Appetizers, Meals

He picked them up, carefully gripping them. Not clutching them or appearing to hold them too tightly, but also working hard not to use his fingertips as if he was picking up a stranger's wet washcloth in a hotel room he'd just checked into. Not the message you'd want to send either. I briefly felt for him: turns out picking up an acquaintance's wife's panties is filled with potential social potholes.

He handed them to her, actually looking away, to his right away from her gaze and away from mine this time.

She took them without comment. Looked over at me then waited for him to return back to returning her gaze. After a few seconds he realized she wasn't moving and did just that.

She looked down at the underwear in her hand and brightened up. She smiled excitedly.

"Almost forgot! I wanted to show you guys something," she said. A newcomer to the evening might assume she'd found a new viral video of a cat snuggling a sleeping alligator.

A new song came through the speakers. Old Yo La Tengo track.

"I decided to try something new!"

She decided something. I pushed back a smile.

"I felt a little too...wild...down there before," she paused as her eyes moved from mine to his. She loosened the cloth white robe belt and quickly dropped the entire robe to the floor. Her completely naked body highlighted by the carefully chosen fading yellow colors on our Hue. Still sepia to flatter her every area.

"So I shaved everything off!"

Her hands and eyes beckoned us both down to her labia, now unadorned. And beckoning each of us. The music spun hazily.

For the moment slipped right through him

If I have an inconsistency with my love it might be with the hair adorning her pubis bone. While I preferred all other women shaved, I vacillated often on her choice of adornment. So from time to time I'd dictate a change. While I'd told her days ago that it might be time for a change, the idea to do it tonight was all hers. She'd be rewarded and then dealt with in accordance.

Combed his hair, combed his hair

Faced with his dream - many of our dreams - suddenly in close proximity, the friend of her boss suddenly didn't know where to put his eyes. He loved from her suddenly smooth cunt, up to her eyes, over to me, and then remembered to take in the glories that are her breasts. He shifted to lean up, apparently intending to bury his face again. Pathetic. Honor her, you blessed fool.

"Be a gentleman," I gently chided him. He glanced over to me. I motioned him up as I darkened the lights using an app on my phone

The music kept swirling.

"Why not start with a kiss?" My love stifled a small laugh at me addressing the obvious.

The whiskey swirled in my throat, in my chest.

He stood up in front of her, taking her by the sides in his hands. Their height differential was too much for his hands to reach to her hips, but low enough to place below the sides of her breasts. I'd told him to start with a kiss and he wasn't going to rock the boat with another premature breach of sexual protocol.

The song mentioned a girl with an uncomprehending smile.

He looked down at her and she looked directly back into his eyes before closing hers, moved on to her tiptoes slowly to signal him.

As he took his time, took his time

His mouth touched hers. After a few seconds she opened her mouth to receive his tongue. As he moved into her mouth his hands slid up her sides and slid onto her breasts. She let out a slight moan and pulled him closer, his mouth closer. Her stance widened slightly as one of his hands slid between her legs. Her hands moved to his belt, deftly unbuckling him in preparation for the inevitable drop to her knees. I resisted the urge to touch myself but did shift in my seat, leaning forward, imagining I could smell her. Smell her like he had and soon would again.

Guitars pulsed, hazed.

In the dimly lit room, the silhouette of her breasts sliding down against his chest, catching on his belt and spilling down as she moved further down.

Took a ride, took a ride...

--------------------

I'm a fan of music. I'm a fan of mixing up a lot of songs I like and hearing what the soundtrack to my night looks like. At the moment it looks good.

My wife is naked, on her knees, working on pulling her boss's friend's cock out of his pants. The room is fairly dark, as I turned off the television as she removed her robe to expose her gifts to this amazing lucky man. With the lights down low I can make out the curve of her buttocks as they raise and lower in height as she works to gently remove him through the dual escapes in his underwear and unzipped pants.

As she takes him her mouth I notice her eyes are open, looking up into the darkness. He's got his eyes closed. Her tongue does that. You feel her fingers encircling you, the warmth of her mouth and the comfort and energy of her tongue as she works her careful ballet. She's looking up at him, hoping for a reaction. I'm pretty sure his head arching backwards, breathing short and halting gives her what she's looking for.

Another song comes on, a little threatening in its initial chords. I take a sip of my bourbon, ice just starting to melt in the glass but not enough to mitigate the burn.

I can feel myself hard and pressing. I again resist the urge to put a hand on myself. I don't want to anything to happen for me for quite some time yet. Not to mention the embarrassment of having to excuse myself for cleaning and a wardrobe change.

His hands slip into her hair, the red occasionally breaking up the black and white darkness. I imagine I can hear the warm parts inside her, no doubt glistening with moisture by now, making liquidy clicks in the darkness, just 18 or so inches off our carpet.

You wait on letters fishing for any sign of life.

The drums on this song seem almost tribal. Ritualistic.

Her head moves in consistent rhythm. I see glimpses of her right ear as his fingers catch and releases large portions of the lovely red. The hand she doesn't have on him slips off his lower back and buttocks and between her own legs. I picture my open hand slamming into her ear.

