The Party

I've had an ongoing flirtation with a dear friend for years. Although our contact may vary from a phone call once in a blue moon, to spending the night together in a flurry of sexual catharsis when the opportunity arrives, the sound of Diane's voice never fails to cause a Pavlovian excitation in my groin, and the thought of her always conjures images of our times together. Several days ago, I spoke to her on the phone, and the conversation turned to remind us of when we met, that is to say, when the lightning first flashed between us, when we were bonded by a chemistry that continues, when she became someone who would always be in the top tier of my sensual and sexual fantasies, by whom I will always be aroused, with whom I will always be smitten.

Ahem. As I was saying, during that conversation, Diane asked me what I remembered about the party we were attending when we met. Knowing that we probably remembered it differently, and that my memory is bound to be inaccurate (yet is wonderfully suited to my purposes), I promised to give it some thought, and to relay my memories to her on our next occasion to speak. On reflection, I have decided to take this written path, rather than the oral.

My wife, Linda, and I were new to the office when we were invited to a "Dirty T-Shirt Party" by an office-mate, Ted. Some, but by no means all, of the coworkers and their husbands/wives would be there, and it was specifically not an official office function. The theme of the party led Linda and me to considerable discussion and planning for the event. We both got oversized T-shirts and proceeded to decorate them with Magic Markers. I wore one with a simple text, "Dick's Hot Dog Stand" on the front, along with a drawing of a hot dog in a bun, with mustard, yet. On the back were the words, "If you Like Hot Dogs, You'll Love Dicks!" Absolutely clean but for the omission of a second apostrophe, and thus suitably dirty - I liked it. Linda wore a shirt with one large eye drawn on it, under which was a split-tailed bird, under which were two sailor figures dancing a horn-pipe. "Eye-swallow-seamen" was the encoded message. I was a bit hesitant about it, being new to the group, but she loved the idea. Her shirt caused confusion and great reactions when folks saw it, puzzled over it, and finally (some with help) "got it" – it was a hit, and any worries about our fitting in with the risque group were assuaged.

Soon after arriving, Linda and I were introduced to Diane, whose husband (the very definition of the term, "prig," I later learned, and one who mistreated her I was to learn much later, which finally assuaged some of the guilt I had come to bear) was out of town on a cross-country trip with the hypocritically philandering office leader who expected his wife to be straight-laced, which she was.

DeeDee, as Diane was then known by those she'd met through her husband, was in a T-shirt depicting a large, yellow smiley face, drawn in marker, except with the eyes placed directly over her breasts and with the pupils cut out in about 1" diameter circles and filled by baby bottle nipples sticking through in their place. The effect was at first comical, since the face looked "off" and wall-eyed, then salacious since it looked like her nipples were poking through the eyeballs, then funny since the nipples were clearly fake and oversized. I don't remember when I actually noticed the shirt, since I was struck palpably by that chemistry I mentioned before with my first look into her eyes (which happened to be almond shaped, dark, and sparkling with sexuality). However, I certainly noticed it. Plus, both she and Linda had on either panties or bikini bottoms under their shirts, with no bras, and both have delicious bodies. Soon I was drawn to Diane for the duration of the party. I was curious as to just how those Playtex nipples were kept in place, but my interest was anything but scientific. If you happen to be a blindly heterosexual woman or a determinedly homosexual man, you may not appreciate the sensuality of a woman's breast swaying as she moves when unfettered by a bra. Each breast size and firmness has its own characteristic, and they're all mesmerizing, but when breasts are lovely and of medium size, that simple shifting of their weight is worthy of symphonies of inspiration. I happen to favor the medium to small breast, and I especially appreciate the subtle hint of that movement. Diane audaciously, positively swayed when she walked, she swayed when she drank (and we were all drinking freely), and she swayed in my mind when she smiled at me, and so started our rampant flirtation.

