The Life of a Hoosier Farm Girl

In Chapter 3, on a date with Mike, Nancy is pushed to be a flagrant exhibitionist. She runs into Billie Jean, her acquaintance from a restaurant restroom in DC. She and Mike join Billie Jean and her sugar daddy Al to continue the evening at Al's place. Nancy is scared as to what might happen there.

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Al's apartment was beyond my ability to grasp. It was an entire floor of a Park Avenue high rise. He owned the entire 23rd floor. It was at least twice the size of my parents' farmhouse in southern Indiana. It had reproductions of paintings by famous artists on the walls. I later learned, when I discussed them with Al, that they were not reproductions, but originals.

When it sunk in just how rich Al had to be to own such an apartment, I was all the more impressed by Billie Jean for having landed such a man. A man with this much wealth could have any woman he wanted; or most any woman, anyway. I had zipped up my sweater and put my panties back on for the limo ride to Park Avenue. I was not going to parade around the streets of New York half naked.

Al of course had servants. They stayed discretely out of sight unless they were required, and then they somehow appeared instantly. Al gave us a tour of his place, and the servants appeared with drinks and little treats to eat. I was full from dinner, so I declined, but Mike and Al both insisted I taste the 'digestif' the servants were offering me.

I knew they wanted both Billie Jean and me to get drunk. I had little choice but to accept the large glass of digestif, a type of French after dinner liqueur, so I did, and only sipped at it occasionally. They had outfoxed me yet again, because it tasted divine. It was hard not to keep drinking it. I drank the entire glass.

They showed us the views and especially the view from the balcony was spectacular. It was a little cold, but not too bad when we were outside on the balcony. Of course, neither Billie Jean nor I were wearing that much clothing. Billie Jean used the opportunity of being outside on the balcony to light up and she inhaled her cigarette with the enjoyment and the need of a committed smoker.

We all went to the living room, and I maneuvered things so that Billie Jean and I took the love seat. That way no man could molest me in front of the others, which I strongly suspected was Al's plan for both Billie Jean and myself. The jury was out as to whether or not that was what Mike wanted, too. I hoped to God it was not.

That was when I discovered, to my chagrin, that Billie Jean is bisexual. She started kissing me and I looked over at Mike. He wore a huge smile on his face, so I kissed her back. It was not too bad; I had never kissed a woman before, other than my mother and girlfriends, and then it was exclusively on the cheeks.

Psychologically, I was confused. I was not bisexual. I had always known, without any doubt, that I was straight. Like an arrow, I was straight. I was damn sure that I was straight. To abuse Shakespeare, the lady doth protest too much, methinks.

Billie Jean kissed me better than any man ever had. She smelled of a combination of cigarettes and alcohol, and it reminded me of my true love, my dear departed Bill. His kisses tasted like that, but they were not nearly as sexy. And Billie Jean was probably not going to bat me around.

Still while kissing me I heard the zipper of my sweater coming down. Before I knew it practically, I was unzipped. Billie Jean wasted no time. Her hands went under my sweater, and to the delight of the two men she pushed my sweater to the side. My boobs were now out there for all to see, and she was fondling them.

Billie Jean's hands were like magic. Just like her kisses, nobody had ever fondled my boobs like that. Holy shit, she was good. Well, maybe I am in fact bisexual, because I was really into this. Just then Billie Jean stopped. I was about to ask why, when I saw the servant waiter was there, discretely checking out my boobs.

I know I have great boobs. It's a combination of the size, the way they hang, the soft tone of my flesh, the large areolas and their lovely pinkish red color, and my totally great large nipples, that stand proudly erect at the slightest provocation. Taken together it is a perfect balance. But still, I wish just once, one time in my life, a man would be embarrassed for me and look away. It seems that would have to wait for yet another time, as the waiter took a good long look.

The two martinis and the half bottle of wine had rendered me drunk. The Bas Armagnac had gotten me drunker. Now the digestif at Al's palace, to be now followed by a second, albeit different, digestif, was destined to put me under the table.

"Oh, no thank you. I've had enough," I said, slurring my words just a little.

"I insist," Al said.

"Yes, Nancy, I insist, too. It's delicious. You really must try it," Mike said.

Billie Jean pulled me upright and started to lead me to the bedroom. I broke away from her and stumbled over to Mike; I realized I was much too drunk. My sweater was off. I was topless.