His sudden moan breaks my trance and gives me some concern. This can't end too soon, but sometimes it does happen. In those cases there's no way to reset. He'll be embarrassed and thinking more clearly, wine waves in his mind receding as he looks to exit while she looks to politely find a way to spit his ejaculate into his used bourbon glass. I can't have this. Those are not good nights. She's slept in the garage for mistakes like that.

I sit up, making as much noise as possible to subtly grab his attention. It works and he looks over. My love slides her face as far down his shaft as she can, then opens her mouth and leans back. As space between them develops, I can see the beginnings of perspiration developing on the white skin closest to her areolae.

His eyes on me, I sip my bourbon, then set it down, hear lyrics about tap-dancing on broken glass.

"I think to continue this, you should probably head upstairs." I glance up the stairwell, doubting either can see my eyes in the relative darkness.

My love sits on her knees, a quick respite. Her hand is no longer between her legs, but caressing her own thigh. Memories of her back arching as I inserted a second finger into her asshole, true fear in her eyes.

"Are you sure?" he asks, tucking himself back inside his underwear.

"Sure he's sure," says my love cheerily, trying to reduce his trepidation. She looks up into his eyes. "You'll like me." A white flash of searing ice in my mind.

He almost laughs then catches himself, knowing that might not be the right message to send. He'll like her alright.

She extends her hand so that he might help her stand.

Let's skip the charades. You're seeing right through me anyway.

I can see the milkiness of her thighs and stomach as she stands upright. The shadows hide her pubic region. I briefly consider eating her before sending her up, but remind myself to save it for later. We've both learned that my unfulfilled lust quickly ignites into a violent storm. And she likes cowering from it. If things go well she could be fearing for her life.

"I just don't want there to be..." he pauses, expecting me finish his sentence.

I don't do it. I glance at her breasts, remembering the first time I saw them, tumbling out of bra I undid with her laying above me. When she briefly pretended she belonged to someone else. Transitional phase before she'd ever felt my belt.

He waits for...something. Neither of us gives it to him.

"I just don't want there to be," he starts again. "...hard feelings."

I swirl the bourbon in the glass. Look down at it. Hear her breath under the music. I can always hear her breathe. It's the heartbeat in every conversation we've ever had. I see her scrunch her toes on the carpet, most likely cold. And anxious.

The drum beats urgently, methodically.

"Don't worry about that at all," I reassure him. "I want this to happen. Please accept this as a gesture of my friendship." My glass wishes him salut.

We're playing for the same team

The only woman I've ever loved takes his hand and he willingly follows her buttocks towards the stairs. At the base of the stairwell she pulls him down to whisper in his ear. He pulls back and nods, then picks her up into his arms and begins ascending the stairwell. Her arms wrap around his neck and her face gets very close to his, him inhaling her breath. The breath that sustains me.

The singer's voice cracks with emotion as frozen sparks shoot through my veins.

As the door to our bedroom closes I realize she forgot to bring me my bottle of bourbon. As I get up to get it I can hear her giggle, maybe even laugh. Warm blood rushes down my neck as I pour a deep glass and add new ice. Make a mental note to make sure we have cubes left over for later. I picture her begging me to stop inserting ice into her as I watch the sun begin to come up.

As I sit down I turn down the volume slightly just in time to hear the springs of the bed sag as weight bears up on it. Then I hear nothing. Nothing as the song ends and an Oasis song starts and then eventually ends. My lust for her begins reshaping itself into a bloodthirsty animal. As the Rolling Stones "Spider and the Fly" starts up, I do finally hear her moan. She means to moan softly, but she does not mean to moan so softly that the sound wouldn't make the trip through a wooden door and down a flight of stairs for me and my drink to hear. I can feel my teeth in her breast. Taste the smallest amount of her blood on my tongue.

The springs of the bed - our bed - shift again. I wonder how many songs will play before the springs start to create their own rhythm, adding their own percussion to the night.

The ice in my glass makes a popping sound as the warm liquid melts its defenses. Upstairs I hear her laugh softly as downstairs a harmonica solo begins.

-----------------------------

Peering into the bourbon bottle, seeing only a small wave of brown water sloshing against the side, I am guessing it's been at least an hour since my wife and her admirer stepped upstairs.

That time has been spent sipping, pouring and listening. Listening to the music playing throughout the house - the same songs in their ears as mine. Sound waves no doubt resonating ever so slightly inside her. And listening to the occasional sounds drifting down. A laugh. A moan. Weight on the bed shifting. But lately not much at all. Has he given all he has and fallen asleep on top of her? Has the alcohol dulled his abilities? I picture him sobbing at his failure to capitalize, her consoling him, as she'd most likely do. Her nature is to make people feel better. Obviously.

I set down my glass and then pour the last bourbon in the bottle into it. A song I barely remember plays, its sound quiet and contemplative.

These harmless sparks

They're gonna leave me in the dark

I walk up the stairs quietly, drink in hand. It feels more humid up here. I must be imagining that.

I quietly open the door. Him drunk, her used to it, neither rushes to look my way.

