Pleasure Upon Request

Author's Note: This story is an original work of fiction. All characters appearing herein are at least eighteen, if not expressly stated. Future stories starring some or all of these characters might also be forthcoming based upon response and demand. Certain characters featured herein may also be found in other works by the authors. Feedback is desired and greatly appreciated. Email comments to the address in our profile. Thank you for reading.

Copyright 2010 by Jack and Josephine Cutter.

This story stars: Richard Cannon, Alyssa Hicks, and Douglas and Sadie Stillman.

This story contains: erotic male-female couplings, fellatio, cunnilingus, anal, analingus, spanking, rough sex, shower sex, voyeurism, fetishes, shaving, first-person narrative, and a large degree of story and dialogue amidst the sex.

This story begins post-prologue on Sunday, July 24^th.

* * * * *

It would take her some time to prepare.

She twisted the knob and the nozzle spurted once, twice, thrice before a steady spray erupted from its end, and in the span of time before the water of the shower warmed, she turned to look at herself in the mirror.

She gazed into the depths of her bright blue eyes, searching for strength, looking for doubt, and found none of the latter and all of the former written in the features of her face. This would likely prove her last real chance to reconsider, and yet she said nothing. She did not want to, for one, although there were many reasons, most unselfish.

Her eyes lowered; she exercised regularly and worked hard to eat healthy, and her body certainly reaped the benefits. She knew hers was a fantastic figure. Her blonde hair, too, she took care of, and her teeth and her nails. She was not vain, not even close, but she did like to look good.

She turned and stepped into the shower.

The hot water gushed over her skin and she sighed, and let the wetness run in rivulets down her flesh, flowing over her curves and into all the tucked away cracks and crevices of her form, dousing her every inch. She closed her eyes and slipped her face under the fountain, and reveled in the feel of the spray upon her skin.

She reached for the bottle of shampoo to initiate the cleansing process, scented Pantene Pro-V. Gently, methodically, she worked the thick substance into her natural golden blonde hair, massaging her scalp with her fingers, digging the hair-soap in deep.

She did not linger, however; shampoo was designed to clean, while conditioner proved the more important to giving her soft, silken hair. Having rinsed all of the shampoo out, she applied conditioner to her blonde locks and kneaded it deep, too; it would remain coating her hair until the end of her shower, giving it time to work.

She grabbed the body soap and fingers caressed the cleanser into her skin, gliding easily over her flesh, and her nipples hardened suddenly and quite unexpectedly. It appeared she was anticipating her coming rendezvous more than she realized.

The soap bar slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor, and as she bent to retrieve it a thick stream of water flowed down the her back and into the channel between the bubbles of her ass. It gushed over the crinkled plot of her anus and into the pursed folds below, then plunged to oblivion below as gravity took hold.

She shivered, and smiled.

She picked up the soap and began to wash her legs, rising higher and higher, rubbing the soap delicately into her skin, relishing the simple sensations. She let slip a moan as her hands roamed over her slick breasts, her palms teasing her pointed nipples. Excited, it seemed, was an understatement. She rinsed off, the soapy suds coursing away in rivers over her flesh.

She reached for her razor and cream and spurted the latter into her hand, and applied the white foam liberally to her legs. She preferred to shave leisurely, to take her time, and so slowly she drew the razor along her skin until every inch of her legs was soft and smooth. There were no cuts and no straggler hairs to speak of.

She moved onto the next item on her little preparation agenda; she took another handful of shaving cream and lathered it between her legs. Slowly, ever slowly, she worked the blade across her nether region. She kept a thin landing strip of hair, trimmed and neat, just enough for the sake of appearances; most men she knew enjoyed a little bit of hair. She tugged at the lips of her labia and moved ever-so-carefully to ensure they, however, were totally hairless.

Once the front was shaved to her satisfaction, she bent and dabbed a bit of shaving cream between the cheeks of her ass, around her anus. There were very light, very small, very fine hairs in that region, too, but she preferred herself completely clean in back.

And so she finished herself off and rinsed the conditioner from her hair, and stepped from the shower. There were soft cotton towels hanging by the shower door; she pulled one down and dried off, then wrapped her hair in her towel to stand naked before the mirror once more.

