Hummingbird Rose Ch. 09

Three weeks.

Three weeks of mundane existence, at least by Rose's standards. Work. Being a mom. Time with her lovers, male and female, when her daughter is with Rose's ex. Researching strap-on dildos to use on Violet

Growing more annoyed with the ever-present Mrs. Driscoll, too. Rose sees her on the corner talking with the gossipy bitch Danielle. Great. What must they be sharing?

Then the text.

It's a Thursday evening like any other. Rose has plans with Patrick. Dinner, taking Precious Baby out for a ride along the shore afterwards. Maybe ice cream. Back to Rose's to fuck.

Rose is leaving work, halfway to her car when it arrives. She checks her phone.

It's from Patrick, one word only.

"Tonight."

Tonight?

Rose stops in her tracks, staring at it.

Her mind races as she gets in her car. She glances at the text again. It has to mean what she thinks it does. What else?

She starts to text back "tonight?" but stops.

Patrick's thought this through. One word saying it all. Clear and concise. But how to respond? Something straightforward and suitably witty. She decides, typing it in.

"Finally."

***

Rose doesn't recall driving home. No memory of stopping at traffic lights or using turn signals. She presumes she did, but her mind is a million miles away. Contemplating the evening ahead.

So many possibilities. Rose blowing both of them? That's a given. Spit-roasting her? Seems probable. Lots of foreplay, where they're both feeling her big tits and kissing her? She hopes.

She's told it all to Patrick. He knows what she wants. He'll deliver.

Rose's hands are trembling as she gets out her key and opens her front door. She kicks it closed behind her, dropping her keys and purse onto the marble tiles.

She hikes up her skirt and shoves her hand into her panties, playing with her clit. Rubbing it back and forth as she slides down the door onto the floor.

The images in her brain come at her fast, one after another. A vivid tableaux. Two cocks pounding her in every possible combination. Channeling all their lust and masculine passion into her.

To be the center of all that sexual energy. The focus of the storm's fury, and the storm itself.

Rose rubs her clit, moaning. "Holy shit. Holy fucking shit."

She sticks a finger inside her, then a second one. Fucking herself with them.

Rose writhes, laying on the floor shoving her fingers into her pussy. Fucking herself hard. She squeezes in a third finger, stretching her pussy out. Fucking herself on her entryway floor.

Her cries fill the air. "Oh, fuck. That's it, that's it. Fuck me hard, boys. Fuck me hard."

Her mind races through more scenarios. Riding one, sucking off the other. Sucking on a cock while the other guy eats her pussy. They switch places. They take turns eating her out, fingering her, bringing her to orgasm after orgasm. Orgasms without end.

Rose cums hard, shrieking and squirting all over the white marble tiles. Joy mixed with relief washes over her.

She lays on the floor catching her breath. Staring at the ceiling, more images drifting through her mind.

She should be satisfied, at least for now, but she's not. She's hornier than before. So horny a dozen hard cocks aren't going to be enough for her. Not tonight.

She gets up, shaking her head.

In any other era, I'd be burned as a witch.

***

Shower. Hair. Makeup.

Rose glances at the time. Fifteen minutes to spare. Nice. She even had time to shave her legs and pussy extra smooth.

She pauses to glance at the picture of the stained glass hummingbird taped to the mirror. She's been certain for weeks it'll be her next tattoo. It draws her in with its multiple colors.

Rose shakes her head. Focus on the present.

The choice of an outfit remains. Rose picks a dress with a plunging neckline and half sleeves showing off most of her arm tattoos. It also highlights her size-26 figure.

The best part, though, is its whimsical nature. It's light purple and covered in a pattern of tiny blue, yellow, and pink cartoon ponies.

She adds bright purple horn-rimmed frames from her collection and her black rose pendant. Lately, she feels naked without it. She gives her reflection a final look. Yup. Hot as fuck.

Rose sets the table in the dining room. Seventies light rock plays in the background as she arranges napkins and candles.

Rose glances at the clock. If they're on time—and Patrick tends to be punctual, doesn't he?—they'll be there in ten minutes. No time to waste.

Preheat the oven, get out the salad. Put the Rigatoni Bolognese from Occhiobello into a large casserole dish. Stick it in the oven. Gourmet dinner ready to go. Who says I don't cook?

Rose opens two bottles of wine. One red, one white. She places the glasses on the table when she hears cars pulling into her driveway. A tingle goes down her spine. This is it.

Rose looks out the front window. Patrick's Pathfinder is first, followed by a black Volkswagen.

