"Feel her stomach, Ryan. There's no flab there." I wasn't sure I liked the direction things were going. Up until now, I felt that this had been my show. Now I was starting to feel like a thoroughbred at auction. Check her teeth. You won't find anything wrong there. And look at those hocks. I wasn't sure I liked it, but I didn't do anything to stop it. "Go on," Ron urged, "I'll get us another round."
Ryan had an embarrassed grin on his face. The cause of the embarrassment was evident as he got up, even though he tried inconspicuously to rearrange the contents of his Jockeys. It looked like my little show had more of an impact than I had thought. I was surprised and flattered. I tightened up my muscles and let him feel my stomach, trying to keep one eye on the barometer in his crotch. Perhaps Ron was treating me like meat on the market but, when Ryan touched me, I knew he was no detached, meat inspector. Standing at my side, he put his left hand in the small of my back and put his right hand on my stomach. The hand on my back was warm, almost hot, but the other was ice cold from holding the beer. The contrast sent a charge through my abdomen that reverberated in my limbs.
Ryan was almost forgiven. He could be dense at times, but he was cute. He had curly, sandy-colored hair and greenish-brown eyes. And while you couldn't tell a thing by looking at his eyes, his thoughts were betrayed by his mouth. Anyone who took the time to study him in different moods (as I had) only had to look at his mouth to tell whether he was angry, sad, relaxed, bemused or embarrassed. (Right now, he looked tense and distracted.) He was muscular in a lean, wiry way and he had a great little ass. But best of all were his hands-those hot and cold hands.
But now the contrast between the hands was dissipating. He was pressing firmly but not hard on my stomach. I noticed for the first time that Ron had gathered the empties from the coffee table and was walking behind us towards the kitchen. A minor distraction. But as he passed us, he grabbed the tie on my swimsuit top and pulled the knot out. "No sirree. No saggin' here." And he walked on to the kitchen.
So that was what this was all about. Ron was overplaying it a bit though. Untying my top was like tossing Ryan the keys to his car. Ron had loaned me to Ryan. He was even helping to unwrap the present so that it would be clear that it was a gift. Very obvious. But perhaps Ron needed to do it this way.
He was gone now anyway, and Ryan's hand, now as warm as the one on my back, was under my top cupping my breast gently while he brushed his thumb across my hardening nipple. I felt that warm flush in my groin and started to lick my lips but checked myself realizing how trite that would be. It took great self-control to resist the compelling urge to reach down and grab his huddled mass that was yearning to be free. I wished that I could release his pants as easily as Ron had my top. But I wanted to be the passive spectacle just a bit longer. Well, almost passive. I reached down and untied the right side of my swimsuit bottoms, the back of my hand sliding against Ryan's bulging pants. The suit fell away from the right side but the string on the left side held it up-for a moment. Ryan slipped his left hand down on my butt and, with a flick of his finger, sent the suit to the floor. I shrugged my shoulders and sent the top to the same fate while I pursued my own.
It was time for a dramatic shift in comportment. As I turned towards him, I noticed that his shirt had snaps rather than buttons. How nice! In one almost smooth motion, I tore the snaps open with my right hand while unbuttoning his pants with my left. Down with the zipper. I stopped suddenly and stood close to him with my breasts just touching the hair on his chest. His breathing was barely controlled and I could tell by his mouth that he was tense as a tightwire. As if in slow motion, my hands crept around to rest, one on each buttock under his underpants. I paused once more, allowing him to anticipate, and then began easing down his pants. Suddenly, I changed the tempo again. I sank to my knees at once, taking the pants down to his ankles. As I did, I felt his penis spring free like a sapling closing a drawline trap. It dragged between my breasts, up my neck and past my chin. For a moment it bounced there reminding me of a bobblehead behind the back seat of a car.
Ryan stepped out of his pants. (Thank God he had taken his sandals off earlier. Underpants are bad enough, but shoes and such can destroy the rhythm of love completely.) And as I slid my hands back up to his buttocks, I felt his shirt fall too.
He was bursting, and the speed with which I had taken his pants off had led his body to expect no delay on the progression toward gratification. But I waited, moved slowly, and put my lips wetly and softly where shaft meets satchel. I moved up moistly and, while I held him in my hand and my tongue circumvented his circumcision, I glanced over at the couch.