This was one of the more important steps in the shaving process, one often overlooked: the oil phase. With great care she spread generous amounts of baby oil down and around her legs, massaging the lubrication into her damp and welcoming skin, and then into the lips of her pussy and between the cheeks of her ass.

And once she was finished and the lower half of her body was soft and clean, and her body was dry of oil and water, she stepped from the bathroom and into the bedroom, where her white silk robe awaited, the donning of which would be her final act before the events of the night began.

Part One: Questions

When my friend first asked me to have sex with his wife, I thought he was joking. After all, why would a man allow another man access to the body of his beautiful wife?

It happened on a Sunday in the dog days of July, hot outside and hot inside, and what else is there to do for a couple of guys on a summer weekend made lazy by heat than to hang out and watch a little baseball. Doug had a nice house with an excellent sixty-two-inch high-def television and the Dodgers were beating the hated Giants by three runs in the bottom of the fifth, which meant our spirits were high.

Perhaps it was the camaraderie such a situation inspires. Perhaps my friend put back a few too many beers. Perhaps it was something else entirely. I would come to know the truth, of course, but when it first happened there was little else I could think of to account for it; why, after all, would a good and loving husband let someone sleep with his wife?

The catalyst, of course, was the arrival of the woman herself.

Sadie is one of those women who catches your eye no matter what she's doing, no matter what she's wearing, no matter who she's with. She's as equally stunning in frocks or sweats as she is in formal wear, with or without makeup; she would shine standing next to supermodels. She's the kind of woman who makes other women jealous, her appeal undeniable, her beauty fresh and all-embracing, and effortless.

Her workout winding down, she swept into the room and found me perched next to her husband on the couch. She was dressed in white tennis shoes, white socks, maroon micro-shorts, and a tight maroon-and-gold shirt with the words Sun Devils written across the front. Her blonde hair was tied back in a pony tail and a thin layer of perspiration coated her flawless skin.

Doug, simply stated, was a very lucky man.

There was amusement sparkling in her bright blue eyes as she flashed a winning smile our way; truly, she was gorgeous. "Rough day today, huh, boys?" she teased, her voice light and musical.

I smiled back, never one to pass up the opportunity to flirt with a beautiful woman. "If you've got a better idea, my dear," I said friskily, "we might be willing to tear ourselves away."

Her laugh was cheerful and warm. "Maybe later," she chirped, grinning as she spun on her heels and made her way for the door, adding just before she turned the corner, "maybe not!"

I turned to Doug after she was gone, and said, "She's a great girl, Doug. You're a lucky man."

It was then that the first flicker crossed his face, the first visible hint of thoughts that would lead us down our current path, although at the time I thought little of it. "She's beautiful," he said quietly, looking at me with more than a little curiosity.

"Yes," I agreed.

"She's adventurous," he added, also in a low voice.

"Yes," I agreed again, as Sadie was both of those things and then some.

Doug was quiet a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but now held a clear hint of apprehension. "What would you do if you got your hands on a woman like Sadie?"

I was surprised by the question, but it did not seem too far out of bounds between a couple of good friends. Strange, yes, but not out of bounds. "Well, my friend," I answered soberly, "I suppose the answer is . . . what wouldn't I do with my hands on a woman like Sadie."

There was another long pause, and then Doug asked softly, "What if you had the chance?"

It was at this point where I burst out laughing. "Point me to the door!" I replied, failing to see the expression on his face or hear the seriousness in his voice, and thinking he was joking. In my defense, how could I have known, truly, that he was not?

He seemed to flush and look away quickly, and looking back on the situation, it was clear what had happened and what was going through his mind: he realized I assumed he was joking and, embarrassed, sought to pretend my assumption was correct.

At the time, of course, it worked, and I gave it no further thought . . . until the topic arose a second time a few days later and I realized something strange was going on.

It was a double date, Doug and Sadie and myself and Alyssa, the pert redhead with whom I have a close-friend-slash-casual-dating relationship. We hit up Café Montenegro, a swank always-busy restaurant in Beverly Hills that was considered one of the longest-tenured city hot spots. A friend of mine is old friends with the manager of the establishment, which means an otherwise impossible reservation to get can be obtained with the simple dropping of a name.

