Just Watch Me

We weren’t very nice about it. That was the surprising part. I expected the cliché of scented oils and the gilded candlelight ambiance and the slippery limbs entwined. But how we acted afterward was unforeseen. Alone together, reliving the night, Sam and I were truly cruel. And here I was, operating under a false impression for so many years.

Others reliving the experience might choose to focus on the way Sheila’s gray-blue eyes had lit up when I’d pressed my mouth to her freshly shaved pussy, or the look on her husband Richard’s craggy but handsome face as he started to slowly stroke his long, uncut cock. But not this girl. The best part of the evening for me was the laughter with Sam afterward, giggling all the way home about the freaks we’d spent the evening with. The freaks we’d just fucked.

They were decades older than us, and richer by far, and they’d run a charming ad at the back of the Guardian. Filled with dizzy anticipation, we met for drinks, to check out the chemistry factor. Sizing up potential fuck partners is a heady business. Nobody else in the trendy after-work bar crowd knew that we were responding to a personal. Not the cute curly-haired bartender. Not the female executives lined up against the wall like pretty maids all in a row. The thought of what we were actually there for made me giddy with excitement, and desire showed rather brightly in my dark eyes.

The woman said I was pretty. Her husband agreed with an anxious nod. All evening long, they looked at me rather than Sam, and I knew why. Sam is tough. He has short, razor-cut hair and a gingery goatee. If you were to meet him in a back alley, you’d offer him your wallet in a heartbeat. You’d beg him to take it, the way I beg him to take things from me every night.

I grinned and drank my cosmo, then licked my cherry-glossed lips in the sexiest manner I could manage, leaving the tip of my tongue in the corner of my mouth for one second too long. Iridescent sparkles lit up my long dark hair. Multicolored body glitter decorated my pale skin. I wore serpentine black leather pants and a white baby-T with the word SINNER screaming across the chest in deep scarlet. There was an unspoken emphasis on how young I was in comparison to the woman. She was holding firm in her midforties, while I was just barely getting used to being in my early twenties. Her entire attitude was both calculating and clearly at ease, obvious in the way she held court in our booth, in the way she ordered from the waiter without even looking up.

I was her opposite, bouncy and ready, a playful puppy tugging on a leash. More than that, I was bold from sensing how much they wanted us, and I was wet from how much I wanted Sam. When he put one firm hand on my thigh under the table, I nearly swooned against him. We’d be ripping the clothes off each other in hours.

After drinking away the evening, we made a real date with the rich couple for the following weekend, a date at their place, where they promised to show us their sunken hot tub, wraparound deck, and panoramic view of the city. In cultured voices, they bragged to us about the gold records from his music-producing days, and her collection of antique Viennese perfume bottles accumulated with the assistance of eBay. But although I listened politely, I didn’t care about their money or what it could buy. All I wanted was all Sam wanted, which was simple: four on the floor.

We had done the act already, nearly a year before, with a lower-class duo Sam found for us on the Internet. The woman was thirty-eight, the man twenty-six. They’d been together for two years, and had wanted to sample another couple as a way of enhancing their already wild sex life. After dinner at a local pizzeria, and two bottles of cheap red wine, Pamela and I retreated to the ladies’ room to show each other our tattoos. Hers was a dazzling fuchsia strawberry poised right below her bikini line. When she lifted her white dress, I saw that not only was she pantyless, but she’d been very recently spanked. She blushed becomingly as I admired her glowing red rear cheeks, where lines from Andy’s belt still shone in stark relief against her coppery skin.

Teasingly, I turned to show her the cherries on my lower back, then pulled down my bikinis to reveal the blue rose riding on my hip. She traced my designs with the tips of her fingers, and I felt as if I were falling. Her touch was so light, so gentle, and in moments we started French-kissing, right there in the women’s room at Formico’s, while I could only imagine what the men were doing. Speaking of macho topics to one another, sports and the recent war, while growing harder and harder as they waited for us to return to the red-and-white-checked table.

Sam and I followed the duo to their Redwood City apartment, and into their tiny living room, overshadowed by a huge-screen TV and a brown faux-leather sofa. Pamela had her tongue in my asshole before my navy blue sleeveless dress was all the way off, and my mouth was on Andy’s mammoth cock before he could kick off his battered black motorcycle boots.

