tagGroup SexThe Taking of Amy

The Taking of Amy


Author's Note: This is the tale of a married couple who are secure enough in their love for each other to welcome a young woman into the loving circle of their arms. If you find that theme troubling, this story is perhaps not the right one for you.

On the other hand, if you are the sort who would go "Oh, I wish I was in that little mix of limbs," then what are you waiting for? Read on and enjoy.


As I watched her retreating back, I knew that we would be taking her home that night. Next to me, Alex was also eyeing with unconcealed appreciation the way the curves of her cute little butt spilt out of her white shorts, which were so tight they seemed painted on.

We were in St. Tropez on our annual attempt to get away from it all -- "all" being our hectic, money-grubbing lives in New York -- in the old sprawling villa that we owned by the water. Actually, I shouldn't complain. New York makes St. Tropez possible.

Victor and I had a marriage that was remarkably wrinkle free due in large part to his magnanimity and his utter freedom from jealousy. The wheels on which our marriage turned were simple. If I fancied a man, I fucked him. If Victor fancied a woman, he fucked her, but on one condition. Since I was unashamedly, enthusiastically bisexual, he had to bring her into our bed for me to find out why she turned him on so. Our sex didn't get better than those times when we held the young heaving body of his latest distraction in our arms and pitched her into moaning begging slavering madness.

His lovers never disappointed. Victor had impeccable taste, which he liked to claim was better than mine. He liked to pretend with an air of martyrdom that he "endured" patiently out of a deep abiding love for me the times I coaxed into our bed an occasional seduction of mine. Endure, my cute, pert ass! You wouldn't guess from how hard he became when he toyed with the hot hungry bodies of the women I brought him as a wifely gift.

Victor was living the hot blooded male's ultimate wet dream -- of drowning again and again in a tangle of feminine limbs, of wallowing in the softness of two pairs of breasts, of breathing in the heady scent of two seething pussies, of listening to the music of two women moaning for his cock to plunder their flesh. But I wasn't complaining. Truth to tell, though I would never dream of confessing it to Victor, I savored even more than he did the presence of other women in our bed, especially when I knew that Victor had already had them.

I loved the way their initial embarrassment quickly melted into pleasure at the thought of being fucked by their lover as his wife watched, not with envy or resentment, but with greed for their lush bodies and unconcealed lust. It turned them on to hold my eyes as their bodies twitched in helpless release. And that was perfect since I like to watched the little sluts too -- watch their bodies jerk under Victor's marauding hips, watch their faces twist with pleasure as their hot hungry pussies were mercilessly ravaged.

And afterwards, I liked to claim them for my own -- to awaken them to the scent and the taste and the texture of a woman. I loved the fear in their eyes as boundaries that they thought immutable were dissolved. I loved the way their bodies shuddered when they finally yielded to their growing hunger for my flesh, a hunger at once inevitable and remorseless. I loved the moment when their lips finally dipped into the wet flower of my cunt and the world that they had known so far was no longer enough. I loved it when they were so gorged on the taste of me that they were unwilling to relinquish my pussy and I had to grab a fistful of their hair to peel their faces away from my crotch, their lips still shuddering softly, their eyes glazed over with lust.

My only regret was that Victor absolutely refused, despite my gentle urgings, to have another man in our bed. He was uncompromisingly straight and the thought of the naked body of another man, hard and aroused, next to his caused him real discomfort. But it didn't stop him from being curious about my occasional trysts. He would make me describe in excruciating detail every one of my erotic encounters. He would trail his fingertips slowly over my flesh while he interrogated me. No detail was too small, too insignificant. ... How big was he? Did you suck him? Did he cum in your mouth? Which one of your tight little holes did he want? Did it hurt when his cock slid into the tiny rosebud of your anus? ... He especially liked the times I took a black lover. He said teasingly that he liked the chiaroscuro, the play of light and shade. The idea of my pale flesh being riven apart by a thick black cock aroused him.

By the time I finished confessing in halting strangled tones how my body had been claimed, I was desperate for release. And he was never more passionate than those nights when he knew that I had been taken by another man, that just hours ago his cum had pooled in my cunt and trickled down my thighs. I really thought that Victor should explore his bisexual side and that there was no better way of doing it than by sharing me with another man. But I never pressed the point. Victor was my miracle, my maestro who coaxed symphonies of boundless pleasure from my body. The least I could do was respect his boundaries. There were very few.

