to notice more and more about G. Dark, close-cropped hair, full eyebrows, a subtle, succulent roundness to her body - classic Mediterranean.

  I told her I had tasted a wonderful white wine in Portofino that was so much like nectar you didn’t know how much you had had until you tried to stand up. It had illuminated one of those relaxed Italian lunches at Cosmo’s on the beach. As I was saying this I was trying to recall the name of the wine. Now I was to that point in conversation where either I had to produce or move forward. Instead, I stumbled. “It was, it was...”

  “Amora,” said the professor from across the table. “I know it well.”

  He then launched into a detailed description of the local vintners gathering grapes by hand from the hillside around Portofino bay, delaying the process as late in September as they dared, then spreading the grapes out on the roof tops to let the Mediterranean sun burnish in the characteristic mellow sweetness.

  I was abashed. I could feel G’s attention shifting to him, enchanted by his thorough knowledge of a romantic Italian tradition specific to her heritage. I was losing ground in this conversation that I myself started and I wasn’t sure how to recover. I sputtered something about the castle at the tip of the peninsula but was cut off by G. asking the professor how he knew so much about this wine.

  “I made an informal study of that wine after I had been introduced to it while visiting Portofino for a colloquium on Tuscan anthropology.”

  “Anthropology,” she exclaimed. “That’s my major. That’s what I’m going to the USA to study. I’ll be with Professor Arcturus. Do you know him?”

  “Know him? He said. “I trained him.”

  Done for, flattened, queens night to king-6, check and mate, over and out. I was a goner. And wouldn’t you know it had to be another goddammed professor.

  I could see where this was going. The professor was knowledgeable and sporty. That he was twice her age wouldn’t matter to her now since she could fall for his intelligence. Seduction for women was always more about the brain than the body anyway.

  I stewed in my juices. I had married couples flanking me, while on my left the professor and the Italian beauty were practically leaning over the table to get at each other. I had only the ice cube at the end of the table to try for. Not promising.

  I tried to catch her eye but she looked away. When I managed to lob a comment her direction she volleyed it. End of rally. Point and match. It was clear I was pushing the envelope for uninvited attention but the alternative was to sulk in solitude. Able to bear rejection better than despair, I pressed on.

  I was making no progress but at least I was able to study her a bit in the process. Her
name was Claire. She was as different from G. as her name implied. The hair and glasses gave a bookish appearance but there was something a bit mysterious about her. She was here for cross-country skiing and detested downhill. I didn’t tell her I was downhill all the way. Snowboarder.

  She did have attractive features: a long waist (I was a sucker for long waists) and small breasts that rode high and tight behind her starched blouse as surprising as a pubescent thirteen-year-old’s, drifting there attached to her body like an evolutionary afterthought. I imagined her legs were thin and long, swimmer’s legs.

  I asked her if she swam.

  “No,” she said.

  I was counting the many ways I could fail.

  After dinner it was customary for everyone to gather around the fire with the poison of their choice from the generously stocked liquor cabinet and engage in polite conversation before retiring. G and the professor cozied into the corner inglenook and mused about Neanderthal, which was the reason he was here, to expound upon his theories to a gathering of anthropologists down in the village. He promised to take G to some of the sessions. Things were going swimmingly.

  All week I kept at it. About the only thing I learned about Claire’s personal life was a comment she made as she was rushing back to her room to do her reading before bed. She said she had a boyfriend who was coming to join her later in the week on the snowfields above the village. Thursday, to be exact.

  I figured she made it up. It was a hoax perpetrated to keep me at a safe distance, executed, for the effect of authenticity, with the panache of a specific time and place.

  I spent a lot of time by myself. For entertainment I spent my time trying to read G and the professor. Things were moving along. Body language suggested a sexual tension that I judged was, as yet, unexpressed. Eye contact was longer and unguarded, as if pretense had given over to directness. It was the behavior I had witnessed on rare occasions, the moment when a woman’s acquired protections against the onrush of the male were undone. That gift of trust was something beautiful. I was getting turned on just watching.

  Meanwhile, I was making a different discovery. My room was small by American standards, just a bed, an end table, and a poor excuse for a closet. I remembered reading that the Europeans were taxed for all the rooms in their houses, including closets. So they never built any.

  Except this establishment, which catered to Americans who were used to a different set of amenities and probably badgered the owner until he finally threw in some poor excuse for closets. Anyway, an attempt had been made to add one to my room, a frail, lean-to type structure that apparently was still being worked on, or maybe abandoned mid-course. The wall in the back of the closet was open on my side, absent down to the wall of the next room, which the professor occupied.

  My discovery was that the wood, knotty pine and old, was so dry that one of the knots had shrunk loose enough - with a little help from my dopp-kit tweezers - to jiggle free. The knothole, thus opened, was waist high and looked broadside into the professor’s bed.

  I went to the bathroom, unscrewed a small, non-essential screw from a toiletry shelf and, using my fingernail file, turned it deliberately into the center crease of the piney knot. I could then remove and replace it at will.

  It was already Wednesday and nothing between Claire and me had changed. That night, perhaps because she skied late and showered long, she came to the table with her hair down and still wet. It fell to her shoulders in open ringlets that bounced in the light as she turned her head. Her hair down accentuated the delicateness of her features which, now almost illuminated by the streaming hair, appeared like the white marble in a Michelangelo masterpiece. She was gorgeous. How could I have missed that?

