While Guests Were Talking

Jean-Yves could not stand receptions. He did not derive any pleasure from the small talk and the shallowness of exchanges, and he was put off by the artificial politeness that accompanied welcomes and introductions, the unspoken lines of taboos when it came to topics of politics, religion, and anything else covered under the umbrella of political correctness. Foreign-born and with a senior position in an international financial institution, he resigned himself to the fact that, for professional and social reasons, he had to attend some of them and make the best effort of pretending he enjoyed himself.

This Saturday was another of those nights. Not only did this reception interfere with his plans to escape the city for at least the weekend, but also was this a particularly formal event. American East Coast aristocracy, wealthy and conservative, the type of golf club (fiscally conservative, socially liberal) Republicanism that had long fallen victim to Reagan's art of communicating politics in black and white (or good and evil) and later to the influence of Christian fundamentals, which Buchanan had invited four conventions ago. This was a black-tie event of the type that reminded him of a bumper sticker that he had seen several months before: "Pretend it's all alright."

So, on this sunny Saturday afternoon, rather than enjoying the peacefulness of his weekend house, he headed for the shower, shaved, and started to look for his tux and cufflinks. In fact, he had put so much shaving cream in his hand that he decided he might as well shave off all his pubic hair, a habit that earned him periodic comments at his health club. It had been a while. This little touch of androgyny, he enjoyed immensely, apart from the fact that, not currently being in a relationship, his particular attention to his outward appearance helped him to maintain an optimistic outlook, notwithstanding the fact that it was mainly his hand that currently provided for the needed release.

The reception took place in one of the old, sand stone city mansions, with heavy wood inside that appears to breathe the cigar smoke of decades past. He would bring, as his official date, a long-time acquaintance of his, Charleen, who is a renowned newspaper editor and the author of an influential book on US American relations with the countries Rumsfeld had labelled "new Europe" a few years ago. She was in a long-time lesbian relationship that she did not want to advertise, and they had a standing arrangement for these types of formal events. Both fuelled rumours as to the nature of their relationship, steadfastly refusing to confirm their friendship was strictly platonic. He adored her, and they spend much time together, including some holidays, feeding on their respective views and varied experiences. She was red-haired, with freckles and green eyes, but he did not dare to cross the line for fear of loosing this very special friendship, a friendship that also allowed for the sharing of intimate details of their respective love lives.

To their surprises, they found a parking spot relatively easily. They walked, arm in arm, to the receiving line and looked their part as a respected, successful couple. In fact, her long, front-slit and sleeveless dress, in black satin, made her look stunning, which he did not fail to notice when she had opened the door to her house. They waited their turn in the receiving line and, finally, were welcomed by the hosts. He was in late 60s, white haired, pulled back neatly, with an impressively athletic build (years of tennis and golf would do that), and a warm, welcoming smile. He wore, apart from his tuxedo, a gold ring with the crest of his alma mater on his right ring finger, directing views to his long, manicured fingers. On previous occasions, Charleen had commented on his hands, referring to the apparent correlation of the length of fingers and other body parts not that visible normally. Looking at the vibrant face of his wife, whose blue eyes always shone in a way that made even her many wrinkles look beautiful, the thought ran through his mind that, in order to look that good at that age, "a lot of sex might have helped as well for him."

Jean-Yves thanked the hostess for the kind invitation, kissing her on both cheeks. She was quite a bit heavier and, given her weight, would have benefited from a larger chest. But her sparkling personality and her great sense of humour made all of this irrelevant. He had always liked her, always assuming that their marriage was the model for how two people should live and grow old together.

"You look gorgeous, dear," he heard the hostess say to Charleen, realising that his thoughts had left him daydreaming. They entered the house, with its high ceilings, large windows, and old paintings, being friendly greeted by waiters in gloves with glasses of champagne as well as red and white wine

Charleen and Jean-Yves split up, and they made their respective rounds. He only knew a few people, among whom he made the rounds and exchanged updates on life and business. He noted a clear change of attitude of guests towards his own country. Iraq-related suspicion had dissipated, and it was replaced with curiosity, mainly linked to the Italian-born model and singer who had made her 31st lover her husband and, in so doing, agreed to change the freedom of an artist's life with the restrictions that come with being a First Lady.

Forty-five minutes later, he felt he had done his duty. He was pleased with himself as he felt he had become much better over the years at socialising, appearing more at ease, more quick-witted, while trying hard not to come across as arrogant and Euro-centric. He called a waiter, replaced his wine glass, and began to look at the art that was hanging on the walls in the mansion, probably from the time the family moved in. Even though this was not his favourite period, he recognised several pieces as being important contributions to early American art, with a lot of Bible-based symbolism in them.