But still, there were nights when I dreamt of two men taking me at the same time, of the hard throbbing flesh of one plundering my cunt while the other claimed my bottom, of the relentless rhythm of two cocks plunging in and out of my body rubbing against each other insidiously through the thin membrane that separates my love tunnels, of my lips moaning shamelessly as thick fresh cream oozed from my orifices after they had had their way with me. I would snap awake, my thighs squishing wetly in a puddle of my juices, my cunt aching for release. And my fingers would drift down to the junction of my thighs to strum my clit like a guitar string, my mind inflamed by increasingly lascivious visions of my body being used by two firm pitiless male lovers.

As my body finally arched up in blessed release, I would console myself that my dreams had a knack of coming true. I imagined I would be sitting at a bar or lounging on a sun drenched stretch of beach and two men would catch my roving appreciative eye. They would, since fantasies are so convenient, want me as much as I wanted them. The evening would end in a hotel room where they would peel the clothes off my body with that controlled deliberation that betrays barely suppressed desire and then fuck me senseless. They would leave me naked, passed out on the sheets, my thighs slightly apart, the evidence of their lust flowing out of my ravaged holes.

But right now, as we soaked ourselves in the rays of the morning sun at the street-side café in St. Tropez where we had gone for breakfast, I was preoccupied with an entirely different problem -- with how to persuade that tight little body into our waiting arms tonight.

When we had arrived in the morning, it had quickly become apparent that our choice of restaurant had been inspired. When she walked up to our table with the menu, the sunlight shimmering in her golden locks, her fresh open smile had lit up our corner of the world. She was petite, but had luscious curves that were aching to burst through her clothes. Her eyes were a soft blue, the blue of the sky after a summer rain. Apart from the wisp of fabric masquerading as a pair of shorts, she was wearing a tight white half-tee with a plunging cleavage. It seemed to be regulation wear for all the waitresses and we fervently thanked in our devious minds the owner of the café for his vision and his wisdom. When she bent over the table to serve us, the edge of one nipple peeked over the hem of her cleavage. I almost abandoned my cream filled crumpet and closed my lips over that rosy bud.

She said her name was Amy.

"Katherine," I said in introduction, "but you can call me Kathy. And this is my husband Victor. We're from New York."

She was from Montana and was pleased to see a pair of fellow Americans in St. Tropez. The fellow Americans were certainly pleased to see her. She had been in St. Tropez now for several months and had part time jobs teaching English to French students and of course waitressing. She hoped to save enough to travel a little around Europe next summer. I guessed that she wasn't more than 20. Her enthusiasm was infectious and we felt our jaded, jet lagged spirits rise. By the time she had returned with the check, I had already formulated a vague plan of action.

"Amy, would you do us a favor?"

"Sure," she replied, "What can I do for you?"

That smile was going to be the death of me.

"Well, we're a little out of touch with St. Tropez. Would you join us for drinks and dinner tonight, if you don't have any other commitments, that is?" I said and added teasingly, "Being as pretty as you are, I'm sure your calendar must be very crowded, with a dozen boyfriends breathing down your neck."

"I don't have a boyfriend," she mumbled, blushing beet-red, "and I'll be happy to come."

Things were looking up.

"Great," I said, "We'll be here at 7 and you get to pick where we go."

She nodded shyly as she scooped up the cash and headed back into the café.

When we pulled up at 7 in the six-door limousine that we had hired for the duration of our stay, her jaw dropped. I thought she looked positively endearing, standing on the pavement in her cropped tee, her tiny shorts and her white four-inch heels. I ignored the startled expression on her face and inclined my head gently for her to hop in. She stepped through the door and eased herself into the seat beside me gingerly as though the mere act of sitting down would ruin the upholstery. When she looked up, she had a worried expression on her face.

"I was thinking of this seaside restaurant in the Baie de Pampelonne which has, like, good music and decent food."

She hesitated.

"But it does get a little rowdy and noisy and I was wondering that maybe it may not be good enough for you," she finished in a rush of words.