The girls looked gorgeous, dressed very much to impress. Alyssa wore a shimmery red form-fitting number that ended just past her bottom, showing off nearly all of her exceptional legs and cut low in the back to show a great deal of spine. Her figure was petite, her breasts little more than baseballs, but her ass could stop traffic and she looked great in anything, and even better naked, which I can tell you from significant personal experience. Her strawberry hair was layered in long curling strands that fell down about her shoulders, her eyes the lightest shade of green, her skin pale with just a smattering of freckles, her features youthful and wholesome; in short, a beautiful woman in a cute take-her-home-to-mom kind of way.

While Alyssa was cute and sexy, however, it was tough to hold a candle when paired with Sadie, who was simply ravishing: black knee-high boots with three-inch heels, short black mini-skirt, and a bright blue short-sleeve silk blouse. Her blonde hair was half-up, half-down, swept back around into a partial ponytail with loose tendrils fluttering around her slender neck. Her baby blue eyes sparkled and her smile lit up the room. She was, in a word, gorgeous.

We would be splitting off after dinner, Doug and Sadie headed to a comedy club while Alyssa and I checked out one of the popular new nightspots in Hollywood, so we made the most of our time together with spirited conversation, laughs, and lots of booze.

The moment came when the girls were gone from the table, having left together as girls usually do in search of the restroom. We were quiet for long moments after they left, sipping our cocktails, before Doug got us going.

"How do you do it, Ricky?" he asked.

My name, it should be pointed out, is Richard Cannon, and for the sake of convenience allow me to describe myself. I'm six-foot-four with a lean build, blonde hair, blue eyes, and the proud bearer of perpetual stubble, kept neat at the edges. I grew up in Tennessee, came out to Southern California for college with the rest of my family in tow, and never left. I'm a freelance writer with a number of columns going in various publications, which gives me a good measure of control over my own schedule, which is nice.

"Do what?" I asked.

"Let Alyssa sleep with other guys," he said, looking off in the direction of the restrooms.

I shrugged. "We're not together," I said. "She can sleep with whomever she likes."

Doug turned to look at me. "Don't you get jealous?"

It was not a surprising question; honestly, I'd heard it before. I wondered sometimes why it was so difficult for some people to understand, why treating a woman the same way women were expected to treat men was such a revolutionary proposition.

"I love the girl and think she's great," I told him, trying as best I could to explain it, "but we're not exclusive and I don't think either of us really wants to be at this point. I'm twenty-six and she's only twenty-five, and she's just getting her career started. We have a good time together, and that's enough; very close friends with some very nice benefits."

"What if she wants more?" he pressed.

I shrugged again. "I would respect her enough to give us the opportunity to see if it could work, if she wants, but I think both of us understand deep down that we probably wouldn't work. I'm too selfish and she's too giving; I'm not sure I could make her as happy as she deserves."

"Knowing this," my friend wondered, "she still sleeps with you?"

"Oh, yes," I replied with a grin. "We're very good together in bed. She's enthusiastic and fearless, which I love. She'll try almost anything and we have a lot of fun together."

He looked away and said softly, "Sadie is the same way."

"Good!"

He was silent another long moment and there was a strange sort of look upon his face. "We're thinking about . . . trying new things," he said, even softer.

"Good!" I exclaimed again, and meant it. "Variety is the spice of life. I should think playing out your fantasies with your wife is a healthy thing."

He looked at me with that same strange expression. "What if they involve other people?" he asked, and this time his voice was so soft, I had to strain to hear it.

I never got the chance to answer. The women returned and reclaimed the conversation almost immediately, which meant there would be no further talk on the matter. It was clear, the way he jumped into discussion with the women, that Doug was happy to be changing subjects, despite the fact that he was the one to initiate it.

I followed suit, putting aside thoughts of his questions, storing them for later. There were beautiful women to attend to, after all, and that was more than enough for me.

* * *

Alyssa collapsed to her stomach on the mattress, limbs sprawled, flesh glistening with a layer of perspiration quite heavy after more than sixty minutes of sex.

