The Green Fairy

The Green Fairy

They seemed like such a normal couple

Stepping into the lounge of the Des Moines Downtown Holiday Inn seemed like stepping straight into a scene out of the Blues Brothers. It was old, dark and dank, smelled musty and even featured an out-of-tune lounge lizard band playing cover tunes from the 70s. There were only two or three couples sitting at random tables around the room and five lonely business travelers sitting at the bar -- each one separated by at least one or more bar stools.

I was just one more of those solitary business travelers and I was determined not to add to the misery of that room by joining the lonely-hearts club at the bar. I turned back towards the parking garage, jumped in my rental car and headed out into the Central Iowa night in search of something better -- and anything would have been better than that scene.

My company had a long-time client in Des Moines, and we maintained a small office there to service them. At least once a year, we felt obligated to send someone from the corporate office to make a courtesy visit, and that someone was generally me. I'm not what you would call a 'road warrior' but I do travel enough to be bored with it.

I don't so much mind eating breakfast alone -- in fact I think I actually prefer it. As for lunch, I can generally take-out a client or the staff of our local office. But now for dinner -- that is much more of a problem. I can't take the client out every night I'm in town and I don't feel comfortable over fraternizing with my employees. So that leaves me alone and to my own devises one or two nights per visit. Being forced to eat dinner alone is absolutely the worst aspect of the whole business travel scenario and in conjunction with the crowds at the airport this is what makes me generally dread business travel.

I refuse to eat alone in my hotel room as most women business travelers are forced to do, so just like those poor saps at the Holiday Inn lounge, I'm generally forced to sit alone at the hotel bar hoping that someone interesting will sit down next to me and start-up a conversation, so I don't look and feel like some sort of leper or pervert.

I'd heard of an area of town called Woodland Heights that probably had some interesting bars and restaurants, so I thought I'd give it a try. Fifteen minutes from downtown I spotted the Hops & Grain Brew Pub which looked promising. As I entered, I felt that I had finally found the part of town where I could feel comfortable and much more at home. The pub seemed to have a lively local crowd, younger and hipper, with no lounge lizard band -- and most importantly, no business travelers.

There were several open seats on the corner of the bar, and I settled into one. I always liked the corner bar stool if possible as it gives me a better chance to meet and chat with whoever takes the adjacent bar stool on the corner -- and that is actually what happened. After my first beer was served, but before my Bratwurst plate arrived, a very nice-looking middle-aged couple took the two corner seats next to me.

The woman took the seat immediately adjacent to me and the gentleman, I assumed her husband, the seat next to her. They almost immediately started-up a conversation and after just a few minutes of small talk, they asked if I was new to the community? When I explained I was just a lonely business traveler trying to find a place with more of a local feel than the Holiday Inn, they quickly introduced themselves as Frank and Carly and welcomed me to their neighborhood.

Both Frank and Carly appeared well dressed, educated and professional. Carly was probably about five eight or nine, very shapely (i.e., more than ample breast) and shoulder length hair dyed a brassy dark mahogany. I don't normally like women that color their hair, but on her it actually looked pretty good as it beautifully accented her striking green eyes. And whether the boobs were real or not I couldn't tell -- but I silently joked to myself that I sure wouldn't have minded finding out.

Frank looked to be about the same age, salt and pepper hair, and over-all, pretty buff in an open collar golf shirt. If they mentioned their last name, I didn't catch it. But I assumed they were married as they both wore matching wedding bands, and her left ring finger also sported a stunning diamond solitaire.

As my dinner arrived, they ordered two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and a dozen oysters on the half shell. The ensuing conversation centered on Des Moines in general, the culture, the economy, recreational opportunities -- your basic Chamber of Commerce sort of thing. They were obviously proud of their community, and it showed. None of that conversation surprised me. However, the random off-color jokes and the sexual innuendoes regarding my Bratwurst dinner and their raw oysters did seem a little suggestive.

