Helping Alexandra

And it is.

I can already feel that familiar stir and warmth as it looks certain this male is going to give himself up to his wife and I. I can feel that visceral impatience and anticipation, that little ring of sensation that slowly tightens and tightens around the opening of my vagina when I use men this way, just that first, sweet twinge as it starts, now that I know it's going to happen.

But I am expecting there will still be a bit more back and forth before it does; some reference to the ground rules here even if it's just obvious stuff like 1) I'm not here to fuck you or you me; 2) you don't touch me; 3) I touch you only if, but if, then as I please; 4) you don't approach me unless I tell you to; 5) you look at me when I speak to you... just basic things men who serve this way are expected to know and comply with. It's not that I'm worried; I can take care of myself if I need to and the vibe here is very unthreatening. But I'm just expecting, as this is the first time they've done this with anyone else involved, they'll want to talk a few things out.

But it doesn't go that way.

They're looking at one another in that adoring way and then Alexandra says, "You know what I want."

Brian's smile tightens slowly into a knowing grin, his beaming eyes narrow into a glint of recognition at some transition in the tone and balance of things.

Alexandra's features slowly harden, shift into an expression I immediately recognize; entitlement. She juts her chin at him and "You know what we want." She says firmly. "So..." she sniffs, juts her chin to shoo him away from the foot of her recliner.

He nods, takes a step back, centers himself between our two recliners, and stands there facing us, hands at his sides.

It's just fucking beautiful. It's so fucking beautiful I almost don't want him to move. Just knowing he knows what's coming, what's expected of him; not in detail, no; he's at our mercy for the details; he knows that too; and it excites him. I can see it excites him. And all his wife had to do is jut her chin at him and he takes back a step and stands there, presenting himself for service.

This is what people don't understand about power; not just in sex, but in all things. Real power is not compulsion; it's a mutual recognition of need. Although perverted and masochistic, the old Medieval trope that the glory of God requires sinners to burn in hell, so we, all sinners, rejoice even upon the pyre because, and this is our power, He needs us...

I have no illusions about the nobility or sacredness of these things I do and enjoy. Nobility is a social senility and sacredness a harlot's fidelity next to the one thing I do claim some small redemption by; respect. Respect for the gift and the giving; the need for the need. Whether you find it a small thing or a great thing; either the submission of the other enslaves us, or we are unworthy of it.

I know, I know. What fun am I, marring the tepid luster of male degradation and humiliation with such musings? Alas, to my male readers who may find themselves disappointed in this, I'm afraid there is no balm here in Gilead for your hurt. As to my sisters (if any) similarly disillusioned; the same, but maybe also some advice. If you really want to humiliate men, beat them at chess.

"So." Alexandra says again.

Brian nods, starts to take off his jacket, but...

"Later for that." I say and wave away his hands from the lapels. "Show me what I came here for."

It's not about the order of things; shirt, shoes, socks, belt, trousers; that would be the efficient order to proceed in. And it's not just because I find the pseudo drama of male striptease (or attempts at it) pedestrian rather than titillating. I prefer males naked upon presentation, without fuss or the juvenile (to me at least) fiction that they need to persuade me with their virile irresistibility (oh, reluctant, blushing maidens all!) to use them the way they wish to be used. I don't judge or de-grudge my sisters who do enjoy such preliminaries; we should all feel free to use the males available in service to our own amusement and satisfaction; heaven knows opportunities are few enough and far enough in between already without indulging such aesthetic quibbles among ourselves. There's plenty we can all agree on when the penises stand erect and ready to entertain us.

And that is precisely what I want of this one now... right now.

The inefficiency, even the awkwardness of it, only enhances the confessional heat of the moment as his hands go quickly to unclasp his belt, unbutton and unzip his kakis, hook his thumbs beneath his slacks and boxers and shove them down in one swift motion to his knees, confirming both Alexandra's predictions and my own hopeful reading of his anticipatory arousal as he straightens and his penis springs up and juts out already fully erect.

"Oh, babe, yes." Alexandra exhales happily, "That's how I want it."

