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  • Menage a Trois Ch. 11

Menage a Trois Ch. 11

12

This chapter contains a long section in which Sandy is the narrator rather than Steven. It is set in Italics. When the text switches back to the regular font, Steven is acting as narrator.

*

It was a several days before Sandy returned from her latest trip to London. While she was gone, Lisa came by and made the final selection of the paintings for my opening show at Wendover's Gallery. The subject of sex didn't come up. We were both very focused on the pictures. A day or so later a woman from the framing shop came by and picked them all up. I wouldn't see them again until the night of the show's opening, still several weeks off.

I spent the next few days working on the drawings I wanted to make of Angel. First I just did maybe a dozen pencil sketches. Then I settled on half a dozen I liked best and went to work with the pastels. It was the kind of work I just immerse myself in. I saw no one, ate junk food, slept hard, and didn't give a thought to sex, which I always found a little strange given the erotic nature of my art. Eventually I completed a series of six pastels of Angel. She was naked in all of them. In some she was sleeping or at least near sleep following our love making session. In others she was masturbating as she watched Rachel and me fucking, and there was one in which she was looking with concern at the wild sex Rachel and I were having. In all of those pictures she was sitting or curled up in the armchair at Rachel's, but I had changed the color so it contrasted better with her olive skin. She looked stunning. I thought the pictures looked great. They were too late, of course, for the current show, but they might work well in another show, assuming things went well enough so there was another show.

Now that the work was done I began to think about sex again—sex with Sandy to be specific. I was playing back in my mind the fabulous fuck we had in the front hall when she returned from her London/San Francisco trip. Yes, that was I wanted. I even began a sketch of Sandy and me standing naked in the front hall, her leaning against the wall with legs wrapped around my lower back, and me with her ass in my hands and my legs bent just enough to give me a spring board as I rammed my cock into her pussy. I hadn't been drawing male figures and that aspect of the image was proving difficult.

I was sitting at my drafting table, pencil in hand, trying to sketch the lurid picture I had in my head when the phone rang. It was Sandy calling from JFK to tell me she had just landed and would be coming straight home.

"Oh good!" I said. "I was sketching a naked Sandy, but I would much rather have the real thing."

"I'll be there in an hour. And don't start jacking off to any of those nasty pictures you draw," she whispered. Apparently she was still on the plane with strangers around her.

"I'll wait," I promised. "Are you wearing underwear this time?"

"No. I lost it all in London."

"Really! Lost all your underwear in London. Now how did that happen?"

"It's a long story. It'll have to wait until I get home."

"Sandy, were you a bad girl while you were in London? Did you do something nasty?"

"Yes," she hissed. "Now I have to get off this plane. See you in an hour." The phone clicked off at that point.

I had a knot in the pit my stomach as I set the phone down. What had she done? Sex with another woman? Probably. But had she fucked another man?

"Wait!" I told myself. "We agreed a week ago that we were both free to have sex with other people. That included men for Sandy. Besides, I had screwed both Angel and Rachel the day Sandy had left town, so I was in no position to complain."

As I scurried about the house cleaning up the mess left from my four or five days of intensive drawing, my anxiety about what Sandy had done and with who slowly converted itself into horniness. I wanted her to tell me, and I wanted to hear this story while we were fucking, or at least during foreplay. I was curious as hell. I was horny as hell. Was it some guy who picked her up in a bar? An old friend? A co-worker? The list in my imagination went on and on.

About 45 minutes later I heard a key in the door. I hurried to the front hall to meet Sandy. She barely got in the front door before I had my arms wrapped around her and my lips pressed against hers in a kiss. She responded, and as our tongues dueled I spun her to the side so she was leaning against the wall, her hips pushed against mine and her breasts smashed against my chest. I wanted to fuck as we had a week ago.

"Wait. Wait," she said, pushing me away. "We'll get to this, but there are some things we need to talk about."

Oh, not again, I thought. This is becoming an every week event. My wife goes away for a week, comes home horny and is about to fuck me when she tells me, "We need to talk." Of course there was the little matter of the six new nude pastels of Angel hanging in my studio. We needed to talk about those. But they were far from the first thing on my sex-obsessed agenda.

She ignored my questioning look and began to walk off down the hall, peeling her clothes off as she went. I took that as a good sign.

