Chapter Thirteen

Dinner at Eight

 

 

 

Mark was gone when Miranda woke the next morning, but he had left a note sticking out of the Dickens volume on her bedside table.

 

Sorry to abandon you, but I have a student conference with a real early bird. I’ll call you later. Thank you for a most sumptuous evening. We should do it again, soon… Love, Mark.

 

Miranda smiled to herself, recalling the carnal extravagances of the previous night. Her body felt stretched and light. Sex with Mark opened the doors of her soul and let all the heaviness fly away. After a night with him, she was more than satisfied. She felt whole, healthy, totally alive.

Was this love? she wondered. The passion reminded her of those first days with Geoffrey, but her interactions with Mark were usually more friendly than romantic. Humor always lurked just below the surface. It was difficult to imagine Mark being serious for long.

The telephone rang, breaking into her reverie. She raced to catch it before the machine picked up, thinking that it would be Mark. However, it was Lucy, her long-absent flatmate.

Lucy had returned from Paris more than a week ago. Miranda had seen her only once since then, a whirlwind meeting the day after her arrival. Lucy had embraced Miranda enthusiastically then apologized for having no time. “I’m just here for my stuff,” she said. “I’m moving in with Ray. But don’t worry, I’ll keep paying my part of the rent until you find another roommate.”

If possible, Lucy seemed more gorgeous and vivacious than ever. Obviously, her current relationship agreed with her. Miranda sat on the bed while Lucy flew back and forth between closet and suitcases, tumbling her colorful clothing helter-skelter into the luggage. Lucy was chattering about Paris, the cafés, the gardens, all the places that Ray had showed her. Miranda listened with half an ear. Most of her attention was focused on her own intense reactions to the physical presence of her friend.

Lucy was wearing a skimpy halter top and shorts, which displayed her pert breasts and compact hips to great advantage. Miranda imagined resting her hands on those hips, pulling Lucy’s pelvis against her own, taking that bow-shaped mouth in a wet, penetrating kiss. Lucy seemed oblivious to the effect she was having on Miranda. She seemed lively, young, even innocent. Miranda recalled her dream of Lucy as the lascivious and forward maid. That role did not fit the woman before her. It was Miranda who was the lustful aggressor, the predator.

My own mind betrays me, thought Miranda. That is the way I’d like her to be. Did I choose her as my roommate because, unconsciously, I wanted her?

In a mere fifteen minutes, Lucy had already finished her haphazard packing. She snapped the suitcases shut and stood up, looking at Miranda. She must have seen some hint of Miranda’s confused excitement and sense of loss. Impulsively, she threw her arms around her erstwhile roommate and gave Miranda a hug. Miranda was distracted by the sensation of Lucy’s nipples, poking through the halter and her own T-shirt.

“Hey, don’t worry, Mir! We’ll keep in touch. I want you to meet Ray. I’m sure that you’ll adore him, and vice versa. And we have to get together soon for some girl talk.” She pulled away and gave Miranda a luminous smile. “I want to hear all the details about the scene with Big Daddy!”

For a moment, Miranda saw something in Lucy’s eyes that she could almost believe was lust. Then her energetic friend grabbed the two heavy cases and heaved them toward the door. “I’ll call you soon,” she said. “You should come over for dinner. Bring your friend.” She grinned, her eyes full of mischief. “The one who left his boxer shorts next to the microwave.”

Miranda felt the heat of a blush climbing into her cheeks.

Lucy gave her one last, equivocal look. “See you soon, Mir.” Then she was working her way downstairs, dragging the suitcases behind her.

I didn’t even offer to help, thought Miranda, as Lucy’s voice on the other end of the line brought her back to the here and now. I was too busy gawking at her.

“Mir! How are you?”

“Actually, Lucy, I’m doing really well. What about you?”

“Better than ever. Look, are you free tonight?”

“I didn’t have any specific plans.”

“Come over for dinner, then. Ray’s got this wonderful place in Back Bay, with a view of the river. It’s fantastic. And he’s a marvelous cook, on top of everything else.”

The energy and enthusiasm in Lucy’s voice set up an ache in Miranda’s loins. “Sounds great. What time?”

“About eight would be good. The address is fourteen-twenty-one Newbury Street, Apartment four.”

“I’ll be there.”

