New England Triad Ch. 01

"Thank you, Stephen," she said, briefly hugging my shoulder tighter. "Let me say this before I decide not to say it, okay? You are not my rescuer, and I do not throw myself into a rescuer's arms and say, 'Do with me as you will.' But you did stop when I was having a very low moment, and you helped me, and--apart from admiring my mound of Venus for about two seconds too long--you have been a perfect gentleman...."

"It is lovely."

"I'll show you more at an appropriate time. Not now. To continue... I don't know why, but I also find you kind of attractive, and kind of hot in an odd sort of way, and I do like your sense of humor. From your words and behavior, and your obvious comfort around women--at least around me--I'm guessing that you are in some kind of long-term relationship with another strong, capable woman and that the two of you are liberal in..."

She was off on a roll again. By now, even I could see where this long if oddly perceptive preamble was heading. I stood then reached down my hand and helped her rise. I faced her, my hands on her hips. "Yes, Beth, I would love a friendly hug and kiss from you... without reading too much into it... provided I'm allowed to hug and kiss back a little."

"You got it."

As it turned out, our embrace lasted probably seven or eight minutes. It started with a sweet, relatively chaste kiss and quickly escalated. We reached the probing-tongues point in about ten seconds and extremely heavy petting in about a minute and a half.

As there was no possibility of privacy, we kept all our clothes on. Fortunately, bike jerseys have a zipper in front--quite a long zipper in the current fashion--so that helped. The sports bra was just impossible, but I caressed her breasts as best I could. On the plus side, our shorts were stretchy enough to allow a partner's hand inside. God bless Lycra and Spandex.

Beth's pubic mound felt as lovely as I had imagined, and the bush of curly pubic hair on top was a pleasant surprise. Her outer labia were plump and prominent, and a lovely viscous wetness soon was everywhere in-between.

It was probably unnecessary, but I brought my fingers to my lips to add some moisture to Beth's own. I smelled and tasted with pleasure. My mind knew how to filter out the off-notes that come from exercising in the summer. Underneath, the scent and flavor of her vagina were lovely. Impossible to describe in words, of course, like every woman's. Whatever... I liked it plenty.

I returned my wet fingers to her privates. I thought it best not to enter her vagina. I should wash my hands better first, and trim my nails too. Plus I didn't know how sore she might be from her ride or how many miles she still had to go. Anyway, I was plenty content just to caress her moist labia and her clitoris, and Beth seemed more than content with what we were doing.

She had one orgasm--a small one, but we both enjoyed it. I didn't come, but I very much liked the feel of her hand caressing my cock and balls.

About halfway through our session, another bicyclist suddenly appeared, an old man on a vintage three-speed Raleigh. Beth and I hugged tightly, trying to make our embrace look more innocent than it was. He clattered carefully over the bridge, smiling when he reached us. After he passed, he rang his old-fashioned bicycle bell--ka-CHING! Giving us his blessing, I thought.

Eventually the absurdity of our behavior finally hit home. Beth and I started giggling and laughing and gave each other silly looks.

"Beth, that was the neatest first kiss ever," I kidded.

"Next time, let's do this properly," she said. Somehow the tone didn't sound quite as light and kidding as my own remark.

"Do what, exactly?"

"Have sex, Dummy! Do you want to?"

"Very much," I said. As soon as I said it, I realized it was true.

We straightened our shorts, re-zipped our jerseys, kissed briefly. Then we retrieved our bikes, put our gloves and helmets back on, and headed westwards.

As I rode I puzzled over our last words. Were we playfully engaging in sexy banter--or had we just made a commitment?

************

A century and a half ago, the covered bridge had been just a railroad trestle across a small gorge. Ten years ago, when they converted this stretch of rail bed into the current trail, they put a wooden roof over the trestle, a wooden floor where the rails had been, and low walls on the sides. The structure was brighter and airier than a classic old New England covered bridge, and everybody loved it. It was just for us bicyclists, hikers, and the occasional equestrian.

There was a beautiful view to either side, to the left especially. There Wall Street, perpendicular to us, ran under the bridge, along the gorge for a bit, then through the rolling hills, heading south towards Hebron. Beth absolutely beamed as we crossed the bridge. This was her first time.