Frank slurped his oysters with just a dash of Tabasco and Carly with just a squeeze of lemon and a pinch of salt. Neither one of them seemed to chew them -- they both just simply slurped the slippery creatures from the half shell, savor them a second or two in their mouths, and then they both would throw their heads back and swallow. I was never much of a raw sea food fan, but Frank and Carly seemed to relish it and inevitably each downed oyster was followed with some sort of sexual reference.

As our empty plates were cleared and I was about to order a third beer, Frank interrupted me with, "Have you ever tried Absinthe?"

"No," I said. I'd actually heard of it, but to be honest I wasn't sure what it was.

Sensing my unfamiliarity with this exotic sounding concoction, Frank quickly added, "It's a distilled spirit originally from Southern France. It's usually green in color, about 120-proof and gives you the most amazing buzz."

Before I could say anything, Carly quickly added, "It was illegal in the US for over ninety years and has only recently become available again here in the states."

"What is it made from?" I asked.

"It's distilled from anise, fennel and wormwood," Frank responded. "The anise gives it somewhat of a liquorish flavor, but there is no liquorish in it -- just the primary ingredients plus whatever herbs and spices the distiller chooses to add," he said knowingly.

"Okay, I'll try it," I said.

"Oh, they don't serve it here," Frank said. "There is a certain formality to its proper preparation and presentation. The bar here just doesn't have the time to do it properly. But we have it at home if you care to join us for a nightcap."

Now I really wasn't expecting this. I'm sure I was just sitting there with a dumbfounded look on my face. But both of them had genuine and apparently sincere smiles on their faces -- and as I had nothing else to do. "Sure, I'll try it," I said with a newfound spirit of adventure.

"Great," Frank said slapping his hands together. "We don't live far from here, just follow us -- and here, I'll you give my cell phone number in case we get separated," he added as he grabbed a napkin and jotted his number down for me.

"You'll love it," Carly promised as she placed her hand on my thigh. And then added, "It was what Vincent van Gogh was allegedly drinking the night he cut his ear off."

"Yowzah," I exclaimed. "I won't lose an ear, will I?" I asked jokingly.

"Oh no -- we'll put away all of the knives," Frank assured me with a smile and off we went.

As we reached the sidewalk, I discovered Frank and Carly were only parked a few cars away from mine. And to my surprise, they were driving a relatively new Mercedes CLS 550. Compared to my rental Ford Taurus, I immediately felt a little out classed. But it was too late to get cold feet now, the invitation was made and accepted so I felt committed. And besides -- they seemed like such a normal couple.

It was probably less than a mile to their neighborhood -- an older community of splendid homes, on large lots with stately mature trees and highly manicured lawns. After several more blocks, the Mercedes turned into the driveway of a magnificent English Tutor brick home, probably built in the 1930s for a family of the Des Moines elite of the day.

The garage door opened as Frank entered the driveway and I was not surprised to see another very nice Mercedes parked inside. There was a circle driveway in front of the house, so I just pulled up to the front door and waited for Frank and Carly. They quickly met me standing next to my car and escorted me in.

Once inside I was again impressed. The house had either been meticulously maintained over the years or beautifully restored. As Frank and Carly gave me a quick tour of the ground floor, I couldn't help but notice the beautiful hardwood floors throughout, numerous oriental rugs and a tasteful blend of traditional furniture and antiques. My tour ended in what probably was originally a library or study, but they had converted it into a tastefully decorated bar.

Frank immediately stepped behind the mahogany bar and started filling this unusual looking clear glass urn that was sitting on the dark green marble bar top. The urn looked a lot like the old apothecary jars that used to adorn pharmacy shelves. Only this one was held up by a silver statuette of an angel or some kind of pixie with the glass jar being supported by her two up-stretched arms and the tips of her two silver wings. And near the bottom of the jar were four horizontal silver spouts, each with little brass faucets. The entire apparatus stood about two feet high and rested on a round black marble base.

As Carly and I took seats at the bar, Frank filled the urn with ice and water. He then arranged three curious looking glasses neatly in a row on the bar. The glasses were stemmed like wine glasses, but they were styled like no wine glass I had ever seen before. At the top of each stem was a small hollow ball or globe and from there the glass flared like a normal wine glass except while the stem and globe were smooth, the upper portion of the glass looked more like cut crystal.