"Steve," she said as she walked away, "I think we need to have our talk in the bathtub. I'm going to go fill the tub while you take my bag to the bedroom. Oh and there is a bottle of cold Champagne. I picked it up on my way in from the airport and buried it in my bag to stay cold. Please bring the Champagne and a couple of glasses to the bathroom." She did a quick pirouette at the end of the hall and stood, naked from the waist up, looking to me for confirmation.

I stared in silence, stunned by her beauty. It always amazed me. After all these years of marriage she was still so stunning every time she took her clothes off that she left me breathless and wordless, just as though it was the first time I met her.

"Okay?" she asked. She was facing me, her weight back on the heel of one of her spiky pumps, a hand resting on a hip thrust to one side. As she waited for my answer, she reached back and tugged down the zipper on her skirt. It fell in a pool at her feet, leaving her naked but for her pumps and a string of pearls.

"The bath tub," I said. "Yeah, sure."

"And the Champagne. Don't forget the Champagne. We have something to celebrate."

"Yes. Of course," I said, struggling to focus on anything beyond the beauty of my naked wife.

As I turned to pick up her bag, still lying in the open doorway to our apartment, I heard her clatter away on her spiky heels toward our bath. By the time I turned to look again she was gone, leaving a trail of clothing. No bra or panties, I noticed.

I took the bag into the bedroom and begin to rummage around in it in search of the bottle of Champagne. I found it buried near the bottom of the bag, still cold. I noticed in the course of my search that there was no underwear in the bag—no bras, no panties, just some thigh high nylons. Apparently she had lost her underthings in London.

By the time I took the Champagne to the kitchen to get glasses and returned to the bath, Sandy had filled the tub and was lying naked, submerged in the steaming water up to her chin.

"Steven," she said. "There are a couple of things I want you to do for me."

"First, take off your clothes."

I quickly complied, continuing to stare in silence at my beautiful and naked wife.

"Good, and now that's that done, open that Champagne and pour us each a glass."

I extracted the cork with a satisfactory pop (really, what would Champagne be without the pop of the cork) and managed to do so without releasing a fountain of foam (a waste of good wine I always thought, unless it was cheap Champagne, in which case it should be sprayed on the winners of NASCAR races).

I poured each of us a glass and handed one to Sandy and then started to step into the tub.

"Wait," she said, her tone a bit harsher now. "There's one more thing."

"Yes," I said, freezing with one foot in the steaming tub.

"Before you get in this tub with me, who is the beautiful young woman in the new paintings on the wall of your studio?"

"Oh," I said, stepping back out of the tub. This wasn't exactly the way I had planned on telling her about Angel. Apparently she had looked in the studio on her way to the bath. "Well, that's complicated," I continued. "Rachel was involved."

Sandy smiled as she looked at me over the top of her champagne glass. "I should have known. You might as well get in the tub before you start to explain. Nothing involving Rachel is ever simple, and it is so much nicer in this warm tub." She didn't sound upset. A good sign.

As I settled into one end of the tub and let myself down into the water, Sandy sat up to give me room. My god, her tits looked sexy as the water dripped off her nipples. Our legs were quickly tangled and we each managed find a foot pressed against the other's crotch.

"Before we get into whatever no-good Rachel has gotten you into, let's talk about the Champagne."

Whew. A reprieve, I thought. "Sure," I said. "It's good Champagne."

"It had better be for what it cost."

"Oh. And can we afford it?"

"Now we can. I've been promoted to partner, and now I'm in charge of the AIM audit."

"Congratulations," I said, raising my glass in a toast. "But, I thought you were already in charge of the AIM audit." I could feel her toes stroking my erect cock. I returned the favor by pressing my big toe firmly against her pussy.

"Umm. That feels good," she said, momentarily distracted.

"As a practical matter I have been in charge of the audit. They gave it to me a couple of years ago. No one told me so, but it was pretty clear that the partners viewed it as a black hole that was going to drown and probably discredit anyone they assigned it to. Their attitude, I'm sure, was better her than one of us. But I made it work and now they want "her" to be "one of us. But they needed a partner to sign the firm name to the audit report, so old Jenkins was nominally in charge of the audit, but he wasn't doing anything and everyone knew it. He hardly ever comes to the office anymore. It was my project to sink or swim with."

"Does this mean any less travel?" I continued to massage her pussy with my toe.

"No, nothing changes about the job, except for one thing—money. As a partner, I'm going to make a lot more money. That's why we could afford this Champagne." She took a long pull on the glass and then reached over the side of the tub to pour a refill.