“And, Mir, your friend is invited, too.”

“Mark,” said Miranda. “He’s somebody that I met in the department. A post-doc.”

“Obviously a bit more than met,” said Lucy with a bit of a giggle. “No, really, I apologize for teasing you. If he’d like to come, he’s more than welcome.”

“I’ll see if he’s free. He’s an extremely nice guy, Lucy.”

“I’m sure that he is, if you’re involved with him. You have high standards.”

Sure, thought Miranda wryly, that’s why I fuck bikers in seedy bars. But things had changed. The desperation that had driven her that night was gone.

“See you tonight, then, Lucy. I’ll bring some wine.”

“Just bring yourself, girl. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

We certainly do, thought Miranda as she hung up. She needed to learn more about Lucy’s true nature. The blonde had always given the impression of being exclusively and enthusiastically heterosexual, but perhaps that was a carefully constructed façade. If not, then perhaps her fair friend would be susceptible to Miranda’s broadening influence.

As Miranda sat on the couch, musing distractedly about her chances with Lucy, the telephone rang again. This time, it was Mark. The warmth in his voice sent hot blood to her cheeks and her sex. He sounded delighted at Lucy’s invitation.

“I’ve been wanting to meet the mysterious Lucy ever since you mentioned her,” he remarked, laughter simmering in his voice. “From what you say, she’s quite the bombshell. She was the one, wasn’t she, who originally set up the meeting with that Big Daddy fellow?”

Miranda was impressed by his recall of details. “Yes. I was really surprised to learn that she was into anything at all kinky. She was always seductive and flirtatious, but in a wholesome, Marilyn Monroe kind of way. Anyway, I hope that you won’t fall head over heels for her like everyone else, because at this point, I gather she’s quite thoroughly taken.” She suddenly felt an uncomfortable twinge of jealousy, without being completely sure at whom it was directed—Lucy for having landed Ray, or Mark for his obvious interest in Lucy.

“Commitment doesn’t always equal monogamy,” Mark commented quietly. There was silence as Miranda tried to digest this. When he spoke again, his tone was lighter. “I’ll meet you at your apartment around seven-thirty and we can take the T. Okay?”

“Sounds great.” Despite herself, a bit of longing crept into her voice. “I’ll be looking forward to seeing you.”

“Me, too,” said Mark. “Last night was wonderful, but I want much more of you.”

As he hung up, Miranda wondered at his strangely serious mood.

She spent a productive day working on her thesis. At six, she put away her computer and her notes and went to shower. The stinging spray enlivened her body, bringing the blood to the surface and awakening senses dulled by hours of intellectual activity. It turned up the volume on that hum of desire that had been there, just barely perceptible, since her conversation with Mark.

Lathering her hands, she slid them over her breasts, delighting in the dual sensation, the sensuous heaviness of her flesh cupped in her palms, the tingling where her fingers brushed her puckered areolae. One taut nipple barely grazed the sensitive place between forefinger and thumb, and she gasped as electricity shot through all her limbs, converging on her sex. Dangerous to play with electricity in the bath, came the giddy thought. She detached the shower head from its mount. Wrestling a little with the awkward hose, she directed the spray at the swollen folds between her thighs.

Pressurized needles of hot water invaded her sex, stinging and stimulating simultaneously. The effect was overwhelming. She had to lean against the tiled wall in order to keep her balance. Holding the sprayer with one hand, she used the other to open her lips and direct the flow more deeply. The water danced over her exposed clit, triggering a convulsion that made her drop the shower head. It lashed around like a snake in the bottom of the tub. Meanwhile, Miranda’s eyes were squeezed shut as she finished herself with both hands, soapy fingers rubbing her clitoris and pushing deep into her vagina. As a climax seized her body, an image floated through her mind, her dream-image of Lucy, Victorian petticoats around her waist and thighs spread wide, frigging herself with total abandon.

When she’d recovered slightly, Miranda retrieved the shower head and replaced it in its mounting bracket, then turned the cold water full on. The water was ice after her scalding orgasm, shocking but refreshing. She rinsed, then toweled herself briskly, coaxing the blood back to her skin. She felt deliciously clean and mostly satisfied, her arousal damped down to a bearable level.

