I wasn’t really sure what to do with the feelings this man’s glances were dredging up in my belly.
Beside me, my husband chatted away to the stranger, oblivious to my discomfiture.
And frankly, I’d not have been able to explain it to him if he had noticed. It wasn’t as though the man had touched me, was openly ogling me or chatting me up. In fact, he’d barely spoken to me, or even looked at me that often.
There wasn’t much about him to describe; not overly tall, longish curly hair, actual beard instead of the accepted ‘goatee’ chosen by men in our circles who sported facial hair. Trim body, yes, but not naturally chisled or gym-sculpted, like so many of these men. Maybe a bit too thin in some places, not overly broad in the shoulders while a bit slack on the waistline, certainly more so than my physically gifted husband, who at forty looked 23 and had a body that so far obeyed his every unspoken command.
With my son’s lips clasped to my breast, I moved a bit to turn away and avoid the stranger’s eyes. Because they were the problem, those eyes.
Deep chocolate brown flecked with gold, they dipped immediately inside me, checked my interior, slipped past the unconscious facade one puts up automatically at these events. What was he doing here? He didn’t seem to fit with this group, gathered at the impressive home of a wealthy heiress to a hamburger restaurant chain.
My husband had gone to college with The Princess, as she was known behind her back, and I saw clear evidence of a dalliance in the way she looked at him, and especially at me. Taking the baby from The Princess’s elderly mother and putting him to my breast had really been a strategy to throw in her face the fact that Grey was married to me, a younger woman who had given him a child, a woman whose breasts even after childbirth were much better than her own.
I knew that in these circles it was absolutely de rigueur to breastfeed in public, that no one would dare to even raise an eyebrow at such a certified natural and beautiful sight, mother and child, doing what the universe decreed. There was no need to seek a private spot, or even to apologize for the act. One just did it, and I did.
But I admitted to myself that it was just as much a shot across her bow as it was a natural response to Greyson’s nuzzling of me, which he almost always does whenever I pick him up, hungry or not. In fact, he hadn’t been begging to be rescued when I had scooped him from the Queen Mum’s arms and set him on my left, the best one, the one with “Eat this, you rich cow” written all over it.
I saw her face contract when she saw my son and I, clearly part of a complete set that included Grey; mama, baby and daddy. She flinched and quickly grabbed an hors d’oeuvre from the passing tray.
So I was feeing a bit triumphant when suddenly I was faced with this stranger and his deep chocolate eyes that probed deeply under my skin without his really doing anything beyond the pale.
Dressed in a casual outfit that mirrored the ones worn by all the wealthy men at the gathering, he somehow still looked out of place. What was it? The jeans a bit scruffier, perhaps? The shirt? Yes, the shirt. Like the others, this was a South American-styled open-necked white tunic, but I could tell — don’t ask me how — that his wasn’t a ludicrously expensive ‘interpretation’ of the original rendered by an international men’s designer, or even an ‘impression’ of the style by J. Crew or Land’s End; it was the real thing.
Leather sandals instead of loafers, but not the $300 Yves St. Laurent ones, or even the acceptable Birks that men in these circles sometimes affected. These were again made by some anonymous workaday artisan, in this case I was pretty sure I recognized the work of a modest West Bank merchant who made them this way so they would stay on the foot while camel riding.
At first, I entertained the idea that he wasn’t a guest at all, but a servant, one of the many circulating with a tray. Especially when he asked if anyone wanted a drink. Then seeing the child at my breast, he bowed slightly in apology and took a few glasses of dark beer from the passing tray for himself and my husband. “May I get you something more appropriate from the kitchen, something with no alcohol?” he asked.
“Truthfully, I’m dying for an absinthe.”
I could not believe the words had left my mouth. Around me, the crowd went silent, then Grey chuckled and they followed one by one, all except him. “Well, I’m not aware of any research that says wormwood is detrimental to a child,” he said softly, and I could not tell if there was disapproval or judgment in his voice. It didn’t sound like it.
“Does it even pass through breast milk?” Grey asked Ron Silversmith, a physician.
“I’m not a pediatrician, but my guess would be yes,” Ron smiled. “On the other hand, the whole business of fetal alcohol syndrome is way overplayed. Yes, you can mess up a child’s development if you are drinking like a fish, but a small amount could actually be beneficial, just as it is for adults.”
“Do fish drink a lot?” Grey asked, and the men and the Heiress laughed far more than warranted.
