Halcyon and on and on

Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Sep 06, 2004

With a bright smile planted on her bespectacled face, Layla glides over the threshold bearing bundles from the Union Square farmers’ market. She wears a simple denim dress. Her hair’s done up in a bun. She looks like the sexy schoolteacher I never had. She’s made good on her promise to come over and cook dinner; I decide this is the most erotic thing a girl has ever done for us.

Lay asks me for baby oil and tells Les to lie face down on the couch. She pumps the stuff into her cupped palms and then with gentle fingers begins to knead Leslie’s silky brown skin. I sit perched on the armrest and stroke Leslie’s cheek. “Bet you have a nice view,” Lay says. I do. The denim’s riding up and I can see that she’s not wearing any underwear. I cock an eyebrow at her. “What’s the point?” she says. “I would have come to your door naked if I could have gotten away with it.”

After removing what remains of my girlfriend’s clothing and massaging that ample rump, she asks Les to flip over. The frontal massage is an afterthought, though, and soon Les reaches for my cock as Layla watches and bites her lower lip. Lay pulls the denim up over her head and my eyes settle once more on her spider’s web, that tempting trap. She bends over. I alight from my perch and rub baby oil onto Lay’s back, getting a good look at her from behind and admiring her dewy quim.

Somehow she ends up splayed before me. “I thought I was supposed to be doing the servicing here,” she says. Eyes closed, listening to her wild moans, I’m lost down there again. A half hour of languid exploration passes and then we decide we better get on with dinner.

She changes into Leslie’s clothes, a tank top with spaghetti straps and black running shorts she’ll inevitably jizz up. She stands over the sink rinsing off the veggies and I approach her from behind, my lips grazing the exposed part of her back. She shivers. I press my erection against her ass. She moans. Lay dumps a couple onions onto the countertop and starts chopping away, telling us the trick is in slicing them extra thin. I find this oddly arousing and Leslie takes notice, inching her delicate mouth around me, and then—hey, why not?—I slip around to the other side of the counter and let Layla have a go at me too, feeling myself collide with the back of her throat. I help Leslie up onto a padded stool and prod her from behind, grasping her hip bones for leverage. Our chef smiles without looking up from her work. I line up two stools and tell Les to lie flat, then push into her again. No longer able to concentrate on her task, Lay rises to her toes and cranes to watch us.

The meal simmers. We return to the couch and soon Leslie’s on her knees in front of Layla and I can tell she’s not planning to budge until Layla’s satisfied. And goddamn our lover is loud… I hear the neighbors shuffling in the hallway and I briefly wonder what they think of all this. Soon I’m so focused on the women, so fixated on Leslie’s moves and Layla’s countermoves, that I forget I’m even there. The vigorous side-to-side motions of Leslie’s tongue do the trick. Layla’s back arches; she frowns and closes her eyes like she’s trying to recall something. I dare not draw another breath until the final waves roll through her.

Later on, my own orgasm is a simple matter. I straddle Leslie’s face and she manipulates me to the point of inevitability—to that dizzying five second interval that seems to go on and on. I exit her mouth with a pop and unburden myself all over her chest. My thighs and groin ache. Layla purrs and licks me clean; then, tongue extended, she starts to mop up the spill. She can’t finish it all.

Layla’s pasta is wonderful, the seasoning subtle. I can’t help but think the meal tastes a little bit like the chef herself. Upon gobbling up the last of it we settle down to watch an old movie, laughing and calling out our favorite lines. The hour of Layla’s departure comes too soon. She blew through here like a late summer storm.

Going out almost seems pointless; still, some crazy energy drives Les and I headlong into the night. Layla’s scent lingers. I don’t shower; I don’t even wash my face. I want to stink of her. We take a cab downtown, the evening’s sweat still tacky against our skin.

“Is this the Republican National Convention?” I ask the man at the door.

“You got it, buddy.”

“Ah, then I’m in the right place.”

The second-floor VIP lounge is packed with creepy fuckwads clinging to their surgically-enhanced whores. I stare at one of the fembots, trying and failing to locate anything erotic in those monstrous, hardened warheads protruding from her ribcage. I’m momentarily paranoid that we’ve wormholed into LA, or Vegas, or Miami even. This can’t be New York. We’re relieved to spy Jim and Kathy, the hosts of our first proper orgy so long ago. We exchange pleasantries and scratch our heads at tonight’s odd crowd, then wander off in search of trouble.

I realize I’ve cultivated a bemused indifference toward swinger culture. Maybe it’s the sex and garlic bursting from my pores but I feel inoculated against this carnal circus—above all this shit somehow. A Zen-like stillness settles over me. I desire without truly desiring; act without really acting.

She’s a doe-eyed, raven-haired young thing with impressive, natural cleavage; a hot, insolent little bitch. Her boyish-looking date scans the room in wide-eyed disbelief as women remove their tops and fondle their playmates. We all babble at each other for a while and then make our way into a roped-off room where we sit across from two skinny topless blondes and their embarrassed boyfriends. One of the men recognizes Leslie. Nick the Dick. I remember him from that anything-goes soiree when he and I wound up on a balcony double-teaming the hostess.

Meanwhile the doe-eyed beauty and I are carrying on. She tells me she’s never been with a woman before. Our conversation grows increasingly bizarre: scowling at a busboy who whisked away her nearly-empty drink, she motions at an empty champagne bucket. “Throw the bucket at him!”

I laugh at her queer request. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.” Soon enough Leslie’s kissing her and it’s clear we’re going to end up bringing the newbie couple home.

We’re in our lobby now, all of us waiting for the elevator. The girl smiles at me. “I can’t believe we’re helping you guys get laid again tonight.” I want to tell her I don’t really care about getting laid; that I just want to watch Leslie corrupt her.

Her little thong pulled to the side, Leslie’s tongue against her pulsing pink, she groans and squeezes her eyes shut. I palm the girl’s pretty breasts. She begs Leslie to take her into the bedroom for lessons in oral pleasure. My girlfriend leads her off by the hand and the door closes behind them. I shrug and smile at the other guy. “Guess the two of us should go at it now,” I say. He laughs and then begins to press me for advice. I tell him to relax and be grateful for whatever pleasure he can milk out of life.

A few minutes later the two foxes emerge from the bedroom, completely nude save for their high heels. I smile and admire the ingenue’s shaved pussy, her slender waist, her quivering chest. The student positions herself between Leslie’s thighs and demonstrates her newfound skills…

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