It's What You Wanted, Isn't It?

Her direct gaze now demanded a response. What could I say? Days!?

"Oh sure," I heard emerge from between my lips, "I agree entirely."

"You know this, Ron, of course, but you'd be amazed how few guys get it, even the ones who are not just 'prodders', if you understand my meaning. They relate to their own response instead of yours. You can tease a guy for an hour, give him a fifteen minute break, then start teasing again and he picks up more or less where he left off."

"They don't realize that it doesn't work this way for girls," she continued, blithely ignoring the waiter as he poured fresh wine on his past our table. I had the feeling this was occurring more and more often. Well, hell, Angela was a babe any guy'd want to be ogling. He didn't have to be eavesdropping. (Yeah, right!)

"Once you stop, a girl comes right down. Real fast. You have to start from the beginning again."

"Uh-huh," I heard myself say, knowingly.

"And coming, you know," she continued. "A guy comes, he's disinterested until the hormones build up again. Then, when you've come right down, he expects you to be ready when he is."

"Well, you know this, Ron, but you'd be amazed how many guys don't. Grant you not all girls are alike, but most of us can come time and time again, or could, if the guy were only doing it right. He mustn't give us time to go down. Just keep on going, and going. I mean, even if his dick is limp, he still has a tongue, lips, teeth, fingers."

Was it my imagination, or were the points that had begun to emerge through the material of her dress nipples? OhMiGod! And she'd crossed her legs and turned them sideways on.

Holy cow! How can a guy concentrate on eating daintily?

"True, it often takes a long while to get us off, but the second is easier than the first, the third even easier and it just gets better and better. And a hard fuck at the end, just as you're passing out from the sheer exhaustion of continuous coming. Heaven!"

We'd finished the main course and she was now looking at me full face. I tried to smile seductively, but I'm sure it came across as awkward.

At that point, the opening theme of Mozart's G-Minor Symphony -- KV 40, if I recall correctly --- made itself apparent. Angela extracted the instrument from her purse, stared at it, then made an impatient gesture.

"Sorry, Ron," she said, apologetically, rising from her chair. "Have to take this."

Five minutes later she was back. She did not sit. Her lithe, luscious body close to mine, a whiff of delicate perfume, those long legs, and Yes! they were nipples: I barely heard what she said.

"Ron, I'm really sorry about this. But, well, when business calls. I'm sure you know what I mean."

I gaped at her, not comprehending. What? She was leaving?

"Here's the room key. I'll be back as soon as I can make it."

"Wha... What?... er... How long...?"

"Soon as I can, sweetie," she said, bending and planting a chaste kiss on my cheek. "Keep the bed warm."

I watched her slender figure as it weaved between the tables.

Chapter 7

I lay on the bed, buck naked, legs wide apart, stroking it. Not seriously, just enough to keep it rigid. I do this a lot. What's a guy supposed to do, when so few women have no interest in sex without complications? Sometimes a porno runs in the background. Not the usual kind, mind you. Women with grossly enhanced tits and platform shoes who moan and groan as though they're aroused, which they aren't. You can tell. I don't understand why guys get turned on when its so obvious what they're seeing is an act, actors, going through the motions. Even the guys. You'd think at least they'd show signs of enjoyment. But they don't. Too busy trying to stay stiff, or stuffed full of Viagra and worried about managing the 'money shot'. Mind you, I suppose it's not so easy with a cameraman cavorting about, and someone giving hand signals in the background, when you're supposed to raise a leg, or change positions.

I need to believe they're both enjoying it, especially the girl. It has to feel 'real', even though I'm prepared to believe that sometimes it isn't, it just looks that way. It's hard to find, porn that doesn't insult the intelligence. But there's stuff out there if you know where to look.

Sometimes, though, I don't need a porno at all. My mind's eye is enough. Like on that evening, lying on the bed waiting for Angela, an image of her riveted in my brain, her soft voice talking about doing it for days. Days! That may seem a bit hard to swallow, but after all, I'd absolved a weekend of action with Mandy et. al. and what Angela was talking about sounded a lot less strenuous than what that quintet had put me through.

