Jack, Betty, and Al
 
     In 1975, I was living on School Street in Belmont,
Massachusetts, not far from where Concord Avenue dives under
the B&M railroad underpass on the way to Belmont Center.  I
had been divorced for nearly five years, and the woman I
loved most in the world was in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania,
trying to decide whether or not to leave her husband.  I was
not involved with anyone at this time; later in the year, I
found myself involved with a co-worker, a roommate, and my
lover from Pennsylvania.  I was in my late twenties and
still pretty fit, this being long before I started spending
every waking hour behind a VDT.
 
     Poking around the New England sexual underground, I had
started corresponding with an older couple from Providence
named Betty and Al.  (They were both married, but not to
each other, although I didn't learn this until later.)
Betty and Al were curious about group sex, but they were
cautious and didn't want to rush into things.  In addition
to the natural concerns about disease and the risk of
entanglement with psychotic individuals, Al in particular
had two concerns:  first, he wasn't sure how he would feel
watching another man fuck the woman he loved, and second, he
wasn't sure how he felt about possible bisexual activity.
The bottom line was that they wanted someone sensual but
non-threatening to introduce them to things at a pace they
could handle.
 
     One rainy spring night, they drove in from Providence
and rented a room in a motel near the Howard Johnson's at
Fresh Pond in Cambridge.  When they had had dinner and
gotten settled, they gave me a call, and I drove over to
meet them.  It was a beautiful, warm, spring night, when a
medium-heavy rain falling, and I felt good as I parked,
walked past the front desk, and knocked on the door of their
room.
 
     It was a typical motel room:  two large double beds
with a night stand along one wall, and a small table
surrounded by several chairs over by the window.  Betty was
seated at the table, and Al and I joined her.
 
     Al was in his early fifties, 6'4" tall, and still in
excellent shape.  He was a humanities professor at a New
England university.  All in all, he looked like a benign
Charleton Heston,
 
     Betty was beautiful.  She was in her early forties,
5'10" tall, and had a trim figure that Jane Fonda would have
envied.  She was a successful real estate agent and dressed
the part:  she was wearing a knee-length skirt, blouse,
stockings, and three-inch high heels.  The latter were for
my benefit:  as a short man (5'6"), I found it frustrating
that many taller women wouldn't consider sex with a shorter
man.  I had discussed this with Betty, and she had promised
to make herself as tall as possible if that would excite me.
 
     The ground rules we had agreed on were as follows:  any
sexual contact was fine, but I was not to penetrate Betty.
Al and I had talked it over, and he felt too threatened by
the idea, although any other caress was acceptable.  As for
bi activities between Al and myself, we had decided to leave
that up to Betty.  The plan for the evening was to give
Betty as much pleasure as possible:  if it pleased her to
see us touch each other, we would; otherwise, whatever
happened, happened.  We were comfortable with each other:
neither of us was particularly attracted to men, but neither
of us was homophobic, either.
 
     We made small talk for awhile, sitting around that tiny
motel table, talking about the weather and their drive from
Providence and whatnot.  But at some point, Betty stood up,
clearly ill at ease, and said, "I've never done anything
like this before."
 
     "I have," I said.  I stood up and stripped to my
underpants.  "It's easier if we get into bed," I said.
 
     Al followed my lead, except that he stripped down
totally.  He really was in great shape:  strong body, flat
belly, medium-sized cock, and a good pair of balls.
 
     And Betty surprised me.  She was nervous, but she
wasn't shy.  It was obvious that she liked taking her
clothes off, and it was obvious that she'd stripped for Al
before.  If you know Randy Newman's "You Can Keep Your Hat
On" or David Bromberg's "Sharon," then you know what I mean.
She slipped out of her blouse and skirt with delicate twists
and turns, then kicked off her shoes and turned to face us
in her peach-colored bra, panties, garter belt, and
stockings.  She was lovely:  slender legs, round breasts,
and a beautiful bottom that broke my heart.  If I had not
promised that I would not penetrate her, I would have wanted
to take her in the rear.  She put her hands on her hips and
swayed over to me so that I could unsnap her bra.  She
removed her stockings, slowly sliding each one down until I
thought I would go mad.  Finally, she moved over to Al, who
slipped her panties down to the floor.  She stepped out of
them, pulled back the covers on the bed, and lay down.
 
     Al and I joined her.  I lay on her right, and he lay on
her left.  As I slid alongside her, I found that her skin
was exceptionally smooth.  She smelled sweet and clean, with
possibly a touch of Chanel.  She was a little tense,
sandwiched between the two of us, but she wasn't afraid.
 