I gazed down upon her, upon the wild nest of strawberry hair, upon the sleek and slender back, upon the heart-shaped bottom so perfectly round and tight it brought to mind an old saying about bouncing quarters. Her legs were spread wide thanks to my position between them, which granted a wonderful view of the swollen, saturated lips of her pussy and the pulsating plot of her anus, closing rapidly and oozing a steady stream of thick white fluid.

It was lovely, enough to elicit a happy sigh and another shudder of pleasure before I toppled forward to join her on the bed, twisting as I fell to lay on my back at her side. She opened her eyes, so brilliantly, beautifully green, and smiled as she looked at me.

"I can hardly see straight," she murmured wearily. "I think you just fucked me silly."

I chuckled and leaned forward, kissed her forehead, and said, "It was my pleasure."

It was also exactly what she wanted. Alyssa was enthusiastic and fearless, but more than that she knew exactly what she wanted and was never afraid to ask for it. It was one of my favorite things about her and something, I knew, that would make her future husband very happy one day. Of course, I did not mind holding down the fort until that man joined the picture.

"I want you to fuck me silly," she had ordered me earlier as she kicked off her shoes in the bedroom of my apartment. "I want you to fuck me as hard as you can. I want you to fuck me in every hole I have. I want you to fuck me as deep as it will go."

I ripped my shirt up over my head, perhaps a little too fiercely as I heard a button land somewhere nearby. Not that I cared, really, about the button; when faced with the prospect of willing female flesh ready to satisfy my every whim and carnal desire, few things outside the bubble of that fact tended to matter.

Alyssa grinned and her light green eyes twinkled as she took hold of the bottom of her shimmery red dress, crossing her arms down as she stripped the garment up and over her head with incredible skill and dexterity. The twenty-five year-old's thong was fire-engine red, too, and drew the focus of my gaze for a moment before I realized she was not wearing a bra; her pert breasts plopped down into their excellent places, handful-sized mounds that looked larger on her petite frame than their actual size would suggest, the shriveled pink nipples delectable-looking. Her pale skin had just a smattering of freckles upon it.

"Keep going," I told her.

And with that she shimmied out of her panties, leaving her totally and gloriously naked. Her figure was lean; she was a former competitive soccer player, after all. She vaulted onto the bed and spread her legs wide to display with breathtaking agility her glistening pink folds, perched beneath a swath of the softest, finest strawberry-colored pubic hair known to man, trimmed in the shape of a triangle.

"You," she ordered simply, pointing at my lower half.

I wasted little time; my pants and the rest of my clothes went flying. I launched myself onto the bed, surprising her with the speed of my attack, and she squealed with a big goofy grin on her face. The grin, of course, did not last long; my lips snared hers as my weight fell upon her and my hand went right between her legs, spreading her labia as I guided my cock to it.

Sometimes, a man just wants to fuck.

Sometimes, a woman does, too.

Her eyes fluttered and her breath caught as the mushroom head slipped inside, but her hands were active and encouraging, cupping my buttocks and pulling me closer, trying to get me deeper inside.

"Wait," she purred breathlessly, reconsidering, and her hands moved as she lifted her legs and hooked her feet up around and behind my neck, plunging me deeper. She was now bent practically in half; the position is one of Alyssa's favorites. "Now . . . fuck me!"

And then I was thrusting and her hips were bucking and the familiar rhythm of our fucking was developed, and the squishing sound of my cock as it gouged out her pussy echoed through the air.

Alyssa moaned. "Oh my god," she cooed.

I reached under and clutched the firm cheeks of her ass, which was truly one of the finest I'd ever had the pleasure of experiencing, and lifted her up off the mattress until only her shoulders remained, her back curved lewdly and her stomach bunched up on itself. I looked down and enjoyed the way the girth of my cock stretched her pink lips wide, her pert little breasts bouncing in time with each downward stroke.

She whimpered and her head lolled back as she settled in for the long haul; she knew just how long I liked to fuck. This night, however, I had another plan in mind.

"Cum, baby," I told her, reaching down to strum her clitoris. "I've got a few inside me tonight and I'm taking you with me."