Two's Company, Three's a PartybyKeikoAlvarez©
It was the last leg of my business trip, a trip in which my company pinched every penny they could. So, instead of booking me on a nonstop from San Diego to New York, they booked me on a flight that stopped in Chicago to save fifty dollars. Fifty crummy dollars! To make matters worse, I was wearing a navy blue silk dress with a nice slit up the side, a slit that would not behave. The slit slipped off my legs constantly, giving the creeps on each side of me—yes, of course I had a middle seat—a good look at my legs. A really good look.
All right. I admit it. Looking back on the airplane ride, I know I enjoyed being ogled, especially since the men next to me weren't creeps. One was a fifty something sexy guy with salt and pepper hair and an infectious laugh, and the other was a college kid who tried desperately not to let me know he was staring at my exposed thighs. I suppose the attention I was getting must have ramped up my hormones because...well, let me go on.
It doesn't matter that the flight was pleasurable. I was still upset at having to spend two extra hours traveling and having to be stuck in a middle seat just to save the company a few pennies. But that wasn't the worse of it- the pilot came on the intercom and said, or should I say mumbled, "Ladies and gentlemen. I'm sorry to tell you that Chicago is being hit with heavy snow. We'll be able to land, but no flights are leaving, so if you have a connection..."
Oh, great. This situation was happening only because I wasn't allowed to book a nonstop flight. I was so angry that I ignored the cell phone prohibition and called my husband. I told him to find me the best hotel he could near the airport-the very best. I was going to make my company pay.
Then, of course, the situation got worse. After we landed we were told that the ground crews had been brought in so we couldn't get our luggage. Boy, did the passengers get unruly! Fortunately for me, I always take my exercise clothes in my carry-on luggage, so I had a pair of shorts, a running bra, a tee-shirt and running shoes handy. I may not have been able to change, but I would at least be able to sleep in comfort.
My husband did very well, booking me into a fancy place with a magnificent lobby and a noisy bar that was, at five in the evening, already packed with travelers drinking way their blues. My room was okay. I mean, how nice can a hotel room be? It did have, though, a nice desk with a mirror behind it directly across from the foot of the bed. To the side of the desk there was a huge flat screen TV that swiveled so you could see it from a couch next to the bed or while you lay in bed.
I turned the TV toward the bed, ready to relax for the night, but thought-to hell with this. Instead, I sat at the desk and carefully applied some makeup, readying myself for a session at the bar. I was hoping for nothing more than a little more ogling and perhaps some flirtation.
I hoped I would at least get some hard looks from the men at the bar, but there were too many sexy young things there for that, or so I thought. I was fortunate to find an empty table and was about to signal to a waiter when two Air France pilots slid into the empty seats across from me. In their wonderful French accents, they asked, "May we?"
"Mais oui," I said.
They laughed at my pathetic attempt at humor. "So, you speak French?"
"Um...no," I said. "That was about it."
"That's enough," one of them said. "That happens to be one of my favorite phrases."
I allowed myself to think he was flirting. Despite my efforts to remain cool and composed, I actually felt my nipples harden under my dress. Oh—did I mention that I had decided to ditch my bra? Just before I left my hotel room I noticed that my silk dress had another slit-one that exposed my cleavage more than when I wore my bra. I guess the bra material held it in place so-whatever! I was okay with a little more body exposure-more than okay with it.
The pilots were Pierre and Guy and they were gorgeous, both about six feet tall with black hair and blue eyes. And their accents-OMG! Oh yes—they were both wearing wedding rings, so I was certain they weren't going to hit on me. I was torn between relief and disappointment, but what could I have done with two guys, anyway?
Pierre and Guy decided that, despite the fact that it was lower grade than the French champagne they were accustomed to, they would treat me to the only champagne the bar had to offer. They frowned at the taste, but I thought it was fantastic, especially when we got to the second bottle.
"Well," Pierre said. "We're going to go to the hot tub on the roof. There's nothing like sitting in a hot tub in a snow storm. Care to join us? We'll get another bottle of—how do you Americans say—bubbly."
"But," I said. "I have no bathing suit."
"Neither do we," Guy laughed. "But we have boxer shorts. Same thing, eh? Plus the hotel gave us terrycloth robes, so we can walk around wearing anything we like, even nothing at all."