He's a perfect totem for my pagan ceremonial urges to work upon; standing there, two hands gripping the front of his shirt to lift his shirt tails out of the way, his hips curled under until his penis points vertically, that tension in his thighs as he strains against the restraint of the slacks around his knees to spread his legs and display his balls. Yes, the awkwardness, the imperfection only accentuates his urgency, just as my calm appraisal, letting him stand there, wait upon my perusal, without comment or reaction, only feeds his sense of exposure and my gratification at seeing a well hung man solicit my sexual approval so abjectly.

'Yes' I tell him silently in my head. 'That's what I came here for.'

Things do move on; pleasantly, and, unavoidably perhaps given the circumstances, in the manner of an informal rehearsal of tasks or uses Alexandra thinks or I suggest she might want to assign him at her bachelorette party. After he's fully undressed he's sent to the kitchen to fix and fetch Alex and I drinks. He plays waiter, but with only the two of us, it's not much of a trial run, though I do offer some pointers about how I like things done, the distance to keep, posture to assume, small things.

She urges me to handle him. "Please, I want you to. I want to see him that way, with another woman."

I do. Lifting one hand, using light fingertips, I sweep fluttering touches to press and appraise his balls, tease my way up and down the shaft, conjure gentle mischief about the head to make his penis dance, a puppet on my string, as he stands, hips forward beside my chair while I sip my drink with the other and compliment his wife on the sensitivity and liveliness of his cock.

"That's a good thing, right?" she asks. "For this, I mean. I've always loved that. But you're saying other women will like it too. He'll be good for this?"

And there is something so naively transparent in her slightly breathless fascination with the work of another woman's hands on her husband, her hopeful excitement at the prospect of pleasures this revelation seems to promise are possible, that I find myself unable to answer, moved for a moment by the fragility of these innocences glimpsed from the corner of the eye just when you think you...

I look away a moment, caught out by this unaccustomed sentimentality. Then, collected, turn back again.

I tell her there is no set way, no manual for any of this.

"But what do you like? How do you like to use them?" she persists.

"It varies with the day, the occasion, my mood and how or what the male at hand responds to or inspires me to want or not want of him. Sure, I have my tastes and preferences in things, but I like to surprise myself, sometimes simply watch the other women around me enjoy themselves."

But, "Please Laura, look at him." Alexandra pleads, undeterred.

I do; scanning past his erection up along his finely muscled stomach and chest as he stands over me beside the arm of my chair. I meet and hold his gaze as his wife continues;

"He wants this. He wants me to have it. Use him for me, Laura. I want to see him that way, doing it for another woman, however you want it, want him. He needs to show me he's mine to give over to you or my friends or..."

"Alright." I say.

I recognize that I am the new toy in the playroom. After so long as a couple mutually fantasizing about this, can I really expect my presence and participation to be any less absorbing for Alexandra than it is for her husband? This is different than those pleasant, convivial occasions where I and a few of my more experienced girlfriends get together to break in a fresh male who thinks he wants to serve, assess his temperament and suitability to entertain at one of our events. I am for Alexandra (almost as much as for her husband) a new and exotic, erotic vibrator to touch all those places they've so long lusted to stimulate.

I get it. So even though it lacks some of the playful mutuality I so cherish with my sisters as we rouse and direct male sexual urgency to serve and wait upon our pleasure, I am willing to play the part of the new sex toy to service their too long pent erotic energies.

My own taste leans towards slower paced, less theatric uses, where males are displayed, handled, and discussed in a leisurely manner, but also somewhat benignly neglected, serving as props and accessories, for example, to a quiet afternoon soiree held to catch up and gossip about other things. There is a sublime sense of shared entitlement and aesthetic satisfaction seeing some male in the final throes of pre-ejaculatory agitation after an extended period of casual, intermittent but (trust me; we know how to do this) effective tactile and verbal stimulation, standing stoically by the arm of my, or one of my girlfriends' chairs (much as I have Brian doing now), his balls drawn up hard and tight, his penis a lovely, angry flush of purple, the gleam and drip of pre-come seeping from the tip as he tries to suppress those telltale, small, reflexive, pleading thrusts of his hips, desperate but hopeful, knowing he's going to give us his come... well, maybe after Cherice finishes telling us about that new Netflix series. Ah, yes, they also serve who stand and wait.