Ron was back. I knew he would be; I was surprised only by the fact that I had been totally unaware of his return. He was staring with dilated pupils at his wife fellate his best friend. But it looked as if I were doing it to him. As I took Ryan's erection in my mouth, I could see Ron's grow. He reached down to shift his penis so that it was going up and his hand lingered there. When Ryan's hands came forward to gently cradle either side of my head, Ron abandoned all subtlety and pretense; he began kneading himself vigorously. His eyes were still directed toward the site of the adulterous act he had initiated, but there was an unfocused, distant look in them.
God designed us poorly when he made it so difficult to see our lovers' faces when we are having oral sex. There would be a lot more, and better, oral sex were it not for this design flaw. I enjoyed bringing Ron off by hand primarily for the chance to watch his face show the transitions from interest to arousal to urgency to climax and relief. It is very different watching that, causing that, controlling that when you are not going through it yourself. Ah, to be able to do that during oral sex.
But it was almost like doing that now. I was a good eight feet from Ron. He was getting a long distance blow job. And he was enjoying it. I was sure that there were a variety of emotions churning in his head. And I suspected that tomorrow he might have problems with that we had done today. But the predominant emotion in his head right now was voyeuristically inspired lust.
Ryan's hands pulled gently at my neck. Ron's presence receded and Ryan's supplanted it. He pulled me up to face him and as he did I felt his penis, now wet with my saliva, retrace its path: down my neck, over my collar bone, between my breasts. It came to rest, hotly, in the middle of my belly. I felt it pulsate. It pulsed with a life of its own and with the life given it by his undulating hips. He raised my chin between his thumb and forefinger and kissed me sweetly but passionately. He lay me down gently without taking his lips from mine. Pulling away a matter of inches, he moved on top of me between my legs. And staring deeply into my eyes, he entered me in one smooth stroke that felt a mile long. As I looked into his eyes, I saw that the game had turned dangerous. We were not just fucking, at least he wasn't. He was making love to me-in the fullest sense of the phrase. And, he was doing it in my husband's presence and with his consent. At least I thought Ron was still consenting, for now the coffee table blocked him from my view. Well, Ron could be slow; perhaps he hadn't noticed the change.
Fortunately, Ryan seemed to-perhaps he read the look in my eyes. He withdrew, pulled on me gently to roll over. His hand, reaching between my legs and up over my pubic bone, raised me easily to my knees. My face was still against the carpet. It was his turn now to call the dance. And he was being playful in his own ways. As he moved behind me, he let the tip of his penis rest so lightly against the lips of my vagina that I could barely sense his presence. But imagination filled in where sensation left off. He grabbed my hips and moved back and forth, letting his penis slide down under me and drag my clitoris very perceptibly. As he did this, he would flex and relax his muscles letting his penis sometimes rub hard against my clitoris and sometimes whisking lightly across like a leaf blowing over a lawn. It felt good and I thought that I had no particular desire that it end. But when he, of a sudden, pulled me onto him hard and fast so that I took his full length at once, it seemed like the answer to every desire I ever had.
Now, as he was moving in and out of me-sometimes rhythmically, sometimes not-I raised up slowly on my elbows, then on my hands. Looking down between my gently swinging breasts, I could see his wildly swinging balls flapping between my legs. It is a comical sight forever denied to men. (Even for gay men, the angle isn't right. And if they managed to contorted themselves so they could see, the view would still be obstructed.) Now was no time to laugh, so I tore my eyes away and looked up.
Ron was still sitting on the couch, though he had slouched down so much that he was almost lying. His pants were wide open and he, as they say, had a hold of himself. It looked like he had lubricated himself somehow. My guess was with beer. I couldn't imagine that that would be very effective, but he seemed to be doing okay.
I could see him looking at us then gazing off toward the ceiling then looking back at us-sometimes at Ryan, sometimes at me, and sometimes where we joined in unholy union. When I caught his eyes, I said nothing but licked my lips and tried to communicate a nonverbal invitation. I could take care of him too. Lord knows, I had seen it done in porno flicks. He looked at me for a moment but didn't make a move towards me. I didn't know if the invitation had been misunderstood or declined. I didn't spend much time thinking about it then. I was distracted elsewhere.
I concentrated on flexing and relaxing the muscles of my vagina. Ron thought I was very good at this, that I "felt like a damn milking machine" when I did it. (I had never asked him if he really knew. But he might have, having been raised on a farm.) And he was certainly right that I was pretty effective at getting cream.