"No...No. Any place that is good enough for you is good enough for us," I said quickly to reassure her, "Your place sounds delightful. Believe me, where we come from, we could use some music and good cheer."

She still looked at us doubtfully. She was eyeing warily the vision of Victor looking ever so dapper in his tuxedo and the shimmering lines of my wine colored gown.

"I feel a little ... underdressed," she said finally, shifting nervously in her seat.

I was tempted to tell her that as far as I was concerned, she was seriously overdressed. I would rather she was naked on the black leather, her head thrown back in ecstasy as my fingers pumped in and out of her sopping cunt. But she was right. We did look a little incongruous -- the three of us. Victor and I had dressed out of habit and had overlooked the possibility that we may be too well turned out for the evening that Amy had in mind. Frankly, we were long beyond the point in our lives where we allowed such trifles to trouble us. But Amy was obviously uncomfortable and I wanted to put her at ease.

"No, Amy. I suspect we are overdressed," I said gently, "Rather foolish of us. But I hope you won't be embarrassed to be seen with us."

"Oh, no. ... Of course not," she said quickly, her face coloring, nervous that she had given offence.

"Good. Then let's just settle down and enjoy the evening, shall we?"

She relaxed visibly and sank into the soft leather of the seat with a contented sigh. Victor, ever attentive, had already poured a glass of red wine for her from a bottle that he had extracted from the liquor cabinet. I lifted my glass and clinked hers.

"To us," I said softly.

"To us," she responded after a pause, taking a moment to quell the shyness that was threatening again to overcome her.

Once the chauffeur had been given directions to the restaurant and we were gliding through the night, the Amy that we had met in the morning quickly reasserted herself. She was a happy person ... and voluble. She listened with unfeigned interest to Victor's stories about our lives in New York. Of course, like all inspired storytellers, Victor thought nothing of making them up as he went along. At the end of an evening, there was no guarantee that Victor's account even faintly resembled the lives that we lived. He liked to call it embroidery, but believe me, he doesn't give himself enough credit. It's more like wholesale weaving. She giggled happily at all the funny bits. I listened to the silvery tinkle of her laughter and thought how much I would enjoy turning that into a soft moan of helpless pleasure later than night.

When we arrived at the restaurant, we were quickly ushered into a cozy secluded booth along one wall of the establishment. We pointedly ignored the few curious looks that were cast in our direction as we slid into our seats. The place was everything that she had promised it would be. It had good foot tapping music and a large dance floor that beckoned invitingly for when the mood took one. The crowd was noisy though the booth were we were seated was some distance from the main press of bodies and was something of an island in the storm. The food smelt promising and I looked forward to an interesting evening and hopefully an even more absorbing night.

Victor sauntered off to the long bar along one wall of the restaurant to get us drinks. She seemed comfortable and happy.

"Tell me," I said, "I'm rather curious about your not having a boyfriend. Unless young men in this country have changed a great deal since I was last here, they wouldn't have left a flower like you unplucked."

She blushed.

"Well, actually, my two jobs don't leave me too much time for romance," she replied, "and I didn't want to date any of the students I teach English at the night school."

Then she added quietly, "But I do miss the companionship and ... you know..." Her voice trailed off.

"The sex?" I asked her.

"Well, yes ... the sex," she said, blushing and laughed to hide her confusion. She looked very fetching.

"What a waste," I said, shaking my head at her and running my eyes slowly down her body. It didn't seem like she would stop blushing any time soon.

The food was delicious, but we ate sparingly. Victor and I like to stay light when we are hunting and Amy, I suspect, was too shy to eat her fill. The music, which had been lively, suddenly changed. A slow romantic number drifted over the tables and the crowd quieted.

"You are not being much of a gentleman, Victor," I said, "Ask the lady to dance."

Victor grinned broadly and held his hand out to Amy, who was blushing furiously and protesting vehemently. But he would have none of it. As he drew her into his arms on the dance floor, she was awkward at first, fearful perhaps of my reaction to him holding her close. But as the music claimed her, she relaxed, closed her eyes and laid her head against Victor's chest. Victor held her softly around the waist with one arm. With his other hand, he smoothed her hair back from her forehead and gently ... oh so gently ... stroked her back. I could see her almost purr with contentment as she arched against that fleeting caress.