I hugged Mike. "Please Mike, let's go. This is too weird for me. Can't our first time be just you and me?"

Mike said nothing. Was he thinking? Did he really have to reflect about this? Who was this man?

"Mike, you really don't want to see me being used by Billie Jean and Adolphus, do you? I don't want it, but I'll do it for you if you want. I'll do anything for you, you know that, don't you? Look what I did in the restaurant for Pete's sake! My God, that was totally outrageous," I continued.

"Get on the floor, Nancy. Take off your clothes. All of your clothes. Billie Jean, come here. Drive my woman over the top; I want to watch," Mike said. He spoke like a military commander, leading his troops into battle.

I began to cry, but I did as Mike asked. Billie Jean also complied with Al's demands for her. She stripped too, and there we were, two naked women on the floor, surrounded by Mike, Al, and strange man named Alex who appeared as if from nowhere, and a couple of the servants: one man, and one woman.

I did not know what to do, but Billie Jean took charge. We lay side by side on the plush rug and Billie Jean kissed me. It was a warm, tender, loving kiss. It was so seductive; I just forgot about her being a woman and kissed her back. She fondled my boobs while we kissed. Her fondles were lovely. They were sweet and affectionate, unlike the fondles of any man I had ever known. I rolled onto my back to give her full access to both of my boobs.

Billie Jean kissed my ears, and then moved to my neck. She kissed my chest but skipped my boobs, preferring I guess to keep fondling them with her hands. Her head and mouth moved down my body, kissing all parts of my tummy. I knew where she was going; everyone knew where she was going. She was drawing it out, taking her time.

Billie Jean took so long to arrive at my pussy that by the time she got there, my pussy of its own free will (if pussies can even have free will?) was trembling in anticipation. She skipped over it! This drove me nuts. She was now kissing my inner thighs. Her hands ticked the hair around my pussy. (My pussy is trimmed via Brazilian waxes, but it is not hairless like a little girl's pussy would be; I know some men like that, but it's my pussy, and I think that's gross.)

By now I wanted her luscious, talented mouth to get to my pussy. I needed it. I was going nuts with anticipation, and I began to squirm, hoping I could manipulate her mouth to attack my pussy. Billie Jean took pity on me, and her mouth reached its goal, my goal, and everyone's goal at that point. Even the spectators applauded when she began to eat me.

She began by licking my labia on either side of my cunt, further teasing the bejesus out of me. Finally, she began licking where the honey is. She used her tongue to begin at the bottom of my vagina and then move to the top, touching my clitoris. It was a deadly maneuver. I was now moaning, calling out her name and my head was tossing from side to side; it was that intense. I really cannot well describe the sensations.

Let's agree that it suffices to say I had never experienced, nor had never even known, that sex could be like that. If this were the Olympics, Billie Jean would have my vote for the gold medal. At that moment I decided I was not bisexual; I was lesbian. She had ruined sex with men for me.

I did not have the energy to try to please Billie Jean in return just then. I lay, naked, exposed with my legs apart, trembling, and shivering, on the plush carpet on the floor. My legs were still spread, my eyes wide open, my breath unevenly panting.

Mike took charge again. He broke up the awed spectators and announced, "Let's take a break. There's a video on the Internet we can watch. A friend of mine from back home in Indiana just sent me the URL. His name is Clovis. He's from Brown County, in the south of the state. You may know him, Nancy?"

I sat up. I turned pale. Could there be more than one man named Clovis in Brown County? A second one who knew me? No. It had to be the videos Clovis took of the three men ravishing me repeatedly while I giggled hysterically. I wanted to die. But how could Clovis know Mike? And why send Mike the URL? Little matter: If it happened, it was a disaster for me.

I said, "I have to go. Where are my clothes?" I was so upset I was screaming. A servant (of course) magically appeared with my clothes and a big glass of Scotch whiskey. I thanked him, as he 'accidentally' brushed my boobs.

"Do you like my girls?" I whispered to the servant. "You can fondle them; I won't tell." The servant practically ran away from me, and I laughed darkly to myself. I was looking around for the front door to the elevators when the video started. Oh, my God. This was the end. I had really liked Mike, too. Shit. Well, I thought, New York is full of men, isn't it? Maybe Billie Jean won't hate me. What am I thinking?