For the next forty-five minutes, Miranda paced back and forth in front of her closet, puzzling over what to wear. There were so many variables, so many different reactions to consider. Should she wear her new leather skirt, to impress Lucy with what a kick-ass girl she had become? What about the purple and silver outfit from the other night? It was sexy, she knew—Mark had made that abundantly clear—but given that she had never met Ray, perhaps it would give him the wrong impression. Of course, it would not strictly speaking be wrong, in the sense of inaccurate, thought Miranda with an inner grin, but I’m not sure that’s what I want him to think of me.

She wondered whether Lucy had told Ray how Miranda had adopted Lucy’s identity. It made her nervous to imagine his reactions if Lucy had confided in him. Who knew what preconceived notions Ray might have about Miranda’s personality?

When Mark rang the doorbell, Miranda was still in her underwear, discarded clothing piled on the bed. She buzzed the downstairs door open and met him at her apartment entrance wearing nothing but a black lace bikini. He whistled appreciatively. “I like your dinner attire!”

By this time, Miranda was frustrated and frazzled. “Very funny. I’m going out of my mind trying to figure out what kind of dress is appropriate.” She looked him over, thinking she might find some guidance. He was dressed more formally than usual, in nicely creased twill slacks, off-white shirt open at the neck, and a matching twill blazer. With his horn-rimmed glasses, he looked the quintessential professor. “You’re pretty dressed up,” she said. Her frustration melted away as he swallowed her up in a full-body kiss.

“You’ll look great whatever you wear,” he said when he released her. “But I thought it might be nice to add a bit of ceremony to the occasion.”

“You’re right,” said Miranda. “I have just the thing. Sit down and say hi to Heathcliff. I’ll be out in a jiffy.”

Ten minutes later, she emerged from the bedroom in a simple black crepe gown that draped her in graceful folds from her bare shoulders to her ankles. Pearls dangled from her earlobes and a matching choker encircled her throat. “Mmm,” said Mark. “Elegant but sexy. I know Lucy will be impressed.”

Miranda wondered, in passing, why he mentioned Lucy but not Ray.

They stood together on the platform waiting for a train. Rush hour was over, so their conversation could be fairly private. Miranda broached the subject that she had been intending to discuss the previous evening, what to do with Beatrice’s diary.

“I’m really torn. On the one hand, the diary is such powerful evidence for my thesis, I can hardly afford not to discuss it. On the other, I somehow feel that Beatrice is a personal friend. She would never have wanted her adventures made public—that’s why she wrote in disappearing ink, to keep them secret. To expose her musings and her activities to the academic community feels like a betrayal of trust. The dons and the critics would dissect and debate her words, be scandalized or titillated depending on their predispositions. They would lose sight of the fact that she was a real person, full of intense but conflicting desires. She would become merely a character.”

“I can understand your concern,” said Mark. “You should also consider the fact that if you go public with the diary, it’s unlikely that you’ll be able to keep possession of it. Clearly, it belongs to you—you bought and paid for it. But I suspect that you would be deluged with offers from both scholarly institutions and private collectors, offers that would be very difficult to refuse. You might end up fairly wealthy, of course. Somehow, though, I doubt that you would want to profit at Beatrice’s expense. Even if you held firm and decided to keep the journal, you would have to lock it up in a safe deposit box or something. It wouldn’t be safe in your apartment.”

“You’re right,” sighed Miranda. “Still, it feels selfish to keep Beatrice to myself. I don’t know. I’ve been puzzling over this for days now.”

“If I have any ideas, I’ll be sure to share them with you. I suspect that you’ll think of something, though.”

The roar of an approaching train interrupted their conversation. They sat together, thighs touching, through the brief ride to the Park Street station. Here they changed to a Green Line trolley that took them to Copley Square, a five-minute walk from the address Lucy had supplied.

The late spring evening was deliciously mild. The unseasonable heat wave had finally broken. A cool breeze off the river, a few blocks away, stirred Miranda’s hair. They strolled toward its source in companionable silence. Mark was a comforting presence beside her. She caught a whiff of his clean, masculine scent and felt her heartbeat accelerate.

The Back Bay district was newer than Beacon Hill, but it still had a historic atmosphere that appealed to Miranda. The houses were grander than many in her neighborhood, often five or more stories tall, with columned entrances, double bay windows, and bronze roofing and trim. Many were fashioned of stone rather than brick. Hard to believe that only a century ago, these were single family homes.