I moved away, taking longer steps than usual when breastfeeding, and Greyson’s teeth clamped down to keep his prize. I caught my breath loudly, and the man’s deep brown eyes caught mine in concern.
“Are you alright, Contessa?” he said softly, and I realized he must have been there for awhile to have known my name;we had not been introduced. Unlike the rest, he used my full name instead of dropping the first syllable.
“Yes, yes, I just… should go sit down,” I said lamely and headed for the door, which he held for me. I walked into the kitchen and headed for the closest guest room, intending to sit and feed Greyson in peace. Truth be told I had never been comfortable breastfeeding in public; among society’s beautiful people, everyone had been programmed to insist it was fine and nothing to gawk at, but it still seemed to make you the center of attention. I’d always been comfortable in the third world when I was traveling with the nonprofit, when a women would whip out her tit and suction a kid onto it without checking her stride. Was it because it was me doing it now, and not some anonymous peasant? I didn’t think so, but maybe.
But the bedroom was full, a gaggle of women chatting about idle-rich-housewife/trophy wife things, and it took me about 20 minutes to make the right noises and extract myself. The master bath and the spare were full too, so I headed down to the basement, a long set of steps that led two stories down to the subterranean apartment with wine cellar, built by the original owner, a titan who had conquered this city with his oil money.
It was quiet there, and I breathed a sigh. Greyson,who had become agitated and stopped eating when all the cooing women surrounded him, calmed and again attached himself to my left breast. Finally alone, I stopped by the fountain and switched him to my right, ever conscious of draining them both evenly. I left my top open while I examined his tiny teethmarks.
That was when I became slowly aware of a faint, vaguely familiar smell. Marijuana?
Yes. The wine cellar door a few feet away, a faint lazy plume of smoke rose from the hole that served as a door handle.
I put my finger into the hole to open it, just as someone inside did the the same, and for a second my fingers were touching warm, taut flesh, flesh which somehow raised instant gooseflesh on my arms. I knew without looking who it was.
I stepped back and he opened the door, apologizing, but I shook my head and put a finger to my lips.
He smiled sheepishly, a tiny ornate pipe in his hand. “Busted,” he mouthed.
We stood there for a moment, the baby’s sucking the only sound. I was unaware for a moment of my breasts both being open to his eyes, then suddenly I noticed his eyes wash over them, frankly looking and not trying to pretend. I flushed, and raised my elbow to cover, but he shook his head and took my elbow gently and lowered it.
We stood quietly another moment, assessing each other silently, and then I held out my hand for the pipe. He raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. “Better than absinthe, I suppose,” he said softly.
I took a deep drag, and the sweet smoke rushed into me like a genie, releasing all the lovely feelings I remembered from college. I had always been easily, wonderfully stoned, the quickest reaction anyone had ever heard of. Fifteen years had been too long.
Eventually, I realized I was standing there, lost in reverie, holding my son to my breast. I turned, and the sudden rush of the weed caught me. This was clearly the good stuff.
Then I felt his hands on my shoulders from behind, steadying me. “Are you ok?” he whispered.
I nodded. “I’m awesome,” I said.
Suddenly the sensations overtook me again, the tug of Greyson on my right breast now transmuted into a distinctly sensual sensation, the weight of the stranger’s hands on my shoulders felt wonderfully loaded. Weed had always had a libidinous effect on me.
I took his hand and pulled it down to my left. After what seemed like an interminable wait, a burst of sensations exploded as he took my nipple and rubbed it with his smooth palm, then his callused fingertip, alternating.
“Wow,” I breathed. “Wowow.”
I leaned backwards into him and felt his aroused penis, felt it lengthening and stiffening against his jeans and against my butt, now angled to touch it, rub it.
He caught his breath and pressed back against me, hard, masterful, his arms now around me from behind, his left still sending me with his nipple manipulations, his right on my waist to balance me. The feeling of his hand there, so close to my cunt, sent the juices zooming madly in my belly. I wanted him. Now.
I reached down and pulled my long skirt up and bunched it under his wrist.
“Contessa…” he breathed softly in my ear. “Are you sure…?”
“Just fuck me,” I said crudely. “Don’t talk.”
He took a breath, then abruptly walked us over to the wine cellar, still joined as we were, and through the open door, pulling it closed behind us. The dark cool interior, lit by one small dim electric torch on the wall some 15 feet away, was just what my buzz — and my libido — needed. I prayed he would not turn on the overhead light, and he didn’t.
As Greyson suckled noisily on my right, the man’s hands affixed my dress in place, tied it quickly above my waist with a flick of his wrist, using the loosened shoulder straps to hold the skirt out of the way. Reaching behind me I yanked at his belt, and he chuckled, taking it loose the rest of the way and I heard and felt his jeans slide to the floor.
As his hands pulled my panties free, I reached behind and took his thick hard muscle in my shaking hand. Wow. Not so big it scared me, but poor Grey would have a hard act to follow. I put that thought quickly out of my mind. We’d been a boring-married-sex couple for too long, and I really, really needed this.
His fingers freed my panties and sent them down my thighs to hang up at my knees, and then touched my cunt. The sensation of him parting and slowly fingering his way inside like a penis was electric, and I moaned deep in my throat.
A moment later he touched my clitoris through the hood, rubbing it firmly exactly as I liked, and I was over. The orgasm rocked me, shaking my body against him violently as Greyson dug in his teeth and held on for dear life, and I drew my breath in a scream, his hand covering my mouth just in time.
He held me to him as I quivered and shuddered, coming, coming, coming some more, sobbing with the intensity of it, and then finally, sagging against him. Presently, he sat on the rim of the winepress, and pulled me down on his lap. His cock slipping gently between my still-shaking thighs and nestled there, not insistent but very, very present.
I felt his cock against the upper part of my labia, lying there in wait, and I knew we were not done.
After a silent ten minutes that seemed surreal, out of time, I felt the stir of my libido again, and rubbed myself slowly against him, prompting a responding thrust along my slick labia. I wanted him inside, but… not quite yet.
With my son still clamped to my breast I sank to the floor in front of him in the dimness and took his thick cock in my fingers, then quickly into my mouth. My God, was he hard. I knew I could probably make him come quickly, and the idea, coupled with the sweet-bitter taste of his seeping seed, sent my own juices rushing southward in a flood.
He rose slightly and began to press his cock into my mouth and throat deeper, deeper, and I felt the scrape of it on my palette begin to call my gag reflex. Maybe I couldn’t do this after all.
I made a sudden decision, rose to my feet and pulled him erect behind me, switching my son to the other side again.
As he followed, his cock bumped into my rounded cheeks and slid between, brushing across my anus. I froze.
It had been more than 20 years since I had tried it that way, long before Grey, and it had been the last time. Grey had made it clear early on that he did not want to ever do that, terming it ‘nasty’ and ‘gross’ and wondering aloud if there were actually any women who enjoyed such things, that it was ‘physically unlikely.’ I had never told him I’d done it. Truthfully, the idea had been sexier than the reality, and the idea hadn’t been mine. The boy, despite initiating it, had been too inexperienced and cautious, I decided later; too eager at first and then when I was warmed up and felt I was ready for him there, afraid to just take what he wanted, and it had fizzled.
But…
Somehow, just now, the weed was loading that innocent brush with a million erotic meanings and feelings, and suddenly I wanted this.
I pulled away for a second, reached surreptitiously between my legs and touched the copious juices that still lay there, dug in, produced more, and then swabbed my anus and crease, making myself greasy with them.
When I took his cock in my fingers again, I pulled the foreskin up and down a few times, and felt him lubricate instantly. It was enough.
I pulled him by his cock, touched it to my crease and then pushed against him to indicate how I wanted it.
He caught his breath and held still a minute, feeling me shift and let him slide in slowly, along the deep crease between my voluptuous cheeks, and then there was no mistaking my intent and my desire.
To be sure, I bumped my anus against his glans. And held still, waiting.
“Jesus,” he said softly.
Then I felt his hands on my hips, firmly taking me in hand, imprisoning me, too late to change my mind, oh shit.
He thrust inside.
Ouch. I knew it would hurt a bit, and it did. But…
He stopped, at exactly the right time, and did not reverse and pull out. That would have been the end, I think. Instead, he held still, waited a bit for me to readjust myself, to manage to get my flesh to again obey my order to relax, and then he sank in, hard, pressing all the way deep inside me, pushing before him a ball of sexual fire.
I heard my breath, coming in gasps across the dry skin of my throat, dry from the weed and dry from my mouth being open so long, preparing to scream, hoping his hands would catch the sound as before.
Sure enough, his hand hovered by my chin, ready. But I didn’t scream. Not then.
