If you've read 'Helping Melinda Be Naughty Ch. 1, you know that Jake and I spend a lot of time at O'Leary's Pub, trying to understand his wife's needs. There's a great line in an old Willie Nelson classic called 'Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground' ..."Trying to keep her spirits up...and her fever down." Well Melinda's spirits seem to be just fine, but her fever is another matter.
Jake and I have been close friends for years. I've known Jake and Mel as a couple for years, too, but not socially because they traveled in the married-with-family crowd (two daughters in college) and I lost my membership after a sad divorce that is a story I hope never to tell. Today I am a confirmed bachelor with a mutual-comfort friend named Tess, a rarely-in-town United stewardess flying world routes.
Melinda, usually called Mel, is bright, personable, and attractive, but more like perky-cute than stunningly beautiful. Her ancestry is likely Irish: auburn hair, cut short, but stylish. Her eyes are blue and usually smiling, her chin is a bit pixyish but it all works together nicely, especially when she smiles and her dimples form. Jake is bright and personable, too, and has that annoying clean-cut, All-American look that keeps some guys looking youthful forever. If you saw Mel and Jake on the street, you could easily imagine them as co-greeters at Sunday morning worship services.
I'll give you one more piece of background, and you'll be able to fill in the blanks from today's O'Leary's conversation: A few months ago, Mel ambushed Jake with the news that she had become obsessed with sex, at least in part triggered by porn. She confessed that she was making regular use of plastic friends and that she wasn't sure that she could resist 'acting out.' They (as in Mel & Jake!) asked me to help Jake "keep her fever down" -- thus far by periodic 'parties' at their home. The latest party was a helluva night. We're not talking about anything close to all-out swinger behavior, but we are talking about hard-to-imagine interaction with Jake's wife Mel.
----------------------------------
Our traditional Guinness pints had arrived. Jake seemed thoughtful. "Sam, I really want you to stop worrying about whether you're betraying me as a friend. You are doing exactly what I hoped you could do. Mel hasn't said a word about being restless in weeks. It's working, man.
"I hear you, but until the last party, I thought we were just helping her channel her inner exhibitionist."
He paused, seeming to enjoy the detour. "We sure as hell did that."
"Did you have any idea, I mean, how much she wanted to channel?"
"Almost no idea at all. When I think back, she did surprise me in the bedroom now and then, with outfits -- or lack of outfits -- that didn't seem Mel-like. But I thought it was all for me... no idea she wanted to flaunt for anyone else, especially your sorry ass."
I laughed a guy laugh. "Well my sorry ass isn't sorry about getting to know Mel's underwear choices, but holy shit, she raised it to another level last time."
Jake lifted his glass as if he might propose a toast, but took a long swig instead. "That she did, my friend. I can still hear your blood-curdling scream, and I was out on the patio."
As you can see, this conversation is very strange in a relationship sense. I said, "And I can still feel her magic hand..." For a moment I allowed myself to drift into memory of the intense minute or two, possibly three, lying on my back on their family room couch. "She did warn you that she wanted to, you know..."
He tipped the glass slightly this time. "That she did."
"And you're okay with..."
He interrupted me, leaning forward with eyes angrier than I had ever seen. "Godammit, Sam, stop the fucking 'am I okay?' shit. Mel is happy. She isn't thinking about black dick or whatever the fuck she was thinking about. I get it that this is weird to you -- shit, you should be me..."
He leaned back and exhaled loudly. "Jesus, man, I am sorry for that temper tantrum..."
I leaned across the table and put my hand on his wrist. "I'm sorry, too. I just want this to work out for everyone."
"So do I, my friend." There was a pause while an unusually emotional guy moment dissolved into more normal guyness. We drank our beer then one more with potato skins. Jake said, "Here's a heads up for next time. She wants to explain to us how her body and mind work."
Our eyes met, as if we didn't really need to speak, but I picked up the ball. "Oh man, that's scary."
"Yes it is."
------------------------
My relationship with Mel is complicated, but part of it is very straightforward. For my entire life, I have been addicted to leg and panty voyeurism. I can clearly remember the life-changing period. I was maybe ten years old and spent a lot of time with my closest friend whose mom was a beautiful war widow. My relationship with her was purely visual, but oh my God, it was visual. I don't know whether 35-year-old moms intentionally tease 10-year-old kids, but intentional or not, her awesome legs and white silk panties and thin white slips inspired me to quickly learn about masturbation and I remember individual scenes vividly all these years later. When my interactions with Mel were strictly verbal, I shared this story. It turns out that she fully understood the meaning, at several levels.
Once the ice was broken, it became increasingly clear that Mel loved showing what I love looking at. Our relationship soon had an adult honesty that I had never imagined possible. Here's a simple example: She was sitting on a kitchen-counter stool reading some mail. I came out of the downstairs john and was walking toward her, on my way to find Jake. She swiveled her chair toward me, but one leg lagged the other by a considerable margin, and we're talking about legs, etc. fully competitive with the star of my childhood-memory show. I decided to act cool vs. drool for a change, so I just kept walking, but as I passed her, I said, "Nice shot -- yellow with white trim." She just giggled, "Right again, eagle-eye man."