But I can see that approach and ambiance isn't going to answer the need here. They both want the feel of a heavier hand; a more blatant exertion of feminine imprimatur; her man a gladiator she has dedicated to the ring to serve the arbitrary pleasure of Caesar and the crowd; 'Use him for me. Laura.'

A touch of theater and spectacle then.

I tell him to go and face the recliner opposite, drop forward into plank position supporting himself on straight arms on the end. Then

"Fuck for us."

He glances back over his shoulder, unsure exactly what...

"Show me how you fuck."

An intentionally general directive. I know from Alexandra's descriptions of their bedroom play that this is not an item in his usual repertoire. I expect the unfamiliarity of both the request and the situation to offer opportunity for me to assert my feminine prerogative in a tone and fashion they both seem to crave.

As expected, he is tentative at first; thrusting forward a few times in that inclined push up position, wanting to please but not yet fully intuiting the voyeuristic imperative his compliance must conform to. That's alright. The new girl knows what she wants.

"That's not it." I say. "Show me what I came here to see. Up. Spread your legs. Show me your cock and balls." It's brusque and artless.

Perhaps you're thinking that a woman of my education and refinement (at least in literary matters) should have recourse to more elegant language; something at least that wouldn't land with a complete conversational clunk if quoted as a point of information in response to polite inquiry about how one spent the weekend. You'd be right. Even reading back over this now, I feel a twinge of mild angst at my own self-reflection. So much of my life is spent in contexts where the witty riposte, the clever bon mot are the currency of social inclusion, that habit has instilled in me an instinctive calibration of verbal expression that registers any violation of its limits as a transgression.

In the contest of academic parry and thrust, I experience great pleasure in my competence, even occasional flashes of brilliance, at the game. The satisfaction of mastery can only be experienced in the context of certain restraints and boundaries. Otherwise, as a poet once observed about verse without meter or rhyme, one is reduced to playing tennis without a net. The point of this rather inconvenient psychological digression interrupting the masturbatory flow of my male readers (Oh, gentlemen, please do pay a lady the compliment for her efforts!) is that these ingrained habits of mind and expression, generate an almost addictive frission when violated so flagrantly under the lash of my less refined appetites. It is as if some goddess has blessed me with a verbally triggered mental clit, which, unlike the bodily one I first discovered and explored as a girl, never quite loses that pensive pleasure of secret naughtiness when touched. And just as my younger self, once I start teasing it, the urge to go back and back yet again, is only intensified by that sweet reticence, imagining what 'they' would think to know this about me, to see me this way.

Alexandra's small hand reaches across to grip my forearm where it rests on the arm of my chair closest to her as we watch her husband spread his legs in a wide straddle and move his feet up almost directly under his hips so they are higher than his shoulders as he leans upon the low foot rest.

"Oh, babe, that's what she wants. Show Laura." Alexandra exhales happily. "Show Laura your cock and balls." She echoes my terms, clearly savoring the taste of them; as if verbally re-emphasizing for herself, reminding her husband of, the reality of this previously only imagined moment.

Under the prod of the approval and pleasure in his wife's voice, his knees bend slightly, his lower back arches to tilt his pelvis up to accentuate the requested display, his penis flexing in excited compliance as he holds himself there having seemingly forgotten his fucking assignment.

Alexandra squeezes my forearm. "Uhnm, I want this so bad Laura; to have other men this way, to have him up there too, but as just another cock in the stable, with other women..." she breaks off. "He knows I want that. And when I read your stuff, I just knew I had to..."

"Yes. I get it." I interrupt gently, reaching across to pat her hand. The girl just can't seem to slow herself down; the possibilities of future pleasures suddenly so vivid after too long pent in fretful anticipation, her cup brimmeth over.

"But you like him for this, other women would enjoy him, right? Want to use him. I just love how you put that when I read your stuff; 'use them'." She rambles on. "It's just so perfect; I want to use them and see..."

"Brian." I say, charmed by Alexandra's enthusiasm but intent as well up my own enjoyment. "Look at me."