"Oh," I responded, as she refilled her glass. "I think I would rather have more of you and live without the extra money. Who knows, maybe my paintings will sell. They are all off being framed. The show will be in three weeks." I pushed on her pussy again. She groaned a little, enjoying what I was doing.

"But Steven," she said, returning to the topic of her promotion, "you know this is something I can't turn down. My accounting career is my obsession, just like your art is yours."

"I know, and we've agreed it will be that way, but . . ." I didn't finish the sentence because there was nothing more to say. Instead I leaned over and picked up the Champagne bottle to refill my glass. It was awfully good Champagne.

Changing the subject, I said, "So what's the story about losing your underwear? I noticed there wasn't any in your bag, and you didn't leave any in the clothes you scattered between the front door and the bath."

Sandy smiled again, looking over the top of her glass at me. "Lost'em," she said. "In London. Just like I told you." She stroked my cock with the bottom of her foot.

"Could we have some more detail?"

"Yes and it's sinful. But first I want to hear about the young lady in your new paintings. Did you fuck her?"

"Yes," I said softly. I didn't like confessing my extramarital affairs to my wife, but it was becoming a regular thing.

"Tell me Steven, do you fuck all your models?"

"Well, that's not my plan. So far it's more like I tend to want to draw women I have fucked." I was feeling very defensive about this question.

"Who is she?"

"Her name is Angel." I was still uncomfortable.

"Hmmm. And where did you find her? What does she do? Are you sure she's over 18? Is she just one of Rachel's bimbos that she introduced you too? Is she good in bed?"

I tried to respond in a single long sentence, "She's a barista at the coffee house down the street from Rachel's bookstore, and as to good in bed, I can't say because there is no bed in Rachel's bookstore where we were fucking, so I can't tell you if she is good in bed or not, but she was good on Rachel's couch in the back of the bookstore, so I expect she would be good in bed, and yes, I'm sure she is over 18. She's in her second year at City College. Now stop asking questions and I will tell you what happened last Monday after you left town."

I wiggled my toe so it rubbed her clit and she gasped. Then I spent the next fifteen minutes telling her about how I had spent Monday morning with Rachel and Angel in the back of the bookstore. All the while, Sandy continued to stroke my cock with her toes. I included all the juicy details, so it was rather like telling her a sex story over the phone. Except, of course, she was actually here, and I was molesting her sex with my big toe as we talked.

Sandy listened in silence, her eyes closed and her head back on the rim of the tub, opening her eyes occasionally in response to some particularly lewd part of the story or a stronger push with my toe against her sex.

When I finished telling her about fucking Angel and Rachel, she looked at me though half-open hooded eyes and said, "Fuck that's hot. Is it all true?"

"Yes. Now tell me about the nasty things you were doing in London." I raised my foot and dragged my toe slowly across one of her hard little nipples.

"No. Not now. I have to have your cock in me. Let's dry off and get in the bed. I want to fuck."

A few minutes later we were in bed, lying face to face on our sides, our legs tangled and my cock embedded to the hilt in her cunt. I wasn't thrusting. I wanted her to talk about London. "Tell me. What did you do in London?" I asked. "And how did you lose all of your undergarments?

"It was a bet. And I lost."

"Oh really? Is that all you lost?"

"That's a little hard to answer. When you have really good sex, even if you told yourself you weren't going to, it's hard to say you were the loser."

"And was this really good sex with a man?"

"Yes . . . and a woman."

My prick flexed in her pussy of it's own volition. I had wondered how I would feel if she told me she had been with another man and now I knew. It was unbelievably erotic.

"Are you pissed at me?"

"God no. I'm incredibly turned on." I flexed my cock in her cunt again. "I didn't know how I would feel, but what I want to know now is everything about it." I pulled her to me and kissed her, a long sensuous kiss.

I pushed her back so I could see her face. "I really want to know. Did you fuck?"

"Yes."

"More than once?"

"Yes."

"Was it nasty?"

"Very."

"Did he make you cum?"

"Yes."

"Did you spend a night with him?"

"No."

"Did you suck his cock?"

"Yes."

"Did he eat your pussy?"

"Yes."

"Anal?"

"No. You know I don't do that."

"Did you think about me while you were fucking?"

"Sometimes? Mostly I didn't think about anything except about how wrong it was and how good it felt."