You'd think after the action I'd already seen that night I'd just want to get my rocks off and I'll be honest enough to confess this was my first thought. Get off, relax a bit and work it back up. But that would spoil things. I knew from experience that I can keep myself 'interested' for hours, and that after a while the urge to come subsides, leaving your dick glowing from base to tip. And that's without the image emblazoned on my brain, of Angela entering the room. She'd eye my stiff dick and tease me as she disrobed slowly. Then she'd slide her wet cunt along my leg, tease my cock with her juices, before rising and easing it into her. I played out the scene in my minds eye, semen spurting out of me and into Angela's delectable cunt, in pints. With any luck, I'd be so aroused it would stay stiff even as the come drooled out of Angela's cunt and coated my balls......

I must have had my eyes closed. My ears too, for that matter. I heard not the opening of the door.

"Ooh la la!"

I heard that!

My eyes opened, and I jerked suddenly into a half sitting position.

"Where's Angela?" I stammered. "Who are you?"

The girls looked at each other as though puzzled. They giggled. Two robes fell to the floor. My eyes near popped out of my head, switching uncontrollably from one to the other.

"Je m'apelle Chantal," one of these apparitions said.

"Et Claudette," said the other, pointing an elegant finger at herself.

I'd been surprised the previous week when the girl who opened when Mandy took me home was naked. But those were girls. Chantal and Claudette were equally naked, but they were not girls, they were women.

One was blonde and one brunette, but I confess this I realized only later. My eye was too busy roving --- over four perfectly formed breasts, firm, but which hung just enough to promise succulence, two wasp waists, two flat stomachs each adorned at the navel with a modest ornament, four slender thighs, and two pronounced mounds of Venus, sleek and shining in the dim light.

"Il est prêt," one said, pointing at my dick.

"Tres joli," said the other. (I never did figure whether the blonde or the brunette was Chantal, but who cared.)

I was still in the half-sitting position, shell-shocked, when one of these angels placed a hand on my chest and pushed me gently back onto the bed.

An instant later, my eyes were feasting on the most perfectly formed cunt they had ever seen, which lowered itself slowly onto my mouth. As my tongue graced the underside of full and ripe cunt lips, I felt a wetness in the big toe of my right foot. Dimly, squinting, I saw that the other angel had placed one knee on the bed and her cunt over my foot. She rocked gently back and forth using my toes to spread her cunt lips, pressing down lightly so my big toe entered her, and sighing.

Holy Moses! She was fucking my foot!

Have you any idea how many protuberances there are on a single male body? Fingers, feet, elbows, knees, I swear, those angels explored every one.

Occasionally, one or the other would ease my cock into her cunt, but then remain almost still, contracting and expanding the muscles of her cunt walls around my throbbing dick. After a while she'd begin to rock back and forth, until a gentle sigh of satisfaction announced, presumably, the occurrence of orgasm. She'd be still for a while, hovering over me, then slowly withdraw, leaving behind a naked cock suddenly cool as the juice from her cunt evaporated.

Scarcely a word was spoken, which is probably no bad thing given the level of French they let you get away with at high school. The angels had their way with me, in their way, and it was good.

OhmiGod, was it ever.

I came every hour, or two or three, never without an appreciative sigh, or a

"Tres bon!"

from one or other of the angels, and when this occurred whichever cunt enveloped my cock just kept on working, slowly, effortlessly, until my dick grew small.

Not that this delayed the action. There were my feet, my knees, cunts slid up and down shins, thighs, arms, impaled themselves on fingers, one, two or three --- they'd guide me gently with their own fingers.

They'd take a break and lie beside me, one on each side, guiding my fingers as each hand explored a cunt, brushed across a clit, pressed on a clit hood, while their fingers stroked my cock and balls, always gentle, never hurried.

When I was hard, one of my angels would from time to time lie on her back and encourage me to engage in a slow fuck, bodies pressed together, while the other stroked my back, buttocks, thighs with gentle fingers, or soft breast, firm nipples, or wet cunt --- whatever took her fancy.

I'm sure you've heard this claimed before, but that night it was the truth and nothing but the truth. Time ceased to have meaning.

I say 'that night' because that's when it began. It was Friday. Only when it ended, when my angels re-wrapped themselves in their robes and, with smiles and blown kisses --- 'Merci' 'Merci beaucoup!' --- left the room as unobtrusively as they had entered, did I become aware that it was now Sunday.

And this not immediately. I lay for a long time staring at the ceiling, too dazed to think. I found out it was Sunday when I got around to working the remote. The Chargers were in Kansas.

I must have fallen asleep again in spite of the game. I awoke to the persistent ringing of the phone.

"Ron?"

"Angela!?"

"Ron, I'm so sorry. I just couldn't get back. Business called. Awful of me, I know. Can you forgive me?"