It is a test of sorts. Two slightly awkward commands to reconcile in this position; 'Show me your cock and balls' but then, 'Look at me.' I am behind, only slightly to one side of him. He could simply turn around of course; consider himself relieved of the first command by the obvious inconvenience of the second in conjunction. He could, it would be a logical response. But a male well suited for service would be loath to forgo a woman's attention to his genitals on the pretext of mere inconvenience. That first command would exercise a continuing imperative upon his pleasure that only outright contradiction, her expression of disinterest or annoyance, could dent.

I think I already know the answer with this one, but that doesn't lessen the gratification at seeing him lift his head, crane his neck, twist his shoulders and upper torso to look back at me, straining still to present his cock and balls - yes, oh naughty mistress of my literary clit- his cock and balls, his erect and eagerly twitching penis - I do like telling you this; that clitoral flicker not entirely unlike the thrum of sensation saying such things to a man gives me; imagining you imagining me at my most inexcusably prurient - as my mind goes to all those pornographic images of women displaying themselves this way, twisting and craning their necks to acknowledge the camera, to feed the male gaze; it is not just the view, though the view is lovely, but the shiver of vindication at seeing a man in that position, acknowledging, submitting to, a woman's entitlement to the indulgence of the same privilege with the male body.

He waits expectantly, watching my expression. His hips buck slightly, swaying his balls when he sees my gaze settle there a moment before returning to his.

"I like seeing the hang and swing of a man's cock and balls, the flex and clench of his ass from behind this way as he fucks." Ah, that sweet twinge of verbal transgression. "You want to give me that, don't you? Do your best to entertain me the way you should?"

"Yes." His voice tight, his sincerity evident in another reflexive buck of his hips, the sway of his balls and spasm of his penis drawing my eyes there again.

Encouraged by my attention he begins to thrust in short, sharp movements; curling and uncurling the arch in his lower back to swing his pelvis forward and under then up and back again. It isn't quite what I had in mind for fucking, but there is something almost more satisfying in his exertions; the soft "Uhn! Uhn! Uhn!" of his breath as he works, his upper body still twisted to look back at me as I watch the slap of his balls and erection up against his flat belly from below with the vigor and sudden stop of his forward thrusts.

"I love how you do this." Alexandra compliments me. "How you talk to him. How you make him..."

"I'm not making him." I say. "You were right about him. He so wants this. I'm just grateful you let me be his excuse to do it."

She beams with a proprietor's justified pride.

A few brusque directions and we quickly have him fucking properly for me; 'properly' being, of course, a somewhat arbitrarily shifting standard dependent upon my voyeuristic inclinations of the moment.

Still in that wide straddled stance, arching and tilting the pelvis up high each stroke to fully and 'properly' display 'the hang and swing of his cock and balls', he thrusts forward, hips dropping down to finish at the level where his hands grip the footrest, his ass clenching handsomely as he strains to force and hold his penis deep in some imagined orifice, his back flexing with the effort of balancing his weight, before withdrawing to 'show me' again.

"Ah, fuck Laura," Alexandra groans plaintively in agitation, "you have no idea what this is doing. No idea."

But I do. The newness and excitement is becoming a bit much, all but distracting Alexandra from enjoying the immediacy and intimacy of the experience. They need time together to debrief and celebrate, unwind the details of this new tangle of experience, lust and emotion; decide without the clamor of all this intense stimulation - really decide - 'what next.'

I have my own reservations about Alexandra's confidence that the 'next thing' on their erotic agenda should be Brian's service at her girlfriend's bachelorette party. It's their life, their decision, not mine. I hardly know them, or their friends. So I try to put it out of my mind and just move on to what I expect will be a very pleasant conclusion to the afternoon's sport.

"Time to jerk off." I say abruptly.

His thrusting stops. He lowers himself, turning around fully as he does to sit facing us on the foot of the recliner.

"There in the chair, on your back." I direct, sweeping a hand forward to indicate.

And as I told you way back when you still had some scant hope that the erotic sheen of this story would not be entirely occluded by my penchant for digression, this is the part where this lovely, well hung male lays spread and pleading before me now as his wife says