A few hundred yards after it, the trail emerged onto the side of a ridge overlooking Route 6. The trail and the road ran parallel for a half mile or so. I pointed out the garage and the paved path that went diagonally down the ridge from the trail to the street. And down we went.

To me, Beth's face still had a look on it that said, "I just had an orgasm, and I wouldn't mind another." Maybe the mechanics in the garage picked that up, or maybe they were just nice people. In any case she received excellent free service. They filled up her tires to the 85 pounds she requested, made their bathroom available, let us fill up our bottles from their water cooler, even dropped in some ice from the shop's refrigerator. Beth thanked them graciously, even flirted with them a little. Everybody parted happy. Ann should learn how to flirt, I thought. And change a tube.

Beth and I sat outside, on the side of the shop. We exchanged addresses, phone numbers, and some other personal details. I confirmed that I was indeed married, as she had pretty much inferred earlier. My wedding ring digs into my finger when I ride, I explained; I always take it off before bicycling. Beth told me that she is divorced and for some time has been "between boyfriends." A freelance graphic designer, she sometimes had hours of free time on her hands--like today--and sometimes none at all.

We discussed when we could meet again to "do this properly," as she had put it at the little wooden bridge. By now I had realized that she hadn't just been bantering back there. I also realized that--though I had not committed to an extramarital adventure--I was much more inclined to say yes than no. And getting even more inclined, minute by minute. But there simply wouldn't be time today after our long rides finally were over.

"What's her name?" Beth suddenly asked.

"Whose name?"

"You know very well."

"Ann."

"A pretty, old-fashioned name. Is she a pretty, old-fashioned girl?"

"She's pretty. And she's a girl."

"Stephen, you're paraphrasing Love Story for chrissake! Now let's stop playing Preppie and Jenny, and let's get serious. Is there any way Ann can condone what we've been doing--to say nothing of what we're planning? Or do we keep her in the dark and sneak around behind her back?"

Jesus. Next time ask me a hard question, Beth!

I spoke carefully, trying to be as accurate as I could. "Those are good questions, Beth. I think the prospects us being open and aboveboard are pretty good. Not guaranteed but pretty good. On the one hand, Ann and I never explicitly agreed that extramarital sex is okay. On the other hand, neither of us expects the sky to fall if and when it happens.

"Besides that--you are the only person I've told this to--Ann herself has crossed that line. Five years ago. And there was no shouting, no angry words. Nobody called anyone a whore. Ann's fling ended on its own. She remains grateful for my forbearance and patience. She's thanked me for that more than once. We still love each other.

"This is going to sound odd, but I can't exactly say I've 'forgiven' her. Because I'm not entirely sure that anything she did actually requires forgiveness. Expectations were violated, for sure. Still, she didn't break any actual promise we had ever made, and there was no deception. Oddly enough, she never asked me to forgive her, either. Is any of this making sense? In any case, the issue hasn't really come up again until this afternoon."

"Tell me, did her affair strike you as surprising and uncharacteristic of her?"

"Very much so."

An odd and inscrutable look came over Beth's face. At last she spoke. "Splendid, Stephen. You and Ann behaved splendidly--you especially, but both of you. I'm impressed. Maybe my taste in men is improving. You and Ann are very lucky to have each other. I realize the irony of me saying this, at this moment, because I intend to lead you seriously astray--as some people would put it.

"I would hope that Ann and I could come to accept each other, even like each other. That part is at least looking promising. I'm starting to like her already. I've been a wife, too, and I've also been The Other Woman. I can do both. I'm probably better at the second.

"Of course my fast-developing relationship with you is totally preposterous. It's impulsive and irresponsible, and you're practically a stranger, and we just met a couple of hours ago, and already you've had your hand in my pants and brought me to a very nice orgasm, and I've stroked your cock, and we're on the verge of setting a date for our first fuck--which, by the way, will be your first adultery ever in your life, I gather, and that is quite a big step, mister..."

She was off on a roll again. By now my head was spinning. Every clause she spoke was true, but tying everything together was getting harder by the second. She was accelerating downhill, her sentence-structure shredding as her speed increased. Squeeze the brake levers, Beth! And still she plunged on....

