Heat
A gripping chill failed to stay us from our appointed rounds. Not for us the spectacle of Grego’s, but a party of our own making. The subway swallowed us up on 110th and disgorged us into Brooklyn, where celestial bodies collide: Leslie the comet meets Nova the nova.
Nova introduced us to her roommates, fellow occupants of a spacious, high-ceilinged apartment. We cracked a few beers. We ordered food. We kissed—Leslie, Nova and I—on the couch as the softest of soft-core porn flickered in the background. A neighbor burst into the apartment, stumbling about on bare drunken feet, and insisted we make an appearance at her party upstairs. The party was unremarkable and we soon returned to Nova’s lair.
Someone suggested Nova perform a belly dance for us. Nova scurried into her room to don a costume: a flowing skirt with a slit down the side, a golden chain mail belt, a gauzy scarf, and a bra that accentuated the lusty curves of her breasts. Middle Eastern music blared as Nova pulsed before us, her hips gyrating independently of the rest of her body as if mounted on a gimbal. The belt cried out to the beat of the music like sleigh bells heard at a distance. Mouth agape, I had to resist the temptation to smack her rear end.
The heat had failed by the time we retired to the bedroom. Shivering, we dove under the covers and got on as best we could, wincing whenever a sudden movement would usher a draught of frigid air into the hothouse under the comforter. We tumbled around for a while, probing with hands and tongues but not seeing. I slipped into cold latex, lay on my side and entered Nova as she waited expectantly on her back.
I awoke with flushed cheeks, mistakenly assuming the heat had been restored, but it was our heat, my own mitochondrial output mingling with that of the lovely women by my side. We dressed in a hurry and beat it out of there. “If you two ever want to stop having sex with me, I’ll still be your friend,” Nova said over brunch. I didn’t want to think ahead to a time when the fantasy would end; I was merely grateful to have this right now, whatever the outcome might be. It’s all anyone can hope for.
Track work. There would be no easy escape from Brooklyn. We clung together against the cock-shriveling gusts that swept through the elevated platform. The hydraulic fluid in my joints grew syrupy, numbed my footfalls. One stop deeper into Brooklyn, then down the stairs and up another set of stairs to a train that brought us to the West Village.
I stood before racks of condoms that poked upward atop phantom erections. I assessed their shape and texture and kept up a running commentary. A woman overheard me and came over to ask questions. “Well these, I hear, conduct body heat much better than latex,” I said, affecting a professorial air as I gestured at an odd specimen. Leslie and Nova giggled over various novelty items: vibrators shaped like candy bars, penis-man key chains, dangerous-looking ticklers. “The sooner we find what I’m looking for,” I said, “the sooner we can go home and get naked.” We eventually located the Crowns, the Kimonos, the Avantis, and the Pleasure Pluses (with Pleasure Enhancing Pouch).
The express train brought us uptown again, completing the circuit. We took hot showers. Nova changed into leopard-print pajama bottoms and a tank top that proudly showcased the protruding nubs of her nipples. We settled into a state of domestic bliss. Leslie prepared dinner as Nova lay on the couch reading a book and I sat in the bedroom typing away. It took me a while to notice that Nova was masturbating as she read. Leslie got a few licks in before returning to the stove. I wandered over and stuck a couple fingers in Nova’s pussy. Soon she undulated in climax.
Menage a trois: a household of three—three towels, three toothbrushes, three martini glasses, three dinner plates, three piles of clothing littering the floor. Everything in threes. One bed though.
“How’s this?” I asked Nova later on as I slipped into her, feeling the furnace of her cunt. We were trying out the polyurethane condoms. “Oof. It’s warm,” she purred. Our experimentation was thorough, sweaty, prolonged. Leslie, our faithful lab assistant, would soon get her reward. I massaged peach-flavored lubricant into the cleft of Leslie’s gorgeous asscheeks and delicately inched my erection into her puckered anus. But Leslie didn’t want delicate treatment—she begged to be pummeled and I complied. Nova gasped at the sight of it, enthralled by our coupling. Leslie reached a mighty climax and I soon followed, wrapping my body around hers when my spasms finally subsided.
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