  Perhaps out of exasperation or fatigue she consented to sit with me with me a while after dinner. I guessed I had about five minutes to make some kind of impression. I decided I had nothing to lose, had gained nothing from the conventional approaches, and went for shock value.

  We had been talking about the professor and G’s common interest in anthropology when I said, “I think tonight’s the night.”

  “What,” she said, with more animation in her voice than I had heard from her up ‘til now.

  “Well,” I said with an unplanned smile, “I think it’s going to happen tonight.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “They’re going to do it.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not. I’ve been watching them and I can tell.”

  “You’re crazy. How can you tell?”

  “I know human nature. I study it. Besides, I just know these things.”

  “Hold on a second. I’ll bet you’re a psychology major, aren’t you? Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “Yeah, so what.”

  “Psychology majors. Psychology majors. You’re all alike. All feeling and no science.”

  This was getting emotional, and in a strange way I was enjoying every minute of it. For the first time there was a sign of life in the corpse I’d been talking to.

  “What are you,” I challenged. “Let me guess. A biostatistics major.”

  “Library science,” she said straightening her shoulders and bringing an exciting tension to her blouse over her breasts.

  I resisted gawking and kept my eyes on her face. “I should have known,” I said. “Librarians. Aloof. Out of it. Suspicious of intuitive knowledge. No wonder you don’t believe me.”

  She scoffed.

  “But hold on,” I said, reaching for the stars. “I can prove it to you.”

  Even if I was wrong, it was better than boredom and being correct. Even if I was wrong her interest would put us together with some common thread of excitement. That couldn’t be all bad. But I was going to be challenged at every step of the way so I tried a diversionary tactic.

  “It was your glasses and your bun that should have given you away,” I said. “Books. No feeling. All numbers and no flash.”

  She passed up the bait. “You were saying something about proving it to me.”

  Even though she ignored my insult it would have its effect somewhere down under that cool façade. Maybe it would open a few invisible doors held shut by her unwavering structure of distance. Still, I was out on a limb and I knew it. I had to trust my intuition which, after all, had steered me into psychology in the first place.

  But to speak the next line was a huge jump. I could take the time to set it up or just go for it. She was looking at me. Looking at me, for the first time with great interest. What a thrill. I decided to go for it.

  “You’ll have to come to my room.”

  She didn’t flinch.

  I explained about the knothole, hoping that her level of curiosity was high enough by now to sustain us through all the implications of crime and misdemeanor. Then to make it past what surely was going to sound like a clichéd come-on line to get us there, I just told it like it happened, complete with details how I modified the knothole to accommodate a little voyeurism.

  “When can we go?” was all she said.

  We had reached a bold new level, Claire and I.

  I looked across the room at the professor and G. I pointed out to Claire that they had consumed one more drink than usual. This little gesture of mine made her part of the observation, the clandestine excitement that comes from having a secret agenda right out in the open. I pointed out that just creeping in at the edge of perception in the familiar way they were weaving in and out of closeness, were the first signs of the effects of that extra drink.

  “When can we go,” she repeated. Making her ask twice pleased me.

  “Now,” I said. And we left.

  My heart was jumping out of my chest as we walked up the stairs. I couldn’t decide which of several good reasons made it behave that way. Was it that I might be wrong?
That’s a good one. And quite possible. In reality I didn’t care if I was wrong. I was having the best conversation of the week. It wasn’t that. It had to be that I was getting close to this woman I had, at a distance, become attached to, this woman I had once regarded as cold and distant.

  We made our way to my room. I was aware of the movement of her body and soft sound her clothes made slipping over her as she raised her legs to the stairs. She didn’t seem to mind the close proximity, or even that she brushed against me from time to time as we walked.

  We didn’t hesitate at the door but went right in. I knew we had a few minutes so I turned on the overhead light to show her the closet, the knot, the screw-handle I had fashioned. She sat down with her back to the wall, her head at the level of the knothole. I readjusted the lighting. It had to be almost dark on this side so as not to give ourselves away. She agreed. I turned off the overhead light and turned on a very small, maybe 20 Watt lamp at the bedside, adjusted the closet door to shadow us and sat down beside her.

  In the moments we waited we talked in hushed voices. I learned she did swim, and was a champion but was too shy to say so. She was very academic but always embarrassed it showed. She would like to be more relaxed. She almost thanked me.

  I was telling her about downhill skiing and the California state competitions when we heard a sound at the door of the professor’s room. I realized we hadn’t established any rules by which to share the knothole.

  We took turns as we watched them come into the room and sit on the bed, but soon I realized it was frustrating to just be getting into the action and have to give it up. I decided I would let her watch, partly because I saw it was making a transformation in her, and partly because it turned me on to watch her watching them. I told her she could do all the looking on the condition that she told me everything she saw. Everything. She agreed.

  This turned out to be wonderful. To hear, I had to move close to her mouth which meant I could also hear her breathing and feel her hair against my face. And the words she whispered into my ear! These rich words, describing intimate details of a love scene in the making. What could be better?