Even harder to imagine is that the entire honest relationship is fully understood -- often witnessed first-hand -- by Jake. So I can count on the fact that every party at their home will be deeply satisfying, even if only through the lens of the 10-year-old-boy within. But Mel, for complicated reasons of her own, seems to be pushing the envelope to another level, with Ch 1's topless dance scene and my subsequent orgasmic roar being a vivid example.
So Saturday rolled around, and the three of us were on the deck chairs around the firepit, working through a giant pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea. Mel was wearing a flippy little cream-colored skirt and a burgundy blouse that actually V'd to a point well below her breasts; no sign of a bra. I already knew her panty color. While I followed her from their front door toward the patio door, she looked over her shoulder, smiled, and said, "Spoiler alert." And she flipped her skirt to her waist... A light shade of purple. Tiny. Really high cut. Almost a thong. I just shook my head in wonderment and admiration.
So we drank, we grilled steaks, and Jake put on some music, although no dancing this time, and we drank some more. On this night, Mel was an equal opportunity exhibitionist, having visual fun with her husband who is a great lover of breasts.
She's sitting on her lounge chair. "Jake, if I lean forward like this, can you see my nipples?"
Of course, Jake is happy to go along with the routine. "Sorry, Mel, nope."
She tries another pose. "How 'bout this?"
"Negative."
"This?"
"You're striking out, babe."
She pouts and says, "Dammit." She gets off her lounge chair -- always a good moment for me -- walks to his chair, and leans at the waist, her loose-fitting top now inches from his face. "How 'bout this?"
Jake laughs and says, "Bingo."
Mel is likely something like a 34B, maybe 35B if bras come in that size, but she made a spirited try at the stripper routine of burying a guy's face between her breasts and slapping him on both cheeks. Jake managed a muffled, "I can't see your nipples anymore." And the shared laughter was hearty and long.
We were already clued that Mel wanted to teach us about her mind and body, whatever that meant. If tradition held, it might include some erotic moments, and as you'll see, tradition did hold, big time. She said, speaking to the two of us, "Guys, I know a lot of this is about me and my sexual issues. I think it'll help you understand me if you understand more about my body... then we'll talk about my mind next time."
She paused and looked toward Jake, then me. I glanced at Jake and saw a calm, ready-to-go expression. I feared that my expression was more like 'Duh, what the fuck is this about?' But Mel plowed on. "Please come with me to the family room."
The scene she set up was very simple. She's sitting beside Jake on the couch. My refilled drink glass and I are sitting across from them on a standard easy chair. She says, "I think I'm blessed or cursed with way higher than average responsiveness. Jake, show Sam what can happen, even while we're just doing something like watching TV."
I realized, of course, that the Buddy Club alert system had been compromised again. Jake was clearly an actor in her play, and I had no advance warning.
He put his left arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer. She looked at me with an expression I couldn't read, some combination of warm and expectant. His fingers disappeared into the top of her blouse. It was quickly evident that he had made contact with her nipple. No more than ten seconds later, her eyes closed. I could hear her gasp. Her breathing became audible. I could tell from the way her blouse was moving that his fingers were caressing lightly, then pinching gently, then back to circular caresses. Her eyes closed tighter. I heard 'Oh, oh, oh..." softly with each breath. Her legs began to spread as her hips pushed forward and her back began to arch.
Each movement of her hips seemed to cause her skirt to ride up further, already at the top of her thighs. For me, legs spreading in passion was an incredible turn-on, but it was the expression on her face that nearly blew me away -- an amazing blend of ecstasy and something like tortured need. Her rhymthic "Oh...oh...oh..." became louder, more like gasps through tightly clenched teeth.
Jake's role was simple. He did nothing at all except continue the circular nipple caress, with occasional gentle pinches. Her whole body began writhing, her hips moving, almost like she was being fucked. Her breathing became short gasps. "Oh God, Jake... on God...oh Fuck...oh Fuck..."
I was hard as a rock. I had an enormous desire to beat off, in fact I wasn't sure I needed to beat off, it might just happen. Then her hips bucked violently, her back arched, almost creating a U. She stayed that way through a long raspy moan, as her orgasm seemed to ripple through her in waves, then she settled back gradually while her hips and thighs continued to spasm. Finally, she was lying almost flat, her legs splayed, her eyes still closed as she struggled to catch her breath.
Jake withdrew the hand from her blouse. He made a husband's instinctive effort to pull her skirt down, then seemed to realize that it was a hopeless; her hem was nearly at her waist, and it was a short skirt. He looked toward me, "I'll give her a minute, but then I'll show you why she's amazing."
I was still breathing hard myself, now struggling to understand what he just said. "Holy crap, more amazing than that?"
He replied with a nod.
Mel said nothing while Jake helped the recovery happen. Maybe three minutes later, she was upright on the couch, her knees together, her skirt pulled down as far as it could be. He changed places with her on the couch, so this time his right arm was around her shoulder, hand ready to invade her blouse. She gave me a look that showed an odd sense of determination. I couldn't read the expression then, but she explained it later.