She waits, staring at the VW. Waiting for her first look at Antonio. Mrs. Driscoll is sitting on her front porch watching the grand arrival. Because of course she is.

Rose's focus goes back to the Golf. The door opens and a man gets out.

Rose breathes in sharply, her face feeling flush. Oh, my. Patrick has picked a good one, hasn't he?

Antonio looks around forty, fit and handsome. On the slim side, even more than Patrick. His hair is light brown and worn tight. He sports a few day's stubble, which looks right on him. He carries a bottle of wine.

Rose waits for them to ring the doorbell. She saunters over and opens the door. Her eyes fall upon her new guest. "Hello, gentlemen. And you must be Antonio."

Antonio's eyes light up when he sees her, his face breaking into a boy-next-door smile.

Oh my. Rose is held captive by his bright blue eyes and his well-formed features. She hopes they get along, because he already passes the hotness test.

"Hello, Rose," he says.

They hug in Rose's entryway. She feels his solid muscles under his shirt. Their hug is short but pleasant and Rose follows it up with a quick, casual kiss on his lips. Why not?

"So nice to meet you." She takes Antonio by the hand and leads him inside.

She turns to Patrick and kisses him. "Come on in, boys. Make yourselves at home."

Rose takes each of their hands and walks them to the living room. Patrick smiles at her and she casts a licentious glance back his way.

"You gentlemen can have a seat," she says as Antonio hands her the bottle of wine. "Thank you so much. Why don't I open this right up? We can enjoy a glass before dinner if you like or we can eat right away."

Antonio gives her a warm smile. "I'm in no rush."

Smooth operator. "Right answer."

Rose opens the wine and pours out two glasses. "Venus" by Shocking Blue begins. Goddess on the mountaintop, indeed.

Rose hands each man a glass, then fills her own.

Patrick and Antonio sit on her couch. She gestures for Patrick to slide over and sits between them. She shifts her orientation towards Antonio but grasps Patrick's hand.

"So, Antonio." She stretches out the pronunciation of his name. "Let's talk. I don't know a thing about you."

"I'm told that's how you want it," he says.

"What else has Patrick told you about what I want?" she asks.

Antonio takes a sip of wine. He drapes his arm over the back of the couch. "He's mentioned a thing or two."

Rose slides her hand onto Patrick's knee. "Is that so? Here's the thing. I don't want to know your identity. No specifics. No real name. But I'm still curious about you."

"Ask me whatever you like," he says.

"Okay. You're an athlete aren't you?"

"I keep in shape."

Rose's eyes sweep over his legs. "You're not a runner. I'd say a cyclist."

His eyes register surprise. "You see a lot."

"I'm not wrong, am I?"

"You're not," he says.

"I thought not." She takes a sip of wine. It's good. "You know your wine, too."

"I try," he says. "What else do you see?"

Rose puts her glass down and grasps Antonio's hands. She turns them over, scrutinizing them. "You don't work with your hands, do you?"

"Well," he says.

"Not as a laborer," Rose stands. "You're an artist or do something requiring dexterity. You're educated, too. I can tell."

"Right again. You're good."

You've no idea. "You're not a pilot. I'm quite certain."

Antonio gives her an inquisitive look. "Why's that?"

"Different calluses on your hands than Patrick." Rose gazes into his eyes, probing them. "Here's another one. You've never smoked."

Antonio starts in surprise. "How could you know that?"

"Smoking alters one's pupils. It takes a trained eye to spot it, but it's there. You also wear contacts because of astigmatism."

"You're some kind of Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" he says

"No, just an optometrist," she says. "You'd be amazed what the eye can tell you about a person's health."

Rose puts her hand on his chin. She stares deep into his eyes from several angles. "You don't have diabetes, or cancer. No lupus or lyme disease. Blood pressure's fine."

"How can you possibly see all that?"

Rose gives him an innocent look.

"You can see all that?" Patrick says. "Why haven't you given me this health screening?"

"Babe, I have." Rose pats his knee. "I would've told you if I saw anything wrong. You're in great health."

"Good to hear," Patrick says.

Rose looks back at Antonio and is about to tell him more secrets about himself when her oven timer goes off. "Dinner time, boys. Shall we?"

The men adjourn to the dining room. They leave the head of the table to Rose and sit across from each other. "Cecilia" by Simon and Garfunkel plays in the background as Rose takes the rigatoni out of the oven.