By the time they reached Ray’s place, Miranda was feeling nervous. His building was one of the largest and most heavily ornamented on the block. The doorbell echoed inside. For a few seconds, there was no response. Miranda had a weird desire to turn and run away. Then the intercom crackled.

“Miranda?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Come on up. It’s on the fourth floor.”

The door buzzed as it was remotely unlocked. Miranda and Mark found themselves in a spacious hallway, with a marble staircase that spiraled upwards. At the top, there was an open door, framing a tall man with wildly curly hair. He held out his hand to her.

“Miranda! I’m Ray Mitchell. Delighted to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you from Lucy, I almost feel that I know you already.” His rich, warm voice somehow reminded Miranda of polished wood. As he ushered them inside, Miranda surveyed the man who had won Lucy’s heart.

He had a gangling, geekish quality that surprised her. Well over six feet tall, he was thin, almost skinny, with enormous hands and feet. Wire-framed glasses sat on his prominent nose. His head was a tangled mass of dark blond curls. His hair and his quirky smile reminded Miranda of a teenager, but he was probably in his mid-thirties. In his penetrating blue eyes, she saw intelligence and humor. He was certainly not the gorgeous muscleman typical of Lucy’s conquests. Miranda liked him immediately.

Lucy waited just inside the door. As soon as she saw Miranda, she rushed forward to give her a hug. “Mir, you look fabulous!” she cried. Impulsively, she kissed Miranda on the cheek before releasing her. Miranda felt ghostly lips on her skin for long minutes afterward. Lucy’s perfume made her feel slightly unbalanced.

“You look pretty gorgeous yourself.” Like Miranda, the blonde woman had opted for a dressy look. She wore a brief cocktail dress fashioned of burgundy velvet, with halter-style straps that highlighted her cleavage. Miranda caught a glimpse of diamond studs in Lucy’s earlobes, then noticed her teardrop diamond pendant.

“A present from Ray,” Lucy whispered. “He’s a software whiz. The company he started went public last fall, and now he has more money than he knows what to do with.”

Miranda glanced back at Ray. He wore simple, quality clothing. The only jewelry she noticed was a massive signet ring on his left middle finger. Clearly, money had not gone to his head.

He and Mark were watching the women’s enthusiastic reunion, with similar grins. Miranda tried to compose herself, to moderate the effects of Lucy’s closeness.

“Forgive my impoliteness,” she said. “Lucy, Ray, I’d like you to meet Mark Anderson. Mark is a post-doctoral student in my department, a specialist in Dickens. Mark, let me present Lucy Hirsch, former roommate and business student extraordinaire.”

Mark took Lucy’s proffered hand. Much to Miranda’s surprise, he leaned over it and brushed it with his lips. “Enchanted to meet you,” he murmured. Lucy looked both alarmed and pleased. Then Mark burst out laughing, breaking the tension. “Sorry, but Miranda’s introductions were so formal I couldn’t resist being a bit camp. As Miranda may have mentioned, I used to do a lot of theater. Sometimes I get carried away.”

“Welcome to you both,” said Ray. “I’m really glad you could make it tonight. Come in and make yourselves drinks while I get the appetizers.” He indicated a well-stocked bar embedded in a wall of bookcases, then left the room.

Lucy had not exaggerated. Ray’s apartment was spectacular. Apparently he had the whole top floor. Only the high ceilings gave a hint that the building dated from the nineteenth century. The appointments and décor were completely modern. White shag carpet stretched from the tiled entryway to the wall of windows at the other end of the huge living-dining room area. Through this wall of glass, you could see the twilight sky, the Esplanade greenery swaying in the wind, the traffic crawling along Storrow Drive, the lights of Cambridge and Boston reflected in the calm waters of the Charles. Couches and armchairs of black leather and tubular steel were arranged in front of the window, while a Scandinavian-style teak dining set stood along the left wall.