When they returned to the table, hand in hand, her face was flushed and her eyes were shining. I smiled at her and pulled her down beside me. She was sneaking sidelong glances at Victor, little glances of longing, when she thought I wasn't looking. Make your wish, I wanted to whisper in her ear, and it may come true sooner than you think.

The music was interrupted by an announcement by a portly man in a tight, ill-fitting suit yielding a microphone. His face was shining with sweat. We knew enough French to understand what he was saying. "Wet T-shirt contest!"

There was a roar of approval from the gathered men while the women pretended to look shocked. Amy was aghast, wondering what opinion we would form of an establishment that offered such low entertainment. And, horror of horrors, she had recommended it! I grinned.

"This is amusing," I declared, not giving Amy a chance to express shock or suggest an exit.

The portly Master of Ceremonies began to circulate, coaxing one woman after another onto the polished bar to be drenched by a bored looking chap wielding a handheld spray. Vehement protests became quiet reluctance and then enthusiastic shimmying. Hips were circled, boobs were shaken, bottoms were jiggled as a wildly enthusiastic, mostly male audience cheered on each contestant.

He finally drifted over to our table with his microphone. He knew a potential prey when he saw one. He did not even dare suggest that I bump and grind for the benefit of his leery audience. But he was drooling at the sight of little Amy.

"How about you, miss?"

She screeched and slid back in her seat to get as far away as possible from this minion of the devil. I should have added my voice to hers and reprimanded the man for his insolence. That is all that it would have taken. But I was feeling unaccountably wicked.

"Why don't you, Amy?" I asked, "Lets really give them something to look at."

For a moment, she was paralyzed with shock and she stared at me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. That was all the opportunity the man needed. Before Amy knew it, she was teetering precariously on her heels on the polished bar, now slick with a dozen drenchings.

She looked so bewildered and so colossally out of place that she must have struck a chord with the chap manning the hand-spray. He suddenly chose this moment to come into his own, to shake off his lassitude and get really naughty. When the burst of water hit her crotch, she was taken completely unawares. The white shorts became immediately transparent, revealing pink lace panties and the shadow of her golden curls.

Amy shrieked and whipped around quickly to hide the junction of her thighs from the avid gaze of her eager audience. Regrettably, her ass was way too tempting. As another burst of water smashed against the curves of her lovely butt and trickled down the back of her thighs, there was very little left to the imagination.

Now increasingly distraught, Amy turned around again, her hands over her crotch to conceal what little modesty she had left. The man at the bar dropped the handheld spray, lifted a jug of water that was lying beside him and poured it slowly over the front of Amy's t-shirt. The man is an artist, I thought as I grinned broadly. She wasn't wearing a bra. The rosy pink circles of her nipples, now puckered from the cold, poked enticingly at the crowd through the fabric of her t-shirt. Amy gave up. She covered her face with her hands in embarrassment. The crowd went wild. It was a miracle she wasn't raped. She made such a enticing picture that I was almost tempted to take her myself, there on the bar, in front of that frantic hollering crowd.

When she returned to our table, she looked mortified. I pulled her down beside me and cuddled her in my arms.

"I'm so embarrassed," she groaned, as she hid her face in my neck.

There was of course no doubt as to who was winning that particular contest. I accepted on behalf of the cowering Amy, with as much grace as possible, the winner's bauble, some shining trinket which, to foreclose any element of surprise, prominently featured a pair of naked breasts. I signaled with my eyes to Victor to leave us alone. As I watched him saunter away, I gently stroked her hair.

"Its not the end of the world, sweetie," I consoled her, "If I had a body as hot as yours, I would flaunt it too."

"Oh, Kathy ... but you do. You are so beautiful," she said, looking up from my shoulder.

I wanted to tell her that if she kept looking at me like that with those baby blue eyes of hers, I wouldn't guarantee her modesty or what was left of it after that delicious little exhibition. There is only so much I can fight temptation. I'm also human. But I merely smiled and drew her head down to my shoulder again when I what I really wanted to do was gently heft that luscious breast in my palm and draw that puckered nipple between my lips.

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