She leaves it on the stove top to cool and portions out the strawberry spinach salad from Occhiobello. A delightful start to a sensual evening.

Rose serves Antonio first, then Patrick, returning with her own plate. The men wait until she sits before picking up their forks. Good boys. When the queen is happy, there is peace in the kingdom.

"This is fantastic," Antonio says. "Did you make it?"

Rose laughs. "Evidently, Patrick didn't tell you everything about me."

"Did I miss something?"

"I've many skills. Cooking isn't one of them."

"Oh."

"I'm lucky enough to live ten minutes from one of the best Italian markets in the state."

She puts a forkful of food in her mouth and catches Antonio's gaze, then Patrick's. They're putty in my hands, aren't they?

"Where were we before the oven went off?" Rose says.

"You were about to tell me more secrets about myself," Antonio says.

"So I was." She keeps one hand above the table and puts the other on Patrick's knee. She rubs it while studying Antonio.

"Where were we? You work indoors and you're educated."

"I aspire to be."

"You use a verb like 'aspire' and that confirms it," Rose says.

"You Make Me Feel Like Dancing" comes on the speaker. Dance the night away, huh? I can do that.

"Your contact prescription isn't strong," Rose says. "You work at an educated job but you're not reading all day. So, what do you do?"

"I'll leave it up to you to tell me," Antonio says.

"Give me a minute," Rose says, standing.

Rose reaches to clear their bowls but both men start to stand. "Sit, gentlemen. I appreciate you wanting to help, but you're my guests."

"But we want to help," Antonio says.

"Fine," Rose says. "Antonio, if you want something to do, refresh our glasses."

"My pleasure," he says.

I'm sure. "And, Patrick, if you could pull the Pecorino out of the fridge?"

"Yes, ma'am," Patrick says.

Now he's trying to get me turned on. Succeeding!

Rose plates the rigatoni as the men complete their assigned tasks and sit. She brings Antonio his plate first, rubbing his shoulder as she puts it down in front of him,

"There you go," she says, kissing his cheek. She glances up, sharing a glance with Patrick. He's grinning.

Patrick's plate is next. Rose places her hand on his shoulder as she puts his plate down, giving him the same treatment. She makes sure to make eye contact with Antonio as she kisses Patrick's cheek.

Antonio stares at her. The lust in his eyes is so obvious it doesn't take an optometrist to discern.

Rose spoons out her own dinner. She gives herself only enough to quench physical hunger. No need to feel stuffed.

Rose sits and gives each man a warm smile. She samples the rigatoni. It's fantastic, savory and flavorful. It stimulates her senses.

"This is excellent," Antonio says. "What's the name of this market again? I may have to stop by there before heading home."

"Back to New England?" Rose says.

"The license plate gives it away, doesn't it? I know it's not the accent, since I was born in Pennsylvania."

Rose takes a bite of pasta. "The real question remains. What do you do up there in Massachusetts?"

She puts down her fork, studying him. "Let me see your hands again."

He holds them out for her. She takes them in her own, turning them over. She stares into his eyes again and returns to her dinner.

Rose turns to Patrick. "You've brought me an interesting puzzle, this one. But I've cracked the code. He's a music teacher."

Antonio's eyes go wide. He is about to swallow a bite of pasta but stops. "How can you know that?"

"Specializing in the guitar." Rose sips her wine. "Am I right?"

"What? That's impossible." He glances at Patrick. "You told her, didn't you?"

"I didn't say a word," Patrick says.

Rose shrugs. "Shall I explain?"

"Please," Antonio says. "I'm dying to know."

"Me, too," Patrick adds.

Rose smiles at them both. "I'll be honest. Some of it's cheating. I saw the university parking decal on your windshield. I have perfect eyesight and it's a distinctive label."

"Fair enough," Antonio says.

Rose raises an eyebrow. "But are you a professor or something else? You're not in maintenance or coaching. Your hands are too soft."

"Soft, smooth hands," Rose says. "Except for the tips of the fingers on your left hand. They're calloused and the nails are rough. Your strumming hand."

Antonio glances at Patrick. "Who is this magical creature?"

"That's what I'm still trying to figure out," Patrick says.

Rose tilts her head. "So, am I correct?"

"You are. I still can't believe it, but you are. I teach music theory and composition and also the guitar."

"You also bike to work whenever you can," she says.

He smiles. "Now you're showing off."

Rose takes another bite of pasta. "Maybe, but I bet all that biking has given you a certain level of cardiovascular endurance."

Antonio smiles devilishly. "It has."