"Wait," I said. "I have my running shorts and bra. Just like a bikini, huh?"
Pierre winked, stood up on champagne-loosened legs and winked at me. "See you in five minutes?"
My heart pounding, I raced to my room. Just the idea of being in the hot tub made me lightheaded, the champagne helping, I suppose. I debated whether to wear panties under my running shorts or not. Not! Throwing the robe over my running outfit, I headed to the roof. The snow was so heavy that I could barely see the hot tub, but there they were, surrounded by steam, big smiles on their faces. We were, apparently, the only three people in the hotel crazy enough to sit outside in the storm. Or maybe it was just too early. Whatever, the timing worked out perfectly.
The next bottle of champagne went down easy. Apparently Pierre and Guy had also cleaned out their mini-bars because they kept pulling out little bottles booze from the pockets of their robes which, by the way, were lying next to the hot tub and almost totally covered with snow. We were all feeling quite good when Pierre said, "Let's do what the Danes do. Let's roll in the snow!"
Oh, God! We rolled in the snow, made snow angels and giggled until we started to get numb. I flopped into the hot tub, letting the hot water warm me, closing my eyes when Pierre sat on one side of me and Guy on the other. I felt the touch of two fingers on my chin and turned toward Pierre, accepting his tongue into my mouth while, at the same time, I felt a hand slide under my running bra. After he lifted my bra over my head, Guy put his fingers on my chin. I turned toward him while Pierre made his way under my shorts. "Let's get these off you," he whispered.
I offered no resistance, keeping my eyes closed and lifting my hips to make my undressing easier. I felt like I was floating when Pierre lifted me to my feet, turned me around to face Guy and lowered me back down onto his cock. If you think a hot tub is hot, it wasn't as hot as his cock was when it slid deep into me. I moaned and finally opened my eyes, coming face to face with the outline of Guy's ghostly white body, his dark pubic hair and his stiff prick.
Here it was—my first threesome. I took Guy as deep as I could into my mouth, ignoring the taste and smell of chlorine. Pierre had a wonderful rhythmic stroke going as he moved in and out of me, a rhythm I struggled to match with my head sliding up and down Guy's cock. Guy came first, groaning as he spewed his salty cum into my mouth. Pierre came next, his hot streams of jism reaching, it seemed, my lungs. When I came, I broke into shivers despite the hot steam rising from the hot tub. I guess the steam wasn't as hot as my body.
These men didn't fool around. "Let's go to your room," Pierre said, "and continue this." I swallowed Guy's cum, nodded and said, "Okay."
We barely bothered with our robes. If anyone had come onto the elevator when we were in it, they would have found mine wide open with me stroking Pierre's cock while Guy fondled my breasts. When we stumbled into my room, Guy said, "Let's shower off."
I wondered why he wanted to take the time to shower until, that is, we were crammed into the tiny tub and their soap-slicked hands were moving all over me and my soap-slicked hands were sliding up and down their hard cocks.
It was dreamlike—the towels patting my body, the kisses on my neck and breasts, the fingers in my pussy, the hands leading me toward the bed. Guy lay down with his head toward the foot of the bed and signaled me to come on top of him. As I lowered myself onto his stiff dick, Pierre positioned himself in front of me, his cock in his hand. But as I leaned forward to take it into my mouth, he said, "I have a better idea."
He trotted off for a second and returned with the little bottle of skin lotion the hotel provided. Standing to the side of me, he poured some onto my back and worked it into my skin. Then he poured some more onto my ass and massaged my cheeks, his hands sliding around, his fingers finding my butt hole. All the while I just moved around and around, a carnal lust building in me as I waited for the final act.
I didn't have to wait long. Pierre slid one and then another finger into my tight hole and asked, "Is it okay?"
I had always wondered what it would be like to be taken in both holes, asking myself if I could do it, and here was the opportunity-perhaps the only one I would ever have-to try it. I nodded and muttered, "Uh huh."
"Let me," he said. One at a time he stretched my legs out so Guy could hook his ankles over mine. I lay prone on top of him, unable to move, as Pierre straddled my body. My head snapped up like yo-yo when I felt the first pressure of his cock on me. That's when I saw them. I saw our reflections in the mirror facing the bed and, as though it were a porno movie, our reflections in the large screen TV. The TV gave me a good view of Guy's cock, a cock that appeared bigger than it should have been. When he pushed in further, though, I knew the image in the TV wasn't wrong.