     "Touch my breasts," she said, and Al and I obliged.
Her breasts were nice:  medium sized, very firm, and with
nipples that soon became quite hard.  I alternated between
cupping her breast with my hand and gently pressing her
nipple between my thumb and forefinger.  Feeling her nipple
harden excited me, and my cock stirred slightly.  She moaned
a little and shifted on the bed, but she was still tense.
She touched my thigh tentatively with her hand.  She was
moaning more strongly now as Al and I brought her nipples to
hard little points of desire.  She twisted slowly from side
to side as one or the other of us sent particular pleasure
through her.
 
     But she was still holding back, in spite of the
pleasure she was feeling, and I decided to see if I could
move her to a level that would involve her total surrender
to enjoyment.  While continuing to manipulate her nipple
with my left hand, I slipped my right hand in a slow caress
along her flat belly, stroked her thigh for a few moments to
prepare her for what was coming, and then began to touch her
pussy.  She was not yet wet, and I didn't want to rush
things -- instead, I gently fingered her outer labia,
feeling for that magic connection that is almost always
there.  She had soft pubic hair, like the down on a newborn
baby's head, and I could feel a ripeness in her that made me
dizzy.  I used the flat of my hand to press against her
clit, still buried in the folds of her mound.  The
electricity was there.  I touched her slowly, slowly, ever
so slowly, telling her with my hand what her choices were,
asking unspoken questions as her clit began to stiffen.  She
made her decision:  with a deep, shuddering groan, the
tension drained from her and she abandoned herself to my
hand.
 
     The ice was broken.  She was breathing more rapidly
now, moaning with pleasure as Al and I touched her.  We
continued at a slow, relaxed pace, and eventually I felt her
pussy become slippery with lubricant.  I felt Al's hand
touch mine as he reached down to caress her.  I let him
continue with her pussy; I slipped my hand away to stroke
her thighs between her knees and her pussy.  She had
delicate knees for someone so athletic.  I looked over at Al
and smiled, and he grinned in return.  I noticed that Betty
was holding his cock and that he was quite hard.  I was wet
and still not stiff, but I wasn't worried -- I knew what
would get me hard.
 
     Sitting up, I slipped out of my undershorts and moved
down to kneel by Betty's pussy.  I spread her legs gently
and moved between them, then began to eat her.  It was
intoxicating:  between the warm, sweet smell of her pussy
and the salty-sweet taste of her fluids, I was completely
bewitched.  I alternated between slipping my tongue inside
her and licking her clit, which by now was quite responsive.
I could feel the colors move through her as I moved my
tongue.  I glanced up for a moment to see what Al was up
to:  he was working on both of her nipples with his hands,
and the two of them were kissing deeply.  Slowly and
carefully, I slipped my thumb into her while continuing to
suck on her clit.  She was gasping for breath between kisses
with Al, and it was obvious that it was not a matter of "if"
so much as "when".
 
     It was clear from Al's erection that he was ready to
mount her, but I was unwilling to relinquish the sweet
wetness of her pussy.  Incredibly, we solved the problem
 
without speaking a word:  I moved from between her legs and
lay beside her "69" fashion, my face at her pussy and my
feet by her head.  She turned onto her right side, so that
her back was to Al and her navel was near my chest.  Al
lifted her left leg slightly, twisted around to get
comfortable, and slipped his cock into her pussy from
behind.  He reached around her to continue fondling her
nipples.  By now she was moaning and panting continuously,
which had me very aroused.  Once Al was positioned, I began
to lick her clit again while his cock moved in her.
 
     We remained this way for nearly an hour.  From time to
time, Al would slip out of her, and I would have to put him
back in.  The first time this happened, she exclaimed, "He
put you back into me!", but after that, she just groaned.
His cock felt like mine, except that he was slippery with
her juices, and it was marvelously strange to touch him.  I
felt very powerful when I placed his cock so that he could
penetrate her again.
 
     Al was incredible.  I'm no flash-in-the-pan, but I'm no
marathon man, either -- my forte is frequency and quantity.
But Al was something else.  He seemed like he could go on
forever, pumping and thrusting in a steady, relentless way
that kept Betty moaning and crying like a wild thing.
Sometimes he moved with long, full strokes that took him
nearly outside her (it was on these strokes that I
occasionally had to put him back into her); other times, he
moved with a staccato rhythm that I thought would surely
bring him to climax.  But nothing seemed to shake his
control:  by his own groans, I knew he was savoring every
inch of her cunt, that they were locked into an intimacy that
they knew well.
 