His clothes are on the floor, shirt closer to the door, the rest of it all in a pile, taken off in a rush. Since she had nothing on as he carried her upstairs there's nothing of hers to look for.

They are both half under the covers, facing each other, lower halves warming while he drunkenly caresses her face. She's smiling back at him, her breasts well above the covers, nipples hard.

"Everything going ok," I ask, the ice in my drink tapping the side of the glass in rhythm.

These harmless sparks

They're gonna leave me in the dark

My queen looks my way, her smile diminishing just barely. But enough to let me know she knows the tenor of the evening will be changing.

He turns to me, his smile locked in place by his drunkenness. Still somewhat uncomfortable in his gaze, maybe wondering if I'd changed my mind about letting him explore my wife completely.

I smile just to reassure him.

"Have you guys been having fun? Are you close to being done?"

He looks guiltily from me over to her. She rolls onto her back, her breasts settling more squarely onto her chest.

"We've been kissing," she says. "Talking a little." She looks conspiratorially at him, then realizes that might be a bad idea and quickly turns back to me. He notices neither move, his eyes on her still tremoring tits.

"Was she good?" I ask

His eyes still on her tits. Mine now on her tits. The song changes.

"We had a good time," he finally says. She smiles at him. Warm syrup pours down the back of my neck.

"You like those tits," I casually remark. He laughs a little. His laugh shakes the bed, causing her breasts to move in waves again, ever so slightly.

"She's beautiful," he says in an explanatory and complimentary way.

A man was shot right through the hand yesterday in Ixcatan

"And her tits?" I want the focus where it needs to be.

He turns to look towards me.

Nobody knows why

"Don't look at me. Look at them. What do you see when you look at them?"

He looks from me to her, struggles for words. I know inside his mind he's thinking third-grade Scrabble words. Boob. Maybe nipple. No way he's even gotten to areola. No use waiting on him.

"I see beauty," I say. "I see softness. A shade of white that makes me want to be as close to that color as I possibly can."

He leans over and kisses her right nipple softly. I continue.

"I see a home for me. Someplace that's mine. Someplace that's warm, where I want to be."

His kisses linger more. His mouth opens slightly on her.

The fear of God dripping from his hands

Her eyes close.That syrup on my neck crosses over the line to hot.

I pause my narration, a tour guide reeling his audience in.

"But I also see frustration." I sip the bourbon.

"I see a place I longed to be for a vast stretch of time, but didn't have access. I see something often hidden from me. From all of us. I see something held back as a prize; some sort of carrot. Something I need. Something I need and yet had to wait years to have. Something I was robbed of. For years."

His lips come off her as he turns to me, listening through his haze of lust and Jefferson's Reserve.

"What about you?" I ask. "You've spent hours along the way these past months wanting to see them. Wanting to enjoy them. Having them intrude upon your consciousness and distract you. Wanting to fuck her. Wanting to come all over her and thinking you'd never even have a fucking chance."

My love shifts slightly in the bed, adjusting herself to be sitting up just a hair more. Putting her in more of a position to bolt, possibly, though she knows better.

"Has this hour of time been worth the frustration she's caused you? Someone with a gift of beauty so rare and special that it doesn't just reward you? Beauty that taunts you?"

His face has changed. He hears me. He looks back at her eyes. She looks a little uncertain. She's used to what happens when the guest leaves. But this is new.

I catch myself getting too emotional. I pause and take another sip as the song goes on, slipping toward its baleful concluding moments.

I look him right in the eye.

"You do anything you want."

His face - his drunken, tired, malleable face - has gone from confusion to slight... is it anger?

It's a frantic emotion of some sort. He looks one more time into her eyes - hers pleading a little, not yet understanding what I already knew. What I knew so well - that that look would spark the ember I'd worked so hard to build.

One's for love, the other for pain

He looked down at her breast again and as he moved closer his teeth bared, scraping her areola as they plunged down into the meat of it, fleshy and forgiving to a point.

The shock of it all caused her to yelp loudly, then catch herself and look directly at me as the singer talks about colors. And stains.

I look at her crossly. Hold up my index finger in warning.

"Don't do that again."

He bites down again, this time harder. She muzzles her shriek but writhes wildly under him.

Each successive bite seems to act as another catalyst, funding more energy inside him.

From the color of the stain

Tears materialize in the corners of her eyes.

I sit down on a chair in the corner of the room. Mouth "I love you" at her as he moves his weight back on top of her.

She keeps her eyes on me, her mouth opening to mouth it back to me just as he thrusts back into her, his cock no doubt rubbing raw against the insides of her.

Her head snaps back as he grabs a large handful and yanks.

No you can't tell that from the color of the stain

His next violent thrust jams her back against the headboard.

She pants with passion. Literally pants. I make a note to punish that indiscretion.

As he reaches around to penetrate her ass with a few dry fingers, I lean back and wonder what song will come on next.

It Came to Me © 2017, The Barr Brothers

Barnaby, Hardly Working © 1989, Yo La Tengo

Skip the Charades lyrics © Downtown Music Publishing, BMG Rights Management

Harmless Sparks © 2012, American Aquarium

Ixcatan © 2007, Romantica