"Wrong?"

I'm married, and . . . "

"But we agreed and I . . ."

"And so was he . . ."

"Married?"

"Yes."

"And his wife would have objected if she had known?"

"I thought so at the time. It made the sex so bad."

"Bad?"

"You know what I mean. Nasty . . .God your cock is hard."

"And your pussy is hot . . . and wet."

"Ummmm."

"You said you thought his wife would object. Did that turn out to be wrong?"

"Yes. She told me they had an arrangement like ours."

"When?" I flexed my cock in Sandy's pussy again and she gasped.

"When? When what?" she said as she recovered.

"When did his wife tell you it was okay that you fucked her husband?"

"Oh. Yes. Sorry. You distracted me. She told me it was okay while I was having sex with her."

Now I had a hand on one of her breasts and I was slowly dragging my thumb back and forth across a nipple. "So let me get this straight. Your firm sends you to London on important business, and you had sex with . . . a guy. I suppose he has a name . . .

"Liam."

"And his wife."

"Fiona."

"Several times . . . with each of them . . ."

"Yes."

"And your firm promotes you for this?"

Sandy laughed. "Yes. It's kind of strange when you put it that way. But we did get a lot of work done, and I accomplished everything I went there for."

I had begun to slowly thrust my dick in and out of her. "And was fucking Liam and Fiona one of the objectives of your trip?" I picked up the pace a little.

She was groaning with each thrust. "Yes. Oh. . . Ahhhhh. No, I mean no. I had never met them before. Didn't know they would be there or that they even existed."

"Sort of a side benefit, eh?" Now I was thrusting even harder.

"Fuck, I don't know. I'll tell you the rest of this later. Let's just fuck now."

I rolled her to one side so she was on her back and I was on top of her. She spread her legs and planted her feet on the bed so she could use her legs to lift her hips to meet each of my thrusts. We were fucking hard now.

"Talk dirty to me," she said.

"Okay, but I'm not going to last long."

"Neither am I."

"You dirty little slut, Sandy. You went off to London and fucked Liam and Fiona without a thought about me, didn't you?

"Oh, oh, oh, fuck! Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop." She was panting now.

"Didn't you?" I repeated. I was working to hold myself back now.

"What? Oh fuck! Your cock is so big, so good. Oh Fuck! Yes sure, whatever you said. Yes, I'm your horny slut. Just like you said. Just don't stop. Oh fuck! Don't stop. I'm almost there."

That was when I lost control. I pressed forward into her cunt with everything I had and held myself there as spurt after spurt of a week's accumulated jism poured out of my cock into the depths of her cunt. As soon as she felt the first spurt of my cum she tipped over into a huge orgasm, screaming with her hips bucking up and pressing me even deeper into her cunt.

Our orgasms complete, we collapsed together and tipped to the side again, still coupled, both of us gasping for breath. As we recovered we both lay there for a long time, my softening prick sliding slowly out of her slippery cunt.

Finally she asked, "What time is it?"

I craned my neck to see the clock on the bedside table. "7:30," I said.

"P.M.?"

"Yes. You are struggling with the jet lag, aren't you?"

"No it's just the fog you caused in my brain over the last half hour. But I'm hungry. Can we get some takeout from Il Violino?"

"Yes," I said as I rolled away from her, pulling my now soft prick from the last inch of her pussy. "I'm hungry, too. What would you like?"

"Lasagna and a salad. They make such good lasagna."

"Okay. I'll call them."

"Good. Just feed me and then I'll tell you all the nasty details about Liam and Fiona. And then we can fuck again."

"And how you lost your underwear? Do I get to learn that too?"

"Yes," she laughed as she rose from the bed heading to the bathroom. "Just feed me and I'll tell you anything. I'm starving."

I ordered dinner and then, while Sandy showered, I puttered around in the kitchen, opening more wine (we had killed the Champagne while still in the tub), and setting out plates for dinner. Just then the doorman called to ask if he could send up the guy with the food, Sandy arrived fresh from the shower and looking surprisingly wide awake for someone who had extended her day by five hours. I shrugged on a robe I had brought to the kitchen and went to the door. When I returned, I served up the lasagna and salad, poured the wine and sat down across the table from Sandy. Like me she was wearing a loosely-belted terrycloth robe. Every time she reached out for more garlic bread, the robe would hang open, giving me a good view of one or both of her breasts.

12
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