There must be a man somewhere that Clovis does not know. One who does not watch porn on the Internet? Good luck, I thought. I am so screwed. (I giggled inwardly at my own dark pun, as everyone there was about to see just how screwed I can be.)

As I opened the door to leave, I heard two things behind me. The first was my manic, hysterical giggling, as I was naked save for my panties in the bar, being felt up extensively by the three men. No part of my body, no matter how intimate, was left unexplored by those three men, publicly, in the bar.

The second thing I heard was the protestations of Billie Jean, who was clearly being molested against her will by one of the men.

I turned around, and realized that Billie Jean had been falsely protesting; it was just part of a game. She was more than ready to take on two men at once. As I watched, suddenly something changed. All three of them turned towards the monitor (which was at least 4 feet wide) and they watched yours truly moaning loudly while two men were enjoying her sexually simultaneously.

Just then the men preferred watching me get nailed on video, rather than doing the same thing live to Billie Jean. Well, as the ancient Roman saying goes, de gustibus non est disputandum.

I suddenly felt the need to heave. I kept it down and stumbled into the elevator. Back on Park Avenue, the cold, fresh air helped to get me sober enough to hail a taxi. Park Avenue is a favorite for taxis.

I went home, my sweater and boobs and panties and everything. I fell onto my bed and entered a deep sleep. I knew I would be hung over in the morrow, and I knew I would mourn the loss of Mike. It's a pity he turned out to be a creep. Most of all, I felt hate for Clovis. Real hatred.

When I woke after a good 11 hours of sleep, the whole women's march, the pink pussy hats, the Nasty Woman T shirt, and especially my brief few days with Mike, all seemed now like some kind of dream. It had been a great dream that nevertheless ended badly.

My doorbell rang. I was expecting nobody, but I figured it must be my neighbor, who rings my doorbell from time to time to borrow a cup of sugar or whatever. I suspect he has a crush on me, but is too awkward, or too shy to ask me out. One of these days I'll invite him in, and we'll chat and get to know each other, and he will be thrilled for a month. But not now.

I put a robe on over my indecent nightie, and I went to the door, expecting my nerd neighbor, and instead I found Diego standing there. I was stupefied. All I could manage to say was "What?" as if the "the hell" part were understood. I could not speak; I was that surprised.

I said, "Coffee?" and he spoke for the first time.

"Yes, please Nancy. You are beautiful in the morning," Diego said, always the flatterer. Pity I'm such a sucker for flattery.

"Thank you," I said. I glanced at myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess and my makeup was smeared from the previous night, and I was beginning to need to shave my legs. In short, I was a mess, and quite far from beautiful. "How?" I was still speech impaired due to it being too early for me (I had just got up) but also primarily I was still shocked Diego had found me.

"How did I find you?" Diego asked, for clarification. I nodded. "It was not easy. Alessandra told me your full name: Nancy Worbright. Very few people have the name Worbright. She told me you live in Brooklyn. Then all I had to do was to find a woman named Worbright in Brooklyn. I have a friend in the NSA. He did the rest."

"So, you're stalking me?" I asked, handing him some steaming coffee. "Milk or sugar?"

"Both, please," Diego said. He put a ton of sugar in his coffee. Four packets! "Yes, I'm stalking you, I guess. But I'll stop if you ask me to."

"I'm asking you to stop," I said. Diego looked crestfallen, as if I had broken his heart. He had the face of a hurt puppy dog; it would melt a heart of lead. The man was good; I'll give him that.

"Okay, if that's what you want. You know, I tracked you down, and I took the train up here to find you. The memories of our time together are so wonderful. You are so beautiful, so lovely. And you are so wonderful in bed. Must I stop, really?"

"Yes, you must stop, Diego. And just for the record, I was good on the back porch, on all fours, with both you and with Sam, and not in bed, and that was a totally crazy night. Moreover, I am freaked out that you stalked me and came here to see me," I let him have it.

But actually, my mind was racing. Diego had lied and deceived me, but I had loved the sex with him and Sam out on the porch, and its memory had led to some wonderful masturbation sessions. And in truth, I was flattered that he wanted me so much. I was thinking just then that another roll in the hay with Diego might clarify if I am straight, bisexual, or lesbian.

Maybe that's why I agreed to let him take me out to brunch. I gave him magazines to read while I made myself human. I told him his task was to find the sexiest picture in the current issue of Vogue, and I went into the bathroom and locked the door.

Also, I was curious what he, a totally heterosexual man, a cis gendered man in modern parlance, would find sexy. I had already chosen my sexiest picture from that issue of Vogue. I assume the pictures are designed to appeal to women. Not necessarily to appeal to the sex urges of women, but to appeal to what we women would think a man would find sexy. I was testing that theory now.

Of course, the models often had blouses worn with no bras, and completely open, revealing the inside sides of the models' small boobs. Normal women would wear a bra and a blouse, usually. For whom or for what were those photos intended? Women, it was clear.

Men do not read Vogue, although maybe they should? Well, there are all kinds of women, aren't there? Right now, my own sexual identity was in question, after my time with Billie Jean. I began to get wet as I remembered that.

I shaved my legs and under my arms, washed my hair, cleaned up my face and applied new makeup and lipstick, applied perfume to my boobs, pussy, neck and ears, and I thought about what to wear. Shit, we had once had sex already, so I decided to look decent for the brunch place, but on the sexy side of decent.

I emerged a changed woman, in a tight skirt, low cut blouse, red pumps, and gold plated dangle earrings. I wore a heavy gold cross (well, it was gold plate) that dangled sexily in my cleavage. If I were to let Diego undress me later, it would dangle sexily right between my boobs. That was Diego's plan, I was sure, but it was not mine. I think.

Diego first whistled when he saw me, and he followed up with applause. I graciously acknowledged his nonverbal praise with a deep bow, giving him a revealing look down my blouse, at my bra convered boobs.. Diego rose, took me in his arms, and kissed me. I melted, the memories of our sex together flooding back and inundating my brain. I was already getting wet, just from a kiss.

I pushed Diego away." We're going to brunch, Diego. Nothing else. Understood?" I said, not believing even my own rhetoric. Diego nodded.

Diego was carrying my copy of Vogue as we left. He had ordered a Lyft car, and it was waiting for us. He took us to a fancy French place in SoHo for brunch. I was being wooed. After, he took me for a walk on the high line park, a new park built on some old elevated railroad tracks, with lovely views across the river at New Jersey.

"The views are lovely," I said. "But they're tempered by the ever-present fact that we're looking at New Jersey." Diego laughed at my joke. My firm resistance was beginning to weaken. We sat together on a bench with a view over the Hudson River, and I said, "Show my your favorite picture in Vogue. You brought it along to do that, right?"

"Yes, indeed," Diego said, and he opened Vogue to a picture of a woman sitting on a park bench in a short, tight dress, with her legs crossed. Her skirt rode up to the point where her thighs were almost completely exposed. Her legs were gorgeous. I became glad I had just shaved my legs. This was quite far from what I thought the sexiest picture was. Quite far, indeed.

"You're a legs man, I see," I said.

"Yes, my love," Diego said, inappropriately. Sure, we had fucked, but I was not his love, nor was I his lover. As I had told him at the time, it was a one-night stand. Also, I had fucked Sam, too. Did Sam also think I was his love? Was he too going to track me down and stalk me with the help of his own friends in the NSA? Jesus H. Christ, this is ridiculous.

"I'm a legs man, a boobs man, a connoisseur of a woman's ass, and I love the hour glass silhouette of a nicely figured woman. You, my love, have it all. Plus, you have a pretty face, a wonderful smile, and great hair," Diego said, somewhat triumphantly.

"Well, that completely objectifies me. What am I? A sum of body parts for you, Diego?"

Diego is verbally talented. He undid the grave he had just dug for himself, and he flattered me sufficiently, that I agreed to go with him to Brooklyn Bridge Park, to wear a short and tight dress, and to pose for him on a park bench, imitating the picture he had found in Vogue. It's a great setting, with wonderful views of the underside of the Brooklyn Bridge, and of downtown Manhattan across the East River, in the background. I exposed a whole of lot of leg as I sat on that bench.

Nobody whistled, probably because they thought I was a model and that this was a photo shoot. Diego had somehow convinced me to remove my panties. He had with him a fancy camera that he had brought with him for some reason. He took some pictures of me leaning on the back of the bench, my arms draped over the sides, and my legs parted just enough to expose my pussy to his camera. He got one with my mouth partially open, one of fashion's favorite sexy poses.