Forgive her? For what? My angels? The most memorable 30 hours of my life, and not excluding wild sex with five lithe nymphs?

"Erm?"

I didn't know what to say.

"Look, Ron. I'm in SF right now. I'm stuck, I'm afraid. Can you get yourself back home? Everything's taken care of at the hotel. And the car. Just call Enterprise and tell them who you are. They'll pick you up at the hotel."

"Erm. About.. the...?"

"What? Ron, the signal's breaking up. Need to be quick anyway. I'll make it .... to you ...."

"But ...."

Of course, I was about to ask about Chantal and Claudette, but the phone went dead.

Chapter 8

I wondered all week. First Friday, five young, nubile nymphomaniacs --- well, if they weren't I wouldn't care to meet up with a real one! Second Friday, hand-jobs in the car with Angela, then her mysterious disappearance and re-incarnation in the form of two French goddesses and sex of a sophistication I'd never dreamed could exist. I still recall vividly waking up that Sunday and realizing that my entire body was encrusted with juices from their delectable cunts mixed in with a few pints of my own semen. I'd relived how it got that way under the shower, and the image of those two peerless torsos and what they did to me remained throughout the week.

And mixed in with the memory was bewilderment. What the hell was going on? And what on earth awaited me on the third Friday? I'd enjoyed two weekends of sex either one of which many a guy would kill for. Why was I not awaiting eagerly to find out what was in store for me next Friday? Uncomplicated sex I'd said I wanted, and had enjoyed, in no trumps. Yet I was as jumpy as an impala crossing a bed of hot coals.

I suppose it was a feeling of impotence. Not the common or garden variety. I mean, a guy who couldn't get it up for Mandy et.al. or Chantal and Claudette really would have a beeg problem! I guess it was a control issue. I had none. Someone, presumably Angela, did. For a while I even thought of skipping Joe's on Friday. That I did not I put down to the thought that this would be rank cowardice. I'd said I wanted sex, and I was getting it in ways I'd never dreamed could be possible for any guy, let alone myself. Angela was playing some kind of weird game with me, and this I did not like. On the other hand, if I copped out I would never find out what this was.

So a nervous Ron took up his usual place at Joe's, tried to keep an adjacent bar-stool free, and waited nervously. Who would show up this time?

I had my nose in a pint of Anchor Steam when a deepish voice behind me said,

"You Ron?"

I wheeled around and found myself confronted by a woman of some maturity. No nymphet this one.

"Er... Yes," I stammered.

"OK. Let's go," said the woman, turning and heading for the door. I watched her somewhat buxom figure ease gracefully enough through the crowd, and hesitated. Not your type, Ron, my brain said. But again, the thought of appearing cowardly, of not meeting expectations, got me off my stool and out into the street. The cab door was open. What could I do but climb in.

"I'm Liz," the woman said, holding out a heavily ringed hand.

"Pleased to meet you," I managed, taking it lightly.

"Are you as good as your reputation?" Liz continued.

"Er.... I guess that would depend ... er .... On what my reputation is," I replied.

She gave me a knowing look, which lit up her features. She was not exactly pretty, but also not ugly. Somewhere in between. Trying not to be obvious, I glanced across, registering large breasts and a figure that was not so much heavy as voluptuous. She wore leather pants and a plain blouse, cut low. I tried to picture her naked and decided this might not be too bad.

"Satisfied?" she said, with a trace of sarcasm. Obviously my attempt to be surreptitious had not been successful.

"Sure," I responded, trying to be casual.

"Ok," Liz continued. "So here's the deal. You look like a cute guy. Ready for anything, right?"

"I guess," I stammered.

"Ever run into a lesbian?"

I did a double take at that one.

"Er....." What could I say?

"Cos you're looking one up and down right now. And you don't much like what you see, right?"

My tongue refused utterance.

"Well that's ok, 'cos you don't do anything for me either. Butch dyke, that's me. Know what that means?"

"Erm...."

"Doesn't matter," Liz continued. "Either you do or you don't. Thing is, my partner --- she's the feminine one --- is 'bi'. Know what that means, perhaps?"

"Er ... She likes men and women?"

"Yep! And from time to time I allow her to indulge. You're the indulgence."

"I see," I muttered.

Holy Moses! What the hell was I into here?

"You like to fuck, I've been told."

"Er .... By whom?" I ventured, but she ignored me.