Miranda poured herself a glass of wine and stood gazing out at the river, listening to Mark and Lucy banter about the perils of graduate school. She still felt vaguely unsettled by the whole situation. She sensed rather than heard Ray come up behind her. “Great, isn’t it?” he commented. “Sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I am.” He was wearing cologne which was somehow familiar. It made her feel even more confused. Then the recollection hit her like a physical blow. This was the same spruce-like scent worn by her mysterious Spanish dancing partner, that night in the disco. Memory flooded her, the memory of his hands and his breath in her ear, her newly awakened hunger and frustration. Her lacy panties were suddenly and completely soaked.

She felt her cheeks heat with her rising blood. Ray must have noticed her flush. His voice held concern. “Are you feeling all right, Miranda? You look a bit shaky.”

Miranda made a valiant attempt to get control of herself. “Just felt a little dizzy,” she said. “Maybe it’s the height.”

Ray nodded, apparently satisfied with her explanation. “Come and try the mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat. They’re one of my specialties.”

The four of them gathered around the glass and steel coffee table, chatting amiably while munching on mushrooms, smoked salmon with dill, and kalamata olives. Almost before she had noticed her empty glass, Ray jumped up and refilled it. The wine coursed through her, providing some chemical relaxation, though she still got goosebumps whenever she looked at Lucy. Mark and Lucy seemed to be getting on very well, she noted, trying to ignore the faint, sour taste of envy in her mouth. Ray noticed her glance toward the animated blonde. “She’s quite a woman, isn’t she? I can hardly believe that she chose me.”

Miranda smiled at him. “From what Lucy says, you’re a pretty remarkable person yourself.” It was true—his honesty, lack of affectation and genuine warmth made her feel more comfortable than she had since her arrival. He had a quiet self-confidence that was unusual for someone who might justifiably be labeled a ‘nerd’. Perhaps this was the result of seeing his original ideas turned into wealth. On the other, perhaps he simply violated the stereotype.

Dinner was delicious but somewhat raucous. Somehow the topic turned to politics, and Mark began doing impressions of prominent politicians from both parties. He had them laughing so hard, Miranda almost choked on her chicken marsala. From politicians he moved to other celebrities. His imitation of Madonna had Ray pounding the table as great guffaws poured from him.

They quieted down for dessert, exhausted by their hilarity. The conversation shifted to travel. Mark began telling them about Thailand. Before long, he was deep into a description of a visit to a massage parlor, where the specialty was ‘full body massage’.

“You enter and get directed to a room that is basically a coffee shop. You can order beer, or tea, or a bite to eat. Meanwhile, a glass wall separates you from a room where all the masseuses sit, waiting to be chosen. They wear tight dresses and numbered badges. When you have decided which girl you want, you tell the hostess her number. They lead you to a tiled room with a stainless steel massage table and a drain on the floor. Pretty soon, your chosen young woman arrives.

“She’ll remove her dress right away, then take off your clothing. Usually, she won’t speak much English, but you don’t need language to communicate. The Thai women have strong, talented fingers. She’ll start by giving you the best massage of your life, kneading, poking, delving deep into your muscles to root out all the tension and pain. She’ll straddle you while she’s doing this, so that her skin may brush yours. However, she’s totally involved in ministering to your muscles—she’s not thinking about sex. If she notices your erection, she may giggle. ‘Later,’ she’ll say with a smile. ‘First, do massage.’

“When your body is totally relaxed and warm, she will bring out the soap. Using a sprayer on the wall, she will soak her gorgeous, smooth skin, then lather her body until she is entirely covered with suds. At this point, the mood has changed. She climbs back up on the table with a mischievous gleam in her brown eyes and starts to rub her body against yours. If your erection has subsided, it quickly reasserts itself. She may wrap her soapy palms around your rod and stroke you slickly until you find release. More commonly, she will simply lie on top of you, wriggling and teasing. You’re allowed to fondle her slippery breasts or her tight buttocks, but you’re not supposed to touch her sex. If you try, she’ll likely get up and leave.

“Before long, your semen will be mixed with the white suds. There’s no penetration, no genital contact, but somehow the constraints make the situation even more erotic. It’s like being a teenager again, a little scared that you might go too far, the restrictions making your lust burn hotter than it would if you could satisfy yourself completely.

“After you come, she’ll wash and rinse you thoroughly, then dry you all over with a huge, rough towel. Once again, she’s all business, though an occasional caress might be permitted. You feel wonderful, healthy, clean and comfortable. When you give her your tip, she’ll smile sweetly and she might kiss you. More likely, though, she will place her palms together and give you a wai, the traditional Thai gesture of respect.”