I couldn't tell then if she was merely flirtatious, or if she was feeling the same jolts I was as we talked, but soon a train of people occasionally passed through the room, the revelers chanting some "choo-choo" sort of mantra, then disappearing, to reappear moments later, the line slowly growing. I'd never seen the game, so when a friend's wife, Ruthie, grabbed my arm and pulled me to join her, I left Linda and whoever was chatting with us, and playfully grabbed onto her waist, becoming the caboose for that round. The train led us to a bedroom, where I was delighted to observe the "engine" turn and kiss the next person in line, who turned and kissed the next, right down to Ruthie. When I puckered up to be a good sport and receive my happy reward for being chosen, Ruthie unceremoniously and briskly slapped me, to the laughter of the other "cars" in front of me. Like Disney's Bongo the Circus Bear (really taking me back here), I was chagrined, my stung face no doubt reddened, but soon registered that the slap was the initiation for each new inductee. Immediately, we recommenced choo-choo'ing about the rooms of the house. Planning my prize, I grabbed Diane and we soon trained into the appointed bedroom. As the kisses proceeded, Ruthie planted a generous kiss on me, with tongue, making more than restitution for her earlier assault. I turned, and in accord with my Southern upbringing, merely tapped Diane on the cheek, to the vocal disappointment of the sadists earlier than we were in the line. I didn't care and was interested only in the following rounds. All my hopes were confirmed, as Diane picked someone, and I got to kiss her at last, a nice but tentative first kiss, with lots of promises embedded. During the next several rounds, before the game broke up, Diane and I got increasingly passionate, to the hoots and applause of the other train members. We were inebriated enough not to care, and passionately drawn enough not to disguise our lust. In retrospect, I would not be surprised if the game dissolved because we were embarrassing the others, but that is only in retrospect.

Sometime after rejoining the rest of the party, and checking to find that Linda was enjoying herself, apparently unaware that I'd been necking in the train train, I noticed ("noticed" being an understatement) that Diane's latex nipples had somehow disappeared (fallen out, or taken out?), and in their place were the real things, poking through to the light and air. They were lovely and erect and virtually begging for attention. Linda and I both shared laughing with Diane about the loss of her bottle nipples, but we were all feeling no pain, thanks to the alcohol and ambiance, and none of us seemed embarrassed by the exposure. I recall thinking that this reaction by both of them was possibly an opening for something of a fem-on-fem attraction. I also noticed that Diane had immediately become the route by which all the men seemed to be passing, on their way anywhere, or just to stop and stammer inanities while they tried to disguise their gaping. Ah, the mystery of the female breast! And the sexual temperature just kept on rising.

Sometime later, some of us ended up in the hot tub (did I mention this was California?), and soon thereafter various articles of clothing were tossed behind us onto the decking. Some eight or so of us were basking in and shielded by the bubbles, presumably nude. I was between Linda and Diane, and Ted (the host) was on Diane's other side. Both Linda and Diane were by then topless, although the bubbles masked that for the most part, and I'd pulled Linda's bottom off as well, and was busily working on finding out if I could bring her to climax surreptitiously amidst the chatter and the crowd. I remember the delicious decadence of having one hand in Linda's lap, stroking and seeking her clitoris, as my other hand stroked Diane's thigh and sought her crotch as well. Between what Linda told me later and what Diane told me later, I think I recall that Ted was groping Diane's breasts (which she says did not welcome but didn't particularly reject), followed by my finding her warm and welcoming pussy with my other hand. Diane in turn stroked me under the frothing waters, while Linda (without my knowing it at the time, but finding out much later, to my delight was wrapping her hand around the cock to her left. I don't recall whose it was, and I don't know if Linda particularly cared at that point - she was pretty well tanked. I do recall her later reporting that it was substantial in its length and girth - something that she would have appreciated. I had a raging erection, the physical presentation of an evening's worth of intentions by that time.

I don't remember exactly how the hot tub chapter of that wonderful night ended. I do remember that the party broke up after the then-requisite male streaker had romped through the assemblage. To my delight, Diane convincingly said she needed a ride home, saying she felt too inebriated to drive. Linda and I agreed, although it was fortunate for quite a few of us that the police seemed to be off the DUI patrol that night. By the time we got to her house and went in, it was probably about one a.m. Linda was fading quickly, having drunk way too much, as was her way at times. Diane did some appropriately hostess sort of thing (tho' I can't remember what), while Linda plopped down on the couch and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