"And Jeanette likes to be fucked. Real good and hard."

"Er .... Ok!"

"And long. I'm told you got stamina, and you'll need it. Cos' Jeanette's one horny little beast. And you needn't worry about me being jealous, cos I'll get my kicks too, watching her get her brains fucked out."

O-kay! It was silent.

"And no messing around with fancy stuff. Just fucking and sucking when you need your dick stiffening. Got that?"

"I guess."

"No guess. You gotta remember who's calling the shots. It ain't Jeanette, and it sure as hell ain't you. She wants a guy, she gets one, but I make the rules. That's the deal. You get it, or you don't?"

"I get it," I said as firmly as I could manage.

"You'd better. Cos' if you don't, now's the time to chicken out."

'Chicken out?' I thought. 'What's to chicken out from?' Hell, if I could handle an entire weekend with Mandy et. al. 'fucking the brains' out of half a lesbian couple would be a piece of cake.

I registered a chuckle from Liz. Perhaps she'd read my thoughts.

The cab drew up outside an up-market apartment complex in Marina del Rey. I followed Liz along a walkway, into the building and up in the elevator to the top floor, where we entered a corner apartment.

"Kay. Strip off and get your dick stiff. Need any help?"

"Er.... No, I guess...."

"Yes, or No! Jeanette's in there." Liz pointed. "You walk in with your dick stiff as a pole. Kay. She likes to get a good look at the equipment. You need a hand job to get it up, now's the time to ask."

"Er.. No!" I stammered. "I can manage."

"Kay."

I tried to get a peek through the door, but Liz was in and out too fast. I was alone in the hallway. Hesitatingly, wondering what I had gotten myself into, I stripped off and began work on my dick. It took a while. Liz had dampened down the pollen rather effectively. I tried to re-capture the image of the delectable Chantal and Claudette, of Mandy and friends, of Angela, but nothing seemed to work. Perhaps it was the thought of a hand job from the fearsome Liz that persuaded a reluctant member to gain gradually the state of grace.

Of course I wondered about Jeanette. What would she be like? The 'feminine one' sounded encouraging. Think positive, I repeated to myself.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped up to the door and entered the room.

Chapter 9

It was dim in there and my eyes took a while to adjust, only gradually registering the slender figure of a young girl lying on a bed. Then they noticed that she was not exactly lying on the bed, she was spread out on it in the form of a star, her wrists and ankles fastened to the bed posts by restraints. As I approached, my eyes adjusted further, initially fastening on the fulcrum between her legs, which were spread wide, revealing cunt lips that seemed out of proportion to the rest of her. Warning bells sounded. I backed away.

"Look, Liz," I said. "I don't know about this. I don't do rape stuff. And she looks awfully young."

A snort from the corner, where Liz had parked herself in an armchair. She rose and approached and I recall thinking that my guess had been spot on. Naked she was much more attractive than clothed.

"Of course she's young. I like 'em young. But she's legal, if that's what you're worried about. And who the hell said anything about rape. She wants her brains fucked out. Look at her eyes, fixed on your dick, the horny vixen."

Even as Liz spoke, I felt the damn thing begin to droop.

Another snort. Liz was by my side. A be-ringed hand engulfed my dick and began to pump.

"I'd like to hear her say it, Liz."

As I spoke I realized Jeanette could not say anything because something was stuffed her mouth.

"Shit. I thought you're supposed to be a stud."

"Well you thought wrong," I said. "At least if you think I'd force myself on any woman, especially a young girl."

Uttering a curse of exasperation, Liz knelt on the bed and removed a pair of panties from Jeanette's mouth.

"Tell him, dear."

"D'you think he's up for it?" Jeanette said, doubtfully, her eye on my drooping penis.

"He's recommended, dear," Liz said, looking up at me. "Maybe the situation. Don't worry. I'll get him ready."

She resumed her less than gentle ministrations.

"Why are you restrained?" I asked Jeanette.

"Because I like to start this way."

"When she comes," Liz explained, "her limbs go all over the place. And she's loud. That's the reason for these. Later on, when she's come a few times, like maybe ten or fifteen, she gets calmer."

Ten or fifteen!

"Look at her. I think she's sexy as hell. Don't you?"

I had to admit Liz had a point. Jeanette's body was slender and supple, her breasts on the small side, but with pronounced nipples standing out against pure white skin, stiff as my dick wasn't. As doubts receded, the pollen began to rise and when she said, eyeing me coquettishly,