     And my mouth was always there, my lips nibbling on her
clit, my tongue tasting her clit and labia, nibbing and
tasting, with her clit hard and stiff in
its sheath.  Al's smell was different from hers, but they
were both delicious.  Whenever Al thrust forward, she thrust
forward too, and when she thrust forward, I gave an extra
lick to her clit.
 
     While I was licking her, she was not oblivious to my
own desire for pleasure.  She caressed my cock and balls,
and her hands were very skillful.  Too skillful, in fact,
because it became obvious to me that if she continued
touching me like that, I was going to spill onto the bed
before we had gotten anywhere.  Reluctantly, therefore, I
moved my cock away from her so that I could more fully focus
on licking her.
 
     She came four times in that hour.  The first two times
were sharp, sudden, aching spasms that passed like summer
cloudbursts.  The third time was cataclysmic:  she screamed,
screamed again, and continued to scream until I thought she
would pass out.  My mouth was on her clit, and I could feel
the paroxysms sweep through her as Al's cock impaled her
like a pin through a butterfly.  She went on forever, longer
than I would ever have thought possible.  The fourth time
was almost anti-climactic, a sort of quiet aftershock that
left her quivering and shaking but finally satisfied.
 
     Freeze-frame tableau:  Betty resting quietly, Al's
rock-hard cock in her pussy, Jack's mouth on her clit.
Quiet time passes.
 
     "Stand up on the bed," she said to me.  I got to my
feet and stood facing her, my back to the wall, my feet
straddling Al's shoulders.  Al was lying on his back,
looking up at me.  Betty twisted around so that she was
straddling Al's cock and facing me.  She moved down so that
Al's cock penetrated her again, then took my cock in her
mouth.  She caressed my balls with one hand and used her
other hand to circle the base of my cock.  She looked her
age now, but her face was beautiful with her lips around my
cock, her face suffused with sensuality and satisfaction.
 
     I've had better blow jobs.  It was partly
psychological:  I've been blown by women who truly wanted to
swallow my semen, and that mind-set imparts an enthusiasm
and uninhibited quality that is impossible to fake.  Betty
didn't have it:  it was clear she didn't want me to spill in
her mouth.  It was partly physiological:  her mouth was
really too small to stimulate me properly, although I'm not
 
particularly large.  But she sucked me with a cool
efficiency that was almost professional and which had an
appeal of its own, as if she were a dental hygenist working
on my teeth, and watching her beautiful lips working on my
shaft, I felt a rush of power and desire that made up for
any mere failure of her technique.  I ached for her, and
holding her head in my heads so that I could better thrust
into her mouth, I was overcome with a feeling of utter
tenderness for her.
 
     "I'm going to come," I finally said, and she slipped me
out of her mouth and massaged me with her fingers.  As she
took me the last few strokes to orgasm, it was clear to me
that her talent was in her fingers, not her mouth:  she was
just enough out-of-sync with me that her touch first delayed
my climax, moving me millimeter-by-millimeter closer to
orgasm but never letting me quite reach it, and then
amplified it with a few agonizing strokes that were totally
in sync, so that it was my turn to scream uncontrollably as
my seed spurted onto her breasts and splashed down onto Al's
chest, and she looked up at me with an expression I knew
well, the look of power that comes with giving another
person total satisfaction.
 
     Freeze-frame.  Tableau.
 
     Until my knees got weak and I slipped down onto the
bed, and her head fell forward to rest on Al's chest,
despite the splashes of cum.  I moved down to smell her
cunt, and Al's limp cock slipped out of her, and it was then
that I realized that he too had finally finished, had
finished while she was sucking me.  I licked her
tentatively, trying to determine whether she was truly
satisfied, tasting the chlorine-spicy flavor of Al's semen,
but it was over:  she was done.
 
     And at some point, while the three of us lay there in
the post-coital euphoria that one of my lovers called "Bliss
Hotel", we started to laugh, partly from joy, partly from
relief, but mostly from pride, pride in having pleased each
other, at having pulled it off.  It felt good to laugh
 
together, the smells of our bodies filling the room, and the
sound of the rain on the window.
 
     While Al showered, Betty and I lay there together, her
head resting in my lap, and my eyes admiring her trim lines.
She really was built like a gazelle.  At some point, I said,
"You really are something else," and she smiled an enigmatic
smile.
 
     I never saw them again.  We corresponded for awhile,
but eventually my lover from Pennsylvania left her husband
and came to live with me, and my life became incredibly
complicated.