Miranda found this description distinctly stimulating. She suspected that the others did, also. Across the table, she could see Lucy’s nipples distorting the stretchy velvet of her dress. She realized that Mark’s hand was resting on her thigh under the table, his fingers sliding the crepe back and forth over her skin.

“So, are these massage parlors just for men, then?” asked Lucy. “Or do they have similar places for women?”

“I never saw a woman customer in one of the Thai massage parlors. I suspect that a woman would be welcomed, though, if she was interested. The Thais are very adaptable, especially when there is either money or pleasure involved. And in this case, there’s both.”

“You think the massage girls enjoy their jobs?” asked Miranda. She tried to imagine what it would be like, to be chosen by strangers, to bare her body and use it to pleasure them. Her sex tingled with the thought.

“Oh, definitely. In general, the Thais don’t do things unless they want to. You know how the Eskimos supposedly have twenty different words for snow? Well, the Thais have dozens of specialized words for ‘having a good time’. There’s sanuk kin khao, having a good time eating, sanuk fawn-ram, having a good time dancing, sanuk kwui pheun, having a good time talking to friends. I’m certain that there must be a word for having a good time screwing, though I never learned it.”

“Sounds like Thailand is quite a place. We should take a trip there, Lucy.” Ray beamed a smile to the rest of the group.

“I’ve heard that Paris is pretty wild,” said Mark, “but I’ve never been there.”

Lucy chimed in. “Oh, we did have some crazy times in Paris. Remember the sex cabaret?”

Ray stood up. “Excuse me for interrupting, but why don’t we adjourn to the sitting area? It’s more comfortable. Would anyone like a brandy, by the way?”

Mark and Lucy accepted; Miranda declined. The group had consumed three bottles of wine over dinner, and Miranda was feeling the effects. There was none of the drowsiness that sometimes accompanies intoxication, though. Her mind was alert and all her senses were alive. She curled up in a corner of the leather sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, and watched Ray distribute snifters to his other guests. Despite his long legs and giant feet, he moved gracefully.

Her attention shifted to Lucy. She was sitting cross-legged on a pillow on the floor. Her pose was totally at odds with her fancy dress. She looked young and carefree, almost like a tomboy, with her short curls and her velvet hem riding up nearly to her crotch. Her blue eyes sparkled as she watched her fiancé. Miranda ached to run her fingers through those ringlets, to snake her hand into that cave of shadows between Lucy’s thighs.

Finally, they were all settled. Mark took a sip of his brandy and closed his eyes, savoring it. “Wonderful,” he said. “In the words of Sally Bowles, ‘divine decadence’. And speaking of decadence, Lucy, you were telling us about Paris…”

“Yes—the sex cabaret. It was just like a nightclub, little tables all crowded together, dim lighting, scantily-clad cocktail waitresses. All the entertainment, though, was X-rated. There were comedians who told nothing but dirty jokes—in French, but we got the gist—a magician who stuck a vibrator and a butt plug into his beautiful assistant before he sawed her in half, apache dancers who ended their number by having sex right on stage—it was amazing.”

Lucy stopped to taste her drink. “My favorite act,” she said, her voice a little husky, “was the lesbian couple. They looked like twins, except that one had red hair, cropped short like a boy, while the other one’s hair was black. They were identically dressed in tight leather pants and white singlets. Barefoot, as I recall. Both had full breasts. As they caressed each other through the cotton shirts, you could actually see their nipples harden.”

She licked her lips and leaned toward her audience. “It was like a dance, the way they undressed each other, choreographed and graceful. Once they were naked, though, the mood changed. The brunette had a thick bush of dark hair between her legs. The redhead was shaved bare. She crouched down on her haunches in front of the dark one, and ate her pussy so ferociously that the other woman actually collapsed backward onto the stage. Then the dark woman just lay there, her thighs spread open, facing the audience, while Red plunged her whole hand into that hairy cleft. It was incredibly raw.”

“Their act ended with Red pushing one end of a double dildo up inside her cunt, then screwing the brunette with the other end. The amazing thing was that neither of them made a sound, at least not that could be heard above the music. But I swear, I could tell when the dark-haired one climaxed. I could see it in her face.”