The TV stayed on the whole time we were there. Muted, but on. We had crazy sex right on the caramel-colored shag rug in front of it, while heavy metal bands played for us in silence. It was like doing it on stage with Guns N’ Roses. Surreal, but not a turn-off.

I remember a lot of wetness—her mouth, his mouth, her pussy. I remember Sam leaning against the wood-paneled wall at one point in the evening and watching, just watching the three of us entwined, the TV-glow flickering over us, my slim body stretched out between our new lovers. I felt beloved as their fingers stroked me, as they took turns tasting me, splitting my legs as wide as possible and getting in between. I held my arms over my head and Sam bent down and gripped my wrists tight while Pamela licked at me like a pussycat at a saucer of milk.

Scenes flowed through the night, lubricated by our red-wine daze, and we moved easily from one position to another. Pamela bent on her knees at Sam’s feet and brought her mouth to his cock. I worked Andy, bobbing up and down, and after he came for the first time, I moved over to Pamela’s side, so we could take turns drinking from Sam. I was reeling with the wonder of it. The illusion that anything was possible. Any position, any desire.

My blush told him all he needed to know, and soon I was upended over his sturdy lap, and the erotic clapping sounds of a bare-ass spanking rang through the room. Andy punished me to perfection, not letting up when I started to cry and squirm, making me earn the pleasure that flooded through me. Sam filled Pamela’s mouth while watching another man tan my hide.

Andy was a true sadist, which I could appreciate. He had a pair of shiny orange-handled pliers which he used like a magician on his girlfriend’s teacup tits. She didn’t cry or scream; she moaned. He twisted the pliers harder, and her green eyes became a vibrant emerald, as if she’d found some deep hidden secret within herself, and as if that secret gave her power. Andy told us stories of how he liked to spank her with his hand or a belt or paddle. Sometimes he used a wooden ruler. Sometimes he used whatever was nearby. He told us detailed stories of how he fucked her up the ass; how he made her bend over and part her cheeks for him, holding herself open as wide as possible and begging him for it. He liked to lube her up good, and then pour a handful of K-Y into his fist and pump his cock once or twice before taking her. The size of his cock in her back door would often make her cry, but it was a good sort of cry, he explained. Pain and pleasure were entwined in everything they did. Andy’s stories made me more excited, and we kept up our games all night long.

Sam and I had fun with that couple, and we didn’t laugh afterward. We fucked. Not like bunnies, which are cute and soft and sweet. We fucked like us. Hard and raw and all the time. Sam’s large hand slapped down on my ass, connecting over and over as he relived the night. “You little cock slut,” he said, his voice gravelly and low. “Your mouth was all hungry for him. You couldn’t get enough.” I would be red and sore after our sessions, and I relished every mark, every pale plum-colored bruise, every memory. The night was fuel for a year’s worth of fantasies. We got precisely what we wanted, even though we never saw them again, because the woman turned out to be mildly insane. She called and called after our one-night stand. She emailed that she was in love with me, that she was desperate to see me. But Sam and I didn’t want love. We wanted something much less involved but much more momentarily intense: four on the floor.

With Sheila and Richard, we got a great deal more than we bargained for. A gourmet dinner—delivered by a local party service—that dragged on for hours. A tour of their two-story house and their walk-in closets. Close-up views of their his-and-hers Armanis. We received an in-depth explanation of how their pure pedigreed dogs, who were busy in the corner of the living room chewing on pigs’ ears, had been “de-barked.” Their voice boxes had been removed, which had caused the dogs so much trauma, the pets were now on puppy Prozac.

These appearance-obsessed people were the ones we were about to have sex with. I had a difficult time picturing it. Yes, she was attractive, although cool was a better word. Yes, I liked how distinguished he looked in his open-necked crisp white shirt and pressed khakis with the ironed crease down the center. He was so different from Sam with his faded Levi’s and dangling silver wallet chain. But they were trying to win us over, and somehow that made me feel hard and bristly inside. Didn’t stop us from getting busy, though—choosing a spot far away from those demented dogs and peeling our clothes off. Richard didn’t fuck me. He sat nearby and stroked my sleek dark hair out of my eyes and said he wanted to watch. Sheila had on a black velvet catsuit, and she stripped it off with one practiced move and was naked, her platinum hair rippling over her shoulders, her body gleaming chestnut in the candlelight. She stood for a moment, holding the pose, waiting for applause or flashbulbs.