"And I am still not certain how you will react after we take that step, let alone how your wife will. And--I'm talking about myself here--any woman with any sense would put on the brakes in this relationship and slow things 'way down and give everyone time to sort things out. But of course any woman with any sense would not mess around with other people's husbands in the first place, and instead of sense I've got this stupid adolescent crush and probably raging hormones too--it's two days before my period. This is all too absurd, but Credo quia absurdum, as somebody once said..."

I couldn't resist. "Tertullian, I think."

She halted abruptly, looking at me with wide eyes. "Tertullian," she slowly repeated.

"I think so. 'I believe because it is absurd.' Tertullian, yes."

"Stephen, do you want us to have sex with each other?"

"With all my heart and soul."

To this day, I don't know why I phrased it that way. Nobody talks like that, least of all English professors. For some reason it just sprang out that way. My first reaction when I heard what I said was that I had just grossly exaggerated what I was feeling. Then it dawned on me that the phrase wasn't far off the mark after all. What the hell is happening here?

Beth was taken aback. Her eyes grew wider still. "Stephen, I don't know how you did that. That was absolutely... the absolute perfect answer." She paused to catch her breath. "So--speaking of absurdities--answer me this: What sort of couple gets out their calendars and schedules their first sexual encounter a day or two in advance? Or in your case: gets out his calendar and schedules his first act of adultery? Answer me that.

"Nobody acts like that, Beth."

"Correct. Nor should we. Our situation is absurd enough on its face. No need to compound the absurdity by scheduling an appointment in advance to break... I don't know how many Commandments. Two or three, anyway. So there is something I need you to do for me without further delay."

"Tell me," I said.

"No need. You understand."

"Yes, I do. I would love to hear you say it anyway."

"All right. I need you to fuck me, Stephen. And let me fuck you. Here and now. Irresponsibly, thoughtlessly, absurdly--or as much of the three as we can still manage at this point. With reckless disregard of the consequences. The way normal people do."

"Yes. Where exactly? Borrow their bathroom again?"

"We'll keep that on the short list. Let's see what's beyond that dumpster. Did I mention I'm on the pill?"

"It's two days before your period. I wasn't worried."

We wheeled the bikes behind the shop, leaned them against some railing. I got out the thin, lightweight locking cable and small padlock I always carried and locked both bikes together to the railing. That gave us one fewer thing to worry about. Both cable and lock were flimsy, but Andover is a low-crime area. Or was until we got here. From the Trek I retrieved a water bottle, another small bottle, and my rain jacket--just in case the venue was good. Then we walked down the back lot holding hands.

Beyond the dumpster was a wooded area with, surprisingly, a small clearing. It looked just secluded enough--just barely. The god of absurd relationships must have smiled upon our union. Maybe he was the old man with the bicycle bell.

"The rain jacket?" Beth inquired. "Did you want me to pee on you too?"

How comfortable we already felt with each other!--enough to kid around like this. I kidded back, "I usually save golden showers for the second date. And I don't use a raincoat. The jacket is for fucking. It makes a lousy cushion, but it's clean. And more than wide enough to keep your cute little bottom away from the dirt and poison ivy. Or my cute little bottom when it's your turn to be on top. We can flip a coin. And no fantasizing about my chainstays while we're screwing."

"I'll try my hardest. What about the little bottle?"

"Dr. Bronner's peppermint soap. There's no way you are leaving this mossy glen of iniquity without a good helping of cunnilingus. You can get your revenge for the cold water when you wash me. I assume that at some point you are going to force me to submit to fellatio."

"Yes. We girls like to do that because you guys all seem to hate it so much."

I returned her smile. "Come."

************

In the clearing, I spread out the rain jacket on a fairly level, fairly soft-looking spot. It would keep at least a person's bottom off the dirt and whatever weeds were the ground cover. We removed our bike shoes and our socks, then moved a few yards away. I knelt and pulled down Beth's shorts, and she kicked them off. Usually I like the lady to do the pulling down, but impromptu outdoor sex in the middle of a long bike ride was new to both of us, so we improvised and didn't worry about the details.

Always a magic moment for me: the first sight of a soon-to-be lover's pussy, willingly displayed to me. It had been 12 years since the last time; that was Ann. I brought my face to Beth's crotch, inhaled her aroma and kissed her labia. All good. The soap and water would be more for her sake, psychologically, than for mine.

"Ready?" I said. She nodded. A quick squirt of cold water on her crotch produced an "Eek!" Then a couple drops of Dr. Bronner's soap rubbed around the area and two more squirts, fore and aft, to rinse. I patted her dry with a Kleenex. For several minutes she would smell like peppermint and possibly taste of soap. But I knew she would soon smell and taste human and wonderful again.

"Revenge time, pal," she said, pulling my shorts down and off. A couple squirts of very cold water--I winced--and then a slightly soapy caressing of my penis. And my scrotum. And my anus. Usually two places at once, one in each hand. Nor were my nipples ignored, though here she skipped the soap and water. Half the time she was also gently kissing my lips.

Clearly this wasn't a quick pre-coital touch-up like I gave her. This was more like gauging the sensitivity of every erogenous zone in my body. Or maybe a demonstration that I was now in good hands. She also knew when to stop. Then came the cold water rinse. Yikes!

Since the ground cover was scratchy, and the rain jacket small, we decided to keep our jerseys on but unzipped. First, though, she removed hers and ditched the sports bra. I fondled her lovely breasts for awhile. They were a bit bigger than Ann's--maybe the high end of a B-cup--and a bit softer. They had a little sag, but that was more attractive on her than not. And her areolas and nipples--now quite erect--were brown, an exciting change from Ann's pink.

Funny. All those Black and Hispanic and Japanese guys getting turned on by the thought of a girl with pink nipples. And here I was, kind of bored with pink, getting really turned on by brown ones. The grass is always greener... or browner... or something.

As noted before, everything below Beth's waist was hunky-dory as well. And now, with her naked, I could see that her curly brown pubic hair and curly brown head-hair echoed and complemented each other beautifully. Judging from the Internet, maybe two women in all of North America still had pubic hair, and in ten minutes I could say I was married to one and fucking both of them!

Bike jerseys have three pockets low on the back. Beth and I emptied all six into one pile. Keys, her smartphone, my ancient flip-phone, wallets, packets of Kleenex, a disposable mask for COVID, my pocket notebook and pen, a paper napkin. Beth tossed her bra onto the pile then put her jersey back on.

Why they now put such long zippers on the front of bike jerseys--especially women's jerseys--is beyond me, but today I was grateful that they did. Supine, Beth would have her back and shoulders protected and her breasts completely exposed. Works for me.

"Uh, how shall we start?" she wondered.

"How's this? We both lie down. Ten minutes of passionate kissing followed by ten minutes of cunnilingus."

"Make it five minutes and fifteen minutes, and you're on."

Of course we had no idea how much time we spent doing what. We just did whatever we wanted until we got the urge to do something else. I think we covered most of the bases.

Cunnilingus was a delight. Yes, she did taste a little like soap at first, but she was soon delicious again, and her scent was even nicer than peppermint. Also lovely: she gave off vocal signals throughout our romp, giving me a good idea of where her response was at most times.

"Yes... yes... just like that!... yes... I'm getting close... faster... YES! OH! OH!" Then a deep intake of breath; then her body going rigid; then a long exhale and a few clenches of the gluteals. Then, "Oh, Stephen... that was nice." Then: "One more time?"

Ann is much quieter, much less vocal during sex. Possibly from hours of secret fucking in her family home back when she was nineteen. That was well before she had gotten to lover #9, a.k.a. me. It took me months before I could track her arousal and satisfaction with good accuracy, and even now I don't always get it right. Beth made it easier on her lover.

After one small and two good-sized orgasms, Beth wanted to trade places. I lay on my back, legs spread, Beth kneeling in-between. She slowly licked my cock, here, there, and everywhere, while one hand fondled my balls, the other my chest. Then she took the glans into her mouth, sucking gently while her tongue gently, repeatedly flicked the underside. The feeling was exquisite.

About this point I stopped paying attention to exactly what was happening at which moment and just allowed myself to float in a sea of pleasure. At various times she sucked hard, she sucked gently, deep, shallow, used her tongue, clenched her fingers around the shaft, sucked my balls, massaged my anus... whatever a skilled fellatrice could do to a man she did at one point or another. Suddenly I was aware she was talking to me.