What was I doing, I thought wildly as he reversed and then thrust in again, growing thicker and harder, taking what he wanted, faster, deeper, more assertive. I wouldn’t have an orgasm this way, so what was the point of all this pain and discomfort, humiliation?
But I’d already had my orgasm, I reasoned, and didn’t know if I had another in me. The feeling of sexual overload was fast approaching, and I couldn’t explain it, but I’d wanted this, wanted to feel myself violated, used roughly, taken.
He seemed to understand, ramming his swollen cock inside me ever harder, deeper, pushing way down into me, taking my breath from me with the shock, depth and hardness of that molten cock.
Greyson chose that moment to bite down again, and my drawn breath sounded in the sealed room like an explosion. I felt the man’s hand move from my hip, and suddenly, a hard pinch on my other nipple finally loosed my scream. He caught it with his hand, easily stopping the sound before it rose to a level that would escape the sealed cellar and alert the house.
My mouth now in his control too, he picked up the pace even more, riding me brutally, banging into my hips with his bones, pulling free and slamming in again to open me violently. It was wonderful and scary all at the same time.
Then I felt him lean low over me and just before it happened, I sensed something big was coming.
But when the bolt of lightening slammed into my groin, I could not have been less prepared. I screamed as the white-hot pain punctuated the perverse pleasure of having my ass so brutally taken. His hand caught the scream, then released my mouth expectantly.
“Oh, please,” I sobbed softly. “Do that again…?”
He did. The flat of his hand slapping across my groin, the impact penetrating through the layers of tissue to shock my clitoris and send me into orbit.
The orgasm took me over, rolled me into it and lifted me from my feet. I felt the teeth of my child on my breast again, but it felt heavenly, an aftershock, a pinprick that locked into the whole pain/pleasure nexus and thrust me inside myself, deep and dark inside my core. I closed my eyes.
It lasted so long, of such intensity, that I had no sense of how much time had passed when it cleared and I could see again.
I opened my eyes and awareness slowly returned. The first thing I saw was my son, who sat on the floor in front of me, playing with a plastic wine-bottle pump, examining it as it were the most fascinating object in the universe.
Still bent at the waist slightly, my skirt rucked up and held in place by the tied shoulder straps, I looked down and saw his hands on my hips, and slowly noted his penis was still buried in my dark spot. I moaned softly, and he moved gently in and out slightly, setting off mini-explosions of feeling in my tender flesh. I sighed, and felt the tide begin to rise again.
Then from a distance off, a noise, the sound of a door opening, and footfalls. Someone coming down the steps. Quickly he withdrew, pulled his jeans up, and moved past me, pulling my skirt free to drop across my shaking thighs, and then moving deeper into the cellar. He motioned for me to go, and gestured to my son, then he was out of sight in the shadows.
I scooped up my son, stopped to pull up my panties, and moved on shaky legs through the door, closed it softly behind me and sat on the fountain’s edge, gasping as my bottom registered the hard marble touching me where hard flesh had so recently been, and arranged myself and my son into an ageless ‘mother and child’ tableau.
“Hi,” I said, looking up as my host rounded the corner.
“Hey…” she said, looking confused.
“Just came down here to feed Greyson in private,” I said, feeling the hard marble against my tenderest spot. “Hope you don’t mind…?”
“N–no,” she said. “Sorry to disturb, I was just looking for Daniel. He seems to have disappeared again.”
“Who…?” I blinked. “Oh, the guy with the…? Nope, haven’t seen him. I just wanted to feed my son without being gawked at.”
She looked at me strangely, then sat beside me. “I think he’s done,” she said. “He’s asleep.”
I looked down, and sure enough, Greyson’s eyes were tightly closed, his mouth slack on my nipple.
“So is this guy a colleague of yours, from your nonprofit days…or…?”
She looked at me even more strangely. “No, ‘Tessa,” she said, shooting for casual, her voice betraying her. “That’s Grey’s roomie from his first year in college. I assumed you’d met.”
It took a minute to sink in. “That’s the guy who…?”
“…took the virginity of almost everyone in the group, yes, including me… and your husband,” she smiled triumphantly, finally feeling that she had the upper hand with me, maybe for the first time.
Strangely, I didn’t mind knowing. But it was an odd thing to know you’d just given up your virtue to the same person who took your husband’s. I hoped he’d enjoyed it as much in his tight little bum as I had in mine.
I think that may well be one marital conversation we’ll never have.
But… you never know when a marriage will need some spicing up, do you?
erosexuality 