Frank pulled a bottle labeled Absinthe from the well-stocked shelf behind the bar and filled the globe portion of each glass -- maybe an ounce or so. The liquor was emerald green, sort of like the color of Nyquil, but with the viscosity of gin or vodka. He then placed a little silver spatula or slotted spoon over each glass and centered a single cube of raw sugar on each spoon. The spoons were basically flat and slotted with a tribal type design. They looked like little cake servers -- only with a mystical twist.

He then positioned each glass under one of the brass faucets and turned on a slow stream of ice water. Each stream squarely hit its corresponding sugar cube, dissolving it, and then filtering through the slotted spoon into the glass. By the time each cube was fully dissolved the glass was near full and Frank turned off the water, removed the silver spoon and presented a glass to each of us. The whole process took five or six minutes, so I could see why it would be impractical to serve in a crowded public bar.

Frank then raised his glass in a toast and said:

"Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to good-hearted friends, music, warm bodies, contraceptives, to absinthe... and the good life, whatever it is and wherever it happens to be."

And with that we all raised our glasses, clicked them in camaraderie and took a sip.

"Wow -- wow," I repeated several times.

"Do you like it?" Carly asked with a devilish smile.

"What is it?" I asked after a moment or two of reflection.

"Absinthe," Frank said. "It's known as the Green Fairy -- a mystical brew that expands the mind and warms the soul."

"It's the strangest thing I've ever drank," I said. "I can feel it going down my throat like a high-alcohol cough syrup. And I think I'm already getting a buzz before it even hits my stomach."

"I know," said Carly as she slid her hand back and forth across my thigh. "Don't you just love it?"

"Wow," I said one more time and then commenced slowly sipping the mysterious green concoction with my new Iowan best friends.

If Frank and Carly ever mentioned what they did for a living or the source of their apparent wealth, like their last name, again I didn't catch it. But as the three of us lingered over our exotic cocktails Frank and Carly talked nonstop about their community and the neighborhood association in particular. They seemed to be a highly-opinionated couple as their neighbors were either restoration and design geniuses -- or they were total morons that should be driven out of town on a rail. There didn't seem to be any middle ground. I had to laugh to myself as I've known people like that before and usually found them boring -- but these were my new best friends and I figured I'd hold-off any judgment for a while. Besides, Carly rarely took her hand off my thigh and was about to wear a hole in my pants where she had been rubbing my leg.

As we took our final sips and placed the empty glasses on the bar in unison, Frank asked. "So, what do you think?"

My head was buzzing unlike anything I had ever experienced before, so it took me a moment or two to answer. "Well -- it's the weirdest thing. I'm warm and fuzzy on the inside -- but I've got goose bumps all over my body."

"Exactly -- exactly," Carly said as she squeezed my thigh hard enough to leave a bruise.

And without a moment's pause Frank exclaimed, "Well I've got just the cure for that."

He quickly filled three glass tumblers with ice and water -- handed one each to me and Carly -- stepped from behind the bar and opened a side door that led into what appeared to be a bedroom. The room was not as eloquently decorated as the rest of the house, but still very nice. There was a large California King centered on one wall, with a large painting of a reclining nude over the bed. A long leather sofa flanked the opposite wall and miscellaneous overstuffed chairs and ottomans rounded-out the room's decor.

One wall contained a set of double French Doors that opened out onto a patio. Frank quickly opened the doors revealing an outdoor hot tub and as he pointed to the spa said, "Here is the cure for your chill bumps. Now you can get as warm and comfy on the outside as you already are on the inside."

"Huh -- I don't have a bathing suit with me," I stammered.

But as Frank was already flipping back the cover and turning on the jets, Carly was unbuttoning her blouse and dropping her skirt. "We never get into the hot tub with clothes on -- there's just something indecent about that. It's like showering in your bathrobe," she said has she neatly folded her blouse and placed it on a chair.

I instinctively looked away from her as her husband was standing only ten feet away. But as I glanced at Frank, he was unbuttoning his shirt and removing his belt as he was turning on the sound system. I just stood there, first watching her undress and then him. I wasn't offended -- I just wasn't sure what to do.