Alone at last, but with my wife asleep on the couch in the den, Diane offered to show me the rest of the house. I do remember a gorgeous antique wooden propeller that her husband had mounted on the wall, but it claimed only a fraction of the attention I was paying to Diane's lovely ass as she led me about the house. When we got to a bedroom on the second floor, we turned to each other and wordlessly fell into an embrace. Finally, I could kiss her with no audience, and our tongues darted back and forth as if we'd practiced how to kiss for ages. My cock swelled, my hands found her ass, and I pushed her back onto the bed. I pulled her blue jeans off, as she lay back on the bed. Her panties were white and modest (she'd had to change them after the hot tub), and I pulled them down and spread her legs, which hung over the side of the bed. I attended to those nipples first, and they obediently rose to the occasion, as Diane moaned her approval and I feasted with my tongue and lips (she still has wonderful nipples, and they have lost none of their allure over the years). Then, kneeling in front of her, I slowly began to kiss her thighs, and worked my way up. She exuded a lovely, purely female, delicate yet brazen, fragrance, mixed with chlorine at the time, and the taste was surprisingly wonderful. I licked her, taking my time, luxuriating in the juices that were flowing from her, and working my way determinedly along her lips, in and out of her vagina, and upwards toward and finally to her clitoris.

I believe I could paint her in genital detail to this day, remembered through the explorations of my tongue, each fold, each change in skin texture, the nub of her, the honeycomb that surrounds the chamber that rises deep within her. I can remember an urban myth of parties where the men stuck their members through holes in sheets; while their wives, unable to see whose was whose, were challenged to move along the line, trying to identify by their mouths and hands which one was their husband's. I doubt that the challenge was as much the identification as it was the pleasure of the quiz. Given the same game with roles switched, I think I'd be a winner if Diane had been the question.

Back to The Party: as I sucked and tongued her, sooner than I expected she came, audibly (I remember worrying that Linda might not sleep through the moans and sighs) and energetically. As she later attested, her husband avoided cunnilingus, and my opening with that was a wicked and welcome surprise to her. I reveled in her pleasure, and kept my ministrations up as she recovered. I have always been sexually fulfilled by my partner's orgasms more than by my own, and Diane's reactions sent us both into wonderful heights of sensation. She quivered and moaned and shook and wrapped her legs around my neck and humped my mouth, hard. I dived into her at the end, reaming my tongue around and in and out, erratically revisiting all the spots I had been to in bringing her to that point, trying to fuck her with my tongue while keeping her off guard on where I'd be next, and remembering not to leave her clitoris for long, as it so quickly telegraphed my intentions to her and brought her responses back to me. I have rarely so well matched intentions and responses with a woman, and that first encounter still ranks so highly in my recollections of wonderful sexual times, regardless of the partner.

We finally paused, our lungs heaving, my hunger sated, yet my cock engorged.

Not to be outdone, she soon pushed me back down on the bed and proceeded to return the favor. Tugging my pants down as she pushed me back to the same position she'd been in, she pulled down my underwear as well, and she proceeded to lick and fondle my erection, which needed no further attention to reach its fullest extension, but was ever so glad to receive anyway. She kept up a patter as she feasted, complimenting me on my cock, admiring its qualities as she went. I have never before nor since had a woman so verbally expressive and appreciative. For some reason, I was much more nervous receiving those dearly desired sensations than I had been moments before while performing them, no doubt due to the unknown risk of Linda being roused by the sounds and coming to find us en flagrante. At any rate, I let Diane suck my cock into her mouth and bring me to the brink, but I never climaxed that night. Drawing her up from her knees and kissing her, I somehow ended our liaison (for then), collected a groggy Linda, and drove home. In retrospect, I should have fucked Diane then, but that didn't come until later. I am immensely pleased that it was worth the wait, and I am grateful that I have been so fortunate as to have carried on an affair of the sensual predilections with her for some years now.

Diane and I may continue our flirtation, our recollections of that party, and our recollections of the wonderful times we have had together, until we are so old as for our story to seem comical. As I mentioned, her voice still arouses me, the sight of her nudity never fails to excite me (although it has been several years since the latest time, since we live on different coasts and are both otherwise involved), yet it is far deeper than sight and memory. It is a chemistry of elements that defies rational explanation, of friendship born of pain and happy experiences not recounted here. Happily, that irrational mix of humanity has me erect as I write this, responding to the vision of her, her sensuous mouth closing upon mine, her delicate fingers, urging me to grow, already fully stiffened, her pussy silken and soaked with her juices, and her lovely eyes open and flashing as I bring her to another orgasm, my tongue replaced into her pussy, her clitoris springing into my sucking mouth, my flicking tongue.

Another time, if feedback suggests, I'll recount her visit to my apartment in Washington state long after our separate divorces, and/or the occasion when I learned that she loves to be talked to in the most blatantly erotic terms, and/or how well she drinks champagne in quiet bistros, and so forth, and so forth. For now, the memory of her is still tinged with the prospect of our next encounter, when, where, or even if being as yet undetermined.