Sam took his cue from Richard at first, backing away, watching while Sheila courted me. Sheila had obviously done this before. She strode to my side and helped to undress me. She cooed softly, admiringly, as she undid my bra and pulled it free, as she slid my satin dove-gray panties down my thighs. Her fingers inspected me all over, as if she was checking to see that a purchase she’d made was acceptable. She kissed wetly into the hollow of my neck and caressed my breasts with her long, delicate fingers, tweaking my rosy nipples just so to make them erect. Then she spread me out on the luxurious multicolored living room rug and started to kiss along the basin of my belly. I had one second to wonder why it is that ménages never take place in beds before I sighed, arched my back, parted my legs for her, and closed my eyes. She turned her body, lowered herself on me, and let me taste her.

Everything about her body felt cool, like polished foil. Her skin. Her lips. Her tangy juices when they flooded out to meet my tongue. We sixty-nined for the men, and for a moment, I was won over. I was fine, alert, and happy. With my mouth on the older woman’s pussy, and my hands stroking her perfect silky body, I lost myself in momentary bliss. She was exotically perfumed, a scent I didn’t recognize but knew must have been imported from Europe. She even tasted expensive. But sex levels out any playing field. I might only have been able to afford CoverGirl dime-store cosmetics rather than Neiman Marcus special blends, but I could find her swollen clit easily, and that’s all that mattered. I teased it out from between her perfectly shaved pussy lips. I sucked hard, and then used my tongue to trace ring around the rosy.

When I felt Sam’s eyes on me, I turned my head to look at him. He gave me a wink, as if to let me know that he approved, and then he nodded forward with his head for me to continue. I could already hear his voice in my mind: “You liked your mouth all glossy with pussy juices, didn’t you, girl? You liked the way she tasted, all slippery and wet?”

But then Sheila started to direct, positioning my body on all fours, before grabbing a carved wooden box from under the coffee table and pulling out a variety of sex toys. This wasn’t like Andy lifting his pliers off the oval-shaped coffee table, an unexpected turn-on. This was planned; I could tell. We had been carefully chosen to star in a prewritten fantasy of Sheila’s. A fantasy in which she was the star and I was her assistant, her underling, her protégé. And even as she buckled on the thick, pink strap-on, I felt myself withdraw.

She took me from behind, holding tightly to my long black hair, and rode me. Her well-manicured fingertips gripped firmly near the base of my scalp, holding me in place. Sam stared into my eyes as I was pounded by this icy woman, and then he came close, his cock out, and placed the head on my full bottom lip. I heard Sheila hiss something—Sam was taking charge and she didn’t like it. But she also didn’t know Sam. Sam would have none of her noise, the way she would have none from her dogs. He fucked my mouth fiercely while she fucked my cunt, and Richard, silent and somewhere off inside himself, tugged on his dick and watched us all.

Sheila had oils that she spread on me with the finesse of a masseuse, and soon we were drippy and glistening in the golden light. She had sturdy metal nipple clamps and assorted colorful dildos, vibrating devices, and butt plugs. She arrayed her collection and went to work. And Sam let it all happen. This was far different, and far less spontaneous, than our experience with Pamela and Andy, but we’d use it. We’d go with it. There were four of us, after all, and we were there.

I came when she oiled me up between my rear cheeks and slowly slipped in a petal-pink butt plug, her knowing fingers working between my thighs to tickle my clit as she filled my ass with the toy. I came again when Sam jacked himself hard and let loose in my mouth, filling me up with his cream as Sheila fucked me from behind. I jammed my fingers between my legs, working my own clit to come a final time when Richard, so distant, lowered his head and shuddered, his body wracked with tremors as he climaxed a white fountain up onto his hard belly.

And we didn’t see them again, even though they called for weeks afterward. Even though they fell a little bit in love with us, as had Pamela and Andy. Because Sam and I weren’t looking for love. We had plenty of that. We were looking for one thing only. And somehow I was sure that we’d find it again once I placed a personal ad of our own: