Amateur Gods (Ltd.)

This was passionate, to be sure, but also a surprising bow toward modesty. You see, having chosen to bare so much of myself to strangers this evening, I'd taken the time to sculpt that part of me still left unseen into something special only my husband would see.

Nothing unique, I suppose; more women than you'd expect might trim their fleecy little pelt into the shape of a cupid's heart. It's not that unusual around Valentine's Day, I'll bet. But I'd wanted said indulgence to be a private token for my husband, and now the discrete fruit of my effort had an audience of three.

My next best move was to show Keith first, so I disentangled from his arms, backed several steps toward the increasingly frenzied love making on the bed, and held both my hands down by my hips, palms outward.

Yeah sure, I displayed my personal topiary so much like a stage magician at the end of a magic trick that I had to giggle.

Keith didn't. He kneeled before me and began to kiss and explore my handiwork with his lips, with his tongue, and when he finally slipped his middle finger up my slippery grove and started pumping in and out, I was lost, absent to everything except the pleasures emanating from my resonating sex.

Then I needed to sit down, my sense of balance near drowning in the flood of my own pleasure. I should, after all, be able to commandeer some space on my own bed, right?

Keith followed me, going to his knees as if supplicant to my sex. He bowed between my thighs, doggedly determined to rule my pussy with his mouth, his tongue, and next to us, Tony did the same, got to his knees before Emily and worshiped that wet, warm, slippery altar with loud slurping noises, the greedy grunts and moans of a starving traveler with his first meal in days.

At this moment, side by side with Em on the bed, I leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth, and far from recoiling, she received me without reservation, her devious tongue meeting mine, her teeth gently nibbling my lower lip.

Only a moment or so later I was gently stroking her breasts, and she mine, and understand, I'd never anticipated making love to Emily, or fantasized thus, but right here, right now, how could there be anything more appropriate?

I came once that way, low and gorgeous, shuddering with the force of my first climax that evening, Keith at one end of my body, Emily at the other. I tried to withdraw my lips from Emily, but she wrapped her fingers in the hair behind my head, insisted I sigh and moan my orgasm into her wanton mouth.

Moments later, never at a loss to return a favor, I switched places with Keith, undid the fly of his pants and freed his beautiful cock. I held my hair back with one hand just so everyone could see me stroking his blue-veined, rod with the other, and then I sucked it full and greedy with my mouth, nursed on that fucker, got it deep and all the way down my throat.

Certainly possessed by some competitive spirit, Emily quickly put Tony in the same position as Keith, and there we were, a pair of greedy sluts, down on our knees, each watching the other mouth their lover's rigid dick, a pair sex-crazed bitches whose reason d'etre began and ended, for the moment, at nothing more than giving the men they love good head.

But Keith, bless him, wouldn't shoot his load in my mouth. He reached that plateau where he couldn't take more, and gently lifted my head from his lap. He bent forward, kissed me on the mouth and said, "I need to fuck you."

Who was I to argue?

Ours is a four-posted bed, four railings running from each pillar to support diaphanous curtains. From his belt, Keith took the bullwhip he'd been ignoring and unraveled it, his hard dick jabbing out of his pants and bouncing with his stride as he moved to the foot of the bed, lobbed one end of the whip high over the railing there, and beckoned me.

Totally his toy for the moment, I let him loop the dangling end around my wrists in restraining loops and then pull my arms up above my head like I was this contrary, naked slave girl, or chattel taken as the spoils of war. Pulling the opposite end of the bullwhip in one hand, Keith grabbed his dick in the other, guided that fucker into my cunny,

Slow and deep, he fucked me from behind, occasionally indulging one of my favored, if embarrassing, predilections by slapping my bottom just hard enough to echo, sharp and staccato, off the walls.

Consider the leather around my wrists, Keith's solid member riddling my pussy, the flesh of my ass blushing beneath his hand. I'll never do those sensations justice here; there are certain, naughty, rogue, raw experiences shared by lovers that are magic precisely because they defy description. They exist in a world apart from that of syntax, and put vocabulary to shame. Poets might lose sleep and turn gray trying to capture this, but their enterprise is doomed from the start.

I'll take a shot however, humbly bow to cliché' and brag that fucking with Keith, that moment, was transcendent. It was out of this world. It blew my fucking mind.

Emily found the sight of me getting fucked this way so absorbing that she maneuvered Tony prone on the bed, and rode his dick facing Keith and I, a randy, humping "reverse cowgirl" just so she could watch me getting it from behind.

Savor the moment where I tried to lean toward her, steal another Sapphic kiss, but we were too far apart, and the restraint above my head hindered me, and Em was reluctant to release the glove-like grasp of her fuck hole around Tony's cock.

In the end, stretching and straining, the only parts we managed to unite were the tips of our tongues.

And there might as well have been a spark passing between us. Static electricity. The pleasure we both felt was suddenly augmented. I'm not going to say I came again, but it was marvelously close.

And the way Keith shoots his load up into me is nothing short of epic. He growls and groans and then goes into a sort of spasm as he comes, something so much like an epileptic fit that it's a little scary to the uninitiated. At the moment of climax, he released his grip on the bullwhip and fell over my back, pushing me down, pinning me against Tony's knees, my face into Emily's belly.