As Carly neatly laid her bra and panties on the chair she turned and faced me -- wow was all I could think of. Those boobs were apparently real, for if they were fake, it was the best boob job I'd ever seen. She had a near perfect hourglass figure, a golden tan from head to toe with no tan lines (now that might have been fake), and she was shaved as smooth as a pool ball (I assume also fake). As she turned and bent at the waist to place her neatly folded clothing on the chair, I also noticed a small 'tramp stamp' just above her butt crack. The tattoo appeared to be the same tribal pattern that was on the Absinthes spoons. I don't normally like tattoos, but in her case, I quickly decided to make an exception. As there must have been some sort of significants to that pattern.

As I looked back at Frank he was already down to his boxers, and I'm sure he would have been completely naked by this time, except he was also neatly folding his clothes and placing them on another chair. As I was the only one in the room clearly 'over-dressed' at this point, I quickly began to follow suit. Just as I dropped my underwear into a nearby chair; I turned to see Frank helping Carly into the hot-tub. And as I headed through the open door onto the patio to join them in the cacophony of swirling and bubbling hot water, Etta James' voice came on the stereo:

At la--ast,

My love has come along,

My lonely days are over...

It could not have been more perfectly timed as I now realized I'd been 'selected' for this little Ménage à trois. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. It's just that I've never had a three-way with anyone in my life, and I just naturally assumed that if and when I did -- it would be with two girls. Not a married couple and especially not a married couple like Frank and Carly that I had only met just an hour earlier.

As I slipped into the hot-tub, Carly immediately snuggled up next to me and again started running her hand up and down my leg. Only now she didn't stop a few inches shy of my crotch; she was now running the back of her hand up and under my balls. And within a matter of minutes, she was actually stroking me. Now again, that didn't bother me all that much -- as she was a very hot looking MILF, the weirdness was that her husband was sitting only two feet away and all three of us were involved in some sort of creepy game of footsie.

After about three minutes of us all sipping our ice waters and allowing our feet to get to know each other much better, Frank turned to me and said, "Dean, you know Carly really wants to suck your cock."

I think I actually started to blush, but with very little hesitation, I started to raise my hips so that my hard-on would rise above the surface of the churning water.

Taking this gesture as my silent acceptance of their offer, Frank reached over and placing his hand on my shoulder, said, "How about on the bed -- I think we'll all be a little more comfortable."

That comment didn't just sail over my head; he plainly said "... we'll all be a little more comfortable." But at that point I assumed he was referring to the 'Royal We' as he clearly said that Carly was the one that wanted to suck my dick. And if Frank wanted to watch -- well, why should I care? Besides, I was more than ready to have my dick sucked -- boy was I ever ready.

As we exited the hot-tub, Frank handed each of us a plush bath towel that had previously been neatly folded and stacked on a table near the door. Blotting myself dry, but still maintaining a raging hard-on, I plopped down in the middle of the bed and Carly immediately laid down beside me with her head just below my waist. She ran her finger tips several times up and down my bare legs, across my balls a couple of times and then began to gently stroke me.

Just as a glistening drop of pre-cum appeared at the top of my red-headed stranger, she leaned over to lick it off, and then I watched in total amazement as my entire pole disappeared effortlessly between her ruby red lips. I've had numerous blow-jobs in my life (no such thing as too many), but never anything like this. She started-off deep throating me all the way to my balls, and after lingering there for maybe a minute, her lips began a slow and luxurious trip back to the top. All the while her tongue danced and massaged every square millimeter of my shaft -- leaving no nerve ending untouched.

Upon finally reaching the top she continued the same treatment to my throbbing dick head, before starting the entire process in reverse. After only five or six round trips of this pampering I was about to explode -- but I just didn't want her to stop.

I glanced over to see what Frank was doing -- only to find him sitting just six-feet away, slouched in an overstuffed arm-chair, slowly stroking his own cock. As we made eye contact, he smiled and seemed to acknowledge my dire situation. I guess he'd been here many times before, and as his smile seemed to imply, I had permission to let go -- and let go I did, Oh My God did I ever.