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.