And there I was, so close to Emily's cunt around Tony's dick that I could kiss both at the same time.

And yes, later Keith took Emily, and watched in wonder as my heels bounced up and down off of Tony's backside. We fucked side by side, he holding my hand as another man plumbed the depths of my cunt, me looking into his eyes he plowed Emily's cum-sloppy little groove, my big, randy husband out to stud with this young mare while he shared his with Tony.

Why not? It was clear that the rules that might govern everyday life were somewhere else tonight. Other people were at home, watching cable TV, handing out candy, recounting the course of yet another dull day with their spouses.

Those rules had ceased to apply to us. Tonight, all roads led to pleasure and like sharks that will suffocate if they stop swimming, we fucked as if life depended on it.

I came a second time, loud and wild. No doubt, party goers down stairs heard their hostess howling like a coyote and knew exactly what the score was above.

Emily's orgasm, by contrast, rose slow and peaked in a long undulating current, an earthquake with aftershocks. mounting, peaking, diminishing, an exact start and finish hard to define.

I may have dozed then, slipped into a moment or so of post-coital slumber. Perhaps I dreamed momentarily, and in that dream, grasped a hitherto repressed memory, for the next thing I remember is Keith asking me where I was going, me saying I'd be right back. I rose from the bed nude with an insistent notion there was something to be done, something I couldn't have done before because.

I left Keith with clear permission to fuck Emily again, and the promise of something daring and unusual when I returned. I think he knew what I meant. We don't do anal that often; it's more a novelty than any kind of standard for us. Mark a delightful perversity in the moment however. I would offer the rarity of my asshole up to Keith while strangers watched, make the loving transgression of my back pocket a spectator sport.

But first...

I'd been aware for some time that noise from downstairs had changed. Raucous laughter and casual conversation had given way to cooing moans and the staccato rhythm of flesh against flesh. I'd been aware of this, but unconcerned. For the past hour or so, the inventory of things I'd cared about had started and stopped within my bedroom.

If my ascent up the stairs in darkness had possessed some air of the surreal, my descent into my own living room was just as hallucinogenic. Here, someone had taken time to dim lights, but I could see clearly enough.

There was Batman, still in his cowl, hands cuffed to the leg of the coffee table, Catwoman astride him, galloping, nude save for her vinyl mask and hip-ridding leather boots.

There were my two buccaneers ravishing The Duchess of Windsor, her Georgian-period attire strewn about like a careless still life tableau. Our clever she-pirate was sitting on the coffee table, pressing the Duchess' face into her open cleft while her male accomplice sheathed his tool in Her Ladyship's behind.

The Popes were totally nude, sitting in the middle of the floor, she in his lap so he could love her swaying tits with his mouth as she undulated, shimmied and ground her sex down on his cock.

Cleopatra on the sofa, legs raised in a wide, uninhibited "V" while Caesar plundered her treasury with his tongue.

The astronaut was expanding interplanetary relations to a green-skinned alien lass—a curious diplomatic ritual that involved taking her by the hair and fucking her green mouth.

I moved through this panting, moaning, squirming crowd, regal in my nudity, extending a hand to graze fingertips here, a smile of acknowledgment there, a sincere compliment whenever the fucking was so heated and advanced that lovers involved paid my passing little or no attention. I moved through this bacchanalia with a surety that Emily had been right: This was in fact mine. I was the catalyst, the author, the high priestess who had led these sexual acolytes to a promised land they would never dare to visit unless I showed them the way.

I cleared the front room, passed the breathless, racing assignation of two randy nuns on the kitchen table, a pant-less priest watching, rosary in one hand, cock in the other, and found my home office.

No fixed idea what I was after.

A sleepwalker led by her dreams.

I automatically turned my computer on and opened a file I'd forgotten was there. Here were invoices for costumes culled from around the world, the surplus inventory of theatre companies, the troves of film studio auctions, numerous antique stores.

Here was a new bank account, its coffers suddenly swelling with the advent of Halloween.

Here also were the pentagrams, incantations, and ancient symbols I'd used to make it all magic, and an email account I hadn't opened for a while.

I still didn't open it. Instead I went to the internet and found Amateur Gods, entered the computer generated store and typed in

"Where are you?"

From another part of the room, a mannequin in dark blue robes came to life. The gold-embroidered symbols of her garment were moving of their own accord, flashing in and out of view like exploding fireworks glimpsed from a distance.

"Here I am, Milady."

Her new mask was like someone had taken laser-edged scissors and carefully trimmed reality in order to leave a mask-shaped hole. Through that hole, behind her blinking eyes, was a whirling, dizzying view of something like stars, planets and galaxies simultaneously falling in and out of view.

"Take the mask off," I said.

She did, and of course she was me.

And I leaned back in my chair and remembered where I'd been the day of the accident, and it was deliciously subversive, but also painful for being nothing I'd ever be able to share with Keith.

Girl, I thought, What the hell have you been doing?

What the hell, indeed.

Then I turned the computer off. Went back upstairs.