Part 8 A perfect triangle
Jill made the date for seven days later. That mystical number, seven. A week to build anticipation. She spoke to Steve on the phone every day. Most conversations I heard, in the evening. They varied. Sometimes they would simply shoot the breeze. Sometimes she was a woman talking to her lover, which, in point of fact, was the case. His fucking her at the hotel and at his house had established that. The faulty recording had established that. That was clearly established at our inaugural dinner. When Steve joined us again, and we all were stripped bare, he would be her lover taking her. That was what banished any pretense from our threesomes. She would give her all to him in limited time for my unspeakable thrill, and she would be totally free to enjoy her own unspeakable thrills with another man. Her lover.
The date was set at eight o'clock. "Casual dress," Jill instructed. She made no special preparations. Marsha and her crew had done comprehensive house cleaning. Jill picked up a party tray of dip and assorted dainties at the grocery. I gave her pubic hair a neat trim. As a team we put clean starched sheets on the king size bed. That was all the preparation required.
I answered the door chime. "Hi Jack." "Great to see you, Steve." Masculine hand shake.
Jill appeared in the same kimono she wore when we listened to the secret recording of Steve having her. She was obviously naked under the silk. She walked to Steve and kissed him, her lover for the night. "You are here," she said, which said it all. "I forgot to ask, you do swim, don't you?"
"I do."
"Good. We are going skinny dipping."
And once again she put her arms around her lovers and led us to the bed room. She maneuvered Steve to sit on the edge of the mattress. She knelt to remove his sandals and socks and place them neatly aside. She playfully slapped his hands working his belt. "Let me do that." She opened the zipper and pulled his Bermuda shorts off and put them with the socks and sandals. He stood and removed his polo shirt while Jill pulled his navy blue jockey shorts down and off his feet. His cock sprang up to a thirty degree stance.
It was just as she said, a beautiful, perfectly proportioned cock. I could form such thought with no niggling question of a buried queer capacity struggling to come out. I had twenty three years to come to terms with that, and so much more, of who and what I was. Watching five other men fuck my wife, a couple on repeated occasions, offered many flashes of detached views and evaluations, conclusions that the male body was just as attractive, even beautiful, as a female body. When it was, needless to say.
Steve was medium hairy. His body was a projection of male strength and power - thick muscled torso and sloping shoulders, sturdy legs, a belly shaped like a thin vertical slice of a barrel, ass cheeks round and solid with muscle, and a beautiful cock quivering with desire at thirty degrees. A very handsome hunk of man, a splendid gift to Jill. Still on her knees, she took his cock in her fingers and pressed the side of her face to the length, inhaling the aroma of masculinity wafting from his groin. She didn't take it in her mouth. She was saying hello to her lover, in an intimate and precious way. She untied her kimono and draped it over a chair.
We walked naked to the pool. Steve gave me the glance over, and did a slight double take. I wasn't hard, but there was no mistaking what was there. He cupped Jill's ass cheek with his hand, reasserting his place, his privilege. He surveyed the surroundings.
"Privacy assured," I said. A seven foot high stuccoed block wall enclosed my back lawn. Strategic stretches of towering bamboo hid the wall.
He looked up. "There's always Google up there, giving any browser a bird's eye view. Pictures so clear you make out numbers on car tags."
"Oooooh," Jill said. "If any one is browsing now, let's give them a hell of a show." And she jumped into the water with a shriek and an exuberant, comical splash.
Steve and I followed her. Skinny dipping. Jill and I did that often, but this was the first time for a man to be with us. I was glad she thought of the idea. Skinny dipping. The cleansing wash away of inhibition. Naughty nudity frolicking in buoyant water, which brought to mind "I might not be perfect but I am me. I am free." And further still, "I am perfect! To hell with what anyone else might think."
Steve and Jill played as carefree as children. Pretending to be predatory monsters stalking, parrying, positioning to capture. Shouts of shivering fright, bursts of laughter, submerging and surfacing in a tangle of sexual desire that grew ever stronger and more binding. I more or less treaded water, near by.
Jill broke away and swam to me. She reached for my cock to hold it, and it grew to mythological proportions. "Don't think I've forgotten you," she whispered."
"Oh you have, and you will, and that's fine." I whispered back.
She returned to her lover, with aggressive purpose. She pushed and propelled him to the shallow end. She patted the ledge. "Up here," she said. He did an athletic hoist and spin and settled his ass on the ledge. Water streamed down, leaving little channels in his body hair. Jill had well judged the water depth, and her lean over was comfortable when she lowered her mouth to his steel hard cock. Steve stared down on her, transfixed.
I moved in close. I stared down on her, transfixed. Nine years since I had watched her suck another man's cock. She truly loved doing it. She learned that early. Until her mother agreed to her going on the pill, that was her form of birth control in high school. Her introduction to real sex. To maleness. To raging hormones in teen-age boys and cocks perpetually hard and begging for relief. She sucked them off. And she learned to love it. The smell and taste and texture. The defined insistence filling her mouth. The boys shattering from the pleasures her mouth gave them. Her self-awareness of genuine reward in cum suddenly spurting into her mouth, and her need to swallow it. She was a skilled and dedicated cock sucker before her fifteenth birthday. Not all females can honestly say that.
I watched my wife suck Steve Larsen, and felt honest pride in her and happiness for her. She sucks me with love and devotion and a measure of worship. But my size compromises the mechanics of her fully letting go experience. Her lips sliding all the way down, taking me in her throat. Steve was the ideal size. That was already tested and proven. She had told me so. I stared down on her, her wet hair plastered to her skull, in complete experience of sucking a perfectly fitting cock, sucking off her lover.
I crouched to put my hand between her legs from behind and clutch her pussy. Her lubrication was sopping and thick, almost viscous. I inserted two fingers in to stroke her spot tucked behind the bony ridge, my thumb massaged her clit. She breathed sounds out her nose, deep and boundless sounds from the depths of womanhood. My head was down to a level of optimal vision. I saw more that I fully see when she sucks my cock. The way her cushiony lips fold under sliding down the cylinder of man flesh, fluff back full on retreat. Her nostrils dilating in timed breathing to expand her reception of the head inching deeper. The sudden, determined plunge down to the root, her nose in his pubic hair. Her chest heaving with gag reflex, a brief annoyance, and the slow traverse back up and off, a gasp for air, loving adoration of her tongue on the crowning glory, the cock head, and back in her mouth again. She was in her groove.
I look at Steve who looked back at me with dazed glassy eyes.