Miranda’s blood roared in her ears. Here was the answer to her question. Lucy was clearly aroused by the sight, the thought, of women having sex with each other. Almost without thinking, she slid off the sofa and kneeled on the carpet next to her friend. “You are a nasty little girl, Lucy,” she murmured, taking Lucy’s head in both hands and pulling their mouths together into a wet, probing kiss.

She felt Lucy’s body stiffen briefly, as if in surprise. Then her friend opened her mouth and welcomed Miranda’s tongue. Miranda sensed hands, Lucy’s hands, exploring her, tracing the line of her hips, cupping her breasts, delicately fingering her nipples. So, Lucy—I was right about you.

Miranda reached behind Lucy’s neck and unfastened the button that held the two sides of the halter top together. Still deep in the kiss, she peeled the velvet dress down Lucy’s form, exposing the blonde’s firm breasts. Her eyes were closed, but she had seen Lucy unclothed. She could imagine the peach-smooth skin swelling up, the rose-hued nipples straining forward, aching for a touch. She caught one of them between her first and second fingers. It nestled there, in the sensitive place where the fingers met, driving her crazy. She applied a bit of pressure and felt the nubbin of flesh swell and harden further. Lucy gave a low moan.

I’ll bet she is really wet, thought Miranda. Without releasing the captured nipple, she slipped her other hand under Lucy’s skirt. She expected to find damp undergarments. Instead, her fingers touched slick, hot, hairless flesh.

A bolt of excitement shot through her. She’s as much a slut as I am. Without preamble, she sank her middle finger deep into the other woman’s cunt and swirled it in a circle. Lucy’s muscles clenched around the intruding finger. Miranda probed deeper, forcing those muscles to relax. Inside, Lucy was like drenched velvet, smooth as a dream, hot as molten lava. The sensation almost made Miranda swoon. Meanwhile, Lucy collapsed backwards onto the pillow. She lay there, thighs wide, dress crumpled around her waist, eyes shut, hands frantically kneading her own breasts.

Miranda began to pump Lucy’s vagina with her middle finger. The girl writhed and pushed her pelvis against Miranda’s hand. With her thumb, Miranda sought and found the hidden bead of Lucy’s clit. Roughly, she rubbed it with the ball of her thumb, all the time stroking away in Lucy’s cunt.

Lucy was moaning non-stop now, sucking on her own thumb as if it were a cock. If only I had a cock, thought Miranda, or one of the double dongs. How I’d love to fuck her now, split her wide, fill her completely. All at once, she remembered Mark and Ray.

She glanced over her shoulder, still working Lucy’s sex with both hands. The two men’s eyes were riveted on the scene before them. They wore identical grins. Furthermore, both of them had unzipped their flies and were handling substantial erections.

The sight inflamed her. So they were enjoying the show? Well, she would give them something to remember. She pulled her hands from Lucy’s cunt, eliciting a whimper of protest, and used them to spread the other woman’s thighs even wider. Then she bent over, her own ass in the air, and began to lick the juicy folds between her friend’s legs.

This was all new to her, yet she felt surprisingly confident. She seemed to know just how to please a woman. She knew how to nibble, to suck, to lick, how to probe Lucy’s salty depths with a rigid tongue and use gentler strokes across her stiff clit. Miranda’s chin and cheeks dripped with Lucy’s essence. She stepped up her pace, determined to bring the girl to climax.

Lucy was close. Miranda felt the tremors whenever her tongue pushed into Lucy’s pussy, rumblings of an earthquake to come. Meanwhile, her own sex was soaked and swollen. Each time she tongued Lucy’s clit, she felt an echo in her own.

She burrowed into Lucy’s wetness with new ferocity. She was afraid that she would hurt the woman, but the rougher she was, the more excited Lucy became. Miranda began to use her teeth as well as lips and tongue. She thought she tasted a metallic hint of blood, along with the salt and the seaweed flavors. Please, Lucy, come soon, she thought, before I do you some real damage.

Suddenly there were new sensations, hands on her hips, fabric sliding upward to expose her backside, fingers stroking lightly along her lace-sheathed cleft. Mark! Then she caught a whiff of evergreen. Ray’s voice whispered in her ear.

“Finger her ass,” he advised. “She really likes that.”