He looked up the stairs, marvellous and very representative stairs into the living quarters, and he saw a painting that, from downstairs, looked as if it could be an Edward Hopper. He thus walked up the stairs to look at the work of art, when he heard some noises from a room nearby. He walked towards them, only to see that the door was open. He glanced into the room and almost dropped his glass of wine onto the hardwood floor. Charleen was kneeling in front of the hostess, who was sitting on a sofa, her dressed all pulled up, caressing and kissing her pussy. Jean-Yves just stood there, in a shock, unable to decide how to react. Charleen was first to notice him, she looked up, smiled at him and said, "come in and close the door."

It was only then that Jean-Yves saw his host, sitting on the sofa, having taken his penis out of his pants, masturbating at the sight of his wife being serviced orally. As Charleen had predicted earlier, it was long, with a light bent to it, half-erect. "I can explain," he began, stuttering, red in his face, while his penis was loosing all of the strength it had had before.

"No need," answered Charleen, recovering her composure first (she never really lost it). To Jean-Yves' surprise, she stood up, simply removed her panties, lifted her dress, kneeling down again, while exposing her white-skinned arse to Jean-Yves. "I know, you have wanted to fuck me for a long time," she added with seductive tone he had never heard from her. As if nothing had happened, she focused her oral attention on the hostess again.

"I would like that," the host added, "a lot." He looked at Jean-Yves. "I have not had even the hint of an erection in years, but I might be able to come tonight. Watching Charleen kissing my wife, seeing my wife getting all hot and wet, this all has given me back things I long thought lost."

And then he added something that Jean-Yves had not heard anyone say to him before this directly before. "Get undressed, please, I want to see you naked, I want to see your hard piece of manhood enter Charleen, I want to see you fuck her. I want the sight of the three of you coming all together. This might just do the trick."

And then he moved forward, loosening Jean-Yves' belt, unzipping his trousers, watching them fall to the floor. With his long fingers, he softly touched his crotch and felt how his penis hardened. Jean-Yves did not move back, allowed him to continue and proceeded to unbutton his bowtie, his shirt, struggling with the cufflinks. Feeling his fingers on his hardening cock, fingers slipping into his briefs, he stripped down otherwise. Finally, Jean-Yves removed his underpants, his erect penis now close to his host's face.

"Go, go and enter her, go and make love to your friend," he said, leaning back, with his half-erect penis in his hands.

Kneeling in front of their hostess, Charleen's gorgeous arse was pointing up to him, as inviting as could be. He caressed her but softly with his hands, with his penis. He felt how wet she had become. He caressed her clit with his cock, sensing no resistance, no hesitation. He saw his hostess smiling at him, legs spread wide, licking her lips at him. He closed his eyes, moved his pelvis forward, and, slowly, he entered his lesbian journalist friend. She sighed, she grunted.

"Yes," she whispered, "I forgot how good this feels," and she added, in French, "baise-moi, Jean-Yves, mon amour, oui, comme ça, baise-moi plus fort."

Jean-Yves kept his eyes closed, breathing in the sensation of the moment, the lust of years that he did not permit himself to admit or to express. He grabbed her hips with his hands, as he felt her move rhythmically, in tone with his movements. When he heard his hostess moans and move, he looked up, into her face, about to come herself. He wanted to have enjoyed the moment longer, but he felt coming to the point of no return. His movements became faster, his breathing was heavy, and when he opened his eyes again, he saw how his hostess was now sucking her husband's cock. He was now standing next to her, still in his tuxedo, but with his pants having fallen to the floor. He had a delight in his face that is difficult to capture in words.

No sooner than he realised the chain of lust that they formed, him fucking Charleen, Charleen performing oral sex on their hostess, and she sucking her husband's revived cock, a cacophony of yeses filled the room, with bodies jerking and breathing slowing down. There was an intensity of released sexual tension in the room that none of the four had experienced before -- the grand explosion of years' worth of sexual frustrations. And silence.

"We have to say good-bye to our guests," the host then said, with a huge smile on his face. "But the two of you will stay. Have a shower, have a bath, have some champagne. Have a night together. Tomorrow morning we will see."

Charleen looked at Jean-Yves, Jean-Yves at her and the two of them. Nobody needed to say anything, they all knew that they would stay, and that both couples would make love to one another that night, making up for lost years. What the next morning would bring was less clear, but at that moment it did not matter.