It's not as though they fucked me. After all, our balancing act was a bit precarious. But they moved, Pierre making small circles and grinding against my pussy and Guy pushing in deeper a little at a time. The woman I saw in the mirror stared back at me with a wide open mouth and wild eyes, her pleasure obvious and, as her eyes squeezed shut, her pleasure reaching a peak.
As if on cue, my cell phone began to dance on the night stand, making a buzzing sound that, for some reason, sent me over the edge. "Now," I screamed. "Now!"
Well, they fucked me then! Pierre pulled way out and pushed way in over and over and over. Guy shoved his cock all the way into me until his pubic hair pressed against my flesh. When I came, I cried, "Mmmm-nuh, mmmm-nuh, mmmm-nuh," my moans syncopated with the throbbing of Guy's cock as it expanded the walls of my hole and pumped his cum into me.
Spent, we rested for a bit, their cocks firmly ensconced in me. When Guy pulled out, he said something in French to Pierre. Pierre rolled me onto my back, kissed me and whispered, "We'd like to spend the night with you. We have so much more we can do."
"I...I don't know. I have to call my husband. Give me my cell phone, please."
Guy, ever the gentleman, handed my phone as Pierre rolled off me. "You are very beautiful," he said. "We're honored to have been with you. If you want us to come back, call room four ten."
I waited until they left before I rolled onto my stomach and called my husband. "I made two plane reservations for you," he said. "One to come home and the other to go to New York."
"Home," I whispered. "I want to come home. I miss you so much. I...I wish you were here. With the snow falling, we could make such beautiful love together."
"Home," he mumbled. "Yes. I want you home, too."
When I ended the call, I stared into the TV. The images of Guy penetrating me played out in front of my eyes and my ass, still throbbing from his assault, throbbed harder. Juices flowed from my pussy, soaking the bed as an orgasm, an orgasm that happened without my even touching myself, tore at me. I made up my mind that within a year my husband and I would have a threesome. I made that my quest.
Then I dialed room 410. "Come back," I said. "And—oh—I'm out of lotion. Bring yours and tell Pierre to bring his."
I was going to make the most of this opportunity. I trembled with excitement. No I shook with excitement. When the guys arrived, they treated me gently, lying with me and exchanging kisses with me. I slid down under the covers and, turning from side to side in the dark space, alternately took each of their cocks into my mouth, not caring whose was whose.
Guy—I think it was Guy—said, "We want to do something with you. It's something we do with our wives when we-how do you say-share each other. If you would..."
Four hands lifted me to my knees. Pierre sat on his haunches in front of my face while Guy once again lubricated my butt. "Try not to move," Pierre said. "Let us control the action."
Try not to move. Ha! That's kind of hard to do when you feel the head of a cock pressing on your ass and feel the tip of a cock on your lips. But after a few seconds, I understood. They moved in perfect rhythm, Pierre slowly sliding his cock into my mouth while Guy eased his cock into my butt. Their timing was incredible, so much so that when Pierre's balls hit my chin and his public hair tickled my nose, Guy's balls pressed up against my pussy while his pubic hair brushed against my spread-apart cheeks. Then they retreated, each pulling back until the tips of their cocks were barely penetrating me.
I wanted to scream hurry! But, on the other hand, I wanted the sensations to last forever, so all I did was moan.
Over time they did begin to hurry, moving faster and faster until they were ready to come. That's when the rhythm broke down, and that's when I did scream. I screamed as the most intense orgasm of my life ripped every semblance of civility out of me. I cursed, I yelled and I said things so obscene I can't even remember them.
I guess I passed out, because the next thing I knew the morning sun was shining through the window. A note sat next to the bed. It said, "We can arrange free tickets for you and your husband, if he's so inclined." They left contact information and drew little hearts on the paper.
Strangely enough, I missed my husband more than ever. When I got home, we spent three hours making love-slow, languid love.
It'll take time, but I'm pretty sure I'll be able to convince him to take a vacation in Paris. Maybe in the winter. There's something I love about the winter now.