Rose washes down her rigatoni with another sip of wine. "And all the guitar playing must also have helped develop in you a certain manual dexterity."

"I hope so," he says.

Rose glances at Patrick. "You've selected well."

"I thought you'd like him," Patrick says.

Are you kidding? He's a walking wet dream. "I rather like this. It's like we're married and I'm a traditional housewife having dinner ready when you get home. Making sure I'm dressed up and pretty for you and the friend you've brought home for dinner. Waiting on you, while you unwind."

"Except?" Antonio asks.

"Except," Rose says. "In this fifties homemaker fantasy, I get the shit fucked out of me by both my husband and his friend."

Antonio's eyebrows shoot up and he tilts his head. "Is that so?"

"Or, better yet." Rose gives each man a long glance. "I'm a fifties housewife with two husbands. Yes, I like it. Imagine if that were the norm."

"This is quite the alternate reality you've conjured up," Patrick says.

"You don't know the half of it," Rose says.

"Please go on," Antonio says.

"While I'm fluttering about the house cooking and cleaning. You know, waiting for my two husbands to come home and fuck me, I take a few breaks. My fellow happy horny homemaker stops by for tea."

"This just got interesting," Patrick says.

"She's a fellow BBW hottie with huge fucking tits and a fat ass to spare." She takes a sip. "She also has two husbands. All the ladies on the block do. It wouldn't be a proper modern household any other way."

"Of course ," Antonio says.

"Me and my gal pal spend a good part of the afternoon eating each other's pussies. But now I've run out of time. Oh, no! I'll never get a casserole prepared for my husbands when they get home from the ad agency. What am I to do?"

"What indeed?" Patrick says.

Rose puts down her glass. "I could stick three shitty TV dinners in the oven and we'll eat them watching Milton Berle. Then fuck afterwards. Instead I call the local Italian restaurant and get dinner delivered. The food arrives in enough time to give the cute delivery guy a blowjob in the kitchen."

"Wouldn't all this oral sex wear you out for your husbands?" Antonio says.

"Au contraire," Rose says. "It whets my appetite for more. A lot more."

Antonio's eyes widen and he looks at a loss for words.

This is going to be so damned fun. "Why don't you go back into the living room? I'll pour you another glass of wine and you two, my exhausted fifties husbands, can relax while I do the dishes."

"We'll be happy to help you," Patrick says.

"And ruin the fantasy? I don't think so. Husbands, into the living room. The dishes are my wifely responsibility."

"Very well," Patrick says.

"My job is to do what gives me pleasure. Your job is to conform to it. Now off you go."

"Yes, ma'am," they say in unison.

Rose smiles. Now I've got them both trained. I could get used to this.

The men adjourn to the living room. Rose tops off their glasses, making eye contact with each of them as she pours.

Her plan for the rest of the evening is simple. She intends to get as thoroughly and completely fucked as any time in her life.

Rose finishes the dishes, enjoying the game she's constructed for herself. She takes a long sip of wine and saunters into the living room. "And how are my husbands doing?"

"We're good," Antonio says.

"I feel like you should be sitting in the living room reading newspapers and smoking pipes," Rose says. "Fretting about communists and the dangers of rock and roll."

"Who has time for that?" Patrick says. "We're married to a horny woman like you. We fret about keeping you satisfied, even with the two of us."

"It's good to see my husbands' priorities are in the right place." Rose sits between them '

She drains her glass and puts it aside. Two drinks is enough for now, plenty to relax her but not dull the senses.

Rose puts a hand on each man's thigh. She looks at Antonio again, peering into his eyes. His deep blue eyes are the color of the sky right before dusk.

"Where did Patrick find you?" she says. "Don't answer. I'm sure he has his ways. Maybe you already know each other. Lifelong friends, maybe? Again, don't answer."

"Whatever you like, Rose," Antonio says.

Whatever I like, huh? Rose meets his gaze. His eyes are locked upon her.

Rose glances at Patrick. His arm is resting on the back of the couch, his hand brushing her shoulder. She gives him a quick, playful wink of her long black eyelashes and turns back to Antonio.

"How's the wine?" she asks.

"It's very good," Antonio says. "Bold, but subtle. Good mouth feel."

"We'll, that's always a good thing," Rose says.

Antonio smiles. "It leaves a nice feeling on my tongue."

Rose gives Patrick another glance before turning back to Antonio. "Are you sure you're talking about the wine?"

"What else would I be talking about?" Antonio says.