Miranda did not hesitate. Her hands were still slick with Lucy’s secretions. Without removing her mouth from her girlfriend’s crotch, she reached underneath the elevated hips and found the tight knot of muscle there. She stroked across the entrance. A shudder ran through Lucy’s frame. She pushed her way into that tight gate, and felt Lucy’s body explode.

Lucy’s legs wrapped around Miranda neck and pulled her face so deeply into Lucy’s crotch that she feared suffocation. Fresh juices gushed from Lucy’s convulsing cunt. The sex flesh vibrated against Miranda’s mouth, throbbing in time with the little yelps Lucy was making.

In the midst of it all, Miranda felt her panties pushed aside and her own sex parted by a dick of giant proportions. Apparently Ray’s cock was on the same scale as his hands and feet. She remembered Mark and felt briefly guilty, before she gave herself up to the delightful sensation of being full to bursting.

Terribly aroused from her encounter with Lucy, she was certain that she would come right away. However, Ray played her body with incredible skill, plowing her hard until she was right on the edge, then backing off to let the turmoil subside. At some point, she did not recall when, Lucy released her from the stranglehold and she looked over her shoulder at her partner.

He was naked. He had removed his glasses, and his myopic eyes shined, soft and unfocused. His lips were parted in a half smile. “You’re lovely, Miranda,” he murmured in that rich, silky voice. “As lovely and as hot as Lucy said.” Miranda felt a brief stab of worry, wondering how much Lucy had told him. As if reading her mind, he continued. “Don’t worry about what she told me. Believe me, whatever you’ve done only makes you more attractive to me.” He was quiet for a few minutes as he accelerated his thrusts, bringing her to one of those mini-crescendos.

After a while, he stopped and helped her remove her clothes. “I wouldn’t want to ruin such an elegant dress.” Then he positioned her in one of the armchairs, with her thighs wide and heels resting on the arms. The leather was cool and smooth against her bare buttocks. He stood between her legs, readying himself to re-enter. Miranda was astonished by his cock, jutting hugely toward the ceiling. She was reminded of Gyspy-hair, but this man’s organ, despite its size, gave a sense of well-proportioned grace rather than grossness. She could not see the veins, but the livid bulb was clearly visible through the condom. Seeing him, she wanted him even more. She sank into the chair and held her cunt-lips open. “Take me,” she begged. She moaned in delight as he complied.

Ray fucked her for what seemed like hours, in a half-dozen positions. She had four climaxes, each more intense than the last. She must have been foggy with lust. For the longest time, neither Mark nor Lucy crossed her mind. There was only Ray, his sweet voice, his enormous and nimble penis.

Then suddenly, as he held her against the wall, her legs grappling his waist, and fucked her blind, she remembered. “Uh…” she said, unsealing her mouth from his. “What about Mark? And Lucy?”

Ray smiled beatifically and gestured over toward the dining area. Mark sat naked on one of the dining room chairs, his hands gripping the legs. Lucy sat in his lap, facing him, obviously impaled on his cock. She was riding him wildly, feet on the chair rungs and hands on his shoulders. Her breasts bobbed up and down with the force of her thrusts. Her hair was tangled in her eyes. Her mouth was open—now Miranda wondered how she could have ignored her roommates’ cries.

“Oh, yeah, fuck me, Mark. That’s so good. Oh yeah, I see why Miranda likes you. Fuck, I like your cock, I want your cock, I’m going to fuck your cock until I come all over you…”

Mark’s eyes were closed. On his face, there was a smile that Miranda knew well—a smile of pure bliss.

Watching them, she felt her own cunt contract in sympathy. Ray responded with a little thrust. They were obviously enjoying themselves as much as she and Ray. She was surprised to realize that she felt no jealousy at all. She didn’t worry that Lucy would usurp her place in Mark’s affections. She was not concerned that, with Mark to satisfy her, Lucy would lose interest in Miranda. Furthermore, she understood that her own encounter with Ray in no way threatened his relationship with Lucy. Commitment doesn’t equal monogamy, Mark had said. Now she understood, deep in her soul, exactly what he meant.

Ray kissed her playfully, still holding her, his cock embedded in her depths. “They look like they’re having fun,” he said. “Why don’t we go over and join them?”